Part 11

The story of how this ballad came to be preserved to us is a very interesting one. A Mr Surtees, who was very interested in the old ballads, used to give work to a poor old Scotswoman to weed in his garden. Finding that she had learnt ballads in her young days, he encouraged her to talk about them, and this was amongst those which she recited to him. She told him that it referred to a young man named Bertram or Barthrum, who made love to a young lady against the wish of her brothers. The cruel brothers slew him, but the lady had him buried at the very spot where he was wont to come to visit her in the days of their love. Sir Walter Scott thinks that perhaps Barthram was an Englishman and the lady was Scottish, and that the anger of the lady's brothers against him was partly on that account.

It must be remembered that in those stormy days, when Border rivalry was keen, and all the Border chiefs, on both sides, were men of war-like mould, intermarriage between the two races was punishable by Border law. Each side felt equally that such mixed marriages would sooner or later produce a race that was neither loyal English nor loyal Scotch. A spirit of aloofness and rivalry was deliberately encouraged, right up to the time of the union of the two countries under one king.

*BARTHRAM'S DIRGE*

They shot him dead at the Nine-Stone Rig, Beside the Headless Cross, And they left him lying in his blood, Upon the moor and moss.

* * * * *

They made a bier of the broken bough, The sauch and the aspin gray, And they bore him to the Lady Chapel, And waked him there all day.

A lady came to that lonely bower, And threw her robes aside, She tore her long yellow hair, And knelt at Barthram's side.

She bathed him in the Lady-Well, His wounds so deep and sair, And she plaited a garland for his breast, And a garland for his hair.

They rowed him in a lily-sheet, And bare him to his earth, And the Gray Friars sung the dead man's mass, As they pass'd the Chapel Garth.

They buried him at the mirk midnight, When the dew fell cold and still, When the aspin gray forgot to play, And the mist clung to the hill.

They dug his grave but a bare foot deep, By the edge of the Ninestone Burn, And they covered him o'er with the heather-flower, The moss and the Lady fern.

A Gray Friar staid upon the grave, And sang till the morning tide, And a friar shall sing for Barthram's soul, While the Headless Cross shall bide.[#]

[#] Mr Surtees observes, on this passage, that in the return made by the commissioners, on the dissolution of Newminster Abbey, there is an item of a Chauntery, for one priest to sing daily _ad crucem lapideam_. Probably many of these crosses had the like expiatory solemnities for persons slain there. They certainly did bury, in former days, near the Ninestone Burn, for Sir Walter Scott found there, lying among the heather, a small monumental cross, with initials, which he reverently placed upright.

*Chapter XXXII*

*Queen Mary and the Borders*

The brief reign of Mary, Queen of Scots, was so crowded with incident that she was left with little time to visit the disturbed borderland of her kingdom. None-the-less her few visits to this district were fraught with important consequences. In 1565, when she married her cousin Lord Darnley, the head of the Douglas faction and a Roman Catholic, the Protestant nobles took up arms. In her very honeymoon she headed her soldiers, pursued the rebels to Dumfries, entered the town with a pistol in each hand, and laughed heartily at the fun of making her enemies "skip like rabbits" over the Border. She was only twenty-two years old--a fearless, dashing, attractive woman, with a clever head, a strong will, and a wild and lawless disposition.

In the next year she again visited the Border, but on a very different errand. Mary had developed an extreme fancy for that bold Border Lord, the Earl of Bothwell, whose Castle of Hermitage commanded the picturesque and important valley of the Liddel. The Queen had given him authority to control the fierce Borderers; and when the earl was riding out he met the most lawless of them, Jock Elliot, of whom the couplet--

"My name is little Jock Elliot And who dare meddle wi' me?"

Bothwell fired straight at Elliot with his pistol, wounding him in the leg. Elliot aimed a mighty blow at Bothwell with his two-handed sword, giving the earl so sore a wound that he was glad enough to gallop home while there was yet time to save his life.

Mary was holding solemn court at Jedburgh when she heard of her favourite's danger. She straightway took horse and rode to Hermitage, a hard cross-country ride of twenty miles, through a district infested with reckless men. When she galloped back to Jedburgh, she was in high fever and nearly died. Later on, in the misery of her long imprisonment, she often said, "Would I had died at Jedburgh!" Years later, a broken piece of a silver spur was found at Queensmire, on this difficult and dangerous road, just where Queen Mary's horse was said to have come to grief.

Yet another time Queen Mary came to the Border, this time to cross it--after her imprisonment at Lochleven, her escape, and the disastrous rout of her followers at Langside. Daring and resourceful as ever, she fled across the Solway in an open boat; Scotland had failed her, she sought the protection of England. She landed at Cockermouth, and was led to Carlisle by Sir R. Lowther, and kept there, in reality a prisoner, while Elizabeth was musing of the dangers of the position. The Earls of Northumberland and Westmoreland took up Mary's cause and attempted to rescue her, but the Warden of Carlisle, Lord Scroope, defended the town successfully against the two earls, and they were soon in flight, eastward for their very lives. After this attempt at rescue Mary was, for greater safety, sent down to Bolton Castle in Yorkshire.

Leonard Dacre, a member of the powerful Cumberland family of the Dacres, seems to have played a treacherous part, first promising the earls his help, and then betraying them to Elizabeth. He seized Nawarth Castle, which properly belonged to his young niece, and collected together three thousand men to the old Border war-cry, "A Red Bull, a Red Bull!" (probably the nickname of some fierce red-haired Celtic champion). The defeated earls came to Nawarth for shelter, and Dacre refused to harbour them. But by this time Elizabeth was convinced of Dacre's treason, and ordered Lord Hudson, the Governor of Berwick, to arrest him.

Hudson appears to have marched by rather a round-about way, for Dacre met him at Geltbridge, on the west of Nawarth. A bridge is always a good point of vantage for meeting an enemy, especially when the river runs, as the Gelt does, through a deep and wooded gorge. The enemy has only a narrow way by which to approach, and no doubt Dacre posted his archers behind the trees and among the great rocks. The fight was a desperate one, but Hudson's men prevailed and pursued their foes far up the hill of Gelt, scuffling fiercely among the forest trees and dyeing a deeper hue the red sandstone cliffs and quarries.

All the rebels who could escape fled across the Border to Scotland, where the Borderers, who were till then their enemies, received them with that open and fair hospitality which was one of their many great qualities. Elizabeth demanded that the leading noblemen should be given up to her; but although the Scottish Regent, Murray, made a pretence of trying to secure the Earl of Westmoreland, the Scots had too much sense of honour to allow him to proceed.

The Earl of Northumberland, was however betrayed to the Scottish Regent by Hector Armstrong of Harelaw; but this the gallant Borderers held to be shameful, and Armstrong was a ruined man from that day forth.

Two years later, this Earl was actually sold to Elizabeth and beheaded at York. Thus ended this small rebellion, called in history the Rising of the North, but which is known locally in Cumberland as Dacre's Raid.

There is a little stream which rushes down a deep and beautiful glade to join the river Gelt above Geltbridge; this stream is known as "Hellbeck," and villagers tell us that the reason for this name is that it was stained with blood for two whole days after some battle that took place there. This battle is probably the one spoken of here.

A wicket gate by Geltbridge leads us to the path through Gelt woods. The noble gorge is deeply cleft through the grand red sandstone rocks. Below roars and dashes the impetuous river; the path winds, sometimes high, sometimes low, through wonderful weeds, carpeted with beautiful mosses, gemmed with delightful flowers. On one of the rocks is an inscription carved by a Roman soldier, over fifteen hundred years ago. Follow the river, up, up, till the little Hellbeck is seen trickling down from the east; cross the little bridge and follow the streamlet on its opposite bank, along a path so little trod as to be scarcely visible; wander among ferns along one of the loneliest glens in the whole of Britain, passing the great railway bridge (_under_ if the stream be low or _over_ if it be high) till you join the main road again. There is no spot more beautiful or more peaceful. Yet this is the Hellbeck where men fought and hacked, and slashed and slew, among these woods, up and down these steep hillsides. These old trees, when young, have felt warm blood at their roots; and all because of a young, wild wilful queen, who fascinated men's hearts then, and the memory of whom fascinates them still.

*Chapter XXXIII*

*The Raid of the Reidswire*

"To deal with proud men is but pain, For either must ye fight or flee, Or else no answer make again, But play the beast, and let them be."

Reidswire, the name of a place about ten miles from Jedburgh, means the Red Swire. Swire is an old northern term for the descent of a hill, and the epithet red may refer to the colour of the heath.

The affair about which we are to tell took place on the 7th of July 1575, at a meeting held, on a day of truce, by the Wardens of the Marches, for redressing wrongs and adjusting difficulties which could not be prevented from arising upon the Border. The Scottish Warden was Sir John Carmichael, and among his following were the Armstrongs and Elliots, Douglas of Cavers (a descendant of the Douglas who fell at Otterbourne), Cranstoun, whose ferocious motto was "Ye shall want ere I want," Gladstain, "good at need," and the ancient head of the Rutherfoords, called in tradition the Cock of Hunthill, "with his nine sons him about." The English Warden was the haughty Sir John Forster, and he had full fifteen hundred men with him, chiefly Northumbrians, Tynedale, and Reedsdale men, who looked with scorn upon the much smaller array of their hereditary foes.

The meeting, however, began meekly enough, with merriment and jests. Such Border meetings of truce, though they might wind up in blood, as was to happen now, always began as occasions of marketing and revelry. Both parties came fully armed to such a tryst, yet intermixed in mutual sports and familiar intercourse,

"Some gaed to drink, and some stood still, And some to cards and dice them sped."

The Scots planted their pavilions or tents and feared no ill, even when they saw five hundred Fenwicks (a powerful Northumbrian clan) "marching in a flock." The clerk began to call the rolls, and to deal with one complaint after another for the loss of cows or ewes or other property. In the course of the proceedings an accusation was raised against an English freebooter named Farnstein, at the instance of a Scotch complainant. A "true bill" was found against the man, which means that he ought to be handed over to justice. But the English Warden alleged that he had fled, and could not be found. Carmichael, considering this as a pretext to avoid making compensation for the felony, bade the Northumbrians speak out plainly, and "cloke no cause for ill nor good." Upon this Sir John Forster, a proud and insolent man, "began to reckon kin and blood," by which picturesque phrase the ballad probably means that he swiftly added up his forces. Then he drew himself up, backed by his Dalesmen, all fingering their bows, and with insulting expressions against Carmichael's kin he bade him "match with his equals." The men of Tynedale, who only wanted a pretext for a quarrel, drew their bows and let off a flight of arrows among the Scots. The more moderate men on both sides at first tried to quell the tumult, but in vain. The fight was bound to come.

"Then there was naught but bow and spear, And every man pulled out a brand."

The English showed their usual dexterity with the bow. The Scots, for some reason, never took to this weapon; they had fire-arms, pistolets, and the like. The terrible cloth-yard arrows "from tackles flew," and the old proverb bade fair to justify itself, that every English archer carried twenty-four Scots under his belt--an allusion to his bundle of shafts. Success seemed certain for the English side; some of the foremost men among the Scots fell, and even Carmichael was thrown to the ground and was within an ace of being made a prisoner. The air resounded with the rallying cries of the English, the names of their captains, "A Shaftoe! A Shaftoe!" "A Fenwick! A Fenwick!" The Scots had little harness among them, only a few had the jack which served them as a defence for the body. Nevertheless, they laid about them sturdily, with "dints full dour," and there was many a cracked crown. Then suddenly a shout was heard. "Jedburgh's here!" A body of Jedburgh burgesses appear to have arrived just in the nick of time to add to the outnumbered force of Scots. They probably wore armour and what were called "white hats," that is steel caps. Meanwhile, the English, too confident of easy victory, instead of slaying more Scots and turning the repulse into a rout, thought only to plunder the unhappy merchants, who, trusting to the truce which had been proclaimed, had attached themselves to the meeting. Had it not been for the English greed, the Scots would have been defeated. As it was, the Tynedale men, throwing themselves on the merchants' packs, fell into disorder, their adversaries recovered from their surprise, and the timely arrival of the Jedburgh men turned the tables. A short, sharp bout ended in the triumph of the Scots and the Northumbrians fled, "Down ower the brae, like clogged bees." The Scots took many prisoners, amongst whom were the English Warden, and his son-in-law, Sir Francis Russell; but the most gallant soldier taken that day was that courteous knight, Sir Cuthbert Collingwood, to whose family Admiral Collingwood belonged. Several of those "Fenwicks fierce," who had turned up five hundred strong at the commencement of the fray, had the mortification of being carried off in triumph by their enemies. All these prisoners were sent to the Earl of Morton, Regent of Scotland, who detained them at Dalkeith for some days, until the bitter feeling natural after such an affair had died down, at any rate in part, and by this prudent precaution the Regent is thought to have probably averted a war between the two kingdoms. He ultimately permitted them to return to their own country, parting from them with great expressions of regard. The interest taken in the matter by Queen Elizabeth, and the representations of her Ambassador at Edinburgh, no doubt had something to do with this happy issue.

It will probably occur to the careful reader of this book as somewhat strange to find the ruling powers of England and Scotland both so set upon peace; but it must be remembered that at this period in the reign of Queen Elizabeth the heir-apparent to the English throne was the young James VI., King of Scotland, who would naturally not wish for any quarrel with the country which he hoped later on to rule. Elizabeth, on the other hand, had Mary Queen of Scots as her prisoner, and did not wish in any further way to strain the already delicate relations between the two countries.

The Carmichael mentioned in this ballad, known in full as Sir John Carmichael of Edrom, Scottish Warden of the Middle Marches, was afterwards murdered by one of the wild Armstrongs, who is said to have composed, the night before his execution, the following manly and pathetic "Good-night." The third and fourth lines show clearly the disrepute into which this once honoured clan was falling; the seventh and eighth lines could only have been written by one who, despite his faults, had the true gallant instincts deep in his blood.

ARMSTRONG'S GOOD-NIGHT

"This night is my departing night, For here nae langer must I stay; There's neither friend nor foe o' mine, But wishes me away.

What I have done thro' lack of wit, I never, never can recall; I hope ye're a' my friends as yet; Good-night and joy be with you all!"

*Chapter XXXIV*

*Jock o' the Side*

"He is well kend, John of the Syde, A greater thief did never ryde."

The subject of this ballad bears some resemblance to Kinmont Willie, and such adventures were not uncommon in those turbulent times. The events we are to relate originated in a raid ridden by the famous Liddesdale spearmen (the hardiest of the Scotch moss-troopers) upon English ground.

"They had better hae staid at home," for the outcome was that one of their best men, Michael of Winfield, was killed, and Jock o' the Side, nephew to the Laird of Mangerton, was taken prisoner, and promptly lodged in Newcastle Jail. When the news reached Jock's mother she kilted her coats up to her knee, and ran down the water with the tears falling in torrents from her eyes. She ran to Mangerton House, on the banks of the Liddel, and told her brother, the good old lord, the bad news. "Michael is killed, and they have taken my son John." "Never fear, sister," quoth Mangerton, "I have eighty-three yokes of oxen, my barns, my byres, my folds are all filled, I'll part with them all ere Johnie shall die." Then he thought out his plan. "Three men I'll send to set him free, all harnessed in the best steel; the English loons shall feel the weight of their broad swords. The Laird's Jock shall be one, the Laird's Wat two, and Hobbie Noble, thou must be the third. Thy coat is blue, and since England banished thee thou hast been true to me." Now this Hobbie was an Englishman, born in Bewcastledale, the wildest district in Cumberland. Like numerous other English outlaws, he had made his own country too hot to hold him; his misdeeds had banished him to Liddesdale, and he was now in high favour with the Laird of Mangerton. The Laird gave the dauntless three orders to reverse the shoes of their horses, so that anyone crossing their trail might think they were proceeding in a contrary direction. He also warned them not to seem gentlemen, but to look like corn-carriers; not to show their good armour, nor appear like men of war, but to be arrayed as country lads, with halter and cart-collar on each mare. So Hobbie mounted his grey, Jack his lively bay, and Wat his white horse, and they rode for Tyne water. When they reached the Tyne they lighted down at a ford, and by the moonlight they cut a tree, with fifteen nogs on each side, to serve them as a scaling ladder, to climb Newcastle wall with. However, when they came to Newcastle town and alighted at the wall, their tree proved three ells too short, and there was nothing for it but to force the gates. At the gate a proud porter attempted to withstand them. The Armstrongs wrung his neck, took his life and his keys at once, and cast his body behind the wall. Soon they reached the jail, and called to the prisoner,

"Sleeps thou, wakes thou, Jock o' the Side, Or art thou weary of thy thrall?"

Jock answered dolefully, "Often I wake, nay, sleep seldom comes to me--but who's this knows my name so well?" Then out and spoke the Laird's Jock, his cousin and namesake, "Now fear ye not, my billie!" quoth he; "for here are the Laird's Jock, the Laird's Wat, and Hobbie Noble the Englishman come to set you free." Jock o' the Side did not think it possible that they could effect his release. "Now hold thy tongue, my good cousin," said he. "This cannot be--

'For if all Liddesdale were here the night, The morn's the day that I must die.'

They have laid full fifteen stone of Spanish iron on me, I am fast bound with locks and keys in this dark and dreary dungeon." But the Laird's Jock replied. "Fear not that; faint heart never won fair lady. Work thou within, we'll work without, and I'll be sworn we'll set thee free." They loosed the first strong door without a key, the next chained door they split to flinders. The Laird's Jock got the prisoner on his back, irons and all, and brought him down the stairs with no small speed and joy. Hobbie Noble offered to bear some of his weight, but the Laird's Jock said that he was lighter than a flea. When they had all gone out at the gates, the prisoner was set on horseback, and they all joked wantonly. "O Jock," they cried, "you ride like a winsome lady, with your feet all on one side." The night was wet, but they did not mind. They hied them on full merrily until they came to the ford at Cholerford, above Hexham. There the water was running mountains high. They asked an old man, "Honest man, tell us in haste, will the water ride?" "I've lived here thirty years and three," replied he, "and I never saw the Tyne so big, nor running so like a sea." The Laird's Wat counselled them to halt. "We need not try it, the day is come we all must die!" "Poor faint-hearted thief!" cried the Laird's Jock. "There'll no man die but him that's fated; I'll guide you safely through; lift the prisoner behind me." With that they took to the water and managed to swim through. "Here we are all safe," said the Laird's Jock triumphantly. "Poor faint Wat, what think ye now?" They now saw twenty men pursuing them, sent from Newcastle, all English lads, stout and true. But when their leader saw the water he shook his head. "It won't ride, my lads," said he. Then he cried to the party of Scots: "Take the prisoner, but leave me my fetters." But the Laird's Jock was not a Scot for nothing. "I wat weel no," he shouted back, "I'll keep them, they'll make horse-shoes for my mare--for I am sure she's bought them right dear from thee." Then they went on their way to Liddesdale, as fast as they could, and did not rest until they had brought the rescued prisoner to his own fireside, and made him free of his irons.

*Chapter XXXV*

*Hobbie Noble*

"Keep ye weel frae the traitor Mains! For gold and gear he'll sell ye a'."

In the ballad of "Jock o' the Side," we have seen Hobbie Noble act a distinguished part in the deliverance from captivity of Jock, cousin of the Laird of Mangerton, chief of the Armstrong clan. Now in the following ballad we shall learn how ungrateful the Armstrongs were for his faithful services. The Armstrongs were one of those outlawed or broken clans, whose hand was against every man, and living as they did in what was called the Debateable Land, on the frontier between Liddesdale and England, these stark cattle-lifters and arrant thieves levied tribute from English and Scotch alike. Halbert or Hobbie Noble was an Englishman, a Cumbrian born and bred, but his misdeeds were so great, they banished him never to return, and he established himself among the Armstrongs. From their territory he continued his depredations upon the English, in resentment of which they at length offered a bribe to the Armstrongs to decoy him into England under pretence of inviting him to join them in a foray.