Issue 28, Summer-Fall 1962
“Have you any cure,” cried the young sailor
Pulling against the tide,
“Have you any herb or spell to help
This new pain in my side?”
The old woman gathering whelks
Raised her fierce gray head,
“The best cure in the world for that
Is, take her to your bed.
“If that won’t do, there’s two fine places
To end a lover’s moans—
The ale-house with its lamp and barrel.
The kirk-yard with its stones.