"They've wrought me dole and sorrow;
"They've slain—the comeliest knight they've slain—
"He bleeding lies on Yarrow."
As she sped down yon high high hill,
She gaed wi' dole and sorrow,
And in the den spyed ten slain men,
On the dowie banks of Yarrow.
She kissed his cheek, she kaim'd his hair,
She search'd his wounds all thorough;
She kiss'd them, till her lips grew red,