She has taken up her two little babes,
Kiss'd them both cheek and chin;
'O fare ye well, my own two babes,
For I'll never see you again.'
She set her foot upon the ship,
No mariners could she behold;
But the sails were of the taffetie,
And the masts of the beaten gold.
She had not sail'd a league, a league,
A league but barely three,
When dismal grew his countenance,
And drumlie grew his ee.
The masts that were like the beaten gold
Bent not on the heaving seas;
And the sails that were of the taffetie
Fill'd not in the east land breeze.
They had not sail'd a league, a league,
A league but barely three,
Until she espied his cloven foot,
And she wept right bitterly.
'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 won.'
'O what a mountain is yon,' she said,
'All so dreary with frost and snow?'
'O yon is the mountain of hell,' he cried,
'Where you and I will go.'
And aye when she turn'd her round about
Aye taller he seem'd for to be;
Until that the tops of that gallant ship
No taller were than he.
The clouds grew dark and the wind grew loud,
And the levin filled her ee;
And waesome wail'd the snow-white sprites
Upon the gurlie sea.