Minstrel,’ the maid replied, and high
Her father’s soul glanced from her eye,
’My debts to Roderick’s house I know:
All that a mother could bestow
To Lady Margaret’s care I owe,
Since first an orphan in the wild
She sorrowed o’er her sister’s child;
To her brave chieftain son, from ire
Of Scotland’s king who shrouds my sire,
A deeper, holier debt is owed;
And, could I pay it with my blood, Allan!
Sir Roderick should command
My blood, my life,—but not my hand.
Rather will Ellen Douglas dwell
A votaress in Maronnan’s cell;
Rather through realms beyond the sea,
Seeking the world’s cold charity
Where ne’er was spoke a Scottish word,
And ne’er the name of Douglas heard
An outcast pilgrim will she rove,
Than wed the man she cannot love.
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