Fair was the form that o'er him hung, And fair the hands that set him free; The trembling whispers of her tongue Softer than seraph's melody.

The abbot's soul was all on flame,

Wild transport through his bosom ran;

For never angel's airy frame

Was half so sweet to mortal man!

Why walks young Mary Scott so late,

In veil and cloak of cramasye?

The porter opens wide the gate,

His bonnet moves, and bends his knee.

Long may the wondering porter wait,
Before the lady form return;

"Speed, abbot, speed, nor halt nor bate,

Nor look thou back to Rankleburn!"

The day arrives, the ladies plead
In vain for yon mysterious wight;
For Tushilaw his doom decreed,

Were he an abbot, lord, or knight.

The chieftain called his warriors stout,

And ranged them round the gallows tree,

Then bade them bring the abbot out,

The fate of fraud that all might see.

The men return of sense bereft,

Faulter their tongues, their eye-balls glare;

The door was locked, the fetters left

All close! the abbot was not there!

The wondering warriors bow to God,
And matins to the virgin hum;
But Tushilaw he gloomed and strode,

And walked into the castle dumb.

But to the Virgin's sacred name

The vow was paid in many a cell;

And many a rich oblation came,

For that amazing miracle.

Lord Pringle walked his glens alone,
Nor flock nor lowing herd he saw;

But even the king upon the throne
Quaked at the name of Tushilaw.

Lord Pringle's heart was all on flame,
Nor peace nor joy his bosom knew,
"Twas for the kindest, sweetest dame,
That ever brushed the Forest dew.

Gone is one month with smile and sigh, With dream by night and wish by day;

A second came with moistened eye;

Another came and passed away.

Why is the flower of yonder pile

Bending its stem to court decay,

And Mary Scott's benignant smile
Like sun-beam in a winter day?

Sometimes her colour's like the rose,
Sometimes 'tis like the lily pale;

The flower that in the forest grows
Is fallen before the summer gale.

A mother's fostering breast is warm,

And dark her doubts of love I ween:

For why?-she felt its early harm—
A mother's eye is sharp and keen!

"Tis done! the woman stands revealed! Stern Tushilaw is waked to see; The bearded priest so well concealed,

Was Pringle, lord of Torwoodlee !

Oh never was the thunder's jar,

The red tornado's wasting wing,

Nor all the elemental war,

Like fury of the Border king.

He laughed aloud-his faulchion eyed

A laugh of burning vengeance born!— "Does thus the coward trow," he cried,

"To hold his conqueror's power to scorn!

"Thinks Tushilaw of maids or wives,

Or such a thing as Torwoodlee!

Had Mary Scott a thousand lives,

These lives were all too few for me!

"Ere midnight, in the secret cave,

This sword shall pierce her bosom's core,

Though I go childless to my grave,

And rue the deed for evermore!