Then up and spak him mettled John Hall,
(The luve of Teviotdale aye was he)
"An' I had eleven men to mysell,
Its aye the twalt man I wad be."
Then up bespak him coarse Ca'field,
(I wot and little gude worth was he)
"Thirty men is few anew,
And a' to ride in our cumpanie."
There was horsing, horsing in haste,
And there was marching on the lee;
Until they cam to Murraywhate,
And they lighted there right speedilie.
"A smith! a smith!" Dickie he cries,
"A smith, a smith, right speedilie,
To turn back the caukers of our horses' shoon!
For its unkensome[187]we wad be."
[242]
"There lives a smith on the water side,
Will shoe my little black mare for me;
And I've a crown in my pocket,
And every groat of it I wad gie."
"The night is mirk, and its very mirk,
And by candle light I canna weel see;
The night is mirk, and its very pit mirk,
And there will never a nail ca' right for me."
"Shame fa' you and your trade baith,
Canna beet[188]a gude fellow by your myster[189]
But leez me on thee, my little black mare,
Thou's worth thy weight in gold to me."
There was horsing, horsing in haste,
And there was marching upon the lee;
Until they cam to Dumfries port,
And they lighted there right speedilie.
"There's five of us will hold the horse,
And other five will watchmen be:
But wha's the man, amang ye a',
Will gae to the Tolbooth door wi' me?"
[243]
O up then spak him mettled John Hall,
(Frae the laigh Tiviotdale was he)
"If it should cost my life this very night,
I'll gae to the Tolbooth door wi' thee."
"Be of gude cheir, now, Archie, lad!
Be of gude cheir, now, dear billie!
Work thou within, and we without,
And the mom thou'se dine at Ca'field wi' me."
O Jockie Hall stepped to the door,
And he bended low back his knee;
And he made the bolts, the door hang on,
Loup frae the wa' right wantonlie.
He took the prisoner on his back,
And down the Tolbooth stair cam he;
The black mare stood ready at the door,
I wot a foot ne'er stirred she.
They laid the links out ower her neck,
And that was her gold twist to be;[190]
And they cam down thro' Dumfries toun,
And wow but they cam speedilie.
[244]
The live long night these twelve men rade,
And aye till they were right wearie,
Until they cam to the Murraywhate,
And they lighted there right speedilie.
"A smith! a smith!" then Dickie he cries;
"A smith, a smith, right speedilie,
To file the irons frae my dear brither!
For forward, forward we wad be,"
They had na filed a shackle of iron,
A shackle of iron but barely thrie,
When out and spak young Simon brave,
"O dinna ye see what I do see?
"Lo! yonder comes Lieutenant Gordon,
Wi' a hundred men in his cumpanie;
This night will be our lyke-wake night,
The morn the day we a' maun die,"
O there was mounting, mounting in haste,
And there was marching upon the lee;
Until they cam to Annan water,
And it was flowing like the sea.
[245]
"My mare is young and very skeigh,[191]
And in o' the weil[192]she will drown me;
But ye'll take mine, and I'll take thine,
And sune through the water we sall be."
Then up and spak him, coarse Ca'field,
(I wot and little gude worth was he)
"We had better lose are than lose a' the lave;
We'll lose the prisoner, we'll gae free."
"Shame fa' you and your lands baith!
Wad ye e'en[193]your lands to your born billy?
But hey! bear up, my bonnie black mare,
And yet thro' the water we sall be."
Now they did swim that wan water,
And wow but they swam bonilie!
Until they cam to the other side,
And they wrang their cloathes right drunkily.
"Come thro', come thro', Lieutenant Gordon!
Come thro' and drink some wine wi' me!
For there is an ale-house here hard by,
And it shall not cost thee ae penny."
[246]
"Throw me my irons," quo' Lieutenant Gordon;
"I wot they cost me dear aneugh."
"The shame a ma," quo' mettled John Ha',
"They'll be gude shackles to my pleugh."
"Come thro', come thro', Lieutenant Gordon!
Come thro' and drink some wine wi' me!
Yestreen I was your prisoner,
But now this morning am I free."
[247]
The followng verses are said to have been composed by one of theARMSTRONGS,executed for the murder of SirJOHN CARMICHAELof Edrom, warden of the middle marches, (Seep.165.)The tune is popular in Scotland; but whether these are the original words, will admit of a doubt.
This night is my departing night,
For here nae langer must I stay;
There's neither friend nor foe o' mine,
But wishes me away.
What I have done thro' lack of wit,
I never, never, can recall;
I hope ye're a' my friends as yet;
Goodnight and joy be with you all!
[248]
Of all the border ditties, which have fallen into the editor's hands, this is by far the most uncouth and savage. It is usually chaunted in a sort of wild recitative, except the burden, which swells into a long and varied howl, not unlike to a view hollo'. The words, and the very great irregularity of the stanza (if it deserves the name), sufficiently point out its intention and origin. An English woman, residing in Suport, near the foot of the Kershope, having been plundered in the night by a band of the Scottish moss-troopers, is supposed to convoke her servants and friends for the pursuit, orHot Trod; upbraiding them, at the same time, in homely phrase, for their negligence and security. TheHot Trodwas followed by the persons who had lost goods, with blood-hounds and horns, to raise[249]the country to help. They also used to carry a burning wisp of straw at a spear head, and to raise a cry, similar to the Indian war-whoop. It appears, from articles made by the wardens of the English marches, September 12th, in 6th of Edward VI. that all, on this cry being raised, were obliged to follow the fray, or chace, under pain of death. With these explanations, the general purport of the ballad may be easily discovered, though particular passages have become inexplicable, probably through corruptions introduced by reciters. The present copy is corrected from four copies, which differed widely from each other.
[250]
Sleep'ry Sim of the Lamb-hill,
And snoring Jock of Suport-mill,
Ye are baith right het and fou';—
But my wae wakens na you.
Last night I saw a sorry sight—
Nought left me, o' four-and-twenty gude ousen and ky,
My weel-ridden gelding, and a white quey,
But a toom byre and a wide,
And the twelve nogs[194]on ilka side.
Fy lads! shout a' a' a' a' a',
My gear's a' gane.
[251]
Weel may ye ken,
Last night I was right scarce o' men:
But Toppet Hob o' the Mains had guesten'd in my
house by chance;
I set him to wear the fore-door wi' the speir, while I
kept the back door wi' the lance;
But they hae run him thro' the thick o' the thie, and
broke his knee-pan,
And the mergh[195]o' his shin bane has run down on his
spur leather whang:
He's lame while he lives, and where'er he may gang.
Fy lads! shout a' a' a' a' a',
My gear's a' gane.
But Peenye, my gude son, is out at the Hagbut-head,
His e'en glittering for anger like a fierye gleed;
Crying—"Mak sure the nooks
Of Maky's-muir crooks;
For the wily Scot takes by nooks, hooks, and crooks.
Gin we meet a' together in a head the morn,
We'll be merry men."
Fy lads! shout a' a' a' a' a'
My gear's a' gane.
[252]
There's doughty Cuddy in the Heugh-head,
Thou was aye gude at a' need:
With thy brock-skin bag at thy belt,
Ay ready to mak a puir man help.
Thou maun awa' out to the cauf-craigs,
(Where anes ye lost your ain twa naigs)
And there toom thy brock-skin bag.
Fy lads! shout a' a' a' a' a',
My gear's a' taen.
Doughty Dan o' the Houlet Hirst,
Thou was aye gude at a birst:
Gude wi' a bow, and better wi' a speir,
The bauldest march-man, that e'er followed gear;
Come thou here.
Fy lads! shout a' a' a' a' a',
My gear's a' gane.
Rise, ye carle coopers, frae making o' kirns and tubs,
In the Nicol forest woods.
Your craft has na left the value of an oak rod,
But if you had had ony fear o' God,
Last night ye had na slept sae sound,
And let my gear be a' ta'en.
Fy lads! shout a' a' a' a' a',
My gear's a' ta'en.
[253]
Ah! lads, we'll fang them a' in a net!
For I hae a' the fords o' Liddel set;
The Dunkin, and the Door-loup,
The Willie-ford, and the Water-slack,
The Black-rack and the Trout-dub o' Liddel;
There stands John Forster wi' five men at his back,
Wi' bufft coat and cap of steil:
Boo! ca' at them e'en, Jock;
That ford's sicker, I wat weil.
Fy lads! shout a' a' a' a' a',
My gear's a' ta'en.
Hoo! hoo! gar raise the Reid Souter, and Ringan's Wat,
Wi' a broad elshin and a wicker;
I wat weil they'll mak a ford sicker.
Sae whether they be Elliots or Armstrangs,
Or rough riding Scots, or rude Johnstones,
Or whether they be frae the Tarras or Ewsdale,
They maun turn and fight, or try the deeps o' Liddel.
Fy lads! shout a' a' a' a' a',