The noble Dame, amid the broil,
Shared the grey Seneschal's high toil,
And spoke of danger with a smile;
Cheer'd the young knights, and
council sage

Held with the chiefs of riper age.
No tidings of the foe were brought,
Nor of his numbers knew they aught,
Nor what in time of truce he sought.

Some said that there were thou-
sands ten;

And others ween'd that it was nought

But Leven clans, or Tynedale men, Who came to gather in black-mail; And Liddesdale, with small avail,

Might drive them lightly back agen. So pass'd the anxious night away, And welcome was the peep of day.

throng

Applaud the Master of the Song;
And marvel much, in helpless age,
So hard should be his pilgrimage.
Had he no friend, no daughter dear,
His wandering toil to share and cheer; ¦

play'd

Against the bloody Highland blade, Why was not I beside him laid! Enough, he died the death of fame; Enough, he died with conquering Græme.

From fair St. Mary's silver wave, From dreary Gamescleugh's dusky height,

His ready lances Thirlestane brave Array'd beneath a banner bright. The treasured fleur-de-luce he claims To wreathe his shield, since royal James,

Encamp'd by Fala's mossy wave, The proud distinction grateful gave,

For faith 'mid feudal jars ; What time, save Thirlestane alone, Of Scotland's stubborn barons none Would march to southern wars; And hence, in fair remembrance worn, Yon sheaf of spears his crest has borne ;

Hence his high motto shines reveal'd 'Ready, aye ready' for the field.

IX.

An aged Knight, to danger steel'd, With many a moss-trooper came on; And azure in a golden field,

The stars and crescent graced his shield,

Without the bend of Murdieston.

Wide lay his lands round Oakwood

tower,

And wide round haunted Castle-
Ower;

High over Borthwick's mountain flood
His wood-embosom'd mansion stood;
In the dark glen, so deep below,
The herds of plunder'd England low-
His bold retainers' daily food,
And bought with danger, blows, and
blood.

Marauding chief! his sole delight
The moonlight raid, the morning fight;
Not even the Flower of Yarrow's
charms,

In youth, might tame his rage for

arms;

And still, in age, he spurn'd at rest, And still his brows the helmet press'd, Albeit the blanched locks below Werewhite as Dinlay's spotless snow; Five stately warriors drew the sword

Before their father's band; A braver knight than Harden's lord Ne'er belted on a brand.

X.

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,

Was lost and won for that bonny

white horse.

XIII.

Whitslade the Hawk, and Headshaw came,

And warriors more than I may name; From Yarrow-cleugh to Hindhaughswair,

From Woodhouselic to Chesterglen,

Troop'd man and horse, and bow and spear;

Their gathering word was Bellen-
den.

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
Car'd 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 chang'd 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 chang'd, 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 pierc'd 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 Wat of Tinlinn, much aghast,
Rode back to Branksome fiery fast.