Walter Scott - Marmion

On active steed, with lance and blade,
The light-arm’d pricker plied his trade,-
Let nobles fight for fame;
Let vassals follow where they lead,
Burghers, to guard their townships, bleed,
But war’s the Borderer’s game.

Their gain, their glory, their delight,
To sleep the day, maraud the night,
O’er mountain, moss, and moor;
Joyful to fight they took their way,
Scarce caring who might win the day,
Their booty was secure.

These, as Lord Marmion’s train pass’d by,
Look’d on at first with careless eye,
Nor marvell’d aught, well taught to know
The form and force of English bow.

But when they saw the Lord array’d
In splendid arms, and rich brocade,
Each Borderer to his kinsman said,-
‘Hist, Ringan! seest thou there!
Canst guess which road they’ll homeward ride?-
O! could we but on Border side,
By Eusedale glen, or Liddell’s tide,
Beset a prize so fair!
That fangless Lion, too, their guide,
Might chance to lose his glistering hide;
Brown Maudlin, of that doublet pied,
Could make a kirtle rare.’

Next, Marmion marked the Celtic race,
Of different language, form, and face,
A various race of man;
Just then the Chiefs their tribes array’d,
And wild and garish semblance made,
The chequer’d trews, and belted plaid,
And varying notes the war-pipes bray’d,
To every varying clan,

Wild through their red or sable hair
Look’d out their eyes with savage stare,
On Marmion as he pass’d;
Their legs above the knee were bare;
Their frame was sinewy, short, and spare,
And harden’d to the blast;

Of taller race, the chiefs they own
Were by the eagle’s plumage known.
The hunted red-deer’s undress’d hide
Their hairy buskins well supplied;

The graceful bonnet deck’d their head:
Back from their shoulders hung the plaid;

A broadsword of unwieldy length,
A dagger proved for edge and strength,
A studded targe they wore,
And quivers, bows, and shafts,-but, O!
Short was the shaft, and weak the bow,
To that which England bore.

The Isles-men carried at their backs
The ancient Danish battle-axe.
They raised a wild and wondering cry,
As with his guide rode Marmion by.

Loud were their clamouring tongues, as when
The clanging sea-fowl leave the fen,
And, with their cries discordant mix’d,
Grumbled and yell’d the pipes betwixt.

Thus through the Scottish camp they pass’d,
And reach’d the City gate at last,
Where all around, a wakeful guard,
Arm’d burghers kept their watch and ward.

Well had they cause of jealous fear,
When lay encamp’d, in field so near,
The Borderer and the Mountaineer.

As through the bustling streets they go,
All was alive with martial show:
At every turn, with dinning clang,
The armourer’s anvil clash’d and rang;

Or toil’d the swarthy smith, to wheel
The bar that arms the charger’s heel;
Or axe, or falchion, to the side
Of jarring grindstone was applied.

Page, groom, and squire, with hurrying pace
Through street, and lane, and market-place,
Bore lance, or casque, or sword;
While burghers, with important face,
Described each new-come lord,

Discuss’d his lineage, told his name,
His following, and his warlike fame.

The Lion led to lodging meet,
Which high o’erlook’d the crowded street;
There must the Baron rest,
Till past the hour of vesper tide,
And then to Holy-Rood must ride,-
Such was the King’s behest.

Meanwhile the Lion’s care assigns
A banquet rich, and costly wines,
To Marmion and his train;
And when the appointed hour succeeds,
The Baron dons his peaceful weeds,
And following Lindesay as he leads,
The palace-halls they gain.

Old Holy-Rood rung merrily,
That night, with wassell, mirth, and glee:
King James within her princely bower
Feasted the Chiefs of Scotland’s power,
Summon’d to spend the parting hour;

For he had charged, that his array
Should southward march by break of day.
Well loved that splendid monarch aye
The banquet and the song,
By day the tourney, and by night
The merry dance, traced fast and light,
The maskers quaint, the pageant bright,
The revel loud and long.

This feast outshone his banquets past;
It was his blithest,-and his last.

The dazzling lamps, from gallery gay,
Cast on the Court a dancing ray;
Here to the harp did minstrels sing;
There ladies touched a softer string;

With long-ear’d cap, and motley vest,
The licensed fool retail’d his jest;
His magic tricks the juggler plied;
At dice and draughts the gallants vied;

While some, in close recess apart,
Courted the ladies of their heart,
Nor courted them in vain;
For often, in the parting hour,
Victorious Love asserts his power
O’er coldness and disdain;

And flinty is her heart, can view
To battle march a lover true-
Can hear, perchance, his last adieu,
Nor own her share of pain.

Through this mix’d crowd of glee and game,
The King to greet Lord Marmion came,
While, reverent, all made room.
An easy task it was, I trow,
King James’s manly form to know,
Although, his courtesy to show,
He doff’d, to Marmion bending low,
His broider’d cap and plume.

For royal was his garb and mien,
His cloak, of crimson velvet piled,
Trimm’d with the fur of marten wild;
His vest of changeful satin sheen,
The dazzled eye beguiled;
His gorgeous collar hung adown,
Wrought with the badge of Scotland’s crown,
The thistle brave, of old renown:
His trusty blade, Toledo right,
Descended from a baldric bright;

White were his buskins, on the heel
His spurs inlaid of gold and steel;

His bonnet, all of crimson fair,
Was button’d with a ruby rare:
And Marmion deem’d he ne’er had seen
A prince of such a noble mien.

The Monarch’s form was middle size;
For feat of strength, or exercise,
Shaped in proportion fair;
And hazel was his eagle eye,
And auburn of the darkest dye,
His short curl’d beard and hair.

Light was his footstep in the dance,
And firm his stirrup in the lists;
And, oh! he had that merry glance,
That seldom lady’s heart resists.

Lightly from fair to fair he flew,
And loved to plead, lament, and sue;-

Suit lightly won, and short-lived pain,
For monarchs seldom sigh in vain.
I said he joy’d in banquet bower;
But, ‘mid his mirth, ‘twas often strange,
How suddenly his cheer would change,
His look o’ercast and lower,

If, in a sudden turn, he felt
The pressure of his iron belt,
That bound his breast in penance pain,
In memory of his father slain.