The English and Scottish Popular Ballads Edited by Francis James Child. |
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 | The English and Scottish Popular Ballads |  |
169
The Dowie Dens o Yarrow
THE BRAES O YARROW—F
[_]
“From Nelly Laidlaw.” In the handwriting of William Laidlaw, “Scotch Ballads, Materials for Border Minstrelsy,” No 20 a, Abbotsford.
1
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.
2
She's kissd his lips, an she's caimd his hair,As she did ay afore, O,
She's belted him in his noble brown,
Afore he gaed to Yarrow.
3
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.
4
‘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.
5
‘There are twa swords into my sheath,The're ane and equal marrow;
Now wale the best, I'll take the warst,
An, man for man, I'll try ye.’
6
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.
7
‘Gae hame, gae hame, my sister Anne,An tell yer sister Sarah
That she may gang an seek her lord,
He's lyin sleepin on Yarrow.’
8
‘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.’
9
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.
10
‘My love was a' clad oer last nightWi the finest o the tartan,
But now he's a' clad oer wi red,
An he's red bluid to the garten.’
11
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.
12
‘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.’
13
‘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.’
14
‘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.’
15
This lady being big wi child,An fu o lamentation,
She died within her father's arms,
Amang this stuborn nation.
| The English and Scottish Popular Ballads | |