"O where's the lady o' this house,
That ca's me Lamkin?"
"She's up in her bower sewing,
But we soon can bring her down."

Then Lamkin's tane a sharp knife,
That hang down by his gaire,
And he has gi'en the bonny babe
A deep wound and a sair.

Then Lamkin he rocked,
And the fause nourice she sang,
Till frae ilka bore o' the cradle
The red blood out sprang.

Then out it spak' the lady,
As she stood on the stair:
"What ails my bairn, nourice,
That he's greeting sae sair?

"O still my bairn, nourice,
O still him wi' the pap!"
"He winna still, lady,
For this nor for that."

"O still my bairn, nourice,
O still him wi' the wand!"
"He winna still, lady,
For a' his father's land."