3
At length she bles'd her well-try'd love,
Allowed his tender claim:
She vow'd to him her virgin heart,
And own'd an equal flame.
Her Father Buchan's cruel lord,
Their passion disaprov'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 way.
When thus the maid began: My Sire,
Our passion disapproves
He bids we wed Sir John the Graeme,
So here must end our loves.
My father's will must be obeyed,
Nought boots me to withstand,
Sone fairer maid in beauty's bloom,
Stall bless thee with her hand.
Soon will Matilda be forgot,
And from thy mind effac'd;
But may that happiness be thine,
Which I can never taste!
What do I hear? is this the vow?
