And word goes back to the carline Wife
And ever she sends more.
For since that Wife had gate or gear,
Or hearth or garth or bield,
She wills her sons to the white harvest,
And that is a bitter yield—
[xii]
]She wills her sons to the wet ploughing
To ride the horse o’ tree,
And syne her sons come home again
Far spent from out the sea.