Here's a little re-write of part of Canto V of Sir Walter Scott's 'Marmion' in mixed prose and verse!
T'was rather fun, I must say.
Oh Lochinvar, ye brave bonnie, ye western horselord of the Highlands, the pride of Scotland and the lowlands alike. Your love, as true as the strokes your broadsword oft dealt in the battles of old Scotland, still ranks in the memories a parallel to the unmatched steed you rode upon that fine day.
Stopping for naught, the mighty onslaught that was known as Lord Lochinvar rode.
But alas too late at the gates of Netherby was he, for fairest Ellen, his love, less true than he, perhaps, but full of charm and wonder, had consented to wed a man not nearly the equal of Lochinvar. No warrior was he, nor a lover true, but the bride’s father, the blind blackguard, for reasons unknown, was quite bent upon this knight wedding his daughter.
The gates stopped him not, nor the doors of the hall, for he entered and gathered the eyes of them all.
The father, they say, looked angry as night, with his hand on his sword and a gleam in his eye. He strongly demanded from Lochinvar the meaning of his coming, and the answer he heard was quite strange to his ears. For Lochinvar did not shout, nor even seem cross, but rather he signed as he spoke of his loss, and the times that this Sir had denied him. He asked for a cup, and the bride kissed the chalice. The knight downed the wine and the vessel clattered to the floor.
She sighed a small breath, for she was quite sore, that the love of her life would see her no more...
But he took her hand and led her a minute, towards the door, while the family fretted and fumed. The young ladies whispered the match was far better, and the groom scowled at everyone present.
But as quickly as lightning, before they could blink, before the groom and the groomsmen had quite time to think, the bride was swept up and the charger away, and they were left standing with naught left to say.
They went after the couple, the father saw to it, but alas for the groom the two were never to be found again, and the Bride of Netherby was gone forever, with Lochinvar the Brave.
Ride! Ride on, Lochinvar, take the fair lady, where Netherby’s far reaching arm will not stay thee. Even braver in love than he was in a war, ride on, ride on, young Lord Lochinvar.
