And if thou saidst I am not peer
To any lord in Scotland here,
Lowland or Highland, far or near,
Lord Angus, thou hast lied!'
On the earl's cheek the flush of rage
O'ercame the ashen hue of age:
Fierce he broke forth,-' And darest thou then
To beard the lion in his den,
The Douglas in his hall?
And hopest thou hence unscathed to go?
No, by Saint Bride of Bothwell, no!
Up drawbridge, grooms-what, warder, ho!
Let the portcullis fall.'-
Lord Marmion turned-well was his need—
And dashed the rowels in his steed,
Like arrow through the archway sprung,
The ponderous grate behind him rung;
To pass there was such scanty room,
The bars descending razed his plume.
The steed along the drawbridge flies
Just as it trembled on the rise;
Not lighter does the swallow skim
Along the smooth lake's level brim:
And when Lord Marmion reached his band,
He halts, and turns with clenched hand,
And shout of loud defiance pours,
And shook his gauntlet at the towers.
'Horse! horse!' the Douglas cried, ' and chase!' But soon he reined his fury's pace:
A royal messenger he came,
Though most unworthy of the name.—
A letter forged! Saint Jude to speed!
Did ever knight so foul a deed?
At first in heart it liked me ill
When the king praised his clerkly skill.
Thanks to Saint Bothan, son of mine,
Save Gawain, ne'er could pen a line;
So swore I, and I swear it still,
Let my boy-bishop fret his fill.—
Saint Mary mend my fiery mood!
Old age ne'er cools the Douglas blood,
I thought to slay him where he stood.
'Tis pity of him too,' he cried:
'Bold can he speak and fairly ride,
I warrant him a warrior tried.'
With this his mandate he recalls,
And slowly seeks his castle halls.
SIR WALTER SCOTT
No sun-no moon!
No morn-no noon
No dawn-no dusk-no proper time of dayNo sky-no earthly view—
No distant looking blue
No road-no street-no 't'other side the way No end to any row—
No indications where the crescents go
No top to any steeple
No recognitions of familiar people-
No courtesies for showing 'em-
No knowing 'em-
No traveling at all-no locomotion-
No inkling of the way-no notion—
No go '-by land or ocean-
No mail-no post
No news from any foreign coast
No park-no ring-no afternoon gentility-
No company-no nobility-
No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease,
No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees,
No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds-
November!
ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG
GOOD people all, of every sort,
Give ear unto my song;
And if you find it wondrous short-
It cannot hold you long.
In Islington there was a Man,
Of whom the world might say,
That still a godly race he ran—
Whene'er he went to pray.
A kind and gentle heart he had,
To comfort friends and foes: The naked every day he clad— When he put on his clothes.
And in that town a Dog was found,
As many dogs there be,
Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound,
And curs of low degree.
This Dog and Man at first were friends;
But when a pique began,
The Dog to gain some private ends,
Went mad, and bit the Man.
Around from all the neighboring streets
The wondering neighbors ran,
And swore the Dog had lost his wits,
To bite so good a Man!
But soon a wonder came to light,
That show'd the rogues they lied:-
The Man recover'd from the bite,
The Dog it was that died!
As I was walking all alane
I heard twa corbies making a mane:
The tane unto the tither did say,
'Whar sall we gang and dine the day?'
'-In behint yon auld fail dyke
I wot there lies a new-slain knight;
And naebody kens that he lies there
But his hawk, his hound, and his lady fair.
'His hound is to the hunting gane,
His hawk to fetch the wild fowl hame,
His lady's ta'en anither mate,
So we may mak our dinner sweet.
'Ye'll sit on his white hause-bane,
And I'll pike out his bonny blue e'en:
Wi' ae lock o' his gowden hair
We'll theek our nest when it grows bare.
'Mony a one for him maks mane,
But none sall ken whar he is gane;
O'er his white banes, when they are bare,
The wind sall blaw for evermair.'
|