EUSTACE, I said, did blithely mark

The first notes of the merry lark.

The lark sung shrill, the cock he crew,

And loudly Marmion's bugles blew,

And, with their light and lively call,

Brought groom and yeoman to the stall.

Whistling they came, and free of heart;

But soon their mood was changed:

Complaint was heard on every part,

Of something disarranged.

Some clamoured loud for armour lost;

Some brawled and wrangled with the host;

“By Becket's bones,” cried one, “I swear,

That some false Scot has stolen my spear!”—

Young Blount, Lord Marmion's second squire,

Found his steed wet with sweat and mire;

Although the rated horse-boy sware,

Last night he dressed him sleek and fair.

While chafed the impatient squire like thunder,

Old Hubert shouts, in fear and wonder,—

“Help, gentle Blount! help, comrades all!

Bevis lies dying in his stall:

To Marmion who the plight dare tell,

Of the good steed he loves so well?”—

Gaping for fear and ruth, they saw

The charger panting on his straw;

Till one, who would seem wisest, cried,—

“What else but evil could betide,

With that cursed Palmer for our guide?

Better we had through mire and bush

Been lanthorn-led by Friar Rush.”*

Fitz-Eustace, who the cause but guessed,

Nor wholly understood,

His comrades’ clamourous plaints suppressed;

He knew Lord Marmion's mood.

Him, ere he issued forth, he sought,

And found deep plunged in gloomy thought,

And did his tale display

Simply, as if he knew of nought

To cause such disarray.

Lord Marmion gave attention cold,

Nor marvelled at the wonders told,—

Passed them as accidents of course,

And bade his clarions sound to horse.

Young Henry Blount, meanwhile, the cost

Had reckoned with their Scottish host;

And, as the charge he cast and paid,

“Ill thou deserv’st thy hire,” he said;

“Dost see, thou knave, my horse's plight?

Fairies have ridden him all the night,

And left him in a foam!

I trust, that soon a conjuring band,

With English cross, and blazing brand,

Shall drive the devils from this land,