At his saddle-gerthe was a good steel sperthe,

Full ten pound weight and more.

The Baron return'd in three days' space,

And his looks were sad and sour;

And weary was his courser's pace,

As he reach'd 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 stood,

Yet was his helmet hack'd, and hew'd,

His acton pierced and tore

His axe and his dagger with blood embrued,

But it was not English gore.

*See an account of the battle of Ancram Moor, subjoined to the ballad.

He lighted at the Chapellage,

He held him close and still;

And he whistled thrice for his little foot-page,

His name was English Will.

"Come thou hither, my little foot-page,

Come hither to my knee;

Though thou art young, and tender of age,

I think thou art true to me.

"Come, tell me all that thou hast seen,

And look thou tell me true!

Since I from Smaylho'me tower have been,

What did thy lady do?"

"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 clamour'd from the moss,

The wind blew loud and shrill;

Yet the craggy pathway she did cross,

To the eiry Beacon hill.

"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 this night to thy lady's bower;

'Ask no bold Baron's leave.

'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, faint-hearted knight!

Thou should'st 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 black rood-stone,* and by holy St John,

'I conjure thee, my love, to be there!'

'Though the blood-hound be mute, and the rush be

neath my foot,

And the warder his bugle should not blow,

'Yet there sleepeth a priest in the chamber to the

east,

'And my foot-step he would know.'

*The black rood of Melrose was a crucifix of black marble, and of superior sanctity.