She stretched out her lily-white hand
And for to do her best:
‘Hae, there’s your faith and troth, Willie;
God send your soul good rest.’
Now she has kilted her robe o’ green
A piece below her knee,
And a’ the live-lang winter night
The dead corp followed she.
‘Is there any room at your head, Willie,
Or any room at your feet?
Or any room at your side, Willie,
Wherein that I may creep?’
‘There’s nae room at my head, Marg’ret,
There’s nae room at my feet;
There’s nae room at my side, Marg’ret,
My coffin’s made so meet.’
Then up and crew the red red cock,
And up and crew the grey;
‘’Tis time, ’tis time, my dear Marg’ret,
That you were gane awa.’
SIR PATRICK SPENS
The king sits in Dumfermline toun,
Drinking the blude-red wine;
‘O whare will I get a skeely skipper
To sail this new ship o’ mine?’
O up and spake an eldern knight,
Sat at the king’s right knee;
‘Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor
That ever sailed the sea.’
Our king has written a braid letter
And sealed it with his hand,
And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens
Was walking on the strand.
‘To Noroway, to Noroway,
To Noroway ower the faem;
The king’s daughter o’ Noroway
’Tis thou must bring her hame.’