‘My mouth it is full cold, Marg’ret;
   It has the smell, now, of the ground;
And if I kiss thy comely mouth,
   Thy days of life will not be lang.

‘O cocks are crowing a merry midnight;
   I wot the wild fowls are boding day;
Give me my faith and troth again,
   And let me fare me on my way.’

‘Thy faith and troth thou sallna get,
   And our true love sall never twin,
Until ye tell what comes o’ women,
   I wot, who die in strong traivelling?’

‘Their beds are made in the heavens high,
   Down at the foot of our good Lord’s knee,
Weel set about wi’ gillyflowers;
   I wot, sweet company for to see.

‘O cocks are crowing a merry midnight;
   I wot the wild fowls are boding day;
The psalms of heaven will soon be sung,
   And I, ere now, will be miss’d away.’

Then she has taken a crystal wand,
   And she has stroken her troth thereon;
She has given it him at the shot-window,
   Wi’ mony a sad sigh and heavy groan.

‘I thank ye, Marg’ret; I thank ye, Marg’ret;
   And ay I thank ye heartilie;
Gin ever the dead come for the quick,
   Be sure, Marg’ret, I’ll come for thee.’

It’s hosen and shoon, and gown alone,
   She climb’d the wall, and follow’d him,
Until she came to the green forest,
   And there she lost the sight o’ him.

‘Is there ony room at your head, Saunders?
   Is there ony room at your feet?
Or ony room at your side, Saunders,
   Where fain, fain, I wad sleep?’

‘There’s nae room at my head, Marg’ret,
   There’s nae room at my feet;
My bed it is fu’ lowly now,
   Amang the hungry worms I sleep.

‘Cauld mould is my covering now,
   But and my winding-sheet;
The dew it falls nae sooner down
   Than my resting-place is weet.

‘But plait a wand o’ bonny birk,
   And lay it on my breast;
And shed a tear upon my grave,
   And wish my saul gude rest.’

Then up and crew the red, red cock,
   And up and crew the gray:
‘’Tis time, ’tis time, my dear Marg’ret,
   That you were going away.

‘And fair Marg’ret, and rare Marg’ret,
   And Marg’ret o’ veritie,
Gin e’er ye love another man,
   Ne’er love him as ye did me.’

384    Edward, Edward

‘WHY does your brand sae drop wi’ blude,
   Edward, Edward?
Why does your brand sae drop wi’ blude,
   And why sae sad gang ye, O?’
‘O I hae kill’d my hawk sae gude,
   Mither, mither;
O I hae kill’d my hawk sae gude,
   And I had nae mair but he, O.’

‘Your hawk’s blude was never sae red,
   Edward, Edward;
Your hawk’s blude was never sae red,
   My dear son, I tell thee, O.
‘O I hae kill’d my red-roan steed,
    Mither, mither;
O I hae kill’d my red-roan steed,
    That erst was sae fair and free, O.’

‘Your steed was auld, and ye hae got mair,
   Edward, Edward;
Your steed was auld, and ye hae got mair;
   Some other dule ye dree,¹ O.’
‘O I hae kill’d my father dear,
   Mither, mither;
O I hae kill’d my father dear,
   Alas, and wae is me, O!’