Clerk Saunders he started, and Margaret she turned,
    Into his arms as asleep she lay;
And sad and silent was the night
    That was atween thir twae.

And they lay still and sleepit sound
    Until the day began to daw;
And kindly she to him did say,
    “It is time, true love, you were awa’.”

But he lay still and sleepit sound,
    Albeit the sun began to sheen;
She looked between her and the wa’,
    And dull and drowsie were his een.

Then in and came her father dear;
    Said, “Let a’ your mourning be;
I’ll carry the dead corpse to the clay,
    And I’ll come back and comfort thee.”

“Comfort weel your seven sons,
    For comforted I will never be: 
I trow ’twas neither knave nor loon
    Was in the bower last night wi’ me.”

The clinking bell gaed through the town,
    And carried the dead corpse to the clay. 
Young Saunders stood at may Margaret’s window,
    I wot, an hour before the day.

“Are ye sleeping, Margaret?” he says,
    “Or are you waking presentlie? 
Give me my faith and troth again,
    True love, as I gied them to thee.”

“Your faith and troth ye sall never get,
    Nor our true love sall never twin,
Until ye come within my bower,
    And kiss me cheek and chin.”

“My mouth it is full cold, Margaret,
    It has the smell now of the ground;
And if I may kiss thy comely mouth,
    Thy days will soon be at an end.

“O, cocks are crowing a merry midnight;
    I wot the wild fowls are boding day. 
Give me my faith and troth again,
    And let me fare me on my way.”

“Thy faith and troth thou sall na get,
    And our true love sall never twin,
Until ye tell wha’ comes o’ women,
    Wot ye, who die in strong traivelling?”

“Their beds are made in the heavens high,
    Down at the foot of our good Lord’s knee,
Weel set about wi’ gillyflowers;
    I wot, sweet company for to see.

“O, cocks are crowing a merry midnight;
    I wot the wild fowls are boding day;
The psalms of heaven will soon be sung,
    And I, ere now, will be missed away.”

Then she has taken a crissom wand,
    And she has stroken her troth thereon;
She has given it him out at the shot-window,
    Wi’ mony a sad sigh and heavy groan.

“I thank ye, Marg’ret; I thank ye, Marg’ret;
    Ever I thank ye heartilie;
But gin I were living, as I am dead,
    I’d keep my faith and troth with thee.”

It’s hosen and shoon, and gown alone,
    She climbed the wall, and followed him,
Until she came to the green forest,
    And there she lost the sight o’ him.

“Is there ony room at your head, Saunders? 
    Is there ony room at your feet? 
Is there ony room at your side, Saunders? 
    Where fain, fain, I wad sleep?”