Walter Scott - The Complete Poems of Sir Walter Scott

For Scotts play best at the roughest game.

Give me in peace my heriot due,

Thy bonny white steed, or thou shalt rue.

If my horn I three times wind,

Eskdale shall long have the sound in mind.”

XII

Loudly the Beattison laugh’d in scorn;

“Little care we for thy winded horn.

Ne’er shall it be the Galliard’s lot

To yield his steed to a haughty Scott.

Wend thou to Branksome back on foot

With rusty spur and miry boot.”

He blew his bugle so loud and hoarse

That the dun deer started at fair Craikcross;

He blew again so loud and clear,

Through the grey mountain-mist there did lances appear;

And the third blast rang with such a din

That the echoes answer’d from Pentoun-linn

And all his riders came lightly in.

Then had you seen a gallant shock

When saddles were emptied and lances broke!

For each scornful word the Galliard had said

A Beattison on the field was laid.

His own good sword the chieftain drew,

And he bore the Galliard through and through;

Where the Beattisons’ blood mix’dwith the rill,

The Galliard’s-Haugh men call it still,

The Scotts have scatter’d the Beattison clan

In Eskdale they left but one landed man

The valley of Eske, from the mouth to the source

Was lost and won for that bonny white horse.

XIII

Whitslade the Hawk, and Headshaw came

And warriors more than I may name;

From Yarrow-cleugh to Hindhaugh-swair,

From Woodhouselie to Chesterglen,

Troop’d man and horse, and bow and spear;

Their gathering word was Bellenden.

And better hearts o’er Border sod

To siege or rescue never rode.

The Ladye mark’d the aids come in,

And high her heart of pride arose:

She bade her youthful son attend,

That he might know his father’s friend,

And learn to face his foes.

“The boy is ripe to look on war;

I saw him draw a crossbow stiff,

And his true arrow struck afar

The raven s nest upon the cliff;

The red cross on a southern breast

Is broader than the raven s nest:

Thou, Whitslade, shalt teach him his weapon to wield,

And o’er him hold his father’s shield.”

XIV

Well may you think the wily page

Car’d not to face the Ladye sage.

He counterfeited childish fear

And shriekd, and shed full many tear,

And moan’d and plain’d in manner wild.

The attendants to the Ladye told

Some fairy, sure, had chang’d the child,

That wont to be so free and bold.

Then wrathful was the noble dame;

She blush’d blood-red for very shame:

“Hence! ere the clan his faintness view;

Hence with the weakling to Buccleuch!

Watt Tinlinn, thou shalt be his guide

To Rangleburn s lonely side.

Sure some fell fiend has cursed our line

That coward should e’er be son of mine!”

XV

A heavy task Watt Tinlinn had,

To guide the counterfeited lad.

Soon as the palfrey felt the wight

Of that ill-omen’d elfish freight,

He bolted, sprung, and rear’d amain,

Nor heeded bit nor curb, nor rein.

It cost Watt Tinlinn mickle toil

To drive him but a Scottish mile;

But as a shallow brook they cross’d,

The elf, amid the running stream,

His figure chang’d, like form in dream,

And fled, and shouted, “Lost! lost! lost!”

Full fast the urchin ran and laugh’d,

But faster still a clothyard shaft

Whistled from startled Tinlinn’s yew

And pierc’d his shoulder through and through.

Although the imp might not be slain,

And though the wound soon heal’d again

Yet, as he ran, he yell’d for pain;

And Wat of Tinlinn, much aghast,

Rode back to Branksome fiery fast.

XVI

Soon on the hill’s steep verge he stood,

That looks o’er Branksome’s towers and wood;

And martial murmurs, from below,

Proclaim’d the approaching southern foe.

Through the dark wood, in mingled tone,

Were Border pipes and bugles blown;

The coursers’ neighing he could ken,

A measured tread of marching men;

While broke at times the solemn hum

The Almayn’s sullen kettledrum;

And banners tall of crimson sheen

Above the copse appear;

And, glistening through the hawthorns green,

Shine helm, and shield, and spear.

XVII

Light forayers, first, to view the ground,

Spurr’d their fleet coursers loosely round;

Behind, in close array, and fast,

The Kendal archers, all in green,

Obedient to the bugle blast,

Advancing from the wood were seen.

To back and guard the archer band,

Lord Dacre’s billmen were at hand:

A hardy race on Irthing bred,

With kirtles white, and crosses red,

Array’d beneath the banner tall,

That stream’d o’er Acre’s conquer’d wall;

And minstrels, as they march’d in order,

Play’d “Noble Lord Dacre, he dwells on the Border.”

XVIII

Behind the English bill and bow,

The mercenaries, firm and slow,

Moved on to fight, in dark array,

By Conrad led of Wolfenstein,

Who brought the band from distant Rhine,

And sold their blood for foreign pay.

The camp their home, their law the sword,

They knew no country, own’d no lord :

They were not arm’d like England’s sons,

But bore the levin-darting guns;

Buff coats, all frounc’d and ‘broider’d o’er,

And morsing-horns and scarfs they wore;

Each better knee was bared, to aid

The warriors in the escalade;

All as they march’d, in rugged tongue,

Songs of Teutonic feuds they sung.

XIX

But louder still the clamour grew,

And louder still the minstrels blew,

When fom beneath the greenwood tree,

Rode forth Lord Howard’s chivalry;

His men-at-arms, with glaive and spear,

Brought up the battle’s glittenng rear.

There many a youthful knight, full keen

To gain his spurs, in arms was seen;

With favor in his crest, or glove,

Memorial of his ladye-love.

So rode they forth in fair array,

Till full their lengthen’d lines display;

Then call’d a halt, and made a stand,

And cried “St. George for merry England!”

XX

Now every English eye intent

On Branksome’s armed towers was bent;

So near they were, that they might know

The straining harsh of each crossbow;

On battlement and bartizan

Gleam’d axe, and spear, and partisan;

Falcon and culver, on each tower,

Stood prompt their deadly hail to shower;

And flashing armor frequent broke

From eddying whirls of sable smoke,

Where upon tower and turret-head,

The seething pitch and molten lead

Reek’d, like a witch’s caldron red.

While yet they gaze, the bridges fall,

The wicket opes, and from the wall

Rides forth the hoary Seneschal.

XXI

Armed he rode, all save the head,

His white beard o’er his breastplate spread;

Unbroke by age, erect his seat,

He rul’d his eager courser’s gait;

Forc’d him, with chasten’d fire to prance,

And, high curvetting, slow advance;

In sign of truce, his better hand

Display’d a peeled willow wand;

His squire, attending in the rear,

Bore high a gauntlet on a spear.

When they espied him riding out,

Lord Howard and Lord Dacre stout

Sped to the front of their array,

To hear what this old knight should say.