_The western tide crept up along the sand. And o’er and o’er the sand, And round and round the sand, As far as eye could see. The rolling mist came down and hid the land-- And never home came she._
_“Oh! is it weed, or fish, or floating hair-- A tress o’ golden hair, A drowned maiden’s hair Above the nets at sea? Was never salmon yet that shone so fair Among the stakes on Dee.”_
_They rowed her in across the rolling foam. The cruel crawling foam. The cruel hungry foam To her grave beside the sea: But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home Across the sands of Dee!_
“O wha will shoe my fu fair foot? An wha will glove my han? An wha will lace my middle gimp Wi the new made London ban?
“Or wha will kemb my yallow hair, Wi the new made silver kemb? Or wha’ll be father to my young bairn, Till Love Gregor come hame?”
Her father shoed her fu fair foot, Her mother glovd her han; Her sister lac’d her middle gimp Wi the new made London ban.
Her brother kembd her yallow hair, Wi the new made silver kemb, But the king o heaven maun father her bairn, Till Love Gregor come hame.
“O gin I had a bony ship, An men to sail wi me, It’s I would gang to my true-love, Since he winna come to me.”
Her father’s gien her a bonny ship, An sent her to the stran; She’s tane her young son in her arms, An turnd her back to the lan.
She had na been o the sea saillin About a month or more, Till landed has she her bonny ship Near her true-love’s door.
The night was dark, an the win blew caul, An her love was fast asleep, An the bairn that was in her twa arms Fu sair began to weep.
Long stood she at her true-love’s door, An lang tirld at the pin; At length up gat his fa’se mither, Says, “Wha’s that woud be in?”
“O it is Anny of Roch-royal, Your love, come oer the sea, But an your young son in her arms; So open the door to me.”
“Awa, awa, you ill woman, You’ve na come here for gude; You’re but a witch, or wile warlock, Or mermaid o the flude.”
“I’m na a witch, or wile warlock, Nor mermaiden,” said she; “I’m but Fair Anny o Roch-royal; O open the door to me.”
“O gin ye be Anny o Roch-royal, As I trust not ye be, What taiken can ye gie that ever I kept your company?”
“O dinna ye mind, Love Gregor,” she says, “Whan we sat at the wine, How we changed the napkins frae our necks, It’s na sae lang sin syne?