‘By the Baron’s brand, near Tweed’s fair strand, Most foully slain, I fell; And my restless sprite on the beacon’s height, For a space is doom’d to dwell.
‘At our trysting-place, for a certain space, I must wander to and fro; But I had not had power to come to thy bower, Had’st thou not conjured me so.’—
Love master’d fear—her brow she cross’d; ‘How, Richard, hast thou sped? And art thou saved, or art thou lost?’ The Vision shook his head!
‘Who spilleth life, shall forfeit life; So bid thy lord believe: That lawless love is guilt above, This awful sign receive.’
He laid his left palm on an oaken beam; His right upon her hand: The lady shrunk, and fainting sunk, For it scorch’d like a fiery brand.
The sable score, of fingers four, Remains on that board impress’d; And for evermore that lady wore A covering on her wrist.
There is a nun in Dryburgh bower, Ne’er looks upon the sun: There is a monk in Melrose tower, He speaketh word to none.
That nun, who ne’er beholds the day, That monk, who speaks to none— That nun was Smaylho’me’s Lady gay, That monk the bold Baron.
Sir W. Scott.