The view of the old tower, or fortalice, introduced some family anecdotes and tales of Scottish chivalry, which the Baron told with great enthusiasm.The projecting peak of an impending crag which rose near it, had acquired the name of St.Swithin's Chair.It was the scene of a peculiar superstition, of which Mr.Rubrick mentioned some curious particulars, which reminded Waverley of a rhyme quoted by Edgar in King Lear; and Rose was called upon to sing a little legend, in which they had been interwoven by some village poet, Who, noteless as the race from which he sprung, Saved others' names, but left his own unsung.
The sweetness of her voice, and the simple beauty of her music, gave all the advantage which the minstrel could have desired and which his poetry so much wanted.I almost doubt if it can be read with patience, destitute of these advantages;although I conjecture the following copy to have been somewhat corrected by Waverley, to suit the taste of those who might not relish pure antiquity:---St.Swithin's Chair.
On Hallow-Mass Eve, ere ye boune ye to rest, Ever beware that your couch be blessed;Sign it with cross, and sain it with bead, Sing the Ave, and say the Creed.
For on Hallow-Mass Eve the Night-Hag will ride, And all her nine-fold sweeping on by her side, Whether the wind sing lowly or loud, Sailing through moonshine or swathed in the cloud.
The Lady she sat in St.Swithin's Chair, The dew of the night has damped her hair:
Her cheek was pale---but resolved and high Was the word of her lip and the glance of her eye.
She muttered the spell of Swithin bold, When his naked foot traced the midnight wold, When he stopped the Hag as she rode the night, And bade her descend, and her promise plight.
He that dare sit on St.Swithin's Chair, When the Night-Hag wings the troubled air, Questions three, when he speaks the spell, He may ask, and she must tell.
The Baron has been with King Robert his liege, These three long years in battle and siege;News ate there none of his weal or his woe, And fain the Lady his fate would know.
She shudders and stops as the charm she speaks;---Is it the moody owl that shrieks?
Or is it that sound, betwixt laughter and scream, The voice of the Demon who haunts the stream?
The moan of the wind sunk silent and low, And the roaring torrent ceased to flow;The calm was more dreadful than raging storm, When the cold grey mist brought the ghastly form!
*******
``I am sorry to disappoint the company, especially Captain Waverley, who listens with such laudable gravity; it is but a fragment, although I think there are other verses, describing the return of the Baron from the wars, and how the lady was found clay-cold upon the grounsill ledge.''