"From Nelly Laidlaw." In the handwriting of William
Laidlaw, "Scotch Ballads, Materials for Border Minstrelsy,"
No 20 a, Abbotsford.
| 1 |
Late in the eenin, drinkin the wine,
Or early in the mornin,
The set a combat them between,
To fight it out i the dawnin. |
| 2 |
She's kissd his lips, an she's caimd his hair,
As shee did ay afore, O,
She's belted him in his noble brown,
Afore he gaed to Yarrow. |
| 3 |
Then he's away oer yon high hill —
A wait he's gane wi sorrow —
An in a den he spied nine armd men,
On the dowie banks o Yarrow. |
| 4 |
'If I see ye a', ye'r nine for ane,
But ane's [un]equal marrow;
Yet as lang 's I'm able wield my brand,
I'll fight an bear ye marrow. |
| 5 |
'There are twa swords into my sheath,
The're ane an equal marrow;
Now wale the best, I'll take the warst,
An, man for man, I'll try ye.' |
| 6 |
He has slain a' the nine men,
A ane an equal marrow,
But up there startit a stuborn lord,
That gard him sleep on Yarrow.
* * * * * |
| 7 |
'Gae hame, gae hame, my sister Anne,
An tell yer sister Sarah
That she may gang and seek her lord,
He's lyin sleepin on Yarrow.' |
| 8 |
'I dreamd a dream now sin yestreen,
I thought it wad be sorrow;
I thought I was pouin the hether green
On the dowie banks o Yarrow.' |
| 9 |
Then she's away oer yon high hill —
I wat she's gane wi sorrow —
And in a den she's spy'd ten slain men,
On the dowie banks o Yarrow. |
| 10 |
'My love was a' clad oer last night
Wi the finest o the tartan,
But now he's a' clad oer wi red,
An he's red bluid to the garten.' |
| 11 |
She's kissd his lips, she's caimd his hair,
As she had done before, O;
She drank the red bluid that frae him ran,
On the dowie banks o Yarrow. |
| 12 |
'Tak hame your ousen, father, and yer kye,
For they've bred muckle sorrow;
I wiss that they had a' gaen mad
Afore they came to Yarrow.' |
| 13 |
'O haud yer tongue, my daughter dear,
For this breeds ay but sorrow;
I'll wed you to a better lord
Than him you lost on Yarrow.' |
| 14 |
'O haud yer tongue, my father dear,
For ye but breed mair sorrow;
A better rose will never spring
Than him I've lost on Yarrow.' |
| 15 |
This lady being big wi child,
An fu o lamentation,
She died within her father's arms,
Amang this stuborn nation. |
