And loudly blew the western wind,
Sore shook the massy tow'r,
And the blue lightning's forky flash
Was shining in the bow'r.
The Lady wak'd in trembling dread,
And op'd her e'en so wide;
And then she saw that Earl's body
Lie welt'ring by her side.
Then up and spak a bonny bird
That sat upon a tree;
"What ha' ye done with Earl Richard,
Ye was his gay Ladie?"
"Come down, come down, my bonny bird,
And light upon my hand,
And ye shall have a cage of gowd,
Were ye ha' but the wand."
"Awa, awa ye ill woman,
Nae cage of gowd for me;
As ye have done to Earl Richard,
Sae would ye do to me."
And she has call'd to her bow'r-maidens,
She has called them one by one :—
"There lies a dead man in my bower
I would that he were gone!
"They ha' booted him and spurred him,
As he was wont to ride,
A hunting horn tied round his waist,
A sharp sword by his side.
"Now Christ thee save, thou bow'r woman,
Now Christ thee save and see!
And reid me, reid me my bow'r woman,
Or I am a lost Ladie.
"Swift is the stream and deep that flows
The castle wa' beside;
There sink me down the Earl's body
Deep in the dashing tide.
"And I'll give thee fee, and I'll give thee land,
And siller and gowden array;
And thou shalt chuse thee a tall tall Knight,
And be his lady gay."
"I winna ha' thy fee, I winna ha' thy land,
Nor thy siller and gowden array;
Nor will I chuse me your tall tall Knight
Nor be his lady gay;
"But I will ca' Earl Richard's friends a'
And I'll ca' the kyth and kin ;
And I will sound the grass green horn,
And let all the merry men in."
Then up and came the kyth and kin,
By one and by two and by three ;
"And out alas, and wae worth, they cried,
Thou hast slain him, thou bad ladie !"
They mounted their steeds, nor spared their speed O'er muir, moss, dale, and down,
Until they came to our good Scots king,
As he sat in Edinbro' town.
They hied them strait to his castle gate,
All as he sat at dine,
With many a knight and, bold baronne,
Drinking the blood-red wine.
"Justice, O justice, good my leige,
Against an ill woman,
Earl Richard's wife, a bad lady is she,
For her own true Lord she has slain."
O then out spake our good Scots King,-
And an angry man was he,
"Now hie ye back to Earl Richard's castle, And bren that bad Ladie."
And he has written a braid letter
And signed it with his han’-
"Now hie ye back to Earl Richard's castle
And bren that foul leman !"
And homeward they hied, the kyth and kin, They did nae stop nor stan';
And when they came to Earl Richard's castle,
They brent that foul leman.
And then the mourning for Earl Richard
Full seven long days they kept;
And a' the kyth and kin were there,
And a' the lowlands wept.
And out and came the gude Frier,
And a woefu' man was he :-
To our Ladies' kirk in Dumfernlin town
They bare that Earl's bodie;
And the death-bell was rung, and the mass was sung,
'Twas waefu' wae to see!
They dug his grave fast by the kirk wa',
All under the braid yew tree.
High in mid air upborne on pennons bright,
My swift conductress urg'd my hasty flight;
Onward she flew, scarce gave me to behold
Where gothic Amiens rears her turrets old;
Nor ancient Abbeville's walls her flight delay,
To Paris straight she wings her gladsome way.
O form'd to charm, to polish and to please,
Fair seat of taste refin'd, and social ease,
What joys, what various objects of delight,
In thy gay precincts rush upon my sight?
How proudly fair, on Seine's luxuriant side,
The stately Louvre tow'rs with classic pride?
All as I pass beneath the trophied gate,
And ramble wond'ring through thy rooms of state,
In vision bright before my raptur'd eyes
The gorgeous sports of ancient days arise;
Fair dames, and knights to manly prowess dear,
And bearded chiefs in princely state appear.
Here once, alas! in beauty's fairest bloom,Blithe and unconscious of her dreadful doom,In these proud halls, and through these gall'ries gay The Scottish Mary won her easy way.
Ah royal shade of Stuart's ancient line,
Ah murther'd Mary! what a fate was thine?
Nurs'd in the lap of joy, with empire crown'd,
Proud nobles wait their cradled queen around;
Thine regal pow'r, domestic pomp is thine,
But shame and sorrow wait thy life's decline ;-
And yet how bright the morn, what pastimes gay, .
And what proud pageants usher'd in the day,
When destin'd thou the princely bed to share
Of gallant Francis, Gallia's youthful heir!
Brief is the triumph ;-for e'er fades the flow'r,
That strew'd thy couch, and deck'd thy bridal bow'r,
I see thee bend in tears thy beauteous head,
In speechless anguish o'er the nuptial bed:
In death's cold damps the youthful bridegroom lies!
Youthful in vain! for see, he droops and dies!-
Spare yet the tear, behold where ruthless fate
Frames deeper ills, and darker woes await!
Ah, hapless princess! other scenes demand,
Far other wait thee on thy native land;
To hail their youthful queen, a rugged host,
Unlike gay Gallia's sons, bespread the coast;
There in wild tumult and disorder wait,
With pageants rudely mean, and awkward state :
Hail with harsh accent, and discordant noise,
And clamorous shouts proclaim their boist'rous joys.
Bleak is the air, hoar winter chills the land,
And thick foul vapours darken all the strand :
These, these, apt omens of the woes to come,
Greet thy approach, and hail thee to thy home.
No gallant Louvre spreads its gay alcoves,
Unfolds its golden bow'rs, and myrtle groves;
But high in sombrous pomp, and grimly great,
The Scottish palace frowns in sullen state :
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