No tidings of the foe were brought, Nor of his numbers knew they ought, Some said, that there were thousands ten; And others weened that it was nought But Leven Clans, or Tynedale men, Who came to gather in black mail; So passed the anxious night away, And welcome was the peep of day. CEASED the high sound-the listening throng Applaud the Master of the Song; * Protection-money exacted by free-booters. Had he no friend-no daughter dear, His wandering toil to share and cheer No son, to be his father's stay, And guide him on the rugged way? Ay, once he had-but he was dead!"Upon the harp he stooped his head, And busied himself the strings withal, To hide the tear, that fain would fall. |