That knits me to thy rugged strand! Still, as I view each well known scene, Think what is now, and what hath been, Seems as, to me, of all bereft, Sole friends thy woods and streams were left, And thus I love them better still, Even in extremity of ill. By Yarrow's stream still let me stray, Though none should guide my feeble way; IIL Not scorned like me! to Branksome Hall They blew their death-note in the van, Rose the portcullis' iron grate; They sound the pipe, they strike the string, They dance, they revel, and they sing, Till the rude turrets shake and ring. IV. Me lists not at this tide declare The splendour of a spousal rite, How mustered in the chapel fair Both maid and matron, squire and knight; Me lists not tell of owches rare, Of mantles green, and braided hair, V. Some bards have sung, the Ladye high And on her head a crimson hood, Held by a leash of silken twist. VL The spousal rites were ended soon: Then rose the riot and the din, Above, beneath, without, within! For from the lofty balcony, Rung trumpet, shalm, and psaltery; Their clanging bowls old warriors quaffed, Loudly they spoke, and loudly laughed; Whispered young knights, in tone more mild, To ladies fair, and ladies smiled. The hooded hawks, high perched on beam, From Bourdeaux, Orleans, or the Rhine, And all is mirth and revelry, VIL The Goblin Page, omitting still Strove now, while blood ran hot and high, To rouse debate and jealousy; Till Conrad, lord of Wolfenstein, By nature fierce, and warm with wine, Whom men called Dickon Draw-the-Sword He took it on the Page's saye, Hunthill had driven these steeds away. Then Howard, Home, and Douglas rose, The kindling discord to compose: But bit his glove, and shook his head. A fortnight thence, in Inglewood, Stout Conrad, cold, and drenched in blood Gone was his brand, both sword and sheath: VIIL 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 Such day of mirth ne'er cheered their clan, IX. The wily Page, with vengeful thought, And how Hob Armstrong cheered his wife; 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!" By this, the Dame, lest further fray Was none who struck the harp so well, Well friended too, his hardy kin, 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. XL ALBERT GRÆME. 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; For she had lands, both meadow and lee, 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, 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. |