Whispered young knights, in tone more mild, The hooded hawks, high perched on beam, From Bourdeaux, Orleans, or the Rhine; And all is mirth and revelry. VII. The Goblin Page, omitting still No opportunity of ill, Strove now, while blood ran hot and high, To rouse debate and jealousy ; Till Conrad, lord of Wolfenstein, By nature fierce, and warm with wine, About some steeds his band had lost, High words to words succeeding still, Smote, with his gauntlet, stout Hunthill; A hot and hardy Rutherford, Whom men called Dickon Draw-the-Sword. He took it on the Page's saye, Hunthill had driven these steeds away. Then Howard, Home, and Douglas rose, The kindling discord to compose: But bit his glove, and shook his head. Stout Conrad, cold, and drenched in blood, Was by a woodman's lyme-dog found; Gone was his brand, both sword and sheath; But ever from that time, 't was said, That Dickon wore a Cologne blade. VIII. The Dwarf, who feared his master's eye Might his foul treachery espie, Now sought the castle buttery, Where many a yeoman, bold and free, As those that sat in lordly selle. At every pledge, from vat and pail, Foamed forth, in floods, the nut-brown ale; While shout the riders every one, Such day of mirth ne'er cheered their clan, Since old Buccleuch the name did gain, When in the cleuch the buck was ta'en. IX. The wily Page, with vengeful thought, And swore, it should be dearly bought, First, he the yeoman did molest, Told, how he fled at Solway strife, And how Hob Armstrong cheered his wife : Long after rued that bodkin's point. The startled yeoman swore and spurned, And board and flagons overturned. Riot and clamour wild began ; Back to the hall the Urchin ran; Took in a darkling nook his post, And grinned, and muttered, "Lost! lost! lost!" X. By this, the Dame, lest further fray Was none who struck the harp so well, Well friended too, his hardy kin, Whoever lost, were sure to win; They sought the beeves, that made their broth, In Scotland and in England both. In homely guise, as nature bade, His simple song the Borderer said. XI. ALBERT GRÆME. It was an English ladye bright, (The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall,) |