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XVIII

      Behind the English bill and bow,

       The mercenaries, firm and slow,

       Moved on to fight, in dark array,

       By Conrad led of Wolfenstein,

       Who brought the band from distant Rhine,

       And sold their blood for foreign pay.

       The camp their home, their law the sword,

       They knew no country, own’d no lord :

       They were not arm’d like England’s sons,

       But bore the levin-darting guns;

       Buff coats, all frounc’d and ‘broider’d o’er,

       And morsing-horns and scarfs they wore;

       Each better knee was bared, to aid

       The warriors in the escalade;

       All as they march’d, in rugged tongue,

       Songs of Teutonic feuds they sung.

       XIX

      But louder still the clamour grew,

       And louder still the minstrels blew,

       When fom beneath the greenwood tree,

       Rode forth Lord Howard’s chivalry;

       His men-at-arms, with glaive and spear,

       Brought up the battle’s glittenng rear.

       There many a youthful knight, full keen

       To gain his spurs, in arms was seen;

       With favor in his crest, or glove,

       Memorial of his ladye-love.

       So rode they forth in fair array,

       Till full their lengthen’d lines display;

       Then call’d a halt, and made a stand,

       And cried “St. George for merry England!”

       XX

      Now every English eye intent

       On Branksome’s armed towers was bent;

       So near they were, that they might know

       The straining harsh of each crossbow;

       On battlement and bartizan

       Gleam’d axe, and spear, and partisan;

       Falcon and culver, on each tower,

       Stood prompt their deadly hail to shower;

       And flashing armor frequent broke

       From eddying whirls of sable smoke,

       Where upon tower and turret-head,

       The seething pitch and molten lead

       Reek’d, like a witch’s caldron red.

       While yet they gaze, the bridges fall,

       The wicket opes, and from the wall

       Rides forth the hoary Seneschal.

       XXI

      Armed he rode, all save the head,

       His white beard o’er his breastplate spread;

       Unbroke by age, erect his seat,

       He rul’d his eager courser’s gait;

       Forc’d him, with chasten’d fire to prance,

       And, high curvetting, slow advance;

       In sign of truce, his better hand

       Display’d a peeled willow wand;

       His squire, attending in the rear,

       Bore high a gauntlet on a spear.

       When they espied him riding out,

       Lord Howard and Lord Dacre stout

       Sped to the front of their array,

       To hear what this old knight should say.

       XXII

      “Ye English warden lords, of you

       Demands the Ladye of Buccleuch

       Why, ‘gainst the truce of Border tide,

       In hostile guise ye dare to ride,

       With Kendal bow, and Gilsland brand,

       And all yon mercenary band,

       Upon the bounds of fair Scotland?

       My Ladye redes you swith return;

       And, if but one poor straw you burn

       Or do our towers so much molest

       As scare one swallow from her nest,

       St. Mary! but we’ll light a brand

       Shall warm your hearths in Cumberland.”

       XXIII

      A wrathful man was Dacre’s lord,

       But calmer Howard took the word:

       “May ‘t please thy Dame, Sir Seneschal,

       To seek the castle’s outward wall,

       Our pursuivant-at-arms shall show

       Both why we came, and when we go.”

       The message sped, the noble Dame

       To the wall’s outward circle came;

       Each chief around lean’d on his spear

       To see the pursuivant appear.

       All in Lord Howard’s livery dress’d,

       The lion argent deck-d his breast;

       He led a boy of blooming hue,

       O sight to meet a mother’s view!

       It was the heir of great Buccleuch

       Obeisance meet the herald made,

       And thus his master’s will he said:

       XXIV

      “It irks, high Dame, my noble Lords,

       ‘Gainst ladye fair to draw their swords;

       But yet they may not tamely see,

       All through the Western Wardenry,

       Your law-contemning kinsmen ride,

       And burn and spoil the Border-side;

       And ill beseems your rank and birth

       To make your towers a flemens-firth

       We claim from thee William of Deloraine

       That he may suffer march-treason pain.

       It was but last St. Cuthbert’s even

       He bunny’d to Stapleton on Leven,

       Harried the lands of Richard Musgrave,

       And slew his brother by dint of glaive.

       Then, since a lone and widow’d Dame

       These restless riders may not tame,

       Either receive within thy towers

       Two hundred of my master’s powers,

       Or straight they sound their warrison,

       And storm and spoil thy garrison:

       And this fair boy, to London led,

       Shall good King Edward’s page be bred.”

       XXV

      He ceased, and loud the boy did cry,

       And stretch’d his little arms on high;

       Implor’d for aid each wellknown face,

       And strove to seek the Dame’s embrace.

       A moment chang’d

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