The darkness of thy Massy More ;*

Or, from thy grass-grown battlement,

May trace, in undulating line,

The sluggish mazes of the Tyne.

XII.

Another aspect Crichtoun shewed,

As through its portal Marmion rode;
But yet 'twas melancholy state
Received him at the outer gate;

For none were in the castle then,

But women, boys, or aged men.

With eyes scarce dried, the sorrowing dame,

To welcome noble Marmion, came;

Her son, a stripling twelve
stripling twelve years old,

Proffered the Baron's rein to hold;

For each man, that could draw a sword,
Had marched that morning with their lord,

* The pit, or prison-vault.-See Note.

Earl Adam Hepburn, he who died
On Flodden, by his sovereign's side.
Long may his Lady look in vain!

She ne'er shall see his gallant train
Come sweeping back through Crichtoun-Dean.

"Twas a brave race, before the name

Of hated Bothwell stained their fame.

XIII.

And here two days did Marmion rest,

With every rite that honour claims,
Attended as the king's own guest,—

Such the command of royal James;
Who marshalled then his land's array,
Upon the Borough-moor that lay.
Perchance he would not foeman's eye
Upon his gathering host should pry,

Till full prepared was every band

To march against the English land.

Here while they dwelt, did Lindesay's wit

Oft cheer the Baron's moodier fit;

And, in his turn, he knew to prize

Lord Marmion's powerful mind, and wise,— Trained in the lore of Rome, and Greece,

And policies of war and peace.

XIV.

It chanced, as fell the second night,

That on the battlements they walked,

And, by the slowly fading light,

Of varying topics talked;

And, unaware, the Herald-bard

Said, Marmion might his toil have spared,

In travelling so far;

For that a messenger from heaven

In vain to James had counsel given

Against the English war:

And, closer questioned, thus he told
A tale, which chronicles of old

In Scottish story have enrolled :

XV.

Sir David Lindesay's Tale.

"Of all the palaces so fair,

Built for the royal dwelling,

In Scotland, far beyond comprae

Linlithgow is excelling;

And in its park, in jovial June,

How sweet the merry linnet's tune,

How blithe the blackbird's lay!

The wild buck bells* from ferny brake,

The coot dives merry on the lake,

The saddest heart might pleasure take

To see all nature gay.

But June is to our Sovereign dear

The heaviest month in all the year:

Too well his cause of grief you know,—

June saw his father's overthrow.

Woe to the traitors, who could bring

• An ancient word for the cry of deer.-See Note.

The princely boy against his King!

Still in his conscience burns the sting.

In offices as strict as Lent,

King James's June is ever spent.

XVI.

"When last this ruthful month was come,

And in Linlithgow's holy dome

The King, as wont, was praying;

While, for his royal father's soul,

The chaunters sung, the bells did toll,
The Bishop mass was saying—

For now the year brought round again
The day the luckless King was slain—

In Katharine's aisle the Monarch knelt,
With sackcloth-shirt, and iron belt,

And eyes with sorrow streaming;

Around him, in their stalls of state,
The Thistle's Knight-Companions sate,

Their banners o'er them beaming.