Wi my true love on Yarrow.
'O gentle wind that bloweth south,
From where my Love repaireth,
Convey a kiss frae his dear mouth,
And tell me how he faireth!'
* But in the glen strove armed men;
They've wrought me dule and sorrow;
They've slain—the comeliest knight they've slain—
He bleeding lies on Yarrow.'
As she sped down yon high, high hill,