TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE CHARLES, EARL OF DALKEITH, This Poem is Inscribed, BY THE AUTHOR. 4 โร ADVERTISEMENT. poem now offered to the public is intended to the customs and manners which anciently ed on the Borders of England and Scotland. habitants, living in a state partly pastoral and warlike, and combining habits of constant deen with the influence of a rude spirit of chiwere often engaged in scenes highly susceptible poetical ornament. As the description of scenery manners was more the object of the author than a ned and regular narrative, the plan of the ancient encal romance was adopted, which allows greater ade, in this respect, than would be consistent with dgnity of a regular poem. The same model red other facilities, as it permits an occasional ration of measure, which, in some degree, authorthe change of rhythm in the text. The machinery dopted from popular belief, would have seemed in a poem which did not partake of the rudeof the old ballad or metrical romance. for these reasons, the poem was put into the mouth of an ancient minstrel, the last of the race, who, as he posed to have survived the Revolution, might caught somewhat of the refinement of modern without losing the simplicity of his original The date of the Tale itself is about the middle be sixteenth century, when most of the personages ay flourished. The time occupied by the action free nights and three days. INTRODUCTION. THE way was long, the wind was cold, Old times were changed, old manners gone; Had call'd his harmless art a crime. He pass'd where Newark's stately tower Until, amid his sorrowing clan, Her son lisp'd from the nurse's knee« And if I live to be a man, My father's death revenged shall be!» Then fast the mother's tears did seek To dew the infant's kindling cheek. X. All loose her negligent attire, Hung Margaret o'er her slaughter'd sire, But not alone the bitter tear Had filial grief supplied; For hopeless love, and anxious fear, And well she knew her mother dread, XI. Of noble race the Ladye came; Her father was a clerk of fame, Of Bethune's line of Picardie: (9) He learn'd the art that none may name, In Padua, far beyond the sea. (10) Men said he changed his mortal frame By feat of magic mystery; For when, in studious mood, he paced His form no darkening shadow traced XII. And of his skill, as bards avow, That moans the mossy turrets round. Is it the roar of Teviot's tide, That chafes against the scaur's1 red side? Is it the wind, that swings the oaks? Is it the echo from the rocks? What may it be, the heavy sound, That moans old Branksome's turrets round? XIII. At the sullen, moaning sound, Loud whoops the startled owl. Scaur, a precipitous bank of earth. And, with jocund din, among them all, In mimic foray' rode. Even bearded knights, in arms grown old, How the brave boy, in future war, Exalt the crescent and the star.2 (14) XX. The Ladye forgot her purpose high XXL A stark moss-trooping Scott was he, XXII. « Sir William of Deloraine, good at need, And in Melrose's holy pile Seek thou the monk of St Mary's aisle. Say, that the fated hour is come, For this will be St Michael's night, And, though stars be dim, the moon is bright; And the cross, of bloody red, Will point to the grave of the Mighty Dead. XXIV. swiftly can speed my dapple-gray steed, Which drinks of the Teviot clear! break of day, the warrior 'gan say, Again will I be here: in safer by none may thy errand be done, Than, noble dame, by me; Letter nor line know I never a one, XXV. Soon in his saddle sate he fast, And soon the steep descent he past, And cross'd old Borthwick's roaring strand; XXVI. The clattering hoofs the watchmen mark;- XXVII. i moment now he slack'd his speed, The terrors of the robber's horn; Cliffs which, for many a later year, The warbling Doric reed shall hear, When some sad swain shall teach the grove, Ambition is no cure for love! Down from the lakes did raving come, Cresting each wave with tawny foam, Like the mane of a chesnut steed. In vain! no torrent, deep or broad, Might bar the bold moss-trooper's road. XXIX. At the first plunge the horse sunk low, Stemm'd a midnight torrent's force. Was daggled by the dashing spray; Yet, through good heart and Our Ladye's grace, At length he gain'd the landing-place. ΧΧΧ. Now Bowden Moor the march-man won, XXXI. (22) In bitter mood he spurred fast, In solemn wise did rise and fail, Like that wild harp, whose magic tone Is waken'd by the winds alone. But when Melrose he reach'd, 't was silence all; He meetly stabled his steed in stall, And sought the convent's lonely wall. HERE paused the harp and with its swell The master's fire and courage fell: Dejectedly, and low, he bow'd, And, gazing timid on the crowd, He seem'd to seek, in every eye, If they approved his minstrelsy; And, diffident of present praise, Somewhat he spoke of former days, And how old age, and wandering long, Had done his hand and harp some wrong. Barded, or barbed, -applied to a horse accoutred with defensive armour. 2 Halidon-hill, on which the battle of Melrose was fought. 3 Lauds, the midnight service of the catholic church. ! |