VIII.

Where soft the wee burn babbles down over there, Full oft have I pressed these lips to my fair. The burn it still babbles, will babble amain, Shall lips to my fair be pressed never again! The waves of the brook to the valley are flowing, Where on grave of my fairest the blossoms are blowing.

Down there in the meadow they’re mowing, And looks at my sweetheart they’re throwing; Such looks at my sweetheart they’re throwing, That mad is this heart of mine going!

Yonder strapping lass did bake, Put no salt into the cake; Lo! it sticks upon the pan— Eat it, child, as best you can.

“Plainly, maiden, lov’st thou me? Which thy true-love—I or he?” “Thou, O thou, when thou art nigh; But for love of him I die!”

Boots and shoes were never mine, Seldom have I tasted wine; But I once possessed a wife, And she poisoned all my life!