The sable score, of fingers four,
Remains on that board impress'd;
And for evermore that lady wore
A covʼring on her wrist.

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 goy,
That Monk the bold Baron.

ADDRESSED TO

THE RIGHT HON. LADY ANNE HAMILTON.

[In detailing the death of the regent Murray, which f made the subject of the following ballad, it would be injustice to my reader to use other words than those of Dr. Robertson, whose account of that memorable event forms a beautiful piece of historical painting.

This

"Hamilton of Bothwellhaugh was the person who committed this barbarous action. He had been condemned to death soon after the battle of Langside, as we have already related, and owed his life to the regent's clemency. But part of his estate had been bestowed upon one of the regent's favourites, who seized his house, and turned out his wife naked, in a cold night, into the open fields, where, before next morning, she became furiously mad. injury made a deeper impression on him than the benefit he had received, and from that moment he vowed to be revenged of the regent. Party rage strengthened and inflamed his private resentment. His kinsmen, the Hamiltons, applauded the enterprise. The maxims of that age justified the most desperate course he could take to obtain vengeance. He followed the regent for some time, and watched for an opportunity to strike the blow. He resolved, at last, to wait till his enemy should arrive at Linlithgow, through which he was to pass, in his way from Stirling 'to Edinburgh. He took his stand in a wooden gallery, which had a window towards the street; spread a feather-bed on the floor, to hinder the noise of his feet from being heard; hung up a black cloth behind him, that his shadow might not be observed from without; and, after all this preparation, calmly expected the regent's approach, who had lodged, during the night, in a house not far distant. Some indistinct information of the danger which threatened him had been conveyed to the regent, and he paid so much regard to it, that he resolved to return by the same gate through which he had entered, and to fetch a compass round the town. But, as the crowd about the gate was great, and he himself unacquainted with fear, he proceeded directly along the street; and the throng of people obliging him to move very slowly, gave the assassin time to take so true an aim, that he shot him, with a single bullet, through the lower part of his belly, and killed the horse of a gentleman, who rode on his other side. His followers

instantly endeavoured to break into the house, whence the blow had come; but they found the door strongly barricaded, and, before it could be forced open, Hamilton had mounted a fleet horse, which stood ready for him at a back passage, and was got far beyond their reach. The regent died the same night of his wound."-History of Scotland, book v.]

When princely Hamilton's abode

Ennobl'd Cadyow's Gothic tow'rs,
The song went round, the goblet flow'd,
And revel sped the laughing hours.
Then, thrilling to the harp's gay sound,
So sweetly rung each vaulted wall,
And echo'd light the dancer's bound,
As mirth and music cheer'd the hall

But Cadyow's tow'rs, 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-cover'd 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 shagg'd with thorn and tangling slo

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 chequering the moonlight beam.

...

Fades slow their light; the east is grey;
The weary warder leaves his tow'r;
Steeds snort; uncoupl'd stag-hounds bay,
And merry hunters quit the bow'r.
The draw-bridge falls-they hurry out---
Clatters each plank and swinging chain,
As, dashing o'er, the jovial route

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 roe-bucks bound,
The startling red-deer scuds the plain;
For, the hoarse bugle's warrior sound
Has rous'd 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 chace,
That roam in woody Caledon,

Crashing the forest in his race,

The Mountain Bull comes thund'ring on.

Fierce, on the hunters' quiver'd band,
He rolls his eyes of swarthy glow,

Spurns, with black hoof and horn, the sand,
And tosses high his mane of snow.

Aim'd well, the chieftain's lance has flown;
Struggling in blood the savage lies;
His roar is sunk in hollow groan-
Sound, 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 mark'd his clan,
On greenwood lap all careless thrown,
Yet miss'd his eye the boldest man,
That bore the name of Hamilton.

* Pryse-The note blown at the death of the game.

"Why fills not Bothwellhaugh his place, Still wont our weal and woe to share? Why comes he not our sport to grace?

Why shares he not our hunter's fare?"

Stern Claud replied, with dark'ning face,
(Grey Pasley's haughty lord was he)
"At merry feast, or buxom chace,

No more the warrior shalt thou see.

"Few suns have set, since Woodhouselee
Saw Bothwellhaugh's bright goblets foam,
When to his hearths, in social glee,

The war-worn soldier turn'd him home.
"There, wan from her maternal throes,
His Marg❜ret, beautiful and mild,
Sate in her bow'r, a pallid rose,

And peaceful nurs'd her new-born child.
"O change accurs'd! past are those days:
False Murray's ruthless spoilers came,
And, for the hearth's domestic blaze,
Ascends destruction's volum'd flame.

"What sheeted phantom wanders wild,

Where mountain Eske through woodland flows, Her arms enfold a shadowy childOh, is it she, the pallid rose?

"

• The wilder'd trav'ller sees her glide, And hears her feeble voice with awe'Revenge,' she cries, on Murray's pride! And woe for injur'd Bothwellhaugh!' He ceas'd-and cries of rage and grief Burst mingling from the kindred band, And half arose the kindling Chief,

And half unsheath'd his Arran brand.

But who, o'er bush, o'er stream, and rock,
Rides headlong, with resistless speed,
Whose bloody's poniard's frantic stroke
Drives to the leap his jaded steed;

Whose cheek his pale, whose eye-balls 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,