"Woe be to thee, thou wicked dame!

My Mary's prayers and accents mild Might well have rendered vengeance lame—

This hand could ne'er have slain

my

child!

"But thou, in frenzied fatal hour,

Reft the sweet life thou gavest away, And crushed to earth the fairest flower That ever breathed the breeze of day.

"My all is lost, my hope is fled,

The sword shall ne'er be drawn for me; Unblest, unhonoured my gray headMy child! would I had died for thee !"

The bell tolls o'er a new-made grave;

The lengthened funeral train is seen Stemming the Yarrow's silver wave,

And darkening Dryhope holms so green.

When nigh the virgin's fane they drew,

Just by the verge of holy ground,

The Kers and Pringles left the clough,

And hemmed the wondering Scotts around.

Vassal and peasant, seized with dread,

Sped off, and looked not once behind;

And all who came for wine and bread,
Fled like the chaff before the wind.

But all the Scotts together flew,

For every Scott of name was there,—

In sullen mood their weapons drew,
And back to back for fight prepare.

Rough was the onset-boast, nor threat, Nor word, was heard from friend or foe;

At once began the work of fate,

With perilous thrust and deadly blow.

O but the Harden lads were true,

And bore them bravely in the broil! The doughty laird of wild Buccleugh Raged like a lion in the toil.

His sword on bassenet was broke,

The blood was streaming to his heel,

But soon to ward the fatal stroke

Up rattled twenty blades of steel.

Young Raeburn tilted gallantly;

But Ralph of Gilmanscleugh was slain,

Philip and Hugh of Baillilee,

And William laird of Deloraine.

Red Will of Thirlestane came on,

With his long sword and sullen eye;

Jealous of ancient honours won,

Woe to the wight that came him nigh

He was the last the ranks to break,

And, flying, fought full desperately; At length within his feudal lake

He stood, and fought unto the knee.

Wild looked he round from side to side;
No friendly skiff was there that day!
For why? the knight in bootless pride,
Had driven them from the wave away.

Sore did he rue the stern decree!

Red rolled the billow from the west;

And fishes swam indignantly

Deep o'er the hero's boardly breast.

When loud has roared the wintry storm,

Till winds have ceased, and rains are gone,

There oft the shepherd's trembling form

Stands gazing o'er gigantic bone,

Pondering of Time's unstaying tide;

Of ancient chiefs by kinsmen slain ; Of feudal rights, and feudal pride,

And reckless Will of Thirlestane.

But long shall Ettrick rue the strife

That reft her brave and generous son,

Who ne'er in all his restless life

Did unbecoming thing-but one.

Old Tushilaw, with sword in hand,

And heart to fiercest woes a prey,

Seemed courting every foeman's brand, And fought in hottest of the fray.

In vain the gallant kinsmen stood Wedged in a firm and bristled ring; Their funeral weeds are bathed in blood,

No corslets round their bosoms cling.