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 |  |
Dumlanrig.
THE SIXTEENTH BARD'S SONG.
Who's he that at Dumlanrig's gate
Hollas so loud, and raps so late?
Nor warder's threat, nor porter's growl,
Question, nor watch-dog's angry howl,
He once regards; but rap and call,
Thundering alternate, shake the wall.
The captive, stretched in dungeon deep,
Waked from his painful visioned sleep,
His meagre form from pavement raised,
And listened to the sounds amazed:
Both bayle and keep rang with the din,
And Douglas heard the noise within.
Hollas so loud, and raps so late?
Nor warder's threat, nor porter's growl,
Question, nor watch-dog's angry howl,
He once regards; but rap and call,
Thundering alternate, shake the wall.
The captive, stretched in dungeon deep,
Waked from his painful visioned sleep,
His meagre form from pavement raised,
And listened to the sounds amazed:
Both bayle and keep rang with the din,
And Douglas heard the noise within.
“Ho! rise, Dumlanrig! all's at stake!
“Ho! rise, Dumlanrig! Douglas, wake!
Blow, warder—blow thy warning shrill,
Light up the beacon on the hill,
For round thee reaves thy ruthless foe—
Arise, Dumlanrig! Douglas, ho!”—
“Ho! rise, Dumlanrig! Douglas, wake!
Blow, warder—blow thy warning shrill,
Light up the beacon on the hill,
For round thee reaves thy ruthless foe—
Arise, Dumlanrig! Douglas, ho!”—
His fur-cloak round him Douglas threw,
And to the crennel eager flew.
“What news, what news, thou stalwart groom,
Who thus, in midnight's deepest gloom,
Bring'st to my gate the loud alarm
Of foray wide and country harm?
What are thy dangers?—what thy fears?
Say out thy message—Douglas hears.”
And to the crennel eager flew.
“What news, what news, thou stalwart groom,
Who thus, in midnight's deepest gloom,
Bring'st to my gate the loud alarm
Of foray wide and country harm?
What are thy dangers?—what thy fears?
Say out thy message—Douglas hears.”
“Haste, Douglas! Douglas, arm with speed,
And mount thy fleetest battle steed;
For Lennox, with the southern host,
Whom thou hast baulked and curbed the most,
Like locusts from the Solway blown,
Are spread upon thy mountains brown:
Broke from their camp in search of prey,
They drive thy flocks and herds away;
Roused by revenge, and hunger keen,
They've swept the hills of fair Dalveen;
Nor left thee bullock, goat, or steer,
On all the holms of Durisdeer.
And mount thy fleetest battle steed;
For Lennox, with the southern host,
Whom thou hast baulked and curbed the most,
Like locusts from the Solway blown,
Are spread upon thy mountains brown:
Broke from their camp in search of prey,
They drive thy flocks and herds away;
Roused by revenge, and hunger keen,
They've swept the hills of fair Dalveen;
Nor left thee bullock, goat, or steer,
On all the holms of Durisdeer.
“One troop came to my father's hall;
They burnt our tower—they took our all.
My dear, my only sister May,
By force the ruffians bore away;
Nor kid nor lamb bleats in the glen,
Around all lonely Locherben!
They burnt our tower—they took our all.
My dear, my only sister May,
By force the ruffians bore away;
Nor kid nor lamb bleats in the glen,
Around all lonely Locherben!
“My twenty men, I have no moe,
Eager to cross the roaming foe,
Well armed with hauberk and broadsword,
Keep ward at Cample's rugged ford.
Before they bear their prey across,
Some Southrons shall their helmets lose,
If not the heads those helmets shield,—
O, haste thee, Douglas, to the field!”—
With that his horse around he drew,
And down the path like lightning flew.
Eager to cross the roaming foe,
Well armed with hauberk and broadsword,
Keep ward at Cample's rugged ford.
Before they bear their prey across,
Some Southrons shall their helmets lose,
If not the heads those helmets shield,—
O, haste thee, Douglas, to the field!”—
With that his horse around he drew,
And down the path like lightning flew.
“Arm,” cried the Douglas, “one and all!”
And vanished from the echoing wall.
“Arm!” was the word; along it ran
Through manor, bayle, and barbican;
And clank and clatter burst at once
From every loop of hall and sconce.
With whoop of groom, and warder's call,
And prancing steeds, 'twas hurry all.
And vanished from the echoing wall.
“Arm!” was the word; along it ran
Through manor, bayle, and barbican;
And clank and clatter burst at once
From every loop of hall and sconce.
With whoop of groom, and warder's call,
And prancing steeds, 'twas hurry all.
At first, like thunder's distant tone,
The rattling din came rolling on:
Echoed Dumlanrig woods around;
Louder and louder swelled the sound,
Till like the sheeted flame of wonder,
That rends the shoals of heaven asunder.
The rattling din came rolling on:
Echoed Dumlanrig woods around;
Louder and louder swelled the sound,
Till like the sheeted flame of wonder,
That rends the shoals of heaven asunder.
When first the word, “To arms!” was given
Glowed all the eastern porch of heaven;
A wreathy cloud of orient brown
Had heralded the rising moon,
Whose verge was like a silver bow,
Bending o'er Ganna's lofty brow;
And ere above the mountain blue
Her wasted orb was rolled in view,
A thousand men, in armour sheen,
Stood ranked upon Dumlanrig green.
Glowed all the eastern porch of heaven;
A wreathy cloud of orient brown
Had heralded the rising moon,
Whose verge was like a silver bow,
Bending o'er Ganna's lofty brow;
And ere above the mountain blue
Her wasted orb was rolled in view,
A thousand men, in armour sheen,
Stood ranked upon Dumlanrig green.
The Nith they stemmed in firm array;
For Cample-ford they bent their way.
Than Douglas and his men that night,
Never saw yeoman nobler sight;
Mounted on tall curvetting steed,
He rode undaunted at their head;
His shadow on the water still,
Like giant on a moving hill.
The ghastly bull's-head scowled on high,
Emblem of death to foeman's eye;
And bloody hearts on streamers pale,
Waved wildly in the midnight gale.
For Cample-ford they bent their way.
48
Never saw yeoman nobler sight;
Mounted on tall curvetting steed,
He rode undaunted at their head;
His shadow on the water still,
Like giant on a moving hill.
The ghastly bull's-head scowled on high,
Emblem of death to foeman's eye;
And bloody hearts on streamers pale,
Waved wildly in the midnight gale.
O, haste thee, Douglas! haste and ride;
Thy kinsmen's corpses stem the tide!
What red, what dauntless youth is he,
Who stands in Cample to the knee;
Whose arm of steel, and weapon good,
Still dyes the stream with Southern blood,
While round him fall his faithful men?
'Tis Morison of Locherben.
Thy kinsmen's corpses stem the tide!
What red, what dauntless youth is he,
Who stands in Cample to the knee;
Whose arm of steel, and weapon good,
Still dyes the stream with Southern blood,
While round him fall his faithful men?
'Tis Morison of Locherben.
O, haste thee, Douglas, to the fray,
Ere won be that important way!
The Southron's countless prey, within
The dreadful coils of Crighup linn,
No passage from the moor can find,—
The wood below, the gulf behind:
One pass there is, and one alone,
And in that pass stands Morison.
Who crosses there, or man or beast,
Must make their passage o'er his breast,
And over heaps of mangled dead,
That dam red Cample from its bed.
His sister's cries his soul alarm,
And add new vigour to his arm.
His twenty men are waned to ten—
O, haste to dauntless Locherben!
Ere won be that important way!
The Southron's countless prey, within
The dreadful coils of Crighup linn,
No passage from the moor can find,—
The wood below, the gulf behind:
One pass there is, and one alone,
And in that pass stands Morison.
Who crosses there, or man or beast,
Must make their passage o'er his breast,
And over heaps of mangled dead,
That dam red Cample from its bed.
His sister's cries his soul alarm,
And add new vigour to his arm.
His twenty men are waned to ten—
O, haste to dauntless Locherben!
The Southrons baulked, impatient turn,
And crowd once more the fatal bourn.
All desperate grew the work of death,
No yielding but with yielding breath;
Even still lay every death-struck man,
For footing to the furious van.
The little band was seized with dread,
Behind their rampart of the dead;
Power from their arms began to fly,
And hope within their breasts to die,
When loud they heard the cheering word
Of—“Douglas! Douglas!” cross the ford;
Then turned the Southron swift as wind,
For fierce the battle raged behind.
And crowd once more the fatal bourn.
All desperate grew the work of death,
No yielding but with yielding breath;
Even still lay every death-struck man,
For footing to the furious van.
The little band was seized with dread,
Behind their rampart of the dead;
Power from their arms began to fly,
And hope within their breasts to die,
When loud they heard the cheering word
Of—“Douglas! Douglas!” cross the ford;
Then turned the Southron swift as wind,
For fierce the battle raged behind.
O, stay, brave Morison! O, stay!
Guard but that pass till break of day;
Thy flocks, thy sister to retrieve,
That task to doughty Douglas leave;
Let not thine ardour all betray—
Thy might is spent—brave warrior, stay.
Guard but that pass till break of day;
Thy flocks, thy sister to retrieve,
That task to doughty Douglas leave;
Let not thine ardour all betray—
Thy might is spent—brave warrior, stay.
O, for the lyre of heaven that rung
When Linden's lofty hymn was sung;
Or his, who from the height beheld
The reeling strife of Flodden field!
Then far on wing of genius borne
Should ring the wonders of that morn:
Morn!—ah! how many a warrior bold
That morn was never to behold!
When rival rank to rank drew nigh,
When eye was fixed on foeman's eye,
When lowered was lance, and bent was bow,
And falchion clenched to strike the blow,
No breath was heard, nor clank of mail,
Each face with rage grew deadly pale:
Trembled the moon's reluctant ray;
The breeze of heaven sunk soft away.
When Linden's lofty hymn was sung;
Or his, who from the height beheld
The reeling strife of Flodden field!
Then far on wing of genius borne
Should ring the wonders of that morn:
Morn!—ah! how many a warrior bold
That morn was never to behold!
When rival rank to rank drew nigh,
When eye was fixed on foeman's eye,
When lowered was lance, and bent was bow,
And falchion clenched to strike the blow,
No breath was heard, nor clank of mail,
Each face with rage grew deadly pale:
Trembled the moon's reluctant ray;
The breeze of heaven sunk soft away.
So furious was that onset's shock,
Destruction's gates at once unlock;
'Twas like the earthquake's hollow groan,
When towers and towns are overthrown:
'Twas like the river's midnight crush,
When snows dissolve, and torrents rush;
When fields of ice, in rude array,
Obstruct its own resistless way:
'Twas like the whirlwind's rending sweep;
'Twas like the tempest of the deep,
Where Corrybraken's surges driven,
Meet, mount, and lash the breast of heaven.
Destruction's gates at once unlock;
'Twas like the earthquake's hollow groan,
When towers and towns are overthrown:
'Twas like the river's midnight crush,
When snows dissolve, and torrents rush;
When fields of ice, in rude array,
Obstruct its own resistless way:
'Twas like the whirlwind's rending sweep;
'Twas like the tempest of the deep,
Where Corrybraken's surges driven,
Meet, mount, and lash the breast of heaven.
'Twas foot to foot, and brand to brand;
Oft hilt to hilt, and hand to hand;
Oft gallant foemen, woe to tell,
Dead in each other's bosoms fell!
The horsemen met with might and main,
Then reeled, and wheeled, and met again.
A thousand spears on hauberks bang;
A thousand swords on helmets clang.
Where might was with the feebler blent,
Still there the line of battle bent;
As oft recoiled from flank assail,
While blows fell thick as rattling hail.
Nature stood mute that fateful hour,
All save the ranks on Cample-moor,
And mountain goats that left their den,
And bleating fled to Garroch glen.
Oft hilt to hilt, and hand to hand;
Oft gallant foemen, woe to tell,
Dead in each other's bosoms fell!
The horsemen met with might and main,
Then reeled, and wheeled, and met again.
A thousand spears on hauberks bang;
A thousand swords on helmets clang.
Where might was with the feebler blent,
Still there the line of battle bent;
As oft recoiled from flank assail,
While blows fell thick as rattling hail.
Nature stood mute that fateful hour,
All save the ranks on Cample-moor,
And mountain goats that left their den,
And bleating fled to Garroch glen.
Dumlanrig, aye in battle keen,
The foremost in the broil was seen:
Woe to the warrior dared withstand
The progress of his deadly brand!
He sat so firm, he reined so well,
Whole ranks before his charger fell.
A valiant youth kept by his side,
With crest and armour crimson dyed;
Charged still with him the yielding foe,
And seconded his every blow.
The Douglas wondered whence he came,
And asked his lineage and his name:
'Twas he who kept the narrow way,
Who raised at first the battle-fray,
And roused Dumlanrig and his men,—
Brave Morison of Locherben.
The foremost in the broil was seen:
Woe to the warrior dared withstand
The progress of his deadly brand!
He sat so firm, he reined so well,
Whole ranks before his charger fell.
A valiant youth kept by his side,
With crest and armour crimson dyed;
Charged still with him the yielding foe,
And seconded his every blow.
The Douglas wondered whence he came,
And asked his lineage and his name:
'Twas he who kept the narrow way,
Who raised at first the battle-fray,
And roused Dumlanrig and his men,—
Brave Morison of Locherben.
“My chief,” he said, “forgive my fear
For one than life to me more dear;
But late I heard my sister cry,
‘Dumlanrig, now thy weapon ply.’—
Her guard waits in yon hollow lea,
Beneath the shade of spreading tree.”—
For one than life to me more dear;
49
‘Dumlanrig, now thy weapon ply.’—
Her guard waits in yon hollow lea,
Beneath the shade of spreading tree.”—
Dumlanrig's eye with ardour shone;
“Follow!” he cried, and spurred him on.
A close gazoon the horsemen made,
Douglas and Morison the head,
And through the ranks impetuous bore,
By dint of lance and broad claymore,
'Mid shouts, and groans of parting life,
For hard and doubtful was the strife.
Behind the knight firm belted on,
They found the fair May Morison.
But why through all Dumlanrig's train,
Search her bright eyes, and search in vain?
A stranger mounts her on his steed;
Brave Morison, where art thou fled?
The drivers for their booty feared,
And soon as Cample-ford was cleared,
To work they fell, and forced away
Across the stream their mighty prey.
The bleating flocks in terror ran
Across the bloody breast of man;
Even the dull cattle gazed with dread,
And lowing, foundered o'er the dead.
“Follow!” he cried, and spurred him on.
A close gazoon the horsemen made,
Douglas and Morison the head,
And through the ranks impetuous bore,
By dint of lance and broad claymore,
'Mid shouts, and groans of parting life,
For hard and doubtful was the strife.
Behind the knight firm belted on,
They found the fair May Morison.
But why through all Dumlanrig's train,
Search her bright eyes, and search in vain?
A stranger mounts her on his steed;
Brave Morison, where art thou fled?
The drivers for their booty feared,
And soon as Cample-ford was cleared,
To work they fell, and forced away
Across the stream their mighty prey.
The bleating flocks in terror ran
Across the bloody breast of man;
Even the dull cattle gazed with dread,
And lowing, foundered o'er the dead.
The Southrons still the fight maintain;
Though broke, they closed and fought again,
Till shouting drivers gave the word,
That all the flocks had cleared the ford;
Then to that pass the bands retire,
And safely braved Dumlanrig's ire.
Rashly he tried, and tried in vain,
That steep, that fatal path to gain;
Madly prolonged th' unequal fray,
And lost his men, and lost the day.
Amid the battle's fiercest shock,
Three spears were on his bosom broke;
Then, forced in flight to seek remede,
Had it not been his noble steed,
That swift away his master bore,
He ne'er had seen Dumlanrig more.
Though broke, they closed and fought again,
Till shouting drivers gave the word,
That all the flocks had cleared the ford;
Then to that pass the bands retire,
And safely braved Dumlanrig's ire.
Rashly he tried, and tried in vain,
That steep, that fatal path to gain;
Madly prolonged th' unequal fray,
And lost his men, and lost the day.
Amid the battle's fiercest shock,
Three spears were on his bosom broke;
Then, forced in flight to seek remede,
Had it not been his noble steed,
That swift away his master bore,
He ne'er had seen Dumlanrig more.
The day-beam from his moonlight sleep,
O'er Queensberry began to peep;
Kneeled drowsy on the mountain fern,
At length rose tiptoe on the cairn,
Embracing in his bosom pale,
The stars, the moon, and shadowy dale.
Then what a scene appalled the view,
On Cample-moor, as dawning grew!
Along the purple heather spread,
Lay mixed the dying and the dead;
Stern foemen there from quarrel cease,
Who ne'er before had met in peace.
Two kinsmen good the Douglas lost,
And full three hundred of his host;
With one by him lamented most,
The flower of all the Nithsdale men,
Young Morison of Locherben.
O'er Queensberry began to peep;
Kneeled drowsy on the mountain fern,
At length rose tiptoe on the cairn,
Embracing in his bosom pale,
The stars, the moon, and shadowy dale.
Then what a scene appalled the view,
On Cample-moor, as dawning grew!
Along the purple heather spread,
Lay mixed the dying and the dead;
Stern foemen there from quarrel cease,
Who ne'er before had met in peace.
Two kinsmen good the Douglas lost,
And full three hundred of his host;
With one by him lamented most,
The flower of all the Nithsdale men,
Young Morison of Locherben.
The Southrons did no foot pursue,
Nor seek the conflict to renew.
They knew not at the rising sun
What mischief they'd to Douglas done,
But to the south pursued their way,
Glad to escape with such a prey.
Nor seek the conflict to renew.
They knew not at the rising sun
What mischief they'd to Douglas done,
But to the south pursued their way,
Glad to escape with such a prey.
Brave Douglas, where thy pride of weir?
How stinted in thy bold career!
Woe, that the Lowther eagle's look
Should shrink before the Lowland rook!
Woe, that the lordly lion's paw
Of ravening wolves should sink in awe!
But doubly woe, the purple heart
Should tarnished from the field depart!
How stinted in thy bold career!
Woe, that the Lowther eagle's look
Should shrink before the Lowland rook!
Woe, that the lordly lion's paw
Of ravening wolves should sink in awe!
But doubly woe, the purple heart
Should tarnished from the field depart!
Was it the loss of kinsmen dear,
Or crusted scratch of Southron spear?
Was it thy dumb, thy sullen host;
Thy glory by misconduct lost;
Or thy proud bosom, swelling high,
Made the round tear roll in thine eye?
Ah! no; thy heart was doomed to prove
The sharper pang of slighted love.
Or crusted scratch of Southron spear?
Was it thy dumb, thy sullen host;
Thy glory by misconduct lost;
Or thy proud bosom, swelling high,
Made the round tear roll in thine eye?
Ah! no; thy heart was doomed to prove
The sharper pang of slighted love.
What vision lingers on the heath,
Flitting across the field of death;
Its gliding motion, smooth and still
As vapour on the twilight hill,
Or the last ray of falling even
Shed through the parting clouds of heaven?
Flitting across the field of death;
Its gliding motion, smooth and still
As vapour on the twilight hill,
Or the last ray of falling even
Shed through the parting clouds of heaven?
Is it a sprite that roams forlorn?
Or angel from the bowers of morn,
Come down a tear of heaven to shed,
In pity o'er the valiant dead?
No vain, no fleeting phantom this!
No vision from the bowers of bliss!
Its radiant eye, and stately tread,
Bespeak some beauteous mountain maid:
No rose of Eden's bosom meek,
Could match that maiden's moistened cheek;
No drifted wreath of morning snow,
The whiteness of her lofty brow;
Nor gem of India's purest dye,
The lustre of her eagle eye.
Or angel from the bowers of morn,
Come down a tear of heaven to shed,
In pity o'er the valiant dead?
No vain, no fleeting phantom this!
No vision from the bowers of bliss!
Its radiant eye, and stately tread,
Bespeak some beauteous mountain maid:
No rose of Eden's bosom meek,
Could match that maiden's moistened cheek;
No drifted wreath of morning snow,
The whiteness of her lofty brow;
Nor gem of India's purest dye,
The lustre of her eagle eye.
When beauty, Eden's bowers within,
First stretched the arm to deeds of sin;
When passion burned, and prudence slept,
The pitying angels bent and wept.
But tears more soft were never shed,
No, not when angels bowed the head;
A sigh more mild did never breathe
O'er human nature whelmed in death;
Nor woe and dignity combine,
In face so lovely, so benign,
As Douglas saw that dismal hour,
Bent o'er a corse on Cample-moor:
A lady o'er her shield, her trust,
A brave, an only brother's dust!
First stretched the arm to deeds of sin;
When passion burned, and prudence slept,
The pitying angels bent and wept.
But tears more soft were never shed,
No, not when angels bowed the head;
A sigh more mild did never breathe
O'er human nature whelmed in death;
Nor woe and dignity combine,
In face so lovely, so benign,
As Douglas saw that dismal hour,
Bent o'er a corse on Cample-moor:
A lady o'er her shield, her trust,
A brave, an only brother's dust!
50
What heart of man unmoved can lie,
When plays the smile in beauty's eye?
Or when a form of grace and love
To music's notes can lightly move?
Yes: there are hearts unmoved can see
The smile, the ring, the revelry;
But heart of warrior ne'er could bear
The beam of beauty's crystal tear.
Well was that morn the maxim proved—
The Douglas saw, the Douglas loved.
When plays the smile in beauty's eye?
Or when a form of grace and love
To music's notes can lightly move?
Yes: there are hearts unmoved can see
The smile, the ring, the revelry;
But heart of warrior ne'er could bear
The beam of beauty's crystal tear.
Well was that morn the maxim proved—
The Douglas saw, the Douglas loved.
“O, cease thy tears, my lovely May,
Sweet floweret of the banks of Ae,
His soul thou never canst recall—
He fell as warrior wont to fall.
Deep, deep the loss we both bewail;
But that deep loss to countervail,
Far as the day-flight of the hern,
From Locherben to green Glencairn,
From where the Shinnel torrents pour
To the lone vales of Crawford-moor,
The fairy links of Tweed and Lyne,
All, all the Douglas has is thine,
And Douglas too: whate'er betide,
Straight thou shalt be Dumlanrig's bride.”—
Sweet floweret of the banks of Ae,
His soul thou never canst recall—
He fell as warrior wont to fall.
Deep, deep the loss we both bewail;
But that deep loss to countervail,
Far as the day-flight of the hern,
From Locherben to green Glencairn,
From where the Shinnel torrents pour
To the lone vales of Crawford-moor,
The fairy links of Tweed and Lyne,
All, all the Douglas has is thine,
And Douglas too: whate'er betide,
Straight thou shalt be Dumlanrig's bride.”—
“What! mighty chief, a bride to thee!
No; by yon heaven's high Majesty,
Sooner I'll beg, forlorn and poor,
Bent at thy meanest vassal's door,
Than look thy splendid halls within,
Thou deer, wrapt in a lion's skin!
No; by yon heaven's high Majesty,
Sooner I'll beg, forlorn and poor,
Bent at thy meanest vassal's door,
Than look thy splendid halls within,
Thou deer, wrapt in a lion's skin!
“Here lies thy bravest knight in death;
Thy kinsmen strew the purple heath;
What boot thy boasted mountains green?
Nor flock, nor herd, can there be seen;
All driven before thy vaunting foe
To ruthless slaughter, bleat and low,
Whilst thou—shame on thy dastard head!
A wooing com'st amid the dead.
Thy kinsmen strew the purple heath;
What boot thy boasted mountains green?
Nor flock, nor herd, can there be seen;
All driven before thy vaunting foe
To ruthless slaughter, bleat and low,
Whilst thou—shame on thy dastard head!
A wooing com'st amid the dead.
“O, that this feeble maiden hand
Could bend the bow, or wield the brand!
If yeoman mustered in my hall,
Or trooped obsequious at my call,
My country's honour I'd restore,
And shame thy face for evermore.
Go first thy flocks and herds regain;
Revenge thy friends in battle slain;
Thy wounded honour heal; that done,
Douglas may ask May Morison.”
Could bend the bow, or wield the brand!
If yeoman mustered in my hall,
Or trooped obsequious at my call,
My country's honour I'd restore,
And shame thy face for evermore.
Go first thy flocks and herds regain;
Revenge thy friends in battle slain;
Thy wounded honour heal; that done,
Douglas may ask May Morison.”
Dumlanrig's blood to's bosom rushed,
His manly cheek like crimson blushed.
He called three yeomen to his side:
“Haste, gallant warriors, haste and ride!
Warn Lindsay on the banks of Daur,
The fierce M'Turk and Lochinvaur:
Tell them that Lennox flies amain;
That Maxwell and Glencairn are ta'en;
Kilpatrick with the spoiler rides;
The Johnston flies, and Jardine hides;
That I alone am left to fight
For country's cause and sovereign's right.
My friends are fallen—my warriors toiled
My towns are burnt—my vassals spoiled:
Yet say—before to-morrow's sun
With amber tips the mountain dun,
Either that host of ruthless thieves
I'll scatter like the forest leaves,
Or my wrung heart shall cease to play,
And my right hand the sword to sway.
At Blackwood I'll their coming bide:
Haste, gallant warriors, haste and ride!”—
His manly cheek like crimson blushed.
He called three yeomen to his side:
“Haste, gallant warriors, haste and ride!
Warn Lindsay on the banks of Daur,
The fierce M'Turk and Lochinvaur:
Tell them that Lennox flies amain;
That Maxwell and Glencairn are ta'en;
Kilpatrick with the spoiler rides;
The Johnston flies, and Jardine hides;
That I alone am left to fight
For country's cause and sovereign's right.
My friends are fallen—my warriors toiled
My towns are burnt—my vassals spoiled:
Yet say—before to-morrow's sun
With amber tips the mountain dun,
Either that host of ruthless thieves
I'll scatter like the forest leaves,
Or my wrung heart shall cease to play,
And my right hand the sword to sway.
At Blackwood I'll their coming bide:
Haste, gallant warriors, haste and ride!”—
He spoke:—each yeoman bent his eye,
And forward stooped in act to fly;
No plea was urged, no short demur;
Each heel was turned to strike the spur.
And forward stooped in act to fly;
No plea was urged, no short demur;
Each heel was turned to strike the spur.
As ever ye saw the red deer's brood,
From covert sprung, traverse the wood;
Or heath-fowl beat the mountain wind
And leave the fowler fixt behind:
As ever ye saw three arrows spring
At once from yew-bow's twanging string—
So flew the messengers of death,
And, lessening, vanished on the heath.
From covert sprung, traverse the wood;
Or heath-fowl beat the mountain wind
And leave the fowler fixt behind:
As ever ye saw three arrows spring
At once from yew-bow's twanging string—
So flew the messengers of death,
And, lessening, vanished on the heath.
The Douglas bade his troops with speed
Prepare due honours for the dead,
And meet well armed at evening still
On the green cone of Blackford-hill.
There came M'Turk to aid the war
With troops from Shinnel glens and Scaur;
Fierce Gordon with the clans of Ken,
And Lindsay with his Crawford men;
Old Morton, too, forlorn and gray,
Whose son had fallen at break of day.
Prepare due honours for the dead,
And meet well armed at evening still
On the green cone of Blackford-hill.
There came M'Turk to aid the war
With troops from Shinnel glens and Scaur;
Fierce Gordon with the clans of Ken,
And Lindsay with his Crawford men;
Old Morton, too, forlorn and gray,
Whose son had fallen at break of day.
If troops on earth may e'er withstand
An onset made by Scottish brand,
Then lawless rapine sways the throng,
And conscience whispers—“This is wrong:”
But should a foe, whate'er his might,
To Scotia's soil dispute her right,
Or dare on native mountain claim
The poorest atom boasts her name,
Though high that warrior's banners soar,
Let him beware the broad claymore.
An onset made by Scottish brand,
Then lawless rapine sways the throng,
And conscience whispers—“This is wrong:”
But should a foe, whate'er his might,
To Scotia's soil dispute her right,
Or dare on native mountain claim
The poorest atom boasts her name,
Though high that warrior's banners soar,
Let him beware the broad claymore.
Scotland! thy honours long have stood,
Though rudely cropt, though rolled in blood,
Yet bathed in warm and purple dew,
More glorious o'er the ruin grew.
Long flourished thy paternal line;
Arabia's lineage stoops to thine.
Though rudely cropt, though rolled in blood,
Yet bathed in warm and purple dew,
More glorious o'er the ruin grew.
Long flourished thy paternal line;
Arabia's lineage stoops to thine.
Dumlanrig found his foes secure,
Stretched on the ridge of Locher-moor:
The hum that wandered from their host,
Far on the midnight breeze was lost.
No deafening drum, no bugle's swell,
No watchword passed from sentinel;
No slight vibration stirred the air
To warn the Scot a foe was there,
Save bleat of flocks that wandered slow,
And oxen's deep and sullen low.
Stretched on the ridge of Locher-moor:
The hum that wandered from their host,
Far on the midnight breeze was lost.
No deafening drum, no bugle's swell,
No watchword passed from sentinel;
51
To warn the Scot a foe was there,
Save bleat of flocks that wandered slow,
And oxen's deep and sullen low.
What horrors o'er the warrior hang!
What vultures watch his soul to fang!
What toils! what snares!—he hies him on
Where lightnings flash, and thunders groan;
Where havoc strikes whole legions low,
And death's red billows murmuring flow;
Yet still he fumes and flounders on,
Till crushed the moth—its memory gone!
What vultures watch his soul to fang!
What toils! what snares!—he hies him on
Where lightnings flash, and thunders groan;
Where havoc strikes whole legions low,
And death's red billows murmuring flow;
Yet still he fumes and flounders on,
Till crushed the moth—its memory gone!
Why should the bard, who loves to mourn
His maiden's scorn by mountain bourn,
Or pour his wild harp's fairy tone
From sounding cliff or greenwood lone,
Of slaughtered foemen proudly tell,
On deeds of death and horror dwell?
His maiden's scorn by mountain bourn,
Or pour his wild harp's fairy tone
From sounding cliff or greenwood lone,
Of slaughtered foemen proudly tell,
On deeds of death and horror dwell?
Dread was Dumlanrig's martial ire,
Fierce on the foe he rushed like fire:
Lindsay of Crawford, known to fame,
That night first gained a hero's name:
The brave M'Turk of Stenhouse stood
Bathed to the knees in Southron blood:
A bold and generous chief was he,
And come of ancient pedigree;
And Gordon with his Galloway crew,
O'er floundering ranks resistless flew.
Short was the strife!—they fled as fast
As chaff before the northern blast.
Fierce on the foe he rushed like fire:
Lindsay of Crawford, known to fame,
That night first gained a hero's name:
The brave M'Turk of Stenhouse stood
Bathed to the knees in Southron blood:
A bold and generous chief was he,
And come of ancient pedigree;
And Gordon with his Galloway crew,
O'er floundering ranks resistless flew.
Short was the strife!—they fled as fast
As chaff before the northern blast.
Dumlanrig's flocks were not a few,
And well their worth Dumlanrig knew;
But ne'er so proud was he before
Of his broad bounds and countless store,
As when they strung up Nithsdale plain,
Well guarded to their hills again.
With Douglas' name the greenwoods rung,
As battle-songs his warriors sung.
The banners streamed in double row,
The heart above, the rose below.
His visage glowed, his pulse beat high,
And gladness sparkled in his eye;
For why, he knew the lovely May,
Who in Kilpatrick's castle lay,
With joy his proud return would view,
And her impetuous censure rue.
And well their worth Dumlanrig knew;
But ne'er so proud was he before
Of his broad bounds and countless store,
As when they strung up Nithsdale plain,
Well guarded to their hills again.
With Douglas' name the greenwoods rung,
As battle-songs his warriors sung.
The banners streamed in double row,
The heart above, the rose below.
His visage glowed, his pulse beat high,
And gladness sparkled in his eye;
For why, he knew the lovely May,
Who in Kilpatrick's castle lay,
With joy his proud return would view,
And her impetuous censure rue.
Well judged he:—Why should haughty chief
Intrude himself on lady's grief,
As if his right—as nought but he
Were worthy her anxiety?
No, warrior: keep thy distance due;
Beauty is proud and jealous too.
If fair and young thy maiden be,
Know she knew that ere told by thee.
Be kind, be gentle, heave the sigh,
And blush before her piercing eye;
For though thou'rt noble, brave, and young,
If rough thy mien and rude thy tongue,
Though proudly towers thy trophied pile,
Hope not for beauty's yielding smile.
Oh! well it suits the brave and high,
Gentle to prove in lady's eye.
Intrude himself on lady's grief,
As if his right—as nought but he
Were worthy her anxiety?
No, warrior: keep thy distance due;
Beauty is proud and jealous too.
If fair and young thy maiden be,
Know she knew that ere told by thee.
Be kind, be gentle, heave the sigh,
And blush before her piercing eye;
For though thou'rt noble, brave, and young,
If rough thy mien and rude thy tongue,
Though proudly towers thy trophied pile,
Hope not for beauty's yielding smile.
Oh! well it suits the brave and high,
Gentle to prove in lady's eye.
Dumlanrig found his lovely flower
Fair as the sunbeam o'er the shower,
Gentle as zephyr of the plain,
Sweet as the rosebud after rain:
Gone all her scorn and maiden pride,
She blushed Dumlanrig's lovely bride.
Fair as the sunbeam o'er the shower,
Gentle as zephyr of the plain,
Sweet as the rosebud after rain:
Gone all her scorn and maiden pride,
She blushed Dumlanrig's lovely bride.
James of Dumlanrig, though thy name
Scarce vibrates in the ear of fame,
But for thy might and valour keen,
That gallant house had never been.
Scarce vibrates in the ear of fame,
But for thy might and valour keen,
That gallant house had never been.
Blest be thy memory, gallant man!
Oft flashed thy broadsword in the van;
When stern rebellion reared the brand,
And stained the laurels of our land,
No knight unshaken stood like thee
In right of injured majesty:
Even yet, o'er thy forgotten bier,
A minstrel drops the burning tear,
And strikes his wild harp's boldest string,
Thy honours on the breeze to fling,
That mountains once thine own may know
From whom the Queensberry honours flow.
Oft flashed thy broadsword in the van;
When stern rebellion reared the brand,
And stained the laurels of our land,
No knight unshaken stood like thee
In right of injured majesty:
Even yet, o'er thy forgotten bier,
A minstrel drops the burning tear,
And strikes his wild harp's boldest string,
Thy honours on the breeze to fling,
That mountains once thine own may know
From whom the Queensberry honours flow.
Fair be thy memory, gallant knight!
So true in love, so brave in fight!
Though o'er thy children's princely urn
The sculpture towers, and seraphs mourn,
O'er thy green grave shall wave the yew,
And heaven distil its earliest dew.
So true in love, so brave in fight!
Though o'er thy children's princely urn
The sculpture towers, and seraphs mourn,
O'er thy green grave shall wave the yew,
And heaven distil its earliest dew.
This ballad relates to a well-known historical fact, of which tradition has preserved an accurate and feasible detail. The battles took place two or three years subsequent to the death of King James V. I have heard that it is succinctly related by some historian, but I have forgot who it is. Holinshed gives a long bungling account of the matter, but places the one battle a year before the other, whereas it does not appear that Lennox made two excursions into Nithsdale at the head of the English forces, or fought two bloody battles with the laird of Dumlanrig on the same ground, as the historian would insinuate. He says, that Dumlanrig, after pursuing them cautiously for some time, was overthrown in attempting to cross a ford of the river too rashly; that he lost two of his principal kinsmen, and two hundred of his followers; had several spears broken upon his body, and escaped only by the goodness of his horse. The battle which took place next night, he relates as having happened next year; but it must be visible to every reader that he is speaking of the same incidents in the annals of both years. In the second engagement he acknowledges that Dumlanrig defeated the English horse, which he attributes to a desertion from the latter, but that, after pursuing them as far as Dalswinton, they were joined by the foot, and retrieved the day. The account given of the battles, by Lesleus and Fran. Thin, seems to have been so different, that they have misled the chronologer; the names of the towns and villages appearing to him so different, whereas a local knowledge of the country would have convinced him that both accounts related to the same engagement.
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