A hundred more fed free in stall : Such was the custom of Branksome Hall, VI. Why do these steeds stand ready dight? 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 falcheons redden, * And heard the slogan's deadly yell Then the Chief of Branksome fell. VIII Can piety the discord heal, Or staunch the death-feud's enmity? Can Christian lore, can patriot zeal, No! vainly to each holy shrine, In mutual pilgrimage, they drew; Implored, in vain, the grace divine For chiefs, their own red falchions slew: * The war-cry, or gathering word, of a Border clan. 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, But o'er her warrior's bloody bier Had locked the source of softer woe; Until, amid his sorrowing clan, 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, Hung Margaret o'er her slaughtered sire, And wept in wild despair. But not alone the bitter tear Had filial grief supplied; For hopeless love, and anxious fear, Nor in her mother's altered eye Dared she to look for sympathy. Her lover, 'gainst her father's clan, With Car in arms had stood, All purple with their blood. And well she knew, her mother dread, Before lord Cranstoun she should wed, Would see her on her dying bed. XI. Of noble race the Ladye came; Her father was a clerk of fame, Of Bethune's line of Picardie: He learned the art, that none may name, In Padua, far beyond the sea. Men said, he changed his mortal frame By feat of magic mystery; For when, in studious mood, he paced St Andrew's cloistered hall, His form no darkening shadow traced XII. And of his skill, as bards avow, He taught that Ladye fair, Till to her bidding she could bow And now she sits in secret bower, In old Lord David's western tower, |