'Hear, lady, yet a parting word!--

It chanced in fight that my poor sword Preserved the life of Scotland's lord.

This ring the grateful Monarch gave, And bade, when I had boon to crave, To bring it back, and boldly claim The recompense that I would name.

Ellen, I am no courtly lord, But one who lives by lance and sword, Whose castle is his helm and shield, His lordship the embattled field.

What from a prince can I demand, Who neither reck of state nor land?

Ellen, thy hand--the ring is shine;

Each guard and usher knows the sign.

Seek thou the King without delay;

This signet shall secure thy way:

And claim thy suit, whate'er it be, As ransom of his pledge to me.'

He placed the golden circlet on, Paused--kissed her hand--and then was gone.

The aged Minstrel stood aghast, So hastily Fitz-James shot past.

He joined his guide, and wending down The ridges of the mountain brown, Across the stream they took their way That joins Loch Katrine to Achray.