Chapter 3

[image]Black AgnesThe castle was a very strong one. It was built on a chain of great rocks that stretched out to sea, and could only be reached from land by one road, which was, of course, strictly guarded. The lord of the castle was the Earl of March (the word March in those days meant a border-land), but he was away with the Scottish army, and his wife was in charge of the castle. She was the daughter of that brave Earl of Moray, Guardian of Scotland, who has just been mentioned. The English army was led by an experienced general, the Earl of Salisbury, and he probably thought that he would not have much trouble in overcoming "Black Agnes," as the dark-haired countess was called.He soon discovered that she was of heroic mould, however, for though he himself led the storming-parties, she on her side, urging on her men in person, hurled back his every attack. The Lady Agnes was quite fearless, and treated the siege as if it were a pastime to be enjoyed. When the English, with machines made for the purpose, hurled heavy stones against the walls, Black Agnes would call one of her maidens with a napkin to wipe off the dust that they made! The biggest of all the English war-machines was called a sow, and when it was brought to the walls the countess cried out in rough jest that it was surrounded by little pigs. At the same moment a mass of rock, which she had caused to be loosened, was hurled by her men on to the English, crushing their sow and many soldiers with it.At last there seemed a chance for the English. Near midnight a Scot came into their camp, saying that he was ready to betray the castle for a reward. The Earl of Salisbury and some chosen knights rode carefully forward, and found the gate open and the portcullis raised, as the man had promised. But for all that, they doubted if Black Agnes could so far relax her vigilance; wherefore instead of the earl entering first, he sent forward a retainer. His caution was soon justified, for no sooner had this man passed the gate than the portcullis fell. It was a trick to capture the earl, but the Scots were disappointed this time.The gallant English lord was loud in admiration of the brave Scottish lady who was thus defying him. Once when examining the defences with a lieutenant, an arrow struck his companion dead. "The countess's love-arrows pierce to the heart," said Salisbury, on his return to the camp. Despite the courtly manner in which the well-bred baron referred to the lady, however, he did not relax his efforts to overcome her.Salisbury's land forces had now surrounded the castle on the land side, while his ships at sea completed the blockade. The garrison was threatened with starvation. Greater and greater became the privations of the heroic defenders. The countess, no less brave than ever, hoped on, though ground for hope grew less and less. She could not bring herself to think of defeat, and her brave, bright face still gave courage and inspiration to all.Meantime the story of the struggle and difficulties of the defenders was raising up helpers, and Sir Alexander Ramsay of Dalhousie got ready a light vessel filled with provisions and manned by forty brave Scots, who only waited for a dark night to make the attempt to steal past the English fleet. They lay hidden by the Bass Rock, a lofty islet at the mouth of the Firth of Forth, some seven or eight miles from Dunbar, until one starless night they stole very cautiously down the wild coast-line of Haddingtonshire, sometimes all but bumping into an English vessel in the dark. Fortune favours the brave, and despite dangers and difficulties they got safely at last to the castle, whose distant light had been their guide. Be sure Black Agnes welcomed them! This proved to be the turning-point of the long siege. With fresh hope, the garrison made a sudden sally on the English, driving back their advance guard, and after five months of fierce but fruitless attempts, Salisbury was compelled to withdraw his forces and admit defeat. Nevertheless, the English were gallant enough to sing their praises of this Scottish heroine; their minstrels made songs in her honour, in one of which Salisbury is made to say:—"Came I early, came I late,I found Black Agnes at the gate."Chapter VIIIThe Young Tamlane"He's ta'en her by the milk-white hand,Among the leaves so green."This tale belongs to the romantic side of the Border minstrelsy, and illustrates some of the common superstitions of olden times concerning elves and fairies. The scene is laid in the Selkirk or Ettrick Forest, a mountainous tract covered with the remains of the old Caledonian Forest. About a mile above Selkirk is a plain called Carterhaugh, and here may still be seen those fairy rings of which it was believed that anyone sleeping upon one will wake in a fairy city. And here was, and perhaps still is, an ancient well. The ballad opens by telling how all young maids were forbidden to come or go by way of Carterhaugh, "for young Tamlane (or Thomalin) is there," and every one going by Carterhaugh is obliged to leave him something in pledge. But the Lady Janet, the fairest of the Selkirk lasses, was obstinate, and declared that she would come or go to Carterhaugh, as she pleased, "and ask no leave of him," since the land there belonged to her by hereditary right. She kilted her green mantle above her knee, and braided her yellow hair above her brow, and off she went to Carterhaugh. When she got to the well, she found the steed of the elfin knight Tamlane standing there, but he himself was away."She hadna pu'd a red, red rose,A rose but barely three;Till up and starts a wee, wee manAt Lady Janet's knee.Says—'Why pu' ye the rose, Janet?What gars (makes) ye break the tree?Or why come ye to Carterhaugh,Withouten leave of me?'Says—'Carterhaugh it is mine ain;My daddy gave it me:I'll come and gang to Carterhaugh,And ask nae leave o' thee.'"But Tamlane took her by the hand and worked upon her his spells, which no maiden might resist, however proud she might be.When she came back to her father's hall, she looked pale and wan; and it seemed that she had some sore sickness. She ceased to take any pleasure in combing her yellow hair, and everything she ate seemed like to be her death. When her ladies played at ball, she, once the strongest player, was now the faintest. One day her father spoke out, and said he, "Full well I know that you must have some lover." She said:—"'If my love were an earthly knight,As he's an elfin grey,I wouldna give my own true loveFor no lord that ye hae.'"Then she prinked herself, and preened herself, all by the light of the moon alone, and went away to Carterhaugh, to speak with Tamlane. When she got to the well, she found the steed standing, but Tamlane was away. She had barely pulled a double rose, when up started the elf."Why pull ye the rose, Janet?" says he; "why pull ye the rose within this garden green?" "The truth ye'll tell me, Tamlane; were ye ever in holy chapel, or received into the Christian Church?" "The truth I'll tell thee, Janet; a knight was my father, and a lady was my mother, like your own parents. Randolph, Earl Moray, was my sire; Dunbar, Earl March, is thine. We loved when we were children, which yet you may remember. When I was a boy just turned nine, my uncle sent for me to hunt, and hawk, and ride with him, and keep him company. There came a wind out of the north, a deep sleep came over me, and I fell from my horse. The queen of the fairies took me off to yon green hill, and now I'm a fairy, lithe and limber. In Fairyland we know neither sickness nor pain. We quit our body, or repair unto them, when we please. We can inhabit, earth, or air, as we will. Our shapes and size we can convert to either large or small. We sleep in rose-buds, revel in the stream, wanton lightly on the wind, or glide on a sunbeam. I would never tire, Janet, to dwell in Elfland, were it not that every seven years a tithe is paid to hell, and I am so fair of flesh, I fear 'twill be myself. If you dare to win your true love, you have no time to lose. To-night is Hallowe'en, and the fairy folk ride. If you would win your true love, bide at Miles Cross." Miles Cross is about half a mile from Carterhaugh, and Janet asked how she should know Tamlane among so many unearthly knights. "The first company that passes by, let them go. The next company that passes by, let them go. The third company that passes by, I'll be one of those. First let pass the black steed, Janet, then let pass the brown; but grip the milk-white steed, and pull down the rider—"For I ride on the milk-white steed,And aye nearest the town;Because I was a christened knight,They gave me that renown."Tamlane went on to explain that his fairy comrades would make every effort to disgust her with her captive. They would turn him in her very arms into an adder; they would change him into a burning faggot, into a red-hot iron goad, but she must hold him fast. In order to remove the enchantment, she must dip him in a churn of milk, and then in a barrel of water. She must still persevere, for they would shape him in her arms into a badger, eel, dove, swan, and, last of all, into a naked man, but"Cast your green mantle over me,I'll be myself again."So fair Janet in her green mantle went that gloomy night to Miles Cross. The heavens were black, the place was inexpressibly dreary, a north wind raged; but there she stood, eagerly wishing to embrace her lover. Between the hours of twelve and one she heard strange eldrich sounds and the ringing of elfin bridles, which gladdened her heart. The oaten pipes of the faires grew shrill, the hemlock blew clear. The fairies cannot bear solemn sounds or sober thoughts; they sing like skylarks, inspired by love and joy. Fair Janet stood upon the dreary heath, and the sounds waxed louder as the fairy train came riding on. Will o' the Wisp shone out as a twinkling light before them, and soon she saw the fairy bands passing. She let the black steed go by, and then the brown. But she gripped fast the milk-white steed, and pulled down the rider. Then up rose an eldrich cry, "He's won among us all!" As Janet grasped him in her arms the fairies changed him into a newt, an adder, and many other fantastic and terrifying shapes. She held him fast in every shape. They turned him at last into a naked man in her arms, but she wrapped him in her green mantle. At last her stedfast courage was rewarded, she redeemed the fairies' captive, and by so doing won his true love! Then up spoke the Queen of Fairies, "She that has borrowed young Tamlane has got a stately groom! She's taken the bonniest knight in all my company! But had I known, Tamlane," said the fairy queen, "had I known that a lady would borrow thee, I would have taken out thy two grey eyes, and put in wooden eyes. I would have taken out thy heart of flesh, Tamlane, and put in a heart of stone. I would have paid my tithe seven times to hell ere I would have let her win you away."Chapter IXThe Gay Goss-HawkIn the opening lines of this old ballad Lord William is talking to the goss-hawk, who tells his master that he is looking pale and thin, and seeks to know che cause."O waly, waly, my gay goss-hawk,Gin your feathering be sheen!""And waly, waly, my master dear,Gin ye look pale and lean!O have ye tint[#] at tournamentYour sword, or yet your spear?Or mourn ye for the Southern lass,Whom ye may not win near?"[#] lost"I have not tint at tournamentMy sword, nor yet my spear;But sair[#] I mourn for my true love,Wi' mony a bitter tear.[#] soreBut weel's me on ye, my gay goss-hawk,Ye can baith speak and flee;Ye sall carry a letter to my love,Bring an answer back to me.""But how sall I your true love find,Or how suld I her know?I bear a tongue ne'er wi' her spake,An eye that ne'er her saw.""O weel sall ye my true love ken,Sae sune[#] as ye her see;For, of a' the flowers of fair England,The fairest flower is she.[#] soon.The red that's on my true love's cheekIs like blood-drops on the snaw;The white that is on her breast bare,Like the down o' the white sea-maw.And even at my love's bour-doorThere grows a flowering birk;[#]And ye maun sit and sing thereonAs she gangs to the kirk.[#] birch.And four-and-twenty fair ladyesWill to the Mass repair;But weel may ye my ladye ken,The fairest ladye there."Lord William has written a love-letter,Put it under his pinion grey;An' he is awa' to Southern landAs fast as wings can gae.And even at the ladye's bour[#]There grew a flowering birk;And he sat down and sung thereonAs she gaed to the kirk.[#] bower.And weel he kent that ladye fairAmang her maidens free,For the flower that springs in May morningWas not sae sweet as she.He lighted at the ladye's yate[#]And sat him on a pin,[#]And sang fu' sweet the notes o' love,Till a' was cosh[#] within.[#] gate.[#] pine.[#] quiet.And first he sang a low low note,And syne[#] he sang a clear;And aye the o'erword[#] o' the sangWas—"Your love can no win here."[#] then.[#] refrain."Feast on, feast on, my maidens a',The wine flows you amang,While I gang to my shot-windowAnd hear yon bonnie bird's sang.Sing on, sing on, my bonny bird,The sang ye sung yestreen,For weel I ken, by your sweet singingYe are frae my true love sen."[#][#] sent.O first he sang a merry song,And syne he sang a grave;And syne he picked his feathers grey,To her the letter gave."Have there a letter from Lord William;He says he's sent ye three;He canna wait your love langer,But for your sake he'll die.""Gae bid him bake his bridal bread,And brew his bridal ale;And I shall meet him in Mary's Kirk,Lang, lang ere it be stale."The lady's gane to her chamber,And a moanfu' woman was she;As gin[#] she had taken a sudden brash[#]And were about to die.[#] if[#] illness."A boon, a boon, my father dear,A boon I beg of thee!""Ask not that haughty Scottish lord,For him ye ne'er shall see.But for your honest asking else,Weel granted it shall be.""Then, gin I die in Southern land,In Scotland gar[#] bury me.[#] causeAnd the first kirk that ye come to,Ye's gar the mass be sung;And the next kirk that ye come toYe's gar the bells be rung.And when ye come to St Mary's Kirk,Ye's tarry there till night."And so her father pledged his word,And so his promise plight.She has ta'en her to her bigly bowerAs fast as she could fare;And she has drank a sleepy draught,That she had mixed wi' care.And pale, pale grew her rosy cheek,That was sae bright of blee,[#]And she seemed to be as surely deadAs any one could be.[#] bloom.Then spake her cruel step-minnie,[#]"Tak ye the burning lead,And drap a drap on her bosome,To try if she be dead."[#] mother.They took a drap o' boiling lead,They drapped it on her breast;"Alas! alas!" her father cried,"She's dead without the priest."She neither chattered with her teeth,Nor shivered with her chin;"Alas! alas!" her father cried,"There is nae breath within."Then up arose her seven brethren,And hewed to her a bier;They hewed it frae the solid aik,[#]Laid it o'er wi' silver clear.[#] oak.Then up and gat her seven sisters,And sewed to her a kell,[#]And every steek[#] that they put inSewed to a siller bell.[#] shroud.[#] stitch.The first Scots kirk that they cam to,They garred the bells be rung;The next Scots kirk that they cam to,They garred fhe mass be sung.But when they cam to St Mary's Kirk,There stude spearmen all on a row;And up and started Lord William,The chieftaine amang them a'."Set down, set down the bier," he said,"Let me look her upon;"But as soon as Lord William touched her hand,Her colour began to come.She brightened like the lily flower,Till her pale colour was gone;With rosy cheek, and ruby lip,She smiled her love upon."A morsel of your bread, my lord,And one glass of your wine;For I have fasted these three lang days,All for your sake and mine.Gae hame, gae hame, my seven bauld brothers,Gae hame and blaw your horn!I trow[#] ye wad hae gi'en me the skaith,[#]But I've gi'en you the scorn.[#] reckon.[#] harm.Commend me to my grey father,That wished my soul gude rest;But wae be to my cruel step-dame,Garred burn me on the breast.""Ah! woe to you, you light woman!And ill death may ye die!For we left father and sisters at hame,Breaking their hearts for thee."Chapter XThe CorbiesTwo ancient songs have come down to us in which the principal speakers are supposed to be Corbies, carrion-crows or ravens, birds which feed on the flesh of the dead. In both songs the birds discuss a dead knight upon whose rich body they wish to feed. But deep interest lies in the fact that the two song-writers present entirely different views of the case. One appeals to our feelings with a beautiful and touching picture of devotion, the knight's companions proving true to him in death. The other is far more grim, and causes us to shudder at the utter loneliness of the dead man, deserted by all those who in life were beholden to his friendship. Both are powerful and striking examples of ancient vigour and directness.THE TWA CORBIESAs I was walking all alane,I heard twa corbies making a mane;[#]The tane unto the t'other say,"Where sall we gang and dine to-day?"—[#] moan."In behint yon auld fail dyke,I wot there lies a new-slain knight;And naebody kens that he lies there,But his hawk, his hound, and lady fair.His hound is to the hunting gane,His hawk, to fetch the wild-fowl hame,His lady's ta'en another mate,Sa we may mak our dinner sweet.Ye'll sit on his white hause-bane,[#]And I'll pick out his bonny blue een:Wi' ae lock o' his gowden hair,We'll theek[#] our nest when it grows bare.[#][#] neck.[#] thatch.[#] Variant reading—"We'll theek our nest—it's a' blawn hare."Mony a one for him makes mane,But nane sall ken where he is gane;O'er his white banes, when they are bare,The wind sall blaw for evermair."[image]The Twa CorbiesTHE THREE RAVENSThere were three ravens sat on a tre,They were as black as they might be:The one of them said to his mate,"Where shall we our breakfast take?"—"Downe in yonder greene field,There lies a knight slain under his shield;"His hounds they lie downe at his feete,So well they their master keepe;"His hawkes they flie so eagerlie,There's no fowle dare come him nie."Down there comes a fallow doe,As great with yong as she might goe."She lift up his bloudy hed,And kist his wounds that were so red."She got him up upon her backe,And carried him to earthen lake."She buried him before the prime,She was dead her selfe ere even song time."God send every gentleman,Such hawkes, such houndes, and such a leman."Chapter XIOtterbourne and Chevy Chase"It fell about the Lammas-tide,When moor-men win their hay,The doughty Douglas bound him to rideInto England, to drive a prey."The ballads ofOtterbourneandChevy Chaserecord the Scottish and English versions of a most stubborn Border battle. Whichever of the two contains the greater amount of truth, it is clear that the day was a bloody one, and that, moreover, it was fought on both sides with a chivalrous admiration for the powers of the other which is characteristic of those strife-loving days. Sir Philip Sidney wrote of it: "I never heard the old song of Percy and Douglas, that I found not my heart moved more than with a trumpet."The ballad ofChevy Chaseis of later date than its rival, and it contains certainly one misstatement of historical fact, since Hotspur outlived the fight at Chevy Chase (1388) and was slain some fifteen years later at the battle of Shrewsbury (1403).The Scottish version of the battle of Otterbourne tells us that it was about the Lammas-tide or haymaking time of the year 1388 when the brave Earl of Douglas, with his brother, the Earl of Murray, made a foray into England, with a gay band of Gordons, Graemes, and Lindsays. He burned Tynedale and half of Bamborough and Otterdale, and marching up to Newcastle, rode round about the castle, crying, "Who is lord of this castle, and who is its lady?"Then up spake proud Lord Percy, known asHotspur, and said, "I am the lord of this castle, and my wife is the gay lady of it.""That pleases me well," answered Douglas, "yet, ere I cross the Border hills, one of us shall die."Then Percy took his long spear, shod with metal, and rode right furiously at the Douglas; but his lady, looking from the castle wall, grew pale as she saw her proud lord go down before the Scottish spear."Had we two been alone, with never an eye to see, I would have slain thee, but thy lance I will carry with me," said Douglas, and, to complete the disgrace, this lance bore attached to it the Percy pennon."Go then to Otterbourne," said Percy, "and wait there for me, and if I come not before the end of three days, call me a false knight.""Otterbourne is a pleasant and a bonny place," answered Douglas; "but though the deer run wild among the hills and dales, and the birds fly wild from tree to tree, yet is there neither bread nor kale nor aught else to feed me and my men. Yet will I wait thee at Otterbourne to give thee welcome, and if thou come not in three days' time, false lord, will I call thee!""By the might of Our Lady, I will come," cried the proud Percy. "And I," answered Douglas, "plight thee my troth that I will meet thee there."So Douglas and his men encamped at Otterbourne, and sent out their horses to pasture.But before the peep of dawn, up spake a little page: "Waken ye, waken ye, my good lord; the Percy is upon us!" "Ye lie, ye lie," shouted Douglas; "yesterday, Percy had not men enough to fight us. But if thou lie not, the finest bower in Otterbourne shall be thy reward, and if what thou sayest prove false, thou shalt be hanged on the highest tree in Otterbourne. Yet I have dreamed a dreary dream; I dreamed that a dead man won a battle and that I was that dead man."So Douglas belted on his good broadsword, and ran to the field, but forgot his helmet, and Percy and the Douglas fought with their swords together till the blood ran down like rain, and the Douglas fell, wounded on the brow.Then he called to him his little foot-page and told him to run quickly and bring to him his sister's son, Sir Hugh Montgomery."My good nephew," said Douglas, "the death of one matters not; last night I dreamed a dreary dream, but yet I know the day is thine. My wound is deep; take thou the vanguard; bury me in the bracken high that grows on yonder lea, and let no man living know that a Scot lies there. And know that I am glad to die in battle, like my good forefathers, and not on a bed of sickness."Montgomery lifted up his noble lord, while his eyes wept salt tears, and hid him in the bracken bush that his followers might not see, and before daylight the Scots slew many a gallant Englishman. The good Gordons steeped hose and shoes in the blood of the English; the Lindsays flew about like fire till the battle was ended, and Percy and Montgomery fought till the blood ran down between them."Now, yield thee, yield thee, Percy," cried Sir Hugh, "or I vow I will lay thee low!""Since it must be so," quoth Earl Percy, "to whom shall I yield?""Thou shalt not yield to me or to any lord, but to the bracken bush that grows on yonder lea!""I will not yield to briar or bracken bush, but I would yield to Lord Douglas or to Sir Hugh Montgomery, if he were here."Then Montgomery made himself known, and as soon as Percy knew that it was Montgomery, he struck the point of his sword into the ground, and Montgomery, who was a courteous knight, took him up by the hand.This deed was done at Otterbourne at daybreak, where Earl Douglas was buried by the bracken bush, and Percy led captive into Scotland, and it is said that Hotspur, for his ransom, built for Montgomery the castle of Penoon, in Ayrshire.But the English version of these stirring events can also claim to be heard; the ballad upon it is calledChevy Chase, which means the Chase on the Cheviots; and so popular was this ballad that its name was given to a boys' game, which is so called even to this day. It tells how the Percy, from his castle in Northumberland, vowed that within three days he would hunt on the mountains of Cheviot in spite of the doughty Douglas and his men, and that he would kill and carry away the fattest deer in Cheviot."By my faith," said Douglas, when he heard of the boast, "but I will hinder his hunting."Percy left Bamborough Castle with a mighty company, no less than fifteen hundred bold archers chosen out of three shires.The foray began on a Monday morning in the high Cheviot Hills, and many a child yet unborn was to rue the day.The drivers went through the woods and raised the deer, and the bowmen shot them with their broad arrows. Then the wild deer rushed through the woods, only to be met and killed by the greyhounds, and before noontide a hundred fat deer lay dead. The bugles sounded, "A mort!" and on all sides Percy and his men assembled to see the cutting up of the venison.Said Percy: "The Douglas promised to meet me here this day, yet right well did I know that he would fail." But a Northumberland squire saw the doughty Douglas coming with a mighty company, with spear and batter-axe and sword. Never were men hardier of heart and hand seen in Christendom—two thousand spearmen born along the banks of the Tweed and Teviotdale. Then said Lord Percy: "Now leave off the cutting of the deer, and take good heed to your bows, for never had ye more need of them since ye were born."Earl Douglas rode before his men, his armour glittering like a burning coal, and never was such a bold baron. "Tell me whose men ye are," said he, "and who gave ye leave to hunt in Cheviot without word asked of me?"Then answered Lord Percy, "We will not tell thee whose men we are, and we will hunt here in spite of thee. We have killed the fattest harts in Cheviot and will carry them away.""By my troth," said Douglas, "one of us shall die this day. Yet it were great pity to kill all these guiltless men. Thou, Percy, art a lord of land, and I am called an earl in my country; let our men stand by, and we will fight together.""Now a curse on his crown, who says nay to that," cried Lord Percy. "By my troth, Douglas, thou shalt never see the day either in England, Scotland, or France, when I fear to meet one, man to man."Then spoke Richard Witherington, a squire of Northumberland. "Never shall this be told in England, to the shame of good King Harry the Fourth. I wot ye be two great lords, and I but a poor squire, yet would I never stand and look on while my captain fought. While I can wield a weapon, I will not fail, both heart and hand."So the English with good heart bent their bows, and slew seven score spearmen with the first arrows they shot.Earl Douglas stayed on the field, but that he was a good captain was truly seen, for he wrought great woe and mischief. He parted his host in three like a proud chieftain, and they came in on every side with their mighty spears, wounding the English archers and slaying many a brave man.Then the English pulled out their brands, and it was a heavy sight to see the bright swords light on the helmets, striking through the rich mail, and the cloth of many folds under it, and laying many low.At last the Douglas and the Percy met and fought with swords of Milan steel till the blood spurted like rain and hail from their helmets."Hold thee, Percy," said Douglas, "and I will bring thee to James, our Scottish king, where thou shalt have an earl's wages and free ransom, for thou art the manfullest man that ever yet I conquered fighting in the field.""Nay, then," said Lord Percy. "I told thee before that never would I yield to any man of woman born."With that there came an arrow hastily from a mighty man, and struck Earl Douglas through the breast bone, and never more did he speak a word but only this: "Fight, my merry men, while ye may—my life's days are done."Then Percy leaned on his hand, and when he saw the Douglas die, he said, "Woe is me. I would have parted with my land for three years to have saved thy life, for a better man of heart and hand was not in all the north country."But Sir Hugh Montgomery, a Scottish knight, when he saw the Douglas done to death, grasped a spear and rode through a hundred archers, never slackening his pace till he came to Lord Percy, whom he set upon, sending his mighty spear clean through his body, so that a man might see a long cloth-yard and more at the other side. There were no two better captains in Christendom than were that day slain.When one of the Northumberland archers saw this, he drew an arrow to his bow and set upon Montgomery, until the swan feathers of his arrows were wet with his heart's blood.Not one man gave way, but still they stood hewing at each other, while they were able.This battle began in Cheviot, an hour before noon, nor was it half done at evensong, but they fought on by moonlight though many had scarce the strength to stand. Of fifteen hundred English archers only fifty-three remained, and of two thousand Scottish spearmen only fifty-five remained, all the rest being slain in Cheviot.With Lord Percy were slain, Sir John of Agerstone, Sir Roger the gentle Hartly, Sir William the bold Heron, Sir George the worthy Lovel, a renowned knight, and Sir Ralph the rich Rugby. Woe was it that Witherington was slain, for when both his legs were hewn in two he kneeled and fought on his knees.With the brave Douglas were slain Sir Hugh Montgomery, and worthy Sir Davy Liddle, that was his sister's son; Sir Charles, a Murray who refused to flee, and Sir Hugh Maxwell. On the morrow they made biers of birch and grey hazel, and many widows bore weeping from the field the bodies of their dead husbands. Well may Teviotdale and Northumberland wail and moan for two such great captains.Word came to James the Scottish king at Edinburgh, that the brave Douglas, Lieutenant of the Marches, lay slain in Cheviot, and he wept and wrung his hands, and said, "Alas! Woe is me; there will never be such another captain in Scotland."Word came also to London, to Harry the Fourth, that Lord Percy, Lieutenant of the Marches, lay slain in Cheviot. "God have mercy on his soul," said King Harry; "I have a hundred captains in England as good as he, yet I wager my life that his death shall be well avenged"; and this vow he kept, at the Battle of Homildon Hill, where he beat down six and thirty Scottish knights on one day.But so real to the Borderers was their grief over their dead that the ballad ends with a quaint but heartfelt appeal to the Prince of Peace:—"Jesus Christ our ills abate,And to His bliss us bring!Thus was the hunting of the Cheviot;God send us all good ending!"

[image]Black Agnes

[image]

Black Agnes

The castle was a very strong one. It was built on a chain of great rocks that stretched out to sea, and could only be reached from land by one road, which was, of course, strictly guarded. The lord of the castle was the Earl of March (the word March in those days meant a border-land), but he was away with the Scottish army, and his wife was in charge of the castle. She was the daughter of that brave Earl of Moray, Guardian of Scotland, who has just been mentioned. The English army was led by an experienced general, the Earl of Salisbury, and he probably thought that he would not have much trouble in overcoming "Black Agnes," as the dark-haired countess was called.

He soon discovered that she was of heroic mould, however, for though he himself led the storming-parties, she on her side, urging on her men in person, hurled back his every attack. The Lady Agnes was quite fearless, and treated the siege as if it were a pastime to be enjoyed. When the English, with machines made for the purpose, hurled heavy stones against the walls, Black Agnes would call one of her maidens with a napkin to wipe off the dust that they made! The biggest of all the English war-machines was called a sow, and when it was brought to the walls the countess cried out in rough jest that it was surrounded by little pigs. At the same moment a mass of rock, which she had caused to be loosened, was hurled by her men on to the English, crushing their sow and many soldiers with it.

At last there seemed a chance for the English. Near midnight a Scot came into their camp, saying that he was ready to betray the castle for a reward. The Earl of Salisbury and some chosen knights rode carefully forward, and found the gate open and the portcullis raised, as the man had promised. But for all that, they doubted if Black Agnes could so far relax her vigilance; wherefore instead of the earl entering first, he sent forward a retainer. His caution was soon justified, for no sooner had this man passed the gate than the portcullis fell. It was a trick to capture the earl, but the Scots were disappointed this time.

The gallant English lord was loud in admiration of the brave Scottish lady who was thus defying him. Once when examining the defences with a lieutenant, an arrow struck his companion dead. "The countess's love-arrows pierce to the heart," said Salisbury, on his return to the camp. Despite the courtly manner in which the well-bred baron referred to the lady, however, he did not relax his efforts to overcome her.

Salisbury's land forces had now surrounded the castle on the land side, while his ships at sea completed the blockade. The garrison was threatened with starvation. Greater and greater became the privations of the heroic defenders. The countess, no less brave than ever, hoped on, though ground for hope grew less and less. She could not bring herself to think of defeat, and her brave, bright face still gave courage and inspiration to all.

Meantime the story of the struggle and difficulties of the defenders was raising up helpers, and Sir Alexander Ramsay of Dalhousie got ready a light vessel filled with provisions and manned by forty brave Scots, who only waited for a dark night to make the attempt to steal past the English fleet. They lay hidden by the Bass Rock, a lofty islet at the mouth of the Firth of Forth, some seven or eight miles from Dunbar, until one starless night they stole very cautiously down the wild coast-line of Haddingtonshire, sometimes all but bumping into an English vessel in the dark. Fortune favours the brave, and despite dangers and difficulties they got safely at last to the castle, whose distant light had been their guide. Be sure Black Agnes welcomed them! This proved to be the turning-point of the long siege. With fresh hope, the garrison made a sudden sally on the English, driving back their advance guard, and after five months of fierce but fruitless attempts, Salisbury was compelled to withdraw his forces and admit defeat. Nevertheless, the English were gallant enough to sing their praises of this Scottish heroine; their minstrels made songs in her honour, in one of which Salisbury is made to say:—

"Came I early, came I late,I found Black Agnes at the gate."

"Came I early, came I late,

I found Black Agnes at the gate."

Chapter VIII

The Young Tamlane

"He's ta'en her by the milk-white hand,Among the leaves so green."

"He's ta'en her by the milk-white hand,

Among the leaves so green."

This tale belongs to the romantic side of the Border minstrelsy, and illustrates some of the common superstitions of olden times concerning elves and fairies. The scene is laid in the Selkirk or Ettrick Forest, a mountainous tract covered with the remains of the old Caledonian Forest. About a mile above Selkirk is a plain called Carterhaugh, and here may still be seen those fairy rings of which it was believed that anyone sleeping upon one will wake in a fairy city. And here was, and perhaps still is, an ancient well. The ballad opens by telling how all young maids were forbidden to come or go by way of Carterhaugh, "for young Tamlane (or Thomalin) is there," and every one going by Carterhaugh is obliged to leave him something in pledge. But the Lady Janet, the fairest of the Selkirk lasses, was obstinate, and declared that she would come or go to Carterhaugh, as she pleased, "and ask no leave of him," since the land there belonged to her by hereditary right. She kilted her green mantle above her knee, and braided her yellow hair above her brow, and off she went to Carterhaugh. When she got to the well, she found the steed of the elfin knight Tamlane standing there, but he himself was away.

"She hadna pu'd a red, red rose,A rose but barely three;Till up and starts a wee, wee manAt Lady Janet's knee.Says—'Why pu' ye the rose, Janet?What gars (makes) ye break the tree?Or why come ye to Carterhaugh,Withouten leave of me?'Says—'Carterhaugh it is mine ain;My daddy gave it me:I'll come and gang to Carterhaugh,And ask nae leave o' thee.'"

"She hadna pu'd a red, red rose,A rose but barely three;Till up and starts a wee, wee manAt Lady Janet's knee.

"She hadna pu'd a red, red rose,

A rose but barely three;

Till up and starts a wee, wee man

At Lady Janet's knee.

Says—'Why pu' ye the rose, Janet?What gars (makes) ye break the tree?Or why come ye to Carterhaugh,Withouten leave of me?'

Says—'Why pu' ye the rose, Janet?

What gars (makes) ye break the tree?

Or why come ye to Carterhaugh,

Withouten leave of me?'

Says—'Carterhaugh it is mine ain;My daddy gave it me:I'll come and gang to Carterhaugh,And ask nae leave o' thee.'"

Says—'Carterhaugh it is mine ain;

My daddy gave it me:

I'll come and gang to Carterhaugh,

And ask nae leave o' thee.'"

But Tamlane took her by the hand and worked upon her his spells, which no maiden might resist, however proud she might be.

When she came back to her father's hall, she looked pale and wan; and it seemed that she had some sore sickness. She ceased to take any pleasure in combing her yellow hair, and everything she ate seemed like to be her death. When her ladies played at ball, she, once the strongest player, was now the faintest. One day her father spoke out, and said he, "Full well I know that you must have some lover." She said:—

"'If my love were an earthly knight,As he's an elfin grey,I wouldna give my own true loveFor no lord that ye hae.'"

"'If my love were an earthly knight,

As he's an elfin grey,

I wouldna give my own true love

For no lord that ye hae.'"

Then she prinked herself, and preened herself, all by the light of the moon alone, and went away to Carterhaugh, to speak with Tamlane. When she got to the well, she found the steed standing, but Tamlane was away. She had barely pulled a double rose, when up started the elf.

"Why pull ye the rose, Janet?" says he; "why pull ye the rose within this garden green?" "The truth ye'll tell me, Tamlane; were ye ever in holy chapel, or received into the Christian Church?" "The truth I'll tell thee, Janet; a knight was my father, and a lady was my mother, like your own parents. Randolph, Earl Moray, was my sire; Dunbar, Earl March, is thine. We loved when we were children, which yet you may remember. When I was a boy just turned nine, my uncle sent for me to hunt, and hawk, and ride with him, and keep him company. There came a wind out of the north, a deep sleep came over me, and I fell from my horse. The queen of the fairies took me off to yon green hill, and now I'm a fairy, lithe and limber. In Fairyland we know neither sickness nor pain. We quit our body, or repair unto them, when we please. We can inhabit, earth, or air, as we will. Our shapes and size we can convert to either large or small. We sleep in rose-buds, revel in the stream, wanton lightly on the wind, or glide on a sunbeam. I would never tire, Janet, to dwell in Elfland, were it not that every seven years a tithe is paid to hell, and I am so fair of flesh, I fear 'twill be myself. If you dare to win your true love, you have no time to lose. To-night is Hallowe'en, and the fairy folk ride. If you would win your true love, bide at Miles Cross." Miles Cross is about half a mile from Carterhaugh, and Janet asked how she should know Tamlane among so many unearthly knights. "The first company that passes by, let them go. The next company that passes by, let them go. The third company that passes by, I'll be one of those. First let pass the black steed, Janet, then let pass the brown; but grip the milk-white steed, and pull down the rider—

"For I ride on the milk-white steed,And aye nearest the town;Because I was a christened knight,They gave me that renown."

"For I ride on the milk-white steed,

And aye nearest the town;

Because I was a christened knight,

They gave me that renown."

Tamlane went on to explain that his fairy comrades would make every effort to disgust her with her captive. They would turn him in her very arms into an adder; they would change him into a burning faggot, into a red-hot iron goad, but she must hold him fast. In order to remove the enchantment, she must dip him in a churn of milk, and then in a barrel of water. She must still persevere, for they would shape him in her arms into a badger, eel, dove, swan, and, last of all, into a naked man, but

"Cast your green mantle over me,I'll be myself again."

"Cast your green mantle over me,

I'll be myself again."

So fair Janet in her green mantle went that gloomy night to Miles Cross. The heavens were black, the place was inexpressibly dreary, a north wind raged; but there she stood, eagerly wishing to embrace her lover. Between the hours of twelve and one she heard strange eldrich sounds and the ringing of elfin bridles, which gladdened her heart. The oaten pipes of the faires grew shrill, the hemlock blew clear. The fairies cannot bear solemn sounds or sober thoughts; they sing like skylarks, inspired by love and joy. Fair Janet stood upon the dreary heath, and the sounds waxed louder as the fairy train came riding on. Will o' the Wisp shone out as a twinkling light before them, and soon she saw the fairy bands passing. She let the black steed go by, and then the brown. But she gripped fast the milk-white steed, and pulled down the rider. Then up rose an eldrich cry, "He's won among us all!" As Janet grasped him in her arms the fairies changed him into a newt, an adder, and many other fantastic and terrifying shapes. She held him fast in every shape. They turned him at last into a naked man in her arms, but she wrapped him in her green mantle. At last her stedfast courage was rewarded, she redeemed the fairies' captive, and by so doing won his true love! Then up spoke the Queen of Fairies, "She that has borrowed young Tamlane has got a stately groom! She's taken the bonniest knight in all my company! But had I known, Tamlane," said the fairy queen, "had I known that a lady would borrow thee, I would have taken out thy two grey eyes, and put in wooden eyes. I would have taken out thy heart of flesh, Tamlane, and put in a heart of stone. I would have paid my tithe seven times to hell ere I would have let her win you away."

Chapter IX

The Gay Goss-Hawk

In the opening lines of this old ballad Lord William is talking to the goss-hawk, who tells his master that he is looking pale and thin, and seeks to know che cause.

"O waly, waly, my gay goss-hawk,Gin your feathering be sheen!""And waly, waly, my master dear,Gin ye look pale and lean!O have ye tint[#] at tournamentYour sword, or yet your spear?Or mourn ye for the Southern lass,Whom ye may not win near?"

"O waly, waly, my gay goss-hawk,Gin your feathering be sheen!""And waly, waly, my master dear,Gin ye look pale and lean!

"O waly, waly, my gay goss-hawk,

Gin your feathering be sheen!"

"And waly, waly, my master dear,

Gin ye look pale and lean!

O have ye tint[#] at tournamentYour sword, or yet your spear?Or mourn ye for the Southern lass,Whom ye may not win near?"

O have ye tint[#] at tournament

Your sword, or yet your spear?

Or mourn ye for the Southern lass,

Whom ye may not win near?"

[#] lost

"I have not tint at tournamentMy sword, nor yet my spear;But sair[#] I mourn for my true love,Wi' mony a bitter tear.

"I have not tint at tournament

My sword, nor yet my spear;

But sair[#] I mourn for my true love,

Wi' mony a bitter tear.

[#] sore

But weel's me on ye, my gay goss-hawk,Ye can baith speak and flee;Ye sall carry a letter to my love,Bring an answer back to me.""But how sall I your true love find,Or how suld I her know?I bear a tongue ne'er wi' her spake,An eye that ne'er her saw.""O weel sall ye my true love ken,Sae sune[#] as ye her see;For, of a' the flowers of fair England,The fairest flower is she.

But weel's me on ye, my gay goss-hawk,Ye can baith speak and flee;Ye sall carry a letter to my love,Bring an answer back to me."

But weel's me on ye, my gay goss-hawk,

Ye can baith speak and flee;

Ye sall carry a letter to my love,

Bring an answer back to me."

"But how sall I your true love find,Or how suld I her know?I bear a tongue ne'er wi' her spake,An eye that ne'er her saw."

"But how sall I your true love find,

Or how suld I her know?

I bear a tongue ne'er wi' her spake,

An eye that ne'er her saw."

"O weel sall ye my true love ken,Sae sune[#] as ye her see;For, of a' the flowers of fair England,The fairest flower is she.

"O weel sall ye my true love ken,

Sae sune[#] as ye her see;

For, of a' the flowers of fair England,

The fairest flower is she.

[#] soon.

The red that's on my true love's cheekIs like blood-drops on the snaw;The white that is on her breast bare,Like the down o' the white sea-maw.And even at my love's bour-doorThere grows a flowering birk;[#]And ye maun sit and sing thereonAs she gangs to the kirk.

The red that's on my true love's cheekIs like blood-drops on the snaw;The white that is on her breast bare,Like the down o' the white sea-maw.

The red that's on my true love's cheek

Is like blood-drops on the snaw;

The white that is on her breast bare,

Like the down o' the white sea-maw.

And even at my love's bour-doorThere grows a flowering birk;[#]And ye maun sit and sing thereonAs she gangs to the kirk.

And even at my love's bour-door

There grows a flowering birk;[#]

And ye maun sit and sing thereon

As she gangs to the kirk.

[#] birch.

And four-and-twenty fair ladyesWill to the Mass repair;But weel may ye my ladye ken,The fairest ladye there."Lord William has written a love-letter,Put it under his pinion grey;An' he is awa' to Southern landAs fast as wings can gae.And even at the ladye's bour[#]There grew a flowering birk;And he sat down and sung thereonAs she gaed to the kirk.

And four-and-twenty fair ladyesWill to the Mass repair;But weel may ye my ladye ken,The fairest ladye there."

And four-and-twenty fair ladyes

Will to the Mass repair;

But weel may ye my ladye ken,

The fairest ladye there."

Lord William has written a love-letter,Put it under his pinion grey;An' he is awa' to Southern landAs fast as wings can gae.

Lord William has written a love-letter,

Put it under his pinion grey;

An' he is awa' to Southern land

As fast as wings can gae.

And even at the ladye's bour[#]There grew a flowering birk;And he sat down and sung thereonAs she gaed to the kirk.

And even at the ladye's bour[#]

There grew a flowering birk;

And he sat down and sung thereon

As she gaed to the kirk.

[#] bower.

And weel he kent that ladye fairAmang her maidens free,For the flower that springs in May morningWas not sae sweet as she.He lighted at the ladye's yate[#]And sat him on a pin,[#]And sang fu' sweet the notes o' love,Till a' was cosh[#] within.

And weel he kent that ladye fairAmang her maidens free,For the flower that springs in May morningWas not sae sweet as she.

And weel he kent that ladye fair

Amang her maidens free,

For the flower that springs in May morning

Was not sae sweet as she.

He lighted at the ladye's yate[#]And sat him on a pin,[#]And sang fu' sweet the notes o' love,Till a' was cosh[#] within.

He lighted at the ladye's yate[#]

And sat him on a pin,[#]

And sang fu' sweet the notes o' love,

Till a' was cosh[#] within.

[#] gate.[#] pine.[#] quiet.

And first he sang a low low note,And syne[#] he sang a clear;And aye the o'erword[#] o' the sangWas—"Your love can no win here."

And first he sang a low low note,

And syne[#] he sang a clear;

And aye the o'erword[#] o' the sang

Was—"Your love can no win here."

[#] then.[#] refrain.

"Feast on, feast on, my maidens a',The wine flows you amang,While I gang to my shot-windowAnd hear yon bonnie bird's sang.Sing on, sing on, my bonny bird,The sang ye sung yestreen,For weel I ken, by your sweet singingYe are frae my true love sen."[#]

"Feast on, feast on, my maidens a',The wine flows you amang,While I gang to my shot-windowAnd hear yon bonnie bird's sang.

"Feast on, feast on, my maidens a',

The wine flows you amang,

While I gang to my shot-window

And hear yon bonnie bird's sang.

Sing on, sing on, my bonny bird,The sang ye sung yestreen,For weel I ken, by your sweet singingYe are frae my true love sen."[#]

Sing on, sing on, my bonny bird,

The sang ye sung yestreen,

For weel I ken, by your sweet singing

Ye are frae my true love sen."[#]

[#] sent.

O first he sang a merry song,And syne he sang a grave;And syne he picked his feathers grey,To her the letter gave."Have there a letter from Lord William;He says he's sent ye three;He canna wait your love langer,But for your sake he'll die.""Gae bid him bake his bridal bread,And brew his bridal ale;And I shall meet him in Mary's Kirk,Lang, lang ere it be stale."The lady's gane to her chamber,And a moanfu' woman was she;As gin[#] she had taken a sudden brash[#]And were about to die.

O first he sang a merry song,And syne he sang a grave;And syne he picked his feathers grey,To her the letter gave.

O first he sang a merry song,

And syne he sang a grave;

And syne he picked his feathers grey,

To her the letter gave.

"Have there a letter from Lord William;He says he's sent ye three;He canna wait your love langer,But for your sake he'll die."

"Have there a letter from Lord William;

He says he's sent ye three;

He canna wait your love langer,

But for your sake he'll die."

"Gae bid him bake his bridal bread,And brew his bridal ale;And I shall meet him in Mary's Kirk,Lang, lang ere it be stale."

"Gae bid him bake his bridal bread,

And brew his bridal ale;

And I shall meet him in Mary's Kirk,

Lang, lang ere it be stale."

The lady's gane to her chamber,And a moanfu' woman was she;As gin[#] she had taken a sudden brash[#]And were about to die.

The lady's gane to her chamber,

And a moanfu' woman was she;

As gin[#] she had taken a sudden brash[#]

And were about to die.

[#] if[#] illness.

"A boon, a boon, my father dear,A boon I beg of thee!""Ask not that haughty Scottish lord,For him ye ne'er shall see.But for your honest asking else,Weel granted it shall be.""Then, gin I die in Southern land,In Scotland gar[#] bury me.

"A boon, a boon, my father dear,A boon I beg of thee!""Ask not that haughty Scottish lord,For him ye ne'er shall see.

"A boon, a boon, my father dear,

A boon I beg of thee!"

"Ask not that haughty Scottish lord,

For him ye ne'er shall see.

But for your honest asking else,Weel granted it shall be.""Then, gin I die in Southern land,In Scotland gar[#] bury me.

But for your honest asking else,

Weel granted it shall be."

"Then, gin I die in Southern land,

In Scotland gar[#] bury me.

[#] cause

And the first kirk that ye come to,Ye's gar the mass be sung;And the next kirk that ye come toYe's gar the bells be rung.And when ye come to St Mary's Kirk,Ye's tarry there till night."And so her father pledged his word,And so his promise plight.She has ta'en her to her bigly bowerAs fast as she could fare;And she has drank a sleepy draught,That she had mixed wi' care.And pale, pale grew her rosy cheek,That was sae bright of blee,[#]And she seemed to be as surely deadAs any one could be.

And the first kirk that ye come to,Ye's gar the mass be sung;And the next kirk that ye come toYe's gar the bells be rung.

And the first kirk that ye come to,

Ye's gar the mass be sung;

And the next kirk that ye come to

Ye's gar the bells be rung.

And when ye come to St Mary's Kirk,Ye's tarry there till night."And so her father pledged his word,And so his promise plight.

And when ye come to St Mary's Kirk,

Ye's tarry there till night."

And so her father pledged his word,

And so his promise plight.

She has ta'en her to her bigly bowerAs fast as she could fare;And she has drank a sleepy draught,That she had mixed wi' care.

She has ta'en her to her bigly bower

As fast as she could fare;

And she has drank a sleepy draught,

That she had mixed wi' care.

And pale, pale grew her rosy cheek,That was sae bright of blee,[#]And she seemed to be as surely deadAs any one could be.

And pale, pale grew her rosy cheek,

That was sae bright of blee,[#]

And she seemed to be as surely dead

As any one could be.

[#] bloom.

Then spake her cruel step-minnie,[#]"Tak ye the burning lead,And drap a drap on her bosome,To try if she be dead."

Then spake her cruel step-minnie,[#]

"Tak ye the burning lead,

And drap a drap on her bosome,

To try if she be dead."

[#] mother.

They took a drap o' boiling lead,They drapped it on her breast;"Alas! alas!" her father cried,"She's dead without the priest."She neither chattered with her teeth,Nor shivered with her chin;"Alas! alas!" her father cried,"There is nae breath within."Then up arose her seven brethren,And hewed to her a bier;They hewed it frae the solid aik,[#]Laid it o'er wi' silver clear.

They took a drap o' boiling lead,They drapped it on her breast;"Alas! alas!" her father cried,"She's dead without the priest."

They took a drap o' boiling lead,

They drapped it on her breast;

"Alas! alas!" her father cried,

"She's dead without the priest."

She neither chattered with her teeth,Nor shivered with her chin;"Alas! alas!" her father cried,"There is nae breath within."

She neither chattered with her teeth,

Nor shivered with her chin;

"Alas! alas!" her father cried,

"There is nae breath within."

Then up arose her seven brethren,And hewed to her a bier;They hewed it frae the solid aik,[#]Laid it o'er wi' silver clear.

Then up arose her seven brethren,

And hewed to her a bier;

They hewed it frae the solid aik,[#]

Laid it o'er wi' silver clear.

[#] oak.

Then up and gat her seven sisters,And sewed to her a kell,[#]And every steek[#] that they put inSewed to a siller bell.

Then up and gat her seven sisters,

And sewed to her a kell,[#]

And every steek[#] that they put in

Sewed to a siller bell.

[#] shroud.[#] stitch.

The first Scots kirk that they cam to,They garred the bells be rung;The next Scots kirk that they cam to,They garred fhe mass be sung.But when they cam to St Mary's Kirk,There stude spearmen all on a row;And up and started Lord William,The chieftaine amang them a'."Set down, set down the bier," he said,"Let me look her upon;"But as soon as Lord William touched her hand,Her colour began to come.She brightened like the lily flower,Till her pale colour was gone;With rosy cheek, and ruby lip,She smiled her love upon."A morsel of your bread, my lord,And one glass of your wine;For I have fasted these three lang days,All for your sake and mine.Gae hame, gae hame, my seven bauld brothers,Gae hame and blaw your horn!I trow[#] ye wad hae gi'en me the skaith,[#]But I've gi'en you the scorn.

The first Scots kirk that they cam to,They garred the bells be rung;The next Scots kirk that they cam to,They garred fhe mass be sung.

The first Scots kirk that they cam to,

They garred the bells be rung;

The next Scots kirk that they cam to,

They garred fhe mass be sung.

But when they cam to St Mary's Kirk,There stude spearmen all on a row;And up and started Lord William,The chieftaine amang them a'.

But when they cam to St Mary's Kirk,

There stude spearmen all on a row;

And up and started Lord William,

The chieftaine amang them a'.

"Set down, set down the bier," he said,"Let me look her upon;"But as soon as Lord William touched her hand,Her colour began to come.

"Set down, set down the bier," he said,

"Let me look her upon;"

But as soon as Lord William touched her hand,

Her colour began to come.

She brightened like the lily flower,Till her pale colour was gone;With rosy cheek, and ruby lip,She smiled her love upon.

She brightened like the lily flower,

Till her pale colour was gone;

With rosy cheek, and ruby lip,

She smiled her love upon.

"A morsel of your bread, my lord,And one glass of your wine;For I have fasted these three lang days,All for your sake and mine.

"A morsel of your bread, my lord,

And one glass of your wine;

For I have fasted these three lang days,

All for your sake and mine.

Gae hame, gae hame, my seven bauld brothers,Gae hame and blaw your horn!I trow[#] ye wad hae gi'en me the skaith,[#]But I've gi'en you the scorn.

Gae hame, gae hame, my seven bauld brothers,

Gae hame and blaw your horn!

I trow[#] ye wad hae gi'en me the skaith,[#]

But I've gi'en you the scorn.

[#] reckon.[#] harm.

Commend me to my grey father,That wished my soul gude rest;But wae be to my cruel step-dame,Garred burn me on the breast.""Ah! woe to you, you light woman!And ill death may ye die!For we left father and sisters at hame,Breaking their hearts for thee."

Commend me to my grey father,That wished my soul gude rest;But wae be to my cruel step-dame,Garred burn me on the breast."

Commend me to my grey father,

That wished my soul gude rest;

But wae be to my cruel step-dame,

Garred burn me on the breast."

"Ah! woe to you, you light woman!And ill death may ye die!For we left father and sisters at hame,Breaking their hearts for thee."

"Ah! woe to you, you light woman!

And ill death may ye die!

For we left father and sisters at hame,

Breaking their hearts for thee."

Chapter X

The Corbies

Two ancient songs have come down to us in which the principal speakers are supposed to be Corbies, carrion-crows or ravens, birds which feed on the flesh of the dead. In both songs the birds discuss a dead knight upon whose rich body they wish to feed. But deep interest lies in the fact that the two song-writers present entirely different views of the case. One appeals to our feelings with a beautiful and touching picture of devotion, the knight's companions proving true to him in death. The other is far more grim, and causes us to shudder at the utter loneliness of the dead man, deserted by all those who in life were beholden to his friendship. Both are powerful and striking examples of ancient vigour and directness.

THE TWA CORBIES

As I was walking all alane,I heard twa corbies making a mane;[#]The tane unto the t'other say,"Where sall we gang and dine to-day?"—

As I was walking all alane,

I heard twa corbies making a mane;[#]

The tane unto the t'other say,

"Where sall we gang and dine to-day?"—

[#] moan.

"In behint yon auld fail dyke,I wot there lies a new-slain knight;And naebody kens that he lies there,But his hawk, his hound, and lady fair.His hound is to the hunting gane,His hawk, to fetch the wild-fowl hame,His lady's ta'en another mate,Sa we may mak our dinner sweet.Ye'll sit on his white hause-bane,[#]And I'll pick out his bonny blue een:Wi' ae lock o' his gowden hair,We'll theek[#] our nest when it grows bare.[#]

"In behint yon auld fail dyke,I wot there lies a new-slain knight;And naebody kens that he lies there,But his hawk, his hound, and lady fair.

"In behint yon auld fail dyke,

I wot there lies a new-slain knight;

And naebody kens that he lies there,

But his hawk, his hound, and lady fair.

His hound is to the hunting gane,His hawk, to fetch the wild-fowl hame,His lady's ta'en another mate,Sa we may mak our dinner sweet.

His hound is to the hunting gane,

His hawk, to fetch the wild-fowl hame,

His lady's ta'en another mate,

Sa we may mak our dinner sweet.

Ye'll sit on his white hause-bane,[#]And I'll pick out his bonny blue een:Wi' ae lock o' his gowden hair,We'll theek[#] our nest when it grows bare.[#]

Ye'll sit on his white hause-bane,[#]

And I'll pick out his bonny blue een:

Wi' ae lock o' his gowden hair,

We'll theek[#] our nest when it grows bare.[#]

[#] neck.[#] thatch.[#] Variant reading—"We'll theek our nest—it's a' blawn hare."

Mony a one for him makes mane,But nane sall ken where he is gane;O'er his white banes, when they are bare,The wind sall blaw for evermair."

Mony a one for him makes mane,

But nane sall ken where he is gane;

O'er his white banes, when they are bare,

The wind sall blaw for evermair."

[image]The Twa Corbies

[image]

The Twa Corbies

THE THREE RAVENS

There were three ravens sat on a tre,They were as black as they might be:The one of them said to his mate,"Where shall we our breakfast take?"—"Downe in yonder greene field,There lies a knight slain under his shield;"His hounds they lie downe at his feete,So well they their master keepe;"His hawkes they flie so eagerlie,There's no fowle dare come him nie."Down there comes a fallow doe,As great with yong as she might goe."She lift up his bloudy hed,And kist his wounds that were so red."She got him up upon her backe,And carried him to earthen lake."She buried him before the prime,She was dead her selfe ere even song time."God send every gentleman,Such hawkes, such houndes, and such a leman."

There were three ravens sat on a tre,They were as black as they might be:

There were three ravens sat on a tre,

They were as black as they might be:

The one of them said to his mate,"Where shall we our breakfast take?"—

The one of them said to his mate,

"Where shall we our breakfast take?"—

"Downe in yonder greene field,There lies a knight slain under his shield;

"Downe in yonder greene field,

There lies a knight slain under his shield;

"His hounds they lie downe at his feete,So well they their master keepe;

"His hounds they lie downe at his feete,

So well they their master keepe;

"His hawkes they flie so eagerlie,There's no fowle dare come him nie.

"His hawkes they flie so eagerlie,

There's no fowle dare come him nie.

"Down there comes a fallow doe,As great with yong as she might goe.

"Down there comes a fallow doe,

As great with yong as she might goe.

"She lift up his bloudy hed,And kist his wounds that were so red.

"She lift up his bloudy hed,

And kist his wounds that were so red.

"She got him up upon her backe,And carried him to earthen lake.

"She got him up upon her backe,

And carried him to earthen lake.

"She buried him before the prime,She was dead her selfe ere even song time.

"She buried him before the prime,

She was dead her selfe ere even song time.

"God send every gentleman,Such hawkes, such houndes, and such a leman."

"God send every gentleman,

Such hawkes, such houndes, and such a leman."

Chapter XI

Otterbourne and Chevy Chase

"It fell about the Lammas-tide,When moor-men win their hay,The doughty Douglas bound him to rideInto England, to drive a prey."

"It fell about the Lammas-tide,

When moor-men win their hay,

The doughty Douglas bound him to ride

Into England, to drive a prey."

The ballads ofOtterbourneandChevy Chaserecord the Scottish and English versions of a most stubborn Border battle. Whichever of the two contains the greater amount of truth, it is clear that the day was a bloody one, and that, moreover, it was fought on both sides with a chivalrous admiration for the powers of the other which is characteristic of those strife-loving days. Sir Philip Sidney wrote of it: "I never heard the old song of Percy and Douglas, that I found not my heart moved more than with a trumpet."

The ballad ofChevy Chaseis of later date than its rival, and it contains certainly one misstatement of historical fact, since Hotspur outlived the fight at Chevy Chase (1388) and was slain some fifteen years later at the battle of Shrewsbury (1403).

The Scottish version of the battle of Otterbourne tells us that it was about the Lammas-tide or haymaking time of the year 1388 when the brave Earl of Douglas, with his brother, the Earl of Murray, made a foray into England, with a gay band of Gordons, Graemes, and Lindsays. He burned Tynedale and half of Bamborough and Otterdale, and marching up to Newcastle, rode round about the castle, crying, "Who is lord of this castle, and who is its lady?"

Then up spake proud Lord Percy, known asHotspur, and said, "I am the lord of this castle, and my wife is the gay lady of it."

"That pleases me well," answered Douglas, "yet, ere I cross the Border hills, one of us shall die."

Then Percy took his long spear, shod with metal, and rode right furiously at the Douglas; but his lady, looking from the castle wall, grew pale as she saw her proud lord go down before the Scottish spear.

"Had we two been alone, with never an eye to see, I would have slain thee, but thy lance I will carry with me," said Douglas, and, to complete the disgrace, this lance bore attached to it the Percy pennon.

"Go then to Otterbourne," said Percy, "and wait there for me, and if I come not before the end of three days, call me a false knight."

"Otterbourne is a pleasant and a bonny place," answered Douglas; "but though the deer run wild among the hills and dales, and the birds fly wild from tree to tree, yet is there neither bread nor kale nor aught else to feed me and my men. Yet will I wait thee at Otterbourne to give thee welcome, and if thou come not in three days' time, false lord, will I call thee!"

"By the might of Our Lady, I will come," cried the proud Percy. "And I," answered Douglas, "plight thee my troth that I will meet thee there."

So Douglas and his men encamped at Otterbourne, and sent out their horses to pasture.

But before the peep of dawn, up spake a little page: "Waken ye, waken ye, my good lord; the Percy is upon us!" "Ye lie, ye lie," shouted Douglas; "yesterday, Percy had not men enough to fight us. But if thou lie not, the finest bower in Otterbourne shall be thy reward, and if what thou sayest prove false, thou shalt be hanged on the highest tree in Otterbourne. Yet I have dreamed a dreary dream; I dreamed that a dead man won a battle and that I was that dead man."

So Douglas belted on his good broadsword, and ran to the field, but forgot his helmet, and Percy and the Douglas fought with their swords together till the blood ran down like rain, and the Douglas fell, wounded on the brow.

Then he called to him his little foot-page and told him to run quickly and bring to him his sister's son, Sir Hugh Montgomery.

"My good nephew," said Douglas, "the death of one matters not; last night I dreamed a dreary dream, but yet I know the day is thine. My wound is deep; take thou the vanguard; bury me in the bracken high that grows on yonder lea, and let no man living know that a Scot lies there. And know that I am glad to die in battle, like my good forefathers, and not on a bed of sickness."

Montgomery lifted up his noble lord, while his eyes wept salt tears, and hid him in the bracken bush that his followers might not see, and before daylight the Scots slew many a gallant Englishman. The good Gordons steeped hose and shoes in the blood of the English; the Lindsays flew about like fire till the battle was ended, and Percy and Montgomery fought till the blood ran down between them.

"Now, yield thee, yield thee, Percy," cried Sir Hugh, "or I vow I will lay thee low!"

"Since it must be so," quoth Earl Percy, "to whom shall I yield?"

"Thou shalt not yield to me or to any lord, but to the bracken bush that grows on yonder lea!"

"I will not yield to briar or bracken bush, but I would yield to Lord Douglas or to Sir Hugh Montgomery, if he were here."

Then Montgomery made himself known, and as soon as Percy knew that it was Montgomery, he struck the point of his sword into the ground, and Montgomery, who was a courteous knight, took him up by the hand.

This deed was done at Otterbourne at daybreak, where Earl Douglas was buried by the bracken bush, and Percy led captive into Scotland, and it is said that Hotspur, for his ransom, built for Montgomery the castle of Penoon, in Ayrshire.

But the English version of these stirring events can also claim to be heard; the ballad upon it is calledChevy Chase, which means the Chase on the Cheviots; and so popular was this ballad that its name was given to a boys' game, which is so called even to this day. It tells how the Percy, from his castle in Northumberland, vowed that within three days he would hunt on the mountains of Cheviot in spite of the doughty Douglas and his men, and that he would kill and carry away the fattest deer in Cheviot.

"By my faith," said Douglas, when he heard of the boast, "but I will hinder his hunting."

Percy left Bamborough Castle with a mighty company, no less than fifteen hundred bold archers chosen out of three shires.

The foray began on a Monday morning in the high Cheviot Hills, and many a child yet unborn was to rue the day.

The drivers went through the woods and raised the deer, and the bowmen shot them with their broad arrows. Then the wild deer rushed through the woods, only to be met and killed by the greyhounds, and before noontide a hundred fat deer lay dead. The bugles sounded, "A mort!" and on all sides Percy and his men assembled to see the cutting up of the venison.

Said Percy: "The Douglas promised to meet me here this day, yet right well did I know that he would fail." But a Northumberland squire saw the doughty Douglas coming with a mighty company, with spear and batter-axe and sword. Never were men hardier of heart and hand seen in Christendom—two thousand spearmen born along the banks of the Tweed and Teviotdale. Then said Lord Percy: "Now leave off the cutting of the deer, and take good heed to your bows, for never had ye more need of them since ye were born."

Earl Douglas rode before his men, his armour glittering like a burning coal, and never was such a bold baron. "Tell me whose men ye are," said he, "and who gave ye leave to hunt in Cheviot without word asked of me?"

Then answered Lord Percy, "We will not tell thee whose men we are, and we will hunt here in spite of thee. We have killed the fattest harts in Cheviot and will carry them away."

"By my troth," said Douglas, "one of us shall die this day. Yet it were great pity to kill all these guiltless men. Thou, Percy, art a lord of land, and I am called an earl in my country; let our men stand by, and we will fight together."

"Now a curse on his crown, who says nay to that," cried Lord Percy. "By my troth, Douglas, thou shalt never see the day either in England, Scotland, or France, when I fear to meet one, man to man."

Then spoke Richard Witherington, a squire of Northumberland. "Never shall this be told in England, to the shame of good King Harry the Fourth. I wot ye be two great lords, and I but a poor squire, yet would I never stand and look on while my captain fought. While I can wield a weapon, I will not fail, both heart and hand."

So the English with good heart bent their bows, and slew seven score spearmen with the first arrows they shot.

Earl Douglas stayed on the field, but that he was a good captain was truly seen, for he wrought great woe and mischief. He parted his host in three like a proud chieftain, and they came in on every side with their mighty spears, wounding the English archers and slaying many a brave man.

Then the English pulled out their brands, and it was a heavy sight to see the bright swords light on the helmets, striking through the rich mail, and the cloth of many folds under it, and laying many low.

At last the Douglas and the Percy met and fought with swords of Milan steel till the blood spurted like rain and hail from their helmets.

"Hold thee, Percy," said Douglas, "and I will bring thee to James, our Scottish king, where thou shalt have an earl's wages and free ransom, for thou art the manfullest man that ever yet I conquered fighting in the field."

"Nay, then," said Lord Percy. "I told thee before that never would I yield to any man of woman born."

With that there came an arrow hastily from a mighty man, and struck Earl Douglas through the breast bone, and never more did he speak a word but only this: "Fight, my merry men, while ye may—my life's days are done."

Then Percy leaned on his hand, and when he saw the Douglas die, he said, "Woe is me. I would have parted with my land for three years to have saved thy life, for a better man of heart and hand was not in all the north country."

But Sir Hugh Montgomery, a Scottish knight, when he saw the Douglas done to death, grasped a spear and rode through a hundred archers, never slackening his pace till he came to Lord Percy, whom he set upon, sending his mighty spear clean through his body, so that a man might see a long cloth-yard and more at the other side. There were no two better captains in Christendom than were that day slain.

When one of the Northumberland archers saw this, he drew an arrow to his bow and set upon Montgomery, until the swan feathers of his arrows were wet with his heart's blood.

Not one man gave way, but still they stood hewing at each other, while they were able.

This battle began in Cheviot, an hour before noon, nor was it half done at evensong, but they fought on by moonlight though many had scarce the strength to stand. Of fifteen hundred English archers only fifty-three remained, and of two thousand Scottish spearmen only fifty-five remained, all the rest being slain in Cheviot.

With Lord Percy were slain, Sir John of Agerstone, Sir Roger the gentle Hartly, Sir William the bold Heron, Sir George the worthy Lovel, a renowned knight, and Sir Ralph the rich Rugby. Woe was it that Witherington was slain, for when both his legs were hewn in two he kneeled and fought on his knees.

With the brave Douglas were slain Sir Hugh Montgomery, and worthy Sir Davy Liddle, that was his sister's son; Sir Charles, a Murray who refused to flee, and Sir Hugh Maxwell. On the morrow they made biers of birch and grey hazel, and many widows bore weeping from the field the bodies of their dead husbands. Well may Teviotdale and Northumberland wail and moan for two such great captains.

Word came to James the Scottish king at Edinburgh, that the brave Douglas, Lieutenant of the Marches, lay slain in Cheviot, and he wept and wrung his hands, and said, "Alas! Woe is me; there will never be such another captain in Scotland."

Word came also to London, to Harry the Fourth, that Lord Percy, Lieutenant of the Marches, lay slain in Cheviot. "God have mercy on his soul," said King Harry; "I have a hundred captains in England as good as he, yet I wager my life that his death shall be well avenged"; and this vow he kept, at the Battle of Homildon Hill, where he beat down six and thirty Scottish knights on one day.

But so real to the Borderers was their grief over their dead that the ballad ends with a quaint but heartfelt appeal to the Prince of Peace:—

"Jesus Christ our ills abate,And to His bliss us bring!Thus was the hunting of the Cheviot;God send us all good ending!"

"Jesus Christ our ills abate,

And to His bliss us bring!

Thus was the hunting of the Cheviot;

God send us all good ending!"

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