It was, I ween, a comelie sight
To see sae trim a boy;

He was my joy, and heart's delight,
My handsome Gilderoy.

O twa sic charming een he had,
Breath sweet as any rose;
He never wore a Highland plaid,
But costly silken clothes.
He gain'd the luve of ladies gay,
Nane e'er to him was coy;
Ah! wae is me, I mourn the day
For my dear Gilderoy.

My Gilderoy and I were born
Baith in a town together;
We scant were seven years beforn
We 'gan to luve ilk ither.
Our daddies and our mammies they
Were fill'd wi' mickle joy,

To think upon the bridal day
Of me and Gilderoy.

For Gilderoy, that luve of mine,
Gude faith, I freely bought
A wedding sark of Holland fine,
Wi' dainty ruffles wrought;
And he gied me a wedding ring,
Which I received wi' joy.
Nae lad nor lassie e'er could sing
Like me and Gilderoy.

Wi' mickle joy we spent our prime,
Till we were baith sixteen;
And aft we past the langsome time
Amang the leaves sae green.

Aft on the banks we'd sit us there
And sweetly kiss and toy,

While he wi' garlands deck'd my hair,
My handsome Gilderoy.

Oh, that he still had been content
Wi' me to lead his life!

But, ah, his manfu' heart was bent
To stir in deeds of strife!

And he in many a vent'rous deed
His courage bauld wad try;
And now this gars my heart to bleed
For my dear Gilderoy.

And when of me his leave he tuik,
The tears they wat mine ee;

I gied him sic a parting luik;

My benison gang wi' thee.

God speed thee weil, mine ain dear heart,

Far gane is all my joy;

My heart is rent, sith we maun part,
My handsome Gilderoy."

The Queen of Scots possessed nought
That my love let me want;
For cow and sow he to me brought,
And e'en when they were strant,
All these did honestly possess;

He never did annoy

Who never failed to pay their less
To my love, Gilderoy.

My Gilderoy, baith far and near,
Was fear'd in every town;
And bauldly bore away the gear
Of mony a lowland loun.

For man to man durst meet him nane
He was sae brave a boy;

At length wi' numbers he was ta'en,
My winsome Gilderoy.

Wae worth the louns that made the laws,

To hang a man for gear;

To reave of life for sic a cause

As stealing horse or mare.

Had not their laws been made sae strict,
I ne'er had lost my joy,
Wi' sorrow ne'er had wet my cheek
For my dear Gilderoy.

Gif Gilderoy had done amiss,

He maught hae banisht been;
Ah! what sair cruelty is this
To hang such handsome men!
To hang the flower of Scottish land,
Sae sweet and fair a boy!
Nae lady had sae white a hand
As thee, my Gilderoy.

Of Gilderoy sae fear'd they were,
Wi' irons his limbs they strung;

To Edinborow led him there,

And on a gallows hung.

They hung him high aboon the rest,
He was sae bauld a boy;

There died the youth whom I lued best,

My handsome Gilderoy.

Sune as he yielded up his breath,

I bore his corpse away;

Wi' tears that trickled for his death
I wash'd his comelie clay.

And sicker in a grave right deep
I laid the dear-lued boy;
And now for ever I maun weep
My winsome Gilderoy.

THE DOWIE DENS O' YARROW.

Of this ballad, "a collated edition," selected from various copies, professedly for the purpose of suiting the taste of "these more light and giddy-paced times," first appeared in "The Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border," under the title of The Dowie Dens of Yarrow. The present version, taken from the recitation of an old woman in Kilbarchan, though containing some additional incidents, not to be found in the copy published in the Border Minstrelsy, is chiefly valuable as shewing the state in which the song is preserved in the West of Scotland.MOTHERWELL.

THERE were three lords birling at the wine,
On the Dowie Dens o' Yarrow,
They made a compact them between
They would go fecht to-morrow.

"Thou took our sister to be thy wife,
And ne'er thocht her thy marrow,
Thou stealed her frae her daddy's back,
When she was the Rose o' Yarrow."

"Yes, I took your sister to be my wife, And I made her my marrow;

I stealed her frae her daddy'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 fecht
On the Dowie Dens o' Yarrow."

Stay at hame, my lord," she said,
"For that will breed much sorrow;
For my three brethren will slay thee
On the Dowie Dens 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 Dens o' Yarrow."

He wush his face, and she combed his hair,
As she had done before, O;

She dressed him up in his armour clear,
Sent him forth to fecht on Yarrow.

"Come ye here to hawk or hound?

Or drink the wine that's sae clear, O? Or come ye 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 sae clear, O; Nor cam' I here to eat in my words, For I'm still the Rose o' Yarrow."

Then they all begoud to fecht,

I wad they focht richt sore, O;

Till a cowardly man cam' behind his back, And pierced his body thorough.