What can my barbarous barbarous father do,
But with his cruel rage pursue me?
My luver's blood is on thy spear—
How canst thou, barbarous man, then woo me?
My happy sisters may be, may be proud
With cruel and ungentle scoffin',
May bid me seek on Yarrow Braes
My luver nailed in his coffin.
My brother Douglas may upbraid, upbraid,
And strive with threatning words to muve me:
My luver's blood is on thy spear—
How canst thou ever bid me luve thee?
Yes, yes, prepare the bed, the bed of luve,
With bridal sheets my body cover,
Unbar, ye bridal maids, the door!
Let in the expected husband-luver.
But who the expected husband husband is?
His hands, methinks, are bath'd in slaughter.
Ah me! what ghastly spectre's yon
Comes, in his pale shroud, bleeding after?
Pale as he is, here lay him, lay him down,
O lay his cold head on my pillow!
Take aff, take aff these bridal weids,
And crown my careful head with willow.
Pale tho' thou art, yet best, yet best beluv'd,
O could my warmth to life restore thee!
Ye'd lye all night between my breists—
No youth lay ever there before thee!
Pale, pale indeed, O luvely luvely youth,
Forgive, forgive so foul a slaughter,
And lye all night between my breists,
No youth shall ever lye there after.
A. Return, return, O mournful, mournful bride!
Return and dry thy useless sorrow!
Thy luver heeds none of thy sighs,
He lyes a corpse on the Braes of Yarrow.