‘Gae hame, gae hame, father,’ she says,
‘Gae hame and saw yer seed;
And I wish not a pickle of it may grow up,
But the thistle and the weed.
6
‘Gae hame, gae hame, gae hame, mother,
Gae hame and brew yer yill;
And I wish the girds may a’ loup off,
And the Deil spill a’ yer yill.
7