"He sends me back the tokens true! Was ever maid perplex'd like me? 'Twould seem h'as rued o' ilka vow, But all is wrapt in mystery."

Then down she sat, an' sair she grat;
With rapid whirl her fancy wrought,
In wyting this, an' blamin' that;

But O the cause she never thought!

When, lo! Sir David's trusty hound,
Wi' humpling back, an' hollow ee,
Came cringing in; an' lookit round,
Wi' hopeless stare, wha there might be.

He laid his head upon her knee,
With looks that did her heart assail;
An' a' that she cou'd flatter, he

Wad neither bark, nor wag his tail!

She fed him wi' the milk sae sweet,
An' ilka thing that he wad ha'e,
He lick'd her hands, he lick'd her feet,
Then slowly, slowly trudged away.

But she has eyed the honest hound,
An' a' to see where he wad gae:
He stopp'd, and howl'd, an' look'd around,
Then slowly, slowly, trudged away.

Then she cast aff her coal-black shoon,
An' sae has she her silken hose;
She kiltit high her 'broider'd gown,
An' after him in haste she goes.

She follow'd him over muirs and rocks, Through mony a dell an' dowy glen, Till frae her brow, and lovely locks, The dew-drops fell like drops o' rain.

An' aye she said, "My love is hid,

And dare na come the castle nigh; But him I'll find, an' him I'll chide, For leaving his poor maid to sigh;

"But ae press to his manly breast,
An' ae kiss o' his bonny mou',
Will weel atone for a' the past,
An' a' the pain I suffer now."

But in a hagg in yonder flow,

Ah, there she fand her gallant knight! A loathsome carcass lying low,

Red-rusted all his armour bright:

Wi' ae wound through his shoulder-bane,
An' in his bosom twa or three;
Wi' flies an' vermine sair o'ergane,
An' ugsome to the sight was he.

His piercing een,

that love did beet, Had now become the raven's prey; His tongue, that moved to accents sweet, Deep frae his throat was torn away.

Poor Reyno fawn'd, an' took his place,
As glad to see the livid clay;
Then lick'd his master's bloated face,
An' kindly down beside him lay.

"Now coming was the night sae dark,
An' gane was a' the light o' day,"
The muir was dun, the heavens mirk,
An' deep an' dreary was the way.

The croaking raven soar'd on high,
Thick, thick the cherking weazels ran;
At hand she heard the howlet's cry,
An' groans as of a dying man.

Wi' horror, an' wi' dread aghast,

That lady turn'd, and thought o' hame, An' there she saw, approaching fast, The likeness o' her noble Græme!

His grim, grim eyelids didna move;

His thin, thin cheek was deadly pale; His mouth was black, and sair he strove

T'impart to her some dreadfu' tale.

For thrice his withered hand he waved,
An' laid it on his bleedin' breast,
Hast thou a tender heart received?
How thou wilt tremble at the rest!

Fain wad I tell what there befel,
But it's unmeet for mortal ear:
The dismal deeds on yonder fell
Wad shock a human heart to hear.

NOTES TO SIR DAVID GREME.

NOTE I.

The dow flew east, the dow flew west.

P. 9, v. 1.

I borrowed the above line from a beautiful old rhyne v ch I have often heard my mother repeat, but of which she know no tradition; and from this introduction the part of the dove naturally arose. The rhyme runs thus:

The heron flew east, the heron flew west,
The heron flew to the fair forest;

She flew o'er streams and meadows green,
And a' to see what could be seen:

And when she saw the faithful pair,

Her breast grew sick, her head grew sair;
For there she saw a lovely bower,

Was a' clad o'er wi' lily-flower;

1

And in the bower there was a bed

With silken sheets, and weel down spread;
And in the bed there lay a knight,

Whose wounds did bleed both day and night;
And by the bed there stood a stane,
And there was set a leal maiden,
With silver needle and silken thread,
Stemming the wounds when they did bleed.

NOTE II.

To gi'e her a' the lands o' Dryfe.

P. 9, v. 5.

The river Dryfe forms the south-east district of Annandale; on its banks the ruins of the tower of Græme still remain in considerable uniformity.

NOTE III.

The sun had drunk from Keilder fells

His beverage of the morning dew.

P 10, v. 3.

Keilder Fells are those hills which lie eastward of the sources of North Tyne.

NOTE IV.

When, lo! Sir David's trusty hound,
With humpling back, and hollow ee.

P. 12, v. 3.

It is not long ago since a shepherd's dog watched his corpse in the snow amongst the mountains of this country, until nearly famished, and at last led to the discovery of the body of his disfigured master.