He went not with the bold Buccleuch,
    His banner broad to rear;
He went not ’gainst the English yew,
    To lift the Scottish spear.

Yet his plate-jack was braced, and his helmet was laced,
    And his vaunt-brace of proof he wore: 
At his saddle-girth was a good steel sperthe,
    Full ten pound weight and more.

The Baron return’d in three days’ space,
    And his looks were sad and sour,
And weary was his courser’s pace,
    As he reach’d his rocky tower.

He came not from where Ancram Moor
    Ran red with English blood;
Where the Douglas true and the bold Buccleuch,
    ’Gainst keen Lord Evers stood.

Yet was his helmet hack’d and hew’d,
    His acton pierced and tore,
His axe and his dagger with blood imbrued,—­
    But it was not English gore.

He lighted at the Chapellage,
    He held him close and still;
And he whistled thrice for his little foot-page;
    His name was English Will.

“Come thou hither, my little foot-page,
    Come hither to my knee;
Though thou art young and tender of age,
    I think thou art true to me.

“Come tell me all that thou hast seen,
    And look thou tell me true! 
Since I from Smaylho’me tower have been,
    What did my ladye do?”—­

“My lady each night, sought the lonely light,
    That burns on the wild Watchfold;
For from height to height, the beacons bright
    Of the English foemen told.

“The bittern clamor’d from the moss,
    The wind blew loud and shrill;
Yet the craggy pathway she did cross
    To the eiry Beacon Hill.

“I watch’d her steps, and silent came
    Where she sat her on a stone;—­
No watchman stood by the dreary flame,
    It burned all alone.

“The second night I kept her in sight,
    Till to the fire she came,
And, by Mary’s might! an Armed Knight
    Stood by the lonely flame.

“And many a word that warlike lord
    Did speak to my lady there;
But the rain fell fast and loud blew the blast,
    And I heard not what they were.

“The third night there, the night was fair,
    And the mountain-blast was still,
As again I watch’d the secret pair,
    On the lonesome Beacon Hill.

“And I heard her name the midnight hour,
    And name this holy eve;
And say ’Come this night to thy lady’s bower,
    Ask no bold Baron’s leave.

“’He lifts his spear with the bold Buccleuch;
    His lady is all alone;
The door she’ll undo, to her knight so true
    On the eve of the good St. John.’—­

“’I cannot come, I must not come: 
    I dare not come to thee;
On the eve of St. John I must wander alone,
    In thy bower I may not be.’—­

“’Now, out on thee, faint-hearted knight! 
    Thou shouldst not say me nay;
For the eve is sweet, and when lovers meet,
    Is worth the whole summer’s day.