Border Ballads

Kinmont Willie

O HAVE ye na heard o the fause Sakelde?
  O have ye na heard o the keen Lord Scroop?
How they hae taen bauld Kinmont Willie,
  On Hairibee [1] to hang him up?

Had Willie had but twenty men,
  But twenty men as stout as he,
Fause Sakelde had never the Kinmont taen,
  Wi eight score in his companie.

They band his legs beneath the steed,
  They tied his hands behind his back;
They guarded him, fivesome on each side,
  And they brought him ower the Liddel-rack.

They led him thro the Liddel-rack,
  And also thro the Carlisle sands;
They brought him to Carlisle castell,
  To be at my Lord Scroope’s commands.

“My hands are tied, but my tongue is free,
  And whae will dare this deed avow?
Or answer by the border law?
  Or answer to the bauld Buccleuch?”

“Now haud thy tongue, thou rank reiver [2] !
  There’s never a Scot shall set ye free;
Before ye cross my castle-yate, [3]
  I trow ye shall take farewell o me.”

“Fear na ye that, my lord,” quo Willie;
  “By the faith o my bodie, Lord Scroop,” he said,
“I never yet lodged in a hostelrie
  But I paid my lawing [4] before I gaed.”

Now word is gane to the bauld Keeper,
  In Branksome Ha where that he lay,
That Lord Scroope has taen the Kinmont Willie
  Between the hours of night and day.

He has taen the table wi his hand,
  He garrd [5] the red wine spring on hie;
“Now Christ’s curse on my head,” he said,
  “But avenged of Lord Scroop I’ll be!

“O is my basnet [6] a widow’s curch?
  Or my lance a wand of the willow-tree?
Or my arm a ladye’s lilye hand?
  That an English lord should lightly [7] me.

“And have they taen him Kinmont Willie,
  Against the truce of Border tide,
And forgotten that the bauld Bacleuch
  Is keeper here on the Scottish side?

“And have they een taen him Kinmont Willie,
  Withouten either dread or fear,
And forgotten that the bauld Bacleuch
  Can back a steed, or shake a spear?

“O were there war between the lands,
  As well I wot that there is none,
I would slight [8] Carlisle castell high,
  Tho it were builded of marble-stone.

“I would set that castell in a low, [9]
  And sloken [10] it with English blood;
There’s nevir a man in Cumberland
  Should ken where Carlisle castell stood.

“But since nae war’s between the lands,
  And there is peace, and peace should be,
I’ll neither harm English lad or lass,
  And yet the Kinmont freed shall be!”

He has calld him forty marchmen bauld,
  I trow they were of his ain name,
Except Sir Gilbert Elliot, calld
  The Laird of Stobs, I mean the same.

He has calld him forty marchmen bauld,
  Were kinsmen to the bauld Buccleuch,
With spur on heel, and splent on spauld, [11]  
  And gleuves of green, and feathers blue.

There were five and five before them a’,
  Wi hunting-horns and bugles bright;
And five and five came wi Buccleuch,
  Like Warden’s men, arrayed for fight.

And five and five like a mason-gang,
  That carried the ladders lang and hie;
And five and five like broken men;
  And so they reached the Woodhouselee.

And as we crossed the Bateable Land,
  When to the English side we held,
The first o men that we met wi,
  Whae sould it be but fause Sakelde!

“Where be ye gaun, ye hunters keen?”
  Quo fause Sakelde; “come tell to me!”
“We go to hunt an English stag,
  Has trespassed on the Scots countrie.”

“Where be ye gaun, ye marshal-men?”
  Quo fause Sakelde; “come tell to me true!”
“We go to catch a rank reiver,
  Has broken faith wi the bauld Buccleuch.”

“Where are ye gaun, ye mason-lads,
  Wi a’ your ladders lang and hie?”
“We gang to herry [12] a corbie’s [13] nest,
  That wons not far frae Woodhouselee.”

“Where be ye gaun, ye broken men?”
  Quo fause Sakelde; “come tell to me!”
Now Dickie of Dryhope led that band,
  And the never a word o lear [14] had he.

“Why trespass ye on the English side
  Row-footed [15] outlaws, stand!” quo he;
The neer a word had Dickie to say,
  Sae he thrust the lance thro his fause bodie.

Then on we held for Carlisle toun,
  And at Staneshaw-bank the Eden we crossd;
The water was great, and meikle of spait, [16]
  But the nevir a horse nor man we lost.

And when we reached the Stanshaw-bank,
  The wind was rising loud and hie; [17]  
And there the laird garrd [18] leave our steeds,
  For fear that they should stamp and nie. [19]

And when we left the Staneshaw-bank,
  The wind began full loud to blaw;
But ‘twas wind and weet, and fire and sleet
  When we came beneath the castel-wa.

We crept on knees, and held our breath,
  Till we placed the ladders against the wa;
And sae ready was Buccleuch himsell
  To mount the first before us a’.

He has taen the watchman by the throat,
  He flung him down upon the lead:
“Had there not been peace between our lands,
  Upon the other side thou hadst gaed.

“Now sound out, trumpets!” quo Buccleuch;
  “Let’s waken Lord Scroope right merrilie!”
Then loud the Warden’s trumpets blew
  “O whae dare meddle wi me?”

Then speedilie to wark we gaed,
  And raised the slogan [20] ane and a’,
  And cut a hole thro a sheet of lead,
And so we wan to the castel-ha.

They thought King James and a’ his men
  Had won the house wi bow and speir:
It was but twenty Scots and ten
  That put a thousand in sic a stear! [21]

Wi coutlers and wi forehammers,
  We garrd the bars bang merrilie,
Untill we came to the inner prison,
  Where Willie o Kinmont he did lie.

And when we cam to the lower prison,
  Where Willie o Kinmont he did lie,
“O sleep ye, wake ye, Kinmont Willie,
  Upon the morn that thou’s to die?”

“O I sleep saft, and I wake aft,
  It’s lang since sleeping was fleyd [22] frae me;
Gie my service back to my wyfe and bairns,
  And a’ gude fellows that speer [23] for me.”

Then Red Rowan has hente [24] him up,
  The starkest men in Teviotdale:
“Abide, abide now, Red Rowan,
  Till of my Lord Scroope I take farewell.

“Farewell, farewell, my gude Lord Scroope!
  My gude Lord Scroope, farewell!” he cried;
“I’ll pay you for my lodging-maill [25]
  When first we meet on the border-side.”

Then shoulder high, with shout and cry,
  We bore him down the ladder lang;
At every stride Red Rowan made,
  I wot the Kinmont’s airns playd clang.

“O mony a time,” quo Kinmont Willie,
  “I have ridden horse baith wild and wood;
But a rougher beast than Red Rowan
  I ween my legs have neer bestrode.

“And mony a time,” quo Kinmont Willie,
  “I’ ve pricked a horse out oure the furs; [26]
But since the day I backed a steed
  I nevir wore sic cumbrous spurs.”

We scarce had won the Staneshaw-bank,
  When a’ the Carlisle bells were rung,
And a thousand men, in horse and foot,
  Cam wi the keen Lord Scroope along.

Buccleuch has turned to Eden Water,
  Even where it flowd frae bank to brim,
And he has plunged in wi a’ his band,
  And safely swam them thro the stream.

He turned him on the other side,
  And at Lord Scroope his glove flung he:
“If ye like na my visit in merry England,
  In fair Scotland come visit me!”

All sore astonished stood Lord Scroope,
  He stood as still as rock of stane;
He scarcely dared to trew his eyes
  When thro the water they had gane.

“He is either himsell a devil frae hell,
  Or else his mother a witch maun [27] be;
I wad na have ridden that wan water
  For a’ the gowd in Christentie.”

After a meeting, on the Border of Salkeld of Corby, and Scott of Haining, Kinmont Willie was seized by the English as he rode home from the tryst. Being “wanted,” he was lodged in Carlisle Castle, and this was a breach of the day’s truce. Buccleugh, as warder, tried to obtain Willie’s release by peaceful means. These failing, Buccleugh did what the ballad reports, April 13, 1596. Harden and Goudilands were with Buccleugh, being his neighbours near Branxholme. Dicky of Dryhope, with others, Armstrongs, was also true to the call of duty. Salkeld, of course, was not really slain; and, if the men were “left for dead,” probably they were not long in that debatable condition. In the rising of 1745 Prince Charlie’s men forded Eden as boldly as Buccleuch, the Prince saving a drowning Highlander with his own hand.

The Ballad of Little Musgrave and Lady Barnard

As it fell out on a highe holye daye,
  As many bee in the yeare,
When yong men and maides together do goe
  Their masses and mattins to heare,

Little Musgràve came to the church door,
  The priest was at the mass ;
But he had more mind of the fine women,
  Then he had of our Ladyes grace.

And some of them were clad in greene,
  And others were clad in pall [28] ;
And then came in my lord Barnardes wife,
  The fairest among them all.

Shee cast an eye on little Musgràve
  As bright as the summer sunne :
O then bethought him little Musgràve,
  This ladyes heart I have wonne.

Quoth she, I have loved thee, little Musgràve,
  Full long and manye a daye.
So have I loved you, ladye faire,
  Yet word I never durst saye.

I have a bower at Bucklesford-Bury,
  Full daintilye bedight,
If thoult wend thither, my little Musgràve,
  Thoust lig in mine armes all night.

Quoth hee, I thank yee, ladye faire,
  This kindness yee shew to me ;
And whether it be to my weale or woe,
  This night will I lig with thee.

All this beheard a litle foot-page,
  By his ladyes coach as he ranne :
Quoth he, thoughe I am my ladyes page,
  Yet Ime my lord Barnardes manne.

My lord Barnàrd shall knowe of this,
  Although I lose a limbe.
And ever whereas the bridges were broke,
  He layd him downe to swimme.

Asleep or awake, thou lord Barnàrd,
  As thou art a man of life,
Lo! this same night at Bucklesford-Bury
  Litle Musgrave’s in bed with thy wife.

If it be trew, thou litle foote-page,
  This tale thou hast told to mee,
Then all my lands in Bucklesford-Bury
  I freelye will give to thee.

But an it be a lye, thou litle foot-page,
  This tale thou hast told to mee,
On the highest tree in Bucklesford-Bury
  All hanged shalt thou bee.

Rise up, rise up, my merry men all,
  And saddle me my good steede ;
This night must I to Bucklesford-Bury ;
  God wott, I had never more neede.

Then some they whistled, and some they sang,
  And some did loudlye saye,
Whenever lord Barnardes horne it blewe,
  Awaye, Musgràve, away.

Methinkes I heare the throstle cocke,
  Methinkes I heare the jay,
Methinkes I heare lord Barnards horne ;
  I would I were awaye.

Lye still, lye still, thou little Musgràve,
  And huggle me from the cold ;
For it is but some shephardes boye
  A whistling his sheepe to the fold.

Is not thy hawke upon the pearche,
  Thy horse eating corne and haye ?
And thou a gay lady within thine armes :
  And wouldst thou be awaye ?

By this lord Barnard was come to the dore,
  And lighted upon a stone :
And he pulled out three silver keyes,
  And opened the dores eche one.

He lifted up the coverlett,
  He lifted up the sheete ;
How now, how now, thou little Musgràve,
  Dost find my gaye ladye sweete ?

I find her sweete, quoth little Musgràve,
  The more is my griefe and paine ;
Ide gladlye give three hundred poundes
  That I were on yonder plaine.

Arise, arise, thou little Musgràve,
  And put thy cloathes nowe on,
It shall never be said in my countree,
  That I killed a naked man.

I have two swordes in one scabbàrde,
  Full deare they cost my purse ;
And thou shalt have the best of them,
  And I will have the worse.

The first stroke that little Musgrave strucke,
  He hurt lord Barnard sore,
The next stroke that lord Barnard strucke,
  Little Musgrave never strucke more.

With that bespake the ladye faire,
  In bed whereas she laye,
Althoughe thou art dead, my little Musgràve,
  Yet for thee I will praye :

And wishe well to thy soule will I,
  So long as I have life ;
So will I not do for thee, Barnàrd,
  Thoughe I am thy wedded wife.

He cut her pappes from off her brest ;
  Great pitye it was to see
The drops of this fair ladyes bloode
  Run trickling downe her knee.

Wo worth, wo worth ye, my merrye men all,
  You never were borne for my goode :
Why did you not offer to stay my hande,
  When you sawe me wax so woode ?

For I have slaine the fairest sir knighte,
  That ever rode on a steede ;
So have I done the fairest lady,
  That ever ware womans weede.

A grave, a grave, Lord Barnard cryde,
  To putt these lovers in ;
But lay my ladye o’ the upper hande,
  For she comes o’ the better kin.

            — Anon.

 

One of these families [of the March] was that of the Musgraves, which gave its name to the villages of Great Musgrave and Little Musgrave north of Kirkby Stephen in Westmorland. “Little Musgrave” may simply have been the knightly branch based in that location.

The ballad often rendered as “Little Musgrave and Lady Barnard", “Little Musgrave” and “Matthy Groves” (among others) has been found in texts as early as 1611 [30] , and may originate at least a century before. It is known as Child Ballad 81, from the grand five volume compendium of folk song collected by 19th century folklorist Francis James Child, English and Scottish Popular Ballads [31] . It’s fascinating to see how it’s been collected throughout the British Isles, and in Canada and the United States (here in the anglophonic diaspora, it has persisted long after it had in England); its text mutating through that charming strangeness know as “the folk process". Child lists 15 variant texts, and other song collectors even more. Numerous folksingers [32] have recorded one version or another in more recent years.

Here are some of the permutations of our principal players found in

various versions of the ballad (and there are many more than I list here):

The Husband                  The Young Man

Lord Barnard                 Little Musgrave

Lord Barnet                  Little Masgrove

Lord Barnabas                Mossgrey

Lord Arnold                  Little Matthy Groves

Lord Allen                   Matthy Groves

Lord Daniel                  Little Matthew Groves

Lord Dannel                  Marshall Groves

Lord Donald                  Matty Groves

Lord Bengwill                Little Sir Grove

Lord Orland                     Little Matthew Groves

Some versions even include ritual questions from the Lord to the young man. I particularly like the lines that go:

Saying, “How do you like my feather bed, Musgrave?

And how do you like my sheets?

How do you like my lady,

Who lies in your arms asleep?”

“Oh, well do I like your feather bed,

And well do I like your sheets,

But better I like your lady gay,

Who lies in my arms asleep.” 

The Lament of a Border Widow

My Love he built me a bonny bower [33]
  And clad it a’ wi’ lilye flour;
A brawer [34] bower ye ne’er did see
  Than my true love he built for me.

There came a man by middle day,
  He spied his sport and went away,
And brought the king, that very night,
  Who brake my bower and slew my knight.

He slew my knight to me sae dear,
  He slew my knight and poin’d [35] his gear;
My servants all for life did flee
  And left me in extremitie.

I sew’d his sheet, making my mane,
  I watched the corpse myself alane,
I watched his body night and day;
  No living creature came that way.

I took his body on my back,
  And whiles I gaed, and whiles I sate;
I digg’d a grave and laid him in,
  And happ’d him with the sod sae green.

But think na ye my heart was sair
  When I laid the moul [36] on his yellow hair?
O think na ye my heart was wae
  When I turn’d about, away to gae?

Nae living man I’ll love again
  Since that my lovely knight is slain;
Wi ae lock of his yellow hair
  I’ll chain my heart for evermair.

Hughie the Graeme

Gude Lord Scroope’s [37] to the hunting gane,
  He has ridden o’er moss [38] and muir [39] ;
And he has grippit Hughie the Graeme,
  For stealing o’ the Bishop’s mare.

‘Now, gude Lord Scroope, this may not be!
  Here hangs a broadsword by my side;
And if that thou canst conquer me,
  The matter it may soon be tryed.’

‘I ne’er was afraid of a traitor thief;
  Although thy name by Hughie the Graeme,
I’ll make thee repent thee of thy deeds,
  If God but grant me life and time.’

‘Then do your worst now, gude Lord Scroope,
  And deal your blows as hard as you can!
It shall be tried within an hour,
  Which of us two is the better man.’

But as they were dealing their blows so free,
  And both so bloody at the time,
Over the moss came ten yeomen so tall,
  All for to take brave Hughie the Graeme.

Then they hae grippit Hughie the Graeme,
  And brought him up through Carlisle town;
The lasses and lads stood on the walls,
  Crying, ‘Hughie the Graeme, thou’se ne’er gae down!’

Then they hae chosen a jury of men,
  The best that were in Carlisle town;
And twelve of them cried out at once,
  ‘Hughie the Graeme, thou must gae down!’

Then up bespak him gude Lord Hume,
  As he sat by the judge’s knee, —
‘Twenty white owsen, my gude lord,
  If you’ll grant Hughie the Graeme to me.’

‘O no, O no, my gude Lord Hume!
  Forsooth and sae it mauna [40] be;
For, were there but three Graemes of the name,
  They suld be hanged a’ for me.’

‘Twas up and spake the gude Lady Hume,
  As she sate by the judge’s knee, —
‘A peck of white pennies, my gude lord judge,
  If you’ll grant Hughie the Graeme to me.’

‘O no, O no, my gude Lady Hume!
  Forsooth and sae it must na be;
Were he but one Graeme of the name,
  He suld be hanged high for me.’

‘If I be guilty,’ said Hughie the Graeme,
  ‘Of me my friends shall hae small talk’ —
And he has loup’d fifteen feet and three,
  Though his hands they were tied behind his back.

He looked over his left shoulder,
  And for to see what he might see;
There was he aware of his auld father,
  Came tearing his hair most piteouslie.

‘O hald your tongue, my father,’ he says,
  ‘And see that ye dinna weep for me!
For they may ravish me o’ my life,
  But they canna banish me fro’ heaven hie.

‘Fare ye weel, Maggie my wife!
  The last time we came ower the muir,
‘Twas thou bereft me of my life,
  And wi’ the Bishop thou play’d the whore.

‘Here Johnie Armstrang, take thou my sword,
  That is made o’ the metal sae fine;
And when thou comest to the English side,
  Remember the death of Hughie the Graeme.’

Johnie Armstrang

Sum speikis of lords, sum speikis of lairds,
  And sic lyke men of hie degrie;
Of a gentleman I sing a sang,
  Sum tyme call’d Laird of Gilnockie.

The King he wrytes a luving letter,
  With his ain hand sae tenderly,
And he hath sent it to Johnie Armstrang,
  To cum and speik with him speedily.

The Eliots and Armstrangs did convene;
  They were a gallant cumpanie —
‘We’ll ride and meit our lawful King,
  And bring him safe to Gilnockie.

‘Make kinnen and capon ready, then,
  And venison in great plentie;
We’ll welcum here our royal King;
  I hope he’ll dine at Gilnockie!’

They ran their horse on the Langholme howm,
  And brak their spears wi’ mickle main;
The ladies lukit frae loft windows —
  ‘God bring our men weel back agen!’

When Johnie cam before the King,
  Wi’ a’ his men sae brave to see,
The King he movit his bonnet to him;
  He ween’d he was a King as weel as he.

‘May I find grace, my sovereign liege,
  Grace for my loyal men and me?
For my name it is Johnie Armstrang,
  And subject of yours, my liege,’ said he.

‘Away, away, thou traitor strang!
  Out o’ my sight soon mayst thou be!
I grantit nevir a traitor’s life,
  And now I’ll not begin wi’ thee.’

‘Grant me my life, my liege, my King!
  And a bonny gift I’ll gie to thee —
Full four-and-twenty milk-white steids,
  Were a’ foaled in ae yeir to me.

‘I’ll gie thee a’ these milk-white steids,
  That prance and nicker at a speir;
And as mickle gude Inglish gilt,
  As four of their braid backs dow bear.’

‘Away, away, thou traitor strang!
  Out o’ my sight soon mayst thou be!
I grantit nevir a traitor’s life,
  And now I’ll not begin wi’ thee.’

‘Grant me my life, my liege, my King!
  And a bonny gift I’ll gie to thee —
Gude four-and-twenty ganging mills,
  That gang thro’ a’ yeir to me.

‘These four-and-twenty mills complete,
  Sall gang for thee thro’ a’ the yeir;
And as mickle of gude reid wheit,
  As a’ their happers dow to bear.’

‘Away, away, thou traitor strang!
  Out o’ my sight soon mayst thou be!
I grantit nevir a traitor’s life,
  And now I’ll not begin wi’ thee.’

‘Grant me my life, my liege, my King!
  And a great gift I’ll gie to thee —
Bauld four-and-twenty sisters’ sons,
  Sall for thee fecht, tho’ a’ should flee!’

‘Away, away, thou traitor strang!
  Out o’ my sight soon mayst thou be!
I grantit nevir a traitor’s life,
  And now I’ll no begin wi’ thee.’

‘Grant me my life, my liege, my King!
  And a brave gift I’ll gie to thee —
All between heir and Newcastle town
  Sall pay their yearly rent to thee.’

‘Away, away, thou traitor strang!
  Out o’ my sight soon mayst thou be!
I grantit nevir a traitor’s life,
  And now I’ll no begin wi’ thee.’

‘Ye lied, ye lied, now, King,’ he says,
  ‘Altho’ a King and Prince ye be!
For I’ve luved naething in my life,
  I weel dare say it, but honesty —

‘Save a fat horse, and a fair woman,
  Twa bonny dogs to kill a deir;
But England suld have found me meal and mault,
  Gif I had lived this hundred yeir!

‘She suld have found me meal and mault,
  And beif and mutton in a’ plentie;
But nevir a Scots wyfe could have said,
  That e’er I skaith’d her a pure flee.

‘To seik het water beneith cauld ice,
  Surely it is a greit folie —
I have asked grace at a graceless face,
  But there is nane for my men and me!

‘But, had I kenn’d ere I cam frae hame,
  How thou unkind wadst been to me!
I wad have keepit the Border syde,
  In spite of all thy force and thee.

‘Wist England’s King that I was ta’en,
  O gin a blythe man he wad be!
For anes I slew his sister’s son,
  And on his breist bane brak a trie.’

John wore a girdle about his middle,
  Imbroidered ower wi’ burning gold,
Bespangled wi’ the same metal;
  Maist beautiful was to behold.

There hang nine targats [41] at Johnie’s hat,
  And ilk ane worth three hundred pound —
‘What wants that knave that a King suld have,
  But the sword of honour and the crown!

‘O whair got thou these targats, Johnie,
  That blink sae brawly abune thy brie?’
‘I gat them in the field fetching,
  Where, cruel King, thou durst not be.

‘Had I my horse, and harness gude,
  And riding as I wont to be,
It suld have been tauld this hundred yeir,
  The meeting of my King and me!

‘God be with thee, Kirsty, my brother!
  Lang live thou Laird of Mangertoun!
Lang mayst thou live on the Border syde,
  Ere thou see thy brother ride up and down!

‘And God be with thee, Kirsty, my son,
  Where thou sits on thy nurse’s knee!
But and thou live this hundred yeir,
  Thy father’s better thou’lt nevir be.

‘Farewell! my bonny Gilnock hall,
  Where on Esk side thou standest stout!
Gif I had lived but seven yeirs mair,
  I wad hae gilt thee round about.’

Joh murdered was at Carlinrigg,
  And all his gallant cumpanie;
But Scotland’s heart was ne’er sae wae,
  To see sae mony brave men die —

The trees on which the Armstrangs deed
  Wi’ summer leaves were gay,
But lang afore the harvest tide,
  They wither’d a’ away.

Because they saved their countrey deir
  Frae Englishmen! Nane were sae bauld,
While Johnie lived on the Border syde,
  Nane of them durst cum neir his hauld.

Upon another occasion the Armstrongs were less fortunate. They had, in one of their incursions, plundered the town of Haltwhistle, on the borders of Cumberland. Sir Robert Carey, Warden of the West Marches, demanded satisfaction from the King of Scotland, and received for answer that the offenders were no subjects of his, that he might take his own revenge. The English Warden accordingly entered Liddesdale, and ravaged the lands of the outlaws; on which occasion, Sim of the Cathill (an Armstrong) was killed by one of the Ridleys of Haltwhistle. This incident procured Haltwhistle another visit from the Armstrongs, in which they burnt great part of the town, but not without losing one of their leaders, by a shot from a window.

“The death of this young man,” says Robert Carey, “wrote (wrought) so deep an impression upon them (the outlaws) as many vowes were made, that before the end of next winter, they would lay the whole Border waste. This (the murder) was done about the end of May (1598). The chiefe of all these outlaws was old Sim of Whitram. He had five or six sonnes, as able men as the Borders had. This old man and his sonnes had not so few as two hundred at their commands, that were ever ready to ride with them to all actions, at their beck.

“The high parts of the marsh (march) towards Scotland were put in a mightly fear, and the chiefe of them, for themselves and the rest, petitioned to mee, and did assure mee, that unless I did take some course with them by the end of that summer, there was none of the inhabitants durst, or would, stay in their dwellings the next winter, but they would fley the countrey, and leave their houses and lands to the fury of the outlawes. Upon this complaint, I called the gentlemen of the countrey together, and acquainted them with the misery that the highest part of the marsh toward Scotland were likely to endure, if there were not timely prevention to avoid it, and desired them to give mee their best advice what course were fitt to be taken. They all showed themselves willing to give mee their best counsailes, and most of them were of opinion, that I was not well advised to refuse the hundred horse that my Lord Euers (Ewie or Evers) had; and that now my best way was speedily to acquaint the Quene and counsaille with the necessity of having more soldiers, and that there should not be less than a hundred horse sent down for the defence of the countrey, besides the forty I had already in pay, and there was nothing but force of soldiers could keep them in awe; and to let the counsaile plainly understand, that the marsh, of themselves, were not able to subject, whenever the winter and long nights came in, unlesse present cure and remedy were provided for them. I desired them to advise better of it, and see if they could find out any other means to prevent their mischievous intentions, without putting the Quene and countrey to any further charge. They all resolved that there was no second means. Then I told them my intention what I meant to do, which was, that my self, with two deputies, and the forty horse that I was allowed, would, with what speed we could, make ourselves ready to go up to the Wastes, and there wee would entrench ourselves, and lye as near as we could to the outlawes: and if there were any brave spirits among them that would go with us, they should be very welcome, and fare and lye as well as myselfe; and I did not doubt, before the summer ended, to do something that should abate the pride of these outlawes. Those that were unwilling to hazard themselves, liked not this motion. They said, that, in so doing, I might keep the country quiet the time I lay there, but, when the winter approached, I could stay there no longer, and that was the theeves’ time to do all their mischiefe. But there were divers young gentlemen that offered to go with mee, some with three, some with four horses, and to stay with mee as long as I could there continue. I took a list of those that offered to go with mee, and found, that, with myselfe, my officers, the gentlemen, and our servants, wee should be about two hundred good men and horse; a competent number, as I thought, for such a service.

“The day and place was appointed for our meeting in the Wastes, and by the help of the foot of Liddisdale and Risdale, wee had soone built a pretty fort, and within it we had all cabines made to lye in, and every one brought beds or mattresses to lye on. There wee stayed from the middest of June, till almost the end of August. We were betweene fifty and sixty gentlemen, besides their servants and my horsemen; so that we were not so few as two hundred horse. Wee wanted no provisions for ourselves nor our horses, for the countrey people were well paid for any thing they brought us; so that wee had a good market every day, before our fort, to buy what we lacked. The chiefe outlawes, at our coming, fled their houses where they dwelt, and betooke themselves to a large and great forest (with all their goodes,) which was called the Tarras. It was of that strength, and so surrounded with bogges and marish grounds, and thicke bushes and shrubbes, as they feared not the force nor the power of England nor Scotland, so long as they were there. They sent me word, that I was like the first puffe of a haggasse,* hottest at the first, and bade me stay there as long as the weather would give me leave. They would stay in the Tarras Wood till I was weary of lying in the Waste; and when I had had my time, and they no whit the worse, they would play their parts, which should keep me waking the next winter. Those gentlemen of the country that came not with mee, were of the same minde; for they knew (or thought at least) that my force was not sufficient to withstand the furey of the outlawes. The time I staid at the fort I was not idle, but cast, by all means I could, how to take them in the great strength they were in. I found a meanes to send a hundred and fiftey horsemen into Scotland (conveighed by a muffled man**, not known to one of the company,) thirty miles within Scotland, and the business was carried so, that none in the countrey tooke any alarm at this passage. They were quietly brought to the backside of the Tarras, to Scotland-ward. There they divided themselves into three parts, and took up three passages which the outlaws made themselves secure of, if from England side they should at any time be put at. They had their scoutes on the tops of hills, on the English side, to give them warning if at any time any power of men should come to surprise them. The three ambushes were safely laid, without being discovered, and, about four o’clock in the morning, there were three hundred horse, and a thousand foot, *** that came directly to the place where the scoutes lay. They gave the alarm; our men brake down as fast as they could into the wood. The outlawes thought themselves safe, assuring themselves at any time to escape; but they were so strongly set upon, on the English side, as they were forced to leave their goodes, and betake themselves to their passages towards Scotland. There was presently five taken of the principal of them. The rest, seeing themselves, as they thought, betrayed, retired into the thicke woodes and bogges that our men durst not follow them, for fear of loosing themselves. The principall of the five that were taken, were two of the eldest sonnes of Sim of Whitram. These five they brought to mee to the fort, and a number of goodes, both of sheep and kine, which satisfied most part of the country that they had stolen them from.

“The five, that were taken, were of great worth and value amongst them; insomuch, that for their liberty, I should have what conditions I should demand or desire. First, all English prisoners were set at liberty. Then had I themselves, and most part of the gentlemen of the Scottish side, so strictly bound in bondes to enter to mee, in fifteen dayes warning, any offendour, that they durst not for their lives break any covenant that I made with them; and so, upon these conditions, I set them at liberty, and was never after troubled with these kind of people. Thus God blessed me in bringing this great trouble to so quiet an end; wee brake up our fort, and every man retired to his own house.” - CAREY’S Memoirs, p. 151.

From this narrative, the power and strength of the Armstrongs, at this late period, appear to have been very considerable. Johnie Armstrong of Gilnockie, the hero of the following ballad, is a noted personage, both in history and tradition. He was, it would seem from the ballad, a brother of the Laird of Mangertoun, chief of the name. His place of residence (now a roofless tower) was at the Hollows, a few miles from Langholm, where its ruins still serve to adorn a scene, which in natural beauty, has few equals in Scotland. At the head of a desperate band of freebooters, this Armstrong is said to have spread the terror of his name almost as far as Newcastle, and to have levied black-mail, or protection and forbearance money, for many miles round. 

* A haggis (according to Burns, “the chieftain of the pudding race") is an olio, composed of the liver, heart, &c. of a sheep, minced down with oatmeal, onions, and spices, and boiled in the stomach of the animal, by way of bag. When this bag is cut, the contents of this savoury dish be well made, should spout out with the heated air. This will explain the allusion.
** A Muffled Man means a person in disguise; a very necessary precaution for the guide’s safety; for, could the outlaws have learned who played them this trick, beyond all doubt it must have cost him dear. 
*** From this it would appear, that Carey, although his constant attendants in the fort consisted only of 200 horse, had upon this occasion, by the assistance, probably, of the English and Scottish royal garrisons, collected a much larger force

Hobbie Noble

Taken from Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border by Sir Walter Scott, Harrap, 1931.

Foul fa’ the breast first treason bred in!
  That Liddesdale may safely say:
For in it there was baith meat and drink,
  And corn unto our geldings gay.

And we were a’ stout-hearted men,
  As England she might often say;
But now we may turn our backs and flee,
  Since brave Noble is sold away.

Now Hobbie was an Englishman,
  And born into Bewcastle dale;
But his misdeeds they were sae great,
  They banish’d him to Liddesdale.

At Kershope foot the tryst was set,
  Kershope of the lilye lee;
And there was traitor Sim o’ the Mains,
  And with him a private companie.

Then Hobbie was graithed his body fair,
  Baith wi’ the iron and wi’ the steel;
And he has ta’en out his fringed grey,
  And there, brave Hobbie, he rade him weel.

Then Hobbie is down the water gane,
  E’en as fast as he could hie;
Tho’ a’ should hae bursten and broken their hearts,
  Frae that riding tryst he wad na be.

‘Weel be ye met, my feres five!
  And now, what is your will wi’ me?’
Then they cried a’, wi ae consent,
  ‘Thou’rt welcome here, brave Noble, to me.

‘Wilt thou with us into England ride,
  And thy safe warrand we will be?
If we get a horse, worth a hundred pound,
  Upon his back thou sune shalt be.’

‘I dare not by day into England ride;
  The land-sergeant has me at feid:
And I know not what evil may betide,
  For Peter of Whitfield, his brother, is dead.

‘And Anton Shiel he loves not me,
  For I gat twa drifts o’ his sheep;
The great Earl of Whitfield loves me not,
  For nae geer frae me he e’er could keep.

‘But will ye stay til the day gae down,
  Until the night come o’er the grund,
And I’ll be a guide worth ony twa
  That may in Liddesdale be found?

‘Tho’ the night be black as pick and tar,
  I’ll guide ye o’er yon hill sae hie;
And bring ye a’ in safety back,
  If ye’ll be true, and follow me.’

He has guided them o’er moss and muir,
  O’er hill and hope, and mony a down;
Until they came to the Foulbogshiel,
  And there, brave Noble he lighted down.

But word is gane to the land-sergeant,
  In Askerton where that he lay —
‘The deer, that ye hae hunted sae lang,
  Is seen into the Waste this day.’

‘Then Hobbie Noble is that deer!
  I wat he carries the style fu’ hie;
Aft has he driven our bluidhounds back,
  And set ourselves at little lee.

‘Gar warn the bows of Hartlie-burn;
  See they sharp their arrows on the wa’:
Warn Willeva and Speir Edom,
  And see the morn they meet me a’.

‘Gar meet me on the Rodric-haugh,
  And see it be by break o’ day;
And we will on to Conscouthart-green,
  For there, I think, we’ll get our prey.’

Then Hobbie Noble has dreimit a dreim,
  In the Foulbogshiel, where that he lay;
He dreimit his horse was aneath him shot,
  And he himself got hard away.

The cocks goud craw, the day goud daw,
  And I wot sae even fell down the rain;
Had Hobbie na wakened at that time,
  In the Foulbogshiel he had been ta’en or slain.

‘Awake, awake, my feres five!
  I true here makes a fu’ ill day;
Yet the worst cloak o’ this company,
  I hope, shall cross the Waste this day.’

Now Hobbie thought the gates were clear;
  But, ever alas! it was na sae:
They were beset by cruel men and keen,
  That away brave Hobbie might na gae.

‘Yet follow me, my feres five,
  And see ye keip of me guid ray;
And the worst cloak o’ this company
  Even yet may cross the Waste this day.’

But the land-sergeant’s men came Hobbie before,
  The traitor Sim came Hobbie behin’,
So had Noble been wight as Wallace was,
  Away, alas! he might na win.

Then Hobbie had but a laddie’s sword;
  But he did mair than a laddie’s deed;
For that sword had cleared Conscouthart-green,
  Had it not broke o’er Jerswigham’s head.

Then they hae ta’en brave Hobbie Noble,
  Wi’s ain bowstring they band him sae;
But his gentle heart was ne’er sae sair,
  As when his ain five bound him on the brae.

They hae ta’en him on for west Carlisle;
  They asked him, if he kend the way?
Tho’ much he thought, yet little he said;
  He knew the gate as weel as they.

They hae ta’en him up the Ricker-gate;
  The wives they cast their windows wide;
And every wife to another can say,
  ‘That’s the man loosed Jock o’ the Side!’

‘Fy on ye, women! why ca’ ye me man?
  For it’s nae man that I’m used like;
I am but like a forfoughen hound,
  Has been fighting in a dirty syke.’

They hae had him up thro’ Carlisle town,
  And set him by the chimney fire;
They gave brave Noble a loaf to eat,
  And that was little his desire.

They gave him a wheaten loaf to eat,
  And after that a can of beer;
And they a’ cried, with one consent,
  ‘Eat, brave Noble, and make gude cheir!’

‘Confess my lord’s horse, Hobbie,’ they said,
  ‘And to-morrow in Carlisle thou’s na die.’
‘How can I confess them,’ Hobbie says,
  ‘When I never saw them with my e’e?’

Then Hobbie has sworn a fu’ great aith,
  Bi the day that he was gotten and born,
He never had ony thing o’ my lord’s,
  That either eat him grass or corn.

‘Now fare thee weel, sweet Mangerton!
  For I think again I’ll ne’er thee see:
I wad hae betrayed nae lad alive,
  For a’ the gowd o’ Christentie.

‘And fare thee weel, sweet Liddesdale!
  Baith the hie land and the law;
Keep ye weel frae the traitor Mains!
  For goud and gear he’ll sell ye a’.

‘Yet wad I rather be ca’d Hobbie Noble,
  In Carlisle, where he suffers for his fau’t,
Than I’d be ca’d the traitor Mains,
  That eats and drinks o’ the mel and maut.’

Johnnie Armstrong of Gilnockie

There dwelt a man in faire Westmerland,
  Jonnë Armstrong men did him call,
He had nither lands nor rents coming in,
  Yet he kept eight score men in his hall.

He had horse and harness for them all,
  Goodly studs were all milke-white;
O the golden bands an about their necks,
  And their weapons, they were all alike.

Newes then was brought unto the king
  That there was sicke a won as hee,
That livëd lyke a bold out-law,
  And robbëd all the north country.

The king he writt an a letter then,
  A letter which was large and long;
He signëd it with his owne hand,
  And he promised to doe him no wrong.

When this letter came Jonnë untill,
  His heart was as blyth as birds on the tree:
‘Never was I sent for before any king,
  My father, my grandfather, nor none but mee.

‘And if wee goe the king before,
  I would we went most orderly;
Every man of you shall have his scarlet cloak,
  Laced with silver laces three.

‘Every won of you shall have his velvett coat,
  Laced with silver lace so white;
O the golden bands an about your necks,
  Black hatts, white feathers, all alyke.’

By the morrow morning at ten of the clock,
  Towards Edenburough gon was hee,
And with him all his eight score men;
  Good Lord, it was a goodly sight for to see!

When Jonnë came befower the king,
  He fell downe on his knee;
‘O pardon, my soveraine leige,’ he said,
  ‘O pardon, my eight score men and mee.’

‘Thou shalt have no pardon, thou traytor strong
  For thy eight score men nor thee;
For tomorrow morning by ten of the clock,
  Both thou and them shall hang on the gallow tree.’

But Jonnë looked over his left shoulder,
  Good Lord, what a grevious look looked hee!
Saying, ‘Asking grace of a graceless face —
  Why there is none for you nor me?

But Jonnë had a bright sword by his side,
  And it was made of the mettle so free,
That had not the king stept his foot a side,
  He had smitten his head from his faire boddë.

Saying, ‘Fight on, my merry men all,
  And see that none of you be taine;
For rather than men shall say we were hangd,
  Let them report how we were slaine!

Then, God wott, faire Eddenburrough rose,
  And so besett poore Jonnë rounde,
That fower score and tenn of Jonnë’s best men
  Lay gasping all upon the ground.

Then like a mad mand Jonnë laide about,
  And like a man then fought hee,
Untill a falce Scot came Jonnë behinde,
  And runn him through the faire boddee.

Saying, ‘Fight on, my merry men all,
  I am a little hurt, but I am not slain;
I will lay me down for to bleed a while,
  Then I’le rise and fight with you again.’

Newes then was brought to young Jonnë Armestrong,
  As he stood by his nurses knee,
Who vowed if ere he lived for to be a man,
  O the treacherous Scots revenged hee’d be.

The Death of Featherstonhaugh

Sir Walter Scott—The Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border

Hoot awa’, lads, hoot awa’
Ha’ ye heard how the Ridleys, and Thirlwalls, and a’,
Ha’ set upon Albany Featherstonhaugh,
And taken his life at the Deadmanshaugh?
There was Williamoteswick,
And Hardriding Dick,
And Hughie of Hawdon, and Will of the Wa’, [42]
I canno tell a’, I canno tell a’,
And mony a mair that the deil may knaw.

The auld man went down, but Nicol, his son,
Ran away afore the fight was begun;
And he run, and he run,
And afore they were done,
There was many a Featherston gat sic a stun,
As never was seen since the world was begun.

I canno tell a’, I canno tell a’;
Some gat a skelp, [43] and some gat a claw;
But they garr’d the Featherstons haud their jaw, [44]
Nichol, and Alick, and a’.
Some gat a hurt, and some gat nane;
Some had harness, and some gat sta’en. [45]

Ane gat a twist o’ the craig; [46]
And gat a bunch o’ the wame; [47]
Symy Haw gat lamed of a leg,
And syne ran wallowing haine.

Hoot! hoot! the auld man’s slain outright!
Lay him now wi’ his face down; - he’s a sorrowful sight.
Janet, thou donot. [48]
I’ll lay my best bonnet,
Thou gets a new gude-man afore it be night.

Hoo away, lads, hoo away,
We’s a’ be hangid if we stay.
Tak’ up the dead man, and lay him anent the bigging.
Here’s the Bailey o’ Haltwhistle,
Wi’ his great bull’s pizzle,
That supp’e up the broo’, and syne — in the piggin. [49]

Proud Lady Margaret

Sir Walter Scott - The Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border

‘Twas on a night, an evening bright
  When the dew began to fa’,
Lady Margaret was walking up and down,
  Looking o’er her castle wa’.

She looked east, and she looked west,
  To see what she could spy,
When a gallant knight came in her sight,
  And to the gate drew nigh.

“You seem to be no gentleman,
  You wear your boots so wide;
But you seem to be some cunning hunter,
  You wear the horn so syde.” — [50]

“I am no cunning hunter,” he said,
  “Nor ne’er intend to be;
But I am come to this castle
  To seek the love of thee;
And if you do not grant me love,
  This night for thee I’ll die.” —

“If you should die for me, sir knight,
  There’s few for you will mane,
For mony a better has died for me,
  Whose graves are growing green.

“But ye maun read my riddle,” she said,
  “And answer me questions three;
And but ye read them right,” she said,
  “Gae stretch ye out and die. —

“Now what is the flower, the ae first flower,
  Springs either on moor or dale;
And what is the bird, the bonnie bonnie bird,
  Sings on the evenings gale?” —

“The primrose is the ae first flower
  Springs either on moor or dale;
And the thistlecock is the bonniest bird,
  Sings on the evening gale.” —

“But what’s the little coin,” she said,
  “Wald by my castle bound?
And what’s the little boat,” she said,
  “Can sail the world all round?” —

“O hey, how many small pennies 
  Make thrice three thousand pound?
Or hey, how many small fishes
  Swin a’ the salt sea round?” —

“I think ye maun be my match,” she said,
  “My match and something mair,
You are the first e’er got the grant
  Of love frae my father’s heir.

“My father was lord of nine castles,
  My mother lady of three;
My father was lord of nine castles,
  And there’s nane to heir but me.

“And round about a’ thae castles,
  You may baith plow and saw,
And on the fifteenth day of May
  The meadows they will maw.” —

“O hald your tongue, Lady Margaret,” he said,
  “For loud I hear you lie!
Your father was lord of nine castles,
  Your mother was lady of three;
Your father was lord of nine castles,
  But ye fa’ heir to but three.

“And round about a’ thae castles,
  You may baith plow and saw;
But on the fifteenth day of May
  The meadows will not maw.

“I am your brother Willie,” he said,
  “I trow ye ken na me;
I cam to humble your haughty heart,
  Has gar’d sae mony die.” —

“If ye be my brother Willie,” she said,
  “As I trow weel ye be,
This night I’ll neither eat nor drink,
  But gae alang with thee.” —

“O hald your tongue, Lady Margaret,” he said,
  “Again I hear you lie;
For ye’ve unwashen hands, and ye’ve unwashen feet, [51]
  To gae to clay wi’ me.

“For the wee worms are my bedfellows,
  And cauld clay is my sheets;
And when the stormy winds do blow,
  My body lies and sleeps." [52]

Graeme and Bewick

Sir Walter Scott—The Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border

Gude Lord Graeme is to Carlisle gane;
Sir Robert Bewick there met he;
And arm in arm to the wine they did go,
And they drank till they were baith merrie.

Gude Lord Graeme has ta’en up the cup,
“Sir Robert Bewick, and here’s to thee!
And here’s to our twae sons at hame!
For they like us best in our ain countrie.” —

“O were your son a lad like mine,
And learn’d some books that he could read,
They might hae been twae brethren bauld,
And they might hae bragged the Border side.

“But your son’s a lad, and he is but bad,
And billie to my son he canna be;

* * * * * * *

“Ye sent him to the schools, and he wadna learn,
Ye bought him books, and he wadna read.” —
“But my blessing shall he never earn,
Till I see how his arm can defend his head.” —

Gude Lord Graeme has a reckoning call’d,
A reckoning then called he;
And he paid a crown, and it went roun’;
It was all for the gude wine and free.

And he has to the stable gane,
Where there stude thirty steeds and three,
He’s ta’en his ain horse amang them a’,
And hame he rade sae manfullie.

“Welcome, my auld father!” said Christie Graeme,
“But where sae lang frae hame were ye?” —
“It’s I hae been at Carlisle town,
And a baffled man by thee I be.

“I hae been at Carlisle town,
Where Sir Robert Bewick he met me;
He says ye’re a lad, and ye are but bad,
And billie to his son ye canna be.

“I sent ye to the schools, and ye wadna learn;
I bought ye books, and ye wadna read;
Therefore my blessing ye shall never earn,
Till I see with Bewick thou save thy head.” —

“Now, God forbid,, my auld father,
That ever sic a thing suld be!
Billie Bewick was my master, and I was his school,
And aye sae weel as he learned me.” —

“O hald thy tongue, thou limmer loon,
And of thy talking let me be!
If thou does na end me this quarrel soon,
There is my glove, I’ll fight wi’ thee.” —

Then Christie Graeme he stooped low,
Unto the ground, you shall understand; —
“O father, put on your glove again,
The wind has blown it from your hand?” —

“What’s that thou says, thou limmer loon?
How dares thou stand to speak to me?
If thou do not end this quarrel soon,
There’s my right hand thou shalt fight with me.” —

Then Christie Graeme’s to his chamber gane,
To consider weel what then should be;
Whether he should fight with his auld father,
Or with his billie Bewick, he.

If I suld kill my billie dear,
God’s blessing I shall never win;
But if I strike at my auld father,
I think twaid be a mortal sin.

“But if I kill my billie dear,
It is God’s will, so let it be;
But I make a vow, ere I gang frae hame,
That I shall be the next man’s die.” —

Then he’s put on’s back a gude auld jack,
And on his head a cap of steel,
And sword and buckler by his side;
O gin he did not become them weel!

We’ll leave off talking of Christie Graeme,
And talk of him again belive;*
And we will talk of bonny Bewick,
Where he was teaching his scholars five.

When he had taught them well to fence,
And handle swords without any doubt,
He took his sword under his arm,
And he walk’d his father’s close about.

He look’d atween him and the sun,
And a’ to see what there might be,
Till he spied a man in armour bright,
Was riding that way most hastilie.

“O wha is yon that came this way,
Sae hastilie that hither came?
I think it be my brother dear!
I think it be young Christie Graeme. —

“Ye’re welcome here, my billie dear,
And thrice ye’re welcome unto me!” —
“But I’m wae to say, I’ve seen the day,
When I am come to fight wi’ thee.

“My father’s gane to Carlisle town,
Wi’ your father Bewick there met he;
He says I’m a lad, and I am but bad,
And a baffled man I trow I be.

“He sent me to schools, and I wadna learn;
He gae me books, and I wadna read;
Sae my father’s blessing I’ll never earn,
Till he see how my arm can guard my head.” —

“O God forbid, my billie dear,
That ever such a thing suld be!
We’ll take three men on either side,
And see if we can our fathers agree.” —

“O hald thy tongue, now, billie Bewick,
And of thy talking let me be!
But if thou’rt a man, as I’m sure thou art,
Come o’er the dyke, and fight wi’ me.” —

“But I hae nae harness, Billie, on my back,
As weel I see there is on thine.” —
“But as little harness as is on thy back,
As little, billie, shall be on mine.” —

Then he’s thrown aff his coat o’mail
His cap of steel away flung he;
He stuck his spear into the ground,
And he tied his horse unto a tree.

Then Bewick has thrown aff his cloak,
And’s psalter-book frae’s hand flung he;
He laid his hand upon the dyke,
And ower he lap most manfullie.

O they hae fought for twae lang hours;
When twae lang hours were come and gane,
The sweat drapp’d fast frae aff them baith,
But a drap of blude could not be seen.

Till Graeme gave Bewick an ackward ** stroke,
Ane ackward stroke strucken sickerlie;
He hae hit him under the left breast,
And dead-wounded to the ground fell he.

“Rise up, rise up, now, billie dear!
Arise and speak three words to me! —
Whether thou’s gotten thy deadly wound,
Or if God and good leeching may succour thee?” —

“O horse, O horse, now, billie Graeme,
And get thee far from hence with speed;
And get thee out of this country,
That none may know who has done the deed.” —

“O I hae slain thee, billie Bewick,
If this be true thou tellest to me;
But I made a vow, ere I came frae hame,
That aye the next man I wad be.”

He has pitch’d his sword in a moodie-hill, *** 
And he has leap’d twenty lang feet and three,
And on his ain sword’s point he lap,
And dead upon the ground fell he.

‘Twas then came up Sir Robert Bewick,
And his brave son alive saw he;
“Rise up, rise up, my son,” he said,
“For I think ye hae gotten the victorie.” —

“O hald your tongue, my father dear!
Of your prideful talking let me be!
Ye might hae drunken your wine in peace,
And let me and my billie be.

“Gae dig a grave, baith wide and deep,
And a grave to hald baith him and me;
But lay Christie Graeme on the sunny side,
For I’m sure he wan the victorie.” —

“Alack! a wae!” auld Bewick cried,
“Alack! was I not much to blame?
I’m sure I’ve lost the liveliest lad
That e’er was born unto my name.”

“Alack! a wae! Quo’ gude Lord Graeme,
“I’m sure I hae lost the deeper lack!
I durst hae ridden the Border through,
Had Christie Graeme been at my back.

“Had I been led through Liddesdale,
And thirty horsemen guarding me,
And Christie Graeme been at my back,
Sae soon as he had set me free!

“I’ve lost my hopes, I’ve lost my joy,
I’ve lost the key but and the lock;
I durst hae ridden the world round,
Had Christie Graeme been at my back.”

The date of this ballad, and its subject, are uncertain. From internal evidence, I am inclined to place it late in the sixteenth century. Of the Graemes enough is elsewhere said. It is not impossible that such a clan, as they are described, may have retained the rude ignorance of ancient Border manners to a later period than their more inland neighbours; and hence the taunt of old Bewick to Graeme. Bewick is an ancient name in Cumberland and Northumberland. The ballad itself was given, in the first edition, from the recitation of a gentleman, who professed to have forgotten some verses. These have, in the present edition, been partly restored from a copy obtained by the recitation of an ostler in Carlisle, which has also furnished some slight alterations.

The ballad is remarkable, as containing, probably, the very latest allusion to the institution of brotherhood in arms, which was held so sacred in the days of chivalry, and whose origin may be traced up to the Scythian ancestors of Odin. Many of the old romances turn entirely upon the sanctity of the engagement, contracted by the freres d’armes. In that of Amis and Amelion, the hero slays his two infant children, that he may compound a potent salve with their blood, to cure the leprosy of his brother-in-arms. The romance of Gyron le Courlois has a similar subject. I think the hero, like Graeme in the ballad, kills himself, out of some high point of honour, towards his friend.

The quarrel of the two old chieftains, over their wine, is highly in character. Two generations have not elapsed since the custom of drinking deep, and taking deadly revenge for slight offences, produced very tragical events on the Border; to which the custom of going armed to festive meetings contributed not a little. A minstrel, who flourished about 1720, and is often talked of by the old people, happened to be performing before one of these parties, when, they betook themselves to their swords. The cautious musician, accustomed to such scenes, dived beneath the table. A moment after, a man’s hand, struck off with a back-sword, fell beside him. The minstrel secured it carefully in his pocket, as he would have done any other loose moveable; sagely observing, the owner would miss it sorely next morning. I choose rather to give this ludicrous example, than some graver instances of bloodshed at Border orgies. I observe it is said in a MS. account of Tweeddale, in praise of the inhabitants, that, “when they fall in the humour of good fellowship, they use it as a cement and bond of society, and not to foment revenge, quarrels, and murders, which is usual in other countries;” by which we ought, probably, to understand Selkirkshire and Teviotdale. - MacFarlane’s MSS.* Belive - by and by
** Ackward - backward 
*** Moodie-hill - mole-hill

 

Sweet Ennerdale

From Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border
Written to the pathetic air “I will awa’ and will not tarry."

“Now fare thee well, sweet Ennerdale,
Baith kith and countrie, I bid adieu,
For I maun away, and I may not stay,
To some uncouth land which I never knew.

To wear the blue I think it best
Of all the colours that I see,
And I’ll wear it for the gallant Grahams,
That are banished from their am countrie.

I have no gold, I have no land,
I have no pearl nor precious stane,
But I would sell my silken snood,
To see the gallant Gralianis come hame.

In Wallace days, when they began,
Sir John the Graham did bear the gre;
Through all the lands of Scotland wide,
He was the Lord of the south countrie.

And so was seen full many a tim;
For the summer flowers did never spring,
But every Graham in armour bright
Would then appear before the king.

They all were dressed in armour sheen,
Upon the pleasant banks of Tay,
Before a king they might be seen
These gallant Grahams in array.

Jock O’ The Side

Sir Walter Scott—The Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border

Now Liddesdale has ridden a raid,
But I wat they had beter hae staid at hame;
For Michael o’ Winfield he is dead,
And Jock o’ the Side is prisoner ta’en.

For Mangerton house Lady Downie has gane,
Her coats she has kilted up to her knees;
And down the water wi’ speed she rins,
While tears in spaits fa’ fast frae her ee.

Then up and spoke her gude auld lord, 
“What news, what news, sister Downie, to me?” —
“Bad news, bad news, my Lord Mangerton;
Michael is killed, and they hae ta’en my son Johnie.”

- “Ne’er fear, sister Downie,” quo’ Mangerton;
“I have yokes of ousen, eighty and three;
My barns, my byres, and my faulds, a’ weil fill’d,
I’ll part wi’ them a’ ere Johnie shall die.

Three men I’ll send to set him free,
A’ harneist wi’ the best o’ steil;
The English louns may hear, and drie
The weight o’ their braid-swords to feel.

“The Laird’s Jock ane, the Laird’s Wat twa,
O Hobbie Noble, thou ane maun be!
The coat is blue, thou hast been true,
Since England banished thee, to me.” —

Now Hobbie was an English man,
In Newcastle-dale was bred and born;
But his misdeeds they were sae great,
They banished him ne’er to return.

Lord Mangerton them orders gave,
“Your horse the wrang way maun be shod;
Like gentlemen ye mauna seem,
But look like corn-caugers [53] ga’en the road.

“Your armour gude ye mauna shaw,
Nor yet appear like men o’ weir;
As country lads be a’ array’d,
Wi’ branks and brecham [54] on each mare.” - 

Sae now their horses are the wrang way shod,
And Hobbie has mounted his grey sae fine;
Jack his lively bay, Wat’s on his white horse be hind,
And on they rode for the water of Tyne.

At the Cholerford they a’ light down,
And there, wi’ the help of the light o’ the moon,
A tree they cut, fifteen nogs on each side,
To climb up the wa’ of Newcastle toun.

But when they cam to Newcastle toun,
And were alighted at the wa’,
They fand thair tree three ells ower laigh,
They fand their stick baith short and sma’.

Then up spake the Laird’s ain Jock;
“There’s naething for’t; the gates we maun force.” —
But when they cam the gate until,
A proud porter withstood baith men and horse.

His neck in twa the Armstrangs wrang;
Wi’ fute or hand he ne’er play’d pa!
His life and his keys at anes they hae ta’en,
And cast the body ahint the wa".

Now sune they reach Newcastle jail,
And to the prisoner thus they call;
“Sleeps thou, wakes thou, Jock o’ the Side,
Or art thou weary of they thrall?”

Jock answers thus, wi’ dolefu’ tone; 
“Aft, aft I wake - I seldom sleep;
But whae’s this kens my name sae weel.
And thus to mese [55] my waes does seek?”

Then out and spak the gude Laird’s Jock,
“Now fear ye na, my billie,” quo he;
“For here are the Laird’s Jock, the Laird’s Wat,
And Hobbie Noble, come to set thee free.” —

“Now hand thy tongue, my gude Laird’s Jock,
For ever, alas! this canna be;
For if a’ Liddesdale were here the night,
The morn’s the day that I maun die.

Full fifteen stane o’ Spanish iron,
They hae laid a’ right sair on me:
Wi’ locks and keys I am fast bound
Into this dungeon dark and dreirie.” —

“Fear ye na’ 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 sworn we’ll set thee free.” —

The first strong door that they cam at,
They loosed it without a key;
The next chain’d door that they cam at,
They garr’d it a’ to flinders flee.

The prisoner now upon his back
The Laird’s Jock has gotten up fu’ hie;
And down the stairs him, airns and a’,
Wi’ nae sma’ speed and joy brings he.

“Now, Jock, my man,” quo’ Hobbie Noble,
“Some o’ his weight ye may lay on me.” —
“I wat weel no!” quo’ the Laird’s ain Jock,
“I count him lighter than a flee.” —

Sae out at the gates they a’ are gane,
The prisoner’s set on horseback hie;
And now wi’ speed they’ve ta’en the gate,
While ilk ane jokes fu’ wantonlie:

“O Jock! sae winsomely ye ride,
Wi’ baith your feet upon ae side;
Sae weel ye’re harneist, and sae trig
In troth ye sit like ony bride!” —

The night, tho’ wat, they did na mind,
But hied them on fu’ merrilie,
Until they cam to Cholerford brae,
Where the water ran like mountains hie.

But when they cam 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 gude auld man;
“I hae lived here thretty years and three,
And I ne’er yet saw the Tyne sae big,
Nor running anes sae like a sea.” - 

Then out and spoke the Laird’s saft Wat,
The greatest coward in the cumpanie,
“Now halt, now halt! we need na try’t;
The day is come we a’ maun die!” - 

“Puir faint-hearted thief!” cried the Laird’s ain Jock,
“There’ll nae man die, but him that’s fie: [56]
I’ll guide ye a’ right safely thro’;
Lift ye the pris’ner on ahint me.” - 

Wi’ that the water they hae ta’en,
By ane’s and twa’s they a’ swam thro’
“Here are we a’ safe,” quo’ the Laird’s Jock,
“And, puir faint Wat, what think ye now?” —

They scarce the other brae had won,
When twenty men they saw pursue;
Frae Newcastle toun they had been sent,
A’ English lads baith stout and true.

But when the land-sergeant the water saw,
“It winna ride, my lads,” says he;
Then cried aloud - “The prisoner take,
But leave the fetters, I pray, to me.” - 

“I wat weel no,” quo’ the Laird’s ain Jock,
“I’ll keep them a’; shoon to my mare they’ll be
My gude bay mare - for I am sure,
She has bought them a’ right dear frae thee.” - 

Sae now they are on to Liddesdale,
E’en as fast as they could them hie;
The prisoner is brought to’s ain fire-side,
And there o’s airns they mak him free.

“Now, Jock, my billie,” quo’ a’ the three,
“The day is comed thou was to die;
But thou’s as weel at thy ain ingle-side,
Now sitting, I think, ‘twixt thee and me.”

“He is weil kend, John of the Syde,
A greater thief did never ryde;
He never tyris,
For to brak byres,
Our muir and myris,
Ouir gude ane guide,’ &c.”

Jock O’ the Side appears in have assisted the Earl of Westmoreland in his escape after his unfortunate insurrection with the Earl of Northumberland in the twelfth year of Elizabeth. “The two rebellious rebels went into Liddesdale in Scotland, yesternight, where Martin Ellwood (Elliot) and others, that have given pledges to the regent of Scotland, did raise their forces against them; being conducted by black Ormeston, an outlaw of Scotland, that was a principal murtherer of the King of Scots, (Darnley) where the fight was offered, and both parties alighted from their horses; and, in the end, Ellwood said to Ormeston he would be sorry to enter deadly feud with men by bloodshed; but he would charge him and the rest before the regent for keeping the rebels and if he did not put them out of the country, the next day, he would doe his worst again them; whereupon the two Earls were driven to leave Liddesdale, and to fly to one of the Armstrongs, a Scot upon the batable (debateable) land on the Borders between Liddesdale and England. The same day the Liddesdale men stole the horses of the Countess of Northumberland, and of her two women, and ten others of their company, so as, the earls being gone, the lady of Northumberland was left there on foot, at John of the Side’s house, a cottage not to be compared to many a dog kennel in England. At their departing from her, they went not above fifty horse, and the Earl of Westmoreland, to be the more unknown, changed his coat of plate and swore with John of the Side and departed like a Scottish Borderer.” - Advertisements from Hexham, 22nd December, 1569, in the Cabala, p. 160.

The Farmer of Liddesdale

THERE was in Liddesdale (in Morven) a Farmer who suffered great loss within the space of one year. In the first place, his wife and children died, and shortly after their death the Ploughman left him. The hiring-markets were then over, and there was no way of getting another ploughman in place of the one that left. When spring came his neighbours began ploughing; but he had not a man to hold the plough, and he knew not what he should do. The time was passing, and he was therefore losing patience. At last he said to himself in a fit of passion, that he would engage the first man that came his way, whoever he should be.

Shortly after that a man came to the house. The Farmer met him at the door, and asked him whither was he going, or what was he seeking? He answered that he was a ploughman, and that he wanted an engagement. “I want a ploughman, and if we agree about the wages, I will engage thee. What dost thou ask from this day to the day when the crop will be gathered in?” “Only as much of the corn when it shall be dry as I can carry with me in one burden-withe.” “Thou shalt get that,” said the Farmer, and they agreed.

Next morning the Farmer went out with the Ploughman, and showed him the fields which he had to plough. Before they returned, the Ploughman went to the wood, and having cut three stakes, came back with them, and placed one of them at the head of each one of the fields. After he had done that he said to the Farmer, “I will do the work now alone, and the ploughing need no longer give thee anxiety.”

Having said this, he went home and remained idle all that day. The next day came, but he remained idle as on the day before. After he had spent a good while in that manner, the Farmer said to him that it was time for him to begin work now, because the spring was passing away, and the neighbours had half their work finished. He replied, “Oh, our land is not ready yet.” “ How dost thou think that ? “ “ Oh, I know it by the stakes.”

If the delay of the Ploughman made the Farmer wonder, this answer made him wonder more. He resolved that he would keep his eye on him, and see what he was doing.

The Farmer rose early next morning, and saw the Ploughman going to the first field. When he reached the field, he pulled the stake at its end out of the ground, and put it to his nose. He shook his head and put the stake back in the ground. He then left the first field and went to the rest. He tried the stakes, shook his head, and returned home. In the dusk he went out the second time to the fields, tried the stakes, shook his head, and after putting them again in the ground, went home. Next morning he went out to the fields the third time. When he reached the first stake he pulled it out of the ground and put it to his nose as he did on the foregoing days. But no sooner had he done that than he threw the stake from him, and stretched away for the houses with all his might.

He got the horses, the withes, and the plough, and when he reached the end of the first field with them, he thrust the plough into the ground, and cried :

“My horses and my leather-traces, and mettlesome lads,
The earth is coming up! “

He then began ploughing, kept at it all day at a terrible rate, and before the sun went down that night there was not a palm-breadth of the three fields which he had not ploughed, sowed, and harrowed. When the Farmer saw this he was exceedingly well pleased, for he had his work finished as soon as his neighbours.

The Ploughman was quick and ready to do everything that he was told, and so he and the Farmer agreed well until the harvest came. But on a certain day when the reaping was over. the Farmer said to him that he thought the corn was dry enough for putting in. The Ploughman tried a sheaf or two, and answered that it was not dry yet. But shortly after that day he said that it was now ready. “If it is,” said the Farmer, “ we better begin putting it in.” “We will not until I get my share out of it first,” said the Ploughman. He then went off to the wood, and in a short time returned, having in his hand a withe scraped and twisted. He stretched the withe on the field, and began to put the corn in it. He continued putting sheaf after sheaf in the withe until he had taken almost all the sheaves that were on the field. The Farmer asked of him what he meant ? “Thou didst promise me as wages as much corn as I could carry with me in one burden-withe, and here I have it now,” said the Ploughman, as he was shutting the withe.

The Farmer saw that he would be ruined by the Plough-man and therefore said:

“‘Twas in the Màrt I sowed,
‘Twas in the Màrt I baked,
‘Twas in the Màrt I harrowed.
Thou Who hast ordained the three Màrts,
Let not my share go in one burden-with.”

Instantly the withe broke, and it made a loud report, which echo answered from every rock far and near. Then the corn spread over the field, and the Ploughman went away in a white mist in the skies, and was seen no more.

Lochinvar

 by Sir Walter Scott

O, young Lochinvar is come out of the west,
Through all the wide Border his steed was the best;
And save his good broadsword he weapons had none,
He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone.
So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war.
There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.
He staid not for brake, and he stopp’d not for stone,
He swam the Esk River where ford there was none;
But ere he alighted at Netherby gate,
The bride had consented, the gallant came late:
For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war,
Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.
So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall,
Among bride’s-men, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all:
Then spoke the bride’s father, his hand on his sword,
(For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word)
‘O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war,
Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?’
‘I long woo’d your daughter, my suit you denied;—
Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide—
And now I am come, with this lost love of mine,
To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine.
There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far,
That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar.’
The bride kissed the goblet: the knight took it up,
He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup.
She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh,
With a smile on her lips, and a tear In her eye.
He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar,—
‘Now tread we a measure!’ said young Lochinvar.
So stately his form, and so lovely her face,
That never a hall such a galliard did grace;
While her mother did fret, and her father did fume,
And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume;
And the bride-maidens whispered, ‘Twere better by far,
To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar.’
One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear,
When they reached the hall-door, and the charger stood near;
So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung,
So light to the saddle before her he sprung!
‘She is wonl we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur:
They’ll have fleet steeds that follow,’ quoth young Lochinvar.
There was mounting ’mong Graemes of the Netherby clan;
Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran:
There was racing and chasing on Cannobia Lee,
But the lost bride of Netherby ne’er did they see.
So daring in love, and so dauntless in war,
Have ye e’er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?

 

---