Then up and spoke our guid auld laird—­
  “What news, what news, sister Downie, to me?”
  “Bad news, bad news, for Michael is killed,
  And they hae taken my son Johnnie.”

  “Ne’er fear, sister Downie,” quo’ Mangerton,
  “I have yokes of owsen, twenty and three,
  My barns, my byres, and my faulds a’ weel filled,
  I’ll part wi’ them a’ ere Johnnie shall dee.

  “Three men I’ll send to set him free,
  A’ harnessed wi’ the best o’ steel;
  The English loons may hear, and drie
  The weight o’ their braid-swords to feel.

  “The Laird’s Jock ane, the Laird’s Wat twa,
  O Hobbie Noble, thou ane maun be! 
  Thy coat is blue, thou has been true
  Since England banished thee to me.”

  Now Hobbie was an English man,
  In Bewcastle dale was bred and born;
  But his misdeeds they were so great,
  They banished him ne’er to return.

  Laird Mangerton them orders gave,
  “Your horses the wrang way maun be shod;
  Like gentlemen ye maunna seem,
  But look like corn-cadgers ga’en the road.

  “Your armour gude ye maunna show,
  Nor yet appear like men of weir;
  As country lads be a’ array’d,
  Wi’ branks and brecham on each mare.”

  Sae their horses are the wrang way shod,
  And Hobbie has mounted his gray sae fine;
  Jock his lively bay, Wat’s on his white horse behind. 
  And on they rode for the water of Tyne.

  At the Cholerford they a’ light doun,
  And there wi’ the help o’ the light o’ the moon,
  A tree they cut, wi’ fifteen nogs on each side,
  To climb up the wa’ of Newcastle toun.

  But when they cam’ to Newcastle toun,
  And were alighted at the wa’
  They fand their tree three ells ower laigh,
  They fand their stick baith short and sma’.

  Then up and spak the Laird’s ain Jock,
  “There’s naething for’t; the gates we maun force.” 
  But when they cam’ the gate untill,
  A proud porter withstood baith men and horse.

  His neck in twa the Armstrangs wrung;
  With fute or hand he ne’er played pa! 
  His life and his keys at once they hae ta’en,
  And cast the body ahint the wa’.

  Now sune they reach Newcastle jail,
  And to the prisoner thus they call: 
  “Sleeps thou, or wakes thou, Jock o’ the Side,
  Or art thou weary of thy thrall?”

  Jock answered thus, wi’ doleful tone,
  “Aft, aft I wake—­I seldom sleep;
  But wha’s this kens my name sae weel,
  And thus to ease my wae does seek.”

  Then out and spake the gude Laird’s Jock,
  “Now fear ye na’, my billie,” quo’ he;
  “For here are the Laird’s Jock, the Laird’s Wat,
  And Hobbie Noble, come to set thee free.”

  “Now haud thy tongue, my gude Laird’s Jock,
  For ever, alas! this canna be;
  For if a’ Liddesdale were here the night,
  The morn’s the day that I maun dee.”