“O row your boat, my mariners,
And bring me to the land,
For yonder I see my love’s castle,
Close by the sa’t sea strand.”

She has ta’en her young son in her arms,
And to the door she’s gone,
And lang she’s knocked and sair she ca’d,
But answer got she none.

“O open the door, Love Gregor,” she says,
“O open, and let me in;
For the wind blaws thro’ my yellow hair,
And the rain draps o’er my chin.”

“Awa, awa, ye ill woman,
You’r nae come here for good;
You’r but some witch, or wile warlock,
Or mer-maid of the flood.”

“I am neither a witch nor a wile warlock,
Nor mer-maid of the sea,
I am Fair Annie of Rough Royal;
O open the door to me.”

“Gin ye be Annie of Rough Royal—­
And I trust ye are not she—­
Now tell me some of the love-tokens
That past between you and me.”

“O dinna you mind now, Love Gregor,
When we sat at the wine,
How we changed the rings frae our fingers? 
And I can show thee thine.

“O yours was good, and good enough,
But ay the best was mine;
For yours was o’ the good red goud,
But mine o’ the diamonds fine.

“But open the door now, Love Gregor,
O open the door I pray,
For your young son that is in my arms
Will be dead ere it be day.”

“Awa, awa, ye ill woman,
For here ye shanno win in;
Gae drown ye in the raging sea,
Or hang on the gallows-pin.”

When the cock had crawn, and day did dawn,
And the sun began to peep,
Then up he rose him, Love Gregor,
And sair, sair did he weep.

“O I dreamd a dream, my mother dear,
The thoughts o’ it gars me greet,
That Fair Annie of Rough Royal
Lay cauld dead at my feet.”

“Gin it be for Annie of Rough Royal
That ye make a’ this din,
She stood a’ last night at this door,
But I trow she wan no in.”

“O wae betide ye, ill woman,
An ill dead may ye die! 
That ye woudno open the door to her,
Nor yet woud waken me.”

O he has gone down to yon shore-side,
As fast as he could fare;
He saw Fair Annie in her boat,
But the wind it tossd her sair.

And “Hey, Annie!” and “How, Annie! 
O Annie, winna ye bide?”
But ay the mair that he cried “Annie,”
The braider grew the tide.

And “Hey, Annie!” and “How, Annie! 
Dear Annie, speak to me!”
But ay the louder he cried “Annie,”
The louder roard the sea.

The wind blew loud, the sea grew rough,
And dashd the boat on shore;
Fair Annie floats on the raging sea,
But her young son rose no more.

Love Gregor tare his yellow hair,
And made a heavy moan;
Fair Annie’s corpse lay at his feet,
But his bonny young son was gone.

O cherry, cherry was her cheek,
And gowden was her hair,
But clay cold were her rosey lips,
Nae spark of life was there,