THE COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. Walter Scott

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       Gush’d to her eye the unbidden tear;

       She gaz’d upon the leaders round,

       And dark and sad each warrior frown’d;

       Then, deep within her sobbing breast

       She lock’d the struggling sigh to rest;

       Unalter’d and collected stood,

       And thus replied in dauntless mood:

       XXVI

      “Say to your Lords of high emprize,

       Who war on women and on boys,

       That either William of Deloraine

       Will cleanse him by oath of march-treason stain

       Or else he will the combat take

       ‘Gainst Musgrave, for his honor’s sake.

       No knight in Cumberland so good,

       But William may count with him kin and blood.

       Knighthood he took of Douglas’ sword,

       When English blood swell’d Ancram’s ford;

       And but Lord Dacre’s steed was wight,

       And bare him ably in the flight,

       Himself had seen him dubb’d a knight.

       For the young heir of Branksome’s line,

       God be his aid, and God be mine;

       Through me no friend shall meet his doom;

       Here, while I live, no foe finds room.

       Then, if thy Lords their purpose urge

       Take our defiance loud and high;

       Our slogan is their lykewake dirge,

       Our moat the grave where they shall lie.”

       XXVII

      Proud she look’d round, applause to claim,

       Then lighten’d Thirlestane’s eye of flame

       His bugle Wat of Harden blew;

       Pensils and pennons wide were flung,

       To heaven the Border slogan rung,

       “St. Mary for the young Buccleuch!”

       The English war-cry answer’d wide,

       And forward bent each southern spear;

       Each Kendal archer made a stride,

       And drew the bowstring to his ear;

       Each minstrel’s war-note loud was blown;

       But, ere a grey-goose shaft had flown

       A horseman gallop’d from the rear.

       XXVIII

      “Ah! noble Lords!” he breathless said,

       “What treason has your march betray’d ?

       What make you here, from aid so far,

       Before you walls, around you war?

       Your foemen triumph in the thought

       That in the toils the lion’s caught.

       Already on dark Ruberslaw

       The Douglas holds his weapon-schaw;

       The lances, waving in his train,

       Clothe the dun heath like autumn grain;

       And on the Liddel’s northern strand,

       To bar retreat to Cumberland,

       Lord Maxwell ranks his merrymen good,

       Beneath the eagle and the rood;

       And Jedwood, Eske, and Teviotdale,

       Have to proud Angus come;

       And all the Merse and Lauderdale

       Have risen with haughty Home.

       An exile from Northumberland,

       In Liddesdale I’ve wander’d long;

       But still my heart was with merry England,

       And cannot brook my country’s wrong;

       And hard I’ve spurr’d all night, to show

       The mustering of the coming foe.”

       XXIX

      “And let them come!” fierce Dacre cried;

       “For soon yon crest, my father’s pride,

       That swept the shores of Judah’s sea,

       And wav’d in gales of Galilee,

       From Branksome’s highest towers display’d,

       Shall mock the rescue’s lingering aid!

       Level each harquebuss on row;

       Draw, merry archers, draw the bow;

       Up, billmen, to the walls, and cry,

       Dacre for England, win or die!”

       XXX

      “Yet hear,” quoth Howard, “calmly hear

       Nor deem my words the words of fear:

       For who, in field or foray slack,

       Saw the blanche lion e’er fall back?

       But thus to risk our Border flower

       In strife against a kingdom’s power,

       Ten thousand Scots ‘gainst thousands three,

       Certes, were desperate policy.

       Nay, take the terms the Ladye made,

       Ere conscious of the advancing aid:

       Let Musgrave meet fierce Deloraine

       In single fight, and, if he gain,

       He gains for us; but if he’s cross’d,

       ‘Tis but a single warrior lost:

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