THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. CANTO THIRD. I. AND said I that my limbs were old; And that my kindly fire was fled, And that I might not sing of love ?— 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, But he stooped his head, and couched his And spurred his steed to full career. 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; |