Rosabelle by Sir Walter Scott
O listen, listen, ladies gay!
No haughty feat of arms I tell;
Soft is the note, and sad the lay
That mourns the lovely Rosabelle.
â€˜Moor, moor the barge, ye gallant crew!
And, gentle lady, deign to stay!
Rest thee in Castle Ravensheuch,
Nor tempt the stormy firth to-day.
â€˜The blackening wave is edged with white;
To inch and rock the sea-mews fly;
The fishers have heard the Water-Sprite,
Whose screams forebode that wreck is nigh.
â€˜Last night the gifted Seer did view
A wet shroud swathed round lady gay;
Then stay thee, Fair, in Ravensheuch;
Why cross the gloomy firth to-day?â€™
â€™Tis not because Lord Lindesayâ€™s heir
Tonight at Roslin leads the ball,
But that my lady-mother there
Sits lonely in her castle-hall.
â€™Tis not because the ring they ride,
And Lindesay at the ring rides well,
But that my sire the wine will chide
If â€™tis not fillâ€™d by Rosabelle.â€™
â€”Oâ€™er Roslin all that dreary night
A wondrous blaze was seen to gleam;
â€™Twas broader than the watch-fireâ€™s light,
And redder than the bright moonbeam.
It glared on Roslinâ€™s castled rock,
It ruddied all the copse-wood glen;
â€™Twas seen from Drydenâ€™s groves of oak,
And seen from cavernâ€™d Hawthornden.
Seemâ€™d all on fire that chapel proud
Where Roslinâ€™s chiefs uncoffinâ€™d lie,
Each Baron, for a sable shroud,
Sheathed in his iron panoply.
Seemâ€™d all on fire within, around,
Deep sacristy and altarâ€™s pale;
Shone every pillar foliage-bound,
And glimmerâ€™d all the dead menâ€™s mail.
Blazed battlement and pinnet high,
Blazed every rose-carved buttress fairâ€”
So still they blaze, when fate is nigh
The lordly line of high Saint Clair.
There are twenty of Roslinâ€™s barons bold
Lie buried within that proud chapelle;
Each one the holy vault doth hold
But the sea holds lovely Rosabelle!
And each Saint Clair was buried there
With candle, with book, and with knell;
But the sea-caves rung, and the wild winds sung
The dirge of lovely Rosabelle.