XV
‘Comfort weel your seven sons,
For comforted I will never be:
I ween ’twas neither knave nor loon
Was in the bower last night wi’ me.’
Part II
I
The clinking bell gaed through the town,
To carry the dead corse to the clay;
And Clerk Saunders stood at may Margaret’s window,
I wot, an hour before the day.
II
‘Are ye sleeping, Marg’ret?’ he says,
‘Or are ye waking presentlie?
Give me my faith and troth again,
I wot, true love, I gied to thee.’
III
‘Your faith and troth ye sall never get,
Nor our true love sall never twin[220],
Until ye come within my bower,
And kiss me cheik and chin.’