Our vicar thus preaches--and why should he not? For the dues of his cure are the placket and pot;[338] And 'tis right of his office poor laymen to lurch, Who infringe the domains of our good Mother Church. Yet whoop, bully-boys! off with your liquor, Sweet Marjorie's the word, and a fig for the vicar! [331] Paul. [332] Severe. [333] A leathern beer jug. [334] Spanish wine. [335] "Upsees out," i.e., in the Dutch fashion, or deeply. [336] Name for Satan. [337] Another name for Satan. [338] "Placket and pot," i.e., women and wine. VI. The warder's challenge, heard without, Stayed in mid-roar the merry shout. A soldier to the portal went,-- "Here is old Bertram, sirs, of Ghent; And,--beat for jubilee the drum!-- A maid and minstrel with him come." Bertram, a Fleming, gray and scarr'd, Was entering now the Court of Guard, A harper with him, and in plaid All muffled close, a mountain maid, Who backward shrunk to 'scape the view Of the loose scene and boisterous crew. "What news?" they roar'd.--"I only know, From noon till eve we fought with foe As wild and as untamable As the rude mountains where they dwell; On both sides store of blood is lost, Nor much success can either boast."-- "But whence thy captives, friend? such spoil As theirs must needs reward thy toil. Old dost thou wax, and wars grow sharp; Thou now hast glee-maiden and harp! Get thee an ape, and trudge the land, The leader of a juggler band."-- VII. "No, comrade;--no such fortune mine. After the fight, these sought our line, That aged Harper and the girl, And, having audience of the Earl, Mar bade I should purvey them steed, And bring them hitherward with speed. Forbear your mirth and rude alarm, For none shall do them shame or harm."-- "Hear ye his boast?" cried John of Brent, Ever to strife and jangling bent; "Shall he strike doe beside our lodge, And yet the jealous niggard grudge To pay the forester his fee? I'll have my share, howe'er it be, Despite of Moray, Mar, or thee." Bertram his forward step withstood; And, burning in his vengeful mood, Old Allan, though unfit for strife, Laid hand upon his dagger knife; But Ellen boldly stepp'd between, And dropp'd at once the tartan screen:-- So, from his morning cloud, appears The sun of May, through summer tears. The savage soldiery, amazed, As on descended angel gazed; Even hardy Brent, abash'd and tamed, Stood half admiring, half ashamed. VIII.