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,