The grey-hair'd sires, who know the past, To strangers point the Douglas-cast, And moralize on the decay Of Scottish strength in modern day. XXIV. The vale with loud applauses rang, The Ladies' Rock sent back the clang. The King, with look unmoved, bestow'd A purse well-fill'd with pieces broad. Indignant smiled the Douglas proud, And threw the gold among the crowd, Who now, with anxious wonder, scan, And sharper glance, the dark grey man; Till whispers rose among the throng, To see his hair with silver spread; The youth with awe and wonder saw known! XXV. The Monarch saw the gambols flag, And bade let loose a gallant stag, Whose pride, the holiday to crown, Two favourite greyhounds should pull down, That venison free, and Bourdeaux wine, Might serve the archery to dine. sport By strange intruder broken short, And last, and worst to spirit proud, name Of Lufra, Ellen's image came. XXVI. Then clamour'd loud the royal train, And brandish'd swords and staves amain. But stern the Baron's warning'Back! Back, on your lives, ye menial pack! Beware the Douglas. Yes! behold, King James! the Douglas, doom'd of old, And vainly sought for near and far, 'Of thy mis-proud ambitious clan, 'And bid our horsemen clear the ground.' XXVII. Then uproar wild and misarray Repell'd by threats and insult loud; The hardier urge tumultuous war. XXVIII. 'Hear, gentle friends! ere yet for me, Ye break the bands of fealty. My life, my honour, and my cause, For me in kindred gore are red; XXIX. The crowd's wild fury sunk again As if behind some bier beloved, XXX. The offended Monarch rode apart, With bitter thought and swelling heart, And would not now vouchsafe again Through Stirling streets to lead his train. 'O Lennox, who would wish to rule This changeling crowd, this common fool? Hear'st thou,' he said, 'the loud acclaim, With which they shout the Douglas name? With like acclaim, the vulgar throat Strain'd for King James their morning note; With like acclaim they hail'd the day XXXI. 'But soft! what messenger of speed Spurs hitherward his panting steed? I guess his cognizance afar What from our cousin, John of Mar?' 'He prays, my liege, your sports keep bound Within the safe and guarded ground: To break their muster march'd, and soon Your grace will hear of battle fought; XXXII. Thou warn'st me I have done amiss; I should have earlier look'd to this: I lost it in this bustling day. Retrace with speed thy former way; Spare not for spoiling of thy steed, The best of mine shall be thy meed. Say to our faithful Lord of Mar, We do forbid the intended war: Roderick, this morn, in single fight, Was made our prisoner by a knight; And Douglas hath himself and cause Submitted to our kingdom's laws. The tidings of their leaders lost Will soon dissolve the mountain host, Nor would we that the vulgar feel, Fortheir Chief's crimes, avenging steel. Bear Mar our message, Braco: fly!' He turn'd his steed,- 'My liege, I hie, Yet, ere I cross this lily lawn, I fear the broadswords will be drawn.' The turf the flying courser spurn'd, And to his towers the King return'd. XXXIII. Ill with King James's mood, that day, And busy talkers said they bore Canto Sixth. The Guard-Room. I. THE sun, awakening, through the smoky air Of the dark city casts a sullen glance, Rousing each caitiff to his task of care, Of sinful man the sad inheritance; Summoning revellers from the lagging dance, Scaring the prowling robber to his den; Gilding on battled tower the warder's lance, And warning student pale to leave his pen, And yield his drowsy eyes to the kind nurse of men. What various scenes, and, O! what scenes of woe, Are witness'd by that red and struggling beam! The fever'd patient, from his pallet low, Through crowded hospital beholds its stream; The ruin'd maiden trembles at its gleam, The debtor wakes to thought of gyve and jail, The love-lorn wretch starts from tormenting dream; II. At dawn the towers of Stirling rang With soldier-step and weapon-clang, While drums, with rolling note, foretell Relief to weary sentinel. Through narrow loop and casement barr'd, The sunbeams sought the Court of And, struggling with the smoky air, The lights through arch of blacken'd stone, And show'd wild shapes in garb of war, Faces deform'd with beard and scar, All haggard from the midnight watch, And fever'd with the stern debauch; For the oak table's massive board, Flooded with wine, with fragments stored, And beakers drain'd, and cups o'erthrown, Show'd in what sport the night had flown. Some, weary, snored on floor and bench; Some labour'd still their thirst to quench; Some, chill'd with watching, spread their hands O'er the huge chimney's dying brands, While round them, or beside them flung, At every step their harness rung. III. These drew not for their fields the sword, Like tenants of a feudal lord, Nor own'd the patriarchal claim The wakeful mother, by the glim- To live by battle which they loved. mering pale, Trims her sick infant's couch, and soothes his feeble wail. 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 show'd French and Ger man name; And merry England's exiles came, 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 marr'd the dicer's brawling sport, 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 black-jack, 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, Staid in mid-roar the merry shout. |