The Twa Corbies

In ahint yon auld fail dyke,
A wit thare ligs a new slain knicht;
An naebody kens that he ligs thare,
But his hawk, his hoond an leddy fair.

His hoond is tae the huntin gane,
His hawk tae fesh the wild-foul hame,
His leddy's taen anither mate,
Sae we mey mak oor denner sweet.

Ye'll sit on his white hause-bane,
An A'll pike oot his bonny blue een;
Wi ae lock o his gowden hair
we'll theek oor nest whan it growes bare.

Mony ane for him maks mane,
But nane sall ken whaur he is gane;
Ower his white banes, whan thay are bare,
The wind sall blaw for ivermair.

~Lizzy~