He saw the hardy burghers there
March arm’d, on foot, with faces bare,
  For vizor they wore none,
Nor waving plume, nor crest of knight;
But burnish’d were their corslets bright, 40
Their brigantines, and gorgets light,
  Like very silver shone. 
Long pikes they had for standing fight,
  Two-handed swords they wore,
And many wielded mace of weight, 45
  And bucklers bright they bore.

III.

On foot the yeoman too, but dress’d
In his steel-jack, a swarthy vest,
  With iron quilted well;
Each at his back (a slender store) 50
His forty days’ provision bore,
  As feudal statutes tell. 
His arms were halbert, axe, or spear,
A crossbow there, a hagbut here,
  A dagger-knife, and brand. 55
Sober he seem’d, and sad of cheer,
As loath to leave his cottage dear,
  And march to foreign strand;
Or musing, who would guide his steer,
  To till the fallow land. 60
Yet deem not in his thoughtful eye
Did aught of dastard terror lie;
More dreadful far his ire,
Than theirs, who, scorning danger’s name,
In eager mood to battle came, 65
Their valour like light straw on name,
A fierce but fading fire.

IV.

Not so the Borderer:—­bred to war,
He knew the battle’s din afar,
  And joy’d to hear it swell. 70
His peaceful day was slothful ease;
Nor harp, nor pipe, his ear could please,
  Like the loud slogan yell. 
On active steed, with lance and blade,
The light-arm’d pricker plied his trade,—­ 75
  Let nobles fight for fame;
Let vassals follow where they lead,
Burghers, to guard their townships, bleed,
  But war’s the Borderer’s game. 
Their gain, their glory, their delight, 80
To sleep the day, maraud the night,
  O’er mountain, moss, and moor;
Joyful to fight they took their way,
Scarce caring who might win the day,
  Their booty was secure. 85
These, as Lord Marmion’s train pass’d by,
Look’d on at first with careless eye,
Nor marvell’d aught, well taught to know
The form and force of English bow. 
But when they saw the Lord array’d 90
In splendid arms, and rich brocade,
Each Borderer to his kinsman said,—­
  ’Hist, Ringan! seest thou there! 
Canst guess which road they’ll homeward ride?—­
O! could we but on Border side, 95
By Eusedale glen, or Liddell’s tide,
  Beset a prize so fair! 
That fangless Lion, too, their guide,
Might chance to lose his glistering hide;
Brown Maudlin, of that doublet pied, 100
Could make a kirtle rare.’