And lang, lang may the maidens sit
   Wi’ their gowd kames⁵ in their hair,
A-waiting for their ain dear loves!
   For them they’ll see nae mair.

Half-owre, half-owre to Aberdour,
’Tis fifty fathoms deep;
And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens,
Wi’ the Scots lords at his feet!

382   The Dowie Houms of Yarrow

LATE at een, drinkin’ the wine,
   And ere they paid the lawin’,¹
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!²
My cruel brother will you betray,
   On the dowie³ houms⁴ 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.

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.

‘Tak hame your ousen, tak hame your kye,
   For they hae bred our sorrow;
I wiss that they had a’ gane mad
   Whan they cam first to Yarrow.’