THIS FELL when Christmas lights were done,
Red rose leaves will never make wine;
But before the Easter lights begun;
The ways are sair fra- the Till to the Tyne.

Two lovers sat where the rowan blows
And all the grass is heavy and fine,
By the gathering-place of the sea-swallows
When the wind brings them over Tyne.

Blossom of broom will never make bread,
Red rose leaves will never make wine;
Between her brows she is grown red,
That was full white in the fields by Tyne.

-O what is this thing ye have on,
Show me now, sweet daughter of mine?�
-O father, this is my little son
That I found hid in the sides of Tyne.

-O what will ye give my son to eat,
Red rose leaves will never make wine?�
-Fen-water and adder-s meat,
The ways are sair fra- the Till to the Tyne.�

-Or what will ye get my son to wear,
Red rose leaves will never make wine?�
-A weed and a web of nettle-s hair,
The ways are sair fra- the Till to the Tyne.�

-Or what will ye take to line his bed,
Red rose leaves will never make wine?�
-Two black stones at the kirkwall-s head,
The ways are sair fra- the Till to the Tyne.�

-Or what will ye give my son for land,
Red rose leaves will never make wine?�
-Three girl-s paces of red sand,
The ways are sair fra- the Till to the Tyne.�

-Or what will ye give me for my son,
Red rose leaves will never make wine?�
-Six times to kiss his young mouth on,
The ways are sair fra- the Till to the Tyne.�

-But what have ye done with the bearing-bread,
And what have ye made of the washing-wine?
Or where have ye made your bearing-bed,
To bear a son in the sides of Tyne?�

-The bearing-bread is soft and new,
There is no soil in the straining wine:
The bed was made between green and blue,
It stands full soft by the sides of Tyne.

-The fair grass was my bearing-bread,
The well-water my washing-wine;
The low leaves were my bearing-bed,
And that was best in the sides of Tyne.�

-O daughter, if ye have done this thing,
I wot the greater grief is mine;
This was a bitter child-bearing,
When ye were got by the sides of Tyne.

-About the time of sea-swallows
That fly full thick by six and nine,
Ye-ll have my body out of the house,
To bury me by the sides of Tyne.

-Set nine stones by the wall for twain,
Red rose leaves will never make wine;
For the bed I take will measure ten,
The ways are sair fra- the Till to the Tyne.

-Tread twelve girl-s paces out for three,
Red rose leaves will never make wine;
For the pit I made has taken me,
The ways are sair fra- the Till to the Tyne.�