Canto II

Now Wat o' the Cleuch's gone down the dale,
But he is not in hauberk or glistening mail ;
Wat has not his hound, he has not his hawk,
His two-hand sword hangs not at his back ;
But Wat and all the best of his train
Have frocks and cowls of murky grain,
Spear, axe, or hackbut, have they none,
But scymitar and habergeon.

O never were friars so stalwart to view
As Hab o' the Swire, and hard-riding Hugh,
And Whitston, and Halston, and Wat o' the Cleuch.

Not grieved was Wat for his cap of steel,
Nor armour doffed from head to heel,
But sorely troubled was his mind
At leaving his good sword behind ;
For oft had it stood him in good stead ,
And he found he had left a friend indeed :
This noted his page, a trusty elf,
And thought and judged for himself.

Away they went all brisk and hale
Down the beauteous links of Teviotdale ;
Full soft and slowly passed they by
Where the towers of Roxburgh frowned on high.

But there is one of the holy flock
Whose eye is never from the rock,
Who looks as if his soul were blent
With counterscarp and battlement.

Un-noted all seven bowmen lay,
Resting upon the castle brae,
Who saw the monks pass slowly by,
And one that still upward turned his eye.

" Jesu !" cried one, with startled air,
" What mighty stalworth monk is there ?

Such form as that I never knew,
Save the moss-trooper, Wat o' the Cleuch."

" Ah ! may our blessed Lady above,
And all the saints that sanctity love,
Curse, wreck, and overcome for ever,"
Said one, " that restless, ruthless reaver !
I would give all my father's land
To have him there so near at hand,
Within the range of this yew-bow's shot —
Shoot at the monk, he's but a Scot."

The stout and stalworth monk, I ween,
Well heard the converse passed between ;
For away he went with lengthened stride
Around the band to the farther side.
He had been taught the danger to know
Of feathered shaft from Southern bow,
And all too well the English knew
The figure and form of Wat o' the Cleuch.

To Kelso they came, and welcome were they
To the abbot and monks of that abbaye ;
For rich was the offering they brought in hand,
And they said it was spoil of Northumberland,
Which Scottish chief to the church had given,
To have his soul and conscience shriven
Of crime he did full sore repent—
Of murder and of ravishment.

" Sooth," said the abbot, " it would be hard
If son repentant should be barred
For ever from the gate of heaven ;
The generous chief shall be forgiven
Of all his crimes, whate'er the sum,
That is, or was, or is to come.
One single slight exception
I make from this remission,
And well I know that you'll approve
Of that I do in Christian love ;
For my anathemas are laid
Against a thief so thorough sped,
That ne'er did warrior annals trace
Such path of guilt in human race :
At name of this stern heretic
Mercy recoils and grace grows sick ;
For ruthless crimes of each degree,
For sacrilege and reavery,
His like the Border never knew ;
A thief he is, and coward too,
God's adversary, Wat o' the Cleuch.'
The stalworth monk, that drooping stood
Beneath his frock and scalloped hood,
His tall gigantic form to hide,
Now forward stepped with maddened stride,
And, with his nostrils breathing ire,
Close to the abbot's cheek of fire,
' ' Thou dunghill mass of corruptness !

What devil in hell hath told thee this ?"

This said he with such thunderous breath,
The abbot nigh had sunk beneath ;
But off he sprung like terrier grim,
When greyhound with his length of limb
Comes deftly up, and unawares
Growls forth resentment in his ears.

Away he speeds, but turns again,
Preserved from danger by disdain,
And views with dark malicious eye
His tall indignant enemy ;
So stood the priest, aghast and shrunk,
Gazing upon the hideous monk.

But brother Hew, now Prior called,
The danger saw and was appalled ;
Up to the monk he sped apace,
Scowled dark, and browed him face to face :
" Thou beast," he said, " thou dolt, for shame!

Disgrace of church and bedesman's name !

I knew some outrage thou would'st do,
But Father John would have it so ;
Think, for a moment, think and rue,
For what you came and what is due."

When Prior Hew this speech began,
The monk seemed waxing more than man ;
Upstretched his form, his breath he drew,
His breast like chest of war-horse grew ;
But noting Hew's well-feigned wrath,
His rage subsided, and his breath
Came sounding forth as violently
As winter blast on casement high.

One word there was, li for what he came ?"

That was the word his pride to tame,
And low he bent, as if afraid
Of that was done and that was said.

But those who tried that chief to cow
Had, by my say, too much ado ;
Not brooking slight, or stern control,
A flame impetuous was his soul,
And neither danger nor distress
Could that resistless flame suppress.

" Down on your knees," the prior said ;
Reluctantly the Monk obeyed ;
" Now first s repentant for all this,
The abbot's garment thou must kiss."

" Pah !" cried the monk, " out on such stain,"

And spit upon't, and spit again !

All were amazed, the prior most,
Regretting all thus madly lost.
He seized the monk by force outright,
And called for help 'gainst maniac might ;
But Wat's right humble holy weed
His wayward mood not lessened,
For though the friar at first hold
Bore down to earth his giant mould,
Like ocean-wave's indignant sway,
O'erwhelming bark that dares assay
To ride o'er its capacious breast,
So rose the chief above the priest.

But in the struggle them between
Both their broad scymitars were seen ; —
Upraised the monks a hideous yell,
Toward the porch they rushed pell-mell,
Shrieking and shouting as they flew,
" Treason ! Confusion ! Wat o' the Cleuch !'

Wat saw his folly all too late,
Like many a wight infuriate ;
But instant danger then he knew
Hung o'er him and his motley crew :
" What have I done ?" he cried, and then
Right through the crowd he dashed amain,
And in one moment took his stand
Within the porch with sword in' hand :
" None move," he cried, " on pain of death,
Nor utter word above his breath !

Warriors, let none escape away,
And death to him that dares assay."

The poor Cistertians to a cell
Were hurried down and guarded well,
And now the hardy mountaineer
The abbey holds without compeer.

But much the townsmen's wonder grew ;
That visitants were there they knew,
Yet neither bustle rose, nor din,
And none went out, and none came in :
Paused, and stood still each passer-by
With thirsty ear and prying eye,
Till to a mighty crowd they grew —
Wat saw, and ill could brook the view.

As in Dunedin streets, 'tis known.
Mine own right loyal worthy town,
If wight delighted 'gins to pry
With eager mien and curious eye,
Soon is he joined by great and small
By burgess, bailiff, thieves and all,
By idle motley limbs of trade,
By beadle, beldame, matron, maid,
With gaping gaze and panting breast,
From north, and south, and east and west,
Till all the countless throng partake
Of looking on, for locking's sake.
Whate'er the object — 'tis the same,
A thing of nought or thing of name,
A Highland troop of sorry cheer,
With naked thigh and bandilier ;
A gallows thief, a deep divine,
A courtezan o'ercome with wine,
Or, haply, a right beauteous dame
With ancle trim and northern name ;
If crowd is there, and that is known,
All is alike, I needs must own,
To mine own good romantic town.

So happ'd it on the abbaye strand,
That night our chief held there command ;
Wat saw them gather, list, and peep,
And cursed them in his heart full deep,
And rightly judged that they must ween
Some work of holy guise within.

Straight to the darksome cell he went,
Where praying, panting monks were pent ;
" Haste, haste !" he cried, " note what I say
It fits you quickly to obey :
Here is a sword, I must be brief;
If you have any small belief
That such can work your frames annoy,
Sing loud to God your strength with joy."

Rung forth the hymn from out the cell
With frantic but unsaintly swell,
" Louder !" cried Wat, " it is my will ;"

Louder it swelled, and louder still ;
The Kelso-men slunk all away,
They liked not much to hymn and pray,
Nor like they't much unto this day.

The Prior Hew on errand is gone,
The scheme, the message, was his own,
And thus far deftly gained he
Of the Governor, Sir Guy De Lis,
That he and two more monks should win
Vespers to read that night within
The fortress, as arrear of sin ;
And grant remissions for reaver deed,
Of which the soldiers stood much need.
Sir Guy despised, as well he might,
This ghostly fraud, yet would not slight
The bedesmen's art, for well he knew
What in emergence they could do ;
For they had proved, not long ago,
A powerful friend and deadly foe.

The shades of eve in softest hue
Began to tint the Cheviot blue,
But a darker, gloomier veil was wore
On the swarthy brows of Lammermore !
While in the vale stood these between
Dun Ruberslaw and Eildon green,
One coned with rock, one cleft in three,
Like ancient dome and monastery
That for due penance, praise, and shrift,
Their unassuming heads uplift,
In midst of mighty city's bound
With towers and ramparts circled round.

The Tweed ran slow, the Tweed ran deep,
Till round the abbaye making sweep,
It sung so loud and so harsh a note,
That it made Wat remember well
A tale he scarce had e'er forgot,
Of his own grandsire, Michael Scott, ,
And the three dargsmen, fiends of hell.
Who stemmed that mighty torrent's sweep,
And dammed that pool so broad and deep ;
And he saw the gap stand to that day
From which the elves were scared away :
A dullness crept o'er all his frame, —
It could not be that warlock theme
But feeling scarce to minstrel known —
A dreaming, mixed sensation
Of things at hand, and things of yore,
For a bloody night lay him before !

Now it behoved the Prior Hew,
Who framed the plot, to choose forth two,
And only such he need must have
As were obsequious and brave.

Wat loved the one term from his soul,
The other made him fret and scowl,
But Hew's fair choice he must abide ;
Forth stood they, ranked on either side,
And after pause and scrutiny,
" Hab of the Swire, I must have thee,
For thou can'st read the breviary."

Wat found all chance was o'er for him,
His cheek turned to a crimson grim
As he to calculate began
On full frustration of his plan ;
Till up came Prior Hew apace,
And surlily looked in his face :
" Though thou can'st neither read nor pray,
And scarce can'st word sagacious say,
And haply art but middling brave,
Yet, for good trial, thee I'll have ;
One trusty friend I shall not lack
When Wat o' the Cleuch is at my back."

" Bravo !" cried Wat, with voice as loud
As thunder from the yawning cloud ;
" Bravo ! my brother of the field !

There shall be skelps or we three yield !"

Then strode he o'er the chancel floor
With step of such gigantic power,
That at each stride, as I heard tell,
The monks believed within their cell
That dreadful weight from casement fell.

The night full dark and murky fell,
Slow tolled the convent evening bell,
As o'er the Tweed went Prior Hew,
And Habby Scott, and Wat o' the Cleuch,
To shrive the English bands intent —
But their last shrift was fully meant.
Jock Jardine younger of Poldean,
And Rutherford of Redfordgreen,
Brought down the warriors from the braes
Through night, and unfrequented ways ;
One cowled warrior staid behind
To guard the monks in cell confined,
The rest had all their parts assigned.

Ye beauteous dames of merry England,
When jrou this tale shall read,
Well may you quake for your good band,
That guarded Tweed and Teviot's strand
And barriers of Northumberland,
From reavers' ruthless deed.
And well this thought might you beseem,
" O that some voice to wizard's dream,
Or whisper from the Teviot's stream,
Would warn them in such need !"
Dread not, fair dames, for the event ;
Neither in camp nor tournament,
Shall English might by foeman shent
Be boasted as his meed.
Haply some tale would better suit
Thy fancy and thy wish to boot,
Like that which happ'd on Durham field,
Which Durham maids and dames beheld,
To whom a grateful sacrifice
Was Sir John Copland's royal prize,
Or Pembroke's raid full long agone,
Or rueful hapless Homeldon ;
But can'st thou of a minstrel ask
Such humbling, such ungrateful task ?
No — free as stag on Border height,
As falcon or as eagle's flight,
Free as the summer's cloudless breeze.
Or bird that swims the polar seas,
From matron's say, or man's behest,
Flow forth, flow unconstrained my geste !