Behind him basely oame the Græme,
And pierced him in the side;
Out spouting came the purple stream,
And all his tartans dyed.
But yet his hand dropped not the sword,
Nor sank he to the ground,
Till through his enemy’s heart the steel
Had forced a mortal wound.
Græme, like a tree by wind o’erthrown,
Fell breathless on the clay;
And down beside him sank 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 thus replies:
In vain Matilda begs a life,
By death’s 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 leaned against the ground,
And bared her snowy breast,
Then fell upon her lover’s face,
And sunk to endless rest.
