When the wind brings them over Tyne.

Blossom of broom will never make bread,

Red rose leaves will never make winej

Between her brows she is grown red,

That was full white in the fields by Tyne.

"O what is this thing ye have on,

Show me now, sweet daughter of. mine?"

"O father, this is my little son

That I found hid in the sides of Tyne.

"O what will ye give my son to eat,