The lady Alice sits with her maidens in her bower;
The grey-haired warden watches on the castle’s highest tower.—
“What news, what news, old Anthony?”—“The field is lost and won,
The ranks of war are melting as the mists beneath the sun;
And a wounded man speeds hither,—I am old and cannot see,
Or sure I am that sturdy step my master’s step should be.”—
“I bring thee back the standard from as rude and rough a fray,
As e’er was proof of soldier’s thews, or theme for minstrel’s lay,
Bid Hubert fetch the silver bowl, and liquor quantum suff:
I’ll make a shift to drain it, ere I part with boot and buff;
Though Guy through many a gaping wound is breathing out his life,
And I come to thee a landless man, my fond and faithful wife!
“Sweet, we will fill our money-bags, and freight a ship for France,
And mourn in merry Paris for this poor realm’s mischance;
Or, if the worse betide me, why, better axe or rope,
Than life with Lenthal for a king, and Peters for a pope!
Alas, alas, my gallant Guy! out on the crop-eared boor,
That sent me with my standard on foot from Marston Moor!”
THE COVENANTER’S LAMENT FOR BOTHWELL BRIDGE.
The men of sin prevail!
Once more the prince of this world lifts his horn;
Judah is scattered, as the chaff is borne
Before the stormy gale.
Where are our brethren? where
The good and true, the terrible and fleet?
They whom we loved, with whom we sat at meat,
With whom we kneeled in prayer?
Mangled and marred they lie
Upon the bloody pillow of their rest;
Stern Dalzell smiles, and Clavers with a jest
Spurs his fierce charger by.
So let our foes rejoice;
We to the Lord, who hears their impious boasts,
Will call for comfort; to the God of hosts
We will lift up our voice.
Give ear unto our song;
For we are wandering o’er our native land
As sheep that have no shepherd; and the hand
Of wicked men is strong.
Only to Thee we bow:
Our lips have drained the fury of Thy cup;
And the deep murmurs of our hearts go up
To Heaven for vengeance now.