Page:Poems and ballads, third series (IA poemsballadsthir00swin).pdf/161

 He kissed her down by her breast-flowers red, One with another; They were like river-flowers dead. (Mother, my mother.)

What ails you now o' your weeping, wife? (One with another.) It ails me sair o' my very life. (Mother, my mother.)

What ails you now o' your weary ways? (One with another.) It ails me sair o' my long life-days. (Mother, my mother.)

Nay, ye are young, ye are over fair. (One with another.) Though I be young, what needs ye care? (Mother, my mother.)