Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE BRAES OF YARROW, by WILLIAM HAMILTON OF BANGOUR


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE BRAES OF YARROW, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Busk ye, busk ye, my bonnie, bonnie bride!
Last Line: He lies a corpse on the braes of yarrow.


THE BRAES OF YARROW

IN IMITATION OF THE ANCIENT SCOTTISH MANNER

A. Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny bride,
Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow!
Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny bride,
And think nae mair on the braes of Yarrow.

B. Where gat ye that bonny bonny bride?
Where gat ye that winsome marrow!
A. I gat her where I dare na weel be seen --
Puing the birks on the braes of Yarrow.

Weep not, weep not, my bonny bonny bride,
Weep not, weep not, my winsome marrow,
Nor let thy heart lament to leive
Puing the birks on the braes of Yarrow.

B. Why does she weep, thy bonny bonny bride?
Why does she weep, thy winsome marrow?
And why dare ye nae mair weel be seen
Puing the birks on the braes of Yarrow?


A. Lang maun she weep, lang maun she, maun she weep,
Lang maun she weep with dule and sorrow,
And lang maun I nae mair weel be seen
Puing the birks on the braes of Yarrow.

For she has tint her luver, luver dear --
Her luver dear, the cause of sorrow;
And I hae slain the comeliest swain
That e'er pued birks on the braes of Yarrow.

Why runs thy stream, O Yarrow, Yarrow, red?
Why on thy braes heard the voice of sorrow?
And why yon melancholious weids
Hung on the bonny birks of Yarrow?

What's yonder floats on the rueful, rueful flude?
What's yonder floats? O dule and sorrow!
'Tis he, the comely swain I slew
Upon the duleful braes of Yarrow.

Wash, O wash his wounds, his wounds in tears,
His wounds in tears, with dule and sorrow,
And wrap his limbs in mourning weeds,
And lay him on the braes of Yarrow.

Then build, then build, ye sisters, sisters sad,
Ye sisters sad, his tomb with sorrow,
And weep around in waeful wise,
His helpless fate on the braes of Yarrow.

Curse ye, curse ye his useless, useless shield,
My arm that wrought the deed of sorrow,
The fatal spear that pierced his breast,
His comely breast, on the braes of Yarrow.

Did I not warn thee, not to, not to luve?
And warn from fight? but to my sorrow,
Too rashly bauld, a stronger arm
Thou mett'st, and fell'st on the braes of Yarrow.

C. Sweet smells the birk, green grows, green grows the grass.
Yellow on Yarrow's bank the gowan,
Fair hangs the apple frae the rock,
Sweet the wave of Yarrow flowan.

A. Flows Yarrow sweet? as sweet, as sweet flows Tweed,
As green its grass, its gowan yellow,
As sweet smells on its braes the birk,
The apple frae its rock as mellow.

Fair was thy luve, fair, fair indeed thy luve,
In flowery bands thou him didst fetter;
Though he was fair and weel beluved again,
Than me he never luved thee better.

Busk ye, then busk, my bonny bonny bride,
Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow,
Busk ye, and luve me on the banks of Tweed,
And think nae mair on the braes of Yarrow.

C. How can I busk a bonny bonny bride?
How can I busk a winsome marrow?
How luve him upon the banks of Tweed,
That slew my luve on the braes of Yarrow?

O Yarrow fields, may never, never rain
Nor dew thy tender blossoms cover.
For there was basely slain my luve,
My luve, as he had not been a lover.

The boy put on his robes, his robes of green,
His purple vest, 'twas my awn sewing:
Ah! wretched me! I little, little kenned
He was in these to meet his ruin.

The boy took out his milk-white, milk-white steed,
Unheedful of my dule and sorrow:
But ere the to-fall of the night
He lay a corpse on the braes of Yarrow.

Much I rejoiced that waeful, waeful day;
I sang, my voice the woods returning:
But lang ere night the spear was flown
That slew me luve, and left me mourning.

What can my barbarous, barbarous father do,
But with his cruel rage pursue me?
My luver's blood is on thy spear,
How canst thou, barbarous man, then woo me?

My happy sisters may be, may be proud,
With cruel, and ungentle scoffin',
May bid me seek on Yarrow's braes
My luver nailed in his coffin.

My brother Douglas may upbraid, upbraid,
And strive with threatening words to muve me:
My luver's blood is on thy spear,
How canst thou ever bid me luve thee?

Yes, yes, prepare the bed, the bed of luve;
With bridal sheets my body cover;
Unbar, ye bridal maids, the door;
Let in the expected husband lover.

But who the expected husband, husband is?
His hands, methinks, are bathed in slaughter:
Ah me! what ghastly spectre's yon
Comes, in his pale shroud, bleeding after?

Pale as he is here lay him, lay him down,
O lay his cold head on my pillow;
Take aff, take aff, these bridal weids,
And crown my careful head with willow.

Pale though thou art, yet best, yet best beluved,
O could my warmth to life restore thee!
Yet lie all night between my breists;
No youth lay ever there before thee.

Pale, pale indeed, O luvely, luvely youth!
Forgive, forgive so foul a slaughter,
And lie all night between my breists;
No youth shall ever lie there after.

A. Return, return, O mournful, mournful bride,
Return, and dry thy useless sorrow;
Thy luver heeds naught of thy sighs,
He lies a corpse on the braes of Yarrow.





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