All sore astonish'd stood Lord Scroope,
He stood as still as rock of stane;
He scarcely dared to trew his eyes,
When through the water they had gane.
"He is either himsell a devil frae hell,
Or else his mother a witch maun be;
I wadna have ridden that wan water
For a' the gowd in Christentie."

KINMONT WILLIE.

Willie had ridden and Willie had reiv'd,
Willie had burn'd and Willie had thiev'd;
Lord Scroope he march'd wi' rank and file,
Poor Kinmont Willie to auld Carlisle.

For Willie had mounted many a stile,
But now he is chain'd in auld Carlisle.

The news soon o'er the border ran;
Buccleuch petition'd to save the man :
England's queen wad gie Willie his due,
"Then mount and away," said bold Buccleuch.
For Willie had mounted many a stile,

But now he is chain'd in auld Carlisle.

The neet was dark and the Eden strang
As o'er the Stanwix they fil'd alang;

At the head of his horse he forded through,
"Let us storm the castle," said brave Buccleuch.
For Willie had mounted many a stile,

But now he is chain'd in auld Carlisle.

While loudly the bells of Carlisle rang,

A thousand men to their armour sprang;
They drew their swords to the joul of the bell,
But the castle was ta'en before they could tell.
Wi' the stroke of a sword instead of a file
They ransom'd Willie in auld Carlisle.

'Twas horse and away with bold Buccleuch,
As he rode in the van of his border crew;
"You may tell your virgin queen," he cried.
"That Scotland's rights were never defied."

Wi' the stroke of a sword instead of a file
He ransom'd Willie in auld Carlisle.

THE FRAY OF SUPORT.

*

["Of all the Border ditties," says Scott, "which have fallen into my hands, this is by far the most uncouth and savage. An Englishwoman, residing in Suport, (Cumberland,) near the foot of the Kershope, having been plundered in the night by a band of Scottish moss-troopers, is supposed to convoke her servants and friends for the pursuit, or Hot Trod; upbraiding them at the same time, in homely phrase, for their negligence."]

Sleep'ry Sim of the Lamb-hill,
And snoring Jock of Suport-mill,

Ye are baith right het and fou';-
But my wae wakens na you.

Last night I saw a sorry sight

Nought left me o' four-and-twenty gude ousen and

kye,

My weel-ridden gelding, and a white quey,

But a toom byre' and a wide,
And the twelve nogs' on ilka side.

Fy, lads! shout a' a' a' a' a',
My gear's a' gane.

Weel may ye ken,

Last night I was right scarce o' men:

But Toppet Hob o' the Mains had guesten'd in my house by chance;

I set him to wear the fore-door wi' the speir, while I kept the back door wi' the lance;

But they hae run him thro' the thick o' the thie, and broke his knee-pan,

And the mergh' o' his shin-bane has run down on his spur-leather whang:

He's lame while he lives, and where'er he may gang. Fy, lads! shout a' a' a' a' a',

My gear's a' gane.

But Peenye, my gude son, is out at the Hagbut-head, His een glittering for anger like a fiery gleed ;* Crying-" Mak sure the nooks

Of Maky's-muir crooks;

For the wily Scot takes by nooks, hooks, and crooks. Gin we meet a' together in a head the morn,

We'll be merry men."

Fy, lads! shout a' a' a' a' a',

My gear's a' gane.

1 Empty cowhouse.

2 Stakes.

A bar of iron glowing on the anvil.

3 Marrow.

There's doughty Cuddy in the Heugh-head,
Thou was aye gude at a need:

With thy brock-skin bag at thy belt,
Aye ready to mak a puir man help.
Thou maun awa' out to the Cauf-craigs
(Where anes ye lost your ain twa naigs,)
And there toom thy brock-skin bag.
Fy, lads! shout a' a' a' a' a',
My gear's a' ta'en.

Doughty Dan o' the Houlet Hirst,

Thou was aye gude at a birst:'

Gude wi' a bow, and better wi' a speir,

The bauldest March-man that e'er follow'd gear; Come thou here.

Fy, lads! shout a' a' a' a' a',

My gear's a' gane.

Rise, ye carle coopers, frae making o' kirns and tubs,

In the Nicol-forest Woods,

Your craft hasna left the value of an oak rod,

But if you had ony fear o' God,

Last night ye hadna slept sae sound,

And let my gear be a' ta'en.

Fy, lads! shout a' a' a' a' a',
My gear's a' ta'en.

Ah! lads, we'll fang them a' in a net,
For I hae a' the fords o' Liddel set;
The Dunkin and the Door-loup,
The Willie-ford, and the Water-slack,
Burst, battle, fight.

The Black-rack and the Trout-dub of Liddel;

There stands John Forster, wi' five men at his back.
Wi' bufft coat and cap of steil ;
Boo! ca' at them e'en, Jock;

That ford's sicker,* I wat weil.

Fy, lads! shout a' a' a' a' a',

My gear's a' ta'en.

Hoo! hoo! gar raise the Reid Souter, and Ringan's Wi' a broad elshint and a wicker;

I wat weil they'll mak a ford sicker.

[Wat,

Sae, whether they be Elliot's or Armstrangs,
Or rough-riding Scots, or rude Johnstones,
Or whether they be frae the Tarras or Ewsdale,
They maun turn and fight, or try the deeps o' Liddel.
Fy, lads! shout a' a' a' a' a',

My gear's a' ta'en.

"Ah! but they will play ye anither jigg,

For they will out at the big rig,
And thro' at Fargy Grame's gap."
But I hae another wile for that:

For I hae little Will, and Stalwart Wat,
And lang Aicky, in the Souter Moor,

Wi' his sleuth-dog sits in his watch right sure;
Shou'd the dog gie a bark,

He'll be out in his sark,

And die or won.