Sir James the Rose (1850s)

by Michael Bruce

For other versions of this work, see Sir James the Rose.

Sir James the Rose;

AN OLD SCOTTISH,

TRAGIC SONG.

GLASGOW:

PRINTED FOR THE BOOKSELLERS.

Sir James the Rose

Of all the Scottish northern chiefs
of high and warlike name,
The bravest was sir James the Rose
a knight of meikle fame.

His growth was like a youthful oak,
that crowns the mountain's brow
And waving o'er his shoulders broad,
his locks of yellow flew.

Wide were his fields his herds were large
and large his flocks of sheep,
And numerous were his goats
upon the mountain steep.

The chieftain of the good clan Rose,
a firm and warlike band,
Five hundred warriors drew the sword
beneath his high command.

In bloody fight thrice he stood,
against the English keen.
Ere two and twenty op'ning springs
the blooming youth had seen.

The fair Matilda dear he lov'd
a maid of beauty rare;
Even Margaret on the Scottish throne
was never half so fair.

Long had he woo'd long she refused
with seeming scorn and pride;
Yet oft her eyes confess'd the love
her fearful words denied.

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 barn
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 fathers 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 effac'd
But may that happiness be thine.
which I can never taste,

What do I hear? is this thy vow?
Sir James the Rose replied,
And wilt Matilda wed the Graeme
though sworn to be my bride?

His sword shall sooner pierce my heart,
than ’reave me of thy charms
And clasp’d her to his throbbing breast,
fast lock'd in within his arms.

I spoke to try thy love she said,
I'll ne’er wed man but thee;
The grave shall be my bridal bed
if Graeme my husband be.

Take then dear youth this faithful kiss
in witness of my troth;
And every plague become my lot,
that day I break my oath.

They parted thus—the sun was set—
up hasty Donald flies;
And turn thee turn thee beardless youth,
he loud insulting cries.

Soon turned about the fearless Chief
and soon his sword he drew;
For Donald’s blade before his breast,
had pierced his tartans through

This for my brother’s slighted love,
his wrongs sit on my arm—
Three paces back the youth retir'd ,
and sav’d himself from harm.

Returning swift his sword he rear’d
fierce Donald's head above ;
and through the brain and crashing bone
the furious weapon drove.

Life issued at the wound—he fell
a lump of lifeless clay;
So fall my foes quoth valiant Rose
and stately strode away.

Through the green wood in haste he pass'd
unto Lord Buchan’s hall—
Beneath Matilda's window stood,
and this on her did call

Art thou asleep Matilda dear,
awake my love! awake:
Belio'd thy lover waits without
a long farewell to take.

For I have slain fierce Donald Grame
his blood is on my sword;
And far far distant are my men
nor can defend their lord

To Sky I will direct my flight,
where my brave brothers bide;
And raise the mighty of the isles,
to combat on my side

O do not so, the maid replied,
with me till morning stay.
For dark and dreary is the night
and dangrous is the way

All right I'll watch you in the park,
my faithful page I'll send,
In haste to raise the brave Clan Rose,
their master to defend

He laid him down beneath a bush,
and wrapp'd him in his plaid—
While trembling for her lover's fate,
at distance stood the maid,

Swift ran the page o'er hill and dale,
till in a lonely glen
He met the furious Sir John the Graeme,
with twenty of his men.

Where goest thou little page he said,
so late? who did thee send?—
I go to raise the brave clan Rose,
their master to defend.

For he has slain fierce Donald Graeme.
his blood is on his sword;
And far far distant are his men
nor can assist their lord

And has he slain my brother dear
the furious chief replies
Dishonour blast my name but he
by me ere morning dies

Say page where is Sir James the Rose.
I will thee well reward—
He sleeps into lord Buchan's park ,
matilda is his guard.

They spurred their steeds and furious flew.
like lightning o’er the 'ee;
They reach'd Lord Buchan’s lofty tow’rs.
by dawning of the day

Matilda stood without the gate.
upon a rising ground—
And watch'd each object in the dawn
all ear to every sound.

Where sleeps the Rose? begin the Graeme,
or has the felon fled?
This hand shall lay the wretch on earth
by whom my brother bled.

And now the valiant knight awoke,
the virgin shrieking heard;
Straight up he rose and drew his sword,
when the fierce band appeared

Your sword last night my brother slew,
his blood yet dims its shine:
And e'er the sun shall gild the morn,
your blood shall reek on mine.

Your words are brave the chief returned,
but deeds approve the man;
Set by your men and hand to hand,
we’ll try what valour can.

With dauntless step he forward strode,
and dared him to the fight;
The Graeme gave back: he feared his arm,
for well he knew his might.

Four of his men the bravest four,
sunk down beneath his sword:
but still he scorned the poor revenge
and sought their haughty lord.

Behind him basely came the Graeme
and pierced him in the side;
Out spouting came the purple stream.
and all his tartans dyed

But yet his hand dropped not the sword
nor sunk he to the ground—
Till through his enemy's heart the steel
had forced a mortal wound.

Graeme like a tree by wind o’erthrown,
fell breathless on the clay!
And down beside him sank the Rose,
and faint and dying lay.

Matilda saw and fast she ran—
o spare his life she cried—
Lord Buchan's daughter begs his life,
let her not be denied.

Her well known voice the hero heard,
he rais’d his death-clos'd eyes;
He fix'd them on the weeping maid,
and weakly thus replies.

In vain Matilda begs a life,
by death's arrest denied;
My race is run—adieu my love
then closed his eyes and died.

The sword yet warm from his left side,
with frantic hand she drew,
I come Sir James the Rose she cried,
I come to follow you.

The hilt she lean’d against the ground,
and bar'd her snowy breast;
Then fell upon her lover face,
and sunk to end'ess rest.