'My bones are buried in yon kirk-yard
Afar beyond the sea,
And it is but my spirit, Margaret,
That's now speaking to thee.'
She stretched out her lily-white hand,
And for to do her best:
'Have there your faith and troth, Willy,
God send your soul good rest.'
Now she has kilted her robes of green
A piece below her knee;
And all the live-long winter night
The dead corpse followed she.
'Is there any room at your head, Willy,
Or any room at your feet?
Or any room at your side, Willy,
Wherein that I may creep?'
'There's no room at my head, Margaret,
There's no room at my feet;
There's no room at my side, Margaret,
My coffin's made so meet.'
Then up and crew the red red cock,
And up then crew the grey;
''Tis time, 'tis time, my dear Margaret,
That you were going away.'
Old Ballad
CXIII
THE FOUNTAIN
Into the sunshine,
Full of the light,
Leaping and flashing
From morn till night!