The Lay Of The Last Minstrel: Canto Iv. Poem Rhyme Scheme and Analysis

Rhyme Scheme: ABCBCDDEFFE AGHGHIIJAKJLLLMM ANONOPQRSAATT BUBUVVUUWWXXU TTYYYTTUUUZZA2TB2B2C 2CC2C HHD2STTXXCCUUUMMB2B2 UU HZZTUTUUUUZE2W HHUHUF2F2HHG2TTH2TTU U H2UTUUTXXUUZZUUUUH2H 2UUZZUUUU H2UZUZZZXXUUUUMMU UUZ XXTTXXUU H2H2H2B2B2UUTTT UUTTZZTTUUMMUUU H2TTUUU H2H2XXTU

IA
Sweet Teviot on thy silver tideB
The glaring bale fires blaze no moreC
No longer steel clad warrior rideB
Along thy wild and willow'd shoreC
Where'er thou wind'st by dale or hillD
All all is peaceful all is stillD
As if thy waves since Time was bornE
Since first they roll'd upon the TweedF
Had only heard the shepherd's reedF
Nor started at the bugle hornE
-
IIA
Unlike the tide of human timeG
Which though it change in ceaseless flowH
Retains each grief retains each crimeG
Its earliest course was doom'd to knowH
And darker as it downward bearsI
Is stain'd with past and present tearsI
Low as that tide has ebb'd with meJ
It still reflects to Memory's eyeA
The hour my brave my only boyK
Fell by the side of great DundeeJ
Why when the volleying musket play'dL
Against the bloody Highland bladeL
Why was not I beside him laidL
Enough he died the death of fameM
Enough he died with conquering GraemeM
-
IIIA
Now over Border dale and fellN
Full wide and far was terror spreadO
For pathless marsh and mountain cellN
The peasant left his lowly shedO
The frighten'd flocks and herds were pentP
Beneath the peel's rude battlementQ
And maids and matrons dropp'd the tearR
While ready warriors seiz'd the spearS
From Branksome's towers the watchman's eyeA
Dun wreaths of distant smoke can spyA
Which curling in the rising sunT
Show'd southern ravage was begunT
-
IV-
Now loud the heedful gate ward criedB
'Prepare ye all for blows and bloodU
Watt Tinlinn from the Liddel sideB
Comes wading through the floodU
Full oft the Tynedale snatchers knockV
At his lone gate and prove the lockV
It was but last St BarnabrightU
They sieg'd him a whole summer nightU
But fled at morning well they knewW
In vain he never twang'd the yewW
Right sharp has been the evening showerX
That drove him from his Liddel towerX
And by my faith ' the gate ward saidU
'I think 'twill prove a Warden Raid '-
-
V-
While thus he spoke the bold yeomanT
Enter'd the echoing barbicanT
He led a small and shaggy nagY
That through a bog from hag to hagY
Could bound like any Billhope stagY
It bore his wife and children twainT
A half clothed serf was all their trainT
His wife stout ruddy and dark brow'dU
Of silver brooch and bracelet proudU
Laugh'd to her friends among the crowdU
He was of stature passing tallZ
But sparely form'd and lean withalZ
A batter'd morion on his browA2
A leather jack as fence enowT
On his broad shoulders loosely hungB2
A border axe behind was slungB2
His spear six Scottish ells in lengthC2
Seem'd newly dyed with goreC
His shafts and bow of wondrous strengthC2
His hardy partner boreC
-
VI-
Thus to the Ladye did Tinlinn showH
The tidings of the English foeH
'Belted Will Howard is marching hereD2
And hot Lord Dacre with many a spearS
And all the German hackbut menT
Who have long lain at AskertenT
They cross'd the Liddel at curfew hourX
And burn'd my little lonely towerX
The fiend receive their souls thereforeC
It had not been burnt this year and moreC
Barn yard and dwelling blazing brightU
Serv'd to guide me on my flightU
But I was chas'd the livelong nightU
Black John of Akeshaw and Fergus GraemeM
Fast upon my traces cameM
Until I turn'd at Priesthaugh ScroggB2
And shot their horses in the bogB2
Slew Fergus with my lance outrightU
I had him long at high despiteU
He drove my cows last Fastern's night '-
-
VIIH
Now weary scouts from LiddesdaleZ
Fast hurrying in confirm'd the taleZ
As far as they could judge by kenT
Three hours would bring to Teviot's strandU
Three thousand armed EnglishmenT
Meanwhile full many a warlike bandU
From Teviot Aill and Ettrick shadeU
Came in their Chief's defence to aidU
There was saddling and mounting in hasteU
There was pricking o'er moor and leaZ
He that was last at the trysting placeE2
Was but lightly held of his gay ladyeW
-
VIIIH
From fair St Mary's silver waveH
From dreary Gamescleugh's dusky heightU
His ready lances Thirlestane braveH
Array'd beneath a banner brightU
The treasured fleur de luce he claimsF2
To wreathe his shield since royal JamesF2
Encamp'd by Fala's mossy waveH
The proud distinction grateful gaveH
For faith 'mid feudal jarsG2
What time save Thirlestane aloneT
Of Scotland's stubborn barons noneT
Would march to southern warsH2
And hence in fair remembrance wornT
Yon sheaf of spears his crest has borneT
Hence his high motto shines reveal'dU
' Ready aye ready' for the fieldU
-
IXH2
An aged Knight to danger steel'dU
With manyaa moss trooper came onT
And azure in a golden fieldU
The stars and crescent graced his shieldU
Without the bend of MurdiestonT
Wide lay his lands round Oakwood towerX
And wide round haunted Castle OwerX
High over Borthwick's mountain floodU
His wood embosom'd mansion stoodU
In the dark glen so deep belowZ
The herds of plunder'd England lowZ
His bold retainers' daily foodU
And bought with danger blows and bloodU
Marauding chief his sole delightU
The moonlight raid the morning fightU
Not even the Flower of Yarrow's charmsH2
In youth might tame his rage for armsH2
And still in age he spurn'd at restU
And still his brows the helmet press'dU
Albeit the blanched locks belowZ
Were white as Dinlay's spotless snowZ
Five stately warriors drew the swordU
Before their father's bandU
A braver knight than Harden's lordU
Ne'er belted on a brandU
-
XH2
Scotts of Eskdale a stalwart bandU
Came trooping down the Todshaw hillZ
By the sword they won their landU
And by the sword they hold it stillZ
Hearken Ladye to the taleZ
How thy sires won fair EskdaleZ
Earl Morton was lord of that valley fairX
The Beattisons were his vassals thereX
The Earl was gentle and mild of moodU
The vassals vere warlike and fierce and rudeU
High of heart and haughty of wordU
Little they reck'd of a tame liege lordU
The Earl into fair Eskdale cameM
Homage and seignory to claimM
Of Gilbert the Galliard a heriot he soughtU
Saying 'Give thy best steed as a vassal ought '-
'Dear to me is my bonny white steedU
Oft has he help d me at pinch of needU
Lord and Earl though thou be I trowZ
I can rein Bucksfoot better than thou '-
Word on word gave fuel to fireX
Till so highly blazed the Beattison's ireX
But that the Earl the flight had ta'enT
The vassals there their lord had slainT
Sore he plied both whip and spurX
As he urged his steed through Eskdale muirX
And it fell down a weary weightU
Just on the threshold of Branksome gateU
-
XIH2
The Earl was a wrathful man to seeH2
Full fain avenged would he beH2
In haste to Branksome's Lord he spokeB2
Saying 'Take these traitors to thy yokeB2
For a cast of hawks and a purse of goldU
All Eskdale I'll sell thee to have and holdU
Beshrew thy heart of the Beattisons' clanT
If thou leavest on Eske a landed manT
But spare Woodkerrick's lands aloneT
For he lent me his horse to escape upon '-
A glad man then was Branksome boldU
Down he flung him the purse of goldU
To Eskdale soon he spurr'd amainT
And with him five hundred riders has ta'enT
He left his merrymen in the mist of the hillZ
And bade them hold them close and stillZ
And alone he wended to the plainT
To meet with the Galliard and all his trainT
To Gilbert the Galliard thus he saidU
'Know thou me for thy liege lord and headU
Deal not with me as with Morton tameM
For Scotts play best at the roughest gameM
Give me in peace my heriot dueU
Thy bonny white steed or thou shalt rueU
If my horn I three times windU
Eskdale shall long have the sound in mind '-
-
XIIH2
Loudly the Beattison laugh'd in scornT
'Little care we for thy winded hornT
Ne'er shall it be the Galliard's lotU
To yield his steed to a haughty ScottU
Wend thou to Branksome back on footU
With rusty spur and miry boot '-
He blew his bugle so loud and hoarseH2
That the dun deer started at fair CraikcrossH2
He blew again so loud and clearX
Through the grey mountain mist there did lances appearX
And the third blast rang with such a dinT
That the echoes answer'dU

Sir Walter Scott



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About The Lay Of The Last Minstrel: Canto Iv.

The Lay Of The Last Minstrel: Canto Iv. is a poem by Sir Walter Scott. This page includes the poem text, poet information, related topics, comments, and similar poems.



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