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Ye pu'd the birk wi' your true luve:
He's kill'd, he's kill'd on Yarrow.
O gentle wind that blows th south
To where my love repaireth,
Convey a kiss from his dear mouth,
And tell me how he fareth!
But o'er yon glen run arm'd men.
Have wrought me dool and sorrow:
They've slain, they've slain the comliest swain
He bleeding lies on Yarrow.
THE HILLS OF THE HIGHLANDS.
Will ye go to the Highlands, my Mary,
And vist our haughs and our glens?
There's beauty 'mang hills o' the Highlands,
The braw lawlan' lassie ne'er kens.
Tis true we have few cowslips or roses,
Nae lilies grow wild on the lee;
Bur the heather its sweet scent discloses,
And the daisy's as sweet to the e'e.
See yon far heathy hills, whar they're risin',
