The Poetical Remains of the late Dr. John Leyden ::

“No danger he fears, for a charm'd sword he wears;
“Of adderstone the hilt;
“No Tynedale knight had ever such might,
“But his heart-blood was spilt.”—

“In my plume is seen the holly green,
“With the leaves of the rowan tree;
“And my casque of sand by a mermaid's hand
“Was formed beneath the sea.

“Then, Margaret dear, have thou no fear!
“That bodes no ill to me,
“Though never a knight by mortal might
“Could match his gramarye.”—

Then forward bound both horse and hound,
And rattle o'er the vale;
As the wintry breeze through leafless trees
Drives on the pattering hail.

Behind their course the English fells
In deepening blue retire;
Till soon before them boldly swells
The muir of dun Redswire.

And when they reach'd the Redswire high,
Soft beam'd the rising sun;
But formless shadows seem'd to fly
Along the muir-land dun.

And when he reach'd the Redswire high,
His bugle Keeldar blew;
And round did float, with clamorous note
And scream, the hoarse curlew.

The next blast that young Keeldar blew,
The wind grew deadly still;
But the sleek fern with fingery leaves
Wav'd wildly o'er the hill.

The third blast that young Keeldar blew,
Still stood the limber fern;
And a Wee Man, of swarthy hue,
Up started by a cairn.

His russet weeds were brown as heath
That clothes the upland fell;
And the hair of his head was frizly red
As the purple heather-bell.

An urchin , clad in prickles red,
Clung cowering to his arm;
The hounds they howl'd, and backward fled,
As struck by Fairy charm.

“Why rises high the stag-hound's cry,
“Where stag-hound ne'er should be?
“Why wakes that horn the silent morn,
“Without the leave of me?”—

“Brown dwarf, that o'er the muirland strays,
“Thy name to Keeldar tell!”—
“The Brown Man of the Muirs, who stays
“Beneath the heather-bell.

“'Tis sweet beneath the heather-bell
“To live in autumn brown;
“And sweet to hear the laverocks swell
“Far far from tower and town.

“But woe betide the shrilling horn,
“The chace's surly cheer;
“And ever that hunter is forlorn,
“Whom first at morn I hear.”—

Says, “Weal nor woe, nor friend nor foe,
“In thee we hope nor dread.”—
But, ere the bugles green could blow,
The Wee Brown Man had fled.

And onward, onward, hound and horse,
Young Keeldar's band have gone;
And soon they wheel in rapid course
Around the Keeldar Stone.

Green vervain round its base did creep,
A powerful seed that bore;
And oft of yore its channels deep
Were stain'd with human gore.

And still, when blood-drops, clotted thin,
Hang the grey moss upon,
The spirit murmurs from within,
And shakes the rocking-stone.

Around, around, young Keeldar wound,
And call'd, in scornful tone,
With him to pass the barrier ground,
The Spirit of the Stone.

The rude crag rock'd: “I come for death,
“I come to work thy woe.”
And 'twas the Brown Man of the Heath,
That murmur'd from below.

But onward, onward, Keeldar past,
Swift as the winter wind,
When, hovering on the driving blast,
The snow-flakes fall behind.

They pass'd the muir of berries blae,
The stone cross on the lee;
They reach'd the green, the bonny brae,
Beneath the birchen tree.

This is the bonny brae, the green,
Yet sacred to the brave,
Where still, of ancient size, is seen
Gigantic Keeldar's grave.

The lonely shepherd loves to mark
The daisy springing fair,
Where weeps the birch of silver bark,
With long dishevelled hair.

The grave is green, and round is spread
The curling lady-fern:
That fatal day the mould was red,
No moss was on the cairn.

And next they pass'd the chapel there;
The holy ground was by,
Where many a stone is sculptur'd fair,
To mark where warriors lie.

And here, beside the mountain flood,
A massy castle frown'd,
Since first the Pictish race in blood
The haunted pile did found.

The restless stream its rocky base
Assails with ceaseless din;
And many a troubled spirit strays
The dungeons dark within.

Soon from the lofty tower there hied
A knight across the vale.
“I greet your master well,” he cried,
“From Soulis of Liddesdale.

“He heard your bugle's echoing call,
“In his green garden bower;
“And bids you to his festive hall,
“Within his ancient tower.”—

Young Keeldar call'd his hunter train;
“For doubtful cheer prepare!
“And, as you open force disdain,
“Of secret guile beware!

“'Twas here for Mangerton's brave lord
“A bloody feast was set,
“Who weetless at the festal board
“The bull's broad frontlet met.

“Then ever, at uncourteous feast,
“Keep every man his brand;
“And, as you mid his friends are plac'd,
“Range on the better hand.

“And if the bull's ill-omen'd head
“Appear to grace the feast,
“Your whingers with unerring speed
“Plunge in each neighbour's breast.”—

In Hermitage they sat at dine,
In pomp and proud array;
And oft they fill'd the blood-red wine,
While merry minstrels play.

And many a hunting-song they sung,
And song of game and glee;
Then tun'd to plaintive strains their tongue,
“Of Scotland's luve and lee.”

To wilder measures next they turn:
“The Black Black Bull of Noroway!”
Sudden the tapers cease to burn,
The minstrels cease to play.

Each hunter bold of Keeldar's train
Sat an enchanted man;
For, cold as ice, through every vein
The freezing life-blood ran.

Each rigid hand the whinger wrung,
Each gaz'd with glaring eye;
But Keeldar from the table sprung,
Unharm'd by gramarye.

He burst the doors; the roofs resound;
With yells the castle rung;
Before him with a sudden bound
His favourite blood-hound sprung.

Ere he could pass, the door was barr'd;
And, grating harsh from under,
With creaking, jarring noise, was heard
A sound like distant thunder.

The iron clash, the grinding sound,
Announce the dire sword-mill:
The piteous howlings of the hound
The dreadful dungeon fill.

With breath drawn in, the murderous crew
Stood listening to the yell;
And greater still their wonder grew,
As on their ear it fell.

They listen'd for a human shriek
Amid the jarring sound;
They only heard, in echoes weak,
The murmurs of the hound.

The death-bell rung, and wide were flung
The castle gates amain;
While hurry out the armed rout,
And marshal on the plain.

Ah! ne'er before in Border feud
Was seen so dire a fray!
Through glittering lances Keeldar hew'd
A red corse-paven way.

His helmet, form'd of mermaid-sand,
No lethal brand could dint;
No other arms could e'er withstand
The axe of earth-fast flint.

In Keeldar's plume the holly green,
And rowan leaves, nod on,
And vain Lord Soulis's sword was seen,
Though the hilt was adderstone.

Then up the Wee Brown Man he rose,
By Soulis of Liddesdale:
“In vain,” he said, “a thousand blows
“Assail the charmed mail.

“In vain by land your arrows glide,
“In vain your faulchions gleam:
“No spell can stay the living tide,
“Or charm the rushing stream.”

And now young Keeldar reach'd the stream,
Above the foamy lin;
The Border lances round him gleam,
And force the warrior in.

The holly floated to the side,
And the leaf of the rowan pale:
Alas! no spell could charm the tide,
Nor the lance of Liddesdale.

Swift was the Cout o' Keeldar's course
Along the lily lee;
But home came never hound nor horse,
And never home came he.

Where weeps the birch with branches green,
Without the holy ground,
Between two old gray stones is seen
The warrior's ridgy mound.

And the hunters bold of Keeldar's train
Within yon castle's wall,
In a deadly sleep must aye remain,
Till the ruin'd towers down fall.

Each in his hunter's garb array'd,
Each holds his bugle horn;
Their keen hounds at their feet are laid,
That ne'er shall wake the morn.

Streamers—Northern lights.

Urchin—Hedge-hog.

University of Virginia Library

THE COUT OF KEELDAR.