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Their tasks the busy sewers ply,
VII. The goblin page, omitting still No opportunity of ill, Strove now, while blood run hot and high, To rouse debate and jealousy ; Till Conrade, lord of Wolfenstein, By nature fierce, and warm with wine, And now in humour highly crossed, About some steeds his band had lost, High words to words succeeding still, Smote with his gauntlet Stout Hunthill ; A hot and hardy Rutherford, Whom men call 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. Stern Rutherford right little said, But bit his glove, and shook his head : A fortnight thence, in Inglewood, Stout Conrade, cold, and drenched in blood, His bosom gored with many a wound, Was by a wood-man's lyme-dog found ;
Unknown the manner of his death,
The dwarf who feared his master's eye;
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 Solvay 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 Graeme, 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.
For love will still be lord of all! *
Blithly they saw the rising sun,
But they were sad ere day was done,
Her sire gave brooch and jewel fine,
Her brother gave but a flask of wine,
For she had lands, both meadow and lea,
And he swore her death ere he would see
That wine she had not tasted well,
When dead, in her true lovers arms, she fel', . For love was still the lord of all !
He pierced her brother to the heart,
So perish all would true love part,
And then he took the cross divine,
And died for her sake in Palestine,
$o love was still the lord of all!