And oft apart his arms he tossed, And often muttered, "Lost! lost! lost!" He was waspish, arch, and litherlie, But well Lord Cranstoun served he: An' it had not been his ministry. All, between Home and Hermitage, Talked of Lord Cranstoun's Goblin-Page. XXXIII. For the Baron went on pilgrimage, And took with him this elvish Page, 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. And thither came John of Thirlestaine, And cursed Lord Cranstoun's Goblin-Page. XXXIV. And now, in Branksome's good green wood, 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, WHILE thus he poured the lengthened tale, gave A goblet, crowned with mighty wine, The blood of Velez' scorched vine. And, while the big drop filled his eye, * Wood Pigeon. 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 gaily 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. |