Part 2 — THE SPECTRE KNIGHT AND HIS LADYE-BRIDE.
Reading edition
A LAY OF THE OLDEN TIME.
———
BY FANNY FIELDING.
———
Lady Margaret sits in her father’s ha’
Wi’ the tear-drop in her een,
For her lover-knight is far awa’
In the fields o’ Palestine.
Now the rose is fled frae her downy cheek,
An’ wan is her lily-white hand,
An’ her bonnie blue e’e the tear doth dim,
For her knight in the Holy Land.
His banner it is the Holy Cross,
But it gars her greet fu’ sair,
As she meekly kneels and his lo’ed name breathes
At Our Mother’s shrine in prayer.
“O, hae ye a care, sweet Mother fair,
O’er the lion-hearted king,
But send me back Sir Hildebrande safe,
Abune a’ ither thing!”
’Tis Hallowe’en, and twelve lang months
Hae i’ their turn passed round,
An’ ’twas Hallowe’en when Sir Hildebrande marched
For Palestine’s holy ground.
The castle clock tolls midnight’s hour,
An’ the ladye bethinks her now
Of her lover’s words at the trysting-tree—
His fervent and heartfelt vow.
“O, ladye fair,” said the gallant Hildebrande,
“When twelve lang months shall flee,
Come ye then through the mossy glen
Adown by the trysting-tree.
“When the wearie year brings Hallowe’en
Ance mair to this lo’ed land,
An’ if thou wilt come at midnight’s hour
Thou shalt hear of thine own Hildebrande.”
O, the wintry wind blaws sair and chill,
An’ it whistles fu’ mournfully,
As the ladye strolls, at the witching hour,
To the glen adown the lea.
The maiden draws her mantle close,
For the night is dark an’ drear,
An’ now that she nears the trysting-tree
Her heart it quails wi’ fear.
O, louder and hoarser blaws the blast,
An’ darker grows the sky,
An’ the clattering tramp of a courser’s hoof
Grows nigh, an’ yet more nigh!
The coal-black steed doth slack his speed
An’ halt at the ladye’s side,
An’ a red light gleams in flickering beams
Around her far and wide.
A mail-clad knight doth now alight,
So ghastly pale an’ wan
That the ladye cries, wi’ tearfu’ eyes,
“Where is my lover gane!”
A voice like the hollow, murm’ring wind
Replied to the high-born dame—
“O, thy lover sleeps on the battle-field
Among the noble slain—
“But the soul that vowed to be true to thee
Will be true whate’er betide,
An’ returns from the land of chivalrie
To claim thee for his bride!”
This said, he stretched forth his bony hand
To his well-beloved bride,
An’ now he mounts the coal-black steed
Wi’ the ladye by his side.
But hist! the moor-cock crows fu’ shrill
Alang the dreary way,
An’ goblin, elf, nor wand’ring ghaist
Can face the light o’ day.
The phantom steed doth champ his bit
An’ flash his fiery eye—
An’ away they speed o’er hill an’ dale—
O’er rock an’ mountain high!
Lang years hae passed since Sir Hildebrande came
Frae the fields o’ Palestine,
To claim fair Margaret for his bride,
But on every Hallowe’en,
When the castle clock tolls midnight’s hour,
As on that night of yore,
The ladye and knight are seen to sweep
Adown the drearie moor.
The coal-black steed doth champ his bit
An’ flash his fiery e’e,
But he slacks his speed at the knight’s command
As he gains the trysting-tree.