Late at e'en drinking the wine,
And e'er they paid the lawing,
They set a combat them between,
To fight it in the dawing.[#]
[#] Dawn.
"O stay at home my noble lord,
O stay at home my marrow.
My cruel brother will you betray,
On the dowie houms[#] of Yarrow."
[#] Hillocks.
"O fare ye well, my lady gay!
O fare ye well, my Sarah!
For I must go, though I ne'er return
From the dowie banks of Yarrow."
She kissed his cheek, she combed his hair,
As oft she had done before, O,
She belted him with his noble brand,
"And he's away to Yarrow."
As he gaed up the Tennies bank
I wot he gaed with sorrow,
Till down in a den he spied nine armed men,
On the dowie houms of Yarrow.
"O come ye here to part your land,
The bonnie forest thorough?
Or come ye here to wield your brand,
On the dowie houms of Yarrow?"
"I come not here to part my land,
And neither to beg nor borrow,
I come to wield my noble brand
On the bonnie banks of Yarrow.
"If I see all, ye're nine to ane;
And that's an unequal marrow;
Yet will I fight, while lasts my brand,
On the bonnie banks of Yarrow."
Four has he hurt, and five has slain,
On the bloody braes of Yarrow,
Till that stubborn knight came him behind,
And ran his body thorough.
"Gae hame, gae hame, good brother John,
And tell your sister Sarah,
To come and lift her leafu'[#] lord;
He's sleepin' sound on Yarrow."
[#] Lawful.
"Yestreen I dreamed a dolefu' dream,
I fear there will be sorrow!
I dreamed I pu'd the heather green,
Wi' my true love on Yarrow.
"O gentle wind, that bloweth south,
From where my love repaireth,
Convey a kiss from his dear mouth,
And tell me how he fareth!
"But in the glen strive armed men;
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 spied ten slain men,
On the dowie banks of Yarrow.
She kissed his cheek, she kaim'd his hair,
She searched his wounds all thorough,
She kiss'd them till her lips grew red,
On the dowie houms of Yarrow.
"Now haud[#] your tongue, my daughter dear,
For a' this breeds but sorrow;
I'll wed ye to a better lord,
Than him ye lost on Yarrow."
[#] Hold.
"O haud your tongue, my father dear!
Ye mind me but of sorrow;
A fairer rose did never bloom
Than now lies cropp'd on Yarrow."
