208
THE BROTHERS.
A bane of the dead in his hand he's tane;
Sweet fruits are sair to gather:
And the red blood brak frae the dead white bane.
And the wind wears owre the heather.
He's cast it forth of his auld faint hand;
Sweet fruits are sair to gather:
And the red blood ran on the wan wet sand.
And the wind wears owre the heather.
'O whatten a slayer is this,' they said,
(Sweet fruits are sair to gather)
'That the straik of his hand should raise his dead?'
And the wind wears owre the heather.
'O weel is me for the sign I take'
(Sweet fruits are sair to gather)
'That now I may die for my auld sin's sake.'
And the wind wears owre the heather.
