Yet was his helmet hack'd and hew'd,
His acton pierc'd and tore;
His axe and his dagger with blood embrued,
But it was not English gore.
He lighted at the Chapellage,
He held him close and still;
And he whistled thrice for his little foot-page,
His name was English Will.
"Come thou hither, my little foot-page;
"Come hither to my knee;
"Though thou art young, and tender of age,
"I think thou art true to me.
"Come, tell me all that thou hast seen,
"And look thou tell me true!
"Since I from Smaylho'me tower have been,
"What did thy lady do?"
"My lady, each night, sought the lonely light,
"That burns on the wild Watchfold;
"For, from height to height, the beacons bright
"Of the English foemen told.
"The bittern clamour'd from the moss,
"The wind blew loud and shrill;
"Yet the craggy pathway she did cross,
"To the eiry Beacon Hill.
"I watched her steps, and silent came
"Where she sat her on a stone;
"No watchman stood by the dreary flame;
"It burned all alone.
"The second night I kept her in sight,
"Till to the fire she came,
"And, by Mary's might! an armed Knight
"Stood by the lonely flame.
"And many a word that warlike lord
"Did speak to my lady there;
"But the rain fell fast, and loud blew the blast,
"And I heard not what they were.
"The third night there the sky was fair,
"And the mountain-blast was still,
"As again I watched the secret pair,
"On the lonesome Beacon Hill.