Than up spak’ Wullye o’ Kyrtletoone, (A sleekye deevil I trowe,) “Folke say, up the Water o’ Mylke, that she lykes Ye’re byllye farre better nor yowe!” The reid marke brunt on the Herryes his bree, An’ wow but he lookyt grymme: “Can ye thynke that the flower o’ the Mylke suld bloom For a beggarlye loon lyke hymme? “Can ye thynke that ane haughtye dame lyke her Coulde looke wi’ a kyndlye e’e On ane quha for everye placke that he spens, Or wastes, maun sorn on me?” “An’ div ye thynke,” cryet the wrathfu’ Hughe, “It’s noo my turne to speer— That ever a leal heartyt lassie could lo’e A sumph for the sake o’ his gear? “An’ div ye thynke”—mayre scornfu’ wordes Younge Hughe essayet to speake, But his brither’s rychte han’ rase high in wrathe, An’ fell on his lowan’ cheeke. Than doon at that wanbritherly strayke Dyd Hughe the Herryes fa’, An’ for to redde this fearsome fraye, Uppe lappe the gentles a’: An’ auld Wullye Smyth cam toytlan’ benne— “Quhat’s wrang amang ye noo? It’s a wonnerfu’ thynge that ’sponsible menne Maun fechte or they weel be fou.” Fu’ slawlye did Hughe Herryes ryse, An’ the never a worde he sayde, But he gloom’t an’ he tore his gluve wi’ his teeth, As furthe frae the room he gaed. He muntyt his gude grey meare i’ the closse, An’ he gallopyt aff lyke wudde. “Eh, sirs!” quo auld Wullye Smyth, “Eh, sirs! This never maun come tille gude; For quhan ever a Herryes he chows his gluve, It’s ane earnest o’ deidlye feud!” * * * * * That myrthsome band they tynte theyre myrthe, The gude wyne tynte its power, An’ ilke man glower’t at his neebour’s face Wi’ a glum an’ eerye glower. The Herryes he lootyt his heid to the board, I’ sorrowe but an’ shame; The lawin’ was ca’t—ilk took tille his horse, An’ sochte his ain gate hame. Kynde Wullye o’ Becks sayde lowne tille his frien’, We maun ryde Ha’ Dykes his way; But the Herryes owreheard, an’ shook his heid, An’ doolfu’ did he saye— “Alane! alane! I maun dree my weirde For the deede this nychte saw dune; But O that the palsye had wuther’t my han’, Or it strooke my fayther’s sonne!” * * * * * Atweest Ha’ Dykes an’ the Water o’ Mylke Rosebanke lies half-waye doone, An’ Chayrlye Herryes laye there that nychte, An’ he was sleepyn’ soune. Quhyle he was rousyt i’ the howe o’ the nychte Wi’ a dynne at his wundow board, For his youngest bryther was dunneran there Wi’ the hylte o’ a sheenless sworde. Sayan’, “Chayrlye, I’ve mayde ye a Laird the nychte, An’ I maunna be here the morne, My blade is barken’t wi’ Herbert’s blude, An’ he lyes at Hurkelle Burne.”