"Last night the gifted seer did view,
A wet shroud swathed round ladye gay!
Then stay thee, fair, in Ravensheuch;
Why cross the gloomy Firth to-day?"
"'Tis not because Lord Lindesay's heir,
To-night at Roslin leads the ball,
But that my ladye mother there,
Sits lonely in her castle hall.
"'Tis not because the ring they ride—
And Lindesay at the ring rides well—
But that my sire the wine will chide
If 'tis not filled by Rosabelle."
O'er Roslin all that dreary night,
A wondrous blaze was seen to gleam,
'Twas broader than the watchfire's light,
And redder than the bright moonbeam.
It glared on Roslin's castled rock,
It ruddied all the copsewood glen,
'Twas seen from Dryden's grove of oak,
And seen from cavern'd Hawthornden.
Seem'd all on fire that chapel proud,
Where Roslin's chiefs uncoffined lie,
Each baron, for a sable shroud,
Sheathed in his iron panoply.
Seem'd all on fire, within, around,
Deep sacristy and altar pale;
Shone every pillar, foliage bound,
And glimmer'd all the dead men's mail.
Blazed battlement and pinnet high,
Blazed every rose-carved buttress fair,—
So still they blaze, when fate is nigh
The lordly line of high St. Clair.
There are twenty of Roslin's barons bold,
Lie buried within that proud chapelle;
Each one the holy vault doth hold—
But the sea holds lovely Rosabelle.
And each St. Clair was buried there,
With candle, with book, and with knell,
But the sea caves rung, and the wild winds sung,
The dirge of lovely Rosabelle.