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Aye they rode weel, and aye better,
 Until the moon was nigh to sheen;
And aye the tears ran in her breast,
 And aye in the gold between.

"O whether is yon a cry of carlies,
 Or men that cry on me?"
"Bide still, bide still now, Burd Margaret,
 For ye hear naething but the sea."

"O whatten is yonder noise," she said,
 "That I hear cry on us behind?"
"Haud ye by my sleeve now, Burd Margaret,
 For ye hear naething but the wind."

Aye they rode weel, and aye better,
 Until the moon was waxen weak;
And aye she laid her face to his,
 And her tears ran by his cheek.

Aye when he kissed her bonny een,
 I wot they grat fu' sair;
Aye when she laid her head to his,
 I wot the tears ran through his hair.

Aye they rode slow, and aye slower,
 Till the moon's time was a' done;
Between the road and the saddle
 She thought to bear a son.

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