The fever'd patient, from his pallet low,

Through crowded hospital beholds its stream; The ruin'd maiden trembles at its gleam,

The debtor wakes to thought of gyve and jail, The love-lorn wretch starts from tormenting

dream;

The wakeful mother, by the glimmering pale, Trims her sick infant's couch, and soothes his feeble wail.

II.

At dawn the towers of Stirling rang
With soldier-step and weapon-clang,
While drums, with rolling note, foretell
Relief to weary sentinel.

Through narrow loop and casement barr'd,1
The sunbeams sought the Court of Guard,
And, struggling with the smoky air,
Deaden'd the torches' yellow glare.
In comfortless alliance shone 2

The lights through arch of blacken'd stone,
And show'd wild shapes in garb of war,
Faces deform'd with beard and scar,
All haggard from the midnight watch,
And fever'd with the stern debauch;
For the oak table's massive board,
Flooded with wine, with fragments stored,

1 [MS.-" "Through blacken'd arch and casement barr'd."]

2

[MS.-"
-"The lights in strange alliance shone

Beneath the arch of blacken'd stone."]

And beakers drain'd, and cups o'erthrown,

Show'd in what sport the night had flown.
Some, weary, snored on floor and bench;
Some labour'd still their thirst to quench;
Some, chill'd with watching, spread their hands
O'er the huge chimney's dying brands,
While round them, or beside them flung,
At every step their harness rung.

III.

These drew not for their fields the sword,
Like tenants of a feudal lord,

Nor own'd the patriarchal claim
Of Chieftain in their leader's name;
Adventurers they, from far who roved,
To live by battle which they loved.1
There the Italian's clouded face,
The swarthy Spaniard's there you trace;
The mountain-loving Switzer there

More freely breathed in mountain-air ;

The Fleming there despised the soil,

That paid so ill the labourer's toil;

Their rolls show'd French and German name;
And merry England's exiles came,
To share, with ill-conceal'd disdain,
Of Scotland's pay the scanty gain.

All brave in arms, well train'd to wield
The heavy halberd, brand, and shield;

1 [See Appendix, Note P.]

In camps licentious, wild, and bold;
In pillage fierce and uncontroll'd;
And now, by holytide and feast,
From rules of discipline released.

IV.

They held debate of bloody fray,
Fought 'twixt Loch Katrine and Achray.
Fierce was their speech, and, 'mid their words,
Their hands oft grappled to their swords;

Nor sunk their tone to spare the ear
Of wounded comrades groaning near,
Whose mangled limbs, and bodies gored,
Bore token of the mountain sword,

Though, neighbouring to the Court of Guard,
Their prayers and feverish wails were heard;
Sad burden to the ruffian joke,

And savage oath by fury spoke!1
At length up-started John of Brent,
A yeoman from the banks of Trent;
A stranger to respect or fear,

In

peace a chaser of the deer, In host a hardy mutineer, But still the boldest of the crew,

When deed of danger was to do.

He grieved, that day, their games cut short,
And marr'd the dicer's brawling sport,

1 [MS.-" Sad burden to the ruffian jest,

And rude oaths vented by the rest."]

And shouted loud, "Renew the bowl!
And, while a merry catch I troll,

Let each the buxom chorus bear,
Like brethren of the brand and spear."

V.

SOLDIER'S SONG.

Our vicar still preaches that Peter and Poule Laid a swinging long curse on the bonny brown

bowl,

That there's wrath and despair in the jolly black

jack,

And the seven deadly sins in a flagon of sack;
Yet whoop, Barnaby! off with thy liquor,
Drink upsees1 out, and a fig for the vicar!

Our vicar he calls it damnation to sip
The ripe ruddy dew of a woman's dear lip,

Says, that Beelzebub lurks in her kerchief so sly, And Apollyon shoots darts from her merry black eye;

Yet whoop, Jack! kiss Gillian the quicker,
Till she bloom like a rose, and a fig for the vicar!

Our vicar thus preaches-and why should he not?

For the dues of his cure are the placket and

pot;

1 Bacchanalian interjection, borrowed from the Dutch.

And 'tis right of his office poor laymen to lurch, Who infringe the domains of our good Mother Church.

Yet whoop, bully-boys! off with your liquor, Sweet Marjorie's the word, and a fig for the vicar!1

VI.

The warder's challenge, heard without,
Staid in mid-roar the merry shout.
A soldier to the portal went,-

"Here is old Bertram, sirs, of Ghent;
And,-beat for jubilee the drum!

A maid and minstrel with him come."
Bertram, a Fleming, grey and scarr'd,
Was entering now the Court of Guard,
A harper with him, and in plaid
All muffled close, a mountain maid,
Who backward shrunk to 'scape the view
Of the loose scene and boisterous crew.
"What news?" they roar'd: "I only know,
From noon till eve we fought with foe,

1["The greatest blemish in the poem is the ribaldry and dull vulgarity which is put into the mouths of the soldiery in the guard-room. Mr. Scott has condescended to write a song for them, which will be read with pain, we are persuaded, even by his warmest admirers; and his whole genius, and even his power of versification, seems to desert him when he attempts to repeat their conversation. Here is some of the stuff which has dropped, in this inauspicious attempt, from the pen of one of the first poets of his age or country," &c. &c. JEFFREY.]