Home  »  The Book of Georgian Verse  »  Sir Walter Scott (1771–1832)

William Stanley Braithwaite, ed. The Book of Georgian Verse. 1909.

The Eve of Saint John

Sir Walter Scott (1771–1832)

THE BARON of Smaylho’me rose with day,

He spurred his courser on,

Without stop or stay, down the rocky way,

That leads to Brotherstone.

He went not with the bold Buccleuch

His banner broad to rear;

He went not ’gainst the English yew

To lift the Scottish spear.

Yet his plate-jack was braced and his helmet was laced,

And his vaunt-brace of proof he wore;

At his saddle-gerthe was a good steel sperthe,

Full ten pound weight and more.

The baron returned in three days’ space

And his looks were sad and sour;

And weary was his courser’s pace

As he reached his rocky tower.

He came not from where Ancram Moor

Ran red with English blood;

Where the Douglas true and the bold Buccleuch

’Gainst keen Lord Evers stood.

Yet was his helmet hacked and hewed,

His acton pierced and tore,

His axe and his dagger with blood imbrued,—

But it was not English gore.

He lighted at the Chapellage,

He held him close and still;

And he whistled thrice for his little foot-page,

His name was English Will.

‘Come thou hither, my little foot-page,

Come hither to my knee;

Though thou art young and tender of age,

I think thou art true to me.

‘Come, tell me all that thou hast seen,

And look thou tell me true!

Since I from Smaylho’me tower have been,

What did thy lady do?’

‘My lady, each night, sought the lonely light

That burns on the wild Watchfold;

For from height to height the beacons bright

Of the English foeman told.

‘The bittern clamoured from the moss,

The wind blew loud and shrill;

Yet the craggy pathway she did cross

To the eiry Beacon Hill.

‘I watched her steps, and silent came

Where she sat her on a stone;—

No watchman stood by the dreary flame,

It burnèd all alone.

‘The second night I kept her in sight

Till to the fire she came,

And, by Mary’s might! an armèd knight

Stood by the lonely flame.

‘And many a word that warlike lord

Did speak to my lady there;

But the rain fell fast and loud blew the blast,

And I heard not what they were.

‘The third night there the sky was fair,

And the mountain-blast was still,

As again I watched the secret pair

On the lonesome Beacon Hill.

‘And I heard her name the midnight hour,

And name this holy eve;

And say, ‘Come this night to thy lady’s bower;

Ask no bold baron’s leave.

‘‘He lifts his spear with the bold Buccleuch;

His lady is all alone;

The door she’ll undo to her knight so true

On the eve of good Saint John.’

‘‘I cannot come; I must not come;

I dare not come to thee:

On the eve of Saint John I must wander alone:

In thy bower I may not be.’

‘‘Now, out on thee, faint-hearted knight!

Thou shouldst not say me nay;

For the eve is sweet, and when lovers meet

Is worth the whole summer’s day.

‘‘And I’ll chain the blood-hound, and the warder shall not sound,

And rushes shall be strewed on the stair;

So, by the black rood-stone and by the holy Saint John,

I conjure thee, my love, to be there!’

‘‘Though the blood-hound be mute and the rush beneath my foot,

And the warder his bugle should not blow,

Yet there sleepeth a priest in the chamber to the east,

And my footsteps he would know.’

‘‘O, fear not the priest who sleepeth to the east,

For to Dryburgh the way he has ta’en;

And there to say mass, till three days do pass,

For the soul of a knight that is slayne.’

‘He turned him around and grimly he frowned

Then he laughed right scornfully—

‘He who says the mass-rite for the soul of that knight

May as well say mass for me:

‘‘At the lone midnight hour when bad spirits have power

In thy chamber will I be.—’

With that he was gone and my lady left alone,

And no more did I see.’

Then changed, I trow, was that bold baron’s brow

From the dark to the blood-red high;

‘Now, tell me the mien of the knight thou hast seen,

For, by Mary, he shall die!’

‘His arms shone full bright in the beacon’s red light;

His plume it was scarlet and blue;

On his shield was a hound in a silver leash bound,

And his crest was a branch of the yew.’

‘Thou liest, thou liest, thou little foot-page,

Loud dost thou lie to me!

For that knight is cold and low laid in mould

All under the Eildon-tree.’

‘Yet hear but my word, my noble lord!

For I heard her name his name;

And that lady bright, she called the knight

Sir Richard of Coldinghame.’

The bold baron’s brow then changed, I trow,

From high blood-red to pale—

‘The grave is deep and dark—and the corpse is stiff and stark—

So I may not trust thy tale.

‘Where fair Tweed flows round holy Melrose,

And Eildon slopes to the plain,

Full three nights ago by some secret foe

That gay gallant was slain.

‘The varying light deceived thy sight,

And the wild winds drowned the name;

For the Dryburgh bells ring and the white monks do sing

For Sir Richard of Coldinghame!’

He passed the court-gate and he oped the tower-gate,

And he mounted the narrow stair

To the bartizan-seat where, with maids that on her wait,

He found his lady fair.

That lady sat in mournful mood;

Looked over hill and vale;

Over Tweed’s fair flood and Mertoun’s wood,

And all down Teviotdale.

‘Now hail, now hail, thou lady bright!’

‘Now hail, thou baron true!

What news, what news, from Ancram fight?

What news from the bold Buccleuch!’

‘The Ancram moor is red with gore,

For many a Southern fell;

And Buccleuch has charged us evermore

To watch our beacons well.’

The lady blushed red, but nothing she said:

Nor added the baron a word:

Then she stepped down the stair to her chamber fair

And so did her moody lord.

In sleep the lady mourned, and the baron tossed and turned,

And oft to himself he said,—

‘The worms around him creep, and his bloody grave is deep—

It cannot give up the dead!’

It was near the ringing of matin-bell,

The night was well-nigh done,

When a heavy sleep on that baron fell,

On the eve of good Saint John.

The lady looked through the chamber fair,

By the light of a dying flame;

And she was aware of a knight stood there—

Sir Richard of Coldinghame!

‘Alas! away, away!’ she cried,

‘For the holy Virgin’s sake!’

‘Lady, I know who sleeps by thy side;

But, lady, he will not awake.

‘By Eildon-tree for long nights three

In bloody grave have I lain;

The mass and the death-prayer are said for me,

But, lady, they are said in vain.

‘By the baron’s brand, near Tweed’s fair strand,

Most foully slain I fell;

And my restless sprite on the beacon’s height

For a space is doomed to dwell.

‘At our trysting-place, for a certain space,

I must wander to and fro;

But I had not had power to come to thy bower

Hadst thou not conjured me so.’

Love mastered fear—her brow she crossed:

‘How, Richard, hast thou sped?

And art thou saved or art thou lost?’

The vision shook his head!

‘Who spilleth life shall forfeit life;

So bid thy lord believe:

That lawless love is guilt above,

This awful sign receive.’

He laid his left palm on an oaken beam,

His right upon her hand;

The lady shrunk and fainting sunk,

For it scorched like a fiery brand.

The sable score of fingers four

Remains on that board impressed;

And forevermore that lady wore

A covering on her wrist.

There is a nun in Dryburgh tower

Ne’er looks upon the sun;

There is a monk in Melrose tower

He speaketh word to none.

That nun who ne’er beholds the day,

That monk who speaks to none—

That nun was Smaylho’me’s lady gay,

That monk the bold baron.