CRY the wild war-note, let the champions pass; Do bravely each, and God defend the right. Upon Saint Andrew thrice can they thus cry, And thrice they shout on height, And then match'd them on the Englishmen, As I have told you right. Saint George the bright, our ladies' knight, To name they were full fain; Our Englishmen they cried on height, And thrice they shout again. Old Ballad. Chap. XI. Chap. xx. END OF POETRY AND VERSE FROM THE WAVERLEY NOVELS. Since I left Scotland for the wars of Palestine, Ill fate, that we should lack the noble King And then the flower of all the Scottish And all his champions now! Time Hath often conquer'd at the head of And weary Heaven with prayers for Enter SWINTON, followed by REYNALD and others, to whom he speaks as he enters. Forbids more knowledge. Umfraville, perhaps VIP. unclosing his helmet). No; one less worthy of our sacred Order. SWIN. Halt here, and plant my pen- Yet, unless Syrian suns have scorch'd non, till the Regent Assign our band its station in the host. REY. That must be by the Standard. We have had That right since good Saint David's reign at least. Fain would I see the Marcher would dispute it. SWIN. Peace, Reynald! Where the general plants the soldier, There is his place of honour, and there only His valour can win worship. Thou'rt of those Who would have war's deep art bear the wild semblance Of some disorder'd hunting, where, pell-mell, Each trusting to the swiftness of his horse, Gallants press on to see the quarry fall. Yon steel-clad Southrons, Reynald, are no deer; And England's Edward is no stag at bay. VIP. (advancing.) There needed not, to blazon forth the Swinton, His ancient burgonet, the sable Boar Chain'd to the gnarl'd oak,-nor his proud step, Nor giant stature, nor the ponderous mace, Which only he, of Scotland's realm, can wield: His discipline and wisdom mark the leader, my features Swart as my sable visor, Alan Swinton Will welcome Symon Vipont. SWIN. (embracing him). As the blithe reaper Welcomes a practised mate, when the ripe harvest Lies deep before him, and the sun is high! Thou 'It follow yon old pennon, wilt thou not? 'Tis tatter'd since thou saw'st it, and the Boar-heads Look as if brought from off some Christmas board Where knives had notch'd them deeply. VIP. Have with them, ne'ertheless. The Stuart's Chequer, The Bloody Heart of Douglas, Ross's Lymphads, Sutherland's Wild-cats, nor the royal Lion, Rampant in golden tressure, wins me from them. We'll back the Boar-heads bravely. I see round them A chosen band of lances-some well known to me. Where's the main body of thy fol lowers? SWIN. Symon de Vipont, thou dost see them all That Swinton's bugle-horn can call to battle, However loud it rings. There's not a boy As doth his frame the champion. Hail, Left in my halls whose arm has |