What doubts distract a lover's mind!
That breast, all softness, must prove kind;
And she shall yet become my marrow,
The lovely beauteous rose of Yarrow.
Willie’s drowned in Yarrow.
[This is a fragment of a very old and pathetic song.]
Doun in yon garden sweet and gay,
Where bonnie grows the lilie,
I heard a fair maid, sighing, say,
"My wish be wi' sweet Willie!
O Willie's rare, and Willie's fair,
And Willie's wondrous bonnie;
And Willie hecht to marry me,
Gin e'er he married ony.
But Willie's gone, whom I thought on,
And does not hear me weeping:
Draws many a tear frae true love's e'e,
When other maids are sleeping.
Yestreen I made my bed fu' braid,
The nicht I'll mak' it narrow,
For, a' the live-lang winter nicht,
I lie twined o' my marrow.
Oh gentle wind, that bloweth south,
From where my love repaireth,
Convey a kiss frae his deir mouth,
And tell me how he fareth!
O tell sweit Willie to come doun,
And bid him no be cruel;
And tell him no to break the heart
Of his love and only jewel.
O tell sweit Willie to come doun,
And hear the mavis singing;
And see the birds on ilka bush,
And leaves around them hinging.
The lav'rock there, wi' her white breist,
And gentle throat sae narrow;
There's sport eneuch for gentlemen,
On Leader haughs and Yarrow.
O Leader haughs are wide find braid,
And Yarrow haughs are bonnie;
There Willie hecht to marry me,
If e'er he married ony.
O came ye by yon water side?
Pou'd you the rose or lilie?
Or cam' ye by yon meadow green?
Or saw ye my sweit Willie?"
She sought him up, she sought him doun,
She sought the braid and narrow;
Syne, in the cleaving o' a craig,
She found him drowned in Yarrow.
The Braes of Yarrow.
[Written by the Rev. John Logan, on the same subject as the above.]
"Thy braes were bonnie, Yarrow stream,
When first on them I met my lover;
Thy braes how dreary, Yarrow stream,
When now thy waves his body cover!
For ever, now, Oh, Yarrow stream,
Thou art to me a stream of sorrow!
For ever, on thy banks shall I
Behold my love, the flower of Yarrow.
He promised me a milk-white steed,
To bear me to his father's bowers;
He promised me a little page,
To squire me to his father's towers;
He promised me a wedding ring—
The wedding-day was fix'd to-morrow;
Now he is wedded to his grave,
Alas, his watery grave, in Yarrow!
Sweet were his words when last we met;
My passion I as freely told him!
Clasp'd in his arms, I little thought
That I should never more behold him!
Scarce was he gone, I saw his ghost:
It vanish'd with a shriek of sorrow;
Thrice did the water-wraith ascend,
And gave a doleful groan through Yarrow.
His mother from the window looked,
With all the longing of a mother;
His little sister weeping walked
