IV.
“It’s neither your stot nor your staig I shall crave,
(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi’ thyme),
But gie me your wife, man, for her I must have,
And the thyme it is wither’d, and rue is in prime.”
V.
“O welcome, most kindly,” the blythe carle said,
(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi’ thyme),
“But if ye can match her, ye’re waur nor ye’re ca’d,
And the thyme it is wither’d, and rue is in prime.”
VI.
The devil has got the auld wife on his back;
(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi’ thyme),
And, like a poor pedlar, he’s carried his pack;
And the thyme it is wither’d, and rue is in prime.
VII.
He’s carried her hame to his ain hallan-door;
(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi’ thyme).
Syne bade her gae in, for a b—h and a w—e,
And the thyme it is wither’d, and rue is in prime.
VIII.
Then straight he makes fifty, the pick o’ his band,
(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi’ thyme),
Turn out on her guard in the clap of a hand;
And the thyme it is wither’d, and rue is in prime.