THE COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. Walter Scott

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       There the Italian’s clouded face,

       The swarthy Spaniard’s there you trace;

       The mountain-loving Switzer there

       More freely breathed in mountain-air;

       The Fleming there despised the soil

       That paid so ill the labourer’s toil;

       Their rolls showed French and German name;

       And merry England’s exiles came,

       To share, with ill-concealed disdain,

       Of Scotland’s pay the scanty gain.

       All brave in arms, well trained to wield

       The heavy halberd, brand, and shield;

       In camps licentious, wild, and bold;

       In pillage fierce and uncontrolled;

       And now, by holytide and feast,

       From rules of discipline released.

       IV

      ‘They held debate of bloody fray,

       Fought ‘twixt Loch Katrine and Achray.

       Fierce was their speech, and mid their words

       ‘Their hands oft grappled to their swords;

       Nor sunk their tone to spare the ear

       Of wounded comrades groaning near,

       Whose mangled limbs and bodies gored

       Bore token of the mountain sword,

       Though, neighbouring to the Court of Guard,

       Their prayers and feverish wails were heard,—

       Sad burden to the ruffian joke,

       And savage oath by fury spoke!—

       At length up started John of Brent,

       A yeoman from the banks of Trent;

       A stranger to respect or fear,

       In peace a chaser of the deer,

       In host a hardy mutineer,

       But still the boldest of the crew

       When deed of danger was to do.

       He grieved that day their games cut short,

       And marred the dicer’s brawling sport,

       And shouted loud, ‘Renew the bowl!

       And, while a merry catch I troll,

       Let each the buxom chorus bear,

       Like brethren of the brand and spear.’

       V

      Soldier’s Song.

      Our vicar still preaches that Peter and Poule

       Laid a swinging long curse on the bonny brown bowl,

       That there ‘s wrath and despair in the jolly blackjack,

       And the seven deadly sins in a flagon of sack;

       Yet whoop, Barnaby! off with thy liquor,

       Drink upsees out, and a fig for the vicar!

      Our vicar he calls it damnation to sip

       The ripe ruddy dew of a woman’s dear lip,

       Says that Beelzebub lurks in her kerchief so sly,

       And Apollyon shoots darts from her merry black eye;

       Yet whoop, Jack! kiss Gillian the quicker,

       Till she bloom like a rose, and a fig for the vicar!

      Our vicar thus preaches,—and why should he not?

       For the dues of his cure are the placket and pot;

       And ‘tis right of his office poor laymen to lurch

       Who infringe the domains of our good Mother Church.

       Yet whoop, bully-boys! off with your liquor,

       Sweet Marjorie ‘s the word and a fig for the vicar!

       VI

      The warder’s challenge, heard without,

       Stayed in mid-roar the merry shout.

       A soldier to the portal went,—

       ‘Here is old Bertram, sirs, of Ghent;

       And—beat for jubilee the drum!—

       A maid and minstrel with him come.’

       Bertram, a Fleming, gray and scarred,

       Was entering now the Court of Guard,

       A harper with him, and, in plaid

       All muffled close, a mountain maid,

       Who backward shrunk to ‘scape the view

       Of the loose scene and boisterous crew.

       ‘What news?’ they roared:—’ I only know,

       From noon till eve we fought with foe,

       As wild and as untamable

       As the rude mountains where they dwell;

       On both sides store of blood is lost,

       Nor much success can either boast.’—

       ‘But whence thy captives, friend? such spoil

       As theirs must needs reward thy toil.

       Old cost thou wax, and wars grow sharp;

       Thou now hast glee-maiden and harp!

       Get thee an ape, and trudge the land,

       The leader of a juggler band.’

       VII

      ‘No, comrade;—no such fortune mine.

       After the fight these sought our line,

       That aged harper and the girl,

       And, having audience of the Earl,

       Mar bade I should purvey them steed,

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