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THE BATTLE OF REID-SQUAIR,
On July seventh, the suthe to say,
At the Reid-Squair the tryst was set. Our wardens they affixt the day,
And as they promist, sae they met:
Allace! that day I'll neir forzet, Was sure sae feir'd, and then sae fain,
They cam thair justice for to get, Will nevir grein to cum again.
Carmichael was our warden then,
He causit the countrey to convene, And the Laird's Watt, that worthy man,
Brocht in his surname weil be sene:
haif bene A hardy house, but not a hail;
The Elliots honours to mentain, Brought in the laif of Liddisdale.
Then Twidail lads came to with speid,
The Scheriff brocht the Douglas doun, With Cranstane, Gladstane, gude at neid,
Baith Rewls-water and Hawick Town. Beanjeddert bauldly maid him boun, With all the Trumbulls strang and stout;
The Ruthirfuirds, with grit renoun, Convoyit the town of Jedbruch out.
With other Clanns I can nocht tell,
Because our wairning was nocht wyde, Be this our folk hes tane the fell,
And plantit pallions thair to byde:
We lukit down the uther syde, And saw cum briesting owr the brae,
Wi' Sir George Foster for thair gyde, Full Fyftene hundrid men and mae.
It greivt him sair that day I trow,
With Sir John Hinronie of Schipsydehouse, Because we were not men enow,
He counted us not worth a louse;
Sir George was gentil, meik and douse, But he was hail, and het as fyre:
But zit for all his cracking crouse He rewd the raid of the Reid-Squyre. To dail with proud men is but pain,
For ether ze maun ficht or flie, Or ells nae answer mak' again,
But play the beist, and let them be.
It was nae wondir tho’ he was hie,
With Cucksdaile, Gladsdaile on the lie,
Begun with mirriness and mows,
The clerk sat down to call the rows,
And sum for ky and sum for ewis,
I saw cum merching owre the knows,
And warlike weapons at their will;
Zit be me troth we feir'd nae ill:
Sum zeid to drink, and sum stude still,
Quhyle on ane Farstein they fyld a bill,
And cloke nae cause for ill nor guide,
Begouth to reckon kin and blude ;
He raise and rax'd him quhair he stude, And bade him match him with his marrows;
Then Tyndal hard these reseuns rude, And they lute aff a flight of arrows. Then was ther nocht but bow and speir,
And ilka man pullit out a brand, A Schaftan and a Fennick their,
Gude Symington was slain frae hand.
The Scotismen cry'd on uther to stand, Frae tyme they saw John Robson slain :
Quhat suld they cry! The King's command Culd cause nae cowards turn again. Up raise the Laird to red the cumber,
Quhilk wald not be for all his boist, Quhat suld we do with sic a number,
Fyve thousand men into an hoist?
Then Henrie Purdie provd hes cost, And verie narrowlie had mischief'd him,
And ther we had our Warden lost, Wart not the grit God he reliv'd him. Ane uther throw the breiks him bair,
Quhyle flatlines to the ground he fell: Then thocht I, we had lost him thair,
Into my heart it struck a knell;
Zit he raise, the truth to tell,
His horsemen they faucht stout and snell,
Fy, Tyndall to it, Jedbruch's heir:
But anes his stomak was asteir.
With gun and genzie, bow and speir, He micht se mony a crakit crown,
But up amang the merchant geir, They bussie were as we wer doun.
The swallow-tails frae teckles flew,
Fyve hundred flain into a flicht, But we had pestellets anew,
And schot amang them as we micht.
With help of God the game gade richt, Frae tyme the foremost of them fell;
Hynd owre the knowe, without gude-nicht, They ran with mony a shout and zell. But after they had shaw'd their backs,
Zit Tyndall men they turn'd again, And had not bene the merehant paeks,
There had bene mae of Scotland slain.
But, Jesu! gif the folk was fain To put the bussing on thair theis,
And sae they fled with all thair main, Doun owre the brae lyke clogged beis. Sir Francis Russel tane was thair,
And hurt, as we heir men reherse; Proud Wallingtoun was wounded sair,
Albeit he was a Fennick ferss,
But gif ze wald a souldier serche Amang them all war tane that night,
Was nane sae wordie of our verse As Colingwood that courteous knight. Zung Henry Schafton, he is hurt,
A souldier schot him with a bow, Scotland has cause to make great sturt,
For laiming of the Laird of Mow.
The Laird's Watt did weil indeid,
With little Gladstane, gude in neid,
Howbeit he might not ficht sae fast:
Thir three, they laid weil on at last,
Except the horsemen of the gaird;
Nane stoutlier stude out for their Laird,
But little harness had we thair,
But auld Badrule had on a jack,
With all the Trumbulls at his back.
Gude Ederstane was not to lack,
Thir is all the specials I haif spack,
We neid nocht feir to find him sune,
Maid us that noysome afternune:
Not that I speik precisely out,
But pryde and breaking out, but dout,
The following is the account of the subject of this Ballad, given by Ridpath in his Border history~" At a meeting held in the accustomed time and manner, at a hill called the Red-Swire, on the middle march between the kingdoms, Sir John Forrester, warden of that march on the side of England, who was then also governour of Berwick, and Sir John Carmichael, warden of the opposite march in Scotland, were employed in the ordinary business of hearing, causes and redressing wrongs. In the progress of this work, an Englishman, who had been convicted of theft, and was a notorious offender, was demanded by the Scottish warden to be delivered up, according to the law of the marches, to be the prisoner of the owner of the goods stolen, until satisfaction should be made for them. This delivery being excused for the present by Forrester, on some pretence that did not satisfy Carmichael, he entered into expostulations with Forrester, who being thereby provoked, behaved haughtily, and gave signs of resentinent apparent to all around him. This was sufficient incitement to some of his attendants to attack those of the other side; which they did by a flight of arrows that killed onc Scotchman, and wounded several others. The Scots by this unexpected assault were driven off the field; but being met in their flight by sobie Jedburgh-men, who were coming to attend the warden, they were encouraged to turn back on their enemies; wbich they did with so much vigour, that they put them to an entire rout. In this er.counter, Sir George Heron, kecper of Tindale and Ridsdale, a man much esteemed in both realms, was slain, together with twenty-four of his countrymen. The English warden himself, his