‘Then build, then build, ye sisters sad,
Ye sisters sad, his tomb wi’ sorrow,
And weep around in waeful wise,
His helpless fate on the braes of Yarrow. 40
‘Curse ye, curse ye his useless shield,
The arm that wrought the deed of sorrow,
The fatal spear that pierced his breast,
His comely breast, on the braes of Yarrow.
‘Did I not warn thee not to love, 45
And warn from fight? but, to my sorrow,