O An Ye Were Dead Gudeman

'O an ye were dead Gudeman
A green turf on your head gudeman,
I wad bestow my widowhood
Upon a rantin Highlandman.

There's sax eggs in the pan gudeman,
There's sax eggs in the pan gudeman
There's ane to you, and twa to me,
And three to our John Highlandman.'

A Sheep-head in the pot gudeman
A Sheep-head in the pot gudeman
The flesh to him the broo to me,
An the horns become your brow gudeman.

Sing round about the fire wi a rung she ran
An round about the fire wi a rung she ran
Your horns shall tie you to the straw
And I shall band your hide gudeman.