--O'er Roslin all that dreary night A wondrous blaze was seen to gleam; 'Twas broader than the watch-fire's light, And redder than the bright moonbeam. It glared on Roslin's castled rock, It ruddied all the copse-wood glen; 'Twas seen from Dryden's groves of oak, And seen from cavern'd Hawthornden. Seem'd all on fire that chapel proud Where Roslin's chiefs uncoffin'd lie, Each Baron, for a sable shroud, Sheathed in his iron panoply. Seem'd all on fire within, around, Deep sacristy and altar's pale; Shone every pillar foliage-bound, And glimmer'd all the dead men's mail. Blazed battlement and pinnet high, Blazed every rose-carved buttress fair-- So still they blaze, when fate is nigh The lordly line of high Saint Clair. There are twenty of Roslin's barons bold Lie buried within that proud chapelle; Each one the holy vault doth hold But the sea holds lovely Rosabelle. And each Saint Clair was buried there, With candle, with book, and with knell; But the sea-caves rung, and the wild winds sung The dirge of lovely Rosabelle. PROUD MAISIE PROUD Maisie is in the wood, Walking so early; Sweet Robin sits on the bush, Singing so rarely. 'Tell me, thou bonny bird, When shall I marry me?'-- 'When six braw gentlemen Kirkward shall carry ye.' 'Who makes the bridal bed, Birdie, say truly?'-- 'The grey-headed sexton That delves the grave duly. The glowworm o'er grave and stone Shall light thee steady; The owl from the steeple sing Welcome, proud lady.' _THOMAS CAMPBELL_ LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER A CHIEFTAIN to the Highlands bound, Cries,'Boatman, do not tarry! And I'll give thee a silver pound To row us o'er the ferry.' 'Now, who be ye would cross Lochgyle, This dark and stormy water?' 'Oh, I'm the chief of Ulva's isle, And this Lord Ullin's daughter. 'And fast before her father's men Three days we've fled together; For, should he find us in the glen My blood would stain the heather. 'His horsemen hard behind us ride; Should they our steps discover, Then who will cheer my bonny bride When they have slain her lover?' Out spoke the hardy island wight, 'I'll go, my chief--I'm ready It is not for your silver bright; But for your winsome lady: 'And by my word, the bonny bird In danger shall not tarry; So, though the waves are raging white, I'll row you o'er the ferry.' By this the storm grew loud apace, The water-wraith was shrieking; And in the scowl of heaven each face Grew dark as they were speaking. But still as wilder blew the wind, And as the night grew drearer, Adown the glen rode armed men, Their trampling sounded nearer. Oh! haste thee, haste!' the lady cries, 'Though tempests round us gather; I'll meet the raging of the skies, But not an angry father.' The boat has left a stormy land, A stormy sea before her,-- When, oh! too strong for human hand, The tempest gathered o'er her. And still they rowed amidst the roar Of waters fast prevailing; Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore, His wrath was changed to wailing.