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68 THE DOWIE DENS OF YARROW.
" 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 kissed his cheek, she kaim'd his hair, She searched his wounds all thorough,
She kiss'd them, till her lips grew red,
On the dowie houms of Yarrow. so
" 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."—
" O haud your tongue, my father dear ! m
Ye mind me but of sorrow ; A fairer rose did never bloom
Than now lies cropp'd on Yarrow." |
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