It is while the hunters are resting after this feat, that Bothwellhaugh dashes among them headlong, spurring his jaded steed with poniard instead of spur:—­

    “From gory selle and reeling steed,
      Sprang the fierce horseman with a bound,
    And reeking from the recent deed,
      He dash’d his carbine on the ground.”

And then Bothwellhaugh tells his tale of blood, describing the procession from which he had singled out his prey:—­

    “’Dark Morton, girt with many a spear,
      Murder’s foul minion, led the van;
    And clash’d their broadswords in the rear
      The wild Macfarlanes’ plaided clan.

    “’Glencairn and stout Parkhead were nigh,
      Obsequious at their Regent’s rein,
    And haggard Lindsay’s iron eye,
      That saw fair Mary weep in vain.

    “’’Mid pennon’d spears, a steely grove,
      Proud Murray’s plumage floated high;
    Scarce could his trampling charger move,
      So close the minions crowded nigh.

    “’From the raised vizor’s shade, his eye,
      Dark rolling, glanced the ranks along,
    And his steel truncheon waved on high,
      Seem’d marshalling the iron throng.

    “’But yet his sadden’d brow confess’d
      A passing shade of doubt and awe;
    Some fiend was whispering in his breast,
      “Beware of injured Bothwellhaugh!”

    “’The death-shot parts,—­the charger springs,—­
      Wild rises tumult’s startling roar! 
    And Murray’s plumy helmet rings—­
      Rings on the ground to rise no more.’”

This was the ballad which made so strong an impression on Thomas Campbell, the poet.  Referring to some of the lines I have quoted, Campbell said,—­“I have repeated them so often on the North Bridge that the whole fraternity of coachmen know me by tongue as I pass.  To be sure, to a mind in sober, serious, street-walking humour, it must bear an appearance of lunacy when one stamps with the hurried pace and fervent shake of the head which strong, pithy poetry excites."[10] I suppose anecdotes of this kind have been oftener told of Scott than of any other English poet.  Indeed, Sir Walter, who understood himself well, gives the explanation in one of his diaries:—­“I am sensible,” he says, “that if there be anything good about my poetry or prose either, it is a hurried frankness of composition, which pleases soldiers, sailors, and young people of bold and active dispositions."[11] He might have included old people too.  I have heard of two old men—­complete strangers—­passing each other on a dark London night, when one of them happened to be repeating to himself, just as Campbell did to the hackney coachmen of the North Bridge of Edinburgh, the last lines of the account of Flodden Field in Marmion, “Charge, Chester, charge,” when suddenly a reply came out of the darkness, “On, Stanley, on,” whereupon they finished the death of Marmion between