"Gae hame, gae hame, it's my man, John,

As ye have done before, O; And tell it to my gay ladye,

That I soundly sleep on Yarrow."

His man, John, he has gane hame,
As he had done before, O;
And told it to his gay ladye,

That he soundly slept on Yarrow.

"I dream'd a dream now since yestreen,God keep us a' frae sorrow,

That my lord and I pu'd the heather green, From the Dowie Dens o' Yarrow."

Sometimes she rade, sometimes she gade,
As she had done before, O;
And aye between she fell in a swoon,
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 frae 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, 66 For you 've bred a' my sorrow; For that Rose 'll ne'er spring so sweet in May, As that Rose I lost on Yarrow!"

THE BRAES O' YARROW.

Though not strictly an ancient ballad, but only a comparatively modern imitation of the ancient manner, by William Hamilton of Bangour, the friend of Allan Ramsay, it has been thought inadvisable to exclude it from this collection. The ballad has consecrated the banks of Yarrow to all the lovers of poetry and song; and is the finest of many fine compositions which have made that stream as truly classic as Helicon or Meander.

A. BUSK ye, busk ye, my bonnie, bonnie bride, Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow; Busk ye, busk ye, my bonnie, bonnie bride,

And think nae mair on the braes o' Yarrow.

B. Where gat ye that bonnie, bonnie bride,
Where gat ye that winsome marrow ?
A. I gat her where I daurna weel be seen,
Puin' the birks on the braes o' Yarrow.

Weep not! weep not ! my bonnie, bonnie bride;
Weep not! weep not, my winsome marrow,
Nor let thy heart lament to leave

Puin' the birks on the braes o' Yarrow.

B. Why does she weep, thy bonnie, bonnie bride?
Why does she weep, thy winsome marrow?
And why daur ye nae mair weel be seen
Puin' the birks on the braes o' Yarrow?

weep,

A. Lang maun she weep, lang maun she
Lang maun she weep wi' dule and sorrow,

And lang maun I ne'er weel be seen

Puin' the birks on the braes o' Yarrow.

For she has tint her lover, lover dear,
Her lover dear, the cause of sorrow;
And I hae slain the comeliest swain

That e'er pu'd birks on the braes o' Yarrow !

Why runs thy stream, O Yarrow, Yarrow, red? Why on thy braes is the voice of sorrow? And why do ye, ye melancholy weeds,

Hang on the bonnie birks o' Yarrow?

What yonder floats on the ruefu', ruefu' flude, What yonder floats? O dule and sorrow! 'Tis he the comely swain I slew

Upo' the dulefu' braes o' Yarrow !

Wash, oh wash, his wounds, his wounds in tears,

His wounds in tears o' dule and sorrow, And wrap his limbs in mourning weeds, And lay him on the braes o' Yarrow.

Then build, then build ye sisters, sisters sad, Ye sisters sad, his tomb wi' sorrow,

And weep around in woeful wise

His hapless fate on the braes o' Yarrow!

Curse ye, curse ye his useless, useless shield, My arm that wrought the deed of sorrow, The fatal spear that pierced his breast,

His comely breast, on the braes o' Yarrow!

Sweet smells the birk-green grows, green grows the grass,

Yellow on Yarrow's banks the gowan, Fair hangs the apple frae the rock;

Sweet the wave o' Yarrow flowin'.

Flows Yarrow sweet? as sweet, as sweet flows
Tweed!

As green its grass, its gowans as yellow,
As sweet smells on its braes the birk,
The apple frae the rock as mellow.

Fair was thy love-fair, fair indeed thy love,
In flowery bands thou didst him fetter;
Though he was fair and weel-beloved again,
Than me he never loved thee better.

Then busk ye, busk ye, my bonnie, bonnie
bride,

Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow;
Come and love me on the banks o' Tweed,
And think nae mair on the braes o' Yarrow.

She. How can I busk a bonnie, bonnie bride?
How can I busk a winsome marrow?
And how love him on the banks o' Tweed
That slew my love on the braes o' Yarrow?

O Yarrow fields! may never, never rain,
Nor dew thy tender blossoms cover;
For there was basely slain my love,
As though he hadna been a lover.

The boy put on his robes, his robes of green,
His purple vest was my own sewin';

O wretched me, I little, little kenn'd
He was in them to meet his ruin!

The boy took out his milk-white, milk-white
steed,

Unheedful of my dule and sorrow;
But e'er the to-fall of the night,

He lay a corpse on the braes of Yarrow.

Much I rejoiced that waeful, waeful day,
I sang-my voice the woods returning;
But lang e'er night the spear was flown
That slew my love, and left me mournin'.

What can my barbarous, barbarous father do,
But with his cruel rage pursue me?
My lover's blood is on thy spear,

How canst thou, barbarous man, then
Woo me?

My happy sisters may be, may be proud;
With cruel and ungentle scoffing,
May bid me seek on Yarrow braes
My lover nailed in his coffin.

My brother Douglas may upbraid,

And strive in threatening words to move me,

My lover's blood is on thy spear,

How canst thou ever bid me love thee?

Yes! yes! prepare the bed, the bed of love, With bridal sheets my body cover; Unbar, ye bridle maids, the door,

Let in the expected husband-lover!

But who the expected husband, husband is? His hands methinks are bathed in slaughter; Ah me! what ghastly spectre's yon,

Comes in his pale shroud bleeding after?

Pale as he is, here lay him, lay him down,
O lay his cold head on my pillow;
Take off, take off these bridal weeds,
And crown my waefu' head wi' willow.