as blythe lay down at e'en:
and i'm the sov'reign of scotland,
and mony a traitor there;
yet here i lie in foreign bands,
and never-ending care.
but as for thee, thou false woman,
my sister and my fae,
grim vengeance yet shall whet a sword
that thro' thy soul shall gae;
the weeping blood in woman's breast
was never known to thee;
nor th' balm that draps on wounds of woe
frae woman's pitying e'e.
my son! my son! may kinder stars
upon thy fortune shine;
and may those pleasures gild thy reign,
that ne'er wad blink on mine!
god keep thee frae thy mother's faes,
or turn their hearts to thee:
and where thou meet'st thy mother's friend,
remember him for me!
o! soon, to me, may summer suns
nae mair light up the morn!
nae mair to me the autumn winds
wave o'er the yellow corn?
and, in the narrow house of death,
let winter round me rave;
and the next flow'rs that deck the spring,
bloom on my peaceful grave!