speculating on the idea which it gave, produced this very lively and pleasant song. He calls it "The auld Man's best Argument"-a witty title-but I have chosen to abide by that which gives a name to the air.

THE BRAES OF YARROW.

Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny bride,

Busk

busk ye,

ye, my

winsome marrow,

Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny bride,
And let us leave the braes of Yarrow.

Where got ye that bonny bonny bride,
Where got ye
that winsome marrow?
I got her where I durst not well 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 leave
Puing the birks on the braes of Yarrow.

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

Lang must she weep, lang must she, must she weep,

Lang must she weep with dole and sorrow,

And lang must I nae mair well be seen,
Puing the birks on the braes of Yarrow.

For she has tint her lover, lover dear,
Her lover dear, the cause of sorrow;
And I have slain the comeliest swain,
That ever pu'd 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 weeds,

Hung on the bonny birks of Yarrow?

What's yonder floats on the rueful, rueful flood?
What's yonder floats? O dole and sorrow!

O'tis the comely swain I slew

Upon the doleful braes of Yarrow.

Wash, O wash his wounds, his wounds in tears,
His wounds in tears of dole and sorrow,

Then build, then build, ye sisters, sisters sad,
Ye sisters sad, his tomb with sorrow,

And weep around in woeful wise,

His helpless fate on the braes of Yarrow.

VOL. III.

E

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

Did I not warn thee not to, not to love,
And warn from fight? but to my sorrow,
Too rashly bold, a stronger arm

Thou mett'st, and fell on the braes of Yarrow.

Sweet smells the birk, green grows, green grows the

grass,

Yellow on Yarrow's braes the gowan,

Fair hangs the apple frae the rock,

Sweet the wave of Yarrow flowan.

Flows Yarrow sweet, as sweet, as sweet flows Tweed,

As green its grass,

་

its gowan as yellow,

As sweet smells on its braes the birk,
The apple from its rocks as mellow.

Fair was thy love, fair, fair indeed thy love,
In flow'ry bands thou didst him fetter;
Tho' he was fair, and well belov'd again,
Than me he never lov'd thee better.

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

Busk

How can I busk a bonny bonny bride,
How can I busk a winsome marrow,
How lo❜e him on the banks of Tweed,
That slew my love on the braes of Yarrow?

O Yarrow field, may never, never rain,
No dew thy tender blossoms cover,
For there was basely kill'd my love,

My love as he had not been a lover.

The boy put on his robes, his robes of green,
His purple vest, 'twas my ain sewing,

Ah! wretched me, I little, little knew,
He was in these to meet his ruin.

The boy took out his milk-white, milk-white steed, Unheedful of my dole and sorrow,

But ere the to-fall of the night,

He lay a corpse on the braes of Yarrow.

Much I rejoic'd that woful, woful day;
I sung, my voice the woods returning;
But lang ere night the shaft was flown
That slew my love, and left me mourning.

What can my barbarous, barbarous father do,
But with his cruel rage pursue me?

My lover's blood is on thy hand;

How canst thou, barbarous man, then woo me?

My happy sisters may be, may be proud,

With cruel and ungentle scoffing,

May bid me seek on Yarrow's braes

My lover nailed in his coffin.

My brother Douglas may, he may upbraid,
And strive with threat'ning words to move me;
My lover's blood is on thy hand,

How canst thou ever bid me love thee?

Yes, yes, prepare the bed, the bed of love,
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 bath'd 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 weeds,
And crown my careful head with willow.

Pale tho' thou art, yet best, yet best belov❜d,
O could my warmth to life restore thee;
Yet lie all night between my breasts,
No youth lay ever there before thee.