XIV.

He paused, and led where Douglas stood, And with stern eye the pageant viewed— I mean that Douglas, sixth of yore, Who coronet of Angus bore, And, when his blood and heart were high, Did the third James in camp defy, And all his minions led to die On Lauder’s dreary flat: Princes and favourites long grew tame, And trembled at the homely name Of Archibald Bell-the-Cat; The same who left the dusky vale Of Hermitage in Liddisdale, Its dungeons and its towers, Where Bothwell’s turrets brave the air, And Bothwell bank is blooming fair, To fix his princely bowers. Though now in age he had laid down His armour for the peaceful gown, And for a staff his brand, Yet often would flash forth the fire That could in youth a monarch’s ire And minion’s pride withstand; And e’en that day, at council board, Unapt to soothe his sovereign’s mood, Against the war had Angus stood, And chafed his royal lord.