A Bundle of Ballads

THE BRAES O' YARROW.

     Ten lords sat drinking at the wine,
       Intill a morning early;
     There fell a combat them among,
       It must be fought,—nae parly.

     —"O stay at hame, my ain gude lord,
       O stay, my ain dear marrow."—
     "Sweetest mine, I will be thine,
       And dine wi' you to-morrow."

     She's kissed his lips, and combed his hair,
       As she had done before, O;
     Gied him a brand down by his side,
       And he is on to Yarrow.

     As he gaed ower yon dowie knowe,
       As aft he'd dune before, O;
     Nine arm-ed men lay in a den,
       Upo' the braes o' Yarrow.

     "O came ye here to hunt or hawk,
       As ye hae done before, O?
     Or came ye here to wiel' your brand,
       Upo' the braes o' Yarrow."—

     "I came nae here to hunt nor hawk,
       As I hae dune before, O;
     But I came here to wiel' my brand,
       Upon the braes o' Yarrow."—

     Four he hurt, and five he slew,
       Till down he fell himsell, O;
     There stood a fause lord him behin',
       Who thrust him thro' body and mell, O.

     "Gae hame, gae hame, my brother John,
       And tell your sister sorrow;
     Your mother to come take up her son,
       Aff o' the braes o' Yarrow."

     As he gaed ower yon high, high hill,
       As he had dune before, O;
     There he met his sister dear,
       Came rinnin' fast to Yarrow.

     "I dreamt a dream last night," she says,
       "I wish it binna sorrow;
     I dreamt I was pu'ing the heather green,
       Upo' the braes o' Yarrow."—

     "I'll read your dream, sister," he says,
       "I'll read it into sorrow;
     Ye're bidden gae take up your love,
       He's sleeping sound on Yarrow."

     She's torn the ribbons frae her head,
       They were baith thick and narrow;
     She's kilted up her green claithing,
       And she's awa' to Yarrow.

     She's taen him in her arms twa,
       And gien him kisses thorough,
     And wi' her tears she bathed his wounds,
       Upo' the braes o' Yarrow.

     Her father looking ower his castle wa',
       Beheld his daughter's sorrow;
     "O haud yer tongue, daughter," he says,
       "And let be a' your sorrow;
     I'll wed you wi' a better lord,
       Than he that died on Yarrow."—

     "O haud your tongue, father," she says,
       "And let be till to-morrow;
     A better lord there coudna be
       Than he that died on Yarrow."

     She kissed his lips, and combed his hair,
       As she had dune before, O;
     Then wi' a crack her heart did brack
       Upon the braes o' Yarrow.