Sometimes she rode, sometimes she gade,[165]
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,
"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!"
More than a century ago, William Hamilton, of Bangor, a gentleman of rank, education, and poetical talents, wrote the following exquisite ballad:[166]
THE BRAES OF YARROW.
Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny, bonny bride,
Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow!
Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny, bonny bride,
And think nae mair o' the Braes o' Yarrow.
Whare gat ye that bonny, bonny bride?
Whare gat ye that winsome marrow?
I gat her where I darena weil be seen
Pouing the birks on the Braes o' Yarrow.
Weep not, weep not, my bonny, bonny bride,
Weep not, my winsome marrow!
Nor let thy heart lament to leave
Pouing the birks on the Braes o' Yarrow.
Lang maun she weep, lang maun she weep,
Lang maun she weep with dule and sorrow,
And lang maun I nae mair weil be seen,
Pouing the birks on the Braes o' Yarrow.