Tragedy of Sir James the Rose (3)

by Michael Bruce

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

THE

TRAGEDY

OF

SIR JAMES THE ROSE.

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Stirling:

Printed and Sold, Wholesale and Retail,

by W. Mackie, Bookseller.

SIR JAMES THE ROSE.

Of all the Scottish northren chiefs,
Of high and mighty fame,
The bravest was Sir James the Rose,
A knight of meikle fame.

His grouth was like a youthful oak,
That crowns the mountains' brow;
And waving o'er his shoulders broad,
His locks of yellow flow.

Wide were his fields; his herds were large,
And large his flock of sheep,
And numerous were his goats and deer,
Upon the mountains 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 had 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 deny'd.
At length she bless'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 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 there 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 obeyed,
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 happines, be thine,
Which I can never taste!

What do I hear! is this the vow?
Sir James the Rose reply'd,
And will Matilda wed the Graeme,
Tho'sworn to be my bride!

His sword shall sooner pierce my heart;
Then reave me of thy charms--
And clasp'd her to his throbbing breast,
Fast lock'd within her 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 haisty Donald dies;
And turn thee turn thee, beardless youth,
He loud insulting cries.

Soon turn'd about the fearless chief,
And soon his sword he drew ;
For Donald's sword before his breast,
Had pierc'd his tartane thro'.

This for my brother's slightest 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 thro' 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.

Thro the green wood in haste he pass'd,
Unto Lord Buchan's hall ;
Beneath Matilda's window stood,
And thus on her did call--

Art thou asleep, Matilda dear?
Awake my love! awake!
Behold thy lover waits without,
A long farewell to take.

For I have slain fierce Donald Graeme,
His blood is on my sword,
And far, far distant are my men,
Nor can defend their lord.

To Skye I will direct my flight,
Where my brave brothers bide;
And rise the mighty of the isles,
To combat on my side--

O do not so, the maid reply'd,
With me till morning stay;
For dark and dreary is the night,
And dangerous is the way,

All night I'll watch thee 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,
Till thro' 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 sunk 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 deny'd

Her well-known voice the hero heard,
He rais'd his death-clos'd eyes,
He fixed them on the weeping maid,
And weakly thus replies--

In vain Matilda begs a life,
By death's arrest denyd;
My race is run-adieu my love,
Then clos'd his eyes and dy'd.

The sword yet warm from his left side,
With frantic hand she drew,
I come, Sir James the Rose, she cry'd,
I come to follow you.

The hilt she lean'd against the ground,
And bar'd her snowy breast;
Then fell upon her lover's face,
And sunk to endless rest.

FINIS.