THE COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. Walter Scott

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">       High of heart, and haughty of word,

       Little they reck’d of a tame liege lord.

       The Earl into fair Eskdale came,

       Homage and seignory to claim:

       Of Gilbert the Galliard a heriot he sought,

       Saying, “Give thy best steed, as a vassal ought.”

       “Dear to me is my bonny white steed,

       Oft has he help d me at pinch of need;

       Lord and Earl though thou be, I trow

       I can rein Bucksfoot better than thou.”

       Word on word gave fuel to fire,

       Till so highly blazed the Beattison’s ire,

       But that the Earl the flight had ta’en,

       The vassals there their lord had slain.

       Sore he plied both whip and spur,

       As he urged his steed through Eskdale muir;

       And it fell down a weary weight,

       Just on the threshold of Branksome gate.

       XI

      The Earl was a wrathful man to see,

       Full fain avenged would he be.

       In haste to Branksome’s Lord he spoke,

       Saying, “Take these traitors to thy yoke;

       For a cast of hawks, and a purse of gold,

       All Eskdale I’ll sell thee, to have and hold:

       Beshrew thy heart, of the Beattisons’ clan

       If thou leavest on Eske a landed man;

       But spare Woodkerrick’s lands alone,

       For he lent me his horse to escape upon.”

       A glad man then was Branksome bold,

       Down he flung him the purse of gold;

       To Eskdale soon he spurr’d amain,

       And with him five hundred riders has ta’en

       He left his merrymen in the mist of the hill

       And bade them hold them close and still;

       And alone he wended to the plain,

       To meet with the Galliard and all his train.

       To Gilbert the Galliard thus he said

       “Know thou me for thy liege-lord and head;

       Deal not with me as with Morton tame,

       For Scotts play best at the roughest game.

       Give me in peace my heriot due,

       Thy bonny white steed, or thou shalt rue.

       If my horn I three times wind,

       Eskdale shall long have the sound in mind.”

       XII

      Loudly the Beattison laugh’d in scorn;

       “Little care we for thy winded horn.

       Ne’er shall it be the Galliard’s lot

       To yield his steed to a haughty Scott.

       Wend thou to Branksome back on foot

       With rusty spur and miry boot.”

       He blew his bugle so loud and hoarse

       That the dun deer started at fair Craikcross;

       He blew again so loud and clear,

       Through the grey mountain-mist there did lances appear;

       And the third blast rang with such a din

       That the echoes answer’d from Pentoun-linn

       And all his riders came lightly in.

       Then had you seen a gallant shock

       When saddles were emptied and lances broke!

       For each scornful word the Galliard had said

       A Beattison on the field was laid.

       His own good sword the chieftain drew,

       And he bore the Galliard through and through;

       Where the Beattisons’ blood mix’dwith the rill,

       The Galliard’s-Haugh men call it still,

       The Scotts have scatter’d the Beattison clan

       In Eskdale they left but one landed man

       The valley of Eske, from the mouth to the source

       Was lost and won for that bonny white horse.

       XIII

      Whitslade the Hawk, and Headshaw came

       And warriors more than I may name;

       From Yarrow-cleugh to Hindhaugh-swair,

       From Woodhouselie to Chesterglen,

       Troop’d man and horse, and bow and spear;

       Their gathering word was Bellenden.

       And better hearts o’er Border sod

       To siege or rescue never rode.

       The Ladye mark’d the aids come in,

       And high her heart of pride arose:

       She bade her youthful son attend,

       That he might know his father’s friend,

       And learn to face his foes.

       “The boy is ripe to look on war;

       I saw him draw a crossbow stiff,

       And his true arrow struck afar

       The raven s nest upon the cliff;

       The red cross on a southern breast

       Is broader than the raven s nest:

       Thou, Whitslade, shalt teach him his weapon to wield,

       And o’er him hold his father’s shield.”

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