But ever from that time, 'twas said,

That Dickon wore a Cologne blade.

VIII.

The Dwarf, who feared his master's eye

Might his foul treachery espie,

Now sought the castle buttery,

Where many a yeoman, bold and free,

Revelled as merrily and well

As those that sat in lordly selle.

Watt Tinlinn, there, did frankly raise
The pledge to Arthur Fire-the-Braes;
And he, as by his breeding bound,
To Howard's merry-men sent it round.
To quit them, on the English side,
Red Roland Forster loudly cried,
"A deep carouse to yon fair bride!"
At every pledge, from vat and pail,

Foamed forth, in floods, the nut-brown ale;

While shout the riders every one,

Such day of mirth ne'er cheered their clan,

Since old Buccleuch the name did gain,

When in the cleuch the buck was ta'en.

IX.

The wily Page, with vengeful thought,
Remembered him of Tinlinn's yew,

And swore, it should be dearly bought,
That ever he the arrow drew.

First, he the yeoman did molest,

With bitter gibe and taunting jest ;

Told, how he fled at Solway strife,

And how Hob Armstrong cheered his wife:
Then, shunning still his powerful arm,

At unawares he wrought him harm;
From trencher stole his choicest cheer,
Dashed from his lips his can of beer;

Then, to his knee sly creeping on,

With bodkin pierced him to the bone :

The venomed wound, and festering joint,

Long after rued that bodkin's point.

The startled yeoman swore and spurned,
And board and flaggons overturned.

Riot and clamour wild began;

Back to the hall the Urchin ran;

Took in a darkling nook his post,

And grinned, and muttered, "Lost! lost! lost!"

X.

By this, the Dame, lest further fray
Should mar the concord of the day,
Had bid the Minstrels tune their lay.
And first stept forth old Albert Græme,
The Minstrel of that ancient name :

Was none who struck the harp so well,

Within the Land Debateable;

Well friended too, his hardy kin,

Whoever lost, were sure to win;

They sought the beeves, that made their broth,

In Scotland and in England both.

In homely guise, as nature bade,

His simple song the Borderer said.

XI.

Albert Graeme,

It was an English ladye bright,

(The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall,)

And she would marry a Scottish knight,
For Love will still be lord of all.

Blithely they saw the rising sun,

When he shone fair on Carlisle wall,

But they were sad ere day was done,

Though Love was still the lord of all.

Her sire gave brooch and jewel fine,

Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle wall;

Her brother gave but a flask of wine,

For ire that Love was lord of all.

For she had lands, both meadow and lea,

Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle wall, And he swore her death, ere he would see

A Scottish knight the lord of all !

XII.

That wine she had not tasted well,

(The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall ;)

When dead, in her true love's arms, she fell,

For Love was still the lord of all.

He pierced her brother to the heart,

Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle wall;

So perish all, would true love part,

That Love may still be lord of all!

And then he took the cross divine,

Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle wall,

And died for her sake in Palestine,

So Love was still the lord of all.