THE

LAY

OF

THE LAST MINSTREL.

CANTO FIRST.

INTRODUCTION.

The way was long, the wind was cold,
The Minstrel was infirm and old;
His withered cheek, and tresses gray,
Seemed to have known a better day;
The harp, his sole remaining joy,
Was carried by an orphan boy.
The last of all the bards was he,
Who sung of Border chivalry.
For, well-a-day! their date was fled,
His tuneful brethren all were dead;
And he, neglected and oppressed,
Wished to be with them, and at rest.
No more, on prancing palfrey borne,
He carolled, light as lark at morn;

No longer courted and caressed,

High placed in hall, a welcome guest,

He poured, to lord and lady gay,

The unpremeditated lay:

Old times were changed, old manners gone;

A stranger filled the Stuarts' throne;

The bigots of the iron time

Had called his harmless art a crime.

A wandering Harper, scorned and poor,

He begged his bread from door to door;

And tuned, to please a peasant's ear,

The harp, a king had loved to hear.

He passed where Newark's stately tower Looks out from Yarrow's birchen bower: The Minstrel gazed with wishful eye— No humbler resting-place was nigh. With hesitating step, at last, The embattled portal-arch he passed,

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