Oh! then sore shame fell on the Scott, And tears came in his eyes; “And is my bride the scorned Meg, That I did so despise?
“Let no man hate what he’s not seen, The shame on me doth lay:-- I rose this morning for my death, And it ends in my bridal day!”
The Baron of Thirlwall came from the wars, Laden with treasure bold; Among the which a fair table, All of the beaten gold.
And men will speak of the Baron’s wealth, Whatever he may say, And how a grizzly Dwarf does guard His treasure night and day.
Many a Border freebooter Eyed Thirlwall’s good Castle, Thinking to win the bags of gold, And eke the fair table.
But the Baron hath retainers bold, And swatchers many ane, And the Castle walls are high to win, Howe’er they fidge and fain.
The boldest one o’ a’ his men, Was Jockey of the Sheugh; The Baron loved him like a brother, And that was fair enoo.
Jock could wrestle, run, or leap, Wi’ ever a living man; Never a wight in Cumbernauld Could beat him at the span.
But Thirlwall’s Baron heeded not The word o’ Belted Will, Who dwells within the dark Naworth, The Border March to still;
He can rule all the Border round, Wi’ a peeled willow-wand; But Thirlwall’s Baron gecks at him, And all the laws o’ the land.
So fast come tidings of ravin wrong To Belted Willy’s ear; Quo’ he, “By my belt, I’ll trap this man, If I catch him in effeir.
“But he is like a wily fox, That taketh to his hole, An I can catch him on the turn, I’ll smoke him from his bole.
“He reaves and harrows every one, Tho’ he has goups o’ gold; I’ll lay a trap for him bedeen, By which he shall be sold.”
Thirlwall’s Baron heard his speech, Wi’ scorn almost he burst; “His anger it is like a haggis, That’s hottest at the first.”
Sore smiled the wily Belted Will, But in so dark a way; Better that smile were wanting there, Than on his lip to lay.
Jock o’ the Sheugh tirled at the string, Of the Baron of Thirlwall’s yett; “Up, up, and rise, my noble Lord, Some plunder for to get.
“There are a swatch o’ Englishers Coming from Carlysle town, Well laden wi’ the yellow gold, For Annan are they boun’.”
“Go, take a dozen o’ my men, And brattle o’er the lea, Lay wait, and watch until they pass The Bowness Witches’ Tree.
“A dozen o’ ye well may lick Three score o’ English tikes, Take all they have, and leave them so To tell o’ this who likes.”