And lords and gay ladies have sighed mid their glee

At the tale of Count Albert and fair Rosalie.

BOTHWELL CASTLE

A FRAGMENT

1799

WHEN fruitful Clydesdale's apple-bowers Are mellowing in the noon;

When sighs round Pembroke's ruined towers

The sultry breath of June;

When Clyde, despite his sheltering wood,
Must leave his channel dry,
And vainly o'er the limpid flood
The angler guides his fly ;

If chance by Bothwell's lovely braes
A wanderer thou hast been,
Or hid thee from the summer's blaze
In Blantyre's bowers of green,

Full where the copsewood opens wild

Thy pilgrim step hath staid,
Where Bothwell's towers in ruin piled
O'erlook the verdant glade;

And many a tale of love and fear
Hath mingled with the scene -
Of Bothwell's banks that bloomed so dear,
And Bothwell's bonny Jean.

In every stall of that endless hall

Stood a steed in barding bright;

At the foot of each steed, all armed save the head,

Lay stretched a stalwart knight.

In each mailed hand was a naked brand;
As they lay on the black bull's hide, 130
Each visage stern did upwards turn
With eyeballs fixed and wide.

A launcegay strong, full twelve ells long,
By every warrior hung;

At each pommel there for battle yare
A Jedwood axe was slung.

The casque hung near each cavalier;
The plumes waved mournfully
At every tread which the wanderer made
Through the hall of gramarye.

The ruddy beam of the torches' gleam,
That glared the warriors on,
Reflected light from armor bright,
In noontide splendor shone.

And onward seen in lustre sheen,

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