By which you reach the donjon gate,

And there, with herald pomp and state,
They hail'd Lord Marmion:

They hail'd him Lord of Fontenaye,
Of Lutterward, and Scrivelbaye,

Of Tamworth tower and town;1

And he, their courtesy to requite,

Gave them a chain of twelve marks' weight,

All as he lighted down.

'Now, largesse, largesse, Lord Marmion,

Knight of the crest of gold!

A blazon'd shield, in battle won,

Ne'er guarded heart so bold."

1 See Appendix, Note D.

2 This was the cry with which heralds and pursuivants were wont to acknowledge the bounty received from the knights. Stewart of Lorn distinguishes a ballad, in which he satirizes the narrowness of James V. and his courtiers, by the ironical burden-

Lerges, lerges, lerges, hay,

Lerges of this new-yeir day.

First lerges of the King, my chief,

Quhilk come als quiet as a theif,

And in my hand slid schillings tway,3

To put his lergnes to the preif, 4

For lerges of this new-yeir day.”

The heralds, like the minstrels, were a race allowed to have great claims upon the liberality of the knights, of whose feats they kept a record, and proclaimed them aloud, as in the text, upon suitable occasions.

At Berwick, Norham, and other Border fortresses of importance, pursuivants usually resided, whose inviolable character rendered them the only persons that could, with perfect assurance of safety, be sent on necessary embassies into Scotland. This is alluded to in stanza xxi.. p. 71.

XII.

They marshall'd him to the Castle-hall,
Where the guests stood all aside,
And loudly flourish'd the trumpet-call,
And the heralds loudly cried,

"Room, lordlings, room for Lord Marmion, With the crest and helm of gold !

Full well we know the trophies won
In the lists at Cottiswold :
There, vainly Ralph de Wilton strove
'Gainst Marmion's force to stand;

To him he lost his lady-love,

And to the King his land. Ourselves beheld the listed field,

A sight both sad and fair;

We saw Lord Marmion pierce his shield,
And saw his saddle bare;

We saw the victor win the crest,

He wears with worthy pride;
And on the gibbet-tree, reversed,
His foeman's scutcheon tied.

Place, nobles, for the Falcon-Knight!
Room, room, ye gentles gay,
For him who conquer'd in the right,

Marmion of Fontenaye!"

XIII.

Then stepp'd, to meet that noble Lord,

Sir Hugh the Heron bold,

1 Were accuracy of any consequence in a fictitious narrative, this castellan's name ought to have been William; for William Heron of Ford was husband to the famous Lady Ford, whose siren charms are said to have cost our James IV. so dear. Moreover, the said William Heron was, at the time supposed, a prisoner in Scotland, being surrendered by Henry VIII., on account of his share in the slaughter of Sir Robert Ker of Cessford. His wife, represented in the text as residing at the Court of Scotland, was, in fact, living in her own Castle at Ford.-See Sir RICHARD HERON'S curious Genealogy of the Heron Family.

The whiles a Northern harper rude
Chanted a rhyme of deadly feud,

"How the fierce Thirwalls, and Ridleys all,
Stout Willimondswick,

And Hardriding Dick,

And Hughie of Hawdon, and Will o' the Wall,
Have set on Sir Albany Featherstonhaugh,

And taken his life at the Deadman's-shaw.”1
Scantly Lord Marmion's ear could brook
The harper's barbarous lay;

Yet much he praised the pains he took,
And well those pains did pay:

For lady's suit, and minstrel's strain,

By knight should ne'er be heard in vain.

XIV.

"Now, good Lord Marmion," Heron says,
"Of your fair courtesy,

I pray you bide some little space,
In this poor tower with me.

Here may you keep your arms from rust,
May breathe your war-horse well;
Seldom hath pass'd a week but giust

Or feat of arms befell:

The Scots can rein a mettled steed;

And love to couch a spear;

Saint George! a stirring life they lead,

That have such neighbours near.

1 The rest of this old ballad may be found in the Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border, vol. ii. pp. 86-89.

Then stay with us a little space,
Our northern wars to learn;

I pray you, for your lady's grace!"
Lord Marmion's brow grew stern.

XV.

The Captain mark'd his alter'd look, And gave a squire the sign; A mighty wassell-bowl he took, And crown'd it high with wine. "Now pledge me here, Lord Marmion: But first I pray thee fair,

Where hast thou left that page of thine,

That used to serve thy cup of wine,

Whose beauty was so rare?

When last in Raby towers we met,

The boy I closely eyed,

And often mark'd his cheeks were wet,
With tears he fain would hide:

His was no rugged horseboy's hand,
To burnish shield or sharpen brand,
Or saddle battle-steed;

But meeter seem'd for lady fair,

To fan her cheek, or curl her hair,

Or through embroidery, rich and rare,
The slender silk to lead:

His skin was fair, his ringlets gold,
His bosom-when he sigh'd,
The russet doublet's rugged fold

Could scarce repel its pride!