“One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear,
     When they reach’d the hall door, and the charger stood near;
     So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung,
     So light to the saddle before her he sprung! 
     ’She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur;
     They’ll have fleet steeds that follow,’ quoth young Lochinvar.

    “There was mounting ’mong Graemes of the Netherby clan;
     Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran;
     There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lee,
     But the lost bride of Netherby ne’er did they see. 
     So daring in love, and so dauntless in war,
     Have ye e’er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?”

The monarch hung over the wily singer, and beat the measure as she sang.  He pressed closer, and whispered praises in her ear.  The courtiers broke in applause, the ladies whispered, and looked wise.  The witching dame, not satisfied to win a King, threw her glances at Lord Marmion.  The glances were significant, familiar, and told of confidences long and old between the English lord and his countrywoman, guests of a Scotch King, on the eve of a great conflict between the two countries.

The King saw their meeting eyes, saw himself treated almost with disdain, and darkest anger shook his frame, for sovereigns illy bear rivals in word, or smile, or look.  He drew forth the parchment on which was written Marmion’s commission, and strode to the side of brave Douglas, the sixth who had worn the coronet of Angus.  The King stood side by side with this brave Scotsman, who had been madly watching the pageant, the fire flashing from his stern eye.  This very day he had besought his King to withdraw from the coming war, only to call forth the reproaches of his ungrateful ruler.  Yet at this moment, James felt a pride in standing by the side of Bothwell’s Lord, and placing in his custody Marmion, the flower of English chivalry.

    “The Douglas’ form, like ruin’d tower,
     Seem’d o’er the gaudy scene to lower: 
     His locks and beard in silver grew;
     His eyebrows kept their sable hue. 
     Near Douglas, where the monarch stood,
     His bitter speech he thus pursued: 
     ’Lord Marmion, since these letters say
     That in the North you needs must stay
       While slightest hopes of peace remain,
     Uncourteous speech it were, and stern,
     To say—­Return to Lindisfarne—­
     Then rest you in Tantallon Hold;
     Your host shall be the Douglas bold,
     A chief unlike his sires of old. 
     He wears their motto on his blade,
     Their blazon o’er his towers display’d;
     Yet loves his sovereign to oppose,
     More than to face his country’s foes. 
       And, I bethink me, by St. Stephen,
     But e’en this morn to me was given
     A prize, the first fruits of the war,
     Ta’en by a galley from Dunbar,
       A bevy of the maids of Heaven. 
     Under your guard these holy maids
     Shall safe return to cloister shades.’”