Xix

"Hear, lady, yet, a parting word! It chanced in fight that my poor sword Preserved the life of Scotland's lord. This ring the grateful Monarch gave, And bade, when I had boon to crave, To bring it back, and boldly claim The recompense that I would name. Ellen, I am no courtly lord, But one who lives by lance and sword, Whose castle is his helm and shield, His lordship the embattled field. What from a prince can I demand, Who neither reck of state nor land? Ellen, thy hand--the ring is thine; Each guard and usher knows the sign. Seek thou the king without delay-- This signet shall secure thy way-- And claim thy suit, whate'er it be, As ransom of his pledge to me." He placed the golden circlet on, Paused--kissed her hand--and then was gone. The aged Minstrel stood aghast, So hastily Fitz-James shot past. He joined his guide, and wending down The ridges of the mountain brown, Across the stream they took their way, That joins Loch Katrine to Achray.