"But DOUGLAS round him drew his cloak,
Folded his arms, and thus he spoke:--
* * * * *
'The hand of DOUGLAS is his own,
And never shall in friendly grasp
The hand of such as MARMION clasp.'"
* * * * *

"The hand of such as MARMION!" Ay!
Great Singer of the knightly lay,
Thy tale of Flodden field
Is darkened by unknightly stain.
That slackened arm and burdened brain
Of him found low among the slain,
Constrained at last to yield
To a mere "base marauder's lance;"
He, firm of front and cold of glance,
The dark, the dauntless MARMION.--
The days of chivalry are gone,
Dispraisers of the present say,
Yet men arm still for party fray
As fierce as foray old;
And mail is donned, and steel is drawn,
And champions challenging at dawn
Ere night lie still and cold.
Two champions here 'midst loud applause,
Have led the lists in a joint cause
On many a tourney morn,
Have fought to vanward in the field
Full many an hour, and, sternly steeled,