His armour broke in many a place,
A knight lay stretched that shield beside;
She raised his vizor, kist his face,
Then on his bosom sunk, and died.
Huntsman, their rustic grave behold:
'Tis here, at night, the Fairy king,
Where sleeps the fair, where sleeps the bold,
Oft forms his light fantastic ring.
'Tis here, at eve, each village youth,
With freshest flowers the turf adorns;
'Tis here he swears eternal truth,
By Eva's faith and Agilthorn's.
And here the virgins sadly tell,
Each seated by her shepherd's side,
How brave the gallant warrior fell,
How true his lovely lady died.
Ah! gentle huntsman, pitying hear,
And mourn the gentle lovers' doom!
Oh! gentle huntsman, drop a tear,
And dew the turf of Eva's tomb!
So ne'er may fate thy hopes oppose;
So ne'er may grief to thee be known:
They, who can weep for others' woes,
Should ne'er have cause to weep their own.
[RICH AULD WILLIE'S FAREWELL.]
A FREEBOOTER, TAKEN BY THE ENGLISH IN A BORDER BATTLE, AND CONDEMNED TO BE EXECUTED.
NEVER BEFORE PUBLISHED.