University of Virginia Library

I'll tell a tale. List, ye who glory
In truth, and love a soothfast story;
A tale still told by sires and dames,
Who know each name the legend names;
'Tis current as the gold when minted,
I've heard it sung, and seen it printed;
By marvelling maids, like sweet milk swallowed,
Confirmed by tongues profane and hallowed.
Believe! believe! can it be doubted,
That's printed, said, and sung, and quoted;
Turn sceptic, critic, take to thieving,
Ye who lack fancy for believing.

On Solway side lies green Glenhowan,
The birthplace of the birk and gowan;
The bud is there first on the timmer,
The first rose there is born to simmer;
There, 'mongst the lilies long and blooming,
Bees hunting honey first are humming;
The violet there, in odour's swimming;
There, skimmed milk stands a second creaming;
Age there grows with its gray hairs rasher;
A dame of sixty's there a dasher:
Its maids I name not,—verse of mine
Will never do for things divine.
Joy, like a virgin veiled and snooded,
O'er green Glenhowan hung and brooded;
Wide was its glory known and noted,
In songs and sermons sung and quoted.

There dwelt a farmer, John Mactavish,
A man in years, and upright, avish;
Green as a rush, straight as an arrow,
And fragrant as a new turned furrow.
He in mirth's harvest was a reaper,
A singer, dancer, and a leaper;
His favourite spring was brose and butter,
His favourite fling the double flutter;
A lint wheel he could make and spin on't,
A corn mill he could make and grin' on't,
A fiddle he could make and string it,
A merry sang indite and sing it.
On price of corn and rise of wages,
He'd speak like all Saint Stephen's sages;
And chief when bowls well spiced and reeking
Had given the dumb the gift of speaking;
He wet his controversial whistle,
And spoke and preached like an apostle.
When wool was high and corn was dear,
How glorious home was John's career;
With buckles bright and gold in pocket,
He through the air flashed like a rocket;
The very steed he spurred and yerket,
Knew he rode from a rising market:
Wives screaming ran as he came glowin',
Cried, “Run in, bairns, here comes Glenhowan.”

John had at home, which, though not rarest,
Is of all woes by far the fairest;
Which some,—and here, I say't with sorrow,
From pious men the words I borrow,
Call whited tombs and painted devils,
The loveliest of permitted evils;
Whom priests, who pit out pairs for strife,
Look on with trembling and cry “Wife”
And such a wife! The starlight streaming,
In odorous dew the violet swimming,
The lark, in song, through sunshine mounting,
A light seen through a falling fountain,
The foxglove, when its bloom is fairest,
The red rose, when its breast is barest,
The goldfinch, singing as it's flying,
A sunbeam among lilies lying,
A white rose dipt in glowing wine—
These are bards' similes, not mine;
I'm plain of speech, my muse would shy at
Words specked and spotted like a pyat.

I say, in plain and workday words,
She had a hand as white as curds;
In home made gown, long, gray, and glossy,
She bore the bell, at kirk and causey;
Though this was fair and that was tall,
She, like the sun, shone o'er them all.
When pegs were screwed and candles glanced,
And sorrow smiled, and douce folk danced,
And widows sought to sooth their smart,
A light tune for a heavy heart;
How her small slippered feet victorious,
Triumph'd o'er hearts, and men cried “glorious!”
The birds which charm us from the tree,
Are fair and small, and so was she;
Her husband, among men the tallest,
In choosing evils, chose the smallest;
And yet, believe the country's voice,
The good old man made a wild choice:
'Twas said his spouse, young Elspat Coman,
Had wit might served an older woman.
Her merry laugh, in joy, could stir up
The mouse's cheep and cricket's chirrup;
Her frown, for whiles she frowned, could damp
Mirth's light, as one would quench a lamp;
And John, when fury pinch'd and nipt her,
Fled, and took tooth and nail to scripture:
The honest man, 'twas widely said,
In scripture lore was deeply read.

One of her hinds,—the morning lark
Sang like him,—and his name was Mark;
Was mirthsome as a fiddle peg,
Bright browed, blue eyed, and such a leg!
It happened, as it sometimes happens,
That tooming cups and quaffing chappins;
And dancing till his head grew dizzie,
And daffing with some charming hizzie;
Wauking the living corse, or warming
His heels to hear a mountain sermon;
Made him heart-sick,—he fell from folly,
And took to thought and melancholy;
Read Fourfold Boston, saw his errors,
Dreamed direful dreams, woke in the horrors:
Prayed prayers as long as three dissenters,
Sung psalms as loud as six precentors;
Bewailed the bird that sung on Sunday,
As light and loud as if 'twere Monday;
Till giddy lasses, east and west,
Laughed loud and shouted “Mark's possest.”
Young Elspat on him gazed and shook
Her head, then stole a second look,
And said, “O never on a better
Has sorrow clapt her claw and fetter.”
She called her horse, and, like wild fire,
Flew off, a merrier hind to hire:
As from her steed's heels flashed the spark,
She sighed, “'Tis o'er with mirthsome Mark.”

There's few so sunk in melancholy,
But love to talk of times of folly;
When hope's mercurial glass with fire
Was filled, and youth's wild pulse beat higher;
With heart unstung and soul unsobered,
'Mid bloom, like bees, they sucked and laboured;
And screwing pleasure's golden pegs,
And touching earth as if 'twere eggs;
They sailed along their dreaming way,
To waken when their heads were gray.
To all such souls, or laird or peasant,
Dumfries, thy hiring fair is pleasant:
The country pours, from hills and hallows,
Its sonsie queans and strappan fallows;
And crowns are cloured, and noses knuckled,
Douce lads filled fou, and lasses buckled:
And sweet eighteen, all rapt and carried,
At morn cries “Gosh! I doubt I'm married.”
On such a day, down Dumfries causey,
Walked Robin Roole, and he walked saucy;
His hiring branch, so green and rustling,
Wagged as he went, and he went whistling;
His looks said plain and frank and free,
Who wants a man of mark like me,
His fields to furrow, rowe a louchter,
Dance when I've done, and daut his daughter?
And with a step baith steeve and lordly,
He paced the street, and paced it proudly.

A dame, a fair dame, and a sweet,
Marked Rob and stayed him in the street;
Said, “Robin Roole of Pickletiller,
A crown for erles,—see there's the siller;
Come till my lands, come sow, come reap,
Come guide my horses, shear my sheep;
Thrash corn till loud the barn floor dirles,
Red gold's thy fee, and there's thy erles;
I dwell by Solway, swelled and flowan,
A bonnie bit—by name Glenhowan:
Where men with toil are never tired,
And maids are kind,—so, lad, ye're hired;
Come when thou wilt, for sad and surely
I want a hind, and want him sorely.”

Like fire when set to sunburned heather,
Like wanton colt that snaps its tether,
Like foaming streams, hap, step, and jump,
Just maddened by a thunder plump;
Or youth grown sick of grandame schooling,
By wisdom goaded into fooling:
Away flew Rob, passed dames and carles,
And muttered, “Losh! a crown for erles,
And red gowd for my half-year's fee;
A winsome dame, and sic an ee!”
He laughed, and swimming thus each palm,
Staved on,—the learned say ram-stam;
And those who classically speak,
Say, stauping,—the expression's Greek:
Thrice bless'd be lore that thus gives jolly
Old dullness, tongues to vent its folly.

As on he went, splash, clittar clatter,
Like mill-wheel 'mid descending water;
A lass cried “Rob”—ane cosh and cozie,
Or, as bards word it, ripe and rosie;
Ripe, well I wot, for time had clean
Pushed her a score years past nineteen;
And rosie—those who ballads spin,
In roses dip their damsels din.
She spoke; the tide of time or sea,
Ne'er ran so fast or flowed so free.
“O Robin Roole! poor sackless sinner!
Thy baptized soul shall warlocks dinner;
There's Kate Maclure, a starker witch
Ne'er wore a gown of flame and pitch;
And Nickie Neeven, who can trample
The roaring sea—take these as sample.
But worse than all is Elspat Coman;
A woman! Rob, she's waur than woman:
She'll lure ye to her charmed chaumer,
And turn ye to a gowk wi' glamour.
Ye'll gang in young and yaup and laughing,
And come out bald and bent and coughing:
Ye'll gang in cantie, crouse and jolly,
And come out like a scalded colly.
Wha killed Rob Robson's white cow Dautie?
Wha witched Rob Rodan's black dog Bawtie?
Wha flaffed like fire through Kirdle Parish?
And drove to drinking douce Frank Farish?
Wha made a steed on storms could gallop?
Wha turned her auld shoe to a shallop?
Wha learn'd Tam Boo to make a ballant?
And made Jock Jopp a graceless callant!
She's waur than her who held the ruling
Of Saul, and killed him in the schooling.
But mum's the word—as clean's a gowan
Ye're lost—gudenight—see, there's Glenhowan.”

Rob had a heart past all dissembling,
That hadna learned the trick of trembling;
Keep rungs and rowed neeves off his noddle,
For cantrips he cared ne'er a boddle.
With words he wished na weel to utter,
With mouth that could na melted butter,
Like lad wha scarce kenned what was what,
Yet noted all, and nought forgat;
He ventured on Glenhowan house,
Prepared to be or daft or douce.
There, by a hearth fire burning brightly
Sat two young maidens lilting lightly;
They brought him cheese, a quaigh o'er-reaming
With ale—and sweet milk, rich and creaming.
The meat dispersed all spells like logic;
The drink did more, it wrought like magic:
Blythe tales told Rob, glad songs he ranted,
Drank healths, shook hands, and ale decanted;
And between mirth and gladness sportin',
Soared a far-flight o'er fate and fortune;
Could ridden on the Leviathan,
Or danced with elves, or diced with Sathan.
Dame Elspat's looks waxed kind and bright,
Maids whispered, smirked, and laughed outright;
And said, “A gray goose to a lark,
Is singing Rob to sighing Mark.”

There, too, sat Mark, bewildered, posting
Through deep divines, as dark as Boston.
When loud the sangs and laughter wakened,
He quoted Matthew, twalt and second;
Then on Rob Roole he looked, and closing
His cat-gray een, seemed swarfed and dozing;
But though his een were shut or winking,
I wot he walloped at the thinking;
And muttered, “Ere the day is dawing,
This midden cock shall cease his crawing:”
Then took his kindled cruse and led
Rob Roole, with many a groan, to bed.

Fancy, thy fields may now lie fallow,
The world is grown too small of swallow;
Ere critics barked and snapt and snarled,
It was a fine believing world.
Common in words and rude in diction
My story is—Can that be fiction?
Truth's beaten road I'll never leave,
Doubt this, and words no more believe.
“O man,” said Robin, “Mark, ye'll soon
Become a lantern like the moon;
For through your cheeks, as I'm a sinner,
I see the light, I ne'er saw thinner.
This praying, preaching, pondering, fasting,
Might do, were man's flesh everlasting;
But flesh is grass, and grows but sparely,
Unless when wet with blood of barley.
Sup on John Bunyan, dine on Boston,
And down to dust, gae driving—posting.”
Mark coughed and laid his hose aside,
For his shrunk shanks a world too wide;
Undid his coat, and doucely on it
His o'erlay laid, and broad scone-bonnet.
Then answered thus. “'Tis others sin
Has made me sapless, sad, and thin;
Can man grow fat who's soused and roasted,
Transformed and flogged and spurred and posted:
Who with the shooting star's a dancer,
Through signs of Capricorn and Cancer?
Who, when men's heads lie on down pillows,
Is trampling o'er the roaring billows:
Or capering o'er Tartarian mountains,
Or cantering down Circassian fountains,
Or running wild, in dule and sorrow
O'er that hot lake which drowned Gomorrha?
Lie at the stock, and I shall soon
See stars shine through ye and the moon.
Lie at the stock, Rob Roole, and see
How he maun work whom witches fee.”

Loud laughed Rob Roole and cut a caper,
And quenched—I'm pinched for rhime—the taper.
Down lay he, but he watching lay;
As lies a cat when waiting prey;
With eyes half shut, sense full awake,
He heard the owls their greetings make;
He heard the mice cheep, and the sweeping
Of fitful wind, and sleep came creeping.
And with sweet sleep a shape he loves,
Before him in her beauty moves;
Like untamed steed, on high she tosses
Her head, o'erflowed with golden tresses;
Proud as a swan, in state she swooms;
Breasts up, and shakes her dazzling plumes.
Her eyes half grave, half-lit with laughter,
Glance sidelong,—Rob grows daft and dafter.

Joy has its limits,—we but borrow
One hour of mirth from months of sorrow.
And so found Rob; his lovely vision
Changed shape:—with eyes of deep derision
She stared from 'neath her locks dishevelled,
Rob quaked and glowered like ane bedevilled;
And thought it more than fancy's wark,
That thing so fair should grow so dark.
Then up she took, what glanced like lamour,
A bridle formed by spell and glamour:
Which Satan made to rule the ranks
Of his black steeds, by men called branks.
O'er Rob the bridle thrice she shook—
Like sunshine shifting in a brook,
Like figures changing in a cloud,
So changed he Rob, and neighing loud,
Up started; far flew blanket, sheet;
He rose, and rose upon four feet,
In shape a steed,—his colour sorrel,
Broad breast, and belly like a barrel.

Nor moment's space has he for thinking,
He's bridled, breasted, off like winking.
O'er hills he runs, where high aboon
The groves' dark shadows sleeps the moon;
Through meadows deep, in saigs and rashes,
Through lakes he leaps, through streams he plashes.
The smoke steamed from his nostrils wide,
The sweat flowed fast from hoof and hide,
His mane like waves of the wild sea,
When ships are sinking, tumbled free.
One moment, in the slumbering brook,
He of his shadow caught a look;
He saw a wild steed wildly tossing
His mane—white foam his flanks embossing:
From panting sides the sweat down rushing,
From nostrils wide the hot smoke gushing;
And worse than all, upon the back
Sat a rude rider, draped in black;
Who close in line and limb resembled
Douce Elspat Coman. Robin trembled.
He trembled,—of the fact take heed,
Not as a man, but as a steed.

'Twas midnight,—swift from stream and lake
The wild ducks sprang with plash and quaik;
The swan rose up and sought the sky,
When this wild steed went sweeping by;
Dank will-o'-wisp sank midst the mire,
The deathlight quenched its ghastly fire,
The elves from greenwood shrieked and fled,
The mermaids dived in Solway's bed,
The spirit which revenge for murther
Sought, stared on Rob and went no further;
And Satan, like a fox observant,
Cried “Deftly done, my glorious servant.”
He halted when a crow cried croak,
Beneath a large and ancient oak;
And down sprang Elspat, leaving free,
Rob, snorting 'neath the trysting tree.

Away went Elspat, treading tender
The green grass down with white feet slender;
And as she went the quaking mire
Seemed melted brass, the air seemed fire.
The brook foamed o'er, though deeply banket,
The moss moved 'neath her like a blanket;
And there sat, 'neath a blasted pine,
A Shape too dark to be divine.
His brow was seamed with lines and furrows,
His breath was blight, his looks were arrows;
From his bright eye-glance Gordon has
The hint ta'en for his magic gas;
A passing pleasant light which thrills
One's heart, like sunshine on green hills.

Like casting bees, whose swarming sound
Is heard above, below, around;
So round with shriek and cough and croak,
Five hundred crones came in a flock.
They came to tell of shaken corn,
Of sorrow dreed for babes new born,
Of sinking ships and sailors drowning,
Of treason fierce and kings discrowning,
Of faith proved faithless, young hearts breaking,
Hope but a dream and friendships wrecking,
Of priests from whom ten thousand reap,
In sermon time, the boon of sleep,
Of patriots bribed, of statesmen calm,
And, godlike, with an itching palm;
Of sordid sinners, black as pitch,
Who grope for gold in Mammon's ditch.
Of every ill they showed the root,
Of every vice they showed the fruit;
The Fallen One, as they spoke, in laughter
Cried, Well done, son, and well done, daughter.
Strange songs were sung, strange dances danced;
Wild tales were told, wild glances glanced.
O'erwhelmed with joy, the sable sire
Rubbed his hot palms till they flashed fire.
High overhead, in heaven's wide ceiling,
The stars swam sick, the moon seemed reeling;
Strange words were heard and sounds of awe,
And Nature lay in the dead-thraw.

Now turn we to our stout Rob Roole;
His foaming flank by this time's cool.
He chafes amid a rank of steeds,
From ragworts formed and long loch reeds:
Steeds motionless, to whom sweet life
Was but a spell. But Rob was rife
With sense and soul; by prayer, at length,
His speech returned, and baptized strength.
He tugged, he strained, and tossing higher
His head, he saw the fading fire
Of moon and stars, and smelt the air
Of morning steeped in odour, where
The song lark soared with wings of weet
To incense heaven with earthly sweet.
While ringing like a hundred hammers,
Of witches tongues he heard the clamours:
All through the scattering darkness coming,
And first and foremost, Elspat Coman.

Now, Robin Roole!—now, now or never!
Be man at once, or brute for ever.
That charmed bridle, in thy lips,
Has wrought on thee this foul eclipse.
She comes, of servant lads the driller,
To gallop thee from post to pillar.
She's light and fair and little too,
And bright of eye and brent of brow;
But foul is foul, and pitch is pitch;
What's beauty, Rob? she's but a witch.
He tugs, he toils,—he toils, he tugs;
Prays,—tries again, and o'er his lugs
Slips off, like snow, the charmed rein.
“Be praised! I'm grown a man again:
I'll try the trick on thee now, limmer,
Come, hap weel, rap weel.” Up came kimmer
And said, to warlock and to hag,
“Neighbours, I've lost my winsome nag;
A gallant steed that galloped pleasant,
Made last night from a merry peasant.”
Quick, o'er her head, Rob shook the bridle,
Nor lay the spell one moment idle.
She strove to speak, she could but neigh,
And prance,—she pranced, a gallant gray.
Plump on her back Rob boldly vaulted,
Nor yet for shriek nor shout he halted,
For swift as hail rings on the wind,
Came hollo, whoop and yell behind.
He laughed, for, horsed on ragweed nags,
A mile he left those sapless hags.
While Elspat flang and frisked and panted,
Ran round. Rob sat like one enchanted.

Away she went, her hoofs far spurning
The soil, her nostrils stretched and burning;
O'er hillock heads, down rivulet banks;
The foam in flakes flew from her flanks.
Rob rode where burns in dozens trotted,
And swarmed with trouts in crimson spotted.
Where old Dumfries, proud of her steeple
And kirk, with sleep indulged her people;
And douce Kirkbean, its daughters bright,
Shone in their slumber like starlight.
Rob softer rode,—a note he took
Where he groped trouts in Preston brook.
Rob softer rode,—his fancy sported
'Mongst scenes where he had roved and courted.
The bush where he, at sixteen sweet,
Poured out his soul, he sighed to see't.
His heart waxed tender—dropping slack
The magic bridle, thus he spake.

“A sonsie bit, red hung with rowans!
Here first outgush green April's gowans.
Here aft with ane mair fair to see
Than flowers in spring, I've wandered free;
There plucked a bud, here stayed to fleech,
There sighed,—I oft was pinched for speech.
Speak Elspat, speak, this place in steep
Has laid my soul, I maist could weep
By present woe the bygane pleasure
Is meted, and looks large of measure.
Ye've played us baith a pretty plisket,
Ask my twa sides,—look at thy brisket.
There, in the sun-lit stream, see plain
Thy tapering limbs and flowing mane:
Was e'er so fair, so fleet a steed,
Bridled for man in hour of need.
Wilt thou with airn be sharply shod,
Or quit thy spells and turn to God?”

She looked,—alas, what could she say?
Rob stroked her neck: “My bonnie gray,
I understand thee, I can read
Baith look of woman and of steed.”
Down leap'd he, loosed the bridle,—there
A sweet dame stands with clustering hair:
Fresh as a rose, from breast to brow,
Or lily born in June's first dew.
She tried to speak, but choked and sobbin',
She wept, and all she said was “Robin!”
Rob rubbed his hands, o'er deil and woman
Triumphant, soothed her, Elspat Coman:
And home, like sister and like brother,
Linked like chain shot they went together.

The sun shone bright on Criffel's crown,
The laverock her sweet flight had flown;
The seagull, on the Solway side,
Plumed in the warmth her wings with pride.
From new woke fires, the curling smoke
Hung o'er each lumhead like a cloak.
When to their labour, with the lark,
Came Elspat's man and bondsman Mark.
John lifted up his eyes, and heaving
A sigh, said, “Seeing is believing,
There's Elspat,—man that's breathing maunie,
Say my sweet wife works deeds uncannie.”
Mark muttered moody,—“Spur and switch
She laid on me, and she's a witch.”
“Oh John! Oh John!” said Elspat sobbin',
Thank him, this soul's weelwisher, Robin;
But him, I had with foul shapes bedded,
Been to Auld Cloots betrothed and wedded.”
She clasped him close, and thrice she blest him;
Called him sweet husband thrice, and kissed him.
Mark loudly groaned and said, “She preaches
For sorrow, whom sly Satan teaches;
Though fair, she's fause,—or lies at least;
Has she not made me thrice a beast?
She switched me last old Halloweven
O'er roads, their marrow's no 'neath heaven;
Crossed o'er the Solway's foaming ripple,
On Flanders wine to tout and tipple.”

He spake nae mair, for Robin Roole
The bridle took, of woe and dool,
O'er Mark to shake it. Ever, ever
Yon sun will shine and flow that river;
Green grass will grow, glad birds will sing,
And witchcraft thrive like flowers in spring:
Thy hands, thy eyes, thy cheeks, thy tongue,
To music, like a fiddle, strung—
Charms fancied, felt, adored, 'tis well:
Woman! thou'rt all one wondrous spell.
And so thought Rob, as both his eyes
Flew open—Lo! in bed he lies,
Where he lay down. But O the change
Wrought on his frame was more than strange;
From his hot head the hot sweat streamed;
His toiled frame, like a cauldron, steamed;
And sore of foot and heart, in dool
He thought, Can this be Robin Roole?
But spite of witch and witches wand,
He held his witness in his hand,
The Magic Bridle. “Earth that's under us,
And heaven aboon!” quoth Rob, “it's wondrous.”
Mark groaned,—he liked not to be near it,
And glowered as if he'd seen a spirit.
While Rob cried, “Mark! as sure's perdition,
I've been a beast, or seen a vision;
But whether my flesh or fancy dreed
The toil, I've learned to make a steed.
I swear by Solway, deep and wide,
I'll run nae mair while I can ride.”
He shook the curb. But more ado,
Mark fled on four feet or on two,
I wotna which; he ne'er was seen
Again by Criffel cleft and green.
While Rob, victorious o'er the pit,
And harder still, o'er woman's wit;
Look'd pleased, and like her only child,
On Elspat glanced, and Elspat smiled.
From that day Rob cracked o'er his bowl,
How he had saved a beauteous soul;
From witches won a magic curb,
Could turn a bondsman to a barb.
Soft grew his bed, fat grew his food,
Large was his fee, his drink was good;
Loud was his song and loud his mirth,
And wept for when he went to earth.