The book of British ballads . Baron true !What news, what news, from Ancram fight ? What news from the bold Buccleuch ? — The Ancram Moor is red with gore, For many a southern fell;And Buccleuch has charged us, evermore, To watch our beacons well. — The lady blushd red, but nothing she said : Nor added the Baron a word :Then she steppd down the stair to her chamber fair, And so did her moody lord. In sleep the lady mournd, And the Baron tossd and turnd, And oft to himself he said, — The worms around him creep,And his bloody grave is deep It cannot give up the dead! — It was near the ringing of
The book of British ballads . Baron true !What news, what news, from Ancram fight ? What news from the bold Buccleuch ? — The Ancram Moor is red with gore, For many a southern fell;And Buccleuch has charged us, evermore, To watch our beacons well. — The lady blushd red, but nothing she said : Nor added the Baron a word :Then she steppd down the stair to her chamber fair, And so did her moody lord. In sleep the lady mournd, And the Baron tossd and turnd, And oft to himself he said, — The worms around him creep,And his bloody grave is deep It cannot give up the dead! — It was near the ringing of matin-bell, The night was well nigh done,When a heavy sleep on that Baron fell, On the eve of good St. John. The lady lookd through the chamber fair, By the light of a dying flame ;And she was aware of a knight stood there — Sir Richard of Coldinghame ! Alas ! away, away ! she cried, For the holy Virgins sake! — Lady, I know who sleeps by thy side ; But, lady, he will not awake. 290 W>z (&at of §bt. 3o| By Eildon-tree, for long nights three, In bloody grave have I lain;The mass and the death-prayer are said for me, But, lady, they are said in vain. By the Barons brand, near Tweeds fair strand, Most foully slain, I fell;And my restless sprite on the beacons height, For a space is doomd to dwell. At our trysting-place, for a certain space, I must wander to and fro ;But I had not had power to come to thy bower, Hadst thou not conjured me so. — Love masterd fear — her brow she crossd; How, Richard, hast thou sped ?And art thou saved, or art thou lost ? — The vision shook his head ! Who spilleth life shall forfeit life; So bid thy lord believe :That lawless love is guilt above, This awful sign receive. He laid his left palm on an oaken beam, His right upon her hand;The lady shrunk, and fainting sunk, For it scorchd like a fiery brand. The sable score of fingers four Remains on that board impressd;And for evermore that lady wore A covering on her wrist.* * T
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