"The wilder'd trav'ller sees her glide, And hears her feeble voice with awe'Revenge,' she cries, on Murray's pride! And woe for injur'd Bothwellhaugh!" He ceas'd-and cries of rage and grief Burst mingling from the kindred band, And half arose the kindling Chief,

And half unsheath'd his Arran brand.

But who, o'er bush, o'er stream, and rock,
Rides headlong, with resistless speed,
Whose bloody poniard's frantic stroke
Drives to the leap his jaded steed;
Whose check is pale, whose eye-balls glare,
As one, some vision'd sight that saw,
Whose hands are bloody, loose his hair?-
-'Tis he! 'tis he! 'tis Bothwellhaugh!
From gory selle,* and reeling steed,
Sprung the fierce horseman with a bound,
And, reeking from the recent deed,

He dash'd his carbine on the ground.
Sternly he spoke-"'Tis sweet to hear,
In good green-wood, the bugle blown;
But sweeter to Revenge's ear,

To drink a tyrant's dying groan.
"Your slaughter'd quarry proudly trode,
At dawning morn, o'er dale and down,
But prouder base-born Murray rode
Through old Linlithgow's crowded town
"From the wild Border's humbled side,
In haughty triumph, marched he,
While Knox relax'd his bigot pride,

And smil'd, the trait'rous pomp to see.
"But, can stern Pow'r, with all his vaunt,
Or Pomp, with all her courtly glare,
The settled heart of Vengeance daunt,
Or change the purpose of Despair?

Selle-Saddle. A word used by Spencer and other ancient

uthors.

"With hackbut bent,* my secret stand Dark as the purpos'd deed, I chose, And mark'd, where, mingling in his band, Troop'd Scottish pikes and English bows. "Dark Morton, girt with many a spear, Murder's foul minion, led the van; And clash'd their broad-swords in the rear, The wild Macfarlanes' plaided clan. "Glencairn and stout Parkhead were nigh, Obsequious at their Regent's rein,

And haggard Lindesay's iron eye,

That saw fair Mary weep in vain. "Mid pennon'd spears, a steely grove, Proud Murray's plumage floated high; Scarce could his trampling charger move, So close the minions crowded nigh. "From the rais'd visor's shade, his eye, Dark-rolling, glanc'd the ranks along, And his steel truncheon, wav'd on high, Seem'd marshalling the iron throng. "But yet his sadden'd brow confess'd A passing shade of doubt and awe; Some fiend was whisp'ring in his breast, 'Beware of injur'd' Bothwellhaugh!" "The death-shot parts-the charger springsWild rises tumult's startling roar!And Murray's plumy helmet rings-Rings on the ground, to rise no more. "What joy the raptur'd youth can feel, To hear her love the lov'd one tell,

Or he, who broaches on his steel
The wolf, by whom his infant fell!
"But dearer to my injur'd eye,

To see in dust proud Murray roll;
And mine was ten times trebled joy
To hear him groan his felon soul.
"My Margret's spectre glided near;
With pride her bleeding victim saw;

Blackbut bert-Gun-cocked.

And shriek'd in his death-denfen'd ear,
'Remember injur'd Bothwellhaugh!"
"Then speed thee, noble Chatlerault !
Spread to the wind thy banner'd tree!
Each warrior bend his Clydesdale bow!-
Murray is fall'n, and Scotland free."
Vaults ev'ry warrior to his steed;

Loud bugles join their wild acclaim-
"Murray is fall'n, and Scotland freed!
Couch, Arran! couch thy spear of flame!"
But, see! the Minstrel vision fails-
The glimm'ring spears are seen no more;
The shouts of war die on the gales,

Or sink in Evan's lonely roar.

For the loud bugle, pealing high,

The blackbird whistles down the vale, And sunk in ivied ruins lie

The banner'd tow'rs of Evandale.

For chiefs, intent on bloody deed,

And Vengeance, shouting o'er the slain,
Lo! high-born Beauty rules the steed,
Or graceful guides the silken rein.

And long may Peace and Pleasure own
The maids, who list the Minstrel's tale;

Nor e'er a ruder guest be known

On the fair banks of Evandale.

THE GREY BROTHER

A FRAGMENT.

[The tradition, upon which this fragment is founded, regards a house, upon the barony of Gilmerton, near Laswade, in Mid Lothian. This building, now called Gilmerton-Grange. was for merly named Burudale, from the following tragic adventure. The barony of Gilmerton belonged, of y re, to a gentleman, named Heron, who had one beautiful daughter. This young lady was seduced by the abbot of Newbottle, a richly endowed abbey, upon the banks of the South Esk, now a seat of the marquis of Lothian. Heron came to the knowledge of this circumstance, and learned, also, that the lovers carried on their guity intercourse by the

contrivance of the lady's nurse, who lived at this house, of Gilmer ton-Grange, or Burndale lle formed a resolution of bloody vengeance, undeterred by the supposed sanctity of the clerical charac ter, or by the stronger clains of natural affection. Choosing, therefore, a dark and windy night, when the objects of his vengeance were engaged in a stolen interview, he set fire to a stack of dried thorns, and other combustibles, which he had caused to be piled against the house, and reduced to a pile of glowing ashes the dwelling, with all its inmates

The scene, with which the ballad opens, was suggested by the following curious passage, extracted from the life of A exander Peden, one of the wandering and persecuted teachers of the sect of Cameronians, during the reign of Charles II., and his successor, James "About the same time he (Peden) came to Andrew Nor mand's house, in the parish of Alloway, in the shire of Aer, being to preach at night in his barn. After he came in, he halted a little, leaning upon a chair-back, with his face covered; when he lifted up his head, he said, 'There are in this house that I have not one word of salvation unto. he halted a little again saying, This is strange, tha the devil will not go out, that we may begin our work? Then there was a woman went out, ill looked upon almost all her life, and to her dying hour, for a witch, with many presumptions of the same. It escaped me, in the former passages, that John Muirhead (whom I have often mentioned) told me, that when he came from Ireland to Galloway, he was at family-worship, and giving some notes upon the scripture, when a very ill-looking man came, and sate down wi hin the door, at the back of the hal lan (partition of the cotta.e:) immediately he halted, and said, There is some unhappy body just now cone into this house. I charge him to go out, and not stop my mouth! The person went out, and he insisted (went on), yet he saw him neither come in nor go out."-The Life and Prophecies of Mr Alexander Peden, late Minister of the Gospel at New Glentuce, in Galloway, part ii. sec. 28.]

THE Pope he was saying the high, high mass,
All on saint Peter's day,

With the pow'r to him giv'n, by the saints in heav'n,
To wash men's sins away.

The Pope he was saying the blessed mass,
And the people kneel'd around;

And from each man's soul his sins did pass,
As he kiss'd the holy ground.

And all, among the crowded throng,
Was still, both limb and tongue,

While through vaulted roof, and aisles aloof,

The holy accents rung.

At the holiest word he quiver'd for fear,

And fauiter'd in the sound

And, when he would the chalice rear,

He dropp'd it on the ground.

"The breath of one, of evil deed,
Poliutes our sacred day;
He has no portion in our creed,
No part in what I say.

"A being, whom no blessed word
To ghostly peace can bring;
A wretch, at whose approach abhorr'd,
Recoils each holy thing.

"Up, up, unhappy! haste, arise!
My adjuration fear!

I charge thee not to stop my voice,
Nor longer tarry here!"

Amid them all a Pilgrim kneel'd,
In gown of sackcloth gray:
Far journeying from his native field,
He first saw Rome that day.

For forty days and nights so drear,
I ween, he had not spoke,

And, save with bread and water clear,
His fast he ne'er had broke,

Amid the penitential flock,

Seem'd none more bent to pray,
But, when the Holy Father spoke,
He rose, and went his way.

Again unto his native land,
His weary course he drew,
To Lothian's fair and fertile strand,
And Pentland's mountains blue.

His unblest feet his native seat,

Mid Eske's fair woods, regain;

Through woods more fair no stream more sweet Rolls to the eastern main.

And Lords to meet the Pilgrim came,

And vassals bent the knee;

For all mid Scotland's chiefs of fame,

Was none more fam'd than he.

And boldly for his country still,
In battle he had stood,