When Rose the Red, and White Lilly,
    Saw their twa loves were gane,
  Sune did they drop the loud loud sang,
    Took up the still mourning.

  And out then spake her White Lilly;
    “My sister, we’ll be gane: 
  “Why suld we stay in Barnisdale,
    “To mourn our hour within?”

  O cutted hae they their green cloathing,
    A little abune their knee;
  And sae hae they their yellow hair,
    A little abune their bree.

  And left hae they that bonny hour,
    To cross the raging sea;
  And they hae ta’en to a holy chapel,
    Was christened by Our Ladye.

  And they hae changed their twa names,
    Sae far frae ony toun;
  And the tane o’ them’s hight Sweet Willie,
    And the tother’s Rouge the Rounde.

  Between the twa a promise is,
    And they hae sworn it to fulfill;
  Whenever the tane blew a bugle-horn,
    The tother suld cum her till.

  Sweet Willy’s gane to the king’s court,
    Her true love for to see;
  And Rouge the Rounde to gude grene-wood,
    Brown Robin’s man to be.

  O it fell anes, upon a time,
    They putted at the stane;
  And seven foot ayont them a’,
    Brown Robin’s gar’d it gang.

  She lifted the heavy putting-stane,
    And gave a sad “O hon!”
  Then out bespake him, Brown Robin,
    “But that’s a woman’s moan!”

  “O kent ye by my rosy lips? 
    “Or by my yellow hair? 
  “Or kent ye by my milk-white breast,
    “Ye never yet saw bare?”

  “I kent na by your rosy lips,
    “Nor by your yellow hair;
  “But, cum to your bour whaever likes,
    “They’ll find a ladye there.”

  “O gin ye come my bour within,
    “Through fraud, deceit, or guile,
  “Wi’ this same brand, that’s in my hand,
    “I vow I will thee kill.”

  “Yet durst I cum into your bour,
   “And ask nae leave,” quo’ he;
  “And wi’ this same brand, that’s in my hand,
   “Wave danger back on thee.”

  About the dead hour o’ the night,
   The ladye’s bour was broken;
  And, about the first hour o’ the day,
   The fair knave bairn was gotten.

  When days were gane, and months were come,
   The ladye was sad and wan;
  And aye she cried for a bour woman,
   For to wait her upon.

  Then up and spake him, Brown Robin,
   “And what needs this?” quo’ he;
  “Or what can woman do for you,
   “That canna be done by me?”

  “’Twas never my mother’s fashion,” she said,
   “Nor shall it e’er be mine,
  “That belted knights should e’er remain
   “While ladyes dree’d their pain.

  “But, gin ye take that bugle-horn,
    “And wind a blast sae shrill,
  “I hae a brother in yonder court,
    “Will cum me quickly till.”

  “O gin ye hae a brother on earth,
    “That ye lo’e mair than me,
  “Ye may blaw the horn yoursell,” he says,
    “For a blast I winna gie.”