Dun wreaths of distant smoke can spy, Which, curling in the rising sun, Show'd southern ravage was begun.
OW loud the heedful gate-ward cried- Prepare ye all for blows and blood! Watt Tinlinn,† from the Liddel-side, Comes wading through the flood. Full oft the Tynedale snatchers knock At his lone gate, and prove the lock; It was but last St. Barnabright
They sieged him a whole summer night, But fled at morning; well they knew In vain he never twang'd the yew. Right sharp has been the evening shower, That drove him from his Liddel tower; And, by my faith," the gate-ward said, "I think 'twill prove a Warden-Raid."+
HILE thus he spoke, the bold yeoman Entered the echoing barbican.
He led a small and shaggy nag,
That through a bog, from hag to hag,+
Could bound like any Billhope stag. It bore his wife and children twain ; A half-clothed serf was all their train : His wife, stout, ruddy, and dark-brow'd, Of silver brooch and bracelet proud,+ Laugh'd to her friends among the crowd. He was of stature passing tall, But sparely form'd, and lean withal ; A batter'd morion on his brow; A leather 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 died with gore;
His shafts and bow, of wondrous strength His hardy partner bore.
HUS to the Ladye did Tinlinn show The tidings of the English foe:"Belted Will Howard+ is marching here, And hot Lord Dacre,† with many a spear, And all the German hackbut-men,†
Who have long lain at Askerten :
They cross'd the Liddel at curfew hour, And burned my little lonely tower; The fiend receive their souls therefor!
It had not been burnt 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 Græme,
Fast upon my traces came,
Until I turn'd 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."-
OW weary scouts from Liddesdale, Fast hurrying in, confirm'd 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 shade,
Came in, their Chief's defence to aid.
There was saddling and mounting in haste, There was pricking o'er moor and lea; He that was last at the trysting-place Was but lightly held of his gay ladye.
ROM fair St. Mary's silver wave, From dreary Gamescleugh's dusky height,
His ready lances Thirlestane brave Array'd beneath a banner bright. The tressur'd 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 reveal'd- "Ready, aye ready,". for the field.
N aged Knight, to danger steel'd,
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-embosom'd mansion stood; In the dark glen, so deep below, The herds of plunder'd 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 spurn'd at rest, And still his brows the helmet press'd, Albeit the blanched locks below Were white as Dinlay's spotless snow; Five stately warriors drew the sword
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