Four-and-twenty siller bells, Were a' tied to his mane, Wi' ae tift o' the norlan' wind, They tinkled ane by ane. Four-and-twenty gay gude knights, Rade by fair Annet's side, And four-and-twenty fair ladies, As gin she had been a bride. And when she cam' to Marie's kirk, She sat on Marie's stane; The cleiding that fair Annet had on, It skinkled in their e'en. And when she cam' into the kirk, She skimmer'd like the sun; The belt that was about her waist, Was a' wi' pearls bedone. She sat her by the nut-brown bride, And her e'en they were sae clear, Lord Thomas he clean forgot the bride, When fair Annet drew near. He had a rose into his hand, He gave it kisses three, And reaching by the nut-brown bride, Laid it on Annet's knee. Up then spak' the nut-brown bride, She spak' wi' meikle spite; "Where gat ye that rose-water, Annet, That does mak' ye sae white?" "O I did get the rose-water, Where ye'll get never nane, For I did get that rose-water, Before that I was born. "Where I did get that rose-water, Ye'll never get the like; For ye've been washed in Dunnie's well, And dried on Dunnie's dyke. "Tak' up and wear your rose, Thomas, And wear't wi' meikle care; For the woman sall never bear a son That will mak' my heart sae sair." When night was come, and day was gane, And a' men boune to bed, Lord Thomas and the nut-brown bride In their chamber were laid. They were na weel lyen down, And scarcely fa'en asleep, When up and stands she, fair Annet, Just at Lord Thomas' feet. "Weel bruik ye o' your nut-brown bride, Between ye and the wa'; And sae will I o' my winding-sheet, That suits me best of a'. "Weel bruik ye o' your nut-brown bride, Between ye and the stock; And sae will I o' my black, black kist, That has neither key nor lock!" Lord Thomas rase, put on his claes, Drew till him hose and shoon; And he is to fair Annet's bower, By the lee light o' the moon. The firsten bower that he cam' till, There was right dowie wark; Her mither and her three sisters, Were making fair Annet a sark. The nexten bower that he cam' till There was right dowie cheer; Her father and her seven brethren, Were making fair Annet a bier. The lasten bower that he cam' till, O heavy was his care, The deid candles were burning bright, Fair Annet was streekit there. "O I will kiss your cheek, Annet, And I will kiss your chin; And I will kiss your clay-cauld lip, But I'll ne'er kiss woman again. "This day ye deal at Annet's wake, The bread but and the wine; Before the morn at twal' o'clock, They'll deal the same at mine." The tane was buried in Marie's kirk, The tither in Marie's quire, And out o' the tane there grew a birk, And out o' the tither a brier. And ay they grew, and ay they drew, Until they twa did meet, And every ane that pass'd them by, Said, "Thae's been lovers sweet!" * * * * * THE BANKS O' YARROW.