Burned Marmion's swarthy cheek like fire, And shook his very frame for ire, And--"This to me!" he said,-- "An't were not for thy hoary beard, Such hand as Marmion's had not spared To cleave the Douglas' head! And, first, I tell thee, haughty Peer, He who does England's message here, Even in thy pitch of pride, Here in thy hold, thy vassals near, (Nay, never look upon your lord, And lay your hands upon your sword,) I tell thee thou'rt defied! And if thou said'st I am not peer To any lord in Scotland here, Lowland or Highland, far or near, Lord Angus, thou hast lied!"-- On the Earl's cheek the flush of rage O'ercame the ashen hue of age: Fierce he broke forth,--"And dar'st thou then To beard the lion in his den, The Douglas in his hall? And hop'st thou hence unscathed to go? No, by St. Bride of Bothwell, no! Up drawbridge, grooms,--what, warder, ho! Let the portcullis fall."-- Lord Marmion turned,--well was his need!-- And dashed the rowels in his steed; Like arrow through the archway sprung; The ponderous grate behind him rung; To pass there was such scanty room, The bars, descending, razed his plume.
The steed along the drawbridge flies. Just as it trembled on the rise; Not lighter does the swallow skim Along the smooth lake's level brim; And when Lord Marmion reached his band, He halts, and turns with clenched hand, And shout of loud defiance pours, And shook his gauntlet at the towers, "Horse! horse!" the Douglas cried, "and chase!" But soon he reined his fury's pace: "A royal messenger he came, Though most unworthy of the name.
St. Mary, mend my fiery mood! Old age ne'er cools the Douglas blood, I thought to slay him where he stood. 'Tis pity of him too," he cried; "Bold can he speak, and fairly ride: I warrant him a warrior tried." With this his mandate he recalls, And slowly seeks his castle halls.
Han'som, stranger? Yes, she's purty an' ez peart ez she kin be. Clever? W'y! she ain't no chicken, but she's good enough for me. What's her name? 'Tis kind o' common, yit I ain't ashamed to tell, She's ole "Fiddler" Filkin's daughter, an' her dad he calls her "Nell."
I wuz drivin' on the "Central" jist about a year ago On the run from Winnemucca up to Reno in Washoe. There's no end o' skeery places. 'Taint a road fur one who dreams, With its curves an' awful tres'les over rocks an' mountain streams.