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 helinet 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 stood.

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 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?"

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.

"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 shouldst not say me nay; For the eve is sweet, and when lovers

meet

Is worth the whole summer's day.

"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 starkSo I may not trust thy tale.

"Where fair Tweed flows round holy Melrose,

And Eildon slopes to the plain, Full three nights ago by some secret foe That gay gallant was slain.

"The varying light deceived thy sight, And the wild winds drowned the name;

For the Dryburgh bells ring and the white monks do sing

For Sir Richard of Coldinghame!"

He passed the court-gate and he oped the tower-gate,

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;
Looked over hill and vale;

Over Tweed's fair flood and Mertoun's wood,

And all down Teviotdale.

"Now hail, now hail, thou lady bright!" Now hail, thou baron true!

What news, what news, from Ancram fight?

What news from the bold Buccleuch!"

"The Ancram moor is red with gore,
For many a Southern fell;
And Buccleuch has charged us evermore
To watch our beacons well."

The lady blushed red, but nothing she said:

Nor added the baron a word: Then she stepped down the stair to her chamber fair,

And so did her moody lord.

In sleep the lady mourned, and the baron tossed and turned,

And oft to himself he said,—

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 dashed his carbine on the ground.

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

To drink a tyrant's dying groan.

"Your slaughtered 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 marched he, While Knox relaxed 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 marked where mingling in his band Trooped Scottish pipes and English bows.

"Dark Morton, girt with many a spear, Murder's foul minion, led the van; And clashed 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 pennoned 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 lugha, Seemed marshalling the iron throng.