VII
—‘Ohone, alas!’ says Clerk Colven,
‘And aye so sair as akes my head!’
And merrily leugh[227] the mermaiden,
‘O ’twill win on[228] till you be dead.
VIII
‘But out ye tak’ your little pen-knife,
And frae my sark ye shear a gare[229];
Row[230] that about your lovely head,
And the pain ye’ll never feel nae mair.’
IX
Out he has ta’en his little pen-knife,
And frae her sark he’s shorn a gare;
She’s ty’d it round his whey-white face,
But and ay his head it akèd mair.
X
‘Ohone, alas!’ says Clerk Colven,
‘O sairer, sairer akes my head!’—
‘And sairer, sairer ever will,
And aye be war’[231] till ye be dead.’
XI
Then out he drew his shining blade
And thought wi’ it to be her deid[232],
But she’s become a fish again,
And merrily sprang into the fleed[233].