The poetical works of Sir Alexander Boswell :: :: University of Virginia Library

Crawford o' Kerse sat in his ha',
White were his locks as drifted snaw;
For stealin change o' shrivelin time
Had quench'd the vigour o' his prime:
And totterin limbs poor service yield,
Whan rivals struggle in the field.
His shrunken arm refused its part,
Tho' warm the throbbins at his heart,
For through his veins there flow'd the blood
O' auld Sir Reginald the gude—
That blood that rous'd the soul and might
O' Scotland's Hero, Wallace, wight.

In sooth he was a Baron bauld,
For toolyies tough in days o' auld,
A lion in the battle fray,
In deadly feud, a deadly fae.

164

But now, a venerable Lord,
He mirthfu' cheer'd the festive board
Wi' merry tale and hamely jest,
Or whiles he rear'd his warlike crest
As if prepar'd the brunt to meet,
And then recounted mony a feat
O' apen strife and artfu' wile;
Thus wad he listless hours beguile—
While a' around, his sinewy race,
Gaz'd, dumb wi' rapture, in his face.
Crack follow'd crack, the cap gaed roun,
That mony a cankerin thought cou'd drown,
Whan sudden at the yett a guest
Admittance claim'd—Quoth Kerse, “the best
Our almorie can yield bring ben,
I trow there's walth, gin he were ten,—
Shew in the stranger”—fair and free
In strode young Gilbert Kennedy.
“Kerse (said the youth), when feuds are sworn,
It matters nought how slight the thorn
That poisonous rankles in our side;
I bring defiance to your pride.—
The bauld Barganey bids me say,
Whan mornin breaks on Lammas-day,
A Sow upon your land I'll tether;
Like midges let the Crawfords gather,
Some teeth in angry fit may chitter,
But deil a man o' Kyle shall flit her.”

165

Kerse ee'd him wi' contemptuous sneer,
“My merry man—and come ye here
To jeer me at my ain fire-side?—
Gae hame, for ance, in a hail hide.
Time was, that Kerse wad blithe ha' ridden
Out oure yon hills at sic a biddin:
Fu' little value I, or mine,
Ten score o' Kennedys and swine;
Had wither'd Kerse a limb to wag—
But let the bauld Barganey brag.—
The Kennedys wi' a their power,
Frae Cassillis to Ardstinchar Tower,
May rise and flock like screechin craws,
Frae heights and hows, frae hames and ha's,
And hither come wi' blawin crack,
They'll bear anither story back.
Kerse is, alas! nae mair the man
That in the onset led the van,
But he has sons to shield his name,
Heirs o' his valour and his fame,
And if on Lammas-day they fail,
Curse him wha lives to tell the tale.
Let your proud Baron croosely craw
On his ain midden, days but twa,
But on the third, by this grey head,
He'll aiblins thank his geldin's speed.
This, in defiance, Crawford says—
Gi'e the chield room, lads—slip your ways.”

166

'Twas Lammas-morn, on Skeldon Haughs
The glintin sun had ting'd the saughs,
Frae Girvan banks and Carrick side
Down pour'd the Kennedys in pride.
And frae Kyle-Stewart and King's-Kyle
The Crawfords march'd in rank and file,
(If our fore-fathers own'd, of yore,
Sic term o' military lore).
Let them march on—a Rhymer I
Shall hae nae finger in the pye,
It's time enough for us to glowr
On battle-fields when a' is oure,
And draw our sketches o' ilk action,
Safe amang heaps o' putrifaction.
But troth a' battles are alike;
Some chields are stricken and some strike,
Weapons are sharp, and hides are tender,
And some maun fa', or else surrender;
Troops charge on troops, and slay and slash,
And sooghin bullets smite and smash;
Nae time, I trou, to shilly-shally,
Aff gaes the tae side, then they rally,
And on again, in mad delusion,
While heads and legs flee in confusion;
Some turn their backs and skelp awa',
And they that follow cry huzza:
Half o' the hale dung aff their feet,
Then is a Victory complete.

167

Crawford o' Kerse sat at his yett,
Mournin a dowie carle's fate,
That he, when stalwart bands were gane,
Fourscore, maun hurkle there his lane:
He gazed as lang as darklin sight
Could trace their march oure ilka height;
“And now,” thought he, “they're bye Drumloch,
And bye the Kraigans and the Trough,
And bye the Know and Bright-burn birk,
And down upon Dalrymple Kirk—
And now stark Esplin rushes on—
Had ever man a braver son?
Come on ye Kennedys, come now!
Fight on my sons! the loons shall rue
The day they trod on Kerse's land:
Now is the pingle, hand to hand,
Esplin stand till't, nor flinch nor bend,
Forward, ye Crawfords, wi' a stend,
The bloody toolyie settle soon,
And drive the reiffars oure the Doon!”
'Twas fancy a', his aged trunk
Worn and fatigued supinely sunk;
On wayward chance he ponder'd deep,
And sorrow felt, but scorn'd to weep,
Then roused again; again the fight
Flitted before his dazzl'd sight.
His anxious ee, but firm and fierce,
Wander'd bewast the Loch o' Kerse,

168

Watchin some messenger o' speed,
Tidings to bear in time o' need:
Whan lightsome Will o' Ashyntree
Cam breathless pechin oure the lee.
Lang, lang or he cou'd parley hear,
The auld man cried, fu' loud and clear,
“Is the Sow flitted? tell me loon,
Is auld Kyle up and Carrick down?”
Mingl'd wi' sobs, his broken tale
The youth began.—“Ah! Kerse, bewail
This luckless day—your blithe son John
Now, waes my heart, lies on the loan;
And he could sing like ony merle”—
“Is the Sow flitted?” cried the carle,
“Gie me my answer, short and plain,
Is the Sow flitted? yammerin wean.”
“The Sow, deil tak her, 's oure the water,
And at their backs the Crawfords batter;
The Carrick cowts are cow'd and bitted”—
“My thumb for Jock! the Sow is flitted.”