  (Fought July 7th, 1576.) On July seventh, the suthe to say, At the Reid Squair the tryst was set. Our wardens they affixt the day, And as they promist, sae they met: Allace! that day I’ll neir forzet, Was sure sae feir’d, and then sae fain, They cam thair justice for to get, Will nevir grein to cum again. Carmichael was our warden then, He causit the countrey to convene, And the laird Watt, that worthy man, Brocht in his surname weil be sene: The Armstrangs that ay haif bene A hardy house, but not a hail; The Elliotts honours to mentain, Brought in the laif of Liddisdale. Then Twidail came to with speid, The Scheriff brocht the Douglas doun, With Cranstane, Gladstane, gude at neid, Baith Rewls-water and Hawick Town. Beangeddert bauldly maid him boun, With all the Trumbles strang and stout; The Ruthirfuirds, with grit renoun, Convoyit the town of Jedbruch out. With other Clanns I can nocht tell, Because our wairning was nocht wyde, Be this our folk hes tane the fell, And plantit pallions thair to byde: We lukit down the uther syde, And saw cum briesting owr the brae, And Sir George Foster was thair gyde, With fyftene hundrid men and mae. It greivt him sair that day I trow, With Sir John Hinrome of Schipsydehouse, Because we were not men enow, He counted us not worth a souse; Sir George was gentil, meik, and douse, But he was hail and het as fyre: But zit for all his cracking crouse, He rewd the raid of the Reid Squyre. To deil with proud men is but pain, For ether ze maun ficht or flie, Or els nae answer mack again, But play the beist, and let him be. It was nae wondir tho’ he was hie, Had Tyndall, Redsdaile at his hand, With Cucksdaile, Gladsdaile on the lie, Auld Hebsrime and Northumberland. Zit was our meeting meik enough, Begun with mirriness and mows, And at the brae abune the heugh The clerk sat doun to call the rows, And sum for ky and sum for ewis, Callit in of Dandrie Hob and Jock, I saw cum merching owre the knows, Fyve hundred Fennicks in a flock. With jack and speir, and bowis all bent, And warlike weaponis at their will; Howbeit they wer not weil content, Zit be me trouth we feird nae ill: Sum zeid to drink, and sum stude still, And sum to cards and dyce them sped, Quhyle on ane Farstein they fyld a bill, And he was fugitive that fled. Carmichael bad them speik out plainly, And cloke nae cause for ill nor gude, The uther answering him full vainly, Begouth to reckon kin and blude, He raise and rax’d him quhair he stude, And bade him match him with his marrows; Then Tyndal hard these reseuns rude, And they lute aff a flight of arrows. Then was ther nocht but bow and speir, And ilka man pullit out a brand, A Schaftan and a Fennick their, Gude Symington was slain frae hand. The Scotismen cryd on uther to stand, Frae tyme they saw John Robson slain: Quhat suld they cry! The King’s command Culd cause nae cowards turn again. Up raise the laird to red the cumber, Quhilk wald not be for all his boist, Quhat suld we do with sic a number, Fyve thousand men into an hoist? Then Henrie Purdie proud hes cost, And verie narrowlie had mischiefd him, And ther we had our Warden lost, Wart not the grit God he relievd him. Ane uther throw the breiks him bair, Quhyle flatlines to the ground he fell: Then thocht I, we had lost him thair, Into my heart it struck a knell; Zit up he raise, the truth to tell, And laid about him dunts full dour, His horsemen they faucht stout and snell, And stude about him in the stour. Then raisd the slogan with an schout, Fy, Tyndall to it, Jedbrugh heir; I trow he was not half sae stout, But anes his stomach was a steir, With gun and genzie, bow and spier, He micht se mony a crakit crown, But up amang the merchant gier, They bussie were as we wer doun. The swallow-tails frae teckles flew, Fyve hundred slain into the flicht, But we had pestellets anew, And schot amang them as we micht. With help of God the game gade richt, Frae tyme the foremost of them fell; Hynd owre the know, without gude-nicht, They ran with mony a schout and zell. And after they had turnd again, Zit Tyndall men they turnd again, And had not bene the merchant packs, There had bene mae of Scotland slain: But Jesu gif the folk was fain No put the bussing on thair theis, And sae they fled with all thair main, Doun owre the brae lyke clogged beis. Sir Francis Russel tane was thair, And hurt, as we heir men reherse; Proud Wallingtoun was wounded sair, Albeit he was a Fennick ferss, But gif ze wald a souldier serche Amang them all was tane that night, Was nane sae wordie of our verse As Colingwood that courteous knight. Zung Henry skapit hame, is hurt, A souldier schot him with a bow, Scotland has cause to make great sturt, For laiming of the Laird of Mow. The Laird Watt did weil indeid, His friends stude stoutly by himsell, With little Gladstone, gude in neid, For Gretein kend not gude be ill. The Scheriff wantit not gude-will, Howbeit he might not ficht sae fast: Benjeadert, Hundlie and Hunthill, Three, on they laid well at the last Except the horsemen of the gaird: If I could put men to avail, Nane stoutlier stude out for their laird, Nor did the lads of Liddisdale. But little harness had we thair, But auld Badrule had on a jack, And did richt weil, I zou declair, With all the Trumbulls at his back. Gude Ederstane was not to lack, With Kirtoun, Newtoun, nobill-men. Thir is ail the specials I haif spack, Forby them that I could nocht ken. Qhua did invent that day of play, We neid nocht feir to find him sune, For Sir John Foster, I dare weil say, Maid us that noysome afternune: Not that I speik precisely out, That he supposd it wald be perill, But pryde and breaking out, but dout, Gart Tyndall lads begin the quarrell. |
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