He put his hand on the earlie's head; "The neist curse lights on Branxton Hills: By Flodden's high and heathery side, Shall wave a banner, red as blude, And chieftains throng wi' meikle pride. A Scottish king shall come full keen; A feathered arrow sharp, I ween, Shall make him wink and warre to see. When he is bloody, and all to bledde, Yet turn ye to the eastern hand, There shall the lion lose the gylte, Enough, enough, of curse and ban; Some blessing show thou now to me, Or, by the faith o' my bodie," Corspatrick said, "Ye shall rue the day ye e'er saw me!" "The first of blessings I shall thee show, Beside that brigg, out ower that burn, Where the water bickereth bright and sheen, Shall many a falling courser spurn, And knights shall die in battle keen. Beside a headless cross of stone, The libbards there shall lose the gree; The raven shall come, the erne shall go, And drink the Saxon blood sae free. The cross of stone they shall not know, So thick the corses there shall be." "But tell me now," said brave Dunbar, A French queen shall bear the son, "The waters worship shall his race; Part Third. MODERN. THE following attempt to commemorate the Rhymer's poetical fame, and the traditional account of his marvellous return to Fairy Land, being entirely modern, would have been placed with greater propriety among the class of Modern Ballads, had it not been for its immediate connection with the first and second parts of the same story. WHEN seven years more had come and gone, And Ruberslaw showed high Dunyon Then all by bonny Coldingknow, The Leader, rolling to the Tweed, They roused the deer from Caddenhead, The feast was spread in Ercildoune, Nor lacked they, while they sat at dine, Nor goblets of the blood-red wine, True Thomas rose, with harp in hand, (In minstrel strife, in Fairy Land, Hushed were the throng, both limb and tongue, And harpers for envy pale; And armed lords leaned on their swords, And hearkened to the tale. In numbers high, the witching tale Yet fragments of the lofty strain He sung King Arthur's table round: How courteous Gawaine met the wound, But chief, in gentle Tristrem's praise, Was none excelled in Arthur's days, For Marke, his cowardly uncle's right, When fierce Morholde he slew in fight, No art the poison might withstand; Till lovely Isolde's lilye hand Had probed the rankling wound. With gentle hand and soothing tongue, And, while she o'er his sick-bed hung, O fatal was the gift, I ween! For, doomed in evil tide, The maid must be rude Cornwall's queen, His cowardly uncle's bride. Their loves, their woes, the gifted bard In fairy tissue wove; Where lords, and knights, and ladies bright, In gay confusion strove. The Garde Joyeuse, amid the tale, High reared its glittering head; And Avalon's enchanted vale In all its wonders spread. Brangwain was there, and Segramore, Through many a maze the winning song Till bent at length the listening throng His ancient wounds their scars expand, She comes, she comes!-like flash of flame She comes, she comes!-she only came She saw him die: her latest sigh Joined in a kiss his parting breath: The gentlest pair that Britain bare, There paused the harp; its lingering sound The silent guests still bent around, For still they seemed to hear. Then woe broke forth in murmurs weak, But, half ashamed, the rugged cheek On Leader's stream, and Learmont's tower, In camp, in castle, or in bower Lord Douglas in his lofty tent, Dreamed o'er the woeful tale; When footsteps light, across the bent, He starts, he wakes:-"What, Richard, ho! What venturous wight, at dead of night, Then forth they rushed: by Leader's tide, A bart and hind pace side by side, Beneath the moon, with gesture proud, Nor scare they at the gathering crowd, To Learmont's tower a message sped, First he woxe pale, and then woxe red; The elfin harp his neck around, And on the wind, in doleful sound, Then forth he went; yet turned him oft On the grey tower, in lustre soft, And Leader's waves, like silver sheen, "Farewell, my father's ancient tower! A long farewell," said he: "The scene of pleasure, pomp, or power, Thou never more shalt be. To Learmont's name no foot of earth And on thy hospitable hearth The hare shall leave her young. Adieu! adieu!" again he cried, The hart and hind approached the place, And there, before Lord Douglas' face, Lord Douglas leaped on his berry-brown steed, But, though he rode with lightning speed, |