XI

In the deepest pot of Clyde-water
It’s there they flang him in,
And put a turf on his breast-bane
To hold Young Hunting down.

XII

Then up and spake the popinjay
That sat upon the tree;
‘Gae hame, gae hame, ye fause lady,
And pay your maids their fee.’—

XIII

‘Come down, come down, my pretty bird,
That sits upon the tree;
I have a cage o’ beaten gold,
I’ll gie it unto thee.’—

XIV

‘How shall I come down, how can I come down,
How shall I come down to thee?
The things ye said to Young Hunting,
The same ye’re saying to me.’

XV

She hadna cross’d a rigg[239] o’ land,
A rigg but barely ane,
When she met wi’ his auld father,
Came riding all alane.