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True love's the gift which God has given
It is not Fantasy's hot fire,
Whose wishes, soon as granted, fly;
It liveth not in fierce desire,
With dead desire it doth not die;
Their warning blast the bugles blew,
The pipe's shrill port* aroused each clan;
In haste, the deadly strife to view,
Thick round the lists their lances stood,
Like blasted pines in Ettricke wood;
* A martial piece of music, adapted to the bagpipes.
To Branksome many a look they threw,
Meantime full anxious was the Dame;
But yet not long the strife—for, lo!
* See p. 90. Stanza XXIII.
When for the lists they sought the plain,
Did noble Howard hold;
Of feats of arms of old.
With satin slashed, and lined;
His hose with silver twined;
Whose foot-cloth swept the ground; White was her wimple, 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 she the barriers graced.
XVIII. 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,
That none, while lasts the strife,
On peril of his life;
Here standeth Richard of Musgrave, Good knight and true, and freely born,
Amends from Deloraine to crave,
For foul despiteous scathe and scorn..