John Logan (1748–1788)

THY braes were bonnie, Yarrow stream,

When first on them I met my lover;

Thy braes how dreary, Yarrow stream,

When now thy waves his body cover!

Forever, now, O Yarrow stream!

Thou art to me a stream of sorrow;

For never on thy banks shall I

Behold my love, the flower of Yarrow!

He promised me a milk-white steed,

To bear me to his father’s bowers;

He promised me a little page,

To squire me to his father’s towers;

He promised me a wedding-ring—

The wedding-day was fixed to-morrow:

Now he is wedded to his grave,

Alas, his watery grave in Yarrow!

His mother from the window looked,

With all the longing of a mother;

His little sister weeping walked

The greenwood path to meet her brother:

They sought him east, they sought him west,

They sought him all the forest thorough;

They only saw the cloud of night,

They only heard the roar of Yarrow.

No longer from the window look;

Thou hast no son, thou tender mother!

No longer walk, thou lovely maid;

Alas! thou hast no more a brother!

No longer seek him east or west,

No longer search the forest thorough;

For wandering in the night so dark,

He fell a lifeless corse in Yarrow.