His hand, whilk clasped the truth o’ luve,
O it was aye in battle readie!
His lang lang hair, in yellow hanks,
Wav’d o’er his cheeks sae sweet and ruddie;
But now they wave o’er Carlisle yetts,
In dripping ringlets clotting bloodie.
My father’s blood’s in that flower tap,
My brother’s in that harebell’s blossom;
This white rose was steeped in my luve’s blood,
And I’ll aye wear it in my bosom.