‘What’s yonder floats on the rueful flood? What’s yonder floats? Oh, dule and sorrow! 30 Oh! ’tis the comely swain I slew Upon the duleful banks of Yarrow! ‘Wash, oh, wash his wounds in tears, His wounds in tears of dule and sorrow, And wrap his limbs in mourning weeds, 35 And lay him on the banks of Yarrow! ‘Then build, then build, ye sisters sad, Ye sisters sad, his tomb wi’ sorrow, And weep around in waeful wise, His helpless fate on the braes of Yarrow. 40 ‘Curse ye, curse ye his useless shield, The 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 love, 45 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 the grass, Yellow on Yarrow’s braes the gowan, 50 Fair hangs the apple frae the rock, Sweet the wave of Yarrow flowin’. ‘Flows Yarrow sweet? as sweet flows Tweed, As green its grass, its gowan as yellow, As sweet smells on its braes the birk, 55 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. 60 ‘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.’ C. ‘How can I busk, a bonnie, bonnie bride, 65 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? ‘Oh, Yarrow fields! may never rain, Nor dew thy tender blossoms cover, 70 For there was basely slain my Love, My Love, as he had not been a lover! ‘The boy put on his robes of green, His purple vest, ’twas my ain sewin’: Ah, wretched me! I little, little knew, 75 He was in these to meet his ruin. ‘The boy took out his milk-white steed, Unmindful of my dule and sorrow; But, ere the toofal of the night, He lay a corpse on the banks of Yarrow. 80 ‘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.