II
They warsled up, they warsled down,
Till Sir John fell to the ground,
And there was a knife in Sir Willie’s pouch
Gied him a deadly wound.
III
‘Tak’ aff, tak’ aff my holland sark,
Rive[426] it frae gare[427] to gare.
And stap it in my bleeding wound—
’Twill aiblins[428] bleed nae mair.’
IV
He’s pu’it aff his holland sark,
Rave it frae gare to gare,
And stapt it in his bleeding wound—
But aye it bled the mair.
V
‘O tak’ now aff my green cleiding[429]
And row[430] me saftly in,
And carry me up to Chester kirk,
Whar the grass grows fair and green.
VI
‘But what will ye say to your father dear
When ye gae home at e’en?’—
‘I’ll say ye’re lying at Chester kirk,
Whar the grass grows fair and green.’—