There was young Buccleuch frae Branksome ha,’
And Douglass frae Liddesdale,
The young Cranstoun frae Crailing tower,

But he never told his tale.

O his was the love of kind esteem-
Of kind esteem from friendship sprung;
O his was the love o' the constant heart,
Which sits far deeper than the tongue.

Though narrow was fair Crailing's land,
And little wealth could he display,
But a trusty heart and a ready hand—
Ready alike for friend and fae.

O he was the lord o' the keenest sword,
And he was the lord o' the lealest love;
And he was the lord o' the feeling heart
That helpless misery aye could move;
But rue the hour would pride and power
The might of Cranstoun's arm to prove.

Why does Lord Cranstoun thoughtfully stray
In Crailing's flushing vale?

O he is in love with a fair maiden,
And he winna tell his tule.

O some wad ride at Valour's ring,
Some danced in Beauty's ha'-
And some to Beauty told their tale,
But the owerword still was, na.

But it sae fell out in a sweet evening,
She sought the bower alane,

And

young Cranstoun has followed her
In love's delicious pain;

And he faultered forth revealings soft,
And the maiden blushed again.

My wealth is sma, quo' the

It canna please the e'e;

young Cranstoun,

But the heart of love, and the hand of weir

I gi'e them baith to thee.

And the maiden smiled with a kindly smile,—

Three little weeks they cam' and went :
O merry was the morning tide,
When a proud array to Jedworth gray,
Through autumn dews could ride,
And a lady bright was led by her knight,
To the holy altar's side.

[This ballad is taken from the annual entitled 'The Literary Souvenir' for 1826, where, it is believed, it first appeared. Whether it is to be found elsewhere, we are not able to say. In the work from which it is taken it bears the signature A (Delta); and was, therefore, it is to be presumed, written by the contributor, who, under that signature, has been so long and so advantageously known to the reader of Blackwood's Magazine.' Whether it be of imagination all compact,' or relate the acting of some dreadful thing,' some strange and terrible event,' is a matter upon which the Author has not furnished any the slightest information, or hint; the ballad being unaccompanied with 'note or comment,' of any kind whatever. And the reader will scarcely expect that the Editor of this work should be able to supply the deficiency.]

To an alder-tree his steed was tied,
And the live wind from the west
Stirred the blue scarf on his helmet side,
And the raven plumes of his crest.

Why knockest thou here?-No hostel this,
And we have our mass to say;
Knowest thou that rises our evening prayer,
When lours the twilight grey?

"But if thou returnest at morning tide,
Whatever be thy behest-"

"Nay," said the stranger hastily,

Delay not my request:

For I have come from foreign lands,
And seen the sun of June

Set over the Holy Jerusalem;

And its towers beneath the moon ;

And I have battled for the Cross,
'Tis the symbol on my mail;-
But why with faltering words should I
Prolong a needless tale.

And I have stood by the sepulchre,
Where our good Lord was laid;

And drank of Siloa's brook that flows
In the cool of its own palm shade.

The Ladye Ellinore-woe to me,
Brought the words that tale which told,
Was yesternight, by the red-torch light,
Left alone in your vaults so cold.

'Tis said, last night, by the red-torch light,
That a burial here hath been;

Now I pr'ythee show me her grave who stood
My heart and heaven between.

Alas! alas! that a cold, dark vault

Her dwelling place should be,

Who, singing, sate in the bright sunshine
When I went o'er the sea!-

'Tis nay, sir knight; but at matin prime If thou turn'st thy steed again,

And knock'st at the porch of St. John's chapelle, Thou shalt not knock in vain."

Then

anger flashed o'er that stranger's brow, Like storm-clouds o'er the sky;

And, stamping, he struck his gauntlet glove
On the falchion by his thigh.

"Now, by our Ladye's holy name,
And by the good St. John,

I must gaze on the features of the dead,
Though I hew my path through stone."

The frere hath lighted his waxen taper,
And turned the grating key,

And down winding steps, through gloomy aisles,
The damp, dull way showed he.

And ever he stood, and crossed himself,
As the night winds smote his ear;

For the very carven imageries

Spake nought but of death and fear.

And sable 'scutcheons flapped on high, 'Mid that grim and ghastly shade;

And coffins were ranged on their tressels round,
And banners lowly laid.

At length the innermost aisle they gained,
Last home of a house of fame;

And the knight, looking up with a steadfast eye,
Read the legend around the name.

"Yes, here, good frere-now, haste thee, ope,❞— The holy man turned the key,

And, ere he had an Ave said,

The knight was on his knee.

He lifted the lawn from her waxen face,
And put back the satin soft;

Fled from her cheek was the glowing grace,
That had thrilled his heart so soft.

O, Ellinore! I little dreamed,

When I sped me o'er the sea,

That our meeting next, when I returned,
In a charnel vault should be!

O, I have met thee on the waves,

On the field have braved thee, Death! But never before sank my heart so low