She birl'd him wi' the ale and wine,
As they sat down to sup;
A living man he laid him down,
But I wot he ne'er rose up.

"Now lie ye there, young Redin," she says,
"O lie ye there till morn,--
Though a fairer lady than ten of me
Is waiting till you come home!

"O lang, lang is the winter night,
Till day begins to daw;
There is a dead man in my bower,
And I would he were awa'."

She cried upon her bower-maiden,
Aye ready at her ca':
"There is a knight into my bower,
'Tis time he were awa'."

They've booted him and spurred him,
As he was wont to ride,
A hunting-horn tied round his waist,
A sharp sword by his side;
And they've flung him into the wan water,
The deepest pool in Clyde.

Then up bespake a little bird
That sate upon the tree,
"Gae hame, gae hame, ye fause lady,