This neighbourhood is the scene of two romantic ballads; that of the “Cowt (colt) of Kielder” and the Ettrick Shepherd’s ballad of “Sir David Graeme.” The deadly enemy of the young “Cowt,” so called from his great strength, is Lord Soulis of Hermitage Castle, on the Scottish side of the border. The Cowt, with his followers, was enticed into the Castle, where Lord Soulis purposed his death; but the gigantic youth burst through the circle of his foes and escaped. The evil Brownie of the moorland, however, gave to Lord Soulis the secret which safeguarded the young Cowt. His coat of mail was sword-proof by a spell of enchantment, and he wore in his helmet rowan and holly leaves; but these would all be of no avail against the power of running water. The Cowt was pursued until, in crossing a burn, he stumbled and lost his helmet, and ere he recovered, his enemies were upon him, and they held him under water until he was drowned. Not far from the mouth of the Bell Burn, which here runs into the Tyne, a circle of stones outside an ancient burial ground is known as the Cowt’s Grave. “This is the bonny brae, the green, Yet sacred to the brave, Where still, of ancient size, is seen Gigantic Kieldar’s grave. Where weeps the birch with branches green Without the holy ground, Between two old grey stones is seen The warrior’s ridgey mound. And the hunters bold of Kieldar’s train, Within yon castle’s wall, In a deadly sleep must aye remain Till the ruined towers down fall.” In the ballad of “Sir David Graeme,” by James Hogg, the lady of the story watched out of her window in vain for the coming of her “noble Graeme,” who had vowed that the hate of her father and brothers would not keep him from coming to carry off his fair lady on St. Lambert’s night. “The sun had drunk frae Kieldar Fell His beverage o’ the morning dew; The deer had crouched her in the dell, The heather oped its bells o’ blue. The lady to her window hied, And it opened o’er the banks o’ Tyne; An’ “O! alack,” she said, and sighed, “Sure ilka breast is blythe but mine?” Her forebodings prove only too true, for her lover’s faithful hound seeks her out, and with mournful looks induces her to follow him over Deadwater Fell, and guides her to a lonely spot where the body of the gallant Graeme, slain by her brothers, is lying. In the neighbourhood of these desolate Fells are to be found many traces of ancient British Camps. The little mountain streams which here help to swell the stream of the North Tyne are, on the south side, the Lewis and Whickhope Burns, and on the north, the Plashetts and Hawkhope Burns. On both sides of the Tyne, near the Whickhope and the Hawkhope Burns are many remains of an ancient pre-historic forest, the largest being near the Whickhope Burn where the abnormally thick stems of trees may be seen.