And lovelier than the rose so red,
Yet paler than the violet pale,
She early left her sleepless bed,
The fairest maid of Teviotdale,
Why does fair Margaret so early awake,
And don her kirtle so hastilie ;
And the silken knots which in hurry she would make,
Why tremble her slender fingers to tie ;
Why does she stop, and look often around,
As she glides down the secret stair;
And why does she pat the shaggy blood-hound,
As he rouses him up from his lair ;
And, though she passes the postern alone,
Why is not the watchman's bugle blown?
The ladye steps in doubt and dread,
Lest her watchful mother hear her tread;
The ladye caresses the rough blood-hound,
Lest his voice should waken the castle round;
The watchman's bugle is not blown,
For he was her foster father's son ;
And she glides through the greenwood at dawn of
To meet Baron Henry her own true knight.
The knight and ladye fair are met,
And under the hawthorns boughs are set.
A fairer pair were never seen
To meet beneath the hawthorn green.
He was stately, and young, and tall;
Dreaded in battle and loved in hall:
And she, when love, scarce told, scarce hid,
Lent to her cheek a livelier red;
When the half sigh her swelling breast
Against the silken ribband pressed;
When her blue eyes their secret told,
Though shaded by her locks of gold,—
Where would you find the peerless fair
With Margaret of Branksome might compare
And, now, fair dames, methinks I see,
You listen to my minstrelsy;
Your waving locks ye backward throw,
And sidelong bend your necks of snow
Ye ween to hear a tender tale
Of two true lovers in a dale;
And how the knight, with tender fire,
To paint his faithful passion strove ;
Swore, he might at her feet expire;
But never, never cease to love;
And how she blushed, and how she sighed,
And, half consenting, half denied,
And said that she would die a maid;
Yet, might the bloody feud be stayed,
Henry of Cranstoun, and only he,
Margaret of Branksome's choice should be.
Alas! fair dames, your hopes are vain!
My harp has lost the enchanting strain
Its lightness would my age reprove :
My hairs are gray, my limbs are old,
My heart is dead, my veins are cold :
may not, must not, sing of love.
Beneath an oak, mossed o'er by eld,
The baron's dwarf his courser held,
And held his crested helm and spear.
That dwarf was scarcely an earthly man,
If the tales were true that of him ran
Through all the Border, far and near.
'Twas said, when the baron a hunting rode,
Through Reedsdale's glens, but rarely trod,
He heard a voice cry, "Lost! lost! lost!',
And, like tennis-ball by raquet tost,
A leap of thirty feet and three,
Made from the gorse this elfin shape,
Distorted like some dwarfish ape,
And lighted at Lord Cranstoun's knee.
Lord Cranstoun was some whit dismayed;
'Tis said that five good miles he rade,
To rid him of his company;
But where he rode one mile, the dwarf ran four, And the dwarf was first at the castle door.
Use lessens marvel, it is said,
This elfish dwarf with the baron staid;
Little he eat, and less he spoke,
Nor mingled with the menial flock;
And oft apart his arms he tossed,
And often muttered, "Lost! lost! lost!"
He was waspish, arch, and litherlie,
But well Lord Cranstoun served he:
And he of his service was full fain;
For once he had been ta'en or slain,
An' it had not been his ministry.
All between Home and Hermitage,
Talked of Lord Cranstoun's goblin page.
For the baron went on pilgrimage,
And took with him this elfish page,
To Mary's chapel of the Lowes:
For there, beside our ladye's lake,
An offering he had sworn to make,
And he would pay his vows.
But the ladye of Branksome gathered a band
Of the best that would ride at her command:
The trysting place was Newark Lee.
Wat of Harden came thither amain,
And thither came John of Thirlestaine,
And thither came William of Deloraine;
They were three hundred spears and three.
Through Douglas-burn, up Yarrow stream,
Their horses prance, their lances gleam.
They came to St. Mary's lake ere day;
But the chapel was void, and the baron away.
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