BALLADS OF SCOTTISH HISTORY.

307

BALLADS OF SCOTTISH HISTORY.

The Birth of King Blearie.

"Where will ye hunt, Dame Marjory, that sall be Scotland's Queen?
Oh! will ye to the Weitland's Moss or Paisley's bonnie green?
Or through the Prior's guidly park, pursue the fallow deer?
Or course, or hawk, beyont the Knock, my Dame, withouten peer ?"

The daughter of the royal Bruce, a lovely dame was she,
Well wedded to the Seneschal of Scotland, brave and free;
And thus bespake her own liege lord, who loved her as his life,
Nor ever dreamt, in thought or word, to thwart his royal wife!

"Now grey St. Connal be our guide!" so swore the gentle dame, The while her lovely cheek grew red, and bright eye drooped for shame. "Dear Walter Steward! ye lightly reck of my poor babe unborn, When thus you tempt me forth to sport with hawk or hound or horn!"

The daughter of the royal Bruce, a noble dame was she,
For well she loved o'er hill and dale in sportive mood to flee;
And dearer still her tercel hawk to slip at quarry fair,

For not more buoyant seemed the bird than she on palfrey rare.

"No! neither at the Weitland's Moss, nor at the Paisley Green,
Nor in the Prior's park, dear heart, can I atweel be seen!
But if I might, a gentle flight, of this my tercel gay,

I fain would try beyont the Knock, this lovely summer's day!"

The daughter of the royal Bruce, of all the land had place,
For none might on before her step, or pass her in the chase;
And when her palfrey scoured the links, far fleeter than the wind,
Her train-squire, page, and bower maiden, were ever left behind!

"O saddle me the sorrel blood, from Araby the blest;

And not the ambling dapple grey, that loves so well to rest;
For much I trow, dear Walter Steward, I scarce again can ride,
For this sweet burden that I bear, till after Beltane tide!"

The daughter of the royal Bruce, she little reck'd how true

These words should prove, as merrily along the links she flew.

The sun shone high, the birds sang sweet, from every bush and brake,

And jinglings soft, from silver bells, the hooded kestrels shake!

"So ho boy! ho! a quarry ho! now Falc'ner ware thy lure,

My tercel's flown to strike it down! her stoop is ever sure:
See how she circles high in air! now hawk, now quarry soar!”

A wild plunge gave the sorrel mare!-Dame Marjery spake no more!

The daughter of the royal Bruce lay bleeding on the earth!

And there a simple man stood by, and gave King Blearie birth!
For from the dying lady's side, his wood-knife cut the child;
And though the weapon grazed its eye, the little creature smiled!

"Wo worth me now!" quoth Scotland's Steward, "my noble dame is dead!

Her corse shall rest at Paisley's shrine, and mony a mass be said!
And here I vow, thou tender pledge, wer't not to nourish thee!
That Walter Steward would lay him down with her, and gladly die!”

The daughter of the royal Bruce, rests in a gorgeous tomb,
'Mid Paisley's old grey Gothic walls, in deep sepulchral gloom.
Few years between, and Scotland's Steward fell nobly too in fight-
The founder of a kingly race, contending for the right!

The lady had a swarthy cheek, and glossy raven hair,

And eyebrows dark in feathery streak, springing like arches rare:
Full gleamingly her flashing eye, lit up her smile of scorn,
As forth her maiden train she led, upon the wall that morn.

"Now, by my foy!" quoth Montague, who spied her from afar,
"I trow what warder we have here! - Black Agnes of Dunbar!"

Shrill crew the cock; the war trump harsh a shriller echo gave, As Montague his challenge wound, and brandish'd high his glaive — "Surrender, lady! for thy lord I wot is far from hence: The surest hold can hardly stand, where women make defence!" "Defy thee, then! proud Montague! and all thy men-at-war!" With loud derisive laugh replied Black Agnes of Dunbar.

"Twere a fair mark," cried Lincoln Bob, "to hit a tooth of pearl, Or with a cloth-yard shaft to rob the gloss of yonder curl!" "Beshrew my heart! thou coward knave! and durst thou blurr my name With thy goose-barb," said Montague, "I blush for very shame!" "How now, my masters! quail your hearts before a woman's star?" Loud shouted then, with scoff and taunt, Black Agnes of Dunbar.

"Bring forth! bring forth the engines fierce! hurl ye the massive stone, Bid stauncheons crash, and splinter oak, till some good breach be shown, Poise high the ram, the crumbling wall shall totter to its fall, We'll know what cheer my Lord of March, finds for his lady's hall." "Grammercy, what a dust is here! slow maidens that ye are! Go wipe it with a napkin off," quoth Agnes of Dunbar.

"If needs we must-why then-THE SOW! Advance beneath its shieldFew shocks of its rude strength, I trow, shall make yon proud dame yield!"

The engine stands against the gate, the warriors lurk within —
The ponderous log is ready slung, its thunders to begin-

When, from the bartizan above-"Proud Montague, bewar'
Thy sow may farrow ere her time!" cried Agnes of Dunbar.

A cloud-like darkness from ou high, fell o'er that fated shed, 'Twas but an instant, and a crash, and they within were dead: "I told thee," said that saucy dame, as limbs from bodies torn, Steel panoplies and bruised mail, and plumes from knighthood shorn, Were dash'd before the falling mass.- "I thus thy sport should mar; I red ye ere again to flout with Agnes of Dunbar!"

What dame is she of daring mould, stands up for Scotland still,
When ev'ry fastness far and wide the tyrant foemen fill?
When Halidon's dire fight had thinned our country's proud array;
And bitter Fate, in malice grinned, on Scotia's evil day?

In fields of strife that lady's lord, fights on with many a scar-
The grandchild of the glorious Bruce, is Agnes of Dunbar!

A ruin crumbles on the verge of dark basaltic rocks,

From out whose breast in clouds emerge the sea bird's plumy flocks, Tho' scarce a shred of that old wall lingers a tale to tell;

Yet Agnes and her maidens tall, are there remembered well.

For while Tradition's pulse beats true, to glory and to war,
A guerdon of renown is due Black Agnes of Dunbar.