XVII. Light forayers first, to view the ground, Spurred their fleet coursers loosely round; Behind, in close array, and fast, The Kendal archers, all in green, Obedient to the bugle blast, Advancing from the wood are seen. To back and guard the archer band, Lord Dacre's bill-men were at hand: A hardy race, on Irthing bred, With kirtles white, and crosses red, That streamed o'er Acre's conquered wall: And minstrels, as they marched in order, Played, "Noble Lord Dacre, he dwells on the Border." XVIII. Behind the English bill and bow, The mercenaries, firm and slow, Moved on to fight, in dark array, By Conrad led of Wolfenstein, Who brought the band from distant Rhine, Buff-coats, all frounced and 'broidered o'er, Each better knee was bared, to aid The warriors in the escalade; All, as they marched, in rugged tongue, Songs of Teutonic feuds they sung. XIX. But louder still the clamour grew, And louder still the minstrels blew, * Powder-flasks, When, from beneath the greenwood tree, His men at arms, with glaive and spear, So rode they forth in fair array, Till full their lengthened lines display; Then called a halt, and made a stand, And cried, "St George, for merry England!"— XX. Now every English eye, intent, On Branksome's armed towers was bent; So near they were, that they might know Gleamed axe, and spear, and partizan; Falcon and culver,* on each tower, Stood prompt their deadly hail to shower; From eddying whirls of sable smoke, Rides forth the hoary Seneschal. XXI. Armed he rode, all save the head, His white beard o'er his breast-plate spread; Unbroke by age, erect his seat, He ruled his eager courser's gait; Forced him, with chastened fire, to prance, And, high curvetting, slow advance: * Ancient pieces of artillery. In sign of truce, his better hand His squire, attending in the rear, Sped to the front of their array, To hear what this old knight should say. XXII. "Ye English warden lords, of you Demands the Ladye of Buccleuch, Why, 'gainst the truce of Border-tide, In hostile guise ye dare to ride, With Kendal bow, and Gilsland brand, And all yon mercenary band, Upon the bounds of fair Scotland? My Ladye reads you swith return; And, if but one poor straw you burn, |