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 |  |
CONCLUSION.
Long hast thou acted generous part—
Long hast thou courteously in pain
Attended to a feeble strain,
While oft abashed has sunk thine eye—
Thy task is done, the Wake is by.
'Twas not for minstrels long in dust,
But for the fond and venturous swain
Who dared to wake their notes again;
Yet oft thine eye has spoke delight,
I marked it well, and blessed the sight:
No sour disdain, nor manner cold,
Noted contempt for tales of old;
Oft hast thou at the fancies smiled,
And marvelled at the legends wild;
Thy task is o'er; peace to thy heart!
For thou hast acted generous part.
That thirty names were registered,
With whom were titled chiefs combined,
But some are lost and some declined.
Woe's me, that all my mountain lore
Has been unfit to rescue more!
And that my guideless rustic skill
Has told those ancient tales so ill.
The bards were warned to leave the hall,
Till courtiers gave the judgment true,
To whom the splendid prize was due.
What curious wight will pass with me,
The anxious motley group to see;
List their remarks of right and wrong,
Of skilful hand and faulty song,
And drink one glass the bards among?
Made maidens quake and courtiers stare,
What do they seem? behold them well.
A simpler race you shall not see,
Awkward and vain as men can be;
Light as the fumes of fervid wine,
Or foam-bells floating on the brine,
The gossamers in air that sail,
Or down that dances in the gale.
With high applause, but jealous will.
Each song, each strain, he erst had known,
And all had faults except his own.
Plaudits were mixed with meaning jeers,
For all had hopes, and all had fears.
And named each bard and named his song;
Rizzio was named from royal chair—
“Rizzio!” re-echoed many a fair.
Each song had some that song approved,
And voices gave for bard beloved.
The first division called and done,
Gardyn stood highest just by one.
No merits can the courtier sway,
'Twas then, it seems, as at this day.
Her favourite thus outdone to see,
Reproved her squire in high disdain,
And caused him call the votes again.
Strange though it seem, the truth I say,
Feature of that unyielding day,
Her favourite's voters counted o'er,
Were found much fewer than before.
Glistened her eyes with pungent dew;
She found with whom she had to do.
With names of those who second sung,
When, spite of haughty Highland blood,
The Bard of Ettrick upmost stood.
And, after long and keen debate,
The specious nobles of the south
Carried the nameless stranger youth;
Though Highland wrath was at the full,
Contending for the Bard of Mull.
Which of the three the prize should win.
'Twas party all—not minstrel worth,
But honour of the south and north;
And nought was heard throughout the court,
But taunt, and sneer, and keen retort.
High ran the words, and fierce the fume,
And from beneath each nodding plume
Red look was cast that vengeance said,
And palm on broadsword's hilt was laid;
While Lowland jeer, and Highland mood,
Threatened to end the Wake in blood.
Serene in counsel as in war.
“For shame,” said he, “contendants all!
This outrage done in royal hall
Is to our country foul disgrace:
What! mock our Sovereign to her face!
Whose generous heart, and taste refined,
Alike to bard and courtier kind,
This high repast for all designed.
For shame! your party strife suspend,
And list the counsel of a friend.
To lessen one of all the three,
Each excellent in his degree;
But taste, as sapient sages tell,
Varies with climes in which we dwell.
Is cadence soft, and simple tale;
While stern romantic Highland clime,
Still nourishes the rude sublime.
Of the wild pathos of the north:
Or that sublimed by Ossian's lay,
By forest dark and mountain gray,
By clouds which frowning cliffs deform,
By roaring flood and raving storm,
Enjoy the smooth, the fairy tale,
Or evening song of Teviotdale;
Then trow you may the tides adjourn,
And nature from her path-way turn;
The wild-duck drive to mountain tree,
The capperkayle to swim the sea,
The heath-cock to the shelvy shore,
The partridge to the mountain hoar,
And bring the red-eyed ptarmigan
To dwell by the abodes of man.
Let all the three be called again;
Their skill alternately be tried,
And let the Queen alone decide.
Then hushed be jeer and answer proud,”—
He said, and all, consenting, bowed.
The group were all in dire debate;
The Border youth (that stranger wight)
Had quarrelled with the clans outright;
Had placed their merits out of ken,
Deriding both the songs and men.
'Tis said—but few the charge believes—
He branded them as fools and thieves.
Certes that war and woe had been,
For gleaming dirks unsheathed were seen;
The Highland minstrels ill could brook
His taunting word and haughty look.
Refused to touch his harp again;
Said he desired no more renown
Than keep those Highland boasters down;
Now he had seen them quite outdone,
The south had two, the north but one;
But should they bear the prize away,
For that he should not, would not play;
He cared for no such guerdon mean,
Nor for the harp, nor for the Queen.
Repaired to prove their skill again.
Is still admired by old and young,
And long shall be at evening fold,
While songs are sung or tales are told.
Of stolen delights began the song,
Of love the Carron woods among;
Of lady borne from Carron side
To Barnard towers and halls of pride;
Of jealous lord and doubtful bride;
And ended with Gilmorice' doom
Cut off in manhood's early bloom.
Soft rung the closing notes and slow,
And every heart was steeped in woe.
Her bard intent on fairy strain,
And fairy freak by moonlight shaw,
Sung young Tam Linn of Carterha'.
And every tone responsive rung,
With gems of gold that dazzling shone,
That harp is to the Highlands gone;
Gardyn is crowned with garlands gay,
And bears the envied prize away.
Long, long that harp, the hills among,
Resounded Ossian's warrior song;
Waked slumbering lyres from every tree
Adown the banks of Don and Dee;
At length was borne by beauteous bride,
To woo the airs on Garry side.
And all the northern bards were dead,
That costly harp, of wondrous mould,
Defaced of all its gems and gold,
With that which Gardyn erst did play,
Back to Dunedin found its way.
And twined the wreath his temples round,
Loud were the shouts of Highland chief—
The Lowlanders were dumb with grief;
And the poor Bard of Ettrick stood
Like statue pale, in moveless mood;
Like ghost, which oft his eyes had seen
At gloaming in his glens so green.
Queen Mary saw the minstrel's pain,
And bade from bootless grief refrain.
Worth all the harps in royal hall;
Of Scottish song a countless store,
Precious remains of minstrel lore,
And cottage, by a silver rill,
Should all reward his rustic skill:
Did other gift his bosom claim,
He needed but that gift to name.
With faltering voice and hanging head,
“Your cottage keep, and minstrel lore—
Grant me a harp, I ask no more.
From thy own hand a lyre I crave;
That boon alone my heart can save.”
I have a harp of old renown,
Hath many an ardent wight beguiled;
'Twas framed by wizard of the wild,
And will not yield one measure bland
Beneath a skilless stranger hand;
But once her powers by progress found,
O, there is magic in the sound!
And thou and all must share a part—
Should scorn be cast from maiden's eye,
Should friendship fail, or fortune fly;
Steal with thy harp to lonely brake,
Her wild, her soothing numbers wake,
And soon corroding cares shall cease,
And passion's host be lulled to peace;
Angels a gilded screen shall cast,
That cheers the future, veils the past.
Their dwelling in the moonbeam leave,
And ope thine eyes by haunted tree
Their glittering tiny forms to see.
The flitting shades that woo the glen
'Twill shape to forms of living men,—
To forms on earth no more you see,
Who once were loved, and aye will be;
And holiest converse you may prove
Of things below and things above.”
Said the rapt bard in ecstasy;
“This soothing, this exhaustless store,
Grant me, my Queen—I ask no more.”
The relic in his old gray plaid,
When Holyrood he left behind
To gain his hills of mist and wind,
Never was hero of renown,
Or monarch prouder of his crown.
He tript the vale, he climbed the coomb,
The mountain breeze began to boom;
Aye when the magic chords it rung,
He raised his voice and blithely sung;
“Hush, my wild harp! thy notes forbear;
No blooming maids nor elves are here:
Forbear a while that witching tone,
Thou must not, canst not sing alone.
When summer flings her watchet screen
At eve o'er Ettrick woods so green,
Thy notes shall many a heart beguile;
Young Beauty's eye shall o'er thee smile,
And fairies trip it merrily
Around my royal harp and me.”
To all the minstrel world been known:
Who has not heard her witching lays
Of Ettrick banks and Yarrow braes?
But that sweet bard, who sung and played
Of many a feat and Border raid,
Of many a knight and lovely maid,
When forced to leave his harp behind
Did all her tuneful chords unwind;
And many ages passed and came
Ere man so well could tune the same.
Not half the chords his fingers played;
Yet even then some thrilling lays
Bespoke the harp of ancient days.
Flung some strained notes along the hill;
His was some lyre from lady's hall,
And not the mountain harp at all.
And chimed his notes on Yarrow vale;
They would not, could not, touch the heart;
His was the modish lyre of art.
Then Leyden came from Border land,
With dauntless heart and ardour high,
And wild impatience in his eye.
Though false his tones at times might be,
Though wild notes marred the symphony
Between, the glowing measure stole
That spoke the bard's inspired soul.
Sad were those strains, when hymned afar,
On the green vales of Malabar:
O'er seas beneath the golden morn,
They travelled on the monsoon borne,
Thrilling the heart of Indian maid,
Beneath the wild banana's shade.—
Leyden! a shepherd wails thy fate,
And Scotland knows her loss too late.
Walter the Abbot came that way!—
The sacred relic met his view—
Ah! well the pledge of Heaven he knew!
He screwed the chords, he tried a strain;
'Twas wild—he tuned and tried again,
Then poured the numbers bold and free,
The ancient magic melody.
It knew the harp of ancient days.
The Border chiefs, that long had been
In sepulchres unhearsed and green,
Passed from their mouldy vaults away,
In armour red and stern array,
And by their moonlight halls were seen,
In visor helm, and habergeon.
Even fairies sought our land again,
So powerful was the magic strain.
He told me where the relic lay;
Pointed my way with ready will,
Afar on Ettrick's wildest hill;
Watched my first notes with curious eye,
And wondered at my minstrelsy:
He little weened a parent's tongue
Such strains had o'er my cradle sung.
Reprove my fond aspiring song?
Or could his tongue of candour say,
That I should throw my harp away?
Just when her notes began with skill
To sound beneath the southern hill,
And twine around my bosom's core,
How could we part for evermore?
'Twas kindness all,—I cannot blame,—
For bootless is the minstrel flame;
But sure a bard might well have known
Another's feelings by his own!
He left our mountains, left the isle;
And far to other kingdoms bore
The Caledonian harp of yore;
But, to the hand that framed her true,
Only by force one strain she threw.
That harp he never more shall see,
Unless 'mong Scotland's hills with me.
I leave thee on the old gray thorn;
The evening dews will mar thy swell,
That waked to joy the cheerful morn.
Chill blows the blast around my head;
And louder yet that blast may blow,
When down this weary vale I've sped.
The mountain sounds are harsh and loud;
The lofty brows of stern Clokmore
Are visored with the moving cloud.
On moorland bald and mountain shaw,
And soon the rainbow's lovely shade
Sleep on the breast of Bowerhope Law;
The genial shower and stealing dew,
Wake every forest bird to sing,
And every mountain flower renew.
That spans the glen and mountain gray,
Though fanned by western breeze's wing,
And sunned by summer's glowing ray,
Renew the age of love and glee!
Can ever second spring restore
To my old mountain harp and me?
Spreads over hill and lonely lea,
And lowly primrose opes unseen
Her virgin bosom to the bee;
And carols hail the year's return;
And daisy spreads her silver star
Unheeded by the mountain burn;
The haunted wild and fairy ring,
Where oft thy erring numbers borne
Have taught the wandering winds to sing.
Strone—(only once used).—A strone is that hill which terminates the range. It is a Highland term, but common in the middle districts of Scotland.
Cory, or Correi, is a northern term, and is invariably descriptive of a green hollow part of the mountain, from which a rivulet descends.
If there is any other term of locality peculiar to Scotland in this poem, I am not aware of it. The Songs of the true bards, indeed, who affect to imitate the ancient manner, abound with old Scotch words and terms, which, it is presumed, the rythm, the tenor of the verse, and the narrative will illustrate, though they may not be found in any glossary of that language. These are, indeed, generally so notoriously deficient and absurd, that it is painful for any one conversant in the genuine old provincial dialect to look into them.
Ignorant, however, as I am of every dialect save my mother tongue, I imagine that I understand so much of the English language as to perceive that its muscular strength consists in the energy of its primitive stem—in the trunk from which all its foliage hath sprung, and around which its exuberant tendrils are all entwined and interwoven—I mean the remains of the ancient Teutonic. On the strength of this conceived principle, which may haply be erroneous, I have laid it down as a maxim, that the greater number of these old words and terms that can be introduced with propriety into our language, the better. To this my casual innovations must be attributed. The authority of Grahame and Scott has of late rendered a few of these old terms legitimate. If I had been as much master of the standard language as they, I would have introduced ten times more.
Dale is the course of a Lowland river, with its adjacent hills and valleys. It conveys the same meaning as strath does in the Highlands.
That some notable bard flourished in Ettrick Forest in that age is evident, from the numerous ballads and songs which relate to places in that country, and incidents that happened there. Many of these are of a very superior cast. “Outlaw Murray,” “Young Tam Lean of Carterhaugh,” “Jamie Telfer i' the fair Dodhead,” “The Dowy Downs of Yarrow,” and many others, are of the number. Dunbar, in his “Lament for the Bards,” merely mentions him by the title of Ettrick; more of him we know not.
Queen Mary's harp, of most curious workmanship, was found in the house of Lude, on the banks of the Garry in Athol, as was the old Caledonian harp. They were both brought to that house by a bride, whom the chieftain of Lude married from the family of Gardyn of Banchory (now Garden of Troup). It was defaced of all its ornaments, and Queen Mary's portrait, set in gold and jewels, during the time of the last rebellion. How it came into the possession of that family is not known; at least, traditions vary considerably regarding the incident. But there is every reason to suppose, that it was given in consequence of some musical excellency in one or other of the Gardyns; for it may scarcely be deemed, that the royal donor would confer so rich and so curious an instrument on one who could make no use of it. So far does the tale correspond with truth, and there is, besides, a farther coincidence, of which I was not previously aware. I find, that Queen Mary actually gave a grand treat at Holyrood-house at the very time specified in the poem, where great proficiency was displayed both in music and dancing.
Coomb is a Scots Lowland term, and used to distinguish all such hills as are scooped out on one side in form of a crescent. The bosom of the hill, or that portion which lies within the lunated verge, is always denominated the coomb.
Shaw is a Lowland term, and denotes the snout or brow of a hill; but the part so denominated is always understood to be of a particular form, broad at the base, and contracted to a point above. Each of these terms conveys to the mind a strong picture of the place so designed. Both are very common.
Law signifies a detached hill of any description, but more generally such as are of a round or conical form. It seems to bear the same acceptation in the Lowlands of Scotland, as Ben does in the Highlands. The term is supposed to have had its derivation from the circumstances of the ancient inhabitants of the country distributing the law on the tops of such hills; and where no one of that form was nigh, artificial mounds were raised in the neighbourhood of towns for that purpose. Hence they were originally called Law-hills; but, by a natural and easy contraction, the laws and the hills of the country came to signify the same thing. A little affinity may still be traced:—both were effective in impeding the progress of a hostile invader; while the hardy native surmounted both without difficulty and without concern.
Glen is a term common to every part of Scotland alike, and invariably denotes the whole course of a mountain stream, with all the hills and valleys on each side to the first summit. It is an indefinite term, and describes no particular size, or local appearance of a river, or the scenery contiguous to it, farther than that it is one, and inclined to be narrow and confined between the hills: these glens being from one to thirty miles in length, and proportionably dissimilar in other respects. By a glen, however, is generally to be understood a branch of a greater river. The course of the great river is denominated the strath, as Strath-Tay, Strath-Spey, &c.; and the lesser rivers, which communicate with these, are the glens. There may be a few exceptions from this general rule, but they are of no avail as affecting the acceptation of the term whenever it is used as descriptive.
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