Arthur Quiller-Couch, ed. 1919. The Oxford Book of English Verse: 1250–1900.
LATE at een, drinkin’ the wine, | |
And ere they paid the lawin’, | |
They set a combat them between, | |
To fight it in the dawin’. | |
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‘O stay at hame, my noble lord! | 5 |
O stay at hame, my marrow! | |
My cruel brother will you betray, | |
On the dowie houms o’ Yarrow.’ | |
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‘O fare ye weel, my lady gay! | |
O fare ye weel, my Sarah! | 10 |
For I maun gae, tho’ I ne’er return | |
Frae the dowie banks o’ Yarrow.’ | |
|
She kiss’d his cheek, she kamed his hair, | |
As she had done before, O; | |
She belted on his noble brand, | 15 |
An’ he ‘s awa to Yarrow. | |
|
O he ‘s gane up yon high, high hill— | |
I wat he gaed wi’ sorrow— | |
An’ in a den spied nine arm’d men, | |
I’ the dowie houms o’ Yarrow. | 20 |
|
‘O are ye come to drink the wine, | |
As ye hae doon before, O? | |
Or are ye come to wield the brand, | |
On the dowie banks o’ Yarrow?’ | |
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‘I am no come to drink the wine, | 25 |
As I hae don before, O, | |
But I am come to wield the brand, | |
On the dowie houms o’ Yarrow.’ | |
|
Four he hurt, an’ five he slew, | |
On the dowie houms o’ Yarrow, | 30 |
Till that stubborn knight came him behind, | |
An’ ran his body thorrow. | |
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‘Gae hame, gae hame, good brother John, | |
An’ tell your sister Sarah | |
To come an’ lift her noble lord, | 35 |
Who ‘s sleepin’ sound on Yarrow.’ | |
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‘Yestreen I dream’d a dolefu’ dream; | |
I ken’d there wad be sorrow; | |
I dream’d I pu’d the heather green, | |
On the dowie banks o’ Yarrow.’ | 40 |
|
She gaed up yon high, high hill— | |
I wat she gaed wi’ sorrow— | |
An’ in a den spied nine dead men, | |
On the dowie houms o’ Yarrow. | |
|
She kiss’d his cheek, she kamed his hair, | 45 |
As oft she did before, O; | |
She drank the red blood frae him ran, | |
On the dowie houms o’ Yarrow. | |
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‘O haud your tongue, my douchter dear, | |
For what needs a’ this sorrow? | 50 |
I’ll wed you on a better lord | |
Than him you lost on Yarrow.’ | |
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‘O haud your tongue, my father dear, | |
An’ dinna grieve your Sarah; | |
A better lord was never born | 55 |
Than him I lost on Yarrow. | |
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‘Tak hame your ousen, tak hame your kye, | |
For they hae bred our sorrow; | |
I wiss that they had a’ gane mad | |
When they cam first to Yarrow.’ | 60 |