"I weird ye be a fiery snake; And borrowed sall ye never be, Till Kempion, the kingis son, Come to the crag and thrice kiss thee. Until the warld comes to an end, Borrowed sall ye never be!" O mickle dolour did she dree, And aye the saut seas o'er she swam; And far mair dolour did she dree On Estmere Crags, when up she clamb. And aye she cried on Kempion, Gin he would but come to her han':-- Now word has gane to Kempion, That siccan a beast was in the lan'. "Now by my sooth," said Kempion, "This fiery beast I'll gang and see." "An' by my sooth," said Segramour, "My ae brither, I'll gang wi' thee." They twa hae biggit a bonny boat, And they hae set her to the sea; But a mile afore they reach'd the shore, Around them 'gan the red fire flee. The worm leapt out, the worm leapt down, She plaited nine times round stock and stane; And aye as the boat cam' to the beach, O she hae strickit it aff again. "Min' how you steer, my brither dear: Keep further aff!" said Segramour; "She'll drown us deep in the saut, saut sea, Or burn us sair, if we come on shore." Syne Kempion has bent an arblast bow, And aimed an arrow at her head; And swore, if she didna quit the shore, Wi' that same shaft to shoot her dead. "Out o' my stythe I winna rise, Nor quit my den for the fear o' thee, Till Kempion, the kingis son, Come to the crag an' thrice kiss me." He's louted him o'er the Estmere Crag, And he has gi'en that beast a kiss: In she swang, and again she cam', And aye her speech was a wicked hiss. "Out o' my stythe I winna rise, An' not for a' thy bow nor thee, Till Kempion, the kingis son, Come to the crag an' thrice kiss me." He's louted him o'er the Estmere Crag, And he has gi'en her kisses twa; In she swang, and again she cam', The fieriest beast that ever you saw. "Out o' my stythe I winna rise, Nor quit my den for the fear o' thee, Till Kempion, the kingis son, Come to the crag an' thrice kiss me." He's louted him o'er the lofty crag, And he has gi'en her kisses three; In she swang, a loathly worm; An' out she stepped, a fair ladye. Nae cleeding had this lady fair, To keep her body frae the cold; But Kempion took his mantle aff, And around his ain true love did fold. "An' by my sooth," says Kempion, "My ain true love!--for this is she,-- They surely had a heart o' stane, Could put thee to this misery. "O was it wer-wolf in the wood, Or was it mermaid in the sea, Or wicked man, or wile woman, My ain true love, that mis-shaped thee?" "It was na wer-wolf in the wood, Nor was it mermaid in the sea; But it was my wicked stepmither, And wae and weary may she be!" "O a heavier weird light her upon Than ever fell on wile woman! Her hair sall grow rough, an' her teeth grow lang, An' aye upon four feet maun she gang." * * * * * ALISON GROSS.