He turned away his eyes, as the lid did rise,
And he listen'd silentlie;
And he heard breathed slow, in murmurs low,
"Beware of a coming tree!"
In muttering sound the rest was drowned;
No other word heard he;
But slow as it rose the lid did close,
With the rusty padlocks three.
Now rose with Branxholm's ae brother,
The Teviot, high and low;
Bauld Walter by name, of meikle fame,
For none could bend his bow.
O'er glen and glade, to Soulis there sped
The fame of his array,
And that Tiviotdale would soon assail
His towers and castle gray.
With clenched fist, he knocked on the chest,
And again he heard a groan;
And he raised his eyes as the lid did rise,
But answer heard he none.
The charm was broke, when the spirit spoke,
And it murmur'd sullenlie,—
"Shut fast the door, and for evermore,
"Commit to me the key.
"Alas! that ever thou raised'st thine eyes,
"Thine eyes to look on me!
"Till seven years are o'er, return no more,
"For here thou must not be."
Think not but Soulis was wae to yield
His warlock chamber o'er;
He took the keys from the rusty lock,
That never was ta'en before.
He threw them o'er his left shoulder,
With meikle care and pain;
And he bade it keep them, fathoms deep,
Till he returned again.