The Book of Scottish Song/The Dowie Dens of Yarrow

The Dowie Dens of Yarrow.

[Written by Henry S. Riddell. Set to Music by Peter Macleod, Edinburgh.]

Oh, sisters, there are midnight dreams
⁠That pass not with the morning,
Then ask not why my reason swims
⁠In a brain so wildly burning.
And ask not why I fancy how
⁠Yon wee bird sings wi' sorrow.
That bluid lies mingled with the dew.
⁠In the dowie dens o' Yarrow.

Thy dream's wild light was not of night,
⁠Nor of the dulefu' morning;
Thrice on the stream was seen the gleam
⁠That seem'd his sprite returning:
For sword-girt men came down the glen
⁠An hour before the morrow,
And pierced the heart aye true to mine,
⁠In the dowie dens o' Yarrow.

Oh, there are red red drops o' dew
⁠Upon the wild flower's blossom.
But they could na cool my burning brow.
⁠And shall not stain my bosom.
But from the clouds o' yon dark sky
⁠A cold cold shroud I'll borrow.
And long and deep shall be my sleep
⁠In the dowie dens o' Yarrow.

Let my form the bluid-dyed floweret press
⁠By the heart o' him that lo'ed me.
And I'll steal frae his lips a long long kiss
⁠In the bower where aft he wooed me.
For my arms shall fold and my tresses shield
⁠The form of my death-cold marrow.
When the breeze shall bring the raven's wing
⁠O'er the dowie dens o' Yarrow.

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