'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 clamour'd 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 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 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 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 should'st 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 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 turn'd him around, and grimly he frown'd ;
Then he laugh'd right scornfully-

'He who says the mass-rite for the soul of that knight May as well say mass 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 low laid in the mould
All under the Eildon-tree.'

'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 drown'd the name;

For the Dryburgh bells ring, and the white monks do

sing,

For Sir Richard of Coldinghame!

He pass'd 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 wait, He found his lady fair.

That lady sat in mournful mood;

Look'd 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 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 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.