‘But wist I of a woman bold, Who thrice my brow durst sign, I might regain my mortal mould, As fair a form as thine.’
‘AND IF THERE’S BLOOD UPON HIS HAND,
’TIS BUT THE BLOOD OF DEER.’
She cross’d him once—she cross’d him twice— That lady was so brave; The fouler grew his goblin hue, The darker grew the cave.
She cross’d him thrice, that lady bold! —He rose beneath her hand The fairest knight on Scottish mould, Her brother, Ethert Brand!
—Merry it is in good greenwood, When the mavis and merle are singing; But merrier were they in Dumfermline gray When all the bells were ringing.
Sir W. Scott.