Now word is gane to the bauld Keeper,
  In Branksome Ha’, where that he lay,
  That Lord Scroop has ta’en the Kinmont Willie,
  Between the hours of night and day.

  He has ta’en the table wi’ his hand,
  He garr’d the red wine spring on hie—­
  “Now Christ’s curse on my head,” he said,
  “But avenged of Lord Scroop I’ll be!

  “O is my basnet[162] a widow’s curc[163]
  Or my lance a wand of the willow tree? 
  Or my arm a ladye’s lilye hand,
  That an English lord should lightly[164] me!

  “And have they ta’en him, Kinmont Willie,
  Against the truce of border tide? 
  And forgotten that the bauld Buccleuch
  Is Keeper here on the Scottish side?

  “And have they e’en ta’en him, Kinmont Willie,
  Withouten either dread or fear? 
  And forgotten that the bauld Buccleuch
  Can back a steed, or shake a spear?

  “O were there war between the lands,
  As well I wot that there is none,
  I would slight Carlisle castell high,
  Tho’ it were builded of marble stone.

  “I would set that castell in a low,[165]
  And sloken it with English blood! 
  There’s nevir a man in Cumberland,
  Should ken where Carlisle castell stood.

  “But since nae war’s between the lands,
  And there is peace, and peace should be;
  I’ll neither harm English lad or lass,
  And yet the Kinmont freed shall be!”

  He has call’d him forty marchmen bauld,
  I trow they were of his ain name,
  Except Sir Gilbert Elliot, call’d
  The laird of Stobs, I mean the same.

  He has call’d him forty marchmen bauld,
  Were kinsmen to the bauld Buccleuch;
  With spur on heel, and splent on spauld,[166]
  And gleuves of green, and feathers blue.

  There were five and five before them a’,
  Wi’ hunting horns and bugles bright;
  And five and five came wi’ Buccleuch,
  Like warden’s men, arrayed for fight: 

  And five and five, like a mason gang,
  That carried the ladders lang and hie;
  And five and five, like broken men;
  And so they reached the Woodhouselee.

  And as we cross’d the Bateable Land,
  When to the English side we held,
  The first o’ men that we met wi’,
  Whae sould it be but fause Sakelde?

  “Where be ye gaun, ye hunters keen?”
  Quo’ fause Sakelde; “come tell to me!”
  “We go to hunt an English stag,
  Has trespassed on the Scots countrie.”

  “Where be ye gaun, ye marshal men?”
  Quo’ fause Sakelde; “come tell me true!"’
  “We go to catch a rank reiver,
  Has broken faith wi’ the bauld Buccleuch.”

  “Where are ye gaun, ye mason lads,
  Wi’ a’ your ladders, lang and hie?”
  “We gang to herry a corbie’s nest,
  That wons not far frae Woodhouselee.”

  “Where be ye gaun, ye broken men?”
  Quo’ fause Sakelde; “come tell to me!”
  Now Dickie of Dryhope led that band,
  And the never a word o’ lear had he.