From Branksome's towers the watchman's eye
Dun wreaths of distant smoke can spy,
Which, curling in the rising sun
Shewed southern ravage was begun.
Now loud the heedfull gate-ward cried-
"Prepare ye all for blows and blood!
Watt Tinlinn, from the Liddle-side,
Comes wading through the flood.
Full oft the Tynedale snatchers knock
At his lone gate, and prove the lock;
It was but last Saint Barnabright
They sieged him a whole summer night,
But fled at morning; well they knew,
In vain he never twanged the yew.
Right sharp has been the evening shower,
That drove him from his Liddle tower;
And, by my faith," the gate-ward said,
"I think 'twill prove a warden-raid.”*
While thus he spoke, the bold yeoman
Entered the echoing barbican,
An inroad commanded by the warden in person;
He led a small and shaggy nag,
That through a bog from hag to hag,*
Could bound like any Bilhope stag;
It bore his wife and children twain;
A half-clothed serft was all their train:
His wife, stout, ruddy, and dark browed,
Of silver broach and bracelet proud,
Laughed to her friends among the croud.
He was of stature passing tall,
But sparely formed, and lean withal;
A battered marion on his brow;
A leathern jack, as fence enow,
On his broad shoulders loosely hung;
A border axe behind was slung;
His spear, six Scottish ells in length,
Seemed newly dyed with gore;
His shafts and bow, of wond'rous strength, His hardy partner bore.
Thus to the ladye did Tinlinn shew
The tidings of the English foe-
The broken ground in a bog. + Bondsman.
"Belted Will Howard is marching here,
And hot Lord Dacre, with many a spear,
And all the German hagbut-men,
Who long have lain at Askerten:
They crossed the Liddle at curfew hour,
And burned my little lonely tower;
The fiend receive their souls therefor!
It had not been burned this year and more.
Barn-yard and dwelling, blazing bright,
Served to guide me on my flight;
But I was chased the livelong night.
Black John of Akeshaw, and Fergus Graeme,
Fast upon my traces came,
Until I turned at Priesthaugh-Scrogg,
And shot their horses in the bog,
Slew Fergus with my lance outright;
I had him long at high despite,
He drove my cows last Fastern's night."
Now weary scouts from Liddesdale,
Fast hurrying in, confirmed the tale;
As far as they could judge by ken,
Three hours would bring to Teviot's strand
Three thousand armed Englishmen-
Meanwhile full many a warlike band,
From Teviot, Aill, and Ettrick's shade,
Came in their chief's defence to aid.
From fair Saint Mary's silver wave,
From dreary Gamescleuch's dusky height,
His ready lances Thirlestane brave
Arrayed beneath a banner bright.
The treasured fleur-de-luce he claims
To wreathe his shield, since royal James,
Encamp'd by Fala's mossy wave,
The proud distinction grateful gave,
For faith, mid feudal jars ;
What time save Thirlestane alone,
Of Scotland's stubborn barons, none
Would march to southern wars;
And hence, in fair remembrance worn,
Yon sheaf of spears his crest has borne ;
Hence his high motto shines revealed,
"Ready, aye ready," for the field.
An aged knight, to danger steeled,
With many a moss-trooper, came on ; And azure in a golden field,
The stars and crescent graced his shield,
Without the bend of Murdieston.
Wide lay his lands round Oakwood tower,
And wide round haunted Castle-Ower;
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 in age he spurned at rest,
And still his brows the helmet pressed;
Albeit the blanched locks below
Were white as Dinly's spotless snow;
Five stately warriors drew the sword
Before their father's band;
A braver knight than Harden's lord
Ne'er belted on a brand.
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