Fluttering on the kindling spray,
  And the comely garden glowing
    In the light of rosy May. 
  Love descended to the window—­
    Love removed the bolt and bar—­
  Love was warder to the lovers
    From the dawn to even-star. 
  Wherefore, Love, didst thou betray me? 
    Where is now the tender glance? 
  Where the meaning looks once lavished
    By the dark-eyed Maid of France? 
  Where the words of hope she whispered,
    When around my neck she threw
  That same scarf of broidered tissue,
    Bade me wear it and be true—­
  Bade me send it as a token
    When my banner waved once more
  On the castled Keep of London,
    Where my fathers’ waved before? 
  And I went and did not conquer—­
    But I brought it back again—­
  Brought it back from storm and battle—­
    Brought it back without a stain;
  And once more I knelt before her,
    And I laid it at her feet,
  Saying, “Wilt thou own it, Princess? 
    There at least is no defeat!”
  Scornfully she looked upon me
    With a measured eye and cold—­
  Scornfully she viewed the token,
    Though her fingers wrought the gold;
  And she answered, faintly flushing,
    “Hast thou kept it, then, so long? 
  Worthy matter for a minstrel
    To be told in knightly song! 
  Worthy of a bold Provencal,
    Pacing through the peaceful plain,
  Singing of his lady’s favour,
    Boasting of her silken chain,
  Yet scarce worthy of a warrior
    Sent to wrestle for a crown. 
  Is this all that thou hast brought me
    From thy fields of high renown? 
  Is this all the trophy carried
    From the lands where thou hast been? 
  It was broidered by a Princess,
    Canst thou give it to a Queen?”
  Woman’s love is writ in water! 
    Woman’s faith is traced in sand! 
  Backwards—­backwards let me wander
    To the noble northern land: 
  Let me feel the breezes blowing
    Fresh along the mountain-side;
  Let me see the purple heather,
    Let me hear the thundering tide,
  Be it hoarse as Corrievreckan
    Spouting when the storm is high—­
  Give me but one hour of Scotland—­
    Let me see it ere I die! 
  Oh, my heart is sick and heavy—­
    Southern gales are not for me;
  Though the glens are white with winter,
    Place me there, and set me free;
  Give me back my trusty comrades—­
    Give me back my Highland maid—­
  Nowhere beats the heart so kindly
    As beneath the tartan plaid! 
  Flora! when thou wert beside me,
    In the wilds of far Kintail—­
  When the cavern gave us shelter
    From the blinding sleet and hail—­
  When we lurked within the thicket,
    And, beneath the waning moon,
  Saw the sentry’s bayonet glimmer,
    Heard him chant his listless tune—­
  When the howling storm o’ertook