11
‘Loup on your steeds, ye nobles a’,
I’m sorry for our comin;
Frae our horse to our hat, we’ll gae in black,
And we’ll murn for Peggy Irwine.’
12
They rade on but stap or stay
Till they came to her father’s garden,
Whare fifty o the bravest lords
Were convoying Peggy Irwine.