In busy life his cares beguiled, His heart was true, and fortune smiled. To see the matchless bard approved, And list the strains he once had loved. Two nights had passed, the bards had sungQueen Mary's harp from ceiling hung, On which was graved her lovely mold, Beset with crowns and flowers of gold; The youth had heard each minstrel's strain, And, fearing northern bard would gain, Not for himself, but friends he loved. Mary Scott. THE FOURTEENTH BARD'S SONG. Lord Pringle's steed neighs in the stall, His plumed helm hangs in the hall, No more his bugle's evening peal To drive the deer of Otterdale, Or foray on the Border side. Instead of hoop and battle knell, Of warrior's song, and revel free, Is heard the lute's voluptuous swell Within the halls of Torwoodlee. Sick lies his heart without relief; "Tis love that breeds the warrior's woe, For daughter of a froward chief, A freebooter, his mortal foe. But O, that maiden's form of grace, And eye of love, to him were dear! The smile that dimpled on her face Was deadlier than the Border spear. That form was not the poplar's stem, That smile the dawning's purple line; Nor was that eye the dazzling gem That glows adown the Indian mine. But would you praise the poplar pale, The fairest flower that woos the vale, Or down that clothes the solan's breast; P A thousand times beyond, above, What rapt enthusiast ever saw; Compare them to that mould of loveYoung Mary Scott of Tushilaw! The war-flame glows on Ettrick pen, And Tushilaw and all his men Have left their homes afar behind. O lady, lady, learn thy creed, And mark the watch-dog's boist'rous din ; The abbot comes with book and bead, And, lady, mark his locks so gray, And yet so stately is his mien, His step so firm, and breast so bold; His brawny leg and form, I ween, Are wonderous for a man so old. Short was his greeting, short and low, His blessing short as prayer could be; But oft he sighed, and boded woe, And spoke of sin and misery. To shrift, to shrift, now ladies all, Your prayers and Ave Marias learn; Haste, trembling, to the vesper hall, For ah! the priest is dark and stern. Short was the task of lady old, Short as confession well could be; The abbot's orisons were cold, His absolutions frank and free. |