Betide me weal, betide me woe,
That weird shall never daunton
me.
Syne he has kissed her rosy lips
All underneath the Eildon Tree.
Now ye maun go wi' me, she said,
True Thomas, ye maun go wi' me;
And ye maun serve me seven years
Thro' weal or woe, as may chance
to be.
She mounted on her milk-white steed,
She 's ta'en True Thomas up behind;
And aye whene'er her bridle rung
The steed flew swifter than the
wind.
O they rade on, and farther on—
The steed gaed swifter than the
wind—
Untill they reach'd a desart wide
And living land was left behind.
Light down, light down now, True Thomas,
And lean your head upon my knee;
Abide and rest a little space
And I will shew you ferlies three.
