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 |  |
NIGHT THE THIRD.
The storm had ceased to shroud the hill;The morning's breath was pure and chill;
And when the sun rose from the main,
No eye the glory could sustain.
The icicles so dazzling bright;
The spreading wold so smooth and white;
The cloudless sky, the air so sheen,
That roes on Pentland's top were seen;
And Grampian mountains, frowning high,
Seemed frozen 'mid the northern sky.
The frame was braced, the mind set free
To feat, or brisk hilarity.
The sun far on his southern throne,
Glowed in stern majesty alone:
'Twas like the loved, the toilsome day,
That dawns on mountains west away,
When the furred Indian hunter hastes
Far up his Appalachian wastes,
To range the savage haunts, and dare
In his dark home the sullen bear.
And ere that noon-day sun had shone
Right on the banks of Duddingston,
Heavens! what a scene of noise and glee,
And busy brisk anxiety!
There age and youth their pastime take
On the smooth ice that chains the lake:
The Highland chief, the Border knight,
In waving plumes, and baldricks bright,
Join in the bloodless friendly war,
The sounding stone to hurl afar.
The hair-breadth aim, the plaudits due,
The rap, the shout, the ardour grew,
Till drowsy day her curtain drew.
The youth, on cramps of polished steel,
Joined in the race, the curve, the wheel;
With arms outstretched, and foot aside,
Like lightning o'er the lake they glide;
And eastward far their impulse keep,
Like angels journeying o'er the deep.
When night her sprangled flag unfurled
Wide o'er a wan and sheeted world,
In keen debate homeward they hie,
For well they knew the Wake was nigh.
By mountain sheer, and column tall,
How solemn was that evening fall!
The air was calm, the stars were bright,
The hoar-frost flightered down the night;
But oft the listening groups stood still,
For spirits talked along the hill.
The fairy tribes had gone to won
In southland climes beneath the sun;
By shady woods, and waters sheen,
And vales of everlasting green,
To sing of Scotia's woodlands wild,
Where human face had never smiled.
The ghost had left the haunted yew,
The wayward bogle fled the clough,
The darksome pool of crisp and foam
Was now no more the kelpie's home:
But Polar spirits sure had spread
O'er hills which native fays had fled;
37
On Arthur's Hill, and Salisbury,
Came voices floating down the air
From viewless shades that lingered there:
The words were fraught with mystery;
Voices of men they could not be.
Youths turned their faces to the sky,
With beating heart, and bended eye;
Old chieftains walked with hastened tread
Loath that their hearts should bow to dread:
They feared the spirits of the hill
To sinful Scotland boded ill.
The echoes of evening, which are occasioned by the voices or mirth of different parties not aware of each other, have a curious and striking effect. I have known some country people terrified almost out of their senses at hearing voices and laughter among the cliffs, where they knew it impossible for human being to reach. Some of the echoes around Edinburgh are extremely grand; what would they then be were the hills covered with wood? I have witnessed nothing more romantic than from a situation behind the Pleasance, where all the noises of the city are completely hushed, to hear the notes of the drum, trumpet, and bugle, poured from the cliffs of Salisbury, and the viewless cannons thundering from the rock. The effect is truly sublime.
The evening star was still in view;
Scarce had the Pleiads cleared the main,
Or Charles reyoked his golden wain,
When from the palace-turrets rang
The bugle's note with warning clang:
Each tower, each spire, in music spake,
“Haste, nobles, to Queen Mary's Wake.”
The blooming maid ran to bedight,
In spangled lace, and robe of white,—
That graceful emblem of her youth,
Of guileless heart, and maiden truth.
The matron decked her candid frame
In moony brooch, and silk of flame;
And every earl and baron bold
Sparkled in clasp and loop of gold.
'Twas the last night of hope and fear,
That bards could sing, or Sovereign hear;
And just ere rose the Christmas sun,
The envied prize was lost or won.
The bard that night who foremost came
Was not enrolled, nor known his name:
A youth he was of manly mould,
Gentle as lamb, as lion bold;
But his fair face, and forehead high,
Glowed with intrusive modesty.
'Twas said, by bank of southland stream
Glided his youth in soothing dream;
The harp he loved, and wont to stray
Far to the wilds and woods away,
And sing to brooks that gurgled by,
Of maiden's form and maiden's eye:—
That, when this dream of youth was past,
Deep in the shade his harp he cast;
In busy life his cares beguiled;
His heart was true, and fortune smiled.
But when the Royal Wake began,
Joyful he came the foremost man,
To see the matchless bard approved,
And list the strains he once had loved.
Two nights had passed, the bards had sung—
Queen Mary's harp from ceiling hung,
On which was graved her lovely mold,
Beset with crowns and flowers of gold;
And many a gem of dazzling dye
Glowed on that prize to minstrel's eye.
The youth had heard each minstrel's strain,
And, fearing northern bard would gain,
To try his youthful skill was moved,
Not for himself, but friends he loved.
Mary Scott.
THE FOURTEENTH BARD'S SONG.
Lord Pringle's steed neighs in the stall,
His panoply is irksome grown,
His plumed helm hangs in the hall,
His broad claymore is berry brown.
His panoply is irksome grown,
His plumed helm hangs in the hall,
His broad claymore is berry brown.
No more his bugle's evening peal
Bids vassal arm and yeoman ride,
To drive the deer of Otterdale,
Or foray on the Border side.
Bids vassal arm and yeoman ride,
To drive the deer of Otterdale,
Or foray on the Border side.
Instead of whoop and battle knell,
Of warrior's song, and revel free,
Is heard the lute's voluptuous swell
Within the halls of Torwoodlee.
Of warrior's song, and revel free,
Is heard the lute's voluptuous swell
Within the halls of Torwoodlee.
Sick lies his heart without relief;
'Tis love that breeds the warrior's woe,
For daughter of a froward chief,
A freebooter, his mortal foe.
'Tis love that breeds the warrior's woe,
For daughter of a froward chief,
A freebooter, his mortal foe.
38
But O, that maiden's form of grace,
And eye of love, to him were dear!
The smile that dimpled on her face
Was deadlier than the Border spear.
And eye of love, to him were dear!
The smile that dimpled on her face
Was deadlier than the Border spear.
That form was not the poplar's stem,
That smile the dawning's purple line;
Nor was that eye the dazzling gem
That glows adown the Indian mine.
That smile the dawning's purple line;
Nor was that eye the dazzling gem
That glows adown the Indian mine.
But would you praise the poplar pale,
Or morn in wreath of roses drest;
The fairest flower that woos the vale,
Or down that clothes the solan's breast?
Or morn in wreath of roses drest;
The fairest flower that woos the vale,
Or down that clothes the solan's breast?
A thousand times beyond, above,
What rapt enthusiast ever saw;
Compare them to that mould of love—
Young Mary Scott of Tushilaw!
What rapt enthusiast ever saw;
Compare them to that mould of love—
Young Mary Scott of Tushilaw!
The war-flame glows on Ettrick Pen,
Bounds forth the foray swift as wind,
And Tushilaw and all his men
Have left their homes afar behind.
Bounds forth the foray swift as wind,
And Tushilaw and all his men
Have left their homes afar behind.
O lady, lady, learn thy creed,
And mark the watch-dog's boisterous din
The abbot comes with book and bead—
O haste, and let the father in!
And mark the watch-dog's boisterous din
The abbot comes with book and bead—
O haste, and let the father in!
And lady, mark his locks so gray,
His beard so long, and colour wan;
O, he has mourned for many a day,
And sorrowed o'er the sins of man!
His beard so long, and colour wan;
O, he has mourned for many a day,
And sorrowed o'er the sins of man!
And yet so stately is his mein,
His step so firm, and breast so bold;
His brawny leg and form, I ween,
Are wondrous for a man so old.
His step so firm, and breast so bold;
His brawny leg and form, I ween,
Are wondrous for a man so old.
Short was his greeting, short and low,
His blessing short as prayer could be;
But oft he sighed, and boded woe,
And spoke of sin and misery.
His blessing short as prayer could be;
But oft he sighed, and boded woe,
And spoke of sin and misery.
To shrift, to shrift, now ladies all,
Your prayers and Ave Marias learn;
Haste trembling to the vesper hall,
For ah! the priest is dark and stern.
Your prayers and Ave Marias learn;
Haste trembling to the vesper hall,
For ah! the priest is dark and stern.
Short was the task of lady old,
Short as confession well could be;
The abbot's orisons were cold,
His absolutions frank and free.
Short as confession well could be;
The abbot's orisons were cold,
His absolutions frank and free.
Ge, Mary Scott, thy spirit meek
Lay open to the searcher's eye;
And let the tear bedew thy cheek,
Thy sins are of a crimson dye.
Lay open to the searcher's eye;
And let the tear bedew thy cheek,
Thy sins are of a crimson dye.
For many a lover thou hast slain,
And many yet lie sick for thee—
Young Gilmanscleuch and Deloraine,
And Pringle, lord of Torwoodlee.
And many yet lie sick for thee—
Young Gilmanscleuch and Deloraine,
And Pringle, lord of Torwoodlee.
Tell every wish thy bosom near,
No other sin, dear maid, hast thou;
And well the abbot loves to hear
Thy plights of love and simple vow.
No other sin, dear maid, hast thou;
And well the abbot loves to hear
Thy plights of love and simple vow.
“Why stays my Mary Scott so long?
What guilt can youth and beauty wail?
Of fervent thought and passion strong,
Heavens! what a sickening tedious tale!”
What guilt can youth and beauty wail?
Of fervent thought and passion strong,
Heavens! what a sickening tedious tale!”
O lady, cease; the maiden's mind,
Though pure as morning's cloudless beam,
A crime in every wish can find,
In noontide glance, and midnight dream.
Though pure as morning's cloudless beam,
A crime in every wish can find,
In noontide glance, and midnight dream.
To woman's heart when fair and free,
Her sins seem great and manifold;
When sunk in guilt and misery,
No crime can then her soul behold.
Her sins seem great and manifold;
When sunk in guilt and misery,
No crime can then her soul behold.
'Tis sweet to see the opening flower
Spread its fair bosom to the sun;
'Tis sweet to hear in vernal bower
The thrush's earliest hymn begun:
Spread its fair bosom to the sun;
'Tis sweet to hear in vernal bower
The thrush's earliest hymn begun:
But sweeter far the prayer that wrings
The tear from maiden's beaming eye;
And sweeter far the hymn she sings
In grateful holy ecstasy.
The tear from maiden's beaming eye;
And sweeter far the hymn she sings
In grateful holy ecstasy.
The mass was said, but cold and dry
That mass to heaven the father sent;
With book, and bead, and rosary,
The abbot to his chamber went.
That mass to heaven the father sent;
With book, and bead, and rosary,
The abbot to his chamber went.
The watch-dog rests with folded eye
Beneath the portal's gray festoon;
The wildered Ettrick wanders by,
Loud murmuring to the careless moon.
Beneath the portal's gray festoon;
The wildered Ettrick wanders by,
Loud murmuring to the careless moon.
The warder lists with hope and dread
Far distant shout of fray begun;
The cricket tunes his tiny reed,
And harps behind the embers dun.
Far distant shout of fray begun;
The cricket tunes his tiny reed,
And harps behind the embers dun.
Why does the warder bend his head,
And silent stand the casement near?
The cricket stops his little reed,
The sound of gentle step to hear.
And silent stand the casement near?
The cricket stops his little reed,
The sound of gentle step to hear.
O, many a wight from Border brake
Has reaved the drowsy warden round;
And many a daughter lain awake,
When parents trowed her sleeping sound.
Has reaved the drowsy warden round;
And many a daughter lain awake,
When parents trowed her sleeping sound.
The abbot's bed is well down spread,
The abbot's bed is soft and fair;
The abbot's bed is cold as lead—
For why?—the abbot is not there.
The abbot's bed is soft and fair;
The abbot's bed is cold as lead—
For why?—the abbot is not there.
Was that the blast of bugle, borne
Far on the night-wind, wavering shrill?
'Tis nothing but the shepherd's horn,
That keeps the watch on Cacra hill.
Far on the night-wind, wavering shrill?
'Tis nothing but the shepherd's horn,
That keeps the watch on Cacra hill.
39
What means the warder's answering note?
The moon is west, 'tis near the day;
I thought I heard the warrior's shout;
'Tis time the abbot were away!
The moon is west, 'tis near the day;
I thought I heard the warrior's shout;
'Tis time the abbot were away!
The bittern mounts the morning air
And rings the sky with quavering croon;
The watch-dog sallies from his lair,
And bays the wind and setting moon.
And rings the sky with quavering croon;
The watch-dog sallies from his lair,
And bays the wind and setting moon.
'Tis not the breeze, nor bittern's wail,
Has roused the guarder from his den;
Along the bank, in belt and mail,
Come Tushilaw and all his men.
Has roused the guarder from his den;
Along the bank, in belt and mail,
Come Tushilaw and all his men.
The abbot from his casement, saw
The forest chieftain's proud array;
He heard the voice of Tushilaw—
The abbot's heart grew cold as clay!
The forest chieftain's proud array;
He heard the voice of Tushilaw—
The abbot's heart grew cold as clay!
“Haste, maidens, call my lady fair,
That room may for my warriors be;
And bid my daughter come and share
The cup of joy with them and me.
That room may for my warriors be;
And bid my daughter come and share
The cup of joy with them and me.
“Say we have fought and won the fray,
Have lowered our haughty foeman's pride;
And we have driven the richest prey
That ever lowed by Ettrick side.”
Have lowered our haughty foeman's pride;
And we have driven the richest prey
That ever lowed by Ettrick side.”
To hear a tale of vanquished foes
His lady came right cheerfully;
And Mary Scott, like morning rose,
Stood blushing at her father's knee.
His lady came right cheerfully;
And Mary Scott, like morning rose,
Stood blushing at her father's knee.
Fast flowed the warrior's ruthless tale,
And aye the red cup passed between;
But Mary Scott grew lily pale,
And trembled like the aspen green.
And aye the red cup passed between;
But Mary Scott grew lily pale,
And trembled like the aspen green.
“Now, lady, give me welcome cheer,
Queen of the Border thou shalt be;
For I have brought thee gold and gear,
And humbled haughty Torwoodlee.
Queen of the Border thou shalt be;
For I have brought thee gold and gear,
And humbled haughty Torwoodlee.
“I beat his yeomen in the glen;
I loosed his horses from the stall;
I slew the blood-hound in his den,
And sought the chief through tower and hall.
I loosed his horses from the stall;
I slew the blood-hound in his den,
And sought the chief through tower and hall.
“'Tis said, in hamlet mean and dark,
Nightly he lies with leman dear;
O, I would give ten thousand mark,
To see his head upon my spear!
Nightly he lies with leman dear;
O, I would give ten thousand mark,
To see his head upon my spear!
“Go, maidens, every mat be spread
On heather haum, or roegrass heap;
And make for me the scarlet bed,
For I have need of rest and sleep.”—
On heather haum, or roegrass heap;
And make for me the scarlet bed,
For I have need of rest and sleep.”—
“Nay, my good lord, make other choice,
In that you cannot rest to-day;
For there in peaceful slumber lies
A holy abbot, old and gray.”
In that you cannot rest to-day;
For there in peaceful slumber lies
A holy abbot, old and gray.”
The chieftain's cheek to crimson grew,
Dropt from his hand the rosy wine—
“An abbot! curse the canting crew!
An abbot sleep in couch of mine!
Dropt from his hand the rosy wine—
“An abbot! curse the canting crew!
An abbot sleep in couch of mine!
“Now, lady, as my soul shall thrive,
I'd rather trust my child and thee
With my two greatest foes alive,
The King of Scots and Torwoodlee.
I'd rather trust my child and thee
With my two greatest foes alive,
The King of Scots and Torwoodlee.
“The lazy hoard of Melrose vale
Has brought my life, my all to stake:
O, lady! I have heard a tale,
The thought o't makes my heart to ache!
Has brought my life, my all to stake:
O, lady! I have heard a tale,
The thought o't makes my heart to ache!
“Go, warriors, hale the villain forth,
Bring not his loathful form to me;
The gate stands open to the north,
The rope hangs o'er the gallows-tree.
Bring not his loathful form to me;
The gate stands open to the north,
The rope hangs o'er the gallows-tree.
“There shall the burning breeze of noon
Rock the old sensual sluggard blind;
There let him swing, till sun and moon
Have three times left the world behind.”
Rock the old sensual sluggard blind;
There let him swing, till sun and moon
Have three times left the world behind.”
O abbot, abbot, say thy prayers,
With orisons load every breath;
The Forest trooper's on the stairs,
To drag thee to a shameful death.
With orisons load every breath;
The Forest trooper's on the stairs,
To drag thee to a shameful death.
O abbot, abbot, quit thy bed,
Ill armed art thou to meet the strife;
Haste, don thy beard, and quoif thy head,
And guard the door for death or life.
Ill armed art thou to meet the strife;
Haste, don thy beard, and quoif thy head,
And guard the door for death or life.
Thy arm is firm, thy heart is stout,
Yet thou canst neither fight nor flee;
But beauty stands thy guard without,—
Yes, beauty weeps and pleads for thee.
Yet thou canst neither fight nor flee;
But beauty stands thy guard without,—
Yes, beauty weeps and pleads for thee.
Proud, ruthless man, by vengeance driven,
Regardless hears a brother plead;
Regardless sees the brand of Heaven
Red quivering o'er his guilty head:
Regardless hears a brother plead;
Regardless sees the brand of Heaven
Red quivering o'er his guilty head:
But once let woman's soothing tongue
Implore his help or clemency;
Around him let her arms be flung,
Or at his feet her bended knee—
Implore his help or clemency;
Around him let her arms be flung,
Or at his feet her bended knee—
The world's a shadow! vengeance sleeps!
The child of reason stands revealed—
When beauty pleads, when woman weeps,
He is not man who scorns to yield.
The child of reason stands revealed—
When beauty pleads, when woman weeps,
He is not man who scorns to yield.
Stern Tushilaw is gone to sleep,
Laughing at woman's dread of sin;
But first he bade his warriors keep
All robbers out, and abbots in.
Laughing at woman's dread of sin;
But first he bade his warriors keep
All robbers out, and abbots in.
The abbot from his casement high
Looked out to see the peep of day;
The scene that met the abbot's eye
Filled him with wonder and dismay.
Looked out to see the peep of day;
The scene that met the abbot's eye
Filled him with wonder and dismay.
40
'Twas not the dews of dawning mild,
The mountain's hues of silver gray,
Nor yet the Ettrick's windings wild,
By belted holm and bosky brae;
The mountain's hues of silver gray,
Nor yet the Ettrick's windings wild,
By belted holm and bosky brae;
Nor moorland Rankleburn, that raved
By covert, clough, and greenwood shaw;
Nor dappled flag of day, that waved
In streamers pale from Gilmanslaw;
By covert, clough, and greenwood shaw;
Nor dappled flag of day, that waved
In streamers pale from Gilmanslaw;
But many a doubted ox there lay
At rest upon the castle lea;
And there he saw his gallant gray,
And all the steeds of Torwoodlee.
At rest upon the castle lea;
And there he saw his gallant gray,
And all the steeds of Torwoodlee.
“Beshrew the wont!” the abbot said,
“The charge runs high for lodging here;
The guard is deep, the path way-laid,
My homilies shall cost me dear.
“The charge runs high for lodging here;
The guard is deep, the path way-laid,
My homilies shall cost me dear.
“Come well, come woe, with dauntless core
I'll kneel, and con my breviary;
If Tushilaw is versed in lore,
'Twill be an awkward game with me.”
I'll kneel, and con my breviary;
If Tushilaw is versed in lore,
'Twill be an awkward game with me.”
Now Tushilaw he waked and slept,
And dreamed and thought till noontide hour;
But aye this query upmost kept,
“What seeks the abbot in my tower?”
And dreamed and thought till noontide hour;
But aye this query upmost kept,
“What seeks the abbot in my tower?”
Stern Tushilaw came down the stair
With doubtful and indignant eye,
And found the holy man at prayer,
With book, and cross, and rosary.
With doubtful and indignant eye,
And found the holy man at prayer,
With book, and cross, and rosary.
“To book, to book, thou reaver red,
Of absolution thou hast need;
The sword of Heaven hangs o'er thy head,
Death is thy doom, and hell thy meed!”
Of absolution thou hast need;
The sword of Heaven hangs o'er thy head,
Death is thy doom, and hell thy meed!”
“I'll take my chance, thou priest of sin,
Thy absolutions I disdain;
But I will noose thy bearded chin,
If thus thou talk'st to me again.
Thy absolutions I disdain;
But I will noose thy bearded chin,
If thus thou talk'st to me again.
“Declare thy business and thy name,
Or short the route to thee is given!”—
“The abbot I of Coldinghame,
My errand is the cause of Heaven.”—
Or short the route to thee is given!”—
“The abbot I of Coldinghame,
My errand is the cause of Heaven.”—
“That shalt thou prove ere we two part;
Some robber thou, or royal spy:
But, villain, I will search thy heart,
And chain thee in the deep to lie!
Some robber thou, or royal spy:
But, villain, I will search thy heart,
And chain thee in the deep to lie!
“Hence with thy rubbish, hest and ban,
Whinyards to keep the weak in awe;
The scorn of Heaven, the shame of man—
No books nor beads for Tushilaw!”
Whinyards to keep the weak in awe;
The scorn of Heaven, the shame of man—
No books nor beads for Tushilaw!”
“Oh! lost to mercy, faith, and love!
Thy bolts and chains are nought to me;
I'll call an angel from above,
That soon will set the prisoner free.”—
Thy bolts and chains are nought to me;
I'll call an angel from above,
That soon will set the prisoner free.”—
Bold Tushilaw, o'er strone and steep,
Pursues the roe and dusky deer;
The abbot lies in dungeon deep,
The maidens wail, the matrons fear.
Pursues the roe and dusky deer;
The abbot lies in dungeon deep,
The maidens wail, the matrons fear.
The sweetest flower on Ettrick shaw
Bends its fair form o'er grated keep;
Young Mary Scott of Tushilaw
Sleeps but to sigh, and wakes to weep.
Bends its fair form o'er grated keep;
Young Mary Scott of Tushilaw
Sleeps but to sigh, and wakes to weep.
Bold Tushilaw, with horn and hound,
Pursues the deer o'er holt and lea;
And rides and rules the Border round,
From Philiphaugh to Gilnockye.
Pursues the deer o'er holt and lea;
And rides and rules the Border round,
From Philiphaugh to Gilnockye.
His page rode down by Melrose fair,
His page rode down by Coldinghame;
But not a priest was missing there,
Nor abbot, friar, nor monk of name.
His page rode down by Coldinghame;
But not a priest was missing there,
Nor abbot, friar, nor monk of name.
The evening came; it was the last
The abbot in this world should see.
The bonds are firm, the bolts are fast,
No angel comes to set him free.
The abbot in this world should see.
The bonds are firm, the bolts are fast,
No angel comes to set him free.
Yes, at the stillest hour of night
Softly unfolds the iron door:
Beamed through the gloom unwonted light,
That light a beauteous angel bore.
Softly unfolds the iron door:
Beamed through the gloom unwonted light,
That light a beauteous angel bore.
Fair was the form that o'er him hung,
And fair the hands that set him free;
The trembling whispers of her tongue
Softer than seraph's melody.
And fair the hands that set him free;
The trembling whispers of her tongue
Softer than seraph's melody.
The abbot's soul was all on flame,
Wild transport through his bosom ran;
For never angel's airy frame
Was half so sweet to mortal man.
Wild transport through his bosom ran;
For never angel's airy frame
Was half so sweet to mortal man.
Why walks young Mary Scott so late,
In veil and cloak of cramasye?
The porter opens wide the gate,
His bonnet moves, and bends his knee.
In veil and cloak of cramasye?
The porter opens wide the gate,
His bonnet moves, and bends his knee.
Long may the wondering porter wait,
Before the lady form return:
“Speed, abbot, speed, nor halt nor bate,
Nor look thou back to Rankleburn!”
Before the lady form return:
“Speed, abbot, speed, nor halt nor bate,
Nor look thou back to Rankleburn!”
The day arrives, the ladies plead
In vain for yon mysterious wight;
For Tushilaw his doom decreed,
Were he an abbot, lord, or knight.
In vain for yon mysterious wight;
For Tushilaw his doom decreed,
Were he an abbot, lord, or knight.
The chieftain called his warriors stout,
And ranged them round the gallows-tree,
Then bade them bring the abbot out,
The fate of fraud that all might see.
And ranged them round the gallows-tree,
Then bade them bring the abbot out,
The fate of fraud that all might see.
The men return of sense bereft,
Falter their tongues, their eye-balls glare:
The door was locked, the fetters left—
All close! the abbot was not there!
Falter their tongues, their eye-balls glare:
The door was locked, the fetters left—
All close! the abbot was not there!
41
The wondering warriors bow to God,
And matins to the Virgin hum;
But Tushilaw he gloomed and strode,
And walked into the castle dumb.
And matins to the Virgin hum;
But Tushilaw he gloomed and strode,
And walked into the castle dumb.
But to the Virgin's sacred name
The vow was paid in many a cell;
And many a rich oblation came
For that amazing miracle.
The vow was paid in many a cell;
And many a rich oblation came
For that amazing miracle.
Lord Pringle walked his glens alone,
Nor flock nor lowing herd he saw;
But even the king upon the throne
Quaked at the name of Tushilaw.
Nor flock nor lowing herd he saw;
But even the king upon the throne
Quaked at the name of Tushilaw.
Lord Pringle's heart was all on flame,
Nor peace nor joy his bosom knew,
'Twas for the kindest, sweetest dame,
That ever brushed the forest dew.
Nor peace nor joy his bosom knew,
'Twas for the kindest, sweetest dame,
That ever brushed the forest dew.
Gone is one month with smile and sigh,
With dream by night and wish by day,
A second came with moistened eye;
Another came and passed away.
With dream by night and wish by day,
A second came with moistened eye;
Another came and passed away.
Why is the flower of yonder pile
Bending its stem to court decay,
And Mary Scott's benignant smile
Like sunbeam in a winter-day?
Bending its stem to court decay,
And Mary Scott's benignant smile
Like sunbeam in a winter-day?
Sometimes her colour's like the rose,
Sometimes 'tis like the lily pale;
The flower that in the Forest grows
Is fallen before the summer gale.
Sometimes 'tis like the lily pale;
The flower that in the Forest grows
Is fallen before the summer gale.
A mother's fostering breast is warm,
And dark her doubts of love I ween:
For why?—she felt its early harm—
A mother's eye is sharp and keen.
And dark her doubts of love I ween:
For why?—she felt its early harm—
A mother's eye is sharp and keen.
Tis done! the woman stands revealed!
Stern Tushilaw is waked to see;
The bearded priest so well concealed,
Was Pringle lord of Torwoodlee!
Stern Tushilaw is waked to see;
The bearded priest so well concealed,
Was Pringle lord of Torwoodlee!
Oh, never was the thunder's jar,
The red tornado's wasting wing,
Nor all the elemental war,
Like fury of the Border king.
The red tornado's wasting wing,
Nor all the elemental war,
Like fury of the Border king.
He laughed aloud—his falchion eyed—
A laugh of burning vengeance born!—
“Does thus the coward trow,” he cried,
“To hold his conqueror's power to scorn?
A laugh of burning vengeance born!—
“Does thus the coward trow,” he cried,
“To hold his conqueror's power to scorn?
“Thinks Tushilaw of maids or wives,
Or such a thing as Torwoodlee?
Had Mary Scott a thousand lives,
These lives were all too few for me.
Or such a thing as Torwoodlee?
Had Mary Scott a thousand lives,
These lives were all too few for me.
“Ere midnight, in the secret cave,
This sword shall pierce her bosom's core,
Though I go childless to my grave,
And rue the deed for evermore.
This sword shall pierce her bosom's core,
Though I go childless to my grave,
And rue the deed for evermore.
“O, had I lulled the imp to rest
When first she lisped her name to me,
Or pierced her little guileless breast
When smiling on her nurse's knee!”
When first she lisped her name to me,
Or pierced her little guileless breast
When smiling on her nurse's knee!”
“Just is your vengeance, my good lord,
'Tis just and meet our daughter die;
For sharper than a foeman's sword
Is family shame and injury.
'Tis just and meet our daughter die;
For sharper than a foeman's sword
Is family shame and injury.
“But trust the ruthless deed to me;
I have a vial potent, good:
Unmeet that all the Scots should see
A daughter's corse embalmed in blood
I have a vial potent, good:
Unmeet that all the Scots should see
A daughter's corse embalmed in blood
“Unmeet her gallant kinsmen know
The guilt of one so fair and young;
No cup should to her memory flow,
No requiem o'er her grave be sung.
The guilt of one so fair and young;
No cup should to her memory flow,
No requiem o'er her grave be sung.
“My potent draught has erst proved true
Beneath my own and husband's eye;
Trust me, ere falls the morning dew,
In dreamless sleep shall Mary lie.”—
Beneath my own and husband's eye;
Trust me, ere falls the morning dew,
In dreamless sleep shall Mary lie.”—
“Even go thy way, thy words are true,
I knew thy dauntless soul before;
But list—if thou deceivest me too,
Thou hast a head! I say no more.”
I knew thy dauntless soul before;
But list—if thou deceivest me too,
Thou hast a head! I say no more.”
Stern Tushilaw strode o'er the ley,
And, wondering, by the twilight saw
A crystal tear drop from his eye,
The first ere shed by Tushilaw.
And, wondering, by the twilight saw
A crystal tear drop from his eye,
The first ere shed by Tushilaw.
O, grievous are the bonds of steel,
And blasted hope 'tis hard to prove;
More grievous far it is to feel
Ingratitude from those we love.
And blasted hope 'tis hard to prove;
More grievous far it is to feel
Ingratitude from those we love.
“What brings my lady mother here,
Pale as the morning shower and cold?
In her dark eye why stands the tear?
Why in her hand a cup of gold?”
Pale as the morning shower and cold?
In her dark eye why stands the tear?
Why in her hand a cup of gold?”
“My Mary, thou art ill at rest,
Fervid and feverish is thy blood;
Still yearns o'er thee thy mother's breast,
Take this, my child, 'tis for thy good!”—
Fervid and feverish is thy blood;
Still yearns o'er thee thy mother's breast,
Take this, my child, 'tis for thy good!”—
O sad, sad was young Mary's plight!
She took the cup—no word she spake:
She had even wished that very night
To sleep, and never more to wake.
She took the cup—no word she spake:
She had even wished that very night
To sleep, and never more to wake.
She took the cup—she drank it dry,
Then pillowed soft her beauteous head,
And calmly watched her mother's eye;
But, O, that eye was hard to read!
Then pillowed soft her beauteous head,
And calmly watched her mother's eye;
But, O, that eye was hard to read!
Her moistened eyes, so mild and meek,
Soon sunk their auburn fringe beneath;
The ringlets on her damask cheek
Heaved gentler with her stealing breath.
Soon sunk their auburn fringe beneath;
The ringlets on her damask cheek
Heaved gentler with her stealing breath.
42
She turned her face unto the wall,
Her colour changed to pallid clay;
Long ere the dews began to fall,
The flower of Ettrick lifeless lay!
Her colour changed to pallid clay;
Long ere the dews began to fall,
The flower of Ettrick lifeless lay!
Why underneath her winding-sheet
Does broidered silk her form enfold?
Why are cold Mary's buskined feet
All laced with belts and bands of gold?
Does broidered silk her form enfold?
Why are cold Mary's buskined feet
All laced with belts and bands of gold?
“What boots to me those robes so gay?
To wear them now no child have I:
They should have graced her bridal day,
Now they must in the churchyard lie!
To wear them now no child have I:
They should have graced her bridal day,
Now they must in the churchyard lie!
“I thought to see my daughter ride,
In golden gear and cramasye
To Mary's fane, the loveliest bride
E'er to the Virgin bent the knee.
In golden gear and cramasye
To Mary's fane, the loveliest bride
E'er to the Virgin bent the knee.
“Now I may by her funeral wain
Ride silent o'er the mountain gray:
Her revel hall the gloomy fane,
Her bridal bed the cheerless clay!”
Ride silent o'er the mountain gray:
Her revel hall the gloomy fane,
Her bridal bed the cheerless clay!”
Why that rich snood, with plume and lace,
Round Mary's lifeless temples drawn?
Why is the napkin o'er her face,
A fragment of the lily lawn?
Round Mary's lifeless temples drawn?
Why is the napkin o'er her face,
A fragment of the lily lawn?
“My Mary has another home;
And far, far though her journey be,
When she to Paradise shall come,
Then will my child remember me.”
And far, far though her journey be,
When she to Paradise shall come,
Then will my child remember me.”
O, many a flower was round her spread,
And many a pearl and diamond bright,
And many a window round her head
Shed on her form a bootless light!
And many a pearl and diamond bright,
And many a window round her head
Shed on her form a bootless light!
Lord Pringle sat on Maygill brae,
Pondering on war and vengeance meet;
The Cadan toiled in narrow way,
The Tweed rolled far beneath his feet.
Pondering on war and vengeance meet;
The Cadan toiled in narrow way,
The Tweed rolled far beneath his feet.
Not Tweed, by gulf and whirlpool mazed,
Through dark wood-glen, by him was seen;
For still his thought-set eye was raised
To Ettrick mountains, wild and green.
Through dark wood-glen, by him was seen;
For still his thought-set eye was raised
To Ettrick mountains, wild and green.
Sullen he sat, unstaid, unblest;
He thought of battle, broil, and blood;
He never crossed, he never wist,
Till by his side a Palmer stood.
He thought of battle, broil, and blood;
He never crossed, he never wist,
Till by his side a Palmer stood.
“Haste, my good lord, this letter read,
Ill bodes it listless thus to be;
Upon a die I've set my head,
And brought this letter far to thee.”
Ill bodes it listless thus to be;
Upon a die I've set my head,
And brought this letter far to thee.”
Lord Pringle looked the letter on,
His face grew pale as winter sky;
But, ere the half of it was done,
The tear of joy stood in his eye.
His face grew pale as winter sky;
But, ere the half of it was done,
The tear of joy stood in his eye.
A purse he to the Palmer threw,
Mounted the cleft of aged tree,
Three times aloud his bugle blew,
And hasted home to Torwoodlee.
Mounted the cleft of aged tree,
Three times aloud his bugle blew,
And hasted home to Torwoodlee.
'Twas scarcely past the hour of noon
When first the foray whoop began;
And, in the wan light of the moon,
Through March and Teviotdale it ran.
When first the foray whoop began;
And, in the wan light of the moon,
Through March and Teviotdale it ran.
Far to the south it spread away,
Startled the hind by fold and tree;
And aye the watchword of the fray
Was “Ride for Ker and Torwoodlee!”
Startled the hind by fold and tree;
And aye the watchword of the fray
Was “Ride for Ker and Torwoodlee!”
When next the day began to fade,
The warriors round their chieftains range;
And many a solemn vow they made,
And many an oath of fell revenge.
The warriors round their chieftains range;
And many a solemn vow they made,
And many an oath of fell revenge.
The Pringles' plumes indignant dance—
It was a gallant sight to see;
And many a Ker, with sword and lance,
Stood rank and file on Torwoodlee.
It was a gallant sight to see;
And many a Ker, with sword and lance,
Stood rank and file on Torwoodlee.
As they fared up yon craggy glen,
Where Tweed sweeps round the Thorny hill,
Old Gideon Murray and his men
The foray joined with right good-will.
Where Tweed sweeps round the Thorny hill,
Old Gideon Murray and his men
The foray joined with right good-will.
They hasted up by Plora side,
And north above Mount-Benger turn,
And loathly forced with them to ride
Black Douglas of the Craigy-burn.
And north above Mount-Benger turn,
And loathly forced with them to ride
Black Douglas of the Craigy-burn.
When they came nigh Saint Mary's lake,
The day-sky glimmered on the dew;
They hid their horses in the brake,
And lurked in heath and braken clough.
The day-sky glimmered on the dew;
They hid their horses in the brake,
And lurked in heath and braken clough.
The lake one purple valley lay,
Where tints of glowing light were seen;
The ganza waved his cuneal way,
With yellow oar and quoif of green.
Where tints of glowing light were seen;
The ganza waved his cuneal way,
With yellow oar and quoif of green.
The dark cock bayed above the coomb,
Throned mid the wavy fringe of gold,
Unwreathed from dawning's fairy loom,
In many a soft vermilion fold.
Throned mid the wavy fringe of gold,
Unwreathed from dawning's fairy loom,
In many a soft vermilion fold.
The tiny skiffs of silver mist
Lingered along the slumbering vale;
Belled the gray stag with fervid breast
High on the moors of Meggat-dale.
Lingered along the slumbering vale;
Belled the gray stag with fervid breast
High on the moors of Meggat-dale.
There, hid in clough and hollow den,
Gazing around the still sublime,
There lay Lord Pringle and his men
On beds of heath and moorland thyme.
Gazing around the still sublime,
There lay Lord Pringle and his men
On beds of heath and moorland thyme.
That morning found rough Tushilaw
In all the father's guise appear;
An end of all his hopes he saw
Shrouded in Mary's gilded bier.
In all the father's guise appear;
An end of all his hopes he saw
Shrouded in Mary's gilded bier.
43
No eye could trace without concern
The suffering warrior's troubled look;
The throbs that heaved his bosom stern
No ear could bear, no heart could brook.
The suffering warrior's troubled look;
The throbs that heaved his bosom stern
No ear could bear, no heart could brook.
“Woe be to thee, thou wicked dame!
My Mary's prayers and accents mild
Might well have rendered vengeance lame—
This hand could ne'er have slain my child!
My Mary's prayers and accents mild
Might well have rendered vengeance lame—
This hand could ne'er have slain my child!
“But thou, in frenzied fatal hour,
Reft the sweet life thou gavest, away,
And crushed to earth the fairest flower
That ever breathed the breeze of day.
Reft the sweet life thou gavest, away,
And crushed to earth the fairest flower
That ever breathed the breeze of day.
“My all is lost, my hope is fled,
The sword shall ne'er be drawn for me;
Unblest, unhonoured, my gray head—
My child! would I had died for thee!”—
The sword shall ne'er be drawn for me;
Unblest, unhonoured, my gray head—
My child! would I had died for thee!”—
The bell tolls o'er a new-made grave;
The lengthened funeral train is seen
Stemming the Yarrow's silver wave,
And darkening Dryhope holms so green.
The lengthened funeral train is seen
Stemming the Yarrow's silver wave,
And darkening Dryhope holms so green.
When nigh the Virgin's fane they drew;
Just by the verge of holy ground,
The Kers and Pringles left the clough,
And hemmed the wondering Scotts around.
Just by the verge of holy ground,
The Kers and Pringles left the clough,
And hemmed the wondering Scotts around.
Vassal and peasant, seized with dread,
Sped off, and looked not once behind;
And all who came for wine and bread,
Fled like the chaff before the wind.
Sped off, and looked not once behind;
And all who came for wine and bread,
Fled like the chaff before the wind.
But all the Scotts together flew,
(For every Scott of name was there),
In sullen mood their weapons drew,
And back to back for fight prepare.
(For every Scott of name was there),
In sullen mood their weapons drew,
And back to back for fight prepare.
Rough was the onset—boast, nor threat,
Nor word, was heard from friend or foe;
At once began the work of fate,
With perilous thrust and deadly blow.
Nor word, was heard from friend or foe;
At once began the work of fate,
With perilous thrust and deadly blow.
O, but the Harden lads were true,
And bore them bravely in the broil!
The doughty laird of wild Buccleuch
Raged like a lion in the toil.
And bore them bravely in the broil!
The doughty laird of wild Buccleuch
Raged like a lion in the toil.
His sword on bassenet was broke,
The blood was streaming to his heel,
But soon, to ward the fatal stroke,
Up rattled twenty blades of steel.
The blood was streaming to his heel,
But soon, to ward the fatal stroke,
Up rattled twenty blades of steel.
Young Raeburn tilted gallantly;
But Ralph of Gilmanscleuch was slain,
Philip and Hugh of Baillilee,
And William, laird of Deloraine.
But Ralph of Gilmanscleuch was slain,
Philip and Hugh of Baillilee,
And William, laird of Deloraine.
Red Will of Thirlestane came on
With his long sword and sullen eye,
Jealous of ancient honours won;
Woe to the wight that came him nigh!
With his long sword and sullen eye,
Jealous of ancient honours won;
Woe to the wight that came him nigh!
He was the last the ranks to break,
And flying, fought full desperately;
At length within his feudal lake
He stood, and fought unto the knee.
And flying, fought full desperately;
At length within his feudal lake
He stood, and fought unto the knee.
Wild looked he round from side to side;
No friendly skiff was there that day!
For why: the knight in bootless pride,
Had driven them from the wave away.
No friendly skiff was there that day!
For why: the knight in bootless pride,
Had driven them from the wave away.
Sore did he rue the stern decree!
Red rolled the billow from the west,
And fishes swam indignantly
Deep o'er the hero's boardly breast.
Red rolled the billow from the west,
And fishes swam indignantly
Deep o'er the hero's boardly breast.
When loud has roared the wintry storm,
Till winds have ceased, and rains are gone,
There oft the shepherd's trembling form
Stands gazing o'er gigantic bone,
Till winds have ceased, and rains are gone,
There oft the shepherd's trembling form
Stands gazing o'er gigantic bone,
Pondering of Time's unstaying tide;
Of ancient chiefs by kinsmen slain:
Of feudal rights, and feudal pride,
And reckless Will of Thirlestane.
Of ancient chiefs by kinsmen slain:
Of feudal rights, and feudal pride,
And reckless Will of Thirlestane.
But long shall Ettrick rue the strife
That reft her brave and generous son,
Who ne'er in all his restless life
Did unbecoming thing but one.
That reft her brave and generous son,
Who ne'er in all his restless life
Did unbecoming thing but one.
Old Tushilaw, with sword in hand,
And heart to fiercest woes a prey,
Seemed courting every foeman's brand,
And fought in hottest of the fray.
And heart to fiercest woes a prey,
Seemed courting every foeman's brand,
And fought in hottest of the fray.
In vain the gallant kinsmen stood
Wedged in a firm and bristled ring;
Their funeral weeds are bathed in blood,
No corslets round their bosoms cling.
Wedged in a firm and bristled ring;
Their funeral weeds are bathed in blood,
No corslets round their bosoms cling.
Against the lance and helmed file
Their courage, might, and skill were vain;
Short was the conflict, short the while
Ere all the Scotts were bound or slain.
Their courage, might, and skill were vain;
Short was the conflict, short the while
Ere all the Scotts were bound or slain.
When first the hostile band upsprung,
The body in the church was laid,
Where vows were made, and requiems sung,
By matron, monk, and weeping maid.
The body in the church was laid,
Where vows were made, and requiems sung,
By matron, monk, and weeping maid.
Lord Pringle came—before his eye
The monks and maidens kneeled in fear;
But Lady Tushilaw stood by,
And pointed to her Mary's bier!
The monks and maidens kneeled in fear;
But Lady Tushilaw stood by,
And pointed to her Mary's bier!
“Thou lord of guile and malice keen,
What boots this doleful work to thee?
Could Scotland such a pair have seen
As Mary Scott and Torwoodlee?”
What boots this doleful work to thee?
Could Scotland such a pair have seen
As Mary Scott and Torwoodlee?”
Lord Pringle came—no word he spake,
Nor owned the pangs his bosom knew;
But his full heart was like to break
In every throb his bosom drew.
Nor owned the pangs his bosom knew;
But his full heart was like to break
In every throb his bosom drew.
44
“O I had weened with fondest heart—
Woe to the guileful friend who lied!—
This day should join us ne'er to part,
This day that I should win my bride!
Woe to the guileful friend who lied!—
This day should join us ne'er to part,
This day that I should win my bride!
“But I will see that face so meek,
Cold, pale, and lifeless though it be;
And I will kiss that comely cheek,
Once sweeter than the rose to me.”
Cold, pale, and lifeless though it be;
And I will kiss that comely cheek,
Once sweeter than the rose to me.”
With trembling hand he raised the lid,
Sweet was the perfume round that flew;
For there were strewed the roses red,
And every flower the forest knew.
Sweet was the perfume round that flew;
For there were strewed the roses red,
And every flower the forest knew.
He drew the fair lawn from her face,
'Twas decked with many a costly wreath;
And still it wore a soothing grace
Even in the chill abodes of death.
'Twas decked with many a costly wreath;
And still it wore a soothing grace
Even in the chill abodes of death.
And aye he prest the cheek so white,
And aye he kissed the lips beloved,
Till pitying maidens wept outright,
And even the frigid monks were moved.
And aye he kissed the lips beloved,
Till pitying maidens wept outright,
And even the frigid monks were moved.
Why starts Lord Pringle to his knee?
Why bend his eyes with watchful strain?
The maidens shriek his mien to see;
The startled priests inquire in vain.
Why bend his eyes with watchful strain?
The maidens shriek his mien to see;
The startled priests inquire in vain.
Was that a sob, an earthly sigh,
That heaved the flowers so lightly shed?—
'Twas but the wind that wandered by,
And kissed the bosom of the dead!
That heaved the flowers so lightly shed?—
'Twas but the wind that wandered by,
And kissed the bosom of the dead!
Are these the glowing tints of life
O'er Mary's cheek that come and fly?
Ah, no! the red flowers round are rife,
The rose-bud flings its softened dye.
O'er Mary's cheek that come and fly?
Ah, no! the red flowers round are rife,
The rose-bud flings its softened dye.
Why grows the gazer's sight so dim?
Stay, dear illusion, still beguile!
Thou art worth crowns and worlds to him—
Last, dear delusion, last a while!
Stay, dear illusion, still beguile!
Thou art worth crowns and worlds to him—
Last, dear delusion, last a while!
Short was thy sway, frenzied and short,
For ever fell the veil on thee;
Thy startling form, of fears the sport,
Vanished in sweet reality!
For ever fell the veil on thee;
Thy startling form, of fears the sport,
Vanished in sweet reality!
'Tis past! and darkly stand revealed
A mother's cares and purpose deep:
That kiss, the last adieu that sealed,
Waked Mary from her death-like sleep!
A mother's cares and purpose deep:
That kiss, the last adieu that sealed,
Waked Mary from her death-like sleep!
Slowly she raised her form of grace,
Her eyes no ray conceptive flung;
And O, her mild, her languid face,
Was like a flower too early sprung!
Her eyes no ray conceptive flung;
And O, her mild, her languid face,
Was like a flower too early sprung!
“Oh, I lie sick and weary here!
My heart is bound in moveless chain;
Another cup, my mother dear,
I cannot sleep though I would fain!”—
My heart is bound in moveless chain;
Another cup, my mother dear,
I cannot sleep though I would fain!”—
She drank the wine with calm delay,
She drank the wine with pause and sigh:
Slowly, as wakes the dawning day,
Dawned long-lost thought in Mary's eye.
She drank the wine with pause and sigh:
Slowly, as wakes the dawning day,
Dawned long-lost thought in Mary's eye.
She looked at pall, she looked at bier,
At altar, shrine, and rosary;
She saw her lady mother near,
And at her side brave Torwoodlee.
At altar, shrine, and rosary;
She saw her lady mother near,
And at her side brave Torwoodlee.
'Twas all a dream, nor boded good,
A phantom of the fevered brain:
She laid her down in moaning mood,
To sooth her woes in sleep again.
A phantom of the fevered brain:
She laid her down in moaning mood,
To sooth her woes in sleep again.
Needs not to paint that joyful hour,
The nuptial vow, the bridal glee—
How Mary Scott, the Forest flower,
Was borne a bride to Torwoodlee.
The nuptial vow, the bridal glee—
How Mary Scott, the Forest flower,
Was borne a bride to Torwoodlee.
Needs not to say, how warriors prayed
When Mary glided from the dome;
They thought the Virgin's holy shade
In likeness of the dead had come.
When Mary glided from the dome;
They thought the Virgin's holy shade
In likeness of the dead had come.
Diamond and ruby rayed her waist,
And twinkled round her brow so fair;
She wore more gold upon her breast
Than would have bought the hills of Yair.
And twinkled round her brow so fair;
She wore more gold upon her breast
Than would have bought the hills of Yair.
A foot so light, a form so meet,
Ne'er trode Saint Mary's lonely lea;
A bride so gay, a face so sweet,
The Yarrow braes shall never see.
Ne'er trode Saint Mary's lonely lea;
A bride so gay, a face so sweet,
The Yarrow braes shall never see.
Old Tushilaw deigned not to smile,
No grateful word his tongue could say;
He took one kiss, blest her the while,
Wiped his dark eye, and turned away.
No grateful word his tongue could say;
He took one kiss, blest her the while,
Wiped his dark eye, and turned away.
The Scotts were freed, and peace restored;
Each Scott, each Ker, each Pringle swore—
Swore by his name, and by his sword,
To be firm friends for evermore.
Each Scott, each Ker, each Pringle swore—
Swore by his name, and by his sword,
To be firm friends for evermore.
Lord Pringle's hills were stocked anew,
Drove after drove came nightly free;
But many a Border baron knew
Whence came the dower to Torwoodlee.
Drove after drove came nightly free;
But many a Border baron knew
Whence came the dower to Torwoodlee.
This ballad is founded on the old song of The Grey Goss-hawk. The catastrophe is the same, and happens at the same place, namely, in St. Mary's Churchyard. The castle of Tushilaw, where the chief scene of the tale is laid, stood on a shelve of the hill which overlooks the junction of the rivers Ettrick and Rankleburn. It is a singular situation, and seems to have been chosen for the extensive prospect of the valley, which it commands both to the east and west. It was the finest old baronial castle of which the Forest can boast, but the upper arches and turrets fell in of late years, with a crash that alarmed the whole neighbourhood. It is now a huge heap of ruins. Its last inhabitant was Adam Scott, who was long denominated in the south the King of the Border, but the courtiers called him the King of Thieves. King James V. acted upon the same principle with these powerful chiefs, most of whom disregarded his authority, as Bonaparte did with the sovereigns of Europe. He always managed matters so as to take each of them single-handed—made a rapid and secret march—overthrew one or two of them, and then returned directly home till matters were ripe for taking the advantage of some other. He marched on one day from Edinburgh to Meggatdale, accompanied by a chosen body of horsemen, surprised Peres Cockburn, a bold and capricious outlaw who tyrannized over those parts, hanged him over his own gate, sacked and burned his castle of Henderland, and divided his lands between two of his principal followers, Sir James Stuart and the Lord Hume. From Henderland he marched across the mountains by a wild unfrequented path, still called the King's Road, and appeared before the gates of Tushilaw about sunrise. Scott was completely taken by surprise; he, however, rushed to arms with his few friends who were present, and, after a desperate but unequal conflict, King James overcame him, plundered his castle of riches and stores to a prodigious amount, hanged the old Border king over a huge tree which is still growing in the corner of the castle-yard, and over which he himself had hanged many a one, carried his head with him in triumph to Edinburgh, and placed it on a pole over one of the ports. There was a long and deadly feud between the Scotts and the Kers in those days; the Pringles, Murrays, and others around, always joined with the latter, in order to keep down the too powerful Scotts, who were not noted as the best of neighbours.
When from the ring the minstrel sprung;
O'er foot of maid, and cane of man,
Three times he foundered as he ran,
And his gilt harp, of flowery frame,
Left ready for the next that came.
Loud were the plaudits—all the fair
Their eyes turned to the royal chair:
They looked again,—no bard was there!
But whisper, smile, and question ran,
Around the ring anent the man;
While all the nobles of the south
Lauded the generous stranger youth.
45
Beneath the mists of Lammermore;
And long, by Nith and crystal Tweed,
Had taught the Border youth to read:
The strains of Greece, the bard of Troy,
Were all his theme, and all his joy.
Well toned his voice of wars to sing;
His hair was dark as raven's wing;
His eye an intellectual lance,
No heart could bear its searching glance:
But every bard to him was dear;
His heart was kind, his soul sincere.
When first of Royal Wake he heard,
Forthwith it chained his sole regard:
It was his thought, his hourly theme,
His morning prayer, his midnight dream.
Knights, dames, and squires of each degree,
He deemed as fond of songs as he,
And talked of them continually.
But when he heard the Highland strain,
Scarce could his breast his soul contain;
'Twas all unequalled, and would make
Immortal Bards, immortal Wake!
About Dunedin streets he ran,
Each knight he met, each maid, each man,
In field, in alley, tower, or hall,
The Wake was first, the Wake was all.
Alike to him the south or north,
So high he held the minstrel worth;
So high his ardent mind was wrought,
Once of himself he scarcely thought.
Dear to his heart the strain sublime,
The strain admired in ancient time;
And of his minstrel honours proud,
He strung his harp too high, too loud.
King Edward's Dream.
THE FIFTEENTH BARD'S SONG.
The heath-cock had whirred at the break of the morn,
The moon of her tassels of silver was shorn,
When hoary King Edward lay tossing in ire,
His blood in a ferment, his bosom on fire:
His battle-files, stretched o'er the valley, were still
As Eden's pine forests that darkened the hill.
The moon of her tassels of silver was shorn,
When hoary King Edward lay tossing in ire,
His blood in a ferment, his bosom on fire:
His battle-files, stretched o'er the valley, were still
As Eden's pine forests that darkened the hill.
He slept—but his visions were loathly and grim;
How quivered his lip! and how quaked every limb!
His dull-moving eye showed how troubled his rest,
And deep were the throbs of his labouring breast.
How quivered his lip! and how quaked every limb!
His dull-moving eye showed how troubled his rest,
And deep were the throbs of his labouring breast.
He saw the Scot's banner red streaming on high;
The fierce Scottish warriors determined and nigh;
Their columns of steel, and, bright gleaming before,
The lance, the broad target, and Highland claymore.
And, lo! at their head, in stern glory appeared
That hero of heroes so hated and feared;
'Twas the exile of Rachrin that led the array,
And Wallace's spirit was pointing the way:
His eye was a torch, beaming ruin and wrath,
And graved on his helmet was—Vengeance or Death!
The fierce Scottish warriors determined and nigh;
Their columns of steel, and, bright gleaming before,
The lance, the broad target, and Highland claymore.
And, lo! at their head, in stern glory appeared
That hero of heroes so hated and feared;
'Twas the exile of Rachrin that led the array,
And Wallace's spirit was pointing the way:
His eye was a torch, beaming ruin and wrath,
And graved on his helmet was—Vengeance or Death!
In far Ethiopia's desert domain,
Where whirlwinds new mountains up-pile on the plain,
Their crested brown billows, fierce curling on high,
O'ershadow the sun, and are tossed to the sky;
But, meeting each other, they burst and recoil,
Mix, thunder, and sink, with a reeling turmoil:
As dreadful the onset that Edward beheld,
As fast his brave legions were heaped on the field.
Where whirlwinds new mountains up-pile on the plain,
Their crested brown billows, fierce curling on high,
O'ershadow the sun, and are tossed to the sky;
But, meeting each other, they burst and recoil,
Mix, thunder, and sink, with a reeling turmoil:
As dreadful the onset that Edward beheld,
As fast his brave legions were heaped on the field.
The plaided blue Highlander, swift as the wind,
Spread terror before him, and ruin behind:
Thick clouds of blood-vapour brood over the slain,
And Pembroke and Howard are stretched on the plain.
Spread terror before him, and ruin behind:
Thick clouds of blood-vapour brood over the slain,
And Pembroke and Howard are stretched on the plain.
The chieftain he hated, all covered with blood,
Still nearer and nearer approached where he stood;
He could not retreat, and no succour was near—
“Die, scorpion!” he cried, and pursued his career.
The king felt the iron retreat from the wound,
No hand to uphold him, he sunk on the ground:
His spirit, escaped on the wings of the wind,
Left terror, confusion, and carnage behind,
Till on the green Pentland he thought he sat lone,
And pondered on troubles and times that were gone.
Still nearer and nearer approached where he stood;
He could not retreat, and no succour was near—
“Die, scorpion!” he cried, and pursued his career.
The king felt the iron retreat from the wound,
No hand to uphold him, he sunk on the ground:
His spirit, escaped on the wings of the wind,
Left terror, confusion, and carnage behind,
Till on the green Pentland he thought he sat lone,
And pondered on troubles and times that were gone.
He looked over meadow, broad river, and downe,
From Ochil's fair mountains to Lammermore brown;
He still found his heart and desires were the same;
He wished to leave Scotland nor sceptre nor name.
From Ochil's fair mountains to Lammermore brown;
He still found his heart and desires were the same;
He wished to leave Scotland nor sceptre nor name.
He thought as he lay on the green mountain thyme,
A spirit approached him in manner sublime:
At first she appeared like a streamer of light,
But still, as she neared, she was formed to his sight.
Her robe was the blue silken veil of the sky,
The drop of the amethyst deepened its dye;
Her crown was a helmet, emblazoned with pearl;
Her mantle the sunbeam, her bracelets the beryl;
Her hands and her feet like the bright burning levin;
Her face was the face of an angel from heaven:
Around her the winds and the echoes grew still,
And rainbows were formed in the cloud of the hill.
A spirit approached him in manner sublime:
At first she appeared like a streamer of light,
But still, as she neared, she was formed to his sight.
Her robe was the blue silken veil of the sky,
The drop of the amethyst deepened its dye;
Her crown was a helmet, emblazoned with pearl;
Her mantle the sunbeam, her bracelets the beryl;
Her hands and her feet like the bright burning levin;
Her face was the face of an angel from heaven:
Around her the winds and the echoes grew still,
And rainbows were formed in the cloud of the hill.
Like music that floats o'er the soft heaving deep,
When twilight has lulled all the breezes asleep,
The wild fairy airs in our forests that rung,
Or hymn of the sky by a seraph when sung;
So sweet were the tones on the fancy that broke,
When the Guardian of Scotland's proud mountains thus spoke:—
When twilight has lulled all the breezes asleep,
The wild fairy airs in our forests that rung,
Or hymn of the sky by a seraph when sung;
So sweet were the tones on the fancy that broke,
When the Guardian of Scotland's proud mountains thus spoke:—
46
“What boots, mighty Edward, thy victories won?
'Tis over—thy sand of existence is run;
Thy laurels are faded, dispersed in the blast;
Thy soul from the bar of Omnipotence cast,
To wander bewildered o'er mountain and plain,
O'er lands thou hast steeped with the blood of the slain.
'Tis over—thy sand of existence is run;
Thy laurels are faded, dispersed in the blast;
Thy soul from the bar of Omnipotence cast,
To wander bewildered o'er mountain and plain,
O'er lands thou hast steeped with the blood of the slain.
“I heard of thy guerdon, I heard it on high:
Thou'rt doomed on these mountains to linger and lie,
The mark of the tempest, the sport of the wind—
The tempest of conscience, the storm of the mind—
Till people thou'st hated, and sworn to subdue,
Triumphant from bondage shall burst in thy view,
Their sceptre and liberty bravely regain,
And climb to renown over mountains of slain.
Thou'rt doomed on these mountains to linger and lie,
The mark of the tempest, the sport of the wind—
The tempest of conscience, the storm of the mind—
Till people thou'st hated, and sworn to subdue,
Triumphant from bondage shall burst in thy view,
Their sceptre and liberty bravely regain,
And climb to renown over mountains of slain.
“I thought (and I joined my endeavours to thine),
The time was arrived when the two should combine;
For 'tis known that they will 'mong the hosts of the sky,
And we thought that blest era of concord was nigh.
But ages unborn yet shall flit on the wing,
And Scotland to England ere then give a king;
A father to monarchs, whose flourishing sway
The ocean and ends of the earth shall obey.
The time was arrived when the two should combine;
For 'tis known that they will 'mong the hosts of the sky,
And we thought that blest era of concord was nigh.
But ages unborn yet shall flit on the wing,
And Scotland to England ere then give a king;
A father to monarchs, whose flourishing sway
The ocean and ends of the earth shall obey.
“See yon little hamlet o'ershadowed with smoke,
See yon hoary battlement throned on the rock,
Even there shall a city in splendour break forth,
The haughty Dunedin, the Queen of the North;
There learning shall flourish, and liberty smile,
The awe of the world, and the pride of the isle.
See yon hoary battlement throned on the rock,
Even there shall a city in splendour break forth,
The haughty Dunedin, the Queen of the North;
There learning shall flourish, and liberty smile,
The awe of the world, and the pride of the isle.
“But thy lonely spirit shall roam in dismay,
And weep o'er thy labours so soon to decay.
In yon western plain, where thy power overthrew
The bulwarks of Caledon, valiant and few;
Where beamed the red falchion of ravage and wrath;
Where tyranny, horsed on the dragons of death,
Rode ruthless through blood of the honoured and just,
When Græme and brave Stuart lay bleeding in dust—
The wailings of liberty pierced the sky;
The Eternal, in pity, averted his eye!
And weep o'er thy labours so soon to decay.
In yon western plain, where thy power overthrew
The bulwarks of Caledon, valiant and few;
Where beamed the red falchion of ravage and wrath;
Where tyranny, horsed on the dragons of death,
Rode ruthless through blood of the honoured and just,
When Græme and brave Stuart lay bleeding in dust—
The wailings of liberty pierced the sky;
The Eternal, in pity, averted his eye!
“Even there the dread power of thy nations combined,
Proud England, green Erin, and Normandy joined,
Exulting in numbers, and dreadful array,
Led on by Carnarvon, to Scotland away,
As thick as the snow-flakes that pour from the pole,
Or silver-maned waves on the ocean that roll:
By a handful of heroes, all desperate driven,
Impelled by the might and the vengeance of Heaven—
By them shall these legions be all overborne,
And melt from the field like the mist of the morn.
The Thistle shall rear her rough front to the sky,
And the Rose and the Shamrock at Carron shall die.
Proud England, green Erin, and Normandy joined,
Exulting in numbers, and dreadful array,
Led on by Carnarvon, to Scotland away,
As thick as the snow-flakes that pour from the pole,
Or silver-maned waves on the ocean that roll:
By a handful of heroes, all desperate driven,
Impelled by the might and the vengeance of Heaven—
By them shall these legions be all overborne,
And melt from the field like the mist of the morn.
The Thistle shall rear her rough front to the sky,
And the Rose and the Shamrock at Carron shall die.
“How couldst thou imagine those spirits of flame
Would stoop to oppression, to slavery, and shame?
Ah! never; the lion may couch to thy sway,
The mighty leviathan bend and obey;
But the Scots, round their king and broad banner unfurled,
Their mountains will keep against thee and the world.”
Would stoop to oppression, to slavery, and shame?
Ah! never; the lion may couch to thy sway,
The mighty leviathan bend and obey;
But the Scots, round their king and broad banner unfurled,
Their mountains will keep against thee and the world.”
King Edward awoke with a groan and a start,
The vision was vanished, but not from his heart!
His courage was high, but his vigour was gone;
He cursed the Scots nation, and bade them lead on.
His legions moved on like a cloud of the west;
But fierce was the fever that boiled in his breast:
On sand of the Solway they rested his bed,
Where the soul of the king and the warrior fled.
He heard not the sound of the evening curfew;
But the whisper that died on his tongue was—“Subdue!”
The vision was vanished, but not from his heart!
His courage was high, but his vigour was gone;
He cursed the Scots nation, and bade them lead on.
His legions moved on like a cloud of the west;
But fierce was the fever that boiled in his breast:
On sand of the Solway they rested his bed,
Where the soul of the king and the warrior fled.
He heard not the sound of the evening curfew;
But the whisper that died on his tongue was—“Subdue!”
The scene of this ballad is on the banks of the Eden in Cumberland, a day's march from Burgh, on the sands of Solway, where King Edward I. died, in the midst of an expedition against the Scots, in which he had solemnly sworn to extirpate them as a nation.
While patriot fire flashed from his eye,
That ere King Edward won to rest,
Or sheet was spread above his breast,
The harp-strings jarred in wild mis-tone;
The minstrel throbbed, his voice was gone.
Upon his harp he leaned his head,
And softly from the ring was led.
The next was from a western vale,
Where Nith winds slowly down the dale;
Where play the waves o'er golden grain,
Like mimic billows of the main.
Of the old elm his harp was made,
That bent o'er Cluden's loneliest shade:
No gilded sculpture round her flamed,
For his own hand that harp had framed,
In stolen hours, when, labour done,
He strayed to view the parting sun.
O, when the toy to him so fair,
Began to form beneath his care,
How danced his youthful heart with joy!
How constant grew the dear employ!
The sun would chamber in the Ken;
The red star rise o'er Locherben;
The solemn moon in sickly hue,
Waked from her eastern couch of dew,
Would half way gain the vault on high,
Bathe in the Nith, slow stealing by,
And still the bard his task would ply.
When his first notes, from covert gray,
Arrested maiden on her way;
When ceased the reaper's evening tale,
And paused the shepherd of the dale—
Bootless all higher worldly bliss,
To crown our minstrel's happiness!
What all the joys by fortune given,
To cloyless song, the gift of Heaven?
That harp could make the matron stare,
Bristle the peasant's hoary hair,
Make patriot breasts with ardour glow,
And warrior pant to meet the foe;
47
Shall chant the strains their minstrel sung:
At ewe-bught, or at evening fold,
When resting on the daisied wold,
Combing their locks of waving gold,
Oft the fair group, enrapt, shall name
Their lost, their darling Cunninghame.
His was a song beloved in youth—
A tale of weir—a tale of truth.
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.
Circled a smile the fair among;
The song was free, and soft its fall,
So soothing, yet so bold withal,
They loved it well, yet, sooth to say,
Too long, too varied was the lay.
'Twas now the witching time of night,
When reason strays, and forms that fright
Are shadowed on the palsied sight;
When fancy moulds upon the mind
Light visions on the passing wind,
And woos, with faltering tongue and sigh,
The shades o'er memory's wilds that fly;
And much the circle longed to hear
Of gliding ghost, or gifted seer,
That in that still and solemn hour
Might stretch imagination's power,
And restless fancy revel free
In painful, pleasing luxury.
Just as the battle-tale was done
The watchman called the hour of one.
52
Lucky the wish of every dame:
The bard who rose at herald's call
Was wont to sing in Highland hall,
Where the wild chieftain of M'Lean
Upheld his dark Hebridian reign;
Where floated crane and clamorous gull
Above the misty shores of Mull;
And evermore the billows rave
Round many a saint and sovereign's grave.
There, round Columba's ruins gray,
The shades of monks are wont to stray,
And slender forms of nuns, that weep
In moonlight by the murmuring deep,
O'er early loves and passions crost,
And being's end for ever lost.
No earthly form their names to save,
No stem to flourish o'er their grave,
No blood of theirs beyond the shrine
To nurse the human soul divine,
Still cherish youth by time unworn,
And flow in ages yet unborn;
While mind, surviving evermore,
Unbodied seeks that lonely shore.
In that wild land our minstrel bred,
From youth a life of song had led,
Wandering each shore and upland dull
With Allan Bawn, the bard of Mull,
To sing the deeds of old Fingal
In every cot and Highland hall.
Well knew he, every ghost that came
To visit fair Hebridian dame,
Was that of monk or abbot gone,
Who once, in cell of pictured stone,
Of woman thought, and her alone.
Well knew he, every female shade,
To westland chief that visit paid
In morning pale, or evening dun,
Was that of fair lamenting nun,
Who once, in cloistered home forlorn,
Languished for joys in youth forsworn;
And oft himself had seen them glide
At dawning from his own bed-side.
Forth stepped he with uncourtly bow;
The heron plume waved o'er his brow;
His garb was blent with varied shade,
And round him flowed his Highland plaid.
But woe to Southland dame and knight
In minstrel's tale who took delight.
Though known the air, the song he sung
Was in the barbarous Highland tongue:
But tartaned chiefs in raptures hear
The strains, the words, to them so dear.
Thus ran the bold portentous lay,
As near as southern tongue can say.
The Abbot M'Kinnon.
THE SEVENTEENTH BARD'S SONG.
M'Kinnon's tall mast salutes the day,
And beckons the breeze in Iona bay;
Plays lightly up in the morning sky,
And nods to the green wave rolling by;
The anchor upheaves, the sails unfurl,
The pennons of silk in the breezes curl;
But not one monk on holy ground
Knows whither the Abbot M'Kinnon is bound.
And beckons the breeze in Iona bay;
Plays lightly up in the morning sky,
And nods to the green wave rolling by;
The anchor upheaves, the sails unfurl,
The pennons of silk in the breezes curl;
But not one monk on holy ground
Knows whither the Abbot M'Kinnon is bound.
Well could that bark o'er the ocean glide,
Though monks and friars alone must guide;
For never man of other degree
On board that sacred ship might be.
On deck M'Kinnon walked soft and slow;
The haulers sung from the gilded prow;
The helmsman turned his brow to the sky,
Upraised his cowl and upraised his eye,
And away shot the bark on the wing of the wind,
Over billow and bay like an image of mind.
Though monks and friars alone must guide;
For never man of other degree
On board that sacred ship might be.
On deck M'Kinnon walked soft and slow;
The haulers sung from the gilded prow;
The helmsman turned his brow to the sky,
Upraised his cowl and upraised his eye,
And away shot the bark on the wing of the wind,
Over billow and bay like an image of mind.
Aloft on the turret the monks appear,
To see where the bark of their abbot would bear;
They saw her sweep from Iona bay,
And turn her prow to the north away,
Still lessen to view in the hazy screen,
And vanish amid the islands green.
Then they turned their eyes to the female dome,
And thought of the nuns till the abbot came home.
To see where the bark of their abbot would bear;
They saw her sweep from Iona bay,
And turn her prow to the north away,
Still lessen to view in the hazy screen,
And vanish amid the islands green.
Then they turned their eyes to the female dome,
And thought of the nuns till the abbot came home.
Three times the night with aspect dull
Came stealing o'er the moors of Mull;
Three times the sea-gull left the deep,
To doze on the knob of the dizzy steep,
By the sound of the ocean lulled to sleep;
And still the watch-lights sailors see
On the top of the spire, and the top of Dun-ye;
And the laugh rings through the sacred dome,
For still the abbot is not come home.
Came stealing o'er the moors of Mull;
Three times the sea-gull left the deep,
To doze on the knob of the dizzy steep,
By the sound of the ocean lulled to sleep;
And still the watch-lights sailors see
On the top of the spire, and the top of Dun-ye;
And the laugh rings through the sacred dome,
For still the abbot is not come home.
But the wolf that nightly swam the sound,
From Rosa's rude impervious bound,
On the ravenous burrowing race to feed,
That loved to haunt the home of the dead,
To him Saint Columb had left in trust
To guard the bones of the royal and just,
Of saints and of kings the sacred dust;
The savage was scared from his charnel of death,
And swam to his home in hunger and wrath,
For he momently saw, through the night so dun,
The cowering monk, and the veiled nun,
Whispering, sighing, and stealing away
By cross dark alley, and portal gray.
O, wise was the founder, and well said he,
“Where there are women, mischief must be.”
From Rosa's rude impervious bound,
On the ravenous burrowing race to feed,
That loved to haunt the home of the dead,
To him Saint Columb had left in trust
To guard the bones of the royal and just,
Of saints and of kings the sacred dust;
The savage was scared from his charnel of death,
And swam to his home in hunger and wrath,
For he momently saw, through the night so dun,
The cowering monk, and the veiled nun,
Whispering, sighing, and stealing away
By cross dark alley, and portal gray.
53
“Where there are women, mischief must be.”
No more the watch-fires gleam to the blast,
M'Kinnon and friends arrive at last.
A stranger youth to the isle they brought,
Modest of mien and deep of thought,
In costly sacred robes bedight,
And he lodged with the abbot by day and by night.
M'Kinnon and friends arrive at last.
A stranger youth to the isle they brought,
Modest of mien and deep of thought,
In costly sacred robes bedight,
And he lodged with the abbot by day and by night.
His breast was graceful, and round withal,
His leg was taper, his foot was small,
And his tread so light that it flung no sound
On listening ear or vault around.
His eye was the morning's brightest ray,
And his neck like the swan's in Iona bay;
His teeth the ivory polished new,
And his lip like the morel when glossed with dew,
While under his cowl's embroidered fold
Were seen the curls of waving gold.
This comely youth, of beauty so bright,
Abode with the abbot by day and by night.
His leg was taper, his foot was small,
And his tread so light that it flung no sound
On listening ear or vault around.
His eye was the morning's brightest ray,
And his neck like the swan's in Iona bay;
His teeth the ivory polished new,
And his lip like the morel when glossed with dew,
While under his cowl's embroidered fold
Were seen the curls of waving gold.
This comely youth, of beauty so bright,
Abode with the abbot by day and by night.
When arm in arm they walked the isle,
Young friars would beckon, and monks would smile;
But sires, in dread of sins unshriven,
Would shake their heads and look up to heaven,
Afraid the frown of the saint to see,
Who reared their temple amid the sea,
And pledged his soul to guard the dome,
Till virtue should fly her western home.
But now a stranger of hidden degree,
Too fair, too gentle a man to be—
This stranger of beauty and step so light
Abode with the abbot by day and by night.
Young friars would beckon, and monks would smile;
But sires, in dread of sins unshriven,
Would shake their heads and look up to heaven,
Afraid the frown of the saint to see,
Who reared their temple amid the sea,
And pledged his soul to guard the dome,
Till virtue should fly her western home.
But now a stranger of hidden degree,
Too fair, too gentle a man to be—
This stranger of beauty and step so light
Abode with the abbot by day and by night.
The months and the days flew lightly by,
The monks were kind and the nuns were shy;
But the gray-haired sires, in trembling mood,
Kneeled at the altar and kissed the rood.
The monks were kind and the nuns were shy;
But the gray-haired sires, in trembling mood,
Kneeled at the altar and kissed the rood.
M'Kinnon he dreamed that the saint of the isle
Stood by his side, and with courteous smile,
Bade him arise from his guilty sleep,
And pay his respects to the God of the deep,
In temple that north in the main appeared,
Which fire from bowels of ocean had seared,
Which the giant builders of heaven had reared,
To rival in grandeur the stately pile
Himself had upreared in Iona's isle;
For round them rose the mountains of sand,
The fishes had left the coasts of the land,
And so high ran the waves of the angry sea,
They had drizzled the cross on the top of Dun-ye.
The cycle was closed and the period run
He had vowed to the sea, he had vowed to the sun,
If in that time rose trouble or pain,
Their homage to pay to the God of the main.
Then he bade him haste and the rites prepare,
Named all the monks should with him fare,
And promised again to see him there.
Stood by his side, and with courteous smile,
Bade him arise from his guilty sleep,
And pay his respects to the God of the deep,
In temple that north in the main appeared,
Which fire from bowels of ocean had seared,
Which the giant builders of heaven had reared,
To rival in grandeur the stately pile
Himself had upreared in Iona's isle;
For round them rose the mountains of sand,
The fishes had left the coasts of the land,
And so high ran the waves of the angry sea,
They had drizzled the cross on the top of Dun-ye.
The cycle was closed and the period run
He had vowed to the sea, he had vowed to the sun,
If in that time rose trouble or pain,
Their homage to pay to the God of the main.
Then he bade him haste and the rites prepare,
Named all the monks should with him fare,
And promised again to see him there.
M'Kinnon awoke from his visioned sleep,
He opened his casement and looked on the deep;
He looked to the mountains, he looked to the shore;
The vision amazed him and troubled him sore,
He never had heard of the rite before;
But all was so plain, he thought meet to obey,
He durst not decline, and he would not delay.
He opened his casement and looked on the deep;
He looked to the mountains, he looked to the shore;
The vision amazed him and troubled him sore,
He never had heard of the rite before;
But all was so plain, he thought meet to obey,
He durst not decline, and he would not delay.
Uprose the abbot, uprose the morn,
Uprose the sun from the Bens of Lorn;
And the bark her course to the northward framed,
With all on board whom the saint had named.
Uprose the sun from the Bens of Lorn;
And the bark her course to the northward framed,
With all on board whom the saint had named.
The clouds were journeying east the sky,
The wind was low and the swell was high,
And the glossy sea was heaving bright
Like ridges and hills of liquid light;
While far on her lubrick bosom were seen
The magic dyes of purple and green.
The wind was low and the swell was high,
And the glossy sea was heaving bright
Like ridges and hills of liquid light;
While far on her lubrick bosom were seen
The magic dyes of purple and green.
How joyed the bark her sides to lave!
She leaned to the lee and she girdled the wave;
Aloft on the stayless verge she hung,
Light on the steep wave veered and swung,
And the crests of the billows before her flung.
Loud murmured the ocean with downward growl,
The seal swam aloof and the dark sea fowl;
The pie-duck sought the depth of the main,
And rose in the wheel of her wake again;
And behind her far to the southward, shone
A pathway of snow on the waste alone.
She leaned to the lee and she girdled the wave;
Aloft on the stayless verge she hung,
Light on the steep wave veered and swung,
And the crests of the billows before her flung.
Loud murmured the ocean with downward growl,
The seal swam aloof and the dark sea fowl;
The pie-duck sought the depth of the main,
And rose in the wheel of her wake again;
And behind her far to the southward, shone
A pathway of snow on the waste alone.
But now the dreadful strand they gain,
Where rose the sacred dome of the main;
Oft had they seen the place before,
And kept aloof from the dismal shore,
But now it rose before their prow,
And what they beheld they did not know.
The tall gray forms, in close-set file,
Upholding the roof of that holy pile;
The sheets of foam and the clouds of spray,
And the groans that rushed from the portals gray,
Appalled their hearts, and drove them away.
Where rose the sacred dome of the main;
Oft had they seen the place before,
And kept aloof from the dismal shore,
But now it rose before their prow,
And what they beheld they did not know.
The tall gray forms, in close-set file,
Upholding the roof of that holy pile;
The sheets of foam and the clouds of spray,
And the groans that rushed from the portals gray,
Appalled their hearts, and drove them away.
They wheeled their bark to the east around
And moored in basin, by rocks imbound;
Then, awed to silence, they trode the strand
Where furnaced pillars in order stand,
All framed of the liquid burning levin,
And bent like the bow that spans the heaven,
Or upright ranged in horrid array,
With purfle of green o'er the darksome gray.
And moored in basin, by rocks imbound;
Then, awed to silence, they trode the strand
Where furnaced pillars in order stand,
All framed of the liquid burning levin,
And bent like the bow that spans the heaven,
Or upright ranged in horrid array,
With purfle of green o'er the darksome gray.
Their path was on wondrous pavement of old,
Its blocks all cast in some giant mould,
Fair hewn and grooved by no mortal hand,
With countermure guarded by sea and by land.
The watcher Bushella frowned over their way,
Enrobed in the sea-baize, and hooded with gray;
The warder that stands by that dome of the deep,
With spray-shower and rainbow, the entrance to keep.
But when they drew nigh to the chancel of ocean,
And saw her waves rush to their raving devotion,
Astounded and awed to the antes they clung,
And listened the hymns in her temple she sung.
The song of the cliff, when the winter winds blow,
The thunder of heaven, the earthquake below,
Conjoined, like the voice of a maiden would be,
Compared with the anthem there sung by the sea.
Its blocks all cast in some giant mould,
54
With countermure guarded by sea and by land.
The watcher Bushella frowned over their way,
Enrobed in the sea-baize, and hooded with gray;
The warder that stands by that dome of the deep,
With spray-shower and rainbow, the entrance to keep.
But when they drew nigh to the chancel of ocean,
And saw her waves rush to their raving devotion,
Astounded and awed to the antes they clung,
And listened the hymns in her temple she sung.
The song of the cliff, when the winter winds blow,
The thunder of heaven, the earthquake below,
Conjoined, like the voice of a maiden would be,
Compared with the anthem there sung by the sea.
The solemn rows in that darksome den,
Were dimly seen like the forms of men,
Like giant monks in ages agone,
Whom the God of the ocean had seared to stone,
And bound in his temple for ever to lean,
In sackcloth of gray and visors of green,
An everlasting worship to keep,
And the big salt tears eternally weep.
Were dimly seen like the forms of men,
Like giant monks in ages agone,
Whom the God of the ocean had seared to stone,
And bound in his temple for ever to lean,
In sackcloth of gray and visors of green,
An everlasting worship to keep,
And the big salt tears eternally weep.
So rapid the motion, the whirl and the boil,
So loud was the tumult, so fierce the turmoil,
Appalled from those portals of terror they turn,
On pillar of marble their incense to burn.
Around the holy flame they pray,
Then turning their faces all west away,
On angel pavement each bent his knee,
And sung this hymn to the God of the sea.
So loud was the tumult, so fierce the turmoil,
Appalled from those portals of terror they turn,
On pillar of marble their incense to burn.
Around the holy flame they pray,
Then turning their faces all west away,
On angel pavement each bent his knee,
And sung this hymn to the God of the sea.
To describe the astonishing scenes to which this romantic tale relates, Icolmkill and Staffa, would only be multiplying pages to no purpose. By the Temple of the Ocean is meant the isle of Staffa, and by its chancel the Cave of Fingal.
St. Columba placed the nuns in an island at a little distance from Iona, where he would not suffer either a cow or a woman; “for where there are cows,” said he, “there must be women; and where there are women, there must be mischief.”
The Monk's Hymn.
Thou, who makest the ocean to flow,
Thou, who walkest the channels below;
To thee, to thee, this incense we heap,
Thou, who knowest not slumber nor sleep,
Great Spirit that movest on the face of the deep!
To thee, to thee, we sing to thee,
God of the western wind, God of the sea!
Thou, who walkest the channels below;
To thee, to thee, this incense we heap,
Thou, who knowest not slumber nor sleep,
Great Spirit that movest on the face of the deep!
To thee, to thee, we sing to thee,
God of the western wind, God of the sea!
To thee, who bringest with thy right hand
The little fishes around our land;
To thee, who breath'st in the bosomed sail,
Rulest the shark and the rolling whale,
Flingest the sinner to downward grave,
Lightest the gleam on the mane of the wave,
Bid'st the billows thy reign deform,
Laugh'st in the whirlwind, sing'st in the storm;
Or risest like mountain amid the sea,
Where mountain was never, and never will be,
And rearest thy proud and thy pale chaperoon
'Mid walks of the angels and ways of the moon;
To thee, to thee, this wine we pour,
God of the western wind, God of the shower!
The little fishes around our land;
To thee, who breath'st in the bosomed sail,
Rulest the shark and the rolling whale,
Flingest the sinner to downward grave,
Lightest the gleam on the mane of the wave,
Bid'st the billows thy reign deform,
Laugh'st in the whirlwind, sing'st in the storm;
Or risest like mountain amid the sea,
Where mountain was never, and never will be,
And rearest thy proud and thy pale chaperoon
'Mid walks of the angels and ways of the moon;
To thee, to thee, this wine we pour,
God of the western wind, God of the shower!
To thee, who bid'st those mountains of brine
Softly sink in the fair moonshine,
And spread'st thy couch of silver light,
To lure to thy bosom the queen of the night;
Who weavest the cloud of the ocean dew,
And the mist that sleeps on her breast so blue;
When the murmurs die at the base of the hill,
And the shadows lie rocked and slumbering still,
And the solan's young, and the lines of foam,
Are scarcely heaved on thy peaceful home,
We pour this oil and this wine to thee,
God of the western wind, God of the sea!—
“Greater yet must the offering be.”
The monks gazed round, the abbot grew wan,
Softly sink in the fair moonshine,
And spread'st thy couch of silver light,
To lure to thy bosom the queen of the night;
Who weavest the cloud of the ocean dew,
And the mist that sleeps on her breast so blue;
When the murmurs die at the base of the hill,
And the shadows lie rocked and slumbering still,
And the solan's young, and the lines of foam,
Are scarcely heaved on thy peaceful home,
We pour this oil and this wine to thee,
God of the western wind, God of the sea!—
“Greater yet must the offering be.”
For the closing notes were not sung by man.
They came from the rock, or they came from the air,
From voice they knew not, and knew not where;
But it sung with a mournful melody,
“Greater yet must the offering be.”
In holy dread they past away,
And they walked the ridge of that isle so gray,
And saw the white waves toil and fret,
An hundred fathoms below their feet;
They looked to the countless isles that lie
From Barra to Mull, and from Jura to Skye;
They looked to heaven, they looked to the main,
They looked at all with a silent pain,
As on places they were not to see again.
A little bay lies hid from sight,
O'erhung by cliffs of dreadful height;
When they drew nigh that airy steep,
They heard a voice rise from the deep,
And that voice was sweet as voice could be,
And they feared it came from the Maid of the Sea.
M'Kinnon lay stretched on the verge of the hill,
And peeped from the height on the bay so still;
And he saw her sit on a weedy stone,
Laving her fair breast, and singing alone;
And aye she sank the wave within,
Till it gurgled around her lovely chin,
Then combed her locks of the pale sea-green,
And aye this song was heard between.
The Mermaid's Song.
Matilda of Skye
Alone may lie,
And list to the wind that whistles by:
Sad may she be,
For deep in the sea,
Deep, deep, deep in the sea,
This night her lover shall sleep with me.
She may turn and hide
From the spirits that glide,
And the ghost that stands at her bedside:
But never a kiss the vow shall seal,
Nor warm embrace her bosom feel;
For far, far down in the floors below,
Moist as this rock-weed, cold as the snow,
With the eel, and the clam, and the pearl of the deep,
On soft sea-flowers her lover shall sleep;
And long and sound shall his slumber be,
In the coral bowers of the deep with me.
Alone may lie,
And list to the wind that whistles by:
Sad may she be,
For deep in the sea,
Deep, deep, deep in the sea,
This night her lover shall sleep with me.
She may turn and hide
From the spirits that glide,
And the ghost that stands at her bedside:
But never a kiss the vow shall seal,
Nor warm embrace her bosom feel;
For far, far down in the floors below,
Moist as this rock-weed, cold as the snow,
With the eel, and the clam, and the pearl of the deep,
On soft sea-flowers her lover shall sleep;
55
In the coral bowers of the deep with me.
The trembling sun, far, far away,
Shall pour on his couch a softened ray,
And his mantle shall wave in the flowing tide,
And the little fishes shall turn aside;
But the waves and the tides of the sea shall cease,
Ere wakes her love from his bed of peace.
No home!—no kiss!—No, never! never!
His couch is spread for ever and ever.
The abbot arose in dumb dismay,
Shall pour on his couch a softened ray,
And his mantle shall wave in the flowing tide,
And the little fishes shall turn aside;
But the waves and the tides of the sea shall cease,
Ere wakes her love from his bed of peace.
No home!—no kiss!—No, never! never!
His couch is spread for ever and ever.
They turned and fled from the height away,
For dark and portentous was the day.
When they came in view of their rocking sail,
They saw an old man who sat on the wale;
His beard was long, and silver gray,
Like the rime that falls at the break of day;
His locks like wool, and his colour wan,
And he scarcely looked like an earthly man.
Wale is a Hebridean term, and signifies the verge or brim of the mountain. It is supposed to be modern, and used only in those maritime districts, as having a reference to the gunnel or wale of a ship or boat.
Whereunto bound, and whence he came;
But a sullen thoughtful silence he kept,
And turned his face to the sea and wept.
Some gave him welcome, and some gave him scorn,
But the abbot stood pale, with terror o'erborne;
He tried to be jocund, but trembled the more,
For he thought he had seen the face before.
Away went the ship with her canvas all spread,
So glad to escape from that island of dread;
And skimmed the blue wave like a streamer of light,
Till fell the dim veil 'twixt the day and the night.
Then the old man arose and stood up on the prow,
And fixed his dim eyes on the ocean below;
And they heard him saying, “Oh, woe is me!
But great as the sin must the sacrifice be.”
Oh, mild was his eye, and his manner sublime,
When he looked unto heaven, and said—“Now is the time.”
He looked to the weather, he looked to the lee,
He looked as for something he dreaded to see,
Then stretched his pale hand, and pointed his eye
To a gleam on the verge of the eastern sky.
The monks soon beheld, on the lofty Ben -More,
A sight which they never had seen before,
A belt of blue lightning around it was driven,
And its crown was encircled by morion of heaven;
And they heard a herald that loud did cry,
“Prepare the way for the abbot of I!”
Ben is a Highland term, and denotes a mountain of a pyramidal form, which stands unconnected with others.
It came from the sea, or it came from the air,
'Twas louder than tempest that ever blew,
And the sea-fowls screamed, and in terror flew;
Some ran to the cords, some kneeled at the shrine,
But all the wild elements seemed to combine;
'Twas just but one moment of stir and commotion,
And down went the ship like a bird of the ocean!
This moment she sailed all stately and fair,
The next, nor ship nor shadow was there,
But a boil that arose from the deep below;
A mountain gurgling column of snow:
It sunk away with a murmuring moan—
The sea is calm, and the sinners are gone.
| The Works of The Ettrick Shepherd | |