That he might neither fight nor flee; "Now, by Saint George," the archer cries, "Edward, methinks we have a prize! This boy's fair face, and courage free, Shows he is, come of high degree."— XIX. "Yes! I am come of high degree, 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 Eske to Tweed; And, if thou dost not let me go, Despite thy arrows, and thy bow, I'll have thee hanged 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, 菜 Our wardens had need to keep good order: My bow of yew to a hazel wand, Thou'lt 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, That the young baron was possessed! XXII. Well I ween, the charm he held On the stone threshold stretched 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; * Bandelier, belt for carrying ammunition. + Hackbutteer, musketeer. But the broken lance in his bosom stood, XXIII. She drew the splinter from the wound, But she has ta'en the broken lance, And washed it from the clotted gore, Whene'er she turned it round and round, Full long she toiled: for she did rue Enjoyed and blessed the 3 balm ÷ Far more fair Margaret loved and blessed The hour of silence and of rest. On the high turret sitting lone, She waked at times the lute's soft tone; Touched a wild note, and all between XXV. Is yon the star, o'er Penchryst Pen, And, spreading broad its wavering light, Is yon red glare the western star?— O, 'tis the beacon blaze of war! Scarce could she draw her tightened breath, For well she knew the fire of death! XXVI. The warder viewed it blazing strong, D XXVII. The Seneschal, whose silver hair The foe to scout! Mount, mount, for Branksome, † every man! Ye need not send to Liddesdale; Fair Margaret, from the turret head, As to their seats, with clamour dread, * Bale, beacon-faggot. + Mount for Branksome was the gathering word of the Scotts. |