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.
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