Likewise the scorching heat.
‘O waken, waken, Rothiemay,
O waken, brother dear,
And turn you to our Saviour,
There is strong treason here.’
He did him to the wire-window
As fast as he could gang—
Says—‘Wae to the hands put in the stancheons,
For out we’ll never win.’
Cried—‘Mercy, mercy, Lady Frendraught,