The Hermit of Powis.
The Hermit of Powis lived in his cell,
And shunned the converse of man;
His food was the coarsest, his drink was the brook
That near to the Hermitage ran.
He mumbled his prayers, and counted his beads,
And scourged his flesh wi' twine,
In the hope to atone for the sins of the soul
By the body's doll and pine.
And who was the Hermit, and what were his sins,
That merited penance so drear?—
List ye to the tale of a soothfast bard,
And both shall quickly appear:
The Hermit had stood a noble Earl
In the presence of his King—
Had gaily hunted the boar and the stag,
And fought in the field and the ring.
The Hermit now so withered and grim,
Was an Earl so fair to see,
That there was no' a lady in a' the land
But had sighed at the blink o' his e'e.
But the Earl gave his heart to the fairest maid
In the bounds of Scotland wide—
To the sweet Mary Hay, the flower o' the Don,
And her father's hope and pride.
But her father was no' a belted knight,
But a man of low degree,
And it grieved his heart his daughter's love
For a noble Earl to see.
"There never cam' good o' a lordling's love
For a maid so lowly born;
He'll win your heart, and break your heart,
And leave you the seath and the scorn."
