Page:Buchanshire tragedy, or, Sir James the Ross (1).pdf/7

 She wrung her hands and tore her hair, brave Roſs thou art betray'd, And ruin'd by thoſe means the cry'd, from whence I hoped thine aid. By this the valiant knight awak'd, the virgin's ſhrieks he heard, And up he roſe and drew his ſword, when the fierce band appear'd.

Your ſword laſt night my brother ſlew, his blood yet dim its ſhine, But ere the riſing of the ſun, your blood ſhall reek on mine. You word it well, the chief reply'd But deeds approve the man: Set by your men an hand to hand, well try what valour can.

Oft boaſting hides a coward's heart, may weighty ſword you fear, Which ſhone in front if Flodden-field, when your's kept in the rear, With dauntleſs ſteps he forward ſtrode, and dar'd him to the fight The Graeme pave back he fear'd his arm, for well he knew its might.

Four of his men, the braveſt four, ſunk down beneath his ſword But ſtill he ſcorned this baſe revenge, and ſought their haughty lord. Behind him baſely came the Graeme, and wound him in the ſide; Out ſpouting came the purple tide, and all his tartans dy'd,