In sleep the lady mourn'd, and the Baron toss'd and turn'd,

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 look'd 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 doom'd 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, Had'st 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 palm on an oaken beam;
His right upon her hand:

The lady shrunk, and fainting sunk,
For it scorch'd like a fiery brand.

The sable score, of fingers four,
Remains on that board impress'd;
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.

SCOTT.

Leader Haughs

SING Erlington and Cowdenknowes where Homes had ance commanding,

And Drygrange with the milk-white ewes, 'twixt Tweed and Leader standing.

The bird that flees through Reedpath trees, and Gledswood banks ilk morrow,

May chant and sing sweet Leader Haughs, and bonny howms of Yarrow.

But Minstrel Burn cannot assuage his grief while life endureth,

To see the changes of this age that fleeting time procureth,

For mony a place stands in hard case, where blyth folk

kenned nae sorrow,

With Homes that dwelt on Leader braes, and Scott that dwelt on Yarrow.

MINSTREL BURN.

Epitaph on a Hare

HERE lies, whom hound did ne'er pursue
Nor swifter greyhound follow,
Whose foot ne'er tainted morning dew,
Nor ear heard huntsman's halloo;

Old Tiney, surliest of his kind,
Who, nursed with tender care,
And to domestic bounds confined,
Was still a wild Jack hare.

Though duly from my hand he took
His pittance every night,
He did it with a jealous look,
And, when he could, would bite.

His diet was of wheaten bread,
And milk, and oats, and straw;
Thistles, or lettuces instead,

With sand to scour his maw.

On twigs of hawthorn he regaled,
On pippins' russet peel,
And, when his juicy salads failed,
Sliced carrot pleased him well.

A Turkey carpet was his lawn,
Whereon he loved to bound,
To skip and gambol like a fawn,
And swing his rump around.

His frisking was at evening hours,
For then he lost his fear,

But most before approaching showers,
Or when a storm drew near.

Eight years and five round rolling moons

He thus saw steal away,

Dozing out all his idle noons,

And every night at play.

I kept him for his humour's sake,
For he would oft beguile

My heart of thoughts that made it ache,
And force me to a smile.

But now beneath his walnut shade
He finds his long last home,
And waits, in snug concealment laid,
Till gentler Puss shall come.

He, still more aged, feels the shocks
From which no care can save,
And, partner once of Tiney's box.
Must soon partake his grave.

COWPER.

Battle of Otterbourne

IT fell about the Lammas tide,
When the muir-men win their hay,
The doughty Earl of Douglas rode
Into England, to catch a prey.

He chose the Gordons and the Graemes,
With them the Lindesays, light and gay;
But the Jardines wald not with him ride,
And they rue it to this day.

And he has burn'd the dales of Tyne,
And part of Bambrough shire:
And three good towers on Roxburgh fells,
He left them all on fire.

And he march'd up to Newcastle,

And rode it round about; 'O wha's the lord of this castle, Or wha's the lady o't?'

But up spake proud Lord Percy, then,

And O but he spake hie!

'I am the lord of this castle,

My wife's the lady gay!'

'If thou'rt the lord of this castle,
Sae weel it pleases me!

For, ere I cross the border fells,
The tane of us sall die.'

He took a lang spear in his hand,
Shod with the metal free,

And for to meet the Douglas there,
He rode right furiouslie.

But O how pale his lady look'd,
Frae aff the castle wa',

When down, before the Scottish spear,
She saw proud Percy fa'.

'Had we twa been upon the green,
And never an eye to see,

I wad hae had you, flesh and fell;
But your sword sall gae wi' mee.'

'But gae ye up to Otterbourne
And wait there dayis three;
And, if I come not ere three dayis end,
A fause knight ca' ye me.'

'The Otterbourne's a bonnie burn;
'Tis pleasant there to be;

But there is nought at Otterbourne,
To feed my men and me.

'The deer rins wild on hill and dale,
The birds fly wild from tree to tree;
But there is neither bread nor kale,
To fend1 my men and me.

'Yet I will stay at Otterbourne,

Where you sall welcome be;

And, if ye come not at three dayis end,
A fause lord I'll ca' thee.'

'Thither will I come,' proud Percy said,
By the might of Our Ladye!'-
'There will I bide thee,' said the Douglas,
'My trowth I plight to thee.'

They lighted high on Otterbourne,
Upon the bent sae brown;
They lighted high on Otterbourne,
And threw their pallions down.
Fend, 'support.'