And how, full many a tale he knew,

Of the old warriors of Buccleuch ;

And, would the noble Duchess deign
To listen to an old man's strain,

Though stiff his hand, his voice though weak,
He thought even yet, the sooth to speak,
That, if she loved the harp to hear,

He could make music to her ear.

The humble boon was soon obtained;

The Aged Minstrel audience gained.
But, when he reached the room of state,
Where she, with all her ladies, sate,
Perchance he wished his boon denied:
For, when to tune his harp he tried,
His trembling hand had lost the ease,
Which marks security to please;

And scenes, long past, of joy and pain,
Came wildering o'er his aged brain-
He tried to tune his harp in vain.

The pitying Duchess praised its chime,

And

gave

him heart, and gave him time,

Till every string's according glee

Was blended into harmony.

And then, he said, he would full fain
He could recall an ancient strain,
He never thought to sing again.

It was not framed for village churles,

But for high dames and mighty earls;

He had played it to King Charles the Good, When he kept court in Holyrood;

And much he wished, yet feared, to try

The long-forgotten melody.

Amid the strings his fingers strayed,

And an uncertain warbling made,

And oft he shook his hoary head.
But when he caught the measure wild,

The old man raised his face and smiled;

And lightened up his faded eye,
With all a poet's ecstasy!

In varying cadence, soft or strong,

He swept the sounding chords along :

The present scene, the future lot,

His toils, his wants, were all forgot:
Cold diffidence, and age's frost,

In the full tide of song were lost;
Each blank, in faithless memory void,
The poet's glowing thought supplied;
And, while his harp responsive rung,

'T was thus the LATEST MINSTREL sung.