Could somebody please check and correct this transcription of The Dowie Dens Of Yarrow as sung by Janet Russell on Fyre & Sworde? I can't undertsand the name of the hill the ploughboy lad frae Yarrow is going up. Thank you. Roberto

In Thurrow town there lived a maid
Ye scarce could find her marrow
And she's forsook nine noble men
For a ploughboy lad frae Yarrow

Her faither he got word o' that
And he's bred a' her sorrow
He sent him forth to fight wi' nine
On the dowie dens o' Yarrow

She's washed his face and she's kaimed his hair
As she's aft done before-O
And she's made him look a knight sae fine
To fecht for her on Yarrow

Stay here, stay here, my bonnie lad
And bide wi' me the morrow
For my cruel brothers will ye betray
On the dowie dens o' Yarrow

As he gaed up by T... (?) Hill
And doon the braes o' Yarrow
'T was there in a den were nine armed men
Come to fecht wi' him on Yarrow

Did ye come here tae drink the wine?
Did ye come here tae borrow?
Or did ye come tae wield yer brand
On the dowie dens o' Yarrow?

I am not come tae drink the wine
Nor yet to beg or borrow
But I am come tae wield my brand
On the dowie dens o' Yarrow!

If I see you all, you are nine men
That's an unfair marrow
But I will fecht while last my breath
On the dowie dens o' Yarrow

And three he slew and three they flew
And three he's wounded sairly
Till her brither John stood up behind
And ran his body thorough

O mither, I hae dream'd a dream
A dream o' dule and sorrow
I dream'd that I pu'd heather bells
On the dowie dens o' Yarrow

O dochter I hae read your dream
I doubt it will prove sorrow
For your ain true love is pale and wan
On the dowie dens o' Yarrow

As she gaed up yon high high hill
And doon the houms o' Yarrow
'T was there she saw her ain true love
Lying pale and wan on Yarrow

She's washed him in a clear well-strand
She's dried him wi' the hollan
And aye she sighed, alas she cried -
For my love I had him chosen

Her hair it being three quarters lang
The colour it being yellow
She's tied it roond his middle sae small
And she's bore him doon tae Yarrow

O hold your tongue, my daughter dear
And talk no more of sorrow
I'll wed you soon on a better match
Than the ploughboy lad frae Yarrow

O faither, ye hae siven sons
Ye may wed them a' tomorrow
Ye may wed your sons, but ye'll ne'er wed
The bonny lass of Thurrow