'Hear, lady, yet a parting word!--
It chanced in fight that my poor sword Preserved the life of Scotland's lord.
This ring the grateful Monarch gave, And bade, when I had boon to crave, To bring it back, and boldly claim The recompense that I would name.
Ellen, I am no courtly lord, But one who lives by lance and sword, Whose castle is his helm and shield, His lordship the embattled field.
What from a prince can I demand, Who neither reck of state nor land?
Ellen, thy hand--the ring is shine;
Each guard and usher knows the sign.
Seek thou the King without delay;
This signet shall secure thy way:
And claim thy suit, whate'er it be, As ransom of his pledge to me.'
He placed the golden circlet on, Paused--kissed her hand--and then was gone.
The aged Minstrel stood aghast, So hastily Fitz-James shot past.
He joined his guide, and wending down The ridges of the mountain brown, Across the stream they took their way That joins Loch Katrine to Achray.
