When Andrew hame from Edinburgh came,
With meikle grief and sorrow;
"My love has died for me to-day,
I'll die for her to-morrow.

Now I will on to Tiftie's den,

Where the burn runs clear and bonny; With tears I'll view the bridge of Sleugh,' Where I parted last with Annie.

"Then will I speed to the churchyard,
To the green churchyard of Fyvie,
With tears I'll water my love's grave,
Till I follow Tiftie's Annie."

Ye parents grave, who children have,
In crushing them be canny,
Lest when too late you do repent,—
Remember Tiftie's Annie.

(1) In one printed copy this is "Sheugh," and in a recited copy it was called "Skew," which is the right reading, the editor, from his ignorance of the topography of the lands of Fyvie, is unable to say. It is a received superstition in Scotland, that when friends or lovers part at a bridge, they shall never again meet.

THE DOWIE DOWNS O' YARROW.

Of this ballad, "a collated edition," selected from various copies, professedly for the purpose of suiting the taste of "these more light and giddy paced times," first appeared in the "Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border," under the title of "The Dowie Dens of Yarrow." The present version, taken from the recitation of an old Woman in Kilbarchan, though containing some additional incidents, not to be found in the copy published in the Border Minstrelsy, is chiefly valuable as showing the state in which the song is preserved in the west of Scotland. For an account of the supposed hero, and of the traditions connected with the ballad, the reader is referred to the valuable and interesting work already alluded to.

There were three lords birling at the wine,
On the Dowie Dens o' Yarrow,
They made a compact them between
They would go fecht to-morrow.

"Thou took our sister to be thy wife, And thou ne'er thocht her thy marrow, Thou steal'd her frae her Daddy's back,

When she was the Rose o' Yarrow."

"Yes, I took your sister to be my wife,
And I made her my marrow;

I stealed her frae her Daddy's back,
And she's still the Rose o' Yarrow."

He is hame to his lady gane,
As he had done before, O;
Says, "Madam, I must go and fecht
On the Dowie Downs o' Yarrow."

"Stay at hame, my lord," she said,

"For that will breed much sorrow, For my three brethren will slay thee On the Dowie Downs o' Yarrow."

"Hold your tongue, my lady fair, For what needs a' this sorrow,

For I'll be hame gin' the clok strikes nine From the Dowie Downs o' Yarrow."

He wush his face, and she combed his hair, As she had done before, O;

She dressed him up in his armour clear,

Sent him forth to fecht on Yarrow.

"Come ye here to hawk or hound,

Or drink the wine that's sae clear, O; Or come ye here to eat in your words,

That you're not the Rose o' Yarrow."

"I came not here to hawk or hound, Nor to drink the wine that's sae clear, O; Nor I cam' not here to eat in my words,

For I'm still the Rose o' Yarrow."

Then they all begoud to fecht,

I wad they focht richt sore, O;

Till a cowardly man cam, behind his back, And pierced his body thorough.

"Gae hame, gae hame, it's my man, John, As ye have done before, O;

And tell it to my gay ladye,

That I soundly sleep on Yarrow."

His man John, he has gane hame,
As he had done before, O;
And told it to his gay ladye

That he soundly slept on Yarrow.

I dream'd a dream now since the 'streen,
God keep us a' frae sorrow,

That my lord and I was pu'ing the heather green,
From the dowie downs o' Yarrow."

Sometimes she rade, sometimes she gade,

As she had done before, O;

And aye between she fell in a swoon
Lang or she cam to Yarrow.

Her hair it was five quarters lang,
'Twas like the gold for yellow;

She twisted it round his milk white hand,
And she's drawn him hame frae Yarrow.

Out and spak her father dear,

Says, "What needs a' this sorrow,

For I'll get you a far better lord,

Than ever died on Yarrow."

"O hold your tongue, father," she said, "For you've bred a' my sorrow;

For that Rose 'll ne'er spring so sweet in May, As that Rose I lost on Yarrow!"