But late I heard my sister cry,

Dumlanrig, now thy weapon ply.'Her guard waits in yon hollow lea, Beneath the shade of spreading tree."

Dumlanrig's eye with ardour shone;
"Follow !" he cried, and spurred him on.
A close gazoon the horsemen made,
Douglas and Morison the head,

And through the ranks impetuous bore,
By dint of lance and broad claymore,
Mid shouts, and groans of parting life,
For hard and doubtful was the strife.
Behind a knight, firm belted on,

They found the fair May Morison.

But why, through all Dumlanrig's train,
Search her bright eyes, and search in vain?
A stranger mounts her on his steed;
Brave Morison, where art thou fled?
The drivers for their booty feared,

And, soon as Cample-ford was cleared,

To work they fell, and forced away
Across the stream their mighty prey.
The bleating flocks in terror ran
Across the bloody breast of man;
Even the dull cattle gazed with dread,
And, lowing, foundered o'er the dead.

The Southrons still the fight maintain; Though broke, they closed and fought again, Till shouting drivers gave the word,

That all the flocks had cleared the ford;
Then to that pass the bands retire,
And safely braved Dumlanrig's ire.
Rashly he tried, and tried in vain,
That steep, that fatal path to gain ;
Madly prolonged th' unequal fray,
And lost his men, and lost the day.
Amid the battle's fiercest shock,
Three spears were on his bosom broke,
Then forced in flight to seek remede.
Had it not been his noble steed,

That swift away his master bore,

He ne'er had seen Dumlanrig more.

The day-beam, from his moonlight sleep,

O'er Queensberry began to peep,

Kneeled drowsy on the mountain fern,
At length rose tiptoe on the cairn,
Embracing, in his bosom pale,

The stars, the moon, and shadowy dale.
Then what a scene appalled the view,
On Cample-moor, as dawning grew!
Along the purple heather spread,
Lay mixed the dying and the dead;
Stern foemen there from quarrel cease,
Who ne'er before had met in peace.
Two kinsmen good the Douglas lost,
And full three hundred of his host;
With one by him lamented most,
The flower of all the Nithsdale men,
Young Morison of Locherben.

The Southrons did no foot pursue,

Nor seek the conflict to renew.

They knew not at the rising sun

What mischief they'd to Douglas done,

But to the south pursued their way,

Glad to escape with such a prey.

Brave Douglas, where thy pride of weir?

How stinted in thy bold career!

Woe, that the Lowther eagle's look

Should shrink before the Lowland rook!

Woe, that the lordly lion's paw

Of ravening wolves should sink in awe!

But doubly woe, the purple heart

Should tarnished from the field depart!

Was it the loss of kinsmen dear,
Or crusted scratch of Southron spear?

Was it thy dumb thy sullen host,

Thy glory by misconduct lost?

Or thy proud bosom, swelling high,

Made the round tear roll in thine eye?
Ah! no; thy heart was doomed to prove
The sharper pang of slighted love.

What vision lingers on the heath,
Flitting across the field of death;
Its gliding motion, smooth and still

As vapour on the twilight hill,

Or the last ray of falling even

Shed through the parting clouds of heaven?

Is it a sprite that roams forlorn?

Or angel from the bowers of morn,
Come down a tear of heaven to shed,
In pity o'er the valiant dead?

No vain, no fleeting phantom this!
No vision from the bowers of bliss!

Its radiant eye, and stately tread,
Bespeak some beauteous mountain maid;