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 Furgus 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, 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.

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 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 ;

G

Hence his high motto shines revealed,—

"Ready, ay ready," for the field.

IX.

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 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 vassals were warlike, and fierce, and rude;

High of heart, and haughty of word,

Little they recked 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 vassal ought."
-"Dear to me is my bonnie white steed,
Oft has he helped 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 the 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 weary weight,

Just on the threshold of Branksome gate.

XI.

The Earl was a wrathful man to see,

Full fain avenged would he be.