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And said that she would die a maid—
Yet, might the bloody feud be stayed,
Henry of Cranstoun, and only he,
Margaret of Branksome's choice should be.
Yet, might the bloody feud be stayed,
Henry of Cranstoun, and only he,
Margaret of Branksome's choice should be.
XXX.
Alas! fair dames, your hopes are vain!
My harp has lost the enchanting strain;
Its lightness would my age reprove:
My hairs are gray, my limbs are old,
My heart is dead, my veins are cold—
I may not, must not, sing of love.
Alas! fair dames, your hopes are vain!
My harp has lost the enchanting strain;
Its lightness would my age reprove:
My hairs are gray, my limbs are old,
My heart is dead, my veins are cold—
I may not, must not, sing of love.
XXXI.
Beneath an oak, mossed o'er by eld,
The Baron's dwarf his courser held,
And held his crested helm and spear.
That dwarf was scarce an earthly man,
If the tales were true that of him ran
Through all the Border, far and near.
Beneath an oak, mossed o'er by eld,
The Baron's dwarf his courser held,
And held his crested helm and spear.
That dwarf was scarce an earthly man,
If the tales were true that of him ran
Through all the Border, far and near.
