‘The boy took out his milk-white steed,
Unmindful of my dule and sorrow;
But, ere the toofal of the night,
He lay a corpse on the banks of Yarrow. 80
‘Much I rejoiced that waeful day,
I sang, my voice the woods returning;
But lang ere night the spear was flown
That slew my Love, and left me mourning.
‘What can my barbarous father do, 85
But with his cruel rage pursue me?