Lord Home

       “God defend the right!”

       Then, Teviot! how thine echoes rang,

       When bugle-sound and trumpet-clang

       Let loose the martial foes,

       And in mid list, with shield pois’d high,

       And measur’d step and wary eye,

       The combatants did close.

       XXI

      Ill would it suit your gentle ear,

       Ye lovely listeners, to hear

       How to the axe the helms did sound,

       And blood pour’d down from many a wound;

       For desperate was the strife and long,

       And either warrior fierce and strong.

       But, were each dame a listening knight,

       I well could tell how warriors fight!

       For I have seen war’s lightning flashing,

       Seen the claymore with bayonet clashing,

       Seen through red blood the warhorse dashing,

       And scorn’d, amid the reeling strife,

       To yield a step for death or life.

       XXII

      ‘Tis done, ‘tis done! that fatal blow

       Has stretch d him on the bloody plain;

       He strives to rise, brave Musgrave, no!

       Thence never shalt thou rise again!

       He chokes in blood! some friendly hand

       Undo the visor’s barred band,

       Unfix the gorget’s iron clasp,

       And give him room for life to gasp!

       O, bootless aid! haste, holy Friar,

       Haste, ere the sinner shall expire!

       Of all his guilt let him be shriven,

       And smooth his path from earth to heaven!

       XXIII

      In haste the holy Friar sped

       His naked foot was dyed with red

       As through the lists he ran;

       Unmindful of the shouts on high,

       That hail’d the conqueror’s victory,

       He rais’d the dying man;

       Loose wav’d his silver beard and hair,

       As o’er him he kneel’d down in prayer;

       And still the crucifix on high

       He holds before his darkening eye;

       And still he bends an anxious ear

       His faltering penitence to hear;

       Still props him from the bloody sod,

       Still, even when soul and body part,

       Pours ghostly comfort on his heart,

       And bids him trust in God.

       Unheard he prays; the death pang’s o’er!

       Richard of Musgrave breathes no more.

       XXIV

      As if exhausted in the fight,

       Or musing o’er the piteous sight,

       The silent victor stands;

       His beaver did he not unclasp,

       Mark’d not the shouts, felt not the grasp

       Of gratulating hands.

       When lo! strange cries of wild surprise,

       Mingled with seeming terror, rise

       Among the Scottish bands;

       And all amid the throng’d array,

       In panic haste gave open way

       To a half-naked ghastly man

       Who downward from the castle ran:

       He cross’d the barriers at a bound,

       And wild and haggard look’d around,

       As dizzy, and in pain;

       And all, upon the armed ground

       Knew William of Deloraine!

       Each ladye sprung from seat with speed;

       Vaulted each marshal from his steed;

       “And who art thou,” they cried,

       “Who hast this