“Ride by the gate at Priesthaughswire,
And warn the Currors o’ the Lee;
As ye come down the Hermitage Slack,
Warn doughty Willie o’ Gorrinbery.”
The Scots they rade, the Scots they ran,
Sae starkly and sae steadilie!
And aye the ower-word o’ the thrang,
Was—“Rise for Branksome readilie!”
The gear was driven the Frostylee up,
Frae the Frostylee unto the plain,
Whan Willie has looked his men before,
And saw the kye right fast driving.
“Wha drives thir kye?” ’gan Willie say,
“To mak an outspeckle o’ me?”
“It’s I, the captain o’ Bewcastle, Willie;
I winna layne my name for thee.”
“O will ye let Telfer’s kye gae back,
Or will ye do aught for regard o’ me?
Or, by the faith o’ my body,” quo’ Willie Scott,
“I se ware my dame’s cauf’s-skin on thee!”
“I winna let the kye gae back,
Neither for thy love, nor yet thy fear,
But I will drive Jamie Telfer’s kye,
In spite of every Scot that’s here.”
“Set on them, lads!” quo’ Willie than,
“Fye, lads, set on them cruellie!
For ere they win to the Ritterford,
Mony a toom saddle there sall be!”
But Willie was stricken ower the head,
And through the knapscap the sword has gane;
And Harden grat for very rage,
Whan Willie on the ground lay slain.
But he’s ta’en aff his gude steel-cap,
And thrice he’s waved it in the air—
The Dinlay snaw was ne’er mair white,
Nor the lyart locks of Harden’s hair.
“Revenge! revenge!” auld Wat ’gan cry;
“Fye, lads, lay on them cruellie!
We’ll ne’er see Tiviotside again,
Or Willie’s death revenged shall be.”