The sheets shall ne'er be fyld by me;
Saint Anton's well shall be my drink
Since my true love's forsaken me.
Martinmas wind, when wilt thou blow,
And shake the green leaves off the tree
O, gentle death, when wilt thou come,
For of my life I am weary.
'T is not the frost that freezes fell,
Nor blawing snaw's inclemency;
'T is not the cauld as makes me cry,