Yet was his helmet hack'd and hew'd, 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 my ladye 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 clamor'd from the moss, The wind blew loud and shrill; Yet the craggy pathway she did cross To the eiry Beacon Hill.

"I watch'd 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 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 night was fair, And the mountain-blast was still, As again I watch'd 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 the 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 strew'd on the stair: So by the black-rood stone, and by holy St. John, I 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 a chamber to the east, And my foot-step 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 ma.s.s, till three days do pa.s.s, For the soul of a knight that is slayne.'

"He turn'd him around and grimly he frown'd; Then he laugh'd right scornfully-- 'He who says the ma.s.s-rite for the soul of that knight, May as well say ma.s.s for me!

"'At the lone midnight hour, when bad spirits have power, 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."

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

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

"Yet hear but my word, my n.o.ble 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 the 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 drown'd the name; For the Dryburgh bells ring, and the white monks do sing, For Sir Richard of Coldinghame!"

He pa.s.s'd 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; Look'd o'er 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 Southron fell; And Buccleuch has charged us, evermore, To watch our beacons well."--

The lady blush'd red, but nothing she said: Nor added the Baron a word, Then she stepp'd down the stair to her chamber fair, And so did her moody lord.

In sleep the lady mourn'd and the Baron toss'd and turn'd, And oft to himself he said:-- "The worms round him creep, and his b.l.o.o.d.y 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 look'd through the chamber fair, By the light of the 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 wake.

"By Eildon-tree, for long nights three, In b.l.o.o.d.y grave have I lain; The ma.s.s 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 s.p.a.ce is doom'd to dwell.

"At our trysting place, for a certain s.p.a.ce, I must wander to and fro, But I had not had power to come to thy bower, Hadst thou not conjured me so."

Love master'd fear--her brow she cross'd; "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 hand 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 impress'd, And forever more 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 that speaks to none,-- That Nun was Smaylho'me's Lady gay, That monk the bold Baron.

FAIR MARGARET'S MISFORTUNES