For the huge death-dealing mortar, scarce a furlong from the wall,

Into every nook and corner dropped the fiery hissing ball.

So she planned the sudden sortie, and her silent breathless pack

Burst on the slumbering rebels, and three furlongs bore them back;

Then they drew the ruthless engine in the track of their retreat,

And they brought it to the lady, and they laid it at her feet,

And they spurned it with the foot, and they mocked it with the tongue,

As it lay within the court, no more a minister of

wrong.

And the fierce and furious rebels were cowed and in

dismay;

And the crumbling walls of Lathom had respite for a day.

But straightway to her chapel the lady did re

pair,

And her men-at-arms with dripping blades and battered helms were there;

And they raised the loud thanksgiving and breathed the loyal prayer,

"God bless our King and country, and Lathom's lady fair."

And from that morn the leaguer drooped and languished day by day,

And their fierce exultant menaces and curses died

away.

At dead of night they took their flight, that dastard

rebel crew,

Nor spoil, nor aught but shame and loss from all their toil they drew.

And that same day at evening, a herald came in haste,

And told how Rupert's cavaliers to Lancashire had passed;

And foremost in that royal band rode Lathom's rightful lord,

With wrathful looks, and hand that grasped instinctively his sword;

And foremost o'er the rampart breach the Lord of Lathom pressed,

And many a stubborn rebel turned at the sight of Lathom's crest ;

And all through reeking Bolton town and her bloodencrimsoned street,

The sword of Stanley fiercely urged the rebel's wild retreat;

There were few that cried for quarter and fewer still that gave,

And half of Lathom's leaguering force found there unhonoured grave;

And for each brave retainer slain for loyal Lathom's

right,

A hundred of the rebels fell ere the close of Bolton

fight.

A foretaste of the greater siege may Lathom's leaguer

be,

And Bolton of the sterner strife we all so soon shall

see;

And may the God of battles give swift issue to our

war,

And righteous recompense to York, as to that lady

fair.

CHAPTER XVIII.

AN IRRECONCILABLE REBEL-KNARESBURGH.

BUT, spite of songs and warlike tales,
The daylight all too slowly fails;
Too surely and too soon had ceased
The joys and interests of the feast,
For, restless and unschooled to wait
The hour that comes, nor soon nor late,
To fit the crisis of our fate,
The troopers chafe at Rupert's stay,
In fear to lose the promised fray,
Deeming that leaguered York is won,
Or Scottish Leslie homeward flown.
But now, at sign by Rupert made,
The dungeon gate is open thrown,
And slowly from the dismal shade

Behind the lowering arch of stone
The guard leads forth a yeoman bound
With massive chains his limbs around,
A stalwart form, and yet the light
Smote him as with a giant's might;
Too long in prison gloom immured,
To scanty space and light inured,
To him 'tis pain to see the day,
And feel e'en evening's dying ray;

And though his eye shone wild and bright,
It was not with the sweet sunlight,

It was not lit by summer sky,
Nor converse with some secret joy;
For dazed he was, as if some scene,
Bright with intolerable sheen,
Had passed before his dreamful view,

And he had woke and found it true;
And with bowed head and attitude
Of mute bewilderment he stood.

Yet, when rude hands his steps did guide,
And place him high at Rupert's side,
Where all might see the rebel bold,
And hear his tale of crimes retold,
Men only saw the eye of scorn
He deigned upon that host to turn,
The fierce defiance of the brave,
Who nothing ask or care to have,
Save the last right of failing breath,

To curse the crowd that hails his death.
A thrill of anger half repressed,
A touch of pity half confest

In simultaneous murmur shewed

The new-found interest of the crowd;
Till a swarth yeoman from the Swale
Uprose and told the captive's tale.

"Bold Barnaby Burrowbrig lives by the Ure, Where the de'il in his mirth flung his darts on the

muir,

And slyly enjoying his joke, with a grin

The lord of misrule threw bold Barnaby in.

Oh, Barnaby bold is a roystering wight,

He frolics by day and he revels by night;

And the lasses all know, 'twixt the Ure and the Nidd, The reckless careering of Barnaby's steed.

A dozen fat oxen are his on the moor,

And wethers and gimmers full many a score ;
But he cares not for beeves, be they ever so prime,

For there's deer in the forest, though to kill them is

crime.

On the parish he's played the stern bishop, in jest
He disrobed of stole, cassock, and surplice the priest;
And, in spite of his threatening penance and loss,
He has preached at the vicár from Audburrow Cross.

Bold Barnaby loves with his betters to sport,
He met the lord bishop in haste to the Court,
He shewed him the ford, where ford there was none,
And laughed as he left him to get out alone.

Oh, Barnaby bold, the King's men ye deceived,
Ye promised to lead them where Barnaby lived;
With tales ye beguiled them till daylight was o'er,
And left them to wander all night on the moor.

A rebel at heart, and a Roundhead in speech,
Naught Barnaby likes in the law but its breach ;
And parson and squire may threaten and frown;
Bold Barnaby cares not for mitre or crown.

While there's ale in the flagon, a stag in the wood,
A steed in the stall of high mettle and blood,
He will ride gay and free o'er moor, park, and hill,
He will feed on the best, let them threaten who will.

Bold Barnaby came with the first to the fair,
As fearless and fierce as when Fairfax was there;
But a yeoman of Scriven stole Barnaby's steed,
And a troop of king's horse ran him down in the Nidd.

O Barnaby bold-O Barnaby bright,

Would ye rob a good man, though a king, of his right? Would ye plunder and ravin like rebel or Scot? Would ye give those brave limbs on the ramparts to rot?