Untouched, the harp began to ring,

As softly, slowly oped the door; And shook responsive every string,

As light a footstep pressed the floor. And by the watch-fire's glimmering light,

Close by the minstrel's side was seen A huntress maid, in beauty bright,

All dropping wet her robes of green. All dropping wet her garments seem ;

Chilled was her cheek, her bosom bare, As, bending o'er the dying gleam,

She wrung the moisture from her hair. With maiden blush she softly said,

O gentle huntsman, hast thou seen, In deep Glenfinlas' moonlight glade,

A lovely maid in vest of green: With her a chief in Highland pride;

His shoulders bear the hunter's bow, The mountain dirk adorns his side,

Far on the wind his tartans flow?" “And who art thou ? and who are they?”

All ghastly gazing, Moy replied : “And why, beneath the moon's pale ray,

Dare ye thus roam Glenfinlas' side ?""

“ Where wild Loch Katrine pours her tide

Blue, dark, and deep, round many an isle, Our father's towers o'erhang her side,

The castle of the bold Glengyle.

To chase the dun Glenfinlas deer,

Our woodland course this morn we bore, And haply met, while wandering here,

The son of great Magillianore.

O aid me, then, to seek the pair,

Whom, loitering in the woods, I lost; Alone, I dare not venture there,

Where walks, they say, the shrieking ghost.”

“Yes, many a shrieking ghost walks there;

Then first, my own sad vow to keep, Here will I pour my midnight prayer,

Which still must rise when mortals sleep."

O first, for pity's gentle sake,

Guide a lone wanderer on her way! For I must cross the haunted brake,

And reach my father's towers ere day."

“ First, three times tell each Ave bead,

And thrice a Pater-noster say; Then kiss with me the holy reed;

So shall we safely wind our way." “O shame to knighthood, strange and foul!

Go, doff the bonnet from thy brow, And shroud thee in the monkish cowl,

Which best befits thy sullen vow. Not so, by high Dunlathman's fire,

Thy heart was froze to love and joy,
When gaily rung thy raptured lyre,

To wanton Morna's melting eye.'
Wild stared the Minstrel's eyes of flame,

And high his sable locks arose,
And quick his colour went and came,

As fear and rage alternate rose. “And thou, when by the blazing oak

I lay, to her and love resigned, Say, rode ye on the eddying smoke,

dr sailed ye on the midnight wind ? Not thine a race of mortal blood,

Nor old Glengyle's pretended line; Thy dame, the Lady of the Flood,

Thy sire, the Monarch of the Mine."

He muttered thrice St. Oran's rhyme,

And thrice St. Fillan's powerful prayer; Then turned him to the eastern clime,

And sternly shook his coal-black hair.

And, bending o'er his harp, he flung

His wildest witch-notes on the wind; And loud, and high, and strange, they rung,

As many a magic change they find.

Tall waxed the Spirit's altering form,

Till to the roof her stature grew; Then, mingling with the rising storm,

With one wild yell, away she flew.

Rain beats, hail rattles, whirlwinds tear:

The slender hut in fragments flew; But not a lock of Moy's loose bair

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 !

Woe to Glenfinlas' dreary glen!
There never son of Albin's hills

Shall draw the hunter's shaft agen!

E’en the tired pilgrim's burning feet

At noon shall shun that sheltering den,
Lest, journeying in their rage, he meet

The wayward Ladies of the Glen.

And we-behind the chieftain's shield,

No more shall we in safety dwell;
None leads the people to the field-

And we the loud lament must swell.

O hone a rie'! O hone a rie'!

The pride of Albin's line is o'er,
And fallen Glenartney's stateliest tree;

We ne'er shall see Lord Ronald more!

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 Smayllo'me Tower, it is seen many miles in every direction. Among the crags by which it is surrounded, one, more eminent, is called the Watch

fold, 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.

The Baron of Smaylho'me rose with day,

He spurred his courser on,
Without stop or stay, down the rocky way

That leads to Brotherstone.
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-gerthe was a good steel sperthe,

Full ten pound weight and more.
The Baron returned in three days' space,

And his looks were sad and sour;
And weary was his courser's pace,

As he reached his rocky tower.
He came not from where Ancram Moor

Ran red with English blood;
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, -

But it was not English gore.

He lighted at the Chapellage,

He held him close and still;
And he whistled thrice for his little foot-page,

His name was English Will.

“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,

What did thy lady do ?”

“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 olamoured from the moss,

The wind blew loud and shrill;
Yet the craggy pathway she did cross,

To the eiry Beacon Hill,

I watched her steps, and silent came

Where she sat her on a stone;
No watchman stood by the dreary flame;

It burned all alone.
The second night I kept her in sight,

Till to the fire she came,
And, by Mary's might ! an armed Knight

Stood by the lonely flame.
And many a word that warlike lord

Did speak to my lady there;
But the rain fell fast, and loud' blew the blast,

And I heard not what they were.
The third night there the sky was fair,

And the mountain blast was still,
As again I watched the secret pair,

On the loansome 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 ;

Ask no bold Baron's leave.
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 :

In thy bower I may not be.'
Now, out on thee, faint-hearted knight!

Thou shouldst not say me day;
For the eve is sweet, and when lovers meet,

Is worth the whole suminer'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 l'
Though the blood-hound be mute, and the rush

beneath any foot, And the warder his bugle should not blow, Yet there sleepeth a priest in the chamber to the east,

And my footstep he would know.'

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