3
At length she blessed his well-tried love,
Allow'd his tender claim;
She vow’d to him her tender heart,
And own’d an equal flame.
Her father, Buchan's cruel lord,
Their passion disapprov’d;
He bade her wed Sir John the Graeme,
And leave the youth she lov’d.
One night they met as they were wont,
Deep in a shady wood,
Where on the bank beside the burn,
A blooming saugh-tree stood.
Conceal’d among the underwood,
The crafty Donald lay,
The brother of Sir John the Graeme,
To watch what they might say.
When thus the maid began, My sire
Our passion disapproves,
He bids me wed Sir John the Graeme,
So here must end our loves.
My father’s will must be obey’d.
Nought boots me to withstand;
Some fairer maid in beauty’s bloom,
Shall bless thee with her hand.
Soon will Matilda be forgot,
And from thy mind effae’d;
But may that happiness be thine,
Which I can never taste!
What do I hear? is this thy vow?
