The Book of Scottish Song/The Dowie Dens of Yarrow

The Dowie Dens of Yarrow.

[Written by Henry S. Riddell. Set to Music by Peter Macleod, Edinburgh.]

Oh, sisters, there are midnight dreams
That pass not with the morning,
Then ask not why my reason swims
In a brain so wildly burning.
And ask not why I fancy how
Yon wee bird sings wi' sorrow.
That bluid lies mingled with the dew.
In the dowie dens o' Yarrow.

Thy dream's wild light was not of night,
Nor of the dulefu' morning;
Thrice on the stream was seen the gleam
That seem'd his sprite returning:
For sword-girt men came down the glen
An hour before the morrow,
And pierced the heart aye true to mine,
In the dowie dens o' Yarrow.

Oh, there are red red drops o' dew
Upon the wild flower's blossom.
But they could na cool my burning brow.
And shall not stain my bosom.
But from the clouds o' yon dark sky
A cold cold shroud I'll borrow.
And long and deep shall be my sleep
In the dowie dens o' Yarrow.

Let my form the bluid-dyed floweret press
By the heart o' him that lo'ed me.
And I'll steal frae his lips a long long kiss
In the bower where aft he wooed me.
For my arms shall fold and my tresses shield
The form of my death-cold marrow.
When the breeze shall bring the raven's wing
O'er the dowie dens o' Yarrow.

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