Burned Marmion’s swarthy cheek like fire,
And shook his very frame for ire,
And—“This to me!” he said;
“’An ’twere not for thy hoary head,
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,
Although the meanest in her state,
May well, proud Angus, be thy mate:
And, Douglas, more I tell thee 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 thence unscathed to go:
No, by Saint 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 gate behind him rung:
To pass there was such scanty room,
The bars descending razed his plume.
