might be
delayed by a desire to rest on the rocks, which here and there rose from
the dell with massive or spiry fronts, or it might dwell on the noble,
though ruined tower, which was here beheld in all its dignity, frowning
from a promontory over the river. To the left were seen two or three
cottages, a part of the village, the brow of the hill concealed the
others. The glen, or dell, was terminated by a sheet of water, called
Loch Veolan, into which the brook discharged itself, and which now
glistened in the western sun. The distant country seemed open and varied
in surface, though not wooded; and there was nothing to interrupt the
view until the scene was bounded by a ridge of distant and blue hills,
which formed the southern boundary of the strath or valley. To this
pleasant station Miss Bradwardine had ordered coffee.

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 Saint 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.

Saint Swithin's Chair

On Hallow-Mass Eve, ere ye boune ye to rest,
Ever beware that your couch be bless'd;
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 swath'd in the cloud.

The Lady she sat in Saint Swithin's Chair,
The dew of the night has damp'd her hair:
Her cheek was pale; but resolved and high
Was th