O cousin Kate, my love was true, Your love was writ in sand:If he had fooled not me but you, If you had stood where I stand, He'd not have won me with his love, Nor bought me with his land;I would have spit into his face And not have taken his hand. Yet I have a gift you have not got, And seem not like to get:For all your clothes and wedding-ring've little doubt you fret. My fair-haired son, my shame, my pride, Cling closer, closer yet:Your father would give lands for onto wear his coronet