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 Lord of Balloch.
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 | The Works of The Ettrick Shepherd |  |
365
The Lord of Balloch.
The eagle flew over the Laggan Loch,
And down by the braes of Badenoch,
And eastward, eastward sped his way,
Far over the lovely links of Spey;
Till the lord of Balloch turn'd his eye
To the haughty journeyer of the sky,
And he said to his henchman, “Gill-na-omb,
What brings the eagle so far from home?”
And down by the braes of Badenoch,
And eastward, eastward sped his way,
Far over the lovely links of Spey;
Till the lord of Balloch turn'd his eye
To the haughty journeyer of the sky,
And he said to his henchman, “Gill-na-omb,
What brings the eagle so far from home?”
Then Gillion watch'd his lord's dark eye,
And his voice it falter'd in reply;
And he said, “My lord, who needs to care
For the way of the eagle in the air?
Perhaps he is watching Lochdorbin's men,
Or the track of the Gordons of the Glen,
For he spies, from his stories of the wind,
That the dead are often left behind;
Or, haply, he knows, in our forest bounds.
Of some noble stag dead of his wounds.”
And his voice it falter'd in reply;
And he said, “My lord, who needs to care
For the way of the eagle in the air?
Perhaps he is watching Lochdorbin's men,
Or the track of the Gordons of the Glen,
For he spies, from his stories of the wind,
That the dead are often left behind;
Or, haply, he knows, in our forest bounds.
Of some noble stag dead of his wounds.”
“Go, saddle my steed without delay;
I have mark'd yon eagle, day by day,
Still hovering over yon lonely dell—
There's a dread on my soul which I dare not tell.
Gillion, no mystery may I brook,
I like not your suspicious look,
And have noted your absence from my hand
More than I approve or understand;
Say, have you heard no word at all
Of some one miss'd from her father's hall?”
I have mark'd yon eagle, day by day,
Still hovering over yon lonely dell—
There's a dread on my soul which I dare not tell.
Gillion, no mystery may I brook,
I like not your suspicious look,
And have noted your absence from my hand
More than I approve or understand;
Say, have you heard no word at all
Of some one miss'd from her father's hall?”
“No, my good lord—No, not one word,
As I shall be sworn upon my sword;
And why should the eagle's yelling din
Awake suspicions your heart within?”
As I shall be sworn upon my sword;
And why should the eagle's yelling din
Awake suspicions your heart within?”
That lord he mounted his gallant steed,
But at his henchman he shook his head,
And gave him a look as bounding away,
That fill'd his black heart with dismay;
And he fled to hide in the bosky burn,
For he durst not wait his lord's return.
But at his henchman he shook his head,
And gave him a look as bounding away,
That fill'd his black heart with dismay;
And he fled to hide in the bosky burn,
For he durst not wait his lord's return.
The lord of Balloch away is gone,
With beating heart, to the wild alone;
For in the dead of night he had dream'd
Of that dell o'er which the eagle scream'd,
And there, with his mortal eye, had seen
A vision of terror and of teen;
And something was borne on his soul oppress'd,
Of a deed that would never be redress'd;
For there are sprites that the truth can scan,
And whisper it to the soul of man.
With beating heart, to the wild alone;
For in the dead of night he had dream'd
Of that dell o'er which the eagle scream'd,
And there, with his mortal eye, had seen
A vision of terror and of teen;
And something was borne on his soul oppress'd,
Of a deed that would never be redress'd;
For there are sprites that the truth can scan,
And whisper it to the soul of man.
The eagle he sail'd upon the cloud,
And he spread his wings, and scream'd aloud,
For he durst not light in the lonely dell,
But his rage made all the echoes yell;
For he saw the blood below his feet,
And he saw it red, and he knew it sweet,
And though death was pleasing to his eye,
The silken tartans stream'd too nigh.
And he spread his wings, and scream'd aloud,
For he durst not light in the lonely dell,
But his rage made all the echoes yell;
For he saw the blood below his feet,
And he saw it red, and he knew it sweet,
And though death was pleasing to his eye,
The silken tartans stream'd too nigh.
The lord of Balloch rode on and on,
With a heavy gloom his heart upon,
Till his stead began to show demur,
For he snorted and refused the spur,
And, nor for coaxing nor for blow,
Farther one step he would not go;
He rear'd aloft and he shook with fear,
And his snorting was terrible to hear:
The gallant steed is left behind,
And the chief proceeds with a troubled mind.
With a heavy gloom his heart upon,
Till his stead began to show demur,
For he snorted and refused the spur,
And, nor for coaxing nor for blow,
Farther one step he would not go;
He rear'd aloft and he shook with fear,
And his snorting was terrible to hear:
The gallant steed is left behind,
And the chief proceeds with a troubled mind.
But short way had that good lord gone,
Ere his heart was turn'd into a stone;
It was not for nought that the steed rebell'd;
It was not for nought that the eagle yell'd;
It was not for nought that the visions of night
Presented that lord with a grievous sight—
A sight of misery and despair:
But I dare not tell what he found there!
For the hearts of the old would withhold belief,
And the hearts of the young would bleed with grief,
Till the very fountains of life ran dry!
Sweet sleep would forsake the virgin's eye,
And man, whose love she had learn'd to prize,
Would appear a monster in disguise—
A thing of cursed unhallow'd birth,
Unfit to dwell on his Maker's earth;
The very flowers of the wilder'd dell
Would blush, were I that tale to tell!
Ere his heart was turn'd into a stone;
It was not for nought that the steed rebell'd;
It was not for nought that the eagle yell'd;
It was not for nought that the visions of night
Presented that lord with a grievous sight—
A sight of misery and despair:
But I dare not tell what he found there!
For the hearts of the old would withhold belief,
And the hearts of the young would bleed with grief,
Till the very fountains of life ran dry!
Sweet sleep would forsake the virgin's eye,
And man, whose love she had learn'd to prize,
Would appear a monster in disguise—
A thing of cursed unhallow'd birth,
Unfit to dwell on his Maker's earth;
The very flowers of the wilder'd dell
Would blush, were I that tale to tell!
Ah! the clan of Lochdorbin for ever may rue
That the dream and its ending proved so true,
For twenty ruffians of that dome,
And at their head base Gill-na-omb,
Were hung by the necks around that dell,
To bleach in the snows and rains that fell;
And there they swung the wild within,
Till the dry bones rattled in the skin;
And they hung, and they hung, till all was gone
Save a straggling skull and white back-bone—
A lesson to men of each degree,
How sacred the virgin form should be.
That the dream and its ending proved so true,
For twenty ruffians of that dome,
And at their head base Gill-na-omb,
Were hung by the necks around that dell,
To bleach in the snows and rains that fell;
And there they swung the wild within,
Till the dry bones rattled in the skin;
And they hung, and they hung, till all was gone
Save a straggling skull and white back-bone—
A lesson to men of each degree,
How sacred the virgin form should be.
As for Lochdorbin's brutal chief,
He was pinion'd like a common thief,
And cast into a dungeon deep
Below the Balloch castle-keep,
Where he pined to death, there not the first
Who had died of hunger and of thirst.
On his own flesh he strove to dine,
And drank his blood instead of wine,
Then groan'd his sicken'd soul away,
Cursing the lord of Balloch's sway,
And wishing, with dying grin and roar,
That twenty maidens, and twenty more,
Were in his power in the lonely dell,
And all by that lord beloved as well.
He was pinion'd like a common thief,
And cast into a dungeon deep
Below the Balloch castle-keep,
Where he pined to death, there not the first
Who had died of hunger and of thirst.
On his own flesh he strove to dine,
And drank his blood instead of wine,
Then groan'd his sicken'd soul away,
Cursing the lord of Balloch's sway,
And wishing, with dying grin and roar,
That twenty maidens, and twenty more,
Were in his power in the lonely dell,
And all by that lord beloved as well.
He is gone—extinct, and well-away!
His castle's a ruin unto this day,
And neither the shepherd nor hind can tell
The name of the chief that there did dwell;
And all that remains of that cruel beast,
Who laid the Buchan and Bogie waste,
Are some shreds of bones in the Balloch keep,
Still kick'd about in that dungeon deep;
Or haply some films of dust enshrined,
Whirl'd on the eddies of the wind.
So perish all from noble range,
Who would wrong a virgin for revenge!
His castle's a ruin unto this day,
And neither the shepherd nor hind can tell
The name of the chief that there did dwell;
366
Who laid the Buchan and Bogie waste,
Are some shreds of bones in the Balloch keep,
Still kick'd about in that dungeon deep;
Or haply some films of dust enshrined,
Whirl'd on the eddies of the wind.
So perish all from noble range,
Who would wrong a virgin for revenge!
The scene of this ancient and horrible legend seems to have been in the country of the Grants, whose chief may have been the Lord of Balloch. In the same district, also, there is an ancient castle, or rather garrison, of great strength and magnificence, called Lochindorb. It is situated on an island. Its walls are twenty feet thick, and it covers fully an acre of ground. It has a spacious entrance of hewn stone, and strong watch-towers at each corner. The inhabitants of the district can give no account of it, but say it was the residence of a great cateran chief, who was put down by the Earl of Moray and the Laird of Grant. Another account is, that he and all his followers were surprised, and cut off to a man, by the Laird of Grant. It is not improbable that this cateran chief may have been one of King Edward's officers.
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