INTRODUCTION. THE way was long, the wind was cold, The Minstrel was infirm and old; His withered cheek, and tresses gray, Wished to be with them, and at rest. No more, on prancing palfrey borne, He carolled, light as lark at morn; No longer courted and caressed, High placed in hall, a welcome guest, He poured, to lord and lady gay, The unpremeditated lay; Old times were changed, old manners gone, A stranger fill'd the Stuarts' throne; The bigots of the iron time Had called his harmless art a crime. He passed where Newark's stately tower Looks out from Yarrow's birchen bower : The Minstrel gazed with wishful eyeNo humbler resting-place was nigh. With hesitating step, at last, The embattled portal-arch he passed, |