Peter Robins, his website

`MY luve she lives in Lincolnshire,
I wat she's neither black nor broun,
But her hair is like the thread o gowd,
Aye an it waur weel kaime:d doun.'

She's pued the black mask owre her face,
An blinkit gaily wi her ee:
'o will you to my weddin come,
An will you bear me gude companie?'

`I winna to your weddin come,
Nor [will] I bear you gude companie,
Unless you be the bride yoursell,
An me the bridegroom to be.'

`For me to be the bride mysel,
An you the bonnie bridegroom to be----
Cheer up you heart, Sweet Willie,' she said,
`For that's the day you'll never see.

`Gin you waur on your saddle set,
An gaily ridin on the way,
You'll hae nae mair mind o Alison
Than she waur dead an laid in clay.'

When he was on his saiddle set,
An slowly ridin on the way,
He had mair mind o Alison
Than he had o the licht o day.

He saw a hart draw near a hare,
An aye that hare drew near a toun,
An that same hart did get a hare,
But the gentle knicht got neer a toun.

He leant him owre his saiddle-bow,
An his heart did brak in pieces three;
Wi sighen said him Sweet Willie,
`The pains o luve hae taen hald o me.'

. . . .
. . . .
There cam a white horse an a letter,
That stopped the weddin speidilie.

She leant her back on her bed-side,
An her heart did brak in pieces three;
She was buried an bemoaned,
But the birds waur Willie's companie.