Page:Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1900.djvu/439

'O wae betide my ill mither,
  An ill death may she die!
She has no been the deid o' ane,
  But she's been the deid of three.'

Then he's ta'en out a little dart,
  Hung low down by his gore,
He thrust it through and through his heart,
  And words spak never more.

Late at een, drinkin' the wine,
  And ere they paid the lawin',
They set a combat them between,
  To fight it in the dawin'.

'O stay at hame, my noble lord!
  O stay at hame, my marrow!
My cruel brother will you betray,
  On the dowie houms o' Yarrow.'

'O fare ye weel, my lady gay!
  O fare ye weel, my Sarah!
For I maun gae, tho' I ne'er return
  Frae the dowie banks o' Yarrow.'

She kiss'd his cheek, she kamed his hair,
  As she had done before, O;
She belted on his noble brand,
  An' he's awa to Yarrow.