"Oh na, that girdle she ne'er shall fa'; That I can never bear; The luckless morn I gave you a', 95 Ye gae me that girdle to wear."
That lord before his bride gan stand: "My noble bride and queen! O whatten a gift to my lemman Annie Will now by you be gi'en?" 100
"I'll gi'e her a gift, and a very gude gift, My lord the king," said she; "For I'll gi'e her my auld shoe to wear, Best fitting her base degree."
"O that is a gift, but nae gude gift, 105 My noble bride and queen; And ye maun gi'e her anither gift, If you'll my favour win."
"Then I'll gi'e her a very gude gift, My lord the king," said she; 110 "I'll gie her my millers seven, that lig Sae far ayont the sea.
"Well are they fed, well are they clad, And live in heal and weal; And well they ken to measure out 115 The wheat, but and caneel."
Fair Annie says, "My noble lord, This boon ye grant to me; Let me gang up to the bridal bower, Your young bride for to see." 120
"O gangna, Annie, gangna, there, Nor come that bower within; Ye maunna come near that bridal bower, Wad ye my favour win."
Fair Annie is till his mither gane: 125 "O lady mither," said she, "May I gang to the bridal bower, My lord's new bride to see?"
"That well ye may," his mither said; But see that ye're buskit bra', 130 And clad ye in your best cleading, Wi' your bower maidens a'."
Fair Annie she's gaen to the bower, Wi' heart fu' sair and sad; Wi' a' her seven sons her before, 135 In the red scarlet clad.
Fair Annie's taen a silver can, Afore the bride to skink; And down her cheeks the tears ay run, Upon hersell to think. 140
The bride gan stand her lord before: "Now speak, and dinna spare; Whare is this fair young lady frae? Whareto greets she sae sair?"
"O hear ye now, dear lady mine, 145 The truth I tell to thee; It is but a bonny niece of mine, That is come o'er the sea."
"O wae is me, my lord," she says, "To hear you say sic wrang; 150 It can be nane but your auld lemman; God rede whare she will gang!"
"Then till her sorrow, and till her wae, I'll tell the truth to thee; For she was sald frae fremmit lands, 155 For mickle goud to me.
"Her bairntime a' stand her before, Her seven young sons sae fair; And they maun now your pages be, That maks her heart sae sair." 160