THE COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. Walter Scott

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      ‘Hear, lady, yet a parting word!—

       It chanced in fight that my poor sword

       Preserved the life of Scotland’s lord.

       This ring the grateful Monarch gave,

       And bade, when I had boon to crave,

       To bring it back, and boldly claim

       The recompense that I would name.

       Ellen, I am no courtly lord,

       But one who lives by lance and sword,

       Whose castle is his helm and shield,

       His lordship the embattled field.

       What from a prince can I demand,

       Who neither reck of state nor land?

       Ellen, thy hand—the ring is thine;

       Each guard and usher knows the sign.

       Seek thou the King without delay;

       This signet shall secure thy way:

       And claim thy suit, whate’er it be,

       As ransom of his pledge to me.’

       He placed the golden circlet on,

       Paused—kissed her hand—and then was gone.

       The aged Minstrel stood aghast,

       So hastily FitzJames shot past.

       He joined his guide, and wending down

       The ridges of the mountain brown,

       Across the stream they took their way

       That joins Loch Katrine to Achray.

       XX

      All in the Trosachs’ glen was still,

       Noontide was sleeping on the hill:

       Sudden his guide whooped loud and high—

       ‘Murdoch! was that a signal cry?’—

       He stammered forth, ‘I shout to scare

       Yon raven from his dainty fare.’

       He looked—he knew the raven’s prey,

       His own brave steed: ‘Ah! gallant gray!

       For thee—for me, perchance—‘t were well

       We ne’er had seen the Trosachs’ dell.—

       Murdoch, move first–but silently;

       Whistle or whoop, and thou shalt die!’

       Jealous and sullen on they fared,

       Each silent, each upon his guard.

       XXI

      Now wound the path its dizzy ledge

       Around a precipice’s edge,

       When lo! a wasted female form,

       Blighted by wrath of sun and storm,

       In tattered weeds and wild array,

       Stood on a cliff beside the way,

       And glancing round her restless eye,

       Upon the wood, the rock, the sky,

       Seemed naught to mark, yet all to spy.

       Her brow was wreathed with gaudy broom;

       With gesture wild she waved a plume

       Of feathers, which the eagles fling

       To crag and cliff from dusky wing;

       Such spoils her desperate step had sought,

       Where scarce was footing for the goat.

       The tartan plaid she first descried,

       And shrieked till all the rocks replied;

       As loud she laughed when near they drew,

       For then the Lowland garb she knew;

       And then her hands she wildly wrung,

       And then she wept, and then she sung—

       She sung!—the voice, in better time,

       Perchance to harp or lute might chime;

       And now, though strained and roughened, still

       Rung wildly sweet to dale and hill.

       XXII

       Song.

      They bid me sleep, they bid me pray,

       They say my brain is warped and wrung—

       I cannot sleep on Highland brae,

       I cannot pray in Highland tongue.

       But were I now where Allan glides,

       Or heard my native Devan’s tides,

       So sweetly would I rest, and pray

       That Heaven would close my wintry day!

      ‘Twas thus my hair they bade me braid,

       They made me to the church repair;

       It was my bridal morn they said,

       And my true love would meet me there.

       But woe betide the cruel guile

       That drowned in blood the morning smile!

       And woe betide the fairy dream!

       I only waked to sob and scream.

       XXIII

      ‘Who is this maid? what means her lay?

       She hovers o’er the hollow way,

       And flutters wide her mantle gray,

       As the lone heron spreads his wing,

       By twilight, o’er a haunted spring.’

       ”Tis Blanche of Devan,’ Murdoch said,

       ‘A crazed and captive Lowland maid,

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