Saint George's cross, o'er Bothwell hung,

Was waving far and wide,

And from the lofty turret flung

Its crimson blaze on Clyde;

And rising at the bugle blast

That marked the Scottish foe, Old England's yeomen muster'd fast, And bent the Norman bow.

Tall in the midst Sir Aylmer rose, Proud Pembroke's Earl was heWhile

THE COVENANTER'S FATE. (1799.)

And ne'er but once, my son, he says, Was yon sad cavern trod,—

In persecution's iron days,

When the land was left by God. From Bewlie bog, with slaughter red, A wanderer hither drew, And oft he stopt and turn'd his head, As by fits the night wind blew; For trampling round by Cheviot edge Were heard the troopers keen, And frequent from the Whitelaw ridge The death-shot flash'd between.

The moonbeams through the misty shower

On yon dark cavern fell; Through the cloudy night the snow

gleam'd white,

Which sunbeam ne'er could quell. 'Yon cavern dark is rough and rude, And cold its jaws of snow; But more rough and rude are the men of blood,

That hunt my life below!

'Yon spell-bound den, as the aged tell, Was hewn by demon's hands; But I had lourd melle with the fiends of hell

Than with Clavers and his band.'

He heard the deep-mouth'd bloodhound bark,

He heard the horses neigh, He plunged him in the cavern dark, And downward sped his way.

Now faintly down the winding path Came the cry of the faulting hound, And the mutter'd oath of baulked wrath

Was lost in hollow sound.

He threw him on the flinted floor, And held his breath for fear; He rose and bitter cursed his foes, As the sounds died on his ear:

'O bare thine arm, thou battling Lord, For Scotland's wandering band; Dash from the oppressor's grasp the sword,

And sweep him from the land!

'Forget not thou thy people's groans From dark Dunnotter's tower, Mix'd with the seafowl's shrilly moans, And ocean's bursting roar !

O, in fell Clavers' hour of pride, Even in his mightiest day, As bold he strides through conquest's tide,

O stretch him on the clay !

'His widow and his little ones,

O from their tower of trust Remove its strong foundation stones, And crush them in the dust!'

'Sweet prayers to me!' a voice replied; 'Thrice welcome, guest of mine!' And glimmering on the cavern side A light was seen to shine.

An aged man, in amice brown,
Stood by the wanderer's side;
By powerful charm, a dead man's arm
The torch's light supplied.

From each stiff finger, stretch'd upright,

Arose a ghastly flame, That waved not in the blast of night Which through the cavern came.

O, deadly blue was that taper's hue,
That flamed the cavern o'er,
But more deadly blue was the ghastly
hue

Of his eyes who the taper bore.

He laid on his head a hand like lead, As heavy, pale, and cold

'For many a year wrought the wizard here,

In Cheviot's bosom low,

mine,

If thy heart be firm and bold.

July's heat

Appear'd December's snow; But Cessford's Halbert never came The wondrous cause to know.

'For years before in Bowden aisle

The warrior's bones had lain; And after short while, by female guile, Sir Michael Scott was slain.

'But me and my brethren in this cell His mighty charms retain ; And he that can quell the powerful spell

Shall o'er broad Scotland reign.'

He led him through an iron door
And up a winding stair,
And in wild amaze did the wanderer
gaze

On the sight which open'd there.

Through the gloomy night flash'd ruddy light,—

A thousand torches glow; The cave rose high, like the vaultedsky, O'er stalls in double row.

In every stall of that endless hall

Stood a steed in barbing bright; At the foot of each steed, all arm'd save the head,

Lay stretch'd a stalwart knight.

In each mail'd hand was a naked brand;

As they lay on the black bull's hide, Each visage stern did upwards turn, With eyeballs fix'd and wide.

A launcegay strong, full twelve ells long,

By every warrior hung; At each pommel there, for battle yare, A Jedwood axe was slung.

The casque hung near each cavalier;
The plumes waved mournfully
At every tread which the wanderer
made

Through the hall of gramarye.

The ruddy beam of the torches' gleam

That glared the warriors on, Reflected light from armour bright, In noontide splendour shone.

And onward seen in lustre sheen,

Still lengthening on the sight, Through the boundless hall stood steeds in stall,

And by each lay a sable knight.

Still as the dead lay each horseman dread,

And moved nor limb nor tongue; Each steed stood stiff as an earthfast cliff,

Nor hoof nor bridle rung.

No sounds through all the spacious hall The deadly still divide,

Save where echoes aloof from the vaulted roof

To the wanderer's step replied.

At length before his wondering eyes,
On an iron column borne,
Of antique shape, and giant size,
Appear'd a sword and horn.

'Now choose thee here,' quoth his leader,

'Thy venturous fortune try; Thy woe and weal, thy boot and bale,

In yon brand and bugle lie.'

To the fatal brand he mounted his hand, But his soul did quiver and quail; The life-blood did start to his shuddering heart,

And left him wan and pale.

The brand he forsook, and the horn he took

To 'say a gentle sound; But so wild a blast from the bugle brast, That the Cheviot rock'd around. From Forth to Tees, from seas to seas, The awful bugle rung; On Carlisle wall, and Berwick withal, To arms the warders sprung.

With clank and clang the cavern rang,

The steeds did stamp and neigh; And loud was the yell as each warrior fell

Sterte up with hoop and cry.

'Woe, woe,' they cried, thou caitiff coward,

'That ever thou wert born! Why drew ye not the knightly sword Before ye blew the horn?'

The morning on the mountain shone,
And on the bloody ground,
Hurl'd from the cave with shiver'd
bone,

The mangled wretch was found.

And still beneath the cavern dread,
Among the glidders grey,

A shapeless stone with lichens spread
Marks where the wanderer lay.