Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
Scotland: Vols. VI–VIII. 1876–79.
The Dowie Dens of Yarrow
By Henry S. Riddell (17981870)O
That pass not with the morning,
Then ask not why my reason swims
In a brain so wildly burning.
And ask not why I fancy how
You wee bird sings wi’ sorrow,
That bluid lies mingled with the dew,
In the dowie dens o’ Yarrow.
Nor of the dulefu’ morning;
Thrice on the stream was seen the gleam
That seemed his sprite returning;
For sword-girt men came down the glen
An hour before the morrow,
And pierced the heart aye true to mine,
In the dowie dens o’ Yarrow.
Upon the wild-flower’s blossom,
But they could na cool my burning brow,
And shall not stain my bosom.
But from the clouds o’ yon dark sky
A cold cold shroud I ’ll borrow,
And long and deep shall be my sleep
In the dowie dens o’ Yarrow.
By the heart o’ him that lo’ed me,
And I ’ll steal frae his lips a long long kiss
In the bower where aft he wooed me.
For my arms shall fold and my tresses shield
The form of my death-cold marrow,
When the breeze shall bring the raven’s wing
O’er the dowie dens o’ Yarrow.