Yarrow
There was a lady from the North,
One scarse could find her marrow,
She was courted by nine gentlemen,
And a ploughboy lad from Yarrow.
These nine sat drinking at the wine,
As they had done before,
They made a vow amongst themselves,
To fight for her on Yarrow.
She's washed his face, she's combed his hair,
As she has done before,
She's placed a brand down by his side,
To fight for her on Yarrow.
As he came down yon high, high hill,
And down the halls of Yarrow.
There he spied nine armed men.
Come to fight with him on Yarrow.
It's three he's wounded, and three withdrew,
And three he's killed on Yarrow,
Till her brother John, came in behind.
And pierced his body through.
Oh, Father dear, I dreamed a dream,
I fear it will prove sorrow,
Dreamed I was pulling the heather bell,
On they dowy dens of Yarrow.
Oh, Father dear, you've seven sons,
You may wed them all tomorrow,
But the fairest one amongst them all.
Was the boy I loved on Yarrow.
Yarrow
Había una dama del Norte,
Apenas se podía encontrar a su igual,
Fue cortejada por nueve caballeros,
Y un muchacho campesino de Yarrow.
Estos nueve estaban bebiendo vino,
Como lo habían hecho antes,
Hicieron un juramento entre ellos,
De pelear por ella en Yarrow.
Ella le lavó la cara, le peinó el cabello,
Como lo había hecho antes,
Colocó una espada a su lado,
Para pelear por ella en Yarrow.
Al bajar por esa alta colina,
Y por los pasillos de Yarrow,
Allí vio a nueve hombres armados,
Venir a pelear con él en Yarrow.
Hirió a tres, y tres se retiraron,
Y a tres mató en Yarrow,
Hasta que su hermano John, llegó por detrás,
Y atravesó su cuerpo.
Oh, Padre querido, soñé un sueño,
Temo que se convierta en tristeza,
Soñé que arrancaba la flor del brezo,
En los oscuros valles de Yarrow.
Oh, Padre querido, tienes siete hijos,
Puedes casarlos todos mañana,
Pero el más hermoso entre todos ellos,
Era el chico que amaba en Yarrow.
Escrita por: Pentangle / Jörgen Elofsson