Is like blood-draps on the snaw;
The white that is on her breast bare,
Like the down o' the white sea-maw.'
The bird arrives at the lady's abode:
And first he sang a low, low note,
And syne he sang a clear;
And aye the owerword o' the sang
Was, 'Your love can no win here.'
Gil Morrice has:
Aye the owerword o' his sang