Where sleeps the Rose, began the Graeme,
Or has the felon fled!
This hand ⟨shall⟩ lay the wretch on earth,
By whom my brother bled.
And now the valiant knight awoke,
The virgin shrieking heard:
Straight up he rose and drew his sword.
When the fierce band appeared.
Your sword last night my brother slew.
His blood yet dims its shine;
And ere the sun shall gild the morn,
Your blood shall reek on mine.
Your words are brave the chief returned,
But deeds approve the man,
Set by your men, and hand to hand,
We’ll try what valour can.
With dauntless step he forward strode,
And dared him to the fight:
The Graeme gave back, lie fear’d his arm.
For well he knew his might,
Four of his men, the bravest four,
Sunk down beneath his sword;
But still he scorn’d the poor revenge,
And sought their haughty Lord,
Behind him basely came the Graeme,
And pierced bim in the side,
Out spouting came the purple stream,
And all his tartans dyed.
But yet his hand dropp’d not the sword
Nor sunk he to the ground,
