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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:
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,
óc 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; Tbe 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;
As near as in the ninth degree.
Likewise the waves of the farthest sea;
With hempen bridles, and horse of tree."
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 connoction with the first and second parts of the same story.
WHEN seven years more had come and gone,
Was war through Scotland spread,
His beacon blazing red.
Pitched palliouns took their room,
Glanced gaily through the broom,
Resounds the ensenzie ;
To distant Torwoodlee.
The feast was spread in Ercildoune,
In Learmont's high and ancient hall;
And ladies, laced in pall.
The music nor the tale,
Nor mantling quaighs of ale.
When as the feast was done;
The elfin harp he won.)
Hushed were the throng, both limb and tongue,
And harpers for envy pale;
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,
A parted wreck appears.
The warrior of the lake;
And bled for ladies' sake.
But chief, in gentle Tristrem's praise,
The notes melodious swell;
The knight of Lionelle.
For Marke, his cowardly uncle's right,
A venomed wound he bore;
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;
He paid her with his heart.
O fatal was the gift, I ween!
For, doomed in evil tide,
His cowardly uncle's bride.
Their loves, their woes, the gifted bard
In fairy tissue wove;
In gay confusion strove.
The Garde Joyeuse, amid the tale,
High reared its glittering head; And Avalon's enchanted vale
In all its wonders sprend.
Brangwain was there, and Segramore,
And fiend-born Merlin's gramarye;
O who could sing but he ?
In changefül passion led,
O'er Tristrem's dying bed.
With agony his heart is wrung;
And where her soothing tongue?
Can lovers' footsteps fily:
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;
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 Learmort's tower,
The mists of evening close; In camp, in castle, or in bower
Ea warrior sought repose.
Lord Douglas in his lofty tent,
Dreamed o'er the woeful tale;
The warrior's ears assail.
He starts, he wakes:-“What, Richard, be!
Arise, my page, arise !
Dare step where Douglas lies?”
Then forth they rushed: by Leader's tide,
A selcouth sight they see-
is white as snow on Fairnalie.
Beneath the moon, with gesture proud,
They stately move and slow;
Who marvel as they go.
As fast as page might run;
And soon his clothes did on.
First he woxe pale, and then woxe red;
Never a word he spake but three;-
This sign regardeth me.
In minstrel guise, he hung;
Its dying accents rung.
To view his ancient hall;
The autumn'moonbeams fall.
And Leader's waves, like silver sheen,
Danced shimmering in the ray :
Broad Soltra's mountains lay.
“ Farewell, my father's ancient tower i
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;
With them he crossed the flood.
Lord Douglas leaped on his berry-brown stood,
And spurred him the Leader o'er;
He never saw them more.