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 Whose foot-cloth swept the ground;
White was her wimple, and her veil,
And her loose locks a chaplet pale
 Of whitest roses bound;
The lordly Angus by her side,
In courtesy to cheer her tried;
Without his aid, her hand in vain
Had strove to guide her broidered rein.
He deemed she shuddered at the sight
Of warriors met for mortal fight;
But cause of terror, all unguessed,
Was fluttering in her gentle breast,
When in their chairs of crimson placed,
The Dame and she the barriers graced.

XVIII.
Prize of the field, the young Buccleuch,
An English knight led forth to view;
Scarce rued the boy his present plight,
So much he longed to see the fight.
Within the lists, in knightly pride,
High Home and haughty Dacre ride;