And first he sang a low low note,
   And syne he sang a clear;
  And aye the o’erword o’ the sang
   Was—­“Your love can no win here.”

  “Feast on, feast on, my maidens a’: 
   “The wine flows you amang: 
  “While I gang to my shot-window,
   “And hear yon bonny bird’s sang.

  “Sing on, sing on, my bonny bird,
   “The sang ye sung yestreen;
  “For weel I ken, by your sweet singing,
   “Ye are frae my true love sen’.”

  O first he sang a merry sang,
   And syne he sang a grave;
  And syne he peck’d his feathers gray,
   To her the letter gave.

  “Have there a letter from Lord William;
   “He says he’s sent ye three: 
  “He canna wait your love langer,
   “But for your sake he’ll die.”

  “Gae bid him bake his bridal bread,
   “And brew his bridal ale;
  “And I sall meet him at Mary’s kirk
  “Lang, lang ere it be stale.”

  The ladye’s gane to her chamber,
   And a moanfu’ woman was she;
  As gin she had ta’en a sudden brash,[B]
   And were about to die.

  “A boon, a boon, my father deir,
   “A boon I beg of thee!”
  “Ask not that paughty Scottish lord,
   “For him you ne’er shall see.

  “But, for your honest asking else,
   “Wee! granted it shall be.” 
  “Then, gin I die in Southern land,
   “In Scotland gar bury me.

  “And the first kirk that ye come to,
   “Ye’s gar the mass be sung;
  “And the next kirk that ye come to,
   “Ye’s gar the bells be rung.

  “And, when ye come to St Mary’s kirk,
   “Ye’s tarry there till night.” 
  And so her father pledged his word,
   And so his promise plight.

  She has ta’en her to her bigly bour
   As fast as she could fare;
  And she has drank a sleepy draught,
   That she had mixed wi’ care.

  And pale, pale grew her rosy cheek,
   That was sae bright of blee,
  And she seemed to be as surely dead
   As any one could be.

  Then spak her cruel step-minnie,
   “Take ye the burning lead,
  “And drap a drap on her bosome,
   “To try if she be dead.”

  They took a drap o’ boiling lead,
   They drap’d it on her breast;
  “Alas! alas!” her father cried,
   “She’s dead without the priest.”

  She neither chatter’d with her teeth,
   Nor shiver’d with her chin;
  “Alas! alas!” her father cried,
   “There is nae breath within.”

  Then up arose her seven brethren,
   And hew’d to her a bier;
  They hew’d it frae the solid aik,
   Laid it o’er wi’ silver clear.

  Then up and gat her seven sisters,
   And sewed to her a kell;
  And every steek that they pat in
   Sewed to a siller bell.

  The first Scots kirk that they cam to,
   They gar’d the bells be rung;
  The next Scots kirk that they cam to,
   They gar’d the mass be sung.