Classic Poem

A. Busk ye, busk ye, my bony bony bride,
 Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow?
Busk ye, busk ye, my bony bony bride,
 And think nae mair on the Braes of Yarrow.

B. Where gat ye that bony bony bride?
 Where gat ye that winsome marrow?
A. I gat her where I dare na weil be seen,
 Puing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow.

Weep not, weep not, my bony bony bride,
 Weep not, weep not, my winsome marrow,
Nor let thy heart lament to leive
 Puing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow.

B. Why does she weep, thy bony bony bride?
 Why does she weep thy winsome marrow?
And why dare ye nae mair weil be seen
 Puing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow?

A. Lang maun she weep, lang maun she, maun she weep,
 Lang maun she weep with dule and sorrow,
And lang maun I nae mair weil be seen
 Puing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow.

For she has tint her luver luver dear,
 Her luver dear, the cause of sorrow,
And I hae slain the comliest swain
 That e'er pu'd birks on the Braes of Yarrow.

Why runs thy stream, O Yarrow, Yarrow, red?
 Why on thy Braes heard the voice of sorrow?
And why yon melancholeous weids
 Hung on the bony birks of Yarrow!

What yonder floats on the rueful rueful flude?
 What's yonder floats? O dule and sorrow!
Tis he, the comely swain I slew
 Upon the duleful Braes of Yarrow.

Wash, O wash his wounds, his wounds in tears,
 His wounds in tears, with dule and sorrow,
And wrap his limbs in mourning weids,
 And lay him on the Braes of Yarrow.

Then build, then build, ye sisters sisters sad,
 Ye sisters sad, his tomb with sorrow,
And weep around in waeful wise,
 His helpless fate on the Braes of Yarrow.

Curse ye, curse ye, his useless useless shield,
 My arm that wrought the deed of sorrow,
The fatal spear that pierc'd his breast,
 His comely breast, on the Braes of Yarrow.

Did I not warn thee not to lue,
 And warn from fight? but, to my sorrow,
O'er rashly bald, a stronger arm
 Thou met'st, and fell on the Braes of Yarrow.

Sweet smells the birk, green grows, green grows the grass,
 Yellow on Yarrow's bank the gowan,
Fair hangs the apple frae the rock,
 Sweet the wave of Yarrow flowan.

Flows Yarrow sweet? as sweet, as sweet flows Tweed,
 As green its grass, its gowan yellow,
As sweet smells on its braes the birk,
 The apple frae the rock as mellow.

Fair was thy luve, fair fair indeed thy luve,
 In floury bands thou him did'st fetter,
Though he was fair and weil beluv'd again,
 Than me, he never lued thee better.

Busk ye, then busk, my bony bony bride,
 Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow,
Busk ye, and lue me on the banks of Tweed,
 And think nae mair on the Braes of Yarrow.

C. How can I busk a bony bony bride?
 How can I busk a winsome marrow?
How lue him on the banks of Tweed,
 That slew my luve on the Braes of Yarrow?

O Yarrow fields, may never never rain,
 No dew thy tender blossoms cover,
For there was basely slain my luve,
 My luve, as he had not been a luver.

The boy put on his robes, his robes of green,
 His purple vest, 'twas my awn seuing;
Ah! wretched me! I little little ken'd
 He was in these to meet his ruin.

The boy took out his milk-white milk-white steed,
 Unheedful of my dule and sorrow;
But ere the toofal of the night
 He lay a corps on the Braes of Yarrow.

Much I rejoic'd that waeful waeful day;
 I sang, my voice the woods returning;
But lang ere night the spear was flown
 That slew my luve, and left me mourning.

What can my barbarous barbarous father do,
 But with his cruel rage pursue me?
My luver's blood is on thy spear,
 How can'st thou, barbarous man, then woo me?

My happy sisters may be may be proud,
 With cruel, and ungentle scoffin,
May bid me seek on Yarrow Braes
 My luver nailed in his coffin.

My brother Douglas may upbraid,
 And strive with threat'ning words to muve me,
My luver's blood is on thy spear,
 How can'st thou ever bid me luve thee?

Yes yes, prepare the bed, the bed of luve,
 With bridal sheets my body cover,
Unbar, ye bridal maids, the door,
 Let in the' expected husband-lover.

But who the' expected husband husband is?
 His hands, methinks, are bath'd in slaughter;
Ah me! what ghastly spectre's yon,
 Comes, in his pale shroud, bleeding after?

Pale as he is, here lay him lay him down,
 O lay his cold head on my pillow;
Take aff, take aff these bridal weids,
 And crown my careful head with willow.

Pale though thou art, yet best yet best beluv'd,
 O could my warmth to life restore thee!
Yet lye all night between my briests,
 No youth lay ever there before thee.

Pale pale indeed, O lovely lovely youth,
 Forgive forgive so foul a slaughter,
And lie all night between my briests,
 No youth shall ever lye there after.

A. Return return, O mournful mournful bride,
 Return and dry thy useless sorrow,
Thy luver heeds nought of thy sighs,
 He lies a corps on the Braes of Yarrow.