The poetical works of Sir Walter Scott, baronet; ed with a careful revision of the text . d true, and freely born,Amends from Deloraine to crave. For foul despiteous scathe and sayeth that William of Deloraine Is traitor false by Border laws;This with his sword he will maintain. So help him God and his good cause! XX. SCOTTISH HERALD. Here standeth William of Deloraine,Good knight and true, of noble strain,Who sayeth that foul treasons stain,Since he bore arms, neer soiled his coat And that, so help him God above ! He will on Musgraves body proveHe lies most foully in his throat. 44 S
The poetical works of Sir Walter Scott, baronet; ed with a careful revision of the text . d true, and freely born,Amends from Deloraine to crave. For foul despiteous scathe and sayeth that William of Deloraine Is traitor false by Border laws;This with his sword he will maintain. So help him God and his good cause! XX. SCOTTISH HERALD. Here standeth William of Deloraine,Good knight and true, of noble strain,Who sayeth that foul treasons stain,Since he bore arms, neer soiled his coat And that, so help him God above ! He will on Musgraves body proveHe lies most foully in his throat. 44 SCOTTS POETICAL IVORKS. LORD DACRE. Forward, brave champions, to the fight!Sound trumpets ! LORD HOME. God defend the right! - Then, Teviot, how thine echoes rang,Wlicn bugle-sound and trumpet-clangLet loose the martial toes. In haste the holy friar sped ; —His naked foot was dyed with red, As through the lists he ran ;Unmindful of the shouts on highThat hailed the conquerors victory. He raised the dying man ;Loose waved his silver beard and oer him he kneeled down in praver:. tm-^ And in mid-list, with shield poised measured step and wary eye,The combatants did close ! Ill would it suit your gentle ear, Ve lovely listeners, to hear How to the axe the helms did sound, And blood poured down from many a wound :For desperate was the strife and either warrior fierce and , were each dame a listening knight,I well could tell how warriors fight;For I have seen wars lightning the claymore with bayonet clashing,Seen through red blood the war-horse dashing,And scorned, amid the reeling strife,To yield a step for death or life. XXII. T is done, t is done ! that fatal blow Has stretched him on the bloody plain;He strives to rise — brave Musgrave, no! Thence never shalt thou rise again !He chokes in blood — some friendly handUndo the visors barred the gorgets iron give him room for life to gasp ! —O, bootless aid
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