Out he has ta’en his little pen-knife,
And frae her sark he’s shorn a gare,
Rowed that about his lovely head,
But the pain increased mair and mair.
10.
10.4 ‘war,’ worse.
‘Ohon, alas!’ says Clark Colven,
‘An’ aye sae sair’s I mean my head!’
And merrily laugh’d the mermaiden,
‘It will ay be war till ye be dead.’