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“Belted Will Howard is marching here,

       And hot Lord Dacre, with many a spear,

       And all the German hackbut men,

       Who have long lain at Askerten:

       They cross’d the Liddel at curfew hour,

       And burn’d my little lonely tower:

       The fiend receive their souls therefore!

       It had not been burnt this year and more.

       Barnyard and dwelling, blazing bright,

       Serv’d to guide me on my flight;

       But I was chas’d the livelong night.

       Black John of Akeshaw and Fergus Graeme

       Fast upon my traces came,

       Until I turn’d at Priesthaugh Scrogg,

       And shot their horses in the bog,

       Slew Fergus with my lance outright

       I had him long at high despite,

       He drove my cows last Fastern’s night.”

       VII

      Now weary scouts from Liddesdale,

       Fast hurrying in, confirm’d the tale;

       As far as they could judge by ken,

       Three hours would bring to Teviot’s strand

       Three thousand armed Englishmen;

       Meanwhile, full many a warlike band,

       From Teviot, Aill, and Ettrick shade,

       Came in, their Chief’s defence to aid.

       There was saddling and mounting in haste,

       There was pricking o’er moor and lea;

       He that was last at the trysting-place

       Was but lightly held of his gay ladye.

       VIII

      From fair St. Mary’s silver wave,

       From dreary Gamescleugh’s dusky height,

       His ready lances Thirlestane brave

       Array’d beneath a banner bright.

       The treasured fleur-de-luce he claims

       To wreathe his shield, since royal James,

       Encamp’d by Fala’s mossy wave,

       The proud distinction grateful gave,

       For faith ‘mid feudal jars;

       What time, save Thirlestane alone,

       Of Scotland’s stubborn barons none

       Would march to southern wars;

       And hence, in fair remembrance worn,

       Yon sheaf of spears his crest has borne

       Hence his high motto shines reveal’d,

       “ Ready, aye ready” for the field.

       IX

      An aged Knight, to danger steel’d,

       With manyaa mosstrooper came on;

       And azure in a golden field,

       The stars and crescent graced his shield,

       Without the bend of Murdieston.

       Wide lay his lands round Oakwood tower

       And wide round haunted Castle-Ower;

       High over Borthwick’s mountain flood

       His wood-embosom’d mansion stood;

       In the dark glen, so deep below,

       The herds of plunder’d England low,

       His bold retainers’ daily food,

       And bought with danger, blows, and blood.

       Marauding chief! his sole delight

       The moonlight raid, the morning fight;

       Not even the Flower of Yarrow’s charms,

       In youth, might tame his rage for arms

       And still, in age, he spurn’d at rest,

       And still his brows the helmet press’d,

       Albeit the blanched locks below

       Were white as Dinlay’s spotless snow;

       Five stately warriors drew the sword

       Before their father’s band;

       A braver knight than Harden’s lord

       Ne’er belted on a brand.

       X

      Scotts of Eskdale, a stalwart band,

       Came trooping down the Todshaw-hill;

       By the sword they won their land,

       And by the sword they hold it still.

       Hearken, Ladye, to the tale,

       How thy sires won fair Eskdale.

       Earl Morton was lord of that valley fair;

       The Beattisons were his vassals there.

       The Earl was gentle, and mild of mood;

       The vassals vere warlike, and fierce, and rude;

       High of heart, and haughty of word,

       Little they reck’d of a tame liege lord.

       The Earl into fair Eskdale came,

       Homage and seignory to claim:

       Of Gilbert the Galliard a heriot he sought,

       Saying, “Give thy best steed, as a vassal ought.”

       “Dear to me is my bonny white steed,

       Oft has he help d me at pinch of need;

       Lord and Earl though thou be, I trow

       I can rein Bucksfoot better than thou.”

       Word on word gave fuel to fire,

       Till so highly blazed the Beattison’s ire,

       But that the Earl the flight had ta’en,

       The vassals there their lord had slain.

       Sore he plied both whip and spur,

       As he urged his steed through Eskdale muir;

       And it fell down a weary weight,

       Just on the threshold of Branksome gate.

       XI

      The Earl was a wrathful man to see,

       Full fain avenged would he be.

       In haste to Branksome’s Lord he spoke,

       Saying, “Take these traitors to thy yoke;

       For a cast of hawks, and a purse of gold,

       All Eskdale I’ll sell thee, to have and hold:

       Beshrew thy heart, of the Beattisons’ clan

       If thou leavest on Eske a landed man;

       But spare Woodkerrick’s lands alone,

       For he lent me his horse to escape upon.”

       A glad man then was Branksome bold,

       Down he flung him the purse of gold;

       To Eskdale soon he spurr’d amain,

       And with him five hundred riders has ta’en

       He left his merrymen in the mist of the hill

       And bade them hold them close and still;

       And alone he wended to the plain,

       To meet with the Galliard and all his train.

       To Gilbert the Galliard thus he said

      

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