The abbot from his casement high
Looked out to see the peep of day;
The scene that met the abbot's eye

Filled him with wonder and dismay.

"Twas not the dews of dawning mild,

The mountain's hues of silver gray, Nor yet the Ettrick's windings wild, By belted holm and bosky brae;

Nor moorland Rankleburn, that raved

By covert, clough, and greenwood shaw;

Nor dappled flag of day, that waved

In streamers pale from Gilmans-law:

But many a doubted ox there lay
At rest upon the castle lea;
And there he saw his gallant gray,

And all the steeds of Torwoodlee.

"Beshrew the wont !" the abbot said,

"The charge runs high for lodging here; The guard is deep, the path way-laid,

My homilies shall cost me dear.

"Come well, come woe, with dauntless core

I'll kneel, and con my breviary;

If Tushilaw is versed in lore,

"Twill be an awkward game

with me."

Now Tushilaw he waked and slept,

And dreamed and thought till noontide hour;

But

aye this query upmost kept, "What seeks the abbot in my

tower ?"

Stern Tushilaw came down the stair

With doubtful and indignant eye, And found the holy man at prayer,

With book, and cross, and rosary.

"To book, to book, thou reaver red,

Of absolution thou hast need;

The sword of Heaven hangs o'er thy head, Death is thy doom and hell thy meed !"—

"I'll take my chance, thou priest of sin,
Thy absolutions I disdain;

But I will noose thy bearded chin,
If thus thou talkest to me again.

“Declare thy business and thy name, Or short the route to thee is given !""The abbot I of Coldinghame,

My errand is the cause of Heaven."

"That shalt thou prove ere we two part;
Some robber thou, or royal spy:
But, villain, I will search thy heart,

And chain thee in the deep to lie!

Hence with thy rubbish, hest and ban, Whinyards to keep the weak in awe;

The scorn of Heaven, the shame of manNo books nor beads for Tushilaw !"

"Oh! lost to mercy, faith, and love! Thy bolts and chains are nought to me;

I'll call an angel from above,

That soon will set the pris'ner free."

Bold Tushilaw, o'er strone and steep,
Pursues the roe and dusky deer;

The abbot lies in dungeon deep,

The maidens wail, the matrons fear.

The sweetest flower on Ettrick shaw

Bends its fair form o'er grated keep;

Young Mary Scott of Tushilaw

Sleeps but to sigh, and wakes to weep.

Q

4

Bold Tushilaw, with horn and hound,

Pursues the deer o'er holt and lea;

And rides and rules the Border round,
From Philiphaugh to Gilnockye.

His page rode down by Melrose fair,
His page rode down by Coldinghame;

But not a priest was missing there,

Nor abbot, friar, nor monk of name.

The evening came; it was the last

The abbot in this world should see;
The bonds are firm, the bolts are fast,

No angel comes to set him free.

Yes, at the stillest hour of night

Softly unfolds the iron door;

Beamed through the gloom unwonted light,

That light a beauteous angel bore.