“There’s nae room at my head, Marg’ret,
    There’s nae room at my feet;
My bed it is fu’ lowly now,
    Amang the hungry worms I sleep.

“Cauld mould is my covering now,
    But and my winding-sheet;
The dew it fall nae sooner down
    Then my resting place is weet.”

Then up and crew the red, red cock,
    Then up and crew the gray;
“’Tis time, ’tis time, my dear Marg’ret,
    That you were going away.

“And fair Marg’ret, and rare Marg’ret,
    And Marg’ret, o’ veritie,
Gin e’er ye love another man,
    Ne’er love him as ye did me.”

THE WIFE OF USHER’S WELL

There lived a wife at Usher’s Well,
    And a wealthy wife was she;
She had three stout and stalwart sons,
    And sent them o’er the sea.

They hadna been a week from her,
    A week but barely ane,
When word cam’ to the carline wife
    That her three sons were gane.

They hadna been a week from her,
    A week but barely three,
When word cam’ to the carline wife
    That her sons she’d never see.

“I wish the wind may never cease,
    Nor fish be in the flood,
Till my three sons come hame to me,
    In earthly flesh and blood!”

It fell about the Martinmas,
    When nights are lang and mirk,
The carline wife’s three sons cam’ hame,
    And their hats were o’ the birk.

If neither grew in shye nor ditch
    Nor yet in any small shugh;
But at the gates o’ Paradise
    That birk grew fair eneugh.

“Blow up the fire, my maidens! 
    Bring water from the well! 
For a’ my house shall feast this night,
    Since my three sons are well.”

And she has made to them a bed,
    She’s made it large and wide;
And she’s ta’en her mantle round about,
    Sat down at the bedside.

Up then crew the red, red cock,
    And up and crew the gray;
The eldest to the youngest said,
    “’Tis time we were away.

“The cock doth craw, the day doth daw,
    The channerin’ worm doth chide;
Gin we be miss’d out o’ our place,
    A sair pain we maun bide.”

“Lie still, lie still but a little wee while,
    Lie still but if we may;
Gin my mother should miss us when she wakes,
    She’ll go mad ere it be the day.

“Our mother has nae mair but us;
    See where she leans asleep;
The mantle that was on herself,
    She has happ’d it round our feet.”

O it’s they have ta’en up their mother’s mantle,
    And they’ve hung it on a pin;
“O lang may ye hing, my mother’s mantle,
    Ere ye hap us again!

“Fare ye weel, my mother dear! 
    Fareweel to barn and byre! 
And fare ye weel, the bonny lass
    That kindles my mother’s fire!”

A LYKE-WAKE DIRGE