III.
She sat upon the red Lynne stone, The midnight sky was overcast, The winds are out with a sullen moan, The angry Lynne is rolling past. What then? there was no lack of light, Full fifteen windows blazing shone Up on the castle on the height, While Ailie Faa sat there alone.
For there is dancing and deray In the ancient castle of Holmylee, And barons bold and ladies gay Are holding high-jinks revelry. Sir Robert has that day been wed, 'Midst sounding trumpets of éclat, And one that night will grace his bed Of nobler birth than Ailie Faa.
Revenge will claim its high command, And Ailie is on her feet erect, She passes nervously her hand Between her jupe and jerkinet. _There_ lies a charm for woman's wrong, Concealed where beats the bursting heart, Which, ere an hour hath come and gone, Will play somewhere a fatal part.
IV.
Up in the hall of Holmylee Still sound the revel, the dance, and song, And through the open doors and free There pours the gay and stately throng; But of all the knights and barons there, The bridegroom still the foremost stood, And she the fairest of the fair, The bride who was of noble blood.
It was when feet were tripping The mazes of the dance, It was when lips were sipping The choicest wines of France, A wild scream rose within the hall, Which pierced the roofen tree, And in the midst was seen to fall The Baron of Holmylee.
"To whom belongs this small stilette. By whom our host is slain?" Between a jupe and jerkinet That weapon long had lain. Each on his sword his hand did lay, This way and that they ran; But she who did the deed is away, Ho! catch her if you can.
VI.
THE LEGEND OF THE FAIR EMERGILDE
I.
Thou little god of meikle sway, Who rul'st from pole to pole, And up beyond yon milky way, Where wondrous planets roll: Oh! tell me how a power divine, That tames the creatures wild, Whose touch benign makes all men kin, Could slay sweet Emergilde?
It's up the street, and down the street, And up the street again, And all the day, and all the way, She looks at noble men; But him she seeks she cannot find In all that moving train; No one can please that anxious gaze, And own to "Ballenden."
From the high castle on the knowe, Adown the Canongate, And from the palace in the howe, Up to the castle yett, A hizzy here, a cadie there, She stops with modest mien; All she can say four words convey: "I seek for Ballenden."
Nor more of our Scotch tongue she knew, For she's of foreign kin, And all her speech can only reach "I seek for Ballenden." No Ballenden she yet could find, No one aught of him knew; She sought at night dark Toddrick's Wynd, Next morn to search anew.
II.
And who is she, this fair ladye, To whom our land is strange? Why all alone, to all unknown, Within this city's range? Her face was of the bonnie nut-brown Our Scotch folk love to view, When 'neath it shows the red, red rose, Like sunlight shining through.
Her tunic was of the mazerine, Of scarlet her roquelaire, And o'er her back, in ringlets black, Fell down her raven hair. Her eyes, so like the falling sterns, Seen on an August night, Had surely won from eastern sun Some rayons of his light.
And still she tried, and still she plied, Her task so sad and vain, The words still four--they were no more-- "I seek for Ballenden." No Ballenden could she yet find, No one aught of him knew, And still at night down Toddrick's Wynd, Next morn to search anew.
III.
In Euphan Barnet's lowly room, Adown that darksome wynd, A ladye fair is lying there, In illness sair declined; Her cheeks now like the lily pale, The roses waned away, Her eyes so bright have lost their light, Her lips are like the clay.
On her fair breast a missal rests, Illumed with various dyes, In which were given far views of heaven In old transparencies. There hangs the everlasting cross Of emerald and of gold, That cross of Christ so often kissed When she her beads had told.
Those things are all forgotten now, Far other thoughts remain; And as she dreams she ever renes, "I seek for Ballenden." Oh Ballenden! oh Ballenden! Whatever, where'er thou be, That ladye fair is dying there, And all for love of thee.
IV.
In the old howf of the Canongate There is a little lair, And on it grows a pure white rose, By love implanted there; And o'er it hangs a youthful man, With a cloud upon his brow, And sair he moans, and sair he groans, For her who sleeps below.
No noble lord nor banneret, Nor courtly knight is he, No more than a simple advocate, Who pleadeth for his fee. He holds a letter in his hand, On which bleared eyes are bent, It came afar from Almanzar, The Duke of Bonavent--
A noble duke whom he had seen In his castle by the sea, When for one night he claimed the right Of his high courtesie; And that letter said, "Kind sir, I write In sorrow, sooth to say, That my dear child, fair Emergilde, Hath from us flown away;
"And all the trace that I can find Is this, and nothing more, She took to sea at Tripoli For Scotland's distant shore. It is a feat of strange conceit That fills us with alarms: Oh seek about, and find her out, And send her to our arms."
V.
And who is he this letter reads With tears the words atween? Yea! even he she had sought to see, The sair-sought Ballenden. Yet little little had he thought, When away in that far countrie, That a look she had got of a humble Scot Would ever remembered be.
But tho' he had deemed himself forgot By one so far away, Her image had still, against his will, Him haunted night and day. And when he laid him on his bed, And sair inclined to sleep, That face would still, against his will, Its holy vigil keep.
Oh gentle youth, thou little thought, When away in our north countrie, That up and down, thro' all the town, That ladye sought for thee. And little little did thou wot What in Euphan's room was seen, Where, as she died, she whispering sighed, "I die for Ballenden."[A]
[Footnote A: The reader will remember the romantic story of the English A'Becket; but it would seem our Scottish advocate was even more highly favoured. Nor is the romance in such cases limited to the ladies. I may refer to the pathetic story of Geoffrey Rudel, a gentleman of Provence, and a troubadour, who, having heard from the knights returned from the Holy Land of the hospitality of a certain countess of Tripoli, whose grace and beauty equalled her virtue, fell deeply in love with her without ever having seen her. In 1162 he quitted the court of England and embarked for the Holy Land. On his voyage he was attacked by a severe illness, and had lost the power of speech when he arrived at the port of Tripoli. The countess, being informed that a celebrated poet was dying of love for her on board a vessel, visited him on shipboard, took him by the hand, and attempted to cheer him. Rudel recovered his speech sufficiently to thank the countess for her humanity, and to declare his passion, when his expressions of gratitude were silenced by the convulsions of death. He was buried at Tripoli, beneath a tomb of porphyry which the countess raised to his memory. His verses "On Distant Love" were well known. They began thus:
Angry and sad shall be my way If I behold not her afar, And yet I know not when that day Shall rise, for still she dwells afar. God, who has formed this fair array Of worlds, and placed my love afar, Strengthen my heart with hope, I pray, Of seeing her I love afar. ]
VII.
THE ROMAUNT OF THE CASTLE OF WEIR.
I.
The baron has gone to the hunting green, All by the ancient Castle of Weir, With his guest, Sir Hubert, of Norman kin, And a maiden, his only daughter dear-- The Ladye Tomasine, famed around For beauty as well as for courtesie, Wherever might sensible heads be found, Or ears to listen, or eyes to see. Nor merely skin-deep was she fair: She had a spirit both true and leal, As all about the Castle of Weir Were many to know, and many to tell. Right well she knew what it was to feel Grim poverty in declining day, With a purse to ope, and a hand to deal, And tears to bless what she gave away; Yet she was blithe and she was gay. And now she has gone to the hunting green, All on this bright and sunshiny day, To fly her favourite peregrine, With her hunting coat of the baudykin, Down which there flowed her raven hair, And her kirtle of the red sendal fine, With an eagle's plume in her heading gear.
II.
If the knight had not a hawk on his wrist, He had kestrel eyes both cunning and keen, And the quarry of which he was in quest Was the heart of the lovely Tomasine; But the ladye thought him a kestrel kite, With a grovelling eye to the farmer's coop, And wanted the bold and daring flight That mounts to the sun to make a swoop.
The Baron of Weir points to the sky, "Ho! ho! a proud heron upon the wing! Unhood, my Tomasine dear, untie! Off with the jesses--away him fling!" "Up! up! my Guy," cried the laughing maid, As with nimble fingers she him unjessed, "Up! up! and away! and earn thy bread, Then back to thy mistress to be caressed." Up sprang the bird with a joyful cry, And eyed his quarry, yet far away, Still up and up in the dark blue sky, That he might aim a swoop on his prey; Then down as the lightning bolt of Jove On the heron, who, giving a scream of fear, Shoots away from his enemy over above, And makes for the rushing Water of Weir.