Classic Poem

I lay sick, and very sick,
And I was bad, and like to dee;
. . . . . . . .
A friend o mine cam to visit me,
And Blackwood whisperd in my lord's ear
That he was oure lang in chamber wi me.

" O what need I dress up my head,
Nor what need I caim doun my hair,
Whan my gude lord has forsaken me,
And says he will na love me mair!

" But oh, an my young babe was born,
And set upon some nourice knee,
And I mysel war dead and gane!
For a maid again I 'll never be."

" Na mair o this, my dochter dear,
And of your mourning let abee;
For a bill of divorce I 'll gar write for him,
A mair better lord I 'll get for thee."

" Na mair o this, my father dear,
And of your folly let abee;
For I wad na gie ae look o my lord's face
For aw the lords in the haill cuntree.

" But I 'll cast aff my robes o red,
And I 'll put on my robes o blue,
And I will travel to some other land,
To see gin my love will on me rue.

" There shall na wash come on my face,
There shall na kaim come on my hair;
There shall neither coal nor candle-licht
Be seen intil my bouer na mair.

" O wae be to thee, Blackwood,
And an ill death may ye dee!
For ye 've been the haill occasion
Of parting my lord and me."