Since my true-love’s forsaken me.
Martinmas wind, when wilt thou blaw,
And shake the green leaves aff the tree?
O gentle death, whan wilt thou cum,
And tak’ a life that wearies me!
’Tis not the frost that freezes sae,
Nor blawing snaw’s inclemencie,
’Tis not sic cauld, that makes me cry,
But my love’s heart grown cauld to me.
Whan we came in by Glasgow town,