THE COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. Walter Scott

Our Norham vicar, woe betide,

       Is all too well in case to ride;

       The priest of Shoreswood—he could rein

       The wildest warhorse in your train;

       But then, no spearman in the hall

       Will sooner swear, or stab, or brawl.

       Friar John of Tillmouth were the man:

       A blithesome brother at the can,

       A welcome guest in hall and bower,

       He knows each castle, town, and tower,

       In which the wine and ale is good,

       ‘Twixt Newcastle and Holyrood.

       But that good man, as ill befalls,

       Hath seldom left our castle walls,

       Since, on the vigil of Saint Bede,

       In evil hour, he crossed the Tweed,

       To teach Dame Alison her creed.

       Old Bughtrig found him with his wife;

       And John, an enemy to strife,

       Sans frock and hood, fled for his life.

       The jealous churl hath deeply swore

       That if again he venture o’er,

       He shall shrive penitent no more.

       Little he loves such risks, I know;

       Yet in your guard, perchance, will go.”

       XXII

      Young Selby, at the fair hall-board,

       Carved to his uncle and that lord,

       And reverently took up the word.

       “Kind uncle, woe were we each one,

       If harm should hap to brother John.

       He is a man of mirthful speech,

       Can many a game and gambol teach;

       Full well at tables can he play,

       And sweep at bowls the stake away.

       None can a lustier carol bawl;

       The needfullest among us all,

       When time hangs heavy in the hall,

       And snow comes thick at Christmastide,

       And we can neither hunt, nor ride

       A foray on the Scottish side.

       The vowed revenge of Bughtrig rude,

       May end in worse than loss of hood.

       Let Friar John, in safety, still

       In chimney-corner snore his fill,

       Roast hissing crabs, or flagons swill:

       Last night to Norham there came one,

       Will better guide Lord Marmion.”

       “Nephew,” quoth Heron, “by my fay,

       Well hast thou spoke; say forth thy say.”

       XXIII

      “Here is a holy Palmer come

       From Salem first, and last from Rome:

       One that hath kissed the blessed tomb,

       And visited each holy shrine

       In Araby and Palestine;

       On hills of Armenie hath been,

       Where Noah’s ark may yet be seen;

       By that Red Sea, too, hath he trod,

       Which parted at the prophet’s rod;

       In Sinai’s wilderness he saw

       The Mount where Israel heard the law,

       Mid thunder-dint and flashing levin,

       And shadows, mists, and darkness, given.

       He shows Saint James’s cockleshell;

       Of fair Montserrat, too, can tell;

       And of that grot where olives nod,

       Where, darling of each heart and eye,

       From all the youth of Sicily,

       Saint Rosalie retired to God.

       XXIV

      “To stout Saint George of Norwich merry,

       Saint Thomas, too, of Canterbury,

       Cuthbert of Durham, and Saint Bede,

       For his sins’ pardon hath he prayed.

       He knows the passes of the North,

       And seeks far shrines beyond the Forth;

       Little he eats, and long will wake,

       And drinks but of the stream or lake.

       This were a guide o’er moor and dale

       But when our John hath quaffed his ale,

       As little as the wind that blows,

       And warms itself against his nose,

       Kens he, or cares, which way he goes.”

       XXV

      “Gramercy!” quoth Lord Marmion,

       “Full loth were I that Friar John,

       That venerable man, for me

       Were placed in fear or jeopardy.

       If this same Palmer will me lead

       From hence to Holyrood,

       Like his good saint I’ll pay his meed,

       Instead of cockleshell or bead

       With angels fair and good.

       I love such holy ramblers; still

       They know to charm a weary hill,

       With song, romance, or lay:

       Some jovial tale, or glee, or jest,

       Some lying legend, at the least,

       They bring to cheer the way.”

       XXVI

      “Ah! noble sir,” young Selby said,

       And finger on his lip he laid,

       “This man knows much—perchance e’en more

       Than he could learn by holy lore.

       Still to himself he’s muttering,

       And shrinks as at some unseen thing.

       Last night we listened at his cell;

       Strange sounds we heard, and, sooth to tell,

       He murmured on till morn, howe’er

       No living mortal could be near.

       Sometimes I thought I heard it plain,

       As other voices spoke again.

       I cannot tell—I like it not -

       Friar John hath told us it is wrote,

       No conscience clear, and void of wrong,

       Can rest awake, and pray so long.

       Himself still sleeps before his beads

       Have marked ten aves, and two creeds.”

       XXVII

      “Let pass,” quoth Marmion; “by my fay,

       This man shall guide me on my way,

       Although the great archfiend and he

       Had sworn themselves of company.

       So please you, gentle youth, to call

       This Palmer to the castle-hall.”

       The summoned Palmer came