A little time while it is new;
But when its auld, it waxeth cauld,
And fades awa’ like the morning dew.
When cockle-shells turn siller bells,
And muscles grow on every tree,
Whan frost and snaw sall warm us aw,
Then sall my love prove true to me.
Now Arthur seat sall be my bed,
The sheets sall ne’er be fyld by me:
Saint Anton’s well sall be my drink,