"'Tis not because the ring they ride-- And Lindesay at the ring rides well-- But that my sire the wine will chide If 'tis not filled by Rosabelle." O'er Roslin all that dreary night, A wondrous blaze was seen to gleam, 'Twas broader than the watchfire's light, And redder than the bright moonbeam. It glared on Roslin's castled rock, It ruddied all the copsewood glen, 'Twas seen from Dryden's grove of oak, And seen from cavern'd Hawthornden. Seem'd all on fire that chapel proud, Where Roslin's chiefs uncoffined lie, Each baron, for a sable shroud, Sheathed in his iron panoply. Seem'd all on fire, within, around, Deep sacristy and altar 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 St. 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 St. 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. We now pass over a bridge of great height, spanning a deep cut in the solid rock, and reach Roslin Castle, with its triple tier of vaults, standing upon a peninsular rock overhanging the romantic glen of the Esk. This castle was, for ages, the seat of the St. Clairs, or Sinclairs, descended from William de Sancto Clare, the son of Waldernus de Clare, who came to England with William the Conqueror, and fought at the battle of Hastings. The enumeration of their titles, says Sir Walter Scott, would take away the breath of a herald. Among others, they were Princes of the Orcades, Dukes of Oldenburgh, Lord Admirals of the Scottish Seas, Grand Justiciaries of the kingdom, Wardens of the border, Earls of Caithness, titularies of more than fifty baronies, patrons and Grand Masters of Masonry in Scotland, &c. &c.