Her son, a stripling twelve years old, Proffered the Baron's rein to hold; For each man, that could draw a sword, Earl Adam Hepburn, he who died On Flodden, by his sovereign's side. She ne'er shall see his gallant train 'Twas a brave race, before the name Of hated Bothwell stained their fame. XIII. And here two days did Marmion rest, With every rite that honour claims, Such the command of royal James; Who marshalled then his land's array, Upon the Borough-moor that lay. Perchance he would not foeman's eye Upon his gathering host should pry, Till full prepared was every band To march against the English land. Here while they dwelt, did Lindesay's wit 1 Oft cheer the Baron's moodier fit; And, in his turn, he knew to prize Lord Marmion's powerful mind, and wise,Trained in the lore of Rome, and Greece, And policies of war and peace. XIV. It chanced, as fell the second night, That on the battlements they walked, And, by the slowly fading light, Of varying topics talked ; And, unaware, the Herald-bard Said, Marmion might his toil have spared, In travelling so far; For that a messenger from heaven In vain to James had counsel given And, closer questioned, thus he told In Scottish story have enrolled XV. Sir David Lindesay's Tale. "Of all the palaces so fair, Built for the royal dwelling, In Scotland, far beyond compare Linlithgow is excelling; And in its park, in jovial June, How sweet the merry linnet's tune, How blithe the blackbird's lay! The wild buck bells * from ferny brake, The coot dives merry on the lake, An ancient word for the cry of deer.-See Note. VOL. II. The saddest heart might pleasure take To see all nature gay. But June is to our Sovereign dear The heaviest month in all the year: Too well his cause of grief you know,— June saw his father's overthrow. Woe to the traitors, who could bring The princely boy against his King! Still in his conscience burns the sting. In offices as strict as Lent, King James's June is ever spent. XVI. "When last this ruthful month was come, And in Linlithgow's holy dome The King, as wont, was praying; While, for his royal father's soul, The chaunters sung, the bells did toll, The Bishop mass was saying— For now the year brought round again The day the luckless king was slain— In Katharine's aisle the Monarch knelt, And eyes with sorrow streaming; Around him, in their stalls of state, Was watching where the sunbeams fell, But, while I marked what next befel, It seemed as I were dreaming. His forehead bald, his head was bare, |