The child, amidst the forest bower,
Stood rooted like a lily flower;

And when at length, with trembling pace,
He sought to find where Branksome lay,
He fear'd to see that grisly face

Glare from some thicket on his way.
Thus, starting oft, he journey'd on,
And deeper in the wood is gone,—
For aye the more he sought his way,
The farther still he went astray,
Until he heard the mountains round
Ring to the baying of a hound.

XV.

And hark! and hark! the deep-mouth'd bark
Comes nigher still, and nigher;
Bursts on the path a dark bloodhound,
His tawny muzzle track'd the ground,

And his red e shot fire.

Soon as the wilder'd child saw he,
He flew at him right furiouslie.

I ween, you would have seen with joy

The bearing of the gallant boy,
When, worthy of his noble sire,

His wet cheek glow'd 'twixt fear and ire!
He faced the bloodhound manfully,

And held his little bat on high;
So fierce he struck, the dog, afraid,
At cautious distance hoarsely bay'd,

But still in act to spring;

When dash'd an archer through the glade,
And when he saw the hound was stay'd,
He drew his tough bowstring:

But a rough voice cried, "Shoot not, hoy!
Ho! shoot not, Edward-'tis a boy!"

XVI.

The speaker issued from the wood,
And check'd his fellow's surly mood,
And quell'd the ban-dog's ire;
He was an English yeoman good,
And born in Lancashire.
Well could he hit a fallow deer,

Five hundred feet him fro;

With hand more true, and eye more clear, No archer bended bow.

His coal-black hair, shorn round and close,
Set off his sunburn'd face;

Old England's sign, Saint George's cross,
His barret-cap did grace;
His bugle-horn hung by his side,
All in a wolf-skin baldric tied:
And his short falchion, sharp and clear,
Had pierced the throat of many a deer.

XVII.

His kirtle, made of forest green,
Reach'd scantly to his knee;
And, at his belt, of arrows keen
A furbish'd sheaf bore he:

His buckler scarce in breadth a span,

No larger fence had he:

He never counted him a man

Would strike below the knee;

His slacken'd bow was in his hand,

And the leash, that was his bloodhound's band.

XX.

Gramercy, for thy good will, fair boy! My mind was never set so high;

But if thou art chief of such a clan,

And art the son of such a man,

And ever comest to thy command,

Our wardens had need to keep good order:

My bow of yew to a hazel wand,

Thou'lt make them work upon the border. Meantime be pleased to come with me, For good Lord Dacre shalt thou see.

I think our work is well begun,

When we have taken thy father's son."

XXI.

Although the child was led away,
In Branksome still he seem'd to stay,
For so the dwarf his part did play;
And, in the shape of that young boy,
He wrought the castle much annoy.
The comrades of the young Buccleuch
He pinch'd, and beat, and overthrew ;
Nay, some of them he well nigh slew.
He tore dame Maudlin's silken tire,
And as Sym Hall stood by the fire,
He lighted the match of his bandelier,*
And wofully scorch'd the hack butteer ;†
It may be hardly thought or said,
The mischief that the urchin made,
Till many of the castle guess'd,
That the young baron was possess'd!
XXII.

Well, I ween, the charm he held
The noble ladye had soon dispell'd:
But she was deeply busied then
To tend the wounded Deloraine.
Much she wonder'd to find him lie,
On the stone threshold stretch'd along;
She thought some spirit of the sky

Had done the bold mosstrooper wrong:

* Bandelier, belt for carrying ammunition.

+ Hackbutteer, musketeer.

Because, despite her precept dread,
Perchance he in the book had read;

But the broken lance in his bosom stood,
And it was earthly steel and wood.

XXIII.

She drew the splinter from the wound,
And with a charm she stanch'd the blood:
She bade the gash be cleansed and bound;
No longer by his couch she stood;
But she has ta'en the broken lance,
And wash'd it from the clotted gore,
And salved the splinter o'er and o'er.
William of Deloraine, in trance,

Whene'er she turn'd it round and round,
Twisted, as if she gall'd his wound.

Then to her maidens she did say, That he should be whole man and sound, Within the course of a night and day. Full long she toil'd; for she did rue Mishap to friend so stout and true.

XXIV.

So pass'd the day-the evening fell,
'Twas near the time of curfew bell;
The air was mild, the wind was calm,
The stream was smooth, the dew was balm;
E'en the rude watchman, on the tower,
Enjoy'd and bless'd the lovely hour;
Far more fair Margaret loved and bless'd
The hour of silence and of rest.
On the high turret sitting lone,
She waked at times the lute's soft tone;
Touch'd a wild note, and, all between,
Thought of the bower of hawthorns green.
Her golden hair stream'd free from band,
Her fair cheek rested on her hand,
Her blue eyes sought the west afar,
For lovers love the western star.

XXV.

Is yon the star, o'er Penchryst Pen,
That rises slowly to her ken,

And, spreading broad its wavering light,
Shakes its loose tresses on the night?
Is yon red glare the western star?-
O, 'tis the beacon blaze of war!

Scarce could she draw her tighten'd breath,
For well she knew the fire of death!

XXVI.

The warder view'd it blazing strong,
And blew his war note loud and long,
Till, at the high and haughty sound,
Rock, wood, and river rung around.
The blast alarm'd the festal hall,
And startled forth the warriors all;
Far downward, in the castle-yard,
Full many a torch and cresset glared;
And helms and plumes, confusedly toss'd,
Were in the blaze half seen, half lost;
And spears in wild disorder shook,
Like reeds beside a frozen brook.

XXVII.

The seneschal, whose silver hair Was redden'd by the torches' glare,

Stood in the midst, with gesture proud,
And issued forth his mandates loud.
"On Penchryst glows a bale of fire,

And three are kindling on Priesthaughswire;
Ride out, ride out,

The foe to scout,

Mount, mount, for Branksome,* every man!
Thou, Todrig, warn the Johnstone clan,
That ever are true and stout.
Ye need not send to Liddesdale;
For, when they see the blazing bale,
Elliots and Armstrongs never fail.—
Ride, Alton, ride, for death and life!
And warn the warden of the strife.
Young Gilbert, let our beacon blaze.
Our kin, and clan, and friends to raise."

XXVIII.

Fair Margaret, from the turret head,
Heard far below, the coursers' tread.
While loud the harness rang,
As to their seats, with clamour dread,
The ready horsemen sprang;
And trampling hoofs, and iron coats,
And leaders' voices, mingled notes,
And out! and out!
In hasty route,

The horsemen gallop'd forth;
Dispersing to the south to scout,

And east, and west, and north,
To view their coming enemies,
And warn their vassals and allies.
XXIX.

The ready page, with hurried hand
Awaked the need-fire's+ slumbering brand,
And ruddy blush'd the heaven:
For a sheet of flame, from the turret high,
Waved like a blood-flag on the sky,

All flaring and uneven.

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 gleam'd 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 Border.

Were piled on echoing keep and tower,
To whelm the foe with deadly shower;
Was frequent heard the changing guard,
And watchword from the sleepless ward;
While, wearied by the endless din,
Bloodhound and ban-dog yell'd within.
XXXI.

The noble dame, amid the broil,
Shared the gray seneschal's high toil,
And spoke of danger with a smile;

Cheer'd 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 aught,
Nor in what time the truce he sought.

Some said that there were thousands ten, And others ween'd that it was naught,

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 pass'd 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?
"Ay, once he had-but he was dead!"-
Upon the harp he stoop'd 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 wo.

CANTO IV. I.

SWEET Teviot! on thy silver tide
The glaring bale-fires blaze no more;
No longer steel-clad warriors ride

Along thy wild and willow'd 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 roll'd their way to Tweed, Had only heard the shepherd's reed, Nor started at the bugle-horn.

II.

Unlike the tide of human time,

Which, though it change in ceaseless flow, Retains each grief, retains each crime,

Its earliest course was doom'd to know
And, darker as it downward bears,
Is stain'd with past and present tears.
Low as that tide has ebb'd with me,
It still reflects to memory's eye
The hour my brave, my only boy,
Fell by the side of great Dundee.

*Protection money exacted by freebooters.

Why! when the volleying musket play'd
Against the bloody Highland blade,
Why was I not beside him laid?-
Enough he died the death of fame;
Enough he died with conquering Græme!
III.

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 frighten'd flocks and herds were pent Beneath, the peel's rude battlement; And maids and matrons dropt 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, Show'd southern ravage was begun.

IV.

Now loud the heedful gateward cried"Prepare ye all for blows and blood! Wat 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 Saint 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 gateward said, "I think 'twill prove a warden-raid."*

V.

While thus he spoke, the bold yeoman
Enter'd the echoing barbican.
He led a small and shaggy nag,
That through a bog, from hag to hagt
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-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 leathern jack, as fence enow,
On his broad shoulders loosely Hung;
A border axe behind was slung;

His spear, six Scottish ells in length,
Seem'd newly died with gore;

His shafts and bow, of wondrous strength, His hardy partner bore.

VI.

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 long have lain at Askerten:

* An inroad comanded by the warden in person.
+ The broken ground in a bog. + Bondsman.

They cross'd the Liddel at curfew hour,
And burn'd my little lonely tower;
The fiend receive their souls therefor!
It had not been burn'd 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,
Full fast upon my traces came,
Until I turn'd at Priesthaughscrogg,
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."

VII.

Now, 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 lee;
He that was last at the trysting place
Was but lightly held of his gay ladye.
VIII.

From fair Saint Mary's silver wave,
From dreary Gamescleugh's dusky height,
His ready lances Thirlestane brave

Array'd beneath a banner bright.
The treasured fleur-de-luce he claims
To wreath 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,

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.

IX.

An aged knight, to danger steel'd,

With many a mosstrooper came on:
And azure in a golden field,

The stars and crescent graced his shield,
Without the bend of Murdieston.
Wide lay his hands 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 blanch'd locks below
Were white as Dinlay'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.

X.

Scotts of Eskdale, a stalwart band,
Came trooping down the Todshawhill;
By the sword they won their land,

And by the sword they hold it still,
Hearken, ladye, to the tale,
How thy sires won fair Eskdale.-
Earl Morton was lord of that valley fair,
The Beattisons were his vassals there.
The earl was gentle and mild of mood,
The vassels were warlike, and fierce, and rude;
High of heart, and haughty of word,
Little they reck'd of a tame liege lord.
The earl to fair Eskdale came,
Homage and seignory to claim:

Of Gilbert the Galliard, a heriot* he sought,
Saying, "Give thy best steed, as a vassel ought.
"Dear to me is my bonny white steed,
Oft has he help'd me at pinch of need;
Lord and earl though thou be, I trow

I can rein Bucksfoot better than thou."
Word on word gave fuel to fire,
Till so highly blazed the Beattisons' ire,
But that the earl to flight had ta'en,
The vassals there their lord had slain.
Sore he plied both whip and spur,

As he urged his steed through Eskdale muir;
And it fell down a dreary weight,
Just on the threshold of Branksome gate.

XI.

The earl was a wrathful man to see,
Full fain avenged would he be.
In haste to Branksome's lord he spoke,
Saying "Take these traitors to thy yoke:
For a cast of hawks, and a purse of gold;
All Eskdale I'll sell thee, to have and hold:
Beshrew thy heart, of the Beattisons' clan
If thou leavest on Esk a landed man:
But spare Woodkerrick's lands alone,
For he lent me his horse to escape upon."
A glad man then was Branksome bold,
Down he flung him the purse of gold;
To Eskdale soon he spurr'd amain,
And with him five hundred riders has ta'en.
He left his merryman in the midst of the hill,
And bade them hold them close and still;

And alone he wended to the plain,
To meet with the Galliard and all his train.
To Gilbert the Galliard thus he said:-
"Know thou me for thy liege lord and head:
Deal not with me as with Morton tame,
For Scots play best at the roughest game.
Give me in peace my heriot due,
Thy bonny white steed, or thou shalt rue.

The feudal superior, in certain cases, was entitled to the best horse of the vassal, in name of Heriot, or Here. zeld.

If my horn I three times wind,
Eskdale shall long have the sound in mind."

XII.

Loudly the Beattison laugh'd in scorn :--
"Little care we for thy winded horn.
Ne'er shall it be the Galliard's lot,
To yield his steed to a haughty Scott.
Wend thou to Branksome back on foot,
With rusty spur and miry boot."--
He blew his bugle so loud and hoarse,
That the dun deer started at far Craikcross;

He blew again so loud and clear,

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 Wat Tinlinn had,
To guide the counterfeited lad,
Soon as the palfrey felt the weight
Of that ill-omen'd elfish freight,
He bolted, sprung, and rear'd amain,
Nor heeded bit, nor curb, nor rein.
It cost Wat Tinlinn mickle toil

appear;

And the third blast wrung with such a din,
That the echoes answer'd 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,
A Beattison on the field was laid.

His own good sword the chieftain drew,
And he bore the Galliard through and through;
Where the Beattisons' blood mix'd with the rill,
The Galliard's Haugh, men call it still.
The Scotts have scatter'd the Beattison clan.
In Eskdale they left but one landed man.
The valley of Esk, from the mouth to the source,
Was lost and won for that bonny white horse.

XIII.

Whitslade the Hawk, and Headshaw came,
And warriors more than I may name;
From Yarrow-cleuch to Hindhaug-swair,

From Woodhouselie to Chester-glen,
Troop'd man and horse, and bow and spear;
Their gathering word was Bellenden.
And better hearts o'er Border sod
To siege or rescue never rode.

The ladye mark'd the aids come in,

And high her heart of pride arose :

She bade her youthful son attend,
That he might know his father's friend,
And learn to face his foes.
"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:
Thou, Whitslade, shall teach him his weapon to
And over 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 shriek'd, and shed full many a tear,
And moan'd and plain'd in manner wild.
The attendants to the ladye told,
Some fairy, sure, had changed the child,
That wont to be so free and bold.
Then wrathful was the noble dame;
She blush'd blood-red for very shame :-
« Hence! ere the clan his faintness view;
Hence with the weakling to Buccleuch !—

[wield,

But, as a shallow brook they cross'd,
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 laugh'd,

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 heal'd again,
Yet, as he ran, he yell'd for pain;
And Wat 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:
And martial murmurs from below,
Proclaim'd the approaching southern foe.
Through the dark wood, in mingled tone,
Were Border pipes and bugles blown:
The coursers's neighing he could ken,
And measured tread of marching men;
While broke at times the solemn hum,
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.

XVII.

Light forayers first, to view the ground,
Spurr'd their fleet coursers loosely round;
Behind, in close array and fast,

The Kendal archers, all in green,
Obedient to the bugle blast,

Advancing from the wood were seen.
To back and guard the archer band,
Lord Dacre's bill-men were at hand:

A hardy race, on Irthing bred,
With kirtles white, and crosses red,

Array'd beneath the banners tall,

That stream'd o'er Acre's conquer❜d wall.

And minstrels as they march'd in order,

Play'd, "Noble Lord Dacre, he dwells on the Border."

XVIII.

Behind the English bill and bow, The mercenaries, firm and slow, Moved on to fight in dark array, By Conrad led of Wolfenstein.