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BELTED WILL

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THE ROBBER BARON

The Baron of Thirlwall came from the wars,

Laden with treasure bold;

Among the which a fair table,

All of the beaten gold.

And men will speak of the Baron’s wealth,

Whatever he may say,

And how a grizzly Dwarf does guard

His treasure night and day.

Many a Border freebooter

Eyed Thirlwall’s good Castle,

Thinking to win the bags of gold,

And eke the fair table.

But the Baron hath retainers bold,

And swatchers many ane,

And the Castle walls are high to win,

Howe’er they fidge and fain.

The boldest one o’ a’ his men,

Was Jockey of the Sheugh;

The Baron loved him like a brother,

And that was fair enoo.

Jock could wrestle, run, or leap,

Wi’ ever a living man;

Never a wight in Cumbernauld

Could beat him at the span.

But Thirlwall’s Baron heeded not

The word o’ Belted Will,

Who dwells within the dark Naworth,

The Border March to still;

He can rule all the Border round,

Wi’ a peeled willow-wand;

But Thirlwall’s Baron gecks at him,

And all the laws o’ the land.

So fast come tidings of ravin wrong

To Belted Willy’s ear;

Quo’ he, “By my belt, I’ll trap this man,

If I catch him in effeir.

“But he is like a wily fox,

That taketh to his hole,

An I can catch him on the turn,

I’ll smoke him from his bole.

“He reaves and harrows every one,

Tho’ he has goups o’ gold;

I’ll lay a trap for him bedeen,

By which he shall be sold.”

Thirlwall’s Baron heard his speech,

Wi’ scorn almost he burst;

“His anger it is like a haggis,

That’s hottest at the first.”

Sore smiled the wily Belted Will,

But in so dark a way;

Better that smile were wanting there,

Than on his lip to lay.

THE TRAP O’ BELTED WILL

Jock o’ the Sheugh tirled at the string,

Of the Baron of Thirlwall’s yett;

“Up, up, and rise, my noble Lord,

Some plunder for to get.

“There are a swatch o’ Englishers

Coming from Carlysle town,

Well laden wi’ the yellow gold,

For Annan are they boun’.”

“Go, take a dozen o’ my men,

And brattle o’er the lea,

Lay wait, and watch until they pass

The Bowness Witches’ Tree.

“A dozen o’ ye well may lick

Three score o’ English tikes,

Take all they have, and leave them so

To tell o’ this who likes.”

Then Jock banged o’er the broomy knoll,

And reached the Witches’ Tree,

And wi’ his dozen freebooters,

Lay down on their bellie.

There came on twenty Englishers,

Wi’ cloaks and saddlebags;

There came on twenty travellers,

Mounted on goodly nags.

Came on those twenty travellers,

With long cloaks flowing down,

Came on these twenty travellers,

All thro’ the yellow broom.

Then started up Jock and his men

Wi’ such an awful yell,

Ye might have heard it at the top

Of Skiddaw or Criffell.

“Come off your nags, ye sorning crew,

Of Southron pock-puddings,

Or ye shall have the good cold steel,

So give us all your things!”

“We’ll give ye that,” said one o’ them,

“Ye’ll no forget, I wiss,

This many a day, good Jock o’ the Sheugh,

And that my billie’s this!”

They threw the cloaks from off their hides,

And back and breastplate shone;

They grippit their swords, the first blow struck

Was echoed with a groan.

Good faith! but Jock had found his match,

For the Southrons hacked about;

The Thirlwall boys were fain to fight,

But soon put to the route.

Of twelve o’ Jock’s good freebooters,

But three fled o’er the lea,

The other nine lay still enough

Beside the Witches’ Tree.

Poor Jock is down upon his back,

Wi’ a fair clour on the head;

His billies all are stiffening,

And three o’ them are fled.

Out spoke the twenty travellers,

“Why, Jock, how’s this of a’,

Ye bid us to a meal, good faith,

And then ye run awa’?”

Quo’ Jock, as they bound fast his arms,

And raised him from the lea,

“If I had kenned ye were Belted Will’s men,

The Devil might stopped ye for me!”

THE GRIZZLY DWARF

The Baron o’ Thirlwall looked abroad,

From out his strong Castle,

And he saw three men come posting on,

Out o’er the fern and fell.

“I wad,” said he, “they run a race,

A thousand merks I lay

Upon the wight in the red jerkin,

He wins the race this day.”

The three men burst in on his room,

“My Lord,” then each one said,

“Jock o’ the Sheugh is wounded fair,

And nine good fellows dead.”

The dark spot flew to the Baron’s cheek,

“Ye cowards, one and all!

Go, join your bloody billies then,

Whatever may befall!”

He struck each man the neck intil,

And they fell on the floor;

“To fly without a single blow,

Shows valour to be poor!

“If Belted Will should harm a hair

O’ Jock o’ the Sheugh his head,

I’ll put the Border in such a blaze,

Shall make him flee with dread.

“If Jock o’ the Sheugh hangs for this play,

The whole of the March shall weep,

No man shall waken in the morn,

That goes alive to sleep.”

They brought these words to Belted Will

As at racket-ball he played;

But the only answer he let fall,

“We’ll soon see that,” he said.

By Brampton’s town there stands an oak,

Upon a hill so high;

And Jock was broughten there betimes

Upon the tree to die.

They strapped him to the highest branch

Of all that goodly tree;

And there the righteous chaplain prayed

For Jock’s soul solemnlie,

Thirlwall’s Baron saw the sight,

And swore revenge to have;

For better part o’ a summer’s day

He nothing did but rave.

He sent a messenger so bold

To Will, who cried in scorn,

“Better he looks unto his nest,

I’ll burn it ere the morn!”

The Baron fled to his Castle,

And guarded it so grim,

“The fiend take Belted Will,” he cried,

“’Tis word and blow wi’ him.”

But scarcely had the midnight fell,

When spite o’ a’ his care,

Belted Will his Castle stormed,

For a’ he fought so fair.

A tar barrel and reeking peat,

They laid unto his nest,

Threw open gates and wide windows,

And the night wind did the rest.

The Baron fled from room to room,

By the flames of his own hall,

“He’s gi’en me light to go to bed,

Whatever may befall.”

He rushed into his inner room,

Where his golden table lay;

The Devil in likeness o’ a Dwarf

Kept watch there night and day.

Belted Will pursued him hard,

Amid the flame and stour,

For he cut the skirt from the Baron’s cloak,

As he whisked through the door.

“Save me, now, thou gruesome Elf,

And my soul and body’s thine!”

The Dwarf he jabbered hideously,

But never made a sign.

Belted Will called for a ram,

To bash the doorway down;

The red flames thro’ the keyhole flashed,

And filled wi’ reek the room.

“My soul and body,” the Baron said,

Abjuring Christ His sign;

The Devil he grippit him in his arms,

“Now, Baron, art thou mine.”

The door ga’ed splintering from the posts,

In rushed the enemy;

But Baron, Dwarf, and gold table,

I wat they could ne’er see.

And legends say the ugsome Dwarf

Threw all into a well,

And by the glamour o’ his art

Cast over all a spell;

Which never may be rendered vain

But by a Widow’s Son;

And he shall find the gold table,

When years away have run.

Frederick Sheldon. (Condensed)