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THE DOWIE HOUMS OF 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.'