Whan years an' tears ha'e blench'd it?
Will it be time to talk o' love
Whan cauld an' care ha'e quench'd it?"
He's laid ae han' aboot her waist,
The ither's held to heaven;
An' his luik was like the luik o' man
Wha's heart in twa is riven.
The auld laird o' Knockdon is dead,
There's few for him will sorrow;
For Willy's steppit in his stead,