'What's yonder floats on the rueful, rueful flood?
What's yonder floats? O dule and sorrow!
'Tis he, the comely swain I slew

Upon the duleful braes of Yarrow.

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

'Then build, then build, ye sisters, sisters sad, Ye sisters sad, his tomb with sorrow:

And weep around, in woeful wise,

His hapless fate on the braes of Yarrow.

Curse ye, curse ye, his useless, useless shield,
My arm that wrought the deed of sorrow,
The fatal spear that pierced his breast-
His comely breast on the braes of Yarrow!

'Did I not warn thee not to, not to love,

And warn from fight? But, to my sorrow,

Too rashly bold, a stronger arm

Thou met'st, and fell on the braes of Yarrow.'

'Sweet smells the birk, green grows, green grows the

grass,

Yellow on Yarrow's braes the gowan;

Fair hangs the apple frae the rock,

Sweet the wave of Yarrow flowing!'

'Flows Yarrow sweet? As sweet, as sweet flows Tweed;

As green its grass, its gowan as yellow;

As sweet smells on its braes the birk,
The apple from its rocks as mellow.

Fair was thy love, fair, fair indeed thy love; In flowery bands thou didst him fetter: Though he was fair, and well beloved again Than me, he never loved thee better.

'Busk

ye then, busk, my bonnie, bonnie bride! 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 bonnie, bonnie bride?

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!

'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, his robes of green,
His purple vest-'twas my ain sewing:

Ah, wretched me! I little, little knew
He was in these to meet his ruin!

'The boy took out his milk-white, milk-white steed, Unheedful of my dule and sorrow;

But ere the to-fall of the night

He lay a corpse on the braes of Yarrow.

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

'What can my barbarous, barbarous father do, But with his cruel rage pursue me?

My lover's blood is on thy spear;

How canst thou, barbarous man, then woo mne?

'My happy sisters may be, may be proud

With cruel and ungentle scoffin'

May bid me seek, on Yarrow's braes,

My lover nailed in his coffin.

'My brother Douglas may upbraid,

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?

'Yes, yes, prepare the bed, 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, 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, lay him down;
O lay his cold head on my pillow:
Take aff, take aff these bridal weeds,
And crown my careful head with willow.

'Pale though thou art, yet best, yet best beloved!
Oh! could my warmth to life restore thee,
Ye'd lie all night between my breasts!
No youth lay ever there before thee.

'Pale, pale indeed! O lovely, lovely youth!
Forgive, forgive so foul a slaughter;
And lie all night between my breasts!
No youth shall ever lie there after.'

'Return, return, O mournful, mournful bride! Return, and dry thy useless sorrow!

Thy lover heeds nought of thy sighs-
He lies a corpse on the braes of Yarrow."

342

HECTOR MACNEIL

[1746-1818]

I LOVED NE'ER A LADDIE BUT ANE

I LO'ED ne'er a laddie but ane,
He lo'es na a lassie but me;
He's willing to mak' me his ain,
And his ain I am willing to be.
He coft' me a rokelay" o' blue,

And a pair o' mittens o' green;
He vowed that he'd ever be true,
And I plighted my troth yestreen.

Let ithers brag weel o' their gear,
Their land and their lordly degree;
I carena for aught but my dear,

For he's ilka thing lordly to me.
His words are sae sugared, sae sweet,
His sense drives ilk fear far awa';
I listen, puir fool, and I greet,

Yet how sweet are the tears as they fa'!

'Dear lassie,' he cries wi' a jeer,

'Ne'er heed what the auld anes will say:
Though we've little to brag o', ne'er fear,
What's gowd to a heart that is wae?
Our laird has baith honours and wealth,
Yet see how he's dwining wi' care;
Now we, though we've naething but health,
Are cantie and leal' evermair.

'O Menie, the heart that is true

Has something mair costly than gear;

Ilk e'en it has naething to rue,

Ilk morn it has naething to fear.

1 Bought.

A short cloak. Possessions.
Cheerful.

• Each.

'Pining

Loyal.

343

Ye warldlings, gae hoard up your store,
And tremble for fear aught ye tyne;"
Guard your treasures wi' lock, bar, and door,
While here in my arms I lock mine!'

He ends wi' a kiss and a smile-
Wae's me, can I tak' it amiss?
My laddie's unpractised in guile,

He's free aye to daut' and to kiss.
Ye lasses wha' lo'e to torment

Your wooers wi' fause scorn and strife,
Play your pranks; I ha'e gi'en my consent,
And this night I am Jamie's for life.

COME UNDER MY PLAIDIE

'COME under my plaidie, the night's gaun to fa';
Come in frae the cauld blast, the drift, and the snaw:
Come under my plaidie, and sit down beside me,
There's room in't, dear lassie, believe me, for twa.
Come under my plaidie, and sit down beside me,
I'll hap' ye frae every cauld blast that can blaw:
Oh, come under my plaidie, and sit down beside me!
There's room in't, dear lassie, believe me, for twa.'

'Gae 'wa wi' your plaidie, auld Donald, gae 'wa!
I fearna the cauld blast, the drift, nor the snaw;
Gae 'wa wi' your plaidie; I'll no sit beside ye,
Ye may be a gutcher, auld Donald, gae 'wa.
I'm gaun to meet Johnnie-he's young and he's bonnie
He's been at Meg's bridal, fu' trig' and fu' braw:*
Oh, nane dances sae lightly, sae gracefu', sae tightly;
His cheek's like the new rose, his brow's like the snaw,

'Dear Marion, let that flee stick fast to the wa';
Your Jock's but a gowk, and has naething ava;
The hale o' his pack he has now on his back:
He's thretty, and I am but threescore and twa.