As mighty as yon Chief may claim,
Gracing my pomp, behind me came.
Yet trust me, Malcolm, not so proud
Was I of all that marshal’d crowd,
Though the waned crescent[134] own’d my might,
And in my train troop’d lord and knight,
Though Blantyre[135] hymn’d her holiest lays,
And Bothwell’s bards flung back my praise,
As when this old man’s silent tear,
And this poor maid’s affection dear,