Proudly the chieftain mark'd his clan,
On greenwood lap all careless thrown,
Yet miss'd his eye the boldest man,
That bore the name of Hamilton.
"Why fills not Bothwellhaugh his place,
"Still wont our weal and woe to share?
"Why comes he not our sport to grace?
"Why shares he not our hunter's fare?"
Stern Claud replied, with darkening face,
(Grey Pasley's haughty lord was he)
"At merry feast, or buxom chace,
"No more the warrior shalt thou see.
"Few suns have set, since Woodhouselee
"Saw Bothwellhaugh's bright goblets foam,
"When to his hearths, in social glee,
"The war-worn soldier turn'd him home.
"There, wan from her maternal throes,
"His Margaret, beautiful and mild,
"Sate in her bower, a pallid rose,
"And peaceful nursed her new-born child.
"O change accurs'd! past are those days;
"False Murray's ruthless spoilers came,
"And, for the hearth's domestic blaze,
"Ascends destruction's volumed flame.
"What sheeted phantom wanders wild,
"Where mountain Eske through woodland flows,
"Her arms enfold a shadowy child—
"Oh is it she, the pallid rose?
"The wildered traveller sees her glide,
"And hears her feeble voice with awe—
'Revenge,' she cries, 'on Murray's pride!
'And woe for injured Bothwellhaugh!'
He ceased—and cries of rage and grief
Burst mingling from the kindred band,
And half arose the kindling chief,
And half unsheath'd his Arran brand.
But who, o'er bush, o'er stream and rock,
Rides headlong, with resistless speed,
Whose bloody poniard's frantic stroke
Drives to the leap his jaded steed;