For a’ his yellow hair, and sae well’s he can it tye;
I’ll go no more to Conland, this winter-time to lye.’
12
It was not for her beauty, nor yet her gentle bluid,
But for her mither’s dollars, of them he had great need;
Of them he had great need, now he maun do them by,
For she’ll go no more to Conland, this winter-time to lye.
Printed in stanzas of eight short lines.