The crowd's wild fury sunk again
In tears, as tempests melt in rain.
With lifted hands and eyes, they pray'd
For blessings on his generous head,
Who for his country felt alone,
And prized her lood beyond his own.
Old men, upon the verge of life,
Bless'd him who staid the civil strife;
And mothers held their babes on high,
The self-devoted Chief to spy,
Triumphant over wrongs and ire,
To whom the prattlers owed a sire:
Even the rough soldier's heart was

As if behind some bier beloved,
With trailing arms and drooping head,
The Douglas up the hill he led,
And at the Castle's battled verge
With sighs resign'd his honor'd charge.

[blocks in formation]
[blocks in formation]


"Thou warn'st me I have done amiss,
I should have earlier look'd to this:
I lost it in this bustling day.

Retrace with speed thy former way;
Spare not for spoiling of thy steed,
The best of mine shall be thy meed.
Say to our faithful Lord of Mar,
We do forbid the intended war:
Roderick, this morn, in single fight,
Was made our prisoner by a knight;
And Douglas hath himself and cause
Submitted to our kingdom's laws.
The tidings of their leaders lost
Will soon dissolve the mountain host,
Nor would we that the vulgar feel,
For their Chief's crimes, avenging steel.
Bear Mar our message, Braco: fly!"
He turn'd his steed, "My liege, I

Yet, ere I cross this lily lawn,

I fear the broadswords will be drawn." The turf the flying courser spurn'd, And to his towers the King return'd.


Ill with King James's mood that day
Suited gay feast and minstrel lay;
Soon were dismiss'd the courtly throng,
And soon cut short the festal song.
Nor less upon the sadden'd town
The evening sunk in sorrow down.
The burghers spoke of civil jar,
Of rumor'd feuds and mountain war,
Of Moray, Mar, and Roderick Dhu,
All up in arms:- the Douglas too,

They mourn'd him pent within the hold, "Where stout Earl William was old," -*


And there his word the speaker staid,
And finger on his lip he laid,
Or pointed to his dagger blade.
But jaded horsemen, from the west,
At evening to the Castle press'd;
And busy talkers said they bore
Tidings of fight on Katrine's shore;
At noon the deadly fray begun,
And lasted till the set of sun.
Thus giddy rumor shook the town,
Till closed the Night her pennons brown.




THE sun, awakening, through the smoky air

Of the dark city casts a sullen glance, Rousing each caitiff to his task of care, Of sinful man the sad inheritance; Summoning revellers from the lagging dance,

Scaring the prowling robber to his den; Gilding on battled tower the warder's lance,

And warning student pale to leave his pen, And yield his drowsy eyes to the kind nurse of men.

What various scenes, and O! what scenes of woe,

Are witness'd by that red and struggling beam!

The fever'd patient from his pallet low, Through crowded hospital beholds it


The ruin'd maiden trembles at its gleam, The debtor wakes to thought of gyve and jail, The love-lorn wretch starts from tormenting dream;

The wakeful mother, by the glimmering pale,

Trims her sick infant's couch, and soothes his feeble wail.

He had been stabbed by James II. in Stirling Castle.


At dawn the towers of Stirling rang
With soldier-step and weapon-clang,
While drums, with rolling note, foretell
Relief to weary sentinel.
Through narrow loop and casement barr'd,
The sunbeams sought the Court of Guard,
And, struggling with the smoky air,
Deaden'd the torches' yellow glare.
In comfortless alliance shone
The lights through arch of blacken'd

And show'd wild shapes in garb of war,
Faces deform'd with beard and scar,
All haggard from the midnight watch,
And fever'd with the stern debauch;
For the oak table's massive board,
Flooded with wine, with fragments stored,
And beakers drain'd, and cups o'erthrown,
Show'd in what sport the night had

Some, weary, snored on floor and bench; Some labor'd still their thirst to quench; Some, chill'd with watching, spread their hands

O'er the huge chimney's dying brands, While round them, or beside them flung, At every step their harness rung.


These drew not for their fields the sword,
Like tenants of a feudal lord,
Nor own'd the patriarchal claim
Of chieftain in their leader's name;
Adventurers they, from far who roved,
To live by battle which they loved.**
There the Italian's clouded face;
The swarthy Spaniard's there you trace;
The mountain-loving Switzer there
More freely breathed in mountain air;
The Fleming there despised the soil,
That paid so ill the laborer's toil;
Their rolls showed French and German

And merry England's exiles came,
To share, with ill-concealed disdain,
Of Scotland's pay the scanty gain.
All brave in arms, well train'd to wield
The heavy halberd, brand, and shield;
In camps licentious, wild, and bold;
In pillage fierce and uncontroll'd;
And now, by holytide and feast,
From rules of discipline released.


They held debate of bloody fray,
Fought 'twixt Loch Katrine and Achray.
Fierce was their speech, and, mid their

Their hands oft grappled to their swords;
Nor sunk their tone to spare the ear
Of wounded comrades groaning near,
Whose mangled limbs, and bodies gored,
Bore token of the mountain sword.
Though, neighboring to the Court of

Their prayers and feverish wails were heard!

Sad burden to the ruffian joke,
And savage oath by fury spoke! -
At length up-started John of Brent,
A yeoman from the banks of Trent;
A stranger to respect or fear,

In peace a chaser of the deer,

In host a hardy mutineer,
But still the boldest of the crew,
When deed of danger was to do.
He grieved, that day, their games cut

And marr'd the dicer's brawling sport,
And shouted loud: "Renew the bowl!
And, while a merry catch I troll,
Let each the buxom chorus bear,
Like brethren of the brand and spear."



Our vicar still preaches that Peter and Poule

Laid a swinging long curse on the bonny brown bowl,

That there's wrath and despair in the bonny black-jack,

And the seven deadly sins in a flagon of sack;

Yet whoop, Barnaby! off with thy liquor, Drink upsees* out, and a for the vicar!

Our vicar he calls it damnation to sip The ripe ruddy dew of a woman's dear lip, Says that Beelzebub lurks in her kerchief so sly, And Apollyon shoots darts from her merry black eye.

A Dutch health, or drinking word.

Yet whoop, Jack! kiss Gillian the quicker, Till she bloom like a rose, and a fig for the vicar !

Our vicar thus preaches-and why should he not?

For the dues of his cure are the placket and pot;

And 'tis right of his office poor laymen to lurch,

Who infringe the domains of our good Mother Church.

Yet whoop, bully-boys! off with your liquor,

Sweet Marjorie's the word, and a fig for the vicar!


The warder's challenge, heard without,
Staid in mid-roar the merry shout.
A soldier to the portal went, —
"Here is old Bertram, sirs, of Ghent,
And, beat for jubilee the drum!
A maid and minstrel with him come."
Bertram, a Fleming, gray and scarr'd,
Was entering now the Court of Guard,
A harper with him, and in plaid,
All muffled close, a mountain maid,
Who backward shrunk to 'scape the view
Of the loose scene and boisterous crew.
"What news?" they roar'd:·
"I only

[ocr errors]


From noon till eve we fought with foe, As wild and as untamable

As the rude mountains where they dwell;
On both sides store of blood is lost,
Nor much success can either boast."
"But whence thy captives, friend? such

As theirs must needs reward thy toil.
Old dost thou wax, and wars grow sharp;
Thou now hast glee-maiden and harp!
Get thee an ape, and trudge the land,
The leader of a juggler band." 49

[blocks in formation]

Forbear your mirth and rude alarm,
For none shall do them shame or harm."
"Hear ye his boast?" cried John of

Ever to strife and jangling bent;
"Shall he strike doe beside our lodge,
And yet the jealous niggard grudge
To pay the forester his fee?

I'll have my share, howe'er it be,
Despite of Moray, Mar, or thee."
Bertram his forward step withstood;
And, burning with his vengeful mood,
Old Allan, though unfit for strife,
Laid hand upon his dagger-knife;
But Ellen boldly stepp'd between,
And dropp'd at once the tartan screen:-
So, from his morning cloud, appears
The sun of May, through summer tears.
The savage soldiery, amazed,
As on descended angel gazed;
Even hardy Brent, abash'd and tamed,
Stood half admiring, half ashamed.


[ocr errors]

Boldly she spoke: "Soldiers, attend!
My father was the soldier's friend;
Cheer'd him in camps, in marches led,
And with him in the battle bled.
Not from the valiant, or the strong,
Should exile's daughter suffer wrong.'
Answer'd De Brent, most forward still
In every feat or good or ill: -
"I shame me of the part I play'd;
And thou an outlaw's child, poor maid!
An outlaw I by forest laws,


And merry Needwood knows the cause.
Poor Rose, if Rose be living now,'
He wiped his iron eye and brow,
"Must bear such age, I think, as thou.-
Hear ye, my mates; I go to call
The Captain of our watch to hall:
There lies my halberd on the floor;
And he that steps my halberd o'er,
To do the maid injurious part,
My shaft shall quiver in his heart! -
Beware loose speech, or jesting rough:-
Ye all know John de Brent. Enough."

[ocr errors]


Their Captain came, a gallant young, (Of Tullibardine's house he sprung,) Nor wore he yet the spurs of knight; Gay was his mien, his humor light,

And, though by courtesy controll'd,
Forward his speech, his bearing bold.
The high-born maiden ill could brook
The scanning of his curious look
And dauntless eye;- and yet, in sooth,
Young Lewis was a generous youth;
But Ellen's lovely face and mien,
Ill suited to the garb and scene,
Might lightly bear construction strange,
And give loose fancy scope to range.
"Welcome to Stirling towers, fair maid!
Come ye to seek a champion's aid,
On palfrey white, with harper hoar,
Like errant damosel of yore?
Does thy high quest a knight require,
Or may the venture suit a squire?"
Her dark eye flash'd;—she paused and

"O what have I to do with pride! Through scenes of sorrow, shame, and strife,

A suppliant for a father's life,
I crave an audience of the King.
Behold, to back my suit, a ring,
The royal pledge of grateful claims,
Given by the Monarch to Fitz-James."


The signet-ring young Lewis took,
With deep respect and alter'd look;
And said: 15
This ring our duties own;
And pardon, if to worth unknown,
In semblance mean obscurely veil'd,
Lady, in aught my folly fail'd.
Soon as the day flings wide his gates,
The King shall know what suitor waits.
Please you, meanwhile, in fitting bower
Repose you till his waking hour;
Female attendance shall obey
Your hest, for service or array.
Permit I marshal you the way."
But, ere she follow'd, with the grace
And open bounty of her race,

She bade her slender purse be shared
Among the soldiers of the guard.
The rest with thanks their guerdon took;
But Brent, with shy and awkward look,
On the reluctant maiden's hold
Forced bluntly back the proffer'd gold:--
"Forgive a haughty English heart,
And O forget its ruder part!
The vacant purse shall be my share,
Which in my barret-cap I'll bear,

« VorigeDoorgaan »