O braw, braw knight, come down the glen
And awa' to kirk wi' me!
And Heaven send us seven stout sons
To fight for our king on the sea!
It's a long ballad, but it's out o' my mind now, and who should come up behind me but my man that was to be, and 'twas set then and there we must go to the kirk come Sunday. Ay, it got me a husband, but never a son, for only six months away he was drowned at sea—the very sea that I'd sung so brave t-to——
Gla. Don't cry. He will come sailing back some day with a fortune in his pocket. I don't believe he was drowned.
Eld. I care not what's in his pocket, ma'am, if he bring me love in his heart.
Gla. That he will, I am sure. Where is Orson?
Eld. Bathing his knees in gooseoil, my lady. You kept him at prayers all night for Sir Hubert.
Gla. Why, did we not share his watch?