ページの画像
PDF
ePub

Says "Well met, well met, true Thomas!
Some uncouth ferlies shew to me."
Says "Christ thee save, Corspatrick brave
Thrice welcome, good Dunbar, to me!

"Light down, light down, Corspatrick brave,
And I will shew thee curses three,
Shall gair fair Scotland greet and grane,
And change the green to the black livery.

"A storm shall roar, this very hour, From Rosse's Hills to Solway sea,"

"Ye lied, ye lied, ye warlock hoar!

For the sun shines sweet on fauld and lea."

He put his hand on the earlie's head;
He shewed him a rock, beside the sea,
Where a king lay stiff, beneath his steed,
And steel-dight nobles wiped their e'e.

"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;
The ruddy lion beareth he:
A feathered arrow sharp, I ween,

Shall make him wink and warre to see.

"When he is bloody, and all to bledde,
Thus to his men he still shall say
For God's sake, turn ye back again,
And give yon southern folk a fray!

Why should I lose, the right is mine?
My doom is not to die this day.'

"Yet turn ye to the eastern hand,
And wo and wonder ye sall see;
How forty thousand spearmen stand,
Where yon rank river meets the sea.

"There shall the lion lose the gylte,

And the libbards bear it clean away; At Pinkyn Cleuch there shall be spilt Much gentil blude that day."

"Enough, enough, of curse and ban;

Some blessing shew 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 shew, Is by a burn, that's called of bread; Where Saxon men shall tine the bow,

And find their arrows lack the head.

[ocr errors]

"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, "True Thomas, tell now unto me, What man shall rule the isle Britain,

Ev'n from the north to the southern sea?"

"A French queen shall bear the son,
Shall rule all Britain to the sea:
He of the Bruce's blude shall come,
As near as in the ninth degree.

"The waters worship shall his race; Likewise the waves of the farthest sea;

For they shall ride ower ocean wide,

With hempen bridles, and horse of tree."

PART THIRD.

MODERN.

WHEN seven years more had come and gone,
Was war through Scotland spread,

And Ruberslaw showed high Dunyon
His beacon blazing red.

Then all by bonny Coldingknow,

Pitched palliouns took their room, And crested helms, and spears a rowe, Glanced gayly through the broom.

The Leader, rolling to the Tweed,

Resounds the ensenzie;

They roused the deer from Caddenhead,
To distant Torwoodlee.

The feast was spread in Ercildoune,
In Learmont's high and ancient hall;
And there were knights of great renown,
And ladies, laced in pall.

Nor lacked they, while they sat at dine,
The music, nor the tale,

Nor goblets of the blood-red wine,
Nor mantling quaighs of ale.

True Thomas rose, with harp in hand,
When as the feast was done;
(In minstrel strife, in Fairy Land,

The elfin harp he won.)

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
The prophet poured along;

No after bard might e'er avail
Those numbers to prolong.

Yet fragments of the lofty strain
Float down the tide of years.
As, buoyant on the stormy main,
A parted wreck appears.

He sung King Arthur's table round:
The warrior of the lake;

How courteous Gawaine met the wound,
And bled for ladies' sake.

But chief, in gentle Tristrem's praise,
The notes melodious swell;

Was none excelled in Arthur's days,
The knight of Lionelle.

For Marke, his cowardly uncle's right,
A venomed wound he bore;

When fierce Morholde he slew in fight,
Upon the Irish shore.

No art the poison might withstand;

No med'cine could be found,

Till lovely Isolde's lily hand

Had probed the rankling wound.

With gentle hand and soothing tongue,
She bore the leech's part;

And, while she o'er his sick bed hung,
He paid her with his heart.

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.

« 前へ次へ »