II. The tables were drawn, it was idlesse all; Or crowded round the ample fire. III. Nine-and-twenty knights of fame Hung their shields in Branksome Hall; Nine-and-twenty squires of name, Brought them their steeds from bower to stall; Nine-and-twenty yeomen tall, Waited, duteous, on them all: They were all knights of mettle true, Kinsmen to the bold Buccleuch. IV. Ten of them were sheathed in steel, With corslet laced, Pillowed on buckler cold and hard; They carved at the meal With gloves of steel, And they drank the red wine through the helmet barred. V. Ten squires, ten yeomen, mail-clad men, Waited the beck of the warders ten. And with Jedwood-axe at saddle bow. A hundred more fed free in stall Such was the custom of Branksome Hall. VI. Why do these steeds stand ready dight? They watch against Southern force and guile, From Warkworth, or Naworth, or merry Carlisle. VII. Such is the custom of Branksome-Hall. Many a valiant knight is here; But he, the Chieftain of them all, His sword hangs rusting on the wall, Beside his broken spear. Bards long shall tell, How lord Walter fell! When startled burghers fled, afar, The furies of the Border war; VIII. Can piety the discord heal, Or staunch the death-feud's enmity? Can Christian lore, can patriot zeal, Can love of blessed charity? No! vainly to each holy shrine, In mutual pilgrimage, they drew; Implored, in vain, the grace divine For chiefs, their own red falchions slew. * The war-cry, or gathering word, of a Border clan. While Cessford owns the rule of Car, While Ettrick boasts the line of Scott, The slaughtered chiefs, the mortal jar, The havoc of the feudal war, Shall never, never be forgot! IX. In sorrow, o'er lord Walter's bier, Had locked the source of softer woe; Until, amid his sorrowing clan, Her son lisped from the nurse's knee- |