8
Behind him basely came the Graeme,
And pierced him in the side;
Out sprouting came the purple stream,
And all his tartans dyed.
But yet his hand dropped not the sword,
Nor sunk he to the ground.
Till through his enemy's heart the steel.
Had forced a mortal wound.
Graeme, like a tree by wind o'er thrown,
Fell breathless on the clay;
And down beside him sunk the Rose,
And faint and dying lay.
Matilda saw and fast she ran,
O spare his life, she cried;
Lord Buchan's daughter begs his life,
Let her not be denied.
Her well-known voice the hero heard,
And raised his death closed eyes,
He fixed them on the weeping maid,
And weakly this replies:
In vain Matilda begs a life,
By deaths arrest denied;
My race is run—adieu, my love;
Then closed his eyes and died.
The sword yet warm from his left side,
With frantic hand she drew;
I come, Sir James the Rose, she cried,
I come to follow you.
The hilt she leant against the ground,
And bared her snowy breast,
Then fell upon her lovers face,
And sunk to endless rest.
