THIRLESTANE.

A FRAGMENT.

FER, fer hee raide, and fer hee gaed,
And aft he sailit the sea;

And thrise he crossit the Alpyne hills
To distant Italie.

Beyon Lough-Ness his tempil stude,
Ane ril of meikle fame;

A knight of gude Seant John's hee was,
And Baldwin was his name.

By wondrous lore hee did explore
What after tymes wald bee;
And manie mystic links of fate

He hafflins culd fursee.

Fer, fer hee raide, and fer hee gaed,
Owr mony hill and dale;

Till, passing through the fair foreste,
He learnit a waesom tale.

Wher Ettrick wandirs down a plain,
With lofty hills belay't,

The staitly towirs of Thirlestane
With wunder hee surveyt.

Black hung the bannir on the wall;
The trumpit seimit to grane;
And reid, reid ran the bonny burn,
Whilk erst like siller shone.

At first a noise like fairie soundis
He indistinctly heard;

Then countless, countless were the crouds
Whilke round the walls appeir'd.

Thousands of steids stood on the hill,
Of sable trappings vaine !

And round on Ettrick's baittle haughs
Grew no kin kind of graine.

Hee gazit, hee wonderit, sair hee fearit
Sum recent tragedie;

At length he spyit ane woeful wight
Gaun droopin on the ley.

His beard was silverit owr wi' eild:
Pale was his cheek wae-worn ;
His hayre was like the muirland wild
On a December morn.

"Haile, revirent brither," Baldwin said, "Here, in this unco land,

A temple warrior greets thee well,
And offers thee his hand.

"O tell me why the peepill murn?
Sure all is not for gude:

And why, why does the bonnie burn
Rin reid wi' Christain blude ?"

Ald Beattie turnit and shuke his heid, While down fell mony a teir; "O wellcom, wellcom, sire," he said, "Ane waesum tale to heire:

"The gude Sir Robert's sonne and aire
By creuel handis lyis slain;
And all his wide domains, so fair,
To ither lords ar gane.

"On sik ane youth as him they mourn, The sun did never shine ;Instead of Christain blude, the burn

Rins reid wi' Renis wine.

"This is the sad returnin day
He first beheld the light;
This is the sad returnin day
He fell by cruel spite.

"And on this day, with pomp and pride,

From hence you'll see him borne ;
And his poor faither sad return
Of landis and onuris shorne.

"Come to my littill chambir still,
In yonder turret low;

We'll say our praiers for the dead,
And for the leeving too.

"And when thou hast a free repast
Of wheat bread and the wine,
My tale shall weet the onest cheeks,
As oft it has dune mine."