A Border Foray. The winter winds were blawing cauld, It was St. Martin’s tide, When the Captain of Bewcastle vowed A foray he would ride, To drive a prey from Teviotdale, In spite of friend or foe ; He mustered all his merry men, And blithely forth did go. They crossed the river, climbed the brae, They emptied many a byre, They drove the cattle on before, Then set the stacks on fire, When they came to the lone Dodhead, Jamie Telfer he did pray That they would spare his lowly hame, But they drove his kye away. His stable doors were one and all From off the hinges flung, His best steeds they were ta’en away, The rest were all hamstrung. Then Jamie Telfer vowed revenge, As through the falling snaw He ran on foot ten miles or more To Gibbie Elliot’s Ha’. ‘ Wha brings the fray ?’ auld Gibbie cried, ‘ Wha brings the fray to me ?’ ‘ It’s Jamie Telfer o’ the Dodhead, A harried man I be ; There’s naething at the lone Dodhead, There’s naething left to me But a burned-down house, a waefu’ wife, And wailing bairns three.’ ‘ Seek succour where you pay blackmail, For that you ne’er paid me ; Gae ask for help at Branxsome Ha’, For nane you’ll get frae me.’ ‘ I hae paid blackmail,’ then Jamie cried, ‘ I hae paid blackmail to thee, But ne’er to an Elliot I’ll pay again Until the day I dee.’ He hied him now to Coultard clough, O’er moorland, moss, and lea. ‘ Wha brings the fray ?’ cried auld Jock Grieve, ‘ Wha brings the fray to me ?’ ‘ It’s Jamie Telfer o’ the Dodhead, A harried man I be ; There’s naething at the Dodhead left But wife and bairns three.’ A sturdy tyke was auld Jock Grieve, Wha many a fray had seen ; And though his locks were thin and grey, His eye was clear and keen. He set his twa sons on coal-black steeds, Himself upon his dappled grey, While eager on a borrowed steed Jamie Telfer led the way. And soon they got to Branxsome Ha’ And shouted loud and clear. ‘ Wha brings the fray ?’ cried auld Buccleuch, ‘ Wha dares the fray bring here ?’ ‘ It’s Jamie Telfer o’ the Dodhead, A harried man I be ; There’s naething at the Dodhead left But wife and bairns three.’ ‘ Alack-a-day !’ cried auld Buccleuch, ‘ My heart is wae for thee ; But haste thee, warn Willie, my son, And bid him come to me. Gae saddle his horse, call out his men, Drink deep o’ my blood-red wine ; If he’ll nae ride for Telfer’s kye Will Scott’s nae son o’ mine. ‘ Warn Wat o’ Harden and his sons, And Scott o’ common-side ; While Gilmans cleuch and Gouldie lands Alang wi’ them will ride. And so will Borthwick-water bold, And Armstrong o’ the Park ; Twa better and twa braver men Ne’er rode forth in the dark. ‘ I saw them on their stirrups stand, And strike wi’ might and main, When belted Howard’s steel-capped men Assailed the Scotts in vain. Warn big Jock Johnston and his men, And Kerr o’ Linhope Vale ; The Southern loons shall rue their raid On bonny Teviotdale. ‘ But I, wha never flinched the fray, Nor feared the face o’ man, Bowed doon by age, the bold Buecleuch Nae mair can lead the van.’ The mist hung heavy on the brae, The morning air was chill, When they o’ertook the reiving band Near Redcliffs lonely hill. The first to speak was auld Jock Grieve, Wha shonted, ‘ Reiving loon ! Release ye Jamie Telfer’s kye Or dread the reiver’s doom,’ The Captain, turning fiercely round, Cried, ‘ Dotard, cease thy din, Or, though thy head is bald and grey, I’ll cleave it to the chin. ‘ Dismount thee from that dappled steed, For it shall go with me.’ But Jock, wha drew his burly brand, Said, ‘ That we have yet to see.’ Then up spoke Jock Grieve’s eldest son— A gallart bold was he— ‘ My father sits his dappled steed Right well, as you may see. ‘ And if his head is somewhat grey, There’s dark pows here enow ; The steed which bears an honest man Shall never carry you.’ The wintry sun rose fierce and red, Fiercely the fray begun, But high he shone above their heads Before their work was done. When stark and stiff upon the sod Within the lonely glen The Captain of Beweastle lay With thirty of his men. And near to them with many more Before the fight was won Lay Buccleuch’s winsome Willie Scott And Jock Grieve’s eldest son. So now they did the spoil divide From reiving hands set free, And Telfer for his ten milch kye Drove hame just thirty-three. A tear-drop fell from Harden’s eye On Willie’s bloody bier ; ‘ We’ve got back Telfer’s kye,’ he said, ‘ And paid for them right dear.’ Between the burn-side and the brae Their graves may yet be seen, And men still call the eerie spot The reivers’ bloody green. For when the sun did melt the snaw, ’Twas ever after said, The water clear of Redcliff burn For three lang days ran red. And oft mid mists of early morn A horn is heard to sound, While fleeting forms are seen to glide The lonely hillside round. And shepherds hear the angry cries Of fierce contending men, And wisely shun, as well they may, The wild moss troopers’ glen.