SIR JAMES THE ROSS.
Of all the Scottish northren chiefs
Of high ard mighty name.
The bravest was Sir James the Ross
A knight of meikle fame
His growth was like a youthful oak,
That crowns the mountain's brow;
And, waving o'er his shoulders broad,
His locks of yellow flew.
Wide were his fields; his herds were large:
And large his flocks of sheep,
And num'rous were his goats and deer
Upon the mountains steep.
The chieftain of the good Clan Ross
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 Marg’ret on the Scottish throne,
Was never half so fair:
Long had he woo'd; long she refus'd
With seeming scorn and pride;
Yet oft her eyes confess'd the love
