At length up that wild dale they wind, Where Crichtoun Castle crowns the bank; For there the Lion’s care assigned A lodging meet for Marmion’s rank. That castle rises on the steep Of the green vale of Tyne: And far beneath, where slow they creep, From pool to eddy, dark and deep, Where alders moist, and willows weep, You hear her streams repine. The towers in different ages rose; Their various architecture shows The builders’ various hands: A mighty mass, that could oppose, When deadliest hatred fired its foes, The vengeful Douglas bands. XI. Crichtoun! though now thy miry court But pens the lazy steer and sheep, Thy turrets rude and tottered keep, Have been the minstrel’s loved resort. Oft have I traced within thy fort, Of mouldering shields the mystic sense, Scutcheons of honour or pretence, Quartered in old armorial sort, Remains of rude magnificence. Nor wholly yet had time defaced Thy lordly gallery fair; Nor yet the stony cord unbraced, Whose twisted knots, with roses laced, Adorn thy ruined stair. Still rises unimpaired below, The courtyard’s graceful portico; Above its cornice, row and row Of fair hewn facets richly show Their pointed diamond form, Though there but houseless cattle go To shield them from the storm. And, shuddering, still may we explore, Where oft whilom were captives pent, The darkness of thy massy-more; Or, from thy grass-grown battlement, May trace, in undulating line, The sluggish mazes of the Tyne. XII. Another aspect Crichtoun showed, As through its portal Marmion rode; But yet ’twas melancholy state Received him at the outer gate; For none were in the castle then, But women, boys, or aged men. With eyes scarce dried, the sorrowing dame, To welcome noble Marmion came; Her son, a stripling twelve years old, Proffered the baron’s rein to hold; For each man that could draw a sword Had marched that morning with their lord, Earl Adam Hepburn—he who died On Flodden, by his sovereign’s side Long may his lady look in vain! She ne’er shall see his gallant train Come sweeping back through Crichtoun Dean. ’Twas a brave race, before the name Of hated Bothwell stained their fame. XIII.