Through Solway sands, through Taross moss, Blindfold, he knew the paths to cross: By wily turns, by desperate bounds, Had baffled Percy's best bloodhounds. In Eske, or Liddel, fords were none, But he would ride them, one by one; Alike to him was time or tide, December's snow or July's pride; Alike to him was tide or time, Moonless midnight or matin prime. --WALTER SCOTT.