She kissed his cheek, she kaim’d
She search’d his wounds all thorough;
She kiss’d them, till her lips grew red,
On the dowie houms of Yarrow.
“Now, haud your tongue, my daughter
“For a’ this breeds but sorrow;
“I’ll wed ye to a better lord,
“Than him ye lost on Yarrow.”
“O haud your tongue, my father dear!
“Ye mind me but of sorrow;
“A fairer rose did never bloom
“Than now lies cropp’d on Yarrow.”
[Footnote A: Good-brother—Beau-frere, Brother-in-law.]
NEVER BEFORE PUBLISHED.
This Ballad is published, partly from one, under this title, in Mrs BROWN’S Collection, and partly from a MS. of some antiquity, penes Edit.—The stanzas appearing to possess mo st merit have been selected from each copy.
“O waly, waly, my gay goss hawk,
“Gin your feathering be sheen!”
“And waly, waly, my master dear,
“Gin ye look pale and lean!
“O have ye tint, at tournament,
“Your sword, or yet your spear?
“Or mourn ye for the southern lass,
“Whom you may not win near?”
“I have not tint, at tournament,
“My sword, nor yet my spear;
“But sair I mourn for my true love,
“Wi’ mony a bitter tear.
“But weel’s me on ye, my gay
“Ye can baith speak and flee;
“Ye sall carry a letter to my love,
“Bring an answer back to me.”
“But how sall I your true love find,
“Or how suld I her know?
“I bear a tongue ne’er wi’ her spake,
“An eye that ne’er her saw.”
“O weel sall ye my true love ken,
“Sae sune as ye her see;
“For, of a’ the flowers of fair England,
“The fairest flower is she.
“The red, that’s on my true
“Is like blood drops on the snaw;
“The white, that is on her breast bare,
“Like the down o’ the white sea-maw.
“And even at my love’s bour
“There grows a flowering birk;
“And ye maun sit and sing thereon
“As she gangs to the kirk.
“And four-and-twenty fair ladyes
“Will to the mass repair;
“But weel may ye my ladye ken,
“The fairest ladye there.”
Lord William has written a love letter,
Put it under his pinion gray;
And he is awa’ to Southern land
As fast as wings can gae.
And even at that ladye’s bour
There grew a flowering birk;
And he sat down and sang thereon
As she gaed to the kirk.
And weel he kent that ladye fair
Amang her maidens free;
For the flower, that springs in May morning,
Was not sae sweet as she.
He lighted at the ladye’s yate,
And sat him on a pin;
And sang fu’ sweet the notes o’ love,
Till a’ was cosh[A] within.