The Works of The Ettrick Shepherd Centenary Edition. With a Memoir of the Author, by the Rev. Thomas Thomson ... Poems and Life. With Many Illustrative Engravings [by James Hogg] |
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 | The Works of The Ettrick Shepherd |  |
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 Works of The Ettrick Shepherd | |