THE COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. Walter Scott

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       And told them, how a truce was made.

       And how a day of fight was ta’en

       ‘Twixt Musgrave and stout Deloraine;

       And how the Ladye pray’d them dear,

       That all would stay the fight to see,

       And deign, in love and courtesy,

       To taste of Branksome cheer.

       Nor, while they bade to feast each Scot,

       Were England’s noble Lords forgot

       Himself, the hoary Seneschal

       Rode forth, in seemly terms to call

       Those gallant foes to Branksome Hall.

       Accepted Howard, than whom knight

       Was never dubb’d more bold in fight;

       Nor, when from war and armor free,

       More fam’d for stately courtesy:

       But angry Dacre rather chose

       In his pavilion to repose.

       VI

      Now, noble Dame, perchance you ask

       How these two hostile armies met?

       Deeming it were no easy task

       To keep the truce which here was set;

       Where martial spirits, all on fire,

       Breathed only blood and mortal ire.

       By mutual inroads, mutual blows,

       By habit, and by nation, foes,

       They met on Teviot’s strand;

       They met and sate them mingled down,

       Without a threat, without a frown,

       As brothers meet in foreign land:

       The hands the spear that lately grasp’d,

       Still in the mailed gauntlet clasp’d,

       Were interchang’d in greeting dear;

       Visors were raised, and faces shown,

       And many a friend, to friend made known,

       Partook of social cheer.

       Some drove the jolly bowl about;

       With dice and draughts some chas’d the day;

       And some, with many a merry shout,

       In riot revelry, and rout,

       Pursued the football play.

       VII

      Yet, be it known, had bugles blown,

       Or sign of war been seen,

       Those bands so fair together rang’d,

       Those hands, so frankly interchang’d,

       Had dyed with gore the green:

       The merry shout by Teviotside

       Had sunk in war-cries wild and wide,

       And in the groan of death;

       And whingers, now in friendship bare

       The social meal to part and share,

       Had found a bloody sheath.

       ‘Twixt truce and war, such sudden change

       Was not infrequent, nor held strange,

       In the old Border-day:

       But yet on Branksome’s towers and town,

       In peaceful merriment, sunk down

       The sun’s declining ray.

       VIII

      The blithsome signs of wassel gay

       Decay’d not with the dying day:

       Soon through the lattic’d windows tall

       Of lofty Branksome’s lordly hall,

       Divided square by shafts of stone,

       Huge flakes of ruddy lustre shone

       Nor less the gilded rafters rang

       With merry harp and beakers’ clang:

       And frequent, on the darkening plain,

       Loud hollo, whoop, or whistle ran,

       As bands, their stragglers to regain

       Give the shrill watchword of their clan;

       And revellers, o’er their bowls, proclaim

       Douglas or Dacre’s conquering name.

       IX

      Less frequent heard, and fainter still

       At length the various clamors died:

       And you might hear, from Branksome hill

       No sound but Teviot’s rushing tide;

       Save when the changing sentinel

       The challenge of his watch could tell;

       And save where, through the dark profound,

       The clanging axe and hammer’s sound

       Rung from the nether lawn;

       For many a busy hand toil’d there,

       Strong pales to shape, and beams to square,

       The lists’ dread barriers to prepare

       Against the morrow’s dawn.

       X

      Margaret from hall did soon retreat,

       Despite the Dame’s reproving eye;

       Nor mark’d she as she left her seat,

       Full many a stifled sigh;

       For many a noble warrior strove

       To win the Flower of Teviot’s love,

       And many a bold ally.

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