993 ANNUAL REGISTER, 1803. 
’Tis noon; against the knotted oak 
The hunters rest the idle spear ; 
Curls through the tress the slender smoke, 
Where yeoman dight the woodland cheer. 
Proudly the chieftain mark’d his clan 
On greenwood lap all careless thrown, 
Yet miss’d his eyes the boldest man, 
That bore the name of Hamilton. 
“« Why fills not Bothwellhaugh his place, 
Still wont our weal and woe to share? 
Why comes he not our sport to grace ? 
Why shares he not our hunter’s fare?” 
Stern Claud replied, with darkening face, 
(Grey Pasley’s haughty lord was he) 
‘* At merry feast, or buxom chace, 
No more the warrior shalt thou see. 
‘¢ Few suns have set, since Woohouselee 
Saw Bothwellhaugh’s bright goblets foam, 
When to his hearths in social glee, : 
The war-worn soldier turn’d him home. 
‘¢ There, won from her maternal throes, 
His Margaret, beautiful and mild, 
Sate in her bower a pallid rose, 
And peaceful nurs’d her new-born child. 
‘¢ O change accurs’d! past are those days ; 
False Murray’s ruthless spoilers came, 
And, for the hearth’s domestic blaze, 
Ascends destruction’s volum’d flame. 
‘¢ What sheeted phantom wanders wild, 
Where mountain Eske through woodland flews, 
Her arms enfold a shadowy child — 
Oh, is it she, the pallid rose? 
‘¢ The wildered traveller sees her glide, 
‘And hears her feebled voice with awe— 
‘ Revenge,’ she cries, on Murray’s pride! 
And woe for injur'd Bothwellhaugh !” 
He 
