E. M. Smith-Dampier

“ There’s never a voice in the world but thine
Could call me from my rest.{56}”
’Twas at the hour before the dawn,
When hushed was every sound,
That the dead corpse stirred within the grave,
And rose up out o’ the ground—
Rose up, and stood in the wan moonlight
All in her winding-sheet—
Sir Herluin, he hid his face,
And lay still at her feet.
“Oh Herluin! oh Herluin!
Didst hold my heart in fee—
And the grave’s not deep nor wide enough
To sunder me and thee.”
“Margaret, oh Margaret!
Can love be strong as death?” ”

“ And clove him to the chin—
“Short shrift at least is thine, proud priest,
Thy God His grace to win!”
Alas! alas! for the bloody chrism
The king’s son got that day!
For the queen fell down at the self-same stroke
Nor turned not where she lay.
He’s seized his young son in his arms,
And busked his steed to flee;
Like a crooked shadow the grisly witch
Runs ever beside his knee.
With laughter shrill she’s by him still
While the misty moon grows dim—
Ere he can cross the running burn
She’s reft the babe from him. ”

“ Whose streets are paved with gold;
And out o’ the North my friends came forth
That gift to have and hold.
There was one who rode before us a’
From Perth to Preston town,
Wi’ winsome word and shining sword,
To gain a golden crown. ”

“ Red as the ruddy gold, the sun sets over Trondhjem.
{7} SIR KARL’S LYKEWAKE
It was young Sir Karel,
His mother’s rede did pray
If he should to the convent ride,
And bear his love away.
(The roses and the lilies all a-blowing.)
“Lo, on a bier thou’lt lay thee down,
A corse so white and wan—
And never a one shall ask of thee
If thou art a living man.” ”

“ Oh, I came forth fra’ the naked North
Wi’ lord and loon and laird—
And a’ the gold they gave to me
Was the straw in Newgate yard.
The sun comes glinting thro’ the reek
And gilds my galling chain;
Oh, our lives are sold for fairy-gold,
And glamour is a’ our gain!
Oh, I’d give my heart fra’ out of my breast,
Or the fell fra’ my flesh, to see
One little star of a’ the stars
That shine on mine own countrie!
The wheels they groan on the paving stone—
And I dream that their dreary din
Is the song o’ the burn afar in the fern,
Or the wind that wails in the whin. ”

“ To the hold of Hermitage!
Note.—The vault referred to in this ballad is that beneath the castle of Hermitage in which the “Wicked Lord Soulis” practised his sorceries—the custody of which, at his execution, he committed to Redcap, his familiar demon. By the time (some three centuries later) that Bothwell, as Warden of the Marches, took up residence at Hermitage, I have ventured to suppose that the vault (always looked on with horror) might have become ruinous. ”

“ And earn a goodly wage!
There’s a rune to read, and a spell to speed,
In the hold of Hermitage!”
“Now nay, now nay, thou black Bothwèll!
I dare not for deadly sin!
There’s a heavy spell on that cursed cell
That none may enter in.”
“Oh, the walls are rent, and the roof is riven,
And gone is the sealing stone;
And the night is deep, and all men sleep,
Save thou and I alone.”
“There’s an echo aloof in the riven roof
Of grisly grammarye!
And one that doth sleep where the dust lies deep
That brooks not a mortal’s eye!{60}”
Black, black, I ween, grew Bothwell’s mien ”

“ With a whin at his head, and a whin at his feet,
And the lean sand for a winding-sheet,
And a mourning pine beside.
{58} BOTHWELL’S SOOTHSAYING
Oh, the goodwives they go out and in,
And gossip beside the well;
But the witless wife, she fares alone,
With never a tale to tell.
Oh, the goodwives go to the holy kirk,
And bow their knees to pray;
But the witless wife, she steeks her door,
And keeps no holy-day. ”

“ When thou stretchest thine arms o’er the wan water
To the land that’s far away.”
His laughter rang in the riven roof—
“I shall not pale nor pine!
Each dog, they say, must have its day,
And shall I not have mine?” ”

“ Now the wind from the north blows thro’ your hair.{71}
Oh, he fares so far ere he blows on me,
He can bring no word from mine own countrie.
Lithe now and listen, and tell me true,
What are the world and its ways to you?
Do you not grudge when the men pass by? ”

“ Sir Peter’s bride to be!
Under the lindens, there will I bide.
{31} THE WOOING OF RANIL JONSON
Ranil bade saddle his steed so free—
“The wealthy Margrave I’ll go see,
Tho’ I am severed both from friends and kinsmen.” ”