No waving plume, no crest
they wore, but corselet, gorget, and brigantine, brightly burnished. The
yeomen, too, were on foot, yet dressed in steel. Each at his back
carried forty days' provisions. His arms were the halbert, axe, or
spear, a crossbow, a dagger, or a sword. Each seemed almost sad at
leaving the dear cottage, the simple pleasures and duties of home, to
march into a foreign land. It was not cowardice, not terror, for the
more they loved Scotland the more fiercely would they fight.
Quite another class was the Borderer, bred to war. He joyed to hear the
roar of battle. No harp, no lute, could please his ear as did the loud
slogan. Nobles might fight for fame, vassals might follow, burghers
might guard their townships, but to a battle the Borderer joyfully took
his way as to a game, scarce caring who might win the day.
Marmion next viewed the Celtic race. Each tribe had its own chief, its
belted plaid, its warpipes varying with the clan. Their legs were bare;
the undressed hide of the deer gave them buskins, a plaid covered the
shoulders, and a broadsword, a dagger, a studded targe, completed the
outfit.
Through the Scottish camp, the English train had now passed, and the
city gates were reached.
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