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 frae its rocks as mellow. Fair was thy luve, fair fair indeed thy luve, In flow'ry bands thou didst him fetter; Tho' he was fair, and weel beluv'd again Than me he never luv'd thee better. Busk ye, then busk, my bonny bonny bride, Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow, Busk ye, and luve me on the banks of Tweed, And think nae mair on the Braes of Yarrow. How can I busk a bonny bonny bride? How can I busk a winsome marrow? How luve him on the banks of Tweed, That slew my luve on the Braes of Yarrow? O Yarrow fields, may never never rain, Nor dew thy tender blossoms cover, For there was basely slain my luve, My luve, as he had not been a lover. The boy put on his robes, his robes of green, His purple vest--'twas my awn sewing: Ah! wretched me! I little, little kenn'd 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 toofall of the night He lay a corpse on the Braes of Yarrow. Much I rejoyc'd that waeful waeful day; I sang, my voice the woods returning: But lang ere night the spear was flown, That slew my luve, and left me mourning. What can my barbarous barbarous father do, But with his cruel rage pursue me? My luver's blood is on thy spear How canst thou, barbarous man, then woo me? My happy sisters may be, may be proud With cruel and ungentle scoffin', May bid me seek on Yarrow Braes My luver nailed in his coffin. My brother Douglas may upbraid, upbraid, And strive with threatning words to muve me: My luver's blood is on thy spear How canst thou ever bid me luve thee? Yes, yes, prepare the bed, the bed of luve, 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 bath'd 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 weids, And crown my careful head with willow. Pale tho' thou art, yet best, yet best beluv'd, O could my warmth to life restore thee! Ye'd lye all night between my breasts-- No youth lay ever there before thee! Pale, pale indeed, O luvely luvely youth, Forgive, forgive so foul a slaughter, And lye all night between my breists, No youth shall ever lye there after. A. Return, return, O mournful, mournful bride Return and dry thy useless sorrow! Thy luver heeds none of thy sighs, He lyes a corpse on the Braes of Yarrow. _WILLIAM SHENSTONE_ THE SHEPHERD'S HOME