way,

That leads to Brotherstone.

He went not with the bold Buccleuch
His banner broad to rear;

He went not 'gainst the English yew
To lift the Scottish spear.

Yet his plate-jack was braced and his helmet was laced,

And his vaunt-brace of proof he wore: At his saddle-gerthe was a good steel sperthe,

Full ten pound weight and more.

The baron returned in three days' space
And his looks were sad and sour;
And weary was his courser's pace
As he reached his rocky tower.

He came not from where Ancram Moor
Ran red with English blood;
Where the Douglas true and the bold
Buccleuch

’Gainst keen Lord Evers stegod.

Yet was his helmet hacked and hewed, His acton pierced and tore,

His axe and his dagger with ̧ blood imbrued,

But it was not English gore.

He lighted at the Chapellage,

He held him close and still; And he whistled thrice for bifoot-page,

66

His name was English Will

Come thou hither, my little Come hither to my knee; Though thou art young an

age,

I think thou art true to m

"Come, tell me all that tho

And look thou tell me tru Since I from Smaylho'me been,

What did thy lady do?"

H

Adel

nera

"My lady, each night, sought the lonely light

That burns on the wild Watchfold; For from height to height the beacons bright

Of the English foemen told.

"The bittern clamored from the moss,
The wind blew loud and shrill;
Yet the craggy pathway she did cross
To the eiry Beacon Hill.

"I watched 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 watched the secret pair
On the lonesome Beacon Hill.

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 Saint John.

The lady looked 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 Ï lain;

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

But, lady, they are said in vain.

There is a nun in Dryburgh bower
Ne'er looks upon the sun;
There is a monk in Melrose 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.

1799. 1801.

CADYOW CASTLE

WHEN princely Hamilton's abode Ennobled Cadyow's Gothic towers,

The

song went round, the goblet flowed, And revel sped the laughing hours.

Then, thrilling to the harp's gay sound,
So sweetly rung each vaulted wall,
And echoed light the dancer's bound,
As mirth and music cheered the hall.

But Cadyow's towers in ruins laid,
And vaults by ivy mantled o'er,
Thrill to the music of the shade,
Or echo Evan's hoarser roar.

Yet still of Cadyow's faded fame
You bid me tell a minstrel tale,
And tune my harp of Border frame
On the wild banks of Evandale.

For thou, from scenes of courtly pride,
From pleasure's lighter scenes, canst

turn.

To draw oblivion's pall aside

And mark the long-forgotten urn.

Then, noble maid! at thy command Again the crumbled halls shall rise; "Lo as on Evan's banks we stand, The past returns-the present flies. Where with the rock's wood-covered side Were blended late the ruins green, Rise turrets in fantastic pride

And feudal banners flaunt between:

Where the rude torrent's brawling course Was shagged with thorn and tangling sloe,

The ashler buttress braves its force
And ramparts frown in battled row.

Tis night-the shade of keep and spire
Obscurely dance on Evan's stream;
And on the wave the warder's fire
Is checkering the moonlight beam.

Fades slow their light; the east is gray; The weary warder leaves his tower; Steeds snort, uncoupled stag-hounds bay, And merry hunters quit the bower.

The drawbridge falls-they hurry outClatters each plank and swinging chain,

As, dashing o'er, the jovial rout

Urge the shy steed and slack the rein.

First of his troop, the chief rode on ; His shouting merry-men throng behind;

The steed of princely Hamilton

Was fleeter than the mountain wind.

From the thick copse the roebucks 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 And drowns the hunter's pealing horn?

Mightiest of all the beasts of chase
That roam in woody Caledon,
Crashing the forest in his race,

The Mountain Bull comes thundering

on.

Fierce on the hunter's quivered band
He rolls his eyes of swarthy glow,
Spurns with black hoof and horn the
sand,

And tosses high his mane of snow.

Aimed well the chieftain's lance has flown;

Struggling in blood the savage lies; His roar is sunk in hollow groanSound, merry huntsmen! sound the pryse!

'Tis noon-against the knotted oak The hunters rest the idle spear; Curls through the trees the slender smoke,

Where yeomen dight the woodland cheer.

Proudly the chieftain marked his clan, On greenwood lap all careless thrown,