Walter Scott - The Complete Poems of Sir Walter Scott

And, darker as it downward bears,

Is stain’d with past and present tears

Low as that tide has ebb’d with me,

It still reflects to Memory’s eye

The hour my brave, my only boy

Fell by the side of great Dundee.

Why, when the volleying musket play’d

Against the bloody Highland blade,

Why was not I beside him laid!

Enough, he died the death of fame;

Enough, he died with conquering Graeme.

III

Now over Border dale and fell

Full wide and far was terror spread;

For pathless marsh, and mountain cell,

The peasant left his lowly shed.

The frighten’d flocks and herds were pent

Beneath the peel’s rude battlement;

And maids and matrons dropp’d the tear,

While ready warriors seiz’d the spear.

From Branksome’s towers, the watchman’s eye

Dun wreaths of distant smoke can spy,

Which, curling in the rising sun,

Show’d southern ravage was begun.

IV

Now loud the heedful gate-ward cried,

“Prepare ye all for blows and blood!

Watt Tinlinn, from the Liddel-side

Comes wading through the flood.

Full oft the Tynedale snatchers knock

At his lone gate, and prove the lock;

It was but last St. Barnabright

They sieg’d him a whole summer night,

But fled at morning; well they knew

In vain he never twang’d the yew.

Right sharp has been the evening shower

That drove him from his Liddel tower;

And, by my faith,” the gate-ward said,

“I think ‘twill prove a Warden-Raid.”

V

While thus he spoke, the bold yeoman

Enter’d the echoing barbican.

He led a small and shaggy nag,

That through a bog, from hag to hag,

Could bound like any Billhope stag.

It bore his wife and children twain;

A half-clothed serf was all their train;

His wife, stout, ruddy, and dark-brow’d,

Of silver brooch and bracelet proud,

Laugh’d to her friends among the crowd.

He was of stature passing tall,

But sparely form’d, and lean withal

A batter’d morion on his brow;

A leather jack, as fence enow

On his broad shoulders loosely hung;

A border axe behind was slung;

His spear, six Scottish ells in length,

Seem’d newly dyed with gore

His shafts and bow, of wondrous strength,

His hardy partner bore.

VI

Thus to the Ladye did Tinlinn show

The tidings of the English foe:

“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

“Know thou me for thy liege-lord and head;

Deal not with me as with Morton tame,