Page:Buchanshire tragedy, or, Sir James the Ross (3).pdf/2

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F all the Scottiſh northern chiefs,

of high and warlike name,

The braveſt was ſir James the Roſs,

a knight of meikle fame:

His growth was like the tufted fir,

that crowns the mountain's brow,

And waving o'er his ſhoulders broad,

his locks of yellow flew.

The chieftan of the brave clan Roſs

a firm undaunted band,

Five hundred warriors drew the ſword,

benenth his high command.

In bloody fight thrice had he ſtood,

againſt the Engliſh keen,

O'er two and twenty opening Springs,

his blooming youth had ſeen.

The fair Matilde dear he lov'd,

a maid of Beauty rare;

Even Marg'ret on the Scottiſh throne,

Was never half ſo fair,

Lang had he woo'd lang ſhe refus'd,

with ſeeming ſcorn and pride;

Yet oft her eyes confeſs'd the love,

her faithful tongue deny'd.

At laſt pleas'd with his well try'd faith,

a'low'd his tender claim;

She vow'd to him her virgin heart,

and an equal flame,