When the half sigh her swelling breast
Against the silken ribbon pressed,
When her blue eyes their secret told,
Though shaded by her locks of gold-
Where would you find the peerless fair
With Margaret of Branksome might com-
pare!
And now, fair dames, methinks I see
You listen to my minstrelsy;
Your waving locks ye backward throw,
And sidelong bend your necks of snow.
Ye ween to hear a melting tale
Of two true lovers in a dale;
And how the knight, with tender fire,
To paint his faithful passion strove,
Swore he might at her feet expire,
But never, never cease to love;
And how she blushed, and how she sighed, And, half consenting, half denied,
Beneath an oak, mossed o'er by eld.
The Baron's dwarf his courser held,
And held his crested helm and spear:
That dwarf was scarce an earthly man,
If the tales were true that of him ran
Through all the Border far and near. 'T was said, when the Baron a-hunting rode Through Reedsdale's glens, but rarely trod, He heard a voice cry, Lost! lost! lost!' And, like tennis-ball by racket tossed,
A leap of thirty feet and three Made from the gorse this elfin shape, Distorted like some dwarfish ape,
And lighted at Lord Cranstoun's knee. Lord Cranstoun was some whit dismayed; 'T is said that five good miles he rade, To rid him of his company;
But where he rode one mile, the dwarf ran four.
And the dwarf was first at the castle door.
For once he had been ta'en or slain,
An it had not been for his ministry.
All between Home and Hermitage
Talked of Lord Cranstoun's Goblin Page.
For the Baron went on pilgrimage,
And took with him this elfish page,
To Mary's Chapel of the Lowes;
For there, beside Our Ladye's lake,
An offering he had sworn to make,
And he would pay his vows.
.But the Ladye of Branksome gathered a band
Of the best that would ride at her command;
The trysting-place was Newark Lee.
Wat of Harden came thither amain,
And thither came John of Thirlestane,
And thither came William of Deloraine;
They were three hundred spears and three.
Through Douglas-burn, up Yarrow stream,
Their horses prance, their lances gleam.
They came to Saint Mary's lake ere day,
But the chapel was void and the Baron away.
They burned the chapel for very rage,
And cursed Lord Cranstoun's Goblin Page
And now, in Branksome's good greenwood,
As under the aged oak he stood,
The Baron's courser pricks his ears,
As if a distant noise he hears.
The dwarf waves his long lean arm on high. And signs to the lovers to part and fly; No time was then to vow or sigh. Fair Margaret through the hazel-grove Flew like the startled cushat-dove: The dwarf the stirrup held and rein; Vaulted the knight on his steed amain, And, pondering deep that morning's scene. Rode eastward through the hawthorns green.
WHILE thus he poured the lengthened tale.
The Minstrel's voice began to fail.
Full slyly smiled the observant page,
And gave the withered hand of
A goblet, crowned with mighty wine,
age
The blood of Velez' scorched vine.
He raised the silver cup on high,
And, while the big drop filled his eye,
Prayed God to bless the Duchess long,
And all who cheered a son of song.
The attending maidens smiled to see
How long, how deep, how zealously,
The precious juice the Minstrel quaffed:
And he, emboldened by the draught,
Looked gayly back to them and laughed.
The cordial nectar of the bowl
Swelled his old veins and cheered his soul:
A lighter, livelier prelude ran,
Ere thus his tale again began.
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