Some said, that there were thousands ten;
And others weened that it was nought
But Leven clans, or Tynedale men,
Who came to gather in black mail;*
And Liddesdale, with small avail,
Might drive them lightly back agen.
So passed the anxious night away,
And welcome was the peep of day.
CEASED the high sound-the listening throng
Applaud the Master of the song;
And marvel much, in helpless age,
So hard should be his pilgrimage.
Had he no friend, no daughter dear,
His wandering toil to share and cheer;
No son, to be his father's stay,
And guide him on the rugged way?
66 Ay! once he had-but he was dead!".
Upon the harp he stooped his head,
And busied himself the strings withal,
To hide the tear, that fain would fall.
In solemn measure soft and slow,
Arose a father's notes of woe.
* Protection money exacted by freebooters
SWEET Teviot! on thy silver tide
The glaring bale-fires blaze no more;
No longer steel-clad warriors ride
Along thy wild and willowed shore;
Where'er thou wind'st by dale or hill
All, all is peaceful, all is still,
As if thy waves, since time was born,
Since first they rolled their way to Tweed,
Had only heard the shepherd's reed,
Nor startled at the bugle-horn.
Unlike the tide of human time,
Which, though it change in ceaseless flow,
Retains each grief, retains each crime,
Its earliest course was doomed to know;
And, darker as it downward bears,
Is stained with past and present tears.
Low as that tide has ebbed 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 played
Against the bioody Highland blade,
Why was I not beside him laid!—
Enough he died the death of fame;
Enough he died with conquering Græme.
Now over border, dale and fell,
Full wide and far was terror spread; For pathless march, and mountain cell, The peasant left his lowly shed. The frightened flocks and herds were pent Beneath the peel's rude battlement; And maids and matrone dropped the tear, While ready warriors seized the spear. From Branksome's towers, the watchman's eye Dun wreaths of distant smoke can spy, Which, curling in the rising sun, Showed southern ravage was begun.
Now loud the heedful gate-ward cried-
"Prepare ye all for blows and blood!
Wat Tinlinn, from the Liddle-side,
Comes wading through the flood.
Full oft the Tynedale snatchers knock
At his lone gate, and prove the lock;
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