Although the imp might not be slain,

And though the wound soon healed again,

Yet, as he ran, he yelled for pain;

And Watt of Tinlinn, much aghast,

Rode back to Branksome fiery fast.

XVI.

Soon on the hill's steep verge he stood,

That looks o'er Branksome's towers and wood;

And martial murmurs, from below,

Proclaimed the approaching southern foe.

Through the dark wood, in mingled tone,

Were Border-pipes and bugles blown;
The coursers' neighing he could ken,
And measured tread of marching men;
While broke at times the solemn hum,

The Almayn's sullen kettle-drum;

And banners tall, of crimson sheen,

Above the copse appear;

And, glistening through the hawthorns green,

Shine helm, and shield, and spear.

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,
Arrayed beneath the banner tall,

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, And sold their blood for foreign pay.

The camp their home, their law the sword, They knew no country, owned no lord:

They were not armed like England's sons, But bore the levin-darting guns;

Buff-coats, all frounced and 'broidered o'er, And morsing-horns* and scarfs they wore;

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,
Rode forth Lord Howard's chivalry;

His men at arms, with glaive and spear,
Brought up the battle's glittering rear.

There many a youthful knight, full keen
To gain his
spurs, in arms was seen;

With favour in his crest, or glove,

Memorial of his ladye-love.

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
The straining harsh of each cross-bow;
On battlement and bartizan

Gleamed axe, and spear, and partizan;

Falcon and culver, * on each tower,

Stood prompt their deadly hail to shower;

And flashing armour frequent broke

From eddying whirls of sable smoke,
Where, upon tower and turret head,
The seething pitch and molten lead
Reeked, like a witch's cauldron red.
While yet they gaze, the bridges fall,
The wicket opes, and from the wall

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.

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