CANTO SIXTH

THE GUARD-ROOM

I

THE sun, awakening, through the smoky air
Of the dark city casts a sullen glance,
Rousing each caitiff to his task of care,
Of sinful man the sad inheritance;
Summoning revellers from the lagging dance,
Scaring the prowling robber to his den;
Gilding on battled tower the warder's glance,
And warning student pale to leave his pen,
And yield his drowsy eyes to the kind nurse of men.

What various scenes, and O, what scenes of woe,
Are witnessed by that red and struggling beam!
The fevered patient, from his pallet low,

Through crowded hospital beholds it stream;

The ruined maiden trembles at its gleam,

The debtor wakes to thought of gyve and jail, The love-lorn wretch starts from tormenting dream; The wakeful mother, by the glimmering pale,

Trims her sick infant's couch, and soothes his feeble wail.

II

At dawn the towers of Stirling rang

With soldier-step and weapon-clang,

While drums with rolling note foretell

Relief to weary sentinel.

Through narrow loop and casement barred,
The sunbeams sought the Court of Guard,
And, struggling with the smoky air,
Deadened the torches' yellow glare.

In comfortless alliance shone

The lights through arch of blackened stone,
And showed wild shapes in garb of war,
Faces deformed with beard and scar,
All haggard from the midnight watch,
And fevered with the stern debauch;
For the oak table's massive board,
Flooded with wine, with fragments stored,
And beakers drained, and cups o'erthrown,
Showed in what sport the night had flown.
Some, weary, snored on floor and bench;
Some laboured still their thirst to quench;
Some, chilled with watching, spread their hands
O'er the huge chimney's dying brands,

While round them or beside them flung,

At every step their harness rung.

III

These drew not for their fields the sword,

Like tenants of a feudal lord,

Nor owned the patriarchal claim

Of Chieftain in their leader's name;
Adventurers they, from far who roved,1
To live by battle which they loved.
There the Italian's clouded face,
The swarthy Spaniard's there you trace;
The mountain-loving Switzer there
More freely breathed in mountain-air;

The Fleming there despised the soil

That paid so ill the labourer's toil;

Their rolls showed French and German name;

And merry England's exiles came,
To share, with ill-concealed disdain,
Of Scotland's pay the scanty gain.

All brave in arms, well-trained to wield
The heavy halberd, brand, and shield;
In camps licentious, wild, and bold;
In pillage fierce and uncontrolled;
And now, by holytide and feast,
From rules of discipline released.

IV

They held debate of bloody fray,

Fought 'twixt Loch Katrine and Achray. Fierce was their speech, and mid their words

Their hands oft grappled to their swords;

Nor sunk their tone to spare the ear

1 See Note 72.

Of wounded comrades groaning near,
Whose mangled limbs and bodies gored
Bore token of the mountain sword,

Though, neighbouring to the Court of Guard,
Their prayers and feverish wails were heard,
Sad burden to the ruffian joke,

And savage oath by fury spoke! -
At length up started John of Brent,
A yeoman from the banks of Trent;
A stranger to respect or fear,
In peace a chaser of the deer,
In host a hardy mutineer,

But still the boldest of the crew

When deed of danger was to do.

He grieved that day their games cut short,
And marred the dicer's brawling sport,

And shouted loud, 'Renew the bowl!

And, while a merry catch I troll,

Let each the buxom chorus bear,

Like brethren of the brand and spear.'

V

SOLDIER'S SONG

Our vicar still preaches that Peter and Poule

Laid a swinging long curse on the bonny brown bowl, That there's wrath and despair in the jolly black-jack, And the seven deadly sins in a flagon of sack;

Yet whoop, Barnaby! off with thy liquor,
Drink upsees out, and a fig for the vicar!

Our vicar he calls it damnation to sip

The ripe ruddy dew of a woman's dear lip,

Says that Beelzebub lurks in her kerchief so sly,

And Apollyon shoots darts from her merry black eye; Yet whoop, Jack! kiss Gillian the quicker,

Till she bloom like a rose, and a fig for the vicar!

Our vicar thus preaches, - and why should he not?
For the dues of his cure are the placket and pot;
And 't is right of his office poor laymen to lurch
Who infringe the domains of our good Mother Church.
Yet whoop, bully-boys! off with your liquor,
Sweet Marjorie's the word, and a fig for the vicar!

VI

The warder's challenge, heard without,
Stayed in mid-roar the merry shout.
A soldier to the portal went, -
'Here is old Bertram, sirs, of Ghent;

And beat for jubilee the drum! -
A maid and minstrel with him come.'
Bertram, a Fleming, grey and scarred,
Was entering now the Court of Guard,
A harper with him, and, in plaid