"A boon, a boon, my father deir, A boon I beg of thee!". "Ask not that haughty Scottish lord, For him you ne'er shall see:

"But, for your honest asking else,
Weel granted it shall be."
"Then gin I die in Southern land,
In Scotland gar bury me.

"And the first kirk that ye come to,
Ye's gar the mass be sung;
And the next kirk that ye come to,
Ye's gar the bells be rung.

"And when you come to St. Mary's kirk,

Ye's tarry there till night."
And so her father pledged his word,
And so his promise plight.

She has ta'en her to her bigly bouer
As fast as she could fare;
And she has drank a sleepy draught,
That she had mixed wi' care.

And pale, pale, grew her rosy cheek,
That was sae bright of blee,
And she seemed to be as surely dead
As any one could be.

Then spake her cruel step-minnie,
"Tak ye the burning lead,
And drap a drap on her bosome,
To try if she be dead."

They took a drap o' boiling lead,
They drapped it on her breast;
"Alas! alas!" her father cried,
She's dead without the priest."

She neither chattered with her teeth, Nor shivered with her chin; "Alas! alas!" her father cried, "There is nae breath within."

Then up arose her seven brethren,
And hewed to her a bier;
They hewed it frae the solid aik,
Laid it o'er wi' silver clear.

Then up and gat her seven sisters,
And sewed to her a kell;
And every stitch that they put in
Sewed to a siller bell.

The first Scots kirk that they cam to,
They garr'd the bells be rung;
The next Scots kirk that they cam to,
They garr'd the mass be sung.

But when they cam to St. Mary's kirk,

There stude spearmen all in a raw; And up and started Lord William, The chieftane amang them a'.

"Set down, set down the bier," he said,

"Let me look her upon:" But as soon as Lord William touched her hand,

Her colour began to come.

She brightened like the lily flower,
Till her pale colour was gone;
With rosy cheek, and ruby lip,
She smiled her love upon.

"A morsel of your bread, my lord,
And one glass of your wine;
For I hae fasted these three lang
days,

All for your sake and mine.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere,

You put strange memories in my

head.

Not thrice your branching limes have blown

Since I beheld young Laurence dead.

Oh your sweet eyes, your low replies: A great enchantress you may be; But there was that across his throat Which you had hardly cared to see.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere,

When thus he met his mother's view,

She had the passions of her kind, She spake some certain truths of you.

Indeed I heard one bitter word

That scarce is fit for you to hear; Her manners had not that repose Which stamps the caste of Vere de Vere.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere,

There stands a spectre in your hall: The guilt of blood is at your door: You changed a wholesome heart to gall.

You held your course without remorse,

To make him trust his modest

worth,

And, last, you fixed a vacant stare,

And slew him with your noble birth.

Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere, From yon blue heavens above us bent,

The gardener Adam and his wife Smile at the claims of long descent. Howe'er it be, it seems to me,

'Tis only noble to be good. Kind hearts are more than coronets, And simple faith than Norman blood.

I know you, Clara Vere de Vere; You pine among your halls and towers:

The languid light of your proud eyes
Is wearied of the rolling hours.
In glowing health, with boundless
wealth,

But sickening of a vague disease, You know so ill to deal with time, You needs must play such pranks as these.