Whose cheek is pale, whose eye-balls glare,
As one, some visioned sight that saw,
Whose hands are bloody, loose his hair?—
—'Tis he! 'tis he! 'tis Bothwellhaugh.
From gory selle,[98] and reeling steed,
Sprung the fierce horseman with a bound,
And, reeking from the recent deed,
He dashed his carbine on the ground.
Sternly he spoke—"'Tis sweet to hear
In good greenwood the bugle blown,
But sweeter to Revenge's ear,
To drink a tyrant's dying groan.
"Your slaughtered quarry proudly trod,
At dawning morn, o'er dale and down,
But prouder base-born Murray rode
Thro' old Linlithgow's crowded town.
"From the wild Border's humbled side,
"In haughty triumph, marched he,
"While Knox relaxed his bigot pride,
"And smiled, the traitorous pomp to see.
"But, can stern Power, with all his vaunt,
"Or Pomp, with all her courtly glare,
"The settled heart of Vengeance daunt,
"Or change the purpose of Despair?
"With hackbut bent[99], my secret stand,
"Dark as the purposed deed, I chose,
"And marked, where, mingling in his band,
"Troop'd Scottish pikes and English bows.
"Dark Morton, girt with many a spear,
"Murder's foul minion, led the van;
"And clashed their broad-swords in the rear,
"The wild Macfarlanes' plaided clan.
"Glencairn and stout Parkhead were nigh,
"Obsequious at their regent's rein,
"And haggard Lindesay's iron eye,
"That saw fair Mary weep in vain.
"Mid pennon'd spears, a steely grove,
"Proud Murray's plumage floated high;
"Scarce could his trampling charger move,
"So close the minions crowded nigh.