XLV.

He flung it from him, far ahead.

And never spake he more,

But-" Pass thee first, thou dauntless heart,

As thou wert wont of yore !"

XLVI.

The roar of fight rose fiercer yet,
And heavier still the stour,

Till the spears of Spain came shivering in,
And swept away the Moor.

XLVII.

"Now praised be God, the day is won!
They fly o'er flood and fell—

Why dost thou draw the rein so hard;
Good knight, that fought so well?”

XLVIII.

“Oh, ride ye on, Lord King!" he said,
"And leave the dead to me,
For I must keep the dreariest watch

That ever I shall dree!

XLIX.

"There lies, above his master's heart,
The Douglas, stark and grim;
And woe is me I should be here,
Not side by side with him!

L.

"The world grows cold, my arm is old,

And thin my lyart hair,

And all that I loved best on earth

Is stretched before me there.

LI.

"O Bothwell banks! that bloom so bright

Beneath the sun of May,

The heaviest cloud that ever blew

Is bound for you this day.

LII.

"And Scotland! thou mayst veil thy head

In sorrow and in pain:

The sorest stroke upon thy brow
Hath fallen this day in Spain!

LIII.

"We'll bear them back unto our ship,
We'll bear them o'er the sea,

And lay them in the hallowed earth,
Within our own countrie.

'

LIV.

"And be thou strong of heart, Lord King,

For this I tell thee sure,

The sod that drank the Douglas' blood
Shall never bear the Moor !"

LV.

The King he lighted from his horse,
He flung his brand away,
And took the Douglas by the hand,
So stately as he lay.

LVI.

"God give thee rest, thou valiant soul!

That fought so well for Spain;

I'd rather half my land were gone,

So thou wert here again!"

LVII.

We bore the good Lord James away,
And the priceless heart we bore,
And heavily we steered our ship
Towards the Scottish shore.

LVIII.

No welcome greeted our return,
Nor clang of martial tread,

But all were dumb and hushed as death
Before the mighty dead.

LIX.

We laid our chief in Douglas Kirk,
The heart in fair Melrose;

And woful men were we that day--
God grant their souls repose!

George W. Thornbury.

THE THREE TROOPERS.

(DURING THE PROTECTORATE.)

INTO the Devil tavern

Three booted troopers strode,

From spur to feather spotted and splashed
With the mud of a winter road.

In each of their cups they dropped a crust,
And stared at the guests with a frown;
Then drew their swords, and roared for a toast,
"God send this Crum-well-down!"

A blue smoke rose from their pistol-locks,
Their sword-blades were still wet;

There were long red smears on their jerkins of buff,

As the table they overset.

Then into their cups they stirred the crusts,

And cursed old London town;

Then waved their swords, and drank with a stamp, "God send this Crum-well-down!"

The 'prentice dropped his can of beer,
The host turned pale as a clout;
The ruby nose of the toping squires
Grew white at the wild men's shout.
Then into their cups they flung the crusts,
And showed their teeth with a frown;
They flashed their swords as they gave the toast,
"God send this Crum-well-down!"

The gambler dropped his dog's-eared cards,
The waiting-women screamed,

As the light of the fire, like stains of blood,
On the wild men's sabres gleamed.

Then into their cups they splashed the crusts,
And cursed the fool of a town,

And leaped on the table, and roared a toast,
"God send this Crum-well-down!"

Till on a sudden fire-bells rang,

And the troopers sprang to horse;
The eldest muttered between his teeth,
Hot curses--deep and coarse.

In their stirrup-cups they flung the crusts,
And cried as they spurred through town,

With their keen swords drawn and their pistols cocked,

"God send this Crum-well-down!"

Away they dashed through Temple Bar,
Their red cloaks flowing free,

Their scabbards clashed, each back-piece shone—

None liked to touch the three.
The silver cups that held the crusts
They flung to the startled town,
Shouting again, with a blaze of swords,
"God send this Crum-well-down!"

THE WHITE ROSE OVER THE WATER.

TH

(EDINBURGH.—1744.)

HE old men sat with hats pulled down,
Their claret cups before them:

Broad shadows hid their sullen eyes,
The tavern lamps shone o'er them,
As a brimming bowl, with crystal filled,

Came borne by the landlord's daughter,
Who wore in her bosom the fair white rose
That grew best over the water.

Then all leaped up, and joined their hands
With hearty clasp and greeting,
The brimming cups, outstretched by all,
Over the wide bowl meeting.

"A health," they cried, "to the witching eyes
Of Kate, the landlord's daughter!