Wi' mickle joy we spent our prime
Till we were baith sixteen,
And aft we past the langsome time
Amang the leaves sae green:
Aft on the banks we'd sit us thair,
And sweetly kiss and toy;
While he wi' garlands deck'd my hair,
My handsome Gilderoy.

Oh that he still had been content
Wi' me to lead his life!

But, ah, his maunfu' heart was bent
To stir in feats of strife.
And he in many a venturous deed
His courage bauld wad try;
And now this gars my heart to bleed
For my dear Gilderoy.

And when of me his leave he tuik,

The tears they wat mine ee:

I gied him sic a parting luik!

·

My benison gang wi' thee!

'God speid thee weil my ain dear heart, For gane is all my joy;

My heart is rent, sith we maun part,

My handsome Gilderoy.'

My Gilderoy, baith far and near

Was fear'd in every toun; And bauldly bare awa the geir,

Of mony a lawland loun.

For man to man durst meet him nane,

He was sae brave a boy;

At length wi' numbers he was tane,

My winsome Gilderoy.

Wae worth the louns that made the laws

To hang a man for gear;

To reave of life for sic a cause

As stealing horse or mare!

Had not their laws been made sae strick
I ne'er had lost my joy;

Wi' sorrow ne'er had wat my cheek
For my dear Gilderoy.

Gif Gilderoy had done amiss,
He mought hae banisht been;-
Ah what sair cruelty is this,

To hang sic handsome men!
To hang the flower o' Scottish land,
Sae sweet and fair a boy:-
Nae lady had sae white a hand
As thee, my Gilderoy.

Of Gilderoy sae fear'd they were,
Wi' irons his limbs they strung;
To Edinborow led him thair,
And on a gallows hung.

They hung him high aboon the rest,
He was sae bauld a boy;

Thair dyed the youth wham I lued best,

My handsome Gilderoy.

Sune as he yielded up his breath
I bare his corse away,

Wi' tears, that trickled for his death,
I wash'd his comelie clay;

And siker in a grave right deep

I laid the dear lued boy:
And now for ever I maun weep,

My winsome Gilderoy.

The author of this Ballad was Sir Alexander Halket, the subject there. of a notorious freebooter in the upper district of Perthshire, where he committed great outrages upon the inhabitants. Spalding relates that seven of his followers were taken by the Stuarts of Athol, brought to Edinburgh and hanged. In recompense of this injury, Gilderoy burnt their houses, for which, he and five other lymars were taken and hanged likewise. See Spalding's History, vol. i. page 49-53.

THE NOT-BROWNE MAYD.

Be it ryght, or wrong, these men among
On women do complayne;
Affyrmynge this, how that it is
Å labour spent in vayne,

To love them wele; for never a dele
They love a man agayne:
For let a man do what he can,
Theyr favour to attayne,
Yet yf a newe do them persue,
Theyr first true lover than

Laboureth for nought; for from her thought
He is a banyshed man.

I say nat, nay, but that all day

It is bothe writ and sayd

That woman's faith is, as who sayth,
All utterly decay'd;

But, neverthelesse, ryght good wytnesse
In this case might be layd,

That they love true, and continue:
Recorde the not-browne mayde:

Which, when her love came, her to prove,

To her to make his mone, Wolde nat depart; for in her hart

She loved but hym alone.

Then betwaine us let us dyscus
What was all the manere
Betwayne them two; we wyll also
Tell all the payne, and fere,
That she was in. Nowe I begyn,
So that ye me answere;
Wherfore, all ye, that present be
I pray you, gyve an ere.

"I am the knyght; I come by nyght,
As secret as I can;

Sayinge, Alas! thus standeth the case,
I am a banyshed man.'

She. And I your wyll for to fulfyll
In this wyll nat refuse;

Trustyng to shewe, in wordes fewe,
That men have an yll use

(To theyr own shame) women to blame,
And causelesse them accuse:

Therfore to you I answere nowe,

All women to excuse,

Myne owne hart dere, with you what chere?
I pray you, tell anone;
For, in my mynde, of all mankynde

I love but you alone.

He. It standeth so; a dede is do

Whereof grete harme shall growe;

My destiny is for to dy

A shamefull deth, I trowe;

Or elles to fle: the one must be;
None other way I knowe,
But to withdrawe as an outlawe,
And take me to my bowe.
Wherfore, adue, my owne hart true!
None other rede I can;
For I must to the grene wode go,
Alone, a banyshed man.

She. O Lord, what is this worldys blysse,
That changeth as the mone!

My somers day in lusty May

Is derked before the none.
I here you say, farewell; nay, nay,
We depart nat so sone:

Why say ye so? wheder wyll ye go?
Alas! what have ye done?

All my welfare to sorrowe and care
Sholde chaunge, yf ye were gone;
For, in my mynde, of all mankynde
I love but you alone.

He. I can beleve, it shall you greve,
And somewhat you dystrayne;
But aftyrwarde, your paynes harde
Within a day or twayne

Shall sone aslake; and ye shall take
Comfort to you agayne.

Why sholde ye ought? for, to make thought,
Your labour were in vayne.

And thus I do; and pray you to,
As hartely, as I can;

For I must to the grene wode go,
Alone, a banyshed man.

She. Now, syth that ye have shewed to me
The secret of your mynde,

I shall be playne to you agayne,
Lyke as ye shall me fynde:
Syth it is so, that ye wyll go,

I wolle not leve behynde;

Shall never be sayd, the not-browne mayd
Was to her love unkinde:

Make you redy, for so am I,

Allthough it were anone;

For, in my mynde, of all mankynde
I love but you alone.

He. Yet I you rede to take good hede
What men wyll thynke, and say:
Of yonge, and olde it shall be tolde,
That ye be gone away;
Your wanton wyll for to fulfyll
In grene wode yon to play;

And that ye myght from your delyght
No lenger make delay:

Rather than ye sholde thus for me
Be called an yll woman,

Yet wolde I to the grene wode go,
Alone, a banyshed man.