O, Willie has loosed the nine witch-knots,
Among that lady's locks so fair;

And the kembs of care he has taken out,
That was among that lady's hair;

And he has killed the master kid,
That ran aneath that lady's bed;
And he has loosed her left-foot shoe,
And his dear lady lighter made:

And thou, the fellest Hag on mold,
A mother's name that ever bure!
Time never shall slock the fiery pangs
I'll gar thy burning heart endure.

JAMIESON.

THE DOWIE* DENS OF YARROW.

LATE at even, drinking the wine,
And ere they paid the lawing,
They set a combat them between,
To fight it in the dawning.

O stay at hame, my noble lord!
O stay at hame, my marrow!
My cruel brother will you betray,
On the dowie howms 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 howms 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 Tinnes' bank,

I wat he gaed with sorrow,

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

* Dreary.

O come ye here to part your land,
The bonnie Forest thorough?
Or come ye here to wield your brand
On the dowie howms of Yarrow?

I come not here to part my land,
And neither to beg nor borrow;
I come to wield my noble brand

On the bonnie banks of Yarrow.

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

And 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.

Yest'reen I dreamed a doleful dream;
I fear there will be sorrow!
I dreamed I pu'd the heather green,
With my true love, on Yarrow.

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

But in the glen strive armed men,

They 've wrought me dool and sorrow;

They've slain the comeliest knight they 've slainHe bleeding lies on Yarrow!

As she gaed down yon high, high hill,
She gaed wi' dool 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 howms of Yarrow.

Now hold 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 hold your tongue, my father dear!
Ye mind me but of sorrow;

A fairer rose did never bloom

Than now lies cropped on Yarrow!

JAMIESON.

GEORGE BARNWELL.

GEORGE LILLO, a jeweller of London, who died in 1739, Æt. 47, a moral and affecting writer, the author of "The Fatal Curiosity," and "Arden of Feversham," wrote a tragedy on this subject, which is sufficiently known. It appeared in 1730: but the following ballad is supposed to be about a hundred years older, and therefore has some claim on the score of antiquity. The events mentioned in both are believed to have actually occurred.

ALL youth of fair England,
That dwell both far and near,
Regard my story that I tell,
And to my song give ear.

A London lad I was

A merchant's 'prentice bound,

My name George Barnwell; that did spend

My master many a pound.

Take heed of harlots then,

And their enticing trains;

For by that means I have been brought

To hang alive in chains.

As I upon a day

Was walking through the street,

About my master's business,

A wanton I did meet.