| |
| “O, OPEN the door, some pity to show, | |
| Keen blows the northern wind! | |
| The glen is white with the drifted snow, | |
| And the path is hard to find. | |
| |
| “No outlaw seeks your castle gate, | 5 |
| From chasing the king’s deer, | |
| Though even an outlaw’s wretched state | |
| Might claim compassion here. | |
| |
| “A weary Palmer, worn and weak, | |
| I wander for my sin; | 10 |
| O, open, for Our Lady’s sake! | |
| A pilgrim’s blessing win! | |
| |
| “I ’ll give you pardons from the Pope, | |
| And reliques from o’er the sea,— | |
| Or if for these you will not ope, | 15 |
| Yet open for charity. | |
| |
| “The hare is crouching in her form, | |
| The hart beside the hind; | |
| An aged man, amid the storm, | |
| No shelter can I find. | 20 |
| |
| “You hear the Ettrick’s sullen roar, | |
| Dark, deep, and strong is he, | |
| And I must ford the Ettrick o’er, | |
| Unless you pity me. | |
| |
| “The iron gate is bolted hard, | 25 |
| At which I knock in vain; | |
| The owner’s heart is closer barred, | |
| Who hears me thus complain. | |
| |
| “Farewell, farewell! and Mary grant, | |
| When old and frail you be, | 30 |
| You never may the shelter want | |
| That ’s now denied to me.” | |
| |
| The Ranger on his couch lay warm, | |
| And heard him plead in vain; | |
| But oft, amid December’s storm, | 35 |
| He ’ll hear that voice again; | |
| |
| For lo, when through the vapors dank | |
| Morn shone on Ettrick fair, | |
| A corpse amid the alders rank, | |
| The Palmer weltered there. | 40 |
| |
