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What plumage wav'd the altar round, How spurs and ringing chainlets sound;

And hard it were for bard to speak The changeful hue of Margaret's cheek

That lovely hue which comes and flies As awe and shame alternate rise!

V.

Some bards have sung the Ladye high

Chapel or altar came not nigh;
Nor durst the rites of spousal grace,
So much she fear'd each holy place.
False slanders these: I trust right well
She wrought not by forbidden spell;
For mighty words and signs have
power

O'er sprites in planetary hour:
Yet scarce I praise their venturous
part,

Who tamper with such dangerous art.
But this for faithful truth I say,

The Ladye by the altar stood;
Of sable velvet her array,

And on her head a crimson hood,
With pearls embroider'd and entwin'd,
Guarded with gold, with ermine lin'd;
A merlin sat upon her wrist
Held by a leash of silken twist.

VI.

The spousal rites were ended soon:
'Twas now the merry hour of noon,
And in the lofty arched hall
Was spread the gorgeous festival.
Steward and squire, with heedful haste,
Marshall'd the rank of every guest;
Pages, with ready blade, were there,
The mighty meal to carve and share:
O'er capon, heron-shew, and crane,
And princely peacock's gilded train,
And o'er the boar-head, garnish'd
brave,

And cygnet from St. Mary's wave;
O'er ptarmigan and venison
The priest had spoke his benison.

Then rose the riot and the din,
Above, beneath, without, within!
For, from the lofty balcony,

Rung trumpet, shalm, and psaltery: Their clanging bowls old warriors quaff'd,

Loudly they spoke, and loudly laugh'd; Whisper'd young knights, in tone more mild,

To ladies fair, and ladies smil'd. The hooded hawks, high perch'd on beam,

The clamour join'd with whistling

scream,

And flapp'd their wings, and shook their bells

In concert with the stag-hounds' yells.
Round go the flasks of ruddy wine,
From Bordeaux, Orleans, or the
Rhine;

Their tasks the busy sewers ply,
And all is mirth and revelry.

VII.

The Goblin Page, omitting still
No opportunity of ill,

Strove now, while blood ran hot and high,

To rouse debate and jealousy ;
Till Conrad, Lord of Wolfenstein,
By nature fierce, and warm with
wine,

And now in humour highly cross'd About some steeds his band had lost,

High words to words succeeding still, Smote with his gauntlet stout Hunthill

A hot and hardy Rutherford, Whom men called Dickon Draw-the. sword.

He took it on the page's saye, Hunthill had driven these steeds

away.

Then Howard, Home, and Douglas

rose,

The kindling discord to compose:

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Long after rued that bodkin's point. The startled yeoman swore spurn'd,

The dwarf, who fear'd his master's eye And board and flagons overturn'd.
Might his foul treachery espie,
Now sought the castle buttery,
Where many a yeoman, bold and
free,

Revell'd as merrily and well
As those that sat in lordly selle.
Watt Tinlinn, there, did frankly raise
The pledge to Arthur Fire-the-Braes;
And he, as by his breeding bound,
To Howard's merry-men sent it round.
To quit them, on the English side,
Red Roland Forster loudly cried,

A deep carouse to yon fair bride!'
At every pledge, from vat and pail,
Foam'd forth in floods the nut-brown
ale,

While shout the riders every one; Such day of mirth ne'er cheer'd their clan,

Since old Buccleuch the name did gain, When in the cleuch the buck was ta'en.

IX.

The wily page, with vengeful thought,
Remember'd him of Tinlinn's yew,
And swore it should be dearly bought

That ever he the arrow drew.
First, he the yeoman did molest,
With bitter gibe and taunting jest ;
Told how he fled at Solway strife,
And how Hob Armstrong cheer'd his
wife;

Riot and clamour wild began;
Back to the hall the Urchin ran;
Took in a darkling nook his post,
And grinn'd, and mutter'd, 'Lost!
lost! lost!'

X.

By this, the Dame, lest farther fray
Should mar the concord of the day,
Had bid the Minstrels tune their lay.
And first stept forth old Albert
Græme,

The Minstrel of that ancient name :
Was none who struck the harp so
well

Within the Land Debateable;
Well friended, too, his hardy kin,
Whoever lost, were sure to win;
They sought the beeves that made

their broth,

In Scotland and in England both.
In homely guise, as nature bade,
His simple song the Borderer said.

XI.

ALBERT GRÆME.

It was an English ladye bright,
(The sun shines fair on Carlisle
wall,)

And she would marry a Scottish
knight,

For Love will still be lord of all.

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