Death follows. Carnage sits upon his crest—
Fate on his sword is throned—and his white barb,
As a proud courser of Apollo’s chariot,
Seems breathing fire.
Potter, Æschylus.
Oh! bonnie looked my ain true knight,
His barb so proudly reining;
I watched him till my tearfu’ sight
Grew amaist dim wi’ straining.
Border Minstrelsy.