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104

It cost Watt Tinlinn mickle toil
To drive him but a Scottish mile;
 But as a shallow brook they crossed,
The elf, amid the running stream,
His figure changed, like form in dream,
 And fled, and shouted, "Lost! lost! lost!"
Full fast the urchin ran and laughed,
But faster still a cloth-yard shaft
Whistled from startled Tinlinn's yew,
And pierced his shoulder through and through.
Although the imp might not be slain,
And though the wound soon healed again,
Yet, as he ran, he yelled for pain;
And Wat of Tinlinn, much aghast,
Rode back to Branksome fiery fast.

XIII.
Soon on the hill's steep verge he stood,
That looks o'er Branksome's towers and wood;