III
So thro’ every shoulder they’ve bored a bore,
And thro’ every bore they’ve putten a tree,
And they have made him trail the wine
And spices on his fair bodie.
IV
They’ve casten him in a dungeon deep,
Where he could neither hear nor see;
And fed him on nought but bread and water
Till he for hunger’s like to die.
V
This Moor he had but ae daughter,
Her name was callèd Susie Pye,
And every day as she took the air
She heard Young Beichan sadly crie:
VI
‘My hounds they all run masterless,
My hawks they flie from tree to tree,
My youngest brother will heir my lands;
Fair England again I’ll never see!
VII
‘O were I free as I hae been,
And my ship swimming once more on sea,
I’d turn my face to fair England
And sail no more to a strange countrie!’