Chapter I: The Character of the Borders (2)

"And many was the feather bed
That fluttered on the foam;
And many was the gude lord's son
That never mair came home!

The ladyes wrang their fingers white;
The maidens tore their hair,
A' for the sake of their true loves;
For them they'll see nae mair.

O lang, lang may the ladyes sit,
Wi' their fans into their hand,
Before they see Sir Patrick Spens
Come sailing to the strand!

And lang, lang may the maidens sit,
With their goud kaims[#] in their hair,
A' waiting for their ain dear loves!
For them they'll see nae mair.

[#] Golden combs.

O forty miles off Aberdeen,
'Tis fifty fathoms deep,
And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens,
Wi' the Scots lords at his feet."

*Chapter V*

*Auld Maitland*

"'Wha holds this house?' young Edward cried,
'Or wha gives it o'er to me?'
''Tis I will keep my good old house,
While my house will keep me!'"

The story of Auld Maitland is said to be taken from a very old ballad, and known chiefly to the people who lived in the neighbourhood of Ettrick Forest. The old folks there would while away the long winter evenings by singing of the deeds of their ancestors, and the ballad of _Auld Maitland_, as thus chanted, was written down by the mother of James Hogg, the "Ettrick Shepherd."

The castle of Thirlestane stood on the river Leader, and still, in its restored form, deserves its name of "the darksome house." It may have often withstood the English during the Baliol wars, and hatred of the English and of Edward I. is expressed with extreme virulence throughout the poem. Here is the story:--

There lived in the south country a king named Edward, who wore the crown unworthily for fifty years. This king had a nephew, strong in blood and bone, who bore the same hateful name. One day the young man came before the king, and kneeling low, he said, "A boon, a boon I crave of thee, my good uncle. Oft have I wished to take part in our long wars in fair Scotland. Grant me fifteen hundred chosen strong men to ride there with me."

"Certainly thou shalt have them, and more, and I myself, though old and grey, will see thy host arrayed for battle."

King Edward sent hither and thither, and assembled fifteen hundred men on Tyne side, and three times as many at North Berwick, all bound for battle. They marched up the banks of Tweed, burning the Merse and Teviotdale, and up and down the Lammermoor Hills, until they came to the darksome house called, by some, "Leader-Town."

"Who holds this house?" cried young Edward, "or who gives it over to me?" He was answered, as proudly, by a grey-haired knight: "I hold my house of Scotland's king, who pays me in meat and fee, and I will hold it as long as it will stand together."

Thereupon the English brought up their sows[#] to the wall with many a heavy sound, but the soldiers on the wall cast down blazing pitch and tar barrels, to consume the formidable machine. They also threw down stones and beams and darts from their springalds,[#] and slew many of the English.

[#] A military engine framed of wood, covered with hides and mounted on wheels, so that, being rolled forward to the foot of the wall, it served as a shed to defend the miners underneath it and their battering-rams from the stones and arrows of the soldiers above.

[#] Large crossbows worked by machinery.

Fifteen days they besieged the castle of Auld Maitland, but left him at the end of that time unhurt within his stone stronghold.

They loaded fifteen ships with as much spoil as they could carry away from the district around, and claimed that now they had conquered Scotland with buckler, bow, and brand. So they sailed away to France to meet the old King Edward, who was burning every castle, tower, and town that he met with. They came at last to the town of Billop-Grace, where Auld Maitland's three sons were at school.

Edward had quartered the arms of Scotland with his own. "See'st thou what I see?" said the eldest son to the youngest; "if that be true that yonder standard says, then are we all three fatherless, and Scotland conquered up and down. Never will we bow to the conquerer. Let us go, my two brothers, and try our chance in an adventure?" Thereupon they saddled two black horses and a grey, and rode before day-dawn to King Edward's army. Arrived there, they hovered round, and Maitland begged to be allowed to carry the king's standard, the Golden Dragon.

"Where wast thou born and bred, and in what country?" demanded the knight who bore the banner. "I was born in the north of England," answered Maitland; "my father was a knight and my mother a lady, and I myself am a squire of high renown, and may well carry the banner of a king." "Never had the son of an Englishmen such an eye or brow," answered the knight; "thou art more like Auld Maitland than any man I have ever seen; yet God grant that such a gloomy brow I never see again; he slew and wounded many of our men."

At the mention of his father's name Maitland's anger burst out, and lifting up a gilded dagger that hung low by his knee, he struck fiercely at the standard-bearer, and, catching hold of the corner of the standard, rode swiftly away with it, crying to his brothers, "Is it not time to flee?" "Ay, by my sooth," they both shouted, "we will bear you company." So they rode off at hot speed, the pursuers following. The youngest Maitland, turning round in the path, drew his brand and killed fifteen of the foremost, and the rest fell back. Then he dug his spurs into the sides of his faithful grey, until both the sides ran blood. "Thou must carry me away, or my life lies in pledge," he cried.

About daybreak the brothers arrived at their uncle's castle, who, seeing the three Scottish lads with pursuers riding hard at their heels, ordered the portcullis to be drawn up and the drawbridge let down, for that they should lodge with him that night in spite of all England.

When the three came inside the gate, they leapt down from their horses, and taking three long spears in their hands, they fought till it was full daylight, killing and wounding many of the Englishmen round the drawbridge. Some of the dead were carted away in waggons, and stones were heaped upon the rest as they lay in the gutter.

King Edward proclaimed at his pavilion door that three lads of France, disguised, and with false words, had come and stolen away the standard, and had slain his men in their lawful attempt to regain it.

"It ill befits a crowned king to lie," said the youngest Maitland, "and he shall be reproved for it before I taste meat or drink."

Straightway he went before King Edward, and, kneeling low, begged leave to speak a word with him. "Man, thou shalt have leave to speak, even though thou shouldst speak all day," answered the king.

"Ye said," spoke the youngest Maitland, "that three young lads of France had stolen away the standard with a false tale, and slain many men. But we are not lads of France, and never have pretended to be; we are three lads of fair Scotland, and the sons of Auld Maitland, nor are there men in all your host dare fight us three to three."

"Now, by my sooth," said the young Edward, who stood by, "Ye shall be well fitted, for Percy shall fight with the eldest, and Egbert Lunn with thee, and William of Lancaster with the other, and the surviving brother shall fight with me. Remember, Percy, how oft the Scot has cowered before thee; I will give thee a rig of land for every drop of Maitland blood."

So they set to, and the eldest Maitland clanked Percy over the head and wounded him so deeply that the best blood of his body ran down his hair. "I have slain one," shouted Maitland to his brothers; "slay ye the other two, and that will be good company, and if the two shall slay ye both, ye shall get no help from me."[#]

[#] According to the laws of chivalry, having slain his own man, he could, if he pleased, come to the assistance of the others.

But Egbert Lunn was like a baited bear and had seen many battles, and when Maitland saw that his youngest brother was having the worst of it, he could not restrain himself longer, and shouting, "I am no king; my word shall not stand," he struck Egbert over the head and slew him. "Now I have slain two; slay ye one for good company," he cried; "neither shall ye get any help from me even if the one shall slay ye both." So the two brothers slew the third, and hung him over the drawbridge for all the host to see.

Then they rode and ran, but still got not away, but hovered round, boasting: "We be three lads of fair Scotland that fain would see some fighting."

When young Edward heard this, he cried wrathfully, "I'll take yon lad and bind him, and bring him bound to thee."

"Now God forbid that ever thou shouldst try that," said the king; "we have lost three worthy leaders; wouldst thou be the fourth? Never again would I be happy if thou wert to hang on yonder drawbridge."

But Edward struck fiercely at Maitland, cleaving his stout helmet and biting right near his brain. When Maitland saw his own blood flowing he threw away his weapon, and springing angrily at young Edward's throat, he swung him thrice about and flung him on the ground, holding him there though he was of great strength.

"Now let him up," cried King Edward, "let him come to me, and for thy deed thou shalt have three earldoms."

"Nay," replied Maitland, "never shall it be said in France or in Scotland that Edward once lay under me and got up again," and with that he pierced him through the heart and hung him over the drawbridge with the other three.

"Now take from me my bed of feathers," said the king, "make me a bed of straw. Would that I had not lived to see the day that makes my heart so sad."

*Chapter VI*

*The Mystery of the Eildons*

"Before their eyes the Wizard lay
As if he had not been dead a day.
His hoary beard in silver roll'd,
He seemed some seventy winters old.
High and majestic was his look,
At which the fellest friends had shook,
And all unruffled was his face;
They trusted his soul had gotten grace."
SCOTT: _Lay of the Last Minstrel._

Just above Melrose, the ruined abbey of which is one of the beauties of Scotland, there rises a striking mass of three hills known as "the triple Eildons." They rise very high above the surrounding land, and are steep enough to need a very hard scramble to mount to the very summit; but once at the top the view is wonderful indeed. On a fine day the Tweed can be seen winding in and out most picturesquely, till it loses itself in the low distant haze of the North Sea, thirty miles away. But even grander is the view of the entire line of the Cheviots, like a huge wall, fifty miles long, seen to immense advantage from Eildon, which towers over the rich valleys of Tweed and Teviot that lie between. One of the legends of the triple Eildons is that King Arthur lies sleeping beneath them, some day to awaken. Tradition says that he fought a great battle near here, by Gala Water, in the Vale of Woe.

However that may be, it is certain that at the foot of Eildon lie many famous dead. In Melrose Abbey lies the heart of Robert Bruce, and also the body of the strong King Alexander II., he who first subdued and made obedient the wild tribes of Argyle. Here, too, is buried the brave Douglas who died so gallantly on the field of Otterbourne; and also of another brave Douglas who got his death wound at Poictiers.

Sir Walter Scott, who did more than any other man to spread all over the world the knowledge of Scotland, Scottish history, Scottish romance, and Scottish character, lies buried on the southern side of Eildon, in the rival abbey of Dryburgh. But Melrose can claim a man who in his day was an object of the deepest wonder and terror--Michael Scott, the famous wizard of the thirteenth century, he who brought the learning of Aristotle to expound to Western Europe, he whom Dante described as learned in every deep spell of the magic arts. Perhaps he was only a scientist, born before his time; yet even to-day old folk in the country remember that it was he who is said to have cleft the head of Eildon Hill into three!

One of the many strange tales told of Michael Scott is this:--

They say that the lord of Morpeth, in Northumberland, promised the great wizard a rich reward if he would only make the sea roll up the valley of the pretty river Wansbeck till it reached Morpeth, so that vessels could sail up to the town. The distance is seven miles, and the wizard, declaring the matter a most simple one, prepared his magic spell. He then said that if a certain man would run from the sea to the town, and on no account look back, whatever he heard, the desire of the lord would be satisfied. The man no sooner started to run than he heard the waters following him. Faster and faster he went, and faster and faster came the ocean, dashing and roaring, never overtaking him, but always so near his heels as to fill him with ever greater and greater terror.

Before he had finished the third mile he was in such a state of alarm that he could not resist the impulse to see what was happening. He turned round, and the spell was broken; the waters had followed him thus far, but would come no further. Even the best of wizards will fail when his instructions are not obeyed.

So says the story. People are free to believe it or not, as they please. It is certain that the sea runs nearly three miles up the Wansbeck valley, and there stops; but many people think that that is explained by the natural rise of the land!

The story of how Michael Scott came to divide the Eildon Hill into three runs as follows:--

The wizard had one very active little demon, who was always bothering his master to give him something to do. First Michael commanded him to put a barrier across the Tweed at Kelso, thinking to keep him quiet for at least a week; it was done in a single night, and again the demon demanded work. Then Michael set him to divide Eildon into three; this also was done in a night, and again the demon came clamouring for employment. So in despair the wizard ordered him to make ropes out of sea-sand! This, of course, is impossible, as the sand will not hold together. But if you go down to the shore on the south-east coast of Scotland on a dark and stormy night, you can still hear what sounds like the demon moaning and groaning over his impossible task; and there is certainly a barrier across the Tweed at Kelso, and the Eildon Hill is certainly divided into three! So you may believe as much as you please of this story.

Another tale that is told of the magic powers of this famous man relates that he was once chosen to go as ambassador from the King of Scotland to the King of France on urgent business. Instead of going, as is usual in such cases, with a number of followers, he conjured up a demon shaped like a huge black horse, and rode away over the sea. When half-way across the North Sea the horse said to his rider:--

"What do the old women of Scotland say at bed-time?" Had the magician fallen into the trap and named a prayer, the demon would have disappeared and the wizard would have been drowned! But Michael Scott merely commanded his steed to go on quickly and not to talk. Very soon he came to Paris, tied his horse to the gate of the French king's palace, and boldly entered and stated his business. The French king sneered at an ambassador who was not followed by a train of knights, and began at once to refuse all he asked. "Wait a moment, your Majesty," said Michael, "till you have seen my horse stamp three times."

At the first stamp the ground so shook that every steeple in Paris rocked, making all the bells ring loudly; at the second stamp the king heard behind him a loud crash that made him leap three feet in the air; looking round, he saw that three of the towers of his palace had fallen; the horse raised his foot to stamp a third time, but the king was so terrified that he shouted hastily that he would grant all that Michael asked if only he would keep his horse from stamping!

Whether this tale is true or not, Michael Scott was certainly one of the ambassadors sent to bring back the Maid of Norway to Scotland on the death of King Alexander III. He wrote many learned books, and possessed many others; and they say that when he was buried at Melrose many of these same magic books were buried with him.

To this romantic district of the Eildons belonged True Thomas, Thomas the Rhymer, or Thomas of Ercildoune, as he was variously called, who was held in awe by Border-folks as a prophet. The ruins of his tower are still shown by the pretty river Leader, just about two miles above the spot where it joins the Tweed. The Rhymer seems to have died a few years before 1300; but despite the passing of six centuries he is still remembered. The story of how he gained his prophetic powers is quite worth hearing, whether we believe it or not.

The tale goes that Thomas was on Huntlie bank, near the Eildon Hills, when he saw a wonderful lady approaching him. She was dressed in grass-green silk, with a mantle of fine velvet, and the noble horse on which she rode had silver bells in its mane. Thomas was so surprised at this remarkable sight that when the lady came near he dropped on his knee and pulled off his cap, and cried out, reverently, that she must be the Queen of Heaven. But she answered that she was Queen of fair Elfland, and dared him, with a witching glance, to kiss her lips. The bold and gallant Thomas did not need a second invitation, and promptly kissed the fairy, when she seized upon him and fled away with him swifter than the wind.

Soon all living land was left behind, and they came to a wild place where three roads met. One was a narrow path, beset with thorns and briers; and this the fairy said was the road of righteousness, which very few people ever troubled to find. Another was a broad and attractive road, which was the way of sinners; whilst the third, a pretty winding road, led to Elfland, and thither they went together.

Soon there was neither sun nor moon to lighten the way, and Thomas and his companion waded through rivers above the knee. The sea moaned and roared in the dread darkness, and Thomas somehow found that they waded oft through streams of red blood--blood that had been shed on earth. Then they came to a beautiful garden, and the Elfland queen gave Thomas an apple to eat, saying:--

"Take this for thy wages, true Thomas; it will give thee the tongue that can never lie." Poor Thomas turned pale at the thought of such a gift. "Let my tongue be my own!" he pleaded; "how shall I buy or sell in any market, flatter a prince, or compliment a lady, if you give me such a tongue!"

But the Elfland queen would take no denial, and Thomas had to do her behest, wherefore for the rest of his life Thomas carried with him this gift of truthfulness.

*Chapter VII*

*Black Agnes of Dunbar*

The fortress of Dunbar was always a very important one to the Scots. It commanded the coast road from England across the Border to Edinburgh, not only one of the best routes in itself, but one which had the additional advantage to the English that by following it they could keep in touch with their ships. So it is not surprising that many stirring events in history took place at this historic town.

King Edward I. of England won a very important victory at Dunbar during his first invasion of Scotland, and to the place which had witnessed the triumph of the father, his son, Edward II., fled for safety after his defeat at Bannockburn, taking ship thence back to England. In the time of Mary Queen of Scots the fortress was held by Earl Bothwell; from here he consented to the surrender of poor Mary, and here he rested in safety before his final flight to Scandinavia. Oliver Cromwell fought and won at Dunbar his desperate battle with the Scottish Presbyterians, the fate of which for some time hung in the balance. Cromwell considered the place so valuable that he had new harbour works made there, and a portion of his work, forming part of the east pier of the present much larger harbour, is still to be seen.

The last time that Dunbar resounded to the march of an army bent on immediate fight was in 1745, when the boastful English general, Sir John Cope, landed here to engage the Highland followers of Prince Charles Edward (called the "Young Pretender"). Prince Charlie was at Edinburgh, and Dunbar Castle commanded the road into England. Cope asserted that the Highlanders would run away at the mere sight of his army. He marched westward, but was surprised in the early morning by his enemies when near Prestonpans. In less than ten minutes it was the unprepared English who were flying in disorder, utterly routed.

The foregoing is but a brief outline of the stormy history of those grey and ruined battlements overlooking the bleak North Sea at the southernmost point of entrance to the noble Firth of Forth. The mention of these stirring incidents, however, will serve to show what a very important place Dunbar was, and that it was necessary to Scottish safety that a strong hand should have charge of its fortress. We are now to see how at one of the most critical hours a woman was to hold command, and to hold it worthily.

Early in the reign of King Edward III. of England Scottish affairs were in some confusion. King Robert Bruce had lately died, leaving a son, King David II., then only five years old. That great leader and friend of Bruce, Randolph, Earl of Moray, was appointed Guardian of Scotland, but he too soon died. Edward III., anxious to interfere in Scottish affairs, agreed to help Edward Balliol to make himself king of the Scots. So an English army was again in Scotland, and one of the places they were keenest to take was the fortress of Dunbar.

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."

*Chapter VIII*

*The 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 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--'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 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."

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 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 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 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.

[#] soon.

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-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 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 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 thereon
As she gaed to the kirk.

[#] bower.

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.

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

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-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 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.

[#] 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.

[#] cause

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.

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 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."

[#] 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 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.

[#] 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 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?"--

[#] 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."

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."

*Chapter XI*

*Otterbourne and Chevy Chase*

"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 of _Otterbourne_ and _Chevy Chase_ record 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 of _Chevy Chase_ is 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 as _Hotspur_, 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 called _Chevy 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."