"In behint yon auld fail dyke, I wot there lies a new-slain knight; And naebody kens that he lies there, But his hawk, his hound, and lady fair. "His hound is to the hunting gane, His hawk, to fetch the wild-fowl hame, His lady's ta'en another mate, So we may mak our dinner sweet. "Ye'll sit on his white hals-bane, And I'll pick out his bonny blue een: Wi' ae lock o' his gowden hair, We'll theek our nest when it grows bare. "Mony a one for him makes mane, But nane sail ken where he is gane: O'er his white banes, when they are bare, The wind sail blaw for evermair."-- THE DOWIE DENS O' YARROW |Late at e'en, drinking the wine, Or early in the morning, They set a combat them between, To fight it in the dawning. (_fail dyke_, wall of sods. _hals-bane_, neck-bone. _theek_, thatch.) "O stay at hame, my noble lord, O stay at hame, my marrow! My cruel brother will you betray On the dowie houms of Yarrow. "O fare ye weel, my lady gay! O fare ye weel, my Sarah! For I maun gae, though I ne'er return Frae the dowie banks o' Yarrow." [Illustration: 0076] She kiss'd his cheek, she kaim'd his hair, As she had done before, O; She belted on his noble brand, And he's away to Yarrow. O he's gane up yon high, high hill, I wot he gaed wi' sorrow, An' in a den spied nine arm'd men, I' the dowie houms of Yarrow. (_marrow_, mate. _houms_, marshes. _dowie_, gloomy.) "O are ye come to drink the wine, As ye hae doon before, oh? Or are ye come to wield the brand, On the bonny banks of Yarrow?"-- "I am no come to drink the wine, As I hae doon before, oh, But I am come to wield the brand, On the dowie houms of Yarrow." [Illustration: 0077] Four he hurt, and five he slew, On the dowie houms of Yarrow, Till that stubborn knight came him behind, And ran his body thorough. "Gae hame, gae hame, good-brother John, And tell your sister Sarah, To come and lift her noble lord; Who's sleepin sound on Yarrow."-- "Yestreen I dream'd a dolefu' dream; I kenn'd there wad be sorrow! I dream'd I pu'd the heather green, On the dowie banks o' Yarrow." She gaed up yon high, high hill-- I wot she gaed wi' sorrow-- An' in a den spied nine dead men, On the dowie houms of Yarrow. She kissed his cheek, she kaim'd his hair, As oft she did before, O; She drank the red blood frae him ran, On the dowie houms of Yarrow. "O haud your tongue, my daughter dear! For what needs a ' this sorrow; I'll wed ye on a better lord, Than him you lost on Yarrow."-- "O haud your tongue, my father dear! And dinna grieve your Sarah; A better lord was never born Than him I lost on Yarrow. "Take hame your ousen, take hame your kye, For they hae bred our sorrow; I wish that they had a' gane mad When they came first to Yarrow." GRÆME AND BEWICK