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The sun way shine on Yarrow braes,
And woo the mountain flow'rs to bloom,
But never can his golden ⟨rays⟩,
Awake the flower in yonder tomb.
There oft young Henry strays forlorn,
When moonlight glides the abbey tower,
There oft from eve'tid breezy morn,
He weeps his faithful Ellen More.
WILLIAM WALLACE.
O for my ain King, quo' Wallace,
The rightfu' King of fair Scotland!
Between me and my sovereign's blude,
I think I see some ill seed sawn.
Wallace out owre yon river he lap
And he has lighted low down on yon plain,
And he was aware of a gay ladie,
As she was at the well washin'.
What tydins, what tydins, fair ladie, he says,
What tydins hast thou to tell unto me:
What tydins, what tydins, fair ladie, he says,
What tydins hae ye in the south countrie
