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' My mouth it is full cold, Marg'ret;
It has the smeil, now, of the ground ; And if I kiss thy comely mouth,
Thy days of life will not be lang.
v ' O cocks are crowing on merry middle-earth,
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 sallna get, And our true love sail never twin,
Until ye tell what comes o' women, I wot, 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 on merry middle-earth, I wot the wild fowls are boding day;
The psalms of heaven will soon be sung, And I, ere now, will be miss'd away.'
Then she has taken a crystal 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.