And weary was his courser’s pace,
As he reached his rocky tower.
He came not from where Ancram Moor
Ran red with English blood;
Where the Douglas true, and the bold Buccleuch,
’Gainst keen Lord Evers stood.
Yet was his helmet hacked and hewed,
His acton pierced and tore,
His axe and his dagger with blood imbrued,—
But it was not English gore.