Classic Poem

Not yet, not yet. I thought I saw
The foldings of his plaid.
Alas! 'twas but the mountain pine,
That cast a fitful shade.
The moon is o'er the highest crag,
It gilds each tower and tree,
But Wallace comes not back to bless
The hearts in Ellerslie.

Not yet, not yet. Is that his plume
I see beneath the hill?
Ah, no! 'tis but the waving fern:
The heath is lonely still.
Dear Wallace, day-star of my soul,
Thy Marion weeps for thee;
She fears lest evil should betide
The guard of Ellerslie.

Not yet, not yet. I heard a sound,
A distant crashing din;
'Tis but the night-breeze bearing on
The roar of Corie Lin.
The gray-haired harper cannot rest,
He keeps his watch with me;
He kneels—he prays that God may shield
The laird of Ellerslie.

Not yet, not yet. My heart will break:
Where can the brave one stay?
I know 'tis not his own free will
That keeps him thus away.
The lion may forsake his lair,
The dove its nest may flee,
But Wallace loves too well, to leave
His bride and Ellerslie.

Not yet, not yet. The moon goes down,
And Wallace is not here;
And still his sleuth-hound howls, and still
I shed the burning tear.
Oh, come, my Wallace, quickly come,
As ever, safe and free:
Come, or thy Marion soon will find
A grave in Ellerslie!