"O fare ye weel, my lady gay!
O fare ye weel, my Sarah!
For I maun gae, tho' I ne'er return

Frae the dowie banks o' Yarrow."

She kiss'd his cheek, she kaimed his hair,
As she had done before, O;

She belted on his noble brand,
An' he's awa to Yarrow.

O he's gane up yon high, high hill—
I wat he gaed wi' sorrow-

An' in a den spied nine arm'd men,
I' the dowie houms o' Yarrow.

"O are ye come to drink the wine,

As ye hae doon before, O?
Or are ye come to wield the brand,
On the bonnie banks o' Yarrow?"

"I am no come to drink the wine,

As I hae doon before, O,
But I am come to wield the brand,
On the dowie houms o' Yarrow."

Four he hurt, an' five he slew,

On the dowie houms o' Yarrow,

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20

24

28

Till that stubborn knight came him behind, An' ran his body thorrow.

“Gae hame, gae hame, good brother John, An' tell your sister Sarah

32

To come 'an' lift her noble lord,

Who's sleepin' sound on Yarrow,"

"Yestreen I dream'd a dolefu' dream;
I kend there wad be sorrow;
I dream'd I pu'd the heather green,
On the dowie banks o' Yarrow."

She gaed up yon high, high hill-
I wat she gaed wi' sorrow-
An' in a den spied nine dead men,
On the dowie houms o' Yarrow.

She kiss'd his cheek, she kaimed his hair,
As oft she did before, O;

She drank the red blood frae him ran,
On the dowie houms o' Yarrow.

"O haud your tongue, my douchter dear, For what needs a' this sorrow? ( I'll wed you on a better lord

Than him you lost on Yarrow."

"O haud your tongue, my father dear,

An' dinna grieve your Sarah;

A better lord was never born

Than him I lost on Yarrow.

f

Tak hame your ousen, tak hame your kye,

For they hae bred our sorrow; /

I wiss that they had a' gane mad

Whan they cam first to Yarrow"

Child, Pop. Bal., No. 214E.

36

40

44

48

52

56

60

THY BRAES WERE BONNY

"THY braes were bonny, Yarrow stream,
When first on them I met my lover;
Thy braes how dreary, Yarrow stream,
When now thy waves his body cover!
For ever now, O Yarrow stream!

Thou art to me a stream of sorrow;
thy banks shall I

For never on

Behold my Love, the flower of Yarrow. 8

"He promised

me a milk-white steed To bear me to his father's bowers;

He promised

To 'squire

me a little page

me to his father's towers;

He promised me a wedding-ring,—|

The wedding-day was fix'd to-morrow;—

Now he is wedded to his grave,

Alas, his watery grave in Yarrow!

16

'Sweet were his words when last we met;
My passion I as freely told him;
Clasp'd in his arms, I little thought
That I should never more behold him!
Scarce was he gone, I saw his ghost;
It vanish'd with a shriek of sorrow;
Thrice did the water-wraith ascend,
And gave a doleful groan thro' Yarrow. 24

"His mother from the window look'd

With all the longing of a mother;
His little sister weeping walk'd

The green-wood path to meet her brother; They sought him east, they sought him west,

They sought him all the forest thorough; They only saw the cloud of night,

They only heard the roar of Yarrow. 32

"No longer from thy window look

Thou hast no son, thou tender mother!
No longer walk, thou lovely maid;
Alas, thou hast no more a brother!
No longer seek him east or west,
And search no more the forest thorough;
For, wandering in the night so dark,

He fell a lifeless corse in Yarrow.

"The tear shall never leave my cheek,

No other youth shall be my marrow-
I'll seek thy body in the stream,

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And then with thee I'll sleep in Yarrow."
-The tear did never leave her cheek,
No other youth became her marrow;
She found his body in the stream,

And now with him she sleeps in Yarrow. 48 1781-2. John Logan.

A LAMENT FOR FLÖDDEN

I've heard the lilting at our ewe-milking,
Lasses a-lilting before the dawn of day;
But now they are moaning on ilka green loaning—
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. 4

At bughts, in the morning, nae blithe lads are scorning,

Lasses are lonely and dowie and wae; Nae daffing, nae gabbing, but sighing and sabbing,

Ilk ane lifts her leglin and hies her away.

In hairst, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering,

Bandsters are lyart, and runkled, and gray: At fair or at preaching, nae wooing, nae fleeching

The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. 17

At e'en, at the gloaming, nae swankies are roam ing,

'Bout stacks wi' the lasses at bogle to play; But ilk ane sits drearie, lamenting her dearieThe Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. 16