The Grizzly Dwarf
The Baron o’ Thirlwall looked abroad,
From out his strong Castle,
And he saw three men come posting on,
Out o’er the fern and fell.
“I wad,” said he, “they run a race,
A thousand merks I lay
Upon the wight in the red jerkin,
He wins the race this day.”
The three men burst in on his room,
“My Lord,” then each one said,
“Jock o’ the Sheugh is wounded fair,
And nine good fellows dead.”
The dark spot flew to the Baron’s cheek,
“Ye cowards, one and all!
Go, join your bloody billies then,
Whatever may befall!”
He struck each man the neck intil,
And they fell on the floor;
“To fly without a single blow,
Shows valour to be poor!
“If Belted Will should harm a hair
O’ Jock o’ the Sheugh his head,
I’ll put the Border in such a blaze,
Shall make him flee with dread.
“If Jock o’ the Sheugh hangs for this play,
The whole of the March shall weep,
No man shall waken in the morn,
That goes alive to sleep.”
They brought these words to Belted Will
As at racket-ball he played;
But the only answer he let fall,
“We’ll soon see that,” he said.
By Brampton’s town there stands an oak,
Upon a hill so high;
And Jock was broughten there betimes
Upon the tree to die.
They strapped him to the highest branch
Of all that goodly tree;
And there the righteous chaplain prayed
For Jock’s soul solemnlie,
Thirlwall’s Baron saw the sight,
And swore revenge to have;
For better part o’ a summer’s day
He nothing did but rave.
He sent a messenger so bold
To Will, who cried in scorn,
“Better he looks unto his nest,
I’ll burn it ere the morn!”
The Baron fled to his Castle,
And guarded it so grim,
“The fiend take Belted Will,” he cried,
“’Tis word and blow wi’ him.”
But scarcely had the midnight fell,
When spite o’ a’ his care,
Belted Will his Castle stormed,
For a’ he fought so fair.
A tar barrel and reeking peat,
They laid unto his nest,
Threw open gates and wide windows,
And the night wind did the rest.
The Baron fled from room to room,
By the flames of his own hall,
“He’s gi’en me light to go to bed,
Whatever may befall.”
He rushed into his inner room,
Where his golden table lay;
The Devil in likeness o’ a Dwarf
Kept watch there night and day.
Belted Will pursued him hard,
Amid the flame and stour,
For he cut the skirt from the Baron’s cloak,
As he whisked through the door.
“Save me, now, thou gruesome Elf,
And my soul and body’s thine!”
The Dwarf he jabbered hideously,
But never made a sign.
Belted Will called for a ram,
To bash the doorway down;
The red flames thro’ the keyhole flashed,
And filled wi’ reek the room.
“My soul and body,” the Baron said,
Abjuring Christ His sign;
The Devil he grippit him in his arms,
“Now, Baron, art thou mine.”
The door ga’ed splintering from the posts,
In rushed the enemy;
But Baron, Dwarf, and gold table,
I wat they could ne’er see.
And legends say the ugsome Dwarf
Threw all into a well,
And by the glamour o’ his art
Cast over all a spell;
Which never may be rendered vain
But by a Widow’s Son;
And he shall find the gold table,
When years away have run.
Frederick Sheldon. (Condensed)