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.

XX

All in the Trosachs’ glen was still,
Noontide was sleeping on the hill: 
Sudden his guide whooped loud and high—­
’Murdoch! was that a signal cry?’—­
He stammered forth, ’I shout to scare
Yon raven from his dainty fare.’ 
He looked—­he knew the raven’s prey,
His own brave steed:  ’Ah! gallant gray! 
For thee—­for me, perchance—­’t were well
We ne’er had seen the Trosachs’ dell.—­
Murdoch, move first—–­but silently;
Whistle or whoop, and thou shalt die!’
Jealous and sullen on they fared,
Each silent, each upon his guard.

XXI.

Now wound the path its dizzy ledge
Around a precipice’s edge,
When lo! a wasted female form,
Blighted by wrath of sun and storm,
In tattered weeds and wild array,
Stood on a cliff beside the way,
And glancing round her restless eye,
Upon the wood, the rock, the sky,
Seemed naught to mark, yet all to spy. 
Her brow was wreathed with gaudy broom;
With gesture wild she waved a plume
Of feathers, which the eagles fling
To crag and cliff from dusky wing;
Such spoils her desperate step had sought,
Where scarce was footing for the goat. 
The tartan plaid she first descried,
And shrieked till all the rocks replied;
As loud she laughed when near they drew,
For then the Lowland garb she knew;
And then her hands she wildly wrung,
And then she wept, and then she sung—­
She sung!—­the voice, in better time,
Perchance to harp or lute might chime;
And now, though strained and roughened, still
Rung wildly sweet to dale and hill.

XXII.

Song.

They bid me sleep, they bid me pray,
     They say my brain is warped and wrung—­
I cannot sleep on Highland brae,
     I cannot pray in Highland tongue. 
But were I now where Allan glides,
Or heard my native Devan’s tides,
So sweetly would I rest, and pray
That Heaven would close my wintry day!

’Twas thus my hair they bade me braid,
     They made me to the church repair;
It was my bridal morn they said,
     And my true love would meet me there. 
But woe betide the cruel guile
That drowned in blood the morning smile! 
And woe betide the fairy dream! 
I only waked to sob and scream.