Sore, sore she wept, and shook with dread,
“I’ve meikle sin upon my head,
And, oh!  I am unfit to dee,
And go to heaven thy bride to be. 
Leave me! oh leave me! flit away,
And give me peace to weep and pray.”

Now something touched Maid Marion’s arm,
She felt the touch both kind and warm;
The spirit took her by the hand,
She felt the touch both kind and bland. 
The spirit kissed Maid Marion’s mou’,
Oh! how it thrilled her body through.

The spirit laughed in that odd way
Which spirits do when they are gay;
For there are spirits good and bad—­
The good are aye a merry squad. 
No body-pains their hearts to vex,
No worldly cares their minds perplex.

“Nae ghaist am I, Maid Marion dear,
My soul’s well cased in fleshly gear;
I have a heart still warm and free,
Enough of gowd for thee and me;
And if thou wilt give up thy scorn,
Trow-la!  I’ll marry thee the morn.”

XVIII.

THE BALLAD OF ROSEALLAN CASTLE.

Yonder Roseallan’s Castle old! 
  Which time has changed to iron grey,
Whose high crenelles, o’ergrown with mould,
  Are crumbling silently away. 
Soft comes the thought that, years before,
  Now hid by time’s obscuring pall,
Some tiny foot had tript the floor,
  Some silver voice had filled the hall.

There was a time in long past years—­
  It seems to me an age of dreams—­
My grandam filled my itching ears
  With all Roseallan’s storied themes: 
Of how Sir Baldwin dearly loved
  The last of all Roseallan’s maids;
And how in moonlight nights they roved
  Among Roseallan’s sylvan shades.

But there was one with envious eyes,
  Deep set in visage pale and wan,
Resolved, whoe’er should win the prize,
  Sir Baldwin should not be the man. 
He took his aim—­too deadly straight,
  Yet not unseen by Annabel,
Who sprang before her favoured knight,
  And died for him she loved so well.

How she who thus so bravely died
  Was last of all her honoured name,
The only hope that fate supplied
  To keep alive her house’s fame. 
And then the screeching bird of night
  Would mope upon the crumbling walls,
And chirking whutthroats claim the right
  To gambol in the ancient halls.

In yonder vault, deep down below,
  Half choked with hoary eglantine,
Sleep side by side in lengthened row
  The proud Roseallan’s noble line. 
The hairy wing-mouse flutters there,
  The owl mopes as in days of yore,
Strange eldritch sounds salute the ear,
  Unholy things crawl on the floor.

How oft alone at midnight hour
  I stand within that silent tomb,
What time the moon with waning power
  Is struggling through increasing gloom,
On one sole bier his tears would fall,
  For her his groans come evermore,
Whose silver voice once filled the hall,
  Whose feet once lightly tript the floor.