So the Minstrel opens the Second Canto of his Lay, which tells how Sir William of Deloraine found the monk of St. Mary's aisle, who had spent three score years in penance for what he had known of the black art; how the monk and the knight waited in the dim chancel till the moon, when the bell tolled one on Michaelmas night, marked the grave of the great wizard, Michael Scott, by throwing from a window the red image of a cross. There Michael's friend of olden days, the monk, had buried him, with his book of magic in his hand, there buried never to be seen again by man, "save at his chief of Branksome's need." The stone was lifted, a sepulchral light streamed up, the wizard was seen, as if newly dead, holding the magic book, and back with the book William of Deloraine rode through the morning light. On the same morning, at Branksome, the fair Margaret had stolen out to meet, under the hawthorn boughs,

'Twas said when the Baron a-hunting rode
Through Reedsdale's glens, but rarely trod,
He heard a voice cry, "Lost! lost! lost!"
And, like tennis ball by racquet toss'd,
A leap, of thirty feet and three,
Made from the gorse, this elfin shape,
Distorted like some dwarfish ape,

And lighted at Lord Cranstoun's knee.

No speed of horse could escape him. He was first at Lord Cranstoun's door, and was in no way to be got rid of.

Little he ate, and less he spoke,

Nor mingled with the menial flock;
And oft apart his arms he toss'd,
And often muttered, "Lost! lost! lost!"
He was waspish, arch, and litherlie,
But well Lord Cranstoun served he:
And he of his service was full fain;
For once he had been ta'en or slain
An' it had not been for his ministry.
All between Home and Hermitage
Talk'd of Lord Cranstoun's Goblin Page.1

1 The story of Gilpin Horner, the original of Scott's Goblin, is that two men were fastening their horses for the night in Eskdale Muir,

The page heard sound of coming danger, and at his warning the lovers parted. A draught of wine cheered the Minstrel when his voice became faint in the closing of his Second Canto.

The attending maidens smiled to see
How long, how deep, how zealously
The precious juice the Minstrel quaff'd;
And he, emboldened by the draught,
Looked gaily back to them and laugh'd.
The cordial nectar of the bowl

Swell'd his old veins, and cheer'd his soul:

A lighter, livelier prelude ran,

Ere thus his tale again began.

CANTO III.

I.

And said I that my limbs were old,
And said I that my blood was cold,
And that my kindly fire was fled,
And my poor wither'd heart was dead,
And that I might not sing of love!-
How could I, to the dearest theme
That ever warm'd a minstrel's dream,

So foul, so false a recreant prove! How could I name love's very name, Nor wake my heart to notes of flame !

II.

In peace, Love tunes the shepherd's reed;
In war, he mounts the warrior's steed;
In halls, in gay attire is seen;

In hamlets dances on the green.

Love rules the court, the camp, the grove, And men below, and saints above;

For love is heaven, and heaven is love.

So may Lord Cranstoun have thought, as he rode through the wood from his tryst with Margaret, till the shrill shout of his page warned him to don his helmet and look to his arms, for William of Deloraine, as he sped back from Melrose, came suddenly upon him.

Few were the words, and stern and high, That marked the foemen's feudal hate; For question fierce, and proud reply, Gave signal soon of dire debate.

Deloraine fell in the conflict, pierced by Cranstoun's spear, and was left to the care of the page, who was

when they heard a voice in the distance crying, "Tint! tint! tint!" ("Lost! lost! lost!"). One of the men cried, "What de'il has tint you? Come here!" Immediately a little misshapen being came. The men ran away, but the imp followed, and was at the farmhouse door at Todshaw Hill before them. It lived in the house, ate and drank, and was mischievous. Once, when it had been teasing a child, the child's father knocked it down with a blow on the side of the head. It was up again directly, saying, "Ah, ha! Will o' Moffat, you strike sair!" After a long stay in the farm, one evening at milking time it was playing with the children in the lane, when a loud voice was heard to cry three times, "Gilpin Horner!" It said, "That's me. I must away," instantly disappeared, and was never again heard of. While at the farm, it was often calling upon "Peter Bertram," or, as he pronounced it, "Be-teram," and some say he acknowledged that it was Be-teram who called him. Peter Bertram was, therefore, no doubt, the name of the de'il that had tint him.

to staunch the wound, stay by the warrior, and lead him back to Branksome Castle gate.

Away in speed Lord Cranstoun rode;
The Goblin Page behind abode;
His lord's command he ne'er withstood,
Though small the pleasure to do good.
As the corselet off he took,

The dwarf espied the mighty book.
Much he marvell'd a knight of pride,

Like a book-bosom'd priest should ride:

He thought not to search or staunch the wound,
Until the secret he had found.
The iron band, the iron clasp,
Resisted long the elfin grasp;
For when the first he had undone,

It closed as he the next begun.
Those iron clasps, that iron band,
Would not yield to unchristened hand,
Till he smeared the cover o'er
With the Borderer's curdled gore;
A moment then the volume spread,
And one short spell therein he read.
It had much of glamour might,
Could make a ladye seem a knight;
The cobwebs on a dungeon wall
Seem tapestry in lordly hall;

A nut-shell seem a gilded barge,

A shieling seem a palace large,

And youth seem age, and age seem youth

All was delusion, nought was truth.

He had not read another spell,

When on his cheek a buffet fell,
So fierce it stretched him on the plain,
Beside the wounded Deloraine.
From the ground he rose dismay'd,
And shook his huge and matted head;
One word he mutter'd, and no more-
"Man of age, thou smitest sore!"
No more the elfin page durst try
Into the wondrous book to pry :

The clasps, though smeared with Christian gore,
Shut faster than they were before.

He hid it underneath his cloak,—

Now, if you ask who gave the stroke,

I cannot tell, so mot I thrive;

It was not given by man alive.

The Dwarf laid the wounded knight on his horse, and when he entered Branksome Hall with him, there seemed only to pass a wain of hay. The Dwarf took the knight to the Lady of Branksome's door, there flung him on the ground.

As he repassed the outer court

He spied the fair young child at sport;
He thought to train him to the wood;
For, at a word, be it understood,
He was always for ill, and never for good.
Seemed to the boy, some comrade gay
Led him forth to the woods to play;
On the drawbridge, the warders stout
Saw a terrier and lurcher passing out.

The brave boy lost in the wood was found by scouts of an English border force advancing towards Branksome, and taken to Lord Dacre, while the Dwarf, entering Branksome again in the shape of the lost child, represented him as spiteful, wilful, and a coward. The Lady of Branksome tried her spells upon the wounded knight, and left him in trance for a night and day, from which he should rise healed. At evening, when Margaret sat alone on the turret looking towards the western star, a star seemed to rise over Penchryst Pen that spread into flame, and The warriors proved to be the beacon blaze of war.

were roused by the warder with a trumpet blast. More beacons blazed. Scouts were sent out, some to observe the enemy, and more to summon friends. The Third Canto of the Lay rings with the note of border strife. In the Fourth Canto all are astir. Wat Tinlinn from the Liddel side is driven in to Branksome with his wife and his two children, and he brings tidings of the English foe.

"Belted Will Howard is marching here,
And hot Lord Dacre, with many a spear,
And all the German hackbut men,
Who have long lain at Askerten:
They crossed the Liddel at curfew hour,
And burnt my little lonely bower;
The fiend receive their soul therefore!

It had not been burnt this year and more.'

Clans gathered to the rescue, while the Page in figure of the Lady's child shrieked with apparent fear of battle.

Then wrathful was the noble dame;

She blushed blood-red for very shame :-
"Hence! ere the clan his faintness view;
Hence with the weakling to Buccleuch!—
Wat Tinlinn, thou shalt be his guide
To Rangle burn's lonely side.
Sure some fell fiend has cursed our line,
That coward should e'er be son of mine!"

A heavy task Watt Tinlinn had,
To guide the counterfeited lad.
Soon as the palfrey felt the weight
Of that ill-omened elfish freight,
He bolted, sprung, and reared amain,
Nor heeded bit, nor curb, nor rein.
It cost Watt Tinlinn mickle toil
To drive him but a Scottish mile;

But as a shallow brook they crossed,
The elf, amid the running stream,
His figure changed, like form in dream,

And fled, and shouted "Lost! lost! lost!"

Watt of Tinlinn sent an arrow after him, and as he rode back to Branksome he came upon the full march of the English border army.

The white-bearded seneschal from Branksome, with peeled willow wand in sign of truce, rode forth to ask why, against truce of the border, war was levied. Howard replied that if the Lady came to the outer wall of the castle

"Our pursuivant-at-arms shall show Both why we come, and when we go."

The Lady of Branksome came to the outer wall, and the pursuivant advanced, leading her boy by the hand. War was provoked, he said, by her lawcontemning kinsmen.

"We claim from thee William of Deloraine,

That he may suffer march-treason pain;
It was but last St. Cuthbert's even
He pricked to Stapleton on Leven,
Harried the lands of Richard Musgrave,
And slew his brother by dint of glaive.
Then since a lone and widowed dame
These restless riders may not tame,
Either receive within thy towers
Two hundred of my master's powers,
Or straight they sound their warrison,
And storm and spoil thy garrison;
And this fair boye to London led,

Shall good King Edward's page be bred."

In reply the Lady offered that William of Deloraine should cleanse himself by oath or by single combat with Musgrave. Such terms were refused, and again the stir of battle fills the song. But a breathless horseman brought word to the English that they were followed and hemmed in, all retreat cut off, by "And let them come !" fierce a great Scottish force. Dacre cried, but the wiser Howard counselled that the Lady's terms be accepted before those in the castle knew how near they were to rescue.

"Let Musgrave meet fierce Deloraine

In single fight, and if he gain,

He gains for us; but if he's crossed

"Tis but a single warrior lost;

The rest retreating as they came,

Avoid defeat, and death, and shame."

The single combat, on foot, with Scottish axe and knife, was fixed for the next morning. If Musgrave If fell the child would be restored to his mother. Musgrave prevailed the child would be taken as a hostage to the English court.

In the fifth chant of the Minstrel's Lay the hostile armies meet, with sudden change from war to peace.

Visors were raised, and faces shown

And many a friend to friend made known,

Partook of social cheer.

Some drove the jolly bowl about;

With dice and draughts some chased the day; And some with many a merry shout,

In riot, revelry, and rout,

Pursued the foot-ball play.

Then followed revelry in Branksome Hall, and the quiet of night, when sleepless Margaret, looking down into the inner court, saw Lord Henry of Cranstoun pass below.

Yet was his hazard small; for well You may bethink you of the spell

Whose heart hath ne'er within him burn'd, As home his footsteps he hath turn'd

From wandering on a foreign strand? If such there breathe, go, mark him well; For him no minstrel raptures swell; High though his titles, proud his name, Boundless his wealth as wish can claim; Despite those titles, power, and pelf, The wretch, concentred all in self, Living, shall forfeit fair renown, And, doubly dying, shall go down

To the vile dust, from whence he sprung, Unwept, unhonour'd, and unsung.

II.

O Caledonia! stern and wild,
Meet nurse for a poetic child!

Land of brown heath and shaggy wood,
Land of the mountain and the flood,
Land of my sires! what mortal hand
Can e'er untie the filial band

That knits me to thy rugged strand!
Still, as I view each well-known scene,
Think what is now, and what hath been,
Seems as, to me, of all bereft,

Sole friends thy woods and streams were left;
And thus I love them better still,
Even in extremity of ill.

By Yarrow's streams still let me stray,
Though none should guide my feeble way;
Still feel the breeze down Ettrick break,
Although it chill my wither'd cheek;
Still lay my head by Teviot Stone,
Though there, forgotten and alone,
The Bard may draw his parting groan.

The last chant tells of the wedding festival in Branksome Hall, tells how the malicious Page sought to stir strife, and recites songs of the bards. As the last bard was singing, darkness gathered until each one could scarcely see his neighbour's face.

A secret horror checked the feast,
And chilled the soul of every guest;
Even the high dame stood half aghast,
She knew some evil on the blast;

The elvish page fell to the ground,

And shuddering, muttered, "Found! found! found!"

XXV.

Then sudden, through the darken'd air

A flash of lightning came;

So broad, so bright, so red the glare,
The castle seem'd on flame.

Glanced every rafter of the hall,
Glanced every shield upon the wall;
Each trophied beam, each sculptured stone,
Were instant seen, and instant gone;
Full through the guests' bedazzled band
Resistless flash'd the levin-brand,

And fill'd the hall with smouldering smoke,
As on the elvish page it broke.

It broke with thunder long and loud, Dismay'd the brave, appall'd the proud— From sea to sea the larum rung;

On Berwick wall, and at Carlisle withal, To arms the startled warders sprung. When ended was the dreadful roar, The elvish dwarf was seen no more!

XXVI

Some heard a voice in Branksome Hall,
Some saw a sight not seen by all;
That dreadful voice was heard by some,
Cry, with loud summons, "GYLBIN, COME!
And on the spot where burst the brand,
Just where the page had flung him down,
Some saw an arm, and some a hand,

And some the waving of a gown.
The guests in silence prayed and shook,
And terror dimm'd each lofty look.
But none of all the astonished train
Was so dismay'd as Deloraine:
His blood did freeze, his brain did burn,
"Twas fear'd his mind would ne'er return;
For he was speechless, ghastly, wan,
Like him of whom the story ran,
Who spoke the spectre-hound in Man.
At length, by fits, he darkly told,
With broken hint, and shuddering cold,
That he had seen right certainly

A shape with amice wrapp'd around,
With a wrought Spanish baldric bound,

Like pilgrim from beyond the sea;
And knew-but how it matter'd not-
It was the wizard, Michael Scott.

XXVII.

The anxious crowd, with horror pale,
All trembling heard the wondrous tale;
No sound was made, no word was spoke,
Till noble Angus silence broke ;

And he a solemn sacred plight
Did to St. Bride of Douglas make,
That he a pilgrimage would take
To Melrose Abbey, for the sake

Of Michael's restless sprite.
Then each, to ease his troubled breast,
To some bless'd saint his prayers address'd:
Some to St. Modan made their vows,

Some to St. Mary of the Lowes,
Some to the Holy Rood of Lisle,

Some to our Ladye of the Isle ;

Each did his patron witness make
That he such pilgrimage would take,

And monks should sing, and bells should toll,
All for the weal of Michael's soul.

While vows were ta'en, and prayers were pray'd, "Tis said the noble dame, dismay'd, Renounced, for aye, dark magic's aid.

XXVIII.

Nought of the bridal will I tell,

Which after in short space befell:

Nor how brave sons and daughters fair

Bless'd Teviot's Flower, and Cranstoun's heir:
After such dreadful scene, 'twere vain

To wake the note of mirth again.
More meet it were to mark the day
Of penitence, and prayer divine,
When pilgrim chiefs, in sad array,
Sought Melrose' holy shrine.