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] |
The Works of The Ettrick Shepherd | ||
THE QUEEN'S WAKE.
INTRODUCTION.
Fling from your folds the piercing shower;
Sing to the tower and leafless tree,
Ye cold winds of adversity;
Your blights, your chilling influence shed
On wareless heart and houseless head;
Your ruth or fury I disdain:
I've found my mountain Lyre again.
Companion of a happier day!
Thou gift of Heaven, thou pledge of good,
Harp of the mountain and the wood!
I little thought, when first I tried
Thy notes by lone Saint Mary's side,
When in a deep untrodden den,
I found thee in the bracken glen—
I little thought that idle toy
Should e'er become my only joy.
Around my heart the toils of love,
When first thy magic wires I rung,
And on the breeze thy numbers flung:
The fervid tear played in mine eye;
I trembled, wept, and wondered why.
Sweet was the thrilling ecstasy;
I know not if 'twas love or thee.
Friendship would fade or fortune frown;
When pleasure, love, and mirth were past,
That thou should'st prove my all at last.
Jeered by conceit and lordly pride,
I flung my soothing harp aside;
With wayward fortune strove a while,
Wrecked in a world of self and guile.
Again I sought the bracken hill;
Again sat musing by the rill;
My wild sensations all were gone,
And only thou wert left alone.
Long hast thou in the moorland lain,
Now welcome to my heart again!
No more shall round thy border play;
No more the brake-flowers o'er thee piled
Shall mar thy tones and measures wild:
Harp of the forest, thou shalt be
Fair as the bud on forest tree!
Sweet be thy strains as those that swell
In Ettrick's green and fairy dell;
Soft as the breeze of falling even,
And purer than the dews of heaven.
Of bards who sung in days of yore;
Of gallant chiefs in courtly guise;
Of ladies' smiles, of ladies' eyes;
Of royal feast and obsequies;
When Caledon with look severe,
Saw Beauty's hand her sceptre bear—
By cliff and haunted wild I'll sing,
Responsive to thy dulcet string.
When scarcely smiles the doubtful day,
Fair daughter of Dunedin, say,
Hast thou not heard at midnight deep
Soft music on thy slumbers creep?
At such a time, if careless thrown
Thy slender form on couch of down,
Hast thou not felt to nature true
The tear steal from thine eye so blue?
If then thy guiltless bosom strove
In blissful dreams of conscious love,
And even shrunk from proffer bland
Of lover's visionary hand;
On such ecstatic dream when brake
The music of the midnight Wake,
Hast thou not weened thyself on high,
List'ning to angels' melody,
'Scaped from a world of cares away,
To dream of love and bliss for aye?
Hast thou not, sighing, all alone
Proffered thy vows to Heaven, and then
Blest the sweet Wake, and slept again?
Though old the tale, and past the day;
Those Wakes, now played by minstrels poor,
At midnight's darkest, chillest hour,
Those humble Wakes, now scorned by all,
Were first begun in courtly hall,
When royal Mary, blithe of mood,
Kept holiday at Holyrood.
Groaned deep beneath her woes and toils,
And looked o'er meadow, dale, and lea,
For many a day her queen to see;
Hoping that then her woes would cease,
And all her valleys smile in peace.
The spring was passed, the summer gone,
Still vacant stood the Scottish throne:
But scarce had autumn's mellow hand
Waved her rich banner o'er the land,
When rang the shouts from tower and tree
That Scotland's queen was on the sea.
Swift spread the news o'er down and dale,
Swift as the lively autumn gale;
Away, away, it echoed still,
O'er many a moor and Highland hill,
Till rang each glen and verdant plain,
From Cheviot to the northern main.
And for Dunedin hied away;
Each harp was strung in woodland bower,
In praise of Beauty's bonniest flower.
The chiefs forsook their ladies fair,
The priest his beads and books of prayer;
The farmer left his harvest day,
The shepherd all his flocks to stray;
The forester forsook the wood,
And hasted on to Holyrood.
After a thousand sorrows past,
The lovely Mary once again
Set foot upon her native plain;
Kneeled on the pier with modest grace,
And turned to heaven her beauteous face.
'Twas then the caps in air were blended,
A thousand thousand shouts ascended;
Shivered the breeze around the throng;
Gray barrier cliffs the peals prolong;
And every tongue gave thanks to Heaven,
That Mary to their hopes was given.
Bespoke the lady and the queen;
The woes of one so fair and young
Moved every heart and every tongue.
Driven from her home, a helpless child,
To brave the winds and billows wild;
An exile bred in realms afar,
Amid commotion, broil, and war:
In one short year her hopes all crossed—
A parent, husband, kingdom lost,
And all ere eighteen years had shed
Their honours o'er her royal head;—
For such a queen, the Stuarts' heir,
A queen so courteous, young, and fair,
Who would not every foe defy?
Who would not stand? who would not die?
Around with golden tassels hung,
No chieftain there rode half so free,
Or half so light and gracefully.
How sweet to see her ringlets pale
Wide waving in the southland gale,
Which through the broom-wood blossoms flew,
To fan her cheeks of rosy hue!
Whene'er it heaved her bosom's screen,
What beauties in her form were seen!
And when her courser's mane it swung,
A thousand silver bells were rung.
A sight so fair, on Scottish plain,
A Scot shall never see again.
On rocks that seemed to prop the skies;
On lake, on river, sea, and isle;
O'er woods and meadows bathed in dew,
To distant mountains wild and blue;
She thought the isle that gave her birth
The sweetest, wildest land on earth.
Amid her lords and ladies gay.
Priest, abbot, layman, all were there,
And presbyter with look severe:
There rode the lords of France and Spain,
Of England, Flanders, and Lorraine,
While serried thousands round them stood,
From shore of Leith to Holyrood.
To find a home so wild and fair;
To see a gathered nation by,
And rays of joy from every eye;
Though frequent shouts the welkin broke,
Though courtiers bowed and ladies spoke,
An absent look they oft could trace
Deep settled on her comely face.
Was it the thought that all alone
She must support a rocking throne?
That Caledonia's rugged land
Might scorn a lady's weak command,
And the Red Lion's haughty eye
Scowl at a maiden's feet to lie?
Soft pealing from the countless throng:
So mellowed came the distant swell,
That on her ravished ear it fell
Like dew of heaven, at evening close,
On forest flower or woodland rose.
For Mary's heart, to nature true,
The powers of song and music knew:
But all the choral measures bland,
Of anthems sung in southern land,
Appeared an useless pile of art,
Unfit to sway or melt the heart,
Compared with that which floated by—
Her simple native melody.
She halted, reined, and bent the while:
She heard the Caledonian lyre
Pour forth its notes of Runic fire;
But scarcely caught the ravished queen
The minstrel's song that flowed between;
Entranced upon the strain she hung;
'Twas thus the gray-haired minstrel sung:
The Song.
But man is like th' inconstant moon:
Last night she smiled o'er lawn and lea;
That moon will change, and so will he.
Thy beauty is but a fading flower;
Watch thy young bosom and maiden eye,
For the shower must fall, and the floweret die.”
“Why fades upon her cheek the smile?
Say, rears your steed too fierce and high?
Or sits your golden seat awry?”
Of Rouen's calm and generous breed,
Has borne me over hill and plain,
Swift as the dun-deer of the Seine.
But such a wild and simple lay,
Poured from the harp of minstrel gray,
My every sense away it stole,
And swayed awhile my raptured soul.
O! say, my lord (for you must know
What strains along your valleys flow,
And all the hoards of Highland lore),
Was ever song so sweet before?—”
“Feeble the strain that minstrel sung!
My royal dame, if once you heard
The Scottish lay from Highland bard,
Then might you say in raptures meet,
No song was ever half so sweet.
To deeds of more than mortal might;
'Twill make the maid, in all her charms,
Fall weeping in her lover's arms;
'Twill charm the mermaid from the deep;
Make mountain oaks to bend and weep;
Thrill every heart with horrors dire,
And shape the breeze to forms of fire.
'Twill draw the spirits down from heaven;
And all the fays that haunt the wood,
To dance around in frantic mood,
And tune their mimic harps so boon
Beneath the cliff and midnight moon.
Ah! yes, my queen! if once you heard
The Scottish lay from Highland bard,
Then might you say, in raptures meet,
No song was ever half so sweet.”
Queen Mary joined the evening's sport;
Yet, though at table all were seen
To wonder at her air and mien;
Though courtiers fawned and ladies sung,
Still in her ear the accents rung—
“Watch thy young bosom and maiden eye
For the shower must fall, and the floweret die.”
These words prophetic seemed to be
Foreboding woe and misery;
And much she wished to prove, ere long,
The wondrous powers of Scottish song.
To view the city's ample round,
On high amid the gathered crowd,
A herald thus proclaimed aloud:—
To her dark heaths and Highland dales;
To her brave sons of warlike mood,
To all her daughters fair and good:
Peace o'er her ruined vales shall pour,
Like beam of heaven behind the shower.
Let every harp and echo ring;
Let maidens smile and poets sing;
For love and peace entwined shall sleep,
Calm as the moonbeam on the deep,
By waving wood and wandering rill,
On purple heath and Highland hill.
And bigotry and rage disarm,
Our Queen commands that every bard
Due honours have and high regard.
If to his song of rolling fire
He joins the Caledonian lyre,
And skill in legendary lore,
Still higher shall his honours soar.
For all the arts beneath the heaven,
That man has found or God has given,
None draws the soul so sweet away,
As music's melting mystic lay;
Slight emblem of the bliss above,
It soothes the spirit all to love.
To lull the passions, mend the heart,
And break the moping zealot's chains,
Hear what our lovely queen ordains:
Her courtly halls on Christmas week,
That then the royal Wake may be
Cheered by their thrilling minstrelsy.
No ribaldry the queen must hear,
No song unmeet for maiden's ear,
No jest, nor adulation bland,
But legends of our native land;
And he whom most the court regards,
High be his honours and rewards.
Let every Scottish bard give ear,
Let every Scottish bard appear,
He then before the court must stand,
In native garb with harp in hand.
At home no minstrel dare to tarry:
High the behest.—God save Queen Mary!
Of music's power or minstrel's song;
But crowding their young queen around,
Whose stately courser pawed the ground,
Her beauty more their wonder swayed
Than all the noisy herald said;
Judging the proffer all in sport,
An idle whim of idle court.
But many a bard preferred his prayer;
For many a Scottish bard was there.
Quaked each fond heart with raptures strong
Each thought upon his harp and song;
Conned his wild strain by mountain gray.
Of luckless love, of warrior bold,
Of ravished maid, or stolen child
By freakish fairy of the wild;
Of sheeted ghost, that had revealed
Dark deeds of guilt, from man concealed;
Of boding dreams, of wandering spright,
Of dead-lights glimmering through the night;
Yea, every tale of ruth or weir
Could waken pity, love, or fear,
Were decked anew, with anxious pain,
And sung to native airs again.
Are wrecked 'mid heaps of mouldering lore!
And feeble he who dares presume
That heavenly Wake-light to relume.
But, grieved the legendary lay
Should perish from our land for aye,
While sings the lark above the wold,
And all his flocks rest in the fold,
Fondly he strikes, beside the pen,
The harp of Yarrow's bracken glen.
Glared deadly o'er the mountain cairn;
A polar sheet was round him flung,
And ice-spears at his girdle hung;
O'er frigid field, and drifted cone,
He strode undaunted and alone;
Or, throned amid the Grampians gray,
Kept thaws and suns of heaven at bay.
Could quench the flame of minstrel's soul:
Little recked they, our bards of old,
Of autumn's showers or winter's cold.
Sound slept they on the nighted hill,
Lulled by the winds or babbling rill,
Curtained within the winter cloud,
The heath their couch, the sky their shroud;
Yet their's the strains that touch the heart,
Bold, rapid, wild, and void of art.
Delight in these degenerate days:
Their crystal spring and heather brown
Is changed to wine and couch of down;
Effeminate as lady gay,
Such as the bard, so is his lay!
Through drifting snows and rattling hail,
Each Caledonian minstrel true,
Dressed in his plaid and bonnet blue,
With harp across his shoulders slung,
And music murmuring round his tongue,
Forcing his way, in raptures high,
To Holyrood his skill to try.
When gaping rustics stood and gazed,
Each bard believed, with ready will,
Unmatched his song, unmatched his skill.
But when the royal halls appeared,
Each aspect changed, each bosom feared;
And when in court of Holyrood
Filed harps and bards around him stood,
His eye emitted cheerless ray,
His hope, his spirit sunk away:
There stood the minstrel, but his mind
Seemed left in native glen behind.
What joys the poet's hopes impart;
Unknown how his high soul is torn
By cold neglect or canting scorn:
That meteor torch of mental light
A breath can quench, or kindle bright.
Oft has that mind, which braved serene
The shafts of poverty and pain,
The summer toil, the winter blast,
Fallen victim to a frown at last.
Easy the boon he asks of thee;
O! spare his heart in courtesy!
Or strode his adversary by;
No cause was there for names to scan,
Each minstrel's plaid bespoke his clan;
And the blunt Borderer's plain array—
The bonnet broad and blanket gray.
Bard sought of bard a look to steal;
Eyes measured each from head to heel.
Much wonder rose, that men so famed,
Men save with rapture never named,
Looked only so—they could not tell—
Like other men, and scarce so well.
Though keen the blast, and long the way,
When twilight closed that dubious day,
When round the table all were set,
Small heart had they to talk or eat;
Red look askance, blunt whisper low,
Awkward remark, uncourtly bow,
Were all that pass'd in that bright throng,
That group of genuine sons of song.
Who seemed a courtier or a lord:
Strange his array and speech withal,
Gael deemed him southern—southern, Gael.
Courteous his mien, his accents weak,
Lady in manner as in make;
Yet round the board a whisper ran,
That that same gay and simpering man
A minstrel was, of wond'rous fame,
Who from a distant region came,
To bear the prize beyond the sea
To the green shores of Italy.
Insensibly it stole away.
And wondering skinkers dun for more;
Which vanished swifter than the first—
Little weened they the poet's thirst.
The eyes were cleared, the speech regained;
And latent sparks of fancy glowed,
Till one abundant torrent flowed
Of wit, of humour, social glee,
Wild music, mirth, and revelry.
Just when the laugh was long and loud,
Entered a squire with summons smart;
That was the knell that pierced the heart!
“The court awaits;” he bowed—was gone—
Our bards sat changed to busts of stone.
As ever ye heard the green-wood dell
On morn of June, one warbled swell,
If burst the thunder from on high,
How hushed the woodland melody:
Even so our bards shrunk at the view
Of what they wished, and what they knew.
To fix the names of first and last;
Then to the dazzling hall were led
Poor minstrels less alive than dead.
As heart of poet never knew.
'Twas not the flash of golden gear,
Nor blaze of silver chandelier;
Not Scotland's chiefs of noble air,
Nor dazzling rows of ladies fair;
'Twas one enthroned the rest above—
Sure 'twas the queen of grace and love!
Taper the form, and fair the breast
Yon radiant golden zones invest,
Where the vexed rubies blench in death,
Beneath yon lips and balmy breath;
Coronal gems of every dye
Look dim above yon beaming eye:
Yon cheeks outvie the dawning's glow,
Red shadowed on a wreath of snow.
Of charms by mankind never known,
Of virgins, pure as opening day,
Or bosom of the flower of May;
Oft dreamed of being free from stain,
Of maidens of the emerald main,
Of fairy dames in grove at even,
Of angels in the walks of heaven:
But, nor in earth, the sea, nor sky,
In fairy dream nor fancy's eye,
Vision his soul had ever seen
Like Mary Stuart, Scotland's queen.
In former days, the term wake was only used to distinguish the festive meeting which took place on the evening previous to the dedication of any particular church or chapel. The company sat up all the night, and, in England, amused themselves in various ways, as their inclinations were by habit or study directed. In Scotland, however, which was always the land of music and of song, music and song were the principal, often the only amusements of the wake. These songs were generally of a sacred or serious nature, and were chanted to the old simple melodies of the country. The Bush aboon Traquair, The Broom of Cowdenknows, John, come kiss me now, and many others, are still extant, set to the Psalms of David and other spiritual songs, the Psalms being turned into a rude metre corresponding to the various measures of the tunes.
The difference in the application of the term which exists in the two sister kingdoms sufficiently explains the consequences of the wakes in either. In England they have given rise to many fairs and festivals of long standing; and, from that origin, every fair or festival is denominated a wake. In Scotland the term is not used to distinguish anything either subsistent or relative, save those serenades played by itinerant and nameless minstrels in the streets and squares of Edinburgh, which are inhabited by the great and wealthy, after midnight, about the time of the Christmas holidays. These seem to be the only remainder of the ancient wakes now in Scotland, and their effect upon a mind that delights in music is soothing and delicious beyond all previous conception. A person who can relish the concord of sweet sounds, gradually recalled from sleep by the music of the wakes, of which he had no previous anticipation, never fails of being deprived, for a considerable time, of all recollection what condition, what place, or what world he is in. The minstrels, who, in the reign of the Stuarts, enjoyed privileges which were even denied to the principal nobility, were, by degrees, driven from the tables of the great to the second, and afterwards to the common hall, that their music and songs might be heard, while they themselves were unseen. From the common hall they were obliged to retire to the porch or court; and so low have the characters of the minstrels descended, that the performers of the Christmas wakes are wholly unknown to the most part of those whom they serenade. They seem to be despised, but enjoy some small privileges, in order to keep up a name of high and ancient origin.
Holinshed describes Queen Mary's landing in Scotland, with her early misfortunes and accomplishments, after this manner: “She arrived at Leith the 20th of August, in the year of our Lord 1561, where she was honourably received by the Earl of Argyle, the Lord Erskine, the prior of St. Andrew's, and the burgesses of Edinburgh, and conveyed to the Abbie of Holierood-house, for (as saith Buchanan) when some had spread abroad her landing in Scotland, the nobility and others assembled out of all parts of the realme, as it were to a common spectacle.
“This did they, partly to congratulate her return, and partly to show the dutie which they alwais bear unto her (when she was absent), either to have thanks therefor, or to prevent the slanders of the enemies; wherefore not a few, by these beginnings of her reign, did gesse what would follow, although, in those so variable notions of the minds of the people, every one was very desirous to see their queen offered unto them (unlooked for), after so many haps of both fortunes as had befallen her. For, when she was but six days old, she lost her father among the cruel tempests of battle, and was with great diligence brought up by her mother (being a chosen and worthy person), but yet left as a prize to others, by reason of civil sedition in Scotland, and of outward wars with other nations, being further led abroad to all the dangers of frowning fortune, before she could know what evil did mean.
“For leaving her own country, she was nourished as a banished person, and hardly preserved in life from the weapons of her enemies and violence of the seas. After which, fortune began to flatter her, in that she honoured her with a worthy marriage, which, in truth, was rather a shadow of joie to this queen than any comfort at all. For, shortly after the same, all things were turned to sorrow, by the death of her new young husband, and of her old and grieved mother, by loss of her new kingdom, and by the doubtful possession of her old heritable realme. But as for these things she was both pitied and praised, so was she also for gifts of nature as much beloved and favoured, in that beneficial nature (or rather good God) had indued her with a beautiful face, a well composed body, an excellent wit, a mild nature, and good behaviour, which she had artificially furthered by courtly education and affable demeanour. Whereby, at the first sight she wan unto her the hearts of most, and confirmed the love of her faithful subjects.” —Hol. p. 314. Arbroath Ed.
With regard to the music, which so deeply engaged her attention, we have different accounts by contemporaries, and those at complete variance with one another. Knox says, “Fyres of joy were set furth at night, and a companie of maist honest men, with instruments of musick, gave ther salutation at hir chalmer windo: the melodie, as sche alledged, lyked her weill, and sche willed the sam to be continued sum nychts efter with grit diligence.” But Dufresnoy, who was one of the party who accompanied the queen, gives a very different account of these Scottish minstrels. “We landed at Leith,” says he, “and went from thence to Edinburgh, which is but a short league distant. The queen went there on horseback, and the lords and ladies who accompanied her upon the little wretched hackneys of the country, and as wretchedly caparisoned; at sight of which the queen began to weep, and to compare them with the pomp and superb palfreys of France. But there was no remedy but patience. What was worst of all, being arrived at Edinburgh, and retired to rest in the Abbey (which is really a fine building, and not at all partaking of the rudeness of that country), there came under her window a crew of five or six hundred scoundrels from the city, who gave her a serenade with wretched violins and little rebecks, of which there are enough in that country, and began to sing psalms so miserably mistimed and mistuned, that nothing could be worse. Alas! what music! and what a night's rest!”
This Frenchman has had no taste for Scottish music—such another concert is certainly not in record.
NIGHT THE FIRST.
Hushed was the court—the courtiers gazed—Each eye was bent, each soul amazed,
To see that group of genuine worth,
Those far-famed minstrels of the north.
So motley wild their garments seemed;
Their eyes, where tints of madness gleamed,
Fired with impatience every breast,
And expectation stood confest.
Short was the pause; the stranger youth,
The gaudy minstrel of the south,
Whose glossy eye and lady form
Had never braved the northern storm,
Stepped lightly forth—kneeled three times low—
And then, with many a smile and bow,
Mounted the form amid the ring,
And rung his harp's responsive string.
Though true the chords, and mellow-toned,
Long, long he twisted, long he conned;
Well pleased to hear his name they knew;
“'Tis Rizzio!” round in whispers flew.
Valet with Parma's knight he came,
An angler in the tides of fame;
And oft had tried, with anxious pain,
Respect of Scotland's queen to gain.
Too well his eye, with searching art,
Perceived her fond, her wareless heart;
And, though unskilled in Scottish song,
Her notice he had woo'd so long,
With pain by night, and care by day,
He framed this fervid, flowery lay.
Malcolm of Lorn.
THE FIRST BARD'S SONG.
That smiles the restless ocean over?
Heard ye a suffering maiden weep?
Heard ye her name a faithful lover?
Saw ye an aged matron stand
O'er yon green grave above the strand,
Bent like the trunk of withered tree,
Or yon old thorn that sips the sea;
Fixed her dim eye, her face as pale
As the mists that o'er her flew?
Her joy is fled like the flower of the vale,
Her hope like the morning dew.
That matron was lately as proud of her stay,
As the mightiest monarch of sceptre or sway:
O list to the tale! 'tis a tale of soft sorrow,
Of Malcolm of Lorn and young Ann of Glen-Ora.
Just blushing from the ocean's bosom;
The rose that decks the woodland thorn
Is fairest in its opening blossom;
Sweeter than opening rose in dew,
Than vernal flowers of richest hue,
Than fragrant birch or weeping willow,
Than red sun resting on the billow;
Sweeter than ought to mortals given
The heart and soul to prove;
Sweeter than ought beneath the heaven,
The joys of early love!
Never did maiden and manly youth
Love with such fervour, and love with such truth;
Or pleasures and virtues alternately borrow,
As Malcolm of Lorn and fair Ann of Glen-Ora.
Must part two loving hearts for ever;
The ship lies rocking in the bay,
The boat comes rippling up the river;
O, happy has the gloaming's eye
In green Glen-Ora's bosom seen them!
But soon shall lands and nations lie,
And angry oceans roll between them.
Yes, they must part, for ever part,
Chill falls the truth on either heart;
For honour, titles, wealth, and state,
In distant lands her sire await.
The maid must with her sire away,
She cannot stay behind;
Straight to the south the pennons play,
And steady is the wind.
Shall Malcolm relinquish the home of his youth,
And sail with his love to the lands of the south?
Ah, no! for his father is gone to the tomb—
One parent survives in her desolate home;
No child but her Malcolm to cheer her lone way;
Break not her fond heart, gentle Malcolm, O stay!
Her prow sleeps on a sandy pillow;
The rower leans upon his oar,
Already bent to brush the billow.
O! Malcolm, view yon melting eyes,
With tears yon stainless roses steeping;
O! Malcolm, list, thy mother sighs;
She's leaning o'er her staff and weeping.
Thy Anna's heart is bound to thine,
And must that gentle heart repine?
Quick from the shore the boat must fly:
Her soul is speaking through her eye:
Think of thy joys in Ora's shade;
From Anna canst thou sever?
Think of the vows thou often hast made,
To love the dear maiden for ever.
And canst thou forego such beauty and youth,
Such maiden honour and spotless truth?
Forbid it!—He yields; to the boat he draws nigh—
Haste, Malcolm, aboard, and revert not thine eye.
That trembling voice in murmurs weak,
Comes not to blast the hopes before thee;
For pity, Malcolm, turn, and take
A last farewell of her that bore thee.
She says no word to mar thy bliss;
A last embrace, a parting kiss,
Her love deserves;—then be thou gone;
A mother's joys are thine alone.
Friendship may fade, and fortune prove
Deceitful to thy heart;
But never can a mother's love
From her own offspring part.
That tender form, now bent and gray,
Shall quickly sink to her native clay;
Then who shall watch her parting breath,
And shed a tear o'er her couch of death?
Who follow the dust to its long, long home,
And lay that head in an honoured tomb?
For many a day about been borne;
Oft hushed and cradled on her breast,
And canst thou leave that breast forlorn?
O'er all thy ails her heart has bled;
Oft has she watched beside thy bed;
Oft prayed for thee in dell at even,
Beneath the pitying stars of heaven.
Ah! Malcolm, ne'er was parent yet
So tender, so benign:
Never was maid so loved, so sweet,
Nor soul so rent as thine!
He looked to the boat—slow she heaved from the shore;
He saw his loved Anna all speechless implore:
But, grasped by a cold and a trembling hand,
He clung to his parent, and sunk on the strand.
The boat across the tide flew fast,
And left a silver curve behind;
Loud sung the sailor from the mast,
Spreading his sails before the wind.
The stately ship, adown the bay,
A corslet framed of heaving snow,
And flurred on high the slender spray,
Till rainbows gleamed around her prow.
How strained was Malcolm's watery eye,
Yon fleeting vision to descry!
But, ah! her virgin form so fair,
Soon vanished in the liquid air.
Away to Ora's headland steep
The youth retired the while,
And saw the unpitying vessel sweep
Around yon Highland isle.
His heart and his mind with that vessel had gone;
His sorrow was deep, and despairing his moan,
When, lifting his eyes from the green heaving deep,
He prayed the Almighty his Anna to keep.
The curlew conned her wild bravura;
The sun, in pall of purple borne,
Was hastening down the steeps of Jura:
Her wandering lover's glances under;
And showed his radiant form, imprest
Deep in a wavy world of wonder.
Not all the ocean's dyes at even,
Though varied as the bow of heaven;
The countless isles so dusky blue,
Nor medley of the gray curlew,
Could light on Malcolm's spirit shed;
Their glory all was gone!
For his joy was fled, his hope was dead,
And his heart forsaken and lone.
The sea-bird sought her roofless nest,
To warm her brood with her downy breast;
And near her home on the margin dun,
A mother weeps o'er her duteous son.
On all the lovely dappled main,
That softly sinks the waves between,
Then vaults their heaving breasts again.
With snowy sail, and rowers' sweep,
Across the tide she seems to fly:
Why bears she on yon headland steep,
Where neither house nor home is nigh?
Is that a vision from the deep
That springs ashore and scales the steep,
Nor ever stays its ardent haste
Till sunk upon young Malcolm's breast?
Oh! spare that breast so lowly laid,
So fraught with deepest sorrow!
It is his own, his darling maid,
Young Anna of Glen-Ora!—
“My Malcolm, part we ne'er again:
My father saw thy bosom's pain;
Pitied my grief from thee to sever;
Now I, and Glen-Ora, are thine for ever!”
Too fierce upon his heart did fall;
For, ah! the shaft had left the bow,
Which power of man could not recall.
No word of love could Malcolm speak;
No raptured kiss his lips impart;
No tear bedewed his shivering cheek,
To ease the grasp that held his heart.
His arms essayed one kind embrace—
Will they inclose her? never! never!
A smile set softly on his face,
But ah, the eye was set for ever!
'Twas more than broken heart could brook:
How throbs that breast!—How still that look!
One shiver more! All! all is o'er!—
As melts the wave on level shore;
As fades the dye of falling even,
Far on the silver verge of heaven;
As on thy ear the minstrel's lay,—
So died the comely youth away.”
Nor breath nor whisper 'gan to flow
From courtly circle; all was still
As midnight on the lonely hill.
So well that foreign minstrel's strain
Had mimicked passion, woe, and pain,
Seemed even the chilly hand of death
Stealing away his mellow breath.
So sighed—so stopped—so died his lay,—
His spirit too seemed fled for aye.
'Tis true, the gay attentive throng
Admired, but loved not much, his song;
Admired his wondrous voice and skill,
His harp that thrilled or wept at will;
But that affected gaudy rhyme,
The querulous keys and changing chime,
Scarce could the Highland chieftain brook;
Disdain seemed kindling in his look,
That song so vapid, artful, terse,
Should e'er compete with Scottish verse.
But she, the fairest of the fair,
Who sat enthroned in gilded chair,
Well skilled in foreign minstrelsy
And artful airs of Italy,
Listened his song, with raptures wild,
And on the happy minstrel smiled.
Soon did the wily stranger's eye
The notice most he wished espy,
Then poured his numbers bold and free,
Fired by the grace of majesty;
And when his last notes died away,
When sunk in well-feigned death he lay,
When round the crowd began to ring,
Thinking his spirit on the wing,—
First of the dames she came along,
Wept, sighed, and marvelled 'mid the throng.
And when they raised him, it was said
The beauteous sovereign deigned her aid;
And in her hands, so soft and warm,
Upheld the minstrel's hand and arm.
Then oped his eye with rapture fired;
He smiled, and, bowing oft, retired;
Pleased he so soon had realized
What more than gold or fame he prized.
Next in the list was Gardyn's name:
No sooner called than forth he came.
Stately he strode, nor bow made he,
Nor even a look of courtesy.
The simpering cringe, and fawning look,
Of him who late the lists forsook,
Roused his proud heart, and fired his eye,
That glowed with native dignity.
Full sixty years the bard had seen,
Yet still his manly form and mien,
His garb of ancient Caledon,
Where lines of silk and scarlet shone,
And golden garters 'neath his knee,
Announced no man of mean degree.
Upon his harp, of wondrous frame,
Was carved his lineage and his name;
Fair emblem of Almighty love:
Beneath rose an embossment proud,—
A Rose beneath a Thistle bowed.
Lightly upon the form he sprung,
And his bold harp impetuous rung.
Not one by one the chords he tried,
But brushed them o'er from side to side,
With either hand, so rapid, loud,
Shook were the halls of Holyrood.
Then in a mellow tone, and strong,
He poured this wild and dreadful song.
Young Kennedy.
THE SECOND BARD'S SONG.
Had dappled the woodland, and umbered the plain,
In den of the mountain was Kennedy born;
There hushed by the tempest, baptized with the rain.
His cradle a mat that swung light on the oak;
His couch the sear mountain-fern, spread on the rock;
The white knobs of ice from the chilled nipple hung,
And loud winter-torrents his lullaby sung.
Soon died on the breeze of the forest his moan.
To his wailings, the weary wood-echo replied;
His watcher, the wondering redbreast alone.
Oft gazed his young eye on the whirl of the storm,
And all the wild shades that the desert deform;
From cleft in the correi, which thunders had riven,
It oped on the pale fleeting billows of heaven.
His hunger, his thirst, and his passions to feed:
With pity for others his heart never yearned—
Their pain was his pleasure—their sorrow his meed.
His eye was the eagle's, the twilight his hue;
His stature like pine of the hill where he grew;
His soul was the neal-fire, inhaled from his den,
And never knew fear, save for ghost of the glen.
Proscribed, and by gallant Macdougal expelled;
Where rolls the dark Teith through the valley of Doune,
The conqueror's menial he toiled in the field.
His master he loved not, obeyed with a scowl,
Scarce smothered his hate, and his rancour of soul;
When challenged, his eye and his colour would change,
His proud bosom nursing and planning revenge.
Shed over thy maiden cheek, caused thee to rue!
O! why was the sphere of thy love-rolling eye
Inlaid with the diamond, and dipt in the dew?
Thy father's sole daughter; his hope and his care;
The child of his age, and the child of his prayer;
And thine was the heart that was gentle and kind,
And light as the feather that sports in the wind.
All fair was her form, and untainted her mind.
Young Kennedy saw her, his appetite burned
As fierce as the moor-flame impelled by the wind.
Was it love? No; the ray his dark soul never knew,
That spark which eternity burns to renew;
'Twas the flash of desire, kindled fierce by revenge,
Which savages feel the brown desert that range.
Too often deep sorrow succeeds thy love-smile;
Too oft, in a moment, thy peace overthrown—
Fair butt of delusion, of passion, and guile!
What heart will not bleed for Matilda so gay,
To art and to long perseverance a prey?
Why sings yon scared blackbird in sorrowful mood?
Why blushes the daisy deep in the green-wood?
Yield that, thou'rt a slave, and the mark of disdain:
No blossom of spring is beleaguered like thee,
Though brushed by the lightning, the wind, and the rain.
Matilda is fallen! With tears in her eye
She seeks her destroyer, but only can sigh.
Matilda has fallen, and sorrow her doom—
The flower of the valley is nipt in the bloom.
Escape to thy native Glengary forlorn:
Why art thou at midnight away from thy bed?
Why quakes thy big heart at the break of the morn?
Why chatters yon magpie on gable so loud?
Why flits yon light vision in gossamer shroud?
How came yon white doves from the window to fly,
And hover on weariless wing to the sky?
O'er Abel's green arbour that omen was given:
Yon pale boding phantom, a messenger wraith;
Yon doves two fair angels commissioned of Heaven.
The sun is in state, and the reapers in motion;
Why were they not called to their morning devotion?
Why slumbers Macdougal so long in his bed?
Ah! pale on his couch the old chieftain lies dead!
That lovers and friends o'er our ashes will weep;
The soul, when released from her lingering ties,
In secret may see if their sorrows are deep.
His darling Matilda, who, two months agone,
Would have mourned for her father in sorrow extreme,
Indulged in a painful delectable dream.
Sit silent, and look as if something they knew?
Why gaze on the features? Why move they the head,
And point at the bosom so dappled and blue?
Say, was there foul play?—Then why sleeps the red thunder?
Ah! hold, for Suspicion stands silent with wonder.
The body's entombed, and the green turf laid over—
Matilda is wed to her dark Highland lover.
And shed her light dews on a father's new grave,
Beheld, in her wane, the gay wedding turmoil,
And lighted the bride to her chamber at eve:
Blue, blue was the heaven; and, o'er the wide scene,
A vapoury silver veil floated serene,
A fairy perspective, that bore from the eye
Wood, mountain, and meadow, in distance to lie.
The lamp of the moon seemed as fading for ever:
'Twas awfully soft, without shade or elision;
And nothing was heard but the rush of the river.
But why won't the bride-maidens walk on the lea,
Nor lovers steal out to the sycamore tree?
Why turn to the hall with those looks of confusion?
There's nothing abroad!—'tis a dream!—a delusion!
And cling to the manger in seeming dismay?
What scares the old owlet afar to the wood?
Why screams the blue heron as hastening away?
Say, why is the dog hid so deep in his cover?
Each window barred up, and the curtain drawn over?
Each white maiden bosom still heaving so high,
And fixed on another each fear-speaking eye?
Come, rouse thee, old minstrel, to strains of renown;
The old cup is empty, fill round to the brim,
And drink the young pair to their chamber just gone.
Ha! why is the cup from the lip ta'en away?
Why fixed every form like a statue of clay?
Say, whence is that outcry of horrid despair?
Haste, fly to the marriage bed-chamber—'tis there!
These outcries betoken wild horror and woe;
The dull ear of midnight is stunned with dismay;
Glen-Ogle! Strath-Allan! fly swift as the roe.
'Mid darkness and death, on eternity's brim,
You stood with Macdonald and Arch'bald the Grim;
Then why do you hesitate? why do you stand
With claymore unsheathed, and red taper in hand?
What footsteps so madly pace through the saloon?
'Tis Kennedy, naked and ghastly, alone,
Who hies him away by the light of the moon.
All prostrate and bleeding, Matilda they found,
The threshold her pillow, her couch the cold ground;
Her features distorted, her colour the clay,
Her feelings, her voice, and her reason away.
They brought with them horror too deep to sustain;
Returned but to chasten, and vanish for ever,
To harrow the bosom and fever the brain.
List, list to her tale, youth, levity, beauty;—
O! sweet is the path of devotion and duty!—
When pleasure smiles sweetest, dread danger and death.
And think of Matilda, the flower of the Teith.
The clan Kennedy was only in the present age finally expelled from Glengary, and forced to scatter over this and other countries. Its character among the Highlanders is that of the most savage and irreclaimable tribe that ever infested the mountains of the north.
The Bride's Tale.
I had pillowed my head, and drawn up the bed-cover;
I thought of the grave where my loved father lay
So damp and so cold, with the grass growing over.
I looked to my husband; but just as he came
To enter my couch, it seemed all in a flame,
A ghastly refulgence as bright as day-noon,
Though shut was the chamber from eye of the moon.
That sight from the eye of my spirit for ever;
That page from the volume of memory divide,
Or memory and being eternally sever!
My father approached; our bed-curtains he drew;
Ah! well the gray locks and pale features I knew;
I saw his fix'd eye-balls indignantly glow;
Yet still in that look there were pity and woe.
“O haste from the bed of that parricide lover;
Embrace not thy husband, unfortunate bride,
Thy red cup of misery already runs over.
He strangled thy father; thy guilt paved the way;
Thy heart yet is blameless, O, fly while you may!
Thy portion of life must calamity leaven;
But fly while there's hope of forgiveness from Heaven.
O! well mayst thou quake at thy terrible doom;
For body or soul, with barbarity rife,
On earth is no refuge, in heaven no room.
Fly whither thou wilt, I will follow thee still,
To dens of the forest, or mists of the hill;
The task I'm assigned, which I'll never forego,
But chase thee from earth to thy dwelling below.
At noon I will wither thy sight with my frown:
In gloom of the night I will lay me beside thee,
And pierce with this weapon thy bosom of stone.”
Fast fled the despoiler with howlings most dire,
Fast followed the spirit with rapier of fire;
Away, and away, through the silent saloon,
And away, and away, by the light of the moon.
Alas! from that trance that I ever awoke!
How wanders my mind! I shall see him no more,
Till God shall yon gates everlasting unlock.
My poor brow is open; 'tis burning with pain;
O kiss it, sweet vision! O kiss it again!
Now give me thine hand; I will fly! I will fly!
Away, on the morn's dappled wing, to the sky.
The Conclusion.
The piles of Glen-Ardochy murmur and jar;
The rook and the raven converse from the rock,
The beasts of the forest are howling afar.
Shrill pipes the goss-hawk his dire tidings to tell,
The gray mountain-falcon accords with his yell;
Aloft on bold pinion the eagle is borne,
To ring the alarm at the gates of the morn.
Thy lambs feed in peace on Ben-Ardochy's brow;
Then why is the hoary cliff sheeted with blood?
And what the poor carcass lies mangled below?
Oh, hie thee away to thy hut at the fountain,
And dig a lone grave on the top of yon mountain;
But fly it for ever when falls the gray gloaming,
For there a grim phantom still naked is roaming.
While plaudits round the circle flew.
Woe that the bard, whose thrilling song
Has poured from age to age along,
Should perish from the lists of fame,
And lose his only boon—a name.
Yet many a song of wondrous power,
Well known in cot and green-wood bower,
Wherever swells the shepherd's reed
On Yarrow's banks and braes of Tweed;
Yes, many a song of olden time,
Of rude array, and air sublime,
Though long on time's dark whirlpool tossed,
The song is saved, the bard is lost.
Yet have I weened, when these I sung
On Ettrick banks, while mind was young;
When on the eve their strains I threw,
And youths and maidens round me drew;
Or chanted in the lonely glen,
Far from the haunts and eyes of men:
Yes, I have weened, with fondest sigh,
The spirit of the bard was nigh;
Swung by the breeze on braken pile,
Or hovering o'er me with a smile.
Would fancy still her dreams combine,
That spirit, too, might breathe on mine;
Well pleased to see her songs the joy
Of that poor lonely shepherd boy.
'Tis said, and I believe the tale,
That many rhymes which still prevail,
Of genuine ardour, bold and free,
Were aye admired, and aye will be,
Had never been, or shortly stood,
But for that Wake at Holyrood.
Certes that many a bard of name,
Who there appeared and strove for fame,
No record names, nor minstrel's tongue;
Not even are known the lays they sung.
The fifth was from a western shore,
Where rolls the dark and sullen Orr:
Of peasant make, and doubtful mein,
Affecting airs of proud disdain.
Wide curled his raven locks and high;
Dark was his visage, dark his eye,
That glanced around on dames and men,
Like falcon's on the cliffs of Ken.
Some ruffian mendicant, whose wit
Presumed at much, for all unfit.
No one could read the character,
If knave or genius writ was there;
But all supposed, from mein and frame,
From Erin he an exile came.
With hollow voice, and harp ill strung,
Some bungling parody he sung,
Well known to maid and matron gray,
Through all the glens of Galloway;
For often had he conned it there,
With simpering and affected air.
Listened the Court, with sidelong bend,
In wonder how the strain would end.
But long ere that it grew so plain,
They scarce from hooting could refrain;
And each to others 'gan to say,
“What good can come from Galloway?”
Woe for the man so indiscreet!
For bard would be a name unmeet
For self-sufficient sordid elf,
Whom none admires but he himself.
Unheard by him the scorner's tongue,
For still he capered and he sung,
With many an awkward gape the while,
And many a dark delighted smile,
Till round the throne the murmurs ran;
Till ladies blushed behind the fan;
And when the rustic ceased to sing,
A hiss of scorn ran round the ring.
Dark grinned the fool around the form,
With blood-shot eye, and face of storm;
And muttered curses dark and deep.
The sixth, too, from that country he,
Where heath-cocks bay o'er western Dee;
Where Summer spreads her purple screen
O'er moors where greensward ne'er was seen;
Nor shade, o'er all the prospect stern,
Save crusted rock, or warrior's cairn.
Gentle his form, his manners meet,
His harp was soft, his voice was sweet;
He sung Lochryan's hapless maid,
In bloom of youth by love betrayed;
Turned from her lover's bower at last,
To brave the chilly midnight blast;
And bitterer far, the pangs to prove
Of ruined fame, and slighted love;
A tender babe, her arms within,
Sobbing and “shivering at the chin.”
No lady's cheek in court was dry,
So softly poured the melody.
The eighth was from the Leven coast:
The rest who sung that night are lost.
Mounted the bard of Fife on high,
Bushy his beard, and wild his eye:
His cheek was furrowed by the gale,
And his thin locks were long and pale.
Full hardly passed he through the throng,
Dragging on crutches, slow along,
His feeble and unhealthy frame,
And kindness welcomed as he came.
His unpresuming aspect mild,
Calm and benignant as a child,
Yet spoke to all that viewed him nigh,
That more was there than met the eye:
Some wizard of the shore he seemed,
Who through the scenes of life had dreamed,
Of spells that vital life benumb,
Of formless spirits wandering dumb,
Where aspens in the moonbeam quake,
By mouldering pile, or mountain lake.
He deemed that fays and spectres wan
Held converse with the thoughts of man;
In dreams their future fates foretold,
And spread the death-flame on the wold;
Or flagged at eve each restless wing
In dells their vesper hymns to sing.
Such was our bard, such were his lays;
And long, by green Benarty's base,
His wild wood-notes, from ivy cave,
Had waked the dawning from the wave.
At evening fall, in lonesome dale,
He kept strange converse with the gale;
Held worldly pomp in high derision,
And wandered in a world of vision.
Of mountain ash his harp was framed;
The brazen chords all trembling flamed,
As, in a rugged northern tongue,
This mad unearthly song he sung.
The Witch of Fife.
THE EIGHTH BARD'S SONG.
These three lang nightis fra hame?
Quhat garris the sweit drap fra yer brow,
Like clotis of the saut sea faem?
Quhat guid man never knew;
It fearis me muckil ye haif been
Quhare the gray cock never crew.
Then sherpe yer werde will be;
Ye had better sleipe in yer bed at hame,
Wi' yer deire littil bairnis and me.”—
Sit doune, and listin to me;
I'll gar the hayre stand on yer crown,
And the cauld sweit blind yer ee.
Tell never word again;
Or deire shall be yer courtisye,
And driche and sair yer pain.
Quhan all was douffe and mirk,
We saddled ouir naigis wi' the moon-fern leif,
And rode fra Kilmerrin kirk.
And some of the greine bay tree;
But mine was made of ane humloke schaw,
And a stout stallion was he.
The martin on the law;
And we huntyd the hoolet out of brethe,
And forcit him doune to fa’.—
Quhat guid was that to thee?
Ye wald better haif been in yer bed at hame,
Wi' yer deire littil bairnis and me.”—
Throw the merkist gloffis of the night;
And we swam the floode, and we darnit the woode,
Till we cam to the Lommond height.
Se lythlye we lychtid doune;
And we drank fra the hornis that never grew,
The beer that was never brewin.
Fra neithe the moss-gray stane;
His fece was wan like the collifloure,
For he nouthir had blude nor bane.
And he playit se bonnilye,
Till the gray curlew and the black-cock flew
To listen his melodye.
That the nycht-winde lowner blew;
And it soupit alang the Loch Leven,
And wakinit the white sea-mew.
Se sweitly butt and se shill,
That the wezilis laup out of their mouldy holis,
And dancit on the mydnycht hill.
The ern gede veeryng bye;
And the troutis laup out of the Leven Loch,
Charmit with the melodye.
Till the dawn on the ocean grew:
Ne wonder I was a weary wycht
Quhan I cam hame to you.’—
Quhat guid was that to thee?
Ye wald better haif bein in yer bed at hame,
Wi' yer deire littil bairnis and me.”—
O'er the roaryng sea we flew;
The cockle-shell our trusty bark,
Our sailis of the grein sea-rue.
And the sea ran to the skie;
And the thunner it growlit, and the sea-dogs howlit,
As we gaed scouryng bye.
Quhill we brushit thro' the cludis of the hevin;
Than sousit dounright like the stern-shot light,
Fra the liftis blue casement driven.
And se pang was our pearily prowe;
Quhan we culdna speil the brow of the wavis,
We needilit them throu belowe.
As fast as the mydnycht leme,
We borit the breiste of the burstyng swale,
Or fluffit i' the flotyng faem.
We muntyd our steedis of the wynde,
And we splashit the floode, and we darnit the woode,
And we left the shouir behynde.
And swift is the couryng grew;
The rein-deir dun can eithly run,
Quhan the houndis and the hornis pursue.
The hinde nor the couryng grew,
Culde fly owr montaine, muir, and dale,
As our braw steedis they flew.
And we raise to the skyis ee-bree;
Quhite, quhite was our rode, that was never trode,
Owr the snawis of eternity!
The fairies war all in array;
For all the genii of the north
War keipyng their holiday.
And the fays of the wood and the steip,
And the phantom hunteris all war there,
And the mermaidis of the deip.
Distillit fra the muirland dew,
Quhill our beauty blumit like the Lapland rose,
That wylde in the foreste grew.’—
Se loud as I heir ye lee!
For the warst-faurd wyfe on the shoris of Fyfe
Is cumlye comparit wi' thee.”—
Se sweitly swellit the quire;
On every cliff a herpe they hang,
On every tree a lyre.
And we drank, and we drank se deip;
Then saft in the armis of the warlock men,
We laid us dune to sleip.’—
An ill deide met ye dee!
Quhan ye hae pruvit se false to yer God,
Ye can never pruve true to me.”—
And fra our master true,
The wordis that can beire us throu the air,
And lokkis and barris undo.
Richt weil the wordis we knew;
And we set a foot on the black cruik-shell,
And out at the lum we flew.
And we flew owr firth an sea,
Until we cam to merry Carlisle,
Quhare we lightit on the lea.
Quhare we enterit free as ayr;
And we drank, and we drank of the bishopis wyne
Quhill we culde drynk ne mair.’—
Whilk thou hast tauld to me,
Betide my death, betide my lyfe,
I'll beire thee companye.
To drynk of the blude-reid wyne,
Beshrew my heart, I'll fly with thee,
If the deil should fly behynde.”—
The daingeris we maun dree;
Last nychte we drank of the bishopis wyne,
Quhill near near taen war we.
The gor-cockis nichering flew;
The lofty crest of Ettrick Pen
Was wavit about with blue,
And, flichtering throu the ayr, we fand
The chill chill mornyng dew.
The sun raise fair and cleir;
There gurly James, and his baronis braw,
War out to hunt the deir.
And piercit the ayr with speide,
Quhill purpil fell the mornyng dew
Wi' witch-blude rank and reide.
The daingeris we maun dree;
Ne wonder I am a weary wycht
Quhan I come hame to thee.’—
Come tell it me speedilye;
For I lang to drynk of the guid reide wyne,
And to wyng the ayr with thee.
Nor sail the seas in the wynde;
But I can flee as weil as thee,
And I'll drynk quhill ye be blynd.”—
That word I darena tell;
It wald turn this warld all upside down,
And make it warse than hell.
Wald munt the wynde and fly;
And the men wald doff their doublets syde,
And after them wald ply.’—
And ane cunnyng auld man was he;
And he watchit, and he watchit for mony a nychte,
The witches' flychte to see.
The fearless haggs cam in;
And he heard the word of awsome weird,
And he saw their deidis of synn.
As fast to the fire they drew;
Then set a foot on the black cruik-shell,
And out at the lum they flew.
With feire and muckil dreide,
But yet he culdna think to rue,
For the wyne cam in his head.
With ane fixit and ane wawlying ee;
And he said the word that I darena say,
And out at the lum flew he.
Deep groanit the trembling wynde;
But they never wist till our auld guidman
Was hoveryng them behynde.
Quhare they enterit free as ayr;
And they drank and they drank of the bishopis wyne
Quhill they culde drynk ne mair.
He dancit on the mouldy ground,
And he sang the bonniest sangs of Fyfe,
And he tuzzlit the kerlyngs round.
And he suckit, and he suckit se lang,
Quhill his een they closit, and his voice grew low,
And his tongue wald hardly gang.
Quhill they scentit the morning wynde;
Then clove again the yielding ayr,
And left the auld man behynde.
He sleipit and he snorit amain;
He never dreamit he was far fra hame,
Or that the auld wyvis war gane.
Quhill past the mid-day highte,
Quhan wakenit by five rough Englishmen
That trailit him to the lychte.
That sleipis se sound and se weil?
Or how gat ye into the bishopis vault
Throu lokkis and barris of steel?”
But ane word he culdna fynde;
He tryit to think, but his head whirlit round,
And ane thing he culdna mynde:—
“I cam fra Fyfe,” the auld man cryit,
“And I cam on the mydnycht wynde.”
And they yerkit his limbis with twine,
Quhill the reide blude ran in his hose and shoon,
But some cryit it was wyne.
And they tyit him till ane stone;
And they set ane bele-fire him about,
To burn him skin and bone.
“That ever I saw the day!
And wae be to all the ill wemyng
That lead puir men astray!
To lawless greide inclyne;
Let nevir ane auld man after this
Rin post to the deil for wyne.”
And choukit him bitterlye;
And the lowe cam up with ane angry blese,
And it syngit his auld breek-knee.
For lukis he culde get nae mae;
And he thochte of his deire littil bairnis at hame,
And O the auld man was wae!
With gloffe and wonderous glair,
For they saw ane thing beth lairge and dun,
Comin swaipin down the ayr.
And it cam rycht tymeouslye,
For quha was it but the auld manis wyfe,
Just comit his dethe to see?
And the auld guidman lookit fain,
Then whisperit ane word intil his lug,
And tovit to the ayr again.
I'the mids o' the burnyng lowe;
And the sheklis that band him to the ring,
They fell fra his armis like towe.
And he said it with muckil glee,
Then set his fit on the burnyng pile,
And away to the ayr flew he.
He lukit beth ferit and sad;
But whan he wan to the lycht blue ayr,
He lauchit as he'd been mad.
And his feite stack out behynde;
And the laibies of the auld manis cote
War wauffing in the wynde.
For he thochte the ploy se raire;
It was like the voice of the gainder blue,
Quhan he flees throu the ayr.
As he borit the norlan sky;
He noddit his heide, and gae ane girn,
But he nevir said guid-bye.
Ne mair the English saw,
But the auld manis lauch cam on the gale,
With a lang and a loud gaffa.
Read what the drinkeris dree;
And nevir curse his puir auld wife,
Rychte wicked altho scho be.
It may suffice to mention, once for all, that the catastrophè of this tale, as well as the principal events related in the tales of “Old David,” and “M'Gregor,” are all founded on popular traditions. So is also the romantic story of Kilmeny's disappearance and revisiting her friends after being seven years in Fairyland. The tradition bears some resemblance to the old ballads of “Tam Lean,” and “Thomas of Erceldon:” and it is not improbable that all the three may have drawn their origin from the same ancient romance.
His heedful glance embraced the throng,
And found the smile of free delight
Dimpling the cheeks of ladies bright.
Ah! never yet was bard unmoved,
When beauty smiled or birth approved!
For though his song he holds at nought—
“An idle strain! a passing thought!”
Child of the soul! 'tis held more dear
Than aught by mortals valued here.
When Leven's bard the Court had viewed,
His eye, his vigour was renewed.
No, not the evening's closing eye,
Veiled in the rainbow's deepest dye,
By summer breezes lulled to rest,
Cradled on Leven's silver breast,
Or slumbering on the distant sea,
Imparted sweeter ecstasy.
Nor even the angel of the night,
Kindling his holy sphere of light,
Afar upon the heaving deep,
To light a world of peaceful sleep,
Though in her beam night spirits glanced,
And lovely fays in circles danced,
Or rank by rank rode lightly by,—
Was sweeter to our minstrel's eye.
Unheard the bird of morning crew;
Unheard the breeze of Ocean blew;
The night unweened had passed away,
And dawning ushered in the day.
Aside the silken curtains drew,
And lo, the Night, in still profound,
In fleece of heaven had clothed the ground,
And still her furs, so light and fair,
Floated along the morning air.
Low stooped the pine amid the wood,
And the tall cliffs of Salisbury stood
Like marble columns bent and riven,
Propping a pale and frowning heaven.
The Queen bent from her gilded chair,
And waved her hand with graceful air:—
“Break up the court, my lords; away,
And use the day as best you may,
In sleep, in love, or wassail cheer;
The day is dark, the evening near—
Say, will you grace my halls the while,
And in the dance the day beguile?
Break up the court, my lords; away,
And use the day as best you may.
Give order that my minstrels true
Have royal fare and honours due;
And warned by evening's bugle shrill,
We meet to judge their minstrel skill.”
Whether that Royal Wake gave birth
To days of sleep and nights of mirth,
Which kings and courtiers still approve,
Which sages blame, and ladies love,
Imports not;—but our courtly throng
(That chapel Wake being kept so long)
Slept out the lowering short-lived days,
And heard by night their native lays,
Till fell the eve of Christmas good,
The dedication of the rood.
Ah me! at routs and revels gay,
Reproach of this unthrifty day,
Though none amongst the dames or men
Rank higher than a citizen,
In chair or chariot all are borne,
Closed from the piercing eye of morn.
But then, though dawning blasts were keen,
Scotland's high dames you might have seen,
Ere from the banquet hall they rose,
Shift their laced shoes and silken hose;
Their broidered kirtles round them throw,
And wade their way through wreaths of snow,
Leaning on lord or lover's arm,
Cheerful and reckless of all harm.
Vanished those hardy times outright;
So is our ancient Scottish might.
Sweet be her home, admired her charms,
Bliss to her couch in lover's arms,
I bid in every minstrel's name,
I bid to every lovely dame,
That ever gave one hour away
To cheer the bard or list his lay!
To all who love the raptures high
Of Scottish song and minstrelsy,
Till next the night, in sable shroud,
Shall wrap the halls of Holyrood,
That rival minstrels' songs I borrow—
I bid a hearty kind good-morrow.
NIGHT THE SECOND.
Scarce fled the dawning's dubious gray,So transient was that dismal day:
The lurid vapours, dense and stern,
Unpierced save by the crusted cairn,
In tenfold shroud the heavens deform;
While far within the brooding storm
Travelled the sun in lonely blue,
And noontide wore a twilight hue.
The sprites that through the welkin wing,
That light and shade alternate bring,
That wrap the eve in dusky veil,
And weave the morning's purple rail;
From pendent clouds of deepest grain,
Shed that dull twilight o'er the main.
Each spire, each tower, and cliff sublime,
Were hooded in the wreathy rime;
And all, ere fell the murk of even,
Were lost within the folds of heaven.
It seemed as if the welkin's breast
Had bowed upon the world to rest;
As heaven and earth to close began,
And seal the destiny of man.
The supper bell at court had rung;
The mass was said, the vesper sung;
In true devotion's sweetest mood,
Beauty had kneeled before the rood;
But all was done in secret guise,
Close from the zealot's searching eyes.
Then burst the bugle's lordly peal
Along the earth's incumbent veil;
Swam on the cloud and lingering shower,
To festive hall and lady's bower;
And found its way, with rapid boom,
To rocks far curtained in the gloom,
And waked their viewless bugle's strain,
That sung the softened notes again.
Upsprung the maid from her love-dream;
The matron from her silken seam;
The abbot from his holy shrine;
The chiefs and warriors from their wine:
For aye the bugle seemed to say,
“The Wake's begun! away, away!”
Till crowded was the grand saloon;
And scarce was left a little ring,
In which the rival bards might sing.
First in the list that night to play,
Was Farquhar, from the hills of Spey:
A gay and comely youth was he,
And seemed of noble pedigree.
Well known to him Loch-Avin's shore,
And all the dens of dark Glen-More;
Where oft, amid his roving clan,
His shaft had pierced the ptarmigan;
And oft the dun deer's velvet side
That winged shaft had ruthless dyed,
Had struck the heath-cock whirring high,
And brought the eagle from the sky;
And he had dragged the scaly brood
From every Highland lake and flood.
Amid those scenes the youth was bred,
Where nature's eye is stern and dread;
'Mid forests dark, and caverns wild,
And mountains above mountains piled,
Whose hoary summits, tempest-riven,
Uprear eternal snows to heaven.
In Cumbria's dells he too had staid,
Raving like one in trance that's laid,
Of things which Nature gave not birth;
Of heavenly damsels born of earth;
Of pestilence and charnel den;
Of ships and seas, and souls of men:
A moon-struck youth, by all confest,
The dreamer of the watery west.
His locks were fair as sunny sky;
His cheek was ruddy, bright his eye;
His speech was like the music's voice
Mixed with the cataract's swaying noise;
His harp-strings sounded wild and deep,
With lulling swell and lordly sweep.
Aloof from battle's fierce alarms,
Prone his young mind to music's charms:
The cliffs and woods of dark Glen-More
He taught to chant in mystic lore;
For well he weened, by tarn and hill,
Kind viewless spirits wandered still;
And fondly trowed the groups to spy,
Listening his cliff-born melody.
On Leven's bard with scorn he looked,
His homely song he scarcely brooked;
But proudly mounting on the form,
Thus sung The Spirit of the Storm.
Glen-Avin.
THE NINTH BARD'S SONG.
The infant rills of Highland Dee,
Where hunter's horn was never heard,
Nor bugle of the forest bee;
One mountain rears his mighty form;
Disturbs the moon in passing by,
And smiles above the thunder-storm.
To mirror cliffs that brush the Wain;
Whose frigid eyes eternal weep,
In summer suns and autumn rain.
Nor vesper, save the plover's wail;
But mountain eagles breed their young,
And aerial spirits ride the gale.
Intent to prove some mystic scene;
Though cavern deep, and forest sere,
Had whooped November's boisterous reign.
The breath of nature seemed away;
The distant sigh of mountain rill
Alone disturbed that solemn day.
Beheld the Fahm glide o'er the fell;
And 'neath the new moon's silver horn,
The fairies dancing in the dell;
In every form that Ossian knew;
And wailings heard for living men,
Were never more the light to view.
He saw what mortal could not bear;
A sight that scared the erne away,
And drove the wild deer from his lair.
When, lo! aloft on gray Cairngorm,
A form appeared that chilled his blood,—
The giant Spirit of the Storm.
Slow gliding from the midnight isle;
His stature, on the mighty plan
Of smoke-tower o'er the burning pile.
His cap the moon-cloud's silver gray;
His staff the writhed snake, that lies
Pale, bending o'er the milky way.
Half-naked, hoary, feeble form!
How dar'st thou seek my realms alone,
And brave the Angel of the Storm?”
“That bear'st destruction on thy brow?
Whose eye no mortal can abide;
Dread mountain Spirit! what art thou?”
Since rolled the world a shoreless sea,
I've held my elemental throne,
The terror of thy race and thee.
Veiling his orient beams of light;
And hide the moon in sable shroud,
Far in the alcove of the night.
High on the sweeping whirlwind sail,
And list to hear my tempests sing
Around Glen-Avin's ample vale.
Their reverend heads are bald and gray;
The Greenland waves salute the heaven,
And quench the burning stars with spray.
Who scalped the brows of old Cairngorm?
And scooped these ever-yawning caves?
'Twas I—the Spirit of the Storm!
Be doomed to ride the blast with me;
To shriek, amid the tempest's roar,
By fountain, ford, and forest tree.”
And orisons of dread began;
“Hence, Spirit of infernal birth!
Thou enemy of God and man!”
The arctic ring was rift asunder;
And through the heaven the startling bray
Burst louder than the loudest thunder.
In columns swept the quaking glen;
Destruction down the dale was hurled,
O'er bleating flocks and wondering men.
New mountains o'er the correis leaned;
Ben-Nevis shook his shaggy form,
And wondered what his sovereign meaned.
The shepherd paused in dumb dismay;
There passing shrieks adown the vale
Lured many a pitying hind away.
Proud Hartfell quaked beneath his brand;
And Cheviot heard the cries of death
Guarding his loved Northumberland.
What horrors Avin wilds deform,
And choke the ghastly lingering light!
There whirled the vortex of the storm.
And dawning in the air updrew
From many a shelve and shining hill,
Her folding robe of fairy blue.
Hung o'er Loch-Avin's lonely breast!
Not top of tallest pine was seen,
On which the dazzled eye could rest;
In lucid curls her brows adorn;
Aloft the radiant crescents swell
All pure as robes by angels worn.
Beneath yon sleek and wreathed cone!
His spirit steals, unmissed away,
And dreams across the desert lone.
And cold sheets o'er his bosom fling;
The moldwarp digs his mossy grave;
His requiem. Avin's eagles sing.
That mocks the blazing summer sun?
Why croaks the sable bird of death,
As hovering o'er yon desert dun?
And summer blooms in Avin-Glen,
Why stands yon peasant in dismay,
Still gazing o'er the bloated den?
Not bones of mountain stag they seem:
There hooted once the owl by night,
Above the dead-light's lambent beam.
Above the base of proud Cairngorm:
There lies the dust of Avin's sage,
Who raised the Spirit of the Storm.
When wintry winds began to sweep;
When passing shrieks assail thine ear,
Or murmurs by the mountain steep;
Come eldritch cries of wildered men;
Or wind-harp at thy window swells,—
Beware the sprite of Avin-Glen!
There are many scenes among the Grampian deserts which amaze the traveller who ventures to explore them; and in the most pathless wastes the most striking landscapes are often concealed. Glen-Avin exceeds them all in what may be termed stern and solemn grandeur. It is indeed a sublime solitude, in which the principal feature is deformity; yet that deformity is mixed with lines of wild beauty, such as an extensive lake with its islets and bays, the straggling trees, and the spots of shaded green; and, altogether, it is such a scene as man has rarely looked upon. I spent a summer day in visiting it. The hills were clear of mist, yet the heavens were extremely dark—the effect upon the scene exceeded all description. My mind, during the whole day, experienced the same sort of sensation as if I had been in a dream; and on returning from the excursion, I did not wonder at the superstition of the neighbouring inhabitants, who believe it to be the summer haunt of innumerable tribes of fairies, and many other spirits, some of whom seem to be the most fantastic, and to behave in the most eccentric manner, of any I ever before heard of. Though the glen is upwards of twenty miles in length, and of prodigious extent, it contains no human habitation. It lies in the west corner of Banffshire, in the very middle of the Grampian Hills.
Fahm is a little ugly monster, who frequents the summits of the mountains around Glen-Avin. My guide, D. M'Queen, declared that he had himself seen him; and by his description, Fahm appears to be no native of this world, but an occasional visitant, whose intentions are evil and dangerous. He is only seen about the break of day, and on the highest verge of the mountain. His head is twice as large as his whole body beside; and if any living creature cross the track over which he has passed before the sun shine upon it, certain death is the consequence. The head of that person or animal instantly begins to swell, grows to an immense size, and finally bursts. Such a disease is really incident to sheep on these heights, and in several parts of the kingdom, where the grounds are elevated to a great height above the sea; but in no place save Glen-Avin is Fahm blamed for it.
It was reckoned a curious and unaccountable circumstance, that, during the time of a great fall of snow by night, a cry, as of a person who had lost his way in the storm, was heard along the vale of Ettrick from its head to its foot. What was the people's astonishment, when it was authenticated, that upwards of twenty parties had all been out with torches, lanterns, &c., at the same hour of the night, calling and searching after some unknown person, whom they believed perishing in the snow, and that none of them had discovered any such person. The word spread; the circumstances were magnified— and the consternation became general. The people believed that a whole horde of evil spirits had been abroad in the valley, endeavouring to lure them abroad to their destruction— there was no man sure of his life! Prayers and thanksgivings were offered up to Heaven in every hamlet, and resolutions unanimously formed, that no man perishing in the snow should ever be looked after again as long as the world stood.— When the astonishment had somewhat subsided, and the tale of horror spread too wide ever to be recalled, a lad, without the smallest reference to the phenomenon, chanced to mention, that on the night of the storm, when he was out on the hill turning his sheep to some shelter, a flock of swans passed over his head toward the western sea, which was a sure signal of severe weather; and that at intervals they were always shouting and answering one another, in an extraordinary, and rather fearful, manner.—It was an unfortunate discovery, and marred the harmony of many an evening's conversation! In whatever cot the circumstance was mentioned, the old shepherds rose and went out—the younkers, who had listened to the prayers with reverence and fear, bit their lips—the matrons plied away at their wheels in silence—it was singular that none of them should have known the voice of a swan from that of the devil! They were very angry with the lad, and regarded him as a sort of blasphemer.
I only saw this old cairn at a distance; but the narrative which my guide gave me of the old man's loss was very affecting. He had gone to the forest in November to look after some goats that were missing, when a dreadful storm came suddenly on, the effects of which were felt throughout the kingdom. It was well enough known that he was lost in the forest; but the snow being so deep, it was judged impossible to find the body, and no one looked after it. It was not discovered until the harvest following, when it was found accidentally by a shepherd. The plaid and clothes which were uppermost not being decayed, it appeared like the body of a man lying entire; but when he began to move them, the dry bones rattled together, and the bare white skull was lying in the bonnet.
Doffed his plumed bonnet, wiped his brow,
And flushed with conscious dignity,
Cast o'er the crowd his falcon eye,
And found them all in silence deep,
As listening for the tempest sweep;
So well his tale of Avin's seer
Suited the rigour of the year;
So high his strain, so bold his lyre,
So fraught with rays of Celtic fire,
They almost weened each hum that past
The Spirit of the northern blast.
The next was named,—the very sound
Excited merriment around.
But when the bard himself appeared,
The ladies smiled, the courtiers sneered:
For such a simple air and mien
Before a court had never been.
A clown he was, bred in the wild,
And late from native moors exiled,
In hopes his mellow mountain strain
High favour from the great would gain.
Poor wight! he never weened how hard
For poverty to earn regard!
Dejection o'er his visage ran,
His coat was bare, his colour wan,
His forest doublet darned and torn,
His shepherd plaid all rent and worn;
Yet dear the symbols to his eye,
Memorials of a time gone by.
The bard on Ettrick's mountain green
In nature's bosom nursed had been,
And oft had marked in forest lone
Her beauties on her mountain throne;
Had seen her deck the wild-wood tree,
And star with snowy gems the lea;
In loveliest colours paint the plain,
And sow the moor with purple grain;
By golden mead and mountain sheer,
Had viewed the Ettrick waving clear,
Where shadowy flocks of purest snow
Seemed grazing in a world below.
Instead of Ocean's billowy pride,
Where monsters play and navies ride,
Oft had he viewed, as morning rose,
The bosom of the lonely Lowes,
Ploughed far by many a downy keel
Of wild-duck and of vagrant teal.
Oft thrilled his heart at close of even,
To see the dappled vales of heaven,
With many a mountain, moor, and tree,
Asleep upon the Saint Mary;
The pilot swan majestic wind,
With all his cygnet fleet behind,
So softly sail, and swiftly row,
With sable oar and silken prow.
Instead of war's unhallowed form,
His eye had seen the thunderstorm
And shroud him in its chambers grim;
Then from its bowels burst amain
The sheeted flame and sounding rain,
And by the bolts in thunder borne,
The heaven's own breast and mountain torn;
The wild roe from the forest driven;
The oaks of ages peeled and riven;
Impending oceans whirl and boil,
Convulsed by Nature's grand turmoil.
Instead of arms or golden crest,
His harp with mimic flowers was dressed:
Around, in graceful streamers, fell
The briar-rose and the heather-bell;
And there, his learning deep to prove,
Naturæ Donum graved above.
When o'er her mellow notes he ran,
And his wild mountain chant began,
Then first was noted in his eye
A gleam of native energy.
Old David.
THE TENTH BARD'S SONG.
And climbed old Wonfell's wizard brae;
Looked round, with visage grim and sour,
O'er Ettrick woods and Eskdale-moor.
An outlaw from the south he came,
And Ludlow was his father's name;
His native land had used him ill,
And Scotland bore him no good-will.
Regardless of the streaks of morn,
Old David spied, on Wonfell cone,
A fairy band come riding on.
A lovelier troop was never seen;
Their steeds were white, their doublets green;
Their faces shone like opening morn,
And bloomed like roses on the thorn.
At every flowing mane was hung
A silver bell that lightly rung;
That sound, borne on the breeze away,
Oft set the mountaineer to pray.
Scarce moved a limb, scarce drew a breath;
But as the tinkling sound came nigh,
Old David's heart beat wondrous high.
He thought of riding on the wind;
Of leaving hawk and hern behind;
Of sailing lightly o'er the sea,
In mussel-shell to Germany;
Of revel raids by dale and down;
Of lighting torches at the moon;
Or through the sounding spheres to sing,
Borne on the fiery meteor's wing:
Of dancing 'neath the moonlight sky;
Of sleeping in the dew-cup's eye.
And then he thought—O! dread to tell!—
Of tithes the fairies paid to hell!
And fixed it on the morning sky;
He knew a mighty One lived there,
That sometimes heard a warrior's prayer—
No word save one, could David say;
Old David had not learned to pray.
What David saw, and what he heard.
He heard their horses snort and tread,
And every word the riders said;
While green portmanteaus, long and low,
Lay bended o'er each saddle-bow.
A lovely maiden rode between,
Whom David judged the Fairy Queen;
But strange! he heard her moans resound,
And saw her feet with fetters bound.
To Ettrick woods their course they take.
Old David followed still in view,
Till near the Lochilaw they drew;
There in a deep and wondrous dell
Where wandering sunbeam never fell,
Where noontide breezes never blew,
From flowers to drink the morning dew;
There, underneath the sylvan shade,
The fairies' spacious bower was made.
Its rampart was the tangling sloe,
The bending briar, and mistletoe;
And o'er its roof the crooked oak
Waved wildly from the frowning rock.
The forest shepherd shunned as hell;
When sound of fairies' silver horn
Came on the evening breezes borne,
Homeward he fled, nor made a stand,
Thinking the spirits hard at hand.
Of giggling laugh and bridle bell,
Or saw the riders troop along,
His orisons were loud and strong:
His household fare he yielded free
To this mysterious company;
The fairest maid his cot within
Resigned with awe and little din.
True he might weep, but nothing say,
For none durst say the fairies nay.
A wondering and a wearied wight.
Seven sons he had, alert and keen,
Had all in Border battles been;
Had wielded brand, and bent the bow,
For those who sought their everthrow.
Their hearts were true, their arms were strong,
Their falchions keen, their arrows long;
The race of fairies they denied—
No fairies kept the English side.
Their brands of steel and bows of yew;
Long arrows at their backs they sling,
Fledged from the Snowdon eagle's wing;
And boun' away brisk as the wind,
The sire before, the sons behind.
So mild on lonely moor and hill,
The little genii of the fell
Forsook the purple heather-bell,
And all their dripping beds of dew,
In wind-flower, thyme, and violet blue;
Aloft their viewless looms they heave,
And dew-webs round the helmets weave.
The waning moon her lustre threw
Pale round her throne of softened blue;
Her circuit round the southland sky
Was languid, low, and quickly by:
Leaning on cloud so faint and fair,
And cradled on the golden air,
Modest and pale as maiden bride,
She sunk upon the trembling tide.
Was now the doubt of every breast.
That fairies were, was not disputed;
But what they were was greatly doubted.
Each argument was guarded well,
With “if,” and “should,” and “who can tell.”
And framed the world's stupendous plan;
Who placed on high the steady pole,
And sowed the stars that round it roll;
And made that sky so large and blue—
Had power to make a fairy too.”
Knew feelings never felt before.
Oft had they darned the midnight brake,
Fearless of aught save bog and lake;
But now the nod of sapling fir,
The heath-cock's loud exulting whirr,
The cry of hern from sedgy pool,
Or airy bleeter's rolling howl,
Came fraught with more dismaying dread
Than warder's horn, or warrior's tread.
They reached the fairies' lonely dell.
O heavens! that dell was dark as death!
Perhaps the pit-fall yawned beneath!
Perhaps that lane that winded low,
Led to a nether world of woe!
But stern necessity's control
Resistless sways the human soul.
With fire by sword struck from the rock:
Old David held the torch before;
His right hand heaved a dread claymore,
Whose Rippon edge he meant to try
On the first fairy met his eye.
Above his head his brand was raised;
Above his head the taper blazed;
A sterner or a ghastlier sight,
Ne'er entered bower at dead of night.
Below each lifted arm was seen
The barbed point of arrow keen,
Which waited but the twang of bow
To fly like lightning on the foe.
Slow move they on, with steady eye,
Resolved to conquer or to die.
Deep in a nook, unseen before;
And by it slept, on wicker chair,
A sprite of dreadful form and air.
His grisly beard flowed round his throat,
Like shaggy hair of mountain goat.
His open jaws and visage grim,
His half-shut eye so deadly dim,
Made David's blood to's bosom rush,
And his gray hair his helmet brush.
He squared, and made his falchion wheel
Around his back from head to heel;
Then, rising tiptoe, struck amain—
Down fell the sleeper's head in twain;
And springing blood, in veil of smoke,
Whizzed high against the bending oak.
“Father, if all the fairies there
Are of the same materials made,
Let them beware the Rippon blade!”
A ghastly smile was seen to play
O'er David's visage, stern and gray;
He hoped, and feared; but ne'er till then
Knew whether he fought with sprites or men.
That oped to hall beneath the rock,
The room was ample, rude, and high;
The arches caverned, dark, and torn,
On Nature's rifted columns borne;
Of moulding rude the embrasure,
And all the wild entablature;
And far o'er roof and architrave,
The ivy's ringlets bend and wave.
In each abrupt recess was seen
A couch of heath and rushes green;
While every alcove's sombre hue,
Was gemmed with drops of midnight dew.
Nor muscle move, nor heave a breath?
See how the sire his torch has lowered,
And bends recumbent o'er his sword!
The arcubalister has thrown
His threatening, thirsty arrows down!
Struck in one moment, all the band
Entranced like moveless statues stand!—
Enchantment sure arrests the spear,
And stints the warrior's bold career.
Distils from yonder gloom profound?
'Tis not the note of gathering shell,
Of fairy horn, nor silver bell:
No, 'tis the lute's mellifluous swell,
Mixed with a maiden's voice so clear,
The flitting bats flock round to hear!
That song, if in the green-wood sung,
Would draw the fays of wood and plain
To kiss the lips that poured the strain.
The lofty pine would listening lean;
The wild birch wave her tresses green;
And larks, that rose the dawn to greet,
Drop lifeless at the singer's feet.
The air was old, the measure slow,
The words were plain, but words of woe.
Nor rested lance, nor lifted brand,
But listening bend, in hopes again
To hear that sweetly plaintive strain.
'Tis gone! and each uplifts his eye,
As waked from dream of ecstasy.
Why heave those groans from Owen's breast?
While kinsmen's eyes in rapture speak,
Why steals the tear o'er Owen's cheek?
That melting song, that song of pain,
Was sung to Owen's favourite strain;
The words were new, but that sweet lay
Had Owen heard in happier day.
Winded the lab'rinth far and low,
Till, in the cave's extremest bound,
Arrayed in sea-green silk, they found
Five beauteous dames, all fair and young;
And she, who late so sweetly sung,
Sat leaning o'er a silver lute,
Pale with despair, with terror mute.
And raised her eyes so lovely blue,
'Twas like the woodland rose in dew.
That look was soft as morning flower,
And mild as sunbeam through the shower.
Old David gazed, and weened the while,
He saw a suffering angel smile;
Weened he had heard a seraph sing,
And sounds of a celestial string.
But when young Owen met her view,
She shrieked, and to his bosom flew:
For, oft before, in Moodlaw bowers,
They two had passed the evening hours.
She was the loveliest mountain maid
That e'er by grove or riv'let strayed;
Old Raeburn's child, the fairest flower
That ever bloomed in Eskdale-moor.
'Twas she the sire that morn had seen,
And judged to be the Fairy Queen;
'Twas she who framed the artless lay
That stopt the warriors on their way.
And round his neck enraptured hung:—
“O my dear Owen! haste and tell,
What caused you dare this lonely dell,
And seek your maid, at midnight still,
Deep in the bowels of the hill?
Here in this dark and drear abode,
By all deserted but my God,
Must I have reft the life he gave,
Or lived in shame a villain's slave.
I was, at midnight's murkest hour,
Stol'n from my father's stately tower,
And never thought again to view
The sun, or sky's ethereal blue;
But since the first of Border-men
Has found me in this dismal den,
I to his arms for shelter fly,
With him to live, or with him die.”
While in that lady's kind embrace!
Warm tears of joy his utterance staid—
“O, my loved Ann!” was all he said.
Though well they loved, her high estate
Caused Owen aye aloof to wait;
And watch her bower beside the rill,
When twilight rocked the breezes still,
And waked the music of the grove
To hymn the vesper song of love;
Then underneath the green-wood bough,
Oft had they breathed the tender vow.
The flowers of all the Border round;
That e'er astounded warrior's ear;
'Twould make even Superstition blush,
And all her tales of spirits hush.
By Dryhope towers, and Meggat-dale:
Ah! little trowed the fraudful train,
They ne'er should see their wealth again;
Their lemans, and their mighty store,
For which they nightly toils had bore
Full twenty autumn moons and more.
They little deemed, when morning dawned,
To meet the deadly Rippon brand;
And only find, at their return,
In their loved cave an early urn.
Ill suits it simple bard to tell
Of bloody work that there befell:
He lists not deeds of death to sing,
Of splintered spear, and twanging string,
Of piercing arrow's purpled wing,
How falchions flash, and helmets ring.
Not one of all that prowling band,
So long the terror of the land,
Not one escaped their deeds to tell;
All in the winding lab'rinth fell.
The spoil was from the cave conveyed,
Where in a heap the dead were laid;
The outer cave our yeomen fill,
And left them in the hollow hill.
The forest shepherd dreads as death.
Not there at evening dares he stray,
Though love impatient points the way;
Though throbs his heart the maid to see,
That's waiting by the trysting tree.
Ere turns the scale of night and day,
Oft breathes the short and ardent prayer,
That Heaven may guard his footsteps there;
His eyes, meantime, so dim with dread,
Scarce ken the turf his foot must tread.
For still 'tis told, and still believed,
That there the spirits were deceived,
And maidens from their grasp retrieved:
That this they still preserve in mind,
And watch, when sighs the midnight wind,
To wreak their rage on human kind.
Was keeper of the forest made;
A trooper he of gallant fame,
And first of all the Laidlaw name.
Spirits, though there, are seldom seen;
And fears of elf, and fairy raid,
Have like a morning dream decayed.
The bare-foot maid, of rosy hue,
Dares from the heath-flower brush the dew,
By flowery den or tinkling rill;
And well dares she till midnight stay,
Among the coils of fragrant hay.
As fell the dusk of Hallow-day,
Have heard the tinkling sound aloof,
And gentle tread of horse's hoof;
And flying swifter than the wind,
Left all their scattered flocks behind.
When winter nights are dark and cold,
The boy dares not to barn repair,
Alone, to say his evening prayer;
Nor dare the maiden ope the door,
Unless her lover walk before;
Then well can counterfeit the fright,
If star-beam on the water light;
And to his breast in terror cling,
For “such a dread and dangerous thing!”
Thou sweetest glen of all the south!
Thy fairy tales, and songs of yore,
Shall never fire my bosom more.
Thy winding glades, and mountains wild,
The scenes that pleased me when a child,
Each verdant vale, and flowery lea,
Still in my midnight dreams I see;
And waking oft I sigh for thee.
Thy hapless bard, though forced to roam,
Afar from thee without a home,
Still there his glowing breast shall turn,
Till thy green bosom fold his urn:
Then underneath thy mountain stone,
Shall sleep unnoticed and unknown.
I remember hearing a very old man, named David Laidlaw, who lived somewhere in the neighbourhood of Hawick, relate many of the adventures of this old moss-trooper, his great progenitor, and the first who ever bore the name. He described him as a great champion—a man quite invincible; and quoted several verses of a ballad relating to him, which I never heard either before or since. I remember only one of them.
There was ane banna of barley mealCam duntin dune by Davy's sheil;
But out cam Davy and his lads,
And dang the banna a' in blads.
He explained how this “bannock of barley meal” meant a rich booty, which the old hero captured from a band of marauders. He lived at Garwell in Eskdale-moor.
Lochy-Law, where the principal scene of this tale is laid, is a hill on the lands of Shorthope in the wilds of Ettrick. The Fairy Slack is up in the middle of the hill, a very curious ravine, and would be much more so when overshadowed with wood. The Back-burn, which joins the Ettrick immediately below this hill, has been haunted time immemorial, both by the fairies, and the ghost of a wandering minstrel who was cruelly murdered there, and who sleeps in a lone grave at a small distance from the ford.
The fairies have now totally disappeared; and it is pity they should; for they seem to have been the most delightful little spirits that ever haunted the Scottish dells. There are only very few now remaining alive who have ever seen them; and when they did, it was on Hallow-evenings, while they were young, when the gospel was not very rife in the country. But, strange as it may appear, with the witches it is far otherwise. Never, in the most superstitious ages, was the existence of witches, or the influence of their diabolical power, more firmly believed in, than by the inhabitants of the mountains of Ettrick Forest at the present day. Many precautions and charms are used to avert this influence, and scarcely does a summer elapse in which there are not some of the most gross incantations practised, in order to free flocks and herds from the blasting power of these old hags. There are two farmers still living, who will both make oath that they have wounded several old wives with shot as they were traversing the air in the shapes of moor-fowl and partridges. A very singular amusement that for old wives! I heard one of these gentlemen relate, with the utmost seriousness, and as a matter he did not wish to be generally known, that one morning, going out a fowling, he sprung a pair of moor-fowl in a place where it was not customary for moor-fowl to stay. He fired at the hen —wounded her, and eyed her until she alighted beyond an old dyke: when he went to the spot, his astonishment may be well conceived, when he found Nell---picking the hail out of her limbs! He was extremely vexed that he had not shot the cock, for he was almost certain he was no other than Wattie Grieve!!!
The tales and anecdotes of celebrated witches, that are still related in the country, are extremely whimsical and diverting. The following is a well-authenticated one: A number of gentlemen were one day met for a chase on the lands of Newhouse and Kirkhope—their greyhounds were numerous and keen, but not a hare could they raise. At length a boy came, who offered to start a hare to them, if they would give him a guinea, and the black greyhound to hold. The demand was singular, but it was peremptory, and on other conditions he would not comply. The guerdon was accordingly paid—the hare was started, and the sport afforded by the chase was excellent— the greyhounds were all baffled, and began to give up one by one, when one of the party came slily behind the boy, and cut the leash in which he held the black dog—away he flew to join the chase. The boy, losing all recollection, ran, bawling out with great vociferation, “Huy, mither, rin!!! Hay, rin, ye auld witch, if ever ye ran i' yer life!! Rin, mither, rin!!” The black dog came fast up with her, and was just beginning to mouth her, when she sprang in at the window of a little cottage and escaped. The riders soon came to the place, and entered the cot in search of the hare; but, lo! there was no living creature there but the old woman lying panting in a bed, so breathless that she could not speak a word!!!
But the best old witch tale that remains, is that which is related of the celebrated Michael Scott, Master of Oakwood. Sir Walter Scott has preserved it, but so altered from the original way, that it is not easy to recognize it. The old people tell it as follows: There was one of Master Michael's tenants who had a wife that was the most notable witch of the age. So extraordinary were her powers, that the country people began to put them in competition with those of the Master, and say, that in some cantrips she surpassed him. Michael could ill brook such insinuations; for there is always jealousy between great characters, and went over one day with his dogs on pretence of hunting, but in reality with an intent of exercising some of his infernal power in the chastisement of Lucky --- (I have the best reason in the world for concealing her reputed name). He found her alone in the field weeding lint; and desired her, in a friendly manner, to show him some of her powerful art. She was very angry with him, and denied that she had any supernatural skill. He, however, continuing to press her, she told him sharply to let her alone, else she would make him repent the day he troubled her. How she perceived the virtues of Michael's wand is not known, but in a moment she snatched it from his hand, and gave him three lashes with it. The knight was momently changed to a hare, when the malicious and inveterate hag cried out, laughing, “Shu, Michael, rin or dee!” and baited all his own dogs upon him. He was extremely hard hunted, and was obliged to swim the river, and take shelter in the sewer of his own castle, from the fury of his pursuers, where he got leisure to change himself again to a man.
Michael being extremely chagrined at having been thus outwitted, studied a deadly revenge; and going over afterwards to hunt, he sent his man to Fauldshope to borrow some bread from Lucky --- to give to his dogs, for that he had neglected to feed them before he came from home. If she gave him the bread, he was to thank her and come away; but if she refused it, he gave him a line written in red characters, which he was to lodge above the lintel as he came out. The servant found her baking of bread, as his master assured him he would, and delivered his message. She received him most ungraciously, and absolutely refused to give him any bread, alleging, as an excuse, that she had not as much as would serve her own reapers to dinner. The man said no more, but lodged the line as directed, and returned to his master. The powerful spell had the desired effect; Lucky --- instantly threw off her clothes, and danced round and round the fire like one quite mad, singing the while with great glee—
Cam seekin bread an' gat nane.”
The goodman mounted his horse, and rode with all speed to the Master, to inquire what he had done to his people which had put them all mad. Michael bade him take down the note from the lintel and burn it, which he did, and all the people returned to their senses. Poor Lucky --- died overnight, and Michael remained unmatched and alone in all the arts of enchantment and necromancy.
With careless mein he lounged away;
No bow he deigned, nor anxious looked
How the gay throng their minstrel brooked;
No doubt within his bosom grew,
That to his skill the prize was due.
Well might he hope, for while he sung,
Louder and louder plaudits rung;
And when he ceased his numbers wild,
Fair royalty approved and smiled.
Long had the bard, with hopes elate,
Sung to the low, the gay, the great;
And once had dared, at flatterer's call,
To tune his harp in Branxholm Hall;
But nor his notes of soothing sound,
Nor zealous word of bard renowned,
Might those persuade, that worth could be
Inherent in such mean degree.
But when the smile of Sovereign fair
Attested genuine nature there,
Throbbed high with rapture every breast,
And all his merit stood confest.
Different the next the herald named;
Warrior he was, in battle maimed,
When Lennox on the downs of Kyle,
O'erthrew Maconnel and Argyle.
Unable more the sword to wield
With dark Clan-Alpine in the field,
Or rouse the dun deer from her den
With fierce Macfarlane and his men;
He strove to earn a minstrel name,
And fondly nursed the sacred flame.
Warm was his heart, and bold his strain;
Wild fancies in his moody brain
Gambolled, unbridled, and unbound,
Lured by a shade, decoyed by sound,
In tender age, when mind was free,
As standing by his nurse's knee,
He heard a tale so passing strange,
Of injured spirit's cool revenge,
It chilled his heart with blasting dread,
Which never more that bosom fled.
And gray hairs told that youth was by,
Still quaked his heart at bush or stone,
As wandering in the gloom alone.
Where foxes roam, and eagles rave,
And dark woods round Ben-Lomond wave,
Once on a night, a night of dread!
He held convention with the dead;
Brought warnings to the house of death,
And tidings from a world beneath.
Loud blew the blast—the evening came,
The way was long, the minstrel lame;
The mountain's side was dern with oak,
Darkened with pine, and ribbed with rock;
Blue billows round its base were driven,
Its top was steeped in waves of heaven.
The wood, the wind, the billows' moan,
All spoke in language of their own,
But too well to our minstrel known.
Wearied, bewildered, in amaze,
Hymning in heart the Virgin's praise,
A cross he framed, of birchen bough,
And 'neath that cross he laid him low;
Hid by the heath and Highland plaid,
His old harp in his bosom laid.
Oh! when the winds that wandered by,
Sung on her breast their lullaby,
How thrilled the tones his bosom through,
And deeper, holier, poured his vow!
No sleep was his—he raised his eye,
To note if dangerous place was nigh.
There columned rocks, abrupt and rude,
Hung o'er his gateless solitude:
The muffled sloe, and tangling brier,
Precluded freak or entrance here;
But yonder oped a little path,
O'ershadowed, deep, and dark as death.
Trembling, he groped around his lair
For mountain ash, but none was there.
Teeming with forms, his terror grew;
Heedful he watched, for well he knew,
That in that dark and devious dell
Some lingering ghost or sprite must dwell:
So as he trowed, so it befell.
The stars were wrapt in curtain gray,
The blast of midnight died away;
'Twas just the hour of solemn dread,
When walk the spirits of the dead:
Rustled the leaves with gentle motion,
Groaned his chilled soul in deep devotion.
The lake-fowl's wake was heard no more;
The wave forgot to brush the shore;
Hushed was the bleat on moor and hill;
The wandering clouds of heaven stood still.
What heart could bear, what eye could meet
The spirits in their lone retreat?
Rustled again the darksome dell;
Straight on the minstrel's vision fell
A trembling and unwonted light,
That showed the phantoms to his sight.
Came first a slender female form,
Pale as the moon in winter storm;
A babe of sweet simplicity
Clung to her breast as pale as she,
And aye she sung its lullaby.
That cradle-song of the phantom's child,
O! but it was soothing, holy, and wild!
But O! that song can ill be sung
By Lowland bard or Lowland tongue.
The Spectre's Cradle-song.
Thy mother's arms shall shield thee from ill.
Far have I borne thee in sorrow and pain,
To drink the breeze of the world again.
The dew shall moisten thy brow so meek,
And the breeze of midnight fan thy cheek,
And soon shall we rest in the bow of the hill;
Hush, my bonny babe! hush, and be still!
For thee have I travelled, in weakness and woe,
The world above and the world below.
My heart was soft and it fell in the snare;
Thy father was cruel, but thou wert fair.
I sinned, I sorrowed, I died for thee;
Smile, my bonny babe! smile on me!
Yon star that peeps from its window blue;
Above yon clouds that wander far,
Away, above yon little star,
There's a home of peace that shall soon be thine,
And there shalt thou see thy Father and mine.
The flowers of the world shall bud and decay,
The trees of the forest be weeded away;
But there shalt thou bloom for ever and aye.
But long, long hence that time shall be:
Oh, weep not thou for thy mother's ill:
Hush, my bonny babe! hush and be still!
Nor bush, nor brake, nor rock, nor tree,
Her footsteps staid—o'er cliff so bold,
Where scarce the roe her foot could hold,
Stately she wandered firm and free,
Singing her softened lullaby.
They beckoned low, passed, and were gone.
Then came a troop of sheeted dead,
With shade of chieftain at their head:
And with our bard, in brake forlorn,
Held converse till the break of morn.
Their ghostly rites, their looks, their mould,
Or words, to man he never told:
But much he learned of mystery,
Of what was past, and what should be.
Thenceforth he troubles oft divined,
And scarcely held his perfect mind:
Yet still the song, admired when young,
He loved, and that in Court he sung.
I mentioned formerly that the tale of Macgregor is founded on a popular Highland tradition—so also is this Song of the Spectre in the introduction to it, which, to me at least, gives it a peculiar interest. As I was once travelling up Glen-Dochart, attended by Donald Fisher, a shepherd of that country, he pointed out to me some curious green dens, by the side of the large rivulet which descends from the back of Ben-More, the name of which, in the Gaelic language, signifies the abode of the fairies. A native of that country, who is still living, happening to be benighted there one summer evening, without knowing that the place was haunted, wrapped himself in his plaid, and lay down to sleep till the morning. About midnight he was awaked by the most enchanting music; and on listening, he heard a woman singing to her child. She sung the verses twice over, so that next morning he had several of them by heart. Fisher had heard them often recited in Gaelic, and he said they were wild beyond human conception. He remembered only a few lines, which were to the same purport with the Spirit's Song here inserted, namely, that she (the singer) had brought her babe from the regions below to be cooled by the breeze of the world, and that they would soon be obliged to part, for the child was going to heaven, and she was to remain for a season in purgatory. I had not before heard anything so truly romantic.
The Fate of Macgregor.
THE ELEVENTH BARD'S SONG.
The moon rises broad from the brow of Ben-Lomond;
The clans are impatient, and chide thy delay:
Arise! let us bound to Glen-Lyon away.”—
He turned his red eye to the braes of Strathfillan;
“Go, Malcolm, to sleep, let the clans be dismissed;
The Campbells this night for Macgregor must rest.”
Three days, round the hills of M'Nab and Glen-Lyon:
Of riding and running such tidings they bear,
We must meet them at home, else they'll quickly be here.”—
And haughty M'Nab, with his giants behind him:
This night I am bound to relinquish the fray,
And do what it freezes my vitals to say.
Forgive me, dear brother, this horror of mind;
Thou knowest in the strife I was never behind,
Nor ever receded a foot from the van,
Or blenched at the ire or the prowess of man:
But I've sworn by the cross, by my God, and my all,
An oath which I cannot and dare not recall—
Ere the shadows of midnight fall east from the pile,
To meet with a spirit this night in Glen-Gyle.
I called to remembrance some deeds I had done,
When entered a lady with visage so wan,
And looks such as never were fastened on man.
I knew her, O brother! I knew her too well!
Of that once fair dame such a tale I could tell
As would thrill thy bold heart: but how long she remained,
So racked was my spirit, my bosom so pained,
I knew not—but ages seemed short to the while.
Though proffer the Highlands, nay all the green isle,
With length of existence no man can enjoy,
The same to endure, the dread proffer I'd fly;
The thrice-threatened pangs of last night to forego,
Macgregor would dive to the mansions below.
Despairing and mad, to futurity blind,
The present to shun, and some respite to find,
I swore, ere the shadow fell east from the pile,
To meet her alone by the brook of Glen-Gyle.
The glory and name of Macgregor were gone:
That the pine, which for ages had shed a bright halo
Afar on the mountains of Highland Glen-Falo,
Should wither and fall ere the turn of yon moon,
Smit through by the canker of hated Colquhoun:
That a feast on Macgregors each day should be common,
For years, to the eagles of Lennox and Lomond.
Her breath was a furnace, her bosom the grave!
Then flitting elusive, she said with a frown,
‘The mighty Macgregor shall yet be my own!’”
The dreams of the night have disordered thy mind.
Come, buckle thy panoply—march to the field—
See, brother, how hacked are thy helmet and shield:
Ay, that was M'Nab, in the height of his pride,
When the lions of Dochart stood firm by his side.
This night the proud chief his presumption shall rue:
Rise, brother, these chinks in his heart-blood will glue:
Thy fantasies frightful shall flit on the wing,
When loud with thy bugle Glen-Lyon shall ring.”—
Macgregor's red eye shed one sparkle of light:
“No! not for the universe!” low he replied.
To watch the dread rendezvous, Malcolm has gone.
They oared the broad Lomond, so still and serene,
And deep in her bosom, how awful the scene!
O'er mountains inverted the blue waters curled,
And rocked them on skies of a far nether world.
The moon the blue zenith already was touching;
No foot was abroad on the forest or hill,
No sound but the lullaby sung by the rill:
Young Malcolm at distance couched, trembling the while—
Macgregor stood lone by the brook of Glen-Gyle.
A skiff sailing light, where a lady did seem;
Her sail was the web of the gossamer's loom,
The glow-worm her wakelight, the rainbow her boom;
A dim rayless beam was her prow and her mast,
Like wold-fire at midnight, that glares on the waste.
Though rough was the river with rock and cascade,
No torrent, no rock, her velocity staid;
She wimpled the water to weather and lee,
And heaved as if borne on the waves of the sea.
Mute nature was roused in the bounds of the glen;
The wild deer of Gairtney abandoned his den,
Fled panting away, over river and isle,
Nor once turned his eye to the brook of Glen-Gyle.
The fox fled in terror; the eagle awoke,
As slumbering he dozed on the shelve of the rock;
Astonished, to hide in the moonbeam he flew,
And screwed the night-heaven till lost in the blue.
The chieftain salute her, and shrink from her touch.
He saw the Macgregor kneel down on the plain,
As begging for something he could not obtain;
She raised him indignant, derided his stay,
Then bore him on board, set her sail, and away.
Yet faster ran Malcolm adown by its side;
“Macgregor! Macgregor!” he bitterly cried;
“Macgregor! Macgregor!” the echoes replied.
He struck at the lady, but, strange though it seem,
His sword only fell on the rocks and the stream;
But the groans from the boat, that ascended amain,
Were groans from a bosom in horror and pain.
They reached the dark lake, and bore lightly away—
Macgregor is vanished for ever and aye!
The pine was the standard, and is still the crest, of the Macgregors; and it is well known that the proscription of that clan was occasioned by a slaughter of the Colquhouns, who were its constant and inveterate enemies. That bloody business let loose the vengeance of the country upon them, which had nearly extirpated the name. The Campbells and the Grahams arose and hunted them down like wild beasts, until a Macgregor could no more be found.
The bard of Lomond's lay is done.
Loves not the swain, from path of dew,
At morn the golden orb to view,
Rise broad and yellow from the main,
While scarce a shadow lines the plain;
Well knows he then the gathering cloud
Shall all his noontide glories shroud.
Like smile of morn before the rain,
Appeared the minstrel's mounting strain.
As easy inexperienced hind,
Who sees not coming rains and wind,
The beacon of the dawning hour,
Nor notes the blink before the shower,
Astonished, 'mid his open grain,
Sees round him pour the sudden rain—
So looked the still attentive throng,
When closed at once Macfarlane's song.
Time was it: when he 'gan to tell
Of spectre stern, aud barge of hell;
Loud, and more loud, the minstrel sung;
Loud, and more loud, the chords he rung;
Wild grew his looks, for well he knew,
The scene was dread, the tale was true;
And ere Loch-Ketturine's wave was won,
Faltered his voice, his breath was done.
He raised his brown hand to his brow,
To veil his eye's enraptured glow;
Flung back his locks of silver gray,
Lifted his crutch, and limped away.
The bard of Clyde stepped next in view;
Tall was his form, his harp was new;
Brightened his dark eye as he sung;
A stammer fluttered on his tongue;
A captain in the wars was he,
And sprung of noble pedigree.
Earl Walter.
THE TWELFTH BARD'S SONG.
In the wan light of the moon?
Why altered is Earl Walter's mood
So strangely, and so soon?”—
Whom man could never tame,
To-morrow, in his sovereign's sight,
Or bear perpetual shame.”—
Go warn them suddenly,
If none will fight for Earl Walter,
Some one may fight for me.”—
Now hold your tongue for shame!
For never shall my son Walter
Disgrace his father's name.
How lord of Scottish blood
By proxy fought before his king
No, never! by the rood!”—
For battle made him boun';
Earl Walter mounted his bonny gray,
And rode to Stirling town.
“Go saddle a steed for me,
And I'll away to Stirling town,
This deadly bout to see.
My cheek is furred and wan;
Ah, me! but I have seen the day
I feared not single man!
“Darcie his vaunts may rue;
Whoever slays my only son
Must fight the father too.
May foin the best he can;
Whoever braves Wat Hamilton,
Shall know he braves a man.”—
And running o'er holt and lea;
For all the lords of fair Scotland
Came there the fight to see.
Trooping in thousands came,
And many a hind, and warrior old,
And many a lovely dame.
Upon his mettled gray,
There was none so ready as our good king
To bid that earl good day.
Oh! many a heart beat high;
And no fair eye in all the throng,
Nor rosy cheek, was dry.
Fair Margaret was her name—
“If we should lose brave Earl Walter,
My sire is sore to blame.
Upon my bended knee.”—
“Daughter, I'm loath to say you nay;
It cannot, must not be.”—
“Proclaim it suddenly;
If none will fight for Earl Walter,
Some one may fight for me.
With many a holm and hill,
I'll give them all, and ten times more,
To him will Darcie kill.”—
And doffed his bonnet blue;
In his sunk eye the tear-drop shone,
And his gray locks o'er it flew:—
Small cause hast thou for pain;
Wat Hamilton shall have no aid
'Gainst lord of France or Spain.
Or other for him fight,
Heaven grant that first his parent's eye
May set in endless night!”—
And quietly looked on:
Now Margaret was the fairest maid
On whom the daylight shone.
That blinks across the evening dun;
The locks that waved that eye above,
Like light clouds curling round the sun.
A shudder round the circle flew:
Like men who from a serpent spring,
They startled at the view.
His belts and bands of gold,
And the glances of his charger's eye
Were dreadful to behold.
So rosy and so young,
He frowned, and sneered with haughty grace,
And round disdainful flung.
And break thy jests on me?
Think'st thou I sought the Scottish court
To play with boys like thee?
For pity get thee gone;
Tilt with the girls and boys of Clyde,
And boast of what thou'st done.
It flies thy body through;
If Darcie's sword come o'er thy crest,
It cleaves thy head in two.”
I came not here to scold;
It ill befits a knight like thee
Such proud discourse to hold.
Of deeds which thou hast done;
To-day restrain thy saucy tongue;
Rude blusterer, come on!”
To different posts they sprung;
Quivered each spear o'er charger's head;
Forward each warrior hung.
Oh! many a heart beat high!
'Twas silence all!—the horn blew thrice—
Dazzled was every eye.
The eagle swift descend?
Hast thou not seen the sheeted fire
The lowering darkness rend?
Adown the yielding wind;
Not faster bears the bolt away,
Leaving the storm behind;
With full suspended breath;
Than flew the warriors on their way
Across the field of death.
The gleams of fire were seen;
The rocks and towers of Stirling rang,
And the red blood fell between.
Lord Darcie's black held on.
“Oh! ever alack,” fair Margaret cried,
“The brave Earl Walter's gone!”
“Oh! ever alack,” the king replied,
“That ever the deed was done!”
He turned with lightened eye;
His glancing spear he raised aloft,
And seemed to threat the sky.
He parried dext'rously;
Then caught him rudely by the wrist,
Saying, “Warrior, come with me!”
But threw and drew in vain;
Lord Darcie drew, Lord Darcie threw,
And spurred his black amain.
Loud rattled on the clay;
Down came Earl Walter; hand in hand,
And head to head they lay.
And trembling stood behind;
But off Earl Walter's dapple scoured
Far fleeter than the wind;
Nor stop, nor stay, nor gate, nor ford,
Could make her look behind.
She sought her native stall;
She liked not Darcie's doughty black,
Nor Darcie's spear at all.
“Since better may not be:
I'll trust my life with weapon tried,
But never again with thee.
And fling thy mail away;
For foot to foot, and hand to hand,
We'll now decide the day.”
Their doublets linked and sheen;
And hauberk, armlet, cuirass, rung
Promiscuous on the green.
That oft has chilled a foe,
Thy hard-earned honours, and thy fame,
Depend on every blow.
Thy heart unmoved remain;
For never was the Scottish brand
Upreared and reared in vain.”—
Rewarded shalt thou be;
Thy king, thy country, and thy kin,
All, all depend on thee!
The ladies' cheeks grow wan;
Wat Hamilton, Wat Hamilton,
Now prove thyself a man!”
So fast around the plain?
What makes Lord Darcie strike and lance,
As passion fired his brain?
“Thou bear'st thee boist'rously;
If thou shouldst pelt till day be done,
Thy weapon I defy.”
So fast around the plain?
Why are Lord Darcie's hollands fair
All striped with crimson grain?—
He clove his bearded chin.
“Beshrew thy heart,” Lord Darcie said,
“Ye sharply do begin!”
Quite through the gare it ran.
“Now, by my faith,” Lord Darcie said,
“That's stricken like a man!”
It pierced his lordly side.
“Now by my troth,” Lord Darcie said,
“Thy marks are ill to bide!”
And tripped him on the plain.
“O, ever alack,” then cried the knight,
“I ne'er shall rise again!”
So pale and lay so low,
Away his brace of swords he threw,
And raised his fainting foe.
Loud and more loud they grew,
And many a bonnet to the sky
And many a coif they threw.
He wiped his aged brow:—
“Give me thy hand, my gallant boy!
I knew thee not till now.
Whom I present to thee;
Nor would I change Wat Hamilton
For all the lads I see!”
This gallant son of thine
Is much too good for baron bold,
He must be son of mine!
The flower of fair Scotland;
The badge of honour he shall wear,
And sit at my right hand.
And royal bounds of Clyde;
And he shall have all Arran's Isle
To dower his royal bride.”
O, but her heart was fain!
And aye her cheek of beauty blushed,
Like rose-bud in the rain.
Their royal lineage draw;
And thus was won the fairest bride
That Scotland ever saw!
This ballad is founded on a well-known historical fact. Holinshed mentions it slightly in the following words: “A Frenchman named Sir Anthony Darcie, knight, called afterwards Le Sire de la Bawtie, came through England into Scotland to seek feats of arms. And coming to the king the four and twentie of September, the Lord Hamilton fought with him right valiantly, and so as neither of them lost any piece of honour.”
The Princess Margaret of Scotland was married to the Lord Hamilton when only sixteen years of age. Holinshed says, “Of this marriage, those of the house of Hamilton are descended, and are nearest of blood to the crown of Scotland, as they pretend, for (as saith Lesleus, lib. viii. p. 316) if the line of the Stuarts fail, the crown is to come to them.”
Not for the bard, or song he sung;
But every eye with pleasure shone,
And cast its smiles on one alone—
That one was princely Hamilton!
And well the gallant chief approved
The bard who sung of sire beloved;
And pleased were all the Court to see
The minstrel hailed so courteously.
Again is every courtier's gaze
Speaking suspense, and deep amaze:
The bard was stately, dark, and stern,—
'Twas Drummond from the moors of Ern;
Tall was his frame, his forehead high,
Still and mysterious was his eye;
His look was like a winter day,
When storms and winds have sunk away.
Well versed was he in holy lore:
In cloistered dome the cowl he wore;
But, wearied with the eternal strain
Of formal breviats, cold and vain,
He wooed, in depth of Highland dale,
The silver spring and mountain gale.
In gray Glen-Ample's forest deep,
Hid from the rains and tempests' sweep,
In bosom of an aged wood
His solitary cottage stood.
Its walls were bastioned, dark and dern,
Dark was its roof of filmot fern,
And dark the vista down the linn,
But all was love and peace within.
Religion, man's first friend and best,
Was in that home a constant guest;
There sweetly, every morn and even,
Warm orisons were poured to Heaven;
And every cliff Glen-Ample knew,
And greenwood on her banks that grew,
In answer to his bounding string,
Had learned the hymns of Heaven to sing,
With many a song of mystic lore,
Rude as when sung in days of yore.
His were the snowy flocks that strayed
Adown Glen-Airtney's forest glade;
And his the goat, and chestnut hind,
Where proud Ben-Vorlich cleaves the wind:
There oft, when suns of summer shone,
The bard would sit and muse alone,
Of innocence expelled by man;
Of nature's fair and wondrous plan;
Of the eternal throne sublime;
Of visions seen in ancient time;
Till his rapt soul would leave her home
In visionary worlds to roam.
Then would the mists that wandered by
Seem hovering spirits to his eye:
Then would the breeze's whistling sweep,
Soft lulling in the cavern deep,
The words of spirits whispered near.
Loathed his firm soul the measured chime
And florid films of modern rhyme:
No other lays became his tongue
But those his rude forefathers sung.
And when, by wandering minstrel warned,
The mandate of his queen he learned,
So much he prized the ancient strain,
High hopes had he the prize to gain.
With modest, yet majestic mein,
He tuned his harp of solemn strain:
Oh list the tale, ye fair and young,
A lay so strange was never sung!
Kilmeny.
THE THIRTEENTH BARD'S SONG.
But it wasna to meet Duneira's men,
Nor the rosy monk of the isle to see,
For Kilmeny was pure as pure could be.
It was only to hear the Yorlin sing,
And pu' the cress-flower round the spring;
The scarlet hypp and the hyndberrye,
And the nut that hung frae the hazel tree;
For Kilmeny was pure as pure could be.
But lang may her minny look o'er the wa',
And lang may she seek i' the greenwood shaw;
Lang the laird of Duneira blame,
And lang, lang greet or Kilmeny come hame!
When grief grew calm, and hope was dead,
When mess for Kilmeny's soul had been sung,
When the bedes-man had prayed, and the dead bell rung:
Late, late in a gloamin when all was still,
When the fringe was red on the westlin hill,
The wood was sere, the moon i' the wane,
The reek o' the cot hung o'er the plain,
Like a little wee cloud in the world its lane;
When the ingle lowed wi' an eiry leme,
Late, late in the gloamin Kilmeny came hame!
Lang hae we sought baith holt and dean;
By linn, by ford, and greenwood tree,
Yet you are halesome and fair to see.
Where gat you that joup o' the lily sheen?
That bonny snood o' the birk sae green?
And these roses, the fairest that ever were seen?—
Kilmeny, Kilmeny, where have you been?”
But nae smile was seen on Kilmeny's face;
As still was her look, and as still was her ee,
As the stillness that lay on the emerant lea,
Or the mist that sleeps on a waveless sea.
For Kilmeny had been she ken'd not where,
And Kilmeny had seen what she could not declare;
Kilmeny had been where the cock never crew,
Where the rain never fell, and the wind never blew.
But it seemed as the harp of the sky had rung,
And the airs of heaven played round her tongue,
When she spake of the lovely forms she had seen,
And a land where sin had never been;
A land of love, and a land of light,
Withouten sun, or moon, or night;
Where the river swa'd a living stream,
And the light a pure and cloudless beam;
The land of vision it would seem,
A still, an everlasting dream.
And in that waik there is a wene,
And in that wene there is a maike,
That neither has flesh, nor blood, nor bane;
And down in yon greenwood he walks his lane.
Her bosom hap'd wi' flowerets gay;
But the air was soft and the silence deep,
And bonny Kilmeny fell sound asleep.
She kenned nae mair, nor opened her ee,
Till waked by the hymns of a far countrye.
All striped wi' the bars of the rainbow's rim;
And lovely beings round were rife,
Who erst had travelled mortal life;
And aye they smiled, and 'gan to speer,
“What spirit has brought this mortal here?”
A meek and reverend fere replied;
“Baith night and day I have watched the fair,
Eident a thousand years and mair.
Yes, I have watched o'er ilk degree,
Wherever blooms femenitye;
And sinless virgin, free of stain
In mind and body, fand I nane.
Never, since the banquet of time,
Found I a virgin in her prime,
Till late this bonnie maiden I saw
As spotless as the morning snaw:
Full twenty years she has lived as free
As the spirits that sojourn in this countrye:
I have brought her away frae the snares of men,
That sin or death she never may ken.”
They kissed her cheek, and they kemed her hair;
And round came many a blooming fere,
Saying, “Bonny Kilmeny, ye're welcome here!
Women are freed of the littand scorn:—
O, blessed be the day Kilmeny was born!
Now shall the land of the spirits see,
Now shall it ken what a woman may be!
Many lang year in sorrow and pain,
Many lang year through the world we've gane,
Commissioned to watch fair womankind,
For it's they who nurse the immortal mind.
We have watched their steps as the dawning shone,
And deep in the greenwood walks alone;
By lily bower and silken bed,
The viewless tears have o'er them shed;
Have soothed their ardent minds to sleep,
Or left the couch of love to weep.
We have seen! we have seen! but the time maun come,
And the angels will weep at the day of doom!
Aye keep these holy truths in mind,
That kindred spirits their motions see,
Who watch their ways with anxious ee,
And grieve for the guilt of humanitye!
O, sweet to Heaven the maiden's prayer,
And the sigh that heaves a bosom sae fair!
And dear to Heaven the words of truth,
And the praise of virtue frae beauty's mouth!
And dear to the viewless forms of air,
The mind that kythes as the body fair!
If ever you seek the world again,
That world of sin, of sorrow, and fear,
O tell of the joys that are waiting here;
And tell of the signs you shall shortly see;
Of the times that are now, and the times that shall be.”
And she walked in the light of a sunless day:
The sky was a dome of crystal bright,
The fountain of vision, and fountain of light:
The emerant fields were of dazzling glow,
And the flowers of everlasting blow.
Then deep in the stream her body they laid,
That her youth and beauty never might fade;
And they smiled on heaven, when they saw her lie
In the stream of life that wandered by.
And she heard a song, she heard it sung,
She kend not where; but sae sweetly it rung,
It fell on her ear like a dream of the morn:—
“O! blest be the day Kilmeny was born!
Now shall the land of the spirits see,
Now shall it ken what a woman may be!
The sun that shines on the world sae bright,
A borrowed gleid frae the fountain of light;
Like a gouden bow, or a beamless sun,
Shall wear away and be seen nae mair,
And the angels shall miss them travelling the air.
But lang, lang after baith night and day,
When the sun and the world have fled away;
When the sinner has gane to his waesome doom,
Kilmeny shall smile in eternal bloom!”
For she felt not arm nor rest below;
But so swift they wained her through the light,
'Twas like the motion of sound or sight;
They seemed to split the gales of air,
And yet nor gale nor breeze was there.
Unnumbered groves below them grew;
They came, they past, and backward flew,
Like floods of blossoms gliding on,
A moment seen, in a moment gone.
O, never vales to mortal view
Appeared like those o'er which they flew!
That land to human spirits given,
The lowermost vales of the storied heaven;
From thence they can view the world below,
And heaven's blue gates with sapphires glow,
More glory yet unmeet to know.
To see what mortal never had seen;
And they seated her high on a purple sward,
And bade her heed what she saw and heard;
And note the changes the spirits wrought,
For now she lived in the land of thought.
She looked, and she saw nor sun nor skies,
But a crystal dome of a thousand dyes;
She looked, and she saw nae land aright,
But an endless whirl of glory and light:
And radiant beings went and came
Far swifter than wind, or the linked flame.
She hid her een frae the dazzling view;
She looked again, and the scene was new.
And clouds of amber sailing by;
A lovely land beneath her lay,
And that land had lakes and mountains gray;
And that land had valleys and hoary piles,
And marled seas and a thousand isles.
Its fields were speckled, its forests green,
And its lakes were all of the dazzling sheen,
Like magic mirrors, where slumbering lay
The sun and the sky, and the cloudlet gray;
Which heaved and trembled, and gently swung,
On every shore they seemed to be hung:
For there they were seen on their downward plain
A thousand times, and a thousand again;
In winding lake, and placid firth,
Little peaceful heavens in the bosom of earth.
For she found her heart to that land did cleave;
She saw the corn wave on the vale,
She saw the deer run down the dale;
She saw the plaid and the broad claymore,
And the brows that the badge of freedom bore;—
And she thought she had seen the land before.
The fairest that ever the sun shone on:
A lion licked her hand of milk,
And she held him in a leish of silk;
And a leifu' maiden stood at her knee,
With a silver wand and melting ee;
Her sovereign shield till love stole in,
And poisoned all the fount within.
And hundit the lion on his dame;
And the guardian maid wi' the dauntless ee,
She dropped a tear, and left her knee;
And she saw till the queen frae the lion fled,
Till the bonniest flower of the world lay dead;
A coffin was set on a distant plain,
And she saw the red blood fall like rain:
Then bonny Kilmeny's heart grew sair,
And she turned away, and could look nae mair.
And they trampled him down, but he rose again;
And he baited the lion to deeds of weir,
Till he lapped the blood to the kingdom dear;
And weening his head was danger-preef,
When crowned with the rose and clover leaf,
He gowled at the carle, and chased him away
To feed wi' the deer on the mountain gray.
He gowled at the carle, and he gecked at Heaven,
But his mark was set, and his arles given.
Kilmeny a while her een withdrew;
She looked again, and the scene was new.
One half of all the glowing world,
Where oceans rolled, and rivers ran,
To bound the aims of sinful man.
She saw a people, fierce and fell,
Burst frae their bounds like fiends of hell;
There lilies grew, and the eagle flew,
And she herked on her ravening crew,
Till the cities and towers were wrapt in a blaze,
And the thunder it roared o'er the lands and the seas.
The widows wailed, and the red blood ran,
And she threatened an end to the race of man:
She never lened, nor stood in awe,
Till caught by the lion's deadly paw.
Oh! then the eagle swinked for life,
And brainzelled up a mortal strife;
But flew she north, or flew she south,
She met wi' the gowl of the lion's mouth.
The eagle sought her eiry again;
But lang may she cower in her bloody nest,
And lang, lang sleek her wounded breast,
To play wi' the norland lion's might.
So far surpassing nature's law,
The singer's voice wad sink away,
And the string of his harp wad cease to play.
But she saw till the sorrows of man were by,
And all was love and harmony;—
Till the stars of heaven fell calmly away,
Like the flakes of snaw on a winter day.
The friends she had left in her ain countrye,
To tell of the place where she had been,
And the glories that lay in the land unseen;
To warn the living maidens fair,
The loved of Heaven, the spirits' care,
That all whose minds unmeled remain
Shall bloom in beauty when time is gane.
They lulled Kilmeny sound asleep;
And when she awakened, she lay her lane,
All happed with flowers in the greenwood wene.
When seven lang years had come and fled;
When grief was calm, and hope was dead;
When scarce was remembered Kilmeny's name,
Late, late in a gloamin Kilmeny came hame.
And O, her beauty was fair to see,
But still and steadfast was her ee!
Such beauty bard may never declare,
For there was no pride nor passion there;
And the soft desire of maiden's een
In that mild face could never be seen.
Her seymar was the lily flower,
And her cheek the moss-rose in the shower;
And her voice like the distant melodye,
That floats along the twilight sea.
But she loved to raike the lanely glen,
And keep afar frae the haunts of men;
Her holy hymns unheard to sing,
To suck the flowers and drink the spring.
But wherever her peaceful form appeared,
The wild beasts of the hill were cheered;
The wolf played blythely round the field,
The lordly byson lowed and kneeled;
The dun deer wooed with manner bland,
And cowered aneath her lily hand.
And when at eve the woodlands rung,
When hymns of other worlds she sung
In ecstasy of sweet devotion,
O, then the glen was all in motion!
The wild beasts of the forest came,
Broke from their boughts and faulds the tame,
And goved around, charmed and amazed;
Even the dull cattle crooned and gazed,
And murmured and looked with anxious pain
For something the mystery to explain.
The buzzard came with the throstle-cock;
The corby left her houf in the rock;
The blackbird alang wi' the eagle flew;
The hind came tripping o'er the dew;
The wolf and the kid their raike began,
And the tod, and the lamb, and the leveret ran;
The hawk and the hern attour them hung,
And the merl and the mavis forhooyed their young;
And all in a peaceful ring were hurled:—
It was like an eve in a sinless world!
Kilmeny sought the greenwood wene;
There laid her down on the leaves sae green,
And Kilmeny on earth was never mair seen.
But O, the words that fell from her mouth,
Were words of wonder and words of truth!
But all the land were in fear and dread,
For they kendna whether she was living or dead.
It wasna her hame and she couldna remain;
She left this world of sorrow and pain,
And returned to the land of thought again.
Beside the old tradition on which this ballad is founded, there are some modern incidents of a similar nature, which cannot well be accounted for, yet are as well attested as any occurrence that has taken place in the present age. The relation may be amusing to some readers.
A man in the parish of Traquair, and county of Peebles, was busied one day casting turf in a large open field opposite to the mansion-house—the spot is well known, and still pointed out as rather unsafe: his daughter, a child seven years of age, was playing beside him, and amusing him with her prattle. Chancing to ask a question at her, he was surprised at receiving no answer, and, looking behind him, he perceived that his child was not there. He always averred that, as far as he could remember, she had been talking to him about half a minute before; he was certain it was not above a whole one at most. It was in vain that he ran searching all about like one distracted, calling her name—no trace of her remained. He went home in a state of mind that may be better conceived than expressed, and raised the people of the parish, who searched for her several days with the same success. Every pool in the river, every bush and den on the mountains around, was searched in vain. It was remarked that the father never much encouraged the search, being thoroughly persuaded that she was carried away by some invisible being, else she could not have vanished so suddenly. As a last resource, he applied to the minister of Inverleithen, a neighbouring divine of exemplary piety and zeal in religious matters, who enjoined him to cause prayers be offered to God for her in seven Christian churches, next Sabbath, at the same instant of time; “and then,” said he, “if she is dead, God will forgive our sin in praying for the dead, as we do it through ignorance; and if she is still alive, I will answer for it, that all the devils in hell shall be unable to keep her.” The injunction was punctually attended to. She was remembered in the prayers of all the neighbouring congregations, next Sunday, at the same hour, and never were there such prayers for fervour heard before. There was one clergyman in particular, Mr. Davidson, who prayed in such a manner that all the hearers trembled. As the old divine foreboded, so it fell out. On that very day, and within an hour of the time on which these prayers were offered, the girl was found in the Plora wood sitting, picking the bark from a tree. She could give no perfect account of the circumstances which had befallen to her, but she said she did not want plenty of meat, for that her mother came and fed her with milk and bread several times a-day, and sung her to sleep at night. Her skin had acquired a bluish cast, which gradually wore off in the course of a few weeks. Her name was Jane Brown; she lived to a very advanced age, and was known to many still alive. Every circumstance of this story is truth, if the father's report of the suddenness of her disappearance may be relied on.
Another circumstance, though it happened still later, is not less remarkable. A shepherd of Tushilaw, in the parish of Ettrick, whose name was Walter Dalgleish, went out to the heights of that farm, one Sabbath morning, to herd the young sheep for his son, and let him to church. He took his own dinner along with him, and his son's breakfast. When the sermons were over, the lad went straight home, and did not return to his father. Night came, but nothing of the old shepherd appeared. When it grew very late his dog came home—seemed terrified, and refused to take any meat. The family were ill at ease during the night, especially as they never had known his dog leave him before; and early next morning the lad arose and went to the height, to look after his father and his flock. He found his sheep all scattered, and his father's dinner unbroken, lying on the same spot where they had parted the day before. At the distance of twenty yards from the spot, the plaid which the old man wore was lying as if it had been flung from him, and a little farther on, in the same direction, his bonnet was found, but nothing of himself. The country people, as on all such occasions, rose in great numbers, and searched for him many days. My father, and several old men still alive, were of the party. He could not be found or heard of, neither dead nor alive, and at length they gave up all thoughts of ever seeing him more.
On the twentieth day after his disappearance, a shepherd's wife, at a place called Berry-bush, came in as the family were sitting down to dinner, and said, that if it were possible to believe that Walter Dalgleish was still in existence, she would say yonder was he coming down the hill. They all ran out to watch the phenomenon, and as the person approached nigher, they perceived that it was actually he, walking without his plaid and his bonnet. The place where he was first descried is not a mile distant from that where he was last seen, and there is neither brake, hag, nor bush. When he came into the house, he shook hands with them all—asked for his family, and spoke as if he had been absent for years, and as if convinced something had befallen them. As they perceived something singular in his looks and manner, they unfortunately forebore asking him any questions at first, but desired him to sit and share their dinner. This he readily complied with, and began to sup some broth with seeming eagerness. He had only taken one or two spoonfuls when he suddenly stopped, a kind of rattling noise was heard in his breast, and he sunk back in a faint. They put him to bed, and from that time forth he never spoke another word that any person could make sense of. He was removed to his own home, where he lingered a few weeks, and then died. What befell him remains to this day a mystery, and for ever must.
Blessed in their hearts the bard of Ern.
By that the chill and piercing air,
The pallid hue of ladies fair,
The hidden yawn, and drumbly eye
Loudly announced the morning nigh.
Beckoned the Queen with courteous smile,
And breathless silence gazed the while:—
“I hold it best, my lords,” she said,
“For knight, for dame, and lovely maid,
At wassail, wake, or revel hall,
To part before the senses pall.
Sweet though the draught of pleasure be,
Why should we drain it to the lee?
Though here the minstrel's fancy play,
Light as the breeze of summer day;
Though there in solemn cadence flow,
Smooth as the night wind o'er the snow;
Now bound away with rolling sweep,
Like tempest o'er the raving deep;
High on the morning's golden screen,
Or casemate of the rainbow lean:—
Such beauties were in vain prolonged,
The soul is cloyed, the minstrel wronged.
“Loud is the morning blast and chill,
The snow-drift speeds along the hill;
Let ladies of the storm beware,
And knights of ladies take a care;
From lanes and alleys guard them well,
Where lurking ghost or sprite may dwell;
But most avoid the dazzling flare,
And spirit of the morning air;
Hide from their eyes that hideous form,
The ruthless angel of the storm.
I wish for every gallant's sake,
That none may rue our Royal Wake:
And every lady what she loves,—
Sweet be her sleep on bed of down,
And pleasing be her dreams till noon.
And when you hear the bugle's strain,
I hope to see you all again.”
Whether the Queen to fear inclined,
Or spoke to cheer the minstrel's mind,
Certes, she spoke with meaning leer,
And ladies smiled her words to hear.
Yet, though the dawn of morning shone,
No lady from that night-wake gone,
Not even the queen durst sleep alone.
And scarce had sleep, with throb and sigh,
O'er breast of snow and moistened eye
Outspread his shadowy canopy,
When every fervid female mind,
Or sailed with witches on the wind,
In Carlisle drank the potent wine,
Or floated on the foamy brine.
Some strove the land of thought to win,
Impelled by hope, withstood by sin;
And some with angry spirit stood
By lonely stream, or pathless wood.
And oft was heard the broken sigh,
The half-formed prayer and smothered cry:
So much the minds of old and young
Were moved by what the minstrels sung.
What Lady Gordon did or said
Could not be learned from lady's maid,
And Huntly swore and shook his head:
But she and all her buskined train
Appeared not at the Wake again.
NIGHT THE THIRD.
The storm had ceased to shroud the hill;The morning's breath was pure and chill;
And when the sun rose from the main,
No eye the glory could sustain.
The icicles so dazzling bright;
The spreading wold so smooth and white;
The cloudless sky, the air so sheen,
That roes on Pentland's top were seen;
And Grampian mountains, frowning high,
Seemed frozen 'mid the northern sky.
The frame was braced, the mind set free
To feat, or brisk hilarity.
The sun far on his southern throne,
Glowed in stern majesty alone:
'Twas like the loved, the toilsome day,
That dawns on mountains west away,
When the furred Indian hunter hastes
Far up his Appalachian wastes,
To range the savage haunts, and dare
In his dark home the sullen bear.
And ere that noon-day sun had shone
Right on the banks of Duddingston,
Heavens! what a scene of noise and glee,
And busy brisk anxiety!
There age and youth their pastime take
On the smooth ice that chains the lake:
The Highland chief, the Border knight,
In waving plumes, and baldricks bright,
Join in the bloodless friendly war,
The sounding stone to hurl afar.
The hair-breadth aim, the plaudits due,
The rap, the shout, the ardour grew,
Till drowsy day her curtain drew.
The youth, on cramps of polished steel,
Joined in the race, the curve, the wheel;
With arms outstretched, and foot aside,
Like lightning o'er the lake they glide;
And eastward far their impulse keep,
Like angels journeying o'er the deep.
When night her sprangled flag unfurled
Wide o'er a wan and sheeted world,
In keen debate homeward they hie,
For well they knew the Wake was nigh.
By mountain sheer, and column tall,
How solemn was that evening fall!
The air was calm, the stars were bright,
The hoar-frost flightered down the night;
But oft the listening groups stood still,
For spirits talked along the hill.
The fairy tribes had gone to won
In southland climes beneath the sun;
By shady woods, and waters sheen,
And vales of everlasting green,
To sing of Scotia's woodlands wild,
Where human face had never smiled.
The ghost had left the haunted yew,
The wayward bogle fled the clough,
The darksome pool of crisp and foam
Was now no more the kelpie's home:
But Polar spirits sure had spread
O'er hills which native fays had fled;
On Arthur's Hill, and Salisbury,
Came voices floating down the air
From viewless shades that lingered there:
The words were fraught with mystery;
Voices of men they could not be.
Youths turned their faces to the sky,
With beating heart, and bended eye;
Old chieftains walked with hastened tread
Loath that their hearts should bow to dread:
They feared the spirits of the hill
To sinful Scotland boded ill.
The echoes of evening, which are occasioned by the voices or mirth of different parties not aware of each other, have a curious and striking effect. I have known some country people terrified almost out of their senses at hearing voices and laughter among the cliffs, where they knew it impossible for human being to reach. Some of the echoes around Edinburgh are extremely grand; what would they then be were the hills covered with wood? I have witnessed nothing more romantic than from a situation behind the Pleasance, where all the noises of the city are completely hushed, to hear the notes of the drum, trumpet, and bugle, poured from the cliffs of Salisbury, and the viewless cannons thundering from the rock. The effect is truly sublime.
The evening star was still in view;
Scarce had the Pleiads cleared the main,
Or Charles reyoked his golden wain,
When from the palace-turrets rang
The bugle's note with warning clang:
Each tower, each spire, in music spake,
“Haste, nobles, to Queen Mary's Wake.”
The blooming maid ran to bedight,
In spangled lace, and robe of white,—
That graceful emblem of her youth,
Of guileless heart, and maiden truth.
The matron decked her candid frame
In moony brooch, and silk of flame;
And every earl and baron bold
Sparkled in clasp and loop of gold.
'Twas the last night of hope and fear,
That bards could sing, or Sovereign hear;
And just ere rose the Christmas sun,
The envied prize was lost or won.
The bard that night who foremost came
Was not enrolled, nor known his name:
A youth he was of manly mould,
Gentle as lamb, as lion bold;
But his fair face, and forehead high,
Glowed with intrusive modesty.
'Twas said, by bank of southland stream
Glided his youth in soothing dream;
The harp he loved, and wont to stray
Far to the wilds and woods away,
And sing to brooks that gurgled by,
Of maiden's form and maiden's eye:—
That, when this dream of youth was past,
Deep in the shade his harp he cast;
In busy life his cares beguiled;
His heart was true, and fortune smiled.
But when the Royal Wake began,
Joyful he came the foremost man,
To see the matchless bard approved,
And list the strains he once had loved.
Two nights had passed, the bards had sung—
Queen Mary's harp from ceiling hung,
On which was graved her lovely mold,
Beset with crowns and flowers of gold;
And many a gem of dazzling dye
Glowed on that prize to minstrel's eye.
The youth had heard each minstrel's strain,
And, fearing northern bard would gain,
To try his youthful skill was moved,
Not for himself, but friends he loved.
Mary Scott.
THE FOURTEENTH BARD'S SONG.
His panoply is irksome grown,
His plumed helm hangs in the hall,
His broad claymore is berry brown.
Bids vassal arm and yeoman ride,
To drive the deer of Otterdale,
Or foray on the Border side.
Of warrior's song, and revel free,
Is heard the lute's voluptuous swell
Within the halls of Torwoodlee.
'Tis love that breeds the warrior's woe,
For daughter of a froward chief,
A freebooter, his mortal foe.
And eye of love, to him were dear!
The smile that dimpled on her face
Was deadlier than the Border spear.
That smile the dawning's purple line;
Nor was that eye the dazzling gem
That glows adown the Indian mine.
Or morn in wreath of roses drest;
The fairest flower that woos the vale,
Or down that clothes the solan's breast?
What rapt enthusiast ever saw;
Compare them to that mould of love—
Young Mary Scott of Tushilaw!
Bounds forth the foray swift as wind,
And Tushilaw and all his men
Have left their homes afar behind.
And mark the watch-dog's boisterous din
The abbot comes with book and bead—
O haste, and let the father in!
His beard so long, and colour wan;
O, he has mourned for many a day,
And sorrowed o'er the sins of man!
His step so firm, and breast so bold;
His brawny leg and form, I ween,
Are wondrous for a man so old.
His blessing short as prayer could be;
But oft he sighed, and boded woe,
And spoke of sin and misery.
Your prayers and Ave Marias learn;
Haste trembling to the vesper hall,
For ah! the priest is dark and stern.
Short as confession well could be;
The abbot's orisons were cold,
His absolutions frank and free.
Lay open to the searcher's eye;
And let the tear bedew thy cheek,
Thy sins are of a crimson dye.
And many yet lie sick for thee—
Young Gilmanscleuch and Deloraine,
And Pringle, lord of Torwoodlee.
No other sin, dear maid, hast thou;
And well the abbot loves to hear
Thy plights of love and simple vow.
What guilt can youth and beauty wail?
Of fervent thought and passion strong,
Heavens! what a sickening tedious tale!”
Though pure as morning's cloudless beam,
A crime in every wish can find,
In noontide glance, and midnight dream.
Her sins seem great and manifold;
When sunk in guilt and misery,
No crime can then her soul behold.
Spread its fair bosom to the sun;
'Tis sweet to hear in vernal bower
The thrush's earliest hymn begun:
The tear from maiden's beaming eye;
And sweeter far the hymn she sings
In grateful holy ecstasy.
That mass to heaven the father sent;
With book, and bead, and rosary,
The abbot to his chamber went.
Beneath the portal's gray festoon;
The wildered Ettrick wanders by,
Loud murmuring to the careless moon.
Far distant shout of fray begun;
The cricket tunes his tiny reed,
And harps behind the embers dun.
And silent stand the casement near?
The cricket stops his little reed,
The sound of gentle step to hear.
Has reaved the drowsy warden round;
And many a daughter lain awake,
When parents trowed her sleeping sound.
The abbot's bed is soft and fair;
The abbot's bed is cold as lead—
For why?—the abbot is not there.
Far on the night-wind, wavering shrill?
'Tis nothing but the shepherd's horn,
That keeps the watch on Cacra hill.
The moon is west, 'tis near the day;
I thought I heard the warrior's shout;
'Tis time the abbot were away!
And rings the sky with quavering croon;
The watch-dog sallies from his lair,
And bays the wind and setting moon.
Has roused the guarder from his den;
Along the bank, in belt and mail,
Come Tushilaw and all his men.
The forest chieftain's proud array;
He heard the voice of Tushilaw—
The abbot's heart grew cold as clay!
That room may for my warriors be;
And bid my daughter come and share
The cup of joy with them and me.
Have lowered our haughty foeman's pride;
And we have driven the richest prey
That ever lowed by Ettrick side.”
His lady came right cheerfully;
And Mary Scott, like morning rose,
Stood blushing at her father's knee.
And aye the red cup passed between;
But Mary Scott grew lily pale,
And trembled like the aspen green.
Queen of the Border thou shalt be;
For I have brought thee gold and gear,
And humbled haughty Torwoodlee.
I loosed his horses from the stall;
I slew the blood-hound in his den,
And sought the chief through tower and hall.
Nightly he lies with leman dear;
O, I would give ten thousand mark,
To see his head upon my spear!
On heather haum, or roegrass heap;
And make for me the scarlet bed,
For I have need of rest and sleep.”—
In that you cannot rest to-day;
For there in peaceful slumber lies
A holy abbot, old and gray.”
Dropt from his hand the rosy wine—
“An abbot! curse the canting crew!
An abbot sleep in couch of mine!
I'd rather trust my child and thee
With my two greatest foes alive,
The King of Scots and Torwoodlee.
Has brought my life, my all to stake:
O, lady! I have heard a tale,
The thought o't makes my heart to ache!
Bring not his loathful form to me;
The gate stands open to the north,
The rope hangs o'er the gallows-tree.
Rock the old sensual sluggard blind;
There let him swing, till sun and moon
Have three times left the world behind.”
With orisons load every breath;
The Forest trooper's on the stairs,
To drag thee to a shameful death.
Ill armed art thou to meet the strife;
Haste, don thy beard, and quoif thy head,
And guard the door for death or life.
Yet thou canst neither fight nor flee;
But beauty stands thy guard without,—
Yes, beauty weeps and pleads for thee.
Regardless hears a brother plead;
Regardless sees the brand of Heaven
Red quivering o'er his guilty head:
Implore his help or clemency;
Around him let her arms be flung,
Or at his feet her bended knee—
The child of reason stands revealed—
When beauty pleads, when woman weeps,
He is not man who scorns to yield.
Laughing at woman's dread of sin;
But first he bade his warriors keep
All robbers out, and abbots in.
Looked out to see the peep of day;
The scene that met the abbot's eye
Filled him with wonder and dismay.
The mountain's hues of silver gray,
Nor yet the Ettrick's windings wild,
By belted holm and bosky brae;
By covert, clough, and greenwood shaw;
Nor dappled flag of day, that waved
In streamers pale from Gilmanslaw;
At rest upon the castle lea;
And there he saw his gallant gray,
And all the steeds of Torwoodlee.
“The charge runs high for lodging here;
The guard is deep, the path way-laid,
My homilies shall cost me dear.
I'll kneel, and con my breviary;
If Tushilaw is versed in lore,
'Twill be an awkward game with me.”
And dreamed and thought till noontide hour;
But aye this query upmost kept,
“What seeks the abbot in my tower?”
With doubtful and indignant eye,
And found the holy man at prayer,
With book, and cross, and rosary.
Of absolution thou hast need;
The sword of Heaven hangs o'er thy head,
Death is thy doom, and hell thy meed!”
Thy absolutions I disdain;
But I will noose thy bearded chin,
If thus thou talk'st to me again.
Or short the route to thee is given!”—
“The abbot I of Coldinghame,
My errand is the cause of Heaven.”—
Some robber thou, or royal spy:
But, villain, I will search thy heart,
And chain thee in the deep to lie!
Whinyards to keep the weak in awe;
The scorn of Heaven, the shame of man—
No books nor beads for Tushilaw!”
Thy bolts and chains are nought to me;
I'll call an angel from above,
That soon will set the prisoner free.”—
Pursues the roe and dusky deer;
The abbot lies in dungeon deep,
The maidens wail, the matrons fear.
Bends its fair form o'er grated keep;
Young Mary Scott of Tushilaw
Sleeps but to sigh, and wakes to weep.
Pursues the deer o'er holt and lea;
And rides and rules the Border round,
From Philiphaugh to Gilnockye.
His page rode down by Coldinghame;
But not a priest was missing there,
Nor abbot, friar, nor monk of name.
The abbot in this world should see.
The bonds are firm, the bolts are fast,
No angel comes to set him free.
Softly unfolds the iron door:
Beamed through the gloom unwonted light,
That light a beauteous angel bore.
And fair the hands that set him free;
The trembling whispers of her tongue
Softer than seraph's melody.
Wild transport through his bosom ran;
For never angel's airy frame
Was half so sweet to mortal man.
In veil and cloak of cramasye?
The porter opens wide the gate,
His bonnet moves, and bends his knee.
Before the lady form return:
“Speed, abbot, speed, nor halt nor bate,
Nor look thou back to Rankleburn!”
In vain for yon mysterious wight;
For Tushilaw his doom decreed,
Were he an abbot, lord, or knight.
And ranged them round the gallows-tree,
Then bade them bring the abbot out,
The fate of fraud that all might see.
Falter their tongues, their eye-balls glare:
The door was locked, the fetters left—
All close! the abbot was not there!
And matins to the Virgin hum;
But Tushilaw he gloomed and strode,
And walked into the castle dumb.
The vow was paid in many a cell;
And many a rich oblation came
For that amazing miracle.
Nor flock nor lowing herd he saw;
But even the king upon the throne
Quaked at the name of Tushilaw.
Nor peace nor joy his bosom knew,
'Twas for the kindest, sweetest dame,
That ever brushed the forest dew.
With dream by night and wish by day,
A second came with moistened eye;
Another came and passed away.
Bending its stem to court decay,
And Mary Scott's benignant smile
Like sunbeam in a winter-day?
Sometimes 'tis like the lily pale;
The flower that in the Forest grows
Is fallen before the summer gale.
And dark her doubts of love I ween:
For why?—she felt its early harm—
A mother's eye is sharp and keen.
Stern Tushilaw is waked to see;
The bearded priest so well concealed,
Was Pringle lord of Torwoodlee!
The red tornado's wasting wing,
Nor all the elemental war,
Like fury of the Border king.
A laugh of burning vengeance born!—
“Does thus the coward trow,” he cried,
“To hold his conqueror's power to scorn?
Or such a thing as Torwoodlee?
Had Mary Scott a thousand lives,
These lives were all too few for me.
This sword shall pierce her bosom's core,
Though I go childless to my grave,
And rue the deed for evermore.
When first she lisped her name to me,
Or pierced her little guileless breast
When smiling on her nurse's knee!”
'Tis just and meet our daughter die;
For sharper than a foeman's sword
Is family shame and injury.
I have a vial potent, good:
Unmeet that all the Scots should see
A daughter's corse embalmed in blood
The guilt of one so fair and young;
No cup should to her memory flow,
No requiem o'er her grave be sung.
Beneath my own and husband's eye;
Trust me, ere falls the morning dew,
In dreamless sleep shall Mary lie.”—
I knew thy dauntless soul before;
But list—if thou deceivest me too,
Thou hast a head! I say no more.”
And, wondering, by the twilight saw
A crystal tear drop from his eye,
The first ere shed by Tushilaw.
And blasted hope 'tis hard to prove;
More grievous far it is to feel
Ingratitude from those we love.
Pale as the morning shower and cold?
In her dark eye why stands the tear?
Why in her hand a cup of gold?”
Fervid and feverish is thy blood;
Still yearns o'er thee thy mother's breast,
Take this, my child, 'tis for thy good!”—
She took the cup—no word she spake:
She had even wished that very night
To sleep, and never more to wake.
Then pillowed soft her beauteous head,
And calmly watched her mother's eye;
But, O, that eye was hard to read!
Soon sunk their auburn fringe beneath;
The ringlets on her damask cheek
Heaved gentler with her stealing breath.
Her colour changed to pallid clay;
Long ere the dews began to fall,
The flower of Ettrick lifeless lay!
Does broidered silk her form enfold?
Why are cold Mary's buskined feet
All laced with belts and bands of gold?
To wear them now no child have I:
They should have graced her bridal day,
Now they must in the churchyard lie!
In golden gear and cramasye
To Mary's fane, the loveliest bride
E'er to the Virgin bent the knee.
Ride silent o'er the mountain gray:
Her revel hall the gloomy fane,
Her bridal bed the cheerless clay!”
Round Mary's lifeless temples drawn?
Why is the napkin o'er her face,
A fragment of the lily lawn?
And far, far though her journey be,
When she to Paradise shall come,
Then will my child remember me.”
And many a pearl and diamond bright,
And many a window round her head
Shed on her form a bootless light!
Pondering on war and vengeance meet;
The Cadan toiled in narrow way,
The Tweed rolled far beneath his feet.
Through dark wood-glen, by him was seen;
For still his thought-set eye was raised
To Ettrick mountains, wild and green.
He thought of battle, broil, and blood;
He never crossed, he never wist,
Till by his side a Palmer stood.
Ill bodes it listless thus to be;
Upon a die I've set my head,
And brought this letter far to thee.”
His face grew pale as winter sky;
But, ere the half of it was done,
The tear of joy stood in his eye.
Mounted the cleft of aged tree,
Three times aloud his bugle blew,
And hasted home to Torwoodlee.
When first the foray whoop began;
And, in the wan light of the moon,
Through March and Teviotdale it ran.
Startled the hind by fold and tree;
And aye the watchword of the fray
Was “Ride for Ker and Torwoodlee!”
The warriors round their chieftains range;
And many a solemn vow they made,
And many an oath of fell revenge.
It was a gallant sight to see;
And many a Ker, with sword and lance,
Stood rank and file on Torwoodlee.
Where Tweed sweeps round the Thorny hill,
Old Gideon Murray and his men
The foray joined with right good-will.
And north above Mount-Benger turn,
And loathly forced with them to ride
Black Douglas of the Craigy-burn.
The day-sky glimmered on the dew;
They hid their horses in the brake,
And lurked in heath and braken clough.
Where tints of glowing light were seen;
The ganza waved his cuneal way,
With yellow oar and quoif of green.
Throned mid the wavy fringe of gold,
Unwreathed from dawning's fairy loom,
In many a soft vermilion fold.
Lingered along the slumbering vale;
Belled the gray stag with fervid breast
High on the moors of Meggat-dale.
Gazing around the still sublime,
There lay Lord Pringle and his men
On beds of heath and moorland thyme.
In all the father's guise appear;
An end of all his hopes he saw
Shrouded in Mary's gilded bier.
The suffering warrior's troubled look;
The throbs that heaved his bosom stern
No ear could bear, no heart could brook.
My Mary's prayers and accents mild
Might well have rendered vengeance lame—
This hand could ne'er have slain my child!
Reft the sweet life thou gavest, away,
And crushed to earth the fairest flower
That ever breathed the breeze of day.
The sword shall ne'er be drawn for me;
Unblest, unhonoured, my gray head—
My child! would I had died for thee!”—
The lengthened funeral train is seen
Stemming the Yarrow's silver wave,
And darkening Dryhope holms so green.
Just by the verge of holy ground,
The Kers and Pringles left the clough,
And hemmed the wondering Scotts around.
Sped off, and looked not once behind;
And all who came for wine and bread,
Fled like the chaff before the wind.
(For every Scott of name was there),
In sullen mood their weapons drew,
And back to back for fight prepare.
Nor word, was heard from friend or foe;
At once began the work of fate,
With perilous thrust and deadly blow.
And bore them bravely in the broil!
The doughty laird of wild Buccleuch
Raged like a lion in the toil.
The blood was streaming to his heel,
But soon, to ward the fatal stroke,
Up rattled twenty blades of steel.
But Ralph of Gilmanscleuch was slain,
Philip and Hugh of Baillilee,
And William, laird of Deloraine.
With his long sword and sullen eye,
Jealous of ancient honours won;
Woe to the wight that came him nigh!
And flying, fought full desperately;
At length within his feudal lake
He stood, and fought unto the knee.
No friendly skiff was there that day!
For why: the knight in bootless pride,
Had driven them from the wave away.
Red rolled the billow from the west,
And fishes swam indignantly
Deep o'er the hero's boardly breast.
Till winds have ceased, and rains are gone,
There oft the shepherd's trembling form
Stands gazing o'er gigantic bone,
Of ancient chiefs by kinsmen slain:
Of feudal rights, and feudal pride,
And reckless Will of Thirlestane.
That reft her brave and generous son,
Who ne'er in all his restless life
Did unbecoming thing but one.
And heart to fiercest woes a prey,
Seemed courting every foeman's brand,
And fought in hottest of the fray.
Wedged in a firm and bristled ring;
Their funeral weeds are bathed in blood,
No corslets round their bosoms cling.
Their courage, might, and skill were vain;
Short was the conflict, short the while
Ere all the Scotts were bound or slain.
The body in the church was laid,
Where vows were made, and requiems sung,
By matron, monk, and weeping maid.
The monks and maidens kneeled in fear;
But Lady Tushilaw stood by,
And pointed to her Mary's bier!
What boots this doleful work to thee?
Could Scotland such a pair have seen
As Mary Scott and Torwoodlee?”
Nor owned the pangs his bosom knew;
But his full heart was like to break
In every throb his bosom drew.
Woe to the guileful friend who lied!—
This day should join us ne'er to part,
This day that I should win my bride!
Cold, pale, and lifeless though it be;
And I will kiss that comely cheek,
Once sweeter than the rose to me.”
Sweet was the perfume round that flew;
For there were strewed the roses red,
And every flower the forest knew.
'Twas decked with many a costly wreath;
And still it wore a soothing grace
Even in the chill abodes of death.
And aye he kissed the lips beloved,
Till pitying maidens wept outright,
And even the frigid monks were moved.
Why bend his eyes with watchful strain?
The maidens shriek his mien to see;
The startled priests inquire in vain.
That heaved the flowers so lightly shed?—
'Twas but the wind that wandered by,
And kissed the bosom of the dead!
O'er Mary's cheek that come and fly?
Ah, no! the red flowers round are rife,
The rose-bud flings its softened dye.
Stay, dear illusion, still beguile!
Thou art worth crowns and worlds to him—
Last, dear delusion, last a while!
For ever fell the veil on thee;
Thy startling form, of fears the sport,
Vanished in sweet reality!
A mother's cares and purpose deep:
That kiss, the last adieu that sealed,
Waked Mary from her death-like sleep!
Her eyes no ray conceptive flung;
And O, her mild, her languid face,
Was like a flower too early sprung!
My heart is bound in moveless chain;
Another cup, my mother dear,
I cannot sleep though I would fain!”—
She drank the wine with pause and sigh:
Slowly, as wakes the dawning day,
Dawned long-lost thought in Mary's eye.
At altar, shrine, and rosary;
She saw her lady mother near,
And at her side brave Torwoodlee.
A phantom of the fevered brain:
She laid her down in moaning mood,
To sooth her woes in sleep again.
The nuptial vow, the bridal glee—
How Mary Scott, the Forest flower,
Was borne a bride to Torwoodlee.
When Mary glided from the dome;
They thought the Virgin's holy shade
In likeness of the dead had come.
And twinkled round her brow so fair;
She wore more gold upon her breast
Than would have bought the hills of Yair.
Ne'er trode Saint Mary's lonely lea;
A bride so gay, a face so sweet,
The Yarrow braes shall never see.
No grateful word his tongue could say;
He took one kiss, blest her the while,
Wiped his dark eye, and turned away.
Each Scott, each Ker, each Pringle swore—
Swore by his name, and by his sword,
To be firm friends for evermore.
Drove after drove came nightly free;
But many a Border baron knew
Whence came the dower to Torwoodlee.
This ballad is founded on the old song of The Grey Goss-hawk. The catastrophe is the same, and happens at the same place, namely, in St. Mary's Churchyard. The castle of Tushilaw, where the chief scene of the tale is laid, stood on a shelve of the hill which overlooks the junction of the rivers Ettrick and Rankleburn. It is a singular situation, and seems to have been chosen for the extensive prospect of the valley, which it commands both to the east and west. It was the finest old baronial castle of which the Forest can boast, but the upper arches and turrets fell in of late years, with a crash that alarmed the whole neighbourhood. It is now a huge heap of ruins. Its last inhabitant was Adam Scott, who was long denominated in the south the King of the Border, but the courtiers called him the King of Thieves. King James V. acted upon the same principle with these powerful chiefs, most of whom disregarded his authority, as Bonaparte did with the sovereigns of Europe. He always managed matters so as to take each of them single-handed—made a rapid and secret march—overthrew one or two of them, and then returned directly home till matters were ripe for taking the advantage of some other. He marched on one day from Edinburgh to Meggatdale, accompanied by a chosen body of horsemen, surprised Peres Cockburn, a bold and capricious outlaw who tyrannized over those parts, hanged him over his own gate, sacked and burned his castle of Henderland, and divided his lands between two of his principal followers, Sir James Stuart and the Lord Hume. From Henderland he marched across the mountains by a wild unfrequented path, still called the King's Road, and appeared before the gates of Tushilaw about sunrise. Scott was completely taken by surprise; he, however, rushed to arms with his few friends who were present, and, after a desperate but unequal conflict, King James overcame him, plundered his castle of riches and stores to a prodigious amount, hanged the old Border king over a huge tree which is still growing in the corner of the castle-yard, and over which he himself had hanged many a one, carried his head with him in triumph to Edinburgh, and placed it on a pole over one of the ports. There was a long and deadly feud between the Scotts and the Kers in those days; the Pringles, Murrays, and others around, always joined with the latter, in order to keep down the too powerful Scotts, who were not noted as the best of neighbours.
When from the ring the minstrel sprung;
O'er foot of maid, and cane of man,
Three times he foundered as he ran,
And his gilt harp, of flowery frame,
Left ready for the next that came.
Loud were the plaudits—all the fair
Their eyes turned to the royal chair:
They looked again,—no bard was there!
But whisper, smile, and question ran,
Around the ring anent the man;
While all the nobles of the south
Lauded the generous stranger youth.
Beneath the mists of Lammermore;
And long, by Nith and crystal Tweed,
Had taught the Border youth to read:
The strains of Greece, the bard of Troy,
Were all his theme, and all his joy.
Well toned his voice of wars to sing;
His hair was dark as raven's wing;
His eye an intellectual lance,
No heart could bear its searching glance:
But every bard to him was dear;
His heart was kind, his soul sincere.
When first of Royal Wake he heard,
Forthwith it chained his sole regard:
It was his thought, his hourly theme,
His morning prayer, his midnight dream.
Knights, dames, and squires of each degree,
He deemed as fond of songs as he,
And talked of them continually.
But when he heard the Highland strain,
Scarce could his breast his soul contain;
'Twas all unequalled, and would make
Immortal Bards, immortal Wake!
About Dunedin streets he ran,
Each knight he met, each maid, each man,
In field, in alley, tower, or hall,
The Wake was first, the Wake was all.
Alike to him the south or north,
So high he held the minstrel worth;
So high his ardent mind was wrought,
Once of himself he scarcely thought.
Dear to his heart the strain sublime,
The strain admired in ancient time;
And of his minstrel honours proud,
He strung his harp too high, too loud.
King Edward's Dream.
THE FIFTEENTH BARD'S SONG.
The moon of her tassels of silver was shorn,
When hoary King Edward lay tossing in ire,
His blood in a ferment, his bosom on fire:
His battle-files, stretched o'er the valley, were still
As Eden's pine forests that darkened the hill.
How quivered his lip! and how quaked every limb!
His dull-moving eye showed how troubled his rest,
And deep were the throbs of his labouring breast.
The fierce Scottish warriors determined and nigh;
Their columns of steel, and, bright gleaming before,
The lance, the broad target, and Highland claymore.
And, lo! at their head, in stern glory appeared
That hero of heroes so hated and feared;
'Twas the exile of Rachrin that led the array,
And Wallace's spirit was pointing the way:
His eye was a torch, beaming ruin and wrath,
And graved on his helmet was—Vengeance or Death!
Where whirlwinds new mountains up-pile on the plain,
Their crested brown billows, fierce curling on high,
O'ershadow the sun, and are tossed to the sky;
But, meeting each other, they burst and recoil,
Mix, thunder, and sink, with a reeling turmoil:
As dreadful the onset that Edward beheld,
As fast his brave legions were heaped on the field.
Spread terror before him, and ruin behind:
Thick clouds of blood-vapour brood over the slain,
And Pembroke and Howard are stretched on the plain.
Still nearer and nearer approached where he stood;
He could not retreat, and no succour was near—
“Die, scorpion!” he cried, and pursued his career.
The king felt the iron retreat from the wound,
No hand to uphold him, he sunk on the ground:
His spirit, escaped on the wings of the wind,
Left terror, confusion, and carnage behind,
Till on the green Pentland he thought he sat lone,
And pondered on troubles and times that were gone.
From Ochil's fair mountains to Lammermore brown;
He still found his heart and desires were the same;
He wished to leave Scotland nor sceptre nor name.
A spirit approached him in manner sublime:
At first she appeared like a streamer of light,
But still, as she neared, she was formed to his sight.
Her robe was the blue silken veil of the sky,
The drop of the amethyst deepened its dye;
Her crown was a helmet, emblazoned with pearl;
Her mantle the sunbeam, her bracelets the beryl;
Her hands and her feet like the bright burning levin;
Her face was the face of an angel from heaven:
Around her the winds and the echoes grew still,
And rainbows were formed in the cloud of the hill.
When twilight has lulled all the breezes asleep,
The wild fairy airs in our forests that rung,
Or hymn of the sky by a seraph when sung;
So sweet were the tones on the fancy that broke,
When the Guardian of Scotland's proud mountains thus spoke:—
'Tis over—thy sand of existence is run;
Thy laurels are faded, dispersed in the blast;
Thy soul from the bar of Omnipotence cast,
To wander bewildered o'er mountain and plain,
O'er lands thou hast steeped with the blood of the slain.
Thou'rt doomed on these mountains to linger and lie,
The mark of the tempest, the sport of the wind—
The tempest of conscience, the storm of the mind—
Till people thou'st hated, and sworn to subdue,
Triumphant from bondage shall burst in thy view,
Their sceptre and liberty bravely regain,
And climb to renown over mountains of slain.
The time was arrived when the two should combine;
For 'tis known that they will 'mong the hosts of the sky,
And we thought that blest era of concord was nigh.
But ages unborn yet shall flit on the wing,
And Scotland to England ere then give a king;
A father to monarchs, whose flourishing sway
The ocean and ends of the earth shall obey.
See yon hoary battlement throned on the rock,
Even there shall a city in splendour break forth,
The haughty Dunedin, the Queen of the North;
There learning shall flourish, and liberty smile,
The awe of the world, and the pride of the isle.
And weep o'er thy labours so soon to decay.
In yon western plain, where thy power overthrew
The bulwarks of Caledon, valiant and few;
Where beamed the red falchion of ravage and wrath;
Where tyranny, horsed on the dragons of death,
Rode ruthless through blood of the honoured and just,
When Græme and brave Stuart lay bleeding in dust—
The wailings of liberty pierced the sky;
The Eternal, in pity, averted his eye!
Proud England, green Erin, and Normandy joined,
Exulting in numbers, and dreadful array,
Led on by Carnarvon, to Scotland away,
As thick as the snow-flakes that pour from the pole,
Or silver-maned waves on the ocean that roll:
By a handful of heroes, all desperate driven,
Impelled by the might and the vengeance of Heaven—
By them shall these legions be all overborne,
And melt from the field like the mist of the morn.
The Thistle shall rear her rough front to the sky,
And the Rose and the Shamrock at Carron shall die.
Would stoop to oppression, to slavery, and shame?
Ah! never; the lion may couch to thy sway,
The mighty leviathan bend and obey;
But the Scots, round their king and broad banner unfurled,
Their mountains will keep against thee and the world.”
The vision was vanished, but not from his heart!
His courage was high, but his vigour was gone;
He cursed the Scots nation, and bade them lead on.
His legions moved on like a cloud of the west;
But fierce was the fever that boiled in his breast:
On sand of the Solway they rested his bed,
Where the soul of the king and the warrior fled.
He heard not the sound of the evening curfew;
But the whisper that died on his tongue was—“Subdue!”
The scene of this ballad is on the banks of the Eden in Cumberland, a day's march from Burgh, on the sands of Solway, where King Edward I. died, in the midst of an expedition against the Scots, in which he had solemnly sworn to extirpate them as a nation.
While patriot fire flashed from his eye,
That ere King Edward won to rest,
Or sheet was spread above his breast,
The harp-strings jarred in wild mis-tone;
The minstrel throbbed, his voice was gone.
Upon his harp he leaned his head,
And softly from the ring was led.
The next was from a western vale,
Where Nith winds slowly down the dale;
Where play the waves o'er golden grain,
Like mimic billows of the main.
Of the old elm his harp was made,
That bent o'er Cluden's loneliest shade:
No gilded sculpture round her flamed,
For his own hand that harp had framed,
In stolen hours, when, labour done,
He strayed to view the parting sun.
O, when the toy to him so fair,
Began to form beneath his care,
How danced his youthful heart with joy!
How constant grew the dear employ!
The sun would chamber in the Ken;
The red star rise o'er Locherben;
The solemn moon in sickly hue,
Waked from her eastern couch of dew,
Would half way gain the vault on high,
Bathe in the Nith, slow stealing by,
And still the bard his task would ply.
When his first notes, from covert gray,
Arrested maiden on her way;
When ceased the reaper's evening tale,
And paused the shepherd of the dale—
Bootless all higher worldly bliss,
To crown our minstrel's happiness!
What all the joys by fortune given,
To cloyless song, the gift of Heaven?
That harp could make the matron stare,
Bristle the peasant's hoary hair,
Make patriot breasts with ardour glow,
And warrior pant to meet the foe;
Shall chant the strains their minstrel sung:
At ewe-bught, or at evening fold,
When resting on the daisied wold,
Combing their locks of waving gold,
Oft the fair group, enrapt, shall name
Their lost, their darling Cunninghame.
His was a song beloved in youth—
A tale of weir—a tale of truth.
Dumlanrig.
THE SIXTEENTH BARD'S SONG.
Hollas so loud, and raps so late?
Nor warder's threat, nor porter's growl,
Question, nor watch-dog's angry howl,
He once regards; but rap and call,
Thundering alternate, shake the wall.
The captive, stretched in dungeon deep,
Waked from his painful visioned sleep,
His meagre form from pavement raised,
And listened to the sounds amazed:
Both bayle and keep rang with the din,
And Douglas heard the noise within.
“Ho! rise, Dumlanrig! Douglas, wake!
Blow, warder—blow thy warning shrill,
Light up the beacon on the hill,
For round thee reaves thy ruthless foe—
Arise, Dumlanrig! Douglas, ho!”—
And to the crennel eager flew.
“What news, what news, thou stalwart groom,
Who thus, in midnight's deepest gloom,
Bring'st to my gate the loud alarm
Of foray wide and country harm?
What are thy dangers?—what thy fears?
Say out thy message—Douglas hears.”
And mount thy fleetest battle steed;
For Lennox, with the southern host,
Whom thou hast baulked and curbed the most,
Like locusts from the Solway blown,
Are spread upon thy mountains brown:
Broke from their camp in search of prey,
They drive thy flocks and herds away;
Roused by revenge, and hunger keen,
They've swept the hills of fair Dalveen;
Nor left thee bullock, goat, or steer,
On all the holms of Durisdeer.
They burnt our tower—they took our all.
My dear, my only sister May,
By force the ruffians bore away;
Nor kid nor lamb bleats in the glen,
Around all lonely Locherben!
Eager to cross the roaming foe,
Well armed with hauberk and broadsword,
Keep ward at Cample's rugged ford.
Before they bear their prey across,
Some Southrons shall their helmets lose,
If not the heads those helmets shield,—
O, haste thee, Douglas, to the field!”—
With that his horse around he drew,
And down the path like lightning flew.
And vanished from the echoing wall.
“Arm!” was the word; along it ran
Through manor, bayle, and barbican;
And clank and clatter burst at once
From every loop of hall and sconce.
With whoop of groom, and warder's call,
And prancing steeds, 'twas hurry all.
The rattling din came rolling on:
Echoed Dumlanrig woods around;
Louder and louder swelled the sound,
Till like the sheeted flame of wonder,
That rends the shoals of heaven asunder.
Glowed all the eastern porch of heaven;
A wreathy cloud of orient brown
Had heralded the rising moon,
Whose verge was like a silver bow,
Bending o'er Ganna's lofty brow;
And ere above the mountain blue
Her wasted orb was rolled in view,
A thousand men, in armour sheen,
Stood ranked upon Dumlanrig green.
For Cample-ford they bent their way.
Never saw yeoman nobler sight;
Mounted on tall curvetting steed,
He rode undaunted at their head;
His shadow on the water still,
Like giant on a moving hill.
The ghastly bull's-head scowled on high,
Emblem of death to foeman's eye;
And bloody hearts on streamers pale,
Waved wildly in the midnight gale.
Thy kinsmen's corpses stem the tide!
What red, what dauntless youth is he,
Who stands in Cample to the knee;
Whose arm of steel, and weapon good,
Still dyes the stream with Southern blood,
While round him fall his faithful men?
'Tis Morison of Locherben.
Ere won be that important way!
The Southron's countless prey, within
The dreadful coils of Crighup linn,
No passage from the moor can find,—
The wood below, the gulf behind:
One pass there is, and one alone,
And in that pass stands Morison.
Who crosses there, or man or beast,
Must make their passage o'er his breast,
And over heaps of mangled dead,
That dam red Cample from its bed.
His sister's cries his soul alarm,
And add new vigour to his arm.
His twenty men are waned to ten—
O, haste to dauntless Locherben!
And crowd once more the fatal bourn.
All desperate grew the work of death,
No yielding but with yielding breath;
Even still lay every death-struck man,
For footing to the furious van.
The little band was seized with dread,
Behind their rampart of the dead;
Power from their arms began to fly,
And hope within their breasts to die,
When loud they heard the cheering word
Of—“Douglas! Douglas!” cross the ford;
Then turned the Southron swift as wind,
For fierce the battle raged behind.
Guard but that pass till break of day;
Thy flocks, thy sister to retrieve,
That task to doughty Douglas leave;
Let not thine ardour all betray—
Thy might is spent—brave warrior, stay.
When Linden's lofty hymn was sung;
Or his, who from the height beheld
The reeling strife of Flodden field!
Then far on wing of genius borne
Should ring the wonders of that morn:
Morn!—ah! how many a warrior bold
That morn was never to behold!
When rival rank to rank drew nigh,
When eye was fixed on foeman's eye,
When lowered was lance, and bent was bow,
And falchion clenched to strike the blow,
No breath was heard, nor clank of mail,
Each face with rage grew deadly pale:
Trembled the moon's reluctant ray;
The breeze of heaven sunk soft away.
Destruction's gates at once unlock;
'Twas like the earthquake's hollow groan,
When towers and towns are overthrown:
'Twas like the river's midnight crush,
When snows dissolve, and torrents rush;
When fields of ice, in rude array,
Obstruct its own resistless way:
'Twas like the whirlwind's rending sweep;
'Twas like the tempest of the deep,
Where Corrybraken's surges driven,
Meet, mount, and lash the breast of heaven.
Oft hilt to hilt, and hand to hand;
Oft gallant foemen, woe to tell,
Dead in each other's bosoms fell!
The horsemen met with might and main,
Then reeled, and wheeled, and met again.
A thousand spears on hauberks bang;
A thousand swords on helmets clang.
Where might was with the feebler blent,
Still there the line of battle bent;
As oft recoiled from flank assail,
While blows fell thick as rattling hail.
Nature stood mute that fateful hour,
All save the ranks on Cample-moor,
And mountain goats that left their den,
And bleating fled to Garroch glen.
The foremost in the broil was seen:
Woe to the warrior dared withstand
The progress of his deadly brand!
He sat so firm, he reined so well,
Whole ranks before his charger fell.
A valiant youth kept by his side,
With crest and armour crimson dyed;
Charged still with him the yielding foe,
And seconded his every blow.
The Douglas wondered whence he came,
And asked his lineage and his name:
'Twas he who kept the narrow way,
Who raised at first the battle-fray,
And roused Dumlanrig and his men,—
Brave Morison of Locherben.
For one than life to me more dear;
‘Dumlanrig, now thy weapon ply.’—
Her guard waits in yon hollow lea,
Beneath the shade of spreading tree.”—
“Follow!” he cried, and spurred him on.
A close gazoon the horsemen made,
Douglas and Morison the head,
And through the ranks impetuous bore,
By dint of lance and broad claymore,
'Mid shouts, and groans of parting life,
For hard and doubtful was the strife.
Behind the knight firm belted on,
They found the fair May Morison.
But why through all Dumlanrig's train,
Search her bright eyes, and search in vain?
A stranger mounts her on his steed;
Brave Morison, where art thou fled?
The drivers for their booty feared,
And soon as Cample-ford was cleared,
To work they fell, and forced away
Across the stream their mighty prey.
The bleating flocks in terror ran
Across the bloody breast of man;
Even the dull cattle gazed with dread,
And lowing, foundered o'er the dead.
Though broke, they closed and fought again,
Till shouting drivers gave the word,
That all the flocks had cleared the ford;
Then to that pass the bands retire,
And safely braved Dumlanrig's ire.
Rashly he tried, and tried in vain,
That steep, that fatal path to gain;
Madly prolonged th' unequal fray,
And lost his men, and lost the day.
Amid the battle's fiercest shock,
Three spears were on his bosom broke;
Then, forced in flight to seek remede,
Had it not been his noble steed,
That swift away his master bore,
He ne'er had seen Dumlanrig more.
O'er Queensberry began to peep;
Kneeled drowsy on the mountain fern,
At length rose tiptoe on the cairn,
Embracing in his bosom pale,
The stars, the moon, and shadowy dale.
Then what a scene appalled the view,
On Cample-moor, as dawning grew!
Along the purple heather spread,
Lay mixed the dying and the dead;
Stern foemen there from quarrel cease,
Who ne'er before had met in peace.
Two kinsmen good the Douglas lost,
And full three hundred of his host;
With one by him lamented most,
The flower of all the Nithsdale men,
Young Morison of Locherben.
Nor seek the conflict to renew.
They knew not at the rising sun
What mischief they'd to Douglas done,
But to the south pursued their way,
Glad to escape with such a prey.
How stinted in thy bold career!
Woe, that the Lowther eagle's look
Should shrink before the Lowland rook!
Woe, that the lordly lion's paw
Of ravening wolves should sink in awe!
But doubly woe, the purple heart
Should tarnished from the field depart!
Or crusted scratch of Southron spear?
Was it thy dumb, thy sullen host;
Thy glory by misconduct lost;
Or thy proud bosom, swelling high,
Made the round tear roll in thine eye?
Ah! no; thy heart was doomed to prove
The sharper pang of slighted love.
Flitting across the field of death;
Its gliding motion, smooth and still
As vapour on the twilight hill,
Or the last ray of falling even
Shed through the parting clouds of heaven?
Or angel from the bowers of morn,
Come down a tear of heaven to shed,
In pity o'er the valiant dead?
No vain, no fleeting phantom this!
No vision from the bowers of bliss!
Its radiant eye, and stately tread,
Bespeak some beauteous mountain maid:
No rose of Eden's bosom meek,
Could match that maiden's moistened cheek;
No drifted wreath of morning snow,
The whiteness of her lofty brow;
Nor gem of India's purest dye,
The lustre of her eagle eye.
First stretched the arm to deeds of sin;
When passion burned, and prudence slept,
The pitying angels bent and wept.
But tears more soft were never shed,
No, not when angels bowed the head;
A sigh more mild did never breathe
O'er human nature whelmed in death;
Nor woe and dignity combine,
In face so lovely, so benign,
As Douglas saw that dismal hour,
Bent o'er a corse on Cample-moor:
A lady o'er her shield, her trust,
A brave, an only brother's dust!
When plays the smile in beauty's eye?
Or when a form of grace and love
To music's notes can lightly move?
Yes: there are hearts unmoved can see
The smile, the ring, the revelry;
But heart of warrior ne'er could bear
The beam of beauty's crystal tear.
Well was that morn the maxim proved—
The Douglas saw, the Douglas loved.
Sweet floweret of the banks of Ae,
His soul thou never canst recall—
He fell as warrior wont to fall.
Deep, deep the loss we both bewail;
But that deep loss to countervail,
Far as the day-flight of the hern,
From Locherben to green Glencairn,
From where the Shinnel torrents pour
To the lone vales of Crawford-moor,
The fairy links of Tweed and Lyne,
All, all the Douglas has is thine,
And Douglas too: whate'er betide,
Straight thou shalt be Dumlanrig's bride.”—
No; by yon heaven's high Majesty,
Sooner I'll beg, forlorn and poor,
Bent at thy meanest vassal's door,
Than look thy splendid halls within,
Thou deer, wrapt in a lion's skin!
Thy kinsmen strew the purple heath;
What boot thy boasted mountains green?
Nor flock, nor herd, can there be seen;
All driven before thy vaunting foe
To ruthless slaughter, bleat and low,
Whilst thou—shame on thy dastard head!
A wooing com'st amid the dead.
Could bend the bow, or wield the brand!
If yeoman mustered in my hall,
Or trooped obsequious at my call,
My country's honour I'd restore,
And shame thy face for evermore.
Go first thy flocks and herds regain;
Revenge thy friends in battle slain;
Thy wounded honour heal; that done,
Douglas may ask May Morison.”
His manly cheek like crimson blushed.
He called three yeomen to his side:
“Haste, gallant warriors, haste and ride!
Warn Lindsay on the banks of Daur,
The fierce M'Turk and Lochinvaur:
Tell them that Lennox flies amain;
That Maxwell and Glencairn are ta'en;
Kilpatrick with the spoiler rides;
The Johnston flies, and Jardine hides;
That I alone am left to fight
For country's cause and sovereign's right.
My friends are fallen—my warriors toiled
My towns are burnt—my vassals spoiled:
Yet say—before to-morrow's sun
With amber tips the mountain dun,
Either that host of ruthless thieves
I'll scatter like the forest leaves,
Or my wrung heart shall cease to play,
And my right hand the sword to sway.
At Blackwood I'll their coming bide:
Haste, gallant warriors, haste and ride!”—
And forward stooped in act to fly;
No plea was urged, no short demur;
Each heel was turned to strike the spur.
From covert sprung, traverse the wood;
Or heath-fowl beat the mountain wind
And leave the fowler fixt behind:
As ever ye saw three arrows spring
At once from yew-bow's twanging string—
So flew the messengers of death,
And, lessening, vanished on the heath.
Prepare due honours for the dead,
And meet well armed at evening still
On the green cone of Blackford-hill.
There came M'Turk to aid the war
With troops from Shinnel glens and Scaur;
Fierce Gordon with the clans of Ken,
And Lindsay with his Crawford men;
Old Morton, too, forlorn and gray,
Whose son had fallen at break of day.
An onset made by Scottish brand,
Then lawless rapine sways the throng,
And conscience whispers—“This is wrong:”
But should a foe, whate'er his might,
To Scotia's soil dispute her right,
Or dare on native mountain claim
The poorest atom boasts her name,
Though high that warrior's banners soar,
Let him beware the broad claymore.
Though rudely cropt, though rolled in blood,
Yet bathed in warm and purple dew,
More glorious o'er the ruin grew.
Long flourished thy paternal line;
Arabia's lineage stoops to thine.
Stretched on the ridge of Locher-moor:
The hum that wandered from their host,
Far on the midnight breeze was lost.
No deafening drum, no bugle's swell,
No watchword passed from sentinel;
To warn the Scot a foe was there,
Save bleat of flocks that wandered slow,
And oxen's deep and sullen low.
What vultures watch his soul to fang!
What toils! what snares!—he hies him on
Where lightnings flash, and thunders groan;
Where havoc strikes whole legions low,
And death's red billows murmuring flow;
Yet still he fumes and flounders on,
Till crushed the moth—its memory gone!
His maiden's scorn by mountain bourn,
Or pour his wild harp's fairy tone
From sounding cliff or greenwood lone,
Of slaughtered foemen proudly tell,
On deeds of death and horror dwell?
Fierce on the foe he rushed like fire:
Lindsay of Crawford, known to fame,
That night first gained a hero's name:
The brave M'Turk of Stenhouse stood
Bathed to the knees in Southron blood:
A bold and generous chief was he,
And come of ancient pedigree;
And Gordon with his Galloway crew,
O'er floundering ranks resistless flew.
Short was the strife!—they fled as fast
As chaff before the northern blast.
And well their worth Dumlanrig knew;
But ne'er so proud was he before
Of his broad bounds and countless store,
As when they strung up Nithsdale plain,
Well guarded to their hills again.
With Douglas' name the greenwoods rung,
As battle-songs his warriors sung.
The banners streamed in double row,
The heart above, the rose below.
His visage glowed, his pulse beat high,
And gladness sparkled in his eye;
For why, he knew the lovely May,
Who in Kilpatrick's castle lay,
With joy his proud return would view,
And her impetuous censure rue.
Intrude himself on lady's grief,
As if his right—as nought but he
Were worthy her anxiety?
No, warrior: keep thy distance due;
Beauty is proud and jealous too.
If fair and young thy maiden be,
Know she knew that ere told by thee.
Be kind, be gentle, heave the sigh,
And blush before her piercing eye;
For though thou'rt noble, brave, and young,
If rough thy mien and rude thy tongue,
Though proudly towers thy trophied pile,
Hope not for beauty's yielding smile.
Oh! well it suits the brave and high,
Gentle to prove in lady's eye.
Fair as the sunbeam o'er the shower,
Gentle as zephyr of the plain,
Sweet as the rosebud after rain:
Gone all her scorn and maiden pride,
She blushed Dumlanrig's lovely bride.
Scarce vibrates in the ear of fame,
But for thy might and valour keen,
That gallant house had never been.
Oft flashed thy broadsword in the van;
When stern rebellion reared the brand,
And stained the laurels of our land,
No knight unshaken stood like thee
In right of injured majesty:
Even yet, o'er thy forgotten bier,
A minstrel drops the burning tear,
And strikes his wild harp's boldest string,
Thy honours on the breeze to fling,
That mountains once thine own may know
From whom the Queensberry honours flow.
So true in love, so brave in fight!
Though o'er thy children's princely urn
The sculpture towers, and seraphs mourn,
O'er thy green grave shall wave the yew,
And heaven distil its earliest dew.
This ballad relates to a well-known historical fact, of which tradition has preserved an accurate and feasible detail. The battles took place two or three years subsequent to the death of King James V. I have heard that it is succinctly related by some historian, but I have forgot who it is. Holinshed gives a long bungling account of the matter, but places the one battle a year before the other, whereas it does not appear that Lennox made two excursions into Nithsdale at the head of the English forces, or fought two bloody battles with the laird of Dumlanrig on the same ground, as the historian would insinuate. He says, that Dumlanrig, after pursuing them cautiously for some time, was overthrown in attempting to cross a ford of the river too rashly; that he lost two of his principal kinsmen, and two hundred of his followers; had several spears broken upon his body, and escaped only by the goodness of his horse. The battle which took place next night, he relates as having happened next year; but it must be visible to every reader that he is speaking of the same incidents in the annals of both years. In the second engagement he acknowledges that Dumlanrig defeated the English horse, which he attributes to a desertion from the latter, but that, after pursuing them as far as Dalswinton, they were joined by the foot, and retrieved the day. The account given of the battles, by Lesleus and Fran. Thin, seems to have been so different, that they have misled the chronologer; the names of the towns and villages appearing to him so different, whereas a local knowledge of the country would have convinced him that both accounts related to the same engagement.
Circled a smile the fair among;
The song was free, and soft its fall,
So soothing, yet so bold withal,
They loved it well, yet, sooth to say,
Too long, too varied was the lay.
'Twas now the witching time of night,
When reason strays, and forms that fright
Are shadowed on the palsied sight;
When fancy moulds upon the mind
Light visions on the passing wind,
And woos, with faltering tongue and sigh,
The shades o'er memory's wilds that fly;
And much the circle longed to hear
Of gliding ghost, or gifted seer,
That in that still and solemn hour
Might stretch imagination's power,
And restless fancy revel free
In painful, pleasing luxury.
Just as the battle-tale was done
The watchman called the hour of one.
Lucky the wish of every dame:
The bard who rose at herald's call
Was wont to sing in Highland hall,
Where the wild chieftain of M'Lean
Upheld his dark Hebridian reign;
Where floated crane and clamorous gull
Above the misty shores of Mull;
And evermore the billows rave
Round many a saint and sovereign's grave.
There, round Columba's ruins gray,
The shades of monks are wont to stray,
And slender forms of nuns, that weep
In moonlight by the murmuring deep,
O'er early loves and passions crost,
And being's end for ever lost.
No earthly form their names to save,
No stem to flourish o'er their grave,
No blood of theirs beyond the shrine
To nurse the human soul divine,
Still cherish youth by time unworn,
And flow in ages yet unborn;
While mind, surviving evermore,
Unbodied seeks that lonely shore.
In that wild land our minstrel bred,
From youth a life of song had led,
Wandering each shore and upland dull
With Allan Bawn, the bard of Mull,
To sing the deeds of old Fingal
In every cot and Highland hall.
Well knew he, every ghost that came
To visit fair Hebridian dame,
Was that of monk or abbot gone,
Who once, in cell of pictured stone,
Of woman thought, and her alone.
Well knew he, every female shade,
To westland chief that visit paid
In morning pale, or evening dun,
Was that of fair lamenting nun,
Who once, in cloistered home forlorn,
Languished for joys in youth forsworn;
And oft himself had seen them glide
At dawning from his own bed-side.
Forth stepped he with uncourtly bow;
The heron plume waved o'er his brow;
His garb was blent with varied shade,
And round him flowed his Highland plaid.
But woe to Southland dame and knight
In minstrel's tale who took delight.
Though known the air, the song he sung
Was in the barbarous Highland tongue:
But tartaned chiefs in raptures hear
The strains, the words, to them so dear.
Thus ran the bold portentous lay,
As near as southern tongue can say.
The Abbot M'Kinnon.
THE SEVENTEENTH BARD'S SONG.
And beckons the breeze in Iona bay;
Plays lightly up in the morning sky,
And nods to the green wave rolling by;
The anchor upheaves, the sails unfurl,
The pennons of silk in the breezes curl;
But not one monk on holy ground
Knows whither the Abbot M'Kinnon is bound.
Though monks and friars alone must guide;
For never man of other degree
On board that sacred ship might be.
On deck M'Kinnon walked soft and slow;
The haulers sung from the gilded prow;
The helmsman turned his brow to the sky,
Upraised his cowl and upraised his eye,
And away shot the bark on the wing of the wind,
Over billow and bay like an image of mind.
To see where the bark of their abbot would bear;
They saw her sweep from Iona bay,
And turn her prow to the north away,
Still lessen to view in the hazy screen,
And vanish amid the islands green.
Then they turned their eyes to the female dome,
And thought of the nuns till the abbot came home.
Came stealing o'er the moors of Mull;
Three times the sea-gull left the deep,
To doze on the knob of the dizzy steep,
By the sound of the ocean lulled to sleep;
And still the watch-lights sailors see
On the top of the spire, and the top of Dun-ye;
And the laugh rings through the sacred dome,
For still the abbot is not come home.
From Rosa's rude impervious bound,
On the ravenous burrowing race to feed,
That loved to haunt the home of the dead,
To him Saint Columb had left in trust
To guard the bones of the royal and just,
Of saints and of kings the sacred dust;
The savage was scared from his charnel of death,
And swam to his home in hunger and wrath,
For he momently saw, through the night so dun,
The cowering monk, and the veiled nun,
Whispering, sighing, and stealing away
By cross dark alley, and portal gray.
“Where there are women, mischief must be.”
M'Kinnon and friends arrive at last.
A stranger youth to the isle they brought,
Modest of mien and deep of thought,
In costly sacred robes bedight,
And he lodged with the abbot by day and by night.
His leg was taper, his foot was small,
And his tread so light that it flung no sound
On listening ear or vault around.
His eye was the morning's brightest ray,
And his neck like the swan's in Iona bay;
His teeth the ivory polished new,
And his lip like the morel when glossed with dew,
While under his cowl's embroidered fold
Were seen the curls of waving gold.
This comely youth, of beauty so bright,
Abode with the abbot by day and by night.
Young friars would beckon, and monks would smile;
But sires, in dread of sins unshriven,
Would shake their heads and look up to heaven,
Afraid the frown of the saint to see,
Who reared their temple amid the sea,
And pledged his soul to guard the dome,
Till virtue should fly her western home.
But now a stranger of hidden degree,
Too fair, too gentle a man to be—
This stranger of beauty and step so light
Abode with the abbot by day and by night.
The monks were kind and the nuns were shy;
But the gray-haired sires, in trembling mood,
Kneeled at the altar and kissed the rood.
Stood by his side, and with courteous smile,
Bade him arise from his guilty sleep,
And pay his respects to the God of the deep,
In temple that north in the main appeared,
Which fire from bowels of ocean had seared,
Which the giant builders of heaven had reared,
To rival in grandeur the stately pile
Himself had upreared in Iona's isle;
For round them rose the mountains of sand,
The fishes had left the coasts of the land,
And so high ran the waves of the angry sea,
They had drizzled the cross on the top of Dun-ye.
The cycle was closed and the period run
He had vowed to the sea, he had vowed to the sun,
If in that time rose trouble or pain,
Their homage to pay to the God of the main.
Then he bade him haste and the rites prepare,
Named all the monks should with him fare,
And promised again to see him there.
He opened his casement and looked on the deep;
He looked to the mountains, he looked to the shore;
The vision amazed him and troubled him sore,
He never had heard of the rite before;
But all was so plain, he thought meet to obey,
He durst not decline, and he would not delay.
Uprose the sun from the Bens of Lorn;
And the bark her course to the northward framed,
With all on board whom the saint had named.
The wind was low and the swell was high,
And the glossy sea was heaving bright
Like ridges and hills of liquid light;
While far on her lubrick bosom were seen
The magic dyes of purple and green.
She leaned to the lee and she girdled the wave;
Aloft on the stayless verge she hung,
Light on the steep wave veered and swung,
And the crests of the billows before her flung.
Loud murmured the ocean with downward growl,
The seal swam aloof and the dark sea fowl;
The pie-duck sought the depth of the main,
And rose in the wheel of her wake again;
And behind her far to the southward, shone
A pathway of snow on the waste alone.
Where rose the sacred dome of the main;
Oft had they seen the place before,
And kept aloof from the dismal shore,
But now it rose before their prow,
And what they beheld they did not know.
The tall gray forms, in close-set file,
Upholding the roof of that holy pile;
The sheets of foam and the clouds of spray,
And the groans that rushed from the portals gray,
Appalled their hearts, and drove them away.
And moored in basin, by rocks imbound;
Then, awed to silence, they trode the strand
Where furnaced pillars in order stand,
All framed of the liquid burning levin,
And bent like the bow that spans the heaven,
Or upright ranged in horrid array,
With purfle of green o'er the darksome gray.
Its blocks all cast in some giant mould,
With countermure guarded by sea and by land.
The watcher Bushella frowned over their way,
Enrobed in the sea-baize, and hooded with gray;
The warder that stands by that dome of the deep,
With spray-shower and rainbow, the entrance to keep.
But when they drew nigh to the chancel of ocean,
And saw her waves rush to their raving devotion,
Astounded and awed to the antes they clung,
And listened the hymns in her temple she sung.
The song of the cliff, when the winter winds blow,
The thunder of heaven, the earthquake below,
Conjoined, like the voice of a maiden would be,
Compared with the anthem there sung by the sea.
Were dimly seen like the forms of men,
Like giant monks in ages agone,
Whom the God of the ocean had seared to stone,
And bound in his temple for ever to lean,
In sackcloth of gray and visors of green,
An everlasting worship to keep,
And the big salt tears eternally weep.
So loud was the tumult, so fierce the turmoil,
Appalled from those portals of terror they turn,
On pillar of marble their incense to burn.
Around the holy flame they pray,
Then turning their faces all west away,
On angel pavement each bent his knee,
And sung this hymn to the God of the sea.
To describe the astonishing scenes to which this romantic tale relates, Icolmkill and Staffa, would only be multiplying pages to no purpose. By the Temple of the Ocean is meant the isle of Staffa, and by its chancel the Cave of Fingal.
St. Columba placed the nuns in an island at a little distance from Iona, where he would not suffer either a cow or a woman; “for where there are cows,” said he, “there must be women; and where there are women, there must be mischief.”
The Monk's Hymn.
Thou, who walkest the channels below;
To thee, to thee, this incense we heap,
Thou, who knowest not slumber nor sleep,
Great Spirit that movest on the face of the deep!
To thee, to thee, we sing to thee,
God of the western wind, God of the sea!
The little fishes around our land;
To thee, who breath'st in the bosomed sail,
Rulest the shark and the rolling whale,
Flingest the sinner to downward grave,
Lightest the gleam on the mane of the wave,
Bid'st the billows thy reign deform,
Laugh'st in the whirlwind, sing'st in the storm;
Or risest like mountain amid the sea,
Where mountain was never, and never will be,
And rearest thy proud and thy pale chaperoon
'Mid walks of the angels and ways of the moon;
To thee, to thee, this wine we pour,
God of the western wind, God of the shower!
Softly sink in the fair moonshine,
And spread'st thy couch of silver light,
To lure to thy bosom the queen of the night;
Who weavest the cloud of the ocean dew,
And the mist that sleeps on her breast so blue;
When the murmurs die at the base of the hill,
And the shadows lie rocked and slumbering still,
And the solan's young, and the lines of foam,
Are scarcely heaved on thy peaceful home,
We pour this oil and this wine to thee,
God of the western wind, God of the sea!—
“Greater yet must the offering be.”
For the closing notes were not sung by man.
They came from the rock, or they came from the air,
From voice they knew not, and knew not where;
But it sung with a mournful melody,
“Greater yet must the offering be.”
In holy dread they past away,
And they walked the ridge of that isle so gray,
And saw the white waves toil and fret,
An hundred fathoms below their feet;
They looked to the countless isles that lie
From Barra to Mull, and from Jura to Skye;
They looked to heaven, they looked to the main,
They looked at all with a silent pain,
As on places they were not to see again.
A little bay lies hid from sight,
O'erhung by cliffs of dreadful height;
When they drew nigh that airy steep,
They heard a voice rise from the deep,
And that voice was sweet as voice could be,
And they feared it came from the Maid of the Sea.
M'Kinnon lay stretched on the verge of the hill,
And peeped from the height on the bay so still;
And he saw her sit on a weedy stone,
Laving her fair breast, and singing alone;
And aye she sank the wave within,
Till it gurgled around her lovely chin,
Then combed her locks of the pale sea-green,
And aye this song was heard between.
The Mermaid's Song.
Alone may lie,
And list to the wind that whistles by:
Sad may she be,
For deep in the sea,
Deep, deep, deep in the sea,
This night her lover shall sleep with me.
She may turn and hide
From the spirits that glide,
And the ghost that stands at her bedside:
But never a kiss the vow shall seal,
Nor warm embrace her bosom feel;
For far, far down in the floors below,
Moist as this rock-weed, cold as the snow,
With the eel, and the clam, and the pearl of the deep,
On soft sea-flowers her lover shall sleep;
In the coral bowers of the deep with me.
Shall pour on his couch a softened ray,
And his mantle shall wave in the flowing tide,
And the little fishes shall turn aside;
But the waves and the tides of the sea shall cease,
Ere wakes her love from his bed of peace.
No home!—no kiss!—No, never! never!
His couch is spread for ever and ever.
They turned and fled from the height away,
For dark and portentous was the day.
When they came in view of their rocking sail,
They saw an old man who sat on the wale;
His beard was long, and silver gray,
Like the rime that falls at the break of day;
His locks like wool, and his colour wan,
And he scarcely looked like an earthly man.
Wale is a Hebridean term, and signifies the verge or brim of the mountain. It is supposed to be modern, and used only in those maritime districts, as having a reference to the gunnel or wale of a ship or boat.
Whereunto bound, and whence he came;
But a sullen thoughtful silence he kept,
And turned his face to the sea and wept.
Some gave him welcome, and some gave him scorn,
But the abbot stood pale, with terror o'erborne;
He tried to be jocund, but trembled the more,
For he thought he had seen the face before.
Away went the ship with her canvas all spread,
So glad to escape from that island of dread;
And skimmed the blue wave like a streamer of light,
Till fell the dim veil 'twixt the day and the night.
Then the old man arose and stood up on the prow,
And fixed his dim eyes on the ocean below;
And they heard him saying, “Oh, woe is me!
But great as the sin must the sacrifice be.”
Oh, mild was his eye, and his manner sublime,
When he looked unto heaven, and said—“Now is the time.”
He looked to the weather, he looked to the lee,
He looked as for something he dreaded to see,
Then stretched his pale hand, and pointed his eye
To a gleam on the verge of the eastern sky.
The monks soon beheld, on the lofty Ben -More,
A sight which they never had seen before,
A belt of blue lightning around it was driven,
And its crown was encircled by morion of heaven;
And they heard a herald that loud did cry,
“Prepare the way for the abbot of I!”
Ben is a Highland term, and denotes a mountain of a pyramidal form, which stands unconnected with others.
It came from the sea, or it came from the air,
'Twas louder than tempest that ever blew,
And the sea-fowls screamed, and in terror flew;
Some ran to the cords, some kneeled at the shrine,
But all the wild elements seemed to combine;
'Twas just but one moment of stir and commotion,
And down went the ship like a bird of the ocean!
This moment she sailed all stately and fair,
The next, nor ship nor shadow was there,
But a boil that arose from the deep below;
A mountain gurgling column of snow:
It sunk away with a murmuring moan—
The sea is calm, and the sinners are gone.
CONCLUSION.
Long hast thou acted generous part—
Long hast thou courteously in pain
Attended to a feeble strain,
While oft abashed has sunk thine eye—
Thy task is done, the Wake is by.
'Twas not for minstrels long in dust,
But for the fond and venturous swain
Who dared to wake their notes again;
Yet oft thine eye has spoke delight,
I marked it well, and blessed the sight:
No sour disdain, nor manner cold,
Noted contempt for tales of old;
Oft hast thou at the fancies smiled,
And marvelled at the legends wild;
Thy task is o'er; peace to thy heart!
For thou hast acted generous part.
That thirty names were registered,
With whom were titled chiefs combined,
But some are lost and some declined.
Woe's me, that all my mountain lore
Has been unfit to rescue more!
And that my guideless rustic skill
Has told those ancient tales so ill.
The bards were warned to leave the hall,
Till courtiers gave the judgment true,
To whom the splendid prize was due.
What curious wight will pass with me,
The anxious motley group to see;
List their remarks of right and wrong,
Of skilful hand and faulty song,
And drink one glass the bards among?
Made maidens quake and courtiers stare,
What do they seem? behold them well.
A simpler race you shall not see,
Awkward and vain as men can be;
Light as the fumes of fervid wine,
Or foam-bells floating on the brine,
The gossamers in air that sail,
Or down that dances in the gale.
With high applause, but jealous will.
Each song, each strain, he erst had known,
And all had faults except his own.
Plaudits were mixed with meaning jeers,
For all had hopes, and all had fears.
And named each bard and named his song;
Rizzio was named from royal chair—
“Rizzio!” re-echoed many a fair.
Each song had some that song approved,
And voices gave for bard beloved.
The first division called and done,
Gardyn stood highest just by one.
No merits can the courtier sway,
'Twas then, it seems, as at this day.
Her favourite thus outdone to see,
Reproved her squire in high disdain,
And caused him call the votes again.
Strange though it seem, the truth I say,
Feature of that unyielding day,
Her favourite's voters counted o'er,
Were found much fewer than before.
Glistened her eyes with pungent dew;
She found with whom she had to do.
With names of those who second sung,
When, spite of haughty Highland blood,
The Bard of Ettrick upmost stood.
And, after long and keen debate,
The specious nobles of the south
Carried the nameless stranger youth;
Though Highland wrath was at the full,
Contending for the Bard of Mull.
Which of the three the prize should win.
'Twas party all—not minstrel worth,
But honour of the south and north;
And nought was heard throughout the court,
But taunt, and sneer, and keen retort.
High ran the words, and fierce the fume,
And from beneath each nodding plume
Red look was cast that vengeance said,
And palm on broadsword's hilt was laid;
While Lowland jeer, and Highland mood,
Threatened to end the Wake in blood.
Serene in counsel as in war.
“For shame,” said he, “contendants all!
This outrage done in royal hall
Is to our country foul disgrace:
What! mock our Sovereign to her face!
Whose generous heart, and taste refined,
Alike to bard and courtier kind,
This high repast for all designed.
For shame! your party strife suspend,
And list the counsel of a friend.
To lessen one of all the three,
Each excellent in his degree;
But taste, as sapient sages tell,
Varies with climes in which we dwell.
Is cadence soft, and simple tale;
While stern romantic Highland clime,
Still nourishes the rude sublime.
Of the wild pathos of the north:
Or that sublimed by Ossian's lay,
By forest dark and mountain gray,
By clouds which frowning cliffs deform,
By roaring flood and raving storm,
Enjoy the smooth, the fairy tale,
Or evening song of Teviotdale;
Then trow you may the tides adjourn,
And nature from her path-way turn;
The wild-duck drive to mountain tree,
The capperkayle to swim the sea,
The heath-cock to the shelvy shore,
The partridge to the mountain hoar,
And bring the red-eyed ptarmigan
To dwell by the abodes of man.
Let all the three be called again;
Their skill alternately be tried,
And let the Queen alone decide.
Then hushed be jeer and answer proud,”—
He said, and all, consenting, bowed.
The group were all in dire debate;
The Border youth (that stranger wight)
Had quarrelled with the clans outright;
Had placed their merits out of ken,
Deriding both the songs and men.
'Tis said—but few the charge believes—
He branded them as fools and thieves.
Certes that war and woe had been,
For gleaming dirks unsheathed were seen;
The Highland minstrels ill could brook
His taunting word and haughty look.
Refused to touch his harp again;
Said he desired no more renown
Than keep those Highland boasters down;
Now he had seen them quite outdone,
The south had two, the north but one;
But should they bear the prize away,
For that he should not, would not play;
He cared for no such guerdon mean,
Nor for the harp, nor for the Queen.
Repaired to prove their skill again.
Is still admired by old and young,
And long shall be at evening fold,
While songs are sung or tales are told.
Of stolen delights began the song,
Of love the Carron woods among;
Of lady borne from Carron side
To Barnard towers and halls of pride;
Of jealous lord and doubtful bride;
And ended with Gilmorice' doom
Cut off in manhood's early bloom.
Soft rung the closing notes and slow,
And every heart was steeped in woe.
Her bard intent on fairy strain,
And fairy freak by moonlight shaw,
Sung young Tam Linn of Carterha'.
And every tone responsive rung,
With gems of gold that dazzling shone,
That harp is to the Highlands gone;
Gardyn is crowned with garlands gay,
And bears the envied prize away.
Long, long that harp, the hills among,
Resounded Ossian's warrior song;
Waked slumbering lyres from every tree
Adown the banks of Don and Dee;
At length was borne by beauteous bride,
To woo the airs on Garry side.
And all the northern bards were dead,
That costly harp, of wondrous mould,
Defaced of all its gems and gold,
With that which Gardyn erst did play,
Back to Dunedin found its way.
And twined the wreath his temples round,
Loud were the shouts of Highland chief—
The Lowlanders were dumb with grief;
And the poor Bard of Ettrick stood
Like statue pale, in moveless mood;
Like ghost, which oft his eyes had seen
At gloaming in his glens so green.
Queen Mary saw the minstrel's pain,
And bade from bootless grief refrain.
Worth all the harps in royal hall;
Of Scottish song a countless store,
Precious remains of minstrel lore,
And cottage, by a silver rill,
Should all reward his rustic skill:
Did other gift his bosom claim,
He needed but that gift to name.
With faltering voice and hanging head,
“Your cottage keep, and minstrel lore—
Grant me a harp, I ask no more.
From thy own hand a lyre I crave;
That boon alone my heart can save.”
I have a harp of old renown,
Hath many an ardent wight beguiled;
'Twas framed by wizard of the wild,
And will not yield one measure bland
Beneath a skilless stranger hand;
But once her powers by progress found,
O, there is magic in the sound!
And thou and all must share a part—
Should scorn be cast from maiden's eye,
Should friendship fail, or fortune fly;
Steal with thy harp to lonely brake,
Her wild, her soothing numbers wake,
And soon corroding cares shall cease,
And passion's host be lulled to peace;
Angels a gilded screen shall cast,
That cheers the future, veils the past.
Their dwelling in the moonbeam leave,
And ope thine eyes by haunted tree
Their glittering tiny forms to see.
The flitting shades that woo the glen
'Twill shape to forms of living men,—
To forms on earth no more you see,
Who once were loved, and aye will be;
And holiest converse you may prove
Of things below and things above.”
Said the rapt bard in ecstasy;
“This soothing, this exhaustless store,
Grant me, my Queen—I ask no more.”
The relic in his old gray plaid,
When Holyrood he left behind
To gain his hills of mist and wind,
Never was hero of renown,
Or monarch prouder of his crown.
He tript the vale, he climbed the coomb,
The mountain breeze began to boom;
Aye when the magic chords it rung,
He raised his voice and blithely sung;
“Hush, my wild harp! thy notes forbear;
No blooming maids nor elves are here:
Forbear a while that witching tone,
Thou must not, canst not sing alone.
When summer flings her watchet screen
At eve o'er Ettrick woods so green,
Thy notes shall many a heart beguile;
Young Beauty's eye shall o'er thee smile,
And fairies trip it merrily
Around my royal harp and me.”
To all the minstrel world been known:
Who has not heard her witching lays
Of Ettrick banks and Yarrow braes?
But that sweet bard, who sung and played
Of many a feat and Border raid,
Of many a knight and lovely maid,
When forced to leave his harp behind
Did all her tuneful chords unwind;
And many ages passed and came
Ere man so well could tune the same.
Not half the chords his fingers played;
Yet even then some thrilling lays
Bespoke the harp of ancient days.
Flung some strained notes along the hill;
His was some lyre from lady's hall,
And not the mountain harp at all.
And chimed his notes on Yarrow vale;
They would not, could not, touch the heart;
His was the modish lyre of art.
Then Leyden came from Border land,
With dauntless heart and ardour high,
And wild impatience in his eye.
Though false his tones at times might be,
Though wild notes marred the symphony
Between, the glowing measure stole
That spoke the bard's inspired soul.
Sad were those strains, when hymned afar,
On the green vales of Malabar:
O'er seas beneath the golden morn,
They travelled on the monsoon borne,
Thrilling the heart of Indian maid,
Beneath the wild banana's shade.—
Leyden! a shepherd wails thy fate,
And Scotland knows her loss too late.
Walter the Abbot came that way!—
The sacred relic met his view—
Ah! well the pledge of Heaven he knew!
He screwed the chords, he tried a strain;
'Twas wild—he tuned and tried again,
Then poured the numbers bold and free,
The ancient magic melody.
It knew the harp of ancient days.
The Border chiefs, that long had been
In sepulchres unhearsed and green,
Passed from their mouldy vaults away,
In armour red and stern array,
And by their moonlight halls were seen,
In visor helm, and habergeon.
Even fairies sought our land again,
So powerful was the magic strain.
He told me where the relic lay;
Pointed my way with ready will,
Afar on Ettrick's wildest hill;
Watched my first notes with curious eye,
And wondered at my minstrelsy:
He little weened a parent's tongue
Such strains had o'er my cradle sung.
Reprove my fond aspiring song?
Or could his tongue of candour say,
That I should throw my harp away?
Just when her notes began with skill
To sound beneath the southern hill,
And twine around my bosom's core,
How could we part for evermore?
'Twas kindness all,—I cannot blame,—
For bootless is the minstrel flame;
But sure a bard might well have known
Another's feelings by his own!
He left our mountains, left the isle;
And far to other kingdoms bore
The Caledonian harp of yore;
But, to the hand that framed her true,
Only by force one strain she threw.
That harp he never more shall see,
Unless 'mong Scotland's hills with me.
I leave thee on the old gray thorn;
The evening dews will mar thy swell,
That waked to joy the cheerful morn.
Chill blows the blast around my head;
And louder yet that blast may blow,
When down this weary vale I've sped.
The mountain sounds are harsh and loud;
The lofty brows of stern Clokmore
Are visored with the moving cloud.
On moorland bald and mountain shaw,
And soon the rainbow's lovely shade
Sleep on the breast of Bowerhope Law;
The genial shower and stealing dew,
Wake every forest bird to sing,
And every mountain flower renew.
That spans the glen and mountain gray,
Though fanned by western breeze's wing,
And sunned by summer's glowing ray,
Renew the age of love and glee!
Can ever second spring restore
To my old mountain harp and me?
Spreads over hill and lonely lea,
And lowly primrose opes unseen
Her virgin bosom to the bee;
And carols hail the year's return;
And daisy spreads her silver star
Unheeded by the mountain burn;
The haunted wild and fairy ring,
Where oft thy erring numbers borne
Have taught the wandering winds to sing.
Strone—(only once used).—A strone is that hill which terminates the range. It is a Highland term, but common in the middle districts of Scotland.
Cory, or Correi, is a northern term, and is invariably descriptive of a green hollow part of the mountain, from which a rivulet descends.
If there is any other term of locality peculiar to Scotland in this poem, I am not aware of it. The Songs of the true bards, indeed, who affect to imitate the ancient manner, abound with old Scotch words and terms, which, it is presumed, the rythm, the tenor of the verse, and the narrative will illustrate, though they may not be found in any glossary of that language. These are, indeed, generally so notoriously deficient and absurd, that it is painful for any one conversant in the genuine old provincial dialect to look into them.
Ignorant, however, as I am of every dialect save my mother tongue, I imagine that I understand so much of the English language as to perceive that its muscular strength consists in the energy of its primitive stem—in the trunk from which all its foliage hath sprung, and around which its exuberant tendrils are all entwined and interwoven—I mean the remains of the ancient Teutonic. On the strength of this conceived principle, which may haply be erroneous, I have laid it down as a maxim, that the greater number of these old words and terms that can be introduced with propriety into our language, the better. To this my casual innovations must be attributed. The authority of Grahame and Scott has of late rendered a few of these old terms legitimate. If I had been as much master of the standard language as they, I would have introduced ten times more.
Dale is the course of a Lowland river, with its adjacent hills and valleys. It conveys the same meaning as strath does in the Highlands.
That some notable bard flourished in Ettrick Forest in that age is evident, from the numerous ballads and songs which relate to places in that country, and incidents that happened there. Many of these are of a very superior cast. “Outlaw Murray,” “Young Tam Lean of Carterhaugh,” “Jamie Telfer i' the fair Dodhead,” “The Dowy Downs of Yarrow,” and many others, are of the number. Dunbar, in his “Lament for the Bards,” merely mentions him by the title of Ettrick; more of him we know not.
Queen Mary's harp, of most curious workmanship, was found in the house of Lude, on the banks of the Garry in Athol, as was the old Caledonian harp. They were both brought to that house by a bride, whom the chieftain of Lude married from the family of Gardyn of Banchory (now Garden of Troup). It was defaced of all its ornaments, and Queen Mary's portrait, set in gold and jewels, during the time of the last rebellion. How it came into the possession of that family is not known; at least, traditions vary considerably regarding the incident. But there is every reason to suppose, that it was given in consequence of some musical excellency in one or other of the Gardyns; for it may scarcely be deemed, that the royal donor would confer so rich and so curious an instrument on one who could make no use of it. So far does the tale correspond with truth, and there is, besides, a farther coincidence, of which I was not previously aware. I find, that Queen Mary actually gave a grand treat at Holyrood-house at the very time specified in the poem, where great proficiency was displayed both in music and dancing.
Coomb is a Scots Lowland term, and used to distinguish all such hills as are scooped out on one side in form of a crescent. The bosom of the hill, or that portion which lies within the lunated verge, is always denominated the coomb.
Shaw is a Lowland term, and denotes the snout or brow of a hill; but the part so denominated is always understood to be of a particular form, broad at the base, and contracted to a point above. Each of these terms conveys to the mind a strong picture of the place so designed. Both are very common.
Law signifies a detached hill of any description, but more generally such as are of a round or conical form. It seems to bear the same acceptation in the Lowlands of Scotland, as Ben does in the Highlands. The term is supposed to have had its derivation from the circumstances of the ancient inhabitants of the country distributing the law on the tops of such hills; and where no one of that form was nigh, artificial mounds were raised in the neighbourhood of towns for that purpose. Hence they were originally called Law-hills; but, by a natural and easy contraction, the laws and the hills of the country came to signify the same thing. A little affinity may still be traced:—both were effective in impeding the progress of a hostile invader; while the hardy native surmounted both without difficulty and without concern.
Glen is a term common to every part of Scotland alike, and invariably denotes the whole course of a mountain stream, with all the hills and valleys on each side to the first summit. It is an indefinite term, and describes no particular size, or local appearance of a river, or the scenery contiguous to it, farther than that it is one, and inclined to be narrow and confined between the hills: these glens being from one to thirty miles in length, and proportionably dissimilar in other respects. By a glen, however, is generally to be understood a branch of a greater river. The course of the great river is denominated the strath, as Strath-Tay, Strath-Spey, &c.; and the lesser rivers, which communicate with these, are the glens. There may be a few exceptions from this general rule, but they are of no avail as affecting the acceptation of the term whenever it is used as descriptive.
[Shepherd of Ettrick! as of yore]
The following poem was inserted by the publisher of the second edition, as illustrative of some of the songs in the work. It was written and sent to him by R. Barton, Esq., Woodbridge, Suffolk.
To humble swains the seraph sung;
Again, though now unseen, they pour
Their hallowed strains from mortal tongue.
The minstrel strikes to Malcolm's sorrow;
When Jura, echoing back his moans,
Claims the lost maiden of Glen-Ora.
Swept by a more impetuous hand;
Indignant Gardyn strikes the string,
And terror chills the listening band.
Dark gathering clouds the tempest bring;
He comes, the Spirit of the Storm!
And at the rustling of his wing,
In varying cadence swell or fall,
Like wintry winds in wild Glencoe,
Or ruined Bothwell's roofless hall.
As from the regions of the sky;
And where's the mortal that can hear
Unmoved the Spectre's lullaby?
For every rival bard were vain;
Nor suits an humble poet's lays,
Who loves, yet fears a loftier strain.
Of that strange bark for Staffa bound;
Proudly she greets the morning gale,
Proudly she sails from holy ground.
The pathless bosom of the main,
Been with such magic numbers graced,
Or honoured with so sweet a strain.
Serenely bright, can tell the hour
When the rough tempest of the skies
Shall next display its awful power?
Sail forth obedient to the gale,
Forsees the impending horrors dark
That swell the terror of the tale?
That favoured maiden's wondrous doom,
Who, 'neath a self-illumined sky,
Saw fields and flowers in endless bloom.
Was that ethereal legend wrought?
What urged thee thus a flight to dare
Through realms by former bards unsought?
Transported to the land of thought;
And thence, by minstrel vision keen,
The fire of inspiration caught?
To dreams of poesy resigned,
From Ettrick's banks thy soul has flown,
And earth-born follies left behind;
In trance ecstatic hast thou roved,
And witnessed, but with holy awe,
What mortal fancy never proved.
The fascinating powers of song,
Far, far above the countless host,
Who swell the Muses' suppliant throng;
His inspiration be thy guide;
Be heard thy harp from shore to shore,
Thy song's reward thy country's pride.
THE MOUNTAIN BARD.
Sir David Graeme.
Any person who has read the Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border with attention, must have observed what a singular degree of interest and feeling the simple ballad of “The twa Corbies” impresses upon the mind, which is rather increased than diminished by the unfinished state in which the story is left. It appears as if the bard had found his powers of description inadequate to a detail of the circumstances attending the fatal catastrophe, without suffering the interest already roused to subside, and had artfully consigned it over to the fancy of every reader to paint it in what way he chose; or else that he lamented the untimely fate of a knight, whose base treatment he durst not otherwise make known than in that short parabolical dialogue. That the original is not improved in the following ballad will too manifestly appear upon perusal; I think it, however, but just to acknowledge, that the idea was suggested to me by reading “The twa Corbies.”
The dow flew far ayont the fell;
An' sair at e'en she seemed distrest,
But what perplex'd her could not tell.
An' ruffled a' her feathers fair;
An' lookit sad as she war boun'
To leave the land for evermair.
She didna blame the bonnie dow,
But sair she blamed Sir David Graeme,
Because the knight had broke his vow.
An' by their bed on the dewy green,
To meet her there on St. Lambert's night,
Whatever dangers lay between;
In bearing her frae her father's towers,
To gie her a' the lands o' Dryfe,
An' the Enzie-holm wi' its bonnie bowers.
The lady looked wi' wistful ee;
But, O, alas! her noble Graeme
Frae e'en to morn she didna see.
The warld to her like a desert seemed;
An' she wyted this an' she wyted that,
But o' the real cause never dreamed.
His beverage o' the morning dew;
The deer had crouched her in the dell,
The heather oped its bells o' blue;
The laverock hiche attour them sung,
An' aye she hailed the jocund day,
Till the wee, wee tabors o' heaven rung.
And it opened owre the banks o' Tyne;
“An', O, alak!” she said, an' sighed,
“Sure ilka breast is blythe but mine!
That I hae fed wi' the bread an' wine?
As roving a' the country through,
O, saw ye this fause knight o' mine?”
An' she carried a lock o' yellow hair;
Then she perched upon that lady's knee,
An' carefully she placed it there.
That aince was mine. Whate'er betide,
This lock I gae to Sir David Graeme,
The flower of a' the Border side.
An' no letten the wily dow steal't awa;
'Tis a matter for the lore and the counsels of age,
But the thing I canna read at a' .”
The dow she flew far ayont the fell,
An' back she came wi' panting breast,
Ere the ringing o' the castle bell.
An' she cried, “cur-dow,” an' fluttered her wing;
Then flew into that lady's lap,
An' there she placed a diamond ring.
That aince was mine. Whate'er betide,
This ring I gae to Sir David Graeme,
The flower of a' the Border side.
Was ever poor maiden perplexed like me?
'Twould seem he's reclaimed his faith an' his vow,
But all is fauldit in mystery.”
The world to her a desert seemed;
An' she wyted this an' she wyted that,
But o' the real cause never dreamed.
Wi' humpling back, an' a waefu' ee,
Came cringing in an' lookit around,
But his look was hopeless as could be.
An' he lookit as somebody he would name,
An' there was a language in his howe ee,
That was stronger than a tongue could frame.
An' ilka good thing that he wad hae;
He lickit her hand, he coured his head,
Then slowly, slowly he slunkered away.
An' a' to see where he wad gae:
He whined, an' he howled, an' lookit around,
Then slowly, slowly he trudged away.
An' her bonnie silken hose, sae glancin' an' sheen;
She kiltit her wilye coat an' broidered gown,
An' away she has linkit over the green.
Through mony a dell an' dowie glen,
Till frae her brow an' bonnie goud locks,
The dewe dreepit down like the drops o' rain.
An' darena come to the castle to me;
But him I will find and dearly I'll chide,
For lack o' stout heart an' courtesye.
An' ae kind kiss in the moorland glen,
Will weel atone for a' that is past;—
O wae to the paukie snares o' men!”
As he windit owre Deadwater fell,
Till he came to the den wi' the moss inbound,
An' O, but it kythed a lonesome dell!
Then he coured him down sae wearilye;
“Ah! yon's my love, I hae found him out,
He's lying waiting in the dell for me.
Alone in this untrodden wild,
It scarcely becomes a lady bright,
But I'll vow that the hound my steps beguiled.”
True has't been said, an' aften been sung,
The ee her heart's love will betray,
An' the secret will sirple frae her tongue.
A lady's stately step to view?
Ah me! I hae neither stockings nor shoon,
An' my feet are sae white wi' the moorland dew.
To waken him great pity would be;
Deaf is the man that caresna to hear,
And blind is he wha wantsna to see.”
Wi' the lichens an' the ling a' fringed around
“My een are darkened wi' some wul-weird,
What ails my love, he sleeps sae sound?”
For it left nae sweet uncertaintye;
She saw a wound through his shoulder bane,
An' in his brave breast two or three.
As the piercing een o' Sir David Graeme;
She glisked wi' her ee where these een should be,
But the raven had been there afore she came.
An' darkly on that lady it came:
There's a sleep as deep as the sleep outright,—
'Tis without a feeling or a name;
For the spirit strays owre vale an' hill,
An' the bosom is left a vacancy,
An' when it comes back it is darker still.
Well may you see no wound is there;
There's a faint rose 'mid the bright dew drops,
An' they have not wet her glossy hair.
'Tis seven years past on St. Lambert's day,
An' aye when comes the vesper hour
These words an' no more can she say:
As he was on his way to me;
An' the ravens picked his bonnie blue een,
An' the tongue that was formed for courtesye.
An' his grave is red blood to the brim:
I thought to have slept out the lang, lang night,
But they've wakened me, and wakened not him!”
I borrowed the above line from a beautiful old rhyme which I have often heard my mother repeat, but of which she knew no tradition; and from this introduction the part of the dove naturally arose. The rhyme runs thus:
The heron flew to the fair forest,
For there she saw a lovely bower,
Was a' clad o'er wi' lily flower;
And in the bower there was a bed,
Wi' silken sheets, an' weel down spread;
And in the bed there lay a knight,
Whose wounds did bleed both day and night:
And by the bed there stood a stane,
And there was set a leal maiden,
With silver needle and silken thread;
Stemming the wounds when they did bleed.”—
The river Dryfe forms the south-east district of Annandale; on its banks the ruins of the tower of Graeme still remain in considerable uniformity.
It is not long ago since a shepherd's dog watched his corpse in the snow among the mountains of this country, until nearly famished, and at last led to the discovery of the body of his disfigured master.
THE PEDLAR.
This ballad is founded on a fact, which has been magnified by popular credulity and superstition into the terrible story which follows. It is here related, according to the best informed old people about Ettrick, as nearly as is consistent with the method pursued in telling it. I need not inform the reader, that every part of it is believed by them to be absolute truth.
The moon was set an' the wind was lown;
The lazy mist crap down frae the height,
An' the dim blue lowe glimmered laigh on the downe.
High on the black muir the foxes did howl,
All by the lone heart the cricket sat harping,
An' far on the air came the notes o' the owl.
An' the water was soughin sae goustilye:
O it was sic an eeriesome Saturday night,
As ane in a lifetime hardly wad see,
An' she shrieked sae loud that her maid ran to see;
Her een they were set, an' her voice it was deep,
An' she shook like the leaf o' the aspen tree.
That pled sae sair to tarry wi' me?”
“He's gane to the mill, for the miller sells ale,
An' the pedlar's as weel as a man can be.”
An' he hight a braw pearling in present to gie;
But I was sae hard that I couldna regard,
Tho' I saw the saut tear trickle fast frae his ee.
The pedlar a' mangled—most shocking to see!
An' he gapit an' waggit, an' stared wi' his een,
An' he seemed to lay a' the blame upo' me.
An' the very suspicion o't terrifies me:
I wadna hae siccan a vision again,
For a' the gude kye upon Thirlestane lee.
O Grizzy, my girl, will ye gang an' see!
If the pedlar is safe an' alive at the mill,
A merk o' gude money I'll gie unto thee.”
An' I darena gae yonder for goud nor fee:
But the miller has lodgings might serve yoursel,
An' the pedlar's as weel as a pedlar can be.
The miller said there he never had been;
She went to the kirk an' speered for him there,
But the pedlar in life was never mair seen.
Frae pew to pew she hurried her een,
An' a' to see if the pedlar was there,
But the pedlar in life was never mair seen.
As the laird was walking alang the lee,
A silly auld pedlar came by on his right,
An' a muckle green pack on his shoulders had he.
Ye's nouther get lodging nor sale frae me!”
He turned him about, an' the blude it ran down,
An' his throat was a' hackered, an' ghastly was he.
An' a fire-flaught out o' the place did flee!
To try a bit prayer the laird clappet down,
As flat an' as feared as a body could be.
He tauld what a terrible sight he had seen:
The devil a' woundit, an' bleedin' to death,
In shape o' a pedlar upo' the mill-green.
The servants were glad that the devil was gane;
But ilk Saturday's night, when faded the light,
Near the mill-house the poor bleeding pedlar was seen,
A doolfu' voice came frae the mill-ee,
At the turn o' the night when the clock struck one,
Cryin', “O Rob Riddle, hae mercy on me!”
The miller he fled to a far countrye;
But aye at e'en the pedlar was seen,
An' at midnight the voice came frae the mill-ee.
From the time that the sun gade over the hill;
An' now she had a' the puir bodies to lodge,
As nane durst gae on for the ghost o' the mill.
Nae feared for devil or spirit was he;
An' he's gane awa to watch at the mill,
To see if this turbulent ghaist he could see.
An' the Bible anunder his arm took he,
An' round an' round the mill-house he gade,
To try if this terrible sight he could see.
An' the muckle green pack on his shoulders had he;
But he nouther had flesh, blude, nor bone,
For the moon shone through his thin bodye.
The herons they skraiched maist piteouslie;
An' the horses they snorkit for miles around,
While the priest an' the pedlar together might be.
An' charged him by a' the Sacred Three,
To tell why that ghastly figure he took,
To terrify a' the hale countrye.
An' siccan a voice ne'er strack the ear;
It was like the stound an' whistling sound
Of the crannied wind at midnight drear.
Guilt presses the hardest nearest hame;
An' here 'tis sae new that ye a' may rue,
An' yon proud lady was a' the blame.
My banes lie under the inner mill-wheel,
An' here my spirit maun wander, until
Some crimes an' villanies I can reveal:
Which Providence suffered me not to enjoy;
For the sake of that money I gat my death's wounds;
The miller me kenned, but he missed his ploy.
Beneath the mid bourack o' three times three:
O gie't to the owners, kind sir, an' it will
Bring wonderfu' comfort an' rest unto me.
My message I trust, good father, with thee;
If the black cock should craw, when I am awa,
O weary, an' weary! what wad come o' me?”
The grass was a' fired where the spirit had been;
An' certain it is, from that day to this,
The ghost o' the pedlar was never mair seen.
The banes lay under the inner mill-wheel;
The box an' the ellwand beside him war hid,
An' mony a thimble an' mony a seal.
Can this bear the stamp of the heavenly seal?
Yet certain it is, from that day to this,
The millers o' Thirlestane ne'er hae done weel.
In the rules o' Providence skilfu' was he;
He keepit a bane o' the pedlar's heel,
An' a queerer wee bane you never did see.
But time had now grizzled his haffets wi' snaw;
He was crookit an' auld, an' his head was turned bald,
Yet his joke he could brik wi' the best o' them a'.
To try wi' the bane if the miller was fey;
And into a smiddie wi' mony a man,
He fand him a gaffin fu' gaily that day.
Of a' curiosities mighty an' mean;
Then pu'd out the bane, an' declared there was nane
Who in Britain had ever the equal o't seen.
An' ilka ane ca'd it a comical bane;
To the miller it goes, wha wi' specks on his nose,
To hae an' to view it was wondrous fain.
An' what the surprise o' his cronies around,
When the little wee bane fell a streamin' wi' blood,
Which dyed a' his fingers, an' ran to the ground!
Cried the truth should be told should they bring it frae hell;
A red goad o' airn frae the fire they drew,
An' they swore they wad spit him unless he wad tell.
You'll find you're all out when the truth I reveal;
At fair Thirlestane I gat this wee bane,
Deep buried anunder the inner mill-wheel.”
“O pity a creature lang doomed to despair;
A silly auld pedlar, wha begged of me
For mercy, I murdered, and buried him there!”
An' they hangit him dead on a high gallows-tree;
An' afterwards they in full counsel agreed,
That Rob Riddle he richly deserved to dee.
The liar and swearer their vile hides may save,
The wrecker of unity pass with impunity,
But whan gat the murd'rer in peace to his grave?
Nor laugh at a story attestit sae weel;
For lang will the facts i' the Forest be mindit,
O' the ghaist, an' the bane o' the pedlar's heel.
The lady here alluded to was the second wife of Sir Robert Scott, the last knight of Thirlestane, of whom the reader shall hear further. Thirlestane is situated high on the Ettrick, and was the baronial castle of the Scotts of Thirlestane. It is now the property of the Right Honourable Lord Napier, who wears the arms of that ancient house. The mill is still on the old site.
By the dead-bell is meant the tinkling in the ears, which our peasantry in the country regard as a secret intelligence of some friend's decease. Thus this natural occurrence strikes many with a superstitous awe. This reminds me of a trifling anecdote, which I will here relate as an instance. Our two servant-girls agreed to go an errand of their own, one night after supper, to a considerable distance, from which I strove to persuade them, but could not prevail. So, after going to the apartment where I slept, I took a drinking-glass, and, coming close to the back of the door, made two or three sweeps round the lips of the glass with my finger, which caused a loud shrill noise. I then overheard the following dialogue:—
B.“Ah, mercy! the dead-bell went through my head just nowwith such a knell as I never heard.”
J.
“I heard it too.”
B.
“Did you indeed? That is remarkable. I never knew of two hearing it at the same time before.”
J.
“We will not go to Midgehope to-night.”
B.
“I would not go for all the world. I shall warrant it is my poor brother Wat: who knows what these wild Irishes may have done to him?”
Amongst people less conversant in the manners of the cottage than I have been, it may reasonably be suspected that I am prone to magnify these vulgar superstitions, in order to give countenance to several of them hinted at in the ballads. Therefore, as this book is designed solely for amusement, I hope I shall be excused for here detailing a few more of them, which still linger amongst the wilds of the country to this day, and which I have been an eye-witness to a thousand times; and from these the reader may judge what they must have been in the times to which these ballads refer.
In addition to the dead-bell.—If one of the ears is at any time seized with a glowing heat, which may very easily happen, if exposed to a good fire or a strong wind, they straight conclude that some person is talking of them. They then turn to such as are near them, and put the following question: “Right lug, left lug, whilk lug glows?” That person immediately guesseth; and if the one that glows is hit upon, they say, “You love me better than they who talk of me;” and so conclude they are all ill spoken of. But if the guesser hits upon the wrong lug, they say, “You love me worse than they who talk of me; and rest satisfied that some person is saying good of them. When the nostrils itch, they are sure to hear tell of some person being dead; and the death-watch, the death-tap, and the death-swap, which last is a loud sharp stroke, are still current; whilst the belief in wraiths, ghaists, and bogles is little or nothing abated.
When they sneeze on first stepping out of bed in the morning, they are thence certified that strangers will be there in the course of the day, in numbers corresponding to the times they sneeze; and if a feather, a straw, or any such thing, be observed hanging at a dog's nose or beard, they call that a guest, and are sure of the approach of a stranger. If it hang long at the dog's nose, the visitant is to stay long; but if it fall instantly away, the person is to stay a short time. They judge also, from the length of this guest, what will be the size of the real one, and from its shape, whether it will be a man or a woman: and they watch carefully on what part of the floor it drops, as it is on that very spot the stranger will sit. And there is scarcely a shepherd in the whole country, who, if he chances to find one of his flock dead on a Sabbath, is not thence assured that he will have two or three more in the course of the week. During the season that ewes are milked, the bught door is always carefully shut at even; and the reason they assign for this is, that when it is negligently left open, the witches and fairies never miss the opportunity of dancing in it all night. Nothing in the world can be more ridiculous than this supposition: for the bught is commonly so foul, that they are obliged to wade to the ancles in mud, consequently the witches could not find a more inconvenient spot for dancing on the whole farm. Many, however, still adhere to that custom; and I was once present when an old shoe was found in the bught that none of them would claim, and they gravely and rationally concluded that one of the witches had lost it while dancing in the night. When any of them eat an egg, as soon as they have emptied it of its contents, they always crush the shell. An English gentleman asked Mr. William Laidlaw why the Scots did that. He being well acquainted with the old adage, replied, “That it was for fear the witches got them to sail over to Flanders in.” “What though they should,” said he: “are you so much afraid that the witches should leave you?”
Whether it proceeds from a certain habit of body in the cattle, from their food, or what is the fundamental cause of it, I cannot tell; but the milk of whole herds of cows is liable at times to a strange infection, whereby it is converted into a tough jelly as soon as it cools from the udder, and is thus rendered loathsome and unfit for use; this being a great loss and grievance to the owner. It will scarcely be believed that there are very many of the families in Ettrick and its vicinity, and some most respectable ones, who have, at some period in the present age, been driven to use very gross incantations for the removal of this from their cattle, which they believe to proceed from witchcraft. The effects of these are so apparent on the milk in future, and so well attested, that the circumstance is of itself sufficient to stagger the resolution of the most obstinate misbeliever in witchcraft, if not finally to convert him. I am not so thoroughly initiated into this mystery as to describe it minutely; but, in the first place, a fire is set on, and surrounded with green turfs, in which a great number of pins are stuck. A certain portion of the milk of each cow, so infected, is then hung on in a pot, with a horse's shoe, and a black dish, with its mouth downward, placed in it. The doors are then carefully shut, and the milk continues to boil; and the first person who comes to that house afterwards is always blamed for the mischief. But the poor old women are generally suspected. There are, besides, a number of other freets, too tedious and too common to be minutely described here: such as spilling salt on the ground, or milk in the fire; suffering the dishwater to boil, without putting a peat in it; shavings at candles; thirteen in a company, &c.; all which are ominous, or productive of their particular effects.
Many are apt to despise their poor illiterate countrymen for these weak and superstitious notions; but I am still of opinion, that in the circumstance of their attaching credit to them, there is as much to praise as to blame. Let it be considered, that their means of information have not been adequate to the removal of these; while on the other hand, they have been used to hear them related, and attested as truths, by the very persons whom they were bound to reverence and believe.
In addition to this cry of despair, which was sometimes heard from the mill, it was common for the ghost to go down to the side of the mill-dam at a certain hour of the night, calling out, “Ho, Rob Riddle, come home to your supper, your sowens are cold!” To account for this, tradition adds, that the miller confessed at his death, that the pedlar came down to the mill to inform him that it was wearing late, and that he must come home to his supper; and that he took that opportunity to murder him. At other times it was heard crying in a lamentable voice, “O saw ye ought of John Watters? Nobody has seen John Watters!” This, it seems, was the pedlar's name.
To such a height did the horror of this apparition arrive in Ettrick, that it is certain there are few in the parish who durst go to or by the mill after sunset: but, unlike many of the country bogles, which assume a variety of fantastical shapes, this never appeared otherwise than in the shape of a pedlar with a green pack on his back; and so simple and natural was his whole deportment, that few ever suspected him for the spirit, until he vanished away. He once came so near two men in the twilight, that they familiarly offered him snuff, when he instantly sunk into the earth, and left his companions in a state of insensibility.
The great and worthy Mr. Boston was the person who is said to have laid this ghost; and the people of Ettrick are much disappointed at finding no mention made of it in his memoirs; but some yet alive have heard John Corry, who was his servant, tell the following story.—One Saturday afternoon, Mr. Boston came to him and said, “John, you must rise early on Monday, and get a kilnful of oats dried before day.” “You know very well, master,” said John, “that I dare not for my breath go to the mill before day.” “John,” said he, “I tell you to go, and I will answer for it, that nothing shall molest you.” John, who revered his master, went away, determined to obey; “but that very night,” said John, “he went to the mill, prayed with the family, and staid very late, but charged them not to mention it.” On Monday morning John arose at two o'clock, took a horse, and went to the mill, which is scarcely a mile below the kirk; and about a bowshot west of the mill, Mr. Boston came running by him, buttoned in his great coat, but was so wrapped in thought, that he neither perceived his servant nor his horse. When he came home at even, Mr. Boston said to him, “Well, John, have you seen the pedlar?” “No, no, sir,” said John, “there was nothing troubled me; but I saw that you were yonder before me this morning.” “I did not know that you saw me,” said he, “nor did I wish to be seen, John; therefore say nothing of it.” This was in March, and in May following the mill was repaired, when the remains of the pedlar and his pack were actually found, and the hearts of the poor people set at ease: for it is a received opinion, that if the body, or bones, or any part, of a murdered person are found, the ghost is then at rest, and that it leaves mankind to find out the rest. I shall only mention another instance of this. There is a place below Yarrow Kirk called Bell's Lakes, which was for a great number of years the terror of the whole neighbourhood, from a supposition that it was haunted by a ghost: I believe the Bogle of Bell's Lakes has been heard of through a great part of the south of Scotland. It happened at length, that a man and his wife were casting peats at Craighopehead, a full mile from the Lakes; and coming to a loose place in the morass, his spade slipped lightly down, and stuck fast in something below; but judge of their surprise when, on pulling it out, a man's head stuck on it, with long auburn hair, and so fresh that every feature was distinguishable. This happened in the author's remembrance; and it was supposed that it was the head of one Adam Hyslop, who had vanished about forty years before, and was always supposed to have left the country. Since that discovery, however, Bell's Lakes have been as free of bogles as any other place.
A story similar to this of Mr. Boston and the pedlar, is told of a contemporary of his, the Rev. Henry Davieson of Galashiels. The ghost of an old wicked laird of Buckholm, in that parish, who had died a long time previous to that period, so haunted and harassed the house, that they could not get a servant to stay about it: whereupon, in compliance with the earnest entreaties of the family, Mr. Davieson went up one night to speak to and rebuke it. After supper he prayed with the family, and then charged them all, as they valued their peace, to go quietly to their beds. This injunction they all obeyed; but one lady lay down without undressing, and, from a small aperture in the partition which separated her chamber from the apartment in which he was left, watched all his motions. She said that he searched long in the Bible, and folded down leaves in certain places. He then kneeled and prayed; and afterwards taking the Bible, and putting his fingers in at the places he had marked, he took it below his arm and went out. Prompted by curiosity, she followed him, unperceived, through several of the haunted lanes. She sometimes heard him muttering, but saw nothing. When he came to his chamber, he acted the same scene over again; and she followed him at a distance round all the town, as before. When he came to his chamber the third time, he prayed with greater fervency than ever; and when he rose, and took the Bible to go out, his looks were so stern and severe, that she was awed at the very sight of them; and on following him out of the court-yard, she was seized with an involuntary terror, and fled back to her apartment. When the family assembled next morning to prayers, he conjured them to tell him who of them were out of bed last night; and the rest all denying, the lady confessed the whole. “I knew,” said he, “there was somebody watching me, at which I was troubled: but it was lucky for you that you did not follow me the third time; for, had you seen what I saw, you had never been yourself again. But you may now safely go out and in, up stairs and down stairs, at all hours of the night; for you will never more be troubled with old Buckholm.”
Whether these traditions have taken their origin from a much earlier period, and have, by later generations, been brought down and ascribed to these well-known characters; or whether these worthy men, in commiseration of the ideal sufferings of their visionary parishioners, have really condescended to these sham watchings, it is not now easy to determine. But an age singular as that was for devotion, would readily be as much so for superstition; for, even to this day, the country people who have the deepest sense of religion, are always those who believe most firmly in supernatural agency.
Though a pretext can scarcely be found in the annals of superstition sufficient to authorize the ascribing of this to the murder of the pedlar so many ages before, yet the misfortunes attending the millers of Thirlestane have become proverbial: and when any of the neighbours occasionally mention this, along with it the murder of the pedlar is always hinted at. And it is scarcely thirty years since one of the millers was tried for his life, for scoring a woman whom he supposed to be a witch. He had long suspected her as the cause of all the misfortunes attending him, and, enticing her into the kiln one Sabbath evening, he seized her, and cut the shape of the cross on her forehead. This is called scoring aboon the breath, and overthrows their power of doing any further mischief.
This alludes to an old and very common proverb, “That such a one will get Jeddart justice:” which is, first to hang a man, and then judge whether he was guilty or not.
GILMANSCLEUCH.
FOUNDED UPON AN ANCIENT FAMILY TRADITION.
Ye gat on New-yeir's-day?
I lookit ilka day to see
Ye drest in fine array;
To Peggye has come hame:
Whair hae ye stowed the goud, dochter?
I fear ye hae been to blame.”
A gift is ever free;
An' when I need my goud agene,
It winna be tint to me.”
Or lent it to a fae?
Or gien it to some fause leman,
To breed ye mickle wae?”
Nor lent it to a fae;
An' never man without your ken,
Sal cause me joy or wae.
Came shivering to the door;
An' when I heard his waesome tale,
I wust my treasure more.”
I fain wald hear it o'er;
I fain wald hear that wylie tale
That drained thy little store.”
His cheeks were furred wi' tyme,
His beard was like a bush o' lyng,
When silvered o'er wi' ryme.
Whilk better days had seen;
An' aye he heaved the mournfu' sigh,
An' the saut teirs fell atween.
While pleasantly he smiled,
‘O weel to you, my little flower,
That blumes in desart wilde;
That lang hae followit me,
Bereavit of a' my gudes and gear,
My friends and familye!
My fathers lang did dwell;
Aye foremost, under bauld Buccleuch,
A foreign fae to quell.
They taucht to stand in awe,
An' aften checked the plundering bands
O' their kinsman Tushilaw.
An' fairer there was nane,
Ae blast did all its honours crush,
An' Gilmanscleuch is gane!
But froward, fierce, an' keen;
Ane only sister, sweet an' young,
Her name was luvely Jean.
Her cheeks of rosy hue,
Her eyne were like the huntin' hawks,
That owre the cassel flew.
Her skin the driven snaw
That's drifted by the wintery storm
On lofty Gilman's-law:
Her teeth were ivorie,
Her lips the little purple floure
That blumes on Bailey-lee.
That beauty's but a snare;
Young Jock o' Harden her betrayed,
Whilk grievit us wonder sair.
An' swore in angry mood,
Either to rychte his dear sister,
Or shed the traytor's blood.
An' didna doubt his faithe;
But being the youngest o' seven brethren,
To marry he was laithe.
An' flushed the forest tree;
When young deers ranne on ilka hill,
An' lambs on ilka lee;
Ane ill death mot he dee!
‘O master, master, haste!’ he cried,
‘O haste alang wi' me!
Their lambs are dri'en away,
The fairest raes on Eldin braes
Are Jock o' Harden's prey.
An' manye deere are slaine:
Ane herd is fled to Douglas-craig,
An' ne'er will turn againe.
I warned on yon hill-side;
An' he's awa to Yarrow's banks
As fast as he can ride.’
Thou micht hae tald it me:
Thou kend to hunt on all my lande
The Harden lads were free.
Gae saddel him suddenlye;
To Yarrow banks I'll hie wi' speed,
This bauld hunter to see.’
My brother Harden spyde,
An' with a stern an' furious look
He up to him did ride.
My sister to betray?
That thou shouldst scare my feebil ewes,
An' chase their lambs away?
Our choizest deers are slaine,
An' hundreds fledd to Stuart's hills
Will ne'er returne againe.’
To bend such taunts on me:
Oft hae you hunted Harden's hills,
An' nae man hindered thee.’
Now tell me—ay or nay.’
‘Nae question will I answer thee,
That's speerit in sic a way.
To nouther thee nor thine.’
Then spurrit his steed against the hill,
Was fleeter than the hynde.
An' blew baith loude and clear;
A sign to all his merry men
Their huntin' to forbeir.
Cried Adam bitterlie;
‘Nae haughty Scott, of Harden's kin,
Sal proudlye scool on me.
For one of them I'll have,
Or to thy face I'll thee disgrace,
An' ca' thee coward knave.’
An' tied him to a wande;
Then threw his bonnet aff his head,
An' drew his deadly brande.
Wi' swords of mettyl kene,
Till clotted blude, in mony a spot,
Was sprynkelit on the grene.
For braiver there were nane:
Braive Adam's thigh was bathit i' blude,
An' Harden's coller-bane.
Nae langer could he stande:
His hand claive to his hivvye sword,
His knees plett lyke the wande.
Nae mair could act his parte.
A wudman then sprang frae the broom,
An' pierced young Harden's hearte.
An' kluve his heide in twaine;
Then calmlye laid him on the grene,
Never to rise againe.
An' ferr outstrippit the wynde,
An' sent my voice the forest through,
But naething could I fynde.
Mochte melt ane hearte of stane;
My brother fent an' bleiden lay,
Young Harden neirlye gane.
Wi' faltren tongue he cried;
‘Hadst thou arrivit tyme aneuch,
Thy kinsman hadna died.
Whatever may betide:
This nycht I meant, at Gilmanscleuch,
To maik of her my bryde.
May breid baith dule an payne;
My freckle brethren ne'er will staye,
Till they're avengit or slayne.’
Into a lowlye grave:
Young Jock they bure to Harden's tombe,
An' laide him wi' the laive.
Whose arm was like the steel,
Whose very look was open truth,
Whose heart was true an' leel.
Syn that unhappy daye,
An' late I saw his comelye corpse,
Without the least decaye.
Still held its varied hue;
The roses bloomit upon his shoon,
As faire as if they grew.
Wi' mickle care an' payne,
Expecting Harden's furious sons,
Wi' a' their father's trayne.
A cunning tod was he:
He lockit his sons in prison strang,
An' wi' him bure the key.
Amang our nobles a',
With bonnet lyke a girdel braid,
An' hayre like Craighope snaw.
Wi' buttons lyke the moon;
His breiks were o' the guid buckskyne,
Wi' a' the hayre aboon;
An' rattled at his heel;
The rowels of his silver spurs
Were of the Rippon steel;
An' round wi' tassels hung:
At ilka tramp o' Harden's heel,
The royal arches rung.
His glance sae gruff to bide,
Whene'er his braid bonnette appearit,
The menialis stepped asyde.
The chief with favour eyed,
For Harden's form an' Harden's look
Were hard to be denied.
An' magnified the deed;
An' high Buccleuch, with scarce fayre playe,
Made Harden better speed.
The king to him has gien;
An' a' the Scotts of Gilmanscleuch
Were outlawed ilka ane.
Of siccan a weird for me,
Till I got word frae kind Traquair,
The country soon to flee;
But fa' ane easy prey,
While yet my brother weaklye was,
An' scarce could bruik the way.
In mony a bluidy fray,
But langed to see my native hills,
Afore my dying day.
When fighting by my side;
My luckless sister bore ane son,
But broke hir hearte an' died.
Of port an' stature fine:
He has thine eye, an' is thy blude,
As weel as he is mine.
Whom nane regards ava;
The peaceful grave will end my care,
Where I maun shortly fa'.’—
I gat on New-yeir's-day,
An' welcomed him to Harden-ha',
With us a while to stay.”
Ye aye were dear to me:
For ilka bonnet-piece ye ga'e,
My love, ye sal hae three.
The table an' the ha';
We'll tell of a' our doughty deeds,
At hame an' far awa.
Who bears our eye an' name,
Shalle farm the lands of Gilmanscleuch,
While Harden halds the same.
I'll ask of him at a';
Only to stand at my ryght hand,
When Branxholm gies the ca'.
When as he synketh low;
But he that proudlye lifts his heide
Must learne his place to knowe.”
THE FRAY OF ELIBANK.
This ballad is likewise founded on a well-known fact. The particulars are related in the song literally as they happened, and some further explanations are added in the notes.
The lord o' the Elibank castle sae high?
Whan Willie o' Harden was catched wi' the kye?
His tables were filled in the room an' the ha';
But peace on the Border, that thinned his keyloes,
An' want for his lads was the warst thing of a'.
An' langed his skill an' his courage to try:
Stout Willie o' Fauldshope ae night he did cry on,
Frae danger or peril wha never wad fly.
Our kye they rowt thin on the loan an' the lea;
A drove we maun hae for our pastures sae bonny,
Or Harden's ae cow ance again we may see.
Buccleuch wad restrain us, an' ruin us quite;
He's bound to keep a' the wide marches in order:
Then where shall we gae, an' we'll venture tonight?”
An' aften caroused on your beef an' your veal;
Yet spite o' your wiles an' your spies, they hae shunned you:
A Murray is kittler to catch than the deil.
He sits wi' his women frae morning till e'en;
Yet three hunder gude kye has the thrifty auld billy,
As fair sleekit keyloes as ever were seen.”
Nae danger I fear when thy weapon I see:
That time when we vanquished the outlaw o' Sowden,
The best o' his men were mishackered by thee.
He's welcome to claim them the best way he can:
Right sair he'll be puzzled his title to make good,
For a' he's a cunning an' dexterous man.”
When loud cried the warder on Haginshaw height,
“Ho, Juden, take care, or you're ruined for ever!
The bugle of Aekwood is sounding to-night.”
I wonder sae lang frae a fray they could cease.
Gae blaw the wee horn, gar my villains come trippin:
I have o'er mony kye to get restit in peace.”
Frae high Philip-cairn a' the gate he had run:
“O Juden, be handy, an' countna the lawin,
But warn well an' arm well, or else ye're undone!
Wi' mony a hardy an' desperate man:
The Hoggs an' the Brydens have brought him to dare you,
For the Wild Boar of Fauldshope he strides in the van.”
Warn Plora, Traquair, an' the fierce Hollowlee.
We'll gie them a fleg: but I like that cursed Hogg ill;
Nae devil in hell but I rather wad see.
At Ancram an' Sowden his prowess I saw:
But a bullet or arrow will supple his bristles,
An' lay him as laigh as the least o' them a'.”
On the Elibank craig, an' the Ashiesteel bourn;
An' ere the king's elwand came over the hill,
Afore Will an' his men rattled mony a horn.
On ilka man's bonnet has placed a white feather;
An' the night being dark, to the Peel height they thrang,
An' closely they darnit them amang the deep heather,
'An sair for their pastures forsaken they strave;
Till Willie o' Fauldshope, wi' half o' the men,
Gade aff wi' a few to encourage the lave.
Than up start the Murrays, an' fiercely set on;
An' sic a het fight, i' the howe o' the night,
In the forest of Ettrick has never been known.
An' red ran the bluid down the Ashiesteel brae:
The parties were shouting, the kye they were rowting,
An' rattling an' galloping aff frae the fray.
Tho' the wounded an' dying did dismally groan,
Tho' parties were shouting, the kye they came rowting,
An' Willie o' Fauldshope drave heedlessly on.
Had some kindly spirit but whispered your ear:
“O Willie, return, an' relieve your kind master,
Wha's fighting surrounded wi' mony a spear.”
Determined, unmoved as the mountain, they stood;
In hopes that their hero was coming to hand,
Their master they guarded in streams of their blood.
In vain has young Harden a multitude slain;
By numbers o' erpowered, they were slaughtered at will,
An' Willie o' Harden was prisoner ta'en.
An' away to the Elibank tower they did hie;
An' they locked him down in a dungeon sae deep,
An' they bade him prepare on the morrow to die.
He only lay still till the battle was by,
Then ventured to rise, an' climb over the height,
An' there he set up a lamentable cry.
Ho! what's to come o' you? or where are you gane?
Your friends they are slaughtered, your honour suspected,
An' Willie o' Harden is prisoner ta'en!”
Nae lion or tiger bereaved of his prey,
Did ever sae storm, or was ever sae stounded,
As Willie, when warned o' that ruinous fray.
He threw off his bonnet well belted wi' steel;
An' off he has run, wi' his troopers behind,
To rescue the lad that they likit sae weel.
The yett it was shut, an' the east it grew pale:
They slinkit away wi' the tears i' their e'en,
To tell to auld Harden their sorrowfu' tale.
But left his poor son to submit to his fate.
“If I lose him,” quo' he, “I may chance get another,
But never again wad get sic an' estate.”
But I canna tell whether 'tis true or a lie;
That muckle Jock Henderson, time o' the fight,
Made off wi' a dozen of Elibank kye.
An' Kirkhope was woundit, an' young Bailleylee.
Wi' Juden, baith Gatehope an' Plora were slain,
An' auld Ashiesteel gat a cut on the knee.
Lie rotting in cairns on the bank o' the Steele:
Weep o'er them, ye shepherds! how hapless their doom!
Their natures how faithful, undaunted, an' leel!
An' she wakened auld Juden, an' to him did say,—
“Pray, what will ye do wi' this gallant young man?”
“We'll hang him,” quo' Juden, “this very same day.”
An' has three hamely daughters aye suffering neglect?
Though laird o' the best o' the Forest sae fair,
He'll marry the warst for the sake o' his neck.
“He's a friend will bestead you, an' stand by you still;
The laird maun hae men, an' the men maun hae meat,
An' the meat maun be had, be the danger what will.”
An' he mused an' he thought that his lady was right.
“By heaven,” said he, “he shall marry my Meg;
I dreamed, an' I dreamed o' her a' the last night.”
An' her mou' it was muckle as ane could weel be;
Her een they were gray, an' her colour was wan;
But her nature was generous, gentle, an' free.
Her shoulders were clad wi' her lang dusky hair,
An' three times mae beauties adorned her mind,
Than' mony a ane's that was three times as fair.
Ae end hung wi' black, an' the ither full fair;
There Juden's three daughters sat in a raw,
An' himsel' at the head in a twa-elbow chair.
On the following conditions I grant ye your life:—
That ye be mair wary, an' auld Juden's friend,
An' accept o' my daughter there Meg for your wife.
Ye's hae each o' your drove ye can ken by the head;
An' if nae horned acquaintance should kythe to your eye,
Ye shall wale half a score, an' a bull for a breed.
I rede you, in choicing let prudence decide;
Then say which ye will; ye are welcome to ony;
See, there is your coffin, or there is your bride.”
I'm now in your power, an' ye carry it high;
Nae daughter o' yours shall ere lie by my side;
A Scott, ye maun mind, counts it naething to die.”
Gae lead out the reaver loun straight to his deide;
My Meg, let me tell him 's the best o' the two:
An' bring him the bedesman, for great is his need.”
His courage misgae him, his heart it grew sair;
He watched Juden's face an' he watched his ee,
But the devil a scrap of reluctance was there.
The green braes o' Harden nae mair he wad see.
The coffin was there, which he soon must be laid in;
His proud heart was humbled,—he fell on his knee:
To grant me three days to examine my mind;
To think on my sins, an' the prospect before me,
An' balance your offer of freedom sae kind.”
Forthwith in the air ye shall flaff at the spauld:
A preciouser villain my tree ne'er adorned;
Hang a rogue when he's young, he'll steal nane when he's auld.
This moment take the one or the other the niest;
'Tis all for your country an' countrymen's good—
See, there is the hangman, or here is the priest.”
That marriage an' death were twa different things.—
“What matter,” quo' he, “though her nose it be lang?
For noses bring luck, an' it's welcome that brings.
But they're better than nane, an ane's life is sae sweet;
An', what though her mou' be the maist I hae seen?
Faith, muckle-mou'd fock hae a luck for their meat.”
An' Juden has feasted them gaily an' free;
But aft the bridegroom has he rallied an' bladded,
What faces he made at the big hanging tree.
That his face frae the chin was a half a yard high;
That it struck wi' a palsy his knees an' his legs;
For a' that a Scott thought it naething to die!
Than a rich forest laird to come stealin' my kye;
Wad Branxholm an' Thirlstane come for a drove,
I wad furnish them wives in their bosoms to lie.”
An' they lived a most happy an' social life;
The langer he kend her, he lo'ed her the mair,
For a prudent, a virtuous, and honourable wife.
An' mony a brave fellow, an' mony a brave feat;
I darena just say they are a' muckle mou'd,
But they rather have still a guid luck for their meat.
Sir Gideon Murray, ancestor of the present Lord Elibank, was the third son of Andrew Murray of Blackbarony. In his youth he applied to the study of theology; but happening unfortunately to kill a man of the name of Aitchison, he was imprisoned in Edinburgh Castle. He now gave up all thoughts of the church, and became chamberlain to his nephew of the half blood, Sir Walter Scott of Buccleuch, which trust he managed with great prudence. He was first designed of Glenpottie, and had a charter of the lands of Elibank, alias Eliburne, in the county of Selkirk, with a salmon fishing in Tweed, 15th March, 1594–5. He now took the style of Elibank, and had charters to himself, and Margaret Pentland his wife, of the lands of Langschaw, in Roxburghshire, 6th June, 1606, and 2d July, 1618. He had several other charters under the great seal, of Redhead in the county of Peebles, Eldinghope in the county of Selkirk, and Ballincrief in the county of Haddington, &c. He received the honour of knighthood in 1605; was constituted treasurer-depute in 1611, under the Earl of Somerset, high treasurer; and appointed one of the lords of session, 2d November, 1613.
The entire direction of the revenue of Scotland was in Sir Gideon Murray's hands, and he managed it to such advantage, that he not only repaired the palaces and castles of Holyroodhouse, Edinburgh, Linlithgow, Stirling, Dunfermline, Falkland, and Dumbarton, adding to them all new edifices, but had so much money in the treasury, when King James VI. visited Scotland in 1617, that he defrayed the whole charges of his majesty and his court during his abode in that country, where the king appeared with as much splendour as in England. James had a very high sense of his services. Sir Gideon, visiting his majesty in England, and happening in the king's bed-chamber to let his glove fall, James, although stiff and old, stooped down, and gave him his glove again, saying, “My predecessor, Queen Elizabeth, thought she did a favour to any man who was speaking to her when she let her glove fall, that he might take it up and give it to her again; but, sir, you may say a king lifted up your glove.” Yet for all that, his majesty was induced to believe an accusation given by James Stewart, Lord Ochiltree, against Sir Gideon Murray, charging him with offences committed in his office of treasurer-depute against the king and his lieges. He was sent down a prisoner to Scotland, and a day appointed for his trial. This he took so much to heart, that he abstained from food for several days, and he died on the 28th June, 1621, after he had kept his house twenty days or thereby, stupified and silent, or at least speaking little or to no purpose.
In the first and second editions this hero was denominated Wat. I took the story from the vague traditions of the country, and on seeing some of the family records, I perceive that these have been generally incorrect. The story is true; but the youth's name was William. He was the eldest son of Wat Scott of Harden, and his lady, the celebrated Mary Scott, the flower of Yarrow.
This man's name was William Hogg, better known by the epithet of the Wild Boar of Fauldshope. Tradition reports him as a man of unequalled strength, courage, and ferocity. He was Harden's chief champion, and in great favour with his master, until once, by his temerity, he led him into a scrape that had well nigh cost him his life. It is never positively said what this scrape was, but there is reason to suppose it was the fray of Elibank.
The author's progenitors possessed the lands of Fauldshope, under the Scotts of Harden, for ages; my father says, for a period of 400 years: until the extravagance of John Scott occasioned the family to part with these lands. They now form part of the extensive estates of Buccleugh. Several of the wives of Fauldshope were supposed to be rank witches; and the famous witch of Fauldshope, who so terribly hectored Mr. Michael Scott, by turning him into a hare, and hunting him with his own dogs, until forced to take shelter in his own jaw-hole, was one of the Mrs. Hoggs, better known by the name of Lucky Hogg. The cruel retaliation which he made in showing his art to her, is also well known. It appears also, that some of the Hoggs had been poets before now, as there is still a part of an old song extant, relating much to them. Observe how elegantly it flows on:—
That wear baith woo' and hair;
There's nae sic Hoggs as Fauldshope's
In a' St. Boswell's fair.”
And afterwards near the end:—
For courage, blood, an' bane;
For the Wild Boar of Fauldshope,
Like him was never nane.
Ye herry Harden's gear;
But the poor Hoggs of Fauldshope,
Have had a stormy year.”
The Brydens, too, have long been a numerous and respectable clan in Ettrick Forest and its vicinity.
This is another traditional mistake, but I cannot think to alter the ballad from its “rough, rude, rugged homeliness.” Sir Gideon, however, had only one daughter, whose name was Agnes; but as there is no doubt as to the lineaments of her face, and the dimensions of her mouth, she must continue to be “Muckle-mou'd Meg o' the Elibank” still.
Though Elibank is in the shire of Selkirk, as well as Oakwood, yet, originally, by Ettrick Forest was meant only the banks and environs of the two rivers Ettrick and Yarrow.
Mess John.
This is a very popular story about Ettrick Forest, as well as a part of Annandale and Tweeddale, and is always told with the least variation, both by young and old, of any legendary tale I ever heard. It seems, like many others, to be partly founded on facts, with a great deal of romance added; for, if tradition can be in aught believed, the murder of the priest seems well attested; but I do not know if any records mention it. His surname is said to have been Binram, though some suppose that it was only a nickname: and the mount under which he was buried still retains the name of Binram's Corse. A gentleman of this country, with whom I lately conversed, strove to convince me that I had placed the era of the tale too late, for that it must have had its origin from a much earlier age. But when was there ever a more romantic or more visionary age, than that to which this ballad refers? Besides, it is certain, that the two heroes, Dobson and Dun, whom every one allows to have been the first who had the courage to lay hold of the lady, and to have slain the priest, skulked about the head of Moffat water during the heat of the persecution, which they both survived. And Andrew Moore, who died at Ettrick about twenty-six years ago, at a great age, often averred, that he had, in his youth, seen and conversed with many people who remembered every circumstance of it, both as to the murder of the priest, and the road being laid waste by the woman running at night with a fire-pan, or, as some call it, a globe of fire on her head. This singular old man could repeat by heart every old ballad which is now published in the “Minstrelsy of the Border,” except three, with three times as many; and from him, “Auld Maitland,” with many ancient songs and tales, still popular in that country, are derived.
If I may then venture a conjecture at the whole of this story, it is nowise improbable, that the lass of Craigieburn was some enthusiast in religious matters, or perhaps a lunatic; and that, being troubled with a sense of guilt, and a squeamish conscience, she had, on that account, made several visits to St. Mary's Chapel to obtain absolution; and it is well known that many of the mountain-men wanted only a hair to make a tether of. Might they not then frame this whole story about the sorcery, on purpose to justify their violent procedure in the eyes of their countrymen, as no bait was more likely to be swallowed at that time? But however it was, the reader has the story, in the following ballad, much as I have it. The mound which bears the priest's name was raised last year by two gentlemen from Edinburgh, and a small chest full of ashes, and one or two human teeth, were found, which proves the antiquity of the Cairn of Binram's Cross, whoever may have been buried under it.
And preached and prayed so mightilye;
No monk nor abbot in the land,
Could preach or pray so well as he.
His heart seemed wrapt with heavenly flame,
And thousands would the chapel throng,
So distant flew his pious fame.
Imblushed with evening's purple dye;
His stature like the graceful pine,
That grew on Bowerhope hills so high.
And oft he sighed and sorely pined;
A smothered flame consumed his heart,
And tainted his capacious mind.
Nor Kirk oppressed that he did mourn;
'Twas for a little earthly flower—
The bonny lass of Craigieburn.
They pierced his heart without remede;
And when he heard her voice so sweet,
Mess John forgot to say his creed.
“That chains us back from social joy;
The sweetest bliss to mortals lent,
I cannot taste without alloy!
Give heroes kingdoms to o'erturn;
Give sophists latent depths to scan—
Give me the lass of Craigieburn.”
Mess John's religious zeal is flown;
A priest in love is like the grass,
That fades ere it be fairly grown.
Her maiden form so fair and gay,
Her limbs, the polished ivorye,
His heart, like wax, would melt away!
He tried it both by night and day;
But all his lair and logic failed,
His thoughts were on the bonny May.
And o'er the breviary did turn;
But still his wayward fancy eyed
The bonnie lass of Craigieburn.
He lay, a prey to passion fell;
And aft he turned—and aft he wished
What bedesman's tongue durst hardly tell.
And quick o'er all his senses flew;
But what it was, or what the cause,
He neither wished to know nor knew:
And then a laugh of malice keen;
Fierce whirlwinds shook the mansion-walls,
And grievous sobs were heard between:
With blushing cheek, and claithing thin,
And many a fascinating air,
To his bedside came gliding in.
Fell down in many a fold and turn:
Too well he knew the lovely form
Of bonny May of Craigieburn!
Lay moveless as the mountain rock,
Yet fast his fluttering pulses played,
As thus the enticing demon spoke:—
A prey to this devouring flame?
That this fair form is not thine own,
None but thyself hast thou to blame.
In female breasts that burn so clear!
The forward youth of fierce desires
To us is most supremely dear.
By us is ever most approved;
The ardent kiss and clasping arms
By maid is ever best beloved.
With adder's eyes, and feet of horn;
Place this small scroll within its breast,
Which I from love have hither borne;
Before your fire make that to stand;
And the last night of every moon
Your bonny May's at your command.
See that you neither stint nor spare;
For if the cock be heard to crow,
The charm will vanish into air.”
Her colour changed to black and blue;
And broader, broader, grew her face,
Till with a yell away she flew!
A statue now behold him stand!
Fain, fain he would suppose't a dream—
But lo! the scroll is in his hand.
You'll cry, “alas, the priest's a man!
And man's a worm, and flesh is grass,
And stand himself he never can.”
Is done a deed without a name;
The lovely moulded image stands
A-melting at the alder flame.
The eye of Heaven is shut for sin;
The maid of Craigieburn is seized
With burning of the soul within.
Ev'n but this minute I was well;
And now, though still in health and strength,
I suffer half the pains of hell.”
Ill wots thy father what to say;
I fear 'tis for some secret sin
That Heaven this scourge on thee doth lay.
He's kind; be firm, and banish fear;
He'll lay no more on my poor child
Than he gives strength of mind to bear.”
I feel, I feel, I must away;
Yon holy man at Mary's Kirk
Will pardon, and my pains allay.
A picture of this black despair
Was fully open to my sight.
A vision bade me hasten there.”
The night is dark and danger nigh;
The hill-men in their wildered haunts
Will shoot thee for a nightly spy.
Full many a wight their vigils keep;
Where roars the torrent from Loch Skene,
A troop is lodged in trenches deep.
Will scare thy reason quite away;
Regard thy sex and tender youth,
And stay my child till dawning day.”
By moorland cleuch and dark defile,
Away with many a shriek she ran
Straight forward for St. Mary's aisle.
Hung on the birks of Craigieburn;
She placed the wonder on her head,
Which shone around her like the sun.
Through rugged ways and waters wild;
Where art thou, guardian spirit, fled?
O haste to save an only child!
'Tis fit his frailty should appear;
Hold!—they who Providence accuse,
'Tis just their folly cost them dear.
And rules the rough and rolling sea,
Without a trial ne'er will leave
A soul to evil destiny.
She stopt to hear an eldritch scream;
Loud crowed the cock at Henderland,
The charm evanished like a dream!
And, darkling, now return she must.
She wept, and cursed her hapless doom;
She wept—and called her God unjust.
The racking pains again return;
And wanders on her nightly way,
The bonny lass of Craigieburn.
Weeping she journeys, ruined quite;
And still on that returning day,
Yields to a monster's hellish might.
Wet with the tender tear of woe;
For we must to our magic tale,
And all the shepherd's terrors show.
With shrieks would any heart appal;
And every maid, and every man,
Astonished fled at evening fall.
To meet the lad she loved so well;
“Ah! yon's my former husband's sprite!”
She cried, and into faintings fell.
Met with the lass of Craigieburn;
It was enough—he breathed his last
One shriek had done the tailor's turn.
And prayed aloud with lengthened phiz;
The damsel yelled—the father kneeled—
Dundee was but a joke to this!
Enraged to see the road laid waste,
Waylaid the damsel with a gun,
But in a panic home was chased.
Met with her on Carrifran Gans;
He staggering cried, “Who devil's that?”
Then plashing on, cried, “Faith, God kens!”
And scattered wide o'er many a hill;
Pursued by men, pursued by hell,
They stoutly held their tenets still.
Two champions of the cov'nant dwell,
Who long had braved the power of men,
And fairly beat the prince of hell:
A Bible, and a scarlet twine,
They placed them on the Birkhill path,
And saw afar the lanthorn shine.
At length they heard her piercing cries;
And louder, louder, still they prayed,
With aching heart, and upcast eyes!
No sooner did the light illume,
Than straight the magic lanthorn fled,
And left the lady in the gloom.
“Say what art thou?” they loudly cry;
“I am a woman, let me pass,
Or quickly at your feet I'll die.
Where, if I'm forced to sin and shame,
A gracious God will pardon me,—
My heart was never yet to blame.”
The Bible, and the scarlet twine,
With her they trudged to Mary's Kirk
To execute the will divine.
Rough winds, and rapid rains began;
The livid lightning linked flew,
And round the rattling thunder ran.
The sheeted ghosts run to and fro;
And deep and long, from out the lake,
The water-cow was heard to low.
And issued forth a sulphurous smell;
An eldritch laugh went o'er their heads,
Which ended in a hellish yell.
And, from a little window, viewed
The priest and Satan close engaged
In hellish rites and orgies lewd.
Mess John surveyed with steady eye,
Which ever and anon he pierced,
Forcing the lady loud to cry.
Was loaded well with powder and ball,
And, aiming at the chaplain's head,
He blew his brains against the wall.
On door nor window did not stay;
And loud he cried, in jeering tone,
“Ha, ha, ha, ha, poor John's away!”
They bare that lump of sinful clay,
And o'er him raised a mighty mound,
Called Binram's Corse unto this day.
By yon dark cleugh is forced to stray,
He hears that cry at dead of night,
“Ha, ha, ha, ha, poor John's away!”
The ruins of St. Mary's Chapel are still visible, in a wild scene on the banks of the lake of that name; but the mansion in which the monk, or, as some call him, the curate, lived, was almost erased of late for the purpose of building a stone-wall round the old church and burying ground. This chapel is, in some ancient records, called The Maiden Kirk, and in others, The Kirk of St. Mary of the Lowes.
The hills of Bowerhope, on the south side of the loch, opposite to the chapel, rise to the height of two thousand feet above the sea's level, and were formerly covered with wood.
It is a vulgarly received opinion, that let the devil assume what appearance he will, were it even that of an angel of light, yet still his feet must be cloven; and that if he do not contrive some means to cover them, they will lead to a discovery of him and his intentions, which are only evil, and that continually. It is somewhat curious, that they should rank him among the clean beasts, which divide the hoof. They believe, likewise, that he and his emissaries can turn themselves into any shape they please, of all God's creatures, excepting those of a lion, a lamb, and a dove. Consequently their situation is the most perilous that can be conceived; for, when it begins to grow dark, they cannot be sure, but that almost all the beasts and birds they see are either deils or witches. Of cats, hares, and swine, they are particularly jealous; and a caterwauling noise hath often turned men from going to see their sweethearts, and even from seeking the midwife. And I knew a girl, who returned home after proceeding ten miles on a journey, from the unlucky and ominous circumstance of an ugly bird crossing the road three times before her: neither did her parents at all disapprove of what she had done.
If any of my fair readers should quarrel with the sentiments manifested in these two stanzas, they will recollect that they are the sentiments of a fiend, who, we must suppose, was their mortal enemy, and would not scruple to paint their refined sensibility in very false colours, or at least from a very wrong point of view.
The story says, that the priest was obliged to watch the picture very constantly; and that always when the parts next the fire began to soften, he stuck pins into them, and exposed another side; that, when each of these pins were stuck in, the lady uttered a piercing shriek; and that, as their number increased in the waxen image, her torment increased, and caused her to haste on with amazing speed.
The mountains of Polmoody, besides being the highest, are the most inaccessible in the south of Scotland; and great numbers from the western counties found shelter on them during the heat of the persecution. Many of these, it is supposed, were obliged to shift for their sustenance by stealing sheep; yet the country people, from a sense that necessity has no law, winked at the loss; their sheep being, in those days, of less value than their meal, of which they would otherwise have been obliged to part with a share to the sufferers. Part of an old ballad is still current in that neighbourhood, which relates their adventures, and the difficulties they laboured under for want of meat, and in getting hold of the sheep during the night. Some of the country people, indeed, ascribe these depredations to the persecutors; but it is not likely that they would put themselves to so much trouble. I remember only a few stanzas of this ballad, which are as follow:
[OMITTED]We canna gang without a road:
But tak ye the tae side, an' me the tither,
An' they'll a' come in at Firthup dod.
An' out amang the Moodlaw haggs,
They worried the feck o' the laird's lambs,
An' eatit them raw, an' buried the baggs.
Or mouth o' flesh that it could fathom,
It wad tell o' mony a supple trick,
Was done at the foot o' Rotten-Boddom:
Oft houghed them up wi' little din,
An', mair intent on flesh than yarn,
Bure aff the bouk, an' buried the skin.”
This Guemshope is an extensive wild glen on the further side of these mountains; and, being in former times used as a common, to which many of the gentlemen and farmers of Tweeddale drove their flocks to feed during the summer months, consequently, it would be at that season a very fit place for a prey. The Donald mentioned may have been the famous Donald Cargill, a Cameronian preacher of great notoriety at the period.
There are sundry cataracts in Scotland, which bear the name of The Gray Mare's Tail: in particular one in the parish of Closeburn, in Nithsdale; and one betwixt Stranraer and Newton-Stewart; but that of Polmoody, on the border of Annandale, surpasses them all; as the water, with only one small intermission, falls from a height of 300 yards. This, with the rocks overhanging it on each side, when the water is flooded, greatly excels anything I ever saw in awful grandeur. Immediately below it, in the straitest part of that narrow pass, which leads from Annandale into Yarrow, a small strong entrenchment is visible. It is called by the country people The Giant's Trench. It is of the form of a crescent, and is defended behind by a bank. As it is not nearly so much grown up as those at Philiphaugh, it is probable that a handful of the Covenanters might fortify themselves there, during the time that their brethren were in arms. But it is even more probable, that a party of the king's troops might be posted for some time in that important pass; as it is certain that Claverhouse made two sweeping circuits of that country, and, the last time, took many prisoners in the immediate vicinity of this situation. May we not likewise suppose, that the outrage committed at Saint Mary's Kirk, might contribute to his appearance in those parts?
The Laidlaws of the Chapelhope either favoured or pitied the Covenanters, for they fed and sheltered great numbers of them, even to the impairing of their fortunes. On Dundee's first approach to these parts, Mrs. Laidlaw went out to the road, and invited him and all his men to partake of a liberal refreshment, which they thankfully accepted; and this being a principal family, he went away so thoroughly convinced of the attachment of that neighbourhood to the royal cause, that a scrutiny was not only at that time effectually prevented, but the troops returned no more thither for many years, until the license which was there enjoyed gathered such numbers that it became quite notorious. The spots where conventicles were held on these grounds, are still well known, and pointed out by some devout shepherds, with anecdotes of the preachers or some of the leading characters that frequented them. One can scarcely believe, but that Mr. Graham had visited these spots, or had been present on them, when he wrote the following lines:—
“O'er hills, through woods, o'er dreary wastes, they soughtThe upland moors, where rivers, there but brooks,
Dispart to different seas. Fast by such brooks,
A little glen is sometimes scooped; a plat
With green-sward gay, and flowers, that strangers seem
Amid the heathery wild, that all around
Fatigues the eye.”—
These lines, with the two following pages of the sweet poem in which they occur, seem to be literal sketches of these scenes, as well as a representation of the transactions which then took place. For years more gloomy followed; and from these “green-swards gay,” they were driven into the “deep dells, by rocks o'ercanopied.” Thus it was high up in Ryskinhope where Renwick preached his last sermon, above the lakes, the sources of the Yarrow, where there is neither plat nor plain, but linns and moors. When he prayed that day, few of the hearers' cheeks were dry. My parents were well acquainted with a woman whom he there baptized.
These men's names were Halbert Dobson and David Dun; better known by those of Hab Dob and Davie Din. The remains of their cottage are still visible, and sure never was human habitation contrived on such a spot. It is on the very brink of a precipice, which is 400 feet of perpendicular height, whilst another of half that height overhangs it above. To this they resorted in times of danger for a number of years; and the precipice is still called Dob's Linn.
There is likewise a natural cavern in the bottom of the linn farther up, where they, with other ten, hid themselves for several days, while another kept watch upon the Path-knowe; and they all assembled at the cottage during the night.
Tradition relates further of these two champions, that, while they resided at the cottage by themselves, the devil appeared to them every night, and plagued them exceedingly; striving often to terrify them, so as to make them throw themselves over the linn. But one day they contrived a hank of red yarn in the form of crosses, which it was impossible the devil could pass: and, on his appearance at night, they got in behind him, and attacked him resolutely with each a Bible in one hand, and a rowan-tree staff in the other, and after a desperate encounter, they succeeded in tumbling him headlong over the linn; but to prevent hurting himself, at the moment he was overcome, he turned himself into a batch of skins! It was not those of stolen sheep, we hope. Credulity has been at this time very prevalent among the Scots, else such a story never could have obtained the least credit; yet, it is said, these men were wont to tell it as long as they lived, concluding it always with the observation, that the devil had never more troubled them, as he found it was not for his health.
A short rhyme is still extant relating to this singular tradition; but which seems to have been composed afterwards, as the linn is there called Dob's Linn. It seems not improbable, that the bard who composed the song above quoted was likewise the author of this; for, like it, it is hard to say whether it is serious or burlesque.
What the covenant would dow!
What o' faith, an' what o' fen,
What o' might, an' what o' men;
Or he had never shown his face,
His reekit rags, and riven taes,
To men o' mak, an' men o' mense,
Men o' grace, and men o' sense:
For Hab Dob, an' Davie Din,
Dang the deil owre Dob's Linn.
‘Haud the Bible till his ee;
Ding him owre, or thrash him down,
He's a fause deceitfu' loun!’—
Then he owre him, an' he owre him,
He owre him, an' he owre him:
Habby held him griff an' grim,
Davie threush him liff an' limb;
Till like a bunch o' barkit skins,
Down flew Satan owre the linns.”—
After seeing this, the reader will not deny, that our champions “fairly beat the prince of hell.” See the Brownie of Bodsbeck.
The “reekit duds, and reistit phiz,” which Burns attributes to the grand enemy of mankind, is perhaps borrowed from this popular rhyme.
In some places of the Highlands of Scotland, the inhabitants are still in continual terror of an imaginary being, called the water-horse. When I was travelling over the extensive and dreary isle of Lewis, I had a lad of Stornoway with me as a guide and interpreter. On leaving the shores of Loch Rogg, in our way to Harris, we came to an inland lake, called, I think, Loch Alladale; and though our nearest road lay alongst the shores of this loch, Malcolm absolutely refused to accompany me that way for fear of the water-horse, of which he told many wonderful stories, swearing to the truth of them; and, in particular, how his father had lately been very nigh taken by him, and that he had succeeded in decoying one man to his destruction, a short time previous to that. This spectre is likewise an inhabitant of Loch Aven, at the foot of Cairngorm, and of Loch Laggan, in the wilds betwixt Lochaber and Badenoch. Somewhat of a similar nature seems to have been the water-cow, which in former times haunted St. Mary's Loch, of which some extremely fabulous stories are yet related; and though rather less terrible and malevolent than the water-horse, yet, like him, she possessed the rare slight of turning herself into whatever shape she pleased, and was likewise desirous of getting as many dragged into the lake as possible. Andrew Moore, above-mentioned, said, that when he was a boy, his parents would not suffer him to go to play near the loch for fear of her; and that he remembered of seeing her once coming swimming towards him and his comrades in the evening twilight, but they all fled, and she sunk before reaching the side. A farmer of Bowerhope once got a breed of her, which he kept for many years, until they multiplied exceedingly; and he never had any cattle throve so well, until once, on some disrespect on the farmer's part toward them, the old dam came out of the lake one pleasant March evening, and gave such a roar, that all the surrounding hills shook again; upon which her progeny, nineteen in number, followed her all quietly into the loch, and were never more seen.
After the subject of a ballad is fairly introduced, great particularity is disgusting; therefore, the lass of Craigieburn, after this line, is no more mentioned. But the story adds that she died of a broken heart, and of the heats which she got in being forced to run so fast. Another tradition, which I heard more lately, says, that she was conveyed secretly to a nunnery in Ireland, and that her father, whose name was Nicolson, afterward lived in Craigbeck.
The Death of Douglas,
LORD OF LIDDISDALE.
The first stanza of this song, as well as the history of the event to which it refers, is preserved by Hume of Godscroft, in his history of the house of Douglas. The author, having been successful in rescuing some excellent old songs from the very brink of oblivion, searched incessantly many years after the remains of this, until lately, by mere accident, he lighted upon a few scraps, which he firmly believes to have formed a part of that very ancient ballad. The reader may judge for himself. The first verse is from Hume, and many other single lines and couplets that are ancient occur, which are barely sufficient to distinguish the strain in which the old song hath proceeded.
And aye sae loud as scho did call,
“'Tis all for guid Lord Liddisdale
Thatte I do lette these tearis downe fall.”
And of your weepynge lette mee be:
Lord Liddisdale will hald hys owne
With ony lord of Chrystendye.
Yffe yee hadde seene, whatte I did see,
Thatte daye hee broke the troops of Tyne,
With gylded sword of mettil free.
To see hys faintynge vassalis yielde;
And hande to hande hee did engage
Lord Liddisdale uponne the fielde.
“And homewarde to thy countrye turne;
Say, wilt thou brave the deadlye brande,
And heavvye hande of Hazelburne?
When Douglas' sworde sharpe answer gae;
And frae ane wounde baithe deipe and sair
Furth fledde the Southron's soule awaye.
In anguish gnawit the bluidye claye;
Then Hallynshedde hee wheilit and fledde,
And lefte hys riche ill-gottyn prey.
I hae seene dangyrs manie a ane;
But for ane baulde and dauntlesse breiste,
Lord Liddisdale will yielde to nane.
And bidden chuse my leader free,
Lord Liddisdale should be the man
To lead me onne to victorye.”
Though I haif heard you patientlye,
Lord Liddisdale is deide and gonne,
And he wals slainn forre lofe of mee.
Has brocht the heavvye newis to mee,
Thatte my ainne lord diddye hym engage,
Where he coulde nouther fighte nor fle.
And four hee woundit desp'ratelye,
But cruel Douglas came behynde,
And ranne hym through the fayre bodye.
O wae be to thee, Willaimis lee;
O wae be to the dastarde croud
That murderit the flouir of chivalrye!
Thatte raisit the deadlie feid sae hie;
Nor perjured Berkeley's tymelesse death—
It wals for kyndnesse shown to mee.
And thirty horsemen guardynge mee;
When thatte gude lord came to my ayde,
Sae soon as he did sette mee free.
And sweit the sunne shonne onne the vale;
Then thynkna ye, my heart wals wae
To parte with gentle Liddisdale?
Untyl my twa black eyne rinne dry;
And I will wayl forre Liddisdale,
Als lang als I hae voyce to cry.
Untyl my heart and spirit fayl;
And when I die, O bury mee,
Onne the lefte syde of Liddisdale.”
Your grief will cause baithe dule and shame;
Synce ye were fause in sic ane cause,
The Douglas' rage I canna blame.”
Gae bid the wylde wave cease to rowe;
I'll owne my lofe for Liddisdale,
Afore the kyng, my lorde and you.”
While neid-fyre kyndlit in hys ee,
“Renounce thy lofe, dishoneste dame,
Or thy proud kyn avengit shalle bee!”
And she frownit and leuch loud laughteris three;
“When thou and my lord gies me law,
There'll be nae mae botte hym and thee.”
The deide hadde never beene donne by mee,
But the Douglas' name it brookis no shame,”—
And hee ranne hyr through the fayre bodye.
It wals ane brichte and ane scarlett dye;
And scho lookit wyldlye in hys face,
And scho lookit wyldlye to the sky.
In bluidye letteris itt muste stande;
But I'll sett my mark onne thy forheid,
And I'll put my mark onne thy rychte hande:
And I mark it onne thy ruthlys brow;
And envy and pryde thy hande shalle guide,
Untyl thou be als I am now.
And God shalle wytnesse yffe I lie,
The streime of thy lyfe is neirly runne,
My name shalle live, but thyne shalle die.”
And trew may thy wordis of bodyng bee;
Yffe there is ane leeche in Scotlande can,
Hee shall cure thy woundis rychte suddenlye.
My daies of peice onne earthe are donne;
I shalle never taste of comforte here,
But weipe and wayl beneathe the sonne.
I shall seike remissioune in Italie,
And kneile in the holye sepulchre,
Before my bones shalle reste with thee.”
Thatte ladyis wordis were provit to stande,
Forre thatte knychte wals rowit in his wyndinge sheit,
But scho wals the fayrest of all the lande.
Forre hyr eyne the heartis of all men drewe,
And mony a hosbande scho hathe slayne,
And evir and anon gotte newe.
Beware of ladyis wytchinge harme,
For litand sturte, and stryffe it breidis,
And it slackenis the herte, and slymmis the arme.
It workethe payne and deidlye skaithe;
But to ane oulde and dotard wychte,
Womyn is worse than helle beneathe.
So far hath the old ballad led me to whatever it may allude. If it was indeed the Lady Douglas, the following is a sketch of her history. She was the only daughter of Donald, the twelfth Earl of Mar, and was married, when young, to John Earl of Monteith, and shortly after to William, the first Earl of Douglas. But the fourth year afterwards, Douglas growing jealous of her and his kinsmen, William Lord of Liddisdale, waylaid the latter as he was hunting in William-hope, above Yair, and slew him treacherously; mastering him, as was supposed, by numbers; for William of Liddisdale was so brave and so gallant a man, that he was styled “The Flower of Chivalry.” Earl Douglas pretended to his followers, that this assassination was in revenge for the deaths of Ramsey of Dalhousie, and Sir David Berkeley, both of whom the knight of Liddisdale had cruelly slain; but it appears, both from the ballad, and the hints thrown out by Godscroft, that it was through jealousy of Liddisdale and his lady.
This is so far true. The Earl of Douglas was her second husband, and shortly after this business with Liddisdale, he divorced her, although she had then born him a son and a daughter. Shortly after this divorce, she was again, by a third marriage, united to Thomas Douglas, third Earl of Angus, and on his death, by a fourth marriage, to Sir John Swinton; a success in noble conquests that few ladies of our day can boast.
If there be any truth at all in the story of her being wounded by her brother, it must have been by Thomas, the thirteenth Earl of Mar, as he was her only brother. He died childless, and this lady's son James, by the Earl of Douglas, succeeded to his estate and titles. This was the brave James Earl of Douglas and Mar, of whom so much legendary lore prevails, both in song and traditionary tale. He was knighted by his father, along with two of the king's sons, on a field of battle, which was fought on the lands of Abbotsford in the year 1378, and in which old Douglas gained a signal and great success over the English, headed by Sir Thomas Musgrave; and after a life of warlike adventures, was slain at the battle of Otterburn —alias, “The Huntyng of the Chevyote.”
Willie Wilkin.
The real name of this famous warlock was Johnston: how he came to acquire that of Wilkin I can get no information, though his name and his pranks are well known in Annandale and Nithsdale. He seems to have been an abridgment of Mr. Michael Scott; but though his powers were exhibited on a much narrower scale, they were productive of effects yet more malevolent.
When Wilkin rode away,
And much his aged mother feared,
But wist not what to say:
At deepest midnight tide,
He hied him to yon ancient fane
That stands on Kinnel side.
His speeches fierce and few;
But who he met, or what was done,
No mortal ever knew.
O stay at home with me!
I fear I'm secretly forewarned
Of ills awaiting thee.
When all were fast asleep;
And aye it rung, and aye it sung,
Till all my flesh did creep.
My senses dormant lay,
I saw a pack of hungry hounds,
Would make of thee their prey.
Or death with thee to share;
When straight you bound my hands and feet,
And left me lying there.
Thy life-blood dyed the way;
I saw thy eyes all glaring red,
And closed mine for aye.
O stay at home with me!
Or take with thee this little book,
Thy guardian it shall be.”
What means this senseless whine?
I pray thee, mind thine own affairs,
Let me attend to mine.”
That warmed thy tender mind,
Is now extinct, and malice keen
Is only left behind.
That yearns thy woes to share?
Thou still has been my only grief,
My only hope and care.
Of joy I took farewell;
With Craigie on the banks of Sark,
Thy valiant father fell.
With meikle care and pain;
And saw with pride thy mind expand,
Without one sordid stain.
Before the throne of grace;
And on thy Saviour's blessed day,
Frequent his holy place.
Which from our castle rose,
Are silent now; and sullen pride
In hand with envy goes.
To pride and passion fell;
O, for thy little children's sake,
Renounce that path of hell!
O, with thy mother stay!
Or tell me what thou goest about,
That I for thee may pray.”
And for his horse did call:
“An hundred fiends my patience rend,
But thou excell'st them all!”
A book of psalms and prayer,
And hastened to you ancient fane,
To listen what was there.
Where graves are green and low,
She saw full thirty coal-black steeds
All standing in a row.
'Twixt Dee and Annan whole;
But placed beside that mighty rank,
He kythed but like a foal.
Her heart grew cold as stone!
The cold sweat ran from every hair,
He trembled every bone!
His bulky side to stroke;
And aye she reached, and aye she stretched—
'Twas nothing all but smoke.
Of films and sulph'ry wind;
And every wave she gave her hand,
A gap was left behind.
Yet nothing marred her way,
And left her shape in every shade,
For all their proud array.
Though mutt'ring holy prayer;
And filmy veils assail'd her face,
And stifling brimstone air.
Straight to the aisle she flew;
But what she saw, and what she heard,
No mortal ever knew.
And blackest blasphemye,
Did fast abound; for every hound
Of hell seemed there to be.
And sacrifice profane,
“A book! a book!” they loudly howled;
“Our spells are all in vain.
Resounded through the pile;
“Hu! tear him, tear him straight, for he
Has mocked us all this while!”
Then shrieked most bitterlye,
“O spare my son, and take my life,
The book was lodged by me.”
My life or peace must end;
O! take her, soul and body both!
Take her, and spare thy friend!”
Like hounds upon their prey;
And gathered round her in the aisle,
With many a hellish bray.
Their fangs in blood to stain,
But all their efforts to be felt,
Were impotent and vain.
His filial hands imbrued,
Or, if the Ruler of the sky
The scene with pity viewed,—
Ordained to interpose,
To take her life, and save her soul
From these infernal foes,
Inquiry all was vain;
But her blood was shed, for the swaird was red
But an' the kirk-door stane;—
Lay stiff upon the green.
A night so dire in Annandale,
Before had never been!
The fire-flaughts flew amain;
The graves were ploughed, the rocks were riven,
Whole flocks and herds were slain.
And laid beneath the stone;
But the heart, and the tongue, and every palm
From every hand, were gone.
Her body was on the floor;
Her reverend head, with sorrows gray,
Hung on the chapel door.
On Evan banks sae green,
And lived and died like other men,
For aught that could be seen;
And froward was his way;
And malice every action ruled,
Until his dying day.
And many a mettled fay;
And many a wayward spirit learned
His summons to obey.
And many things foretold;
Much was he feared, but little loved,
By either young or old.
The name of this ancient fane is Dumgree. It is beautifully situated on the west side of the Kinnel, one of the rivers which joins the Annan from the west; and is now in ruins. It is still frequented by a few peaceable spirits, at certain seasons. As an instance: Not many years ago, a neighbouring farmer, riding home at night upon a mare, who, besides knowing the road well enough, had her foal closed in at home, thought himself hard at his own house, but was surprised to find that his mare was stopped at the door of the old kirk of Dumgree. He mounted again, and essayed it a second and a third time; but always with the same result, and farther from home than when he first set out. He was now sensible that the beast was led by some invisible hand, so alighting, he went into the chapel and said his prayers; after which he mounted, and rode as straight home as if it had been noon. If the farmer had told his story to my uncle Toby, he would certainly have whistled, Lillabullero.
Auchincastle is situated on the west side of the Evan, another of the tributary streams of the Annan. It seems to have been a place of great strength and antiquity; is surrounded by a moat and a fosse; and is perhaps surpassed by none in Scotland for magnitude.
If he lived and died like other men, it appears that he was not at all buried like other men. When on his deathbed, he charged his sons, as they valued their peace and prosperity, to sing no requiem nor say any burial-service over his body; but to put a strong withie to each end of his coffin, by which they were to carry him away to Dumgree, and see that all the attendants were well mounted. On the top of a certain eminence they were to set down the corpse and rest a few minutes, and if nothing interfered, they might proceed. If they fulfilled these, he promised them the greatest happiness and prosperity for four generations; but if they neglected them in one point, the utmost misery and wretchedness. The lads performed everything according to their father's directions; and they had scarcely well set down the corpse on the place he mentioned when they were alarmed by the most horrible bellowing of bulls; and instantly two dreadful brindered ones appeared, roaring and snuffing, and tossing up the earth with their horns and hoofs; on which the whole company turned and fled. When the bulls reached the coffin, they put each of them one of their horns in their respective withies and ran off with the corpse, stretching their course straight to the westward. The relatives, and such as were well mounted, pursued them, and kept nigh them for several miles; but when they came to the small water of Brann, in Nithsdale, the bulls went straight through the air, from the one hill-head to the other, without descending to the bottom of the glen. This unexpected manœuvre threw the pursuers quite behind, though they needed not to have expected anything else, having before observed that their feet left no traces on the ground, though ever so soft. However, by dint of whip and spur, they again got sight of them; but when they came to Loch Ettrick, on the heights of Closeburn, they had all lost sight of them but two, who were far behind: but the bulls there meeting with another company, plunged into the lake with the corpse, and were never more seen at that time. Ever since his spirit has haunted that loch, and continues to do so to this day.
He was, when alive, very fond of the game of curling on the ice, at which no mortal man could beat him; nor has his passion for it ceased with death; for he and his hellish confederates continue to amuse themselves with this game during the long winter nights, to the great terror and annoyance of the neighbourhood, not much regarding whether the loch be frozen or not. I have heard sundry of the neighbouring inhabitants declare, with the most serious countenances, that they have heard them talking, and the sound of the stones running along the ice and hitting each other, as distinctly as ever they did when present at a real and substantial curling. Some have heard him laughing, others lamenting; and others have seen the two bulls plashing and swimming about in the loch at the close of the evening. In short, every one allows it to be a dangerous place, and a place where very many have been affrighted: though there is little doubt that, making allowances for the magnifying qualities of fear, all the above phenomena might be accounted for in a natural way. Wilkin's descendants are still known; and the poorer sort of them have often their great predecessor mentioned to them as a ground of reproach, whom they themselves allow to have been an awesome body.
Thirlestane.
A FRAGMENT.
And aft hee sailit the sea;
And thrise he crossit the Alpyne hyllis
To dystante Italye.
Ane celle of meikle fame;
A knichte of guid Sainte John hee wals,
And Baldwyn wals hys name.
Whatte after tymes wald be;
And manie mystic lynks of fate,
He hafflyns could foresee.
Owre mony hyll and daill,
Tyll passynge through the fayre Foreste,
Hee learnit ane waesome tale.
Withe lofty hyllis belayit,
The staitly toweris of Thirlestane
Withe wondyr hee surveyit.
The trumpit seemit to grane;
And reid, reid ranne the bonnye burne,
Whilke erste lyke syller shaene.
Hee indistinctly hearde;
Then countlesse, countlesse were the croudis
Whilke rounde the wallis appearit.
Of sable trappyngis vayne;
And rounde onne Ettrickis baittle haughis
Grewe no kin kynde of grayne.
Some recente tragedye;
Atte lengthe hee spyit ane woeful wichte,
Gaun droopynge owre the ley.
Pale wals hys cheike wae-worne;
Hys hayre wals lyke the muirlande wylde
Onne a Decembyr morne.
“Here in this unco lande,
Ane Temple warrioure greetis thee weel,
And offers thee hys hande.
Sure all is notte forre guid:
And why, why does the bonnye burn
Rin reid withe Chrystain bluid?”
While downe felle mony a teire;
“O, wellcome, wellcome, sire,” hee saide,
“Ane waesome tale to heire:
By cruelle handis lyis slayne,
And all hys wyde domaynis so fayre
To ither lordis are gane.
The sunne did never shyne,—
Insteade of Chyrstain bluid, the burne
Rinnis reid with Rhenis wyne.
Hee first behelde the lyght,—
This is the sadde returnynge daie
Hee felle by cruelle spyte.
Hence you will see him borne,
And hys poor father home return,
Of landis and honouris shorne.
In yonder turette low;
We'll say our prayeris forre the dead,
And forre the livynge too.
Of wheat bread and the wyne,
My tale shalle weite thy honeste cheikis,
Als oft it has done myne.”
Sir Robert Scott, knight of Thirlestane, was first married to a lady of high birth and qualifications, whom he most tenderly loved; but she, soon dying, left him an only son. He was afterwards married to a lady of a different temper, by whom he had several children; whose jealousy of the heir made Sir Robert dote still more on this darling son. She, knowing that the right of inheritance belonged to him, and that, of course, a very small share would fall to her sons, seeing he loved the heir so tenderly, grew every year more uneasy. But the building, and other preparations which were going on at Gamescleuch, on the other side of the Ettrick, for his accommodation on reaching his majority, when he was also to be married to a fair kinswoman, drove her past all patience, and made her resolve on his destruction. The masonry of his new castle of Gamescleuch was finished on his birth-day, when he reached his twentieth year; but it never went farther. This being always a feast-day at Thirlestane, the lady prepared, on that day, to put her hellish plot in execution; for which purpose she had previously secured to her interest John Lally, the family piper. This man, tradition says, procured her three adders, of which they chose the parts replete with the most deadly poison; these they ground to a fine powder, and mixed with a bottle of wine. On the forenoon before the festival commenced, he went over to Gamescleuch to regale his workmen, who had exerted themselves to get their work finished on that day, and Lally the piper went with him as a server. When his young lord called for wine to drink a health to the masons, John gave him a cup of the poisoned bottle, which he drank off. Lally went out of the castle, as if about to return home; but that was the last sight of him. He could never be found nor heard of, though the most diligent and extended search was made for him. The heir swelled and burst almost instantaneously. A large company of the then potent name of Scott, with others, were now assembled at Thirlestane to grace the festival; but what a woeful meeting it turned out to be! They with one voice pronounced him poisoned; but where to attach the blame remained a mystery, as he was so universally loved and esteemed. The first thing the knight caused to be done, was blowing the blast on the trumpet or great bugle, which was the warning for all the family instantly to assemble; which they did in the court of the castle. He then put the following question: “Now, are we all here?” A voice answered from the crowd, “We are all here but Lally the piper.” Simple and natural as this answer may seem, it served as an electrical shock to old Sir Robert. It is supposed that, knowing the confidence which his lady placed in this menial, the whole scene of cruelty opened to his eyes at once; and the trying conviction that his peace was destroyed by her most dear to him, struck so forcibly upon his feelings, that it totally deprived him of reason. He stood a long time speechless, and then fell to repeating the answer he had received, like one half awakened out of a sleep; nor was he ever heard, for many a day, to speak another word than these, “We're all here but Lally the piper:” and when any one accosted him, whatever was the subject, that was sure to be the answer he received.
The method which he took to revenge his son's death was singular and unwarrantable. He said that the estate of right belonged to his son, and since he could not bestow it upon him living, he would spend it all upon him now he was dead; and that neither the lady, nor her children, should ever enjoy a farthing of that which she had played so foully for. The body was accordingly embalmed, and lay in great splendour at Thirlestane for a year and a day; during all which time Sir Robert kept open house, welcoming and feasting all who chose to come, and actually spent or mortgaged his whole estate, saving a very small patrimony in Eskdale-muir, which belonged to his wife. Some say, that while all the country, who chose to come, were thus feasting at Thirlestane, she remained shut up in a vault of the castle, and lived on bread and water.
During the three last days of this wonderful feast, the crowds which gathered were immense; it seemed as if the whole country were assembled at Thirlestane. The butts of wine were carried to the open fields, the ends knocked out of them with hatchets, stones, or whatever came readiest to hand, and the liquor carried about, “in stoups and in caups.” On these days the burn of Thirlestane ran constantly red with wine, and even communicated its tincture to the river Ettrick. The family vault, where his corpse was interred in a leaden chest, is under the same roof with the present parish church of Ettrick, and distant from Thirlestane about a Scots mile. To give some idea of the magnitude of the burial, the old people tell us, that though the whole way was crowded with attendants, yet when the leaders of the procession reached the church, the rearmost were not nearly got from Thirlestane.
Sir Robert shortly after dying, left his family in a state little short of downright beggary, which, they say, the lady herself came to before she died. As Sir Robert's first lady was of the family of Buccleuch, some suspected him of having a share in forwarding the knight's desperate procedure. Certain it is, however, he did not, in this instance, depart from the old family maxim, “Keep what you have, and catch what you can,” but made a noble hand of the mania of grief, which so overpowered the faculties of the old baron; for when accounts came to be cleared up, a large proportion of the lands turned out to be Buccleuch's. And it is added, on what authority I know not, that when the extravagance of Sir William Scott obliged the Harden family to part with the Thirlestane property, which fell into their hands, the purchasers were bound by the bargain to refund these lands, should the Scotts of Thirlestane ever make good their right to them, either by law or redemption.
The nearest lineal descendent from this second marriage is one Robert Scott, a poor man who lives at the Binks on Teviot, whom the generous Buccleuch has taken notice of and provided for. He is commonly distinguished by the appellation of Rob the Laird, from the conviction of what he would have been had he got fair play. With this man, who is very intelligent, I could never find an opportunity of conversing, though I sought it diligently. It is said, he can inform as to many particulars relating to this sad catastrophe; and that, whenever he has occasion to mention a certain great predecessor of his (the Lady of Thirlestane), he distinguishes her by a very uncouth epithet. It must be remarked, that I had access to no records for the purpose of ascertaining the facts above stated, though I believe they are, for the most part, pretty correct. Perhaps much might be learned by applying to the noble representative of the family, the Honourable Lord Napier, who is still possessed of the beautiful mountains round Thirlestane, and who has it at present in contemplation to rebuild and beautify it; which may God grant him health and prosperity to accomplish. It is to this story that the following fragment alludes.
It is not a little singular, that in the Napier genealogy, published in Wood's Peerage, from a manuscript contained in Lord Napier's charter-chest, there is no mention made of this catastrophe; nor is it possible, from that genealogy, to ascertain who the heir that was thus taken off has been. Yet there is so little doubt of the traditionary story having been true, that it was the foundation of a lawsuit, which lasted for generations, regarding a part of the lands that belonged either to Sir Robert's second lady, or were hers in reversion. The Sir Robert Scott of Thirlestane, who was warden-depute of the West Border in 1567, and who married Margaret, daughter of Sir Walter Scott, had in fact three sons, and in this chronicle no second lady is mentioned. But on the other hand, his eldest son and heir, Robert, is merely mentioned; and it is evident that he had died young, and without issue. From this it is highly probable, that he was the heir who was supposed to have been poisoned; for it further appears, that some remnants of the estate fell to his brother William, and to his children; but from that time forth they are no more styled Scotts of Thirlestane, until 1666, when one Francis Scott was created a baronet by patent, and designed of Thirlestane in the county of Selkirk. He was the eldest son of Patrick Scott of Tanlawhill, commonly called Pate the Laird, and great-grandson to the last Sir Robert Scott by Walter his third son. There is therefore apparently some confusion in the manuscript about this period, which is manifestly very short and imperfect; a circumstance which would naturally enough occur in the embarrassed state of the family. Pate the Laird recovered a mere fragment of the ample estate of Thirlestane, by purchasing the wadsets of a few of the best of the farms around the castle. When Sir Robert was appointed keeper of the West Marches under his father-in-law, he could have mounted his horse at Eltrive Lake, and ridden to the Crurie, near Langholm, on his own lands, a distance of 30 miles. The Honourable Captain William Napier has built a splendid mansion at the old family seat, and beautified the country by many improvements. Why does he not resume the old paternal name?
Lord Derwent.
A FRAGMENT.
And why look ye so wan?
And why stand mounted at your gate
So early in the dawn?”
For how can I look gay,
When I have fought the live-long night,
And fled at break of day?”
And have they won the day?
It must have been a bloody field,
Ere Derwent fled away.
So stable and so good?
And where got ye that gilded sword,
So dyed with purple blood?”
Last night on Eden downe;
I got the horse and harness too,
Where mortal ne'er got one.”
God mot you save and see;
For never till this hour was I
Afraid to look on thee.”
That stained both tower and tree:
“Prepare, prepare, my lady fair,
Prepare to go with me.
A deed shall here be done,
That men unborn shall shrink to hear,
And dames the tale shall shun.
The foul intent to see:
Prepare, prepare, my lady fair,
Prepare to follow me.”
I'll live or die with thee;
I see a wound deep in your side
And hence you cannot flee.”
To list a heavy groan;
But when she turned her round again,
Her noble lord was gone.
And all around the tower
Through house and hall; but man nor horse
She never could see more.
All in a doleful state;
And there she saw her little foot-page
Alighting at the gate.
And let your servant in;
Our furious foes are hard at hand,
The castle fair to win.”
Or whither is he bound?
He's gone just now, and in his side
A deep and deadly wound.”
And look so wild on me?
Your lord lies on the bloody field,
And him you'll never see.
He fought most valiantlye,
Put him to flight, and broke his men,
With shouts of victory.
And charged us fierce as hell;
Yet ne'er could pierce the English troops
Till my brave master fell.
Bore down our flying band;
And now they waste with fire and sword
The Links of Cumberland.
With Jardine hastilye,
And young Kilpatrick and Glencairn
Are come in search of thee.”
Whom I pay meat and fee?
The cock has never crowed but once
Since Derwent was with me.
And sings so loud and clear,
Has only three times changed his note
Since my good lord was here.”
I'm sure it was not he;
I saw him dead on Eden plain,
I saw him with my ee.
While heaps before him fell;
I saw them pierce his manly side,
And bring the last farewell.
And bear the fray before;
Tell her I died for England's right.’—
Then word spake never more.
For here you cannot stay;
Short be thy shrift, our steeds are swift,
And well I know the way.”
My heart is wonder sore;
My brain it turns, my blood it burns,
And I dare not look before.”
Her heart grew chill with dread;—
For there she saw the Scottish bands,
Kilpatrick at their head.
On Skiddaw there were three;
The warder's horn o'er muir and fell
Was heard continually.
The sun in blood arose;
But oh! how many a gallant man
Ne'er saw that evening close!
This ballad relates to an engagement which took place betwixt the Scots and English, in Cumberland, A.D. 1524; for a particular account of which, see the historians of that period.
The page's account of this action seems not to be wide of the truth: “On the 17th of Julie, the Lord Maxwell, and Sir Alexander Jardein, with diverse other Scottishmen, in great numbers entered England by the west marches, and Caerleill, with displayed banners, and began to harrie the country, and burn diverse places. The Englishmen assembled on every side, so that they were far more in number than the Scottishmen, and thereupon set feircelie upon their enemies; insomuch that, for the space of an hour, there was a sore fight continued betwixt them. But the Lord Maxwell, like a true politike captain, as of all that knew him he was no less reputed, ceased not to encourage his people; and after that, by the taking of Sir Alexander Jardein and others, they had beene put backe, he brought them in arraie again, and beginning a new skirmish, recovered in manner all the prisoners; took and slew diverse Englishmen; so that he returned with victorie, and led above 300 prisoners with him into Scotland.” —Holinshed.
The Laird of Lairistan,
OR THE THREE CHAMPIONS OF LIDDISDALE.
The scene of this ballad is laid in the upper parts of Liddisdale, in which district the several residences of the three champions are situated, as is also the old castle of Hermitage, with the farm-houses of Saughentree and Roughley.
As to the authenticity of the story, all that I can say of it is, that I used to hear it told when I was a boy, by William Scott, a joiner of that country, and was much taken with some of the circumstances. Were I to relate it verbatim, it would only be anticipating a great share of the poem.—One verse is ancient, beginning “O wae be to thee,” &c.
Will ye gang and watch the deer wi' me?”
“Ay, by my sooth, at the turn o' the night,
We'll drive the holm of the Saughentree.”
The ground lay deep in drifted snaw;
The Hermitage bell had rung eleven,
And our yeomen watched behind the ha'.
And never a blood-drap could they draw:
“Now, by my sooth!” cried Dickie then,
“There's something yonder will fear us a'.
Nae wonder that it derkens my ee,
See yonder's a thing of fearsome size,
And it's moving this way hastilye.
The Lord preserve baith you and me!
But our hearts are the same, and sure our aim,
And he that comes near these bullets shall prie.”
Let us survey't wi' steady ee;
'Tis a dead man they are carrying here,
And 'tis fit that the family warned should be.”
But none were at home but maidens three;
Then close in the shade of the wall they staid,
To watch what the issue of this would be.
A sight had nearly freezed their blood;
One lost her sight in the fair moonlight,
And one of them fainted where they stood.
Came bearing a corpse with many a wound;
His habit bespoke him a lord or knight,
And his fair ringlets swept the ground.
“A place to leave him will not be found:
The door is locked, and the key away;
In the byre will we lay him down.”
And away they fled right speedilye;
The rest took shelter behind the door,
In wild amazement as well might be.
No, not for the life of his bodye;
But the blood on the snaw was trailed alang,
And they kend a' wasna as it should be.
For soon the word was far and wide;
And there lay the Laird of Lairistan,
The bravest knight on the Border side.
And cloven through the left cheek-bone;
And clad in the habit he daily wore;
But his sword, and his belt, and his bonnet were gone.
And soon to Branxholm ha' it flew,
That Elliot of Lairistan was slain,
And how or why no living knew.
With fifty knights in his company;
To Hermitage castle they rode with speed,
Where all the dale was summoned to be.
And they swore and touched the fair bodye;
But Jocky o' Millburn he was lost,
And could not be found in the hale countrye.
And O an ill death may'st thou dee!
Thou hast put down brave Lairistan,
But his equal thou wilt never be.
And drive away the Liddisdale kye;
For now is our guardian laid in his grave,
And Branxholm and Thirlestane distant lye.”
And every one his virtues tell:
His hounds lay howling at the door,
His hawks flew idle o'er the fell.
Two shepherds sat on Roughley hill;
And aye they sighed and made their moan,
O'er the present times that looked so ill.
Buccleuch must bear him companye;
And Thirlestane's all to flinders gone,
And who shall our protector be?
The English lords begin to thraw;
The land is in a piteous case,
When subjects rise against the law.
The nation has received a stain—
A stain like that on Sundup's cloak,
That never will wash out again.”
His mouth to open wide began;
He stared and looked from place to place,
As things across his mem'ry ran.
Which Sundup wore, and was sae gay,
For three lang years had ne'er been seen,
At chapel, raid, nor holiday.
From two old dames of southron land,
A tale the which he greatly feared,
But ne'er could th' roughly understand.
Your sim'lie bodes us little good;
I fear, the cloak you mentioned now—
I fear 'tis stained with noble blood!”
I never meant to tell to man
That tale; but crimes will come to light,
Let human wits do what they can.
Hath ordered from his seat on high,
That aye since valiant Elliot fell,
That mantle bears the purple dye;
And all that lash the British shore,
Can ne'er wash out the wondrous maele;
It still seems fresh with purple gore.”
And soon to Branxholm ha' it flew;
And Halbert o' Sundup he was ta'en,
And brought before the proud Buccleuch.
Where ladies and lords of high degree,
And many a one, both great and small,
Were struck with awe the same to see.
“Is this the judgment of God on high!
If that be Elliot's blood we view,
False Sundup, thou shalt surely die!”
And wiped the round tear frae his ee;
“That blood, my lord, is Elliot's blood;
I winna keep in the truth frae thee.”
“If that be true thou tell'st to me,
On the highest tree in Branxholm-heuch,
Stout Sundup, thou must hangit be.”
And Elliot's death was wrought by me;
And were the deed again to do,
I'd do't in spite of hell and thee.
The fairest flower of Liddisdale,
By Lairistan foully was betrayed,
And roundly has he payed the mail.
And found her to his bosom prest:
He begged to have his broad claymore,
And dared us both to do our best.
In rage from laws of arms we swerved:
Though Lairistan got double play,
'Twas fairer play than he deserved.
When in the lady's arms lay he;
We might have killed him in his sark,
Yet gave him room to fight or flee.
‘My single arm shall do the deed;
Or heavenly justice is denied,
Or that false heart of thine shall bleed.’
With steady hand and watchful een;
From both the trickling blood-drops fell,
And the words of death were said between
He ript his bosom to the bone;
Though Armstrong was a yeoman brave,
Like Elliot living there was none.
His strength the bison's strength outvied;
His courage like the mountain rock;
For skill his man be never tried.
Made chiefs and armies stand in awe;
And little weened to see the day
On other deadly thus to draw.”
The tear of rage rowed in his ee;
The next stroke that brave Millburn got,
The blood ran dreeping to his knee.
And fast to his assistance ran;—
What could I do? I could not stand
And see the base deceiver win.”
Turn round and change a blow with me,
Or by the righteous powers aboon,
I'll hew the arm from thy bodye.’
And lounged and passed most furiouslye;
But, with one slap of my broad sword,
I brought the traitor to his knee.
‘For all the pain thou'st gi'en to me;’
(Though then he shortly would have died)
And ran him through the fair bodye.”
To tine a warrior loathe was he;
The crime was called a brave revenge,
And Halbert of Sundup was set free.
And wished him to enjoy his own;
But Milburn never more returned,
Till ten long years were come and gone.
And deeds of death and dool began;
The commons rose against the king,
And friends to diff'rent parties ran.
And soon his ranks with grandeur fill;
They sought their foes with might and main,
And found them lying on Edgehill.
And long and bloody was the fray;
At length, o'erpowered, the rebel crew
Before the royal troops gave way.
“That fought so well through all the fray?
Whose coat of rags, together tied,
Seems to have seen a better day.
I never in my life did see;
His valour three times turned the day,
When we were on the point to flee.”
Who stood beside his majestye,
“My liege, the man's a Border Scot,
Who volunteered to fight for thee.
And sit unstable on your throne;
But had he power unto his will,
He swears he'd kill the dogs each one.”
“Go bring the valiant Scot to me;
When we have all our foes subdued,
The lord of Liddle he shall be.”
And made him there a belted knight.
But Millburn bled to save his king,
The king to save his royal right.
The Wife of Crowle.
This fragment is a traditionary story put to rhyme without any addition. The woman lived at Crowle Chapel in Nithsdale. It is given more at large in “The Winter Evening Tales.”
Pretending to shape and to sew;
But she looked at all that entered the hall,
As if she would look them through.
Some wild airs for the dead;
Then 'gan to tell a crazy tale,
She told it for a meed.
They tore my son from me;
His life-blood streamed where the cormorant screamed,
On the wild rocks girt by the sea.
For the dark sea-cave is his urn;
The cliff-flowers weep o'er his slumbers so deep,
And the dead-lights over him burn.
Or illumine the death-set eye?
Yes, a wild mother's tears, and a wild mother's prayers,
A spirit may force from the sky.
My yearnings continued the same;
I prayed to Heaven, both morning and even,
To send me my son, till he came.
I dreamed of the times that were gone;
Of its chirrup so eiry the cricket was weary,
All silent I sat, and alone.
My own son enter the hall;
A white birchen wand he held in his hand,
But no shadow had he on the wall.
All steadfast and looked not away;
His motion was still as the mist on the hill,
And his colour like cold-white clay.
Which quavered as midnight it rung,
So stunned me, I strove, but I could not move
My hand, my foot, nor my tongue.
From the roof, and they fell upon me;
No water their stain could wash out again;
These blood-drops still you may see.
I stretched out my arms to embrace;
But he turned his dead eye, so hollow and dry,
And so wistfully gazed in my face,
All darkened, no more could I see;
But each finger's point, and each finger's joint,
Grew thick as the joint of my knee.
No word to me he had said;
Though my blood was boiling, and my heart recoiling,
To see him again still I prayed.
In guise that might adamant melt;
He has offered his hand with expression so bland,
But that hand could never be felt.
On his grave-cloth the seams I could trace;
The blood from a wound trickled down to the ground,
And a napkin was over his face.
It has somewhat bewildered my brain;
Yet, though chilled with affright at the terrible sight,
I long still to see it again.”
The Tweeddale Raide.
This ballad was written by my nephew, Robert Hogg, student in the College of Edinburgh, on purpose for insertion in the Edinburgh Annual Register. He brought it to me, and I went over it with him, and was so delighted with the humour of the piece, that I advised him to send it with his name. The editor however declined inserting it; and it is here published, word for word as sent to him. A natural inclination to admire youthful efforts may make me judge partially; but I think, if it is not a good imitation of the old Border ballad, I never saw one. The old castle of Hawkshaw was situated in a wild dell, a little to the westward of the farm-house of that name, which stands in the glen of Fruid in Tweedsmuir. It was built, and inhabited long, by the Porteouses, an ancient family of that district. A knight of the name of Sir Patrick Porteous of Hawkshaw was living A.D. 1600. His eldest daughter Janet was married to Scott of Thirlestane. All the places mentioned are in the direct line from Hawkshaw to Tarras, a wild and romantic little river between the Ewes and Liddel. The names of the warriors inserted, are those of families proven to be residing in the district at the same period of time with Patrick Porteous. I cannot find that the ballad is founded on any fact or traditionary tale, save that Porteous once, having twenty English prisoners, of whom he was tired, took them out to the top of a hill called the Fala Moss, and caused his men fell them one by one with a mall, and fling them into a large hole for burial. Whilst they were busy with some of the hindmost, one of those previously felled started up from the pit and ran off. He was pursued for a long way, and at last, being hard pressed, he threw himself over a linn in Glen-Craigie, and killed himself. As the pit in which they were buried was in a moss, some of the bones were distinguishable by the shepherds, who digged for them, only a few years ago.
An' O right douf an' dour was he;
Nae voice of joy was i' the ha',
Nae sound o' mirth or revelry.
His ee was dark as dark could be;
An' aye he strade across the ha',
An' thus he spoke right boisterouslye:
My flocks in peace and safety strayed;
To-day, nor ewe, nor steer, is seen
On a' my baronie sae braid:
Wi' ony wight on Border side;
Make ready then my merry men a',
Make ready, swiftly we maun ride.
Gae saddle me my bonny gray,
An' warder, sound the rising note,
For we hae far to ride or day.”
An' soon owre hill, owre holt, an' brae,
His merry men came riding in,
All armed and mounted for the fray.
The moon raise owre the Merk-side bree;
“Welcome, auld dame,” Pate Porteous cried,
“Aft hae ye proved a friend to me.
Until Glendarig steps we won,
I'll let you see as brave a chace
As ever down the Esk was run.”
They met Tam Bold o' Kirkhope town;
“Now whar gang ye, thou rank reaver,
Beneath the ae light o' the moon?”
Tam Bold, I had a stock right guid;
Now I hae neither cow nor ewe
On o' the bonny braes o' Fruid.”
“Now, Pate, for thee my heart is wae;
I saw your flocks gang owre the muir
O' Wingate by the skreigh o' day.
An' tarry at the Tarras lair;
Gin they get owre the Border line,
Your ewes an' kye you'll see nae mair.”
The day-light glimmered on the lea;
“O, lak-a-day! my bonny gray,
I find ye plaittin' at the knee.
On you depends your master's a',
An' ye's be fed wi' bread an' wine,
When ye gang hame to Hawkshaw ha'.”
Till mony a naig he swarf'd away;
At length they wan the Tarras moss,
An' lightit at the skreigh o' day.
Tossin' their white horns to the sun;
“Now, by my sooth!” Pate Porteous cried,
“My owsen will be hard to won.”
I wat a stalwart lad was he;
“What lowns are ye,” he bauldly cried,
“That dare to stop my kye an' me?”
An' sey a skelp or twa wi' me,
For ye hae reaved my flocks an' kye,
An', by my sooth, revenged I'll be.
Was tamely harried o' his gear,
That Pate o' Hawkshaw e'er was cowed,
Or braved by Southron arm in weir.”
A dauntless blade I wat was he,
“Now wha are ye, ye saucy lown,
That speaks thus haughtilye to me?”
Light down an' try your hand wi' me;
For, by my sooth, or thou shalt yield,
Or one of us this day shall die.”
An' lightly on the ground lap he;
“I rede thee, Scot, thou meet'st thy death
If thou dar'st cross a sword wi' me;
O' Ringan's Rab o' Thorlberrye?
If ye hae not, ye hae excuse
For cracking here sae crabbedlye.
Wi' hingin' mou an' blirtit ee,
Ye'll tell your wife an' bairns at hame,
How Ringan's Robin yerkit thee.”
An arm o' strength an' might had he,
He brooked nae fear, but made his bragg
In deeds o' desperate devilrye.
Thou Southron thief o' gallow's fame,
I only ken that I am wranged,
An' thou shalt answer for the same.”
An' drew their swords o' mettle keen;
But sic a fray, as chanced that day,
On Border-side was never seen.
That shawed the red bluid to the ee,
Out o' the Southron's brawny thigh
He carved a slice right dextrouslye:
An' muckle good may't do to thee,
'Twill learn ye how to slice the hams
O' my guid kye at Thorlberrye.”
“The stang o' a wasp is waur to bide;
But or that we twa part again.
I'll pay it on thy ain backside.”
“Now, fy lay on, an' dinna spare;
If frae a Southron e'er I flinch,
I'se never wield a weapon mair.”
But scarcely doubtfu' was the day,
When Southrons round their captain closed,
An' shouted for the gen'ral fray.
It was a gallant sight to see:
“Lay on them, lads,” cried Hawkshaw Pate,
“Or, faith, we'll sup but spairinglye.”
“Lay on them, lads o' English blude,
The Scottish brand i' dalesmen's hand
'Gainst Southland weapon never stude.”
“Our horses lack baith hay an' corn;
An' we maun a' hae English naigs
Out owre the Penraw Cross the morn.”
Like auld pot-metal, yank for yank;
Montgomery, wi' his spearmen guid,
He bored them trimly i' the flank.
An' swore an' fought fu' desperatelye;
But Jockie o' Talla got a skelp
That clove him to the left ee-bree.
An' stude i' reid bluid owre the shoon;
The Johnstons, an' the Frazers too,
Made doughty wark or a' was done.
An' bathed i' bluid their weapons true;
An' Jamie o' Carterhope was there,
An' Harstane stout, an' young Badlewe.
He stood upon the knowe sae hie,
An' wi' his braid-bow in his hand,
He blindit mony a Southron ee.
An' reddened a' the Tarras burn;
“Now, by my sooth,” said Hawkshaw Pate,
“I never stood sae hard a turn.
An' brave the braidsword half so weel.”
“Deil tak the dogs!” cried Sandy Welsh,
“I trow their hides are made o' steel.
An' jagged an' nickit like a thorn;
It ne'er will ser' another turn,
But sawin' through an auld toop-horn.
An' by the deil an' a' his kin,—”
“Lord! stop your gab,” quo' auld Will Tod,
“Sic swearin' is a deadly sin.
Then swear like hell when a' is done;
If I can rightly judge or guess,
The day's our ain, an' that right soon.”
An' down the back o' Birkhope brae;
Had it not been the Tarras flow,
Nae Englishmen had 'scaped that day.
Lay gasping on the Tarras moss,
An' three and thirty mae were ta'en,
An' led out owre the Penraw Cross.
An' ransom gowd, an' gear their fill,
An' aye sin syne they bless the day
They fought sae weel on Tarras hill.
Back to their native hills again;
He hadna lost a man but four,
An' Jockie o' Talla he was ane.
O he was yetherit an' yerkit sair;
But he came owre the Penraw Cross
To herry Tweeddale glens nae mair.
Robin an' Nanny.
This ballad, or rather rural tale, was written at a period of life so early, that I have quite forgotten when and in what circumstances it was written: but I think I have had the manuscript by me upwards of twenty years. It is exceedingly imperfect; but a natural fondness for the productions of my early years, and some recollections that have scarcely left a trace behind, induce me to give it a place. It has not the least resemblance in style to aught I have written since, and I believe I have nothing in my hand that was previously written. Those who wish me well will not regret that my style has undergone such a manifest change; for into a worse one it could scarcely have fallen.
Blue the lift as ony bell,
Cauld the norlan' wind was blawin',
Fast the drift came owre the fell;
Out frae yont her auld gudeman,
Wha she trow'd was soundly sleepin',
Though he heard how a' was gaun;
A' the floor, frae end to end;
Soon the reek gaed blue an' piping
Up the lum wi' mony a bend.
On a wee lock cosey hay,
Nanny cowered, and humbly kneelin',
Sighin', thus begoud to pray:—
Thou wha leev'st aboon the sky,
Wha a mind to me hast given,
An' a saul that canna die;
Thoughtless o' thy love to me;
Nae where can I flee but to thee,
Nae ane can I trust but thee.
Now my heart is unco sair;
My puir lassie, forced to leave me,
Take, O take her to thy care!
Whan thou tak'st her I'll resign;
Why sude I be fleyed or fretfu'?
She's i' better hands than mine.
Gars me think o' her the mair;
Yet I'll trust her to thy kindness;
Take, O take her to thy care!”
Listened weel to a' she said;
Fixed his kindly heart was wi' her,
Joinin' ilka vow she made.
Busy out an' in she ran;
Yet wi' footsteps fleet an' cannie,
Laith to waken her gudeman.
What has gart ye rise so soon?”
“Troth, gudeman, our wee bit hawkie,
Twice had raised the hungry croon.
Keen the wind comes owre the lea,
Deep wi' snaw the grun' is happit,
Puir things! they war like to die.”
Gudesake! quat this fyky way,
Else your cares will bang your nature,
An' ye'll dee afore your day.
A' the night ye hotch an' grane;
Ye've o' sleep an' rest bereft me,
Lye i' peace, or lye your lane.
But she's virtuous as she's fair:
What's to ail our bonnie Mary!
What means a' this restless care?”
Laith am I frae rest to keep;
But my dreams sae sair perplex me,
I dare nouther rest nor sleep.
Visions are nae sent in vain;
Reason canna now relieve me,
Canna ease my eerie pain.
Like a lump o' senseless clay,
Then our sauls are busy flyin',
Viewin' places far away.”
Quite owreturn philosophye?
Owre an' owre again I've showed ye
Sic a thing can never be.
To Jerus'lem or the moon,
In a moment wakenin', changin',
How cou'd they come back sae soon?
If they dandered here an' there,
What way cou'd we leeve without them?
We wad never waken mair.
Lang an' sound your sleep will be!
Let nae wayward fancies grieve you;
Tear o' thine I downa see.”
But their meanin' I hae seen;
I, this mornin', raise mair weary
Than I gaed to bed yestreen.
May I sic a vision see;
My dear Mary sat aside me,
Lovely as she wont to be.
Kind it look'd, an' sweetly sang;
Whan her lily hand caressed it,
Wi' its notes the woodlands rang.
Till an awsome beast it grew;
Still she fonder grew about it,
Though it pecked her black an' blue.
A' wi' blude an' fleekers hang;
Still she pressed it to her bosom,
Grat, but wadna let it gang.
Or the monster took its flight;
Never was my heart sae stoundit!
Never saw I sic a sight!
Sure as glents the mornin' sun.”
Robin leugh, an' jibit sairly,
But wi' him it was nae fun.
Rowed him in his gaucy plaid,
To the hay-stack dass retired,
Laid his bonnet off his head:
Lyin' grooflin' on the hay,
There he prayed in words most holy,
For his Mary far away.
Sweet as e'enin's softest gale;
Fairer flower than Mary never
Blossomed in a Highland dale.
Light the lamb skips owre the lea;
Blyther than the lark was Mary,
Lighter than the lamb was she.
Hap wi' blooms the Highland lea,
Weel the heather-bells become her,
Wavin' owre her dark ee-bree.
Fittin' her for ony thing:
Mary was an only daughter;
She cou'd read, an' write, an' sing.
She maun gae her bread to earn;
To the town to wait her lady,
An' the city gaits to learn.
She was aye a bairn sae kind!
Robin just shook hands, an' blessed her,
Bidding her her Maker mind.
Light she tripped adown the dale;
Dash, a gig came up ahint her,
Swifter than the mountain gale.
Will ye mount an' ride wi' me?”
“Thank ye, sir; but, troth, I'm eiry
Sic a sight ye doughtna see.
Tauntin' aye the blate an' mean.”
“Woh!” quo' he, “—your hand, my lassie,
Sit ye there an' tak a lean.”
Down the glen the courser sprang;
Mary's heart wi' joy was dancin',
Baith her lugs wi' pleasure rang.
Fast he leaves the cliffs behind;
Swifter flew our spark an' Mary—
Faster cluve the winter wind.
Fleet they skimmed the dale an' doon—
Steeples, towers, an' hills, behind them
Vanished like the settin' moon.
Fast they drank the bluid-red wine;
Mary thought (her smile confessed it),
Never man was ha'f sae kin'.
Firm, for fear that she should fa';
Aft his glances raised her wonder,
Aye she blushed an' turned awa.
Then her cheek wi' sair ado—
Lang or night, whane'er he listit,
Aye he pree'd her cherry mou'.
Taken by his generous way,
Bonny Mary, artless Mary,
Step by step was led astray.
Whan the street was hushed an' still;
Ilka Sunday out they walkit,
To the glen or bracken hill.
Owre the broom-wood splendour threw;
Whan the breeze, sae mild and mellow,
Frae the primrose drank the dew;
Oft at noontide wad they lye,
Strewed wi' flowers, and saft wi' rushes,
Happed wi' foliage frae the sky.
Sang the blackbird on the spray;
Pretty songster! O for pity,
Cease thy am'rous roundelay!
Bonnie birks they wave an' weep;
While the breeze, among the bushes,
Wails for virtue lulled asleep.
Wildly owre the woodland dale,
While the kind and bonnie Mary
Ever maun the time bewail?
Word o' her they couldna learn;
Love an' sorrow sae harassed her,
She grew an unmindfu' bairn.
Only hetter blew the coal—
Robin's heart misgae him sairly,
Nanny could nae langer thole.
Hang it on the clipse to dry;
Sindry methes an' maels war on it;
It had lien lang idle by.
Nanny brushed fu' braw an' clean;
Streekit they had lien untroublit—
Seldom needit—seldom seen.
White his serk as driven snaw:
His gray hair weel kaimed an' sleekit;
Robin looked fu' trig an' braw.
Keep the yows an' kye frae skaith,
I maun see the dear young limmer,
Though to gang sae far I'm laith.
Gladly I wad postage pay;
But, nae doubt, she's hadden busy,
Maybe baith by night an' day.
To our arms to guard and guide;
She's a gift in kindness given;
She's our ain whate'er betide.
Heavy news are waur than nane:
If the lassie's fair an' healthy,
In a week I'll come again.”
Round his waist his plaid he twined;
Bread an' cheese in ilka pocket,
Robin left his cot behind.
Drew ae glowr frae Robin's ee;
On he joggit, slaw an' sadly,
Nought but Mary mindit he.
Question coudna draw reply;
Every bonnie lass that met him,
Sharp he looked till she was by.
Wonder kythed i' Robin's leuks;
Chariots rattled by like fire—
“What a routh o' lords an' dukes!”
Time-o'-day gae to them a'—
Up the mail came—Robin stoppit—
“Here's the grandest chap ava!
Some to wait, an' some to ca';
He's been giein' alms, nae doubt there,
Gars his man the trumpet blaw.”
Knights an' great men round him swarm;
O' their honours to mak sicker
Robin's bonnet's 'neath his arm.
To the Cross he wan at last;
Stood amazed, an' aft inquired,
“Where's the folk gaun a' sae fast?”
Wha enticed his bairn frae him;
Wi' his stick the door he knockit,
Then stood quakin' every limb.
Edinborough town before,
Robin owre his pike-staff leanin',
At the lady's glancin' door.
Short an' deep his breath he drew;
His gray locks owre ilka shoulder,
Waved wi' ilka blast that blew.
Coat the colour o' the sea;
Wide the cuffs, an' ilka laibie
Fauldit owre aboon his knee.
Round he turned his wat'ry ee;
Haflins feared, an' half rejoicin',
Mary's face he hoped to see.
Spiered what made him there to ca'—
“'Twas to see his daughter Mary:”
“Mary wasna there ata'!
Doubtin' sair her 'haviour light,
An' wi' gentle spark had catched her
At the dead hour o' the night.
Quite owre ruin's fearfu' brink;
Virtue steels her breast nae langer,
As she brewed she now maun drink.”
Looked as he'd attack the place;
Just as he was rushin' forward,
Clash the door came in his face.
Fast he sought, an' in the dust
A' the night he lay lamentin',
Till his heart was like to burst.
How my hopes are marred in thee!
O that I had sooner sought her,
Or had she but staid wi' me!
How could I her mother tell?
Should I gang an' no forgie her,
How will God forgie mysel'?”
An' at queans he chanced to meet;
Some fo'k bade him seek the closses—
Some the stairs aneath the street.
Broken-hearted though he be,
Nor the proud voluptuary
Bend to heaven a hopeless ee.
Sure as poortith meets disdain;
Sure as stable stands the mountain;
Sure as billows heave the main—
Rules our actions to his mind;
One will ever—ever love us,
If our hearts are meek an' kind.
At the dead o' a' the night,
Heard a lassie pleadin' sairly,
In a sad an' waefu' plight.
Then i' se trouble you nae mair.”
They within, her mis'ry scornin',
Stormed an' threatened unco sair.
We hae borne w'ye mony a day;
Had ye listened ought to reason,
Ye had been a lady gay;
Clad wi' silks o' ev'ry hue,
Had ye done as ye were bidden:—
Get ye gone, or ye shall rue.”
Let me in, for sair I rue!
Though it shocks my very nature,
What you bid me I will do.”
“Haud, or else ye're lost for aye!
Think o' friends wha hold you dearer,
Think what will your parents say!”
Sad she looked, but nought could say;
Round his knees her arms she twistit,
Shrieked, an' faintit quite away.
Spottit plaid, an' bonnet blue—
Ye hae felt the throes o' nature—
Need I tell the case to you?
Here he fand in sic a state,
Sufferin', for ae step unwary,
Near a sad an' shamefu' fate.
She had wept an' wept her fill;
But all proffers had resentit
That could lead her mair to ill.
Soft desire may beet thine eye,
Yet within thy heavin' bosom
Dwells deep-blushing modestye!
From its stalk this gem of morn,
Else it droops an' dies for ever,
Leavin' bare the festerin' thorn!
Sweetest bliss that Heaven can give,
Thine the blame the garland wearest,
If through life it disna live.
Opening to the morning ray;
For one blemish on its bosom,
Would you crush it in the clay?
By a reptile's pois'nous twine,
Must the noxious weeds around it
In its ruin all combine?
Doomed too oft to endless pain,
Set the butt of every danger,
Left the mark of cold disdain:—
Out from Nature's mighty sum,
First of a' may plead forbearance,
Female innocence o' ercome.
Gae his bairn a welcome kiss,
Never made one harsh reflection,
Never said she'd done amiss.
Heard her suff'rins by the way;
Short the answer Robin made her,
“A' like lost sheep gang astray!”
Robin saved his fallen child;
Mourned alone her base seduction,
Won her soul by manners mild.
Pardon begged for errors past:
Kind regard, an' language lovin',
Marked the parent to the last.
Easiest levelled i' the dust;
Guardians over female beauty,
Nice an' precious is your trust.
Out o' Nature's mighty sum,
First of a' may plead forbearance,
Female innocence o'ercome.
Sandy Tod.
A SCOTTISH PASTORAL.
Who has felt affliction's rod?
They will mourn the melting anguish,
And the loss o' Sandy Tod.
Lithe an' tight o' lith an' limb:
For a stout an' manly figure,
Few could ding or equal him.
By a little bouzy linn,
Sandy led a life right blameless,
Far frae ony strife or din.
Spread her fields an' meadows green;
Hoary Hartfell towered aboon him,
Smiling to the sun—gude-e'en.
Save his flocks, nae care had he;
Never heart than his was truer,
Tender to the last degree.
That he read, believed it true;
Saving chapters cross an' kittle,
He could read his Bible through.
How wi' a' his friends he met;
Aye the hair his noddle rose off,
Aye his cheeks wi' tears were wet.
O'er the Solway Frith had fled,
Sin' a flock o'ewes an' gimmers,
Out amang the hills he fed.
But nae herd was loed sae weel;
Sandy's hirsel proved their keeper
Was a cannie carefu' chiel.
Wi' its neibours chanced to go,
Sandy kend the careless mammy,
Whether she cried mae or no.
Weel he liked his little bield;
Ilka e'ening, ilka morning,
Sandy to his Maker kneeled.
An' are fanned wi' loud applause,
Can ye trow the lad was happy?
Really, 'tis believed, he was.
I hae seen the bonnie bow,
When arrayed in all its glory,
Vanish on the mountain's brow.
While it bloomed upon the spray,
Blushing by its flaunting marrow,
Quickly fade, an' fade for aye.
Transient as the radiant bow,
Fleeting as the shower that follows,
Is dame Happiness, below.
In the rural sport she'll play;
Woo her—she'll at distance hear ye,
Press her—she is gane for aye.
Seemed obedient to his nod;
Now his happy hours are endit,—
Lack-a-day for Sandy Tod!
Where to be he seldom failed,
Sandy's tender heart was smitten
Wi' a wound that never healed.
Worshipped in a neibrin' pew;
Sandy sat—he kendna whether:
Sandy felt—he wistna how.
An' drew tears frae mony een,
Sandy heard a noise, like baudrons
Murring i' the bed at e'en!
Down he looked an' breathed a prayer;
Sally had o' mind disarmed him,
Heart an' soul an' a' was there!
Aye they beamed anither road;
Aince a smiling glance set on him—
“Mercy, Lord!” quo' Sandy Tod.
Fastit a' the following day,
Till the eastern lamps were burnin',
An' ca'd up the gloaming gray.
Down the glen in haste he ran;
Soon he reached her habitation,
A forfoughten love-sick man.
Were it new or strange to thee;
Weel ye ken, 'tis but repeating
What has passed 'tween ane an' me.
Oft my restless heart has felt;
But when hers on Sandy rested,
His fond heart was like to melt.
Modest Sally speechless lay,
Orion's sceptre bored the mountain,
Loud the cock proclaimed the day.
Begged a kiss—gat nine or ten;
Then the hay, sae rowed an' saddit,
Towzled up that nane might ken.
Light o' heart the playful lamb,
Skipping, dancing, bondage scorning,
Wander heedless o' its dam.
Sandy to his mountains wan;
Roun' about his flocks gaed singing;
Never was a blyther man.
Sun or sky, wear sic a hue
In his een the hale creation
Wore a face entirely new.
Weel the bird sang on the tree;
Meanest creatures doomed to suffer,
Brought the tear into his ee.
Soft and loving as the dove,
Scarcely could it bear refining
By the gentle fire o' love.
By untimely winter prest;
Sally had been wooed, an' slighted,
By a farmer in the West.
Came from that once cherished flame;
Fell disease, in silence stealing,
Pressed upon her lovely frame.
Grew dim—the pulse of life beat low;
The rose still bloomed upon her cheek,
But ah! it wore a hectic glow.
Mair bewitching, an' mair sweet;
Aince when he gaed west to see her
She lay in her winding-sheet.
Reckless, careless o' his crime,
Though the maid that loed him dearly
He had slain in early prime.
Veil thee, moon, in sable hue!
Else thy locks, for human vices,
Soon will dreep wi' pity's dew!
Thou who dart'st the flying flame!
Wilt thou vengeance aye keep under,
Due for injured love an' fame?
In thy ee the tear-drops shine;
Cease to mourn thy sex's failing,
I may drap a tear for mine.
Lightened wi' a ray divine,
Lost to feeling, truth, an' reason,
Lags the brutal tribes behind.
Following hame its mate to rest,
One ensnared, the frightened cronie,
Flee amazed wi' panting breast—
Sandy fled he kendna where;
Never heart than his was sorer,
It was mair than he could bear.
He lay sobbing, late an' soon,
Till discovered by a fountain,
Railing at the dowie moon.
Through yon dismal glen alane;
By the stream at night wad dander,
Raving o'er his Sally's name.
Lang a humbling sight was he,
Till one frenzied moment hurled
Him to lang eternity.
Fearless as the boding crow,—
No, dear maid, I winna shock thee,
Wi' the bloody scene below.
Where the hardy woodbine twines,
Now in peace he lies forgotten;
Ower his head these simple lines:
Still to walk in Virtue's road;
An' to say, as ye walk o'er me,
Lack-a-day for Sandy Tod!”
Farewell to Ettrick.
I own I'm unco laith to leave thee;
Nane kens the half o' what I feel,
Nor half the cause I hae to grieve me.
There first my infant mind unfurled,
To ween that spot where I was born,
The very centre of the world.
An' the braid lift lay whomel'd on them,
An' glowred wi' wonder at the wives
That spak o' ither hills ayon' them.
Addition to my mind or stature,
So fast my love for Ettrick grew,
Implanted in my very nature.
Her heroes, hills, and verdant groves;
Her wilds an' valleys fresh and gay,
Her shepherds' and her maidens' loves.
That some time I might do her honour;
But a' my hopes are come to nought,
I'm forced to turn my back upon her.
My heart got never sic a thrust;
An' my poor parents, frail an' auld,
Are forced to leave their kindred dust.
Frae a' regret be ye preserved!
Ye'll may be cherish some at hame,
Wha dinna just sae weel deserve't.
Will ever say that I did wrang him;
The lassies hae my dearest thanks
For a' the joys I had amang them.
An' mountains capt wi' wreaths o' snaw,
To think o' them I'll never cease,
As lang as I can think ava.
Wi' ditties wild when nane shall hear;
The Lewis shores shall learn to sing
The names o' them I lo'ed sae dear;
I'll carve on ilka lonely green;
The sea-bird tossin' on the wave,
Shall learn the name o' bonnie Jean.
That as I leave her I may find her;
Till that blest time shall come to pass,
When we shall meet nae mair to sinder.
I own I'm unco laith to leave thee;
Nane kens the half o' what I feel,
Nor half o' that I hae to grieve me.
How I rejoice to stand their stay!
I thought to be their help an' shield,
An' comfort till their hindmost day:
An' weet the yird wi' mony a tear,
That held the dust o' ilka frien';
O' friends sae tender an' sincere:
To yon rough isle, sae bleak an' dun;
Lang will they mourn, baith night an' day
The absence o' their darling son.
Without thy kind an' ardent care?
Without thy verse-inspirin' pen,
My muse will sleep an' sing nae mair.
To ilka friend I held sae dear!
How happy hae we often been,
Wi' music, mirth an' hamely cheer!
Swells to my sang in echoes glad;
Nae mair I'll screed the rantin' tune,
That haflins put the younkers mad.
While hounds wi' music fill the air,
We'll hunt the sly an' sulky fox,
Or trace the wary circlin' hare.
An', waes my heart, will ne'er return!
The brightest day may overcast,
An' man was made at times to mourn.
Though a foreworn an' waefu' man,
I'll tak my staff, an' post away,
To yield my life where it began.
In yon far isle beyond the tide,
Set up a headstane for my sake,
An' prent upon its ample side;
Who left us for a distant shore;
Love was his life, and song his joy;
But now he's dead—we add no more!”
I own I'm something wae to leave thee;
Nane kens the half o' what I feel,
Nor half the cause I hae to grieve me!
The Author's Address to his auld dog Hector.
What gars ye look sae dung wi' wae?
D'ye think my favour's at an end,
Because thy head is turnin' gray?
Its best was spent in serving me;
An' can I grudge thy wee bit meal,
Some comfort in thy age to gie?
We've toiled fu' hard wi' ane anither;
An' mony a thousand mile thou'st run,
To keep my thraward flocks thegither.
Shall thy auld banes become a drudge;
At cats an' callans a' thy life,
Thou ever bor'st a mortal grudge;
Thou lo'ed the women warst of a';
Because my love wi' thee they shared,
A matter out o' right or law.
Mair happy than a prince could be,
Thou placed thee by her other leg,
An' watched her wi' a jealous ee.
Thou wad'st hae worried furiouslye;
While I was forced to curse an' swear,
Afore thou wad'st forbidden be.
Thy gruesome grips were never skaithly;
An' thou than her hast been mair true,
An' truer than the friend that gae thee.
Mankind hae read me sic a lecture;
But yet it's a' in part repaid
By thee, my faithful, grateful Hector!
I've shed the saut an' silent tear;
Then sharin' a' my grief an' pain,
My poor auld friend came snoovin' near.
An' they've been neither fine nor few,
That thought possest thee year to year,
That a' my griefs arase frae you.
Thou wad'st hae pressed thee to my knee;
While I thy looks as weel could read,
As thou had'st said in words to me;
What hae I ever done to vex thee?
See here I'm cowrin' at your feet;
Just take my life, if I perplex thee.
Is a' the wage I ask of thee;
For whilk I'm oft obliged to wait
Wi' hungry wame an' patient ee.
Whatever sad mischance o'ertake ye;
Man, here is ane will hald ye dear!
Man, here is ane will ne'er forsake ye!”
Whom mair than life I valued dear;
An' thraw me out to fight forlorn,
Wi' ills my heart do hardly bear.
My health, my plaid, an' heezle rung,—
I'll scorn the unfeeling haughty heart,
The saucy look, and slanderous tongue.
Are ten times waur than ony fae;
My heart was theirs, an' to them laid
As open as the light o' day.
That I for loss o' theirs should mourn;
Or that when luck an' favour fled,
Their friendship wad injurious turn.
Lets naething pass he disna see;
He'll sometime judge o' right an' wrang,
An' aye provide for you an' me.
As far as thou hast wit an' skill;
Sae will I ae sweet lovely breast,
To me a balm for every ill.
While I have reason truth to scan;
But ne'er beyond my mother's son,
To aught that bears the shape o' man.—
Nor when ye pattit on my knee;
Though in a far an' unco place,
I've whiles been forced to beg for thee.
Where my regard may scarce be shown;
But ere I'm forced to gie thee o'er,
When thou art auld an' senseless grown,
Some wee bit cannie, lonely biel',
Where thy auld heart shall rest fu' fain,
An' share wi' me my humble meal.
Wi' gousty bark, whate'er betides;
Of cats an' hens to clear the floor,
An' bite the flaes that vex thy sides.
Of that thou sanna want thy share;
While I hae house or hauld on earth,
My Hector shall hae shelter there.
Till he has made an' end o' me;
Ye'll lye a wee while on the grave
O' ane wha aye was kind to thee.
An' though in words thou canst not wail,
On a' the claes thy master ware,
I ken thou'lt smell an' wag thy tail.
Which will be sair against my will;
I'll sometimes mind thy honest heart,
As lang as I can climb a hill.
Let's speel to Queensb'ry's lofty height;
All wardly cares we'll leave behind,
An' onward look to days more bright.
Despondence on the breeze shall flee;
An' muses leave their native vales
To scale the clouds wi' you an' me.
May of the Moril Glen.
As ever was told by man,
Or ever was sung by minstrel meet
Since this base world began:—
That dwelt in the Moril Glen,
The fairest flower of mortal frame,
But a devil amongst the men;
And ten louped in the main,
And seven-and-thirty brake their hearts,
And never loved women again.
And ran wodde for a while—
There was siccan language in every look,
And a speire in every smile.
That blett o'er dale and down,
On the bonnie braid lands of the Moril Glen,
And these were all her own;
And blithsome kids enew,
That danced as light as gloaming flies
Out through the falling dew.
The dread of the hail countrye,
And three-and-thretty good milk kye,
To bear him companye.
And ganders of muckil din,
And peacocks, with their gaudy trains,
And hearts of pride within;
And hens, full crouse and glad,
That chanted in her own stack-yard,
And cackillit and laid like mad.
And all that lordly trim,
The Lord in heaven he knew full well,
But nobody knew but him;
To prince, nor yet to king—
She never was given in holy church,
Nor wedded with ane ring:
But the tale was in sore mistime,
For a maiden she could hardly be,
With a daughter in beauty's prime.
A father's kindly claim;
She never was bless'd in holy church,
Nor christen'd in holy name.
Of beauty so supreme,
Some fear'd she was of the mermaid's brood,
Come out of the salt sea faeme.
And born of the fairy queen;
For there was a rainbow behind the moon
That night she first was seen.
Come frae ane far countrye;
Or a princess loved by a weird warlock
In a land beyond the sea.
That mortal ne'er should ken;
For there are things in this fair world
Beyond the reach of men!
For the bedesmen told it me—
That the knight who coft the Moril Glen
Ne'er spoke a word but three.
Ne'er spoke word good nor ill;
They came like a dream, and pass'd away
Like shadows o'er the hill.
Whither no man could tell;
But they ate their bread like Christian men,
And drank of the crystal well.
They stay'd their speech full soon;
For they shook their heads, and raised their hands,
And look'd to Heaven aboon.
For mony a lonely day;
But whether she bred her bairn to God—
To read but and to pray—
And guess'd with fear and dread;
But oh she grew ane virgin rose,
To seemly womanheid!
And eyne that beamed so clear,
But felt a stang gang through his heart,
Far sharper than a spear;
That strength could overwin,
But like ane red hot gaud of iron
Reeking his heart within.
Our brave young men did lie,
With limbs as lydder, and as lythe,
As duddis hung out to dry.
Ower cheeks right woe-begone;
And aye they gasped, and they gratte,
And thus made piteous moan:
Or dandelit on the knee;
Or rockit in ane cradle bed,
Beneath a mother's ee!
To woman's breast had lain,
Then had I ne'er for woman's love
Endured this burning pain!
That quivers through the rain,
And love is like the pang of death
That splits the heart in twain.
Of earthly blithesomeness,
I might have been beloved again,
And bathed in earthly bliss.
Of frowardness and sin,
With heavenly beauty on the face,
And heart of stone within.
To close my mortal day—
The last benighting heave of breath,
That rends the soul away!”
'Mong high and low degree,
Quhile it went to the King upon the throne,
And ane wrothful man was he.—
In sackcloth mourning sad,
Quhile all mine lieges of the land
For ane young quean run mad?
Of true Megaira brode;
I will go and see this wondrous dame,
And prove her by the rode.
Or thing of fairy kind,
I will burn her into ashes small,
And sift them on the wind!”
All busked gallantlye,
And he is away to the Moril Glen,
As fast as he can dree.
Ae morning fair and clear,
This lovely May on horseback rode
To hunt the fallow deer.
A pale unearthy thing
That revell'd over hill and dale,
Like bird upon the wing.
That dazzled as it flew;
Her mantle was of the rainbow's red,
Her rail of its bonny blue.
Her seemly virgin crown,
Shone like the new moon's lady light
O'er cloud of amber brown.
Flicker'd like elfin brand;
It was sharper nor the sharpest spear
In all Northumberland.
Outspread his pinions blue,
To keep him steady on the perch
As his loved mistress flew.
Upon ane sable sea,
Yet to the twain that ower them beam'd,
Compared they could not be.
That shimmers to the wind,
So flew her locks upon the gale,
And streamed afar behind.
And calleth to his men,
“Yonder she comes, this weirdly witch,
This spirit of the glen!
This serpent to belay;
I'll let you hear me put her down
In grand polemic way.”
Nae dantonit dame was she—
Until the king her path withstood,
In might and majestye.
With gay and graceful air,
As on some thing below her note.
That ought not to have been there.
With speeches most divine,
Now felt ane throbbing of the heart,
And quaking of the spine.
And gaped in dire dismay,
And waved his arm, and smote his breast;
But word he could not say.
The dun-deer to restrain;
The virgin gave her steed the rein,
And followed might and main.
“This reifery must not be:
Though you should bind her hands and feet,
Go bring her back to me.”
They follow'd hard behind;
The milk-white palfrey brush'd the dew
Far fleeter nor the wind.
That taiglit in the dell!
For though with whip and spur they plied,
Full far behind they fell.
To see what they might see,
And there the king in fit of love,
Lay spurring on the lea.
And rowted with despair,
And pulled the grass up by the roots,
And flang it on the air!
Such grief I do deplore.”
“O I'm bewitched,” the king replied,
“And gone for evermore!
Go bring her back to me;
For I must either die of love,
Or own that dear ladye!
Hath shot his arrows keen;
And I am enchanted through the heart,
The liver, and the spleen.”
Then closed the virgin round,
And then her fair and lily hands
Behind her back were bound.
That bred such strife and pain,
That sixteen brave and belted knights
Lay gasping on the plain.
Ane ireful carle was he;
Saith he, “Dame, you must be my love,
Or burn beneath ane tree.
I cannot go nor stand;
And thinks thou nothing to put down
The King of fair Scotland?”
Nor any lord thou hast;
For you are married men each one,
And I a maiden chaste.
By Scotland's king and crown,
Who first a widower shall prove,
Shall claim me as his own.”
One word he said not more,—
And he is away from the Moril Glen,
As ne'er rode king before.
And scour'd the muir and dale;
He held his bonnet on his head,
And louted to the gale,
Holding their hands on high;
They never saw king in love before,
In such extremitye.
Made off his several way,
All galloping as they had been mad,
Withoutten stop or stay.
In any land befell;
For there is wickedness in man,
That grieveth me to tell.
Beheld the deeds were done;
But the lovely queen of fair Scotland
Ne'er saw the morning sun;
As fair as e'er were born,
The very pride of all the land,
Were dead before the morn.
And sorrow and dismay;
While burial met with burial still,
And jostled by the way.
And howkit deep and wide;
While bedlars swairfit for very toil,
The comely corps to hide.
Stood gaping day and night
To swallow up the fair and young;—
It was ane grievous sight!
Is weeping in despair,
For she saw the hills of fair Scotland
Could be her home nae mair.
As silent and as soon
As shadow of ane little cloud
In the wan light of the moon.
And some out of the sea;
And some said they were sent from hell,
To bring that fair ladye.
The grizly eastern fell,
And the little wee bat was bound to seek
His dark and eery cell,
Pass'd from the Moril Glen;
And ne'er may such a deadly eye
Shine amongst Christian men!
The train went o'er the fell,
All wrapt within ane shower of hail;
Whither no man could tell;
The like ne'er sailed the faeme,
For no man of her country knew,
Her colours or her name.
Her sails of the silken twine,
And a thousand pennons stream'd behind,
And trembled o'er the brine.
It was a comely view,
So many rainbows round her play'd
With every breeze that blew.
Right over ford and fen,
And swathed the flower of the Moril Glen
From eyes of sinful men;
As wan as death unshriven,
Like dead cloth of ane angel grim,
Or winding sheet of heaven.
Toil through the morning gray,
And whenever it reach'd the comely ship,
She set sail and away.
As it began to sing,
And she heaved and rocked down the tide,
Unlike an earthly thing.
Into the creeks of Fife,
And the blackguard seals they yowlit for dread,
And swam for death and life.
Outowre the green wave flew,
Swift as the solan on the wing,
Or terrified sea-mew;
Nor levelled on the lee;
She seem'd to sail upon the air
And never touch the sea.
Which man never more did see;
But whether she went to heaven or hell,
Was ne'er made known to me.
MADOR OF THE MOOR.
INTRODUCTION.
Theme of a thousand gifted bards of yore;
Majestic wanderer of the wilds and woods,
That lovest to circle cliff and mountain hoar,
And with the winds to mix thy kindred roar,
Startling the shepherd of the Grampian glen;
Rich are the vales that bound thy eastern shore,
And fair thy upland dales to human ken;
But scarcely are thy springs known to the sons of men.
Aloft would bear me, middle space, to see
Thy thousand branches gleaming to the moon
By shadowy hill, gray rock, and fairy lea;
Thy gleesome elves disporting merrily
In glimmering circles by the lonely dell,
Or by the sacred fount, or haunted tree,
Where bowed the saint, as hoary legends tell,
And Superstition's last, wild, thrilling visions dwell!
The yellow moonbeam sleeps on hills of dew,
On many an everlasting pyramid
That bathes its gray head in celestial blue.
These o'er thy cradle stand the guardians true,
The eternal bulwarks of the land and thee,
And evermore thy lullaby renew
To howling winds and storms that o'er thee flee:
All hail, ye battlements of ancient liberty!
The eagle o'er his eyrie raves aloud;
The brindled fox around thee loves to roam,
And ptarmigans, the inmates of the cloud;
And when the summer flings her dappled shroud
O'er reddening moors, and wilds of softened gray,
The youthful swain, unfashioned, unendowed,
The brocket and the lamb may round thee play:
These thy first guests alone, thou fair, majestic Tay!
Far on thy pinions eastward to the main,
O'er garish glens and straths of every dye,
Where oxen low, and waves the yellow grain;
Where beetling cliffs o'erhang the belted plain
In spiral forms, fantastic, wild, and riven;
Where swell the woodland choir and maiden's strain,
As forests bend unto the breeze of even,
And in the flood beneath wave o'er a downward heaven!
O'er fertile valley bounded by the sea,
Girdled by silver baldrick, which now vies
In broadness with the ocean's majesty;
Where pleasure smiles, and laughing luxury,
And traffic bustles out the live-long day;
Where brazen keels before the billows flee—
Is that the murmuring rill of mountain gray?
Is that imperial flood the wildered Grampian Tay?
Queen of green Albyn's rivers, let me roam,
And mark thy graceful windings as I stray
When drowsy day-light seeks her curtained dome.
Fain would a weary wanderer from his home,
The wayward Minstrel of a southland dale,
Sing of thy mountain birth, thy billowy tomb,
And legends old that linger in thy vale;
To friendship and to thee, is due the simple tale.
That o'er thy wilds resistless sweeps along,
Though clouds and snows thy sterile hills deform,
Thou art the land of freedom and of song.
Land of the eagle fancy, wild and strong!
Land of the loyal heart and valiant arm!
Though southern pride and luxury may wrong
Thy mountain honours, still my heart shall warm
At thy unquestioned weir and songs of magic charm.
And I might sing of battles lost and won;
Of royal obsequies, and halls of blood,
And daring deeds by dauntless warrior done.
Since Scotland's crimson page was first begun,
Tay was the scene of actions great and high:
But aye when from the echoing hills I run,
My froward harp refuses to comply;
The nursling of the wild, the Mountain Bard am I.
Nor long on deeds of death and danger dwell;
Of old Dunsinnan towers, or Birnam gray,
Where Canmore battled and the villain fell.
But list! I will an ancient story tell,
A tale of meikle woe and mystery;
Of sore mishaps that an old sire befell,
Wise Dame, and Minstrel of full high degree,
And visions of dismay, unfitting man to see.
Spoke to the heart what tongue could never say—
A maid, right gentle, frolicsome, and sly,
And blythe as lambkin on a morn of May;
Whose auburn locks when waving to the day,
And lightsome form of sweet simplicity,
Stole many a fond unweeting heart away,
And held those hearts in pleasing slavery;—
Woe that such flower should e'er by lover blighted be!
Can e'er unblemished character define;
True to his faithful monitor's award,
He paints her glories only as they shine.
Of men all pure, and maidens all divine,
Expect not thou his wild-wood lay to be;
But those whose virtues and defects combine,
Such as in erring man we daily see—
The child of failings born, and scathed humanity.
CANTO FIRST. The Hunting.
ARGUMENT.
God prosper long our noble king,Our lives and safeties all!
A woeful hunting once there did
In Chevy Chase befall.
To drive the deer with hound and horn
Earl Percy took his way;
The child may rue that is unborn
The hunting of that day.
Unleash the hounds, and let the bugle sing!
The thousand traces in the morning dew,
The bounding deer, the black-cock on the wing,
Bespeak the route of Scotland's gallant king:
The bearded rock shouts to the desert hoar;
Haste, ranger!—all the mountain echoes ring;
From cairn of Bruar to the dark Glen-More,
The forest's in a howl, and all is wild uproar.
And many a roebuck foundered in the glen!
The gor-cock beat the shivering winds in vain;
The antlered rover sought his widowed den;
Even birds that ne'er had seen the forms of men,
But roosted careless on the desert doone,
An easy mark to ruthless archer's ken,
No more they whirr and crow at dawning boon,
Far on their grizzled heights, contiguous to the moon.
There for the royal train the feast was laid;
There was the monarch's light pavilion reared;
Of lady's form, and blooming mountain maid;
And many a fair was toasted to the brim:
But knight and squire a languishing betrayed
When one was named, whose eye made diamonds dim:
The king looked sad and sighed; no sleep that night for him!
When night gave in her sceptre to the day,
The clouds of heaven were moored so dark and dern,
And wrapt the forest in a shroud of gray.
Man, horse, and hound, in listless languor lay,
For the wet rack traversed the mountain's brow:
But, long ere night, the monarch stole away;
His courtiers searched, and raised the loud halloo,
But well they knew their man, and made not much ado.
And aye the clouds their drizzly treasures shed;
The pitchy mist hung moveless on the hill,
And hooded every pine-tree's reverend head.
The heavens seemed sleeping on their mountain bed;
The straggling roes mistimed their noontide den,
And strayed the forest, belling for the dead,
Started at every rustle—paused, and then
Sniffed, whistling in the wind, and bounded to the glen.
At length the morning rose in lightsome blue,
Far to the west her pinken veil she cast;
Up rose the fringed sun, and softly threw
A golden tint along the moorland dew:
The mist had sought the winding vales, and lay
A slumbering ocean of the softest hue,
Where mimic rainbows bent in every bay,
And thousand islets smiled amid the watery way.
For there they heard their monarch's bugle yell;
First on the height the beauteous morn he hailed,
And rested, wondering, on the heather-bell.
The amber blaze that tipt the moor and fell,
The fleecy clouds that rolled afar below,
The hounds' impatient whine, the bugle's swell,
Raised in his breast a more than wonted glow:
The nobles found him pleased, nor farther strove to know.
Close, and more close, the deer were bounding by;
Upon the bow-string lies the shaft of death;
Breathless impatience burns in every eye;
At once a thousand winged arrows fly;
The greyhound up the glen outstrips the wind;
At once the slow-hound's music rends the sky,
The hunter's whoop and hallo cheers behind;
Halloo! away they speed swift as the course of mind.
Transfixed by arrow from the Border bow;
There the poor roe-deer quakes the cliff within,
The silent greyhound watching close below.
But yonder far the chestnut rovers go,
O'er hill, o'er dale, they mock thy hounds and thee;
Cheer, hunter, cheer! unbend thy cumbrous bow,
Bayard and blood-hound now thy hope must be,
Or soon they gain the steeps, and pathless woods of Dee.
To every cliff the bugle lends a bell;
On to the northward peals the loud alarm,
And aye the brocket and the sorel fell:
But flying still before the mingled yell,
The gallant herd outspeeds the troubled wind;
Their rattling antlers brush the birken dell;
Their haughty eyes the rolling tear-drops blind;
But onward still they speed, and look not once behind.
The Tarf is dwindled to a foaming rill;
But many a hound lay gasping by the way,
Bathed in the stream, or stretched upon the hill.
The cooling brook with burning jaws they swill,
Nor once will deign to scent the tainted ground:
The herd has crossed Breriach's gulfing gill,
The Athol forest's formidable bound,
And in the Garcharye a last retreat has found.
The deep-toned Jowler, ever staunch and true.
The chase was o'er; but long ere fell the night,
Full thirty hinds those gallant hunters slew,
Of every age and kind; the drivers drew
Their quarry on behind by ford and lea:
But never more shall eye of monarch view
So wild a scene of mountain majesty
As Scotland's king beheld from the tall peaks of Dee.
The loftiest cone of all that desert dun:
The seas afar were streamered o'er with blood;
Dark forests waved, and winding waters run;
For nature glowed beneath the evening sun;
The western shadows darkening every dale,
Where dens of gloom, the sight of man to shun,
Lay shrouded in impervious magic veil;
While, o'er them poured the rays of light so lovely pale.
The piles that frowned, the gulfs that yawned beneath
Downward a thousand fathoms from the height,
Grim as the caverns in the land of death!
Like mountains shattered in the Eternal's wrath,
When fiends their banners 'gainst his reign unfurled;
A grisly wilderness, a land of scathe;
A rent and formless mass, the rubbish of a world.
Hill behind hill erected locks of gray,
And every misty morion was upraised,
To speak its farewell to the God of Day.
When tempests rave along their polar way,
Not closer rear the billows of the deep,
Shining with silver foam, and maned with spray,
As up the mid-way heaven they war and sweep,
Then, foiled and chafed to rage, roll down the broken steep.
And o'er them spread a beauteous purple screen;
Then rose a shade of pale cerulean blue,
Softening the hills and hazy vales between.
Deeper and deeper grew the magic scene,
As darker shades of the night-heaven came on;
No star along the firmament was seen,
But solemn majesty prevailed alone
Around the brows of Eve, upon her Grampian throne.
By which the monarch and his knights came down,
And oft they groped and stumbled on the brae;
For far below, on vale of heather brown,
The tents were reared, and fires of evening shone.
The mountain sounds had perished in the gloom,
All save the unwearied Jowler's swelling tone,
That bore to trembling stag the sounds of doom,
While every cave of Night rolled back the breathing boom.
And loud the order of desistance bawled;
But aye, as louder waxed his tyrant's say,
Louder and fiercer, Jowler, unappalled,
Across the glen, along the mountain brawled,
Unpractised he to part till blood was seen—
Though sore by precipice and darkness galled,
He turned his dewlap to the starry sheen,
And howled in furious tone, with yelp and bay between.
Still bears it the memorial of his name;
The silver torrent played his vesper deep,
The mountain plover sung his loud acclaim.
Inured to toil, and battle's deadly flame,
The Stuart rose the son of health and might:
Ah! how unlike the bland voluptuous frame
In this unthrifty age, that takes delight
To doze in qualms by day, and revel out the night.
And leaned upon the casement of the sky,
Smiling serenely o'er a world in sleep,
At millions of her wandering elfins sly,
Harassing helpless mortals as they lie
With dreams and fantasies of endless train;
With tantalizing sweets that mock the eye;
With startling horror, and with visions vain,
And every thrilling trance of pleasure and of pain.
She saw the King of Scotland weary lie;
So deep his slumber, that the hand of death
Arrests not more the reasoning faculty.
Yet was his fancy rapt in passion high:
He toiled with visions of a wayward dream;
Quivered his limbs, his bosom broke the sigh,
He clasped the yielding heath, and named a name—
He would not for his crown to noble's ear it came!
That rules events and elements at will,
Unused in wilderness to watch his bed,
Or spread his sheltering pinion on the hill;
Unrife in circumstance foreboding ill,
Yet trembled for some danger lingering near.
What gathering sound comes nigher, nigher still?
Why does the wakening hound turn up his ear,
Then start with shortened bark, and bristle all with fear?
Restrain their breathing mindless where they lie;
The sleepy ranger starts from out the brake,
With mouth wide open and unvisioned eye;
Knight, squire, and hind, in one direction fly,
Mixed with the hounds that loud in couples bay,
All to the downward burn that sounded by,
For there arose the dubious, frantic bray,
That raised the dreamer's eye, and all that loud affray.
The blazing torch, the looks of wild dismay!—
It was no angry spirit of the glen,
No murderous clansmen mixed in red array:
There stood the monarch of the wild at bay,
The impetuous Jowler howling at his brow,
His cheeks all drenched with brine, his antlers gray
Moving across the cliff, majestic, slow,
Like living fairy trees of blenched and leafless bough.
The baited, thirsty Jowler laps his blood;
The royal hunter his brave hound caressed,
Lauded his zeal and spirit unsubdued;
While the staunch victor, of approval proud,
Rolled his brown back upon the prostrate slain,
Capered around in playful whelpish mood,
As if unspent by all his toil and pain,
Then licked his crimson flue, and looked to the hills again.
And many a herd was thinned and sore bespent;
Through dark Glen-Avin, and the woods of Mar,
Hart, hind, and roe, in trembling trails were blent.
Still in the wild remained the royal tent;
Where oft at eve the king and nobles went
The setting sun and soaring erne to see,
Behind the dreadful cliffs that watch the springs of Dee.
The cruel Knight of Souden he was one;
They noted horror staring on his brow,
His lip was quivering, and his colour gone!
And aye he looked the startled knights upon,
Then rolled his troubled glance along the hill.
“What moves thee?” said the king, in mildest tone:
He bowed his head, but held his silence still:
“What moves my gallant knight? Speak Souden, art thou ill?”
Strange recollections dim my palsied sight;
But this same dreary scene I've seen before,
Either in trance, or vision of the night.
Some dismal doom shall soon my honours blight;
I know these bodings fraught with woe to me:
It seems as demon dragged a deed to light,
That lies unfathomed even to destiny!”—
Oh, ne'er may leal man keep with murderer company!
No orders issued to his page or groom;
But servitors, with trembling, marked full well
A wondrous face behind him in the gloom;
Of flame it seemed, yet nothing did illume;
Laughing revenge gleamed red in every line:
But how it entered the pavilioned room,
Or how it past, no mortal could divine;
A visitant it seemed from some unhallowed shrine!
Again the sportsmen stretch their limbs in rest;
To the lone bothy, by the sounding rill,
The king retired, its wildness pleased him best,
With his good knights to list the song and jest;
His ancient minstrel waiting at command,
Gilbert of Sheil, by all the land confest
A minstrel worthy by his king to stand,
And play his native airs, with sounding harp in hand.
A lay of such mysterious tendency,
It stole the listeners' reasoning powers away:
They dreamed not that they lay in moors of Dee,
But in some fairy isle amid the sea,
So well did Fancy mould her visions vain;
Bent was the minstrel's eye, and wild to see,
The whilst he poured the visionary strain;
Oh, ne'er shall Grampian echo murmur such again!
On listeners' ears in soft vibrations fell;
They almost weened they heard the parting moan
Of some old reverend sire, and wished him well!—
On gospel faith, and superstition's spell,
The converse turned, and high the dispute ran:
And words were said unfitting bard to tell,
Unfitting tongue of poor despondent man,
Still prone to yearn and doubt o'er all he cannot scan.
Dubious conjecture only can portray;
Just in the blab of Souden's impious scorn
Entered a stranger guest in poor array:
His locks were thin, and bleached a silver gray;
His reverend beard across his girdle hung.
Each mind was carried, by resistless sway,
To the unearthly strain the minstrel sung:—
Blenched was the proudest cheek, and mute was every tongue!
Seeming to listen for expected sound;
But all was still as Night's solemnity,
Not even a sandal grazed upon the ground.
Transformed to breathing statues, all around
The nobles sat, nor wist they what to dread;
But every sense by hand unseen was bound,
On every valiant heart was chillness shed,
As to that wild had come a message from the dead.
On whom he beckoned with commanding mien,
With manner that denial would not brook—
Then gliding forth he paused upon the green.
What the mysterious messenger could mean
No one would risk conjecture; all were still.
In converse close, the two were lingering seen
Across the lea, and down beside the rill,
Then seemed to vanish both in shadow of the hill.
By Athol forest or the links of Dee!
Oh, why should haughty worm of human race
Presume to question Heaven's supremacy;
Or trow his God, alike unmoved, can see
To death exposed the monarch and the clown?
That night was done, by the supreme decree,
A deed that story scarce may dare to own—
By what unearthly hand, to all mankind unknown!
The drowsy slumberers on the tented heath:
It was no blast that on the mountain broke,
Nor bolised thunder wrapt in sable wrath;
Yet were they listening, with suspended breath,
To hear the rushing tumult once again:
It seemed to all the passing sounds of death,
Or angry spirits of the mountain reign,
Combined at midnight deep to clear their wild domain.
Set forth the bothy's wild recess to gain;
Despising fate, and monarch's strict command,
That all should quiet at the tents remain:
They harboured fears that tongue could not explain.
Darkling and silent, midway on they past,
When power unseen their passage did restrain;
And backward traced their path, unboastful and aghast.
The cliffs of Dee a sable vestment bound;
Then every squire and yeoman's spirit failed,
As slow approached a maimed and bleeding hound,
Sad herald of the dead! his every wound
Bespoke the desolation that was wrought.
Oh, ne'er may scene in Scottish glen be found
With wonder, woe, and death, so fully fraught;
So far beyond the pale of bounded mortal thought!
The bugle's echo slept within the hill;
And—O the blasting truth!—no cot was there;
No! not a vestige stood beside the rill.
Though trace of element, or human skill,
In all the fatal glen could not be found,
The ghastly forms, in prostrate guise and still,
Knight, page, and hound, lay scattered far around,
Deformed by many a stain, and deep unseemly wound.
No king was there!—Well might the wonder grow.
They rode—they searched the land afar and nigh—
He was not found, nor learned the tale of woe.
Hast thou not marked a lonely spot and low,
Where Moulin opes her bosom to the day,
O'er which the willow weeps and birches blow,
Where nine rude stones erect their frontlets gray?—
There the blasphemers lie, slain in mysterious way.
When round his nobles slain had closed the mould,
The king returned to Scotland's court once more,
And wondered at the tale his huntsmen told;
His speech revolted, and his blood ran cold,
As low he kneeled at good Saint Bothan's shrine.
Where he had been no tongue did e'er unfold.—
List to my tale!—if thou can'st nought divine,
A slow misfashioned mind, a moody soul is thine.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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 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
And cast o'er all her joys a veil of cheerless gloom?
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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!”
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 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.
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.
(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;
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 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!
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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 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.
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.
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.
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?
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,
Opened to heaven its breast, by human eye unseen.
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.
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?
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!
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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;
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!”
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!
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.
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.
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.
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.
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!
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!
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!
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
A May, in old Scottish ballads and romances, denotes a young lady, or a maiden, somewhat above the lower class.
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.
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!
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!
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!
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.
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!
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.
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!
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.
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.
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.
“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 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.
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.
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.
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.
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!
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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 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.”
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.
CANTO FOURTH. The Palmer.
ARGUMENT.
Did ye never hear o' the puir auld man,That doughtna live, and coudna die?
Wha spak to the spirits a' night lang,
An' saw the things we coudna see,
An' raised the bairnies out o' the grave?
Oh but a waesome sight was he!
May all the energies of mind benumb;
'Twixt purpose and regret, it seeks relief
In unavailing plaint, or musings dumb;
But to o'erwhelming height when mounts the sum,
Oft, to itself superior, mind hath shone,
That broken reed, Dependence, overcome:
Where dwells the might that may the soul unthrone,
Whose proud resolve is moored on its own powers alone?
Her hue more lovely than the gold refined?
Why bears she to the southern vales away,
And leaves the woody banks of Tay behind,
Her beauteous boy well wrapt from sun and wind
In mantle spangled like the heath in flower?—
Ah! she is gone her wandering love to find,
In court or camp, in hall or lady's bower,
Resolved to die, or find young Mador of the Moor.
In the wide world unfriended thus to be,
She did not weep; her spirits bounded free;
And, all indignant that her injury
Moved no congenial feeling on her side,
With robe of green, upfolded to her knee,
And light unsandalled foot, o'er wastes so wide
She journeyed far away, with Heaven alone to guide.
Nor of her native hills had lost the view,
Where oft, on maidhood's lightsome foot, she ran,
Pilfering the rock-rose and the harebell blue,
Or moorland berries bathed in autumn dew,
When, startled, she beheld a palmer gray
Rise from beneath a lonely ronkled yew,
Where he had prostrate lain since dawn of day,
Who proffered her his hand, companion of her way.
Full oft she viewed his face, if she might see
Some feature there that might acquaintance claim—
It wore the mysteries of eternity!
That face was mild as face of age could be,
Yet something there 'twas dread to look upon;
A mien between profound and vacancy,
Bewraying thought to mortal man unknown,
Or soul abstract from sense, with feelings all its own.
His heavenly converse and his sage replies;
But marked him oft regard with fond intent
Things all invisible to mortal eyes.
The light-winged winds that flaunted through the skies,
Spoke in small voices, like the elfin's tongue;
From welling fountains harmonies would rise,
Like song of lark high in the rainbow hung;—
Seemed as if distant hymns of other worlds they sung.
Nor durst she his companionship forego;
But either fear her faculties belied,
Else speech was whispered from the earth below,
And elemental converse round did flow:
The stranger answered oft in varied tone;
Then he would smile, and chide she knew not who.
Seemed as to him each herald cloud was known,
That crept along the hill, or sailed the starry zone.
Clasping his arms around the comely boy;
“Give me the child, thy youth is sorely toiled,
And I will bear him half the way with joy.”
She loosed her hold, unwilling to seem coy;
Scarce was the timid act of sufferance done,
Ere wild ideas wrought her sore annoy,
That elfin king the unchristened babe had won:
Deep in her heart she prayed that God would save her son!
Would change to something of unearthly guise;
She looked each moment when the thunder-storm
Would roll in folded sulphur from the skies,
And snatch them from her terror-darkened eyes.
She followed nigh, enfeebled with affright,
And saw her boy, in roguish playful wise,
Pulling the old man's beard with all his might,—
The change to him was fraught with new and high delight.
And gave unwonted thoughts a teeming birth
Of this most reverend and mysterious guest,
Who scarcely seemed an habitant of earth.
The day was wearing late, no friendly hearth
Was nigh, where converse might the time betray;
The storm was hanging on the mountain swarth
Condense and gloomy, threatening sore dismay
To wanderer of the hills, on rough and pathless way.
Stood like a lonely hermit of the glen;
A small green sward its bastioned walls embraced,
Kything right simply sweet to human ken,
On tiny path, unmarked by steps of men:
To that they turned in hopes of welcome meet;
'Twas only then the grovelling badger's den;
Damp was its floor untrode by human feet,
And cold, cold lay the hearth, uncheered by kindly heat.
Peeped forth with fiend-like eye and fetid breath;
They heard the young brock's whining hunger-call,
And the grim polecat's grinding voice beneath.
The merlin from his raftered home in wrath,
Flitted with flapping wing and eldritch scream;
No downward sepulchre, nor vault of death,
Did ever deed of horror more beseem;
'Twas like some rueful cave seen in perturbed dream.
Alternate rushed the rain and rattling hail;
In deepened breathings sighed the cumbered wind;
Played the swift gleam along the boreal pale,
While distant thunder murmured o'er the gale:
Far up the incumbent cloud its voice began,
Then, like resistless angel, bound to scale
The southern heaven, along the void it ran,
Booming, in wrathful tone, vengeance on sinful man.
A mute astonishment and torpid dread
Had settled on the soul of Ila Moore;
In whispered prayers, of Heaven she sought remede:
For well she knew, that He, who deigned to feed
The plumeless sea-bird on the stormy main.
The raven, and the osprey's orphan breed,
To save an injured heart would not disdain,
Nor leave the souls he made to sorrow and to pain.
Muffled in moving pall of midnight hue;
Fiercer and fiercer burst the flakes of flame
From out the forge of heaven in burning blue.
They split the yawning cloud, and downward flew;
Before their wrath the solid hill was riven;
Some in the lake their fiery heads imbrue,
Its startled waters to the sky were driven,
Belching as if it mocked the angry coil of heaven.
And flout the mind that bows to Heaven's decree,
Think of the fortitude of that fair May,
Her simple youth, in such a place to be,
In such a night, and in such company,—
With guest she weened not man of woman born,
A babe unblest upon her youthful knee!
Had she not cause to deem her case forlorn?
No! trusting to her God, she calmly waited morn.
But raised a fire with well-accustomed hand,
Smiled at the thunder's break and startling bray,
The chilly hail-shower and the whizzing brand,
In wild turmoil that vollied o'er the land.
Then he would mutter prayer or rite of sin;
Then prattle to the child in language bland;
While the fond mother groaned in heart within,
Lest at the turn of night the fiends her babe might win.
A bed of flowery heath and rushes green;
Then o'er the twain his mantle kindly spread,
And bade them sleep secure, though lodged so mean;
For near that lowly couch, by them unseen,
There stood a form familiar to his eye,
Whose look was marked with dignity serene,
To ward the freakish fays that lingered nigh,
Who seemed on evil bent—he saw not, knew not why.
The mother clasped her child in silence deep;
That speech of mystery thrilled her ardent frame,
For why?—she knew the fays their wake did keep
To reave her child if she should yield to sleep!
No sleep she knew—if woman's word is aught—
But, venturing o'er her coverlet to peep,
Whether through glamour or bewildered thought,
She there beheld a scene with awful wonder fraught.
Small elvish faces of malignity;
And oh, their gleaming eyes could ill be brooked,
All bent upon the babe that slumbered by!
Ready they seemed upon their prey to fly,
And oft they sprung, or stole with wary tread;
But o'er the couch a form of majesty
Stood all serene, whose eye the spirits fled,
Waring the golden wand she waved around the bed.
Joyed that the assailing spirits were outdone:
Still waxed their number, still they fiercer fought,
Till the last lingering sand of night was run;
Till the red star the gate of heaven had won,
And woke the dreaming eagle's lordly bay,
And heath-cock's larum on the moorland dun;
Then did they shrink, and vanish from the fray,
Far from the eye of Morn, on downward paths away.
Had never closed his eyes, but watched and wept,
Muttering low vespers o'er his feeble fire,
Or, all intent, a watchful silence kept.
Now o'er his silver beard the round tear dripped,
Aside his cowl with hurried hand he flung,
Wiped his high brow, and cheek with sorrow stepped,
Then, with an upcast eye and tremulous tongue,
Unto the God of Life this matin hymn he sung.
The Palmer's Morning Hymn.
Lauded be thy name for ever,Thou, of life the guard and giver!
Thou canst guard thy creatures sleeping,
Heal the heart long broke with weeping,
Rule the ouphes and elves at will,
That vex the air or haunt the hill,
And all the fury subject keep
Of boiling cloud and chafed deep:
I have seen, and well I know it;
Thou hast done, and thou wilt do it.
God of stillness and of motion,
Of the rainbow and the ocean,
Of the mountain, rock, and river,
Blessed be thy name for ever!
Through the shadows of this night;
Thou, who slumber'st not nor sleepest,
Blest are they thou kindly keepest;
Spirits from the ocean under,
Liquid flame, and levelled thunder,
Need not waken nor alarm them—
All combined they cannot harm them.
God of evening's yellow ray,
God of yonder dawning day
That rises from the distant sea
Like breathings of eternity;
Thine the flaming sphere of light,
Thine the darkness of the night,
Thine are all the gems of even,
God of angels, God of heaven.
God of life that fade shall never,
Glory to thy name for ever!
Upon a feeling heart, to nature true,
So soothing sweet, 'twas like the distant swell
When first they ope to sainted spirit's view,
That through the wilds of space hath journeyed far,
Hoping, yet trembling as he onward flew,
Lest God the emerald gates of heaven might bar,
Till rests the joyous shade on some sweet peaceful star.
Was conversant with heaven, or fiends of hell;
Till then she knew not that his reverend age
Cared of the Almighty or his love to tell.
Sweet and untroubled as the dews that fell
Her morning slumbers were—the palmer lay
Stretched on the unyielding stone, accustomed well
To penance dire, and spirits' wild deray:
There slept they all in peace till high uprose the day.
That wimpled down a green untrodden wild;
By turns their hapless stories were the theme,
And aye the listener bore the pleased child.
The attentive sage nor chided nor reviled,
When simple tale of maiden love she said;
Meek his reproof, and, flowed in words so mild,
It tended much her constancy to aid,
And cheer her guileless heart from truth that never strayed.
And thou art brought to poverty and woe;
What now remains, but quietly to kiss
The lash that hangs o'er virtue's overthrow?
Be virtue still thy meed, thy trust, and know
It thee befits from murmur to refrain;
No plaint of thy just wounds be heard to flow,
The hand that gave will bind them up again.
List my distracting tale, and blame thy fortune then!
Of Isla's vale, and Eroch's woodland glade:
I loved—I sighed—my warmest hopes were crowned—
Oh, deed of shame! I vowed, and I betrayed!
The proud Matilda, now no longer maid,
Disdained my base unfaithful heart to move;
She knew not to solicit, nor upbraid,
But did a deed, the last of lawless love;
Ah! it hath seared my soul, that peace no more shall prove!
That scarce a circling year had rolled away,
Ere she appeared the gayest maid to be
That graced the hall, or gambolled at the play.
With Methven's lord was fixed her bridal day:
Proud of her triumph, I—the chiefest guest—
Led her to church—Ah! never such array
Did woman's form of vanity invest,
Bright as the orient ray, or streamer of the west.
Within the church-yard's low and crumbling wall,
When, sweet as sunbeam gleaming through the rain,
We saw a shining row of children small.
Fair were their forms, and fair their robes withal;
But oh! each radiant and unmoving eye
Was fixed on us!—forget I never shall
How well they seemed my very soul to spy,
And hers—the sparkling bride, that moved so graceful by.
She turned aside with step of dignity:
All still and motionless, they stood upright,
Save one sweet babe that slightly bent the knee,
With such a smile of mild benignity,
These eyes shall ne'er such face again behold!
His flaxen curls like filmy silk did flee;
His tiny form seemed cast in heavenly mould;
His cheek like blossom pale, in April morning cold.
‘Thou art a lovely boy; if thou wert mine,
I'd deck thee in the gold and diamonds sheen,
And daily bathe thee in the rosy wine;
The musk-rose and the balmy eglantine
Around thy soft and silken couch should play:
How fondly would these arms around thee twine!
Asleep or waking, I would watch thee aye,
Caress thee all the night, and love thee all the day.’
'Tis not three little months since I was thine;
And thou did'st deck me in the grave-cloth foul,
And bathe me in the blood—that blood was mine!
Instead of damask rose and eglantine,
The reptile's brood plays round my guiltless core:
Ah! could'st thou deem there was no eye divine,
And that the deed would sleep for evermore?
Did'st thou ne'er see this pale, this pleading look before?’
A smiling babe, with hands and eyes upraised;
A pale and frantic mother trembled nigh—
She kneeled—she seized its arm!—the knife was raised—
‘Hold, hold!’ I cried; yet motionless I gazed,
And saw—O God of heaven! I see it now:
I see the eye-beam sink in deadly haze;
The quivering lip, the bent and gelid brow—
Oh, I shall see that sight in being yet to know!
Oh, still at me her frenzied looks she threw!
All in amazement fled the festival,
The sufferer to the wild at midnight flew.
Thou found'st me underneath a lonely yew;
There I have prayed, and oft must pray again.
There ravens fed, and red the daisies grew,
Yet they were white! without a dye or stain,
The slender scattered bones there bleached in the rain.
I must go pray, for I am haunted still:
In heaven is mercy.—I may not repine,
But bow submissive, since it is the will
Of Him, who cares and feels for human ill.
They deem me mad, and laugh my woes to scorn,
And name me crazy Connel of the hill:
My heart is broke, my brain with watching worn;
I must go pray to God, for I am racked and torn!”
And loud his orisons of dread began;
Such words were never framed of human breath,
Such tones of vehemence never poured by man!
Madly through veiled mysteries he ran,
With voice of howling and unvisioned eye;
Then would the tears drop o'er his cheek so wan,
And he would calmly plead, with throb and sigh,
And name his Saviour's name with deep humility.
Till faded far the hills of Tay behind;
Still he was gentle as the southern gale,
Mild as the lamb, compassionate and kind;
But oh, far wilder than the winter wind
Whene'er a world of spirits was the theme!
Then he would name unbodied things of mind,
That paced the air, or skimmed along the stream:
His life seemed all a waste, a wild and troubled dream.
Which terminated not with shame alone,
Oppressed his heart and on his reason preyed;
In tears of blood that crime he did bemoan.
Though mazed were all his thoughts, yet to atone
For that to Heaven which reckless he had done,
O'er maiden innocence to watch anon
He ceased not, wearied not, till life was run.
Oh, be his tale a warning youthful vice to shun!
And green Strathallan opened to their view,
He blest the child and mother in the name
Of heaven's Eternal King, with reverence due;
Then turning round, with maddened strides withdrew
Back to his desert solitude again,
To watch the moon, and pray beneath his yew,
Controlling spirits on their mountain reign,
Till death brought unity, for ever to remain.
CANTO FIFTH. The Christening.
ARGUMENT.
I gat thee in my father's bowerWi' muckle shame and sin,
An' brought thee up in good greenwood
Aneath the heavy rain.
Oft hae I by thy cradle sat,
An' fondly seen thee sleep—
An' lay my lady as white as the milk.
Amid thy peaceful vales of every dye,
Amid bewildered waves of silvery light
That maze the mind and toil the raptured eye.
Thy distant mountains, spiring to the sky,
Seem blended with the mansions of the blest;
How proudly rise their gilded points on high
Above the morning cloud and man's behest,
Like thrones of angels hung upon the welkin's breast!
For the gray relics of thy martial towers,
Thy mouldering palaces and ramparts hoar,
Throned on the granite pile that grimly lowers,
Memorial of the times, when hostile powers
So often proved thy steadfast patriot worth:
May every honour wait thy future hours,
And glad the children of thy kindred Forth!
I love thy very name, old bulwark of the North.
Caught not the eye of her who sought thy gate;
Her spirits sank, her heart began to fail;
Weeping she came, nor could her tale relate.
Mador she named, and, trembling for her fate,
Watched the tall porter's dark unmeaning stare,
Who jested rudely of her hapless state,
And bade her to some distant country fare,
For such a name as that no Scot did ever bear.
That of the nobles she a view might gain,
And her inquiries cautiously begin;
But all her urgent prayers and tears were vain.
Harsh she was told, “no longer to remain,
For knights and lords would soon be passing by,
And they would be offended at such stain
Upon their knighthood and their honours high:
That such as she seemed made for mischief purposely.”
It sunk like star within the rubied west;
Or like the tinted dew-bell, seen to lie
Upon the rose-leaf tremblingly at rest,
Then softly sinks upon its opening breast—
So sunk her eye, while firmly she replied,
“Since no appeal, nor plea of the distressed,
To Scotland's court may come, whate'er betide,
Thou shalt not drive me hence till I am satisfied.”
In hopes her faithless minstrel to espy;
And many a time to dame and townsman spoke,
With blush obtrusive, and with question shy;
But nor by name, by garb, by minstrelsy,
Nor strict discernment, could she Mador find:
Her fond and ardent hopes began to die;
In cheerless apathy with all mankind,
She only wished to leave the world and shame behind.
Down at the base of Strevline's rock she lay;
She wished her head laid in the peaceful tomb;
She kissed her boy, but word she could not say.
She turned her eyes to heaven in act to pray—
Oh, hold those lips, unused to give offence!
That prayer will rise in wild impassioned way;
How have thy woes arisen, and from whence?
Oh search, before thou dar'st accuse Omnipotence!
He marked her beauty, and he heard her weep.
Silent he paused, and eyed her lovely frame;
For churchmen aye observant eye do keep
On female beauty: though devotion deep,
And homilies behove the holy mood,
From rostrum still in wily guise they peep—
For why?—by them 'tis wisely understood,
That to admire the chief of all Heaven's works is good.
The pleasure that it gave was mixed with pain:
He saw her lift her full blue eyes to speak;
She only sighed and cast them down again,
Then viewed her babe, while tears fell down like rain,
Wiped her young cheek, and back her ringlets threw:
The abbot's honest bosom heaved amain;
A look so lovely ne'er had met his view—
'Twas like a forest rose, wet with untimely dew.
Brought on a long and earnest conference.
The tale was told of Mador's perfidy
Which thou hast heard—but still, on some pretence
Of treacherous memory, or lost incidence,
The abbot caused her tell it o'er and o'er;
Then did he stand in long and deep suspense,
As bent some dubious mystery to explore;
As one who little said, but thought and knew much more.
Not on her face, but arm, it seemed to stay;
She weened her boy did this attention claim,
And set his cap, and donned his overlay,
Then watched the abbot's eye—but not that way
It seemed to bend—a trivial ring she wore,
Of silver framed, neglected, old, and gray,
Warped with the unknown mysteries of yore;—
Twas on that ancient ring his eye directly bore.
No token of his faith, nor pledge of love?
Did he, like knight, no ring or bracelet give,
Which he was bound to challenge or approve?”
Her thought-bewildered eyes began to move
Now to the ring, now to the abbot's face;
Faint recollections o'er their lustre wove
A still, a doubtful, melancholy grace—
'Twas like an April sky, which dubious shades embrace.
“Save that old ring, no other pledge have I;
He gave't in moment of distracting care,
When from my arms and danger forced to fly:
Something he said, but of what tendency,
Or what effect, remembrance ne'er could frame.
From the device I nothing may imply;
Nor mark it bears, unless the moulder's name—
Small its avail to me, nor other pledge I claim.”
He knew the old dis-valued ring full well;
And much its owner wished he to disgrace,
For he was generous, but shrewdly fell.
“I'll find him out,” he said, “by search or spell,
If in fair Scotland he holds rank or place—
Remain thou here till I our sovereign tell.”
Then up the hill he strode with hurried pace,
And left the lovely dame in sad uncertain case.
That leads from vale of Strevline to the town,
A weary wight that toward her did draw,
With hanging hose, and plaid around him thrown;
His grizzled locks waved o'er his cheek so brown;
She thought his stoop and stride too well she knew:
His mournful eyes to earth were fixed down,
Save when a transient glance he upward threw
Where Scotland's palace rose, and her broad banners flew.
Closer to earth she clung, in fear and shame,
Resolved nor word nor look with him to change:
But all unbrookable, as nigh he came,
Her bosom yearned, her heart was in a flame:
Feebly she cried, “My father, turn this way!”
Up stretched the stranger's rough uncourtly frame—
'Twas old Kincraigy, from the banks of Tay,
Who stood like statue grim, in wild and doubtful way.
Nature's own language flowed from either tongue;
Nor fell reproach, nor countenance unkind,
With freezing scowl above their soothings hung:
Both child and mother to his bosom clung;
He wiped her tears, and bade from grief refrain;
“Thou art my child, and thou hast suffered wrong—
How could'st thou leave me, prey to sharpest pain!
But I have found thee now, we ne'er shall part again!”
Where sat the king, his dames, and nobles all;
Scarce did he beckon, scarce his brow he bent,
But raised his hand their sole regard to call,
And thus began, while silence swayed the hall:—
“My liege, I grieve such message here to bring;
But now there waits below your palace wall
The loveliest flower that ever graced the spring,
That ever mounted throne, or shone in courtly ring.
I weened before me sylvan goddess stood;
Such beauty these old eyes did ne'er behold:
Nay, smile not, dames—for, by the blessed rood,
What I aver I pledge me to make good.
She's Beauty's self portrayed, and to her breast
Is prest a lovely babe of playful mood.
She has been wronged, betrayed, and sore oppressed,
And, could a heart believe!—the traitor here is guest.”
Looked round for flush of guilt, then raised his hand:
“By this!” said he, “the knight that so hath done
Shall reparation make, or quit the land.
I hold not light the crime, and do command
A full relation; he who can betray
Such beauty with false vow, and promise bland,
As lieve will dupe his king in treacherous way—
The ruthless traitor's name, and hers, good abbot, say.”
“And Heaven will bless thee for this just award!
This feeble arm of mine hath erst been tried,
And for the injured has a foeman dared:
And should the knight your mandate disregard—
'Tis old and nerveless now, and small its power,
But all his skill its vengeance shall not ward—
Beshrew his heart, but he shall rue the hour!
The knight is Mador hight, the dame fair Ila Moore.”
When summer suns had journeyed to the main,
Now sallow pale, now momently oppressed
With crimson flush, the prelude of the rain,
So looked the king; and stamped and scowled amain
To stay the abbot's speech, who deigned no heed,
But did, with sharpest acritude, arraign
The low deceit, the doer and the deed,
And lauded much the king for what he had decreed.
“He is abashed, and will not own it now;
But my adjudgment shall be ratified—
A king hath vowed, and must not break his vow.”
Then looked he round, with smooth deceitful brow,
As he the mark of conscious guilt had seen;
Then, with majestic air and motion slow,
Walked with the abbot forth into the green;
But all unknown the strain of converse them between.
Judge of his false conjecture and alarms,
When he beheld this nymph of high regard
So fondly folded in a stranger's arms.
But oh, how much they added to her charms,
The filial tears adown her cheek that ran!
The kindest glow the human heart that warms
Played o'er the visage of the holy man;
While he, to sooth his guests, an artful tale began.
Where all was rich, yet all in simple guise,
And strove with cheerful converse to beguile
Each latent fear and sorrowful surmise.
Well skilled to read in language of the eyes
What the still workings of the heart might be,
He bade her don those robes of courtly guise,
For they were hers, a gift bestowed free,
And ere the fall of night her minstrel she might see.
In braided silk and rich embroidery,
The abbot rose, confounded and dismayed,
And old Kincraigy nigh had bent his knee:
An earthly form she scarcely seemed to be;
Such dazzling beauty neither once had seen.
“Fair dame, a lady thou may'st shortly be,”
Said the good abbot, with enraptured mien,
“But Nature meant thee more, she formed thee for a queen!”
Scarce raised th' astonished babe unto her breast,
When entered Mador with a look that said
His heart was generous and his mind oppressed:
His minstrel garb he wore, and purple crest.
Nought of his woodland flower he could espy,
But one who on a silken couch did rest,
That seemed some form of eastern deity:
The minstrel bowed full low, while wonder dimmed his eye.
Were like the streamers of the rosy eve,
And to her beauty lent a nameless grace—
Those blushes could not Mador undeceive.
His fancy made no motion to believe
That e'er his Highland maid had half the charms,
Till the good abbot did his mind relieve,
In pity of a female's fond alarms:
“What, my first love!” he cried, and sprung into her arms.
Caressed her young son in the fondest way;
A chain of gold was hung around her neck,
And diamond bracelets shed the sparkling ray;
Such kind and fond endearment did he pay,
The abbot scarce from weeping could refrain:
Nought good or bad could old Kincraigy say;
The farthest corner did his brow sustain,
And when they spoke to him he could not speak again.
“If I had known my love's unhappy state,
Not all the land my presence should have staid:
Thou hast been injured, and my blame is great.
This night the holy abbot we'll entreat
To join our hands, then art thou doubly mine;
Then hie thee back to Tay, for I must wait
Our sovereign's will; but do not thou repine,
For all thy native hills, from Tay to Bran, are thine.
And he hath kindly granted my request;
If this our son his royal name may bear,
That his shall be an earldom of the best.
I have his signet, and his high behest
To turn the ruthless Albert to the door:
The royal bounds, that border to the west,
He grants thee too—these all are thine secure,
And every dame on Tay shall stoop to Ila Moore.
But next when summer flowers the Highland lea
I will return, and seek my woodland home
Within the bowers of sweet Kinnaird with thee.
There is a lowly spot beneath the tree,
O'ershadowed by the cliff—thou knowest it well!
In that sweet solitude our cot shall be;
There first we loved, and there in love we'll dwell,
And long, long shall it stand, a minstrel's faith to tell.
Her fairy net-work of the night and day;
Hath tipt with flame the cone of mountain green,
And dipt the red sun in the springs of Tay;
How sweet with thee above the cliff to stray,
And see the evening stretch her starry zone!
Or, shaded from the sun's meridian ray,
Lie stretched upon the lap of greenwood lone:
Oh, happier shalt thou be for sorrows undergone!”
Her son was christened by his sovereign's name;
In gold and scarlet the young imp was dressed,
A tiar on his head of curious frame.
But ne'er on earth was seen a minstrel's dame
Shine in such beauty and such rich array!
An hundred squires and fifty maidens came
Riding on palfreys, sporting all the way,
To guard this splendid dame home to her native Tay.
Of years of glory and felicity;
Needs not on time and circumstance to dwell:—
All who have heard of maid of low degree,
Hight Ila Moore, upraised in dignity
And rank all other Scottish dames above,
May well conceive who Mador needs must be,
And trace the winding mysteries of his love;—
To such my tale is told, and such will it approve.
CONCLUSION.
Thy native green hill, and thy fairy ring;
No more thy murmurs on the Grampian gale
May wake the hind in covert slumbering;
Nor must thy proud and far outstretched string
Presume to renovate the northern song,
Wakening the echoes Ossian taught to sing;
Their sleep of ages still they must prolong,
Till son inspired is born their native hills among.
Thy truant flight to that entrancing clime;
She weened thy melody and tuneful powers,
Mellowed by custom, and matured by time;
Or that the sounds and energies sublime,
That darkly dwell by cataract and steep,
Would rouse anew thy visionary chime,
Too long by southland breezes lulled asleep.
Oh may she well approve thy wild and wandering sweep!
Although proud learning lift the venomed eye,
Still shalt thou warble strains of other days,
Struck by some tuneful spirit lingering nigh;
Till those, who long have passed derisive by,
Shall list to hear thy tones when newly strung;
And Scottish maidens over thee shall sigh,
When I am all unnamed by human tongue,
And thy enchanted chords by other hands are rung!
The following poem is partly founded on an incident recorded in the Scottish annals of the fourteenth century. The alteration in the lady's name, which was Elizabeth Moore, was necessary on account of the rythm.
THE PILGRIMS OF THE SUN.
DEDICATION TO FIRST EDITION. TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE LORD BYRON.
Not for thy crabbed state-creed, wayward wight,Thy noble lineage, nor thy virtues high,
(God bless the mark!) do I this homage plight;
No—'tis thy bold and native energy;
Thy soul that dares each bound to overfly,
Ranging through Nature on erratic wing:
These do I honour, and would fondly try
With thee a wild aerial strain to sing:
Then, O! round Shepherd's head thy charmed mantle fling.
1. PART FIRST.
That lightly bound o'er muir and lee,
There's nane like the maids of Yarrowdale,
Wi' their green coats kilted to the knee.
And mony a bright and beaming e'e;
For rosy health blooms on the cheek,
And the blink of love plays o'er the bree.
Nor Ettrick's green and wizard shaw,
Did ever maid so lovely won
As Mary Lee of Carelha'.
The light hill-breeze was blithe to blow,
For the virgin hue her bosom wore
Was whiter than the drifted snow.
Whene'er a stranger they could see,
Would cower, and creep along the sward,
And lick the hand of Mary Lee.
The rising sun did never gleam;
On such a pure untainted mind
The dawn of truth did never beam.
Nor the waefu' qualms that breed o' sin;
But ah! she showed an absent look,
And a deep and thoughtfu' heart within.
The downy chin, and the burning eye,
Without desire, without a blush;
She loved them, but she knew not why.
The books of deep divinity;
And she thought by night, and she read by day,
Of the life that is, and the life to be.
Of the ways of Heaven and Nature's plan,
She feared the half that the bedesmen said
Was neither true nor plain to man.
Each morn beneath the shady yew,
Before the laverock left the cloud,
Or the sun began his draught of dew.
Was o'er Blackandro's summit flung,
Among the bowers of green Bowhill
Her hymn she to the Virgin sung.
Till mystic wildness marked her air;
For the doubts that on her bosom preyed
Were more than maiden's mind could bear.
And yearned and pined the next to see;
Till Heaven in pity earnest sent,
And from that thraldom set her free.
Till daylight faded on the wold—
The third night of the waning moon,
Well known to hind and matron old;
And the elves of Ettrick's greenwood shaw;
And aye their favourite rendezvous
Was green Bowhill and Carelha'—
With face, like angel's, mild and sweet;
His robe was like the lily's bloom,
And graceful flowed upon his feet.
Nor showed he cumbrous courtesy;
But took her gently by the hand,
Saying, “Maiden, rise and go with me.
They ill befit thy destiny;
I come from a far distant land
To take thee where thou long'st to be.”
A pang defined that may not be;
And up she rose, a naked form,
More lightsome, pure, and fair than he.
Pure as the white rose in the bloom;
That robe was not of earthly make,
Nor sewed by hand, nor wove in loom.
Upward her being seemed to bound;
Like one that wades in waters deep,
And scarce can keep him to the ground.
She scarce could keep to ground the while;
She felt like heaving thistle-down,
Hung to the earth by viewless pile.
Unto the eastern streamers sheen;
He seemed to eye the ruby star
That rose above the Eildon green.
And he bade the maid not look behind,
But keep her face to the dark blue even:
And away they bore upon the wind.
For in a moment they were gone;
But she thought she saw her very form
Stretched on the greenwood's lap alone.
Or the arrow cleave the yielding wind,
Away they sprung, and the breezes sung,
And they left the gloaming star behind;
Along the night's gray canopy;
And the din of the world died away,
And the landscape faded on the e'e.
Like curved lines on many a vale;
And they hung on the shelve of a saffron cloud,
That scarcely moved in the slumbering gale.
And the stars blazed bright as they drew nigh;
And they looked to the darksome world below,
But all was gray obscurity.
Nor could they ken where the greenwood lay;
But they saw a thousand shadowy stars,
In many a winding watery way;
And they better knew where the rivers ran
Than if it had been the open day.
But the light of day they could not see;
And the halo of the evening star
Sand like a crescent on the sea.
On the yielding winds so light and boon,
To meet the climes that bred the day,
And gave the glow to the gilded moon.
To spite the maidens of the main,
But now frae the merman's couch she sprang,
And blushed upon her still domain.
She kythed like maiden's gouden kemb,
And the sleepy waves washed o'er her brow,
And bell'd her cheek wi' the briny faem.
And the stars grew dim before her e'e,
And up arose the Queen of Night
In all her solemn majesty.
Above the ocean wastes reclined,
Beside her lovely guide so high,
On the downy bosom of the wind.
Play o'er the deep incessantly,
Like streamers of the norland way,
The lights that danced on the quaking sea.
Trembling and pale it seemed to lie;
It was not round like golden shield,
Nor like her moulded orb on high,
Scarce bore similitude the while;
It was a line of silver light,
Stretched on the deep for many a mile.
That Mary loved such scenes to view;
And away, and away they journeyed on,
Faster than wild bird ever flew.
The ship speeds swiftly o'er the faem;
And the sailor sees the shores fly back,
And weens his station still the same:
By the marled streak and the cloudlet brown,
Pass'd our aerial travellers on
In the wan light of the waning moon.
For their views of the world were not yet done;
But they saw her mighty mountain form
Like Cheviot in the setting sun.
So swift o'er the vaulted sky they shone;
They seemed like fiery rainbows reared,
In a moment seen, in a moment gone.
As if on silken couch she lay;
And soon on a rosy film they hung,
Above the beams of the breaking day.
And the angels of the dawning ray
Draw the red curtains from the dome,
The glorious dome of the God of Day.
And seemed to bend upon his knee:
The holy vow he whispering said
Sunk deep in the heart of Mary Lee.
Nor of its wondrous tendency;
But it proved that the half the bedesmen said
Was neither true nor ever could be.
On many an ancient peel and barrow,
On bracken hill, and lonely tarn,
Along the greenwood glen of Yarrow.
The rosy streaks of light unfurled:
Oh! think how glowed the virgin's breast,
Hung o'er the profile of the world;
That floated o'er the dawn serene,
To pace along with angel tread,
And on the rainbow's arch to lean.
Her bosom pressed the yielding blue,
And her fair robes of heavenly make
Were sweetly tinged with every hue.
The glories of the opening morn
Spread o'er the eastern world afar,
Where winter wreath was never borne.
And gardens of perennial blow
Spread their fair bosoms to the day,
In dappled pride, and endless glow.
But still on the brows of the air they hung;
The scenes of glory they now beheld
May scarce by mortal bard be sung.
Nor the gorgeous kingdoms of the East,
Nor the thousand blooming isles that lie
Like specks on the mighty ocean's breast;
Who oped the welling springs of time;
Seraph and cherubim's abode;
The Eternal's throne of light sublime.
On nature look with kindred eye;
But whenever he turned him to the sun,
He bowed with deep solemnity.
Far from her own nativity,
In lands beneath the southern star,
Beyond the sun, beyond the sea.
But durst not question put the while;
He marked her mute anxiety,
And o'er his features beamed the smile.
And swift as fleets the stayless mind,
They scaled the glowing fields of day,
And left the elements behind.
Where no attractive influence came;
There was no up, there was no down,
But all was space, and all the same.
Had 'habitants of mortal mould;
For they saw the rich men and the poor,
And they saw the young and they saw the old.
They seemed of some superior frame;
For all were in the bloom of youth,
And all their radiant robes the same.
And she saw the blossoms thereupon;
But she saw no grave in all the land,
Nor church, nor yet a church-yard stone.
To every searching mortal eye;
So nigh the sun its orbit sails,
That on his breast it seems to lie.
The warmth was gentle, mild, and bland,
Such as on summer days may be
Far up the hills of Scottish land.
In that blest land of love and truth,
So nigh the fount of life and day;
That land of beauty and of youth.
Here it behoves not to remain;
But Mary, yet the time will come
When thou shalt see this land again.
Of God and every holy one;
And thou shalt travel on with me,
Around the spheres, around the sun,
To see what maid hath never seen,
And do what maid hath never done.”
And took as erst her lily hand;
And soon in holy ecstasy
On mountains of the sun they stand.
Casting their raptured eyes abroad
Around the valleys of the sun,
And all the universe of God:
And hang it on its ancient tree;
For its wild warblings ill become
The scenes that oped to Mary Lee.
That hung the willow boughs upon,
Oh leave the bowers on Jordan's strand,
And cedar groves of Lebanon;
Those chords of mystery sublime,
That chimed the songs of Israel's King,
Songs that shall triumph over time.
That wont of yore the soul to thrill,
In tabernacles of the plain,
Or heights of Zion's holy hill.
In shepherd's hand thou dost delight;
On Kedar hills thy strain was sweet,
And sweet on Bethlehem's plain by night:
And every heart conjoins with thee,
The mountain lyre that lingers near
Will lend a wandering melody.
The extravagant and heterodox position pretended to be established throughout the poem, of the throne of the Almighty being placed in the centre of the sun, must be viewed only as of a piece with the rest of the imaginary scenes exhibited in the work; infinitude and omnipresence being attributes too sacred and too boundless for admission into an enthusiast's dream.
A friend of mine from the country, himself a poet, made particular objections to this stanza, on the ground of its being false and unphilosophical; “For ye ken, sir,” said he, “that wherever a man may be, or can possibly be, whether in a bodily or spiritual state, there maun aye be a firmament aboon his head, and something or other below his feet. In short, it is impossible for a being to be anywhere in the boundless universe in which he winna find baith an up and a down.” I was obliged to give in, but was so much amused with the man's stubborn incredulity, that I introduced it again in the last part.
2. PART SECOND.
Awake thy hallelujahs?—How begin
The song that tells of light ineffable,
And of the dwellers there; the fountain pure
And source of all, where bright archangels dwell,
And where, in unapproached pavilion, framed
Of twelve deep veils, and every veil composed
Of thousand thousand lustres, sits enthroned
The God of Nature?—O thou harp of Salem,
Where shall my strain begin?
Soft let it be,
And simple as its own primeval airs;
And, minstrel, when on angel wing thou soar'st,
Then will the harp of David rise with thee.
Beside her lovely guide, Cela his name.
Yes, deem it heaven, for not the ample sky
As seen from earth, could slight proportion bear
To those bright regions of eternal day,
Once they are gained—so sweet the breeze of life
Breathed through the groves of amaranth—so sweet
The very touch of that celestial land.
Soon as the virgin trode thereon she felt
Unspeakable delight—sensations new
Thrilled her whole frame; as one who his life long
Hath in a dark and chilly dungeon pined
Feels when restored to freedom and the sun.
Which cloud had never rested on, nor hues
Of night had ever shaded; thence they saw
The motioned universe, that wheeled around
In fair confusion. Raised as they were now
To the high fountain-head of light and vision,
Where'er they cast their eyes abroad they found
The light behind, the object still before;
And on the rarified and pristine rays
Of vision borne, their piercing sight passed on
Intense and all unbounded—onward!—onward!
No cloud to intervene, no haze to dim,
Or nigh or distant it was all the same;
For distance lessened not.—Oh what a scene,
To see so many goodly worlds upborne,
Around!—around!—all turning their green bosoms
And glittering waters to that orb of life
On which our travellers stood, and all by that
Sustained and gladdened! By that orb sustained?
No—by the mighty everlasting One
Who in that orb resides, and round whose throne
Our journeyers now were hovering. But they kept
Aloof upon the skirts of heaven; for, strange
Though it appears, there was no heaven beside.
They saw all nature—all that was they saw;
But neither moon, nor stars, nor firmament,
Nor clefted galaxy was any more.
Worlds beyond worlds, with intermundane voids
That closed and opened as those worlds rolled on,
Were all that claimed existence: each of these,
From one particular point of the sun's orb,
Seemed pendent by some ray or viewless cord,
On which it twirled and swung with endless motion.
Such rapt astonishment, as did this maid
Of earthly lineage, when she saw the plan
Of God's fair universe (himself enthroned
In light she dared not yet approach!), from whence
He viewed the whole, and with a father's care
Upheld and cherished. Wonder seemed it none
That Godhead should discern each thing minute
That moved on his creation, when the eyes
Which he himself had made could thus perceive
All these broad orbs turn their omniferous breasts,
And sun them in their Maker's influence.
Oh! it was sweet to see their ample vales,
Their yellow mountains, and their winding streams,
All basking in the beams of light and life!
Of intellectual beings; but their forms,
Their beauty, and their natures varied all.
And in these worlds there were broad oceans rolled,
And branching seas: some wore the hues of gold,
And some of emerald or of burnished glass;
And there were seas that keel had never ploughed,
Nor had the shadow of a veering sail
Scared their inhabitants—for slumbering shades
And spirits brooded on them.
Said the delighted but inquiring maid,
“And tell me which of all these worlds I see
Is that we lately left? For I would fain
Note how far more extensive 'tis and fair
Than all the rest. Little, alas! I know
Of it, save that it is a right fair globe
Diversified and huge, and that afar,
In one sweet corner of it, lies a spot
I dearly love, where Tweed from distant moors
Far travelled flows in murmuring majesty,
And Yarrow, rushing from her bosky banks,
Hurries with headlong haste to the embrace
Ah! yonder 'tis!—now I perceive it well,”
Said she with ardent voice, bending her eye,
And stretching forth her arm to a broad globe
That basked in the light—“Yonder it is!
I know the Caledonian mountains well,
And mark the moony braes and curved heights
Above the lone Saint Mary. Cela, speak;
Is not that globe the world where I was born,
And yon the land of my nativity?”
She turned around her beauteous earnest face
With asking glance, but soon that glance withdrew,
And silent looked abroad on glowing worlds;
For she beheld a smile on Cela's face,
A smile that might an angel's face become,
When listening to the boasted, pigmy skill
Of high presuming man. She looked abroad,
But nought distinctly marked, nor durst her eye
Again meet his, although that way her face
So near was turned; one glance might have read more,
But yet that glance was staid. Pleased to behold
Her virgin modesty and simple grace,
His hand upon her flexile shoulder pressed
In kind and friendly guise, he thus began:
Impertinent or trivial—well aware
Of all the longings of humanity
Toward the first, haply the only scenes
Of nature e'er beheld or understood;
Where the immortal and unquenched mind
First oped its treasures; and the longing soul
Breathed its first yearnings of eternal hope.
I know it all; nor do I deem it strange,
In such a wilderness of moving spheres,
Thou should'st mistake the world that gave thee birth.
Prepare to wonder, and prepare to grieve:
For I perceive that thou hast deemed the earth
The fairest and the most material part
Of God's creation. Mark yon cloudy spot,
Which yet thine eye hath never rested on;
And though not long the viewless golden cord
That chains it to this heaven, yclept the sun,
It seems a thing subordinate—a sphere
Unseemly and forbidding—'tis the earth.
What think'st thou now of thy almighty Maker,
And of this goodly universe of his?”
Deep, deep in meditation, while her face
Denoted mingled sadness. 'Twas a thought
She trembled to express. At length with blush,
And faltering tongue, she mildly thus replied:—
By beings of intelligence and mind;
O Cela, tell me this—Have they all fallen,
And sinned like us? And has a living God
Bled in each one of all these peopled worlds?
Or only on yon dank and dismal spot
Hath one Redeemer suffered for them all?”
Said her conductor with a fervent mien;
“More thou shalt know hereafter; but meanwhile
This truth conceive, that God must ever deal
With men as men—those things by him decreed,
Or compassed by permission, ever tend
To draw his creatures, whom he loves, to goodness;
For he is all benevolence, and knows
That in the paths of virtue and of love
Alone can final happiness be found.
More thou shalt know hereafter—pass we on
Around this glorious heaven, till by degrees
Thy frame and vision are so subtilized,
As that thou may'st the inner regions near
Where dwell the holy angels; where the saints
Of God meet in assembly; seraphs sing;
And thousand harps, in unison complete,
With one vibration sound Jehovah's name.”
They journeyed on—not like the earthly pilgrim,
Fainting with hunger, thirst, and burning feet,
But, leaning forward on the liquid air
Like twin-born eagles, skimmed the fields of light,
Circling the pales of heaven. In joyous mood,
Sometimes through groves of shady depth they strayed,
Arm linked in arm, as lovers walk the earth;
Or rested in the bowers where roses hung
And flowrets holding everlasting sweetness.
And they would light upon celestial hills
Of beauteous softened green, and converse hold
With beings like themselves in form and mind;
Then, rising lightly from the velvet breast
Of the green mountain, down upon the vales
They swooped amain by lawns and streams of life;
Then over mighty hills an arch they threw
Formed like the rainbow. Never since the time
That God outspread the glowing fields of heaven
Were two such travellers seen! In all that way
They saw new visitants hourly arrive
From other worlds, in that auspicious land
To live for ever. These had sojourned far
From world to world more pure—till by degrees
After a thousand years' progression, they
Stepped on the confines of that land of life,
Of bliss unspeakable and evermore.
So exquisite the feelings of delight
Their power of sufferance.—Overcome with bliss,
They saw them wandering in amazement on,
With eyes that took no image on their spheres,
Misted in light and glory; or laid down,
Stretched on the sward of heaven in ecstasy.
Of one that loved them, and had brought them home
With him in full felicity to dwell.
An angel's harp were meet, which mortal hand
Must not assay. These scenes must be concealed
From mortal fancy and from mortal eye
Until our weary pilgrimage is done.
Them so to do; and in that course beheld
Immeasurable vales, all colonized
From worlds subjacent. Passing inward still
Toward the centre of the heavens, they saw
The dwellings of the saints of ancient days,
And martyrs for the right—men of all creeds,
Features, and hues. Much did the virgin muse,
And much reflect on this strange mystery,
So ill conform to all she had been taught
From infancy to think, by holy men;
Till looking round upon the spacious globes
Dependent on that heaven of light, and all
Rejoicing in their God's beneficence,
These words spontaneously burst from her lips:
“Child that I was, ah! could my stinted mind
Harbour the thought, that the Almighty's love,
Life, and salvation could to single sect
Of creatures be confined, all his alike!”
Around the palaces of heaven, they passed
The habitations of those radiant tribes
That never in the walks of mortal life
Had sojourned, or with human passions toiled.
Pure were they framed; and round the skirts of heaven
At first were placed, till other dwellers came
From other spheres, by human beings nursed;
Then inward those withdrew, more meet to dwell
In beatific regions. These again
Followed by more, in order regular,
Neared to perfection. It was most apparent
Through all created nature, that each being,
From the archangel to the meanest soul
Cherished by savage, caverned in the snow,
Or panting on the brown and sultry desert—
That all were in progression, moving on
Still to perfection. In conformity
The human soul is modelled—hoping still
In something onward; something far beyond
It fain would grasp,—nor shall that hope be lost!
The soul shall hold it; she shall hope, and yearn,
And grasp, and gain, for times and ages, more
Than thought can fathom or proud science climb.
And dread dimensions, where the tribes of heaven
Assembly held, each in its proper sphere
And order placed. That vale extended far
Across the heavenly regions, and its form
A tall gazoon, or level pyramid.
Along its borders palaces were ranged,
All fronted with the thrones of beauteous seraphs,
Who sat with eyes turned to the inmost point
Leaning upon their harps; and all those thrones
Were framed of burning crystal, where appeared
In mingled gleam millions of dazzling hues.
These thrones increased in grandeur and in glory
On either side, until the inmost two
Rose so sublimely high, that every arch
Was ample as the compass of that bow
That, on dark cloud, bridges the vales of earth.
With many lustres, whose each single lamp
Shone like the sun as from the earth beheld;
And each particular column, placed upon
A northern hill, would cap the polar wain.
There sat, half-shrouded in incessant light
The great archangels, nighest to the throne
Of the Almighty; for—oh dreadful view!—
Betwixt these two, closing the lengthened files,
Stood the pavilion of the eternal God!
Himself unseen, in tenfold splendours veiled,
The least unspeakable, so passing bright
That even the eyes of angels turned thereon
Grow dim, and round them transient darkness swims.
Our travellers stood. Farther they could not press,
For round the light and glory threw a pale,
Repellent, but to them invisible;
Yet myriads were within of purer frame.
From distant worlds, the missioners of heaven,
Sent forth to countervail malignant sprites
That roam existence. These gave their report,
Not at the throne, but at the utmost seats
Of these long files of throned seraphim,
By whom the word was passed. Then fast away
Flew the commissioned spirits, to renew
Their watch and guardship in far distant lands.
They saw them, in directions opposite,
To every point of heaven glide away
Like flying stars; or, far adown the steep,
Gleam like small lines of light.
Given out, from whence they knew not, that all tongues,
In hymn of adoration and acclaim,
To Him that sat upon the throne of heaven,
Who framed, saved, and redeemed them to himself!
And with their faces turned unto the throne
Stood up erect, while all their coronals
From off their heads were reverently upborne.
Our earth-born visitant quaked every limb.
The angels touched their harps with gentle hand
As prelude to begin—then, all at once,
With full o'erwhelming swell the strain arose;
And pealing high rolled o'er the throned lists
And tuneful files, as if the sun itself
Welled forth the high and holy symphony!
All heaven beside was mute: the streams stood still
And did not murmur—the light wandering winds
Withheld their motion in the midst of heaven,
Nor stirred the leaf, but hung in breathless trance
Where first the sounds assailed them; even the windows
Of God's pavilion seemed to open wide
And drink the harmony.
The virgin pilgrim heard; for they o'erpowered
Her every sense; and down she sunk entranced
By too supreme delight, and all to her
Was lost; she saw nor heard not—it was gone!
In her associate's arms, before she showed
Motion or life; and when she first awoke
It was in dreaming melody—low strains
Half sung, half uttered, hung upon her breath.
That song of heaven again?—Then all beside
Of being is unworthy: take me back,
Where I may hear that lay of glory flow,
And die away in it. My soul shall mix
With its harmonious numbers, and dissolve
In fading cadence at the gates of light.”
Cautious they journeyed; and at distance heard
The closing anthem of that great assembly
Of saints and angels. First the harps awoke
A murmuring tremulous melody, that rose
Now high—now seemed to roll in waves away.
And aye between this choral hymn was sung,
“O! holy! holy! holy, just and true,
Art thou, Lord God Almighty! thou art he
Who was, and is, and evermore shall be!”
Then every harp, and every voice, at once
Resounded Halleluiah! so sublime,
That all the mountains of the northern heaven,
And they are many, sounded back the strain.
To the rapt height, the full delirious swell,
Then did the pure elastic mounds of heaven
Quiver and stream with flickering radiance,
Like gossamers along the morning dew.
Still paused the choir, till the last echo crept
Into the distant hill—Oh it was sweet!
Beyond definement sweet! and never more
May ear of mortal list such heavenly strains,
While linked to erring frail humanity.
And dwellers of the heaven, of that concerned
The ways of God with man, and wondrous truths
But half revealed to him, our sojourners
In holy awe withdrew. And now, no more
By circular and cautious route they moved,
But straight across the regions of the blest,
And storied vales of heaven did they advance,
On rapt ecstatic wing; and oft assayed
The seraph's holy hymn. As they passed by
The angels paused, and saints, that lay reposed
In bowers of paradise, upraised their heads
To list the passing music; for it went
Swift as the wild-bee's note, that on the wing
Booms like unbodied voice along the gale.
There lingering, forward on the air they leaned
With hearts elate, to take one parting look
Of nature from its source, and converse hold
Of all its wonders. Not upon the sun,
But on the halo of bright golden air
That fringes it, they leaned, and talked so long,
That from contiguous worlds they were beheld
And wondered at as beams of living light.
Were well observed, explained, and understood.
All save the mould of that mysterious chain
Which bound them to the sun—that God himself,
And he alone, could comprehend or wield.
Of all their posture seemed these two between,
Bent forward on the wind, in graceful guise,
On which they seemed to press, for their fair robes
Were streaming far behind them) there passed by
A most erratic wandering globe, that seemed
To run with troubled aimless fury on.
The virgin, wondering, inquired the cause
And nature of that roaming meteor world.
When yon was such a world as that you left;
A nursery of intellect, for those
Where matter lives not. Like these other worlds,
It wheeled upon its axle, and it swung
With wide and rapid motion. But the time
That God ordained for its existence run,
Its uses in that beautiful creation,
Where nought subsists in vain, remained no more.
The saints and angels knew of it, and came
In radiant files, with awful reverence,
To see the downfall of a sentenced world.
Think of the impetus that urges on
These ponderous spheres, and judge of the event.
Just in the middle of its swift career,
The Almighty snapt the golden cord in twain
That hung it to the heaven—creation sobbed,
And a spontaneous shriek rang on the hills
Of these celestial regions. Down amain
Into the void the outcast world descended,
Wheeling and thundering on! Its troubled seas
Were churned into a spray, and, whizzing, flurred
Around it like a dew. The mountain tops
And ponderous rocks were off impetuous flung,
And clattered down the steeps of night for ever
Rushed the abandoned world; and through its caves
And rifted channels airs of chaos sung.
The realms of night were troubled—for the stillness
Which there from all eternity had reigned
Was rudely discomposed; and moaning sounds,
Mixed with a whistling howl, were heard afar
By darkling spirits. Still with stayless force,
For years and ages, down the wastes of night
Rolled the impetuous mass!—of all its seas
And superficies disencumbered,
It boomed along, till by the gathering speed,
Its furnaced mines and hills of walled sulphur
Were blown into a flame, when meteor-like,
Bursting away upon an arching track,
Wide as the universe, again it scaled
The dusky regions. Long the heavenly hosts
Had deemed the globe extinct, nor thought of it,
Save as an instance of Almighty power:
Judge of their wonder and astonishment,
When far as heavenly eyes can see, they saw,
In yon blue void, that hideous world appear,
Showering thin flame, and shining vapour forth
O'er half the breadth of heaven!—The angels paused,
And all the nations trembled at the view.
And lead it all unhurtful through the spheres,
Signal of pestilence or wasting sword
That ravage and deface humanity.
Shall be cut off from God's fair universe;
Its end fulfilled. But when that time shall be,
From man, from saint, and angel is concealed.”
What converse could succeed!—They turned around,
And kneeling on the brow of heaven, there paid
Due adoration to that Holy One
Who framed and rules the elements of nature.
Then like two swans that far on wing have scaled
The Alpine heights to gain their native lake,
At length, perceiving far below their eye
The beauteous silvery speck, they slack their wings,
And softly sink adown the incumbent air:
So sunk our lovely pilgrims, from the verge
Of the fair heaven, down the streamered sky,
Far other scenes and other worlds to view.
It has often been suggested to me that the dangerous doubt expressed in these four lines, has proved a text to all Dr. Chalmers' sublime astronomical sermons. I am far from having the vanity to suppose this to be literally true; but if it had even the smallest share in turning his capacious and fervent mind to that study, I have reason to estimate them as the most valuable lines I ever wrote.
This whole account of the formation of a comet has been copied into several miscellaneous works, and has been often loudly censured for its utter extravagance by such as knew not the nature of the work from which it was taken. After all, I cannot help regarding the supposition as perfectly ostensible.
3. PART THIRD.
Who from the isles beyond the dawn of morn,
To where waste oceans wash Peruvia's shore,
Hast from all nations drawn thy boasted lore!
Helm of the world, whom seas and isles obey,
Though high thy honours, and though far thy sway,
Thy harp I crave, unfearful of thy frown;
Well may'st thou lend what erst was not thine own.
With Dryden's twang, and Pope's malicious knell;
But now, so sore thy brazen chords are worn,
By peer, by pastor, and by bard forlorn;
By every grub that harps for venal ore,
And crab that grovels on the sandy shore:
I wot not if thy maker's aim has been
A harp, a fiddle, or a tambourine.
Come to the silent moorland dale with me;
And thou shalt pour, along the mountain hoar,
A strain its echoes never waked before;
Thou shalt be strung where greenwood never grew,
Swept by the winds, and mellowed by the dew.
Around the sun, enveloped in the sky:
Thy music slightly must the veil withdraw
From lands they visited and scenes they saw;
From lands, where love and goodness ever dwell;
Where famine, blight, or mildew never fell;
Where face of man is ne'er o'erspread with gloom,
And woman smiles for ever in her bloom:
And thou must sing of wicked worlds beneath,
Where flit the visions and the hues of death.
Compared with that where they had lately been,
To all its dwellers yielded full delight.
Long was the day, and long and still the night;
The raving streamlets murmured from the hill.
It was the land where faithful lovers dwell,
Beyond the grave's unseemly sentinel;
Where, free of jealousy, their mortal bane,
And all the ills of sickness and of pain,
In love's delights they bask without alloy—
The night their transport, and the day their joy.
The broadened sun, in chamber and alcove,
Shines daily on their morning couch of love;
And in the evening grove, while linnets sing,
And silent bats wheel round on flittering wing,
Still in the dear embrace their souls are lingering.
“Must all these beauteous dames like woman fade?
In our imperfect world, it is believed
That those who most have loved the most have grieved;
That love can every power of earth control,
Can conquer kings and chain the hero's soul;
While all the woes and pains that women prove,
Have each their poignance and their source from love.
What law of nature has reversed the doom,
If these may always love and always bloom?”
As journeying o'er this happy world with me,
That no decrepitude nor age is here;
No autumn comes the human bloom to sere;
For these have lived in worlds of mortal breath,
And all have passed the dreary bourne of death:
Can'st thou not mark their purity of frame,
Though still their forms and features are the same?”
Save in the fair meridian port of man,
And woman fresh as roses newly sprung:
If these have died, they all have died when young.”
This in thy world is not yet understood:
But wheresoe'er we wander to and fro,
In heaven above or in the deep below,
What thou misconstruest I shall well explain,
Be it in angel's walk or mortal reign,
In sun, moon, stars, in mountain, or in main.
Varied with valleys, seas, and forests green,
Are all conformed, in subtilty of clime,
To beings sprung from out the womb of time;
And all the living groups where'er they be,
Of worlds which thou hast seen or thou may'st see,
Wherever sets the eve and dawns the morn,
Are all of mankind—all of woman born.
The globes from heaven which most at distance lie
Are nurseries of life to these so nigh;
In those the minds for evermore to be
Must dawn and rise with smiling infancy.
Souls, thick as blossoms of the vernal field,
Which after death, in relative degree,
Fairer or darker as their minds may be,
To other worlds are led, to learn and strive
Till to perfection all at last arrive.
This once conceived, the ways of God are plain,
But thy unyielding race in errors will remain.
Like thee were virgins, but not so remained.
Not to thy sex this sere behest is given—
They are the garden of the God of heaven:
Of beauties numberless and woes the heir,
The tree was reared immortal fruit to bear;
And she, all selfish choosing to remain,
Nor share of love the pleasures and the pain,
Was made and cherished by her God in vain.
She sinks into the dust a nameless thing,
No son the requiem o'er her grave to sing;
While she who gives to human beings birth,
Immortal here, is living still on earth—
Still in her offspring lives, to fade and bloom,
Flourish and spread through ages long to come.
Though woman must those pains and passions brook,
Beloved of God and fairest of his plan,
Note how she smiles, superior still to man,
As well it her behoves; for was not he
Lulled on her breast and nursed upon her knee?
Her foibles and her failings may be rife,
While toiling through the snares and ills of life;
But he who framed her nature knows her pains,
Her heart dependant, and tumultuous veins,
And many faults the world heap on her head,
Will never there be harshly visited.
Proud haughty man, the nursling of her care,
Must more than half her crimes and errors bear.
If flowrets droop and fade before their day;
If others sink neglected in the clay:
If trees too rankly earthed too rathly blow,
And others neither fruit nor blossom know,
Let human reason equal judgment frame:
Is it the flower, the tree, or gardener's blame?
For when the soul and body meet again,
No 'vantage will be held of age, or time,
United at their fairest fullest prime.
The form when purest, and the soul most sage,
Beauty with wisdom shall have heritage,
The form of comely youth, the experience of age.
Of man's immortal and progressive state,
No credit thou wilt gain; for they are blind,
And would, presumptuous, the Eternal bind,
Either perpetual blessings to bestow,
Or plunge the souls he framed in endless woe.
And named the Evening and the Morning Star.
Oft, with rapt eye, thou hast its rising seen,
Above the holy spires of old Lindeen;
And marked its tiny beam diffuse a hue
That tinged the paleness of the morning blue;
Ah! did'st thou deem it was a land so fair?
Or that such peaceful 'habitants were there?
That wades in crimson like the sultry sun?
There let us bend our course, and mark the fates
Of mighty warriors, and of warriors' mates;
For there they toil 'mid troubles and alarms,
The drums and trumpets sounding still to arms;
Till by degrees, when ages are outgone,
And happiness and comfort still unknown,
Like simple babes, the land of peace to win,
The task of knowledge sorrowful begin,
By the enlightened philosophic mind,
More than a thousand ages left behind.
For what avails the stage of mortal life,
If to the last the fading frame is worn,
The same unknowing creature it was born?
Where shall the spirit rest? where shall it go?
Or how enjoy a bliss it does not know?
It must be taught in darkness and in pain,
Or beg the bosom of a child again.
Knowledge of all, avails the human kind
For all beyond the grave are joys of mind.”
'Twas like the journey of a dream by night;
And scarce had Mary ceased, with thought sedate,
To muse on woman's sacred estimate,
When on the world of warriors they alight,
Just on the confines of its day and night;
The purple light was waning west away,
And shoally darkness gained upon the day.
“For more than earthly solemness is there.
See how the rubied waters winding roll;
A hoary doubtful hue involves the pole;
Uneasy murmurs float upon the wind,
And tenfold darkness rears its shades behind.
The daylight slumbers on the western cloud:
I love the scene!—Oh let us onward steer,
The light our steeds, the wind our charioteer!
And on the downy cloud impetuous hurled,
We'll with the twilight ring this warrior world.”
The light before, the wreathed darkness nigh;
Along, along, through evening vapours blue,
Through tinted air and racks of drizzly dew,
The twain pursued their way, and heard afar
The moans and murmurs of the dying war;
The neigh of battle-steeds by field and wall,
That missed their generous comrades of the stall
Which, all undaunted, in the ranks of death.
Yielded, they knew not why, their honest breath;
And, far behind, the hill-wolf's hunger yell,
And watchword passed from drowsy sentinel.
It flies to the vicissitudes of change.
Our pilgrims of the twilight weary grew,
Transcendent was the scene, but never new;
They wheeled their rapid chariot from the light,
And pierced the bosom of the hideous night.
All hues were gone of heaven and of the earth:
The watch-fire scarce like gilded glow-worm seemed;
No moon nor star along the concave beamed;
Without a halo flaming meteors flew,
Scarce did they shed a sullen sulphury blue;
Whizzing they passed, by folded vapours crossed,
And in a sea of darkness soon were lost.
When lasting night and polar storms are nigh,
Enveloped in a rayless atmosphere,
By northern shores uncertain course they steer;
O'er thousand darkling billows flap the wing,
Till far is heard the welcome murmuring
Of mountain waves, o'er waste of waters tossed,
In fleecy thunder fall on Albyn's coast.
Till, in a moment, rose before their sight
A bound impassable of burning levin,
A wall of flame that reached from earth to heaven.
It was the light shed from the bloody sun,
In bootless blaze upon that cloud so dun;
Its gloom was such as not to be oppressed,
That those perturbed spirits might have rest.
A world of pride, of havoc, and of spleen;
A world of scathed soil and sultry air,
For industry and culture were not there.
The hamlets smoked in ashes on the plain;
The bones of men were bleaching in the rain;
And, piled in thousands, on the trenched heath
Stood warriors bent on vengeance and on death.
A scene momentous, and a sequel high!
For late arrived on this disquiet coast
A fiend, that in Tartarian gulf was tossed,
And held, in tumult and commotion fell,
The gnashing legions through the bounds of hell
For ages past; but now, by Heaven's decree,
The prelude of some dread event to be
Is hither sent like desolating brand,
The scourge of God, the terror of the land!
He seems the passive elements to guide,
And stars in courses fight upon his side.
The omens of the times that are to be;
For all the wars of earth and deeds of weir
Are first performed by warrior spirits here;
So linked are souls by one eternal chain,
What these perform those needs must do again:
And thus the Almighty weighs each kingdom's date,
Each warrior's fortune, and each warrior's fate,
Making the future time with that has been
Work onward, rolling like a vast machine.”
Above the whirlwind and the thunder-storm:
For in that land contiguous to the sun
The elements in wild obstruction run;
They saw the bodied flame the cloud impale,
Then river-like fleet down the sultry dale.
While basking in the sunbeam high they lay,
The hill was swathed in dark unseemly gray;
The downward rainbow hung across the rain,
And leaned its glowing arch upon the plain.
Armies and kings from out the cloud arise;
They saw great hosts and empires overrun,
War's wild extreme, and kingdoms lost and won:
The whole of that this age has lived to see,
With battles of the East long hence to be,
They saw distinct and plain, as human eye
Discerns the forms and objects passing by.
Long yet the time ere wasting war shall cease,
And all the world have liberty and peace!
While this mysterious boding vision staid;
But now the virgin, with disturbed eye,
Besought solution of the prodigy.
That wolfish fiend, from hell that hither came,
Over thy world in ages yet to be
Must desolation spread and slavery,
Till nations learn to know their estimate;
To be unanimous is to be great:
When right's own standard calmly is unfurled,
The people are the sovereigns of the world.
And that machine must have a moving spring;
But of what mould that moving spring should be,
'Tis the high right of nations to decree.
This mankind must be taught, though millions bleed,
That knowledge, truth, and liberty may spread.”
Some spirits rose as from unearthly shroud,
And joined their warrior brethren of the free;
Two souls inspired each, and some had three?”
Who, thus permitted, rose and breathed again;
For still let reason this high truth recall,
The body's but a mould, the soul is all:
Those triple minds that all before them hurled,
Are called Silesians in this warrior world.”
That all the restless spirits of this clime,
Erring so widely in the search of bliss,
Shall win a milder, happier world than this?”
The falsehood of their fuming vanity.
What is the soldier but an abject fool—
A king's, a tyrant's, or a statesman's tool?
Some patriot few there are—but ah, how rare!
For vanity or interest still is there;
Or blindfold levity directs his way—
A licensed murderer that kills for pay.
Though fruitless ages thus be overpast,
Truth, love, and knowledge, must prevail at last.”
Weary of battle and portentous sight.
By globes immense and worlds subordinate,
For still my strain in mortal guise must flow:
Though swift as winged angels they might go,
The palled mind would meet no kind relay,
And dazzled fancy wilder by the way.
And all for which its 'habitants were meet.
They saw a watery world of sea and shore,
Where the rude sailor swept the flying oar,
And drove his bark like lightning o'er the main,
Proud of his prowess, of her swiftness vain;
Held revel on the shore with stormy glee,
Or sung his boisterous carol on the sea.
And beauteous maids that love the melting lay;
One mighty hill they clomb with earnest pain,
For ever clomb but higher did not gain:
Their gladsome smiles were mixed with frowns severe;
For all were bent to sing, and none to hear.
Of all the globes the dreariest and the worst.
But there they could not sojourn, though they would,
For all the language was of mystic mood,
A jargon, nor conceived nor understood;
It was of deeds, respondents, and replies,
Dark quibbles, forms, and condescendencies:
And they would argue with vociferous breath,
For months and days, as if the point were death;
And when at last enforced to agree,
'Twas only how the argument should be!
Their frames their god, their tithes their testament;
And snarling critics bent with aspect sour
T'applaud the great and circumvent the poor;
And knowing patriots, with important face,
Raving aloud with gesture and grimace—
Then by a land effeminate they passed,
Where silks and odours floated in the blast:
A land of vain and formal compliment,
Where won the flippant belles and beaux magnificent.
From God's own throne unto the realms of pain;
For there are prisons in the deep below,
Where wickedness sustains proportioned woe,
Nor more nor less; for the Almighty still
Suits to our life the goodness and the ill.
Were I to sing the agonies below;
The hatred nursed by those who cannot part;
The hardened brow, the seared and sullen heart;
The still defenceless look, the stifled sigh,
The writhed lip, the staid despairing eye,
Which ray of hope may never lighten more,
Which cannot shun, yet dares not look before.
Oh! these are themes reflection would forbear,
Unfitting bard to sing or maid to hear;
Yet these they saw in downward realms prevail,
And listened many a sufferer's hapless tale,
Who all allowed that rueful misbelief
Had proved the source of their eternal grief;
And all the Almighty punisher arraigned
For keeping back that knowledge they disdained.
“The axiom's just—the inference is true;
Therefore no more let doubts thy mind enthral,
Through nature's range thou see'st a God in all:
Where is the mortal law that can restrain
The atheist's heart that broods o'er thoughts profane?
Soon fades the soul's and virtue's dearest tie,
When all the future closes from the eye.”—
By all, the earth-born virgin plainly saw
Nature's unstaid, unalterable law;
That human life is but the infant stage
Of a progressive, endless pilgrimage
To woe, or state of bliss, by bard unsung,
At that eternal fount where being sprung.
Just in the red beam of the parting sun,
Our pilgrims skimmed along the light of even,
Like flitting stars that cross the nightly heaven,
And lighting on the verge of Phillip plain,
They trode the surface of the world again.
At their approach the woods and lawns grew still;
The little birds to brake and bush withdrew,
The merl away unto Blackandro flew;
The twilight held its breath in deep suspense,
And looked its wonder in mute eloquence.
Cela arose her guide through heaven to be.
All, all was still—no living thing was seen;
No human footstep marked the daisied green;
The youth looked round, as something were unmeet
Or wanting there to make their bliss complete.
They paused—they sighed—then with a silent awe
Walked onward to the halls of Carelha'.
Talking of some mysterious event;
They saw the maidens in dejection mourn,
Scarce daring glance unto a yeoman turn.
Straight to the inner chamber they repair,
Mary beheld her widowed mother there,
Flew to her arms, to kiss her and rejoice:
Alas! she saw her not nor heard her voice,
But sat unmoved with many a bitter sigh,
Tears on her cheek, and sorrow in her eye!
In sable weeds her lady form was clad,
And the white lawn waved mournful round her head.
Mary beheld, arranged in order near,
The very robes she last on earth did wear;
And shrinking from the disregarded kiss,
“Oh, tell me, Cela!—tell me what is this?”
As yet thou knowest not how nor what thou art;—
Come, I will lead thee to yon hoary pile,
Where sleep thy kindred in their storied isle:
There I must leave thee in this world below;
'Tis meet thy land these holy truths should know:
But, Mary, yield not thou to bootless pain,
Soon we shall meet, and never part again.”
But, half reluctant, followed him away.
They paced along on Ettrick's margin green,
And reached the hoary fane of old Lindeen:
It was a scene to curdle maiden's blood—
The massy church-yard gate wide open stood;
The stars were up, the valley steeped in dew,
The baleful bat in silent circles flew;
No sound was heard, except the lonely rail
Harping his ordinal adown the dale;
And soft and slow upon the breezes light
The rush of Ettrick breathed along the night.
Dark was the pile, and green the tombs beneath,
And dark the gravestones on the sward of death.
A grave new opened—thitherward they drew;
And there beheld, within its mouldy womb,
A living, moving tenant of the tomb!
It was an aged monk, uncouth to see,
Who held a sheeted corpse upon his knee,
And busy, busy, with the form was he!
At their approach he uttered howl of pain,
Till echoes groaned it from the holy fane,
Then fled amain.—Ah! Cela, too, is gone;
And Mary stands within the grave alone!
With her fair guide her robes of heaven are fled,
And round her fall the garments of the dead!
And chaunt a simple tale, a most uncourtly strain.
4. PART FOURTH.
The blare of the heath-cock has sunk on the hill,
Beyond the gray cairn of the moor is his rest,
On the red heather-bloom he has pillowed his breast;
There soon with his note the gray dawning he'll cheer;
But Mary of Carel' that note will not hear!
The river-lark sings on the verge of the plain;
So lonely his plaint by the motionless reed
It sounds like an omen or tale of the dead;
Like a warning of death it falls on the ear
Of those who are wandering the woodlands in fear;
For the maidens of Carelha' wander, and cry
On their young lady's name, with the tear in their eye.
The gates had been shut and the mass had been sung,
But Mary was missing, the beauteous and young;
And she had been seen in the evening still
By woodman, alone, in the groves of Bowhill.
They knew the third night of the moon in the wane:
They knew on that night that the spirits were free;
That revels of fairies were held on the lea;
And heard their small bugles, with eirysome croon,
As lightly the rode on the beam of the moon.
Oh! woe to the wight that abides their array!
And woe to the maiden that comes in their way!
The yeomen they rode, and the pages they ran;
The Ettrick and Yarrow they searched up and down,
The hamlet, the cot, and the old borough town;
And thrice the bedesman renewed the host;
But the dawn returned—and Mary was lost!
For the loss of her loved, her only child,
With all her maidens tracked the dew—
Well Mary's secret bower she knew.
Oft had she traced, with fond regard,
Her darling to that grove, and heard
Her orisons the green bough under,
And turned aside with fear and wonder.
When they saw her stretched on the sward alone,
Prostrate, without a word or motion,
As if in calm and deep devotion.
They called her name with trembling breath;
But ah! her sleep was the sleep of death:
They laid their hands on her cheek composed;
But her cheek was cold and her eye was closed:
They laid their hands upon her breast,
But the playful heart had sunk to rest;
And they raised an eldritch wail of sorrow,
That startled the hinds on the braes of Yarrow.
Each line remained of beauty and grace;
No death-like features it disclosed,
For the lips were met, and the eyes were closed.
'Twas pale—but the smile was on the cheek;
'Twas modelled all as in act to speak.
It seemed as if each breeze that blew,
The play of the bosom would renew;
As nature's momentary strife
Would wake that form to beauty and life.
To the lordly halls of Carelha',
And lies on silken couch at rest—
The mother there is constant guest,
For hope still lingers in her breast.
Can nothing dear to the last forego!
When we see the forms we fain would save
Wear step by step adown to the grave,
Still hope a lambent gleam will shed
Over the last, the dying bed:
And even, as now, when the soul's away,
It flutters and lingers o'er the clay.
O Hope! thy range was never expounded!
'Tis not by the grave that thou art bounded!
Are all misspent—no life is there!
Between her breasts they dropped the lead,
And the cord in vain begirt her head;
Yet still on that couch her body lies,
Though another moon has claimed the skies;
For once the lykewake maidens saw,
As the dawn arose on Carelha',
A movement soft the sheets within,
And a gentle shivering of the chin.
The body to the tomb was borne;
The last pale flowers in the grave were flung;
The mass was said and the requiem sung;
And the turf that was ever green to be
Lies over the dust of Mary Lee.
Loud creaked the rail in the clover green;
The new moon from the west withdrew—
Oh! well the monk of Lindeen knew
That Mary's winding-sheet was lined
With many fringe of the gold refined:
That in her bier behoved to be
A golden cross and a rosary;
Of pearl beads full many a string,
And on every finger a diamond ring.
The holy man no scruples staid;
For within that grave was useless laid
'Twas worth a convent's benefice!
To the church-yard, darkling and alone;
His brawny limbs the grave bestride,
And he shovelled the mools and the bones aside;
Of the dust or the dead he stood not in fear,
But he stooped in the grave and he opened the bier;
And he took the jewels, of value high,
And he took the cross, and the rosary,
And the golden harp on the lid that shone,
And he laid them carefully on a stone.
And he raised the corpse upon his knee;
But in vain to gain the rings he strove,
For the hands were cold and they would not move:
He drew a knife from his baldrick gray,
To cut the rings and fingers away.
It scarcely reached unto the bone:
Just then the soul, so long exiled,
Returned again from its wanderings wild;
By the stars and the sun it ceased to roam,
And entered its own, its earthly home.
Loud shrieked the corse at the wound he gave,
And, rising, stood up in the grave.
Scarce had he power left to depart;
For horror thrilled through every vein:
He did not cry, but he roared amain;
For hues of dread and death were rife
On the face of the form he had woke to life:
His reason fled form off her throne,
And never more dawned thereupon.
And the echoes called, but no Cela came.
Oh! much she marvelled that he had gone,
And left her thus in the grave alone.
She knew the place and the holy dome;
Few moments hence she had thither come;
And through the hues of the night she saw
The woods and towers of Carelha'.
'Twas mystery all—she did not ween
Of the state or the guise in which she had been;
She did not ween that while travelling afar
Away by the sun and the morning star,
By the moon, and the cloud, and aerial bow,
That her body was left on the earth below.
The ground was chilled with the dews of the night;
Her frame was cold and ill at rest,
The dead rose waved upon her breast;
Her feet were coiled in the sheet so wan,
And fast from her hand the red blood ran.
At the hour of the ghost and the restless sprite;
The mass at Carelha' had been read,
And all the mourners were bound to bed,
When a foot was heard on the paved floor,
And a gentle rap came to the door.
Throw such amazement on all within?—
A dim haze clouded every sight;
Each hair had life, and stood upright;
No sound was heard throughout the hall,
But the beat of the heart and the cricket's call;
So deep the silence imposed by fear,
That a vacant buzz sung in the ear.
The breathless hush, and thus she spoke:—
“Christ be our shield!—who walks so late,
And knocks so gently at my gate?
I felt a pang—it was not dread—
It was the memory of the dead.
Oh! death is a dull and dreamless sleep!
The mould is heavy, the grave is deep,
Else I had weened that foot so free
The step and the foot of my Mary Lee;
And I had weened that gentle knell
From the light hand of my daughter fell.
The grave is deep, it may not be!
Haste, porter—haste to the door and see.”
He lifted the lamp and he looked about;
His lips a silent prayer addressed,
And the cross was signed upon his breast;
Thus mailed within the armour of God,
All ghostly to the door he strode.
He wrenched the bolt with grating din,
He lifted the latch—but none came in!
He thrust out his lamp, and he thrust out his head,
And he saw the face and the robes of the dead!
One sob he heaved, and tried to fly,
But he sunk on the earth, and the form came by.
Till, one by one, dropt on the floor
The blooming maiden and matron old,
The friar gray and the yeoman bold.
It was like a scene on the Border green,
When the arrows fly and pierce unseen;
And nought was heard within the hall
But aves, vows, and groans withal.
The Lady of Carel' stood alone,
But moveless as a statue of stone.
Why all this terror and this woe?
But late when I was in this place,
Thou wouldst not look me in the face:
Oh! why do you blench at sight of me?
I am thy own child, thy Mary Lee.”
I watched thy corpse for many a day;
I strewed the flowers upon thy breast;
And I saw the mould heap over thee—
Thou art not my child, my Mary Lee.”
She knew not that she had been dead;
She gazed in mood irresolute:
Both stood aghast and both were mute.
I nothing dread beneath the sun:
Why comest thou in thy winding-sheet,
Thy life-blood streaming to thy feet?
The grave-rose that my own hands made
I see upon thy bosom spread;
The kerchief that my own hands bound
I see still tied thy temples round;
The golden ring and bracelet bands
Are still upon thy bloody hands.
From earthly hope all desperate driven,
I nothing fear beneath high heaven;
Give me thy hand and speak to me,
If thou art indeed my Mary Lee.”
It leans upon a parent's arm:
The kiss is sweet, and the tears are sheen,
And kind are the words that pass between;
They cling as never more to sunder—
Oh! that embrace was fraught with wonder!
Upraised their heads from the marble floor;
With lengthened arm and forward stride
They tried if that form their touch would bide;
They felt her warm,—they heard,—they saw,
And marvel reigns in Carelha'!
The wounded hand is bound with care;
And there the mother heard with dread
The whole that I to you have said,
Of all the worlds where she had been,
And of all the glories she had seen.
I pledge no word that all is true,
The virgin's tale I have told to you:
But well 'tis vouched, by age and worth,
'Tis real that relates to earth.
The vision would full credence gain.
Certes 'twas once by all believed,
Till one great point was misconceived;
For the mass-men said, with fret and frown,
That through all space it well was known,
By moon or stars, the earth or sea,
An up and down there needs must be.
This error caught their minds in thrall;
'Twas dangerous and apocryphal,
And this nice fraud unhinged all.
So grievous is the dire mischance
Of priestcraft and of ignorance.
What after happ'd to Mary Lee—
Then thou mayest close my legend here:
But ah! the tale to some is dear!
For though her name no more remains,
Her blood yet runs in minstrel veins.
Wore such a sweet and moving grace;
Nor ever did maiden's form more fair
Lean forward to the mountain air;
So dazzling bright her beauty burned,
The eye of man could scarcely brook
With steady gaze thereon to look;
Such was the glow of her cheek and eyes,
She bloomed like the rose of paradise.
In serious mood she oft was seen.
When rose the sun o'er mountain gray,
Her vow was breathed to the east away;
And when low in the west he burned,
Still there her beauteous eye was turned.
For she saw that the flowrets of the glade
To him unconscious worship paid;
She saw them ope their breasts by day,
And follow his enlivening ray,
Then fold them up in grief by night,
Till the return of the blessed light.
When daylight in the west fell low,
She heard the woodland music flow,
Like farewell song, with sadness blent,
A soft and sorrowful lament:
But when the sun rose from the sea,
Oh! then the birds from every tree
Poured forth their hymn of holiest glee!
She knew that the wandering spirits of wrath
Fled from his eye to their homes beneath,
But when the God of glory shone
On earth from his resplendent throne,
In valley, mountain, or in grove,
Then all was life, and light, and love.
She saw the new-born infant's eye
Turned to that light incessantly;
Nor ever was that eye withdrawn
Till the mind thus carved began to dawn.
All nature worshipped at one shrine,
Nor knew that the impulse was divine.
Intent this lovely dame to win;
But the living lustre of her eye
Baulked every knight's pretensions high;
Abashed they sank before her glance,
Nor farther could their claims advance:
Though love thrilled every heart with pain,
They did not ask, and they could not gain.
A courteous and a welcome guest
In every lord and baron's tower—
He struck his harp of wondrous power;
So high his art, that all who heard
Seemed by some magic spell ensnared;
For every heart, as he desired,
Was thrilled with woe—with ardour fired,
Roused to high deeds his might above,
Or soothed to kindness and to love.
No one could learn from whence he came,
But Hugo of Norroway hight his name.
And every maid and noble dame,
To list his high and holy strain
Within the choir of Melrose fane,
The lady of Carelha' joined the band,
And Mary, the flower of all the land.
Oh! every heart was steeped in woe!
Again as it pealed a swell so high
The round drops stood in every eye,
And the aisles and the spires of the hallowed fane,
And the caves of Eildon sang it again.
That pang no tongue can ever impart;
It was not love, nor joy, nor woe,
Nor thought of heaven nor earth below;
'Twas all conjoined in gleam so bright—
A poignant feeling of delight;
The throes of a heart that sought its rest,
Its stay—its home in another's breast.
Ah! she had heard that holy strain
In a land she hoped to see again;
And seen that calm benignant eye
Above the spheres and above the sky;
And though the strain her soul had won,
She yearned for the time that it was done,
To greet the singer in language bland,
And call him Cela, and clasp his hand.
That Mary glided from the throng;
Smiled in the fair young stranger's face,
And proffered her hand with courteous grace.
He started aloof—he bent his eye—
He stood in a trance of ecstasy!
He blessed the power that had impelled
Him onward till he that face beheld;
For he knew his bourn was gained at last,
And all his wanderings then were past.
Anent his kindred and his land;
But his hand upon his lip he laid,
He lifted his eye, and he shook his head!
“No—Hugo of Norroway is my name,
Ask not from whence or how I came:
But since ever memory's ray was born
Within this breast of joy forlorn,
I have sought for thee, and only thee;
For I ween thy name is Mary Lee.
My heart and soul with thine are blent,
My very being's element—
Oh! I have wonders to tell to thee,
If thou art the virgin Mary Lee!”
They stood at distance round and gazed;
They knew her face he never had seen,
But they heard not the words that passed between.
They thought of the power that had death beguiled;
They thought of the grave and the vision wild;
That all in mystery was veiled,
And they shunned the twain in holy awe;—
The flower of the forest and Carelha'
Are both by the tuneful stranger won,
And a new existence is begun.
He kept from the bustle of Border war;
For he loved not the field of foray and scathe,
Nor the bow, nor the shield, nor the sword of death;
But he tuned his harp in the wild unseen,
And he reared his flocks on the mountain green.
Of the hart, and the hind, and the forest tree;
The first who attuned the pastoral reed
On the mountains of Ettrick, and braes of Tweed;
The first who did to the land impart
The shepherd's rich and peaceful art,
To bathe the fleece, to cherish the dam,
To milk the ewe and to wean the lamb;
And all the joys ever since so rife
In the shepherd's simple, romantic life.
More bliss, more joy, from him had birth
Than all the conquerors of the earth.
Until their children's sons they saw;
There Mary closed a life refined
To purity of soul and mind,
And at length was laid in old Lindeen,
In the very grave where she erst had been.
Five gallant sons upbore her bier,
And honoured her memory with a tear;
And her stone, though now full old and gray,
Is known by the hinds unto this day.
Old Hugo the harper was seen no more!
Some said he died as the morning rose;
But his body was lost ere the evening close.
He was not laid in old Lindeen;
For his grave or his burial never was seen.
Arise from the tower of Carelha'
Aslant the air, and hover a while
Above the spires of the hallowed pile,
Then sail away in a snow-white shroud,
And vanish afar in the eastern cloud.
By hands unseen in the greenwood glade.
Certes that in one night there grew
A little mound of an ashen hue,
And some remains of gravel lay
Mixed with the sward at the break of day;
But the hind past by with troubled air,
For he knew not what might be slumbering there;
And still above that mound there grows
Yearly a wondrous fairy rose.
For the elves of eve have been heard to sing
Around that grave with eldritch croon,
Till trembled the light of the waning moon;
And from that cairn, at midnight deep,
The shepherd has heard from the mountain steep
Arise such a mellowed holy strain,
As if the minstrel had woke again.
A lovely form that wont to glide
Round green Bowhill, at the fall of even,
So like an angel sent from heaven,
That all the land believed and said
Their Mary Lee was come from the dead;
For since that time no form so fair
Had ever moved in this earthly air:
And whenever that beauteous shade was seen
To visit the walks of the Forest green,
The joy of the land ran to excess,
For they knew that it boded them happiness.
Peace, love, and truth, for ever smiled
Around that genius of the wild.
For that saintlike form has vanished away!
I have watched her walks by the greenwood glade,
And the mound where the harper of old was laid;
I have watched the bower where the woodbine blows,
And the fairy ring, and the wondrous rose,
And all her haunts by Yarrow's shore,
But the heavenly form I can see no more!
She comes not now our land to bless,
Or to cherish the poor and the fatherless,
Who lift to heaven the tearful eye
Bewailing their loss—and well may I!
I little weened when I struck the string,
In fancy's wildest mood to sing,
That sad and low the strain should close,
'Mid real instead of fancied woes!
There is another Border tale resembling this, which would make an excellent subject for a poem of a different description. It likewise relates to the reanimation of a corpse; and happened no earlier than in the recollection of several persons yet living. Squire R---y of Burnlee fell deeply in love with the daughter of a worthy magistrate of an ancient Border town, so deeply indeed that he declared, and even swore, that he neither could nor would exist without her. This hasty and injudicious resolution was not, however, put fairly to the test; for, after a short but ardent courtship, she became his wife, and the man of course was happy beyond all possible description.
But, as the old song runs,
It happened that this lady did dee—”
The distance from Burnlee to the churchyard is not half a mile, but the road winds up by a steep and narrow path, and about midway there is an old thorn three, which throws its long, crabbed, unyielding branches across the road. The bearers inadvertently pressing the bier against one of these branches, it came back with a sudden spring, and threw the coffin from the poles, which, after nearly felling the unfortunate laird, was dashed to pieces in the path. The people gathered all round in great perplexity, but in a few seconds they betook them to their heels and fled. The corpse, having been thrown out, rolled down the steep in its dead-clothes, till some of them, laying hold of it, began to lay it decently out on the brae; when, all at once, it sat up among their hands, and fell a struggling to get its arms loose. This struck them with such horror that they could not stand it, but fled precipitately, the laird running as fast as any of them, and without his hat too, which the coffin had knocked off in its fall. Some ran this way, and some that; and when they looked back and saw the dead woman gushing blood at the nose, and tearing the dressings from her face with both hands, they ran still the faster. A smith, of the surname of Walker, was the first to turn the chase, which he did by cursing his flying compeers most manfully. “It was a domned sheame,” he said, “to see a hoonder men cheased by a dead woife, and hur never stworring off the beat nwother.”
To make a long tale short, the lady walked home on her own legs, wrapped as she was in her winding-sheet, and led by her affectionate and rejoiced husband on the one side, and by the parson on the other. She afterwards became a mother, and lived a number of years at Burnlee, though not perhaps so much beloved as she was during the first two or three months: at length she died again even more suddenly than she had done the first time. Every mean was used to bring about resuscitation in vain, and the lady was a second time laid in her bier, and borne away up the strait path to the churchyard. When the procession came to the old tree, the laird looked decently up, and said to the bearers, “I'll thank you to keep off that thorn.”
These lines, and all to the end, relate to the late Right Honourable Harriet, Duchess of Buccleuch and Queensberry, whose lamented death happened at the very time the first edition of this work was issuing from the press, and cast a gloom over a great proportion of the south of Scotland. Thousands then felt that their guardian angel was indeed departed. Among her latest requests to her noble husband, was one in favour of the humble author of these fairy lays; but that circumstance was not known to me till several years afterwards. It was not however forgotten by him to whom it was made, whose letter to me on that subject I keep as the most affecting thing I ever saw.
THE POETIC MIRROR.
The Gude Greye Katt.
That duallit in the touir of Blain;
And mony haif hearit of that gude katt,
That neuir shall heare agayn.
And ane brent abone hir bree;
Hir culoris war the merilit heuis
That dappil the krene berrye.
That man may neuir declaire,
For scho had that withyn hir ee
Quhich mortyl dochtna beare.
Of rych and fayre beautye;
Sumtymis ane maukyn cam therin,
Hytchyng rycht wistfullye.
And socht it sayre and lang,
They fande nocht but the gude greye katt
Sittyng thrummyng at hir sang;
Full stetlye ower the stene,
And streikit out hir braw hint-leg,
As nocht at all had bene.
Rayse up ane grefous stir,
For neuir ane katt in all the lande
Durst moop or melle wyth hir.
Their fearis greue se ryfe,
Theye snirtit and theye yollit throu frychte,
And rann for dethe and lyfe.
Beth cumlye, gude, and kynde;
But scho had gane to the landis of pece,
And left him sad behynde;
Of mayre than yerdlye grece,
Seuin bonnyer babyis neuir braithit ayre,
Or smylit in parentis fece.
He sayde with hevye mene;
“Quhat will cum of ye, my deire babyis,
Now quhan your moderis gene?
The pethe of ladyhoode,
To thynke as ladye ocht to thynke,
And feele as mayden sholde?
And maydenis modestye,
The want of hir that weil wase fit
For taske unmeite for me!”
That satt on the herthe stene,
“O hald yer tung, my deire maister,
Nor mak se sayre ane mene;
To winsum ladyhoode;
To thynke as ladyis ocht to thynke,
And feile as maydenis sholde.
From every seye of syn,
Fayre as the blumyng roz withoute,
And pure in herte withyn.”
Ane frychtenit man wase he;
But the sueite babyis war full faine,
And chicklit joifullye.
Rychte fondlye on hir knee;
“And hethe my pussye lernit to speike?
I troue scho lernit of me.”
And turnit hir haffet sleike,
And drewe hir bonnye bassenyt side
Againste the babyis cheike.
And he saide with spechis fayre,
“I haif a feste in hall to nychte,
Sueite pussye, be you there.”
That turnit his herte til stene;
“If you haif feste in hall to nychte,
I shall be there for ane.”
With rych and nobil store,
And there wase set the byschope of Blain,
With all his holy kore;
Of wytch and warlockrye,
And mony ane wyfe had byrnit to coome,
Or hangit on ane tre.
And made them joifully
Ryde on the reid-het gad of ern,
Ane plesaunt sycht to se.
Unpatiente to begyn,
But nathyng of the gude greye katt
Was funde the touir withyn;
Cledd in the sylken sheene,
Ane winsumer and bonnyer may
On yerde was neuir seene.
With courtlye modestye,
Quhill ilken bosome byrnit with lufe,
And waulit ilken ee.
Unlesse the Lairde of Blain,
For he had hearit that very voyce
From off his own herthe stene.
He barrit them to the jynne;
“Now in the grece of Heuin,” said he,
“Your excercyse begyn;
For my poor babyis soulis,
Until you trye that weirdlye wytch,
And rost hir on the colis.”
“This beauteous cumlye May,
It is meite I try hir all alone
To heire quhat scho will saye.”
None shall from this proceide,
Until I see that wycked wytch
Brynt til ane izel reide.”
Quhill all their hayris did creipe;
And aye he hoonit and he prayit,
Quhill all war faste asleipe;
And deidis of shyft and schame;
But all the tyme his faithful handis
Pressit the cumlye dame.
He kenit, in holye zele
He grepit for the merkis of hell,
Whilk he did ken ful weil.
And kyssit it ferventlye,
And prayit betweine, for och ane kynde
And lufyng preste was he!
Wide gaipen with affrychte,
For och that fayre and lillye hande
Had turned ane paw outrychte!
That breste of heuinlye charme
Had turnit till brusket of ane katt,
Ful hayrie and ful warme!
With een of glentyng flame,
And theye war on the byschope sett
Lyke poynter on his game.
To se quhat he mocht se;
Scho strak ane clawe in ilken lug,
And throu the rofe did flee.
Lyke schado throu the daye,
But the great byschopis fleschlye forme
Made all the rofe gif waye;
The serker crashit amayne,
And shredis and flenis of brokyn stenis
Fell to the grunde lyke rayne.
The nychte wase lyke ane daye,
As the greate byschope tuke his jante
Up throu the milkye-waye;
The hillis and skyis war riuen;
Och sicken cryis war neuir hearit
Atweine the yerde and heuin!
And flynging horredlye,
And than he prayit and sang ane saum,
For ane fearit wychte was he;
As the braide lyft he crossit,
Quhill sum saide that theye hearit them still,
And sum saide all wase loste.
Turnyng his flockis by nychte,
Or stealyng in ane gude haggyse
Before the mornyng lychte.
And sawe them bethe passe bye;
The katt scho skreuit up hir taile
As sayrlye pinchit to flye.
Though he wase sore in thrall,
Like katt that hethe ane jollye mouse
Gaun murryng throu the hall.
As on the nychte it fell,
The murecokis dancit ane seuinsum ryng
Arunde the hether bell;
The maukinis by the kaile,
And the otar dancit ane minowaye
As he gaed ouir the daile;
Alang the brumye knowe,
And the gude toop-hogg rase fra his layre
And ualtzit with the youe.
The Greye Kattis Sang.
I syng to you;
Murr, my lord byschope,
Bawlillilu!
Murr, my lord byschope, &c.
Chancit at his dore to be;
He spyit ane greate clypse of the mone
And ben the house ran he;
And bleue ful lang and sayre,
And rede the Belfaste Almanake,
But the clypse it wase not there.
And haf to madnesse driuen;
For he thochte he hearit ane drounyng man
Syching alangis the heuin.
Had watchit on Etnyis height,
To merk the rysing of the sonne,
And the blythsum mornyng lychte;
As on the se they fell;
And watch the fyir and the smoke,
Cum rummilyng up fra hell.
Upon his gladsum pethe,
And the braid mone hang in the west,
Her palenesse wase lyke dethe;
Quhan all the laife war gane,
It was lyke ane wee fadyng geme
In the wyde worild its lane.
And he turnit his ee awaye,
For they mindit him of the yerdlye greate,
In dethe or in decaye.
The fallyng teare to drie,
And he spyit ane thing of wonderous maike,
Atweine the yerde and skie;
Rychte wonderous to beholde,
And it bure ane forked thyng alang,
With swiftnesse manifolde:
His herte bete wondir sayre!
The sonne, the mone, and sternis war gaine,
He thochte of them ne mayre,
Quhan he behelde ane jollye preste
Cumyng swyggyng throu the ayre.
Atour the ausum hole,
And och! the drede that he wase in
Wase mayre than man colde thole:
Oh hald and dinna spaire;
Oh drap me in the yerde or se,
But dinna drap me there!”
And scho saide with lychtsum ayre,
“You kno heuin is ane blissit plece
And all the prestis gang there.”
Spaire nouther cleke nor clawe;
Is euir that lyke heuin abone,
In quhich am lyke to fa'?”
Abone the ausum den,
Till he fande the gryp rive slowlye out;
Sore was he quakyng then!
Into the hollowe nychte;
His goune was flappyng in the ayre,
Quhan he was out of sychte.
Till the croone it dyit awaye;
It wase lyke the stoune of ane great bom-be
Gaun soundyng throu the daye.
Quhan he went doune to hell,
But seckn an houre wase neuir seine,
Quhan the gude lorde byschope fell.
Up raschyng vilentlye,
And it tourackit awaye til heuin
Ane gloryous sychte to se;
Out to the rysing sonne,
And the estern syde was gildit goude,
And all the westlin dunne.
And he wist not quhat til say,
For he saw nochte of the gude greye katt;
But he saw ane ladye gay.
And hir ee wase lyke the deue,
And hir hayre wase lyke the threidis of goude
That runde her shoulderis fleue.
That scho tyit anethe hir knee,
And aye scho kemit hir yellow hayre,
And sang ful plesauntlye:
I'll do ne harme to thee,
For I am the gardian of the gude,
Let the wycked be ware of me.
Their number sune shall wane;
There are seuin flouris in fayre Scotland,
I'll pu them ane by ane;
Shall be the last thatis taene;
The Lairde of Blain hethe seuin dochteris,
But sune he shall haif nane.
Throu the fairy land that flouis,
I'll seike the bouiris of paradyce
For the bonnyest flouir that blouis,
That fallis on the hillis of heuin,
And the hues that luvely angelis weire
Shall to these maidis be giuen.
Their formis may be to se,
And I'll trie how pure the maydenis mynde
In this ill worild may be.”
But he walkis it all alane;
The Lairde of Blain had seuin dochteris,
But now he hethe not ane.
But they elyit all awaye;
He lost his babyis ane by ane
Atween the nychte and day.
Or quhat did him beseime,
But he walkit throu this weirye worild
Like ane thatis in a dreime.
Had slowlye cumit and gane,
He walkit throu the gude grene wode,
And he walkit all alane;
And the teire stude in his ee,
For he thocht of the ladye of his lufe,
And his lost familye:
And his trust in Heuin still,
For he hopit to meite them all agayne
Beyond the reiche of ill:
As he knelit downe to praye;
But he wase se muvit with tendirnesse
That ane worde he colde not say.
To se quhat he mocht se;
There he behelde seuin bonnye maydis
Cumyng tryppyng owre the le!
Nor euir agayne shall se;
Sic luvely formis of flesche and blude
On yerde can neuir be:
Wase lyke the risyng sonne;
The fayriste blumis in all the wode
Besyde their formis war dunne:
On ilken bosom thre,
And the brychtest flouiris the worild e'er saw
War noddyng owre the bre.
O cese, and syng ne mayre!
Gin ye wolde of that meityng tell,
Oh, I mocht reue it sayre!
Nor luvelye cheike be drie:
The laveroke wolde forget hir sang
And drap deide fra the skie;
And the lillye wolde chainge hir heue,
For the blude-drapis wolde fal fra the mone.
And reiden the mornyng deue.
Ful playnle ye will se,
That quhare there is ne syn nor schame
No sorroue there can be.
QUEEN HYNDE.
1. PART FIRST.
When he that sat on Albyn's throne,
Over his kindred Scots alone
Upheld a father's sway;
Unmix'd and unalloy'd they stood
With plodding Pict of Cimbrian brood,
Or sullen Saxon's pamper'd blood,
Their bane on future day.
Nations arose, and nations fell,
But still his sacred citadel
Of Grampian cliff and trackless dell
The Caledonian held:
Grim as the wolf that guards his young,
Above the dark defile he hung,
With targe and claymore forward flung;
The stoutest heart, the proudest tongue,
Of foeman there was quell'd.
The plumed chief, the plaided clan,
Mock'd at the might of mortal man;
Even those the world who overran
Were from that bourn expell'd.
Then stood the Scot unmoved and free,
Wall'd by his hills and sounding sea:
Child of the ocean and the wood,
The frith, the forest, gave him food;
His couch the heath on summer even,
His coverlet the cloud of heaven,
While from the winter wind and sleet
The bothy was a shelter meet.
His home was in the desert rude,
His range the mountain solitude;
The sward beneath the forest tree
His revel hall, his sanctuary;
His court of equity and right,
His tabernacle, was the height
The field of fame his death-bed stern,
His cemetery the lonely cairn.
When young Queen Hynde, with gentle sway,
Ruled o'er a people bold and free,
From vale of Clyde to Orcady.
The tale is old, but the event
Confirm'd by dreadful monument.
Her sire had eastern vales laid waste,
The Pict subdued, the Saxon chased,
And dying old and loved, resign'd
The sceptre to his lovely Hynde.
Each bard, and gray-hair'd minister,
When the old king, in accents mild,
Commended to their love his child.
In counsel tried, and bloody field;
For Scotland's right, by foes o'errun,
We pledged our lives—we fought and won;
Now every Scot can wander free
From hill to hill, from sea to sea.
Thanks to your worth—the throne is fast.
Now list my suit;—it is the last.
To fill my father's ancient throne;
Your virgin sovereign you behold—
I speak not of her beauteous mould,
I vouch her energy of mind;
Here pledge your honours still to be
To her what you have been to me.”
And, kneeling, kiss'd the maiden's hand;
Each gray-hair'd sire, with moisten'd eye,
Swore by his country's liberty.
And leaning forward, bent his head;
His silver locks waved o'er his cheek,
Like winter clouds on mountain bleak;
And like that mountain's hoary form,
All blench'd and withered by the storm,
Was every feature's grisly cast,
Pale, but majestic to the last.
“That by a queen the land is sway'd;
When woman rules without control,
Her generous but dependent soul
To worth and wisdom gives command—
And then 'tis man that rules the land.
Then all her cunning, all her wits,
Are on the stretch with knaves to league
And rule the king by court intrigue.
Trust me, 'tis truth to you I tell—
I have been tried, and know it well!—
A queen by men of wisdom rules,
A king by mistresses and fools.
Must wed the knight that suits her mind;
Her choice no interest let revoke;
Be it as free as bird on oak,
Or the gray eagle of the rock.
But suffer not, on any plea,
A lover to her privacy;
No breathings of ecstatic bliss,
No fond caress, or burning kiss,
May be allow'd, else all is done—
By coxcomb is the lady won,
And Albyn's ancient royal blood
Run to a weak and spurious brood.
Forbid it, God!—In time to be,
Should my embodied spirit see
A son of mine himself betake
To sloth while warriors toil and wake:
On such my soul shall never tend,
As guardian angel or as friend!
Let young Queen Hynde, in royal tent,
Hear chiefs debate on government;
Mark all their feats in bold tournay,
And list their love or warrior lay;
And thus, her keen and piercing sight
Can hardly fail to judge aright.
I go, but not resign my friends;
No home I'll seek within the sky:
My patriot soul shall hover nigh,
To watch your actions, mark your deeds
In battle-field, where glory leads;
And o'er the counsel group, reclined
Upon the eddy of the wind,
I'll list how truth your counsel brooks,
And read your spirits in your looks.
Daring from loyalty to swerve!
Though neither blood nor bone invest
The living flame within this breast,
That flame shall sear his palsied sight,
With shades of horror strew the night,
Load with disgust the light of day,
His motions cross, his path belay;
Each warden spirit's arm control,
And whisper vengeance to his soul,
Till down the miscreant shall be driven—
The hate of man, the scorn of heaven!
And thou shalt be my special care;
And oh! should power's temptations try,
Think of thy father's spirit nigh:
Be that thy stay on ruin's brink;
Nor tongue may frame, nor heart may think
How distant far such crime will spurn
The kindred minds that round thee burn.
But still, when danger or disgrace
Unseen approaches, I'll be nigh;
Therefore, my child, on dreams rely.
Then to thy spirit's eye unfurl'd,
I'll hold, in shadowy courses hurl'd,
The motions of the moving world.
Farewell—be calm; my time is nigh;
Would that the parting throe were by!”
The ruthless foe of human kind,
Whom he had met mid fire and storm,
And braved in every hideous form,
Now unresisting found his arm,
And stopp'd the tide that scarce was warm.
To gratify the ear of death;
Steady and dauntless was his look,
As one a bitter draught who took,
Or, for the sake of health to be,
Suffer'd a transient agony:
On that pale face, when turn'd to clay,
When lifeless on the couch he lay,
A bold defiance still was blent,
Uncancell'd, with each lineament.
The royal coronach was sung,
To sire beloved and sovereign true;
And young Queen Hynde holds the command
O'er Caledon's unconquer'd land.
Their emulation great and strong;
Before their queen in circle set.
When for deliberate counsel met,
Never was heard such manly sense,
Such high and moving eloquence;
Never did armed list present
Such bold and rapid tournament;
And when the festal days came on,
Such gallant splendour never shone
In royal halls of Caledon.
For every knight his song would sing,
Whether his voice to music's tone
Had note of harmony or none;
And, strange though seems the incident,
Those who sang worst were most intent.
That such the strife, when such the prize—
A flower in Albyn never shone
Like Hynde, the Queen of Caledon.
Proud Gaul of Ross, and lordly Mar,
Were first in rank and wide control,
And others shrunk before their scowl.
Young Allan Bane was brave and bold,
And Sutherland of manly mould;
And Donald Gorm, of lion eye,
Chief of the kindred tribes of Skye,
Was such a knight in heart and mien
As Skye again hath never seen.
Yet, after year and day was past,
It was not trow'd, from glances cast,
Who would be chosen king at last.
When more than earthly splendour beam'd
On Appin hills, that tower'd on high,
Like golden columns to the sky,
Bathed in the glories of the morn,
That, west in airy rivers borne,
Stream'd over all the woods of Lorn—
Queen Hynde upon the mountain leant;
She wist not how or why she went;
But there she sat, by old gray stone,
Upon the flowery sward alone.
The day-breeze play'd in eddies weak,
And waved the rock-rose to her cheek;
The little ewe-flower starr'd the lea,
The hare-bell nodded at her knee,
While all the sward in summer prime
Was woven with the moorland thyme.
Unthoughtful all of woes before;
With nature's beauties glow'd her mind;
She breathed a prayer for all mankind,
Pondering of nought but onward bliss,
And peace, and love, and happiness.
How short our bliss without alloy!
While thus she lay, with heart elate,
In nature's purest blissful state,
She heard a voice rise from the ground,
With hollow, soft, and moving sound;
Fix'd was her eye, and mute her tongue,
While thus some viewless being sung:—
Song.
“The black bull of Norway has broken his band—He's down through the links of fair Scotland;
And the flower of the isle shall be lost and won,
Ere ever he turn his horn from the sun.”
In breathless dumb astonishment;
No living thing she could espy,
Yet still a sound was murmur'd nigh!
It sunk into a mournful tone,
And flitted like a passing groan.
By some unearthly fetters bound;
For why she came so far astray,
Or why she did not haste away,
She nothing knew. The east grew dun,
A cloud came floating o'er the sun,
And down the hills of Appin roll'd
In many a dim and darksome fold;
The scene was mingled—shades of night
With dim, with pale, and dazzling light.
A boundless field of dazzling sheen;
For west the morning beam withdrew
To bask upon the shelvy blue,
And on its bosom went and came
In thousand shreds of shivery flame.
Came moving on a veil so swarth—
From earth to heaven one solid wave,
Like pall upon creation's grave—
As if the Lord of Nature furl'd
Up like a scroll the smouldering world.
And ween'd each breath would be her last;
For denser grew the vapour's coil,
And backward seem'd to whirl and boil;
At length stood fix'd, from earth to sky,
A wall of gloomy ebony;
Save when long wreaths of downy gray
Turn'd their pale bosoms to the day,
Like fillets of empyrean white
Circling the funeral brow of night.
Was sever'd by Omnipotence—
One part in light and life to bloom,
The other grope in murky gloom:
As all behind were left in wrath,
A gloomy wilderness of death,
And all before to joy for aye
In starry night and sunshine day.
The queen look'd on that hideous veil
With awe, but yet with such an eye
As virtue turns unto the sky;
Expecting, every glance she cast,
To see forth bursting from its breast
The hail, the thunder, or the flame,
Or something without form or name.
The cloud began to move amain;
Inward, like whirlpool of the ocean,
It roll'd with dark and troubled motion;
And sometimes, like that ocean's foam,
Waving on its unstable home,
The silvery verges tossing by
Were swallow'd in obscurity.
The gauzy linings met the light;
And far within its bosom grew
A human form of face she knew.
No earthly thought it did convey,
It was not form'd like face of clay,
But in the cloudy dome was seen
Like image of a thing had been—
As if on canvas heavenly fair
A reverend face was form'd of air,
On texture of celestial land,
And pencill'd by an angel's hand;
Yet every line was there approved,
And every feature once beloved.
Aloud the hoary vision spoke;
But yet no motion it address'd;
Lip unto lip was never press'd;
It moved no feature, tongue nor eye,
Yet this it utter'd solemnly:—
Look to thy honour, and look to thy throne!
The ravisher comes on his car of the wind;
The sea is before thee, the spoiler behind.
Queen of green Albyn, dare not to roam!
There's rapine approaching, and treason at home.
Trust not the sea-maid with laurel in hand;
Trust not the leopard, or woe to the land.
The falcon shall fail, and the oak of Loch-Orn,
The eagle of Mar, and the lion of Lorn;
But trust to the roe-buck with antler of gray,
In the halls of Temora, or woe to the day!”
But chilling terror was not o'er:
Just where the maiden's eye was set,
Where cloud, and land, and ocean met,
A bull came forth, of monstrous frame,
With wreathy mane and eyes of flame;
Slowly he paw'd the yielding ground,
Then stood and madly gazed around,
His white horns flickering in the light,
Like boreal streamers o'er the night.
On young Queen Hynde, the mountains shook
With bellowings of unearthly tone,
As wild and furious he came on.
She tried to fly—her sight grew dim,
A numbness seized on every limb,
And nought remain'd in such a place
Save meeting danger face to face;
For she had heard that maiden's eye
Had some commanding majesty,
At which, if bold and fearless cast,
All earthly things would stand aghast.
Other expedient there was none;
Mighty the motive! All alone
She turn'd, and with as dauntless look
As eye of beauty well might brook,
Beheld the monster as he came
Roaring and foaming on his aim.
And all at once, in raving mood,
Halted abash'd, and 'gan aloof
To tear the ground with horn and hoof,
Uttering such horrid sounds of wrath,
As hell had bellow'd from beneath.
The mountains caught the clamours loud,
And groan'd in echoes from the cloud.
And homage by creation paid,
High glow'd the beauties kindly given
As maiden's shield by favouring Heaven;
So strong the fence, that savage fierce
Was balk'd, and could not through it pierce.
But, mad at such a viewless toil,
He kneel'd, he grovell'd in the soil:
Shorten'd by fury, broke his roar,
Not in long bellow as before,
But with loud rending bursts of breath
He vomited forth smoke and wrath.
And why should youth discredit age?—
That maiden's form, when pure and free,
Had something of divinity;
That furious ban-dog changed his eye,
And fawn'd and whined as she drew nigh.
That elfin spear, or serpent's sting,
Or pestilence on mortal wing,
To her was harmless as the dew
That crocodile and lion knew
They would not, or they could not harm;
That even the thunderbolt of heaven,
Pour'd in resistless liquid levin,
Would turn aside before her eye,
Or part, and fleet unhurtful by;
Because she form'd, in nature's reign,
That link of the eternal chain
Which earth unto the heavens combined,
And angels join'd to human kind.
From worth this adage I received;
I love it, and in part believe't.
Trusting a power so fairly proved,
For o'er her memory stealing came
That old and wondrous apothegm;
And she had stood, save for the eye
Of virgin's only enemy.
Fierce Mar approach'd, with shield and spear,
To save his beauteous sovereign bent,
And claim the due acknowledgment:
Aloud his threat and clamour grew,
Daring the savage as he flew.
The chieftain with his threatening lance,
Away he rush'd in vengeance dire,
And met him with redoubled ire.
The chieftain bawl'd and braved amain
To cow the savage, but in vain;
Onward he drove with stayless shock:
The rested lance in splinters broke,
And down to earth the chief was borne,
Struggling to ward the ruthless horn;
But all in vain!—Queen Hynde beheld
Him gored and toss'd along the field;
She saw him swathed in bloody red,
And torfell'd on the monster's head.
She turn'd, and off in horror flew;
But soon all hopes of life resign'd
As the loud bellowings near'd behind.
Upon a rough and rocky steep,
That overhangs the restless deep,
She was o'erhied, and toss'd in air—
Loud were her shrieks of wild despair:
Oh for the covert of the grave!
No refuge!—none at hand to save!
Will ye not weep and rend your hair?
Ye who, in these o'erpolished times,
Can shed the tears o'er woeful rhymes,
O'er plot of novel sore repine,
And cry for hapless heroine—
Oh ye dear maids, of forms so fair,
That scarce the wandering western air
May kiss the breast so sweetly slim,
Or mould the drapery on the limb;
If in such breast a heart may be,
Sure you must weep and wail with me!
Bespeaks the comely void within;
But sure that vacancy is blent
With fuming, flaming sentiment!
Then can you read, ye maidens fair,
And neither weep nor rend your hair?
The beauteous Hynde of Caledon—
Toss'd up in air a hideous height,
On point of blood-stain'd horn to light;
And if to wail thou can'st delay,
Have thou a bard's anathema!
For life one effort still is due—
It is, to plunge with desperate leap
Into the far-resounding deep,
And in the pure and yielding wave
To seek a refuge or a grave.
Adown the air the virgin toil'd,
But in cold tremor crept her blood,
For far short of the yielding flood
Her fall descends with deathful blow
Sheer on the pointed rocks below.
The scene of ruth and misery?
Yes; thou shalt go, and thou shalt view
Such scene as artist never drew.
With spire, and tower, and turret tall;
And in that tower a chamber fair:
Is that a mortal triad there?
For sure such beauty, such array,
Such moveless eye of wild dismay,
Such attitude, was never given
To being underneath the heaven.
Yes, there are two most fair, I ween,
But she whom they support between,
In symmetry and form of face,
In comely yet majestic grace,
Statue, or vision she would seem
Chose from celestial cherubim!
Such scene shall never meet thy view!
See how the raven tresses flow,
And lace that mould of purest snow;
The night-robe from one shoulder flung,
In silken folds so careless hung;
The face half-turn'd, the eagle eye
Fix'd rayless on the morning sky;
White as the sea-mew's downy breast,
And that pure lip was ne'er outdone
By rose-leaf folding to the sun.
That look of wild sublimity,
As dawning memory wakes, the while
Soft fading to a virgin smile.
O modellist! thy toil renew—
Such scene shall never greet thy view.
And frith, and vale, and promont'ry;
From dark Cruachan pours the day,
The lattice drinks the golden ray;
And that fair form you there behold,
That statue of majestic mould,
Leaning two beauteous maids upon,
Is Hynde, the Queen of Caledon.
The leap was from a couch of down;
The rest, a dream for ever flown!
Nor lift that eye with gibing fleer;
For well you wot, deny who dares,
Such are the most of woman's cares;
Nay, if I durst, I would them deem
More trivial than a morning dream.
Have I not seen thy deep distress,
Thy tears for disregarded dress,
Thy flush of pride, thy wrath intense,
For slight and casual precedence?
And I have heard thy tongue confess
Most high offence and bitterness.
Yet sooth thou still art dear to me—
These very faults I love for thee;
Then why not all my freaks allow?
I have a few, and so hast thou.
The more the virgin ponder'd on,
The deeper on her heart it fell,
Her sire's last words remembering well:—
“When danger threatens, I'll be nigh;
Therefore, my child, on dreams rely.”
And she believed each incident
Was by her father's spirit sent,
To warn of treason or of blood,
Or danger all misunderstood.
And on her youthful spirits prey'd;
At length she left her royal pile,
To visit, and consult the while
Columba of the holy isle:
A seer and priest of God was he,
A saint of spotless purity;
And then held in such high regard,
That Scottish sovereign nothing dared,
Of war, religion, or of law,
Without consulting Columba.
Brisk was the breeze and bright the day;
Before the tide, before the gale,
The gilded barge, with silken sail,
Adown the narrow channel run,
Like meteor in the morning sun.
So swiftly swept the flying keel,
The woods and islands seem'd to wheel;
And distant peaks of freckly gray
Were winding to the north away.
And tried before her speed to fly;
But after toilsome travelling,
With beating breast and flapping wing,
Was forced to turn aside, outworn,
For shelter in the creeks of Lorn.
Well noted, as they sped away,
That sea-fowls flock'd from isle and steep,
To view that wonder of the deep;
And well they might, for never more
Such bark shall glide from Scotland's shore.
The queen and virgins all in white;
The prow was form'd in curious mould,
The top-mast stem of beaten gold;
The sails were white, the sails were blue,
And every dye the rainbow knew;
And then the pennons, red and pale,
So far were fluttering in the gale,
She was not like an earthly thing,
But some sweet meteor on the wing.
I may not say (and if I might,
Man never has beheld the sight),
That all were like pure angels driven
By living breeze in barge of heaven.
She met the ocean's mighty swell;
Yet bounded on in all her pride,
Breasting the billow's mountain side,
Or bearing with delirious sweep
From dizzy verge into the deep.
Had'st thou been there, there had been woe!
Distress of body and of mind,
And qualms of most discourteous kind.
But here, in days of yore, were seen
Young Hynde, the Caledonian queen,
With all her maids, enjoy the motion,
Blithe as the bird that skims the ocean.
Oh to have been the soaring gull,
Perch'd on the headland cliff of Mull,
There to have watch'd, with raptured eye,
That royal bark go bounding by,
Casting a tiny rainbow shade
O'er every hill the ocean made!
The barge is moor'd, the anchor cast;
That consecrated land of I,
The queen, presuming on her sway,
Went right ashore without delay.
Her sire that isle had gifted free,
And rear'd that sacred monast'ry;
The doctrine of the cross he heard,
Believed, and paid it high regard;
For he perceived that simple plan
A band 'twixt God and sinful man,
Befitting well his nature weak,
That would not loose, and could not break;
And with his child and kinsmen came,
And was baptized in Jesus' name.
Announced his queen and virgin train,
Saint Oran was that very time
Giving such picture of the crime
Of woman's love and woman's art,
Of woman's mind and woman's heart—
If thou dear maid, the same hadst heard,
Thy blissful views had all been marr'd;
For thou durst never more have been
In robe of lightsome texture seen,
Thy breast, soft-heaving with the sigh,
Arresting glance of vagrant eye:
Love's fatal and exhaustless quiver
Must have been shrouded up for ever.
The perfume—simper—look askance—
The ready blush—the ogling glance,
All, all o'erthrown, ne'er to recover,
Thy conquests and thy triumphs over,—
Oh breathe to heaven the grateful vow,
That good Saint Oran lives not now!
Around in holy wrath he stared:—
“What!” said the saint—“What! even here
Must these unrighteous pests appear?
Though even the rough surrounding sea
Could not protect our sanctuary;
Nor maiden modesty, nor pride,
Can keep them from where men reside;
I should have ween'd that, thus retired,
The frame of mind the place required,
The frame of holy penitence,
Had been enough to keep them hence.
No good intent has brought them here.
E'er since that day, deplored the most,
When Adam sinn'd, and man was lost,
By woman tempted to the deed,
Mischief to man has been their meed.
Rise, holy brethren, rise with me,
And drive them back into the sea!
Should they resist, do them no harm,
But bear them back by force of arm.”
Who to be first each nerve they strain;
Whether to save the holy isle
From woman's snare and witching wile,
Or once again to fold the charms
Of beauty in their idle arms,
I nothing wot; but all was vain,
For, in the chancel of the fane,
Columba rose before the band,
With crosier stretch'd in his right hand.—
“Hold, my loved brethren—is it best
Thus to expel a royal guest?
We not as woman her receive,
But Scotland's representative;
And meet it is that maids should be
Tending on virgin royalty.”
The stern Saint Oran said no more:
He down sat on his chair of stone,
Shook his gray head, and gave a groan.
Kneeling upon one bended knee,
In two long files—a lane between,
Where passed the maidens and their queen,
Up to the sacred altar stone,
Where good Columba stands alone.
Known by the name of wicked Wene;
A lovely thing, of slender make,
Who mischief wrought for mischief's sake;
And never was her heart so pleased
As when a man she vex'd or teazed.
By few at court she was approved,
And yet by all too well beloved;
So dark, so powerful was her eye,
Her mien so witching and so sly,
That every youth as she inclined,
Was mortified, reserved, or kind;
This day would curse her in disdain,
And next would sigh for wicked Wene.
The looks demure on either side,
Than all her spirits 'gan to play
With keen desire to work deray.
Whene'er a face she could espy
Of more than meet solemnity,
Then would she tramp his crumpled toes,
Or, with sharp fillip on the nose,
Make the poor brother start and stare,
With watery eyes and bristling hair.
And yet this wayward elf the while
Inflicted all with such a smile,
That every monk, for all his pain,
Look'd as he wish'd it done again.
With holy anger glow'd his look;
But, judging still the imp would cease,
He knit his brows, and held his peace.
Up to a huge dark man of God;
Her soft hand on his temple laid,
To feel how fair his pulses play'd;
Then by the beard his face she raised,
And on the astonished bedesman gazed
With such enchantment, such address,
Such sly, insidious wickedness,
That, spite of insult and amaze,
Softer and softer wax'd his gaze,
Till all his stupid face was blent
With smile of awkward languishment.
He cried—“Satan, avoid!—begone!
Hence!—all away! for, by the rood,
Ye're fiends in form of flesh and blood!”—
Columba beckoned; all was still.
Hynde knew the mover of the ill,
And, instant turning, looked for Wene:
“I told thee, girl, and tell again,
For once remember where thou art,
And be due reverence thy part.”
And humbly show'd to acquiesce;
But mischief on that lip did lie,
And sly dissemblage in the eye.
Scarce had her mistress ceased to speak,
When form'd the dimple on her cheek,
And her keen glance did well bewray
Who next should fall the jackal's prey.
Saint Oran, woe be to the time
She mark'd thy purity sublime!
Oh! never was her heart so fain—
'Twas a new fund for wicked Wene.
Address'd the seer and priest of I;
And told her latent fears at large,
Her aged father's dying charge,
And finally, with earnest mien,
Of the late vision she had seen;
And that for counsel she had come
Thus on a pilgrimage from home.
Though I have pondered night and day
On this strange vision—yet so toss'd
Hath been my mind, that much is lost,
And now I only can present
You with its startling lineament.”
Is sample fair of woman's truth!
Here she pretends to ask her lot
From dream, yet owns that dream forgot!
Out on ye all!—your whole intent
Is on some devilish purpose bent!”
Even Saint Columba was confounded
At such outrageous frowardness;
The real cause they did not guess.
Had slid up to Saint Oran's knee,
And ogled him with look so bland
That all his efforts could not stand;
Such language hung on every glance;
Such sweet provoking impudence.
That silent eloquence to sear,
But little ween'd the fairy's skill;
He tried what was impossible.
His flush of wrath, and glance unkind,
Were anodynes unto her mind.
Then she would look demure, and sigh,
And sink in graceful courtesy;
Press both her hands on her fair breast,
And look what could not be exprest:
When o'er his frame her glance would stray,
He wist not what to do or say.
No one perceived the elf's despight,
Nor good Saint Oran's awkward plight.
So quick the motion of her eye,
All things at once she seem'd to spy;
For Hynde, who loved her, wont to say,
For all her freaks by night and day,
Though mischief was her hourly meed,
She ne'er could catch her in the deed.
So instantly she wrought the harm,
Then, as by momentary charm,
Stood all composed, with simplest grace,
With look demure and thoughtful face,
As if unconscious of offence,
The statue of meek innocence!
Of Oran's wrath none saw the root,
The queen went on and all were mute.
To know what's nature, what reveal'd;
And that you may discern aright,
I'll tell you how I pass'd the night;
What feelings on my fancy crept,
And all my thoughts before I slept.”
Spare the recital if you may!”
Cried Oran, with distemper'd mien,
And stretch'd his hands forth to the queen:
“My liege, whate'er the train denotes,
Oh spare the feelings and the thoughts!
We know them well—too well foresee
Their tenor and their tendency.
Heavens! how we're bearded and belay'd;
Would that the dream itself were said!”
The rudeness of the man he loved;
Though all were shock'd at what he said,
None saw how the poor priest was bay'd.
O Wene! for many a wild uproar,
Much, much hast thou to answer for!
When something Wene had look'd or done
Enraged the saint to such excess,
He cried with desperate bitterness,
“Avoid thee, Satan!—off!—away!
Thou piece of demon-painted clay!
Thy arts are vain! thy efforts lost!”—
All look'd astounded, Wene the most,
So sad—so sweet—so innocent,
That all supposed the queen was meant.
Between the fathers strife arose,
And words were like to end in blows.
That you or I should calmly sit,
Listening to tale of which the theme
Is woman's thought and woman's dream?
Out on them all!”—And forth he strode,
Groaning as one beneath a load;
And muttering words they heard not well,
Of limbs of Satan, sin, and hell!
Straight to his little cell he wended,
Where loud th' impassioned prayer ascended;
Peace was restored, and Wene was left
Of every cue to ill bereft.
With deep regard and troubled mien;
And conscious many dreams were sent
By spirits kind and provident,
The more he thought and ponder'd o'er
That wondrous vision, still the more
He was confirm'd it did portend
Some evil wisdom might forfend;
And he resolved to journey straight
Home with the queen th' event to wait,
For well he knew the Christian cause
Rested on Scotland's throne and laws.
The hymn was sung, the mass was said,
And after gifts of value high,
The royal Hynde withdrew from I.
Columba went her guide to be,
In rule, in truth, and purity.
And ere they left the sacred isle,
Oran, with holy garments on,
Bestow'd on each his benison.
Yet all with half an eye could see
He deem'd it nought did signify;
He seem'd as if with heaven he strove,
And more in anger than in love.
When petulant and pesterous Wene
Kneel'd on the sand and clasp'd his knee,
And thus address'd her earnest plea:—
With thee a heavenly life to lead;
Here do I crave to sojourn still,
A nun, or abbess, which you will;
For much I long to taste with thee
A life of peace and purity.
Nay, think not me to drive away,
For here I am, and here I'll stay,
To teach my sex the right to scan,
And point the path of truth to man.”
His mouth and eyes distended wide;
It was not said, it was not spoke,
'Twas like a groan from prison broke,
With such a burst of rushing breath,
As if the pure and holy faith
Had, by that maiden's fond intent,
Been wholly by the roots uprent.
“The path of truth!—O God of heaven,
Be my indignant oath forgiven!
For, by thy vales of light I swear,
And all the saints that sojourn there,
If ever again a female eye,
That pole-star of iniquity,
Shed its dire influence through our fane,
In it no longer I remain.
Man's ruthless and eternal Foe,
And ask with which I would contend,
I'd drive thee hence, and take the fiend!
The devil man may hold at bay,
With book, and bead, and holy lay;
But from the snare of woman's wile,
Her breath, and sin-uplifted smile,
No power of man may 'scape that gin;
His foe is in the soul within.
In greenwood glade and mountain glen,
Rise weeds so fair to look upon,
Woe to the land of Caledon!
Its strength shall waste, its vitals burn,
And all its honours overturn.
Go, get thee from our coast away,
Thou floweret of a scorching day!
Thou art, if mien not thee belies,
A demon in an angel's guise.”
As from the strand the boat withdrew.
Lauchlan was he whom Wene address'd,
Whose temple her soft hand had press'd,
Whose beard she caught with flippant grace,
And smiled upon his sluggish face.
A burning sigh his bosom drew;
“Angels indeed!” said Lauchlan Dhu.
“Thou art a man of thoughts unmeet!
For that same sigh, and utterance too,
Thou shalt a grievous penance do.
Angels, forsooth!—O God, I pray,
Such blooming angels keep away!”
Look'd up to heaven, and sigh'd again.
Saint Oran's penance was severe;
He fasted, pray'd, and wept outright,
Slept on the cold stone all the night;
And then, as if for error gross,
He caused them bind him to the cross,
Unclothe his back, and, man by man,
To lash him till the red blood ran.
But then—or yet in after time;
No one could ever learn his crime;
Each keen inquiry proved in vain,
Though all supposed he dream'd of Wene.
Alas, what woes her mischief drew
On Oran and on Lauchlan Dhu!
Was not Saint Oran sore to blame
For so inflicting pains condign?
Oh think, if such a doom were thine!
Of thy day-thoughts I nothing know,
Nor of thy dreams—and were it so,
They would but speak thy guileless core,
And I should love thee still the more.
But ah! if I were scourged to be
For every time I dream of thee,
Full hardly would thy poet thrive;
Harsh is his song that's flay'd alive!
Then let us breathe the grateful vow,
That stern Saint Oran lives not now.
The tide was high, the wind was low;
And ere they won the Sound of Mull,
The beauteous group grew mute and dull.
Silent they lean'd against the prow,
And heard the gurgling waves below,
Playing so near with chuckling freak,
They almost ween'd it wet the cheek:
One single inch 'twixt them and death,
They wonder'd at their cordial faith!
This tedious toiling with the stream,
Old Ila Glas his harp-strings rung,
With hand elate, and puled and sung
A direful tale of woe and weir,
Of bold unearthly mountaineer;
A lay full tiresome, stale, and bare,
As most of northern ditties are:
I learn'd it from a bard of Mull,
Who deem'd it high and wonderful;
'Tis poor and vacant as the man;
I scorn to sing it though I can.
Though long I strove to pleasure thee,
That now I've changed my timid tone,
And sing to please myself alone;
And thou wilt read when, well I wot,
I care not whether you do or not.
Flow with the tide, change with the moon;
For what am I, or what art thou,
Or what the cloud and radiant bow,
Or what are waters, winds, and seas,
But elemental energies?
The sea must flow, the cloud descend,
The thunder burst, the rainbow bend,
Not when they would but when they can,
Fit emblems of the soul of man!
Then let me frolic while I may,
The sportive vagrant of a day;
Yield to the impulse of the time,
Be it a toy, or theme sublime;
Wing the thin air or starry sheen;
Sport with the child upon the green;
Dive to the sea-maid's coral dome,
Or fairy's visionary home;
Sail on the whirlwind or the storm,
Or trifle with the maiden's form;
Or raise up spirits of the hill,
But only if, and when I will.
Nature's unstaid, erratic child,
That glimmers o'er the forest fen,
Or twinkles in the darksome glen,
Can that be bound? can that be rein'd?
By cold ungenial rules restrain'd?
No!—leave it o'er its ample home,
The boundless wilderness, to roam;
To gleam, to tremble, and to die:
'Tis Nature's error, so am I.
Pity my faults, but do not blame!
Short my advantage, small my lore,
I have one only monitor,
Whose precepts, to an ardent brain,
Can better kindle than restrain.
Then leave to all his fancies wild,
Nature's own rude untutored child;
And should he forfeit that fond claim,
Pity his loss, but do not blame.
Where flowers are regular and profuse;
Come thou to dell and lonely lea,
And cull the mountain gems with me;
And sweeter blooms may be thine own,
By Nature's hand at random sown;
And sweeter strains may touch thy heart,
Than are producible by art.
The nightingale may give delight
A while, 'mid silence of the night,
But th' lark, lost in the heavens' blue,
Oh, her wild strain is ever new!
2. PART SECOND.
With Saint Columba she withdrew,
Who told her much that would befall;
For of the future much he knew.
The hawk, and maiden of the sea
(Of whom the hoary vision spoke),
To chiefs defined by heraldry.
Or who their sovereign would betray,
Or what the roebuck could imply,
With all his gifts he could not say.
For, though they knew that woe would come,
The seer could not divine from whence—
If from abroad, or rise at home.
Which oft she braves with courage high;
But to that ardent soul of hers,
Suspense is utter misery.
She could not revel in the ring;
She could not fast, she could not pray,
Nor yet disclose her languishing.
Upon her lattice she reclined,
Her eyes to mountain, sea, and shore,
Roving all restless as her mind;
With face of mystery and despair;
But when he came before her seat,
He told her, with a troubled air,
In thousand thousands there to dwell;
That the wild correi was their home,
Watch'd by a grisly sentinel:
In countless myriads on the hill;
Clad in their downy robes of green,
Rising and vanishing at will.
And saw the teller quake amain,
She look'd unto the man and smiled,
And bade him say his tale again.
But nothing could of that be made,
It was so unallied and odd.
Again she cast her eyes abroad,
And spied on green Barcaldine lea
A horseman posting furiouslye;
His steed, outspent, was clotted o'er,
His neck with foam, his sides with gore;
Though great his speed, at every strain
He seem'd to eye the verdant plain
With look most haggard and aghast,
As if for spot to breathe his last;
Yet still he strain'd, leaving behind
A stream of smoke upon the wind.
And cried aloud, as he drew nigh,
“Open your gates, and let me on—
Throw wide the gates of Beregon!
Clear—clear the way, and let me fly;
The messenger of wonder I!”
His breath was spent, his efforts o'er,
While the rude herald of dismay
Cursed him, and urged on foot his way.
He saw the queen at casement high,
And “Tidings!” bawl'd with tremulous cry.
From lattice to the door she ran;
Then back—then hurried down the stair,
To meet that vehement messenger;
But when his sounding step drew nigh,
She fled back to her turret high,
And, 'mid her maids, with feverish mind,
Listen'd the brown and breathless hind,
Whose habit and whose mien bespoke
A maniac from confinement broke;
But when his accents met the ear,
They show'd him fervent and sincere.
Pardon—I need not make demand.
Oh haste, my liege, and raise afar
The beacon and the flag of war;
Warn all your chiefs t'attend you here,
For high your peril is, and near.
Let this be done without delay;
And then I have a tale to say!”
The war-blast from the tower was blown;
The battle-whoop aloud began,
The henchmen rode, the pages ran,
The beacon which from Uock shone,
Was answered soon on Bede-na-boan,
And that from every mountain hoar,
From Melforvony to Ben-More,
Uttering afar, o'er frith and flood,
The voice of battle and of blood.
He proffer'd to the queen his tale;
Showing the while he had a sense
Of his own mighty consequence.
Pledging the dames in courteous way;
Thrice forth his seemly leg did show,
And sleek'd the brown hair down his brow;
Then thus, in hurried, earnest way,
Began his wondrous tale to say:—
Where Ardnamurchan bays the flood;
The northern breeze sang on the tree,
Wrinkling the dark and purple sea;
Yet not a cloudlet was in view,
For heaven was deepening into blue.
Just in the line where Cana lay,
Somewhat that did the ocean shroud;
It seem'd a living, moving cloud;
I turn'd mine eyes from off the sea,
Deeming it was some phantasy;
But still, when turning round again,
I saw that vision of the main.
Nay, once I thought white foam arose,
Rolling before unnumber'd prows.
The vision vanish'd from my eyes.
But whether it melted into air,
Or sunk beneath, or linger'd there,
I could not tell, for fall of night
Shaded the spectre fleet from sight;
And, though to fear not much inclined,
A kind of terror seized my mind.
All reasoning but increased my dread,
I rose at midnight from my bed,
And heard a din upon the ocean,
As if the world had been in motion;
Voices repress'd along the shores,
And lashes from a thousand oars.
I scarcely could my senses trust,
But deem'd some trouble sway'd my blood,
Or on enchanted ground I stood;
For all was calm at break of day,
Nor ship nor boat was in the bay.
Along the shore and heathy hill
No whisper moved, save from the rill;
Yet I could note the roaming deer
Turn from that mountain's side in fear;
No snowy flocks were straggling there,
The kid had left its wonted lair,
And the dull heifer paused to gaze
And ruminate in deep amaze.
I deem'd that something there did hide;
If so, I knew all was not well,
But how, or why, I could not tell.
So I resolved my life to stake,
For my fair queen and country's sake.
I launch'd my shallop in the bay;
I cross'd Loch-Sunart to the east,
And stray'd along the mountain's breast,
Jabbering and singing as I went,
Like idiot mean and indigent.
Resting his lance to make me stay;
A man he was of rugged mien,
Such arms or robes I ne'er had seen.
My hands were clasp'd my back behind,
My eyes wide open to the wind;
I did not once these hands divide,
But with my elbow turn'd aside
His lance, with wide, unalter'd stare,
As if such man had not been there.
Rough words he spoke in unknown tongue,
But still I jabber'd and I sung,
And onward pass'd, resolved to spy
The mystery out, though doom'd to die.
The warrior smiled, and laid him down;
I saunter'd, sung, and wander'd on.
Hid in the heath all side by side!
I made no motion of surprise,
But trudged, and sung, in idiot wise;
Then stretch'd me down amid the throng,
And pull'd the grass, and croon'd my song.
They seem'd amused, and smiled to see
My deep, unmoved stupidity.
My ears on all their accents hung,
But all was in an unknown tongue.
Where I could see all round and round,
And utter'd such a horrid yell,
That rocks and hills rang out the knell.
But never since I view'd the day,
Saw I such vision of dismay!
Thousands of warriors, grim and swarth,
Upraised their heads out of the earth;
Then softly, like a fairy scene,
They crept into the earth again;
Each brake was lined, above the strand,
With warriors of a foreign land.
And chastisement, and stern rebuke;
I bore them all full patiently,
And 'scaped to bring the word to thee.
O'er Morven hills I ran with speed,
I swam the Coran on my steed,
And I have ridden the Appin o'er
As never mortal rode before.
This is my tale, I vouch it true;
Much it imports, my liege, to you;
The foe is strong, the danger nigh:
My steed I've lost! and here am I.”
“A truth in nothing falsified,
For ample shall be thy reward,
In gifted lands and honours high,
For thou hast acted gallantly:
If false, then of thyself take heed,
The highest tree shall be thy meed.
To prove thee honest as thou seem'st,
Say all thou saw'st, and all thou deem'st.”
I've met the Roman shield to shield;
Of many a foe I've seen the face;
But such a rough and warlike race
As they who lie on Morven's shore,
In sooth, I ne'er beheld before.
As I have heard old minstrels say,
Who live by land, or live by sea,
As suits the time or casualty;
Who o'er the wave, on summer tide,
Along the wastes of ocean glide,
Or in the deep indented bay,
Like pellochs, dive to pick their prey;
And when the seasons 'gin to turn,
Amid the forests far sojourn,
Hunting the great deer to and fro,
Or burrowing, 'neath eternal snow,
Deep in the bowels of the ground,
With their unlovesome mates around
Howling the songs of other spheres,
And feasting on lank wolves and bears—
If such there are, a countless host
Of such now lies on Scotland's coast:
For all their robes are from the wood,
Or seal-skin of the northern flood;
Their beards are long, their arms unclean,
Their food the hateful haberdine.
Their eyes reverted constantly;
There still they look'd, as if aware
That all their hopes were anchor'd there;
And thence, I judge, from Barra's shore,
This night will bring as many more;
And that, before the break of day,
Their fleet may ride in Creran bay.
Some Scots have turn'd, and been their guide;
For not in all our western bound
Could such a landing-place be found;
Such solitude in bay and hill,
So deep, so lonely, and so still.
Came up the shore with lightsome air;
He sung, he whistled, and he ran;
I deem'd him one of Moidart's clan.
But as he pass'd, with luckless eye,
He saw the beach all trodden lie;
He mark'd the footsteps and stood still,
Look'd to the sea, and to the hill,
Still lingering on the tainted brink,
As if he wist not what to think.
Out of the brake, and to him went;
And with one stroke and little din
Clove the poor traveller to the chin,
Then hid him in the clustering brake.
Oh how my heart began to quake!
I thought of death, and 'gan to con
The prayer that would be soonest done.
I 'scaped them all though sore beset;
In artifice I ne'er was beat.
None else could thus have caution'd you,
Though I, who should not say it, do.”
His fool's attire, and was array'd
In belted plaid and broad claymore,
And robes which once a chieftain wore;
And came, with martial cap in hand,
Before the nobles of the land,
It would have joy'd your heart to've seen
His face of wisdom and his mien,
And aye he stretch'd with careful fold
His philabeg of tassell'd gold,
And tried with both hands to sleek down
His locks all weatherbeat and brown;
Then quite bewilder'd every sense,
With words of great magnificence.
The motley clown I do not blame,
Few are his paths that lead to fame;
One gain'd, let him that path pursue,
For great and glorious is the view.
Looking afar o'er vale and flood,
Amid a mighty citadel,
To force of man impregnable.
Seven towers it had of ample space,
Which still the stranger well may trace.
Much famed in legendary lore,
'Twas Selma in the days of yore;
But east and north the city lay,
On ridge and vale, from bay to bay,
And many a stately building shone
Within the ancient Beregon;
And many a fair and comely breast
Heaved in that jewel of the west;
While round it cliffs and walls arose
Impassable to friends and foes.
Beleaguer'd by their hills and seas;
They knew no force by land could won
Their old imperial Beregon;
But hostile navies were their dread,
To which a thousand bays were spread,
Round every peopled vale and hill,
Where they might ravage at their will;
And never news so fraught with fear
Had met the Caledonian's ear.
From Etive bay to Cona glen,
Led by old Connal of Lismore,
Appear'd the first on Creran shore.
Gillion of Lorn, at close of eve,
Cross'd over Connel's boisterous wave,
With seven score yeomen in his train,
Well baited on the battle-plain.
All these, with other armed men,
Knight, squire, and serf, and citizen,
Assembled were at evening fall,
Scarcely a thousand men in all.
But where the watch to keep o'er night;
Or where the danger would alight;
What foe was nigh, or what would be,
All was in dim uncertainty.
Wardens were placed the watch to keep,
By shores of Appin and of Lorn,
With pipe, and call, and bugle-horn,
In various notes to give alarms
To warriors resting on their arms.
The north was breathing brisk and chill;
The stars were sprinkled o'er the night,
With goggling and uncertain light,
As if eventful watch to keep,
Over these reavers of the deep.
What with the roar of Connel's stream;
The cormorant's awakening scream;
The constant whistling of the gale;
The dead-lights glimmering in the dale;
The shadowy mountains, bored and riven,
That seem'd to gap the eastern heaven;
It was by sages truly hight
An ominous and awful night!
And many an ear was open laid,
Deep list'ning, with suspended breath,
To hear the signal sound of death.
Each casual clang, and breathing boom,
And voice that wandered through the gloom,
Sent to the heart a thrilling knell.
And when the morrow's sentinel,
The cock, his midnight 'larum crew,
A thousand cheeks were changed of hue;
Ten thousand heads, stunn'd and amazed,
Were from green moss and pillow raised.
And silence hung o'er keep and bay;
Save that three watchers, on Loch-Linhe,
Above Glen Hendal's groves of pine—
Just in the midnight's deepest reign,
When Orion with his golden chain
Had measured from the moors of Tay
To keystone of the Milky Way,—
Heard a soft lay of sorrow given,
Somewhere from out the skirts of heaven,
Much like the funeral song of pain
Which minstrel pours o'er warrior slain;
And well the strains to sorrow true,
Of Ossian's airy harp they knew,
Which his rapt spirit from the sky,
Gave to the breeze that journey'd by;
As well they knew the omen drear
Boded of danger, death, and weir.
Dark was the shade o'er nature cast;
And o'er the eyes that watch had kept,
The short and dreamy slumber crept;
When all at once, from sentinel,
Burst on the air the bugle's swell:
And never did note from bugle blown
Congeal so many hearts to stone!
Of having all thou valued'st here
Placed in a frail and feeble bark,
Exposed upon the ocean dark,
And when thy spirit yearn'd the most,
The word arrived that all was lost;
Then may'st thou guess the pains that stole
Cold on the Caledonian's soul.
No answer came, save from the rock,
For all sat list'ning in suspense,
And doubting every mortal sense;
But soon repeated was the roar,
Longer and louder than before.
Burst over Scotland round and round;
Away, away, by mountain hoar,
By moated peel, by isle, and shore,
Far eastward to the break of morn,
And o'er the thousand glens of Lorn:
Slow down the links of Spey it flew,
On Lomond waked the slumbering mew,
Till down Cantire, with rolling sweep,
It died along the southern deep.
The household dog rose from his lair,
Turned up his snout, and howl'd amain;
The fox and eagle join'd the strain;
The capercailzie scorn'd to flee,
But gallow'd on the forest tree;
The hill-wolf turn'd him to the wind,
And lick'd his bloody flew, and whined.
How shook the foemen at the noise!
They deem'd it was the land of voice.
By forest, frith, and shaking fen,
Panting and hurrying through the night.
And aye as from the mountain's head,
Beside the bealfire blazing red,
The watcher's warning note was blown,
Faster they strode, and posted on.
Yet all those lines afar and near
Straight inward to one goal did steer,
As to the lake the streamlets run,
Or rays point to the morning sun;
Or like the lines of silvery foam
Around the ocean's awful tomb,
Where grim Lofodden's thirsty cave
Swallows adown the living wave;
Around, around the whirlpool's brink,
To that they point, and run, and sink.
So pour'd the warriors of the land,
Around their queen and throne to stand;
Too late they came! ere rose the sun,
The bloody fight was lost and won.
Rush'd to the shore the men of Lorn;
And saw, as to the strand they press'd,
Upon the ocean's groaning breast,
As if the forest of Lismore
Came struggling on to Appin's shore.
So far that moving wood was spread,
The Sound so wholly covered,
That all along its level sheen
No image of a star was seen:
Such fleet no Scot had ever hail'd,
Nor e'er on Albyn's seas had sail'd.
Loaded and lipping with the flood,
Till every keel refused the oar,
And, stranded, lean'd on Appin shore:
Each warrior there had pledged his faith,
To win a home for life or death.
Then plunged the warriors in the tide;—
“Now!” cried old Connal, in a tone
Of ecstasy—“on warriors, on!”—
Bursts with the thunder on the earth,
So rush'd on death our warriors brave,
With shout that deaden'd every wave.
The plunge of horses and the neigh,
The broken and uncertain bay
Where floundering warriors fought and fell;
The utter darkness, and the knell
Of battle still that louder grew,
The flashes from the swords that flew,
Form'd altogether such a scene
As warriors scarce shall view again!
When every sword to sword was set,
You would have ween'd some meteor's ray,
Or curve of flame, hung o'er the bay;
So flew the fire from weapons keen,
While all was noise and rage between,
But nothing save that fire was seen.
The coast was firm, the beach the same;
But where the galleys lay, they knew
Abrupt and deep at once it grew.
Into the wave they rode amain,
The foe withstood them, but in vain;
They drove them backward in the strife,
To plunge amid their ships for life.
But too intrepid in their wrath,
And too intent on foemen's death,
Over the beach, into the deep,
They rush'd like flock of weetless sheep,
That headlong plunge, with flurried mind,
While dogs and shepherds whoop behind;
Or like the cumbrous herd that goes,
Of panting, thirsting buffaloes,
From deep Missouri's wave to drink,
Fast press they to the stayless brink,
Pushing the foremost from the shore,
Till thousands sink to rise no more:
So plunged our yeomen over head,
Till scarce a remnant turned and fled,
While rocked the galleys to and fro,
With struggling, parting life below.
A breach was made in Scotia's line;
The foe in thousands gain'd the strand,
And stretch'd in files to either hand,
So that the footmen were beset,
Who still the foe had backward beat:
For when they first met in the sea,
They scarcely fought unto the knee:
Now, all the waving crescent line,
Toil'd to the breasts in smoking brine,
Which round them thick and clammy grew,
A waveless tide of crimson hue;
But still they fought, though coil'd in gore,
With foes behind and foes before.
No son of Albyn held at ought
His life, or harbour'd once a thought
That on his coast might step a foe,
Who first not o'er his breast should go.
Amid the morning's murky hue,
Each warrior fought for country's sake,
As if his all had been at stake;
As if the safety of the land
Lay in the force of his right hand.
No groan of hero's death could tell,
As 'mid the thickening wave he fell;
Warriors on shivering warriors stood,
Choked in that tide of briny blood,
Look'd over Cana's cliffs sublime,
Such piles of blench'd and mangled dead!
The tide, receding, left a stain
Of crimson ever to remain,
(For since that day no tempest's shock
Can bleach the colour from the rock),
And left, in woeful guise the while,
Troops of pale warriors, rank and file,
Stretch'd on the strand, in lines uneven,
With their cold eye-balls fixed on heaven;
Their bodies swathed in bloody foam,
Their heads turned to their native home.
Had marks of gloom in his dead face,
As still for life and force he gasp'd,
And still for fight his sword was grasp'd.
Each visage seemed to interchange
With others' grin of stern revenge;
But nigher view'd, it wore an air
Of gloom, of sorrow, and despair;
As the last feelings of the heart,
Had been a pang of grief to part
From Caledon when needed most,
And that his powerful aid was lost.
Had spent the latter hours in prayer,
E'er since the time the bugle rung,
And many a holy hymn they sung.
They never knew till break of day,
That Scotia's host had waned away;
They knew of battle on the coast,
But little ween'd that all was lost.
And when the morning's purple beam
On Beregon began to gleam,
Oh, what a scene for sovereign's eye
Was open'd slow and gradually!
The bay all fringed with glistening gore;
The human wreck along the shore;
A thousand masts from bark and barge,
Pointing to the horizon's verge;
For all around the Keila bay
The fleet was moor'd, and leaning lay;
And dreadful hosts of warriors grim
The plains beyond the gate bedim;
All crowding, gathering, bearing on
To hapless, hopeless Beregon.
With handful of brave men outworn,
Borne, inch by inch, back from the strand,
Now took their last and latest stand
Within the porch, with full intent
To fall, or entrance there prevent.
But what astounded Hynde the most,
Was the broad banner of the foe
High streaming on the morning's brow;
For on it flash'd, in dreadful wise,
A sable bull of monstrous size;
His horns, his colour, and his frame,
His furious mood, the very same
As that, remember'd still with awe,
Which in her hideous dream she saw.
That vision's close when she thought on,
Her heart grew cold, and turn'd to stone!
To her of future things by Heaven;
But yet so shadowy and so dim,
On reason's surf it seem'd to swim,
And all the struggling of the mind
Its form and substance could not find.
But plain it was to every sense,
That some sublime intelligence,
Beyond the power of mind to scan,
Existed between God and man.
Her father's words again recurr'd:
And ah! the thought that there could be
A thing of immortality—
A spirit that had pass'd away,
Of one in dust and death that lay—
Still by her side, to smile, or frown,
Converse, and mingle with her own,
Was one so deeply ponder'd on
That reason waver'd on her throne.
Which so perplex'd the youthful dame,
That all her mind's exertion fled,
A stupor on her brain was shed.
Her royal city of command,
The great emporium of the land,
She saw exposed to foemen's ire,
To sword, to ravage, and to fire.
Her nobles gone to fetch supply;
One leader wounded mortally;
The other brave, but hard beset;
Herself, with holy anchoret,
Surrounded by a ruthless foe;—
Alas! what could the virgin do?
No human stay or succour near,
She look'd to heaven, and dropt a tear.
“Suffer your servant, thus array'd,
Forth to the foe in peace to fare,
And learn from whence and who they are;
Their purpose, and their dire intent,
And why on war with maiden bent.
We haply thus may stay the war,
Till Lennox come, and rapid Mar:
I'll wend unaided and alone,
For every tongue to me is known.”—
The queen approved the wise appeal,
And lauded high his honest zeal.
Bearing a bough of holly green;
The marshall'd foe his journey sped,
And to their king the seer was led.
Of mighty frame and lion eye,
With something generous in his face,
A shade of noble courteousness,
Mix'd with a stern and jealous part,
Th' effect of caution, not of heart;
And by him stood a prince most fair,
Haco, his sister's son and heir.
Nor bowed he head nor lifted hood;
Erect he stood with tranquil grace,
Looking the monarch in the face,
Loth to avale, if it might be,
One jot of Scotland's dignity;
And still more loth to bring the blame
Of cringing on the Christian name:
Serene he stood, like one prepared
To answer, rather than be heard.
But momently that glance withdrew,
For well his eye had learn'd to trace
The human soul from human face.
But such a face, and such an eye,
Of tranquil equanimity,
He had not view'd in all his reign
O'er Scania's stormy, wild domain,
'Mong all the dark and stern compeers
Of Odin's rueful worshippers.
With cowled head and frock of gray,
Approachest on unbending knee
The face of sovereign majesty?”
What rank he claim'd, or what his name,
Else I had render'd honours due,
For to th' awards of Heaven I bow;
And well I know, the mighty hand,
That rules the ocean and the land,
O'er mankind his peculiar care,
Places the sovereign powers that are;
If such thou art, I'll honours pay;
But first thy name and lineage say,
That thus thou comest in armour sheen,
Against a young and virgin queen.”
Eric of Norway is my name:
My lineage is supreme and high,
Of Odin's race that rules the sky;
All Scandinavia owns my reign,
From Finmark to the northern main.
My errand is, I frankly own,
To win your queen, and wear your crown;
That all the northern world may be
One huge, resistless monarchy.
If young Queen Hynde, of fair renown,
Will yield to me herself and crown,
Our flag of war shall soon be furl'd;
I'll make her mistress of the world:
If not, to me it seems as nought,
I'll take her, and her land to boot.
I and my warriors value less
Your forces than one bitter mess;
I'll crush them like a moth, and must
Lay ancient Beregon in dust;
My soldiers' prey it needs must be,
Though I regret it grievously.
My hand, my love, my crown to wear;
And would she save her land from scathe,
Her warriors and her chiefs from death,
Her maids from brunt of rude desire,
Her capital from sword and fire,
Let her be sure her choice to make
Of that perforce she needs must take.
Eric of Norway is not wont
Of deeds he cannot do to vaunt.”
Such wooer comes not every day,
So frank to ask, and free to give,
So downright, and so positive;
So brief a courtship ne'er was known
Within the bounds of Caledon.
How it may end I little wot,
But the beginning has been hot;
And hence I pray that God may keep
Such northern wooers north the deep.
I not dislike your policy;
For should your high designs succeed,
The holy faith it needs must spread.
As ghostly counsellor, and guide,
And messenger of Heaven beside,
I may not, and I will not, cease
To cultivate eternal peace.
But should—as 'tis my firm belief,
Her troth be pledged to Scottish chief,
What then remains?—She can't revoke;
A sovereign's word may not be broke.”
“The sword be judge 'twixt him and me.”—
This said he in so stern a tone,
The saint stood mute, reply was none.
“Whoe'er thou art,” the king rejoin'd,
“As vicar of the royal Hynde,
I thee respect, and make appeal
If I not fair and frankly deal.
My sovereignty I lay aside,
From subject wight to win my bride;
If vanquish'd I request no more,
I yield her to the conquerer;
Better one man than thousands die:
Thou hast my answer, homeward hie.
If not ere noon assent returns,
You yield perforce, your city burns;
I'll leave nor pile nor standing stone
In all your boasted Beregon.”
One other word and then no more:
What if my queen have pledged her troth,
By royal word or solemn oath,
To sundry chiefs, in their degrees
Bound to particular services;
And he that most avails the land,
To share her throne, and win her hand?—
I pledge no word that this I know,
But, sooth, I deem and judge it so.”
“Bring one, bring two upon your side;
Princes or peasants let them be—
Bring ten—it is the same to me!
Men to your men I will produce,
If Hynde from 'mong the victors choose.”
A noble foe or friend we have:
Forthwith before my queen I'll lay
Your gallant suit, for yea or nay.”
In palace of old Beregon.
Sore they demurred, yet it did seem
A respite in a great extreme—
A respite from a deadening blow
By an o'erpowering reckless foe.
Proud Gaul of Ross, and lordly Mar,
And Donald Gorm, were distant far;
For Sutherland they look'd in vain
From verges of the northern main;
Lochorn was nigh, and Allan Bane,
Lochaber's fair and goodly thane,
But all uncertain was their power:
Argyle was look'd for every hour,
And when he came to aid the war,
They knew that neither he, nor Mar,
Nor any Scottish chief, would bear
King Eric's brag in deeds of weir.
They ween'd that warriors there were none
Could match the chiefs of Caledon;
Yet such a stake as queen and crown
On such a die was never known.
And wist not how or what to do—
While fears were high and feelings strong,
While words were few and pauses long—
Queen Hynde, from off her royal seat,
Thus spoke in words and mood elate:—
Your kind concern and fears for me;
No more your risk, no more your stake,
Than Albyn chooses that to make.
I'm a mere woman—and my crown,
With your support, is great, I own;
Without it, 'tis but sordid dust—
Let Eric take us, if he must!
Though both are won, and I constrain'd,
The soul of Albyn is not chain'd;
By hard constraint whate'er I do,
Be to your independence true.
A queen, a trifle, or a jest;
I rule because you will it so,
No more can mighty Eric do.
I take his offer—three to three
His claim shall straight decided be;
From out the number that subdues,
My husband and my lord I choose.
That chosen chiefs of Caledon
Can e'er to barbarous foemen yield,
Or fainting quit the combat field,
Then let King Eric take his all—
His queen and kingdom nominal!
And baulk a proud and powerful foe,
Our wealth and crown ere falls the night
Must yield to his resistless might.
I take his offer without dread;
Be this proviso only made,
That, as a queen and crown may go
From nation by a single blow,
Whoever wins, on yonder plain
In seven days thence shall fight again:
That day shall all decisive be—
The victor's gain, my crown and me.
But in the interim, I shall claim,
In whose soever power I am,
Such honours, deference, and esteem,
As may a virgin queen beseem.”
For why, no better meed was nigh.
Columba and old Connal went
Forth to King Eric's royal tent,
Which now a wonder rose to view,
Spangled with furs of every hue.
The clause was joyfully approved,
For Eric blood and battery loved.
The day was set, the hour, the field,
The brief agreement sign'd and seal'd,
And all the Norse to music's tone
Enter'd the gates of Beregon.
Friendly they were, and madly gay,
And, sooth, such revel and deray,
Such wassailing and noiance vast,
Had not been seen for ages past.
The maids of Beregon were pleased,
For they were flatter'd, woo'd, and teazed;
And well 'tis known that woman's mind
Is still to noise and stir inclined;
She would be mark'd, and woo'd withal,
Rather to ill than not at all.
Why darts that frown my page along?
If I from courtesy have swerved,
I may be blamed, and may deserve't;
It may not, shall not, be by thee.
Or sing, deluded flowers, of you?
Of seven fair sisters in a bower,
Each lovelier than the opening flower;
Chaste as the snow of winter storms,
Or stream that bathed their lovely forms;
And they were pure as they were fair—
So deem'd we all—and so they were.
The spoilers came—their toils were few!
How can I sing of that I rue?
And still the memory gives me pain!
Nor can I deem that beauty's glow,
The liquid eye, and radiant brow,
The smile that, like the morning dew,
Sheds gladness on the gazer's view—
The graceful form, the gliding tread,
Too light to bruise the daisy's head—
The downy locks, with roses twined,
Or wanton waving in the wind—
The mantling blush so sweetly spread,
Changing the pale rose to the red—
All but a gloss in kindness given
To woman's youth by pitying Heaven
For glories lost by primal sin,
To veil unsanctitude within!
To darkness distant and condign!
If broods the soul on such alloy,
Then where is mine and nature's joy?
Still let me love thee as thou art,
Though passions rankle at thy heart;
Though chroniclers point thee for ill,
I'll ween thee pure and gentle still.
I'll say, when thousand faults combine,
My sex has dross as well as thine;
And in my last and utmost need,
I'll fly to Calvin's sweeping creed,
And say of crimes of deepest hue,
They were predestined thee to do
Ere thou wast born: though thine the ill,
What is our lot we must fulfil!
Or fly defeated from the field,
I'll quit this jointered age and thee—
This age of bond and bankruptcy—
With all its sordid thirst of gold,
And conjure up the times of old;
Raising from ancient days a queen,
And maids that were, or might have been,
That I may mould them as I will,
And love thee, froward trifler, still.
Only—though light I hold thy jeer—
None of thy pruding let me hear!
I know thee well—too well to feign,
And have my way, as thou hast thine.
If bards and maids must disagree,
Woe to the fair!—and woe to me!
In beauteous Mary's early day;
Of charms that could all hearts command;
Of maiden borne to fairy land;
Of worlds of love and virgins bright;
Of pilgrims to the land of light.
And I have sung to those who know
Of maiden's guilt and failings too;
And all in love to paint to thee
The charms of perfect purity.
Of generous soul and courtly mien;
And I've upraised a wayward elf
With faults and foibles like thyself;
And these as women thou shalt see,
More as they are than they should be.
Then wrangle not with one whose skill
Is short and laggard to his will;
Who yet can hope, and brow the heaven,
Of God and man to be forgiven
For every strain he dared essay,
For every line of every lay,
That would to purity impart
One stain, or wound the virtuous heart.
To gallow, in old English, is to cow, terrify: but in Scotch it is to make a loud, broken, or discordant noise; and in this sense it is always used here. Gallow and gollow are synonymous, and peculiar to various districts.
3. PART THIRD.
O'er these wild valleys west away,
Where first, by many a trackless strand,
The Caledonian held command;
Where ancient Lorn, from northern shores
Of Clyde to where Glen-Connel roars,
Presents in frowning majesty
Her thousand headlands to the sea:
Oh, traveller! whomsoe'er thou art,
Turn not aside, with timid heart,
At Connel's tide, but journey on
To the old site of Beregon;
I pledge my word, whether thou lovest
The poet's tale, or disapprovest,
So short, so easy is the way,
The scene shall well thy pains repay.
There shalt thou view, on rock sublime,
The ruins gray of early time,
Where frowning o'er the foamy flood,
The mighty halls of Selma stood;
And mark a valley stretching wide,
Inwall'd by cliffs on either side,
By curving shore, where billows broke,
And triple wall from rock to rock:
The ancient Beregonium lay.
Of Scot that warms not at thy name?
Or where the bard, of northern clime,
That loves not songs of Selma's time?
Yes, while so many legends tell,
Of deeds and woes that there befell,
These ruins shall be dear to fame,
And brook the loved, the sacred name.
On cliff, and shelve, which breakers lave:
On stately towers and ruins gray,
On moat, on island, glen, and bay;
On cataract and shaggy mound,
On mighty mountains far around
Jura's fair bosom, form'd and full;
The dark and shapeless groups of Mull;
Others far north, in haze that sink,
Proud Nevis, on Lochaber's brink,
And blue Cruachan, bold and riven,
In everlasting coil with heaven:—
View all the scene, and view it well,
Consult thy memory, and tell
If on the earth exists the same,
Or one so well deserves the name.
That, saving from the northern bound,
Where stretch'd the suburbs to the muir,
The city stood from foes secure.
North on Bornean height was placed
King Eric's camp, o'er heathery waste;
And on Barvulen ridge behind,
Rock'd his pavilion to the wind,
Where royal banners, floating high
Like meteors, stream'd along the sky.
And converse held with Scotland's queen;
And the north tower, of strong defence,
Was given him for his residence.
There over-night he would not stay,
But there he sojourn'd day by day;
For, sooth to say, as well he might,
King Eric was in woeful plight;
For ne'er was heart of rosy maid,
Nor amorous youth, nor dotard, laid
So wholly under love's arrest,
As was King Eric's noble breast.
His hourly thought, his nightly dream;
And no discourse could chance to be
Of war, or peace, or policy,
In which, with fondness archly seen,
He introduced not Albyn's queen.
It was a theme beloved so well,
He long'd and loved on it to dwell.
She shunn'd, as not to give offence;
She had no thought, no pride, no aim,
But what her country's rights became;
And in the converse them between,
Such majesty was in her mien,
Such dignity with sweetness mix'd,
The soul of Eric was transfix'd:
From former, ruder joys estranged,
His very nature seem'd exchanged.
Prince Haco, mark'd the growing flame,
And wild impatience fired his mind,
To see that fair, that wondrous Hynde,
That thus could raise in warrior's core,
Feelings unknown, unfelt before.
Oft watch'd he round the tower alone,
But word or intercourse was none,
Till, feigning tale of import high,
He gain'd admittance artfully.
An hour with him to spend alone,
Just as the prince was introduced
As messenger of secret trust.
That frolicsome and restless Wene,
In all the royal robes of state
Array'd, on throne of ivory sate,
Aping a queen with such a face,
Such majesty, and proud grimace,
That all the noble maids around
With laughter sunk upon the ground.
One personated haughty Mar,
One Norway's boist'rous brand of war,
One Allan Bane, one Coulan Brande,
And one the Lord of Sutherland;
And each address'd the suit to Wene
In wooer terms, as Scotland's queen.
Turn'd up her nose, and tiny chin;
Her scarf of tissued gold flung by,
And raised her shapely arm on high,
Saying, in act, most gracefully,
“Have done, good friend! I'll none of thee.”
Another she apart would eye,
With piercing glance, or ogle sly;
Another flatter—then again
Turn to King Eric of the main;
And all the patriot queen display,
In dignified and generous way.
And all were wrapt in wild delight,
A gentle rap was at the door;
“Come in,” said Wene; and on the floor
A bowing page these words address'd,
“A messenger in speechless haste
From royal Eric craves thine ear.”
“'Tis well,” said Wene; “let him appear
Before our throne.” These words she said
So like the queen, the page obey'd.
Each maid look'd to the throne on high
With dimpling cheek and pregnant eye,
And scarce from laughter could refrain
At the effrontery of Wene;
But dreading sore that such a jest
Would lead to scorn and wrath at least
To reason, or expostulate;
For, momently, in royal hall,
Prince Haco bow'd amid them all.
His courtly form so tall and fair,
His flowing curls of flaxen hair,
His amorous look, and princely gear,
Soon made him general favourite there.
“Flower of the world, and Albyn's pride,
For this intrusion on your court:
I tidings bring of strange report;
Haco's my name, King Eric's heir,
My message suits your private ear.”
Wene pointed with her queenly thumb
Unto the door—then, in a tone
Soft yet majestic, cried, “Begone,
We wish with him to be alone;
Shortly your counsels we may crave;
To Scotland's weal we are the slave.”
Forth stepp'd the dames with curtsey low;
To each the prince return'd a bow;
But as the hindmost disappear'd,
A tittering sound of mirth he heard,
And in his brilliant eye was blent
Shame, anger, and astonishment.
To you they mean no scoff or jeer;
'Tis at their mistress and their queen,
And she must bear't,” said wicked Wene.
“Prince, when misfortune's at the door,
It looses tongues were mute before.
They jeer that thus their queen should be
In hall alone with prince like thee;
Nor is it meet—but I must bow
To things unfitting virgin now.”
The queen will turn on me the jeer,
When she shall hear, as now she must,
My message of important trust.
Forgive thy servant, I intreat,
'Tis love that brings me to thy feet;
To see thy face, thy words to hear,
Was the intent that brought me here.”
Such as from eye was never thrown—
“Love dar'st thou name to Albyn's queen,
Whose face before thou hast not seen?
Such theme we list not to discuss;
We must not yet be toy'd with thus.”
And glowing heart of moulded flame;
Thou shalt not need one word to check,
Nor hear aught but with due respect;
I've set my head upon a die,
To pay this homage to thine eye;
For of thy form of matchless grace,
Thy cherub eye, and lovely face,
So much I heard, that heavenly bliss
Seem'd less to me than hour like this;
But all was short that I heard told,
To beauty that I now behold.”
That Wene had beauty, archness, wit;
No young man on her face could look
Who felt not pang he ill could brook;
With something similar to love;
And when she tried her witching skill,
Her eye with certainty could kill.
Now, in the royal robes array'd,
With gold and jewels overlaid,
She seem'd a being of romance,
A thing of perfect elegance;
And Haco, trembling, scarcely trow'd
Before an earthly maid he bow'd—
Such dignity, in mien and eye,
A man beholds in majesty!
From common gaze remote to shine!
And long be nursed thy speech refined
From scrutiny of vulgar mind!
That thing, in robes of state attired,
The closer seen, the less admired,
Kept at a distance, still may draw
The homage of respect and awe:
Therefore most humbly do I sue,
In name of rank and reverence due,
Subordination, manners prim,
And all that keeps a land in trim,
To keep thy sphere, whate'er it be,
From scar of scoundrel scrutiny.
This thing did Wene, for honour's sake,
Upholding rank she chanced to take;
And Wene knew more, as you'll espy,
Of men and things than you or I.
Lighted her visage with a smile,
And gave him look that thrill'd each vein;
For who could stand the eye of Wene?
The prince took heart, and blushing said,
“Here, at thy feet, O royal maid,
One moment list th' unwelcome theme,
And hear thy servant's simple scheme.”
With voice and air most dignified;
“A prince thou art—a foe, 'tis true—
Yet—rise—that honour is thy due.
No good from this can we divine;
But let us hear that scheme of thine.”
One atom acted foeman's part,
I'd dig it from its latent goal,
The sanguine fountain of the soul!
What I will do, thou yet shalt see,
For peace, for Scotland, and for thee.
My uncle Eric loves thee more
Than ever king did queen before;
I know it—but he's old—whilst thou
Hast all that loved and living glow
Which youth on virgins can bestow.
Now, since I've seen thee, and approve,
And feel to see thee is to love,
Might Haco but thy heart engage,
No deadly wars the Norse might wage,
For, take my word, if here they stay,
War there must be, do as you may;
In spite of truce or treaties made,
Their breaking forth is but delay'd.
As certain as the wind must blow
Cold o'er their polar wastes of snow,
So, where the chiefs of Scania are,
Must there be ravage, waste, and war.
Might you transfer your troth to me,
Here might we reign on stable throne,
In old imperial Beregon;
And to your Albyn's present bound
Unite our islands all around.
And when the time comes, as it may,
That Scandinavia owns my sway,
O'er these thy towers shall wave unfurl'd
The ensigns of the northern world.
And Scotia's free, unyielding land,
To all these regions give command.
These things I deem'd, O beauteous Hynde,
Worthy the counsel of your mind.
To do them all I pledge my troth—
No son of Odin breaks his oath.”
Even sanguine maid may not rely
On such great privilege and command,
And 'vantage to her native land;
But yet the eye would be severe,
And heart, that judged you insincere.
Yet all the answer I can deign,
As 'tis—(to those o'er whom I reign,
The slave and vassal, subject still
To what they feel and what they will)—
Is this, to thank you, and take leave.
This hand in friendship please receive;
And, as thou lovest my peace and bliss,
Venture no more on scheme like this.”
And took the elfin's queenly hand,
Impress'd it with a kiss sincere,
And wet the bracelet with a tear;
Whilst Wene, with all her shrewd address,
Could scarce her merriment suppress.
The prince upraised his humid eye,
And noting well her aspect sly,
Turn'd half away with mimic flush.
With dimple and with fairy blush;
Fled all at once his humble air,
And but the lover nought was there.
Light as the bound of roebuck young,
To footstool of the throne he sprung;
Put one arm round the royal neck;
The other, with all due respect,
Her jewell'd bosom did unfold
The gentle form and arms to hold;
Where lover's lip delights to dwell.
Full oft can maid, with frowning brows,
Reprove the act she well allows,
Though dear, as now, th' impassioned scene—
And action was the soul of Wene!
And turn'd to wax that liquid glow'd;
And that fond kiss a seal has set
Of female form and coronet
On it, so deep, that from its core
That form was ne'er erased more;
For every thought his mind pursued,
The dear, the treacherous form renew'd.
With sharp and cutting words reproved,
Yet in her radiant eye was seen
No proud offence nor pointed spleen;
And as he left her throne supreme,
His ardent spirit to inflame,
She cast that look of matchless art,
That never fail'd on young man's heart,
And said, with sigh, “Hard is my lot!
Had I my will—as I have not!”—
Then bent she down her brow sublime,
And wiped her cheek of beauty's prime.
Prince Haco made them only four;
And when he reach'd the outer gate,
That led from Selma's halls of state,
Adown the steep, from rock to stone,
Light as a kid, he bounded on,
And won the street of Beregon;
Pleased to the soul with his address,
His courage, and his bold success.
The lovely and mischievous Wene,
On tassell'd footstool of the throne,
In powerless laughter hath sunk down;
And, prince, 'tis all at thy expense—
Thy ardour, truth, and impudence.
T'admit such license, Wene, like thee;
Even though a prince or general came,
Or poet, a much greater name;
For I have seen the mincing thing,
As dancing round the gleesome ring,
A gap leave in our saraband,
And shrink from poet's gloveless hand;
As if the touch of sun-burned palm
Could discompose the level calm
Of virgin blood or sacred core,
Or make the guiltless so no more.
Should e'er attach to lovely Scot!
Oft have I mark'd the rueful flaw,
And blush'd at what I heard and saw.
No book, however pure each thought,
Though by divine or matron wrote,
Dar'st thou essay aloud to read,
Till every page is duly weigh'd.
And each equivocation eyed,
And conn'd, and all constructions tried;
And then thou skipp'st whole pages o'er,
Of Galt, of Byron, and of Moore.
This have I seen, and grieved anew
At thy constructions so untrue.
In reason's scale, 'tis plain as day,
That fishing, hunting on the scent
For what thou know'st was never meant,
Of all indelicacies framed
By heart impure, or folly named,
Is sure the worst, the most confess'd.
Oh, such discoveries well attest
To what research the thoughts are led,
In what a school the mind was bred!
And many queries Wene forth drew;
But not one word would she unfold,
Till to the queen the whole she told,
Who smiled, half in delight and pain,
At the unbridled freaks of Wene.
From that day forth, right carefully,
She shunn'd the glance of Haco's eye;
No more as queen he her could see,
And less she did not choose to be;
But some supposed her thoughts were given
To him at least as much as heaven;
While he, most blest illustrious wight,
Was crazed, was drunken with delight.
A queen's own lover! Yes, forsooth—
And such a queen!—O happy youth!
His step grew lighter than the wind,
Aye when he thought of beauteous Hynde;
And often to himself he talk'd,
Smiling and swaggering as he walk'd—
“Well done, Prince Haco! Say who can,
Thou hast not quit thee like a man!”
Brought new supplies of Scottish power.
Lochaber's thane came down the coast,
With full seven hundred in his host;
And on the eve of that same day,
Came all the motley tribes of Spey,
Led by a chief of eastern fame,
Mordun Moravius by name.
And from the Dee's wild branching flood,
The rapid Mar, of royal blood,
Brought his grim files, to battle bred,
Against the Pict and Saxon led,
Till for high deeds they were renown'd
The bravest troops on British ground.
With men from many a southern isle.
From far Cantire to dark Loch-Ow;
Two thousand men, a hardy train,
Rose from these margins of the main.
Came down attended gallantly,
With pagan standards broad unfurl'd,
The remnants of a heathen world.
And last, but steadiest of the band,
The loyal Lord of Sutherland
Came with his clans from frith and glen;
And Harold with his Caithness men.
These then the names of highest worth,
That ruled the land from south to north.
Had fail'd at council to appear;
Matins were said, and vespers sung,
In royal hall, by old and young;
But Columba was gone, yet how,
Or when, or whence, they did not know;
While sadness, solemn and resign'd,
Sat on the brow of lovely Hynde.
Why he had gone in secret guise;
Some blamed him for a coward's part,
And some of deep and monkish art;
And all the chiefs arrived of late,
Convened in fiery fierce debate,
Arraign'd his counsels to the last,
The armistice—all that had pass'd.
What shame, they said, to risk with foe
Their queen and country at a blow!
As who could answer for his might,
Or skill, or courage, in the fight?
While the high stakes for which he stood
Sufficient were to chill the blood,
The highest soul the most to alarm,
And wrest the nerve from hero's arm.
In short, one feeling there prevail'd,
A wayward one, to be bewail'd;
It was, that, maugre dangers deep,
That shameful truce they would not keep.
That whirlwind in the field of war,
And at the council-board the same,
A very wreath of mounting flame;
While all too many fierce, austere,
Congenial souls of his were there—
“List me. Who was it made the vow
To keep this peace?—Was't I or you?—
Or who this foolish combat set?
Who but a peevish anchoret,
Who knew not of our high command,
Or the resources of the land.
The queen, you say, in council high
Approved the truce: I that deny.
Who is there that our queen should sway
To such a deed when we're away?
We are the land, we'll let them know—
The people and the sovereign too.
Arouse, then, lords, and let us rush
On these rude bears their force to crush;
O'erwhelm them in their bloated den,
That loathsome stye of living men,
And leave them neither root, nor stem,
Nor tongue to howl their requiem!”
Shall lead the fray!” cried Donald Gorm.
With brow severe and placid smile;
Upraised his hand amid the rage,
The wild commotion to assuage,
And thus began:—“My lords, I deem
This truce was made in great extreme,
When none were nigh the foe to check,
Or crown or city to protect;
And, by its breach would we not draw
Disgrace on Albyn's throne and law?
Would it not be more courteous plan,
To fight their champions, man to man?
And if the issue falls aright,
As fall it must to Scottish might,
Then all is well. But should the Norse
Put Albyn's heroes to the worse,
Then be the vigour of our host
Strain'd to the height, else all is lost;
For ne'er to proud presumptuous foe
Must we our queen and crown forego.
I say not how we shall proceed,
Each day's events must rule the deed;
But in one point we'll all agree,
Of foreign thraldom to be free.
I thank you, chiefs, for this regard,
And pray no gasconade be heard,
Till once the important lists be set,
And champions hand to hand have met;
And then, let that eventful day
Our future deeds and counsels sway.”
Who look'd with discontented air.
The chief of these, the Lord of Skye,
Bit his proud lip, and bent his eye,
And muttered some impatient say
Of the intolerance of delay.
With right or wrong, he long'd for blows
With Albyn's fierce invading foes,
Who long, on prey and havoc keen,
To him had pesterous neighbours been;
But voices bore it, and the while
The suffrages were for Argyle.
His stern compeers, and warmly press'd
Of peace the strong necessity,
Mix'd with their foes as they would be;
And further said, “I grieve to hear
Dishonour cast on Albyn's seer;
That e'er our sinful nation knew;
Whose warmest prayers, and highest zeal,
Are all for Scotland's worth and weal.
Where he has gone, I can't divine,
But for his truth the pledge be mine.
Of word and honour, that the saint
On scheme for our behoof is bent.
Either on secret mission sped
To Christian prince for timely aid,
Or else in fasting day and night
Before his God, in piteous plight;
For all our sins imploring Heaven
That they in mercy be forgiven;
And that this land, within whose bound,
The Cross of Christ a rest hath found,
May 'scape this overwhelming snare,
And still be God's peculiar care.
In writings holy and sublime,
Strong instances stand on record
Of times unnumber'd, when the Lord,
At the request of prophets, rent
The floors of heaven and succour sent.
Of captain of the Lord's own host,
Who pray'd on Gilgal's plain by night
Against the invading Amorite;
And lo! the heaven's dark breast distended,
And from its hideous folds descended
Hailstones of such enormous frame,
Like broken pillars down they came,
Or fragments, splinter'd and uneven,
Of rocks shook from the hills of heaven.
Upon the Amorite's marshall'd power
Was cast down this appalling shower,
Till thousands of their proud array
Deform'd and shatter'd corses lay.
At man's behest he stay'd the sun;
Arrested, fix'd in heaven, he shone,
And the moon paused o'er Ajalon;
Until the arm of man had done
What arm of angel had begun.
Then let no sinner, old or young,
Against a prophet wag his tongue,
Lest vengeance on his head befall,
And bring down wrath upon us all.
Fierce lightnings issued from the skies,
In streams so rapid and so dire,
The firmament seem'd all on fire:
And then such thunders roll'd abroad,
As ne'er burst from the throne of God;
Till Mizpah hill, in terrors wild,
Rock'd like the cradle of a child,
Then yawn'd, and swallow'd quick to hell
The enemies of Israel.
The remnant turn'd, and fled away,
In utter horror and dismay;
Without a blow they were cut down,
And all their country overthrown.—
There is but one thing on the earth
I hold as unexcell'd in worth;
It is (and who its scope may scan?)
The prayer of a righteous man.
And firmly as I trust in this
That I've a spirit made for bliss,
I do, that this divine of ours
Is trusted by the heavenly powers.”
And waving both his arms in air,
Thus said, in loud impassion'd twang:
“What boots this starch'd and stale harangue?
Has this old driveller of the Isle
Made canting monk of old Argyle?
If so, I boldly would suggest
To shun their counsel as a pest.
Who deems the cheifs of Albyn's reign
Of dogged churl can bear the chain,
Or stoop their lineage to disgrace?
Let bedesman keep to bedesman's place;
Stick to his bedework and his beads,
His crosiers and his canting creeds;
For should he more, or say I wis,
That Donald Gorm is that or this,
Or small or great, or weak or strong,
Or meek or proud, or right or wrong,
By the dread soul of Selma's king,
The dotard from the rock I'll fling!”—
The nobles answer'd with a smile,
And sided all with old Argyle.
Why has he left the tottering throne
In time of trial and of woe?”
I hear thee ask, and thou must know,
Fair maiden, patroness of mine,
As far as I, of his design.
After the saint his prayers had said,
In lonely cell his couch he chose,
Not for the slumbers of repose,
But that no worldly listening ear
His communings with God might hear;
And there he hymns to Jesus sung,
Till utterance died upon his tongue,
And sleep her genial unguent shed
Soft round the good man's hoary head.
Then all his visions were of bliss,
In other climes and worlds than this.
Like form of elemental flame,
That seem'd some messenger of grace,
But yet it wore a human face,
With lineaments the saint had seen,
But in what land he could not ween.
Columba raised his reverend head,
And sore his memory did strain
At recollection, but in vain:
But the bright shadow, he could see,
Some semblage bore of royalty.
Waited a while, then nigher came,
And said, with deep and hollow moan,
In sorrow's most subduing tone—
“Woe's me, that thou remember'st not
Thy early friend! and hast forgot
That once to him thou vow'dst a vow,
'Twas for a child—Where is he now?
The first of Albyn's race supreme
Thou didst baptize in Jesus' name—
Where is he now? thou must him find;
For he of all the human kind
Is rightful heir, and he alone,
To Caledonia's ancient throne,
In which 'tis destined he must reign,
Else it is lost to Albyn's line.
Think of my words; the time is now;
Sacred and solemn was the vow.
If he appears not on this coast,
The nation's liberty is lost.”
Columba said, in tone sublime;
“And sacred vow I made to thee,
And straight perform'd that vow shall be.
My early friend; and art thou come,
From thy far-off, eternal home,
To warn me of the times to be,
And of thy people's destiny?
I'll treasure up thy words and go,
And do what arm of flesh can do,
To bring that prince back to the land
Where he is destined to command.
To keep that vow I'll not decline;
But say, my friend, what fate is thine?
Where hast thou sojourn'd since thy death—
In heaven above, or hell beneath?
Oft have I dared of God to crave
Some tidings from beyond the grave;
Now they are come. For love of Heaven,
Be this unto thy servant given.
Tell me of all that thou hast seen
In heaven, or hell, or place between!”
His brow sublime with kindling eye,
And shaking locks that stream'd as bright
As the first rays of morning light—
“No!—Who to mortal thing would send
Tidings he cannot comprehend?
Till once the bourn of death is pass'd,
A veil o'er all beyond is cast,
That future things conceal'd may lie,
Hid from the glance of sinful eye;
For mortal tongue may never name,
Nor human soul presume to frame,
The scenes beyond the grave that lie
In shadows of eternity.
Concealment suits thy being best;
Then oh, in darkness let them rest!
When thou and I shall meet again,
Whether in land of living pain,
Or in the vales above the sky,
Then thou shalt know as much as I.”
He look'd again, the form was fled!
'Twas that of Christian Conran gone,
Who once had sat on Albyn's throne.
A king of mighty name was he,
And famed for grace and piety.
He died. His brother seized his crown;
Eugene, a king of great renown.
And left it, as before defined,
Unto his daughter, lovely Hynde.
When Conran died, Columba then
Bore his young son across the main,
As he had sworn, with pious breath,
To Conran on his bed of death;
And gave the infant to the hand
Of Colmar, King of Erin's land.
Was grandsire to the comely child;
And train'd that stem of royal name
To everything a prince became;
With fix'd resolve, at his own death,
To him his kingdom to bequeath.
Thus both the realms contented were,
With laws, with government, and heir;
And good Columba thought no more
Of vow that exile to restore;
For peace he cherish'd—peace alone—
'Mong all who bow'd at Jesus' throne.
New light upon the future shed.
It was a dream; but it was truth;
A vow had issued from his mouth,
A sacred vow, that child to guard,
And use his influence revered,
Again to bring him to his own
And father's long descended crown.
And roused his followers from their sleep;
Sailors and monks, a motley corps,
And straight they hasten'd to the shore,
Upheaved the anchor silently,
Unfurl'd the sails, and put to sea.—
“For Erin straight,” Columba cried;
“At Colmar's court, whate'er betide,
I needs must be without delay;
No time be lost!—speed we away!”
His word was law; the vessel flew
Across the waters, waving blue,
Like mournful meteor of the main.
Albyn's apostle's fervent prayer
With Heaven prevail'd, the winds were fair;
These, with the tides, and billows prone,
Seem'd all combined to bear her on.
With swiftness of the soaring swan,
She foam'd, she murmur'd, and she ran,
Till safe within Temora bay,
Like thing outworn, she leaning lay.
Was looking from his topmost tower,
And saw the bark before the gale,
Speeding her course with oar and sail.—
“This visit bodes no good,” said he.
“What brings these truant monks to me?
Either they come for some supply
To their new-founded sanctuary,
Or warlike force, to cross the main,
And prop their young usurper's reign.
They shall have neither, by yon sun!
Small good to Erin have they done;
For though this father bears a name
Of sanctitude and reverend fame
I've always found that horde a pest,
An ulcer, and a hornet's nest.
Their cause is lost ere they appear;
I'm quite in mood their suit to hear.”—
Old Colmar smiled, and shook his head.
“The prince,” said he, “is far from this,
Fighting my enemies and his.
But as well might you ask of me
My crown and kingdom seriously.
Whom have I now my foes to quell?
Or tame my subjects that rebel?
Or who at last my crown to wear,
But he, my kinsman and my heir?”
And see the tears on my wan cheek,
I seek the prince, his own to gain;
In Albyn his the right to reign.
And well thou know'st I made a vow,
Ere I consign'd the child to you,
All my poor influence to strain
To bring him to his own domain.
Now, such the crisis on our coast,
There's not one instant to be lost.
The powerful Eric of the north
Has drawn his heathen myriads forth.
Who, at this moment, lie around
Old Beregonium's sacred ground.
He beat our warriors on the coast,
And braves them as a nerveless host,
Threatening their force to overgo,
And lay the towers of Selma low,
Unless he's granted, without frown,
To wed their queen and wear their crown.
A transient truce is sign'd and seal'd,
Till adverse champions on the field
Shall meet, and strive in mortal game,
Each for his own and country's fame;
And whosoe'er the victory gains
Wins Albyn's queen and her domains.”
His dim eye fix'd upon the ground;
And thrice he stroked his bearded chin,
While voices murmur'd him within.
His face was like a winter eve,
When clouds arise and billows heave,
And hinds look to the western skies,
Uncertain where the storm shall rise;
Or whether, mixing with the main,
It may not all subside again.
The model of suspense and thought;
Then cross'd his arms upon his breast,
And thus the yearning sire address'd:
“Now, by my father's sword and shield,
If this be true thou hast reveal'd,
The prize hath in its scope a charm
That well befits a hero's arm.
There was a day, but it is past,
When this arm had not been the last
In such a high and martial play;
Though it had led my steps away
Through flood and fire, o'er shore and main,
To wastes beneath the polar wain,
Or lands that warrior never won,
Beyond the rising of the sun.
Gods! how the high and glorious theme
Lights this old heart with living flame!
And as thou lists thy cheer shall be.
Of wine and feasting have thy fill;
But if perchance it be thy will
To fast and pray, by Heaven, I'll not
Baulk such devotion—not a jot!
With prince and nobles of my court
I must have speech of high import,
Of your demand, and then expect
An answer downright and direct.”
For answer most direct indeed;
Else, ere we reach the Scottish shore,
The eventful combat may be o'er;
And I had message from the grave
That he alone our land could save.”
How, where, and why this fact so late;
Came there a voice direct from God?
Or came it oozing through the sod,
Where purple flow'rets weep and bloom
Above the warrior's bloody tomb?
From grave of monk, 'tis scarce the same.”
I've had such dreams—such visions seen;
But what an idiot I had been
If I had dared on them rely!
But hadst thou seen, as oft have I,
Thy father's soul rise in his shroud,
From out the waste, like livid cloud,
In awful guise, without control
To wax and wane, and writhe and roll;
Approaching thee like giant grim,
With locks of mist and eyeballs dim;
And while the hairs crept on thy head,
And all thy frame shook like a reed,
If thou hadst heard a language run
Into thy soul, as I have done,
Then had I deem'd thy message sent
By some great power beneficent,
That rules around, above, below,
One whom I dread, but do not know.
But, as it is, it goes for nought;
I hope I hold it as I ought.”
The seer well nigh of hope bereft,
Grieving with tears for Albyn's fate,
Her destiny, and perilous state.
But leave we him, by rock and wood,
To kneel, and pray, and kiss the rood,
And follow Colmar to his hall,
Where stood the prince and nobles all.
Prince Eiden danced in youthful glee,
And shouted till the armour rung
Against the wall, and sounding swung.
“Come, let us go! Come, my Cuithone,
And, Parlan, put your armour on;
If men on earth can beat us three,
Mightier than mortals they must be.
My heart is burning in my breast
To meet King Eric in the list:
Yes, brand to brand, and face to face,
Down goes the boast of Odin's race!
Come, let us haste, the time is near,
For sake of all to warriors dear!”
Stiffen'd beneath his toothless gum;
And his white eye-brows scowl'd as deep
As snow-cloud o'er the wintry steep,
As up he strode to Eiden's eye,
Shaking his palsied hand on high.
“Thou babbler's brood of bounce and bang!
Thou lion's cub without the fang!
Think'st thou thy weetless warrior rage
Can be endured by sober age,
Well versed in deep affairs of state,
And by experience made sedate?
I tell thee, prince, in speech downright,
One foot thou goest not from my sight,
On such a raffle—made for fools,
The lowest of ambition's tools.
A cursed and formidable league,
To wile thee hence, and take thy life,
On wild pretence of warrior strife?
There is no lord in Caledon
Who does not hope to fill thy throne,
And from high interest's sure to be
Thy sworn and mortal enemy.
Nor leave thy old protector's hand,
Who has no hope but in thy sway,
Nor comfort when thou art away.
Were it to fight our common foe,
As Prince of Erin thou should'st go,
With such an army in thy rear,
That force or guile I should not fear.
But to this game of fools to go,
And combat with thou know'st not who,—
I make a vow was never broke,
A promise that I'll not revoke,
By the great Spirit I adore,
One foot thou mov'st not from this shore!”
But his fair face was flush'd with red,
Which Colmar saw, and still his ire
The hotter blazed like spreading fire;
And sore he threaten'd, in his rage,
To chain the prince in iron cage,
Rather than suffer him to roam
Blustering about another home,
And raving of a thing so low—
A war of pedantry and show.
Part of his jealousy to vent;
And neither sanctity of name,
Nor mien revered, could ward the same.
He told him roundly he was sent,
On base intrigue, to circumvent
The prince's progress to the throne,
And cut him off by guile alone.
Then talk'd, in haughtiness and wrath,
Of renegades from ancient faith,
Who, maugre all their humble airs,
Were ne'er to trust in state affairs.
That shone through tears, said fervently.
“O sire, withhold the rash resolve,
And vow, which thou canst not dissolve,
Say not thy Saviour to aggrieve.
In him dost thou not yet believe?”
“I worship, as my fathers did,
And yon bright sun, his vicegerent;
And when he hides his face from me,
I kneel beneath the green oak tree.
But thou hast made the prince a fool,
By the weak tenets of thy school;
All founded on a woman's words,
Which ill with sovereignty accords.
I'll none of them! And, once for all,
Leave thou my shore, lest worse befall;
Nor ask thou that which is not fit—
To see the prince I'll not permit;
And if thou art not under way
Before the noontide of the day,
Perhaps a bed and sleep thou'lt find
Ill suiting thy ambitious mind.”
On the old heathen's hoary head;
Then fled his fierce and angry glance,
Groaning in heart for the mischance,
That thus of hope his soul bereft,
And Albyn to destruction left.
Lashing and leaning to the lee;
But northward when she turn'd her prow,
She met the tide in adverse flow;
And the north breeze, in boastful sough,
Told them, in language plain enough,
That all their force of sail and oar
Would fail in making Albyn's shore.
But northward toil'd against the wind
Till midnight; then, at change of tide,
To a small creek they turn'd aside.
Of sailor monks there were but few;
And the dull lazy rower crew
Declared no farther they could wend,
Though that should prove their journey's end.
Columba held it high misdeed
To weary Heaven with earnest suit.
But danger now, and want to boot,
Obliged him humbly to apply
To his kind Maker, presently
Help to afford, by tide or wind,
Or by the hand of human kind.
Nor hamlet, hall, nor cot was there;
Yet one approaching they could see,
Ere the good man rose from his knee.
Down from the cliff the being strode,
Like angel sent direct from God,
To guide the father and his train
Back to their home amid the main.
Above the coast of Cunninghame,
When this strange guest with caution drew
Toward our cowl'd and motley crew.
His step was firm, his stature tall;
Cunning, and strength, combined with all
The rudeness of the savage kerne,
Kythed in his hideous face altern.
His feet were sandall'd, and his coat
Made of the hide of mountain goat.
His dark locks, matted and unshorn,
Had ne'er been comb'd since he was born.
A russet plaid hung to his knee;
In sooth, a fearful wight was he!
But, ah! his looks compensement made—
Where terror, wonder, fierceness, rose,
By turns, on youthful face morose.
The monks at times upon him smiled,
Then trembled at his gestures wild.
To ask his aid, or let him go.
He saw his followers ill inclined
Towards the rude uncourtly hind;
And some even whisper'd in his ear,
He was some fiend of other sphere.
Still, being at the moment given,
While aid had been implored from Heaven,
The sire conceived, that duty press'd
Some further knowledge of his guest.
The youth advanced with giant pace;
While his elf locks, of dew to dry,
He wildly shook above his eye,
Folded his rude plaid o'er his knee,
Look'd at his leg of symmetry,
Next at his sword, that trail'd behind—
An oaken club without the rind—
Then stood in half averted way,
To listen what the sire would say.
And all for which his strength was fit;
But in such terms, the sire was moved
To mirth, which ill his frame behoved.
MacUiston was the varlet's name;
He could not say from whence he came,
But he was born beyond the sea,
And there again he long'd to be.
“What sea?” was ask'd. He look'd askance;
And oh what pride was in his glance,
As he return'd, in giggling tone,
“Who ever heard of sea but one?”—
Oh, he could row, and he could sail,
And guide the rudder in the gale;
And he could make the vessel glide,
Wriggling against the wind and tide.
By his own tale, he was such man
As ne'er from jib to rudder ran;
But all their proffers of reward
He scorn'd, and held of no regard,
When they arrived on Scotia's strand.
Then kindled the barbarian's eye,
He flew on board with rapturous cry;
And from his side his club he flung,
That in the fold of mantle swung,
Like sheathed sword; then, with a shock,
He wrench'd the hawser from the rock;
And ere the monkish crew had time
The Virgin's sacred name to chime,
The bark had rock'd upon her keel,
And from the beach began to heel.
And, heaving high his oaken sword,
He threaten'd sore, with growl and frown,
Whoe'er refused, to cleave him down.
The crew at first began to wink,
And from their posts essay'd to shrink;
But blows from tall MacUiston's tree
Made them apply most strenuously.
Close by the helm his post he took;
All shrunk from his offended look:
Whene'er he deign'd to sing or speak,
A smile would dimple rower's cheek,
But yet so gruffly and so grim,
It show'd how much they dreaded him;
For lazier train no leader knew
Than good Columba's sailor crew.
And oft upon the sky he cast
A troubled look, and then again
Would fix it on the heaving main;
Then shake his black and matted hair,
And sing aloud some savage air.
And aye he stuttered as he spoke—
“My masters, we shall have a gale;
Stand by the beam, and reef the sail;
And he who fails, or handles slack,
Here's for the dastard vassal's back.
What crime hath poor MacUiston done,
That thus thou hid'st thy radiant form
Behind the darkness of the storm,
And leav'st thy servant to the sway
Of tempest on his wilder'd way?
No friend in whom he can confide;
No little star his path to guide;
No parent dear to say adieu;
Such poor MacUiston never knew!
Nothing but weak and feeble men,
Some darksome slaves from downward den.
But if, oh Sun, thy will it be,
I'll sacrifice them all to thee,
If thou thy servant's life wilt save
From bursting cloud and breaking wave:
Or show thy glorious face above,
If these are objects of thy love.”
When through the low'ring darkness broke
A ray of sunshine wanly bright,
A transient gleam of livid light—
Like the last smile from beauty's eye,
Resign'd, and laid in peace to die;
That farewell glance, of smile and shiver,
Ere darkness seals the orb for ever.
So pass'd the sunbeam o'er the deck:
The savage then, with due respect,
Kneel'd down, and bow'd his matted head;
Then look'd around with awful dread.
For toil, or death, let all prepare.
See where the hurricane comes on
With violence dreadful and unknown:
The western world is in commotion;
See how the clouds oppress the ocean;
And ocean, into vengeance driven,
With foamy billow scourges heaven.
Our bark will prove before its swing
Like fern upon the whirlwind's wing.
Wake the old carle you call the seer,
And ask him whereto we shall steer;
For toward sunrise we must fly,
With stern right in the tempest's eye:
A weather shore we needs must make—
It is our last, our only stake.”
And told him of the hideous kerne,
That pray'd to heathen deity,
And brought the storm along the sea;
And every monk, in language strong,
Declared the arch-fiend them among.
With something of a timid air;
And moved his head above the deck,
Just as the masts began to creak.
He cast his eye before, behind;
Then cried, with troubled voice and mind,
“To Isla Sound! then we're at home”—
And pointed out the path of foam.
Upon the sky, and point us yonder,”
The savage said; but here is land,
Which we might win, if you command.”—
To east by south he turn'd her prow:
The rattling hail, and pelting snow,
Just then in furious guise began;
Loud gusts along the ocean ran;
And every sob the tempest gave
Spoke language of a watery grave.
MacUiston cried, in voice of thunder;
“Pull in—Let go—You dastard knaves,
Down with your beads into the waves!
If cross or bead I note again,
I'll hurl the holder in the main.
Did ne'er the ocean's breast deform!”
So like a thing of soul and mind,
It made the savage shout with glee,
“There goes the jewel of the sea!
Speed on! speed on, my bonny bark!
Behind the storm is rolling dark;
But if such glorious speed thou make,
Swift is the storm will thee o'ertake.
Oh, speed thou on, thou blessed thing,
Swift as the solan on the wing!
And if behind yon headland blue
Safely thou bear'st this fiend-like crew,
Then poor MacUiston, on his knee,
Shall offer sacrifice to thee;
For God's own blessed oak I know
His only emblem here below.”
And their dark looks grew deadly dim;
They deem'd each wave would them o'erwhelm.
With savage heathen at the helm,
Or fiend arrived from burning hell—
Their woeful plight what tongue could tell?
For better never plough'd the main;
Till at the last, amid the roar
Of waves behind, and waves before,
By cataract and swell o'erthrown,
Adown she went with clash and groan.
(Gods! how the monks and rowers held!)
“To see the bottom of the main,
We but descend to rise again.”
Down went the bark with stern upright,
Down many fathoms from the light.
As sea-bird, mid the breakers toss'd,
Screaming and fluttering off the coast,
Dives from the surf of belch and foam,
To seek a milder, calmer home,
So sought the bark her downward way,
From meeting waves and mounting spray.
The monks obey'd, full sore appall'd.
Here rose a groan, and there a scream;
As down they bore into the stream,
But these were stifled in the brine,
As dived the sable brigandine;
And all was silent, save the gull
That mounted from the stormy Mull.
Till, on the top of mountain wave
The bark appear'd with flapping sail,
And dripping monks, and rowers pale,
Hanging on ropes all here and there,
Deaf, blind, and blurting with despair.
Again they heard MacUiston's tongue,
As loud he hallo'd out and sung,
“Stand to your tackle manfully;
Hold fast, and leave the rest to me!”
But, be it told with due respect,
At this dire moment, who should call
From ridge of wave and tossing fall,
But the good seer! Not seen till now;
Wash'd from his hold, they knew not how,
Blinded with cowl of many a fold,
And wildly capering as he roll'd.
MacUiston caught him by the frock,
And held him steadfast as a rock;
Yet not one moment quitted post,
Though fearfully 'mong breakers toss'd,
Nor once turn'd round his eye, to scan
The plight of that most holy man,
But sung and shouted o'er the swell,
With maniac laugh and demon yell.
That all the danger was o'erpast;
For this turmoil, this uproar dire,
Was at the point of Low Kintyre,
Where breaking waves, and stormy stir,
Still fright the coasting mariner.
Now were they breasting mountain steep,
Now plunging mid the foamy deep;
Anon they wheel'd from out the roar,
And swept along a weather shore,
Beneath the bank of brake and tree,
Upon a smooth and tranquil sea.
The pallid monks return'd the gaze.
For him whose tall and giant form
Seem'd late the demon of the storm,
They now ween'd angel in disguise,
Sent down, to save them, from the skies;
And knew not how their guest to greet,
Or if to worship at his feet.
“Thou best of angels or of men!
For if commission'd from above,
By the dear Saviour whom I love,
As guardian spirit of the sea,
I'll kneel, and pay my vows to thee.”
That eagles answer'd on the hill,
Sail'd on the bosom of the cloud,
And neigh'd as fiercely and as loud.
A homeless vagrant and a slave.
Worship the Sun, whose glorious road
Along'st the heaven was never trod;
Who frowns, and men are in distress;
Who smiles, and all is loveliness!
In heaven above, or earth below,
Or seraph, saint, or demon grim,
Tell me, and I will worship him.”
The doctrine of the cross explain'd;
The fall—the covenant above,
And wonders of redeeming love.
MacUiston listen'd silently,
His dark locks trembling o'er his eye,
Then said, it was his good belief
That Jesus was a noble chief;
For none could more for vassal's good,
Than for their sakes to shed his blood;
And for that cause, it was his mind
To follow prince so brave and kind.
“Has been benignant god to me.
'Twas he who rear'd the roe-deer's brood,
And the young bristler of the wood;
The sprightly fawn, with dappled sides,
And leveret in the fern that hides;
The kid, so playful and so spruce;
And all for poor MacUiston's use.
'Tis he that makes the well to spring,
The dew to fall, the bird to sing;
And gives the berry of the waste
Its ripeness, and its savoury taste.
Oft with the rook and crow I've striven
For that delicious gift of Heaven;
Not elsewhere knowing when I first
Could quench my hunger or my thirst.
And spreads the crowfoot on the lea,
And makes the holy acorn grow,
The highest gift to man below:
'Tis he that makes the summer's prime,
The rapid storm, and wreathy rime,
Makes seas to roll, and rivers run—
MacUiston still must love the sun!”
To that barbarian's language high;
And wonder'd at his strength of mind,
In such low rank of human kind,
That, like his frame, seem'd thing elate
Far o'er the peasant's lowly state;
Thence he resolved to win the youth
Unto the holy Christian truth.
When, in Dalrudhain's lonely bay,
They render'd thanks to God that day,
Than he, none show'd more humble frame,
Nor lowlier bow'd at Jesus' name.
On high the fleeting lightnings flew;
The rain and sleet pour'd down so fierce,
As if the concave universe
Had been upset, or roll'd awry,
And oceans tumbled from the sky;
The heaven was swathed in sheets of gray,
And thunders gallow'd far away.
Knowing his virgin sovereign's need,
Bade up that narrow frith to wend
(Now call'd Loch-Fyne) unto its end,
Resolved to cross the mountains dark,
And leave the sailors with the bark.
For a long night and stormy day,
They sailed that long and narrow bay,
And the next day at dawn of morn,
Mounted the pathless wastes of Lorn.
Enter'd alone that solitude;
For now he so admired the wight,
He scarce could bear him from his sight.
A dangerous path they had to scan,
For every petty torrent ran,
Pelting and foaming furiously,
As if to say, “Who dares come nigh?”
Then proved the kerne a trusty guide,
And many a time his strength was tried,
O'er rugged steep, and rapid river,
Bearing the old man safely ever.
So mighty was that moorland stream,
'Twas like an ocean rolling on,
Resistless, dreadful, and alone;
Its path with desolation traced,
The valley all one watery waste,
One foamy wave, thundering and smoking,
And mighty pines rending and rocking.
So wild, terrific, and immane,
Until his lip grew pale as clay.
Said he, “I've journey'd many a day,
From hill of Zion, to the shore
Beyond which there is land no more;
But never look'd, in all my time,
On aught so marvellous and sublime.
That day the storm was at its height,
Was trial 'twixt the wrong and right;
The wrong has triumph'd, now I know,
And Albyn's rights are lying low;
Her chosen chiefs are fall'n and gone;
For it was destined, one alone
Could save the land that fateful day,
And he was kept by Heaven away.
Its will be done; for weal or woe,
We now must bend before the foe:
The Christian banner's in the toil,
The heathen riots in our spoil.
But it is plain, that on that day
The storm hath all unequall'd been,
Such as no living man hath seen.
And those are tokens that I dread.
The demons of the fiery reign
Have been abroad in Christ's domain,
Roused, by some powerful heathen spell,
From out the lurid vales of hell,
The face of earth and heaven to mar,
And hurl the elements in war.
That men shall stand, in terror dumb,
And see the Almighty's arm of power
Stretch'd forth in the avenging hour.
Yes, He will show to heaven and hell,
And all that in the earth do dwell,
From babe to prince upon the throne,
That He is God and He alone!”
The best may err and so may they.
Predictions are but ticklish gear,
Though spacious, logical, and clear;
Condensed, and penn'd in language strong:
Where once aright they're ten times wrong.
This sage experience hath me taught,
Whilst thou hast hooted, rail'd, and laugh'd.
Alack! the credit due to seers,
Too well is known to my compeers!
Of dark Loch-Ow, by dint of oar;
And there the tidings met their ear,
Of deeds of darkness and of weir,
Which made the holy father weep,
And the rude boor to laugh and leap,
And shout, with joy and clamour vast,
“MacUiston finds a home at last!
A vagrant outcast though he be,
This is the land he loves to see!”
And met whole multitudes of men;
Some fleeing to the forest land,
Some guarding firm, with sword in hand,
Each path and ford that lay between
Their fierce invaders and their queen.
For much had happ'd that I must tell,
And you must read if you do well.
A celebrated ancient city, the first capital and emporium of the Scots in Albion. Its castle, according to Boethius and Harrison's Chronologie, was founded by King Fergus, so early as 327 years before the birth of our Saviour, and 420 years after the building of Rome. Around that castle (the Selma of Ossian) the city had continued to extend for the space of several centuries, until at length the marble chair and the seat of government were removed to Dunstaffnage, on the southern side of the bay. The site of Beregonium is in that district of ancient Lorn now called Ardchattan, although Boethius includes it in the bounds of Loch-Quhaber. The castle, situated on the top of a huge insular rock, near to the head of a fine bay, and in the midst of a level plain, must, at that period, have been rendered impregnable, without any great effort in fortification. It is altogether a singular and romantic scene; and, being situated on the new road from Dalmallie to Fort-William, by Connel Ferry and Appin, it is well worthy the attention of the curious, and indeed of every tourist interested in the phenomena of nature. That this city, with its towers and palaces, was destroyed by fire from heaven, tradition, song, and history all agree; and if ever oral testimony from an age so distant was borne out by positive and undeniable proofs, it is in this case, so much out of the course of nature and providence. All that remains of this mighty citadel, with its seven towers, is one solid mass of pumice, burned and soldered together in an impervious heap, wholly distinct from the rock on which it is situated. The outer wall, as well as the forms of the towers, may still be traced, but all are melted down to trivial and irregular circles of this incrusted lava. And as there can be little doubt respecting the existence of this renowned castle and city, so it is manifest, to me at least, that no human operation could ever have effected so mighty and universal a transmutation as is there to be witnessed. —See Macculloch's Letters, Edinburgh Encyclopædia, &c.
In the place where the city stood, two streets, well paved, are still easy to be traced by a little digging; the one of these is called in Gaelic Market Street, and the other, Meal Street. In making the new road, a vaulted gangway was here discovered under ground; and about twenty-five years ago, a man, in digging fuel, found one of the large wooden pipes that had conveyed the water across the plain to the citadel. These few remains of the famous Beregonium have been preserved in the bowels of the earth; but nothing remains above ground, either of city or walls, but a few irregular lines of trivial cinder.
Selma signifies the beautiful view; Beregon, or Perecon, as it is pronounced, the serpent of the strait.
4. PART FOURTH.
Oh fain would I borrow the harp of that land,Where the dark sullen eagle broods over the strand,
Afar in his correi where shrub never grew;
Or mounts on bold pinion away from the view,
On beams of the morning to journey alone,
And peal his loud matin where echoes are none—
The harp of that region of storm and of calm,
To mount with the eagle, or sport with the lamb;
To warble in sunshine, in discord to jar,
And roar in the tempest of nature or war!
Of that have I need, and but that I'll have none,
To sound the memorial of old Beregon.
The city is crowded, each alley and hall;
Loud rattles the scabbard on pavement and wall.
The bow and broad arrow of Scythia are there,
And files of bright lances gleam high in the air;
They flash and they flicker, so dazzling and high,
Like streamers of steel on the fields of the sky;
But nigher survey them, how deep is their stain!
That redness is not with the drops of the rain;
Proud badges of battle, depart they must never,
But there as memorials fester for ever.
Our clans and the Norsemen nor beckon nor smile.
As file meets with column, and column with file;
Yet still there was bustle by night and by day,
And ne'er were the maids of green Albyn so gay:
But many a sad mother to Heaven appeals;
And from the old warior the groan often steals,
As from his high turrets he sees with despair
The black Bull of Norway pawing the air.
Queen Hynde waits the issue, submissive and dumb,
And noble King Eric with love is o'ercome.
King Eric came over, a conqueror proved;
A kingdom he wanted, a kingdom beloved:
The queen was an item he did not imply,
But the conqueror fell at the glance of her eye.
His proffer was made as a lure to the land,
For woman he loved not nor woman's command:
The name of a hero was all his delight;
His sword was a meteor unmatch'd in the fight;
The north he had conquer'd, and govern'd the whole
From Dwina's dark flood to the waves of the pole;
And ne'er in his course had he vanquished been,
Till now, by a young Caledonian queen.
But thou, gentle maiden, to whom I appeal,
Who never has felt what thou could'st not conceal—
Love's dearest remembrance, that brought with the sigh
The stound to the heart, and the tear to the eye—
O, ill canst thou judge of the mighty turmoil
In the warrior's bosom, thus caught in the toil!
For the queen kept the words of her father in view,
Who charged that, in secret no lover should sue;
And therefore bold Eric was still kept at bay,
For all his impatience and all he could say:
And this was her answer both early and late,
“The time is at hand that determines my fate:
Whose shield is broadest, or falchion longest,
And twice in the lists shall win the day,
I am his to claim and carry away.
But till that day all suit is vain—
In strict retirement I remain.”
Ah princely Haco, woe for thee!
What hopest thou round these towers to see,
Which still thou circlest morn and even,
With cheek and eye upturn'd to heaven;
Or rather, to each casement high
In Selma's towers, for answering eye?
And thou hast seen it, though at more
Than fifty fathoms from the shore:
And who can eye of maiden fair
Read more than half way up the air?
The glance of love, the blushing hue,
Are lost amid the hazy blue:
But other signs—As, snowy veil
Rear'd high aloft like streamer pale;
A helmet waved in queenly hand;
A dazzling glance from gilded brand,
Whose point is northward turned away,
Where Eric's camp like city lay,—
These signals boded nothing good,
And scarce could be misunderstood.
A thousand times Prince Haco bow'd,
And humblest gratitude avow'd;
He kiss'd his hand, then kneel'd profound,
And thrust his sword's point in the ground,
In homage to that virgin queen,
For such he deem'd capricious Wene;
And she it was. But what she knew,
That thus such signals out she threw,
Or if 'twas all a freakish jest,
Nor friend nor foeman ever wist.
But as it was, it gave the alarm
Unto the prince to watch and arm.
His was a brave and goodly train,
The pride of Norway's stormy reign;
All youths on fame and honour bent,
And all of noble, proud descent,
Who the high heir of Eric's crown,
As path to fortune and renown,
Had follow'd with supreme good-will,
Claiming the post of honour still;
And, sooth, a comelier warrior train
Ne'er mounted wave of northern main.
To these he said, in secret guise,
With looks profound and shrewdly wise,
“I dread these coward Scots for ill;
There has been bustling on that hill,
As if some treachery were design'd,
Or some misprision in the wind:
Scouts have been running up and down,
From town to camp, from camp to town.
(For an encampment, strong and high,
The Scots had form'd on Valon-Righ.)
“'Tis meet that we should arm and watch,
Such violators first to catch,
If such there be. If I am wrong,
Our silent watch will not be long;
While, should we baulk some foul surprise,
Our fame to Odin's throne will rise.”—
His warriors armed with youthful pride,
But laugh'd full mirthfully aside;
And wondered where their gallant prince
Caught such enormous sapience.
Meantime the troops of various climes
Met in the city lanes betimes,
And there they crowded, trading, bustling,
Till eventide, full rudely justling.
They met, they scowl'd—then rushing, mingled,
While their rude weapons jarr'd and jingled.
Few words were changed for ill or good;
For why? They were not understood:
But many brazen looks said plain,
“Friend, you and I may meet again!”
In short, throughout each Highland clan
A spirit most indignant ran.
They could not brook their foes to see
Parade their streets unawed and free;
And from their cliff-borne camp they view'd
The march of these barbarians rude
Beneath their feet from day to day,
Like tigers growling o'er their prey.
Nor wanted there the chiefs among
Some fiery heads that, right or wrong,
Would blow this breeze into a storm.
First of these chiefs was Donald Gorm,
Whose spirit, like the waves that roar
For ever on his stormy shore,
Was ne'er at ease by night or day,
But restless and perturbed as they.
Among the clansmen of his name,
Revenge was his perpetual theme,
Until so fierce his fury burn'd,
His sovereign's faith aside was spurn'd;
And, if to join him there was none,
He'd break the truce and fight alone!
“We'll go,” said Donald, “in the night,
And seize this king of boasted might;
And first we'll bind him heel to head,
And bear him to our rock with speed;
And then we'll turn, and kill, and kill,
And spoil and ravage at our will!
That cumbrous host we well may dread,
With doughty Eric at its head;
But, rend that moving spring away,
And down it falls the spoiler's prey.
What boots it me a maiden's vow,
Vouchsafed I see not why, nor how?
If Donald this achievement grand
Performs by dint of shield and brand,
He reigns the King of fair Scotland!”—
And every sword on buckler rung.
King Eric's camp was scanned with care,
For sundry spies went sauntering there;
But so it happ'd that Haco's tent
Surpass'd the king's in ornament.
The prince's proud battalions lay
Round his with streamers soaring gay,
And golden crests, and herald show;
So that the spies went to and fro,
Staring aghast; then back they sped,
And, with sagacity inbred,
Declared, and swore, with gaping wonder,
That all the kings of the earth were yonder!
This was a prize, we may suppose,
Too rich for Donald Gorm to lose:
So straight was pass'd the order high,
That all the men of Mull and Skye,
And Moidart too, themselves should dight
In arms at dead hour of the night,
And follow where their chief should lead,
To enterprise of glorious meed.
The harp had ceased in Selma's hall,
And from her towers and turrets tall
No glimmering torch or taper shone—
For they had died out one by one,
Like fading stars, whose time was spent
Above the airy firmament.
Many a bard on Valon-Righ
Had sung his song of victory,
And gone to rest—or converse hold
With spirits of the bards of old.
The cymbal's clang, the bugle's swell,
The trumpet's blare, the bagpipe's yell,
Had ceased, and silence reign'd alone
Around the skirts of Beregon,
Where thousands lay, stretch'd on the soil,
Panting for battle and for broil.
But Donald Gorm had other scheme
Than thus on battle clang to dream:
He panted for the waking fight,
The blood and havoc of the night;
The silent rush on prostrate foe;
The stroke, the stab, the overthrow;
Their mortal terror, flight, and thrall,
And captive king—the best of all!
A thousand times, with grin and growl,
Did Donald curse the minstrel's howl;
Then roll'd him on his russet floor,
And railed against the lagging hour.
For every minute in its flight,
From evening till the noon of night,
Was fetter laid on Donald's might.
The hour arrived, as hour must come
To those that dread it for their doom,
As well as those who for it long—
And Donald's men, in phalanx strong,
Moved from the cliff around the steep
With swiftness and in silence deep.
Then Haco's watcher by the tarn
Straight hasted back, his prince to warn;
And found him and his troop prepared,
Couch'd on their arms, and keeping guard,
Hid in the heather and the brake,
Alongst the road the Scots must take.
Down came the Skye-men like a torrent,
Foaming, and muttering terms abhorrent;
Furious they came, with whirl and crush,
As midnight tides through narrows rush;
Or, when the storm is at the sorest,
Like wild bulls rushing from the forest,
With grinding hoof, and clattering horn,
And hollow humming as in scorn;
So rushed this phalanx multiform,
Led by the headlong Donald Gorm.
The front bore on swift as the wind,
But Haco's gallants closed behind;
And Donald's rear was levell'd low,
As fast as blow could follow blow.
His front pour'd on from tent to tent,
And robb'd and romaged as they went;
While those behind, without a blow,
Were chased and routed by the foe.
Right over ditch, and foss, and fen,
Was Donald borne by his own men;
For all his boast of warrior deed,
He ne'er got blow at foeman's head.
O Donald Gorm, hard fate is thine,
Exposed to punishment condign!
The truce is broke, and thou hast lost
One-fifth of all thy gallant host.
The daring deed thou canst not hide;
Thy kinsmen vanish'd from thy side,
And shame imprinted on thy brow—
Ha! Donald Gorm, what think'st thou now?
To-morrow all will be in flame,
And only thou must bear the blame;
For thou hast dared thy country's troth,
Thy sovereign's honour, and her oath,
Thus rashly, rudely, to deface;
And all for nought but deep disgrace.
Over thy head there broods a storm
Will blast thy honours, Donald Gorm!
But one thing yet thou dost not know:
Thou hadst to deal with generous foe,
Who sorrow'd at thy rash ado—
A hero, and a lover too;
Who dared not this thy deed proclaim,
Lest royal Hynde should bear the blame.
When past was all the hasty fray,
And Donald Gorm thus chased away;
And not one son of Norway miss'd,
Excepting Odin's sacred priest,
Whom Donald's men had caught asleep,
And hurried off unto the steep—
Some ancient lord of Scania's band;—
When fled, I say, that headlong force,
Prince Haco call'd his counsellors.
“My gallant friends,” said he, “I must
Rejoice to find in whom I trust.
This night you've shown, with courage true,
What youths of noble blood can do,—
Have saved our sovereign's sacred life,
And crush'd at once a dangerous strife.
Now, trust me, we'll more credit win
By hushing this with little din,
Than, by ostent and fulsome boast,
To break the truce with Albyn's host,
And lose at once the glorious right
Of gaining all by heroes' might.
By secret trust full well I know
The treachery bred with private foe,
That gave us chance thus to debel.—
This thing I know, but dare not tell.
“Then let us strip these savage slain,
And sink their bodies in the main;
And pass the whole with answer brief,
As enterprise of robber chief—
A trivial thing, of no regard,
Unsuiting honours or reward.”—
Each gallant thought as Haco did,
Although his motives still were hid.
The slain were heap'd upon a team,
And in the sea, to sink or swim,
Their bodies hurl'd without delay;
And all was o'er by break of day.
Then such a stir arose at dawn—
Torrents of blood like rivers ran;
But none could tell with whom the blame,
Or whence the purple deluge came.
Amazement fill'd the Norway men;
They gather'd round in thousands ten,
Until the king all patience lost,
And call'd a muster of his host;
No one was miss'd in all the lists,
Save one of Odin's sacred priests!
King Eric, as a monarch brave,
Of priestcraft was the very slave.
This omen dire his soul oppress'd;
He caught the terror of the rest,
And orders gave, in sullen mood,
For sacrifice of human blood.
Haco was grieved; for in that rite
He had no trust—took no delight;
And therefore told all that had pass'd
Unto the king, from first to last;
But chiefly dwelt on signal seen
From casement of the Scottish queen.
Now hush'd were Eric's false alarms:
He caught his nephew in his arms;
For his big heart impetuous strove
With throes of glory and of love;
And thrice he bless'd his hero young,
Who thus withheld the blabbing tongue
From telling of a deed of fame
That added lustre to his name;
Then said, “No favour he could crave,
That, as reward, he should not have.”
The prince of this laid hold, and said,
“My king and uncle, then I plead,
That I to-morrow be allow'd
The honour and distinction proud,
Within the lists with thee to stand,
A champion for my native land.
And thou in Haco's deeds shalt trace
The might of Odin's heavenly race.”
The king now frown'd in sullen mood,
Nor tried his promise to elude.
Generous, as absolute in sway,
And downright as the light of day,
He all at once, in terms uncouth,
Reproved the madness of the youth:—
“Thou tendril of a rampant plant!
Darest thou to ask, or I to grant,
A thing that throws from my right hand
The glory of my native land?
What would my well-tried champions say,
Were I to fling such prize away,
And all our soaring hopes destroy,
For the wild frenzy of a boy?
Thy rash, fond aim full well I see—
Thou think'st the choice will fall on thee.
Dare not to raise such lofty looks;
Eric but ill a rival brooks;
And thus to sacrifice his all,
He may not, and he never shall.”
“My liege, I had your sacred word,
Given fully, of your own accord;
I ween'd on that I might rely:
Can Odin's son his troth deny?
I claim it; and to-morrow stand,
To win or fall at thy right hand.
Thy word is given; if broke it be,
By Thor, the breaker fights with me!”
“Haco, thou art a noble stem,
That well should brook the diadem.
My sacred word I must fulfil,
Though grievously against my will.
By one rash promise I am cross'd,
And all my fame in battle lost.
How dare I in myself confide
With such a stripling by my side?
For should'st thou fall, or wounded be,
Farewell to Eric's victory!
But at the hour the heralds name,
Come, and the post of honour claim
As right of thy illustrious line:—
My word is pass'd, and it is thine.”
In sad dilemma placed the while;
To censure subject for th' abuse
Of sovereign's faith, and broken truce.
He kept his place in outer ward,
To fight with friend or foe prepared;
And much he wonder'd when he saw
The armies mix, as if no flaw
Or breach of contract had been known:
Still Donald kept his hold alone,
Till Eric's muster-roll was o'er,
And freedom reign'd as theretofore.
“'Tis strange,” said Donald, “should this breach
And foul defeat the throne not reach.
It would appear there is no blame
Attach'd to queen's or liegeman's name.
Therefore I judge it best at once
The daring outrage to renounce;
And prove it, swear it though they should,
Deny it all through fire and blood.”
“Dear master, know, your gallant men
Amid King Eric's camp lie slain.”
“There let them lie; I'll flatly swear
They are not mine, nor ever were.”
“Your clan is short: what will you say,
When call'd out on a muster-day?”
“I'll say, the men of Mull are gone
To fetch supplies of venison;
To see their dames, and shun the strife;
And all have forfeited their life.”
“The priest of Odin, in our thrall,
Will broad disclosure make of all.”
“Were he the devil's priest array'd,
One whom I more than Odin dread,
I'd let him blood, and make his bed
Full fifty feet below my tread,
Rather than he should blab disgrace
On great M'Ola's royal race.
My fathers had one liberal form,
Which stands unbroke by Donald Gorm—
It is, that neither old nor young.
Nor oath pronounced by human tongue,
Shall e'er a rest or bearing find
Between his honour and the wind.
Come, and the secret thou shalt know,
How the old dotard brooks the blow.”
The chief and bard together went
In to the priest, with foul intent:
The old man rested on the floor,
With lip of scorn, and look demure:
His ankles were by withe entwined;
His arms were cross'd and bound behind;
His grisly beard seem'd scarce terrene—
It flow'd, like Centaur's shaggy mane,
Far o'er his girdle crimosin,
And quiver'd to his palsied chin.
A portrait of majestic scorn
Was that old heathen priest forlorn,
With eye fix'd on his galling yoke,
And leaning calmly to the rock.
“Father, full froward was the fate,
That cast thee in this captive state,”
Said Donald, with affected grief;
“But here comes one to bring relief:
Since mighty Odin hides his face,
And there's no other eye of grace,
This boon thy Odin sends to thee—
A thirsty brand to set thee free!”
“Beware, thou sanguine, savage chief,
Slave to a new and fond belief!—
Beware how thou upliftest sword,
Or utter'st rash or ruthless word,
Against the lowest holy guide
To Odin's service sanctified.
Know'st thou who measures mortal age?
Who love's the battle's lofty rage
And riots mid the overthrow,
In wreaking vengeance on each foe?
Even He, whose servant for his sin
Lies chain'd thy hateful power within.
Then be thou ware, the crime eschew,
Nor do a deed thou sore shalt rue.”
“Speak, Rimmon, bard of Turim's hall;
What think'st thou of this heathen's fall?”
“Thou lord of that romantic land,
The winged isle, of steep and strand;
And all the creeks of brake and fern,
Those pathless piles, so dark and dern,
That stretch from Sunart's sombre dell,
To Duich's heights of moor and fell;
Thou stem of royal seed—nay, more,
Son of an hundred kings of yore!
Unto thy servant deign regard;
Woe to the chief that slights his bard!
“I've heard an adage in my time,
A simple old Milesian rhyme,
Which bore, that, whatsoever god
Was worshipp'd all the world abroad,
From him that reigns in heaven alone,
Unto the gods of wood and stone—
That, still among each erring crew,
These gods should have a reverence due;
Because, in offering insult there,
A nation's feelings injured are;
And man's deep curse, when insults move
His sacred feelings to disprove,
Is next to that of God's above.
I say no more; but that I've found
These ancient sayings often sound.”
Donald look'd down with dark grimace,
And primm'd his mouth, and held his peace;
Relenting heart o'er prostrate foe.
But as imprudence in th' extreme,
Or dire mischance (a gentler name),
Suggested, the old priest began
To brave the spirit of the man;
And his o'erbearing pride defy,
By brief and threatening prophecy.
“'Tis known,” said he, “o'er all the lands
Where Odin's heavenly sway expands,
That whosoever dares enthrall
The meanest guide unto his hall,
Or move a tongue his faith to upbraid,
Or hand against his sacred head,
That sinner's blood shall first be spilt
Of all his kindred's, for his guilt.
Therefore I dare the whole decrees
Of those who bow to oaken trees;
Or to the dazzling God of Day;
Or moon, that climbs the Milky Way;
Or to that God, mysterious, mild,
That died and lived, the Virgin's child—
I dare you all by curse unheard,
To wrong a hair of this gray beard;
Or down to Lok the caitiff goes,
The first of Odin's fated foes.”
“So be the offence and the reward!
Thou speak'st to one that ne'er was dared,”
Said Donald, as he rose amain,
Trembling with anger and disdain;
And ere his bard a word could say
His master's vengeance to allay,
Cursing and foaming in his rage,
Sheer to the belt he clove the sage:
To either side one half did bow;
His head and breast were cleft in two;
An eye was left on either cheek,
And half a tongue, to see, and speak.
Oh, never was so vile a blow,
Or such a bloody wreck of woe!
Old Rimmon bow'd upon his knee;
And, that such sight he might not see,
Shaded his eyes with his right hand,
And pour'd forth coronach so grand,
O'er the old stranger's mournful fate
That Donald Gorm became sedate;
And soften'd was his frown severe,
To stern regret and sorrow drear.
But his stout heart not to belie,
He dash'd the round tear from his eye;
Then turn'd, and wiped his bloody glaive
And bade to dig the heathen's grave
Far in the bowels of the hill,
And with huge rocks the crevice fill,
That forth he might not win at all,
To blab in Odin's heavenly hall:
For, sooth, whate'er was doom'd to be,
He would that boisterous deity
Might lay his bloody guerdons by
For those who own'd his sovereignty.
Sore trembled Turim's ancient bard,
For the rash deed his lord had dared;
And, the transgression to redeem,
Sung a most solemn requiem.
Of Donald's nightly overthrow
No note was taken by the foe;
For, yielding to the generous prince,
King Eric slyly blink'd the offence.
Those strangers both were sway'd by love;
And hoped before the queen to prove
Their heroism, and matchless might,
And claim unto her hand by right.
But either mighty Odin heard
His dying servant's last award,
Or some all-seeing righteous eye
Beheld the ancient father die.
To Eric's tent that night were call'd,
Priest, prophet, patriarch, and scald;
And thence were heard, in thundering jar,
Loud anthems to the god of war;
And when the orisons were said,
And victims on the altar laid,
And rose the frenzy to the full,
With cup drunk from an enemy's skull;
Then blood was dash'd on all around,
As text, or omen, to expound;
And that, survey'd with much grimace,
Boded success to Odin's race.
Again the frenzied song of war
On the night breeze was borne afar,
Till, on the dark and gelid rock,
The drowsy cormorant awoke,
And, moved by wonder and dismay,
Scream'd out in concert with the lay.
Some sentinels that hovered nigh,
On the north cliff of Valon-Righ,
Descended softly to the plain,
And overheard the closing strain;
And thus it ran, the roundelay,
As near as Scottish tongue could say:—
Song.
From morning till even,
With darkness thy throne surrounding,
Whenever thy wrath
At the foes of our faith,
Thou showest in gloom confounding.
Thy right hand under,
And the snow and the hail up treasure;
And gather behind
The tempest of wind—
All weapons of thy displeasure.
Rending, and roaring,
Send them with vengeance loaden,
That all below
May tremble to know
There's none so mighty as Odin!
There's none so mighty as Odin!
There's none so mighty as Odin!
That all below
May tremble, and know
There's none so mighty as Odin! &c.
And with it congregations vast
Of maidens, youths, and aged men,
From isle, from dale, and Highland glen;
All panting, burning, to survey
The deeds of that eventful day.
And every group, disputing, came,
Who were the warriors first in fame:
For every clan avow'd its head
Unmatch'd in might and warrior deed—
One 'gainst a world to throw the gage,
The master spirit of the age.
Full plain it was to eye and ear,
That chose to see, and chose to hear,
That no three lords the land could call,
Would satisfaction give to all.
That morning rose in ruddy hue
So bright, that all the fields of dew,
The gleaming mountains, and the wood,
Appear'd one mighty waste of blood;
Even the slow billow of the main
Appear'd to heave and roll in pain—
A clammy, viscous, purple tide,
That murmur'd to the mountain side,
And broke, with harsh and heavy groan,
Upon the beach of Beregon.
The sages look'd with wistful eye
Upon the flush'd and frowning sky;
Then, on the purpled earth and sea,
And sigh'd a prayer internally.
But scarcely had the morning's prime
Flamed o'er the mountain's top sublime,
Ere sable shades began to spread,
And mingle with the murky red;
The sun glared through a curtain gray
With broaden'd face and blunted ray;
And short way had he left the rath
Upon his high and gloomy path,
Till nought appear'd to human sight
But a small speck of watery light,
That seem'd above the rack to fly,
Careering through a troubled sky.
Dark and more dark the morning frown'd;
At length the shadows closed around,
Until the noontide of the day
Look'd like a twilight in dismay.
'Twas like that interval of gloom
'Twixt death and everlasting doom,
When the lorn spirit, reft away
From its frail tenement of clay,
Is forced through wastes of night to roam,
In search of an eternal home—
That space of terror, hope, and dole,
The awful twilight of the soul.
Alas! what earthly anxiousness
Resembles such a pause as this?
But mortal tremor and alarm,
For the success of foeman's arm,
And for the congregating gloom,
That almost threaten'd nature's doom,
Were never moved to wilder scope
Than on that day of fear and hope.
In Eric's council was no flaw,
His will was rule, his word was law;
But in the Scottish camp there grew
A furious general interview.
There was no lord, nor chief of name,
Who put not in conclusive claim,
As his the right the brand to wield
Upon the glorious combat-field.
After great heat, in proud deport,
With stern arraignment and retort,
Resource or remedy was none,
But that of casting lots alone;
A base alternative, 'twas true,
But that, or battle, nought would do.
The lots were cast with proper form,
And fell on Mar, and Donald Gorm,
And Allan Bane, of wide command,
The goodliest knight in fair Scotland.
Mar's name was called throughout the crowd;
The men of Dee hurra'd aloud;
But those of Athol and Argyle
Look'd to the earth, with hem and smile;
While Moray lads, with envy stung,
Cursed in a broad unfashion'd tongue.
Brave Donald Gorm was not proclaim'd.
Gods, how the men of Morven flamed!
And those of Rannoch and Loch-Ow
Pull'd the blue bonnet o'er the brow,
And mutter'd words of scorn and hate,
Lamenting Albyn's hapless fate;
While through the clans of Ross there pass'd
A murmur like the mountain blast.
Each neighbouring clan was moved to scorn,
That such a chance from it was torn
Of royal sway, and warrior boast,
And given to those they hated most.
While distant tribes forbore to foam,
Pleased that it came no nigher home.
But when the name of Allan Bane,
Lochaber's calm and mighty thane,
Nor aught but plaudits floated round.
The gather'd thousands seem'd to feel,
That Heaven had chosen for their weal;
For lord was none, in sway or fame,
In all the land, of equal name.
The ring was form'd above the bay,
Where Eric's ships incumbent lay;
Its circle measured furlongs ten,
One half inclosed by Norway men,
While all the Scots rank'd on the lea,
Between the city gate and sea;
And 'twixt the hosts, from east to west,
Strong ramparts, lined with guards, were placed.
The seven towers of Beregon
Were clothed and crowded every one.
High soaring o'er the sordid strife,
Unmeasured piles of mortal life,
Breathing, and moving frown'd they there,
Like cloudy pyramids of air.
Both friends and foemen turn'd their eyes
To these pilasters of the skies,
And almost ween'd the living towers,
The altars of the heavenly powers;
The tabernacles of the skies,
Where angels offered sacrifice,
With victims heap'd of shadowy forms
Above the pathway of the storms,
Up render'd from some dread abode,
The foes of men and foes of God;
And there piled for some dire cremation,
Some final, horrid immolation.
The whole of that momentous scene
Was such, as on this earth again
The eye of man can never see,
On this side of eternity.
The various nations arm'd and filed;
The thousands round on summits piled,
Of rock, of ravelin, and mast;
The sky with darkness overcast;
And when the trumpet's rending blare
Bade champions to their posts repair,
Ten times ten thousand panting breasts
Were quaking, yearning, o'er the lists;
Ten thousand hearts with ardour burn'd;
Ten thousand eyes were upward turn'd,
Trying to pierce the fields of air;
But there was nought but darkness there!
What could they do but mutter vow,
And turn their eyes again below?
King Eric and his champions twain
Enter'd the lists the first; and then
Appear'd the Scottish heroes three,
Arm'd and accoutred gallantly.
But when they met to measure swords,
And change salute in courteous words,
From the Scots files there rose a groan;
For far, in stature and in bone,
The Norse excell'd; so far indeed
That theirs appear'd of pigmy breed.
The heroes measured sword and shield,
Then to their various stations wheel'd;
And just when ready to begin,
Prince Haco sprung like lightning in,
Kneel'd to the king, and made demand
To fight that day at his right hand,
As his the right by heritage.
The champions boded Eric's rage,
And gazed at Haco. But anon
King Eric bade the knight begone
From his right hand, with kingly grace,
And the young hero took his place.
A mighty clamour rent the air,
And shook the loaded atmosphere;
He was, forsooth, a comely sight,
In golden armour burnish'd bright,
And raiment white, all glittering sheen
With gems of purple and of green.
With face so fair and form so tall,
So courteous, and so young withal,
He seem'd, amid the multitude,
Like sun-beam through a darksome cloud.
Among the shouts that scaled the shower,
A shriek was heard from Selma's tower.
Far upward Haco turn'd his eye,
And saw, far in the hollow sky,
A female form of radiant white
Upheld, and fainting with affright;
But soon she waved a snowy veil:
The prince's cheek grew red, then pale;
And with rash hand, and streaming eye,
He heaved his golden helmet high.
King Eric gave him stern reproof,
And warn'd him to his post aloof;
But his fond heart, with burning glow,
Was roused to more than man might do;
He trod on air; he grasp'd at fame;
His sword a meteor seem'd of flame.
The king was match'd with lordly Mar;
And Allan Bane with Osnagar,
A Dane of most gigantic form;
And the brave prince with Donald Gorm.
The marshals walk'd the circle round,
Survey'd the lists and vantage ground,
Then raised a signal over head,
The baleful flag of bloody red.
The trumpet sounded once; and then
Bugle and tabor roll'd amain
O'er all the host with rending swell;
Till slumbering echoes caught the knell,
And, calling to the mountain side,
Proclaim'd the combat far and wide.
The trumpet gave the second boom;
Again the clamour rent the gloom!
It gave the third: no murmur ran;
No sound moved by the breath of man
For trembling feelings, fierce, and strong,
Oppress'd them all. Blench'd was each cheek,
And lip, that moved, but durst not speak.
That instant man was match'd to man;
And at that very moment flew
From out the cloud the lightning blue;
The thunder follow'd, and the hail
Came like a torrent with the peal,
Straight in the faces of the three
Who fought for Albyn's liberty.
The priests and scalds of Scania raised
The stormy hymn, and Odin praised;
But Albyn's thousands, blinded quite
With hail, and sleet, and glancing light,
To covert fled in dire dismay,
Trembling and faltering by the way;
All ignorant of what befell,
And asking news which none could tell.
But not the wrath of angry heaven,
The storm with tenfold fury driven,
The forked flames, with flash and quiver,
The thunder that made earth to shiver,
Could daunt the courage of the brave,
Who fought for glory or the grave.
No stately marshal was allow'd,
Nor umpire, verging from the crowd,
To meddle with the mortal strife;
Each hero fought for death or life.
Few words on either side were spoke,
To daunt opponent or provoke;
For why? the storm so fiercely jarr'd,
They neither could be said nor heard.
Their weapons met with clanging blows,
And high from helm and buckler rose.
Mar lost his ground, as Eric press'd;
But calmly still the king regress'd;
With foe before, and foe behind,
To quit his line he had no mind,
And vantage of the rain and wind.
'Tween Osnagar and Allan Bane
The fight was dreadful. But the Dane,
With every vantage of the field,
Eluded Allan's oval shield,
And pierced his shoulder to the bone,
Reddening his arm and hacqueton.
This roused the Scottish hero so,
That back he bore his giant foe;
And it was plain to every eye,
Though few there were that could espy,
That Albyn, in her Allan Bane,
Would suffer no dishonest stain.
Ha! mighty Donald of the main,
Why flagg'st thou on the battle-plain?
Why is thy bronzied cheek aghast,
And thy fierce visage overcast?
Can thunder's roar, or fire, or storm,
Appal the heart of Donald Gorm,
Who, till this hour, at danger spurn'd,
Whose sword in battle ne'er was turn'd?
No; but there had been boding sight,
Some dreadful visitant o'ernight!
And now the hero powerless seem'd,
And fought as if he slept and dream'd.
When Haco first met eye to eye
With the impetuous Lord of Skye,
One thought alone possess'd the host;
Even Eric deem'd his nephew lost,
And only kept proud Mar at bay,
To watch the issue of the day.
Haco strode up with giddy pace,
And shook his brand in Donald's face.
The day had shortly been, forsooth,
If such a fair and flexile youth
Had shook a gilded sword or spear
At that imperious islander—
Heavens! how the tempest's howling breath
Had heighten'd been by Donald's wrath;
Whereas he now to battle fared,
As if he neither saw nor heard.
Haco made play, and join'd, and sprung
From side to side, like galliard young.
Now on his golden shield he clang'd;
Now on his foeman's buckler bang'd;
Now back, now forward would he fly,
In hopes to catch a royal eye.
But all the feints he could perform
Were lost on drowsy Donald Gorm;
Though life and death were laid in stake,
He held his guard as scarce awake.
The prince grew reckless and surprised,
Thinking his foeman him despised;
And, pressing down that sluggish brand,
He closed with Donald hand to hand.
Then did a furious course ensue,
Of push and parry, hack and hew;
Until the prince, in sidelong bound,
Gave Donald's thigh a ghastly wound.
Then burst the chief's inherent ire
Forth like the blaze of smother'd fire.
Alas! 'twas bravery's parting qualm,
The rending blast before the calm;
The last swoln billow in the bay,
When winds have turn'd another way.
“Curse on thy wanton slight!” he cried,
“Thou gossip for a maiden's side!
And curse upon the wizard charm,
That thus hath chain'd M'Ola's arm,
Whose pristine might and majesty
Were framed to punish ten like thee!
Here's to thy foppish heart abhorr'd!
Ward, if thou may'st, this noble sword.
And bear him back his curse and ban;
And say, that I'll requite it well,
In whate'er place he dares to dwell—
In earth, in cloud, in heaven or hell!”
Thus saying, Donald forward flung,
And at the prince his weapon swung
With back and forward sweep amain;
But only fought the wind and rain,
Or thing invisible to man.
He toil'd, he wheel'd, and forward ran;
But not one stroke, for all his fume,
So much as levell'd Haco's plume,
Or downward on his buckler rang,
Or made his golden helmet clang:
His rage seem'd madness in th' extreme—
The struggle of a frenzied dream.
The prince kept guard, but smiled to see
The wildness of his enemy;
At length, with flourish, and with spring
Forward, like falcon on the wing,
He pierced the raving maniac's side:
Forth well'd the warm and purple tide;
And, like an oak before the storm,
Down crash'd the might of Donald Gorm.
A shout from Norway's files too well
Proclaim'd the loss Scot dared not tell.
“True son of Odin!” Eric cried,
And rush'd on Mar with madden'd stride.
“Presumptuous lord! What thing art thou
That comest King Eric's ire to brow?
Would that I had (if such there be)
A score of Scottish lords like thee!
With dint of this good sword of mine,
I'd heap them all on Odin's shrine!”—
So saying, at one dreadful blow,
He shear'd the warrior's helm in two,
With lightning's force.—The Scottish lord
Lies prostrate o'er his bloodless sword.
By this time giant Osnagar
Was from his station borne afar;
And sore by Allan Bane oppress'd,
Heaved like the sea his ample chest;
His hand unto his weapon clave—
Scarce could he wield that weighty glaive.
He in his targe to trust began,
For blood o'er all his armour ran;
And, as he wore from side to side,
Most bitterly to Odin cried.
One other minute in the strife,
And Osnagar had yielded life;
But to that goal when Allan press'd,
Two other swords met at his breast.—
“Yield!” cried King Eric, “yield, or fall!”—
“I never did, and never shall!”
The chief replied.—But Eric's arm
Waved back his friends from further harm.
“Most generous king, I will not yield,
Nor living quit the combat-field:
Come one, come all, this arm to try—
Here do I stand, to win or die.
Shall it be told on Lochy's side,
That Allan Bane for rescue cried?”
King Eric smiled, and made reply:
“Thou bear'st thyself most gallantly;
We're three to one, and doubly strong;
But none shall gallant foeman wrong:
Then yield thee to a king this day,
Whose sword in battle ne'er gave way.”
“For once it shall!” bold Allan cried,
And made a blow at Eric's side.—
“Hurra!” cried Eric joyfully;
“I'll trust this wight with none but me.
Keep all aloof, both friend and foe,
Till we two change a single blow.
His wayward will he needs must have,
Though he is one I fain would save.”
Clash went the swords, the bucklers clash'd,
And 'gainst each other soon were dash'd;
But short the strife, ere Allan Bane
Lay stunn'd upon the slippery plain,
Bereft of buckler and of brand,
But without wound from Eric's hand.
He was no more in Eric's clasp
Than leopard in the lion's grasp.
The king upraised the wondering thane,
With soothing words and smiling mien;
Returned his sword, and, as a charm,
Bound golden bracelet round his arm;
Then, in a bold, impatient strain,
These words address'd to Allan Bane:—
“Thou art as stout and stanch a knight
As ever braved our northern might;
But know thou this (and when thou dost,
Thou know'st it to thy nation's cost),
In youth, before this beard was brown,
Or only waved a golden down,
I, from a child to battle bred,
Was forth to single combat led;
Before my eighteenth year, I say
Had clothed this chin, which now is gray,
Within the lists I had to fight
For life, before my father's sight.
I won, and of applause was vain.
I've fought a thousand times since then;
In southern climes have laurels won
Beyond the seasons and the sun;
I've journey'd all the world around,
Wherever fame was to be found;
Have fought with Frank and Turcoman,
With prince, with vizier, and with khan;
And though their painim creed I spurn'd,
This sword was ne'er in combat turn'd.
“The seventh day we fight again,
In triple combat, on the plain;
But as well may you challenge then
Great Odin, prince of gods and men,
Red streaming from the forge of heaven,
Trying its power to countercharm,
As brave the force of Eric's arm.
“This tell the nobles of your land;
And say, I make sincere demand
Of them, ere more deray is done,
To yield the queen. I have her won.
I flinch not from my royal seal:
It is in friendship I appeal.
But should they wish again to just,
And in the second combat trust,
'Tis well; then henceforth I must claim
The guardship of the royal dame.
They have but choice 'twixt bad and worse;
I claim but what I'll take perforce.
One hour I wait return discreet—
The next I do as I think meet.”
By that time Mar had breathed his last,
And Donald Gorm was nearing fast
The bourne of all the human race;
Yet, in his stern and rugged face,
There seem'd no terror, wrath, or teen,
Save at some being all unseen.
When Haco raised him to his knee,
He look'd aside most movingly,
And to the wind these words address'd—
He saw nought but the slaughter'd priest!—
“Ay, thou may'st stand, and smile, and beck,
With thy half head on half a neck;
M'Ola soon shall be with thee,
His sworn and subtile enemy.
Thou basilisk of burning spheres!
Thou, and thy hellish, damn'd compeers,
With dreams and visions of dismay,
And terrors of a future day—
With dreadful darkness, fire, and storm,
At last have vanquished Donald Gorm!
But some shall rue, since so it be:
Go to, go to—I'll be with thee.”
The hero turn'd his beamless eye
Toward the grisly peaks of Skye:
Some thought unfathomed seemed to hover
His dark departing spirit over—
Of roaming on his mountain wind,
Swifter than hawk or dappled hind:
Of stag-hound's bay and bugles swelling,
And answering echoes bravely yelling;
But all was one distorted scene,
The vision of a soul in pain,
That trembled, neither bound nor free,
'Twixt time and immortality.
With that wild look it fled for ever,
From hollow groan, and rigid shiver—
From clenched hand, and writhing brow—
Eternal God!—What is it now?
5. PART FIFTH.
Of queenly Dunedin,
Array'd in thy beauty and gladdening smiles;
Thine the control I list,
Lovely mythologist!
Thine the monition that never beguiles.
Over the hero's grave;
Over the darkness of ages gone by;
Be thou my inquirer,
And holy inspirer,
And keenly I'll follow the glance of thine eye.
Far most I implore thee,
When rapt in the strain that I love beyond measure;
That theme so ecstatic,
Sublime and erratic,
The love of a maiden, the magnet of pleasure!
Roll'd in his bavaroy,
Far in the gloom of the dark Polar Sea;
What were the warrior's deed,
Minstrel or monarch's meed,
What, without hope of approval from thee?
The world's admiration,
Thy mind is a mystery I cannot explore;
I'll love and caress thee,
Admonish and bless thee,
But sound the high tone of thy feelings no more.
And dread of to-morrow,
Have bow'd down thy bard on his cold native lea;
Then list the last lay
Of the green bracken brae,
The song is a medley, and model of thee.
For the storm and the shower
Had driven the maidens within;
And shrouded the view
Of the anxious few
That yearn'd over the fates of their kin.
The queen sat reclining,
She knew not what was befalling;
But she boded deep dismay,
For the shouts were far away,
And each sound through the storm was appalling.
Who hasted away incontinent;
But out of the throng, the mire, and the rain,
No one return'd with the tidings again;
And the first that arrived was Allan Bane.
All sheeted in blood appear'd he there,
And his looks and his words were all despair.
King Eric's message in full he told,
And of his claim the queen to hold;
Then vouched the boast of his warrior slight,
As far inferior to his might;
For he said, that “enchanter's mighty charm
Had given that force into his arm.
The combat was lost; no power to deliver!
And so would the next, and the next for ever.”
As every rankling pang kept place
In various breasts; one there might see
Anger, regret, temerity,
Hope, fear, contempt, elation, shame,
And every passion tongue can name,
All crowded on a darksome scene,
With scarce a ray of light between.
When the sun takes a joyless leave,
Descending on some distant coast,
Beyond the waste of waters lost,
The ocean's breast all overspread
With shades of green and murky red,
With distant fields of sackcloth hue,
With pale, with purple, and with blue,
And every shade defined and strong,
Without one cheerful ray among;
And knew'st these spectres multiform,
The heralds of approaching storm:
So was it here. Proud Albyn's blood
Began to boil, the storm to brood;
Some blamed the preference by lot;
Nor were old jealousies forgot.
Some blamed the brave and wounded thane
Of brangle hurtful and insane;
And said, A thousand might be found
Would Eric beat, in Albyn's bound.
It was a scene of feud and dare,
As feudal councils always were.
His reverend age insured respect—
And thus he spoke: “My sovereign dame,
And noble maids, and chiefs of fame,
Hard is our fate, whate'er the worth
Of this bold wooer of the north.
This city of our fathers' names
In one short hour may be in flames,
And with the thousands of our kin
That now are throng'd its walls within,
Of every age, sex, and degree,
How dreadful would the sequel be!
King Eric's claim, confess I must,
Can scarcely be pronounced unjust;
'Tis only that for which he fought,
Else he has staked his all for nought—
And should he win again, 'tis clear
(And likely too from all we hear),
If we such claim should disallow,
He has no more than he has now.
Therefore I deem, in such a case,
To save our gather'd populace,
We must to Eric straight present
Some pledge, some great equivalent,
If such there be; but as for more,
I said but as I said before,
The moment with our queen we part,
Our country's freedom we desert.”
“For me no warrior's hand be tied.
When I am gone, as go I must,
I in your patriot ardour trust,
That by your country's rights you stand,
Nor lose one jot for maiden's hand.
This hour I go, ere worse arrives,
To save my people's sacred lives.”
Around the hall, from man to man;
And all prepared to take the field:
To sell their lives, but not to yield
Their youthful queen; as, doing so,
They stoop'd unto a foreign foe.
And nought but havoc was in view,
The city crowded perilously,
No room to fight, nor yet to flee;
Confusion, ruin, crowds aghast,
Defeat, and conflagration vast,
The certain consequence to be
Of this their fierce fidelity.
Not from the clan of distant chief,
From friendly prince, nor subject isle,
But from a maiden's witching wile!
The restless Wene, since she had seen
Prince Haco, sore perplex'd had been;
And much she long'd for some deray,
To throw her in that hero's way,
Whose youthful arm and sprightly form
Had cow'd the might of Donald Gorm;
And hence her mind was wholly bent
On being with her mistress sent,
An hostage to King Eric's tent.
Of Albyn's chiefs would straight involve
The land in trouble, toil, and woe,
And all her measures overthrow,
Forthwith she rose with seemly grace,
And all her majesty of face,
And proffer'd, for her mistress' sake,
Her place of royalty to take;
In such an adverse exigence.
“In all the pomp of royalty;
With maids and pages at my beck,
Kneeling, and bowing with respect;
And loads of comfits, and of dress
Blazing in eastern sumptuousness.
His forward claim he may repent,
I'll queen it to his heart's content!
One only claim to make I choose,
Which as a king he can't refuse;
It is that, as a virgin queen,
My face by man may not be seen,
Until the seven days are outrun,
And Albyn's chiefs have lost or won.
This for my country's sake I crave,
Now trembling o'er her freedom's grave;
And then I yield me to his hand,
An hostage for my native land.
To plague that king I have a mind:
If he's not sick of woman kind,
And, ere the seventh day, driven insane,
My name no more is Wicked Wene!”
And lauded much the maiden's sleight;
But sore they fear'd the plot would fail,
And do more mischief than avail.
Wene's form was slight, her stature small,
The queen's majestically tall;
And, worst of all, the king had seen
And held some converse with the queen.
She should be taller by a head,
Than Eric could of queenship guess;
She'd add one inch of wickedness,
And three of beauty, pride, and mind,
Should dazzle mighty Eric blind.
She'd swathe the braggart in amaze,
If not drive mad, in seven short days.
No mistress e'er had such a maid;
And if success this effort crown'd,
She would for ever be renown'd;
For future bards, in many a strain,
Would sing the deeds of beauteous Wene.
And when a lover she should choose,
Her sovereign would no boon refuse;
While all her interest she might claim
To win a lord of noble fame.
“Preserve your interest for yourself,
My generous queen; for you may need
That and some more, in marriage speed.
For me, henceforth I'll use mankind
As I would do the passing wind—
To breathe upon, and bid it fly
Away from great important I!
Or to supply this ardent breast
With cooling laughter and with jest.
Interest! The proffer is sublime!
Come, let us go, we lose but time.
When from this presence I depart
In all the pomp of female art,
'Mid grandeur and respect to move,
I'll queen it mortal queens above.”
There was no mode so safe as this,
Save for the danger of the maid,
Of which she nothing seem'd afraid.
The queen assured them that she knew
The cunning of the lively shrew
Too well from trial, to suspect
That what she said she'd not effect.
Forthwith a herald went with speed
To Eric at his army's head,
Prepared to bathe their weapons' rust,
And lay old Beregon in dust.
Eric, with generous love inspired,
Conceded all the queen desired,
And straight made preparation high
For this most lovely prodigy—
This queen, of frame and soul refined,
Surpassing all of human kind!
To roar amid the Grampian waste,
In one dark elemental stole
These everlasting hills to roll;
And in that deep impervious cloud
Were roll'd, as in a hellish shroud,
The hail, the thunder, and the flame;
And ghastly shades, without a name,
Holding them all in order due,
Prepared the outrage to renew—
To sport them all in wild excess,
And riot in the wilderness.
Forth issued Wene, like meteor gay,
With music pealing on the wind,
And troops before and troops behind;
Twelve pages, glancing all in green;
Twelve maidens, in their tartans sheen;
Twelve bards, who sung, in strains intense,
Their sovereign's great magnificence,
And deeds her ancestors had done,
Surpassing all beneath the sun.
All were sincere, you may believe't—
How oft poor minstrels are deceived!
The beauteous dame herself was borne
On high, a gilded throne within—
A lightsome, yielding palanquin;
Her form begirt with many a gem,
Her head with sparkling diadem;
A gauzy veil of snowy white,
Befringed with gold and silver bright,
Circling a form so passing fair,
So pure, so lovely, so benign,
It almost seem'd a thing divine.
Surrounded by his nobles grim,
Came forth the royal dame to meet,
And with kind salutations greet.
Behind him shone a goodlier view—
Prince Haco and his retinue;
And he himself that train before,
Robed in the armour which he wore
That morn upon the sanguine field,
The golden helmet and the shield;
And in his youthful hand display'd
The golden hilt and bloody blade,
All saying, with full fond regard,
“See for your sake what I have dared!”
Oh how his ardent bosom pined
For one sweet glance, approving, kind,
Of the dear being he had seen,
And now his bosom's only queen!
Music sounding, lances gleaming,
Borne on high by gallant yeomen
Slowly forth to Albyn's foemen:
There stood Eric, smiling, bowing—
What a form for youthful wooing!
Bearded, dark, robust, and vigorous,
Stern, gigantic, blunt, and rigorous,
All his youthful manner over—
Such a man to play the lover,
'Mid such array, and such a scene,
And to such elf as wicked Wene!
Return'd King Eric's courtesy,
With grace so courteous, and so kind,
It quite deranged the hero's mind.
He kiss'd his brown and brawny fist,
And laid it on his ample breast;
Then grinn'd with most afflicting leer,
And from his visage wiped the tear!
His nobles blush'd, and fretted sore,
And so did Eric, when 'twas o'er.
His face was like a winter day
Aping the summer's glancing ray,
With sunbeam low, and rainbow high,
Arching a frigid boreal sky,
Shaded with cloud so darkly bleak,
Like pall upon creation's cheek,
Rather than summer's youthful hue,
And cloudlets weeping balmy dew.
And many a pompous, swelling word,
Approach'd King Eric, and at large,
Deliver'd o'er the sacred charge—
A charge, in value and esteem,
Ne'er trusted to a king but him.
Eric, with nodding burgonet,
Return'd an answer most discreet,
With sacred promise to neglect
No kind of homage or respect:
Wene curtsey'd with commanding air,
And motion'd him behind her chair!
Uncertain if to laugh or frown;
But when he saw the flimsy fair
Moving like angel through the air,
With such a glittering gaudy show
Of flounce, and frill, and furbelow,
His eyes descended from the jilt
Slowly upon his weapon's hilt,
And something that he mutter'd there
Made all his warriors stern to stare.
Her little heart ne'er beat so high:
Full well she noted, as she pass'd,
His eager glances upward cast,
And, turning by her snowy veil,
With such a glance, and such a smile,
And such a transport of delight—
Prince Haco's heart was ravish'd quite!
Wene and her retinue were sent,
And strict commands were left therein,
To Frotho, the old chamberlain,
That Albyn's queen and suite should have
Whate'er their utmost thoughts could crave:
To that the king had bound him fast,
And he would keep it to the last.
He little wist what vixen guest
Under his guardship he had ta'en,
But found it nothing to his gain.
Ere half an hour had overpast,
Frotho had applications vast
For things so rare and unforeseen,
He cursed his chance, the truce, the queen.
At first the old man did not miss
To bustle round, and answer “yes;”
But, ere the fall of night, he stood
More like a chamberlain of wood,
Than living thing of flesh and blood;
His senses utterly confounded,
With pages and with maids surrounded,
Calling for this, for that, for more
Than the old man, with all his lore,
Had e'er heard specified before.
To Eric's presence did he fare,
With face that told how hard his lot,
And eyes that spoke what tongue could not,
Begging his master on his knee,
Of that dire charge his slave to free.
But the fourth time he came outright;
And then his straits were at the height.
For sake of this illustrious maid;
And, when aroused from deep repose,
Full high his pride and choler rose:
“Frotho, begone! By heaven's good light,
I'll hear no more of queens to-night!”
I've served thee long, and served thee well;
But such a task as I have had
For one day more will drive me mad.
My heathbell beer, and cider good—
And two such browsts were never brew'd—
They've pour'd all forth; and now they whine
And yawn, and weep, and cry for wine.
My fish, they say, is food for hogs;
My hams they cast unto the dogs;
And seem united in one plot,
To crave for all that I have not.
And now, to crown these insults high,
The queen desires respectfully,
Her royal ally straight to send
Orders their treatment to amend;
And that 'tis meet her maids and she
Have night apartments separately,
Yet all conjoin'd, for their repose.
What's to be done, great Odin knows!
Nor better than a lion's den;
And high-born dames can't make them lairs
On hides of badgers and of bears:
And, therefore, she intreats you, grant
Them chambers, which they greatly want.
For sake of Heaven, my master kind,
Return that pestilence, Queen Hynde!”
“A plot amongst her nobles laid
To win their sacred pledge again:
Such stratagems are my disdain.
No crime to me shall one impute—
I'll keep her, and my word to boot;
And if I fail, all men shall see
From fault of mine it shall not be.
I'll keep her till the time be run,
And the last combat lost or won;
Else she is more to reason blind
Than all the rest of womankind.”
She's free of that as of a sword.”
And hurrying on his cloak and hood,
Went forth at midnight gallantly,
Beds for these maidens to supply.
A fair arrangement soon was made;
Queen Wene in Haco's tent was laid—
The very spot on earth where she
Wish'd that her residence might be:
Her sprightly lover and his train
Her guards, all rudeness to restrain.
Oh ne'er was maid so blest as Wene!
And all the coquetry and airs
Of blooming maids, I do not deign—
Such theme is no delight of mine:
But Haco was in love sincere,
As most of youthful warriors are;
And Wene held hers of higher worth
Than e'er did maiden of the north.
Were kept for days and nights awake;
And there were fretting, toying, whining,
Jealousies, and inward pining,
Fears what others might discover,
Speaking looks that bless the lover!
Which Wene contrived to plague the king;
So much she drove him from his wit,
No suit from her he would admit;
He spent his days 'mid thousands round,
His nights where he could not be found;
And thus the lovers had their leisure
For grief, for strife, for pain, or pleasure.
But darker paths are to be trod,
For darker doings are abroad;
And secrets strange are on the wing,
Which you must list, and I must sing.
Of woman's importunity,
And to the nobles of his land
Pass'd round the cup with ready hand:
When, lo! the captain of the ward
Brought in a stranger under guard!—
“My liege, here is a churlish wight,
Who craves admission to your sight;
But neither will his name disclose,
Nor whether of our friend or foes;
But so important is his suit,
He will no other tongue depute.”
Who, thrusting his officious nose
Into the affairs of other men,
Presumes their notice to obtain.—
Speak out, intruder—say at once
Thy name, thy business, and from whence?”
They're for King Eric's private ear.
If thou art he, I deem it fit
That these gruff carles who round thee sit,
Should be dismiss'd; for I have theme
Of which you could not even dream—
It is so base. Perhaps I'll sue
For matters touching maidens too:
That's as I choose; but must request
Your private ear, if so you list.”
From thy presuming sauciness,
From whom thou comest; but perchance
Thy errand thou shalt miss for once.
Drag forth the knave without the line;
This is no business hour of mine.”
Of this austere and stubborn guest;
But better had his hand withheld—
The stranger's haughty blood rebell'd:
He aim'd a blow so fierce and full
On that rude captain's burly skull,
That down he dropp'd with growlings deep,
Mumbling out oaths as in a sleep.
The stranger cried indignantly;
“I stand unarm'd, as knight should do
Who comes before a king to bow,
Else I had given thee, for thy meed,
That which should have laid low thy head
In peace from insult or affray,
Until the final judgment-day.
Here do I stand in Eric's sight,
A messenger in my own right,
Who tidings bring you to your cost;
Refuse them, and your army's lost,
While you shall stand as stocks or poles,
A horde of brainless jobbernoles,
A byword ever to remain:
Dismiss me at your peril and pain.”—
King Eric stood, amazed to see
The stranger's bold effrontery,
And to a chamber led the way,
To listen what such guest would say.
And show'd to Eric's wondering eyes
A chief he formerly had known,
A traitor to the Scottish throne,
With whom he secret league had framed:
That chief in song must not be named;
Such shame it is to move a hand,
Or utter word, or lift a brand
Against our sacred native land.
Such cursed laurels, and such fame,
Shall blur the face of heaven with shame.
According to my pledged word,”
The traitor said. “In enmity
I fought against thy sway and thee;
My life by thee was saved, and all
My people from Norwegian thrall:
I will requite it, if I may.
Eric, with all thy proud array,
With all thy might, and valour wild,
Thou art as simple as a child.
Thou think'st thou hast within thy tent
A pledge the most magnificent;
The jewel of all earthly things,
The daughter of an hundred kings:
Eric (to Albyn's shame be't said),
Thou nothing hast but waiting maid,
And some few gigglets of the court
Sent forth of thee to make their sport.
And all the riches of the town;
Each thing of value is defaced,
Or safely in Dunstaffnage placed;
The guards are set at ford and pier,
And now at thee they laugh and jeer.
The queen by night was borne away—
I bore a hand across the bay,
And viewed the works—the huge fascines,
The fosse, the bridge, the martial lines;
And must confess, ere them you win,
You'll buy all dear that is within.”
His indignation to declare
In human speech: he look'd around,
And smiled, with eyes cast on the ground;
But when again those eyes were raised,
A flame unearthly in them blazed,
Which, from a face of generous light,
Had something dreadful to the sight.
It was as if the lightning's gleam
Had mingled with the noonday beam—
As ray of heaven and flash of hell
Together upon mortals fell.
When other message on him press'd:
Odin's high-priest it was who came,
With bloody hands and bloated frame—
A man who Eric more enchain'd
Than he the serfs o'er whom he reign'd.
And thus he spoke:—“O mighty king,
Some dire events are gathering
Around our heads. The heavenly host
Is wroth, and Norway's army's lost,
Unless these tyrants of the skies
Are straight appeased by sacrifice.
And Thor's, and Freya's, nine times nine
Of living creatures, one and all,
On which they feast in Odin's hall;
But all my omens are of death,
And all my answers given in wrath.
Now, mighty king, there's but one meed;
A human sacrifice must bleed.
A solemn offering there must be
Of stainless virgins three times three;
Though all the bounds of Caledon
In search of them should be outgone,
They must be had, whate'er the cost—
Else thou, and I, and all, are lost.
If these are found, in beauty's prime,
And to Valhalla sent in time,
And reap Valhalla's boisterous joys—
I pledge my word, and faith in Heaven,
Ample success shall yet be given
Unto your arms. But, sure as thou
And I are living creatures now,
That rite neglected, all is done,
And mighty Eric's race is run.”
Thou ne'er could'st come in better time:
I now have under my control
Twelve virgins, pure of frame and soul;
And thou as freely them shalt have
As e'er thou hadst a worthless slave.
Without the light of Odin's eye,
We're less than nought and vanity;
Then take them all, without debate,
And on thy altars immolate.
Captain, attend my strict behest:
Go forth with Odin's ancient priest,
And guard the altar of the Sun,
Until this great oblation's done;
And whosoever dares control
This high command, or fret, or growl,
Straight cut him off, whate'er he be,
Regardless of his high degree.”
When Eric's ireful looks he saw;
He deem'd the order given in jest,
If not in mockery of a priest.
To immolate a sovereign dame,
And hostage maidens without blame,
Was act so ruthless and severe,
As Scania's annals did not bear.
But when he heard the closing threat,
His blood-shot eye became elate;
And through his soul of dark alloy
There darted stern and bloody joy.
The sons of God before the throne
Of their almighty Father came,
To pay their vows, and name his name;
And there came one, the rest among,
In hopes that, in the glorious throng,
A skulking vagabond and spy
Might 'scape his lord's omniscient eye—
Think how that felon would appear
When these dread words fell on his ear,
“Whence comest thou?”—Sure then that eye
That once had beam'd in heaven high,
Would be upraised in terror, fierce,
Towards the Lord of the universe!
If that great God had added then,
“Go, seize that righteous, best of men,
My servant Job, with all his kin,
And close them up thy den within
For evermore”—think of the air,
The savage joy, the dark despair,
That would have mingled in the mien
Of face that once had angel's been!
And think, too, of this look below—
This look from type of mankind's foe!
I love to draw a scene to thee
Where misconstruction cannot be,
And spread it to thy spirit's view,
In hopes the mental glass is true.
The war-note rang from brake and brae,
And Norway's warriors rush'd with joy
To reave, to ravish, and destroy.
The priest of Odin likewise went
Up to Prince Haco's gaudy tent,
And laid the splendid Wene in thrall,
With her attendant maidens all.
Their feet with silken bands they tied,
Their lily hands down by each side;
Then bathed their bodies in the milk,
And robed them in the damask silk;
While every flower of lovely bloom,
And all that shed the sweet perfume,
In wreaths and fillets richly bound,
Bedeck'd their heads and bodies round.
The red rose of Damascus shed
Down from the brow the tints of red,
O'er faces late in beauty's glow,
But now as pale as winter snow.
Stretch'd side by side in bridal white;
Their lips in prayer to be forgiven;
Their streaming eyes turn'd towards heaven;
While Odin's priest and suffragan
The consecration-work began.
On that benignant sacrifice,
And, lifting up his hands on high,
The briny tear dropp'd from his eye:
It was not for the grievous doom
Of beauty blasted in the bloom,
But at the triumph and delight
Would be in Odin's halls that night.
He thought how his great god would laugh,
And how his warrior ghosts would quaff
Their skull-cups, fill'd unto the brim,
In long and generous healths to him
Who sent them such a lovely store
As warrior ghosts ne'er saw before;
And then he thought, how welcome he
In high Valhalla's dome would be.
Thy lingering, longing creature—man;
Who from the time that reason's ray
Beams from his eye on nature's sway,
Still onward must insatiate press
To unknown state of blissfulness.
One summit gain'd, how many more?
Before! before! 'tis still before,
Beyond the range of sun and star,
He rears himself a heavenly home,
In glory's everlasting dome.
Be something dark and unconceived;
And, distant far, involved must be
In shadows of futurity:—
Our Caledonian sires of yore
Look'd upward to their mountains hoar,
As to the place they loved the best
For home of everlasting rest;
And there, within his shroud of mist,
The rude, romantic sciolist
Hoped with the souls of friends to meet,
And roam in conversation sweet;
Or on his downy bark to sail,
High o'er the billows of the gale.
The Scandinavian look'd before
For wine and wassail, ramp and roar;
For virgins radiant as the sun,
And triumphs ever, ever won;
For revels on the fields above,
And maddening joys which warriors love.
But now, where rests the morbid eye
Of sceptical philosophy?
On the cold grave; and only this—
Worms, dust, and final nothingness!
Great God! within this world of thine,
Is there a human soul divine
That hopes no further bliss to scan!
How dark the question, “What is man?”—
What he hath been, the world can see;
Thou only know'st what he shall be!
The battle raged in Beregon.
With Eric's host the day went hard,
Which caused the holy altar's guard
To be withdrawn. A virgin's prayer
No passing gale can waft in air
From its high aim: the gods are kind,
And lover's eyes are ill to blind.
The stir within the camp beheld—
For still his eyes unconscious moved
Toward the treasure which he loved—
And sore he fear'd mischance might fall
To Albyn's queen and maidens all.
He sent a friend, whose truth he knew,
That scene of bustle to review,
And bring him word. Short then the space
Ere Haco vanish'd from his place,
And more with him, for there was need
Of ardent lover's utmost speed.
Whether in frolic or despite;
And even this splendid sacrifice
Held some enchantment to her eyes;
The robes, the flowers, the proud display,
The pallid forms that round her lay,
Whom Wene from year to year had known
To frolic prone, and that alone.
Though sore beset, she felt delight,
Some sly enjoyment, at their plight;
For still she deem'd that honour's law
So dire a warrant would withdraw.
And their white robes aside had flung;
When from long words they came to deeds;
Had laid their hands on victims' heads,
And sacred fire deposed the while,
To set on flame that lofty pile;
Good sooth! but Wene thought it was time
For her best wits to be in prime;
And straight she brought them to the test—
They ne'er could be in more request.
Had strew'd the death-dew on her breast,
(An ointment rich in heavenly worth,
And fragrance of the flowery north;)
And said the words that they were all
To say on entering Odin's hall,
Wene thus, with sharp and cutting speech,
Presumed the pedagogues to teach:—
And dolts that drudge at his command;
If you dare Christian maidens send
To Odin's hall, 'tis at an end—
Valhalla falls! And, take my word,
His godship of the shield and sword
From heaven descends with all his crew,
Driven headlong from yon vales of blue,
A banish'd, branded, broken corps,
Doom'd to disturb the heavens no more.
Should better know these things than you;
For God's vicegerent must have wit
What the Supreme approves as fit;
And this is truth. If you would please
Great Odin, and his wrath appease,
Preserve us lovely, living things,
An offering to your King of kings.
For, should you dare suppose that he,
A god, so brutalized could be,
As in dead virgin to delight
More than in living beauty bright,
You shall stand beacons of his scorn,
And rue the time that you were born!
With anger, hath to you consign'd
Me and my maidens, to disgrace
The faith of Odin's kingly race;
On this rely: his ire and hate
Will turn on you when all too late;
For on his name you fix a stain
That ne'er can be wash'd out again.
And for a word in churlish mood
Dare not to break through law divine,
And bring a curse on all your line;
That curse that rends from Heaven's fair grace,
Pronounced by all the human race.”
The priesthood smiled in scornfulness,
But the last part appear'd too true,
Even to their own distorted view.
They paused, and whisper'd round the pile,
Keeping the flame subdued the while.
The virgins cried aloud to God
To look down from his blest abode,
And for his sake, who took the scorn
Of earthly virgin to be born,
Regard their peril and their grief,
And in his mercy send relief.
The priest of Odin was distress'd,
But to proceed he judged it best;
Though reason show'd the thing unjust,
These Christian prayers were ne'er to trust.
But seem'd to mount in slow regret;
Reluctantly, from spray to spray,
It crackled, hiss'd, and crept away.
The smoke arose in writhing pain,
Then bent its course to earth again,
As if affrighten'd to bedim
The snowy robe and tender limb;
A throe of hesitation dumb
Seem'd struggling not to be o'ercome.
Aye, in the lovely and the young,
Supreme; and blest the shrewd surmise
That marr'd this odious sacrifice!
Before the prayer of rueful Wene
Had half-way reach'd the last Amen;
Before the blaze had half-way won
Around the altar of the Sun,
The gods, or men, contrived so well
(For which the priests could never tell)
To send relief, that at one bound
It seem'd to spring from out the ground.
A rapid rush of clansmen true,
In tartans dark, and bonnets blue,
Sprung on the pile as on a prey,
And bore the sacrifice away.
The priests were hurtled to a side,
And with the fetters firmly tied;
Then up the flame rose to the sky,
Without a human groan or cry;
While Odin's servants lay amazed,
And on the bloodless offering gazed.
Swift as an image of the mind,
The clansmen vanish'd from the scene,
As quickly as their rise had been;
Each bearing virgin on his arm,
Panting with joy and wild alarm,
Their forms bedeck'd with many a wreath,
And all the bridal robes of death.
And, as the priests lay on the field,
Full sore they wonder'd how they fared
So well; and why their lives were spared;
And how it happ'd their enemies
Had not made them the sacrifice.
But there they lay, safe and alone,
And the mysterious troop was gone
Without a word of threat or dare;
They could not tell from whence they were;
If by the sea or air they went,
Or if by man or angel sent!
But this most shrewd conjecture rose,
On priest's conception comatose,
That these gods of the Christian crew
Somewhat of earthly matters knew.
The battle roll'd like swelling tide;
Now southward, bearing all before,
Now north, with eddy and with roar.
It raged in every lane and street,
And space where foemen chanced to meet.
There was no foot of hallow'd ground,
The regal Beregonium round,
That, ere the setting of the sun,
Was, inch by inch, not lost and won.
Kept by the rampart of the hill,
And hurl'd their javelins afar,
Sore galling the Norwegian war;
But the fierce clansmen of the north,
And western tribes, of equal worth,
Rush'd to the fight withouten awe,
Whene'er a foeman's face they saw,
And grievous was the slaughter then,
Among the bravest Scottish men.
And what a stern and stormy strife
Prevail'd around, as far it spread,
Reeling, as warriors fought or fled!
Not then, as now, met mortal foes
In phalanx firm, to wheel and close,
Trying to win by warrior sleight,
Manœuvring by the left or right—
In those rude days they closed amain,
Fought shield to shield upon the plain;
And the more hot the battle glow'd,
The farther was it shed abroad;
Till every warrior, as might be,
Fought one with one, with two, or three;
And one resistless hero's hand
Oft bore the honours from a band.
Spread all along the level shore;
Men had not scope unto their mind;
And forth they issued, west around
The citadel, on level ground;
And there, in motley mortal coil,
Went on the battle's bloody toil.
Peopled the ghostly vales of death!
Where'er his rapid course he turn'd,
With deadlier heat the combat burn'd;
Forward, around, where Eric came,
There roar'd the vortex of the flame.
'Twas like the whirlwind's rolling ire
Careering through a field of fire,
Rending and tossing, as in play,
The thundering element away.
Of proud renown, hight Coulan Brande,
Who held his sway by forest stern,
And many a mountain dark and dern,
From where the Lwin meets the tide,
To proud Ben-Airley's shaggy side;
That land of red-deer and of roe,
Possess'd by the great Gordon now.
Amid the waning southern war;
And his red balachs of the hill
The foremost in the broil were still.
Ill brook'd he the degrading sight
Of that deray, by Eric's might;
The vortex came like rolling tide;
Brande call'd his followers to his side,
And bade them open and give ground
Till Eric pass'd, then wheel around,
And close upon his giant train,
Their ruthless ravage to restrain.
Be work like that of warriors done.
Let me behold no broad claymore
That is not stain'd with foeman's gore;
Let me behold no buckler's face
That is not clour'd with sword or mace.
And could you sever from his train
That Hector of the northern main;
Then, by my Ciothar's lofty crest,
That props the heaven's own holy breast,
And by that heaven's uplifted dome,
The warrior's everlasting home,
This sword shall make that hero's brow
Stoop lowlier than his footstep now!”
The boldest from his brand withdrew;
Red desolation mark'd his track;
For his fierce veterans, at his back,
On either side were hard bestead,
Where gallant foeman fought and bled,
Along the midst of Coulan's train.
Oh dreadful grew the conflict then!
For the red balachs of the fell,
With shout, with clangour, and with yell,
Rush'd on the Norse from either hill,
And sore, with broadsword and with bill,
Gall'd the array of that fierce train,
Who, back to back, could scarce sustain,
Upon their long outlengthen'd line,
The claymore and the brigantine;
For every man that Coulan led
Had his broad breast with bull's-hide clad.
Press'd forward in the bloody strife,
Till so it happ'd, his train out-gone,
There was he left to fight alone.
Coulan perceived, with joyous thought,
The chance had come for which he sought;
Longer the strife he could not shun,
Something illustrious must be done;
Either his life he must lay down,
Or raise his name to great renown.
Then rousing all his energies
To this momentous enterprise,
Shaking his javelin and claymore,
He took his stand the king before.
Presumptuous spoiler, stay thy hand,”
He cried, “and hear the truth severe,
That shall not quail for monarch's ear!
Say, is thy soul not darker now
Than e'er was Ethiop's sable brow,
Distain'd with every human crime,
That blotted has the rolls of time?
Detested persecutor! who
But thee would manhood's claim forego,
By raising war and breaking sooth
With beauty, innocence, and youth?
And, if no lies are on the wind,
With sacrifice of dreadful kind?
Thou monster! loathed be thy name
By all that bear the human frame!
Thy race is run, thy hour at hand,
God speed the shaft of Coulan Brande!”
With all his mountain might he threw,
And steady aim that might to tell,
But short the winged weapon fell;
For to his left wrist it was tied
With plaited thong of badger's hide;
And swifter than a mind can frame,
Unpractised in that warlike game,
He haul'd it back, and threw, and threw
With force increased, as nigh he drew.
For faster, fiercer, came the blows,
Without impediment or let,
From that aerial dragonet.
Stunning his brow and sovereign ear;
Yet farther durst he not advance,
But check'd his own precipitance;
For all his valour and his rage
Were temper'd by reflection sage.
He foam'd with ire, then plunged amain,
Like restive steed that scorns the rein,
But saw, if once his men he left,
An hundred balachs, stern and deft,
Watching with keen and eager eye,
Unto their leader's aid to fly;
And with a smile of fierce disdain,
He back drew to his lines again.
Lauding their brave and matchless lord,
Who, in the splendour of his might,
In single combat had outright
Put the great northern king to flight.
Where'er a combatant he found
That dared the strife! and many a brave
And gallant knight found timeless grave.
Oft did his glance embrace the strand,
In search of haughty Coulan Brande,
Who on his name had cast a stain
That would not well wash out again;—
Alas! he knew not, nor could see
How much more deep that stain would be!
The very ground on which he stood
He seem'd to spurn, as o'er the war
His eye roll'd loftily afar.
This, Donald Bane, his neighbour sly,
Beheld, and strode up hastily,
And said these words, for clansmen near
Each other's pride could never bear:—
For none, save thee, with sword or lance,
Can check yon scourge of Scotia's host;
Advance, or Albyn's banner's lost!
Gillespick's down; Clan-Gillan's broke;
Lochourn leans o'er his tarnish'd oak;
My brother Allan keeps aloof,
Trustless of arm and armour's proof;
The field's laid waste!—Oh, Brande, there's none
Can turn that tide but thou alone.”
Curling his lip, and eke his brow,
Straight onward, Eric to amate;
Yet, there was something in his gait
That show'd reluctance to the way;
A hurry, mingled with delay,
Perhaps an omen ill defined,
A darksome boding of the mind.
Eyeing the path with wistful dread,
And eyes with gleams of fury glancing,
Wheeling, snorting, rearing, prancing;
Till, lashed amain, away he breaks,
The steep ascent with fury takes,
And, panting, foaming, flounders on,
Until, his strength and spirits gone,
Straining to do more than he can,
Down rush the chariot, horse, and man.
The Lord of Lwin's forest land,
The hunter proud of Garnachoy,
Of Laggan, Lurich, and Glen-Roy.
Goaded along, he cross'd the field,
Uprear'd his sword, advanced his shield,
And straight in front of Eric ran,
And thus address'd the godlike man:—
Given thee to know thy puissance
Not matchless was. Why wilt thou then
Come fuming 'mid ignoble men,
Staining thy brand with boorish blood?
Tyrant, this braggart lustihood
Becomes thee not. Desist, for shame!
Here stands thy conqueror, thee to tame.”
Made answer to his keen ha, ha!
No more he said, but sword in hand
He ruthless rush'd on Coulan Brande;
Furious upon the chief he came,
Trowing his mountain might to tame
At the first blow; but tale he lost,
And reckon'd once without his host.
That Eric's furious rush and blow
Were borne aside with science yare,
And Eric spent his force in air;
So freely spent, that, on the strand,
Forward he stumbled o'er his brand;
And since his restless life began,
Such perilous risk it never ran.
To strike a prostrate foe behind;
Else doubt is none, that, in that strife,
Low at his steps lay Eric's life;
And kinsmen ever blamed the hand
That nail'd him not to Scotia's strand.
With shame the mighty monarch blush'd,
In such an onset thus to be
Outdone, and more in courtesy;
The pangs he felt were so severe,
They were too much for him to bear;
And wish from these his heart to free,
Had nearly brought him to his knee;
But pride of rank, and pride of name,
His brilliant and untarnish'd fame,
And whisper'd vengeance to his soul.
He rose and turn'd upon his foe;
Brande all undaunted met the blow;
And in the combat that ensued,
Show'd equal might and fortitude.
And, trusting to his powerful grasp,
From which no single force could free,
He closed with Brande impetuously;
And seizing on his gorget fast,
With wrench that giant force surpass'd,
He snapp'd the clasps of burnish'd steel;
And casque and cuirass, to his heel,
Came off with jangle and with clang,
And on the level roll'd and rang.
His buckler too, if not his sword,
Had in that struggle fall'n or broke;
He turn'd to fly; but at a stroke
Eric, while at his utmost speed,
Sheer from his body hew'd his head.
Far roll'd the bloody pate away;
The body ran, without a stay,
A furlong in that guise uncouth;
So said the Norse, and swore it truth!
Aroused the hero's warrior pride—
A moment roused it; but anon
On his brown cheek the tear-drop shone,
And throbs, that in his bosom's cell
Heaved like an earthquake, told too well
How sore he rued the ruthless blow
Inflicted on so brave a foe,
To whose high generous soul he owed
A life most haplessly bestow'd;
And, like a man from dream awoke,
These words he rather groan'd than spoke:
“Ah! how this laurel galls my brow!
Eric ne'er vanquish'd was till now.”
Round all the friths of Keila bay—
Parties with adverse parties meeting,
And both sides losing and defeating.
Where chief 'gainst adverse chief prevail'd,
Their partial success never fail'd;
And braver feats were never done
Than were that day round Beregon;
Nor more illustrious were the slain—
No, not on Ilium's classic plain.
In that dire day's confusion
Were Allan Bane, who, 'mid the war,
O'erthrew the giant Osnagar
Despite the monster's might in weir,
And execrations dread to hear:
Roaring and cursing his decay,
He foam'd his savage soul away.
Of dauntless heart, and steady hand,
Never, in all that bloody coil,
Engaged with foe he did not foil;
A Finnish prince and Danish lord
Both sunk beneath his heavy sword;
And all their buskin'd followers fierce,
Dismay'd at such a stern reverse,
Before the men of Navern dale
Fled like the chaff before the gale.
And Ross's wild and wide domain,
Bore on with unresisted sway;
He seem'd some demon of dismay,
That through the ranks of Scania's war
Bore desolation fierce and far;
His hideous face was grisly grim,
His form distorted every limb;
Yet his robust and nervous arm
Laid warriors low as by a charm—
For that rude form contain'd a mind
Above the rest of human kind.
Eric drew off ere it was late,
Scowling and sobbing by the way,
Like warrior that had lost the day;
And oft repeating, as before,
These words, that grieved his captains sore:
“Eric is conquer'd at the last!
His day of victory is o'erpast;
A conquest ne'er to be believed,
Reversed, remitted, nor retrieved!”
Gather'd his scatter'd bands around,
And from a fiercer, bloodier fray,
That note ne'er call'd his troops away;
For, though the 'vantage they had won,
Never was Eric so outdone.
The great emporium of the land,
The royal city now was lost,
And occupied by Eric's host;
The seven high towers of Selma too,
Alas! were all abandon'd now,
That for a thousand years had stood,
Circled by mountain, cliff, and flood,
And ne'er had oped at foe's behest,
Except to captive or to guest.
Placed Hynde amid a thousand snares;
Her throne, her city, and her state,
Beleaguer'd by a force so great,
That the least turn of fortune might
Place all at Eric's steps outright.
Her nobles, this to countervail,
Bore her away by oar and sail
In dead of night, and not alone;
Her court, her treasures, and her throne,
Where they had vantage-ground and space
To place their guards by ford and mere,
That none should come their treasure near.
That they, with coolness and revenge,
Fought out the field, from early noon
Until the rising of the moon;
And then drew off, from pursuit free,
In still and sullen enmity.
They practised had upon the foe,
They knew not yet on what pretence
Eric had dared this bold offence,
Breaking his faith without regard,
And rushing on them unprepared.
Their loss was great, without defeat;
Yet still their queen and coronet,
And sacred choir, they, all the three,
Had placed in full security;
Hence they resolved to suffer dumb
The good or ill, as each should come.
They placed around in order due,
And straight prepared, with rueful speed,
To pay due honours to the dead.
At dawn a messenger was sent,
With all despatch to Eric's tent;
To ask of him one peaceful day,
Due honours to their slain to pay.
O'erwhelm'd with sorrow and remorse,
He sat alone, and neither foe
Nor friend durst nigh his presence go.
His ruthless and ungenerous deed
Gnaw'd his great soul without remede;
And the brave youth he loved the most,
Prince Haco, was in battle lost,
With all the chief men of his train,
And were not found among the slain.
If these were captives, what avail
Had fall'n into his enemy's scale!
If they had only quit the land,
The sceptre trembled in his hand.
By which he trusted from the skies
Support to win, at Odin's frown,
That dear-bought hope had been struck down;
And now his priests, in deep despair,
Foreboded nought but dole and care.
Into what land these maids had gone—
If some intrepid chief's array
Had come and stolen his pledge away,
Or Odin had upborne them all
Alive into Valhalla's hall.
At all events, that stay was cross'd,
The mighty sacrifice was lost,
And Eric was assured too well
Of more mishap than tongue could tell;
In such a toilsome mood he flounced
When Albyn's herald was announced.
And this was all the answer brief
He deign'd unto the Scottish chief:
With son of that deceitful race
No speech I hold—no, not a word,
Save o'er the gauntlet or the sword.”
The Scots request one peaceful day,
To bury those in battle slain,
Which, if refused, they come again
Over their carcases to fight,
And God in heaven support the right!
For that dear privilege they'll stand,
While living man is in the land.”
King Eric said with kindling eye;
“And straight I grant it, with demand
That, at the bier of Coulan Brande,
I as chief mourner may appear;
Then all the obsequies, so dear
To kindred souls, shall mingled be,
Without offence or frown from me.
In feast and sport we all combine;
No answer—let the charge be mine.”
The arms of either host were pent
In heaps within each camp, and all
Flock'd to the mingled festival.
At Coulan's bier King Eric took
Chief place, with attitude and look
That struck both friend and foeman's eye
As fraught with dread solemnity.
High on the hill of Kiel were laid
The ashes of the mighty dead,
Hence call'd, with all its cairns so gray,
“Hill of the Slain,” until this day.
There, over Coulan's lowly urn,
The mighty Eric deign'd to mourn;
Bow'd his imperial head full low,
Wiped his red-eye and burning brow,
And thus address'd the gaping crowd,
That motley, moving multitude:—
I say the words that all may hear:
Here, o'er the dust of chief, I bow,
That conquer'd him who speaks to you.
He owns it. Eric of the north,
Who ne'er before acknowledged worth
Superior to his own, avows
That Coulan Brande has shorn his brows
Of all the honours there that grew,
So lone, untarnish'd, bright, and new.
A forfeit life held in his power;
That life was mine; it lay full low
Beneath his lifted, threaten'd blow:
But, scorning vantage and reward,
High honour only his regard,
His hand withheld the blow intended:
Would to the gods it had descended!
And cleft this heart, whose festering core
Feels pangs it never felt before.
Where was thine honour, Eric, then?
In heat of ire I struck the blow
That laid this injured hero low;
But that this stroke I did not stay
I'll rue until my dying day,
And to the world this truth proclaim—
Eric, with all his martial fame,
For once acknowledges compeer;
Vanquish'd in that he held most dear,
He shrouds the palm can ne'er return
Within this low and sacred urn.
In honour of this hero slain,
Contend in every manly game,
To be memorial of his name
And theirs, upon that fatal field,
Who rather chose to die than yield.
Prizes I grant of warrior store,
Such as were never given before.
For the chief hero's shield and brand,
The trial first of skill must be
Who throws the dart as well as he;
For in that art he could outdo
All men that ever javelin threw.
Hie to the contest; every throw
Be steady as at breast of foe.”
Prepared the javelin to fling;
But, of them all, the steadiest hand
And eye were those of Olaf Brande,
Who bore in triumph from the field
His honour'd brother's sword and shield,
Though it was ween'd superior skill
Could well have won, but had not will.
Was golden bracelet burnish'd bright,
To him that in the race should speed,
And chief, and hind, and all exceed.
For there no preference was to be
Conferr'd on lineage or degree;
Nor was it needful: in that age,
The low estate of vassalage
Withheld the peasant from the bound
Of high exploit or deed renown'd.
A being mean of mind and frame,
Of chief supreme the creature tame,
No heart had he, no towering hope
With proud Milesian might to cope;
And of these castes, as legends say,
The traits remain until this day.
The light of heart came pouring in—
All noble youths, of agile make,
Who loved the race for running's sake,
And hoped, at least, to mar the way
Of the superiors in the play;
But chiefly, if they saw the Norse,
Would Albyn's youths put to the worse.
All rank'd in one continuous row,
Stood stripp'd and belted for the fun,
And panting for the word to run.
The bugle sounded short and low—
A paleness glitter'd on each brow;
The bugle sounded loud and long,
And every chest, with heavings strong,
And mouth, seem'd gasping breath to gain
More than their circuits could contain.
The bugle's third note was a yell,
A piercing, momentary knell;
Oh what relief to every heart!—
It was the warning note to start.
Then, like a flock of sheep new shorn,
Or startled roes at break of morn,
Away they spring mid whoop and hollo,
And light of foot were those could follow.
All was confusion in the race;
For there was jostling, jumping, fretting,
And breasts with elbows rudely meeting.
One luckless youth, who took the van,
Had overstrain'd him as he ran;
His ardent breast had borne him so
Much faster than his wont to go,
That his untoward limbs declined
To strike as fast as he'd a mind;
Refused the effort with disdain,
And down he stumbled on the plain.
Before one could have utter'd cry,
Or sworn an oath, or closed an eye,
A dozen flagrant youths and more
Were heap'd and tumbling on the shore,
Each muttering terms uncouth to tell,
And cursing aye the last that fell.
Some join'd the laugh and lay reclined;
But now the interest grew extreme—
Feldborg the Dane, like lightning's gleam,
Shot far ahead, and still askance
Backward he threw his comely glance,
Which said full plainly, “I opine,
Most worthy sirs, the prize is mine.”
And still, as straining in the race,
A smile play'd on his courteous face;
With Danish Feldborg could compare?
And Feldborg still is gaining fast;
Aloud the joyous clamour grew
From Eric's grim and boisterous crew,
While one small voice alone could cry
From Albyn's host, “Fie, kinsmen, fie!”
Eon of Elry heard that word
Call'd by a loved and honour'd lord,
And straight the bold athletic bard
Was after Feldborg straining hard,
Skimming the sandy level plain
With swiftness man could not sustain.
To weave thy name in lofty rhyme!
To rank thee with the seraphim
Depends but on thy strength of limb!
But well thou knew'st that chief, or king,
Or living creature without wing,
To scale the heaven might try as well,
As run with thee and thee excel;
All this thou knew'st; it was thy boast,
And so did many to their cost.
For thou art gaining inch by inch;
Strain thy whole frame and soul to boot;
Nay, thou art gaining foot by foot;
The crowd perceives it with acclaim,
And every accent breathes thy name.
Eon of Elry, God thee speed!
One other stretch, and thou'rt ahead.
What does thy look equivocal
Note by thy side glittering so bright?—
A bracelet clasp, by Odin's might!
And that proud slieve in verity,
Eon of Elry forces by.
Strain, Feldborg, strain, or thou shalt lose;
His elbow kythes, and eke his nose!—
Where are they now? In moment gone!
And Feldborg gains the goal alone!
Elry lies prostrate on the plain,
Laughing aloud, in breathless pain,
Spurning the land with fitful scream;
While his bright eye's unearthly gleam,
Bespoke full well how ill content
His heart was with the incident.
With curling lip, and brow of flame,
And cheek that rankled half for shame,
He laughing rose, and wiped his brow,
“By Heaven, sir, I no more could do!”
Glitters on Feldborg's swarthy arm;
While he survey'd the trophy grand,
With countenance as proudly bland,
As every bard in Albyn green
An eulogist to him had been,
And given to him a fulsome lay,
The dearest pledge e'er came his way.
That stamps thee consummately great;
For thou hast vanquish'd one whose name
Stands highest on the list of fame.
Although an enemy and a Dane,
I hold thy victory immane;
Laud to thy noble visage swart!
Illustrious man of tale and chart!
Professor of the running art!
Was pitching of an iron mace
From buskin'd foot, which made it wheel
With whirling motion like a reel
Aloft in air—I not pretend
This ancient game to comprehend;
But yet th' expert could pitch it straight,
Like arrow at convenient height,
And lodge it at the farthest goal,
Fix'd in the earth like upright pole.
A Danish game it was, therefore
The Danish chiefs the mastery bore;
As for the Scots, they toil'd in vain;
Like coursers without curb or rein,
They spent their spirits and their might
In efforts without rule or slight.
As if in sport to share the game;
He heaved the mace like stager's poy,
And twirl'd it like a lady's toy;
Then from his buskin's brazen toe,
Like arching meteor made it go;
Till far beyond the utmost cast,
Deep in the soil 'twas planted fast.
No clamour rose, as one might trow,
From such a monarch's master-throw;
But through the host, from man to man,
A buzz of admiration ran,
And no one judged it for his thrift
The mighty mace again to lift.
With voice as though he meant to chide;
“Come! To the sport! It is confest
You're playing with it for a jest.
Pitch all again. I gave that throw
As earnest of what more I'll do.”
Or hemm'd, and smiled, and shook the head,
And all prepared the prize to yield,
And rush into some other field.
When lo! a burly peasant proud
Came dashing through the heartless crowd
Shouldering both chief and vassal by
As things of no utility.
Straight to th' avoided mace he broke,
And aye he stutter'd as he spoke;
Though what they were no man could tell.
Up from its hold he tore the mace,
And ran unto the footing place;
But, lo! his sinewy foot was bare,
Nor sandal, hoe, nor brog was there!
To pitch the iron club from thence,
Surpass'd even savage truculence.
The kerne look'd round for some remede,
And for a bonnet grasp'd his hair,
But a red snood alone was there.
With grasp of power he seized the bent,
A sod from the earth's surface rent;
Which, placing on his foot with care,
The massive club he rested there;
Then his strong limb behind him drew,
And grinn'd and goggled as he threw;
But with such force he made it fly,
It swither'd through the air on high,
Soughing with harsh and heavy ring,
Like sound of angry condor's wing,
Till far beyond King Eric's throw
It delved the earth with awkward blow.
His nobles with a curse replied,
And crowded to the spot outright,
To wonder at the peasant's might.
“Who, or what is this savage young?”
Was ask'd by every flippant tongue;
But to make answer there was none,
Nor one could tell where he was gone;
The golden prize on high was rear'd,
But claimant there was none appear'd.
Sent by the gods from hell below,
Against my growing power to plot,
And vanquish might which man could not,”
With look demure, King Eric cried.
“'Tis Lok!” each Scanian tongue replied.
The victor was not found, nor came
His prize of lofty worth to claim;
And all the Norse believed, and said,
Their king by Lok was vanquished.
Were won by youths of Diarmid's hall;
While Eric's soldiers took their loss,
With manners quarrelsome and cross.
But of the boat-race these made sure;
The gilded barge was theirs secure;
On that they reckon'd, and prepared
To row with skill and strength unspared.
Started at once with heaving prow;
With colours, flags, and plumes bedight;
It was forsooth a comely sight!
King Eric's seven good rowers swarth,
Chosen from all the sinewy north,
Were men of such gigantic parts,
And science in the naval arts,
And with such force their flashes hurl'd,
They fear'd no rowers of this world.
Took station on his barge's stem;
Secure of victory, and proud
To shoot before the toiling crowd,
And spring the first upon the shore;
Full oft he'd done the same before.
In proud array from Keila's shore,
With equal confidence endow'd;
To each seven rowers were allow'd;
But by the way they spied, with glee,
That one Scots barge had only three,
And she was bobbing far behind,
As toiling with the tide and wind;
The rowers laugh'd till all the firth
Resounded with the boist'rous mirth.
A nameless isle, and nameless yet;
And when they turn'd its southern mull,
The wind and tide were fair and full;
Then 'twas a cheering sight to view
How swift they skimm'd the ocean blue;
How lightly o'er the wave they scoop'd,
Then down into the valley swoop'd;
Like flock of sea-birds gliding home,
They scarcely touch'd the floating foam,
But like dim shadows through the rain,
They swept across the heaving main;
While in the spray, that flurr'd and gleam'd,
A thousand little rainbows beam'd.
Aright before the centre ran,
Stemming the current and the wind
For all his cygnet fleet behind,
And proudly look'd he back the while,
With lofty and imperial smile.
O mariners! why all that strife?
Why plash and plunge 'twixt death and life?
When 'tis as plain as plain can be,
That barge is mistress of the sea.
Look back upon that foamy path,
As Eric does with doubtful eye,
On little boat that gallantly
Escapes from out the flashing coil,
And presses on with eager toil,
Full briskly stemming tide and wind,
And following Eric hard behind;
And, worst of all for kingly lot,
Three rowers only man the boat!
Lean from your oars—shall it be said
Were beat outright by random three?
Ply, rowers, ply! She gains so fast,
I hear their flouts upon us cast.
'Tis the small boat, as I'm on earth!
That gave so much untimely mirth.”
Impatient Eric cried again;
“See how she cleaves the billow proud,
Like eagle through a wreathy cloud:
Strain, vassals, strain! If we're outrun,
By moving thing below the sun,
I swear by Odin's mighty hand,
I'll sink the boat and swim to land!”
Their faces grim to purple grew;
At last their cheering loud ye-ho
Was changed into a grunt of woe.
For she, the little bark despised
And foully at the first misprised,
Came breasting up with skimming motion,
Scarce gurgling in the liquid ocean;
And by, and by, and by she bore,
With whoop of joy, and dash of oar!
The foremost rower plied his strength
On two oars of tremendous length,
Which boards on further end reveal'd,
Broader than Eric's gilded shield;
The monarch trembled and look'd grave
To see the strokes that rower gave.
Like falcon's wings lean'd to the wind
As pass'd his little pinnace plain
The monarch's meteor of the main;
And, as he bent his might to row,
He struck King Eric's gilded prow
With such a bounce and such a heave,
That back she toppled o'er the wave,
And nigh had thrown, as nigh could be,
Her king and champions in the sea.—
“Ho! oar-room, friends! your distance keep,”
Cried that rude Hector of the deep;
“Ye-ho! ye-ho!
How well we go!
Ours is the bark that fears no foe!”
A sight that struck him dumb with awe;
He saw that wight, the very same
In the last sport who overcame,
And now, by Odin's dread decree,
Had vanquish'd him most ominously.—
“'Tis Lok the giant! Lok again!”
King Eric cried in thrilling pain;
“How flourish can our sovereign sway
If gods and demons both gainsay?”—
“'Tis Lok!” responsed each rower grim,
“Too oft I've thwarted been by him!”
The vanquished barges reach'd the shore,
But there the conqu'rors could not see;
The boat stood leaning to the lee;
An ancient boat, with wale and wem,
And gilded mermaid on her stem.
Then great the press and bustle grew,
That wondrous boat of hell to view,
Till an old man of Isla came,
And of the marvel made a claim;
He'd lent his boat for trivial fare,
But knew not who the hirers were.
That poor man got the prize prepared,
Or in its stead a meet reward.
Was won by Ross of Armidell;
And he who farthest threw the stone
Was from the Spey, his name unknown.
But when the rival archers came,
At target hung afar to aim,
The Scandinavians bore the gree,
For ages trained to archery.
No bard can now detail those games,
Nor modern tongue express their names,
But at the setting of the sun,
Nor Scot nor Norse had lost or won;
The rival nations equal stood
In feats of skill and lustihood;
One prize remain'd—one, and no more,
To stamp one side the conqueror!
And now, no living can conceive
The ardour that prevail'd that eve;
It was as if each nation's fate
Hung on the scale, it was so great.
A Roman sword and coat-of-mail;
A sword most dazzling to behold,
Its basket was of burnish'd gold;
Such blade no Briton ever drew,
A two-edged blade of glancing blue,
Five feet from point to bandelet,
And yet when bent they fairly met.
A mighty Roman general wore
That sword and armour both of yore.
The feat of wrestling was the game,
On which each nation's pride or shame,
As on a balance heaving, hung,
While every patriot heart was wrung
With feelings of such poignant sway,
As none can rate this latter day.
With palisades, 'mid rising ground,
And, after proclamation due,
Into that field the wrestlers drew;
But that no vantage one might gain,
The Norse and Scot went twain by twain.
Each prince and chief of note was there;
Threescore and four came pair by pair;
Who never man at wrestling fear'd.
And two by two, as they came in,
The wrestlers join'd most orderly,
With toe to toe, and knee to knee.
And there each stood with parched throat,
Waiting the bugle's warning note;
Then fiercely heel on heel 'gan dashing,
And bones and sinews rudely crashing,
And, ere the heart of keenest throes
Had beat on breast a hundred blows,
Or three short minutes were outgone,
Thirty and two were overthrown.
And wrestled till the end by lot;
And, after many a strain and twist,
And many a bruised antagonist,
Two conquerors there stood reveal'd,
One at each corner of the field.
Eric was one in trial true;
The belted plaid and bonnet blue
Bespoke the country and degree
Of his tall comely enemy;
From his high bearing and his mien,
He seem'd some chief in manhood green;
All knew him as he forward came,
They said, though none could say his name;
But many an anxious eye was bent,
On this decisive throw intent.
Was sauntering, stately, void of care,
But Eric's eye had fiery glow
Like that of planet rising low;
His brows the while projecting far,
Like dark cloud over rising star;
And once he started and uprear'd
His form as if he treachery fear'd,
Or mark'd a feature undefined
That brought some guilty deed to mind.
Like statue without blood or breath,
He stood, with hands half raised and bent,
And face fix'd on the firmament,
As if he wrestled had with heaven,
Or with some strong enchantment striven.
Men were afraid, and Eric's jaw
Descended as oppress'd with awe,
For Lok across his memory came,
Like thrill of an electric flame;
But whether the youth the powers unblest
And adverse to the gods address'd,
Or look'd with suppliant's humble eye
To Odin's stern divinity,
Bowed to the glorious God of Day,
Or own'd the Son of David's sway,
No one could guess; for in those times,
These were the gods of northern climes.
This wild and solemn reverie o'er,
Eric stood up the youth before,
And words of wonderment express'd
How he had vanquished all the rest;
For that some champions had been thrown,
Who ne'er in prowess had been known
To yield to man, save one alone.
To this sly boast of matchless deed,
But moveless stood as form of stone,
And turn'd his eye to Beregon.
“Come, art thou ready?” Eric said.
The youth a slight obeisance made,
With due respect, as it behoved;
But neither hand nor foot he moved,
Till Eric laid his arms around,
And in his iron grasp him bound;
Then lithely did he square each limb,
And set his joints in proper trim.
By heaving them aloft, and then,
With foot advanced, and ready knee,
Twisting them down full dexterously.
But when he tried that youth to foil,
He seem'd to grow unto the soil;
Despite the force of Eric's frame,
Which might of man could never maim,
That stranger wight with careless air
Preserved his footing firm and fair,
And circumvented with such sleight
His great opponent's perilous might,
That even the monarch's breathless jest
Began his doubts to manifest.
To make one movement towards heaven!
Bespeaks not this a perverse mind,
And heart most sordidly inclined?
Well, some new mode we then must press
To suit thy taste of daintiness.”
And roused his spirit to the height;
That might which (save by wizard's charm)
Had never blench'd at mortal arm,
That so by one resistless throw
He might o'erpower this haughty foe,
And in the lists the highest place
Might still pertain to Odin's race.
All given full sway, and given in vain!
And ne'er before had human eye
Beheld such marvellous energy,
Without all surliness or wrath;
But now King Eric gasp'd for breath
So sore, that every Danish eye
Saw double; many a heart beat high,
While ears sang out the torrent's lay,
Dreading the issue of the day.
Nor utter'd word nor deign'd a smile;
On the defensive kept he shy,
The monarch's utmost skill to try;
But now, with such an agile pace
That eye his motions scarce could trace,
He wheel'd, and sprang from side to side,
And sundry feints and amblings tried;
Till, ere on-looker was aware,
He struck King Eric's heels in air.
Yet to the game inured so well,
He caught the monarch as he fell,
And, as supporting him he stood,
These words nigh chill'd King Eric's blood:—
“Ah! God forbid that king renown'd,
And head with sacred honours crown'd,
Should fall degraded to the ground!”
At once the tongue and voice's tone
Assured King Eric of the sway
That twice had vanquish'd him that day.
And to be thus within the clasp
Of giant Lok's own hellish grasp
(Whom Scania's priests, a thing full odd!
Hold both a demon and a god)—
Oh that was such a direful case,
It spoke the end of Odin's race!
King Eric cried, with quivering lip;
“This is unfair! Let mortal man
Vanquish King Eric if he can;
But with the Eternal's rival he
Presumes no chance of mastery.
I know thee, fiend! thy dreadful name,
Thy malice, and thy power supreme!
And, for one punishment condign,
Thy hate to Odin's heavenly line.
Though of the race of gods, thou art
A deadly demon at the heart!
And though in various forms this day
Thou hast o'ercome me in the play,
Be't known to all the world abroad,
To man I yield not, but a god.
For thou art Lok, that being stern,
Whom reason's eye can ill discern;
A god—yet virtue's deadliest foe,
And ruler of the realms below.”
And lightly turn'd upon his heel,
To work his way throughout the list,
And aye he mumbled as he press'd
Some scraps of high contempt, that spoke
Of “mongrel gods, and fabulous Lok.”
And he had vanish'd in a trice,
As was his wont; but every voice
Call'd out to stop him, friend or foe,
That Albyn might her champion know.—
“Stop him?” cried Eric; “'tis my mind
You may as well oppose the wind;
Or try to stop, by mortal force,
The lightning in its vengeful course.”
All came to listen, few to ask;
And there they heard, without reserve,
From tongue they deem'd that could not swerve
From native truth; for there stood he,
Telling, in flush'd simplicity,
How he was all unknown to fame;
That poor MacUiston was his name,
Though some there were, on Erin's shore,
Call'd him M'Righ, and Eiden More,
He knew not why; but he had come
Of late to seek his native home,
And there had first that self-same day
Beheld his country's proud array;
That, eager in the lists to try
His youthful strength with princes high,
He had in various garbs appear'd,
And gain'd, because he nothing fear'd;
Having no title of renown,
Nor line, to bring discredit on.
And hush'd the waves on Keila Bay,
The sons of Albyn gather'd round,
And heaved their champion from the ground;
And with obstreperous acclaim,
Lauded MacUiston's humble name.
The Norsemen's looks were all dismay,
And dark as gloom of winter day,
As well they might; for he whose worth
They eyed as pole-star of the north,
By a Scots peasant overcome,
Stood sullen, mortified, and dumb!
And armour glittering all with gold,
And proffer'd to this wondrous guest,
Whom Eric mildly thus address'd:—
But, as no man beneath the sun
Can this enormous weapon wield,
Or prove the armour and the shield,
Let them by friends appraised be,
And I'll pay down that sum to thee.
They are an old bequest. I may
Not part with them in sportive way.”
The prize I claim, and that alone.”
In silver, brass, or golden ore;
So they be valued, here in sight
I'll pay thee triple for thy right.”
By the great God whom I revere,
If proffer me thy royal throne,
The prize I'd have, and that alone.’
He that repents the claim accursed!
If I had ween'd that human might
Could e'er have reft them from my right,
I would have staked a kingdom's worth,
Ere that I valued most on earth.
Ah, hind! thou little art aware
Of what hath fall'n unto thy share!
Curse on these feats of youthful play,
Unmeet for men whose heads are gray!”
And ran, and laugh'd with all his might,
Loud jabbering something 'bout the Sun,
And kingly treasures fairly won;
While many a youth of Albyn's land
Follow'd the wight along the strand,
With clamour vast, and song combined,
Till far upon the wavy wind,
Within the Connel's winding coast,
The loud and jarring sounds were lost.
How brook'st thou now thy shepherd's lay?
Dost thou not grieve that royal blood
Should yield to vassal's dogged brood?
And grievest thou not that beauteous Hynde
Should in old fortress be confined,
And ne'er appear in martial show,
In proud defiance of her foe?
And, worst of all, the wayward Wene,
That thing of whim, caprice, and bane,
Is lost, transported to the skies,
To Odin's barbarous paradise;
Or borne to place unknown to man,
Save some uncouth, outlandish clan;
While he, the premier of the brave
For maiden's love or warrior's glaive,
Prince Haco of the northern main,
Is lost upon the battle-plain?
Full sorely art thou cross'd, I ween,
In what thou wishedst to have been;
The amends lie not within my power,
But in thine own, beloved flower!
Fair seraph, leaning o'er the brink
Of sublunary joy and bliss,
The pale of human happiness.
Stretch not too far the boundary o'er,
To prove the sweets that float before,
Or certain is thy virgin meed;
To shed the tear and rue the deed!
That hath annoyed thee from the first;
That fluttering hope that spurns control;
That yearning of the aspiring soul,
Which gilds the future with a ray
Still brighter than thy present day,
And onward urges thee to strain
For what 'tis ruin to obtain?
Has ruin'd worlds, thyself, and me.
While yet thy lovely mould was new,
And pure as dawning's orient dew,
Bright as an angel's form could be,
A flower of immortality;—
Alas! when then thy sacred core
The germs of this impatience bore,
Which ill thy tongue can disavow;
What has thy bard to hope for now?
That thou for once this flame acute
Wilt conquer, and peruse along,
Straight to the end, his epic song,
Else he shall rue it to his cost;
His hope, his little charm is lost.
And can'st thou tarnish by a look
The treasures of his valued book?
Valued alone, when it hath proved
Itself by Scotia's maids beloved.
The laureate of his native land,
While many a noble lady's voice
Lauded along the fond caprice.
By virtue of that office now,
Which maiden dares not disallow,
He hereby, in the sacred names
Of reason, right, and regal claims,
Debars, with due and stern regard,
The following characters unspared
From the plain banquet here prepared:—
All those of so much frowardness
As yield them to the subtile sway
Of their great foe on primal day,
And, without waiting to contend,
Begin the book at the wrong end,
And read it backward. By his crook,
This is a mode he will not brook!
Their faith unto some stale review;
That ulcer of our mental store,
The very dregs of manly lore;
Bald, brangling, brutal, insincere;
The bookman's venal gazetteer.
Down with the trash, and every gull
That gloats upon their garbage dull!
All those who read when it is dark;
Boastful of eyesight, harping on,
Page after page in mawkish tone,
And roll the flowing words off-hand,
Yet neither feel nor understand;
All those who read and doze by day,
To while the weary time away;
Plague of their own and husbands' lives;
All who have balls and routs to give
Within a fortnight; all who live
In open breach of any rule
Imposed by Calvin's rigid school;
All such as sit alone and weep;
All those who lisp, or talk in sleep;
Who simper o'er a fading flower,
Or sing before the breakfast hour.
All such have more whereof to think,
Than pages marbled o'er with ink;
And I beseech them keep the tone
Of their own thoughts—let mine alone!
Who feel no charm in melody;
That dogged, cold, slow-blooded set,
Who scarce know jig from minuet;
And, what is worse, pretend to love
Some foreign monstrous thing above
Their native measures, sweetly sung
By Scottish maid in Scottish tongue.
Whether with proud and pompous air,
With simpering frown, or nose elate,
To name the word indelicate!
For such may harp be never strung,
Nor warbling strain of Scotia sung;
But worst of guerdons be her meed,
The garret, poll, and apes to lead:
Such word or term should never be
In maiden's mind of modesty.
But little is the bard afraid
Of thee, to whom this tale is said.
With thy sly chat and flippant lore;
Thy emphasis on error small,
And smile, more cutting far than all;
The praise, half compliment, half mock,
The minstrel's name itself a joke!
But yet, for all thy airs and whims,
And lightsome lore the froth that skims,
He must acknowledge in the end
To 've found thee still the poet's friend,
His friend at heart: would jeer and blame;
But aught degrading to his fame
Would ne'er admit, nor join the gall
Of slanders mean and personal;
Therefore I bless thee, and engage
To profit by thy patronage.
(Warm friends profess'd, yet covert foes)
Who witness'd, grinning with despite,
A peasant's soul assume its right;
Rise from the dust, and mounting o'er
Their classic toils and boasted lore,
Take its aerial seat on high
Above their buckram fulgency.
In vain each venom'd shaft they tried,
The impartial world was on his side;
Their sport was marr'd—lost was the game—
The halloo hush'd and eke the name!
To poor and personal mockery;
The gait, the garb, the rustic speech,
All that could homely worth appeach,
Unweariedly, time after time,
In loathed and everlasting chime
They vended forth. Who would believe
There were such men? and who not grieve
That they should stoop, by ruthless game,
To stamp their own eternal shame?
While he, the butt of all their mocks,
Sits throned amid his native rocks
Above their reach, and grieves alone
For their unmanly malison.
Will gloat, and scorn, and scoff, I ween.
So be it. We must now pursue
Our theme, for we have much to do;
And if before the closing measure,
I yield thee not the promised pleasure,
Then must I from my patrons sever,
And give my darlings up for ever.
6. PART SIXTH.
No Muse was ever invoked by me,But an uncouth harp of olden key;
And with her have I ranged the Border green,
The Grampians stern, and the starry sheen;
With my gray plaid flapping around the strings,
And ragged coat, with its waving wings;
Yet aye my heart beat light and high
When an air of heaven, in passing by,
Breathed on the mellow chords; and then
I knew it was no earthly strain,
But note of wild mysterious kind,
From some blest land of unbodied mind.
But whence it flew—or whether it came
From the sounding rock or the solar beam,
Or tuneful angels passing away
O'er the bridge of the sky in the showery day,
When the cloudy curtain pervaded the east,
And the sunbeam kiss'd its humid breast—
In vain I look'd to the cloud overhead;
To the echoing mountain dark and dread;
To the sun-fawn fleet, or aerial bow—
I knew not whence were the strains till now.
They were from thee, thou radiant dame,
O'er fancy's region that reign'st supreme;
And of everlasting new delight,
Of foible, of freak, of gambol, and glee;
Of all that pleases,
And all that teazes,
All that we fret at, yet love to see
In petulance, pity, and love refined,
Thou emblem extreme of the female mind!
Oh come to my bower here deep in the dell,
Thou queen of the land 'twixt heaven and hell;
Even now thou seest, and smilest to see,
A shepherd kneel on the sward to thee:
But sure thou wilt come with thy gleesome train,
To assist in his last and lingering strain.
Oh come from thy halls of the emerald bright,
Thy bowers of the green and the mellow light,
That shrink from the blaze of the summer noon,
And ope to the light of the modest moon.
Oh well I know the enchanting mien
Of my loved muse, my Fairy Queen!
Her rokely of green, with its sparry hue,
Its warp of the moonbeam and weft of the dew;
Her smile, where a thousand witcheries play.
And her eye, that steals the soul away;
The strains that tell they were never mundane;
And the bells of her palfrey's flowing mane;
For oft have I heard their tinklings light,
And oft have I seen her at noon of the night,
With her beauteous elves in the pale moonlight.
Then, thou who raised'st old Edmund's lay
Above the strains of the olden day;
And waked'st the bard of Avon's theme
To the visions of his midnight dream—
Yea, even the harp that rang abroad
Through all the paradise of God,
And the sons of the morning with it drew,
By thee was remodell'd, and strung anew—
Oh come on thy path of the starry ray,
Thou queen of the land of the gloaming gray,
And the dawning's mild and pallid hue,
From thy valleys beyond the land of the dew,
The realm of a thousand gilded domes,
The richest region that fancy roams!
I have sought for thee in the blue hare-bell,
And deep in the fox-glove's silken cell;
For I fear'd thou hadst drunk of its potion deep,
And the breeze of the world had rock'd thee asleep;
Then into the wild-rose I cast mine eye,
And trembled because the prickles were nigh,
And deem'd the specks on its foliage green
Might be the blood of my Fairy Queen,
Then gazing, wonder'd if blood might be
In an immortal thing like thee.
I have open'd the woodbine's velvet vest,
And sought the hyacinth's virgin breast;
Then anxious lain on the dewy lea,
And look'd to a twinkling star for thee,
That nightly mounted the orient sheen,
Streaming in purple and glowing in green;
And thought, as I eyed its changing sphere,
My Fairy Queen might sojourn there.
Then would I sigh and turn me around,
And lay my ear to the hollow ground,
To the little air-springs of central birth
That bring low murmurs out of the earth;
And there would I listen, in breathless way,
Till I heard the worm creep through the clay,
And the little blackamoor pioneer
A-grubbing his way in darkness drear:
Nought cheer'd me on which the daylight shone,
For the children of darkness moved alone.
Yet neither in field nor in flowery heath,
In heaven above nor in earth beneath,
In star, nor in moon, nor in midnight wind,
His elfish queen could her minstrel find.
But now I have found thee, thou vagrant thing,
Though where I neither dare say nor sing!
For it was in a home so passing fair,
That an angel of light might have linger'd there:
I found thee playing thy freakish spell
Where the sun never shone, and the rain never fell,
Where the ruddy cheek of youth ne'er lay,
And never was kiss'd by the breeze of day;
It was sweet as the woodland breeze of even,
And pure as the star of the western heaven,
As fair as the dawn of the sunny east,
And soft as the down of the solan's breast.
Yes, now have I found thee, and thee will keep,
Though thy spirits yell on the midnight steep;
Though the earth should quake when nature is still,
And the thunders growl in the breast of the hill;
Though the moon should frown through a pall of gray,
And the stars fling blood on the Milky Way;
Since now I have found thee, I'll hold thee fast,
Till thou garnish my song—it is the last!
Sing of the dreary gloom that hung
Clouding the brows of old and young
Through all the Scandinavian host,
And on the monarch press'd the most,
Who was of direful dreams the prey;
Some bodings of an olden day,
That told of trouble and of teen,
Of late fulfill'd had darkly been;
Foil'd by a hind before his host,
His consecrated armour lost,
That held a charm he valued more
Than aught his ample kingdom bore.
His scowl bespoke his heart's dismay,
And bore with it decisive sway;
For when in temper he was cross'd,
His was the mood of all the host.
Captain pass'd brother captain by,
Paused, beckon'd, waiting some reply;
But there was none, save look that spoke
Of direful deed; no hint was broke;
Foreboded tumult, reif, and blood.
Well did they bode; the order flew;
King Eric out his legions drew,
Ranging his grim and hardy files
Around old Selma's stately piles.
In armour bright he walk'd alone
Before his host, and bade lead on
To force the Connel and the Croy,
To waste, to ravage, and destroy,
With fire and sword, and foray keen,
And none to save but Albyn's queen.
Then waked his trumpet's brazen throat,
With such a copious rending note,
That rocks and doons began to pant;
The gray and solid adamant
Travail'd in anguish with the noise,
With the first throes of thunder voice,
And issued sounds that shook the spheres,
And silence of a thousand years.
Short was the march along the coast,
Till, lo, a herald met the host!
The same that first its rage appeased
Now came to have his bond released;
Scotland's apostle there once more
Opposed King Eric on the shore.
The king at first in high disdain
Answer'd the sage, and scarce would deign
Exchange of speech; but such a grace
Shone in Columba's saintly face,
That Eric calm'd, and stay'd his van
To listen to the reverend man.
“Sire, I was call'd to distant shore,
Which caused the breach we all deplore;
On God's own mission forth I went,
To save this Christian throne intent:
My purpose fail'd, but then, as now,
I trusted Heaven, and must avow
Our nobles' fraud. Fearful, I ween,
Of parting with their youthful queen,
They have done that which monarch must
Declare right generous, though unjust;
They knew not Eric's honour high,
And now regret it grievously,
But must be pardon'd. List then me—
You've fought and conquer'd three to three;
But still your victory is not won,
Nor can be, ere to-morrow's sun
See Albyn's champions once more beat,
And then we yield us to our fate.
Our queen, with Scotia's coronet,
Shall on the combat field be set,
And whoso wins shall wear that crown,
And claim the maiden as his own:
She cannot wed all three, 'tis true,
But to her choice the three must bow.”
The king grinn'd in derision proud,
And shook his beard, and said aloud—
“Thou say'st? Then, shall my champions be
Men not endow'd to cope with me
In maiden's love? Of monstrous form,
I've plenty, thanks to clime and storm,
That are, for all their spurious brood,
A match for aught of Albyn's blood.
But, carping wizard as thou art!
Com'st thou again to act a part
Of wheedling fraud, to chant and chime,
And gain a blink of loathsome time?
To practise some unholy scheme,
Some low and servile stratagem?
I say it boldly to thy face—
There is no chief of Albyn's race
Dares for his soul presume to stand
And brave again this deadly brand
Thou know'st it, churl, as well as I.
Vile Christian! I thy power defy!
Thee and thy gods I hold as dust,
And in this arm and Odin's trust.”
“Say'st thou we dare not, sire? why then
Came I thus forth from Scotia's queen
These words to say? Hath she, as thou,
Swerved from her holy plighted vow,
And, without warning or pretence,
In savage stormy insolence,
Broke on thy ranks with havoc red?
No! such is not the Christian's creed.
Thou'rt the aggressor—doubly so:
This thou hast done, and, ere I go,
I'll say, if 'twere my latest breath,
Thou dar'st not fight and keep thy faith!”
“Worm! reptile! dolt! What dost thou say,
Thou clod of cold presumptuous clay?
Dares such a being, sear'd and knurl'd,
Beard Eric of the northern world,
Whose arm has quench'd the Saxon's light,
And broke the German's iron might;
The Pole and Paynim overrun,
And beat the blue and bloody Hun?
Dar'st thou, in name of Christian cur,
Or virgin young, these honours blur?
He tells thee once again, and swears
By Odin's self, who sees and hears
This lifted hand, and solemn vow,
He'll fight your champions brow to brow:
And if none dares his arm withstand,
He'll fight the best two of your land.
Chiefs, kinsmen, sheathe your swords to-day
In peace, and measure back the way
Straight to the camp. If Odin speed,
To-morrow sees your sovereign's head
Circled by Albyn's ancient crown,
And honours of supreme renown!”
Columba bow'd as it behoved,
But smiled to see the monarch moved
Which scarce to reason seem'd allied;
And as he gazed in Eric's face,
Some thoughts like these his mind did trace:—
“I've touch'd the proper peg that winds
That high-toned string of mortal minds
Up to the height! Oh, God of Life!
Why mad'st thou man a thing of strife,
Of pride, and lust, of power so high
That scarcely quails beneath the sky!
Yet a poor pin, a scratch, a thrust
Can bring his honours to the dust,
And lay the haughty godlike form
A fellow to the crawling worm!
I've sped; but thou alone can'st know
Whether I've sped for weal or woe;
O thou To-Morrow! who can see
What joy or sorrow waits on thee!”
The seer retired, but quickly stay'd,
And turning short, to Eric said—
“Sire, I request, before I go,
From thy own lips this thing to know—
Where be the maidens that were sent
As hostages unto thy tent?
For they were noble maids each one:
Then say, without evasion,
Where they are now, for words are said
Which tend thy honour to upbraid,
And manhood too. Then pr'ythee, tell,
Where be the maids we love so well?”
Eric look'd grave; his towering pride
'Gan in a moment to subside;
His speech sunk to a hollow calm,
And his pale lip bespoke a qualm
Of conscience, whilst these words he spoke:
“By all the gods, and dreadful Lok,
I know not—dare not hint a dread
Into what clime their fate is sped;
They are where they are call'd to be
By the Great King of Heaven's decree!”
“Sire, I have nothing from this speech,
Vague as the voice on ocean's beach,
Of sounding billow bursting in
With harsh unmodulated din:
If thou hast dared such foul offence
As injure virgin innocence,
The curse of Heaven be on thy head!
Hence be thy valour pall'd in dread,
And all thy pomp and power decay—”
“Withhold thy dread anathema,”
King Eric cried; “I'd rather brave
The rage of Albyn's winter wave;
Her tempests wild, her headlands stern;
Her friths so crooked, dark, and dern;
Her nation's force in rear and van,
Than the vile curse of Christian man!
“Bring forth these champions of your land,
That mine may meet them brand to brand:
I dare them; if that will not do,
I'll fight the cravens one to two:
Thou hast my answer—speed thee hence
And for thy nation's best defence
Be thou prepared; for if the queen
To grace the combat is not seen,
I swear by Odin's warlike name,
And Thor's, the god of storm and flame,
No lists shall be, nor warrior boast;
I'll pour my vengeance on your host,
And neither leave you root nor stem,
Memorial, name, nor diadem.”
Columba raised his hand on high,
About to make sublime reply;
But Eric to his trumpets' blare
Wheel'd off, and left the father there,
Like statue raised by wizard charm,
With open mouth—with out-stretched arm—
Forehead uplifted to the sky,
And beard projecting potently.
There stood the seer, with breath drawn in,
And features bended to begin;
But, lo! ere he a word could say,
The king had wheel'd and sped away!
The sire relax'd his form the while,
His features softening to a smile;
And back he strode in thoughtfulness,
To tell the queen of his success.
He found her deck'd in youthful pride,
And blithesome as a maiden bride,
Resolved to trust her royal right
Unto her doughty kinsmen's might.
Despite of all her lords could say,
Who urged her from the lists to stay,
She vow'd the combat she should see,
And trust to Heaven's ascendency.
Columba's prayers and counsels wise
Had from despondence clear'd her eyes;
While something he had said or done,
Unto all living else unknown,
Had raised her hopes to such a height,
They almost had outrun the right;
For aught her court could see or deem,
They were even forward in the extreme.
No matter! Hynde felt no annoy,
But of the combat talk'd with joy;
And of the manner she would greet
King Eric kneeling at her feet,
Or raise the chief that should him slay
Unto her throne that self-same day.
These rash resolves could not be lost
To any part of Albyn's host;
For all were summon'd to appear
That dared to stand the test severe;
While highest honours were decreed
To those whose valour should succeed
In saving Albyn's rights and laws;
That highest, most momentous cause
Or sovereign hero's aid besought.
The evening came, and still no knight
Had proffer'd life for Scotia's right.
The morning rose in shroud of gray,
That usher'd in the pregnant day,
Big with the germs of future fame,
Of Albyn's glory or her shame;
And still no champion made demand
Of fighting for his sovereign's hand!
Just as the morn began to shower
Its radiance on Dunstaffnage tower,
Queen Hynde, array'd in robes of state,
Descended by the southern gate,
With face that own'd no hid distress,
But smiled in angel loveliness;
And there, amid the assembled crowd,
A herald thus proclaim'd aloud:
“Here stands our virgin queen alone,
The sole support of Albyn's throne,
Craving the aid of hero's might,
To guard her and her sacred right.
If any here dares wield a sword
'Gainst Scandinavia's sovereign lord,
Or champions of his giant band,
Let such approach our sovereign's hand,
And tender here his envied claim,
That so enroll'd may be his name;
And Scotia's banners may not fly
O'er lists where none dares for her die;
The right, and left, and post between,
Must fall by lot—God save the Queen!”
Still there was none that forward press'd;
Then first Queen Hynde's wan looks confess'd
An inward pang allied to fear,
A disappointment hard to bear;
Till Saint Columba by her side,
With locks of silver waving wide,
And spread hands quivering in the air,
Thus to the heavens preferr'd his prayer:
“O thou Almighty One, whose throne
O'erlooks Eternity alone!
Who once, in deep humility,
Lay cradled on a virgin's knee,
Turn here thine eyes on one whose face
Bespeaks the virtues of her race—
Who in this time of dire alarm
Puts not her trust in human arm,
But in thy mercy and thy truth;—
Then, oh! in pity to her youth,
Preserve her to her native land;
Save the dear maid of thy right hand,
And rouse up heroes that may quell
The pride of braggart infidel.
“Yes, thou wilt grant thy aid divine
To those who stand for thee and thine;
Wilt steel their hearts and guard their heads,
Till of their high and glorious deeds
Their everlasting rocks shall ring,
And bards unborn their honours sing.”
Then bow'd the saint his brow serene,
And tens of thousands said—Amen!
The bugle's note and herald's voice
Proffer'd again the exalted choice
To every youth of noble mind,
To chief, to yeoman, and to hind,
Of fighting in his country's name,
For royalty and deathless fame:
Then up came courteous Sutherland,
And, kneeling, kiss'd his sovereign's hand,
Proffer'd his arm, his sword, his life,
To combat in the glorious strife;
Saying, he delay'd the honour dear,
In hopes that better would appear:
Then drew his lot, and fell the right,
To fight with Eric's left-hand knight.
Red Gaul of Ross came up the next,
And said these words with voice perplex'd:—
“My beauteous liege, I stood aloof,
In hopes some lord of more approof
Would eagerly rush forth to throw
The gauntlet to our reckless foe;
But, as I am, for Albyn's good
I dedicate my sword and blood.”
“I know full well, my generous lord,
No braver chief e'er drew a sword,”
The queen replied. “To such as thee
I well can trust my throne and me.
Now to the test, the final lot,
Whether you fight the king or not.”—
He drew the left, and thereupon
To fight King Eric there was none.
From Hynde's dark eye, that glisten'd clear,
Was seen to drop the briny tear;
While yet a soften'd smile of pain,
Like sunbeam through the morning rain,
Unto her lords seem'd to confess
Their want of noble generousness.
Still good Columba cheer'd her on,
And bade her trust in Christ alone,
Who could his sacred pledge redeem
Even in their last and great extreme.
But time there was no more to say,
The boats were gather'd in the bay,
And the decisive hour drew near
When Hynde must in the lists appear.
On board she went in joyless mood:
An hundred barges plough'd the flood;
While many a bold and warlike strain
Of music peal'd along the main,
That seem'd to say, in daring tone,
“Here comes the Queen of Caledon!
Who dares her royal rights gainsay?
Hie, braggarts, to your wastes away,
For, fume and banter as you will,
Old Albyn shall be Albyn still!”
Between man's heart and outward mien!
It was a gorgeous sight that day,
When Hynde arrived in Keila Bay,
On high above her maidens borne,
Like radiant streamer of the morn;
A ray of pure and heavenly light,
Shining in gold and diamonds bright:
A lovelier thing of human frame
From armies never drew acclaim,
Or look'd more queenly and serene,
As, heaving o'er the billow's mane,
An hundred barges her behind
Came rippling on before the wind;
And, as they sunk the waves between,
Seem'd paying homage to their queen.
Such freight ne'er sail'd on western sea;
A thousand dames of high degree,
With lords and gallants many a one,
Came with the Queen of Caledon.
The lists were framed and fenced around
With palisades on level ground;
And these again were lined the while
With warriors, rank'd in triple file.
Upon the east was raised a throne,
Where Hynde in all her beauty shone;
And dames unnumber'd, on each side,
Shone o'er the lists in blooming pride;
Their tartans streaming, row on row,
Bright as the tints of heavenly bow.
Sure 'twas a fair and goodly view!
Even Eric's dull and swarthy crew,
Whose minds had been bred up in broil,
Inured to blood and battle toil,
Acknowledged beauty's power supreme,
By looks of wonder's last extreme.
There one with half a glance might spy
The gaping mouth and gazing eye,
The turgid blink, the scowl askance,
The sterile stare, the amorous glance;
The thousand looks that utterance found
In language mightier than in sound.
Ah, Beauty! but for woman's mien
And form, thy name had never been!
When all the wonted forms were past,
The judges' rules, the warning blast,
King Eric and his champions twain
Enter'd the lists the first again;
And there, in daring martial pride,
Walk'd round the ring with stately stride.
Brave Sutherland appear'd at length,
And Gaul, a burly mass of strength,
Gnarl'd and misshaped from toe to chin;
But, ah! the soul, that frame within,
Was pure, and brave, and calm, and just—
A pearl amid a coil of dust.
There was a pause; the champions eyed
Each other well, and talk'd aside;
Queen Hynde grew wan as winter snows,
Then ruddy as the damask rose,
As far she cast her humid eye,
O'er serried thousands crowding nigh;
But none rush'd in—(O hour of shame!)
To save his queen from foreign claim.
'Twas said, the bugle blasts between
Columba's lips were moving seen,
And his dim eyes to Heaven up-cast,
As that dumb prayer had been his last.
Oh read not dumb! What speech can feign
The language of a soul in pain?
That prayer, though made in deep distress,
Was not by creature succourless;
For, beaming from his faded eye,
There shot a ray of hope on high.
First to the queen King Eric kneel'd:
Then to the judges of the field
He turn'd, and said, “'Tis past the hour;
I claim my mistress and her dower.
Produce three champions of your land,
Or give my bride into my hand.
The pledge is forfeited. Think'st thou
We three will shed the blood of two?
No, by the gods!—But I alone
Shall fight that couple one by one;
Grant this, and I by it abide;
If not, then bring me forth my bride;
Or, by yon heaven, and burning hell,
And all that in both regions dwell,
In carnage red I'll pen a law,
Such as your nation never saw!”
“Hold, sire!” cried one of Scottish blood,
“This hasty challenge is not good;
The hour's not sped by half at least;
The shadow falls not to the east.
Yon arched oriel casement mark;
When its armorial rim grows dark,
The hour is past; till then 'tis meet
That thou should'st wait in mode discreet,
Since Albyn's hero's bold intent
Is thwarted by some strange event;
So it would seem: remain awhile,
Till once the shadow from the pile
Falls eastward; then, with woeful heart,
Old Albyn from her queen must part.”
To Selma's tower looked one and all;
The sunbeam stray'd aslant the wall,
In scatter'd fragments, pointed bright,
Though scarce one hundredth part was light;
But still the casement's carved frame
Shone with a bright and yellow flame.
Each Scottish eye, as by a charm,
Fixed on that tower in wild alarm,
Till every little gilded mark
Vanish'd amid the shadow dark;
Save that the casement's arch alone
With dim and fading lustre shone.
Is verging thence—the prize is won!
Columba rose, but not alone,
To lead the queen down from the throne,
And give her to the imperious hand
Of the oppressor of the land:
The tears stream'd o'er her pallid cheek.
She look'd abroad, but could not speak.
Then many a stifled groan was heard,
From breasts that were but ill prepared
To yield their queen to such a fate;
Ten thousand swords were drawn too late;
One moment, and the prize is won—
'Tis past.—The will of God be done!
What gathering shout is that begun?
Toward the lists it seems to run!
It heightens, gains, and swells around;
The skies are shaken with the sound,
While dancing swords and plumes give way,
Bespeaking tumult or deray.
Queen Hynde in middle step stood still,
Her sponsors paused with right good-will,
And Eric stepp'd aside to see
What meant that loud temerity.
That moment through the lists there sprung
A warrior, stalwart, lithe, and young,
Cover'd with foam and ocean brine,
And blood upon his brigantine;
Then pointing to the oriel frame,
That still was tinged with fading flame,
He cried, “Behold all is not lost!
I make appeal to Eric's host.”
“No! to himself thou shalt appeal,
To him who never yet did fail
On such request to yield a foe,
Or friend, or kinsman blow for blow!”
King Eric said: “Here's fame for thee
To win. Thou art the man for me
To match! for rarely have I seen
A comelier warrior tread the green!
Woe's me, for such a blooming spray
Which I must level with the clay!”
“Yes, I'm for thee!” that warrior said,
And threw away his belted plaid;
And lo! his panoply was braced
With belts of gold, and interlaced
With many a fringe and mottled hem,
Where lurk'd the ruby's burning gem.
Such princely champion ne'er before
Had gauntlet thrown on Albyn's shore!
Out through the host a whisper ran,
Which said he was no earthly man,
But angel sent from God on high,
To help in great extremity.
Others there were, who said he bore
Semblance to Haco, now no more;
So lithe, so brisk, so void of fear,
So brilliant in his warlike gear.
A ray of hope, like wildfire's gleam,
From maidens' eyes began to beam;
But in the eye of warrior grim
That ray of hope was deadly dim.
Ah! how could youth, whate'er his worth,
Excel great Eric of the north,
Whose arm had spread, through human kind,
Dismay before and death behind?
Forthwith the deadly strife began;
Clash went the weapons, man to man.
Harold of Elle, a Danish knight,
Was match'd with Gaul, on Eric's right;
And Hildemor, from Bothnia's strand,
Was match'd with seemly Sutherland;
Gigantic heroes, bred to strife,
And combat yearly for their life.
In that fierce onset to the fray
There was no flout nor giving way;
To work they fell, with blow and thrust,
And strokes that shore the level dust
From shields descending. Then, anon,
Flickering in air their weapons shone,
With crossing clang so fierce and high,
As if the javelins of the sky,
The livid lightnings, at their speed,
Had met and quiver'd o'er each head.
But soon both wings, as with assent,
Paused, and stood still, to gaze intent
On the tremendous strife that grew,
'Twixt Eric and his foeman new.
Such rabid rage on combat field,
No human eye had e'er beheld;
They tried to wound, but ne'er below,
Round, round they battled, toe to toe,
But not one inch would either flee;
They fought on foot—they fought on knee—
Against each other fiercely flung;
They clang'd, they grappled, and they swung,
They fought e'en stretch'd upon the green,
Though streams of blood ran them between.
Thou ne'er hast seen the combat grand
Of two wild steeds of southern land,
Rivals in love: how grows their rage,
And shakes the fen when they engage;
Or two wild bulls of bison brood,
The milk-white sovereigns of the wood—
And the dire echoes that outyell
The grovelling, bellowing sounds of hell:
To view these savages aloof,
Rending the ground with horn and hoof,
Or meet to gore, and foam, and die,
Is scarce a sight for maiden's eye.
Or two huge monsters of the wave
Rearing their forms, with lash and lave,
Far up the air; their snort and howl—
Then, grappling, sink with groan and growl,
While the red ocean boils ahight,
And nature sickens at the sight,
When thou first err'd, and peace gave way;
Yes, such dread scenes have often been,
Though such thine eye hath never seen;
And if thou hadst, as nought they were
Unto the mortal combat there,
Where heroes toiled in deadly strife,
For love, for empire, and for life.
It was as if two Alpine hills,
Lords of a thousand rocks and rills,
And sovereigns of the cloudy clime,
Had once in battle join'd sublime;
Together dash'd their mighty heads,
Those gray and grisly pyramids,
The footstools to the gates of heaven:
Think of them shatter'd, torn, and riven,
And down the shrieking steeps beneath,
Red rolling o'er a waste of death.
Such was the strife, while every heart
Around them bore a trembling part.
Ah! many an eye was dimm'd of sight,
When, in the terrors of their might,
They saw the heroes grappling fast,
And deem'd each struggle was the last;
But no! They seem'd two beings framed
Not to be wounded, foil'd, or maim'd.
Three times they closed within the shield;
Twice roll'd they down upon the field;
But then, 'gainst Eric was the odds,
They heard him cursing by his gods!
And when they parted for a space,
A wildness glared in Eric's face;—
A haggard rage not to be told,
A something dreadful to behold.
'Twas as if spirit from the earth,
Proud of its righteousness and worth,
Had hurried to the gates on high,
Passing poor pensive journeyers by;
But lo! when at the gates above,
The paradise of peace and love,
He finds all entrance there denied,
And the poor ghost is thrust aside;
Barr'd from the presence of his God,
And banish'd to some drear abode,
In darkness and in chains to lie
Through ages of eternity.
Think of that spirit's woeful case,
The lines of his deploring face,
And livid hues 'twixt black and wan,
And think of Eric if you can!
This dread expression was not miss'd
By the eye of his antagonist,
Who, without wooing strength or breath,
Rushed in for victory or death.
But Eric still withstood his shock;
He fought, a tower, a strength, a rock,
That ne'er had bowed unto the blast,
And knew no yielding till the last.
At length their motions grew more slow,
Their swords fell lighter every blow;
And all perceiv'd they near'd the last,
And the bitterness of death was past:
On swords that bent and stream'd with blood,
They lean'd, and stagger'd as they stood;
Yet grimly levell'd eye to eye,
And not one inch would either fly.
The conflict's o'er—wild tremor reigns,
And stillness for a space remains.
King Eric was the first that fell:
Down like a tower with groan and knell
The prince of heroes falls supine!
A shudder pass'd through Norway's line,
Yet none durst enter in the list,
Although upon the monarch's breast
The foot of conquering foe was set,
And sword upraised in vengeful threat,
His royal head and trunk to sever,
And close his conquests up for ever.
None interfered, nor call'd it crime,
Such were the statutes of the time.
But fate withheld the stroke design'd,
For, like the willow in the wind,
The conqueror's plume began to bow,
And nod and totter to and fro;
Then back he stagger'd on the field,
Low bending o'er his sword and shield;
And ere his panting breath was gone,
He reach'd the rail and lean'd thereon;
Then hands were stretch'd (why should they not?)
That loosed his gorget from his throat;
His helm and corslet they untie,
And all his belted panoply;
And though no mortal wound they saw,
The blood oozed through at every flaw.
The following short translation from an ancient Runic ode, was handed me by a correspondent, as probably relating to the death of this northern hero:—
“Before Berigholmi did we fight with swords. We held bloody shields, and well-stained spears. Thick around the shores lay the scattered dead. There saw I thousands lie dead by the ships. We sailed seven days to the battle in which our army fell.
“We fought again; and then the bow uttered a twanging sound, sending forth tempests of glittering steel. It was at the time of the evening the foe was compelled to fly. The King of Erin did not act the part of the eagle—he fell by the bay. He was given for a feast to the ravens. A great storm descended. O ye sons of the fallen warriors! who among you shall tell of the issue of that dreadful day? The gods were angry, and before their vengeance who shall stand? There Eric fell, than whom there was no greater king. The sword dropped from his hand—the lofty helmet was laid low—the birds of prey bewailed him who prepared their banquets.”
Still gazing on the deadly feud,
Now, without languor or remark,
Flew to the combat stern and stark:
When, strange to tell! the lord of Ross.
The warrior shapeless, gnarl'd, and gross,
That round and round upon the plain
He made him shift and shun the strife,
Then fairly turn and fly for life.
Gaul follow'd; but as well he might
Have chased the red deer on the height,
As his tall enemy, that strode
Slow round the field with taunt and nod;
Gaul waddling after, sword in hand,
Puffing, and cursing him to stand;
Loud rang the shouts around the pale,
And laughter gibber'd on the gale.
On the other hand the strife was sore
'Twixt Sutherland and Hildemor;
It was a combat to be seen,
If premier combat had not been,
To which all others, when compared,
Sunk into things of no regard.
Keen was the strife—the Scot gave way.
Either in need or galliard play;
And, as he wore across the field,
They reach'd a spot of blood congeal'd,
Where, as the Swede rush'd on his foe,
He slid, and stumbled with the blow;
When Sutherland, with ready slight,
Met in his fall the hapless wight,
And pierced the corslet and the core
Of the redoubted Hildemor:
He roll'd in blood, and aptly tried
To stem the red and rushing tide;
Then feebly at his foeman struck,
And cursed his gods for his misluck:
The accents gurgled in his throat—
Still moved the tongue, but speech was not;
And, with a spurn and hideous growl,
Out fled the giant's murky soul.
Now, two to one, the flying Dane
In gnashing terror scower'd the plain;
His king and his companion gone,
A madness seized the knight upon;
He tried to leap the circling piles,
For shelter 'mid the Danish files,
But was repulsed with fierce disdain,
And thrown back headlong on the plain:
No hope thus left him in the strife,
He kneel'd to Gaul, and begg'd for life.
“No,” said the chief; “it may not be;
The devil waits dinner for the three!
Henceforth with earth thou hast no tie,
The man is damn'd that dreads to die:
But one relief for thee is left,
And, here it is.” With that he cleft
The stalwart craven to the brow,
Severing his ample brain in two.
“Beshrew thee for a bloody Scot,
If thou'st not done what I could not!”
Said Sutherland, as turning by—
But seeing the tear in Ross's eye,
And sorrow on his nut-brown cheek
So deep that word he could not speak,
The burly chief he kindly press'd
Unto his bold and kindred breast.
The day now won, a wild dismay
Blench'd every cheek of Norroway!
The list now oped to Odin's priest,
Who ran to have his king released;
Upraised his huge and fainting frame,
And comfort spoke in Odin's name;
While leeches plied with license brief,
But, ah! the case was past relief!
Seven deadly wounds, and all before,
Told them great Eric's reign was o'er,
Still, not one sentence he had spoke,
But whisper'd o'er the name of Lok.
Lok! Lok! that name of terror hung
Alone upon his dying tongue.
One told him that, on Albyn's side,
Detraction had a tale supplied
Of a low hind, MacUiston named,
Who not even birth or lineage claim'd,
Yet had achieved this wondrous deed,
Laid low in dust that royal head,
And dared, even on his great acquest,
To set his foot on Eric's breast!
When this the hero heard, he roll'd
And writh'd, as if in serpent's hold;
And from his motions it was plain
He deem'd he fought the field again;
While, from his eye's impassion'd gleam
And smile of fury, it did seem
He thought his fame he could redeem.
At length, with throbbings long and deep,
Calm as a child about to sleep,
That softly lifts imploring eye
Unto the face of parent nigh,
So lay, so look'd, in piteous case,
That terror of the human race;
And so must all the achievements vast
Of this poor world end at the last.
He stretch'd the priest his hand to hold;
That hand was bloody, glued, and cold;
While these last words hung on his breath,
“Appease the gods!—Revenge my death!”
Leave we the uproar and distress
Which Norway's chiefs could ill suppress;
And pass we over, for a while,
To Hynde, the flower of Albyn's isle,
Who saw, with joy ne'er felt before,
Her gallant champion Eiden More
Upraise his pale and wounded head,
Like beauteous phantom from the dead,
And wipe his bloody brow, and say
The faintness quite had pass'd away;
For untried armour wrought the harm,
And not the force of Eric's arm.
Brought to the queen the conquering three,
And bade her choose a sovereign lord,
With whom they all should well accord:
So was she bound in her distress,
And in th' event could not do less.
The courtly Sutherland look'd down,
As guessing well to whom the crown
Was destined. As for Eiden More
(Or poor MacUiston, call'd before),
Leaning and pale he took his stand,
And turn'd his eyes on Sutherland,
As one his sovereign soon to be;
But burly Gaul fell on his knee,
And said, with sly and waggish whine,
“My liege, I hope the chance is mine!”
The queen descended to the green
With lightsome step, but solemn mien;
And, passing Ross and Sutherland,
She took MacUiston by the hand,
And, with a firm unalter'd voice,
Said, “Here I make my maiden choice.
Since thou hast come without a meed
To save me in my utmost need;
And sure, though humbly born, thou art
A prince and hero at the heart;
So, next my Saviour that's above,
Hence thee I'll honour, bless, and love.”
MacUiston's cheek grew pale as snow,
And the cold drops fell from his brow;
He raised his blood-stain'd hand, and seem'd
About to speak; and, as they deem'd,
He meant his sovereign to dissuade,
And disapprove of all was said:
But ere a word his tongue could frame,
Forward rush'd lord, and noble dame,
And chief, and squire, in courteous way,
Due homage to their king to pay.
For all extoll'd, with ready tongue,
The bravery of a hind so young;
And vow'd by such a hero's hand
In utmost danger firm to stand.
With prayers, and vows, and blessings said,
The crown was set upon his head;
Then shouts ascended on the wind,
“Long live King Eiden and Queen Hynde!”
Need was there for a leader brave,
For Norway's host, like wave on wave,
Began to move with backward motion,
Like tide receding on the ocean;
Only to come with double sway,
Resistless, on its sounding way.
The king's last words had moved the host
To grief and rage the uttermost;
And without head to rule the whole,
The tumult grew without control.
Distant from home, and in command
Of the great bulwark of the land,
The soldiers swore that land to have,
Or of green Albyn make a grave;
Even Odin's priest approved the choice,
And only ask'd for sacrifice.
“Now is the time!” the soldiers cried,
“While Albyn's army is employ'd
In joyful rite, and must repass
Yon straits with all their force in mass!”—
The chiefs gave way, and join'd the flame,
For why, their notions were the same;
And thus their army moved away
To set the battle in array.
Eiden, the new-made king, beheld
The movements on the adverse field;
And cried, in firm commanding tone,
“Each Scottish leader, straight begone,
And range your clans these columns under,
For, lo, a storm is gathering yonder!
And, if maturely I foresee,
Dreadful the breaking out will be.
“Meantime, let all the dames of birth
Speed to the boats and cross the firth;
For, in such dangers, woman still
Is a dead weight on warrior's will.
Dread not our strength, though some may scoff,
There's help at hand you wot not of;
Mine be the chance to lead the van,
And fight on foot the foremost man;
Stranger I am to take command;
But, as my guardians on each hand,
I choose forth Ross and Sutherland.
“Haste! there is not a moment's speed
To lose, else we shall rue the deed.
See that these orders be obey'd,
And promptly. If they are delay'd
By any here, better his head
Had been laid low among the dead!”
The lords were almost stunn'd to death:
They stared and gasp'd as if for breath.
“What's this,” said they; “A peasant's son
Speak thus to chiefs of Caledon?
Better we had our deed revoke,
Than bow our necks to such a yoke!”
Eiden perceived that they demurr'd,
And, heaving high his mighty sword,
Which token gave of lustihood,
Bestain'd with Eric's royal blood—
“My lords,” said he, “the danger's nigh,
Who's to command—Is't you or I?—
By your award the right is mine;
When you ordain it, I resign.
But my commands are given to-day,
And he that dares to disobey—
I say no more—submission's best—
If more must be, I'll do the rest.”
One of M'Ola's haughty race,
Who held and ruled the forest chase,
'Twixt Lochy's side and Kyle-an-righ,
By sad mischance a speech began
To this resolved, impatient man;
A speech that tended more t'inflame
Proud opposition than to tame.
King Eiden stepp'd across the space,
With scowl portentous on his face;
And in the midst of all his kin
He clove the chieftain to the chin.
“If more such speeches be to say,
We'll hear them out some other day.
This moment's ours—the next, I wis,
Is his who best improveth this.”
He said, and, heaving his claymore,
Resumed the stand he held before.
The chiefs were awed at such control;
Such energy of frame and soul
They ne'er had witness'd among men,
Far less in upstart denizen;
Still there were some aloof that stood,
Unused to yield to vassal blood.
Just at that instant, through the array
A troop of strangers burst their way;
Led by an ancient chief, who rode
A stately steed, with silver shod:
And oh that chief was stern to view!
His robe was crimson set with blue;
While on his head, like spheral crown,
Stood broad and belted chaperon:
His face was bent like curve of bow;
His hair as white as Alpine snow;
His gray beard, quivering with disdain,
Hung mingled with his horse's mane.
Soon as he spied King Eiden stand,
With bloody sword rear'd in his hand,
He cried, “Ah, varlet! Do I see
Thee where I swore thou should'st not be?
How darest thou rear that bloody glaive
Before my face, thou saucy knave?
Hast thou been at thy old misdeeds
Of breaking swords and splitting heads?
Thy mad temerity confess'd
Hath drawn an old man from his rest.
Curs'd knave! I have thee at the last!
Seize on him, friends, and bind him fast!”
“Hold, dearest sire, for mercy's sake!
The time is precious; all's at stake.
To-day I have a task to do;
To-morrow at thy feet I'll bow.”
“Ah, thoughtless, froward, frantic boy!
Thou'st come to combat for a toy;
To fight with one will put thee down,
And for a foe that wears thy crown.
But I'll prevent it. Ne'er shall man
Before my face thy youth trepan.
Seize on the stripling, I command;
I'll bind him with this aged hand!”
“Sire, I've already fought and won;
The great decisive deed is done.
This day thy grandson's hand hath slain
Great Eric of the northern main;
Hath gained for thee supreme renown,
And won my father's ancient crown;
And, what is more than power or fame,
I've won the flower of all our name!”
“What! Thou, young eaglet of the rock!
Brave scion of a noble stock!
Hast thou our sister realms set free
Of their relentless enemy?
The man who hath for twenty years
Kept us in terror and in tears;
Who all despite to me hath done;
Hath slain my kinsmen one by one;
And my two sons, too rashly brave,
Brought both to an untimely grave?
Ah! knave and vagrant as thou art,
Come let me hold thee to my heart!
“Ye chiefs of Albyn, cease your noise
List Colmar King of Erin's voice!
This is your prince whom I embrace,
The flower of all our royal race;
King Eugene's son of soul refined,
And cousin to your sovereign Hynde;
MacUiston's both, as you know well,
And that old dotard monk can tell.
The truant fled me in disguise,
To seek adventures most unwise;
I follow'd, and sent men away
To seize him ere the combat-day,
Who last night found him in his bed:
He slew my officers and fled!
And, in despite of earth and hell,
Has done this day what you can tell.
“Yet he hath that which man exalts,
For all his foibles and his faults:
Oh, he is brave! most nobly brave!
Forgive these tears; I love the knave!
And here to Albyn's fair command
I join the crown of Erin's land.
“Fear not the north's huge power combined;
I have ten thousand men behind;
Who, with Prince Eiden at their head,
Such havoc and deray shall breed
'Mongst that detested brutal host,
Glad shall they be to leave your coast.”
Then the old pagan moved his crown
From off his head, and kneel'd him down,
And thus, with reverend lifted eye,
Address'd his bright divinity:
“Thou glorious Sun, my father's god,
Look down from thy sublime abode
And bless this brave and blooming boy:
Not with the common light of day
Be thou director of his way,
But on his inward spirit shine
With light empyreal and divine;
For thousands on his reign's success
Depend for mortal happiness.
“And when thou leav'st thy heavenly path,
To sojourn in the realms beneath,
Be charges of him nightly given
Unto thy lovely Queen of Heaven;
Who, with serene and modest face,
Watches above the human race,
And sways by visions of dismay
The spirits prone to go astray;
For 'tis not hidden from thy sight,
That dangers of the silent night,
Dangers of women's witching smile,
Of wassail, wake, and courtier's wile,
Far deadlier are to virtuous sway
Than all the perils of the day.
“And now, thou source of light and love,
Great Spirit of all things that move
If thou wilt hearken to my prayer,
I'll such a sacrifice prepare,
As ne'er on beal-day morn did smoke
Beneath thy own vicegerent oak.
“O blessed Sun! I here avow
Thee for my only god, and bow
Before thy bright and holy face,
Sublime protector of my race!
Whilst thy omnipotence shall burn,
Creation's father'd eyes must turn
To thee for life in donative,
And every comfort life can give.
I ask but life for me and mine,
Whilst thy transcendent glories shine;
If farther world of bliss there be,
To Christian souls I yield it free.”
Columba, hearing all reveal'd,
Before the ancient monarch kneel'd,
And cried, “O king! did I not say,
That this thy son should Albyn sway?
That he was destined—he alone,
To save his father's ancient throne?
Thou didst oppose the high decree
As far as influence lay with thee;
Now it hath happ'd in way so odd
That man could not the event forbode:
But who can thwart the arm divine?
Thanks to another God than thine!”
Colmar look'd with averted stare
On the good father kneeling there;
But deeming him below reply,
He only hemm'd, and strode him by.
Then, taking Eiden by the hand,
He led him forth along the strand,
Heaving his ample shield in air,
And wildly shaking his white hair;
And with deep sobs and laughter blent,
He wept, and shouted as he went,
“Who buckles brand on brigantine,
To follow Uiston's son and mine?
The top of Albyn's royal tree!
Who's for King Eiden and for me?”
The Scottish nobles, mad with joy,
At finding there was no alloy
Yet mingled with the metal good
Of Fingal's and the Fergus' blood—
With shouts, and songs, and one assent,
To battle rush'd incontinent.
The Norse came on: as well they might
Have tried to stay the morning light,
The torrent turn by sword or spear,
Or stop the storm in its career.
The Danish men came in the van
On Sutherland's and Ross's clan—
And dreadful was their onset shock,
On the small plain beneath the rock;
Thousands were slain; and, woe to tell!
There Colmar, King of Erin, fell;
And Gaul of Ross, as brave a lord
As ever wielded warrior's sword.
But clan on clan, like billows toiling,
Came panting on, for battle boiling,
And swept the Danish host before,
Like wreck upon the ocean shore,
Which every wave drives on and on—
So roll'd the strife tow'rds Beregon.
To tell of all the deeds of might
That there were done from morn to night.
Would steep my virgin patroness
To the fair bosom in distress:
And to relate the deeds of doom
Wrought by the royal young bridegroom,
Would class my song 'mid fabulous lore,
A folly I indulge no more.
Whene'er a breach was made in flank
Or rear of Albyn's battle rank,
There was MacUiston to supply
The breach, and quell the enemy:
Alas! he struck a foe too late
When brave old Colmar met his fate.
But yet the sire upraised his head,
And feebly laugh'd, and bless'd the deed;
Then, bending back his rigid form,
Like shrivell'd pine beneath the storm,
He fix'd his latest visive ray
Upon the glorious God of Day;
And some weak piping sounds were heard,
As if a joy with terror jarr'd;
The parting spirit's last recess
From dust and dreary nothingness!
The battle spread from cliff to shore,
Along the fields, where late before
That drove the Scots from Beregon:
This day that order was reversed,
The invader's closest files were pierced,
And foot by foot forced to give way;
Till, at the to-fall of the day,
Their speed of foot they 'gan to try
Within the city gates to fly:
They wanted Eric in their van,
Which brave MacUiston overran.
King Eric's corse lay on the field;
Deserted in the flame of fight,
When Norway's files wheel'd to the right.
That and old Colmar's, side by side,
Were borne in barge across the tide,
That funeral honours might be paid,
When to Iona's isle convey'd.
The tidings of the battle won,
And mighty deeds the king had done,
And who he was, on wings of wind,
Flew o'er the ferry to Queen Hynde:
Then of her joy supreme I wot
A bride may judge, but man can not.
Meantime, as deep the darkness grew,
Eiden march'd over Drimna-huah,
And down upon Bomean Moor
Descending at the midnight hour,
He found the enemy's camp at rest,
Without a guard to east or west;
Nought there remain'd in shape of foe,
But wounded men and menials low;
For all within the city gate
Had fled, on learning the defeat;
And many less intent on prey,
Unto the fleet had stolen away.
Spoil was there none, save armour good,
And hides, and furs, and beastly food;
And ere the dawn of morning came,
That mighty camp was all on flame;
A sight that cheer'd each Scottish glen,
But woeful one to Norwaymen!
On the return of morning light,
Full grievous was that army's plight,
Without a general of respect,
Or prince, or leader, to direct,
Save one was qualified the least—
Odin's most high and potent priest.
At board, at muster, or in field,
No warrior council Eric held;
Through life he suffer'd no cabal;
King, general, he was all and all.
But this bluff priest, in wondrous way,
Held over him perpetual sway;
While his last hest, “the gods to appease,”
Made this old fox's powers increase;
Save him, the host would list to none:
They ran to him, and him alone.
Until that time, King Eric's word
Had saved the city from the sword,
From pillage, and the thousand woes
That conquer'd city undergoes;
And he had saved the innocent
From the last throes of ravishment.
But now this foul and bloated priest
Issued forthwith the loved behest,
To take the city for a prey,
The loss and charges to defray,
By way of fair and just reprise:
But keep the maids for sacrifice.
And once that great oblation made
Unto the gods, as Eric bade,
The priest would answer with his head,
For Odin's high and heavenly aid.
The soldiers lauded with acclaim
The priest of Odin's blessed name;
And darted on the spoil away,
Like hungry tigers on their prey.
One hundred virgins, richly dress'd,
Were brought before this goodly priest;
And out of these selected he
His god's own number—three times three;
Those that remain'd by lot were shared
Amongst the soldiers of the guard.
Oh, grievous chance! sure death was bliss,
To such a hideous doom as this!
Well might they say, on such a lot,
Is there a God in heaven or not?
Unto the top of Selma's tower,
Beyond the reach of human power,
The nine were borne for sacrifice,
With songs and shouts that rent the skies,
And the poor victims of despair
Were stretch'd upon an altar there.
By this time many a weeping dame
Had left that hive of sin and shame,
And fled to Eiden's camp on high,
Still placed upon Doon-Valon-Righ:
All other comforts he disdain'd,
Compared with the advantage gain'd;
And there above his foes he hung,
Like osprey o'er the gannet's young.
But ah! the rueful news that came
Distracted every warlike scheme:
There lay the victims in their view,
Surrounded by the hideous crew;
And Selma's seven towers could then
Have guarded been by twenty men
Against a thousand. Such a scene
May Christian ne'er behold again!
The hymns of Odin that ascended
'Mid screams of death and horror blended,
Form'd such a dire discordant yell,
As sinner scarce shall hear from hell,
He takes his drear reluctant flight,
By power unseen impell'd behind,
That sails him swifter than the wind,
To some unfathom'd gulf below,
Which minstrel fears, but does not know—
Of utter darkness and of dread
The very spring and fountain-head.
That this picture of Scandinavian worship may not be viewed as an exaggeration, I shall quote the words of the learned M. Mallet. “The appointed time for their sacrifices was always determined by another opinion, which made the northern nations regard the number three as sacred, and particularly dear to the gods. Thus, in every ninth month they renewed the bloody ceremony, which was to last nine days; and every day they offered up nine living victims, whether animals or human creatures. Then they chose among the captives in time of war, and the slaves in time of peace, nine persons to be sacrificed. The choice was partly regulated by the choice of the bystanders, and partly by lot. The wretches upon whom the lot fell were treated with such honours by all the assembly—they were so overwhelmed with caresses, and with promises for the future, that they sometimes congratulated themselves on their destiny. The priests afterwards opened the bodies, to read in the entrails, and especially the hearts, the will of the gods, and the good or evil fortune that was impending. The bodies were then burned, or suspended in some sacred grove near the temple. Part of the blood was sprinkled upon the people, part of it upon the grave; with the same they also bedewed the images, the altars, the benches, and walls of the temple, both within and without.” —See Introd. Hist. Den.
To influence the powers of heaven,
For woman's sake, though shunn'd by thee,
For hers who nursed thee on her knee,
Now use it; for no earthly power
Can save in this distressing hour!
Pray Him, in whom my soul believes,
Trembles before, but not conceives,
To send relief—Oh, father cry!”
King Eiden said, with streaming eye.
Columba stood amidst the men,
And sung a hymn from David's pen;
Then kneel'd upon the flinty rock,
The Almighty's succour to invoke;
But ere his God he had address'd,
Or suppliant word to him express'd,
The shouts from Selma's turrets sounding,
And tens of thousands these surrounding;
And smoke ascending to the sun,
Told that th' unholy deed was done.
The king, the saint, and warrior bands,
Upon their faces laid their hands,
That on such scene they might not look,
Nor the abhorr'd remembrance brook;
But good Columba bent his eyes
On heaven, and, with most vehement cries,
Implored his Saviour and his God
To smite with his avenging rod
Those rude and violating beasts,
Those vile polluted idolists,
Who dared to stain the murderous knife
In Christian virgins' sacred life.
And, as 'tis told in ancient rhyme,
Some words like these, in tone sublime,
He mutter'd to the Eternal's ear,
Which made the kneelers quake to hear:—
“Father of angels and of men!
Thou, whose omniscient heedful ken
Takes in the ample bounds of space,
Wherever smiles the human face,
Or seraphs sing, or angels dwell,
Or demons that in torment yell,—
Turn here in mercy from above
One glance of justice and of love;
Of love to those who look to thee,
And justice on their enemy;
And view a deed that stamps disgrace
On thy beloved human race.
Oh God! can such a deed beseem
Creatures thou diedst to redeem?
“If thou Jehovah art alone,
And Odin but a god of stone,
Pour down thy vengeance from the skies
On these polluted obsequies.
View but the deed, and ere 'tis done
In darkness thou wilt veil the sun:
His flaming orb shall cease to burn;
The moon and stars to blood shall turn,
While the broad sky aside shall fold,
And like a garment up be roll'd.
“Oh, if thou comest—as come thou wilt,
Vengeance to take on human guilt;
Then be thy wrath in terror shown,
By thunders from thy awful throne.
Descend in majesty supreme;
Thy chariot be devouring flame;
That all the elements may die
Beneath the lightning of thine eye.
The vales shall yawn, in terror rending,
The mountains quake at thy descending,
Nay, bow their hoary heads, and heave
Like skiff upon the yielding wave.
“Stretch but thy finger from the spheres
Towards these bloody worshippers,
And lo! the sinners and the spot
Shall quickly be as they were not!
As things of terror no more seen,
Nay, be as they had never been.
“Our eyes are fix'd on thee above—
Our hope in thy redeeming love:
Then, oh, in mercy to our race,
Hear in the heavens thy dwelling-place!”
While yet the Christian army kneel'd,
Ere brow was raised from rock or shield,
Heaven's golden portals were unbarr'd,
And the Almighty's voice was heard!
It came not forth like thunders loud,
When lightnings through the liquid cloud
With chafe, with clatter, and with boom;
It came with such a mighty sound,
As if the heavens, the depths profound,
And tempests at their utmost noise,
Cried all together in one voice.
Deep call'd to deep, and wave to wave;
Stone unto stone, and grave to grave:
The yawning cliffs and caverns groan'd;
The mountains totter'd as they moan'd;
All nature roar'd in one dire steven;
Heaven cried to earth, and earth to heaven,
Till both the offenders and offended
Knew that the Eternal God descended.
Before it every fragment flew
Of movent nature, all in cumber,
And living creatures without number
Were borne aloft with whirling motion:
It lifted ships out of the ocean!
And all, without one falling shiver,
Were borne away, and lost for ever;
But there were cries of death and dread
Heard in the darkness overhead!
After the wind, with rending roll
A crash was heard from pole to pole,
As if the Almighty's hand had rent
The ample yielding firmament;
Or split with jangle and with knell
The adamantine arch of hell;
And, lo! from out the heavens there came
A sea of rolling smouldering flame,
Which o'er the sinners' heads impended,
And slowly, dreadfully descended;
While with their shouts the welkin broke,
“Great Odin comes! our god, our rock!”
Just while their horrid sacrifice
Still flamed with incense to the skies;
Just when their hearts were at the proudest,
And orisons had pealed the loudest,
The liquid sounding flame inclosed them,
And roll'd them in its furnace bosom!
That city fill'd with loathsome crime,
With all its piles of ancient time,
After the fiery column broke,
Scarce gave a crackle or a smoke,
More than a heap of chaff or tinder,
But melted to a trivial cinder!—
Scarce had the eye of trembling hind
Regained its sight—with terror blind,
His heart began to beat in time,
Or shudder'd at the heinous crime,
Ere the appalling scene was o'er!
One single moment, and no more,
All glitter'd with a glowing gleen,
Then pass'd as they had never been.
Walls, towers, and sinners, in one sweep,
Were solder'd to a formless heap,
To stand, until that final day
When this fair world shall melt away,
As beacons sacred and sublime
Of judgment sent for human crime.
Your minstrel's solace and his pride;
The theme that all his feelings move
Of grief, of pity, and of love;
To you he bows with lowly bend;
His ancient tale is at an end.
More would he tell, but deems it best
That history's page should say the rest.
Of Eiden's long and holy reign;
How Haco and his winsome Wene
Were Scandinavia's king and queen;
How much he owed her in his sway,
And loved her to his latest day.
He and his inmates to a man,
Dress'd in the garb of Highland clan
(Of Skye-men, whom they slew in fight,
When Donald Gorm was beat by night),
The maids had rescued from the pile,
And borne them to some western isle:
Thence they return'd to Albyn's coast
In wedded love, when all their host,
Save those within the ships that lay,
Had melted from the world away,
And were received with greetings kind
By Eiden and his lovely Hynde.
'Twas there that ancient league was framed,
For wisdom, peace, and justice famed
For many ages—Blest is he,
Thus hallow'd by posterity!
THE FOREST MINSTREL.
CLASS FIRST—PATHETIC SONGS.
The Soldier's Widow.
An' left me here alane?
Wha now will love or care for me,
When thou art dead an' gane?
Thy father fell in freedom's cause,
With gallant Moore in Spain:
Now thou art gane, my bonny boy,
An' left me here alane!
To trace his looks in thine,
An' saw, wi' joy, thy sparkling eye
Wi' kindling vigour shine.
I thought, when I was fail'd, I might
Wi' you an' yours remain;
But thou art fled, my bonny boy,
An' left me here alane!
Thy breast is cauld as clay!
An' a' my hope, an' a' my joy,
Wi' thee are reft away.
Ah! fain wad I that comely clay
Reanimate again!
But thou art fled, my bonny boy,
An' left me here alane!
Shall fresher rise to view;
The leaf, just fallen from the tree,
The year will soon renew:
But lang may I weep o'er thy grave,
Ere you revive again!
For thou art fled, my bonny boy,
An' left me here alane!
The Flower.
O'er Yarrow's lonely dale;
And spare yon bonny tender bud,
Exposed to every gale.
Despairing to survive,
But transient sunbeams through the cloud
Still kept my flower alive.
To yonder bower I strayed,
While little birds from every bough,
Their music wild conveyed:
The rainbow girt the sky;
'Twas then I saw this lovely flower,
And wonder filled mine eye.
Stolen from the rising sun;
The whitest feather from the swan
On her fair breast was dun.
Was form'd the heart to win;
The dew-drop glistening in her eye
Showed all was pure within.
Hath crush'd her in the clay;
And ruthless fate hath rudely torn
Each kindred branch away.
But bleeding still remain:
Relentless winds, how can ye blow,
And nip my flower again?
The Moon was A-waning.
The tempest was over,
Fair was the maiden,
And fond was the lover;
But the snow was so deep
That his heart it grew weary,
And he sunk down to sleep
In the moorland so dreary.
She had made for her lover;
White were the sheets,
And embroidered the cover.
And his canopy grander,
And sounder he sleeps
Where the hill-foxes wander.
What sorrows attend you!
I see you sit shivering,
With lights at your window:
But long may you wait
Ere your arms shall inclose him,
For still, still he lies,
With a wreath on his bosom.
The sad tidings to tell you!—
An orphan you were
Ere this misery befell you.
And far in yon wild,
Where the dead tapers hover,
So cold, cold and wan,
Lies the corse of your lover.
Mary at her Lover's Grave.
On flower-fringed valleys by Yarrow's fair stream!
But all I held precious is now taken from me:
Sure every excess of delight is a dream!
Of fate I had never complained as unkindly,
Had it to a bed or a prison confined me,
Reproach, shame, and ruin, before and behind me,
Had Jamie been by me in every extreme.
Where all my affections on earth were bestow'd,
With one fatal stroke to destroy; and to sever
Two bosoms with purest affection that glow'd!
Now dim is the eye that beam'd beauty and splendour,
And cold is the heart, that was constant and tender;
The sweet cherry lips to the worm must surrender,
With wisdom and truth that delightfully flow'd.
Here, on this new grave, will I bid you adieu:
My reason is bleeding, and here will I bury
That mirror, where clearly my misery I view.
O thou who the days of all mankind hast measur'd,
A fate with my Jamie I'll cheerfully hazard!
Then drive me distracted to roam in the desert,
Or bear me to him, that our joys may renew.
And my dust mix with his as we moulder away:
For here, with my hands, will I dig to his bosom,
Where closely I'll cling till the dawn of the day.
When the moon and the stars with a sob shall expire,
And the sun burst away like a flash of pale fire;
Then higher and higher we'll jointly aspire
To friendship that never shall end nor decay.
Bonnie Dundee.
Your daddy an' mammy wi' me winna dread you;
An' by the fair hand through the flowers I will lead you,
An' sing you The bonnets o' bonnie Dundee!
Wi' heart an' wi' hand, my dear lad, I'll gang wi' thee,
My daddy an' mammy think nought to belie thee;
I ken ye'll do naething but kiss me an' lead me,
An' sing me The bonnets o' bonnie Dundee.
An' left thee to listen to counsel sae killin'?
Oh, where were the feelings o' that cruel villain,
Who rifled that blossom, an' left it to die?
How pale is that cheek that was rosy an' red aye?
To see that sunk e'e wad gar ony heart bleed aye?
Oh, wae to the wild willow-bush i' the meadow!
Oh dule to the bonnets o' bonnie Dundee!
My Peggy an' I.
My Peggy an' I, my Peggy an' I;
We waggle through life as weel as we can,
An' wha's sae happy as Peggy an' I?
We hae a wee lassie will keep up our line,
My Peggy an' I, my Peggy an' I;
I'm sure she is hers, an' I think she is mine,
An' wha's sae happy as Peggy an' I?
My Peggy an' I, my Peggy an' I;
In ilka bit smile her dear mother I see,
An' wha's sae happy as Peggy an' I?
Oh lang may she live to our honour an' joy,
My Peggy an' I, my Peggy an' I;
An' nae wicked fellow our darling decoy,
For wha's sae happy as Peggy an' I?
My Peggy an' I, my Peggy an' I;
We're healthy, an' handy, an' never need fear,
For wha's sae happy as Peggy an' I?
We sleep a' the night, an' we ply a' the day,
My Peggy an' I, my Peggy an' I;
Baith vices an' follies lie out o' our way,
An' wha's sae happy as Peggy an' I?
My Peggy an' I, my Peggy an' I;
An' gratefu' to Him wha contentment can gie,
An' wha's sae happy as Peggy an' I?
My Peggy an' I, my Peggy an' I;
Then, sidie for sidie, we'll sleep i' the clay,
An' wha's sae happy as Peggy an' I?
Cauld is the Blast.
The top of Ben-Wevis is driftin' wi' snaw;
The child i' my bosom is shiverin' an' moanin';
Oh! pity a wretch that has naething ava.
My feet they are bare, and my cleathin' is duddy,
Yes, look, gentle traveller—ance I was gay;
I hae twa little babies, baith healthy and ruddy,
But want will waste them and their mother away.
When the woodland is green, an' the flower on the lee;
But now he's ta'en frae us for aye, wha was truly
A father to them and a husband to me.
My Duncan supplied me, though far away lyin'
Wi' heroes, the glory and pride of our isle;
But orders obeyin' and dangers defyin'
He fell wi' Macleod on the banks of the Nile.
An' down his grave cheek the big rollin' tear ran;
“I am not alone in the loss has befa'n me!
Oh wae to ambition the misery of man!
But go to my hall; to the poor an' the needy
My table is furnish'd, an' open my door;
An' there I will cherish, an' there I will feed thee,
And often together our loss we'll deplore.”
The traveller was Macleod of Geanies, father to the late brave Captain Macleod, who fell amongst his countrymen in Egypt.
The Gloamin'
Had chased the bonny gouden gleam;
The curtain'd east, in crimson die,
Lay mirror'd on the tinted stream;
The wild-rose, blushing on the brier,
Was set wi' draps o' pearly dew,
As full and clear the bursting tear
That row'd in Ellen's een o' blue.
Where fifteen years flew swiftly by,
An' sair she wail'd the hapless lot
That forced her frae that hame to fly.
Though blythe an' mild the e'ening smiled,
Her heart was rent wi' anguish keen;
The mavis ceased his music wild,
And wonder'd what her plaint could mean.
A mourning veil it seem'd to be;
The star o' love look'd pale and wan,
As if the tear were in her e'e.
The dowie dell, the greenwood tree,
With all their inmates, seem'd to mourn;
Sweet Ellen's tears they doughtna see,
Departing never to return.
There were no words to give it name;
Her aged parents' hearts were broke,
Her brow imbued with burning shame.
That hame could she ne'er enter mair,
Ilk honour'd face in tears to see,
Where she so oft had join'd the prayer
Pour'd frae the heart so fervently.
Her fondest earthly hope was gone:
Her soul had brooded o'er the past,
Till pale despair remain'd alone.
Her heart abused, her love misused,
Her parents drooping to the tomb,
Weeping, she fled to desert bed,
To perish in its ample dome.
Lord Eglintoun's Auld Man.
Sair wearied wi' the way;
His looks were like an evening bright,
His hair was siller gray.
He spak o' days lang past an' gane,
When life beat high in every vein;
When he was foremost on the plain
On every blithesome day.
An' gay the gloaming fell;
For sweet content led aye the van,
An' sooth'd the passions well:
Till wounded by a gilded dart,
When Jeanie's een subdued my heart,
I cherished aye the pleasing smart—
Mair sweet than I can tell.
In life's uneasy way;
We nourished virtuous girls an' boys,
That now are far away;
An' she, my best, my dearest part,
The sharer o' ilk joy an' smart,
Each wish an' weakness o' my heart,
Lies mouldering in the clay.
Look back, 'tis gone as soon;
But yet his pleasures halve the way,
An' fly before 'tis noon:
But conscious virtue still maintains
The honest heart through toils an' pains;
An' hope o' better days remains,
An' hauds the heart aboon.”
The Guardian Angel.
For it stood by an untrodden shore of the main,
When Duncan was rais'd from his slumber, amaz'd
By a voice at his door, that did shortly complain—
“Rise, Duncan, I perish!” his bosom was fir'd
With feelings no language or pen can convey:
'Twas a voice he had heard, and with rapture admir'd,
Ere fatal Culloden had forced him away.
And wistfully look'd where his vision could reach;
He shouted—but only the echoes about
Him answer'd, and billows that rush'd on the beach.
For the winds were at rest, but the ocean, opprest,
Still heav'd like an earthquake, and broke on the shore;
The mist settled high on the mountains of Skye,
And the wild howling storm ruffled nature no more.
Although every sense was with reason at strife;
When the sun blinked red o'er the hills of Argyle,
He found his Matilda, his lady, his wife!
Resign'd to her fate, on a little green plat,
Where a cliff intercepted the wanderer's way,
On her bosom so fair, and her fine yellow-hair,
The frost of the morning lay crisped and gray.
And cried, “O, kind Father, look down on my woe!
O, spare my sweet wife, and the whole of my life
My heart, for the gift, shall with gratitude glow!”
By care and attention she slowly recovers,
And found herself lock'd in her husband's embrace.
But, reader, if ever thou hast been a lover,
Thy heart will outgo me, and furnish this space.
And had come from the vale ere the tempest had lower'd;
That the snow and the sleet had benumb'd her weak feet,
And with hunger and cold she was quite overpower'd.
For her way she had lost, and the torrents she cross'd
Had often nigh borne her away to the main;
But the night coming on, she had laid herself down,
And pray'd to her Maker, nor pray'd she in vain.
When morning's gray streamers scarce crested the fell?
A voice then did name me, and waken'd me fairly,
And bade me arise, and the voice I knew well.”
“Than where I was found I was never more nigh thee:
I sunk, overcome by toil, famine, and grief;
Some pitying angel, then hovering by me,
Has taken my voice to afford me relief.”
To their great Benefactor his goodness to mind,
Both evening and morning unto them returning;
And well they perform'd the engagement we find.
They both now are cold; but the tale they have told
To many, while gratitude's tears fell in store;
And whenever I pass by the bonny Glenasby,
I mind the adventure on Morven's lone shore.
CLASS SECOND—LOVE SONGS.
My Blythe and Bonnie Lassie.
When I took leave o' yonder glen,
Her faithful dames, her honest men,
Her streams sae pure an' glassy, O:
Her woods that skirt the verdant vale,
Her balmy breeze sae brisk an' hale,
Her flower of every flower the wale,
My blythe an' bonnie lassie, O!
An' aye we sat the birks amang,
Till o'er my head the blackbird sang,
“Gae part wi' that dear lassie, O.”
When on Lamgaro's top sae green
The rising sun-beam red was seen,
Wi' aching heart I left my Jean,
My blythe an' bonnie lassie, O.
Her smile the sunshine after rain;
Her nature cheerfu', frank, an' kind,
An' neither proud nor saucy, O.
The ripest cherry on the tree
Was ne'er sae pure or meek to see,
Nor half sae sweet its juice to me,
As a kiss o' my dear lassie, O.
Yon glen shall aye be dear to me;
Her banks an' howms sae fair to see;
Her braes sae green an' grassy, O:
An' there my heart was stown awa;
An' there my Jeanie first I saw,
My blythe an' bonnie lassie, O!
Bonnie Mary.
An' wheels an' boils in mony a linn,
A brisk young shepherd fed his flocks,
Unused to wranglement or din.
But love its silken net had thrown
Around his breast, so brisk an' airy;
An' his blue eyes wi' moisture shone.
As thus he sung of bonnie Mary.
My very being clings about thee;
This heart would rather cease to beat,
Than beat a lonely thing without thee.
I see thee in the evening beam—
A radiant, glorious apparition;
I see thee in the midnight dream,
By the dim light of heavenly vision.
The morning breaks in streaks sae bonnie,
I climb the mountain's velvet side,
For quiet rest I getna ony.
How dear the lair on yon hill cheek,
Where mony a weary hour I tarry!
For there I see the twisting reek
Rise frae the cot where dwells my Mary.
His gowden locks a' streaming gaily;
When morn has breathed her fragrance pure,
An' life an' joy ring through the valley;
I drive my flocks to yonder brook,
The feeble in my arms I carry;
Then every lammie's harmless look
Brings to my mind my bonnie Mary.
An' shook the dew-drops frae his wing;
Oft hae my flocks forgot to feed,
An' round their shepherd form'd a ring.
Their looks condole the lee-lang day,
While mine are fix'd and never vary,
Aye turning down the westlin' brae,
Where dwells my loved, my bonnie Mary.
Wraps in deep shadow dell and dingle,
An' lads an' lasses mak a shift
To raise some fun around the ingle;
Regardless o' the wind or rain
With cautious step and prospect wary,
I often trace the lonely glen
To steal a sight o' bonnie Mary.
An' lays the breeze amang the bushes;
An' Yarrow in her sounding sweep,
By rock and ruin raves and rushes;
Though sunk in deep and quiet sleep,
My fancy wings her flight so airy,
To where sweet guardian spirits keep
Their watch around the couch of Mary.
Where blooming youth to manhood grew;
The bee forget the honey-comb,
Nor with the spring his toil renew:
The sun may lose his light and heat,
The planets in their rounds miscarry;
But my fond heart shall cease to beat,
When I forget my bonnie Mary.”
The Braes of Bushby.
As I cam o'er the rigs o' Lorn,
I heard a lassie all forlorn
Lamenting for her Johnnie, O.
Her wild notes poured the air alang;
The Highland rocks an' woodlands rang,
An' aye the o'erword o' her sang
Was “Bushby braes are bonnie, O.
Where bloom the brier an' sulky sloe,
There first I met my only joe,
My dear, my faithfu' Johnnie, O.
The grove was dark, sae dark an' sweet,
Where first my lad an' I did meet;
The roses blushed around our feet;
Then Bushby braes were bonnie, O.
That frae my e'e still wring the tear!
Yet still the hope my heart shall cheer
Again to meet my Johnnie, O.
The primrose saw, an' blue hare-bell,
But nane o' them our love can tell;
The thrilling joy I felt too well
When Bushby braes were bonnie, O.
To fight the proud an' doubtfu' Dane:
For our success my heart is fain;
But 'tis maistly for my Johnnie, O.
Then, Cupid, smooth the German Sea,
An' bear him back to Lorn an' me!
An' a' my life I'll sing wi' glee,
The Bushby braes are bonnie, O.”
Blythe an' Cheerie.
An' mony a bonnie blooming shaw;
The braes o' Ettrick ever saw.
Her cheek is like the woodland rose;
Her e'e the violet set wi' dew;
The lily's fair without compare,
Yet in her bosom tines its hue.
As I could lift unto my knee,
Nae ither lass but Peggie dear
Should ever be a bride to me.
Oh she's blithe, an' oh she's cheerie,
Oh she's bonnie, frank, an' free!
The sternies bright, nae dewy night,
Could ever beam like Peggie's e'e.
That stands aneath yon mountain high,
To help me wi' the kye an' ewes,
An' in my arms at e'ening lie;
Oh sae blithe, an' oh sae cheerie,
Oh sae happy we wad be!
The lammie to the ewe is dear,
But Peggie's dearer far to me.
An' greet till I tine baith my een;
Though Peggie's smile my heart beguiles,
She disna mind my love a preen.
Oh I'm sad, an' oh I'm sorry!
Sad an' sorry may I be;
I may be sick an' very sick,
But I'll be desperate sweer to dee.
To Miss Jane S---f.
What ail'd me I never could close an e'e?
Was't Chalmers's sherry that thrill'd ilka vein,
Or glamour yon gipsy has thrown upon me?
I'm certain twa een as bright I hae seen;
An' every perfection in every degree;
Can naebody sing like Jeanie yestreen,
That sleep's sae completely departed frae me?
Where sense an' guid nature apparent we see;
'Tis her sweet cherry lips, and her delicate form,
Have left an impression where it shouldna be.
No, that's not the thing: 'tis an elegant ease
Attending ilk action, though ever sae wee;
An' her sweet heavenly voice, sae to melody tuned,
It will ring in my lugs till the day that I dee.
Nor nae single beauty astonishes me;
But the hale o' the lassie arises to view,
As a model what womankind really may be.
Your love in a present I wadna' receive,
It wad mar sic a pure an' agreeable dream;
But only, if you think it prudent to give,
A shepherd, dear Jeanie, intreats your esteem.
The Bonnie Lass of Deloraine.
And worldly cares my mind annoy?
Again its softest notes I'll try,
So dear a theme can never cloy.
Last time my mountain harp I strung,
'Twas she inspired the simple strain—
That lovely flower so sweet and young,
The bonnie lass of Deloraine.
Around her ruddy lips that blow:
The flower that in her bosom dies;
Or grass that bends beneath her toe.
Her cheek's endowed with powers at will
The rose's richest shade to drain;
Her eyes, what soft enchantments fill!
The bonnie lass of Deloraine.
And Lomond of her isles so green;
And Windermere her woodland shores;
Our Ettrick boasts a sweeter scene:
For there the evening twilight swells
With many a wild and melting strain;
And there the pride of beauty dwells,
The bonnie lass of Deloraine.
And bonnie as she wont to be,
The world may into Ettrick crowd,
And nature's first perfection see.
Glencoe has drawn the wanderer's eye,
And Staffa in the western main;
These natural wonders ne'er can vie
Wi' the bonnie lass of Deloraine.
And round her brow may honour twine;
And Heaven preserve that breast in peace,
Where meekness, love, and duty join!
But all her joys shall cheer my heart,
And all her griefs shall give me pain;
For never from my soul shall part
The bonnie lass of Deloraine.
I hae lost my Jeanie, O.
An' birds sae blithe an' cheerie, O,
When I was wi' my dearie, O.
My heart's now sair, my elbows bare,
My pouch without a guinea, O;
I'll never taste o' pleasure mair,
Since I hae lost my Jeanie, O.
Far waur than my deserving, O;
Thrice o'er the crown thou'st knocked me down,
An' left me hauflins starving, O:
Thy roughest blast has blawn the last,
My lass has used me meanly, O;
Thy keenest dart has pierced my heart,
An' ta'en frae me my Jeanie, O.
For aught but missing slavery, O;
This world's a stage, a pilgrimage,
A mass o' guilt an' knavery, O:
If fickle fame but save my name,
An' frae oblivion screen me, O;
Then farewell fortune, farewell love,
An' farewell, bonnie Jeanie, O!
Here, fix'd by choice.
Beside the lovely Flora;
Too fond to see the charming maid,
The cause of all my sorrow.
The rising sun each morning saw
My passion fast augmenting,
Till she with Campbell cross'd the main,
And left her love lamenting.
My blessing still attend her;
Whene'er I offer up my vows,
My dear I'll aye remember.
Though mountains rise, and rivers roll,
And oceans rage between us,
If death me spare, I'll search for her
Through all the Carolinas.
Nor grief, nor tears, can ease me;
I feel the time approaching fast
When a clay-cold bed will please me.
Then rest my head upon yon hill,
Where blows the blooming heather;
There first at Flora's feet I fell;
There oft we sat together.
How sorry when I left her!
I would not then have chang'd my seat
With him that sway'd the sceptre.
My prospect glow'd with fairest flowers,
From bliss no bounds to bar me;
Now dismal shades and dreary shores
With rueful murmurs scare me.
I spent in mirth and ranging;
There was a time when I was gay,
But times are always changing.
The times shall change, and moons shall wane,
Yet I in love still languish;
My tender heart must break in twain,
Since nought can ease mine anguish.
I'm gane a' wrang, Jamie.
What maks you sae cheerless?
For wit, an' fun, an' harmless glee,
My Peggy aye was peerless.
Ye're gane a' wrang, Peggy,
Ye're gane a' wrang, Peggy,
Ye've lost a frien', or catch'd the spleen,
Or for some lad thought lang, Peggy.”
Has banish'd a' my mirth, Jamie;
An' I hae lost the dearest frien'
That e'er I ken'd on earth, Jamie.
I'm gane a' wrang, Jamie,
I'm gane a' wrang, Jamie,
For I've lien in an unco bed,
Ayont an' unco man, Jamie.”
Ye canna hide it lang, Peggy;
How could ye use your love sae ill?
Ye have done a' wrang, Peggy.
Ye're gane a' wrang, Peggy,
Ye're gane a' wrang, Peggy,
Ye promis'd aft to marry me,
An' aye ere it was lang, Peggy.
But that's the thing maun be, Peggy:
I'll never like a lass sae weel,
Sin' I hae done wi' thee, Peggy.
Ye're gane a' wrang, Peggy,
Ye're gane a' wrang, Peggy,
Ye promis'd aft to marry me,
An' aye ere it was lang, Peggy.”
Ye war sae kind an' true, Jamie;
My broken heart will ne'er forget
How I've misused you, Jamie.
I'm gane a' wrang, Jamie,
I'm gane a' wrang, Jamie;
For I've lien in an unco bed,
Ayont an unco man, Jamie.”
But blame was far frae thee, Peggy:
I'll tell you what will gar you blush,—
The unco man was me, Peggy.
We've done a' wrang, Peggy;
We'll do the best that now remains,
An' wed ere it be lang, Peggy.”
The Hay-makers.
'Tis needless now to tell;
But a' the flowers the meadow through,
Ye're sweetest aye yoursel':
I canna sleep a wink by night,
Nor think a thought by day;
Your image smiles afore my sight
Whate'er I do or say.”
Ye'll ever blush to own;
Or try to wile my youthfu' heart
Frae reason's sober throne:
Sic visions I can ne'er approve,
Nor ony wakin' dream;
Than trust sic fiery furious love,
I'd rather hae esteem.”
I canna bide your frown;
Wi' ilka flower sae fresh an' gay,
I'll deck your bosom round;
I'll pu' the gowan off the glen,
The lily off the lea;
The rose and hawthorn bud I'll twine
To make a bob for thee.”
An' a' my peace frae me;
An' fix my feet within the net,
Ere I my error see.
I trow ye'll wale the flowery race
My bosom to adorn:
An' ye confess ye're gaun to place
Within my breast a thorn.”
An' vex me a' the day?
Ye ken I lo'e wi' a' my heart,
What wad ye hae me say?
Ilk anxious wish an' little care
I'll in thy breast confide,
An' a' your joys and sorrows share
If ye'll become my bride.”
There's nane I like sae weel;
An' Heaven grant I act my part
To ane sae true an' leal.
This bonnie day amang the hay,
I'll mind till death us twine;
An' often bless the happy day
That made my laddie mine.”
The Bogles.
An' left her poor Jamie her loss to bemoan;
To me 'tis a sad and lamentable day;
For the bogles have chas'd my Eliza away.
The Lowlands may weep, and the Highlands may smile,
In welcome to her that's the flower of our isle:
It's all for thy honour, ambitious Tay,
That the bogles have chas'd my Eliza away.
I fear I will never behold her again;
I canna get quit o't, by night nor by day,
Since the bogles have chas'd my Eliza away.
Oh, sweet may the breeze be her mountains between!
And sweet be her walks through her woodlands so green!
And sweet be the murmurs of fair winding Tay,
Since the bogles have chased my Eliza away!
If I had two friends on the earth, she was ane;
And now I can neither be cheerfu' nor gay,
Since the bogles have chas'd my Eliza away.
May Heaven in kindness long shelter my flower,
So admir'd by the rich, and belov'd by the poor!
Whose blessing will cheer her sweet bosom for aye,
Nor fairy nor bogle will chase it away.
Bonnie Jean.
The sang ye sang yestreen, O,
When here, aneath the hawthorn wild,
I met my bonnie Jean, O.
My blude ran prinklin' through my veins,
My hair began to steer, O;
My heart play'd deep against my breast,
As I beheld my dear, O.
O weels me on my dearie!
O weels me on the charmin' spot,
Where a' combin'd to cheer me!
The mavis liltit on the bush,
The lavrock on the green, O;
The lily bloom'd, the daisy blush'd,
But a' was nought to Jean, O.
Be neither flee'd nor eerie;
I'll wad your love sits in the bush,
That gars ye sing sae cheerie:
She may be kind, she may be sweet,
She may be neat an' clean, O;
But oh she's but a drysome mate,
Compared wi' bonnie Jean, O.
An' a' her bloomin' treasures,
An' bid me rise, and turn, and choice,
An' taste her chiefest pleasures;
My choice wad be the rosy cheek,
The modest beaming eye, O;
The yellow hair, the bosom fair,
The lips o' coral dye, O.
A burine poplin' by, O;
Our bed the swaird, our sheet the plaid,
Our canopy the sky, O.
An' here's the burn, an' there's the bush
Around the flowery green, O;
An' this the plaid, an' sure the lass
Wad be my bonnie Jean, O.
Ye sternies twinklin' high, O!
An' a' ye gentle powers aboon,
That roam athwart the sky, O!
Ye see me gratefu' for the past,
Ye saw me blest yestreen, O;
An' ever till I breathe my last
Ye'll see me true to Jean, O.
Bonnie Leezy.
An' liv'd a life both free an' easy;
Yet real delight I never felt
Until I saw my bonnie Leezy.
I've seen the Athol birk sae fair,
The mountain pine, an' simple daisy;
But nought I've seen can e'er compare
Wi' the modest gracefu' form o' Leezy.
The lamb upon the lea sae gaily;
But when young Leezy trips the vale,
For lively ease, she dings them fairly.
Her een, the dew-draps o' the morn!
Hae gi'en my heart an unco heezy:
It canna be that pride or scorn
Can lodge within the breast o' Leezy.
Though love has made me something reezy;
But mirth shall never gang wi' me
If aught befa' my bonnie Leezy.
When her and I to rest are gane,
May shepherds strew our graves wi' daisy!
And when o'er us they make their maen,
Aye join my name wi' bonnie Leezy!
Now well may I.
Where love unlicens'd reign'd, O,
Where sense is pall'd an' conscience gall'd,
And nature's laws profaned, O:
In yonder wood, above the flood,
Conceal'd frae ilka eye, O,
Forby the bat, an' beaming wain,
That slowly wheels on high, O.
In innocence to woo, O;
An' ilka care on earth I'll leave,
This blessing to pursue, O.
Though troubles rise, and wars increase,
And discontents prevail, O,
We'll laugh and sing, and love our king,
Till strength and vigour fail, O.
The Sheep Shearing.
The valley was fresh, and the mountain was green,
When bonnie young Jean, of our maidens the queen,
Went over the dale to the shearing.
Her form was so fair, it was rather divine;
The rose-leaf and lily her features entwine;
Her lip was the clover-flower moistened with wine;
Her manner was sweet and endearing.
Her hair was the sun-beam; her eye was the dew,
The mirror where love did his image review,
And smile at the shadow so pleasing.
The knight, who was there at the shearing the ewe
Says, “Farmer, your daughter's a beautiful rose:”
Then up to Miss Jeanie he instantly goes,
And kiss'd her and aye would be teasing.
And gave her a ring set with jewels so gay:
“Oh! meet me, my dear,” he would pressingly say,
“This night in the bower by the river.”
“I'll ask at my father,” young Jeanie replies;
“I fain would be with you; but if he denies”—
“Ah! pray do not tell him,” said he, with surprise,
“And I'll love you, my Jeanie, for ever.”
I'll never do aught but my father may see;
He'll never refuse to intrust me with thee
From evening till dawn of the morning.”
She cries—“My dear father, the knight and your Jean
This night are to meet in the woodland so green,
To kiss and to prattle by mortal unseen,
From evening till dawn of the morning.”
“He mocks you, my jewel, go not to the bower.”
“Then, sir, I am sorry 'tis out of my power
To meet you this night by the river.
When my father permits I will wait upon thee.”
Then light as a lamb she skipp'd over the lea,
And left the poor knight in a fever.
Confound me, if ever I saw such an eye!
But every contrivance in life I will try
To catch her alone by the river.”
But all was in vain, she evaded him still,
Yet always received him with kindest good-will;
And now she's the lady of Merleton-hill,
And lovely and loving as ever.
How Foolish are Mankind.
In any poor changling under the sun!
By nature, or habit, or want of reflection,
To vices or folly we heedlessly run.
The man who is modest and kind in his nature,
And open and cheerful in every degree;
Who feels for the woes of his own fellow-creature,
Though subject to failings, is dear unto me.
The sweet native violet, or bud of the broom,
Than fine fostered flowers in the garden a-growing,
Though sweet be their savour and bonnie their bloom.
Far dearer to me is the thrush or the linnet,
Than any fine bird from a far foreign tree;
And dearer my lad, with his plaid and blue bonnet,
Than all our rich nobles or lords that I see.
My Dear Little Jeanie.
An' saucy wi' Charlie, whase horses an' kye
Gang wide on the meadow, his ewes on the lea?
An' where will you see sic a laddie as he?”
“Ah! father, if ye ken'd him as weel as I,
How ye wad despise him, his ewes an' his kye!
Whene'er we're our lane, on the meadow or hill,
Ilk word an' ilk action is tendin' to ill.
He'll beg for a kiss, which I canna refuse:
He ne'er gies a look that a lassie needs fear,
Nor yet says a word but the warld may hear.
I ken, my dear father, ye like me sae weel,
That naething frae you I can ever conceal:
Young Charlie is handsome, and gallant to see;
But Jamie, though poorer, is dearer to me.”
Oh, how I'm delighted to hear you sae sage!
The forward, who maks the young maiden his prey,
Is often caress'd, and the good sent away.
I like ye, my Jeanie, as dear as my life;
Ye've been a kind daughter, sae will ye a wife.
Then gree wi' your Jamie when he comes again;
From this time I'll count him a son o' my ain.”
CLASS THIRD—HUMOROUS SONGS.
Doctor Monroe.
Come, bleed me an' blister me, dinna be slow;
I'm sick, I'm exhausted, my prospects are blasted,
An' a' driven heels o'er head, Doctor Monroe!”
“Be patient, dear fellow, you foster your fever;
Pray, what's the misfortune that troubles you so?”
“O Doctor, I'm ruin'd, I'm ruin'd for ever—
My lass has forsaken me, Doctor Monroe!
The sweets, the enjoyments from wedlock that flow;
But she's ta'en anither, an' broken my measures,
An' fairly dumfounder'd me, Doctor Monroe!
I am fool'd, I am dover'd as dead as a herring—
Good sir, you're a man of compassion, I know;
Come, bleed me to death, then, unflinching, unerring,
Or grant me some poison, dear Doctor Monroe!”
He took out his lance, an' he sharpen'd it so;
No judge ever look'd more decided or graver—
“I've oft done the same, sir,” says Doctor Monroe,
“For gamblers, rogues, jockeys, and desperate lovers,
But I always make charge of a hundred, or so.”
The patient look'd pale, and cried out in shrill quavers,
“The devil! do you say so, sir, Doctor Monroe?”
I like it—it pays—but, ere that length I go,
A man that goes mad for the love of a woman
I sometimes can cure with a lecture, or so.”
“Why, thank you, sir; there spoke the man and the friend too;
Death is the last reckoner with friend or with foe:
The lecture then, first, if you please, I'll attend to;
The other, of course, you know, Doctor Monroe.”
Of love an' of wedlock, each loss an' each woe!
The patient got up—o'er the floor he went strutting,
Smil'd, caper'd, an' shook hands with Doctor Monroe.
He dresses, an' flaunts it with Bell, Sue, and Chirsty,
But freedom an' fun chooses not to forego;
He still lives a batchelor, drinks when he's thirsty,
An' sings like a lark, an' loves Doctor Monroe!
Love's Like a Dizziness.
An' never wish'd to marry, O;
But when I saw my Peggy's face,
I felt a sad quandary, O.
Though wild as ony Athol deer,
She has trepanned me fairly, O:
Her cherry cheeks an' een sae clear
Torment me late an' early, O.
O, love, love, love!
Love is like a dizziness!
It winna let a poor body
Gang about his business!
Wad mak a daft-like diary, O;
I drave my cart out-o'er a dike,
My horses in a miry, O.
I wear my stockings white an' blue,
My love's sae fierce an' fiery, O;
I drill the land that I should plough,
An' plough the drills entirely, O.
O, love, love, love! &c.
I raise to theek the stable, O;
I cuist my coat, an' plied away
As fast as I was able, O:
I wrought that morning out an' out,
As I'd been redding fire, O;
When I had done an' look'd about,
Gude faith, it was the byre, O!
O, love, love, love! &c.
The dear, the lovely blinkin o't,
Has pierced me through an' through the heart,
An' plagues me wi' the prinkling o't.
I tried to sing, I tried to pray,
I tried to drown't wi' drinkin' o't;
I tried wi' sport to drive't away,
But ne'er can sleep for thinkin' o't.
O, love, love, love! &c.
An' save my heart frae breaking, O,
I'd put a girdle round the globe,
Or dive in Corryvrekin, O;
Or howk a grave at midnight dark
In yonder vault sae eerie, O;
Or gang an' spier for Mungo Park
Through Africa sae dreary, O.
O, love, love, love! &c.
Or how severe my pliskie, O;
I swear I'm sairer drunk wi' love,
Than ever I was wi' whisky, O.
For love has raked me fore an' aft,
I scarce can lift a leggie, O:
I first grew dizzy, then gaed daft,
An' soon I'll dee for Peggy, O.
O, love, love, love!
Love is like a dizziness!
It winna let a poor body
Gang about his business!
Auld Ettrick John.
An honest man I wat was he;
His name was John, an' he was born
A year afore the thretty-three.
He wed a wife when he was young,
But she had dee'd, and John was wae;
He wantit lang, at length did gang
To court Nell Brunton o' the Brae.
His arm was waggin' manfullye,
He thought his shadow look'd nae ill,
As aft he keek'd aside to see;
His shoon war four punds weight a-piece,
On ilka leg a ho had he,
His doublet strang was large an' lang,
His breeks they hardly reached his knee;
The moths had wrought it muckle harm,
The pouches were an ell atween,
The cuff was fauldit up the arm;
He wore a bonnet on his head,
The bung upon his shoulders lay,
An' by its neb ye wad hae read
That Johnnie view'd the milky way:
As he came duntin' down the brae,
“A wooer ne'er should hing his head,
But blink the breeze an' brow the day;”
An' Johnnie said unto himsel',
“A wooer risks nae broken banes;
I'll tell the lassie sic a tale
Will gar her look twa gates at ance.”
His cheeks wi' healthy red did glow;
Though siller-gray his head did grow;
An' John, although he had nae lands,
Had twa gude kye amang the knowes,
A hunder punds in honest hands,
An' sax-an-thretty doddit ewes.
Fu' ripe an' ruddy was her mou',
Her een war like twa beads o' glass,
Her brow was white like Cheviot woo;
Her cheeks war bright as heather-bells,
Her bosom like December snaw,
Her teeth war whiter nor egg-shells,
Her hair was like the hoody craw.
He crackit o' his good milk-kye,
His kebbucks, hams, an' cogs o' brose,
An' siller out at trust forby;
An' aye he showed his buirdly limb,
As bragging o' his feats sae rare,
An' a' the honours paid to him
At kirk, at market, or at fair.
Nell soon became his dashin' bride;
But ilka joy soon fled away
Frae Johnnie's canty ingle side;
For there was fretting late an' air,
An' something aye awanting still:
The saucy taunt an' bitter jeer—
Now, sic a life does unco ill.
His teeth are frae their sockets flown;
The hair's peel'd aff his head aboon;
His face is milk-an'-water grown;
His legs that firm like pillars stood,
Are now grown toom an' unco sma';
She's reaved him sair o' flesh an' bluid,
An' peace o' mind, the warst of a'.
In time the duties of a wife;
But youth wi' youth gae hand in hand,
Or tine the sweetest joys o' life.
Ye men whose heads are turning gray,
Wha to the grave are hastin' on,
Let reason a' your passions sway,
An' mind the fate o' Ettrick John.
Let pure affection win the hand;
Ne'er stoop to lead a life o' care,
Wi' doited age, for gear or land.
When ilka lad your beauty slights,
An' ilka blush is broke wi' wae,
Ye'll mind the lang an' lanesome nights
O' Nell, the lassie o' the Brae.
In another edition the conclusion of the song stands thus:
“I'm come to court your daughter Nell;
An' if I die immediately
She shall hae a' the gowd hersel.
An' if I chance to hae a son,
I'll breed him up a braw divine;
An' I'll provide for a' the lave,
Although we should hae aught or nine.”
She soon became his bonnie bride;
But ilka joy is fled away
Frae Johnnie's cantie ingle side.
She frets, an' greets, an' visits aft,
In hopes some lad will see her hame;
But never ane will be sae daft
As tent auld Johnnie's flisky dame.
His teeth are frae their sockets flown;
The hair's peeled aff his head aboon;
His face is milk-an'-water grown:
His legs, that firm like pillars stood,
Are now grown toom an' unco sma';
She's reaved him sair o' flesh an' bluid,
An' peace o' mind, the warst of a'.
An' ilka callan tak a wife;
But youth wi' youth gae hand in hand,
Or tine the sweetest joys o' life.
Ye men whase heads are turning gray,
Wha to the grave are hasting on,
Let reason aye your passion sway,
An' mind the fate o' Ettrick John.
Let pure affection guide your hand,
Nor stoop to lead a life o' care
Wi' withered age for gear or land.
When ilka lad your beauty slights,
An' ilka smile shall yield to wae,
Ye'll mind the lang an' lanesome nights
O' Nell, the lassie o' the Brae.
Bonnie Beety.
Sae frank an' cheery aye to meet wi',
Until wi' ane unwary e'e
I view'd the charms o' bonnie Beety.
Lack-a-day!
Far away
Will I gae,
If I lose her.
Through sark an' waistcoat frae her sweet e'e;
She said it ne'er should do't again,
An' off like lightning flew my Beety.
Luckless day!
May I say,
When my way
Led to Beety.
When wi' my wark my face was sweaty;
She said I was a crieshy thief,
An' ne'er should get a kiss o' Beety.
Now I'm gone,
Love has pro'en
A weaver's ruin.
An' wi' the herd has made a treaty;
But wae light on his clouted shoon,
How durst he e'er attempt my Beety?
Oh how blind,
Eyes an' mind,
Womankind
Are to their profit!
An' by my beam, if Watie meet me,
I'll cut his throat frae ear to ear—
I'll lose my life or gain my Beety.
Blood an' guts!
Jades an' sluts!
I'll lose my wits,
If I lose Beety.”
An' wi' pure grief was like to greet aye,
When Charlie brought a letter ben,
He thought he ken'd the hand o' Beety.
Happy day!
Did he say,
When my way
Led to Beety.
Is Friday neist, an' you maun meet me,
To wish me joy, an' drink my health,
An' dine wi' me—your servant, Beety.”
“O ho, ho, hon!
Now I'm gone,
Love has pro'en
A weaver's ruin.”
Ask'd Charlie if the day was sleety;
Then through his head he popp'd the lead,
An' died a fool for love o' Beety.
The web is red,
Beety's wed,
Will is dead,
An' all is over.
Ayont the Mow amang the Hay.
An' blythely play'd the lee-lang day,
An' blyther been wi' bonnie Bess
Ayont the mow amang the hay.
Whan first I saw the bonnie face
O' Bessie, bloomin' in her teens,
She wil'd away this heart o' mine,
An' ca'd it fou o' corkin' preens.
An' grannie steeks her waukrife e'e,
Steal out when i' the winnock tap,
Ahint the ha' I'll meet wi' thee.”
She leuch an' bade me let her hame,
Her mither sair wad flyte an' scauld;
But ere I quat my bonnie Bess,
Anither tale I trow she tauld.
Wi' hinny words I row'd my tongue,
Raught down my plaid, an' stievely stak
Intil my neive a hazel rung.
Now when I con'd my artless tale
Gaun linkin' owre the lily lea,
Fu' weel I trow'd that ilka bush
Some jeering question speir'd at me.
“O hoolie, hoolie,—whare ye gaun?”
The craik reply'd frae mang the corn,
“Turn out your taes, my bonnie man.”
An' soon I found, wi' shiv'rin' shanks,
My heart play dunt through bashfu' fear,
Whan glowrin' owre the kail-yard dyke
To see gin a' the coast was clear;
Wi' eerie swither lour'd awhile,
Till rallying ilka traitor nerve,
I lightly laup outo'er the style;
Syne gae the glass twa cannie pats,
An' Bessie bade na lang frae me;
The rusty lock was ullied weel,
An' ilka hinge o' cheepin' free.
Wha saw the saft, the silken hour,
Though joys celestial on ye wait,
Say, was your bliss mair chastely pure?
Blythely hae I screw'd my pipes,
An' blythely play'd the lee-lang day,
An' happy been wi' bonnie Bess,
Ayont the mow amang the hay.
The Drinkin', O;
A SANG FOR THE LADIES.
That foe to reflection an' thinkin', O!
Our charms are gi'en in vain,
Social conversation's gane,
For the rattlin' o' guns an' the drinkin', O!
Which to weakness will soon lead you linkin', O!
These eyes that shine sae bright,
Soon will be a weary sight,
When ye're a' sittin' noddin' an' winkin', O!
The respect that is due daily sinkin', O!
Our presence sair abused,
An' our company refused,
An' its a' for the wearifu' drinkin', O!
We like your presence mair than ye're thinkin', O!
We'll gie ye another sang,
An' ye're no to think it lang,
For the sake o' your wearifu' drinkin', O!
For by day the guns and swords still are clinkin', O!
An' at night the flowin' bowl
Bothers ilka manly soul,
Then there's naething but beblin' an' drinkin', O!
Bring the little footy boy wi' you winkin', O!
Gar him thraw at ilka man,
An' wound as deep's he can,
Or we're ruin'd by the wearifu' drinkin', O!
Gracie Miller.
Whar ye gaun sae late at e'en?
Sic a massy auld body
I saw never wi' my e'en.”
“I'm gaun to court the bonniest lass
That ever stepp'd in leather shoe.”
“But little shabby auld body,
Where's the lass will look at you?
Or sic a man cam to my bed,
I'd rather kiss the hawkit cow,
An' in my bosom tak a taed.
Wha ever weds wi' sic a stock
Will be a gibe to a' the lave:
Little, stupit auld body,
Rather think upon your grave.”
I'll wed or die, it maks na whether:
Oh! she's the prettiest, sweetest queen
That ever brush'd the dew frae heather!
The fairest Venus ever drawn
Is naething but a bogle till her;
She's fresher than the morning dawn,
An' hark—her name is Gracie Miller.”
Then wi' a skirl outo'er she fell;
An' aye she leuch, an' aye she squeel'd,
“Hey, mercy! body, that's mysel'!”
Then down he hurkled by her side,
An' kiss'd her hand, an' warmly woo'd her;
An' whiles she leuch, an' whiles she sigh'd,
An' lean'd her head upon his shoulder.
My words are true, ye needna doubt 'em;
Nae man can see your bonnie face
An' keep his senses a' about him.”
“Troth, honest man, I ken'd langsyne
Nae ither lass could equal wi' me;
But yet the brag sae justly mine
Was tint, till you hae chanc'd to see me.
Ye hae a dash o' amorous fire;
Ye hae good taste, an' sterling sense,
An' ye sal hae your heart's desire.”
Oh, woman! woman! after death,
If that vain nature still is given,
An' deils get leave to use their breath,
They'll flatter ye into hell frae heaven.
Birniebouzle.
To the braes o' Birniebouzle?
Baith the yird an' sea, lassie,
Will I rob to fend ye.
I'll hunt the otter an' the brock,
The hart, the hare, an' heather-cock,
An' pu' the limpet aff the rock,
To fatten an' to mend ye.
To the braes of Birniebouzle,
Till the day you dee, lassie,
Want shall ne'er come near ye.
The peats I'll carry in a skull,
The cod an' ling wi' hooks I'll pull,
An' reave the eggs o' mony a gull,
To please my denty dearie.
At the braes o' Birniebouzle,
Donald Gun and me, lassie,
Ever sal attend ye.
Though we hae nowther milk nor meal,
Nor lamb nor mutton, beef nor veal,
We'll fank the porpy and the seal,
And that's the way to fend ye.
At the kirk o' Birniebouzle,
Wi' littit brogues an' a', lassie,
Wow but ye'll be vaunty!
An' you sal wear, when you are wed,
The kirtle an' the Hieland plaid,
An' sleep upon a heather bed,
Sae cozie an' sae canty.
At the kirk o' Birniebouzle,
A' my joy shall be, lassie,
Ever to content ye.
I'll bait the line and bear the pail,
An' row the boat and spread the sail,
An' drag the larry at my tail,
When mussel hives are plenty.
To the braes o' Birniebouzle;
Bonnie lassie, dear lassie,
You shall ne'er repent ye.
For you shall own a bught o'ewes,
A brace o' gaits, and byre o' cows,
An' be the lady o' my house,
An' lads an' lasses plenty.
Life is a Weary Cobble o' Care.
Life is a weary cobble o' care;
The poets mislead you,
Wha ca' it a meadow,
For life is a puddle o' perfect despair.
We love an' we marry,
We fight an' we vary,
Get children to plague an' confound us for aye;
Our daughters grow limmers,
Our sons they grow sinners,
An' scorn ilka word that a parent can say.
Man is a steerer, life is a pool;
We wrestle an' fustle,
For riches we bustle,
Then drap in the grave, an' leave a' to a fool.
Youth again could I see,
Women should wilie be,
Ere I were wheedled to sorrow an' pain;
I should take care o' them,
Never to marry them;
Hang me if buckled in wedlock again.
Jock an' his Mother.
Yestreen at the wedding, sae trig an' sae braw,
Say, isna my Peggy the flower o' them a',
Our dance an' our party adorning?
Her form is sae fair, an' her features sae fine,
Her cheek like the lily anointit wi' wine,
The beam o' her bonnie blue e'e does outshine
The starn that appears i' the morning.”
Gin ye marry Peggy ye'll ruin us a';
She lives like a lady, and dresses as braw,
But how will she rise i' the morning?
She'll lie in her bed till eleven, while ye
Maun rise an' prepare her her toast an' her tea;
Her frien's will be angry an' send ye to sea:
Dear Jock, tak a thought an' some warning.”
I've sworn I will have her, come weal or come woe,
An' that wad be perjury black as a crow
To leave her an' think of another.”
“An' if ye should wed her, your prospects are fine,
In meal-pocks and rags you will instantly shine;
Gae break your mad vow, an' the sin shall be mine—
Oh pity yoursel' an' your mother!”
An' I saw her father this very same day,
An' tauld him I was for his daughter away.”
“Sure, Jock, he wad tak it for scorning?”
“He said he would gie me a horse an' a cow,
A hunder good ewes, an' a pack o' his woo,
To stock the bit farm at the back o' the brow,
An' gie Maggy wark i' the morning.”
An' really 'tis dangerous breakin' a vow;
Then tak her—my blessing on Peggy an' you
Shall tarry baith e'ening an' morning.”
So Jock an' his Peggy in wedlock were bound,
The bridal was merry, the music did sound,
They went to their bed, while the glass it gaed round,
An' a' wished them joy i' the morning.
Athol Cummers.
One evening in the winter of 1800, I was sawing away on the fiddle with great energy and elevation; and having executed the strathspey called Athol Cummers much to my own satisfaction, my mother said to me, “Dear Jimmie, are there ony words to that tune?” “No that ever I heard, mother.” “O man, it's a shame to hear sic a good tune an' nae words till't. Gae away ben the house, like a good lad, and mak' me a verse till't.” The request was instantly complied with.
Play me round the Athol cummers;
A' the din o' a' the drummers
Canna rouse like Athol cummers.
When I'm dowie, wet or weary,
Soon my heart grows light an' cheery,
When I hear the sprightly nummers
O' my dear, my Athol cummers!
When the cares o' life perplex me,
When I'm fley'd wi' frightfu' rumours,
Then I lilt o' Athol cummers.
'Tis my cure for a' disasters,
Kebbit ewes an' crabbit masters,
A' my joy is Athol cummers!
Yarrow hills as green as ony;
But in my heart nae beauty nummers
Wi' my dear, my Athol cummers.
Lomond's beauty nought surpasses,
Save Breadalbane's bonnie lasses;
But deep within my spirit slummers
Something sweet of Athol cummers.
Willie Wastle.
Was bright as ony rainbow;
A pretty dear I wat she was,
But saucy an' disdainfu':
She courtit was by mony a lad,
Wha teas'd her late an' early;
An' a' the wiles that Willie had
Could scarcely gain a parley.
The sternies blinkit clearly;
The moon was glentin' o'er the glen,
To light him to his deary.
She dwalt amang the mountains wild,
Nae wood nor bower to shade her;
But O! the scene look'd sweet an' mild,
For love o' them that staid there.
Nae claronet sae grand, O;
The bonnie burnie's purlin' noise,
Was sweet as the piano.
The little doggy at the door,
Into his arms he caught it,
An' hugg'd an' sleek'd it o'er and o'er,
For love o' them that aught it.
The auld gudewife bethought her,
To tak a lair was naething wrang
Beside her bonnie daughter.
Sly Willie enter'd unperceiv'd
To wake his charming Annie,
An' straight his jealous mind believ'd
The wife was shepherd Sawny.
When July's odours waftin',
Yet now his passion made a heeze,
An' a' his reason left him;
He gae the kerlin' sic a swinge,
He didna stand on prattlin',
Till down her throat, like bristled beans,
He gart her teeth gang rattlin'.
Frae Willie's hand uncivil;
The burn was grown a drumly dub;
The cock a skirlin' devil.
The place appear'd a wilderness,
A desert, dank an' dreary;
For O, alas! the bonnie lass
Nae mair could mak it cheery?
If rosy virtue guide thee,
What sense or feeling half sae fine!
What blessings to abide thee!
But jealousy, thy neighbour sour,
Deforms the finest feature,
An' maks a gloomy shade to lour
O'er fairest scenes in nature.
Auld John Borthick.
Frae Edinburgh o'er to the east neuk o' Fife;
His cheeks they war thin, an' his colour was fadin',
But auld John Borthick was mad for a wife.
His heart was as light as the lammie's in July,
An' saft as the mushroom that grows on the lea;
For bonny Miss Jeanie had squeez'd it to ulzie
Wi' ae wily blink o' her bonnie blue e'e.
His gravat was suddled, but that wasna a';
His head wasna beld, but his brow was turn'd languish;
His teeth warna out, but they war turnin' sma':
He saw bonnie Jeanie afore him was landit;
He saw bonnie Jeanie was favour'd by a';
By lairds an' by nobles respectfully handit;
An' wow but Miss Jeanie was bonnie an' braw!
An' gar her believe that she carries the bell;
I'll ne'er hae a wife sae upliftit an' saucy,
I cou'dna preserve her a month to mysel'!
But yet she's sae handsome, sae modest, an' rosy,
The man wha attains her is blest for his life;
My heart is a yearning to lie in her bosy.
Oh! dear!” quo' John Borthick, “gin I had a wife!”
He danc'd an' he sang, an' was brimfu' o' glee;
Of riches, of strength, an' of favour he vauntit;
No man in the world sae mighty as he.
But in cam his wife; he grew sober an' sulky;
She bade him gang hame as he valued his life;
Then cuff'd him, an' ca'd him an ass an' a monkey:
“Ha! faith!” quo' John Borthick, “I'll ne'er hae a wife.”
Miss Jeanie was there, an' John Borthick an' a':
He looked at Miss Jeanie, his heart was inspired;
Some said that the tears frae his haffits did fa'.
He saw the bridegroom tak the bride in his bosom;
He kiss'd her, caress'd her, an' ca'd her his life:
John turn'd him about; for he coudna compose him:
“O Lord!” quo' John Borthick, “gin I had a wife!”
John Borthick was first at the end o' the bay:
But oh, to his sorrow he miss'd the sweet lady
A beau had her under his mantle away.
In less than a fortnight John Borthick was married.
To ane wha might weel be the joy o' his life:
But yet wi' confusion an' jealousy worried,
He curses the day that he married a wife.
CLASS FOURTH—NATIONAL SONGS.
Bauldy Frazer.
I'm puir, an' auld, an' pale, an' wan:
I brak my shin, an' tint a han'
Upon Culloden lea, man.
Our Hielan' clans were bauld and stout,
An' thought to turn their faes about,
But gat that day a desperate rout,
An' owre the hills did flee, man.
Wi' cuffs, an' buffs, an' blindit e'en,
While Hielan' swords o' metal keen
War gleamin' grand to see, man.
The cannons routit in our face,
An' brak our banes an' raive our claes;
'Twas then we saw our ticklish case
Atween the deil an' sea, man.
Had been that time beside theirsel',
To plant us in the open fell,
In the artillery's e'e, man;
For had we met wi' Cumberland
By Athol braes or yonder strand,
The bluid o' a' the savage band
Had dy'd the German sea, man.
I thought it should hae put me mad,
To see sae mony a Hielan' lad
Lie bluthrin' on the brae, man.
I thought we ance had won the fray;
We smasht ae wing till it gae way;
But the other side had lost the day,
An' skelpit fast awa, man.
Like Hay he thought him back to get;
“We'll turn,” quo' he, “an' try them yet;
We'll conquer or we'll dee, man.”
But Donald shumpit o'er the purn,
An' sware an aith she wadna turn,
Or sure she wad hae cause to mourn;
Then fast awa' did flee, man.
We ran until we tint our breath,
Aye looking back for fear o' skaith,
Wi' hopeless shinin' e'e, man.
But Britain ever may deplore
That day upon Drumossie moor,
Whar thousands ta'en war drench'd in gore,
Or hang'd out-o'er a tree, man.
To ravage ilka Hielan' glen?
Our crime was truth, an' love to ane,
We had nae spite at thee, man:
An' you or yours may yet be glad,
To trust the honest Hieland lad;
The bonnet blue, and belted plaid,
Will stand the last o' three, man.
Scotia's Glens.
Where Gallia's lilies never grew,
Where Roman eagles never flew,
Nor Danish lions rallied;
Where skulks the roe in anxious fear,
Where roves the swift an' stately deer,
There live the lads to freedom dear,
By foreign yoke ne'er galled.
There freemen wander at their will,
And Scotland will be Scotland still,
While hearts so brave defend her:
“Fear not, our sovereign Liege,” they cry,
“We've flourished fair beneath thine eye;
For thee we'll fight, for thee we'll die,
Nor aught but life surrender!
And taught our navies wide to spread,
The smallest hair from thy gray head
No foreign foe shall sever;
Thy honour'd age in peace to save,
The sternest enemy we'll brave,
Or stem the fiercest ocean wave,
Nor heart nor hand shall waver!”
While Scotia's noble blood runs warm,
Our good old man we'll guard from harm,
Or fall in heaps around him.
Although the Irish harp were won,
And England's roses all o'errun,
'Mang Scotia's glens, with sword and gun,
We'll form a bulwark round him.
The Jubilee.
And hail the auspicious day
That first gave great George the sway
Over our island?
Fifty long years are gone
Since he first fill'd the throne;
And high honours has he won
On sea and by land.
Think on his life so leal;
Think how he's watch'd our weal,
Till seiz'd with blindness!
In mercy first sent to us;
In love so long lent to us;
Grateful, let's vent our vows
For Heaven's kindness.
Nor tyrant come near to us;
Of all that's dear to us
He's the defender.
Raise the song! raise it loud!
Of our old king we're proud!
George the just, George the good,
Still reigns in splendour!
The Auld Highlandman.
Te twenty-tird o' May, man;
She twell amang te Hielan hills,
Ayont the rifer Spey, man.
Tat year tey foucht the Sherra-muir,
She first peheld te licht, man:
Tey shot my father in tat stoure—
A plaguit, vexin' spite, man.
In France and Shermanie, man;
And cot tree tespurt pluddy oons,
Beyond te 'Lantic sea, man:
But wae licht on te nasty gun,
Tat ever she pe porn, man;
While coot klymore te tristle gaird,
Her leaves pe never torn, man.
Whane'er it cam my turn, man;
Put a' te force tat I could gie,
Te powter wadna purn, man.
A filty loun cam wi' his gun,
Resolvt to too me harm, man:
And wi' te tirk upon her nose
Ke me a pluddy arm, man.
And felt his nepour teit, man;
Tan drew my swort, and at a straik
Hewt aff te haf o's heit, man.
Be vain to tell o' a' my tricks:
My oons pe nae tiscrace, man:
Ter no pe yin pehint my back,
Ter a' pefor my face, man.
Buccleuch's Birth-Day.
O fy, let's a' be merry;
This is a day we should rejoice;
Then fy, let's a' be merry.
Our auld gudeman is hale an' free,
An' that should surely cheer us;
An' the flowers o' a' the south countrie
Are sweetly smiling near us.
Our day's nae done though it be dark;
Put round the port an' sherry;
An' ask at James o' the Tower o' Sark,
If we should nae a' be merry.
His name and a' surrounding,
“When in the cleuch the buck was ta'en,”
While hound and horn was sounding.
But ten times blessed be this day
That brought us noble Harry;
A nation's pride, a country's stay,
A friend that disna vary.
Then let's be merry ane an' a',
An' drink the port an' sherry;
An' spier at George o' the Carterha',
If we should nae a' be merry.
An' our auld honest Geordie;
For, seek the country through an' through,
We'll light on few sae worthy:
The one protects our native land,
And on the sea keeps order;
The other guides the farmer's hand,
And rules the Scottish Border.
An' drink the port an' sherry;
I'll refer to Wat o' the Frostylee,
If we should nae a' be merry.
The above song was composed and sung at the celebration of the Duke of Buccleuch's birth-day at Langholm. The three gentlemen referred to, were Messrs. James Church, George Park, and Walter Borthwick, managers of the ball for that year, 1809.
Highland Harry back again.
This and the two following songs were composed for, and sung at, the celebration of the Earl of Dalkeith's birth-day, at Selkirk, on the 24th May.
Let all your hearts be light and fain;
For once this blest, auspicious day,
Brought us a Harry back again.
The wild-bird's hush'd on Ettrick braes,
And northward turns the nightly wain;
Let's close with glee this wale of days,
To us so welcome back again.
Who loves to hear the shepherd's strain;
And long in peace, may't be his lot
To see this day come back again.
His heart so kind, his noble mind,
His loyal course without a stain,
And choice's fair, all, all declare,
He'll just be Harry back again.
Hap an' rowe the feetie o't.
Gae hap an' rowe the feetie o't;
We'll never trow we hae a bairn
Unless we hear the greetie o't.
In prophecies precarious,
That our young Charlie never will
Be sic a man as Harry was.
Auld Harry was an honest man,
An' nouther flush nor snappy, O;
An' a' the gear that e'er he wan,
Was spent in makin' happy, O.
We hack'd it down for fire, O;
An' frae the root, there did ascend
A straughter ane an' higher, O:
Then what's to hinder our young blade,
When sic a sample's shown him, O,
To trace the steps his father gaed,
An' e'en to gang beyon' them, O?
What spirit we wad hae him, O,
An' if he run as he's begun,
Our blessin' aye we'll gie him, O:
We wish him true unto his king,
An' for his country ready, O;
A steady friend, a master kind,
An' nouther blate nor greedy, O.
We'll drink his health in sherry, O;
An' aye this day we'll dance an' play
In reels an' jigs sae merry, O:
But if it's ken'd his actions tend
To ony ill behavin', O,
This bonny twenty-fourth o' May
In crape we's a' be wavin', O.
Gae hap an' rowe the feetie o't;
We'll aye believe 'tis but a bairn
If ance we hear the greetie o't.
Born, Laddie.
This is the twenty-fourth o' May!
An' on this bonny blythesome day
Our young gudeman was born, laddie.
The Esk shall dance an' Teviot sing,
The Yarrow's bonnie banks shall ring,
An' Ettrick's muse shall streek her wing,
This day that he was born, laddie.
Ilka e'en an' morn, laddie,
We will bless the happy day
When Charlie he was born, laddie.
The chief, for truth an' honour ken'd!
An' may he never want a friend
To cheer him when forlorn, laddie!
To him an' his we're a' in debt,
An' lang hae been, an' will be yet;
But may he thrive till we forget
The day when he was born, laddie!
Then may he calmly call to mind,
'Tis but the lot of all mankind
That ever yet were born, laddie.
An' kindness frae his heart repel,
'Twill mind him, he maun die himsel',
As sure as he was born, laddie.
Donald M'Donald.
I live in the Hielands sae grand;
I hae follow'd our banner, and will do,
Wherever my Maker has land.
When rankit amang the blue bonnets,
Nae danger can fear me ava;
I ken that my brethren around me
Are either to conquer or fa'.
Brogues an' brochen an' a',
Brochen an' brogues an' a';
An' is nae her very weel aff,
Wi' her brogues an' brochen an' a'?
To tell it I dinna think shame;
Poor lad! he came to us but barely,
An' reckon'd our mountains his hame.
'Twas true that our reason forbade us,
But tenderness carried the day;
Had Geordie come friendless amang us,
Wi' him we had a' gane away,
Sword an' buckler an' a',
Buckler an' sword an' a';
Now for George we'll encounter the devil,
Wi' sword an buckler an' a'!
The keys o' the East to retain;
For should he gie up the possession,
We'll soon hae to force them again.
Than yield up an inch wi' dishonour,
Though it were my finishing blow,
He aye may depend on M'Donald,
Wi' his Hielanders a' in a row;
Knees an' elbows an' a',
Elbows an' knees an' a';
Depend upon Donald M'Donald,
His knees an' elbows an' a'!
Auld Europe nae langer should grane;
I laugh when I think how we'd gall him,
Wi' bullet, wi' steel, an' wi' stane;
Wi' rocks o' the Nevis an' Gairy
We'd rattle him off frae our shore,
Or lull him asleep in a cairny,
An' sing him—“Lochaber no more!”
Stanes an' bullets an' a',
Bullets an' stanes an' a';
We'll finish the Corsican callan
Wi' stanes an' bullets an' a'!
An' Campbell is steel to the bane,
An' Grant, an' M'Kenzie, an' Murray,
An' Cameron will hurkle to nane;
The Stuart is sturdy an' loyal,
An' sae is M'Leod an' M'Kay;
An' I their gude-brither, M'Donald,
Shall ne'er be the last in the fray!
Brogues an' brochen an' a',
Brochen an' brogues an' a';
An' up wi' the bonnie blue bonnet,
The kilt an' the feather an' a'!
I once heard the above song sung in the theatre at Lancaster, when the singer substituted the following lines of his own for the last verse:
“For Jock Bull he is good in a hurry,An' Sawney is steel to the bane,
An' wee Davie Welsh is a widdy,
An' Paddy will hurkle to nane;
They'll a' prove baith sturdy and loyal,
Come dangers around them what may,
An' I, their gudebrither, M'Donald,
Shall ne'er be the last in the fray!” &c.
It took exceedingly well, and was three times encored, and there was I sitting in the gallery, applauding as much as any body. My vanity prompted me to tell a jolly Yorkshire manufacturer that night that I was the author of the song. He laughed excessively at my assumption, and told the landlady that he took me for a half-crazed Scots pedlar.
Another anecdote concerning this song I may mention; and I do it with no little pride, as it is a proof of the popularity of “Donald M'Donald” among a class, to inspire whom with devotion to the cause of their country was at the time a matter of no little consequence. Happening upon one occasion to be in a wood in Dumfriesshire, through which wood the highroad passed, I heard a voice singing; and a turn of the road soon brought in sight a soldier, who seemed to be either travelling home upon furlough, or returning to his regiment. When the singer approached nearer I distinguished the notes of my own song of “Donald M'Donald.” As the lad proceeded with his song, he got more and more into the spirit of the thing, and on coming to the end,
The kilt and the feather an' a'!”
By a Bush.
Where the airy Benger rises,
Sandy tun'd his artless lay;
Thus he sung the lee-lang day:
“Thou shalt ever be my theme,
Yarrow, winding down the hollow,
With thy bonny sister stream
Sweeping through the broom so yellow.
On these banks thy waters lave,
Oft the warrior found a grave.
Saw the Douglas' banners streaming;
Oft on thee the hunter train
Sought the shelter'd deer in vain;
Oft, in thy green dells and bowers,
Swains have seen the fairies riding;
Oft the snell and sleety showers
Found in thee the warrior hiding.
Many a wild and bloody scene
On thy bonnie banks have been.
Henry's kindness keeps us cheery;
While his heart shall warm remain,
Dule will beg a hauld in vain.
Bloodless now, in many hues
Flow'rets bloom, our hills adorning;
There my Jenny milks her ewes,
Fresh an' ruddy as the morning:
Mary Scott could ne'er outvie
Jenny's hue an' glancing eye.
Forming bows o' dazzling siller;
Meet thy titty yont the knowe:
Wi' my love I'll join like you.
Flow, my Ettrick, it was thee
Into life wha first did drap me:
Thee I've sung, an' when I dee
Thou wilt lend a sod to hap me.
Passing swains shall say, and weep,
Here our Shepherd lies asleep.”
Prince Owen and the Seer.
And why shakes thy plume, when the winds are so still?
What means the loud blast of the bugle so nigh,
And the wild warlike music I hear on the hill?”
“We are free, thou old seer; the Britons are free!
Our foes have all fallen or shrunk from our view;
And free as the bird of the mountain are we,
The roe of the forest, or fish of the sea.
My country! my brethren! my joy is for you;
My country! my brethren! my country! my brethren!
My country! my brethren! my joy is for you.”
My dim eyes they glisten like tears of the morn.
Thy valour us guarded; thy wisdom has warded
The danger that threatened to lay us forlorn.
And when you and I have sunk into our graves;
When ages o'er ages time's standard shall rear;
When the bards have forgot o'er our ashes to weep,
When they scarcely can point out the place where we sleep;
That freedom shall flourish we've purchas'd so dear;
That freedom shall flourish, &c.
Design'd they unconquer'd should ever remain;
That Power, who inspired the hearts of our clans,
Design'd them, inviolate their rights to maintain.
Our castle the mountain; our bulwark the wave;
True courage and jealousy, buckler and shield;
We'll laugh at the force of the world combin'd,
And oppression shall fly like the cloud in the wind.
But the isles and the ocean to Britain must yield;
The isles and the ocean; the isles and the ocean;
The isles and the ocean to Britons must yield.”
My Native Isle.
Fair friendship's eye, affection's smile;
The mountain sport, the angler's wile,
The birch an' weeping willow, O!
The Highland glen, the healthy gale,
The gloaming glee, the evening tale;
And must I leave my native vale,
And brave the boisterous billow, O?
While dawning gilds the eastern sky;
Or in the shade at noon to lie
Upon the fell so airy, O.
And, when the sun is sinking low,
Through woodland walks to wander slow;
Or kindly in my plaid to rowe
My gentle rosy Mary, O.
I love thee more than I can tell:
Accept my last, my sad farewell;
In thee I may not tarry, O.
What makes my bosom heave so high?
What makes the dew-drop gild mine eye?
Alas! that dew would quickly dry,
If 'twere not for my Mary, O!
How soon thy pleasures melt away!
Like dream dispell'd by dawning day,
Or waking wild vagary, O.
The thrush shall quit the woodland dale,
The lav'rock cease the dawn to hail,
Ere I forget my native vale,
Or my sweet lovely Mary, O!
Honest Duncan.
Sae stalwart an' sae brawny?
His hurchin beard, an' towzy pow,
Bespeak some Highland Sawney.
We'll hurt his spirit if we can,
Wi' taunt or jibe uncivil;
Before I saw a Highlandman,
I'd rather see the devil.
Or where hae ye been reaving?
Nae doubt to cleed your naked houghs
In England ye've been thieving.”
“She no pe heed ou, shentlemen,
Te whisky mak you trunken;
But, when I'm in the Athol glen,
Te ca' me 'onest Duncan.”
We fear there's ne'er anither.
Nae wonder ye're sae lank an' lean,
Where a' are knaves thegither.”
“Hu, shay, Cot tamn, say tat akain!
Of her you might pe speakin';
But try misca' my countrymen,
I'll smash you like a breaken.”
Stout Duncan sair laid on 'em;
At length he tumbled on the grass,
Wi' a' his faes aboon him.
But soon he rais'd his dusty brow,
An' bellow'd aiths right awfu';
Then whippit out a lang skein-dhu,
An' threaten'd things unlawfu'.
The Highland durk sae fley'd 'em;
But Duncan chas'd, wi' hurdies bare,
An' ane by ane repaid 'em.
His Highland durk, an' heavy licks,
Soon taught them wha they strove wi';
An' he brought part o' a' their breeks
To Scotland for a trophy.
An' ye'll get some to join ye;
But troth you no maun cang to scaff
At tough auld Caledony.
Pe mony lad in Athol glen
Will join you like a brither;
But should you laugh at Highlandmen,
She a' tak low thegither.”
Highland Laddie.
Bonny laddie, Highland laddie?
Saw ye the Duke the clans o'erpower,
Bonny laddie, Highland laddie?”
“Yes, I have seen that fatal fray,
Bonny laddie, Highland laddie;
And my heart bleeds from day to day,
Bonny laddie, Highland laddie.
Bonny laddie, Highland laddie,
Will never more their mountains see,
Bonny laddie, Highland laddie;
Many a chief of birth and fame,
Bonny laddie, Highland laddie,
Are hunted down like savage game,
Bonny laddie, Highland laddie.
Bonny laddie, Highland laddie?
A generous chief twice gains the field,
Bonny laddie, Highland laddie.
Posterity will ne'er us blame,
Bonny laddie, Highland laddie;
But brand with blood the Brunswick name,
Bonny laddie, Highland laddie.
Bonny laddie, Highland laddie;
But why so drench our glens with blood?
Bonny laddie, Highland laddie.
Duke William nam'd, or yonder moor,
Bonny laddie, Highland laddie,
Will fire our blood for evermore,
Bonny laddie, Highland laddie.
The Emigrant.
O'er Canada, frowning all pale on the sky;
Still dazzling and white was the robe that she wore,
Except where the mountain-wave dash'd on the shore.
Far heav'd the young sun, like a lamp, on the wave,
And loud scream'd the gull o'er his foam-beaten cave,
When an old lyart swain on a headland stood high,
With the staff in his hand, and the tear in his eye.
Declar'd from what country his lineage he drew;
His visage so wan, and his accents so low,
Announc'd the companion of sorrow and woe.
“Ah welcome, thou sun, to thy canopy grand,
And to me! for thou com'st from my dear native land!
Again dost thou leave that sweet isle of the sea,
To beam on these winter-bound valleys and me!
Each face was a friend's and each house was a home;
To drag our live thousands from river or bay;
Or chase the dun deer o'er the mountain so gray.
Here daily I wander to sigh on the steep,
My old bosom friend was laid low in yon deep;
My family and friends, to extremity driven,
Contending for life both with earth and with heaven.
Her valleys were barren, inclement her sky;
Even now in the glens, 'mong her mountains so blue
The primrose and daisy are blooming in dew.
How could she expel from those mountains of heath
The clans who maintain'd them in danger and death!
Who ever were ready the broad-sword to draw
In defence of her honour, her freedom, and law.
Loos'd ruin triumphant, and valour laid low:
Our chief, whom we trusted, and liv'd but to please,
Then turn'd us adrift to the storms and the seas.
O gratitude! where did'st thou linger the while?
What region afar is illum'd with thy smile?
That orb of the sky for a home will I crave,
When yon sun rises red on the Emigrant's grave.”
The British Tar.
Pull away, noble boys!
I'm a jolly British tar,
Pull away.
I'm a jolly British tar
Who have borne her thunders far,
Yet I'm here without a scar;
Pull away, noble boys!
Yet I'm here without a scar,
Pull away.
Pull away, noble boys!
I've with Nelson fac'd the foe;
Pull away.
I've with Nelson fac'd the foe;
Quite enough to let you know
That I conquer where I go,
Pull away, noble boys!
Britons conquer where they go,
Pull away.
Pull away, noble boys!
We've stood many a dreadful shock,
Pull away.
We've stood many a dreadful shock;
Like the thunder-stricken rock,
We've been splinter'd—never broke!
Pull away.
Pull away, noble boys!
Round the earth our glory rings,
Pull away.
Round the earth our glory rings,
At the thought my bosom springs;
Of the ocean we're the kings,
Pull away, noble boys!
Of the ocean we're the kings,
Pull away.
Caledonia.
Of the ocean, the mist, and the wind—
Thou land of the torrent, the pine, and the oak,
Of the roebuck, the hart, and the hind:
Though bare are thy cliffs, and though barren thy glens,
Though bleak thy dun islands appear,
Yet kind are the hearts, and undaunted the clans,
That roam on these mountains so drear!
Could never thy ardour restrain;
The marshall'd array of imperial Rome
Essay'd thy proud spirit in vain.
Firm seat of religion, of valour, of truth,
Of genius unshackled and free,
The Muses have left all the vales of the south,
My loved Caledonia, for thee!
Where loveliness slumbers at even,
While far in the depth of the blue water sleeps
A calm little motionless heaven!
Thou land of the valley, the moor, and the hill,
Of the storm and the proud rolling wave—
Yes, thou art the land of fair liberty still,
And the land of my forefathers' grave!
POETICAL TALES AND BALLADS.
Connel of Dee.
To his light little bower in the deane;
He thought they had gi'en him his supper owre soon,
And that still it was lang until e'en.
Oh! the air was so sweet, and the sky so serene,
And so high his soft languishment grew—
That visions of happiness danc'd o'er his mind;
He long'd to leave parent and sisters behind,
For he thought that his Maker to him was unkind:
For that high were his merits he knew.
The bloom of fayre yudith he wore;
But the lirk of displeasure hang over his bree,
Nae glisk of contentment it bore;
He lang'd for a wife with a mailen and store;
He grevit in idless to lie;
Afar from his cottage he wished to remove
To wassail and waik, and unchided to rove,
And beik in the cordial transports of love
All under a kindlier sky.
The day-lighte crap laigh on the doon,
And left its pale borders abeigh on the blue,
To mix wi' the beams of the moon.
The hill hang its skaddaw the greinwud aboon,
The houf of the bodyng Benshee;
Slow o'er him were sailing the cloudlets of June;
The beetle began his wild airel to tune,
And sang on the wynde with ane eirysome croon,
Away on the breeze of the Dee!
He languishit for muckle and mair;
His bed of greine hether he eynit to scorn,
The bygane he doughtna weel bear.
Attour him the greine leife was fannyng the air,
In noiseless and flychtering play;
The hush of the water fell saft on his ear,
And he fand as gin sleep, wi' her gairies, war near,
Wi' her freaks and her ferlies and phantoms of fear,
But he eidently wysit her away.
Ere he saw a young maiden stand by,
Who seem'd in the bloom and the bell of her life;
He wist not that ane was sae nigh!
But sae sweet was her look, and sae saft was her eye,
That his heart was all quaking with love;
And then there was kything a dimple sae sly,
At play on her cheek, of the moss-rose's dye,
That kindled the heart of poor Connel on high
With ravishment deadlye to prove.
And eiry was he to assay;
But he found she was mortal with thrilling delight,
For her breath was like zephyr of May;
Her eye was the dew-bell, the beam of the day,
And her arm it was softer than silk;
Her hand was so warm, and her lip was so red,
Her slim taper waiste so enchantingly made,
And some beauties moreover that cannot be said—
Of bosom far whiter than milk!
His frame grew all powerless and weak;
He neither could stir, nor caress her, nor fleech;
He trembled, but word couldna speak.
But Oh! when his lips touched her soft rosy cheek,
The channels of feeling ran dry;
He found that like emmets his life-blood it crept,
His liths turned as limber as dud that is steeped;
He streekit his limbs, and he moaned and he wept,
And for love he was just gaun to die.
And she said, “My dear beautiful swain,
Take heart till I tell you the hark of my mind;
I'm weary of living my lane;
I have castles, and lands, and flocks of my ain,
But want ane my gillour to share;
A man that is hale as the hart on the hill,
As stark, and as kind, is the man to my will,
Who has slept on the heather and drank of the rill,
And, like you, gentle, amorous, and fair.
And I ance got a glisk of thy face;
Now far have I ridden, and far have I gane,
In hopes thou wilt nurice the grace
To make me thy ain—Oh, come to my embrace,
For I love thee as dear as my life!
I'll make thee a laird of the boonmost degree,
My castles and lands I'll give freely to thee;
Though rich and abundant, thine own they shall be,
If thou wilt but make me thy wife.”
He bowed a consent to her will;
And 'gan to display his rude skill
In leifu' endearment; and thought it nae ill
To kiss the sweet lips of the fair,
And press her to lie, in that gloamin' sae still,
Adown by his side in the howe of the hill,
For the water flowed sweet, and the sound of the rill
Would soothe every sorrow and care.
Till the rites of the marriage were bye.
Away they hae sped; but soon Connel began,
For his heart it was worn to a sigh,
To fondle, and simper, and look in her eye,
Oh! direful to bear was his wound!
When on her fair neck fell his fingers sae dun—
It strak through his heart like the shot of a gun!
He felt as the sand of existence were run:
He trembled, and fell to the ground.
These wounds of thy bosom will heal,
And thou with thy love mayest walk many a mile
Nor transport nor passion once feel.
Thy spirits once broke on electeric wheel,
Cool reason her empire shall gain;
And haply, repentance in dowy array,
And laithly disgust may arise in thy way,
Encumbering the night, and o'ercasting the day,
And turn all those pleasures to pain.
And the transports of wedlock prevail;
The lot of poor Connel the shepherd is cast
'Mid pleasures that never can fail.
The balms of Arabia sweeten the gale,
The tables for ever are spread
With damask, and viands and heart-cheering wine
Their splendour and elegance fully combine;
His lawns they are ample, his bride is divine,
And of goud-fringed silk is his bed.
The banquet soon sated and cloyed;
Nae mair they delighted, nae langer were new,
They could not be ever enjoyed!
He felt in his bosom a fathomless void,
A yearning again to be free;
Than all that voluptuous sickening store,
The wine that he drank and the robes that he wore,
His diet of milk had delighted him more
Afar on the hills of the Dee.
And dined from his wallet full fain!
Then sweet was the scent of the blue heather-bell,
And free was his bosom of pain.
The laverock was lost in the lift, but her strain
Came trilling so sweetly from far,
To rapture the hour he would wholly resign,
He would listen, and watch, till he saw her decline,
And the sun's yellow beam on her dappled breast shine,
Like some little musical star.
And turn his rapt eyes to the heaven,
And bless his kind Maker who all did provide;
And beg that he might be forgiven,
For his sins were like crimson—all bent and uneven
The path he had wilesomely trod;
Then who the delight of his bosom could tell!
Oh, sweet was that meal by his pure mountain well;
And sweet was its water he drank from the shell,
And peaceful his moorland abode.
By gossips in endless array,
Who thought not of sin nor of Satan aright,
Nor the dangers that mankind belay;
Who joked about heaven, and scorned to pray,
And gloried in that was a shame.
Oh, Connel was troubled at things that befell!
So different from scenes he had once loved so well,
He deemed he was placed on the confines of hell,
And fand like the sa'ur of its flame!
And old debts coming due every day;
And a thousand odd things he ken'd naething about
Kept him in continued dismay.
At board he was awkward, nor wist what to say,
Nor what his new honours became;
His guests they wad mimic and laugh in their sleeve;
He blushed, and he faltered, and scarce dought believe
That men were so base as to smile and deceive;
Or eynied of him to make game!
And preyed upon him and his dame;
Their jests and their language to Connel were new,
It was slander, and cursing, and shame.
He groaned in his heart, and he thought them to blame
For revel and rout without end;
He saw himself destined to pamper and feed
A race whom he hated, a profligate breed,
The scum of existence to vengeance decreed,
Who laughed at their God and their friend.
And he ken'dna what length it might bear;
They drew him to evil by day and by night,
To scenes that he trembled to share.
His heart it grew sick, and his head it grew fair,
And he thought what he dared not to tell:
He thought of the far distant hills of the Dee;
Of his cake, and his cheese, and his lair on the lea
Of the laverock that hung on the heaven's e'e-bree
His prayer, and his clear mountain well.
Of the virtuous days that were fled;
Yet still his kind lady he loved as he ought,
Or soon from that scene he had fled.
It now was but rarely she honoured his bed—
'Twas modesty, heightening her charms!
O Heaven! each night from his side she had been—
He found it at length—nay, he saw't wi' his een,
She slept in a paramour's arms!!!
Destruction and death was the meed:
For forfeited vows there was nought too severe;
Even conscience applauded the deed.
His mind was decided, her doom was decreed;
He led her to chamber apart,
To give her to know of his wrongs he had sense,
To chide and upbraid her in language intense,
And kill her, at least, for her heinous offence—
A crime at which demons would start!
Stern Connel his lecture began;
He mentioned her crime!—She turned on her heel
And her mirth to extremity ran.
“Why, that was the fashion!—no sensible man
Could e'er of such freedom complain.
What was it to him? there were maidens enow
Of the loveliest forms, and the loveliest hue,
Who blithely would be his companions, he knew,
If he wearied of lying his lane.”
He shivered from toe to the crown;
His hair stood like heath on the mountain that grows,
And each hair had a life of its own.
“O thou most”—But whereto his passion had flown
No man to this day can declare,
For his dame, with a frown, laid her hand on his mouth,
That hand once as sweet as the breeze of the south;
That hand that gave pleasures and honours and routh;
And she said, with a dignified air:—
I have had some fair husbands ere now;
They wooed, and they flattered, they sighed and they sware,
At length they grew irksome like you.
Come hither one moment, a sight I will show
That will teach thee some breeding and grace.”
She opened a door, and there Connel beheld
A sight that to trembling his spirit impelled;
A man standing chained, who nor 'plained, nor rebelled,
And that man had a sorrowful face.
Right softly and slowly it fell;
And the man seemed in terror, and strangely amazed,
But why, Connel could not then tell.
He sunk and he sunk as the vice did impel;
At length, as far downward he drew,
Good Lord! In a trice, with the pull of a string,
A pair of dread shears, like the thunderbolt's wing,
Came snap on his neck, with a terrible spring,
And severed it neatly in two.
The lips in a moment grew wan;
The temple just quivered, the eye it grew white,
And upward the purple threads span.
The dark crooked streamlets along the boards ran,
Thin pipings of reek could be seen;
Poor Connel was blinded, his lugs how they sung!
He looked once again, and he saw like the tongue,
That motionless out 'twixt the livid lips hung,
Then mirkness set over his e'en.
And off like the lightning he broke,
By staircase and gallery, with horrified stride;
He turned not, he staid not, nor spoke;
The iron-spiked court-gate he could not unlock,
His haste was beyond that of man;
He stopped not to rap, and he staid not to call,
With ram-race he cleared at a bensil the wall,
And headlong beyond got a grievous fall,
But he rose, and he ran, and he ran!
And mured up in barn for a prey,
Sees his dappled comrades dishonoured and soiled
In their blood, on some festival day,
Bursts all intervention, and hies him away,
Like the wind over holt, over lea;
So Connel pressed on, all encumbrance he threw,
Over height, over hollow, he lessened to view:
It may not be said that he ran, for he flew,
Straight on for the hills of the Dee.
His swiftness increased as he flew,
But be it remembered, he ran from a wife,
And a trap-door that sunk on a screw.
His prowess he felt and decidedly knew,
So much did his swiftness excel,
That he skimmed the wild paths like a thing of the mind,
And the stour from each footstep was seen on the wind,
Distinct by itself for a furlong behind,
Before that it mingled or fell.
And much did he fear for his breath;
He halted, he ventured behind him to peep,—
The sight was a vision of death!
His wife and her paramours came on the path,
Well mounted, with devilish speed;
O Connel, poor Connel, thy hope is a wreck!
Sir, run for thy life, without stumble or check,
It is thy only stake, the last chance for thy neck,—
Strain Connel, or death is thy meed!
Gain that, and yet safe thou may'st be;
How fast they are gaining! Oh stretch to the brake!
Poor Connel, 'tis over with thee!
In the breath of the horses his yellow locks flee,
The voice of his wife's in the van;
He sprang o'er the bushes, he dash'd thro' the briers,
For he thought of the trap-door and damnable shears,
And he cried to his God, and he ran.
No bar his advancement could stay;
Though heels-over-head whirled again and again,
Still faster he gained on his way.
This moment on swinging bough powerless he lay,
The next he was flying along
So lightly, he scarce made the green leaf to quake;
Impetuous he splashed through the bog and the lake,
He rainbowed the hawthorn, he needled the brake,
With power supernaturally strong.
Poor Connel has leisure to pray;
He hears their dread voices around on the wind,
Still farther and farther away—
“O Thou who sit'st thron'd o'er the fields of the day,
Have pity this once upon me!
Deliver from those that are hunting my life,
From traps of the wicked that round me are rife,
And oh, above all, from the rage of a wife,
And guide to the hills of the Dee!
Or scorn my own mountains of heath;
If ever I yearn for that sin-breeding ore,
Or shape to complaining a breath,
Then may I be nipt with the scissors of death”—
No farther could Connel proceed:
He thought of the snap that he saw in the nook;
Of the tongue that came out, and the temple that shook,
Of the blood and the reek, and the deadening look:
He lifted his bonnet and fled.
And sorely he sobbed and he wept;
At cherk of the pyat, or bee's passing boom,
He started, he listened, he leaped.
With eye and with ear a strict guardship he kept;
No scene could his sorrows beguile:
At length he stood lone by the side of the Dee;
It was placid and deep, and as broad as a sea;
Oh, could he get over, how safe he might be,
And gain his own mountains the while!
For the country grew open and bare,
No forest appeared, neither broomwood nor gorse,
Nor furze that would shelter a hare.
Ah! could he get over how safe he might fare;
At length he resolved to try;
At worst 'twas but drowning, and what was a life
Compared to confinement in sin and in strife,
Beside a trap-door and a scandalous wife?
'Twas nothing—he'd swim, or he'd die.
This life for a world unknown;
For he had been sinning, and misery condign
Would sure be his portion alone.
How sweetly the sun on the green mountain shone;
And the flocks they were resting in peace,
Or bleating along on each parallel path:
The lambs they were skipping on fringe of the heath—
How different might kythe the lone valleys of death,
And cheerfulness evermore cease?
And dropt on its surface the tear;
He started at something that boded him dool,
And his mouth fell wide open with fear.
The trample of gallopers fell on his ear;
One look was too much for his eye;
For there was his wife, and her paramours twain,
With whip and with spur coming over the plain;
Bent forward, revengeful, they galloped amain,
They hasten, they quicken, they fly!
And shortly did Connel decree;
He shut up his mouth, and he closed his een,
And he pointed his arms like a V,
And like a scared otter, he dived in the Dee,
His heels pointed up to the sky;
Like bolt from the firmament downward he bears;
The still liquid element startled uprears,
It bubbled, and bullered, and roared in his ears,
Like thunder that bellows on high.
And painful the feeling be sure,
For his breath it gaed out, and the water gaed in.
With drumble and mudwart impure;
It was most unpleasant, and hard to endure,
And he struggled its inroads to wear;
But it rushed by his mouth, and it rushed by his nose,
His joints grew benumbed, all his fingers and toes,
And his een turned they neither would open nor close,
And he found his departure was near.
He breathed and he lifted his eye,
It was the last glance of the land of his love,
Of the world, and the beautiful sky:
How bright looked the sun from his window on high,
Through furs of the light golden grain!
Oh, Connel was sad, but he thought with a sigh,
That far above yon peaceful vales of the sky,
In bowers of the morning he shortly might lie,
Though very unlike it just then.
The waters for ever his body inclose;
The horse-mussel clasped on his fingers and toes,
All passive he suffered the scathe.
But oh, there was one thing his heart could not brook.
Even in his last struggles his spirit it shook;
The eels, with their cursed equivocal look,
Redoubled the horrors of death.
When catching his trouts in the Cluny or Gairn,
At sight of an eel he would shudder and darn!
It almost deprived him of breath.
So dead to all feeling and smart,
No, not though his flesh were consumed in the Dee,
But that eels would some horror impart.
With all other fishes he yielded to mart,
Resistance became not the dead;
The minnow, with gushet sae gowden and braw,
The siller-ribbed perch, and the indolent craw,
And the ravenous ged, with his teeth like a saw,
Came all on poor Connel to feed.
Though they preyed on his vitals alone;
But, Lord! when he felt the cold nose of an eel,
A quaking seized every bone;
Their slid slimy forms lay his bosom upon,
His mouth that was ope, they came near;
They guddled his loins, and they bored thro' his side,
They warped all his bowels about on the tide.
[OMITTED]
[OMITTED]
But his sisters consoled her mind;
And said, he was wooing some favourite maid,
For Connel was amorous and kind.
Ah! little weened they that their Connel reclined
On a couch that was loathful to see!
'Twas mud—and the water-bells o'er him did heave;
The lampreys passed through him without law or leave,
And windowed his frame like a riddle or sieve,
Afar in the deeps of the Dee!
And next morning when rose the red sun,
His sisters in haste their fair bodies bedight,
And, ere the day's work was begun,
They sought for their Connel, for they were undone
If aught should their brother befall:
And first they went straight to the bower in the deane,
For there he of late had been frequently seen;
For nature he loved, and her evening scene
To him was the dearest of all.
It lay in the skaddow so still,
They lift up their voices and called his name,
And their forms they shone white on the hill;
When, trow you, that hallo so erlisch and shrill
Arose from those maids on the heath?
It was just as poor Connel most poignant did feel,
As reptiles he loved not of him made a meal,
Just when the misleered and unmannerly eel
Waked him from the slumbers of death.
The sky and the hills once again;
But still he was haunted, for over the field
Two females came running amain.
No form but his spouse's remained on his brain;
His sisters to see him were glad;
But he started bolt upright in horror and fear,
He deemed that his wife and her minions were near,
He flung off his plaid, and he fled like a deer,
And they thought their poor brother was mad.
And his wonder and pleasure still grew;
For his clothes were not wet, and his skin was unbroke,
But he scarce could believe it was true
That no eels were within; and too strictly he knew
He was married and buckled for life.
It could not be a dream; for he slept and awoke;
Was drunken, and sober; had sung, and had spoke;
For months and for days he had dragged in the yoke
With an unconscientious wife.
On his own native cliffs of the Dee:
Oh never before looked a morning so fair,
Or the sun-beam so sweet on the lea!
The song of the merl from her old hawthorn tree,
And the blackbird's melodious lay,
All sounded to him like an anthem of love;
A song that the spirit of nature did move;
A kind little hymn to their Maker above,
Who gave them the beauties of day.
The image was never defaced;
Whene'er he saw riders that galloped amain,
He darned in some bush till they passed.
At kirk or at market sharp glances he cast,
Lest haply his wife might be there;
And once, when the liquor had kindled his e'e,
It never was known who or what he did see,
But he made a miraculous flight from Dundee,
The moment he entered the fair.
From his simple and primitive fare;
No longer his wishes or appetite ranged
With the gay and voluptuous to share.
He viewed every luxury of life as a snare:
He drank of his pure mountain spring;
He watched all the flowers of the wild as they sprung;
He blest his sweet laverock, like fairy that sung,
Aloft on the hem of the morning cloud hung,
Light fanning its down with her wing.
Light carolling humorsome rhyme,
Of his midsummer dream, of his feelings refined,
Or some song of the good olden time.
And even in age was his spirit in prime,
Still reverenced on Dee is his name;
His wishes were few, his enjoyments were rife,
He loved and he cherished each thing that had life,
With two small exceptions, an eel and a wife,
Whose commerce he dreaded the same.
A Greek Pastoral.
As white as the pall of the sheeted dead,
And mingling with the clouds that sail
On heaven's pure bosom, softly pale,
Till men believe that the hoary cloud
Is part of the mountain's mighty shroud,
While far below, in lovely guise,
The enchanted vale of Tempe lies,
There sat a virgin of peerless fame—
Thessalia's sweetest, comeliest dame,—
Gazing upon the silver stream,
As if in a rapt Elysian dream.
Far, far below her glowing eye,
Standing on an inverted sky,
Where clouds and mountains seem'd to swingle,
And Ossa with Olympus mingle,
She saw a youth of manly hue,
In robes of green and azure blue,
Of grape, of orange, and of rose,
And every dye the rainbow knows;
The nodding plumes his temples graced,
His sword was girded to his waist:
And much that maiden's wonder grew,
At a vision so comely and so new;
And, in her simplicity of heart,
She ween'd it all the enchanter's art.
At this loved phantom of the deep,
She conjured him to ascend, and bless
With look of love his shepherdess.
And when she beheld him mount the tide,
With eagle eye and stately stride,
She spread her arms and her bavaroy,
And scream'd with terror and with joy.
To the surface of the silent rill,
Beckon'd the maid with courteous grace,
And look'd her fondly in the face,
Till even that look she could not bear,
It was so witching and so dear.
She turn'd her eyes back from the flood,
And there a Scottish warrior stood,
Of noble rank and noble mien,
And glittering in his tartans sheen.
But there she sat astonished;
Her eyes o'er his form and feature ran—
She turn'd to the shadow, then the man;
Till at last she fix'd a look serene
Upon the stranger's manly mien.
Her ruby lips fell wide apart;
High beat her young and guileless heart,
Which of itself reveal'd the tale,
By the quiverings of its snowy veil,—
A living statue feminine,
A model cast in mould divine;
There she reclined, enchanted so,
She moved not finger, eye, nor toe,
From fear one motion might dispel
The great enchanter's thrilling spell.
Ne'er ray'd a human virgin's face:
'Tis all enchantment—rock and river—
May the illusion last for ever!”
Exclaim'd the youth—“O maiden dear,
Are such enchantments frequent here?”
But hand or eye she did not move,
But whispering said,
As if afraid
Her breath would melt the comely shade;
“Yes, very! This enchanted stream
Has visions raised in maiden's dream,
Of lovers' joys, and bowers of bliss,
But never aught so sweet as this.
Oh, pass not like fleeting cloud away!
Last, dear illusion,—last for aye!
And tell me, if on earth there dwell
Men suiting woman's love so well.”
Where the solans roost, and the wild deer run;
Where the giant oaks have a gnarl'd form,
And the hills are coped with the cloud and the storm;
Where the hoar-frost gleams on the valleys and brakes,
And a ceiling of crystal roofs the lakes:
And there are warriors in that land,
With helm on head and sword in hand;
And tens of thousands roving free,
All robed and fair as him you see.
I took the field to lead my own
Forward to glory and renown;
I learn'd to give the warrior word,
I learn'd to sway the warrior's sword,
Till a strange enchantment on me fell—
How I came here I cannot tell.
With a silver beard and a visage wan;
And out of the lists he beckon'd me,
And began with a tale of mystery,
Which soon, despite of all control,
Took captive my surrender'd soul.
With a powerful sway,
It roll'd away,
Till evening dropp'd her curtain gray,
And the bittern's cry
Was heard on high,
And the lamps of glory begemm'd the sky;
Yet still the amazing tale proceeded,
And still I follow'd, and still I heeded,—
For darkness or light,
The day or the night,
Or hunger or thirst,
To me no motive could impart—
It was only the tale that charm'd my heart.
And still the tale was never done;
Faster and faster the old man went,
Faster and faster I ran, intent
That tale of mystery out to hear,
Till the ocean's roll-call met my ear;
For the forest was past, and the shore was won,
And still the tale was never done.
I follow'd him in of my own accord,
And spread the canvas to the wind,
For I had no power to stay behind:
We sail'd away, and we sail'd away,
I cannot tell how many a day;—
But the winsome moon did wax and wane,
And the stars dropp'd blood on the azure main,
And still my soul with burning zeal
Lived on the magic of that tale,
Till we came to this enchanted river,
When the old gray man was gone for ever.
He faded like vapour before the sun,
And in a moment the tale was done.
And here am I left,
Of all bereft,
Except this zone of heavenly weft,
With the flowers of Paradise inwove,
The soft and silken bands of love.
Art thou the angel of this glade—
A peri, or a mortal maid?”
MAIDEN.
I dwelt in a distant eastern clime—
Oh, many a thousand miles away,
Where our day is night, and our night is day;
Where beauty of woman is no bliss,
And the Tigris flows, a stream like this.
I was a poor and fatherless child,
And my dwelling was in the woodland wild,
Where the elves waylaid me out and in;
And my mother knew them by their din,
And charm'd them away from our little cot—
For her eyes could see them, but mine could not.
I dream'd a dream that turn'd out true:
I thought I stray'd on enchanted ground,
Where all was beauty round and round;
The copse and the flowers were full in bloom,
And the breeze was laden with rich perfume.
There I saw two golden butterflies,
That shone like the sun in a thousand dyes;
And the eyes on their wings that glow'd amain,
Were like the eyes on the peacock's train.
I did my best
To steal on their rest,
As they hung on the cowslip's damask breast;
But my aim they knew,
And shier they grew,
And away from flower to flower they flew.
I ran—I bounded as on wings,
For my heart was set on the lovely things;
And I call'd, and conjured them to stay,
But they led me on, away, away!
Till they brought me to enchanted ground,
When a drowsiness my senses bound;
And when I sat me down to rest,
They came and they flutter'd round my breast;
And when I laid me down to sleep,
They lull'd me into a slumber deep;
And I heard them singing, my breast above,
A strain that seem'd a strain of love:—
It was sung in a shrill and soothing tone,
By many voices join'd in one.
Cradle Song of the Elves.
Child of pathos, and child of love,
Thy father is laid
In his cold deathbed,
Where waters encircle the lowly dead;
But his rest is sweet
In his winding sheet,
And his spirit lies at his Saviour's feet.
Then hush thee, rest thee, child of bliss!
Thou flower of the eastern wilderness!
Thy mother has waked in her cot of the wild,
And has wail'd for the loss of her only child;
But the prayer is said,
And the tear is shed,
And her trust in her God unaltered;
But oh! if she knew
Of thy guardians true,
And the scenes of bliss that await for you,
She would hymn her joys to the throne above—
Hush thee, rest thee, child of love!
Hush thee, rest thee, fatherless one!
Joy is before thee, and joy alone;
There is not a fay that haunts the wild,
That has power to hurt the orphan child:
For the angels of light,
In glory bedight,
Are hovering around by day and night—
A charge being given
To spirits of Heaven,
That the elves of malice afar be driven.
Then, hush thee, rest thee, lovely creature!
Till a change is wrought in thy mortal nature.
There were beings around me without number:
They had human faces, of heaven beaming,
And wings upon their shoulders streaming;
Their eyes had a soft, unearthly flame,
And their lovely locks were all the same;
And their language was not said, but sung;
I ween'd myself in the home above,
Among beings of happiness and love.
In a veil that was like a beam of the moon,
Or a ray of the morning passing fair,
And wove in the loom of the gossamer;
And they bore me aloft, over tower and tree,
And over the land, and over the sea:
There were seven times seven on either side,
And their dazzling robes stream'd far and wide.
It was such a sight as man ne'er saw;
Which pencil of heaven alone could draw,
If dipp'd in the morning's glorious dye,
Or the gorgeous tints of the evening sky,
Or in the bright celestial river,
The fountain of light, that wells for ever.
For the soul that's within me I dare not tell;
No language could make you to conceive it,
And if you did, you would not believe it:
But after a thousand visions past,
This is my resting place at last.
These flocks and fields they gave to me,
And they crown'd me the Queen of Thessaly.
And, since that time, I must confess
I've no experience had of less
Than perfectest, purest happiness;
And now I tremble lest love's soft spell
Should break the peace I love so well.”
“No! love is the source of all that's sweet,
And only for happy beings meet—
The bond of creation since time began,
That brought the grace of heaven to man.
Let us bathe in its bliss without control,
And love with all the heart and soul;
For mine are with thee, and only thee,
Thou Queen of the maidens of Thessaly!”
MAIDEN.
“If thou couldst love as a virgin can,
And not as sordid selfish man;
If thy love for me
From taint were as free
As the evening breeze from the Salon sea,
Or the odours hale
Of the morning gale,
Breathed over the flowers of Tempe's vale;
And no endearment or embrace,
That would raise a blush on a virgin's face,
Or a saint's below, or a spirit's above—
Then I could love!—Oh, as I could love!”
YOUTH.
“Thou art too gentle, pure, and good,
For a lover of earthly flesh and blood;
But I will love thee and cherish thee so,
As a maiden was never loved here below;
With a heavenly aim,
And a holy flame,
And an endearment that wants a name.
I will lead thee where the breeze is lightest,
And where the fountain wells the brightest,
Where the nightingale laments the oftest,
And where the buds of flowers are softest:
There in the glade,
My lovely maid,
I will fold within this rainbow plaid.
I will press her to my faithful breast,
And watch her calm and peaceful rest;
And o'er each aspiration dear,
I will breathe a prayer to Mercy's ear;
And no embrace or kiss shall be,
That a saint in heaven will blush to see.”
As the tabernacle of her rest;
And as there, with closed eyes, she lay,
She almost sigh'd her soul away,
As she gave her hand to the stranger guest,
The comely youth of the stormy west.
The Laureate's Lay of the Fairy Land.
The Russiadde:
A FRAGMENT OF AN ANCIENT EPIC POEM, SUPPOSED TO HAVE BEEN WRITTEN BY GILBERT HUME, A SUTOR OF SELKIRK.
BOOK FIRST.
Of matchless might and motley madness,
Long as the reach of morning lingle,
And brisk as blaze of evening ingle,
Begin, my Borough Muse, and sing;—
And Janet's wheel her boldest string
Shall vibrate to thy swelling note,
Of days, and deeds so long forgot.
For sutors, but for heroes more:
When wont to raise her hundreds duly,
Her sutors then were heroes truly;
And on red Flodden's dreadful day,
When other powerful clans gave way,
And left our king in fatal fray,
The burly sutors firmly stood,
And dyed the field with Southron blood:
Though flanked, and turned, and flanked again,
Still round them rose the walls of slain;
Though galled by darts, by horses trode on,
They bore their standard off from Flodden,
We bear aloft in proud array.
I'll blow thy foes up by the dozen.
Selkirk! thou earned thy very name,
Rekindling Freedom's sacred flame.
When Europe's chiefs all prostrate lay,
Beneath a haughty Pontiff's sway,
Thou mock'd the mighty, blind alliance,
And Christendom set at defiance;
Dared on his flagrant bulls to trample,
Before king John set the example;
And ere his anathemas ceased,
Sold thy d---d kirk and hanged the priest.
And hundreds more I have not named,
Shall yet, I hope, in future days,
Raised by her sons' romantic lays,
Above all Scottish towns prevail,
As scene of this heroic tale.
“In Selkirk once there lived a man;”
But such a man! Ah! shall we ever
Behold his like again? No, never!
His name was John; his trade, 'tis true,
Was boots and shoes to shape and sew:
My muse has so much cant about her—
In short, he was a Selkirk sutor.
That men may read, though not admire me!
Of every method of description,
In verse, or prose, without restriction,
For saying most, and telling least,
Thine is the easiest and the best.
Who had a dark and piercing eye;
His hair and beard were black and bushy;
His nose was high, his brows were brushy;
Large were his limbs, his shoulders broad,
Fitted to bear a mighty load.
Of manly make from crown to sole,
Though his work dress was coarse and droll,
Such was the man; view him with fears,
He'll turn even worse than he appears.
So much to mark in outward show!
From which 'tis hard the soul to scan—
'Tis that within which forms the man.
As ever in Selkirk town were seen.
At every feat of strength, or art,
Requiring steady hand or heart;
At breaking brand with Border foe;
Or aiming shaft from hunter's bow,
To wound the erne or mountain roe;
Or piercing salmon in the stream,
Though darting like the lightning's gleam;
Whoever tried to prove their equal,
Were always baffled in the sequel.
Their bread in honesty they earned,
Their father's trade they all had learned;
Yet sooth to say, they never staid
From muster field or Border raid.
Had many a bloody battle seen;
Yet though his strength was unabated,
Of deeds of death his soul was sated;
And weary of its murderous noise,
He now delighted most in boys:
He'd play with them at bat or ball,
Or any game they chose to call.
No oath was minced while John was by;
No word spoke angrily or high;
But each strove to outdo the others
In generous acts, as all were brothers:
So high they valued his esteem,
What he approved they all would seem.
His stall was large and seated round,
There every boy a shelter found;
Even dogs that were ill-used at home,
To this abode of peace would come,
And fawn on all with much affection,
Aye sure to meet a kind reception.
That stall was crowded every night
With those who loved his minstrelsy,
For many a tale and song had he;
And much he loved to see them all
Silent as squires in courtly hall.
And how their ardour rose and fell,
As different tales he chose to tell!
What pleasure glowed in every face,
At Robin Hood or Chevy Chace!
And how it thrilled each stripling's blood,
To hear how Maitland victor stood!
The boys came all to dine with John.
In four close circles, on the green,
His youthful guests, all neat and clean,
John eyed with pride and high delight;
And in the middle stood upright,
To see that each got ample share
Of homely, healthy, Forest fare.
But none would taste, till John addressing
His Maker, asked on all a blessing.
With folded hands and eye-lids closed;
Bent one foot forward from erect,
And attitude of great respect;
With reverend tone, and fervent air,
He thus to God preferred his prayer:—
Yet feed'st the ravens young that cry;
Make grateful us poor worthless sinners,
For this and all our plenteous dinners,
Nor house nor home to hide their head:
These gifts, so kindly given by thee,
I give to those I love to see.
My God! may every tender breast
With grace and virtue be impressed;
And in whatever state they stand,
May they be honours to our land;
And each fond parent's hope surmised,
In all be fully realized;
Nor ever vice or lucre draw
Them off from thee, their King, and law.
May every nation under heaven
Have grace of thee, and sins forgiven:
And mind old Scotland 'mongst the rest;
And be thy name for ever blessed.”
That John did not begin with prayer;
No evening closed on his abode,
He did not close with thanks to God.
In each man's joy he bore a part,
And each man's sorrow wrung his heart.
'Twixt such a life and mere existence!
How many eat, drink, sleep, and then
Just eat and drink to sleep again;
And lose the fragrance of the morn
For qualms, by base intemperance born!
To wrest and vex the human kind;
Foul slander, strife, and litigation,
Are all their aim and meditation;
And nought so well repay their labours,
As losses which affect their neighbours.
And he whom Fortune sore hath crushed,
They joy to humble in the dust;
Nought left in life wherein to trust.
The partial law of substance fleeces,
And these his good name tear to pieces.
O'er fields of death to guide the thunder;
And still his fev'rish mind is brewing
How to arise on others' ruin.
The nations groan, for pity crying,
The fields are heaped with dead and dying;
No qualm of conscience! no disgust!
For power and rule is all his lust.
But thanks to Him who rules on high,
And lightens nature with his eye,
That few such monsters, very few
On earth these ravages renew.
Two such within an age are sure
As much as mankind can endure,
And God in mercy oft sends fewer.
Approaches grim—the mind, in ferment,
Views worlds beyond the grave aghast,
And fearful glancing o'er the past,
No action to insure the future—
Who would not then be John the Sutor?
And with him rather take their chance,
Than with the Pope or King of France?
Leave off your prosing, I implore ye;
Page after page I here have wrote,
And all the length that I have got
Is just no more, nor further than,
In Selkirk once there lived a man:
If thus you wind and wind about her,
I'll ne'er get on with John the Sutor.”
Where left I off my story, pray thee?
But 'tis so good and so sublime,
I'll tell it o'er a second time.
In Selkirk once there lived a man;
Mentioned his name, and recreations,
His sons, their might, and occupations.
I hate description's meagre art,
And love a tale with all my heart;
And this that I am going to tell,
John said (and I believe it well)
Was strictly true. But who can doubt o't?
It bears't upon the very snout o't,
And proved to Selkirk boys a feast
Full twenty times a-year at least.
There lived a man for might renowned,
His name was Russell; but in sport,
Or else because the name was short,
Men called him Russ: no doubt, his name
You oft have heard, and wondrous fame.
So great his strength that, in this age,
The truth no credit will engage.
The pine that on the mountain grew,
With ease up from its hold he drew:
Huge rocks, which mortals ne'er had shoved,
Nor ever thought to be removed,
From Eildon's proud vermilioned brow,
He dashed upon the plain below.
Once by a furious bull o'erthrown,
Quite unawares, and all alone—
A bull, for strength of horn and hide,
Unequalled on the Border side—
Russ rose, renewed the rough attack,
And tossed him fairly on his back!
Carved with his sword ('tis truth I tell ye)
Saint Andrew's cross on his broad belly:
He rolled, he bellowed, torn with pain,
Then groaned to death upon the plain.
If this is not heroic writing,
I give the palm up for inditing.
Would sink, or fly his fist before;
But in a regular field of blood,
Unarmed, impatient, still he stood:
He never missed, at the first blow,
To break his sword or cleave his foe.
Amid the ranks with hilt in hand;
And brought him mighty goad of steel,
Meant for a belt to waggon wheel,
Which Russell quickly heaved on high,
While pleasure lightened in his eye.
Woe to the man was nigh that day!
He mowed the Southrons down like hay;
Nor once perceived that, as he drew
Each stroke, as many Scots he slew.
The English saw, and stooping low,
Evited oft the dreadful blow,
Which coming round withouten stay,
Aye swept whole ranks of Scots away.
Laird Coom came up, and d---n'd and swore,
“Hold, Russ; for love of Christ give o'er;
Your club is dyed with kinsmen's blood,
You do ten times more ill than good.”
A hero was more ways than one:
Perhaps no mortal e'er so far
Excelled in that called Venus' war.
Through all the country flew his fame,
Myriads of fair he overcame;
And then for children (precious things)
He beat the Turks or Persian kings!
(Men's joys too often earn a curse!)
Two lovely sisters fell to crying—
Their parents thought the girls were dying:
Sent for the bishop, then beside them
Sung psalms, and prayed for grace to guide them.
For sooth, the bishop said, 'twas hard
If two such flowers should not be spared
To bloom awhile in youthful beauty,
And patterns prove of filial duty;
That so much love and harmless frolic
Should be cut off by windy cholic!
Two doctors then in haste are sent for,
Who came well furnished at a venture,
And eased the maids with little bustle;
But ah! the blame fell sore on Russell.
For the goodman, in one short hour,
Instead of twain, as heretofore,
Of daughter, grandchild, brother, cousin,
Could now count o'er the round half dozen.
Fear for his champion Coom alarms:
“By heavens,” said he, “my noble fellow,
You must escape, ere they compel you
Before their court to stand your trial,
And drink of death the bitterest vial:
If once you come within their power,
Not distant is your dying hour.”
Coom loved the man, plain be it spoken,
He was a shield not easily broken;
And Lady Coom, that lovely creature,
The sweetest work of wayward nature,
Would rather all her lands and rents,
Her turrets, domes, and battlements,
And her old laird in death were dubbed,
Before her favourite Russ was snubbed.
This must be noted to be plain,
A laird's wife was called lady then.
Had foresight of right stunted growth,
So short, that, as the proverb goes,
He scarcely saw before his nose.
The lady gave her favourite horse;
A sword, a lance, and heavy purse;
And bade him ride, nor make a stand,
Till in the midst of Cumberland;
And she would soon, for his mischance,
Remission gain from Rome or France.
Swift as in chase of hawk or hound;
Dash went the steed through mire and ford,
Without or spur or cheering word,
For he was proven of mettle keen,
And oft had in the foray been.
Three miles, at least, thus Russell flew,
When rose a humble cot in view,
Where dwelt a damsel, fair and gay
As e'er was meadow-flower in May.
Russ knew her well, she was so good,
So gentle, and so kind of mood,
He could not pass, but lighted down—
His haste was o'er, his fear was flown.
Fear, said I? that ne'er reached his heart,
Except for thirst or hunger's smart.
In raptures of supreme delight.
Unhappy man! his passions fooled him;
The impulse of the moment ruled him;
There sat he, trifling, toying, laughing,
The blood-red wine in torrents quaffing,
Till next day's sun the hills illumines,
All thoughtless of the church's summons.
Resolved to catch the sinful man,
And his huge bulk to jelly boil
In caldron of offensive oil.
Russell's brave courser neighed in stall;
His sword and lance were hung in hall,
If hall it could be called, where smoke
Brooded condense o'er hearth of rock:
One only room the house contained,
Where Russell and his flower remained.
And next his lance and trusty sword;
Gleamed halbert, pitchfork, and claymore;
And loud they raised the dreadful cry,
“Yield, yield thee, sinner; yield or die!”
Before him as a general shield,
And swore by man's congenial mother,
He'd neither do the one nor the other.
Acted as charm on Russell's ear;
For who would not his best blood spend
To please the fair, and them defend?
That note of fear was watch-word good,
And cost a few their precious blood.
Like tiger o'er his tender young,
Russ on the crowd in fury sprung;
Swords, lances, pitchforks, men and all,
Bore with his table 'gainst the wall,
Their bodies squeezed as thin as paper,
And laughed to see them grin and caper;
While squirting blood so fiercely played,
That holes were in the ceiling made.—
Now, gallant Muse, I think thou'lt show 'em
Thou can'st indite heroic poem.
And every vent with sword and lance guard,
And then, at once to end their fears,
They fired the house about his ears.
Russ coughed, and sneezed, and rubbed his eyes,
As clouds of smoke began to rise,
“What! shall I like a dolt,” said he,
“Be smoked to death like silly bee?
Nor once my utmost vigour prove,
To save myself, and save my love?
Come, follow me; I'll clear a path,
Or like a hero yield my breath.”
The door from off its hinges bore,
And like the cloud-struck ocean wave,
That hurls the tar to watery grave;
So on the crowd our hero bore,
While cowl and mitre sunk before.
And crushed at first the opposing throng;
Although a shield of sure defence,
It would not wield to any sense,
But flapped as slowly to the ground
As arm of windmill in its round.
The door away in rage he threw,
And looked around for weapon true;
For sword or lance he did not hover,
He knew, one stroke and these were over.
Were rallying to the strife amain;
What weapon Russ chose in his haste,
No human foresight will suggest,
Nor mind approve—withouten jest
It was a lean and sordid priest,
That chanced among his feet to lie,
Not dead, but in extremity.
And soon in air his reverence flew
With rapid whirl, and broken howls,
Pouring destruction on their souls;
All those on whom the strokes alighted
Sunk calmly down, in death benighted.
Of every mace, or sword, in field red,
That Russell e'er before had wielded,
None ever wrought such dreadful doom
As did this limb of papal Rome.
The monks and peasants mixed were lying,
The field was strewed with dead and dying;
The rest from ravage so uncivil
Fled, swearing Russell was the devil.
One hand across his dripping brow;
The other still above his breast,
Held by the heel the mangled priest;
In case of more malignant foes,
That weapon he wished not to lose.
The people all were roused to ire,
And flocked in crowds from east and west,
Our hero quite to circumvest;
And either bind his hands and feet,
Or pierce him through with arrows fleet.
His steed and armour both were gone:
He tried to reason, but his thought
In vain was called, in vain was sought;
'Twas gone!—evanished in the blast
Of toils and pleasures newly past.
Nought could he settle, nothing frame,
Save travelling back the way he came.
For thousands hastened to the strife,
Had not dame Venus, from the sky,
Beheld him with a pitying eye;
And hasted, on celestial wing,
Her favourite hero off to bring.
Something like swan or white sea-mew,
Swift as the eagle of the main,
Or red bolt reeling through the rain,
Which lighting on the level nigh,
Russ chanced to turn a curious eye.
A nymph come smiling o'er the lea;
Straight as the stateliest pine that grows,
And fresh as bosom of the rose;
Taper and round was every limb,
Her waist was short—not over slim:
The veil, o'er her fair bosom thrown,
Though muslin of the sky, seemed brown.
Never did form so sweetly swell.
Her sweet ripe lips of rosy hue,
Her speaking eye so soft and blue;
Her locks light waving as she run,
Like yellow clouds before the sun;
Her blushes sly, that went and came,
Set Russell's gallant heart on flame.
“Brave youth,” she said, “cheer up thy heart;
I cannot bear with thee to part;
For me and mine thou hast done more
Than ever Scotsman did before.
Say, wilt thou leave this field of blood,
And go with me for ill or good?”
His heart-strings thrilled his breast within!
“Yes, madam, yes; be 't ill or well,
By Heaven, I'll follow thee to hell!”
“Your foes approach on every side;
Come on my back without delay,
I'll bear thee from their rage away.”
Madam, you'll make but sober speed.
Come on your back!—use you so ill!
No, curse me, madam, if I will.”
“And whether well or woe betide,
Thou'st given thy word, thou'st given thy oath,
And Russell thou shalt keep them both:
Yes; soon shalt thou of wonders tell,
Seen in the farthest nook of hell.
Come, haste thee; see, thy foes are near;
An hundred shafts are pointed here,
All waiting but the twang of string,
In thy brave blood to wet the wing.
Thou art my hope, my only care;
I'll bear thee through the yielding air,
Through bowels of the earth and sea,
And every danger shield from thee.
The rainbow's lovely arch we'll climb;
Sail on yon saffron cloud sublime;
Then souse, our panting breasts to lave,
In ocean's green and shelvy wave,
Till in Breadalbane's deepest dell,
Where this green world is but a shell,
An easy passage there I know
Down to the dismal shades below.
Come, haste, we have no time to stay,
I'll bear thee from this mob away.”
Of crude ideas all bamboozled:
Of all that speech, from end to end,
One word he could not comprehend;
But stood with head on shoulder leaning,
As striving to conceive her meaning.
And lightly o'er her shoulders cast;
Clasped his huge fists around her bosom;
Bade him hold fast lest she should lose him:
Then, swift as heron or curlew,
Began to scale the ether blue.
No other hold beneath the sky
Could have induced bold Russ to fly;
He was so high too ere he knew,
That, though he soon began to rue,
For fear of rocks and rails below,
He durst not for his soul let go.
When Russell shrunk, and sighed as loud
As if the dame had popped him in
An icy river to the chin;
And held a gripe like grisly death,
Till Venus almost lost her breath.
Were far surpassing reason's law;
He saw the royals of the sky
Play off their dread artillery:
A thousand warriors, tall and grim,
Plied in the cloud so dark and dim;
Loading their guns of monstrous frame,
With bowls of elemental flame.
A spectre colonel, tall and gray,
Bawled out the order, “fire away!”
Crash went the bolts, in thunder borne;—
The bosom of the cloud was torn,
The earth was bored, the rocks were riven,
And scarcely 'scaped the halls of heaven;
The rude concussion broke so high,
It jingled the windows of the sky.
Russ every moment was in dread
The burning bolts would singe his head;
Or that the tubes would interpose,
And break his forehead or his nose;
But rolling sulphur, hail, and flame,
All oped before the lovely dame.—
Well done, my Muse! by that same rule,
Virgil's a prosing drivelling fool.
And leave the speckled world behind.
Russ never saw a scene so fair
As Scotland from the ambient air.
O'er valleys clouds of vapour rolled,
While others beamed in burning gold;
And stretching far and wide between,
Were fading shades of fairy green.
The glassy sea that round her quakes,
Her thousand isles and thousand lakes,
Her mountains frowning o'er the main,
Her waving fields of golden grain—
On such a scene, so sweet, so mild,
The radiant sunbeam never smiled.
Let him who dares my lay asperse,
Try match a Selkirk sutor's verse.
Still less and less the island grew;
He looked on half the glowing world,
Where oceans rolled and rivers ran,
To bound the aims of sinful man.
But one from the other could not know;
Knew neither east, west, up nor down,
Which was the earth, or which the moon;
Each seemed the same, in each degree,
And each seemed high and low as he:
His senses all began to vary,
He felt a strange and bad quandary.
Madam, why all this great ado?
If for Breadalbane's bounds thou bearest,
Thou'rt going round to seek the nearest;
Besides, the air's become so rarefied,
For breath my bosom must be scarified.
Keep from the moon, I humbly pray,
Else there I shall be forced to stay;
The attraction's strong, and I'm so heavy,
That doubtless you'll be forced to leave me.
It might prove just as Russ had said;
And round her atmosphere so blue
Took of the moon a distant view.
Russ saw his sinful countryman
Beneath his burden groaning wan,
Who to the moon was whipped up one day,
For stealing sticks upon a Sunday.
He saw, besides, an iron gate,
At which a hungry colt did wait;
Over the spikes his nose was lying,
And Russell thought he whiles was neighing.
The new moon glowed in all her charms,
Yet clasped the old moon in her arms,
Much like himself and lovely dame:
All this he saw, then off they came.
Its plain he fairly could espy:
Whether 'twas made of crystal blue,
Or bottle-glass, he scarcely knew;
But 'twas the one, and he could prove it:
The stars were lamps that burnt above it;
The sun a fire that flamed amain,
On which the coals were showered like rain.
And when the damps rose from below,
A haze upon this glass would grow,
Till little seraphs scrubbed it clean,
Then fire and lamps again were seen.
On polar swivel it kept its twirl,
And swept around with rapid whirl;
Thus sun and stars about were borne—
That these were facts Russ could have sworn.
Just in the middle of the main:
Sweet Venus' bosom beat so high
With her huge burden through the sky,
She hovered low, her limbs to lave
Slight on the bow of emerald wave;
Each billow tipt, her breast to cool,
Like swallow on the evening pool,
While trembling sailors shunned the track
Of dolphin on the mermaid's back.
Floating on wave like buoyant swan,
Light o'er the billows heaved on high,
Then sunk between from human eye.
Russ capered sore with phiz uncouth;
He shut his eyes, he shut his mouth,
Expecting, every wave that broke,
With brine his bellows-pipe would choke.
The wonders of her power to show:
Russ from the lady durst not sever,
But thought he then was gone for ever.
Then first his heart perceived alarms
For the effects of female charms.
Have nought malicious in their natures.
If woman's gentle heart you gain,
True to the last she will remain;
Nor danger, poverty, nor pride,
Nought, nought will drive her from thy side:
Though fickle's buckled to her name,
Our sex for ever are to blame.
Sat Russell and his lovely guide;
He felt as light, and breathed as pure,
As in the glens of Lammermuir.
But here my Muse her breath must draw,
Before she sing what Russell saw.
Mora Campbell.
That laid the pride of Caledon
At one infuriate venture, low,
Beneath the foot of cruel foe—
That cursed year, whose memory brands
With burning flame her northern lands,
And deep on mountain, fell, and flood,
Is graved in characters of blood—
It was when last was heard the jar,
The tempest, and the clang of war
Within our isle; when April's sun
Saw red Culloden lost and won,
And the bold lineage of the Gael
Trodden like dust o'er moor and dale;—
When the bright star of Stuart's race
Was dashed from its resplendent place,
That ruddy star which through the spheres
Had shone sublime a thousand years,
That rose through blood in times of yore,
A light ensanguined always bore,
Then set in blood for evermore;
Lay mid Lochaber's ruined lands,
And held loud revels of delight,
Feasting and dancing day and night,
With every freak, and whim, and game,
That conqu'rors in despite could frame;
The chiefs of Diarmid all were there,
Noted for heroes tall and fair,
Of manly mete and noble mein,
All blazing in their tartans sheen;
A name of majesty and power,
Whose might in Scotia's darkest hour,
Had oft been roused and starkly tried,
But always on the strongest side.
For why, they say, with power avail?
'Tis they who always turn the scale;
For where they join their potent name,
The side of power must be with them.
A tale of love hath nought to do;
Suffice it, that the Campbells were
The chief great name of Scotland there;
And hence their dames and maidens fair
Came to the camp their joys to share:
And sooth such dancing and deray,
Such galliardise and gambols gay,
Ne'er sounded over shore and vale
On dark Lochaber's dusky gale.
From green Glen-Lyon's mountain glade,
Hight Mora Campbell, one whose mien
Excell'd all beauty ever seen
In Scotia's stern and stormy reign,
Where beauty strove to bloom in vain.
But though the maidens of Argyle,
Gathered from continent and isle,
From Mull of Morven to Loch-Orn,
From gray Glenorchy and from Lorn,
Breadalbane's maidens, bronzed and tall,
And the blue eyes of Fortingall;
Yet Mora of Glen-Lyon shone
O'er all unequall'd, and alone,
Like the young moon on summer even,
Walking amid the stars of heaven.
The courtly warriors of the throng,
To gain this peerless maiden's hand
At serenade or saraband;
For where a maiden shows her face,
Whate'er her nation or her race,
Man still will love, and still will woo
The best—of thousands—or of two.
Be she a savage, serf, or slave,
Or maiden of the emerald wave;
Nay, be she sable, brown, or fair,
She's loved, if better be not there.
Were feasted at their foemen's cost,
And there, in reckless riot, lay
Watching the north for many a day:
But, oh, what stir, and joy, and ramp,
When these young maidens sought the camp!
Then all was compliment and cooing,
With toying, teasing, love, and wooing.
More to the living than the dead,
Though some had sighs and tears to feign
Above the graves of kinsmen slain;
And now warm vows of love were cast
On ladies' ears, as thick and fast
As leaves fall from Lochaber trees,
Or snow-flakes from her northern breeze.
Sir Hugh De Vane of Barnard hight,
Made love to Mora in such way
That her young mind was moved to stay,
And take her lot for ill or good
With a young knight of noble blood.
Her brother, too, seemed to approve,
Vouching Sir Hugh's unblemished love,
But urged her not to stay or go,
Or answer him with yes or no.
They had no heart to say farewell;
The maid was won, you may foresee,
As all maids are, or wish to be;
For what fair maiden can refuse,
When gallant youthful warrior sues?
Their hands in holy bond were tied;
Sir Hugh was happy with his bride,
As youth could with such beauty be,
And drank of pleasure to the lee;
But ne'er his marriage would confess
To one of all the jocund mess,
Save her own brother, from whose hand
He got the flower of fair Scotland—
A proud and haughty youth was he,
As Highland captain needs must be.
To foreign lands, to earn renown,
And all are forced, howe'er inclined,
To leave their Highland loves behind.
Mora prepared at break of day
To follow her dear lord away,
Wherever call'd to face a foe,
Or honour beckon'd him to go;
But by the general was withstood,
And order'd with her sisterhood.
Up came young Campbell of the glen,
Fierce as a lion from his den,
In mood provoking stern reply,
And fierce defiance in his eye:
“My lord,” said he, “I may not bear
Such court'sy to my sister dear.
Think'st thou her birth and lineage good,
The best of Albyn's noble blood,
Brought by thy kinsmen to disgrace?
I tell thee, lord, unto thy brow,
My sister's higher born than thou;
And more, she is thy nephew's spouse,
By all the holy marriage vows—
Wed with a ring—his lawful wife—
I the maintainer with my life.”—
“Hence to thy post, thou saucy Scot,
Thy high descent I question not;
Nay, doubt not that thy sires renown'd
Were mighty kings, revered and crown'd,
O'er some poor glen of shaggy wood,
Before the universal flood;
But this I know, that blood of thine
Commingle never shall with mine,
To taint it with rebellion's ban,
Thy nation's curse since time began.
The charge is false—I know Sir Hugh
Not for his soul this thing durst do,
Without my knowledge and consent;
He would not stoop to circumvent
A beauteous maiden to disgrace—
I'll question him before her face.”
Hard by his general's trembling hand;
He heard his words, and saw his look,
While Campbell with resentment shook,
And Mora stood as deadly pale
As floweret in December's gale;
Sooth the young warrior bore a mind
Not to be envied or defined.
Is this young dame your wedded wife?”
He tried to speak, but speech had fled;
Three times he tried the truth to own,
And thrice the word he gulped down;
Then with a burst of gather'd breath,
“No,” he replied, as if in wrath.—
“Thou liest, thou dog! Darest thou deny
I witness'd with mine ear, mine eye,
Thy interchange of marriage vow?
The ring is on her finger now,
The lines of marriage in her breast;
And this dire wrong must be redress'd
To that dear maid, or, by the rood,
I'll cancel't in thy traitor blood.
For thy soul's worth this truth deny!”—
This Campbell's fierce and proud reply:
But ere the half of it was said,
Mora had sunk to earth as dead;
She heard its import, saw its meed,
And all the woe that would succeed.
Was quickly at his sister's side,
And aided by his kinsmen keen,
He bore her lifeless from the green.
Sir Hugh was moved, and struggled hard
'Twixt insult and sincere regard,
And would have follow'd to his harm,
But was withheld by strength of arm.
As deep his wrong his wrath was high.
As for the General, 'twas his will
Always to use the clansmen ill;
He seem'd to view them as a race
Destined for nothing but disgrace,
And therefore tried with all his care
To hound the dog and hold the hare.
The dire event I grieve to tell;
They challenged, fought, and Campbell fell;
And ere poor Mora's beauteous eye
Re-opened on the morning sky;
Ere reason had her throne resumed,
And darken'd intellect return'd,
Her only brother, her sole shield,
Was carried wounded from the field,
With all his tartans crimson-dyed,
And stretch'd down by his sister's side.
For youth and beauty well to bear;
And that same day the English host
March'd off, and hope of love was lost;
And Mora's young elastic mind,
Brisk as Glen-Lyon's balmy wind,
And placid as the evening's fall
On the green bowers of Fortingall,
Was all at once, before its prime,
In misery plunged without a crime.
I know of no such deadly smart
To fall on maiden's bleeding heart.
Calls our dear bosom friends away,
There is a cause we calm should be—
A reverence due to the decree—
A holy awe that swathes the past
And present, dark and overcast,
Both in a glorious future light,
Eternal, infinite, and bright;
And thus our deepest sorrow given,
Is mingled with a ray of heaven.
The very pillars of the soul,
Are placed on one sole being here,
For whom alone this life is dear,
To find that one our trust betray,
And all our hopes in ruin lay—
Then 'reaved, astonished, and forsaken,
The structure of the soul is shaken,
Without one prop whereon to rest,
That will not pierce the stooping breast,
Or thought of one beloved so well,
Unshaded by a tinge of hell;
This is a grief without remede—
This, this is wretchedness indeed!
And hopeless grief, for many a day,
Of every cheering ray bereft,
Was Mora of Glen-Lyon left.
She never waked one morn to cumber,
On which she wish'd not still to slumber;
She never sunk that night to rest,
On which she wish'd not to be blest
With dreamless sleep that break should never,
Unknown, unknowing ought for ever.
A vacancy alone remain'd,
A dreary void, which to supply
Nothing remain'd beneath the sky;
For with the husband of her youth,
His sacred honour and his truth,
Vanish'd her hope, her fear, her all.
But yet, at pity's gentle call,
Some kind emotions woke anew;
She to her suffering brother flew,
Yielded to nature's kindred sway,
And nursed and soothed him night and day;
Nor once produced unwelcome theme,
By mention of her husband's name.
The wounded warrior was convey'd,
And after tedious illness borne,
Dejected, wearied, and outworn,
He yielded up his spirit brave,
And sunk to an untimely grave.
And just before his life's last close,
Glen-Lyon's flower, her faded rose,
Wept o'er a young and helpless guest,
And nursed him on her youthful breast—
A lovely babe; he throve and grew,
Prattled, and smiled, and nothing knew
Of all his mother's yearnings strong,
And all her deep and deadly wrong.
And spirit wounded and forlorn,
At all the ills his hand had wrought,
And conduct with dishonour fraught,
Was hurried by his General far,
To combat in a foreign war,
And hold command in that campaign
That ravaged Alsace and the Rhine.
But from that day he first denied
His youthful wife in warrior pride,
And left her guardian and her shield
A-bleeding on Boleskine field,
From thence in fortune ill or good,
He was a man of altered mood—
A man who only seem'd to take
A thought of life for sorrow's sake;
Fought but to mitigate his woe,
And gloried not in friend or foe.
Produced a transient quietude,
And brave Sir Hugh's diminished corps
Returned to England's welcome shore.
Meanwhile his son on Highland brae,
By one more relative's decay,
Succeeded had, by birth allied,
To fair Glen-Lyon far and wide,
To castle, peel, and barbican,
The greatest laird of all his clan.
Thus deck herself and comely child;
Not in Clan-Campbell's tartans sheen,
The red, the yellow, and the green;
But in new robes of southern hue,
Pale garments of cerulean blue;
And daily take a stand sublime,
Like meteors of a foreign clime?
Nought of this world in which we dwell,
No fault nor failing, time nor space,
Can woman's maiden love efface.
It blossoms, still a virgin gem,
And offspring strengthens still the stem.
Sooner may maiden fresh and fair
Forget her locks of flowing hair,
That, heaving with her balmy breath,
To lover's heart throws shaft of death;
Sooner neglect its crescent bow,
And shed oblique above the brow,
And all her charms aright to set,
Than once an early love forget;
Nay, sooner may maternal love
A truant to her nature prove,
And her betrothed affections flee
The infant smiling on her knee,
Than she can from her heart dethrone
The father of that lovely one.
Even when poor Mora's heart was reft
Of all, still sovereign love was left.
But ween her husband still was true!
And, when in freedom, would not fail
To seek Glen-Lyon's Highland dale,
Where counts would soon have been made even,
And all forgotten and forgiven?
Though many a weary hour and day
She, and the boy of her delight,
Stood robed in southern garments bright,
Straining, with anxious eye intent,
South from the highest battlement,
Then every night she dreamed anew,
Of meeting with her own Sir Hugh;
And every day she took her stand,
And look'd unto the southern land:
While every time she kissed her boy,
A mother's pride, a mother's joy,
Waked ardent longings to attain
Sight of his father once again.
And southward on a dubious way,
She with her boy disguised is gone—
By land, by sea, they journey'd on,
And soon arrived with purpose shrewd,
Mid London's mingled multitude,
Where straight she went in courtly style,
To Lady Ella of Argyle,
And there did secretly impart
Each wish and purpose of her heart.
That lady welcomed her the more
As all her wrongs she knew before,
And oft had wish'd most fervently,
A mediatrix there to be;
Though, certes, little did she ween
Her friend was beauty's peerless queen.
Their potent measures soon were laid;
And forth came Mora of the glen,
Amid a wilderness of men,
All gazing—all entranced outright,
At her resplendent beauty bright:
For no such loveliness or worth
As this fair vision of the North
Had e'er been seen by mortal man,
Or heard of since the world began.
The lady took her friend so fair
To balls, assemblies, everywhere;
And sooth she was a comely sight,
In silken tartans blazing bright:
A comet of bedazzling ray;
A rainbow in a winter day;
A meteor of the frozen zone,
As bright in course as quickly gone.
For purpose justified and plain,
The lady surnamed her M'Vane,
Her husband's name, though unperceived,
Through Scottish breviat interweaved.
Then every day the clamour spread,
Of this unrivalled Highland maid,
And every day brought wooers store,
In splendour to Duke Archibald's door;
But all advances soon were check'd
By distant coldness and respect,
And lords and courtiers sued in vain
To the unparagon'd M'Vane.
Sir Hugh, so dull and saturnine;
Chanced to behold, without design,
In all her elegance unfurl'd,
This streamer of the northern world;
For there were many movements sly,
To bring her to his languid eye,
Which no inducement could invite
To look on lady with delight.
Without the force of right or wrong
To rectify or countervail:
Once more was heaved the loaded scale.
Oh there was something in her air,
So comely, so divinely fair,
So fraught with beauty's genial glow,
Like angel dream'd of long ago,
That all his energies of mind
To this dear object were confined!
He durst not think of former spouse,
Nor dream of former broken vows;
Because, without this lady, he
Found life was utter misery.
Unto Argyle all was unknown;
The lady Ella knew alone;
But he, good man, was to his end,
A Campbell's best and firmest friend:
And judging this a proper fit,
He urged the beauty to submit.
No—she had reasons indirect
A Southern always to suspect;
And unto one should never yield,
Till bonds and contracts, sign'd and seal'd,
Were all made firm in liege and land,
And lodged in good Duke Archibald's hand.
Then lothly did she yield consent
To vows of love so vehement,
And they were wed in princely style,
Within the palace of Argyle.
If brave Sir Hugh loved well before,
This time was added ten times more:
'Twas as if love had raised its head,
In resurrection from the dead;
And fix'd on being all supreme,
Like something in a long-lost dream,
And with an energy intense,
As far surpassing mortal sense,
He loved, as blessed spirits prove,
When meeting in the realms above.
Was watched by his with ecstasy;
On every accent of her tongue
His ravished ear enraptured hung;
And sometimes as its Highland twang
Out through his vitals thrilling rang,
It seem'd to bring a pang of woe,
And tears would all unbidden flow,
As linked in some mysterious way,
With visions of a former day.
Without due chastening at the last;
And grievous penalties in store
Were lurking now Sir Hugh before.
One eve, when rung the dinner bell,
His lady was announced unwell;
And worse—on some mysterious plea,
Firmly refused his face to see.
The warrior was astonished quite;
His senses seem'd involved in night,
Some dire offence to recollect;
But could not all its weight perpend,
Nor its dimensions comprehend.
His spirit shrunk within his frame;
He watch'd the eye of noble dame,
And saw with dreadour and with doubt,
A flame enkindling him about,
That would his heart or honour sear;
But yet he wist not what to fear.
He moved about like troubled sprite,
And rested neither day nor night;
For still his darling, his espoused,
All access to her lord refused.
At length he sought, in rueful style,
The stately Ella of Argyle.
Which none knew more than thou to prize;
By those endearments prized the most,
Which thou hast sigh'd for, gain'd and lost,
Tell me my doom. What is my crime?
And why this painful pantomime?
To know the worst will be relief
From this exuberance of grief.”
The herald of perplexity,
But letters have arrived of late,
That of injurious matters treat;
This lovely dame, whom you have wed,
Hath our kind guardianship misled;
And is not seemingly the dame,
Either in lineage or in name,
Which she assumed. They hold it true,
That she's a wife and mother too;
That this is truth, I do not know,
But reasons have to dread it so.”
Which brought more anguish than relief,
And thought, as naturally he must,
“I am a sinner! God is just!”
Then blazed he forth with storm and threat,
To blame the lady of deceit.
“Madam,” said he, “the lady came
Forth under your auspicious name;
And who could deem deceitful wile,
Used by the house of great Argyle?
I to the duke make my appeal;
From all his princely honest zeal,
I know he'll rid me of this shame,
So derogating to his name.
If she's a wife, I her forego,
To censures fitting thereunto;
And if a mistress, must disclaim
All union with her bloated name;
For though I love her more than life
She ne'er can be my lady wife.
Unto the duke's awards I bow,
I know this deed he'll disallow.”
His grievous injuries to vent;
Who heard him with his known degree
Of calm respect and dignity:
Then said, “I take no blame in ought;
The comely dame my sister brought
Unto my halls, as courtly guest,
And she's incapable of jest.
If this fair dame you have espoused,
Hath our high name, and you, abused,
I give her up without defence,
To suffer for her fraudulence.
Let officers attend, and bear
Her to a jail, till she appear
In court, and this sad blame remove;
I hope her innocence she'll prove.”
Argyle went to his lovely guest,
To learn if she was not belied;
But no one knew what she replied;
For back he came in sullen mood,
Without remark, evil or good,
And seem'd determined to consign
Mora to punishment condign.
Ere her commitment was made out,
Sir Hugh, in choler and in doubt,
Pleaded to hear from her own mouth,
Whate'er it was, the honest truth;
Then he, impassioned and uproused,
Made rank confusion more confused,
By raging on with stormy din,
Threatening Argyle and all his kin—
When lo! in manifest concern,
The Lady Ella, flush'd and stern,
Came in and with reproving look,
Accosted the astonished duke.
'Tis well the officers are here—
For such an injury propense,
Such dark degrading delinquence,
Ne'er proffer'd was by mortal man
To lady of our kin and clan.
Let the offence have judgment due!”
“'Tis my request,” replied Sir Hugh.
“Yes, warrior! vengeance shall be had—
And for thy sake, we'll superadd,
As said the prophet to the king,
Thou art the man hath done the thing.
My lord, the criminal malign,
Is this high favourite of thine,
Who hath us proffer'd that disgrace,
Which no effrontery can outface.
False the advice to us was brought—
'Tis he the misery hath wrought,
Unto the lovely dame agrieved,
Whom late he from your hand received.
And all that was her rightful claim—
My lord, believe it if you can,
This bold Sir Hugh was married man—
Married for seven years before
He came a wooer to your door.”
“That man alive durst have defied
Me to my face in such a way.
Sir, straight this calumny gainsay,
If thou the least respect wouldst claim
To noble warrior's honour'd name.”
“All false! all false, my lord, in faith,”
Sir Hugh replied with stifled breath:
“A hoax, a flam your grace to gall;
To prove it I defy them all.”
Home to your heart with vengeance fraught.
Your former spouse, from Highland wood,
Is here in blooming lustihood;
And as appropriate garniture,
And a kind welcome to secure,
A sweet young family hath brought,
Wild as young cubs in forest caught—
Whose thews and features are no shams,
Whose carrot locks and kilted hams
The darkest secrets might betray,
Were there no other 'mergent way.
She has call'd here in deep distress—
Our fair friend's anguish you may guess;
From this, what marvel can there be
That she denies your face to see?”
Ascend the east with springing day,
Now red, now purple, and now pale,
The herald of the stormy gale?
Thou hast. Yet thou can'st never view
The dead blank look of brave Sir Hugh.
Two wives at once to deprehend him—
And Highland wives—The Lord defend him!
Yet still preserved his look serene,
He saw the guilty deed confess'd,
By signs which could not be repress'd;
And studied in his lordly mind,
The sharpest punishment assign'd,
When Duncan with broad Highland face,
Came in with bow, and “Please her grace,
Tere pe fine lhady at her gate,
Whose grhief of mhind pe very grheat;
And pretty poy upon her hand,
As was not porn in any land—
Prave Highlander so prave and young,
And spaiks in her own moter tongue;
What shall her nainsel say or dhoo?
She cries to speak with prave Sir Hugh.”
That evils compass'd him about.
“O lord!” he cried, in fervent way,
Then turned in manifest dismay—
“I'll go,” said he, “straight to the gate—
I must not let the lady wait.”—
“No,” cried Argyle, “you 'scape not so.
Guards, keep the door, till once we know
How he himself of this can clear.
Duncan, go bring the lady here.”
A pliant and right joyful man—
Deeming the lady sure of grace,
When brought before his master's face;
For tartan'd dame from glen or isle,
Ne'er sued in vain to great Argyle.
Fresh from Glen-Lyon's lordly steep;
The healthful odours of the wild,
Breathing around her and her child.
Their fragrance came like freshening gale,
For grateful travellers to inhale—
Like kindred roses sweet and bland,
Or wandering wind from fairy land.
The boy was robed like royal fay,
In bold Clan-Gillan's bright array—
Belted and plumed, the elfin smiled,
The phœnix of his native wild;
Herself in the same robes bedight
She wore on her first bridal night,
When he she long had nursed in pain,
Led her unto the darksome fane,
And gave her hand without a stain,
And heart, never to change again,
While torches glimmer'd dimly on
Boleskine's sacred altar-stone.
And neither utter'd good nor ill.
Such beauty, grace, and comely mould,
Said more than language ever told
For her and hers. Ere she'd begun
To speak, some favour she had won—
But some resemblance that she bore,
Some unacknowledged likeness more—
Even great Argyle, of tranquil mien,
And noted for perception keen,
Held no suspicion that the dame,
That comely mother, was the same
Who queen of beauty rank'd the while
In the emporium of our isle.
Taking her hand, these words he spoke:
“Fair lady, I have heard a part
Of how much wrong'd and grieved thou art.
What share I had by suit or sway,
I'll rue until my dying day;
But this I promise, that thy right
Shall be as sacred in my sight
As thou of kindred had'st a claim,
And she an alien to our name:
And trust the issue to Argyle.”
And of M'Calan's lineage high;
Glen-Lyon's verdant hills I claim,
And Mora Campbell is my name,
His sister, who commission bore
Under Young Campbell of Mamore,
Who led your grace's clansmen bold,
On that dark Culloden's bloody wold.
Lay on Lochaber's ruined coast,
Some dames and maidens of your line
Went to the camp, to intertwine
With laurel every hero's plume
Who fought rebellion to consume.
Too much elated there and then,
This gallant knight, Sir Hugh de Vane,
Made love to me by suit and boon,
And won my youthful heart too soon.
We married were by chaplain vile,
In old Boleskine's holy isle—
My brother present; here's the ring;
The registers, the entering,
As safe and solemn to my mind
As man alive could couple bind.
Sir Hugh dares not the truth deny,
Nor in one point give me the lie.
Came for the host to march express,
His tongue, to truth and honour dead,
Denied me at the army's head;
While the base chaplain stood as glum
As rigid statue, deaf and dumb—
A mere automaton, subjected
To do as general's eye directed.
Fought him, and met untimely death;
While I, in sorrow and in pain,
Fled to my native hills again;
Where, of young mother all forlorn,
This sweet unfather'd babe was born,
Who now is rightful heir to all
Glen-Lyon's braes and Fortingall.
For all the injuries I received,
I found my heart, in woeful plight,
Still clung unto this cruel knight,
With such a fondness, mix'd with pain,
I found I ne'er could love again.
Therefore, in thine and Heaven's sight,
I claim him as my primal right.”
Your claim's substantial, fair, and plain;
Your suit you will not—cannot miss.
But then the worst of all is this,
That he'll be hung for felony;
Then what hast thou, or what has she?”
With haggard air and look aside,
“Since hanging's doom must overtake,
Let it be now for pity's sake.
I've fought in battle-field and glen
The fiercest of the sons of men;
The Mackintoshes, stern and gray,
And the blue Camerons of the brae;
I've braved the Frenchmen's serried might,
At morn, at eve, at dead of night:
But all these battles, fierce and famed,
Compared with this, can ne'er be named;
Mere pigmies to a giant's form,
A zephyr to a raging storm,
A lady's pinpoint to a block,
A chariot's to an earthquake's shock.
Most loved, most lovely, dreaded two!
I never was o'ercome till now,
Nor felt so feverishly. In brief,
A hanging would be great relief:
My lord—'tis truth—(I'll not evade)—
Each word that lovely dame hath said.”
“This deed unhinges all belief!
What fiend could move thee thus to treat
Our kinswoman, so fair, so sweet;
And then to come with front of brass
To our own house—and, by the mass,
Straight wed—another to destroy,
As if a Campbell were a toy?
What spirit from the dark abyss
Could move thee to such deed as this?”
Is an unfathom'd mystery;
But I suppose it was alone
The devil himself that urged me on;
For I declare, as I've to die,
No man e'er loved so well as I
This lovely dame. But I was bit
And bullied till I lost my wit;
Yet never since that hour of teen
One happy moment have I seen.
I love this last one too, 'tis true;
But, Mora, by my soul I vow,
'Tis for her likeness unto you.”
She turn'd away, but could not speak,
Till Lady Ella of Argyle,
With face uplighted by a smile,
Arose, and took a hand of each,
And said, “Sir Hugh, this shameful breach
Of truth and honour quite o'erpowers
This dame, whose virgin love was yours,
And never will from you depart,
While the warm tide pervades her heart.
She cannot bear to see you hung;
And she is right; for, to my mind,
Hanging's no joke, and that you'll find.
And what may this dear boy betide,
Without a father him to guide?
And what disgrace the cant will be,
‘Your father hung on Tyburn tree!’
Take both the dames then, as you can,
Speed to Cathay or Hindoostan,
Where you may take a score or two,
And none to say, 'Tis wrong you do.”
While tears came streaming to her aid.
But ere another word she spoke,
Old Duncan Glas the silence broke,
With face as grim and as demure,
As winter cloud before the shower—
“Oh plaise her grace, fwat shall she too?
Mattam Te-fane waits here pelow,
Wit salt tears stotting o'er her chin,
And very mat for to pe in.”
Then to the window ran amain,
And threw it open, quite intent
To brain himself, and supervent
This dreadful war of Highland wives,
And both their shameful narratives,
Before the just but proud Argyle,
The greatest subject of our isle;
But both the ladies held him fast,
To take one farewell for the last.
Argyle looked stern in troubled way,
And wist not what to do or say,
Till Lady Ella once again
Address'd the knight in cheerful strain:—
Your first, your last, your only wife,
Your virgin love, whose heart you won,
And mother of your comely son,
Now takes your hand. The scheme was mine,
And happy be you and your line;
The lovely dames are both the same,
In hers how knew you not your name?
Twice married now—Unequall'd lot!
But law redoubled breaks it not.
I join your hands, too long apart,
And wish you joy with all my heart!”
Pour'd bright as dew-drops from the skies;
His manly frame with joy was shivering,
And his round ruby lip was quivering,
As down he kneel'd in guise unmeet,
Embraced and kiss'd the ladies' feet;
Then seized his child in boyhood's bloom,
And danced and caper'd round the room.
But such a night of social glee,
Of wassail, song, and revelry,
Was not that night in Britain's isle,
As in the house of great Argyle.
This was not the Duchess of Argyle, who had died previously to this adventure; but the Lady Elizabeth Campbell, or Ella, as the duke called her familiarly, who then lived with him.
The Good Man of Alloa.
A very strange man was he,
Who dwelt on the bonnie banks of Forth,
In a town full dear to me?
And as I shall tell to thee,
There was never such a thing befell
To a man in this countrye.
And sorely he made his moan,
For his youthful days had pass'd away,
And ronkilt age came on;
And joyful happy souls,
Quhill the tears ran ower the auld man's cheeks,
And down on his button holes.
“Where shall I go lay mine head?
For I am weary of this world,
And I wish that I were dead;
Where cares could not annoy,
And my soul safely in a land
Of riches and of joy.
To meet the stroke of death,
With a holy psalm sung ower mine head,
And swoofit with my last breath;
And shed a tear for me;
But, alack, for poverty and eild,
Siccan joys I can never see!
Wasting both blood and bone,
Striving for riches as for life,
Yet riches I have none.
With proud and joyful mind,
Yet did they take them wings and fly,
And leave me here behind;
Mocking my raving tongue,
Though skraighing like ane gainder goose
That is 'reft of his young.
And all my dear-bought gains,
Yet must I die a cauldrife death,
In poverty and pains!
Where, or to what country?
There is gold enough into this world,
But none of it made for me.
My riches to destroy,
Else many a poor and virtuous heart
Should have had cause of joy.”
And rairit for very grief,
And streikit out his limbs to die;
For he knew of no relief.
Upon a palfrey gray;
And she listen'd unto the auld man's tale,
And all he had to say,—
For things that him befell,
And because he could not feed the poor,
Which thing he loved so well.
“That one so very kind,
So full of charity and love,
And of such virtuous mind,
Of poverty and eild,
Without one single hand to prove
His solace and his shield.”
Upon her palfrey gray,
And swifter nor the southland wind
They scour'd the velvet brae.
O'er locker and o'er lea;
While the tears stood in the old man's eyne,
With swiftness and with glee;
Of riches mighty store,
That his kind heart might have full scope
For feeding of the poor.
“Where bears thy bridle hand?
Art thou going to break the Greenock bank?
Or the bank of fair Scotland?
But on this you may depend,
Whatever is given unto me,
Is to a righteous end.”
“And conscience clear and stenne;
There is plenty of gold in the sea's bottom
To enrich ten thousand men.
What treasures there do lie;
For I can gallop the emerald wave,
And along its channels dry.”
“Thou shalt ride thy lane for me;
For I can neither swim, nor dive,
Nor walk the raging sea:
And what should I see there?
And buller buller down my throat;
Which thing I could not bear.”
O'er moorland and o'er fell;
But whether they went north or south,
The old man could not tell.
A comely sight to see,
Like little wee comet of the dale
Gaun skimmering o'er the lea.
He quaked at the ocean faem;
But the palfrey splash'd into the same,
As it were its native hame.
“Hath madness seized thine head?
For we shall sink in the ocean wave,
And bluther quhill we be dead.”
With snifter and with stenne;
It was firmer nor the firmest sward
In all the Deffane glen.
Holds by a sinner's tail;
Or as a craven clings to life,
When death does him assail.
Like dragon's fiery train,
And up the wave, and down the wave,
Like meteor of the main.
With shimmer and with sheen;
And whenever it struck the mane of the wave,
The flashes of fire were seen.
“It is awesome to be here!
I fear these riches for which I greine
Shall cost me very dear;
As mortals never ran;
And the devil is in that little beast,
If ever he was in man!”
Cried the Maiden of the Sea;
“Ha! thou canst sweep the emerant deep
Swifter nor bird can flee!
Beneath a silver sun,
Where the broad daylight, or the moon by night,
Could never never won;
Nor the lazy walrus row;
And the little wee thing that gave thee suck,
Was a thing of the caves below.
Sink o'er the westland hill;
And thou shalt ride the ocean tide
Till all its waves lie still.
Where billows rock the dead,
And where the richest prize lies low,
In all the ocean's bed.
And snorkit fearsomelye;
Then lookit over his left shoulder,
To see what he could see.
Bore into a foggy lea,
So did this little devilish beast
Dive down into the sea.
As loud as he could strain:
But the waters closed aboon his head,
And down he went amain!
Nor gaspit with his ganne,
And not one drop of salt water
Adown his thropple ran.
As if all swaithed and furl'd
In MacIntosh's patent ware,—
The marvel of this world.
In the channels of the sea,
That leant her shoulder to a rock,
With her masts full sore aglee.
Rock'd by the moving main;
And soundly soundly did they sleep,
Never to wake again.
On margin of the sea,
But news of them they would never hear
Till the days of eternitye;
From all they saw around,
That the ship had gone down to the deep
Without one warning sound—
Without one parting sigh,
Like sea-bird sailing on the wave,
That dives, we know not why.
In bowels of the deep,
Lovers and lemans lying clasp'd
In everlasting sleep.
And in their hammocks swung,
And the billows rock'd their drowsy forms,
And over their cradles sung.
As calm as if in heaven,
Who had three gold rings on each finger,
On her mid finger seven;
And bracelets brave to see;
The gold that was around her head
Would have bought earldoms three.
It was both sharp and clear—
And he cut off the maiden's fingers small,
And the jewels from ilka ear.
“Woe worth thy ruthless hand!
How darest thou mangle a royal corpse,
Once flower of many a land?
'Mid such a store as this?”
“Ochone, alake!” quod the good auld man,
“You judge full far amiss;
That on their God depend;
Than to lie slumbering in the deep
For neither use nor end,
With costly, shining ore,
Or deck a lobster's burly snout—
A beast which I abhor!”
And said, with lifted e'e—
“Full many a righteous man I have seen,
But never a one like thee!
In feeding the upright;
And all the good shall bless the day
That first thou saw the light.”
On channel of the main;
Yet the good old man was not content,
But turn'd him back again.
He said right wistfullye,
“Och, this will ane whole fortune prove
For one poor familye!”
And never could refrain,
Quhill the little wee horse he could not move,
Nor mount the wave again;
Till he made the sea rocks ring,
And waggit his tail across the wave
With many an angry swing.
Think of the good before;
There is as much gold upon thy back
As will feed ten thousand poor!”
Through darkling scenes sublime—
O'er shoals, and stones, and dead men's bones;
But the wave he could not climb:
The floors of the silent sea,
With a world of waters o'er his head,
And groves of the coral tree.
An hundred fathoms high;
And the light that lighted the floors below
Seem'd from some other sky;
Of beams and splendour shorn,
And flow'd with an awful holiness,
As on a journey borne,
Far in the west that glow'd,
Flashing like fire-flaughts up and down
With every wave that row'd.
And a heartsome laugh laugh'd he,
To see the sun in such a trim
Dancing so furiouslye;
Had taken the blessed sun,
To toss in the blue blanket of heaven,
To make them glorious fun.
And the good old man beside,
Set their three heads aboon the wave,
And came in with the flowing tide.
A terror flight began,
And the burgess men of old Kinross
They left their hames and ran;
Like the blue of heaven that shone;
And the little wee horse of the coral cave,
That neither had blood nor bone.
She never came there for good,
But warning to give of storms and wrecks,
And the shedding of Christian blood.
For their wits were never rife!
For now she came with a mighty store,
For the saving of poor men's life.
On the firm ground and the dry,
He shook his mane, and gave a graen,
And threw his heels on high,
That eased him of his pain;
Then he turn'd and kick'd it where it lay,
In very great disdain.
With such unsparing might,
That he made him jump seven ells and more,
And on his face to light.
For since ever thy life began,
I never saw thee lift thy foot
Against a righteous man.
Thy promise keep in mind;
Let this great wealth I have given to thee
Be a blessing to thy kind.
And be it understood
That I must visit thee again,
For evil or for good.”
Along the sea-wave green,
And away and away on her palfrey gray,
Like the ocean's comely queen.
The fishes fled all before,
And a thousand cods and haddocks brave
Ran swattering right ashore.
Went snoring up the tide,
And wide on Alloa's fertile holms
They gallop'd ashore and died.
What I never have told before,
Of that man so righteous and so good,
So long as he was poor;
Than ever his wits could tell,
He never would give a mite for good,
Neither for heaven nor hell.
With sordid heart of sin,
And the houseless wight, or the poor by night,
His gate wan never within.
Are very strange to tell—
He was seen with the May and the palfrey gray
Riding fiercely out through hell.
Make room for me and mine!
I bring you the man of Alloa
To his punishment condign!
To make his heart contrite;
But, when he gat his heart's desire,
He proved a hypocrite.”
In deep afflictions hurl'd,
Oh, never grieve or vex your hearts
For the riches of this world;
Unto thy spirit's frame;
And there is a treasure better far,
Which minstrel dares not name.
By one who could not lee?—
It is something of a great big beast
Going through a needle's e'e.
For life is but a day,
And the night of death is gathering fast
To close upon your way.
As this is likely to be the only part of my truthful ballad the veracity of which may be disputed, I assure the reader that it is a literal fact; and that, with a single tide, in the month of March, a few years ago, not less than 130 whales were left ashore in the vicinity of Alloa. The men of Alloa called them young ones; but to me it appeared that they had been immense fishes. Their skeletons at a distance were like those of large horses. Two old ones ran up as far as the milldam of Cambus, on the Devon, where they were left by the retreating tide, and where, after a day's severe exercise and excellent sport to a great multitude, they were both slain, along with a young one, which one of the old whales used every effort to defend, bellowing most fearfully when she saw it attacked. On testifying my wonder to the men of Cambus why the whales should all have betaken them to the dry land. I was answered by a sly fellow, that “A mermaid had been seen driving them up the firth, which had frightened them so much, it had put them all out of their judgments!”
Elen of Reigh.
The fairest flower of the north countrie?
The maid that left all maidens behind,
In all that was lovely, sweet, and kind:
As sweet as the breeze o'er beds of balm,
As happy and gay as the gamesome lamb,
As light as the feather that dances on high,
As blithe as the lark in the breast of the sky,
As modest as young rose that blossoms too soon,
As mild as the breeze on a morning of June;
Her voice was the music's softest key,
And her form the comeliest symmetry.
For that is beyond the power of man;
There never was pen that hand could frame,
Nor tongue that falter'd at maiden's name,
Could once a distant tint convey
Of its lovely and benignant ray.
You have seen the morning's folding vest
Hang dense and pale upon the east,
As if an angel's hand had strewn
The dawning's couch with the eider down,
And shrouded with a curtain gray
The cradle of the infant day?
And 'mid this orient dense and pale,
Through one small window of the vale,
You have seen the sun's first radiant hue
Lightening the dells and vales of dew,
With smile that seem'd through glory's rim
From dwellings of the cherubim;
And you have thought, with holy awe,
A lovelier sight you never saw,
Scorning the heart who dared to doubt it?
Alas! you little knew about it!
At beauty's shrine you ne'er have knelt,
Nor felt the flame that I have felt;
Nor chanced the virgin smile to see
Of beauty's model, Elen of Reigh!
You on its glory scarce can gaze;
But when the moon's delirious beam,
In giddy splendour wooes the stream,
Its mellow'd light is so refined,
'Tis like a gleam of soul and mind;
Its gentle ripple glittering by,
Like twinkle of a maiden's eye;
While, all amazed at heaven's steepness,
You gaze into its liquid deepness,
And see some beauties that excel—
Visions “to dream of, not to tell”—
A downward soul of living hue,
So mild, so modest, and so blue!
Forsooth, I scarce can say to you—
A moonlight river beaming by,
Or holy depth of virgin's eye!
Is nought on earth to thee beseeming?
Will nothing serve, but beauteous women?—
No, nothing else. But 'tis strange to me,
If you never heard aught of Elen of Reigh.
Or smile at the frolics of the lamb,
Or watch the stream by the light of the moon,
Or weep for the rosebud that opes too soon,
Or when any beauty of this creation
Moves your delight or admiration,
You then may try, whatever it be,
That to compare with Elen of Reigh:
But never presume that lovely creature
Once to compare with aught in nature;
For earth has neither form nor face
Which heart can ween or eye can trace,
That once comparison can stand
With Elen, the flower of fair Scotland.
And lovely beings: I hope they are:
But for all their beauty of form and wing,
If lovelier than the maid I sing,
They needs must be—I cannot tell—
Something beyond all parallel;
Something admitted, not believed,
Which heart of man had ne'er conceived;
But these are beings of mental bliss,
Not things to love, and soothe, and kiss.—
There is something dear, say as we will,
In winsome human nature still.
Elen of Reigh was an only child,
A motherless lamb, in childhood thrown
On bounteous Nature, and her alone;
But who can mould like that mighty dame
The mind of fervour and mounting flame,
The mind that beams with a glow intense
For fair and virtuous excellence?
Not one! though many a mighty name,
High margin'd on the lists of fame,
Has blazon'd her ripe tuition high,—
The world has own'd it, and well may I!
But most of all that right had she,
The flower of our mountains, fair Elen of Reigh.
Its brightness lasts not on for ever—
That dances from its native braes,
As pure as maidhood's early days;
But soon, with dark and sullen motion,
It rolls into its funeral ocean,
And those whose currents are the slightest,
And shortest run, are aye the brightest:
So is our life—its latest wave
Rolls dark and solemn to the grave;
And soon o'ercast was Elen's day,
And changed, as must my sportive lay.
There is something sacred and sublime,
To see all living worth combined
In such a lovely being's mind;
Each thing for which we would wish to live,
Each grace, each virtue Heaven can give.
Such being was Elen, if such can be;
A faith unstained, a conscience free,
Pure Christian love and charity—
All breath'd in such a holy strain,
The hearts of men could not refrain
From wonder at what they heard and saw;
Even greatest sinners stood in awe,
At seeing a form and soul unshadow'd—
A model for the walks of maidhood.
If such a being could e'er forego
Her onward path of heavenly aim,
To love a thing of mortal frame.
Ah! never did heart in bosom dwell,
That loved so warmly and so well,
Or with such ligaments profound
Was twined another's heart around!
But blush not—dread not, I intreat,
Nor tremble for a thing so sweet.
Nor manhood's goodlier form, could win
One wistful look, or dewdrop sheen,
From eye so heavenly and serene.
Her love that with her life began
Was set on thing more pure than man—
'Twas on a virgin, of like mind,
As pure, as gentle, as refined;
They in one cradle slept when young,
Were taught by the same blessed tongue,
Aye smiled each other's face to see,
Were nursed upon the self-same knee,
And the first word each tongue could frame,
Was a loved playmate's cheering name.
Like two young twin roes of the dale,
They grew; and life had no alloy—
Their fairy path was all of joy.
They danced, they sung, they play'd, they roved,
And oh, how dearly as they loved!
While in that love, with reverence due,
Their God and their Redeemer too
Were twined—which made it the sincerer,
And still the holier and the dearer.
They kneel'd and prayed with reverence deep;
Then raised their sightly forms so trim,
And sung their little morning hymn.
They to the school went hand in hand;
Came home as blithsome and as bright,
And slept in other's arms each night.
Nature has nothing more to give.
So loved they on, and still more dear,
From day to day, from year to year;
And when their flexile forms began
To take the mould so loved by man,
They blush'd—embraced each other less,
And wept at their own loveliness,
As if their bliss were overcast,
And days of feelings pure were past.
The counsels of the God of love,
Or stay the mighty hand of Him
Who dwells between the cherubim?
No man nor angel: all must be
Submiss to his supreme decree.
And so it happ'd that this fair maid,
In all her virgin charms array'd,
Just when upon the verge she stood
Of bright and seemly womanhood,
From this fair world was call'd away,
In mildest and in gentlest way,—
Fair world indeed; but still akin
To much of sorrow and of sin.
Of her she loved far more than life;
The placid smile that strove to tell
To her beloved that all was well.
Oh! many a holy thing they said,
And many a prayer together pray'd,
And many a hymn, both morn and even,
Was breathed upon the breeze of heaven,
Which Hope, on wings of sacred love,
Presented at the gates above.
The last squeeze of the hand is felt;
And the last breathings, long apart,
Like aspirations of the heart,
Told Elen that she now was left,
A thing of love and joy bereft—
A sapling from its parent torn,
A rose upon a widow'd thorn,
A twin roe, or bewilder'd lamb,
Reft both of sister and of dam—
How could she weather out the strife
And sorrows of this mortal life!
The pageant heralds of the tomb,
That more in form than feeling tell
The sorrows of the last farewell—
Are all observed with decent care,
And but one soul of grief was there.
The virgin mould, so mild and meet,
Is roll'd up in its winding sheet;
Affection's yearnings form'd the rest,
The dead rose rustles on the breast,
The wrists are bound with bracelet bands,
The pallid gloves are on the hands,
And all the flowers the maid held dear
Are strew'd within her gilded bier;
A hundred sleeves with lawn are pale,
A hundred crapes wave in the gale,
And, in a motley, mix'd array
The funeral train winds down Glen-Reigh.
Alack! how shortly thoughts were lasting
Of the grave to which they all were hasting!
On bones and skulls of former days;
The pall's withdrawn—in letters sheen,
“Maria Gray—aged eighteen,”
Is read by all with heaving sighs
And ready hands to moisten'd eyes.
Solemn and slow, the bier is laid
Into its deep and narrow bed,
And the mould rattles o'er the dead!
That thunder to a soul bereaved,
When crumbling bones grate on the bier
Of all the bosom's core held dear!
'Tis like a growl of hideous wrath—
The last derisive laugh of Death
Over his victim that lies under;
The heart's last bands then rent asunder,
And no communion more to be
Till time melt in eternity!
Seem'd to outfly its earthly goal;
And her refined and subtile frame,
Uplifted by unearthly flame,
Seem'd soul alone—in likelihood,
A spirit made of flesh and blood—
A thing whose being and whose bliss
Were bound to better world than this.
Like features of a seraph seem'd;
A meekness, mix'd with a degree
Of fervid, wild sublimity,
Mark'd all her actions and her moods.
She sought the loneliest solitudes,
By the dingly dell or the silver spring,
Her holy hymns of the dead to sing;
For all her songs and language bland
Were of a loved and heavenly land—
A land of saints and angels fair,
And of a late dear dweller there;
But, watch'd full often, ears profane
Once heard the following solemn strain:—
Maria Gray.
A Song.
And that I in this world can see her never?
Who says she is laid in her cold death-bed,
The prey of the grave and of death for ever!
Ah! they know little of my dear maid,
Or kindness of her spirit's giver;
By the morning bower, or the moonlight river.
When flesh and blood was her mortal dwelling;
Her smile was sweet, and her mind was clear,
And her form all human forms excelling.
But oh! if they saw Maria now,
With her looks of pathos and of feeling,
They would see a cherub's radiant brow,
To ravish'd mortal eyes unveiling!
It is all of beauty and of sweetness—
So my dear maid, in the heavenly bowers,
Excels in beauty and in meetness.
She has kiss'd my cheek, she has kemb'd my hair,
And made a breast of heaven my pillow,
And promised her God to take me there,
Before the leaf falls from the willow.
I have no relish for your pleasures—
In the human face I nothing ken
That with my spirit's yearning measures:
I long for onward bliss to be,
A day of joy, a brighter morrow;
And from this bondage to be free.
Farewell, thou world of sin and sorrow!
Of the friends of the living, and friends of the dead;
For every evening and morning were seen
Two maidens, where only one should have been!
Still hand in hand they moved, and sung
Their hymns, on the walks they trode when young;
And one night, some of the watcher train
Were said to have heard this holy strain
Wafted upon the trembling air:
It was sung by one, although two were there:—
Hymn over a Dying Virgin.
Brought'st down to earth from the throne above,
Stretch forth thy cup of salvation free
To a thirsty soul, that longs for thee!
O thou who left'st the realms of day,
Whose blessed head in a manger lay,
See her here prostrate before thy throne,
Who trusts in thee, and in thee alone!
Wert cradled on a virgin's breast,
For the sake of one who held thee dear,
Extend thy love to this virgin here!
Thou Holy One, whose blood was spilt
Upon the cross, for human guilt,
This humbled virgin's longings see,
And take her soul in peace to thee!”
Not home to her father's dwelling came,
Though her maidens sat in chill dismay,
And watch'd and call'd, till the break of day.
But in the dawning, with fond regard,
They sought the bower where the song was heard,
And found her form stretch'd on the green,
The loveliest corpse that ever was seen.
She lay as in balmy sleep reposed,
While her lips and eyes were sweetly closed,
As if about to awake and speak;
For a dimpling smile was on her cheek,
And the pale rose there had a gentle glow,
Like the morning's tint on a wreath of snow.
As she lay composed upon the green,
It was plain to all that no human aid,
But an angel's hand, had the body laid;
For from her form there seem'd to rise,
The sweetest odours of paradise.
Around her temples and brow so fair,
White roses were twined in her auburn hair,
All bound with a birch and holly band,
And the Book of God was in her right hand.
Ye sweetest maidens of mortal frame;
A sacred love o'er your lives presided,
And in your deaths you were not divided!
Oh, blessed are they who bid adieu
To this erring nature as pure as you!
The Powris of Moseke.
And houlit upon his horne;
And aye he bummit, and he strummit,
Quhille patience wals foreworne;
Thoche noe yung hillis were borne!
For they yellit and youtit soe yirlischly
Als their bouellis hald bene torne.
Ane brat of brukit breide;
His moder wals ane weirdlye witche,
Of Queen's foreste the dreide;
Or ane droiche of Elfinlande,
Or ane water-kelpie horrible,
I colde not understande.
Nor kirne-mylke, wheye, nor brede;
So hunger raif at his yung herte,
And wals like to be his dede.
What spring is that you playe?
For there are listeniris gadderyng rounde,
And I wish we were awaye.”
I pray thee tell to mee?
I won these notis frae the fairye folke
Beneth the grene wode tre;
By its wilde melodye:
Och wo is mee that I am blynde!
Littil boi, quhat dost thou se?”
Stand quaking to the morne,
And wildlye snouke the westlyn wyndis,
And shaike the braken horne:
With their backis of dapplit greye;
And the gaitis they are waggyng their aulde greye berdis—
Lorde, gin we were awaye!”
I haif shawit you, with gode wille,
Ane littil of the Powris of Grande Moseke,
I will shaw you greater stille.
Some thrillyng fallis I wis,
By minstrelis maide, and eithlye playit
In oder worldis than this.”
And brushit it all full cleine;
It wals laide with the eevorye and the goude,
And glancit with the sylver sheine;
And soundit the airel hole,
And the melodye that that horne spake
His herte it colde not thole;
Sae laigh and sae hie did they spryng,
That the laigh anes bummit in the world belowe,
And the hie maide the heavinis ryng.
Thou maikest mine herte to blede;
And holde that heavinly braith of thine,
Or the soundis will be mine dede.”
To me thou art still more deire!
I trowit not of thy taiste before,
Nor of thine blessit eire.
And looke to holme and heathe,
And caste thine eyne to heavin above,
And to the yird benethe;
That hover on hille and gaire;
And tell me trowlye, my bonnie boi,
Of all thou seest there.”
And Robenis breiste he saynit;
And aye he chatterit with his tethe,
And grefously he grainit:
Wolde birste ane herte of claye;
But neuir ane worde he saide but this—
“Lorde, gin we were awaye!”
And he gapit gastrouslye—
“Och, tell me, tell me, littil boi,
Of all that thou doste se.”
And down the hille like wise;
And there are spyritis gadderyng rounde
Fra baith the yird and skyis:
Lapperit with mist and claye,
And they are fauldyng out their windyng shetis,
And their flesche is faidyng awaye.”
Strainge visiteris are rife!
Well, we moste gif them ane oder spring
To sweiten their waesome life.
The ghastis had had soche skille,
Or knewe soe well ane maisteris hande,
Sothe they moste haif their fille;
The ghaste or the elfin greye,
Till the fairyis come and heire their spring
I cannot goe away.”
The teire blindyng his e'e,
“We are far fra ony meite or drynk,
Quhat will become of me?
For pitye's saike now stay,
Or helle will sone be about our luggis,
And deirlye we shall paye:
The deiris stande all abreiste;
You haif wakenit the dede out of their graifs—
Lorde! quhat shall you do neiste?”
Quhateuir thou mayest vewe,
For sholde ane elf or fairye rise
From every belle of dewe,—
Downe in the deipis for paine,
Spiele up, and stande in thousandis rounde,
I wolde playe them downe again.”
But yet he said no thing:
“Och, Moseke is grande, my bonnie boi,
We'll haif ane oder spring.”
Als bende als ony bowe,
And syne his muthe begoude to thrawe—
Quhat colde the hurcheon doo?
With rattlyng, rhattyng dynne;
But hit hardlye wet the gyzenit throte,
For all wals toome withynne.
And wet his airel hole;
“Tout-tout! tout-tout!” quod blynde Robene,
Quhille the very rockis did yolle.
Als bitterlye als colde be,
“Gin I hald but my mornyng broz,
Deuill fetche the spring and thee!”
Then rose with joyous speide—
“The fairyis moste come there is noe doubte,
Or death is all my meide;
And fly rychte speidilye;
There are seventy-seven belted knychtes
Comyng rankyng downe the le;
Als they tredde on the wynde;
And there are seventy-seven bonnie damis
All dauncyng them behynde.
Like chrystal spleetis to se;
And the damis are cledde in grass-grene sylke,
And kyltit abone the kne.”
Och Robenis muthe grew wyde!
And he poukit the hurcheon with his hande,
And helde his lug asyde:
And strainit his dim quhyte eyne;
For he grenit to see the dapper limbis
All quidderyng on the grene.
“My blyndnesse I may rewe;
But quhat it wals to want mine sychte
Till now I neuir knewe!
Dauncyng soe blythe on le,
Each with her sailyng grene seymar
Soe far abone the kne”—
It is modeste all and meite;
And like the wynde on sunnye hillis
Shimmer their lovelye feite.
Raumpaugyng on the le;
For lofe of lyfe, now blynde Robene,
Come let us rise and fle.”
All fryskyng on the grene?
Och noe! och noe! mine littil boi,
More manneris I haif sene.
And rise with mychte and maine,
Quhille they dyng their hedis agynst the sternis,
And bob on the yird againe.
The blythsum seventy-seven;
Quhille they coole their littil bonnie brestis
Amid the cloudis of heavin.
(Heavinis mercye als he blewe!)
“Now I shall gar the fairye folkis
The Powris of Moseke vewe.”
And down ward sore did bowe,
And helde his middis with both his handis,
For feire he sholde fall through.
Sae yirlisch and sae cleire!
And aye he turnit his stokel horne,
That fairyis all mochte heire.
Thoche sore the horne colde jar,
For he longit to see the lily limbe
And kyltit grene seymar.
At the fairye damis anewe,
And tell me how their robis appeire
In texture and in hewe!”
Soe lychte I dare not showe,
For I se their lovelye tiny formis,
Als pure as mountaine snowe.
Wove of the misty sheine,
And dyit in the rainbowis gaudy gaire
Sae glauncyng and sae grene.”
And raif his auld greye hayre,
And the teiris wolde haif fallen from his eyne,
Had anie eyne bene there;
And to eisse his crouchand backe;
And then he toutit and he blewe
Quhille bethe his luggis did cracke.
Cryit the boi with yirlisch screime,
“For there is the deuill comyng on
With his eyne like fiery gleime;
And long als barrowe tramis;
His tethe are reide-hot tedderstakis,
And barkit are his hammis:
Aye wrything far behynde,
Its fangis are two clothe yardis in length,
And it is coolyng them in the wynde.”
And his lyppe begoude to fall;—
“That is ane gueste, my littil boi,
I like the worst of all!
The ghastis are glydyng geire;
But the deuill is ane oder chappe!
Lorde! quhat's he sekyng here?”
To flye als he were faine;
But the fairye damis came in his mynde,
And he crouched him downe againe.
Said Robene manfullye;
“I will play to my welcome fairye folkis,
And the deuill may rayre for me!”
Sae mychtye and sae deivin,
For ilkane burel hole wals loosit—
Ane hole wals blawn in heavin:
Quhille the folkis abone the skie
And the angelis caperit ane braif corante
Als they went stroamyng bye.
Sae mychtye and devyne,
That Robene ravit for very joi
Quhille his quhyte eyne did shyne;
With a joi and a pryde sublyme—
“There is no hope,” quod the littil boi,
“He will playe quhille the end of tyme!”
There graissit ane herde of kyne,
Waidyng in grene gerse to the knes,
And grofellyng lyke to swyne;
Quhille sullenlye they lowit,
And aye they noddit their lang quhite hornis,
And they chumpit and they chowit.
At mainger nor at stalle;
But among them there wals ane curlye bulle,
The fierceste of them all.
And sharpe als poyntit pole;
But his herte wals blacker than his hyde,
Thoche that wals lyke ane cole.
Passe ower his heide abofe,
And he thochte it wals ane kindlye cowe
Rowtyng for gentil lofe.
How this braife courteous cowe
Might haif passit far for lofe that dai,
And travellit faustyng too:
“I will goe and meite her,” thochtis the bulle,
“Als gallante brote sholde doo.”
“This dame rowtis mychtye loude!
I will sende furth ane voyce shall maike her quaile,
And she shall not be soe proude!”
The bulle came roaryng furth,
And with his hofe but and his horne
He ture the shaikyng yirth;
Quhille his braith it singit the grasse;
And then he raisit his noz and squeelit
Rychte lyke ane coddye asse.
And grofellit on the grounde,
And with the blare of Robenis horne
He nefer heirde the sounde:
For ane sherpe eire had hee:
“Is that the deuill, my littil boi,
That rayris soe boysterouslye?”
Comyng foamyng madlye here;
He has fleyit awaye the fairye folkis,
And the deuill has fledde for feire.
The hillis grene breste is rift,
And his tayle is curlyng up the cloudis,
And swooping on the lyfte.
You heire his horryde crie;
The mountaine is quakyng like ane deire,
Quhen the houndis are yowting bye.”
And shoke his lockis of snow;
“Och! great is the Powir of Moseke, boi—
Greater nor ouchtis belowe!
And playit them downe againe;
And that is the Bulle of Norrowaye
I haif brochte outower the maine.
Betwene ane gode and beiste;
But sit thou still, my bonnie boi,
I will charme him to the eiste.”
And he lookit unto the northe;
But he colde not se the kyndlye dame
For quham he hald comit furth.
Quhille hee raif the herkenyng ayre;
Then the bulle he gallopit lyke ane fiende,
For he thochte his cowe wals there.
Thochtyng his lofe to fynde,
And saw nochtis but ane auld mynstrelle,
He wals nouther to houlde nor bynde!
And maide the rockis to yelle;
For every rore that the black bulle gae
Wals lyke ane burst of helle.
His notis begoude to shaike;
These burstis of raige he colde not stande,
They maide his herte to aike.
Squeikyng with yirlisch dynne,
“It is but ane bowshote to the wode
That overhingis the lynne.
And hyde in boshe or tre;
Or, by Saint Fillanis sholder-bone,
Charme als you lyke for me!”
Alane he dorste not staye,
For he thochte als well als the littil boi,
It wals tyme he were awaye.
Quhille low his back did bowe;
And he turnit up his cleire quhyte face,
Als blynde men wonte to doo.
He lyftit his feite full hie;
And ower stocke, and ower stone,
Blynde Robene he did flie!
He gaspit sore anone;
The bulle is thonderyng at his backe;
Blynde Robene he is gone!
His bodie it pressit on
Faster than feite colde followe up,
And on the grounde he is prone!
Quhen he felle on his face before,
He plowit ane furrowe with his noz
For two clothe yardis and more.
Thy moseke moste depairte;
That cursit Bulle of Norrowaye
Is fomyng ower thine herte.
Als he sat up on hychte!
I wat he leuch quhille neirlye dede,
To se blynde Robenis plychte.
Blynde Robene with horryde dynne;
He hald neuir bene usit to stycke ane man,
And he knowit not how to begynne.
With many ane rowte and rayre;
And he borit the truff a thousand tymis
Arounde blynde Robenis layre.
Ane trembilyng houpe hald he;
He set his stokel horne to his muthe
And blewe yblastis thre.
“Quhat worme is this,” then thochtis the bulle,
“That mockis my lofe and me?”
Quhille his hornis ranne to the brymme,
“I shall bore your bodie,” thochtis the bulle,
“Throu the life-bloode and the limbe.”
He hes maide his quhite hornis gae;
But they nouther touchit his skynne nor his bone,
But his coate and mantil greye.
And tossit him lyke ane reide;
And aye he shoke his curlye powe,
To drive him from his heide.
Yet wist not quhat to feire;
But he laye acrosse lyke ane ousen yoke,
Mervillyng quhat wals asteer.
Ane ill deide mot he de!
He leuch until he tint all powris
Als he sat on his tre.
By some unchancie fling;
And ower the verge of the Bowman Lynne
He made the auld man to swing.
Then downward sank lyke lede,
Till he fell into ane hazil boshe
Saft als ane fedder bedde.
Als lychte als lefe on tre;
He knewe nochtis of his great daingere,
Nor yet of his safetye.
Outower the Bowman Lynne,
And sore he yernit for life-bloode,
But dorste not venter in.
And laye full sore aghast;
At length he raisit his forlorne houpe,
To charme him with ane blaste.
His aunger byrnit lyke helle,
And rounde the rock he raschit in raige,
But missit his fute and felle.
He bumpit and he blewe;
And aye he stoattit fra the stonis,
And flapperit as he flewe.
Gawn bombyng down the steipe,
Quhille he plungit in the howe of the Bowman Lynne,
Full fiftie faddom deipe.
Roryng the dark wode under,
And yollerit, yollerit, fra the hillis,
Lyke ane ryvyng clappe of thunder.
“Is there anie here to telle?”
“It is the bulle,” the littil boi,
“You haif charmit him down to helle.
This beatis them all to-daye!
Rise up, rise up, deire maistere mine,
I will guide you on your waye.”
That day on Bowman brae,
And he braggit of that mornyngis featis
Until his dying dai.
And aye his brente browe shone;
And thoche he tould ane store of les,
To helpe it there wals none.
Fra out the dingillye delle,
The nut-browne hart, but and the hynde,
Downe fra the hedder belle;
Far fra the rockie glenne,
And the fairyis fra some plesaunt lande
That Robene did not kenne:
In their windyng shetis soe quhite,
And how the deuill came from his denne,
And lystenit with delyte:
Out-ower the sea-waife grene,
And charmit him downe to the pytte of helle,
Quhare he nefer more wals sene.
He nefer wolde allowe
That he charmit ouchtis but ane wicked bulle,
Quha tooke him for ane cowe.
That drawis the graitefulle teire,
Nor ane waywarde brat his morning broz,
For both are harde to beire.
Moralitas.
Nor seye his mynstrelsye,
Onlesse your wyne be in your hande,
And your ladye in your e'e.
And simpil is the spelle;
But he nefer will gif ofer againe,
Not for the deuill himselle.
A Lay of the Martyrs.
For mony a long night and day
I have miss'd ye sair, at the Wanlock-head,
And the cave o' the Louther brae.
Baith frae the cliff and the wood;
They are tearing them frae us ilka day;
For there's naething will please but blood.
Gie your heart muckle pain,
For your bridegroom is a-missing too,
And 'tis fear'd that he is ta'en.
And the dens o' the Ballybough,
And a' the howes o' the Ganna linn;
And we wot not what to do.”
And hope all for the best,
For the servants of God will find a place,
Their weary heads to rest.
And seemlier to be in,
Than all the dens of the Ballybough,
Or howes o' the Ganna linn.
And listen awhile to me,
For I have a tale to tell to you,
That will bring you to your knee.
In the cave o' the Louther brae,
For I had some things that of a' the world
He best deserved to hae.
And a fadge o' the flour sae sma',
And a sark I had made for his buirdly back,
As white as the new-dri'en snaw.
Shouting by cave and tree;
But only the dell with its eiry yell,
An answer return'd to me.
And echoes return'd his name,
Till the gloffs o' dread shot to my heart,
And dirled through a' my frame.
And saw, in a fearful line,
The red dragoons come up the path,
Wi' prisoners eight or nine:
The flower of a' his kin;
He was wounded behind, and wounded before,
And the blood ran frae his chin.
Lash'd both by hough and heel,
And his hands were bound behind his back,
Wi' the thumbikins of steel.
In the fervour of inward strife,
And I raised to heaven my trembling hand,
And begg'd my husband's life.
Making my grief their game;
And the captain said some words to me,
Which I cannot tell you for shame.
With a proud and a scornful brow,
And bade me look at my husband's face,
And say how I liked him now.
Though the blood runs to his knee,
And all the better for the grievous wrongs
He has suffer'd this day frae thee.
That comely youth to slay?
For the hope you have in Heaven, captain,
Let him gang wi' me away!’
With loathsome jest and mock,
That he thought no more of a Whigamore's life
Than the life of a noisome brock.
And he begg'd baith hard and sair,
To have one kiss of his bonnie bride,
Ere we parted for evermair.
‘And save you the toil to-day,
And moreover, I'll take her little store,
To support you by the way.’
And I saw, with sorrow dumb,
That he parted it all among his men,
And gave not my love one crumb.
Cried the captain with disdain;
‘When I come back to the banks of Nith,
I shall kiss you sweetly then.
For what I have done to-day—
I am taking him straight on the road to heaven:
And short will be the way!’
And bless'd me ferventlye,
And the tears they mix'd wi' his purple blood,
And ran down to his knee.”
How could these woes betide?
For blither you could not look this day,
Were your husband by your side.
And dreadful the one to me;
For either your fair wits are reft,
Or else your husband's free.”
And hear me out the rest;
You little ken what a bride will do,
For the youth she likes the best!
And through a' my friends I ran,
And I gather'd me up a purse o' gowd,
To redeem my young goodman:
My fair intent approve;
For they'll do far mair for the good red gowd,
Than they'll do for heaven above.
Of my shining treasure vain,
To buy my James from the prison strong,
Or there with him remain.
I sought baith lang and sair;
But the guardsmen turn'd me frae their doors,
And swore that he was not there.
Who was my love's judge to be,
And I proffer'd him a' my yellow store,
If he'd grant his life to me.
By twenties and by tens,
And said I had taken the only means
To attain my hopeful ends.
You may take this pledge of me:
And I'll tell you, fair one, where you'll go,
To gain this certaintye,—
And through the market place,
And there you will meet with a gentleman,
Of a tall and courteous grace;
With a plume aboon his bree,
And arm'd with a halbert, glittering sheen:
Your love he will let you see.’
So light out through the sky,
As I flew up that stately street,
Weeping for very joy.
When the sun gangs o'er the hill,
Wi' lighter, blither steps than me,
Or skipp'd wi' sic good will!
My husband's life that wan;
And I even bless'd the Popish duke,
For a kind, good-hearted man.
For he could not be mistook;
But in all my life I never beheld
Sic a grim and a gruesome look.
With throbs of wild delight,
And begg'd him in his master's name,
To take me to his sight.
With a voice at which I shook;
For I saw that he was a Popish knave,
By the terror of his look.
That trembled with ecstasye;
But the savage bray'd a hideous laugh,
Then turn'd and grinn'd at me.
One look benumb'd my soul;
For there I saw my husband's head,
Fix'd high upon a pole!
And far behind did flee,
And his right hand hang beside his cheek—
A waesome sight to see.
Yet comely was his brow,
And his eyne were open to the breeze—
There was nane to close them now!
The hideous porter said;
‘Is not that a comely sight to see,
And sweet to a Whiggish maid!’
For I downa answer you;
He was dear, dear to my heart before,
But never sae dear as now!
Which man cannot efface;
I see a ray of heavenly love
Beaming on that dear face.
Will smile in the walks on high,
And yon yellow hair, all blood-stain'd now,
Maun wave aboon the sky.’
In the might of heavenly grace,
There was never a sigh burst frae my heart,
Nor a tear ran o'er my face.
To take him from my side,
To call him home to the courts above,
And leave me a virgin bride.”
That sic days we hae lived to see!
For siccan a cruel and waefu' tale
Was never yet heard by me.
That your dear wits were gone;
For there is a joy in your countenance,
Which I never saw beam thereon.
To the God whom we revere,
Who never yet laid that burden on,
Which he gave not strength to bear.”
The Origin of the Fairies.
How the Fairies first came to our nation;
A tale of glamour, and yet of glee,
Of fervour, of love, and of mysterye.
I do not vouch for its certain truth,
But I know I believed it in my youth;
And envied much the enchanted knight,
Who enjoy'd such beauty and pure delight.
I will tell it now, and interlard it
With thoughts with which I still regard it,
And feelings with which first I heard it.
With his hey! and his ho! and hallo!
And he met a merry maid alone,
In the light green and the yellow.
That maiden's eyes were the pearls of dew,
And her cheek the moss-rose opening new;
Her smile was the sun blink on the brae,
When the shower is past and the cloud away.
And then her form was so light and fair,
That it seem'd to lean on the ambient air;
So very blithesome and so boon,
That the knight was afraid it would fade too soon;
Mount on the ether from human ken,
Or melt away in the breeze of the glen.
When he saw that beauty stand him before,
With the gleam of joy on her brow so meek,
And the dimple on her damask cheek;
And then so ripe was her honey lip,
That the wild bee, lingering, long'd to sip;
And the merle came by with an eye of guile,
For he hover'd and lighted down a while
On the snowy veil in which she was dress'd,
To pick the strawberries from her breast.
Oh was there aught below the heaven
I would not have done, or would not have given,
To have been the Knight of Dumblane that day!—
But 'twas better for me that I was away.
But the glamour of love was on his cheek;
And a single word he could not say,
For his tongue in thirsty silence lay.
But he doff'd his cap from his manly brow,
And he bow'd as low as a knight could bow,
Then stood with his velvet cap in hand,
As waiting for the maiden's command.
I cannot conceive what the knight could mean;
For, had I been there, in right or wrong,
As sure as I sing you this song,
I would, as the most due respect,
Have twined my arms around her neck;
And, sure as man e'er woo'd a maid,
Have row'd her in my shepherd plaid,
And, in token of my high regard,
Have set her down on the flowery sward
And if some discourse had not begun,
Either in quarrel or in fun,
Take never a shepherd's word again,
And count my skill in wooing vain;
All this I would have done with speed—
But for ever would have rued the deed!
As he who now stood blushing and dumb
Before this maid of the moorland brake,
With the cherub eye and the angel make.
At first no higher his glance was thrown
Than the flowery heath that her foot stood on;
When by degrees it embraced her toe,
But over the ankle durst not go;
Till at length he stammer'd out modestly,
“Pray—madam—have you—any commands for me?”
I have no patience with him to bear;
For I would have look'd, as a man should do,
From the shoe tie to the glancing brow;
Nay, from the toe's bewitching station
Even to the organ of veneration.
For what avails the loveliest face,
Or form of the most bewitching grace,
Which on earth are made for man alone,
If they are not to be look'd upon?
Yes, I would have looked till my sight had rack'd,
And the very organs of vision crack'd;
And I would have sworn, as a man should swear,
That I never saw virgin half so fair:
This I had done, despite all pain,
But ah! I never had done it again!
To mark the young knight's prepossession;
And with a smile that might have given
Some pangs even to a thing of heaven,
She took so moving a position
That set his soul in full ignition:
One limb alone scarce press'd the ground,
The other twined her ankle round;
Her lovely face was upward cast,
Her sunny locks waved in the blast;
And really she appear'd to be
A being divine—about to flee
Away from this world of self and sin,
A lovelier, holier clime to win.
No posture with that can ever compare—
What a mercy that I was not there!
And of her form got one full view;
The modest mould of her virgin breast,
The lips just opening with a smile,
And the eye upraised to heaven the while;
The purple tides were seen to entwine
In a thousand veins all crystalline.
Enough! The sequence is too true:
For though the knight got but one view,
One full, intoxicating look,
It was more than his fond heart could brook;
For on the ground he fell, as dead
As he had been shot out through the head.
I don't think I would have fallen so;
For though a lovely virgin face
Has sometimes put me in piteous case,
Has made me shed salt tears outright,
And sob like the wind on a winter night,
Nay, thrown me into a burning fever,
Yet I never just went off altogether;
But I have reason without a flam
Thankful to be—and so I am—
That I was spared the illusive sight
That was seen by that enchanted knight.
For the life of that young and comely man,
And every art essay'd, to try
To make him uplift his amorous eye;
But in reality, or in mine,
The swoon continued a weary time.
And better had it been if he had never
Re-open'd his eyes, but slept for ever;
For when next they awoke on the light of day,
His cheek on the maiden's bosom lay.
He felt its warmth new life impart,
And the gentle throbs of her beating heart;
He felt, beneath his aching head,
The enchanting mould that had laid him dead;
He felt her hand his temples chafing,
And every tenderness vouchsafing.
He lifted his head—he hid his face—
And stole his cheek from that witching place;
Yet still he cast, though disinclined,
A longing, lingering glance behind,
Where he saw—but I dare not describe the view,
For, if you are a man, it will kill you too;
If you are a woman, and lovely beside,
You will turn up your nose in disdain and pride.
If you are not, without a frown,
You will laugh at the knight till you fall down;
For true it is, when the knight had seen
The beauteous bed where his cheek had been,
The blush and the smile, and the lucid vein,
He gave one shriek, with might and main,
Then shiver'd a space, and died again!
Unto that knight such hap befell
As never was own'd by mortal man,
And never was told since tales began.
He got his wish—it proved a dear one:
It is an old story, and a queer one:
But free of fear, and free of fetter,
I'll tell it out even to the letter—
The wilder 'tis I love it the better.
That a tale of truth should aye be told;
For nothing in nature happen can
That may not a lesson prove to man:
Now this is true: yet things we ken,
Oft happen between the women and men,
So wild, romantic, and precarious,
So complicated and contrarious,
So full of passion and of pain,
They scarcely can bear to be told again.
Then think of love 'twixt a mortal creature,
And a being of another nature!
Rung the last peal of his hunting horn;
His comrades range the mountain reign,
And call his name, but call in vain;
From his hawks and his hounds he is borne away,
And lost for a twelvemonth and a day;
And, all that time, he lived but to prove
The new delights and the joys of love—
His mistress, a pattern of sweetness and duty,
And her home a palace of splendour and beauty.
But whether it was in the sinful clime
That bounds Mortality and Time,
In a land below or a land above,
In a bower of the moon or the star of love,
He never could fathom or invent,
Or the way that he came, or the way that he went;
But he ween'd, from his love's aërial nature,
That she barely could be a mortal creature.
The accents sweet of the female tongue;
Light sounds of joy through the dome were ringing—
There was laughing, dancing, harping, singing:
But foot of man in the halls was none,
Nor sound of voice but his own alone:
While every night his beloved dame
In new array to his chamber came;
And, save herself, by day or night,
No other form ever met his sight.
So ween'd the knight; but his mind was shaken,
And, alas! how far he was mistaken!
For love's full overwhelming tide
O'er the mind of man is hard to bide.
Yet this full fraught of delirious joy,
Without reverse and without alloy,
I would once have liked to have essay'd
But at last—how I had been dismay'd!
The sounds of joy were melted away
Of sufferings for a former failing;
While something was sung, in a plaintive key,
Of a most mysterious tendencye,
Of beings, who were not of the earth,
To human creatures giving birth;
Of seven pure beings of purity shorn;
Of seven babies that might be born,
The nurslings of another clime,
By creatures of immortal prime;
Of the mother's thrilling fears, and more
Of the dark uncertainty before!
The knight then dreaded—as well might he!—
That things were not as things should be;
And a hearty wish rose in his mind
That he were at the home he left behind.
To wish, and to have, in the charmed ring
Of that sweet dome, was the self-same thing;
For the knight awaken'd, as from a dream,
And he stood by the wild and mossy stream,
Where first he felt the bewitching power
Of the beauteous maid at the morning hour;
Where he fell a victim to beauty's charms,
And died of love in a virgin's arms!
But a solemn stillness seem'd to lower
Around his towers and turrets high;
His favourite hound would not come nigh,
But kept aloof, with a murmuring growl,
And a terror his heart could not control;
For he prick'd up his ears, and snuff'd the wind,
Though he heard his master's voice behind,
Then fled with his bristles of dread unfurl'd,
As from a thing of another world.
And every maiden, and every man,
Away from their master in terror ran;
While his aged mother, in weeds of woe,
Conjured him solemnly to go
Back to his grave, and his place of rest!
For her mind with terror was sore oppress'd.
But there he remain'd, and once again
Was hail'd as the true Knight of Dumblane.
And all the vehemencies of his nature,
As if an eagle from cliffs above
Had been changed into a plaintive dove;
From a knight of courage and of glee,
He was grown a thing of perplexitye,
Absent and moping, puling, panting,
A vacant gaze, and the heart awanting:
Earth had no pleasures for his eye,
When he thought of the joys that were gone by.
This to some natures may be genial,
Or, as a failing, counted venial;
For me, I judge the prudent way,
Let past time have been what it may,
Is to make the most, with thankful mind,
Of that which still remains behind.
How long I neither know nor care,
Till at the last, one lovely morn,
The fairest lady that ever was born
Came into his bower, with courtesy bland;
And a lovely boy was in either hand—
Two tiny elves, alike not less
Than twin flowers of the wilderness.
Whose love was once my sole delight.
Oh, I recall—how can I not?—
That morning, never to be forgot,
When I met thee first, with horn and hound,
Upon the moor, to the hunting bound,
When thy steed like lightning fled away,
And thy staghound howl'd and would not stay;
Thou stolest the heart that never had birth,
The heart of a being not of this earth:
And what is more, that heart to wring,
The virtue of an immortal thing.
Dost thou own these babes in the gold and green,
The loveliest twins that the world has seen;
Wilt thou here acknowledge us as thine own,
Or bear the brunt of our malison?”
At seeing again that lovely face;
And his heart with love was sore oppress'd
As he folded the fair dame to his breast:
“Thou art my lady love,” said he,
“And I never loved another but thee!”
To those that are lighted by other skies,
By other breezes, untainted by sin,
And by other spirits that dwell within!
Well might thy raptures of pleasures be
Sublimed by creatures such as we;”
The lady said, with an eye of shame,
When enter'd another most comely dame,
As like to the first as she could be,
As like as cherries on the same tree;
While hanging on either hand were seen
Two lovely babies in gold and green.
The second said, “and thou wilt approve
This dear love-token I changed with thee,
When sitting in the bower upon thy knee.”
The knight acknowledged the token rare,
And flew to embrace his lady fair;
But remembrance came with a thrilling pain
That, instead of one lady, he now had twain;
And instead of two babies of beauty and grace,
There were four all looking him in the face.
He stood like a statue, of sense bereft—
He look'd to the right and then to the left,
But one from the other he could not know;
They were both the same, and yet there were two.
While thus he stood prepared for shrift,
In came a third—a fourth—a fifth—
And each had a baby in either hand—
And each had her love-tokens to display,
Which the knight acknowledged without delay.
But how that maid he met on the hill,
And loved so dearly, and loved her still,
Had thus the powers of nature outdone,
And multiplied into twenty and one—
Why, that was more than he could believe,
Than his head could frame, or his heart conceive;
And still he cast his eye to the door,
Distrustful that there were not more.
And her courtesies were with wonder blended,
To see such beauty in such array,
Seven dames all lovely as morns of May,
With fourteen babies in a ring,
And all like the children of a king;
And she laid on her son her quick behests,
To tell her the quality of their guests.
And yet it is truth I tell to thee,
That all these dames of beauty so bright,
Claim me for their own true lord and knight:
Nay, and I may not deny it neither,
And all these children call me father!
But I swear by my vows of morn and even,
And I swear before the throne of heaven,
That I never knew of daughter nor son,
Nor of a love, save only one.
There is glamour abroad in moor and glen,
And enchantment in all the walks of men.”
That you never could learn to multiplye!
Your bold advancement now I greet;
It is practice that makes the man complete!”
This said, the dame, with a sullen smile,
And a gloom upon her brow the while;
For she soon perceived, by dint of lore,
That the Seven Weird Sisters stood her before,
Who had dwelt in enchanted bower sublime
From the ages of an early time;
Condemn'd for an unhallow'd love
Endless virginity to prove,
And endless longings for bliss to be,
In their palace of painful luxurye,
Unless a mortal knight should fall
In their love-snares, and wed them all.
And for all this numerous comely birth,
She knew that her son was lost to earth,
And perchance would be caught in enchantment's thrall,
And lost to heaven—the worst of all.
That all this comely progenye
Are here acknowledged to be thine—
Before they can be received as mine,
I have lock'd the doors, the gates, and all,
And here, within this stately hall,
They shall kneel before a sacred sign,
And be christen'd by a name divine.”
Was never heard such a yell of pain—
Till the gorgeous ceiling that glow'd o'erhead
Was shiver'd like an autumn reed,
And the images all prostrate lay,
And the casements of the tower gave way,
And the lovely train, all three by three,
Walk'd forth in beauty and in glee;
While many a glance they cast behind,
As they trode the billows of the wind;
For they danced as lightly through the air
As if heaved on the gilded gossamer,
That play'd, with a soft and silent motion,
Like the gentlest swell that wooes the ocean;
And many an eye beheld them fly,
And heard this plaintive melody:
Now we are free,
We Seven Sisters now are free,
To fly where we long have wished to be!
And here we leave these babies of ours,
To dwell within our shady bowers,
And play their pranks in the moonlight dell,
With the human beings they love so well.
For oh, they are babies of marvellous birth,
They are neither of heaven nor yet of earth;
And whether they will live till time be done,
Or fade away in a beam of the sun,
Or mount on the polar heights sublime,
And to worlds of unknown splendour climb,
Is a mystery which no eye can pierce,
But His, the Lord of the universe:
But this we know,
That above or below,
By the doors of death they shall never go.
Blithe be your lives, and sinful never;
You may play your pranks on the wicked and wild,
But wrong not Virtue's sacred child—
So shall your frolics be lightsome and boon,
On the bridge of the rainbow or beam of the moon;
And so shall your loves in the bridal bowers
Be sweeter still than your father's and ours;
And the breezes shall rock you to soft repose,
In the lap of the lily or breast of the rose;
And your beauty every eve renew,
As you bathe your forms in the fragrant dew
That stands a heavenly crystal bell
In the little dew-cup's lovely well.
Your drink be the haze on the moonlight rill,
And your food the odour which flowers distil,
And never let robes your forms adorn
That are not from the web of the rainbow shorn,
In the breast of the eastern harvest star.
And then shall you ride
O'er land and o'er tide,
O'er cloud, and o'er foam of the firmament wide,
O'er tree and o'er torrent, o'er flood and o'er flame,
And The Fairies shall be your earthly name.
In joy and in glee
Your revels shall be,
Till a day shall arrive that we darkly foresee;
But note you well when these times commence,
And prepare for your departure hence.
From the mossy cave or the lonely sward;
When the hunters of men rise with the sun,
And pursue their game till the day be done;
And the mountain burns have a purple stain
With the blood of men in the moorland slain;
And the raven croaks in the darksome cloud,
And the eagle yells in the heavens aloud,
We you command,
With heart and hand,
To leave the links of fair Scotland:
Away! dismiss!
And seek for bliss
In a happier, holier sphere than this!
And may you never rue
The mingled existence we leave to you!
There is part of virtue and part of blame,
Part of spirit and part of flame,
Part of body and passion fell,
Part of heaven and part of hell.
You are babies of beauty and babies of wonder;
But fly from the cloud of the lightning and thunder,
And keep by the moonbeam or twilight gray,
For you never were made for the light of day.
Long may you amid your offspring dwell—
Babies of beauty, kiss and farewell!”
Never utter'd word upon the earth;
But moved about like a spirit in pain
For certain days, then vanish'd again;
And was chosen, as my old legend says,
The patriarch King of the Scottish Fays,
With full command o'er these beings strange;
But his human nature never would change,
Till, at the end of a thousand moons,
All deck'd with garlands and gay festoons,
He was borne away, with lament and yell,
And paid as kane to the Prince of Hell!
With all its splendour and all its bliss,
Its end of terror and its bane,
May Heaven preserve us all!—Amen.
The P and the Q;
OR THE ADVENTURES OF JOCK M'PHERSON.
And they had a son was the plague of their life;”
For even frae the time when a bairn on the knee,
He was as contrary as callant could be.
He gloom'd and he skirl'd, and, when in hard case,
He whiles gae his mother a yerk on the face;
And nought sae weel pleased him, when he could win at her,
As to gar her mild gray een stand in back-water.
They scolded, they drubb'd him, they ruggit his hair,
They stripp'd off his claes, and they skelpit him bare—
But he took every chance baith to scart and to spar,
And instead o' growing better, he rather grew waur.
His trade was a miller, his name was M'Pherson—
And this wicked callant, the plague o' his stock,
I ne'er heard his name, but I'm sure it was Jock—
For I never yet heard of a stripling of game,
The son of an auld pair, but Jock was his name.
I am sure that my mother had thirty old stories,
And every one of them began as before is;
Or, “there was a man and wife like other folk,
An' they had a son, an' they ca'd him Jock;”
And so it went on: now this that you're hearing
Was one of these stories—you'll find it a queer ane.
The scholars were maul'd, and their noddles grew bumpous;
The pretty wee girls were weel towzled and kiss'd,
In spite of their teeth, ay, and oft ere they wist;
But yet for as ill as the creatures were guided,
In Jock's fiery trials wi' him still they sided.
Good sauf's how they squeel'd in their feckless resistance!
Good sauf's, how the master ran to their assistance!
He ca'd Jock a heathen, a Turk, and a Nero,
Grinn'd, clench'd his auld teeth, and laid on like a hero;
But no mends could he get—for, despite of his sway,
Jock fought him again twenty times in a day.
He got with perplexity as far as O;
But the P and the Q, that sister and brother,
He wish'd at the deil, and he never wan further.
He hated the school except for the battles—
But he liked the sweet wenches, and kindly caress'd them,
Yet when they would not let him kiss them, he thrash'd them.
Whom he either lo'ed waur, or lo'ed better than others;
From morning to e'en you'd have heard or have seen them,
For peace there was never a moment between them;
She couldna bide frae him, he seem'd to bewitch her,
Yet neither wad she let him kiss her or touch her,
But squeel'd like a rabbit, and giggled and ran,
Till Jock ran her down, wi' a curse or a ban.
Then many a sair drubbing he gat frae her brothers;
Oh dear was his flirting wi' Phemie Carruthers!
Or what in the world's wide range to make o' him;
For when at the mill, at the meadow, or mart,
He fought wi' the horses and coupit the cart;
He couldna even gang wi' the horse to the water,
But there was a battle, and gallop full blatter.
To a smith he was enter'd, to yirk at the stiddy,
But he lamed the auld smith, and he fired the smiddy.
Then went to a tailor of high estimation,
To learn to make trousers and breeks in the fashion;
But a' that the tailor could threaten or wheedle,
At every steek Jock gae'm the length o' the needle.
Ten times in a day he provoked him or trick'd him,
Then ance for amusement he fought and he lick'd him;
So Snib turn'd him off, and accepted another,
And Jock went once more to his father and mother.
In fighting the Spaniards, the French, and the Dutch:
Jock fought with them all, for he happen'd to hate them;
Whenever he met them, he fought, and he beat them;
He fought from his childhood, and never thought ill o't,
But then he acknowledged he whiles got his fill o't:
Of all naval heroes, our country had never,
Than this Jock M'Pherson, a truer or braver.
He fought thirty battles, and never retreated,
Round a' the hale world that God has created,
And for twenty long years, for ill or for well o't,
He never saw Britain, and seldom heard tell o't;
Yet never in life such resistance he knew,
Nor retreated, except from the P and the Q!
They're really so grand, folks will hardly believe them.
He cross'd both the circles, which we're rather dark about,
He saw both the poles, which folk make sic a wark about;
And by a most rigid and laboursome scanning,
Not only the poles, but the sockets they ran in;
And also the giants, austere and outlandish,
That wheel'd the earth round, like a kirn on its standish:
They were cover'd with ice, and had faces most grievous,
And their forms were mis-shapen and huge as Ben-Nevis;
Yet they stood to their business, though fretting and gnarl'd,
With their cans of bear's grease for the poles of the world.
Let Barrow, and Parry, and Franklin commence
From this as example, and learn to speak sense.
And found out some countries that never were seen afore;
He came to a land where the language they spoke
Had exactly the sound of the Scottish moor-cock,
With a ick-ick-ick, uck-uck-uck—ne'er was such din heard!
And instead of coming outward, their voices went inward.
He came to another, where young women wore
Their faces behind and their bottoms before;
Jock tried to embrace these maids once and again,
But the girls were confounded, and giggled amain—
For forward they fled in a moment, and smack
Jock came to the ground on the broad of his back;
Which makes me suspect—though I hate to asperse—
That their forms were like ours, but their clothes the reverse.
Pooh! Franklin's, and Hall's, and the whole are a mock,
Compar'd with the voyages and travels of Jock!
Jock sail'd up a branch of the Plate through the Andes;
He visited Lima, and Juan Fernandez;
Then spread all his canvas, and westward he ran,
Till he came to the shores of the famous Japan,
And an island beyond it, which Britons ne'er knew,
But Jock thought the natives pronounced it Cookoo:
The half of its wonders no history relates,
For its slates are all gold, and its money is slates!
And now to that island for ever he bade farewell,
And sailed by a coast that had skies very novel;
The sun was an oblong, the moon was an oval,
And from the horizon midway up the skies,
The stars danced outrageously reels and strathspeys.
But none of the stars he remember'd were there,
He missed his old friends of the Serpent and Bear;
But those that they had were of brilliant adorning,
All bright as Dame Venus, the star of the morning;
At midnight there glowed out a radiance within them,
As the essence of light and its spirit were in them,
Till even the rude sailors with awe looked upon them,
As if a light sacred and heavenly shone on them.
At first sailed with Jock from the Mediterranean;
But now everything was with him sesquialter,
As proudly he passed by the bay of Gibraltar.
He returned a commander, accomplished and nautical;
It is true, some suspected his conduct piratical;
But Jock from such chances and charges got well off,
For they happened so distant they ne'er were heard tell of.
He had as much good money—gold, silver, and copper—
As filled to the brim his old father's mill-hopper;
Two ships and a frigate, all trim and untented—
Such feats and such fortune are unprecedented!
The old wicked dominie a house and a garden;
And all his school-fellows that thrashed him a-going it,
He gave them large presents, and blessed them for doing it;
Then took for his lady, in preference to others,
The wild little skelpie called Phemie Carruthers.
But he swore that through life he had never been stopp'd
By Christian or Pagan with whome'er he coped;
By all the wild elements roused to commotion,
The roarings of storm, and the rollings of ocean;
Wild currents and mountains of icicles blue,
Except the two bouncers, the P and the Q!!
“And blast my two eyes!” Jack would swear and would say,
“If I do not believe to this here blessed day,
That the trimmers were nothing for all the kick-up just,
Than a B and a D with their bottoms turn'd upmost!”
The Spirit of the Glen.
For dark's the gate you have to go;
And there's a maike adown the glen,
Hath frighten'd me an' many moe.
And still and stalwart is his stride;
His face is rounder nor the moon,
And och, his mouth is awesome wide!
Yclothed in his grizly shroud;
With one foot on a shadow placed,
The other on a misty cloud.
On the first storey of the air,
A ship could have sail'd through between,
With all her colours flying fair.
As if in reverend mockerye;
Then fauldit his arms upon his breast,
And aye he shook his beard at me.
And by his motions seem'd to say,
‘In yon sweet home go seek thy lot,
For there thine earthly lot I lay.’
And turn'd as cold as beryl stone;
And the moudies cheipit below the swaird,
For fear their little souls were gone.
Fled to the highest mountain height;
And the little birdies tried the same,
But fell down on the earth with fright.
Was sitting by the plashy shore,
With meagre eyne watching powheads,
And other fishes, less or more;
Stand on the billow of the wind;
Grace!—as she flapper'd and she flew,
And left a streamoury track behind!
For utter terror and dismay;
And left a skelloch on the clud—
I took it for the milky way.
What I had done I could not say;
But at that heron's horrid fright,
I'll laugh until my dying day.
And rather court a blink with me;
For gin you see that awesome sight,
Yourself again you will never be.”
I may not break, if take my life;
So I will run my risk and go;
With maiden, spirits have no strife.
That face of virgin bears a charm,
And neither ghaist, nor man, nor beast,
Have any power to do her harm?”
Will stand thy friend in darksome even;
For virgin beauty is on earth
The brightest type we have of heaven.
To kiss her foot with kindly eye;
The maskis will not move his tongue,
But wag his tail, if she pass by;
The slow-worm's harmless as an eel;
The burly toad, the ask, and snake,
Cannot so much as wound her heel.
And watch her ways in bower and hall;
The devils pay her some respect,
And God loves her—that's best of all.”
To keep my tryst, whate'er may be;
Why should a virtuous maiden dread,
The tale of a crazy dominie?”
But of your virtue you are vain!
Yet you are in a wondrous haste,
In running into toil and pain.
(May He that made her kind forgive her!)
Is like the blue-bell of the waste,
Sweet, sweet a while, and gone for ever!—
A bruckle set of china store;
But one false stumble, start, or step,
And down it falls for evermore!
That perisheth without recalling;
And aye the lovelier that it grows,
It wears the nearer to the falling.
That spreads its blushes far before;
But plash, there comes a storm of rain,
And all its glory then is o'er.
Of that which hath no sure abode;
Man little knows what lurks within;
The heart is only known to God.”
And drew her frock up to her knee;
And lightly down the glen she flew,
Though the tear stood in the dominie's e'e.
Quhill up there starts a droichel man,
And he lookit ruefully in her face,
And says, “Fair maid, where be you gaun?”
So, Maister Brownie, say your rede;
I know you have not power to hurt
One single hair of virgin's head.”
And said, “What wisdom you do lack!
For, if you reach your own true love,
I may have power when you come back!”
A weirdly witch I wot was she;
For though she wore a human face,
It was a gruesome sight to see.
Come, speak with me before you go,
For I have news to tell to you
Will make your very heart to glow:
That holds the universe at bay;
Alas! poor fool, to snare and harm
There is none so liable as they.
And gives her eyes a heavenly sway;
Then, would you be a blessed thing,
Indulge in love without delay.
I know it well as well can be;
But or you pass a bowshot on,
You will meet ane thrice as good as he.
And he will kiss your cheek and chin,
And you must go to bower with him,
For he is the youth your love must win.
And great good fortune you shall find;
But when you reach your own true love,
Keep close your secret in your mind.”
With lighter step and blither smile;
That night to meet her own true love,
She would have gane a thousand mile.
Until a youth, in manly trim,
Came up, and press'd the comely May
To turn into a bower with him.
A mantle of the cramosye,
And chain of gold about her neck,
For one hour of her companye.
And kiss'd it with such fervencye,
That the poor May began to blush,
And durst not lift her modest e'e.
And flutter most disquietlye;
She lookit east, she lookit west,
And all to see what she could see.
Though scarcely knowing how or why;
She heaved a sigh—the day was won,
And bright resolve beam'd in her eye.
A tear stood on its brow for shame;
It drappit on the floor of heaven,
And aye its blushes went and came.
That blessed angels might her see;
And often said within her heart,
“Do God's own planets blush for me?
Leal virtue still shall be my guide:—
Thou stranger youth, pass on thy way,
With thee I will not turn aside.
And where shall maiden find remede?
See what a hideous canopy
He is spreading high above our head!”
It is love's own curtain spread on high;
A timeous veil for maiden's blush,
Yon little crumb-cloth of the sky.
Sweet woman's happiness to see;
And where could thine be so complete
As in the bower this night with me?”
But stood as meek as captive dove;
Her trust fix'd on her Maker kind—
Her eyes upon the heaven above.
But demon of the glen was he)
Had no more power, but sped away,
And left the maiden on her knee.
When the first whisperings of sin
Begin to hanker on your minds,
Or steal into the soul within,
Both of your body and your mind;
For in the strength of God alone,
A woman's weakness strength shall find.
And know no human eye can see,
Think of an eye that never sleeps,
And angels weeping over thee.
And little recks of maiden's woe,
And all his pride is to advise
The gate she's far ower apt to go.
With all her blossoms in the blight;
She had not gone a bowshot on,
Before she saw an awesome sight:
The terror of the sons of men;
That by Sir Dominie was hight,
The Giant Spirit of the Glen.
That filled the glen with human form:
With his gray locks he brush'd the heaven,
And shook them far aboon the storm;
From eyne that seem'd two borels blue;
And shaggy was his silver beard
That down the air in streamers flew.
And mazed and modderit in dismay!
For both the guests of heaven and hell
Seem'd her fond passage to belay.
And that she wist not what to say,
His face assumed a milder shade,
Like midnight melting into day.
Where art thou going, canst thou tell?”
The spirit said—“Is it thy will
To run with open eyne to hell?
And 'tis my sovereign joy to see
The wicked man run on in sin,
Rank, ruthless, gaunt, and greedilye;
From paths of danger and of woe,
Shall be my earnest, dearest part:
Then tell me, dame, where dost thou go?
True happiness with him to seek—
The comeliest and kindest youth
That ever kiss'd a maiden's cheek.”
That stream'd like sunbeam through the rain;
But there was pity in his eyne,
Though mingled with a mild disdain.
As I would lift a trivial toy:
Quod he, “The upshot thou shalt see
Of this most pure and virtuous joy!”
Although ane mile it seem'd to be,
And show'd the maid her own true love,
With maiden weeping at his knee;
For still with tears she wet his feet;
But then he mock'd and jeer'd the more,
With threats, and language most unmeet.
Think of the love you vow'd to me,
And all the joys that we have proved,
Beneath the bield of birken tree!
Leave me not to the world's sharp scorn;
By your dear hand I'll rather die,
Than live forsaken and forlorn!”
Said this most cursed and cruel hind;
“For I must meet ane May this night,
Whom I love best of womankind;
And neither daunt nor rue the deed,
For thou art lost to grace and good,
And ruin'd beyond all remede.”
And aye the tear blinded her e'e;
Now take, now take mine harmless life,
All guiltless but for loving thee!”
And drew it from its bloody sheath,
Then laid his hand upon her eyne,
To blind them from the stroke of death.
He raised his ruthless hand on high;
But Marjory utter'd shriek so loud,
It made the monster start and fly.
“Thou see'st what dangers waited thee;
Thou see'st what snares for thee were laid,
All underneath the greenwood tree.
What think'st thou of thy lover meek—
The comeliest and the kindest youth
That ever kiss'd a maiden's cheek?”
And cried, “This world's a world of woe,
A place of sin, of snare, and gin;
Alas! what shall poor woman do?”
And be all ventures rash abjured;
And never trust herself with man,
Till of his virtue well assured.”
And up the glen he strode amain,
Quhill his white hair along the heaven
Stream'd like the comet's fiery train.
And swift as is his cloudy way,
He bore that maiden through the night,
Enswathed in wonder and dismay;
Ane good soft bed as bed could be;
And when the dominie he came home,
Ane richt astounded man was he!
My best beloved and dawted dame,
You are welcome to my bed and board,
And this brave house to be thine hame;
Be bound, never to loose again;
And then I will love you as my life,
And long as life and breath remain.”
And wed her with a gowden ring;
And he was that day a joyful man,
And happier nor a crowned king.
Ne'er to an earthly pair was given;
And all the days they spent on earth,
They spent in thankfulness to Heaven.
Ere you make trystes with flattering men,
Think of the sights poor Marjory saw,
And the Great Spirit of the Glen.
The Field of Waterloo,
AND DEATH-BED PRAYER OF A SOLDIER.
And the night in majesty drew on;
For just as the twilight shed a ray
On the plains of Belgium west away,
The eastern heaven was all o'erspread
With a veil of high and murky red;
And there was awe in the soldier's eye,
Whenever it met that lurid sky,
For he thought, as he lifted his visage swarth,
There was blood on the heaven, and blood on the earth.
The pride of the tyrant prostrate lay;
And the battle-clang, and the trumpet's tone,
Were rolling to the southward on,
When a war-worn soldier far behind
On the verge of a rising height reclined;
A wounded hero, of courage true,
Who of his deadly wound not knew;
For he weened the blood that swathed him so,
The blood of a proud and hateful foe;
And much he marvelled why he lay
Thus faint and weary by the way.
Yet his tall mould and Doric tongue
Of crystal rill and mountain green;
From that fair land of warlike fame
Where Douglas fought and overcame;
The land of forays, feuds, and plots,
Of Elliots and of valiant Scotts;—
That Border land, so nobly blent
With hill, and dale of green extent,
With camp, and tower, and battlement.
Where cottage maid and matron brown,
Where shepherd boy or peasant elf,
Reads, thinks, and judges for himself.
Deep there of Heaven's awards the sense,
And trust in sacred Providence;
The old, the young, deep reverence pay
To God's own blessed and holy day;
'Tis there, by hamlet and by hill,
A day of holy resting still.
In ways of happiness and truth,
Till scorn cast from a maiden's eye
Drove him in distant fields to die.
Now on that height he lay forlorn,
Where Gallia's troops, at break of morn,
Did first with ready wheel combine,
And form the mighty crescent line;
And then he saw, and heard, and felt
The dire effects of human guilt.
Oh, such a day of dole and pain
May human nature ne'er again
Behold, while earth and heaven remain!
Over the red and rueful scene,
Then every moan was heard as near,
And every plaint fell on the ear;
The parting throb, the smothered sigh,
And shriek of sharpest agony:
But every anathema said
By widowed dame and weeping maid,
Or passed in soldier's dying groan,
All cursed one, and one alone.
All tongues and languages were blent,
But all was sorrow and lament—
Or weeping for the valiant dead,
Or curses on a tyrant's head.
And lifting up his eyes to God,
He leaned upon his bloody wrist,
And cried aloud, with throbbing breast:
“Oh grant, thou Being all divine,
Such load of guilt be never mine,
As his—that scourge of human life,
Who flies inglorious from the strife;
For since the fields of war were seen,
Such desolation hath not been.
Thou knowest why; thy will be done:
Blessed be thy name, the field is won!”
Two strangers tall, of gentle mood;
Soldiers they were, or late had been,
And many a bloody field had seen:
One was from Prussia's forests wide,
And one from Wolga's stormy side;
Their message done, they paused to view
The havoc done on Waterloo.
As all were peace and quietness?
Such deeds you Scots have ne'er achieved,
Since Wallace fought and Douglas reaved.
Swift flies the foe as flies the wind;
There's fame before, and spoil behind;
O soldier, it befits thee ill
To rest like hind upon the hill.”
And drowsy faintness keep me here;
My soul is burning to pursue,
And fain would move from Waterloo;
For such a din my ear assails
Of piteous plaint, and dying wails,
Methinks it would be perfect bliss
To be in any place but this!”
How think'st thou of this wondrous day?”
His ghastly cheek with blood besmeared:
“How think I? By this heart forlorn,
An oath I ne'er before have sworn,
I think, that first since human guilt
Provoked to war, and blood was spilt
In battle field, beneath the sun
Such doughty deeds were never done,
So boldly fought, so bravely won.
Nay, pardon me; in ardour hot
My darling theme I had forgot,
But sure, of earthly well-fought fields,
To Bannockburn alone it yields.”
He thought of Leipsic's bloody fight;
The Russian cast a glance of flame,
But Borodino scorned to name.
Say, sooth, in all thy by-past life
Hast thou not seen, nor read, nor heard
Of ought with this to be compared?”
Fleet on the whirlwind's eddies borne,
That, melting denser folds of rain,
Rebounding bursts, and wheels again.
I might compare it with the force
Of mountain river's roaring course,
And one small mound raised in its way,
To bear its whole resistless sway,
Which firmly stemmed the whelming tide,
That foamed, and fled to either side.
Against the adamantine shore.
But in all ages that shall spring,
When man shall tell, or poet sing,
Of what he would the most impress
Upon the heart with powerfulness;
Of nature's terrors in the cloud,
The tempest's rage, the roaring flood,
Or lightning bursting on the view,
He'll liken it to Waterloo.
I saw it: but to me it seems
A train of long-past hideous dreams,
Of things half known and half forgot,
I know not whether seen or not.
E'er since I bore the onset's shock,
And was involved in fire and smoke,
I've had no knowledge what hath been,
Nor thought, nor mind—a mere machine.
I only viewed it as my meed,
To stand or fall, as Heaven decreed;
For honour's cause to do my best,
And to the Almighty leave the rest.
Blessed be his hand that swayed the fight
For mankind's and for freedom's right!
I marked our foemen's powerful wiles,
And scarcely weened that we could stand
Against such odds of spear and brand;
Of harnessed horse, in column deep,
And red artillery's wasting sweep;
Yet only closed fast as we fell,
Without one thought but to repel.
O Scotia, land of old renown,
Thy prowess yet is never known—
I glory that thou art mine own!
The hamlet song in rustic rhyme,
Wove by some shepherd of the dale
Where first I breathed the mountain gale,
And listed first the magic lore
Which I, alas! shall hear no more;
Telling of deeds that here were wrought,
What heroes fell, what lions fought,
Till all the striplings stare and sigh,
With round tears dropping from the eye,
Begging again to hear the song,
Though homely be the rhyme and long.
In land of my nativity,
How would my parting spirit joy,
And spring from earth without alloy!
Yes, I will hope that men shall tell
Of all our deeds, and fondly dwell
On every humble soldier's name
That stood on this day's list of fame,
And at the call of morning roll,
Was blotted from the bloody scroll.
And how the gallant Picton fell;
And how the lancer's steady eye
Aimed to the heart of Ponsonby.
O Ponsonby, the brave, the just,
A soldier sorrows o'er thy dust!
Like hermit in my native glade,
I followed him o'er mountain gray
With Border chief of mighty sway,
The heathfowl from the moor to spring,
And lower the blackcock on the wing:
Then blithe his heart; he little knew
Of such a fate at Waterloo!
Of prophecy remembered well.
'Twas a weird dame his fate that read,
The shepherd's and the maiden's dread.
What's this? Ah, well may I repine!
For with his death she coupled mine:
And though in wrath she us assailed,
Yet what she says hath never failed.
Thou'rt nought in life; nor thou, nor he,
But passing shadows—a mere blot!
Men trowed it was, but it is not.
But mark me, there is thee before
A hideous flood, a tideless shore,
From which a wolf shall turn and run,
An eagle fall, and a harper won:
Then down shall sink an angel grim,
But falling, you shall fall with him.
On such an eve of such a day
Thou shalt remember what I say!’
That sibyl's words now shake my soul.
That very day, and hour, she knew
Of this day's doom at Waterloo.
Oh, pardon me! I sink aghast
At memory of some visions past.
My doom is sealed, here I must bow
To death's arrest, I know not how.”
In time to come whene'er thou try'st
Of this day's deeds to take the sum,
Of Leipsic think, and then be dumb!”
Nor Borodino's chilling name,
Where slaughtered myriads only gave
New ardour to the living brave?
I saw at morn proud Moscow stand
The glory of our northern land,
With gilded spires and turrets blent
That pierced the yielding firmament;
But ere the midnight watch was o'er
The ancient Moscow was no more.
Thousands of hopeless journeyers go,
O'er all the forests wandering wide,
Without a home their heads to hide.
I saw the babe oft hushed to rest
On mother's agonized breast,
But long ere day that breast beloved
The death-bed of its darling proved;
There did they rest, in death laid low,
Their grave the drifted wreath of snow.
Halting and crying as he went,
Straining his eyes o'er flood and field,
Loath his young life so soon to yield:
Weak grew his plaint, his motion slow,
I saw the blood-drops on the snow,
And glad was I, his sufferings o'er,
When down he sunk to rise no more.
Kaluga's northmost dreary waste,
Where many a maiden's youthful form
Had sunk beneath the ruthless storm.
I saw the beauteous taper limb,
That made the winter wreath look dim;
The young, the fair, half-moulded breast,
That icicles even gentlier pressed!
The whole so pure, and stretched so low,
Seemed but some mould of lovelier snow.
Though all was lost that life held dear,
And all was suffered mind could bear,
Yet not a plaint was heard to fall;
Our country and our cause was all:
Now, soldier, has that land of thine
Done half, or suffered half of mine?
The dying and the dead were strewn;
The tyrant's route was tracked in blood
From Moscow's gate to Niemen's flood;
Far as could reach the roving eye
O'er lands that waste and open lie,
I saw myself, and marked it well,
The snow-flakes redden as they fell.
The drifted wreathes were purpled o'er,
Crusted and gorged with human gore,
While o'er them rose a forest dim
Of horses' hoof and human limb.
Thy ardour, and thy zeal approve,
If thou hast seen no field like this,
Thou know'st not yet what warfare is.
And call us rude and savage still;
I'll say't to Europe and to thee,
Though left alone, we dared be free,
And stood for death or liberty.
'Twas we who turned the scale of right;
'Twas we who bruised the monster's head;
The Germans joined to make him bleed.
What have you Britons done t'avail,
By this defence and bold assail,
But only crushed the severed tail?”
I would this simple inference draw—
Had it not been our brave Bulow,
This had to them been day of woe,
And ended in their overthrow.”
Led on by warlike Wellington?—
No! Who can brow the heaven with me
So proud a claim to verify?
They never were. If one knows when,
Let him talk of it—not till then.
For friends we are, and must remain.
I too might say, in scorn and pride,
With fair pretext upon my side,
That during Russia's vaunted plea,
She only fought to turn and flee;
And feebly still the strife renewed,
Till Heaven fought, then she pursued.
'Tis right equivocal at most;
Her head she raised with martial show,
But stooped the lowest of the low;
Dragged on her chain of galling steel,
And followed at the tyrant's heel;
But when the royal beast grew lame,
Then turned the ass, his bulk to maim.
This I might say with courtesy,
For such the taunts you cast on me;
But hard it sounds from friendship's mouth,
To those who list to learn the truth.
Where green Mount Benger greets the morn,
It is our wont, on either side
Reason to hear, and then decide;
So let us now. For I will stand
By the honour of my native land,
While I have tongue t'assert her right,
Or foot to move, or hand to fight.
You fought the foe, and fought him well;
You fought for home, you fought for life,
For monarch, kinsmen, children, wife;
For very name and being's sake:
Say was not then your all at stake?”
Nay, more than human tongue can name.”
'Twas desperation did the deed;
And where's the creature forced to strife
That will not fight for breath and life?
The gallant hound—yet who will say
The deer is brave, or yeaning ewe
That drives the fox along the dew?
There is no beast of hill or wood
That will not fight to save its brood;
So that the man who shuns such strife,
Is less than ought in brutal life:
Such is the model of your fame,
And such the honours you can claim.
Encircled by her guardian sea,
Her flag of sovereignty unfurled
In every bay that cleaves the world:
One cause alone had she to fight—
The glorious cause of human right,
And for that prize to her endeared,
The cause of freedom, long revered,
Where is the foe, say if you can,
That e'er has braved us man to man?
And be the leader's name revealed,
That e'er has driven us from the field.
To fight for life I count it nought.
But he who, seeing friend o'erthrown
By sordid guile, and trodden down,
Flies to his aid, and ventures all
At friendship's and at honour's call;
And, by his blood and jeopardy,
Succeeds, and sets the injured free—
This, this, I say, is bravery!”
His silent comrade's mood to spy,
And saw him bent in thought profound,
Moulding wide figures on the ground:
“By heaven!” he cried, as up he threw
His manly eyes of azure blue,
“What the Scots soldier says is true!”
He moaned and stretched him on the sward;
He felt the sand of life near run,
And deemed the day now doubly won.
The strangers friendly aid impart,
Give him to drink, and cheer his heart,
Then down they sat, on converse keen,
Beneath the heaven's own starry sheen.
Of Voltaire's and of Frederick's school;
And much he said in earnest way,
Of things unfitting poet's lay;
Of needful waste of human kind;
Of mankind's late enlightened mind;
How nations first bowed to the yoke;
How furiously the bonds they broke;
And how the soul arose in might,
Grasping its own eternal right.
“The time,” said he, “is ever gone
That Europe dreads tyrannic sway;
No more we'll toil in error on,
Groping at noon to find our way.
It was the love of freedom, given
To man as his prerogative—
That sacred thing conferred by heaven,
The noblest gift that it could give—
'Twas that which made the tyrant rise,
Made kings and kingdoms to divide;
He came with words of specious guise,
The hearts of men were on his side.
Oh, he might conquer idiot kings,
These bars in nature's onward plan!
But fool is he the yoke that flings
O'er the unshackled soul of man!
'Tis like a cobweb o'er the breast,
That binds the giant while asleep;
Or curtain hung upon the east,
The day-light from the world to keep:
The giant wakes in all his might;
The light of heaven is unconfined;
And man asserts his primal right—
Thanks to the unconquerable mind!”
What mind could do he did not know;
'Twas God, the Russian's guard and guide,
And Alexander, turned the tide.
If these were part of mind or soul,
Then that might rule and rein the whole.
As if about to make reply,
But faint from weariness and pain,
He moaned, and laid him down again.
The strangers raised him from the ground;
They searched, and found a mortal wound:
“Alas!” they said, “thou gallant youth;
Thou friend to loyalty and truth,
What shall be done some help to give!
For short the date thou hast to live.”
The sibyl's saying would prove true.
Heaven's will be done! Take ye no heed;
I meet without dismay or dread
Man's last great foe—a welcome guest;
I know him conquered like the rest.
One last request I have to make—
For my departing spirit's sake,
Kneel here, before the eye divine,
A dying soldier's prayer to join.”
Saying, they wished no higher meed;
For though from far and foreign parts,
Yet they were men of gentle hearts.
They kneeled amid the ensanguined scene,
Beneath the midnight heaven serene,
While the young gallant soldier lay
Prostrate along the bloody clay;
In its last glimmer shines more bright,
So was his soul aroused to share,
High energies in his last prayer.
The God of the living, and God of the dead;
This world is thine, and the starry frame—
The Lord Jehovah is thy name.
How shall I come my vows to pay?
What offering on thine altar lay?
Alas, my God! if e'er thine eyes
Accepted earthly sacrifice,
I bring the last that man can bring;
I am myself that offering;
And here I cry from the altar of death,
From the tabernacle of thy wrath,
'Mid the cries and the groans of the human race:
Oh hear in heaven thy dwelling-place!
Thy reign of the ample universe;
Yet he who owns not thy hand alone,
In the high events that have come and gone,
Deserves not to possess of thee
The power of the reasoning faculty.
To brave the eye of the frigid zone,
Was there a human head could guess
Or count on probable success?
Or was there a way in nature's course
So to o'erwhelm that cumbrous force,
Which strove the nations to enchain,
Or rouse them from their torpor again?
Thy bolts of wrath thou might'st have driven,
Or loosed the artillery of heaven;
Or, as just guerdon of offence,
Sent forth the wasteful pestilence:
But not in nature's wide command,
(And nature ever is thy hand),
Was other way so to destroy
That armed horde, the world's annoy.
When the Russian eagles turned and fled,
Thy arm was seen in the foemen's wrath
That hurried them on to the bourn of death.
When first Iberia spurned the yoke
The judgment was set, and the seals were broke;
But when the city of sacred fame
Enwrapt the northern heaven in flame,
Their sentence thou passed'st ne'er to annul,
For the cup of the Amorite then was full!
The elements rose and owned their God;
The sun, and the moon, and the floods below,
And the stars in their courses fought thy foe;
The very heavens and earth seemed blent
In the lowering toiling firmament.
The clouds poured swiftly along the sky,
They thickened, they frowned, but they past not by!
The ravens called with boding sound,
The dogs of Moscow howled around;
And the shades of men and of maidens fair,
Were seen on the dull and cumbered air.
The storm descended, the tempest blew,
Thy vengeance poured on the ruthless crew.
O God! thy vengeance was never so due!
I heard thy voice in the thunder afar,
When the Elbe waved slow with the blood of man,
And the Saale scarce gurgled as it ran.
O Father! forgive the insensate heart
That ascribes such wonders to human part.
'Twas thou madest the hearts of the nations combine:
Yes, thine is the work, and the glory be thine.
Was proffered the friendship and hands of the north,
And thus, in that empire, the bane of the day,
His dynasty might have been 'stablished for aye;
What counsel of man could the proffer have scorned!
Nor reason, nor madness, could that have suborned.
But the hearts of men are thine own alone,
As the streams of water thou windest them on;
And save when thou parted'st Jordan's tide,
And the gates of the Red Sea opened'st wide,
Oh never so well since time hath been,
Was the governing arm of thy providence seen.
And the men of crimes remained unchanged,
Till thou roused'st them again in triple wrath,
And brought them like beasts to the house of death.
With other kings and armies leagued,
They might have contended or intrigued,
But the judgment was passed which they could not shun;
Thou brought'st them here, and the work was done!
The victory is thine, we nothing abate,
But thou gavest it the good as well as the great;
And their names are registered with thee
Who have bled for the cause of liberty.
I bowed to thee, and for victory prayed;
I prayed that my countrymen might gain,
Though my heart's blood should steep the plain.
Thou hast heard my prayer, and answered me,
And with joy I yield my spirit to thee.
When I may no more address thine ear;
Few moments, and human scrutiny,
Tell me not what I then shall be:
An igneous lamp in the fields below;
A dye of heaven's aërial bow;
A stilly vapour on space reclined,
Or a breath of discoloured wandering wind:—
But oh, while I have speech to say
The thing that I would, I humbly pray
To visit the scenes of my infancy:
The tiny green, where the schoolboys play;
The level pool, with its bridge so gray;
And oh, there's a cot by the lonely flood,
With its verdant steep, and its ancient wood,
Its willow ring, and its sounding stream,
So like the scene of a fairy dream;—
Oh might I there a while reside,
To rest with the lamb on the mountain's side,
Or stand by the heath-cock's ruby eye,
And wonder he cannot my form espy.
I cannot, dare not say her name!
Oh, how I long to listen there,
To hear that loved one's evening prayer;
And in that cot a cradle moves,
Where sleeps the infant that she loves:
Oh I would like to hover by,
When none but she and that child are nigh,
When her arms stretch to the dear embrace,
And the baby smiles her in the face;
Or when she presses him to her heart,
To watch when the holy tear shall start,
And list no other ear to hear,
If she named a name she once held dear.
That a guardian spirit, empowered by thee,
Still round that dwelling linger must,
Oh may I beg the sacred trust?
I'll do, all evil to cause them shun,
More than a spirit before has done;
Against each danger I'll forecast,
And bring them to thyself at last.
I have no dread of wrath from thee;
For I know thee merciful and good,
Beyond the fathom of flesh and blood:
And there is a bond 'twixt man and thee,
'Twas sealed and finished on the tree;
Of that, too mystic to unfold,
I will not, cannot quit my hold.
Accept me, Lord, that I may bless
Thy name in better world than this.
Before my tongue of speech is reft.
My widowed parent oh regard,
And all her love to me reward.
Fondly she nursed my tender years,
With buoyant hopes, and yearning fears;
She weened not, in these hours of bliss,
That she reared her child to an end like this.
To save her declining age from woe,
Her darling's fate may she never know;
But still look down the mountain burn
To see her wandering son return,
Her parting blessing to receive,
And lay her head in an honoured grave:
That hope may still support her heart,
Till we meet again no more to part.”
He could not say the word Amen;
But he turned his eye, and spread his hand
To the star above his native land;
Serenely in that posture lay,
And breathed his generous soul away.
And gazed insensate on the ground,
The burning tear struck from his eye,
And flung it on the breeze to dry.
The stoic Prussian, in his pride,
Unstaidly looked from side to side,
Then fixed on heaven a solemn scowl,
Impelled by his unfathomed soul,
That felt deep yearnings unconfest
For some eternal home of rest.
“What's this?” said he, “who can conceive?
I cannot fathom, nor believe
The substance of this Christian faith;
But 'tis a steadfast hold in death!
I never saw its hideous door
Entered with such a mien before!”
Leaving the pale corse on the height,
And said before to British lords
This soldier's prayer and dying words,
Who well can vouch this tale is true
Of converse held on Waterloo.
And many an eye for him ran o'er,
In friendship's little circle kind,
For who not leaves some friends behind?
But yet his prayer was heard in part,
For no one had the cruel heart
His parent of his fate to tell;—
She died believing he was well.
The cottage by the lonely lake,
And I have heard its beauteous dame
With tears pronounce her lover's name:
And once I saw her comely child;
It bent its eyes on air and smiled,
Stretching its arms with fervent mien,
As if to reach to something seen.
I've seen the wild-fowl watch and quake,
And cower in terror 'mid the brake,
And the mild lamb with steady eye
Gazing intent, I knew not why;
Then chilling thoughts have on me pressed
Of an unbodied heavenly guest,
Sent there to roam the lonely wild,
To guard the mother and the child;
For to the death-bed prayer is given
Free passage to the throne of heaven!
Allan of Dale.
Young Mary of Moy went out to pray,—
To pray, as her guileless heart befitted,
For the pardon of sins that were never committed;
A grateful homage to render Heaven
For all its gifts and favours given,—
For a heart that dreaded the paths of sin;
For a soul of life and light within;
And a form, withal, so passing fair
That the rays of love seem'd centring there.
For her bosom glow'd with a pure delight:
As over the greenwood sward she bounded,
A halo of sweets her form surrounded;
For the breezes that kiss'd her cheek grew rare,
Her breathing perfumed the morning air;
And scarce did her foot, as she onward flew,
From the fringe of the daisy wring out the dew.
Which the woodbine and wild-rose canopied;
And she knelt beneath its fragrant bough,
And waved her locks back from her brow;
But just as she lifted her eye so meek,
A hand from behind her touch'd her cheek:
She turn'd her around, with a visage pale,
And there stood Allan of Borlan-dale!
Sweet Mary of Moy, is it so with thee?
Have I caught thee on thy bended knee,
Beginning thy rath orisons here,
In the bower to the breathings of love so dear?
Oh tell me, Mary, what this can mean!
Hast thou such a great transgressor been?
Is the loveliest model of mortal kind
A thing of an erring, tainted mind,
That thus she must kneel and heave the sigh,
With the tear-drop dimming her azure eye?
To whom wert thou going thy vows to pay?
Or for what, or for whom, wert thou going to pray?
MARY.
I was going to pray in the name divine
Of Him that died for me and for mine;
I was going to pray for them and me,
And haply, Allan, for thine and thee;
And now I have answered as well as I may
Your questions thus put in so strange a way:
But I deem it behaviour most unmeet,
Thus to follow a maid to her lone retreat,
To hear her her heart of its sins unload,
And all the secrets 'twixt her and her God.
For shame! that my kindred should hear such a tale
Of the gallant young Allan of Borlan-dale!
ALLAN.
Sweet Mary of Moy, I must be plain:
I have told you once, and tell you again,
Though in love I am deeper than woman can be,
You must either part with your faith or me.
MARY.
What! part with my faith? You may as well demand,
That I should part with my own right hand!
Than part with that faith I would sooner incline
To part with my heart from its mortal shrine.
ALLAN.
And propose to part with what's not your own?
For that heart now is mine: and you must, my sweet dove,
Renounce that same faith on the altar of love.
And rose somewhat higher than maiden's should be;
But ere the vehement sentence was said,
A gentle hand on her lips was laid,
And a voice, to her that was ever dear,
Thus whisper'd softly in her ear:—
LADY OF MOY.
Hush, Mary! dear Mary! what madness is this?
These dreams of the morning, my darling, dismiss:
Awake from this torpor of slumber so deep;
You are raving and clamouring through your sleep:
Up, up, and array you in scarlet and blue:
For Allan of Dale is come here to woo.
MARY.
Tell Allan of Dale straight home to hie,
And court Helen Kay, or his darling of Skye:
This positive message deliver from me,
For I list not his heretic face to see.
LADY.
My Mary! dear Mary! what am I to deem?
Arouse you, my love; you are still in your dream:
Your lover's views of things divine
May differ in some degree from thine;
But I think he is one who will not pother
Betwixt the one faith and the other.
MARY.
That is worse and worse: for my lover must be
Attach'd to my faith as well as to me:
We must kneel at one beloved shrine,
And the mode of his worship must be mine.
For why should a wedded pair devout,
By different paths seek heaven out?
Or in that dwelling happy be,
Who of the road could never agree?
O mother! this day, without all fail,
I had given my hand to young Borlan-dale;
But I've had such a hint from the throne on high,
Or some good angel hovering nigh,
That tongue of mortal should never prevail
On me to be bride to this Allan of Dale,
Unless he sign over a bond, for me
In the path of religion his guide to be.
As a sceptic of bold and most dissolute tone,
Who jeer'd at the cross, at the altar and priest,
And made our most holy communions his jest;
Yet Mary of this had of knowledge no gleam,
Till warned of her danger that morn in her dream.
He loved his Mary for lands and for gold,
For beauty of feature, and beauty of mould,
As well as a cold-hearted sceptic could love
Who held no belief in the blessings above;
And whene'er of his faith or his soul she spoke,
He answered her always with jeer and with joke.
With poutings and nay-says, were all gotten over;
And nothing remained but the schedule-deed gerent,
The bonds and the forms of the final agreement,—
A thing called a contract, that long-galling fetter!
Which parents love dearly, and lawyers love better.
In this was set down, at the maiden's indictment,
One part, to devotion a powerful incitement,
That her lover should forfeit, without diminution,
Her fortune redoubled, (a sore retribution!)
If ever his words or his actions should jostle
With the creed she revered of the holy apostle.
The terms were severe, but resource there was none;
So he sign'd, seal'd, and swore, and the bridal went on.
Well was it for Mary, for scarce were got over
The honeymoon joys, ere her profligate lover
Began his old gibes, when in frolicsome mood,
At all that the Christian holds sacred and good:
But still, lest the terms might be proven in law,
The bond and the forfeiture kept him in awe;
Which caused him to ponder and often think of it—
This thing that he jeer'd at, and where lay the profit?
Till at last, though by men it will scarce be believed,
A year had not pass'd, ere he daily perceived
The truths of the gospel rise bright and more bright,
Like the dawning of day o'er the darkness of night,
Or the sun of eternity rising to save
From the thraldom of death, and the gloom of the grave.
To her God, for the peace of the man that she loved;
And her mild face would glow with the radiance of beauty,
As he urged her along on her Christian duty;
For of the two, his soul throughout
Grew the most sincere and the most devout.
That rises with red protentous ray,
Threatening its pathway to deform
With the wasting flood and the rolling storm;
But long ere the arch of the day is won,
A halo of promise is round the sun,
And the settled sky, though all serene,
Is ray'd with the dark and the bright between;
With the ruddy glow and the streamer wan,
Like the evil and good in the life of man;
And, at last, when it sinks on the cradle of day,
More holy and mild is its sapphire ray.
Oh! why should blind mortals e'er turn into mirth
The strange intercourse betwixt heaven and earth;
Or deem that their Maker cannot impart,
By a thousand ways, to the human heart,
In shadows protentous of what is to be,
His warnings, His will, and His final decree?
The troth of a poet, which may not be broken;
And had it not been for this dream of the morn,
This vision of prayer, intrusion, and scorn,
Which Heaven at the last hour thus deign'd to deliver,
The peace of the twain had been ruin'd for ever.
Jock Johnstone the Tinkler.
Or down the King's Road of the cleuch?
Or saw ye a Knight and a lady bright,
Wha hae gane the gate they baith shall rue?”
Ride up the cleuch at the break of day;
The knight upon a coal-black steed,
And the dame on one of the silver gray.
With many a clang of silver bell:
Swift as the raven's morning flight,
The two went scouring ower the fell.
And standing in St. Mary's fane;
And the lady in the grass-green silk
A maid you will never see again.”
And that the runaways shall prove—
Revenge to a Douglas is as sweet
As maiden charms or maiden's love.”
Good faith some clinking there will be;
Beshrew my heart, but and my sword,
If I winna turn and ride with thee!”
And down the links o' the Corsecleuch burn;
And aye the Douglas swore by his sword
To win his love or ne'er return.
And then brag after, if you may;
For the Earl of Ross is as brave a lord
As ever gave good weapon sway.
Or thirteen pennies an' a bawbee,
Will tak in hand to fight you baith,
Or beat the winner, whiche'er it be.”
And I wat a loud laughter leuch he:—
“Of all the fools I have ever met,
Man, I hae never met ane like thee.
Or courtly squire or warrior leal?”
“I am a tinkler,” quo the wight,
“But I like crown-cracking unco weel.”
The chaplain shook for very fear;
And aye he kiss'd the cross, and said,
“What deevil has sent that Douglas here!
But curses all without demur;
And cares nae mair for a holy man,
Than I do for a worthless cur.”
And tell to me without delay,
Where you have hid the Lord of Ross,
And the lady that came at the break of day?”
Have I beheld since break of morn;
And I never saw the Lord of Ross,
Since the woeful day that I was born.”
And look'd the tinkler in the face;
Where he beheld a lurking smile,
And a deevil of a dour grimace.
Hast thou presumed to lie to me?”
“Faith that I have!” the tinkler said,
“And a right good turn I have done to thee;
The beauteous Harriet of Thirlestane,
Rade west away, ere the break of day;
And you'll never see that dear maid again:
On a wrang scent, of my own accord;
For had you met the Johnstone clan,
They wad hae made mince-meat of a lord.”
He wist not what to say or do;
But he strak the tinkler o'er the croun,
Till the blood came dreeping ower his brow.
“Thou bear'st thee most ungallantlye!
If these are the manners of a lord,
They are manners that winna gang down wi' me.”
“And keep thy distance, tinkler loun!”
“That will I not,” the tinkler said,
“Though I and my mare should both go down!”
“Cuirass and helm, as you may see.”
“The deil may care!” quo the tinkler lad;
“I shall have a skelp at them and thee.”
“And no remorse this weapon brooks.”
“Mine's a right good yaud,” quo the tinkler lad,
“And a great deal better nor she looks.
What I have taken I needs must give;
Thou shalt never strike a tinkler again,
For the langest day thou hast to live.”
Till the fire from both their weapons flew;
But the very first shock that they met with,
The Douglas his rashness 'gan to rue.
And a cuirass on his breast wore he,
With a good steel bonnet on his head,
Yet the blood ran trinkling to his knee.
Aye as together their horses ran;
But the tinkler laid on like a very deil—
Siccan strokes were never laid on by man.
Cried the poor priest, with whining din;
“If thou hurt the brave Lord James Douglas,
A curse be on thee and all thy kin!”
Than Lord James Douglas cares for me;
But I want to let his proud heart know,
That a tinkler's a man as well as he.”
Till good Lord Douglas' breath was gone;
And the tinkler bore him to the ground,
With rush, with rattle, and with groan.
“That I this day should have lived to see!
For sure my honour I have lost,
And a leader again I can never be!
And where was bred thy weapon hand?
For thou art the wale of tinkler louns
That ever was born in fair Scotland.”
“I winna keep in my name frae thee;
And here, take thou thy sword again,
And better friends we two shall be.”
That was a debt he could never owe;
He would rather die at the back of the dike,
Than owe his sword to a man so low.
And bear my livery and my name,
My right-hand warrior thou shalt be,
And I'll knight thee on the field of fame.”
To think I'd change my trade for thine;
Far better and wiser would you be,
To live as journeyman of mine,
Or clout a goodwife's yettlin pan—
Upon my life, good Lord Douglas,
You'd make a noble tinkler man!
And sunkets on a Sunday morn;
And you should be a rare adept
In steel and copper, brass and horn.
Till you can act the hero's part;
Therefore, I pray you, think of this,
And lay it seriously to heart.”
Answering with an inward curse—
Like salmon wriggling on a spear,
That makes his deadly wound the worse.
In search of Lord Douglas they came;
And when they saw their master down,
Their spirits mounted in a flame.
Like perfect tigers on their prey;
But the tinkler heaved his trusty sword,
And made him ready for the fray.
Come hand to hand, and steed to steed,
I would that ye were better men,
For this is glorious work indeed!”
The tinkler's wondrous chivalrye
Had both the squires upon the sward,
And their horses galloping o'er the lea.
And mony a biting jest gave he:
“O fie, for shame!” said the tinkler lad,
“Siccan fighters I did never see!”
Oh what disgrace the conquer'd feels!
And he skelpit the squires with that good tawse,
Till the blood ran off at baith their heels.
Till down his cheek the salt tears ran:
“I think the deevil be come here
In the likeness of a tinkler man!”
And he raised him kindly by the hand,
And he set him on his gallant steed,
And bore him away to Henderland:
Nor writhe beneath a broken bane,
For the leach's art will mend the part,
And your honour lost will spring again.
I'm a right good tinkler as you see;
For I can crack a casque betimes,
Or clout one, as my need may be.
But noble hearts are allied to me,
For I am the Lord of Annandale,
And a knight and earl as well as thee.”
And took from it his sword again;
Since thou art the Lord of Annandale,
Thou hast eased my heart of meikle pain.
In that disguise thou'rt pleased to wear;
All Scotland knows thy matchless arm,
And England by experience dear.
And jealous of each other's sway;
But little can I comprehend
Thy motive for these pranks to-day?”
'Twas I that stole your love away,
And gave her to the Lord of Ross
An hour before the break of day:
By all the laws of chivalrye;
And I brought with me a thousand men,
To guard him to my own countrye.
And try your lordship to waylay;
Resolved to breed some noble sport,
By leading you so far astray;
Which fancy takes me now and then—
And settle our quarrel hand to hand,
Than each with our ten thousand men.
To Border foray sound and haill!
But never strike a tinkler again,
If he be a Johnstone of Annandale.”
Ringan and May.
I heard a laverock singing with glee,And oh but the bird sang cheerilye;
Then I askit at my true love Ringan,
If he kend what the bonny bird was singing?
Now, my love Ringan is blithe and young,
But he has a fair and flattering tongue;
And oh, I'm fear'd I like ower weel
His tales of love, though kind and leal!
So I said to him, in scornful ways,
“You ken nae word that wee burd says!”
Then my love he turn'd about to me,
And there was a smile in his pawky ee;
And he says, “My May, my dawtied dow,
I ken that strain far better nor you;
For that little fairy that lilts so loud,
And hangs on the fringe of the sunny cloud,
Is telling the tale, in chants and chimes,
I have told to thee a thousand times.
I will let thee hear how our strains accord,
And the laverock's sweet sang, word for word:
Interpretation of the Lark's Song.
As sweetly she sits on her dewy lea,
And turns up her cheek and clear gray eye,
To list what's saying within the sky!
For she thinks my morning hymn so sweet,
Wi' the streamers of heaven aneath my feet,
Where the proud goshawk could never won,
Between the gray cloud and the sun—
And she thinks her love a thing of the skies,
Sent down from the holy paradise,
To sing to the world, at morn and even,
The sweet love songs in the bowers of heaven.
As sweetly she sits in her mossy nest!
And she deems the birds on bush and tree,
As nothing but dust and droul to me.
Though the robin warble his waesome churl,
And the merle gar all the greenwood dirl,
And the storm-cock touts on his towering pine,
She trows their songs a mock to mine;
The linty's cheip a ditty tame,
And the shilfa's everlasting rhame;
The plover's whew a solo drear,
And the whilly-whaup's ane shame to hear;
And, whenever a lover comes in view,
She cowers beneath her screen of dew.
Is sweeter to me nor the dawning east;
And well do I like at the gloaming still,
To dreep from the lift or the lowering hill,
And press her nest as white as milk,
And her breast as soft as the downy silk.’”
To this base part of the laverock's lay,
My heart was like to burst in twain,
And the tears flow'd from mine eyne like rain;
At length he said, with a sigh full lang,
“What ails my love at the laverock's sang?”
As ever rose from the dewy yird;
It's a shame to mount on his morning wing,
At the yetts of heaven sic sangs to sing;
And all to win with his amorous din,
A sweet little virgin bird to sin,
And wreck, with flattery and song combined,
His dear little maiden's peace of mind!
Oh, were I her, I would let him see,
His songs should all be lost on me!”
And 'gan to laud my leifou charms;
But I would not so much as let him speak
Nor stroke my chin, nor kiss my cheek:
For I fear'd my heart was going wrang,
It was so moved at the laverock's sang.
And still he was singing sae bonnilye,
That, though with my mind I had great strife,
I could not forbear it for my life,
But, as he hung on the heaven's brow,
I said, I ken not why, nor how,
“What's that little deevil saying now?”
He leugh till his folly pat me mad;
And he said, “My love, I will tell you true,
He seems to sing that strain to you;
For it says, ‘I will range the yird and air
To feed my love with the finest fare;
And when she looks from her bed to me,
With the yearning love of a mother's e'e,
Oh, then I will come, and draw her nearer,
And watch her closer, and love her dearer,
And we never shall part till our dying day,
But love and love on for ever and aye!’”
When it learn'd the laverock's closing measure,
And it rose, and rose, and would not rest,
And would hardly bide within my breast.
Then up I rose, and away I sprung,
And said to my love with scornful tongue,
That it was ane big and burning shame;
That he and the lark were both to blame;
For there were some lays so soft and bland
That breast of maiden could not stand;
And if he lay in the wood his lane,
Quhill I came back to list the strain
Of an amorous bird amang the broom,
Then he might lie quhill the day of doom!
For all I did, and all I said,
Or I forget that wee burd's sang!
And langer still or I can flee
The lad that told that sang to me!
The Haunted Glen.
- Lu, a Scottish prince, carried off by the Fairies, and afterwards chosen their king.
- Knight.
- Spirit.
- Lula, a princess living in concealment.
- Philany, Fairy.
- Dew, Fairy.
- Snowflake, Fairy.
- Foambell, Fairy.
- Rue, Fairy.
- Mothe, Fairy.
- Gossamer, Fairy.
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
Scene I.
—A dell, by moonlight, with a distant view behind.A fairy enters, winding swiftly among the trees. Voice above.
Voice.
Fairy, fairy, whither away?
Fairy.
Come down and see;
It fits not thee
To hide in the bud of the chestnut tree,
And scare with yelp and eldritch croon
The spirits that pass by the light of the moon.
Voice.
I heard a sound come through the wood,
I feared it came from flesh and blood;
But I'll be with thee for evil or good.
Spirit enters.
For I have much to thee to say,
And much to do ere the break of day.
I know thee not—I cannot tell
Whether thou art from heaven or hell.
In Scottish glen, since the days of old,
I have watched the hamlet and the fold;
Long have I sojourned by mountain and dale;
I have sailed on the moonbeam, and rode on the gale
For a thousand years, and a thousand more,
But, spirit, I never saw thee before.
Spirit.
Here am I sent a while to dwell;
Tell me thy nature, and mine I'll tell.
Fairy.
This form was made when the rose first grew,
Of an odour dissolved in the falling dew,
When first from the heaven it 'gan to distil
Above the top of the highest hill:
And if I may judge, from the moment I came,
There's a germ of the rainbow in my frame;
For my being grew, I remember well,
When first the bow on the rose-bud fell;
And the very first scene that met my view,
Was its pale blossom, tinged anew
With stripes of the green, the red, and the blue.
But I am a spirit of joy and love,
For the breath that formed me was from above.
Spirit.
Then, gladsome spirit, list to me,
For we may meet by tower and tree:
When first the fires of vengeance and wrath
Were kindled in a world beneath,
They from their boundaries burst on high,
And flashed into the middle sky;
From these a thin blue vapour came,
Something between a smoke and flame,
And it journeyed on through the firmament,
Till with a sun-beam it was blent:
Of that I was framed, and in my mood
There is something evil and something good.
But I have been busy since I came here;
There's a comely corse lies stretched near—
Within yon wood of alders grey
There was murder done at the close of day.
Oh, I ne'er saw so lovely a sight,
As a maiden's corse in the pale moonlight!
Fairy.
Ah! spirit of stern and ill intent,
The land may rue that thou wast sent.
Spirit.
'Tis true, I love to seek and see
The evils of humanity,
And the woes and the plagues of the human lot!
But I cannot hurt where sin is not.
Come, trifling fay, I'll consort you,
The relics of mortal beauty to view;
The writhed limb you there may see,
And the stripes of blood upon the lea;
Half open is her still blue eye;
Her face is turned unto the sky;
The shadows sleep on her bosom bare,
And the dew-weft on her raven hair;
And never again shall spirit see
Such picture of sorrow and sanctity!
Fairy.
Get thee away,
Thou elfin gray,
Thou art not fit with fairies to stay!
For me, I am sent by the still moonlight,
Each floweret's bosom to bedight,
For the fairies revel here o'er-night.
The time draws on when Lu of Kyle,
Who in Fairyland had sojourned a while,
Must be crowned, by a virgin's hand,
The king of the fairies of fair Scotland:
And fairies have ridden, and fairies have run,
From the evening set till the morning sun,
The first of mortal maidens to find,
Fairest of body, and purest of mind;
For she must be chaste as the snow-drop at noon,
Stately as cherubim, mild as the moon,
Sweet as the rose-bud, and fresh as the dew,
That sets the crown on the head of King Lu.
Spirit.
If right I judge, you will only miss
Your aim in travelling far for this;
The fairest of human form and name;
But if I get sway of this woodland scene,
This matchless maid shall be, ere e'en,
What many a maiden before has been.
Fairy.
Get thee away,
Thou elfin gray,
Thou art not fit with fairies to stay!
The fairies of Scotia are mild as the even,
Jocund and blithe as the laverock in heaven;
Tender to childhood, gentle to age,
Pesterous to priest, and freakish to sage;
But whatever they do, or wherever they go,
They grieve aye for human failings and woe.
Get thee away, over brake, over thorn;
Woo thy dead corse till the break of the morn,
For I hear the sound of the fairies' horn.
[Spirit vanishes.
Scene continues.
Endless trains of Fairies, clothed in green, and riding on white steeds, are seen in the distance.
Song within.
To fairy troopers blithely riding,
Over holt, and holm, and height,
Through the links of greenwood gliding.
CHORUS.
Ara Lu! Ora Lu!Who shall man and fairy sever?
Ara Lu! Ora Lu!
They are knit, and knit for ever.
Vales of light and fairy fountains;
Lu shall wield the regal wand
Over Scotia's heathy mountains.
CHORUS.
Ara Lu! Ora Lu! &c.First Fairy.
Our names, prince—our new names!
Lu.
Thy name be hence Philany, and thy charge
The nestlings of the birds, that sing at eve
And ere the morning sun. And thou, pale blossom,
Thy name is Snowflake; and thy envied charge,
The walks and couch of virgin purity:
Oh guard that well! If e'er thou mark'st the eye
Beaming with more than earthly lustre, then
Thy sickening opiates use, to dim the ray
Too bright for man to look on. In the night,
By maiden's bosom watch; and if she dream,
Lay thy cold hand upon her youthful breast;
Hang on her waving locks by day, and watch
Her sweet and mellow breath; and as it heaves
And rocks thee to and fro, thou shalt discern
The slightest workings of the soul within;
The rest thy wisdom and thy care direct.
Bright as the orient—thy name be Dew;
Thy care, the wild flowers of the hill and dale,
To pearl the rose and weave the heavenly bow.
And thou, her sister, guard the rivulets,
And silver pools, where little fishes dwell,
And sport them in the sun: thou hast a flock
Full wayward and exposed—so be thy care:
Thy name is Foambell, brook thou well the name.
And thine is Rue—thy charge, declining life.
And thou, that hast a pathos in thy looks
Bespeaking mould of tenderness and love,
Be guardian thou of playful infancy.
Watch o'er the imps; and when the comely boy
Nears to the precipice, where blossoms wave,
Or to the pool, where green inverted hills,
And trees, and shrubs betray—then flutter thou
Close by his foot like gilded butterfly,
To lure the rosy lubber from the snare
Of adders young, and from the slow-worm's den.
Thy name is Mothe; the joy of doing good
Be thy reward.
Fond as the nestling, playful as the fawn,
Thy dwelling be the mountain, and thy task
To guard the young deer and the leveret
And tender lamb—thy name is Gossamer.
Embrace me all, then bound you on your way,
To sport and revel till the dawn of day.
And well I love you. But my mortal frame
Is not so subtilized and pure, but that
I feel in your communion something short
Of true felicity. In all your rounds,
And wanderings wild, search for the mortal maid
Of purity and beauty so refined
That spirits may consort with; and no stain
Of human love or longing intervene.
Dew.
Prince, here I met with a spirit stern,
Who said that by this forest dern,
There dwells the fairest, loveliest dame,
That ever wore the human frame;
But wicked men and fiends below
Have both combined to work her woe.
Prince, watch this glen, and if you see
A knight of comely courtesy
Lead a fair maiden to the wood,
Of lady mien, and mournful mood;
Be sure that knight's intent is ill,
For the blood is on his corslet still!
Lu.
Hie you away by valley and brae,
Attend to your tasks by night and by day,
To tend your behests for right or for wrong;
And here will I watch till the rising sun,
For fear more guilty deeds be done.
The Fairies dance slowly round him in a circle, and sing.
The maiden's slumber blest and pure;
The gray-haired sire shall rejoice in mind,
And look before and not behind.
The flowers shall blow, and the rainbow beam,
The fishes sport in the sunny stream;
Young Love and Peace shall go hand in hand,
And Sin and Sorrow flee the land;
The lamb beside the fox shall stray,
The kid and fawn round the martin play,
And the child shall dance by the adder's den,
Since spirits pure are conjoined with men.
CHORUS.
Then hie away, fairies, hie away,Light over flower and tender spray,
Light over moonbeam and midnight dew,
Our blithesome gambols to renew.
Scene II.
—A wood.Enter Lu.
Lu.
To me a day of such delight, and pain,
And new sensations mingled, as I never
Deemed consonant with being. I have seen
The peerless maid of this romantic glen;
Have watched her every motion, word, and look,
With lover, and alone. Such beauty, truth,
And purity of soul, I did not ween
This sinful world contained! I love her so,
That I would yield this incorporeal frame,
This state of mental energy, attained
By seven years' penance, and again assume
My former state of gross humanity,
Rather than lose that virgin's fellowship,
Her confidence, and love. I watched her steps,
Led by that treacherous, that decoying fiend,
That demon in the guise of man, and heard
His smooth deceitful tale. I took the form
Of redbreast, and I hopped upon the spray
Close to her cheek, and sung my plaintive note;
And she called me “sweet robin,” and I saw
A kindness in her looks. “Sir knight,” said she,
“List to that robin's note. Methinks he says,
‘Beware, young simple Lula.’” “On my faith,”
The knight replied, “'tis very like these words!”
“I wish I were that robin's mate,” said she,
“To fly away with him o'er many lands,
And live in innocence!” And then I sung
“Would that you were, sweet Lula.” Her blue eyes
Turned doubtfully up to the sky, when this
She heard sung by a bird; her lovely face
Was stamped with sweet amazement and deep thought.
From out the brake, and hitched around their seat,
Mounching the herbs, and raised up my long ears
As listening in dismay, and looked full wise,
Making my cloven lip and wiry beard
Move with grimace. Back to the thicket then
Amain I scudded, and as quick returned,
And cowered, and mounched the grass—she laughed at me,
And praised my antic tricks, but little weened
I was a fairy lover, and far less
A mortal prince rid of his mortal nature.
I must retire and take some other form,
For here my loved and beauteous Lula comes,
Led by the wretch that wooes her to her fate.
[Exit.
Enter Lula and Knight.
Lula.
Where do you lead me, knight? I may not go
Farther into the glen: have you not heard
How it is haunted?
Knight.
Fear not, gentle Lula;
No spirit may do harm to innocence
And beauty such as thine. Come, let us stray
Deeper into this dell, and watch the rise
Of the full moon. See how her radiant verge
Streams through the broken cliffs of yon far hill,
Like fragments of a moon. The queen of heaven
Smiles from her lattice. Has it not a cast
Of sweet sublimity that scene, my Lula?
Lula.
It has—oh, I could list and look for ever,
And muse upon these goings on of nature!
Knight.
'Tis a fit scene for love. Will you not hear
The man that loves you to distraction, breathe
The vows of constancy and endless love?
Lula.
Nay, then I'm gone; I loathe the very name
Of love, and every baneful consequence
That follows in its train. Why talk to me
Of love, when Emma's lost? Emma, who loved you
With fondness never equalled! Tell me, knight,
Where think you Emma's gone?
Knight.
How can I know?
Woe's me, poor Emma! She is fled, I fear,
With false deceiver, or some base-born hind—
Let us not think of her.
Lula.
Yet you grow pale
At mention of her name—I honour you
For this. 'Tis true she loved you! What is here?
There's blood upon your basnet, knight! Your hilt
And arm are stained with it. What blood is this?
Knight.
It is the blood of my white steed, which I
Slew in a rage, that now I sore repent.
Your steed is whole and standing in his stall;
I saw him; ask your groom.
Knight.
It was my hound,
My milk-white hound—Woe's me that she is slain!
Lula.
Your hound is well, and hunting through the wood.
Knight.
It was a deer that held the hound at bay,
'Twas that I meant.
Lula.
You have not slain a deer
For months and days, nor is it hunting time;
You rave, or do not think of what you say.
But here's our gentle robin come again,
To cheer us with his homely note. O knight,
Let us return. Hear what the robin sings!
Knight.
Come let us dive into the dell, my Lula,
And see the moon lie bathing in the stream,
Deep in the centre of the wood; it is
A scene will charm you. Let us go, my love.
Lula.
I never farther leave my home at eve;
That glen is dangerous, for spirits there
Hold nightly rendezvous. Poor Emma loved
Thoughtful to stray in it—now, where, alas!
Is simple Emma? Knight, though I nought fear,
Strange fancies crowd on me. Ah, might it be
As I now deem! Do guardian spirits ever
Take form of beast or bird?
Knight.
So sages say;
But wherefore ask? Come, let us go, my love,
Down that sweet winding glen. You cannot fear
To walk that space with me? I know the scene
Hath that in't will delight you. You shall see
The moonbeam streaming o'er the shadowy hill,
To kiss the winding wave, and deck the trees
In golden foliage. You shall see the shades
Of hills, and trees, and rocks, lie stretched afar,
Bathing in liquid crystal, till you lose
Sense which is the true world, the stars and moon,
And which the elemental imagery.
Oh! I beseech you let us go, sweet Lula.
Lula.
Well, I will go, for when I hear you talk
Of nature, I am charmed—'tis so unlike
The converse of these simple cottagers;
But talk of that alone, and not of love,
Else I'll not list, nor answer deign to you.
Why am I plagued with language which I loathe? [Going, stops short.
Protect my senses, Heaven! Can it be!
Look at that bird, sir knight—is it not changed
In form and hue since last we looked at it?
Knight.
What is it?
Lula.
See! it grows and changes still;
Waylays and threatens us—I will not go
Farther upon that path for will of man.
Knight.
Then my resolve is fixed—Dame, you shall go,
Return home as you may.
Lula.
What do you mean?
Knight.
Only that you shall go into that glen,
Far as I list to lead you: if you prove
As coy when you return, my well-earned skill
In woman I give up. Nay, struggle not,
Nor pule, nor cry, for neither shall avail!
Lu enters, and by a wave of his hand lays the Knight flat on his back.
Lula.
O comely stranger, spare my helpless youth!
Protect and guard me! here I throw myself
Into your arms.
Lu.
And from all brutal force
And insult shall these arms protect thee, maid.
Lula.
Yes, I can trust you, there is in your look
And your embrace, that chastened dignity,
That calm pure sympathy, which I have longed
And pined so much to look on. Whence are you?
From what blest land or kingdom came you thus
To my deliverance?
Lu.
These lands were mine,
Far as the soaring eagle's eye can reach;
But I resigned them for a dynasty
Wild and ethereal. Could you love me, Lula?
Lula.
I know not: If your touch and looks were aye
As pure as they are now—methinks I could.
Lu.
Then I'll be aught for thee—I'll be again
The thing I was, that I may be caressed
And loved by you; though pain, and woe, and death,
And spirits' vengeance, on the issue wait.
Come with me, gentle maid; and while I lead you
Home to your cot, I will a tale unfold
Shall make your ears to tingle, and your thoughts
Wander into delirious mystery.
[Exeunt Lu and Lula. The Knight rises.
Knight.
And chained as by some spell? Curse on the stripling!
Who can he be, or whither did he come,
To brave me in this guise? 'Tis like a dream;
And yet I saw them go, arm linked in arm,
While I not moved a finger or a limb.
Not of this world, that with one wave of 's hand,
Could strike me motionless, then do I strive
In vain for the possession of the maid.
But here I swear above this craven sword,
That for the first time slept within its sheath
Beneath the eye of insult, not to brook
Life without Lula. Never shall I see
Another filch that precious morsel, placed
To lie in dull and nerveless apathy
When will called “Strike;” ah! couldst thou do it now
When the most delicate and luscious cup
That ever mocked Desire's pale parching lip
Was rudely dashed away? Blood and revenge
Be hence thy meed, or scornful Lula mine!
Scene III.
—The glen.—Twilight.Lu and Fairy meeting.
Lu.
Welcome my little Foambell, here:
How fare thy flocks by frith and meer,
By river, pool, and streamlet clear?
Foam.
My little breast is rent with pain!
No happy thing on earth may be,
While ruthless man holds sovereignty.
I chose the sweetest stream that fell
From mountain glen, and moorland well,
Where happy, gay, and innocent,
My finny tribes were in thousands blent;
And I rejoiced and smiled to see
Each awkward beck and courtesy;
How downward turned each full set eye,
As I, their queen, went sailing by.
A carl that waved a sounding wand
Of marvellous length, whom I did deem
Some earthly guardian of the stream;
But coming nigh I wept full sore
To see my people dragged ashore,
One after one, and two by two,
And welcomed forth with murderous blow;
While their dying throes rejoiced his sight,
For his ugly face had the grin of delight.
I tried to wile them from the snare;
The form of a fisherman I took,
And I angled before him in the brook;
But they wearied of my phantom fly,
And the carl he thrashed and waded nigh:
I could not scare them from his hook,
For I cast no shadow on the brook;
Though boardly my frame, as man's might be,
“The sun shone through my thin bodye.”
I wist not what to do or say,
For still the carl he plashed away;
And his rod, that stretched o'er half the flood,
It sounded through the air so loud,
That it made me start and pant for breath,
For I knew the sough was the sound of death.
No minute passed but one or more
Was dragged forth struggling to the shore;
I saw them flutter in wild affright,
And shiver and gasp in piteous plight;
Their silvery sides, that in the flood
Shone bright and pure, were striped with blood;
Yet no remorse did the carl feel,
But thrust them in his wicker creel.
Of turning pike instead of man;
And aye where his hook the angler threw
I chased away my harmless crew:
Oh! how astonished were the throng
When I came gaping them among!
Away they fled to ward the scathe,
Fast I pursued with threat of death.
Most gleesome sport I had the while,
But wondered at the carl's wile,
For o'er the ripple he swam his fly,
So sleek and so provokingly,
That scarcely could I myself restrain
From springing at that bait amain;
For, though by sage it be denied,
Nature and form are still allied.
Another fish he could not hook;
He changed his tackle, he changed his fly,
And blamed the colour of the sky;
But, baulked for once, he went away,
Cursing the fish and hateful day.
I saw him count them on the shore;
All reft of life withouten law,
To gorge a miscreant's ravenous maw.
Then sooth, while man has sway below,
My watery charge I must forego.
Lu.
But here comes slender Gossamer,
Like shred of silver through the air.—
What news, thou gentle, pitying child,
From mountain, glen, and pathless wild?
Gos.
Ah, woeful news! my heart's in pain!
All would be joy in my domain,
The kid and lamb would sport in peace,
The young deer dwell in happiness;
But man—remorseless, ravenous man,
Kills and devours; and stay who can!
The life-blood and the trembling limb
Of parting life are joy to him:
That rank devourer hence restrain,
Or take from me my charge again.
Lu.
Woe's me, that those we so much love,
Such troublers should of nature prove:
But here comes one whose placid face
Speaks better things of the human race.
Welcome, sweet Snowflake, back to me;
How thrives sweet virgin purity?
Snow.
Give it not thought—give it not name!
Else first restrain or quench the blood
Of man, the defacer of all good!
The maiden is pure without a stain,
And pure in mind would aye remain;
Of all the shame that he hath wrought;
There is no art—there is no wile
That may the maiden heart beguile,
And cloud for aye the joyous smile,
Which this destroyer scorns to prove—
This recreant in the paths of love.
Thousands to shame and ruin driven,
Debased on earth—debarred from heaven—
Of human forms and souls divine,
Yearly at Love's unholy shrine,
On bloated altar doomed to lie,
Unblest to weep, unwept to die.
He boasts his feats and urges on;
And when no other schemes remain
To give the virtuous bosom pain,
To beauty's walks he wends his way,
With shameless stare in open day,
To check the step, abash the eye,
And tint the cheek of modesty.
O prince! my charge I must disclaim,
While man's rude nature is the same.
Is lately come to sojourn here;
A stranger spirit, bent on ill,
Whom I have watch'd o'er vale and hill:
His purposes we must gainsay,
Else shame may be ere break of day.
Yon cot I marked him prying round,
But scared him thence; and there I found
The loveliest maid of mortal race,
In dangerous and in helpless case.
A clown had crept her door within,
And left it open to the gin;
A dark knight stood her casement nigh,
With burning cheek, and greedy eye,
While the unweeting, simple maid,
Kneeled on the floor and inly prayed.
Her light locks o'er her shoulders swung,
Her night-robe round her waist was flung;
Her eyes were raised—her breast of snow
Heaved with devotion's grateful glow.
The speaking lip, the brow erect,
The movement on the polished neck,
The blooming cheek, the fervent mien,
Were all so comely, so serene,
The breeze of earth did ne'er embrace
Such pure angelic loveliness.
And braved the blood-hound's surly look;
At me he flew with horrid bay:
I fled, provoked, and led the way
Straight to the base and wicked clown—
The ban-dog seized and pulled him down;
Aloud he cried, and fought for life,
And rough and bloody was the strife.
Forthwith I glided by the knight,
Who followed fast, and begged and prayed,
But still I flew along the glade;—
Just when his arms were stretched to press
My waist with hellish eagerness,
A quagmire deep I led him in,
And left him struggling to the chin.
Protecting maidhood's guiltless bed;
But ah, if man, the lord below,
Continue still as he is now,
Alas! my prince, my toils will prove
Light balance in the scales of love.
The loveliest flower on Leven side
In her bed-chamber laid to rest,
A sweet babe cradled on her breast.
Such fondness melted in her eye—
Affection's holiest purity,
When with her breast the elfin played,
His round cheek to that bosom laid,
That I was moved, and weened if bliss
Be found in life's imperfectness,
If pure affection's from above,—
If “Love is Heaven, and Heaven is Love,”
All love, all fondness is outdone
By mother's o'er her only son:
That glow is bright, its workings kind,
Calm, chastened, ardent, yet refined.
Then let me roam, as heretofore,
And think of guarding maids no more.
Song by Lu.
Never, gentle spirits, neverYield your cares of human kind!
Can you leave the lonely river,
From the moonlight valley sever,
All your guardian love resigned?
Thrown aside and scorned the giver?
Never, gentle spirits, never!
Chorus of Fairies.
Never till the dawn of day,Dawn of truth that shine shall ever,
Will we quit our polar way;
Over greenwood, glen, and brae,
Over tree,
Over lea,
Over fell and forest free,
Over rock, and over river,
Over cairn and cloud to quiver;
Never, gentle spirits, never!
Never!—Never!
Scene IV.
—A deep dell.Knight sitting disconsolate.
Knight.
Sure there's some power unseen, unmeet for man
To cope with, watches o'er that witching thing.
Flat without motion; next to slough decoyed,
Bayed by a madman—by a blood-hound torn.
If I escape infection from the fangs
Of that outrageous monster, I shall never
Strive for possession of that maiden more,
Though my heart burn within me.
Spirit enters, and speaks and sings aside.
Spirit.
Knight, before the rising sun,
Wet and weary, racked with pain,
You shall seek that maid again.
My love's bonnie, as bonnie can be;
Though she loves another far better than me,
Yet the dream wears kind in the morning.
And I will kiss my bonnie, bonnie bride;
And I'll whisper a vow, whatever betide,
To my little flower in the morning.
Of dew that is blown from the rowan-tree flower;
Oh, ne'er were the sweets of roseate bower,
Like my love's cheeks in the morning!
Her hair is the fleece of the raven's wing;
To her bonnie breast oh how I'll cling,
While sleeping so sound in the morning!
Enter Lu and Fairies.
Lu.
Fairies, the night wears on apace;
There's a paleness spread on the heaven's face,
A silvery haze so mild to see,
As lambent and as pure as we.
Soon will we mount with blithesome sway
Through these bright paths on our spiral way,
On the locks of the morning star to swing,
Or the veil of the sky for dew to wring;
To gallop the blue so lightsome and boon,
Or braid the fair tresses of beauty so bright,
That wanton and wave at the horns of the moon,
They are half of them ether, and half of them light.
But ere we depart from the morning ray,
To follow the moonlight west away,
O spirits, advise what shall be done,
This loveliest flower beneath the sun,
From shame, from sin, and from sorrow to win.
Dew.
Bear her away,
'Twixt the night and the day;
We spirits have might
When we work for the right,
And each of us as much can bear
Of aught corporeal through the air,
As the swallow can carry on wing opprest,
Or the merle upbear to her downy nest.
Then bear her away
'Twixt the night and the day,
For she is too pure in the world to stay.
Lu.
That may not be—by right divine,
In holy church and at holy shrine,
She has been washed with prayer and vow,
And named by a name to which we bow:
Or she must change with free good-will,
Or be as she is for good or for ill.
Should I her gain, say, shall she be
The Queen of the Fairies, and queen to me?
Dew.
Treason and pain!
Speak not again;
Trial and penance must long remain!
Bonnie Philany, Snowflake, and Foam,
Rainbow, Rainbow, blink and go home!
Phil.
(Aside).
Regard not, prince, that freakish thing,
From jealousy her ravings spring;
One we must have, whatever befall;
To-morrow is our great festival,
And nought but mortal virgin's hand
Must crown thee King of Fairyland;
And then thy fate is fixed for ever,
From us and ours no more to sever.
Lu.
Would that the time were not so soon!
It is not yet the wane of the moon.
Phil.
Prince, I have a word to say to thee—
Your troubled mind and eye I see;
But if you dare to harbour a thought
Of yielding a crown so dearly bought,
With all the joys of the moonlight dell,
And the fervent beings that love you so well,
For the sake of a flower that will soon decay,
A piece of fair well-moulded clay,
We'll pick these bright eyes from your head,
And there we'll fix two eyes of lead;
We'll pull the heart from thy breast-bone,
And there we'll lodge a heart of stone:
So take thou care, lest some espy
The thoughts that in thy bosom lie.
Lu.
Nor thought nor wish I'll hide from you:
Either that maiden here I must have,
Or return to the world, to death, and the grave.
Oh, haste thee, Snowflake, haste and glide
To yon little cot by the greenwood side,
And watch yon maid till the break of day,
For I hear the watch-dog's angry bay:
Watch by her pillow, and look to her bed,
For I fear that beauty is hard bested.
Lean to the breeze, and ride in array
Over the land and the sea so fleet;
Over the rain, and the hail, and the sleet;
Keep aye the sun far under your feet,
The moonbeam your path, and her crescent your guide;
For oh, her mild and humid flame
Suits best with the fairy's airy frame!
And meet we again to-morrow at even,
When the first star peeps through the veil of heaven;
And here such a palace of light shall be
As the world ne'er saw and never will see:
For there shall be lamps and glories in store,
And a thousand stars and a thousand more;
And there shall the ruby and onyx be seen,
The amethyst blue, and the emerald green,
With millions of gems of varied flame,
That have no likeness and have no name.
And our columns shall reach to the middle sky,
And the throne shall stand as the pine tree high;
Soft music shall flow of the spheres above,
The songs of gladness and songs of love;
And our feast shall begin with glory and glee—
But little we know what the end shall be!
Song.
In cottage, bught, or pen!
And weel befa' the bonnie May
That wons in yonder glen;
Wha loes the good and true sae weel—
Wha's aye sae kind and aye sae leal,
And pure as blooming asphodel
Amang sae mony men;
Oh weel befa' the bonnie thing
That wons in yonder glen.
There's hinny in the haw,
There's dew within the rose's breast,
The sweetest o' them a'.
The sun may rise and set again,
And lace wi' burning gowd the main,
The rainbow bend attour the plain
Sae lovely to the ken;
But there's naething like my bonnie thing
That wons in yonder glen.
Alang the gloaming lea;
'Tis sweet to hear the blackbird's note
Come pealing frae the tree;
To see the lambkin's lightsome race;
The speckled kid in wanton chase;
The young deer cower in lonely place
Deep in his flowery den;
But what is like the bonnie face
That smiles in yonder glen!
The First Sermon.
I went to hear a splendid young divine
Preach his first sermon. I had known the youth
In a society of far renown,
But liked him not, he held his head so high;
And ever and anon would sneer, and pooh!
And cast his head all to one side, as if
In perfect agony of low contempt
At everything he heard, however just.
Men like not this, and poets least of all.
One scarcely can approve. His hair was red,
Almost as red as German sealing-wax;
And then so curled—What illustrious curls!
'Twas like a tower of strength. Oh, what a head
For Combe or Dr. Spurzheim to dissect,
After 'twas polled! His shoulders rather narrow,
And pointed like two pins. And then there was
A primming round the mouth, of odious cast,
Bespeaking the proud vacancy within.
And many more with me. The place was crowded.
In came the beadle—then our hero follow'd
With gown blown like a mainsail, flowing on
To right and left alternate; the sleek beaver,
Down by his thigh keeping responsive time.
Oh, such a sight of graceful dignity
Never astounded heart of youthful dame!
But I bethought me, what a messenger
From the world's pattern of humility!
And sung. Then pour'd the prayer from such a face
Of simpering seriousness—it was a quiz—
A mockery of all things deem'd divine.
Some men such faces may have seen among
The Methodists and Quakers—but I never.
The eyes were closely shut—one cheek turn'd up;
The mouth quite long and narrow like a seam,
Holding no fit proportion with the mouths
Which mankind gape with. Then the high curl'd hair
With quiver and with shake, announced supreme
The heart's sincere devotion: unto whom?
Ask not—it is unfair! Suppose to Heaven,
To the fair maids around the gallery,
Or to the gorgeous idol, Self-conceit.
Glad was my heart at last to hear the word,
That often long'd-for and desired word,
Which men yearn for as for the dinner-bell,
And now was beauteously pronounced, Ay-main!
Of poesy sublime, give me to sing
The splendours of that sermon! The bold hem;
The look sublime that beam'd with confidence;
The three wipes with the cambric handkerchief;
The strut—the bob—and the impressive thump
Upon the holy Book! No notes were there,
No, not a scrap—All was intuitive,
Pouring like water from a sacred fountain,
With current unexhausted. Now the lips
Like Kean's in dark Othello. The red hair
Shook like the wither'd juniper in wind.
'Twas grand—o'erpowering!—Such an exhibition
No pen of poet can delineate.
Somewhat of this same grand and promised sermon—
Aha, there comes the rub! 'Twas made of scraps,
Sketches from Nature, from old Johnson some,
And some from Joseph Addison—John Logan—
Blair—William Shakspeare—Young's Night Thoughts—The Grave—
Gillespie on the Seasons—Even the plain
Bold energy of Andrew Thomson here
Was press'd into the jumble. Plan or system
In it was not—no gleam of mind or aim—
A thing of shreds and patches—yet the blare
Went on for fifteen minutes, haply more.
The hems! and haws! began to come more close;
Three at a time. The cambric handkerchief
Came greatly in request. The burly head
Gave over tossing. The fine cheek grew red—
Then pale—then blue—then to a heavy crimson.
The beauteous dames around the galleries
Began to look dismay'd; their rosy lips
Wide open'd; and their bosoms heaving so,
You might have ween'd a rolling sea within.
The gruff sagacious elders peered up,
With one eye shut right knowingly, as if
The light oppress'd it—but their features
Show'd restlessness and deep dissatisfaction.
Gave half a dozen hems; arose again,
Then half a dozen more—It would not do!
In every line his countenance bespoke
The loss of recollection; all within
Became a blank—a chaos of confusion,
Producing nought but agony of soul.
His long lip quiver'd, and his shaking hand
Of the trim beaver scarcely could make seizure,
When, stooping, floundering, plaiting at the knees,
He—made his exit. But how I admired
The Scottish audience! There was neither laugh
Nor titter; but a soften'd sorrow
Portray'd in every face. As for myself,
I laugh'd till I was sick; went home to dinner,
Drank the poor preacher's health, and laugh'd again.
Went home to his own native kingdom—Fife,
Pass'd to his father's stable—seized a pair
Of strong plough-bridle reins, and hang'd himself.
Since that outrageous scene, for young beginners
To have a sermon, either of their own
Or other man's. If printed, or if written,
It makes small difference—but have it there
At a snug opening of the blessed book
Which any time will open there at will,
And save your credit. While the consciousness
That there it is, will nerve your better part,
And bear you through the ordeal with acclaim.
The Mermaid.
Wi' look sae wild an' cheery?
There's something in that witching face
That I lo'e wonder dearly.”
Where the streamlet never ran,
Where the winds o' heaven never blew;
Now find me gin you can.”
The gloaming maks you eirie,
For ye are the lass o' the Braken-Brae,
An' nae lad maun come near ye:
Wi' a passion strange an' new,
For ae kiss o' thy rosy cheek
An' lips o' the coral hue.”
To do your youth sic wrang;
Were you to reave a kiss from me
Your life would not be lang.
Nor dare your walk renew;
For I'm the Maid of the Mountain Lake,
An' I come wi' the falling dew.”
Or she of the Braken-Brae,
One tender kiss I mean to have;
You shall not say me nay.
That shrinks from the early dew,
But soon it opes its bonnie breast,
An' sae may it fare wi' you.”
Even there I'll rue the stain;
Or the breath of man will dim its hue,
It will ne'er be pure again.
Upon the mountain's brow,
That wastes itself to ashes pale;
An' sae will it fare wi' you.”
An' make it soft and easy;
An' with the cold dew bathe my head,
For pains of anguish seize me:
To quench this bosom's burning;
An' lay me by yon lonely brake,
For hope there's none returning.
Oft in my lonely roaming;
And seen what man should not have seen,
By greenwood in the gloaming.
A' human things undoing!
The Maiden of the Mountain Wave
Has lured me to my ruin!”
An' all these scenes are over,
Since rose his grave on yonder shore,
Beneath the wild wood cover;
Just as the day-light faded,
Braiding her locks of gowden hair,
An' singing as she braided:
Mermaid's Song.
Long is thy night of sorrow;
Thy Maiden of the Mountain deep
Shall meet thee on the morrow.
That my true love shall waken?
When shall we meet, refined an' free,
Amid the moorland braken?
The worm even flies thy pillow;
Where now the lips, so comely red,
That kissed me 'neath the willow?
Even 'mid my song of mourning,
At all the fuming freaks of man
To which there's no returning.
Hope lingers o'er thy slumber;
What though thy years beneath the steep
Should all its stones outnumber?
On time's swift wing unstaying,
Yet there's a spirit in the sky
That lives o'er thy decaying.
No end hath my sojourning;
An' to this land of fading things
Far hence be my returning;
Their long last farewell taken:
Lie still, my love, lie still an' sleep,
Thy day is near the breaking!
No more its gleam shall borrow,
Nor heath-fowl from the moorland gray
Bid the blue dawn good-morrow;
Without one breath of scorning:
Lie still, my love, lie still an' sleep,
And fare thee well till morning!
Cary O'Kean.
Her mountains so fair, nor her valleys so green;
The birds of the woodland are blithe as before—
Why hear we the song of the maidens no more?
Oh, Nature is strong when unshackled by art!
The prospects of beauty on others rely,
Heart links unto heart, and eye kindles to eye;
And many a dawning shall blush o'er the scene,
Ere the maids of Kilalla be cheerful again.
Her woodlands are fair and her meadows are green,
The sunbeam of morning is bright as of yore,
And the shades of the mountain as dark as before;
As mild is the evening, as pure is the dew,
Her breeze is as sweet, and her heaven is as blue;
But, ah! there is one who is missed in the ring,
Then how can the maidens be blithsome or sing?
The youth is away, for whose pleasure they sung,
The pride of the old, and the joy of the young;
Who made the fair bosom beat briskly and high,
Gave the tint to the cheek, and the dew to the eye:
He is gone! he is gone over channel and main,
And the tears run in torrents for Cary O'Kean.
He loved with a flame that was pure and refined;
Of honours or pelf he despised the name,
He loved from his heart, and expected the same:
But just as the day of the bridal came on,
The bride looked disdainful and bade him begone;
She wedded a squire who was sordid and vain,
But ten times as rich as young Cary O'Kean.
When a friend is removed from the precincts of time;
For hope, from the fetters of cumbersome clay,
On the wing of eternity journeys away,
And views the abodes of the happy and blest,
Where lovers and friends from their sorrows shall rest:
The gloom of the spirit soon grasps the alloy,
And sorrow expands to a twilight of joy.
Which nature may feel, but can never express;
Too wide for the fancy, too high for the tongue,
When passion is ardent and reason is young;
A banquet of bliss, or a feeling of grief,
When bound there is none, and when death is relief.
I know it too well, and shall never forget
The days of enchantment, the joys that had birth,
Ere she whom I loved above all on this earth,
Deceived me—ah! woe that these hopes e'er had been!
O God, thou hast willed it!—I loved, and have seen
Another possessing her heart and her charms,
And the child of a fool in her delicate arms!
Down, down with reflection, it maddens my brain—
Oh, well may I feel for poor Cary O'Kean;
It seemed as if nature combined to destroy
A heart that was formed for its tenderest joy.
But oft turned his face to green Erin to weep:
“Adieu, once loved country, thy name be forgot,
For interest pervades thee, and feeling is not.
I'll circle the earth some sweet island to find,
Where primitive innocence models the mind;
Where nature blooms fair on the face of the free,
Where kindness conferred shall redouble to me.
There, there will I sojourn till memory is o'er,
And think of false Ella and Erin no more.”
Till vanished behind them the stars of the Wain;
Unknown was the sky and the track of the wind,
For the sun he was north, and Orion behind;—
Over ocean's wide waste, by lone island and shore,
Which the eye of proud science ne'er measured before;—
Over waves never ploughed, wave their streamers unfurled,
For hope was their leader, their limits the world.
And all but the triple-walled stone house they saw,
Where the world's own axletree thunders and rolls,
In grooves of blue icicle hung from the poles:
Unknown are its workings—unseen is the dome,
Unless by the whale from its window of foam.
As the groves and the streamlets of famed Otaheite;
That paradise island, where joys never cease,
That lies like a gem midst an ocean of peace;
Where the verdure and flowers never fade on the lea,
And the fruit and the blossom are aye on the tree;
Where beauty blooms wild, which no land can outvie,
And guileless simplicity laughs in the eye.
And the beauty misguided that blossomed so sweet;
The forms so enchanting, the manners so kind,
The bloom of ripe maidhood, with infancy's mind;
The mountains o'er mountains that towered to the sky,
And the sweet sheltered vales in their bosoms that lie,
Than a life in that island he fondly devised—
The dreams of his fancy were all realized;
For he deemed, that with freedom and honour allied,
As freely he came, he was free to abide.
He ate of the fruit, and he drank of the spring;
The maids he saluted with courtesy kind,
For love was the passion that tempered his mind.
His choice was select, when his chance was to see
That pearl of the ocean, the young Oraee;
He loved her at first for her beauty and youth,
But her artless esteem and unblemished truth
So gained on his heart, and his feelings so moved,
Man never so felt, and man never so loved.
When on board she was borne all the wonders to view,
She looked but at Cary, to Cary she grew;
Her dark liquid eye, like the dew on the sloe,
Still followed her lover above and below;
And yet where his smile of sweet sympathy told,
That eye still abroad on the far ocean rolled;
Unconscious of ought that could evil imply,
She blushed and she faltered, yet never knew why.
No morning so early the land could he reach,
But there she was waiting with smiles on the beach;
Her slender arms spread, while the words she addressed
Well noted the welcome that glowed in her breast.
And when in the bower of the mountain he slept,
Still o'er him, unwearied, a guardship she kept;
Her arm was his pillow, and over him flew
Her dark tresses warding the sun and the dew:
Then oft when awakening he caught the sweet smile,
And the kiss lightly pressed on his temple the while;
And well of her bosom he felt the fond strife,
Like a pressure of down that had motion and life;
And then she would tell him, as o'er him she hung,
The words that the little birds said when they sung.
To say that he loved her as life or as day!
All nature to him had but one only gem,
A treasure unvalued—one sole diadem.
Too high were his raptures for mortal to bear,
If they had not been mellowed by feeling of fear,
For his all was subjected to Nature's behest,
And too good and too dear to be ever possessed.
He heard of their sailing to Britain again
Without all emotion, save gladness of heart,
For fixed was his mind that they never should part.
But what was his pain when his captain he told,
A smile of contempt in his eye to behold!
He turned from him scornful, and laughing amain,
“Such things may not be—you must think once again.”
Awaited his peace, which he could not forego;
A blow with more exquisite torments combined,
Than the change of his being from matter to mind:
So he fled with his love to a lonely retreat—
A cave in the mountains of green Otaheite,
Their only resource what they dreaded to shun.
The trembling deserter to heaven would pray,
While poor Oraee, sadly sighing, withdrew,
And sung a wild hymn to the great Eatoo.
They started at step of the prowling racoon,
And gathered their fruits by the light of the moon.
The prince is a captive, and found they must be.
Full hard was their fate, for beset was each way,
And poor Oraee was ill able to stray,
For, ah! an unmentioned season drew near;
A time of alarm, and anxiety drear!
Yet nightly she travelled, and plaining forbore,
From island to island, from mountain to shore,
Till in a lone forest, of mother forlorn,
Was the beautiful babe of the fugitives born.
As helpless at eve in the woodland they lay;
There were they surrounded—there Cary was ta'en,
As tending his darling, and soothing her pain.
All pale was she seated beneath the wild tree,
With a fair son of Erin asleep on her knee;
With loud shout of triumph they rushed on their prey,
They seized on O'Kean, and they bore him away,
Regardless of delicate mother and child,
Her faint cries of sorrow, and ravings so wild.
They scarce looked around, though she sunk on the sward,
For great was the capture, and high the reward.
Oh, sad was that parting, and woeful the scene,
And frantic the anguish of Cary O'Kean!
The orders for sailing are issued at last;
And the crew with a sigh, the last evening greet
That e'er they should see on the loved Otaheite.
And song of the sailor as heaving the sail;
The sound on the ears of the islanders fell
Like the aerial night-concert that shepherds know well,
When phalanx of swans, at December's behest,
Are journeying to winter on shores of the west;
With hoopings untuneful they wing the dark sky,
And the peasant turns pale at the storm that is nigh.
With earnestness pleaded the wretched O'Kean,
That, bound to the mast, he might stand on the hoy,
One last, longing sight of the land to enjoy.
A sightly canoe coming sailing away,
And placed on the prow a loved figure he knew,
Arrayed in the mantle of scarlet and blue,
Which erst had her form of virginity drest,
When first with her hand and her love he was blest.
She came like a meteor till under the prow,
When oh! the young mother looked pale and aghast,
When she saw her poor Cary bound up to the mast.
She flew to his bosom, and clasped him in pain,
But his pinioned arms could not clasp her again.
They pleaded together—they pleaded apart:
With the child in her bosom poor Oraee kneeled,
Imploring the captain, whose bosom was steeled.
“Oh, grant me my husband! oh, leave him with me,
Or let me go with him across the wide sea!
But sever not two hearts so faithful and true,
Else dread the high vengeance of great Eatoo!
Your love and your home you shall never see more,
But your blood shall flow red on the tine of the shore.”
Stern duty forbade, and he would not comply.
The moment is come that concluded her stay,
And the mother and infant are ordered away:
She clung to her husband, refusing to go,
And force must compel her to seek the canoe.
She begged for one moment a farewell to take,
For the love of their God and humanity's sake:
'Tis granted;—in tranquil and temperate mood
She went to her lover, who motionless stood;
Her face was serene with a paleness thereon,
Like the face of the sky, when the storm is o'erblown.
She kissed—she embraced him—and fondly took leave—
Held up her young son the last kiss to receive,
Then, swift as an arrow, she sprung in the main,
Dived under the keel, and arose not again!
For madness the brain of the husband enthralled;
He struggled in fury from bonds to get free,
But strong were the cords, and enfeebled was he.
“O God!” cried the captain, with tears in his eyes,
“Oh, save her, though all I possess be the prize!”
Sheer into the deep plunged the throng of the crew,
But all was confusion, and nothing they knew;
They sought the deep channel, impatient for breath.
But diver met diver, and grappled beneath;
On board they returned with wonder and woe,
For the body appeared not above nor below.
Convulsion of spirit, and utterance dire,
The injured O'Kean, to extremity driven,
In the name of the Son and the Virgin of Heaven,
Pronounced on his captain a woe that befell,
And a prayer which mercy forbids me to tell.
Oh, woe to the deed to those words that gave birth,
For the curse of the injured falls not to the earth!
That they gathered the gales from the sea to the sky,
Their bosoms all turned to the eastward away,
Down bowing sublime to the God of the Day.
The harsh creaking sounds of the rigging are loud;
The sailors' own music is shrill on the shroud;
Slow heaves the wet breast of the ship as in pain—
She growls, and departs to her pathless domain.
And just in the wake, as the boiling began,
A sight was beheld that may scarcely be sung,
That chilled the gay spirit, and silenced the tongue:—
A slender pale corse was hove up on the tide,
One arm locked a beautiful babe to its side,
But the other was stretched on the breast of the ocean,
Spread forth like the hand of a maid in devotion;
And, long as they looked at her watery grave,
That spread hand was seen on the breast of the wave.
But reason returned not to Cary O'Kean;
A being he was that had motion and breath,
But affected by nothing of life or of death.
By day he was silent, by night he reclined
On the deck, and conversed with the waves and the wind,
Till, far in a desert on Asia's coast,
This man of misfortune and sorrow was lost;
They left him unwept through the desert to hie,
Among a wild people to sojourn and die.
Oh, long of the miseries that sufferer befell
The dames of Kilalla to lovers shall tell;
And grieve for their country, the ward of the sea,
Where all but its gallant defenders are free.
A shoot of eternity never defined,
That upward still climbs to its origin high;
Its roots are in nature, it blooms in the sky.
From that may the spirit immortal enthroned,
The pangs of this life and its sorrows beyond,
Look onward afar and exult in the view;
And the still voice that whispers, “Immortal art thou:”
On that be thy anchor when sorrows assail,
Else vain are thy sufferings, and vain is my tale.
Bothwell Brigg.
That now you are a' your lane?
If he has join'd wi' the rebel gang,
You will never see him again.”
It's a term nae heart can thole,
For them wha rebel against their God,
It is justice to control.
And rules wi' stroke o' death,
Wha wadna spend their dear heart's blood
For the tenets o' their faith?
For it gies me muckle pain;
My John went away with Earlston,
And I'll never see either again.”
Oh sair is my heart for thee!
These Covenant men were ill advised;
They are fools, you may credit me.
Against their king and law,
When mony a head in death lies low,
And mony mae maun fa'?”
For the grave maun yield its prey;
And when we meet on the verge of heaven,
We'll see wha are fools that day:
With holiest joy and pride,
Whether they who shed his servants' blood,
Or those that for him died.
That ever this country knew,
And take my chance to share the doom
Of that persecuting crew.
Nor take us fools to be,
For there isna ane of a' that gang,
Wad change his state wi' thee.”
May blessings on you combine!
The better you are in either state,
The less shall I repine;
Your ravings and your rage,
There you have lost a leal helpmate,
In the blossom of his age.
Wi' these twa babies sweet?
Ye hae naebody now to work for them,
Or bring you a meal o' meat;
And gars me, while scarce aware,
Whiles say the things I wadna say,
Of them that can err nae mair.”
And the tears fell on his cheek,
And they fell upon his swaddling bands,
For her heart was like to break.
What misery's to be mine!
But for the cause we hae espoused,
I will yield my life and thine.
For nane dare own me now—
That I might send to Bothwell Brigg,
If the killers wad but allow,
I ken where they will him find;
He wad meet his God's foes face to face,
And he'll hae nae wound behind.”
There was nane durst hinder me—
For I wantit to hear a' I could hear,
And to see what I could see;
As viewing the dead my lane;
He was lying in the very foremost rank,
In the midst of a heap o' slain.”
And she grat, and she tore her hair,
“O sweet ladye, O dear ladye,
Dinna tell me ony mair!
When earthly hope is vain;
But, when ane kens the very worst,
It turns the heart to stane!”
‘That I this sight should see!’
But when I said these waefu' words,
He liftit his een to me.
The best o' this warld's breed,
And are you ganging your leefu' lane,
Amang the hapless dead?’
And a chariot in the dell,
And if there is ony hope o' life,
I will carry you hame mysell.’
And what were life to me?
Wad ye save me frae the death of a man,
To hang on a gallows tree?
Nae country and nae kin;
There is not a door in fair Scotland
Durst open to let me in.
And twa babies, dear to me;
They hae naebody now that dares favour them,
And of hunger they a' maun dee.
Whose mercy thou hopest to share,
Dear lady, take the sackless things
A wee beneath thy care!
O'er weel I ken thy worth:
Gae send me a drink o' the water o' Clyde,
For my last drink on earth.’”
For my heart is cauld as clay;
There is a spear that pierces here,
Frae every word ye sae.”
For he gloried in his death,
And wish'd to be laid with those who had bled
For the same endearing faith.
And his limb was broke in twain,
And the sweat ran down wi' his red heart's blood,
Wrung out by the deadly pain.
For fear my men should tell,
And I hid him in my lord's castle,
And I nursed him there mysell.
Have tended him as he lay,
And he never has lacked my helping hand,
By night nor yet by day.
For I fear'd his life was gane,
But now he's sae weel, ye may visit him,
And ye'se meet by yoursells alane.”
And she claspit them fervently,
And she steepit them a' wi' the tears o' joy,
Till the good lady wept to see.
To lighten calamity!
For, in distress, a friend or foe
Is a' the same to thee.
Eternal bliss to share,
Ye hae done a deed will save your soul,
Though ye should never do mair.”
But never trow tongue or pen,
That a' the world are lost to good,
Except the Covenant men.”
When watching the wounded hind,
Rather than those of the feast and the dance,
Which her kind heart resign'd?
When the stars shall melt away,
Than that of the sternest anchorite,
That can naething but graen and pray?
The Three Men of Moriston.
Though this ballad commemorates three worthies only, it has been said that there were six of them, namely, the three trusty Macdonalds, Peter Grant, Hugh Chisholm, and Colin Fraser, by whom the Prince was concealed and supported in a cave in Glen-Moriston, for above five weeks. One of the Macdonalds went often in disguise into the English camp, to procure some wheaten bread for their guest, and pick up what intelligence he could. There he regularly heard, at the drumhead, a proclamation in English and Gaelic, of a reward of fifty thousand pounds to any one who would produce the Pretender. But though the guardians of the cave had not a shilling among them all, they despised enriching themselves by an act of treachery. How painful it is to add, what the editor has been assured is true, that one of these magnanimous poor fellows was afterwards hanged for stealing a cow! On the ladder he declared that he had never taken either sheep or cow from any of his own clan or their friends, nor from any man who had not risen against the house of Stuart. Consequently, all attempts to persuade him to acknowledge the justice of his sentence were fruitless.
That happen'd nane living kens when;
I'll sing you of three noble fellows
Wha lived in the wild Highlan' glen.
The times were grown hard to brave Donald,
For lost was Culloden's sad day;
The hearts o' the chiefs were a' broken,
And oh, but poor Donald was wae!
The towers of Clan-Ranald were gone;
The reek it hung red o'er Glengarry;
Lochaber was herried and lone!
They turn'd them about on the mountain,
The last o' their shealings to see;
“O, hon a Righ!” cried poor Donald,
“There's naething but sorrow for me!”
Afar in Glen-Moriston's height;
In the rock a' the day they are biding,
And the moon is their candle by night.
And oft their rash rising they rued it,
As looking o'er ravage and death;
And blamed their ain prince, Charlie Stuart,
For causing the Highlands sic skaith.
And snappit their kebbuck fu' keen,
When in came a stately young stranger,
As ragged as man e'er was seen.
They hadna weel lookit around them
Till tears cam happing like rain—
“You're welcome, young Dugald M'Cluny;
For a' you see here is your ain!”
But dared not to mention his name,
Lest one of the three had betray'd him,
And cover'd their country wi' shame.
They served him with eager devotion,
They clad him from shoulder to tae,
Spread his board from the moor and the ocean,
And watch'd o'er him a' the lang day.
They had not a ewe on the brae,
Yet kend o' mair goud in their offer
Than they could have carried away.
Now crack o' your Grecian and Roman!
We've cast them a' back in the shade;
Gie me a leal-hearted M'Donald,
Wi' nought but his dirk and his plaid!
When tempests are over and gane;
But honour shines bright in all weather,
Through poverty, hardship, and pain.
Though we had ne'er heard o' Clan-Ronald's
Nor gallant Glengarry's wild sway,
The names of the loyal M'Donalds
Had flourish'd for ever and aye!
The Liddel Bower;
A BALLAD.
Or will ye walk the lea?
Or will ye gae to the Liddel Bower,
An' rest a while wi' me?”
The wind blaws on the lea;
An' when I gae to Liddel Bower
It shall not be wi' thee.”
The hart but and the hind;
My flocks lie in the Border dale,
My steeds outstrip the wind;
A thousand tend the ca':—
Oh, gae wi' me to Liddel Bower—
What ill can thee befa'?
We met at even tide,
I kissed your young an' rosy lips,
An' wooed you for my bride?
The tear stand in your e'e;
Oh, could I ween, fair Lady Jane,
That then ye lo'ed na me?”
An' sairer yet may rue;
Nor yet my rosy hue.
Nor vow nor tear o' mine;
Ye thought upon the lands o' Nith,
An' how they might be thine.
Nae mair my bosom wring:
There is a bird within yon bower,
Oh, gin ye heard it sing!”
He turned his eye away,
The gowden hilt fell to his hand;
“What can the wee bird say?”
“Oh, wae's me, dame, for thee,
An' wae's me for the comely knight
That sleeps aneath the tree!
Nae belt nor brand has he;
His blood is on a kinsman's spear;
Oh, wae's me, dame, for thee!”
My steed stands at the tree;
An' ye maun dree a dulefu' weird,
Or mount and fly wi' me.”
Sae fast in belt an' steel?
What gars the Jardine mount his steed,
An' scour owre muir and dale?
An' down by Tarras linn?
The heiress o' the lands o' Nith
Is lost to a' her kin.
Down by the salt sea faem;
An' lang, lang may the Maxwells look,
Afore their bride come hame.
An' ban the deed for aye:—
The deed was done at Liddel Bower
About the break of day.
The Carle of Invertime.
Who has not heard of a Carle uncouth,The terror of age and the scorn of youth,
Well known in this and every clime
As the grim Gudeman of Invertime?—
A stern old porter who carries the key
That opens the gate to a strange country!
The Carle's old heart with joy is dancing,
When, down the valley he sees advancing
The lovely, the brave, the good, or the great,
To pay the sad toll of his darksome gate.
'Tis said nought gives such joy to him
As the freezing blood and the stiffening limb;
It has never been mine his house to scan,
So I scarce trow this of our grim Gudeman.
Wise men believe, yet I scarce know why,
That he grimly smiles as he shoves them by;
And cares not whither to isles of bliss
They go or to sorrow's dark wilderness;
Or if, driven afar, their fate should be
To toss on the waves of a shoreless sea;
Or sunk in lakes of surging flame,
Burning and boiling, and ever the same,
Where groups of mortals toss amain
On the sultry billow and down again.
Time, from the sky shall blot out the sun,
Yet ne'er will this den of dool have done.
It makes me shake and it makes me shiver;
His presence forbid it should last for ever!
Sad, wise, or witty—all find to their cost,
That the grim old Carle is still at his post:
He sits and he sees with joy elate,
In myriads men pour in at his gate.
Some come in gladness and joy to close
Account with Time, and sink to repose;
Some come in sorrow; they think, in sooth,
It hard to be summon'd in strength and youth.
There lady and losel, peasant and lord,
Men of the pen, the sermon, the sword,
The counsellor, leech, and the monarch sublime,
All come to the Carle of Invertime.
Amongst the others, one morning came
An aged and a venerable dame,
Stooping, and palsied, and pain'd to boot,
Moaning and shaking from head to foot.
Slow in her pace, yet steady of mind,
She turn'd not once, nor look'd behind;
Nor dreading nor daring her future fate,
She tottered along to the dismal gate.
A gleam of light danced in the eye
Of the grim Gudeman as the dame drew nigh;
Little cared he for an old gray wife,
Who hung like a link 'tween death and life;
But, by the side of the eldern dame,
A form so pure and so lovely came,
That the Carle's cold veinless heart heaved high,
A tear like an ice-drop came to his eye;
He vowed through his gate she should not win:
She seem'd no child of sorrow and sin.
As thus he stood in his porch to mark,
His looks now light and his looks now dark,
He marvell'd to hear so lovely a thing
Lift up her voice and gently sing
A strain, too holy, too sweet, and wild,
And charming to come from an earth-born child;
It glow'd with love, and fervour, and faith,
And seem'd to triumph o'er time and death:
And Spirit of Might,
To work thy will has been my delight;
And here at my knee,
From guiltiness free,
I bring a mild meek spirit to thee.
“When first I went to guide her to truth,
She was in the opening blossom of youth;
When scarce on her leaf, so spotless and new,
Ripe reason had come with her dropping dew.
Where life's pure river is but a rill,
She grew, and scarce knew good from ill;
But my sisters three
Came soon to me,
Pure Love, true Faith, sweet Charity.
Through doubts and fears,
These eighty years,
We have showed her the way to the heavenly spheres.
Our first stage down life's infant stream
Was all a maze and a childish dream;
And nought was there of sin or sense,
But dawning beauty and innocence;
A fairy dance of sweet delight,
Through flowers, and bowers, and visions bright.
Sometimes a hymn, and sometimes a prayer,
Was poured to thee with a fervent air;
'Twas sung or said, and straight was seen
The sweet child gamboling on the green;
While the pure hymn, late pour'd to thee,
Was chanted light as a song of glee.
“As we went down the vale of life,
With flowers the road became less rife.
By pitfall, precipice, and pool,
Our way was shaped, by line and rule.
'Mid hours of joy and days of mirth,
And hopes and fears, high thoughts had birth,
And natural yearnings of the mind,
Of something onward, undefined—
Which scarce the trembling soul durst scan—
Of God's most wondrous love to man,
And some far forward state of bliss,
Of beauty, and of holiness;
But to all woes and evils blinded,
Or thoughts of death, unless reminded.
Oh! happy age, remember'd well,
Where neither sin nor shame can dwell!
Even then thine eye,
From heaven high,
Saw that her monitor was nigh;
At morn and even,
To turn to heaven
The grateful eye for blessings given.
And from the first prevailing tide
Of sin, and vanity, and pride,
To save her, and to lead her on
To glories unreveal'd, unknown.
“Onward we came; life's streamlet then
Enter'd a green and odorous glen;
Increased, and through fair flowrets rolling,
And shady bowers, seem'd past controlling;
Flowing 'mid roses, fast and free—
This was a trying stage for me!
The maiden's youthful heart began
To dance through scenes Elysian;
To breathe in love's ambrosial dew,
Moved by sensations sweet and new;
For, without look or word of blame,
Her radiant blushes went and came;
Her eye, of heaven's own azure blue,
In glance and lustre brighter grew;
Showing fond feelings all akin
To that pure soul which lived within.
“With heart so soft and soul sincere,
Love found his way by eye and ear.
Then how I labour'd, day and night,
To watch her ways and guide her right!
I brought cool airs from paradise
To purify her melting sighs;
I steep'd my vail in heaven's own spring,
And o'er her watch'd on silent wing;
And, when she laid her down to rest,
I spread the vail o'er her virgin breast:
All earthly passions far did flee,
And heart and soul she turn'd to thee.
“Throughout her life
Of wedded wife,
I wean'd her soul from passion's strife;
But oh! what fears,
And frequent tears
For the peril of childhood's tender years!
And when her firstborn's feeble moan
Was hushed by the soul's departing groan;
In that hour of maternal grief,
I pointed her way to the sole relief.
Another sweet babe there came and went—
Her gushing eyes she fix'd, and bent
Upon that mansion bright and sweet,
Where sever'd and kindred spirits meet.
“She has wept for the living, and wept for the dead,
Laid low in the grave her husband's head;
She has toil'd for bread with the hands of age,
And, through her useful pilgrimage,
Has seen her race sink, one by one—
All, all she loved—yet, left and lone,
With cheer unchanged, with heart unshook,
On God she fix'd her steadfast look.
And now with the eye of purest faith,
She sees, beyond the vale of death,
A day that has no cloud or shower—
She has less dread of her parting hour,
Than ever had babe of its mother's breast,
When it lays its innocent head to rest.
“O Maker of Earth, dread Ruler above,
Receive her spirit, her faith approve!
Ne'er waged, 'gainst earth and its sorrows, strife;
I never can bid a form arise
With purer heart than hers to the skies.”
That lovely seraph's sweet song to hear;
He turn'd away and he cover'd his head,
For over him fell a visible dread,
While she gave her form to the breeze away
That came from the vales of immortal day;
And sung her hymns far over the same,
And heavenly Hope was the Seraph's name:
The guide to a land of rest and bliss,
To a sinless world—how unlike this!
The gate dissolved like a cloud away;
And the grim old Carle he veil'd his face,
As she pass'd him by with a holy pace;
With a touch of his hand and a whisper mild,
He soothed her heart as one stills a child.
The song of faith she faintly sung,
And God's dread name was last on her tongue.
That hangs o'er the uttermost skirts of time,
Came righteous souls, and shapes more bright,
Clothed in glory and walking in light;
Majestic beings of earthly frame,
And of heavenly radiance, over the same:
To welcome the pilgrim of this gross clime,
They had come from Eternity back to time—
And they sung, while they wafted her on the road,
“Come, righteous creature, and dwell with God!”
The Frazers in the Correi.
Where has our lady been a' the lang day?
Saw you the red-coats rank on the ha' green?
Or heard you the horn on the mountain yestreen?”
“Auld carle graybeard, ye speer na at me,
Gae speer at the maiden that sits by the sea;
The red-coats were here, and it wasna for good,
For the raven's grown hoarse wi' the waughtin' o' blood.
The blood o' the Frazers too hot for his throat;
I trow the black traitors of Sassenach breed,
They prey on the living and he on the dead.
When I was a baby, we call'd him in joke,
The harper of Errick, the priest of the rock;
But now he's our mountain companion no more,
The slave of the Saxon, the quaffer of gore.”
The raven's our friend, and he's croaking in wrath;
He will not pick eye from a bonneted head,
Nor mar the loved form by the tartans that's clad.
But point me the cliff where the Frazer abides,
Where Foyers, Culduthel, and Gorthaleg hides;
There's danger at hand, I must speak with them soon,
And seek them alone by the light of the moon.”
For the truth's on your lip and the tear in your e'e;
Then seek in yon correi, that sounds from the brae,
An' sings to the rock when the breeze is away.
I sought them last night with the haunch of the deer,
And deep in their cave they were hiding in fear;
There, at the last crow of the brown heather-cock,
They pray'd for their prince, kneel'd, and slept on the rock.
Of those who are killing the gallant and great;
Who force our brave chiefs to the correi to go,
And hunt their own prince like the deer or the roe?
I know it, auld carle, as sure as yon sun
Shines over our heads, that the deeds they have done
To those who are braver and better than they,
There's one in this world or the next will repay.”
The Lady's Dream.
And sprinkle far her fostering dew,
And o'er the meadow's velvet breast
Her simple gems renew.
Yes, though she breathe her sweets for you
All o'er the lawn and verdant vale,
In sympathy, oh! stay with me,
And list my piteous tale!
Nor when the sun rose bright and high;
What time I slept, nor when I woke,
I knew not—no not I.
I dreamed I sat on my love's knee,
I leaned my head upon his breast,
And yet I wept—I knew not why;
But oh, my heart was ill at rest!
His vows of love were breathed in vain:
For still my heart with sorrow heaved—
'Twas like to break in twain:
The tears fell from my eyes like rain;
He did not chide but went away;
A glance of anger in his eye
Gleamed like the meteor's ray.
Such were the throes my bosom wrung;
I tried to follow, but my limbs
Were powerless as my tongue.
I sought him through the busy throng,
I sought him through the weary waste,
Through caves of death and dens of woe
Deep moaning to the blast.
That dreary day, is all a dream;
His form alone my fancy sought,
My feelings still the same:
'Tis said I often called his name;
But when they named my bridal day,
I wistful looked, and raving seemed—
My thoughts went all astray.
Or summer fans her flowers for me;
The sunbeams all unheeded play,
And breezes from the sea.
Like passing hum of meadow bee,
Who winds his little aerial horn;
The fairy rainbow's ample bend,
Or dew-web of the morn;
The garlands from my maiden brow!
Sweet ladies, list a lady's tale
All lone and hopeless now!
The evening came with noise and show;
Mine eye sought for the bridegroom still—
His head is on the dripping pew,
His heart is cold and chill!
All dripping wet with ocean brine,
Whose gentle form is all unknown—
Ladies, that youth was mine!
That youth was gentle, fair, and kind;
My heart, my troth, I yielded free;
But, ah! his own hand reft his life—
His soul from heaven and me.
His revel-room the cheerless tomb;
The red worm sleeps coiled on the breast
My heart chose for its home.
No sun shall ever cheer the gloom
That broods around his hopeless urn;
No ray of grace avert his doom,
Nor point his soul's return.
And shun the day-light's piercing eye;
Or why this pallid maiden cheek
Is never, never dry?
The vernal flowers of every dye
The mollient breezes will renew;
But mine for evermore shall lie
Unmoved by winds or dew.
Shall vanish like its slightest dye—
When all this green and solid globe
One mouldering heap shall lie;
Then where shall I my love descry?
Where hope his face to see again?
Oh! can ye wonder I should weep,
Ye ladies of the plain?
Spontaneous from your bosoms steal;
The dew of beauty's beaming eye
A maiden's bleeding heart may heal.
Up an' rin awa', Geordie.
It is a pity that we cannot father this on the ideal “Dwomony” altogether. However, it is not just so bad, when considered that it is an answer to a Whig song of 1746, beginning, “Up an' rin awa', Charlie,” &c.
Up an' rin awa', Geordie,
For feint a stand in Cumberland
Your troops can mak ava, Geordie.
Your bauld militia are in qualms,
In ague fits an' a', Geordie;
And auntie Wade, wi' pick an' spade,
Is delving through the snaw, Geordie.
Up an' rin awa', Geordie, &c.
An' wow but they were braw, Geordie,
But took the spavie in their houghs,
An' limpit fast awa', Geordie.
Oh had ye seen them at their posts,
Wi' backs against the wa', Geordie,
Ye wad hae thought—it matters not—
Flee over seas awa', Geordie!
Up an' rin awa', Geordie, &c.
They dree nae cauld at a', Geordie;
Their hides are tanned like Kendal bend,
An' proof to frost an' snaw, Geordie.
They dive like moudies in the yird,
Like squirrels mount a wa', Geordie;
An' auld Carlisle, baith tower an' pile,
Has got a waesome fa', Geordie.
Up an' rin awa', Geordie, &c.
An' Doctor Waugh an' a', Geordie;
And Humphrey Stenhouse he is lost,
And Aeron-bank's but raw, Geordie.
And Andrew Pattison's laid bye,
The prince of provosts a', Geordie;
'Tis hard to thole, for gallant soul,
His frostit thumbs to blaw, Geordie.
Up an' rin awa', Geordie, &c.
As fast as he can ca', Geordie,
The drones to drive frae out the hive,
An' banish foreign law, Geordie.
He's o'er the Mersey, horse an' foot,
An' braid claymores an' a', Geordie;
An' awsome forks, an' Highland durks,
An' thae's the warst of a', Geordie.
Up an' rin awa', Geordie, &c.
Your faith, an' trust, an' a', Geordie;
But 'tis o'er true your cause looks blue,
'Tis best to pack awa', Geordie.
An' ye maun tak your foreign bike,
Your Turks, an' queans, an' a', Geordie,
To pluff an' trig your braw new wig,
An' your daft pow to claw, Geordie.
Up an' rin awa', Geordie, &c.
Perhaps there may be twa, Geordie:
Indite us back, when ye gang hame,
How they received you a', Geordie.
An' tell us how the lang-kail thrive,
An' how the turnips raw, Geordie;
An' how the seybos an' the leeks
Are brairding through the snaw, Geordie.
Up an' rin awa', Geordie, &c.
It suits you to a straw, Geordie,
Where ane may tame a buxom dame,
An' chain her to a wa', Geordie.
An' there a man may burn his cap,
His hat, an' wig, an' a', Geordie;
They're a' sae daft, your scanty wits
Will ne'er be miss'd ava, Geordie.
Up an' rin awa', Geordie, &c.
Auld Caledonia, Geordie;
Where fient a stand in a' the land,
Your Whigs can mak ava, Geordie.
Then tak leg-bail, an' fare-ye-weel,
Your motley group an' a', Geordie;
There's mony a ane has rued the day
That ye came here ava, Geordie.
Up an' rin awa', Geordie,
Up an' rin awa', Geordie,
For fient a stand in all England
Your Whigs dare mak ava, Geordie!
I'll no wake wi' Annie.
Or sairly it will grieve me, O,
That I'm to wake the ewes the night,
And Annie's to gang wi' me, O.
I'll wake the ewes my night about,
But ne'er wi' ane sae saucy, O,
Nor sit my lane the lee-lang night
Wi' sic a scornfu' lassie, O:
I'll no wake, I'll no wake,
I'll no wake wi' Annie, O;
Nor sit my lane o'er night wi' ane
Sae thraward an' uncanny, O!
But never be unmanly, O;
I've heard ye tell another tale
Of young an' charming Annie, O.
The ewes ye wake are fair enough,
Upon the brae sae bonnie, O;
But the laird himsell wad gie them a'
To wake the night wi' Annie, O.
He'll no wake, he'll no wake,
He'll no wake wi' Annie, O;
Nor sit his lane o'er night wi' ane
Sae thraward an' uncanny, O!
That lassie wad trapan ye, O;
An' ilka word ye boud to say
When left alane wi' Annie, O.
Take my advice this night for ance,
Or beauty's tongue will ban ye, O,
An' sey your leal auld mother's skill
Ayont the muir wi' Annie, O.
He'll no wake, he'll no wake,
He'll no wake wi' Annie, O,
Nor sit his lane o'er night wi' ane
Sae thraward an' uncanny, O!
An' oh the glen was lanely, O!
For just ae sternie's gowden e'e
Peep'd o'er the hill serenely, O.
The twa are in the flow'ry heath,
Ayont the muir sae flowy, O,
An' but ae plaid atween them baith,
An' wasna that right dowie, O?
He maun wake, he maun wake,
He maun wake wi' Annie, O;
An' sit his lane o'er night wi' ane
Sae thraward an' uncanny, O!
He blest her love unfeign'dly, O;
An' aye the tear fell frae his e'e,
An' aye he clasp'd her kindly, O.
“Of a' my griefs I've got amends,
In yon wild glen sae grassy, O;
A woman only woman kens—
Your skill has won my lassie, O.
I'll aye wake, I'll aye wake,
I'll aye wake wi' Annie, O,
An' sit my lane ilk night wi' ane
Sae sweet, sae kind, an' canny, O!”
Dennis Delany.
I have danced a good jig, and have sung a good song;
On the green, as I caper'd, I scarce bent the grass—
To a bottle a friend—and no foe to a lass.
At hurling, my fellow could never be found,
For whoever I jostled soon came to the ground;
And the girls all swore that they ne'er could meet any
Could tickle their fancy like Dennis Delany.
CHORUS.
With my whack about, see it out, Dennis my jewel,Och! why will you leave us? How can you be cruel?
Paddy Whack may go trudge it, and Murtoch O'Blaney,
We'll part with them all for dear Dennis Delany.
That whenever we met we could never agree;
Says I, “My dear Sheelah, we'll soon end the fray,
For no longer in sweet Tipperary I'll stay.”
When the girls all found I was going to leave them,
They swore that from death the world could not save them;
“Oh, we'll leave all our friends, though ever so many,
If you'll let us go with you, swaite Dennis Delany!”
And, by way of being silent, I lilted a song;
“Hey for Dublin!” says I, “where I'll see the fine lasses,
Get married, and drink, and ne'er mind how time passes.”
But when I arrived, and found every lady
Short-waisted—thinks I, They are married already:
“By my shoul, now,” says I, “marriage here is the fashion,
To breed young recruits for defence of the nation.”
Away then I goes and immediately walks off;
But I were astonished, as much as e'er man was,
To see a sea-fight on an ocean of canvas.
But some were a-weeping, and some were a-wailing,
Where Dublin once stood to see ships now a-sailing;
But what in my mind made it still seem the stranger,
Though I stood in the midst, I stood out of all danger.
To Crow Street I went, without three or four more;
And up stairs I walk'd, for to see things the better,
And bought a play-bill, though I knew not a letter.
But the crowd was so great, and the players so funny,
I laugh'd more, I'm sure, than the worth of my money;
But the boys went all mad, and I maddest of any,
When all the musicians play'd Dennis Delany.
A Ballad about Love.
A bonnie bit flower o' the wilder'd dell;
Her heart was as light as bird on the wing,
And her lip was as ripe as the moorland bell.
She never kend aught o' the ways o' sin,
Though whiles her young heart began to doubt
That wi' its ill paths she might fa' in,
But never—she never did find them out.
An' how sae sair as it was to dree;
She tried it and tried it again and again,
But it never could wring a tear frae her e'e.
She tried it aince on a mitherless lamb
That lay in her bosom, and fed on her knee;
But it turned an unpurpose and beggarly ram,
And her burly lover she doughtna see.
And oh! it was sweet and lovely of hue;
But it droopit its head, an' fadit away,
An' left the lassie to look for a new.
An' aye she cried, oh! what shall I do?
Why canna a lassie be happy her lane?
I find my heart maun hae something to loe,
An' I dinna ken where to fix it again.
The moorcock loes the mottled moor-hen;
The blackbird lilts it early an' late,
A-wooing his love in the birken glen;
The yammering tewit and gray curlew,
Hae ilk ane lovers around to flee,
An' please their hearts wi' their whillie—la—lu—
But there's naething to wheedle or sing to me.
The matter's as plain as plain can be,
That this heart o' mine it was made for yours,
An' yours was made for loving o' me.
The lassie she lookit me in the face,
An' a tear o' pity was in her e'e,
For she thought I had lost a' sense o' grace,
An' every scrap o' fair modestye.
An' lookit to heaven if aught she saw,
For she thought that man was connectit wi' sin,
And that love for him was the warst of a'.
She lookit about, but she didna speak,
As lightly she trippit out-ower the lea;
But there was a smile on her rosy cheek,
That tauld of a secret dear to me.
It never was lovelier to her view;
An' aye she thought an' thought to hersell,
An' the mair she thought she began to rue—
If ilk sweet thing has a' mate o' its ain,
Wi' nature's law I e'en maun gang;
I never was made for living my lane—
The laddie was right an' I was wrang.
Your regal sway gainsay wha can?
For you made beauty, an' beauty maun be
The polar star o' the heart o' man.
There's beauty in man's commanding frame;
There's beauty in earth, in air, an' sea;
But there never was beauty that tongue could name
Like the smile of love in a fond young e'e.
The Lord of Balloch.
And down by the braes of Badenoch,
And eastward, eastward sped his way,
Far over the lovely links of Spey;
Till the lord of Balloch turn'd his eye
To the haughty journeyer of the sky,
And he said to his henchman, “Gill-na-omb,
What brings the eagle so far from home?”
And his voice it falter'd in reply;
And he said, “My lord, who needs to care
For the way of the eagle in the air?
Perhaps he is watching Lochdorbin's men,
Or the track of the Gordons of the Glen,
For he spies, from his stories of the wind,
That the dead are often left behind;
Or, haply, he knows, in our forest bounds.
Of some noble stag dead of his wounds.”
I have mark'd yon eagle, day by day,
Still hovering over yon lonely dell—
There's a dread on my soul which I dare not tell.
Gillion, no mystery may I brook,
I like not your suspicious look,
And have noted your absence from my hand
More than I approve or understand;
Say, have you heard no word at all
Of some one miss'd from her father's hall?”
As I shall be sworn upon my sword;
And why should the eagle's yelling din
Awake suspicions your heart within?”
But at his henchman he shook his head,
And gave him a look as bounding away,
That fill'd his black heart with dismay;
And he fled to hide in the bosky burn,
For he durst not wait his lord's return.
With beating heart, to the wild alone;
For in the dead of night he had dream'd
Of that dell o'er which the eagle scream'd,
And there, with his mortal eye, had seen
A vision of terror and of teen;
And something was borne on his soul oppress'd,
Of a deed that would never be redress'd;
For there are sprites that the truth can scan,
And whisper it to the soul of man.
And he spread his wings, and scream'd aloud,
For he durst not light in the lonely dell,
But his rage made all the echoes yell;
For he saw the blood below his feet,
And he saw it red, and he knew it sweet,
And though death was pleasing to his eye,
The silken tartans stream'd too nigh.
With a heavy gloom his heart upon,
Till his stead began to show demur,
For he snorted and refused the spur,
And, nor for coaxing nor for blow,
Farther one step he would not go;
He rear'd aloft and he shook with fear,
And his snorting was terrible to hear:
The gallant steed is left behind,
And the chief proceeds with a troubled mind.
Ere his heart was turn'd into a stone;
It was not for nought that the steed rebell'd;
It was not for nought that the eagle yell'd;
It was not for nought that the visions of night
Presented that lord with a grievous sight—
A sight of misery and despair:
But I dare not tell what he found there!
For the hearts of the old would withhold belief,
And the hearts of the young would bleed with grief,
Till the very fountains of life ran dry!
Sweet sleep would forsake the virgin's eye,
And man, whose love she had learn'd to prize,
Would appear a monster in disguise—
A thing of cursed unhallow'd birth,
Unfit to dwell on his Maker's earth;
The very flowers of the wilder'd dell
Would blush, were I that tale to tell!
That the dream and its ending proved so true,
For twenty ruffians of that dome,
And at their head base Gill-na-omb,
Were hung by the necks around that dell,
To bleach in the snows and rains that fell;
And there they swung the wild within,
Till the dry bones rattled in the skin;
And they hung, and they hung, till all was gone
Save a straggling skull and white back-bone—
A lesson to men of each degree,
How sacred the virgin form should be.
He was pinion'd like a common thief,
And cast into a dungeon deep
Below the Balloch castle-keep,
Where he pined to death, there not the first
Who had died of hunger and of thirst.
On his own flesh he strove to dine,
And drank his blood instead of wine,
Then groan'd his sicken'd soul away,
Cursing the lord of Balloch's sway,
And wishing, with dying grin and roar,
That twenty maidens, and twenty more,
Were in his power in the lonely dell,
And all by that lord beloved as well.
His castle's a ruin unto this day,
And neither the shepherd nor hind can tell
The name of the chief that there did dwell;
Who laid the Buchan and Bogie waste,
Are some shreds of bones in the Balloch keep,
Still kick'd about in that dungeon deep;
Or haply some films of dust enshrined,
Whirl'd on the eddies of the wind.
So perish all from noble range,
Who would wrong a virgin for revenge!
The scene of this ancient and horrible legend seems to have been in the country of the Grants, whose chief may have been the Lord of Balloch. In the same district, also, there is an ancient castle, or rather garrison, of great strength and magnificence, called Lochindorb. It is situated on an island. Its walls are twenty feet thick, and it covers fully an acre of ground. It has a spacious entrance of hewn stone, and strong watch-towers at each corner. The inhabitants of the district can give no account of it, but say it was the residence of a great cateran chief, who was put down by the Earl of Moray and the Laird of Grant. Another account is, that he and all his followers were surprised, and cut off to a man, by the Laird of Grant. It is not improbable that this cateran chief may have been one of King Edward's officers.
The Miser's Warning.
Wha died without remede,
Yet fought his way to paradise
After that he was dead.
And the first soul that he met there,
Was of a maiden, mild and fair,
Wha once had fallen into a snare,
Whilk led to evil deed.
“I wonder mightilye
How leddy of such evil fame
Gat into this countrye!
If such as you get footing here,
Then auld John Græme hath cause to fear
He hath the wrong sow by the ear,
And sore dismay'd is he.
Or is it a place of woe;
Or is it a place of middle space,
That lies between the two?
For there's a mildness in your mien,
And blitheness in your bright blue eyne,
Whilk certes sennil should be seen,
Where wicked dames do go.”
Did you ne'er hear of this,
That everilk place where spirits fare
To them is place of bliss?
That men and women, by God's might,
Were framed with spirits beaming bright,
Stepping from darkness into light,
Though sunk in sin's abyss?
Not reckon'd once can be;
The immortal spirit rises on
To all eternitye;
It rises on, or more or less,
In knowledge and in happiness,
Progressing still to purer bliss,
That end can never see.”
And claw'd his lug amain,
And says, “Fair dame, if this be true,
How comes it men have lain
In darkness to their spirit's frame,
Their Maker's manage and his aim,
Quhill lighten'd by ane sinful dame,
When light can prove no gain?
For wicked hearts, I trow,
And suits the lordly libertine,
And ladies such as you—”
Then the fair dame, with witching wile,
Upraised her eyne, withouten guile,
Flung back her locks, and smiled a smile,
And says, “How judgest thou?
A hypocritic craven,
Say who is wicked, and who is not,
And widdershin with Heaven?
Do you not know in heart full well,
That if there is a burning hell,
You do deserve the place yoursell,
As well as any leevin'?
Of simple maiden's crime,
But through temptations fathomless,
You cannot see a styme.
Through dark and hidden snares of sin,
And warnings of the soul within,
The eyne of mortal may not win,
Within the bounds of time.
To this calm world of thought,
It was the sad and silent tear,
That sweet repentance brought;
Of all the things on earth that be
Whilk God and angels love to see,
It is the heart's deep agonye
For souls so dearly bought.
Down like the morning dew,
On lost sheep of the wilderness,
Its longings to renew,
Till the poor lamb that went astray
In vice's wild and witless way,
Is led, as by an heavenly ray,
The light of life to view.
Though here you seem to be,
You have through darkness, flood, and flame,
A weary weird to dree,
Unless you do, at God's command,
Repent of all your sins off hand,
Whilk in your hateful native land
Have grievous been to see.
In dale of fair Scotland:
You know you stole Jock Laidlaw's corn,
And broke his heart and hand.
And though men knew you were foresworn,
Yet, when his family fell forlorn,
You treated their complaint with scorn,
And broke them from the land.
It sets you weel to crack;
You cheating, lying, scurvy knave,
Your heart is raven black!
Instead of a progressive pace,
In virtue, knowledge, and in grace,
Thou art lagging everilk day and space,
And fearfully gone back.
Thine heart cannot conceive,
Worried a thousand years to be,
Without the least reprieve.
Time was—time is—but will not be,
For, when I pass from warning thee,
An angel, with thy death's decree,
The yetts of heaven shall leave.”
Short mercy I shall find;
I thought I had been dead before,
But how I cannot mind.
Much to repentance I incline,
And I could pray, and I could whine:
But to give back what now is mine,
To that I shall not bind.”
Upon the sward of heaven,
And pray'd as loud as man could pray,
That he might be forgiven.
“John!” cried his wife, who lay awake,
“What horrid din is this you make?
Get up, old braying brock, and take
Some breath to end this stevin.”
And praying on the sky.
What's this? I know my soul is fled,
Or very soon must fly;
For there is an angel on the way;
How long he takes, I cannot say;
But or to-morrow, or to-day,
Poor old John Græme must die;
And all men's goods restore.”
“The fiend be there, then!” quod the wife—
“Though they were ten times more.
'Tis good to keep the grip one hath,
Either for life, or yet for death.
Repent and pray while you have breath,
And all your sins give o'er;
And many a better man.”
John rose, and swore he would restore;
And syne begoud to bann
All wicked wives, of bad intent,
Who would not let their men repent,
Without their froward cursed consent,
That hell might them trepan.
Oh! they were fair to see:
His gold he counted three times bye;
The tear blinded his ee:
But still he swore he would restore,
And blamed the wife, and wept full sore,
Counting his treasure o'er and o'er,
And graening grievouslye.
Of what was to be done;
And just as spread the gloaming gray,
Behind the setting sun,
The angel with the warrant came;
John felt his vitals in a flame;
Ghastly he stared upon his dame,
But language he had none.
And still his gold he eyed;
He pointed to it—gave a groan—
And as he lived he died,
The slave of that o'erpowering vice,
That dead'ning, craving Avarice,
That turns the human heart to ice,
Unblest, unsatisfied.
Unwept when he was gone;
But where he went, or how received,
To me was not made known.
But on this truth I can recline,
That he's where mercy's rays combine—
In better hands nor his or mine,
Which men will not disown.
Lytill Pynkie.
It wals on ane hallow-day;
And the ladye babyis with her mette,
To heirre quhat sho wolde say.
That ever dancit on the greinne;
And Pynkie wals the bonnyest thynge
That evir on yirthe wals seinne.
And ower hir browe abone
Hir hayre wals lyke the streemys of golde
That tinssillis from the mone.
Wals comely to be seene,
And the bonnye blue that dyit the hevin
Wals nevir lyke Pynkie's eeyne.
But all so meitte to se,
No mayden in hir myldest mode
Ane lovelier forme colde bee.
Colde nevir calle to mynde
That she possessit not fraime and graice
Of stateliest womankynde.
And hee toke hir be the hande;
“Lyttil Pynkie, you are welcome heirre,
The flower of fayre Scotlande.
And to myne hallis so gaye,
And you shalle be myne lammie deirre,
And I'll fondle you nychte and daye.”
For that wolde bee ane synne;
For if you toye or melle with me,
To hevin you'll nevir wynne.”
For lofe is sore to thole;
The joie of maydenis leifu' charmis
Can nevir stayne the soule.”
Quhare pryze is nonne before;
The man quha wynnis myne lofe and mee,
Will nevir knowe mayden more.
And daunce ane fairye quheille,
Till you and all youre bonny may bairnis
Can daunce it wonder weille.”
It mighte doo muckle ill;
For it wals not fraimit of yirthly wordis,
Though it soundit sweitte and shrill.
Which ladyis lernit to syng,
Wals, “Rounde and rounde, and sevin tymis rounde
The elfynis fairye ryng!”
Wals gentil, softe, and sweitte;
But the seconde rounde Lyttil Pynkie maide,
Theye colde not kenne hir feitte.
Sho shymmerit als lycht and gaye
Als dauncyng of the wiry lychtis
On warme and sonnye daye.
Arounde them on the playne,
Quhille hir feitte theye shymmerit abone theyre heddis,
Then kyssit the swairde agayne.
No longer colde hee stande,
And his lyttil maydenis in ane ryng
They joynit him hande to hande.
The fairye ryng theye flewe;
And aye the langer that theye daunsit,
The madder on fonne theye grewe.
Bobbyt lyke ane flee in Maye,
And everilk spryng Lyttil Pynkie gaif,
The baronne he cryit “Hurraye!”
They lyltit and they sang,
And rounde and rounde the fairye ryng
They caiperit and they flang;
And his eeyne sette in his heidde;
Hee colde not dragg ane oder lymbe,
So neirlye hee wals deidde,
And downe he felle upon the playne,
Prone lyke ane forme of leidde.
Betweinne him and the daye,
Hee maide a paulle with handis and feitte,
And gaif ane faynte “Hurraye!”
Unpytied and unbleste;
But “Hurraye!” it wals the ae laste sounde
That gurglit in his breste.
In madnesse and in blaime;
For lofe or stryffe, or dethe or lyffe,
To them wals all the saime.
Swyfte als sevin burdis on wyng;
Regairdyng the deidde man no more
Than any yirthly thyng.
In terrour and dismaye,
Them dauncyng rounde theyre deidde fader,
And Pynkie wals awaye.
“There's some enchauntmente heirre;
Haiste, haiste awaye, myne maydinis gaye,
This shaimefulle course forbeirre.”
And ceissit theyre lychtsome fonne,
But theye colde not comprehende one thyng
Of all that had beinne donne.
To lifte his maisteris heidde,
And callit on six young bordlye wychtis,
To beirre awaye the deidde;
Stode lofelye als the sonne;
Sho sang ane staife, and dauncit it rounde,
And all theyre grieffe wals donne.
And wagg his heede amayne,
For the lyttil kymmeris lythlye lymbis
Had veirlye turnit his brayne.
With caiper and with squealle,
The chaiplyng and his six young menne
Wente lyke ane spynnyng quheille.
Als loudde als they colde braye;
But saife the burden of that sang,
The wordis I daurna saye.
With fitfulle fairye flyng;
“Agayne, agayne!” the chaiplyng cryit,
“Weille profen, myne bonnye thyng!
In maddenyng screimme cryit hee,
“Och, let mee se that spryng agayne,
That I of lofe maye de!”
Theye flapperit and theye flewe;
And rounde and rounde the deidde baronne
Theye bumpyt and theye blewe;
And quhizle in the throtte,
And downe hee felle upon the greinne
Lyke ane greate mardel stotte.
His eeyne sette in his heidde,
But “Agayne, agayne!” caime with ane ryfte,
Quhill after hee wals deidde.
To prieste and holy fryer,
And there wals prayeris in every kirke,
And hymnis in every quire;
At lordlye Kilbogye,
And of everilk chamber in the housse
Lyttil Pynkie keepit the ke.
From Solwaye unto the Clyde,
And wordis gone to the greate Mass John
That livit on Cloudan syde.
These lordlys maidis to saive,
And conjure that wylde thyng away
Into the Reidd Sea's wave.
He tirlit at the pynne,
And quha wals so readdye als Lyttil Pynkie
To ryse and let him in.
On matter most sincere;
Quhare is the countreye you caime frome,
And quha wals it sente you heirre?”
A regioune caulme and sweitte,
For all the sternis of the milky waye
Werre farre benethe our feitt.
Some vyrgin soulis to wynne,
Since maydis were born the slaives of love,
Of sorrowe, and of synne;
By grofe and greinwode tree;
Oh, if you kennit quhat I haif donne
To keippe them fayre and free!
Als daunceyng on the greinne,
And watchit the blushes of the cheeke,
And glances of the eeyne.
Of all the snairis of lofe;
And coolit theyre yong and hopyng brestis
With dewis distyllit abofe.”
Thynk of this virgyn bande;
Thou'st taiken theyre fader from theyre heid,
Theyre pastor from theyre hand.”
Disgraice of human fraime;
Hee keipit sevin lemanis in his halle,
And maide it house of shaime;
And his fat chaiplyng—worste of alle,
Theyre dedis I maye not naime.
In lofely laidyhode,
Each wold haif loste hir quhite cleethyng,
But and her sylken snode.
For workyng of this skaithe;
It wals the mennis besettyng synne
That tosted them to dethe.
A gude man and ane true;
Therefore I yield my vyrgin chairge
With plesure up to you.
'Mong maydenis mylde and meike;
Men are so wycked heire belowe,
And wemyng are so weake.
With unguent of the skye;
And you shall heirre with oder eirre,
And se with oder eye.
With soule of dredde withynne;
Quhat habitantis you dwelle amang,
Quhat worlde you sojourne in.”
With unguent of the skye,
Distillit from flowris of hevinlye boweris,
That nevir nevir die.
To se quhat hee colde se;
“Quhat's this! quhat's this!” cryit goode Mass John,
“Quhat hath befallen mee!
And in ane feirsome dreime;
Or else I'm deidde, and gane to hevin,
Which raither wolde beseime.
Of eviry shaipe and shaide,
With ghostis and demonis not ane few;
Sothe, I am sore afrayde!
I cannot brooke this payne;—
Oh! taik this oyntment off myne eeyne,
And maike mee blynde agayne.
With spyritis to congree;
I no acquaintance haif of them,
And they haif nonne of mee!”
Awaye by daille and glenne,
To guarde the vyrginis of the lande
From wylis of wycked menne;
'Mang spyritis of everilk hue;
There were spyritis blacke, and spyritis quhyte,
And spyritis greene and blue;
'Mang thyngis of mortal birthe,
Als thicke als burdis upon the bough,
Or human thyngis on yirth.
Als fayre als flowir of Maye;
And hee himself ane great blacke dougge
That wolde not pass awaye.
And some had two or thre,
That playit soche prankis with maydis and sanctis,
As wals ane shaime to se.
Kept lokyng in his faice,
With many a dark and meanyng scowlle,
And many a sly grimaice.
He wals so hard bestedde;
He colde not preiche, hee colde not praye—
He colde not sleippe in bedde;
By that amaizyng spelle,
He saw some scenis before his faice
Als I can hardlye telle.
Before ane tailoris eeyne;
And hee wals steillyng in his herte,
Trowing hee wals not seene.
Before the courtieris sychte,
Quha solde his countrye for the saime
With very greate delychte.
To many a drowsye wychte,
Quha playit and cursit, and cursit and playit,
Before theyre pastoris sychte.
With sylkis and satynis fyne,
And some with vowis and wycked teris,
Ane very deirre propyne.
With thoughtis of manlye youth;
Yea, half the scenis the kirke withynne
Were synnfulle and uncouthe.
And shutte them from his sychte;
For there were prankis so very drolle,
Theye maide him laugh outrychte.
Though secret and untolde,
But theye were acted in his sychte
By spyritis manifolde.
Suche strange enchantment under,
Thus wanderyng with a spyritis eye
Amid a worlde of wonder.
With ane immortyl mynde,
Or passe the dore of dethe, and leive
Mortalitye behynde.
That lyffe with him were donne,
To mix with spyritis or with menne,
But only with the onne.
Wals ever in his plaice;
Evin at the altar there it stode,
And stairit him in the faice.
And soone wals with the deidde,
And the bonnye maydis of Kilbogye
Are lefte withoute ane heidde.
With blynke and showir awaye,
Then Lyttil Pynkie sho caime backe
Upon ane Hallow-daye.
At settyng of the sonne,
Were nevir forgotte by old or young,
Quhill lyffe with them wals done.
No mynstrelle evir knewe;
But the bonnye maydis of Kilbogye
With beauty blomit anewe.
To oder lande than this;
But they lyvit the lyvis that wemyng lofe,
Of sociale yirthlie blisse.
Quainte rhyme and fairye laye,
There yet remaynis of Pynkie's straynis,
Upon the Hallow-daye.
The Two Men of Colston;
OR THE TRUE ENGLISH CHARACTER.
Returning to my old friends the Jacobites again, I venture to present my readers with three pretended Cumberland ones, which I introduced in an old Magazine as follows:—“Two Scotsmen come to a poor widow's house in Cumberland, in search of old songs, having heard that she was in possession of some. She tells them that she has plenty, but that they were all written by her brwother Twommy, and proceeds to say, ‘Whoy, didst thou neaver heaur of Twommy? I thowt all Cooamberland had knwoan brwother Twommy. Him wos a swart oof, a keynd of a dwomony, whoy had mwore lear nwor wot to guyde it; and they ca'd him the leympyng dwomony, for heym wos a creypple all the days of heym's layfe. A swort of a treyfling nicky-nacky bwody he wos, and neiver had the pooar to dey a gude turn eyther to the sel o' heym, or wony yan belaunged till heym. Aweel, thou'lt no hender Twommy, but he'll patch up a' the feyne ould sangs i' the weyde warld, and get them prentit in a beuk. And sae, efter he had spent the meast pairt o' him's leyfe gathering and penning, he gyangs his ways to Caril, whoy but he, to maik a greyt fortune. Whew! the prenter woad neaver look at nowther heym nor his lawlyess syangs. Twommy was very crwoss than, and off he sets wey them crippling all the way till Edinborough, and he woffers them till a measter prenter for a greyte swom of mwoney. Ney, he would nae byite! Then he woffers them till anwother measter prenter. He wos reather better, for he woffered Twommy a beauk o' prented syangs for his wretten yans. ‘Wow, Twommy, man!’ quoth I, ‘but thou wast a great feul no till chap him, for then thou wadst hae had a beuk that every body could heave read, wheyras thou hast now neything but a batch o' scrawls, that nay body can read but the sell o' thee.’ Twommy brought heame his beauk o' grand syangs yance myair; but at last there cwoms a Scots chap to Caril, speering after ooar Twommy's syangs, and then, peur man, he was up as heyly as the wund, expecting to pouch the hale mony o' the keuntrey. But afore the Scots gentleman came back, there cwomes anwother visitor, by the bye, and that was Mr. Palsy, and he teuk off peur Twommy leyke the shot of a gun, and then all his grand schemes war gyane leyke a blast o' wunn. The syangs are all to the fore, and for ney euse, that I can sey, but meaking sloughs to the wheeal spindle.’”
Woth all thyne own horses and keye,
With thy pocks on thy back, leyke a pether,
And bearnies and baggage forby?”
“Whoy, dom it, mun, wost thou nwot hearing
Of all the bwad news that are out,
How that the Scwots rascals be cwoming
To reave all our yauds and our nout?
Amang the weyld floshes to heyde,
With all my heall haudding and gyetting,
For fear that the worst should betyde.
Lword, mon! hast thou neaver been hearing,
There's noughts bwot the deavil to pay,
There's a pwope cwoming down fro' the Heylands,
To herry, to bworn, and to slay?
The fearswomest creatures of all,
They call them rebellioners—dom them!
And cannie-bulls swome do them call.
Whoy, mon, they eat Chreastians lyke robbits,
And bworn all the chworches for fwon;
And we're all to be mwordered togyther,
Fro' the bearn to the keyng on the thrwone.
With all his whole army, nwo less;
And what dwoes this pwope and his menzie?
Whoy, Twommy mon, feath thou'lt nwot guess?
Whoy, they fwalls all a-rworing and yelling,
Leyke a pack of mad hounds were there gowls;
And they cwomes wopen-mouth on our swodgers,
And eats them wop, bwodies and sowls!
Come, caw up the yaud woth the cart;
Let us heast out to Bwarton's weyld shieling,
For my blood it runs cold at my heart.
Commend me to Mwoll and thyne wyfe;
If thou see'st oughts of Jwhonny's wee Meary,
Lword, tell her to rwon for her lyfe!”
Thou'st heard the wrong seyd of the treuth;
For this is the true Keyng that's cwoming,
A brave and mwoch-wrong'd rwoyal yeuth.
Thou's ignorant as the yaud that thou reyd'st on,
Or cauve that thou dreyv'st out to the lwone;
For this pwope is the Prince Charles Stuart,
And he's cwome bwot to clayme what's his own.
For a meatter of ten thowsand years,
Till there cwomes a bit dwom'd scrwogy bwody,
A theyvish ould rascal, I hears;
And he's stown the brave honest lad's crown fro'm,
And kick'd him out of house and hould,
And rewin'd us all with taxations,
And hang'd up the brave and the bwold.
If swome crabbit half-wotted lown
Should cwome and seize on thy bit haudding,
And droyve thee fro' all that's theyne own?
And, Josey mon, how wod'st thou lyke it,
If thou in theyne freands had swome hwope,
If they should all tworn their backs on thee,
And call thee a thief and a pwope?”
Thou'lt droyve the ould creature to dead;
Hould still the cart till I conseyder—
Gyang, take the ould yaud bee the head.
Whoy, Twommy mon, what wast thou saying?
Cwome, say't all again without feal;
If thou'lt swear unto all thou hast tould me,
I've had the wrong sow bee the teal.”
That this is our true Sovereign Keyng;
There never was house so ill gueydit,
And bee swuch a dwort of a theyng.”
“Bwot what of the cannie-bulls, Twommy?
That's reyther a doubtful concern;
The thoughts of these hworrid meale weeyming
Make me tremble for Heaster and bearn?”
As brave men as ever had breath;
They've ta'en the hard seyde of the quorrel,
To stand by the reyght until death.
They have left all their feythers and mwothers,
Their weyves and their sweethearts and all,
And their heames, and their dear little bearnies,
With their true prince to stand or to fall.”
Lword, Twommy! I's crying like mad!
I dwont know at all what's the matter,
But 'tis summat of that rwoyal lad.
Hoy, Heaster! thou fusionless hussey,
Tworn back the yaud's head towards heame;
Get wop on the top of the panniels,
And dreyve back the rwod that thou keame.
I's changed seydes, and sey let that stand,
And, mwore than mwost gentles can say for,
I've changed both with heart and with hand;
And since this lad is our true Sovereign,
I'll geave him all that I possess,
And I'll feyght for him too, should he need it,—
Can any true swobject do less?”
That's spoke leyke a true Englishman;
He needs but a pleyne honest stworey,
And he'll dwo what's reyght if he can.
Cwome thou down to ould Nanny Cworbat's,
I'll give thee a quart of good brown,
And we'll dreynk to the health of Prince Charles,
And every true man to his own.”
The two other songs, “Red Clan-Ranald's Men” and “Up an' rin awa', Geordie,” will be found in a different part of this collection.
Fragment.
His couch was down, his curtains silk;
Wrought on his gilded canopy
Were wolf, and hound, and fleur-de-lis;
By him the loveliest lady lay
E'er hunted deer on bank of Spey—
Nor bed of down, nor lady kind,
Brought peace or bliss to Huntly's mind:
He heard a suffering infant wail:—
The watch-dog howling to the gale,
The thunder's burst, the rattling hail,
The river roaring down the dale,
All nature seemed at enmity.
Why did the volleying thunder roar?
Fierce lightnings rend the rocking tower,
And crested clouds incumbent lower
In dark and dread condensity?
Ah, Heaven!—that lady by his side—
That lady was not Huntly's bride!
Why did the frightened menials stare,
Each knight and squire his weapon bare,
And maidens rend their flowing hair?
What?—neither lord nor lady there!
Where sullen sloes and brambles cling,
Does the dark raven veering hing,
And mountain eagle flap her wing?
Ah, horror to the searching eye!
What are those mangled fragments by,
All scattered, rent, and red that lie?
Of reaver stern, or robber thief?
No, all that now remains they see
Of Huntly, flower of chivalry!
For, sooth, the beauty by his side
No lady was, nor Huntly's bride.
The Admonition.
Wi' routh o' hamely meltith stored;
Threw aff his hat, composed his face,
An' just was thinking owre the grace,
When ae wee say that chanced to pass,
'Tween his auld wife an' only lass,
At aince pu'ed Geordie's mind away
To something he wished lang to say.
That weel bespak a parent's care,
Soft yet severe, though kind yet keen,
He thus addressed his darling Jean;
His wife close by his elbow staid,
Assenting weel to a' he said.
For Heaven has left us now nae mae;
Thy ilka faut we grieve to see,
For a' our care on earth's for thee.
If ye but kend, by night an' day
How for thy guid we wish an' pray—
How sair owre thee our bosoms yearn,
Jean, ye wad be a mindfu' bairn.
Your frequent rambles owre the lea,
When gloaming draws her fairy screen
Around the walks an' woodlands green;
When music melts in ilka grove,
An' ilka note's a note of love.
What gars ye dander out your lane,
In wrapper braw an' tippet clean,
Your hair kaimed up sae dink to see,
An' gowden curls aboon your bree?
Ah, Jean—beware, my bonnie bairn,
The book o' virtue's hard to learn!
The pleasant way aft leads to death,
The adder lurks in flowery path:
Ye needna lie—ye gang, I ken,
To meet young Jamie o' the glen;
Ye maunna do't—I trow fu' weel
Your virtue fair, your bosom leal;
But that's no a'—by night an' day,
Keep out o' sin an' danger's way.
As that these walks by greenwood tree,
These nightly danderings by the river,
Should gar us lose our bairn for ever!
Thy spirits dance as light as air;
Yet, trust me, Jean, thou'rt lightly poising
Between the winning an' the losing:
On youthfu' passion's firm control
Depends thy fair immortal soul.
For aye aneath a parent's e'e;
But mind there's Ane will aye be near thee,
Will ever see, will ever hear thee,
An' if thou'rt guid he'll be thy friend,
An' make thee happy i' the end.”
A tender thought shot through her mind;
It came unsought—an' came again—
'Twas about Jamie o' the glen;
But she was guid as she was fair,
An' i' the gloaming walked nae mair.
Red Clan-Ranald's Men
Is likewise a pretended transcript from the “Dwomony's beuk,” and relates to the skirmish on Clifton Moor, on the 18th of December, 1745, where a party of M'Donalds, left to guard the baggage, so gallantly repulsed two regiments of cavalry, killing one hundred and fifty of them, and wounding more, while the Highlanders lost only twenty-four in all.
That Caril disna ken, joe;
There's gallant news of tartan trews,
And red Clan-Ranald's men, joe.
There has been blinking on the bent,
And slashing on the fell, joe;
The red-coat sparks hae got their yerks,
But Caril darena tell, joe.
The rebels' hides to tan, joe;
But when they fand the Highland brand,
They funkit and they ran, joe.
And had the frumpy froward duke,
Wi a' his brags o' weir, joe,
But met our Charlie hand to hand,
In a' his Highland gear, joe;
As they did vaunt fu' vain, joe,
Or played the parts of Highland hearts,
The day was a' our ain, joe.
We darena say the right's the right,
Though weel the right we ken, joe;
But we dare think, and take a drink
To red Clan-Ranald's men, joe.
Frae foreign foggies flee, joe,
I'd lend a hand at Cumberland
To rowe it in the sea, joe.
Come fill a cup, and fill it up,
We'll drink the toast ye ken, joe,
And add, beside, the Highland plaid,
And red Clan-Ranald's men, joe.
To Cluny of the Glen, joe,
To Donald Blue, and Appin true,
And red Clan-Ranald's men, joe;
And cry out news—our gallant news,
That Caril disna ken, joe,
Our gallant news of tartan trews,
And red Clan-Ranald's men, joe.
POEMS DESCRIPTIVE AND SENTIMENTAL.
Superstition and Grace.
There was an auld carle wonn'd under yon shaw,His cheek was the clay, and his hair was the snaw;
His brow was as glazed as the winter night,
But mingled with lines of immortal light;
And forth from his livid lips there flew
A flame of a lurid murky hue.
But there was a mystery him within,
That roused up the twangs and terrors of sin;
And there was a gleide in that auld carle's ee,
That the saint and the sinner baith trembled to see.
But, oh! when the moor gat her coverlet gray;
When the gloaming had flaughted the night and the day;
When the craws had flown to the greenwood shaw,
And the kid blett over the Lammer Law;
When the dew had laid the valley asteep,
And the gowan had faul't her buds to sleep;
When naething was heard but the merlin's maen,
Oh, then, that gyre carle was never his lane.
A bonnie wee baby, sae meek and mild,
Then walk'd with him in the dowie wild;
But, oh! nae pen that ever grew
Could describe that baby's heavenly hue:
Yet all the barmings of sturt and strife,
And weary wailings of mortal life,
Would soon have been hush'd to endless peace
At ae blink of that baby's face.
Her brow sae fair, and her e'e sae meek,
And the pale rose bloom upon her cheek;
Her locks, and the bend of her sweet e'e bree,
And her smile, might have waken'd the dead to see.
Her snood, befringed wi' many a gem,
Was stown frae the rainbow's brightest hem;
And her rail, mair white than the snawy drift,
Was never woven aneath the lift;
It threw sic a light on the hill and the gair,
That it show'd the wild deer to her lair;
And the brown bird of the moorland fell
Upraised his head from the heather bell,
For he thought that his dawning of love and mirth,
Instead of the heaven was springing from earth;
And the fairies waken'd frae their beds of dew,
And they sang a hymn, and that hymn was new.
Oh, ladies, list! for never again
Shall you hear sic a wild, unearthly strain:
For they sang the night breeze in a swoon,
And they sang the gowd locks frae the moon;
They sang the redbreast frae the wood,
And the laverock out o' the marled cloud,
The capperkayle frae the bosky brae,
And the seraphs down frae the milky way;
And some wee feres of bloodless birth
Came out o' the worm-holes o' the earth,
And swoof'd sae lightly round the lea,
That they wadna kythe to mortal e'e;
While the eldritch sang, it rang sae shrill,
That the waesome tod yool'd on the hill:
Oh, ladies, list! for the choral band
Thus hymn'd the song of Fairy Land:
Song of the Fairies.
How shall we sing
Round the babe of the spirits' king?
How shall we sing our last adieu,
Baby of life, when we sing to you?
Now the little night-burdie may cheip i' the wa',
The plover may whew, and the cock may craw;
For the bairny's sleep is sweet and sure,
And the maiden's rest is blest and pure,
Through all the links of the Lammer Muir.
Sin our bonnie baby was sent frae heaven,
She comes o'ernight wi' the dew of even;
And when the day-sky bursts frae the main,
She swaws wi' the dew to heaven again:
But the light shall dawn, and the howlet flee,
The dead shall quake, when the day shall be,
That she shall smile in the gladsome noon,
And sleep, and sleep, in the light of the moon.
Then shall our hallelues wake anew
With harp, and viol, and ayril true.
How shall we say
Our earthly adieu ere we pass away?
Ring! Ring!
Dance and sing,
And on the green broom your garlands hing;
Hallow the hopes of this ray of grace,
For sweet is the smile of our baby's face;
And every ghaist of geysand hue
Has melted away in the air she drew.
The kelpy may dern, in drear and dool,
Deep in the howe of his eiry pool;
Gil-Moules frae hint the hallan may flee
Through by the threshold and through by the key,
And the mermaid moote in the saffron sea:
But we are left in the greenwood glen,
Because we love the children of men,
Sweetly to sing, and never to rue,
Till now that we hymn our last adieu;
Baby of life, we sing it to you!
How shall we sing
Round the babe of the spirits' king?
Hither the breezes of Elfland bring,
Then, fairies, away—away on the wing!
We now maun flit to a land of bliss—
To a land of holy silentness;
To a land where the night-wind never blew,
But thy fair spring shall ever be new.
When the moon shall wake, nae mair to wane,
And the cloud and the rainbow baith are gane,
In bowers aboon the break o' the day,
We'll sing to our baby for ever and aye.
And heard the words of their farewell sang;
They seem'd to ling asklent the wind,
And left a pathway of light behind;
But he heard them singing as they flew—
“Baby of life, adieu! adieu!
Baby of grace, we sing to you!”
And named her with a tremulous tongue;
And the light of God shone on his face,
As he look'd to heaven and named her Grace;
And he barr'd the day of sorrow and pain
Ever to thrall the world again;
Then he clasp'd his hands, and wept full sore,
When he bade her adieu for evermore.
Oh! never was baby's smile so meek
When she felt the tear drop on her cheek;
And never was baby's look so wae
When she saw the stern auld carle gae;
But a' his e'eless and elfin train,
And a' his ghaists and gyes are gane:
Then gleids that gleam'd in the darksome shaw,
And his fairies had flown the last of a'.
Then the poor auld carle was blythe to flee
Away frae the queen isle of the sea,
And never mair seeks the walks of men,
Unless in the disk of the gloaming glen.
Lines to Sir Walter Scott, Bart.
To strain of high festivity!
Can'st thou be silent in the brake,
Loitering by Altrive's mountain lake,
When he who gave the hand its sway
That now has tuned thee many a day,
Has gained thee honours trulier won,
Than e'er by sword of Albyn's son;
High guerdon of a soul refined,
The meed of an exalted mind?
My counsellor, and friend indeed.
Though hard through life I've pressed my way
For many a chill and joyless day,
Since I have lived enrapt to hail
My sovereign's worth, my friend's avail,
And see, what more I prize than gain,
Our forest harp the bays obtain,
I'll ween I have not lived in vain.
When by the scanty ingle set,
Beyond the moors where curlews wheel
In Ettrick's bleakest, loneliest sheil,
Conning old songs of other times,
Most uncouth chants and crabbed rhymes—
Could I e'er dream that wayward wight,
Of roguish joke, and heart so light,
In whose oft-changing eye I gazed,
Not without dread the head was crazed,
Should e'er, by genius' force alone,
Skim o'er an ocean sailed by none;
All the hid shoals of envy miss,
And gain such noble port as this?
Mirth at the scene, and ever will,
When o'er the fells we took our way;
('Tis twenty years, even to a day,
Since we two sought the fabled urn
Of marble blue by Rankleburn):
No tomb appeared; but oft we traced
Towns, camps, and battle-lines effaced,
Which never were, nor could remain,
Save in the bold enthusiast's brain:
The same to us—it turned our lays
To chiefs and tales of ancient days.
One broken pot alone was found
Deep in the rubbish under ground,
In middle of the ancient fane—
“A gallant helmet split in twain!”
The truth was obvious; but in faith
On you all words were waste of breath;
And sore the brow fell o'er the eye;
You could not bear that you should ride
O'er pathless waste and forest wide,
Only to say that you had been
To see that nought was to be seen.
Ne'er flowed around the cottage hearth:
When Maitland's song first met your ear,
How the furled visage up did clear,
Beaming delight! though now a shade
Of doubt would darken into dread
That some unskilled presumptuous arm
Had marred tradition's mighty charm.
Till she, the ancient minstreless,
With fervid voice, and kindling eye,
And withered arms waving on high,
Sung forth these words in eldritch shriek,
While tears stood on thy nut-brown cheek—
Nor e'er pretend to be;
We be three lads of fair Scotland,
Auld Maitland's sons, a' three!”
“By ---, sir, but that is the thing!”
Since we two met, and time has shed
His riming honours o'er each brow—
My state the same, how changed art thou!
But every year yet overpast
I've loved thee dearer than the last.
For all the volumes thou hast wrote,
Those that are owned, and that are not,
Let these be conned even to a grain,
I've said it, and will say't again—
Who knows thee but by these alone,
The better half is still unknown.
Beats for the woes of the distrest,
Bleeds for the wounds it cannot heal,
Or yearns more o'er thy country's weal.
Thy love embraces Britain o'er,
And spreads and radiates with her shore;
Scarce fading on her ocean's foam,
But still 'tis brightest nearest home,
Till those within its central rays,
Rejoicing, bask within the blaze.
That raised thee 'bove the rhyming race;
Blessed be the heart and head elate,
The noble generous estimate
That marked thy worth, and owned the hand
Resistless in its native land.
Bootless the waste of empty words,
Thy pen is worth ten thousand swords.
So firm of soul, so stanch of right;
For had thy form but reached its prime,
Free from mischance in early time,
No stouter sturdier arm of weir
Had wielded sword or battle spear.
For war thy boardly frame was born,
For battle shout, and bugle-horn;
Thy boyish feats, thy youthful dream—
How thy muse kindles at the theme!
Chance marred the path, or Heaven's decree;
How blessed for Scotland and for me!
Walter the Abbot now no more:
Well,—let it be,—I'll not repine,
But love the title since 'tis thine.
Long brook thy honours, firm to stand
As Eildon rock; and that thy land,
The first e'er won by dint of rhyme,
May bear thy name till latest time,
And stretch from bourn of Abbot's-lea
To Philhope Cross, and Eildon Tree,
Is the heart's wish of one who's still
Thy grateful shepherd of the hill!
The Descent of Love.
Though oft he turns into a jest
Thy freaks or foibles, yet will join
In humble worship at thy shrine,
And eulogize thee morn and even,
As the best, earliest gift of Heaven.
Child of a happier sphere than this!
Wert thou a nursling of the sky,
Foster'd in Paradise on high,
To thrill the radiant breasts above?
No—angels feel not youthful love!
Theirs is a flame we cannot know,
A holy ardour free from woe;
But ours a joy, supreme, intense,
A short and splendid recompense
For an esteem, unbroke, unmoved,
Which man immortal might have proved.
Art thou not then, O virtuous love,
The dearest gift of Heaven above?
The place that own'd thy mystic birth,
When far beneath the golden morn
Was thy seraphic being born.
Where Euphrates and Tigris' strands
Join 'mid the sweet Assyrian lands;
Where that great river rolling blue
Mirror'd the earliest flowers that grew,
When scarce had bud began to blow,
Or blossom deck'd the world below,
The bed of thy nativity.
Lay weeping their immortal blame,
By deep remorse and sorrow toss'd,
For all their gifts and glory lost;
Even then, when grief was at the full,
And no redress their pains to lull,
Thy cherub form from heaven descended,
In all the rays of beauty blended,
And their repentant breasts above
Thou wov'st the holy ties of love;
While by a mystic art unnamed
Of thy fair self the bonds were framed,
And ne'er did heavenly art entwine
A wreath so cheering and divine.
They found their hearts to nature bound
By tie, not proved, nor understood,
A bond of kindred and of blood,
And in delight without alloy
Their hearts rejoiced in nature's joy.
The river flow'd more silvery bright,
The flowers were glowing with delight,
The young twin roses had begun
Their homage to the morning sun,
In odours breathed from bosoms meek,
And made obeisance cheek to cheek.
A world of pathos and of love,
Where all was deck'd in glories new;
The sunbeam kiss'd the morning dew:
The fields were robed in deeper green;
The blue of heaven was more serene;
The birds sang sweeter in the grove,
Hailing the natal morn of love;
Not even from Eden's sacred tree
Was ever pour'd such melody.
The greatest still remain'd behind,
A new delight thrill'd and subdued,
When eye met eye with love imbued;
When he with raptures scarce terrene
First turn'd his view on nature's queen,
On that dear form whose soften'd charms
Besought protection in his arms;
Whose every look, and smile, and sigh,
Bespoke a chasten'd courtesy.
He saw her eye of deeper blue,
Her cheek grown rosier in its hue,
While her fair bosom's gentle swell
With hallow'd heavings rose and fell;
Then was thy heavenly being blest
With earthly home of holy rest,
And woman's breast was form'd to be
The tabernacle meet for thee.
Wallace.
Boast of its warrior, patriot, sage;
Take all in list below the sun,
From Samson down to Wellington;
And in one little northern land,
Amid the ocean's raving strand,
A shapeless mass of isle and firth,
The outmost limits of the earth,
I pledge my word a knight to name,
For patriot worth, for warrior fame,
For might, for honour, courage true,
For love of king, and country too,
That shall them all in one outdo.
My word in pawn; and if 'tis said
Or thought (as God forbid the sin)
“A poet's word's not worth a pin;”
Why then I pledge my pen beside,
In which, forsooth, I more confide.
“Who is this patriot? Where the isle?”
I hear you say, and see you smile:
Well—mockery is the poet's due
When his position proves untrue.
That land is Caledonia hight;
That hero's name is Wallace wight.
My country's honour, and her shame!
Can there a Scottish heart be found,
That glows not at the very sound
Of such a name? Is breast so base
That burns not at our hero's praise?
There was—but with thy life it past,
And thou hast found thy due at last,
Wallace! unstained, illustrious name!
My country's honour, and her shame!
O'er lands where science never shone;
And Grecia's maniac king o'errun
The nations of the morning sun,
Whom the great Tartar, next in fame,
Far journeying, saw and overcame.
These themes of many an annalist,
These things insatiate and unblest,
With one of all their deeds combine?
With such resources, such array,
Such warriors to dispute their way,
Their fame's fantastic and untrue,
Nor praise nor honour is their due.
Cursed be the trophies, cursed the joy
Of him who conquers to destroy!
And deeds such as have never been
Of devastation, tyrant wrath,
Of ruin, and dismay, and death;—
Even there, what hero e'er hath stood
Amid oppression's foaming flood,
Without one stay to rest upon,
Unawed, undaunted, and alone;
And by his single arm of might
Preserved his country's primal right?
If such there be, a nation's pride,
With Wallace be he named and tried.
Stand, Swede and Corsican, aloof:
What boots the hero's enterprise
Without a nation's energies?
Endeavours else would madness seem—
So all men say, and all men deem.
When king and nobles were subdued,
And joined the oppressor to efface
The last faint lines of Scotia's race:
When bent before the mighty blast
Prince, chief, and warrior; and the last,
The peasant, on his native field,
Was forced indignantly to yield,
In whom alone the glorious light
Was smothered, not extinguished quite.
'Twas then that one gigantic soul
Dared the whole tide of power control;
Lifted his mighty sword—and then,
Amid the multitudes of men,
Stood like a rock whose rugged side
Repels the wind, the storm, the tide;
Proclaimed the freedom of the land,
Though lodged within his own right hand;
And vowed to Heaven that land to free,
Or die with her lost liberty!
Was lodged within no common hind.
His stature was the pine tree's height;
His strength beyond the bison's might;
Serene of soul, of courage high,
The light of heaven was in his eye;
While every look, and word, and nod,
Bespoke the chief upraised by God;
And deeds of a resistless brand
Gave token of supreme command:
The hardy peasant roused to ire,
Soon caught a portion of the fire.
The spark of heaven spread far and bright.
The shepherd left the mountain steep,
He left his folds and flocks of sheep;
The hind forsook his furrowed field,
And grasped the spear and knotted shield;
And even the haggard artizan
Looked fiercer than the eye of man
E'er looked before; and one might trace
A grimness settled on each face,
A resolution that bespoke
Hatred of tyrant's galling yoke.
Scotland, thou nurse of courage true,
Beneath the plaid and bonnet blue!
Land of the loyal patriot flame,
Where Wallace fought, and Bruce o'ercame;
Land of the mountain-oak and pine,
I have one honour—I am thine!
Before one dread resistless arm;
The mightiest towers were level laid;
The foe was humbled and dismayed:
For no defence could aught avail;
Nor fort, nor city, hill nor vale,
Could shield them from the fierce alarm,
And vengeance of that deadly arm.
Awed at the waste of warrior blood;
They saw the land from foes set free,
And scarcely weened how it might be;
But few there were who deigned to yield
Assistance in the glorious field.
Had Wallace to sustain his force;
A heavy sword and dauntless heart
Were all he had—the hero's part!
Without reward his warriors fought—
None was to give, and none they sought;
Freedom the only hire they know,
And booty from a vanquished foe.
His realms invaded and despoiled.
Proud England with amazement saw
The chief descend whose sword was law,
With all his motley, bold array,—
The Borderer in his homely gray,
The tartaned clans of every glen,
The wildest hordes of living men,
In every shade the rainbow knew,
The green, the red, the pale, the blue,—
Men of all colours, come to kill,
To burn and ravage at their will,
Through her rich valleys far and near,
And none to check their bold career:
No force, no fraud, no strife they dread,
With doughty Wallace at their head.
Before him, jarring kings combined,
And pride and envy raged behind;
Due vengeance on the English wrought,
And woe to him that dared withstand
His progress through that guilty land!
One year in midst of it he lay,
Returned triumphant with the prey,
And never met with town, or tower,
Or foe, he did not overpower.
(Mark well the hero's every deed!)
All vacant stood the Scottish throne,
'Twas claimed by six, possessed by none:
His conquering army wished to set
Upon his head the coronet;
And this, as Regent, had he chose,
There was no force that could oppose:
But with a heart that would not lure,
And soul as firm as it was pure,
All power or title he disclaimed;
And that it might no more be named,
His high command and guardian sword
Back to the states he straight restored,
Who had that power to him decreed
When in their last and utmost need.
If this is not true patriot worth,
Where hath it ripened on the earth?
For wild division rends the state;
Again the staff to him they yield
To lead them to the sanguine field.
'Gainst his own prince he's doomed to fight,
All to uphold that prince's right,
While envy, hate, and Highland pride,
Success to the great cause denied.
His mighty soul with grief was torn;
Down to the Carron's shore alone
Darkling he strayed, to vent his moan
For those had fallen in that day's strife,
And yielded but with yielding life;
Stewart and Graham—the good, the great;
Man's perfidy, and Scotland's fate.
'Twas there and then, concealed from sight
Within the curtain of the night,
That to his prince these words he said,
And his free bosom open laid.
That I for power or honours fight?
That I would sear this head with crown,
Or hand with sceptre not mine own?
That Wallace e'er would stoop to claim
Usurper's loathed and hateful name,
And thus disgrace the sacred cause
Of country's freedom, rights, and laws?
Cursed be the arm for this that fought,
The heart that cherished such a thought!
I've done but what belonged to thee.
When basely thou renounced the crown,
And joined with foes against thine own;
When all the nobles, all the great,
That should have borne the battle's weight,
Had left poor Scotland to the tide
Of tyrant might, and none to guide;
'Twas then that I, by forest deep,
In pathless wild, and mountain steep,
Where friend or comforter was none,
Withstood King Edward's power alone.
Striving, nor vainly did I strive,
To keep the trembling spark alive,
I reared our standard on the tree,
And fought for liberty and thee.
By treachery is the advantage lost;
Whilst thou, injurious to thy land,
Hast torn her bowels with the hand
That should have proved her guardian shield,
And pressed the foremost on the field.
The Scottish crown thou hence shalt wear;
My guardian power I'll yield with pride,
And fight thy battles by thy side:
Be Scotland free from England's chain,
I am content though I remain
The meanest follower in thy train.”
There spoke the patriot and the man.
True son of Scotia!—Chief of fame,
Dear is thy memory and thy name!
A memory that claims a part
In the best feelings of the heart;
A rousing charm that points to truth;
A torch that lights the soul of youth
To valour, honour, warrior feat,
To all that's good and all that's great.
Star of my country—of the land
That never crouched to foeman's brand!
When telling tales of warrior bold,
If word of One were said or sung,
Nay, if, by chance, from maiden's tongue
Wallace's name in whispers fell,
His form would seem to grow and swell,
His eye would shed a brighter ray,
And prouder wave his locks of gray.
Speak but the name of Wallace wight;
Although his weather-beaten head
Should on his ragged sleeve be laid
In dozing mood, with closed eye,
With white bluff cheek, and mouth awry;
If Wallace' name but meet his ear
How his brown visage up will clear!
His eyelids heavy and opprest
He'll raise, and gape to hear the rest.
Been wakened from his grateful sleep
By prattling imp, that he might say
Tales o'er and o'er till break of day;
Tales that had broke the lubber's rest
Of Him whose name he loved the best;
Of hard unequal combats won;
What heroes fought and were outdone;
And haply, ere next evening fell,
These tales were all again to tell.
Ah! many a lip of maiden coy,
And cheek of blowzy cottage boy,
Have at his deeds with ardour flamed,
And blenched when a Monteith was named.
Drove her from church in triple wrath!
She deemed the bedesman Southron's tool,
A sneaking knave, a prating fool,
For saying that “since time began
One Samson was the strongest man;
And that the Bible's sacred page
Was the best book of any age.”
But on the threshold, in her wrath,
To vindicate her patriot faith,
She turned, and cried, squeaking amain,
“Read Wallace, and say so again!”
Is with our hearts and annals blent;
Memorial dear, without a blot,
What once she was, and now is not!
And still of all the names I see,
Even in this land of loyalty,
On roll of fame recorded wide,
Or margined on rebellion's side,
(Rebellion's side! Ah, woe's my heart,
That loyalty finds such desert!)
But yet of all these chiefs of worth,
These heroes of the plaided north,
There is not name beloved so well;
On which the soul delights to dwell
Without alloy—or still that can
Stand as the polar star of man:
And doubly blest that man shall be,
That cherisheth his memory!
This poem was reluctantly and hurriedly written, in compliance with the solicitations of a friend who would not be gainsayed, to compete for a prize offered by a gentleman for the best poem on the subject. The prize was finally awarded to Mrs. Felicia Hemans; and, as far as the merits of mine went, very justly; hers being greatly superior both in elegance of thought and composition. Had I been constituted the judge myself, I would have given hers the preference by many degrees; and I estimated it the more highly as coming from one of the people that were the hero's foes, oppressors, and destroyers. I think my heart never warmed so much to an author for any poem that ever was written.
Hymn to the Evening Star.
Thy bed is chilled with evening dew;
Thy robe the virgin fays have wove,
And reared thy canopy of blue.
Thy amber hallow o'er the hill,
And all the chambers of the west,
Thy coronal with glory fill!
Soft silence broods o'er lawn and lea;
And beauty in the greenwood shade
Uplifts a longing eye for thee.
Where wounded lovers kneel confest;
Thine altar-cloth the daisy flower;
Thy tabernacle beauty's breast;
Thy breviary two beaming eyes;
And aye I'll pant to see thee shine—
Beloved star, arise, arise!
To hear thy holy vesper sung,—
But tell not where my cheek was laid,
Nor where my careless arm was flung.
Thy light pavilion down the sky,
Before thee let young seraphs sing
The softest love-sick melody!
Where fragrant flames of incense glow,
Pure as that heavenly breast of thine,
And fairer than the virgin snow;
And pay the vows I made to thee,
Until thy mild and modest light
Is cradled on the heaving sea.
Will and Davie:
A SCOTTISH PASTORAL.
Through bowers of birch, and brakes of willow;
Where loud the grouse crows on the fell,
And sweet the thrush sings in the dell;
Where milk-white flocks unnumbered lie,
And mirth laughs keen in every eye;
And plenty smiles from day to day,
Beneath Buccleuch's indulgent sway;
Two friendly shepherds, blithe and young,
Oft on the greensward sat and sung,
Or scoured the lofty fells together,
And brushed the red flower from the heather.
On Bowerhope Law the rural lay;
For such a scene that lay was meet—
As wildly gay, as simply sweet;
The great may even lend an ear
Wild Yarrow's mountain strains to hear.
Ah, Will, these purple heather blooms,
That round us shed their light perfumes,
That morning sky so mild and blue,
Have raised my heart to such a height,
I breathe so pure, I feel so light,
'Gainst all the reasons you can bring
I must and will my matin sing.
Cheer up your heart, for once be gay;
Screw on your flute and join the lay!
WILL.
Adds sharpness to my bosom's pain.
How can ye pour that strain so airy,
That trifling, idle, wild vagary;
Nor, sadly, once reflect with me
On what has been, and what may be?
The watchful falcon hovering nigh,
But flickering his kind mate above,
He trills his matin song of love.
Ah, reckless bird, that lively strain
Thy mate shall never hear again!
The spoiler tears thy panting breast,
And all forsaken is thy nest.”
The sky of Britain threatening lowers!
Else, let your strain be soft and slow,
And every fall a note of woe.
DAVIE.
While nature smiles so sweet around?
See how our lambs, in many a skein,
Are dancing on the daisied green;
Their pliant limbs they keenly brace,
Strained in the unambitious race;
Till gruff old wedders, blithe to see
The young things skip so merrily,
With motley antics join the throng,
And bob and caper them among.
The tewit lilts above the fen;
Even the hoarse curlew strains her throat,
And yelps her loudest, liveliest note:
The rural joy then must I shun,
So ripened by the rising sun?
No—while my bosom beats so high,
Responsive to a lovely eye
That pierced it with a gilded arrow,
I'll sing of love, of joy, and Yarrow.
That shady world of placid glory.
See how the afer vibrates o'er
The lofty front of brown Clokmore;
Beyond Carlevon's rocky crest
The drowsy moon sinks pale to rest;
An angel shade of silken green
O'erveils the cliffs of wild Loch Skene;
While Border Cheviot, blue and high,
Melts like a shadow on the sky.
His airy course has scarce begun;
His orient cheek is resting still
Upon the gray cairn on the hill.
The scarlet curtain of the sky,
A wreathed and waving canopy,
Sweels like the dew on mountain flower
Or frost-work in the southland shower.
Loose on the vale, lies bent and lone;
A silver snake of every dye
That gilds the mountain, tincts the sky;
And slowly o'er her verdant vales
A cobweb veil of vapour sails.
To moorland gray and mountain green;
To speckled schell-fowl hovering nigh,
To milky swan and morning sky:
Their phantom cliffs hang trembling low,
And hoary thorns inverted grow.
As sunbeam on the silent hill,
No curling breeze across it strays,
No sportful eddy o'er it plays,
Save where the wild duck wanders slow,
Or dark trout spreads his waxing O.
Crowned by yon broad and dazzling ball.
Turn westward—mountain, glen, and wold,
Are all one blaze of burning gold!
So grand, so lovely, so serene,
Bears the free soul on rapture's wing,
Before thy diamond throne to sing;
Above yon sky's celestial blue,
To gaze on glories ever new;
And list the strains of angel song
From angel harps that pour along,
By fragrant breezes softly driven
O'er suns that sand the floors of heaven.
The enraptured youth now ceased to sing;
But still, on ether's waving wing,
From echo's cave was borne along
The dying measures of the song:
With eye entranced, and head declined,
They listened to the waving wind—
Hung on the cliff-born fairy lay,
Till the last quaver died away.
Storm of Thunder among Mountains.
In my old worn-out memory, although there
The calendar's distinct and legible.
Look at them, stranger—these dim hideous cliffs,
That wrangle with the heavens. These to me
Are as my kindred; each aërial sound
That comes down from these hoary monitors
Hath language in it. The old raven's voice
Is to me as a brother's; and the eagle
From off his morning cliff tells me the tidings
Of days to come. The cataract's changing note,
Its trumpet tones, and its soft swelling melody,
Have all an utterance. Here I am as much
A thing of nature, of the wilderness,
As cloud or cliff, eagle or sounding stream—
A shred of the ever-changing elements.
The great vocabulary of nature, closed,
And voices more triumphant went abroad.
Can'st thou divulge me, traveller; were the spirits
Of the vast deep let loose, trying to shake
And shiver this fair universe to pieces?
Or did the eternal God himself descend
Upon our mountains?”
Nothing but nature's self, be thou assured,
Most venerable hind; but thou hast seen her
In temporary and strong convulsion.”
And all her thousand voices. Yon fleet clouds,
Which I term billows of the firmament—
Look to them, traveller: how they heave, and sail
From cliff to cliff, roll down into the chasms,
Then rise from the opposing steeps like spray—
Is it not grand?—And think'st thou I not know
Each boding hue, each movement, and each shade,
Of that aërial ocean? What am I
But as a wave of it? and dost thou think,
Old as I am, that I not know myself?
As such behoves, amid the reign of man;
Look on these regions of sublimity,
Changing their shades to all infinitude,
Yet still the same—This is the reign of God!
While I describe that morning as I saw it
From this same spot.—I rose and looked around;
The hour told that the morning was advanced,
But Heaven said, No. Methought the sun had stood
Still o'er the valley of Jehoshaphat,
Or that the night of Egypt had returned.
It was a hideous twilight. No bird sung;
The flocks forgot to feed, and stood and gazed,
Nor wist they what to dread. Sometimes I heard
A tremulous bleat come from the hills, and then
It came in such a tone it frightened me.
Still darker grew the morn; the brooding cloud
Lean'd its grim bosom deeper o'er the glen;
The heavens and earth were mingled, closed around
And here was I, an old and trembling thing,
Immured between them. For my hills I looked;
I looked to heaven, and for the blessed sun,
But all were lost—all curtained in together
In one impervious veil. I prayed to God,
And waited the event. Forthwith arose
A rushing sound somewhere above my head,
Whether in earth or heaven, in rock or cloud,
I could not tell; but nearer still it came,
And louder and more furious was the sound,
Like many torrents rushing on the wind.
Anon I saw the bosom of the cloud
Begin to heave and work with boiling motion,
And on its murky breast strange hues arose
Of dull and pallid blue, or muffled red,
While frightful openings yawned and closed again.
Nature lay on a bed of travailing;
Now strong convulsions, throes, and wrestlings,
Showed that with serpent birth her breast would rend:
Short then the pause and troubled, ere I saw
The heaven's slow swarthy bosom burst asunder,
And rain, and hail, and bolts of liquid flame
Issued at once. No sooner had the blaze
Dazzled my sight, than from the inmost cloud
The voice of the Eternal God came forth
As if in tenfold wrath; while every cave,
And every echo of these frowning cliffs
Shouted and jabbered as in mockery.
How my heart trembled! and a chillness crept
O'er all my frame; for such a rending crash,
So loud and so prolonged, ne'er stunned the ear
Of sinful worm. Fain would I have rebuked
The hills for such unholy mimicry,
For every rock, ravine, and yawning bourn,
Nay, every tiny clough, sent forth its thunder,
Jarring it proudly: Thus with every peal
Ten thousand thunders issued forth their voices.
Forgive me, stranger, but at times I deemed
The palaces of heaven were rent asunder,
And clattering down the air. The hills were smitten
For their presumption; for the lightning struck
And wounded their green bosoms; and their rocks,
Their proudest peaks were splintered and o'erthrown
By these fleet darts from the Almighty's hand,
And toppled down their sides with feeble sound,
As in confession of their nothingness
Before their Maker's anger. First the hail
Burst through its sable shroud, and strewed the land
With whitened desolation; then the doors,
The flood-gates of that dark impending tide,
Were all let loose, and on the prostrate earth
The mighty cataracts of the heaven descended;
From these proud mountains poured a thousand streams,
Where streams before ne'er ran, and every one
Pelting and foaming 'gainst all opposition
With upstart insolence, as who should say
Then, ever and anon, the rending peal
Made the rocks chatter, rolled from hill to hill,
And boomed along the sky. Oh, such a scene
These old dim eyes shall never look upon,
Nor these ears listen, in this earthly frame!
Then tell not me of nature's operations;
That was no produce of her onward work,
But a dire judgment and a grievous one,
As all the land hath found. My Bible calls
Thunder the voice of the Eternal God.
For me, I had a thought, a sinful one,
But I must tell it:—I did dread the fiends
Had met in conclave in that hollow cloud,
That seemed in burning colic with the mass
Within its hideous womb. The gleaming bolts
I deemed the arrows of the Almighty, sent
To scatter and confound them. Then the roars
In still redoubled violence that ensued,
I weened the clamour of outraged demons
Bellowing in wrathful anguish. Then methought
I heard them growling in their burning chariots
Far, far away, above the fields of air,
One after one. It was a passing thought,
A wild and sinful one—God pardon me!
But when the glorious sun looked from on high,
Through golden windows opening in the cloud,
In mild and glowing majesty, it was
Like a glad glimpse of heaven to me, who had
Sat in the shadow of infernal gloom
Amid its horror, uproar, and turmoil;
I could not choose but hail the God of Day,
And King of Glory, on his triumph won.”
Marion Graham.
And see this scene before it closes:
The eastern lift is a' on flame,
And a' besprinkled o'er wi' roses.
It is a sight will glad your e'e,
A sight my Marion lo'es to see.
Fair as my Marion's locks o' yellow;
And tints of blue as heavenly bright
As smile within her e'e sae mellow;
Her cheeks, young roses, even seem
To dimple in yon heavenly beam.
Ye never saw sae bright adorning;
I canna bear that my sweet dame
Should lose the pleasures o' this morning;
For what wad a' its beauties be
Without some likeness unto thee?
The budding rose, and gracefu' willow;
I see thee in yon morning beam,
And beauty of the glowing billow;
I see thy innocence and glee
In every lamb that skims the lea.
I see thee in the hues of even;
Thy virgin bed the milky way,
Thy coverlet the veil of heaven:
There have I seen a vision dim
Hush'd by an angel's holy hymn.
The gates of heaven, I saw advancing
The morning's gem—the star of love,
My heart with rapture fell a-dancing;
Yet I in all its rays could see,
And all its glories, only thee.
And Gude forgie my fond devotion!
In earth's sweet green, and heaven's blue,
And all the dyes that deck the ocean,
The scene that brings nae mind o' thee
Has little beauty to my e'e.
I ken your pawky jinks an' jeering;
You like to hear your lover rave,
An' gar him trow ye dinna hear him;
Yet weel this homage you'll repay—
Get up, my love, an' come away!
To the Genius of Shakspeare.
Where is thy dwelling-place?
Spirit of him whose high name we revere,
Come on thy seraph wings,
Come from thy wanderings,
And smile on thy votaries, who sigh for thee here!
Rise from thy hallowed shrine;
Here in the windings of Forth thou shalt see
Hearts true to nature's call,
Spirits congenial,
Proud of their country, yet bowing to thee.
While our fond minds were young,
Oft thy bold numbers we poured in our mirth;
Now in our hall for aye
This shall be holiday,
Bard of all Nature, to honour thy birth.
Green grave of Elsinore,
Stayest o'er the hill of Dunsinnan to hover,
Bosworth, or Shrewsbury,
Egypt, or Phillippi;
Come from thy roamings the universe over.
On by the morning star,
Dream'st on the shadowy brows of the moon,
Or linger'st in fairyland,
Mid lovely elves to stand,
Singing thy carols unearthly and boon;—
Come thou to Caledon!
Come to the land of the ardent and free!
The land of the lone recess,
Mountain and wilderness,
This is the land, thou wild meteor, for thee!
Rose from the pregnant earth
Gems such as late have in Scotia sprung;—
Gems that in future day,
When ages pass away,
Like thee shall be honoured, like thee shall be sung!
Forest, and greenwood tree,
Here to solicit thee cease shall we never:
Yes, thou effulgence bright,
Here must thy flame relight,
Or vanish from Nature for ever and ever!
The Auld Man's Fareweel to his Wee House.
Though laigh the wa's an' flat the riggin';
Though round thy lum the sourick grows,
An' rain-draps gaw my cozy biggin'.
My head's grown gray aneath thy kipple;
An' aye thy ingle cheek was free
Baith to the blind man an' the cripple:
Wi' bairnie at her bosom cryin',
My cot was open day an' night,
Nor wanted bed for sick to lie in.
An' kept my little store increasin'?—
The rich man never wished me ill,
The puir man left me aye his blessin'.
Though to a better house I'm flittin';
Sic joys will never glad my heart
As I've had by thy hallan sittin'.
My sonsie wife sat by me spinnin',
Aye liltin' owre her ditties wild,
In notes sae artless and sae winnin'.
Our e'enin' psalm a hymn of joy:
Aye calm an' peacefu' was our rest;
Our bliss, our love without alloy.
My auld, storm-battered hamely sheilin';
Thy sooty lum an' kipples clear
I better lo'e than gaudy ceilin'.
How damp an' cauld thy hearth will be!
Ah, sae will soon ilk honest heart,
That erst was blithe an' bauld in thee.
Till death had closed my weary e'en;
Then left thee for the narrow ha',
Wi' lowly roof o' swaird sae green.
My bourtree bush an' bowzy tree;
The wee while I maun sojourn here,
I'll never find a hame like thee!
The Battle of Busaco.
When far had rolled the sultry sun,
And night her pall of gloom had thrown
O'er nature's still convexity;
The cold turf was our cheerless bed;
And o'er the hero's dew-chilled head
The banners flapped incessantly.
The quivering drum, the pealing horn;
From rank to rank the cry is borne—
“Arouse, for death or victory!”
Began to mount the morning sky;
Then what a scene for warrior's eye
Hung on the bold declivity!
Like icicles on hills of blood;
An aërial stream, a silver wood
Reeled in the flickering canopy.
Or thunder-cloud before the blast,
Massena's legions, stern and vast,
Rushed to the dreadful revelry.
A thousand thousand thunders woke:
The air grows sick, the mountains rock;
Red ruin rides triumphantly.
In phantom towers and columns high,
But dark and dense their bases lie
Prone on the battle's boundary.
The harp her wildest war-notes threw,
The red rose gained a fresher hue,
Busaco, in thy heraldry!
The foe that braves our triple wall!
Thy sons, O wretched Portugal,
Roused at their deeds of chivalry.
The Gipsies.
Where England's loanings stretch unsoiled and wide,
Or by the brook that through the valley pours,
Where mimic waves play lightly through the flowers—
A noisy crew, far straggling in the glade,
Busied with trifles or in slumber laid;
Their children lolling round them on the grass,
Or pestering with their sports the patient ass?
The ripe young maiden with the glossy eye,
Men in their prime—the striplings dark and dun,
Scathed by the storms and freckled by the sun:
Oh, mark them well, when next the group you see
In vacant barn, or resting on the lea!
They are the remnant of a race of old—
Spare not the trifle for your fortune told,
For there shalt thou behold with nature blent
A tint of mind in every lineament;
A mould of soul distinct, but hard to trace,
Unknown except to Israel's wandering race;
For thence, as sages say, their line they drew—
Oh, mark them well! the tales of old are true.
When Christian zeal ran to extremity;
When Europe, like a flood no might could stem,
Poured forth her millions on Jerusalem;
One roaming tribe of Araby they won,
Bent on the spoil and foray just begun.
Great was their value—every path they knew,
Where sprung the fountain, where the forage grew,
And better wist than all the Christian men
How to mislead and vex the Saracen.
Their folly, and from eastern realms withdrew,
The alien tribe durst not remain behind,
Empires and hordes against them were combined.
Thither they came.—But still the word of Heaven
Stedfast remains to ancient Abram given:
“Wild shall they be 'mid nations from their birth,
All hands against them—theirs against all earth.”
Thus still they wander unrestrained and free
As erst their fathers did in Araby.
Peopled or not—it is the same—they view
The earth as their unalienable due,
And move by one undeviating plan
To take whate'er they may—protect who can.
Strange are their annals—Oh, regard them well!
For thou hast much to hear and I to tell.
Verses Addressed to the Right Honourable Lady Anne Scott of Buccleuch.
Joy round the peasant's lowly bed,
When trouble pressed, and friends were few,
And God and angels only knew—
To Her who loves the board to cheer,
And hearth of simple cottager;
Who loves the tale of rural hind,
And wayward visions of his mind,
I dedicate with high delight,
The theme of many a winter night.
Can shepherd choose to grace his tale?
There, other living name is none
Heard with one feeling—one alone.
Some heavenly charm must name endear
That all men love, and all revere!
Even the rude boy of rustic form,
And robes all fluttering to the storm,
Whose roguish lip and graceless eye
Incline to mock the passer-by,
Walks by the Maid with softer tread,
And lowly bends his burly head,
Following with eye of milder ray
The gentle form that glides away.
The little school-nymph, drawing near,
Says with a sly and courteous leer,
As plain as eye and manner can,
“Thou lov'st me—bless thee, Lady Anne!”
Even babes catch the beloved theme,
And learn to lisp their Lady's name.
Happy thou art, and long shall be:
'Tis not in sorrow, nor distress,
Nor fortune's power to make thee less.
The heart unaltered in its mood,
That joys alone in doing good,
And follows in the heavenly road,
And steps where once an angel trode;
The joys within such heart that burn,
No loss can quench nor time o'erturn.
The stars may from their orbits bend,
The mountains rock, the heavens rend,
The sun's last ember cool and quiver,
But these shall glow and glow for ever.
And cherishest his lowly dome,
Oh, list the mystic lore sublime
Of fairy tales of ancient time!
I learned them in the lonely glen,
The last abodes of living men,
Where never stranger came our way
By summer night or winter day;
Our converse was with heaven alone;
With voices through the cloud that sung,
And brooding storms that round us hung.
How stern and ample was the sway
Of themes like these, when darkness fell,
And gray-haired sires the tales would tell!
When doors were barred, and eldron dame
Plied at her task beside the flame
That through the smoke and gloom alone
On dim and umbered faces shone—
The bleat of mountain goat on high,
That from the cliff came quavering by;
The echoing rock, the rushing flood,
The cataract's swell, the moaning wood,
That undefined and mingled hum—
Voice of the desert never dumb,
All these have left within this heart
A feeling tongue can ne'er impart;
A wildered and unearthly flame,
A something that's without a name.
Religious tale offensive theme;
Our creeds may differ in degree,
But small that difference sure can be!
As flowers which vary in their dyes,
We all shall bloom in paradise:
As sire who loves his children well,
The loveliest face he cannot tell—
So 'tis with us—We are the same,
One faith, one Father, and one aim.
Amid the scenes where martyrs bled,
Their sufferings all to thee endeared
By those most honoured and revered;
And, where the wild dark streamlet waves,
Hadst wept above their lonely graves,
Thou wouldst have felt, I know it true,
As I have done, and aye must do.
And for the same exalted cause,
For mankind's rights, and nature's laws,
The cause of liberty divine,
Thy fathers bled as well as mine.
On some still eve these tales to read;
And thou wilt read I know full well,
For still thou lov'st the haunted dell;
To linger by the sainted spring,
And trace the ancient fairy ring,
Where moonlight revels long were held
In many a lone sequestered field,
By Yarrow den, and Ettrick shaw,
And the green mounds of Carterhaugh.
As lady must and minstrel ought!—
That loves like thee the whispering wood,
And range of mountain solitude!
Think how more wild the greenwood scene,
If times were still as they have been;
If fairies at the fall of even,
Down from the eye-brow of the heaven,
Or some aërial land afar,
Came on the beam of rising star,
Their lightsome gambols to renew;
From the green leaf to quaff the dew,
Or dance with such a graceful tread
As scarce to bend the gowan's head!
Within thy wood of green Bowhill,
Thy native wood, the forest's pride,—
Lover or sister by thy side;
In converse sweet the hour to improve,
Of things below and things above,
Of an existence scarce begun,
And note the stars rise one by one:—
Just then, the moon and day-light blending,
To see the fairy bands descending,
Wheeling and shivering as they came,
Like glimmering shreds of human frame;
Or sailing 'mid the golden air,
In skiffs of yielding gossamer.
Where human eye hath never shone,
Away o'er continents and isles,
A thousand and a thousand miles,
For one such eve to sit with thee,
Their strains to hear and forms to see!
Absent the while all fears of harm,
Secure in Heaven's protecting arm;
To list the songs such beings sung,
And hear them speak in human tongue;
To see in beauty, perfect, pure,
Of human face the miniature,
And smile of being free from sin,
That had not death impressed within.
Oh, can it ever be forgot
What Scotland had, and now has not?
Are given, or fitted as before
To eye or ear of guilty dust;
But when it comes, as come it must,
The time when I, from earth set free,
Shall turn the spark I fain would be;
If there's a land, as grandsires tell,
Where brownies, elves, and fairies dwell,
There my first visit shall be sped—
Journeyer of earth, go hide thy head!
Of all thy travelling splendour shorn,
Though in thy golden chariot borne,
Yon little cloud of many a hue
That wanders o'er the solar blue—
That do I challenge and engage
To be my travelling equipage,
Then onward, onward far to steer,
The breeze of heaven my charioteer;
Eternal hope my all beside.
At such a shrine who would not bow!—
Traveller of earth, where art thou now?
My young, my honoured lady's name;
That honour is reward complete,
Yet I must crave, if not unmeet,
One little boon—delightful task
For maid to grant, or minstrel ask!
For short the time since it befell,
When, o'er thy forest bowers of oak,
The eddying storm in darkness broke.
Loud sung the blast adown the dell,
And Yarrow lent her treble swell;
The mountain's form grew more sublime,
Wrapt in its wreaths of rolling rime;
And Newark Cairn, in hoary shroud,
Appeared like giant o'er the cloud.
The eve fell dark, and grimly scowled,
Loud and more loud the tempest howled;
Without was turmoil, waste, and din,
The kelpie's cry was in the linn—
But all was love and peace within:
And aye, between, the melting strain
Poured from thy woodland harp amain,
Which mixing with the storm around,
Gave a wild cadence to the sound.
Hath so impressed thy shepherd's heart
With glowing feelings, kindling bright
Some filial visions of delight,
That almost border upon pain,
And he would hear those strains again.
They brought delusions not to last,
Blending the future with the past;
Dreams of fair stems in foliage new,
Of flowers that spring where others grew,
Of beauty ne'er to be outdone,
And stars that rise when sets the sun,
The patriarchal days of yore,
The mountain music heard no more,
With all the scene before his eyes,
A family's and a nation's ties—
Bonds which the heavens alone can rend,
With chief, with father, and with friend.
No wonder that such scene refined
Should dwell on rude enthusiast's mind!
Strange his reverse!—he never wist—
Poor inmate of the cloud and mist!
That ever he, as friend, should claim
The proudest Caledonian name.
These Verses were published in the first edition of “The Brownie of Bodsbeck,” as the dedication of that work.
Moralitas.
For the homage of a day,
To a downy dimpling chin,
Smile that tells the void within—
Swaggering gait, and stays of steel—
Saucy head and sounding heel—
Gives the gift of woe and weeping;
Gives a thing not worth the keeping;
Gives a trifle—gives a toy:
Sweetest viands soonest cloy.
Years of sorrow and of pain;
Gains the curse that leaves her never;
Gains the pang that lasts for ever.
Though the heart dares hardly own it?
Well it traces love to be
The fruit of the forbidden tree;
The test of that angelic creature;
The touchstone of her human nature,
Which proved her, though of heavenly birth,
An erring meteor of the earth.
Was trial once is trial still;
It is the fruit that virgin's eye
Can ne'er approach too cautiously;
It is the fruit that virgin's hand
Must never touch but on command
Of parent, guardian, friends in common—
Approved both by man and woman;
Else woe to her as maid or wife!
For all her days of mortal life,
The curse falls heavy on her crime,
And heavier wears by length of time;
And, as of future joys to reft her,
Upon her race that follows after.
Baulk the forward inclination—
Cool the bosom, check the eye,
And guide the hand that binds the tie—
Then, then alone is love a treasure,
A blessing of unbounded measure,
Which every pledge of love endears;
It buds with age, and grows with years—
As from the earth it points on high,
Till its fair tendrils in the sky
Blossom in joy, and ever will,
And woman is an angel still.
A Last Adieu.
The veil o'er thy couch of forgetfulness spread;
Thy kind heart shall grieve for my follies no more,
Nor the suppliant tear for thy wanderer be shed.
But riches, unknown, were unvalued by thee;
In the wild wast thou born, in the wild didst thou dwell,
The pupil of Nature, benevolent and free.
Was nourished a spirit more genial and kind;
Chill poverty could not thy ardour restrain,
Nor cloud thy gay smile, or the glow of thy mind.
When fancy was ardent, and feeling was strong;
Oh! how I would long for the gloaming to fall,
To sit by thy knee and attend to thy song;
The garland of blossom dishonoured too soon;
The elves of the greenwood, the ghosts of the dead,
And fairies that journeyed by light of the moon.
Was 'neath independence to shield thy gray head,
But fortune denied it—extinguished the fire—
And, now thou art gone, my ambition is fled.
Thy memory I'll cherish, while memory is mine;
And the boon that my tongue aye from Heaven shall crave,
Shall be, the last blessing that hung upon thine.
The place shall be hallowed when ages are past;
No monument tells 'mid the wilderness green,
Where the Minstreless lies of the Border the last:
And the lover of goodness, stand silent and sigh;
And the fays of the wild will thy requiem prolong,
And shed on thy coverlet dews of the sky.
His dew-web of dawn shall the gossamer won;
And there shall the daisy and violet bloom,
And I'll water them all with the tears of a son.
Again thy loved bosom my dwelling may be;
And long as the name of thy darling shall last
All due be the song and the honour to thee!
On the Death of Mr. Pitt.
The tidings of glory are borne?
Oh, art thou departed, our bulwark, our shield,
And live I thy exit to mourn?
Our country's horizon for ever is shorn
Of a splendour that stedfastly shone;
The darkness is shed, and the storm is gone forth;
Our sun and our moon have both dropped to the earth;
The child of the mighty is come to the birth,
But the strength of the parent is gone.
For here cannot party deride;
'Twas in the lone wild I first heard of thy name,
With Nature alone for my guide,
That taught me to love thee: my boast and my pride
Thenceforth thou hast been, and shalt be:
I read, and I wondered—but still I read on;
My bosom heaved high with an ardour unknown,
But I found it congenial in all with thine own,
And I took up my rest under thee.
Disgust at each motion of thine;
For I was as simple as babe at the breast,
And their motives I could not divine.
I knew not—and still small the knowledge is mine—
Of the passions that mankind dissever—
That minds there are framed like the turbulent ocean,
That fumes on its barriers with ceaseless commotion;
On the rock that stands highest, commanding devotion,
There dash its rude billows for ever.
I have tried thee by plummet and line—
Have weighed in the balance the right and the wrong,
And am forced in the charge to combine.
They called thee ambitious—a censure condign!
I know it—I own it was true!
But it was of thy country alone thou wert proud;
Thy ambition was all for her glory and good;
For these thy proud heart a wild torrent withstood,
Which broke what it could not subdue.
A shepherd can ill understand;
But he weens that as clear and unbiassed a head,
As clean and less sordid a hand,
Or a heart more untainted, did never command
The wealth of a nation on earth;
And he knows that long hence, when his head's low as thine,
That the good, and the great, and the brave, and benign,
And the lovers of country and king, will combine
To hallow the hour of thy birth!
The Dawn of July, 1810.
Thou risest with this holy day;
The radiance of thy infant ray
Betokens gay hilarity.
But why that rosy maiden blush,
While from the vale and verdant bush
Distils the melting melody?
Edina, set 'mid hills of dew,
And spires that bore the welkin blue,
There all was dead serenity;
When up thy silken veil was drawn,
And broad yon orb of flame began
To mount the green wave's canopy?
Arrayed in robes of gaudy green,
With stripes and dazzling gems between,
In richest wild variety.
Deep blossoms o'er the valleys blow,
And wild-flowers deck the mountain's brow,
In modest sweet simplicity.
Calm be thy course, and mild thy sky;
That tear that glistens in thine eye
Adds beauty to thy majesty.
Its dawn, like thine, as fair and gay;
And all its splendours dashed away
By storms of black adversity!
On the Close of the Year 1812.
And dark are the rocks that encircle thy throne;
The dwelling of beings unbodied is there—
There are spirits abroad, let the traveller beware!
The clock had rung long, and the watchman had sung,
And just when the murmurs of midnight grew still,
A symphony broke from the shelve of the hill:
It was not by man, for no mortal was there—
There are spirits abroad, let the traveller beware!
They sung of the year that was passing away,
And the stars hid their blushes in curtain of gray.
Dirge.
Thou art gone, thou art gone, with thy sceptre of dread!With thy brands of destruction, and wains of the dead;
With thy rolls and thy registers, bloated with woe,
And thy millions of souls to the mansions below.
At the fall of thy bier shall time's sepulchre sigh,
And thy winding-sheet all the lone dwellings shall dye:
Oh, well o'er the shoreless abyss mayest thou shiver,
Down, down to the centre, for ever and ever!
There are spirits abroad, let the traveller beware!
Epitaph on a Living Character.
Tumult, terror, groaning, yelling,
Come and wipe thy red claymore,
O'er this low and lonely dwelling!
Weep the prince of prank and pother;
Warrior, weep a fallen brother.
Lasses sleeping, alleys quiet,
Come and fire one rousing gun
O'er this king of rout and riot.
Silent now the tale of wonder,
Song of mirth and rap of thunder.
Hurt or harm he wished to no man;
Face of man he little feared,
Less the face of lovely woman;
Left, for brethren dry and hearty,
Deeds of death to Bonaparte.
What can from the dust recover?
Cold the heart lies crumbling here,
All his fun and freaks are over;
Like the foam-bell on the river,
They are gone—and gone for ever!
On the Lifting of the Banner of Buccleuch,
AT THE GREAT FOOT-BALL MATCH ON CARTERHAUGH, DEC. 5, 1815.
Thy mystic characters unrolled
O'er peaceful revellers to play,
Thou emblem of the days of old?
Or comest thou with the veteran's smile,
Who deems his day of conquest fled,
Yet loves to view the bloodless toil
Of sons whose sires he often led?
When, over Border waste and wood,
On foray and achievement bent,
Like eagle on the path of blood.
Symbol to ancient valour dear!
Much has been dared and done for thee—
I almost weep to see thee here,
And deem thee raised in mockery.
'Twas thine thy gleaming moon and star
Above their manly sports to wave
As free as in the field of war:
To thee the faithful clansman's shout
In revel as in rage was dear;
The more beloved in festal rout,
The better fenced when foes were near.
The iron age of hardihood—
The rather that thou led'st the way
To peace and joy through paths of blood
When thou wert foremost in the fray,
We had not been assembled here,
Rejoicing in a Father's sway.
Alike the moral truth impress—
Valour and constancy alone
Can purchase peace and happiness.
Then hail, memorial of the brave,
The liegeman's pride, the Border's awe!
May thy gray pennon never wave
On sterner field than Carterhaugh!
Love.
Of trembling hope and boundless happiness,
When neither self nor sorrow durst assail?—
That day I'll sing till my remembrance fail.
And the slow wave fell lighter on the shore;
When spring-tide lengthened far the jocund eve,
And the red sun still lingered o'er the wave;
When little wild birds sought the forest land,
And poured their lays so melting and so bland—
All grew enchantment to my youthful view;
The virgin's cheek turned of a rosier hue;
The amber clouds that hung above the west,
The violet's hue, the daisy's snowy vest,
All wore a charm mine eye had never viewed—
What could it mean? Was nature all renewed?
I saw her new endearing glories well—
I looked, and sighed, but why I could not tell.
Love! What had love to do with earth or sky,
Or aught beyond a maiden's blithesome eye?
It was not love, that I was free to say—
Ah me! too soon she proved her sovereign sway.
'Twas she that lent the beauties to the scene,
Painted the clouds, and bloomed along the green,
Cheered every gambol, warbled from the spray,
And called the soul's young visions into play.
The dire commotions of the soul had power;
When angels turned the pitying eye away
From Beauty's fall, and nature's first decay;
When first thy balm the wounded spirit knew
From heaven descending downward like the dew;
And since that time, if aught may ease the smart
Of future anguish pillowed on the heart,
It is the transport of thy blissful hour,
When smiles the eye of beauty's sweetest flower.
Oh, when two hearts in each fond hope combine,
Who would at the award of heaven repine?
Or who would change the joys his soul that thrill,
For immortality of human ill?
One human thing so sordid and unblest,
As ne'er that highest boon of Heaven to know,
The source, the balm of mortal life below?
Whose heart the smiles of beauty never moved?
Who ne'er as husband nor as parent loved?
No blessed spirit e'er that face shall greet,
For angel fellowship and heaven unmeet.
Thy draughts of rapture from the spring divine;
The half-assenting lip, averted eye,
And moistened glowing cheek on mine to lie.
The cordial link, the soul's eternal spring,
Lightening the woes that round our nature cling,
Our present joys, our happiness to be
In earth and heaven, must emanate from thee.
That hallowed scion grafted on the mind,
That in its blossom, though with blush repressed,
Verges to beauty or congenial breast.
But, heaven-directed, still its tendrils spread
Round nature's bourn, the living and the dead;
Till at the last, the sun and stars above,
'Tis grafted in the fields of light and love,
In that blest land from whence its being came,
To bloom through all eternity the same.
Stanzas. Recited in a party of Social Friends, met in honour of the entry into Paris by the Allies—1814.
Look prouder o'er the merled main,
The bastard Eagle bears awa',
An' ne'er will e'e thy shores again.
The struggle's past, the prize is won:
Weel may thy lion shake his mane,
And turn his gray beard to the sun!
Even when thy back was at the wa';
Now thou my proudest sang shalt be
As lang as I hae breath to draw.
And cauldness o'er thy efforts threw?
And where the proudest, fellest fae,
Frae hell's black porch that ever flew?
The Rose and Shamrock blooming still—
An' here's—the burly plant of yore,
The Thistle of the Norlan' hill.
Stream o'er the seas her might has won—
Lang may her lions paw the gale,
And turn their dewlaps to the sun!
Elegy on Lady Rosslyn.
Though all around is parched and dry,
While bending boughs incumbent wave
To shield it from the burning sky?
Within the dew-cup's silken eye,
Is pitying Nature's holy tear,
Shed o'er her flower laid low to lie.
The fairest of her works below;
Her eye, the eagle's in the cloud,
Her cheek the rose, her brow the snow.
Was sweet as morning's dawn to see;
Her melting tones of love and grace
Were music by the greenwood tree.
Was brighter than that dew-drop sheen;
Soft as the morning breeze her sigh,
That breathes among the birches green.
That bends above the silver spring;
Or brush the heath-flower from the fell,
With foot as light as fairy's wing.
Her soul on fancy's pinions borne,
In vision rapt, the welkin sail
Throned on the star that leads the morn.
This lovely flower must quite decay;
That form of beauty's fairest mould
Become a mass of livid clay!
Her beauty, worth, for ever gone;
See o'er that breast the daisy bloom
Where virtue fixed her diamond throne;
That warmed it once shall ever burn,
And wake a seraph's golden lyre,
O'er fading nature's awful urn.
St. Mary of the Lowes.
In ruin lies thine ancient aisle,
While o'er thy green and lowly graves,
The moorcocks bay, and plovers wail:
But mountain spirits on the gale
Oft o'er thee sound the requiem dread;
And warrior shades, and spectres pale,
Still linger by the quiet dead.
Sleeps in thy cold and hallow'd soil;
Hearts that would thread the forest maze,
Alike for spousal or for spoil;
That wist not, ween'd not, to recoil
Before the might of mortal foe,
But thirsted for the Border broil,
The shout, the clang, the overthrow.
Were hunted as the osprey's brood;
Who braved the power of man, and seal'd
Their testimonies with their blood:
But long as waves that wilder'd flood,
Their sacred memory shall be dear,
And all the virtuous and the good
O'er their low graves shall drop the tear.
Of these old heroes of the hill,
Stern as the storm in heart and face:
Gainsaid in faith or principle,
Then would the fire of heaven fill
The orbit of his faded eye;
Yet all within was kindness still,
Benevolence and simplicity.
In hearts with sin and sorrow toss'd;
While thousands, with their funeral knell,
Roll down the tide of darkness, lost;
For thou wert Truth's and Honour's boast,
Firm champion of Religion's sway!
Who knew thee best revered thee most,
Thou emblem of a former day!
Ranger and stalker sleep together,
Who for the red-deer's stately brood
Watch'd, in despite of want and weather,
Beneath the hoary hills of heather;
Even Scotts, and Kerrs, and Pringles, blended
In peaceful slumbers, rest together,
Whose fathers there to death contended.
The first old tenants of the wild,
Who stored the mountains of the chase
With flocks and herds—whose manners mild
Changed the baronial castles, piled
In every glen, into the cot,
And the rude mountaineer beguiled,
Indignant, to his peaceful lot.
The blushing cheek, and beaming eye,
The dimpling smile, the lip of roses,
Attracters of the burning sigh,
And love's delicious pangs, that lie
Enswathed in pleasure's mellow mine:
Maid, lover, parent, low and high,
Are mingled in thy lonely shrine.
From all the noble and sublime,
And, o'er thy new but sacred urn,
Shed the heath-flower and mountain-thyme,
And floods of sorrow, while I chime
Above thy dust one requiem.
Love was thine error, not thy crime,
Thou mildest, sweetest, mortal gem!
Beneath the dark and hoary steep;
Thy breast may flowerets overspread,
And angels of the morning weep
In sighs of heaven above thy sleep,
And tear-drops of embalming dew;
Thy vesper hymn be from the deep,
Thy matin from the ether blue!
That's pass'd away, one thought allow;
Not even a dream that might degrade
The mercy before which I bow:
Eternal God, what is it now?
Thus asks my heart: but the reply
I aim not, wish not, to foreknow;
'Tis veil'd within eternity.
Still cling to the dear form beneath,
As when I saw its soul depart,
As when I saw it calm in death:
The dead rose and funereal wreath
Above the breast of virgin snow,
Far lovelier than in life and breath—
I saw it then, and see it now.
One thought I may not entertain;
As she was on her dying day,
To me she ever will remain.
When Time's last shiver o'er his reign
Shall close this scene of sin and sorrow,
How calm, how lovely, how serene,
That form shall rise upon the morrow!
Thy mortal heart, there is but one
Whose poison'd dart is so astounding,
That bear it, cure it, there can none.
It is the thought of beauty won,
To love in most supreme degree,
And, by the hapless flame undone,
Cut off from nature and from thee!
Superstition.
A sovereign of supreme unearthly eye;
No human power her potence could restrain,
No human soul her influence deny:
Sole empress o'er the mountain homes, that lie
Far from the busy world's unceasing stir:
But gone is her mysterious dignity,
And true Devotion wanes away with her;
While in loose garb appears Corruption's harbinger.
Is visionary bard a war to wage:
Joy in thy light, thou earth-born Sadducee,
That earth is all thy hope and heritage.
Already wears thy front the line of age;
Thou see'st a heaven above—a grave before;
Does that lone cell thy wishes all engage?
Say, does thy yearning soul not grasp at more?
Woe to thy grovelling creed—thy cold ungenial lore!
And cherish hope of visions yet to be;
Of mountains clothed in everlasting green,
Of silver torrent and of shadowy tree,
Far in the ocean of eternity.
Be mine the faith that spurns the bourn of time;
The soul whose eye can future glories see;
The converse here with things of purer clime,
And hope above the stars that soars on wing sublime.
Of those I loved and honoured to the last;
She who gave voices to the wandering winds,
And mounted spirits on the midnight blast.
At her behest the trooping fairies passed,
And wayward elves in many a glimmering band;
The mountains teemed with life, and sore aghast
Stood maid and matron 'neath her mystic wand,
When all the spirits rose and walked at her command.
All breathless stand, unknowing what to fear;
Or panting deep beneath his co'erlet lie,
When midnight whisper stole upon his ear.
And she could mould the vision of the seer
To aught that rankled breast of froward wight;
Or hang the form of cerement or of bier
Within the cottage fire—O woeful sight!
That called forth many a prayer and deepened groan by night.
When the thin evening vapours floated nigh;
When the gray plover's wailings died away,
And the tall mountains melted into sky:
The note of gloaming bee that journeyed by
Sent through my heart a momentary knell;
And sore I feared in bush or brake might lie
Things of unearthly make—for I knew well,
That hour with danger fraught more than when midnight fell.
Or cairn of harper murdered long ago,
Or wandering pedlar for his hoarded gear,
Of such, what glen of Scotland doth not know?
Or grave of suicide, upon the brow
From these I held as from some deadly foe:
There have I quaked by night and mused by day;
But chiefly where I weened the bard or warrior lay.
In lowland dale the lyre of heaven that wooed,
Sleeps 'neath some little mound or lonely sward,
Where humble dome of rapt devotion stood,
Mid heathy wastes by Mary's silent flood,
Or in the moorland glen of dark Buccleuch;
There o'er their graves the heath-fowl's mottled brood,
Track with light feathery foot the morning dew;
There plays the gamesome lamb, or bleats the yeaning ewe.
The marble fount-stone, and the rood so gray;
And often there he sees with changeful hue
The snow-white skull washed by the burn away;
And O! if 'tis his chance at eve to stray,
Lone by the place where his forefathers sleep;
At bittern's whoop or gor-cock's startling bay,
How heaves his simple breast with breathings deep!
He mutters vow to Heaven, and speeds along the steep.
The spirits nightly watch the sacred clay;
That, cradled on the mountain's purple bloom,
By him they lie, companions of the day,
His guardian friends, and listening to his lay:
And many a chant floats on the vacant air,
That spirit of the bard or warrior may
Hear the forgotten names perchance they bare:
For many a warrior wight, and nameless bard, lies there!
Those were the days when fancy wandered free;
That kindled in the soul the mystic flame,
And the rapt breathings of high poesy.
Sole empress of the twilight—woe is me!
That thou and all thy spectres are outworn,
For true devotion wanes away with thee;
All thy delirious dreams are laughed to scorn,
While o'er our hills has dawned a cold saturnine morn.
When vale and city wholly were resigned;
Where hoary cliffs o'er little holms were piled,
And torrents sung their music to the wind;
The darksome heaven upon the hills reclined,
Save when a transient sun-beam, through the rain,
Past, like some beauteous phantom of the mind,
Leaving the hind in solitude again—
These were their last retreats, and heard their parting strain.
Fast as the spirits from our hills have gone;
And all these light unbodied forms are fled,
Or good or evil, save the ghost alone.
True, when the kine are lowing in the loan,
An evil eye may heinous mischief brew;
But deep enchantments to the wise are known,
That certainly the blasted herd renew,
And make the eldron crone her cantrips sorely rue.
The green turf fire where stuck was many a pin;
The rhymes of incantation I have heard,
And seen the black dish solemnly laid in
Amid the boiling liquid—Was it sin?
Ah! no—'twas all in fair defence of right.
With big drops hanging at her brow and chin,
Soon comes the witch in sad and woeful plight;
Is cut above the breath, and, yelling, takes her flight!
The brindled mouser of the cot appear;
A haggard wildness darted from her eyes;
No marvel was it when the truth you hear,
That she is forced to carry neighbour near,
Swift through the night to countries far away;
That still her feet the marks of travel bear;
And her broad back, that erst was sleek and gray,
O, hapless beast!—all galled where the curst saddle lay.
How slight were thine!—a train of airy dreams!
No holy awe the cynic's bosom thrills;
Be mine the faith diverging to extremes!
What though, upon the moon's distempered beams,
Erewhile thy matrons gallopped through the heaven,
Floated like feather on the foaming streams,
Or raised the winds by tenfold fury driven,
Till ocean blurred the sky, and hills in twain were riven.
Whom eild and poverty had sorely crazed.
What, though their feeble senses were abused
By gleesome demon in the church-aisle raised,
With lion tail, and eyes that baleful blazed,
Whose bagpipe's blare made all the roof to quake!
But ages yet unborn will stand amazed
At thy dread power, that could the wretches make
Believe these things all real, and swear them at the stake.
And brought the deeds of darkness to the day!
Who was it made the livid corse to bleed
At murderer's touch, and cause the gelid clay
By fancied movement all the truth betray?
Even from dry bones the drops of blood have sprung!
'Twas thou, Inquisitor!—whose mystic sway
A shade of terror over nature hung;
A feeling more sublime than poet ever sung.
To save his flocks deep swathed amid the snow;
Though threatening clouds the face of heaven deform,
The sailor feared not o'er the firth to row;
Dauntless the hind marched forth to meet the foe:
In heaven were registered their days below;
That there was One well able and inclined
To save them from the sword, the wave, and stormy wind.
When troubles press and dangers sore belay,
This is their only stay, their anchorage,
“It is the will of Heaven, let us obey!
Ill it befits the creatures of a day
Beneath a Father's chastening to repine.”
This high belief in Providence's sway,
In the eye of reason wears into decline;
And soon that heavenly ray must ever cease to shine.
As chronicles and sapient sages tell,
Stood with his priests and nobles in a ring,
Searching old beldame for the mark of hell,
The test of witchcraft and of devilish spell:
And when I see a hag, the country's bane,
With rancorous heart and tongue of malice fell,
Blight youth and beauty with a burning stain,
I wish for these old times, and Stuarts back again.
Of witchcraft, and of spell o'er human life;
Ah me!—ne'er since she rose out of the sea,
Were they so deep, so dangerous, and so rife:
The heart of man, unequal to the strife,
Sinks down before the lightning of their eyes.
Oh! it is meet that every maid and wife
Some keen exorcist still should scrutinize,
And bring them to the test for all their sorceries.
Great Queen! to see thy honours thus decay:
Among the mountain maids the power was thine,
On blest Saint Valentine's or Hallow Day.
Ours was the omen—theirs was to obey:
Firm their belief, or most demurely feigned!
Each maid her cheek on lover's breast would lay,
And, sighing, grant the kiss so long refrained;—
'Twas sin to counteract what Providence ordained!
How oft thou spokest in voice of distant rill;
What sheeted forms thy plastic finger drew,
Throned on the shadow of the moonlight hill,
Or in the glade so motionless and still,
That scarcely in this world I seemed to be;
High on the tempest sing thine anthem shrill;
Across the heaven upon the meteor flee;
Or in the thunder speak with voice of majesty!
The bard of fancy strikes a tuneless string.
Oh! if I wist to meet thee here no more,
My muse should wander, on unwearied wing,
To find thy dwelling by some lonely spring,
Where Norway opes her forests to the gale;
The dell thy home, the cloud thy covering;
The tuneful sea-maid, and the spectre pale,
Tending thy gloomy throne, amid heaven's awful veil.
Her deep blue torrent to the northern main;
Where many a shade of former huntsman prowls,
Where summer roses deck the untrodden plain,
And beauteous fays and elves, a flickering train,
Dance with the foamy spirits of the sea?
Oh! let me quake before thee once again,
And take one farewell on my bended knee,
Great ruler of the soul, which none can rule like thee!
Epitaph on a Living Character.
In workmanship, planned by the wildest vagary?
There's the bolus, the pen, and the emblem of happiness,
With Venus, and Mars, and the sage Esculapius;
Fine gardens on arches, whose shades I remember;
The picture of May and the bust of November.
And yonder's an ox; faith, I almost could wager
'Tis the great king of Babylon, Nebuchadnezzar.
If you'll lend me a prop with your hand or your head, I shall
Read you the epitaph up from the pedestal.
And read whom they hold, though you put on your spectacles:
Remember in season your God and your duty,
Else vain is your knowledge, your riches, or beauty;
If these had as guards stood this chilly abode upon,
Never had these two lain here to be trod upon.
Ah, no, but the ashes of one that was such a man;
Of spirit decisive, of genius undoubted;
And as for his learning it ne'er was disputed.
The fire of the sky and the ray of simplicity
Were both led in train by a proud eccentricity:
Yet now, when he's gone, you may safely aver it,
His countrymen knew not one half of his merit.
A dew-sprinkled rose in the garden of nature,
Who blossomed and smiled in the richest maturity,
Then died as she lived, in submission and purity.
Yes, both are laid low here, as sure as you'd seen it,
And no man is sure of his life for a minute.
Turn not aside to the tavern or bagnio;
A day is approaching of fair retribution;
And when to the tomb they your carcase deliver,
For good or for evil ye're settled for ever!”
Morning.
Over gorse, green broom, and braken,
From her sieve of silken blue
Dawning sifts her silver dew,
Hangs the emerald on the willow,
Lights her lamp below the billow,
Bends the brier and branchy braken—
Waken, drowsy slumberer, waken!
Deep the moon her draught has taken
Of the babbling rivulet sheen,
Far beyond the Ochil green.
From her gauzy veil on high
Trills the laverock's melody;
Round and round, from glen and grove,
Pour a thousand hymns to love;
Harps the quail amid the clover,
O'er the moon-fern whews the plover;
Bat has hid, and heath-cock crowed,
Courser neighed, and cattle lowed,
Kid and lamb their lair forsaken;—
Waken, drowsy slumberer, waken!
Swifter still the dawn advances;
Streaming in her eagle talon
Waves her bright and broad gonfalon;
Specks of purple, sprigs of yellow,
Roof her radiant light umbrella;
Pretty limner! see her hue
Painted on the amber dew,
On the leaf of beech and willow,
On the lake and sleepy billow;—
Rouse thee, slumberer, from thy pillow!
Gay its morn, but short as gay;
Day of evil—day of sorrow!
Hope—even hope can paint no morrow.
Steeped in sloth or passions boiling,
Noon shall find thee faint and toiling:
Evening rears her mantle dreary;
Evening finds thee pale and weary.
Prospects blasted,—aims misguided,—
For the future ill provided,—
Murmuring, worn, enfeebled, shaking—
Days of sorrow, nights of waking—
Yield thy soul unto the Giver;
Bow thy head, and sleep for ever!
Rise, O rise, to work betake thee!
Wake thee, drowsy slumberer, wake thee!
The Fall of the Leaf.
The brown leaves are shed on the way,
The dye of the lone mountain flower
Is grown wan, and betokens decay.
Like the bud that it fostered, to die;
Like the transient dews of the morn,
Or the vapour that melts in the sky.
Departs like a dream of the mind;
To pleasure and passion a prey,
It often leaves sorrow behind.
Its follies too latent to die;
We shall reap of the seeds we then sow,
When the stars have dissolved in the sky.
And leaves but her mantle behind;
Short time will that mantle remain,
Expelled by the chill winter wind.
Bewildered she cowers in the dale;
The black-bird sits sad on the bush;
The fall of the leaf they bewail.
Before me the cold lonely urn;
My youth and my prime are gone by,
And, alas! they can never return.
And to drop as the leaves from the tree;
And man—just the flower of a day,
How long, long his winter will be!
With its soft heaving billows so pale,
More gain to its owner will yield,
Than if still waving sweet in the vale:
Could every wild passion subdue;
The fall of his leaf is a season
That man may with pleasure review.
Nor at death when his sorrows shall cease,
While hope points his eye far beyond
To a mansion of virtue and peace.
Time's tear o'er his tottering throne,
The last rending crash of the world,
The sky with its orbs overthrown,
And will welcome the dawn of the day
Which in glory shall open a scene
Of perfection that cannot decay.
A Witch's Chant.
Thou art weary and far away!
Hear me, gentle spirit, hear me;
Come before the dawn of day.
The vapour is deadly, pale, and still—
A murmuring sough is on the wood,
And the witching star is red as blood.
The giant form of a naked man;
His eye is like the burning brand,
And he holds a sword in his right hand.
Somewhere between the heaven and hell
There is this night a wild deray;
The spirits have wander'd from their way.
As she wanders through the midnight noon;
And the dawning heaven shall all be red
With blood by guilty angels shed.
To work by good or work by ill;
Then here's for pain, and here's for thrall,
And here's for conscience, worst of all!
Spirits shall come or Christian men—
Come from the earth, the air, or the sea:
Great Gil-Moules, I cry to thee!
Mount thy steeds and gallop them blind;
And the long-tailed fiery dragon outfly,
The rocket of heaven, the bomb of the sky.
Over the cloud, and the rainbow's mane,
Over the mountain, and over the sea,
Haste—haste—haste to me!
And here's for the pang that seeks the heart;
Here's for madness, and here's for thrall,
And here's for conscience, the worst of all!
Regret.
While softly round the valley sweeping?
What makes the blackbird's morning strain
Sound like the voice of woe and weeping?
Has lost its sweets of morn and even,
Since I have flung the sweetest flower,
That ever breathed the breeze of heaven.
Thy little heart with love is heaving;
Far hast thou wandered on the wing,
But not thy love behind thee leaving;
The silent bower, and scented blossom;
And I have left the sweetest maid,
That ever heaved a snowy bosom.
How could my stern reproach abuse her!
I loved her—yes, I loved her dear—
How could my jealous mind accuse her!
I've wooed her fondly till the morrow;
She gave her heart—it was her all—
And yet I left that heart to sorrow.
Above the broom-wood waving yellow;
Thy love sits listening in the thorn,
Delighted with thy music mellow.
He hastes above the wave to hear thee;
The evening star steals o'er the tree,
With simple ray of love to cheer thee.
The fondest hope of faithful lover;
And morning weave her mantle blue
Thy dwelling in the greenwood over!
Of former joys alone remind me;
My bliss is fled since I have left
My dear, my injured maid behind me.
A Bard's Address to his Youngest Daughter.
My gleesome, gentle Harriet!
The sweetest babe art thou to me
That ever sat on parent's knee;
Thy every feature is so cheering,
And every motion so endearing.
Thou hast that eye was mine erewhile,
Thy mother's blithe and grateful smile,
And such a playful, merry mien,
That care flies off whene'er thou'rt seen.
The child of nature thou'rt design'd;
For, even while yet upon the breast,
Thou mimick'st child, and bird, and beast;
And crow like cock, and caw like rook,
Boo like a bull, or blare like ram,
And bark like dog, and bleat like lamb,
And when afield in sunshine weather,
Thou minglest all these sounds together:
Then who can say, thou happy creature,
Thou'rt not the very child of nature?
As precious gift from God above,
I take thy pure and gentle frame,
And tiny mind of mounting flame;
And hope that through life's chequer'd glade—
That weary path that all must tread—
Some credit from thy name will flow
To the old bard who loved thee so.
At least, thou shalt not want thy meed—
His blessing on thy beauteous head,
And prayers to him whose sacred breath
Lighten'd the shades of life and death—
Who said with sweet benignity,
“Let little children come to me.”
And pout not, for that boon I'll have—
One kiss I ask for grandam's sake,
Who never saw thy tiny make;
And one for her who left us late,
Laid low, but not forgotten yet;
And thy sweet mother, too, the nearest
To thee and me, the kindest, dearest—
Thou sacred, blest memorial,
When I kiss thee, I kiss them all!
That all I ever loved, or love,
In wondrous visions still I trace
While gazing on thy guiltless face:
Thy very name brings to my mind
One, whose high birth and soul refined,
Withheld her not from naming me,
Even in life's last extremity.
Sweet babe! thou art memorial dear
Of all I honour and revere!
Broods on thy father's thoughtful brow,
And on the reverie he would dwell—
Thy prattle soon will that expel.
—How darest thou frown, thou freakish fay!
And turn thy chubby face away,
And pout, as if thou took'st amiss
Thy partial parent's offer'd kiss?
Full well I know thy deep design;
'Tis to turn back thy face to mine,
With triple burst of joyous glee,
And fifty strains at mimicry!
Is moved by visions heavenly bright:
What wealth from nature may'st thou gain,
With promptings high to heart and brain!
But hope is all—though yet unproved,
Thou art a shepherd's best beloved:
And now above thy brow so fair,
And flowing films of flaxen hair,
I lay my hand once more, and frame
A blessing, in the holy name
Of that supreme divinity,
Who breathed a living soul in thee.
Elegy.
[Fair was thy blossom, tender flower]
That opened like the rose in May,
Though nursed beneath the chilly shower
Of fell regret for love's decay!
O'er wreaths of honour early shorn,
Before thy sweet and guiltless eye
Had opened on the dawn of morn!
When all in silence slumbered low,
The fond and filial tear was shed,
Thou child of love, of shame, and woe!
With joy thy opening bloom to see,—
The only breast that o'er thee yearned,
The only heart that cared for thee.
Pleaded with Heaven for her sweet child,
When faded dreams of past delight
O'er recollection wandered wild.
Fair as the softest wreath of spring,
When late I saw thee seek the bower
In peace thy morning hymn to sing!
Scarce from the primrose pressed the dew;
I thought the spirit of the dawn
Before me to the greenwood flew.
Thy spotless soul from earth to sever;
A tear of pity wet the string
That twanged, and sealed thy doom for ever.
Of beauty, innocence, and truth,
Start tiptoe on the verge of air,
'Twixt childhood and unstable youth;
(To break that rest shall wake no morrow;)
Pale as the grave-flower on thy breast,
Poor child of love, of shame, and sorrow!
Thy visions fraught with bliss to be;
And long the daisy, emblem meet,
Shall shed its earliest tear o'er thee.
Verses to the Comet of 1811.
As twilight from her vaults so blue
Steals soft o'er Yarrow's mountains green,
To sleep embalmed in midnight dew!
Like shadows, scoops the yielding sky!
And thou, mysterious guest of night,
Dread traveller of immensity.
Shred from the pall of glory riven,
That flashest in celestial gale,
Broad pennon of the King of heaven!
From angel's ensign-staff unfurled?
Art thou the standard of his wrath,
Waved o'er a sordid sinful world?
That erst o'er plains of Bethlehem shone,
No latent evil we can deem,
Bright herald of the eternal throne!
Thy streaming locks so lovely pale;
Or peace to man, or judgments dire,
Stranger of heaven, I bid thee hail!
Why sought these polar paths again,
From wilderness of glowing spheres,
To fling thy vesture o'er the wain?
And vanishest from human view,
A thousand worlds shall hail thy ray
Through wilds of yon empyreal blue.
To sail the boundless skies with thee,
And plough the twinkling stars aside,
Like foam-bells on a tranquil sea;
The icicles from off the pole,
Then far to other systems run,
Where other moons and planets roll!
Smile on a rapt enthusiast's dream;
Eccentric as thy course on high,
And airy as thine ambient beam.
Our northern arch at eve adorn;
Then, wheeling to the east away,
Light the gray portals of the morn.
1828.
Thy smiles, and thy tears, and thy moments of wildness;
But this humble memorial to thee I dedicate,
Mild 1828.
And industry and toil hast enlighten'd with gladness,
And bustled in our harbours with commerce and freight,
Blest 1828.
And heap'd up his garners and barns to o'erflowing;
And thy winter has breathed with a soft autumn heat,
Kind 1828.
No drifted snow ever cover'd our mountains,
And thou leavest our flocks on an evergreen height,
Sweet 1828.
In the hearts of the maidens thy sceptre victorious;
And there will yet be news of great moment and weight,
Of 1828.
Making idiots and fools of the Catholics and Whigs;
But still thou hast left us triumphant as yet,
Strong 1828.
Thou hast howl'd in the wind, thou hast boom'd in the thunder;
But the smiles of repentance in thee were innate,
Good 1828.
(Restored to her quiet, but not to her glory!)
And humbled the pride of a vain autocrat,
Brave 1828.
In the sepulchre of Time thou art shrouded for ever;
And the shadows of oblivion shall over thee set,
Mild 1828.
The Monitors.
The wan leaf wavers frae the tree,
The wind touts on the mountain's breast
A dirge o' waesome note to me.
It tells me that the days o' glee,
When summer's thrilling sweets entwined,
An' love was blinkin' in the e'e,
Are a' gane by an' far behind;
An' grizzly hue, is hasting nigh,
An' that auld age, an' carkin' care,
In my last stage afore me lie.
Yon chill and cheerless winter sky,
Troth, but 'tis eerisome to see,
For ah! it points me to descry
The downfa's o' futurity.
For there my morning shone sae sweet;
An' when I turn me to the west,
The gloaming's like to gar me greet.
The deadly hues o' snaw and sleet
Tell of a dreary onward path;
Yon new moon on her cradle sheet,
Looks like the Hainault scythe of death.
That oft has been my daily thought,
Yet, when it came, could nought avail;
For sad experience, dearly bought,
Tells me it was not what I ought,
But what was in my power to do,
That me behoved. An' I hae fought
Against a world wi' courage true.
Come weel, come woe, I carena by;
I am a king! My regal sway
Stretches o'er Scotia's mountains high,
And o'er the fairy vales that lie
Beneath the glimpses o' the moon,
Or round the ledges of the sky,
In twilight's everlasting noon.
'Mang Scotia's swains the chief to be,
Than be a king, an' wear a crown,
'Mid perils, pain, an' treachery?
Hurra! The day's my own—I'm free
Of statemen's guile an' flattery's train;
I'll blaw my reed of game an' glee,
The Shepherd is himself again!
Is waning down to winter snell—
That round your hearth young sprouts are rife,
An' mae to care for than yoursell.”
Yes, that I do—that hearth could tell
How aft the tear-drap blinds my e'e;
What can I do, by spur or spell,
An' by my faith it done shall be.
Should want approach wi' threatening brand,
I'll leave them canty sangs will reach
From John o' Groats to Solway strand.
Then what are houses, goud, or land,
To sic an heirship left in fee?
An' I think mair o' auld Scotland,
Than to be fear'd for mine or me.
Grudging the hard-earn'd sma' propine;
On a' my efforts looking sour,
An' seem'd in secret to repine.
Blest be Buccleuch an' a' his line,
For ever blessed may they be!
A little hame I can ca' mine
He rear'd amid the wild for me.
Bring ben the siller bowl wi' care:
Ye are the best an' bonniest wife,
That ever fell to poet's share;
An' I'll send o'er for Frank—a pair
O right good hearted chiels are we—
We'll drink your health—an' what is mair,
We'll drink our laird's wi' three times three.
A rousing glass wi' right good-will;
An' the young ladies o' the lake,
We'll drink in ane—an awfu' swill!
Then a' the tints o' this warld's ill
Will vanish like the morning dew,
An' we'll be blithe an' blither still—
Kind winter Monitors, adieu!
Atween the cradle an' the grave,
O' blithesome haun's an' broken crowns,
An' douks in chill misfortune's wave;
All these determined to outbrave,
O'er fancy's wilds I'll wing anew,
As lang as I can lilt a stave,—
Kind winter Monitors, adieu!
SACRED MELODIES.
Jewish Captives Parting.
All our hopes for ever thwarted;
Early met, and early parted,
Yet while love was new?—
Just when the bud had fondly spread
Its breast to heaven, with blushes red,
The fruit, within its bosom hid,
Shrunk from its fostering dew?
Heart of alien cannot frame it,
Tongue of angel cannot blame it)
Wrings this bosom still:—
Oh! thou art all with softness blent,
Mild as the lamb, and innocent;
But thou art in the stranger's tent,
And subject to his will.
Take this last, this farewell token,
All my hopes with it are broken,
Save in one sole deed:
On that pure breast and form so fair,
Should eye or hand of violence dare—
I say no more; but to thy care
I trust this sure remede.
How hushed the virgin's choral hymn!
Our cup of misery wets the brim,
'Tis slavery or the grave.
Was ever sorrow like to mine?
The daughters young of Judah's line
Are led in bonds and shame to pine,
And none to help or save!
The Captive's Song.
In glory awake, for thy hour is nigh!
Comest thou afar, by cherubim borne,
O'er lands of the East, o'er seas and sky?
Or sleep'st thou on yon mountain gray?—
Awake, thou sun! and come away.
Yes, thou wilt wake; but, woe is me,
For the shame and guilt thine eye must see!—
The stranger's incense burning still
On the heights of Zion's holy hill;
And the rude Sabine's altar-stone
In the green groves of Lebanon!
Thy splendour shed (nor grieve the less)
O'er vales of Kedar bathed in dew,
And Chebar's balmy wilderness!
Soon thou wilt smile in beauty bland
Above the Chaldean's sinful land;
But, oh! when shall dawn the day
Of retribution and of grace?
When shall the shadows pass away
That brood o'er Israel's fallen race?
Thou holy One! has Salem's day
By thee forgotten been for aye?
A song of Zion or of thee?
Or hymn the name of Israel's King
In darkness and captivity?
My tabor has no strain nor string
The songs of Zion's land to sing.
But thee—Jerusalem! when my heart
Ceases to yearn and bleed for thee,
May skill from my right hand depart,
And my reward let bondage be!
There lies engraved thy temple fair,
And Name that once we worshipped there!
Be vengeance on the heathen driven;
Before thee let the mountains quake,
Thy chariot be the winds of heaven!
Come on the clouds, and who shall stand
Against the sway of thy right hand?
Think not of us, so far removed,
And as a garment cast away—
Think on our fathers once beloved;
Must David's house like grass decay?
Return, and set thy people free,
And captives yet shall sing to thee!
Jacob and Laban.
For shame, ere the morrow!
Alone let me weep,
In anguish and sorrow,
I've loved with fond duty;
For all I have lost
Of sweetness and beauty.
I've served hardly for her;
Yet they seemed but a day,
For the love that I bore her.
The chill hour of midnight
Oft watching has found me,
While the wolf and the lion
Were prowling around me.
Shame on the gift! shame on the giver!
Woe, woe, now and for ever!”
Blame not her willingness;
Bound to obey,
And swayed by her lovingness.
Striplings may woo,
But age must beware of them;
Laws must be framed,
And strangers must care for them.
Pulled, it will fade and die
Love's like the diamond;
Hardly won, valued high:
For seven years more,
She will kinder and dearer grow;
Thine shall thy love be,
When thou hast won her so.”
“Blest be the boon! blest be the giver!
Joy, joy, now and for ever!”
The Rose of Sharon.
In the valley of Sharon that grows?
Ye daughters of Judah, how blest
To breathe in the sweets of my Rose!
Come, tell me if yet she's at rest
In her couch, with the lilies inwove?
Or if wantons the breeze with her breast?
For my heart it is sick for my love.
That stray 'mong the pomegranate trees,
By the roes and the hinds of the field,
That ye wake not my love till she please!
“The garden with flowers is in blow,
And roses unnumbered are there;
Then tell how thy love we shall know,
For the daughters of Zion are fair.”
And wreath of sweet myrrh is her hand;
Her eye the bright gem that they seek
By the rivers and streams of the land:
Her smile from the morning she wins;
Her teeth are the lambs on the hill;
Her breasts two young roes that are twins,
And feed in the valleys at will.
As the lily 'mid shrubs of the heath;
As the tower of Damascus that stood
Overlooking the hamlets beneath:
As the moon that in glory you see
'Mid the stars and the planets above;
Even so among women is she,
And my bosom is ravished with love!
And our couch on Amana shall be;
From Shinar and Hermon afar
Thou the mountains of leopards shalt see.
O Shulamite! turn to thy rest,
Where the olive o'ershadows the land;
As the roe of the desert make haste,
For the singing of birds is at hand!
Maiden of Jeshimon.
DUET.
1st voice.Oh, lives one love-spark in your breast,
Maiden of Jeshimon, pray you tell?
2d voice.
Go ask at her whom you now love best,
Ask her the way you know full well.
1st voice.
Women are fickle, and all untrue!
2d voice.
Men are ungrateful—so are you!
1st voice.
Vanity!
2d voice.
Lenity!
Both voices.
Wormwood and gall!
2d voice.
Suavity!
1st voice.
Levity!
Both voices.
Worst of all!
Once full happy and blithe were we,
Blithe as bird on the greenwood tree!
1st voice.
Long I loved, and loved you dear,
2d voice.
Many a day and many a year:
Both voices.
Then all nature seemed completer—
Smiling sweeter.
Ah, how dear!
1st voice.
But 'tis gone!
2d voice.
Let it go!
1st voice.
Can'st thou say so, true love?
2d voice.
Time, that wears all away,
Will lay me low!
Both voices.
Again we'll sport, as we have done,
Round the tree, over the lea;
Nature then shall smile again,
And who so blithe and blest as we?
Sweet the bird shall sing on the tree,
And sweet the sun rise over the sea!
Dweller in Heaven.
Fain would I know thee, yet tremble to know!
How can a mortal deem, how may it be,
That being can ne'er be but present with thee?
Is it true that thou sawest me ere I saw the morn?
Is it true that thou knewest me before I was born?
That nature must live in the light of thine eye?
This knowledge for me is too great and too high!
To shroud me in darkness, or bathe me in light,
The light and the darkness to thee are the same,
And still in thy presence of wonder I am?
Should I with the dove to the desert repair,
Or dwell with the eagle in clough of the air:
In the desert afar—on the mountain's wild brink—
From the eye of Omnipotence still must I shrink!
To caves of the ocean, unseen by the day,
And hide in these uttermost parts of the sea,
Even there to be living and moving in thee:
Nay, scale I the cloud, in the heavens to dwell,
Or make I my bed in the shadows of hell,
Can science expound, or humanity frame,
That still thou art present, and all are the same?
Great Spirit of nature, unbounded, unknown.
What mind can embody thy presence divine!
I know not my own being, how can I thine?
Then humbly and low in the dust let me bend,
And adore what on earth I can ne'er comprehend:
The mountains may melt, and the elements flee,
Yet an universe still be rejoicing in thee!
This hymn was introduced into the tale of “The Brownie of Bodsbeck,” and is to be found there, in the first edition.
On Carmel's Brow.
Had all it honours shed;
And, o'er the vales of Palestine,
A sickly paleness spread;
When the old seer, by vision led
And energy sublime,
Into that shadowy region sped,
To muse on distant time.
But sight of joy was none;
He looked o'er many a mountain's side,
But silence reigned alone;
Save that a boding voice sung on
By wave and waterfall,
As still, in harsh and heavy tone,
Deep unto deep did call.
The hamlets thick did lie;
No wayfarer between he saw,
No Asherite passed by:
No maiden at her task did ply,
Nor sportive child was seen;
The lonely dog barked wearily
Where dwellers once had been.
On Jordan wont to be;
And still they glimmered to the breeze,
Like stars beneath the sea—
But vultures held their jubilee
Where harp and cymbal rung;
And there, as if in mockery,
The baleful satyr sung.
On Carmel that reclined,
It looked not on the times gone by,
But those that were behind;
His gray hair streamed upon the wind—
His hands were raised on high—
As, mirrored on his mystic mind,
Arose futurity.
Prepared in ancient day;
Eastward, away the eagle sped,
And all the birds of prey.
“Who's this,” he cried, “comes by the way
Of Edom, all divine,
Travelling in splendour, whose array
Is red, but not with wine?
That comes to set us free!
The dwellers of the rock shall sing,
And utter praise to thee!
Tabor and Hermon yet shall see
Their glories glow again,
And blossoms spring on field and tree,
That ever shall remain.
Shall frolic with delight;
The lamb shall round the leopard play,
And all in love unite.
The dove on Zion's hill shall light,
That all the world must see;
Hail to the Journeyer in his might,
That comes to set us free!”
The Guardian Angels.
DUET.
Whither journeyest thou?Where dost thou dwell?
Dwell'st thou in the rainbow,
Or hills of Israel?
Tarry here with me;
Or guide me through the twilight,
Far, far, with thee!
The young and fair
We'll guard with care,
From every snare
And treachery.
Two Voices.
River broad, and fountain—
Over den and desert,
Vale and lofty mountain—
Infant's bed—virgin's head—
Age and misery!
Dost thou dread it?
2d voice.
Thou shalt see.
1st voice.
Dost thou shun it?
2d voice.
Oft I've done it.
Both voices.
Kind the heart that needs no suing!
Sweet the toil when good we're doing!
Sweet the toil, &c., &c.
1st voice.
Wert thou a watcher here?
2d voice.
Many a thousand year.
Both voices.
Then, for aye, our task pursuing,
Never done, yet always doing,
Till our time of bliss draws near.
1st voice.
Shall it never?
2d voice.
Yes, for ever.
Both voices.
Then our joys be ever new,
As our love and duty true!
Our task is love, and 'tis from above,
For love is heaven, and heaven is love.
MISCELLANEOUS SONGS.
Where am I gaun?
Alas! I hardly ken mysel':
There's something burning in my brain,
That leads me out this gate my lane.
It's no to be where I hae been,
It's no to see wha I hae seen;
Ah no! 'tis to the cauld kirkyard,
To greet aboon the lonely sward.
I left thy side to cross the main,
I left all dearest to my life,
A new made mother and a wife.
I see thee still—thou sobb'd and wept
Above our baby as he slept:
That look of sorrow, and that tear,
My very soul, till death, will sear.
I have no wife nor baby now;
I look around me in despair,
And then to heaven, for they are there.
I did not see my baby die;
I did not close his mother's eye;
Nor hear a blessing from her tongue,
When the last sigh upon it hung.
She wound him in his winding sheet,
An' followed to his grave, resigned,
But ah! she could not stay behind.
Where am I gaun? I know it now;
To a dear grave—aye, there are two;
A very low and little one
Lies 'twixt the other and the sun.
An inward anguish drags me on,
O'er these new graves, beneath the yew,
My tears to mingle with the dew.
For all that to my soul endear'd,
I lov'd, I cherish'd, and rever'd,
Lie there within a lowly shrine—
Can there be earthly woe like mine?
Has faded like the morning dew;
The parent stem that gave it birth,
Has sunk into her native earth.
My wife—my baby—Oh how sweet!
But there's a home where we shall meet;
Beyond yon blue and diamond dome,
We'll find an everlasting home.
An aged Widow's Lament.
And am I left forlorn?
And is that manly heart at rest,
The kindest e'er was born?
For fifty years and three,
Said he harsh word to me.
And daughters in their prime,
His trembling hand laid in the grave,
Lang, lang afore the time.
That he to them has gane;
But oh, it's fearful thus to be
Left in a world alane,
Whose race of joy is run,
And scarce has little opening left
For aught aneath the sun.
Nor fret, nor yet despond;
But a' my hope is in the grave,
And the dear hame beyond.
M'Kimman.
Is your war-pipe asleep, and for ever?
Shall the pibroch that welcomed to foe to Ben-Aer
Be hushed when we seek the red wolf in his lair,
To give back our wrongs to the giver?
To the raid and the onslaught our chieftains have gone—
Like the course of the fire-flaught their clansmen pass'd on;
With the lance and the shield 'gainst the foe they have bound them,
And have taken the field with their vassals around them.
Then raise the wild slogan-cry, On to the foray!
Sons of the heather-hill, pine-wood, and glen;
Shout for M'Pherson, M'Leod, and the Moray,
Till the Lomonds re-echo the challenge again.
As the bodings which light up thy bold spirit now;
But the fate of M'Kimman is closing in gloom,
And the breath of the gray wraith hath pass'd o'er his brow.
Victorious in joy thou'lt return to Ben-Aer,
And be clasp'd to the hearts of thy best beloved there;
But M'Kimman, M'Kimman, M'Kimman shall never—
O never—never—never—never!
Wilt thou shrink from the doom thou can shun not?
If thy course must be brief, let the proud Saxon know
That the soul of M'Kimman ne'er quail'd when a foe
Bared his blade in the land he had won not.
Where the light-footed roe leaves the wild breeze behind,
And the red heather-bloom gives its sweets to the wind—
There our broad pennon flies, and our keen steeds are prancing
'Mid the startling war-cries, and the bright weapons glancing!
Then raise the wild slogan-cry, On to the foray!
Sons of the heather-hill, pine-wood, and glen;
Shout for M'Pherson, M'Leod, and the Moray,
Till the Lomonds re-echo the challenge again!
Song of the times of Charles First.
And all the clouds are gone;
The righteous man shall flourish now—
Brave days are coming on.
Come then, dear comrades, and be glad,
And eke rejoice with me;
Lawn sleeves and rochets shall go down,
And hey, then up go we!
Our hammers shall undo;
We'll break their pipes, and burn their copes,
And burn their churches too.
We'll exercise within the groves,
And preach beneath the tree?
We'll make a pulpit of a cask,
And hey, then up go we!
And I rejoice to tell ye,
How we shall eat good pigs our fill,
And capons stew'd in jelly.
We'll burn the fathers' learned books,
And make the schoolmen flee;
We'll down with all that smells of wit,
And hey, then up go we!
Be crush'd and overthrown,
We'll teach the nobles how to stoop,
And keep the gentry down.
Good manners have an ill report,
And turn to pride we see;
We'll therefore cry good manners down,
And hey, then up go we!
For every man's a brother;
No reason why, in church or state,
One man should rule another.
Has set our fingers free,
We'll make their saucy dames come down,
And hey, then up go we!
Do now accord together?
We have more cause to be content,
This is our sunshine weather.
For if that reason should take place,
And they should disagree,
For us there would be little grace;
For hey, then up go we!
Let's put it to a venture;
If we can hold out seven years' space,
We'll sue out our indenture.
A time may come to make us rue,
Yet time may set us free,
Unless the gallows claim his due,
And hey, then up go we!
Gin ye meet a Bonnie Lassie.
Gie her a kiss and let her gae;
But gin ye meet a dirty hussey,
Fy gae rub her ower wi' strae.
Nought is like a bonnie lassie,
Brisk an' bonnie, blithe and gay;
But gin ye meet a dirty hussey,
Fy gae rub her ower wi' strae.
O ilka joy while ye are young,
Afore auld age your veetals nip,
An' lay ye twafauld ower a rung.
But look out for a bonnie lassie,
Brisk an' bonnie, blithe an' gay;
But gin ye meet a dirty hussey,
Fy gae rub her ower wi' strae.
An' though they dinna weel combine,
The honest, kind, an' gratefu' heart
Will aye be blithe like your's an' mine.
But nought is like a bonnie lassie,
Dearer gift Heav'n never gae;
But gin ye meet a dirty hussey,
Fy gae rub her ower wi' strae.
Moggy an' me.
Oh wha are sae happy as Moggy an' me?
We're baith turnin' auld, an' our walth is soon tauld,
But contentment bides aye in our cottage sae wee.
She toils a' the day when I'm out wi' the hirsel,
An' chants to the bairns while I sing on the brae;
An' aye her blithe smile welcomes me frae my toil,
When down the glen I come weary an' wae.
That keeps out the cauld when the simmer's awa;
We've twa wabs o' linen o' Moggy's ain spinnin',
As thick as silk velvet and white as the snaw;
We've kye in the byre, an' yauds in the stable,
A grumphie sae fat that she hardly can stand;
An' something, I guess, in yon auld painted press
To cheer up the speerits an' steady the hand.
Our pouches oft toom, an' our hearts fu' o' care;
But wi' a' our crosses, our sorrows an' losses,
Contentment, thank heaven! has aye been our share.
I've an auld roostit sword that was left by my father,
Whilk aye has been drawn when my king had a fae;
We hae friends ane or twa that aft gie us a ca',
To laugh when we're happy or grieve when we're wae.
An' flunkies to watch ilka glance o' his e'e,
His lady aye braw sittin' prim in the ha';
But are they sae happy as Moggy an' me?
A' ye wha ne'er fand the straight road to be happy,
Wha are nae content wi' the lot that ye dree,
Come down to the dwellin' o' whilk I've been tellin',
You'll learn it by looking at Moggy an' me.
Rise! Rise! Lowland and Highland men.
Bald sire and beardless son, each come, and early:
Rise! rise! mainland and island men;
Belt on your broadswords, and fight for Prince Charlie!
Up from the valley deep,
Out from the clachan, the bothy, and sheeling;
Bugle and battle-drum,
Bid chief and vassal come;
Loudly our bagpipes the pibroch are pealing.
CHORUS.
Rise, rise, &c.Heirs of the fame and the hills of your fathers,—
Say, shall the Sassenach Southron not fear us,
When fierce to the war-peal each plaided clan gathers?
Long on the trophied walls
Of your ancestral halls
Rust hath been blunting the armour of Albin:
Buckler and battle-axe,
Lads of Lochaber, Brae-Mar, and Breadalbane.
CHORUS.
Rise, rise, &c.When did the bonnet blue crest the disloyal?
Up, then, and crowd to the standard of Stuart?
Follow your hero, the rightful, the royal.
Come, chief of Clanronald,
And gallant M'Donald;
Come Lovet, Lochiel, with the Grant and the Gordon;
Rouse every kilted clan,
Rouse every loyal man;
Musket on shoulder, and thigh the broadsword on!
CHORUS.
Rise! rise! lowland and highland men;Bald sire to beardless son, each come, and early:
Rise! rise! mainland and island men;
Belt on your broadswords, and fight for Prince Charlie!
Lock the Door, Lariston.
Lock the door, Lariston, Lowther comes on;
The Armstrongs are flying,
The widows are crying,
The Castletown's burning, and Oliver's gone!
See how the Saxon plumes bob on the sky—
Yeomen and carbineer,
Billman and halberdier,
Fierce is the foray, and far is the cry!
Ridley is riding his fleet-footed grey;
Hidley and Howard there,
Wandale and Windermere;
Lock the door, Lariston; hold them at bay.
Why does the joy-candle gleam in thine eye?
Thou bold Border ranger,
Beware of thy danger;
Thy foes are relentless, determined, and nigh.”
His hand grasp'd the sword with a nervous embrace;
“Ah, welcome, brave foemen,
On earth there are no men
More gallant to meet in the foray or chase!
Little know you of our moss-troopers' might—
Linhope and Sorbie true,
Sundhope and Milburn too,
Gentle in manner, but lions in fight!
Old Sim of Whitram, and all his array;
Come all Northumberland,
Teesdale and Cumberland,
Here at the Breaken tower end shall the fray.”
Red as the beacon-light tipped he the wold;
Many a bold martial eye,
Mirror'd that morning sky,
Never more oped on his orbit of gold.
Lances and halberds in splinters were borne;
Helmet and hauberk then
Braved the claymore in vain,
Buckler and armlet in shivers were shorn.
Howard! ah, woe to thy hopes of the day!
Hear the wide welkin rend,
While the Scots' shouts ascend—
“Elliot of Lariston, Elliot for aye!”
The Bower of Tay.
Ye blooms of summer fade away;
Round the welcome season bring
That leads my steps to Highland Tay.
Dear to me the day—the hour,
When last her winding wave I saw,
But dearer still the bonnie bower
That lies aneath yon greenwood shaw.
For there was one my arms within;
Aye the restless stream we eyed,
And heard its soft and soothing din:
The sun had sought Glen-Lyon's glade,
Forth peered the evening's modest gem;
And every little cloud that strayed
Looked gaudy in its gowden hem.
Brought far the wood-lark's wooer tale,
And gambolled o'er the mellow grain
In mimic waves adown the dale.
I saw the drops of dew so clear
Upon the green leaf trembling lie,
And, sweeter far, the crystal tear
That trembled in a lovely eye.
The spring-flush of the blooming year;
But oh! their parting leaves behind
A glow to memory ever dear.
And Yarrow braes are mooned with gray;
But gloaming fall was never seen
Like that I viewed in bower of Tay.
The Bittern's Quavering Trump on High.
The beetle's drowsy distant hum—
Have sung the day's wild lullaby,
And yet my Peggie is not come.
The scented hawthorn's snowy flower,
Mixed with the laurel buds, I've strewed
Deep in my Peggie's woodland bower.
Above our bed of blossoms new;
The stars behind their curtains wink
To spare thine eyes so soft and blue.
With envious smile our bliss shall see;
The mountain ash his diadem
Shall spread to shield the dews from thee.
Come gliding through the broomwood still;
Then on my bosom lean thy head,
Till dawning crown the distant hill.
List what has caused thy long delay,
And kiss thy melting lips the while,
Till dies the sweet reproof away.
The Lassie of Yarrow.
What makes me heave the sigh,
When yon green den I spy,
Lonely and narrow?
Sure on your braken lea
Under the hawthorn tree,
Thou hast bewitched me,
Lassie of Yarrow!”
Rueful I ponder on;
Lad, though my vow ye won,
'Twas to deceive thee.
Sore, sore I rue the day
When in your arms I lay,
And swore by the hawthorn gray,
Never to leave thee.”
All my fond vows to thee
Were but in jest and glee;
Could'st thou believe me?
I have another love
Kind as the woodland dove;
False to that maid to prove,
Oh, it would grieve me!”
Mild as the evening dew,
Quick from his glance withdrew,
Soft was her sighing;
Keen he the jest renewed,
Hard for his freedom sued—
When her sweet face he viewed,
Mary was crying.
“Now thy sharp scorn repaid,
Never shall other maid
Call me her marrow.
Far sweeter than sun or sea,
Or aught in this world I see,
Is thy love-smile to me,
Lassie of Yarrow!”
The Soldier's Widow.
The hind came lilting o'er the lea,
Loud joy rang through the lighted ha',
An' ilka ane was blithe but me;
For, ah! my heart had tint its glee,
Although the wars had worn away—
The breast, that used my stay to be,
Was lying cauld in foreign clay.
I saw the darksome coming even—
The wild bird had its cozie nest,
The kid was to the hamlet driven:
But house nor hame aneath the heaven,
Except the skeuch of greenwood tree,
To seek a shelter in was given
To my three little bairns and me.
I had a vow I cou'dna breathe—
For aye they led my words astray,
An' aye they were connected baith
Wi' ane wha now was cauld in death:
I lookit round wi' watery e'e—
Hope wasna there, but I was laith
To see my little babies dee.
And bore aslant the falling dew,
I thought I heard a bonnie bird
Singing amid the air so blue:
The hope deep sunk in misery;
It was of ane my woes that knew,
And some kind hearts that cared for me.
Or sunbeam through the wavy rain,
Fell on my soul the cheering lay—
Was it an angel poured the strain?—
Wha kens a yearning mother's pain,
Bent o'er the child upon her knee?
Oh, mine will bless, and bless again
The generous hearts that cared for me.
Amid the Grampian wilderness—
It rose as if by magic wand,
A shelter to forlorn distress.
An' weel I ken that Heaven will bless
The hearts that issued the decree—
The widow and the fatherless
Can never pray an' slighted be.
John of Brackadale.
Saw ye John of Brackadale?
At his nose a siller quaich,
At his knee a water pail.
Copper nose and haffets gray,
Bald head and bosom hale,
John has drunken usquebae,
Mair than a' Loch Brackadale.
Hey John! ho John!
Hey John of Brackadale!
Waes me gin ye should fail,
Auld John, bauld John,
Brave John of Brackadale!
And the weary usquebae
Will grow cheaper by a third
When they delve him in the yird.
Oh, the gay hearts at Portree
Will lament sair for thee!
And I mysel' raise sic a wail
A' the rocks of Skye shall peal!
Hey John! ho John! &c.
In a subsequent edition the concluding verse runs thus:—
An' lye down quiet in the yird,
Just when the glorious usquebae
Is growing cheaper by a third—
It winna do—I'll no believe it,
For ne'er was carle sae blithe an' hale:
Then hey for routh o' barley bree,
An' brave John o' Brackadale.
Why should I Sit an' Sigh.
When the greenwood blooms sae bonnie?
Laverocks sing, flowrets spring,
A' but me are cheery.
Ochon, O ri! there's something wanting,
Ochon, O ri! I'm weary;
Nae young, blithe, an' bonnie lad,
Comes o'er the knowe to cheer me.
Ochon, O ri! there's something wanting, &c.
Sair I look adown the valley,
Ilka sound wi' a stound
Sets my heart a thrilling:
When I see the plover rising,
Or the curlew wheeling,
Then I trow some bonnie lad
Is coming to my shieling.
Ochon, O ri! there's something wanting, &c.
Herd, or hind, or boatman laddie;
I hae cow, kid and ewe,
Gowd and gear to gain thee!
My wee cot is blessed and happy;
Oh, 'tis neat and cleanly!
Sweet the brier that blooms beside it,
Kind the heart that's lanely:
Ochon, O ri! there's something wanting, &c.
The Last Cradle Song.
A Border Melody.
Light be thy care and cumber;
Bawloo, my bonnie baby, bawlililu,
Oh, sweet be thy sinless slumber.
Ere thou wert born my youthful heart
Yearned o'er my babe with sorrow;
Long is the night-noon that we must part,
But bright shall arise the morrow.
Here no more will I see thee;
Bawloo, my bonnie baby, bawlililu,
Oh, sair is my heart to lea' thee.
But far within yon sky so blue,
In love that fail shall never,
In valleys beyond the land of the dew,
I'll sing to my baby for ever.
What gars the Parting Day-beam Blush?
An' linger owre yon summit lowering?
It sees me in the greenwood bush,
Ahint the brier an' willow cowering.
The gloaming starn keeks owre the yoke,
An' strews wi' gowd the stream sae glassy;
The raven sleeps aboon the rock,
An' I wait for my bonnie lassie.
That comes at e'en sae saftly stealing;
The silken hue, the bonnie blue
Of nature's rich an' radiant ceiling;
The lily lea, the vernal tree;
The night breeze owre the broom-wood creeping;
The fading day, the milky way,
The star-beam on the water sleeping:
My flower sae lovely an' sae loving,
I'll see nought but her e'en sae clear,
I'll hear nought but her accents moving.
Although the bat wi' velvet wing
Wheels round our bed sae damp an' grassy,
Oh, I'll be happier than a king,
Locked in thy arms, my bonnie lassie!
The rapid flow of love impelling;
But oh, the love that lights thy smile
Wad lure an angel frae his dwelling!
Can I—can ane o' human race
Ere wound thy peace or evil treat thee?
For sure thy bonnie harmless face
Wad melt the lion's heart to pity.
A bleered regret should ever sloken;
That heavenly gleed, that living glow,
Of endless happiness the token.
I'll fling my waes upon the wind;
Ye warldly cares, I'll lightly pass ye;
Nae thought shall waver through my mind
But raptures wi' my bonnie lassie.
Our canopy the waving willow,
This briery brake shall guard our head,
Its wild rose nodding owre our pillow:
Her lips, her bosom, pressed to mine,
Ah, paradise, it must surpass ye!
I'll ask nae purer joys divine,
Than sic a bower, an' sic a lassie.
Poor Little Jessie.
While at his guid fortune ilk ane was sae fain?
The neighbours upbraidit an' said it was silly,
When I was sae soon to see Willie again.
He gae me his hand as we gaed to the river,
For oh, he was aye a kind brother to me;
Right sair was my heart from my Willie to sever,
An' saut was the dew-drop that smartit my e'e.
Nor yet the kind squeeze that he gae to my hand;
It wasna the tear frae his blue eye was starting,
As slow they war shoving the boat frae the land:
The tear that I saw owre his bonnie cheek straying,
It pleased me indeed, but it doubled my pain;
For something within me was constantly saying,
“Ah, Jessie, ye'll never see Willie again!”
The wee bird is wae when bereaved o' its young,
But oh, to be reft of a dear only brother—
That feeling can neither be paintit nor sung.
I dreamed a' the night that my Willie was wi' me,
Sae kind to his Jessie, at meeting sae fain,
An' just at the dawning a friend came to see me,
An' taul me I never wad see him again.
I look for a friend, but nae friend can I see;
I dinna ken what's to become o' poor Jessie,
The warld has little mair pleasure for me.
It's lang sin' I lost baith my father and mother,
I'm simple, an' poor an' forlorn on the way;
I had ane that I likit, an only dear brother,
My Willie—but he's lying cauld i' the clay.
In the first draft the concluding stanza is as follows:—
I look for a friend, but nae friend can I see;
I dinna ken what's to become o' poor Jessie,
Life has nae mair comfort or pleasure for me.
Hard want may oppress me, and sorrow harass me,
But dearest affection shall ever remain,
An' wandering weary this wilderness dreary,
I'll lang for the day that will meet us again.
Ah, Peggie, since thou'rt gane away.
An' left me here to languish,
I canna fend anither day
In sic regretfu' anguish.
My mind's the aspen i' the vale
In ceaseless waving motion;
'Tis like a ship without a sail
On life's unstable ocean.
Blink owre the glen sae clearly:
Aince on a bonnie face she shone,
A face that I looed dearly.
An' when beside yon water clear,
At e'en I'm lanely roaming,
I sigh an' think, if ane was here,
How sweet wad fa' the gloaming!
Thy words sae free an' kindly,
Thy pawkie e'e's bewitching wile,
The unbidden tear will blind me.
The rose's deepest blushing hue
Thy cheek could eithly borrow,
But ae kiss o' thy cheery mou'
Was worth a year o' sorrow.
Let prudence aye direct thee;
Let virtue every step approve,
An' virtue will respect thee.
To ilka pleasure, ilka pang,
Alack! I am nae stranger;
An' he wha ance has wandered wrang
Is best aware o' danger.
A' ither maids excelling;
May heaven distil its purest dew
Around thy rural dwelling.
May flowerets spring, an' wild-birds sing
Around thee late an' early;
An' oft to thy remembrance bring
The lad that lo'ed thee dearly.
The Broom sae Green.
An' oh, my heart was eerie,
For aye this strain was breathed within,
Your laddie will no come near ye!
Lie still, thou wee bit fluttering thing,
What means this weary wavering?
Nae heart returns thy raptured spring,
Your laddie will no come near ye!
On the bough that hung sae near me;
Wi' tender grief my heart was wrung,
For oh, the strain was dreary!
The robin's sang it coudna be
That gart the tear-drap blind my e'e;
How ken'd the wee bird on the tree
That my laddie wad no come near me?
It bleats out through the braken,
The herried bird upon the tree
Mourns o'er its nest forsaken;
If they are wae, how weel may I?
Nae grief like mine aneath the sky;
The lad I lo'e he cares nae by,
Though my fond heart is breaking!
Flora Macdonald's Farewell.
An' down by the correi that sings to the sea,
The bonnie young Flora sat sighing her lane,
The dew on her plaid, and the tear in her e'e.
She look'd at a boat wi' the breezes that swung
Away, on the wave, like a bird of the main,
An' aye as it lessen'd, she sigh'd an' she sung,
Fareweel to the lad I shall ne'er see again!
Fareweel to my hero, the gallant an' young,
Fareweel to the lad I shall ne'er see again!
He kens of his bed in a sweet mossy hame;
The eagle that soars o'er the cliffs of Clan-Ronald,
Unawed and unhunted, his eyry can claim;
The solan can sleep on the shelve of the shore,
The cormorant roost on his rock of the sea,
But ah! there is one whose hard fate I deplore,
Nor house, ha', nor hame, in this country has he—
The conflict is past, and our name is no more—
There's nought left but sorrow for Scotland and me!
The helmet is cleft on the brow of the brave,
The claymore for ever in darkness must rust,
But red is the sword of the stranger and slave;
The hoof of the horse, and the foot of the proud,
Have trod o'er the plumes on the bonnet of blue:
Why slept the red bolt in the breast of the cloud
When tyranny revell'd in blood of the true?
Fareweel, my young hero, the gallant and good;
The crown of thy fathers is torn from thy brow!
Bonnie Prince Charlie.
Down by the Tummel, or banks o' the Garry;
Saw ye our lads, wi' their bonnets and white cockades,
Leaving their mountains to follow Prince Charlie?
Follow thee! follow thee! wha wadna follow thee?
Lang hast thou loved and trusted us fairly:
Charlie, Charlie, wha wadna follow thee,
King o' the Highland hearts, bonny Prince Charlie?
But if I had ten, they should follow Glengary.
Health to M'Donnel, and gallant Clan-Ronald,
For these are the men that will die for their Charlie!
Follow thee! follow thee! &c.
Down by Lord Murray, and Roy of Kildarlie;
Brave M'Intosh he shall fly to the field with them;
These are the lads I can trust wi' my Charlie!
Follow thee! follow thee! &c.
Loyal true Highlanders, down wi' them rarely!
Ronald and Donald, drive on wi' the broad claymore,
Over the necks of the foes of Prince Charlie!
Follow thee! follow thee! wha wadna follow thee?
Lang hast thou loved and trusted us fairly:
Charlie, Charlie, wha wadna follow thee,
King o' the Highland hearts, bonny Prince Charlie?
The Skylark.
Blithesome and cumberless,
Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea!
Emblem of happiness,
Blest is thy dwelling-place—
Oh to abide in the desert with thee!
Far in the downy cloud,
Love gives it energy, love gave it birth.
Where, on thy dewy wing,
Where art thou journeying?
Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth.
O'er moor and mountain green,
O'er the red streamer that heralds the day,
Over the cloudlet dim,
Over the rainbow's rim,
Musical cherub, soar, singing, away!
Low in the heather blooms
Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be!
Emblem of happiness,
Blest is thy dwelling-place—
Oh to abide in the desert with thee!
Gang to the Brakens wi' me.
An' a dear thing that ca's it her hame,
Wha's a' made o' love-life thegither,
Frae the tie o' the shoe to the kaime.
Love beckons in every sweet motion,
Commanding due homage to gie;
But the shrine o' my dearest devotion
Is the bend o' her bonnie e'e-bree.
To gang to the brakens wi' me;
But, though neither lordly nor saucy,
Her answer was—“Laith wad I be!
I neither hae father nor mither
Sage counsel or caution to gie;
An' prudence has whisper'd me never
To gang to the brakens wi' thee.”
An' try your ain love to beguile?
For ye are the richest young lady
That ever gaed o'er the kirk-stile.
Your smile, that is blither than ony,
The bend o' your cheerfu' e'e-bree,
An' the sweet blinks o' love there sae bonnie,
Are five hunder thousand to me!
While the tear in her blue eye shone clear,
“You're welcome, kind sir, to your mailing,
For, oh, you hae valued it dear:
Gae make out the lease, do not linger,
Let the parson indorse the decree;
An' then, for a wave o' your finger,
I'll gang to the brakens wi' thee!”
When love lurks in every young line;
There's joy in the beauties of nature,
There's joy in the dance and the wine:
But there's a delight will ne'er perish,
'Mang pleasures all fleeting an' vain,
And that is to love and to cherish
The fond little heart that's our ain!
The Minstrel Boy.
In its deepest dells you'll find him,
Where echoes sing to his music's tone,
And fairies listen behind him.
He sings of nature all in her prime,
Of sweets that around him hover,
Of mountain heath and moorland thyme,
And trifles that tell the lover.
Through cliffs and wild woods ringing!
For ah, there is love to beacon his way,
And hope in the song he's singing!
The bard may indite, and the minstrel sing,
And maidens may chorus it rarely;
But unless there be love in the heart within,
The ditty will charm but sparely.
Farewell to Glen-Shalloch.
A farewell for ever;
Farewell to my wee cot
That stands by the river!
The fall is loud sounding
In voices that vary,
And the echoes surrounding
Lament with my Mary.
'Mid the rocks that inclose them,
With a child at her knee,
And a child at her bosom:
I heard her sweet voice
'Mid the depth of my slumber,
And the sang that she sung
Was of sorrow and cumber.
There is nought to alarm thee;
The sons of the valley
No power have to harm thee.
In the balloch untrodden,
With a coronach sad
For the slain of Culloden.
And the tyrant is daring
To trample and waste us,
Unpitying, unsparing.
Thy mother no voice has,
No feeling that changes,
No word, sign, or song,
But the lesson of vengeance!
How our laurels are withering;
I'll bind on thy sword
When the clansmen are gathering;
I'll bid thee go forth
In the cause of true honour,
And never return
Till thy country hath won her!
Is the house of the reaver;
The pride of the ocean
Is fallen for ever;
The pride of the forest,
That time could not weaken,
Is trod in the dust,
And its honours are shaken.
Ever dauntless in danger!
For the land that was yours
Is the land of the stranger.
Oh come from your caverns,
All bloodless and hoary,
And these fiends of the valley
Shall tremble before ye!”
The Laird o' Lamington.
Never mair your face to see?
Can I bear to part wi' thee,
Drunken Laird o' Lamington?
Canty war ye o'er your kale,
Toddy jugs, an' caups o' ale,
Heart aye kind, an' leal, an' hale.
Honest Laird o' Lamington.
He that lies to hell must go,
He that falls in bagnio,
Falls in the devil's frying-pan.
Wha wa'st ne'er pat aith to word?
Never lied for duke nor lord?
Never sat at sinfu' board?
The honest Laird o' Lamington.
He that prays is ne'er to trust;
He that drinks to drauck his dust,
Wha can say that wrang is done?
Wha was't ne'er to fraud inclin'd?
Never pray'd sin' he can mind?
Ane wha's drouth there's few can find?
The honest Laird o' Lamington.
Toast a friend or bonnie lass;
He that winna is an ass—
Deil send him ane to gallop on!
I like a man that's frank an' kind,
Meets me when I have a mind,
Sings his sang, an' drinks me blind,
Like the Laird o' Lamington.
The Souters o' Selkirk.
The sons of an auld pedigree!
An' up wi' the lads o' the forest,
Renown'd for their leal loyaltie!
I may be mista'en, but I carena,
My error I never shall rue;
Of all manly virtues, I value
The heart that is loyal and true.
Sing umptidy-tumptidy tearhim, &c.
Of brawling an' plebeian birth;
The land that has got a good sovereign,
Has got the best blessing on earth.
Then up wi' our auld-fashion'd structure,
An' Willie the tap o' the tree!
An' up wi' the souters o' Selkirk!
The sons o' auld heroes for me!
Sing umptidy-tumptidy tearhim,
Sing umptidy-tumptidy tee;
Then up wi' the souters o' Selkirk,
The sons o' auld heroes for me!
O, Jeanie, there's naething to fear ye!
Meet me again i' the gloaming, my dearie;
Low down in the dell let us meet again—
Oh, Jeanie, there's naething to fear ye!
Come, when the wee bat flits silent and eiry,
Come, when the pale face o' Nature looks weary;
Love be thy sure defence,
Beauty and innocence—
Oh, Jeanie, there's naething to fear ye!
Wild roses speck our thicket sae briery;
Still, still will our walk in the greenwood be—
Oh, Jeanie, there's naething to fear ye!
List when the beetle-bee's bugle comes near ye,
Then come with fairy haste,
Light foot, an' beating breast—
Oh, Jeanie, there's naething to fear ye!
Beauty an' truth they darena come near it;
Kind love is the tie of our unity,
A' maun love it, an' a' maun revere it.
'Tis love makes the sang o' the woodland sae cheery,
Love gars a' nature look bonnie that's near ye;
That makes the rose sae sweet,
Cowslip and violet—
Oh, Jeanie, there's naething to fear ye!
Arabian Song.
Meet me at even, my honey, my dove,
Where the moonbeam revealing
The cool fountain stealing
Away and away
Through flow'rets so gay,
Singing its silver roundelay.
Love is the valley of joyfulness;
A garden of roses,
Where rapture reposes;
A temple of light,
All heavenly bright—
Oh, virtuous love is the soul's delight!
The Village of Balmaquhapple.
The great muckle village of Balmaquhapple?
'Tis steep'd in iniquity up to the thrapple,
An' what's to become o' poor Balmaquhapple?
Fling a' aff your bannets, an' kneel for your life, fo'ks,
And pray to St. Andrew, the god o' the Fife fo'ks;
Gar a' the hills yout wi' sheer vociferation,
And thus you may cry on sic needfu' occasion:
Men fo'k or women fo'k, country or city fo'k,
Come for this aince wi' the auld thief to grapple,
An' save the great village of Balmaquhapple
Frae drinking an' leeing, an' flyting an' swearing,
An' sins that ye wad be affrontit at hearing,
An' cheating an' stealing; oh, grant them redemption,
All save an' except the few after to mention:
Sae pawkie, sae holy, sae gruff, an' sae greedy;
Wha prays every hour as the wayfarer passes,
But aye at a hole where he watches the lasses:
He's cheated a thousand, an' e'en to this day yet
Can cheat a young lass, or they're leears that say it;
Then gie him his gate; he's sae slee an' sae civil,
Perhaps in the end he may wheedle the devil.
An' Dickie the brewer, an' Peter the skinman,
An' Geordie our deacon for want of a better,
An' Bess, wha delights in the sins that beset her.
O worthy St. Andrew, we canna compel ye,
But ye ken as weel as a body can tell ye,
If these gang to heaven, we'll a' be sae shockit,
Your garret o' blue will but thinly be stockit.
Their bodies at least, an' their sauls, if they have them;
But it puzzles Jock Lesly, an' sma' it avails,
If they dwell in their stamocks, their heads, or their tails.
An' save, without word of confession auricular,
The clerk's bonny daughters, an' Bell in particular;
For ye ken that their beauty's the pride an' the staple
Of the great wicked village of Balmaquhapple!”
Callum-a-Glen.
Was ever the wild beast so bay'd in his den?
The southern bloodhounds lie in kennel so near me,
That death would be freedom to Callum-a-Glen.
My sons are all slain, and my daughters have left me,
No child to protect me where once there were ten;
My chief they have slain, and of stay have bereft me,
And woe to the gray hairs of Callum-a-Glen!
The bright steep of morning has blush'd at the view;
The moon has stood still on the verge of the even,
To wipe from her pale cheek the tint of the dew;
For the dew it lies red on the vales of Lochaber,
It sprinkles the cot, and it flows in the pen;
The pride of my country is fallen for ever—
Death, hast thou no shaft for old Callum-a-Glen?
The stars have wept blood over hamlet and lea;
Oh! is there no day-spring for Scotland—no morrow
Of bright renovation for souls of the free?
Yes, One above all hath beheld our devotion,
Our valour and faith are not hid from his ken;
The day is abiding of stern retribution
On all the proud foes of old Callum-a-Glen.
When the Kye comes Hame.
In the title and chorus of this favourite pastoral song. I choose rather to violate a rule in grammar, than a Scottish phrase so common, that when it is altered into the proper way, every shepherd and shepherd's sweetheart account it nonsense. I was once singing it at a wedding with great glee the latter way (“when the kye come hame”), when a tailor, scratching his head, said, “It was a terrible affected way that!” I stood corrected, and have never sung it so again.
That whistle through the glen,
I'll tell ye of a secret
That courtiers dinna ken:
What is the greatest bliss
That the tongue o' man can name?
'Tis to woo a bonny lassie
When the kye comes hame.
When the kye comes hame,
When the kye comes hame,
'Tween the gloaming and the mirk,
When the kye comes hame.
Nor canopy of state,
'Tis not on couch of velvet,
Nor arbour of the great—
'Tis beneath the spreading birk,
In the glen without the name,
Wi' a bonnie, bonnie lassie,
When the kye comes hame.
When the kye comes hame, &c.
For the mate he lo'es to see,
And on the topmost bough,
Oh, a happy bird is he;
Where he pours his melting ditty,
And love is a' the theme,
And he'll woo his bonnie lassie
When the kye comes hame.
When the kye comes hame, &c.
And the daisy turns a pea,
And the bonnie lucken gowan
Has fauldit up her e'e,
Then the laverock frae the blue lift
Drops down, an' thinks nae shame
To woo his bonnie lassie
When the kye comes hame.
When the kye comes hame,
That lingers on the hill,
His ewes are in the fauld,
An' his lambs are lying still;
Yet he downa gang to bed,
For his heart is in a flame
To meet his bonnie lassie
When the kye comes hame.
When the kye comes hame, &c.
Rises high in the breast,
An' the little wee bit starn
Rises red in the east,
Oh there's a joy sae dear,
That the heart can hardly frame,
Wi' a bonnie, bonnie lassie,
When the kye comes hame!
When the kye comes hame, &c.
In this love without alloy,
Oh, wha wad prove a traitor
To Nature's dearest joy?
Or wha wad choose a crown,
Wi' its perils and its fame,
And miss his bonnie lassie
When the kye comes hame,
When the kye comes hame,
When the kye comes hame,
'Tween the gloaming and the mirk,
When the kye comes hame!
The Shepherd afterwards gave the following version of the very beautiful song:
I'll tell ye of a secret that courtiers dinna ken:
What is the greatest bliss that the tongue o' man can name
'Tis to woo a bonnie lassie when the kye come hame.
CHORUS.
When the kye come hame, when the kye come hame,'Tween the gloamin and the mirk, when the kye come hame.
'Tis not on couch of velvet nor yet in bed of down—
'Tis beneath the spreading birch, in the dell without a name
Wi' a bonnie, bonnie lassie, when the kye come hame.
There's love in every whisper, and joy in every smile:
Oh, wha wad choose a crown, wi' its perils and its fame,
And miss a bonnie lassie when the kye come hame?
His ewes are in the fauld, and his lambs are lying still;
Yet he downa gang to bed, for his heart is in a flame
To meet his bonnie lassie, when the key come hame.
And a' the arts that prey upon man's life and liberty:
Gi'e me the highest joy that the heart o' man can frame—
My bonnie, bonnie lassie, when the kye come hame!
Lenachan's Farewell.
Alexander Stuart of Lenachan was a man of gigantic strength and an officer of the regiment of Appin. He was obliged to make his escape to America, several years subsequent to the forty-five, to elude the vengeance of the Campbells.
Bothy o' the birken-tree!
Sair the heart an' hard the lot
O' the man that parts wi' thee!
My good grandsire's hand thee rear'd—
Then thy wicker-work was full;
Many a Campbell's glen he clear'd,
Hit the buck, an' hough'd the bull.
Mair lies hid than crusted stanes;
In thy bein and weirdly nook
Lie some stout Clan-Gillan banes.
Routh and welcome was his fare;
But if serf or Saxon came,
He cross'd Murich's hirst nae mair.
Kendna how the sword to wield;
Never heart of thine had dread
Of the foray or the field:
Ne'er on straw, mat, bulk, or bed,
Son of thine lay down to dee;
Every lad within thee bred
Died beneath heaven's open e'e.
For our king as right became;
Wha could shun the Bruce's heir,
Or desert his royal name?
Firm to stand and free to fa',
Forth we march'd right valiantlie—
Gane is Scotland's king and law,
And woe to Appin and to me!
Here nae langer I maun stay,
But when I my hame forget,
May my heart forget to play!
Fare thee weel, my father's cot,
Bothy o' the birken tree!
Sair the heart, and hard the lot
O' the warrior leaving thee!
The Stuarts of Appin.
No national calamity has ever given me so much pain as the total bereavement of the brave clans who stood to the last for the cause of the house of Stuart. It is a stain on the annals of our legislature which can never be blotted out.
The land of Green Appin, the ward of the flood,
Where every gray cairn that broods o'er the shore,
Marks grave of the royal, the valiant, or good:
The land where the strains of gray Ossian were framed—
The land of fair Selma, and reign of Fingal—
And late of a race, that with tears must be named,
The noble Clan Stuart, the bravest of all.
Oh-hon, an Righ! and the Stuarts of Appin!
The gallant, devoted, old Stuarts of Appin!
Their glory is o'er,
For the clan is no more,
And the Sassenach sings on the hills of green Appin.
And all the proud files of Glenorchy and Lorn,
While one of the Stuarts held claim on the crown,
His banner full boldly by Appin was borne.
And ne'er fell the Campbells in check or trepan,
In all their Whig efforts their power to renew,
But still on the Stuarts of Appin they ran,
To wreak their proud wrath on the brave and the few.
Oh-hon, an Righ! and the Stuarts of Appin, &c.
The fields of the Campbells were gallantly flowing,
It was then that the Stuarts the foremost still stood,
And paid back a share of the debt they were owing.
O proud Inverlochy! O day of renown!
Since first the sun rose o'er the peaks of Cruachin,
Was ne'er such an host by such valour o'erthrown,
Was ne'er such a day for the Stuarts of Appin!
Oh-hon, an Righ! and the Stuarts of Appin, &c.
One battle on vale, or on mountain deer-trodden,
But dearly to Appin the glory was bought,
And dearest of all on the field of Culloden!
Lament, O Glen-Creran, Glen-Duror, Ardshiel,
High offspring of heroes, who conquer'd were never;
For the deeds of your fathers no bard shall reveal,
And the bold clan of Stuart must perish for ever!
Oh-hon, an Righ! and the Stuarts of Appin, &c.
The sun of Clan-Ranald is sinking in labour;
Glencoe and Clan-Donnachie, where are they now?
And where is bold Keppoch, the lord of Lochaber?
All gone with the house they supported!—laid low,
While dogs of the south their bold life-blood were lapping,
Trod down by a proud and a merciless foe—
The brave are all gone with the Stuarts of Appin!
Oh-on, an Righ! and the Stuarts of Appin, &c.
The sea-breezes lone o'er their relics are sighing;
Dark weeds of oblivion shroud many a grave
Where the unconquered foes of the Campbell are lying.
But long as the gray hairs wave over this brow,
And earthly emotions my spirit are wrapping,
My old heart with tides of regret shall o'erflow,
And bleed for the fall of the Stuarts of Appin!
Oh-hon, an Righ! and the Stuarts of Appin!
The gallant, devoted, old Stuarts of Appin!
Their glory is o'er,
For their star is no more,
And the green grass waves over the heroes of Appin!
The Poor Man.
Lady wi' the glistening e'e,
Dinna let your menial train
Drive an auld man out to dee.
Cauldrife is the winter even,
See the rime hangs at my chin;
Lady, for the sake of heaven,
Loose the yett, an' let me in!
Lady, for your courtesye,
Ever beaming, ever new,
Aye to bloom an' ne'er to dee.
Lady, there's a lovely plain
Lies beyond yon setting sun,
There we soon may meet again—
Short the race we hae to run.
Rank or title is not there;
High an' low maun there unite,
Poor man, prince, an' lady fair.
There, what thou on earth hast given,
Doubly shall be paid again:
Lady, for the sake of heaven,
Loose the yett, an' let me in!
Lady of this lordly ha'!
That bright tear that thou didst shed
Fell nae down amang the snaw!
It is gane to heaven aboon,
To the fount of charity;
When thy days on earth are done,
That blest drop shall plead for thee.
The Women Fo'k.
I fancied first the womankind;
For aye sinsyne I ne'er can hae
Ae quiet thought or peace o' mind!
They hae plagued my heart an' pleased my e'e,
An' teased an' flatter'd me at will,
But aye for a' their witchery,
The pawky things I lo'e them still.
Oh the women fo'k! Oh, the women fo'k!
But they hae been the wreck o' me;
Oh weary fa' the women fo'k,
For they winna let a body be!
I've studied them wi' a' my skill,
I've lo'ed them better than mysell,
I've tried again to like them ill.
Wha sairest strives, will sairest rue,
To comprehend what nae man can;
When he has done what man can do,
He'll end at last where he began.
Oh, the women fo'k, &c.
A man wi' half a look may see;
An' gracefu' airs, and faces sweet,
An' waving curls aboon the bree;
An' smiles as soft as the young rose-bud;
An' een sae pawky, bright, an' rare,
Wad lure the laverock frae the cludd—
But, laddie, seek to ken nae mair!
Oh, the women fo'k, &c.
The date is neither lost nor lang;
I tak ye witness ilka ane,
How fell they fought an' fairly dang.
Their point they've carried right or wrang,
Without a reason, rhyme, or law,
An' forced a man to sing a sang,
That ne'er could sing a verse ava.
Oh the women fo'k! Oh the women fo'k!
But they hae been the wreck o' me;
Oh weary fa' the women fo'k,
For they winna let a body be!
M'Lean's Welcome.
Dear Charlie, brave Charlie;
Come o'er the stream, Charlie,
And dine with M'Lean;
And though you be weary,
We'll make your heart cheery,
And welcome our Charlie,
And his loyal train.
We'll bring down the track deer,
We'll bring down the black steer,
The lamb from the bracken,
And doe from the glen;
The salt sea we'll harry,
And bring to our Charlie
The cream from the bothy,
And curd from the pen.
Dear Charlie, brave Charlie;
Come o'er the sea, Charlie,
And dine with M'Lean;
And you shall drink freely
The dews of Glen-sheerly,
That stream in the starlight
When kings do not ken.
And deep be your meed
Of the wine that is red,
To drink to your sire,
And his friend the M'Lean.
Dear Charlie, brave Charlie;
Come o'er the stream, Charlie,
And dine with M'Lean;
If aught will invite you,
Or more will delight you,
'Tis ready, a troop of our bold Highlandmen,
All ranged on the heather,
With bonnet and feather,
Strong arms and broad claymores,
Three hundred and ten!
The Maid of the Sea.
Maiden to me,
Maiden of mystery, love, and pain!
Wake from thy sleep,
Low in the deep;
Over thy green waves sport again!
Come to this sequester'd spot, love,
Death's where thou art, as where thou art not, love;
Then come unto me,
Maid of the Sea,
Rise from the wild and stormy main;
Wake from thy sleep,
Calm in the deep,
Over thy green waves sport again!
Made for the slave,
Tyrant's chains, and stern control;
Land for the free
Spirit like thee,
Thing of delight to a minstrel's soul?
Come, with thy song of love and of sadness,
Beauty of face and rapture of madness;
Oh, come unto me,
Maid of the Sea,
Rise from the wild and surging main;
Wake from thy sleep,
Calm in the deep,
Over thy green waves sport again!
Go Home to your Rest.
The sky looks cold in the west, young man;
For should we rove
Through Morna's grove,
A noontide walk is the best, young man.
Go sleep, the heavens look pale, young man,
And sighs are heard in the gale, young man:
A walk in the night,
By the dim moonlight,
A maiden might chance to bewail, young man!
A proffer of love I may take, young man;
But the star of truth,
The guide of my youth,
Never pointed to midnight wake, young man.
Go sleep till rise of the sun, young man,
The sage's eye to shun, young man;
For he's watching the flight
Of demons to-night,
And may happen to take thee for one, young man.
The Harp of Ossian.
I have been sorely blamed by some friends for a sentiment expressed in this song; but I have always felt it painfully that the name of Scotland, the superior nation in everything but wealth, should be lost, not in Britain, for that is proper, but in England. In all despatches we are denominated the English, forsooth! We know ourselves, however, that we are not English, nor never intend to be.
In cave of the correi, ungarnish'd, unstrung!
Thy minstrels no more with thy heroes are number'd,
Or deeds of thy heroes no more dare be sung.
A seer late heard, from thy cavern ascending,
A low sounding chime, as of sorrow and dole;
Some spirit unseen on the relic attending,
Thus sung the last strain of the warrior's soul:
On which I could hallow the deeds of the free;
Thy heroes have all to new honours aspired,
They fight, but they fight not for Scotia nor me.
All lost is our sway, and the name of our nation
Is sunk in the name of our old mortal foe;
Then why should the lay of our last degradation
Be forced from the harp of old Ossian to flow?
Alone the dark mountains of Scotia become;
Her sons condescend from new models to borrow,
And voices of strangers prevail in the hum.
Before the smooth face of our Saxon invaders,
Is quench'd the last ray in the eye of the free;
Then, oh! let me rest in the caves of my fathers,
Forgetful of them as forgetful of thee!”
When Maggy Gangs Away.
When Maggy gangs away?
Oh, what will a' the lads do
When Maggy gangs away?
There's no a heart in a' the glen
That disna dread the day:
Oh, what will a' the lads do
When Maggy gangs away?
A waefu' wight is he;
Poor Harry's ta'en the bed for't,
An' laid him down to dee;
An' Sandy's gane unto the kirk,
An' learnin' fast to pray:
And oh, what will the lads do
When Maggy gangs away?
Has drunk her health in wine;
The priest has said—in confidence—
The lassie was divine,
Than ony priest should say:
But oh, what will the lads do
When Maggy gangs away?
That day will quaver high;
'Twill draw the redbreast frae the wood,
The laverock frae the sky;
The fairies frae their beds o' dew
Will rise an' join the lay:
An' hey! what a day will be
When Maggy gangs away!
A Father's Lament.
When blithe this heart can never be?
I've lost the jewel from my crown—
Look round our circle, and you'll see
That there is ane out o' the ring
Who never can forgotten be—
Ay, there's a blank at my right hand,
That ne'er can be made up to me!
That time wears out the deepest line;
It may be true wi' hearts enow,
But never can apply to mine.
For I have learn'd to know and feel—
Though losses should forgotten be—
That still the blank at my right hand
Can never be made up to me!
For I have many joys beside,
And fain would I in grateful way
Enjoy the same, whate'er betide.
A mortal thing should ne'er repine,
But stoop to the supreme decree;
Yet, oh! the blank at my right hand
Can never be made up to me!
There's Gowd in the Breast.
An' siller in every blossom;
There's riches galore in the breeze of the vale,
And health in the wild wood's bosom.
Then come my love, at the hour of joy,
When warbling birds sing o'er us;
Sweet nature for us has no alloy,
And the world is all before us.
The soldier in war-steeds bounding,
The miser in hoards of treasured ore,
The proud in their pomp surrounding:
But we hae yon heaven, sae bonnie and blue,
And laverocks skimming out o'er us;
The breezes of health and the valleys of dew—
Oh, the world is all before us!
Why Weeps yon Highland Maid?
Over the tartan plaid—
Is it a pledge of care,
Or are the blood-drops there?
Tell me, thou hind of humble seeming,
Why the tears on her cheek are gleaming?
Why should the young and fair
Thus weep unpitied there?
Low in the dust was laid;
He who the relic wore,
He is, alas! no more:
He and his loyal clan were trodden
Down by slaves on dark Culloden.
Well o'er a lover's pall,
Well may the tear-drops fall!
Where is the bonnet blue?
Where the claymore that broke
Fearless through fire and smoke?
Not one gleam by glen or river;
It lies dropp'd from the hand for ever.
Stranger, our fate deplore,
Our ancient name's no more!
My Emma, my Darling.
Let us fly to the glee of the city again,
Where a day never wakes but some joy it renews,
And a night never falls but that joy it pursues;
Where the dance is so light, and the hall is so bright,
And life whirls onward one round of delight.
Would we feel that we love and have spirits refined,
We must mix with the world, and enjoy humankind.
It cheers the lone heart and enlivens the eye;
But nowhere can beauty and dignity shine,
So as in the human race fair and divine.
'Mongst these could I love thee, and that love enjoy,
But, ah! in the wilderness fond love would cloy;
To the homes of our kindred our spirits must cling,
And away from their bosoms at last take their wing!
The Mermaid's Song.
Long is thy night of sorrow;
Thy maiden of the mountain deep
Shall meet thee on the morrow.
When my true love shall waken;
When shall we meet, refined and free,
Amid the moorland braken?
The worm even flies thy pillow;
Where now the lips, so comely red,
That kiss'd me 'neath the willow?
Oh, I must smile, and weep the while,
Amid my song of mourning,
At freaks of man in life's short span,
To which there's no returning.
Hope lingers o'er thy slumber:
What though thy years beneath the steep
Should all its flowers outnumber;
Though moons steal o'er, and seasons fly
On time-swift wing unstaying?
Yet there's a spirit in the sky,
That lives o'er thy decaying.
No end hath my sojourning;
And to this land of fading things
Far hence be my returning;
For all the spirits of the deep
Their long last leave are taking.
Lie still, my love, lie still and sleep,
Till the last morn is breaking.
Donald M'Gillavry.
Donald's come down the hill wild an' angry;
Donald will clear the gouk's nest cleverly;
Here's to the king, an' Donald M'Gillavry!
Come like a weigh-bauk, Donald M'Gillavry,
Come like a weigh-bauk, Donald M'Gillavry;
Balance them fair, an' balance them cleverly,
Off wi' the counterfeit, Donald M'Gillavry!
As he war wud, or stang'd wi' an' ether, man;
When he gaes back, there's some will look merrily;
Here's to King James an' Donald M'Gillavry!
Come like a weaver, Donald M'Gillavry,
Come like a weaver, Donald M'Gillavry;
Pack on your back an elwand o' steelary,
Gie them full measure, my Donald M'Gillavry!
Donald has dinner'd wi' banes an' beggary;
Better it war for whigs an' whiggery
Meeting the deevil, than Donald M'Gillavry.
Come like a tailor, Donald M'Gillavry,
Come like a tailor, Donald M'Gillavry,
Push about, in an' out, thimble them cleverly,
Here's to King James an' Donald M'Gillavry!
Whigging an' prigging an' a' newfangleness;
They maun be gane, he winna be baukit, man,
He maun hae justice, or rarely he'll tak it, man.
Come like a cobbler, Donald M'Gillavry,
Come like a cobbler, Donald M'Gillavry;
Bore them, an' yerk them, an' lingel them cleverly—
Up wi' King James and Donald M'Gillavry!
Donald was blindit wi' bladds o' property;
Arles ran high, but makings war naething, man;
Gudeness! how Donald is flyting an' fretting, man!
Come like the deevil, Donald M'Gillavry,
Come like the deevil, Donald M'Gillavry;
Skelp them an' scadd them pruved sae unbritherly—
Up wi' King James an' Donald M'Gillavry!
O'er the Ocean Bounding.
Other lands surrounding,
Love, I will think of thee!
Though new skies me cover,
And other stars shine over,
Yet thou art still with me.
When at morn or even,
Low I kneel to heaven,
Be my sins forgiven
As my love shall be!
When my hopes are dearest,
And my soul sincerest,
Then I'll remember thee!
Thee, its dearest treasure,
Life, health, all to me.
All of land or ocean,
All a world's commotion,
Knits me the more to thee.
When new passions move me,
When I cease to love thee,
May the heavens above me,
Chasten my perfidy!
Even in woe and cumber,
Even in death's last slumber,
I will remember thee!
Charlie is my Darling.
Right early in the year,
That Charlie came to our town,
The young Chevalier.
My darling, my darling,
Charlie is my darling,
The young Chevalier.
His face shone like the day;
I grat to see the lad come back
That had been lang away.
An' Charlie is my darling, &c.
As to the door she ran,
Our king shall hae his ain again,
An' Charlie is the man:
For Charlie he's my darling, &c.
An' down the craigy glen,
Of naething else our lasses sing
But Charlie an' his men.
An' Charlie he's my darling, &c.
An' glow without a stain;
Our Highland swords are metal keen,
An' Charlie he's our ain.
An' Charlie he's my darling,
My darling, my darling;
Charlie he's my darling,
The young Chevalier.
If e'er I am thine.
The beasts of the field, and fish of the sea,
Shall in our love and happiness share,
Within their elements fair and free,
And rejoice because I am thine, love.
Nor dreams of bliss that never can be;
Our trust shall be in Heaven above:
Our hope in a far futurity
Must arise, when I am made thine, love.
Than visions of vanity here below;
For chequer'd through life our path must lie—
Mid gleams of joy and shades of woe
We must journey, when I am thine, love.
Meg o' Marley.
The bonnie blue-e'ed dearie?
She's play'd the deil amang the men,
An' a' the land's grown eery.
She's stown the “Bangor” frae the clerk,
An' snool'd him wi' the shame o't;
The minister's fa'n through the text,
An' Meg gets a' the blame o't.
The gadman whistles sparely;
The shepherd pines amang his flock,
An' turns his e'en to Marley;
The tailor lad's fa'n ower the bed;
The cobbler ca's a parley;
The weaver's neb's out through the web,
An' a' for Meg o' Marley.
Is flyting late an' early?
He rises but to curse an' ban,
An' sits down but to ferly.
But ne'er had love a brighter lowe,
Than light his torches sparely
At the bright e'en an' blithesome brow
O' bonnie Meg o' Marley.
The Ladies' Evening Song.
Bonnie laddie O!
The glass is no for you,
Bonnie laddie O!
The glass is no for you,
For it dyes your manly brow,
An' it fills you roarin' fu',
Bonnie laddie O.
Wi' your drinkin' O;
We like your presence mair
Than you're thinkin' o';
How happy will you be
In our blithesome companye,
Taking innocence and glee
For your drinking O!
Bonny laddie O,
Wi' a pure an' joyfu' light,
Bonnie laddie O:
But at ten o'clock at night,
Take a lady's word in plight,
We will see another sight,
Bonnie laddie O.
Bonnie laddie O;
An' you needna argue lang,
Bonnie laddie O.
For the mair you taste an' see
O' our harmless companye,
Aye the happier you will be,
Bonnie laddie O!
Mary, canst thou leave me?
Is there nought will move thee?
Dearest maid, believe me,
I but live to love thee.
When we two are parted,
When the seas us sever,
Still this heart, deserted,
Clings to thee for ever.
Days so dull and dreary,
Nights so mirk and eerie,
Is there nought can cheer me?
Never! my love, never!
Rueful words to chide me!
From this land of sorrow
Haste, oh, haste to hide thee!
Spirits round us hover,
Breathing death and plunder;
But when this is over,
Which we tremble under,
Then, dear youth, believe me,
Though this time I grieve thee,
Kindly I'll receive thee,
Never more to sunder!
Mary is my only Joy.
Mary is blithe and Mary is coy,
Mary's the gowd where there's nae alloy;
Though black—yet oh, she's bonnie;
Her breath is the birken bower o' spring,
Her lips the young rose opening,
And her hair is the hue of the raven's wing;
She's black, but oh, she's bonnie.
Though bright its ray, may never vie
Wi' Mary's dark and liquid eye;
Though black, yet oh, she's bonnie.
In yon green wood there is a bower,
Where lies a bed of witching power;
Under that bed there blooms a flower,
That steals the heart unwary!
That, oh and alack! I know too well—
A pang that the tongue may hardly tell,
Though felt baith late and early.
The beauteous flower beneath the tree,
The spell of the wildest witcherye,
The gowd and the gear, an' a' to me,
Is my black but my bonnie Mary!
O, weel befa' the Maiden gay.
In cottage, bught, or penn,
An' weel befa' the bonnie May
That wons in yonder glen;
Wha loes the modest truth sae weel,
Wha's aye sae kind, an' aye sae leal,
An' pure as blooming asphodel
Among sae mony men.
Oh, weel befa' the bonnie thing
That wons in yonder glen!
Along the gloaming lea;
'Tis sweet to hear the blackbird's note
Come pealing frae the tree;
To see the lambkin's lightsome race—
The speckled kid in wanton chase—
The young deer cower in lonely place,
Deep in her flowery den;
But sweeter far the bonnie face
That smiles in yonder glen!
O' maiden's virgin flame,
Dear beauty never had been known,
An' never had a name;
But aye sin' that dear thing o' blame
Was modell'd by an angel's frame,
The power o' beauty reigns supreme
O'er a' the sons o' men;
But deadliest far the sacred flame
Burns in a lonely glen!
There's hinney in the haw—
There's dew within the rose's breast,
The sweetest o' them a'.
The sun will rise an' set again,
An' lace wi' burning goud the main—
The rainbow bend outow'r the plain,
Sae lovely to the ken;
But lovelier far my bonnie thing
That wons in yonder glen!
Cameron's Welcome Hame.
Its loudest, liveliest key,
An' join the sounding correi
In its wild melody;
For burn, an' breeze, an' billow,
Their sangs are a' the same,
And every waving willow
Soughs “Cameron's welcome hame.”
That warbles on the pine,
His strain, sae light an' airy,
Accords in joy wi' thine;
The lark that soars to heaven,
The sea-bird on the faem,
Are singing, frae morn till even,
Brave “Cameron's welcome hame.”
When we hid in the tree,
An' saw our Auchnacarry
All flaming fearfully?
The fire was red, red glaring,
An' ruefu' was the scene,
An' aye you cried, despairing,
My father's ha's are gane!
D'ye see yon cloud sae dun,
That sails aboon the carry,
An' hides the weary sun?
Behind yon curtain dreary,
Beyond, and far within,
There's Ane, my dear wee Mary,
Wha views this deadly sin.
The rage o' dastard knave,
He saw our deeds of bravery,
And He'll reward the brave.
Though all we had was given
For loyalty an' faith,
I still had hopes that Heaven
Would right the hero's skaith.
For which we a' thought lang;
The good, the just, is given
To right our nation's wrang.
My ain dear Auchnacarry,
I hae thought lang for thee;
Oh sing to your harp, my Mary,
An' sound its bonniest key!
Ye Breezes that spring.
Or sleep on your clouds of the eider down,
Come over the mountain and over the dale,
More sweet than Arabia's spicy gale!
Come over the heath-flower's purple bloom,
And gather the birk's and the thyme's perfume,
For these are the sweets that bring no alloy
To dark Caledonia's mountain joy.
Thou canst bring a richer offering still:
The kindly wish from the hall and the cot,
And the poor man's blessing that's never forgot,
The shepherd's proud boast over every degree,
And the song of the maiden the dearest to me:
Come laden with these, thou breeze of the hill!
And the lay of the Minstrel shall hail thee still.
Come rowe the Boat
Was written to a boat-song that I heard in the Highlands, sung by the rowers. It is a short cross measure—one of those to which it is impossible to compose good or flowing verses, but when sung, is very sweet.
Ply to the pibroch's note,
Steer for yon lonely cot
O'er the wild main;
For there waits my dearie,
Both lonesome and eery,
And sorely she'll weary
To hear our bold strain.
And play, boys, to move her;
The tide-stream is over,
And mild blows the gale.
I see her a-roaming
Like swan in the gloaming,
Or angel a-coming
Her Ronald to hail!
Is comely and stately,
As tall and sedately
She looks o'er the dale;
The sea-bird rides sprightly
O'er billows so lightly,
Or boldly and brightly
Floats high on the gale.
What heart can compare thee
With aught in the valley,
The mountain, or tide?
All nature looks dreary
When thou art not near me,
But lovely and dearly
When thou'rt by my side.
The Highlander's Farewell.
Or where shall I gae wander?
Oh where shall I gae hide my head,
For here I'll bide nae langer?
The seas may rowe, the winds may blow,
And swathe me round in danger,
But Scotland I maun now forego,
And roam a lonely stranger.
Maun be by his forsaken;
The house that was my father's home
Is levell'd with the braken.
Stole by a ruthless reaver—
Our hands are on the broad claymore,
But the might is broke for ever!
Thy people have disown'd thee—
Have hunted and have driven thee hence,
With ruined chiefs around thee.
Though hard beset, when I forget
Thy fate, young hapless rover,
This broken heart shall cease to beat,
And all its griefs be over.
Land of the Gael no longer!
Strangers have trod thy glory on,
In guile and treachery stronger.
The brave and just sink in the dust,
On ruin's brink they quiver—
Heaven's pitying eye is closed on thee;
Adieu, adieu for ever!
How dear to me the Hour.
And sheds new glories on the opening view,
When westward far the towering mountain flings
His shadow, fringed with rainbows on the dew,
And the love-waken'd lark enraptured springs
To heaven's own gate, his carols to renew!
As opening on the sun its gladsome eye;
So is life's morning—blithely we pursue
Hope's gilded rainbow of the heavenly dye,
Till worn and weary we our travel rue,
And in life's cheerless gloaming yearn and die.
The Hill of Lochiel.
Land of my infancy;
Now will I kneel on thee,
Hill of Lochiel!
Hill of the sturdy steer,
Hill of the roe and deer,
Hill of the streamlet clear,
I love thee well!
Correi or crag to climb,
Or tow'ring cliff sublime,
Was my delight;
Scaling the eagle's nest,
Wounding the raven's breast,
Skimming the mountain's crest,
Gladsome and light.
Young Charlie Stuart came,
Cameron, that loyal name,
Foremost must be!
Hard then our warrior meed,
Glorious our warrior deed,
Till we were doom'd to bleed
By treachery.
Then was the broadsword's gleam
Quench'd, in fair freedom's beam
No more to shine:
Then was the morning's brow,
Red with the fiery glow;
Fell hall and hamlet low,
All that were mine.
Stretch'd on a foreign strand,
Oft has the tear-drop bland
Scorch'd as it fell.
Once was I spurn'd from thee,
Long have I mourn'd for thee,
Now I'm return'd to thee,
Hill of Lochiel!
The Flowers of Scotland.
All others that excel?
The lovely flowers of Scotland,
All others that excel?—
The thistle's purple bonnet,
And bonnie heather bell,
Oh they're the flowers of Scotland
All others that excel!
With pride she'll ne'er forego,
The rose has oft been trodden
By foot of haughty foe;
But the thistle in her bonnet blue,
Still nods outow'r the fell;
And dares the proudest foeman
To tread the heather bell?
Alack and well-a-day!
For ilka hand is free to pu'
An' steal the gem away:
But the thistle in her bonnet blue
Still bobs aboon them a';
At her the bravest darena blink,
Or gie his mou a thraw.
The emblems o' the free!
Their guardians for a thousand years,
Their guardians still we'll be.
Within his reeky cell,
Than our thistle's purple bonnet,
Or bonnie heather bell.
My Love's Bonnie.
My love's blithe as the bird on the tree;
But I like my bonnie lass, an' she loes me,
An' we'll meet by our bower in the morning.
Oh, how I will cling unto my love's side,
And I will kiss my bonnie, bonnie bride;
And I'll whisper a vow, whatever betide,
To my little flower in the morning.
Of dew that is blawn frae the rowan-tree flower;
Oh! never were the sweets of vernal bower,
Like my love's cheek in the morning.
Her eye is the blue-bell of the spring,
Her hair is the blackbird's bonnie wing;
To her dear side, oh! how I'll cling,
On our greenwood walk in the morning.
Sing on, sing on, my Bonnie Bird.
The sang ye sung yestreen, O,
When here, aneath the hawthorn wild
I met my bonnie Jean, O!
My blude ran prinklin' through my veins,
My hair begoud to steer, O;
My heart play'd deep against my breast,
When I beheld my dear, O!
O weel's me o' my dearie,
O weel's me o' the charming spot
Where a' combined to cheer me!
The mavis liltit on the bush,
The laverock o'er the green, O,
The lily bloom'd, the daisy blush'd,
But a' war nought to Jean, O!
Be nouther fley'd nor eerie;
I'll wad your love sits in the bush,
That gars ye sing sae cheerie.
She may be kind, she may be sweet,
She may be neat an' clean, O,
But oh, she's but a drysome mate
Compared wi' bonnie Jean, O!
An' a' her blooming treasures,
An' bid me rise, an' turn an' choose,
An' taste her chiefest pleasures.
My choice wad be the rosy cheek,
The modest beaming eye, O;
The auburn hair, the bosom fair,
The lips o' coral dye, O!
A burnie popplin by, O;
Our bed the sward, our sheet the plaid,
Our canopy the sky, O!
An' here's the burn, an' there's the bush,
Around the flowery green, O;
An' this the plaid, an' sure the lass
Wad be my bonnie Jean, O!
Ye sternies, twinklin' high, O,
An' a' ye gentle powers aboon,
That roam athwart the sky, O!
Ye see me gratefu' for the past,
Ye saw me blest yestreen, O,
An' ever till I breathe my last,
Ye'll see me true to Jean, O!
Love Letter.
And left me here to languish;
To daunder on frae day to day,
Swathed in a sort o' anguish.
My mind's the aspen o' the vale,
In ceaseless waving motion;
'Tis like a ship without a sail,
On life's unstable ocean.
Blink o'er the hill sae dearly,
Late on a bonnie face she shone,
A face that I loe dearly.
An' when down by the water clear
At e'en I'm lonely roaming,
I sigh, an' think if ane were here,
How sweet wad fa' the gloaming!
An' I nae mair shall see thee;
Now a' the lee-lang simmer day,
An' a' the night I weary;
For thou wert aye sae sweet, sae gay,
Sae teazing an' sae canty,
I dinna blush to swear an' say,
In faith I canna want thee!
Let prudence aye direct thee;
Let virtue every step approve,
And virtue will respect thee.
To ilka pleasure, ilka pang,
Alack! I am nae stranger,
An' he wha aince has wander'd wrang,
Is best aware of danger.
A' ither maids excelling,
An' heaven shall shed its purest dew
Around thy rural dwelling.
May flow'rets spring, an' wild birds sing
Around thee late an' early,
An' oft to thy remembrance bring
The lad that loes thee dearly!
Mischievous Woman.
To stand without mischievous woman,
How peacefu' bodies might hae lived,
Released frae a' the ills sae common!
But since it is the waefu' case,
That man maun hae this teazing crony;
Why sic a sweet bewitching face?
Oh, had she no been made sae bonnie!
Nae sin or sorrow to betide me,
As careless as the wandering wind,
As happy as the lamb beside me;
I might hae screw'd my tunefu' pegs,
And caroll'd mountain airs fu' gaily,
Had we but wantit a' the Megs,
Wi' glossy een sae dark an' wily.
The smile, the air, an' a' sae taking,
Yet open laid my wareless heart,
An' gat the wound that keeps me waking.
My harp waves on the willow green,
O' wild witch-notes it has nae ony
Sin' e'er I saw that pawky quean,
Sae sweet, sae wicked, an' sae bonnie!
Fair was thy Blossom.
That open'd like the rose in May,
Though nursed beneath the chilly shower
Of fell regret for love's decay.
How oft above thy lowly bed,
When all in silence slumber'd low,
The fond and filial tear was shed,
Thou child of love, of shame, and woe!
Fair as the softest wreath of spring,
When late I saw thee seek the bower,
In peace thy morning hymn to sing.
Thy little foot across the lawn
Scarce from the primrose press'd the dew;
I thought the spirit of the dawn
Before me to the greenwood flew.
Thy spotless soul from guilt to sever;
A tear of pity wet the string,
That twang'd and seal'd thine eye for ever.
I saw thee late the emblem true
Of beauty, innocence, and truth,
Stand on the upmost verge in view,
'Twixt childhood and unstable youth.
To break that rest shall wake no morrow—
Pale as the grave-flower on thy breast,
Poor child of love, of shame, and sorrow!
May thy long sleep be sound and sweet,
Thy visions fraught with bliss to be!
And long the daisy, emblem meet,
Shall shed its earliest tear o'er thee.
Courting Song.
It lingers o'er yon summit low'ring,
While I stand here with beating heart,
Behind the brier and willow cow'ring.
The gloamin' stern keeks o'er the yoke,
An' strews wi' goud the streams sae glassy;
The raven sleeps aboon the rock,
An' I wait for my bonnie lassie.
That comes at eve sae saftly stealing;
The silken hue, the bonnie blue
O' nature's rich an' radiant ceiling;
The lily lea, the vernal tree,
The night-breeze o'er the broomwood creeping;
The fading day, the milky way,
The star-beam on the water sleeping.
The jewel of my earthly treasure,
I'll hear nought but her accents dear,
Whispered in love's delicious measure.
Although the bat, wi' velvet wing,
Wheels round our bower sae dark an' grassy,
Oh, I'll be happier than a king,
Placed by thy side, my bonnie lassie!
The rapid flow of love impelling;
But oh, the love that lights thy smile,
Wad lure an angel frae his dwelling!
There is a language in thy e'e,
A music in thy voice of feeling,
The mildest virgin modestye,
An' soul that dwells within revealing.
Her stealing steps to tears impel me,
For ah! the beatings of her heart
Come flichterin' on the breeze to tell me.
Flee, a' ye sorrows, on the wind,
Ye warldly cares, I'll lightly pass ye!
Nae thought shall waver through my mind,
But raptures wi' my bonnie lassie.
There's nae Laddie coming.
There's nae laddie coming for thee, my dear Jean;
I hae watch'd thee at mid-day, at morn, an' at e'en,
An' there's nae laddie coming for thee, my dear Jean.
But be nae down-hearted though lovers gang by,
Thou'rt my only sister, thy brother am I;
An' aye in my wee house thou welcome shalt be,
An' while I hae saxpence, I'll share it wi' thee.
I sat on your knee, to your bosom I clung;
You kiss'd me, an' clasp'd me, an' croon'd your bit sang,
An' bore me about when you hardly dought gang.
An' when I fell sick, wi' a red watery e'e,
You watch'd your wee brother, an' fear'd he wad dee;
I felt the cool hand and the kindly embrace,
An' the warm trickling tears drappin' aft on my face.
I closed my sick e'e, though I wasna asleep;
And I'll never forget till the day that I dee,
The gratitude due, my dear Jeanie, to thee.
Then be nae down-hearted, for nae lad can feel
Sic true love as I do, or ken ye sae weel;
My heart it yearns o'er thee, and grieved wad I be
If aught were to part my dear Jeanie an' me.
Appie M'Gie.
In tears of the women, an' vows of the men;
But the sweet little rogue, wi' his visions o' bliss,
Has never done aught sae unhallow'd as this.
For what do ye think?—at a dance on the green,
Afore the dew fell through the gloamin' yestreen,
He has woundit the bosom, an' blindit the e'e,
Of the flower o' our valley, young Appie M'Gie.
And blithe as the laverock that carols in heaven;
As bonnie as ever was bud o' the thorn,
Or rose that unfolds to the breath o' the morn.
Her form was the fairest o' nature's design,
And her soul was as pure as her face was divine:
Ah, Love! 'tis a shame that a model so true,
By thee should be melted and moulded anew.
The fringe o' the daisy is purple wi' shame;
The heath-breeze that kisses the cheeks o' the free,
Has a tint of the mellow soft-breathings of thee.
Of all the wild wasters of glee and of hue,
And eyes that have depths o' the ocean of blue,
Love, thou art the chief: and a shame upon thee,
For this deed thou hast done to young Appie M'Gie!
The Gathering of the Clans.
Will soon gar bonnets an' broadswords keen,
An' philabegs short an' tartans green,
Shine over the shore in the morning.
He comes, he comes, our spirits to cheer,
To cherish the land he holds so dear,
To banish the reaver,
The base deceiver,
And raise the fame of the clans for ever;
Our prince's array
Is in Moidart bay;
Come raise the clamour
Of bagpipes' yamour,
And join our loved Prince in the morning.
The first in loyal array to shine;
If bold Clan-Ranald and thee combine,
Then who dares remain in the morning?
Glengarry will stand with arm of steel,
And Keppoch is blood from head to heel;
The Whiggers o' Skye may gang to the deil,
When Connal and Donald,
And gallant Clan-Ranald,
Are all in array,
And hasting away
To welcome their Prince in the morning.
The stern M'Intosh is of trusty blood;
M'Kenzie and Fraser
Will come at their leisure,
The Whiggers of Sutherland scorning:
The Athol men keen as fire from steel:
M'Pherson for Charlie will battle the deil;
The hardy Clan-Donnoch,
Is up in the Rannoch,
Unawed by the pride of haughty Argyle;
And lordly Drummond
Is belted, and coming
To join his loved Prince in the morning.
Come all that reflect on the days that are gane,
Come all that hae breeks and all that hae nane,
And all that are bred unto sorning—
Come Moidart and Moy, M'Gunn and M'Craw,
M'Dugalds, M'Donalds, M'Devils, an' a',
M'Duffs an' M'Dumpies,
M'Leods an' M'Lumpies,
With claymores gleaming,
And standards streaming,
Come swift as the roe,
For weel or for woe,
That Whigs in their error,
May quake for terror,
To see our array in the morning.
I hae naebody now.
To meet me upon the green,
Wi' light locks waving o'er her brow,
An' joy in her deep blue een;
Wi' the raptured kiss an' the happy smile,
An' the dance o' the lightsome fay,
An' the wee bit tale o' news the while
That had happen'd when I was away.
To clasp to my bosom at even,
O'er her calm sleep to breathe the vow,
An' pray for a blessing from heaven.
An' the wild embrace, an' the gleesome face,
In the morning that met my eye,
Where are they now, where are they now?
In the cauld, cauld grave they lie.
An' oh may they never prove,
That sharpest degree o' agony
For the child o' their earthly love—
To see a flower in its vernal hour
By slow degrees decay,
Then calmly aneath the hand o' death
Breathe its sweet soul away!
Nor at thy loss repine,
For the unseen hand that threw the dart
Was sent frae her Father and thine;
Yet I maun mourn, an' I will mourn,
Even till my latest day,
For though my darling can never return,
I can follow the sooner away.
The Forty-Second's welcome to Scotland.
In all its wildest splendours,
And welcome back the lads again,
Your honour's dear defenders.
Be every harp and viol strung,
Till all the woodlands quaver;
Of many a band your bards have sung,
But never hail'd a braver.
Raise high the pibroch, Donald Bane,
We're all in key to cheer it;
And let it be a martial strain,
That warriors bold may hear it.
As virgin voice can sound them;
Sing of your brave, your noble Scots,
For glory blazes round them.
Small is the remnant you will see,
Lamented be the others,
But such a stem of such a tree
Take to your arms like brothers.
Then raise the pibroch, Donald Bane,
Strike all the glen with wonder;
Let the chanter yell, and the drone-notes swell,
Till music speaks in thunder.
What wave your headlands shiver?
Long have they stood the tempest's shock,
Thou know'st they will for ever.
Sooner your eye those cliffs shall view
Split by the wind and weather,
Than foeman's eye the bonnet blue
Behind the nodding feather.
Oh raise the pibroch, Donald Bane!
Our caps to the sky we'll send them:
Scotland, thy honours who can stain,
Thy laurels who dare rend them?
The Lass o' Carlisle.
A sang i' the aulden style,
It is of a bonnie young lass
Wha lived in merry Carlisle.
An' O but this lass was bonnie,
An' O but this lass was braw,
An' she had gowd in her coffers,
An' that was best of a'.
Sing hey, hickerty dickerty,
Hickerty dickerty dear;
The lass that has gowd an' beauty
Has naething on earth to fear!
As beauty an' wealth should hae;
This lassie she took her a man,
An' then she could get nae mae.
This lassie had plenty o' weans,
That keepit her hands astir;
And then she dee'd and was buried,
An' there was an end of her.
Sing hey, hickerty dickerty,
Hickerty dickerty dan,
The best thing in life is to make
The maist o't that we can!
My Love she's but a Lassie yet.
A lightsome lovely lassie yet;
It scarce wad do,
To sit an' woo
Down by the stream sae glassy yet.
When we may gang a-roaming yet;
An' hint wi' glee
O' joys to be,
When fa's the modest gloaming yet.
She's neither plump nor gaucy yet;
But just a jinking,
Bonnie blinking,
Hilty-skilty lassie yet.
But oh, her artless smile's mair sweet
Than hinny or than marmalete!
An' right or wrang,
Ere it be lang,
I'll bring her to a parley yet.
The very breeze that kisses her,
The flowery beds
On which she treads,
Though wae for ane that misses her.
Then oh to meet my lassie yet,
Up in yon glen sae grassy yet;
For all I see
Are nought to me,
Save her that's but a lassie yet!
The Moon.
Wi' thy still look o' majestye;
For though ye hae a queenly face,
'Tis e'en a fearsome sight to see.
Your lip is like Ben-Lomond's base,
Your mouth a dark unmeasured dell;
Your e'ebrow like the Grampian range,
Fringed with the brier an' heather-bell.
Of calm an' ghostly dignity;
Some emblem there I fain wad trace
Of Him that made baith you an' me.
But fare-ye-weel, bonnie Lady Moon,
There's neither stop nor stay for me;
But when this joyfu' life is done,
I'll take a jaunt an' visit thee.
The Witch o' Fife
Like a rocket of air with her bandalet!
I'm up in the air on my bonnie gray mare,
But I see her yet, I see her yet.
I'll ring the skirts o' the gowden wain
Wi' curb an' bit, wi' curb an' bit;
An' catch the Bear by the frozen mane—
An' I see her yet, I see her yet.
To sing at the morning's rosy yett;
An' water my mare at its fountain clear—
But I see her yet, I see her yet.
Away, thou bonnie witch o' Fife,
On foam of the air to heave an' flit,
An' little reck thou of a poet's life,
For he sees thee yet, he sees thee yet!
Row on, Row on.
Weel may you fume, and growl, and grumble—
Weel may you to the tempest rave
And down your briny mountains tumble;
For mony a heart thou hast made cauld,
Of firmest friend and fondest lover,
Who lie in thy dark bosom pall'd,
The garish green wave rolling over.
Though ray'd in a' the dyes o' heaven,
I never turn my looks aside,
But my poor heart wi' grief is riven;
For then on ane that loe'd me weel
My heart will evermair be turning;
An' oh! 'tis grievous aye to feel
That nought remains for me but mourning.
In distant land for maiden sighing;
A captive into slavery led,
Or in thy beds of amber lying,
I cannot tell:—I only know
I loved him dearly, and forewarn'd him;
I gave him thee in pain and woe,
And thou hast never more return'd him.
A broken heart to thee is nothing;
Thou only lovest to lash the shore,
And jabber out thy thunder, frothing.
Thy still small voice send to this creek,
The wavy field of waters over;
Oh! Spirit of the Ocean, speak,
And tell me where thou hold'st my lover!
I hae lost my Love.
I hae lost my love, an' I carena;
For laith will I be just to lie down an' dee,
And to sit down an' greet wad be bairnly.
But a screed o' ill-nature I canna weel help,
At having been guidit unfairly;
An' weel wad I like to gie women a skelp,
An' yerk their sweet haffits fu' yarely.
As pawkie as deils wi' their smiling;
As fickle as winter, in sunshine and shower,
The hearts o' a' mankind beguiling;
As sour as December, as soothing as May:
To suit their ain ends, never doubt them;
Their ill faults I coudna tell ower in a day,
But their beauty's the warst thing about them.
Makes kingdoms to rise and expire;
Man's micht is nae mair than a flaughten o' tow,
Opposed to a bleeze o' reid fire.
'Twas women at first made creation to bend,
And of nature's prime lord made the fellow;
An' 'tis her that will bring this ill warld to an end,
An' that will be seen an' heard tell o'.
Allan Dhu.
I like wi' you to meet,
But dinna say to me you loe,
For that wad gar me greet.
I like to see you smile on me
Amang our maidens a',
But, oh! ae vow o' love frae you
I cou'dna stand ava.
I ken what ye've to say;
Sae, either haud your tongue sae sleek,
Or look another way;
For, should it be of love to me,
In manner soft and bland,
I wadna ye my face should see
For a' Bredalbin's land.
Of love to gibe and jeer;
But little ken ye of the pang
A maiden's heart maun bear,
When a' on earth that she hauds dear,
The hope that makes her fain,
Comes plump at aince—Oh, me! the thought
'Maist turns my heart to stane.
You speak a word the night:
Gang hame, an' write a lang letter,
For weel ye can indite.
And be it love, or be it slight,
I then can hae my will;
I'll steal away, far out o' sight,
An' greet, an' greet my fill.
Love's Visit.
And he call'd wi' a whining din—
“Oh, open the door! for it is but thy part
To let an old crony come in.”
“Thou sly little elf! I hae open'd to thee
Far aftener than I dare say;
An' dear hae the openings been to me,
Before I could wile you away.”
And my arrows are ilk ane gane;
For you sent me to wound a lovely breast,
Which has proved o' the marble stane.
I am sair forspent, then let me come in
To the nook where I wont to lie,
For sae aft hae I been this door within,
That I downa think to gang by.”
To the sweet little whimpering fay;
But he raised sic a buzz the cove within,
That he fill'd me with wild dismay;
For first I felt sic a thrilling smart,
And then sic an ardent glow,
That I fear'd the chords o' my sanguine heart
War a' gaun to flee in a lowe.
I cried, wi' the tear in my e'e;
“Ay! sae ye may say!” quo' he, “but I ken
Ye'll be laith now to part wi' me.”
And what do you think?—by day and by night,
For these ten lang years and twain,
I have cherish'd the urchin with fondest delight,
And we'll never mair part again.
A Widow's Wail.
Even in thy winding-sheet;
I canna leave thy comely clay,
An' features calm an' sweet!
I have no hope but for the day
That we shall meet again,
Since thou art gone, my bonnie boy
An' left me here alane.
To trace his looks in thine;
An' saw with joy thy sparkling e'e
With kindling vigour shine.
I thought, when auld an' frail, I might
Wi' you an' yours remain;
But thou art fled, my bonnie boy,
An' left me here alane.
Thy kind wee heart is still,
An' thy dear spirit far away
Beyond the reach of ill.
Ah! fain wad I that comely clay
Reanimate again;
But thou art fled, my bonnie boy,
An' left me here alane.
Shall fresher rise to view—
The leaf just falling from the tree
The year will soon renew;
But lang may I weep o'er thy grave,
Ere thou reviv'st again;
For thou art fled, my bonnie boy,
An' left me here alane.
Auld Joe Nicholson's Nanny.
The bud o' the rose as sweet as it's bonnie;
But there ne'er was a flower, in garden or bower,
Like auld Joe Nicholson's bonnie Nanny.
O, my Nanny!
My dear little Nanny!
My sweet little niddlety-noddlety Nanny!
There ne'er was a flower,
In garden or bower,
Like auld Joe Nicholson's bonnie Nanny.
To milk her twa kie, sae couthy and canny;
I cower'd me down at the back o' the bush,
To watch the air o' my bonnie Nanny.
O, my Nanny, &c.
Frae bonnie blue e'en sae mild an' mellow,
Saw naething sae sweet in nature's array,
Though clad in the morning's gowden yellow.
O, my Nanny, &c.
In quaking, quivering agitation,
An' the tears cam tricklin' down frae my een
Wi' perfect love an' wi' admiration.
O, my Nanny, &c.
An' sweet the hopes that to sing were uncanny;
But of all the pleasures I ever can know,
There's nane like the love o' my bonnie Nanny.
O, my Nanny!
My dear little Nanny!
My sweet little niddlety-noddlety Nanny!
There ne'er was a flower,
In garden or bower,
Like auld Joe Nicholson's bonnie Nanny.
The Broken Heart
Was written in detestation of the behaviour of a gentleman (can I call him so?) to a dearly-beloved young relative of my own, and whom, at the time I wrote this, I never expected to recover from the shock her kind and affectionate heart had received. It has, however, turned out a lucky disappointment for her.
And say you left me sleeping;
But never tell my step-mother
Of all this bitter weeping.
No earthly sleep can ease my smart,
Or even a while reprieve it;
For there's a pang at my young heart
That never more can leave it!
O'er wounds that heal can never;
And O kind Heaven! were it thy will,
To close these eyes for ever;
For how can maid's affections dear
Recall her love mistaken?
Or how can heart of maiden bear
To know that heart forsaken?
Be broken ere the morrow,
To one who loved as never maid
Loved in this world of sorrow?
The look of scorn I cannot brave,
Nor pity's eye more dreary;
A quiet sleep within the grave
Is all for which I weary.
And banks of broom so yellow!
Too happy has this bosom been
Within your arbours mellow.
That happiness is fled for aye,
And all is dark desponding,
Save in the opening gates of day,
And the dear home beyond them.
As a note to the above song, I may quote a stanza from another poem written at the same time:—
This disappointment and this pain!
Cold-hearted villain! on his head
A minstrel's malison remain!
Guilt from his brow let ne'er depart,
Nor shame until his dying day;
For he has broke the kindest heart
That ever bow'd to nature's sway!
Ohon-a-Righ!
A humble petition from the Ettrick Shepherd to his late loved sovereign, King George IV., to restore the titles of the last remnants of the brave defenders of the rights of their ancient dynasty.
Ohon-a-righ!
There's nought but alteration
The men that strove
Our throne to move,
And overturn the nation,
Wi' wit profound,
To those they branded sairly;
An' show more might
For George's right
Than e'er they did for Charlie.
It was the last
Of suffering and of sorrow;
And o'er the men
Of northern glen
Arose a brighter morrow.
The pibroch rang
With bolder clang
Along the hills of heather;
An' fresh an' strong
The thistle sprung
That had begun to wither.
Whom we think on
As sons on sire regarded,
Of the plaided north
Beheld the worth
And loyalty rewarded.
Return'd their own,
And to the throne
Bound all their spirits lordly;
Now who will stand,
With dirk or brand,
As Donald does for Geordie?
Beannaich-a-righ!
Her nainsell now be praying;
Though standard praw,
And broadsword law,
She all aside be laying;
With Heelant might,
For Shorge's right,
Cot! put she'll braolich rarely,
Gin lords her nain
Pe lords ackain,
That fell for sake of Charlie!
The Laddie that I ken o'.
There's a bonnie, bonnie laddie that I ken o';
An' although he be but young,
He has a sweet wooing tongue,
The bonnie, bonnie laddie that I ken o'.
For it's needless to deny that I lo'e him, O;
When I see his face come ben,
Then a' the lads I ken,
I think them sae far, far below him, O.
Our Nancy, an' Burns' bonnie Mary, O;
They may set their caps at him,
An' greet till they gae blin',
But his love for his Jean will never vary, O.
An' the way be baith langsome an' eery, O,
An' he'll tirl at the pin,
An' cry, “Jeanie, let me in,
For my bosom it burns to be near ye, O!”
He's a dear bonnie laddie that I ken o';
For he'll tak' me on his knee,
An' he'll reave a kiss frae me,
The bonnie, bonnie laddie that I ken o'.
Angel's Morning Song to the Shepherd.
Over gorse, green broom, and braken;
From her sieve of silken blue,
Dawning sifts her silver dew;
Hangs the emerald on the willow;
Lights her lamp below the billow;
Bends the brier and branchy braken—
Waken, drowsy slumberer, waken!
Pour a thousand hymns to love;
Harps the rail amid the clover,
O'er the moon-fern whews the plover,
Bat has hid and heath-cock crow'd,
Courser neigh'd and cattle low'd,
Kid and lamb the lair forsaken—
Waken, drowsy slumberer, waken!
The Blue and the Yellow.
Beware of the Blue and the Yellow, young man;
If ye wad be strang,
And wish to write lang,
Come join wi' the lads that get mellow, young man.
Like the crack o' a squib that has fa'en on, young man,
Compared wi' the roar o' a cannon, young man,
So is the Whig's blow,
To the pith that's below
The beard o' auld Geordie Buchanan, young man.
It sang till the Whigs were a' quaking, young man,
And aye the sad lay
Was, Alack for the day!
For the Blue and the Yellow's forsaken, young man.
'Tis vain to be murmuring and mocking, young man;
A Whig may be leal,
But he'll never fight weel,
As lang as he dadds wi' a docken, young man.
Like auld maidens fash'd wi' the vapours, young man,
We have turned them adrift
To their very last shift,
That's—puffing the Radical Papers, young man.
If ye wad hear tell o' their pingle, young man,
Gae list the wee bird in the dingle, young man;
Its note o' despair,
Is sae loud in the air,
That the windows of heaven play jingle, young man.
The loyal head ne'er was the cauldest, young man;
“Our king and his throne;
Be his glory our own,
And the last of his days aye the bauldest,” young man.—
But as for the loun that wad hector, young man,
And pit us at odds wi' a lecture, young man,
May he dance cutty-mun,
Wi' his neb to the sun,
And his doup to the General Director, young man.
Sir Morgan O'Doherty's Farewell to Scotland.
Cold and beggarly poor countrie!
If ever I cross thy border again,
The muckle deil must carry me.
There's but one tree in a' the land,
And that's the bonnie gallows tree:
The very nowte look to the south,
And wish that they had wings to flee.
Brose and bannocks, crowdy and kale!
Welcome, welcome, jolly old England,
Laughing lasses and foaming ale!
'Twas when I came to merry Carlisle,
That out I laughed loud laughters three;
And if I cross the Sark again
The muckle deil maun carry me.
Kiltit kimmers, wi' carroty hair,
Pipers, who beg that your honours would buy
A bawbee's worth of their famished air!
I'd rather keep Cadwaller's goats,
And feast upon toasted cheese and leeks,
Than go back again to the beggarly North,
To herd 'mang loons with bottomless breeks.
Reply to Sir Morgan O'Doherty's Farewell to Scotland.
Go, get thee to thine own countrie;
If ever you cross the Border again,
The muckle deil accompany thee!
There's mony a tree in fair Scotland,
And there is ane, the gallows tree,
On which we hang the Irish rogues;
A fitting place it is for thee.
Too good for thee is brose and kale:—
We've lads and ladies gay in the land,
Bonnie lasses, and nut-brown ale.
When thou goest to merry Carlisle,
Welcome take thy loud laughters three;
But know that the most of our beggarly clan
Come from the Holy Land, like thee.
On thee our maidens refused to smile:—
Our pipers they scorn'd to beg from thee,
A half-starved knight of the Emerald Isle.
Go rather and herd thy father's pigs,
And feed on 'tatoes and butter-milk;
But return not to the princely North,
Land of the tartan, the bonnet, and kilt.
King Willie.
The blithest lad that e'er I saw;
He 'mang the lasses bure the brag,
An' carried aye the gree awa'.
An' was nae Willie weel worth goud?
When seas did rowe an' winds did blaw,
An' battle's deadly stoure was blent,
He fought the foremost o' them a'.
The rose o' Britain's topmast bough,
Wha never stain'd his gallant name,
Nor turn'd his back on friend or foe?
An' he could tak a rantin' glass,
An' he could chant a cheery strain;
An' he could kiss a bonnie lass,
An' aye be welcome back again.
For whilk he never cared a flee—
Yet still the downright honest tar,
The same kind-hearted chield is he.
An' every night I fill my glass,
An' fill it reaming to the brim,
An' drink it in a glowing health
To Adie Laidlaw an' to him.
An' that I'll gie wi' right good-will;
Stick by the auld friends o' the crown,
Wha bore it up through good an' ill;
For new-made friends, and new-made laws,
They suit nae honest hearts ava;
An' Royal Willie's worth I'll sing
As lang as I hae breath to draw.
The Flower of Annisley.
From love, from duty, and from me—
The fairest flower the sun shone on,
The lovely maid of Annisley?
Thou lonely mourner, tell to me
Whose was the name thou mentionedst now,
With tear-drops trickling to thy knee,
And scathe of sorrow on thy brow?
The inmate of the darkling worm?
And does the gravel couch enfold
The mildest, comeliest, earthly form?
Yes—here she sleeps in loneliness!
She faded with her virgin fame;
And now her votaries, numberless,
Shun even the mention of her name.
And added lightness to the day—
The meteor of the waterfall,
The seraph of the sylvan lay—
Though pure as mortal thing could be,
The idol of the adoring throng,
Emblem of glory's fallacy,
Fell by the shafts of deadly wrong.
And malice winged it from her bow,
And deeply was the weetless heart
Pierced by the sure and secret blow.
She trembled, wept, and looked to heaven;
The die was cast; relief was none!
Then shunned, unpitied, unforgiven,
Ellen was left to die alone.
Or apple blossom from the tree,
By tempest or untimely frost,
So fell the flower of Annisley.
And never was green leaf on the path,
Or fallen blossom in the clay
Trode down the careless foot beneath,
As was the marvel of her day.
Sweet to the soul and to the eye!
Thy blush, that comes on fairy feet,
The mirror of the morning sky;
Thy smile of mildness and of love;
The aspirations of thy will
To mercy—well approved above
By one who owns thy nature still;—
But oh, what snares are laid for thee!
As is thy virtue's lordly power,
So is thy danger in degree;
And when, in bounding gaiety,
Thou walk'st the brink of fear and fever,
One step aside—and, woe is me!
Thou fall'st to rise no more, for ever.
Turn thou thy spirit's eyes away
To where unnumbered glories glow
In home beyond the solar ray.
But for the flower of Annisley,
While life warms this old breast of mine,
I'll yearly pour regretfully
The hymn of sorrow o'er her shrine.
Oh, Love's a bitter thing to bide.
The lad that drees it's to be pitied;
It blinds to a' the world beside,
And maks a body dilde and ditted.
It lies sae sair at my breast bane,
My heart is melting saft an' safter;
To dee outright I wad be fain,
Wer't no for fear what may be after.
I'm sae to dool an' daftness driven;
For ane sae lovely, sweet, an' dear,
Sure never breath'd the breeze o' heaven.
Oh there's a soul beams in her e'e;
Ae blink o't makes ane's spirit gladder;
And ay the mair she gecks at me,
It pits me aye in love the madder.
You canna shun't e'en when you fear it;
An' oh, this sickness o' the soul,
'Tis past the power of man to bear it!
And yet to mak o' her a wife,
I couldna square it wi' my duty;
I'd like to see her a' her life
Remain a virgin in her beauty,
The walks of human life adorning;
As blithe as bird upon the bough,
As sweet as breeze of summer morning.
Love paints the earth, it paints the sky,
An' tints each lovely hue of Nature,
And makes to the enchanted eye
An angel of a mortal creature.
The Cutting o' my Hair.
To Yarrow's lowliest shepherd-clown,
Time wears unchancy mortals doun;
I've mark'd it late and air.
The souplest knee at length will crack,
The lythest arm, the sturdiest back—
And little siller Samson lack
For cuttin' o' his hair.
Thro' Teviot, Ettrick, Tweed, and Yarrow;
Strang, straight, and swift like winged arrow
At market, tryst, or fair.
But now I'm turn'd a hirplin' carle,
My back it's ta'en the cobbler's swirl,
And deil a bodle I need birl
For cuttin' o' my hair.
My hough was firm, my foot was free;
The locks that cluster'd owre my bree
Cost many a hizzie sair.
The days are come I'm no sae crouse—
An ingle cheek—a cogie douce,
An' fash nae shears about the house
Wi' cuttin' o' my hair.
It waur'd baith young and auld to cow,
An' burnin' red as heather-lowe,
Gar'd neeboors start and stare.
The mair ye cut the mair it grew,
An' aye the fiercer flamed its hue—
I in my time hae paid enew
For cuttin' o' my hair.
When last I brought it to the clip,
It gied the shaver's skill the slip
On haffets lank and bare.
Henceforth to this resolve I'll cling,
Whate'er its shape to let it hing,
And keep the cash for ither thing
Than cuttin' o' my hair.
A genuine Love-Letter.
Thy beauties soon will be my dead;
Thy hair's the sunbeam o' the morn,
Thy lip the rose without the thorn;
The arch above thine e'e sae blue,
A fairy rainbow on the dew:
O Mary, thou art all to me—
This warld holds nought sae sweet as thee!
Like the young roe's as lithe and meet,
That scarcely brushes o'er the fell,
The dew-drap frae the heather-bell.
Thy voice upon the breezes light,
In gloaming's cradle-hymn of night,
Sounds like the lute's soft melody,
Or seraph's melting strain, to me.
Whom I so fondly love, and well,
I send you this, my darling maid,
To say what I would oft have said;
In hopes, that when you have it read,
You'll hide it in a snowy bed—
A bed so lovely and so meek,
It would not stain a cherub's cheek.
And not one word I'll bid you tell;
The liquid eye the tale will say,
The melting kiss will all betray—
Ay, they will tell, my Mary dear,
What you dare neither say nor hear;
And sweeter to my heart they'll prove,
Than all the winning tales of love!
A Highland Song of Triumph for King William's Birthday.
Due honours be given,
That bourgeons in earth,
And that blossoms to heaven.
Ho urim! sing urim,
With pipe and with tabor,
To the tree of great Bancho,
The lord of Lochaber!
Ho urim! sing urim, &c.
From stock that is hoary,
Encircling the ocean
And globe in its glory;
O'ershadow'd the just,
And the wicked restrain'd too;
It has pierced the dark cloud,
And dishevell'd the rainbow.
Ho urim! sing urim, &c.
And its honours rise prouder;
And rose of the Tudor.
Ho urim! sing urim!
Let's hallow together
The day that gave birth
To our king and our father.
Ho urim! sing urim, &c.
To the best and the latest,
And honour'd King William,
The last and the greatest.
Heaven's arm be around him
To guard and secure him,
The hearts of his people,
Ho urim! sing urim!
With pipe and with tabor,
To the son of great Bancho,
The lord of Lochaber!
Lass, an ye loe me, tell me now.
Lass, an ye loe me, tell me now
The bonniest thing that ever ye saw,
For I canna come every night to woo.”
“The gouden broom is bonnie to see,
An' sae is the milk-white flower o' the haw,
The daisy's wee freenge is sweet on the lea—
But the bud o' the rose is the bonniest of a'.”
Lass, an ye loe me, tell me now;
It's no the thing that I would be at,
An' I canna come every night to woo.”
“The lamb is bonnie upon the brae,
The leveret friskin' o'er the knowe,
The bird is bonnie upon the tree—
But which is the dearest of a' to you?”
Lass, an ye loe me, tell me now;
The dearest thing that ever I saw,
Though I canna come every night to woo,
Is the kindly smile that beams on me,
Whenever a gentle hand I press,
And the wily blink frae the dark-blue e'e
Of a dear, dear lassie that they ca' Bess.”
What I loe best I'll tell you now,
The compliment that ye sought frae me,
Though ye canna come every night to woo;
Yet I would rather hae frae you
A kindly look, an' a word witha',
Than a' the flowers o' the forest pu',
Than a' the lads that ever I saw.”
Sin' a' the truth ye hae tauld me now;
Our hearts an' fortunes we'll entwine,
An' I'll aye come every night to woo.
For, oh, I canna descrive to thee
The feeling o' love's and nature's law;
How dear this world appears to me
Wi' Bessie, my ain for good an' for a'!”
I'm a' gane wrang.
I canna close my wakerife e'e;
What can it be has sent this pang
To my young heart unkend to me?
I'm fear'd, I'm fear'd that it may prove
An ailment which I daurna name;
What shall I do?—If it be love,
I'll dee outright wi' burnin' shame!
Of ane that's aye afore my e'e;
An' aye he looks as he wad say
Something that's unco kind to me.
Yet love's a word my youthfu' tongue
Has ne'er durst utter to mysell;
I'm a' gane wrang, an' me sae young,
What shame for maiden's tongue to tell!
An' dizziness that ill portends;
A kind o' sweet an' thrilling smart
Gangs prinkling to my fingers' ends,
Then through me wi' a stoundin' pain;
But yet I like that pain to dree;
Then burnin' tears will drap like rain—
'Tis love, as sure as love can be!
The end o' this I canna see;
I am sae young an' bonnie too,
'Tis a great pity I should dee.
Yet dee I maun—I canna prove
This tide o' pleasure an' o' pain;
There's nought sae sweet as virgin's love,
But, oh, to be beloved again!
The Covenanter's Scaffold Song.
Weeping brethren, sing with me!
For now an open heaven I see,
And a crown of glory laid for me.
How my soul this earth despises!
How my heart and spirit rises!
Bounding from the flesh I sever:
World of sin, adieu for ever!
Friends in Jesus, sing with me!
All my sufferings, all my woe,
All my griefs I here forego.
Farewell terror, sighing, grieving,
Praying, hearing, and believing,
Earthly trust and all its wrongings,
Earthly love and all its longings.
Blessed spirits, sing with me!
To the Lamb our song shall be,
Through a glad eternity.
Farewell earthly morn and even,
Sun and moon and stars of heaven;
Heavenly portals ope before me,
Welcome, Christ, in all thy glory!
The Shepherd Boy's Song.
That strain was rather mair than common;
The lambies darena chump nor chew,
For listening to my little woman.
An' see how Bawtie's brockit crown
Is gee'd up to the cope o' heaven!
He thinks the fairies are come down
Our wildered correi to enliven.
Is mellower than I e'er could trow it;
It never play'd sae sweet till now,
Wi' the sweet breath that passes through it.
Strike A and B, then half the C,
And then a minim soft an' evenly;
But, oh! 'tis a' the same to me—
If there's a tone, the music's heavenly.
To break the cloud an' bend the willow—
To wake the dead out o' their graves,
An' bang frae 'neath the stormy billow;
To make the fays o' glen and grove
Skip wildly o'er their velvet flooring;
But when it pours from lips we love,
Oh! 'tis sae sweet, 'tis past enduring!
Maggy o' Buccleuch.
By Yarrow's mountains wild an' blue?
Oh, saw ye beauty's rural queen,
The bonnie Maggy o' Buccleuch?
For Maggy is the bonniest flower
On Yarrow braes that ever grew,
That ever graced a vernal bower,
Or frae the gowan brushed the dew.
Nor blink o' joy that's in her e'e,
Nor her enchanting form o' grace,
That maks the lassie dear to me!
Na, na, it's no the cherry lip,
The rosy cheek an' lily chin,
Which the wild bee wad like to sip—
'Tis the sweet soul that dwells within.
'Mang hills an' dells o' frozen brine,
As far as reels the rowin earth,
An' far ayont the burning line;
But a' the lasses e'er I saw,
For modest mien an' lovely hue,
There was na ane amang them a'
Like bonnie Maggy o' Buccleuch.
A Boy's Song.
Where the gray trout lies asleep,
Up the river and o'er the lea,
That's the way for Billy and me.
Where the hawthorn blooms the sweetest,
Where the nestlings chirp and flee,
That's the way for Billy and me.
Where the hay lies thick and greenest;
There to trace the homeward bee,
That's the way for Billy and me.
Where the shadow falls the deepest,
Where the clustering nuts fall free,
That's the way for Billy and me.
Little sweet maidens from the play,
Or love to banter and fight so well,
That's the thing I never could tell.
Through the meadow, among the hay;
Up the water and o'er the lea,
That's the way for Billy and me.
Pull away, Jolly Boys.
Pull away, jolly boys;
With heaven for our guide,
Pull away!
Britain's glory still his star,
He has borne her thunder's far;
Pull away, jolly boys,
To yon gallant men-of-war,
Pull away.
Pull away, jolly boys;
Now his signal flies again,
Pull away.
Brave hearts then let us go,
To drub the haughty foe!
Who once again shall know,
Pull away, gallant boys,
That our backs we never show,
Pull away.
Pull away, gallant boys,
Where the rolling wave was red,
Pull away.
We've stood many a mighty shock,
Like the thunder-stricken oak;
We've been bent, but never broke,
Pull away, gallant boys;
We ne'er brook'd a foreign yoke,
Pull away.
Pull away, gallant boys;
O'er the ocean let us sweep,
Pull away.
Round the earth our glory rings;
At the thought my bosom springs,
That where'er our pennant swings,
Pull away, gallant boys,
Of the ocean we're the kings,
Pull away.
Stanzas.
[My sweet little cherub, how calm thou'rt reposing!]
Thy suffering is over, thy mild eye is closing;
This world hath proved to thee a step-dame unfriendly;
But rest thee, my babe, there's a spirit within thee.
A mystery thou art, though unblest and unshriven—
A thing of the earth, and a radiance of heaven;
A flower of the one, thou art fading and dying—
A spark of the other, thou'rt mounting and flying.
I may come to thee, but to me thou shalt never:
Some angel of mercy shall lead and restore thee,
A pure living flame, to the mansions of glory.
The moralist's boast may sound prouder and prouder,
The hypocrite's prayer rise louder and louder;
But I'll trust my babe in her trial of danger,
To the mercy of Him that was laid in the manger.
March of Intellect.
Since siller is no worth a plack,
And the pence in the kist that lay mouling,
Will be turned into pounds in a crack!
With our scheming, and steaming, and dreaming,
Can no cash-burdened Joint-stock be found
To fill the auld moon wi' whale blubber,
And light her up a' the year round?
And houses insured by the street;
And share-holders will scarcely know whether
They walk on their heads or their feet.
The Celtic will soon compass breeches;
The shoe-black will swagger in pumps;
And phrenologists club for old perukes,
To cover their assinine bumps.
Of such on-goings ne'er did they dream;
Soon our Jockies will bizz out, at gloaming,
To court their kind Jennies by steam;
And the world shall be turned topsy-turvy;
And the patients their doctors will bleed;
And the dandy, by true gravitation,
Shall go waltz on the crown of his head.
And build up a tower to the moon;
An' get fu' on the tap, and, in daffing,
Dad out the wee stars wi' our shoon;—
Then, hey, fal de ray, fal de rady,
Let's see a' how proud we can be,
And build ower a brig to Kirkcaldy,
And drown a' the French in the sea!
I dinna blame thy bonnie Face.
Thy pawky smile an' wit refined,
Nor thy fair form's bewitching grace,
As lightsome as the mountain wind;
For these how many a lover brooks,
Since lovelier, man can never see!
But sair I blame thy kindly looks,
And kindly words thou said'st to me.
On that entrancing face of thine,
As I would gaze upon the heaven,
Yet never think of it as mine;
I could have joy'd to see thee blest,
A comely bride, a happy wife,
But what thy tongue to me profess'd
Has ruin'd a' my peace for life.
As Mary's hand an' Mary's smile;
But, ah! I never had a fear
That baith were grantit to beguile:
Yet I can never cease to love,
And when to Heaven I bow the knee
To ask a blessing from above,
My heart shall ask the same for thee!
Oh, saw ye this sweet bonnie Lassie o' mine?
Or saw ye the smile on her cheek sae divine?
Or saw ye the kind love that speaks in her e'e?
Sure naebody e'er was sae happy as me!
It's no the simplicity mark'd in her mien;
But oh, it's the kind love that speaks in her e'e,
That makes me as happy as happy can be.
When naebody kens, an' when naebody sees;
To breathe out the soul in a saft melting kiss—
On earth here there's naething is equal to this.
When friends circled round me, and nought to annoy;
I have felt every joy that illumines the breast,
When the full flowing bowl is most warmly caress'd;
In life's early day, when the bosom is warm;
When soul meets wi' soul in a saft melting kiss—
On earth sure there's naething is equal to this!
Auld John Nicol.
Tweeddlum, twaddlum, twenty-one,
A man that for fun was never outdone,
And his name it was Auld John Nicol o' Whun.
Tweeddlum, twaddlum, twenty-one,
An' weel he likit the toasts to pass,
An' it's hey for brave John Nicol o' Whun!
But a' gaed wrang that should hae gane right; &c.
Then auld John Nicol kneel'd down to pray,
But never a word John Nicol could say.
But I darena tell you what came to pass;
For the beadle came up in an unco haste,
An' summon'd him down to speak wi' the priest.
For his face it grew red, an' his face it grew blue;
John Nicol gaed out, John Nicol gaed in,
An' he wish'd he had been in the well to the chin.
Wha wins at woman will lose at nought;
But I hae heart to do ill to nane,
Sae I will e'en mak the lassie my ain.”
And he never got siccan fun in his life;—
Now John Nicol he sings frae morn till e'en,
Tweeddlum, twaddlum, twenty-one,
The happiest man that ever was seen,
An' it's hey for brave John Nicol o' Whun!
What Tongue can speak the glowing Heart?
What pencil paint the glistening eye,
When your command came to depart
From scenes of triumph, hope, and joy?
More than yet you've given belief;
Fortune's bolts have o'er me thunder'd,
Till my very heart is deaf.
To every pelting surge a prey;
Nor will it leave its native land,
Till every root is torn away:
Cling unto my native shore,
Till the next returning billow
Cast me down for evermore.
Of the earthquake's dismal reign,
E'er can hope the renovation
Of his peaceful home again?
Look back upon my youthful prime;
And forward to the happy morn
That frees me from the hand of time.
I'll bid my Heart be still.
And check each struggling sigh;
And there's none e'er shall know
My soul's cherished woe,
When the first tears of sorrow are dry.
For glory gilds his name;
But the deeper I mourn,
Since he cannot return
To enjoy the bright noon of his fame.
For peace and freedom won,
Like my lost lover's knell
The tones seem to swell,
And I hear but his death dirge alone.
My eye grows faint and dim,
But 'tis sweeter to fade
In grief's gloomy shade,
Than to bloom for another than him.
To Mary at Parting.
When low that beauteous form shall lie;
That eye that beams with love and duty,
Must quickly lose its beaming beauty;
That heart, that beats so brisk and gaily,
Must turn a clod in yonder valley.
No more the sun shall dawn on thee,
But long thy starless night shall be;
Chill, chill, and damp thy lonely room,
And hemlock o'er thy bosom bloom.
Oh then, be wise—the time draws nigh
When low that beauteous form shall lie!
There dwells a spark of heavenly flame—
A spark that shall for ever burn,
Smile over nature's closing urn,
And mix its beams in cloudless day,
When sun and stars have passed away!—
To nurse that spark—that ray divine,
The task, the pleasing task be thine;
Then thy delights shall never die,
Though low that beauteous form shall lie.
Good Night, and Joy.
This song was written for, and published as the concluding song of, Smith's “Scottish Minstrel;” a work the music of which is singular for its sweetness and true Scottish simplicity. The song, with a little variation, forms an appropriate conclusion to these simple lyrical effusions.
An' day is fading west awa';
Loud raves the torrent an' the rain,
And dark the cloud comes down the shaw;
But let the tempest tout an' blaw
Upon his loudest winter horn,
Good night, an' joy be wi' you a';
We'll maybe meet again the morn!
O'er Scotia's hills, o'er firth an' fell,
An' mony a simple flower we've cull'd,
An' trimm'd them wi' the heather bell!
We've ranged the dingle an' the dell,
The hamlet an' the baron's ha';
Now let us take a kind farewell,—
Good night, an' joy be wi' you a'!
And sorrow'd when I went astray;
For oh, my strains were often wild
As winds upon a winter day.
If e'er I led you from the way,
Forgie your Minstrel aince for a';
A tear fa's wi' his parting lay,—
Good night, and joy be wi' you a'!
The Works of The Ettrick Shepherd | ||