Canto I

Wat o' the Cleuch came down through the dale,
In helmet and hauberk of glistening mail ;
Full proudly he came on his berry-black steed,
Caparisoned, belted for warrior deed.

O bold was the bearing, and brisk the career,
And broad was the cuirass and long was the spear,
And tall was the plume that waved over the brow
Of that dark reckless borderer, Wat o' the Cleuch.

His housing, the buck's hide, of rude massy fold,
Was tasselled and tufted with trappings of gold ;
The henchman was stalworth his buckler that bore ;
He had bowmen behind him, and billmen before ;
He had Bellenden, Thorleshope, Reddlefordgreen,
And Hab o' the Swire, and Jock of Poldean ;
And Whitstone, and Halston, and hard-riding Hugh,
"Were all at the back of bold Wat o' the Cleuch.

As Wat o' the Cleuch came down through the dale,
The hinds stood aghast and the maidens grew pale,
The ladies to casement and palisade ran,
The vassals to loop-hole and low barbican,
And saw the bold borderers trooping along,
Each crooning his war-note or gathering-song :
O many a rosy cheek changed its hue
When sounded the slogan of Wat o' the Cleuch !

As downward they passed by the Jed and the Roule,
The monk took his crozier, his cord, and his cowl,
And kneeled to the Virgin with book and with bead,
And said Ave-Maria and muttered his creed,
And loudly invoked, as he clasped the rood,
Saint Withold, Saint Waldave, Saint Clare, and Saint
Jude!

He dreaded the Devil, to give him his due,
But held him as nothing to Wat o' the Cleuch.

The abbot and monks of Jedwort well knew
When there was aught to gain,
That neither quoif, nor bead, nor book,
Nor penitential whine and look,
That stern marauder e'er would brook,
He spurned them with disdain :
That late at Elsdon he had been
On evening of Saint Valentine,
And there had wrought much wreck and dole,
Had called the abbot beast and fool,
And all his horde a nest of knaves,
Of sordid, selfish, venal slaves ;
Had broke their croziers o'er their heads,
And burnt their books, and sowed their beads,
Taken, but leave, their hoarded pelf,
And whatsoever pleased himself;
And never had sin of the deepest hue,
Nor Howard nor Scroop with their foraying crew,
E'er frightened our abbot like Wat o' the Cleuch.

Wat o' the Cleuch he lighted down,
He knocked at the gate, but answer had none ;
He knocked again with thundering din,
At length he heard a stir within.

" Who raps so loud ?" a voice 'gan cry ;
" Swith ! open the door/' said Wat, " 'tis I."

Then some ran here and some ran there,
They whispered and muttered words of prayer :
" Come quick !" cried Wat, and then
The door was oped by an abbot old,
With bushy beard and ronkled mould,
Who scarce could tears restrain :
O how he groaned and heaved the sigh
As the stark and stalwart chief strode by ;
And it his prayer then we knew,
Twas not for grace to Wat o' the Cleuch.

Wat deigned no heed, but onward strode
To the chancel of the house of God ;
He threw up his visor and helm to boot,
He wiped his brow and he looked about,
And fixed his eye on where a crowd
Of haggard friars trembling stood ;
Then in deliberate way
His mighty two-hand sword he drew ;
'Twas broad and long, but of a hue
I'll suited fears to stay.
For segments deep of blackened red
Its polished side half covered,
As if half-way through many a head
It late had found its way.

What frame might brook that weapon's fall !
For though the chief like oak was tall,
It reached so high, it swung so low,
It galled his shoulder and his toe ;
And when that giant sword he drew
His arm was bent around his brow:
When forth it came, the sooth to say,
It came with such resistless sway —
Woe to the wight stood in its way ! —
And flickered in the light of heaven
Like streamer of the burning levin.

Wat drew that sword, I said before,
He gave it one brandish and no more;
It was enough — quick might you see
Each monk, each friar, on his knee,
Kissing the cross, and calling loud,
O mercy ! mercy ! spare our blood,
For sake of him that died on rood !

Wat gave his sword a swing behind,
It whistled in the convent wind
With ireful sound, and by ill luck
Against the architrave it struck,
Just where Saint Peter held the key
Forth to the sainted Gregory.
Down came th' apostle from the wall,
The pope, the key, and pedestal.
Wat looked behind, he looked before,
And, prostrate on the convent floor,
Beheld the canonized compeers
Amid their rueful worshippers :
Longer the scene he could not brook,
He laughed till all the rafters shook.

The grovelling monks upraised the head
Like martyrs rising from the dead ;
Around they stared in dubious way,
And wist not what to think or say.
" Rise up, my friends — for friends we are,
Why thus give way to idle fear ?

All that of you I crave
Is your best blessing — 'tis a task
That you behoves — that boon I ask,
Ay, and that boon I'll have."

" That thou shalt have," the sire replied,
" My worthy son, thy country's pride,
In peace approved, in danger tried.

It well becomes the brave
To live, and walk this holily :
Kneel down, Sir Knight, upon thy knee,
My blessing thou shalt have."

" Beshrew thy heart !" said Wat in wrath,
" If that I do ; for, in good faith,
Little I reck of idle breath,
Of mass or breviary ;
Oft have I heard my grandam tell
When in our lady's gay chapelle
The consecrated torrent fell
From bedesman hand on me,
How that I looked with such a frown,
As if I'd knock the dotard down
Who that unwelcome tide had thrown
So disrespectfully.

Ne'er since that day, when weetless, young,.
God shield the right and ward the wrong !
Have I from priest or bedesman's tongue
Had benedicite.

" But, sire, I crave and claim withal
A blessing more substantial ;
Dost thou not see that my array
Has marched a rough and weary way,
Even from the Cleuch, since break of day ?
No food nor fare for us is left,
The land is harried and bereft
So wholly by the Southern host
That now lies camped on Lothian coast,
That, save what sanctuary contains,
Nor flock, nor herd, nor store remains.
Now, abbot, thou rnayest well perceive
The blessing which from thee we crave."

" Forage ! forage !" the abbot cried,
Glad so to 'scape was he ;
Forth rushed the monks, and fast and wide,
Even to the Baillie's ingle side,
Carried their reavery.

Some came with bread, and some with ale,
Some came with butter, cheese and kail,
And some with doughty cogs of brose,
The dole and dread of Scotland's foes !
And. — gladsome sight to warrior's eye, —
Came in the haggis, reeking high
In fair and full rotundity.
The Bull-trout, Pike, and Grayling blue,
The Salmon of the silvery hue,
With Wood-cock, Plover, and Curlew ;
The Heath-fowl of the mountain high,
With downy leg and scarlet eye,
The Coney, Capercaite, and Hare,
And every forest bird was there ;
With many snared the lakes among,
Numberless birds unknown to song,
If not to Bewick and Buffon.

Such only may and will I note,
As suiteth rhythm, and rhyme and rote;
Such as the Grebe and Gullimote,
The Diver from Saint Mary's pool,
The Avoset and Galinule,
The Bilcock, Egret, Ruff, the Mew,
The Whimbrel, and the Heronsheugh,
The Stint, the Phalarope, and Tern,
The Mergenser and Midnight Hern,
The Dunlin, Wagel, Piper-cock,
The Shoveller or Kellutock,
The Imber, from broad Ale-more lake,
The Tarroch, Tough, and Kittiwake ;
These all were got, and all .brought there,
It suits not how, it boots not where.

And there was kid from Cocket-dale,
And mutton from the banks of Kaile,
With head of ox, and ham of steer,
And rib of roe, and haunch of deer,
All placed before the mountaineer.

Placed did I say ? Yes, by the rood,
'Twas placed — but there not long it stood.
Vanished the beef with equal speed
As snow-ball tossed into the Tweed ;
The forest fowls of flavour high
Faded in twinkling of an eye ;
The mutton in a breath was gone,
Down went the sea-birds, skin and bone,
And of the haggis there was none.

The monks stood by with silent gaze,
Gaping in token of amaze,
Till up spoke Halbert of the Swire,
A son that not disgraced his sire ;
Of Harden's doughty race was he,
And thus he spoke full pleasantlie :
" What would you think, my master dear,
For me I judge it meet and clear
That we and ours should winter here ?"
With stifled groans the friars shook,
Eye turned on eye with speaking look —
That jest their stomachs could not brook.

" Yes," cried the chief, and turning said
To abbot John, who inly prayed,
" Your guerdon worse than that will be ;
Father, I have not done with thee."

A sudden and a hectic glow
Soon faded on the abbot's brow,
Like that which dyes the mountain's form,
The prelude of descending storm ;
Next a dim yellow o'er it swept,
The hair upon his temples crept ;
Like abbot chiselled out of stone
He sat, all still and woe-begone,
While thus the Mountain Chief went on.

" Father, thou knowest our mortal foe
Of late hath wrought us mickle woe,
Hath overrun the Border land
With fire, with foray, and with brand ;
That still their bands are facing north,
And wasting even the shores of Forth,
While their huge stores the castle fill
Of Roxburgh, deemed impregnable ; —
Could that by force or fraud be won,
Quick from our country they must run.

Though all unequal be the strife,
To win that place, for death or life,
Here am I come, right joyfully ;
But much — nay all, depends on thee.
Either with warriors thou must wend,
Their motions guide, their strife attend,
Or teach to these, my friends, and me,
The whole cant of hypocrisy ;
To con o'er chaplet, prayers to read,
To hand the chalice, book and bead ;
Else as our leader thou art pledged,
For thou and thine are privileged."

" In either case," the abbot said,
And as he spoke he shook his head,
" In either case, Sir Knight, for me
Full hard, I ween, the task will be.
Put off these weeds of warrior trim,
And don the cowl and sackloth grim,
Thy panoply of steel resign,
That stark unyielding brigandine,
And when thou'rt clothed in weeds of woe
Soon will I tell thee, ay or no,
Whether with scrap of creed and mass
As genuine bedesman thou may'st pass."

Off went the cuishes and the greaves,
Jangled aloud the chained sleeves,
Down went the helm and plumage tall,
The corslet rattles on the wall,
And Wat, whose very meed was scathe,
He felt so light and free to breathe,
That swift as fire he flew upon
A friar of stupendous bone,
To reave his robes in grappling strife —
Without a stir Wat hated life :
He caught the friar by the nape,
Who stared at first with ghastly gape ;
But, pricked by pain, enroused by spleen,
Or memory what he once had been,
He struck the chief a blow so rude,
It made him stagger where he stood,
While mouth and nose gushed red with blood.

The mountain warriors laughed outright,
The monks stood trembling with affright,
They knew not Wat's supreme delight ;
Up to the sullen friar he came,
And asked his lineage and his name.
" What, boots it you ?" he stern replied,
And flung his cumbrous frock aside ;
" Think'st thou I blench at mortal frown ?
I'm neither come of thief nor loun,
And that is more, 'twixt you and I.
Than some can say without a lie."

The dark chief gave delighted grin,
And wiped the blood-clots from his chin ;
" Man, thou art brother of my heart,"
He said, " and hence we shall not part;
If thou not warrior turn with me,
I'll turn a saint and dwell with thee ;
Or priest, or layman, friend, or foe,
I love a man can lend a blow.

Give me thy hand — beshrew my blood
If I could deem that 'neath a hood
Was brow so stern, or eye so dark,
Or heart so true, or arm so stark :
Lend me thy cowl and sober weed
Until my noviceship be sped."

Now, gentle listener to my geste,
Restrain thy mirth if that thou mayest ;
I'll suits it knight, or dame, or maid,
To laugh at truth when truth is said ;
But sooth, such figure and such look
As Wat with crosier and with book,
Such rude unhypocritic mien,
No churchman's eye had ever seen ;
And, when essaying prayer to read
On book, by him ne'er opened,
His uncouth air and voice of thundering,
Misnaming, crossing, mixing, blundering, —
No living man the scene could stand,
Each eye was shaded with the hand.

" Now, by the heaven," said Abbot John,
" And all my hopes that hang thereon,
By every saint that churchman notes,
By all the souls of all the Scotts,
I swear — and soothly say to you,
Knight, this device will never do."

" We'll try once more/' said Wat, " and then,"—
" No, Knight, I tell thee it is vain."

" O Christ !" in grievous fret, cried Wat,
" The castle. Father, think of that !

That fortress might I win,
I would not scruple, no not I,
By night and day my task to ply
Until I learned the liturgy.

Each word and pause therein.
Trust me, to gain your privilege,
I would go on a pilgrimage,
With palmer's weed and niggard fare,
Even to the holy sepulchre ;
And if with your assistance true
The place I win, I pledge to you
A warrior's word, a warrior's hand,
One half the spoil you shall command."

" Say thou no more," the sire replied,
" Bold brother Hew shall be your guide ;
And by my faith in Saint Mary,
I know not braver wight than he,
Nor one will risk such desperate game
For maid immured or winsome dame,
Or with such manhood work his way
When husbands, sires, and serfs way-lay.
At Nisbet, Holm, and Sorbytree,
Boonjeddwort, Nook, and Oxnam-Iea,
Has Hew been caught and used full ill,
Yet brother Hew is living still ;
His arm already have you tried,
And I should deem him trusty guide
As ever stepped on Border side :
Well thrive the progress and event !
One tenth the stores in Roxburgh pent
Would comfort much my friends and me,
And benefit our monastery.

God speed the mission ! you shall want
No aid that Abbot John can grant."