Page:The Poetical Works of William Motherwell, 1849.djvu/408



There's a lonely dame in a gudely bouir, She nevir lifts an ee— That dame was ance the Rose sae red, She is now a pale Lilye.

A Knicht aft looks frae his turret tall, Where the kirk-yaird grass grows green; He wonne the weed and lost the flouir, And grief aye dims his een:

At noon of nicht, in the moonshine bricht, The warrior kneels in prayer— He prays wi' his face to the auld kirk-yaird, And wishes he were there!