And now old Milfield’s town they gain,
And reach dark Flodden’s dreary plain,
Where, in full cry, and all abreast,
The hounds the wily villain pressed:
The Goblin Groom still keeps his place,
And glories in the varying chace;
No demi volte, nor demi air;
No high curvett, nor terre-a-terre;
No hand to guide the gay croupade,
Nor heel to aid the balotade;
No capriole his skill to shew;
He these disdained, with pas et saut.[12]
Stiff on his stirrups, standing now,
He scorns to touch the saddle bow;
His elbows squared, and head awry,
As if he rode a race;
But none might know, for none might spy,
The Goblin’s spell-bound face:
For were he sprite, or were he fay,
He only shewed his back that day.
XXI.
And now the Fox is losing ground;
Now strains his speed each eager hound;
Now at his brush the foremost prest;
Now at his side, now at his breast;
And now despair o’ercoming fright,
The crafty Fox turns round to fight;
But soon by numbers overthrown,
He yields his life without a groan.
Thus fell the Fox, and, hate aside,
We’ll say, at least, he nobly died.
XXII.
Down from his Poney jumped the Elf,
When, lo! the Poney disappeared;
And now the Goblin Groom himself
Has ta’en the brush, the hounds has cheered;
Has bowed his head to Chiviot gray,
And vanished from the light of day:
And when the distanced horsemen neared
The bloody scene on Flodden’s plain,
No vestige of the Elf appeared;
The Poney too, was sought in vain.
Loud howled each hound; I will presume
They howled at loss of Goblin Groom;
And well they might, for such a fay
Ne’er rode before on hunting day;
And hounds, like ladies fair, I’m told,
Dote on the daring and the bold;
And than the Goblin, we’ll agree,
A bolder there could never be.
XXIII.
On Flodden’s field there stands a bush,
A willow bush where sedges grow,
The fav’rite haunt of Friar Rush:[13]
This bush the neighb’ring shepherds know:
’Twas here the hounds had killed their prey,
And vanished here the Goblin fay;
And, even to this very day,
The passing shepherd calls the bush,
The Winning-Post of Friar Rush;
And, therefore, I may well presume,
That Friar Rush was Goblin Groom.
XXIV.
I do not rhyme to that dull clown
That has no fancy of his own;
Who thinks on Flodden’s dreary plain
The wearied hunters still remain,
Because not mentioned in my strain;
Who cannot figure in his mind,
That they returned to Dunse and dined;
That flowing bumpers then went round
To every horse, to every hound;
That e’en midst jokes, and converse hot.
The Goblin Groom was not forgot;
And that they sat ’twixt hope and fear,
To see his Elfin form appear;
And that they drank, with honours due,
In three times three, the bold B— —h;
And midst the wassel-wine and cheer,
They thought on D— —h’s noble Peer;
And crowned in bowls of rosy wine,
The whole of that illustrious line.