To horse! For who would idly bide,
With a moon so round and clear?
’Twill merrier be to-night to ride
Than hungry-eyed sit here.
“The board is bare,” my lady pleads,
And shall we fast perforce?
Never, while herd in England feeds,
And Harden owns a horse.
What though in our last border fray
We lost a cousin brave?
As sound a sleep is his, I say,
As comes to churchyard grave.
Rather than toss on couch of pain,
Sinking by slow degree,
Who would not fall on starlit plain,
Or ’neath the greenwood tree?
The thrall of peace is all I fear;
No battle doom I dread;
There hath not died this many a year
A chief of Scott in bed.
To horse! and use to-night, my friends,
The moonlight as you may,
Till English valleys make amends
For our poor cheer to-day.
D. G. R.