"Not so, by high Dunlathmon's fire, To wanton Morna's melting eye." Or sailed ye on the midnight wind? Thy sire, the Monarch of the Mine." His wildest witch-notes on the wind; Was waved by wind, or wet by dew. Wild mingling with the howling gale, Loud bursts of ghastly laughter rise; High o'er the minstrel's head they sail, And die amid the northern skies. The voice of thunder shook the wood, As ceased the more than mortal yell; And, spattering foul, a shower of blood Upon the hissing firebrands fell. Next, dropped from high a mangled arm; The fingers strained a half-drawn blade: And last, the life-blood streaming warm, Torn from the trunk, a gasping head. Oft o'er that head, in battling field, Streamed the proud crest of high Benmore, That arm the broad claymore could wield, Which dyed the Teith with Saxon gore. Woe to Moneira's sullen rills! Even the tired pilgrim's burning feet O hone a rie'! O hone a rie'! The pride of Albin's line is o'er, THE EVE OF ST JOHN. SMAYLHO'ME, or Smallholm Tower, the scene of the following ballad, is situated on the northern boundary of Roxburghshire, among a cluster of wild rocks, called Sandiknow-Crags. The tower is a high square building, surrounded by an outer wall, now ruinous. The circuit of the outer court, being defended, on three sides, by a precipice and morass, is accessible only from the west, by a steep and rocky path. The apartments, as is usual in a Border keep, or fortress, are placed one above another, and communicate by a narrow stair; on the roof are two bartizans, or platforms, for defence or pleasure. The inner door of the tower is wood, the outer an iron gate; the distance between them being nine feet, the thickness, namely, of the wall. From the elevated situation of Smaylho'me Tower, it is seen many miles in every direction. Among the crags by which it is surrounded, one, more eminent, is called the Watchfold, and is said to have been the station of a beacon, in the times of war with England. Without the tower-court is a ruined chapel. Brotherstone is a heath, in the neighbourhood of Smaylho'me Tower. This ballad was first printed in Mr Lewis's "Tales of Wonder." The catastrophe of the tale is founded upon a well-known Irish tradition. This ancient fortress and its vicinity formed the scene of the Editor's infancy, and seemed to claim from him this attempt to celebrate them in a Border tale. THE Baron of Smaylho'me rose with day, He spurred his courser on, Without stop or stay, down the rocky way He went not with the bold Buccleuch, His banner broad to rear; He went not 'gainst the English yew To lift the Scottish spear. Yet his plate-jack was braced, and his helmet was laced, And his vaunt-brace of proof he wore; At his saddle-girth was a good steel sperthe, Full ten pound weight and more. The Baron returned in three days' space, He came not from where Ancram Moor Where the Douglas true, and the bold Buccleuch, 'Gainst keen Lord Evers stood. Yet was his helmet hacked and hewed, His acton pierced and tore; His axe and his dagger with blood imbrued,- He lighted at the Chapellage, And he whistled thrice for his little foot-page, "Come thou hither, my little foot-page; Come hither to my knee; Thou art young, and tender of age, I think thou art true to me. "Come, tell me all that thou hast seen, And look thou tell me true! Since I from Smaylho'me tower have been, "My lady, each night, sought the lonely light, That burns on the wild Watchfold; For, from height to height, the beacons bright Of the English foemen told. "The bittern clamoured from the moss, The wind blew loud and shrill; Yet the craggy pathway she did cross, "I watched her steps, and silent came No watchman stood by the dreary flame; "The second night I kept her in sight, Till to the fire she came, And, by Mary's might! an armèd Knight "And many a word that warlike lord Did speak to my lady there; But the rain fell fast, and loud blew the blast, "The third night there the sky was fair, And the mountain blast was still, As again I watched the secret pair, On the lonesome Beacon Hill. "And I heard her name the midnight hour, And name this holy eve; And say, 'Come this night to thy lady's bower; "He lifts his spear with the bold Buccleuch ; His lady is all alone; The door she'll undo to her knight so true, On the eve of good St John.' "I cannot come; I must not come ; I dare not come to thee; On the eve of St John I must wander alone: "Now, out on thee, faint-hearted knight ! For the eve is sweet, and when lovers meet, Is worth the whole summer's day. "And I'll chain the blood-hound, and the warder shall not sound, And rushes shall be strewed on the stair; So, by the black rood-stone, and by holy St John, I conjure thee, my love, to be there!? "Though the blood-hound be mute, and the rush beneath my foot, And the warder his bugle should not blow, Yet there sleepeth a priest in the chamber to the east, "O fear not the priest, who sleepeth to the east! For to Dryburgh the way he has ta'en; And there to say mass, till three days do pass, For the soul of a knight that is slain. "He turned him around, and grimly he frowned; Then he laughed right scornfully 'He who says the mass-rite for the soul of that knight May as well say mass for me. "At the lone midnight hour, when bad spirits have power, In thy chamber will I be.' With that he was gone, and my lady left alone, And no more did I see.". Then changed, I trow, was that bold Baron's brow, From the dark to the blood-red high; "Now, tell me the mien of the knight thou hast seen, For, by Mary, he shall die!" "His arms shone full bright, in the beacon's red light; His plume it was scarlet and blue; On his shield was a hound, in a silver leash bound, "Thou liest, thou liest, thou little foot-page, Loud dost thou lie to me! For that knight is cold, and low laid in the mould, "Yet hear but my word, my noble lord! And that lady bright, she called the knight, The bold Baron's brow then changed, I trow, From high blood-red to pale "The grave is deep and dark-and the corpse is stiff and stark So I may not trust thy tale. "Where fair Tweed flows round holy Melrose, And Eildon slopes to the plain, Full three nights ago, by some secret foe, That gay gallant was slain. "The varying light deceived thy sight, And the wild winds drowned the name; For the Dryburgh bells ring, and the white monks do sing, He passed the court-gate, and he oped the tower grate, To the bartizan-seat, where, with maids that on her wait, That lady sat in mournful mood; Looked over hill and vale; Over Tweed's fair flood, and Mertoun's wood, And all down Teviotdale. "Now hail, now hail, thou lady bright!" What news, what news, from Ancram fight? "The Ancram Moor is red with gore, For many a Southron fell; And Buccleuch has charged us, evermore To watch our beacons well." The lady blushed red, but nothing she said; Nor added the Baron a word : Then she stepped down the stair to her chamber fair, And so did her moody lord. In sleep the lady mourned, and the Baron tossed and turned, And oft to himself he said— "The worms around him creep, and his bloody grave is |