"Thy faith and troth thou'se never get, Of me shalt never win, Till thou take me to yon kirkyard, And wed me with a ring."--

"My bones are buried in a kirkyard Afar beyond the sea, And it is but my sprite, Margret, That's speaking now to thee."

She stretch-ed out her lily-white hand, As for to do her best: "Hae there your faith and troth, Willie, God send your soul good rest!"

Now she has kilted her robes of green, A piece below her knee: And a' the live-lang winter night The dead corpse followed she.

"Is there any room at your head, Willie? Or any room at your feet? Or any room at your side, Willie, Wherein that I may creep?"

"There's nae room at my head, Margret, There's nae room at my feet, There's nae room at my side, Margret, My coffin is made so meet."

Then up and crew the red red cock, And up then crew the gray: "'Tis time, 'tis time, my dear Margret, That I were gane away."

No more the ghost to Margret said, But, with a grievous groan, Evanished in a cloud of mist, And left her all alone.