But he lay still, and sleeped sound,
Albeit the sun began to sheen;
She looked atween her and the wa’,
And dull and drowsie were his e’en.

Then in and came her father dear;
Said,—­“Let a’ your mourning be: 
I’ll carry the dead corpse to the clay,
And I’ll come back and comfort thee.”

“Comfort weel your seven sons;
For comforted will I never be: 
I ween ’twas neither knave nor loon
Was in the bower last night wi’ me.”

The clinking bell gaed through the town,
To carry the dead corse to the clay;
And Clerk Saunders stood at may Margaret’s window,
I wot, an hour before the day.

“Are ye sleeping, Margaret?” he says,
“Or are ye waking presentlie? 
Give me my faith and troth again,
I wot, true love, I gied to thee.”

“Your faith and troth ye sall never get,
Nor our true love sall never twin,
Until ye come within my bower,
And kiss me cheik and chin.”

“My mouth it is full cold, Margaret,
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 sall na get,
And our true love sall never twin,
Until ye tell what comes of 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 fowl are boding day;
The psalms of heaven will soon be sung,
And I, ere now, will be missed away.”

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

“I thank ye, Marg’ret, I thank ye, Marg’ret;
And aye I thank ye heartilie;
Gin ever the dead come for the quick,
Be sure, Mag’ret, I’ll come for thee.”

It’s hosen and shoon, and gown alone,
She climb’d the wall, and followed 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? 
Is there 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 full 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’ bonnie birk,
And lay it on my breast;
And shed a tear upon my grave,
And wish my saul gude rest.