‘I hae seven ships upon the sea, The eighth brought me to land; With four-and-twenty bold mariners, And music on every hand.’
She has taken up her two little babes, Kissed them baith cheek and chin; ‘O fare ye weel, my ain twa babes, For I’ll never see you again.’
She set her foot upon the ship, No mariners could she behold; But the sails were o’ the taffetie And the masts o’ the beaten gold.
She had not sailed a league, a league, A league but barely three, When dismal grew his countenance, And drumlie grew his e’e.
The masts, that were like the beaten gold, Bent not on the heaving seas; But the sails, that were o’ the taffetie, Fill’d not in the east land breeze.
They had not sailed a league, a league, A league but barely three, Until she espied his cloven foot, And she wept right bitterlie.
‘O hold your tongue of your weeping,’ says he, ‘Of your weeping now let me be; I will show you how the lilies grow On the banks of Italy.’
‘O what hills are yon, yon pleasant hills, That the sun shines sweetly on?’ ‘O yon are the hills of heaven,’ he said, ‘Where you will never win.’
‘O whaten a mountain is yon,’ she said, ‘All so dreary wi’ frost and snow?’ ‘O yon is the mountain of hell,’ he cried, ‘Where you and I will go.’