Poets' Corner - Sir Walter Scott - The Lay of the Last Minstrel
Date: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

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The Lay of the Last Minstrel
by Sir Walter Scott

To The Right Honourable

Charles Earl of Dalkeith

This Poem Is Inscribed By The Author.

Preface

The Poem, now offered to the Public, is intended to illustrate the customs and manners which anciently prevailed on the Borders of England and Scotland. The inhabitants living in a state partly pastoral and partly warlike, and combining habits of constant depredation with the influence of a rude spririt of chivalry, were often engaged in scenes highly susceptible of poetical ornament. As the description of scenery and manners was more the object of the Author than a combined and regular narrative, the plan of the Ancient Metrical Romance was adopted, which allows greter latitude, in this respect, than would be consistent with the dignity of a regular Poem. The same model offered other faculties, as it permits an occasional alteration of measure, which, in some degree, authorizes the change of rhythm in the text. The machinery, also, adopted from popular belief, would have seemed puerile in a Poem which did not partake of the rudeness of the old Ballad, or Metrical Romance.

For these reasons, the Poem was put into the mouth of an ancient Minstrel, the last of the race, who, as he is supposed to have survived the Revolution, might have caught somewhat of the refinement of modern poetry, without losing the simplicity of his original model. The date of the Tale itself is about the middle of the sixteenth century, when most of the personages actually flourished. The time occupied by the action is Three Nights and Three Days.

Index

Introduction

The way was long, the wind was cold,

The Minstrel was infirm and old;

Canto First

The feast was over in Branksome tower, And the Ladye had gone to her secret bower; Her bower that was guarded by word and by spell…

Canto Second

If thou woud’st view fair Melrose aright, Go visit it by the pale moonlight;

Canto Third

And said I that my limbs were old,

And said I that my blood was cold…

Canto Fourth

Sweet Teviot! on thy silver tide

The glaring bale-fires blaze no more; Canto Fifth

Call it not vain;—they do not err,

Who say, that when the Poet dies, Mute Nature mourns her worshipper…

Canto Sixth

Breathes there a man, with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said,

This is my own, my native land!

(Glossary)

(Notes)

Introduction

The way was long, the wind was cold, The Minstrel was infirm and old;

His wither’d cheek, and tresses gray, Seem’d to have known a better day;

The harp, his sole remaining joy,

Was carried by an orphan boy.

The last of all the Bards was he,

Who sung of Border chivalry;

For, welladay! their date was fled, His tuneful brethren all were dead; And he, neglected and oppress’d,

Wish’d to be with them, and at rest.

No more on prancing palfrey borne,

He caroll’d, light as lark at morn; No longer courted and caress’d,

High placed in hall, a welcome guest, He pour’d, to lord and lady gay,

The unpremeditated lay:

Old times were changed, old manners gone; A stranger filled the Stuarts’ throne; The bigots of the iron time

Had call’d hs harmless art a crime.

A wandering Harper, scorn’d and poor, He begg’d his bread from door to door.

And timed, to please a peasant’s ear, The harp, a king had loved to hear.

He pass’d where Newark’s stately tower Looks out from Yarrow’s birchen bower: The Minstrel gazed with wishful eye—

No humbler resting-place was nigh,

With hesitating step at last,

The embattled portal arch he ass’d, Whose ponderous grate and massy bar Had oft roll’d back the tide of war, But never closed the iron door

Against the desolate and poor.

The Duchess marked his weary pace,

His timid mien, and reverend face,

And bade her page the menials tell, That they should tend the old man well: For she had known adversity,

Though born in such a high degree;

In pride of power, in beauty’s bloom, Had wept o’er Monmouth’s bloody tomb!

When kindness had his wants supplied, And the old man was gratified,

Began to rise his minstrel pride:

And he began to talk anon,

Of good Earl Francis, dead and gone, And of Earl Walter, rest him, God!

A braver ne’er to battle rode;

And how full many a tale he knew,

Of the old warriors of Buccleuch:

And, would the noble Duchess deign

To listen to an old man’s strain,

Though stiff his hand, his voice though weak, He thought even yet, the sooth to speak, That, if she loved the harp to hear, He could make music to her ear.

The humble boon was soon obtain’d;

The Aged Minstrel audience gain’d.

But, when he reach’d the room of state, Where she, with all her ladies, sate, Perchance he wished his boon denied: For, when to tune his harp he tried, His trembling hand had lost the ease, Which marks security to please;

And scenes, long past, of joy and pain, Came wildering o’er his aged brain—

He tried to tune his harp in vain!

The pitying Duchess praised its chime, And gave him heart, and gave him time, Till every string’s according glee

Was blended into harmony.

And then, he said, he would full fain He could recall an ancient strain,

He never thought to sing again.

It was not framed for village churls, But for high dames and mighty carls; He had play’d it to King Charles the Good, When he kept court in Holyrood,

And much he wish’d yet fear’d to try The long-forgotten melody.

Amid the strings his fingers stray’d, And an uncertain warbling made,

And oft he shook his hoary head.

But when he caught the measure wild, The old man raised his face, and smiled; And lighten’d up his faded eye,

With all a poet’s ecstasy!

In varying cadence, soft or strong, He swept the sounding chords along: The present scene, the future lot,

His toils, his wants, were all forgot: Cold diffidence, and age’s frost,

In the full tide of song were lost; Each blank in faithless memory void, The poet’s glowing thought supplied; And while his harp responsive rung, ‘Twas thus the Latest Minstrel sung.

Forward to Canto 1.

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