Part 15

And whan he cam to the fair tower yate, He shouted loud, and cried weel hie, Till out bespak auld Gibby Elliot— “Wha’s this that brings the fraye to me?”

“It’s I, Jamie Telfer o’ the fair Dodhead, And a harried man I think I be! There’s naething left at the fair Dodhead, But a waefu’ wife and bairnies three.

“Gae seek your succour at Branksome Ha’. For succour ye’se get nane frae me! Gae seek your succour where ye paid black-mail, For, man! ye ne’er paid money to me.”

Jamie has turned him round about, I wat the tear blinded his e’e— “I’ll ne’er pay mail to Elliot again, And the fair Dodhead I’ll never see!

“My hounds may a’ rin masterless, My hawks may fly frae tree to tree; My lord may grip my vassal lands, For there again maun I never be.”

He has turned him to the Tiviot side, E’en as fast as he could drie, Till he came to the Coultart Cleugh And there he shouted baith loud and hie.

Then up bespak him auld Jock Grieve— “Wha’s this that brings the fray to me?” “It’s I, Jamie Telfer o’ the fair Dodhead, A harried man I trow I be.

“There’s naething left in the fair Dodhead, But a greeting wife and bairnies three, And sax poor câ’s stand in the sta’, A’ routing loud for their minnie.”

“Alack a wae!” quo’ auld Jock Grieve, “Alack! my heart is sair for thee! For I was married on the elder sister, And you on the youngest of a’ the three.”

Then he has ta’en out a bonny black, Was right weel fed wi’ corn and hay, And he’s set Jamie Telfer on his back, To the Catslockhill to tak’ the fray.

And whan he cam to the Catslockhill, He shouted loud and weel cried he, Till out and spak him William’s Wat— “O wha’s this brings the fraye to me?”

“It’s I, Jamie Telfer o’ the fair Dodhead, A harried man I think I be! The captain of Bewcastle has driven my gear; For God’s sake rise, and succour me!”

“Alas for wae!” quo’ William’s Wat, “Alack, for thee my heart is sair! I never cam by the fair Dodhead, That ever I fand thy basket bare.”

He’s set his twa sons on coal-black steeds, Himsel’ upon a freckled gray, And they are on wi, Jamie Telfer, To Branksome Ha to tak the fray.

And whan they cam to Branksome Ha’, They shouted a’ baith loud and hie, Till up and spak him auld Buccleuch, Said—“Wha’s this brings the fray to me?

“It’s I, Jamie Telfer o’ the fair Dodhead, And a harried man I think I be! There’s nought left in the fair Dodhead, But a greeting wife and bairnies three.”

“Alack for wae!” quoth the gude auld lord, “And ever my heart is wae for thee! But fye gar cry on Willie, my son, And see that he come to me speedilie!

“Gar warn the water, braid and wide, Gar warn it soon and hastily! They that winna ride for Telfer’s kye, Let them never look in the face o’ me!

“Warn Wat o’ Harden, and his sons, Wi’ them will Borthwick water ride; Warn Gaudilands, and Allanhaugh, And Gilmanscleugh, and Commonside.

“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.