‘My love was a’ clad oer last night
Wi the finest o the tartan,
But now he’s a’ clad oer wi red,
An he’s red bluid to the garten.’
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She’s kissd his lips, she’s caimd his hair,
As she had done before, O;
She drank the red bluid that frae him ran,
On the dowie banks o Yarrow.
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