The sheets shall ne’er be pressed by me.
St. Anton’s Well shall be my drink
Since my true love has forsaken me.
Martinmas wind, when wilt thou blaw,
And shake the green leaves aff the tree?
O gentle death! when wilt thou come?
For of my life I am wearie!
4. ‘Tis not the frost that freezes fell
Nor blawing snaw’s inclemencie;
‘Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry,