That we maun sindered be;
There’s naething binds my poor auld heart
To earth, gude-wife, but thee.
I feel I’m growing auld, gude-wife—
I feel I’m growing auld;
Life seems to me a wintry waste,
The very sun feels cauld.
Of worldly frien’s ye’ve been to me,
Amang them a’ the best;
Now, I’ll lay down my weary head,