Then he called on his little foot-page And said, “Run speedilie, And fetch my ain dear sister’s son, Sir Hugh Montgomerie.” “My nephew good,” the Douglas said, “What recks the death of ane? Last night I dreamed a dreary dream, And I ken the day’s thy ain. “My wound is deep, I fain wad sleep; Take thou the vanguard of the three, And hide me by the bracken bush That grows on yonder lilye lea. “O bury me by the bracken bush, Beneath the bloomin’ brier; Let never a living mortal ken That ever a kindly Scot lies here.” He lifted up that noble lord, Wi’ the saut tear in his e’e; He hid him in the bracken bush That his merrie men might not see. The moon was clear, the day drew near, The speres in flinders flew, And mony a gallant Englishman Ere day the Scotsmen slew. The Gordons gude, in English blude They steeped their hose and shoon; The Lindsays flew like fire about Till a’ the fray was dune. The Percy and Montgomerie met, And either of other was fain; They swakkèd swords, and sair they swat, And the blude ran doun like rain. “Now yield thee, yield thee, Percy!” he cried; “Or else will I lay thee low.” “To whom sall I yield?” quoth Erle Percy, “Sin I see it maun be so.” “Thou shalt not yield to lord or loon, Nor yet shalt thou yield to me, But thou shalt yield to the bracken bush That grows on yon lilye lea.” “I will not yield to a bracken bush; Nor yet will I yield to a brier; But I would yield to Erle Douglas, Or Hugh Montgomerie if he were here.” As soon as he knew it was Montgomerie He stuck his sword’s-point in the gronde; The Montgomerie was a courteous knight, And quickly took him by the honde. This deed was done at the Otterbourne, About the breaking of the day; Erle Douglas was buried at the bracken bush. And the Percy led captive away. JOCK O’ THE SIDE. Now Liddesdale has ridden a raid, But I wat they had better hae staid at hame; For Michael o’ Winfield he is dead, And Jock o’ the Side is prisoner ta’en. For Mangerton house Lady Downie has gane, Her coats she has kilted up to her knee; And down the water wi’ speed she rins, While tears in spates fa’ fast frae her e’e. Then up and spoke our guid auld laird— “What news, what news, sister Downie, to me?” “Bad news, bad news, for Michael is killed, And they hae taken my son Johnnie.” “Ne’er fear, sister Downie,” quo’ Mangerton, “I have yokes of owsen, twenty and three, My barns, my byres, and my faulds a’ weel filled, I’ll part wi’ them a’ ere Johnnie shall dee. “Three men I’ll send to set him free, A’ harnessed wi’ the best o’ steel; The English loons may hear, and drie The weight o’ their braid-swords to feel. “The Laird’s Jock ane, the Laird’s Wat twa, O Hobbie Noble, thou ane maun be! Thy coat is blue, thou has been true Since England banished thee to me.” Now Hobbie was an English man, In Bewcastle dale was bred and born;