Page:Poems and ballads, third series (IA poemsballadsthir00swin).pdf/171

 She's tane her to the wild woodside, Between the flood and fell: She's sought a rede against her need Of the fiend that bides in hell.

She's tane her to the wan burnside, She's wrought wi' sang and spell: She's plighted her soul for doom and dole To the fiend that bides in hell.

She's set her young son to her breast, Her auld son to her knee: Says, 'Weel for you the night, bairnies, And weel the morn for me.'

She looked fu' lang in their een, sighing, And sair and sair grat she: She has slain her young son at her breast, Her auld son at her knee.