2
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 like the tufted fir,
That crowns the mountain-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 warrior drew the sword
Beneath his high command:
In bloody fight thrice had he stood
Against the English keen,
E'er two and twenty op'ning springs
His blooming youth had seen.
The fair Matilda dear he lov'd,
A maid of beauty rare:
Even Marg'ret on the Scottish throne,
Was never half so fair.
Lang had he woo'd, lang she refus'd
with seeming scorn and pride:
Yet oft her eyes confess'd the love,
Her faithful tongue deni'd.
At last, pleas'd with his well-tri'd faith,
Allow'd his tender claim;
She vow'd to him her virgin heart,
And own'd an equal flame:
