The English and Scottish Popular Ballads/Part 7/Chapter 214

‘I dreamed a dreary dream this night, That fills my heart wi sorrow; I dreamed I was pouing the heather green Upon the braes of Yarrow.

‘O true-love mine, stay still and dine, As ye ha done before, O;’ ‘O I’ll be hame by hours nine, And frae the braes of Yarrow.’

I dreamed a dreary dream this night, That fills my heart wi sorrow; I dreamed my luve came headless hame, O frae the braes of Yarrow!

‘O true-luve mine, stay still and dine, As ye ha done before, O;’ ‘O I’ll be hame by hours nine, And frae the braes of Yarrow.’

‘O are ye going to hawke,’ she says, ‘As ye ha done before, O? Or are ye going to weild your brand, Upon the braes of Yarrow?’

‘O I am not going to hawke,’ he says, ‘As I have done before, O, But for to meet your brother Jhon, Upon the braes of Yarrow,

As he gade down yon dowy den, Sorrow went him before, O; Nine well-wight men lay waiting him, Upon the braes of Yarrow.

‘I have your sister to my wife, ‘Ye’ think me an unmeet marrow; But yet one foot will I never flee Now frae the braes of Yarrow.’

‘Than’ four he killd and five did wound, That was an unmeet marrow! ‘And he had weel nigh wan the day Upon the braes of Yarrow.’

‘Bot’ a cowardly ’loon’ came him behind, Our Lady lend him sorrow! And wi a rappier pierced his heart, And laid him low on Yarrow.

‘Now Douglas’ to his sister’s gane, Wi meikle dule and sorrow: ‘Gae to your luve, sister,’ he says, ‘He’s sleeping sound on Yarrow.’

As she went down yon dowy den, Sorrow went her before, O; She saw her true-love lying slain Upon the braes of Yarrow.

‘She swoond thrice upon his breist That was her dearest marrow; Said, Ever alace and wae the day Thou wentst frae me to Yarrow!’

She kist his mouth, she kaimed his hair, As she had done before, O ; She ’wiped’ the blood that trickled doun Upon the braes of Yarrow.

Her hair it was three quarters lang, It hang baith side and yellow; She tied it round ’Her’ white hause-bane, ‘And tint her life on Yarrow.’

THREE lords sat drinking at the wine I the bonny braes o Yarrow, An there cam a dispute them between, Who was the Flower o Yarrow.

‘I’m wedded to your sister dear, Ye coont nae me your marrow; I stole her fae her father’s back, An made her the Flower o Yarrow.’

‘Will ye try hearts, or will ye try hans, I the bonnie braes o Yarrow? Or will ye try the weel airmt sword, I the bonnie braes o Yarrow?’

‘I winna try hearts, I winna try hans, I the bonnie braes o Yarrow, But I will try the weel airmt sword, I the bonnie braes o Yarrow.’

‘Ye’ll stay at home, my own good lord, Ye’ll stay at home tomorrow; My brethren three they will slay thee, I the bonnie braes o Yarrow.’

‘Bonnie, bonnie shines the sun, An early sings the sparrow; Before the clock it will strinke nine An I’ll be home tomorrow.’

She’s kissed his mouth, an combed his hair, As she had done before, O; She’s dressed him in his noble bow, An he’s awa to Yarrow.

As he gaed up yon high, high hill, An doon the dens o Yarrow, An there he spied ten weel airmt men I the bonnie braes o Yarrow.

It’s five he wounded, an five he slew, I the bonnie braes o Yarrow; There cam a squire out o the bush, An pierced his body thorough.

‘I dreamed a dream now sin the streen, God keep us a’ fae sorrow! That my good lord was sleepin soun I the bonnie braes o Yarrow.’

‘O hold your tongue, my daughter dear, An tak it not in sorrow; I’ll wed you wi as good a lord As you’ve lost this day in Yarrow.’

‘O haud your tongue, my father dear, An wed your sons wi sorrow; For a fairer flower neer sprang in May nor June Nor I’ve lost this day in Yarrow.’

Fast did she gang, fast did she rin, Until she cam to Yarrow, An there she fan her own good lord, He was sleepin soun in Yarrow.

She’s taen three lachters o her hair, That hung doon her side sae bonny, An she’s tied roon his middle tight, An she’s carried him hame frae Yarrow.

This lady being big wi child, She was fu a grief an sorrow; Her heart did break, and then she died, She did not live till morrow.

THERE were three lords birling at the wine On the dowie downs o Yarrow; They made a compact them between They would go fight tomorrow.

‘Thou took our sister to be thy bride, And thou neer thocht her thy marrow; Thou stealed her frae her daddie’s back, When she was the rose o Yarrow.’

‘Yes, I took thy sister to be my bride, And I made her my marrow; I stealed her frae her daddie’s back, And she’s still the rose o Yarrow.’

He is hame to his lady gane, As he had done before! O; Says, Madam. I must go and fight On the dowie downs o Yarrow.

‘Stay at hame, my lord,’ she said, ‘For that will cause much sorrow; For my brethren three they will slay thee, On the dowie downs o Yarrow.’

‘Hold your tongue, my lady fair, For what needs a’ this sorrow? For I’ll be hame gin the clock strikes nine, From the dowie downs o Yarrow.’

She wush his face, she kamed his hair, As she had dune before, O; She dressed him up in his armour clear, Sent him furth to fight on Yarrow.

‘Come you here to hawk or hound, Or drink the wine that’s so clear, O? Or come you here to eat in your words, That you’re not the rose o Yarrow?’

‘I came not here to hawk or hound, Nor to drink the wine that’s so clear, O; Nor I came not here to eat in my words, For I’m still the rose o Yarrow.’

Then they a’ begoud to fight, I wad they focht richt sore, O, Till a cowardly man came behind his back, And pierced his body thorough.

‘Gae hame, gae hame, it’s my man John, As ye have done before, O, And tell it to my gay lady That I soundly sleep on Yarrow.’

His man John he has gane hame, As he had dune before, O, And told it to his gay lady, That he soundly slept on Yarrow.

‘I dreamd a dream now since the streen, God keep us a’ frae sorrow! That my lord and I was pu’ing the heather green From the dowie downs o Yarrow.’

Sometimes she rade, sometimes she gaed, As she had dune before, O, And aye between she fell in a soune, Lang or she cam to Yarrow.

Her hair it was five quarters lang, ’Twas like the gold for yellow; She twisted it round his milk-white hand, And she’s drawn him hame from Yarrow.

Out and spak her father dear, Says, What needs a’ this sorrow? For I’ll get you a far better lord Than ever died on Yarrow.

‘O hold your tongue, father,’ she said, ‘For ye’ve bred a’ my sorrow; For that rose’ll neer spring sae sweet in May As that rose I lost on Yarrow.’

THERE were three lords drinking of wine On the bonny braes of Yarrow; There fell a combat them between, Whawas the rose of Yarrow.

Up then spak a noble lord, And I wot it was bot sorrow: ‘I have as fair a flower,’ he said, ‘As ever sprang on Yarrow.’

Then he went hame to his ain house, For to sleep or the morrow, But the first sound the trumpet gae Was, Mount and haste to Yarrow.

‘Oh stay at hame,’ his lady said, ‘Oh stay untill the morrow, And I will mount upon a steed, And ride with you to Yarrow.’

‘Oh hawd your tongue, my dear,’ said he, ‘And talk not of the morrow; This day I have to fight again, In the dowy deans of Yarrow.’

As he went up yon high, high hill, Down the dowy deans of Yarrow, There he spy’d ten weel armd men, There was nane o them his marrow.

Five he wounded and five he slew, In the dowy deans of Yarrow, But an English-man out of a bush Shot at him a lang sharp arrow.

‘Ye may gang hame, my brethren three, Ye may gang hame with sorrow, And say this to my fair lady, I am sleeping sound on Yarrow.’

‘Sister, sister, I dreamt a dream-+--+- You read a dream to gude, O! That I was puing the heather green On the bonny braes of Yarrow.’

‘Sister, sister, I’ll read your dream, But alas! it’s unto sorrow; Your good lord is sleeping sound, He is lying dead on Yarrow.’

She as pu’d the ribbons of her head, And I wot it was wi sorrow, And she’s gane up yon high, high hill, Down the dowy deans of Yarrow.

Her hair it was five quarters lang, The colour of it was yellow; She as ty’d it round his middle jimp, And she as carried him frae Yarrow.

‘O hawd your tongue!’ her father says, ‘What needs a’ this grief and sorrow? I’ll wed you on as fair a flower As ever sprang on Yarrow.’

‘No, hawd your tongue, my father dear, I’m fow of grief and sorrow; For a fairer flower ne[v]er sprang Than I’ve lost this day on Yarrow.’

This lady being big wi bairn, And fow of grief and sorrow, She as died within her father’s arms, And she died lang or the morrow.

LATE at een, drinkin the wine, Or early in a mornin, The set a combat them between, To fight it in the dawnin.

‘O stay at hame, my noble lord! O stay at hame, my marrow! My cruel brother will you betray, On the dowy houms o Yarrow.’

‘O fare ye weel, my lady gaye! O fare ye weel, my Sarah! For I maun gae, tho I neer return Frae the dowy banks o Yarrow.’

She kissd his cheek, she kaimd 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 armd men, I the dowy houms o Yarrow.

‘O ir ye come to drink the wine, As ye hae doon before, O? Or ir ye come to wield the brand, On the bonny banks o Yarrow?’

‘I im no come to drink the wine, As I hae don before, O, But I im come to wield the brand, On the dowy houms o Yarrow.’

Four he hurt, an five he slew, On the dowy houms o Yarrow, Till that stubborn knight came him behind, An ran his body thorrow.

‘Gae hame, gae hame, good-brother John, An tell your sister Sarah To come an lift her noble lord, Who’s sleepin sound on Yarrow.’

‘Yestreen I dreamd a dolefu dream; I kend there wad be sorrow; I dreamd I pu’d the heather green, On the dowy banks o Yarrow.’

She gaed up yon high, high hill-+--+- I wat she gaed wi sorrow-+--+- An in a den spy’d nine dead men, On the dowy houms o Yarrow.

She kissd his cheek, she kaimd his hair, As oft she did before, O; She drank the red blood frae him ran, On the dowy 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.

‘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.’

LATE in the eenin, drinkin the wine, Or early in the mornin, The set a combat them between, To fight it out i the dawnin.

She’s kissd his lips, an she’s caimd his hair, As shee did ay afore, O, She’s belted him in his noble brown, Afore he gaed to Yarrow.

Then he’s away oer yon high hill-+--+- A wait he’s gane wi sorrow-+--+- An in a den he spied nine armd men, On the dowie banks o Yarrow.

‘If I see ye a’, ye’r nine for ane, But ane’s [un]equal marrow; Yet as lang ’s I’m able wield my brand, I’ll fight an bear ye marrow.

‘There are twa swords into my sheath, The’re ane an equal marrow; Now wale the best, I’ll take the warst, An, man for man, I’ll try ye.’

He has slain a’ the nine men, A ane an equal marrow, But up there startit a stuborn lord, That gard him sleep on Yarrow.

‘Gae hame, gae hame, my sister Anne, An tell yer sister Sarah That she may gang and seek her lord, He’s lyin sleepin on Yarrow.’

‘I dreamd a dream now sin yestreen, I thought it wad be sorrow; I thought I was pouin the hether green On the dowie banks o Yarrow.’

Then she’s away oer yon high hill-+--+- I wat she’s gane wi sorrow-+--+- And in a den she’s spy’d ten slain men, On the dowie banks o Yarrow.

‘My love was a’ clad oer last night Wi the finest o the tartan, But now he’s a’ clad oer wi red, An he’s red bluid to the garten.’

She’s kissd his lips, she’s caimd his hair, As she had done before, O; She drank the red bluid that frae him ran, On the dowie banks o Yarrow.

‘Tak hame your ousen, father, and yer kye, For they’ve bred muckle sorrow; I wiss that they had a’ gaen mad Afore they came to Yarrow.’

‘O haud yer tongue, my daughter dear, For this breeds ay but sorrow; I’ll wed you to a better lord Than him you lost on Yarrow.’

‘O haud yer tongue, my father dear, For ye but breed mair sorrow; A better rose will never spring Than him I’ve lost on Yarrow.’

This lady being big wi child, An fu o lamentation, She died within her father’s arms, Amang this stuborn nation.

SHE kissd his mouth and she combd his hair, As she had done before, O, She belted him in his noble broun, Before he went to Yarrow.

O he’s gone up yon high, [high] hill-+--+- I wat it was with sorrow-+--+- In a den he spied nine weal armd men, On the bonny banks of Yarrow.

‘I see that you are nine for one, Which are of an unequal marrow; As lang ’s I’m able to wield my bran, I’ll fight and be your marrow.’

O he has killed them a’ but one, Which bred to him great sorrow; For up and rose that stubborn lord, Made him sleep sound in Yarrow.

‘Rise up, rise up, my daughter Ann, Go tell your sister Sarah She may rise up go lift her lord; He’s sleeping sound in Yarrow.’

She’s gone up yon high, high hill-+--+- I wat it was with sorrow-+--+- And in a den she spied nine slain men, On the dowie banks o Yarrow.

O she kissed his mouth, and she combd his hair, As she had done before, O; She drank the bleed that from him ran, On the dowie banks o Yarrow.

‘Take hame your oxen, tak hame your kye, They’ve bred to me great sorrow; I wish they had all now gone mad First when they came to Yarrow.’

‘O hold your tongue now, daughter dear, These words to me ’s great sorrow; I’ll wed you on a better lord Than you have lost on Yarrow.’

‘O hold your tongue now, father dear, These words to me ’s great sorrow; A brighter O shall there never spread Than I have lost in Yarrow.’

This lady being big with child, And full of lamentation, She died unto her father’s arms, Among the stubborn nation.

’TWAS late at evening drinking wine, And early in the morning, He set a combat them among, And he fought it in the morning.

‘I have two swords by my side, They cost me both gold and money; Take ye the best, I’ll take the worst, Come man for man, I’ll try ye.’

He has foughten them all round, His equal man and marrow, While up bespake the stubborn lord, ‘He’s made them sleep in Yarrow.’

He says, Go home, my daughter Ann, And tell your sister Sarah To come and lift her stubborn lord; The lad’s made him sleep in Yarrow.

As she gaed up yon high, high hill, I wot she gaed right sorrow, And in a den spied nine well armd men, In the dowie dens of Yarrow.

‘My love was dressd in the finest robes, And of the finest tartan, And now he’s a’ clad oer wi red, He’s bloody to the gartan!’

‘O hold yer tongue, daughter!’ he says, ‘That would breed but sorrow; Ye shall be wed to a finer lord Than the one you’ve lost in Yarrow.’

‘Hold your tongue, father!’ she says, ‘For that will breed but sorrow; A finer lord can neer be born Than the one I’ve lost in Yarrow.

‘Take hame yer ox, and take hame yer kye, You’ve bred me muckle sorrow; I wish they’d a’ gane mad that day, That day they came to Yarrow.’

This woman being big wi child, And full of lamentation, She died into her father’s arms, Among that stubborn nation.

TEN lords sat drinking at the wine Intill a morning early; There fell a combat them among, It must be fought, nae parley.

‘O stay at hame, my ain gude lord! O stay, my ain dear marrow!’ ‘Sweetest min, I will be thine, An dine wi you tomorrow.’

She kissd his lips, an combed his hair, As she had done before O, Gied him a brand down by his side, An he is on to Yarrow.

As he gaed oer yon dowey knowe, As he had dane before O, Nine armed men lay in a den, Upo the braes o Yarrow.

‘O came ye here to hunt or hawk, As ye had dane before O? Or came ye here to wiel your brand, Upo the braes o Yarrow?’

‘I came nae here to hunt nor hawk, As I hae done before O; But I came here to wiel my brand, Upo the braes o Yarrow?’

Four he hurt, an five he slew, Till down it fell himsell O; There stood a fause lord him behin, Who thrust his body thorrow.

‘Gae hame, gae hame, my brother John, An tell your sister sorrow; Your mither woud come take up her son, Aff o the braes o Yarrow.’

As he gaed oer yon high, high hill, As he had dane before O, There he met his sister dear, Came rinnin fast to Yarrow.

‘I dreamd a dream last night,’ she says, ‘I wish it binna sorrow; I dreamd I was puing the heather green Upo the braes o Yarrow.’

‘I’ll read your dream, sister,’ he says, ‘I’ll read it into sorrow; Ye’re bidden gae take up your luve, He’s sleeping sound on Yarrow.’

She’s torn the ribbons frae her head-+--+- They were baith thick an narrow-+--+- She’s kilted up her green claithing, An she’s awa to Yarrow.

She’s taen him in her arms twa, An gaen him kisses thorough, An wi her tears she bath’d his wounds, Upo the braes o Yarrow.

Her father, looking oer the castle-wa, Beheld his daughter’s sorrow; ‘O had your tongue, daughter,’ he says, ‘An lat be a’ your sorrow! I’ll wed you wi a better lord Than he that died on Yarrow.’

‘O had your tongue, father,’ she says, ‘An lat be till tomorrow! A better lord there coudna be Than he that died on Yarrow.’

She kissd his lips, an combd his hair, As she had done before O, An wi a crack her head did brack, Upo the braes o Yarrow.

IN Thoro town there lives a maid, I am sure she has no marrow; For she has forsaken both lords and knights, And loved a servant-lad in Galla.

Evening and morning her page he ran, Her page he ran wi sorrow, With letters bound, just frae the town, To the servant-lad in Galla.

Her father he got word of that, And he’s bred all her sorrow; He sent him forth to fight wi nine, In the dowie glens of Yarrow.

She washd his face, she combd his hair, She thought he had no marrow; Wi a thrusty rapier by his side, She sent him forth to Yarrow.

She’s taen fareweel of him that day, As she had done before, O, And she’s comd back to her bonny bower, But her love’s away to Yarrow.

He wanderd up, he wandred down, His heart was full of sorrow; There he spied nine gentlemen, Watering their steeds in Yarrow.

‘O come away, young man,’ they said, ‘I’m sure ye’r no our marrow; Ye’r welcome here, young man,’ they said, ‘For the bonny lass o Thorro.’

‘Nine against one, weel do ye ken, That’s no an equal marrow; Yet for my love’s sake I’ll venture my life, In the dowie glens of Yarrow.’

Five was wounded, and four was slain, Amongst them a’ he had no marrow; He’s mounted on his horse again, Cries, I have won the bonny lass of Thorro!

Up then spake her father dear-+--+- And he’s bred all her sorrow-+--+- And wi a broad sword ran him through, In the dowie glens of Yarrow.

‘I have dreamd a dream, father, I doubt I have dreamd for sorrow; I dreamd I was pouing the heather green Wi my true love in Yarrow.’

‘O I will read your dream, daughter, Although it be for your sorrow; Go, and ye’ll find your love lying sound, In a heather-bush in Yarrow.’

She’s calld on her maidens then-+--+- Her heart was full of sorrow-+--+- And she’s away wi her maidens twa, To the dowie glens o Yarrow.

She wandered up, she wandred down, In the dowie glens of Yarrow, And there she spied her lobe lying sound, In a heather-bush in Yarrow.

She’s washd hin in the clear well-strand, She’s dry’d him wi the holland, And aye she sighd, and said, Alass! For my love I had him chosen.

His hair it was three quarters long, Three quarters long and yellow; And she’s rapt it round her middle small, And brought it home to Thorro.

‘O hold your tongue, my daughter dear, And talk no more of sorrow; I’ll soon wed you on a better match Than your servant-lad in Galla.’

‘O you may wed a’ your seven sons, I wish you may wed them in sorrow: O you may wed a’ your seven sons, For you’ll neer wed the bonny lass of Thoro.’

This lady being big wi child, And her heart was full wi sorrow, She died between her father’s arms, In the bonny house of Thorro.

THERE lived a lady in the south, She thought she had not her marrow; And she was courted by nine gentlemen, In the dowie dens in Yarrow.

All their offers they proved in vain, She thought that they were not her marrow; She has forsaken a’ the nine, Loved a servant-lad on Galla.

RR rrup bespoke her father dear, Who bred them a’ this sorrow; You must go far, far to fight the nine, In the dowie den in Yarrow,’

She washd his face, she combd his hair, Her heart being full of sorrow, With a rusted rapier down by his side, To fight his foes in Yarrow.

He’s ridden east, he’s ridden west, He’s ridden into Yarrow, And there he espied all the nine, Watering their steeds in Yarrow.

‘Ye’r welcome, welcome, young man,’ they said, ‘But I think ye are not our marrow;’ ‘But I’ll fight ye all out, one by one, In the dowie dens o Yarrow.’

Four he has wounded, five he has slain, He left then a’ sound in Yarrow; He turned him round with rejoyfull looks, Says, I wone the lady of Thoro.

Up then spoke her father dear, Who bred them a’ this sorrow; He’s taen out a broadsword and run him through, In the dowie dens o Yarrow.

‘I dreamed a dream last night,’ she says, ‘I fear it is for sorrow; I dreand I was pulling the heather green With my true love in Yarrow.’

‘I’ll read your dream now, daughter dear, I fear it is for sorrow; You will find your true-love lying sound, In a heather bush in Yarrow.’

She’s ridden east, she’s ridden west, She’s ridden into Yarrow; There she found her true lover sound, In a heather bush in Yarrow.

His hair it was five quarters lang, It was baith lang and yellow; She’s tied it to her horse’s mane, She’s trailed him home from Yarrow.

‘O woe be to you, father dear! You’ve bred me all this sorrow;’ So she died between her father’s arms, In the dowie dens o Yarrow.

AT Dryhope lived a lady fair, The fairest flower in Yarrow, And she refused nine noble men For a servan lad in Gala.

Her father said that he should fight The nine lords all to-morrow, And he that should the victor be Would get the Rose of Yarrow.

Quoth he, You’re nine, an I’m but ane, And in that there’s no much marrow; Yet I shall fecht ye, man for man, In the dowie dens o Yarrow.

She kissed his lips, and combed his hair, As oft she’d done before, O, An set him on her milk-white steed, Which bore him on to Yarrow.

When he got oer yon high, high hill, An down the dens o Yarrow, There did he see the nine lords all, But there was not one his marrow.

‘Now here ye’re nine, an I’m but ane, But yet I am not sorrow; For here I’ll fecht ye, man for man, For my true love in Yarrow.’

Then he wheeld round, and fought so fierce Till the seventh fell in Yarrow, When her brother sprang from a bush behind, And ran his body thorough.

He never spoke more words than these, An they were words o sorrow; ‘Ye may tell my true love, if ye please, That I’m sleepin sound in Yarrow.’

They’ve taen the young man by the heels And trailed him like a harrow, And then they flung the comely youth In a whirlpool o Yarrow.

The lady said, I dreamed yestreen-+--+- I fear it bodes some sorrow-+--+- That I was pu’in the heather green On the scroggy braes o Yarrow.’

Her brother said, I’ll read your dream, But it should cause nae sorrow; Ye may go seek your lover hame, For he’s sleepin sound in Yarrow.

Then she rode oer yon gloomy height, An her heart was fu o sorrow, But only saw the clud o night, Or heard the roar o Yarrow.

But she wandered east, so did she wast, And searched the forest thorough, Until she spied her ain true love, Lyin deeply drowned in Yarrow.

His hair it was five quarters lang, Its colour was the yellow; She twined it round her lily hand, And drew him out o Yarrow.

She kissed his lips, and combed his head, As oft she’d done before, O; She laid hin oer her milk-white steed, An bore him home from Yarrow.

She washed his wounds in yon well-strand, And dried him wi the hollan, And aye she sighed, and said, Alas! For my love I had him chosen.

‘Go hold your tongue,’ her father said, ‘There’s little cause for sorrow; I’ll wed ye on a better lad Than ye hae lost in Yarrow.’

‘Haud your ain tongue, my faither dear, I canna help my sorrow; A fairer flower neer sprang in May Than I hae lost in Yarrow.

‘I meant to make my bed fu wide, But you may make it narrow; For now I’ve nane to be my guide But a deid man drowned in Yarrow.’

An aye she screighed, and cried Alas! Till her heart did break wi sorrow, An sank into her faither’s arms, Mang the dowie dens o Yarrow.

O AY he sat, and ay he drank, An ay he counted the laying, An ay he drank to the lass’es health Was to meet him in the dawning.

Up he gaes on yon high, high hill, An a wat he geas wi sorrow, An in a den he spy’d nine well armd men, On the dowie banks of Yarrow.

‘Oh woe be to young women’s wit! For the’ve bred to me meikle sorrow; She promisd for to meet me here, An she’s sent nine men to slay me.

‘But there is two swords in my scabba[rd], They cost me gold and money; Tak ye the best, and I’ll tak the wa[rst], An come man for man, I’ll not fly yo[u].’

Ay he stood, an ay he fought, Till it was near the dawning, Then up an rose her brother James, An has slain him in the dawning.

‘O the last night I dreamd a dream, God keep us a’ frae sorrow! I dreamd I was powing the heather green In the dowie banks of Yarrow.’

Up she gaes on yon high, high hill, An a wat she gaes with sorrow, An in a den she spy’d nine slain men, In the dowie banks of Yarrow.

‘O the last time I saw my love He was a’ clad oer in tartan; But now he’s a’ clad oer in red, An he’s a’ blood to the gartin.’

She kist his mouth, an she’s combd his hair, As she had done before, O, She drank the blood that from him ran, In the dowie banks of Yarrow.

‘O hold your tongue now. daughter,’ he says, ‘An breed to me no more sorrow; For I’ll wed you on a better match Than you have lost on Yarrow.’

‘Hold your tongue now, father,’ she says, ‘An breed to me no more sorrow; For a better rose will never spring Than I have lost on Yarrow.’

THE cock did craw, and the day did daw, And the moon shone fair and clearly; Sir James gade out o his castle-yett, To meet fair Anne, his dearie.

‘O come down, come down, my true-love Anne, And speak but ae word to me! But ae kiss o your bonny mouth Wad yield much comfort to me.’

‘O how can I come down?’ she says, ‘Or how can I win to thee? When there is nane that I can trust Wad safe convey me to thee.

‘But gang doun, gang doun, to yon hostess’ house, And there take on yere lawing, And, as I’m a woman kind and true, I’ll meet you at the dawing.’

Then he gade thro the good green-wood, And oer the moor sae eerie, And lang he stayd, and sair he sighd, But he never mair saw his dearie.

And ay he sat, and lang he drank, And ay he counted his lawing, Till fifteen men did him surround, To slay him or the dawing.

‘O she promisd ance to meet me this night, But I find she deceived me; She promisd ance to meet me this night, And she’s sent fifteen to slay me!

‘There are twa swords in my scabard, They cost me gowd and money; Take ye the best, and gie me the warst, And man for man I’ll try ye.’

Then they fought on, and on they fought, Till maist o them were fallen, When her brother John cam him behind, And slew him at the dawing.

Then he’s away to his sister Anne, To the chamber where’s she’s lying: ‘Come doun, come doun, my sister Anne, And take up your true-love Jamie!

‘Come doun, come doun now, sister Anne! For he’s sleeping in yon logie; Sound, sound he sleeps, nae mair to wake, And nae mair need ye be vogie.’

‘I dreamd a drearie dream yestreen, Gin it be true, it will prove my sorrow; I dreamd my luive had lost his life, Within the yetts o Gowrie.

‘O wae betide ye, lassies o Gowrie For ye hae sleepit soundly; Gin ye had keepit your yetts shut, Ye might hae sav’d the life o my Jamie.

‘Yestreen my luive had a suit o claise Were o the finest tartan; But lang or ere the day did daw They war a’ red bluid to the garten.

‘Yestreen my luive had a suit o claise Were o the apple reamin; But lang or ere the day did daw The red bluid had them streamin.’

In yon fair ha, where the winds did blaw, When the moon shone fair and clearly, She’s thrawn her green skirt oer her head, And ay she cried out mercy.

‘I DREAMD a dreary dream last night, God keep us a’ frae sorrow! I dreamd I pu’d the birk sae green Wi my true love on Yarrow.’

‘I’ll read your dream, my sister dear, I’ll tell you a’ your sorrow; You pu’d the birk wi your true luve, He’s killd, he’s killd on Yarrow!’

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

‘But oer yon glen run armed men, Have wrought me dule and sorrow; They’ve slain, they’ve slain the comliest swain, He bleeding lies on Yarrow.’

‘GET up, get up now, sister Ann, I fear we’ve wrought you sorrow; Get up, ye’ll find your true love slain, Among the banks of Yarrow.’

‘I made my love a suit of clothes, I clad him all in tartan, But ere the morning sun arose, He was a’ bluid to the gartan.’

There lived a lady in the West, I neer could find her marrow; She was courted by nine gentlemen, And a ploughboy-lad in Yarrow.

These nine sat drinking at the wine, Sat drinking wine in Yarrow; They made a vow among themselves To fight for her in Yarrow.

She washed his face, she kaimed his hair, As oft she’d done before, O, She made him like a knight sae bright, To fight for her in Yarrow.

As he walked up yon high, high hill, And down by the holmes of Yarrow, There he saw nine arm d men, Come to fight with him in Yarrow.

‘There’s nine of you, there’s one of me, It’s an unequal marrow; But I’ll fight you all one by one, On the dowie dens of Yarrow.’

Three he slew, and three they flew, And three he wounded sorely, Till her brother John he came in beyond, And pierced his heart most foully.

‘Go home, go home, thou false young man, And tell thy sister Sarah That her true-love John lies dead and gone On the dowie dens of Yarrow.’

‘O father dear, I dreamed a dream, I’m afraid it will bring sorrow; I dreamed I was pulling the heather-bell In the dowie dens of Yarrow.’

‘O daughter dear, I read your dream, I doubt it will prove sorrow; For your true-love John lies dead and gone On the dowie dens of Yarrow.’

As she walked up yon high, high hill, And down by the holmes of Yarrow, There she saw her true-love John, Lying pale and dead on Yarrow.

Her hair it being three quarters long-- The colour it was yellow-+- She wrapped it round his middle sma, And carried him hame to Yarrow.

‘O father dear, you’ve seven sons, You may wed them a’ tomorrow, But a fairer flower I never saw Than the lad I loved in Yarrow.’

The fair maid being great with child, It filled her heart with sorrow; She died within her lover’s arms, Between that day and morrow.

There were three lords drinking at the wine In the Leader Haughs of Yarrow: ‘Shall we go play at cards and dice, As we have done before, O? Or shall we go play at the single sword, In the Leader Haughs of Yarrow?’

Three he wounded, and five he slew, As he had [done] before, O, But an English lord lap from a bush, And he proved all the sorrow; He had a spear three quarters long, And her thrust his body thorogh.

‘I dreamed. . . . I wis it prove nae sorrow! I dreamed I was puing the apples green In the dowie howms o Yarrow.’

‘O sister, sister, I’ll read your dream, And I’ll read it in sorrow; Ye may gae bring hame your ain true-love, For he’s sleepin sound in Yarrow.’

She sought him east, she sought him west, She sought him all the forest thorogh; She found him asleep at the middle yett, In the dowie howms o Yarrow.

Her hair it was three quarters lang, And the colour of it was yellow; She’s bound it round his middle waist, And borne him hame from Yarrow.

There lived a lady in the South, Ye would scarcely find her marrow; She was courted by nine gentlemen An a ploughman-lad frae Yarrow.

Ae nicht the nine sat drinkin wine To the lass wha had nae marrow, When the ploughman swore, tho they were a score He wad fecht them a’ in Yarrow.

It’s he’s gane ower yon high, high hill, And doon yon glen sae narrow, An there he saw nine arm d men, To fecht wi him in Yarrow.

‘There’s nine o you an I’m but ane, An that’s an unequal marrow, But wi this gude blade and powerfu arm I’ll lay you low on Yarrow.’

It’s three he slew, and three withdrew, And three lay dead on Yarrow, But in behind cam her brother John, An pierced his body thorough.

‘Gae hame, gae hame, you fause young man, An tell your sister sorrow, That her true-love John lies dead and gone In the dowie dens o Yarrow.’

‘O father dear, I’ve dreamed a dream, I’m feared it will prove sorrow; I dreamed I was puin the heather-bells sweet On the bonny braes o Yarrow.’

‘O daughter dear, your dream is read, I’m feared it will prove sorrow; Your true-love John lies dead and gone In the dowie dens o Yarrow.’

It’s she’s gane ower yon high, high hill, An doon yon glen sae narrow, An there she saw her true-love John Lyin cauld an dead on Yarrow.

She washed his face an combed his hair, Wi muckle grief an sorrow, pshe rowed him i the plaid she wore, In the dowie dens o Yarrow.

Her hair it was three quarters lang, The colour being yellow; She tied it round his middle sma, An carried him hame frae Yarrow.

‘O daughter dear, I pray forbear, I’ll wed you to another marrow; I’ll wed you to some fitter match Than the lad that died on Yarrow.’

‘O father dear, you hae seven sons, Should you wed them a’ to-morrow, A fairer flower never grew in June Than the lad that died on Yarrow.’

This lady, being six months with child To the ploughman lad of Yarrow, She fell into her father’s arms An died wi grief on Yarrow.