human
We never sung the sang, mither, But we'll sing ower again; We'll take our harps into our hands, 35 And we'll harp, and we'll sing.
gpt
Boun ye for the sea; Let Rose the Red, and White Lillie, Stay in their bower wi' me.
human
O God forbid, said her eldest son,
gpt
Nor lat it ever be, Unless ye were as kind to our luves As gin we were them wi.
human
Yet never the less, my pretty sons, 45 Ye'll boun you for the faem; Let Rose the Red, and White Lillie, Stay in their bowers at hame.
gpt
O when wi' you we came alang, We felt the stormy sea; 50 And where we go, ye ne'er shall know, Nor shall be known by thee.