Walter of Congalton

Like glow-worm on the robe of night Haddina’s church is gleaming, Her painted windows glitter bright, The tapers wide are streaming; While, shining in the river’s bed, Her awful form is shadowed. Before the altar, richly spread, The Minorites are kneeling, Chanting lone masses for the dead, While through the aisles are stealing Those sounds so soft and holy, So fraught with melancholy And pious pleasure, That heaven seems echoing back the strain, From her invisible domain, In sweeter measure. It is the anniversary Of Walter of Congalton: He sleeps beside his lady fair Under a polish’d stone. The altar of St Duthacus Stands in the church’s nave, And near the altar, side by side, They moulder in their grave, While, sculptured o’er the mighty dead, His crest and arms are blazoned. Walter of Congalton was brave, But his single arm could not save His country from its subject state, The English king was at his gate, And all his lands were desolate! While to the victor of the war Had struck the banners of Dunbar, A woe-portending token! And patriot-chiefs had broke their word. Ere Congalton had sheathed his sword; For then his heart was broken!— Within that church’s roofless shed, A solitary guest! The bat will make her drowsy bed, The owl will build her nest! But while within that glorious fane Three lonely Minorites remain, The mass will be said, And the rites be paid, For the gallant Walter of Congalton, His lady Mabilla, and his son Sir John.

THE LOST DRAVE OF DUNBAR; OR, THE WITCH OF KEITH.