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 seemed 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 courtyard 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.