The wind, the summer wind of June,
Was on our cheeks as, in the heather,
We lay that happy afternoon
On Yarrow braes together.
Far down below was Yarrow Manse,
Within its little woodland hiding,
And by it, like a silver glance,
The stream itself was gliding.
And farther up in greyer light,
The 'dowie dens' lay in their shadow,
And only half made out to sight
By spots of corn and meadow.
And Tinnis hill rose huge and steep,
Its ridge against the sky receding;
And white upon its breast the sheep
By twos and threes were feeding.
Westward from Yarrow Kirk, within
A field that speaks of love and loving,
A single stone was seen to win
The eye from all its roving.
Ah! well it might, for round that stone
Such tender consecration hovers,
That love might rest his cheek thereon
And weep for hapless lovers.
And in the wind, that came and went,
We heard a music weird and lonely;
The past was in its tones and blent
With human sorrow only.
And pity for all things that love
Has set in legendary story,
To haunt grey crag and hill, and move
Round ruins black and hoary.
The dim old world of song that sings
Of tender love in old romances,
Was with us, touching all the strings
That woke our saddest fancies.
We heard the sounds of wail and pain,
Faint from that far-off time of sorrow;
The misty years came back again,
And looked with us on Yarrow.
All this, and more, that summer day,
Was with us as among the heather,
A ballad on our lips, we lay
On Yarrow braes together.