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SIR JAMES THE ROSS.

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-brow,

And waving o'er his shoulders broad,

His locks of yellow flew.

The Chieftain of the brave Clan Ross,

A firm undaunted band,

Five hundred warrior drew the sword

Beneath his high command:

In bloody fight thrice had he stood

Against the English keen,

E'er two and twenty op'ning springs

His blooming youth had seen.

The fair Matilda 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 deni'd.

At last, pleas'd with his well-tri'd faith,

Allow'd his tender claim;

She vow'd to him her virgin heart,

And own'd an equal flame: