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He lighted the match of his bandelier*,
And woefully scorched the hackbutteer f.
It may be hardly thought, or said,
The mischief that the urchin made;
Till many of the castle guessed,
That the young Baron was possessed!


Well I ween, the charm he held
The noble Ladye had soon dispelled;
But she was deeply busied then
To tend the wounded Deloraine.
Much she wondered to find him lie,

On the stone threshold stretched along;
She thought some spirit of the sky

Had done the bold moss-trooper wrong Because, despite her precept dread, Perchance he in the Book had read;

* Bandelier, belt for carrying ammunition,
t Hackbutteer, musketeer.

But the broken lance in his bosom stood, And it was earthly steel and wood.


She drew the splinter from the wound,
And with a charm she staunched the blood
She bade the gash be cleansed and bound.

No longer by his couch she stood;
But she has ta'en the broken lance,
And washed it from the clotted gore,
And salved the splinter o'er and o'er.
William of Deloraine, in trance,

Whene'er she turned it round and round, Twisted, as if she galled his wound.

Then to her maidens she did say, That he should be whole man and sound, Within the course of a night and day. Full long she toiled; for she did rue Mishap to friend so stout and true.


So passed the day:—the evening Fell,
'Twas near the time of curfew bell;
The air was mild, the wind was calm.
The stream was smooth, the dew was balm;
E'en the rude watchman, on the tower,
Enjoyed and blessed the lovely hour.
Far more fair Margaret loved and blessed
The hour of silence and of rest.
On the high turret sitting lone,
She waked at times the lute's soft tone;
Touched a wild note, and all between
Thought of the bower of hawthorns green:
Her golden hair streamed free from band,
Her fair cheek rested on her hand,
Her blue eyes sought the west afar,
For lovers love the western star.


Is yon the star, o'er Penchryst Pen,
That rises slowly to her ken,


And, spreading broad its wavering light,

Shakes its loose tresses on the night?

Is yon red glare the western star f—

O, 'tis the beacon-blaze of war!

Scarce could she draw her tightened breath;

For well she knew the fire of death!


The Warder viewed it blazing strong,
And blew his war-note loud and long,
Till, at the high and haughty sound,
Rock, wood, and river, rang around.
The blast alarmed the festal hall,
And startled forth the warriors all;
Far downward, in the castle-yard,
Full many a torch and cresset glared;
And helms and plumes, confusedly tossed,
Were in the blaze half-seen, half-lost;
And spears in wild disorder shook.
Like reeds beside a frozen brook.


The Seneschal, whose silver hair
Was reddened by the torches' glare,
Stood in the midst, with gesture proud,
And issued forth his mandates loud.—
"On Penchryst glows a bale* of fire,
And three are kindling on Priesthaughswire;

Ride out, ride out,

The foe to scout!
Mount, mount for Branksomef, every man!
Thou, Tod rig, warn the Johnstone clan,

That ever are true and stout.—
Ye need not send to Liddesdale;
For, when they see the 'blazing bale,
Elliots and Armstrongs never fail.—
Ride, Alton, ride, for death and life!
And warn the Warden of the strife.
Young Gilbert, let our beacon blaze,
Our kin, and clan, and friends, to raise."

* Bale, beacon-faggot.

t Mount for Branksome was the gathering word of the Scotts.

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