Nor waited for the bending bow;And when the stony path began, By which the naked peak they wan, Up flew the snowy ptarmigan.The noon had long been pass’d before They gain’d the height of Lammermoor;Thence winding down the northern way, Before them, at the close of day, Old Gifford’s towers and hamlet lay.
II.
No summons calls them to the tower, To spend the hospitable hour.To Scotland’s camp the Lord was gone; His cautious dame, in bower alone, Dreaded her castle to unclose, So late, to unknown friends or foes. On through the hamlet as they paced, Before a porch, whose front was graced With bush and flagon trimly placed, Lord Marmion drew his rein: The village inn seem’d large, though rude; Its cheerful fire and hearty food Might well relieve his train. Down from their seats the horsemen sprung, With jingling spurs the court-yard rung; They bind their horses to the stall, For forage, food, and firing call, And various clamour fills the hall:Weighing the labour with the cost, Toils everywhere the bustling host.
III
Soon, by the chimney’s merry blaze, Through the rude hostel might you gaze;Might see, where, in dark nook aloof, The rafters of the sooty roof Bore wealth of winter cheer; Of sea-fowl dried, and solands store, And gammons of the tusky boar, And savoury haunch of deer. The chimney arch projected wide; Above, around it, and beside, Were tools for housewives’ hand; Nor wanted, in that martial day, The implements of Scottish fray, The buckler, lance, and brand.Beneath its shade, the place of state, On oaken settle Marmion sate, And view’d around the blazing hearth. His followers mix in noisy mirth; Whom with brown ale, in jolly tide, From ancient vessels ranged aside, Full actively their host supplied.
