Long had he wooed, long she refused,
With seeming scorn and pride;
Yet oft her eyes confessed the love
Her fearful words denied.
At length she blessed his well-tried love,
Allowed his tender claim;
She vowed to him her tender heart,
And owned an equal flame.
Her father, Buchan’s cruel lord,
Their passion dicapproved;
He bade her wed Sir John the Græme,
And leave the youth she loved.
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.
Concealed among the underwood
Tho crafty Donald lay,
The brother of Sir John the Græme,
To watch what they might say.
When thus the maid began, My Sire
Our passion disapproves,
He bids me wed Sir John the Græme,
So hero must end our loves.
My father’s will must be obeyed,
Nought boots me to withstand,
Some fairer maid in beauty’s bloom
Shall bless you with her hand.
Soon will Matilda be forgot,
And from thy mind effaced;
But may that happiness be thine.
Which I can never taste!
