What other ladies would think mair;
When seven years is come and gone,
There's ne'er a comb go in my hair.
O Saunders, I'll do for your sake
What other ladies would think lack;
(thole, endure. lack, loss.)
When seven long years is come and gone,
I'll wear nought but dowie black.
The bells gaed clinking through the town,
To carry the dead corpse to the clay,