Sir James the Ross

by Michael Bruce

SIR JAMES
THE ROSS.

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AN HISTORICAL SCOTTISH BALLAD.

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STIRLING,

Printed and Sold by M Randall.

SIR JAMES THE ROSS.

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

His growth was as the tufted fir
that crowns the mountain's brow;
And waving o'er his ſhoulders broad,
his locks of yellow flew.

The chieftain of the brave clan Roſs,
a firm undaunted band;
Five hundred warriors drew the ſword,
beneath his high command.

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

Lang had he woo'd, lang ſhe refus'd
with ſeeming ſcorn and pride;
Yet aft her eyes confeſt the love
her fearful words deny'd.

At laſt the bleſs'd his welt-tried faith,
allow'd 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,
And bade her wed Sir John the Graeme,
and leave the youth the lov'd.

One night they met, as they were wont,
deep in a ſhady wood,
Where on a bank beside a burn,
a blooming faugh-tree ſtood.

Conceal'd among the underwood,
the craſty Donald lay,
The brother of Sir John the Graeme,
to hear what they might lay.

When thus the maid began: 'My sire
'your paſſion diſapproves,
'And bids me wed Sir John the Graeme,
'ſo here muſt end our loves.

'My father's will muſt he obey'd,
'nought boots me to withſtand ;
'Some fairer maid in beauty's bloom
'ſhall bleſs thee with her hand.

'Matilda ſoon ſhall be forgot,
'and from thy mind defacd;
'But may that happineſs be thine
'which I can never taſte'

'What do I hear! Is this thy vow?
Sir James the Roſs replied,
'And will Matilda wed the Græme,
'though ſworn to be my bride :

'His ſword ſhall ſooner pierce my heart,
'than reave me of thy charms;'
Then claſp'd her to his beating breaſt,
faſt lockt into his arms

'I ſpeak to try thy love, ſhe ſaid,
'I'll ne'er wed mac but thee;
'My grave ſhall be my bridal bed,
'ere Graeme my husband be;'
'Take then, dear youth, this faithful kiſs,
'in witneſs of my troth;
'And every pledge become my lot,
'that day I break my oath.'

They parted thus the ſun was ſet;
up haſty Donald flies,
'Come 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 blade before his breaſt,
had pierc'd his tartans through.

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

Returning ſwift, his hand he rear'd
from Donald's Lead above,
And through the brain and craſhing bones,
his ſharp-edged weapon drove.

He ſtaggering reel'd then tumbl'd down,
a lump of breathleſs clay;
'So fall my foes,' quoth valiant Roſs,
and ſtately ſtrode away.

Through the green wood he quickly hied
unto Lord Buchan's hall,
And at Matilda's window ſtood,
and thus began to call:

'Art thou aſleep, Matilda, dear;
'awake, my love awake,
Thy luckleſs lover calls on thee,
'a long farewel to take.

For I have ſtain fierce Donald Græme,
' his blood is on my ſword";
And diſtant are my faithful men,
'that ſhould aſſiſt their lord.

To Sky I'll now direct my way,
'where my brave brothers bide,
And raiſe the valiant of the Iſles,
'to combat on my ſide.'

O do not ſo!' the maid replies,
'with me till morning ſtay:
For dark and dreary is the night,
'and dangerous the way.

All night I'll watch thee in the park,
'my faithful page I'll ſend,
To run and raiſe the Roſs's clan,
'their maſter to defend.'

Beneath a buſh he laid him down,
and wrapt 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 Graeme;
with twenty of his men.

Where goeſt thou, little page 'he ſaid,
'ſo late, who did thee fend?'
I go to raiſe the Roſs's clan,
'their maſter to defend;.
'For he hath ſlain fierce Donald Graeme,
'his blood is on his ſword;
'And far far diſtant are his men
'that ſhould aſſiſt their lord'

'And has he ſlain my brother deary'
'the furious Græme replies,
'Diſhonor blaſt my name, but he
'by me, ere morning dies.

'Tell me where is Sir James the Roſs,
'I ſhall thee well reward?".
'He ſleeps into Lord Buchan's park,
'Matilda is his guard.'

They ſpurr'd their ſteeds in furious mood,
and ſcour'd along the lea,
They reach'd Lord Buchan's lofty towers
by dawning of the day.

Matilda ſtood without the gate,
to whom the Græme did ſay,
'Saw ye Sir James the Roſs laſt night,
'or did he paſs this way?"

'Laſt day, at noon,' Matilda ſaid,
'Sir James the Roſs paſt'd by,
'He furious prick'd his ſweaty ſteed,
'and onward faſt did hie;

'By this time he's at Edinburgh town,
'if horſe and man hold good;'
'Your page then lied who ſaid he was
'now ſleeping in the wood.

'She wrung her hands and tore her hair,
'brave Roſs thou art betray'd,
And ruin'd by thoſe means,' ſhe cried,
'from whence I hop'd thine aid.'

By this the valiant knight awak'd,
the virgin's cry he heard,
And up he roſe and drew his ſword,
when the fierce band appear'd.

Your ſword laſt night my brother flew,
'his blood yet dims its ſhine;
And ere the riſing of the fun,
'your blood ſhall reek on mine.'

'You word it well,' the chief return d,
'but deeds approve the man,
'Set by your men and hand to hand
'we'll try what valor can.

'Oft boaſting hides a coward's heart,
'my weighty ſword you fear,
'Which ſhone in front in Floddon field,
'when you kept in the rear.'

With dauntleſs ſteps he forward ſtrode,
and dar'd him to the fight;
The Græme gave back and fear d his arm,
for well he knew its might.

Four of his men, the braveſt four,
ſink down beneath his ſword;
But ſtill he ſcorn'd the poor revenge,
and fought their haughty lord.

Behind him baſely came the Græme,
and wounded him in the ſide,
Out ſpouting came the purple gore,
and all his tartans dy'd.
But yet his ſword quitted not the grip,
nor dropt he to the ground,
Till through his enemy's heart his ſteel
had forc'd a mortal wound.

Græme, like a tree with wind o'enthrona,
fell breathleſs on the clay;
And down beſide him funk the Roſs,
and fainting, dying lay.

The ſad Matilda ſaw him fall,
'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,
And fix'd them on the weeping maid,
and weakly thus replies:

'In vain Matilda begs the life
'by death's arreſt denied;
'My race is run—Adieu, my love,'
then clos'd his eyes—and died.

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

She lean'd the hilt againſt the ground,
and bar'd her ſnowy breaſt,
Then fell upon her lover's ſword,
and ſunk to endleſs reſt.

FINIS.