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 St. John.

The lady look'd through the chamber fair,
By the light of the 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 wake.

"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 doom'd 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."