My master carries me to church, And often I am blamed, Because I leave him in the lurch, Soon as the text is named: I leave the church in sermon time, And slink away to Sally; She is the darling of my heart, And lives in our alley. When Christmas comes about again, O then I shall have money; I'll hoard it up and, box and all, I'll give unto my honey: I would it were ten thousand pounds, I'd give it all to Sally; She is the darling of my heart, And lives in our alley. My master and the neighbours all, Make game of me and Sally, And but for she I'd better be A slave, and row a galley: But when my seven long years are out, O then I'll marry Sally, And then how happily we'll live-- But not in our alley. _WILLIAM HAMILTON_ 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 on the Braes of Yarrow. Where gat ye that bonny bonny bride? Where gat ye that winsome marrow? I gat her where I daurna weel be seen, Pu'ing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow. Weep not, weep not, my bonny bonny bride, Weep not, weep not, my winsome marrow; Nor let thy heart lament to leive Pu'ing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow. Why does she weep, thy bonny bonny bride? Why does she weep, thy winsome marrow? And why daur ye nae mair weel be seen Pu'ing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow? Lang mann she weep, lang maun she, maun she weep, Lang maun she weep with dule and sorrow, And lang maun I nae mair weel be seen Pu'ing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow. For she has tint her luver, luver dear, Her luver dear, the cause of sorrow; And I hae slain the comliest swain That eir pu'd birks on the Braes of Yarrow. Why rins thy stream, O Yarrow, Yarrow, reid? Why on thy braes heard the voice of sorrow? And why yon melancholious weids Hung on the bonny birks of Yarrow? What's yonder floats on the rueful rueful flude? What's yonder floats? O dule and sorrow! O '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 with dule and sorrow; And wrap his limbs in mourning weids, 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 waeful 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 pierc'd his breast, His comely breast, on the Braes of Yarrow. Did I not warn thee, not to, not to luve? And warn from fight? but to my sorrow Too rashly bauld a stronger arm Thou mett'st, and fell on the Braes of Yarrow. Sweet smells the birk, green grows, green grows the grass, Yellow on Yarrow's bank the gowan; Fair hangs the apple frae the rock, Sweet the wave of Yarrow flowin'!