The Works of The Ettrick Shepherd Centenary Edition. With a Memoir of the Author, by the Rev. Thomas Thomson ... Poems and Life. With Many Illustrative Engravings [by James Hogg] |
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| 2. | CANTO SECOND. The Minstrel.
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 | The Works of The Ettrick Shepherd |  |
CANTO SECOND. The Minstrel.
ARGUMENT.
There cam a fiddler here to play,And oh, but he was jimp an' gay;
He staw the lassie's heart away,
An' made it a' his ain O.
For weel he kend the way O, the way O, the way O,
Weel he kend the way O, the lassie's love to gain O.
That time there lived upon the banks of Tay
A man of right ungainly courtesy;
Yet he was eident in his froward way,
And honest as a Highlander may be.
He was not man of rank, nor mean degree,
And loved his spouse, and child, as such became;
Yet oft would fret, and wrangle irefully,
Fastening on them of every ill the blame,
Nor list the loud defence of his unyielding dame.
A man of right ungainly courtesy;
Yet he was eident in his froward way,
And honest as a Highlander may be.
He was not man of rank, nor mean degree,
And loved his spouse, and child, as such became;
Yet oft would fret, and wrangle irefully,
Fastening on them of every ill the blame,
Nor list the loud defence of his unyielding dame.
She was unweeting, plump, and fair to see;
Dreadless of ills she ne'er before had seen;
Full of blithe jolliment and boisterous glee;
Yet was her home not well bedight or clean,
For, like the most of all her sex, I ween,
Much she devised, but little did conclude;
Much toil was lost, as if it ne'er had been.
Her tongue was fraught with matter wondrous crude,
And, in her own defence, most voluble and loud.
Dreadless of ills she ne'er before had seen;
Full of blithe jolliment and boisterous glee;
Yet was her home not well bedight or clean,
For, like the most of all her sex, I ween,
Much she devised, but little did conclude;
Much toil was lost, as if it ne'er had been.
Her tongue was fraught with matter wondrous crude,
And, in her own defence, most voluble and loud.
But oh, the lovely May,
their only child,
Was sweeter than the flower that scents the gale!
Her lightsome form, and look so soothing mild,
The loftiest minstrel song would much avail.
And she was cheerful, forwardsome, and hale;
And she could work the rich embroidery,
Or with her maidens bear the milking pail;
Yet, dight at beltane reel, you could espy
No lady in the land who with this May could vie.
Was sweeter than the flower that scents the gale!
Her lightsome form, and look so soothing mild,
The loftiest minstrel song would much avail.
And she was cheerful, forwardsome, and hale;
And she could work the rich embroidery,
Or with her maidens bear the milking pail;
Yet, dight at beltane reel, you could espy
No lady in the land who with this May could vie.
And many a younker sighed her love to gain;
Her steps were haunted at the bught and pen;
But all their prayers and vows of love were vain,
Her choice was fixed on Albert of the Glen:
No youth was he, nor winsomest of men,
For he was proud, and full of envy's gall;
But what was lovelier to the damsel's ken,
He had wide lands, and servants at his call;
Her sire was liegeman bound, and held of him his all.
Her steps were haunted at the bught and pen;
But all their prayers and vows of love were vain,
Her choice was fixed on Albert of the Glen:
No youth was he, nor winsomest of men,
For he was proud, and full of envy's gall;
But what was lovelier to the damsel's ken,
He had wide lands, and servants at his call;
Her sire was liegeman bound, and held of him his all.
The beauteous May, to parents' will resigned,
Opposed not that which boded nothing ill;
It gave an ease and freedom to her mind,
And wish, the anxious interval to kill:
She listed wooer's tale with right good-will;
And she would jest, and smile, and heave the sigh;
Would torture whining youth with wicked skill,
Turn on her heel, then off like lightning fly,
Leaving the hapless wight resolved forthwith to die.
Opposed not that which boded nothing ill;
It gave an ease and freedom to her mind,
And wish, the anxious interval to kill:
She listed wooer's tale with right good-will;
And she would jest, and smile, and heave the sigh;
Would torture whining youth with wicked skill,
Turn on her heel, then off like lightning fly,
Leaving the hapless wight resolved forthwith to die.
The rainbow's lovely in the eastern cloud;
The rose is beauteous on the bended thorn;
Sweet is the evening ray from purple shroud,
And sweet the orient blushes of the morn:
Sweeter than all, the beauties which adorn
The female form in youth and maiden bloom.
Oh, why should passion ever man suborn
To work the sweetest flower of Nature's doom,
And cast o'er all her joys a veil of cheerless gloom?
The rose is beauteous on the bended thorn;
Sweet is the evening ray from purple shroud,
And sweet the orient blushes of the morn:
Sweeter than all, the beauties which adorn
The female form in youth and maiden bloom.
Oh, why should passion ever man suborn
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And cast o'er all her joys a veil of cheerless gloom?
O fragile flower, that blossoms but to fade,
One slip recovery or recal defies!
Thou walk'st the dizzy verge with steps unstaid,
Fair as the habitants of yonder skies;
Like them, thou fallest never more to rise.
O fragile flower, for thee my heart's in pain!
Haply a world is his from mortal eyes,
Where thou mayest smile in purity again,
And shine in virgin bloom that ever shall remain.
One slip recovery or recal defies!
Thou walk'st the dizzy verge with steps unstaid,
Fair as the habitants of yonder skies;
Like them, thou fallest never more to rise.
O fragile flower, for thee my heart's in pain!
Haply a world is his from mortal eyes,
Where thou mayest smile in purity again,
And shine in virgin bloom that ever shall remain.
The twentieth spring had breathed upon the flower,
Nor had that flower passed with the year away,
Since first the infant bloom of Ila Moore,
The flower of Athol, opened to the day.
Kincraigy was her home, that o'er the Tay
A prospect held of Nature's fairest scene;
Far mountains mixing with aerial gray,
Low golden-vested valleys stretched between,
And, far below the eye, broad flood and islet green.
Nor had that flower passed with the year away,
Since first the infant bloom of Ila Moore,
The flower of Athol, opened to the day.
Kincraigy was her home, that o'er the Tay
A prospect held of Nature's fairest scene;
Far mountains mixing with aerial gray,
Low golden-vested valleys stretched between,
And, far below the eye, broad flood and islet green.
The day was wet, the mist was on the moor,
Rested from labour husbandman and maid;
There came a stranger to Kincraigy's door,
Of goodly form, in minstrel garb arrayed;
Of braided silk his bulziement was made:
Short the entreatance he required to stay;
He tuned his viol, and with vehemence played;
Mistress and menial, maid and matron gray,
Soon mixed were on the floor, and frisked in wild affray.
Rested from labour husbandman and maid;
There came a stranger to Kincraigy's door,
Of goodly form, in minstrel garb arrayed;
Of braided silk his bulziement was made:
Short the entreatance he required to stay;
He tuned his viol, and with vehemence played;
Mistress and menial, maid and matron gray,
Soon mixed were on the floor, and frisked in wild affray.
The minstrel strained and twisted sore his face,
Beat with his heel, and twinkled with his eye,
But still, at every effort and grimace,
Louder and quicker rushed the melody:
The dancers round the floor in mazes fly,
With cheering whoop, and wheel, and caper wild;
The jolly dame did well her mettle ply;
Even old Kincraigy, of his spleen beguiled,
Turned his dark brow aside, softened his looks and smiled.
Beat with his heel, and twinkled with his eye,
But still, at every effort and grimace,
Louder and quicker rushed the melody:
The dancers round the floor in mazes fly,
With cheering whoop, and wheel, and caper wild;
The jolly dame did well her mettle ply;
Even old Kincraigy, of his spleen beguiled,
Turned his dark brow aside, softened his looks and smiled.
When supper on the ashen board was set,
The minstrel, all unasked, jocosely came,
Brought his old chair, and, without pause or let,
Placed it betwixt the maid and forthright dame.
They smiled, and asked his lineage and his name—
'Twas Mador of the Moor, a name renowned;
A kindred name with theirs, well known to fame—
A high-born name; but old Kincraigy frowned;
Such impudence in man, he weened, had not been found.
The minstrel, all unasked, jocosely came,
Brought his old chair, and, without pause or let,
Placed it betwixt the maid and forthright dame.
They smiled, and asked his lineage and his name—
'Twas Mador of the Moor, a name renowned;
A kindred name with theirs, well known to fame—
A high-born name; but old Kincraigy frowned;
Such impudence in man, he weened, had not been found.
The last red embers on the hearth were spread,
But Mador still his antic tricks pursued;
The doors were closed, and all were bound to bed,
When, spite of old Kincraigy's angry mood,
The frantic hurlyburly was renewed:
His tongue grew mute, his face o'erspread with gloom;
Wild uproar raged resistless, unsubdued;
The younkers of the hamlet crowd the room,
And Mador's viol squeaks with rough and raging boom.
But Mador still his antic tricks pursued;
The doors were closed, and all were bound to bed,
When, spite of old Kincraigy's angry mood,
The frantic hurlyburly was renewed:
His tongue grew mute, his face o'erspread with gloom;
Wild uproar raged resistless, unsubdued;
The younkers of the hamlet crowd the room,
And Mador's viol squeaks with rough and raging boom.
The dire misrule Kincraigy could not brook;
He saw distinction lost, and order spurned;
And, much displeased that his offended look
Was all unminded, high his anger burned.
Upon the rocket minstrel dark he turned,
And asked to whom such strains he wont to play?—
Oh! he had played to nobles now inurned;
And he had played in countries far away,
And to the gallant king that o'er them held the sway.
He saw distinction lost, and order spurned;
And, much displeased that his offended look
Was all unminded, high his anger burned.
Upon the rocket minstrel dark he turned,
And asked to whom such strains he wont to play?—
Oh! he had played to nobles now inurned;
And he had played in countries far away,
And to the gallant king that o'er them held the sway.
“Ay!” said Kincraigy, with malignant scowl,
Stroking his beard and writhing down his brow;
“I've heard our monarch was an arrant fool!
I weened it so, but knew it not till now.
But 'tis enough—his choice of such as you—
Great Heaven! to man what inconsistence clings,
To meanest of the species doomed to bow!
Had I one day o'er all created things,
The world should once be cleared of fiddlers and of kings!”
Stroking his beard and writhing down his brow;
“I've heard our monarch was an arrant fool!
I weened it so, but knew it not till now.
But 'tis enough—his choice of such as you—
Great Heaven! to man what inconsistence clings,
To meanest of the species doomed to bow!
Had I one day o'er all created things,
The world should once be cleared of fiddlers and of kings!”
'Twas a hard jest, but Mador laughed it bye;
Across the strings his careless fingers strayed,
Till staunch Kincraigy, with unaltered eye,
Asked how, or where, he learned the scraping trade?
When those new jars to music came allayed?
And how it happ'd he in the line had thriven?
For sure, of all the fiddlers ever played,
Never was bow by such a novice driven,
Never were human ears by such discordance riven.
Across the strings his careless fingers strayed,
Till staunch Kincraigy, with unaltered eye,
Asked how, or where, he learned the scraping trade?
When those new jars to music came allayed?
And how it happ'd he in the line had thriven?
For sure, of all the fiddlers ever played,
Never was bow by such a novice driven,
Never were human ears by such discordance riven.
Go tell the monarch of his feelings cold;
Go tell the prince that he is lewd and vain;
Go tell the wrinkled maid that she is old;
The wretched miser of his ill-got gain;
But oh, in human kindness, spare the pain
That conscious excellence abased must feel!
It proves to wounded pride the deadliest bane;
The judgment it arraigns, and stamps the seal
Of fool with burning brand, which blood alone can heal.
Go tell the prince that he is lewd and vain;
Go tell the wrinkled maid that she is old;
The wretched miser of his ill-got gain;
But oh, in human kindness, spare the pain
That conscious excellence abased must feel!
It proves to wounded pride the deadliest bane;
The judgment it arraigns, and stamps the seal
Of fool with burning brand, which blood alone can heal.
The earliest winter hues of old Cairn-Gorm,
Schehallion when the clouds begin to lower,
Even the wan face of heaven before the storm,
Looked ne'er so stern as Mador of the Moor.
Most cutting sharp was his retort and sour,
And in offensive guise his bow he drew:
Kincraigy reddened, stepped across the floor,
Lifted his staff, and back indignant flew
To scathe the minstrel's pate, and baste him black and blue.
Schehallion when the clouds begin to lower,
Even the wan face of heaven before the storm,
Looked ne'er so stern as Mador of the Moor.
Most cutting sharp was his retort and sour,
And in offensive guise his bow he drew:
Kincraigy reddened, stepped across the floor,
Lifted his staff, and back indignant flew
To scathe the minstrel's pate, and baste him black and blue.
Had those to Mador known in royal hall,
(For well I ween he was not stranger there),
Beheld him crouching 'gainst that smoky wall,
His precious violin heaved high in air,
As guardian shield, the ireful blow to bear;
The blowzy dame holding with all her might;
An interceding maid so lovely fair;
Matron and peasant gaping with affright—
Oh, 'twas a scene of life might charm an anchorite!
(For well I ween he was not stranger there),
Beheld him crouching 'gainst that smoky wall,
His precious violin heaved high in air,
As guardian shield, the ireful blow to bear;
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An interceding maid so lovely fair;
Matron and peasant gaping with affright—
Oh, 'twas a scene of life might charm an anchorite!
'Twas not the flustered dame's inept rebuke,
'Twas not the cowering minstrel's perilous state,
'Twas beauteous Ila Moore's reproving look
That quelled her sire, and barred the work of fate.
With smile serene she led him to his seat,
Sat by his knee, and bade the minstrel play.
No word was heard of anger or debate,
So much may woman's eye our passions sway;
When beauty gives command, all mankind must obey!
'Twas not the cowering minstrel's perilous state,
'Twas beauteous Ila Moore's reproving look
That quelled her sire, and barred the work of fate.
With smile serene she led him to his seat,
Sat by his knee, and bade the minstrel play.
No word was heard of anger or debate,
So much may woman's eye our passions sway;
When beauty gives command, all mankind must obey!
The wearied peasants to their rest retire;
Kincraigy bows to sleep's resistless call;
But the kind dame stirred up the sluggish fire,
And with the minstrel long out-sat them all.
He praised her much, her order, and her hall;
Her manners, far above her rank and place;
Her daughter's beauteous form, so comely tall,
The peerless charms of her bewitching face,
So well befitting court, or noble's hall to grace.
Kincraigy bows to sleep's resistless call;
But the kind dame stirred up the sluggish fire,
And with the minstrel long out-sat them all.
He praised her much, her order, and her hall;
Her manners, far above her rank and place;
Her daughter's beauteous form, so comely tall,
The peerless charms of her bewitching face,
So well befitting court, or noble's hall to grace.
Well mayest thou trust the chicken with the dam;
The eaglet in her parents' home sublime;
The yeaning ewe with the poor starveling lamb;
Nor is a son's default a mother's crime:
But a fair only daughter in her prime,
Oh, never trust to mother's wistful care!
The heart's too anxious of her darling's time:
Too well she loves—too well she is aware
In what the maid delights, nor sees the lurking snare.
The eaglet in her parents' home sublime;
The yeaning ewe with the poor starveling lamb;
Nor is a son's default a mother's crime:
But a fair only daughter in her prime,
Oh, never trust to mother's wistful care!
The heart's too anxious of her darling's time:
Too well she loves—too well she is aware
In what the maid delights, nor sees the lurking snare.
Aloft was framed the minstrel's humble bed
Of the green braken and the yielding heath,
With coverlet of dowlas o'er it spread;
That too he lauded with obsequious breath.
But he was out, and in—above—beneath,
Unhinging doors, and groping in the dark:
The hamlet matrons dread unearthly scathe;
The maidens hide their heads, the watch-dogs bark,
And all was noise and fright till matin of the lark.
Of the green braken and the yielding heath,
With coverlet of dowlas o'er it spread;
That too he lauded with obsequious breath.
But he was out, and in—above—beneath,
Unhinging doors, and groping in the dark:
The hamlet matrons dread unearthly scathe;
The maidens hide their heads, the watch-dogs bark,
And all was noise and fright till matin of the lark.
Next day, the wind from eastern oceans drove
The drizzly sea-rack up the Athol plain,
And o'er the woodland and the welkin wove
A moving mantle of the fleecy rain:
The cottagers from labour still refrain;
Well by the lowly window could they spy
The droplets from the thatch descend amain;
While round the hearth they closed with cheerful eye,
Resolved, on better days, with all their might to ply.
The drizzly sea-rack up the Athol plain,
And o'er the woodland and the welkin wove
A moving mantle of the fleecy rain:
The cottagers from labour still refrain;
Well by the lowly window could they spy
The droplets from the thatch descend amain;
While round the hearth they closed with cheerful eye,
Resolved, on better days, with all their might to ply.
Though many hints, to make the minstrel budge,
Were by Kincraigy thrown, they were in vain:
He asked him where that night he meant to lodge,
And when he purposed calling there again?
He could not stir!—the hateful driving rain
Would all his valued tuneful chords undo.
The dame reproached her husband's surly strain,
Welcomed the minstrel's stay, and 'gan to show
Her excellence in song, and skill in music too.
Were by Kincraigy thrown, they were in vain:
He asked him where that night he meant to lodge,
And when he purposed calling there again?
He could not stir!—the hateful driving rain
Would all his valued tuneful chords undo.
The dame reproached her husband's surly strain,
Welcomed the minstrel's stay, and 'gan to show
Her excellence in song, and skill in music too.
Woe to the hapless wight, self-doomed to see
His measures warped by woman's weak control!
Woe to the man, whate'er his wealth may be,
Condemned to prove the everlasting growl,
The fret, the plaint, the babble, and the scowl!
Yet such outnumber all the stars above.
When sponsaled pairs run counter, soul to soul,
Oh, there's an end to all the sweets of love!
That ray of heavenly bliss, which reason should improve.
His measures warped by woman's weak control!
Woe to the man, whate'er his wealth may be,
Condemned to prove the everlasting growl,
The fret, the plaint, the babble, and the scowl!
Yet such outnumber all the stars above.
When sponsaled pairs run counter, soul to soul,
Oh, there's an end to all the sweets of love!
That ray of heavenly bliss, which reason should improve.
The dance and song prevailed till fell the night;
The minstrel's forward ease advanced apace;
He kissed their lovely May before their sight,
Who struggled, smiling, from the rude embrace,
And called him fiddler Mador to his face.
Loud laughed the dame, while old Kincraigy frowned;
Her fulsome levity, and flippant grace,
Had oft inflicted on his soul the wound,
But held at endless bay, redress could not be found.
The minstrel's forward ease advanced apace;
He kissed their lovely May before their sight,
Who struggled, smiling, from the rude embrace,
And called him fiddler Mador to his face.
Loud laughed the dame, while old Kincraigy frowned;
Her fulsome levity, and flippant grace,
Had oft inflicted on his soul the wound,
But held at endless bay, redress could not be found.
All quietness and peace our minstrel spurns;
Idle confusion through the hamlet rings;
He teazes, flatters, and cajoles by turns,
And to the winds all due distinction flings.
From his rude grasp the cottage matron springs,
The giggling maids in darksome corners hide,
But still to Ila Moore he fondly clings,
Seeming resolved, whatever might betide,
To teaze or flatter her, and all reserve deride.
Idle confusion through the hamlet rings;
He teazes, flatters, and cajoles by turns,
And to the winds all due distinction flings.
From his rude grasp the cottage matron springs,
The giggling maids in darksome corners hide,
But still to Ila Moore he fondly clings,
Seeming resolved, whatever might betide,
To teaze or flatter her, and all reserve deride.
Next, day by noon, the mountain's misty shroud
The bustling spirits of the air updrew,
And 'gan to open in the boreal cloud
Their marbled windows of the silvery hue:
Far through the bores appeared the distant blue;
Loud sung the merl upon the topmost spray;
The harping bleeter, and the grey curlew,
High in the air chanted incondite lay,
All heralding the approachment of a beauteous day.
The bustling spirits of the air updrew,
And 'gan to open in the boreal cloud
Their marbled windows of the silvery hue:
Far through the bores appeared the distant blue;
Loud sung the merl upon the topmost spray;
The harping bleeter, and the grey curlew,
High in the air chanted incondite lay,
All heralding the approachment of a beauteous day.
The minstrel to the forest turned his eye,
He seemed regretful that the rain should stay;
He seemed to wish the mist would lingering lie
Still on the bosom of the moorland gray.
The time was come he needs must wend his way,
His sovereign's pleasure might his presence claim.
No one remained to row him o'er the Tay,
Unless the blooming May or cordial dame:
The Tay was broad and deep—pray was the maid to blame?
He seemed regretful that the rain should stay;
He seemed to wish the mist would lingering lie
Still on the bosom of the moorland gray.
The time was come he needs must wend his way,
His sovereign's pleasure might his presence claim.
No one remained to row him o'er the Tay,
Unless the blooming May or cordial dame:
The Tay was broad and deep—pray was the maid to blame?
Westward they past by bank and greenwood side,
A varied scene it was of wondrous guise;
Below them parting rivers smoothly glide,
And far above their heads aspiring rise
Gray crested rocks, the columns of the skies,
While little lowly dells lay hid between:
It seemed a fairy land, a paradise,
Where every bloom that scents the woodland green
Opened to heaven its breast, by human eye unseen.
A varied scene it was of wondrous guise;
Below them parting rivers smoothly glide,
And far above their heads aspiring rise
Gray crested rocks, the columns of the skies,
While little lowly dells lay hid between:
It seemed a fairy land, a paradise,
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Opened to heaven its breast, by human eye unseen.
Queen of the forest, there the birch tree swung
Her light green locks aslant the southern breeze;
Red berries of the brake around them hung;
A thousand songsters warbled on the trees.
A scene it was befitting youth to please;
Too well it pleased, as reverend legends say.
Unmarked the hour o'er lovers' head that flees;
'Twas but one little mile!—a summer day!
And when the sun went down they scarce had reached the Tay.
Her light green locks aslant the southern breeze;
Red berries of the brake around them hung;
A thousand songsters warbled on the trees.
A scene it was befitting youth to please;
Too well it pleased, as reverend legends say.
Unmarked the hour o'er lovers' head that flees;
'Twas but one little mile!—a summer day!
And when the sun went down they scarce had reached the Tay.
Oh, read not, lovers—sure you may not think
That Ila Moore by minstrel airs was won!
'Twas nature's cordial glow, the kindred link
That all unweeting chains two hearts in one.
Then why should mankind ween the maid undone,
Though with her youth she seek the woodland deep,
Rest in a bower to view the parting sun,
Lean on his breast, at tale of woe to weep,
Or sweetly, on his arm, recline in mimic sleep?
That Ila Moore by minstrel airs was won!
'Twas nature's cordial glow, the kindred link
That all unweeting chains two hearts in one.
Then why should mankind ween the maid undone,
Though with her youth she seek the woodland deep,
Rest in a bower to view the parting sun,
Lean on his breast, at tale of woe to weep,
Or sweetly, on his arm, recline in mimic sleep?
Oh, I have seen, and fondly blest the sight,
The peerless charms of maiden's guileful freak!
Through the dark eye-lash peep the orb so bright;
The wily features so demurely meek;
The smile of love half dimpling on the cheek;
The quaking breast, that heaves the sigh withal;
The parting lips which more than language speak!—
Of fond delights, which memory can recal,
Oh, beauty's feigned sleep far—far outdoes them all!
The peerless charms of maiden's guileful freak!
Through the dark eye-lash peep the orb so bright;
The wily features so demurely meek;
The smile of love half dimpling on the cheek;
The quaking breast, that heaves the sigh withal;
The parting lips which more than language speak!—
Of fond delights, which memory can recal,
Oh, beauty's feigned sleep far—far outdoes them all!
O'er such a sleep the enamoured minstrel hung,
Stole one soft kiss, but still she sounder fell;
The half-formed sentence died upon her tongue;
'Twas through her sleep she spoke!—Pray was it well,
Molesting helpless maiden in the dell,
On sweet restoring slumber so intent?
Our minstrel framed resolve I joy to tell—
'Twas, not to harm that beauteous innocent,
For no delight, nor joy, that fancy might present.
Stole one soft kiss, but still she sounder fell;
The half-formed sentence died upon her tongue;
'Twas through her sleep she spoke!—Pray was it well,
Molesting helpless maiden in the dell,
On sweet restoring slumber so intent?
Our minstrel framed resolve I joy to tell—
'Twas, not to harm that beauteous innocent,
For no delight, nor joy, that fancy might present.
When at the ferry, silent long they stood,
And eyed the red beam on the pool that lay,
Or baseless shadow of the waving wood—
That lonely spot, upon the banks of Tay,
Still bears the maiden's name, and shall for aye—
Warm was the parting sigh their bosoms drew;
For sure, the joys of that enchanting day,
'Twas worth an age of sorrow to renew:
Then, glancing oft behind, they sped along the dew.
And eyed the red beam on the pool that lay,
Or baseless shadow of the waving wood—
That lonely spot, upon the banks of Tay,
Still bears the maiden's name, and shall for aye—
Warm was the parting sigh their bosoms drew;
For sure, the joys of that enchanting day,
'Twas worth an age of sorrow to renew:
Then, glancing oft behind, they sped along the dew.
Oft did Kincraigy's wayward humour keep
The hamlet and the hall in teazing broil;
But his reproaches never cut so deep
As when, that eve, he ceased his rural toil.
He learned the truth, and raised such grievous coil,
That even the dame in rage gave up defence;
The lovely cause of all the wild turmoil
Sat in a corner, grieved for her offence,
Offering no urgent plea, nor any false pretence.
The hamlet and the hall in teazing broil;
But his reproaches never cut so deep
As when, that eve, he ceased his rural toil.
He learned the truth, and raised such grievous coil,
That even the dame in rage gave up defence;
The lovely cause of all the wild turmoil
Sat in a corner, grieved for her offence,
Offering no urgent plea, nor any false pretence.
When summer suns around the zenith glow,
Nature is gaudy, frolicsome, and boon;
But when September breezes cease to blow,
And twilight steals beneath the broadened moon,
How changed the scene!—the year's resplendent noon
Is long gone past, and all is mildly still;
Sedateness settles on the dale and doone;
Wan is the floweret by the mountain rill,
And a pale boding look sits solemn on the hill.
Nature is gaudy, frolicsome, and boon;
But when September breezes cease to blow,
And twilight steals beneath the broadened moon,
How changed the scene!—the year's resplendent noon
Is long gone past, and all is mildly still;
Sedateness settles on the dale and doone;
Wan is the floweret by the mountain rill,
And a pale boding look sits solemn on the hill.
More changed than all the mien of Ila Moore;
Scarce could you trow the self-same soul within:
The buxom lass that loved the revel hour,
That laughed at all, and grieved for nought but sin,
Steals from her darling frolic, jest and din,
And sits alone beneath the fading tree:
Upon her bosom leans her dimpled chin,
Her moistened eye fixed moveless on the lea,
Or vagrant tiny moth that sojourned on her knee.
Scarce could you trow the self-same soul within:
The buxom lass that loved the revel hour,
That laughed at all, and grieved for nought but sin,
Steals from her darling frolic, jest and din,
And sits alone beneath the fading tree:
Upon her bosom leans her dimpled chin,
Her moistened eye fixed moveless on the lea,
Or vagrant tiny moth that sojourned on her knee.
Her songs, that erst did scarcely maid become,
So framed they were of blandishment and jest,
Were changed into a soft unmeaning hum,
A sickly melody, yet unexpressed.
At tale of pity throbbed her ardent breast;
The tear was ready for mishap or joy;
And well she loved in evening grove to rest,
To tender Heaven her vow without annoy,
Indulging secret thought—a thought that did not cloy.
So framed they were of blandishment and jest,
Were changed into a soft unmeaning hum,
A sickly melody, yet unexpressed.
At tale of pity throbbed her ardent breast;
The tear was ready for mishap or joy;
And well she loved in evening grove to rest,
To tender Heaven her vow without annoy,
Indulging secret thought—a thought that did not cloy.
The dame perceived the maiden's altered mood;
A dame of keen distinguishment was she!
And oh, her measures were most wondrous shrewd,
And deeply schemed, as woman's needs must be,
Though all the world with little toil could see
Her latent purposes from first to last.
An ancient friar, who shrived the family,
She called into her chamber—barred it fast,
That listener might not hear the important words that past.
A dame of keen distinguishment was she!
And oh, her measures were most wondrous shrewd,
And deeply schemed, as woman's needs must be,
Though all the world with little toil could see
Her latent purposes from first to last.
An ancient friar, who shrived the family,
She called into her chamber—barred it fast,
That listener might not hear the important words that past.
“Father, you marked the gallant minstrel youth
Who lately to the forest passed this way;
I ween, he proffer made of hand and troth
To our own child, and hardly would take nay.
Put on thy humble cowl and frock of gray;
Thy order and array thy warrant be;
And watch the royal tent at close of day,
It stands in glen below the wells of Dee;
Note all entreatment there, and bring the truth to me.
Who lately to the forest passed this way;
I ween, he proffer made of hand and troth
To our own child, and hardly would take nay.
Put on thy humble cowl and frock of gray;
Thy order and array thy warrant be;
And watch the royal tent at close of day,
It stands in glen below the wells of Dee;
Note all entreatment there, and bring the truth to me.
“Young Mador of the Moor, thou know'st him well;
Mark thou what rank he holds, and mark aright,
If with the squires or vulgar grooms he dwell:
If in the outer tent he sleeps by night,
Regard him not, nor wait the morning light;
But if with royalty or knighthood set,
Beckon him forth, in seeming serious plight,
And say, what most will his impatience whet,
That for his sake some cheeks are ever, ever wet!”
Mark thou what rank he holds, and mark aright,
If with the squires or vulgar grooms he dwell:
If in the outer tent he sleeps by night,
Regard him not, nor wait the morning light;
114
Beckon him forth, in seeming serious plight,
And say, what most will his impatience whet,
That for his sake some cheeks are ever, ever wet!”
Next morn, while yet the eastern mountains threw
Their giant shadows o'er the slumbering dale,
Their darkened verges trembling on the dew
In rosy wreath, so lovely and so pale,
The warped and slender rainbow of the vale;
Ere beauteous Ila's foot had prest the floor,
Or her fair cheek had kissed the morning gale,
A lively rap came to Kincraigy's door—
There stood the active friar, and Mador of the Moor!
Their giant shadows o'er the slumbering dale,
Their darkened verges trembling on the dew
In rosy wreath, so lovely and so pale,
The warped and slender rainbow of the vale;
Ere beauteous Ila's foot had prest the floor,
Or her fair cheek had kissed the morning gale,
A lively rap came to Kincraigy's door—
There stood the active friar, and Mador of the Moor!
Well knew the dame this speed betokened good,
But when she learned that Mador consort held
With majesty and knights of noblest blood,
One of the select number in the field,
Her courtesy no blandishment withheld.
Fair Ila trembled like the aspen bough,
She dreaded passions guidelessly impelled—
'Twas what of all the world she wished; yet now
A weight her heart oppressed, she felt she wist not how.
But when she learned that Mador consort held
With majesty and knights of noblest blood,
One of the select number in the field,
Her courtesy no blandishment withheld.
Fair Ila trembled like the aspen bough,
She dreaded passions guidelessly impelled—
'Twas what of all the world she wished; yet now
A weight her heart oppressed, she felt she wist not how.
Kincraigy growled like hunted wolf at bay,
And in his fields from outrage sought relief;
No burning fiend whom convent wights gainsay,
No ruthless abbey reave, nor Ranoch thief,
Did ever work him such chagrin and grief,
As did the minstrel's smooth obtrusive face.
Albert of Glen, his kind but haughty chief,
He saw exposed to infamous disgrace,
Himself to loss of name, of honour, and of place.
And in his fields from outrage sought relief;
No burning fiend whom convent wights gainsay,
No ruthless abbey reave, nor Ranoch thief,
Did ever work him such chagrin and grief,
As did the minstrel's smooth obtrusive face.
Albert of Glen, his kind but haughty chief,
He saw exposed to infamous disgrace,
Himself to loss of name, of honour, and of place.
His rage availed not—each reflective hint
Was treated by his knowing dame with scorn,
Whose every word, and every action, went
To show him his discernment was forlorn:
He knew no more of life than babe unborn!
'Twas well some could distinguish who was who!
Kincraigy's years were cumbered and outworn
In manful strife his mastery to show,
Though forced on every point his privilege to forego.
Was treated by his knowing dame with scorn,
Whose every word, and every action, went
To show him his discernment was forlorn:
He knew no more of life than babe unborn!
'Twas well some could distinguish who was who!
Kincraigy's years were cumbered and outworn
In manful strife his mastery to show,
Though forced on every point his privilege to forego.
The minstrel's table was with viands spread,
His cup was filled though all the rest were dry;
Not on the floor was made the minstrel's bed,
He got the best Kincraigy could supply;
While every day the former did outvie
In idle frolic round Kincraigy's hall:
His frugal meal is changed to luxury;
His oxen low unnoted in the stall;
Loud revelry pervades, and lords it over all.
His cup was filled though all the rest were dry;
Not on the floor was made the minstrel's bed,
He got the best Kincraigy could supply;
While every day the former did outvie
In idle frolic round Kincraigy's hall:
His frugal meal is changed to luxury;
His oxen low unnoted in the stall;
Loud revelry pervades, and lords it over all.
The blooming May, from his first fond embrace
Shrunk pale and sullen, as from insult high;
A nameless dread was settled on her face;
She feared the minstrel, yet she knew not why.
That previous night, when closed was every eye,
O she had dreamed of grievous scenes to be;
And she had heard a little plaintive cry;
And she had sung beneath the willow tree,
And seen a rueful sight, unfitting maid to see!
Shrunk pale and sullen, as from insult high;
A nameless dread was settled on her face;
She feared the minstrel, yet she knew not why.
That previous night, when closed was every eye,
O she had dreamed of grievous scenes to be;
And she had heard a little plaintive cry;
And she had sung beneath the willow tree,
And seen a rueful sight, unfitting maid to see!
But when he told her of his fixed resolve,
That, should they not in wedlock ties be bound,
He never would that loving breast involve
In rankling crime, nor pierce it with a wound,—
It was so generous, she no longer frowned,
But sighing sunk upon his manly breast.
Sweet tender sex! with snares encompassed round,
On others hang thy comforts and thy rest;
Child of dependence born, and failings unconfest!
That, should they not in wedlock ties be bound,
He never would that loving breast involve
In rankling crime, nor pierce it with a wound,—
It was so generous, she no longer frowned,
But sighing sunk upon his manly breast.
Sweet tender sex! with snares encompassed round,
On others hang thy comforts and thy rest;
Child of dependence born, and failings unconfest!
At eve they leaned upon the flowery sward,
On fairy mound that overlooks the Tay;
And in the greenwood bowers of sweet Kinnaird
They sought a refuge from the noontide ray.
In bowers that scarce received the light of day,
Far, far below a rock's stupendous pile,
In raptures of the purest love they lay,
While tender tale would intervals beguile—
Woe to the venal friar, won to religious wile!
On fairy mound that overlooks the Tay;
And in the greenwood bowers of sweet Kinnaird
They sought a refuge from the noontide ray.
In bowers that scarce received the light of day,
Far, far below a rock's stupendous pile,
In raptures of the purest love they lay,
While tender tale would intervals beguile—
Woe to the venal friar, won to religious wile!
If pure and full terrestrial bliss may be,
And human imperfection that enjoy,
Those twain, beneath the deep embowering tree,
Bathed in that perfect bliss without alloy.
But passion's flame will passion's self destroy,
Such imperfections round our nature lower;
No bliss is ours, that others mayn't annoy:
So happ'd it to Kincraigy's beauteous flower,
And eke her gallant gay, young Mador of the Moor.
And human imperfection that enjoy,
Those twain, beneath the deep embowering tree,
Bathed in that perfect bliss without alloy.
But passion's flame will passion's self destroy,
Such imperfections round our nature lower;
No bliss is ours, that others mayn't annoy:
So happ'd it to Kincraigy's beauteous flower,
And eke her gallant gay, young Mador of the Moor.
Albert of Glen, o'er his betrothed bride
Kept jealous eye, and oft unnoted came;
He saw the minstrel ever by her side,
And how his presence flushed the bustling dame.
Enraged at such a fond ungrateful flame,
One eve he caught them locked in fond embrace;
And, bent his amorous rival's pride to tame,
Began with sandalled foot, and heavy mace,
To work the minstrel woe, and very deep disgrace.
Kept jealous eye, and oft unnoted came;
He saw the minstrel ever by her side,
And how his presence flushed the bustling dame.
Enraged at such a fond ungrateful flame,
One eve he caught them locked in fond embrace;
And, bent his amorous rival's pride to tame,
Began with sandalled foot, and heavy mace,
To work the minstrel woe, and very deep disgrace.
Few and unpolished were the words that passed;
Hard was the struggle and infuriate grasp;
But Mador of the Moor, o'erborne at last,
Beneath his rival's frame began to gasp;
His slender nape was locked in keyless hasp;
A maid's exertion saved him as before—
Her willing fingers made the hands unclasp
That soon had stilled the struggling minstrel's core—
He ne'er had flattered dame nor courted maiden more.
Hard was the struggle and infuriate grasp;
But Mador of the Moor, o'erborne at last,
Beneath his rival's frame began to gasp;
His slender nape was locked in keyless hasp;
A maid's exertion saved him as before—
Her willing fingers made the hands unclasp
That soon had stilled the struggling minstrel's core—
He ne'er had flattered dame nor courted maiden more.
The swords were drawn, but neither jeer nor threat
Could drive the fearless maiden from between;
Again her firmness quelled the dire debate,
And drove the ruffian from their bower of green.
But grim and resolute revenge was seen
In his dark eye, as furious he withdrew;
And Mador of the Moor, his life to screen,
Escaped by night, through shades of murky hue:
The maiden deemed it meet, for Albert well she knew.
Could drive the fearless maiden from between;
Again her firmness quelled the dire debate,
And drove the ruffian from their bower of green.
But grim and resolute revenge was seen
In his dark eye, as furious he withdrew;
And Mador of the Moor, his life to screen,
Escaped by night, through shades of murky hue:
The maiden deemed it meet, for Albert well she knew.
115
And well it proved for him!—At woman's schemes
And deep-laid policy the jeer is due;
But for resource and courage in extremes,
For prompt expedient and affection true,
Distrust her not;—even though her means are few,
She will defeat the utmost powers of man;
In strait, she never yet distinction drew
'Twixt right and wrong, nor squeamishly began
To calculate, or weigh, save how to gain her plan.
And deep-laid policy the jeer is due;
But for resource and courage in extremes,
For prompt expedient and affection true,
Distrust her not;—even though her means are few,
She will defeat the utmost powers of man;
In strait, she never yet distinction drew
'Twixt right and wrong, nor squeamishly began
To calculate, or weigh, save how to gain her plan.
Albert of Glen with twenty warriors came,
Beset Kincraigy's hall, and searched it through;
Like the chafed ocean stormed the flustered dame—
Of Mador's hasty flight she did not know.
Kincraigy hoped they would the wight undo;
In his malicious grin was joyance seen.
Albert is baulked of sweet revenge, and now
Blazes outright a chieftain's smothered spleen;
And Mador's lost and gone, as if he ne'er had been.
Beset Kincraigy's hall, and searched it through;
Like the chafed ocean stormed the flustered dame—
Of Mador's hasty flight she did not know.
Kincraigy hoped they would the wight undo;
In his malicious grin was joyance seen.
Albert is baulked of sweet revenge, and now
Blazes outright a chieftain's smothered spleen;
And Mador's lost and gone, as if he ne'er had been.
| The Works of The Ettrick Shepherd | |