Page:Traditional Tales of the English and Scottish Peasantry - 1887.djvu/56

52 Then come with the war-horse, the basnet, and sword,

And bid the big trumpet awaken;

The bright locks that stooped at a fair lady's feet

Mid the tempest of war must be shaken.

It is pleasant to spur to the battle the steed,

And cleave the proud helmet that holds a foe's head.

Thy sword's rusty, Howard; hot Dacre, art thou

So cool when the war-horse is bounding?

Come Percy, come thou, like a Percy of yore,

When the trumpet of England is sounding:

And come, gallant Selby—thy name is a name,

While a soldier has soul and a minstrel has flame.

And come, too, ye names that are nameless—come mount,

And win ye a name in proud story:

A thousand long years at the sock and the share

Are not worth one moment of glory.

Come arm ye, and mount ye, and make the helms ring

Of the Whigs, as ye strike for your country and king!

"The whole household of Wilton Hall, including Walter Selby and myself, had gradually gathered around this merchant-minstrel, whose voice, from an ordinary chant, had arisen, as we became interested, into a tone of deep and martial melody. Nor was it the voice alone of the stranger that became changed: his face, which at the commencement of the ballad had a grave and a dubious expression, brightened up with enthusiasm; his frame grew erect, and his eyes gleamed with that fierce light which has been observed in the eyes of the English soldiers on the eve of battle. 'What thinkest thou, pretty Eleanor, of our merchant now?' said Walter Selby. 'I should like to have such a form on my right hand when I try to empty the saddles of the southern horse of some of the boldest Whigs.' 'And I'll pledge thee, young gentleman,' said the pedlar, raising his voice at once from the provincial drawl and obscurity of lowland Scotch into the purest English, 'any vow thou askest of me, to ride on which hand thou wilt, and be to thee as a friend and a brother when the battle is at the hottest; and so I give thee my hand on't.' 'I touch no hand,' said Walter Selby, 'and I vow no vow, either in truce or battle, till I know thy name, if thou art of the lineage of the gentle or the churl. I am a Selby, and the Selbys' 'The Selbys,' said the stranger, in a tone slow and deliberate, 'are an ancient and a noble race; but this is no time, young gentleman, to scruple precedence of blood. In the fields where I have