"O, bonny burdies, my heart is sair
To see twa motherless broods sae fair.
But flee away, burdies! flee away!
For I darenae bide wi' you till day."
"Ye maun let us bide till our feathers dry,
For the time of our trial's drawing nigh.
A voice will call at the hour eleven,
An' a naked sword appear in heaven!
"There's an offering to make, but not by men,
On altar as white as the snow of the glen—