For my true love has me forsook,
And says he'll never loe me mair.
Now Arthur-seat shall be my bed,
The sheets shall ne'er be fyl'd by me;
Saint Anton's well shall be my drink,
Since my true love has forsaken me.
Mart'mas wind, when wilt thou blaw,
And shake the green leaves aff the tree?
O gentle death, when wilt thou cum?
For of my life I am wearie.
'Tis not the frost that freezes fell,
Nor blawing snaw's inclemencie;
‘Tis not sick cauld that makes me cry,
But my love's heart's grown cauld to me.
When we came in by Glasgow town,
We were a comely sight to see;
My love was clad i‘ th’ black velvet,
And I mysel in cramasie.
But had I wist before I kist,
That love had been sae ill to win,
I had lock'd my heart in a case of gowd,