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Could he have had his pleasure vilde

       He had crippled the joints of the noble child;

       Or, with his fingers long and lean,

       Had strangled him in fiendish spleen:

       But his awful mother he had in dread,

       And also his power was limited;

       So he but scowl’d on the startled child,

       And darted through the forest wild;

       The woodland brook he bounding cross’d,

       And laugh’d, and shouted, “Lost! lost! lost!”

       XIV

      Full sore amaz’d at the wondrous change,

       And frighten’d, as a child might be,

       At the wild yell and visage strange,

       And the dark words of gramarye,

       The child, amidst the forest bower,

       Stood rooted like a lily flower;

       And when at length, with trembling pace,

       He sought to find where Branksome lay,

       He fear’d to see that grisly face

       Glare from some thicket on his way.

       Thus, starting oft, he journey’d on,

       And deeper in the wood is gone,

       For aye the more he sought his way,

       The farther still he went astray,

       Until he heard the mountains round

       Ring to the baying of a hound.

       XV

      And hark! and hark! the deep-mouth’d bark

       Comes nigher still, and nigher:

       Bursts on the path a dark bloodhound;

       His tawny muzzle track’d the ground,

       And his red eye shot fire.

       Soon as the wilder’d child saw he,

       He flew at him right furiouslie.

       I ween you would have seen with joy

       The bearing of the gallant boy,

       When, worthy of his noble sire,

       His wet cheek glow’d ‘twixt fear and ire!

       He faced the bloodhound manfully,

       And held his little bat on high;

       So fierce he struck, the dog, afraid,

       At cautious distance hoarsely bay’d

       But still in act to spring;

       When dash’d an archer through the glade,

       And when he saw the hound was stay’d,

       He drew his tough bowstring;

       But a rough voice cried, “Shoot not, hoy!

       Ho! shoot not, Edward; ‘tis a boy!”

       XVI

      The speaker issued from the wood,

       And check’d his fellow’s surly mood,

       And quell’d the ban-dog’s ire:

       He was an English yeoman good,

       And born in Lancashire.

       Well could he hit a fallow-deer

       Five hundred feet him fro;

       With hand more true, and eye more clear,

       No archer bended bow.

       His coal-black hair, shorn round and close,

       Set off his sunburn’d face:

       Old England’s sign, St. George’s cross,

       His barret-cap did grace;

       His bugle-horn hung by his side,

       All in a wolf-skin baldric tied;

       And his short falchion, sharp and clear,

       Had pierc’d the throat of many a deer.

       XVII

      His kirtle, made of forest green,

       Reach’d scantly to his knee;

       And, at his belt, of arrows keen

       A furbish’d sheaf bore he;

       His buckler, scarce in breadth a span,

       No larger fence had he;

       He never counted him a man,

       Would strike below the knee:

       His slacken’d bow was in his hand,

       And the leash that was his bloodhound’s band.

       XVIII

      He would not do the fair child harm,

       But held him with his powerful arm,

       That he might neither fight nor flee;

       For when the Red-Cross spied he,

       The boy strove long and violently.

       “Now, by St. George,” the archer cries,

       “Edward, methinks we have a prize!

       This boy’s fair face, and courage free,

       Show he is come of high degree.”

       XIX

      “Yes! I am come of high degree,

       For I am the heir of bold Buccleuch

       And, if thou dost not set me free,

       False Southron, thou shalt dearly rue!

       For Walter of Harden shall come with speed,

       And William of Deloraine, good at need,

       And every Scott, from Esk to Tweed;

       And, if thou dost not let me go,

       Despite thy arrows and thy bow

       I’ll have thee hang’d to feed the crow!”

       XX

      “Gramercy for thy goodwill, fair boy!

       My mind was never set so high;

       But if thou art chief of such a clan,

       And art the son of such a man

       And ever comest to thy command

       Our wardens had need to keep good order;

       My bow of yew to a hazel wand

       Thou’lt make them work upon the Border.

       Meantime, be pleased to come with me

       For good Lord Dacre shalt thou see;

       I think our work is well begun,

       When we have taken thy father’s son.”

       XXI

      Although the child was led away

       In Branksome still he seem’d to stay,

       For so the Dwarf his part did play;

       And, in the shape of that young boy,

       He wrought the castle much annoy.

       The comrades of the young Buccleuch

       He pinch’d, and beat, and overthrew;

       Nay, some of them he wellnigh slew.

       He tore Dame Maudlin’s silken tire

       And, as Sym Hall stood by the fire

       He lighted the match of his bandelier,

       And wofully scorch’d the hackbuteer.

      

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