The Rose of Yarrow
(The Dowie Dens of Yarrow, Child#214) Traditional, arranged and adapted by Andrew Calhoun, recorded on Rhymer's Tower: Ballads of the Anglo-Scottish Border.
At Dryhope lived a lady fair,
The fairest flower in Yarrow;
And she refused nine noble men
For a servant lad in Gala.
Her father said that he should fight
The nine lords all to-morrow;
And he that should the victor be,
Would win the Rose of Yarrow.
She kissed his lips, and combed his hair,
As oft she’d done before, O;
And set him on her milk-white steed,
To fight for her in Yarrow.
When he got oer yon high, high hill,
And down the flat so narrow;
It was there he saw nine armed men,
In the gloomy dens of Yarrow.
“There’s nine of you and one of me,
Which makes the chances narrow;
But I will fight ye man for man,
To win the Rose of Yarrow.
There he flew and there he slew,
And there he wounded sore O;
When her brother sprang from a bush behind,
And ran his body through.
They took the young man by the heels,
And trailed him like a harrow;
And then they threw his body in
To a whirlpool of Yarrow.
The lady said, “I dreamed a dream
That fills my heart with sorrow;
I dreamed I was pullin’ the heather green,
In the gloomy dens of Yarrow.”
Her brother said, “I’ll read your dream
And take it not in sorrow;
Go to your true love if ye please,
For he’s sleepin’ sound in Yarrow.”
She sought him east, she sought him west,
She searched the forest thorough;
Until she spied her own true love,
Lying deeply drowned in Yarrow.
His hair was full five quarters long,
Its colour was of yellow;
She twined it round her lily hand,
And drew him out of Yarrow.
She kissed his lips, and combed his head,
As oft she’d done before, O;
She laid him oer her milk-white steed,
And bore him home from Yarrow.
“I meant to make my bed full wide,
But you may make it narrow;
For now I’ve none to be my guide,
But a dead man drowned in Yarrow.”
“Go hold your tongue,” her father said,
“And take it not in sorrow;
I’ll wed ye to a better match
Than a servant lad in Gala.”
“Hold your own tongue, my father dear,
And breed me no more sorrow;
A better lord was never born,
Than the lad I lost in Yarrow.
‘Take home your oxen, take home your cows,
For they have bred our sorrow;
I wish that they had all gone mad,
When they came first to Yarrow.’