Although the imp might not be slain, And though the wound soon heal'd again, Yet, as he ran, he yell'd for pain; And Wat of Tinlinn, much aghast, Rode back to Branksome fiery fast. XVI. Soon on the hill's steep verge he stood, That looks o'er Branksome's towers and wood; Proclaim'd the approaching southern foe. The Almayn's sullen kettle-drum ; And banners tall, of crimson sheen, Above the copse appear; And, glistening through the hawthorns green, Shine helm, and shield, and spear. XVII. Light forayers, first, to view the ground, Spurr'd their fleet coursers loosely round; Behind, in close array, and fast, The Kendal archers, all in green, Obedient to the bugle blast, Advancing from the wood were seen. To back and guard the archer band, Lord Dacre's bill-men were at hand : A hardy race, on Irthing bred, With kirtles white, and crosses red, Array'd beneath the banner tall, That stream'd o'er Acre's conquer'd wall; And minstrels, as they march'd in order, Play'd "Noble Lord Dacre, he dwells on the Border." XVIII. Behind the English bill and bow, The mercenaries, firm and slow, Moved on to fight, in dark array, By Conrad led of Wolfenstein, Who brought the band from distant Rhine, They were not arm'd like England's sons, Buff coats, all frounced and 'broider'd o'er, And morsing-horns* and scarfs they wore ; Each better knee was bared, to aid The warriors in the escalade; And, as they march'd, in rugged tongue, Sounds of Teutonic feuds they sung. XIX. But louder still the clamour grew, And louder still the minstrels blew, Powder-flasks. When from beneath the greenwood tree, His men at arms, with glaive and spear, Memorial of his ladye-love. So rode they forth in fair array, Till full their lengthen'd lines display; Then call'd a halt, and made a stand, And cried," St George, for merry England!" XX. Now every English eye, intent, On Branksome's armed towers was bent: So near they were, that they might know The straining harsh of each cross-bow : Gleam'd axe, and spear, and partizan ; Falcon and culver,* on each tower, Stood prompt, their deadly hail to shower; And flashing armour frequent broke From eddying whirls of sable smoke, Where, upon tower and turret-head, Rides forth the hoary Señeschal. XXI. Armed he rode, all save the head, His white beard o'er his breast-plate spread; Unbroke by age, erect his seat, He ruled his eager courser's gait; Forced him, with chasten'd fire, to prance, And, high curvetting, slow advance : *Ancient pieces of artillery. |