Now come, and tell me all;

What said my knight unto my plea,

And what did then befall?”

“My lady, he did vow to me,

Thine honour for to save,

And he call’d on thee to pray,

And didst thy blessing crave.”

“My lady, he did send me thence,

To challenge that foul churl,

But now they do battle, and Heaven alone,

Can tell what will unfurl.”

That lady dropp’d upon her knee,

And pray’d she for her knight;

Praying Heaven, him to keep,

And not his life to blight.

“Now hie ye there, thou little page,

And take me to the place,

Whereon this battle doth so rage,

For I fear him of the Mace.”

And that page, hath his lady led,

All to the very place;

And there she found but one knight slain—

Him of the Fearsome Mace.

And another there did bleeding lay,

Sir Colam was his name;

And it seem’d that he would die,

His Death to be his Fame.

Now rush’d that lady to her knight,

Saying, “Thou art sore hurt, my love!

But Pray, on me fix not thine eyes,

But on sweet Heaven above!”

“I hath saved thee from thy dark fate,”

Said the knight unto his love,

“And now I go to meet mine own,

To rest with Christ above.”

And there he laid, dying fast,

And pray’d his love draw near,

And kiss’d she him a thousand times,

As knelt she by his bier.

And came his love forth unto him,

Kneeling by that earthy bier,

And to her, he whisper’d soft,

“Let a church be raised here.”

“Let a church be raised here, where I,

Spilt my foe’s life-blood,

Strife’s foul trace, for to erase,

By holy water’s flood.”

“For see ye there the well, my love?

The waters spilleth forth;

Let a holy house be built,

Let this be sacred earth.”

And with this last breath, he died,

Upon that earthy bier;

And there stay’d his love by him,

Weeping ten thousand tear.

And what was left her but to live,

At the shrine of his Memory;

And she was laid in the dark earth,

Ere she did again him see.

For remember thou, dearest one,

Love has its Eternity;

And let my tale be some token,

Of all my love to thee.

But what of that ancient kirk,

The lady builded there?

First it was a nunnery,

And she its abbess fair.

And next, it was a parish church,

And the well, a pilgrim’s shrine,

Though now, no trace of kirk remains,

But what is trampl’d on by kine.

And though the centuries be pass’d o’er,

And the stones be steep’d in Time,

The Baptist’s waters yet run clear,

At that fair pilgrim’s shrine.

And here I leave off with my tale,

For the evening, it grows chill;

Let us from this ancient field,

So silent and so still.

Let us from this lonely scene,

For the evening it grows chill;

Though the air be sweet that

With Blackbird’s song doth thrill.

And though the sun be setting, love,

And day yields to twilight,

Be not fear’d of a shadow, love,

’Tis made by Heaven’s light.

Be not fear’d of a shadow, love,

Nor of a ghostly tread,

For the bloodied field that once this was,

Is now but the daisy’s bed.

* Stayed not; archaic.