And meikle dolour gar'd her drie,
For lighter she can never be;
But in her bower she sits wi' pain,
And Willie mourns o'er her in vain.
And to his mother he has gane,
That vile rank witch, o' vilest kind!
He says—"My ladie has a cup,
Wi' gowd and silver set about,
This gudely gift sall be your ain,
And let her be lighter o' her young bairn."