Stories of the Scottish Border

The Rookhope Ride

STORIES OF THE
SCOTTISH BORDER

BY

Mr and Mrs WILLIAM PLATT

WITH SIXTEEN FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS BY
M. MEREDITH WILLIAMS

GEORGE G. HARRAP & CO. LTD.
LONDON BOMBAY SYDNEY

First published December 1910
by GEORGE G. HARRAP & COMPANY
39-41 Parker Street, Kingsway, London, W.C.2
Reprinted: December 1916; March 1919;
April 1929

Printed in Great Britain by Turnbull & Spears, Edinburgh

Contents

[INTRODUCTION]

1. [THE CHARACTER OF THE BORDERS]
2. [A BRIEF HISTORY OF THE BORDER]
3. [WHAT THE BORDER NAMES TELL US]

CHAP.

1. [Bamburgh and its Coast]
2. [Athelstan at Vinheath]
3. [Monks and Minstrels]
4. [Sir Patrick Spens]
5. [Auld Maitland]
6. [The Mystery of the Eildons]
7. [Black Agnes of Dunbar]
8. [The Young Tamlane]
9. [The Gay Goss-Hawk]
10. [The Corbies]
11. [Otterbourne and Chevy Chase]
12. [The Douglas Clan]
13. [Alnwick Castle and the Percies]
14. [Hexham and Queen Margaret]
15. [Fair Helen of Kirkconnell]
16. [Johnie of Breadislee]
17. [Katharine Janfarie]
18. [By Lauder Bridge]
19. [The Battle of Flodden Field]
20. [After Flodden]
21. [Graeme and Bewick]
22. [The Song of the Outlaw Murray]
23. [Johnie Armstrong]
24. [The Lament of the Border Widow]
25. [The Raid of the Kers]
26. [Merrie Carlisle]
27. [Kinmont Willie]
28. [Dick o' the Cow]
29. [The Lochmaben Harper]
30. [The Rookhope Ride]
31. [Barthram's Dirge]
32. [Queen Mary and the Borders]
33. [The Raid of the Reidswire]
34. [Jock o' the Side]
35. [Hobbie Noble]
36. [The Laird o' Logie]
37. [Jamie Telfer of the Fair Dodhead]
38. [Muckle-Mou'd Meg]
39. [The Dowie Dens of Yarrow]
40. [Belted Will and the Baronry of Gilsland]
41. [Gilderoy]
42. [Archie Armstrong's Oath]
43. [Christie's Will]
44. [Northumberland at the Time of the Civil War]
45. [Montrose and Lesly]
46. [The Death of Montrose]
47. [The Borderers and the Jacobites]
48. [The Nine Nicks o' Thirlwall]
49. [In Wild Northumberland To-Day]

Illustrations

[The Rookhope Ride.] . . . . . . Frontispiece

[Egil at Vinheath]

[The Siege of Maitland Castle]

[Black Agnes]

[The Twa Corbies]

[The Final Battle in the Streets of Hexham]

[Johnie of Breadislee.]

[Flodden Field]

["Tell Us All—Oh, Tell Us True!"]

[The Border Widow]

[The Escape of Kinmont Willie]

[Queen Mary crossing the Solway]

["A Boon, a Boon, my Noble Liege!"]

["She Kissed his Cheek, She Kaim'd his Hair"]

[The Storming of Newcastle]

["'Tis I, 'Tis thy Winifred!"]

In liquid murmurs Yarrow sings

Her reminiscent tune

Of bygone Autumn, bygone Springs,

And many a leafy June.

No more the morning beacons gleam

Upon the silent hills;

The far back years are years of dream—

Now peace the valley fills.

No more the reivers down the vale

On raid and foray ride;

No more is heard the widow's wail

O'er those who fighting died.

When morning damns with all its joys

Then from the meadows rise

A hundred throbbing hearts to voice

Their anthems to the skies.

When noontide sleeps where brackens wave,

Ere shadows yet grow long,

No sound awakes the echoes save

The Yarrow's pensive song.

And when the eve, with calm delight,

Betokens night is nigh,

Beneath the first star's tender light

Is heard the owlet's cry.

While Yarrow's liquid cadence swells

By meadow, moor, and hill,

At morn or noon or eve there dwells

A mournful memory still.

W. CUTHBERTSON.

Stories of The Scottish Border

Introduction

I.—THE CHARACTER OF THE BORDERS

The district called the Border is one of the most interesting in Great Britain. It consists of that part of England that is nearest Scotland, and that part of Scotland that is nearest England, mainly the counties of Northumberland, Cumberland, Berwickshire, Roxburghshire, and Dumfriesshire.

The country is very picturesque and highly romantic. It abounds in great rolling, breezy hills, with swift streamlets or "burns" running down their sides to swell the rushing rivers. No part of our island has more beautiful valleys than those of the Border.

This bold, rough district, well adapted to defence, and situated also just where the island of Great Britain is almost at its narrowest, became, after many a struggle, the boundary between England and Scotland. The character of the country was suited to the rearing of hardy Moorland sheep and cattle; its inhabitants therefore were a tough, open-air race of men, strong, strapping fellows, fearless riders, always ready for an adventure, especially if it meant a fight.

In those days of Border strife there was hardly such a thing as international justice, that is to say, the people of one nation were not very particular as to what they did to people of another nation; therefore these bold, hardy Border men, Englishmen and Scot alike, were fond of creeping across the boundary to steal the cattle of their neighbours. Men devoted to such raids were called "Freebooters" or "Mosstroopers," the name "Moss" being given in the North Country to boggy tracts that lie about the hill-sides.

So it happened that the Border was in a perpetual state of petty warfare, conducted, it is true, with a certain amount of good-will and a rough approach to chivalry, and with the concurrence of the powerful Border nobles of both nations, who often played an important part therein. At times these raids developed into important warlike expeditions, when a fierce noble, or even a king, had some reckless game to play. Hence, among the ballads which give us so vivid an account of Border strife, we find descriptions not only of the minor doings of picturesque sheep-stealers, but also of pitched battles such as Chevy Chase and Homildon Hill.

The union of England and Scotland in 1603 naturally put an end to all the former excuses for raiding, and therefore terminated the true Freebooter period. After this, despite one or two belated attempts, such as Elliot's big raid in 1611, sheep-stealing ceased to be looked upon as an honourable calling, and became mere thieving. The men who would have raided one another's farms in 1602 became friendly neighbours after the Border Commission of 1605. There had been little malice in their former freebooting. Both sides were of one race; and they had the pleasure of finding that their lands went up greatly in value in consequence of the Border peace.

To-day, the Border presents scenes of peaceful cattle-farming. But Romance is still in the air, hangs about the fine, breezy moorlands and beautiful dales, and is seen clearly in the faces of the healthy Border-folk. A holiday at any Border farm would prove a most enjoyable one. There are wonderful Roman remains, for here it was that the Romans built their wall; there are castles of the Border barons; the views are wide and grand; the river-valleys are unmatched for beauty, and delightful wild flowers are plentiful, chief among which are fox-gloves, the giant wild Canterbury Bells, the handsome North Country wild geranium, several interesting kinds of wild orchids, and a variety of others too numerous to mention. Last, but not least, it is often possible in the evenings to see the farmers' sons engaged in friendly wrestling in the meadows, when we can realise that these great manly fellows are of the same vigorous race that kept the Borders lively a few centuries ago.

II.—A BRIEF HISTORY OF THE BORDER

Before dealing in detail with the stirring stories of Border history and legend, to retell which is the purpose of this book, we will first inquire—What is it that settles exactly the position of the border-line between two countries? To find the answer we must think what happens when a country is invaded.

If the invaders are stronger than the people whom they attack, they go on thrusting back their foes till these reach some strong position where, by the aid of mountain, river, or marsh, they are able, at any rate for a time, to hold their own. Thus, a border-line is always determined by some natural feature of the country which gives the defenders an advantage.

The attackers will not always operate from the same locality, and the defenders will not always fall back in the same direction; the two sides, also, will vary in power from time to time. For these reasons a border-line, especially in the old fighting days, was often altered.

When the Romans invaded Britain they gradually conquered the southern part of it, but they could not subdue the wilder north; one of their boundary lines was drawn from the Solway to the Tyne; then they fought their way further north and their next definite boundary was a line running from the Forth to the Clyde. Along each of these boundaries they built a great wall, and to this day parts of these Roman walls remain. But it is worth noting that neither of these wall border-lines stands upon the present border, one being all in England and the other all in Scotland.

When the Romans left Britain, called back to defend their own native land from invasion, there followed a brief period for which we have no definite record of events in this island. This is the period of King Arthur, and none can say how much is true in the Arthurian legends.

But history begins to become clear again about the time that the Angles came in their ships across the North Sea, bent on conquest. They landed on all the natural harbours of the east coast, driving the Britons back and taking the land for themselves. The fact that they landed on the East and drove the Britons westward, leads us to think that sooner or later a boundary would have been formed dividing the island into the east side (for the Angles) and the west side (for the Britons).

Now that is exactly what did happen. The border-lines were nowhere like the present ones. The northern kingdom of the Angles reached to the Forth, where these people founded Edinburgh (Edwin's burgh). On the west the Britons had sway in Cornwall (Corn-Walles), Wales, Cumbria (which stretched from the Mersey to the Solway), and Strathclyde (from the Solway to the Clyde). North of the Forth was the country of the Picts; while the Scots were a race recently come from Ireland, and they only owned what we now call Argyleshire, and the islands lying near to it. Not one inch of the present Border was at that day in the border-line!

Of the various races that lay round about where the Border now is, the Northumbrians seemed at first to be the strongest. The capital of their kingdom was Bamburgh, a place still famous for its castle, though to-day it is not important enough to have a railway station! But it still looks very picturesque on the wild coast, with the Farne Islands, the first seat of Northumbrian Christianity, in the near distance.

Ambition had much to do with the downfall of Northumbria. The famous King Eadbert would not rest content till he had scaled Dumbarton, the capital of Strathclyde. This was to his career what the march to Moscow was to Napoleon's, for, though Eadbert got safely to Dumbarton (756) his army was cut to pieces in getting back again. The Northumbrians seem to have lost some of their northern lands, for they moved their capital further south, to the old Roman city of Corbridge which stood on the Tyne just where the delightful country town of that name stands to-day.

In 844 a king of the Scots, named Kenneth MacAlpin, became (we don't quite know how) king of the Picts also, joining two strong races under one ruler, and thus was powerful enough to give great trouble to the weakened kingdom of Northumbria. He several times led his army through Lothian, the district belonging to the Angles between the Forth and the Tweed, but was never quite able to conquer it. It is important to remember that up to that date Lothian had never belonged to Scotland. The appearance of the Danes added to the confusion of those restless days. For some few years it was doubtful whether Scot, Dane, or Angle would get the best of it in Northumbria. But at last the genius of Athelstan of Wessex revived the power of the Angles over the whole of that large part of the island which they had settled, right up to the Forth itself. Edinburgh was still English in 957, and the border-line was still very far from the present one. But there was no longer a king of Northumbria; only an earl, who was subject to the will of the West-Saxon kings.

This fact of the dominance of the West Saxons, whose capital was far to the south at Winchester, must have added to the weakness of the Northumbrian border. By the year 963 the Scots had conquered Edinburgh, and it was now never again to return to English rule. Before very long the whole of Lothian had passed under Scottish control; but it was not yet held to be part of Scotland. Nor must it be thought that this conquest of Lothian fixed the border-line in its present position, for the king of the Scots was at that time ruler over Cumberland, which had never yet been English and was all that was left of the old British kingdom of Cumbria.

Frontier wars with varying successes between Scot, Angle, and Dane mark the stormy history of this time. The power of Cnut held back the Scotch attempts upon Nothumberland; but during a lull in the wars the grand-son of the Scottish king married the sister of Earl Siward, and received as her dowry twelve towns in the valley of the Tyne, an astonishingly imprudent arrangement.

At the time of the battle of Hastings, the earldom of Northumberland was so far distant from Winchester as to be somewhat out of the control of the King of England; the power of the Scottish kings threatened it; they held twelve towns in Tynedale, and Cumberland was a part of Scotland. The Northumbrians refused to accept William the Conqueror as their king; and had they been able to make good their refusal, they must sooner or later have been conquered by the Scots, and the border-line between England and Scotland would then most probably have been formed by the Tees, the mountain boundary of Westmoreland, and Morecambe Bay.

But William was not a king to be played with. He reduced Northumberland to subjection and carried his army into Scotland as far as the river Tay, where he forced the King of Scotland to admit that he, William, was his overlord.

Notwithstanding this humiliation, when King William returned to Winchester, the Scots several times went back to their favourite amusement of raiding unhappy Northumberland.

One of these invasions took place in the reign of William Rufus (1093), who went north in person. He doubtless recognised the fact that owing to the Scots possessing Cumberland they were in the strong position of being able to attack Northumberland on two sides. He took Cumberland by force of arms, and thus for the first time it became a part of England (the word "Cumberland" means the land of the Cumbrians or Welsh, a Saxon form of the Welsh word Cymry).

Rufus rebuilt the strong fortress of Carlisle to defend his new border at its weakest corner. For the most part this border is excellently protected by the natural rampart of the wild Cheviot Hills, and is in every way as good a border as could be devised. It runs in a fairly straight line from south-west to north-east, across a narrow part of the island.

But although this border-line proved to be a permanent one, it must not be thought that it remained undisputed. The times were rough, and hardy fighting folk lived on the Border. They had many grounds for quarrel, and took advantage of them all. For one thing, the exact boundary of North Cumberland was never quite defined till 1552; up to which year there was a tract of land between the rivers Esk and Sark, which was claimed by both countries, and therefore called the "Debateable Land." Then the Scots maintained that they were overlords of Northumberland, while the English kings cherished the notion that they were overlords of the whole island of Britain, and the wild spirits on both sides were always ready to fight.

Out of this fighting spirit sprung the stirring history of the Border, which forms the theme of the deathless Ballads, the stories of which it is now our purpose to retell.

III.—WHAT THE BORDER NAMES TELL US

Many a name holds a meaning wrapt up within itself like a nut in its shell. For instance, "Edinburgh" is a Saxon name—Edwin's burgh—and the word tells us that this noble city, though now the capital of Scotland, was originally founded by and belonged to a Saxon king of Northumbria. The Highlanders, in their own Gaelic language, called it Dunedin. This has the same signification as Edinburgh, but, like most Gaelic names, it is arranged in the reverse order to that in which an English name is generally put together. "Dun" means burgh, "Edin" is Edwin. This is the same Dun that we have in "Dundee," which means the burgh on the Tay, and might be translated as "Tayburgh." "Dumbarton" means the burgh of the Britons, and teaches us another notable lesson, namely, how far north in the old times the British influence extended. For "British" in this case means "Welsh." Nowadays we associate the Welsh with Wales only. Formerly there must have been a numerous colony of Welsh in Scotland, as the name "Dumbarton" testifies, as also many Scottish family names. The great name of Wallace itself, for instance, suggests such an origin, for "Wallace" is merely a corrupt form of the word "Welsh," and proves that the great national hero was of Welsh extraction. Then "Cumberland"—Cymry land—means the land of the Welsh, or Cymry, as they call themselves. The county of Cumberland did not really belong to the English till the time of William Rufus. The first syllable of "Carlisle" denotes a Celtic fortified town, and must be compared with the first syllable of "Carnarvon."

The presence of the Roman wall is shown in many names in Northumberland, such as "Wallsend," "Walltown," "Wallridge," "Heddon-on-the-Wall," "Wallhouses," and "Thirlwall."

For a very interesting instance of what a name tells us we may leave the Border for a moment and consider why the northernmost part of Scotland is called "Sutherland." It must have been so named by people living in the Orkney and Shetland isles, of a different race from the Scotch—that is, Norse settlers in those islands.

With regard to surnames, how many stop to think that "Oliphant" is merely a form of "elephant," and was originally an allusion to a big, burly ancestor? "Grant," which is the same as "grand," must also have been once applied to one who was a giant in size. The Frazers somehow got their name from the French word for a strawberry, fraise. The odd-looking "Scrymgeour" means simply a scrimmager or skirmisher. "Turnbull" recalls one who turned the bull at a bull-baiting. The well-known "Gladstains" or "Gladstone" has nothing to do with "glad," but is from "glede," an old word for the kite, and commemorates some stone where these birds frequented. "Buccleuch" is from the killing of a buck in a cleugh or ravine.

The Christian names of the Borderers are full of life and local colour, and differ much from those of Southern England. "Barthram" is the northern form of "Bertram," "Nigel" of "Neil," "Jellon" of "Julian," "Ringan" of "Ninian." It was the general custom to abbreviate Christian names or use them in the diminutive form, as is constantly the practice in these Border ballads. "Hobbie" stands for "Halbert," a fine old name which must not be confused with "Albert." "Dandie" or "Dandrie" is "Andrew," "Eckie" is "Hector," "Lammie" is "Lambert," "Lennie" is "Leonard." "Adam" becomes, in the familiar form, "Aicky," "Christian" becomes "Christy," "Gilbert" becomes "Gibby."

Another peculiarity of the ballads is the regular recurrence of such phrases as "the Laird's Jock," "the Laird's Wat," "Ringan's Wat," etc. These expressions mean, "John the son of the Laird," "Walter the son of the Laird," "Walter the son of Ringan or Ninian."

Chapter I

Bamburgh and its Coast

The little town of Bamburgh has two striking features—the great castle upon its stern rock, and the wild coast-line at its feet where dash the storms of the North Sea.

To-day it is not important enough to have a railway station of its own; yet once it was the capital of the great Saxon kingdom of Northumbria. Its original name was Bebbanburgh, so called after Queen Bebba; of its Saxon fortress hardly a trace remains, the present building being partly the old Norman castle, with repairs and additions of a later date. The ancient pile has a strength, dignity, and grandeur which accords well with its truly noble situation.

The North Saxons in choosing such a spot for their capital showed a very evident desire to keep in touch with the sea. Over the sea they had come; and over the sea would come both friends and enemies. Many a meeting of both friend and foe has taken place at Bamburgh!

Perhaps the fiercest of the enemies was Ragnar of the hairy-breeches, a famous viking who plundered, ravaged, and burnt without mercy. These vikings, powerful men and fearless sea-rovers, were a standing terror to Northumbria. Men with frames and muscles strong as iron; at home both on the sea and on the battle-field; fair-haired, blue-eyed men, guarded by helmet, breast-plate, and shield, armed with heavy weapons, because at that date the art of the smith was not equal to making them sharp, light, and strong at once. So these mighty warriors hewed their way through the field of battle with great strokes, and when their foes fled in terror, the vikings took back to their ships all the treasure they could find, and away they went across the sea again. But with all their fierceness they loved poetry (wild war-poetry, most of it) and they loved their strong, brave women.

Ragnar was a thorough viking. He loved fighting, and his handsome wife, and the battle songs he made. But the Saxons had no cause to love him, and when his ship ran aground near Jarrow, they bound him and cast him into a pit of snakes, and watched him slowly die. The viking had no fear of death. He sang as he lay there, of his life and his deeds—of the great banquets he had given to the wolves and the vultures and the fierce battles he had won, spreading the terrors of his name from the Orkneys to the Mediterranean; of his beautiful wife and strong sons, and of how they would avenge him; and of how Woden, the lord of all warriors, was calling him to his Hall.

Many a battle has been fought on that wild coast since Ragnar died; much history has been made thereabouts, and many legends have attached themselves to Bamburgh. Like most famous places, it had its own special dragon, the "Laidly Worm" or loathsome serpent of the ancient ballad.

"For seven miles east, and seven miles west,

And seven miles north and south,

No blade of grass or corn would grow,

So venomous was her mouth!"

And yet, when the gallant knight gave her "kisses three," she changed at once into a beautiful lady!

But despite its castle, its battles, and its legends, Bamburgh slowly declined in importance. As the capital of Northumbria it had been one of the chief towns in England. But the gallant Northumbria of the Saxons was more open to enemies than any other part of the country; Cumbrians were on the west and Scots on the north, and this was of all Saxon kingdoms the most exposed to the ravages of the Danes. From the capital of a kingdom it became the capital of a county (Bamburghshire), returning two members to Parliament in the reign of Edward I.; but it grew of less and still less importance, till at last it was known only to the student of history. It shared this fate with Lindisfarne, called Holy Island, once the Canterbury of the North, on whose rocky shores still stand the ruins of the fine Norman cathedral which took the place of the old Saxon one. Lindisfarne and Bamburgh—neighbours, divided only by a narrow belt of sea—two names that conjure up vivid pictures of romantic history. Yet suddenly, early in the nineteenth century, the great deed of a splendid heroine lent new glory to the wild, sea-girt town.

Grace Darling was born at Bamburgh in 1817, in a cottage on the south side of the village street, which can still be seen to-day. Her father became keeper of the lighthouse on the Langstone, a rocky islet five miles from the coast, guarding ships from the dangerous Farne Islands, a group of iron-bound rocks where seabirds dwell. In the early morning of September 7, 1838, during the raging of a most terrible storm, she heard the crash of a ship dashed upon the rocks, and anguished cries; as soon as dawn enabled them to see, the girl and her father made out the dark outline of the wreck, and the miserable forms of the mariners crouching on rocks from which the rising tide would sweep them inevitably to death. With superb heroism Grace and her father pushed their small boat into the furious waters, and after strenuous and dauntless efforts, always at the peril of their own lives, they saved the whole ship's company, nine souls in all. So fierce was the storm that it was three days before a boat dared take them from the Langstone to the mainland.

The roar of approbation which greeted her from the whole country found her as modest as she was brave. But for all her courage, this noble girl was not strong. She died four years later, and lies buried at Bamburgh, within sound of the sea. And the Langstone is known to-day as "Grace Darling's Island," and the tomb of the brave girl rouses sweeter memories than the frowning fortress of Bamburgh.

Chapter II

Athelstan at Vinheath

Famous among the old Norse sea-rovers was Egil, son of Skallagrim. In the course of his many voyages, he visited all the lands between the White Sea and the Bay of Biscay, and when at last he settled down in his Iceland home, where he lived on till well past the age of eighty, he loved to gather his children and grandchildren around him by the fireside during the long Icelandic winter, and to tell the story of his adventures. He was a true Norseman, fond of the sea and the fight, fond of his wife and children, fond of song, at which he was highly skilled. His songs and his stories of adventure were listened to with eagerness, and they were repeated after him, and were at last written down, probably between one hundred and fifty and two hundred years after his death. Books were scarce in those days, and stories were treasured and faithfully re-told. So this story of Egil was probably written out very much in the simple, vigorous style in which the old warrior would have told it to his grandchildren, as they listened to him with wide-open, wondering eyes. And as the old man had taken part in an early battle between Saxon-English and Scots, upon the Border, we have here a fine picture of how fights were fought in the reign of King Athelstan.

Egil was speaking to Icelandic children who knew little about England, so he began by telling how in the days when Harold Fairhair was king of Norway, Alfred the Great was the first supreme king over all England. When Alfred died he was succeeded by his son Edward, who was followed by Athelstan the Victorious. In Egil's day Athelstan was young and had but just been made king, and many chieftains, who had kept quiet before, now thought that the time had come when they could do as they pleased again. But Athelstan meant to show them that he too could rule England strongly and wisely.

These were the days of brute force, and the king had first to get an army together. Besides his own English folk, many roving Norsemen came to take his pay, and among the number were Egil and his elder brother Thorolf, with their men. They saw the king himself, who received them well. Athelstan was a good Christian, known as the Faithful, and he desired that Thorolf and Egil should submit to be marked with the Cross, that they might take their place by his Christian soldiers without quarrel. This they agreed to, and the king gave them command over three hundred men. Now Olaf the Red was king in Scotland. His father was a Scot, but his mother was a Dane of the family of Ragnar with-the-hairy-breeches, that savage old viking. Northumberland, which in those days extended to the Humber, and included York as its chief city, was half-full of Danes, and King Olaf wished to claim it for his own, and add it to Scotland.

Athelstan had set Earl Alfgeir and Earl Gudrek to rule Northumberland and defend it from the Scots. But Olaf of Scotland came south with his mighty host; there was a fierce battle; Earl Gudrek was slain and Earl Alfgeir fled. When Athelstan heard of the triumph of Olaf, he began at once to march northward with all the men he could get together; but he was yet young, and some of the treacherous earls, hearing that Olaf had so far been victor, deserted King Athelstan. Chief among these traitors were Earl Hring and Earl Adils, who should have been in the very front of the English army, but who basely went over to the Scots. Thus Olaf's host became exceeding great, greater by far than the English army.

Then Athelstan called together his captains and his counsellors; Egil was there, and heard all the grave talk as to what should be done. At last a plan was made that all thought good, and this is what followed.

First, messengers were sent to King Olaf, saying that King Athelstan would meet him in fair fight at Vinheath by Vinwood, in Northumberland, where he would mark out the field of battle with rods of hazel. He who won the battle should be king over all England. The armies should meet a week hence, and whichever was first on the ground should wait a week for the other. King Olaf should bide quiet, and not harry the land till the battle was ended. North of the heath was a town; there King Olaf stayed, for there he could best get provisions for his army. But some of his men he sent to the heath, to view it.

The hazel-poles were already set up on the large level plain. A river was on one side, and a wood was on the other. And where river and wood were nearest to one another, there King Athelstan's tents were pitched.

Many tents there were, but the front line of tents stood high, so that the Scots could not see how many were behind. Every third tent was empty, but many men were sleeping on the grass in the open, so that the Scots might think that the English had a large army there. Every day more English troops came in, and when the time was come that was fixed for the battle, English envoys went to the King of the Scots asking if there need be the great fight and bloodshed that threatened; if Olaf would go peaceably home, Athelstan would give him a shilling of silver for every plough that ploughed in England. The Scots took counsel together and said they must have more than this. Then the messengers begged a three days' truce to consider this. On the third day they came again, saying that King Athelstan would give what he offered before and also to the Scottish army a silver shilling for every freeman soldier, a silver mark for every lesser officer, a gold mark for every captain, and five gold marks for every earl. But the Scots asked not only for this, but also for Northumberland to be yielded to them. Then the English messengers answered that Scottish messengers must ride back with them, to take the answer from Athelstan himself.

Now the truth is this: that the Scottish king had taken Athelstan by such surprise that he needed time to get his men together; all these messages were but a trick to gain time till the king should come up himself with all the men he could gather. When, therefore, the messengers rode up to King Athelstan, he had but just arrived on the scene of battle. And when he heard the message he said: "Tell King Olaf this, that I will give him leave to return to Scotland safely if only he give back all he has unjustly taken from this land, and if he own himself my under-king, holding Scotland for me and at my behest."

This proud answer made the Scottish messengers at once see what had been going on. So they hastened back to their king to tell him how they had been received and what the meaning of it was.

When the Scots found that the English had thus outwitted them, they took counsel together in some anger. Earl Adils, he who had deserted the English, said that he and his brother, Earl Hring, would that very night make a surprise attack; if it succeeded, well and good; if not, then they could easily withdraw, and the main battle could begin in the morning. This the King of Scots held to be good advice.

So the two traitor earls and their men moved southward under cover of the darkness. But Thorolf the Norseman was used to the ways of war, and his sentries were alert and blew a great war-blast on their horns. And thus the fight began.

Thorolf was armed with a massy halberd that stood taller than a man; broad was its blade and thick its socket, and it ended in a four-edged spike. He had a strong sword by his side and a big, heavy shield on his left arm; he had a helmet but no shirt of mail. His brother Egil was armed in much the same way. The Norsemen's standard was borne by Thorfid the strong.

Next to the Norsemen, in the first rank also, was the division led by Earl Alfgeir, he who had once before fled from the Scots. King Athelstan gave him this chance to redeem himself. Now when the first onslaught of the Scots took place, Earl Adils came against Earl Alfgeir, while Earl Hring came against the Norsemen.

And now the battle began. The two traitor earls urged on their men, who charged with spirit. The fight was fierce, and soon Alfgeir gave ground; this made the foe press on the fiercer, and before long Alfgeir was in full flight. He avoided the town where Athelstan was, and fled night and day to the coast, where he took ship out of the country he had served so ill.

Adils did not dare to pursue him far, for fear of being himself cut off from his friends. So he returned to help his brother Hring against the Norsemen. Thorolf, like a true general, saw the danger of this, and at once told Egil to turn aside with half their force to prevent Adils from joining his brother. The Norsemen fought a grand fight, but were badly outnumbered, and the battle seemed to be going against them. Then Thorolf became furious. Disdainful of life, he cast his shield behind his back, grasped his great halberd with both hands, and sprang forward, hacking down all who opposed him. Straight for Hring's standard he went, nothing could stop him. He slew the standard-bearer, cut through the standard-pole, and with a mighty stroke thrust his halberd right through the body of Hring, the traitor earl, and lifted him up in the air that all might see that he was slain. Then Adils and the rest of the men fled to the wood, and thus ended the first part of the fight. More was to come on the morrow.

At dawn next day King Athelstan came forward with his main army. He had heard of the great deeds of the brothers Thorolf and Egil; most courteously he thanked them, and said that he would always reckon them as his friends. Then with his captains he made his plans for the battle. Egil he put in command of the front ranks of his men, and Thorolf he set aside to face those of the Scots who might charge the English in loose array.

Egil at Vinheath

"For this is the way of the Scots," he said; "they dash to and fro, rush forward and hither and thither, and are dangerous except to a commander who is both wary and bold."

Egil said, "I would rather that Thorolf and I were near together"; but Thorolf answered, "As the king commands, so will we do."

The battle began, and soon waged furiously. Thorolf and his men pressed forward along the woodside, hoping to take the enemy on the flank. Now, unknown to him, Adils and his followers were hiding among the trees, and of a sudden Adils sprang out and smote him down. Thorfid, too, the brave standard-bearer, was pressed back, but rallied the men, who fought desperately.

The Scots had raised a great shout at the fall of Thorolf, and this was heard by Egil, who, when he saw the standard forced back, feared that his brother was dead, for Thorolf had never drawn back from any foe. So with a fierce cry Egil hacked his way through to that part of the field, and when he learnt the truth from his men, he never rested till he had slain Adils with his own hand.

The followers of Adils then fled, and Egil and the Norsemen hewed their way through the flank of the Scottish force towards the place where King Olaf's standard was. Noting this, King Athelstan, that wary general, caused his own standard to be set forward and all his army to attack at once. Fierce and furious was the fight, and great was the slaughter. King Olaf was slain, with great numbers of his men, and the rest fled in confusion. The English victory was complete.

As soon as Athelstan saw that victory was his, he left the pursuit to his captains and hastened to the town to make his arrangements. Egil pursued far and fiercely, and when at last he came back to the battlefield his first thought was for his dead brother. Worn out though he was, he would take no rest until he had buried the warrior with full honours, with his arms and his raiment; and before the sad farewell was said Egil clasped a gold bracelet on both of Thorolf's wrists to show his deep love. Then they buried the hero deep and put a high cairn of stones over him.

Then one last tribute Egil paid to his brother, the greatest of them all. Among these old Norse warriors there existed a great love of song; the great fighters strove also to be great song-makers, and Egil was famous above most for this power. The Norsemen's poems had not rhymes like ours; they had short vigorous lines, and in each pair of lines three of the important words had to begin with the same letter. Wild strong chants they were. This is the song that Egil sang at the burial of his brother, Thorolf Skallagrimsson:—

"The halberd of the hero

Hewed down the foe before him;

Then in the brunt of battle

Was spilt brave Thorolf's blood.

The grass is green on Vinheath

Where sleeps my great-souled brother;

But death, in doubled sorrow,

Our doleful hearts must bear."

When Egil got to the town he found the king and his army making merry over their victory at a huge feast. The courteous king saw Egil and bade him come and sit near to him. The king watched the burly Norseman, who was tall, with broad shoulders, a powerful head and mighty strength; but now his head was bent forward, and he kept his sword across his knees, and now and again half drew it and then clashed it back into its scabbard like a man who fights with heavy thoughts. He ate little and drank less. Then King Athelstan, watchful and courteous, took a gold ring from his arm, and placing it on his sword-point, handed it thus to where Egil sat. At this mark of honour the Norseman's face grew brighter. Then the king sent round his own horn for Egil to drink; so he drank to the king and sang a verse of wild poetry in his praise, made on the spur of the moment; and with this the king was much pleased.

Then the king sent also for two chests full of silver, and said to Egil:—

"These chests carry to thy father; it is fitting that King Athelstan make him some gift for the loss of his son. And do thou stay with me long, and I will give thee honour and dignity."

Thus the great king in kindness and courtesy did what he could to soothe the grief of the warrior; and Egil stayed the winter with Athelstan, but when the summer came he wished to go back to his own people. But he had much respect for King Athelstan, and ere he bade him farewell he made a long poem to his glory.

From the Song of Egil Skallagrimsson, to the Glory of King Athelstan.

"See how the kingly warrior,

Land-warder, battle-wakener,

Smites even to the earth

The earls who rise against him!

Glad is now Northumberland,

This the king she needed,

Wise and bold of race and blood,

Dauntless in the battle-field!"

Many were the verses of this stirring song; and after each came the refrain:—

"Scottish hills where reindeer roam

Own the rule of Athelstan!"

The king gave Egil two heavy gold rings and a handsome cloak that he himself had worn; then the Norseman sailed away, for always near to his heart was the welfare of his dead brother's wife and child. Yea, for the rest of his long life he loved this child even as he loved his own.

Chapter III

Monks and Minstrels

The wild Borderland was the scene of the labours of many ol the first great Christian leaders. Where the arts of war were so much practised, it was needful that the arts of peace should flourish also. Great was the influence, even in the wildest times, of these able, serious, devoted leaders of early religious thought, men like Ninian and Kentigern.

Christianity first came into Britain in Roman times, and some of the Britons were converted. After the Romans quitted the country, King Arthur was the leader of the Christian Britons, and he is said to have fought with the pagan Britons, the pagan Picts, the pagan Saxons, who had begun their invasions, and the disorderly soldiers of various races, probably pagans whom the Romans left behind along the wall.

In due time the fight developed into a struggle between Christian Britons and pagan Saxons, and then the Saxons themselves began to accept the new religion. Oswald, a Northumbrian prince, had in a time of peril hidden in the island of Iona, to where the great Irishman Columba had come from Ireland as a missionary. When Oswald returned to power he summoned to his kingdom Aidan, a high-minded Christian teacher, whom he made first bishop of Lindisfarne (Holy Island). Aidan being a Celt, had to do his work through interpreters, but he did it well, and laid the foundations of Christianity and learning in Northumbria. Cuthbert was another famous missionary. Rising from shepherd-boy to bishop, he impressed both king and peasant by the dignified simplicity and sincerity of his life. His place of meditation was a sea-girt rock by Lindisfarne, lonely and picturesque, and still called after his name. A curious fossil, with the mark of a cross, is plentiful there, and goes by the name of St Cuthbert's beads. Other famous teachers were Wilfrid of York, who founded the churches of Hexham and Ripon; Boisil, who founded Melrose, and Biscop, who founded Jarrow.

But perhaps the most celebrated of all was Bede, the "Venerable Bede," who lived at Jarrow and wrote forty-five learned books on all subjects, including music, astronomy, and medicine. All the scholars in England flocked to hear his teachings, and he was justly called "the father of English learning." He it was who first introduced into England the art of making glass.

His last work was to translate the Gospel of St John into Northumbrian English. This was in the year 735. Being too ill to hold a pen, he dictated to his favourite pupil. "Write quickly," he said, for he felt that he was dying. "It is finished," answered the lad, and the old man's heart was satisfied. In a faint, brave voice he chanted the Gloria, and so died singing.

In those days there was, of course, no such thing as printing. Every manuscript was written and rewritten, carefully, by hand, and treasured as a sacred possession in the seats of learning. So proud were they of their manuscripts that they beautified them with illustrations in colour. Many of these manuscripts have, of course, been destroyed; for instance, the Danes in 875 burnt the priceless library of Bishop Acca at Hexham, destroying in one day the treasured collection of a lifetime; but many remain to show the love of learning which existed even then. Bishop Edfrid, who lived in the little rocky island of Lindisfarne, made a copy of the Gospels, which is looked upon with wonder even to-day. Strings of beautiful birds and quaint animals are drawn upon his pages; evangelists with mantles of purple and tunics of blue, pink, or green. With the writing clear and beautiful, the decorations showing the greatest care and devotion, this manuscript of one thousand two hundred years ago has been the delight of thousands, and comes down to us to witness to the loving care of the scholars of old in the days before printing was known.

Great as was their love of beautiful manuscripts, they had an equally noble passion for grand buildings. A superb monument of simple dignity and religious grandeur is the Norman Cathedral at Durham, commenced by Bishop Carilef in 1093, and finished by Bishop Flambard in 1128. Occupying a wonderful position at the top of a wooded hill, around which flows the beautiful river Wear, Durham Cathedral is in itself one of the noblest buildings in the world. While the Church in those troublous times kept thus a storehouse of learning for serious scholars, other methods kept the people informed of the more stirring events of their day.

In the old days, when no newspapers existed to tell people the news, when books were scarce and history was not taught to every lad as a part of his training, the ballad-writer and the wandering minstrel played a very important part. Ballads, sometimes really fine pieces of poetry, sometimes a mere halting troop of lame lines, were made upon every occasion of local or general interest. They were sung to simple and often beautiful tunes or chants. The best of the minstrels were welcome to the halls of the nobles, and even to the king himself; the poorest of them sang on the village green. The ballads were learnt and repeated by the folk of the country-side; some were in later times printed on loose sheets, but at first they were handed on from mouth to mouth. Alterations and errors often crept in; mistakes due to a sameness of sound. For instance, in the old ballad of Mary Ambree, a soldier is referred to as "Sir John Major," probably meaning Sergeant-major. In one of the versions of the battle of Chevy Chase, Henry Percy was said to have been killed there, whereas he really lived on to be slain at Shrewsbury. But, despite such occasional blunders, the ballads on the whole throw a vivid light on the manners and customs of the old days, as well as being usually stirring and sometimes strikingly noble and pathetic pieces of poetry. They deal as a rule rather with the side currents than with the main stream of history; but they express themselves with such homely force and directness that they bring home to us with wonderful clearness the character of the vigorous manly men with whose doings they are chiefly concerned.

During the last one hundred and fifty years many able men have laboured to collect old ballads, writing them down from the mouths of the country-folk and printing them in books with notes of explanation. One of the earliest thus to collect ballads seriously was Bishop Percy; the best known is Sir Walter Scott, of whose interest in the subject Lockhart, his biographer, writes very pleasantly.

Prefaced to many of the stirring tales in this present book are lines from the old Border ballads from which they are taken. It is to be hoped that readers will be tempted sooner or later to read the rest of these fine ballads for themselves.

Chapter IV

Sir Patrick Spens

"The king sits in Dunfermline town

Drinking the blood-red wine;

'O where shall I get a well-skilled skipper

To sail this new ship of mine?'"

Almost every collection of Scottish songs contains this picturesque old ballad, which refers to a very remote time in Scottish history, probably the end of the thirteenth century. King Alexander III. of Scotland died in 1285; he had the bitter grief of seeing all his children die before him. His daughter Margaret had been married to Eric, King of Norway, and she left a daughter also called Margaret, and known as the "Maid of Norway." This maid was now heiress to the Scottish throne, and it is natural to suppose that the lonely king should wish her to return to Scotland, and should send a richly appointed ship to fetch her back. And although there is no strictly historical record of such an expedition, the truth of the ballad is made more probable by the fact that it opens in the fine old town of Dunfermline.

Dunfermline was a favourite residence of Alexander, who was killed in its neighbourhood by a fall from his horse, and was buried in the abbey there, the ruins of which beautiful structure still remain.

In this ballad the king is feasting at Dunfermline town, and calls for a skilful mariner to sail his new ship. An old knight at the king's right hand answers that the best sailor who ever sailed the sea is Sir Patrick Spens. So the king writes a letter, sealing it with his own hand, and sends it to Sir Patrick, commanding him to sail away to Norway over the white sea-foam and bring home the maid.

Now every good sailor dreaded the rough Northern seas in winter, so though the brave Sir Patrick laughed aloud when he began to read, he wept blinding tears before he had ended. "Who has done this deed?" he cried; "who has told the king of me and urged him to send us out at this time of the year to sail on the stormy sea? Yet, wind, wet, hail, or sleet, we must set out, for 'tis we who must fetch home the maid."

So they set sail on a Monday morning, and reached Norway on a Wednesday. History tells us that Eric of Norway was very unwilling to part with his daughter. This probably accounts for the fact that the old ballad tells us that the Scotsmen had only been there a fortnight when the lords of Norway began to say that Sir Patrick and his men were spending the gold of their king and queen. "Ye lie," cried Sir Patrick, "loudly I hear ye lie, for I brought with me over the sea enough red gold and white money to supply the wants of my men. Make ready, make ready, my merry men; we will sail at daybreak." "Alack," quoth the men, "a deadly storm is brewing. Yesterday evening the new moon was seen carrying the old moon in her arms; we shall certainly come to harm if we go to sea."

Barely had they sailed three leagues when the sky darkened, the wind blew loudly, and the sea grew boisterous. Soon they were in the midst of a terrible storm. The anger of the sea was far more dreadful than the anger of the lords of Norway. The anchors broke away, the topmasts snapped, and the waves came over the broken ship, tearing her sides asunder. "O where shall I get a good sailor to take the helm while I climb the tall topmast to see if I can espy land?" "That I fear ye never will," cried a sailor as he took the helm, and scarcely had Sir Patrick gone a step when a plank started in the ship's side and the water came pouring in.

"Fetch a web of silken cloth, and fetch a web of twine," cried Sir Patrick, "and cast them down to our ship's side!" For it was the custom in those days, when a leak could not be reached from inside the vessel, to cast down some closely woven stuff in the hope that the suction of the water would drag it across the leak and stop thus the fatal inrush of water. Alas! all their efforts failed. Then the ballad-writer says somewhat grimly of the dandies among the Scottish lords that whereas at first they grumbled to see the water spoil their fine cork-heeled shoes, when the storm had done its fatal work the sea was "above their hats"!

"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.

The Siege of Maitland Castle

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.

Black Agnes

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?"—