"The bittern clamor'd from the moss,
The wind blew loud and shrill;
Yet the craggy pathway she did cross
To the eiry Beacon Hill.
"I watch'd her steps, and silent came
Where she sat her on a stone;—
No watchman stood by the dreary flame,
It burned all alone.
"The second night I kept her in sight,
Till to the fire she came,
And, by Mary's might! an Arméd Knight
Stood by the lonely flame.
"And many a word that warlike lord
Did speak to my lady there;
But the rain fell fast and loud blew the blast,
And I heard not what they were.
"The third night there, the night was fair,
And the mountain-blast was still,
As again I watch'd the secret pair,
On the lonesome Beacon Hill.
"And I heard her name the midnight hour,
And name this holy eve;
And say 'Come this night to thy lady's bower,
Ask no bold Baron's leave.
"'He lifts his spear with the bold Buccleuch;
His lady is all alone;
The door she'll undo, to her knight so true
On the eve of the good St. John.'—
"'I cannot come, I must not come:
I dare not come to thee;
On the eve of St. John I must wander alone,
In thy bower I may not be.'—
"'Now, out on thee, faint-hearted knight!
Thou shouldst not say me nay;
For the eve is sweet, and when lovers meet,
Is worth the whole summer's day.
"'And I'll chain the blood-hound, and the warder shall not sound,
And rushes shall be strew'd on the stair:
So by the black-rood stone, and by holy St. John,
I conjure thee, my love, to be there!'