THE COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. Walter Scott

and share:

       O’er capon, heron-shew, and crane,

       And princely peacock s gilded train,

       And o’er the boar-head, garnish’d brave,

       And cygnet from St. Mary’s wave;

       O’er ptarmigan and venison

       The priest had spoke his benison.

       Then rose the riot and the din,

       Above, beneath, without, within!

       For, from the lofty balcony,

       Rung trumpet, shalm, and psaltery:

       Their clanging bowls old warriors quaff’d

       Loudly they spoke, and loudly laugh’d;

       Whisper’d young knights, in tone more mild,

       To ladies fair, and ladies smil’d.

       The hooded hawks, high perch’d on beam

       The clamor join’d with whistling scream

       And flapp’d their wings, and shook their bells

       In concert with the staghounds’ yells

       Round go the flasks of ruddy wine,

       From Bordeaux, Orleans, or the Rhine;

       Their tasks the busy sewers ply,

       And all is mirth and revelry.

       VII

      The Goblin Page, omitting still

       No opportunity of ill,

       Strove now, while blood ran hot and high,

       To rouse debate and jealousy;

       Till Conrad, Lord of Wolfenstein:

       By nature fierce, and warm with wine,

       And now in humor highly cross’d

       About some steeds his band had lost,

       High words to words succeeding still,

       Smote with his gauntlet stout Hunthill,

       A hot and hardy Rutherford,

       Whom men called Dickon Draw-the-sword.

       He took it on the page’s say

       Hunthill had driven these steeds away.

       Then Howard, Home, and Douglas rose

       The kindling discord to compose:

       Stern Rutherford right little said,

       But bit his glove, and shook his head.

       A fortnight thence, in Inglewood,

       Stout Conrad, cold, and drench’d in blood,

       His bosom gor’d with many a wound,

       Was by a woodman’s lyme-dog found;

       Unknown the manner of his death,

       Gone was his brand, both sword and sheath;

       But ever from that time, ‘twas said,

       That Dickon wore a Cologne blade.

       VIII

      The dwarf, who fear’d his master’s eye

       Might his foul treachery espie,

       Now sought the castle buttery,

       Where many a yeoman, bold and free,

       Revell’d as merrily and well

       As those that sat in lordly selle.

       Watt Tinlinn, there, did frankly raise

       The pledge to Arthur Fire-the-Braes

       And he, as by his breeding bound,

       To Howard’s merrymen sent it round.

       To quit them, on the English side,

       Red Roland Forster loudly cried,

       “A deep carouse to yon fair bride!”

       At every pledge, from vat and pail,

       Foam’d forth in floods the nut-brown ale

       While shout the riders every one;

       Such day of mirth ne’er cheer’d their clan,

       Since old Buccleuch the name did gain

       When in the cleuch the buck was ta’en.

       IX

      The wily page, with vengeful thought

       Remember d him of Tinlinn’s yew,

       And swore it should be dearly bought

       That ever he the arrow drew.

       First, he the yeoman did molest

       With bitter gibe and taunting jest;

       Told how he fled at Solway strife,

       And how Hob Armstrong cheer’d his wife;

       Then, shunning still his powerful arm,

       At unawares he wrought him harm;

       From trencher stole his choicest cheer,

       Dash’d from his lips his can of beer;

       Then, to his knee sly creeping on,

       With bodkin pierced him to the bone:

       The venom’d wound, and festering joint,

       Long after rued that bodkin’s point.

       The startled yeoman swore and spurn’d,

       And board and flagons overturn’d.

       Riot and clamor wild began

       Back to the hall the Urchin ran;

       Took in a darkling nook his post,

       And grinn’d, and mutter’d, “Lost! lost! lost!”

       X

      By this, the Dame, lest farther fray

       Should mar the concord of the day.

       Had bid the Minstrels tune their lay.

       And first stept forth old Albert Graeme,

       The Minstrel of that ancient name:

       Was none who struck the harp so well

       Within the Land Debateable;

       Well friended, too his hardy kin,

       Whoever lost, were sure to win;

       They sought the beeves that made their broth,

       In Scotland and in England both.

       In homely guise, as nature bade

       His simple song the Borderer said.

       XI

      Albert Graeme.

       It was an English ladye bright,

       (The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall,)

       And she would marry a Scottish knight,

       For Love will still be lord of all.

       Blithely they saw the rising sun

       When he shone fair on Carlisle wall;

       But they were sad ere day was done,

       Though Love was still the lord of all.

       Her sire gave brooch and jewel fine,

       Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle wall

       Her brother gave but a flask of wine,

       For ire that Love was lord of all.

       For she had lands, both meadow and lea,

       Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle wall;

       And he swore her death ere he would see

       A Scottish knight the lord of all!