To the fair Ellinore that scroll he bore,
Then she folded her hands and sighed,
And said, "Since true he has died to me,
I will be no other's bride!"

Still wooed I her in her mourning weeds,
Till she showed a poniard bare,

And vowed, if again I vexed her heart,
Her hand should plunge it there.

Day after day, ray after ray,

She waned like an autumn sun,

When droop the flowers 'mid the yellow bowers,
And the waters wailing run:

Day after day, like a broken rose-bud,
She withered and she waned,

Till of her beauty and wonted bloom
But feeble trace remained.

Yet seemed she like some saintly form,
Too pure for the gazer's eye,
Melting away from our earthly day,
To her element, the sky.

She died, and then I felt remorse,—

But how could I atone?—

And I trembled when by her breathless corse In silence I stood alone!

And when I saw my victim lie

Within her swathing shroud,

The weight of my wounded conscience hung
Upon me like a cloud.

There was no light,—and all was night,
And storm and darkness drear ;-
By day 'twas joyless, and my sleep
Was haunted by forms of fear!

And often I of my kinsman dreamt,
Of his sorrow and vengeance dire,
Till yesternight he crossed my path
Like a demon in his ire.

I had not heard of his home return;
Like a spectre there he stood,
Down sank I, and his falchion drank
My fevered, forfeit blood.

O! grant remission for my sins,

A humbled man I die-"

Ere yet the words were out the monk
Beheld his glazing eye;

And, rising away from the couch, he said,—
"May Heaven forgive my vow,-"

Deep horrors thrilled through his yielding frame,
And he smote his throbbing brow.

Then down he passed through scraggy dean,
Overhung with aspens grey,

Until he came to the brackens green
Wherein Father Francis lay.

Ho, frere, arise! thy cloak and cowl
Have done their office meet,".
Father Francis arose from his lurking place,
And stood at the warrior's feet.

"Now tell me," quoth Sir Edmund fierce,
"For thou art learned in lore,
What the meaning of this riddle is,
That a bird unto me bore:

"A lady in her chamber sate,

Her true knight he was abroad, Fighting the battles of his faith Under the Cross of God.

A false lord, and a falser frere,

They tried to o'ercome her faith,

They forged,-ah! wherefore dost thou fear?
Base caitiff take thy death!"

The knight he struck him to the heart,—
Through the branches, with a crash,
Down went the corse, and in the wave
Sank with a sullen dash.

"Thus perish all who would enthrall
The innocent and the true;

Yet on head of mine no more shall shine
The sun from his path of blue!

No more on me shall pleasure smile,
A heartless, hopeless man ;-

The tempest clouds of misery

Farewell, farewell, my native land!
Hill, valley, wood, and strath ;-
And thou, who held my heart's command,
And ye, who crossed my path!

Blow, blow, ye winds! in fury blow,
And waft us from the shore,-

Rise, rise, ye billows! and bear us along
Who hither return no more!"

[This is a modernised version,' taken from The Local Historian's Table-book,' of a ballad written by Robert Owen, Esq., formerly of North Shields, which is there stated to have been first printed in Hone's Table book,' in a style so overdone in its labouring after an antiquated orthography, as to be nearly unintelligible to the general reader.' It is founded upon a Legend which, in the first-mentioned work, bears the following title: The Monk's Stone: A Goodlye Legend of a Cross: sheweing how a certayne Monk wandered from his Monasterie of Tinemouth, And going unto ye Castell of Seton De-la-val stole therefrom a Pigg's Head, with what befell him on his waie back. newlie written downe by the Auctour from sundrie truthes gotten out of diuerse bookes and ould writeinges, and from the saieings of manie aunciente men and wiues of verie goode report. This Legend, as Master Francis Grose relateth it in his Large Book,' is very closely followed in the Ballad. Of the Stone itself, only the pedestal and part of the shaft remain, their present site, after frequent removal, being in a field a little to the north-east of Tynemouth. On the surface of the former is inscribed in lettering almost obliterated, O HOROR TO KILL A MAN FOR A PIGG'S HEAD.]

HAT want ye, what want ye, thou holy friar,
Said Sir Delaval's warder brave;
What lack ye, what lack ye, thou jolly friar?
-Saith-Open the portal, knave!

Wearie leagues three from the Priorie

I've come since the sun hath smil'd on the sea.

Now nay! now nay! thou holy friar,

I may not let ye in;

Sir Delaval's mood is not for the rood,

And he cares not to shrive his sin;

And should he return with his hound and horn,

He will gar thy holiness rin.

For Christ his sake! now say not nay,

But

open the portal to me;

And I will donne a rich benison

For thy gentlesse and courtesie;

By mass and by rood! if this boon is withstood
Thou shalt perish by sorcerie.

Then quicklie the portal was open'd wide,

Sir Delaval's hall was made free,

And the table was spread for the friar with speed,
And he feasted right plentifullie.

Did a friar wicht ever lack of might

When he tooken cheap hostelrie?

And the friar he ate, and the friar he drank,

Till the cellarman wondered full sore,

And he wish'd him at home at St. Oswin's tomb,

With his relicks and missal lore:

But the friar did eat of the venison meat,

And the friar he drunk the more!

Now this day was a day of wassail kept,
Sir Delaval's birth day, I ween,

And many a knight and ladye bright,
In Sir Delaval's castle was seen;

But since the sun on the blue sea shone,
They'd hunted the woods so green.

And rich and rare was the feast prepar'd

For the knights and ladyes gay;

And the field and the flood both yielded their brood,

To grace the festal day:

And the wines from Spain which long had lain

And spices from far Cathay.