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keep your arms from rust,

       May breathe your warhorse well;

       Seldom hath passed a week but just

       Or feat of arms befell:

       The Scots can rein a mettled steed,

       And love to couch a spear;

       St. George! a stirring life they lead,

       That have such neighbours near.

       Then stay with us a little space,

       Our Northern wars to learn;

       I pray you for your lady’s grace!”

       Lord Marmion’s brow grew stern.

       XV

      The captain marked his altered look,

       And gave a squire the sign;

       A mighty wassail-bowl he took,

       And crowned it high with wine.

       “Now pledge me here, Lord Marmion:

       But first I pray thee fair,

       Where hast thou left that page of thine,

       That used to serve thy cup of wine,

       Whose beauty was so rare?

       When last in Raby towers we met,

       The boy I closely eyed,

       And often marked his cheeks were wet,

       With tears he fain would hide:

       His was no rugged horseboy’s hand,

       To burnish shield or sharpen brand,

       Or saddle battle-steed;

       But meeter seemed for lady fair,

       To fan her cheek or curl her hair,

       Or through embroidery, rich and rare,

       The slender silk to lead:

       His skin was fair, his ringlets gold,

       His bosom—when he sighed -

       The russet doublet’s rugged fold

       Could scarce repel its pride!

       Say, hast thou given that lovely youth

       To serve in lady’s bower?

       Or was the gentle page, in sooth,

       A gentle paramour?”

       XVI

      Lord Marmion ill could brook such jest;

       He rolled his kindling eye,

       With pain his rising wrath suppressed,

       Yet made a calm reply:

       “That boy thou thought’st so goodly fair,

       He might not brook the Northern air.

       More of his fate if thou wouldst learn,

       I left him sick in Lindisfarne:

       Enough of him. But, Heron, say,

       Why does thy lovely lady gay

       Disdain to grace the hall to-day?

       Or has that dame, so fair and sage,

       Gone on some pious pilgrimage?”

       He spoke in covert scorn, for fame

       Whispered light tales of Heron’s dame.

       XVII

      Unmarked, at least unrecked, the taunt,

       Careless the knight replied,

       “No bird whose feathers gaily flaunt

       Delights in cage to bide;

       Norham is grim and grated close,

       Hemmed in by battlement and fosse,

       And many a darksome tower;

       And better loves my lady bright

       To sit in liberty and light,

       In fair Queen Margaret’s bower.

       We hold our greyhound in our hand,

       Our falcon on our glove;

       But where shall we find leash or band

       For dame that loves to rove?

       Let the wild falcon soar her swing,

       She’ll stoop when she has tired her wing.”

       XVIII

      “Nay, if with royal James’s bride

       The lovely Lady Heron bide,

       Behold me here a messenger,

       Your tender greetings prompt to bear;

       For to the Scottish court addressed,

       I journey at our King’s behest,

       And pray you, of your grace, provide

       For me and mine, a trusty guide.

       I have not ridden in Scotland since

       James backed the cause of that mock-prince,

       Warbeck, that Flemish counterfeit,

       Who on the gibbet paid the cheat.

       Then did I march with Surrey’s power,

       What time we razed old Ayton Tower.”

       XIX

      “For suchlike need, my lord, I trow,

       Norham can find you guides enow;

       For here be some have pricked as far,

       On Scottish ground, as to Dunbar;

       Have drunk the monks of St. Bothan’s ale,

       And driven the beeves of Lauderdale;

       Harried the wives of Greenlaw’s goods,

       And given them light to set their hoods.”

       XX

      “Now, in good sooth,” Lord Marmion cried,

       “Were I in warlike wise to ride,

       A better guard I would not lack

       Than your stout forayers at my back;

       But as in form of peace I go,

       A friendly messenger, to know

       Why through all Scotland, near and far,

       Their King is mustering troops for war.

       The sight of plundering Border spears

       Might justify suspicious fears,

       And deadly feud, or thirst of spoil,

       Break out in some unseemly broil:

       A herald were my fitting guide;

       Or friar, sworn in peace to bide

       Or pardoner, or travelling priest,

       Or strolling pilgrim, at the least.”

       XXI

      The captain mused a little space,

       And passed his hand across his face.

       “Fain would I find the guide you want,

       But ill may pursuivant,

       The only men that safe can ride

       Mine errands on the Scottish side:

       And though a bishop built this fort,

       Few holy brethren here resort;

       Even our good chaplain, as I ween,

       Since our last siege we have not seen:

       The mass he might not sing or say,

       Upon one stinted meal a day;

       So safe he sat in Durham aisle,

      

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