Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
Scotland: Vols. VI–VIII. 1876–79.
The Braes of Yarrow
By William Hamilton (1704–1754)“B
Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow!
Busk ye, busk ye, my bonnie, bourne bride,
And think nae mair of the Braes of Yarrow.”
Where gat ye that winsome marrow?”
I gat her where I daurna weel be seen,
Pu’ing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow.
Weep not, weep not, my winsome marrow!
Nor let thy heart lament to leave
Pu’ing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow.”
Why does she weep, thy winsome marrow?
And why daur ye nae mair weel be seen
Pu’ing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow?”
Lang maun she weep wi’ dule and sorrow;
And lang maun I nae mair weel be seen
Pu’ing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow.
Her lover dear, the cause of sorrow;
And I hae slain the comeliest swain
That e’er pu’d birks on the Braes of Yarrow.
Why on thy braes heard the voice of sorrow?
And why yon melancholious weeds
Hung on the bonnie birks of Yarrow?
What ’s yonder floats? O, dule and sorrow!
’T is he, the comely swain I slew
Upon the dulefu’ Braes of Yarrow.
His wounds in tears o’ dule and sorrow;
And wrap his limbs in mourning weeds,
And lay him on the banks of Yarrow.
Ye sisters sad, his tomb wi’ sorrow;
And weep around, in waeful wise,
His hapless fate on the Braes of Yarrow!
The arm that wrought the deed of sorrow,
The fatal spear that pierced his breast,
His comely breast, on the Braes of Yarrow!
And warn from fight? But, to my sorrow,
Too rashly bold, a stronger arm thou met’st,
Thou met’st, and fell on the Braes of Yarrow.
Yellow on Yarrow’s braes the gowan;
Fair hangs the apple frae the rock;
Sweet the wave of Yarrow flowan!
As green its grass; its gowan as yellow;
As sweet smells on its braes the birk;
The apple frae its rock as mellow!
In flowery bands thou didst him fetter;
Though he was fair and well-beloved again,
Than I he never loved thee better.
Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow!
Busk ye, and lo’e me on the banks of Tweed,
And think nae mair on the Braes of Yarrow.”
How can I busk a winsome marrow?
How love him on the banks of Tweed,
That slew my love on the Braes of Yarrow?
Nor dew, thy tender blossoms cover!
For there was basely slain my love,
My love, as he had not been a lover!
His purple vest,—’t was my ain sewing;
Ah, wretched me! I little, little kenned
He was in these to meet his ruin.
Unmindful of my dule and sorrow;
But ere the too fa’ of the night,
He lay a corpse on the banks of Yarrow!
I sang, my voice the woods returning;
But lang ere night the spear was flown,
That slew my love, and left me mourning.
But with his cruel rage pursue me?
My lover’s blood is on thy spear,—
How canst thou, barbarous man, then woo me?
With cruel and ungentle scoffin,
May bid me seek, on Yarrow Braes,
My lover nailéd in his coffin.
And strive, with threatening words, to move me;
My lover’s blood is on thy spear,—
How can thou ever bid me love thee?
With bridal sheets my body cover!
Unbar, ye bridal maids, the door!
Let in the expected husband-lover!
His hands, methinks, are bathed in slaughter!
Ah me! what ghastly spectre ’s yon
Comes in his pale shroud, bleeding after?
O, lay his cold head on my pillow!
Take off, take off these bridal weeds,
And crown my careful head with willow.
O, could my warmth to life restore thee!
Ye ’d lie all night between my breasts,
No youth lay ever there before thee.
Forgive, forgive so foul a slaughter,
And lie all night between my breasts,
No youth shall ever lie there after.”
Return and dry thy useless sorrow:
Thy lover heeds naught of thy sighs,
He lies a corpse on the Braes of Yarrow.