His own Queen Margaret, who, in Lithgow's

bower,

All lonely sat, and wept the weary hour.

XI.

The Queen sits lone in Lithgow pile,

And weeps the weary day

The war against her native soil,
Her Monarch's risk in battle broil:
And in gay Holy-Rood, the while,
Dame Heron rises with a smile
Upon the harp to play.

Fair was her rounded arm, as o'er
The strings her fingers flew;

And as she touch'd and tuned them all,
Even her bosom's rise and fall

Was plainer given to view;
For, all for heat, was laid aside
Her wimple, and her hood untied.

And first she pitch'd her voice to sing,
Then glanced her dark eye on the King,
And then around the silent ring;
And laugh'd, and blush'd, and oft did say
Her pretty oath, by Yea and Nay,
She could not, would not, durst not play!
At length upon the harp, with glee,
Mingled with arch simplicity,
A soft, yet lively, air she rung,
While thus the wily lady sung: -

XII.

LOCHINVAR.

LADY HERON'S SONG.

O, young Lochinvar is come out of the west, Through all the wide Border his steed was the

best;

And, save his good broadsword, he weapon had

none,

He rode all unarm'd, and he rode all alone.
So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,
There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.

He stay'd 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 : For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war, Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.

So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall, Among bride's-men, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all:

Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword

(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 woo'd your daughter, my suit you denied ;

Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide

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,

He quaff'd 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

"Now tread we a measure!" said young Loch

invar.