Meete me beneath the olive-tre
I'th'garden of Gethsemane
Quhere Jesus pray'd.  Pray thou with me.

Twa corbies mak an homely nest
Within the gardens wooden brest.
The sun is running toward the west.

From off the tre the fruit doth fall
Downe to the firm fix'd flatten'd ball
Of earthe, and God is all in all.