THE The mountain path the Palmer shew'd; Where stunted birches hid the rill. They might not chuse the lowland road, For the Merse forayers were abroad, Who, fired with hate and thirst of prey, Had scarcely fail'd to bar their way. Oft on the trampling band, from crown Of some tall cliff, the deer look'd down ; In the deep heath, the black-cock rose ; The noon had long been pass'd before They gain'd the height of Lammermore; Thence winding down the northern way, Before them, at the close of day, Old Gifford's towers and hamlet lay. II. No summons calls them to the tower, To spend the hospitable hour. To Scotland's camp the Lord was gone; His cautious dame, in bower alone, Dreaded her castle to unclose, So late, to unknown friends or foes. On through the hamlet as they paced, The village inn seem'd large, though rude; Might well relieve his train. Down from their seats the horsemen sprang, And various clamour fills the hall; III. Soon, by the chimney's merry blaze, Through the rude hostel might you gaze; Might see, where, in dark nook aloof, The rafters of the sooty roof Bore wealth of winter cheer; Of sea-fowl dried, and solands store, Were tools for housewives' hand; Nor wanted, in that martial day, The buckler, lance, and brand. And view'd, around the blazing hearth, Whom with brown ale, in jolly tide, Full actively their host supplied. |