The Poetical Works of Walter C. Smith :: :: University of Virginia Library

This is the saw that cut him down,
The last in our place that was hung in chains,
Left to bleach in the suns and rains
On the gallow-hill of our Burgh town.

What he had done I remember not—
Sheep-stealing, forgery, some offence
Which rich men hate with a hate intense,
Nought can appease, but to see the man rot.

340

Of course, in those days it was wrong to kill,
Yet murder often escaped the rope;
But for him there was not a gleam of hope,
Who wrote your name to a cheque or a bill.

I say this because, though I am not aware,
After all these years, what his crime might be,
Had he wrought a murder, it's certain we
Would have left the corbies to pick him bare.

Yet it was not for that we cut him down;
But the gallow-hill stood at the end of the Links,
And it spoilt our game at the golfing rinks,
That ghastly thing with its grinning frown.

And we also thought they might hang, or shoot,
Or head the living rogues, as they chose;
But it was like a savage to punish those
Who were tried already, and dead to boot.

And it was not our kindly old Scotch law
Which hanged a man, and was done with him:
It was only the English that left the grim
Corpse for the kite's and the raven's maw.

So we vowed to get the thing out of our way;
We were young fellows, and apt to think
In a wildish way o'er a drop of drink,
And the gallows, at any rate, spoilt our play.

A dismal night! I remember well
The sullen moan of the restless sea,
And the rain that plashed on hill and tree,
And how my heart thumped at the midnight bell!

Ugh! how the creature grinned and mowed,
As if he knew what we were about,
And thought that his airy perch without
Was better perhaps than a grave and shroud.

Now and then from the town we heard
The night-watch call, but he came not near,
And once we paused with a thrill of fear
At two or three notes like a singing bird.

What was it? where was it? Hushed with awe,
We stood for a moment with bated breath;
When tripping up to that loathsome death
Two merry boys and a girl we saw.

Wild black elf-locks, and wild large eyes,
Came, weirdlike, tripping along the hill,
Singing a merry song, until
They saw us there with a blank surprise.

“Come hither, now, children: what do ye,
At midnight here, by the gibbeted dead?
And are ye not fearful now, I said,
On the bleak bare hill of the gallows tree?”

341

“Nay,” quoth the maiden straight and tall,
“Why should we fear the peaceful dead?
He is our father, sirs,” she said;
“He is our father,” said they all.

There was a lump, sir, rose in my throat,
And there was a something that dimmed my sight;
But I said, “Would you be glad this night,
If this your father again you got?”

“Mother will soon be here, they said,
She is coming to curse the Law and the Judge,
But there is no blessing that she will grudge
If you give us our father back instead.

“Lo! we will haste, and bid her come,
Yea, we will haste, and drive the cart,
For she will have drunk to cheer her heart”—
Then they hurried away and left us dumb.

So we cut him down; and an ugly job
It was—may I ne'er do the like again,
And we waited a while, in the pelting rain,
Under the gallows that we did rob.

But the wild elf-locks, and the wild large eyes,
And the tripping feet, and the eerie song,
We looked for them, and we listened long;
Then laughed that we could have believed their lies.

We had cut him down; but what now to do,
When we had him down, that puzzled us all,
For we had not thought of his burial,
And it must be done before morning too.

We spoke of the river near at hand,
But the thing would float there by and by;
We thought of the sea where the tide was high,
But that would drift him again to land.

We could easily climb the Kirkyard wall,
But the bedral slept near, wakeful, grim,
And the crunch of a spade would waken him,
And a glance would tell him about it all.

Were ever men puzzled so much before
By getting the thing they were fain to get?
An' if it had been a burden of debt
It could not have loaded our spirits more.

We could not carry the creature home,
We could not leave it upon the hill!
Oh, but it's strange to get your will,
And wish you hadn't for days to come!

Then up by the winding sandy road
A light cart passed by the shooting-butts,
Jolting o'er hummocks, and creaking in ruts,
And came to the place where we still abode.

342

And with it a gipsy woman we saw,
Straight and tall, with a manlike stride,
And the three elf-children by her side,
And she came cursing the Judge and the Law,

Till she saw the Thing that lay at our feet,
When she fell on the earth with a wild-beast cry,
And clasped it, and kissed it, as we stood by
Silent, and hearing our own hearts beat.

Then they four lifted it from the ground,
And laid it there on the donkey cart;
Who shall tell me the thoughts of that wild heart—
For she too could love—when her dead she found.

“I am better at banning than blessing,” she said,
“But what of blessing my lips can give,
May it be yours, while you breathe and live,
For that ye have given me back my dead.

“A rogue and a thief—what else could he be?
But rogue or thief, lads, he loved us well;
If he beat us too, as our backs can tell,
Who had a better right than he?

“Fear not the Law shall find out what
Ye have done this night; go home and sleep,
Sure that your secret is buried deep;
I have them near by who will see to that.”

She did not weep, and she did not pray,
There was not a tremor in her tone,
Yet she left us sobbing somehow alone,
As into the dark she strode away.

That day each street had its eager crowd;
Who could have robbed the gallows tree?
And the Council met, and the Provost, he
Spoke like a minister long and loud.

Oh how he fumed like a turkey-cock!
We had done despite to the sacred law,
We had robbed the gallows of half its awe,
We had given authority there a shock.

Nobody knew before in the town
He could have been half so eloquent;
And he was sure he was on the scent
Of the law-defiers that “cut him down.”

By and by they should find that he
The law and its majesty would maintain,
And hang the rogue in his chains again,
And make those rebels a sight to see.

They dredged the river, they searched the shore,
They watched the kirkyard, night by night,
They questioned here and there, and quite
Lost their heads for a week and more.

Then one of us just threw out a hint,
It must have been witchcraft—and it took
With the ministers like a baited hook,
Who preached on it without let or stint.

That Sunday, sir, we learnt far more
Of the Witch of Endor, and her arts
For the making of dead men play the parts
Of living saints, than for years before.

343

But the Provost, shrewd man, muttered Pshaw!
Let the ministers preach and catechise;
If the devil had wanted such a prize,
What should he do with a workman's saw?

But for me I heeded not what they said;
For it rung in my head there all day long,
That eerie snatch of a gipsy song,
And “He is our Father, living or dead.”

All the father she ever knew
In earth or in heaven—that gruesome thing!
And she had come up the hill to sing
Her song to him as she used to do!

Oh it was pitiful! but when I thought
Of that wild night, and its madcap job,
I could not be sorry that we did rob
The gallows, and gave them what they sought.

Better a quiet grave to fill,
Where the grass is green, and the daisies grow,
And the white thorn scatters its fragrant snow,
Than to mock their hearts on the gallow hill.

And this is the saw that cut him down,
And this is the hand that cleared the Links
Of a thing that spoilt the golfing rinks,
Now and again, in our Burgh town.