The Buchanshire tragedy, or, Sir James the Ross

Of all the Scottish Northern Chiefs, Of high and warlike name, The bravest was Sir James the Ross, A Knight of meikle fame:

His growth was like the tufted fir, That crowns the mountain-brow, And waving o'er his shoulders broad, His locks of yellow flew.

The Chieftain of the brave Clan Ross, A firm undaunted band, Five hundred warrior drew the sword Beneath his high command:

In bloody fight thrice had he stood Against the English keen, E'er two and twenty op'ning springs His blooming youth had seen.

The fair Matilda dear he lov'd, A maid of beauty rare: Even Marg'ret on the Scottish throne, Was never half so fair.

Lang had he woo'd, lang she refus'd with seeming scorn and pride: Yet oft her eyes confess'd the love, Her faithful tongue deni'd.

At night they met, as they were wont, Within a shady, wood, Where on a bank, beside a burn, A blooming saugh-tree stood:

Conceal'd among the under-wood, The crafty Donald lay, (The brother of Sir John the Grahame) To hear what they might say.

When thus the maid began, My sire Your passion disapproves, And bids me wed Sir John the Grahame, So here must end our loves:

My father's will must be obey'd, Nought boots me to withstand; Some fairer maid, in beauty's bloom, Must bless thee with her hand:

Matilda soon shall be forgot, And from thy mind effac'd; But may that happines be thine, Which I can never taste.

What do I hear! Is this thy vow? Sir James the Ross repli'd: And will Matilda wed the Grahame, Tho' sworn to be my bride?

Take then, dear youth, this faithful kiss, In witness of my troth, And every plague become my lot, That day I break my oath.

They parted thus: the sun was set, Up hasty Donald flies, And turn thee, turn thee, beardless youth, He loud insulting cries.

Soon turn'd about the fearless chief, And forth his sword he drew, (For Donald's blade before his breast Had pierc'd his tartans thro';)

'Tis for my brother's slighted love, His wrong sit on my arm; Three paces back the youth retir'd, To save himself frae harm.

Returning swift, his hand he rear'd frae Donald's head above, And thro' the brains and crashing bones His sharp-edged weapon drove!

He stagger'd, reel'd, then tumbled down, A lump of breathless clay! So all my foes, quo' valiant Ross, And stately strode away.

For I ha'e slain fierce Donald Grahame, His blood is on my sword, And distant are my faithful men, Nor can assist their Lord

To Sky I'll now direct my way, Where my two brothers bide, And raise the valiant of the Isles, To combat on my side.

O do not so! the maid repli'd, With me till morning stay, dark and dreary is the night, And dangerous is the way:

night I'll watch you in the park, My faithful page I'll send run and raise the Ross's clan, Their master to defend.

a bush he laid him down, And wrapt him in his plaid, While, trembling for her lover's fate, At distance stood the maid.

ran the page o'er hill and dale, Till in a lowly glen, met the furious Sir John Grahame, With twenty of his men.

And has he slain my brother dear? the furious Grahame replies: Dishonour blast my name, but he, By me, e'er morning, dies.

Tell me where is Sir James the Ross, I will thee well reward: He sleeps into Lord Buchan's park, Matilda is his guard.

They spur'd their steeds in furious mood, And scour'd along the ley, They reached Lord Buchan's lofty tow'rs By dawning of the day.

Matilda stood without the gate, To whom thus Grahame did say, Saw ye Sir James the Ross last night, Or did he pass this way?

Last day at noon, Matilda said, Sir James the Ross pass'd by, He furiously prick'd his weary steed, And onward fast did hye:

By this time he's at Edinburgh, If horse and man hold good. Your Page then lied, who said He was Now sleeping in the wood.

Your sword last night my brother slew, His blood yet dims it shine; And ere the rising of the sun, Your blood shall reek on mine.

You word it well, the Chief repli'd, But deeds approve the man; Set by your men, and hand in hand, We'll try what valour can.

Oft boasting hides a coward's heart, My weighty sword you fear. Which shone in front on Flodden-field, When your's kept in the rear.

With dauntless step he forward strode, and dar'd him to the fight; The Grahame gave back, he fear'd his arm, For well he knew its might.

Four of his men, the bravest four, Sunk down beneath his sword, But still he scorn'd this best revenge, And sought their haughty Lord.

Behind him basely came the Grahame, And wound him in the side; Out spouting came the purple stream, And all his tartans dy'd!

The sad Matilda saw him fall, O spare his life! she cri'd; Lord Buchan's daughter craves his life, Let her not be deni'd.

Her well-known voice the hero heard, He rais'd his death-clos'd eyes, And fix'd them on the weeping maid, And weakly thus replies:

In vain Matilda begs the life, By death's arrest deni'd; My race is run!—Adieu, my love! Then clos'd his eyes and di'd.

The sword yet warm, from his left side, With fantic hand she drew. I come, Sir James the Ross, she cries, I come to follow you!

She lean'd the hilt against the ground, And bar'd snowy breast; Then fell upon her lover's face, And sunk to endless rest!

Then by this fatal Tragedy Let parents warning take, And ne'er entice their children dear Their sacred vows to break.