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And how he sought her castle high,

That morn, by help of gramarye;

How, in Sir William's armour dight,

Stolen by his Page, while slept the knight,

He took on him the single fight.

But half his tale he left unsaid,

And lingered till he joined the maid.—

Cared not the Ladye to betray

Her mystic arts in view of day;

But well she thought, ere midnight came,

Of that strange Page the pride to tame,

From his foul hands the Book to save,

And send it back to Michael's grave.—

Needs not to tell each tender word

'Twixt Margaret and 'twixt Cranstoun's lord;

Nor how she told of former woes,

And how her bosom fell and rose,

While he and Musgrave bandied blows.—

Needs not these lovers' joys to tell;

One day, fair maids, you'll know them well.

XXVIII. William of Deloraine, some chance Had wakened from his deathlike trance;

And taught that, in the listed plain, Another, in his arms and shield, Against fierce Musgrave axe did wield,

Under the name of Deloraine. Hence, to the field, unarmed, he ranr And hence his presence scared the clan, Who held him for some fleeting wraith, * And not a man of blood and breath. Not much this new ally he loved, Yet, when he saw what hap had proved,

He greeted him right heartilie: He would not waken old debate, For he was void of rancorous hate, Though rude, and scant of courtesy; In raids he spilt but seldom blood, Unless when men at arms withstood,

* The spectral apparition of a living person.

Or, as was meet, for deadly feud.
He ne'er bore grudge for stalwart blow,
Ta'en in fair fight from gallant foe:
And so 'twas seen of him, e'en now,

When on dead Musgrave he looked down;
Grief darkened on his rugged brow,
Though half disguised with a frown;
And thus, while sorrow bent his head,
His foeman's epitaph he made.


"Now, Richard Musgrave, liest thou here!

I ween, my deadly enemy; For, if I slew thy brother dear,

Thou slewest a sister's son to me; And when I lay in dungeon dark,

Of Naworth Castle, long months three, Till ransomed for a thousand mark,

Dark Musgrave, it was long of thee.

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
I ne'er shall find a nobler foe.
In all the northern counties here,
Whose word is, Snafle, spur, and spear, *
Thou wert the best to follow gear.
'Twas pleasure, as we looked behind,
To see how thou the chase couldst wind,
Cheer the dark blood-hound on his way,
And with the bugle rouse the fray!
I'd give the lands of Deloraine,
Dark Musgrave were alive again."—


So mourned he, till Lord Dacre's band
Were bowning back to Cumberland.

• The lands, that over Ouse to Berwick forth do bear, Have for their blazon bad, the snafle, spur, and spear.

Poly-Albieni Song xiiit

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,
Was heard the Minstrel's plaintive wail;
Behind, four priests, in sable stole,
Sung requiem for the warrior's soul:
Around, the horsemen slowly rode;
With trailing pikes the spearmen trod;
And thus the gallant knight they bore,
Through Liddesdale to Leven's shore;
Thence to Holme Coltrame's lofty nave,
And laid him in his father's grave.

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;

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