St Maur, you'll build your christened child
Alive into the wall."
St Maur has turned on his heel so light,
And angry he turns away:
"Gang to the devil another time
When ye ask what ye ask to-day."
He's ta'en his young son by the hand—
He's opened wide the gate,
"Your mother's been sick a month by now,
And she'll mourn sore if we're late."