INTRODUCTION. THE way was long, the wind was cold, The Minstrel was infirm and old; His withered cheek, and tresses gray, Seemed to have known a better day; The harp, his sole remaining joy, Was carried by an orphan boy. The last of all the bards was he, ན No longer courted and caressed, High placed in hall, a welcome guest, He poured, to lord and lady gay, The unpremeditated lay: Old times were changed, old manners gone; A stranger filled the Stuart's throne; The bigots of the iron time Had called his harmless art a crime. A wandering harper, scorned and poor, He passed where Newark's stately tower Looks out from Yarrow's birchen bower: The Minstrel gazed with wishful eyeNo humbler resting place was nigh. With hesitating step, at last, The embattled portal-arch he passed, Whose ponderous grate and massy bar, Had oft rolled back the tide of war, But never closed the iron door Against the desolate and poor. The Duchess* marked his weary pace, And bade her page the menials tell, That they should tend the old man well: For she had known adversity, Though born in such a high degree; In pride of power, in beauty's bloom, Had wept o'er Monmouth's bloody tomb! When kindness had his wants supplied, And the old man was gratified, Began to rise his minstrel pride : * Anne, Duchess of Buccleuch and Monmouth, representative of the ancient Lords of Buccleuch, and widow of the unfortunate James, Duke of Monmouth, who was beheaded in 1685. |