Part 2 / Book 7 — 159. The Gardener

I The gardener stands in his bower-door, With a primrose in his hand, And by there came a leal[1291] maiden As jimp[1292] as a willow wand. II ‘O lady, can you fancy me, For to be my bride? Ye’se get a’ the flowers in my garden To be to you a weed[1293]. III ‘The lily white sall be your smock Becomes your body best; Your head sall be busk’d wi’ gillyflower And the primrose in your breast. IV ‘Your gown sall be the sweet-william, Your coat the camovine[1294], Your apron a’ the salluds neat That taste baith sweet and fine. V ‘Your stockings sall be o’ the braid kail-blade, That is baith braid and lang; And narrow, narrow at the cute[1295], And braid, braid at the brawn[1296]. VI ‘Your gloves sall be the marigold, All glittering to your hand, Well spread o’er wi’ the blue blaewort[1297] That grows amang corn-land.’— VII ‘O fare ye well, young man,’ she says, ‘Farewell, and I bid adieu; If you can fancy me,’ she says, ‘O I cannot fancy you. VIII ‘Sin ye’ve provided a weed for me Amang the summer flowers, Then I’se provide anither for you Amang the winter showers.— IX ‘The new-fa’n snaw to be your smock Becomes your body best; An’ your head sall be wound wi’ the eastern wind, An’ the cauld rain on your breast.’