The Lord of Clâs to his hunting is gone,
Over plain and sedgy moor;
The glare of his bridle bit has shone
On the heights of wild Benmore.
Why does he stay away from hound?
Nor urge the fervid chase?
Where is the shrill blast of his bugle sound?
And the bloom of his radiant face?
The Lord of Clâs has found other game
Than the buck and timid roe;
His heart is warm’d by other flame,
His eyes with love-light glow.
On the mountain side a damsel he met
Collecting flowers wild;
Her eyes like diamonds were set,
And modest as a child.
Fair was her face, and lovely to see
Her form of slender mould,
Her dark hair waved in tresses free
On shoulders arch and bold.
The Lord of Clâs did blush and sigh
When the lovely maid he saw;
He stoutly tried to pass her by;
His bridle rein did draw.
But his heart quick flutter’d in his breast,
The rein fell from his hand,
In accents weak the maid address’d,
While trembling did he stand.
“Fair lady, may I ask your name?
And what your purpose here?
From what bright homestead far you came?
And is your guardian near?”
Answer’d the maid with haughty mien,
That show’d her high estate:
“I know not, sir, why you should glean
Such knowledge as you prate.
I ask’d not your name, or whence you came?
Nor on you deign’d a look;
Wherefore should you my wrath inflame,
By taking me to book?”