Go, Mary Scott, thy spirit meek

Lay open to the searcher's eye; And let the tear bedew thy cheek, Thy sins are of a crimson dye.

For many a lover thou hast slain,
And many yet lies sick for thee-
Young Gilmanscleuch and Deloraine,
And Pringle, lord of Torwoodlee.

Tell

every

wish thy bosom near,

No other sin, dear maid, hast thou;

And well the abbot loves to hear

Thy plights of love and simple vow.

"Why stays my Mary Scott so long?

What guilt can youth and beauty wail? Of fervent thought and passion strong,

Heavens! what a sickening tedious tale!"

O lady, cease; the maiden's mind,

Though pure as morning's cloudless beam,

A crime in every wish can find,

In noontide glance, and midnight dream.

To woman's heart when fair and free,
Her sins seem great and manifold;
When sunk in guilt and misery,

No crime can then her soul behold.

"Tis sweet to see the opening flower Spread its fair bosom to the sun; "Tis sweet to hear in vernal bower

The thrush's earliest hymn begun :

But sweeter far the prayer

that wrings

The tear from maiden's beaming eye;

And sweeter far the hymn she sings

In grateful holy ecstacy.

The mass was said, but cold and dry

That mass to Heaven the father sent; With book, and bead, and rosary,

The abbot to his chamber went.

The watch-dog rests with folded eye
Beneath the portal's gray festoon;

The wildered Ettrick wanders bye,

Loud murmuring to the careless moon.

The warder lists with hope and dread
Far distant shout of fray begun;

The cricket tunes his tiny reed,

And harps behind the embers dun.

Why does the warder bend his head,

And silent stand the casement near?

The cricket stops his little reed,

The sound of gentle step to hear.

O many a wight from Border brake

Has reaved the drowsy warden round;

And many a daughter lain awake,

When parents trowed them sleeping sound.

The abbot's bed is well down spread,

The abbot's bed is soft and fair,

The abbot's bed is cold as lead

For why?-the abbot is not there.

Was that the blast of bugle, borne

Far on the night-wind, wavering shrill?

"Tis nothing but the shepherd's horn That keeps the watch on Cacra hill.

What means the warder's answering note?
The moon is west, 'tis near the day;
I thought I heard the warrior's shout,
'Tis time the abbot were away!

The bittern mounts the morning air;

And rings the sky with quavering croon ;

The watch-dog sallies from his lair,

And bays the wind and setting moon.

"Tis not the breeze, nor bittern's wail,

Has roused the guarder from his den;

Along the bank, in belt and mail,

Comes Tushilaw and all his men.

The abbot, from his casement, saw
The forest chieftain's proud array;
He heard the voice of Tushilaw-

The abbot's heart grew cold as clay!

"Haste, maidens, call my lady fair, That room may for my warriors be; And bid my daughter come and share

The cup of joy with them and me.