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Child Maurice (Child 83)

from Blood & Roses Volume 2 by Ewan MacColl & Peggy Seeger

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about

The earliest printed copies of "Child Maurice" belong to the mid-1700's, though it was probably in oral circulation at an earlier date. It provided the basis for Home's tragedy The Douglas, produced in Edinburgh in 1756 and, in its turn, the play seems to have created a vogue for the ballad. The version given here is a more recent and - dare we say it? - superior composition.

In our ballad the argument between Gil Morice and his footpage has been developed in such a way as to give an extra dimension to the ballad. The footpage has ceased to be a mere lay figure; he is now a fully filled-out character, a hot-tempered young man whose advice has been ignored and whose loyalty to his master has been turned into flaming resentment. In other ways too, the ballad is a rewarding one, full of incident, interesting dialogue and memorable lines of poetry, as "I since was fu' o' Gil Morice as hip is o' the stane": surely one of the most potent metaphors for pregnancy in all literature.

lyrics

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

His face was fair, lang was his hair
In the wild wood where he stayed,
But his fame was by a lady fair
That lived on Carronside.

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

O, ye maun rin for me, Willie,
And ye maun rin for pride;
When other boys rin on their feet,
On horseback ye shall ride.

O no, O no, my maister dear,
I daurnae for my life;
I'll no' gang to the bauld baron's
For to tryst forth his wife.

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

O no, O no, my maister dear,
In greenwood you're your lane
Gie ower sic thochts I would ye pray
For fear that ye be slain.

Haste haste, I say, gang tae the ha'
And bid her come with speed;
Gin ye refuse my high command
I'll gar your body bleed,

You'll bid her tak' this gay mantle,
It's a' gowd but the hem,
And bid her come to the greenwood
E'en by hersel' alane.

Ah, there it is, the silken sark,
Her ain hand sewed the sleeve,
Bid her come to the greenwood
Speir nae bauld baron's leave.

Noo, since I maun your errand rin
Sair, Sair against my will;
I'll mak' a vow and keep it true,
It shall be done for ill.

The baron he's a man o' micht,
And ne'er could bide a taunt;
And ye shall see before it's nicht
Hoo sma' ye hae to vaunt.

When he cam' to the broken brig
He bent his bow and swam,
And when he cam' to grass growin'
Set doon his foot and ran.

And when he cam' to the castle wa'
He would neither chap nor ca';
He set his bent bow to his breist
And lichtly leapt the wa'.

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

O hail, ye michty sir and dame,
My message winna wait;
Dame, ye maun to the greenwood gang
Before that it be late.

You're bidden tak' this gay mantle
It's a' gowd but the hem;
And ye maun gang to the greenwood
E'en by yoursel' alane.

Ah, here it is, a silken sark,
Your ain hand sewed the sleeve;
Ye maun speak wi' Gil Morice,
Speir nae bauld baron's leave.

The lady stampit wi' her foot
And winkit wi' her e'e;
But for a' that she could say or do,
Forbidden he wouldnae be.

For a' that she could say or do,
Forbidden he wouldnae be,
It's surely to ane o' my bower maidens,
It ne'er could be to me.

Then oot and spak the auld nurse,
The bairn upon her knee;
If it be come fae Gil Morice,
It's dearly welcome to me.

Ye lee, ye lee, ye filthy nurse,
Sae loud's I hear ye lee;
I brocht it tae Lord Bernard's lady,
I trow ye be nae she.

Then oat and spak the bauld baron
And an angry man was he;
He kicked the table wi' his foot,
In flinders gart it flee.

Gae fetch a robe o' yon clothing
That hings upon the pin;
And I will to the greenwood gang
And speak wi' your leman.

O bide at hame, my ain dear lord,
I warn ye, bide at hame!
Nor wyte man wi' violence
That ne'er to you did nane.

Gil Morice sits in the greenwood
He whistled and he sang;
O what means a' these folk coming?
My mither tarries lang.

When the baron cam' to the greenwood
Wi' muckle dule and care,
There he saw brave Gil Morice
A-kaimin' his yellow hair.

No wonder, noo, Gil Morice brave,
My lady lo'es ye weel;
For the fairest part of my body
Is blacker than your heel.

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

Then he has ta'en his trusty brand
And slait it on the strae;
And through Gil Morce' fair body
He gart cauld iron gae.

Then he has ta'en Gil Morice' heid
And set it upon a spear,
And the meanest man in a' his train
He had the heid to bear.

Then he has ta'en Gil Morice up
And laid him across his steed,
And ta'en him to his painted bower
And laid him on a bed.

The lady sits at the castle wa',
Beheld baith dale and doon;
And there she saw Gil Morice' heid
Come trailin' through the toon.

Far more I lo'e that bloody heid
But an' that bloody hair,
Than Lord Bernard and a' his lands
As they lie here and there.

Then she has ta'en Gil Morice up
And kissed baith mouth and 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 and shame,
And brocht ye up in the greenwood
Under the heavy rain.

Oft hae I by thy cradle sat
And watched thee soundly sleep;
Noo I maun gang about thy grave
The saut tears for to weep.

Then she has kissed his bloody cheek
Syne and his bloody chin.
Better I lo'e my Gil Morice
Than a' my kith and kin.

Awa', awe', ye ill woman
And an ill deith may ye dee;
Gin I had kent he was your son
He'd ne'er been slain by me.

Upbraid me no', Lord Bernard,
O upbraid me no', for shame!
Wi' that same sword noo pierce my heart
And put me out o' pain.

Since naething but Gil Morice' heid
Your jealous rage could quell,
Wi that same hand noo tak' her life
That ne'er to you did ill.

Enough o' blood by me's been spilt,
Seek no' your deith fae me,
I'd rather it had been mysel'
Than either him or thee.
43 Wi' wae, sae sair I hear your plaint
Sair, sair, I rue the deed
That e'er this cursèd hand o' mine
Did gar his body bleed.

But dry your tears noo, winsome dame,
Ye cannae heal his wound;
Ye saw his heid upon my spear,
His heart's blood on the ground.

I curse the hand that did the deed,
The heart that thocht the ill,
The feet that bore me wi' sic speed
The comely youth to kill.

I'll aye lament Gil Morice
As though he were my ain;
I'll never forget the dreary day
On which the youth was slain.

credits

from Blood & Roses Volume 2, released April 12, 1982
Ewan MacColl - vocals

Produced by Neill MacColl
Engineered by Nick Godwin
Recorded at Pathway Studios

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Ewan MacColl London, UK

This site is maintained by the MacColl family, aiming to make Ewan's catalogue available to download.
Ewan MacColl is known to most as a songwriter and singer, but he was also of significant influence in the worlds of theatre and radio broadcasting. His art reached huge numbers through the folk clubs, greater numbers through his recordings and untold millions through the radio. ... more

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