They 'gan to reckon kin and rent,
And frowning brow on brow was bent';
But yet not long the strife-for, lo!
Himself, the knight of Deloraine,
Strong, as it seemed, and free from pain,
In armour sheathed from top to toe,
Appeared, and craved the combat due.
The dame her charm successful knew,*
And the fierce chiefs their claims withdrew.
When for the lists they sought the plain,
The stately ladye's silken rein
Did noble Howard hold;
Unarmed by her side he walked,
And much, in courteous phrase, they talked
Of feats of arms of old.
Costly his garb-his Flemish ruff
Fell o'er his doublet, shaped of buff,
With satin slashed and lined;
Tawny his boot, and gold his spur,
His cloak was all of Poland fur,
His hose with silver twined;
His Bilboa blade, by Marchmen felt,
Hung in a broad and studded belt;
See p. 67, Stanza XXIII.
Hence, in rude phrase, the Borderers still Call noble Howard, Belted Will.
Behind lord Howard and the dame,
Fair Margaret on her palfrey came,
Whose foot-cloth swept the ground;
White was her whimple, and her veil,
And her loose locks a chaplet pale
Of whitest roses bound;
The lordly Angus by her side,
In courtesy to cheer her tried ;
Without his aid, her hand in vain
Had strove to guide her broidered rein.
He deemed she shuddered at the sight
Of warriors met for mortal fight;
But cause of terror all unguessed,
Was fluttering in her gentle breast,
When in their chairs of crimson placed,
The dame and he the barriers graced.
Prize of the field the young Buccleuch,
An English knight led forth to view;
Scarce rued the boy his present plight,
So much he longed to see the fight.
Within the lists, in knightly pride,
High Home and haughty Dacre ride;
Their leading staffs of steel they wield,
As marshals of the mortal field;
Then heralds hoarse did loud proclaim,
In king, and queen, and wardens' name,
That none, while lasts the strife,
Should dare, by look, or sign or word,
Aid to a champion to afford,
On peril of his life.
Then not a breath the silence broke,
Till thus the alternate heralds spoke.
Here standeth Richard of Musgrave, Good knight, and true, and freely born, Amends from Deloraine to crave,
For foul despiteous scathe and scorn. He sayeth, that William of Deloraine Is traitor false by Border laws; This with his sword he will maintain, So help him God, and his good cause!
Here standeth William of Deloraine,
Good knight, and true, of noble strain,
Who sayeth, that foul treason's stain,
Since he bore arms ne'er soiled his coat,
And that so help him God above,
He will on Musgrave's body prove,
He lies most foully in his throat.
Forward, brave champions, to the fight!
At the last word, with deadly blows,
The ready warriors fiercely close.
Ill would it suit your gentle ear,
Ye lovely listeners to hear
How to the axe the helms did sound,
And blood poured down from many a wound;
For desperate was the strife, and long,
And either warrior fierce and strong.
But were each dame a listening knight,
I well could tell how warriors fight;
For I have seen war's lightning flashing,
Seen the claymore with bayonet clashing,
Seen through red blood the war-horse dashing,
And scorned amid the reeling strife,
To yield a step for death or life.
'Tis done, 'tis done! that fatal blow
Has stretched him on the bloody plain;
He strives to rise-Brave Musgrave, no!
Thence never shalt thou rise again!
He chokes in blood-some friendly hand,
Undo the visor's barred band,
Unfix the gorget's iron clasp,
And give him room for life to gasp
In vain, in vain-haste holy friar,
Haste e'er the sinner shall expire!
Of all his guilt let him be shriven,
And smooth his path from earth to heaven.
In haste the holy friar sped,
His naked foot was dyed with red,
As through the lists he ran;
Unmindful of the shouts on high,
That hailed the conqueror's victory,
He raised the dying man;
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