Then they all begud to fecht, I wad they focht richt sore, O; Till a cowardly man cam' behind his back, And pierced his body thorough.

"Gae hame, gae hame, its my man John, As ye have done before, O: An tell it to my gaye ladye That I soundly sleep on Yarrow."

His man John he has gane hame, As he had done before, O; And told it to his gay ladye.

That he soundly slept on Yarrow.

"I dreamed a dream, now since the 'streen,[164]

G.o.d keep us a' frae sorrow!

That my lord and I was pu'ing the heather green, From the Dowie Downs o' Yarrow."

Sometimes she rode, sometimes she gade,[165]

As she had done before, O; And aye between she fell in a swoon, Lang or she cam' to Yarrow.

Her hair it was five quarters lang, 'Twas like the gold for yellow; She twisted it round his milk white hand, And she's drawn him hame frae Yarrow.

Out and spak her father dear, Says, "What needs a' this sorrow?

For I'll get you a far better lord Than ever died on Yarrow."

"O hold your tongue, father," she said, "For you've bred a' my sorrow; For that rose'll ne'er spring so sweet in May, As that Rose I lost on Yarrow!"

[Footnote 164: Yesternight.]

[Footnote 165: Walked.]

More than a century ago, William Hamilton, of Bangor, a gentleman of rank, education, and poetical talents, wrote the following exquisite ballad:[166]

[Footnote 166: We quote only a portion of Hamilton's ballad.]

THE BRAES OF YARROW.

Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny, bonny bride, Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow!

Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny, bonny bride, And think nae mair o' the Braes o' Yarrow.

Whare gat ye that bonny, bonny bride?

Whare gat ye that winsome marrow?

I gat her where I darena weil be seen Pouing the birks on the Braes o' Yarrow.

Weep not, weep not, my bonny, bonny bride, Weep not, my winsome marrow!

Nor let thy heart lament to leave Pouing the birks on the Braes o' Yarrow.

Lang maun she weep, lang maun she weep, Lang maun she weep with dule and sorrow, And lang maun I nae mair weil be seen, Pouing the birks on the Braes o' Yarrow.

Why runs thy stream, O Yarrow, Yarrow, red?

Why on thy braes heard the voice o' sorrow?

And why yon melancholious weeds, Hung on the bonny birks o' Yarrow?

What's yonder floats on the rueful flude?

What's yonder floats, O dule and sorrow!

'Tis he, the comely swain I slew, Upon the duleful braes o' Yarrow.

Wash, O wash his wounds in tears, His wounds in tears with dule and sorrow, And wrap his limbs in mourning weeds, And lay him on the Braes o' Yarrow.

Sweet smells the birk, green grows the gra.s.s, Yellow on Yarrow bank the gowan, Fair hangs the apple frae the rock, Sweet the wave of Yarrow flowan.

Flows Yarrow sweet, as sweet flows Tweed, As green its gra.s.s, its gowan as yellow, As sweet smells on its braes the birk, The apple frae the rock as mellow.

Busk ye, then busk, my bonny, bonny bride, Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow, Busk ye and lue me on the banks o' Tweed, And think nae mair on the Braes o' Yarrow.

How can I busk a bonny, bonny bride, How can I busk a winsome marrow, How lue him on the banks o' Tweed That slew my love on the braes o' Yarrow?

O Yarrow fields, may never, never rain, Nor dew thy tender blossoms cover, For there was basely slain my love, My love, as he had not been a lover.

The boy put on his robes o' green, His purple vest, 'twas my ain sewing Ah! wretched me! I little kenned He was in these to meet his ruin.

The boy took out his milk-white steed, Unheedful of my dule and sorrow, But ere the to-fall of the night He lay a corpse on the Braes o' Yarrow.

Much I rejoiced that waeful day; I sang, my voice the woods returning, But lang ere night the spear was flown, That slew my love, and left me mourning.

Yes, yes, prepare the bed of love, With bridal sheets my body cover, Unbar, ye bridal maids, the door, Let in the expected husband lover

But who the expected husband is?

His hands, methinks, are bathed in slaughter.

Ah me! what ghastly spectre's yon, Comes in his pale shroud, bleeding after?

Pale as he is, here lay him down, O lay his cold head on my pillow; Take off, take off these bridal weeds, And crown my careful head with willow.

Return, return, O mournful bride, Return and dry thy useless sorrow; Thy lover heeds naught of thy sighs, He lies a corpse on the Braes o' Yarrow.

Somewhat more than half a century later, Logan wrote a song with the same t.i.tle, of which the following are the concluding stanzas.

"Sweet were his words when last we met; My pa.s.sion I as freely told him; Clasped in his arms I little thought That I should never more behold him!

Scarce was I gone, I saw his ghost; It vanished with a shriek of sorrow; Thrice did the water wraith ascend And gave a doleful groan through Yarrow.

"His mother from the window look'd With all the longing of a mother; His little sister weeping walk'd The green wood path to meet her brother.

They sought him East, they sought him West, They sought him all the forest thorough; They only saw the cloud of night, They only heard the roar of Yarrow!

"No longer from thy window look, Thou hast no son, O tender mother!

No longer walk, thou lovely maid!

Alas! thou hast no more a brother!

No longer seek him East or West, And search no more the forest thoro'; For wandering in the night so dark, He fell a lifeless corpse in Yarrow.

"The tear shall never leave my cheek, No other youth shall be my marrow; I'll seek thy body in the stream, And then with thee I'll sleep in Yarrow."

The tear did never leave her cheek, No other youth became her marrow; She found his body in the stream, And now with him she sleeps in Yarrow.

We are now prepared to read Wordsworths' two exquisite poems, "Yarrow Unvisited," and "Yarrow Visited," the splendid flowering, so to speak, of this poetical growth.