Says "Well met, well met, true Thomas! "Light down, light down, Corspatrick brave, "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; "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; Shall make him wink and warre to see. "When he is bloody, and all to bledde, Why should I lose, the right is mine? "Yet turn ye to the eastern hand, "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. "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, "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, And Ruberslaw showed high Dunyon 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, 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, 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 No after bard might e'er avail 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; No med'cine could be found, Till lovely Isolde's lily 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. |