Up she gaes on yon high, high hill,
An a wat she gaes with sorrow,
An in a den she spy’d nine slain men,
In the dowie banks of Yarrow.
8
‘O the last time I saw my love
He was a’ clad oer in tartan;
But now he’s a’ clad oer in red,
An he’s a’ blood to the gartin.’
9