The voice of thunder shook the wood,

As ceased the more than mortal yell, And spattering foul a shower of blood, Upon the hissing firebrands fell.

Next dropp'd from high a mangled arm, The fingers strain'd an half-drawn blade: And last, the life-blood streaming warm, Torn from the trunk, a gasping head.

Oft o'er that head, in battling field,

Stream'd the proud crest of high Benmore; That arm the broad claymore could wield, Which dyed the Teith with Saxon

gore.

Woe to Moneira's sullen rills!

Woe to Glenfinlas' dreary glen!

There never son of Albin's hills

Shall draw the hunter's shaft agen!

E'en the tired pilgrim's burning feet
At noon shall shun that sheltering den,
Lest, journeying in their rage, he meet

The wayward Ladies of the Glen.

And we-behind the chieftain's shield
No more shall we in safety dwell;
None leads the people to the field—
And we the loud lament must swell.

O hone a rie! O hone a rie!

The pride of Albin's line is o'er;
And fallen Glenartney's stateliest tree,

We ne'er shall see Lord Ronald more!

The simple tradition upon which the preceding stanzas are founded, runs as follows. While two Highland hunters were passing the night in a solitary bathy (a hut built for the purpose of hunting), and making merry over their venison and whisky, one of them expressed a wish that they had pretty lasses to complete their party. The words were scarcely uttered, when two beautiful young women, habited in green, entered the hut, dancing and singing. One of the hunters was seduced by the syren who attached herself particularly to him, to leave the hut: the other remained, and, suspicious of the fair seducers, continued to play upon a trump, or Jew's harp, some strain consecrated to the Virgin Mary. Day at length came, and the temptress vanished. Searching in the forest, he found the bones of his unfortunate friend, who had been torn to pieces and devoured by the Fiend into whose toils he had fallen. The place was, from thence, called the Glen of the Green Women.

No. XXI.

THE EVE OF SAINT JOHN.

ORIGINAL.

-WALTER SCOTT.

Smaylho'me, or Smallholm Tower, the scene of the following Ballad, is situated on the northern boundary of Roxburghshire, among a cluster of wild rocks, called Sandiknow-Crags, the property of Hugh Scott, Esq. of Harden. The tower is a high square building, surrounded by an outer wall, now ruinous. The circuit of the outer court being defended, on three sides, by a precipice and morass, is only accessible from the west, by a steep and rocky path. The apartments, as usual, in a Border Keep, or fortress, are placed one above another, and communicate by a narrow stair; on the roof are two bartizans, or platforms, for defence or pleasure. The inner door of the tower is wood, the outer an iron grate; the distance between them being nine feet, the thickness, namely, of the wall. From the elevated situation of Smaylho'me Tower, it is seen many miles in every direction. Among the crags by which it is surrounded, one more eminent is called the Watchfold, and is said to have been the station of a beacon in the times of war with England. Without the tower-court is a ruined Chapel.

THE Baron of Smaylho'me rose with day,

He spurr'd his courser on,

Without stop or stay, down the rocky way
That leads to Brotherstone.

He went not with the bold Buccleuch,

His banner broad to rear;

He went not 'gainst the English yew

To lift the Scottish spear.

Yet his plate-jack* was braced, and his helmet was laced,
And his vaunt-brace of proof he wore;
At his saddle-gerthe was a good steel sperthe,
Full ten pound weight and more.

The Baron return'd in three day's space,

And his looks were sad and sour,

And weary was his courser's pace

As he reached his rocky tower.

He came not from where Ancram Moor+

Ran red with English blood,

Where the Douglas true, and the bold Buccleuch,
'Gainst keen Lord Ivers stood;

* The plate-jack is coat armour; the vaunt-brace (avant-bras), armour for the shoulders and arms; the sperthe, a battle-axe.

† A. D. 1555, was fought the battle of Ancram Moor, in which Archibald Douglas Earl of Angus, and Sir Walter Scott of Buccleuch, routed a superior English army, under Lord Ralph Ivers, and Sir Brian Latoun.

Yet was his helmet hack'd and hew'd,

His acton pierced and tore ;

His axe and his dagger with blood embrued,

But it was not English gore.

He lighted at the Chapellage,

He held him close and still,

And he whistled twice for his little foot

His name was English Will.

page,

"Come thou hither, my

little foot page,

66

"Come hither to my knee,

Though thou art young, and tender of age,

"I think thou art true to me.

"Come, tell me all that thou hast seen,

"And look thou tell me true;

"Since I from Smaylho'me Tower have been,

"What did thy Lady do?"—

My Lady each night, sought the lonely light, “ That burns on the wild Watchfold ;

"For from height to height, the beacons bright, "Of the English foemen told.