3
They warstled up, they warstled down,
The lee-lang simmer's day;
. . . . . . .
. . . . . . .
4
'O lift me up upon your back,
Tak me to yon wall fair;
You'll wash my bluidy wounds oer and oer,
And syne they'll bleed nae mair.
5
'And ye'll tak aff my hollin sark,
And riv 't frae gair to gair;
Ye'll stap it in my bluidy wounds,
And syne they'll bleed nae mair.'
6
He's liftit his brother upon his back,
Taen him to yon wall fair;
He's washed his bluidy wounds oer and oer,
But ay they bled mair and mair.
7
And he's taen aff his hollin sark,
And riven 't frae gair to gair;
He's stappit it in his bluidy wounds,
But ay they bled mair and mair.
8
'Ye'll lift me up upon your back,
Tak me to Kirkland fair;
Ye'll mak my greaf baith braid and lang,
And lay my body there.
9
'Ye'll lay my arrows at my head,
My bent bow at my feet,
My sword and buckler at my side,
As I was wont to sleep.
10
'Whan ye gae hame to your father,
He'll speer for his son John:
Say, ye left him into Kirkland fair,
Learning the school alone.
11
'When ye gae hame to my sister,
She'll speer for her brother John:
Ye'll say, ye left him in Kirkland fair,
The green grass growin aboon.
12
'Whan ye gae hame to my true-love,
She'll speer for her lord John:
Ye'll say, ye left him in Kirkland fair,
But hame ye fear he'll never come.'