“But if auld Durie to heaven were flown,
Or if auld Durie to hell were gane,
Or ... if he could be but ten days stoun ...
My bonnie braid lands would still be my ain.
At this juncture Christie’s Will offers his services—
“O, mony a time, my Lord,” he said,
“I’ve stown the horse frae the sleeping loun;
But for you I’ll steal a beast as braid,
For I’ll steal Lord Durie frae Edinburgh toun.”
“O, mony a time, my Lord,” he said,
“I’ve stown a kiss frae a sleeping wench;
But for you I’ll do as kittle a deed,
For I’ll steal an auld lurdane off the bench.”
He lighted at Lord Durie’s door,
And there he knocked maist manfullie;
And up and spake Lord Durie sae stour,
“What tidings, thou stalwart groom, to me?”
“The fairest lady in Teviotdale,
Has sent, maist reverent sir, for thee.
She pleas at the Session for her land a’ hail,
And fain she would plead her cause to thee.”
“But how can I to that lady ride
With saving of my dignitie?”
“O a curch and mantle ye may wear,
And in my cloak ye sall muffled be.”
Wi’ curch on head, and cloak ower face,
He mounted the judge on a palfrey fyne;
He rode away, a right round pace,
And Christie’s Will held the bridle reyne.
The Lothian Edge they were not o’er,
When they heard bugles bauldly ring,
And, hunting over Middleton Moor,
They met, I ween, our noble king.
When Willie looked upon our king,
I wot a frightened man was he!
But ever auld Durie was startled more,
For tyning of his dignitie.
The king he crossed himself, I wis,
When as the pair came riding bye—
“An uglier croon, and a sturdier loon,
I think, were never seen with eye.”
Willie has hied to the tower of Græme,
He took auld Durie on his back,
He shot him down to the dungeon deep,
Which garr’d his auld banes gae mony a crack.
······
The king has caused a bill be wrote,
And he has set it on the Tron—
“He that will bring Lord Durie back
Shall have five hundred merks and one.”
Traquair has written a braid letter,
And he has seal’d it wi’ his seal,
“Ye may let the auld Brock out o’ the poke;
The land’s my ain, and a’s gane weel.”
O Will has mounted his bony black,
And to the tower of Græme did trudge,
And once again, on his sturdy back,
Has he hente up the weary judge.
He brought him to the Council stairs,
And there full loudly shouted he,
“Gie me my guerdon, my sovereign liege,
And take ye back your auld Durie!”
Important as this service was, it was not the only one that Christie’s Willie rendered to the Earl of Traquair. He was sent, on one occasion, with important papers to Charles I., and received an answer to deliver, which he was strictly charged to place in the hands of his patron. “But in the meantime,” says Sir Walter Scott, “his embassy had taken air, and Cromwell had despatched orders to entrap him at Carlisle. Christie’s Will, unconscious of his danger, halted in the town to refresh his horse, and then pursued his journey. But as soon as he began to pass the long, high, and narrow bridge that crosses the Eden at Carlisle, either end of the pass was occupied by parliamentary soldiers, who were lying in wait for him. The Borderer disdained to resign his enterprise, even in these desperate circumstances; and at once forming his resolution, spurred his horse over the parapet. The river was in high flood. Will sunk—the soldiers shouted—he emerged again, and, guiding his horse to a steep bank, called the Stanners, or Stanhouse, endeavoured to land, but ineffectually, owing to his heavy horseman’s cloak, now drenched in water. Will cut the loop, and the horse, feeling himself disembarrassed, made a desperate exertion, and succeeded in gaining the bank. Our hero set off, at full speed, pursued by the troopers, who had for a time stood motionless in astonishment, at his temerity. Will, however, was well mounted; and, having got the start, he kept it, menacing with his pistols, any pursuer who seemed likely to gain on him—an artifice which succeeded, although the arms were wet and useless. He was chased to the river Esk, which he swam without hesitation, and, finding himself on Scottish ground, and in the neighbourhood of friends, he turned on the northern bank, and with the true spirit of the Borderer, invited his followers to come through and drink with him. After this taunt he proceeded on his journey, and faithfully accomplished his mission.”[106]
If Christie’s Will may be regarded as the last Border freebooter of any note, it is evident that the peculiar genius of the family to which he belonged survived in full vigour to the end.
But the last of the Armstrongs who paid the penalty of death for his misdeeds was Willie of Westburnflat. It is said that a gentleman of property, having lost twelve cows in one night, raised the country of Teviotdale, and traced the robbers into Liddesdale, as far as the house of Westburnflat. Fortunately, perhaps, for his pursuers, Willie was asleep when they came, and consequently without much difficulty they secured him, and nine of his friends. They were tried in Selkirk, and though the jury did not discover any direct evidence against them to convict them of the special fact, they did not hesitate to bring in a verdict of guilty, on the ground of their general character as “notour thieves and limmers.” When sentence was pronounced, Willie sprang to his feet, and laying hold of the oaken chair on which he had been sitting, broke it in pieces, and called on his companions who were involved in the same doom, to stand behind him and he would fight his way out of Selkirk with these weapons. But, strange to relate, they held his hands, and besought him to let them die like Christians. They were accordingly executed in due form of law. This incident is said to have happened at the last circuit court held in Selkirk.[107]
Willie Armstrong, as he stood under the gallows-tree, might appropriately have sung the lines composed by Ringan’s Sandi, a relative of his own, who was executed for the murder of Sir John Carmichael, the warden of the Middle Marches—
This night is my departing night,
For here nae langer must I stay;
There’s neither friend nor foe o’ mine,
But wishes me away.
What I have done through lack of wit,
I never, never can recall;
I hope ye’re a’ my friends as yet;
Good night, and joy be with you all!