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Their tasks the busy sewers ply,
And all is mirth and revelry.

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,
Gone was his brand, both sword and sheath ;
But ever from that time ’twas said,
That Dickon wore a Cologne blade.

VIII.

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 sate in lordly selle.
Wat Tinlinn, there, did frankly raise
The pledge to Arthur Fire-the-braes ;
| And he, as by his breeding bound,
To Howard's merry-men sent it round.
To quit them on the English side,
Red Roland Forster loudly cried,
“A deep carouse to yon fair bride
At every pledge, from vat and pail,
Foamed forth, in floods, the nut-brown ale ;
While shout the riders every one,
Such day of mirth ne'er cheered their clain,
Since old Buccleuch the name did gain,
When in the cleuch the buck was ta'en.

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IX,
The wily page with vengeful thought,

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!”

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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.

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ALBERT GRAEME,
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! *

Blithly they saw the rising sun,
When he shone fair on Carlisle wall,

But they were sad ere day was done,
Though love was *" the lord of all !

Her sire gave brooch and jewel fine,
Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle wall;

Her brother gave but a flask of wine,
For ire that love was lord of all!

For she had lands, both meadow and lea,
Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle wall,

And he swore her death ere he would see
A Scottish knight the lord of all !

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XII,

That wine she had not tasted well,
The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall;

When dead, in her true lovers arms, she fel', . For love was still the lord of all !

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,

$o love was still the lord of all!

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