ors and free
There pours the gay and stately throng;
But of all the knights and barons there,
The bridegroom still the foremost stood,
And she the fairest of the fair,
The bride who was of noble blood.

It was when feet were tripping
The mazes of the dance,
It was when lips were sipping
The choicest wines of France,
A wild scream rose within the hall,
Which pierced the roofen tree,
And in the midst was seen to fall
The Baron of Holmylee.

"To whom belongs this small stilette.
By whom our host is slain?"
Between a jupe and jerkinet
That weapon long had lain.
Each on his sword his hand did lay,
This way and that they ran;
But she who did the deed is away,
Ho! catch her if you can.

VI.

THE LEGEND OF THE FAIR EMERGILDE

I.

Thou little god of meikle sway,
Who rul'st from pole to pole,
And up beyond yon milky way,
Where wondrous planets roll:
Oh! tell me how a power divine,
That tames the creatures wild,
Whose touch benign makes all men kin,
Could slay sweet Emergilde?

It's up the street, and down the street,
And up the street again,
And all the day, and all the way,
She looks at noble men;
But him she seeks she cannot find
In all that moving train;
No one can please that anxious gaze,
And own to "Ballenden."

From the high castle on the knowe,
Adown the Canongate,
And from the palace in the howe,
Up to the castle yett,
A hizzy here, a cadie there,
She stops with modest mien;
All she can say four words convey:
"I seek for Ballenden."

Nor more of our Scotch tongue she knew,
For she's of foreign kin,
And all her speech can only reach
"I seek for Ballenden."
No Ballenden she yet could find,
No one aught of him knew;
She sought at night dark Toddrick's Wynd,
Next morn to search anew.

II.

And who is she, this fair ladye,
To whom our land is strange?
Why all alone, to all unknown,
Within this city's range?
Her face was of the bonnie nut-brown
Our Scotch folk love to view,
When 'neath it shows the red, red rose,
Like sunlight shining through.

Her tunic was of the mazerine,
Of scarlet her roquelaire,
And o'er her back, in ringlets black,
Fell down her raven hair.
Her eyes, so like the falling sterns,
Seen on an August night,
Had surely won from eastern sun
Some rayons of his light.

And still she tried, and still she plied,
Her task so sad and vain,
The words still four--they were no more--