One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear,
    When they reached the hall door, and the charger stood near;
    So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung,
    So light to the saddle before her he sprung! 
   “She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur;
    They’ll have fleet steeds that follow,” quoth young Lochinvar.

    There was mounting ’mong Graemes of the Netherby clan;
    Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran: 
    There was racing and chasing, on Cannobie Lee,
    But the lost bride of Netherby ne’er did they see. 
    So daring in love, and so dauntless in war,
    Have ye e’er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

 LORD ULLIN’S DAUGHTER.

    A chieftain, to the Highlands bound,
      Cries, “Boatman, do not tarry! 
    And I’ll give thee a silver pound,
      To row us o’er the ferry.”

   “Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle,
      This dark and stormy water?”
   “O, I’m the chief of Ulva’s isle,
      And this Lord Ullin’s daughter.

   “And fast before her father’s men
      Three days we’ve fled together,
    For should he find us in the glen,
      My blood would stain the heather.

   “His horsemen hard behind us ride;
      Should they our steps discover,
    Then who will cheer my bonny bride
      When they have slain her lover?”

    Outspoke the hardy Highland wight,
     “I’ll go, my chief—­I’m ready;
    It is not for your silver bright,
      But for your winsome lady: 

   “And by my word! the bonny bird
      In danger shall not tarry;
    So though the waves are raging white,
      I’ll row you o’er the ferry.”

    By this the storm grew loud apace,
      The water-wraith was shrieking;
    And in the scowl of heaven each face
      Grew dark as they were speaking.

    But still as wilder blew the wind,
      And as the night grew drearer,
    Adown the glen rode armed men,
      Their trampling sounded nearer.

   “O haste thee, haste!” the lady cries,
     “Though tempests round us gather;
    I’ll meet the raging of the skies,
      But not an angry father.”

    The boat has left a stormy land,
      A stormy sea before her,—­
    When, oh! too strong for human hand,
      The tempest gathered o’er her.

    And still they row’d amid the roar
      Of waters fast prevailing: 
    Lord Ullin reach’d that fatal shore,
      His wrath was changed to wailing.

    For sore dismay’d through storm and shade,
      His child he did discover:—­
    One lovely hand she stretch’d for aid,
      And one was round her lover.

   “Come back! come back!” he cried in grief,
     “Across this stormy water: 
    And I’ll forgive your Highland chief,
      My daughter!—­oh my daughter!”