The night, tho’ wat, they didna mind, But hied them on fu’ merrilie Until they cam’ to Cholerford brae, Where the water ran baith deep and hie. But when they came to Cholerford, There they met with an auld man, Says, “Honest man, will the water ride? Tell us in haste, if that ye can.” “I wat weel no,” quo’ the gude auld man; “I hae lived here thirty years and three, And I ne’er yet saw the Tyne sae big, Nor running anes sae like a sea.” Then out and spake the Laird’s Saft Wat, The greatest coward in the companie; “Now halt, now halt, we needna try’t, The day is come we a’ maun dee.” “Puir faint-hearted thief!” cried the Laird’s ain Jock, “There’ll nae man die but him that’s fey; I’ll guide ye a’ right safely thro’, Lift ye the prisoner on ahint me.” Wi’ that the water they hae ta’en; By anes and twas they a’ swam thro’; “Here we are a’ safe,” quo’ the Laird’s Jock, “And puir faint Wat, what think ye now?” They scarce the other brae had won When twenty men they saw pursue; Frae Newcastle toun they had been sent, A’ English lads baith stout and true. But when the land-serjeant the water saw, “It winna ride, my lads,” says he; Then cried aloud—“The prisoner take, But leave the fetters, I pray, to me.” “I wat weel no,” quo’ the Laird’s Jock; “I’ll keep them a’; shoon to my mare they’ll be. My gude bay mare—for I am sure She has bought them a’ right dear frae thee.” Sae now they are on to Liddesdale, E’en as fast as they could them hie; The prisoner is brought to his ain fireside, And there o’ his airns they mak’ him free. “Now, Jock, ma billie,” quo’ a’ the three, “The day is com’d thou was to dee. But thou’s as weel at thy ain ingle-side, Now sitting, I think ’twixt thou and me.” BARTHRAM’S DIRGE. They shot him dead at the Nine-stane Rig, Beside the Headless Cross, And they left him lying in his blood, Upon the moor and moss. They made a bier of the broken bough The sauch and the aspin grey, And they bore him to the Lady Chapel, And waked him there all day. A lady came to that lonely bower, And threw her robes aside; She tore her ling lang yellow hair, And knelt at Barthram’s side. She bathed him in the Lady-Well, His wounds sae deep and sair; And she plaited a garland for his breast, And a garland for his hair. They rowed him in a lily sheet And bare him to his earth; And the Grey Friars sung the dead man’s mass As they passed the Chapel garth. They buried him at the mirk midnight, When the dew fell cold and still, When the aspin grey forgot to play, And the mist clung to the hill. They dug his grave but a bare foot deep, By the edge of the Nine-stane Burn, And they covered him o’er with the heather-flower, The moss and the lady-fern. A Grey Friar staid upon the grave, And sang till the morning tide; And a friar shall sing for Barthram’s soul While the Headless Cross shall bide. THE FAIR FLOWER OF NORTHUMBERLAND