Or wherefore should I kame my hair?
For my true Love has me forsook, 15
And says he’ll never love me mair.
Now Arthur-Seat shall be my bed,
The sheets shall ne’er be prest by me,
Saint Anton’s well shall be my drink,
Since my true Love’s forsaken me. 20
Martinmas wind, when wilt thou blaw,
And shake the green leaves off the tree?
O gentle Death! when wilt thou come?