The book of British ballads . , And soon his sword he drew ;For Donalds blade, before his breast, Had pierced his tartans through. This for my brothers slighted love; His wrongs sit on my paces back the youth retired, And saved himself frae harm. Returning swift, his hand he reared Frae Donalds head above,And through the brain and crashing bones His sharp-edged weapon drove. He staggering reeled, then tumbled down, A lump of breathless clay: So fall my foes ! quoth valiant Rose, And stately strode away. Through the green-wood he quickly hied, Unto Lord Buchans hall;And at Matildas wi
The book of British ballads . , And soon his sword he drew ;For Donalds blade, before his breast, Had pierced his tartans through. This for my brothers slighted love; His wrongs sit on my paces back the youth retired, And saved himself frae harm. Returning swift, his hand he reared Frae Donalds head above,And through the brain and crashing bones His sharp-edged weapon drove. He staggering reeled, then tumbled down, A lump of breathless clay: So fall my foes ! quoth valiant Rose, And stately strode away. Through the green-wood he quickly hied, Unto Lord Buchans hall;And at Matildas window stood, And thus began to call: Art thou asleep, Matilda dear ? Awake, my love, awake !Thy luckless lover on thee calls, A long farewell to take. For I have slain fierce Donald Graeme; His blood is on my sword:And distant are my faithful men, Nor can assist their lord. 1 To Skye Ill now direct my way, Where my two brothers bide,And raise the valiant of the Isles, To combat on my side. J. G. Brine del. T. Armstrong sc. 344. O do not so, the maid replies; With me till morning stay;For dark and dreary is the night, And dangerous the way. All night Ill watch you in the park; My faithful page Ill send,To run and raise the Rosss clan, Their master to defend. Beneath a bush he laid him down,And wrapped him in his plaid; While, trembling for her lovers fate,At distance stood the maid. Swift ran the page oer hill and dale, Till, in a lowly glen,He met the furious Sir John Graeme, With twenty of his men. Where gost thou, little page ? he said; So late who did thee send ?£ I go to raise the Rosss clan, Their master to defend: For he hath slain Sir Donald Graeme; His blood is on his sword:And far, far distant are his men, That should assist their lord. 1 And has he slain my brother dear ? The furious Graeme replies:* Dishonour blast my name, but he By me, ere morning, dies! Tell me where is Sir James the Rose; I will thee well reward. He sleeps within Lord Buchans park; Matilda is his
Size: 929px × 2690px
Photo credit: © The Reading Room / Alamy / Afripics
License: Licensed
Model Released: No
Keywords: ., bookcentury1800, bookdecade1840, bookidg, bookpublisherlondonjhow
