7
'O is your saddle set awrye?
Or rides your steed for you owre high?
8
'Or are you mourning in your tide
That you suld be Cospatrick's bride?'
9
'I am not mourning at this tide
That I suld be Cospatrick's bride;
10
'But I am sorrowing in my mood
That I suld leave my mother good.
11
'But, gentle boy, come tell to me,
What is the custom of thy countrye?'
12
'The custom thereof, my dame,' he says,
'Will ill a gentle laydye please.
13
'Seven king's daughters has our lord wedded,
And seven king's daughters has our lord bedded;
14
'But he's cutted their breasts frae their breast bane,
And sent them mourning hame again.
15
'Yet, gin you're sure that you're a maid,
Ye may gae safely to his bed;
16
'But gif o that ye be na sure,
Then hire some damsell o your bour.'