She sat upon “the red Lynne stone,”
  Where she between the trees might see,
By yon pale moon that shone thereon,
  The goodly turrets of Holmylee. 
And as she felt the throbbing pains,
  And as she heaved the bursting sigh,
A gipsy’s blood burned in her veins,
  A gipsy’s soul flashed in her eye.

If small the body that thus was moved,
  So like the form that fairies wear,
It was that slenderness he loved,
  So tiny a thing he might not fear. 
But there is an insect skims the air,
  Bedecked with azure and green and gold,
Whose sting is a deadlier thing by far
  Than dagger of yon baron bold.

III.

She sat upon the red Lynne stone,
  The midnight sky was overcast,
The winds are out with a sullen moan,
  The angry Lynne is rolling past. 
What then? there was no lack of light,
  Full fifteen windows blazing shone
Up on the castle on the height,
  While Ailie Faa sat there alone.

For there is dancing and deray
  In the ancient castle of Holmylee,
And barons bold and ladies gay
  Are holding high-jinks revelry. 
Sir Robert has that day been wed,
  ’Midst sounding trumpets of eclat,
And one that night will grace his bed
  Of nobler birth than Ailie Faa.

Revenge will claim its high command,
  And Ailie is on her feet erect,
She passes nervously her hand
  Between her jupe and jerkinet.
There lies a charm for woman’s wrong,
  Concealed where beats the bursting heart,
Which, ere an hour hath come and gone,
  Will play somewhere a fatal part.

IV.

Up in the hall of Holmylee
  Still sound the revel, the dance, and song,
And through the open doors and free
  There pours the gay and stately throng;
But of all the knights and barons there,
  The bridegroom still the foremost stood,
And she the fairest of the fair,
  The bride who was of noble blood.

It was when feet were tripping
  The mazes of the dance,
It was when lips were sipping
  The choicest wines of France,
A wild scream rose within the hall,
  Which pierced the roofen tree,
And in the midst was seen to fall
  The Baron of Holmylee.

“To whom belongs this small stilette. 
  By whom our host is slain?”
Between a jupe and jerkinet
  That weapon long had lain. 
Each on his sword his hand did lay,
  This way and that they ran;
But she who did the deed is away,
  Ho! catch her if you can.

VI.

THE LEGEND OF THE FAIR EMERGILDE

I.

Thou little god of meikle sway,
  Who rul’st from pole to pole,
And up beyond yon milky way,
  Where wondrous planets roll: 
Oh! tell me how a power divine,
  That tames the creatures wild,
Whose touch benign makes all men kin,
  Could slay sweet Emergilde?