How lo’e him on the banks of Tweed,
That slew my Love on the braes of Yarrow?
‘Oh, Yarrow fields! may never rain,
Nor dew thy tender blossoms cover, 70
For there was basely slain my Love,
My Love, as he had not been a lover!
‘The boy put on his robes of green,
His purple vest, ’twas my ain sewin’:
Ah, wretched me! I little, little knew, 75
He was in these to meet his ruin.