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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;

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 clamoured 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 armèd 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 St. John.'

"I cannot come; I must not come;
I dare not come to thee;

On the eve of St. 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.

"And I'll chain the blood-hound, and the warder
shall not sound,

And rushes shall be strewed on the stair;
So, by the black rood-stone, and by holy St. John,
Í conjure thee, my love, to be there!""

"Though the blood-hound be mute, and the rush
beneath my foot,

And the warder his bugle should not blow,

Yet there sleepeth a priest in the chamber to the east,
And my footstep he would know.'

"O fear not the priest, who sleepeth to the east!
For to Dryburgh' the way he has ta'en;

And there to say mass, till three days do pass,
For the soul of a knight that is slayne."

He turned him around, and grimly he frowned;
Then he laughed right scornfully-

'He who says the mass-rite for the soul of that knight,
May as well say mass for me.

66 6

At the lone midnight hour, when bad spirits have

In thy chamber will I be.'

With that he was gone, and my lady left alone,

And no more did I see."

Then changed, I trow, was that bold Baron's brow,


From the dark to the blood-red high;

Now, tell me the mien of the knight thou hast seen,
For, by Mary, he shall die!"

"His arms shone full bright, in the beacon's red light;
His plume it was scarlet and blue;

On his shield was a hound, in a silver leash bound,
And his crest was a branch of the yew."

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

i Dryburgh Abbey is beautifully situated on the banks of the Tweed. After its dissolution, it became the property of the Halliburtons of Newmains, and is now the seat of the right honourable the earl of Buchan. It belonged to the order of Premonstratenses.

"Thou liest, thou liest, thou little foot-page,
Loud dost thou lie to me !

For that knight is cold, and low laid in the mould,
All under the Eildon-tree." m

"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 stark-

So 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 grate,
And he mounted the narrow stair

To the bartizan-seat, where, with maids that on her


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 inany a Southron 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.

m Eildon is a high hill, terminating in three conical summits, imniediately above the town of Melrose, where are the admired ruins of a magnificent monastery. Eildon-tree is said to be the spot where Thomas the Rhymer uttered his prophecies.

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

And oft to himself he said

"The worms around him creep, and his bloody grave

is deep.

It cannot give up the dead!"

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 St. 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 I lain;

The mass and the death-prayer are said for me,
But, lady, they are said in vain.

"By the Baron's brand, near Tweed's fair strand,

Most foully slain I fell;

And my restless sprite on the beacon's height

For a space is doomed to dwell.

"At our trysting-place, for a certain space

I must wander to and fro;

But I had not had power to come to thy bower,
Hadst thou not conjured me so."

Love mastered fear-her brow she crossed;

66 How, Richard, hast thou sped?

And art thou saved, or art thou lost ?"
The Vision shook his head!

"Who spilleth life, shall forfeit life,
So bid thy lord believe:

That lawless love is guilt above,

This awful sign receive."

He laid his left palm on an oaken beam;
His right upon her hand:

The lady shrunk, and fainting sunk,

For it scorched like a fiery brand.

The sable score, of fingers four,
Remains on that board impressed;
And for evermore that lady wore
A covering 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 gay,
That Monk the bold Baron.




THE ruins of Cadyow, or Cadzow Castle, the ancient baronial residence of the family of Hamilton, are situated upon the precipitous banks of the river Evan, about two miles above its junction with the Clyde. The situation of the ruins, embosomed in wood, darkened by ivy and creeping shrubs, and overhanging the brawling torrent, is romantic in the highest degree. In the immediate vicinity of Cadyow is a grove of immense oaks, the remains of the Caledonian Forest, which anciently extended through the south of Scotland, from the Eastern to the Atlantic Ocean. Some of

n The circumstance of the nun, "who never saw the day," is not entirely imaginary. About fifty years ago, an unfortunate female wanderer took up her residence in a dark vault, among the ruins of Dryburgh Abbey, which, during the day, she never quitted. When night fell, she issued from this miserable habitation, and went to the house of Mr. Halliburton of Newmains, Sir Walter Scott's greatgrandfather, or to that of Mr. Erskine of Sheilfield, two gentlemen of the neighbourhood. From their charity she obtained such necessaries as she could be prevailed upon to accept. At twelve, each night, she lighted her candle and returned to her vault, assuring her friendly neighbours that, during her absence, her habitation was arranged by a spirit, to whom she gave the uncouth name of Fatlips; describing him as a little man, wearing heavy iron shoes, with which he trampled the clay floor of the vault, to dispel the damps. This circumstance caused her to be regarded, by the well-informed, with compassion, as deranged in her understanding; and by the vulgar, with some degree of terror. The cause of her adopting this extraordinary mode of life she would never explain. It was, however, believed to have been occasioned by a vow that, during the absence of a man to whom she was attached, she would never look upon the sun. Her lover never returned. He fell during the civil war of 1745-6, and she never more would behold the light of day. The vault, or rather dungeon, in which this unfortunate woman lived and died, passes still by the name of the supernatural being with which its gloom was tenanted by her disturbed imagination, and few of the neighbouring peasants dare enter it by night.

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