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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| 3. | CANTO THIRD. The Cottage.
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 | The Works of The Ettrick Shepherd |  |
CANTO THIRD. The Cottage.
ARGUMENT.
O waly, waly, but love be bonnie,A little while when it is new!
But when 'tis old it waxes cold,
An' fades away like morning dew.
But had I wist before I kissed,
That love had been so ill to win,
I had locked my heart in a case o' gowd,
An' pinned it wi' a siller pin.
What art thou, Love? or who may thee define?
Where lies thy bourne of pleasure or of pain?
No sceptre, graved by Reason's hand, is thine,
Child of the moistened eye and burning brain,
Of glowing fancy, and the fervid vein,
That soft on bed of roses loves to rest,
And crop the flower where lurks the deadly bane:
Oh, many a thorn those dear delights invest,
Child of the rosy cheek, and heaving snow-white breast!
Where lies thy bourne of pleasure or of pain?
No sceptre, graved by Reason's hand, is thine,
Child of the moistened eye and burning brain,
Of glowing fancy, and the fervid vein,
That soft on bed of roses loves to rest,
And crop the flower where lurks the deadly bane:
Oh, many a thorn those dear delights invest,
Child of the rosy cheek, and heaving snow-white breast!
Thou art the genial balm of virtuous youth,
And point'st where Honour waves her wreath on high;
Like the sweet breeze that wanders from the south,
Thou breath'st upon the soul, where embryos lie
Of new delights, the treasures of the sky.
Who knows thy trembling watch in bower of even,
Thy earliest grateful tear, and melting sigh?
Oh, never was to yearning mortal given
So dear delights as thine, thou habitant of heaven!
And point'st where Honour waves her wreath on high;
Like the sweet breeze that wanders from the south,
Thou breath'st upon the soul, where embryos lie
Of new delights, the treasures of the sky.
Who knows thy trembling watch in bower of even,
Thy earliest grateful tear, and melting sigh?
Oh, never was to yearning mortal given
So dear delights as thine, thou habitant of heaven!
Woe that thy regal sway, so framed to please,
Should ever from usurper meet control;
That ever shrivelled wealth, or gray disease,
Should mar the grateful concord of the soul:
That bloated sediment of crazing bowl
Should crop thy blossoms which untasted die;
Or that the blistering phrase of babbler foul
Should e'er profane thy altars, framed to lie
Veiled from all heaven and earth, save silent Fancy's eye!
Should ever from usurper meet control;
That ever shrivelled wealth, or gray disease,
Should mar the grateful concord of the soul:
That bloated sediment of crazing bowl
Should crop thy blossoms which untasted die;
Or that the blistering phrase of babbler foul
Should e'er profane thy altars, framed to lie
Veiled from all heaven and earth, save silent Fancy's eye!
Oh, I will worship even before thy bust,
When my dimmed eye no more thy smile can see!
While this deserted bosom beats, it must
Still beat in unison with hope and thee:
For I have wept o'er perished ecstasy,
And o'er the fall of beauty's early prime;
But I will dream of new delights to be,
When moon and stars have ceased their range sublime,
And angels rung the knell of all-consuming Time.
When my dimmed eye no more thy smile can see!
While this deserted bosom beats, it must
Still beat in unison with hope and thee:
For I have wept o'er perished ecstasy,
And o'er the fall of beauty's early prime;
But I will dream of new delights to be,
When moon and stars have ceased their range sublime,
And angels rung the knell of all-consuming Time.
Then speed, thou great coeval of the sun;
Thy world with flowers and snows alternate sow:
Long has thy whelming tide resistless run,
And swelled the seas of wickedness and woe.
While moons shall wane, and mundane oceans flow,
To count the hours of thy dominion o'er,
The dyes of human guilt shall deeper grow,
And millions sink to see thy reign no more:
Haste, haste thy guilty course to yon eternal shore!
Thy world with flowers and snows alternate sow:
Long has thy whelming tide resistless run,
And swelled the seas of wickedness and woe.
While moons shall wane, and mundane oceans flow,
To count the hours of thy dominion o'er,
The dyes of human guilt shall deeper grow,
And millions sink to see thy reign no more:
Haste, haste thy guilty course to yon eternal shore!
Cease, thou wild Muse, thy vague unbodied lay:
What boots these wanderings from thy onward tale?
I know thee well! when once thou fliest astray,
To lure thee back no soothing can avail.
Thou lov'st amid the burning stars to sail,
Or sing with sea-maids down the coral deep;
The groves of visionary worlds to hail;
In moonlight dells thy fairy rites to keep,
Or through the wilderness on booming pinion sweep.
What boots these wanderings from thy onward tale?
I know thee well! when once thou fliest astray,
To lure thee back no soothing can avail.
Thou lov'st amid the burning stars to sail,
Or sing with sea-maids down the coral deep;
The groves of visionary worlds to hail;
In moonlight dells thy fairy rites to keep,
Or through the wilderness on booming pinion sweep.
Wilt thou not stoop, where beauty sits forlorn,
Trembling at symptoms of approaching woe?
Where lovely Ila, by the aged thorn,
Notes what she scarce dare trust her heart to know?
Mark how her cheek's new roses come and go!
Has Mador dared his virtuous vow to break?
It cannot be;—we may not deem it so;
Spare the ungrateful thought, for mercy's sake!
Alas! man still is man—And woman—ah, how weak!
Trembling at symptoms of approaching woe?
Where lovely Ila, by the aged thorn,
Notes what she scarce dare trust her heart to know?
Mark how her cheek's new roses come and go!
Has Mador dared his virtuous vow to break?
It cannot be;—we may not deem it so;
Spare the ungrateful thought, for mercy's sake!
Alas! man still is man—And woman—ah, how weak!
Why do the maidens of the strath rejoice,
And lilt with meaning gesture on the loan?
Why do they smirk, and talk with giggling voice
Of laces, and of stays; and thereupon
Hang many a fruitful jest?—Ah! is there none
The truth to pledge, and prove the nuptial vow?
Alas! the friar on pilgrimage is gone;
Mador is lost—none else the secret knew,
And all is deemed pretext assumptive and untrue.
And lilt with meaning gesture on the loan?
Why do they smirk, and talk with giggling voice
Of laces, and of stays; and thereupon
Hang many a fruitful jest?—Ah! is there none
The truth to pledge, and prove the nuptial vow?
Alas! the friar on pilgrimage is gone;
Mador is lost—none else the secret knew,
And all is deemed pretext assumptive and untrue.
116
Slander prevails, to woman's longing mind
Sweet as the April blossom to the bee;
Her meal that never palls, but leaves behind
An appetite still yearning food to see.
Kincraigy's dame of perspicacity
Sees nought at all amiss, but flounces on;
Her brawling humour shows increased to be;
Much does she speak, in loud and grumbling tone,
Nor time takes to reflect, nor even a prayer to con.
Sweet as the April blossom to the bee;
Her meal that never palls, but leaves behind
An appetite still yearning food to see.
Kincraigy's dame of perspicacity
Sees nought at all amiss, but flounces on;
Her brawling humour shows increased to be;
Much does she speak, in loud and grumbling tone,
Nor time takes to reflect, nor even a prayer to con.
The injured Albert timely sent command
That pierced Kincraigy to the inmost soul,
To drive his worthless daughter from the land,
Or forthwith yield, of goods and gear, the whole.
Alternative severe!—no tale of dole
The chief would hear, on full revenge intent.
The good sagacious dame, in murmuring growl,
Proposed to drive her forth incontinent,
For she deserved it all, and Albert might relent.
That pierced Kincraigy to the inmost soul,
To drive his worthless daughter from the land,
Or forthwith yield, of goods and gear, the whole.
Alternative severe!—no tale of dole
The chief would hear, on full revenge intent.
The good sagacious dame, in murmuring growl,
Proposed to drive her forth incontinent,
For she deserved it all, and Albert might relent.
“She is to blame,” Kincraigy made reply,
“And may deserve so hard a guerdon well;
But so dost thou, and haply I may try
That last expedient with a shrew so fell;
But when I do, no man shall me compel:
For thy own good, to poverty I yield;
My child is still my own, and shall not tell
At Heaven's high bar, that I, her only shield,
For blame that was not hers, expelled her to the field.”
“And may deserve so hard a guerdon well;
But so dost thou, and haply I may try
That last expedient with a shrew so fell;
But when I do, no man shall me compel:
For thy own good, to poverty I yield;
My child is still my own, and shall not tell
At Heaven's high bar, that I, her only shield,
For blame that was not hers, expelled her to the field.”
Kincraigy leaves his ancient home with tears,
And sits in lowly cot without a name;
No angry word from him his daughter hears,
But oh! how pined the much-degraded dame!
Plaint followed plaint, and blame was eked to blame.
Her muster-roll of grievances how long!
She mentions not her darling minstrel's fame,
His spotless honour, nor affection strong,
But to her weeping child imputes each grievous wrong.
And sits in lowly cot without a name;
No angry word from him his daughter hears,
But oh! how pined the much-degraded dame!
Plaint followed plaint, and blame was eked to blame.
Her muster-roll of grievances how long!
She mentions not her darling minstrel's fame,
His spotless honour, nor affection strong,
But to her weeping child imputes each grievous wrong.
Concealed within the cot's sequestered nook
Where fire had never beamed the gloom to cheer,
Young Ila Moore is doomed her woes to brook,
And every query's answered by a tear.
What mean those tiny robes, concealed with fear?
These clothes, dear maid, are all unmeet for thee;
Are all unfitting human thing to wear,
Save noble infant on his nurse's knee,—
Yet them thou dost survey, and weep when none can see.
Where fire had never beamed the gloom to cheer,
Young Ila Moore is doomed her woes to brook,
And every query's answered by a tear.
What mean those tiny robes, concealed with fear?
These clothes, dear maid, are all unmeet for thee;
Are all unfitting human thing to wear,
Save noble infant on his nurse's knee,—
Yet them thou dost survey, and weep when none can see.
O maiden of the bright and melting eye,
Of the soft velvet cheek and balmy breath,
Whose lips the coral's deepest tints outvie,
Thy bosom fairer than the winter wreath!
Before thou yield'st those lips of simple faith,
Or giv'st that heaving breast to love's caress,
Oh, look beyond!—the sweet luxuriant path
May lead thee into labyrinth of distress:
Think of this comely May, nor deem thy danger less.
Of the soft velvet cheek and balmy breath,
Whose lips the coral's deepest tints outvie,
Thy bosom fairer than the winter wreath!
Before thou yield'st those lips of simple faith,
Or giv'st that heaving breast to love's caress,
Oh, look beyond!—the sweet luxuriant path
May lead thee into labyrinth of distress:
Think of this comely May, nor deem thy danger less.
Blame not the bard, who yearns thy peace to save;
Who fain would see thy virtuous worth excel
Thy beauty, and thy purity engrave
Where time may scarce the lines of life cancel.
Deem not he on thy foibles lists to dwell,
Thy failings, or the dangers thee belay;
'Tis all to caution thee, and warn thee well.
Wipe but thy little stains of love away
And thou art goodness all, and pure as bloom of May.
Who fain would see thy virtuous worth excel
Thy beauty, and thy purity engrave
Where time may scarce the lines of life cancel.
Deem not he on thy foibles lists to dwell,
Thy failings, or the dangers thee belay;
'Tis all to caution thee, and warn thee well.
Wipe but thy little stains of love away
And thou art goodness all, and pure as bloom of May.
To give thy secret ear to lover's tale,
Or cast approving glance, is kindly done;
But, ere thy soul the darling sweets inhale,
Mark out the bourn—nor farther be thou won.
Eventful is the sequel once begun,
And all delusive sweets that onward lie:
Think of the inmost nook of cottage lone,
Of the blenched cheek, the bleared and swimming eye,
And how 'twill thee become, the unsainted lullaby!
Or cast approving glance, is kindly done;
But, ere thy soul the darling sweets inhale,
Mark out the bourn—nor farther be thou won.
Eventful is the sequel once begun,
And all delusive sweets that onward lie:
Think of the inmost nook of cottage lone,
Of the blenched cheek, the bleared and swimming eye,
And how 'twill thee become, the unsainted lullaby!
'Tis done, and Shame his masterpiece hath wrought:
Why should the laws of God and man combine
To sear the heart with keenest sorrows fraught,
And every blush and every tear enshrine
In brazen tomb of punishment malign?
The gentle sufferer beacon stands to scorn;
Kincraigy's dame is sunk in woes condign;
A helpless minstrel to her house is born,
A grandson hale and fair, and comely as the morn.
Why should the laws of God and man combine
To sear the heart with keenest sorrows fraught,
And every blush and every tear enshrine
In brazen tomb of punishment malign?
The gentle sufferer beacon stands to scorn;
Kincraigy's dame is sunk in woes condign;
A helpless minstrel to her house is born,
A grandson hale and fair, and comely as the morn.
Poor child of shame! thy fortune to divine
Would conjure up the scenes of future pain;
No father's house, nor shielding arm is thine;
No banquet hails thee, stranger of disdain.
A lowly shelter from the wind and rain
Hides thy young weetless head, unwelcome guest;
And thy unholy frame must long remain
Unhouselled, and by churchman's tongue unblest;
Yet peaceful is thy sleep, cradled on guileless breast.
Would conjure up the scenes of future pain;
No father's house, nor shielding arm is thine;
No banquet hails thee, stranger of disdain.
A lowly shelter from the wind and rain
Hides thy young weetless head, unwelcome guest;
And thy unholy frame must long remain
Unhouselled, and by churchman's tongue unblest;
Yet peaceful is thy sleep, cradled on guileless breast.
Hard works Kincraigy 'mid his woodland reign,
And boasts his earnings to his flustered dame;
Seemed as unknowing the event of pain,
Nor once by him is named his daughter's name,
Till ardent matron of the hamlet came,
And brought the child abrupt his eye before:
He saw the guiltless his protection claim,
With little arms outstretched seemed to implore—
He kissed the babe and wept, then hasted to the door.
And boasts his earnings to his flustered dame;
Seemed as unknowing the event of pain,
Nor once by him is named his daughter's name,
Till ardent matron of the hamlet came,
And brought the child abrupt his eye before:
He saw the guiltless his protection claim,
With little arms outstretched seemed to implore—
He kissed the babe and wept, then hasted to the door.
But oh, Kincraigy's dame is warped in dread!
The days of Heaven's forbearance are outgone,
And round the unchristened babe's unholy bed
No guardian spirits watch at midnight lone;
Well to malignant elves the same was known—
There slept the babe, to them an easy prey.
Oh! every nightly buzz or distant moan
Drove the poor dame's unrooted wits away;
Her terror 'twas by night, her thought and prayer by day.
The days of Heaven's forbearance are outgone,
And round the unchristened babe's unholy bed
No guardian spirits watch at midnight lone;
Well to malignant elves the same was known—
There slept the babe, to them an easy prey.
Oh! every nightly buzz or distant moan
Drove the poor dame's unrooted wits away;
Her terror 'twas by night, her thought and prayer by day.
117
Still waxed her dread, for ah! too well she knew
Her floor, o'ernight, had frames unearthly borne;
Around her cot, the giggling fairies flew,
And all arrangement altered ere the morn.
At eve, the candle of its beams was shorn,
While a blue halo round the flame would play;
And she could hear the fairies' fitful horn
Ring in her ears an eldritch roundelay,
When every eye was shut, and her's all wakeful lay.
Her floor, o'ernight, had frames unearthly borne;
Around her cot, the giggling fairies flew,
And all arrangement altered ere the morn.
At eve, the candle of its beams was shorn,
While a blue halo round the flame would play;
And she could hear the fairies' fitful horn
Ring in her ears an eldritch roundelay,
When every eye was shut, and her's all wakeful lay.
And many a private mark the infant bore,
Surveyed each morn with dread which none can tell,
Lest the real child was borne to downward shore,
And in his stead, and form, by fairy spell,
Some froward elfin child, deformed and fell:
Oh, how her troubled breast with horror shook,
Lest thing from confines of the lower hell
Might sit upon her knee and on her look!—
'Twas more than her weak mind and fading form could brook.
Surveyed each morn with dread which none can tell,
Lest the real child was borne to downward shore,
And in his stead, and form, by fairy spell,
Some froward elfin child, deformed and fell:
Oh, how her troubled breast with horror shook,
Lest thing from confines of the lower hell
Might sit upon her knee and on her look!—
'Twas more than her weak mind and fading form could brook.
Sweet Ila Moore had borne the world's revile
With meekness, and with warm repentant tears;
At church anathemas she well could smile,
And silent oft of faithless man she hears.
But now a kind misjudging parent's fears
Oppressed her heart—her father too would sigh
O'er the unrighteous babe, whose early years
Excluded were from saints' society;
Disowned by God and man, an heathen he might die.
With meekness, and with warm repentant tears;
At church anathemas she well could smile,
And silent oft of faithless man she hears.
But now a kind misjudging parent's fears
Oppressed her heart—her father too would sigh
O'er the unrighteous babe, whose early years
Excluded were from saints' society;
Disowned by God and man, an heathen he might die.
Forthwith she tried a letter to indite,
To rouse the faithless Mador's dormant flame:
Her soul was racked with feelings opposite;
She found no words proportioned to his blame.
At memory's page her blushes went and came;
And aye she stooped and o'er the cradle hung,
Called her loved infant by his father's name,
Then framed a little lay, and thus she sung—
“Thy father's far away, thy mother all too young.
To rouse the faithless Mador's dormant flame:
Her soul was racked with feelings opposite;
She found no words proportioned to his blame.
At memory's page her blushes went and came;
And aye she stooped and o'er the cradle hung,
Called her loved infant by his father's name,
Then framed a little lay, and thus she sung—
“Thy father's far away, thy mother all too young.
“Be still, my babe, be still!—the die is cast;
Beyond thy weal no joy remains for me;
Thy mother's spring was clouded and o'erpast
Erewhile the blossom opened on the tree.
But I will nurse thee kindly on my knee,
In spite of every taunt and jeering tongue;
Oh, thy sweet eye will melt my wrongs to see,
And thy kind little heart with grief be wrung!
Thy father's far away, thy mother all too young.
Beyond thy weal no joy remains for me;
Thy mother's spring was clouded and o'erpast
Erewhile the blossom opened on the tree.
But I will nurse thee kindly on my knee,
In spite of every taunt and jeering tongue;
Oh, thy sweet eye will melt my wrongs to see,
And thy kind little heart with grief be wrung!
Thy father's far away, thy mother all too young.
“If haggard poverty should overtake,
And threat our onward journey to forelay,
For thee I'll pull the berries of the brake,
Wake half the night, and toil the live-long day;
And when proud manhood o'er thy brow shall play,
For me thy bow in forest shall be strung:
The memory of my errors shall decay,
And of the song of shame I oft have sung,
Of father far away, and mother all too young!
And threat our onward journey to forelay,
For thee I'll pull the berries of the brake,
Wake half the night, and toil the live-long day;
And when proud manhood o'er thy brow shall play,
For me thy bow in forest shall be strung:
The memory of my errors shall decay,
And of the song of shame I oft have sung,
Of father far away, and mother all too young!
“But oh! when mellowed lustre gilds thine eye,
And love's soft passion thrills thy youthful frame,
Let this memorial bear thy mind on high
Above the guilty and regretful flame;
The mildew of the soul, the mark of shame;
Think of the fruit before the bloom that sprung.
When in the twilight bower with beauteous dame,
Let this unbreathed lay hang on thy tongue—
Thy father's far away, thy mother all too young.”
And love's soft passion thrills thy youthful frame,
Let this memorial bear thy mind on high
Above the guilty and regretful flame;
The mildew of the soul, the mark of shame;
Think of the fruit before the bloom that sprung.
When in the twilight bower with beauteous dame,
Let this unbreathed lay hang on thy tongue—
Thy father's far away, thy mother all too young.”
When days and nights a stained scroll had seen
Beneath young Ila Moore's betrothed eye;
When many a tear had dropt the lines between,
When dim the page with many a burning sigh,
A boy is charged to Scotland's court to hie,
The pledge to bear, nor leave the minstrel's door
Till answer came. Alas, nor low, nor high,
Porter nor groom, nor warder of the tower,
Had ever heard the name of Mador of the Moor.
Beneath young Ila Moore's betrothed eye;
When many a tear had dropt the lines between,
When dim the page with many a burning sigh,
A boy is charged to Scotland's court to hie,
The pledge to bear, nor leave the minstrel's door
Till answer came. Alas, nor low, nor high,
Porter nor groom, nor warder of the tower,
Had ever heard the name of Mador of the Moor.
| The Works of The Ettrick Shepherd | |