His trembling hand had lost the ease, And then, he said, he would full fain When he kept court in Holyrood; The long-forgotten melody. In varying cadence, soft or strong, No! vainly to each holy shrine, In mutual pilgrimage they drew ; Implored, in vain, the grace divine For chiefs, their own red falchions slew : While Cessford owns the rule of Carr, While Ettrick boasts the line of Scott, The slaughter'd chiefs, the mortal jar, The havoc of the feudal war, Shall never, never be forgot! IX. In sorrow o'er Lord Walter's bier The warlike foresters had bent; And many a flower, and many a tear, Old Teviot's maids and matrons lent: But o'er her warrior's bloody bier The Ladye dropp'd nor flower nor tear! Vengeance deep-brooding o'er the slain, Had lock'd the source of softer woe; And burning pride, and high disdain, Forbade the rising tear to flow; Until, amid his sorrowing clan, Her son lisp'd from the nurse's knee"And if I live to be a man, My father's death revenged shall be!" Then fast the mother's tears did seek To dew the infant's kindling cheek. X. All loose her negligent attire, All loose her golden hair, Hung Margaret o'er her slaughter'd sire, And wept in wild despair, But not alone the bitter tear Had filial grief supplied; For hopeless love, and anxious fear, Had lent their mingled tide: Nor in her mother's alter'd eye Dared she to look for sympathy. Her lover, 'gainst her father's clan, With Carr in arms had stood, When Mathouse-burn to Melrose ran All purple with their blood; And well she knew, her mother dread, Before Lord Cranstoun she should wed, Would see her on her dying bed. XI. Of noble race the Ladye came, Her father was a clerk of fame, Of Bethune's line of Picardie: He learned the art that none may name, In Padua, far beyond the sea. Men said, he changed his mortal frame, By feat of magic mystery; For when in studious mood he paced St. Andrew's cloister'd hall, His form no darkening shadow traced Upon the sunny wall! XII. And of his skill, as bards avow, He taught that Ladye fair, The viewless forms of air. XIX. The Ladye sought the lofty hall, Even bearded knights, in arms grown old, Share in his frolic gambols bore, Albeit their hearts, of rugged mould, Were stubborn as the steel they wore. For the grey warriors prophesied, How the brave boy, in future wars, Should tame the unicorn's pride, Exalt the Crescent and the Star. XX. The Ladye forgot her purpose high, XXI. A stark moss-trooping Scott was he, moss, Blindfold, he knew the paths to cross; XXII. "Sir William of Deloraine, good at need, Mount thee on the wightest steed; Spare not to spur, nor stint to ride, Seek thou the Monk of St. Mary's aisle. Say that the fated hour is come, And to-night he shall watch with thee, To win the treasure of the tomb: For this will be St. Michael's night, And, though stars be dim, the moon is bright; And the Cross, of bloody red, Will point to the grave of the mighty dead. Soon in his saddle sate he fast, Dimly he view'd the Moat-hill's mound, *Barbican, the defence of an outer gate of a feudal castle. Peel, a Border tower. A moment now he slack'd his speed, Ambition is no cure for love! XXVIII. Unchallenged, thence pass'd Deloraine, To ancient Riddel's fair domain, Where Aill, from mountains freed, Down from the lakes did raving come; Each wave was crested with tawny foam, Like the mane of a chestnut steed. In vain! no torrent, deep or broad, Might bar the bold moss-trooper's road. XXIX. At the first plunge the horse sunk low, An ancient Roman road, crossing through part of Roxburghshire. For he was barded* from counter to tail, And the rider was armed complete in mail; Never heavier man and horse At length he gained the landing place. XXX. Now Bowden Moor the march-man won, And sternly shook his plumed head, As glanced his eye o'er Halidon; + For on his soul the slaughter red Of that unhallow'd morn arose, When first the Scott and Carr were foes; When royal James beheld the fray, Prize to the victor of the day, When Home and Douglas, in the van, Bore down Buccleuch's retiring clan, Till gallant Cessford's heart-blood dear Reek'd on dark Elliott's Border spear. XXXI. In bitter mood he spurred fast, Old Melros' rose, and fair Tweed ran, Now midnight lauds were in Melrose sung. The sound, upon the fitful gale, He meetly stabled his steed in stall, Here paused the harp; and with its swell The Master's fire and courage fell; Barded, or barbed,-applied to a horse accoutred with defensive armour. An ancient seat of the Kerrs of Cessford, now demolished. Lauds, the midnight service of the Catholic Church. |