'MY luve she lives in Lincolnshire,
I wat she's neither black nor broun,
But her hair is like the thread o gowd,
Aye an it waur weel kaim d doun.'
She's pued the black mask owre her face,
An blinkit gaily wi her ee:
RR'rro will you to my weddin come,
An will you bear me gude companie?'
'I winna to your weddin come,
Nor [will] I bear you gude companie,
Unless you be the bride yoursell,
An me the bridegroom to be.'
'For me to be the bride mysel,
An you the bonnie bridegroom to be-+--+-
Cheer up you heart, Sweet Willie,' she said,
'For that's the day you'll never see.
'Gin you waur on your saddle set,
An gaily ridin on the way,
You'll hae nae mair mind o Alison
Than she waur dead an laid in clay.'
When he was on his saiddle set,
An slowly ridin on the way,
He had mair mind o Alison
Than he had o the licht o day.
He saw a hart draw near a hare,
An aye that hare drew near a toun,
An that same hart did get a hare,
But the gentle knicht got neer a toun.
He leant him owre his saiddle-bow,
An his heart did brak in pieces three;
Wi sighen said him Sweet Willie,
'The pains o luve hae taen hald o me.'
. . . .
. . . .
There cam a white horse an a letter,
That stopped the weddin speidilie.
She leant her back on her bed-side,
An her heart did brak in pieces three;
She was buried an bemoaned,
But the birds waur Willie's companie.