And, Musgrave, could our fight be tried, And thou wert now alive, as I, No mortal man should us divide, Till one, or both of us, did die : Yet rest thee, God! for well I know, Whose word is, Snafle, spur, and spear *, Thou wert the best to follow gear. I'd give the lands of Deloraine, Dark Musgrave were alive again." XXX. So mourned he, till Lord Dacre's band * The lands, that over Ouse to Berwick forth do bear, Have for their blazon had, the snafle, spur, and spear. Poly-albion, Song xxiii. They raised brave Musgrave from the field, And laid him on his bloody shield; On levelled lances, four and four, By turns, the noble burden bore: Before, at times, upon the gale, Behind, four priests, in sable stole, THE harp's wild notes, though hushed the song, The mimic march of death prolong; Now seems it far, and now a-near, Now meets, and now eludes the ear; Now seems some mountain side to sweep, Now faintly dies in valley deep; Seems now as if the Minstrel's wail, After due pause, they bade him tell, Why he, who touched the harp so well, Should thus, with ill-rewarded toil, Wander a poor and thankless soil, When the more generous southern land Would well requite his skilful hand. The Aged Harper, howsoe'er His only friend, his harp, was dear, Above his flowing poesy; |