The Scotts they rade, the Scotts they ran, Sae starkly and sae steadilie, 110 And aye the ower-word o' the thrang Was--"Rise for Branksome readilie!" The gear was driven the Frostylee up,[L113] Frae the Frostylee unto the plain, Whan Willie has look'd his men before, 115 And saw the kye right fast drivand. "Whae drives thir kye?" gan Willie say, "To make an outspeckle o' me?" "It's I, the Captain o' Bewcastle, Willie; I winna layne my name for thee." 120 "O will ye let Telfer's kye gae back? Or will ye do aught for regard o' me? Or, by the faith of my body," quo' Willie Scott, "I'se ware my dame's cauf skin on thee." "I winna let the kye gae back, 125 Neither for thy love, nor yet thy fear; But I will drive Jamie Telfer's kye, In spite of every Scott that's here." "Set on them, lads!" quo' Willie than; "Fye, lads, set on them cruellie! 130 For ere they win to the Ritterford, Mony a toom saddle there sall be!" Then til't they gaed, wi' heart and hand, The blows fell thick as bickering hail; And mony a horse ran masterless, 135 And mony a comely cheek was pale. But Willie was stricken ower the head, And thro' the knapscap the sword has gane; And Harden grat for very rage, Whan Willie on the grund lay slane. 140 But he's ta'en aff his gude steel cap, And thrice he's waved it in the air; The Dinlay snaw was ne'er mair white[L143] Nor the lyart locks of Harden's hair. "Revenge! revenge!" auld Wat 'gan cry; 145 "Fye, lads, lay on them cruellie! We'll ne'er see Tiviotside again, Or Willie's death revenged sall be." O mony a horse ran masterless, The splinter'd lances flew on hie; 150 But or they wan ta the Kershope ford, The Scotts had gotten the victory. John o' Brigham there was slane,[L153] And John o' Barlow, as I heard say; And thirty mae o' the Captain's men 155 Lay bleeding on the grund that day. The Captain was run through the thick of the thigh, And broken was his right leg bane; If he had lived this hundred years, He had never been loved by woman again. 160 "Hae back the kye!" the Captain said; "Dear kye, I trow, to some they be; For gin I suld live a hundred years, There will ne'er fair lady smile on me." Then word is gane to the Captain's bride, 165 Even in the bower where that she lay, That her lord was prisoner in enemy's land, Since into Tividale he had led the way.