II. The tables were drawn, it was idlesse all; Knight, and page, and household squire, Loitered through the lofty hall, Or crowded round the ample fire : The stag-hounds, weary with the chace, And urged, in dreams, the forest race, III. Nine-and-twenty knights of fame Hung their shields in Branksome Hall; Nine-and-twenty squires of name Brought them their steeds from bower to stall; Nine-and-twenty yeomen tall Waited, duteous, on them all : They were all knights of mettle true, 10 IV. Ten of them were sheathed in steel, With belted sword, and spur on heel : They lay down to rest, With corslet laced, Pillowed on buckler cold and hard: They carved at the meal With gloves of steel, And they drank the red wine through the helmet barred. V. Ten squires, ten yeomen, mail-clad men, Waited the beck of the warders ten; Thirty steeds, both fleet and wight, Stood saddled in stable day and night, And with Jedwood-axe at saddle-bow; A hundred more fed free in stall Such was the custom of Branksome Hall. VI. Why do these steeds stand ready dight? They watch, against Southern force and guile, From Warkworth, or Naworth, or merry Carlisle. VII. Such is the custom of Branksome-Hall.— Many a valiant knight is here; But he, the Chieftain of them all, His sword hangs rusting on the wall, Beside his broken spear. Bards long shall tell, How Lord Walter fell! When startled burghers fled, afar, The furies of the Border war; Saw lances gleam, and falchions redden, Then the Chief of Branksome fell. VIII. Can piety the discord heal, Or staunch the death-feud's enmity? Can Christian lore, can patriot zeal, No! vainly to each holy shrine, In mutual pilgrimage they drew; Implored, in vain, the grace divine For chiefs, their own red falchions slew: * The war-cry, or gathering word, of a Border clan. While Cessford owns the rule of Car, While Ettrick boasts the line of Scott, The slaughtered chiefs, the mortal jar, The havoc of the feudal war, Shall never, never be forgot! IX. In sorrow o'er Lord Walter's bier The warlike foresters had bent; And many a flower, and many a tear, But o'er her warrior's bloody bier The Ladye dropped nor flower nor tear! Vengeance, deep-brooding o'er the slain, Had locked the source of softer woe; And burning pride, and high disdain, Forbade the rising tear to flow; Until, amid his sorrowing clan, Her son lisped from the nurse's knee "And, if I live to be a man, My father's death revenged shall be !" |