And now old Milfield’s town they gain,
And reach dark Flodden’s dreary plain,
Where, in full cry, and all abreast,
The hounds the wily villain pressed:
The Goblin Groom still keeps his place,
And glories in the varying chace;
No demi volte, nor demi air;
No high curvett, nor terre-a-terre;
No hand to guide the gay croupade,
Nor heel to aid the balotade;
No capriole his skill to shew;
He these disdained, with pas et saut.[12]
Stiff on his stirrups, standing now,
He scorns to touch the saddle bow;
His elbows squared, and head awry,
As if he rode a race;
But none might know, for none might spy,
The Goblin’s spell-bound face:
For were he sprite, or were he fay,
He only shewed his back that day.