Till frae ilkae bore o’ the cradle
The red blood out sprang.
“Then out it spak the ladie
As she stood on the stair,
‘What ails my bairn, nourice,
That he’s greeting sae sair?
“‘O still my bairn, nourice
O still him wi’ the pap!’
‘He winna still, lady,
For this nor for that.’