And soon a score of fires, I ween,
From height, and hill, and cliff, were seen,
Each with warlike tidings fraught;
Each from each the signal caught ;
Each after each they glanced to sight,
As stars arise upon the night.
They gleamed on many a dusky_tarn,*
Haunted by the lonely earn;†
On many a cairn's gray pyramid,
Where urns of mighty chiefs lie hid;
Till high Dunedin the blazes saw,
From Soltra and Dumpender Law;
And Lothian heard the Regent's order,
That all should bowne§ them for the Bordez.
The livelong night in Branksome rang
The ceaseless sound of steel;
The castle-bell, with backward clang,
Sent forth the larum peal;
Was frequent heard the heavy jar
Where massy stone and iron bar
Were piled on echoing keep and tower,
To whelm the foe with deadly shower;
Was frequent heard the changing guard,
And watch-word from the sleepless ward.
While, wearied by the endless din,
Blood-hound and ban-dog yelled within.
The noble Dame, amid the broil,
Shared the gray Seneschal's high toil.
And spoke of danger with a smile;
Cheered the young knights, and council sage Held with the chiefs of riper age.
No tidings of the foe were brought,
Nor of his numbers knew they ought,
Nor in what time the truce he sought.
Some said, that there were thousands ten;
And others weened that it was nought
But Leven Clans, or Tynedale men,
* Tarn, a mountain lake,
† Earn, a Scottish eagle.
§ Bowne, make ready.
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?-
"Aye! 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.
SWEET Teviot! on thy silver tide
The glaring bale-fires blaze no morë;
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 bort,
Since first they rolled upon the Tweed,
Had only heard the shepherd's reed,
Nor started at the bugle-horn.
Unlike the tide of human time,
Which, though it change in ceaseless flow, * Protection-money exacted by free-booters.
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 bloody Highland blade,
Why was not I beside him laid!-
Enough he died the death of fame;
Enough he died with conquering Grame.
Now over Border dale and fell,
Full wide and far was terror spread;
For pathless marsh, 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 matrons 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!
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 St 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."
The Viscount of Dundee, slain in the battle of
Killycrankie.
While 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 Bilhope stag.
It bore his wife and children twain;
A half-clothed serf was all their train:
His wife, stout, ruddy, and dark-browed,
Of silver brooch and bracelet proud,
Laughed to her friends among the crowd,
He was of stature passing tall,
But sparely formed, and lean withal:
A battered morion 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 wondrous strength, His hardy partner bore.
Thus 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 hagbut-men,
Who have long lain at Askertain:
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 live-long night.
Black John of Akeshaw, and Fergus Græme,
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 shade,
Came in, their Chief's defence to aid.
From fair St Mary's silver wave,
From dreary Gamescleuch's dusky height,
His ready lances Thirlestane brave
Arrayed beneath a banner bright.
The tressured fleur-de-luce he claims
To wreathe his shield, since royal James,
Encamped 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;
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