'Dear to me is my bonny white steed,
Oft has he helped me at pinch of need;
Lord and Earl though thou be, I trow,
I can rein Bucksfoot better than thou.'
Word on word gave fuel to fire,
Till so highly blazed the Beattison's ire,
But that the Earl the flight had ta'en,
The vassals there their lord had slain.
Sore he plied both whip and spur,
As he urged his steed through Eskdale muir;
And it fell down a weary weight,
Just on the threshold of Branksome gate.
The Earl was a wrathful man to see,
Full fain avenged would he be.
In haste to Branksome's lord he spoke,
Saying, 'Take these traitors to thy yoke,
For a cast of Hawks and a purse of gold.
All Eskdale I'll see thee to have and to hold:
Beshrew thy heart, of the Beattisons' clan
If thou leavest on Eske a landed man ;
But spare Woodkerrick's lands alone,
For he lent me his horse to escape upon.'—
A glad man then was Branksome bold,
Down he flung him the purse of gold;
To Eskdale soon he spurred amain,
And with him five hundred riders has ta'en:
He left his merrymen in the midst of the hill;
And bade them hold them close and still;
And alone he wended to the plain,
To meet with the Galliard and all his train.
To Gilbert the Galliard thus he said :—
'Know thou me for thy liege lord and head;
Deal not with me as with Morton tame,
For Scotts play best at the roughest game.
Give me in peace my heriot due,
Thy bonny white steed, or thou shalt rue.
If my horn I three times wind,
Eskdale shall long have the sound in mind.'
Loudly the Beattison laughed in scorn ;—
'Little care we for thy winded horn.
Ne'er shall it be the Galliard's lot,
To yield his steed to a haughty Scott.
Wend thou to Branksome back on foot,
With rusty spur and miry boot.'
He blew his bugle so loud and hoarse,
That the dun deer started at far Craikcross;
He blew again so loud and clear,
Through the gray mountain mist there did lances appear;
And the third blast rang with such a din,
That the echoes answered from Pentoun-linn;
And all his riders came lightly in.
Then you had seen a gallant shock,
When saddles were emptied and lances broke:
For each scornful word the Galliard had said,
A Beattison on the field was laid.
His own good sword the chieftain drew,
And he bored the Galliard through and through;
Where the Beattisons' blood mixed with the rill,
The Galliard's Haugh, men call it still.
The Scotts have scattered the Beattison clan,
In Eskdale they left but one landed man.
The valley of Eske, from the mouth to the source,
Was lost and won for that bonny white horse."
The history of the border wars of Scotland is highly interesting. Scotland is only divided from England by an artificial boundary, but the two regions were once governed by different kings and laws, and the people thought they had different and clashing interests. Those who lived on the border, or contiguous territories of the two dominions, paid little regard to any laws.—They took justice into their own hands, or rather they defied justice, and devastated each other's property as much as they could, and they kept up for ages the hostilities which some needy robber had begun.
In the third canto of the Lady of the Lake—The Gathering— Sir Walter Scott represents in a very vivid manner, the spirit and alacrity with which the clansmen assembled themselves at the call of their chiefs. When the clansmen were suddenly summoned to their lord's defence, or that of his allies, a signal was carried through the tract of country which they inhabited, and with almost incredible speed they assembled themselves at the "trysting place," or as we say from the French, at the Rendezvous. The Funeral and the Wedding were alike suspended at this summons,
and the mourner and the bride were forgotten in the claim of a Scottish chief.
"Fast as the fatal symbol flies,
In arms the huts and hamlets rise;
From winding glen, from upland brown,
They poured each hardy tenant down.
Nor slacked the messenger his pace;
He showed the sign, he named the place,
And, pressing forward like the wind,
Left clamour and surprise behind.
The fisherman forsook the strand,
The swarthy smith took dirk and brand;
With changed cheer, the mower blithe
Left in the half-cut swathe his scythe;
The herds without a keeper strayed,
The plough was in mid-furrow staid,
The falc'ner tossed his hawk away,
The hunter left the stag at bay;
Prompt at the signal of alarms,
Each son of Alpine rushed to arms;
From the gray sire, whose trembling hand
Could hardly buckle on his brand,
To the raw boy, whose shaft and bow
Were yet scarce terror to the crow.
Each valley, each sequestered glen,
Mustered its little horde of men,
That met as torrents from the height
In Highland dale their streams unite,
Still gathering, as they pour along,.
A voice more loud, a tide more strong,
Till at the rendezvous they stood
By hundreds prompt for blows and blood;
Each trained to arms since life began,
Owning no tie but to his clan,
No oath, but by his Chieftain's hand,
No law, but Roderick Dhu's command."
The predatory habits of these clans originated in their rapacity and indolence, and were carried on by the spirit of retaliation. The chiefs, however, possessed some high qualities in conjunction with the passions which produced such shocking results. Ellen, in The Lady of the Lake, describes this combination of revolting and praise-worthy traits. She speaks of Roderick Dhu, the chief of Clan Alpine :
"I grant him liberal, to fling
Among his clan the wealth they bring,
When back by lake and glen they wind,
And in the Lowland leave behind,
Where once some pleasant hamlet stood,
A mass of ashes slaked with blood.
The hand, that for my father fought,
I honour, as his daughter ought;
But can I clasp it reeking red,
From peasants slaughtered in their shed?
No! wildly while his virtues gleam
They make his passions darker seem,
And flash along his spirit high,
Like lightning o'er the midnight sky."
The story of Sir Walter Scott's Minstrel is one of the warfare of the Scott's, (the family of the Dukes of Buccleuch,) with southern force and guile.—
"When Scrope, and Howard, and Percy's powers
Threatened Branksome's lordly towers.'
Branksome was the castle of the Buccleuch family, and Scrope, Howard, and Percy, are names of English noblemen from "Warkworth, and Naworth, and merry Carlisle," who were open enemies of the Scotts of Buccleuch. The action of the poem is dated about 1550.
In anticipation of an attack from the southern powers, the Scotts mustered the clans, their neighbours and allies. The alarm is exhibited with wonderful animation.
'Twas near the time of curfew bell;
The air was mild, the wind was calm,
The stream was smooth, the dew was balm,
E'en the rude watchman, on the tower,
Enjoyed and blessed the lovely hour.
Far more fair Margaret loved and blessed
The hour of silence and of rest.
On the high turret sitting lone,
She waked at times the lute's soft tone;
Touched a wild note, and all between
Thought of the bower of hawthorn green,
Her golden hair streamed free from band,
Her fair cheek rested on her hand,
Her blue eye sought the west afar,
For lovers love the western star.
Is yon the star, o'er Penchryst Pen,
That rises slowly to her ken,
And, spreading broad its wavering light,
Shakes its loose tresses on the night?
yon red glare the western star?
O, 'tis the beacon blaze of war!
Scarce could she draw her tightened breath,
For well she knew the fire of death!
The warder viewed it blazing strong,
And blew his war-note loud and long,
Till, at the high and haughty sound,
Rock, wood, and river, rang around.
The blast alarmed the festal hall,
And startled forth the warriors all;
Far downward, in the castle-yard,
Full many a torch and cresset glared;
And helms and plumes confusedly tossed,
Were in the blaze half-seen, half-lost;
And spears in wild disorder shook,
Like reeds beside a frozen brook.
The Seneschal, whose silver hair
Was reddened by the torches' glare,
Stood in the midst, with jesture proud,
And issued forth his mandates loud,
'On Penchryst glows a bale of fire
And three are kindling on Priesthaughswire ;
Ride out, ride out,
Mount, mount, for Branksome, every man !
Thou, Todrig, warn the Johnstone clan,
That ever are true and stout.
Ye need not send to Liddesdale ;
For, when they see the blazing bale,
Elliots and Armstrongs never fail.—
Ride, Alton, ride for death and life!
And warn the warden of the strife.
Young Gilbert, let our beacon blaze,
Our kin, and clan, and friends, to raise,'
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