THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. CANTO THIRD. I. AND said I that my limbs were old; And that I might not sing of love?— I How could I name love's very name, Nor wake my harp to notes of flame ! II. In peace, Love tunes the shepherd's reed; In hamlets, dances on the green. Love rules the court, the camp, the grove, For love is heaven, and heaven is love. III. So thought Lord Cranstoun, as I ween, And scarce his helmet could he don, A stately knight came pricking on. That warrior's steed, so dapple gray, Was dark with sweat, and splashed with clay; His armour red with many a stain : He seemed in such a weary plight, As if he had ridden the live-long night; For it was William of Deloraine. IV. But no whit weary did he seem, He marked the crane on the Baron's crest; Few were the words, and stern, and high, That marked the foemen's feudal hate; For question fierce, and proud reply, |