The live long night these twelve men rade,
And aye till they were right wearie,
Until they cam to the Murraywhate,
And they lighted there right speedilie.
"A smith! a smith!" then Dickie he cries;
"A smith, a smith, right speedilie,
To file the irons frae my dear brither!
For forward, forward we wad be,"
They had na filed a shackle of iron,
A shackle of iron but barely thrie,
When out and spak young Simon brave,
"O dinna ye see what I do see?
"Lo! yonder comes Lieutenant Gordon,
Wi' a hundred men in his cumpanie;
This night will be our lyke-wake night,
The morn the day we a' maun die,"
O there was mounting, mounting in haste,
And there was marching upon the lee;
Until they cam to Annan water,
And it was flowing like the sea.
"My mare is young and very skeigh,[190]
And in o' the weil[191] she will drown me;
But ye'll take mine, and I'll take thine,
And sune through the water we sall be."
Then up and spak him, coarse Ca'field,
(I wot and little gude worth was he)
"We had better lose are than lose a' the lave;
We'll lose the prisoner, we'll gae free."
"Shame fa' you and your lands baith!
Wad ye e'en[192] your lands to your born billy?
But hey! bear up, my bonnie black mare,
And yet thro' the water we sall be.
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