 | Poems, Ballads and Bucolics |  |
THE BALLAD OF ROSEMARIE; OR, THE WHITE COCKADE.
No need to rhyme of Belted-Will,
Nor Clym o' the Clough I care to sing,
The Robin Hood of Penrith Hill;—
I tell how helplessness has power
More sure to guard than moat or tower.
That looks rose-red on Caldew's tide,
But fallen and frayed the milk-white flower—
Gaunt Warwick's badge of battle pride,—
Yet Rose, one blossom cannot fade
Thy knightly flower, the White Cockade!
The cruel northern winds did blow,
From Carrock muffled white with snow,
A bitter wind from over Forth
Brought news of rebels from the north.
'Tis set for hearts of loyal blood,
For brave Prince Charlie quaffs the wine
Where for his king stout Dacre stood,
And Carlisle's burgher sons must flee,
Or sing “neck-verse” at Harrabee.
With those seven rebels drunk the seas,
And better had the pibroch wailed
For Death to dance in Hebrides,
Than that old Carlisle's walls should ring
With shouts of “Bonnie Charlie's King.”
Who hears no screel of pipe nor song,
And deems the night is all too long.
This night, God knows, his good wife lies
In her first mother's agonies.
Whose rose adorns old Halton's gate,
Grant me a boon!—my heart's desire—
My lady lies disconsolate,
And is it meet when babes are born
The mother should be left forlorn?”
“Let ring-doves coo, but men of war
Who wear the bonnet and the plaid
Leave dreams of wives and babes afar;
When James the Third has won his claim
Shall Dacre go to tend his dame!”
Frowned upon Skiddaw, veiled in cloud,
The eastern heavens were wet with blood,
And Crossfell's fiends were howling loud,
By Dalston tower, with never a gleam
Of light, ran dreary Caldew's stream.
The blaze in heaven of farmyard fires,
The geese are gathered from the green,
The sheep are folded in the byres,
And doors of church and pele are barred,
For Cumbria's yoeman-sons die hard.
With bonnets blue and bare of knee,
But with no sound of pipe nor drum,
Pride of Glenfinnan's chivalry,
And at their head with naked blade
Rides one who wears the white cockade.
“We have no quarrel, friends, with you,
But tell us where Rose Castle lies,
And at your peril tell us true.
Your Baron Bishop in his hold,
He dines from silver, drinks from gold.
He has good store of buckled shoon,
We scarce for lack of such can crawl
Your English roads to pibroch tune—
No man need fear, no maid need flee,
But shod our Highland lads must be.
For those our God anoints, too much,
We will not hurt a single hair,
His books and “shaws” we will not touch;
Yea, if the Rosemary were out,
We would not pluck a single sprout.”
“The time for Rosemary is past,
Unharmed by this November blast,
Swear you will come as now you go,
And I the way to Rose will show.”
For Rosemary is out of time,
And Rosemary or not, no hair
Shall cry for vengeance on our crime;
But horse and shoon we needs must take
All for the Lord's anointed sake.”
Moved merry with their yeoman guide;
They had no thought of Athol's glen
When Caldew glittered at their side,
And soon beneath its sheltering wood
The “Castle Rose” before them stood.
High lifted o'er its terraced moat,
Macdonald bade his trooper band,
Its simple strength and beauty note,
Then challengeless they passed the gate,
Made noise, the rookery rose in air,
Came hurried steps across the floor,
And voices whispered from the stair:
“God's mercy!” cried the serving man,
And backward to the Hall he ran.
An aged serving maid stepped out,
“Ye cannot mean a woman harm,
My lady must not hear this rout,
She is delivered in this hour
Of babe that is of babes the flower!
The roast is ready in the Hall,
There eat and drink and welcome be,
But let her hear no foot to fall,
For if she may not sleep to-day,
Her gentle life will pass away.”
They saw the working of her face,
They too had served a master well,
They too held faithfulness in grace,
Leaned on their swords, no word they spoke,
And thus her voice the stillness broke.
Can reach, respect the rites divine,
E'en now the service forward goes,
Within our castle's ancient shrine,
The prayer is said, the name is given,
That God will ratify in Heaven.”
“I have a wife and bairnies three,
What will they call your little maid?”
“Good sire, they name her Rosemarie:
Mary the Rose without a thorn,
From her they call the babe new born.”
If Rosemary were but in bloom,
Nor let my gallants sack a room!
Here, nurse! go, take my white cockade,
And pin it on the little maid;
The while the christening prayer goes on,
Then under yon rose-scutcheoned gate
We will as silently be gone—
That white cockade shall be a dower,
More sure to guard than moat or tower.
And yon cockade and babe be shown,
They shall not dare to rob or slay,
While brave Prince Charlie seeks his own.
God speed his cause, and long life be
To ‘Castle Rose’ and Rosemarie!”
Rosemary (Molly) Dacre, the heroine of this ballad, married Sir Walter Clerk, fifth baronet of Penicuik, and communicated
“Sir,—According to your request this morning, I send you some account of the particulars that attended my birth, which I do with infinite pleasure, as it reflects great honour on the Highlanders, to whom I always feel the greatest gratitude, that at the time when their hearts were set on plunder, the fear of hurting a sick lady and child instantly stopped their intentions.
“The incident occurred 15th November, 1745. My father, Mr. Dacre, then an officer in His Majesty's Militia, was a prisoner in the Castle of Carlisle, at that time in the hands of Prince Charles. My mother (a daughter of Sir George le Fleming, Bart., Bishop of Carlisle) was living at Rose Castle, six miles from Carlisle, where she was delivered of me. She had given orders that I should immediately be privately baptised by the Bishop's chaplain (his lordship not being at home) by the name of Rosemary Dacre. At that moment a company of Highlanders appeared, headed by a Captain Macdonald, who having heard that there was much plate and valuables in the Castle, came to plunder it. Upon the approach of the Highlanders an old grey-headed servant ran out and entreated Captain Macdonald not to proceed, as any noise or alarm might occasion the death of both the lady and the child. The Captain inquired when the lady had been confined. ‘Within the hour,’ the servant answered. Captain Macdonald stopped. The servant added, ‘They are just going to christen the infant.’ Macdonald, taking off his cockade, said, ‘Let her be christened with this cockade in her cap, it will be her protection now and after if any of our stragglers should come this way. We will wait the ceremony in silence’; which they accordingly did, and then went into the courtyard and were regaled with beef, cheese, and ale, etc. They then went off without the smallest disturbance.
“The white cockade was safely preserved, and shown me from
Later historical search has proved by examination of the Kirklinton parish register that the baptism took place at Rose Castle the 3rd November, on which day no Highlanders had crossed the border. It is possible that the old servant is responsible for the fact as he stated it. Necessity is the mother of invention. It is believed that the Macdonald spoken of was not Donald Macdonald of Moidart, but possibly Macdonald of the Edinburgh City-guard or some petty officer. It is thought that the object of the Highlanders was not so much loot as horses and shoes: they suffered terribly for lack of both. It is to their never-ending glory that the villagers for the most part were not harried, and no women suffered wrong at the hands of Prince Charlie's men in 1745.
The white cockade in question was given by Lady Clerk to George IV. when he came to Edinburgh.
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