And Lothian heard the Regent's order,

Why, when the volleying musket played
That all should browne* them for the Border. 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.
The livelong night in Branksome rang
The ceaseless sound of steel;

The castle-bell, with backward clang,
Sent forth the larum-peal;

Now over Border dale and fell,
Was frequent heard the heavy jar,

Full wide and far was terror spread: Where massy stone and iron bar

For pathless marsh and mountain cell, Were piled on echoing keep and tower,

The peasant left his lowly shed. To whelm the foe with deadly shower;

The frightened flocks and herds were pent Was freqnent heard the changing guard,

Beneath the peel's rude battlement; And watchword from the sleepless ward;

And maids and matrons dropped the tear, While, wearied by the endless din,

While ready warriors seized the spear. Bloodhound and bandog yelled within.

From Branksome's towers, the watchman's eye

Dun wreaths of distant smoke can spy,

Which, curling in the rising sun,

Showed southern ravage was begun.
The noble Dame, amid the broil,
Shared the gray Seneschal's high toil,

And spoke of danger with a smile;
Cheered the young knights, and council sage Now loud the heedful gate-ward cried-
Held with the chiefs of riper age.

"Prepare ye all for blows and blood ! No tidings of the foe were brought,

Watt Tinlinn, from the Liddle-side, Nor of his numbers knew they ought,

Comes wading through the flood. Nor in what time the truce he sought.

Full oft the Tynedale snatchers knock Some said, that there were thousands ten; At his lone gate, and prove the lock; And others weened that it was nought

It was but last St. Barna bright, But Leven Clans, or Tynedale men,

They sieged him a whole summer night, Who came to gather in black mailit

But fled at morning; well they knew, And Liddisdale, with small avail,

In vain he never twanged the yew. Might drive them nightly back agen.

Right sharp has been the evening shower, So passed the anxious night away,

That drove him from his Liddle tower; And welcome was the peep of day.

And by my faith," the gate-ward said,'

"I think t'will prove a Warden-Raid."* Ceased the high-sound-the listening throng

v. Applaud the Master of the Song;

While thus he spoke, the bold yeoman And marvel much, in helpless age,

Entered the echoing barbican. So hard should be his pilgrimage.

He led a small and shaggy nag, Had he no friend-no daughter dear,

That throngh a bog, from hag to hagit His wandering toil to share and cheer;

Could bound like any Bilihope stag; No son, to be his father's stay,

It bore his wife and children twain; And guide him on the rugged way ?

A half-clothed serft was all their train: "Ay! once he had-but he was dead!"

His wife, stout, ruddy, and dark-browed Upon the harp he stooped his head,

Of silver brooch and bracelet proud, And busied himself the strings withal,

Laughed to her friends among the crowd To hide the tears that fain would fall,

He was of stature passing tall, In solemu measure, soft and slow,

But sparely formed, and lean withal:
Arose a father's notes of woe.

A battered morion on his brow;
A leathern jack, as fence enow,
On his broad shoulders loosely hung;

A border-axe behind was slung:

His spear, six Scottish ells in length,
Seemed newly dyed with gore;

His shafts and bow, of wondrous strength, Sweet Teviot! on thy silver tide

His hardy partner bore. The glaring bale-fires blaze no more;

VI. No longer steel-clad warriors ride

Thus to the Ladye did Tinlinn show Along thy wild and willowed shore;

The tidings of the English foe: Where'er thou wind'st by dale or hill,

“Belted Will Howard is marching here, All, all is peaceful, all is still,

And hot Lord Dacre, with many a spear, As if thy waves, since time was born,

And all the German hagbut-men,
Since first they rolled upon the Tweed,

Who have long lain at Askerten:
Had only heard the shepherd's reed,
Nor started at the bugle-horn.

They crossed the Liddle at curfew hour,

And burned my little lonely tower;

The fiend receive their souls therefor!

It had not been burned this year and more. Unlike the tide of human time,

Barn-yard and dwelling, blazing bright, Which, though it change in ceaseless flow,

Served to guide me on my flight; Retains each grief, retains each crime,

But I was chased the live-long night. Its earliest course was doomed to know,

Black John of Askeshaw, and Fergus Græme, And, darker as it downward bears,

Fast upon my traces came. Is stained with past and present tears.

Until I turned at Priesthangh-Scrogg,
Low as that tide has ebbed with me,

And shot their horses in the bog,
Jt still reflects to memory's eye
The hour, my brave, my only boy,

* An inroad commanded by the Warden in Fell by the side of great Dundee.


+ The broken ground in a bog. * Brorone, make ready.

t Bondsman. + Protection-money exacted by freebooters, & Musketeers,

felis lonhalt Sto Bucess

Cath 2 e-luce Royal

A heave the convey felt thereight, sin,

ra chushe

is shetleg

Slew Fergus with my lance outright

Thou, Whitslade, shall teach him his weapon to I had him long at high despite:

wield, He drove my cows last Fastern's night."

And o'er him hold his father's shield.”

Now weary scouts froin Liddisdale,

Well may you think the wily Page Fast hurrying in, confirmed the tale;

Cared not to face the Ladye sage. As far as they could judge by ken,

He counterfeited childish fear, Three hours would bring to Tevoit's strand

And shrieked, and shed full many a tear, Three thousand armed Englishmen.

And moaned and plained in manner wild. Meanwhile full many a warlike band,

The attendants to the Ladye told From Tevoit, Aill, and Ettrick shade,

Some fairy, sure, had changed the child, Came in, their Chief's defence to aid.

That wont to be so free and bold. There was saddling and mounting in haste,

Then wrathful was the noble dame: There was pricking o'er moor and lea;

She blushed blood-red for very shame. He that was last at the trysting-place

"Hence! ere the clan his faintness view: Was but lightly held of his guy ladye.

Hence with the weakling to Buccleuch!

Watt Tinlinn, thon shalt be his guide

To Rangleburn's lonely side.

Sure some fell fiend has cursed our line.
From fair St. Mary's silver wave,

That coward should e'er be son of mine!"
From dreary Gamescleuch's dasky height,
His ready lances Thirlestane brave

Arrayed beneath a banner bright.

A heavy task Watt Tinlinn had
The treasured fleur-de-luce he claims

To guide the counterfeited lad.
To wreathe his shield, since Royal James, Soon as his palfrey felt the weight
Encamped by Fala's mossy wave,

Of that ill-omened elvish freight,
The proud distinction grateful gave,

He bolted, sprung, and reared amain, For faith mid feudal jars;

Nor heeded bit, nor curb, nor rein. What time, save Thirlestane alone,

It cost Watt Tinlinn mickle toil Of Scotland's stubborn baron's none

To drive him but a Scottish mile. Would march to southern wars ;

But, as a shallow brook they crossed, And hence, in fair remembrance worn,

The elf, amid the running stream, Yon sheaf of spears his crest has borne:

His figure changed, like form in dream, Hence his high motto shines revealed

And fied, and shouted, “Lost! lost lost!' “Ready, ay, ready," for the field.

Full fast the urchin ran and laughed,

But faster still a cloth-yard shaft

Whistled from startled Tinlinn's yew,
An aged knight to danger steeled,

And pierced his shoulder through and through. With many a moss-trooper, came on;

Although the imp might not be slain, And azure in a golden field,

And though the wound soon healed again, The stars and crescent graced his shield,

Yet as he ran he yelled for pain, Without the bend of Murdieston.

And Watt, of Tinlinn, much aghast, Wide lay his hands round Oakwood Tower,

Rode bade to Branksoine fiery fast.
And wide round haunted Castle Ower:

High over Borthwick's mountain flood
His wood-embosomed mansion stood;

Soon on the hill's steep verge he stood

That looks o'er Branksome's towers and wood: In the dark glen, so deep below,

And martial murmurs from below
The herds of plundered England low;

Proclaimed the approaceing southern foe.
His bold retainers' daily food,
And bought with danger, blow's, and blood.

Through the dark wood, in mingled tone,

Were Border-pipes and bugles blown;
Marauding chief! his sole delight
The moonlight raid, the morning fight.

The coursers' neighing he could ken,

And ineasured tread of marching men; Not even the Flower of Yarrow's charms

While broke at times the solemni ham
In youth might tame his rage for arms;

The Almayn's sullen kettle-drum-
And still in age he spurned at rest,
And still his brows the helmet pressed-

And banners tall, of crimson sheen,

Above the copse appear; Albeit the blanched locks below

And, glistening through the hawthorns green, Were white as Dinlay's spotless snow.

Shine helm, and shield, and spear.
Five stately warriors drew the sword
Before their father's band;

A braver knight than Harilen's lord

Light forayers first, to view the ground, Ne'er belted on a branil.

Spurred their fleet coursers loosely round;

Behind, in close array and fast, Whitslade the Hawk, and Headshaw came,

The Kendal archers, all in green, And warriors more than I may name;

Obedient to the bugle blast, From Yarrow-cleuch to Hindhaugh-swair,

Advancing from the wood are seen. From Woodhonselie to Chester-glen,

To back and guard the archer band Trooped man and horse, and bow, and spear;

Lord Dacre's billmen were at hand: Their gathering-word was Bellenden.

A hardy race, on Irthing bred, And better hearts o'er Border sod

With kirtles white, and crosses red, To siege or rescue never rode.

Arrayed beneath the banner tall The Ladye marked the aids come in,

That streamed o'er Acre's conquered wall: And high her heart of pride arose ;

And minstrels, as they marched in order, She bade her youthful son attend

Played, “Noble Lord Dacre, he dwells on the That he might know his father's friend,

Border." And learn to face his foes.

Xy. • The boy is ripe to look on war

Behind the English bill and bow, I saw him draw a crossbow stiff,

The mercenaries firm and slow, And his true arrow struck afar

Moved on to fight, in dark array, The raven's nest upon the cliff.

By Conrad led of Wolfenstein, The Red Cross on a southern breast

Who brought the band from distant Rhine, Is broader than the raven's nest.

And sold their blood for foreign pay.

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His meorth Loeneath thstrels viny

The camp their home, their law the sword, "May't please thy Dame, Sir Seneschal,
They knew no country, owned no lord :

To seek the castle's outward wall;
They were not armed like England's sons,

Our pursuivant-at-arms shall show, But bore the levin-darting guns;

Both why we came, and when we go." Buff coats, all frounced and broidered o'er, The message sped, the noble Dame And morsing-horns* and scarfs they wore; To the walls outward circle came; Each better knee was bared, to aid

Each chief around leaned on his spear, The warriors in the escalade;

To see the pursuivant appear. All, as they marched, in rugged tongue,

All in Lord Howard's livery dressed, Songs of Teutonic feuds they sung.

The lion argent decked his breast;

He led a boy of blooming hue-

O sight to meet a mother's view!

It was the heir of great Buccleuch. But louder still the clamour grew,

Obeisance meet the herald made,
And louder still the minstrels blew,

And thus his master's will he said.
When, from beneath the greenwood tree,
Rode forth Lord Howard's chivalry:

His men-at-arms, with glaive and spear,

" It irks, high Dame, my noble Lords, Brought up the battle's glittering rear.

'Gainst ladye fair to draw their swords; There many a youthful knight, full keen

But yet they may not tamely see, To gain his spurs, in arms was seen;

All through the western wardenry, With favour in his crest, or glove,

Your law-contemning kinsmen ride, Memorial of his ladye-love.

And burn and spoil the Border-side; So rode they forth in fair array,

And ill beseems your rank and birth Till full their lengthened lines display;

To make your towers a fiemens-firth. Then called a halt, and made a stand,

We claim from thee William of Deloraine, and cried, "St. George, for merry England !"

That he may suffer march-treason pain:t

It was but last St. Cuthbert's even

He pricked to Stapleton on Leven,
Now every English eye intent

Harriedt the lands of Richard Musgrave, On Branksome's armed tower was bent ;

And slew his brother by dint of glaive. So near they were, that they might know

Then, since a lone and widowed Dame The straining harsh of each crossbow;

These restless riders may not tame, On battlement and bartizan,

Either receive within thy towers Gleamed axe, and spear, and partizan;

Two hundred of my master's powers, Falcon and culver,t on each tower,

Or straight they sound their warison, Stood prompt their deadly hail to shower; And storm and spoil thy garrison; And flashing armour frequent broke

And this fair boy, to London led,
From eddying whirls of sable smoke,

Shall good King Edward's page be bred."
Where, upon tower and turret head,
The seething pitch and molten lead

Reeked, like a witch's cauldron red.

He ceased-and loud the Boy did cry, While yet they gaze, the bridges fall,

And stretched his little arms on high ; The wicket opes, and from the wall

Implored for aid each well-known face, Rides forth the hoary Seneschal.

And strove to seek the Dame's embrace.

A moment changed that Ladye's cheer,

Gushed to her eye the unbidden tear;
Armed he rode, all save the head,

She gazed upon the leaders round,
His white beard o'er his breastplate spread; And dark and sad each warrior frowned;
Unbroke by age, erect his seat,

Then, deep within her sobbing breast
He ruled his eager courser's gait;

She locked the struggling sigh to rest;
Forced him, with chastened fire, to prance, Unaltered and collected stood,
And, high curvetting, slow advance;

And thus replied, in dauntless mood.
In sign of truce, his better hand
Displayed a peeled willow wand;

His squire, attending in the rear,

"Say to your Lords of high emprize, Bore high a ganntlet on a spear.

Who war on women and on boys, When they espied him riding out,

That either William of Deloraine Lord Howard and Lord Dacre stout

Will cleanse him, by oath, of march-treason stain, Sped to the front of their array,

Or else he will the combat take To hear what this old knight should say.

'Gainst Musgrave, for his honour's sake.

No knight in Cumberland so good,

But William may count with him kin and blood. "Ye English warden lords, of you

Knighthood he took of Douglas' sword, Demands the Ladye of Buccleuch,

When English blood swelled Ancram ford ; Why, 'gainst the truce of Border-tide,

And but that Lord Dacre's steed was wight, In hostile guise ye dare to ride,

And bare him ably in the flight, With Kendal bow, and Gilsland brand,

Himself had seen him dubbed a knight. And all yon mercenary band,

For the young heir of Branksome's line, Upon the bounds of fair Scotland ?

God be his aid, and God be mine; My Ladye reads you swith return;

Through me no friend shall meet his doom; And, if but one poor straw you burn,

Here, while I live, no foe finds room. Or do our towers so much molest,

Then, if thy lords their purpose urge, As scare one swallow from her nest,

Take our defiance lond and high ; St. Mary! but we'll light a brand,

Our slogan is their lyke-wake dirge, Shall warm your hearths in Cumberland."

Our moat, the grave where they shall lie."

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* An asylum for outlaws.
† Border treason.
| Plundered.
$ Note of assault.

Lyke-wake, the watching a corpse previous to

* Powder-flasks.
† Ancient pieces of artillery.




XXIX. Proud she looked round, applanse to claim

The pursuivant-at-arms again Then lightened Thirlestane's eye of flame;

Before the castle took his stand: His bugle Watt of Harden blow;

His trumpet called, with parleying strain, Pensils and pennons wide were flung,

The leaders of the Scottish band; To heaven the Border slogan rung,

And he defied, in Musgrave's right, "St. Mary for the young Buccleuch!"

Stout Deloraine to single fight; The English war-cry answered wide,

A gauntlet at their feet he laid, And forward bent each southern speur ;

And thus the terms of fight he said:Each Kendal archer inade a stride,

" If in the lists good Musgrave's sword And drew the bow-string to his ear;

Vanquish the knight of Deloraine, Each minstrel's war-note loud was blown ;

Your youthful chieftain, Branksome's lord, But, e'er a gay goose shaft had flowi,

Shall hostage for his elan remain; 0210 A horseman galloped from the rear.

If Deloraine foil good Musgrave. 10 xxv.

The boy his liberty shall have.

Howe'er it falls, the English band. "Ah! noble lord!” he, breathless, said,

Unharming Scots, by Scots unharmed, “What treason has your march betrayed?

Shall straight retreat to Cumberland." What makes you here, from aid so far, Before you walls, around you war?

XXX Your foemen triumph in the thought,

Unconscious of the near relief, That in the toils the lion's canght.

The proffer pleased each Scottish chief, Already on dark Ruberslaw

Though much the Ladye sage gainsayed: The Douglas holds his weapon-schaw ;*

For though their hearts were brave and true, The lances, waving in his train,

From Jedwood's recent sack they knew, Clothe the dun heath like autumn grain;

How tardy was the regent's aid :) And on the Liddle's northern strand,

And you may guess the noble Dame To bar retreat to Cumberland,

Durst not the secret prescience own, Lord Maxwell ranks his merry men good,

Sprung from the art she might not name, Beneath the eagle and the rood;

By which the coming help was known. And Jedwood, Eske, and Teviot dale,

Closed was the compact, and agreed, Have to proud Angus come;

That lists should be enclosed with speed, And all the Merse and Lauderdale

Beneath the castle, on a lawn: Have risen with haughty Home.

They fixed the morrow for the strife, An exile from Northumberland,

On foot, with Scottish axe and knife, In Liddesdale I've wandered long;

At the fourth hour from peep of dawn; But still my heart was with merry England, When Deloraine, from sickness freed,

And cannot brook my country's wrong; Or else a champion in his stead, And hard I've spurred all night, to show

Should for himself and chieftain stand,
The mustering of the coming foe."

Against stout Musgrave, hand to hand,

" And let them come !" fierce Dacre cried; I know right well, that, in their way,
" For soon yon crest, my father's pride,

Full many a minstrel sing and say, That swept the shores of Judah's sea,

Such combat should be made on horse,

01. And waved in gales of Galilee,

On foaming steed, in full career,
From Branksome's highest towers displayed, With brand to aid, when as the spear
Shall mock the rescue's lingering aid !-

Shonld shiver in the course:
Level each harquebuss on row;

But he, the jovial harper, tanght Draw, merry archers, draw the bow;

Me, yet a yonth, how it was fought, Up, billmen, to the walls, and cry,

In guise, which now I say; Dacre for England, win or die!"

He knew each ordinance and clause

Of Black Lord Archibald's battle laws,

In the old Douglas's day. " Yet hear," quoth Howard,_" calmly hear,

He brooked not, he, that scoffing tongue, Nor deem my words the words of fear :

Should tax his ministrelsy with wrong, Nor who, in field or foray slack,

Or call his song untrue Saw the blanche lion e'er fall black?

For this, when they the goblet plied, But this to risk our Border flower

And such rude tauit had chafed his pride, In strife against a kingdom's power,

The bard of Renll he slew. y 11.50 Ten thousand Scots 'gainst thousand three, On Teviot's side, in fight, they stood, Certes, were desperate policy.

And tumeful hands were stained with blood: Nay, take the terms the Ladye made,

Where still the thorn's white branches wave, E'er conscious of the advancing aid :

Memorial o'er his rival's grave.

Poti Let Musgrave meet fierce Deloraine

nu i In single fight; and if he gain,

XXXII. He gains for is; but if he's crossed,

Why should I tell the rigid doom, 'Tis but a single warrior lost;

That dragged my master to his tomb: The rest, retreating as they came,

How Ousenam's maidens tore their hair, Avoid defeat, and death, and shame."

Wept till their eyes were dead and dim,

And wrung their hands for love of him, in XXVIII.

Who died at Jedwood Air ? mil could the haughty Dacre brook

He died !-his scholars, one by one, His brother-warden's sage rebuke;

To the cold silent grave are gone And yet his forward step he staid,

And I, alas ! survive alone,

u And slow and sullenly obeyed.

To muse o'er rivalries of yore, But ne'er again the Border side

And grieve that I shall hear no more Did these two lords in friendship ride;

The strains, with envy heard before : And this slight discontent, men say,

For, with my minstrel brethren fled, Cost blood upon another day.

ned My jealousy of song is dead.

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* Weapon-schar, the military array of a Ho paused :-the listening dames again connty

Applaud the hoary Minstrel's strain;

he band bannery to the umns dun

With many a word of kindly cheer,

Bright spears, above the columns dun. In pity half, and half sincere,

Glanced momentary to the sun; Marvelled the Duchess how so well

And feudal banners fair displayed
His legendary song could tell-

The bands that moved to Branksome's aid
Of ancient deeds, so long forgot ;
Of fends, whose memory was no ;

Of forests, now laid waste and bare:

Vails not to tell each hardy clan, Of towers, which harbour now the hare ;

From the fair Middle Marches came Of manners, long since changed and gone;

The Bloody Heart blazed in the van, Of chiefs, who under their gray stone

Announcing Douglas' dreaded name! So long had slept, that fickle Fame

Vails not to tell what steed did spurn, Had blotted from her rolls their name,

Where the Seven Spears of Wedderburn And twined round some new minion's head

There men in battle-order set; The fading wreath for which they bled!

And Swinton laid the lance in rest, In sooth, 'twas strange, this old man's verse

That tamed of yore the sparkling crest Could call them from their marble learse,

Of Clarence's Plantagenet.

Nor list, I say, what hundreds more, The Harper smiled, well-pleased, for ne'er

From the rich Merse and Lammermore, Was flattery lost on poet's ear:

And Tweed's fair borders, to the war, A simple race! they waste their toil

Beneath the crest of old Dunbar, For the vain tribute of a smile ;

And Hepburn's mingled banners come, E'en when in age their flame expires,

Down the steep mountain glittering far, Her dulcet breath can fan its fires :

And shouting still, " A Home! a Home!" Their drooping fancy wakes at praise, And strives to triin the short-lived blaze.


vain: when the worship


Smiled then, well-pleased, the aged Man,

Now squire and knight, from Branksome sent, And thus his tale continued ran.

On many a courteous message went;
To every chief and lord they paid
Meet thanks for prompt and powerful aid ;

And told them,--how a truce was made,

And how a day of fight was ta'en

"Twixt Musgrave and stout Deloraine; I.

And how the Ladye prayed them dear Call it not vain :-they do not err,

That all would stay the fight to see, Who say that, when the poet dies,

And deign, in love and courtesy, Mute nature mourns her worshipper,

To taste of Branksome cheer. And celebrates his obsequies;

Nor, while they bade to feast each Scot, Who say, tall cliff, and cavern lone,

Were England's noble lords forgot : For the departed bard make moan:

Himself, the hoary Seneschal, That mountains weep in crystal rill;

Rode forth, in seemly terms to call That flowers in tears of balm distil;

Those gallant foes to Branksome Hall. Throngh his loved groves that breezes sigh,

Accepted Howard, than whom knight And oaks, in deeper groan reply:

Was never dubbed more bold in fight; And rivers teach their rushing wave

Nor, when from war and armour free,
To murmur dirges round his grave.

More famed from stately courtesy:
But angry Dacre rather chose

In his pavilion to repose.
Not that, in sooth, o'er mortal urn
Those things inanimate can mourn ;
But that the stream, the wood, the gale,

Now, noble Dame, perchance you ask,
Is vocal with the plaintive wail

How these two hostile armies met ? Of those, who, else forgotten long,

Deeming it were no easy task Lived in the poet's faithful song,

To keep the truce which here was set; And, with the poet's parting breath,

Where martial spirts, all on fire, Whose memory feels a second death.

Breathed only blood and martial ire. The maid's pale shade, who wails her lot,

By mutual inroads, mutual blows,

WS, That love, true love, should be forgot,

By habit, and by nation, foes, From rose and hawthorn shakes the tear

They met on Teviot's strand : Upon the gentle minst rel's bier:

They met, and sate them mingled down, The phantom knight, his glory fled,

Without a threat, without a frown, Mourns o'er the field he heaped with dead;

As brothers meet in foreign land: Mounts the wild blast that sweeps amain,

The hands, the spear that lately grasped, And shrieks along the battle-plain :

Still in the mailed gauntlet clasped, The chief, whose antique crownlet long

Were interchanged in greeting dear; Still sparkled in the feudal song,

Visors were raised, and faces shown, Now from the mountain's misty throne,

And many a friend, to friend made known, Sees, in the thanedom once his own,

Partook of social cheer. His ashes undistinguished lie,

Some drove the jolly bowl about; His place, his power, his memory die:

With dice and dranghts some chased the day; His groans the lonely caverns fill,

And some, with many a merry shout, bu His tears of rage impel the rill;

In riot, revelry, and rout, All mourn the minstrel's harp unstrung,

Pursued the foot-ball play.
Their name tinknown, their praise unsung.


Yet, be it known, had bugles blown, to Scarcely the hot assault was staid,

Or sign of war been seen, The terms of truce were scarcely made,

Those bands, so fair together ranged, When they could spy, from Brank some's towers, Those hands, so frankly interchanged, The advancing march of martial powers;

Had dyed with gore the green:
Thick clouds of dust afar appeared,

The merry shont by Teviot-side
And trampling steeds were faintly heard ; I Had sunk in war-cries wild and wide,

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