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He sayeth, that William of Deloraine
Is traitor false by Border laws;

This with his sword he will maintain,
So help him God, and his good cause!



Here standeth William of Deloraine,
Good knight and true, of noble strain,
Who sayeth, that foul treason's stain,
Since he bore arms, ne'er soiled his coat;
And that, so help him God above,
He will on Musgrave's body prove,
He lyes most foully in his throat.


Forward, brave champions, to the fight!
Sound trumpets!


"God defend the right !"—

Then, Teviot! how thine echoes rang,
When bugle-sound and trumpet-clang

Let loose the martial foes,
And in mid list, with shield poised high,
And measured step and wary eye,

The combatants did close.


Ill would it suit your gentle ear,

Ye lovely listeners, to hear

How to the axe the helms did sound,

And blood poured down from many a wound;

For desperate was the strife and long,

And either warrior fierce and strong.

But, were each dame a listening knight,

I well could tell how warriors fight;

For I have seen war's lightning flashing,

Seen the claymore with bayonet clashing,

Seen through red blood the war-horse dashing,

And scorned, amid the reeling strife,

To yield a step for death or life.


Tis done, 'tis done! that fatal blow

Has stretched him on the bloody plain; He strives to rise—Brave Musgrave, no!

Thence never shalt thou rise again! He chokes in blood—some friendly hand Undo the visor's barred band, Unfix the gorget's iron clasp, And give him room for life to gasp!— O, bootless aid!—haste, holy Friar, Haste, ere the sinner shall expire! Of all his guilt let him be shriven, And smooth his path from earth to heaven


In haste the holy Friar sped;—
His naked foot was dyed with red,

As through the lists he ran;
Unmindful of the shouts on high,
That hailed the conqueror's victory,

He raised the dying man;

Loose waved his silver beard and hair,
As o'er him he kneeled down in prayer;
And still the crucifix on high
He holds before his darkening eye;
And still he bends an anxious ear,
His faultering penitence to hear;

Still props him from the bloody sod,
Still, even when soul and body part,
Pours ghostly comfort on his heart,

And bids him trust in God! Unheard he prays;—the death-pang's o'er Richard of Musgrave breathes no more.


As if exhausted in the fight, 1
Or musing o'er the piteous sight,

The silent victor stands;
His" beaver did he not unclasp,
Marked not the shouts, felt not the grasp

Of gratulating hands.

When lo! strange cries of wild surprise,
Mingled with seeming terror, rise

Among the Scottish hands;
And all, amid the thronged array,
In panic haste gave open way
To a half-naked ghastly man,
Who downward from the castle ran:
He crossed the barriers at a bound,

And wild and hagard looked around,
As dizzy, and in pain;

And all, upon the armed ground,
Knew William of Deloraine!
Each ladye sprung from seat with speed;
Vaulted each marshall from his steed;

"And who art thou," they cried, "Who hast this battle fought and won?" His plumed helm was soon undone—

"Cranstoun of Teviotside! For this fair prize I've fought and won,"— And to the Ladye led her son.

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