This 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.

" O what will ye give my son to eat,
Red rose leaves will never make wine? "
" Fen-water and adder's meat. "
The ways are sair fra' the Till to the Tyne.

" Or what will ye get my son to wear? "
(Red rose leaves will never make wine.)
" A weed and a web of nettle's hair. "
The ways are sair fra' the Till to the Tyne.

" Or what will ye take to line his bed? "
(Red rose leaves will never make wine.)
" Two black stones at the kirkwall's head. "
The ways are sair fra' the Till to the Tyne.

" Or what will ye give my son for land? "
(Red rose leaves will never make wine.)
" Three girl's paces of red sand. "
The ways are sair fra' the Till to the Tyne.

" Or what will ye give me for my son? "
(Red rose leaves will never make wine.)
" Six times to kiss his young mouth on. "
The ways are sair fra' the Till to the Tyne.

" But what have ye done with the bearing-bread,
And what have ye made of the washing-wine?
Or where have ye made your bearing-bed,
To bear a son in the sides of Tyne? "

" The bearing-bread is soft and new,
There is no soil in the straining wine;
The bed was made between green and blue,
It stands full soft by the sides of Tyne.

" The fair grass was my bearing-bread,
The well-water my washing-wine;
The low leaves were my bearing-bed,
And that was best in the sides of Tyne. "

" O daughter, if ye have done this thing,
I wot the greater grief is mine;
This was a bitter child-bearing,
When ye were got by the sides of Tyne.

" About the time of sea-swallows
That fly full thick by six and nine,
Ye'll have my body out of the house,
To bury me by the sides of Tyne.

" Set nine stones by the wall for twain, "
(Red rose leaves will never make wine)
" For the bed I take will measure ten. "
The ways are sair fra' the Till to the Tyne.

" Tread twelve girl's paces out for three, "
(Red rose leaves will never make wine)
" For the pit I made has taken me. "
The ways are sair fra' the Till to the Tyne.