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His neck in twa I wat they hae wrung,
Wi' hand or foot he ne'er play'd paw; His life and his keys at anes they hae tane,
And cast his body ahind the wa'. Now soon they reach Newcastle jail,
And to the pris’ner thus they call: Sleips thou, wakes thou Jock o' the Side,
Or is thou wearied o' thy thrall ?
Aft, aft I wake I seldom sleip;
And thus to hear my waes do seik ?
Then up and spake the good laird's Jock,
Ne'er fear ye now, my billie, quo* he; For here's the laird's Jock, the laird's Wat,
And Hobie Noble, come to set thee free.
O! Had thy tongue, and speak nae mair,
And o’thy tawk now let me be;
The morn's the day that I maun die.
They hae laid a' right sair on me, Wi’ locks and keys I am fast bound
Into this dungeon mirk and drearie. Fear ye no that, quo' the laird's Jock,
A faint heart ne'er wan a fair ladie, Work thou within, we'll work without;
And I'll be bound we set thee free.
The first strong dore that they came at,
They loosed it without a key;
They gard it a' in flinders fice.
The pris'ner now, upo' his back,
The laird's Jock's gotten up fu' bie; And down the stair, him irons and a',
Wi' nae sma' speed and joy brings he. Now Jock, I wat, quo' Hobie Noble,
Part o' the weight ye may lay on me;
I count bim lighter than a flee.
The pris'ner's set on horseback hie;
While ilk ane jokes fu’ wantonlie.
Wi' baith your feet upo'
In troth ye sit like ony bride.
But hied them on fu' mirrilie,
Where the water ran like mountains hie.
But when they came to Cholerford,
There they met with an auld man: Says, Honest man will the water ride?
Tell us in haste, if that ye can.
I wat weel no, quo' the good old man,
Here I hae liv'd this threty yeirs and three; And I ne'er yet saw the Tyne sae big,
Nor rinning ance sae like a sea. Then
up and spake the laird's saft Wat, The greatest coward in the companie, Now halt, now halt-we needna try't;
The day is com’d we a' maun die.
Poor faint-hearted thief, quo' the laird's Jock,
There'll nae man die but he that's fie;
the pris'ner on ahint me. Sae now the water they a' hae tane,
By anes and twas they a' swam through: Here are we a' safe, says the laird's Jock;
And poor faint Wat, what think ye now? They scarce the ither side had won,
When twenty men they saw pursue;
A' English lads right good and true.
It winna ride my lads, quo' he;
But leave the irons, I pray, to me.
I'll keep them a'-shoon to my mare they'll be; My good grey mare,-for I am sure
She's bought them a' fu' dear frae thee. Sae now they're away for Liddisdale,
E'en as fast as they cou'd them hie; The pris'ner's brought to his ain fire-side,
And there o’s irons they make him free. Now Jock, my billie, quo' a' the three,
The day was com'd thou was to die; But thou's as weel at thy ain fire-side,
Now sitting, I think 'tween thee and me. They hae gard fill up ae punch-bowl,
And after it they maun hae anither; And thus the night they a' hae spent, .
Just as they had been brither and brither.
Foul fa the breast first treason bred in,
That Liddisdale may safely say;
And corn unto our geldings gay.
As England it did often say:
Since brave Noble is seld away.
And born into Bewcastle dale;
They banish'd him to Liddisdale.
Kershope of the lily lee:
With him a private companie.
I wat it was wi' baith good iron and steel;
And there brave Noble he rade him weel. Then Hobie is down the water gane,
E'en as fast as he may drie;
Thou’rt welcome here brave Noble to me.
Weel may ye
* At the joining of the Rivers of Kershope and Liddal, where there is still some remains of an old tower to be seen.
+ The Mains is a farm house about six hundred yards above the Castle in Church, on the north side of Liddal.
Wilt thou with us in England ride,
And thy safe warrand we will be;-
Upon his back that thou shalt be.
The land-sergeant has me at feid :-
For Peter of Whitfield, his brother, is dead. And Anton Shiel he loves not me;
For I gat twa drifts of his sheep :-
For nae gear frae me he e'er cou'd keep.
Until the night come o'er the grund, And I'll be a guide worth ony twa
That may in Liddisdale be fund. Tho' dark the night as pick and tar,
I'll lead ye o'er yon hills fu' hie;
If you'll be true, and follow me.
O'er hill and houp, and mony ae down;
And there brave Noble he lighted down. Then word is gane to the land-sergeant,
In Askirtoun where that he lay: The deer that ye hae hunted lang
Is seen into the Waste this day.-
I wat he carries the style fu’ hie,
And set yourselves at little fee.