The warder view'd it blazing strong, Were in the blaze half-seen, half-lost; Each with warlike tidings fraught; XXX. The livelong night in Branksome rang *Need-fire, beacon. + Tarn, a mountain lake. Earn, a Scottish eagle. Bowne, make ready. CEASED the high sound-the listening throng Applaud the Master of the Song; CANTO FOURTH. I. SWEET Teviot! on thy silver tide Along thy wild and willow'd shore; Where'er thou wind'st, by dale or hill, All, all is peaceful, all is still, * Protection money exacted by freebooters. As if thy waves, since Time was born, Since first they roll'd upon the Tweed, Had only heard the shepherd's reed, Nor started at the bugle-horn. II. Unlike the tide of human time, Which, though it change in ceaseless flow, Retains each grief, retains each crime Its earliest course was doom'd to know; And, darker as it downward bears, Is stained with past and present tears. Low as that tide has ebb'd with me, It still reflects to Memory's eye The hour my brave, my only boy, Fell by the side of great Dundee. Why, when the volleying musket play'd Against the bloody Highland blade, Why was not I beside him laid ?— Enough he died the death of fame; Enough he died with conquering Græme. III. Now over Border, dale and fell, Full wide and far was terror spread; For pathless marsh, and mountain cell, The peasant left his lowly shed. The frighten'd flocks and herds were pent Beneath the peel's rude battlement; And maids and matrons dropp'd the tear, While ready warriors seiz'd the spear. From Branksome's towers, the watchman's eye Dun wreaths of distant smoke can spy, Which, curling in the rising sun, Show'd southern ravage was begun. IV. Now loud the heedful gate-ward cried— "Prepare ye all for blows and blood! Watt Tinlinn, from the Liddel-side, Comes wading through the flood. Full oft the Tynedale snatchers knock At his lone gate, and prove the lock; It was but last St. Barnabright They sieged him a whole summer night, But fled at morning; well they knew In vain he never twang'd the yew. Right sharp has been the evening shower That drove him from his Liddel tower; And, by my faith," the gate-ward said, "I think 'twill prove a Warden-Raid." V. While thus he spoke, the bold yeoman His hardy partner bore. VI. Thus to the Ladye did Tinlinn show The tidings of the English foe :¦ "Belted Will Howard is marching here, And hot Lord Dacre, with many a spear, And all the German hackbut-men, Who have long lain at Askerten : They cross'd the Liddell at curfew hour, And burned my little lonely tower: The fiend receive their souls therefor! It had not been burnt this year and more. Barn-yard and dwelling, blazing bright, | Served to guide me on my flight; But I was chased the livelong night. Fast upon my traces came, An inroad commanded by the Warden in From fair St Mary's silver wave, From dreary Gamescleugh's dusky height, His ready lances Thirlestane brave Array'd beneath a banner bright. For faith 'mid feudal jars ; Would march to southern wars ; १९ IX. An aged Knight, to danger steel'd, And wide round haunted Castle-Ower; His bold retainer's daily food, Marauding chief! his sole delight In youth, might tame his rage for arms; A braver knight than Harden's lord X. Scotts of Eskdale, a stalwart band, Came trooping down the Todshawhill; By the sword they won their land, And by the sword they hold it still. Hearken, Ladye, to the tale, How thy sires won fair Eskdale.— Earl Morton was lord of that valley fair, The Beattisons were his vassals there. The earl was gentle, and mild of mood, The vassals were warlike, and fierce, and rude; High of heart, and haughty of word, Little they reck'd of a tame liege Lord. The Earl into fair Eskdale came Homage and seignory to claim: Of Gilbert the Galliard a heriot he sought, Saying, "Give thy best steed, as a vassal ought.' "Dear to me is my bonny white steed, Oft has he help'd me at pinch of need; Lord and Earl though thou be, I trow I can rein Bucksfoot better than thou." Word on word gave fuel to fire, Till so highly blazed the Beattison's ire, But that the Earl the flight had ta'en, The vassals there their lord had slain. Sore he plied both whip and spur, As he urged his steed through Eskdale muir; *The feudal superior, in certain cases, was entitled to the best horse of the vassal, in name of Heriot, or Herezeld. And it fell down a weary weight, XI. The Earl was a wrathful man to see, Beshrew thy heart, of the Beattisons' clan He left his merrymen in the midst of the hill, And bade them hold them close and still; To Gilbert the Galliard thus he said: head; And the third blast rang with such a din, That the echoes answer'd from Pentounlinn, And all his riders came lightly in. For each scornful word the Galliard had said, A Beattison on the field was laid. His own good sword the chieftain drew, And he bore the Galliard through and through; Where the Beattisons' blood mix'd with the rill, The Galliard's-Haugh men call it still. The Scotts have scatter'd the Beattison clan, In Eskdale they left but one landed man. The valley of Eske, from the mouth to the source, Was lost and won for that bonny white horse. XIII. Whitslade the hawk, and Headshaw came, And warriors more than I may name, From Yarrow-cleugh to Hindhaughswair, From Woodhouselie to Chester-glen. Troop'd man and horse, and bow and spear; Their gathering word was Bellenden. And better hearts o'er Border sod To siege or rescue never rode. The Ladye mark'd the aids come in, And high her heart of pride arose : She bade her youthful son attend, That he might know his father's friend, And learn to face his foes. "The boy is ripe to look on war; I saw him draw a cross-bow stiff, And his true arrow struck afar The raven's nest upon the cliff; The red cross, on a southern breast, Is broader than the raven's nest : Thou, Whitslade, shalt teach him his weapon to wield, And o'er him hold his father's shield." XIV. Well may you think, the wily page The attendants to the Ladye told, That wont to be so free and bold. Then wrathful was the noble dame; She blush'd blood-red for very shame :"Hence! ere the clan his faintness view; Hence with the weakling to Buccleuch!Watt Tinlinn, thou shalt be his guide To Rangleburn's lonely side.Sure some fell fiend has cursed our line, That coward should ere be son of mine!' XV. A heavy task Watt Tinlinn had, But as a shallow brook they cross'd, Full fast the urchin ran and laugh'd, Although the imp might not be slain, |