Not a word to each other; we kept the great pace
Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place;
I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight,
Then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right,
Rebuckled the cheek-strap, chained slacker the bit,
Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit.

'Twas moonset at starting; but while we drew near
Lokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear;
At Boom, a great yellow star came out to see;
At Düffeld, 'twas morning as plain as could be;

And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the half-chime,
So Joris broke silence with, "Yet there is time!"

At Aershot, up leaped of a sudden the sun,
And against him the cattle stood black every one,
To stare through the mist at us galloping past,
And I saw my stout galloper Roland at last,
With resolute shoulders, each butting away
The haze, as some bluff river headland its spray:

And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back
For my voice, and the other pricked out on his track;
And one eye's black intelligence,—ever that glance
O'er its white edge at me, his own master, askance!
And the thick heavy spume-flakes which aye and anon
His fierce lips shook upwards in galloping on.

By Hasselt, Dirck groaned; and cried Joris "Stay spur!
Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault's not in her,
We'll remember at Aix"-for one heard the quick wheeze
Of her chest, saw the stretched neck and staggering knees,

And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank,

As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank.

So, we were left galloping, Joris and I,

Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky;

The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh,

'Neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like chaff; Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white,

And "Gallop," gasped Joris, "for Aix is in sight!

"How they'll greet us!"—and all in a moment his roan
Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone;

And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight
Of the news which alcne could save Aix from her fate,
With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim,
And with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim.

Then I cast loose my buffcoat, each holster let fall,
Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all,
Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear,
Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse without peer;
Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or
good,

Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood.

And all I remember is,-friends flocking round

As I sat with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground;
And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine,
As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine,
Which (the burgesses voted by common consent)

Was no more than his due who brought good news from
Ghent.

Robert Browning [1812-1889]

THE OLD SCOTTISH CAVALIER

COME listen to another song,

Should make your heart beat high,

Bring crimson to your forehead,

And the luster to your eye;—

It is the song of the olden time,
Of days long since gone by,
And of a Baron stout and bold

As e'er wore sword on thigh!

Like a brave old Scottish cavalier,
All of the olden time!

He kept his castle in the north,

Hard by the thundering Spey;

And a thousand vassals dwelt around,
All of his kindred they.

And not a man of all that clan

Had ever ceased to pray

For the Royal race they loved so well,
Though exiled far away

From the steadfast Scottish cavaliers,
All of the olden time!

His father drew the righteous sword
For Scotland and her claims,
Among the loyal gentlemen

And chiefs of ancient names,
Who swore to fight or fall beneath
The standard of King James,

And died at Killiecrankie Pass
With the glory of the Græmes;

Like a true old Scottish cavalier
All of the olden time!

He never owned the foreign rule,
No master he obeyed,

But kept his clan in peace at home,
From foray and from raid;

And when they asked him for his oath,
He touched his glittering blade,
And pointed to his bonnet blue,

That bore the white cockade:
Like a leal old Scottish cavalier,
All of the olden time!

At length the news ran through the land—
THE PRINCE had come again!
That night the fiery cross was sped

O'er mountain and through glen;

And our old Baron rose in might,

Like a lion from his den,

And rode away across the hills

To Charlie and his men,

With the valiant Scottish cavaliers,

All of the olden time!

He was the first that bent the knee
When the STANDARD waved abroad,
He was the first that charged the foe
On Preston's bloody sod;
And ever, in the van of fight,
The foremost still he trod,
Until on bleak Culloden's heath,

He gave his soul to God,

Like a good old Scottish cavalier,
All of the olden time!

Oh, never shall we know again
A heart so stout and true—
The olden times have passed away,
And weary are the new:

The fair White Rose has faded

From the garden where it grew,

And no fond tears, save those of heaven,
The glorious bed bedew

Of the last old Scottish cavalier

All of the olden time!

William Edmondstoune Aytoun [1813-1865]

THE BALLAD OF KEITH OF RAVELSTON

From "A Nuptial Eve "

THE murmur of the mourning ghost

That keeps the shadowy kine,

"O Keith of Ravelston,

The sorrows of thy line!"

Ravelston, Ravelston,

The merry path that leads
Down the golden morning hill,
And through the silver meads;

Ravelston, Ravelston,

The stile beneath the tree,

The maid that kept her mother's kine,

The song that sang she!

She sang her song, she kept her kine,
She sat beneath the thorn,

When Andrew Keith of Ravelston
Rode through the Monday morn.

His henchmen sing, his hawk-bells ring,
His belted jewels shine;

O Keith of Ravelston,

The sorrows of thy line!

Year after year, where Andrew came,
Comes evening down the glade,
And still there sits a moonshine ghost
Where sat the sunshine maid.

Her misty hair is faint and fair,
She keeps the shadowy kine;

O Keith of Ravelston,

The sorrows of thy line!

I lay my hand upon the stile,
The stile is lone and cold,
The burnie that goes babbling by
Says naught that can be told.

Yet, stranger! here, from year to year,

She keeps her shadowy kine;

O Keith of Ravelston,

The sorrows of thy line!

Step out three steps, where Andrew stood

Why blanch thy cheeks for fear?

The ancient stile is not alone,

'Tis not the burn I hear!

She makes her immemorial moan,

She keeps her shadowy kine;

O Keith of Ravelston,

The sorrows of thy line!

Sydney Dobell [1824-1874]