The Poetical Works of Thomas Pringle With A Sketch of his Life, by Leitch Ritchie |
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THE SPAEWIFE. |
 | The Poetical Works of Thomas Pringle |  |
THE SPAEWIFE.
Where Grubet's ancient copsewood skirts the vale,
Fringing the thymy braes of pastoral Cayle,
Near to the spot where oft, in other times,
Our gentle Thomson tuned his youthful rhymes,
(Deserted now, for good Sir William's race
Are ‘wed away’ and ‘gathered to their place;’)
Beyond the hamlet, 'neath an aged tree,
Crooning some scrap of ballad minstrelsy,
Sits the old crone—prepared with cunning tale
To cozen simple damsels of the dale,
Whose smiles but half conceal the fluttering qualm
With which they yield in turn the anxious palm;
While o'er the pale, sly Sandy of the Mill
Lends in a hint to help the gipsy's skill.
Fringing the thymy braes of pastoral Cayle,
Near to the spot where oft, in other times,
Our gentle Thomson tuned his youthful rhymes,
(Deserted now, for good Sir William's race
Sir William Bennet, of Grubet, was the early patron of the poets Thomson and Allan Ramsay. It was at his seat on Cale-Water, a branch of the Teviot, that Thomson is said to have written several of his juvenile pieces; and there is still a tradition current in the vicinity, that the impressive description, in his “Winter,” of a man perishing in the snows, was suggested by an affecting incident of this sort which occurred at Wideopen, a neighbouring farm, during one of the poet's Christmas visits. Grubet is now a mere pastoral hamlet. The last of Sir William's descendants was “gathered to his place,” as the country people quaintly but touchingly express it, about seventy years ago.
Are ‘wed away’ and ‘gathered to their place;’)
Beyond the hamlet, 'neath an aged tree,
Crooning some scrap of ballad minstrelsy,
Sits the old crone—prepared with cunning tale
To cozen simple damsels of the dale,
Whose smiles but half conceal the fluttering qualm
With which they yield in turn the anxious palm;
While o'er the pale, sly Sandy of the Mill
Lends in a hint to help the gipsy's skill.
Old Madge the Spaewife,
though now worn and frail,
Can travel still her rounds from Jed to Cayle;
With panniered donkey trudging o'er the moors
To bear her almous-bag for winter stores;
While frugal housewives, scolding as they give
The wonted handful, add—‘Poor Madge maun live;’
And maidens, though demure, are willing still
To purchase sixpence-worth of gipsy skill,
Even at the hazard of a stern rebuke,
Should such colleaguings meet some elder's look.
—Thus Madge contrives to ‘make a fend.’ But time
Has sadly changed her since her stalwart prime,
When straight and tall, with locks like raven's wing,
She roamed, the jocund mate of gipsy king;
Now bent and palsied, cowering in her cloak,
While 'neath the hood steals out the silvery lock.
We scarce can recognise the form and mien
Of her who once was ‘every inch a queen.’
Yet still she tells, as from the chimney nook
She awes the rustics with a sibyl's look,
How, in the blithe and boisterous days of old,
Ere clanship's links were broke or blood grew cold,
A hundred kinsmen drank her bridal ale
To whom both Tweed and Tyne had paid black-mail;
And how her friends, from Humber to the Tay,
Sped at her call to lykewake or to fray.
“But times are changed,” she adds; “Och! weel I trow,
Kin are grown fremit—blood's but water now!”
Can travel still her rounds from Jed to Cayle;
With panniered donkey trudging o'er the moors
To bear her almous-bag for winter stores;
While frugal housewives, scolding as they give
The wonted handful, add—‘Poor Madge maun live;’
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To purchase sixpence-worth of gipsy skill,
Even at the hazard of a stern rebuke,
Should such colleaguings meet some elder's look.
—Thus Madge contrives to ‘make a fend.’ But time
Has sadly changed her since her stalwart prime,
When straight and tall, with locks like raven's wing,
She roamed, the jocund mate of gipsy king;
Now bent and palsied, cowering in her cloak,
While 'neath the hood steals out the silvery lock.
We scarce can recognise the form and mien
Of her who once was ‘every inch a queen.’
Yet still she tells, as from the chimney nook
She awes the rustics with a sibyl's look,
How, in the blithe and boisterous days of old,
Ere clanship's links were broke or blood grew cold,
A hundred kinsmen drank her bridal ale
To whom both Tweed and Tyne had paid black-mail;
And how her friends, from Humber to the Tay,
Sped at her call to lykewake or to fray.
“But times are changed,” she adds; “Och! weel I trow,
Kin are grown fremit—blood's but water now!”
Poor Madge!—And yet, perchance in other guise,
Our own regrets are not a whit more wise.
Comparing the dull present with the past,
The afternoon of life seems overcast:
Not that the sun his brightness has withdrawn,
But we have lost the freshness of our dawn.
Our own regrets are not a whit more wise.
Comparing the dull present with the past,
The afternoon of life seems overcast:
Not that the sun his brightness has withdrawn,
But we have lost the freshness of our dawn.
Ay! while I dally with this idle strain,
Blithe schoolboy days come back to me again;
Th' adventurous rambles high o'er Hounam fells;
The feast of blaeberries by Wearie's Wells;
The harrying of hawk-nests on Græmeslaw rock;
The hunts in Clifton woods of tod or brock;
Long quiet days of lonely angling sport;
Long hours by mirthful converse rendered short,—
When by the Manse, beside the cherry trees,
We tilled our little plots 'mong flowers and bees,
With hearts like that fair garden in the spring
When buds unfold and birds break forth to sing;
And he, the good old pastor, smiling nigh,
And lifting aye, at times, our thoughts on high—
“How happily the years of Thalaba went by!”
Blithe schoolboy days come back to me again;
Th' adventurous rambles high o'er Hounam fells;
The feast of blaeberries by Wearie's Wells;
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The hunts in Clifton woods of tod or brock;
Long quiet days of lonely angling sport;
Long hours by mirthful converse rendered short,—
When by the Manse, beside the cherry trees,
We tilled our little plots 'mong flowers and bees,
With hearts like that fair garden in the spring
When buds unfold and birds break forth to sing;
And he, the good old pastor, smiling nigh,
And lifting aye, at times, our thoughts on high—
“How happily the years of Thalaba went by!”
But where's our Spaewife?—With her tawny brood,
I see her sitting 'neath old Gaitshaw wood;
Her asses grazing down the broomy dale,
And Faa, her husband, angling in the Cayle.
I see her sitting 'neath old Gaitshaw wood;
Her asses grazing down the broomy dale,
And Faa, her husband, angling in the Cayle.
'Tis thirty years since, near that very spot,
Just where the stream sweeps round old Elshie's cot,
Madge stopped me at the ford to spae my lot;
And, poring o'er my palm with earnest look,
Said that my name should be in printed book;
For I (a scape-grace, then some nine years old)
Should travel to far lands, and gather gold;
Should be a scholar—wed a “gentle bride”—
And build a castle on fair Teviot's side:
—“And this shall sooth betide,” quoth black-browed Madge,
“Ere nine times thrice the haw grows on the hedge!”
Just where the stream sweeps round old Elshie's cot,
Madge stopped me at the ford to spae my lot;
And, poring o'er my palm with earnest look,
Said that my name should be in printed book;
For I (a scape-grace, then some nine years old)
Should travel to far lands, and gather gold;
Should be a scholar—wed a “gentle bride”—
And build a castle on fair Teviot's side:
—“And this shall sooth betide,” quoth black-browed Madge,
“Ere nine times thrice the haw grows on the hedge!”
My Sibyl's spae-weird, like Pelides' prayer,
Was half fulfilled, half lost in empty air:
I grew a scholar—such as Madge foretold;
Became a traveller—but caught no gold;
Was wedded—but (thank Heaven!) with happier fate
Than to be matched with a patrician mate,
Though here my fortune, faithful to the letter,
Failing the gipsy's meaning, found a better.
—But, castle-building!—that has been my joy,
In all my wanderings ever since a boy;
Not in the Greek or Gothic style restored,
Or on Sir Walter's plan at Abbotsford,—
But, scorning line and plummet, rule and square,
I build ('tis most convenient) in the air!
Was half fulfilled, half lost in empty air:
I grew a scholar—such as Madge foretold;
Became a traveller—but caught no gold;
Was wedded—but (thank Heaven!) with happier fate
Than to be matched with a patrician mate,
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Failing the gipsy's meaning, found a better.
—But, castle-building!—that has been my joy,
In all my wanderings ever since a boy;
Not in the Greek or Gothic style restored,
Or on Sir Walter's plan at Abbotsford,—
But, scorning line and plummet, rule and square,
I build ('tis most convenient) in the air!
1829.
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