The Poetical Works of David Macbeth Moir Edited by Thomas Aird: With A Memoir of the Author |
 |
| I. |
 |
|
|
|
|
|
THE
THORN OF PRESTON. |
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| II. |
 | The Poetical Works of David Macbeth Moir |  |
199
THE THORN OF PRESTON.
Reviving with the genial airs,
Beneath the azure heaven of spring,
Thy stem of ancient vigour bears
Its branches green and blossoming;
The birds around thee hop and sing,
Or flit, on glossy pinions borne,
Above thy time-resisting head,
Whose umbrage overhangs the dead,
Thou venerable Thorn!
Beneath the azure heaven of spring,
Thy stem of ancient vigour bears
Its branches green and blossoming;
The birds around thee hop and sing,
Or flit, on glossy pinions borne,
Above thy time-resisting head,
Whose umbrage overhangs the dead,
Thou venerable Thorn!
On a field between the ancient village of Preston and Cockenzie, there exists—or very recently existed—a tree of this description, which tradition points out as being near the spot where Colonel Gardiner received his mortal wound. I have more than once regarded this leafy monument of the brave with feelings of no ordinary interest. It is within sight of the house wherein the hero's family were then living.
Three ages of mankind have pass'd
To silence and to sleep, since thou,
Rearing thy branches to the blast,
As glorious, and more green than now,
Sheltered beneath thy shadowy brow
The warrior from the dews of night:
To doubtful sleep himself he laid,
Enveloped in his tartan plaid,
And dreaming of the fight.
To silence and to sleep, since thou,
Rearing thy branches to the blast,
As glorious, and more green than now,
Sheltered beneath thy shadowy brow
The warrior from the dews of night:
To doubtful sleep himself he laid,
Enveloped in his tartan plaid,
And dreaming of the fight.
200
Day open'd in the orient sky
With wintry aspect, dull and drear;
On every leaf, while glitteringly
The rimy hoar-frost did appear.
Blue Ocean was unseen, though near;
And hazy shadows seem'd to draw,
In silver with their mimic floods,
A line above the Seton woods,
And round North Berwick Law.
With wintry aspect, dull and drear;
On every leaf, while glitteringly
The rimy hoar-frost did appear.
Blue Ocean was unseen, though near;
And hazy shadows seem'd to draw,
In silver with their mimic floods,
A line above the Seton woods,
And round North Berwick Law.
Hark! 'twas the bagpipe that awoke
Its tones of battle and alarms!
The royal drum, with doubling stroke,
In answer, beat, “To arms—to arms!”
If tumult and if war have charms,
Here might that bliss be sought and found:
The Saxon line unsheaths the sword;
Rushes the Gael, with battle-word,
Across the stubble ground.
Its tones of battle and alarms!
The royal drum, with doubling stroke,
In answer, beat, “To arms—to arms!”
If tumult and if war have charms,
Here might that bliss be sought and found:
The Saxon line unsheaths the sword;
Rushes the Gael, with battle-word,
Across the stubble ground.
Alas! that British might should wield
Destruction o'er a British plain;
That hands, ordain'd to bear the shield,
Should bring the poison'd lance to drain
The life-blood from a brother's vein,
And steep ancestral fields in gore!
Yet, Preston, such thy fray began;
Thy marsh-collected waters ran
Empurpled to the shore.
Destruction o'er a British plain;
That hands, ordain'd to bear the shield,
Should bring the poison'd lance to drain
The life-blood from a brother's vein,
And steep ancestral fields in gore!
Yet, Preston, such thy fray began;
Thy marsh-collected waters ran
Empurpled to the shore.
201
The noble Gardiner, bold of soul,
Saw, spirit-sunk, his dastards flee,
Disdain'd to let a fear control,
And, striving by the side of thee,
Fell, like a champion of the free!
And Brymer, too, who scorn'd to yield,
Here took his death-blow undismay'd,
And, sinking slowly downward, laid
His back upon the field.
Saw, spirit-sunk, his dastards flee,
Being deserted by his own regiment, who turned and fled
after a few moments' resistance, he saw a party of foot, which
he had been ordered to support, fighting bravely, without a
commander. “He rode up to them,” says Dr Doddridge, “and
cried out aloud, ‘Fire on, my lads, and fear nothing.’ But
just as the words were out of his mouth, a Highlander
advanced towards him, with a scythe fastened to a long pole,
with which he gave him such a deep wound on his right arm
that his sword dropped out of his hand; and at the same time
several others coming about him, while he was thus dreadfully
entangled with this cruel weapon, he was dragged off from his
horse. The moment he fell, another Highlander, whose name
was M`Naught, and who was executed about a year after, gave
him a stroke, either with a broadsword or a Lochaber axe, on
the hinder part of his head, which was the mortal blow.”—
Doddridge's Life of Gardiner.
Disdain'd to let a fear control,
And, striving by the side of thee,
Fell, like a champion of the free!
And Brymer, too, who scorn'd to yield,
Here took his death-blow undismay'd,
And, sinking slowly downward, laid
His back upon the field.
Descendant of a royal line—
A line unfortunate and brave!
Success a moment seemed to shine
On thee—'twas sunbeams on a grave!
Thy home a hiding-place—a cave,
With foxes destined soon to be!
To sorrow and to suffering wed,
A price on thy devoted head,
And blood-hounds tracking thee!
A line unfortunate and brave!
Success a moment seemed to shine
On thee—'twas sunbeams on a grave!
Thy home a hiding-place—a cave,
With foxes destined soon to be!
To sorrow and to suffering wed,
A price on thy devoted head,
And blood-hounds tracking thee!
'Twas morn; but ere the solar ray
Shot, burning, from the west abroad,
The field was still; the soldier lay
Beneath the turf on which he trod,
Within a cold and lone abode,
Beside the spot whereon he fell;
For ever sever'd from his kind,
And from the home he left behind—
His own paternal dell!
Shot, burning, from the west abroad,
The field was still; the soldier lay
Beneath the turf on which he trod,
Within a cold and lone abode,
Beside the spot whereon he fell;
For ever sever'd from his kind,
And from the home he left behind—
His own paternal dell!
202
Sheathed in their glittering panoply,
Or wrapt in war-cloak, blood-besprent,
Within one common cemetery,
The lofty and the low were pent:
No longer did the evening tent
Their mirth and wassail-clamour hear:
Ah! many a maid of ardent breast
Shed for his sake, whom she loved best,
The heart-consuming tear!
Or wrapt in war-cloak, blood-besprent,
Within one common cemetery,
The lofty and the low were pent:
No longer did the evening tent
Their mirth and wassail-clamour hear:
Ah! many a maid of ardent breast
Shed for his sake, whom she loved best,
The heart-consuming tear!
Thou, lonely tree, survivest still—
Thy bloom is white, thy leaf is green;
I hear the tinkling of a rill;
All else is silent: and the scene,
Where battle raged, is now serene
Beneath the purple fall of night.
Yet oft, beside the plough, appear,
Casque, human bone, and broken spear,
Sad relics of the fight!
Thy bloom is white, thy leaf is green;
I hear the tinkling of a rill;
All else is silent: and the scene,
Where battle raged, is now serene
Beneath the purple fall of night.
Yet oft, beside the plough, appear,
Casque, human bone, and broken spear,
Sad relics of the fight!
| The Poetical Works of David Macbeth Moir | |