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] |
 |
 |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
|
|
|
 | The Works of The Ettrick Shepherd |  |
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.
| The Works of The Ettrick Shepherd | |