"Hear, lady, yet, a parting word! It chanced in fight that my poor sword Preserved the life of Scotland's lord. This ring the grateful Monarch gave, And bade, when I had boon to crave, 465 To bring it back, and boldly claim The recompense that I would name. Ellen, I am no courtly lord, But one who lives by lance and sword, Whose castle is his helm and shield, 470 His lordship the embattled field. What from a prince can I demand, Who neither reck of state nor land? Ellen, thy hand--the ring is thine; Each guard and usher knows the sign. 475 Seek thou the king without delay-- This signet shall secure thy way-- And claim thy suit, whate'er it be, As ransom of his pledge to me." He placed the golden circlet on, 480 Paused--kissed her hand--and then was gone. The aged Minstrel stood aghast, So hastily Fitz-James shot past. He joined his guide, and wending down The ridges of the mountain brown, 485 Across the stream they took their way, That joins Loch Katrine to Achray. XX All in the Trossachs' glen was still, Noontide was sleeping on the hill: Sudden his guide whooped loud and high-- 490 "Murdoch! was that a signal cry?" He stammered forth--"I shout to scare Yon raven from his dainty fare." He looked--he knew the raven's prey, His own brave steed--"Ah! gallant gray! 495 For thee--for me, perchance--'twere well We ne'er had seen the Trossachs' dell. Murdoch, move first--but silently; Whistle or whoop, and thou shalt die!" Jealous and sullen on they fared, 500 Each silent, each upon his guard. XXI Now wound the path its dizzy ledge Around a precipice's edge, When lo! a wasted female form, Blighted by wrath of sun and storm, 505 In tattered weeds and wild array, Stood on a cliff beside the way, And glancing round her restless eye, Upon the wood, the rock, the sky, Seemed naught to mark, yet all to spy. 510 Her brow was wreathed with gaudy broom; With gesture wild she waved a plume Of feathers which the eagles fling To crag and cliff from dusky wing; Such spoils her desperate step had sought, 515 Where scarce was footing for the goat. The tartan plaid she first descried, And shrieked till all the rocks replied; As loud she laughed when near they drew, For then the Lowland garb she knew; 520 And then her hands she wildly wrung, And then she wept, and then she sung-- She sung!--the voice, in better time, Perchance to harp or lute might chime; And now, though strained and roughened, still 525 Rung wildly sweet to dale and hill. XXII SONG