4
I’ll read your dream my sister dear,
I’ll tell you a’ your sorrow:
Ye pu’d the birk wi’ your true love,
He's kill'd, he’s kill’d on Yarrow.
O gentle wind that bloweth south To where my love repaireth, Convey-ft kiss to his dear month, And tell me how he faireth.
But o’er yon glen run arm’d men, Have wrought me dool and sorrow, ‘They’ve slain, they’ve slain the conreliest ?wain He bleeding lies on Yarrow.
THERE WAS AN ANCIENT FAIR.
There was an ancient fair, O she lov’d a neat young man, But she could not get sly looks at him, But only through her fan.
With her winks and blinks, This waddling minx, Her quizzing glass, her leer and sidle, O she lov’d a bold dragoon. With his long sword, saddle, bridle, Whack row de dow.
