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.