The poetical works of Sir Walter Scott, baronet; ed with a careful revision of the text . eDun wreaths of distant smoke can spy,Which, curling in the rising sun,Showed Southern ravage was begun. Now loud the heedful gate-ward cried: Prepare ye all for blows and blood !Watt Tinlinn, from the Liddel-side,Comes wading through the oft the Tynedale snatchers knockAt his lone gate and prove the lock;It was but last Saint BarnabrightThey sieged him a whole summer night,But fled at morning; well they knew,In vain he never twanged the sharp has been the evening showerThat drove him
The poetical works of Sir Walter Scott, baronet; ed with a careful revision of the text . eDun wreaths of distant smoke can spy,Which, curling in the rising sun,Showed Southern ravage was begun. Now loud the heedful gate-ward cried: Prepare ye all for blows and blood !Watt Tinlinn, from the Liddel-side,Comes wading through the oft the Tynedale snatchers knockAt his lone gate and prove the lock;It was but last Saint BarnabrightThey sieged him a whole summer night,But fled at morning; well they knew,In vain he never twanged the sharp has been the evening showerThat drove him from his Liddel tower ;And, by my faith, the gate-ward said, I think twill prove a Warden-Raid. While thus he spoke, the bold yeomanEntered the echoing led a small and shaggy nag,That through a bog, from hag to bound like any Billhope bore his wife and children twain:A half-clothed serf was all their train :His wife, stout, ruddy, and dark-browed,Of silver brooch and bracelet proud,Laughed to her friends among the crowd. THE LA Y OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 29. He was of stature passing sparely formed and lean withal:A battered morion on his brow;A leathern jack, as fence enow,On his broad shoulders loosely hung;A Border axe behind was slung; His spear, six Scottish ells in length,Seemed newly dyed with gore : His shafts and bow, of wondrous strength,His hardy partner bore. to the Ladye did Tinlinn showThe tidings of the English foe : Belted Will Howard is marching here,And hot Lord Dacre, with many a spear,And all the German hackbut-menWho have long lain at crossed the Liddel at curfew hour,And burned my little lonely tower —The fiend receive their souls therefor !It had not been burnt this year and and dwelling, blazing bright,Served to guide me on my flight,But I was chased the livelong John of Akeshaw and Fergus GraemeFast upon my traces came,Until I turned at Priesthaugh Scrogg,And shot the
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Keywords: ., bookauthorrolfewjw, bookcentury1800, bookdecade1880, bookyear1888
