Foul fa' the breast first treason bred in!
That Liddesdale may safely say:
For in it there was baith meat and drink,
And corn unto our geldings gay.
And we were a' stout-hearted men,
As England she might often say;
But now we may turn our backs and flee,
Since brave Noble is sold away.
Now Hobbie was an Englishman,
And born in Bewcastle dale;
But his misdeeds they were so great,
They banished him to Liddesdale.
At Kershope foot the tryst was set,
Kershope of the lilye lee;
And there was traitor Sim o' the Mains,
And with him a private companie.
Then Hobbie has graithed his body fair,
Baith wi' the iron and wi' the steil;
And he has ta'en out his fringed gray,
And there brave Hobbie he rade him weel.
Then Hobbie is down the water gane,
E'en as fast as he could hie!
Tho' a' should ha'e bursten and broken their hearts,
Frae that riding tryst he wad na be.
"Weel be ye met, my feres five!
And now, what is your will wi' me?"
Then they cried a' wi' ae consent,
Thou'rt welcome here, brave Noble, to me.
"Wilt thou with us into England ride,
And thy safe warrand we will be?
If we get a horse worth a hundred pound,
Upon his back thou sune sall be."
"I dare not by day into England ride,
The land-serjeant has me at feid;
And I know not what evil may betide,
For Peter of Whitfield, his brother is dead.
"And Anton Shiel he loves not me,
For I gat twa drifts o' his sheep;
The great Earl of Whitfield loves me not,
For nae gear frae me he e'er could keep.
"But will ye stay till the day gae down,
Until the night come o'er the grund,
And I'll be a guide worth ony twa
That may in Liddesdale be found?
"Though the night be black as pick and tar
I'll guide ye o'er yon hill sae hie,
And bring ye a' in safety back,
If ye'll be true and follow me."
He has guided them o'er moss and muir,
O'er hill and hope, and mony a down;
Until they came to the Foulbogshiel,
And there, brave Noble, he lighted down.
But word is gane to the land serjeant,
In Askerton where that he lay--
"The deer that ye ha'e hunted sae lang,
Is seen into the Waste this day."
"Then Hobbie Noble is that deer!
I wot he carries the style fu' hie;
Aft has he driven our bluidhounds back,
And set ourselves at little lee.
"Gar warn the bows of Hartlie burn;
See they sharp their arrows on the wa';
Warn Willeva and Speir Edom,
And see the morn they meet me a'.
"Gar meet me on the Rodric-haugh,
And see it be by break o' day:
And we will on to Conscouthart-green,
For there, I think, we'll get our prey."
Then Hobbie Noble has dreimit a dreim,
In the Foulbogsheil, where that he lay;
He dreimit his horse was aneith him shot,
And he himself got hard away.
The cocks could craw, the day could daw,
And I wot sae even fell down the rain;
Had Hobbie na awakened at that time,
In the Foulbogshiel he had been ta'en or slain.
"Awake, awake, my feres five!
I trow here make a fu' ill day;
Yet the worst cloak o' this company,
I hope shall cross the Waste this day."
Now Hobbie thought the gates were clear,
But even, alas! it was na sae;
They were beset by cruel men and keen
That away brave Hobbie might na gae.
"Yet follow me, my feres five,
And see ye keip of me guid ray;
And the worst cloak o' this company,
Even yet may cross the Waste this day."
But the land-serjeant's men came Hobbie before,
The traitor Sim came Hobbie behin',
So had Noble been wight as Wallace was,
Away, alas! he might na win.
Then Hobbie had but a laddie's sword,
But he did mair than a laddie's deed;
For that sword had cleared Conscouthart-green,
Had it not broke o'er Jerswigham's head.
Then they ha'e ta'en brave Hobbie Noble,
Wi's ain bowstring the band him sae;
But his gentle heart was ne'er sae sair,
As when his ain five bound him on the brae.
They ha'e ta'en him on for west Carlisle;
They asked him if he ken'd the way?
Though much he thought, yet little he said;
He knew the gate as weel as they.
They ha'e ta'en him up the Ricker-gate;
The wives they cast their windows wide;
And every wife to another can say;
"That's the man loosed Jock o' the Side!"
"Fy on ye, woman, why ca' ye me man?
For it's nae man that I'm used like;
Am but like a forfoughen hound,
Has been fighting in a dirty syke."
They ha'e had him up through Carlisle town,
And set him by the chimney fire;
They gave brave Noble a loaf to eat,
And that was little his desire,
They gave him a wheaten loaf to eat,
And after that a can of beer;
And they a' cried with one consent,
"Eat, brave Noble, and make gude cheir!
"Confess my lord's horse, Hobbie," they said,
"And to-morrow in Carlisle thou's na die."
"How can I confess them," Hobbie says,
"When I never saw them with my e'e?"
The Hobbie has sworn a fu' great aith,
By the day that he was gotten and born,
He never had onything o' my lord's,
That either eat him grass or corn.
"Now fare thee weel, sweet Mangerton!
For I think again I'll ne'er thee see:
I wad ha'e betrayed nae lad nor alive,
For a' the gowd o' Christentie.
"And fare thee weel, sweet Liddesdale!
Baith the hie land and the law;
Keep ye weel frae the traitor Mains!
For gowd and gear he'll sell ye a'.
"Yet wad I rather be ca'd Hobbie Noble,
In Carlisle where he suffers for his fau't,
Than I'd be ca'd the traitor Mains,
That eats and drinks o' the meal and maut."
Referring the reader to Percy's _Reliques_ for "Adam Bell, Clym of the
Clough, and William of Cloudesley," a long and interesting ballad of
this period, or somewhat earlier, we conclude this portion of the
poetical antiquities of Carlisle by a very beautiful and touching
ballad, "the lament of the border widow." It is founded upon the story
of Cockburn of Henderland, a noted disturber of the English districts;
who did not, however, suffer at Carlisle, though he had ravaged its
neighbourhood; nor at the hands of the English, whose laws he had
violated. James the Fifth, scandalized at the excesses of these border
reivers, made an excursion into their country in 1529, and executed
summary justice upon several of the most turbulent and lawless of them,
including the famous Johnnie Armstrong, Adam Scot of Tushielaw, and
Cockburn of Henderland.
The latter was hanged, by the King's order, over the gate of his own
keep, or tower, while his lady fled to the banks of a mountain-stream,
called the Henderland burn, and sat down at the foot of a foaming
cataract, to drown, amid the sound of the roaring waters, the noise of
the drums that announced the close of her husband's existence. The place
where she sat is still shown to the stranger. The author of the ballad
is unknown. It was taken down from recitation in the Ettrick forest, and
is as affecting a ballad as any in the language, abounding with touches
of genuine pathos, and most lovely simplicity of sorrow. Exquisite is
the whole composition; and many of the passages are worthy of the
greatest of poets.
My love, he built me a bonny bower,
And clad it a' wi' lilye flower,
A brawer bower ye ne'er did see,
Than my true love he built for me.
There came a man by middle day,
He spied his sport and went away,
And brought the King that very night,
Who brake my bower and slew my knight.
He slew my knight, to me sae dear,
He slew my knight and poined his gear;
My servants all for life did flee,
And left me in extremitie.
I sewed his sheet, making my moan;
I watched the corpse myself alone;
I watched the body night and day,
No living creature came that way.
I took his body on my back,
And whiles I gaed, and whiles I sat,
I digged a grave and laid him in,
And happed him with the sod sae green.
But think na ye my heart was sair,
When I laid the mould on his yellow hair!
O think na ye my heart was wae
When I turned about away to gae!
Nae living man I'll love again,
Since that my lovely knight is slain;
Wi' ae lock of his yellow hair
I'll bind my heart for evermair.
The devoted wife was buried with her husband. In a deserted burial
place, which once surrounded the keep of Henderland, the monument was
lately, and perhaps is still, to be seen. It is a large stone, broken
into three parts, but some armorial bearings are traceable, and the
following inscription--legible though much defaced, "HERE LYES PERYS OF
COKBURNE AND HIS WYFE, MARJORY."
During the civil wars with the "Roses," Carlisle suffered severely;
sometimes from the one party and sometimes from the other--a calamity
which it shared, however, with all the other principal towns of the
kingdom. In the formidable rising against Henry the Eighth, led
originally by Sir Robert Aske, and known as the Pilgrimage of Grace, the
city was besieged by 8000 men. They were under the command of Nicholas
Musgrave, Thomas Gilley, and others, who appeared as leaders of the
movement, after it had been abandoned by Aske and its other originators.
The citizens, knowing that the Duke of Norfolk was marching to their
relief, sallied out upon their besiegers, and put them to flight.
Seventy of the leaders were captured by the Duke; but Musgrave, the
prime mover, escaped. The others were hanged and beheaded, and their
heads placed upon the gates of the city. This happened in the year 1537.
Little more than a century afterwards, Carlisle suffered a severer siege
by the Scotch and Parliamentary forces, under General Lesley. It was
defended for the Royalists by Sir Thomas Glenham; and surrendered on the
28th of June, 1645, after having held out for more than six months.
During the siege, the distress of the garrison and the inhabitants was
so severe, that the flesh of horses, dogs, rats, and other vermin was
eaten. Bread was exhausted and hemp-seed substituted; which in its turn
became so dear as to be unpurchasable by all except the most wealthy. A
coinage of silver pieces, of three shillings value, was instituted in
the castle during the siege, from the plate of the inhabitants, which
was sent in for the purpose. The diary of Isaac Tullie, a resident in
the city during the siege, preserved among the Harleian MSS. in the
British Museum, states that "the citizens were so shrunk from
starvation, that they could not choose but laugh at one another, to see
their clothes hang upon them as upon men on gibbets, for one might put
one's head and fists between the doublets and shirts of many of them."
[4] A note to this passage in "Percy's Reliques" (the editor of which,
it must be stated, modernised and added to this ballad), informs
us that Tearne-Wadling is near Hesketh, on the road from Penrith,
where there is a tradition still in existence that an old castle
once stood upon the spot.