320 
graham’s magazine. 
whether voluntary or involuntary, of holding in their 
scent, for a short time after alighting, and are difficultly 
found again till they have run, I recommend it, as by 
far the better way, to mark them down well, and beat 
for another bevy, until you hear them calling to each other; 
then lose no time in flushing them again, when they are 
sure to disperse, and you to have sport with them. 
Myself, I prefer setters for their pursuit, as more dash¬ 
ing, more enduring, and abler to face briars—others prefer 
pointers, as steadier on less work, and better able to fag 
without water. Either, well broke, are good—ill broke, 
or unbroke, worthless. Still give me setters—Russian or 
Irish specially ! Quail fly very fast, and strong, especially 
in covert, and require the whole charge to kill them dead 
and clean. At cross shots, shoot well ahead; at rising 
shots, well above; and at straight-away shots, a trifle 
below your birds; and an oz. | of No. 8, early, and of 
No. 7, late, will fetch them in good style. And so good 
sport to you, kind reader; for this, if I err not, is doomed 
to be a crack Quail season. 
E SPECTRE KNIGHT AND HIS LADYE-BRID 
A LAY OF THE OLDEN TIME. 
MX. ■ lUxMMd *^'**** 1 * 
BY FANNY FIELDING. 
Lady MARGARE\sits in her father’s ha’ 
Wi’ the tear-drop in her een, 
For her lover-knighb^s far awa’ 
In the fields o’ Palestine. 
Now the rose is fled fraeIter downy cheek, 
An’ wan is her lily-white\and, 
An’ her bonnie blue e’e the teftf doth dim, 
For her knight in the Holy Land. 
His banner it is the Holy Cross, \ 
But it gars her greet fu’ sair, \ 
As she meekly kneels and his lo’ed namQ breathes 
At Our Mother’s shrine in prayer. \ 
“O, hae ye a care, sweet Mother fair, \ 
O’er the lion-hearted king, 
But send me back Sir Hildebrande safe, 
Abune a’ ither thing !” 
\ 
5 T is Hallowe’en, and twelve lang months 
Hae i’ their turn passed round, 
An’ ’t was Hallowe’en when Sir Hildebrande marche 
For Palestine’s holy ground. 
The castle clock tolls midnight’s hour, 
An’ the ladye bethinks her now 
Of her lover’s words at the trysting-tree— 
His fervent and heartfelt vow. 
“ O, ladye fair,” said the gallant Hilde 
“ When twelve lang months shall Jf!e 
Come ye then through the mossy gj 
Adown by the trysting-tree 
When the wearie year brings (Hallowe’en 
Ance mair to this lo’ed lj 
An’ if thou wilt come at Midnight’s hour 
Thou shult hear of tWne own Hildebrande.” 
O, the wintry windAlaws sair and chill, 
An’ it whistle&flu’ mournfully, 
As the ladye stalls, at the witching hour, 
To the gletfRdown the lea. 
The 
maic 
For 
6n draws her mantle close, 
fie night is dark air’ drear, 
An’ q6w that she nears the trysting-tree 
1 heart it quails wi’ fear. 
), louder and hoarser blaws the blast, 
An’ darker grows the sky, 
. '• ..... ■ . ... . , . , 
An’ the clattering tramp of a course ’s hoof 
Grows nigh, an’ yet more nigh 
The coal-black steed doth slai 
An’ halt at the ladye’s side', 
An’ a red light gleams in 
Around her far and w ’ le. 
his speed 
Ickering beams 
A mail-clad knight cloth now alight, 
So ghastly pale.hu’ wan 
That the ladye pries, wi’ tearfu’ eyes, 
“ Where is ,my lover gane !” 
A voice like the hollow, murm’ring wind 
Replied to the high-born dame— 
u O, th’y lover sleeps on the battle-field 
long the noble slain— 
: But the soul that vowed to be true to thee 
Will be true whate’er betide, 
An’ returns from the land of chivalrie 
To claim thee for his bride !” 
This said, he stretched forth his bony hand 
Tty his well-beloved bride, 
An’ rih\v he mounts the coal-black steed 
Wi’ th,e ladye by his side. 
But hist! the moor-cock crows fu’ shrill 
Alang the efteary way, 
An’ goblin, elf,'^or wand’ring ghaist 
Can face the light o’ day. 
The phantom steed doth champ his bit 
An’ flash his fiery eye;— 
An’ away they speed o’erffiill an’ dale— 
O’er rock an’ mountain high ! 
\ 
Lang years hae passed since SirTIildebrande came 
Frae the fields o’ Palestine, 
To claim fair Margaret for his bride‘s 
But on every Hallowe’en, \ 
When the castle clock tolls midnight’s ntyur, 
As on that night of yore, 
The ladye and knight are seen to sweep 
Adown the drearie moor. 
The coal-black steed doth champ his bit 
An’ flash his fiery e’e, 
But he slacks his speed at the knight’s command 
As he gains the trysting-tree. 
\ 
