The Earl was a wrathful man to see,
Full fain avenged would he be.
In haste to Branksome's Lord he spoke,
Saying, "Take these traitors to thy yoke;
For a cast of hawks, and a purse of gold,
All Eskdale I'll sell thee, to have and hold:
Beshrew thy heart, of the Beattisons' clan
If thou leavest on Eske a landed man;
But spare Woodkerrick's lands alone,
For he lent me his horse to escape upon."
A glad man then was Branksome bold,
Down he flung him the purse of gold;
To Eskdale soon he spurr'd amain,
And with him five hundred riders has
ta'en.

[hill, He left his merrymen in the midst of the And bade them hold them close and still; And alone he wended to the plain, To meet with the Galliard and all his train. To Gilbert the Galliard thus he said: "Know thou me for thy liege-lord and head;

Deal not with me as with Morton tame,
For Scotts play best at the roughest game.
Give me in peace my heriot due,
Thy bonny white steed, or thou shalt rue.
If my horn I three times wind, [mind."
Eskdale shall long have the sound in

XII.

Loudly the Beattison laugh'd in scorn;
"Little care we for thy winded horn.
Ne'er shall it be the Galliard's lot,
To yield his steed to a haughty Scott.
Wend thou to Branksome back on foot,
With rusty spur and miry boot."-
He blew his bugle so loud and hoarse,
That the dun deer started at fair Craik-
cross;

He blew again so loud and clear,
Through the grey mountain-mist there did

lances appear;

And the third blast rang with such a din, That the echoes answer'd from PentounAnd all his riders came lightly in. [linn, Then had you seen a gallant shock, When saddles were emptied, and lances broke! [said, For each scornful word the Galliard had A Beattison on the field was laid. His own good sword the Chieftain drew, And he bore the Galliard through and through; [the rill, Where the Beattisons' blood mix'd with The Galliard's-Haugh men call it still. The Scotts have scatter'd the Beattison clan,

In Eskdale they left but one landed man.

The valley of Eske, from the mouth to the source, [horse. Was lost and won for that bonny white

XIII.

Whitslade the Hawk, and Headshaw came, And warriors more than I may name, From Yarrow-cleugh to Hindhaugh-swair, From Woodhouselie to Chester-glen. Troop'd man and horse, and bow and spear;

Their gathering word was Bellenden.* And better hearts o'er Border sod To siege or rescue never rode.

The Ladye mark'd the aids come in,

And high her heart of pride arose :
She bade her youthful son attend,
That he might know his father's friend,
And learn to face his foes.
"The boy is ripe to look on war;

I saw him draw a cross-bow stiff,
And his true arrow struck afar

The raven's nest upon the cliff;
The red cross, on a southern breast,
Is broader than the raven's nest :
Thou, Whitslade, shalt teach him his
weapon to wield,

And o'er him hold his father's shield."
XIV.

Well may you think, the wily page
Cared not to face the Ladye sage.
He counterfeited childish fear,
And shriek'd, and shed full many a tear,
And moan'd and plain'd in manner wild.
The attendants to the Ladye told,
Some fairy, sure, had changed the child,
That wont to be so free and bold.
Then wrathful was the noble dame;
She blush'd blood-red for very shame :-
Hence! ere the clan his faintness view;
Hence with the weakling to Buccleuch
Watt Tinlinn, thou shalt be his guide
To Rangleburn's lonely side.-
Sure some fell fiend has cursed our line,
That coward should e'er be son of mine !"
XV.

A heavy task Watt Tinlinn had,
To guide the counterfeited lad.
Soon as the palfrey felt the weight
Of that ill-omen'd elfish freight,
He bolted, sprung, and rear'd amain,
Nor heeded bit, nor curb, nor rein.
It cost Watt Tinlinn mickle toil
To drive him but a Scottish mile;

But as a shallow brook they cross'd,
The elf, amid the running stream,
His figure changed, like form in dream,
And fled, and shouted, "Lost! lost!

lost!"

Full fast the urchin ran and laugh'd, But faster still a cloth-yard shaft

Whistled from startled Tinlinn's yew, And pierced his shoulder through and through.

Although the imp might not be slain,
And though the wound soon heal'd again,
Yet, as he ran, he yell'd for pain;
And Watt of Tinlinn, much aghast,
Rode back to Branksome fiery fast.
XVI.

Soon on the hill's steep verge he stood, That looks o'er Branksome's towers and wood;

And martial murmurs, from below,

Proclaim'd the approaching southern foe.
Through the dark wood, in mingled tone,
Were Border pipes and bugles blown;
The coursers' neighing he could ken,
A measured tread of marching men;
While broke at times the solemn hum,
The Almayn's sullen kettle-drum ;

Light forayers, first, to view the ground, Spurr'd their fleet coursers loosely round; Behind, in close array, and fast,

The Kendal archers, all in green, Obedient to the bugle blast,

Advancing from the wood were seen. To back and guard the archer band, Lord Dacre's bill-men were at hand: A hardy race, on Irthing bred, With kirtles white, and crosses red, Array'd beneath the banner tall, That stream'd o'er Acre's conquer'd wall; And minstrels, as they march'd in order, Play'd "Noble Lord Dacre, he dwells on the Border."

XVIII.

Behind the English bill and bow,
The mercenaries, firm and slow,

Moved on to fight, in dark array,
By Conrad led of Wolfenstein,
Who brought the band from distant Rhine,
And sold their blood for foreign pay.
The camp their home, their law the sword,
They knew no country, own'd no lord:
They were not arm'd like England's sons,
But bore the levin-darting guns;
Buff coats, all frounced and broider'd o'er,
And morsing-horns+ and scarfs they wore;
Each better knee was bared, to aid
The warriors in the escalade;
All, as they march'd, in rugged tongue,
Songs of Teutonic feuds they sung.

† Powder-flasks.

XIX.

But louder still the clamour grew,
And louder still the minstrels blew,
When, from beneath the greenwood tree,
Rode forth Lord Howard's chivalry;
His men-at-arms, with glaive and spear,
Brought up the battle's glittering rear.
There many a youthful knight, full keen
To gain his spurs, in arms was seen;
With favour in his crest, or glove,
Memorial of his ladye-love.

So rode they forth in fair array,
Till full their lengthen'd lines display;
Then call'd a halt, and made a stand,
And cried, "St. George, for merry Eng-

land!"

XX.

Now every English eye, intent

On Branksome's armèd towers was bent;
So near they were, that they might know
The straining harsh of each cross-bow;
On battlement and bartizan

Gleam'd axe, and spear, and partizan ;
Falcon and culver,+ on each tower,
Stood prompt their deadly hail to shower;
And flashing armour frequent broke
From eddying whirls of sable smoke,
Where upon tower and turret head,
The seething pitch and molten lead
Reek'd, like a witch's cauldron red.
While yet they gaze, the bridges fall,
The wicket opes, and from the wall
Rides forth the hoary Seneschal.

XXI.

Armed he rode, all save the head,
His white beard o'er his breast-plate
Unbroke by age, erect his seat,
spread;

He ruled his eager courser's gait ;
Forced him, with chasten'd fire, to prance,
And, high curvetting, slow advance:
In sign of truce, his better hand
Display'd a peelèd willow wand;
His squire, attending in the rear,
Bore high a gauntlet on a spear.‡
When they espied him riding out,
Lord Howard and Lord Dacre stout
Sped to the front of their array,
To hear what this old knight should say.

XXII.

"Ye English warden lords, of you Demands the Ladye of Buccleuch,

† Ancient pieces of artillery.

A glove upon a lance was the emblem of faith among the ancient Borderers, who were wont, when any one broke his word, to expose this emblem, and proclaim him a faithless villain at the first Border meeting. This ceremony was much dreaded.

Why, 'gainst the truce of Border tide,
In hostile guise ye dare to ride,
With Kendal bow, and Gilsland brand,
And all yon mercenary band,
Upon the bounds of fair Scotland?
My Ladye redes you swith return;
And, if but one poor straw you burn,
Or do our towers so much molest
As scare one swallow from her nest,
St. Mary! but we'll light a brand
Shall warm your hearths in Cumberland."

XXIII.

A wrathful man was Dacre's lord,
But calmer Howard took the word:
"May't please thy Dame, Sir Seneschal,
To seek the castle's outward wall,
Our pursuivant-at-arms shall show
Both why we came, and when we go."—
The message sped, the noble Dame
To the wall's outward circle came;
Each chief around lean'd on his spear,
To see the pursuivant appear.
All in Lord Howard's livery dress'd,
The lion argent deck'd his breast;
He led a boy of blooming hue-
O sight to meet a mother's view!
It was the heir of great Buccleuch.
Obeisance meet the herald made,
And thus his master's will he said :—
XXIV.

"It irks, high Dame, my noble Lords,
'Gainst ladye fair to draw their swords;
But yet they may not tamely see,
All through the Western Wardenry,
Your law-contemning kinsmen ride,
And burn and spoil the Border-side;
And ill beseems your rank and birth
To make your towers a flemens-firth.†
We claim from thee William of Deloraine,
That he may suffer march-treason* pain.
It was but last St. Cuthbert's even
He prick'd to Stapleton on Leven,
Harried the lands of Richard Musgrave,
And slew his brother by dint of glaive.
Then, since a lone and widow'd Dame
These restless riders may not tame,
Either receive within thy towers
Two hundred of my master's powers,
Or straight they sound their warrison,§
And storm and spoil thy garrison:
And this fair boy, to London led,
Shall good King Edward's page be bred."

A moment changed that Ladye's cheer,
Gush'd to her eye the unbidden tear;
She gazed upon the leaders round,
And dark and sad each warrior frown'd;
Then, deep within her sobbing breast
She lock'd the struggling sigh to rest;
Unalter'd and collected stood,

And thus replied, in dauntless mood:

XXVI.

'Say to your Lords of high emprize, Who war on women and on boys, That either William of Deloraine Will cleanse him, by oath, of march-treason stain,

Or else he will the combat take 'Gainst Musgrave, for his honour's sake. No knight in Cumberland so good, But William may count with him kin and blood.

Knighthood he took of Douglas' sword,* When English blood swell'd Ancram's ford; *

And, but Lord Dacre's steed was wight,
And bare him ably in the flight,
Himself had seen him dubb'd a knight.
For the young heir of Branksome's line,
God be his aid, and God be mine;
Through me no friend shall meet his doom;
Here, while I live, no foe finds room.

Then, if thy lords their purpose urge,

Take our defiance loud and high; Our slogan is their lyke-wake † dirge, Our moat, the grave where they shall lie."

XXVII.

Proud she look'd round, applause to claim

Then lighten'd Thirlestane's eye of flame;
His bugle Wat of Harden blew;
Pensils and pennons wide were flung,
To heaven the Border slogan rung,

"St. Mary for the young Buccleuch!"
The English war-cry answer'd wide,
And forward bent each southern spear;
Each Kendal archer made a stride,
And drew the bowstring to his ear;
Each minstrel's war-note loud was

blown ;

But, ere a grey-goose shaft had flown,
A horseman gallop'd from the rear.

XXVIII. "Ah! noble Lords!" he breathless said, "What treason has your march betray'd? What make you here, from aid so far, Before you walls, around you war? Your foemen triumph in the thought, That in the toils the lion's caught.

Lykewake, the watching a corpse previous to interment.

Already on dark Ruberslaw

The Douglas holds his weapon-schaw;+
The lances, waving in his train,
Clothe the dun heath like autumn grain;
And on the Liddel's northern strand,
To bar retreat to Cumberland,

Lord Maxwell ranks his merry men good,
Beneath the eagle and the rood;

And Jedwood, Eske, and Teviotdale,
Have to proud Angus come;
And all the Merse and Lauderdale
Have risen with haughty Home.
An exile from Northumberland,

In Liddesdale I've wander'd long; But still my heart was with merry England,

[wrong;

And cannot brook my country's And hard I've spurr'd all night to show The mustering of the coming foe."

[three,

"Yet hear," quoth Howard, "calmly hear,
Nor deem my words the words of fear:
For who, in field or foray slack,
Saw the blanche lion e'er fall back?*
But thus to risk our Border flower
In strife against a kingdom's power,
Ten thousand Scots 'gainst thousands
Certes, were desperate policy.
Nay, take the terms the Ladye made,
Ere conscious of the advancing aid:
Let Musgrave meet fierce Deloraine
In single fight; and, if he gain,
He gains for us; but if he's cross'd,
'Tis but a single warrior lost:
The rest, retreating as they came,
Avoid defeat, and death, and shame."

XXXI.

Ill could the haughty Dacre brook
His brother Warden's sage rebuke;
And yet his forward step he staid,
And slow and sullenly obey'd.
But ne'er again the Border side
Did these two lords in friendship ride;
And this slight discontent, men say,
Cost blood upon another day.

+ Weapon-schaw, the military array of a county.

C

XXXII.

The pursuivant-at-arms again

Before the castle took his stand; His trumpet call'd, with parleying strain, The leaders of the Scottish band; And he defied, in Musgrave's right, Stout Deloraine to single fight; A gauntlet at their feet he laid, And thus the terms of fight he said:"If in the lists good Musgrave's sword Vanquish the Knight of Deloraine, Your youthful chieftain, Branksome's Lord, Shall hostage for his clan remain : If Deloraine foil good Musgrave, The boy his liberty shall have.

Howe'er it falls, the English band, Unharming Scots, by Scots unharm'd, In peaceful march, like men unarm'd, Shall straight retreat to Cumberland."

XXXIII.

Unconscious of the near relief,

The proffer pleased each Scottish chief,

Though much the Ladye sage gainsay'd; For though their hearts were brave and true,

From Jedwood's recent sack they knew, How tardy was the Regent's aid; And you may guess the noble Dame

Dust not the secret prescience own, Sprung from the art she might not name, By which the coming help was known. Closed was the compact, and agreed That lists should be enclosed with speed, Beneath the castle, on a lawn: They fix'd the morrow for the strife, On foot, with Scottish axe and knife,

At the fourth hour from peep of dawn; When Deloraine, from sickness freed, Or else a champion in his stead, Should for himself and chieftain stand, Against stout Musgrave, hand to hand.

XXXIV.

I know right well, that, in their lay,
Full many minstrels sing and say,
Such combat should be made on horse,
On foaming steed, in full career,
With brand to aid, when as the spear
Should shiver in the course:
But he, the jovial Harper, taught
Me, yet a youth, how it was fought,

In guise which now I say;

He knew each ordinance and clause
Of Black Lord Archibald's battle-laws,
In the old Douglas' day.

He brook'd not, he, that scoffing tongue
Should tax his minstrelsy with wrong,

Or call his song untrue:

For this, when they the goblet plied,
And such rude taunt had chafed his pride,
The Bard of Reull he slew.

On Teviot's side, in fight they stood,
And tuneful hands were stain'd with
blood;
[wave,
Where still the thorn's white branches
Memorial o'er his rival's grave.
XXXV.

Why should I tell the rigid doom,
That dragg'd my master to his tomb;
How Ousenam's maidens tore their hair,
Wept till their eyes were dead and dim,
And wrung their hands for love of him,
Who died at Jedwood Air?
He died!-his scholars, one by one,
To the cold silent grave are gone;
And I, alas! survive alone,
To muse o'er rivalries of yore,
And grieve that I shall hear no more
The strains, with envy heard before;
For, with my minstrel brethren fled,
My jealousy of song is dead.

He paused: the listening dames again
Applaud the hoary Minstrel's strain.
With many a word of kindly cheer,-
In pity half, and half sincere,-
Marvell'd the Duchess how so well
His legendary song could tell-
Of ancient deeds, so long forgot;
Of feuds, whose memory was not;
Of forests, now laid waste and bare;
Of towers, which harbour now the hare;
Of manners, long since changed and gone;
Of chiefs, who under their grey stone
So long had slept, that fickle Fame
Had blotted from her rolls their name,
And twined round some new minion's head
The fading wreath for which they bled;
In sooth, 'twas strange, this old man's verse
Could call them from their marble hearse.

Who say, tall cliff, and cavern lone,
For the departed Bard make moan;
That mountains weep in crystal rill;
That flowers in tears of balm distil;
Through his loved groves that breezes sigh,
And oaks, in deeper groan, reply;
And rivers teach their rushing wave
To murmur dirges round his grave.

II.

Not that, in sooth, o'er mortal urn
Those things inanimate can mourn;
But that the stream, the wood, the gale,
Is vocal with the plaintive wail
Of those, who, else forgotten long,
Lived in the poet's faithful song,
And, with the poet's parting breath,
Whose memory feels a second death.
The Maid's pale shade, who wails her lot,
That love, true love, should be forgot,
From rose and hawthorn shakes the tear
Upon the gentle Minstrel's bier:
The phantom Knight, his glory fled,
Mourns o'er the field he heap'd with dead;
Mounts the wild blast that sweeps amain,
And shrieks along the battle-plain.
The Chief, whose antique crownlet long
Still sparkled in the feudal song,
Now, from the mountain's misty throne,
Sees, in the thanedom once his own,
His ashes undistinguish'd lie,
His place, his power, his memory die:
His groans the lonely caverns fill,
His tears of rage impel the rill;
All mourn the Minstrel's harp unstrung,
Their name unknown, their praise unsung.

III.

Scarcely the hot assault was staid,
The terms of truce were scarcely made,
When they could spy, from Branksome's
towers,

The advancing march of martial powers.
Thick clouds of dust afar appear'd,
And trampling steeds were faintly heard;
Bright spears above the columns dun,
Glanced momentary to the sun;

And feudal banners fair display'd

The bands that moved to Branksome's aid. IV.

Vails not to tell each hardy clan,

From the fair Middle Marches came;

CANTO FIFTH.

I.

CALL it not vain :-they do not err, Who say, that when the Poet dies, Mute Nature mourns her worshipper, And celebrates his obsequies:

Announcing Douglas, dreaded name!* Vails not to tell what steeds did spurn, Where the Seven Spears of Wedderburne* Their men in battle-order set; And Swinton laid the lance in rest, That tamed of yore the sparkling crest Of Clarence's Plantagenet.* Nor list I say what hundreds more, From the rich Merse and Lammermore,