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In the deepest pot of Clyde-water
It 's there they flang him in, And put a turf on his breast-bane
To hold Young Hunting down.
Then up and spake the popinjay
That sat upon the tree ; ' Gae hame, gae hame, ye fause lady,
And pay your maids their fee.'—
' Come down, come down, my pretty bird,
That sits upon the tree ; I have a cage oJ beaten gold,
I'll gie it unto thee.'—
'How shall I come down, how can I come down,
How shall I come down to thee ? The things ye said to Young Hunting,
The same ye're saying to me.'
xv She hadna cross'd a rigg o' land,
A rigg but barely ane, When she met wi' his auld father,
Came riding all alane.
i Where has ye been, now, lady fair,
Where has ye been sae late ? We hae been seeking Young Hunting,
But him we canna get.'—