Where fair Tweed flows round holy Melrose,

And Eildon slopes to the plain,

Full three nights ago, by some secret foe,
That gay gallant was slain.

The varying light deceived thy sight,

And the wild winds drown'd the name;

For the Dryburgh bells ring, and the white monks do sing,
For Sir Richard of Coldinghame!'

He pass'd the court-gate, and he oped the tower-grate,
And he mounted the narrow stair,

To the bartizan seat, where, with maids that on her wait,
He found his lady fair.

That lady sat in mournful mood;

Look'd over hill and vale;

Over Tweed's fair flood, and Mertoun's wood,

And all down Teviotdale.

'Now hail, now hail, thou lady bright!'

'Now hail, thou Baron true!

What news, what news, from Ancram fight?
What news from the bold Buccleuch ?'

'The Ancram moor is red with gore,

For many a southern fell;

And Buccleuch has charged us, evermore,

To watch our beacons well.'

The lady blush'd red, but nothing she said;

Nor added the Baron a word:

Then she stepp'd down the stair to her chamber fair,

And so did her moody lord.

In sleep the lady mourn'd, and the Baron toss'd and turn'd,
And oft to himself he said-

'The worms around him creep, and his bloody grave is deep

It cannot give up the dead!'

It was near the ringing of matin-bell,

The night was well nigh done,

When a heavy sleep on that Baron fell,
On the eve of good St. John.

The lady look'd through the chamber fair,
By the light of a dying flame ;

And she was aware of a knight stood there--
Sir Richard of Coldinghame!

'Alas! away, away!' she cried,

For the holy Virgin's sake!

Lady, I know who sleeps by thy side;
But, lady, he will not awake.

'By Eildon tree, for long nights three, In bloody grave have I lain;

The mass and the death-prayer are said for me, But, lady, they are said in vain.

'By the Baron's brand, near Tweed's fair strand, Most foully slain, I fell;

And my restless sprite on the beacon's height,
For a space is doom'd to dwell.

'At our trysting-place, for a certain space,

I must wander to and fro;

But I had not had power to come to thy bower, Had'st thou not conjured me so.'-

Love master'd fear-her brow she cross'd;
'How, Richard, hast thou sped?
And art thou saved, or art thou lost? '
The Vision shook his head!

'Who spilleth life, shall forfeit life;

So bid thy lord believe:

That lawless love is guilt above,

This awful sign receive.'

He laid his left palm on an oaken beam;
His right upon her hand:

The lady shrunk, and fainting sunk,
For it scorch'd like a fiery brand.

The sable score, of fingers four,
Remains on that board impress'd;
And for evermore that lady wore
A covering on her wrist.

There is a nun in Dryburgh bower,
Ne'er looks upon the sun:
There is a monk in Melrose tower,
He speaketh word to none.

That nun, who ne'er beholds the day,
That monk, who speaks to none-
That nun was Smaylho'me's Lady gay,

That monk the bold Baron.

SCOTT.

LEADER HAUGHS

SING Erlington and Cowdenknowes where Homes had ance commanding,

And Drygrange with the milk-white ewes, 'twixt Tweed and Leader

standing.

The bird that flees through Reedpath trees, and Gledswood banks

ilk morrow,

May chant and sing sweet Leader Haughs, and bonny howms of

Yarrow.

But Minstrel Burn cannot assuage his grief while life endureth,
To see the changes of this age that fleeting time procureth,

For mony a place stands in hard case, where blyth folk kenned nae

sorrow,

With Homes that dwelt on Leader braes, and Scott that dwelt on

Yarrow.

MINSTREL BURN.

EPITAPH ON A HARE

HERE lies, whom hound did ne'er pursue,
Nor swifter greyhound follow,
Whose foot ne'er tainted morning dew,
Nor ear heard huntsman's halloo;

Old Tiney, surliest of his kind,
Who, nursed with tender care,
And to domestic bounds confined,
Was still a wild Jack hare.

Though duly from my hand he took
His pittance every night,

He did it with a jealous look,

And, when he could, would bite.

His diet was of wheaten bread,
And milk, and oats, and straw;

Thistles, or lettuces instead,

With sand to scour his maw.

On twigs of hawthorn he regaled,
On pippins' russet peel,

And, when his juicy salads failed,
Sliced carrot pleased him well.

A Turkey carpet was his lawn,
Whereon he loved to bound,
To skip and gambol like a fawn,
And swing his rump around.

His frisking was at evening hours,
For then he lost his fear,

But most before approaching showers,
Or when a storm drew near.

Eight years and five round rolling moons

He thus saw steal away,

Dozing out all his idle noons,
And every night at play.

I kept him for his humour's sake,
For he would oft beguile

My heart of thoughts that made it ache,
And force me to a smile.

But now beneath his walnut shade
He finds his long last home,
And waits, in snug concealment laid,
Till gentler Puss shall come.

He, still more aged, feels the shocks
From which no care can save,
And, partner once of Tiney's box,
Must soon partake his grave.

BATTLE OF OTTERBOURNE

IT fell about the Lammas tide,
When the muir-men win their hay,
The doughty Earl of Douglas rode
Into England, to catch a prey.

He chose the Gordons and the Graemes,
With them the Lindesays, light and gay;
But the Jardines wald not with him ride,
And they rue it to this day.

And he has burn'd the dales of Tyne,
And part of Bambrough shire :
And three good towers on Roxburgh fells,
He left them all on fire.

COWPER.