And yours, "God keep my Jo!" Here by the bivouac fire, above These fields of savage play, I'll lift my love to meet thy love Twa thousand miles away, Where yonder, yonder by the stars, Nightlong there rins a burn, And maids with lovers at the wars May list their wraiths' return.

In the Athenaeum, in an article on the tradition respecting Sir Hugh of Lincoln, the Bishop of Dromore's version of the affair is thus given: "The rain rins doun through Mirry-land toune, Sae dois it doune the Pa'; Sae dois the lads of Mirry-land toune.

I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, Wi' murdering pattle!