Canto III

Old Roxburgh, oft thy halls of yore
Rang to the war and wassail lay,
As oft thy clanging trumpet bore
Loud watch-word to the Border gray ;
And many a song and legend tell
To mountain hind and wondering dame,
Of doughty deeds that there befell,
And of that perilous citadel
That force alone might claim.
Low lie thy mighty ramparts now,
Of many a hero's dust the shrine ;
And o'er them, as in triumph, grow
The spleenwort and the murky sloe,
The bramble, moss, and mistletoe.
Their gloomy hues entwine.

But, Roxburgh, who of Border blood
Can o'er thy mouldering turrets tread,
Can stand where his forefathers stood,
And smile where, erst those fathers bled,
Not for the mighty honoured dead
Feel the heart-stirrings of acclaim ?

If such there is, this be his meed : —
No trophy ever wait his name ;
On him may never beauteous dame
Of Teviot smile ; and when is run
The last tide through his soul-less frame,
Then ne'er may vassal, dame, or son,
Wail for the heartless wight thus gone
Loaded with minstrel's malison !

But there were times, when he whose hand
Upheld thy dreaded proud command,
Stood much in need of courage high,
Of jealous mind, and watchful eye ;
And such well proven was Sir Guy.
That night he sat in Roxburgh tower
With many a knight and squire around,
Unweeting all of hostile power,
And loudly swelled the revel sound :
For on that good old Border day
They lacked not oft, as I heard say,
Good beer, and wine, and usquebhae.

" A song !" cried Howard, " and by name,
I call Edward of Walsinghame,
Whom I invoke by game and glee,
For lay he sings most pleasantlie."

" Sooth, my good lords," said Walsinghame,
" Well wot you of my minstrel fame,
To all my lays I put one strain,
As well to sacred as profane,
Nor have I more — but I can tell
What lay would please Lord Howard well :
Still will he urge it, right or wrong,
Though decency forbids the song.

My lords, I'll put you in amaze,
Wot you what Lady Howard says ?"

Howard looked sulky and chagrined,
His head on clenched fist he leaned,
For sooth he felt the jest would come
Too near his heart, too near his home,
Had not then chanced to enter in
The holy men to shrive of sin.

" Ah !" whispered one, not as in jest,
" Does good Lord Howard need the priest ?"

" No, by my fay," said Walsinghame,
" It is not Howard, but his dame."

Straight words were said unmeet to tell,
And hand on hilt of broad-sword fell ;
But every voice 'gan to prolong
In louder key, " The song ! the song!"

" Yes," said Sir Guy, " that song we'll have
Of beggarly moss-trooper knave,
That merry song, which well you wot,
Of greedy, lean, and mangy Scot." —
O heard ye never of Wat o' the Cleuch ?

The lad that has worrying tikes enow,
Whose meat is the moss, and whose drink is the dew,
And that's the cheer of Wat o' the Cleuch.

Wat o' the Cleuch ! Wat o' the Cleuch !

Woe's my heart for Wat o' the Cleuch !

Wat o' the Cleuch sat down to dine
With two pint stoups of good red wine ;
But when he looked they both were dry ;
Oh, poverty parts good company !

Wat o' the Cleuch ! Wat o' the Cleuch !

O for a drink to Wat o' the Cleuch !

Wat o' the Cleuch came down the Tyne,
To woo a maid both gallant and fine ;
But as he came o'er by Dick o' the Side,
He smelled the mutton and left the bride.

Wat o' the Cleuch ! Wat o' the Cleuch !

What think ye now of Wat o' the Cleuch ?

Wat o' the Cleuch came here to steal,
He wanted milk, and he wanted veal ;
But ere he wan o'er the Beetleston brow
He houghed the calf and eated the cow !

Wat o' the Cleuch ! Wat o' the Cleuch !

Well done, doughty Wat o' the Cleuch !

Wat o' the Cleuch came here to fight,
But his whittle was blunt, and his nag took fright,
And the braggart he did what I dare not tell,
But changed his cheer at the back of the fell.

Wat o' the Cleuch ! Wat o' the Cleuch !

O for a croudy to Wat o' the Cleuch !

Wat o' the Cleuch kneeled down to pray,
He wist not what to do or say ;
But he prayed for beef, and he prayed for bree,
A two-hand spoon and a haggis to pree.

Wat o' the Cleuch ! Wat o' the Cleuch !

That's the cheer for Wat o' the Cleuch !

But the devil is cunning as I heard say,
He knew his right, and hauled him away !
And he's over the Border and over the heuch,
And off to hell with Wat o' the Cleuch !

Wat o' the Cleuch ! Wat o' the Cleuch !

Lack-a-day for Wat o' the Cleuch !

But of all the wights in poor Scotland,
That ever drew bow or Border brand,
That ever drove English bullock or ewe,
There never was thief like Wat o' the Cleuch.

Wat of the Cleuch ! Wat o' the Cleuch !

Down for ever with Wat o' the Cleuch !

Loud laughed the chiefs, but were annoyed
By the three monks that stood aside ;
Struggling they seemed and sore aghast,
And two still held the other fast.
" Your pardon, Knights," said Prior Hew,
" I grieve for stir where honour's due,
But this poor brother, by God's will,
With fits like this is troubled still."
" De Gray," said Guy, who noted them
Three monks of such unsaintly mien,
" De Gray, lead these to Colbert's cell,
And see them stripped and searched well ;
Nay, hold — much need have we to care,
Search them before me where they are."

Short breathed the monks, and 'gan to feel
Beneath their gowns for hilt of steel,
And stood up grimly by the wall —
It was a moment critical !
In posture that bespoke the mind,
With foot advanced, and arm behind,
With floating gowns of sackloth grey,
And eyes bent forward on their prey,
There the redoubted bedesmen stood,
Panting like wolves that thirst for blood.

But chiefly he of giant mien,
That stood the other two between,
Stooped onward with such dire intent
As if each nerve were strained and bent,
Like dog that notes on green-sward lone
The burrowing moldwarp's heaving cone,
Stands all intent his skill to try,
With turned-up ear and steadfast eye,
With starting frame, and lifted foot.
In guise most wistfully acute,
Seeming the hair-breadth time to know
When he must spring on weetless foe—
As staunch, as steady, and as true,
Stood the dark reaver, Wat o' the Cleuch.

To call his serfs forth stepped De Gray,
His captain's orders to obey ;
But at that moment rose a yell
Of dire alarm — loud rung the bell,
The trumpet sounded, and a rout
Was heard around, within, without !
All in amazement looked around,
And straight to quit the hall were bound,
When cautious Guy called them to stay
And seize the monks whate'er the fray.

That was the word of fear and scathe,
The word of tumult, broil, and death
" Hurra !" cried Wat, and onward flew
Like fire-brand that outwings the view,
And at Sir Guy he made a blow
That fairly cleft that Knight in two ;
Then Walsinghame he turned upon,
And pinned him through the shoulder-bone
Against the pavement, and the while,
Half said, half sung, with grizly smile,
" Out, songster, with thy chorus true,
What think ye now of Wat o' the Cleuch ?"
" Ah ! ruffian, ah ! — for shame ! for shame !"
"Were the last words of Walsinghame.

. Through toil, through terror, and through blood,
Like stayless burst of mountain flood,
Wat bore before him all outright,
For battle was his sole delight :
Stout prior Hew was sore bested,
For whiles he fought and whiles he fled,
But aye, whene'er he aim'd a blow,
Not farther pressed his fated foe.
Right sore it grieveth me to tell
What to brave Halbert Scott befell :
Hard was he set, as well might be,
For still they fought it one to three ;
No buckler bound was on his wrist,
No cuirass on his manly breast,
Though strong his arm, it was fore worn,
And to the wall his back was borne.

Wat saw his danger, and amain
Flew to his aid, but flew in vain ;
For with such fury fell his stroke,
That from the hilt his broad-sword broke :
" Wo worth thy dwarf and dirty blade,
And forge where such a thing was made !"
Cried Wat, " Oh for my friend in need,
Now do I lack my sword indeed !
Lay on them, cousin ! — bravely done !
Down with the dastards one by one !"
This said, he griped a Southron fast,
And held him firm before his breast,
As shield 'gainst many a coming blow
That slew the friend but not the foe :
His sword secured, he threw him then
With dash among the Englishmen ;
Then after him impetuous flew,
Crying, " That's the cheer for Wat o' the Cleuch.'

Four only now remained alive,
Who, deeming it unmeet to strive,
Made for the door through kinsmen's blood,
But Prior Hew before them stood ;
Scarce could he Mary's name have said
Ere all the four were grovelling laid.

Of all the chiefs remained not one,
Nor knew their troops of what was done ;
And when the Scots first paused and thought,
And saw the ruin that was wrought,
They stood and gazed in silence on,
Scarce trowing what themselves had done.

" Now by the might of Michael Scott,"
Said Wat, " though I full oft have fought,
And changed with Southrons many a blow,
I ne'er got full revenge till now."
" Ah, my brave chief!" said Hab, " I fear
That this deray will cost you dear ;
Would that my brother John were here !"
He staggered, sunk, no more he said,
With the next breath, 'mong foemen laid,
His great and gallant spirit fled.

The Borderer could not this withstand,
He took the dead man by the hand —
" Ah, Hab !" he sighed, "long will it be
Ere I find right-hand man like thee !
Sore will I miss thy arm of might
Before the break of morning light,
And, reft of stay so firm and true,
I may be then as thou art now ;
But if I live — by Saint Mar ye,
By all the love I bore to thee,
Thy death shall well revenged be !"

Still the alarm without was dire,
The town by that time was on fire,
Which Wat's ungracious page had done,
An imp's unbidden act,
Who weened that such confusion
The Southrons might distract ;
But those who knew the elfin, said
More selfish aim the action swayed,
As you shall hear anon ;
Howe'er it was, the Southrons ran
Forth from the gate when it began,
To help or to look on ;
And when our bedesmen issued out,
Well armed now from head to foot
With sword, with spear, and shield to boot,
There but themselves were none.
Save by fair dames, full sore amazed,
From bartizan and tower that gazed,
Unchallenged they passed up and down,
And blessed the hand that fired the town.

When to the gate of keep they past,
They found it closed and bolted fast,
Yet none remained within but they,
Save women weak and chaplain gray ;
But through the outer court they saw
A troop that toward them did draw,
Though noise they heard not, near nor far,
Of clash of arms or shout of war.

In darkness deep to posts they win,
With light without but none within,
Resolved the comers to astound,
And with their lances safely wound.

Soon oped the gate with thundering jar,
Entered the careless men of war;
But straight the foremost, with a yell,
Reeling recoiled, and groaned and fell :
Forward they pressed, but what defence
From wpunds that came they knew not whence ?

The way was strait — in heaps they fell,
By whom, or how, they could not tell.

Some called out " Treason," some " Sir Guy,"

Some Howarcf, Scroop, and Barnaby ;
But lord or leader came not near,
They would not heed or did not hear ;
And ne'er had terror and dismay
O'er warrior troop such ample sway,
As through the court their flight they wing
To sound the alarm and gathering.

But all the tumults ever seen
At Roxburgh gate since it had been,
Were trivial to the clash and clang
That now before the castle rang.

Down came the warriors of the Cleuch,
In foray, feud, or battle true
With glancing swords and plumes of white,
Dancing and flickering through the night
Like the bog-meteors, darkly seen
By moorland tarn or mountain green,
That spread, that quiver, and retire,
Things half of mist and half of fire ;
So came the mountain warriors nigh,
Bedimming sight to foeman's eye.

Swift, steady, silent, and profound,
They came — save that a cluttering sound
Would sometimes whisper in the gale,
To listener's ear unwelcome tale.
Like dark descent of winter snow
That down the night sublimely slow
Steals on the earth with silent pace,
Heaping and smothering Nature's face ;
Yet sometimes burst of pattering hail
Will trembling shepherd's ear assail ;
Loud bursts the wind, the storm is hurled
Wide o'er a pale and prostrate world ;
As still, as threatening, down they drew,
As loud, as furious, on they flew,
The baited warriors of the Cleuch.

Wat heard the slogan, and his heart
Leaped at the sound ; up did he start
With maddened motion, quite the same
As if his tall gigantic frame
Had been machine, that battle knell
Could set, and keep in movement well.

He set his limbs, his sword he swung,
With smothered shout from pavement sprung, —
Whistled his weapon through the air,
For foes were none his blows to bear ;
And scarce could Hew the knight restrain
From dashing 'mid his foes amain,
Though in the court of Scots were none,
And he 'mong thousands all alone.

But as more loud the conflict grew,
Up to the- battlements he flew,
And shouted out, with voice as full
And fury-toned as mountain bull,
" On, kinsmen, on ! — ye are the men !
Lay on them, Dicky of Bellenden,
Christy of Thorleshope '

Sim of the Brae !
Rutherford ! Rutherford !

Hie to the fray !
Huh ! for the battle, lads,
Hurra ! hurray !"

But sorely did the Southrons gall
The Scotsmen from the outer wall,
And brave De Gray, with ready mind,
Sent round an ambush them behind ;
Then, grievous sight for Wat to see !
He saw his warriors turn and flee.
Down went the draw-bridge,
The gates up flew,
Forth rushed the English
To waste and pursue
Those darkling marauders,
The men of the Cleuch.

Wat broke away, restraint was none,
And left Hew in the tower alone,
Who barred the gate ; full safe was he,
But sore was Wat in jeopardy !
No stop his ardent way might cross,
He dropped the wall, he swam the fosse,
And though in heavy armour bound,
Led by the noise, the fight he found ;
Back where the Teviot made a sweep
Around the vale both broad and deep.
Where none could take them in the rear,
His gallant warriors halted were,
With their enraged foes to strive,
Although they scarce were one to five.

The first attack on his array
Was o'er ere Wat came to the fray ;
But when they saw his boardly frame,
And heard his voice, and heard his name,
Such shout broke on the midnight gale
As ne'er astounded Border dale.
" Hie on them, lads ! be yare, be yare,
The castle's mine, our friends are there !"
He cried, and dashed on circle deep
Like lion on a herd of sheep ;
But at each first or second stroke
Short in his hand his weapon broke.
So great his might, no common glaive
Could stand the blows in ire he gave ;
Still was he thus forced back to fly,
Cursing the weapons violently ;
His might more evil did than good,
For backward, close unto the flood,
Was borne his small but firm array,
And worse than doubtful was the fray.

An elf came up by Teviot stream,
Moving beneath a mighty beam,
Who all the while right deftly plied
With ready hand, from pouch on side,
Eating sweet cake, delightful meed !

From burning shop-board pilfered.

Ah, 'tis an imp both staunch and true,
The little page of Wat o' the Cleuch !

Behind the ranks he pressed along,
Nor once was noted in the throng
Till close up to his master's side,
When thus he spoke with crabbed pride :
" Here's for ye, Cleuch — de'il that ye be
As tired of that goad as me."

" Ah, bravest boy of mountain birth !

My own good sword, by heaven and earth !"

Cried Wat, and as he drew it out,
Scarce earthly was his joyous shout :
" Huh ! for the battle, kinsmen true,
Hie on the tikes ! give hell its due !

Now for the cheer of Wat o' the Cleuch.

What bard may sing of that assail ?
Off went the Southron heads like hail !
Not one by one, nor two by two,
But in whole files he laid them low.
As well might field of thistles stand
Against the might of mower's hand,
As any armed Southron crew
The two-hand sword of Wat o' the Cleuch.
Some said, but sure, I wot, in jest,
That when full rank was not abreast,
Then, ere the weapon's swing was sped,
Sometimes it severed kinsman's head :
Howe'er it was, that weapon's sway
Opened through serried ranks a way ;
They rallied, wheeled, and closed amain,
Again it broke them, and again :
Like wedge of steel through pine-tree driven ,
Like comet through the stars of heaven,
That little troop of warriors true
Pressed onward after Wat o' the Cleuch.

When first arose the slogan's yell
The stag awoke on Bowmont fell ;
Listening he paced around the hind,
His nostrils whistled in the wind ;
Something so dread was in the strain,
That night he couched not down again ;
But just as o'er the ocean flood
The doubtful light began to brood,
He saw by every glen and brae,
The flyers posting south away,
Urging their flight through holt and wood,
By furious Scotsmen close pursued ;
Away, o'er Border height and vale,
Onward he clove the morning gale,
And sought the depth of Otterdale.

Not to that wight my rede I say,
Nor knight renowned, nor lady gay,
Who cannot frame in mind full well,
Unless that wayworn minstrel tell,
The battle's fate, what sprung from thence ;
Each fair and obvious consequence ;
How the huge stores of Roxburgh fell
To one who knew their value well ;
What wealth the monks of Jedwort won,
How sore they rued ere all was done ;
How the invading Southron host
Fled in dismay from Scotland's coast ;
And how the king, for deeds of weir,
Heaped honours on our mountaineer.
Who reads must frame, who reads not may,
I chuse not lengthen out my lay.