IV.
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Now broach ye a pipe of Malvoisie,Bring pasties of the doe,And quickly make the entrance free,And bid my heralds ready be,And every minstrel sound his glee,And all our trumpets blow;And, from the platform, spare ye notTo fire a noble salvo-shot:Lord Marmion waits below!”Then to the castle’s lower wardSped forty yeomen tall,The iron-studded gates unbarred,Raised the portcullis’ ponderous guard,The lofty palisade unsparred,And let the drawbridge fall.
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