He blew his bugle so loud and hoarse, That the dun deer started at far Craikcross; He blew again so loud and clear, Through the gray mountain mist there did lances. appear; And the third blast rang with such a din, That the echoes answered 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, His own good sword the chieftain drew, And he bore the Galliard through and through; Where the Beattisons' blood mixed with the rill, The Galliard's Haugh, men call it still. The Scotts have scattered the Beattison clan, In Eskedale 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. H XIII. Whitslade the Hawk, and Headshaw came, And warriors more than I may name; From Yarrow-cleuch to Hindhaugh-swair, Trooped man and horse, and bow and spear; And better hearts o'er Border sod To siege or rescue never rode. The Ladye marked the aids come in, She bade her youthful son attend, That he might know his father's friend, "The boy is ripe to look on war; I saw him draw a cross-bow 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: 13 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 Cared not to face the Ladye sage. He counterfeited childish fear, And shrieked, and shed full many a tear, And moaned and plained in manner wild. Some fairy, sure, had changed the child, Then wrathful was the noble dame ; Wat 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, It cost Watt Tinlinn mickle toil To drive him but a Scottish mile; But, as a shallow brook they crossed, The elf, amid the running stream, His figure changed, like form in dream, And fled, and shouted, "Lost! lost! lost!" Full fast the urchin ran and laughed, But faster still a cloth-yard shaft Whistled from startled Tinlinn's yew, And pierced his shoulder through and through. Although the imp might not be slain, And though the wound soon healed again, Yet, as he ran, he yelled for pain; And Watt 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; Proclaimed the approaching southern foe. Were Border-pipes and bugles blown; The Almayn's sullen kettle-drum; And banners tall, of crimson sheen, Above the copse appear; And, glistening through the hawthorns green, Shine helm, and shield, and spear. |