Or who may dare on wold to wear The fairies' fatal green? "Up, Urgan, up! to yon mortal hie, For thou wert christen'd man; For cross or sign thou wilt not fly, For mutter'd word or ban. "Lay on him the curse of the wither'd heart, The curse of the sleepless eye; Till he wish and pray that his life would part, Nor yet find leave to die." 'Tis merry,'tis merry, in good greenwood, Though the birds have still'd their singing; The evening blaze doth Alice raise, And Richard is fagots bringing. Up Urgan starts, that hideous dwarf Before Lord Richard stands, And as he cross'd and bless'd himself, "I fear not sign," quoth the grisly elf, "That is made with bloody hands." But out then spoke she, Alice Brand, That woman void of fear,-- "And if there's blood upon his hand, 'Tis but the blood of deer."-- "Now loud thou liest, thou bold of mood! It cleaves unto his hand, The stain of thine own kindly blood, The blood of Ethert Brand." Then forward stepp'd she, Alice Brand, And made the holy sign,-- "And if there's blood on Richard's hand, A spotless hand is mine. "And I conjure thee, Demon elf, By Him whom Demons fear, To show us whence thou art thyself, And what thine errand here."-- "'Tis merry,'tis merry in Fairy-land, When fairy birds are singing, When the court doth ride by their monarch's side, With bit and bridle ringing: "And gaily shines the Fairy-land-- But all is glistening show, Like the idle gleam that December's beam Can dart on ice and snow. "And fading, like that varied gleam, Is our inconstant shape, Who now like knight and lady seem, And now like dwarf and ape. "It was between the night and day, When the Fairy King has power, That I sank down in a sinful fray, And 'twixt life and death was snatched away To the joyless Elfin bower. "But wist I of a woman bold, Who thrice my brow durst sign, I might regain my mortal mold, As fair a form as thine." She cross'd him once--she cross'd him twice-- That lady was so brave; The fouler grew his goblin hue, The darker grew the cave. She cross'd him thrice, that lady bold; He rose beneath her hand The fairest knight on Scottish mold, Her brother, Ethert Brand! Merry it is in good greenwood, When the mavis and merle are singing, But merrier were they in Dunfermline grey, When all the bells were ringing. ----W. Scott. JOCK OF HAZELDEAN |Why weep ye by the tide, ladie? Why weep ye by the tide? I'll wed ye to my youngest son, And ye sail be his bride: And ye sall be his bride, ladie, Sae comely to be seen"-- But aye she loot the tears down fa' For Jock of Hazeldean. "Now let this wilfu' grief be done, And dry that cheek so pale; Young Frank is chief of Errington,