I wot she gaed wi' sorrow—
An' in a den spied nine dead men,
On the dowie houms of Yarrow.
She kissed his cheek, she kaim'd his hair,
As oft she did before, O;
She drank the red blood frae him ran,
On the dowie houms of Yarrow.
"O haud your tongue, my daughter dear!
For what needs a ' this sorrow;
I'll wed ye on a better lord,