'Then I'll take the sword frae my scabbard And slowly lift the pin; And you may swear, and save your aith, Ye ne'er let Clerk Saunders in. 'Take you a napkin in your hand, And tie up baith your bonnie e'en, And you may swear, and save your aith, Ye saw me na since late yestreen.' It was about the midnight hour, When they asleep were laid, When in and came her seven brothers, Wi' torches burning red: When in and came her seven brothers, Wi' torches burning bright: They said, 'We hae but one sister, And behold her lying with a knight!' Then out and spake the first o' them, 'I bear the sword shall gar him die.' And out and spake the second o' them, 'His father has nae mair but he.' And out and spake the third o' them, 'I wot that they are lovers dear.' And out and spake the fourth o' them, 'They hae been in love this mony a year.' Then out and spake the fifth o' them, 'It were great sin true love to twain.' And out and spake the sixth o' them, 'It were shame to slay a sleeping man.' Then up and gat the seventh o' them, And never a word spake he; But he has striped his bright brown brand Out through Clerk Saunders' fair bodye. Clerk Saunders he started, and Margaret she turn'd Into his arms as asleep she lay; And sad and silent was the night That was atween thir twae. And they lay still and sleepit sound Until the day began to daw'; And kindly she to him did say, 'It is time, true love, you were awa'.' But he lay still, and sleepit sound, Albeit the sun began to sheen; She look'd atween her and the wa', And dull and drowsie were his e'en. Then in and came her father dear; Said, 'Let a' your mourning be; I'll carry the dead corse to the clay, And I'll come back and comfort thee.' 'Comfort weel your seven sons, For comforted I will never be: I ween 'twas neither knave nor loon Was in the bower last night wi' me.' The clinking bell gaed through the town, To carry the dead corse to the clay; And Clerk Saunders stood at may Margaret's window, I wot, an hour before the day. 'Are ye sleeping, Marg'ret?' he says, 'Or are ye waking presentlie? Give me my faith and troth again, I wot, true love, I gied to thee.' 'Your faith and troth ye sall never get, Nor our true love sall never twin, Until ye come within my bower, And kiss me cheik and chin.' 'My mouth it is full cold, Marg'ret; It has the smell, now, of the ground; And if I kiss thy comely mouth, Thy days of life will not be lang. 'O cocks are crowing a merry midnight; I wot the wild fowls are boding day; Give me my faith and troth again, And let me fare me on my way.' 'Thy faith and troth thou sallna get, And our true love sall never twin, Until ye tell what comes o' women, I wot, who die in strong traivelling?' 'Their beds are made in the heavens high, Down at the foot of our good Lord's knee, Weel set about wi' gillyflowers; I wot, sweet company for to see.