XXIII.
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llan, with wistful look the while,Marked Roderick landing on the isle;His master piteously he eyed,Then gazed upon the Chieftain's pride,Then dashed with hasty hand awayFrom his dimmed eye the gathering spray;And Douglas, as his hand he laidOn Malcolm's shoulder, kindly said:'Canst thou, young friend, no meaning spyIn my poor follower's glistening eye?I 'll tell thee:--he recalls the dayWhen in my praise he led the layO'er the arched gate of Bothwell proud,While many a minstrel answered loud,When Percy's Norman pennon, wonIn bloody field, before me shone,And twice ten knights, the least a nameAs mighty as yon Chief may claim,Gracing my pomp, behind me came.Yet trust me, Malcolm, not so proudWas I of all that marshalled crowd,Though the waned crescent owned my might,And in my train trooped lord and knight,Though Blantyre hymned her holiest lays,And Bothwell's bards flung back my praise,As when this old man's silent tear,And this poor maid's affection dear,A welcome give more kind and trueThan aught my better fortunes knew.Forgive, my friend, a father's boast,--O, it out-beggars all I lost!'
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