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

No watchman 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 blast was still,

As again I watch'd the secret pair,

On the lonesome beacon hill;

And I heard her name the midnight hour,

And name this holy eve;

And say, come that night to thy Lady's bower;

Ask no bold Baron's leave.

'He lifts his spear with the bold Buccleuch,
His Lady is 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 St. John I must wander alone,
In thy bower I may not be.'

Now out on thee, faint-hearted knight!
Thou shouldst not say me nay,

For the eve is sweet, and when lovers meet,

Is worth the whole summer's day.

And I'll chain the blood-hound, and the warder shall not sound,

And rushes shall be strew'd on the stair;

So by the 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 footstep 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,
May as well say mass for me.

At the lone midnight hour, when bad spirits have power, 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 dark to 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."

"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 gallant knight was slain.

"The varying light deceiv'd thy sight,

And the wild winds drown'd the name,

For the Dryburgh bells ring, and the white monks they sing

He pass'd the court-gate, and he oped the tower 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 vale,

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

And all down Tiviotdale.

"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 Southron fell;

And Buccleuch has charged us evermore,

To watch our beacons well."

The Lady blush'd red, but nothing she said,

Nor added the Baron a word;

Then she stepp'd down the stair to her chamber fair,

And so did her moody Lord.

In sleep the Lady mourn'd, and the Baron toss'd and turn'd, And oft to himself he said,

"The worms around him creep, and his bloody grave is deep. It cannot give up the dead."

It was near the ringing of matin bell,
The night was well nigh done,
When a heavy sleep on that Baron fell,
On the eve of good St. John.

The Lady look'd through the chamber fair,
By the light of a dying flame,

And she was aware of a knight stood there,
Sir Richard of Coldinghame.

"Alas! away! away!" she cried,

"For the holy Virgin's sake."

"Lady, I know who sleeps by thy side;

But, Lady, he will not awake.

"By Eildon-tree, for long nights three, In bloody grave have I lain;

The mass and the death-prayer are said for me,

"By the Baron's brand, near Tweed's fair strand,
Most foully slain I fell,

And my restless sprite on the beacon height
For a space is doom'd to dwell.

"At our trysting-place, for a certain space,
I must wander to and fro;

But I had not had power to come to thy bower
Had'st thou not conjured me so.'

Love master'd fear-her brow she cross'd:

How, Richard, hast thou sped?

And art thou saved, or art thou lost?"
The vision shook his head!

"Who spilleth life, shall forfeit life;

So bid thy Lord believe:

And lawless love is guilt above;
This awful sign receive."

He laid his left hand on an oaken stand,
His right hand on her arm :

The Lady shrunk, and fainting sunk,
For the touch was fiery warm.

The sable score of fingers four
Remain on that board impress'd,
And for evermore that Lady wore
A covering on her wrist.

There is a nun in Melrose bower
Ne'er looks upon the sun;
There is a monk in Dryburgh tower,
He speaketh word to none.

That nun who ne'er beholds the day,
That monk who speaks to none,
That nun was Smaylho'me's Lady gay,
That monk the bold Baron.

[The circumstance of the nun, who never saw the day,' is not entirely imaginary. About fifty years ago, an unfortunate female wanderer took up her residence in a dark vault, among the ruins of Dryburgh Abbey, which, during the day, she never quitted. When night fell, she issued from this miserable habitation, and went to the house of Mr. Haliburton, of Newmains, or to that of Mr. Erskine, of Sheilfield, two gentlemen of the neighbourhood. From their charity she obtained such necessaries as she could be prevailed on to accept. At twelve each night, she lighted her candle, and returned to her vault, assuring her friendly neighbours that, during her absence, her habitation was arranged by a spirit, to whom she gave the uncouth name of Fatlips; describing him as a little man, wearing heavy iron shoes, with which he trampled the clay floor of the vault,' to dispel the damps. The cause of her adopting this extraordinary mode of life she would never, explain. It was, however, believed to have been occasioned by a vow, that, during the absence of a man to whom she was attached, she would never look upon the sun. Her lover never returned. He fell during the civil war of 1745-6, and she never more would behold the light of dɩy.'—brer:.j

OR.

Lord Ronald's Coronach.

624

[This ballad, the first original poem he ventured to compose,' was written by Sir-then Mr.-Walter Scott, with a design that it should be supposed a translation from the Gaelic,' and first appeared in Lewis' Tales of Wonder,' (1801.) The simple tradition,' he says, 'upon which it is founded, runs thus:-While two Highland hunters were passing the night in a solitary bothy, (a hut built for the purpose of hunting,) and making merry over their venison and whisky, one of them expressed a wish that they had pretty lasses to complete their party. The words were scarcely uttered, when two beautiful young women, habited in green, entered the hut, dancing and singing. One of the hunters was seduced by the syren, who attached herself particularly to him, to leave the hut; the other remained, and, suspicious of the fair seducers, continued to play upon a trump, or Jew's harp, some strain consecrated to the Virgin Mary. Day at length came, and the temptress vanished. Searching in the forest, he found the bones of his unfortunate friend, who had been torn to pieces and devoured by the fiend into whose toils he had fallen. The place was from thence called the Glen of the Green Women.']

HONE a rie! O hone a rie!

The pride of Albin's line is o'er, And fallen Glenartney's stateliesttree; We ne'er shall see Lord Ronald more!