Willeva and Speir Edom are small districts in Bewcastledale, through which also the Hartlie-burn takes its course.

Of the castle of Mangertoun, so often mentioned in these ballads, there are very few vestiges.  It was situated on the banks of the Liddel, below Castletoun.  In the wall of a neighbouring mill, which has been entirely built from the ruins of the tower, there is a remarkable stone, bearing the arms of the lairds of Mangertoun, and a long broad-sword, with the figures 1583; probably the date of building, or repairing, the castle.  On each side of the shield are the letters S.A. and E.E. standing probably for Simon Armstrong, and Elizabeth Elliot.  Such is the only memorial of the laird of Mangertoun, except those rude ballads, which the editor now offers to the public.

HOBBIE NOBLE.

* * * * *

  Foul fa’ the breast first treason bred in! 
  That Liddesdale may safely say: 
  For in it there was baith meat and drink,
  And corn unto our geldings gay.

  And we were a’ stout-hearted men,
  As England she might often say;
  But now we may turn our backs and flee,
  Since brave Noble is sold away.

  Now Hobbie was an English man,
  And born into Bewcastle dale;
  But his misdeeds they were sae great,
  They banish’d him to Liddesdale.

  At Kershope foot the tryst was set,
  Kershope of the lilye lee;
  And there was traitor Sim o’ the Mains,
  And with him a private companie.

  Then Hobbie has graithed his body fair,
  Baith wi’ the iron and wi’ the steil;
  And he has ta’en out his fringed grey,
  And there, brave Hobbie, he rade him weel.

  Then Hobbie is down the water gane,
  E’en as fast as he could his;
  Tho’ a’ should hae bursten and broken their hearts,
  Frae that riding tryst he wad na be.

  “Weel be ye met, my feres[181] five! 
  And now, what is your will wi’ me?”
  Then they cried a’, wi ae consent,
  “Thou’rt welcome here, brave Noble, to me.

  “Wilt thou with us into England ride,
  And thy safe warrand we will be? 
  If we get a horse, worth a hundred pound,
  Upon his back thou sune shalt be.”

  “I dare not by day into England ride;
  The land-serjeant has me at feid: 
  “And I know not what evil may betide,
  For Peter of Whitfield, his brother, is dead.

  “And Anton Shiel he loves not me,
  For I gat twa drifts o’ his sheep;
  The great Earl of Whitfield[182] loves me not,
  For nae geer frae me he e’er could keep.

  “But will ye stay till the day gae down,
  Untill the night come o’er the grund,
  And I’ll be a guide worth ony twa,
  That may in Liddesdale be found.

  “Tho’ the night be black as pick and tar,
  I’ll guide ye o’er yon hill sae hie;
  And bring ye a’ in safety back,
  If ye’ll be true, and follow me.”