'Hush thee, poor maiden, and be still!'
'O! thou look'st kindly, and I will.
Mine eye has dried and wasted been, But still it loves the Lincoln green;And, though mine ear is all unstrung, Still, still it loves the Lowland tongue.
'For O my sweet William was forester true, He stole poor Blanche's heart away!
His coat it was all of the greenwood hue, And so blithely he trilled the Lowland lay!
'It was not that I meant to tell . . .
But thou art wise and guessest well.'
Then, in a low and broken tone, And hurried note, the song went on.
Still on the Clansman fearfully She fixed her apprehensive eye, Then turned it on the Knight, and then Her look glanced wildly o'er the glen.
