Four stalwart men, on arms so bright,

Came bearing a corpse with many a wound; His habit bespoke him a lord or knight; And his fair ringlets swept the ground.

They heard a voice to the other say—

"A place to leave him will not be found; The barn is lock'd, and the key away.”. Said one, "In the byre we'll lay him down."

Then into the byre the corpse they bore,
And away they fled right speedilye;
The rest took shelter within the door,
In wild amazement, as well might be.

And into the byre no ane durst gang,
No, not for the life of his bodye;

But the blood on the snaw was trailed alang,
And the kend a' wasna as it should be

Next morning all the Dalesmen ran;
For soon the word was far and wide;
And there lay the Laird of Lairistan,

The bravest knight on the border side!

He was wounded behind, and wounded before, And cloven through the left cheek-bone;

And clad in the habit he daily wore;

But his sword, and his belt, and his bonnet were

gone.

Then east and west the word has gane,
And soon to Branxholm ha' it flew,
That Elliot of Lairistan he was slain,
But how or why no creature knew.

Buccleugh has mounted his milk-white steed,
With fifteen knights in his companye;
To Hermitage Castle they rode with speed,
Where all the dale was summon'd to be.

And soon they came, à numerous host,
And they swore, and touch'd the dead bodie;
But Jocky o' Millburn he was lost,

And could not be found in the hale countrye.

"Now, wae be to thee, Armstrong o' Millburn!
And O an ill death may'st thou dee!
Through thee we have lost brave Lairistan,
But his equal thou wilt never be.

"The Bewcastle men may ramp and rave,
And drive away the Liddisdale kye:
For now is our guardian laid in his grave;
And Branxholm and Thirlestane distant lye.

The Dales-men thus his loss deplore,
And every one his virtues tell :
His hounds lay howling at the door;
His hawks flew idle o'er the fell.

When three long years were come and gone,
Two shepherds sat on Roughly hill;
And ay they sigh'd, and made their moan,
O'er present times that look'd so ill.

"Our young king lives at London town,
Buccleuch must bear him companye;
And Thirlestane's all to ruin gone,
And who shall our protector be?

"And jealous of the Stuart race,
The English lords began to thraw;
The land is in a piteous case,

When subjects rise against the law.

"Ere all is done, our blood may soak
Our Scottish houms, and leave a stain-
A stain like that on Sundup's cloak,
Which never will wash out again."

Amazement kyth'd in Sandy's face
His mouth to open wide began;
He star'd, and look'd from place to place,
As events o'er his mem'ry ran.

The broider'd cloak of gaudy green
That Sundup wore, and was sae gay,
For three lang years had ne'er been seen,
At chapel, raid, nor holiday

He minded too, he once o'erheard,
(When courting of his bonny Ann)
A hint, the which he greatly fear'd,
But ne'er could thoroughly understand.

"Now tell me, Willie, tell me true;
Your sim'lie bodes us little good;
I fear the cloak you mention'd now-
I fear 'tis stain'd with noble blood!"

"Indeed, my friend, you've guess'd aright; I never meant to tell to man

That tale: but crimes will come to light,
Let human wits do what they can.

"But He, who ruleth wise and well, Hath ordered from his seat on high, That ay since valiant Elliot fell

This mantle bears the purple dye.

"And all the waters in Liddisdale,
And all that lash the British shore.
Can ne'er wash out the wondrous maele!
It still seems fresh with purple gore."

Then east and west the word has gane,
And soon to Branxholm hall it flew;
And Halbert o' Sundup hee was ta'en,

And brought before the high Buccleuch.

The cloak was hung in open hall,

Where ladies and lords of high degree, And many a one, both great and small, Were struck with awe the same to see.

"Now tell me, Sundup," said Buccleuch, "If this is rul'd by God on high? If that is Elliot's blood we view, False Sundup! thou shalt surely die."

Then Halbert turn'd him where he stood, And wip'd the round tear from his ee; "That blood, my lord is, Elliot's blood; I winna keep the truth frae thee."

"O ever-alack!" said good Buccleuch, "If that be true thou tell'st to me, On the highest tree in Branxholm heuch, Stout Sundup, thou must hangit be.”

"'Tis Elliot's blood; I tell you true: And Elliot's death was wrought by me;

And were the deed again to do,

I'd do't in spite of hell and thee.

"My sister, brave Jock Armstrong's bride, The fairest flower of Liddisdale,

By Elliot basely was betray'd;

And roundly has he paid the mail.