A herald were my fitting guide; Or friar, sworn in peace to bide; XXI. The Captain mused a little space, And pass'd his hand across his face. -"Fain would I find the guide you want, But ill may spare a pursuivant, The only men that safe can ride Mine errands on the Scottish side: And, though a bishop built this fort, Even our good chaplain, as I ween, The mass he might not sing or say, Upon one stinted meal a-day; So, safe he sat in Durham aisle, And pray'd for our success the while. Our Norham vicar, woe betide, Is all too well in case to ride. The priest of Shoreswood-he could rein The wildest war-horse 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, Hath seldom left our castle walls, Since on the vigil of St Bede, In evil hour he cross'd 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 shrieve penitent no more. Little he loves such risks, 1 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. If harm should hap to brother John. 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 Christmas tide, And we can neither hunt, nor ride A foray on the Scottish side. The vow'd revenge of Bughtrig rude Let Friar John, in safety, still In chimney-corner snore his fill, Roast hissing crabs, or flagons swill: Well hast thou spoke; say forth thy say." On hills of Armenie hath been, Where Noah's ark may yet be seen; Which parted at the prophet's rod; The Mount where Israel heard the law, And shadows, mists, and darkness, given. He shews Saint James's cockle-shell, 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 pray'd. |