The poetical works of Sir Alexander Boswell ... Now first collected and edited, with memoir, by Robert Howie Smith |
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 | The poetical works of Sir Alexander Boswell |  |
Sir Albon.
Swift o'er heaven's arch the streamers ran,
While slowly moved the caravan.
Sudden, unbid, the leaders stood
Before thy gate, O man of blood!
If aught did there the curb branch ply,
'Twas hand unseen by mortal eye;
If aught did esse and crochet strain,
'Twas hand unhallow'd drew the rein.
While slowly moved the caravan.
102
Before thy gate, O man of blood!
If aught did there the curb branch ply,
'Twas hand unseen by mortal eye;
If aught did esse and crochet strain,
'Twas hand unhallow'd drew the rein.
Swift to his steed Sir Albon sprung,
Beneath his feet the trap-stone rung;
For rapid was the courser's stroke,
And ev'ry wight whose sleep it broke,
By sudden start, on elbow raised,
Breathed a half-stifled “Gude be praised!”
Quicker than cloth-yard arrow's flight
De Wodrow's mansion pass'd Sir Knight,
And quicker than the drum-boy's ruff
His horse hoofs clatter'd hard and tough.—
De Wodrow! though it mar my tale,
To sing of thee can minstrel fail?
For clerk he was, if clerk there be,
Though little skilled in minstrelsy,
And less, I wot, in chivalry;
But I may say, in sooth, he knew
The magic powers of two and two,
And four the wonderful result;
And though in head no catapult
To batter logic's ramparts down,
Yet he might challenge fair renown;
For well he conn'd the mystic page
Of Cocker, and of Dilworth sage;
His cap could doff, his cap could don—
But to our tale—Sir Knight pricked on.
No light had he to cheer his way,
Fled were the sunny joys of day,
And not as yet the silv'ry moon
To way-worn pilgrim gave the boon;
Far in the east she linger'd still,
Behind Cairntable's pointed hill,
Or Tintoc brown, or Corsincone,
Whilst Albon dauntless rode alone.
No faintly glimm'ring aid, to mark
Each image in the poring dark,
Save when the well-wrought bars of steel,
Which clad his trusty horse's heel,
Drew from a stone the transient light,
Which brightest shines in darkest night;
For, like that emblematic form,
Which led to Salem's tow'rs the storm,
(And shall a Christian minstrel tell
The triumphs of an infidel?)
The horse-shoe, fitted to defend,
Like that bright moon in turn and bend,
Of shape and light both emulous,
Scatters its light most marvellous.
Beneath his feet the trap-stone rung;
For rapid was the courser's stroke,
And ev'ry wight whose sleep it broke,
By sudden start, on elbow raised,
Breathed a half-stifled “Gude be praised!”
Quicker than cloth-yard arrow's flight
De Wodrow's mansion pass'd Sir Knight,
And quicker than the drum-boy's ruff
His horse hoofs clatter'd hard and tough.—
De Wodrow! though it mar my tale,
To sing of thee can minstrel fail?
For clerk he was, if clerk there be,
Though little skilled in minstrelsy,
And less, I wot, in chivalry;
But I may say, in sooth, he knew
The magic powers of two and two,
And four the wonderful result;
103
To batter logic's ramparts down,
Yet he might challenge fair renown;
For well he conn'd the mystic page
Of Cocker, and of Dilworth sage;
His cap could doff, his cap could don—
But to our tale—Sir Knight pricked on.
No light had he to cheer his way,
Fled were the sunny joys of day,
And not as yet the silv'ry moon
To way-worn pilgrim gave the boon;
Far in the east she linger'd still,
Behind Cairntable's pointed hill,
Or Tintoc brown, or Corsincone,
Whilst Albon dauntless rode alone.
No faintly glimm'ring aid, to mark
Each image in the poring dark,
Save when the well-wrought bars of steel,
Which clad his trusty horse's heel,
Drew from a stone the transient light,
Which brightest shines in darkest night;
For, like that emblematic form,
Which led to Salem's tow'rs the storm,
(And shall a Christian minstrel tell
The triumphs of an infidel?)
The horse-shoe, fitted to defend,
Like that bright moon in turn and bend,
Of shape and light both emulous,
Scatters its light most marvellous.
104
Far on the circle of the sky
Sir Knight a gleaming light did spy;
So vivid was its meteor gleam,
That to some wights it well might seem
The moon herself should shortly rise.
Not so in brave Sir Albon's eyes;
For well he wist this lurid glare
Burst from the source of classic Ayr,
Where, 'midst the bleak and barren wild,
With Erebus' own hue defiled,
The sons of Vulcan at the forge
Their midnight massive hammers urge.
Sir Knight a gleaming light did spy;
So vivid was its meteor gleam,
That to some wights it well might seem
The moon herself should shortly rise.
Not so in brave Sir Albon's eyes;
For well he wist this lurid glare
Burst from the source of classic Ayr,
Where, 'midst the bleak and barren wild,
With Erebus' own hue defiled,
The sons of Vulcan at the forge
Their midnight massive hammers urge.
Fast and more fast his fleet horse flew,
When sudden darting on his view
A lonely light, that twinkled still,
The mansion mark'd of Dame M‘****
Its turrets mock'd his straining gaze;
But then he thought on ancient days,
When lady fair was in her prime,
Fit theme for youthful minstrel's rhyme;
Then bow'd to her on bended knee
The Laird of hazel-clad G ******
Long, long, are all her suitors fled,
Her beauty's fallen, wither'd, dead!
When sudden darting on his view
A lonely light, that twinkled still,
The mansion mark'd of Dame M‘****
Its turrets mock'd his straining gaze;
But then he thought on ancient days,
When lady fair was in her prime,
Fit theme for youthful minstrel's rhyme;
Then bow'd to her on bended knee
The Laird of hazel-clad G ******
Long, long, are all her suitors fled,
Her beauty's fallen, wither'd, dead!
On, on he spurr'd and pass'd the while
Old Kinzencleugh, and Ballochmyle
In song renown'd, and then anon
Was full in front of Willoxton.
On that proud rock a castle stood,
And frown'd upon the raging flood;
But how and when that castle fell
I may not think, I may not tell.
The flames bore ev'ry trace away;
But whence those flames I may not say.
Now on its shrivell'd stunted oak
Blood-sated ravens daily croak;
With gory beak and talons foul,
There nightly screams a howling owl.
Sir Albon pass'd the rock below;
He heard the river's sullen flow,
And high in air portentous sound
In undulations hover'd round—
But ever, as in time of need,
Sir Albon onward prick'd his steed.
Old Kinzencleugh, and Ballochmyle
105
Was full in front of Willoxton.
On that proud rock a castle stood,
And frown'd upon the raging flood;
But how and when that castle fell
I may not think, I may not tell.
The flames bore ev'ry trace away;
But whence those flames I may not say.
Now on its shrivell'd stunted oak
Blood-sated ravens daily croak;
With gory beak and talons foul,
There nightly screams a howling owl.
Sir Albon pass'd the rock below;
He heard the river's sullen flow,
And high in air portentous sound
In undulations hover'd round—
But ever, as in time of need,
Sir Albon onward prick'd his steed.
| The poetical works of Sir Alexander Boswell | |