Hawick in Song and Poetry. A Border Town. By R. S. CRAIG. Grey traditions gather round =Church, and tower, and town, Passive in the Druid Mound =Centuries look down Still the hum of busy life =Rises from her streets, Still in fond, unending strife, =Teviot, Slitrig meets. Hills eternal on their throne =Round about her lie: See the light that never shone =To our mortal eye: Watch the glint of glittering spears =Front the morning light, Tell the secrets of the years =To the listening night. When the weary town is laid =In its slumber still, Warrior chief and Druid maid =Seek the sacred hill, Gaze where Eildon's triple height =Guards the secret dread, Arthur and each fabled knight =Slumbering like the dead. Strain to catch the trumpet call =Wake enchanted sleep, In the weird and mystic hall =Countless fathoms deep. When the holy cross shall bend =To the sacred leaf, In the battle of the end =For the old belief. Where amid the moorland mist =Stands the lonely peel, By the sorrowing moonbeams kissed, =Buried rievers steal. Answering fires from peak to peak =Fright the setting stars, To the shuddering valley speak =Strange unearthly wars From their dreary resting place =Buried heroes rise, Phantoms of a knightly race =Meet in midnight skies, Shouts and screams and battle cries =By Ihe tempest borne: Thunderings of a host that flies =With the breath of morn. Sorrowing losers meet again; =Weeping mothers croon; Curse the blood of Flodden's plain =To the pitying moon; Eerie tramp and horses' tread =Fill forgotten ways, Breezes whisper overhead =Buried minstrels' lays. When the morning floods with light =All the valley fair. Ghostly shadows wing their flight =To the things that were. Wakes the world of hurrying men, =Wake the flowers and trees, Till the darkness comes—and then =Pass away like these. Queen of the Moorlands. By R. S. CRAIG. Old town among the Border hills, =Grey warder of the moors! What though To day have clashing mills, =Your old-world Moat endures. By nights you dream of Flodden yet =While Teviot seeks the sea, What though your days in toil are set, =You have your history! What though at times the moorland mist =Creeps up by wynd and street, Your spires peer out above, sun-kist, =To guide the stumbling feet! Your children love you, Border town, =O'er leagues of raging sea, Your image calls them, looking down =Through mists of memory! To Teviot. By R. S. CRAIG. Surely with dance the fairies greet =Your fit st glad leap to riverhood, And surely could I hear their feet =Trip tinkling, as a fairy's should, Meet music, Teviot, for your silver stream, I then might write of which I now but dream! Surely in some dark distant night =Of that far-back heroic past, Some hunger-driven wounded Knight =Cowered in the bracken, safe at last By Teviot Stone, and kneeling in the mist Ere yet he drank, your waters softly kissed. Surely beneath the kindly moon =Fond lovers wander, ever young, Beside your banks, and bless the boon =Of listening to your lover's tongue! Could I but speak your language, Teviot fair, I then might sing the love enkindled there! Surely before the final call =Whate'er it be my fate accords. Mine ears shall listen to the fall =Of music over pebbled fords. The last recorded sound—your rippling stream Falling on c1osing ears, or heard in dream! Teviot. By R. S. CRAIG. When the smi1ing vale is passed =With the dawn on distant hills, And the boding sea at last =All the morning music stills, When the twilight soothes to sleep =Every wave that frets and sighs, And the lengthening shadows creep, =While the fading sunlight flies. Does your memory, Teviot, wake =To your birth by Teviot Stone, And regretful moaning make =For the gentle fairies gone? Do you hear their airy tread =Moving round the magic ring, Shake the reeds about their head =With their moonpearls glistening? Through the dark and sullen plain =Where you steal your weary way, Is your murmuring refrain =Of some old unhappy lay Caught amid the whisperig trees, =And the braes by Branxholme Hall, Carried onward by the breeze, =Now the evening shadows fall? By the old romantic town =Where your waves with Slitrig meet, And a grey old Moat looks down =On a changed and busy Street; Did you dream of olden days =When the flash of beacon light And the thatches in a blaze =Drove the burgess to the night? Or of that more distant past, =Dimly featured in the mist, By the ages overcast, =When the Druid maiden kissed And the Druid warrior fought, =Made his last horoic stand For the land his blood had bought, =For his sacred Borderland When the sea is sounding near, =And you hear the sea-birds call, Do you, gently flowing, hear =Shouts by Norham's castled wall? Do you catch the glint of shield =And the fury of the fray, And the moans of Flodden Field, =Where the flowers were wede away. And when Mother Ocean grey =Sweetly clasps you to her breasts Does she kiss the dreams away, =Rocking troubled waves to rest? Is she gentle as a lover? =And when I have reached the sea, When the hauning dreams are over, =Will the Silence come to me? And when the Mother Ocean grey. A Dream of Flodden. By R. S. CRAIG. Was it a sigh of yesterday, or an echo of long ago? The dream of an idle moment, or a real thing pictured so? I thought that I was somewhere in the heart of that elder world, Where stubborn men were gathered with their battle flags unfurled, I cou1d see their pennons floating on moor and moss and glen. And I saw the 1egions mustered that ne'er returned again. They came from lonely moorlands and far sequestered towers, And every hill and valley yielded its fairest flowers. From Liddel and Esk and Yarrow, from Teviot, Tweed and Jed, They were gallant hearts who followed, and a king himself who led, From Carter Fell and Cheviot to lone St Mary's lake They failed not at the summons, who knew the b1ack mistake. And they rode away to the eastward, and the land was still as night; And never a man that fa1tered, and never a thought of flight. Then I seemed to lie in the silence, in the grip of an anguished throb, Not a cry, nor a sound of wailing, but a deep-drawn stifled sob. And the sun went down in crimson till it made the streams run red, I knew I had stayed from Flodden, and I wished that I were dead 1514. By R. S. CRAIG. Again the cry of women in despair =Thrills through the stricken hamlet by the tower— Few then the men who should have guarded there, =And lowly fallen the ancient pomp and power; =The micht of Scotland crushed in one cursed fatal hour— Again, and yet again, the cry more clear, =And hurrying feet to seek the castle gate Prodaim the insultin, Southern foe is near, =Flushed with his pride, relentless in his hate, =Now that our strength is gone, to mock our fallen state. Low, now, ah! very low, the loyal brave =Who rode so proudly to their knightly King; Above their heads the whispering grasses wave, =There where they fell, a firm unbroken ring: =Not their's again a strong right arm to bring To strive for home and freedom: aged men, =And those too young to wie1d the hero's spear, Affrighted women were the guardians then— =In all the wasted land no soul to hear =Their bitter cry for help and strong to calm their fear. But still the free blood flows from sire to son, =And sons can die even as their fathers slain; The battle lost may be the battle won- =Not unavenged the blood of Flodden's plain; =The old unconquered spirit rose again. The weak and helpless in the castled wall =Gird youthful limbs to play the patriot part; Frail trembling mothers hear their country's call: =They hush the anguish of the mother's heart, =They bless them wth their prayers, and bid them so depart. Not far to seek, the base marauding band; =For soon the shouts and fury of the fight (No alien sounds within the Borderland) =Breaks the still silence of the fading light, =And ere had fallen the shadows of the night, Their beaten foe in headlong terror haste =Back to the safer refuge of the strong, By flushed young fares, lit with glory, chased, =Who, armed in holy might to right the wrong, =Proved in their need the blood from which they sprung. And still their slogan calls throughout the years, =And still the flag unfurled the breezes kiss. No native born the proud old war cry hears, =Who shirks his fate or plays his part amiss, =With such his portion and his glory this. The years roll on, nor does the memory fade =Of one good fight for Freedom and the right. In undenoted rest their limbs are laid, =Who bore the burden of the glorious fight; =But still around them shines their own immortal light. 1514. By R. S. CRAIG. See! the Watchknowe beacon blazing, Tower and town and water raising! Callants, rouse ye! Eng1and's on us! Scotland's Freedom calls upon us? =Teribus ye Teriodin! =By our sires who fell at Flodden, =Muster swift and rouse the river! =Strike for Hawick, and Hawick for ever. Every side of us disaster! Bastels burned and Dacre master! Branxholme fired and Teviot harried, Horse and cattle Tyneward carried! =Teribus, &c. Trust we now in God, who gave us Strength of heart and arms to save us He will help Who helped our fathers, Aid the more the tempest gather! =Teribus, &c. Hark! the bell of old St Mary Finds us armed, alert and wary, Sword and pike and buckler ready, Heart as high as hands are steady! =Teribus, &c. Where the Slitrig lingers, meeting Teviot's floods with gladsome greeting, Never yet has England found us Traitors to the hills around us! =Teribus, &c. Free the gates, ye thowless bailies! Leave for once your wads and tailzies! Dacre heeds not rents or taxes, Meet him then with Border axes! =Teribus, &c. See their pensil floating o'er them! See them drive the kye before them! By the dead whose feet have trodden! Yonder hills—remember Flodden! =Teribus, &c. From the Moat our gaurdians call us! Victory again befall us! Dacre's "bull" will soon be roaring Louder yet, his prey restoring! =Teribus, &c. Ours the day— Their standard-bearer - (Ne'er had bonnet better wearer!) Falls to earth, oh! vengeance ever Waited them by Teviot river! =Teribus, &c. Tell King Henry! Reach him speedy, Men of Hawick, though poor and needy, Yet can give him all he wanted, Flodden left them still undaunted! =Teribus, &c. Hark! the slogan shrilly calling, Shades of night about us falling, Foemen flee in dire disorder! Hawick again has saved the Border! =Teribus, &c. Forth the Bailies come to meet us, Wives and maidens out to greet us, Honour now to gallant foemen! Their's the flag shall ride our common! =Teribus, &c. In the far-off years to follow, Long as Hawick hides in her hollow, Sons shall proudly bear this banner, Singing in our ancient manner, =Teribus ye Teriodin! =By our sires who fell at Flodden, =Well we fought them by the river! =Teribus and Hawick for ever. The Mosstroopers. By R. S. CRAIG. The lonely birds are screaming, =The autumn light is low, The Border hills are dreaming =Of their battles long ago. By moor and moss and river, =To the swish of swathed grass, And burnside reeds aquiver, =The dead mosstroopers pass. The dim light shows their faces, =So grim and white and wan, Through well-remembered places =They seek the foe till dawn. Their lips are set for battle, =Their eyes are fierce and bright, Their horses' bridles rattle =In the silence of the night The autumn winds are sighing =And moaning where they ride, They greet the dead and dying =And never one beside. Where lonely graves are scattered, =And ruined castles stand, The holy cross is shattered =By the red unchristened hand. For them no dreamless sleeping, =The earth gives up her dead, The secrets in her keeping =Flit spectral overhead, The moonbeams tip their lances, =Their horses stir the grass, Amid the fairy dances =The dead mosstroopers pass. The watching shepherds fear them, =They dread the crash of spears, The lonely cattle hear them =When lost to human ears. They meet by ground unhallowed, =They part at break of day, Where never man has followed, =They pass in mist away. St. Mary's. By R. S. CRAIG. O Church of the faith of our fathers! O Church of the faith in us now! How the mist of the centuries gathers, A stored grey mother art thou— The ages are white on thy brow! The Moat lay as silent and ghostly, When high on the knowe at its feet Men reared thee, and honoured thee mostly The g1adsome new era to greet; When the Cross and its message were sweet. The battle went raging around thee, When Scotland rose proven and tried, The heroes who followed it found thee A mother — they sleep by her side In their splendour, their honour, and pride. They met in thy Kirkyard and loaning, Old burgesses loyal and true: Thou hast heartened them heady with moaning, Thou hast taught them their duty to do: Thou hast dwelt in their memory too. The storm that had almost discrowned thee— The pitiless conf1ict of creed— Passed over and could not confound thee, Thou wert stately, 'mid passion and greed, As thy rivers that flow to the Tweed. They have darkened the river, its gleaming, Which brightened the banks by thy side, Has passed into shadow heseeming A past that has buried its pride; But still art thou towered by its tide. Far off, where the wattle is golden, In the sweet southern home of the race, Where the memory only is olden, In dreams 'twill discover thy face The heart will remember thy place. "Safe Oot, Safe In." By R. S. CRAIG. "Safe oot, safe in," our Border prayer We lift it to-day as when It rose from weeping women, As they blessed their fighting men; When many a mother bravely smile! To hap the tears she shed, And, listening to the jowing bells, Heard passing tolls instead ="Safe oot, Safe in," my Border lads! =And safely win ye hame; =But win or lack, God bring ye back, =To find us a' the same. Old Border wish, we need it still, When neither feud nor fray Smokes tower and town or scours the hill Or fires our hearts to-day; "Safe oot," and no dishonour smirch Whatever work we do; "Safe in," at last, when life is past And fighting over too. ="Safe oot, Safe in," my Border lads! =And safely win ye hame; =But win or lack, God bring ye back, =To find us a' the same. Pawkie Paiterson's Auld Grey Yaud. By "SOAPY" BALLANTYNE. As Aw was guan up Hawick Loan =Yeh Monanday at morn, Aw heard a puir auld grey meer =Gie mony a heavy groan— Gie mony a heavy groan, sir, =And this she said to mei— "Aw'm Pawkie Paiterson's auld grey yaud, =Sei how they're guiden' mei! "The miller o' Hawick Mill bred mei =And that Aw du weel ken; The miller o' Hawick Mill fed mei =Wi' mony a sort o' corn. But now the case is altered, =And this ye plainly sei— "Aw'm Pawkie Paiterson's auld grey yaud, =Sei how they're guiden' mei! "When a' the rest's set to the corn =Aw'm sent oot to the fog; When a' the rest's set to the haye =Aw'm sent oot to the bog. It's Aw gaed into Hawick Moss, ='Twas like to swally mei— "Aw'm Pawkic Paiterson's auld grey yaud, =Sei how they're guiden' mei! "And as for Nellie Harkness =She ryses in the morn, And cries—'O Godsake, uncle! =The yaud's amang the corn.' Hei tuik his muckle plew-staff =And cam' and swabbled mei— "Aw'm Pawkie Paiterson's auld grey yaud, =Sei how they're guiden' mei! "And Rob Young o' the Back Raw, =Hei's of'en shod ma clutes, Sae Aw wull leave him ma shank banes =To bei a pair o' butes. If hei push his legs weel in them, =They'll come up till his knei— "Aw'm Pawkie Paiterson's auld grey yaud, =Sei how they're guiden' mei! "And as for Peggie Duncan, =She is a bonnie lass, Sae Aw wull leave her ma een holes =Tae bei a squintin' glass— Tae gar her eyn sei strechter, =For they of'en stand aglei— "Aw'm Pawkie Patterson's auld grey yaud, =Sei how they're guiden' mei! "As for the minister o' Wilton, =His coat it is worn thin, And for to keep him thrae the cauld =Aw'll leave him ma auld skin, Wi' hide and hair, to keep him warm =As lang as it's dune mei— "Aw'm Pawkie Paiterson's auld grey yaud, =Sei how they're guiden' mei! "And as for Stonie Stewart, =He's of'en scarce o' stanes, And for to mend his auld fail dykes =Aw'll leave him ma auld banes; And a' the callants o' Hawick Loan =Wull make banefires o' mei— "Aw'm Pawkie Paiterson's auld grey yaud, =Sae that's the end o' mei!" Oor Ain Auld Toon. By THOMAS CALDWELL. My thoughts gang hack where the hills look doon Frae their silent slopes on my native toon, Where the Teviot flows, whi1e it gurgles sweet As the tale when enraptured lovers meet; Fain would I stray where the Slitrig jouks 'Neath its woody glens and its shady nooks, To the Lover's Lane, where at parting day I coorted my love in the gloaming grey. ==Chorus— =Then let us exalt it and honour its name, =Defend aye its credit and cherish its fame, =And while Teviot's sweet stream to the Tweed wimples doon =We'll unite in a sang to our ain auld toon. Again as of yore let me roam at will Owre the sunny braes o' the Vertish Hill, See the Dunion toor mark the Eildon's rise Like sentinel watch towers to greet the skies, While the Minto hills in their verdure seen Seem reflecting the light frae their mantle green, And a sound steals upwards, soft and low, To tell o' the life in the toon below. =Chorus—Then let us, &c. Where Slitrig and Teviot sweet music raise When their waters join in a hymn of praise, May the green auld Moat frae its pride o' place Guard owre men worthy their ancient race; May peace in Hawick's borders for ever abide, And truth as of yore in her midst reside May knowledge and wisdom as time whirls roun' Unite to mak' oors a better auld toon. =Chorus—Then let us, &c. Up wi' auld Hawick. By THOMAS CALDWELL. There's a toon, by hills surrounded, =Stands by bonnie Teviot's side, Famous lang in Border story, =We recall her feats with pride; As her eons were ever foremost =In the foray and the fray, Ever foremost you will find them =In life's peaceful strife to-day. ====Chorus— ==Then up wi' auld Hawick, ===O' the Borders the Queen, ==Let fraternity reign ===Ilka Teri between; ==For lads leal and true, ===And lasses braw and fair, ==There's nae toon amang them a' ===Can wi' oor toon compare. We've a flag won by the valour =Of our fearless sires of yore; We've a Common, we'll defend it =From the spoiler evermore; We've a Moat, which down the ages, =Witnessed many a deed of fame, When in might Hawick's sons arising =Drove invasion back again. ==Then up wi' auld Hawick, &c. Shout aloud the grand old slogan, =Spread the banner to the gale. And as year to year is added =Let them tell proud freedom's tale; And though youth gives place to manhood, =And old age each life steals o'er, May each Teri be a Callant =In his heart for evermore. ==Then up wi' auld Hawick, &c. Make the merry drums to rattle, =Let the fife scream shrill and clear; Sweeter than Apollo's numbers =Is their music to my ear, East and west unite their greetings, =As on soft June zephyrs borne, Absent Teries' thoughts fly homewards =On each Common - Riding morn. ==Then up wi auld Hawick, &c. The Hawick Gathering-cry. By "MORRIS CLYDE." "'Tis but a fragment," say they, ="And, its music measures short"; But it meets our human needs, =From the cottage to the Court. Now "God of Battles help us," =Now "Be God of Love our shield," For the vet'ran grounding arms =Could there be securer bield? For the youth just op'ning fire, =Hot and eager for the fray, Is there better sword to gird =At the dawning of the day? 'Tis the Eternal slogan, =That has sounded down all time— A prayer that finds expression, =In the tongue of every clime. It thunders in the war cry, =Now it soothes the child to sleep, Soft falling from the mothers =As they tender watches keep. The weary worker breathes it, =And with life his blood it thrills, Lending him the staying power =Of the everlasting hills. Oh Border Town, that holds it, =As a watchword and a ward, Well may thy people flourish =In the keeping of their guard. Ter y Bus? Ter y Od n! =Rolls from throat, and drum, and fife, Its deeper meaning mingles =With the leaven of their life In its hopes they well may sleep, =When with life's stress they've done, And learn'd the God of Battles =And the God of Love are one. Ode to Hawick. By Rev. ROBERT CUNNINGHAME. In the south confines of Caledonia's land Famed Hawick upon a pleasant spot doth stand, With fruitful orchards placed on every side, Which were like those in which Horace had pride— His Sabian fields,—a piece of sacred ground In midst of verdant groves which spread around Their hortal branches, as if they jointly strove To deck a place fit for the Queen of Love. Lo! here a mighty Princess doth resort, And entertain sometimes her splendid Court In a rich Palace which o'erlooks the plains, Fit to divert the pure Arcadian swains; And Ceres likewise dwells while Pan well-nigh Tunes up his rural notes on mountains high. Which screen that ancient Burgh, and it defend 'Gainst all the winds that AEolus can send From hollow caves: Lo! hear how the nymphs play On Teviot's banks, which from afar does stray Meander-like, but then comes gladly down Hearkening to view the pleasure of this town, Then checks his wrinkled waves, and with smooth face Stands and admires the beauty of this place, And waits from Slitricke his tribute to receive; Within this Burgh, and no where else, he'll have, The other, glad as he to join him here, Through hills and plains a rapid course does steer. Until below at Slitrigge bridge he stand Charmed with the pleasure that's on every hand Heir to be seen, and wishes heir to stay Till supervenient waves press him away Through divers rocks which force him to rebound And make a noise loud as Bellona's sound, Though sweeter far. bot then he sighs and cries Because he leaves his place,—and quickly dies But hold my muse! with reverence I'm strucke While as up yonder sacred mount I looke On which the temple that's situat on high Stands much admired by strangers passing by. As doth that artful Mount, which built of old Was by the natives here warlike and bold Wherein they acted all their games of May, When they inclined in sports to pass the day. Thus stands the Brugh, thus lies the smiling fields, Which for famed poets subject matter yields. Auld Flawick Where I Was Born. By GEORGE DAVIDSON. Aa'll sing 'e yet anither sang O' Hawick among the hills, O' bonnie Teviot's winding stream And a' its dancing rills, Aa'll sing o' bonnie Wilton Lodge And o' the Wallace Thorn, And the dearest spot on earth to me— Auld Hawick where I was born. Aa'll sing o' Slitrig's rocky glen And o' the auld green Moat, O' Hardie's high and rugged hill An auld historic spot; And yonder is the Dukes green wood And Whitlaw's flowery braes Where oft in boyhood's happy days I gathered nits and slaes. And there's the bonnie Vertish Hill, Spot ever dear to me, Thrae off its lofty breezy slopes The gude auld loon we see; We see her nestin' 'mang the hills, Home of the brave and free, Her sons hae fought in mony lands For oor King and oor Countree. The Anvil Crew. By WILLIAM EASTON. Our bills were paid, and our anchor weigh'd =As we sail'd from the fam'd Pate's Plum, And the distant thunder roll'd afar =Like the beat of a muffled drum. The lightning with its vivid flash, =Illumin'd near and far, And a gale began to blow ere we =Had crossed the Gas Hoose bar. ====Chorus— ==Oh, the Anvil, she was stout and strong ===Broad-beam'd and deep in keel; ==And Captain Menty walked the deck ===While Buckham mann'd the wheel. But when we came to Laidlaw's Cauld, =There a horde of pirates lay. There was the Cat, with her sails all set, =Awaiting for her prey. But boatswain Newall, who was up aloft, =Bawled out with open "moof," "There's a pirate on our lee-bow there, =Give her three points tae the "soof." ====Chorus— "Ah, ha!" cried Menty, "now for revenge! =The Cat's an awfu' brute. She assailed me yince on Denholm Cauld, =When I traded in fresh fruit; Now then, my men, stick to your guns, =And the pirate's crew we'll wallop, For the Cat will find out to her cost =We're a most expensive collop." ====Chorus— The battle then began and raged =For three full hours and more, But our men were good and our guns were strong, =So we drove the Cat ashore. But when we counted up our loss, =We wept, you may believe, When we found our captain dear was slain, =It made us all to grieve ====Chorus— On a gun carriage we placed his corpse, =And a shroud around him rolled; We wept as we plunged him in the deep— =He was worth his weight in gold. A broken anchor we placed at his feet, =And our colours around did wrap; We then smiled and thought, had he been alive, =He'd have sold it for old scrap ====Chorus— Ye Ballad of Ye Kinly stick. By WILLIAM EASTON. In the back room at Barclay's, the Auld Stick he stands Grasping the bell-rope with his auld shaky hands, Ask why he lingers and sadly he'll tell, He hasna got a copper, so he daurna ring the bell. ====Chorus— =Ring the bell, Kinly, ring, ring, ring! =Heather Jock's approaching the good news to bring, =He's pawn'd his upper garment they say he has done well, =Ring the bell, Kinly Stick, Kinly ring the bell. Heather Jock enters (while Kinly yet grieves), He stands and he gazes all in his shirt s'eeves; Stick hails him with a shout, which no other could excel, And Heather's brief response was— "Stick, ring the bell." ====Chorus— "Half-a-gill for the twae," then Heather bold did cry; "Drink and be off," was the landlord's quick reply; Then Heather he did quaff the half-gill to himsel', And left the Kinly not a drop though he did ring the be1l." ====Chorus— "Oh! Heather, that's unfair," the Suck did wi1dly cry, "A' drank it," quoth Heather, because that I was dry, But gin you'll come wi' me, my sark I wil1 sell, And sune we'll baith come back agaia and ring, ring the bell." ====Chorus— Then through the Sandbed the pair they did go, Streicht to the pawnshop that's kept by Milmoe; But the sark it was sae bad, it really wad' na' sell, And they never could gang back again to ring, ring the bell. ====Chorus— Round About Hawick. By The ETTRICK SHEPHERD. We'll round about Hawick, Hawick, =Round about Hawick thegither; We'll round about Hawick, Hawick, =And in by the brides gudemither. ===Sing round about Hawick, Hawick. ===Round about Hawick thegither; ==Round about Hawick, Hawick, ===Round about Hawick forever. And as we gang by we will rap, =And drink to the luck o' the bigging; For the bride has her tap in her lap. =And the bridegroom his tail in his rigging. ===Sing round about Hawick. &c. There's been little luck i' the deed, =We're a' i' the dumps thegither; Let's gie the Bridegroom a sheep's head, =But gie the bride brose and butter. ===Sing round about Hawick, &c. Then a' the gudewives i' the land =Came flocking in droves thegither, A' bringing their bountith in hand =To please the young bride's gudemither. ===Sing round about Hawick, &c. The black gudewife o' the Braes =Gie baby clouts no worth a button, But the auld gudewife of Penchrice =Cam' in wi a shouder o mutton. ===Sing round about Hawick, &c. Wee Jean o' the Coate gae a pun, =A penny, a plack, and a bodle, But the wife at the head o' the toun =Gae nought but a lang pin todle. ===Sing round about Hawick, &c. The mistress o' Bortugh cam' ben, =Aye blinking sae couthy and canny; But some said she had in her han' =A kipple o' bottles o' branny. ===Sing round about Hawick, &c. And some brought dumples o' woo'. =And some brought flitches o' bacon; And kebbucks and cruppocks enow, =But Jenney Muirhead brought a capon. ===Sing round about Hawick, &c. Then up cam' the wife o' the Mill =Wi' the cog, and the meal, and the water, For she likit the jake sae weel— =To gie the bride brose and butter. ===Sing round about Hawick, &c. At first she pat in a bit bread, =And then she pat in a bit butter, And then she pat in a sheep's head, =Horns and a' thegither. ===Sing round about Hawick, &c. The Hawick Callant. By "MATTHEW GOTTERSON." The scene was fair, its beauty rare, =When Odin raised his dwelling Where Slitrig sweet and Teviot meet, =All other streams excelling. His mettled wife, inured to strife, =Hung bows on every wall in't; And there was born, as bright as morn, =Hawick's first heroic Callant. He slew the deer with bow and spear, =Drave Southerns ower the Border, Made Hawick a town that won renown— =The foremost o' its order. And still her every son displays =A prowess bold and gallant; At feast, or fray, or tourney gay, =But few can match a Callant. His heart is warm, his hand is free, =His love's an inspiration For Border hill, and dale, and Hawick— =His centre of creation; And fair or tryst aye proves the best =To him wi' a bit brawl in't, He'll fight the field though heads are peeled— =He wunna yield, the Callant. Abroad, wi' Border spirit still, =He charms the foreign people, Sings "Teribus" wi' right goodwill =On pyramid or steeple; And gaily tells how Hawick excels =In mirth, and pluck, and talent, And grassy howes, and fairy knowes— =The playground of the Callant. Though oughs grow thin and chafts fa' in, =And hair grows white and scanty, His heart is light, his eye is bright, =His air is fresh and jaunty. He moves apace wi' blithesome face— =Nae gloom, or greed, or gall in't— Hawick's lively son, through work or fun, =An everlasting Callant. Bonnie Teviotdale. By JOHN HALLIDAY. Talk not to me of brighter lands =Beyond the stormy sea, Their streams may run with golden sands =But what are they to me. I care na' for the gems they boast, =Though true may be their tale, Give me the heather flower that blooms =In bonnie Teviotdale. For hearts I love beat kindly there =In sweet response to mine, And pleasing looks from friendly eyes =Upon my pathway shine. I'm happy as the bird whose song =Floats o'er the scented vale, And for the world I wouldna' leave =Ny bonnie Teviotdale. Perhaps if ye should come that way =You'd own at once wi' me, The lasses are as lovely there =As eye o' man can see. I have a flower I ca' my ain, =The sweetest in the vale, For her dear sake I'll never leave =Our bonnie Teviotdale. Hawick. By J. L. HERCUS. There is a toon, o' toons the pride, That stands on bonnie Teviot's side, Wha's fame has reach'd the world wide, =Auld Hawick on the Border. For days lang syne, I wot ye weel, Her sons made English foemen feel The crushing weight of Scottish steel, =And drove them o'er the Border. ====Chorus— Then long as Teviot rolls its tide Through many a valley fair and wide, Let Callants love with honest pride =Their toon upon the Border. Her Callants once at Flodden's fight, Renown'd for deeds of matchless might, When Scotlands valour sank in night, =Shone Hawick's on the Border. And long as Hornshole Brig shall stand, That trusty valour through the land Shall tell the story proud and grand =Of Hawick on the Border. ====Chorus— Long may that tatter'd standard wave, A trophy won by band so brave, Who Scotland's honour strove to save =From flight and wild disorder. And never may the memory die Of dauntless might and courage high, Or "Teribus" the slogan cry =Of Hawick upon the Border. ====Chorus— Oh, bonnie toon on Teviot's side! Be ever thou each Callant's pride! A1though he wanders far and wide =From Scotlands classic Border. And let that freedom which of yore The fathers fired who went before Live in the sons for evermore, =Of Hawick on the Border. ====Chorus— I Like Auld Hawick. By FRANK HOGG. They ask me, Hawick, to leave you, =And wonder why I stay 'Midst factory smoke and ceaseless din =Of looms both night and day. ==But I like auld Hawick, and her folks I like, ===Her men and maidens free; ==Sweet memories dwell in the good old town ===That aye was kind to me. They tell me no beauty's around you, =Your hills are bare and plain; That the lingering Teviot is silent and sad, =And the Slitrig aye filling wi' rain. ==But I like auld Hawick, and her streams I like, ===Where oft at eventide ==The tale of youthful love is told ===Adorn sweet Teviot's side. They say your people are homely, =Content with mean delights; No song, no art—they needs must spend =Dull days and cheerless nights. ==But I like auld Hawick, and her folks I like; ===A blith, untutored grace ==Aye cheers the homes of the good old town, ===And shines in each winsome face. They deem you the children of reivers, =Unkempt, as of old, and rude; Still bound to vie with friend or foe, =In keen and narrow feud. ==But I like auld Hawick, and her folks I like, ===As free as sires of old ==They hold debate, and each man receives ===A faith that's uncontrolled. But they know not the spirit that leads you =Afore in the world's great strife 'Gainst Tyrants and Wrong, for Freedom and Right, =And the upward struggle of life. ==So I like auld Hawick, and her spirit I like, ===That leaps still forth to the van, ==For Liberty, Progress in Thought and Art, ===And goodwill to every man. They know not the heart that keeps you =True to your ancient fame, That shares in the joys and sorrows of all =Who bear your doughty name. ==So I like auld Hawick, and her heart I like, ===Though on sons it may proudly dote, ==It freely welcomes strangers, too, ===To the town of the green old Moat. And when, auld Hawick, I leave you, =Be my wish when far away, While the Teviot flows to the Northern Sea =You may ply at the loom as to-day. ==For I like auld Hawick, and her folks I like, ===Her men and her maidens free, ==Sweet memories dwell in the good old town, ===That aye was kind to me. The Heart's Hame of the Callant. By JAMES Y. HUNTER. The Teviot tunes its tenderest notes to the listening exile's ear, And the Slitrig sings its blithest sang, when only the fremm are near. And the Callant's heart rejoices, though sundered by field or foam From the sweetest spot in the Borderland, 'mid the old green hills of home. For wherever a Scot has wandered, where'er the world's ways are worn, By the southern stream or the northern snows, from Wrath to the stormswept Horn; There be our sons of the Border blood, staunch as their sires and true, Fronting their fortune with Bordet faith, foremost to dare and do. Cairo, Canton, and Calcutta, and the slogan rings out again, Till our lonely lads grip the dear home-lands in the rush of the old refrain. Aukland, Aden, and Adelaide, and the Callants crowd to cheer, Till the ocean catches the chorus, and carries it far and near. Canada calleth to Cape from the homesteads that smile to the sun, And the falling forests and silent snows, to the southern strand we won, Saddle and sand and the shimmering stars, and the answering veldt beneath, And the hopeful hum of the cities to be, in the sunswept African heath. And onward the greeting goeth, and the voices rise and fall, Boston, Bombay, and Ballarat, Melbourne and Montreal, And a thousand hearts are beating high from Dunedin to Dundee, In the island homes of the surging main, and the rivers that seek the sea. In the crowded haunts of commerce, on the deck with its dripping foam, In the starlit camp on the Empire's edge, where the soldiers dream of home; Far, yet fettered by tenderest ties, they wander the world's end But methinks I can catch their cheering hail, and the message of joy they send. "We have borne our toiling bravely, we have held our honour high, Weaving our web with a hopeful hand, daring our destiny. Baffling despair with a Border blow, and deeming our brightest meed The sunny smile of an auld, auld toon where the Teviot twines to Tweed. May our right hand forget its cunning, may our strength and our skill decay, If we hain not our glorious heritage, if its memory pass away. So, while the sunshine sleeps on the braes, and the rivers run to sea, Flourish thy fame and endure thy name, thou heart'-hame of the free. The Ca'-Knowe. By JAMES Y. HUNTER. We know how, in days gone by, each citizen of the auld toon had to answer the Burgess Roll at the Ca'-Knowe, near Southfield Gate. It is only fancy that still sees, once as each year comes round, our Burgess-Dead the wide world over gathering to answer the old Roll amid the silence and the heather. Out through the pines in the summer-tide, =And far in the bracken swaying; And aye I turn with strange sweet pride To the breath of smoke on yon far hillside =Where my thoughts are ever straying. But soft in the silence of summit and glen, =When the sunlight is purpling the heather, I catch the whisper of unseen men And a leesome sound on the hills again, =For methinks the Dead together. And my eyes seem touched to a vision keen. =Was it breeze or breath of an angel? Till where only the glint of a stream had been And the laverock's ceaseless carolling, =LLke some far-off sweet evangel. Lo! the braes are tuned to a wondrous tread =Yet shadow is never that falleth; And never a heath-flower bows its head 'Neath the joyous step of the gathering Dead =O'er the paths where the plover calleth. And the whispering bracken croons tenderly =Of deathless years and hoary, Of brave old hearts in the days gone by, Dear dim faces that shall never die =From our ancient Border story. But swift as a shadow that spans the hill =Comes a quiet of peace unbroken, That a lark in the lift would fain be still, Hovering afar in his wonder, till =The words of joy be spoken. Then the silence stirs to a winsome sound ='Neath the cloudless calm of heaven, And voice calls to voice by the spirit mound Where the Burgess-Dead keep trysting-ground, =And the Roll to the winds is given. And I hear like the surge of a mighty song =A blazon of names undying, Till my heart beats high and hope is strong, And my thoughts like galleons crowd sail and throng =With colours flying. Dear dim faces the heather adown— =I had lief lose the vision never— With the eyes set sweet to the distant town, Oh! but ye loved it well, favour or frown, =Citizen-souls for ever. And perchance when the face of my life grows grey =In death's wan, sobbing weather, The good Lord, Who knows 'twas but yesterday I walked on the glad hills' gladsome way And watched the smoke on my own loved glen, Will grant me to see it afar again, ='Mong the burgess-hearts in the heather. Follow The Flag! By J. Y. HUNTER. I see the Teviot redden to a sunrise long ago, And the line of helmed and jerkined lads, asplash to the saddle bow And I watch their lads' eyes light with pride and theirs spears lift once again To Hexham's pennon of blue and gold above their leaders rein. ====Follow the Flag! Was it yesternight, in the whispering dark, they had galloped the blackened aeas? How the thudding hoofs stir the Border blood down the echoing centuries! Parry and thrust and sheering blow, till, at the dawn of day, Fierce Dacre's riders blench and break, and melt on the hills away. ====Follow the Flag! I see them pass thro' the wide-flung Yetts, where the old green Moat looks down, To the loving hearts that wait them in that little, sore-pressed town. Oh, the dancing feet of the children and the clamour of fife and drum, Down the cobbled wynds, where now, please God, no hostile step shall come. ====Follow the Flag! So now, whene'er the Teri hearts there sounds high honour's call Of duty for the town we love, and cherish over all. We'll lift our spears of service, where'er our feet may roam, To the Vision of the Pennon on the dear old hills of home. ====Follow the Flag! Hawick Lassies, 1514. By J. Y. HUNTER. There's a silence in the cobbled wynds, and snell the midnicht air, In ilka hoose a cruisie licht, in ilka heart a prayer For the lads beside the bolted Yetts, upsaddle for the fray, Ere the clangin' of Saint Mary's bell dies mutteringly away. Nae tears maun stain the bonnie cheeks that watch the Callants pass -God never made a braver thing than a gallant Border lass- Just a snatched kiss and a heart'nin' smile, and the echoing hoofs are gane, And ilka maid int he mirky dark can gret her quiet lane. Her faither sleeps on Flodden field, in that last hairst forlorn, When the Saxon sickle shudderingly swept thro' teh Scottish corn, And the lintie in her mither's throat, its cheerfu' music still, Has socht a nest in the yellow gorse beside the murmurin' Till. Oh, the dawn is long in comin', and the wick smokes dry and low, Will mornin' bring the laddies back in triumph o'er the foe? Yet, if his faither's shadowy road ilk stricken son should take, A Border lass will play her part for dear auld Scotland's sake. Sunlicht at last, and the dancin' day, and a quick-eyed lass to see The twinklin' spears by Teviot side and a pennon flutterin' free, And the cobbles ring to the rinnin' feet, and the clamourin' fife and drum, As hame again, thro' the crowded Yetts, the gallant laddies come. Brave voices from the vanished years: you can hear them soft and true, Like the lilt o' hidden laverlocks in the bonnie simmer blue, For hame they're ever comin' in these magic morns of June To the lassies' laughin' welcome in their ain auld Border toon. Oor Bonnie Border Toon. By ROBERT HUNTER. While Callants wander far afield =On mony a foreign plain To seek whate'er the warld can yie1d— =Its pleasures or its gain, They're Callants still by mony a tie, =Nor time nor space can sever, And love for thee, auld Hawick the free, =Twines roond their heart for ever. ====Chorus— ==Let fortune's sun o' simmer shine, ===Or surly winter froon, ==Their love for thee they never tine, ===Thou bonnie Border toon. For love o' thee they've focht their way =To fame, by sea and land, The thocht o' what'll Hawick folk say =Aye strengthened heart and hand; And oft in trouble's testing time, =When darkly rowed life's river 'Twas love for thee, auld Hawick the free, =That cheered their memory ever. ====Chorus— At noontide when their sun is high, =And life's fibers a' in bloom, Thine image mirrored in their sky =Keeps heart and hope frae gloom, Syne langings sair at times will come =Till a' their heart-strings quiver— 'Tis love for thee, auld Hawick the free, =The Teri test for ever. ====Chorus- Upheeze ye, then, the guid auld toon, =Ilk Callant far and near, Let fortune smile, let fortune froon, =Ye've freends that be ye here; Ye're Callants still by mony a tie, =Nor time nor space can sever, And love for thee, and Hawick the free, =Twines roond oor heart for ever. ====Chorus— Hawick Common-Riding. By ROBERT HUNTER. Hark again the stirring strains! =Rouse ye Teries from your slumbers, Gladly greet the dear refrain, =Join the song and swell the numbers! Brightest day o' a' the year, Morn to Callants ever dear. Wend your way this glorious day, =Kindly customs ne'er be scorning; Auld and young, sae blythe and gay, =A' maun hae their sneesh this morning; Grand auld cruikit sneeshin' horn, Worthy sic a glorious morn. Now a' is richt, the day is bricht, =Forget we a' oor toil and slaving; Sune we maun climb the Vertish heicht =To watch the honoured emblem waving; While "Here they come!" is heard the cry, "The Cornet's first!" the bairns reply. Syne rich and puir maun seek the Muir =To press ylnce mair the Waster heather, To breathe the air sae fresh and pure, =And crack o' auld lang syne thegether! And whiles wi' freends frae ower the main, Auld memories to revive again. The racing dune, we rise again, =And dander hameward through the plantin', To join again the dear refrain, =Oor heart and voice shall ne'er be wantin'; O Teribus! thy magic spell Thy sons shall own where'er they dwell. It's no' in steeds, it's no' in speeds, =It's something in the heart abiding; The kindly customs, words and deeds, =It's these that make the Common-Riding. Then rally, Teries, yin and a', Let this year be the best o' a'. An Auld Man's Common-Riding. By ROBERT HUNTER. See him on the Waster heather, Where Hawick Callants yearly gether, Wi' a heart as licht's a feather, =Sae blythe and gay; Neither wind nor rain can tether, =His joy that day. Oot frae a' the roar an' rustle O' the factory's birr an' bustle, Yea day at least he'll miss the jostle, =The fecht and push, And hear the blackbird's cheery whustle =Frae ilka bush. There wi' freends sae blythe and cheerie, Can the day seem lang or dreary? Sic a thocht! na' never fear ye, =Ye glaiket gull, Whae ever heard a real auld Teri =Ca' Hawick Muir dull? What wi horses racin', prancin', Strolling bodies fiddlin', dancin', Lasses' een sae brichtly glancin', =Withouten guile, Losh! the scene is fair entrancin, =And draws the smile. What cares he for high-priced races, Or for naigs their line that traces Back to dams wi' furious paces, =Or Sires o' fame? Gie him a beast the road that faces =Whate'er its name. Hear him tell the weel-kenn'd story, When the Haugh was in its glory— How the jockies in their fury =Rave an' ruggit, Till the Cook wi muckle worry =Nailed the nugget. Or how Glorious Jock the hunter Wan the hurdle in a canter; Or how Rattlin' Rab the Ranter, =And Deans' mere, Beat the famous Black Enchanter, =That sell'd sae dear. Thus, wi' cracking and wi' joking, Strolling round or quietly smoking, Slips away the day, unbroken =By strife or fray; Syne to the toun wi' joy unspoken =He wends his way. Oor Ain Kailyaird. By ROBERT HUNTER. It's a slip frae aff the bonnie buss =In oor kailyaird. That was planted by a loyal heart =In oor kailyaird, And was watered wi' his tears, 'Mid the many hopes and fears, That Royal Charlie yet wad claim =His ain kailyaird. May it waft your memory back again =To oor kailyaird, When ye rowed a careless callant then =In oor kailyaird; May it kindle thochts in min' O' the days o' dear lang syne, And the hearts that aye were leal and true =In oor kailyaird. Than gently tend the bonnie buss =In your kailyaird, For the sake o' auld Teribus =And oor kailyaird, It'll tell ye mony a tale O' yer native Teviotdale, Till yer heart shall bliss the bonnie buss =In oor kailyaird. Hawick Among The Hills. By JOHN INGLIS. Come, Border Minstrel, sweep the chords =Of thy good harp once more; Oh! never let it cease to sound =Though on a foreign shore. If round thee there be nought to stir =To patriotic thrills, Look back on bonnie Teviotside, =And Hawick among the hills. The muse you loved long years ago =Can whisper o'er the main, And glowing words she'll waft to thee =If thou but strike the strain. And let its tuneful cadence float =Like music from the rills, That shed their sweet and ceaseless song =Round Hawick among the hills. There's not in all the Border land =A town with brighter name; Her slogan lighteth up the past— =It led her sons to fame. Who often stood a stalwart band, =With proud unflinching wills, And guarded well the ancient rights =Of Hawick among the hills. Then wake thee, minstrel, from thy dream, =We long to hear the voice Which draws the sympathetic tear, =Or makes the heart rejoice. Arise and sing, and loud let ring, Whate'er thy thought distills, And cheer us in thy native town— =Old Hawick among the hills. The Eicht O'Clock Bell. By JAMES JAMIESON. When the mist o' the gloaming creeps over the hill, When the low hum o' labour is everywhere still, When a' things around us, below and above, Breathe out to the spirit sweet incense o' love; O! then comes the hour that ilk yin le'th best, The glad hour o' peacefulness, gentleness, rest, Ower mountain, ower muirland, ower green grassy fell, Are borne the sweet notes o' the eicht o'clock bell. There's a balm for the heart that is dowie wi' care In the sweet soothing music that floats through the air; It calms the worn soul with a melody mild, As the voice of a mother that sings to her child; It comes ower the heart like some quaint cheery strain, That carries us back to the days that are gane; Auld faces, auld feelings, and mony a dear spell, Are linked wi the sound o' the eicht o'clock bell. Where the dun barren hills to the valleys sklent down Stand the streets an' the wynds o' my ain Border town, And as mirkness glides meekly ower hollow and height, Wee rays frae the windows glint up through the nicht, Till it seems lyin' nestled 'mang hillocks an' scaurs A whole fairy city, up-biggit wi' stars; While saft, low, and mellow, ower upland an' fell Is wafted the sang o' the eicht o'clock bell. The reek curlin' upwards frae ilka lum head Betokens the ingle, bricht, cracklin' and red, And I see in my mind every group gathered there, Frae the wean to the granny in auld elbow chair; The day's wark is by and the heart has grown licht, There are mony queer tales to enliven the nicht, While wi' ilk sang they sing, and ilk story they tell, Is mixed up the lilt o the eicht o'clock bell. There are bright Eden glimpses by every hearthstane, For the puir man has joys where the rich may hae nane. He has treasures unkenned though his gear be na' rife In his rosy-faced weans an' his kind winsome wife; In lang after days be they joyous or drear, His mind shall hold memories to strengthen an' cheer; In mony a lane moment his fancy shall dwell 'Mang the scenes ushered in by the eicht o'clock bell. Though doucely and eidently mending her claes The lassie sits cosily beekin her taes, Nae sooner the lang looked-for sound does she hear, Than she's up like a hare when the hunters are near, The sewin' an' the darnin' are a' thrawn aside, For she kens he is waiting an' she mauna bide, Though the mirk gathers round and the breezes blaw snell, They are a' set at nocht by the eicht o'clock bell. The e'e has a power that it hasna' by day, When the soft light is fadin' frae meadow an' brae, An' the sweet words o' love are aye sweeter by far When told 'neath the gleam o' the bricht gloamin' star; Oh! mony a fond whisper and soul cheering thocht Has that calm-breathin' hour in its peacefulness brocht; In moments to come mony a heart-throb shall tell O' the feelings brocht back by the eicht o'clock bell. Though purteth an' sadness may fa' to our share, The time aye comes round when we feel tham nae mair, What dull, dowie thocht daur intrude on the breast That's cheered by the smiles o' the yin we lo'e best; Soft is the licht o' the wee gleaming stern, Gentle the breezes that blaw through the ferns, But softer, an' sweeter, an' gentler than a', Is the lassie we meet as the day wears awa', When the tryst has been set in some lane leafy dell, 'That echoes the sound o' the eicht o'clock bell. Plea for the Common-Riding. By ROBERT KENNEDY. Teri Bus and Teri Odin! Men wha Teviot's shores hae trodden, Fast frae mountain, stream, and valley, To our annual revels rally. Teri Bus and Teri Odin! Shall we hear our sacred slogan Minglin' wi the notes of wailin', Droon'd by base degenerate railin'? Record rich of fame and merit. Lang it fann'd the martial spirit, Nerved the arm to manly duty, Brightly flushed the cheek of beauty. Dying lips hae linger'd o'er it; Britain's foes hae fa'n before it; Dear alike in childhood's prattle, And the deidly din of battle. Hosts with patriotism warming, Hearths and hames delichted charming, Wounds of ire repentant healing, Hallowing ilka social feeling. Thoughts of auld lang syne come o'er us, Scenes we shared in rise before us; Lads and lasses braw arraying, Fifes and drums divinely playing. Tunefu' voices, loud and pliant, Waft afar the strain defiant; Owre the Mill Path swells the chorus, Flag and ribbons waving o'er us A Dialogue Anent The Auld Brig. By WILLIAM NORMAN KENNEDY. Time—Midnight, June 6th, 1851, being Common-Riding day.— Scene the Auld Brig. — The Spirit of the Brig standing in an attitude of inexpressible sadness and apparently pondering on the future. — The Spirit of Clinthead is seated in seeming unconcern on the parapet, in Corduroy Smalls and a Woollen Nightcap, smoking the shadow of a pipe,—speaks. Clinty.=Gude save us a' there's mischief brewing, =Wi' sic destructive wrack an' ruin, =This gruesome sicht gars me declare, =I doot gif I'm an Oliver. =An' yet, an O begins my name, =My forbears a' were men o' fame; =Auld Brig, what say ye; am I richt; =I'm drouthy, an its cauld the nicht. =Ye'er sides are retcht an' I'm gey ill, =Come let us hae a Hawick gill =For auld lang syne, or aiblins twa, =This air is damp an' unco raw. =Ilk Oliver a drouth enherits, =Leevin' or dead we stick by spirits, =Co' way to Wullie Trummill's shop, =Through some bung-hole we'll sook a drop. Brig.=Cock-o'-the-Rock, thou still art kind, =My strength is gone, I'm undermined, =That Brig below with modern face, =Reproaching cries "To me give place!" Clinty.=Newfangled deevils, never heed them, =Folk never prize things till they need them; =They'll rue the coup as sure's a gun, =The neist big flude 'ill show them fun. Brig.=I mourn thee in my hour of need, =Warm-hearted patriot, old Clint-head; =Hadst thou been spared, so would my arch, =Unharmed by man's progressive march. Clinty.=Afore ye're numbered wi' the deid, =About the auld folks gie's a screed; =An' tell me o' the ploys were played, =When your fundation slane was laid. Brig.=Myself I have no wish to praise, =But I was born in pious days; =And priests were there in solemn state, =The work to bless and consecrate. =I was consigned to Mary's care, =With chanted psalm and solemn prayer; =And brethren of masonic art =Were there to act their mystic part. =Of rainbow shape they made my form, =That I might triumph o'er the storm; =And in my triple arch you see =An emblem of the Trinity. =Hence Slitrig's waters had no power =To scathe me in their fiercest hour; =Eight hundred years I've firmly stood =Untouched by time, unhurt by flood. Clinty.=Wheesht, ye daft haveril, gie us facks, =I want nane o' yer Romish cracks; =A bonny life thae Papists led us, =Till they were gliffed by Jenny Geddes. =I want to ken 'bout auld lang syne, =O' men an' things passed oot o' min'; =What blithe like lads an' grey-haired sages, =Ye've carried in the bygane ages. Brig.=I've borne mailed knights in grim array, =In eager haste for Border fray; =And sandled monks my summit trod, =Wending their way to worship God. =In time of need, I've proved a boon =To him that rhymed in Ercildoun; =And here, though history tells it not, =Has crossed the wizard, Michael Scott. =Upon my summit, Thomas stood =In thoughtful and prophetic mood, =And books of ancient lore relate, =That thus he showed my coming fate— =="Amid destruction Hawick sall flourish, =="And sall improve when ye sall perish." =Here Gawin Douglas took his way, =On Sabbath morn and holy day; =When vested priests in cope and stole =Said masses for Drumlanrig's soul. =Dark Ferniehurst's retainers rude, =Noble Buccleuch the bold and good, =And many a knight of Border fame =I've borne, and many a beauteous dame. =Here Harden Wat his spoils has driven, =By strouthrife from the English riven; =Here your forbears often marched at night. =To keep their fellow burghers right =Lord Olipher embalmed in song, =A stranger to fear, a foe to wrong; =Like sturdy Hab, branched from your race, =Your lineage royalty would grace. =While Hawick retains her local fame, =Her sons shall venerate thy name; =Men coined in Nature's noblest mint =Were thy progenitors, O Clint. Clinty.=Auld brig shake hands, I maist can greet =To see ye harried sae complete; =Gude guide us a', yer stock o' freens =Has sunk to Jock and Sandy Weens. =Auld Brig, ye've been a public gude, =For ocht I ken, sin' Noah's flude; =Wi' your convoys, I've filled my skin, =When Tyne-men brocht us Holland Gin. Brig.=Where'er my visual organs range, =I nothing note but wondrous change: =The Moat alone, primeval stands, =Guarded from sacrilegious hands, Clinty.=Deed aye, for I mysel' hae seen =Folk casting peats in Myreslawgreen, =An' divots an' rough-heads gotten where =The moderns now ca' Teviot Square. Brig.=I'll pay with heartfelt feelings true =A dying tribute to Buccleuch, =Whose pride has been through good and ill, =Scotia! to guard thy relics still. =Had I been his I'd still exist =In spite of mills and woolen twist; =The power my grandeur to destroy, =No yellow dross from him could buy. ==My fabric and your father's hall ==Are doomed—together they shall fall, ==Let us take comfort, then, and die in peace, ==We've done our duty like the men of Greece. =Clint's wrinkled cheeks now glowed with flame, =His placid smile a frown became; =He rose like some demoniac fool, =Dashed pipe and night-cap in the pool. =Then hurried down in headlong haste, =As though ten thousand devils chased; =Nor felt that in his swift descent =His ghostly garment had been rent. =From fore to aft, from stem to stern, =Th' etherial corduroys were torn, =The old breeks fluttered in the breeze, =Held by the buttons at the knees. =Each shadowy hair stood stiff and stark, =And shone like phosphorus in the dark; =Then with an oath which virtue shocks, =Old Clinty varnshed 'mong the rocks. I Like Auld Hawick The Best. By TOM KER. I have gazed in silent rapture =On Killarney's lakes and rills, Listen'd to the wondrous echoes From mountain peaks and rugged hills, 'Mid these scenes of fairy gleamland— =Peerless in a winsome west— I have wandered as in dreamland, =But I like auld Hawick the best. ==I like auld Hawick the best, ==Each hill with heathery crest ==That guards the grey auld toon below ==I like auld Hawick the best. 'Mong the beauty spots of England =I have rambled far and near, By the northern lakes, at Gilsland, =Derwentwater, Windermere; Watched the waves at Rhyl and Scarb'ro, =Clamberd up to Snowdon's crest, Bathed at Brighton, Blackpool, Yarb'ro; =But I like auld Hawick the best. ==I like auld Hawick the best, ==In sylvan beauty dressed, =='Mid Summer's sun and Winter's snow; ==I like auld Hawick the best. I have seen the famed Loch Lomond =When the sun its wavelets kiss'd, When the lofty Ben was mirrored, =On its calm and tranquil breast; I have seen its islands seeming— =With their matchless verdure dressed— Like a fairy picture gleaming; =But I like auld Hawick the best. ==I like auld Hawick the best, ==Where'er may be my quest, ==From Eastern gleam to Western glow; ==I like auld Hawick the best. The Fairest Spot O' A'. By TOM KER. Though I wander far away =To the busy bustlin' toon, Where are pleasures bright and gay =In a care forgettin' roon'; Yet the thought comes like a crack =That I hear the Tee'ot's ca', And my heart maun aye gang back =To the fairest spot o' a'. ==Oh the fairest spot o' a' ==Is where the braes are buskit braw, ==And the glens their glamour thraw ==Ower the fairest spot o' a'. Though the sea allurin' laves =Shore and shingle a' day lang, And the never-restin' waves =Sing their never-endin' sang; Yet to me where Tee'ot rins, =And where Slitrig's waters fa' Doon their ain romantic linns =Is the fairest spot o' a'. ==Oh the fairest spot o' a'! =='Mang the sunshine or the snaw, ==Where the hills the heart-strings draw ==To the fairest spot o' a'. Other lands have beauties rare, =Lakes and rivers broad and braw, Mountain peaks and passes, where =Lies the never-meltin' snaw; Yet sweet Tee'otdale to me =Wi' its howes and haughs ana', And its burnies rinning free =Is the fairest spot o' a'. ==Oh the fairest spot o' a'! ==When the blasts o' winter blaw, ==And when summer sighin's fa', ==Aye the fairest spot o' a'. Where Slitrig and Teviot Meet. By TOM KER. There's a snug little town that had won renown =On a far-away day o' dree, When fair Scotia's host at Flodden lost =The flower of its chivalry; And when rievers rode and mosstroopers trod =To victory or defeat, On their rieving raids through the glens and glades =Where the Slitrig and Teviot meet. ==Where the Slitrig and Teviot meet, ==O fierce was the fray, and fleet ===Was the fate that fell ===At the slogan's swell, ==Where the Slitrig and Teviot meet. This snug little town, a Moat for its crown— =Well guarded on every side By sheltering hills, while gurgling rills =To their murmuring music glide; The mavis, lintie, and laverlock lilt =Their love-lays in cadence sweet, And make gladsome day with their melody, =Where the Slitrig and the Teviot meet. ==Where the Slitrig and Teviot meet, ==With nature's charms replete, ===There are beauties rare ===Beyond compare, ==Where the Slitrig and Teviot meet. And this snug little town Ihat still nestles down =Where Druid and Pagan prayed, Has encountered the ire of flood and fire, =Yet emerged from them undismayed; But in happier times, with the vengeful chimes =Of warfare now obsolete, The arts of peace their fulness increase =Where Slitrig and Teviot meet. ==Where the Slitrig and Teviot meet, ==True hearts in concord beat, ===I fain would be ===Till the day I dee, ==Where the Slitrig and Teviot meet. Meda's Song. By J. E. D. MURRAY. Oh! they may sing o' other lands, =Wi' craig and wild ravine, Wi mountain peaks that soar aloft =Into an azure sheen, And they may tell o' valleys fair, =Bedeck'd wi gorgeous flow'rs, O' palm grown isles where luscious fruits =Perfume the radiant hours. But gie to me the hills and heath, =The cluds that fleck the lea, The primrose on the sunny brae, =The fragrant hawthorn tree, Gie me the bonny broomy knowe, =The burn that roond it rins, Wi' plash and spurt and peaceful purl, =And mony outs and ins. Gie me ma dear auld faither's land, =Ma mother's muirland hame, Though what belang'd tae me and mine =Is perished save in name. Fain would I see that spot again, =Alas! the bitter thought, A wifeless and a bairnless age =Is no' in touch wi' ocht. I couldna' thole the cauld hearthstane, =That doorway that is not, I couldna' thole the wa's ower~grown, =And what is gane forgot. The red man has my comrade been =Through weary years o' care— To bow down to a harness'd life, =My spirit couldna' bear. A rover I thae 1ang, lang years, =A rover maun remain, The syke that's jairbl'd fra the fell =Can ne'er its rise regain. So I maun wander to the end, =Afar in stranger land, Content me by the stranger's fire, =And clasp the stranger's hand. But through it a', betide what may =I'll cherish aye the same, The far off Hawick o' callant days, =My lang lost Scottish hame. My hungering heart will constant yearn =For scenes that hain the past, The Borderland, the Borderland, =My first love and my last. Clinty. By J. E. D. MURRAY. I am Clinty, Clinty, Clinty—fra ma hoose upon the rock, I sei the Slitrig whirlin' doon, and I hear St Mary's Clock; =And often I think, =As I blink, blink, blink, =There's a lesson here for a'; =This life below =Is worry and woe, =There's peace ower the Kirkstile wa'; =There's peace ower the Kirkstile wa'. I am Clinty, Clinty, Clinty, and I've leeved here bairn and man, The brig and mei's been awfa grit since ever ma life began =And often I think, =As I blink, blink, blink, =And loonge ower the crumblin' wa', =That some day sune, =Hit doon—mei abune— =Oo'll yiblins baith get a ca', =Oo'll yiblins baith get a Ca'. I am Clinty, Clinty, Clinty, fra ma hoose upon the rock, I hear the drums and fifes gang by and clatter o' horse and folk; =And I think, think, think, =As I blink, blink, blink, =At lassies and lads sae braw, =That some day they =Like mei—will turn grey, =Yet Commons they'll ride for a'; =Yet Commons they'll ride for a'. The Reeky Howe. By J. E. D. MURRAY. =There's a wee bit reeky howe, =Where the Teviot wanders throwe, Jookin' here a sturdy brig or there a cauld; =It's crammed fu' o' busy mills, =There's braw hooses up its hills, That make Hawick look like new, but 'oo ken she's verra auld. =Since she nestled by that stream =She's seen mony a war-fire gleam; She's been sairly hauden doon in mony ways; =But wi' vow to do or die, ="Teribus!" their battle-cry, The Callants that she reared held their ain in direst days. =This—oor guid auld Border toon!— =Has seen mony an up an' doon, Since the Druid spoke the true prophetic word; =She has felt the torrent's ire, =And been thrice reduced by fire, She's borne the awfu' wecht o' baith pestilence an' sword. =But despite the power o' a', =She's been croose eneuch tae craw, An' been yibble aye her droopin' heid tae raise; =Makin' Liberty her pride, =She has thrawn the yoke aside— Her Callants ha'e been true in her dowiest o' days. =She has focht for Scotland's richt, =An' she's been auld Scotland's micht, When her Borderland was deluged ower wi' bluid =An' on mony a foreign shore, =Wi' her Callants to the fore, 'Mid the bravest o' the brave she has ever stoutly stood =The gallant Teri spirit, =Oo've the honour to inherit, Is the lever destined Hawick to raise; ='Tis the will to do an' dare, ='Tis the heart tae strive an' share, That makes Hawick Callants kent in thae competition days. =Oh then, cherished be that name =That has won its way tae fame In every land where Scots ha'e shared the strife =Let us bear that name wi' pride, =And may honour be oor guide, Whatever be the troubles or the burdens o' oor life. =Though the Moat itsel' may fa', =Like the famous auld Mid Raw; Though the Teviot may forget to seek her braes; =And though every busy mill =May through time be hushed an' still— Yet oo'll aye be Hawick Callants tae the end o' oor days! =In the rush o' modern days =Oo've nae need o' sodgers claes Tae show that oo' are sterling men at heart, =In the battle and turmoil =O' a life o' daily toil The Teri proves his bluid by the way he does his part. =May the grand auld slogan soond =Every year as June comes roond, An' "Hawick Teri" ever mean a name o' praise! =An' whatever be oor plicht, =May oo' battle for the richt. An' show oo're rale Hawick Callants tae the end o' oor days. Lest We Forget. By J. E. D. MURRAY. "Lest we forget." Oh simple phrase, =Replete with potent thought. Can we forget those olden days, =The dool their evils wrought? Can we forget that faithful band, =True sons of warriors slain On Flodden Field, who here made stand =Their birthright to maintain? Sires of our sires, and of their blood, =The source, the pith, the stay, Yea of what sterling grit and good =There dwell in us to-day. Rugged were they, unkempt, and strong, =Sprung from the heath-clad hi1l; 'Twas nature taught them freedom's song, =That song that charms us still, "Lest we forget" their faith, their fame, =When Scotland's hour was drear, Nor this the cause, nor yet the claim, =That prompts this tablet here. Whilst Hawick has heirs, from sire to son =The tale will still be told Of slayer slain, of Standard won =Down here in days of old. No fear enthrals the Teri heart =Such memory will wane, As sure forget in life our part, =Or our dear loved refrain. Through year on year that takes its flight =Will last affection's tie To those who, if they lived not right, =Right well know how to die. Ther paths were rough, untraced, beset =With danger every tread. If ours be smooth shall we forget =The thanks are to those dead. To them we owe our life and light, =Our liberty, our land, Our strength of will, our love of right, =Our linking heart and hand. In cause of truth, on honour's roll, =Our instincts all have sprung From the untutored, proud ot soul, =That framed our mother tongue. "Lest we forget" that they bequeathed =The privilege of peace; "Lest we forget," though sword be sheathed, =The battling must not cease. The wider field, the larger aim, =The higher impulse lent To us to strive to future fame =Than when the bow was bent, Ours 'tis to tread the broader way, =To live the sweeter life; Ours just as real in modern days =The waging of the strife. 'Gainst odds that grind trhe weak to earth, ='Gainst vice that wears the strong, 'Gainst sland'rous speech that smirches worth, ='Gainst every coward wrong. Then may this lonesome shaft that rears =T'wards Heav'n its graven head, Portray no token of our fears =Anent the silent dead. But here, through ages yet to come, =May old and young repair As to some sainted martyr tomb =To breathe the hallowed air. And oft may love's enraptured ear, =With Teviot ling'ring by, Drink in soft whisp'ring, ever dear, =And list the tell-tale sigh. And oft'ner still may failing hearts =Make this their solemn shrine, And learn to live the nobler parts =From those of "Auld Lang Syne." And live to learn that in the fight =The hardest work is best, Quit them like men from morn till night =And trust heaven for the rest. John Paiterson's Meir. =John Paiterson's meir, =She canna be here, We nowther hae stable nor hay for her; =Whip her in, whip her oot, =Sax merks in a clout, Ower the kirk stile and away wi her. ==Fy, whip her in, &c. =The black and the broon =Ran nearest the toon, But Paiterson's meir she came foremaist; =The dun and the grey =Kept faerest away, But Paiterson's meir she came foremaist. ==Fy, whip her in, &c. =The bay and the yellow =They skimmed like a swallow, But Paiterson's meir she came foremaist; =The white and the blue =They flunkit and flew, But Paiterson's meir she came foremaist. ==Fy, whip her in, &c. Hawick Volunteers. By JAMES THOMSON. Yon eagle, with the broading brow, =Would soar across the main; Hìs pinions plucked at Waterloo, =Have gathered strength again He deems, within his place of pride, =To wear the Bntish Crown— To pluck fair England's Rose, and tread =Our bearded Thist1e down. Fair Albion saw the coming storm, =Her banner broad appears; She gave the gathering cry to form =Her Rif1e Volunteers— With heart of steel and willing hand, =For Merry England's law, Yon brooding eagle still must bend =Beneath the Lion's paw. Auld Scotland heard the bodin' soun' =And threw her crook away— Now foul fa' ilka coward loon =Wha winna join the fray— Syne banged her gun frae off the wa', =Wi' belt and bayonet keen, And swore to conquer or to fa' =To keep her Thistle green. There's ae auld toon by Teviot's side, =That's famed in days of yore; Her independence is her pride, =And loyal to the core. There's ae auld flag maun wave on high, =When Scotland's foe appears; And "Teribus" the battle cry =O' Hawick Volunteers. The Border Queen. By JAMES THOMSON. Where Slitrig dances doon the glen =To join the Teviot waters, There dwells auld Hawick's honest men =And Hawick's bright-eyed daughters. And weel we lo'e the guid auld toon. =Ilk nuik frae end to end on't, She aye has keep'd the causa' croon, =And ever independent. ==What though her lads are wild a wee, ===And ill to keep in order, =='Mang ither toons she bears the gree, ===The Queen o' a' the Borders. 'Bout forest trees let Gala brag, =We care na what belang them, They ha'e nae Teri Odin flag, =There's no a moat among them. They ha'e nae Common, pasture, peats, =They've neither, grants nor charters, A soor ploom tree, a fox that sits =Upon its hinder quarters. ==What though her lads, &c. Unfurl the Teri Odin flag =To kiss the breeze o' summer, And list again the inspiring strain, =Led on by "Wat the Drummer." The halberdiers wi' buttons clear, =Like sunbeams brightly glancin', The Cornet and his merry men =On mettled steeds are prancin'. ==What though her lads, &c. Then let the Braw Lads come the morn, =And ilk ane bring his dearie, They'll wish that they had ne'er been born, =Or else been born a Teri. And up wi Hawick three times three, =The loon that winna chorus't May hang upon a soor ploom tree, =And sleep in Ettrick Forest. ==What though her lads, &c. Up wi' the Banner. By JAMES THOMSON. Hail to the banner that proudly floats o'er us =Hail to the brave hearts that bear it along; Proudly we glance at the record before us, =True-hearted heroes so famous in song. ==Fling out the standard high, ==Hark to the gathering cry; =Dear to each heart is the old native strain— ==Children and bearded men ==Join in the old refrain— =Shout Teriodin again and again. Oceans may sever our sons from their native land, ="Firm beat their hearts for the homes of the free; Leaps still the Hawick blood, free as the gushing flood, =Unstemmed as the torrents that rush to the sea. ==Fling out the standard high, ==Hark to the gathering cry; =Dear to each heart is the old native strain— ==Children and bearded men ==Join in the old refrain— =Shout Teriodin again and again. Boast, Hawick, boast of the deeds of your fathers! =Look to the trophy so gallantly won; As ages roll o'er us, fresh laurels we'll gather; =Guard well her honours each true-hearted son. ==Up wi the banner high, ==Hark to the gathering cry; =Dear to each heart is the old native strain— ==Children and bearded men ==Join in the old refrain— =Shout Teriodin again and again. Up to your saddles, the slogan is sounding. =Haukbert and halbert in gallant array, The heroes are marshalled, the mettled steeds bounding, =Follow your Cornet away and away. ==Fling out the standard high, ==Hark to the gathering cry; =Dear to each heart is the old native strain— ==Children and bearded men ==Join in the old refrain— =Shout Teriodin again and again. The Auld Mid Raw. By JAMES THOMSON. This life is but a shiftin' scene, =The world gaes circlin' roon', And Time's brought many changes =To oor ain auld toon. New fashions tak' the causa croon, =The auld gae to the wa', And we maun bid a last farewell =To the auld Mid Raw. What memories crood upon my brain, =Familiar forms I see, The auld sae decent and sae douce, =The young sae fu' o' glee. How mony buirdly chiels were born, =And lasses trig and braw, Aneath the pendit arches =O' the auld Mid Raw. Oh! had thae rugged stanes a tongue =What sermons they could preach. What tales the mouldering rafters tell =Had they the power o' speech. When news o' Flodden's day o' dule =Made dark baith hut and ha', And hapless widows mourned the brave =In the auld Mid Raw. What queer auld bodies gathered there =When the daily toil was dune, Kilmarnock pirnies on their heids, =Knee breecks and ootsteek shoon. The toon's affairs were a' set richt, =For weel they kent the law, And wha were like the statesmen =O' the auld Mid Raw. In Winter nights when Johnnie Frost =Hath sealed baith dub and mire, The yoke-a-tulie rankit up, =And doon the Loan like fire The leader of the train got oft =A crackit croon to claw, Against the battered gable =O' the auld Mid Raw. O ruthless Time; your hand has press'd =Fu' heavy on my brow, And Left me little of the past =That can give pleasure now. But I wad gi'e the gathered gear =That's in yon lordly ha To be a laddie racing roond =The auld Mid Raw. Away, away, fond Memory, =Improvement's march go on; Why should one relic of the past =Be left to stand alone? Old age may sigh, though youth may laugh, =As cherished ido's fa'; Farewell, Farewell to hearth and hame =In the auld Mid Raw. The Town's Standard of 1514. By JAMES THOMSON. Dear relic of the days of yore, =Of deeds of hardy valour done, Thy folds are floating as before, =Beneath the summer sun. Old trophy, much was daied and done, =To wrest thee from the foemans hand, And nobly, bravely wert thou won =By that determined band. Say, didst thou in the olden day =Float oer the Baron's battled towers? Or wert thou foremost in the fray =When fell our Forest flowers? The fancy flies to other years— =The homestead blazing to the sky, The murdered sire, the widow's tears, =The orphan's wailing cry. How changed the scene! the slogan cry =Is heard no more upon the gale, And peacefully thy pennant flies =Above the flowery vale. And may that pennant never float =Upon a less auspicious day, 'And ne'er be heard the bugle note =That summons thee to battle fray. Here's to Hawick's Bonnie Lasses! By GEORGE WEBSTER. Came ye, lads, by Branxholme Braes, =Whaur the Teviot, gentle river, Glides amange the saughs and slaes, =Like a dark e'e glintin' ever? Were ye e'er in Hawick toun: =Gin ye hae, then fill your glasses! Guid ale keeps the heart aboon; =Here's to Hawick's bonnie lasses! I've been north and I've been south, =Been frae Buchan tae the Border; In mony a toun I've quenched my drouth =And gi'en for mony a toast the order: But ne'er hae I, wi' sic guid will, =Proposed to lads to fill their glesses; Then, Fenwick, bring's a Hawick gill, =An' here's to Hawick's bonnie lasses! Through the Border ride an' rin, =Seek frae Berwick owre to Annan, Fairer maids ye winna win, =Dotatds, can ye leave them stanin'? Fill a bumper! hip! hurrah! =Nature here hersel' surpasses; For Hawick lads nae 1ove I hae, =But here's to Hawick's bonnie lasses! May ill befa' the cankered loon, =That winna mak' the pint stoup clatter; Guid ale keeps the heart aboon, =Better far than drumlie water. Let water-drinkers rant and whine, =They're but a wheen conceited asses; We'll leave them to their Adam's wine, =An' drink to Hawick's bonnie lasses. Common-Riding Song. By ARTHUR BALBIRNIE. We'll a' hie to the muir a-riding; Drumlanrig gave it for providing Our ancestors of martial order, To drive the English off our Border. =Up wi' Hawick, its rights and common, =Up wi' a' the Border bowmen! =Tiribus and Tiriodin, =We are up to guard the common. At Flodden field our fathers fought it, And honour gain'd though dear they bought it; By Teviotside they took this Colour, A dear memorial of their valour. Though twice of old our town was burned, Yet twice the foemen back we turned, And ever should our rights be trod on, We'll face the foe to Tiriodin Round our Cornet now we rally, And forth on horseback let us sally; Round our marches we'll escort him, Pledging firmly to support him. Up the Loan we'll drive like fire, O'er the Vertish Hill, nor tire, And 'lang Pilmuir-rig we'll canter, Down the Bailie-hill we'll scamper. At the Ca-knowe we halt a little, Slack our girths, and case the cripple; Take a glass o' cheerin' whisky. Then down o'er Hawick Mossbrow fu' frisky. At the Haggisha' we rank up, Weaver Will's auld bonnet clank up, Down the Loan we come fu' doucely, And ride to Mycelaw Green sae crousely. But, by the by I'd maist forgot it, The Mycelaw Green, we'll just be at it; There we'l1 get a guid cauld caulker, Frae a man that is nae Quaker. Now Tiriodin blaws the chanter, As rank and file the town we enter; Till round the Haugh our flag is flying, And some their "Bits of Blood" are trying. Whilst round and round our beaux do spatter, Others doucely cross the water, To the little Haugh fu' sorry, While the horses neigh "Memento Mori." In the Town Hall all things are ready, Knives and forks we'll ply them steady; Push about the flowing glasses— Sing and dance and kiss the lasses. Our marches rode, our landmarks planted, But, ah! not those that Douglas granted; For spoilers, armed with gold and power, Robbed our sires in evil hour. Yet still, my lads, let wisdom steer ye, And virtuous actions ever cheer ye; And may the joy of thy descendants, Be Hawick for ever and independence. COMMON-RIDING SONG. By JAMES HOGG. Flodden Field, and the Colour of Hawick Common-Riding. (From a copy, revised and corrected by the Author, and published by J. D. Kennedy, Hawick, in 1837.) Chorus.-Teribus, ye Teri Odin, =Sons of heroes slain at Flodden, =Imitating Border bowmen, =Aye defend your rights and Common. Sons of heroes slain at Flodden! Met to ride and trace our Common: Oral fame tells how we got it, Hear a native muse relate it. Henry, who, to kingly splendour, Added that of "Faith's defender," Sped his troops by General Surrey, Threat'ning Scotland's rights to bury. Royal James, on that occasion, Sent this order through the nation: "Heroes arm, evince your brav'ry! Prove you are not formed for slav'ry!" Augur, sign, and dark prognostic, Heard and seen by learned and rustic; Midnight cry, nor apparition, Could not damp this expedition. Deaf to fear-inspiring omens, Scotia's troops obeyed the summons; Our sires, roused by Teri Odin, Marched and joined the king at Flodden. Bravely was this field contended: Victory's palm was long suspended, Till some English from concealance Sallied forth, and turned the balance. Dreadful carnage crowned the sequel Of this battle, now unequal; Hardy Scots, borne down by numbers, Strew'd the field in death's cold slumbers. Stunn'd with shrieks of thousands dying, 'Mid showers of darts and arrows flying, Sword in hand those gallant warriors Firmly stood, their country's barriers. Royal James still urged the battle, Though forewarned it would be fatal; Pressing hard the marshall'd Southerns, Thus addressed the gallant Northerns: "Should we fly and stain our honours, Stain our couniry's awful banners; Banners waved by Bruce and Wallace! What would future ages call us? "Shall proud Surrey, shall yon Howards, Tell their king they fought with cowards? No, by Jove! still vengeance slumbers In our host of weaker numbers!" At this word, the fated arrow Breathless laid the royal hero; Round him youths and warriors hoary Ended their career of glory. Sol, wilh broaden'd orb, descending, Left fierce warriors still contending, Brilliant Vesper shed her glances, Ere they sheathed their blood-stained lances. Low, at last, in heaps promiscuous, Haughty chiefs, and hinds obsequious, Husband, father, friend, and lover, Night's all-blending shades did cover. Fame, with speed, the tempest scorning, Told the tale before the morning: Palace, hall, and humble dwelling, Echoed wilh the voice of wailing. Common-Riding Song. (The Colour) By JAMES HOGG. "Hawick shall triumph 'mid destruction" Was a Druids dark prediction; Strange the issues that unrolled it, Cent'ries after he'd foretold it, =Teribus, ye Teri Odin, =Sons of heroes slain at Flodden, =Imitating Border Bowmen, =Aye defend your rights and Common. Scotia felt thine ire, O Odin! On the bloody field of Flodden; There our fathers fell with honour, Round their king and country's banner. After Flodden was decided, Surrey half his troops divided Turned them loose to lawless plunder— Heaven just, why slept thy thunder. At the word each fiend advances, Flodden's blood yet dimmed their lances; Entering hamlet, town, and village, Marked their way with blood and pillage, Far they spread their dire disorder, O'er fair Scotia's Alpine Border— O'er the vales of Tweed and Teviot, 'Tween Moffat hills and lofty Cheviot. Hawick they left in ruins lying, Nought was heard but widows crying; Labour of all kinds neglected; Orphans wandering unprotected. All were sunk in deep dejection, None to flee to for protection; Till some youths who stayed from Flodden, Rallied up by Teri Odin. Armed with sword, with bow and quiver, Shouting "Vengeance now or never!" Off they marched in martial order, Down by Teviot's flowery border. Nigh where Teviot falls sonorous, Into Hornshole dashing furious, Lay their foes with spoil encumbered: Quite secure, even sent'nels slumbered. Hawick destroyed, their slaughtered sires— Scotland's wrongs, each bosom fired— On they rushed to be victorious, Or to fall in battle glorious. Down they threw their bows and arrows, Drew their swords like veteran heroes, Charged the foe with native valour, Routed them, and took their colour. Now with spoil and honours laden, Well revenged for fatal Flodden, Home they marched this flag displaying— This the tune before them playing. =Teribus, etc. Numbers more our heroes aiding, Soon they checked all base marauding; English bands, in wild disorder, Fled for safety o'er the Border. High the trump of fame did raise them Poets of those times did praise them— Sung their feats in moorland ballants; Scotia's boast was Hawick Callants. Scarce a native glen or mountain— Rugged rock or running fountain, But have seen those youths with bravery, Fight the tools of Southern slavery. 'Twas then Drumlanrig, generous donor, Gave (immortal be his honour!) What might soothe Hawick's dire disaster, Land for tillage, peats, and pasture. Thus we boast a Moor and Colour, Won by feats of hardy valour— Won in fields where victory swithered— Won when Scotia's laurels withered. Annual since our flag's been carried, Round our Moor by men unmarried— Emblem grand of those who won it- Matrimonial hands would stain it. Back to fable-shaded eras, We can trace a race of heroes, Hardy, brave, inured to perils, Foreign wars and feudal quarrels. Spite of levelling conflagration, Spite of swelling inundation, Spite of frequent lawless pillage, Hawick arose by trade and tillage. Imitated Rome and Sparta, Practised patriotic virtue, Wisely traced each art and science, Bravely bade their foes defiance Peace be thy portion, Hawick for ever! Thine arts thy commerce flourish ever! Down to the latest ages send it— "Hawick was ever independent."