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Wilson's Tales of the Borders and of Scotland, Volume XXIV. by Revised by Alexander Leighton
page 160 of 406 (39%)
Some tiny foot had tript the floor,
Some silver voice had filled the hall.

There was a time in long past years--
It seems to me an age of dreams--
My grandam filled my itching ears
With all Roseallan's storied themes:
Of how Sir Baldwin dearly loved
The last of all Roseallan's maids;
And how in moonlight nights they roved
Among Roseallan's sylvan shades.

But there was one with envious eyes,
Deep set in visage pale and wan,
Resolved, whoe'er should win the prize,
Sir Baldwin should not be the man.
He took his aim--too deadly straight,
Yet not unseen by Annabel,
Who sprang before her favoured knight,
And died for him she loved so well.

How she who thus so bravely died
Was last of all her honoured name,
The only hope that fate supplied
To keep alive her house's fame.
And then the screeching bird of night
Would mope upon the crumbling walls,
And chirking whutthroats claim the right
To gambol in the ancient halls.

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