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] |
 |
|
| I. |
| II. |
Old David.
|
| III. |
|
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
| 5. |
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
|
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
| 5. |
| 6. |
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
|
|
| 1. |
|
|
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
|
|
|
|
|
 | The Works of The Ettrick Shepherd |  |
Old David.
THE TENTH BARD'S SONG.
And climbed old Wonfell's wizard brae;
Looked round, with visage grim and sour,
O'er Ettrick woods and Eskdale-moor.
An outlaw from the south he came,
And Ludlow was his father's name;
His native land had used him ill,
And Scotland bore him no good-will.
Regardless of the streaks of morn,
Old David spied, on Wonfell cone,
A fairy band come riding on.
A lovelier troop was never seen;
Their steeds were white, their doublets green;
Their faces shone like opening morn,
And bloomed like roses on the thorn.
At every flowing mane was hung
A silver bell that lightly rung;
That sound, borne on the breeze away,
Oft set the mountaineer to pray.
Scarce moved a limb, scarce drew a breath;
But as the tinkling sound came nigh,
Old David's heart beat wondrous high.
He thought of riding on the wind;
Of leaving hawk and hern behind;
Of sailing lightly o'er the sea,
In mussel-shell to Germany;
Of revel raids by dale and down;
Of lighting torches at the moon;
Or through the sounding spheres to sing,
Borne on the fiery meteor's wing:
Of dancing 'neath the moonlight sky;
Of sleeping in the dew-cup's eye.
And then he thought—O! dread to tell!—
Of tithes the fairies paid to hell!
And fixed it on the morning sky;
He knew a mighty One lived there,
That sometimes heard a warrior's prayer—
No word save one, could David say;
Old David had not learned to pray.
What David saw, and what he heard.
He heard their horses snort and tread,
And every word the riders said;
While green portmanteaus, long and low,
Lay bended o'er each saddle-bow.
A lovely maiden rode between,
Whom David judged the Fairy Queen;
But strange! he heard her moans resound,
And saw her feet with fetters bound.
To Ettrick woods their course they take.
Old David followed still in view,
Till near the Lochilaw they drew;
There in a deep and wondrous dell
Where wandering sunbeam never fell,
Where noontide breezes never blew,
From flowers to drink the morning dew;
There, underneath the sylvan shade,
The fairies' spacious bower was made.
Its rampart was the tangling sloe,
The bending briar, and mistletoe;
And o'er its roof the crooked oak
Waved wildly from the frowning rock.
The forest shepherd shunned as hell;
When sound of fairies' silver horn
Came on the evening breezes borne,
Homeward he fled, nor made a stand,
Thinking the spirits hard at hand.
Of giggling laugh and bridle bell,
Or saw the riders troop along,
His orisons were loud and strong:
His household fare he yielded free
To this mysterious company;
The fairest maid his cot within
Resigned with awe and little din.
True he might weep, but nothing say,
For none durst say the fairies nay.
A wondering and a wearied wight.
Seven sons he had, alert and keen,
Had all in Border battles been;
Had wielded brand, and bent the bow,
For those who sought their everthrow.
Their hearts were true, their arms were strong,
Their falchions keen, their arrows long;
The race of fairies they denied—
No fairies kept the English side.
Their brands of steel and bows of yew;
Long arrows at their backs they sling,
Fledged from the Snowdon eagle's wing;
And boun' away brisk as the wind,
The sire before, the sons behind.
So mild on lonely moor and hill,
The little genii of the fell
Forsook the purple heather-bell,
And all their dripping beds of dew,
In wind-flower, thyme, and violet blue;
Aloft their viewless looms they heave,
And dew-webs round the helmets weave.
The waning moon her lustre threw
Pale round her throne of softened blue;
Her circuit round the southland sky
Was languid, low, and quickly by:
Leaning on cloud so faint and fair,
And cradled on the golden air,
Modest and pale as maiden bride,
She sunk upon the trembling tide.
Was now the doubt of every breast.
That fairies were, was not disputed;
But what they were was greatly doubted.
Each argument was guarded well,
With “if,” and “should,” and “who can tell.”
And framed the world's stupendous plan;
Who placed on high the steady pole,
And sowed the stars that round it roll;
And made that sky so large and blue—
Had power to make a fairy too.”
Knew feelings never felt before.
Oft had they darned the midnight brake,
Fearless of aught save bog and lake;
But now the nod of sapling fir,
The heath-cock's loud exulting whirr,
The cry of hern from sedgy pool,
Or airy bleeter's rolling howl,
Came fraught with more dismaying dread
Than warder's horn, or warrior's tread.
They reached the fairies' lonely dell.
O heavens! that dell was dark as death!
Perhaps the pit-fall yawned beneath!
Perhaps that lane that winded low,
Led to a nether world of woe!
But stern necessity's control
Resistless sways the human soul.
With fire by sword struck from the rock:
Old David held the torch before;
His right hand heaved a dread claymore,
Whose Rippon edge he meant to try
On the first fairy met his eye.
Above his head his brand was raised;
Above his head the taper blazed;
A sterner or a ghastlier sight,
Ne'er entered bower at dead of night.
Below each lifted arm was seen
The barbed point of arrow keen,
Which waited but the twang of bow
To fly like lightning on the foe.
Slow move they on, with steady eye,
Resolved to conquer or to die.
Deep in a nook, unseen before;
And by it slept, on wicker chair,
A sprite of dreadful form and air.
His grisly beard flowed round his throat,
Like shaggy hair of mountain goat.
His open jaws and visage grim,
His half-shut eye so deadly dim,
Made David's blood to's bosom rush,
And his gray hair his helmet brush.
He squared, and made his falchion wheel
Around his back from head to heel;
Then, rising tiptoe, struck amain—
Down fell the sleeper's head in twain;
And springing blood, in veil of smoke,
Whizzed high against the bending oak.
“Father, if all the fairies there
Are of the same materials made,
Let them beware the Rippon blade!”
A ghastly smile was seen to play
O'er David's visage, stern and gray;
He hoped, and feared; but ne'er till then
Knew whether he fought with sprites or men.
That oped to hall beneath the rock,
The room was ample, rude, and high;
The arches caverned, dark, and torn,
On Nature's rifted columns borne;
Of moulding rude the embrasure,
And all the wild entablature;
And far o'er roof and architrave,
The ivy's ringlets bend and wave.
In each abrupt recess was seen
A couch of heath and rushes green;
While every alcove's sombre hue,
Was gemmed with drops of midnight dew.
Nor muscle move, nor heave a breath?
See how the sire his torch has lowered,
And bends recumbent o'er his sword!
The arcubalister has thrown
His threatening, thirsty arrows down!
Struck in one moment, all the band
Entranced like moveless statues stand!—
Enchantment sure arrests the spear,
And stints the warrior's bold career.
Distils from yonder gloom profound?
'Tis not the note of gathering shell,
Of fairy horn, nor silver bell:
No, 'tis the lute's mellifluous swell,
Mixed with a maiden's voice so clear,
The flitting bats flock round to hear!
That song, if in the green-wood sung,
Would draw the fays of wood and plain
To kiss the lips that poured the strain.
The lofty pine would listening lean;
The wild birch wave her tresses green;
And larks, that rose the dawn to greet,
Drop lifeless at the singer's feet.
The air was old, the measure slow,
The words were plain, but words of woe.
Nor rested lance, nor lifted brand,
But listening bend, in hopes again
To hear that sweetly plaintive strain.
'Tis gone! and each uplifts his eye,
As waked from dream of ecstasy.
Why heave those groans from Owen's breast?
While kinsmen's eyes in rapture speak,
Why steals the tear o'er Owen's cheek?
That melting song, that song of pain,
Was sung to Owen's favourite strain;
The words were new, but that sweet lay
Had Owen heard in happier day.
Winded the lab'rinth far and low,
Till, in the cave's extremest bound,
Arrayed in sea-green silk, they found
Five beauteous dames, all fair and young;
And she, who late so sweetly sung,
Sat leaning o'er a silver lute,
Pale with despair, with terror mute.
And raised her eyes so lovely blue,
'Twas like the woodland rose in dew.
That look was soft as morning flower,
And mild as sunbeam through the shower.
Old David gazed, and weened the while,
He saw a suffering angel smile;
Weened he had heard a seraph sing,
And sounds of a celestial string.
But when young Owen met her view,
She shrieked, and to his bosom flew:
For, oft before, in Moodlaw bowers,
They two had passed the evening hours.
She was the loveliest mountain maid
That e'er by grove or riv'let strayed;
Old Raeburn's child, the fairest flower
That ever bloomed in Eskdale-moor.
'Twas she the sire that morn had seen,
And judged to be the Fairy Queen;
'Twas she who framed the artless lay
That stopt the warriors on their way.
And round his neck enraptured hung:—
“O my dear Owen! haste and tell,
What caused you dare this lonely dell,
And seek your maid, at midnight still,
Deep in the bowels of the hill?
Here in this dark and drear abode,
By all deserted but my God,
Must I have reft the life he gave,
Or lived in shame a villain's slave.
I was, at midnight's murkest hour,
Stol'n from my father's stately tower,
And never thought again to view
The sun, or sky's ethereal blue;
But since the first of Border-men
Has found me in this dismal den,
I to his arms for shelter fly,
With him to live, or with him die.”
While in that lady's kind embrace!
Warm tears of joy his utterance staid—
“O, my loved Ann!” was all he said.
Though well they loved, her high estate
Caused Owen aye aloof to wait;
And watch her bower beside the rill,
When twilight rocked the breezes still,
And waked the music of the grove
To hymn the vesper song of love;
Then underneath the green-wood bough,
Oft had they breathed the tender vow.
The flowers of all the Border round;
That e'er astounded warrior's ear;
'Twould make even Superstition blush,
And all her tales of spirits hush.
By Dryhope towers, and Meggat-dale:
Ah! little trowed the fraudful train,
They ne'er should see their wealth again;
Their lemans, and their mighty store,
For which they nightly toils had bore
Full twenty autumn moons and more.
They little deemed, when morning dawned,
To meet the deadly Rippon brand;
And only find, at their return,
In their loved cave an early urn.
Ill suits it simple bard to tell
Of bloody work that there befell:
He lists not deeds of death to sing,
Of splintered spear, and twanging string,
Of piercing arrow's purpled wing,
How falchions flash, and helmets ring.
Not one of all that prowling band,
So long the terror of the land,
Not one escaped their deeds to tell;
All in the winding lab'rinth fell.
The spoil was from the cave conveyed,
Where in a heap the dead were laid;
The outer cave our yeomen fill,
And left them in the hollow hill.
The forest shepherd dreads as death.
Not there at evening dares he stray,
Though love impatient points the way;
Though throbs his heart the maid to see,
That's waiting by the trysting tree.
Ere turns the scale of night and day,
Oft breathes the short and ardent prayer,
That Heaven may guard his footsteps there;
His eyes, meantime, so dim with dread,
Scarce ken the turf his foot must tread.
For still 'tis told, and still believed,
That there the spirits were deceived,
And maidens from their grasp retrieved:
That this they still preserve in mind,
And watch, when sighs the midnight wind,
To wreak their rage on human kind.
Was keeper of the forest made;
A trooper he of gallant fame,
And first of all the Laidlaw name.
Spirits, though there, are seldom seen;
And fears of elf, and fairy raid,
Have like a morning dream decayed.
The bare-foot maid, of rosy hue,
Dares from the heath-flower brush the dew,
By flowery den or tinkling rill;
And well dares she till midnight stay,
Among the coils of fragrant hay.
As fell the dusk of Hallow-day,
Have heard the tinkling sound aloof,
And gentle tread of horse's hoof;
And flying swifter than the wind,
Left all their scattered flocks behind.
When winter nights are dark and cold,
The boy dares not to barn repair,
Alone, to say his evening prayer;
Nor dare the maiden ope the door,
Unless her lover walk before;
Then well can counterfeit the fright,
If star-beam on the water light;
And to his breast in terror cling,
For “such a dread and dangerous thing!”
Thou sweetest glen of all the south!
Thy fairy tales, and songs of yore,
Shall never fire my bosom more.
Thy winding glades, and mountains wild,
The scenes that pleased me when a child,
Each verdant vale, and flowery lea,
Still in my midnight dreams I see;
And waking oft I sigh for thee.
Thy hapless bard, though forced to roam,
Afar from thee without a home,
Still there his glowing breast shall turn,
Till thy green bosom fold his urn:
Then underneath thy mountain stone,
Shall sleep unnoticed and unknown.
I remember hearing a very old man, named David Laidlaw, who lived somewhere in the neighbourhood of Hawick, relate many of the adventures of this old moss-trooper, his great progenitor, and the first who ever bore the name. He described him as a great champion—a man quite invincible; and quoted several verses of a ballad relating to him, which I never heard either before or since. I remember only one of them.
There was ane banna of barley mealCam duntin dune by Davy's sheil;
But out cam Davy and his lads,
And dang the banna a' in blads.
He explained how this “bannock of barley meal” meant a rich booty, which the old hero captured from a band of marauders. He lived at Garwell in Eskdale-moor.
Lochy-Law, where the principal scene of this tale is laid, is a hill on the lands of Shorthope in the wilds of Ettrick. The Fairy Slack is up in the middle of the hill, a very curious ravine, and would be much more so when overshadowed with wood. The Back-burn, which joins the Ettrick immediately below this hill, has been haunted time immemorial, both by the fairies, and the ghost of a wandering minstrel who was cruelly murdered there, and who sleeps in a lone grave at a small distance from the ford.
The fairies have now totally disappeared; and it is pity they should; for they seem to have been the most delightful little spirits that ever haunted the Scottish dells. There are only very few now remaining alive who have ever seen them; and when they did, it was on Hallow-evenings, while they were young, when the gospel was not very rife in the country. But, strange as it may appear, with the witches it is far otherwise. Never, in the most superstitious ages, was the existence of witches, or the influence of their diabolical power, more firmly believed in, than by the inhabitants of the mountains of Ettrick Forest at the present day. Many precautions and charms are used to avert this influence, and scarcely does a summer elapse in which there are not some of the most gross incantations practised, in order to free flocks and herds from the blasting power of these old hags. There are two farmers still living, who will both make oath that they have wounded several old wives with shot as they were traversing the air in the shapes of moor-fowl and partridges. A very singular amusement that for old wives! I heard one of these gentlemen relate, with the utmost seriousness, and as a matter he did not wish to be generally known, that one morning, going out a fowling, he sprung a pair of moor-fowl in a place where it was not customary for moor-fowl to stay. He fired at the hen —wounded her, and eyed her until she alighted beyond an old dyke: when he went to the spot, his astonishment may be well conceived, when he found Nell---picking the hail out of her limbs! He was extremely vexed that he had not shot the cock, for he was almost certain he was no other than Wattie Grieve!!!
The tales and anecdotes of celebrated witches, that are still related in the country, are extremely whimsical and diverting. The following is a well-authenticated one: A number of gentlemen were one day met for a chase on the lands of Newhouse and Kirkhope—their greyhounds were numerous and keen, but not a hare could they raise. At length a boy came, who offered to start a hare to them, if they would give him a guinea, and the black greyhound to hold. The demand was singular, but it was peremptory, and on other conditions he would not comply. The guerdon was accordingly paid—the hare was started, and the sport afforded by the chase was excellent— the greyhounds were all baffled, and began to give up one by one, when one of the party came slily behind the boy, and cut the leash in which he held the black dog—away he flew to join the chase. The boy, losing all recollection, ran, bawling out with great vociferation, “Huy, mither, rin!!! Hay, rin, ye auld witch, if ever ye ran i' yer life!! Rin, mither, rin!!” The black dog came fast up with her, and was just beginning to mouth her, when she sprang in at the window of a little cottage and escaped. The riders soon came to the place, and entered the cot in search of the hare; but, lo! there was no living creature there but the old woman lying panting in a bed, so breathless that she could not speak a word!!!
But the best old witch tale that remains, is that which is related of the celebrated Michael Scott, Master of Oakwood. Sir Walter Scott has preserved it, but so altered from the original way, that it is not easy to recognize it. The old people tell it as follows: There was one of Master Michael's tenants who had a wife that was the most notable witch of the age. So extraordinary were her powers, that the country people began to put them in competition with those of the Master, and say, that in some cantrips she surpassed him. Michael could ill brook such insinuations; for there is always jealousy between great characters, and went over one day with his dogs on pretence of hunting, but in reality with an intent of exercising some of his infernal power in the chastisement of Lucky --- (I have the best reason in the world for concealing her reputed name). He found her alone in the field weeding lint; and desired her, in a friendly manner, to show him some of her powerful art. She was very angry with him, and denied that she had any supernatural skill. He, however, continuing to press her, she told him sharply to let her alone, else she would make him repent the day he troubled her. How she perceived the virtues of Michael's wand is not known, but in a moment she snatched it from his hand, and gave him three lashes with it. The knight was momently changed to a hare, when the malicious and inveterate hag cried out, laughing, “Shu, Michael, rin or dee!” and baited all his own dogs upon him. He was extremely hard hunted, and was obliged to swim the river, and take shelter in the sewer of his own castle, from the fury of his pursuers, where he got leisure to change himself again to a man.
Michael being extremely chagrined at having been thus outwitted, studied a deadly revenge; and going over afterwards to hunt, he sent his man to Fauldshope to borrow some bread from Lucky --- to give to his dogs, for that he had neglected to feed them before he came from home. If she gave him the bread, he was to thank her and come away; but if she refused it, he gave him a line written in red characters, which he was to lodge above the lintel as he came out. The servant found her baking of bread, as his master assured him he would, and delivered his message. She received him most ungraciously, and absolutely refused to give him any bread, alleging, as an excuse, that she had not as much as would serve her own reapers to dinner. The man said no more, but lodged the line as directed, and returned to his master. The powerful spell had the desired effect; Lucky --- instantly threw off her clothes, and danced round and round the fire like one quite mad, singing the while with great glee—
Cam seekin bread an' gat nane.”
The goodman mounted his horse, and rode with all speed to the Master, to inquire what he had done to his people which had put them all mad. Michael bade him take down the note from the lintel and burn it, which he did, and all the people returned to their senses. Poor Lucky --- died overnight, and Michael remained unmatched and alone in all the arts of enchantment and necromancy.
| The Works of The Ettrick Shepherd | |