And if I come not often to your bed beneath the thyme,
Mayhap ’tis that I’d change wi’ ye, and gie my bed for thine,
Would like to sleep in thine.
I never hear the summer winds among the roses blow,
Without I wonder why it was ye loved the lassie so.
Ye gave me cakes and lollipops and pretty toys a score,—
I never thought I should come back and ask ye now for more.
Grandmither, gie me your still, white hands, that lie upon your breast,
For mine do beat the dark all night and never find me rest;
They grope among the shadows an’ they beat the cold black air,