Читать книгу The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 14, No. 383, August 1, 1829 - Various - Страница 3

Beneath the Douglas plaid, he wore a grinding shirt of mail;

Yet, spite of pain and weariness, press'd on that gallant Gael:

On, on, beside his regal foe, with eyes which more express'd

Than words, expecting favour still, from him who once caress'd!

"'Tis," quoth the prince, "my poor Graysteil!" and spurr'd his steed amain,

Striving, ere toiling Kilspindie, the fortalice to gain;

But Douglas, (and his wither'd heart, with hope and dread, beat high)

Stood at proud Stirling's castle-gate, as soon as royalty!

Stood, on his ingrate friend to gaze; no answ'ring love-look came;

Then, mortal grief his spirit shook, and bow'd his war-worn frame;

Faith, innocence, avail'd not him! he suffer'd for his line,

And fainting by the gate he sunk, but feebly call'd for wine!

The menials came, "wine? up! begone! we marvel who thou art!

Our monarch bids to France, Graysteil, his trusty friend depart!"

Blood to the Douglas' cheek uprush'd: proud blood! away he hied,

And soon afar, the "poor Graysteil," the broken hearted, DIED!