With fifteen hundred bowmen bold, All chosen men of might, Who knew ffull well in time of neede To ayme their shafts arright. The gallant greyhounds swiftly ran To chase the fallow deere; On Munday they began to hunt Ere daylight did appeare; And long before high noone they had A hundred fat buckes slaine. Then having dined, the drovyers went To rouze the deare againe; The bowmen mustered on the hills, Well able to endure; Theire backsids all with speciall care, That day were guarded sure. The hounds ran swiftly through the woods The nimble deere to take, That with their cryes the hills and dales An eccho shrill did make. Lord Percy to the quarry went To view the tender deere; Quoth he, “Erle Douglas promised once This day to meete me heere; But if I thought he wold not come, Noe longer wold I stay.” With that, a brave younge gentlman Thus to the Erle did say, “Loe, yonder doth Erle Douglas come, His men in armour bright, Full twenty hundred Scottish speres All marching in our sight, “All men of pleasant Tivydale, Fast by the river Tweede:” “O ceaze your sportts!” Erle Percy said, “And take your bowes with speede. “And now with me, my countrymen, Your courage forth advance! For there was never champion yett In Scottland nor in France, “That ever did on horsbacke come, But if my hap it were, I durst encounter man for man, With him to breake a spere.” Erle Douglas on his milke white steede, Most like a Baron bold, Rode formost of his company, Whose armour shone like gold. “Shew me,” sayd hee, “whose men you bee, That hunt soe boldly heere, That without my consent doe chase And kill my fallow deere.” The first man that did answer make Was noble Percy hee, Who sayd, “Wee list not to declare, Nor shew whose men wee bee. “Yett wee will spend our deerest blood Thy cheefest harts to slay.” Then Douglas swore a solempne oathe, And thus in rage did say; “Ere thus I will outbraved bee, One of us tow shall dye! I know thee well! an Erle thou art, Lord Percy! Soe am I; “But trust me, Percye, pittye it were, And great offence, to kill Then any of these our guiltlesse men, For they have done none ill; “Let thou and I the battell trye, And set our men aside.” “Accurst bee he!” Erle Percy sayd, “By whome it is denyed.” Then stept a gallant Squire forth,— Witherington was his name,— Who said, “I wold not have it told To Henery our King, for shame, “That ere my captaine fought on foote, And I stand looking on: You bee two Erles,” quoth Witherington, “And I a Squier alone, “Ile doe the best that doe I may, While I have power to stand! While I have power to weeld my sword, Ile fight with hart and hand!” Our English archers bend their bowes— Their harts were good and trew,— Att the first flight of arrowes sent, Full foure score Scotts they slew. To drive the deere with hound and horne, Douglas bade on the bent; Two captaines moved with mickle might Their speres to shivers went. They closed full fast on everye side, Noe slacknes there was found, But many a gallant gentleman Lay gasping on the ground. O Christ! it was great greeve to see How eche man chose his spere, And how the blood out of their brests Did gush like water cleare! At last these two stout Erles did meet Like captaines of great might; Like Lyons wood they layd on lode, They made a cruell fight. They fought untill they both did sweat, With swords of tempered steele, Till blood a-downe their cheekes like raine They trickling downe did feele. “O yeeld thee, Percye!” Douglas sayd, And infaith I will thee bringe Where thou shall high advanced bee By James our Scottish King; “Thy ransome I will freely give, And this report of thee, Thou art the most couragious Knight That ever I did see.” “Noe, Douglas!” quoth Erle Percy then, “Thy profer I doe scorne; I will not yeelde to any Scott That ever yett was borne!” With that there came an arrow keene Out of an English bow, Who scorke Erle Douglas on the brest A deepe and deadlye blow; Who never sayd more words then these, “Fight on my merrymen all! For why, my life is att an end, Lord Percy sees my fall.” Then leaving liffe, Erle Percy tooke The dead man by the hand; And said, “Erle Douglas! for thy sake Wold I had lost my land! “O Christ! my verry hart doth bleed For sorrow for thy sake! For sure, a more redoubted Knight, Mischance cold never take!” PART IIA Knight amongst the Scotts there was, Which saw Erle Douglas dye, Who streight in hart did vow revenge Upon the Lord Percye. Sir Hugh Mountgomerye was he called, Who, with a spere full bright, Well mounted on a gallant steed, Ran feircly through the fight, And past the English archers all, Without all dread or feare, And through Erle Percyes body then He thrust his hatfull spere, With such a vehement force and might, That his body he did gore, The staff ran through the other side A large cloth yard and more. Thus did both those nobles dye, Whose courage none cold staine, An English archer then perceived The noble Erle was slaine, He had a good bow in his hand Made of a trusty tree; An arrow of a cloth yard long To the hard head haled hee, Against Sir Hugh Mountgomerye His shaft full right he sett; The grey goose winge that was there-on, In his harts bloode was wett. This fight from breake of day did last Till setting of the sun, For when they rung the Evening bell The battele scarse was done. With stout Erle Percy there was slaine Sir John of Egerton, Sir Robert Harcliffe and Sir William, Sir James that bold barron; And with Sir George and Sir James, Both Knights of good account; And good Sir Raphe Rebbye there was slaine, Whose prowesse did surmount. For Witherington needs must I wayle As one in doleful dumpes, For when his leggs were smitten of, He fought upon his stumpes. And with Erle Douglas there was slaine Sir Hugh Mountgomerye, And Sir Charles Morrell that from feelde One foote wold never flee; Sir Roger Hever of Harcliffe tow,— His sisters sonne was hee,— Sir David Lamb so well esteemed But saved he cold not bee; And the Lord Maxwell in like case With Douglas he did dye; Of twenty hundred Scottish speeres, Scarce fifty five did flye; Of fifteen hundred Englishmen Went home but fifty three; The rest in Chevy-Chase were slaine, Under the greenwoode tree. Next day did many widdowes come Their husbands to bewayle; They washt their wounds in brinish teares, But all wold not prevayle. Theyr bodyes bathed in purple blood, They bore with them away, They kist them dead a thousand times Ere they were cladd in clay. The newes was brought to Eddenborrow Where Scottland’s King did rayne, That brave Erle Douglas soddainlye Was with an arrow slaine. “O heavy newes!” King James can say, “Scottland may wittenesse bee I have not any captaine more Of such account as hee!” Like tydings to King Henery came Within as short a space, That Percy of Northumberland Was slaine in Chevy-Chase. “Now God be with him!” said our King, “Sith it will noe better bee, I trust I have within my realme Five hundred as good as hee! “Yett shall not Scotts nor Scottland say But I will vengeance take, And be revenged on them all For brave Erle Percyes sake.” This vow the King did well performe After on Humble Downe; In one day fifty Knights were slayne, With Lords of great renowne, And of the rest of small account, Did many hundreds dye: Thus endeth the hunting in Chevy-Chase Made by the Erle Percye. God save our King, and blesse this land With plentye, joy, and peace; And grant hencforth that foule debate Twixt noble men may ceaze! ffins. Sir Gideon and young Willie Scott Were ever deadly foes; Ere they shall clasp each other’s hand, The Gowan shall grow on the Rose. THE RAIDThey gained the lands o’ Elibank, And gathered the gear together; They counted tens, and came to scores, And drove them out the heather. There was not a Murray on the lea, Young Scott his heart was light; “There’ll be a dry breakfast at Elibank, At Oakwood, a meal to-night.” They got half way to Ettrick stream, When they heard a sleuth-hound yell, And Scott well kenned his mortal foe, Pursued him o’er the fell. Sir Gideon was a doure fierce man, A terror to a foe; He had a wife and daughters three, Well dowered they were I trow. He let young Harden steal his cows, And, oh! his arm was slack; But the grim old Knight was looking on Wi’ fifty men at his back. “I have thee now like a thief in a mill,” Sir Gideon o’ Elibank said; He gave the word to loose the hounds; And the hot pursuit he led. “Young Scott, yield quietly to me,” Sir Gideon loudly cried, “Or a thief’s death shall ye die, If ye the onset bide. “Ye’ve driven off my cows and sheep, And byre and fold are toom, The corbies and ye shall be acquaint, For what this night ye’ve done.” “Brag on! brag on! ye old greybeard! While Scott o’ Harden stands, No power on earth shall make him yield To any o’ Murray’s bands. “So do your best, and do your worst, Here’s a hand and sword to fight; I trow a Scott ne’er turned his back Whilst a Murray was in sight.” “Small mercy after what ye’ve stol’n, I had designed for thee; But, callant, after what ye’ve said, I’ll prove your enemy.” “Thou old man, measure weapons then, And I would have ye leave Your well-faured daughters to the world, For your loss must they grieve.” “Before sunrise,” quoth Gideon, “You’ll speak less vauntingly; Say what ye like of me, you dog, But leave my bairnies be.” The strife went high and bloodily, They grappled at the throat; And many was the Elibank, The reavers deadly smote. The guns banged off, the sleuth-hounds yelled, The cattle rowted sore; And many wights lay on the ground, That up rose never more. The fray went hard wi’ Willie Scott, His horse fell wi’ a bound, And many Murrays wi’ their swords Bore him unto the ground. THE GALLOWS OR MARRIAGELady Murray came forth at noon, To welcome her husband home; And there she spied young Scott o’ Harden, All bounden and his lone. They thrust the Scott in a darksome room, And left him to his thought; But neither bread nor yet red wine Unto the youth they brought. “And what, Lord Gideon,” said his dame, “Will ye do wi’ young Scott?” “Do ye see yonder branch o’ the elm, For that shall be his lot.” “O goodman,” quo’ his pitying dame, “Ye could not do this thing; For lifting a pickle o’ your nowt, So brave a lad to hing!” “What mercy did ever a Scott o’ them E’er show to me or mine? The reaving Scotts shall surely weep, The last of all their line.” She said, “But we have daughters three, And they are no well-faured, When ye’ve a husband to your hand, To hang him would be hard.” “Sooth, goodwife, faith, but ye are right! There’s wisdom in your say; This birkie Scott shall have his choice, To wed what one he may. “We’ll give him respite to the morn, Nor hang him ’gainst all law; To marry our daughter Meikle-Mouthed Meg, Or choke with the death-thraw.” Quo’ she, “To marry our daughter Meg More wiselike would it be, Than kill the hope of an old, old House And strap him to the tree.” Quo’ he, “If I were in his place, I would refuse I ween, And die a death upon the tree, Than wed what I’d ne’er seen. “Go ye, and tell our daughter Meg, That she’s be wived the morn; And I will to this young gallant, And see what he perform.” She went unto her daughter Meg, Who had a meikle mouth; But her teeth were pearls, and her honey breath Was like the wind from the South. The mother sat by her daughter’s side; “Sweet Meg, come tell me this, Wouldst thou the rather be a bride, Then live in singleness? “Before I was your age, I trow, I was in a bride her place.” “Aye, mother,” quo’ Meg, and sighed full sore, “But ye had a well-faured face. “But you shall see the Ettrick stream Run thro’ the dells o’ Yarrow, Before ye hear o’ an offer to me, Or a man to be my marrow. “My face is foul, my heart is large, A kinder none there is; And must I pass away my days, In sullen loneliness?” The mother told her of young Scott, And waited her reply; “O Mother, I’d rather marry him Than ever he should die!” But the tears rose welling from their spring, And filled her cushat eyes; “But, Mother, how if when we’re wed, He should my heart despise?” “Oh, marriage,” quo’ the wily dame, “Is not that hard to snoove, If ye should marry Willie Scott, Ye’ll be like hand and glove.” “Thy death is at my hand, Ye came as a thief in the dead o’ night, And stole my cows from my land. “But I’ll give ye a chance for life, For all ye have said of me, Either to marry my daughter Meg, Or hang upon yonder tree. “And the boldest Scott on the Border March, Shall never take ye down, Until your skeleton is seen And ye drop away bone by bone.” “And ye would spare my life,” he said, “For all ye come so gleg, If I would stoop and give my hand To your bonny daughter Meg? “Ye are the Murray of Elibank, I Scott of Oakwood Tower, I would not marry your daughter Meg, Tho’ a kingdom were her dower; “But little I fear to meet my death, As I do to tell you this; An ye had fallen in my hands, Such were your fate, I wiss. “Ye think that your winsome daughter Meg,” Oh! he spoke so scornfully,— “Will get a husband at the last, But, faith, my lad, ye lie, “I rather choose upon the gallows To render up my breath; I trow there will be Scots enough Left to revenge my death.” “There is my thumb, thou young braggart,” Sir Gideon chafing cried, “I wouldn’t hinder ye your choice For death shall be your bride. “And let the Scots o’ a’ the Border Revenge your death that dare.” He left young Scott unto himself, And quit his dungeon stair. YOUNG WILLIE’S MESSENGERIt was about the midnight time, When his dungeon door ga’ed back; And the sentinel who guarded it Let in a woman in black. “What want ye wi’ me, fair Maiden?” The Scott o’ Harden said. “I come to ask if thy dying wish Can be by me obeyed? “I am a lassie o’ the house, And wait on Sir Gideon’s dame; And tho’ ye have refused poor Meg, Her prayers will be the same.” “Why has Dame Murray sent thee here?”— “She has a woman’s heart. Ye have a mother and sisters twain, From whom full soon ye part. “If ye have anything to say, Ye would have carried there, I swear by all that’s good on earth, To be your messenger.” “Maiden,” quo’ he, and his voice was low, “Of my mother do not speak; I wish to die as my father’s son, And yet her heart I break.” “It cannot be,” then said the girl, “Ye have rejected Meg, Without the looking on her face? I’m sure your life she’d beg.” “I have not seen, but I have heard Her face described to me; And, by my faith, between the two, I’ll chose the gallows-tree.” The tears fell from that poor girl’s eyes, In anger or in spleen?— And ever and anon she sighed, And deep sobs came between. “Belike,” quo’ she, “they’ve painted her Far worse than she may look; Many a man has an ugly wife, That the gallows could not brook.” “I have no wish to see her face, Far less to marry her; But ye seem o’ a kindly heart, And aiblins are as fair. “So let me see your face, my joy, And by your countenance, I’ll see if I dare trust you with A letter for my chance?” She threw the veil from off her face, “I’m no well faured I know; But kernels lie inside hard shells, And gold in the earth below.” “So sweet and sensible ye speak, Ye almost make me wish, Meikle-Mouthed Meg was like to you, So kind, so young, so lish.” He held the light within the cruse Close to the maiden’s face, Wi’ loof o’er e’en, he earnestly Perused each simple grace. He saw her face was fair and round, Her lips like a large rose-leaf; And her snow-white teeth so even showed, Like ivory from their sheath. There stood a tear in her dove-blue eye, Her eye so mild and meek, A large tear slowly left the lid, And trickled down her cheek. “Ye have the look that never lied, And tho’ no fine your face, Ye’ve pleasing sense and kindliness Wi’ every modest grace. “So bring to me the writing ink, The paper and pen so fine; And tho’ ye abide wi’ my enemy, Ye’ll take my mother a line.” She rolled it up so carefully, The letter he writ so fair; She had no silk, but she tied it with A lock o’ her golden hair. THE GALLOWS-TREEIt was by cock-crowing the morn, When Meg wi’ crippled feet, Like one that had a long way walked Came in, her sire to greet. “Grant me another day,” she cried, “For young Willie Scott his life; And throw not by the chance, your Meg Has to become a wife.” Sir Gideon rubbed his hands in glee, “I grant it for your sake; But if he then refuse your hand, He shall his own way take.” Much wondered the Laird o’ Oakwood Tower, As fell the evening gloom, They did not hang him in the morn, As he had heard his doom. He heard the sentry shoot the bolt, And a kind o’ murmuring; And then his mother and sisters two Wi’ loud outcries break in. And, “O my Son!” the mother cried, “Is there no other way, To save thee from a cruel death, At the hands o’ a fierce Murray? “Marry his daughter, Willie dear, And save thy mother’s life; Tho’ she be ugly—what of that? She’ll make a frugal wife.” “Mother, I will not take his terms. Who brought ye here?” he said. “Who, but your messenger so good, That kind and sonsy maid.” They passed the time in grief and woe, Throughout the dead of night; Nor ever they ceased to weep wi’ him, Until the morning’s light. The loud horn blew out o’er the lea, Sir Gideon stood him before; “What is thy choice, young man?” he cried, “Or ere this deed be o’er.” “The gallows still before the wife,” Young Harden stoutly said. “And wi’ the hemp around my throat, I’ll spit on the ground ye tread.” They led him forth to the gallows-tree; When he saw that maiden there, Who at her risk, unto his mother Carried his last letter; The thoughts o’ the gallows could not stir The heart o’ that dauntless Chief, But the weeping look of that young girl, It pierced his soul wi’ grief. And while the tear hung in her eye, He took her lily hand; And said, “Thy heart is far too meek, For such a ruffian band. “Hear me, Murray, speak my mind, I care not for thy word, I’d rather marry this poor maiden, If should my life be spared, “Then ever I’d wed thy daughter Meg.”— Sir Gideon clapped his hand; “A bargain! I take thee at thy word, Young Scott where dost thou stand.” They buckled them in holy bonds, The priest he prayed the while; And when the marriage knot was tied, Sir Gideon blithe did smile. His mother fell upon his neck, “God bless my bairn, he’s free! And bless the bonny lassie yet, Who brought the word to me!” “I give thee a father’s blessing, sir,” The Murray blithely cried; “For what?”—The lassie modest said, “Meikle-Mouthed Meg’s your bride.” Oh! then sore shame fell on the Scott, And tears came in his eyes; “And is my bride the scorned Meg, That I did so despise? “Let no man hate what he’s not seen, The shame on me doth lay:— I rose this morning for my death, And it ends in my bridal day!” (Englished. Condensed) Many a Border freebooter Eyed Thirlwall’s good Castle, Thinking to win the bags of gold, And eke the fair table. But the Baron hath retainers bold, And swatchers many ane, And the Castle walls are high to win, Howe’er they fidge and fain. The boldest one o’ a’ his men, Was Jockey of the Sheugh; The Baron loved him like a brother, And that was fair enoo. Jock could wrestle, run, or leap, Wi’ ever a living man; Never a wight in Cumbernauld Could beat him at the span. But Thirlwall’s Baron heeded not The word o’ Belted Will, Who dwells within the dark Naworth, The Border March to still; He can rule all the Border round, Wi’ a peeled willow-wand; But Thirlwall’s Baron gecks at him, And all the laws o’ the land. So fast come tidings of ravin wrong To Belted Willy’s ear; Quo’ he, “By my belt, I’ll trap this man, If I catch him in effeir. “But he is like a wily fox, That taketh to his hole, An I can catch him on the turn, I’ll smoke him from his bole. “He reaves and harrows every one, Tho’ he has goups o’ gold; I’ll lay a trap for him bedeen, By which he shall be sold.” Thirlwall’s Baron heard his speech, Wi’ scorn almost he burst; “His anger it is like a haggis, That’s hottest at the first.” Sore smiled the wily Belted Will, But in so dark a way; Better that smile were wanting there, Than on his lip to lay. THE TRAP O’ BELTED WILLJock o’ the Sheugh tirled at the string, Of the Baron of Thirlwall’s yett; “Up, up, and rise, my noble Lord, Some plunder for to get. “There are a swatch o’ Englishers Coming from Carlysle town, Well laden wi’ the yellow gold, For Annan are they boun’.” “Go, take a dozen o’ my men, And brattle o’er the lea, Lay wait, and watch until they pass The Bowness Witches’ Tree. “A dozen o’ ye well may lick Three score o’ English tikes, Take all they have, and leave them so To tell o’ this who likes.” Then Jock banged o’er the broomy knoll, And reached the Witches’ Tree, And wi’ his dozen freebooters, Lay down on their bellie. There came on twenty Englishers, Wi’ cloaks and saddlebags; There came on twenty travellers, Mounted on goodly nags. Came on those twenty travellers, With long cloaks flowing down, Came on these twenty travellers, All thro’ the yellow broom. Then started up Jock and his men Wi’ such an awful yell, Ye might have heard it at the top Of Skiddaw or Criffell. “Come off your nags, ye sorning crew, Of Southron pock-puddings, Or ye shall have the good cold steel, So give us all your things!” “We’ll give ye that,” said one o’ them, “Ye’ll no forget, I wiss, This many a day, good Jock o’ the Sheugh, And that my billie’s this!” They threw the cloaks from off their hides, And back and breastplate shone; They grippit their swords, the first blow struck Was echoed with a groan. Good faith! but Jock had found his match, For the Southrons hacked about; The Thirlwall boys were fain to fight, But soon put to the route. Of twelve o’ Jock’s good freebooters, But three fled o’er the lea, The other nine lay still enough Beside the Witches’ Tree. Poor Jock is down upon his back, Wi’ a fair clour on the head; His billies all are stiffening, And three o’ them are fled. Out spoke the twenty travellers, “Why, Jock, how’s this of a’, Ye bid us to a meal, good faith, And then ye run awa’?” Quo’ Jock, as they bound fast his arms, And raised him from the lea, “If I had kenned ye were Belted Will’s men, The Devil might stopped ye for me!” THE GRIZZLY DWARFThe Baron o’ Thirlwall looked abroad, From out his strong Castle, And he saw three men come posting on, Out o’er the fern and fell. “I wad,” said he, “they run a race, A thousand merks I lay Upon the wight in the red jerkin, He wins the race this day.” The three men burst in on his room, “My Lord,” then each one said, “Jock o’ the Sheugh is wounded fair, And nine good fellows dead.” The dark spot flew to the Baron’s cheek, “Ye cowards, one and all! Go, join your bloody billies then, Whatever may befall!” He struck each man the neck intil, And they fell on the floor; “To fly without a single blow, Shows valour to be poor! “If Belted Will should harm a hair O’ Jock o’ the Sheugh his head, I’ll put the Border in such a blaze, Shall make him flee with dread. “If Jock o’ the Sheugh hangs for this play, The whole of the March shall weep, No man shall waken in the morn, That goes alive to sleep.” They brought these words to Belted Will As at racket-ball he played; But the only answer he let fall, “We’ll soon see that,” he said. By Brampton’s town there stands an oak, Upon a hill so high; And Jock was broughten there betimes Upon the tree to die. They strapped him to the highest branch Of all that goodly tree; And there the righteous chaplain prayed For Jock’s soul solemnlie, Thirlwall’s Baron saw the sight, And swore revenge to have; For better part o’ a summer’s day He nothing did but rave. He sent a messenger so bold To Will, who cried in scorn, “Better he looks unto his nest, I’ll burn it ere the morn!” The Baron fled to his Castle, And guarded it so grim, “The fiend take Belted Will,” he cried, “’Tis word and blow wi’ him.” But scarcely had the midnight fell, When spite o’ a’ his care, Belted Will his Castle stormed, For a’ he fought so fair. A tar barrel and reeking peat, They laid unto his nest, Threw open gates and wide windows, And the night wind did the rest. The Baron fled from room to room, By the flames of his own hall, “He’s gi’en me light to go to bed, Whatever may befall.” He rushed into his inner room, Where his golden table lay; The Devil in likeness o’ a Dwarf Kept watch there night and day. Belted Will pursued him hard, Amid the flame and stour, For he cut the skirt from the Baron’s cloak, As he whisked through the door. “Save me, now, thou gruesome Elf, And my soul and body’s thine!” The Dwarf he jabbered hideously, But never made a sign. Belted Will called for a ram, To bash the doorway down; The red flames thro’ the keyhole flashed, And filled wi’ reek the room. “My soul and body,” the Baron said, Abjuring Christ His sign; The Devil he grippit him in his arms, “Now, Baron, art thou mine.” The door ga’ed splintering from the posts, In rushed the enemy; But Baron, Dwarf, and gold table, I wat they could ne’er see. And legends say the ugsome Dwarf Threw all into a well, And by the glamour o’ his art Cast over all a spell; Which never may be rendered vain But by a Widow’s Son; And he shall find the gold table, When years away have run. Frederick Sheldon. (Condensed) |
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