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Spurns with black hoof and horn the sand,
And tosses high his mane of snow.
Aim'd well, the Chieftain's lance has flown ;
Struggling in blood the savage lies; His roar is sunk in hollow groan
Sound, merry huntsmen ! sound the pryse !
'Tis noon—against the knotted oak
The hunters rest the idle spear;
Where yeomen dight the woodland cheer.
Proudly the Chieftain mark'd his clan
On greenwood lap all careless thrown, Yet miss'd his eye the boldest man
That bore the name of Hamilton.
“Why fills not Bothwellhaugh his place,
Still wont our weal and woe to share ? Why comes he not our sport to grace ?
Why shares he not our hunter's fare?”.
Stern Claud replied with darkening face,
(Grey Pasley's haughty lord was he,) “At merry feast, or buxom chace,
No more the warrior shalt thou see.
“Few suns have set since Woodhouselee
Saw Bothwellhaugh's bright goblets foam, When to his hearths, in social glee,
The war-worn soldier turn'd him home.
“There, wan from her maternal throes,
His Margaret, beautiful and mild, Sate in her bower, a pallid rose,
And peaceful nursed her new-born child.
“O change accurs'd! past are those days ;
False Murray's ruthless spoilers came, And for the hearth's domestic blaze
Ascends destruction's volumed flame.
“What sheeted phantom wanders wild,
Where mountain Eske through woodland flows ?