""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 Saint 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, fainthearted 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;

"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 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.'

holy Saint 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."

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.

'The varying light deceived thy sight, And the wild winds drown'd the

name;

For the Dryburgh bells ring and the white monks do sing

For Sir Richard of Coldinghame!'

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

The lady look'd through the chamber fair,

By the light of a dying flame;

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,

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.

wood

In bloody grave have I lain; The mass and the death-prayer are said for me,

But, lady, they are said in vain.

By the Baron's brand, near Tweed's fair strand,

Most foully slain I fell; And my restless sprite on the beacon's 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:
That lawless love is guilt above,
This awful sign receive.'

bound,

The startled red-deer scuds the plain,

For the hoarse bugle's warrior-sound Has roused their mountain haunts

again.

Through the huge oaks of Evandale, Whose limbs a thousand years have worn,

What sullen roar comes down the gale

place,

Still wont our wealand woe to share? Why comes he not our sport to grace? Why shares he not our hunter's fare?'

Stern Claud replied with darkening face

(Grey Paisley's haughty lord was he) 'At merry feast or buxom chase No more the warrior wilt thou see.

He ceased; and cries of rage and grief Burst mingling from the kindred band,

And half arose the kindling Chief,

And halfunsheathed his Arran brand.

But who, o'er bush, o'er stream and rock,

Rides headlong, with resistless speed,

Whose bloody poniard's frantic stroke Drives to the leap his jaded steed,

Whose check is pale, whose eyeballs glare,

As one some vision'd sight that saw, Whose hands are bloody, loose his hair?

'Tis he! 'tis he! 'tis Bothwellhaugh.

From gory selle, and reeling steed, Sprung the fierce horseman with a bound,

And, reeking from the recent deed,

He dash'd his carbine on the ground.

Sternly he spoke: "Tis sweet to hear In good greenwood the bugle blown, But sweeter to Revenge's ear,

To drink a tyrant's dying groan. 'Your slaughter'd quarry proudly trode,

At dawning morn, o'er dale and down,

But prouder base-born Murray rode Through old Linlithgow's crowded town.

'From the wild Border's humbled side,

In haughty triumph marchèd he, While Knox relax'd his bigot pride

And smiled the traitorous pomp to

see.

'But can stern Power, with all his vaunt,

Or Pomp, with all her courtly glare, The settled heart of Vengeance daunt, Or change the purpose of Despair?

'With hackbut bent, my secret stand, Dark as the purposed deed, I chose, And mark'd where, mingling in his band,

Troop'd Scottish pikes and English bows.

'Dark Morton, girt with many a spear, Murder's foul minion, led the van; And clash'd their broadswords in the

rear

The wild Macfarlanes' plaided clan. 'Glencairn and stout Parkhead were nigh,

Obsequious at their Regent's rein, And haggard Lindesay's iron eye, That saw fair Mary weep in vain.

"Mid pennon'd spears, a steely grove, Proud Murray's plumage floated high;

Scarce could his trampling charger

move,

So close the minions crowded nigh. 'From the raised vizor's shade, his eye

Dark-rolling glanced the ranks along, And his steel truncheon, waved on high,

Seem'd marshalling the iron throng.

'But yet his sadden'd brow confess'd A passing shade of doubt and awe; Some fiend was whispering in his breast;

"Beware of injured Bothwellhaugh!"

The death-shot parts! the charger springs,

Wild rises tumult's startling roar, And Murray's plumy helmet ringsRings on the ground, to rise no more.

'What joy the raptured youth can feel
To hear her love the loved one tell!
Or he who broaches on his steel
The wolf by whom his infant fell!