God be his aid; and God be mine:
Through me no friend shall meet his doom;
Here, while I live, no foe finds room.’
Proud she looked round, applause to claim;
Then lightened Thirlstane’s eye of flame;
His bugle Watt of Harden blew.
Pensils[7] and pennons wide were flung,
To heaven the Border slogan rung,
‘St. Mary, for the young Buccleugh.’ ”
Let us stop here to consider what good there may be in all this for us. The last line, “St. Mary for the young Buccleugh,” probably sounds absurd enough to you. You have nothing whatever to do, you think, with either of these personages. You don’t care for any St. Mary; and still less for any, either young or old, Buccleugh?