While trembling for her lover’s fate
At distance stood the maid.
Swift ran the page o’er hill and dale.
Till in a lowly glen,
He met the fierce Sir John the Graeme,
With twenty of his men.
Where goest thou, little page, he said,
So late? who did thee send?—
I go to raise the brave clan Rose,
Their master to defend.
For he has slain fierce Donald Graeme,
His blood is on his sword,
And far far distant are his men,
Nor can assist their Lord.—
And has he slain my brother dear,
The furious chief replies;
Dishonour blast my name but he,
By me ere morning dies.
Say page where is Sir James the Rose;
I will thee well reward—
He sleeps into Lord Buchan’s park,
Matilda is his guard.
They spurred their steeds and furious flew,
Like lightening o’er the lea;
They reach’d Lord Buchan’s lofty towere,
By dawning of the day.
Matilda stood without the gate.
Upon a rising ground.
And watch’d each object in the dawn.
All ear to every sound.
