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,
