Up then crew the red, red cock, up and crew the grey;

And

The eldest to the youngest said,

"Tis time we were awa!'

The cock he hadna crawed but once, And clapped his wings at a', When the youngest to the eldest said, 'Brother, we must awa.'

"The cock doth craw, the day doth daw,

The channerin' worm doth chide;

Gin we be mist out o' our place,
A sair pain we maun bide.

'Fare ye weel, my mother dear!
Fareweel to barn and byre!

And fare ye weel, the bonny lass
That kindles my mother's fire!'

THE DOWIE DENS OF YARROW

LATE at e'en, drinking the wine
And e'er they paid the lawing,
They set a combat them between,
To fight it in the dawing.

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

'O fare ye weel, my lady gay!

O fare ye weel, my Sarah !

For I maun gae, though I ne'er return Frae the dowie banks of Yarrow.'

She kissed his cheek, she kaimed his hair,
As oft she had done before, O;

She belted him with his noble brand,
And he's awa to Yarrow.

As he gaed up the Terries' bank,
I wot he gaed with sorrow,

Till down in a den he spied nine armed men
On the dowie houms of Yarrow.

'O, come ye here to part your land,
The bonnie forest thorough?

Or come ye here to wield your brand
On the dowie houms of Yarrow?'

'I come not here to part my land, And neither to beg or borrow; I come to wield my noble brand

On the bonnie banks of Yarrow.

'If I see all, ye 're nine to ane;

An' that's an unequal marrow: Yet will I fight, while lasts my brand, On the bonnie banks of Yarrow.'

Four has he hurt, and five has slain,
On the bloody braes of Yarrow;
Till that stubborn knight came him behind,
And ran his body thorough.

'Gae hame, gae hame, good brother John, And tell your sister Sarah,

To come and lift her leafu' lord;

He's sleeping sound on Yarrow.'

'Yestreen I dreamed a dolefu' dream;
I fear there will be sorrow!

I dreamed I pu'ed the heather green
With my true love, on Yarrow.

'O gentle wind that bloweth south
From where my love repaireth,
Convey a kiss from his dear mouth,
And tell me how he fareth.

'But in the glen strive armed men ;

They've wrought me dule 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' dule and sorrow,
And in the den spied ten slain men,
On the dowie banks of Yarrow.

She kissed his cheek, she kaimed his hair,
She searched his wounds all thorough,
She kissed them till her lips grew red,
On the dowie houms of Yarrow.

'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,

Ye mind me but of sorrow;

A fairer rose did never bloom

Than now lies cropped on Yarrow.'

SWEET WILLIAM AND MAY MARGARET

THERE came a ghost to Marg❜ret's door, With many a grievous groan;

And aye he tirled at the pin,

But answer made she none.

'Is that my father Philip?

Or is 't my brother John?

Or is 't my true-love Willie,

From Scotland new come home?'

"Tis not thy father Philip,

Nor yet thy brother John,

But 'tis thy true-love Willie

From Scotland new come home.

'O sweet Marg'ret, O dear Marg❜ret! I pray thee speak to me;

Give me my faith and troth, Margret, As I gave it to thee.'

'Thy faith and troth thou's never get, Nor it will I thee lend,

Till that thou come within my bower And kiss me cheek and chin.'

'If I should come within thy bower,

I am no earthly man;

And should I kiss thy ruby lips

Thy days would not be lang.

'O sweet Marg❜ret! O dear Margret,
I pray thee speak to me;

Give me my faith and troth, Marg❜ret,
As I gave it to thee.'

'Thy faith and troth thou's never get,
Nor it will I thee lend,

Till thou take me to yon kirk-yard,
And wed me with a ring.'

'My bones are buried in yon kirk-yard

Afar beyond the sea;

And it is but my spirit, Margʼret,
That's now speaking to thee.'

She stretched out her lily-white hand
And for to do her best:

'Hae, there's your faith and troth, Willie; God send your soul good rest.'

Now she has kilted her robe o' green

A piece below her knee,

And a' the live-lang winter night

The dead corp followed she.

'Is there any room at your head, Willie,

Or

any room at your feet?

Or any room at your side, Willie,

Wherein that I may creep?'

'There's nae room at my head, Marg’ret,

There's nae room at my feet;

There's nae room at my side, Marg❜ret,
My coffin's made so meet.'