‘O cherry, cherry was her cheek, And gowden was her hair, And coral, coral was her lips, Nane might with her compare,’ Then first he kiss’d her pale, pale cheek, And syne he kiss’d her chin, And syne he kiss’d her wane, wane lips, There was na breath within. ‘O wae betide my ill mither, An ill death may she die! She turn’d my true-love frae my door, Who cam so far to me. ‘O wae betide my ill mither, An ill death may she die! She has no been the deid o’ ane, But she’s been the deid of three.’ Then he’s ta’en out a little dart, Hung low down by his gore, He thrust it through and through his heart, And words spak never more. _369._ gore] skirt, waist. _370._ _The Dowie Houms of Yarrow_ Late at een, drinkin’ the wine, And ere they paid the lawin’, They set a combat them between, To fight it in the dawin’. ‘O stay at hame, my noble lord! O stay at hame, my marrow! My cruel brother will you betray, On the dowie houms o’ Yarrow.’ ‘O fare ye weel, my lady gay! O fare ye weel, my Sarah! For I maun gae, tho’ I ne’er return Frae the dowie banks o’ Yarrow.’ She kiss’d his cheek, she kamed his hair, As she had done before, O; She belted on his noble brand, An’ he’s awa to Yarrow. _370._ lawin’] reckoning. marrow] mate, husband or wife. dowie] doleful. houms] water-meads. O he’s gane up yon high, high hill-- I wat he gaed wi’ sorrow-- An’ in a den spied nine arm’d men, I’ the dowie houms o’ Yarrow. ‘O are ye come to drink the wine, As ye hae doon before, O? Or are ye come to wield the brand, On the dowie banks o’ Yarrow?’ ‘I am no come to drink the wine, As I hae don before, O, But I am come to wield the brand, On the dowie houms o’ Yarrow.’ Four he hurt, an’ five he slew, On the dowie houms o’ Yarrow, Till that stubborn knight came him behind, An’ ran his body thorrow. ‘Gae hame, gae hame, good brother John, An’ tell your sister Sarah To come an’ lift her noble lord, Who’s sleepin’ sound on Yarrow.’ ‘Yestreen I dream’d a dolefu’ dream; I ken’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 wat she gaed wi’ sorrow-- An’ in a den spied nine dead men, On the dowie houms o’ Yarrow. She kiss’d his cheek, she kamed his hair, As oft she did before, O; She drank the red blood frae him ran, On the dowie houms o’ Yarrow. ‘O haud your tongue, my douchter dear, For what needs a’ this sorrow? I’ll wed you on a better lord Than him you lost on Yarrow.’ ‘O haud your tongue, my father dear, An’ dinna grieve your Sarah; A better lord was never born Than him I lost on Yarrow.