A Collection of Ballads/The Dowie Dens of Yarrow


 * Late at e'en, drinking the wine,
 * And ere they paid the lawing,
 * They set a combat them between,
 * To fight it in the dawing.


 * "Oh, stay at hame, my noble lord,
 * Oh, stay at hame, my marrow!
 * My cruel brother will you betray
 * On the dowie houms of Yarrow."


 * "Oh, fare ye weel, my ladye gaye!
 * Oh, fare ye weel, my Sarah!
 * For I maun gae, though I ne'er return,
 * Frae the dowie banks of Yarrow."


 * She kiss'd his cheek, she kaim'd his hair,
 * As oft she had done before, O;
 * She belted him with his noble brand,
 * And he's away to Yarrow.


 * As he gaed up the Tennies bank,
 * I wot he gaed wi' sorrow,
 * Till, down in a den, he spied nine arm'd men,
 * On the dowie houms of Yarrow.


 * "Oh, 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 nor 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 sleepin' sound on Yarrow."


 * "Yestreen I dream'd a dolefu' dream;
 * I fear there will be sorrow!
 * I dream'd I pu'd the heather green,
 * Wi' 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 dole 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' dole and sorrow,
 * And in the den spied ten slain men,
 * On the dowie banks of Yarrow.


 * She kiss'd his cheek, she kaim'd his hair,
 * She search'd his wounds all thorough,
 * She kiss'd 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."


 * "Oh, haud your tongue, my father dear!
 * Ye mind me but of sorrow:
 * A fairer rose did never bloom
 * Than now lies cropp'd on Yarrow."