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Or, as was meet, for deadly feud.
He ne'er bore grudge for stalwart blow,
Ta'en in fair fight from gallant foe:
And so 'twas seen of him, e'en now,

When on dead Musgrave he looked down;
Grief darkened on his rugged brow,
Though half disguised with a frown;
And thus, while sorrow bent his head,
His foeman's epitaph he made.


"Now, Richard Musgrave, liest thou here!

I ween, my deadly enemy; For, if I slew thy brother dear,

Thou slewest a sister's son to me; And when I lay in dungeon dark,

Of Naworth Castle, long months three, Till ransomed for a thousand mark,

Dark Musgrave, it was long of thee.

And, Musgrave, could our fight be tried,

And thou wert now alive, as I,
No mortal man should us divide,

Till one, or both of us, did die:
Yet rest thee God! for well I know
I ne'er shall find a nobler foe.
In all the northern counties here,
Whose word is, Snafle, spur, and spear, *
Thou wert the best to follow gear.
'Twas pleasure, as we looked behind,
To see how thou the chase couldst wind,
Cheer the dark blood-hound on his way,
And with the bugle rouse the fray!
I'd give the lands of Deloraine,
Dark Musgrave were alive again."— XXX.

So mourned he, till Lord Dacre's band
Were bowning back to Cumberland.

* The lands, that over Ouse to Berwick forth do bear, Have for their blazon had, the snafle, spur, and spear.

Poly-Albion, Song xii'i


They raised brave Musgrave from the field,
And laid him on his bloody shield;
On levelled lances, four and four,
By turns, the noble burden bore.
Before, at times, upon the gale,
Was heard the Minstrel's plaintive wail;
Behind, four priests, in sable stole,
Sung requiem for the warrior's soul:
Around, the horsemen slowly rode;
With trailing pikes the spearmen trod;
And thus the gallant knight they bore,
Through Liddesdale, to Leven's shore;
Thence to Holme Coltrame's lofty nave,
And laid him in his father's grave.

The harp's wild notes, though hushed the song,
The mimic march of death prolong;
Now seems it far, and now a-near,
Now meets, and now eludes the ear;

Now seems some mountain side to sweep,
Now faintly dies in valley deep;
Seems now as if the Minstrel's wail,
Now the sad requiem, loads the gale;
Last, o'er the warrior's closing grave,
Rung the full choir in choral stave.

After due pause, they bade him tell, Why he, who touched the harp so well, Should thus, with ill-rewarded toil, Wander a poor and thankless soil, When the more generous southern land Would well requite his skilful hand.

The Aged Harper, howsoe'er
His only friend, his harp, was dear,
Liked not to hear it ranked so high
Above his flowing poesy;

Less liked he still, that scornful jeer Misprized the land he loved so dear; High was the sound, as thus again The Bard resumed his minstrel strain.

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