* * * *
*
Sleep’ry Sim of the Lamb-hill,
And snoring Jock of Suport-mill,
Ye are baith right het and fou’;—
But my wae wakens na you.
Last night I saw a sorry sight—
Nought left me, o’ four-and-twenty
gude ousen and ky,
My weel-ridden gelding, and a white quey,
But a toom byre and a wide,
And the twelve nogs193 on ilka side.
Fy lads! shout a’ a’ a’
a’ a’,
My gear’s a’ gane.
Weel may ye ken, Last night I was right
scarce o’ men: But Toppet Hob o’
the Mains had guesten’d in my house by chance;
I set him to wear the fore-door wi’ the speir,
while I kept the back door wi’ the lance;
But they hae run him thro’ the thick o’
the thie, and broke his knee-pan, And the mergh194
o’ his shin bane has run down on his spur
leather whang: He’s lame while he lives,
and where’er he may gang. Fy lads! shout
a’ a’ a’ a’ a’, My
gear’s a’ gane.
But Peenye, my gude son, is out at the
Hagbut-head,
His e’en glittering for anger like
a fierye gleed;
Crying—“Mak sure the
nooks
Of Maky’s-muir crooks;
For the wily Scot takes by nooks, hooks,
and crooks.
Gin we meet a’ together in a head
the morn,
We’ll be merry men.”
Fy lads! shout a’ a’ a’
a’ a’
My gear’s a’ gane.
There’s doughty Cuddy in the Heugh-head,
Thou was aye gude at a’ need:
With thy brock-skin bag at thy belt,
Ay ready to mak a puir man help.
Thou maun awa’ out to the cauf-craigs,
(Where anes ye lost your ain twa naigs)
And there toom thy brock-skin bag.
Fy lads! shout a’ a’ a’
a’ a’,
My gear’s a’ taen.
Doughty Dan o’ the Houlet Hirst,
Thou was aye gude at a birst:
Gude wi’ a bow, and better wi’
a speir,
The bauldest march-man, that e’er
followed gear;
Come thou here.
Fy lads! shout a’ a’ a’
a’ a’,
My gear’s a’ gane.
Rise, ye carle coopers, frae making o’
kirns and tubs,
In the Nicol forest woods.
Your craft has na left the value of an
oak rod,
But if you had had ony fear o’ God,
Last night ye had na slept sae sound,
And let my gear be a’ ta’en.
Fy lads! shout a’ a’ a’
a’ a’,
My gear’s a’ ta’en.
Ah! lads, we’ll fang them a’
in a net!
For I hae a’ the fords o’
Liddel set;
The Dunkin, and the Door-loup,
The Willie-ford, and the Water-slack,
The Black-rack and the Trout-dub o’
Liddel;
There stands John Forster wi’ five
men at his back,
Wi’ bufft coat and cap of steil:
Boo! ca’ at them e’en, Jock;
That ford’s sicker, I wat weil.
Fy lads! shout a’ a’ a’
a’ a’,
My gear’s a’ ta’en.
Hoo! hoo! gar raise the Reid Souter, and
Ringan’s Wat,
Wi’ a broad elshin and a wicker;
I wat weil they’ll mak a ford sicker.
Sae whether they be Elliots or Armstrangs,
Or rough riding Scots, or rude Johnstones,
Or whether they be frae the Tarras or
Ewsdale,
They maun turn and fight, or try the deeps
o’ Liddel.
Fy lads! shout a’ a’ a’
a’ a’,
My gear’s a’ ta’en.
“Ah! but they will play ye another
jigg,
For they will out at the big rig,
And thro’ at Fargy Grame’s
gap.”
“But I hae another wile for that:
For I hae little Will, and stalwart Wat,
And lang Aicky, in the Souter moor,
Wi’ his sleuth dog sits in his watch
right sure:
Shou’d the dog gie a bark,
He’ll be out in his sark,
And die or won.
Fy lads! shout a’ a’ a’
a’ a’,
My gear’s a’ ta’en.
Ha! boys—I see a party appearing—wha’s
yon!
Methinks it’s the captain of Bewcastle,
and Jephtha’s
John,
Coming down by the foul steps of Catlowdie’s
loan:
They’ll make a sicker, come which
way they will.
Ha lads! shout a’ a’ a’
a’ a’,
My gear’s a’ ta’en.
Captain Musgrave, and a’ his band,
Are coming down by the Siller-strand, And the
muckle toun-bell o’ Carlisle is rung: My
gear was a’ weel won, And before it’s
carried o’er the border, mony a man’s
gae down. Fy lads! shout a’ a’
a’ a’ a’, My gear’s a gane.
[Footnote 193: Nogs—Stakes.]
[Footnote 194: Mergh—Marrow.]
