Classic Poem

Late in the eenin, drinkin the wine,
Or early in the mornin,
The set a combat them between,
To fight it out i the dawnin.

She 's kissd his lips, an she 's caimd his hair,
As she did ay afore, O,
She 's belted him in his noble brown,
Afore he gaed to Yarrow.

Then he 's away oer yon high hill—
A wait he 's gane wi sorrow—
An in a den he spied nine armd men,
On the dowie banks o Yarrow.

‘If I see ye a', ye 'r nine for ane,
But ane 's [un]equal marrow;
Yet as lang 's I 'm able wield my brand,
I 'll fight an bear ye marrow.

‘There are twa swords into my sheath,
The 're ane and equal marrow;
Now wale the best, I 'll take the warst,
An, man for man, I 'll try ye.’

He has slain a' the nine men,
A ane an equal marrow,
But up there startit a stuborn lord,
That gard him sleep on Yarrow.


‘Gae hame, gae hame, my sister Anne,
An tell yer sister Sarah
That she may gang an seek her lord,
He 's lyin sleepin on Yarrow.’

‘I dreamd a dream now sin yestreen,
I thought it wad be sorrow;
I thought I was pouin the hether green
On the dowie banks o Yarrow.’

Then she 's away oer yon high hill—
I wat she 's gane wi sorrow—
And in a den she 's spy'd ten slain men,
On the dowie banks o Yarrow.

‘My love was a' clad oer last night
Wi the finest o the tartan,
But now he 's a' clad oer wi red,
An he 's red bluid to the garten.’

She 's kissd his lips, she 's caimd his hair,
As she had done before, O;
She drank the red bluid that frae him ran,
On the dowie banks o Yarrow.

‘Tak hame your ousen, father, and yer kye,
For they 've bred muckle sorrow;
I wiss that they had a' gaen mad
Afore they came to Yarrow.’

‘O haud yer tongue, my daughter dear,
For this breeds ay but sorrow;
I 'll wed you to a better lord
Than him you lost on Yarrow.’

‘O haud yer tongue, my father dear,
For ye but breed mair sorrow;
A better rose will never spring
Than him I 've lost on Yarrow.’

This lady being big wi child,
An fu o lamentation,
She died within her father's arms,
Amang this stuborn nation.