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.
