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 o' the Braes o' Yarrow. Whare gat ye that bonny, bonny bride? Whare gat ye that winsome marrow? I gat her where I darena weil be seen Pouing the birks on the Braes o' Yarrow. Weep not, weep not, my bonny, bonny bride, Weep not, my winsome marrow! Nor let thy heart lament to leave Pouing the birks on the Braes o' Yarrow. Lang maun she weep, lang maun she weep, Lang maun she weep with dule and sorrow, And lang maun I nae mair weil be seen, Pouing the birks on the Braes o' Yarrow. Why runs thy stream, O Yarrow, Yarrow, red? Why on thy braes heard the voice o' sorrow? And why yon melancholious weeds, Hung on the bonny birks o' Yarrow? What's yonder floats on the rueful flude? What's yonder floats, O dule and sorrow! 'Tis he, the comely swain I slew, Upon the duleful braes o' Yarrow. Wash, O wash his wounds in tears, His wounds in tears with dule and sorrow, And wrap his limbs in mourning weeds, And lay him on the Braes o' Yarrow. Sweet smells the birk, green grows the grass, Yellow on Yarrow bank the gowan, Fair hangs the apple frae the rock, Sweet the wave of Yarrow flowan. Flows Yarrow sweet, as sweet flows Tweed, As green its grass, its gowan as yellow, As sweet smells on its braes the birk, The apple frae the rock as mellow. Busk ye, then busk, my bonny, bonny bride, Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow, Busk ye and lue me on the banks o' Tweed, And think nae mair on the Braes o' Yarrow. How can I busk a bonny, bonny bride, How can I busk a winsome marrow, How lue him on the banks o' Tweed That slew my love on the braes o' Yarrow? O Yarrow fields, may never, never rain, Nor dew thy tender blossoms cover, For there was basely slain my love, My love, as he had not been a lover. The boy put on his robes o' green, His purple vest, 'twas my ain sewing Ah! wretched me! I little kenned He was in these to meet his ruin. The boy took out his milk-white steed, Unheedful of my dule and sorrow, But ere the to-fall of the night He lay a corpse on the Braes o' Yarrow. Much I rejoiced that waeful day; I sang, my voice the woods returning, But lang ere night the spear was flown, That slew my love, and left me mourning. * * * * * Yes, yes, prepare the bed of love, With bridal sheets my body cover, Unbar, ye bridal maids, the door, Let in the expected husband lover