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Sir David Lindesay's Tale.

And as I placed in rest my spear,
My hand so shook for very fear,

I scarce could couch it right.

“ Why need my tongue the issue tell ? We ran our course,—my charger fell ;What could he 'gainst the shock of hell ?

I rolled upon the plain.
High o'er my head, with threatening hand,
The spectre shook his naked brand,

Yet did the worst remain ;
My dazzled eyes I upward cast, —
Not opening hell itself could blast

Their sight, like what I saw !
Full on his face the moonbeam strook,--

A face could never be mistook!

I knew the stern vindictive look,

And held my breath for awe.
I saw the face of one who, fled
To foreign climes, has long been dead. --

I well believe the last;
For ne'er, from visor raised, did stare
A human warrior, with a glare

So grimly and so ghast.
Thrice o'er my head he shook the blade ;
But when to good Saint George I prayed,

Sir David Lindesay's Tale.

(The first time e'er I asked his aid)

He plunged it in the sheath ; And, on his courser mounting light, He seemed to vanish from my sight: The moonbeam drooped, and deepest night

Sunk down upon the heath. 'Twere long to tell what cause I have

To know his face, that met me there,
Called by his hatred from the grave,

To cumber upper air :
Dead or alive, good cause had he
To be my mortal enemy.”

Marvelled Sir David of the Mount ;
Then, learned in story, 'gan recount

Such chance had happed of old,
When once, near Norham, there did fight
A spectre fell, of fiendish might,
In likeness of a Scottish knight,

With Brian Bulmer bold,
And trained him nigh to disallow
The aid of his baptismal vow.
“And such a phantom, too, 'tis said,
With Highland broadsword, targe, and plaid,

And fingers red with gore,
Is seen in Rothiemurcus glade,
Or where the sable pine-trees shade

Sir David Lindesay’s Tale.

Dark Tomantoul, and Achnaslaid,

Dromouchty, or Glenmore.
And yet, whate'er such legends say,
Of warlike demon, ghost, or fay,

On mountain, moor, or plain,
Spotless in faith, in bosom bold,
True son of chivalry should hold

These midnight terrors vain :
For seldom have such spirits power
To harm, save in the evil hour,
When guilt we meditate within,
Or harbour unrepented sin."----
Lord Marmion turned him half aside,

And twice to clear his voice he tried.

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Then pressed Sir David's hand, -
But nought, at length, in answer said ;
And here their farther converse stayed,

Each ordering that his band
Should bowne them with the rising day,
To Scotland's camp to take their way, -

Such was the King's command.

Early they took Dun-Edin's road,
And I could trace each step they trode;
Hill, brook, nor dell, nor rock, nor stone
Lies on the path to me unknown.
Much might it boast of storied lore;

Edinburgh from the Braid Hills.

But, passing such digression o'er,
Suffice it, that their route was laid
Across the furzy hills of Braid.
They passed the glen and scanty rill,
And climbed the opposing bank, until
They gained the top of Blackford Hill.

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Blackford! on whose uncultured breast,

Among the broom, the thorn, and whin, A truant boy, I sought the nest, Or listed, as I lay at rest,

While rose, on breezes thin,

The Borough-moor.

The murmur of the city crowd,
And, from his steeple jangling loud,

Saint Giles's mingling din.
Now, from the summit to the plain,
Waves all the hill with yellow grain ;

And o'er the landscape as I look,
Nought do I see unchanged remain,

Save the rude cliffs and chiming brook. To me they make a heavy moan, Of early friendships past and gone.

But different far the change has been,

Since Marmion, from the crown Of Blackford saw that martial scene

Upon the bent so brown: Thousand pavilions, white as snow, Spread o'er the Borough-moor below,

Upland, and dale, and down :-
A thousand did I say? I ween,
Thousands on thousands there were seen,
That chequered all the heath between

The streamlet and the town;
In crossing ranks extending far,
Forming a camp irregular;
Oft giving way, where still there stood
Some reliques of the old oak-wood,

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