O yonder sits my mother the queen
She’s riven the muslin frae her head,
And she has broded her yellow hair
She showd me a mantle o red scarlet,
And she sware by the mold,

‘My youngest brother’s a banished lord,
For he has betrayed eight ladies fair
And seemely is to see,
And as he rode over the plaine,
He chas’d the deer now him before,
He’s woo’d her for her yellow hair,
Left the lady sorrowful behind,
And a’ women’s curse in his company’s gane.

He wade thro red blude to the knee,
Now speak nae mair of that to me;

Curious about centos? Check out some of the other centos that the yeah write community has assembled for our January poetry slam, or stop by the coffeehouse for a rundown on what a cento is and how it works!

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