In, in, out and in,
Blaws the wind and whirls the whin.
"O gin the morrow be great wi' sorrow,
The wyte be yours of a':
But though ye slay me that haud and stay me,
The weird ye will maun fa'."
In, in, out and in,
Blaws the wind and whirls the whin.
When cocks were crawing and day was dawing,
He's boun' him forth to ride: