When Ellen forth with Lewis went,
Allan made suit to John of Brent:--
'My lady safe, O let your grace
Give me to see my master's face!
His minstrel I,--to share his doom
Bound from the cradle to the tomb.
Tenth in descent, since first my sires
Waked for his noble house their Iyres,
Nor one of all the race was known
But prized its weal above their own.
With the Chief's birth begins our care;
Our harp must soothe the infant heir,
Teach the youth tales of fight, and grace
His earliest feat of field or chase;
In peace, in war, our rank we keep,
We cheer his board, we soothe his sleep,
Nor leave him till we pour our verse--
A doleful tribute!--o'er his hearse.
Then let me share his captive lot;
It is my right,--deny it not!'
'Little we reck,' said John of Brent,
'We Southern men, of long descent;
Nor wot we how a name--a word--
Makes clansmen vassals to a lord:
Yet kind my noble landlord's part,--
God bless the house of Beaudesert!
And, but I loved to drive the deer
More than to guide the labouring steer,
I had not dwelt an outcast here.
Come, good old Minstrel, follow me;
Thy Lord and Chieftain shalt thou see.'
