"O have ye seen Sir James the Rose,
The young heir of Buleighan?
For he has killed a gallant squire,
And we're sent out to tak' him.'

'O I have seen Sir James,' she says;
'For he passed by here on Monday;
If the steed be swift that he rides on,
He's past the hichts o' Lundie.'

As they rode on man after man,
Then she cried out behind them,
you do seek Sir James the Rose,
I'll tell you where you'll find him.'

• If

'Seek

ye the bank abune the mill,

In the lowlands of Buleighan;

And there you'll find Sir James the Rose,
Lying sleeping in his brechan.

Ye must not awake him out of sleep,
Nor yet must you affright him;

Till you drive a dart quite through his heart,
And through his body pierce him.'

They sought the bank abune the mill,
In the lowlands of Buleighan,
And there they found Sir James the Rose,
Lying sleeping in his brechan.

Up then spake Sir John the Græme,
Who had the charge a-keeping,
'It shall ne'er be said, dear gentlemen,
We killed him when a-sleeping.'

They seized his broad sword and his targe,
And closely him surrounded;
And when he wakened out of sleep,
His senses were confounded.

'O pardon, pardon, gentlemen-
Have mercy now upon me.'
'Such as you gave, such you
And so we fall upon thee.'

shall have,

'Donald, my man, wait me upon,
And I'll gie you my brechan:
And if you stay here till I die,
You'll get my trews of tartan.

497

There is fifty pounds in my pocket,
Besides my trews and brechan,
Ye'll get my watch and diamond ring,
And take me to Loch Largan.'

Now they've ta'en out his bleeding heart,
And stuck it on a speir;

Then took it to the house o' Marr,
And gave it to his deir.

But when she saw his bleeding heart,
She was like one distracted,

She wrung her hands, and tore her hair,
Crying, 'O what have I acted!

It's for your sake, Sir James the Rose, That my poor heart's a breaking; Cursed be the day I did thee betray, Thou brave knight o' Buleighan!"

Then up she rose, and forth she goes;
And in that fatal hour,

She bodily was borne away,

And never was seen more.

But where she went was never kentz
And so, to end the matter,
A traitor's end you may depend
Can never be no better.

[This ballad is said to have been written,' says Mr. Motherwell, ( Minstrelsy, Ancient and Modern,' Glasgow, 1827,) by Michael Bruce,' a young Scottish poet, who was orn at Kinnesswood, in Kinross-shire, in 1746, and died, of consumption, in 1767, before he had completed his 22nd year. This consumption' of his, says Sir Walter Scott, (Life, by Lockhart, ch. 65,) has been the life of his verses.' His poems were first published in 1770, by his friend the Rev. John Logan author of the beautiful lines To the Cuckoo,' which, however, have been claimed by some of Bruce's relations and friends, as his. The present ballad is one of 'two modern ballads'-the other being Elfrida and Sir James of Perth,'-which, according to Mr. Motherwell, 'have sprung out of an old one,' bearing the same name. 'It might be curious,' he says, to ascertain which of these mournful ditties is the senior, were it for nothing else than perfectly to enjoy the cool impudence with which the graceless youngster has appropriated to itself, without thanks or acknowledgment, all the best things which occur in the other. That Elfrida and Sir James of Perth,' is a 'mournful ditty,' in more senses than one, few, probably, wil! be found to deny; but whether Bruce's ballad deserves to be so characterised, may admit of doubt.

His growth was as the tufted fir,

That crowns the mountain's brow; And, waving o'er his shoulders broad, His locks of yellow flew.

The chieftain of the brave clan Ross,
A firm undaunted band;

Five hundred warriors drew their sword,
Beneath his high command.

In bloody fight thrice had he stood,
Against the English keen,
Ere two and twenty opening springs
This blooming youth had seen.

The fair Matilda dear he loved,
A maid of beauty rare ;

Ev'n Margaret on the Scottish throne
Was never half so fair.

Lang had he wooed, lang she refused,
With seeming scorn and pride;
Yet aft her eyes confest the love
Her fearful words denied.

At last she blest his well-tried faith,
Allowed his tender claim :

She vowed to him her virgin heart
And owned an equal flame.

Her father, Buchan's cruel lord,
Their passion disapproved;

And bade her wed Sir John the Graeme,

And leave the youth she loved.

Ae nicht they met, as they were wont,
Deep in a shady wood,

Where, on a bank beside a burn,
A blooming saugh-tree stood.

Concealed among the underwood,

The crafty Donald lay,

The brother of Sir John the Graeme ;

To hear what they would say.

"My father's will must be obeyed;
Nocht boots me to withstand;
Some fairer maid, in beauty's bloom,
Must bless thee with her hand.

"Matilda soon shall be forgot,

And from thy mind effaced :
But may that happiness be thine,
Which I can never taste."

"What do I hear? Is this thy vow?
Sir James the Rose replied:
"And will Matilda wed the Graeme,
Though sworn to be my bride?

"His sword shall sooner pierce my heart
Than reave me of thy charms."
Then claspt her to his beating breast,
Fast lockt into his arms.

"I spake to try thy love," she said "I'll ne'er wed man but thee: My grave shall be my bridal bed, Ere Graeme my husband be.

"Take then, dear youth, this faithful kis In witness of my troth;

And every plague become my lot,

That day I break my oath!"

They parted thus: the sun was set:

Up hasty Donald flies;

And, "Turn thee, turn thee, beardless youth!"
He loud insulting cries.

Soon turned about the fearless chief,
And soon his sword he drew;
For Donald's blade, before his breast,
Had pierced his tartans through.

"This for my brother's slighted love;
His wrongs sit on my arm."
Three paces back the youth retired,
And saved himself from harm.

Returning swift, his hand he reared,

Frae Donald's head above,

And through the brain and crashing bones
His sharp-edged weapon drove.