XXII
Marti’mas wind, when wilt thou blaw,
And shake the green leaves aff the tree?
O gentle Death, when wilt thou come?
For of my life I am wearìe.
XXIII
’Tis not the frost, that freezes fell,
Nor blawing snaw’s inclemencie,
’Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry;
But my Love’s heart grown cauld to me.
XXIV
When we cam’ in by Glasgow toun,
We were a comely sicht to see;
My Love was clad in the black velvèt,
And I mysel’ in cramasie.
XXV
But had I wist, before I kist,
That love had been sae ill to win,
I had lock’d my heart in a case o’ gowd,
And pinn’d it wi’ a siller pin.
XXVI
And O! if my young babe were born,
And set upon the nurse’s knee;
And I mysel’ were dead and gane,
And the green grass growing over me!