No tidings of the foe were brought,
Nor of their numbers knew they aught,

Nor in what time the truce he sought.

Some said, that there were thousands ten;

And others ween'd that it was nought

But Leven Clans, or Tynedale men,

Who came to gather in black-mail ;*
And Liddesdale, with small avail,

Might drive them lightly back agen.
So pass'd the anxious night away,
And welcome was the peep of day.

CEASED the high sound. The list'ning throng
Applaud the Master of the Song;

And marvel much, in helpless age,
So hard should be his pilgrimage.

* Protection-money, exacted by free-booters.

Had he no friend—no daughter dear,

His wandering toil to share and cheer;

No son, to be his father's stay,

And guide him on the rugged way ?—
"Ay, once he had-but he was dead!”—
Upon the harp he stoop'd his head,

And busied himself the strings withal,
To hide the tear that fain would fall.

In solemn measure, soft and slow,
Arose a father's notes of woe.

THE

LAY

OF

THE LAST MINSTREL.

CANTO FOURTH.

I.

SWEET Teviot! on thy silver tide

The glaring bale-fires blaze no more;

No longer steel-clad warriors ride

Along thy wild and willow'd shore; Where'er thou wind'st, by dale or hill, All, all is peaceful, all is still,