308
'If sic a bird,' he said, 'were mine,
I'd hing it on a tree.'
'Were I the Lady Marjorie,
Thou hunter fair but free,
My horse's head I'd turn about,
And think nae mair o' thee!'
It's on they rade, and better rade—
They shimmered in the sun—
'Twas sick and sair grew Marjorie
Lang e'er that ride was done!
Yet on they rade, and better rade,
They neared the Cross o' stane—
The tall Knicht when he passed it by
Felt cauld in every bane.
But on they rade, and better rade,
It evir grew mair mirk,
O loud, loud nichered the bay steed
As they passed Mary's Kirk!
'I'm wearie o' this eerie road,'
Maid Marjorie did say—
'We canna weel greet Sillarwood
Afore the set o' day!'
