And hence, in fair remembrance worn, Hence his high motto shines revealed— 66 Ready, aye ready," for the field. IX. An aged knight, to danger steeled, With many a moss-trooper, came on; The stars and crescent graced his shield, Wide lay his lands round Oakwood tower, High over Borthwick's mountain flood, His wood-embosomed mansion stood; In the dark glen, so deep below, The herds of plundered 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 his brows the helmet pressed, Were white as Dinlay's spotless snow: A braver knight than Harden's lord Ne'er belted on a brand. X. Scotts of Eskdale, a stalwart band, Came trooping down the Todshawhill; 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 were warlike, and fierce, and rude; High of heart, and haughty of word, Little they recked of a tame liege lord. Homage and seignory to claim: Of Gilbert the Galliard, a heriot* he sought, Till so highly blazed the Beattisons' ire, The vassals there their lord had slain. * The feudal superior, in certain cases, was entitled to the best horse of the vassal, in name of Heriot, or Herezeld. 1 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, 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, 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 laughed 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."- 7 |