THE

LAY

OF

THE LAST MINSTREL.

CANTO THIRD.

THE

LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL.

CANTO THIRD.

I.

AND said I that my limbs were old;
And said I that my blood was cold,

And that my kindly fire was fled,
And my poor withered heart was dead,

And that I might not sing of love ?—
How could I to the dearest theme,
That ever warmed a minstrel's dream,

So foul, so false a recreant prove!

V.

In rapid round the Baron bent;

He sighed a sigh, and prayed a prayer:

The

prayer was to his patron saint,

The sigh was to his ladye fair.

Stout Deloraine nor sighed nor prayed,
Nor saint, nor ladye, called to aid;

But he stooped his head, and couched his

And spurred his steed to full career.
The meeting of these champions proud

Seemed like the bursting thunder-cloud.

spear,

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;