And, spattering foul, a shower of blood
Upon the hissing firebrands fell.

Next, dropp'd from high a mangled arm;

The fingers strain'd an half-drawn blade:
And last, the life-blood streaming warm,
Torn from the trunk, a gasping head.
Oft o'er that head, in battling field,
Stream'd the proud crest of high Benmore;
That arm the broad claymore could wield,
Which dy'd the Teith with Saxon gore.

Woe to Moneira's sullen rills!

Woe to Glenfinlas' dreary glen!
There never son of Albin's hills
Shall draw the hunter s shaft agen!
E'en the tir'd pilgrim's burning feet
At noon shall shun that shelt ring dea,
Lest, journeying in their rage, he meet
The wayward Ladies of the Glen.
And we-behind the chieftain's shield,
No more shall we in safety dwell;
None leads the people to the field-
And we the loud lament must swell.
O hone a rie'! O hone a rie'!

The pride of Albin's line is o'er,
And fall'n Glenartney's stateliest tree;
We ne'er shall see Lord Ronald more!

THE

EVE OF SAINT JOHN.

THE Baron of Smaylho'me rose with day,
He spurr'd his courser on,

Without stop or stay, down the rocky way
That leads to Brotherstone.

He went not with the bold Buccleuch,
His banner broad to rear;

He went not 'gainst the English yew,
To lift the Scottish spear.

Yet his plate-jack* was brac'd, and his helmet was lac'd,

And his vaunt-brace of proof he wore;

At his saddle-gerthe was a good steel sperthe,
Full ten pound weight and more.

The Baron return'd in three days' space,
And his looks were sad and sour;

And weary was his courser s pace,
As he reach'd his rocky tower.

He came not from where Ancram Moor

Ran red with English blood;

Where the Douglas true, and the bold Buccleuch, 'Gainst keen lord Evers stood.

Yet was his helmet hack'd and hew'd,

His acton pierc d and tore;

His axe and his dagger with blood embru'd,

But it was not English gore.

He lighted at the Chapellage,

He held him close and still;

And he whistled thrice for his little foot-page,

His name was English Will.

"Come thou hither, my little foot-page;

Come hither to my knee;

Thou art young, and tender of age,

I think thou art true to me.

"Come, tell me all that thou hast seen,

And look thou tell me true!

Since I from Smaylho me tow'r have been,
What did thy lady do?"

"My lady, each night, sought the lonely light,
That burns on the wild Watchfold;

For, from height to height, the beacons bright
Of the English foemen told.

"The bittern clamour'd from the moss,

The wind blew loud and shrill;

The plate-jack is coat armour; the vaunt-brace, or wam-brace,

armour for the body; the sperthe, a battle-de.

Yet the craggy pathway sho did cross,
To the eiry beacon hill.

"I watch'd her steps, and silent came
Where she sat her on a stone;

No watchnian stood by the dreary flame;
It burned all alone.

"The second night I kept her in sight,

Till to the fire she came,

And, by Mary's might! an armed Knight
Stood by the lonely flame.

"And many a word that warlike lord
Did speak to my lady there;

But the rain fell fast, and loud blew the blast, And I heard not what they were.

"The third night there the sky was fair,

And the mountain biast was still,

As again I watch'd the secret pair,
On the lonesome beacon hill.

"And I heard her name in the midnight hour, And name this holy eve;

And say, Come this night to thy lady's bower; Ask no bold Baron's leave.

"He lifts his spear with the bold Buccleuch;
His lady is all alone;

The door she'll undo to her knight so true,
On the eve of good St John.'

"I cannot come; I must not come;

I dare not come to thee;

On the eve of Saint John I must wander alone: In thy bower I may not be.'

"Now, out on thee, faint-hearted knight !
Thou should'st not say me nay;

For the eve is sweet, and when lovers meet,
Is worth the whole summer's day.

"And I'li chain the blood-hound, and the warder

shall not sound,

And rushes shall be strew'd on the stair;

So, by the black rood-stone, and by holy St John,
I conjure thee, my love, to be there!"

"Though the blood-hound be mute, and the rush
beneath my foot,

And the warder his bugle should not blow, Yet there sleepeth a priest in the chamber to the east,

And my foot-step he would know.'

"O fear not the priest, who sleepeth to the east!
For to Dryburgh the way he has ta'en;
And there to say mass, till three days do pass,
For the soul of a knight that is slayne.'

"He turn'd him around, and grimly he frown'd;
Then he laugh'd right scornfully--

He who says the mass-rite for the soul of that knight,

666

May as well say mass for me.

At the lone midnight hour, when bad spirits
have pow'r,

In thy chamber will I be.'

With that he was gone, and my lady left alone,
And no more did I see."-

Then changed, I trow, was that bold Baron's brow,
From the dark to the blood-red high;

"Now, tell me the mien of the knight thou hast

seen,

For, by Mary, he shall die!"

"His arms shone full bright, in the beacon's red light:

His plume it was scarlet and blue;

On his shield was a hound, in a silver leash bound,
And his crest was a branch of the yew."

"Thou liest, thou liest, thou little foot-page,
Loud dost thou lie to me!

For that knight is cold, and low laid in the mould,
All under the Eildon-tree."+

The black-rood of Melrose was a crucifix of black marble, and of superior sanctity.

+ Eildon-tree is said to be the spot where Thomas the Rhymer uttered his prophecies.

www.w

"Yet hear but my word, my noble lord!
For I heard her name his name;
And that lady bright, she called the knight,
Sir Richard of Coldinghame."

The bold Baron's brow then changed, I trow,
From high blood-red to pale-

"The grave is deep and dark-and the corpse is

stiff and stark

So I may not trust thy tale.

"Where fair Tweed flows round holy Melrose, And Eildon slopes to the plain,

Full three nights ago, by some secret foe,

That gay gallant was slain.

"The varying light deceived thy sight,

And the wild winds drowned the name;

For the Dryburgh bells ring, and the white monks

do sing,

For Sir Richard of Coldinghame!"

He pass'd the court-gate, and he op'd the tow'r grate,

And he mounted the narrow stair

To the bartizan-seat, where, with maids that on

her wait,

He found his lady fair.

That lady sat in mournful mood;

Look'd over hill and dale;

Over Tweed is fair flood, and Mertoun's wood,

And all down Teviotdale.

"Now hail, now hail, thou lady bright !"
"Now hail, thou Baron true!

What news, what news, from Ancram fight?
What news from the bold Buccleuch "

"The Ancram Moor is red with gore,

For many a southern fell;

And Buccleuch has charged ns, evermore
To watch our beacons well."

The lady blush'd red, but nothing she said;
Nor added the Baron a word: