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 45 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; 50 But the sea-caves rung, and the wild winds sung The dirge of lovely Rosabelle! * * * * * =LOCHINVAR.= O, young Lochinvar is come out of the west, Through all the wild border his steed was the best; And, save his good broadsword, he weapons had none, He rode all unarm’d, and he rode all alone. So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, 5 There never was knight like the young Lochinvar. He staid not for brake, and he stopp’d not for stone, He swam the Esk river where ford there was none; But ere he alighted at Netherby gate, The bride had consented, the gallant came late; 10 For a laggard in love and a dastard in war, Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar. So boldly he enter’d the Netherby Hall, Among bride’s-men, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all: Then spoke the bride’s father, his hand on his sword, 15 (For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word,) “O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?”— “I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied;— Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide— 20 And now am I come, with this lost love of mine To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine. There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar.” The bride kiss’d the goblet: the knight took it up, 25 He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup. She look’d down to blush, and she look’d up to sigh, With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye, He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar,— “Now tread we a measure!” said young Lochinvar. 30 So stately his form, and so lovely her face, There never a hall such a galliard did grace; While her mother did fret and her father did fume, And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume; And the bride-maidens whispered, “’Twere better by far 35 To have match’d our fair cousin with young Lochinvar.” One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, When they reach’d the hall-door, and the charger stood near; So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung, So light to the saddle before her he sprung! 40 “She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur; They’ll have fleet steeds that follow,” quoth young Lochinvar.