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THE EVE OF SAINT JOHN. THE Baron of Smaylho'me rose with day,

He spurr'd 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 return'd in three days space, And his looks were sad and sour; And weary was his courser's pace, As he reach'd 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 hack'd and hew'd, 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;

'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 clamour'd from the moss,
The wind blew loud and shrill;
Yet the craggy pathway she did cross
To the eiry Beacon Hill.

'I watch'd 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 watch'd the secret pair
On the lonesome Beacon Hill.

'And I heard her name the midnight

hour,

And name this holy eve,

Though thou art young, and tender And say "Come this night to thy lady's

of age,

I think thou art true to me.

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 Saint John." "I cannot come, I must not come, I dare not come to thee;

On the eve of Saint John I must wander alone,

In thy bower I may not be."

""Now out on thee, fainthearted knight !

Thou shouldst not say me nay; 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 strew'd on the stair;

"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,

And his crest was a branch of the yew.'

So, by the black rood-stone, and by Thou liest, thou liest, thou little foot

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holy Saint 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

And my footstep he would know.

"O fear not the priest, who sleepeth to the east,

For to Dryburgh the way he has ta'en ;

And there to say mas till three days do pass,

For the soul of a knight that is slayne."

page,

Loud dost thou lie to me !

For that knight is cold, and low laid in the mould,

All under the Eildon-tree.'

'Yet hear but my word, my noble lord For I heard her name his name; And that lady bright, she called the knight

Sir Richard of Coldinghame.'

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.

'He turn'd him around, and grimly he 'Where fair Tweed flows round holy

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From the thick copse the roebucks 'Why fills not Bothwellhaugh his

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And drowns the hunter's pealing Few suns have set since Woodhouse

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