Site hosted by Angelfire.com: Build your free website today!

                  A Border Epic

     by Dan Mickle, PhD.


This tale of the Anglo-Scots border does tell;
Kerr, Fenwick, Scott, Maxwell, Gra'am, Johnstone, and Bell,
And so many others who pillaged and fought,
Over inches and acres that could not be bought.

The Romans decided their outposts would stand,
If they could just keep the Picts from their land,
So, four hundred years before Rome took its fall,
By the thousands they toiled to build Hadrian's wall.

In guarding this structure, it left little doubt,
The Scots and the Celts and the Gaels would stay out.
Though this was professed what the purpose had been,
The English, it chances, were also kept in.

The Romans who labored, marched, guarded and fell,
In rain, mist and winter o'er valley and swell,
Buried far from their homes, in the frostbitten North,
Their dead 'neath their banners will ne'er sally forth.

Stretching seventy miles between Solway and Tyne,
some twenty foot tall, the rocks mark the line.
Though it kept back barbarians where it was laid,
Rome's influence waned, but the border wall stayed.

When passed many years to the south and the north,
the border had wandered much closer the Forth.
The push into England was thwarted in pain,
So buy back from Richard, to start it again.

When Scots help the Barons, it drove King John wild;
And Berwick was ravaged; man, woman, and child;
But retaliation was just as severe,
Burn down English churches and things they hold dear.

And thus it continued, the fighting went on,
The Borders were born in the bloodiest dawn,
Blackmail and fighting and reiving was done,
No leeway was given nor ask, no, not one.

It wasn't all glory and chivalrous deed,
Crossing high craggy hills from which spring the Rede,
Three thousand lancers swept Teviothead,
And left smoking ruins to the waters of Jed.

A raid of three hundred or twenty or one,
might carry off cattle, or kidnap a son;
Steal two pair of breaches, a cloak and a skirt,
a cauldron, a skillet, twelve spoons and a shirt.

They stole sheets and a coverlet and one feather bed,
for a young English couple just recently wed,
And of the Scots donor who gave up his rest?
He lost more than these, as you've probably guessed.

Sometimes the whole house would be touched with a torch,
Or a bonfire of furnishings lit on the porch.
The Scots or the English, which one was the worst?
That's as hard to answer as "Who did who first?"

The borders were split; three March to the side,
Which Wardens protected from anie who tried,
But this didn't stop the thieving and gall,
For oft times the Wardens were worst of them all.

For five hundred years this fighting went on,
Each side self-defending though reason was gone.
A sword and steel bonnet, a jack-shirt and dirk,
then ride cross the Marches, a goodlie night's work.

Sir Carlton of Cumberland wrote of one raid,
"In fifteen four seven was this escapade."
In name of King Edward, both English and Scot
Rode with him to Teviot to subvert the lot.

With booty and plunder, the weather did change.
They sought help at Dumfries, which seemed a bit strange,
But Kirkcudbright beckoned, defiant to pledge,
So Carlton raided to drive in a wedge.

Soon routed by Scots, he fell back with his loot,
Two hundred of cattle and horses to boot.
Two thousand fine sheep would return to their fold,
When pressed from the rear, which he had not foretold.

And when they decided to split up to their loot,
Some brawling broke out, with backlash acute.
A disgruntled Scots-rogue with plenty of starch,
Returned with the Warden of the Scottish West March.

Now Carlton was circled by Scots, brave and young,
Which forced his escape through glib use of his tongue.
He promised persuasive, that he'd set things right,
If they would but give him reprieve for one night.

Of course, by the morning his men were long gone,
To Dumfries and onward preceding the dawn.
Since they had to hide, he developed a plan,
Which gave him a way to protect every man.

Now Carlton craved Lochwood, as strong walls it had,
A fortress with good men proud wearing the plaid;
But Johnstone arrested, could not guard his keep,
And Carlton slipped in, while those left were asleep.

His men in the barnekin did break too soon;
And almost missed taking control of the Dhuin;
Once Keeper of Lochwood through Warton's decree,
His men raided daily with impunity.

Such blood-sports continued till James took the throne;
The sixth James of Scotland, but first English-knowne.
When he ventured south to his heritage take,
The Borders were torn with the "ill-week" outbreak.

The lances were freed; unrest was proclaimed.
Once Scotland and England, Great Britain was named.
He broke up the borders and put out some fires;
This portion from hence would be called, Middle Shires.

Thus in a short time he had snuffed out a flame,
Which smoldering and sputtered for an eon the same.
Some went to the gallows, some sped to exile,
For the purge of the Borders was traced out by guile.

So if you should chance to stand in your hall,
And reached to the pegs and take down from your wall,
A rusty old Claymore whose hilt fits your hand,
Remember, my children, that this once was your land.
 
 
Notes: Dec. 2, 2000   I originally wrote this in the early-to-mid 80's,
but after the loss of many of my poems due to hard-drive crashes,
I dictated this poem back into the machine via a "voice-recognition"
program, which didn't... That is to say it introduced a lot of
'obvious' wording errors. I believe I have now fixed most, but
missed a few in my haste to get it online.
It should be the way I originally meant it, now.

The line "Steal two pair of breaches, a cloak and a skirt, a cauldron,
a skillet, twelve spoons and a shirt."
was an actual list of items stolen in one raid.
    It started me down the road
    to writing this brief Ode.
My primary historical ref: was a fine book called
"The Steel Bonnets" by George Macdonald Fraser.