As the morning was beautifully fine, we soon forsook the highway and walked along the grassy banks of the Esk, a charming river whose waters appeared at this point as if they were running up hill.  We were very idle, and stayed to wash our feet in its crystal waters, dressing them with common soap, which we had always found very beneficial as a salve.  We sauntered past Kirkandrew’s Tower; across the river was the mansion of Netherby, the home of the Graham family, with its beautiful surroundings, immortalised by Sir Walter Scott in his “Young Lochinvar,” who came out of the West, and—­

  One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear,
  When they reached the hall-door, and the charger stood near;
  So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung,
  So light to the saddle before her he spran! 
  “She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur;
  They’ll have fleet steeds that follow,” quoth young Lochinvar.

  There was mounting ’mong Graemes of the Netherby clan;
  Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran: 
  There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lee,
  But the lost bride of Netherby ne’er did they see. 
  So daring in love, and so dauntless in war,
  Have ye e’er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?

We were far more inclined to think and talk than to walk, and as we sat on the peaceful banks of the river we thought what a blessing it was that those Border wars were banished for ever, for they appeared to have been practically continuous from the time of the Romans down to the end of the sixteenth century, when the two countries were united under one king, and we thought of that verse so often quoted: 

  The Nations in the present day
    Preserve the good old plan,
  That all shall take who have the power
    And all shall keep who can.

We were not far from the narrowest point of the kingdom from east to west, or from one sea to the other, where the Roman Emperor, Hadrian, built his boundary wall; but since that time, if we may credit the words of another poet who described the warriors and their origin, other nationalities have waged war on the Borders—­

  From the worst scoundrel race that ever lived
  A horrid crowd of rambling thieves and drones,
  Who ransacked Kingdoms and dispeopled towns,
  The Pict, the painted Briton, treacherous Scot
  By hunger, theft, and rapine, hither brought
  Norwegian Pirates—­buccaneering Danes,
  Whose red-haired offspring everywhere remains;
  Who, joined with Norman French, compound the breed,
  From whence you time-born Bordermen proceed.