THE DOWIE DENS OF YARROW

LATE at e'en, drinking the wine

And e'er they paid the lawing,

They set a combat them between,

To fight it in the dawing.

‘O stay at hame, my noble lord,

O stay at hame, my marrow!

My cruel brother will you betray

On the dowie houms of Yarrow.'

‘O fare ye weel, my lady gay!
O fare ye weel, my Sarah!
For I maun gae, though I ne'er return
Frae the dowie banks of Yarrow.'

She kissed his cheek, she kaimed his hair,
As oft she had done before, O;
She belted him with his noble brand,
And he's awa to Yarrow.

As he gaed up the Terries' bank,
I wot he gaed with sorrow,
Till down in a den he spied nine armed men
On the dowie houms of Yarrow.

‘O, come ye here to part your land,
The bonnie forest thorough?
Or come ye here to wield your brand
On the dowie houms of Yarrow?'

‘I come not here to part my land,
And neither to beg or borrow;
I come to wield my noble brand
On the bonnie banks of Yarrow.

‘If I see all, ye're nine to ane;
An' that's an unequal marrow:
Yet will I fight, while lasts my brand,
On the bonnie banks of Yarrow.'

Four has he hurt, and five has slain,
On the bloody braes of Yarrow;
Till that stubborn knight came him behind,
And ran his body thorough.

‘Gae hame, gae hame, good brother John,
And tell your sister Sarah,
To come and lift her leafu' lord;
He's sleeping sound on Yarrow.'

‘Yestreen I dreamed a dolefu' dream;
I fear there will be sorrow!
I dreamed I pu'ed the heather green
With my true love, on Yarrow.

‘O gentle wind that bloweth south
From where my love repaireth,
Convey a kiss from his dear mouth,
And tell me how he fareth.

‘But in the glen strive armed men;
They've wrought me dule and sorrow;
They've slain-the comeliest knight they've slain-
He bleeding lies on Yarrow.'

As she sped down yon high, high hill,
She gaed wi' dule and sorrow,
And in the den spied ten slain men,
On the dowie banks of Yarrow.

She kissed his cheek, she kaimed his hair,
She searched his wounds all thorough,
She kissed them till her lips grew red,
On the dowie houms of Yarrow.

‘Now haud your tongue, my daughter dear,
For a' this breeds but sorrow;
I'll wed ye to a better lord
Than him ye lost on Yarrow.'

‘O haud your tongue, my father dear,
Ye mind me but of sorrow;
A fairer rose did never bloom
Than now lies cropped on Yarrow.'

End of title