O, but the little Fairy grews
Swept lightly o’er the Eildon-Brae;
The houndis came youffing up behind,
As fast as they could win their way.
And the wild huntsmen’s gruesome tykis
All urgit the chace, but stop or stande.
“Ycho! ycho! The Keylan Rowe!
For earth, an’ death, or Fairy-lande!”
The dame she claspit the halye roode,
And dreddour wilde was in her ee;
And round, and round, and seven times round,
And round about the Eildon-Tree!
The hunt still near and nearer drew—
Weel moght the matronis herte be wae!
For hard they pressit, and aft they turnit
The little wee hare o’ Eildon-Brae.
They mouthit her aince, they mouthit her twice;
Loud did she scream throu fear and dread;
That scream was like ane bairnyis cry
Quhen it is piercit in cradle-bed.
But the dame behelde ane bonny hounde,
White as the newly driftit snaw,
That close beside the leveret kept,
And wore the elfin grews awa.
Hard did she toil the hare to save,
For the little wee hare was sair foreworne;
And the ghaistly huntsmen gatherit on,
With whoop, and whoo, and bugle-horne.
O but the hounde was hard bestedd!
For round and round they harder press’d,—
At length, beneath the Eildon-Tree,
The little wee leveret found its rest.
It sprung into the matronis lap,
Wha row’d it in her kirtle gray;
And round, and round, came horse and hound,
With snort, and neigh, and howl, and bay.
But the white hounde stood by her side,
And wore them back full powerfullye;
And round, and round, and seven times round,
And round about the Eildon-Tree!