He put his hand on the earlie's head;
He showed him a rock, beside the sea,
Where a king lay stiff, beneath his steed,
And steel-dight nobles wiped their e'e.

"The neist curse lights on Branxton Hills: By Flodden's high and heathery side, Shall wave a banner, red as blude,

And chieftains throng wi' meikle pride.

A Scottish king shall come full keen;
The ruddy lion beareth he:

A feathered arrow sharp, I ween,

Shall make him wink and warre to see.

When he is bloody, and all to bledde,
Thus to his men he still shall say-
For God's sake, turn ye back again,
And give yon southern folk a fray}
Why should I lose the right is mine:
My doom is not to die this day.'

Yet turn ye to the eastern hand,

And woe and wonder ye shall see; How forty thousand spearmen stand, Where yon rank river meets the sea.

There shall the lion lose the gylte,
And the libbards bear it clean away;
At Pinkyn Cleuch there shall be spilt
Much gentil blude that day."

Enough, enough, of curse and ban;

Some blessing show thou now to me, Or, by the faith o' my bodie," Corspatrick said, "Ye shall rue the day ye e'er saw me!"

"The first of blessings I shall thee show,
Is by a burn, that's called of bread;
Where Saxon men shall tine the bow,
And find their arrows lack the head.

Beside that brigg, out ower that burn,

Where the water bickereth bright and sheen,

Shall many a falling courser spurn,

And knights shall die in battle keen.

Beside a headless cross of stone,

The libbards there shall lose the gree; The raven shall come, the erne shall go, And drink the Saxon blood sae free. The cross of stone they shall not know, So thick the corses there shall be."

"But tell me now," said brave Dunbar,
"True Thomas, tell now unto me,
What man shall rule the isle Britain,
Even from the north to the southern sea?"

A French queen shall bear the son,
Shall rule all Britain to the sea;
He of the Bruce's blood shall come,
As near as in the ninth degree.

"The waters worship shall his race;
Likewise the waves of the farthest sea;
For they shall ride ower ocean wide,
With hempen bridles, and horse of tree."

Part Third.

MODERN.

THE following attempt to commemorate the Rhymer's poetical fame, and the traditional account of his marvellous return to Fairy Land, being entirely modern, would have been placed with greater propriety among the class of Modern Ballads, had it not been for its immediate connection with the first and second parts of the same story.

WHEN seven years more had come and gone,
Was war through Scotland spread,

And Ruberslaw showed high Dunyon
His beacon blazing red.

Then all by bonny Coldingknow,
Pitched palliouns took their room,
And crested helms, and spears a rowe,
Glanced gaily through the broom.

The Leader, rolling to the Tweed,
Resounds the ensenzie;

They roused the deer from Caddenhead,
To distant Torwoodlee.

The feast was spread in Ercildoune,

In Learmont's high and ancient hall;
And there were knights of great renown,
And ladies, laced in pall.

Nor lacked they, while they sat at dine,
The music nor the tale,

Nor goblets of the blood-red wine,
Nor mantling quaighs of ale.

True Thomas rose, with harp in hand,
When as the feast was done;

(In minstrel strife, in Fairy Land,
The elfin harp he won.)

Hushed were the throng, both limb and tongue,

And harpers for envy pale;

And armed lords leaned on their swords,

And hearkened to the tale.

In numbers high, the witching tale
The prophet poured along;
No after bard might e'er avail
Those numbers to prolong.

Yet fragments of the lofty strain
Float down the tide of years,
As, buoyant on the stormy main,
A parted wreck appears.

He sung King Arthur's table round:
The warrior of the lake;

How courteous Gawaine met the wound,
And bled for ladies' sake.

But chief, in gentle Tristrem's praise,
The notes melodious swell;

Was none excelled in Arthur's days,
The knight of Lionelle.

For Marke, his cowardly uncle's right,
A venomed wound he bore;

When fierce Morholde he slew in fight,
Upon the Irish shore.

No art the poison might withstand;
No medicine could be found,

Till lovely Isolde's lilye hand

Had probed the rankling wound.

With gentle hand and soothing tongue,
She bore the leech's part;

And, while she o'er his sick-bed hung,
He paid her with his heart.

O fatal was the gift, I ween!

For, doomed in evil tide,

The maid must be rude Cornwall's queen,

His cowardly uncle's bride.

Their loves, their woes, the gifted bard

In fairy tissue wove;

Where lords, and knights, and ladies bright,

In gay confusion strove.

The Garde Joyeuse, amid the tale,
High reared its glittering head;

And Avalon's enchanted vale
In all its wonders spread.

Brangwain was there, and Segramore,
And fiend-born Merlin's gramarye;
Of that famed wizard's mighty lore,
O who could sing but he?

Through many a maze the winning song
In changeful passion led,

Till bent at length the listening throng
O'er Tristrem's dying bed.

His ancient wounds their scars expand,
With agony his heart is wrung;
O where is Isolde's lilye hand,
And where her soothing tongue?

She comes, she comes !-like flash of flame
Can lovers' footsteps fly:

She comes, she comes!-she only came
To see her Tristrem die.

She saw him die: her latest sigh

Joined in a kiss his parting breath:

The gentlest pair that Britain bare,
United are in death.

There paused the harp; its lingering sound Died slowly on the ear;

The silent guests still bent around,

For still they seemed to hear.

Then woe broke forth in murmurs weak,
Nor ladies heaved alone the sigh;

But, half ashamed, the rugged cheek
Did many a gauntlet dry.

On Leader's stream, and Learmont's tower,
The mists of evening close;

In camp, in castle, or in bower
Each warrior sought repose.

Lord Douglas in his lofty tent,
Dreamed o'er the woeful tale;

When footsteps light, across the bent,
The warrior's ears assail.

He starts, he wakes:-" What, Richard, he!

Arise, my page, arise!

What venturous wight, at dead of night,

Dare step where Douglas lies?"

Then forth they rushed: by Leader's tide,
A selcouth sight they see-

A hart and hind pace side by side,
As white as snow on Fairnalie.

Beneath the moon, with gesture proud,
They stately move and slow;

Nor scare they at the gathering crowd,
Who marvel as they go.

To Learmont's tower a message sped,
As fast as page might run;
And Thomas started from his bed,
And soon his clothes did on.

First he woxe pale, and then woxe red;
Never a word he spake but three;-
"My sand is run; my thread is spun ;
This sign regardeth me.

The elfin harp his neck around,
In minstrel guise, he hung;

And on the wind, in doleful sound,
Its dying accents rung.

Then forth he went; yet turned him oft

To view his ancient hall;

On the grey tower, in lustre soft,
The autumn moonbeams fall.

And Leader's waves, like silver sheen,
Danced shimmering in the ray:
In deepening mass, at distance seen,
Broad Soltra's mountains lay.

Farewell, my father's ancient tower!
A long farewell," said he:

"The scene of pleasure, pomp, or power,
Thou never more shalt be.

To Learmont's name no foot of earth
Shall here again belong,
And on thy hospitable hearth

The hare shall leave her young.

Adieu! adieu!" again he cried,
All as he turned him roun'-
"Farewell to Leader's silver tide!
Farewell to Ercildoune !"

The hart and hind approached the place,
As lingering yet he stood;

And there, before Lord Douglas' face,
With them he crossed the flood.

Lord Douglas leaped on his berry-brown steed,
And spurred him the Leader o'er;

But, though he rode with lightning speed,
He never saw them more.