Page:Poems and ballads (IA poemsballads00swinrich).pdf/352



fell when Christmas lights were done, Red rose leaves will never make wine; But before the Easter lights begun; The ways are sair fra' the Till to the Tyne.

Two lovers sat where the rowan blows And all the grass is heavy and fine, By the gathering-place of the sea-swallows When the wind brings them over Tyne.

Blossom of broom will never make bread, Red rose leaves will never make wine; Between her brows she is grown red, That was full white in the fields by Tyne.

"O what is this thing ye have on, Show me now, sweet daughter of mine?" "O father, this is my little son That I found hid in the sides of Tyne.