Page:The Poetical Works of Sir Walter Scott, Bart.djvu/706

Yet was his helmet hacked and hewed,
 His acton pierced and tore;
His axe and his dagger with blood imbrued,—
 But it was not English gore.

He lighted at the Chapellage,
 He held him close and still;
And he whistled thrice for his little foot-page,
 His name was English Will.

"Come thou hither, my little foot-page;
 Come hither to my knee;
Thou art young, and tender of age,
 I think thou art true to me.

"Come, tell me all that thou hast seen,
 And look thou tell me true!
Since I from Smaylho'me tower have been,
 What did thy lady do?"

"My lady, each night, sought the lonely light,
 That burns on the wild Watchfold;
For, from height to height, the beacons bright
 Of the English foemen told.

"The bittern clamoured from the moss,
 The wind blew loud and shrill;
Yet the craggy pathway she did cross,
 To the eiry Beacon Hill.

"I watched her steps, and silent came
 Where she sat her on a stone;
No watchman stood by the dreary flame;
 It burnèd all alone.

"The second night I kept her in sight,
 Till to the fire she came,
And, by Mary's might! an armèd Knight
 Stood by the lonely flame.

"And many a word that warlike lord
 Did speak to my lady there;
But the rain fell fast, and loud blew the blast,
 And I heard not what they were.

"The third night there the sky was fair,
 And the mountain blast was still,
As again I watched the secret pair,
 On the lonesome Beacon Hill.

"And I heard her name the midnight hour,
 And name this holy eve;
And say, 'Come this night to thy lady's bower;
 Ask no bold Baron's leave.

"'He lifts his spear with the bold Buccleuch;
His lady is all alone;