While the moonbeams all bright give a lustre to night,
I'll weep on his dwelling so narrow,
And high o'er is grave, the willow trees wave,
Who died on the banks of the Yarrow.

'Twas under this shade, hand in hand as we stray'd,
he fell by the flight of an arrow,
And fast from the wound his blood stain'd the ground, 
Who died on the banks of the Yarrow.