Her mither died when she was young, Which gave her cause to make great moan; Her father married the warse woman That ever lived in Christendom.
She served her well wi' foot and hand, In everything that, she could dee; But her stepmither hated her warse and warse, And a powerful wicked witch was she.
"Come hither, come hither, ye cannot choose; And lay your head low on my knee; The heaviest weird I will you read That ever was read to gay ladye.
"Mickle dolour sail ye dree When o'er the saut seas maun ye swim; And far mair dolour sail ye dree When up to Estmere Crags ye climb.
"I weird ye be a fiery snake; And borrowed sall ye never be, Till Kempion, the kingis son, Come to the crag and thrice kiss thee. Until the warld comes to an end, Borrowed sall ye never be!"
O mickle dolour did she dree, And aye the saut seas o'er she swam; And far mair dolour did she dree On Estmere Crags, when up she clamb.
And aye she cried on Kempion, Gin he would but come to her han':-- Now word has gane to Kempion, That siccan a beast was in the lan'.
"Now by my sooth," said Kempion, "This fiery beast I'll gang and see." "An' by my sooth," said Segramour, "My ae brither, I'll gang wi' thee."
They twa hae biggit a bonny boat, And they hae set her to the sea; But a mile afore they reach'd the shore, Around them 'gan the red fire flee.
The worm leapt out, the worm leapt down, She plaited nine times round stock and stane; And aye as the boat cam' to the beach, O she hae strickit it aff again.
"Min' how you steer, my brither dear: Keep further aff!" said Segramour; "She'll drown us deep in the saut, saut sea, Or burn us sair, if we come on shore."
Syne Kempion has bent an arblast bow, And aimed an arrow at her head; And swore, if she didna quit the shore, Wi' that same shaft to shoot her dead.
"Out o' my stythe I winna rise, Nor quit my den for the fear o' thee, Till Kempion, the kingis son, Come to the crag an' thrice kiss me."
He's louted him o'er the Estmere Crag, And he has gi'en that beast a kiss: In she swang, and again she cam', And aye her speech was a wicked hiss.
"Out o' my stythe I winna rise, An' not for a' thy bow nor thee, Till Kempion, the kingis son, Come to the crag an' thrice kiss me."
He's louted him o'er the Estmere Crag, And he has gi'en her kisses twa; In she swang, and again she cam', The fieriest beast that ever you saw.