graceless face,
But there is nane for my men and me!"

There is a tradition that the trees on which they were hanged became
immediately blasted; and Scott, in parting with the Wordsworths directed
them to look about for "some old stumps of trees," but "we could not
find them," adds Miss Wordsworth. Hard by are the graves of Scott
Riddell and his third son, William, a youth of remarkable promise.
Teviothead Cottage, where Riddell resided till his death in 1870, is
passed on the left. The church in which he preached (he was in charge of
the then preaching station here) is now the parish school, and his
monument, like a huge candle extinguisher, crowns the neighbouring
Dryden Knowes. Still keeping to the Teviot, now a fair-sized stream,
rich in the variety and beauty of its scenery--

"Pleasant Teviotdale, a land
Made blithe by plough and harrow"--

we pass Gledsnest and Colterscleuch, figuring in the well-known "Jamie
Telfer" ballad; Commonside, mentioned in "Kinmont Willie";
Northhouse, Teindside, Harwood, and Broadhaugh, snug farms all, till the
hamlet of Newmill is reached, the quarrel scene between the "jovial
harper" of the "Lay" and "Sweet Milk," "Bard of Reull," in which the
latter was slain:

"On Teviot's side, in fight they stood,
And tuneful hands were stained with blood,
Where still the thorn's white branches wave
Memorial o'er his rival's grave."

Allan Cunningham's version of "Rattlin', Roarin' Willie" should be read
in this connection. Branxholme (poetically Branksome) is a particularly
interesting portion of the Teviot valley. Its Braes recall the old
ditty:

"As I came in by Teviot side
And by the Braes of Branksome,
There first I saw my bonnie bride,
Young, smiling, sweet, and handsome."

And looming up before us is the massive white pile of Branxholme itself,
the master-fort of the Teviot, and the key of the pass between the Tweed
basin and Merrie Carlisle. The Castle occupies a strong position, has
been much modernised, and is now a residence for Buccleuch's
Chamberlain. Up to 1756, it was the chief seat of the Buccleuch family.
Branxholme's main glory, however, is not its past history, or the pomp
and circumstance surrounding it in the hey-day of its power. If there
was "another Yarrow" to Wordsworth, there is "another Branxholme" to us.
It is not the memory of the fighting barons of Buccleuch, with their
tumultuous raids and unending quarrels, w