There was mounting ’mong Græmes of the Netherby clan; Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran; There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lea, But the lost bride of Netherby ne’er did they see. So daring in love, and so dauntless in war, Have ye e’er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?
“O waly, waly, my gay goss-hawk, Gin your feathering be sheen!”-- “And waly, waly, my master dear, Gin ye look pale and lean!
“O have ye tint, at tournament, Your sword, or yet your spear; Or mourn ye for the southern lass, Whom ye may not win near?”--
“I have not tint, at tournament, My sword, nor yet my spear; But sair I mourn for my true love, Wi’ mony a bitter tear.
“But weel’s me on ye, my gay goss-hawk, Ye can baith speak and flee; Ye sall carry a letter to my love, Bring an answer back to me.”--
“But how sall I your true love find, Or how suld I her know? I bear a tongue ne’er wi’ her spake, An eye that ne’er her saw.”
“O weel sail ye my true love ken, Sae sune as ye her see; For, of a’ the flowers of fair England, The fairest flower is she.
“The red that’s on my true love’s cheek, Is like blood-drops on the snaw; The white that is on her breast bare, Like the down o’ the white sea-maw.
“And even at my love’s bour-door There grows a flowering birk; And ye maun sit and sing thereon As she gangs to the kirk.
“And four-and-twenty fair ladyes Will to the mass repair; But weel may ye my ladye ken, The fairest ladye there.”
Lord William has written a love-letter, Put it under his pinion gray; And he is awa to Southern land As fast as wings can gae.
And even at that ladye’s bour There grew a flowering birk; And he sat down and sung thereon As she gaed to the kirk.
And weel he kent that ladye fair Amang her maidens free; For the flower, that springs in May morning, Was not sae sweet as she.
He lighted at the ladye’s yate, And sat him on a pin; And sang fu’ sweet the notes o’ love, Till a’ was cosh within.
And first he sang a low low note, And syne he sang a clear; And aye the o’erword o’ the sang Was--“Your love can no win here.”
“Feast on, feast on, my maidens a’, The wine flows you amang, While I gang to my shot-window, And hear yon bonny bird’s sang.
“Sing on, sing on, my bonny bird, The sang ye sung yestreen; For weel I ken, by your sweet singing, Ye are frae my true love sen.”