24 And four and twenty siller bells War tiëd til his mane; Wi ae blast o the norland wind They tinkled ane by ane. 25 And whan she cam unto the place, And lichted on the green, Ilka ane that did her see Thought that she was a queen. 26 'Is this your bride, Sweet Willie?' she said, 'I think she's wondrous wan; Ye micht have had as fair a bride As eer the sun sheend on.' 27 'O haud your tongue, Fair Annie,' he said, 'Wi your talk let me abee; For better I loe your little finger Than the brown bride's haill bodie.' 28 Then out and spak the nut-brown bride, And she spak out of spite: 'O whare gat ye the water, Annie, That washd your face sae white?' 29 'O I gat een the water,' quo she, 'Whare ye will neer get nane; It's I gat een the water,' quo she, 'Aneath yon marble stane.' 30 Then out and spake the nut-brown bride, And she spak yet again: 'O whare gat ye the claith, Annie, That dried your face sae clean?' 31 'O I gat een the claith,' quo she, 'Whare ye will neer get nane; It's I gat een the claith,' quo she, 'Aneath yon bouer o bane.' 32 The brown bride had a little penknife, Which she kept secret there; She stabbd Fair Annie to the heart, A deep wound and a sair. 33 It's out and spak he Sweet Willie, And he spak yet again: 'O what's the matter wi thee, Annie, That ye do look sae wan?' 34 'Oh are ye blind, Willie?' she said, 'Or do ye no weel see? I think ye micht see my heart's blude, Come rinning by my knee.' 35 Then Willie took a little sword, Which he kept secret there, And strak the brown bride to the heart, A word she neer spak mair. 36 And after that a' this was dune, He drew it through the strae, And through his ain fair bodie He causd the cauld iron gae. 37 The last words that Sweet Willie spak, His heart was almaist gane; 'May never a young man like me Have sic a sad wedding. 38 'For gear will come, and gear will gang, And gear's ae but a lend, And monie a ane for warld's gear A silly brown bride brings hame.' 39 Sweet Willie was buried in Mary's kirk, And Annie in Mary's quire, And out o the ane there grew a birk, And out o the ither a brier. 40 And ae they grew, and ae they threw, Until the twa did meet, That ilka ane micht plainly see They were true lovers sweet. C Motherwell's MS., p. 157, from the recitation of Agnes Laird, Kilbarchan, 1825. 1 'Come read my rede, O mother dear, Come riddle it all in one; O whether will I take Fair Annie, Or bring the brown bride home?'