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So thought Lord Cranstoun, as I ween,
While, pondering deep the tender scene,
He rode through Branksome's hawthorn green.
But the page shouted wild and shrill-
And scarce his helmet could he don,

When downward from the shady hill
A stately knight came pricking on.
That warrior's steed, so dapple-gray,

Was dark with sweat, and splash'd with clay;
His armour red with many a stain:

He seem'd in such a weary plight,
As if he had ridden the livetong night;
For it was William of Deloraine.

JV.

But no whit weary did he seem,

When, dancing in the sunny beam,

He mark'd the crane on the baron's crest; (1)

For his ready spear was in his rest.

Few were the words, and stern and high,
That mark'd the foemen's feudal hate,

For question fierce and proud reply

Gave signal soon of dire debate.
Their very coursers seem'd to know
That each was other's mortal foe,

And snorted fire, when wheel'd around,
To give each knight his vantage ground.

V.

In rapid round the baron bent;

He sigh'd a sigh, and pray'd a prayer;
The prayer was to his patron saint,

The sigh was to his ladye fair.
Stout Deloraine nor sigh'd nor pray'd,
Nor saint nor ladye call'd to aid;

But he stoop'd his head, and couch'd his spear,

And spurr'd his steed to full career.
The meeting of these champions proud
Seem'd like the bursting thunder-cloud.

VI.

Stern was the dint the Borderer lent;
The stately baron backwards bent;
Bent backwards to his horse's tail,

And his plumes went scattering on the gale;
The tough ash spear, so stout and true,
Into a thousand flinders flew.

But Cranstoun's lance, of more avail,

Pierced through, like silk, the Borderer's mail;
Through shield, and jack, and acton past,
Deep in his bosom broke at last.—
Still sate the warrior saddle-fast,
Till, stumbling in the mortal shock,
Down went the steed, the girthing broke,
Hurl'd on a heap lay man and horse.
The baron onward pass'd his course;
Nor knew-so giddy roll'd his brain-
His foe lay stretch'd upon the plain.

VII.

But when he rein'd his courser round,
And saw his foeman on the ground
Lie senseless as the bloody clay,
He bade his page to staunch the wound,
And there beside the warrior stay,
And tend him in his doubtful state,
And lead him to Branksome castle-gate:
Ilis noble mind was inly moved

For the kinsman of the maid he loved.
This shalt thou do without delay;
No longer here myself may stay:
Unless the swifter I speed away,
Short shrift will be at my dying day.

VIII.

Away in speed Lord Cranstoun rode;
The goblin-page behind abode;
His lord's command he ne'er withstood,
Though small his pleasure to do good.
As the corslet off he took,

The Dwarf espied the mighty book!
Much he marvell'd, a knight of pride

Like a book-bosom'd priest should ride: (2)

He thought not to search or staunch the wound, Until the secret he had found.

IX.

The iron band, the iron clasp,
Resisted long the elfin grasp;
For when the first he had undone,
It closed as he the next begun.
Those iron clasps, that iron band,
Would not yield to unchristen'd hand,
Till he smear'd the cover o'er
With the Borderer's curdled gore;
A moment then the volume spread,
And one short spell therein he read.
It had much of glamour might, (3)
Could make a ladye seem a knight;
The cobwebs on a dungeon wall
Seem tapestry in lordly hall;

A nut-shell seem a gilded barge,

A sheeling seem a palace large, Magical delusion.

2 A shepherd's hut.

And youth seem age, and age seem youth

All was delusion, nought was truth.

X.

He had not read another spell,
When on his cheek a buffet fell,

So fierce, it stretch'd him on the plain,
Beside the wounded Deloraine.
From the ground he rose dismay'd,
And shook his huge and matted head;
One word he mutter'd, and no more-
« Man of age,
thou smitest sore!»

No more the elfin page durst try

Into the wond'rous book to pry;

The clasps, though smear'd with Christian gore,

Shut faster than they were before,

He hid it underneath his cloak.-
Now, if you ask who gave the stroke,

I cannot tell, so mot I thrive;
It was not given by man alive. (4)

XI.

Unwillingly himself he address'd
To do his master's high behest :
He lifted up the living corse,
And laid it on the weary horse;
He led him into Branksome-hall,
Before the beards of the warders all;
And each did after swear and say,
There only pass'd a wain of hay.
He took him to Lord David's tower,
Even to the Ladye's secret bower;

And, but that stronger spells were spread,
And the door might not be opened,
He had laid him on her very bed.
Whate'er he did of gramarye,'
Was always done maliciously;
He flung the warrior on the ground,

And the blood well'd freshly from the wound.

XII.

As he repass'd the outer court,

He spied the fair young child at sport:
He thought to train him to the wood;
For, at a word, be it understood,

He was always for ill, and never for good.
Seem'd to the boy, some comrade gay
Led him forth to the woods to play;
On the draw-bridge the warders stout
Saw a terrier and lurcher passing out.

XIII.

He led the boy o'er bank and fell,

Until they came to a woodland brook;
The running stream dissolved the spell, (5)
And his own elvish shape he took.
Could he have had his pleasure vilde,
He had crippled the joints of the noble child;
Or, with his fingers long and lean,
Had strangled him in fiendish spleen.
But his awful mother he had in dread,
And also his power was limited;

So he but scowl'd on the startled child,
And darted through the forest wild;

The woodland brook he bounding cross'd, And laugh'd, and shouted « Lost! lost! lost!»

XIV.

Full sore amazed at the wond'rous change,
And frighten'd, as a child might be,
At the wild yell and visage strange,

And the dark words of gramarye,
The child, amidst the forest bower,
Stood rooted like a lily flower,
And when at length, with trembling pace,
He sought to find where Branksome lay,
He fear'd to see that grisly face

Glare from some thicket on his way.
Thus, starting oft, he journey'd on,
And deeper in the wood is gone,-

For
aye the more he sought his way,
The farther still he went astray,—
Until he heard the mountains round
Ring to the baying of a hound.

XV.

And hark! and hark! the deep-mouth'd bark
Comes nigher still, and nigher;
Bursts on the path a dark blood-hound,
His tawny muzzle track'd the ground,
And his red eye shot fire.
Soon as the wilder'd child saw he,
He flew at him right furiouslie.

I ween you would have seen with joy
The bearing of the gallant boy,
When, worthy of his noble sire,
His wet cheek glow'd 'twixt fear and ire!
Ile faced the blood-hound manfully,
And held his little bat on high;
So fierce he struck, the dog, afraid,
At cautious distance hoarsely bay'd,
But still in act to spring,

When dash'd an archer through the glade,
And when he saw the hound was stay'd,
He drew his tough bow-string;

But a rough voice cried, Shoot not, hoy!
Ho! shoot not, Edward-'t is a boy!

XVI.

The speaker issued from the wood,
And check'd his fellow's surly mood,
And quell'd the ban-dog's ire:
He was an English yeoman good,
And born in Lancashire.
Well could he hit a fallow-deer

Five hundred feet him fro;

With hand more true, and eye more clear,

No archer bended bow.

Ilis coal-black hair, shorn round and close, Set off his sunburnt face;

Old England's sign, St George's cross,

His barret-cap did grace;

His bugle-horn hung by his side,
All in a wolf-skin baldric tied;

And his short falchion, sharp and clear,
Had pierced the throat of many a deer.

XVII.

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His kirtle, made of forest green, Reach'd scantly to his knee;

And, at his belt, of arrows keen

A furbish'd sheaf bore he:

His buckler scarce in breadth a span,
No larger fence had he;

He never counted him a man

Would strike below the knee; (6) His slacken'd bow was in his hand,

And the leash, that was his blood-hound's band.

XVIII.

He would not do the fair child harm,
But held him with his powerful arm,
That he might neither fight nor flee;
For when the red cross spied he,
The boy strove long and violently.

Now, by St George,» the archer cries, Edward, methinks we have a prize! This boy's fair face, and courage free, Show he is come of high degree.

ΧΙΧ.

«Yes! I am come of high degree,

For I am the heir of bold Buccleuch; And if thou dost not set me free,

False southron, thou shalt dearly rue! For Walter of Harden shall come with speed, And William of Deloraine, good at need, And every Scott from Esk to Tweed; And, if thou dost not let me go, Despite thy arrows and thy bow, I'll have thee hang'd to feed the crow!

XX.

Gramercy, for thy good will, fair boy!
My mind was never set so high;
But if thou art chief of such a clan,
And art the son of such a man,
And ever comest to thy command,

Our wardens had need to keep good order: My bow of yew to a hazel wand,

Thou 'It make them work upon the Border. Meantime, be pleased to come with me, For good Lord Dacre shalt thou see: I think our work is well begun, When we have taken thy father's son.»

XXI.

Although the child was led away,
In Branksome still he seem'd to stay,
For so the Dwarf his part did play;
Aud, in the shape of that young boy,
He wrought the castle much annoy.
The comrades of the young Buccleuch
He pinch'd, and beat, and overthrew;
Nay, some of them he well nigh slew.
He tore Dame Maudlin's silken tire,
And, as Sym Hall stood by the fire,
Hle lighted the match of his bandelier,'
And woefully scorch'd the hack butteer."
It may be hardly thought or said,
The mischief that the urchin made,
Till many of the castle guess'd
That the young baron was possess'd!

Bandelier, belt for carrying ammunition. 3 Hackbatteer, musketeer.

XXII.

Well I ween, the charm he held
The noble Ladye had soon dispell'd;
But she was deeply busied then
To tend the wounded Deloraine.
Much she wonder'd to find him lie,

On the stone threshold stretch'd along; She thought some spirit of the sky

Had done the bold moss-trooper wrong; Because, despite her precept dread, Perchance he in the book had read; But the broken lance in his bosom stood, And it was earthly steel and wood.

XXIII.

She drew the splinter from the wound,
And with a charm she staunch'd the blood; (7)
She bade the gash be cleansed and bound:
No longer by his couch she stood;
But she has ta'en the broken lance,
And wash'd it from the clotted gore,

And salved the splinter o'er and o'er. (8)
William of Deloraine, in trance,
Whene'er she turn'd it round and round,
Twisted as if she gall'd his wound.

Then to her maidens she did say,
That he should be whole man and sound,

Within the course of a night and day.
Full long she toil'd; for she did rue
Mishap to friend so stout and true.

XXIV.

So pass'd the day-the evening fell.
'T was near the time of curfew bell;
The air was mild, the wind was calm,
The stream was smooth, the dew was balm;
Een the rude watchman, on the tower,
Enjoy'd and bless'd the lovely hour;

Far more fair Margaret loved and bless'd
The hour of silence and of rest.

On the high turret sitting lone,

She waked at times the lute's soft tone;
Touch'd a wild note, and, all between,
Thought of the bower of hawthorns green.
Her golden hair stream'd free from band,
Her fair cheek rested on her hand,
Her blue eyes sought the west afar,
For lovers love the western star.

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Mount, mount for Branksome,' every man!
Thou, Todrig, warn the Johnstone clan,

That ever are true and stout.

Ye need not send to Liddesdale;
For, when they see the blazing bale,
Elliots and Armstrongs never fail.-
Ride, Alton, ride, for death and life!
And warn the warden of the strife.-
Young Gilbert, let our beacon blaze,

Our kin, and clan, and friends to raise.»-(10)
XXVIII.

Fair Margaret, from the turret-head,
Heard, far below, the coursers' tread,

While loud the harness rang,

As to their seats, with clamour dread,
The ready horsemen sprang;
And trampling hoofs, and iron coats,
And leaders' voices, mingled notes,

And out! and out!
In hasty route,

The horsemen gallop'd forth; Dispersing to the south to scout, And east, and west, and north,

To view their coming enemies, And warn their vassals and allies.

ΧΧΙΧ.

The ready page, with hurried hand,
Awaked the need-fire's3 slumbering brand,
And ruddy blush'd the heaven;

For a sheet of flame, from the turret high,
Waved like a blood-flag on the sky,

All flaring and uneven.

And soon a score of fires, I ween,

From height, and hill, and cliff, were seen;
Each with warlike tidings fraught;
Each from each the signal caught;
Each after each they glanced to sight,

As stars arise upon the night.

They gleam'd on many a dusky tarn,4

Haunted by the lonely earn;5

On many a cairn's gray pyramid,

Where urns of mighty chiefs lie bid; (11)

Till high Dunedin the blazes saw,

From Soltra and Dumpender Law;

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And Lothian heard the regent's order,

That all should bowne' them for the Border.

XXX.

The livelong night in Branksome rang
The ceaseless sound of steel;
The castle-bell, with backward clang,

Sent forth the larum peal;
Was frequent heard the heavy jar,

Where massy stone and iron bar
Were piled on echoing keep and tower,
To whelm the foe with deadly shower;
Was frequent heard the changing guard,
And watchword from the sleepless ward;
While, wearied by the endless din,
Blood-hound and ban-dog yell'd within.

ΧΧΧΙ.

The noble dame, amid the broil,

Shared the gray seneschal's high toil,
And spoke of danger with a smile;

Cheer'd the young knights, and council sage
Held with the chiefs of riper age.

No tidings of the foe were brought,
Nor of their numbers knew they aught,
Nor in what time the truce he sought.

Some said, that there were thousands ten,
And others ween'd that it was nought
But Leven Clans, or Tynedale men,
Who came to gather in black-mail;2
And Liddesdale, with small avail,

Might drive them lightly back agen.
So pass'd the anxious night away,
And welcome was the peep of day.

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As if thy waves, since Time was born, Since first they roll'd upon the Tweed, Hlad only heard the shepherd's reed, Nor started at the bugle-horn.

II.

Unlike the tide of human time,

Which, though it change in ceaseless flow, Retains each grief, retains each crime,

Its earliest course was doom'd to know;
And, darker as it downward bears,
Is stain'd with past and present tears.

Low as that tide has ebb'd with me,
It still reflects to Memory's eye
The hour, my brave, my only boy,

Fell by the side of great Dundee. (1)
Why, when the volleying musket play'd
Against the bloody Highland blade,
Why was not I beside him laid?-
Enough he died the death of fame;
Enough he died with conquering Græme!

III.

Now over Border dale and fell,

Full wide and far was terror spread; For pathless marsh, and mountain cell, The peasant left his lowly shed. (2) The frighten'd flocks and herds were pent Beneath the peel's rude battlement; And maids and matrons dropp'd the tear, While ready warriors seized the spear. From Branksome's towers, the watchman's Dun wreaths of distant smoke can spy, Which, curling in the rising sun, Show'd southern ravage (3) was begun.

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IV.

Now loud the heedful gate-ward cried-
Prepare ye all for blows and blood!
Watt Tinlinn, (4) from the Liddel side,
Comes wading through the flood.
Full oft the Tynedale snatchers knock
At his lone gate, and prove the lock;
It was but last St Barnabright
They sieged him a whole summer night,
But fled at morning; well they knew,
In vain he never twang'd the yew.
Right sharp has been the evening shower,
That drove him from his Liddel tower;
And, by my faith, the gate-ward said,
. I think 't will prove a warden-raid. »1

V.

yeoman

While thus he spoke, the bold
Enter'd the echoing barbican.
He led a small and shaggy nag,
That through a bog, from hag to hag,
Could bound like any Bilhope stag. (5)
It bore his wife and children twain;
A half-clothed serf3 was all their train.
His wife, stout, ruddy, and dark-brow'd,
Of silver broach and bracelet proud, (6)
Laugh'd to her friends among the crowd.

An inroad commanded by the warden in person. 2 The broken ground in a bog.

3 Bondsman.

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Thus to the Ladye did Tinlinn show
The tidings of the English foe.

« Belted Will Howard (7) is marching here,
And hot Lord Dacre, (8) with many a spear,
And all the German hackbut-men,1 (9)
Who have long lain at Askerten.
They cross'd the Liddel at curfew hour,
And burnt my little lonely tower;
The fiend receive their souls therefor!
It had not been burnt this year and more.
Barn-yard and dwelling, blazing bright,
Served to guide me on my flight;
But I was chased the livelong night.
Black John of Akeshaw, and Fergus Græme,
Full fast upon my traces came,
Until I turn'd at Priesthaugh Scrogg,
And shot their horses in the bog,
Slew Fergus with my lance outright-
I had him long at high despite,
He drove my cows last Fastern's night.»

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From fair St Mary's silver wave,
From dreary Gamescleugh's dusky height,
His ready lances Thirlestane brave

Array'd beneath a banner bright. (10)
The tressured fleur-de-luce he claims
To wreathe his shield, since royal James
Encamp'd by Fala's mossy wave,
The proud distinction grateful gave,

For faith 'mid feudal jars;
What time, save Thirlestane alone,
Of Scotland's stubborn barons none

Would march to southern wars:
And hence, in fair remembrance worn,
Yon sheaf of spears his crest has borne;
Hence his high motto shines reveal'd-
Ready, aye ready,» for the field.

1 Musketeers.

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