No summons calls them to the tower, To spend the hospitable hour. To Scotland’s camp the lord was gone; His cautious dame, in bower alone, Dreaded her castle to unclose, So late, to unknown friends or foes, On through the hamlet as they paced, Before a porch, whose front was graced With bush and flagon trimly placed, Lord Marmion drew his rein: The village inn seemed large, though rude: Its cheerful fire and hearty food Might well relieve his train. Down from their seats the horsemen sprung, With jingling spurs the courtyard rung; They bind their horses to the stall, For forage, food, and firing call, And various clamour fills the hall: Weighing the labour with the cost, Toils everywhere the bustling host. III. Soon by the chimney’s merry blaze, Through the rude hostel might you gaze; Might see, where, in dark nook aloof, The rafters of the sooty roof Bore wealth of winter cheer; Of sea-fowl dried, and solands store And gammons of the tusky boar, And savoury haunch of deer. The chimney arch projected wide; Above, around it, and beside, Were tools for housewives’ hand; Nor wanted, in that martial day, The implements of Scottish fray, The buckler, lance, and brand. Beneath its shade, the place of state, On oaken settle Marmion sate, And viewed around the blazing hearth His followers mix in noisy mirth; Whom with brown ale, in jolly tide, From ancient vessels ranged aside, Full actively their host supplied. IV. Theirs was the glee of martial breast, And laughter theirs at little jest; And oft Lord Marmion deigned to aid, And mingle in the mirth they made; For though, with men of high degree, The proudest of the proud was he, Yet, trained in camps, he knew the art To win the soldier’s hardy heart. They love a captain to obey, Boisterous as March, yet fresh as May; With open hand, and brow as free, Lover of wine and minstrelsy; Ever the first to scale a tower, As venturous in a lady’s bower: Such buxom chief shall lead his host From India’s fires to Zembla’s frost. V. Resting upon his pilgrim staff, Right opposite the Palmer stood; His thin dark visage seen but half, Half hidden by his hood. Still fixed on Marmion was his look, Which he, who ill such gaze could brook, Strove by a frown to quell; But not for that, though more than once Full met their stern encountering glance, The Palmer’s visage fell. VI.