Scott also quotes an old ballad, written by Mickle, called “Cumnor Hall,” in which the fair Amy bewails her fate:
The dew of summer night did fall;
The moon, sweet regent of the sky,
Silver’d the walls of Cumnor Hall,
And many an oak that grew thereby.
Now naught was heard beneath the skies,
The sounds of busy life were still,
Save an unhappy lady’s sighs,
That issued from that lonely pile.
“Leicester,” she cried, “is this thy love