"O ye've had a cruel mither, Willie!
And I have had anither;
But we shall sleep in Clyde's water
Like sister and like brither."
* * * * *
YOUNG BEICHAN.
In London was young Beichan born,
He longed strange countries for to see,
But he was ta'en by a savage Moor,
Who handled him right cruellie.
For he viewed the fashions of that land,
Their way of worship viewed he,
But to Mahound or Termagant
Would Beichan never bend a knee.
So in every shoulder they've putten a bore,
In every bore they've putten a tree,
And they have made him trail the wine
And spices on his fair bodie.
They've casten him in a dungeon deep,
Where he could neither hear nor see,
For seven years they've kept him there,
Till he for hunger's like to dee.
This Moor he had but ae daughter,
Her name was called Susie Pye,
And every day as she took the air,
Near Beichan's prison she passed by.
And so it fell upon a day,
About the middle time of Spring,
As she was passing by that way,
She heard young Beichan sadly sing.
All night long no rest she got,
Young Beichan's song for thinking on;
She's stown the keys from her father's head,
And to the prison strang is gone.