II.

The tables were drawn, it was idlesse all;

Knight, and page, and household squire, Loitered through the lofty hall,

Or crowded round the ample fire:
The stag-hounds, weary with the chase,
Lay stretched upon the rushy floor,

And urged, in dreams, the forest race,
From Teviot-stone to Eskdale-moor.

III.

Nine and twenty knights of fame

Hung their shields in Branksome Hall;

Nine and twenty squires of name

Brought them their steeds from bower to stall;

Nine and twenty yeomen tall

Waited, duteous, on them all;

They were all knights of metal true,

Kinsmen to the bold Buccleuch.

IV.

Ten of them were sheathed in steel,

With belted sword, and spur on heel:

They quitted not their harness bright,
Neither by day, nor yet by night:

They lay down to rest

With corslet laced,

Pillowed on buckler cold and hard;

They carved at the meal

With gloves of steel,

And they drank the red wine through the helmet barred.

V.

Ten squires, ten yeomen, mail-clad men,

Waited the beck of the warders ten;
Thirty steeds, both fleet and wight,
Stood saddled in stable day and night,
Barbed with frontlet of steel, I trow,
And with Jedwood-axe at saddle-bow;

A hundred more fed free in stall :

Such was the custom of Branksome Hall.

VI.

Why do these steeds stand ready dight?

Why watch these warriors, armed, by night ?-
They watch, to hear the blood-hound baying;
They watch, to hear the war-horn braying,
To see St. George's red cross streaming,
To see the midnight beacon gleaming;

They watch, against Southern force and guile,
Lest Scroop, or Howard, or Percy's powers,
Threaten Branksome's lordly towers,

From Warkworth, or Naworth, or merry Carlisle.

VII.

Such is the custom of Branksome Hall.—

Many a valiant knight is here;

But he, the Chieftain of them all,

His sword hangs rusting on the wall,

Beside his broken spear.

Bards long shall tell,

How Lord Walter fell!

When startled burghers fled, afar,

The furies of the Border war;
When the streets of high Dunedin
Saw lances gleam, and falchions redden,
And heard the slogan's deadly yell-

Then the Chief of Branksome fell.

VIII.

Can piety the discord heal,

Or stanch the death-feud's enmity?

Can Christian lore, can patriot zeal,
Can love of blessed charity?
No! vainly to each holy shrine,

In mutual pilgrimage, they drew ;
Implored, in vain, the grace divine

For chiefs, their own red falchions slew: While Cessford owns the rule of Car,

While Ettrick boasts the line of Scott,

The slaughtered chiefs, the mortal jar,

The havoc of the feudal war,

Shall never, never be forgot!

IX.

In sorrow, o'er Lord Walter's bier,
The warlike foresters had bent;

And many a flower, and many a tear,
Old Teviot's maids and matrons lent:
But o'er her warrior's bloody bier

The Ladye dropped nor flower nor tear!
Vengeance, deep-brooding o'er the slain,

Had locked the source of softer woe; And burning pride, and high disdain, Forbade the rising tear to flow;

Until, amid his sorrowing clan,

66

Her son lisped from the nurse's knee

'And, if I live to be a man,

"My father's death revenged shall be!"

Then fast the mother's tears did seek

To dew the infant's kindling cheek.

X.

All loose her negligent attire,

All loose her golden hair,