Although Los Angeles has long since taken over prime-time，
"O sweet Margret! O dear Margret! I pray thee speak to me: Give me my faith and troth, Margret, As I gave it to thee."
"Thy faith and troth thou'se never get, Of me shalt never win, Till that thou come within my bower, And kiss my cheek and chin."
"If I should come within thy bower, I am no earthly man: And should I kiss thy rosy lip, Thy days will not be lang.
"O sweet Margret, O dear Margret, I pray thee speak to me: Give me my faith and troth, Margret, As I gave it to thee."--
"Thy faith and troth thou'se never get, Of me shalt never win, Till thou take me to yon kirkyard, And wed me with a ring."--
"My bones are buried in a kirkyard Afar beyond the sea, And it is but my sprite, Margret, That's speaking now to thee."
She stretch-ed out her lily-white hand, As for to do her best: "Hae there your faith and troth, Willie, God send your soul good rest!"
Now she has kilted her robes of green, A piece below her knee: And a' the live-lang winter night The dead corpse followed she.
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