Peter Robins, his website

I HEARD a cow low, a bonnie cow low,
An a cow low down in yon glen;
Lang, lang will my young son greet
Or his mither bid him come ben.

I heard a cow low, a bonnie cow low,
An a cow low down in yon fauld;
Lang, lang will my young son greet
Or his mither take him frae cauld.
* * * * *

. . . . .
. . . .
Waken, Queen of Elfan,
An hear your nourice moan.'

`O moan ye for your meat,
Or moan ye for your fee,
Or moan ye for the ither bounties
That ladies are wont to gie?'

`I moan na for my meat,
Nor moan I for my fee,
Nor moan I for the ither bounties
That ladies are wont to gie.

. . . . .
. . . . .
But I moan for my young son
I left in four nights auld.

`I moan na for my meat,
Nor yet for my fee,
But I mourn for Christen land,
It's there I fain would be.'

`O nurse my bairn, nourice,' she says,
`Till he stan at your knee,
An ye's win hame to Christen land,
Whar fain it's ye wad be.

`O keep my bairn, nourice,
Till he gang by the hauld,
An ye's win hame to your young son
Ye left in four nights auld.'
* * * * *

`O nourice lay your head
Upo my knee:
See ye na that narrow road
Up by yon tree?

. . . . . .
. . . . .
That's the road the righteous goes,
And that's the road to heaven.

`An see na ye that braid road,
Down by yon sunny fell?
Yon's the road the wicked gae,
An that's the road to hell.'
* * * * *