3 Up bespoke her father dear, Who bred them a’ this sorrow; You must go far, far to fight the nine, In the dowie den in Yarrow.’ 4 She washd his face, she combd his hair, Her heart being full of sorrow, With a rusted rapier down by his side, To fight his foes in Yarrow. 5 He’s ridden east, he’s ridden west, He’s ridden into Yarrow, And there he espied all the nine, Watering their steeds in Yarrow. 6 ‘Ye’r welcome, welcome, young man,’ they said, ‘But I think ye are not our marrow;’ ‘But I’ll fight ye all out, one by one, In the dowie dens o Yarrow.’ 7 Four he has wounded, five he has slain, He left them a’ sound in Yarrow; He turned him round with rejoyfull looks, Says, I wone the lady of Thoro. 8 Up then spoke her father dear, Who bred them a’ this sorrow; He’s taen out a broadsword and run him through, In the dowie dens o Yarrow. 9 ‘I dreamed a dream last night,’ she says, ‘I fear it is for sorrow; I dreamd I was pulling the heather green With my true love in Yarrow.’ 10 ‘I’ll read your dream now, daughter dear, I fear it is for sorrow; You will find your true-love lying sound, In a heather bush in Yarrow.’ 11 She’s ridden east, she’s ridden west, She’s ridden into Yarrow; There she found her true lover sound, In a heather bush in Yarrow. 12 His hair it was five quarters lang, It was baith lang and yellow; She’s tied it to her horse’s mane, She’s trailed him home from Yarrow. 13 ‘O woe be to you, father dear! You’ve bred me all this sorrow;’ So she died between her father’s arms, In the dowie dens o Yarrow. * * * * * L Blackwood’s Magazine, CXLVII, 741, June, 1890; communicated by Professor John Veitch, as received from William Welsh, a Peeblesshire cottar and poet, born 1799, whose mother used to recite the ballad, and whose grandmother had a copy in her father’s handwriting. 1 At Dryhope lived a lady fair, The fairest flower in Yarrow, And she refused nine noble men For a servan lad in Gala. 2 Her father said that he should fight The nine lords all to-morrow, And he that should the victor be Would get the Rose of Yarrow. 3 Quoth he, You’re nine, an I’m but ane, And in that there’s no much marrow; Yet I shall fecht ye, man for man, In the dowie dens o Yarrow. 4 She kissed his lips, and combed his hair, As oft she’d done before, O, An set him on her milk-white steed, Which bore him on to Yarrow. 5 When he got oer yon high, high hill, An down the dens o Yarrow, There did he see the nine lords all, But there was not one his marrow. 6 ‘Now here ye’re nine, an I’m but ane, But yet I am not sorrow; For here I’ll fecht ye, man for man, For my true love in Yarrow.’