Digital Tradition Mirror

Gil Morice (Child Maurice)

(This score available as ABC, SongWright, PostScript, PNG, or PMW, or a MIDI file)
Pennywhistle notation and Dulcimer tab for this song is also available

(alternate:)

(This score available as ABC, SongWright, PostScript, PNG, or PMW, or a MIDI file)
Pennywhistle notation and Dulcimer tab for this song is also available

(alternate:)

(This score available as ABC, SongWright, PostScript, PNG, or PMW, or a MIDI file)
Pennywhistle notation and Dulcimer tab for this song is also available

Gil Morice (Child Maurice)

Gil Morice was an earl's son,
His fame, it waxed wide,
It wasna for his great riches,
Nor for his muckle pride.

His face was fair, lang was his hair,
In the wild wood whaur he stayed
But his fame was by a lady fair,
That lived on Carron-side.

"Whaur will I get a bonny boy
That will win hose and shoon,
That will gang ta Lord Bernard's ha'
And bid his lady come?

"Oh ye maun rin for me, Willie,
And ye maun rin wi' pride,
When ither boys rin on their feet,
On horseback ye shall ride."

"Oh no, oh no, my maister dear,
I daurna for my life;
I'll no gang ta the bauld baron's,
For to tryst forth his wife."

"My bird Willie and my boy Willie,
And my dear Willie," he said,
"How can ye strive against the stream,
For I shall be obeyed."

"But o, my maister dear," he cried,
"In greenwood ye're your lane.
Gie o'er sic thoughts, I would ye pray
For fear ye should be tane."

"Oh haste, I say, gang tae the ha'
An' bid her come, wi' speed.
If ye refuse my high command
I'll gar your body bleed.

"Ye'll bid her tak' this gay manteel,
It's a' gowd but the hem,
An' bid her tae the greenwood here,
An' bring nane but her lane.

"An' there it is, a silken sark,
Her ain hand sewed the sleeve,
Bid her come speak tae Morice,
Spier nae bauld baron's leave."

"Noo since I maun yer errand rin,
Sair, sair against my will,
I'll mak a vow an' keep it true,
It shall be done for ill."

An' when he cam tae the broken brig,
He bent his breist and swam,
An' when he cam' tae grass growin',
Set doon his foot an' ran.

An' when he cam' tae Bernard's ha',
Would neither chap nor ca',
But set his bend-bow tae his breist,
An' lightly leapt the wa'.

He would tell no man his errand
Tho' twa stood at the gate,
But straicht into the ha' he cam',
Whar great folk sat at meat.

"Hail, hail, my gentle sire an' dame,
Ma message winna wait,
Dame, ye maun tae the greenwood gang,
Before that it be late.

"Ye're bidden tak' this gay manteel,
It's a' gowd but the hem,
An' ye maun tae the greenwood there,
E'en by yersel, alane.

"There it is, a silken sark,
Yer ain han' sewed the sleeve;
Ye maun come speak tae Morice,
Spier nae bauld barron's leave."

The lady stampit wi' her foot,
An' winkit wi' her ee;
But a' that she could say or do,
Forbidden he wouldna be.

For a' that she could say or do,
Forbidden he wouldna be;
"It's surely tae my bower, woman,
It ne'er could be tae me."

Then up an' spak the wiley nurse,
(The bairn upon her knee,)
"If it be come frae Gil Morice,
Oh dearly it's welcome tae me."

"Ye lee, ye lee, ye filthy nurse,
Sae loud's I hear ye lee;
I've brocht it tae Lord Bernard's lady,
I trow ye be not she."

Then up an' spak the bauld baron,
An' an angry man was he;
He's ta'en the table wi' his fit,
In flinders gart it flee.

"Gae bring a robe o' yon clothing
That hangs upon the pin,
An' I will tae the greenwood gae,
An' speak wi' your leman."

"Oh bide at hame noo, my good lord,
I warn you, bide at hame;
Nae wyte a man wi' violence,
That ne're wyte you wi' nane."

Gil Morice sat in yon green wood,
He whistled and he sang;
"Oh what mean a' these folk coming?
My mither tarries lang."

When Bernard tae the greenwood cam',
"Wi' muckle dool an' care,
It's there he saw brave Gil Morice
A-kaimin' his yellow hair.

"No wonder noo, Gil Morice, brave,
My lady loos ye weel;
The fairest part o' my body,
Is blacker than yer heel.

"Yet ne'ertheless noo, Gil Morice,
For a' thy great beauty,
Ye'll rue the day that ye were born,
Thy heid shall gang wi' me."

Noo he has drawn his trusty brand,
An' slait it on a strae,
An' through Gil Morice' fair body,
He's gart cauld iron gae.

An' he has taen Gil Morice' heid,
An set it on a spear;
The meanest man in a' his train,
He got the heid tae bear.

An' he has taen Gil Morice up,
Laid him across his steed;
An' brocht him tae his painted bower,
An' laid him on a bed.

The lady sat on castle wa',
Beheld baith dale an' down,
An' there she saw Gil Morice' heid
Come trailin' to the toon.

"Far mair I loo that bloody heid,
But an' that bloody hair,
Than Lord Bernard an' a' his lands
As they lie here an' there."

An' she has taen Gil Morice up,
An' kissed baith mouth an' chin;
"I aince was fu' o' Gil Morice
As hip is o' the stane.

"I got thee in my faither's ha,
Wi' muckle grief an' shame,
An' brought thee up in the greenwood
Under the heavy rain.

"Oft have I by thy cradle sat,
An' seen thee soundly sleep,
An' noo I'll gang aboot thy grave,
The saut tears for tae weep."

An' she has kissed his bloody cheek,
An' syne his bloody chin;
"Better I loo my Gil Morice
Than a' my kith an kin."

"Awa', awa', ye ill woman,
An' an ill death may ye dee;
Gin I had kent he was your son
He'd ne'er been slain by me."

"Upbraid me not, Lord Bernard,
Upbraid me not for shame,
Wi' that same sword, noo pierce my hairt,
An' put me oot o' pain.

Since naething but Gil Morice' heid
Thy jelous rage could quell,
Let that same hand noo take her life
That ne'er tae you did ill.

"Tae me nae after days or nights
Will e'er be saft or kind;
I'll fill the air wi' heavy sighs
An greet till I am blind."

"Enough o' blood by me's been spilt;
Seek not your death frae me.
I'd rather it had been mysel'
Than either him or thee.

"Wi' wae sae sair, I hear yer plaint,
Sair, sair I rue the deed,
That e'er this curs_ d hand o' mine
Did gar his body bleed.

Dry up your tears my winsome dame,
Ye ne'er can heal the wound;
Ye saw his heid upon my spear,
His hairt's blood on the ground.

"I curse the hand that did the deed,
The hairt that thought the ill,
The feet that bore me wi' sic speed
The comely youth tae kill.

"I'll aye lament for Gil Morice
As gin he were my
I'll ne'er forget the dreary
On which the youth was slain."

Child #83
play.exe GILMORIS.2
play.exe GILMORIS.3
AJS

Thanks to Mudcat for the Digital Tradition!