William Stanley Braithwaite, ed. The Book of Georgian Verse. 1909.
The Braes of YarrowWilliam Hamilton of Bangour (17041754)
‘B
Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow!
Busk ye, busk ye, my bonnie, bonnie bride,
And think nae mair on the braes of Yarrow!’
Where got ye that winsome marrow?’
‘I got her where I durst not well 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 dare ye nae mair weel be seen
Pu’ing the birks on the braes of Yarrow?’
Lang maun she weep with dule and sorrow;
And lang maun I nae weel be seen
Pu’ing the birks on the braes of Yarrow.
Her lover dear, the cause of sorrow;
And I have slain the comeliest swain
That ever pu’ed birks on the braes of Yarrow.
Why on thy braes is 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!
’Tis he, the comely swain I slew
Upon the duleful braes of Yarrow.
His wounds in tears of dule and sorrow;
And wrap his limbs in mourning weeds,
And lay him on the braes of Yarrow.
Ye sisters sad, his tomb with sorrow:
And weep around, in woeful wise,
His hapless fate on the braes of Yarrow.
My 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, 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 flowing!’
As green its grass, its gowan as yellow;
As sweet smells on its braes the birk,
The apple from its rocks as mellow.
In flowery bands thou didst him fetter:
Though he was fair, and well beloved again
Than me, 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 lo’e 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—’twas my ain sewing:
Ah, wretched me! I little, little knew
He was in these to meet his ruin!
Unheedful of my dule and sorrow;
But ere the to-fall of the night
He lay a corpse on the braes 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’s braes,
My lover nailed in his coffin.
And strive with threat’ning words to move me:
My lover’s blood is on thy spear,
How canst 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 aff, take aff these bridal weeds,
And crown my careful head with willow.
Oh! 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 nought of thy sighs—
He lies a corpse on the braes of Yarrow.’