Flows Yarrow sweet? as sweet, as sweet flows Tweed,
As green its grass, its gowan as yellow,
As sweet smells on its braes the birk, 55
The apple frae its rock as mellow.
Fair was thy luve, fair fair indeed thy luve,
In flow'ry bands thou didst him fetter;
Tho' he was fair, and weil beluv'd again
Than me he never luv'd thee better. 60
Busk ye, then busk, my bonny bonny bride,
Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow,
Busk ye, and luve me on the banks of Tweed,
And think nae mair on the Braes of Yarrow.
C. How can I busk a bonny bonny bride? 65
How can I busk a winsome marrow?
How luve him upon the banks of Tweed,
That slew my luve on the Braes of Yarrow?
O Yarrow fields, may never never rain,
Nor dew thy tender blossoms cover, 70
For there was basely slain my luve,
My luve, as he had not been a lover.
The boy put on his robes, his robes of green,
His purple vest, 'twas my awn sewing:
Ah! wretched me! I little, little kenn'd 75
He was in these to meet his ruin.
The boy took out his milk-white, milk-white steed,
Unheedful of my dule and sorrow:
But ere the toofall[881] of the night
He lay a corps on the Braes of Yarrow. 80
Much I rejoyc'd that waeful waeful day;
I sang, my voice the woods returning:
But lang ere night the spear was flown,
That slew my luve, and left me mourning.
What can my barbarous barbarous father do, 85
But with his cruel rage pursue me?
My luver's blood is on thy spear,
How canst thou, barbarous man, then wooe me?
My happy sisters may be, may be proud
With cruel, and ungentle scoffin', 90
May bid me seek on Yarrow's Braes
My luver nailed in his coffin.