When the streets of high Dunedin Saw lances gleam, and falchions redden, And heard the slogan's deadly yellThen the Chief of Branksome fell. VIII. Can piety the discord heal, Or stanch 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 ; Implor'd in vain the grace divine For chiefs their own red falchions slew: While Cessford owns the rule of Carr, The slaughter'd chiefs, the mortal jar, IX. In sorrow o'er Lord Walter's bier The warlike foresters had bent; And many a flower and many a tear Old Teviot's maids and matrons lent: But o'er her warrior's bloody bier The Ladye dropp'd nor flower nor tear! Vengeance, deep-brooding o'er the slain, Had lock'd the source of softer woe; And burning pride and high disdain Forbade the rising tear to flow; Until, amid his sorrowing clan, Her son lisp'd from the nurse's knee 'And if I live to be a man, My father's death reveng'd shall be!' Then fast the mother's tears did seek To dew the infant's kindling cheek. X. All loose her negligent attire, All loose her golden hair, Hung Margaret o'er her slaughter'd sire, And wept in wild despair. But not alone the bitter tear Had filial grief supplied; For hopeless love and anxious fear Had lent their mingled tide : Nor in her mother's alter'd eye Dar'd she to look for sympathy. Her lover, 'gainst her father's clan, With Carr in arms had stood, When Mathouse-burn to Melrose ran All purple with their blood; And well she knew, her mother dread, Before Lord Cranstoun she should wed, Would see her on her dying bed. XI. Of noble race the Ladye came; Of Bethune's line of Picardie : XII. And of his skill, as bards avow, He taught that Ladye fair, The viewless forms of air. That moans the mossy turrets round. Is it the wind that swings the oaks? round? Even bearded knights, in arms grown old, Share in his frolic gambols bore, Albeit their hearts of rugged mould Were stubborn as the steel they wore. For the gray warriors prophesied, How the brave boy, in future war, Should tame the Unicorn's pride, Exalt the Crescent and the Star. XX. The Ladye forgot her purpose high, One moment, and no more; One moment gaz'd with a mother's eye, As she paus'd at the arched door : Then from amid the armed train, She call'd to her William of Deloraine. XXI. A stark moss-trooping Scott was he, As e'er couch'd Border lance by knee : Through Solway sands, through Tar ras moss, Blindfold, he knew the paths to cross; XXII. 'Sir William of Deloraine, good at need, Mount thee on the wightest steed; Seek thou the Monk of St. Mary's aisle. XXVIII. In vain! no torrent, deep or broad, Might bar the bold moss-trooper's road. XXIX. At the first plunge the horse sunk low, And the water broke o'er the saddlebow; Above the foaming tide, I ween, Scarce half the charger's neck was seen; For he was barded from counter to tail, And the rider was arm'd complete in mail: Never heavier man and horse At length he gain'd the landing-place. XXX. Now Bowden Moor the march-man won, And sternly shook his plumed head, As glanc'd his eye o'er Halidon : For on his soul the slaughter red When royal James beheld the fray; XXXI. In bitter mood he spurred fast, Unchalleng'd, thence pass'd Delo- And far beneath, in lustre wan, raine, To ancient Riddel's fair domain, Where Aill, from mountains freed, Down from the lakes did raving come; Each wave was crested with tawny foam, Like the mane of a chestnut steed. Old Melros' rose, and fair Tweed ran : Like some tall rock with lichens grey, Seem'd dimly huge the dark Abbaye. When Hawick he pass'd, had curfew IF thou would'st view fair Melrose With torch in hand, and feet unshod, aright, Go visit it by the pale moonlight; night, And noiseless step, the path he trod: And each shafted oriel glimmers And lifted his barred aventayle, white; To hail the Monk of St. Mary's aisle. |