| |
| O 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 | 5 |
| You wee bird sings wi’ sorrow, | |
| That bluid lies mingled with the dew, | |
| In the dowie dens o’ Yarrow. | |
| |
| My dream’s wild light was not of night, | |
| Nor of the dulefu’ morning; | 10 |
| Thrice on the stream was seen the gleam | |
| That seemed his sprite returning; | |
| For sword-girt men came down the glen | |
| An hour before the morrow, | |
| And pierced the heart aye true to mine, | 15 |
| In the dowie dens o’ Yarrow. | |
| |
| O, 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. | 20 |
| 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 | 25 |
| 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, | 30 |
| When the breeze shall bring the raven’s wing | |
| O’er the dowie dens o’ Yarrow. | |
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