“Gae hame, gae hame, good-brother John,
And tell your sister Sarah,
To come and lift her leafu’ lord;
He’s sleepin’ sound on Yarrow.”

“Yestreen I dream’d a dolefu’ dream;
I fear there will be sorrow! 
I dream’d I pu’d the heather green,
Wi’ my true love, on Yarrow.

“O gentle wind, that bloweth south,
From where my love repaireth,
Convey a kiss from his dear mouth,
And tell me how he fareth!

“But in the glen strive armed men;
They’ve wrought me dole and sorrow;
They’ve slain—­the comeliest knight they’ve slain—­
He bleeding lies on Yarrow.”

As she sped down yon high, high hill,
She gaed wi’ dole and sorrow,
And in the den spied ten slain men,
On the dowie banks of Yarrow.

She kiss’d his cheek, she kaim’d his hair,
She search’d his wounds all thorough,
She kiss’d them, till her lips grew red,
On the dowie houms of Yarrow.

“Now, haud your tongue, my daughter dear! 
For a’ this breeds but sorrow;
I’ll wed ye to a better lord
Than him ye lost on Yarrow.”

“Oh, haud your tongue, my father dear! 
Ye mind me but of sorrow: 
A fairer rose did never bloom
Than now lies cropp’d on Yarrow.”

Ballad:  Sir Roland

(Child, vol. i.  Early Edition.)

Whan he cam to his ain luve’s bouir
He tirled at the pin,
And sae ready was his fair fause luve
To rise and let him in.

“O welcome, welcome, Sir Roland,” she says,
“Thrice welcome thou art to me;
For this night thou wilt feast in my secret bouir,
And to-morrow we’ll wedded be.”

“This night is hallow-eve,” he said,
“And to-morrow is hallow-day;
And I dreamed a drearie dream yestreen,
That has made my heart fu’ wae.

“I dreamed a drearie dream yestreen,
And I wish it may cum to gude: 
I dreamed that ye slew my best grew hound,
And gied me his lappered blude.”

* * * * *

“Unbuckle your belt, Sir Roland,” she said,
And set you safely down.” 
O your chamber is very dark, fair maid,
And the night is wondrous lown.”

“Yes, dark, dark is my secret bouir,
And lown the midnight may be;
For there is none waking in a’ this tower
But thou, my true love, and me.”

* * * * *

She has mounted on her true love’s steed,
By the ae light o’ the moon;
She has whipped him and spurred him,
And roundly she rade frae the toun.

She hadna ridden a mile o’ gate,
Never a mile but ane,
When she was aware of a tall young man,
Slow riding o’er the plain,

She turned her to the right about,
Then to the left turn’d she;
But aye, ’tween her and the wan moonlight,
That tall knight did she see.

And he was riding burd alane,
On a horse as black as jet,
But tho’ she followed him fast and fell,
No nearer could she get.