of them,
'They hay been in love this many a year.'

12.
Out an' speaks the third of them,
'It wear great sin this twa to twain;'
Out an' speaks the fourth of them,
'It wear a sin to kill a sleeping man.'

13.
Out an' speaks the fifth of them,
'A wat they'll near be twain'd by me;'
Out an' speaks the sixt of them,
'We'l tak our leave an' gae our way.'

14.
Out an' speaks the seventh of them,
'Altho' there wear no a man but me,
I'se bear the brand into my hand
Shall quickly gar Clark Sanders die.'

15.
Out he has ta'en a bright long brand,
And he has striped it throw the straw,
And throw and throw Clarke Sanders' body
A wat he has gard cold iron gae.

16.
Sanders he started, an' Margret she lapt
Intill his arms where she lay;
And well and wellsom was the night,
A wat it was between these twa.

17.
And they lay still, and sleeped sound,
Untill the day began to daw;
And kindly till him she did say,
'It is time, trew-love, ye wear awa'.'

18.
They lay still, and sleeped sound,
Untill the sun began to shine;
She lookt between her and the wa',
And dull and heavy was his een.

19.
She thought it had been a loathsome sweat,
A wat it had fallen this twa between;
But it was the blood of his fair body,
A wat his life days wair na lang.

20.
'O Sanders, I'le do for your sake
What other ladys would na thoule;
When seven years is come and gone,
There's near a shoe go on my sole.

21.
'O Sanders, I'le do for your sake
What other ladies would think mare;
When seven years is come and gone,
There's nere a comb go in my hair.

22.
'O Sanders, I'le do for your sake,
What other ladies would think lack;
When seven years is come and gone,
I'le wear nought but dowy black.'

23.
The bells gaed clinking throw the towne,
To carry the dead corps to the clay;
An' sighing says her May Margret,
'A wat I bide a doulfou' day.'

24.
In an' come her father dear,
Stout steping on the floor;
... ... ...
... ... ...

25.
'Hold your toung, my doughter dear,
Let a' your mourning a-bee;
I'le carry the dead corps to the clay,
An' I'le come back an' comfort thee.'

26.
'Comfort well your seven sons;
For comforted will I never bee;
For it was neither lord nor loune
That was in bower last nig