The Works of The Ettrick Shepherd Centenary Edition. With a Memoir of the Author, by the Rev. Thomas Thomson ... Poems and Life. With Many Illustrative Engravings [by James Hogg] |
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The Tweeddale Raide.
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 | The Works of The Ettrick Shepherd |  |
The Tweeddale Raide.
This ballad was written by my nephew, Robert Hogg, student in the College of Edinburgh, on purpose for insertion in the Edinburgh Annual Register. He brought it to me, and I went over it with him, and was so delighted with the humour of the piece, that I advised him to send it with his name. The editor however declined inserting it; and it is here published, word for word as sent to him. A natural inclination to admire youthful efforts may make me judge partially; but I think, if it is not a good imitation of the old Border ballad, I never saw one. The old castle of Hawkshaw was situated in a wild dell, a little to the westward of the farm-house of that name, which stands in the glen of Fruid in Tweedsmuir. It was built, and inhabited long, by the Porteouses, an ancient family of that district. A knight of the name of Sir Patrick Porteous of Hawkshaw was living A.D. 1600. His eldest daughter Janet was married to Scott of Thirlestane. All the places mentioned are in the direct line from Hawkshaw to Tarras, a wild and romantic little river between the Ewes and Liddel. The names of the warriors inserted, are those of families proven to be residing in the district at the same period of time with Patrick Porteous. I cannot find that the ballad is founded on any fact or traditionary tale, save that Porteous once, having twenty English prisoners, of whom he was tired, took them out to the top of a hill called the Fala Moss, and caused his men fell them one by one with a mall, and fling them into a large hole for burial. Whilst they were busy with some of the hindmost, one of those previously felled started up from the pit and ran off. He was pursued for a long way, and at last, being hard pressed, he threw himself over a linn in Glen-Craigie, and killed himself. As the pit in which they were buried was in a moss, some of the bones were distinguishable by the shepherds, who digged for them, only a few years ago.
An' O right douf an' dour was he;
Nae voice of joy was i' the ha',
Nae sound o' mirth or revelry.
His ee was dark as dark could be;
An' aye he strade across the ha',
An' thus he spoke right boisterouslye:
My flocks in peace and safety strayed;
To-day, nor ewe, nor steer, is seen
On a' my baronie sae braid:
Wi' ony wight on Border side;
Make ready then my merry men a',
Make ready, swiftly we maun ride.
Gae saddle me my bonny gray,
An' warder, sound the rising note,
For we hae far to ride or day.”
An' soon owre hill, owre holt, an' brae,
His merry men came riding in,
All armed and mounted for the fray.
The moon raise owre the Merk-side bree;
“Welcome, auld dame,” Pate Porteous cried,
“Aft hae ye proved a friend to me.
Until Glendarig steps we won,
I'll let you see as brave a chace
As ever down the Esk was run.”
They met Tam Bold o' Kirkhope town;
“Now whar gang ye, thou rank reaver,
Beneath the ae light o' the moon?”
Tam Bold, I had a stock right guid;
Now I hae neither cow nor ewe
On o' the bonny braes o' Fruid.”
“Now, Pate, for thee my heart is wae;
I saw your flocks gang owre the muir
O' Wingate by the skreigh o' day.
An' tarry at the Tarras lair;
Gin they get owre the Border line,
Your ewes an' kye you'll see nae mair.”
The day-light glimmered on the lea;
“O, lak-a-day! my bonny gray,
I find ye plaittin' at the knee.
On you depends your master's a',
An' ye's be fed wi' bread an' wine,
When ye gang hame to Hawkshaw ha'.”
Till mony a naig he swarf'd away;
At length they wan the Tarras moss,
An' lightit at the skreigh o' day.
Tossin' their white horns to the sun;
“Now, by my sooth!” Pate Porteous cried,
“My owsen will be hard to won.”
I wat a stalwart lad was he;
“What lowns are ye,” he bauldly cried,
“That dare to stop my kye an' me?”
An' sey a skelp or twa wi' me,
For ye hae reaved my flocks an' kye,
An', by my sooth, revenged I'll be.
Was tamely harried o' his gear,
That Pate o' Hawkshaw e'er was cowed,
Or braved by Southron arm in weir.”
A dauntless blade I wat was he,
“Now wha are ye, ye saucy lown,
That speaks thus haughtilye to me?”
Light down an' try your hand wi' me;
For, by my sooth, or thou shalt yield,
Or one of us this day shall die.”
An' lightly on the ground lap he;
“I rede thee, Scot, thou meet'st thy death
If thou dar'st cross a sword wi' me;
O' Ringan's Rab o' Thorlberrye?
If ye hae not, ye hae excuse
For cracking here sae crabbedlye.
Wi' hingin' mou an' blirtit ee,
Ye'll tell your wife an' bairns at hame,
How Ringan's Robin yerkit thee.”
An arm o' strength an' might had he,
He brooked nae fear, but made his bragg
In deeds o' desperate devilrye.
Thou Southron thief o' gallow's fame,
I only ken that I am wranged,
An' thou shalt answer for the same.”
An' drew their swords o' mettle keen;
But sic a fray, as chanced that day,
On Border-side was never seen.
That shawed the red bluid to the ee,
Out o' the Southron's brawny thigh
He carved a slice right dextrouslye:
An' muckle good may't do to thee,
'Twill learn ye how to slice the hams
O' my guid kye at Thorlberrye.”
“The stang o' a wasp is waur to bide;
But or that we twa part again.
I'll pay it on thy ain backside.”
“Now, fy lay on, an' dinna spare;
If frae a Southron e'er I flinch,
I'se never wield a weapon mair.”
But scarcely doubtfu' was the day,
When Southrons round their captain closed,
An' shouted for the gen'ral fray.
It was a gallant sight to see:
“Lay on them, lads,” cried Hawkshaw Pate,
“Or, faith, we'll sup but spairinglye.”
“Lay on them, lads o' English blude,
The Scottish brand i' dalesmen's hand
'Gainst Southland weapon never stude.”
“Our horses lack baith hay an' corn;
An' we maun a' hae English naigs
Out owre the Penraw Cross the morn.”
Like auld pot-metal, yank for yank;
Montgomery, wi' his spearmen guid,
He bored them trimly i' the flank.
An' swore an' fought fu' desperatelye;
But Jockie o' Talla got a skelp
That clove him to the left ee-bree.
An' stude i' reid bluid owre the shoon;
The Johnstons, an' the Frazers too,
Made doughty wark or a' was done.
An' bathed i' bluid their weapons true;
An' Jamie o' Carterhope was there,
An' Harstane stout, an' young Badlewe.
He stood upon the knowe sae hie,
An' wi' his braid-bow in his hand,
He blindit mony a Southron ee.
An' reddened a' the Tarras burn;
“Now, by my sooth,” said Hawkshaw Pate,
“I never stood sae hard a turn.
An' brave the braidsword half so weel.”
“Deil tak the dogs!” cried Sandy Welsh,
“I trow their hides are made o' steel.
An' jagged an' nickit like a thorn;
It ne'er will ser' another turn,
But sawin' through an auld toop-horn.
An' by the deil an' a' his kin,—”
“Lord! stop your gab,” quo' auld Will Tod,
“Sic swearin' is a deadly sin.
Then swear like hell when a' is done;
If I can rightly judge or guess,
The day's our ain, an' that right soon.”
An' down the back o' Birkhope brae;
Had it not been the Tarras flow,
Nae Englishmen had 'scaped that day.
Lay gasping on the Tarras moss,
An' three and thirty mae were ta'en,
An' led out owre the Penraw Cross.
An' ransom gowd, an' gear their fill,
An' aye sin syne they bless the day
They fought sae weel on Tarras hill.
Back to their native hills again;
He hadna lost a man but four,
An' Jockie o' Talla he was ane.
O he was yetherit an' yerkit sair;
But he came owre the Penraw Cross
To herry Tweeddale glens nae mair.
| The Works of The Ettrick Shepherd | |