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SIR WALTER SCOTT
From ll:c E>ig>-az'iiig by U 'alkcr a/'/er the I'aiiiltiig by Raeburn
— ^OXFORD COMPLETE EDITION
thp:
POETICAL WORKS
OF
SIR WALTER SCOTT
WITJI THE AUTHOirs INTRODUCTIOXS AND NOTES
EDITED BY
j. LOGIE ROBERTSON, M.A.
HENRY FROWDE
LONDON, EDINBURGH, GLASGOW
NEW YORK AND TORONTO
Thin
1904
0;cfor5
HORACE HART, PRINTER TO THE UNIVERSITY
(preface
This Edition of the Poetical Works of Sir Walter Scott is be-
lieved to contain every known poem and fragment of verse that
he wrote.
In its preparation the standard text of Lockhart's Editions of
1833 and 1841 has been followed, but not w-ithout independent
study of the author's meaning, and not without collation with the
text as recently edited by careful scholars. The result has been
the detection of a few obvious misprints in the longer poems,
such as 'torch' for 'touch,' 'rights' for 'rites,' &c. ; and the
discovery of several mis-references, and a good many omissions
and mistakes of minor but not uninteresting note, in the shorter
pieces, more especially in the poetry from the Waverley Novels.
There is no denying that the mottoes and lyrical fragments of
the Novels are of all Scott's work the most difficult part to edit.
His manner of procedure in supplying his chapters with mottoes
was indeed calculated, if not designed, to puzzle the critical
reader. He had at last the frankness to avow that they were
' sometimes quoted from reading, or from memory, but in the
general case were pure invention.' It was a simple deception
when he attributed those fabrications to ' Old Play ' or ' New Play,'
or some anonymous son of the Muses ; but the artifice was bolder
when he advanced to the invention of verse for Dr. Isaac Watts,
and Sir David Lyndsay. Even here his invention did not end :
he found at least a score of titles for non-existent poems from
which he pretended to quote, and there is some suspicion that he
also created a poet or two upon whom to father his fabrications.
iv preface.
But, while the difficulty is allowed, the mistakes and omissions
in the authoritative edition of 1841 are so numerous and apparent
as to suggest that Lockhart, when lie came to deal with that part
of his subject, must have abandoned his editorial duties to an under-
ling. For not only are there misprints, and false references to the
chapters of the Novels, but lines are included which belong right-
fully to Webster, Beaumont and Fletcher, Bunyan, Collins and other
well-known writers, and lines are omitted which are undeniably
the composition of Scott.
Without claiming for this edition absolute accuracv and com-
pleteness, I can only say that it corrects several faults in previous
editions, and is as complete and accurate as I have been able to
make it.
In elucidation of the text 1 have added, but only where it seemed
necessary, a few brief notes supplementarv to those of Scott and
Lockhart.
J. LOGIE ROBERTSON.
Cont<tnte
The Lav of the Last Minstrel.
Introduction
Canto First
Canto Second
Canto Thin!
Canto Fourtli
Canto Fifth
Canto Sixth
Introduction and Notes . . . .
Pae<-
Makmiox.
Introduction to Canto First,
(ante First.— Tlie Castle . .
Introduction to Canto Second
Canto Second. — Tlie Convent
Introduction to Canto Third
Canto Tliird.— Tlie Hostel, or I
Introduction to Canto Fourth
Canto Fourtli. — The Camp .
Introduction to Canto Fifth .
Canto Fiftli.— The Court . .
Introduction to C^anto Sixth .
Canto Sixth.— The Battle. .
Introduction and Notes . .
The Lady of tiif. Lake.
Canto First. — The Chase . .
Canto Second.- The Island .
Canto Third. — The Gatherinjf
Canto Fourth. — The Prophecy
Canto Fifth.— The Combat .
Canto Sixth. — The Guard-Rooni
Introduction and Notes . . .
Sy
loo
ii'-l
I IJ
1 15
I -'4
126
i>S
1S2
250
262
274
ROKEBY.
Canto First 313
Canto Second 323
Canto Third 333
Canto Fourth 343
Canto Fifth 353
Canto Sixth 366
Introduction and Notes 379
Pj^e
The Lord of the Isles.
Canto First 411
Canto Second 420
Canto Third 429
Canto Fourth 439
Canto Fifth 449
Canto Sixth j.6f)
Introduction and Notes 474
Hakolu the Dauntless.
Introduction 517
Canto First 518
Canto Second 525
Canto Third 530
Canto Fourth 535
Canto Fiftli 541
Canto Sixth . 547
The Bridal of Tkier.main".
Introiiuction 5^^:;
Canto First 55=;
Canto Second 561
Introduction to Canto Third . . 57(1
Canto Third 572
Introduction am! Notes 585
The Vision of Don Roderu k.
I 5Qn
H 50?
Ill 000
Notes (>i()
The Field oI■^\■ATERLOo rug
Notes 6:,8
Ballads from the Gerilw.
Williain and Helen O^o
The Wild Huntsman O34
The Fire-Kin<T. • (ji-
Frederick and Alice 640
The Battle of Sempach 642
The Noble Moringer 644
The ErI-King 048
Notes 650
^onttnte.
Pa^e
Imitations of the Ancient Ballad.
Thomas the Rhymer 0:5:;
Glenfinlas 660
The Eve of Saint John 664
Cadyow Castle 067
The Gra}- Brother 070
Notes 073
IMlSCELLANEOUS POEMS.
His First Lines 694
On a Thunderstorm 694
On the Setting Sun 694
The Violet 695
To a Lady 695
Bothwell's Sisters Three 695
The (Covenanter's Fate 696
At Flodden 699
A Song of Victory 699
Rhein-wein Lied 7(X)
Tlie Reiver's Wedding 700
War-Song of the Royal Edinburgh
Light Dragoons 701
The Bard's Incantation 7(jj
Hellvellyn 7,,,
The Dying Baid -ja^
The Norman HorseShoe 70:;
The Maid of Toro 705
The Palmer 706
The Maid of Neidpath 706
Wandering Willie; 707
Health to Lord Melville 7u8
Hunting Song 71^)0
Ths Resolve 710
Epitaph 710
Prologue to 'The Family Legend' . 711
The Poacher 71..
Oh say not, my Love 715
The Bold Dragoon 71^;
On the Massacre of Glencoe . . . 716
For a' that an' a' that 717
Song for the Anniversary of the Pitt
Club 7jy
Pharos loijuitur 71S
Address to Ranald Macclonald . . 719
lipistle to the Duke of Buccleuch . . 719
The A. of Wa 722
Farewell to Mackenzie 7J2
War-Song of Lachlan 72^
Saint Cloud 721
The Dance of Death 7..^
Romance of Dunois -2-.
The Troubadour 727
From the French 728
Lines on Lifting the Banner of Buc-
c'L-uch ,28
Lullaby ol an Infant Chief .... 729
Pag-e
The Return to Ulster ...... 72^
Jock of Hazeldean 7^0
Pibroch of Donuil Dhu 731
Nora's Vow 7^1
Mac Gregor's Gathering 732
Verses to the Grand-Duke Nicholas
of Russia 722
The Search after Happiness .... 73^
Mr. Kemble's Farewell Address . . 740
Lines written for Miss Smith ... 741
The Dreary Change 742
March of the Monks of Bangor . . 742
Epistle to the Duke of Buccleuch . . 74^
Epilogue to 'The .Appeal ' .... 74^
Mackrimmon's Lament 744
Donald Caird 's come again .... 744
Epitaph on Mrs. Erskine 745
Life in the Forest 7^1;
Farewell to the Muse 746
The Maid of Isia 746
Carle, now the King 's Come . . . 747
One Volume More 7:;^
Epistle to John Gibson Lockhart . . 7:51
Lines to Monsieur Alexandre . . . 752
Epilogue to Drama founded on ' St.
Ronan's Well ' 7:52
Epilogue 7:;_j
On the Materials for his ' Life of
Napoleon ' 7^ 1
Lines to Sir Cuthbert Sharp . . . . 7:51;
The Death of Keeldar 755
The Foray 7^6
Inscription for Monument of Re\.
George Scott 7^7
Lines on Fortune 7c;7
Notes 7^8
Poetry and'', erse from the Waver-
i,EY Novels.
I. From Waverley.
Bridal Song 7^n
Lines by Captain Waverley. . . . 760
Davie Gellatley sings 750
Baron Bradwardine sings .... 760
Balmawhapple sings 761
Gellatley'sSong to the Deer-hounds . 761
St. Swithin's Chair 761
Gellatley sings 7(52
Flora Maclvor's song 762
Fergus sings 763
To an Oak-tree 7(^1
Gellatley sings 76 1
II. From Guy Mannering.
The Nati\ity Chant 761;
The Spindle Song ^(yr
The Gipsy's Dirge 76";
Ccnttnte.
Paee
The Prophecy 765
Glossin sings 7O5
III. From The Antiquary.
The Aged Carle 766
An Epitaph 766
Old Elspeth sings 760
Mottoes 767
IV. From The Black Dwarf. . 770
V. From Old Mortality.
Major Bellenden sings 770
Verses found in Bothwell's Pocket-
Book 770
Mottoes (including 'Sound, sound the
clarion ' ) 771
VI. From Rob Roy.
Francis Osbaldistone's Lines . . . 771
Fragment from Ariosto 77J
Mottoes y~2
VII. From The Heart of Mid-
lothian.
Madge Wildfire sings 773
Mottoes 775
VIII. From The Bride of Lam-
mermoor.
Lucy Ashton sings 775
The Forester sings 775
The Prophecy 775
Mottoes 770
IX. From The Legend of Mont
rose.
From the Gaelic 777
Song of the Dawn 777
Lady Anne 777
Mottoes 778
X. From Ivanhoe.
The Crusader 778
The Barefooted Friar 77Q
Ulrica sings 780
Rebecca's Hymn 781
A Virelai 781
A Duet 78.'
Dirge for Athelstane 782
Mottoes ■ 783
XI. From The Monastery.
Ne sit ancillae 784
' Merrily swim we ' 784
The Monk's Warning 785
The White Lady sings 786
To the White Lady 786
To Halbert ..." 786
Sir Picreie Shafton sings 789
The White Lady chants or recites . 789
Border March 790
The White Lady to Mary Avenel . . 79(5
The White Lady to F.dward . . . 790
The White Lady's Farewell . . . . 791
Mottoes 791
XII. From The Abbot.
The Pardoner speaks 794
Mottoes 704
XIII. From Kenilworth.
The Owl Song 797
The Warder's Welcome 797
Mottoes 798
XIV. From The Pirate.
The Song of the Reim-Kennar . . . 800
A Last Farewell 801
Harold Harfager 801
The Meeting of the Mermaids and
Mermen 802
Noma sings 80,^
Claud Halcro and Xorna .... 804
Song of the Shetland Fishers . . . 805
Cleveland sings 806
Claud Halcro sings or recites . . . 806
Noma sings or recites 807
The Pedlar sings 809
;\Iottoes 800
XV. From The Fortunes of
Nigel.
Mottoes Si I
XVI. FromPeveril of the Peak.
Mottoes 815
XVTI. From Quentin Durward.
County Guv 817
Mottoes SiS
XVIII. From St. Ronan's Well.
Mottoes S19
XIX. From Redgauntlet.
Hope S-M
XX. From The Betrothed.
Re'veille Sji
Woman's Faith 8-'i
Verses in the Style of the Drui(k . . 822
Mottoes S22
XXI. From The Talisman.
Ahriman 82-1,
A Minstrel sings 824
The Lay of the Bloody Vest. ... 824
Mottoes 826
/
Conttnte.
rage
XXII. From Woortstock.
A Conjuration '^■2%
An Hour with Thee 828
Mottoes 8^9
XXIII. From Chronicles of
the Canongate.
Mr. Croftangry asketli S30
Mottoes 830
XXIV. From The Fair Maid of
Perth.
The Glee Maiden 831
The Blood Ordeal 831
A Melancholy Dirge 831
Bold and True S3J
JMottoes 832
Page
XXV. From Anne of Geierstein.
The Secret Tribunal 833
Mottoes 833
XXVI. From Count Robert of
Paris.
Mottoes 835
XXVII. From Castle Dangerous.
^Mottoes 83;
Dram.\tic Pieces.
Halidon Hill 838
MacDuff's Cross 865
The Doom of Devorgoil ^including
' Bonnie Dundee') 872
Auchindrane, or the Ayrshire Tragedy 922
Notes 963
Z^t Bd^ of t^i ^Aet (mme^ref.
RIGHT HONOURABLE
CHARLES EARL OF DALKE^-^iH
THIS POEM IS IX SCRIBED BY
THE AUTHOR.
The Poem is intended to illustrate the customs anil manners which anciently prevailed
on the Bordrrs of Enj^land and Scotland. The inhabitants, living in a state partly pastoral
and partly warlike, and combining habits of constant depredation with the influence of a
rude spirit of chivalry, were often engaged in scenes highly susceptible of poetical ornament.
As the description of scenery and manners was more the object of the author than a combined
and regular narrative, the plan of the Ancient Metrical Romance was adopted, which allows
greater latitude in this respect than would be consistent with the dignity of a regular Poem.
The same model offered other facilities, as it permits an occasional alteration of measure,
which, in some degree, authorises the change of rhythm in the text. The machinery, also,
adopted from popular lielief, would have seemed puerile in a poem which did not partake
of the rudeness of the old Balla<l, or Metrical Romance.
For these reasons the poem was put into the mouth of an ancient Minstrel, the last of the
race, who, as he is supposed to have survived the Revolution, might have caught somewhat
of the refinement of modern poetry, without losing the simplicity of his original model. The
date of the tale itself is about the middle of the sixteenth century, when most of the per-
sonages actually flourished. The time occupied by the action is Three Nights and Three
Days.
Introduction.
The way was long, the wind was cold,
The Minstrel was infirm and old ;
His wither'd cheek, and tresses gray,
Seem'd to have known a better day ;
The harp, his sole remaining joj^,
Was carried b\' an orphan boy.
The last of all the Bards was he,
Who sung of Border chivalrj^ ;
For, welladay ! their date was fled,
His tuneful brethren all were dead ;
And he, neglected and oppress'd,
Wish'd to be with them, and at rest.
No more on prancing palfrey borne,
He caroll'd, light as lark at morn ;
No longer courted and caress'd.
High placed in hall, a welcome guest.
He pour'd to lord and lady gay
The unpremeditated lay :
Old times were changed, old manners
gone ;
A stranger fill'd the Stuarts' throne;
B
ZU Bap of tU Baet QUtnefref.
[Canto
The bigots of the iron time
Had call'd his harmless art a crime.
Awandering Harper, scorn'd and poor,
He begg'd his bread from door to door.
And tuned, to please a peasant's ear,
The harp a king had loved to hear.
He pass'd where Newark's stately
tower
Looks out from Yarrow's birchen
bower :
The Minstrel gazed with wishful eye —
No humbler resting-place was nigh ;
With hesitating step at last
The embattled portal arch he pass'd.
Whose ponderous grate and massy bar
Had oft roll'd back the tide of war,
But never closed the iron door
Against the desolate and poor.
The Due' ^ss mark'd his weary pace,
His timid mien, and reverend face.
And bade her page the menials tell
That they should tend the old man
well :
For she had known advcrsit3%
Though born in such a high degree ;
In pride of power, in beauty's bloom,
Had wept o'er Monmouth's bloody
tomb !
When kindness had his wants sup-
plied.
And the old man was gratified,
Began to rise his minstrel pride :
And he began to talk anon
Of good Earl Francis, dead and gone.
And of Earl Walter, rest him, God I
A braver ne'er to battle rode ;
And how full many a tale he knew
Of the old warriors of Buccleuch :
And, vv'ould the noble Duchess deign
To listen to an old man's strain.
Though stiffhis hand, his voice though
weak,
He thought even yet, the sooth to
speak,
That, if she loved the harp to hear,
He could make music to her ear.
The humble boon was soon obtain'd;
The aged Minstrel audience gain'd.
But, when he reach'd the room of
state,
Where she with all her ladies sate,
Perchance he wish'd his boon denied :
For, when to tune his harp he tried.
His trembling hand had lost the ease.
Which marks security to please ;
And scenes long past, of joy and pain,
Came wildering o'er his aged brain —
He tried to tune his harp in vain !
The pitying Duchess prais'd its
chime,
And gave him heart, and gave him
time.
Till every string's according glee
Was blended into harmon}^
And then, he said, he would full fain
He could recall an ancient strain
He never thought to sing again.
It was not framed for village churls.
But for high dames and mighty earls;
He had play'd it to King Charles the
Good,
When he kept court in Holyrood ;
And much he wish'd, yet fear'd, to try
The long-forgotten melody.
Amid the strings his fingers stray'd,
And an uncertain warbling made,
And oft he shook his hoary head.
But when he caught the measure
wild,
The old man rais'd his face, and
smil'd ;
And lighten'd up his faded eye
With all a poet's ecstasy.
In varying cadence, soft or strong.
He swept the sounding chords along:
The present scene, the future lot.
His toils, his wants, were all forgot;
Cold diffidence, and age's frost,
In the full tide of song were lost;
Each blank, in faithless memory void,
The poet's glowing thought supplied ;
And, while his harp responsive rung,
'Twas thusthc Latest MiNSTRELsung.
I.]
^6^ &<x^ of tU ^^6^ (minofref.
Canto First.
I.
The feast was over in Branksome
tower,
And the Ladye had gone to her secret
bower ;
Her bower that was guarded b}' word
and by spell,
Deadly to hear, and deadly to tell —
Jesu Maria, shield us well !
No living wight, save the Ladye alone.
Had dared to cross the threshold
stone.
II.
The tables were drawn, it was idlesse
all ;
Knight, and page, and household
squire,
Loiter'd through the lofty hall,
Or crowded round the ample fire :
The stag-hounds, weary with the
chase,
Lay stretch'd upon the rushy floor,
And urg'd, in dreams, the forest race
From Teviot-stone to Eskdale-moor.
Nine and-twenty knights of fame
Hung their shields in Branksome
hall ;
Nine-and-twenty squires of name
Brought them their steeds to bower
from stall ;
Nine-and-twenty yeomen tall
Waited, duteous, on them all:
They were all knights of mettle
true.
Kinsmen to the bold Buccleuch.
Ten of them were sheath'd in steel,
With belted sword, and spur on heel:
They quitted not their harness bright.
Neither by da\% nor yet by night :
Thej^ lay down to rest,
With corslet laced,
Pillow'd on buckler cold and hard ;
They carv'd at the meal
With gloves of steel.
And they drank the red wine through
the helmet barr'd.
Ten squires, ten yeomen, mail-clad
men,
Waited the beck of the \varders ten :
Thirty steeds, both fleet and wight.
Stood saddled in stable day and night,
Barb'd with frontlet of steel, 1 trow.
And with Jedwood-axe at saddlebow;
A hundred more fed free in stall :
Such was the custom of Branksome
Hall.
VI.
Why do these steeds stand ready
dight ?
Why watch these warriors, arm'd, by
night ?
Tiicy watch to hear the blood-hound
baying:
They watch to hear the war-hora
braj'ing ;
Tosee St. George's red cross streaming.
To see the midnight beacon gleaming:
They watch against Southern force
and guile.
Lest Scroop, or Howard, or Pcrcj-'s
powers.
Threaten Branksome's lorulj'
towers.
From Warkworth, or Naworlh, or
merry Carlisle.
Such is the custom of Branksome Hall.
Many a valiant knight is here ;
But he, the chieftain of them all.
His sword hangs rusting on the wall,
Beside his broken spear.
Bards long shall tell
How Lord Walter fell !
When startled burghers fled, afar,
, The furies of the Border war ;
B 2
ZU ^Bap of tU ;Sa0f (minefreP.
[Canto
When the streets of high Dunedin
Saw lances gleam, and falchions
redden,
And heard the slogan's deadly yell —
Then the Chief of Branksome fell.
VIII.
Can piety the discord heal,
Or stanch the death-feud's enmity?
Can Christian lore, can patriot zeal,
Can love of blessed charity ?
No ! vainly to each holy shrine,
In mutual pilgrimage, they drew ;
Implor'd in \'ain the grace divine
For chiefs their own red falchions
slew :
While Cessford owns the rule of Carr,
While Ettrick boasts the line of
Scott,
The slaughter'd chiefs, the mortal jar,
The havoc of the feudal war.
Shall never, never be forgot!
In sorrow o'er Lord Walter's bier
The warlike foresters had bent ;
And many a flower and many a tear
OldTeviot's maids and matronslent :
But o'er her warrior's bloody bier
The Lad\-e dropp'd nor flower nor
tear !
Vengeance, deep-brooding o'er the
slain,
Hadlock'd the source ofsofterwoe;
And burning pride and high disdain
Forbade the rising tear to flow ;
Until, amid his sorrowing clan.
Her son lisp'd from the nurse's
knee —
' And if I live to be a man,
My father's death reveng'd shall be !'
Then fast the mother's tears did seek
To dew the infant's kindling cheek.
AU loose her negligent attire,
All loose her golden hair,
Hung Margaret o'er her slaughter'd
sire.
And wept in wild despair.
But not alone the bitter tear
Had filial grief supplied ;
For hopeless love and anxious fear
Had lent their mingled tide :
Nor in her mother's alter'd eye
Dar'd she to look for sympathy.
Her lover, 'gainst her father's clan.
With Carr in arms had stood,
When Mathouse-burn to Melrose ran
All purple with their blood ;
And well she knew, her mother dread,
Before Lord Cranstoun she should wed,
Would see her on her dying bed.
Of noble race the Ladj'e came ;
Her father was a clerk of fame,
Of Bethune's line of Picardie :
He learn'd the art thatnonemayname,
In Padua, far beyond the sea.
Men said he changed his mortal frame
By feat of magic mystery ;
For when, in studious mood, he pac'd
St. Andrew's cloister'd hall.
His form no darkening shadow trac'd
Upon the sunny wall !
And of his skill, as bards avow,
He taught that Ladye fair,
Till to her bidding she could bow
The viewless forms of air.
And now she sits in secret bower,
In old Lord David's western tower,
And listens to a heavy sound
That moans the mossy turrets round.
Is it the roar of Teviot's tide,
That chafes against the scaur's red
side?
Is it the wind that swings the oaks ?
Is it the echo from the rocks ?
What may it be, the heavj' sound,
That moans old Branksome's turrets
round ?
10
ZU JSap of iU Ba&t QUmetref.
At the sullen, moaning sound,
The ban-dogs bay and howl ;
And, from the turrets round.
Loud whoops the startled owl.
In the hall, both squire and knight
Swore that a storm was near,
And looked forth to view the night ;
But the night was still and clear I
From the sound of Tcviot's tide,
Chafing with the mountain's side,
From the groan of the wind-swung oak,
From the sullen echo of the rock,
From the voice of the coming storm,
The Ladye knew it well !
It was the Spirit of the Flood that
spoke.
And he call'd on the Spirit of the
Fell.
XV.
RIVER SPIRIT.
' Sleep'st thou, brother ? '
MOUNTAIN SPIRIT.
' Brother, nay —
On my hills the moon-beams play.
From Craik-cross to Skelfhill-pen,
By every rill, in every glen,
Merry elves their morris pacing,
To aerial minstrelsy.
Emerald rings on brown heath
tracing,
Trip it deit and merrily.
Up, and mark their nimble feet I
Up, and list their music sweet ! '
XVI.
RIVER SPIRIT.
'Tears of an imprison'd maiden
Mix with my polluted stream ;
Margaret of Branksome, sorrow-laden.
Mourns beneath the moon's pale
beam.
Tell me, thou, who view'st the stars,
When shall cease these feudal jars ?
What shall be the maiden's fate ?
Who shall be the maiden's mate ?
MOUNTAIN SPIRIT.
' Arthur's slow wain his course doth
roll
In utter darkness round the pole ;
The Northern Bear lowers black and
grim ;
Orion's studded belt is dim ;
Twinkling faint, and distant far,
Shimmers through mist each planet
star ;
111 may I read their high decree !
But no kind influence deign they
shower
On Tcviot's tide and Branksome's
tower
Till pride be quell'd and love be
free.'
XVIII.
The unearthly voices ceast.
And the heavy sound was still ;
It died on the river's breast,
It died on the side of the hill.
But round Lord David's tower
The sound still floated near ;
For it rung in the Ladye's bower
And it rung in the Ladye's ear.
She raised her stately head.
And her heart throbb'd high with
pride : — •
' Your mountains shall bend.
And 3'our streams ascend,
Ere Margaret be our foeman's bride I '
The Ladye sought the lofty hall,
Where many a bold retainer laj^
And, with jocund din, among them all,
Her son pursued his infant play.
A fancied moss-trooper, the boy
The truncheon of a spear bestrode,
And round the hall, right merrily,
In mimic foray rode.
tU ^<ij> of iU Ba&t (nUnoftef.
[Canto
Even bearded knights, in arms grown
old,
Share in his frolic gambols bore,
Albeit their hearts of rugged mould
Were stubborn as the steel they
wore.
For the gray warriors prophesied,
How the brave boy, in future war.
Should tame the Unicorn's pride,
Exalt the Crescent and the Star.
The Ladye forgot her purpose high.
One moment, and no more ;
One moment gaz'd with a mother's
eye.
As she paus'd at the arched door :
Then from amid the armed train,
She call'd to her William of Deloraine.
A stark moss-trooping Scott was he.
As e'er couch'd Border lance by knee :
Through Solway sands, through Tar-
ras moss.
Blindfold, he knew the paths to cross ;
By wily turns, by desperate bounds,
Had baffled Percy's bestblood-hoimds;
In Eske, or Liddel, fords were none,
But he would ride them, one by one ;
Alike to him was time or tide,
December's snow, or July's pride;
Alike to him was tide or time.
Moonless midnight, or matin prime :
Steady of heart, and stout of hand.
As ever drove prey from Cumberland ;
Five times outlawed had he been.
By England's King, and Scotland's
Queen.
XXII.
' Sir "William of Deloraine, good at
need,
Mount thee on the wightest steed ;
Spare not to spur, nor stint to ride.
Until thou come to fair Tweedside ;
And in Melrose's holy pile
Seek thou the Monk of St.Mary's aisle.
Greet the Father well from me ;
Say that the fated hour is come,
And to-night he shall watch with
thee,
To win the treasure of the tomb :
For this will be St. Michael's night.
And, though stars be dim, the moon
is bright ;
And the Cross, of bloody red.
Will point to the grave of the mighty
dead.
XXIII.
' What he gives thee, see thou keep ;
Stay not thou for food or sleep :
Be it scroll, or be it book.
Into it, Knight, thou must not look ;
If thou readest, thou art lorn !
Better had'st thou ne'er been born.'
' O swiftly can speed my dapple-grey
steed.
Which drinks of the Teviot clear ;
Ere break of day,' the Warrior 'gan
say,
' Again will I be here :
And safer by none may thy errand be
done.
Than, noble dame, by me ;
Letter nor line know I never a one,
Were't my neck-verse at Hairibee.'
Soon in his saddle sate he fast,
And soon the steep descent he past,
.Soon cross'd the sounding barbican.
And soon the Teviot side he won.
Eastward the wooded path he rode, —
Green hazels o'er his basnet nod ;
He pass'd the Peel of Goldiland,
And cross'd old Borthwick's roaring
strand ;
Dimly he view'd the Moat hill's
mound.
Where Druid shades still flitted round ;
In Hawick twinkled many a UgJit ;
Behind him soon they set in night;
I.]
tU ^(^^ of iU Sa0( (niinafref.
And soon he spurr'd his courser keen
Beneath the tower of Hazeldean.
The clattering hoofs the watchmen
mark :
' Stand, ho ! thou courier of the dark.'
' For Branksome, ho ! ' the knight re-
join'd,
And left the friendly tower behind.
He turn'd him now from Teviotside,
And, guided by the tinkling rill,
Northward the dark ascent did ride,
And gained the moor at Horslie-
hill;
Broad on the left before him lay.
For many a mile, the Roman way.
XXVII.
A moment now he slack'd his speed,
A moment breathed his panting steed ;
Drew saddle-girth and corslet-band.
And loosen'd in the sheath his brand.
On Minto-crags the moonbeams glint,
Where Barnhill hew'd his bed of
flint;
Who flung his outlaw'd limbs to rest.
Where falcons hang their giddy nest,
Mid cliffs, from whence his eagle eye
For many a league his prey could spy ;
Cliffs, doubling, on their echoes borne,
The terrors of the robber's horn ;
Cliffs, which, for many a later year.
The warbling Doric reed shall hear.
When some sad swain shall teach the
grove,
Ambition is no cure for love I
XXVIII.
Unchalleng'd, thence pass'd Delo-
raine.
To ancient Riddel's fair domain,
Where Aill, from mountains freed,
Down from the lakes did raving come ;
Each wave was crested with tawny
foam,
Like the mane of a chestnut steed.
In vain ! no torrent, deep or broad,
Might bar the bold moss-trooper's road.
XXIX.
At the first plunge the horse sunk low.
And the water broke o'er the saddle-
bow ;
Above the foaming tide, I ween,
Scarce half the charger's neck was
seen ;
For he wasbarded from counter to tail.
And the rider was arm'd complete in
mail :
Never heavier man and horse
Stemm'd a midnight torrent's force.
The warrior's very plume, I saj^,
W^as daggled by the dashing spraj' ;
Yet, through good heart, and Our
Ladj'e's grace.
At length he gain'd the landing-place.
XXX.
Now Bowden Moor the march-man
won.
And sternly shook his plumed head,
As glanc'd his eye o'er Halidon :
For on his soul the slaughter red
Of that unhallow'd morn arose
When first the Scott and Carr were
foes ;
When royal James beheld the fray;
Prize to the victor of the day;
When Home and Douglas, in the van,
Bore down Buccleuch's retiring clan.
Till gallant Cessford's heart-blood dear
Reek'd on dark Elliot's Border spear.
XXXI.
In bitter mood he spurred fast.
And soon the hated heath was past ;
And far beneath, in lustre wan.
Old Melros' rose, and fair Tweed ran :
Like some tall rock with lichens grey,
Seem'd dimly huge the dark Abbaye.
W^hen Hawick he pass'd, had curfew
rung,
Now midnight lauds were in Melrose
suntr.
Z(>t Ba^ of tU ;Sa0i Qlltnetref.
[Canto
The sound, upon Ihc fitful gale,
In solemn wise did rise and fail,
Like that wild harp whose magic tone
Is waken'd bj' the winds alone.
But when Melrose he reach'd, 'twas
silence all :
He meetly stabled his steed in stall,
And sought the convent's lonely wall.
Here paus'd the harp ; and with its
swell
The Master's fire and courage fell ;
Dejectedly and low he bow'd.
And, gazing timid on the crowd,
He seem'd to seek in every eye
If they approv'd his minstrelsy ;
And, diffident of present praise,
Somewhat he spoke of former days,
And how old age and wand'ring long
Had done his hand and harp some
wrong.
The Duchess and her daughters fair,
And every gentle lady there.
Each after each in due degree,
Gave praises to his melody' ;
His hand was true, his voice was
clear.
And much they long'd the rest to hear.
Encourag'd thus, the aged man,
After meet rest, again began.
Canto Second.
If thou would'st view fair Melrose
aright.
Go visit it by the pale moonlight ;
For the gay beams of lightsome day
Gild, but to flout, the ruins grey.
When the broken arches are black in
night.
And each shafted oriel glimmers
white ;
When the cold light's uncertainshower
Streams on the ruin'd central tower ;
When buttress and buttress, alter-
nately.
Seem fram'd of ebon and ivory ;
When silver edges the imagery.
And the scrolls that teach thee to live
and die ;
When distant Tweed is heard to rave.
And the owlet to hoot o'er the dead
man's grave,
Then go — but go alone the while —
Then view St. David's ruin'd pile ;
And, home returning, soothly swear.
Was never scene so sad and fair !
Short halt did Deloraine make there;
Little reck'd he of the scene so fair :
With dagger's hilt, on the wicket
strong,
He struck full loud, and struck full
long.
The porter hurried to the gate —
' Who knocks so loud, and knocks so
late ? '
' From Branksome I,' the warrior
cried ;
And straight the wicket open'd wide :
For Branksome's Chiefs had in battle
stood,
To fence the rights of fair Melrose ;
And lands and livings, many a rood,
Had gifted the shrine for their souls'
repose.
III.
Bold Deloraine his errand said ;
The porter bent his humble head ;
With torch in hand, and feet unshod,
And noiseless step, the path he trod :
The arched cloister, far and wide,
Rang to the warrior's clanking stride,
Till, stooping low his lofty crest,
He enter'd the cell of the ancient
priest,
And lifted his barred aventayle,
To hail the Monk of St. Mary's aisle.
11.]
ZU ;Sa^ of iU ^<^^t (^Mmivtt
' The Ladye of Branksome greets thee
by me ;
Says, that the fated liour is come,
And that to-night I shall watch with
thee,
To win the treasure of the tomb.'
From sackcloth couch the Monk arose,
With toil his stiffen'd limbs he
rcar'd ;
A hundred 3'ears had flung thcirsnows
On his thin locks and floating beard.
And strangely on the Knight look'd he,
And his blue eyes gleam'd wild and
wide ;
* And dar'st thou, Warrior ! seek to
see
What heaven and hell alike would
hide 1
My breast, in belt of iron pent,
With shirt of hair and scourge of
thorn ;
For threescore j'ears, in penance
spent.
My knees those flinty stones have
worn ;
Yet all too little to atone
For knowing what should ne'er be
known.
Would'st thou thy every future year
In ceaseless prayer and penance
drie,
Yet wait thy latter end with fear —
Then, daring Warrior, follow me 1'
' Penance, father, will I none ;
Prayer know I hardly one ;
For mass or prayer can I rarely
tarry,
Save to patter an Ave Marj',
When I ride on a Border foray.
Other prayer can I none ;
So speed me my errand, and let me be
gone.'
Again on the Knight look'd the
Churchman old.
And again he sighed heavily ;
For he had himself been a warrior
bold,
And fought in Spain and Italj-.
And he thought on the days that were
long since by
When his limbs were strong, and his
courage was high :
Now, slow and faint, he led thcwaj',
Where, cloister'd round, the garden
lay ;
The pillar'd arches were over their
head,
And beneath their feet were the bones
of the dead.
Spreading herbs, and flowerets bright,
Glisten'd with the dew of night ;
Nor herb, nor floweret, glisten'd there,
But was carv'd in the cloister-arches
as fair.
The Monk gazed long on the lovely
moon,
Then into the night he looked forth;
And red and bright the streamers
light
Were dancing in the glowing
north.
So had he seen, in fair Castile,
The youth in glittering squadrons
start.
Sudden the flying jennet wheel.
And hurl the unexpected dart.
He knew, by the streamers that shot
so bright,
That spirits were riding the northern
light.
IX.
By a steel-clench'd postern door.
They cnter'd now the chancel tall ;
The darken'd roof rose high aloof
On pillars lofty and light and small :
B .3
ZU Ba^ of tU Ba0f Qnmefref.
[Canto
The key-stone, that lock'd each ribbed
aisle,
Was a fleur-de-lys, or a quatre-feuille ;
The corbells were carv'd grotesque
and grim ;
And the pillars, with cluster'd shafts
so trim.
With base and with capital flourish'd
around,
Seem'd bundles of lances which gar-
lands had bound.
Full many a scutcheon and banner
riven,
Shook to the cold night-wind of heaven,
Around the screened altar's pale ;
And there the dying lamps did burn,
Before thy low and lonely urn,
O gallant Chief of Otterburne !
And thine, dark Knight of Liddes-
dale!
O fading honours of the dead !
O high ambition, lowly laid 1
XI.
The moon on the east oriel shone
Through slender shafts of shapely
stone,
By foliaged tracery combin'd ;
Thou would'st have thought some
fairy's hand
'Twixt poplarsstraight the ozierwand.
In many a freakish knot, had twin'd ;
Then fram'd a spell, when the work
was done,
And chang'd the willow-wreaths to
stone.
The silver light, so pale and faint,
Shew'd many a prophet, and many a
saint,
Whose image on the glass was dyed;
Full in the midst, his Cross of Red
Triumphant Michael brandished,
And trampled the Apostate's pride.
The moon-beam kiss'd the holy pane.
And threw on the pavement a bloody
stain.
They sate them down on a marble
stone
(A Scottish monarch slept below) :
Thus spoke the Monk, in solemn tone :
' I was not always a man of woe ;
For Paynini countries I have trod.
And fought beneath the Cross of God :
Now, strange to my eyes thine arms
appear.
And their iron clang sounds strange
to my ear.
xni
' In these far climes it was my lot
To meet the wondrous Michael Scott;
A wizard, of such dreaded fame,
That when, in .Salamanca's cave,
Him listed his magic wand to wave,
The bells would ring in Notre
Dame !
Some of his skill he taught to me ;
And, Warrior, I could say to thee
The words that cleft Eildon hills in
three,
And bi idled the Tweed with a curb
of stone :
But to speak them were a deadly sin ;
And for having but thought them my
heart within,
A treble penance must be done.
' When Michael lay on his dying bed,
His conscience was awakened :
He bethought him of his sinful deed.
And he gave me a sign to come with
speed.
I was in Spain when the morning rose.
But I stood by his bed ere evening
close.
The words may not again be said.
That he spoke to me, on death-bed
laid;
They would rend this Abbaye's massy
nave.
And pile it in heaps above his grave.
n.]
ZU Baj of iU Baef (min0fref.
' I swore to bury his Mighty Book,
That never mortal might therein look ;
And never to tell where it was hid.
Save at his Chief of Branksome'sneed:
And when that need was past and
o'er,
Again the volume to restore.
I buried him on St. Michael's night,
When the bell toll'd one, and the
moon was bright,
And I dug his chamber among the
dead.
When the floor of the chancel was
stained red,
That his patron's cross might over him
wave.
And scare the fiends from the Wizard's
grave.
XVI.
' It was a night of woe and dread,
When Michael in the tomb I laid !
Strange sounds along the chancel
pass'd.
The banners wav'd without a blast' —
— Still spoke the Monk, when the
bell toll'd one ! —
I tell you, that a braver man
Than William of Deloraine, good at
need.
Against a foe ne'er spurr'd a steed ;
Yet somewhat was he chill'd with
dread.
And his hair did bristle upon his head.
' Lo, Warrior I now, the Cross of Red
Points to the grave of the mighty dead;
Within it burns a wondrous light,
To chase the spirits that love the
night :
That lamp shall burn unquenchably.
Until the eternal doom shall be.'
Slow mov'd the Monk to the broad
flag-stone,
Which the bloody cross was trac'd
upon ;
He pointed to a secret nook ;
An iron bar the Warrior took ;
And the Monk made a sign with his
wither'd hand,
The grave's huge portal to expand.
With beating heart tothetask he went;
His sinewy frame o'er the grave-stone
bent ;
With bar of iron heav'd amain,
Till the toil-drops fell from his brows,
like rain.
It was by dint of passing strength.
That he moved the massy stone at
length.
I would you had been there, to see
Howthe light brokeforthsogloriously,
Stream'd upward to the chancel roof,
And through the galleries far aloof!
No earthly flame blazed e'er so bright :
It shone like heaven's own blessed
light.
And, issuing from the tomb,
Show'd the Monk's cowl, and visage
pale,
-^^ anc'd on the dark-brow'd Warrior's
mail,
And kiss'd his waving plume.
Before their eyes the Wizard la}'.
As if he had not been dead a day.
His hoary beard in silver roU'd,
He seem'd some seventy winters old ;
A palmer's amice wrapp'd him
round,
With a wrought Spanish baldric
bound.
Like a pilgrim from beyond the
sea :
His left hand held his Book ot
Might ;
A silver cross was in his right ;
The lamp was placed beside his
knee :
ZU Ba^ of iU Ba0f (mtneftef.
[Canto
High and majestic was his look.
At which thefellest fiends had shook,
And all unruffled was his face :
They trusted his soul had gotten grace.
Often liad William of Deloraine
Kodc through the battle's bloody
plain,
And trampleddown thewarriors slain,
And neither known remorse nor
awe ;
Yet now remorse and awe he own'd ;
His breath came thick, his head swam
round,
When this strange scene of death
he saw.
Bewilder'd and unncrv'd he stood,
And the priest pray'd fervently and
loud :
With eyes averted prayed he ;
He might not endure the sight to sc«.
Of the man he had lov'd so brotherly.
And when the priest his dcath-praycr
had pray'd.
Thus unto Deloraine he said: —
' Now, speed thee what thou hast to
do,
Or, Warrior, wc may dearly rue ;
For those thou may'st not look upon
Are gathering fast round the yawning
stone ! '
Then Deloraine, in terror, took
From the cold hand the Mighty Book,
Withironclasp'd,andwithiroii bound:
He thought, as he took it, the dead
man frown'd ;
But the glare of the sepulchral light.
Perchance, had dazzled the warrior's
sight.
XXII.
When the huge stone sunk o'er the
tomb,
The night rcturn'd in double gloom ;
For the moon had gone down, and the
stars were few,
And, as the Knight and Priest with-
drew.
With wavering steps and dizzy brain.
They hardly might the postern gain.
'Tis said, as through the aisles they
pass'd,
Theyhcardstrange noiseson the blast;
And through the cloister-galleries
small,
Which at mid-height thread the chan-
cel wall.
Loud sobs, and laughter louder, ran.
And voices unlike the voice of man ;
As if the fiends kept holiday.
Because these spells were brought
to day.
I cannot tell how the truth may be ;
I say the talc as 'twas said to me.
xxii:.
' Now, hie thee hence,' the Father
said,
' And when we are on death-bed laid,
O may our dear Ladye, and sweet
St. John,
Forgive our souls for the deed we
have done ! '
The Monk rcturn'd him to his cell.
And many a prayer and penance
sped ;
When the convent met at the noon-
tide bell—
The Monk of St. Mary's aisle was
dead !
Before the cross was the body laid.
With hands clasp'd fast, as if still he
pray'd.
The Knight breath'd free in the
morning wind.
And strove his hardihood to find ;
He was glad when he pass'd llic
tombstones grey,
Which girdle round the fair Abbayc ;
I-]
tU B(t^ of (0c ^cist QUtnetreP.
For the mj-stic Book, to his bosom
prest,
Felt like a load upon his breast ;
And Jiis joints, with ner\'es of iron
twin'd,
Shook, like the aspen leaves in wind.
Full fain was he when the dawn of day
Began to brighten Cheviot grey ;
He joy'd to see the cheerful light,
And he said Ave Mary, as w'ell as he
might.
XXV.
The sun had brighten'd Cheviot grey.
The sun had brighten'd the Carter's
side ;
And soon beneath the rising day
.Smil'd Branksome towers and
Teviot's tide.
The wild birds told their warbling tale,
And waken'd every flower that
blows ;
And peeped forth the violet pale.
And spread her breast the mountain
rose.
And lovelier than the rose so red,
Yet paler than the violet pale,
She early left her sleepless bed.
The fairest maid of Teviotdale.
Why does fair Margaret so early awake.
And don her kirtle so hastilie ;
And the silken knots, which in hurry
she would make.
Why tremble her slender fingers to
tie;
Why does she stop, and look often
around.
As she glides down the secret stair ;
And why does she pat the shaggy
blood-hound,
As he rouses him up from his lair ;
And, though she passes the postern
alone.
Why is not the watchman's bugle
blown •
xxvii.
The Ladye steps in doubt and dread,
Lest her watchful mother hear her
tread ;
The Ladye caresses the rough blood-
hound.
Lest his voice should waken the castle
round ;
The watchman's bugle is not blown,
For he was her foster-father's son ;
And she glides through the greenwood
at dawn of light
To meet Baron Henry, her own true
knight.
XXVIII.
The Knight and Ladye fair are met.
And under the hawthorn's boughs are
set.
A fairer pair were never seen
To meet beneath the hawthorn green.
He was stately', and j-oung, and tall ;
Dreaded in battle, and lov'd in hall :
And she, when love, scarce told, scarce
hid,
Lent to her check a livelier red ;
When the half sigh her swelling breast
Against the silken ribbon prest ;
When her blue eyes their secret told.
Though shaded by her locks of gold —
Wherewould youfind thepeerlessfair,
With Margaret of Branksome might
compare !
XXIX.
And now, fair dames, mcthinks I sec
You listen to my minstrelsy ;
Yourwaving locks 3-e backward throw.
And sidelong bend your necks of
snow :
Ye ween to hear a melting tale, /
Of two true lovers in a dale ;
And how the Knight, with tender
fire.
To paint his faithful passion strove;
Swore he might at her feet expire,
But nc\'er. never cease to love ;
14
Zh Ba^ of tU Bcici QUtnefref.
[Canto
And how she bkish'd, and how she
sigh'd,
And, half consenting, half denied,
And said that she would die a maid ;—
Yet, might the bloody feud be stay'd,
Henry of Cranstoun, and only he,
Margaret ofBranksome's choice should
be.
XXX.
Alas! fair dames, your hopes are vain !
My harp has lost the enchanting
strain ;
Its lightnesswould my age reprove :
My hairs are grey, my limbs are old,
My heart is dead, my veins are cold :
I may not, must not, sing of love.
XXXI.
Beneath an oak, moss'd o'er bj' eld,
The Baron's Dwarf his courser held,
And held his crested helmandspear :
That Dwarf was scarce an earthly
man,
If the tales were true that of him ran
Through all the Border, far and
near.
'Twas said, when the Baron a-hunting
rode
Through Reedsdale's glens, but rarely
trod.
He heard a voice crj-, ' Lost I lost I
lost ! '
And, like tennis-ball bj' racket toss'd,
A leap, of thirty feet and three.
Made from the gorse this elfin shape,
Distorted like some dwarfish ape,
And lighted at Lord Cranstoun's
knee.
Lord Cranstoun was some whit
dismay'd ;
'Tis said that five good miles he
rade.
To rid him of his company ;
But where he rode one mile, the Dwarf
ran four.
And the Dwarf was first at the castle
door.
XXXII,
Use lessens marvel, it is said :
This elvish Dwarf with the Baron
staid ;
Little he ate, and less he spoke,
Nor mingled with the menial flock :
And oft apart his arms he toss'd,
And often mutter'd 'Lost! lost! lost!'
He was waspish, arch, and litherlie,
But well Lord Cranstoun served he :
And he of his service was full fain ;
For once he had been ta'en or slain,
An it had not been for his ministrj'.
All between Home and Hermitage,
Talk'd of Lord Cranstoun's Goblin-
Page,
XXXIII.
For the Baron went on pilgrimage,
And took with him this elvish Page,
To Mary's Chapel of the Lowes :
For there, beside our Ladj-e's lake,
An offering he had sworn to make,
And he would pay his vows.
But the Ladye of Branksome gather'd
a band
Of the best that would ride at her
command :
The trysting place was Newark Lee.
Wat of Harden came thither amain,
And tliither came John of Thirlestane,
And thither came William of Deloraine;
They were three hundred spears
and three.
Through Douglas-burn, up Yarrow
stream,
Theirhorsesprance. their lancesgleam.
They came to St. Mary's lake ere day;
But the chapel was void, and the
Baron away.
They burn'd the chapel for very rage.
And curs'd Lord Cranstoun's Goblin-
Page.
XXXIV.
And now, in Branksome's good green-
wood,
As under the aged oak he stood,
III.]
ZU ^<i^ of iU B<10< (min0fr«f.
15
The Baron's courser pricks his ears,
As if a distant noise he hears.
The Dwarf waves his long lean arm
on high,
And signs to the lovers to part and fly;
No time was then to vow or sigh.
Fair Margaret through the hazel grove,
Flew like the startled cushat-dove :
The Dwarf the stirrup held and rein ;
Vaultedthe Knight on his steed amain,
And, pondering deep that morning's
scene,
Rode eastward through the hawthorns
green.
While thus he pour'd the lengthen'd
tale,
The Minstrel's voice began to fail :
Full slyly smiled the observant page.
And gave the wither'd hand of age
A goblet, crowned with mighty wine,
The blood cf Vclez' scorched vine.
He raised the silver cup on high,
And, while the big drop fill'd his eye,
Pray'd God to bless the Duchess long,
And all who cheer'd a son of song.
The attending maidens smiled to see
How long, how deep, how zealouslj',
Theprecious juice the Minstrel quafTd;
And he, emboldcn'd bj' the draught,
Look'd gailyback to them, andlaugh'd.
The cordial nectar of the bowl
Swell'd his old veins, and cheer'd his
soul ;
A lighter, livelier prelude ran,
Ere thus his tale again began.
Canto Third.
And said I that my limbs were old,
And said I that my blood was cold,
And that my kindly fire was fled.
And mj' poor wither'd heart was dead,
And that I might not sing of love ? —
How could I to the dearest theme.
That ever warm'd a minstrel's dream,
So foul, so false a recreant prove !
How could I name love's very name,
Nor wake my heart to notes of flame !
In peace. Love tunes the shepherd's
reed ;
In war, he mounts the warrior's steed ;
In halls, in gay attire is seen ;
In hamlets, dances on the green.
Love rules the court, the camp, the
grove,
And men below, and saints above ;
For love is heaven, and heaven is love.
So thought Lord Cranstoun, as I
ween,
While, pondering deep the tender
scene,
He rode through Branksome's haw-
thorn green.
But the Page shouted wild and
shrill, " - ''
And scarce his helmet could he
don.
When downward from tlic shad3'
hill
A stately knight came pricking
on.
That warrior's steed, so dapple-gray,
Was dark with sweat, and splashed
with clay ;
His armour red with many a stain :
He seem'd in such a weary plight.
As if he had ridden the live-long
night;
For it was William of Delorainc.
But no whit weary did he seem,
When, dancing in the sunny beam,
He mark'd the crane on the Baron's
crest ;
For his ready spear was in his rest.
i6
tU JSa^ of t^i Bm( QHtne^ref
[Canto
Few were the words, and stern and
high,
That mark'd the foemen's feudal
hate ;
Forquestion fierce, and proud reply,
Gave signal soon of dire debate.
Their very coursers seem'd to know
That each was other's mortal foe,
And snorted fire, when wheel'd
around
To give each foe his vantage-ground.
V.
In rapid round the Baron bent ;
He sigh'd a .sigh, and pray'd a
prayer :
The prayer was to his patron saint,
The sigh was to his ladye fair.
Stout Deloraine nor sigh'd nor pray'd,
Nor saint, nor lad3'e, call'd to aid ;
But he stoop'd his head, and couch'd
his spear.
And spurred his steed to full career.
The meeting of these champions proud
Seem'd like the bursting thunder-
cloud.
VI.
Stern was the dint the Borderer lent !
The stately Baron backwards bent ;
Bent backwards to his horse's tail,
And his plumes went scattering on
the gale ;
The tough ash spear, so stout and
true,
Into a thousand flinders flc\v.
But Cranstoun's lance, of more avail,
Pierc'd through, like silk, the Bor-
derer's mail ;
Through shield, and jack, and acton,
past.
Deep in his bosom broke at last. — •
Still sate the warrior saddle-fast,
Till, stumbling in the mortal shock,
Down went the steed, the girthing
broke,
Hurl'd on a heap lay man and horse.
The Baron onward pass'd his course ;
Nor knew — so giddy rolled his brain —
His foe lay stretch'd upon the plain.
But when he rein'd his courser round,
And saw his foeman on the ground
Lie senseless as the bloody clay.
He bade his page to stanch the wound,
And there beside the warrior staj',
And tend him in his doubtful state.
And lead him to Branksome-castle
gate:
His noble mind was inly moved
For the kinsman of the maid he loved.
'This shalt thou do without delay ;
No longer here myself may stay ;
Unless the swifter I speed away,
Short shrift will be at my dying daj-.'
Away in speed Lord Cranstoun rode;
The Goblin- Page behind abode ;
His lord's command he ne'er with-
stood,
Though small his pleasure to do good.
As the corslet off he took,
The Dwarf espied the Mighty Book !
Much he marvell'd a knight of pride,
Like a book-bosom'd priest should
ride :
He thought not to search or stanch
the wound
Until the secret he had found.
The iron band, the iron clasp.
Resisted long the elfin grasp :
For when the first he had undone,
It closed as he the next begun.
Those iron clasps, that iron band,
Would not yield to unchristen'd hand,
Till he smear'd the cover o'er
With the Borderer's curdled gore ;
A moment then the volume spread,
And one short spell therein he read :
It had much of glamour might ;
Could make a ladye seem a knight ;
m.]
ZU :Saj of iU ^Mi (mmetvef;
17
The cobwebs on a dungeon wall
Seem tapestry in lordly hall ;
A nut-shell seem a gilded barge,
A sheeling seem a palace large,
And youth seem age, and age seem
youth :
AH was delusion, nought was truth.
He had not read another spell,
When on his cheek a buft'et fell.
So fierce, it stretch'd him on the plain
Beside the wounded Delorainc.
From the ground he rose dismay'd,
And shook his huge and matted head ;
One word he mutter'd, and no more,
' Man of age, thou smitest sore ! '
No more the Elfin Page durst try
Into the wondrous Book to pry ;
The clasps, though smear'd with
Christian gore,
Shut faster than they were before.
He hid it underneath his cloak.
Now, if you ask who gave the stroke,
I cannot tell, so mot I thrive ;
It was not given by man alive.
Unwillingly himself he address'd,
To do his master's high behest ;
He lifted up the living corse.
And laid it on the weary horse ;
He led him into Branksome hall,
Before the beards of the warders all ;
And each did after swear and say
There only pass'd a wain of hay.
He took him to Lord David's tower.
Even to the Ladye's secret bower;
And, but that stronger spells were
spread,
And the door might not be opened.
He had laid him on her very bed.
Whate'er he did of gramarye
Was always done maliciously ;
He ilung the warrior on the ground.
And the blood well'd freshly from the
wound.
As he repass'd the outer court,
He spied the fair young child at sport :
He thought to train him to the wood ;
For, at a word be it understood,
He was always for ill, and never for
good.
Seem'd to the boy, some comrade gay
Led him forth to the woods to play ;
On the drawbridge the warders stout
Saw a terrier and lurcher passing out.
XIII.
He led the boy o'er bank and fell,
Until they came to a woodland
brook ;
The running stream dissolv'd the
spell,
And his own elvish shape he took.
Could he have had his pleasure vildc.
He had crippled the joints of the
noble child ;
Or, with his fingers long and lean,
Had strangled him in fiendish spleen :
But his awful mother he had in dread.
And also his power was limited ;
So he but scowl'd on the startled child,
And darted through the forest wild ;
The woodland brook he bounding
cross'd,
And laugh'd. and shouted, ' Lost !
lost ! lost I '
XIV.
Full sore amaz'd at the wondrous
change.
And frighten'd, as a child miglit be.
At the wild yell and visage strange.
And the dark words of gramarye,
The child, amidst the forest bower,
Stood rooted like a lily flower ;
And when at length, with trembling
pace.
He sought to find where Brank-
some lay,
He fear'd to see that grisly face
Glare from some thicket on his
way.
i8
ZU Bap of tU Baet QUmeftef.
[Canto
Thus, starting oft, he journey'd on,
And deeper in the wood is gone, —
For aye the more he sought his way.
The farther still he went astray, —
Until he heard the mountains round
Ring to the baying of a hound.
And hark 1 and hark ! the deep-
mouth'd bark
Comes nigher still, and nigher :
Bursts on the path a dark blood-
hound ;
His tawny muzzle track'd the ground,
And his red eye shot fire.
Soon as the wilder'd child saw he.
He flew at him right furiouslie.
I ween you would have seen with joy
The bearing of the gallant boy,
When, worthy of his noble sire,
His wet cheek glow'd 'twixt fear and
ire !
He faced the blood-hound manfulh'.
And held his little bat on high ;
So fierce he struck, the dog, afraid.
At cautious distance hoarsely bay'd,
. But still in act to spring ;
When dash'd an archer through the
glade.
And when he saw the hound was
stay'd,
He drew his tough bow-string ;
But a rough voice cried, ' Shoot not,
hoy !
Ho I shoot not, Edward ; 'tis a boy I '
The speaker issued from the wood.
And check'd his fellow's surly mood,
And quell'd the ban-dog's ire :
He was an English yeoman good.
And born in Lancashire.
Well could he hit a fallow-deer
Five hundred feet him fro ;
With hand more true, and eye more
clear.
No archer bended bow.
His coal-black hair, shorn round and
close,
Set off his sun-burn'd face :
Old England's sign, St. George's cross,
His barret-cap did grace ;
His bugle-horn hung by his side,
All in a wolf-skin baldric tied ;
And his short falchion, sharpand clear,
Had pierc'd the throat of many a deer.
XVII.
His kirtle, made of forest green,
Reach'd scantly to his knee ;
And, at his belt, of arrows keen
A furbish'd sheaf bore he;
His buckler, scarce in breadth a span,
No larger fence had he ;
He never counted him a man.
Would strike below the knee :
His slacken'd bow was in his hand.
And the leash that was his blood-
hound's band.
He would not do the fair child harm.
But held him with his powerful arm,
That he might neither fight nor flee;
For when the Red-Cross spied he,
The boy strove long and violentl3^
' Now, by St. George,' the archer cries,
' Edward, methinks we have a prize !
This boy's fair face, and courage free,
Show he is come of high degree.'
XIX.
' Yes I I am come of high degree.
For I am the heirof bold Buccleuch;
And, if thou dost not set me free,
False Southron, thou shalt dearly
rue !
For Walter of Harden shall come with
speed.
And William of Deloraine, good at
need.
And every .Scott, from Esk to Tweed;
And, if thou dost not let me go,
Despite th\' arrows and thy bow,
ril have thee hang'd to feed the crow 1'
m.]
ZU JSap of tU ;Sa0f Qntttgfref.
19
' Gramercy for thy good-will, fair
boy!
My mind was never set so high ;
But if thou art chief of such a clan,
And art the son of such a man,
And ever comest to thy command,
Our wardens had need to keep good
order ;
My bow of yew to a hazel wand.
Thou 'It make them work upon the
Border.
Meantime, be pleased to come with
me,
For good Lord Dacre shalt thou see ;
I think our work is well begun,
When we have taken thy father's son.'
Although the child was led away,
In Branksome still he seem'd to stay,
For so the Dwarf his part did play;
And, in the shape of that young boy.
He ^vrought the castle much annoy.
The comrades of the 3'oung Buccleuch
He pinch'd, and beat, and overthrew ;
Na}-, some of them he wellnigh slew.
He tore Dame Maudlin's silken tire.
And, as Sym Hall stood by the fire.
He lighted the match of his bandelier,
And wofully scorch'd the hackbuteer.
It may be hardly thought or said.
The mischief that the urchin made,
Till many of the castle guess'd,
That the j'oung Baron was possess'd I
xxn.
Well I ween the charm he held
The noble Ladye had soon dispell'd;
But she was deeply busied then
To tend the wounded Deloraine.
Much she wonder'd to find him lie
On the stone threshold stretch'd
along;
She thought some spirit of the sky
Had done the bold moss-trooper
wrong ;
Because, despite her precept dread,
Perchance he in the Book had read ;
But the broken lance in his bosom
stood,
And it was earthly steel and wood.
XXIII.
She drew the splinter from the wound.
And with a charrn she stanch'd the
blood ;
She bade the gash be cleans'd and
bound :
No longer by his couch she stood ;
But she has ta'en the broken lance.
And wash'd it from the clotted gore,
And salved the splinter o'erand o'er.
William of Deloraine, in trance.
Whene'er she turn'd it round and
round.
Twisted as if she gall'd his wound.
Then to her maidens she did say
That he should be whole man and
sound
Within the course of a night and
day.
Full long she toil'd ; for she did rue
;\Iishap to friend so stout and true.
XXIV.
So pass'd the da^' ; the evening fell,
'Twas near the time of curfew bell ;
The air was mild, the wind was calm,
The stream was smooth, the dew was
balm;
E'en the rude watchman on the tower
Enjo3''d and bless'd the lovely hour.
FarmorefairMargaret lov'd andbless'd
The hour of silence and of rest.
On the high turret sitting lone,
.She waked at times the lute's soft tone;
Touch'd a wild note, and all between
Thought of the bower of hawthorns
green.
Her golden hair stream'd free from
band.
Her fair cheek rested on her hand.
Her blue eyes sought the west afar.
For lovers love the western star.
ZU &ci^ of tU BaQt (mimitd.
[Canto
Is yon the star, o'er Pcnchryst Pen,
That rises slowly to her ken,
And, spreading broad its wavering
light,
Shakes its loose tresses on the night?
Is yon red glare the western star?
O, 'tis the beacon-blaze of war !
Scarce could she draw her tighten'd
breath,
For well she knew the fire of death !
The Warder view'd it blazing strong.
And blew his war-note loud and long,
Till, at the high and haughty sound,
Rock, wood, and river rung around.
The blast alarm'd the festal hall,
And startled forth the warriors all ;
Far downward, in the castle-yard,
Full many a torch and cresset glared ;
And helms and plumes, confusedly
toss'd.
Were in the blaze half-seen, half-lost;
And spears in wild disorder shook,
Like reeds beside a frozen brook.
XXVII.
The Seneschal, whose silver hair
Was redden'd by the torches' glare.
Stood in the midst with gesture proud.
And issued forth his mandates loud :
' On Pcnchryst glows a bale of fire,
And three are kindling on Priest-
haughswire ;
Ride out, ride out,
The foe to scout !
Mount, mount for Branksome, every
man !
Thou, Todrig, warn the Johnstone
clan.
That ever are true and stout ;
Ye need not send to Liddesdale,
For when they see the blazing bale,
Elliots and Armstrongs never fail.
Ride, Alton, ride, for death and life !
And warn the Warder of the strife.
Young Gilbert, let our beacon blaze.
Our kin, and clan, and friends to raise.'
xxviu.
Fair Margaret from the turret head
Heard, far below, the coursers' tread.
While loud the harness rung
As to their seats, with clamour dread,
The ready horsemen sprung :
And trampling hoofs, and iron coats,
And leaders' voices mingled notes,
And out ! and out!
In hasty route,
The horsemen gallop'd forth ;
Dispersing to the south to scout,
And cast, and west, and north,
To view their coming enemies.
And warn their vassals and allies.
xxix.
The ready page, with hurried hand,
Awaked the need-fire's slumbering
brand.
And ruddy blush'd the heaven :
For a sheet of flame from the turret
high
Wav'd like a blood-flag on the sky,
All llaring and uneven ;
And soon a score of fires, I ween,
From height, and hill, and cliff, were
seen ;
Each with warlike tidings fraught,
Each from each the signal caught ;
Each after each they glanc'd to
sight.
As stars arise upon the night.
They gleam'd on many a dusky
tarn.
Haunted by the lonely earn;
On many a cairn's grey pyramid,
Where urns of mighty chiefs lie hid
Till high Dunedin the blazes saw
From Soltra and Dumpender Law,
And Lothian heard the Regent's
order
That all should bowne them for the
Border.
IV.]
^6e Ba^ of tU ^Mt QUtnefref.
The livelong night in Bran'ySome rang
The ceaseless sound of steel ;
The castle-bell, with backward clang,
Sent forth the larum peal ;
Was frequent heard the heavy jar,
Where massy stone and iron bar
Were piled on echoing keep and
tower.
To whelm the foe with dcadlj' shower ;
Was frequent heard the changing
guard,
And watch-word from the sleepless
ward ;
While, wearied by the endless din.
Blood-hound and ban-dog yell'd with-
in.
The noble Dame, amid 'he broil,
Shared the grey Seneschal's high toil.
And spoke of danger with a smile ;
Cheer'd the j'oung knights, and
council sage
Held with the chiefs of riper age.
No tidings of the foe were brought.
Nor of his numbers knew thej^ aught.
Nor what in time of truce he sought.
Some said that there were thou-
sands ten ;
And others ween'd that it was
nought
But Leven clans, or Tjmedale men.
Who came to gather in black-mail ;
And Liddesdale, with small avail,
Might drive them lightly back agen.
•So pass'd the anxious night awaj-,
And welcome was-the peep of day.
Ceas'd the high sound. The listening
throng
Applaud the Master of the Song;
And marvel much, in helpless age,
So hard should be his pilgrimage.
Had he no friend, no daughter dear,
His wandering toil to share and cheer;
No son to be his father's stay,
And guide him on the rugged way ?
'Ay, once he had — but he was dead !'
Upon the harp he stoop'd his head.
And busied himself the strings withal
To hide the tear that fain would fall.
In solemn measure, soft and slow,
Arose a fathers notes of woe.
Canto Fourth.
.Sweet Teviot I on th}' silver tide
The glaring bale-fires blaze no
more ;
No longer steel-clad warriors ride
Along thy wild and willow'd shore;
Where'er thou wind'st, by dale or hill,
All, all is peaceful, all is still,
As if thy waves, since Time was
born,
Since first they rolTd upon the Tweed,
Had only heard the shepherd's rccd,
Nor started at the bugle-horn.
II.
Unlike the tide of human time, —
Which, though it change in cease-
less flow.
Retains each grief, retains each crime
Its earliest course was doom'd to
know ;
And, darker as it downward bears.
Is stain'd with past and present tears.
Low as that tide has ebb'd with me,
It still reflects to Memory's eye
The hour my brave, my onh^ boy
Fell by the side of great Dundee.
Why, when the vollej'ing musket
play'd
Against the bloody Highland blade,
Why was not I beside him laid I
Enough, he died the death of fame ;
Enough, he died with conquering
Grajme.
^U Bap of tU Baef Qlltnefnf.
[Canto
Now over Border dale and fell
Full wide and far was terror spread ;
For pathless marsh, and mountain
cell,
The peasant left his lowly shed.
The frighten'd flocks and herds were
pent
Beneath the peel's rude battlement ;
And maids and matrons dropp'd the
tear,
While ready warriors seiz'd the spear.
From Branksome's towers, the watch-
man's eye
Dun wreaths of distant smoke can
spy.
Which, curling in the rising sun,
Showd southern ravage was begun.
Now loud the heedful gate-ward
cried —
' Prepare ye all for blows and
blood !
Watt Tinlinn, from the Liddel-side,
Comes ■wading through the flood.
Full oft the Tynedale snatchers knock
At his lone gate, and prove the lock ;
It was but last St. Barnabright
They sieg'd him a whole summer
night.
But fled at morning ; well they knew
In vain he never twang'd the yew.
Right sharp has been the evening
shower
That drove him from his Liddel tower ;
And, by my faith,' the gate-ward said,
' I think 'twill prove a Warden-Raid.'
V.
While thus he spoke, the bold j'eoman
Enter'd the echoing barbican.
He led a small and shaggy nag,
That through a bog, from hag to hag.
Could bound like any Billhopc stag.
It bore his wife and children twain ;
A half-clothed serf was all their train ;
His wife, stout, ruddy, and dark-
brow'd,
Of silver brooch and bracelet proud,
Laugh'd to her friends among the
crowd.
He was of stature passing tall.
But sparely form'd, and lean withal;
A batter'd morion on his brow ;
A leather jack, as fence enow,
On his broad shoulders loosely hung ;
A border axe behind was slung ;
His spear, six Scottish ells in length,
Seem'd newly dyed with gore ;
His shafts and bow, of wondrous
strength,
His hardy partner bore.
VI.
Thus to the Ladye did Tinlinn show
The tidings of the English foe :
' Belted Will Howard is marching
here,
And hot Lord Dacre, with many a
spear.
And all the German hackbut-men,
Who have long lain at Askerten :
They cross'd the Liddel at curfew
hour.
And burn'd my little lonely tower :
The fiend receive their souls there-
for !
It had not been burnt this j'ear and
more.
Barn-yard and dwelling, blazing
bright,
Serv'd to guide me on my flight ;
But I was chas'd the livelong night.
Black John of Akeshaw and Fergus
Graeme
Fast upon my traces came,
Until I turn'd at Priesthaugh Scrogg,
And shot their horses in the bog,
Slew Fergus with my lance out-
right ;
I had him long at high despite —
He drove my cows last Fastern's
night.'
IV.]
ZU ^<ip of tU Bast (mtnefref.
Now weary scouts from Liddesdalc,
Fast hurrying in, confirm'd the tale ;
As far as they could judge by ken,
Three hours would bring to
Teviots strand
Three thousand armed Englishmen ;
Meanwhile, full many a warlike
band,
From Teviot, Aill, and Ettrick shade.
Came in, their Chiefs defence to aid.
There was saddling and mounting
in haste,
There was pricking o'er moor and
lea ;
He that was last at the trysting-place
Was but lightly held of his gay
ladye.
VIII.
From fair St. Mary's silver wave,
FrOin dreary Gamescleugh's dusky
height,
His ready lances Thirlestanc brave
Arrayd beneath a banner bright.
The treasured flcur-de-luce he claims
To wreathe his shield, since royal
James,
Encamp'd by Fala's mossy wave.
The proud distinction grateful gave,
For faith 'mid feudal jars ;
What time, save Thirlestanc alone,
Of Scotland's stubborn barons none
Would inarch to southern wars ;
And hence, in fair remembrance worn,
Yon sheaf of spears his crest has
borne ;
Hence his high motto shines reveald —
' Ready, aye ready ' for the field.
An aged Knight, to danger steel'd.
With many a moss-trooper came on ;
And azure in a golden field.
The stars and crescent graced hib
shield,
Without the bend of Murdieston.
Wide lay his lands round Oakwood
tower.
And wide round haunted Castlc-
Ower ;
High over Borthwick's mountain flood
His wood-embosom'd mansion stood ;
In the dark glen, so deep below,
The herds of plunder'd England low —
His bold retainers' daily food.
And bought with danger, blows, and
blood.
Marauding chief! his sole delight
The moonlight raid, the morning fight ;
Not even the Flower of Yarrow's
charms,
In youth, might tame his rage for
arms ;
And still, in age, he spurn'd at rest.
And still his brows the helmet press'd,
Albeit the blanched locks below
Werewhitc as Dinlay's spotless snow ;
Five stately warriors drew the
sword
Before their father's band ;
A braver knight than Harden's lord
Ne'er belted on a brand.
X.
Scotts of Eskdale, a stalwart band.
Came trooping down the Todshaw-
hill;
By the sword they won their land,
And by the sword they hold it still.
Hearken, Ladye, to the tale,
How thy sires won fair Eskdale.
Earl Morton was lord of that valley
fair ;
The Beattisons were his vassals there.
The Earl was gentle, and mild of
mood ;
The vassals were warlike, and fierce,
and rude ;
High of heart, and haughty of word,
Little they reck'd of a tame liege
lord.
The Earl into fair Eskdale came,
Homage and seignory to claim ;
24
ZU ^(^^ of tU Baet (mimivd.
[Canto
Of Gilbert the Galiiard a heriot he
sought,
Saying, ' Give thy best steed, as a
vassal ought.'
'Dear to me is my bonny white steed,
Oft has he help'd me at pinch of need ;
Lord and Earl though thou be, I trow
I can rein Bucksfoot better than thou.'
Word on word gave fuel to fire,
TillsohighlyblazedtheBeattison'sire,
But that the Earl the flight had ta'cn.
The vassals there their lord had slain.
Sore he plied both whip and spur,
As he urged his steed through Eskdalc
muir ;
And it fell down a weary weight,
Just on the threshold of Branksome
gate.
XI.
The Earl was a wrathful man to see,
Full fain avenged would he be.
In haste to Branksomc's Lord he
spoke,
Sa^'ing — ' Take these traitors to thj^
yoke ;
For a cast of hawks, and a purse of
gold.
All Eskdale I'll sell thee, to have and
hold :
Bcshrew thy heart, of the Bcattisons'
clan
If thou leavest on Eske a landed man ;
But spare Woodkerrick's lands alone,
For he lent me his horse to escape
upon.'
A glad man then was Branksome bold,
Down he flung him the purse of gold ;
To Eskdale soon he spurr d amain,
And with him five hundred riders has
ta'cn.
He left his merrymen in the mist of
the hill,
And bade them hold them close and
still ;
And alone he wended to the plain,
To meet with the Galiiard and all his
train.
To Gilbert the Galiiard thus he said :
' Know thou me for thy liege-lord
and head ;
Deal not with me as with Morton
tame,
For Scotts play best at the roughest
game.
Give me in peace my heriot due,
Thy bonny white steed, or thou shalt
rue.
If my horn I three times wind,
Eskdale shall long have the sound in
mind.'
XII.
Beattison laugh'd in
we for thy winded
Loudly the
scorn ;
' Little care
horn.
Ne'er shall it be the Galliard's lot
To yield his steed to a haughty Scott.
Wend thou to Branksome back on
foot
With rusty spur and miry boot.'
He blew his bugle so loud and hoarse
That the dun deer started at fair
Craikcross ;
He blew again so loud and clear,
Through the grey mountain-mist there
did lances appear ;
And the third blast rang with such a
din
That the echoes answer'd from Pen-
toun-linn,
And all his riders came lightly in.
Then had you seen a gallant shock
When saddles were emptied and
lances broke !
For each scornful word the Galiiard
had said,
A Beattison on the field was laid.
His own good sword the chieftain
drew,
And he bore the Galiiard through
and through ;
Where the Beattisons' blood mix'd
with the rill.
The Galliard's-Haugh men call it still.
IV.]
ZH Ba^ of tU Bast ^irxaivd.
25
The Scotts have scatter'd the Bcatti-
son clan,
In Eskdale they left but one landed
man.
The valley of Eske, from the mouth
to the source,
Was lost and won for that bonny
white hoise. —
XIII.
Whitsladc the Hawk, and lieadshaw
came.
And warriors more than I may name ;
P'rom Yarrow-cleugh to Hindhaugh-
swair.
From Woodhouselie to Chester-
glen,
Troop'd man and horse, and bow and
spear ;
Their gathering word was Bellen-
den.
And better hearts o'er Border sod
To siege or rescue never rode.
The Ladye mark'd the aids come
in,
And high her heart of pride arose :
She bade her youthful son attend.
That he might know his father's
friend.
And learn to face his foes.
' The boy is ripe to look on war ;
I saw him draw a cross-bow
stiff,
And his true arrow struck afar
The raven's nest upon the clift";
The red cross on a southern breast
Is broader than the raven's nest :
Thou, Whitslade, shalt teach him his
weapon to wield,
And o'er him hold his father's shield.'
Well may you think the wily page
Card not to face the Ladye sage.
He counterfeited childish fear,
And shriek'd, and shed full many a
tear.
And moan'd and plain'd in manner
wild.
The attendants to the Ladye told
Some fairy, sure, had chang'd the
child.
That wont to be so free and bold.
Then wrathful was the noble dame ;
She blush'd blood-red for very
shame :
' Hence ! ere the clan his faintness
view ;
Hence with the weakling to Buc-
cleuch !
Watt Tinlinn, thou shalt be his guide
To Rangleburn's lonely side.
Sure some fell fiend has cursed our
line,
That coward should e'er be son of
mine ! '
XV.
A heavy task Watt Tinlinn had,
To guide the counterfeited lad.
Soon as the palfrey felt the weight
Of that ill-omen'd elfish freight.
He bolted, sprung, and rear'd amain,
Nor heeded bit, nor curb, nor rein.
It cost Watt Tinlinn mickle toil /
To drive him but a Scottish mile ;
But as a shallow brook they
cross'd.
The elf, amid the running stream,
His figure chang'd, like form in
dream.
And fled, and shouted, ' Lost I
lost ! lost ! '
Full fast the urchin ran and laugh'd,
But faster still a cloth-yard shaft
Whistled from startled Tinlinn's yew,
And pierc'd his shoulder through and
through.
Although the imp might not be
slain,
And though the wound soon heal'd
again,
Yet, as he ran, he yell'd for pain ;
And Wat of Tinlinn, much aghast,
Rode back to Branksome fiery fast.
tU Bci^ of tU ^A^t (ntmefref.
[Canto
Soon on the hill's steep verge he
stood,
That looks o'er Branksome's towers
and wood ;
And martial murmurs, from below,
Proclaim'd the approaching southern
foe.
Through the dark wood, in mingled
tone,
Were Border pipes and bugles blown ;
The coursers' neighing he could ken,
A measured tread of marching men ;
While broke at times the solemn hum
The Almayn's sullen kettle-drum ;
And banners tall of crimson sheen
Above the copse appear;
And, glistening through the haw-
thorns green,
Shine helm, and shield, and spear.
Light forayers, first, to view the
ground,
.Spurred their fleet coursers loosely
round ;
Behind, in close array, and fast,
The Kendal archers, all in green.
Obedient to the bugle blast,
Advancing from the wood were
seen.
To back and guard the archer band.
Lord Dacic's bill-men were at hand :
A hardy race, on Irthing bred,
With kirtles white, and crosses red,
Array'd beneath the banner tall.
That Etream'd o'er Acre's conquer'd
wall ;
And minstrels, as thej' march'd in
order,
Play'd 'Noble Lord Dacre, he dwells
on the I'order.'
' XVIII.
Behind the English bill and bow.
The mercenaries, firm and slow,
Moved on to fight, in dark arraj'.
By Conrad led of Wolfenstein,
Who brought the band from distant
Rhine,
And sold their blood for foreign pay.
The camp their home, their law the
sword,
They knew no country, own'dnolord :
They were not arm'd like England's
sons.
But bore the levin-darting guns ;
Buff coats, all frounc'd and 'broider'd
o'er.
And morsing-horns and scarfs they
wore ;
Each better knee was bared, to aid
The warriors in the escalade ;
All as they march'd, in rugged tongue,
Songs of Teutonic feuds they sung.
But louder still the clamour grew.
And louder still the minstrels blew,
When, from beneath the greenwood
tree,
Rode forth Lord Howard's chivalry;
His men-at-arms, with glaive and
spear,
Brought up the battle's glittering rear.
There many a youthful knight, full
keen
To gain his spurs, in arms was seen;
With favour in his crest, or glove,
Memorial of his ladyc-love.
So rode they forth in fair array,
Till full their lengthen'd lines display ;
Then call'd a halt, and made a stand,
And cried ' St. George for merry
England ! '
XX.
Now eveiy English eye, intent
On Branksome's armed towers was
bent ;
So near they were, that they might
know
Thestraining harsh of each cross-bow;
On battlement and bartizan
Glcam'd axe, and spear, and partisan ;
IV.]
tU ^(^^ of tU ^Bctet (mmefref.
27
Falcon and culver, on each tower,
Stood prompt their deadly hail to
shower ;
And flashing armour frequent broke
From eddying whirls of sable smoke,
Where upon tower and turret-head,
The seething pitch and molten lead
Rcek'd, like a witch's caldron red.
While yet they gaze, the bridges
fall,
The wicket opes, and from the wall
Rides forth the hoary Seneschal.
XXI.
Armed he rode, all save the head.
His white beard o'er his breast-plate
spread ;
Unbroke by age, erect his seat,
He rul'd his eager courser's gait ;
P'orc'd him, with chasten'd fire to
prance,
And, high cui-\^ctting, slow advance ;
In sign of truce, his better hand
Display'd a peeled willow wand ;
His squire, attending in the rear,
Bore high a gauntlet on a spear.
When they espied him riding out,
Lord Howard and Lord Dacre stout
Sped to the front of their array,
To hear what this old knight should
say.
XXII.
'Yc English warden lords, of you
Demands the Ladyc of Buccleuch,
Why, 'gainst the truce of Border tide,
In hostile guise ye dare to ride.
With Kendal bow, and Gilsland
brand,
And all yon mercenary band,
Upon the bounds of fair Scotland?
My Ladye reads you swith return ;
And, if but one poor straw you burn
Or do our towers so much molest
As scare one swallow from her nest,
St. Mary ! but we'll light a brand
Shall warm your hearths in Cumber-
land.'
A wrathful man was Dacre's lord.
But calmer Howard took the word :
' May 't please thy Dame, Sir .Senes-
chal,
To seek the castle's outward wall,
Our pursuivant-at-arms shall show
Both why we came, and when we go.'
The message sped, the noble Dame
To the wall's outward circle came ;
Each chief around lean'd on his spear
To see the pursuivant appear.
All in Lord Howard's livery dress'd,
The lion argent deck'd his breast ;
He led a boy of blooming hue —
O sight to meet a mother's view !
It was the heir of great Buccleuch.
Obeisance meet the herald made.
And thus his master's will he said :
• It irks, high Dame, mj- noble Lords,
'Gainst ladye fair to draw their
swords ;
But yet they may not tamelj' sec,
All through the Western W^ardenr^',
Your law-contemning kinsmen ride,
And burn and spoil the Border-side ,•
And ill beseems j^oui rank and birth
To make your towers a flemcns-firth.
We claim from thee William of
Delorainc,
That he may suffer march-treason
pain.
It was but last St. Cuthbert's even
He prick'd to .Stapleton on Leven,
Harried the lands of Richard Mus-
grave,
And slew his brother by dint of
glaive.
Then, since a lone and widow'd
Dame
These restless riders may not tame.
Either receive within thy towers
Two hundred of my master's powers,
Or straight they sound their warrison,
And storm and spoil thy garrison :
28
ZU ;Bap of tU Ba0f Qtlmefree.
[Canto
And this fair boy, to London led,
Shall good King Edward's page be
bred.'
XXV.
He ceased — and loud the boy did cry,
And stretch'd his little arms on high ;
Implor'd for aid each well-known
face,
And strove to seek the Dame's em-
brace.
A moment chang'd that Ladye's cheer,
Giish'd to her eye the unbidden tear ;
She gaz'd upon the leaders round,
And dark and sad each warrior
frown'd ;
Then, deep within her sobbing breast
She lock'd the struggling sigh to
rest ;
Unalter'd and collected stood.
And thus replied in dauntless mood :
XXVI.
' Say to j'our Lords of high emprize,
Who war on women and on boys,
That either William of Deloraine
Will cleanse him by oath of march-
treason stain,
Or else he will the combat take
'Gainst Musgrave, for his honour's
sake.
No knight in Cumberland so good,
But William may count with him kin
and blood.
Knighthood he took of Douglas'
sword.
When English blood swell'd Ancram's
ford;
Andbut Lord Dacre's steed was wight,
And bare him ably in the flight,
Himself had seen him dubb'd a knight.
For the young heir of Branksome's
line,
God be his aid, and God be mine ;
Through me no friend shall meet his
doom ;
Here, while I live, no foe finds
room.
Then, if thy Lords their purpose
urge.
Take our defiance loud and high ;
Our slogan is their lyke-wake dirge.
Our moat the grave where they
shall lie.'
Proud she lock'd round, applause to
claim —
Then lighten'd Thirlestane's eye of
flame ;
His bugle Wat of Harden blew ;
Pensils and pennons wide were flung,
To heaven the Border slogan rung,
' St. Mary for the young Buc-
cleuch I '
The English war-cry answer'd wide,
And forward bent each southern
spear ;
Each Kendal archer made a stride,
And drew the bowstring to his
ear ;
Each minstrel's war-note loud was
blown ;
But, ere a grey-goose shaft had
flown,
A horseman gallop'd from the rear.
XXVIII.
' Ah ! noble Lords 1 ' he breathless
said,
' What treason has your march be-
tray'd ?
What make you here, from aid so far,
Before you walls, around you war ?
Your foemen triumph in the thought
That in the toils the lion "s caught.
Already on dark Ruberslaw
The Douglas holds his weapon-
schaw ;
The lances, waving in his train.
Clothe the dun heath like autumn
grain ;
And on the Liddel's northern strand,
To bar retreat to Cumberland,
IV.]
ZU ^<i? of tU Bm( {^Xineiut
29
Lord Maxwell ranks his merry-men
good,
Beneath the eagle and the rood ;
And Jedvvood, Eske, and Teviot-
dale,
Have to proud Angus come ;
And all the Merse and Lauderdale
Have risen with haughty Home.
An exile from Northumberland,
InLiddesdale I'vewander'd long ;
But still my heart was with merry
England,
And cannot brook my country's
wrong ;
And hard I've spurr'd all night, to
show
The mustering of the coming foe.'
XXIX.
'And let them come I ' fierce Dacrc
cried ;
' For soon yon crest, ni}' father's pride,
That swept the shores of Judah's sea,
And wav'd in gales of Galilee,
From Branksome's highest towers
display'd,
Shall mock the rescue'slingeringaid! —
Level each harquebuss on row ;
Draw, merry archers, diaw the bow;
Up, bill-men, to the walls, and cry,
Dacre for England, win or die ! '
'Yet hear,' quoth Howard, 'calmly
hear,
Nor deem my words the words of fear:
For who, in field or foray slack.
Saw the blanche lion e'er fall back ?
But thus to risk our Border flower
In strife against a kingdom's power,
Ten thousand Scots 'gainst thousands
three,
Certes, were desperate policy.
Nay, take the terms the Lad^'e made,
Ere conscious of the advancing aid :
Let Musgrave meet fierce Deloraine
In single fight, and, if he gain,
He gains for us ; but if he 's cross'd,
"Tis but a single -warrior lost :
The rest, retreating as they came,
Avoid defeat, and death, and shame.'
Ill could the haughty Dacre brook
His brother Warden's sage rebuke ;
And yet his forward step he staid,
And slow and sullenly obey'd.
But ne'er again the Border side
Did these two lords in friendship
ride ;
.A.nd this slight discontent, men say,
Cost blood upon another day.
The pursuivant-at-arms again
Before the castle took his stand ;
His trumpet call'd, with parlej'ing
strain,
The leaders of the Scottish band ;
And he defied, in Musgrave's right,
Stout Deloraine to single fight ;
A gauntlet at their feet he laid,
And thus the terms of fight he said :
' If in the lists good Musgrave's sword
Vanquish the Knight of Deloraine,
Your youthful chieftain, Branksome's
Lord,
Shall hostage for his clan remain :
If Deloraine foil good Musgrave,
The boy his liberty shall have.
Howe'er it falls, the English band,
Unharming Scots, by Scots unharm'd,
In peaceful march, like men unarm'd,
Shall straight retreat to Cumberland.'
XXXIII.
Unconscious of the near relief,
The profter pleased each Scottish chief,
Though much the Ladye sage gain-
say'd ;
For though their hearts were brave
and true.
From J edwood's recent sack they knew
How tardy was the Regent's aid :
3°
ZU ^(^^ of tU ;Saet (mtnefref.
[Canto
And you may guess the noble Dame
Durst not the secret prescience
own,
Sprung from the art she might not
name,
By which the coming help was
known.
Clos'd was the compact, and agreed
That lists should be cnclos'd with
speed.
Beneath the castle, on a lawn :
They fix'd the morrow for the strife,
On foot, with Scottish axe and knife,
At the fourth hour from peep of
daw^n ;
When Deloraine,from sickness freed,
Or else a champion in his stead,
Should for himself and chieftain stand
Against stout Musgrave, hand to hand.
XXXIV.
I know right well, that, in their lay,
Full many minstrels sing and say,
Such combat should be made on
horse,
On foaming steed, in full career,
With brand to aid, when as the spear
Should shiver in the course :
But he, the jovial Harper, taught
Me, yet a youth, how it was fought.
In guise which now I say ;
He knew each ordinance and clause
Of Black Lord Archibald's battle-laws,
In the old Douglas' day.
Hebrook'dnot, he, thatscoffing tongue
Should tax his minstrelsy with wrong,
Or call his song untrue :
For this, when they the goblet plied.
And such rude taunt had chafd his
pride.
The Bard of Reull he slew.
On Teviot's side, in fight they stood.
And tuneful hands were stain'd with
blood ;
Where still the thorn's white branches
wave.
Memorial o'er his ri\'ars grave.
XXXV.
Why should I tell the rigid doom
That dragg'd my master to his tomb;
How Ousenam's maidens tore their
hair.
Wept till their eyes were dead and
dim.
And wrung their hands for love of
him.
Who died at Jedwood Air?
He died ! — his scholars, one by one,
To the cold silent grave are gone ;
And I, alas ! survive alone,
To muse o'er rivalries of yore,
And grieve that I shall hear no more
The strains, with envy heard before ;
For, with my minstrel brethren fled,
My jealousy of song is dead.
He paused : the listening dames again
Applaud the hoary Minstrel's strain.
With many a word of kindly cheer,
In pity half, and half sincere,
Marvell'd the Duchess how so well
His legendary song could tell
Of ancient deeds, so long forgot;
Offends, whose memory was not;
Of forests, now laid waste and bare;
Of towers, which harbour now the
hare;
Of manners, long since chang'd and
gone ;
Of chiefs, who under their grey stone
So long had slept, that fickle Fame
Had blotted from her rolls their name,
And twin'd round some new minion's
head
The fading wreath for which they bled ;
In sooth, 'twas strange, this old man's
verse
Could call them from their marble
hearse.
The Harper smil'd, well-pleas'd ;
for ne'er
Was flattery lost on poet's ear:
v.]
tU ^^H ^f ^^^ ^^^^ (^Ximtvd.
31
A simple race ! they waste their toil
For the vain tribute of a smile ;
E'en when in age their flame expires.
Her dulcet breath can fan its fires :
Their drooping fancy wakes at praise,
And strives to trim the short-liv'd
blaze.
Smil'd then, well pleas'd, the aged
man,
And thus his talc continued ran.
Canto Fifth.
Call it not vain ; they do not err,
Who say, that when the Poet dies,
Mute Nature mourns her worshipper,
And celebrates his obsequies :
Who saj', tall cliff and cavern lone
For the departed Bard make moan ;
That mountains weep in crj'stal rill ;
That flowers in tears of balm distil ;
Through his lov'd groves that breezes
sigh.
And oaks, in deeper groan, reply;
And rivers teach their rushing wave
To murmur dirges round his grave.
Not that, in sooth, o'er mortal urn
Those things inanimate can mourn ;
But that the stream, the wood, the gale.
Is vocal with the plaintive wail
Of those, who, else forgotten long,
Liv'd in the poet's faithful song,
And, with the poet's parting breath.
Whose memory feels a second death.
The Maid's pale shade, who wails her
lot,
That love, true love, should be forgot.
From rose and hawthorn shakes the
tear
Upon the gentle Minstrel's bier:
The phantom Knight, his glory fled.
Mourns o'er the field he heap'd with
dead ;
Mounts the wild blast that sweeps
amain,
And shrieks along the battle-plain.
The Chief, whose antique crownlet
long
Still sparkled in the feudal song.
Now. from the mountain'smisty throne.
Sees, in the thanedom once his own,
His ashes undistinguish'd lie,
His place, his power, his memory die :
His groans the lonelj- caverns fill,
His tears of rage impel the rill :
All mourn the Minstrel's harp unstrung,
Their name unknown, their praise un-
sung.
III.
Scarcely the hot assault was staid,
The terms of truce werescarcely made,
When they could spy, from Brank-
some's towers.
The advancingmarch of martial powers.
Thick clouds of dust afar appear'd.
And trampling steeds were faintly
heard ;
Bright spears, above the columns dun.
Glanced momentary to the sun ;
And feudal banners fair display'd
The bands that moved to Branksome's
aid.
IV.
Vails not to tell each hardy clan.
From the fair Middle Marches came;
The Bloody Heart blaz'd in the van.
Announcing Douglas, dreaded
name 1
Vails not to tell what steeds did spurn.
Where the Seven Spears of Wedder-
burne
Their men in battle-order set ;
And Swinton laid the lance in rest,
That tamed of yore the sparkling crest
Of Clarence's Plantagenet.
Nor list I say what hundreds more,
From the rich Merse and Lammermore,
32
TtU Baj of tU Ba0f (minefref.
[Canto
And Tweed's fair borders, to the war,
Beneath the crest of Old Dunbar,
And Hepburn's mingled banners
come,
Down the steep mountain glittering
far,
And shouting still, ' A Home ! a
Home I '
Now squire and knight, from Brank-
some sent.
On many a courteous message went ;
To every chief and lord they paid
Meet thanks for prompt and powerful
aid ;
And told them,— how a truce was
made.
And how a day of fight was ta en
'Twixt Musgrave and stout Delo-
raine ;
And how the Ladye pray'd tlicm
dear,
That all would stay the fight to see,
And deign, in love and courtesy,
To taste of Branksome cheer.
Nor, while they bade to feast each
Scot,
Were England's noble Lords forgot.
Himself, the hoary Seneschal
Rode forth, in seemly terms to call
Those gallant foes to Branksome Hall.
Accepted Howard, than whom knight
Was never dubb'd, more bold in fight ;
Nor, when from war and armour free,
More fam'd for stately courtesy:
But angry Dacre rather chose
In his pavilion to repose.
VI.
Now, noble Dame, perchance you ask
How these two hostile armies met ?
Deeming it were no easy task
To keep the truce which here was
set ;
Where martial spirits, all on fire,
Breathed only blood and mortal ire.
By mutual inroads, mutual blows,
By habit, and by nation, foes,
They met on Teviot's strand ;
They met and satethemmingled down,
Without a threat, without a frown.
As brothers meet in foreign land :
The hands the spear that lately
grasp'd.
Still in the mailed gauntlet clasp'd,
Wereinterchang'd ingreeting dear;
Visors were raised, and faces shown,
And many a friend, to friend made
known.
Partook of social cheer.
Some drove the jolly bowl about ;
With dice and draughts some chas'd
the day ;
And some, with many a merry shout,
In riot, revelry, and rout,
Pursued the foot-ball play.
VII.
Yet, be it known, had bugles blown,
Or sign of war been seen,
Those bands so fair together rang'd.
Those hands, so frankly interchang'd.
Had dyed with gore the green :
The merry shout by Teviot-side
Had sunk in war-cries wild and wide.
And in the groan of death ;
And whingers, now in friendship bare
The social meal to part and share.
Had found a bloody sheath.
'Twixt truce and war, such sudden
change
Was not infrequent, nor held strange.
In the old Border-day:
But yet on Branksome's towers and
town.
In peaceful merriment, sunk down
The sun's declining ray.
VIII.
The blithsome signs of wassel gay
Decay'd not with the dying day :
Soon through the lattic'd windows
tall
Of lofty Branksome's lordly hall,
v-i
ZU Ba^ of tU Baet QUtnefref.
33
Divided square by shafts of stone,
Huge flakes of ruddy lustre shone ;
Nor less the gilded rafters rang
With merr}' harp and beakers' clang:
And frequent, on the darkening
plain,
Loud hollo, whoop, or whistle ran,
As bands, their stragglers to regain.
Give the shrill watchword of their
clan ;
And revellers, o'er their bow-Is, pro*
claim
Douglas or Dacre's conquering name.
Less frequent heard, and fainter still.
At length the various clamours
died :
And you might hear, from Branksome
hill, "
No sound butTeviot's rushing tide;
Save when the changing sentinel
The challenge of his watch could
tell;
And save where, tlu-ough the dark
profound.
The clanging axe and hammer's
sound
Rung from the nether lawn ;
For many a busy hand toil'd there.
Strong pales to shape, and beams to
square.
The lists' dread barriers to prepare
Against the morrow's dawn.
Margaret from hall did soon retreat,
Despite the Dame's reproving eye ;
Nor mark'd she, as she left her seat,
Full many a stifled sigh ;
For many a noble warrior strove
To win the Flower of Teviot's lo\-e.
And manj- a bold ally.
With throbbing head and anxious
heart,
All in her lonelj- bowser apart,
In broken sleep she lay :
Betimes from silken couch she rose ;
While 3'et the banner'd hosts repose,
She view'd the dawning day :
Of all the hundreds sunk to rest,
First woke the loveliest and the best.
She gaz'd upon the inner court,
Which in the tower's tall shadow
lay ;
Where coursers' clang, and stamp,
and snort
Had rung the livelong yesterday ;
Now still as death ; till stalking slow —
The jingling spurs announc'd his
tread —
A stately warrior pass'd below ;
But when he rais'd his plumed
head —
Bless'd Marj'' 1 can it be ?
Secure, as if in Ousenam bowers,
He walks through Branksome's hostile
towers
With fearless step and free.
She dar'd not sign, she dar'd not
speak —
Oh 1 if one page's slumbers break.
His blood the price must pay !
Not all the pearls Queen Mary wears,
Not Margaret's yet more precious
tears.
Shall buy his life a day.
Yet was his hazard small ; for well
You may bethink j'ou of the spell
Of that sly urchin page ;
This to his lord he did impart.
And made him seem, bj' glamour art,
A knight from Hermitage.
Unchalleng'd thus, the warder's post.
The court, unchalleng'd, thus he
cross'd.
For all the vassalage :
But O ! what magic's quaint disguise
Could blind fair Margaret's azure eyes I
She started from her seat ;
C
34
ZH Bap of tU Bae^ (nttnetref.
[Canto
While with surprise and fear she
strove,
And both could scarcely master
love,
Lord Henry 's at her feet.
Oft have I mus'd what purpose bad
That foul malicious urchin had
To bring this meeting round ;
For happy love 's a heavenly sight,
And b3' a vile malignant sprite
In such no joy is found ;
And oft I 've deem'd perchance he
thought
Their erring passion might have
wrought
Sorrow, and sin, and shame ;
And death to Cranstoun's gallant
Knight,
And to the gentle ladj'e bright
Disgrace and loss of fame.
But earthly spirit could not tell
The heart of them that lov'd so well.
True love 's the gift which God has
given
To man alone beneath the heaven :
It is not fantasy's hot fire,
Whose wishes, soon as granted,
%;
It livcth not in fierce desire.
With dead desire it doth not die ;
It is the secret S3'mpathy,
The silver link, the silken tie,
Which heart to heart, and mind to
mind.
In body and in soul can bind.
Now leave we Margaret and her
Knight,
To tell you of the approaching fight.
Their warning blasts the bugles blew.
The pipe's shrill port arous'd each
clan ;
In haste, the deadly strife to view,
The trooping warriors eager ran :
Thick round the lists their lances
stood.
Like blasted pines in Ettrick wood ;
To Branksome many a look they
threw,
The combatants" approach to view.
And bandied many a word of boast
About the knight each favour'd most.
Meantime full anxious was the Dame;
For now arose disputed claim
Of who should fight for Deloraine,
'Twixt Harden and 'twixt Thirlestaine ;
They 'gan to reckon kin and rent.
And frowning brow on brow was
bent ;
But yet not long the strife — for, lo !
Himself, the Knight of Deloraine,
Strong, as it seem'd, and free from
pain,
In armour sheath'd from top to toe,'
Appear'd and crav'd the combat due.
The Dame her charm successful knew.
And the fierce chiefs their claims
withdrew.
When for the lists they sought the
plain.
The stately Ladye's silken rein
Did noble Howard hold ;
Unarmed by her side he walk'd.
And much, in courteous phrase, they
talk'd
Of feats of arms of old.
Costly his garb ; his Flemish ruft"
Fell o'er his doublet, shap'd of buff.
With satin slash'd and lin'd ;
Tawny his boot, and gold his spur.
His cloak was all of Poland fur.
His hose with silver twin'd ;
His Bilboa blade, by Marchmen felt.
Hung in a broad and studded belt ;
Hence, in rude phrase, the Borderers
still
Call'd noble Howard, Belted Will.
v.]
ZU ^A^ of tU B(X6t QUtnefref.
XVII.
Behind Lord Howard and the Dame,
Fair Margaret on her palfrej' came.
Whose foot-cloth swept the
ground :
White was her wimple, and her veil,
And her loose locks a chaplet pale
Of whitest roses bound ;
The lordly Angus, by her side,
In courtesy to cheer her tried ;
Without his aid, her hand in vain
Had strove to guide her broider'd
rein.
He dcem'd she shudder'd at the
sight
Of warriors met for mortal fight ;
But cause of terror, all unguess'd,
Was fluttering in her gentle breast.
When, in their chairs of crimson
plac'd.
The Dame and she the barriers grac'd.
XVIII.
Prize of the field, the young Buc-
cleuch,
An English knight led forth to view ;
Scarce rued the boy his present
plight,
So much he long'd to see the fight.
Within the lists, in knightly pride,
High Home and haughty Dacre ride ;
Their leading staffs of steel they wield
As marshals of the mortal field ;
While to each knight their care
assign'd
Like vantage of the sun and wind.
Then heralds hoarse did loud pro-
claim.
In King and Queen and Warden's
name.
That none, while lasts the strife.
Should dare, b}- look, or sign, or word,
Aid to a champion to afford,
On peril of his life ;
And not a breath the silence broke.
Till thus the alternate Heralds
spoke :
ENGLISH HER.\Ln.
■ Here standeth Richard of Musgrave,
Good knight and true, and freely'
born,
Amends from Deloraine to crave.
For foul despiteous scathe and
scorn.
He sayeth that William of Deloraine
Is traitor false by Border laws ;
This with his sword he will maintain,
.So help him God, and his good
cause ! '
XX.
SCOTTISH HER.\LD.
' Here standeth William of Deloraine,
Good knight and true, of noble strain.
Who sayeth that foul treason's stain.
Since he bore arms, ne'er soil'd his
coat ;
And that, so help him God above I
He will on Musgrave's body
prove.
He lies most foullj' in his throat.'
LORD DACRE.
'Forward, brave champions, to the
fight :
Sound trumpets I '
LORD HOME.
' God defend the right I '
Then, Teviot ! how thine echoes rang.
When bugle-sound and trumpet-clang
Let loose the martial foes,
And in mid list, with shield pois'd
high,^
And measured step and wary e3'e,
The combatants did close,
XXI.
Ill would it suit your gentle ear,
Ye lovely listeners, to hear
How to the axe the helms did sound.
And blood pour'd down from many a
wound ;
For desperate was the strife and long,
And either warrior fierce and strong.
C 2
^.6
t^U ^(^^ of tU Ba0< QUtnoivef.
[Canto
But, were eacli dame a listening
knight,
I well could tell how warriors fight !
For I have seen war's lightning
flashing,
Seen the claymore with ba}^onet
clashing.
Seen through red blood the war-horse
dashing.
And scorn'd, amid the reeling strife,
To yield a step for death or life.
XXII.
'Tis done, 'tis done ! that fatal blow
Has stretch'd him on the bloody
plain ;
He strives to rise — brave Musgrave,
no 1
Thence never shalt thou rise again !
He chokes in blood ! some friendly
hand
Undo the visor's barred band.
Unfix the gorget's iron clasp.
And give him room for life to gasp !
O, bootless aid I haste, holy Friar,
Haste, ere the sinner shall expire I
Of all his guilt let him be shriven.
And smooth his path from earth to
heaven I
XXIII.
In haste the holj' Friar sped ;
His naked foot was dj'ed with red
As through the lists he ran ;
Unmindful of the shouts on high,
That hail'd the conqueror's victory,
He rais'd the dying man ;
Loose wav'd his silver beard and hair,
As o'er him he kneel'd down in
prayer ;
And still the crucifix on high
He holds before his darkening eye ;
And still he bends an anxious ear
His faltering penitence to hear ;
Still props him from the bloody sod.
Still, even when soul and body part,
Pours ghostly comfort on his heart,
And bids him trust in God
Unheard he prays ; the death pang's
o'er I
Richard of Musgrave breathes no
more.
As if exhausted in the fight.
Or musing o'er the piteous sight,
The silent victor stands ;
His beaver did he not unclasp,
Mark'd not the shouts, felt not the
grasp
Of gratulating hands.
When lo ! strange cries of wild
surprise,
Mingled with seeming terror, rise
Among the Scottish bands ;
And all, amid the throng'd array,
In panic haste gave open way
To a half-naked ghastly man
Who downward from the castle
ran :
He cross'd the barriers at a bound.
And wild and haggard look'd around.
As dizzy, and in pain ;
And all, upon the armed ground,
Knew William of Deloraine !
Each lad3'e sprung from seat with
speed ;
'V^aulted each marshal from his steed ;
' And who art thou,' they cried,
' Who hast this battle fought and
won? '
His plumed helm was soon undone —
' Cranstoun of Teviot-side !
For this fair prize I've fought and
won ; '
And to the Ladve led her son.
Full oft the rescued boy she kiss'd,
And often press'd him to her b'-east ;
For, under all her dauntless show.
Her heart had throbb'd at every blow ;
Yet not Lord Cranstoun deign'd she
greet,
Though low he kneeled at her iVet.
ZU JSag of tU Baat (mme^tef.
37
Me lists not tell what words were
made,
What Douglas, Home, and Howard
said—
For Howard was a generous foe —
And how the clan united pray'd
The Ladyc would the feud forego,
And deign to bless the nuptial hour
Of Cranstoun's Lord and Teviot's
Flower.
XXVI .
She look'd to river, look'd to hill,
Thought on the Spirit's prophecN',
Then broke her silence stern and
still—
' Not you, but Fate, has vanquish'd
me ;
Their influence kindly stars may
shower
On Teviot's tide and Branksome's
tower,
For pride is quell'd, and love is
free.'
She took fair Margaret by the hand.
Who, breathless, trembling, scarce
might stand ;
That hand to Cranstoun's lord ga\e
she :
' As I am true to thee and thine,
Do thou be true to me and mine 1
This clasp of love our bond shall
be;
For this is your betrothing day,
iVnd all these noble lords shall stay
To grace it with their company.'
XXVII.
All as they left the listed plain,
Much of the story she did gain ;
How Cranstoun fought with Delo-
raine,
And of his page, and of the Book
Which from the wounded knight he
took;
And how he sought her castle high.
That morn, by help of gramarye ;
How, in Sir William's armour dight,
.Stolen by his page, while slept the
knight.
He took on him the single light.
But half his tale he left unsaid,
And linger'd till he join'd the maid.
Car'd not the Ladye to betray
Her mystic arts in view of day ;
But well she thought, ere midnight
came.
Of that strange page the pride to
tame,
From his foul hands the Book to save,
And send it back to Michael's grave.
Needs not to tell each tender word
'Twixt Margaret and 'twixt Cran-
stoun's lord ;
Nor how she told of former woes,
And how her bosom fell and rose,
While he and Musgrave bandied
blows.
Needs not these lovers' jo^'s to tell :
One day, fair maids, you "11 know them
well.
X.WIII.
William of Deloraine some chance
Had waken'd from his deathlike
trance ;
And taught that, in the listed plain.
Another, in his arms and shield.
Against fierce Musgrave axe did
wield
TJnder the name of Deloraine.
Hence to the field unarm'd he ran.
And hence his presence scar'd the
clan,
Who held him for some lleeting
wraith,
And not a man of blood and breath.
Not much this ne-w ally he lov'd,
Yet, when he saw what hap had
prov'd.
He greeted him right heartilie :
He would not waken old debate.
For he was void of rancorous hate.
Though rude, and scant of
courtesy ;
38
ZU Ba^ of tU ;8a0f (nimefref.
[Canto
In raids he spilt but seldom blood,
Unless when men-at-arms withstood,
Or, as was meet, for deadly feud.
He ne'er bore grudge for stalwart
blow,
Ta'en in fair fight from gallant foe :
And so 'twas seen of him, e'en
now.
When on dead Musgrave he
look'd down ;
Grief darken'd on his rugged brow,
Though half disguised with a
frown ;
And thus, while sorrow bent his head.
His foeman's epitaph he made.
' Now, Richard Musgrave, liest thou
here !
I ween, my deadly enemy ;
For, if I slew thy brother dear.
Thou slew'st a sister's son to me ;
And when I lay in dungeon dark
Of Naworth Castle, long months
three.
Tin ransom'd for a thousand mark.
Dark Musgrave, it was 'long of
thee.
And, Musgrave, could our light be
tried.
And thou wert now alive, as I,
No mortal man should us divide.
Till one, or both of us, did die :
Yet, rest thee God I for well I know
I ne'er shall find a nobler foe.
In all the northern counties here,
Whose word is Snaffle, spur, and
spear,
Thou wert the best to follow gear !
'Twas pleasure, as we lookd behind.
To see how thou the chase could'st
wind.
Cheer the dark blood-hound on his
way.
And with the bugle rouse the fray !
I'd give the lands of Deloraine,
Dark Musgrave were alive again."
So mourn'd he, till Lord Dacre's
band
Were bowning back to Ciunberland.
They rais'd brave Musgrave I'rom the
field.
And laid him on his bloody shield ;
On levell'd lances, four and four,
By turns, the noble burden bore.
Before, at times, upon the gale,
Was heard the Minstrel's plaintive
wail ;
Behind, four priests, in sable stole.
Sung requiem for the warrior's soul :
Around, the horsemen slowly rode ;
With trailing pikes the spearmen
trode ;
And thus the gallant knight they
bore
Through Liddesdalc to Leven's shore;
Thence to Holme Coltrame's lotty
nave,
And laid him in his father's grave.
The harp's wild notes, though hush'd
the song.
The mimic march of death prolong ;
Now seems it far, and now a-near.
Now meets, and now eludes the ear;
Now seems some mountain side to
sweep.
Now faintly dies in \alley deep ;
Seems now as if the Minstrel's wail.
Now the sad requiem, loads the
gale ;
Last, o'er the warrior's closing grave,
Rung the full choir in choral stave.
After due pause, they bade him tell.
Why he, who touch'd the harp so
well.
Should thus, with ill-rewarded toil.
Wander a poor and thankless soil,
When the more generous Southern
land
Would well requite his skilful hand.
VI.]
ZU ^(^2 ^f ^^^ ^^^^ QUtnefref.
39
The aged Harper, howsoe'er
His only friend, his harp, was dear,
Lik'd not to hear it rank'd so high
y\bove his llowing poesj' :
Less lili'd he still that scorniul jeer
i\Iispris'd the land he lov'd so dear;
High was the sound, as thus again
The Bard resum'd his minstrel strain.
Canto Sixth.
Breathes there the man, with soul
so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,
This is my own, my native land !
Whose heart hath ne'er within him
burn'd,
As home his footsteps he hath turn'd.
From wandering on a foreign
strand I
If such there breathe, go, mark him
well ;
For him no Minstrel raptures swell ;
'High though his titles, proud his
name.
Boundless his wealtii as wish can
claim ;
Despite those titles, power, and pelf,
The wretch, concentred all in self,
Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
And, doubly dying, shall go down
To the vile dust, from whence he
sprung.
Unwept, unhonour'd, and unsung.
II.
O Caledonia I stern and wild.
Meet nurse for a poetic child I
Land of brown heath and shaggy
wood,
Land of the mountain and the flood,
,J,and of my sires I what mortal hand
Can e'er untie the filial band,
That knits me to thy rugged strand :
.Still as I view each well-known scene,
Think what is now, and what hath
been.
Seems as, to me, of all bereft,
.Sole friends thy woods and streams
were left;
And thus I love them better still.
Even in extremity of ill.
By Yarrow's stream still let me stray,
Though none should guide mj^ feeble
way ;
Still feel the breeze down Lttrick
break.
Although it chill my wither'd cheek ;
Still lay my head by Teviot Stone,
Though there, forgotten and alone.
The Bard may draw his parting groan.
Not scorn'd like me, to Branksomc
Hall
The Minstrels came at festive call ;
Trooping they came, from near and
far.
The jovial priests of mirth and \var ;
Alike for feast and fight prepar'd.
Battle and banquet both they shard.
Of late, before each martial clan.
They blew their death-note in the
van.
But now, for every meny mate,
Rose the portcullis' iron grate ;
They sound the pipe, they strike the
string.
They dance, they revel, and they
sing,
Till the rude turrets shake and ring.
Me lists not at this tide declare
The splendour of the spousal rite.
How muster'd in the chapel fair
Both maid and matron, squire and
knight ;
Me lists not tell of owches rare.
Of mantles green, and braided hair.
And kirtles furr'd with miniver;
40
Z(>t &A^ of tU Baet (mme^ref.
[Canto
What plumage wav'd the altar round,
How spurs and ringing chainlets
sound ;
And hard it were for bard to speak
The changeful hue of Margaret's
cheek —
rhat lovely hue which comes and flies
As awe and shame alternate rise I
V.
Some bards have sung the Lad3-e
high
Chapel or altar came not nigh ;
Nor durst the rites of spousal grace.
So much she fear'd each holy place.
False slanders these ; I trust right well
She wrought not by forbidden spell ;
For mighty words and signs have
power
O'er sprites in planetary hour :
Yet scarce I praise their venturous
part,
Who tamper with such dangerous art.
But this for faithful truth I say.
The Ladye bj' the altar stood ;
Of sable velvet her arraj',
And on her head a crimson hood,
With pearls embroider'd and entwin'd,
Guarded with gold, with ermine lin'd ;
A merlin sat upon her wrist
Held by a leash of silken twist.
VI.
The spousal rites were ended soon :
'"Twas now the merry hour of noon.
And in the lofty arched hall
Was spread the gorgeous festival.
Steward and squire, with heedful haste,
Marshall'd the rank of every guest;
Pages, with ready blade, were there,
The mighty meal to carve and share :
O'er capon, heron-shew, and crane.
And princely peacock's gilded train.
And o'er the boar-head, garnish'd
brave, [
And cygnet from St. Mar3''s wave ;
O'er ptarmigan and venison
The priest had spoke his benison.
Then rose the riot and the din.
Above, beneath, without, within !
For, from the lofty balcon}^
Rung trumpet, shalm, and psaltery :
Their clanging bowls old warriors
quaff'd.
Loudly they spoke, and loudlj-laugh'd;
Whisper'd young knights, in tone
more mild.
To ladies fair, and ladies smil'd.
The hooded hawks, high perch'd on
beam.
The clamour join'd with whistling
scream.
And flapp'd their wings, and shook
their bells ■
In concert with the stag-hounds' yells.
Round go the flasks of ruddj^ wine.
From Bordeaux, Orleans, or the
Rhine ;
Their tasks the busy sewers ply,
And all is niirth and revelry.
Tlie Goblin Page, omitting still
No opportunity of ill.
Strove now, while blood ran hot and
high.
To rouse debate and jealousy ;
Till Conrad, Lord of Wolfenstein,
By nature fierce, and warm with
wine.
And now in humour highly cross'd
About some steeds his band had
lost,
High words to words succeeding still,
Smote with his gauntlet stout Hunt-
hill—
A hot and hardy Rutherford,
Whom men called Dickon Draw-the-
sword.
He took it on the page's sa\x,
Hunthill had driven these steeds
awa3'.
Then Howard, Home, and Douglas
rose,
Tlie kindling discord to compose:
VI.]
ZU Ba^ of tH Baet (mimtvd.
41
Stern Rutherford right httle said.
But bit his glove, and shook his head.
A fortnight thejicc. in Inglewood.
Stout Conrad, cold, and drench'd in
blood.
His bosom gor'd with many a wound,
Was by a woodman's lyme-dog tound ;
Unknown the manner of his death,
Gone was his brand, both sword and
sheath ;
But ever from that time, 'twas said.
That Dickon wore a Cologne blade.
The dwarf, who fcar'd his master's eye
Might his foul treachery espie,
Now sought the castle buttery.
Where man}' a yeoman, bold and
free,
Revell'd as merrily and well
As those that sat in lordly sellc.
Watt Tinlinn, there, did frankly raise
The pledge to Arthur Fire-the-Braes ;
And he, as by his breeding bound,
To Howard's merry-men sent it round.
To quit them, on the English side,
Red Roland Forster loudly cried,
' A deep carouse to yon fair bride 1'
At every pledge, from vat and pail,
Foam'd forth in floods the nut-brown
ale.
While shout the riders every one ;
Such day of mirth ne'er cheer'd their
clan,
Since old Buccleuch the name did gain.
When in the clench the buck was
ta'en.
IX.
The wily page, with vengeful thought,
Remember'd him of Tinlinn's yew.
And swore it should be dearly bought
That ever he the arrow drew.
First, he the yeoman did molest,
With bitter gibe and taunting jest ;
Told how he lied at Solway strife,
And how Hob Armstrong cheer'd his
wife :
Then, shunning still his powerful
arm.
At unawares he wrought him harm ;
From trencher stole his choicest
cheer,
Dash'd frona his lips his can of beer;
Then, to his knee sly creeping on,
With bodkin pierced him to the
bone :
The venom'd wound, and festering
joint,
Long after rued that bodkin's point.
The startled yeoman swore and
spurn'd,
And board and flagons ovcrturn'd.
Riot and clamour wild began ;
Back to the hall the Urchin ran ;
Took in a darkling nook his post,
And gi'inn'd, and mutter'd, ' Lost !
lost 1 lost 1 '
X.
By this, the Dame, lest farther fray
Should mar the concord of the day,
Had bid the Minstrels tune their lay.
And first stept forth old Albert
Grteme,
The Minstrel of that ancient name :
Was none who struck the harp so
well
Within the Land Debateable ;
Well friended, too, his hardy kin,
Whoever lost, were sure to win ;
They sought the beeves that made
their broth.
In Scotland and in England both.
In homelj' guise, as nature bade,
His simple song the Borderer said.
• XI. .*. • i. •' !*> •» .J. 9
ALBERT GR.EME.
It was an English ladye bright,
(The sun shines fair on Carlisle
wall,)
And she would marry a Scottish
knight.
For Love will still be lord of all.
C3
4^
ZU ;Sa^ of t2^t ^d&i (mtnefref.
[Canto
Blithely they saw the rising sun.
When he shone fair on Carlisle
wall ;
But they were sad ere day was done,
Though Love was still the lord of all.
Her sire gave brooch and jewel fine.
Where the sun shines fair on Car-
lisle wall ;
Her brother gave but a flask of wine.
For ire that Love was lord of all.
I"or she had lands, both meadow and
lea,
Where the sun shines fair on Car-
lisle wall;
And he swore her death ere he would
see
A Scottish knight the lord of all !
That wine she had not tasted well,
(The sun shines fair on Carlisle
wall,)
When dead in her true love's arms
she fell.
For Love was still the lord of all [
He pierc'd her brother to the heart,
Where the sun shines fair on
Carlisle wall :
•So perish all would true love part.
That Love may still be lord of all !
And then he took the cross divine.
(Where the sun shines fair on Car-
lisle wall,")
And died for her sake in Palestine;
.So Love was still the lord of all.
Now all ye lovers that faithful
prove,
(The .sun shines fair on Carlisle
wall, )
Pray for their souls who died for
love.
For Love shall still be lord of all !
XIII.
As ended Albert's simple lay,
Arose a bard of loftier port ;
For sonnet, rhyme, and roundelay.
Renown'd in haughty Henry's
court :
There rung thy harp, unrivall'd long,
Fitztraver of the silver song I
The gentle Surrey loved his lyre —
Who has not heard of Surrej^'s
fame ?
His was the hero's soul of fire,
And his the bard's immortal
name,
And his was love, exalted high
By all the glow of chivalrj'.
XIV.
They sought, together, climes afar.
And oft, within some olive grove,
When even came with twinkling
star,
They sung of Surre^-'s absent love.
His step the Italian peasant stay'd,
And deem'd that spirits from on
high.
Round where some hermit saint was
laid.
Were breathing heavenly melod}';
So sweet did harp and voice com-
bine
To praise the name of Geraldinc.
XV.
Fitztraver I O what tongue may say
The pangs thy faithful bosom knew,
When Surrey, of the deathless lay.
Ungrateful Tudor's sentence slew ?
Regardless of the tyrant's frown.
His harp call'd wrath and vengeance
down.
He left, for Naworth's iron towers.
Windsor's green glades, and courtly
bowers.
And faithful to his patron's name.
With Howard still Fitztraver came ;
Lord William's foremost favourite he.
And chief of all his luiiistrelsv.
VI.]
ZU Bap of tU Bcifit QUmeftef.
XVI.
FITZTRAVER.
' Iwas All-soul's eve, and Surrey's
heart beat high ;
He heard the midnight bell with
anxious start.
Which told the mystic hour.
approaching nigh.
When wise Cornelius promis"d,
by his art,
To show to him the ladye of his
heart,
Albeit betwixt them roar'il the
ocean grim ;
Yet so the sage had hight to play his
part,
That he should see her form in
life and limb.
And mark, if still she lov'd, and still
she thought of hini.
XVII.
Dark was the ^■aultcd room of
gramarye,
To which the wizard led the
gallant Knight,
.Sa\-e that before a mirror, huge and
high,
Ahallow'd taper shed a glimmer-
ing light
On mj'stic implements of magic
might ;
On cross, and character, and
talisman,
And almagest, and altar, nothing
bright :
For fitful was the lustre, pale and
wan.
As watchlight b\' the bed of some
departing man.
XVI 11.
But soon, within that mirror huge
and high,
Was seen a self-emitted light to
gleam ;
And forms upon its breast the Earl
'gan spy,
Cloudy and indistinct, as feverish
dream ;
i'ill, slo\v arranging, anil defin'd,
the\' seem
In lorm a lordly and a lot't^'
room,
Part lighted by a lamp with silver
beam ,
Plac'd by a couch of Agra's silken
loom.
And part by moonshine pale, and
jjart was hid in gloom.
XIX.
Fair all the pageant : but how pass-
ing fair
The slender form which lay on
couch of Ind I
O'er her white bosom straj'd her
hazel hair ;
Pale her dear cheek, as if for lu\ c
she ]3in'd ;
All in her night-rube loose she la^-
reclin'd,
And ])ensivc read frLini lalik t
cburninc
Some strain that seem'd her iiunu^t
soul to find :
That favour'd strain was Surrey's
raptur d line.
That fair and lovely form, the J.ad_\-
Geraldine.
XX.
Slow roll'd the clouds upon the
lovel^^ form.
And swept the goodly vision all
awaj' —
So royal envy roll'd tiie murky
storm
O'er my beloved Master's glori-
ous day.
Thou jealous, ruthless tyrant !
Heaven repay
On thee, and on thy children's
latest line,
44
ZH ;Sap of tU Ba0f Qtltne^ref.
[Canto
The wild caprice of thy despotic
s\va3%
The gory bridal bed, the plunder'd
shrine,
Theimirder'd Surrey's blood, the tears
of Geraldine !
Both Scots, and Southern chiefs, pro-
long
Applauses of P'itztraver's song ;
These hated Henry's name as death,
And those still held the ancient
faith.
Then, from his seat, with lofty air,
Rose Harold, bard of brave St.
Clair ;
St. Clair, who, feasting high at
Home,
Had with that lord to battle come.
Harold was born where restless seas
Howl round the storm-swept Or-
cades ;
Where erst St. Clairs held princely
sway
O'er isle and islet, strait and bay; —
.Still nods their palace to its fall,
rh3'- pride and sorrow, fair Kirk-
wall !
Thence oft he mark'd fierce Pent-
land rave,
As if grim Odin rode her wave ;
And watch'd the whilst, with visage
pale.
And throbbing heart, the struggling
sail ;
For all of wonderful and wild
Had rapture for the lonely child.
And much of wild and wonderful
In these rude isles might fancy cull;
For thither came, in times afar,
Stern Lochlin's sons of roving war.
The Norsemen, train'd to spoil and
blood,
Skill'd to prepare the raven's food ;
Kings of the main their leaders brave,
Their barks the dragons of the wave.
And there, in many a stormy vale.
The Scald had told his wondrous
tale;
And many a Runic column high
Had witness'd grim idolatr3'.
And thus had Harold in his youth
Learn'd many a Saga's rhyme un-
couth,—
Of that Sea-Snake, tremendous curl'd.
Whose monstrous circle girds the
world ;
Of those dread Maids, whose hideous
yell
Maddens the battle's bloody swell;
Of Chiefs, who, guided through the
gloom
By the pale death-lights of the tomb,
Ransack'd the graves of warriors
old.
Their falchionswrench'd from corpses'
hold,
Wak'd the deaf tomb with war's
alarms.
And bade the dead arise to arms I
With war and wonder all on flame,
To Roslin's bowers young Harold
came,
Where, by sweet glen and greenwood
tree.
He learn'd a milder minstrelsy ;
Yet something of the Northern spell
Mix'd with the softer numbers well.
HAROLD.
O listen, listen, ladies gay !
No haughty feat of arms I tell ;
Soft is the note, and sad the la}-.
That mourns the lovely Rosabelle.
— ' Moor, moor the barge, ye gallant
crew !
And, gentle ladye. deign to stay I
Rest thee in Castle Ravensheuch,
Nor tempt the stormy firth to-day.
VI.]
ZU Ba^ of tU Baot (ttiinetvd.
4.")
' The blackening ■wave is edg'd with
white :
To inch and rock the sea-mews fly ;
The fishers have heard the Water-
Sprite,
Whose screams forebode that wreck
is nigh.
' Last night tlje gifted Seer did view
A wet shroud swathed round \adye
gay ;
Then stay thee, Fair, in Ravensheuch :
Why cross the gloomy firth to-
day] '
' 'Tis not because Lord Lindcsaj-'s heir
To-night at Roslin leads the ball.
But that my ladye-mother there
Sits loneh' in her castle-hall.
' 'Tis not because the ring they ride,
And Lindesay at the ring rides well,
But that my sire the wine will chide.
If 'tis not fiird by Rosabelle.'
0\r Roslin all that dreary night
A wondrous blaze was seen togleam ;
'Twas broader than the watch-fire's
light.
And redder than the bright moon-
beam.
It glar'd on Roslin's castled rock,
It ruddied all the copse-wood glen ;
'Twas seen from Dryden's groves of
oak,
And seen from cavern'd Hawthorn-
den.
.Seem'd all on fire that chapel proud.
Where Roslin's chiefs uncoffin'd lie,
Each Baron, for a sable shroud,
Sheath'd in his iron panoply.
Seem'd all on fire within, around.
Deep sacristy and altar's pale ;
Shone every pillar foliage-bound,
And glimmer'd all the dead men's
mail.
Blaz'd battlement and pinnet high,
Blaz'd every rose-carved buttress
fair — ■
So still they blaze when fate is nigh
The lordly line of high St. Clair.
There are twenty- of Roslin's barons
bold
Lie buried within that proud cha-
pelle ;
Each one the holy vault doth hold--
But the sea holds lovely Rosabelle I
And each St. Clair was buried there.
With candle, with book, and with
knell;
But the sea-caves rung, and the wild
winds sung.
The dirge of lovely Rosabelle.
XXIV.
So sweet was Harolds piteous ]a.}\
Scarce mark'd the guests the darkened
hall.
Though, long before the sinking day,
A wondrous shade involv'd them all :
It was not eddj'ing mist or fog,
Drain'd by the sun from fen or bog;
Of no eclipse had sages told ;
And yet, as it came on apace.
Each one could scarce his neighbours
face,
Could scarce his own stretcli'd
hand behold.
A secret horror check'd the feast,
And chill'd the soul of everj^ guest ;
Even the high Dame stood half aghast — ■
She knew some evil on the blast ;
The elvish page fell to the ground,
And, shuddering, mutter'd, ' Found I
found I found I '
Thensudden, through the darken'd air,
A flash of lightning came ;
So broad, so bright, so red the glare.
The castle seem'd on flame.
Glanc'd every rafter of the hall,
Glanc'd every shield upon the wall ;
48
ZU Bap of iU Baet Qnineftref. [Cantovi.
And July's eve, with balmy breath,
Wav'd the blue-bells on Newark
heath :
When throstles sung in Harehead-
shaw,
And corn was green on Carterhaugh,
And flourish'd broad Blackandro's
oak.
The aged Harper's soul awoke 1
Then would he sing achievements
high,
And circumstance of chivalry',
Till the rapt traveller would stay,
Forgetful of the closing day ;
And noble youths, the strain to hear,
Forsook the hunting of the deer;
And Yarrow, as he roll'd along,
Bore burden to the Minstrel's song.
END OF THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL.
jfnfro^ucfion (xnb (Uofee ^o ZU Ba^ of t^t
INTRODUCTION TO THE EDITION OF 1830.
A POEM of nearly thirty years' standing
may be supposed hardly to need an Intro-
duction, since, without one, it has been able
to keep itself afloat through the best part of
a generation. Nevertheless, as, in the edi-
tion of the Waverley Novels now in course
of publication [18.^0], I have imposed on
myself the task of saying something con-
cerning the purpose and history of each, in
their turn, I am desirous that the Poems for
which I first received some marks of the
public favour, should also be accompanied
with such scraps of their literary history as
may be supposed to carry interest along with
them. Even if I should be mistaken in think-
ing that the secret history of what was once
so popular, may still attract public attention
and curiosity, it seems to me not without its
use to record the manner and circumstances
under which the present, and other Poems on
the same plan, attained for a season an ex-
tensive reputation.
I must resume the story of my literary
labours at the period at which I broke off in
the Essay on tlie Imitation of Popular Poetry
[see /'OS/'}, when I had enjoyed the first gleam
of public favour, by the success of the first
edition of the Minstrelsy of the Scottish
Border. The second edition of that work,
published inl8o3, proved, in thelanguageof the
trade, rather a heavy concern. The demand
in Scotland had been supplied by the, first
edition, and the curiosity ot the English was
not much awakened by poems in the rude
garb of antiquity, accompanied with notes
referring to the obscure feuds of l)arbarous
clans, of whose very names civilized history
was ignorant. It was, on the whole, one of
those books which are more praised than
they are read.
-Vt this time I stood personally in a dif-
ferent position from that which I occupied
when I first dipt my desperate pen in ink for
other purposes than those of my profession.
In 1706, when I first published the transla-
tions from Burger, I was an insulated indivi-
dual, with only my own wants to provide
for, and having, in a great measure, my
own inclinations alone to consult. In 1803,
when tlie second edition of the Minstrelsy ap-
peared, I had arrived at a period of life when
men, however thoughtless, encounter duties
and circumstances which press consideration
and plans of life upon the most careless
minds. I had been for some time married —
was the father of a rising family, and, though
fully enabled to meet the consequent demands
upon me, it was my duty and desire to place
myself in a situation which would enable me
to make honourable provision against the
various contingencies of life.
It may be readily supposed that the at-
tempts which I had made in literature had
been unfavourable to my success at the bar.
The goddess Themis is, at Edinburgh, and
I suppose everywhere else, of a peculiarly
jealous disposition. She will not readily
consent to share her authority, and sternly
demands from her votaries, not only that
real duty be carefully attended to and dis-
charged, but that a certain air of business
shall be observed even in the midst of total
idleness. It is prudent, if not absolutely
necessary', in a young barrister, to appear
completely engrossed by his profession ; how-
ever destitute of employment he may in
reality be, he ought to preserve, if possible,
the appearance of full occupation. He should,
therefore, seem perpetually engaged among
his law-papers, dusting them, as it were; ana,
as Ovid advises the fair,
* Si nullus erit pulvis, tamen excute nullum.'
Perhaps such extremity of attention is more
especially required, considering the great
number of counsellors who are called to the
bar, and how very small a proportion of them
are finally disposed, or find encouragement,
to follow the law as a profession. Hence the
number of deserters is so great, that the least
lingering look behind occasions a young
novice to be set down as one of the intending
fugitives. Certain it is, that the Scottish
Themis was at this time peculiarly jealous of
any flirtation with the Muses, on the part of
those who had ranged themselves under her
banners. This was probably owing to her
consciousness of the supejior attractions of
Jnfrobuch'on to
her rivals. Of late, however, she has relaxed
ill some instances in this particular, an emi-
nent example of which has been shown in
the case of my friend, Mr. Jeffrey, who, after
long^ conducting one of the most influential
literary periodicals of the a^^e, with unques-
tionable ability, has been, by the general
consent of liis brethren, recently elected to
be their Dean of Faculty, or President, —
being the highest acknowledgment of his
professional talents which they had it in their
power to offer. But tliis is an incident much
beyond the ideas of a period of thirty years'
distance, when a barrister who really pos-
sessed any turn for lighter literature, was at
as much pains to conceal it, as if it had in
reality been something to be ashamed of;
and I could mention more than one instance
in which literature and society have suffered
much loss, that jurisprudence might be en-
riched.
Such, however, was not my case ; for the
reader will not wonder that my open inter-
ference with matters of light literature di-
minished my emplo3'ment in the weightier
matters of the law. Nor did tlie solicitors,
upon whose choice the counsel takes rank in
his profession, do me less than justice, by re-
garding others among my contemporaries
as fitter to discharge the duty due to their
clients, than a young man who was taken up
with running after ballads, whether Teutonic
or national. My profession and I, therefore,
came to stand nearly upon tlie footing which
honest Slender consoled himself on having
established witli Mistress Anne Page; 'There
was no great love between us at the begin-
ning, and it pleased Heaven to decrease it
on farther acquaintance.' I became sensible
that the time was come when I must either
buckle myself resolutely to the ' toil by day,
the lamp by night,' renouncing all the De-
lilahs of my imagination, or bid adieu to the
profession of the Law, and hold another
course.
I confess my own inclination revolted from
the more severe choice, which might have
been deemed by many the wiser alternative.
As my transgressions had been numerous,
my repentance must have been signalized by
unusual sacrifices. I ought to have men-
tioned, that since my fourteenth or fifteenth
year, my health, originally delicate, had be-
come extremely robust. From infancy I had
laboured under the infirmity of a severe
lameness, but, as I believe is usually the
case with men of spirit who suffer under per-
sonal inconveniences of this nature, I had,
since the improvement of mj' health, in de-
fiance of this incapacitating circumstance,
distinguished myself by the endurance of toil
on foot or horse-back, having often walked
thirty miles a-day, and rode upwards of a
hundred, without resting. In this manner I
made many pleasant journeys through parts
of the country then not very accessible, gain-
ing more amusement and instruction than I
have been able to acquire since I have
travelled in a more commodious manner. I
practised most silvan sports also, with some
success, and with great delight. But these
pleasures must have been all resigned, or
used with great moderation, had I determined
to regain my station at the bar. It was
even doubtful whether I could, witli perfect
character as a jurisconsult, retain a situation
in a volunteer corps of cavalry, which I then
held. The threats of invasion were at this
time instant and menacing; the call by
Britain on her children was universal, and
was answered by some, who, like myself,
consulted rather their desire than their ability
to bear arms. My services, however, were
found useful in assistino; to maintain the
discipline of the corps, being the point on
which their constitution rendered them most
amenable to military criticism. In other
respects, the squadron was a fine one, con-
sisting chiefly of handsome men, well mount-
ed and armed at their own expense. My
attention to the corps took up a good deal of
time; and while it occupied many of the
happiest hours of my life, it furnished an
additional reason for my reluctance again to
encounter the severe course of study indis-
pensable to success in the juridical profes-
sion.
On the other hand, my father, whose feel-
ings might have been hurt by my quitting
the bar, had been for two or three years
dead, so that I had no control to thwart my
own inclination; and iry income being equal
to all the comforts, and some of the elegan-
cies, of life, I was not pressed to an irksome
labour by necessity, that most powerful of
motives ; consequently, I was the more easily
seduced to choose the employment which
was most agreeable to me. This was yet the
easier, that in 1800 I had obtained the pre-
ferment of Sheriff of Selkirkshire, about
^300 a-year in value, and which was the
more agreeable to me, as in that county I
had several friends and relations. But I did
not abandon the profession to which I had
been educated, without certain prudential
resolutions, which, at the risk of some ego-
tism, I will here mention ; not without the
hope that they may be useful to young per-
sons who may stand in circumstances similar
to those in which I then stood.
In the first place, upon considering the
lives and fortunes of persons who had given
themselves up to literature, or to the task of
pleasing the public, it seemed to me, that
the circumstances which chiefly affected
their happiness and character, were those
from which Horace has bestowed upon
autliors the epithet of the Irritable Race. It
requires no depth of philosophic reflection to
perceive, that the petty warfare of Pope with
the Dunces of his period could not have been
carried on without his suffering the most
acute torture, such as a man must endure
from musquittoes, by whose stings he suffers
Z^t &a^ of tU ^Ci0t Qllttt0tref.
51
agony, altlioueh he can crush them in his
grasp by myriads. Nor is it necessary to
call to memory the many humiliating in-
stances in which men of the greatest genius
have, to avenge some pitiful quarrel, made
themselves ridiculous during their lives, to
become the still more degraded objects of
pity to future times.
Upon the whole, as I had no pretension to
the genius of the distinguished persons who
had fallen into such errors, I concluded there
could be no occasion for imitating them in
their mistakes, or what I considered as such ;
and, in adopting literary pursuits as the prin-
cipal occupation of my future life, I resolved,
if possible, to avoid those weaknesses of tem-
per which seemed to have most easily beset
my more celebrated predecessors.
With this view, it was my first resolution
to keep as far as was in my power abreast of
society, continuing to maintain my place in
general company, without yielding to the
very natural temptation of narrowing my-
self to what is called literary society. By
doing so, I imagined I should escape the be-
setting sin of listening to language, which,
from one motive or other, is apt to ascribe a
very undue degree of consequence to literary
pursuits, as if they were, indeed, the business,
rather than the amusement, of life. The
opposite course can only be compared to the
injudicious conduct of one who pampers him-
self with cordial and luscious draughts, until
he is unable to endure wholesome bitters.
Like Gil Bias, therefore, I resolved to stick
by the society o( my coin Jiiis, instead of seek-
ing that of a more literary cast, and to main-
tain my general interest in what was going
on around me, reserving the man of letters
for the desk and the libran,'.
My second resolution was a corollary from
the first. I determined that, without shutting
my ears to the voice of true criticism, I would
pay no regard to that which assumes the form
of satire. I therefore resolved to arm my-
self with that triple brass of Horace, of
which those of my profession are seldom
held deficient, against all the roving warfare
of satire, parody, and sarcasm ; to laugh if
the jest was a good one, or, if otherwise, to
let it hum and buzz itself to sleep.
It is to the obser\ance of these rules (ac-
cording to my best belief 1, that, after a life of
thirty j'ears engaged in literary labours of
various kinds, I attribute my never having
been entangled in any literary quarrel or
controversy ; and, which is a still more pleas-
ing result, that I have been distinguished by
the personal friendship of my most approved
contemporaries of all parties.
I adopted, at the same time, another re-
solution, on which it may doubtless be re-
marked, that it was well for me that I had it
in my power to do so, and that, therefore, it
is a line of conduct which, depending upon
accident, can be less generally applicable in
other cases. Yet I fail not to record this
part of my plan, convinced that, though it may
not be in every one's power to adopt exactly
the same resolution, he may nevertheless, by
his own exertions, in some shape or other,
attain the object on which it was founded,
namely, to secure the means of subsistence,
without relying exclusively on literary talents.
In this respect, I determined that literature
should be my staff, but not my crutch, and
that the profits of my literary labour, how-
ever convenient otherwise, should not, if I
could help it, become necessary to my or-
dinary expenses. With this purpose I re-
solved, if the interest of my friends could so
far favour me, to retire upon any of the re-
spectable offices of the law, in which persons
of that profession are glad to take refuge,
when they feel themselves, or are judged by
others, incompetent to aspire to ics higher
honours. Upon such a post an author might
hope to retreat, without any perceptiule
alteration of circumstances, whenever the
time should arrive that the public grew weary
of his endeavours to please, or he himself
should tire of the pen. At this period of m)'
life, I possessed so many friends capable of
assisting me in this object of ambition, that
I could hardly over-rate my own prospects
of obtaining the preferment to which I limited
my wishes; and, in fact, I obtained in no
long period the reversion of a situation which
completely met them.
Thus far all was well, and the Author had
been guilty, perhaps, of no great imprudence,
when he relinquished his forensic practice
with the hope of making some figure in the
field of literature. But an established char-
acter with the public, in my new capacity,
still remained to be acquired. I have noticed,
that the translations from Burger had been
unsuccessful, nor had the original poetry
which appeared under the auspices of Mr.
Lewis, in the 'Tales of Wonder,' in any
great degree raised my reputation. It is
true, I had private friends disposed to second
me in my efforts to obtain popularity. But I
was sportsman enough to know, that if the
greyhound does not run well, the halloos
of his patrons will not obtain the prize for
him.
Neither was I ignorant that tlie practice of
ballad-writing was for the present out of
fashion, and that ;.ny attempt to revive it, or
to found a poetical character upon it, would
certainly fail of success. The ballad measure
itself, which was once listened to as to an
enchanting melody, had become hackneyed
and sickening, from its being the accompani-
ment of every grinding hand-organ ; and
besides, a long work in quatrains, whether
those of the common ballad, or such as are
termed elegiac, has an effect upon the mind
like that of the bed of Procrustes upon the
human body ; for, as it must be both awk-
ward and dilTicult to carry on a long sentence
from one stanza to another, it follows, that
the meaning of each period must be com-
52
^tttfoiucttott io
prehended within four lines, and equally so
that it must be extended so as to till that
space. The alternate dilation and contraction
thus rendered necessary is singularly un-
favourable to narrative composition ; and the
'Gondibert' of Sir William D'Avenant,
though containing many strilcing passages,
has never become popular, owing chiefly to
its being told in this species of elegiac verse.
In the dilemma occasioned bv tliis ob-
jection, the idea occurred to the Author of
using the measured short line, which forms
the structure of so much minstrel poetry,
that it may be properly termed the Romantic
stanza, by way of distinction ; and which
appears so natural to our language, that the
verj- best of our poets have not been able to
protract it into the verse properly callecl
Heroic, without the use of epithets which are,
to say the least, unnecessary. But, on tlie
other hand, the extreme facility of the short
couplet, which seems congenial to our lan-
guage, and was, doubtless for that reason,
so popular with our old minstrels, is, for the
same reason, apt to prove a snare to the
composer who uses it in more modern da)'S,
by encouraging him in a habit of slovenly
composition. The necessity of occasional
pauses often forces the young poet to pay
more attention to sense, as the boy's kite
rises highest when the train is loaded by a
due counterpoise. The Author was therefore
intimidated by what Byron calls the 'fatal
facility' of the octosyllabic verse, which was
otherwise better adapted to his purpose of
imitating the more ancient poetry.
I was not less at a loss for a subject which
might admit of being treated with the sim-
plicity and wildness of the ancient ballad.
But accident dictated both a theme and
measure, which decided the subject, as well
as the structure of tlie poem.
The lovely 3'oung Countess of Dalkeith,
afterwards Harriet Duchess of Buccleuch,
had come to the land of her husband with
the desire of making herself acquainted with
its traditions and customs, as well as its
manners and historj'. All who remember
this lady will agree, that the intellectual
character of her extreme beauty, the amenity
and courtesy of her manners, the soundness
of her understanding, and her unbounded
benevolence, gave more the idea of an
angelic visitant, than of a being belonging
to this nether world; and such a thought
was but too consistent with the short space
she was permitted to tarry among us. Of
course, where all made it a pride and plea-
sure to gratify her wishes, she soon heard
inough of Border lore ; among others, an
aged gentleman of property, near Lang-
holm, communicated to her ladyship the
story of Gilpin Horner, a tradition in
which the narrator, and many more of that
country, were firm believers. The young
Countess, much delighted with the legencl^
and t!ie gravity and full confidence with
which it was told, enjoined on me as a task
to compose a ballad on the subject. Of
course, to hear was to obey ; and thus the
goblin story, objected to by several critics
as an excrescence upon the poem, was, in
fact, the occasion of its being written.
A chance similar to that wliich dictated the
subject, gave me also the hint of a new mode
of treating it. We had at that time the lease
of a pleasant cottage, near Lasswade, on the
romantic banks of the Esk, to which we
escaped when the vacations of the Court
permitted me so much leisure. Here I had
the pleasure to receive a visit from Mr. Stod-
dart (now Sir John Stoddart, Judge-Advocate
at Malta), who was at that time collectingr
the particulars which he afterwards embodied
in his Remarks on Local Scenery in Scotland.
I was of some use to him in procuring the
information which he desired, and guiding
him to the scenes which he wished to see.
In return, he made me better acquainted
than I had hitherto been with the poetic
effusions which have since made the Lakes
of Westmoreland, and the authors by whom
they have been sung, so famous wherever the
English tongue is spoken.
1 was already acquainted viith the 'Joan
of Arc,' tlie 'Thalaba,' and the 'Metrical
Ballads ' of Mr. Southey, which had found
their way to Scotland, and were generally
admired. But Mr. Stoddart, who had the
advantage of personal friendship with the
authors, and who possessed a strong memory
with an excellent taste, was able to repeat to
me many long specimens of their poetry,
which hadnot yet appearedin print. Amongst
others, was the striking fragment called
Christabel, by ^Ir. Coleridge, which, from
the singularly irregular structure of the
stanzas, and the liberty which it allowed the
author to adapt the sound to the sense,
seemed to be exactly suited to such an extra-
vaganza as I meditated on the subject of
Gilpin Horner. As applied to comic and
humorous poetrj", this mescolanza of mea-
sures had been already used by Anthony
Hall, Anstey, Dr. Wolcott, and others ; but
it was in Christabel that I first found it used
in serious poetry, and it is to Mr. Coleridge
that I am bound to make the acknowledg-
ment due from the pupil to his master. I
observe that Lord Byron, in noticing my
obligations to Mr. Coleridge, which I have
been always most ready to acknowledge,
expressed, or was understood to express,
a hope, that I did not write an unfriendly
review on Mr. Coleridge's productions.
On this subject I have only to say, that I do
not even know the review which is alluded
to ; and were I ever to take the unbecoming
freedom ofcensuringaman of Mr. Coleridge's
extraordinary talents, it would be on account
of the caprice and indolence with which he
has thrown from him, as if in mere wanton-
ness, those unfinished scraps of poetry, which,
like the Torso of antiquity, defy the skill of
ZU Ba^ of tU ^a^t (tXinetvd.
liis poetical bretliren to coiiipletp them. 1 lie
charming fragments which the author aban-
dons to their fate, are surely too valuable to be
treated like the proofs of careless engravers,
the sweepings of whose studios often make
the fortune of some painstaking collector.
I did not immediately proceed upon my
projected labour, thou<jh I was now furnished
w ith a subject, and witli a structure of verse
which might have the effect of novelty to the
public ear, and afford the author an oppor-
tunity of varying his measure with the
variations of a romantic theme. On the
contrary, it was, to the bestofmy recollection,
more than a year after Mr. Stoddart's visit,
that, by way of experiment, I composed the
first two or three stanzas of ' The Lay of the
Last Minstrel.' I was sliortly afterwards
visited by two intimate friends, one of whom
still survives. They were men whose talents
might have raised them to the highest station
in literature, had they not preferred exerting
them in their own profession of the law, in
which they attained eijual preferment. I was
in the habit of consulting them on my attempts
at composition, having equal confidence in
their sound taste and friendly sincerity.
In this specimen I had, in the phrase of the
Highland servant, packed all that was my
own (7/ /tasf, Ibr I had also included a line
of invocation, a little softened, from Cole-
ridge—
' Mary, motlier, shield us well."
As neither of my friends said much to me on
the subject of stanzas I showed them before
their departure, I had no doubt that tlieir
disgust had been greater than their good-
nature chose to express. Lookingupon them,
therefore, as a failure, I threw the manuscript
into the fire, and thought as little more as I
could of the matter. Some time afterwards
I met one of my two counsellors, who en-
quired, with considerable appearance of
interest, about the progress of the romance
I had commenced, and was greatly surprised
at learning its fate. He confessed that neither
lie nor our mutual friend had been at first
able to give a precise opinion on a poem so
much out of the common road ; but that as
they walked home together to the city, they
had talked much on the subject, and the
result was an earnest desire that I would
proceed with the composition. He also
added, that some sort of prologue might be
necessary, to place the mind of the hearers
in the situation to unde^^tand and enjoy the
poem, and recommended the adoption of such
quaint mottoes as Spenser has used to an-
nounce the contents of the chapters of the
Faery Queen, such as — •
' Babe's bloody hands may not be cleansed.
The face of golden Mean :
Her sisters two, Extremities,
Strive her to banish clean.'
I entirely agreed with my friendly critic in
the necessity of having some sort of pitch-
pipe, which might make readers aware of
the object, or rather the tone, of the publica-
tion. But I doubted whether, in assuming
the oracular style of Spenser's mottoes, the
interpreter miglit not be censured as the
harder to be understood of the two. 1
therefore introduced the Old Minstrel, as an
appropriate prolocutor, by whom the lay
might be sung, or spoken, and the intro-
duction of whom betwixt the cantos, might
remind the reader at intervals, of the time,
place, and circumstances of the recitation.
This species of cadre, or frame, afterwards
afforded the poem its name of ' The Lay of
the Last Minstrel.'
The work was subsequenth' shown to
other friends during its progress, and received
the iinpyhiiatu}- of Mr. Francis Jeffrey, who
had been already for some time distinguished
by his critical talent.
The poem, being once licensed by the
critics as fit for the market, was soon finished,
proceeding at about the rate of a canto per
week. There was, indeed, little occasion for
pause or hesitation, when a troublesome
rhyme might be accommodated by an alter-
ation of the stanza, or where an incorrect
measure inight be remedied by a variation
of the rhyme. It was finally published in
1805, and may be regarded as the first work
in which the writer, who has been since so
voluminous, Iai<i his claim to be considered
as an original author.
The book was published by Longman and
Company, and Archibald Constable and
Company. The principal of the latter firm
was then commencing that course of bold
and liberal industry which was of so much
advantage to his country and iniHit have
been so to himself, but for causes which it is
needless to enter into here. The work,
brought out on the usual terms of division of
profits between the author and publishers,
was not long after purchased by them for
;^500, to which Messrs. Longman anrl Com-
pany afterwards added/ 100, in their own
unsolicited kindness, in consequence of the
uncommon success of the work. It was
handsomely given to supply the loss of a fine
horse, which broke down suddenly while the
author was riding with one of the worthy
publishers.
It would be great afi'ectation not to own
frankly, that the author expected some
success from 'The Lay of the Last Minstrel.'
The attempt to return to a more simple and
natural style of poetry was likely to be
welcomed, at a time when the public had
become tired of heroic hexameters, with all
the buckram and binding which belong to
them of later days. But whatever might
have been his expectations, whether moderate
or unreasonable, the result left them far
behind, for among those who smiled on the
adventurous Minstrel, were numbered the
great names of William Pitt and Charles
\
(Uotea to
Fox. Neitliei' \vas llic extent of the sale
inferior to the character of the judges who
received the poem with approbation. Up-
wards of thirty thousand copies of the Lay
were disposed of by the trade ; and the
author had to perform a task difficult to
human vanity, when called upon to make
the necessary deductions from his own merits,
in a calm attempt to account for his popu-
larity.
A few additional remarks on the author's
literary attempts after this period, will be
found in the Introduction to the Poem of
Itlarmion.
Abbotsforu, April 1830.
NOTES.
Note I.
The feast ivas oz\'f in Branksome iirzwr.
-P. ^
Ix the reign of James I, Sir William Scott
of Buccleuch, chief of the clan bearing that
name, exchanged, with Sir Thomas Inglis of
Manor, the estate of IMurdiestone, in Lanark-
shire, forone-haU of the barony of Branksome,
or Brankholm ', lying upon tlieTeviot, about
three miles above Hawick. He was probably
induced to this transaction from the vicinity
of Branksome to the extensive domain which
lie possessed in ICttrick Forest and inTeviot-
dale. In the former district he held by occu-
pancy the estate of Buccleuch -, and much
of the forest land on the river Ettrick. In
Teviotdale, he enjoyed thebarony of Eckford,
by a grant from Robert II to liis ancestor,
Walter Scott of Kirkurd, for the apprehend-
ing of Gilbert Kidderford, confirmed by
Robert III 3d Ma}- 14J4. Tradition imputes
the exchange betwixt Scott and Inglis to a
conversation, in which the latter — a man, it
would appear, of a mild and forbearing
nature, complained much of the injuries which
he was exposed to from the English Borderers,
who frequently plundered his lands of Brank-
some. Sir William Scott instantly offered
him the estate of Murdiestone, in exchange
for that which was subject to such egregious
inconvenience. When the bargain was com-
jileted, he dryly remarked, that the cattle in
Cumberland were as good as those of Teviot-
dale ; and proceeded to commence a system
of reprisals upon the English, which was
regularly pursued by his successors. In the
next reign, James II granted to Sir Walter
Scott of Branksome, and to Sir David, his
son, the remaining half of the barony of
Branksome, to be held in blanche for the
payment of a red rose. The cause assigned
for the grant is, their brave and faithful
1 Branxholm is tlie proper name of the barony ; but
Branksome has been adopted, as suitable to the pro-
nunciation, and more proper for poetry.
2 Therearenovestij^esof any buildini^at Buccleuch,
except the site of a chapel, where, according to a tra-
dition current in the time of Scott of Satchells, many
of the ancient barons of Buccleuch lie buried. There
is also said to have been a mill near this solitary spot ;
an extraordinarj' circumstance, as little or no corn
^rows within several miles of Buccleuch, Satchells
says it was used to grind corn f^r tli*-- Imunds of the
chieftain.
exertions in favour of the King against the
house of Douglas, with whom James had
been recently tugging for the throne of Scot-
land. This charter is dated the jd February
1443 ; and, in the same month, part of the
barony of Langholm, and many lands in
Lanarkshire, were conferred upon Sir Walter
and his son by the same monarch.
After the period of the exchange with Sir
Thomas Inglis, Branksome became the prin-
cipal seat of the Buccleuch family. The
castle was enlarged and strengthened by Sir
David Scott, the grandson of Sir William, its
first possessor. But, in 1570-1, the vengeance
of Elizabeth, provoked by the inroads of
Buccleuch, and his attachment to the cause
of Queen Mary, destroyed the castle, and
laid waste the lands of Branksome. In the
same year the castle was repaired and en-
larged by Sir Walter Scott, its brave pos-
sessor ; but the work was not comjilcted until
after his death, in 1574, when the widow
finished the building. This appears from
the following inscriptions. Around a stone,
bearing the arms of Scott of Buccleuch, ap-
pears trie following legend : — ' Sir W. Scott of
Branxheim Kngt oe of Sir William Scott of
Kirkurd Kngt began je work upon ye 24 of
Marche 1571 zear quha departit at God's
pleisour ye 17 April 1574.' On a similar co-
partment are sculptured the anns of Douglas,
with this inscription, 'DAME MakgAKET
Douglas his spous completit the foke-
SAiu vvoKK IN October 1576.' Over an
arched door is inscribed the following moral
verse : —
In varld. is. nocht. nature, hes. vrought. gat, sal. lest.
ay.
Tharefore. serve. God. keip. veil. ye. rod. thy. fame.
sal, nocht. dekay.
Sir Walter Scott of Branxholm Knight. Margaret
Douglas. 1571.
Branksome Castle continued to be the
principal seat of the Buccleuch family, while
security was any object in their choice of a
mansion. It has since been the residence of
the Commissioners, or Chamberlains, of the
family. From the various alterations which
the building has undergone, it is not only
greatly restricted in its dimensions, but re-
tains little of the castellated form, if we
except one square tower of massy thickness,
the only part of the original building which
ZU ^^^ of iH ^<^Qi ^xnBivtt
now remains. The whole forms a handsome
modern residence, lately inhabited by my
deceased friend, Adam Ogilvy, Esq. of Hart-
woodmyres, Commissioner of his Grace the
Dultc of Buccleucli.
The extent of the ancient edifice can still be
traced by some vestiges of its foundation, and
its strength is obvious from the situation, on
a deep bank surrounded by the Teviot, and
flanked by a deep ravine, formed by a pre-
cipitous brook. It was anciently surrounded
by wood, as appears from the survey of
Roxburghshire, made for Font's Atlas, and
preserved in the Advocates' Library. This
wood was cut about fifty years ago, but is
now replaced by the thriving plantations,
which have been formed by the noble pro-
prietor, for miles around the ancient mansion
of his forefathers.
Note II.
Xinc-and-hvenfy knights of fame
Hhuot their shields in Branksome
halL—V. 3.
The ancient barons of Buccleuch, both from
feudal splendour and from their frontier
situation, retained in their household at
Branksome, a number of gentlemen of their
own name, who held lands from their chief,
for the military service of watching and
warding h.is castle. Satchells tells us, in his
doggrel poetry,
' No baron was better served in lirilaiii ;
The barons of Buckleugh they kept their calf
}-"our and twenty gentlemen in their liall,
All being of his name and kin ;
I'lach two liad a servant to wait upon the?n
Before supper and dinner, mostrenowneil.
The bells nmg and the trumpets sowneil ;
And more than that, I do confess.
They kept four and twenty pensioners.
Think not I lie, nur do me blame,
bor the pensioners I can all name :
There "s men alive, elder than I.
They know if I speak truth, or lie.
livery pensioner a rooml did gain,
b'or service done and to be done ;
This let the reader understand,
The name both of the men and land,
■Which they possessed, it is of truth.
1 Both from ttie Lairds and Lords of Buckleutjh.
r Accordingly, disraountingfromhisPegasus,
Satchells gives us, in prose, the names of
twenty-four gentlemen, younger brothers of
ancient families, who wece pensioners to the
house of Buccleuch, and describes the lands
which each possessed for his Border service.
In time of war with England, the garrison
was doubtless augmented. Satchells adds,
'These twenty-three pensioners, all of his
own name of Scott, and Walter Gladstanes
of Whitelaw, a near cousin of my lord's, as
aforesaid, were ready on all occasions, when
his lionour pleased cause to advertise them.
portion of land.
It is known to many of the country better
tlian it is to me, that the rent of these lands,
which the Lairds and Lords of Buccleuch din
freely bestow upon their friends, will amount
to above twelve or fourteen thousand merks
a year.' — History of the name of Scot/, p. .(5.
An immense sum in those days.
Note III.
with Jedztood-axe at sadd/ehozc. — P. 3.
' Of a truth,' says Froissart, 'the Scottisli
cannot boast great skill with the bow, but
rather bear axes, with which, in time of need,
they give heavy strokes.' Tlie Jedwood-axe
was a sort of partisan, used b)' horsemen, as
appears from the arms of Jedburgh, which
bear a cavalier mounted, and armed with this
weapon. It is also called a Jedwood or Jed-
dart staff.
Note IV.
T'hey ii<atch against Southern force and
guile,
Lest Scroop, or Howard, or Percy^ s po'ivers.
Threaten Branksojiie's lordly tozi'ers.
From IVarkworth, or Nazvor'th, or merry
Carlisle. — P. 3.
Branksome Castle was continually ex-
posed to tlie attacks of tlie English, both from
its situation and the restless military disposi-
tion ot its inhabitiints, who were seldom on
goo<l terms with their neighbours. The fol-
lowing letter from the Earl of Northumber-
land to Henry VIII in 1533, gives an account
of a successful inroad of the English, in wliicli
the country was plundered up to the gates of
the castle, although the invaders failed in
their principal object, which was to kill, or
make prisoner, the Laird of Buccleuch. It
occurs in the Cotton MS. Calig. b. viii. f
222.
' Pleaseth yt your most gracious highness
to be aduertised, that my comptroller, witli
Raynald Carnaby, desyred licence of me to
invade therealmeofScotlande, fortheannoy-
saunce of your highnes enemys, where they
thought best exploit by theyme might be
done, and to haue to concur withe tneyme
the inhabitants of Northumberland, suche as
was towards me according to tlieyreassembly,
and as by theyre discretions vpone the same
they shulde thinke most convenient ; andsoo
they dyde meet vppone Monday, before night,
being the iii day of this instant monethe, at
AVawhope, upon Northe Tj-ne water, above
Tj'ndaill, where tliey were to the number of
XV c men, and soo invadet Scotland at the
hour of viii of the clok at nyglit, at a place
called Whele Causay ; and before xi of the
clok dyd send forth a forre)- of Tyndaill and
Ryddisdail, and laide all the resydewe in a
busliment, and .nrtyvely did set vpon a towne
Qtotee to
called Braiixholme, where the Lord of Bu-
clough dwellythe, and purpesed theymeselves
with a trayne for hym lyke to his accustomed
manner, in rysynge to all frayes ; albeit, that
knycjlit he was not at home, and so they
hrynt the said Branxholm, and other townes,
as to say Whichestre, Whichestre-helme, and
Whelley, and liaid ordered theymself, soo
that sundry of the said Lord Buclough's ser-
vants, who dyd issue fourthe of his gates, was
takyn prisoners. They dyd not leve one
house, one stak of corne, nor one shyef,
without the gate of the said Lord Buclough
vnbrynt ; and thus scrymaged and frayed,
supposing the Lord of Buclough to be w'ithin
iii or iiii myles to have trayned him to the
bushment ; and soo in the breyking of the
day dyd the forrey and the bushment inete,
and reculed homeward, making theyre way
westward from theyre inv.asion to be over
Lyddersdaill, as intending yf the fray frome
theyre furst entiy by the Scotts waiches, or
othervvyse by warnying, shuld haue bene
gyven to Gedworth and the countrey of
Scotland theyreabouts of theyre invasion :
whiche Gedworth is from the Wheles Causay
vi miles, that thereby the Scotts shulde have
comen further vnto theyme, and more out of
ordre ; and soo upon sundry good consider-
ations, before they entered Lyddersdaill, as
well accompting the inhabitants of the same
to be towards your hiHmess, and to enforce
theyme the more thereby, as alsoo to put an
occasion of suspect to the Kinge of Scotts,
and his counsaill, to be taken anenst theyme,
amonges theymeselves, madeproclamacions,
commanding, vpon payne of dethe, assurance
tobeforthe saia inhabitants of Ly'ddersdaill,
without any prejudice or hurt to be done by
any Inglysman vnto theyme, and soo in good
ordre abowte the howre of ten of the clok
before none, \ppon Tewisday, dyd pass
through the saiit Lyddersdail, when dyd
come diverse of the said inhabitants there to
my servauntes, under the said assurance,
offerring theymselfs with any service they
couthe make ; an<l thus, thanks be to Godde,
your highnes' subjects, abowte the howre of
xii of the clok at none the same daye, came
into this your highnes realme, bringing wt
theyme above xl Scottsmen prisoners, one of
theyme named Scot, of the surname and kyn
of the said Lord of Buclough, and of his
howsehold ; they brouglit also ccc nowte, and
above Ix horse and mares, keping in savetie
frome losse or hurte all your said highnes
subjects. There was alsoo a towne, called
Newbyggins, by diverse fotmen of Tyndaill
and Ryddesdaill, takyn vp of the night, and
spoyled, when was slayne ii Scottsmen of the
said towne, and many Scotts there hurte ;
your highnes subjects was xiii myles within
the grounde of Scotlande, and is from my
house at Werkworthe, above Ix miles of the
most evil passage, where great snawes doth
lye ; heretofore the same townes now brynt
h.aith not at any tynie in the mynd of man in
any warrs been enterprised unto nowe ; your
subjects were thereto more encouraged for
the better advancement of your highnes
service, the said Lord of Buclough beyng
always a mortal 1 enemy to this your Graces
realme, and he dyd say, within xiii days be-
fore, he woulde see who durst lye near hym ;
wt many other cruell words, the knowledge
whereof was certainly haid to my said
servaunts, before theyre enterprice maid vpon
him ; most humbly beseeching your majesty,
that youre highnes thanks may concur vnto
theyme, wiiose names be here inclosed, and to
have inyour most gracious memory, the payn-
fuU and diligent service of my pore servaunte
Wharton, and thus, as I am most bounden,
shall dispose wt them that be under me f . . .
. . . annoysaunce of your highnes enemys.'
In resentment of this foray, Buccleuch, with
other Border chiefs, assembled an army of
3000 riders, with which they penetrated into
Northumberland, and laid waste the country
as far as the banks of Bramish. They baffled,
or defeated, the English forces opposed to
them, and returnecl loaded with prey.— •
Pinkerton's History, vol. ii. p. 318.
Note V.
Bards long shall tell
How Lord Walter fell. — P. ^.
Sir Walter Scott of Buccleuch succeeded
to his grandfather. Sir David, in 1402. He
was a brave and powerful baron, and Warden
of the West Marches of Scotland. His death
was the consequence of a feud betwixt the
Scotts and Kerrs, the history of which is
necessary, to explain repeated allusions in
the romance.
In the year 1526, in the words of Pitscottie,
'the Earl of Angus, and the rest of the
Douglasses, ruled all which they liked, and
no man durst say the contrary ; wherefore
the King(James V, then a minor) was heavily
displeased, and would fain have been out of
their hands, if he might by any way : And,
to that effect, wrote a quiet and secret letter
with his own hand, and sent it to the Laird
of Buccleuch, beseeching him that he would
come with his kin and friends, and all the
force that he might be, and meet him at
Melross, at his home passing, and there to
take him out of the Douglasses hands, and
to put him to liberty, to use hiniself among
the lave {rest) of his lords, as he thinks ex-
pedient.
' This letter was quietly directed, and sent
by one of the King's own secret servants,
which was received very thankfully by the
Laird of Buccleuch, who was very glad there-
of to be put to such charges and familiarity
with his prince, and did great diligence to
perform the King's writing, and to bring the
matter to pass as the King desired ; And, to
that effect, convened all his kin and friends,
tU Bap of tU Baef (mineiref.
57
and all that would do for him, to ride with
liiin to Melross, when he knew of tlie Kind's
homecoming. And so he brought with him
six hundrecfspears, of Liddesdale, and An-
iiandale, and countrj-men, and clans there-
about, and held themselves (juiet while that
the King returned out of Jedburgh, and came
to Melross, to remain there all that night.
' But when the Lord Hume, Cessfoord,
and Fernyherst, (the chiefs of the clan of
Kerr,) took their leave of tlie King, and
returned home, then appeared the Lord of
Buccleuch in siglit, and his company with him
in an arrayed battle, intending to iiave ful-
filled the King's petition, and therefore came
stoutly forward on the back side of Haliden
hill. By that the Earl of Angus, with George
Douglas, his brother, and sundry other of
his friends, seeing this army coming, they
marvelled what the matter meant; while a't
the last they knew the Laird of Buccleuch,
with a certain company of the thieves ot An-
nandale. With him tliey were less affeared,
and made them manfully to the field contrary
them, and said to the King in this manner,
"Sir, yon is Buccleuch, and thieves of An-
nandale with him, to unbeset your Grace from
the gate" (i.e. interrupt your passage). " I vow
to God they shall either fight or flee ; and ye
shall tarry here on this know, and my brother
George with you, with any other company
you please ; and I shall pass, and i)ut yon
thieves off the ground, and rid the gate unto
your Grace, or else die for it." The King
tarried still, as was devised; and George
Douglas with him, and sundry other lords,
such as the Earl of Lennox, and the Lord
Erskine, andsomeofthe King'sownservants ;
but all the lave (res/) past with the Earl of
Angus to the field against the Laird of Buc-
cleuch, who joyned and countered cruelly
both the said parties in the field of Darne-
linver, either against other, with uncertain
victory. But at the last, the Lord of Hume,
liearing word of that matter liow it stood,
returned again to the King in all possible
haste, with him the Lairds of Cessfoord and
Fernyhirst, to the number of fourscore spears,
and set freshly on the lap and wing of the
Laird of Buccleuch's field, and shortly bare
them backward to tlie ground ; which caused
the Laird of Buccleuch, and the rest of his
friends, to go back and flee, whom they fol-
lowed and chased ; and especially the Lairds
of Cessfoord and Fernyhirst followed furi-
ouslie, till at the foot of a path the Laird of
Cessfoord was slain by the stroke of a spear
by an Elliot, who was then servant to the
Laird of Buccleuch. But when the Laird of
Cessfoord was slain, the chase ceased. The
Earl of Angus returned again with great
merriness and victor}', and thanked God
that he saved liim from that chance, and
passed with the King to Melross, where they
remained all that night. On the morn they
past to Edinburgh with the King, who was
very s.id and dolorous of the slaugliter of ihc
Laird of Cessfoord, and many other gentle-
men and yeomen slain by the Laird of Buc-
cleuch, containing the number of fourscore
and fifteen, which died in defence of the King
and at the command of his writing.'
I am not the first who has attempted to
celebrate in verse the renown of this ancient
baron, and his hazardous attempt to procure
his sovereign's freedom. In a Scottish Latin
poet we find the following verses : — ■
Valterius Scotus Balcluchius,
Egregio suscepto facinore, libert.ite Regis, .'ic ^ilii'.
rebus gestis clarus, sub JACOBO V. Ao. Cliristi, IS-'O.
' Iiitentata aliis, nullique audita priorum
Audet, nee pavidum morsve, metusve quatit.
Libertatem aiiis soliti transcribere Regis :
•Subreptam banc Regi restituisse paras ;
Si vincis, quanta 6 succedunt praemia dextrae !
.Sin victus, falsas spes jace, pene aniniani.
Hostica vis nocuit : stant altae robora mentis
Atque decus. Vincet, Rege probante, fides
Insita quels animis virtus, quosquc acrior ardur
Obsidet, obscuris nox premat an tenebrisV
Heroes ex onini Historia Scoticalectissiini, .\uctore
Johan Junsionia jVbredonense Sc<?to, ifo?.
In consequence of the battle of Melrose,
there ensued a deadly feud betwixt the names
of Scott and Kerr, wliich, in spite of all means
used to bring about an agreement, raged for
many years upon the Borders. Buccleuch
was imprisoned, and his estates forfeited, in
the year IS35, for levying war against the
Kens, and restored by act of Parliament,
dated I5tli March, 154^, during the regency
of Mary of Lorraine. But the most signal
act of violence to which this (juarrel gave rise,
was the murder of Sir Walter himself, who
was slain by tlie Kerrs in the streets of Edin-
burgh in 1552. This is the event alluded to
in stanza vii ; and the poem is supposed to
open shortly after it liad taken place.
The feud between these two families was
not reconciled in 1596, when both chieftains
paraded the streets of Edinburgh with their
followers, and it was expected their first
meeting would decide their quarrel. But,
on July 14th of the same year, Colvil, in a
letter to Mr. Bacon, informs him, 'that there
was great trouble upon the Borders, which
would continue till order should be taken by
the Queen of England and the King, by
reason of the two joung Scots chieftains,
Cesford and Baclugh, and of tlie present ne-
cessity and scarcity of corn amongst the
Scots Borderers and riders. That there had
been a pri\ate quarrel betwixt those two
lairds on the Borders, which was like to have
turned to blood ; but the fear of the general
trouble had reconciled them, and the injuries
which they thought to have committed against
each other were now transferred upon Eng-
land: notunlike that emulation in France be-
tween the Baron de Biron and Mons. Jeverie,
who, being both ambitious of honour, under-
took more hazardous enterprises against the
enemy than they would have done it they had
been at concord together.'— BiRCH'S htemo-
rials^ vol. ii. p. 67.
58
Qtoiee io
Note VI.
While Cessford owns the rule of Can;
While Ettrick boasts the line of Scott,
y'he slaughter'' d cltiLfs, the mortal Jai\
7'he ha-coc of thc/eiidalivai\
Shall tievei; never be forgot ! — P. 4.
Among; other expedients resorted to for
stanching the feud betwixt the Scotts and the
Kerrs, tliere was a bond executed in 1529,
between the heads ofeach clan, binding- them-
selves to perform reciprocally the four prin-
cipal pilgrimages of Scotland, for the benefit
of the souls of those of the opposite name
who had fallen in the quarrel. This indenture
is printed in the Minstrelsy of the Scottish
Border, vol. i. But either it never took
effect, or else the feud was renewed shortly
afterwards.
Such pactions were notuncommon in feudal
times ; and, as might be expected, they were
often, as in the present case, void of the effect
desired. When Sir Walter Mauny, the re-
nowned follower of Edward III, had taken
the town of Ryol in Gascony, he remembered
to have heard that his father lay there buried,
and offered a hundred crow'ns to any who
could show him his grave. A very old man
appeared before Sir Walter, and informed
him of the manner of his father's death, and
the place of his sepulture. It seems the Lord
of Mauny had, at a great tournament, un-
liorsed and wounded to the death, a Gascon
knight, of the house of Mirepoix, whose kins-
man was Bishop of Cambray. For this deed
he was held at feud by the relations of the
knight, until he agreed to undertake a
pilgrimage to the shrine of St. James of
Compostella, for the benefit of the soul of
the deceased. But as he returned through
tlie town of Ryol, after accomplishment of
his vow, he was beset and treaclierously
slain, by the kindred of the knight whom he
had kille<l. Sir Walter, guided by the old
man, visited the lowly tomb of his father ;
and, having read the inscription, which was
in Latin, he caused the body to be raised, and
transported to his nativecity of Valenciennes,
where masses were, in the days of Froissart,
duly said for the soul of the unfortunate
XixV^r'ww.— Chroiycle of Froiss.-\kt, vol. i.
p. I -'3.
Note VII.
Witli Carr iji arms had stood. — P. 4.
The family of Ker, Kerr, or Carr, was
very powerful on the Border. Fynes Mor-
rison remarks, in his Travels, that their
influence extended from the village of Preston
Grange, in Lothian, to the limits of England.
Cessford Castle, the ancient baronial resi-
dence of the family, is situated near the
tillage of Morebattle, within two or three
miles of the Cheviot Hills. It lias been a
place of great strengtii and consequence, but
IS now ruinous. Tradition affirms that it
was founded by Halbert, or Habby Kerr, a
gigantic warrior, concerning whom many
stories are current in Roxburghshire. The
Duke of Roxburghe represents Kerr of Cess-
ford. A distinct and po\verful branch of the
same name own the Marquis of Lothian as
their chief. Hence the distinction betwixt
Kerrs of Cessford and Fairnihirst.
Note MIL
Lord Craiistoiin. — P. 4.
The Cranstouns, Lord Cranstoun, are an
ancient Border family, whose chief seat was
at Crailing, in Teviotdale. The)' were at
this time at feud with the clan of Scott ; for
it appears that the Lady of Buccleuch, in
i.'i.S/i beset the Laird of Cranstoun, seeking
his life. Nevertheless, the same Cranstoun,
or perhaps his son, was married to a daugh-
ter of the same lady.
Note IX.
0/ Beth line's line of Picardie. — P. 4.
The Bethunes were of French origin, and
derived their name from a small town in
Artois. There were several distinguished
families of the Bethunes in the neighbouring
province of Picardy ; they numbered among
their descendants the celebrated Due dc
Sully ; and the name was accounted among
the most noble in France, while aught noble
remained in that country'. The famil}- of
Bethune, or Beatoun, in Fife, produced
tliree learned and dignified prelates; namely.
Cardinal Beaton, and two successive Arch-
bishops of Glasgow, all of whom flourished
about the date of the romance. Of this
family was descended Dame. Janet Beaton,
Lady Buccleuch, widow of Sir Walter Scoll
of Branksome. She was a woman of mas-
culine spirit, as appeared from her riding at
tlie head of her son's clan, after her hus-
band's murder. She also possessed the hen:-
ditary abilities of lier family in such a
degree that the superstition of the vulgar
imputed them to supernatural knowledge.
With this was mingled, by faction, the foul
accusation of her having influenced Queen
j\Iary to the murder of her husband. One of
the placards, preserved in Buchanan's Detec-
tion, accuses of Darnley's murder 'the Erie
of Botliweli, Mr. James Balfour, the persouii
of Fliske, Mr. David Chalmers, black Mr.
John Spens, who was principal deviser of the
murder; and the Queue, assenting thairto,
throw the persuasion of the Erie Bothwell,
and the ■witchcraft of Lady Buckleitch.^
' This expression and senlinieut were dictated by
the situation of France, in tlie year 1803, wlieli tliij
i'oein was originally written. iSni.
ZU ;Sap of tU Baet (mimivit
59
Note X.
i% Icayn'd the art that none may name,
In Padua, Jar beyond the sea. — P. 4.
Padua was Ion? supposed, by the Scottisli
peasants, to be the principal school of ne-
cromancy. The Earl of Gowrie, slain at
Perth, in l6ix), pretended, during his studies
in Italy, to have acquired some knowledge
of the cabala, by which, he said, he could
charm snakes, and work other miracles ;
and, in particular, could produce children
without the intercourse of the sexes. — Seethe
examination of Wemyss of Bogie before the
Privy Council, concerning Cowrie's Con-
spiracy.
Note XI.
His form no darkening shadozo Irac'd
L'pon the sunny wall.' — P. 4.
The shadow of a necromancer is indepen-
<lent of the sun. Glycas informs us that
Simon Magus caused his shadow to go before
him, making people believe it was an atten-
dant spirit. — Heyw'OOD's Hicrarcliie, p. 475.
The vulgar conceive, that when a class of
students have made a certain progress in
their mystic studies, they are obliged to run
through a subterraneous hall, where the
devil literally catches the hindmost in the
race, unless he crosses the hall so speedily
that the arch-enemy can only apprehend his
shadow. In the latter case, the person of
the sage never after throws anv shade ; and
those, \\ho ha\e thus lost their shadow,
always pro\e the best magicians.
Note XII.
7'he viezvless forms of air.— V. 4.
The Scottish vulgar, without having any
very defined notion of their attributes, be-
lieve in the existence of an intermedia' " class
of spirits, residing in the air, or in the waters ;
to whose agency they ascribe floods, storms,
and all such phenoicena as their own philo-
sophy cannot readily explain. They are
supposed to interfere in the affairs of mortals,
sometimes with a malevolent purpose, and
sometimes with milder vttws. It is said, for
example, that a gallant baron, having re-
turned from the Holy Land to his castle of
Drummelziar, found his fair lady nursing a
healthy child, whose birth did not by any
means correspond to the date of his depar-
ture. Such an occurrence, to the credit of
the dames of the Crusaders be it spoken,
was so rare, that it required a miraculous
solution. The lady, therefore, was believed,
when she averred confidently, that the Spirit
of the Tweed had issued from the river while
she was walking upon its bank, and com-
pelled her to submit to his embraces; and
the name of Tweedie was bestowed upon
the child, who afterwards became Baron of
Drummelziar, the chief of a powerful clan.
To those spirits were also ascribed, in Scot-
land, the
'airy tongues, that syllable men's names.
On sands, and shores, and desert wildernesses.
When the workmen were engaged in
erecting the ancient church of Old Deer, in
-Vberdeenshire, upon a small hill called Bis-
sau, they were surprised to find that the work
was impeded by supernatural obstacles. Al
length, the Spirit of the River was heard to
say,
' It is not here, it is not here.
That ye shall build the church of Deer ;
But on TaptiUery,
\V'here many a corpse shall lie."
The site of the edifice was accordingly trans-
ferred to Taptillerv', an eminence at some
distance from the place where the building
had been commenced. — Macf.AR LANE'S
MSS. I mention these popular fables, be-
cause the introduction of the River and
Mountain Spirits may not, at first sight,
seem to accord with the general tone of the
romance, and the superstitions of the coun-
try where the scene is laid.
Note XIII.
A fancied moss-trooper, .yt'. — P. 5.
This was the usual appellation of the ma-
rauders upon the Borders ; a profession
diligently pursued by the inhabitants on
both sides, and by none more actively and
successfully than b\- Buccleuch's clan. Long
after the union of the crowns the moss-
troopers, although sunk in reputation, and
no longer enjoymg the pretext of national
hostility, continued to pursue their calling.
Fuller includes, among the wonders of
Cumberland, ' The moss-troopers ; sostrangt:
in the condition of their living, if considered
in their Original, Increase, Height, Decay,
and Ruinc.
' I. Original. I conceive them the same
calletl Borderers in Mr. Camden ; and char-
acterised by him to be a tuild and warlike
people. They are called moss-troopers, be-
cause dwelling in the mosses, and riding in
troops together. They dwell in the bounds,
or meeting, of the two kingdoms, but obey
the laws of neither. They come to church
as seldom as the 29th of February comes
into the kalendar.
' 2. Increase. When England and Scot-
land were united in Great Britain, they that
formerly lived by hostile incursions, betook
themselves to the robbing of their neighbours.
Their sons are free of the trade by their
fathers' copy. They are like to Job, not in
piety and patience, but in sudden plenty and
poverty ; sometimes having Hocks and herds
in the morning, none at night, and perchance
inany again next day. They may give for
their motto, z'iziititr ex rapto, stealing from
6o
(IflokB to
tlieir lionest iirifrhbouis wliat they some-
times require. They arc a nest of hornets;
strike one, and stir all of them about your
ears. Indeed, if they promise safely to con-
duct a traveller, they will perform it with
the fidelity of a Turkish janizary ; otherwise,
woe be to him that falleth into their quarters !
'3. Height. Amounting, forty years since,
to some thousands. These compelled the
\icinage to purchase their security, by pay-
ing; a constant rent to them. When in their
greatest height, they had two great enemies,
— tlic Laws of the Land, and the Lord
William Hoivard of Nazvovtli. He sent
many of them to Carlisle, to that place where
the officer doth ahvays his work by day-
light. Yet these moss-troopers, if possibly
they could procure the pardon for a con-
dernned person of their company, would
advance great sums out of their common
stock, who, in such a case, cast in their lots
amongst themselves, and all have one
purse.
'4. Decay. Causedby the wisdom, valour,
and diligence of the Right Honourable
Charles Lord Howard, Earl of Carlisle, who
routed these English Tories with his regi-
ment. His severity unto tliem will not only
be excused, but commended, by the judicious,
who consider how our great lawyer doth
describe such persons, who are solemnly
outlawed. BrACTON, lib. viii. trac. 2. cap.
II. — "' Ex tunc gcriint caput liipinuiii, ita
qitodsine judicial iinq It isii tone rite per cant,
ct secnm sitiimjitdicinm portent ; et nierito
sine lege pereiint, qui secundum legem,
vivercj-ccusarnut." — "Thenceforward (after
that they are outlawed) they wear a wolf's
head, so that they lawfully may be destroyed,
without any judicial inquisition, as who
carry their own condemnation about them,
and deservedly die without law, because
they refused to live according to law."
'5. Ruine. Such was the success of this
worthy lord's severity, that he made a
thorough reformation among them ; and the
ring-leaders being destroyed, the rest are
reduced to legal obedience, and so, I trust,
will continue.'— Fuller's Worthies of Eng-
land, p. 216.
The last public mention of moss-troopers
occurs during the civil wars of the 17th cen-
tury, when many ordinances of Parliament
were directed against them.
Note XIY.
tame the Unicorn's pride,
Exalt the Crescent and the Star. — P. 6.
The arras of the Kerrs of Cessford were,
V^ert on a cheveron, betwixt three unicorns'
lieads, erased argent, three mullets sable;
crest, a unicorn's head, erased proper. The
Scotts of Buccleuch bore. Or, on a bend
azure; a star of six points betwixt two cres-
cents of the fir^t.
Note X\'.
William of Dcloraine. — P. 6.
The lands of Deloraine arc joined to those
of Buccleuch in Ettrick Forest. They were,
immemorial ly possessed by the Buccleuch
family, under the strong title of occupancy,
although no charter was obtained from the
crown until 1545. Like other possessions,
the lands of Deloraine were occasionally
granted by them to vassals, or kinsmen, for
Border service. Satchel Is mentions, among
the twenty-four gentlemen-pensioners of the
family, 'William Scott, commonly called
Cut-at-the-Black,\\ho had the lands of Nether
Deloraine for his service.' And again, 'This
William of Deloraine, commonly called Cut-
at-the-Black, was a brother of the ancient
house of Haining, which house of Haining is
descended from the ancient house of Has-
ser.dean.' The lands of Deloraine now give
an earl's titb to the descendant of Henry, the
second surviving son of the Duchess of Buc-
cleuch and Monmouth. I have endeavoured
to give William of Deloraine the attributes
which characterised the Borderers of his
day ; for which I can only plead Froissart's
apology, that, ' it behoveth, in a lynage,
some to be folyshe and outrageous, to mayn-
teyne and sustayne the peasable.' As a
contrast to my Marchman, I beg leave to
transcribe, froiii the same author, the speech
of Amergot Marcell, a captain of the Ad-
venturous Companions, .a robber, and a
pillager ofthe country of Auvergne, who had
Dceii bribed to sell his strongholds, and to
assume a more honourable military life
under the banners of the Earl of Armagnac.
But 'when he remembered alle this, he was
sorrowful ; his tresour he thought he wolde
not mynysshe ; he was wonte dayly toserche
for newe pyllages, wherbye encresed his
profyte, and then he sawe that alle was
closed fro' hym. Then he sayde and imag-
yned, that to pyil and to robbe (all thynge
considered) was a good lyfe, and so repented
hym of his good doing. On a tyme, he said
to his old companyons, "Sirs, there is no
sporte nor glory in this worlde amonge men
of warre, but to use suche lyfe as we have
done in tyme past. What a joy was it to us
when we rode forth at adventure, and som-
tyme found by the way a riche priour or
merchaunt, or a route of mulettes of Mount-
pellyer, of Narbonne, of Lymens, of Fon-
gans, of Besyers, of Tholous, or of Carca-
sonne, laden with cloth of Brussels, or peltre
ware comynge fro the fayres, or laden
with spycery fro Bruges, fro Damas, or fro
Alysaundre ; whatsoever we met, all was
ours, or els ransoumed at our pleasures ;
dayly we gate new money, and the vyllaynes
of Auvergne and of Lymosyn dayly pro-
vyded and brought to our castell wfiete
mele, good wynes, beffes, and fatte mottons,
]iullayne, and wylde foule : We were ever
iiirnyshed as tho we had been kings. When
tU iSa^ of t0e Baaf (nime^ref.
6r
we rode forthe, all the countrcy trymbled for
feare : all was ours goyng and comynge.
How tok we Carlast, I and the Bourse of
Companye, and I and Perot of Bernovs took
Caluset ; how dyd we scale, with lytell ayde,
the strong; castell of Marquell, pertayning to
the Erl Dolphyn : I kept it nat past fyve
days, but I receyved for it, on a feyre table,
fyve thousande frankes, and forgave one
tnousande for the love of the Erl Dolphin's
children. By my fayth, this was a fayre and
a good lyfc ! wherefore I repute myselfe sore
deceyved, in that I have rendered up the
fortress of Aloys; for it wolde have kept fro
alle the worlde, and the daye that I gave it
up, it was foumyshed with vytaylles, to have
been kept seven yere without any re-vytayl-
linge. This Erl of Armynake hath deceyved
me : Olyve Barbc, and Perot le Bernoys,
shewed to me how I shulde rcpentc mj'selie ;
certayne I sore repente mj'selfe of what I
have done." ' — Froiss.VRT, vol. ii. p. 105.
Note XVI.
Byivi/y ttirns^ by desperate bounds,
Had baffled Percy' s best blood-hoiiitds. — P. 6.
The kings and heroes of Scotland, as well
as the Border riders, were sometimes obliged
to study how to evade the pursuit of blood-
hounds. Barbour informs us, that Robert
Bruce was repeatedly tracked by sleuth-dogs.
On one occasion, he escaped by wading a
bow-shot down a brook, and ascendmg
into a tree by a branch whicli overhung the
water ; thus, leaving no trace on land of his
footsteps, he baffled the scetit. The pursuers
came up :
' Rycht to the bum that p.issyt ware,
Bot the sleuth-hund made stinting thar,
And wauerj't lanij tynie ta and fra,
That he na certain gate couth ga ;
Till at the last that John of Lome
Terseuvit the hund the sleuth had lome.
The Bruce, Book \ ii.
A sure way of stopping the dog was to
spill blood upon the track, which destroyed
the discriminating fineness of his scent. A
captive was sometimes sacrificed on such
occasions. Henry the Minstrel tells a ro-
mantic story of Wallace, founded on this
circumstance : — Tiie hero's little band had
been joined by an Irishman, named Fawdoun,
or Fadzean, "a dark, savage, and suspicious
character. After a sharp skirmish at Black-
Erne Side, Wallace was forced to retreat
with only sixteen followers. The English
Eursued with a Border sleiith-bratcli, or
lood-hound.
' In Gelderland there was that bratciiet bred,
Siker of scent, to follow them that fled :
So was he used in Hske and I-iddesdail,
■While (i.e./!//) she gat blood nofleeing might avail.'
In the retreat, Fawdoun, tired, or affecting
to be so, would go no farther. Wallace,
having in vain argued with him, in hasty
anger, struck off his head, and continued
the retreat. When the English came up,
their hound stayed upon the dead body : —
' The sleuth stopped at Fawdon. still she stood.
Nor farther would fra time she fund the blood.*
The story concludes with a fine Gothic
scene of terror. Wallace took refuge in the
solitary tower of Gask. Here he was dis-
turbed at midnight by the blast of a horn.
He sent out his attendants by two and two,
but no one returned with tidings. At length
when he was left alone, the sound was heard
still louder. The champion descended,
sword in hand ; and, at the gate of the
tower, was encountered by the headless
spectre of Fawdoun, whom he had slain so
rashly. Wallace, in great terror, fled up into
the tower, tore open the boards of a window,
leapt down fifteen feet in height, and con-
tinued his llight up the river. Looking back
to Gask, he discovered the tower on fire,
and the form of Fawdoun upon the battle-
ments, dilated to an immense size, and
holding in his hand a blazing rafter. The
Minstrel concludes,
' Trust ryght wele, that all this be sooth indeed.
Supposing it to be no point of the creed."
The 1 fell /ace. Hook v.
Mr. Ellis has extracted this tale as a
sample of Henry's poetry'. — Specimens of
English Poetry, vol. i. p. 351.
Note XVII.
the Moat-Jiiirs jnound,
IJ'/iere Druid shades still flitted romid.
—P. 6.
This is a round artificial inount near
Hawick, which, from its name, {^^^i.Ang.
Sax. Conciliinn, Conventits.) was probabl)-
anciently used as a place for assembling a
national council of the adjacent tribes.
There are many such mounds in Scotland,
and they are sometimes, but rarely, of a
square form.
Note XVIII.
the icnver of Haaeldean. — P. ;.
The estate of Hazeldean, corruptly Has-
sendean, belonged formerly to a familv
of Scotts, thus commemorated by Sat-
chells : —
' Hassendean came without a call.
The ancientest house among them all.'
62
Qtofee to
Note XIX.
On hfinlo-cyaps the moonbeams gUiii.
-P. 7.
A romantic assemblage of cliffs, which
rise suddenly above the vale of Teviot, in
the immediate vicinity of the family-seat,
from which Lord Minto takes his title. A
small platform, on a projecting f^rag, com-
manding a most beautiful prospect, is termed
Ba>-i!/iills' Bed. This Barnhills is said to
liave been a robber, or outlaw. There are
remains of a strong tower beneath the rocks,
where lie is supposed to have dwelt, and
from which he derived his name. On the
summit of the crags arc the fragments of
another ancient tower, in a picturesque
situation. Among the houses cast down by
the Earl of Hartforde, in 1545, occur tlie
towers of Easter Barnhills, and of Minto-
crao;, with Minto town and place. Sir
Gilbert Elliot 1, father to the present Lord
Minto, was the author of a beautiful pastoral
song, of which the following is a more correct
copy than is usually publislied. The poetical
mantle of Sir Gilbert Elliot has descended
to his family.
' My sheep I neglected, I broke my sheep-hook.
And all the gay haunts of my youth I forsook :
No more for Amynta fresh garlands I wove ;
Ambition, I said, would soon cure me of love.
But what had my youtli with ambition to do !
Why left I Amynta ! why broke I my vow I
Throufi^h regions remote in vain do I rove.
And bid the wide worUl secure me from love.
Ah, fool, to imagine, that aught could subdue
A love so well founded, a passion so true I
Ah, give me my sheep, and my sheep-hook restore
And I'll wander from love and .^.mynta no more ;
Alas ! 'tis too late at thy fate to repine 1
Poor sheplierd, Amynta no more can Ije thine I
Thy tears are all fruitless, thy wishes are vain,
The moments neglected return not again.
Ah I what had my youth with ambition to do !
V.'hy left I Amynta ! why broke I my vow : '
Note XX.
Ancient Riddersfair domain. — P. 7.
The family of Riddell have been very long
in possession of the barony called Riddell,
or Ryedale, part of wliich still bears the
latter name. Tradition carries their antiquity
to a point extremely remote ; and is, in some
degree, sanctioned by the discovery of two
stone cofTins, one containing an earthen pot
filled with ashes and arms, bearing a legible
date, A.M. 727 ; the other dated 9^6, and
filled with the bones of a man of gigantic
size. These coffins were discovered in the
foundations of what was, but has long ceased
to be, the chapel of Riddell ; and as it was
argued, with plausibility, that they contained
the remains of some ancestors of the family,
1 Elected M.P. for Selkirkshire in 1754.
they were deposited in the modern place of
sepulture, comparatively so termed, though
built in 1 1 10. But the following curious and
authentic documents warrant most conclu-
sively the epithet of 'ancient Riddel': ist,
A charter by David I to Walter Rydale,
Sheriff of Roxburgh, confirming all the
estates of Liliesclive, &c., of which his father,
Gervasius de Rydale, died possessed, zdly,
A bull of Pope Adrian IV, confirming the
will of Walter de Ridale, knight, in favour
of his brother Anschittil de Ridale, dated
8th April, 1 155. jdly, A bull of Pope Alex-
ander III, confirming the said will of Walter
de Ridale, bequeathing to his brother Ans-
chittil the lands of Liliesclive, Whettunes,
&c., and ratifying the bargain betwixt Ans-
chittil and Huctredus, concerning the church
of Liliesclive, in consequence of the mediation
of Malcolm II, and confirmed by a charter
from that monarch. This bull is dated 17th
June, 1160. 4thlv, A bull of the same Pope,
confirmingthe will of Sir Anschittil de Ridale,
in favour of his son Walter, conveying the
said lands of Liliesclive and others, dated
lOth March, luo. It is remarkable, that
Liliesclive, otherwise Rydale, or Riddell,
and the Whittunes, have descended, through
a long train of ancestors, witliout ever passing
into a collateral line, to the person of Sir
John Buchanan Riddell, Bart, of Riddell,
the lineal descendant and representative of
Sir Anschittil. — ^These circumstances ap-
peared worthy of notice in a Border
\\'ork.
Note XXI.
Bni zi'hen Melrose he reach' d^ '/was silence
all;
He meetly stabled his steed iji stall,
And sought the conz'enfs Ion eh wall.
' —P. S.
The ancient and beautiful monastery of
Melrose was founded by King David I. Its
ruins afford the finest specimen of Gothic
architecture and Gothic sculpture which
Scotland can boast. The stone of which it
is built, though it has resisted the weather
for so many ages, retains perfect sharpness,
so that even the most minute ornaments
seem as entire as when newly wrought. In
some of the cloisters, as is hinted in the next
Canto, there are representations of flowers,
vegetables, &c., carved in stone, with accuracy
and precision so delicate, that we almost
distrust our senses, when we consider the
difficulty of subjecting so hard a substance
to such intricate and exquisite modulation.
This superb convent was dedicated to St.
Mary, and the monks were of the Cistertian
order. At the time of the Reformation,
they shared the general reproach of sensu-
ality and irregularity, thrown upon the
Roman churchmen. ' The old words of
tU Bap of iU ^Aet (mtnetref.
63
Galashiels, a favourite Scotch air, ran
thus: —
'O the monks of Melrose made glide kale 1,
On Fridays when they fasted.
They wanted neither beef nor ale,
As long as their neighbours' lasted.'
Note XXII.
When buttress and buttress, alternately.
Seem. /ram' d of ebon and ivory ;
lichen silver edges the imagery.
And the scrolls that teach thee to live and
die ;
Then view St. David's ruin' d pile. — P. 8.
The buttresses ranged along the sides of
the ruins of Melrose Abbey, are, according
to the Gothic style, richly carved and frettecf,
containing niches for the statues of saints,
and labelled with scrolls, bearing appropriate
texts of Scripture. iSIost of these statues
have been demolished.
David I of Scotland purchased the repu-
tation of sanctity, by founding, and liberally
endowing, not only the monastery of Mel-
rose, but those of Kelso, Jedburgh, and
many others; which led to the well-known
observation of his successor, that he was a
sore saint for the crown.
Note XXIII.
For mass or prayer can I rarely tarry,
Save to patter an Ave Mary,
IVhen I ride on a Border foray.— V. 9.
The Borderers were, as may be supposed,
very ignorant about religious matters.
Colville, in his Paranesis, or Admonition,
states, that the reformed divines were so far
from undertaking distant journeys to convert
the Heathen, ' as I wold wis at God that ve
wold only go bot to the Hielands and Borders
of our own realm, to gain our awin countrey-
men, who, for lack of preching and ministra-
tion of the sacraments, must, with tyme,
becuni either infidells, or atheists.' But we
learn, from Lesley, that, liowever deficient in
real religion, they regularly told their beads,
and never with more zeal than when going
on a plundering expedition.
Note XXIV.
So had he seen, in fair Castile,
The youth iti glittering squadrons start.
Sudden the fying jennet wheel.
And hurl the unexpected dart. — P. 9.
'By my faith,' sayd the Duke of Lancaster,
(to a Portuguese squire,) 'of all the feates of
armes that the Castellyans, and they of your
1 fSale, brotli.
countrey doth use, the castynge of their
dertes best pleaseth me, and gladl)^ I wolde
se it: for, as I hear saj', if they strike one
aryghte, without he be well armed, the dart
will pierce him thrughe.' — ' By my fayth, sir,'
sayd the scjU3'er, 'ye say trouth ; for I have
seen man)- a grete stroke given with them,
which at one time cost us derely, and was
to us great displeasure ; for, at the said
skyrmishe, Sir John Lawrence of Coygne
was striken with a dart in sucli wise, that
the head perced all the plates of his cote of
ma)'le, and a sacke stopped with sylke, and
passed thrughe his body, so that he fell down
dead.'— Froissart, vol. ii. ch. 44. — This
mode of fighting with darts was imitated in
the military game called yir«^(j de lascanas,
which the Spaniards borrowed from their
Moorish invaders. A Saracen champion is
thus described by Froissart : 'Among the
Sarazyns, there was a yonge knight called
Agadinger Dolyferne ; he was always wel
mounted on a redy and a lyght horse ; it
seemed, when the horse ranne, that he did
fly in the a^-re. The knighte seemed to be a
good man of annes by his dedes ; he bare
always of usage three fethered dartes, and
rychte well he could handle them ; and,
according to their custome, he was clene
armed, with a long white towell about his
head. His apparell was blacke, and his own
colour browne, and a good horseman. The
Crysten men say, they thoughte he dyd such
deeds of armes for the love of some yonge
ladye of his countrey. And true it was,
that he loved entirely the King of Thune's
daughter, named the Lady Azala ; she was
inherytor to the realme of Thune, after the
discease of the kyng, her father. This
Agadinger was sone to the Duke of Olyferne.
I can nat telle if they were married together
after or nat ; but it was shewed me, that
this knyght, for love of the sayd ladyc,
during the siege, did many feates of armes.
The knyghtes of France wold fayne have
taken hym ; but they colde never attrape
nor inclose him ; his horse was so swyft, and
so redy to his hand, that alwaies he escaped.'
— Vol. ii. ch. 71.
Note XXV.
And there the dying lamps did burn.
Before thy loiv and lonely urn,
O gallant Chief af Otterbiirne .' —V . 10.
The famous and desperate battle of Otter-
burne was fought 15th August 1388, betwixt
Henry Percy, called Hotspur, and James,
Earl of Douglas. Both these renowned
champions were at the head of a chosen
body of troops, and they were rivals in
military fame ; so that Froissart affirms,
' Of all the battayles and encounteryngs
that I have made mencion of here before in
all this hystory, great or smalle, this battayle
that I treat of nowe was one of the sorest
64
Qtofee to
and best foughten, without cowardes or
faynte hertes : for there was neyther knyghte
nor squyer but that dyde his devoyre, and
foughte hande to hande. This batayle was
lyke the batayle of Becherell, the which was
valiauntly fought and endured.' The issue of
the conflict is well known : Percy was made
prisoner, and the Scots won the day, dearly
purchased by the death of their gallant
general, the Earl of Douglas, who was slain
in the action. He was buried at Melrose,
beneath the high altar. ' His obsequye was
done reverently, and on his bodye layde a
tombe of stone, and his baner hangyng over
hvm.'— FR0ISS.4.RT, \ol. ii. p. 165.
Note XXVI.
■ dark Knight of Liddesdah. — P. 10.
William Douglas, called the Knight of
Liddesdale, flourished during the reign of
David II, and was so distinguished by his
valour, that he was called the Flower of
Chivalry. Nevertheless, he tarnished Ids
renown by the cruel murder of Sir Alexander
Ramsay of Dalhousie, originall)' his friend
and brother in arms. The King had con-
ferred upon Ramsay the sheriffdom of Teviot-
dale, to which Douglas pretended some claim.
In revenge of this preference, the Knight of
Liddesdale came down upon Ramsay, while
he was administering justice at Hawick,
seized and carried him off to his remote and
inaccessible castle of Hermitage, wlicre he
threw his unfortunate prisoner, liorse and
man, into a dungeon, and left him to perish
of hunger. It is said, the miserable captixe
prolonged his existence for i ,r- il days by
the corn which fell from a gianary above the
vault in which he was confined '. So weak
was the royal authority, that David, although
highly incensed at this atrocious murder,
found liimself obliged to appoint the Knight
of Liddesdale successor to his victim, as
1 There is something affecting in the manner in
which the old Prior of Loclileven turns from descriliinif
the death of the gallant Ramsay, to the general sorrow
which it excited ;^
■ To tell you there of the manere,
It is bot sorrow for til here ;
He wes the grettast menyd man
That ony cowth have thowcht of than,
Of his state, or of mare be fare :
All menyt him, bath bettyr and war ;
The ryche and pure him menyde liatli,
For of his dede wes mekil skath.'
Some years ago, a person digging for stones, about
the old. castle of Hermitage, broke into a vault, con-
taining a quantity of chaff, some bones, and pieces of
iron : amongst others, the curb of an ancient bridle
which the author has since given to the Earl of Dal-
housie, under the impression that it possibly may be a
relic of his brave ancestor. The worthy clergyman
of the parish has mentioned this discovery in his Sta-
tistical Account of Castletown.
Sheriff of Teviotdale. But he was soon after
slain, while hunting in Ettrick Forest, by his
own godson and chieftain, William, Earl of
Douglas, in revenge, according to some
authors, of Ramsay's murder; although a
popular tradition, preserved in a ballad
quoted by Godscroft, and some parts of
which are still preserved, ascribes the resent-
ment of the Earl to jealousy. The place
where the Knight of Liddesdale was killed,
is called, from his name, William-Cross, upon
the ridge of a hill called Williain-hope,
betwixt Tweed and Yarrow. His body,
according to Godscroft, was carried to Lin-
dean church the first night after his death,
and thence to Melrose, where he was interred
with great pomp, and where his tomb is still
shown.
Note XXVII.
The niooji on the cast oriel shone. — P. 10.
It is impossible to conceive a more beau-
tiful specimen of the lightness and elegance
of Gothic architecture, when in its purity,
than the eastern window of Melrose Abbey.
Sir James Hall of Dunglas, Bart., has, with
great ingenuity and plausibility, traced the
Gothic order through its various forms and
seemingly eccentric ornaments, to an archi-
tectural imitation of wicker work ; of which,
as we learn from some of the legends, the
earliest Christian churches were constructed.
In such an edifice, the original of the clustered
pillars is traced to a set of round posts, begirt
with slender rods of willow, whose loose
summits were brought to meet from all
quarters, and bound together artificially, so
as to produce the framework of the roof:
and the tracery of our Gothic windows is
displayed in the meeting and interlacing of
rods and hoops, affording an inexhaustible
variety of beautiful forms of open work.
This ingenious system is alluded to in the
romance. Sir James Hall's Essay on Gothic
Architecture is published in The Edinburgh
Philosophical Tra7isaclt07is.
Note XXVIII.
the wondrous Michael Scott. — P. 10.
Sir Michael Scott of Balwearie flourished
during the 13th century, and was one of the
ambassadors sent to bring the Maid of Nor-
way to Scotland upon the death of Alexander
III. By a poetical anachronisin, he is here
placed in a later era. He was a man of much
learning, chiefly acquired in foreign countries.
He wrote a commentary upon Aristotle,
printed at Venice in 1406 ; and several trea-
tises upon natural philosophy, from which he
appears to have been addicteri to the abstruse
studies of judicial astrology, alchymv,phvsiog-
ZU B^H *f ^^^ ^<*^^ (mmeffef.
65
nomy, and chiromancy. Hence he passed
among his contemporaries for a skilful
magician. Dempster informs us, that he
remembers to have heard in his youth, that
the magic books of Michael Scott were still
in existence, but could not be opened without
danger, on account of the malignant fiends
who were thereby invoked. Deiitpsicri His-
io)-ia Ecclesiastica^ 1627, lib. xii. p. 495.
Lcsly characterises Michael Scott as ' siiign-
laric philosopJiiae, asironomtae, ac inedici-
iiae lande prestaits ; dicebatity petiitissiinos
7>tagiae rccessus indagdsse.^ Dante also
mentions him as a renowned wizard : —
' Quell altro che ne' fianchi e cosl poco,
Michele Scotto fu, che verainente
Delle magiche frod4 seppe il giuoco.'
In/eyno, Canto xxiuo.
A personage, thus spoken of by biographers
and historians, loses little of his mystical
fame in vulgar tradition. Accordingly, the
inemorj- of Sir Michael Scott survives in
many a legend ; and in the south of Scot-
land, any work of great labour and antiquity,
is ascribed, either to the agency of Aitld
Michael, of Sir William Wallace, or of the
devil. Tradition varies concernini' the
[dace of his burial ; some contend for Home
Coltrame, in Cumberland; others for Mel-
rose Abbey. But all agree, that his books
of magic were interred in his grave, or pre-
served in the convent where he died.
Satchells, wishing to give some authority
for his account of the origin of the name of
Scott, pretends, that, in 1629, he chanced
to be at Burgh under Bowness, in Cumber-
land, where a person, named Lancelot Scott,
showed him an extract from Michael Scott's
works, containing that story : —
'Ho said the book which he gave me
Was of Sir Michael Scott's historic ;
"Wliich history was never yet read tlirough,
Nor never will, lor no man dare it do,
V'oung scholars have pick'd out something
Trom the contents, that dare not read within,
He carried me along the castle then.
And shew'd his written book hanging on an iron pin.
His writing pen did seem to me to be
( if hardened metal, like steel, or accumie ;
The volume of it did seem so large to me.
As the Book of Martyrs and Turks historic.
Then in the church he let me see
A stone where Mr. Michael Scott did lie ;
I asked at him how that could appear,
jMr. Michael had bee'n dead above five hundred j-ear !
He shew'd me none durst bury under that stone.
More than he had been dead a few years agonc ;
I'"or Mr. Michael's name does terrific each one.'
History of the RisM Honourable Name IJ/SCOTT.
Note XXIX.
Salamanca's cave. — P. 10.
Spain, from the relics, doubtless, of Arabian
learning and superstition, was accounted a
favourite residence of magicians. I'ope Syl-
vester, who actually imported from Spain
the use of the Arabian numerals, was sup-
posed to have learned there the magic, for
which he was stigmatized by tlie ignorance
of his age. — ^ \\AAK\\ of Mahnsbiiry, lib. ii.
cap. 10. There were public schools, where
magic, or rather the sciences supposed to
involve its mysteries, were regularly taught,
at Toledo, Seville, and Salamanca. In the
latter city, they were held in a deep cavern ;
tlie mouth of which was walled up by Queen
Isabella, wife of King Ferdinand. — D'AuTON
on Learned Incredulity, p. 45. These
Spanish schools of magic are celebrated also
by the Italian poets of romance :—
' Questo citti di ToUeto soIea_
'fenere studio di negromanzia ;
(,tuivi di magica arte si leggea
i'ubblicamente, e di peromanzia ;
E niolti geomanti sempre avea,
Hsperimenti assai d' idromanzia
Ii d' altre false opinion' di sciocchi
Come e fatture, o spesso batter gli ocelli.'
n Mor^ante Maggiore, Canto xxv. St. 259,
The celebrated magician Maugis, cousin
to Rinaldo of Montalban, called by Ariosto,
Malagigi, studied the black art at Toledo,
as we learn from U Hlstoirc dc Maugis
IXAygreinonf. He even held a professor's
chair in the necromantic university : for so I
interpret the passage, '' qiCon tons Ics sept
ars d'encliantcntcnt, des cliamtes ct conjura-
tions, il n'y avoit tneillieiir inaisirc que hit ;
ct en tel 7-cnoni gn'on Ic laissoit en chaise, et
I'appelloit on inaistrc Maugis.' This Sala-
mancan Domdaniel is said to have been
founded by Hercules. If the classic reader
inquires where Hercules himself learned ma-
gic, he may consult ^ Les faicts et processes
ail noble et vaillant Hercules,' where he will
learn, that the fable of his aiding Atlas to
support the heavens, arose from the said Atlas
having taught Hercules, the noble knight-
errant, the seven liberal sciences, and in
particular, that of judicial astrology. Such,
according to the idea of the middle ages,
were the studies, ' inaximus quae docuit
Atlas.' — In a romantic history of Roderic,
the last Gothic King of Spain, he is said to
have entered one of those enchanted caverns.
It was situated beneath an ancient tower
near Toledo ; and when the iron gates, which
secured the entrance, were unfolded, there
ru.shed forth so dreadful a whirlwind, that
hitherto no one had dared to penetrati- into
its recesses. But Roderic, threatened with
an invasion of the Moors, resolved to enter
the cavern, where he expected to find some
prophetic intimation of the event of the war.
Accordingly, his train being furnished with
torches, so artificially composed that the
tempest could not extinguish them, the King,
witli great difficulty, penetrated into a square
hall, inscribed all over with Arabian char-
acters. In the midst stood a colossal statue
of brass, representing a Saracen wielding a
Moorish mace, with which it discharged
furious blows on all sides, and seemed thus
66
(Tlofe0 to
to pxcitP tlift tempest which raged around.
Being conjured by Roderic, it ceased from
striking, until he read, inscribed on the right
liand, ' Wretched Monarch, for thy ciul hast
thou come hither;^ on the left hand, ' Thou
s/ia/t be dispossessed by a stratige people;'' on
one shoulder, ' / iuz'oke the sons of Hagar ; '
on the other, ' / do mine office.'' When the
King had deciphered these ominous inscrip-
tions, tlie statue returned to its exercise, the
tempest commenced anew, and Roderic re-
tired, to mourn over the predicted evils which
approached his throne. He caused the gates
of the cavern to be locked and barricade<l ;
but, in the course of the night, the tower fell
with a tremendous noise, and under its ruins
concealed for ever the entrance to the mystic
cavern. The conquest of Spain by the Sara-
cens, and the death of the unfortunate Don
Roderic, fuICUed the prophecy of the brazen
statue — /fis tor ia z'erdadera del Rev If on
Rodrigo por el Sabio Alcayde Abulcaciin,
traduceda de la leugua ArabigaforMiquel
dc Luna, i(>54) cap. vi.
Note XXX.
The bells zuould ring in Notre Dame.
* -P. 10.
' Tantamnc rent tarn jiegligenter ?^ saj's
Tvrwhitt, of his predecessor, Speight ; who,
in his commentary on Chaucer, had omitted,
as trivial and fabulous, the story of Wade and
his boat Guingelot, to the great prejudice of
Eosterity, the memory of the hero and the
oat being now entirely lost. That future
antiquaries may lay no such omission to
my charge, I have noted one or two of the
most current traditions concerning Michael
Scott. He was chosen, it is said, to go upon
an embassy, to obtain from the King of
France satisfaction for certain piracies com-
mitted by his subjects upon those of Scotland.
Instead of preparing a new equipage and
splendid retinue, the ambassador retreated
to his study, opened his book, and evoked a
fiend in the shape of a huge black horse,
mounted upon his back, and forced him to
fly through the air towards France. As they
crossed the sea, the devil insidiously asked
his rider, What it was that the old women of
Scotland muttered at bed-time ? A less experi-
enced wizard might have answered that it was
the Pater Noster, which would have licensed
the devil to precipitate him from his back.
But Michael sternly replied, 'What is that to
thee? — Mount, Diabolus, and fly !' When he
arrived at Paris, he tied his horse to the gate
of the palace, entered, and boldly delivered
his message. An ambassador, with so little
of the pomp and circumstance of diplomacy,
was not received with much respect, and the
King was about to return a contemptuous
refusal to his demand, when Michael besought
him to suspend his resolution till he had seen
his horse stamp three times. The first stamp
shook every steeple in Paris, and caused all
the bells to ring; the second threw down
three of the towers of the palace ; and the
infernal steed had lifted his noof to give the
third stamp, when the King rather chose to
dismiss Michael, with the most ample con-
cessions, than to stand to the probable
consequences. Another time, it is said, tliat,
when residing at the Tower of Oakwood,
upon the Itttrick, about three miles above
Selkirk, he heard of the fame of a sorceress,
called the Witch of Falsehope, who lived on
the opposite side of the river. Michael went
one morning to put her skill to the test, but
was disappointed, by her ilenying positively
any knowledge of the necromantic art. In
the discourse with her. he laid his wand
inadvertentlv on the table, which the hag
observing, suddenly snatched it up, and
struck him with it. Feeling the force of the
charm, he rushed out of the house ; but, as it
had conferred on him the external appearance
of a hare, his servant, who waited without,
halloo'd upon the discomfited wizard his own
greyhouncis, and pursued him so close, that,
in order to obtain a moment's breathing to
reverse the charm, Michael, after a very fa-
tiguing course, was fain to take refuge in his
own Jawhole {Anglice, cominon sewer). In
order to revenge himself of the witch of
Falsehope, Michael, one morning in the en-
suing harvest, went to the hill above the house
with his dogs, and sent down his servant to
ask a bit ofbread from the good wife for his
greyhounds, with instructions what to do if
he met with a denial. Accordingly, when
the witch had refused the boon with con-
tumely, the servant, as his master had
directed, laid above the door a paper which
he had given him, containing, amongst many
cabalistical words, the well-known rhyme, —
' M.iister Michael Scott's man
Sought meat, and 4jat nane."
Immediately the good old woman, instead
of pursuing her domestic occupation, which
was baking bread for the reapers, began to
dance round the fire, repeating the rhyme,
and continued this exercise till her husband
sent the reapers to the house, one after
another, to see what had delayed their pro-
vision ; but the charm caught each as they
entered, and, losing all idea of returning,
they joined in the dance and chorus. At
length the old man himself went to the house ;
but as his wife's frolic with Mr. INIichael,
whom he had seen on the hill, made him a
little cautious, he contented himself with
looking in at the window, and saw the reapers
at their involuntary exercise, dragging his
wife, now completely exhausted, sometimes
round, and sometimes through, the fire, which
was, as usual, in the midst of the house.
Instead of entering, he saddled a horse, and
rode up the hill, to humble himself before
Michael, and beg a cessation of the spell;
ZH ^c^^ of tU ;Saef Qllme^ref.
67
v.hich the good-natured warlock immediately
Srnnted, directing him to enter the house
backwards, and, with his left hand, take the
spell from above the door; which accordingly
ended the supernatural dance. — This tale was
told less particularly in former editions, and
I have been censured for inaccuracy in doing
so. — A similar charm occurs in Hiioti de
Bonrdeaiix, and in the ingenious Oriental
tale, called the Caliph Vathek.
Notwithstandin<.j his victory over the witch
of Falsehope, Michael Scott, like his pre-
decessor, Merlin, fell at last <T. victim to female
art. His wife, or concubine, elicited from
liim the secret, that his art coulil ward off
any danger except the poisonous qualities of
broth, made of the flesh of a byenie sow.
Such a mess she accordingly administered
to the wizard, who died in consequence of
eating it ; surviving, however, lonor enough
to put to death his treacherous confidant.
Note XXXI.
T/ie words that cleft Eildon hills in three.
—P. 10.
Michael Scott was, once upon a time, much
embarrassed by a spirit, for whom he was
under the necessity of finding- constant em-
ployment. He commanded him to build a
caiild, or dam-head, across the Tweed at
Kelso; it was accomplished in one night,
and still does honour to the infernal archi-
tect. Micliael next ordered, that Eildon hill,
which was then a uniform cone, should
be divided into three. Another nigjht was
sufficient to part its summit into the three
picturesque jieaks which it now bears. At
length the enchanter conquered this inde-
fatigable demon, by employing him in the
hopeless and endless task of making ropes
out of sea-sand.
Note XXXH.
That lamp shall burn u>!g!icuchahly\
Until the eternal doom shall be. — P. 1 1
Baptista Porta, and other authors who
treat of natural magic, talk much of eternal
lamps, pretended to have been found burnino-
in ancient sepulchres. Fortunius Licetus
investi;jates the subject in a treatise, De
Litccrnis^ Antiqiiorum Reainditis, pub-
lished at Venice, 162 1. One of these perpetual
lamps is said to have been discovered in the
tomb of TuUiola, the daughter of Cicero.
The wick was supposed to be composed of
asbestos. Kircher enumerates three different
recipes for constructing such lamps ; and
wisely concludes, that the thing is neverthe-
less impossible.— ,1//<;/cf«j Sitbterranneus,
p. 72. Delrio imputes the fabrication of such
lights to magical sV:\\\.—Disq2iisitiones Ma-
gicae, p. 58. In a very rare romance, which
treateth of the life of Virgilius, and of his
deth, and many marvayles that he dyd in his
lyfe-time, by wj'checratte and nygramancye,
throughe the heipe of the devvds of hell,'
mention is made of a very extraordinary
process, in whicli one of these mvstical lamps
was employed. It seems that Virgil, as he
advanced in years, became desirous of re-
novating his youth by magical art. For this
purpose he constructed a solitary tower,
having only one narrow portal, in which he
placed twenty-four copper figures, armed with
iron flails, twelve on each side of the porch.
These enchanted statues struck with their
flails incessantly, and rendered all entrance
impossible, unless when Virgil touched the
sprinj:^, which stopped their motion. To this
touer he repaired privately, attended by one
trusty servant, to whom he communicated
the secret of the entrance, and hither they
conveyed all the magician's treasure. ' Then
sayde Virgilius, my dere belovetl frende,
and he that I above alle men truste and
knowe mooste of my secret;' and then he
led the man into a cellar, where he made a
Jaycr lamp at all seasons bttrnynge. ' And
then sayd Virgilius to the man, " Se you the
barrel that standeth here "''^ and he sayd, yea :
"Therein must thou put me : fyrst ye must
slee me, and hewe me smalle to pieces, and
cut my hed in iiii pieces, and sake the heed
under in the bottom, and then the pieces
there after, and my herte in the myddel, and
then set the barrel under the lampe, that
nyghte and day the fat therein may droppe
and leake ; and j-e shall ix dayes long, ones
in the day, fyll the lampe, and fayle nat.
And when this is all done, then shall I
be reneucd, and made yonge agen." ' At this
extraordinarv proposal, the confidant was
sore abashed, ancl made some scruple of
obeying his master's commands. At length,
however, he complied, and Virgil was slain,
pickled, and barrelle<l up, in all respects
according to his own direction. The servant
then left the tower, taking care to put the
copper thrashers in motion at his departure.
He continued daily to visit the tower with
the same precaution. Meanwhile, the em-
peror, with whom Virgil was a great favourite,
missed him from the court, and demanded of
his servant where he was. The domestic pre-
tended ignorance, till the emperor threatened
him with death, when at length he conveyed
him to the enchanted tower. The same
threat extorted a discovery of the mode of
stopping the statues from wielding their flails.
'And tnen the emperour entered into the
castle with all his folke, and sought all aboute
in every corner after Virgilius; and at the
laste they sought so longe, that they came
into the seller, where they sawe the lampe
hangover the barren, wheVe N'irgilius lay in
deed. Then asked the emperour the man,
who had made hym so herdy to put his
ma>-ster Virgilius' so to dethe ; and the
man answered no worde to the emperour.
And then the emp rour, with great anger,
68
(Uofe0 to
drewe out his sworde, and sIpwo lie there Vir-
jjiHus' man. And when all this was done,
then sawe the emperour, and all his folke, a
naked child iii tymes renn3-nge about the
barrell, saynge these wordes, " Cursed be the
tyme that ye ever came here." And with
those words vanyshed the chjddeawaye, and
was never sene ageyn ; and thus abyd Vir-
gilius in the barrell deed.' — Virgiltus^ bl. let.,
printed at Antwerpe by John Doesborcke.
This curious volume is in the valuable library
of Mr. Douce ; and is supposed to be a
translation from the French, printed in
Flanders for the English market. See Goti-
jet Bihliolh. Franc, ix. 225. Catalogue de
la Bibliotluque Nationals, torn. ii. p. 5. De
Bure^ No. 3857.
Note XXXIII.
Then Dcloraine^ t7i ierro>\ took
From the cold hand the Mighty Book.,
He thought, as he took it, the dead man
/rmvn'd. — P. 12.
William ofDeloraine might be strengthened
in this belief by the well-known story of the
Cid Ruy Diaz. When the body of that
famous Christian champion was sitting in
state by the high altar of the cathedral church
of Toledo, where it remained for ten years, a
certainmalicious Jew attempted topull him by
the beard ; but he had no sooner touched the
formidable whiskers, than the corpse started
up, and half unsheathed his sword. The
Israelite fled; and so permanent was the
effect of his terror, that he became Chris-
tian.--HEYWOOD's/Z/V-rizrc^/z/V, p. 480, quoted
from Sebastian Cobarrtivias Cro::ee.
Note XXXIV.
The Baron^ s Dwarf his courser held. — P. 14.
The idea of Lord Cranstoun's Goblin Page
is taken from a being called Gilpin Horner,
who appeared, and made some stay, at a
farm-house among the Border-mountains. A
gentleman of that country has noted down
the following particulars concerning his ap-
pearance : —
' The only certain, at least most probable
account, that ever I heard of Gilpin Horner,
was from an old man, of the name of An-
derson, who was born, and lived all his life
at Todshaw-hill, in Eskedale-muir, the place
where Gilpin appeared and staid for some
time. He said there were two men, late in
the evening, when it was growing dark,
employed in fastening the horses upon the
Uttermost part of their ground (that is, tying
their forefeet together, to hinder them from
travelling far in the night), when they heard
a voice, at some distance, crying, " liiit!
Tint! l^iiitl^" One of the men, named
Moffat, called out, "What deil has tint you?
Come here." Immediately a creature, of
something like a human form, appeared. It
was surprisingly little, distorted in features,
and misshapen in limbs. As soon as the two
men could see it plainly, they ran home in a
great fright, imagining they had met with some
goblin. By the way, Moffat fell and it ran
over him, and was home at the house as
soon as either of them, and staid there a long
time ; but I cannot say how long. It was
real flesh and blood, and ate and drank, was
fond of cream, and, when it could get atit,
would destroy a great deal. It seemed a
mischievous creature ; and any of the children
whom it could master, itwould beat and scratch
without mercy. It was once abusing a child
belonging to the same Moffat, who had been
so frightened by its first appearance ; and
he, in a passion, struck it so violent a blow
upon the side of the head, that it tumbled
upon the ground ; but it was not stunned,
for it set up its head directly, and exclaimed,
" Ahj hah, Will o' Moffat, you strike sair ! "
(viz. sore). After it had staid there long, one
evening, when the women were milking the
cows in the loan, it was playing among the
children near by them, when suddenly they
heard a loud shrill voice cry three times, "<J//-
f>in Horner I" It started, and said, ''That is
me, /w/?«/rtway,"and instantly disappeared,
and was never heard of more. Old Ander-
son did not remember it, but said, he had
often heard his father and other old men in
the place, who were there at the time, speak
about it; and in my younger years I have often
heard it mentioned, and never met with any
who had the remotest doubt as to the truth of
the story ; although, I must own, I cannot
help thinking there must be some misrepre-
sentation in it." — To this account, I have to
add the following particulars from the most
respectable authority. Besides constantly
repeating the word tint ! tint ! Gilpin Hor-
ner was often heard to call upon Peter
Bertram, or Be-te-ram, as he pronounced
the word ; and when the shrill voice called
Gilpin Horner, he immediatelj- acknowledged
it was the summons of the said Peter Bert-
ram : who seems therefore to have been the
devil who had tint, or lost, the little imp.
As much has been objected to Gilpin Horner,
on account of his being supposed rather a
device of the author than a popular super-
stition, I can only say, that no legend which
I ever heard seemed to be more universally
credited ; and that many persons of very
good rank, and considerable information, are
well known to repose absolute faith in the
tradition.
1 Tint siijnifies lost.
ZU ^c^^ of iU ^(^Qi (minefvef.
69
Note XXXV.
Bui Ihc Ladye of Branksotnc gather'' d a
band
Of the best that xvotdd ride at lief com-
■Diand. — P. 14.
' Upon 25th June, 1557, Dame Janet Bea-
tounc Lady Bucclcuch," and a great number
of tlie name of Scott, delaitit (accused) for
coming to the kirk of St. Marv of the Lowes,
to the number of two hundred persons bodin
in feire of weire (.arrayed in armour), and
breaking open the door of the said kirk, in
order to apprehend the Laird of Cranstoune
for his destruction.' On the 20th July, a
warrant from tlie Queen is presented, dis-
charging the justice to proceed against the
Lady Buccleuch while new calling. — Abridg-
incnt of Books of Adjournal^ in Advocates'
Library. The following proceedings upon
this case appear on the record of the Court
of Justiciary. On the 25lh of June, 1557,
Robert Scott, in Bowhill parish, priest of the
kirk of St. Mary's, accused of the convocation
of the Queen's lieges, to the number of two
hundred persons, in warlike array, with
jacks, helmets, and other weapons, and
marching to the chapel of St. Mary of the
Lowes, lor the slaughter of Sir Peter Cran-
stoun, out of ancient feud and malice pre-
pense, and of breaking the doors of the said
kirk, is repledged by the Archbishop of Glas-
ow. The bail given by Robert Scott of
illanhaugh, Adam Scott of Burnfute, Robert
Scott in Howfurde, Walter Scott in Todshaw-
haugh, Walter Scott younger of Synton,
Thomas Scott of Hayning, Robert Scott,
William Scott, and Jaines Scott, brothers of
the said Walter Scott, Walter Scott in the
Woll, and Walter Scott, son of William
Scott of Harden, and James Wemyss in Eck-
ford, all accused of the same crime, is de-
clared to be forfeited. On the same day,
Walter Scott of Synton, and Walter Chis-
holme of Chisholme, and William Scott of
Harden, became bound, jointly and sever-
ally, that Sir Peter Cranstoun, and his kin-
ilred and servants, should receive no injury
from them in future. At the same time, Pat-
rick Murray of Fallohill, Alexander Stuart,
uncle to the Laird of Trakwhare, John
Murray of Newhall, John Fairlye, residing
in Selkirk, George Tait, youngerof Pirn, John
Pennycuke of Pennycuke, James Ramsay of
Cokpen, the Laird of Fassyde, and the Laird
of Henderstoune, were all severally fined for
not attending as jurors ; being probably
either in alliance with the accused parties, or
dreading their vengeance. Upon tlie 20th of
July following, Scott of Synron, Chisholme
of Chisholme, Scott of Harden, Scott of How-
paslie, Scott of Burnfute, with many others,
are ordered to appear at next calling, under
the iiains of treason. But no farther procedure
seems to have taken place. It is said, that,
upon this rising, the kirk of St. Mary was
burnt by the Scotts.
"k
Note XXXVL
Like a book-bosom' d /'ricst. — P. 16.
' At Unthank, two miles X. E. from the
church (of Ewes), there arc the ruins of a
chapel for divine service, in time of Popery.
There is a tradition, that friars were wont to
come from Melrose or Jedburgh, to baptize
and marry in this parish ; and froin being in
use to carry the mass-book in their bosoms,
they were called by the inhabitants, Book-a-
bosomes. There is a man yet ali\;e, who
knew old men who had been baptized by
these Book-a-bosomes, and who says one of
them, called Hair, used this parish for a very
long time.' -Account of Parish of Ewes,
apitd Macfarlane's MSS.
Note XXXVIL
All was delusion, nought was truth.— Y. 17.
Glamour, in the legends of Scottish super-
stition, means the magic power of imposing
on the eyesight of the spectators; so that the
appearance of an object shall be totally
different from the reality. TJie transformation
of Michael Scott by the witch of Falsehope,
already mentioned, was a genuine operation
of glamour. To a similar charm the ballad
of Johnny Fa' imputes the fascination of the
lovely Countess, who eloped with that gipsy
leader :—
' Sae soon ns they saw her weel-fnr'd face,
They cnst the glatnotir o'er her.'
It was formerly used even in war. In 13S1,
w^hen the Duke of Anjou lay before a strong
castle, upon the coast of Naples, a necroman-
cer offered to ' make the ayre so thycke,
that they within shall thynke that there is a
great bridge on the see (by which the castle
was surrounded) for ten men to go a front ;
and whan they within the castle se this bridge,
they will be so afrayde, that they shall yelde
them to your mercy. The Duke demanded, —
" Fayre Master, on this bridge that ye speke
of, may our people assuredly go thereon to
the castell, to assayle it ? "— " Syr," quod the
enchantour, " I dare not assure vou that ; for
if any that passeth on the bridge make the
signe of the crosse on hym, all shall go to
noughte, and they that be on the bridge shall
fall into the see." Then the Duke began to
laugh ; and a certain of young knightes, that
were there present, said, " Syr, for godsake,
let the mayster assey his cunning : we shall
leve making of any signe of the crosse on us
for that tyme." ' 'The Earl of Savoy, shortly
after, entered the tent, and recognised in the
enchanter the same person who had put the
castle into the power of Sir Charles do la Payx,
who then held it, by persuading the garrison of
the Queen of Naples, through magical decep-
tion, that the sea was coming over the walls.
The sage avowed the feat, and added, that he
was the man in the world most dreaded by Sir
Charles de la Payx. ' "By my fayth," quod the
(tioUsi io
Earl of Savoy, "vesaywell; and I will that Syr
Charles de la Payx shall know that he hath
oret wronge to fear you. But I shall assure
hyin of you ; for ye shall never do enchant-
ment to deceyve hym, nor yet none other. I
vvolde nat that in tyme to come we shulde be
reproached that in so high an enterprise as
we be in, wherein there be so many noble
knyi^htes and squvres assembled, that we
shulde do any thyiig be enchantment, nor
that we shulde wyn our enemys be suche
crafte." Then he called to him a servaunt,
and said, " Go, and get a hangman, and let
him stryke off this maj'ster's heed without
delay ; and as soone as the Erie had com-
manded it, incontynent it was done, for his
heed was stryken of before the Erie's tent.'
— FroissART, vol. i. ch. 3C)i, 3QJ.
The art of glamour, oi- other fascination,
was anciently a principal part of the skill of
\.\ie.Jo7:^leiir^ or juggler, whose tricks formed
much of tlie amusement of a Gothic castle.
Some instances of this art may be found in
the Minstrelsy of t lie Scotlisli Border^ \o\.
iv. p. io6. In a strange allegorical poem,
called the Houlat, written by adcpendent of the
house of Douglas, about 1452-^, the jay, in an
assemblyof birds, plays the part of the juggler.
His feats of glamour are thus described : —
* He gart them see, as it semyt in samyn lioure,
Huntini^ at heri.lis in holtis so hair ;
Some saiiand on the see schippis of tourc,
Bernis battalland on burd brim as a l>arc :
He collide carye the coup of tlie kingis des,
Syne leve in the stede,
Bot a black bunwede ;
He could of a henis liede
Make a man nies.
• He gart the Emproure trow, and trewlye behald,
TJiat the coriicraik, the pundere at hand.
Had poyndit all his pris hors in a jioynd fald,
Because thai ete of the corn in the kirkland.
}Ie could wirk windaris, quhat way that he wald,
Mak a gray gus a gold garland,
A lang spere of a bittile, for a berne bald,
Nobilis of nutschelles, and silver of sand.
Thus joukit with juxters the janglane ja,
Fair ladyes in rmgis,
Knychtis in caralyngis,
Bayth dansis andsingis,
It semyt as sa.'
Note XXXVUI.
NoTi\ if yon ask ivho fi'ax'e the stroke,
I cannot tell, so nwt'l thrive ;
It was not given by man alive. — P. 1 7.
Dr. Henry More, in a letter prefixed to
Glanville's Saducismus Triumphatiis, men-
tions a similar phenomenon.
' I remember an old gentleman in the
countr)^ of my acquaintance, an excellent
justice of peace, and a piece of a mathe-
matician ; but what kind of a philosopher he
was, you may understand from a rhyme of his
own making, which he commendecf to me at
my taking horse in his yard, which rhyme is
this : —
' Ens is nothing till sense finds out :
Sense ends in nothing, so naught goes about.'
Which rhyme of his was so rapturous to him-
self, that, on the reciting of the second verse,
the old man turned himself about upon his
toe as nimbly as one may observe a dry leaf
whisked round the corner of an orchard- walk
by some little whirlwind. \Vith this philo-
sopher I have had many discourses con-
cerning the immortality of the soul and its
distinction ; when I have run hira quite down
by reason, he w ould but laugh at me, and say
this is logic, H. (calling me Dy my Christian
name), to which I replied, this is reason,
father L. (for so I used and some others to
call him) ; but it seems you are for the new
lights, and immediate inspiration, which I
confess he was as little for as for the other;
but I said so only in the way of drollery to
him in those times, but truth is, nothing but
palpable experience would move him : and
being a bold man, and fearing nothing, he
told me he had used all the magical cere-
monies of conjuration he could, to raise the
devil or a spirit, and liad a most earnest
desire to meet with one, but never could do
it. But this he told me, when he did not so
much as think of it, while his servant was
pulling off his boots in the hall, some in-
visible hand gave him such a clap upon the
back, that it made all ring again; "so,"
thought he now, " I am invited to the con-
verse of my spirit," and therefore, so soon as
his boots were off, and his shoes on, out he
goes into the yard and next field, to find out
the spirit that had given him this familiar
clap on the back, but found none neither in
the yard nor field next to it.
' But though he did not feel this stroke,
albeit he thought it afterwards (finding no-
thing came of it) a mere delusion ; yet not
long before his death, it had more force with
him than all the philosophical arguments I
could use to him, though I coulclwind him
and nonplus him as I pleased; but yet all
my arguments, how solid soever, made no
impression upon him ; wherefore, after several
reasonings of this nature, whereby I would
Ero\e to him the soul's liistinction from the
ody, and its immortality, when nothing of
such subtile consideration did any more
execution on his mind than some lightning is
.said to do, though it melts the sword, on the
fuzzy consistency of the scabbard,^" Well,"
sai(f I, " father L., though none of these
things move you, I have something still
behind, and what yourself has acknowledged
to be true, that may do the business : — Do )'ou
remember the clap on your back when your
servant was pulling off 3'our boots in the
hall ? Assure yourself, says I, father L.,
that goblin will be the first to bid you wel-
come into the other world." Upon that his
countenance changed most sensibly, and he
was more confounded with this rubbing up
his memory, than with all the rational or
philosophical argumentations tiiat I could
produce.'
ZU ;Sap of iU ^AQt QtltneircP.
71
XOTE XXXIX.
7'Ae ritiniiiig stream dUsolv'd the spell.
-P. 17.
It is a firm article ol" popular faitli, that no
enchantment can subsist in a living stream.
Na}', if 3'ou can interpose a brook betwixt
you and witches, spectres, or even fiends, you
are in perfect safety. Hurns's inimitable 'l'ai)i
o' Shantcr turns entirely upon such a cir-
cumstance. The belief seems to be of an-
tiquity. Brompton informs us, that certain
Irish wizards could, by spells, convert earthen
clods, or stones, into tat pigs, which they
sold in the market, but which always reas-
sumed their proper form when driven by the
deceived purchaser across a running stream.
But Brompton is severe on the Irish for a
very good reason. ' Gens ista spurcissima
non solvunt decimas.' — Cliroiiicon Joliannis
Brompton ap ltd decern Scriptores^ p, 1076.
Note XL.
He Clever counted him a 7nan,
Would strike below the knee. — P. tS.
Imitated from Drayton's account of Robin
Hood and his followers : — ■
' A hundred valiant men had this brave Robin Mood,
.Still ready at his call, that bowmen were right tjoi.il ;
.\U clad in Lincoln yreen, with caps of red and l)lue,
His fellow's winded horn not one of them but knew.
\\"hen setting to their lips their little bugles shrill.
The warblin;.,' echoes waked from every dale and hill ;
Their bauldrics set with studs athwart their shoulders
cast.
To which under their arms their sheafs were buckled
fast,
A short sword at their belt, a buckler scarce a span,
^Vho struck below the knee not counted then a man.
AU made of Spanish yew, their bows were wondrous
stronj?.
They not an arrow drew but was a cloth-yard loiijj.
* )f archery they had the very perfect craft,
"With broad arrow, or but, or prick, or rovinjj shaft.'
Poty-Albion, Song :;6.
To wound an antagonist in the thigh, or
leg, was reckoned contrary to the law ot
arms. In a tilt betwixt Gawain Michael, an
English squire, and Joachim Cathore, a
Frenchman, ' they met at.the speare poyntes
rudely ; the French squyer justed right plea-
santly ; the Englishman ran too lowe, for he
strak the Frenchinan depe into the thigh.
Wherewith the Erie of Buckingham was
right sore displeased, and so were all the
other lords, and sayde how it was shamefully
done.' — Fkoiss.VKT, vol. i. chap. 366. Upon
a similar occasion, 'the two knyghts came
a fote eche against other rudely, with their
speares low couched, to stryjje eche other
within the foure quarters. Jonan of Castell-
Morant strake the English squyer on the
brest in such wyse, that Syr Wyllyam Fer-
metone stombled and bowed, for his fote
a lyttel fayled him. He helde his speare low e
with both hishandes, and coude nat amende it,
and strake Syr Johan of the Castell-Morant
in the thighei so that the speare went clene
throughe, that the heed was sene a handful!
on the other syde. And Syr Johan with the
stroke reled, but he fell nat. Than the Englyshe
knyghtes and squyers were ryghte sore dis-
pleased, and sayde how it was a foulc stroke.
Syr Wyllam Fermeton excused himselfe,
and sayde how he was sorie of that adventure,
and howe that yf he had knowen that it
shulde have bene so, he wolde never have
begon it ; sayenge how he could nat amende
it, by cause of glaunsing of his fote by con-
straynt of the great stroke that Syr Jofian of
the Castell-Morant had given him.' — FroiS-
S.ART, vol. i. chap. ^73.
Note XLI.
She drew the splinter from the wound,
And with a charm she stanch' d the blood.
-P. 19.
See several charms for this purpose in
Reginald Scott's Discovery of Witchcraft,
P- 273-
'Torn Potts was but a serving man.
But yet h<; was a doctor good^
He bouml his handkerchief on the \\ound.
And with some kinds of words he stanched the blood.'
Piec€s 0/ Aiuiait Popular Poetry, Loud. 1791, p. 131.
r^OTE XLII.
But she has ta'cn the broken lance.
And ivaslid it from the clotted gore.
And salved the splinter o'er and o'er.
-P. 19.
Sir Kenelm Digb)-, in a discourse upon the
cure by sympathy, pronounced at Montpelier
before an assembly of nobles and learned
men, translated into English by R. White,
gentleman, and published in 1658, gives us
the following curious surgical case :^
'Mr. James Howel (well known in I'rancc
for his public works, and particularly for his
Dendrulogie, translated into French by Mons.
Baudouin) coming by chance, as two of his
best friends were lighting ii\ duel, he did his
endeavour to part them ; and, putting him-
selfe between them, seized, with his left hand,
upon the hilt of the sword of one of the com-
batants, while with his right hand, he laiil
hold of the blade of the other. Tiny, being
transported with fury one against the other,
struggled to rid themselves of the hinderance
their friend made, that they should not kill
one another; and one oft hern roughly drawing
the blade of his sword, cuts to the very bone
the nerves and muscles of Mr. Howel's hand :
and then the other disengaged his hilts, and
gave a crosse blow on liis adversarie's head,
which glanced towards hisfriend, who heaving
up his sore hand to save the blow, he was
wounded on the back of Iiis hand as he had
been before within. It seems some strange
constellation reigned then against him, that
Qtofee io
he should lose so much bloud by parting two
such dear friends, who, had tliey been them-
selves, would have hazarded both their lives
to have preserved his ; but this involuntary
effusion of bloud by them, prevented that
which they sholde have drawn one from the
other. For they, seeing Mr. Howel's face
besmeared with bloud, by heaving up his
wounded hand, they both ran to embrace
him ; and having searched his hurts, they
bound up his hand with one of his garters, to
close tlie veins which were cut, and bled
abundantly. They brought him home, and
sent for a surgeon. But this being heard at
court, the King sent one of his own surgeons ;
for his IMajesty much affected the said Mr.
Howel.
' It was my chance to be lodged hard by
him ; and four or five days after, as I was
making myself ready, he came to my house,
and prayed me to view his wounds ; "for I
understand," said he, " that you have extra-
ordinary remedies on such occasions, and
my surgeons apprehend some fear that it
may grow to a gangrene, and so the hand
must be cut off." In effect, his countenance
discovered that he was in much pain, whicli
he said was insupportable, in regard of the
extreme inflammation. I told him I would
willingly ser\e him ; but if haply he knew
the manner how I would cure him, without
touching or seeing him, it may be he would
not expose himself to my manner of curing,
because he would think it, peradventure,
either ineffectual or superstitious. He re-
plied, "the wonderful things which many have
related unto me of your way of medicament,
makes me nothing doubt at all of its efficacy ;
and all that I have to say unto you is
comprehended in the Spanish proverb,
Hagasc cl ntilap'ro y hagalo Mahoma — Let
the miracle be done, though Mahomet do it."
'I asked him then for anything that had
the blood upon it ; so he presently sent for
his garter, wherewith his hand was first
bound ; and as I called for a bason of water,
as if I would wash my hands, I took a hand-
ful of powder of vitriol, which I had in my
study, and presently dissolved it. As sooti
as the blouay garter was brought me, I put
it within the bason, observing, in the interim,
what Mr. Howel did, who stood talking
with a gentleman in a corner of my chamber,
not regarding at all what I was doing ; but
he started suddenly, as if he had found some
strange alteration in himself. I asked him
what he ailed ? "I know not what ailes me ;
but I Cnde that I feel no more pain. Me-
thinks that a pleasing kinde of freshnesse,
as it were a wet cold napkin, did spread
over my hand, which hath taken away the
inllammation that tormented me before." —
I replied, "Since then that you feel already
so good effect of my medicament, I advise
you to cast away all your playsters; only
keep the wound clean, and in a moderate
temper betwixt heat and cold." This was
presently reported to the Duke of Bucking-
ham, and a little after to the King, who
were both very curious to know the cir-
cumstance of the businesse, which was, that
after dinner I took the garter out of the
water, and put it to dry before a great fire.
It was scarce dn,-, but Mr. Howel's servant
came running, that his master felt as much
burning as ever he had done, if not more ;
for the heat was such as if his hand were
'twixt coles of fire. I answered, although
that had happened at present, yet he should
find ease in a short time ; for I knew the
reason of this new accident, and would pro-
vide accordingly ; for his master should be
free from that inflammation, it may be before
he could possibly return to him ; but in case
he found no ease, I wished him to come
presently back again; if not, he might for-
bear coming. Thereupon he went ; and at
the instant I did put again the garter into
the water, thereupon he found his master
without any pain at all. To be brief, there
was no sense of pain afterward ; but within
five or six dayes the wounds were cicatrized,
and entirely healed.' — Page 6.
The King (James VI.) obtained from Sir
Kenelm the discovery of his secret, which he
pretended had been taught him by a Car-
inelite friar, who had learned it in Armenia,
or Persia. Let not the age of animal mag-
netism and metallic tractors smile at the
sympathetic powder of Sir Kenelm Digby.
Reginald Scott mentions the same mode of
cure in these terms: — 'And that which is
more strange they can remedie anie
stranger with that verie sword wherewith
they are wounded. Yea, and that which
is beyond all admiration, if they stroke the
sword upward with their fingers, the partie
shall feele no pain ; whereas, if they draw
their fingers downwards, thereupon the partie
wounded shall feele intolerable pain.' I
presume that the success ascribed to the
sympathetic mode of treatment might arise
from the pains bestowed in washing the
wound, and excluding the air, thus bringing
on a cure by the first intention. It is intro-
duced by Dryden in the Enchanted Island,
a (very unnecessary) alteration of the Tem-
pest .•—
Ariel. Anoint the sword which pierced him with this
Weapon-salve, and wrap it close from air.
Till I have time to visit him again.— --/lY v. sc. 2.
Again, in scene 4th, Miranda enters with
Hippolito's sword wrapt up : — •
Hip. O my wound pains me.
Mir. I am come to ease you. \_She icn7vya/s the
StvojW.]
Hip. Alas, I feel the cold air come to me ;
My wound shoots worse than e\'ei.
Mir. Does it still grieve you ! {^She tfipes and
anoints the Sword i\
Hip. Now, methinks, there's something laid just
upon it.
Mir. Do you find no ease ?
Hip. Yes, yes ; upon the sudden all this pain
Is leaving me. Sweet heaven, how I am eased I
^0e Bap of tU ^c^et (mimtvd.
73
Note XLIII.
Uii Poichryst glows a hale ofjtfc. — P. 20.
Balc^ iK-acon-lagot. The Border beacons,
from tlieir number and position, formed a
sort of telcgrapliic communication with
Edinburgh. — The Act of Parliament 1455, c.
48, directs, that one bale or fagot shall be
warning of the approach of the English in
any manner ; two bales that they are coming'
indeed ; four bales, blazing beside each other,
that the enemy are in great force. 'The
same taikenings to be watched and maid at
Eggerhope (Eggerstand) Castell, fra they
se tne fire of Hume, that they fire right swa.
And in like manner on Sowtra Edge, sail se
the fire of Eggerhope Castell, and niak
taikening in like manner: And then may
all Tvouthaine be warned, and in special the
Castell of Edinburgh ; and their four fires to
be made in like manner, that they in I'ife,
and fra Striveling east, and the east part of
Louthainc, and to Dunbar, all may se them,
and come to the defence of the realme.'
These beacons (at least in latter times) were
a 'long and strong tree set up, with a long
iron pole across the head of it, and an iron
brander lixed on a stalk in the middle of it,
for holding a tar-barrel.' — Stevenson's
History, vol. ii. p. 701.
Note X LI V.
Oity kin, and c/an, and friends lo raise.
—P. ao.
The speed with which the Borderers col-
lected great bodies of horse, may be judged
of from the following extract, when the
subject of the rising was much less important
than that supposed in the romance. It is
taken from (IsLvey^s Memoirs : —
' Upon the death of the old Lord Scroop,
the Queen gave tiie west wardenry to his
son, that had married my sister. He having
received that otiice, came to me with great
earnestness, and desired me to be his deputy,
oflering me that I should live witli him in
his house ; that he would allow me half a
dozen men, and as many Iiorses, to be kept
at his charge; and his fee being iO(X) nierks
yearly, he would part it with me, and I
should have the half. This his noble offer
I accepted of, and went with him to Carlisle;
where I was no sooner come, but I entered
into mv office. We had a stirring time of
it ; and few days past over my head but I
was on horseback, either to prevent mischief,
or take malefactors, and to oring the Bortler
in better quiet than it had been in times
past. One memorable thing of God's mercy
shewed unto me, was such as I have good
cause still to remember it.
'I had private intelligence given me, that
there were two Scottishmen that had killed
a churchman in Scotland, and were by one
of the Gra.'mes relieved. This Grteme dwelt
within five miles of Carlisle. He had a
pretty house, and close by it a strong tower,
for his own defence in time of need. — About
two o'clock in the morning, I took horse in
Carlisle, and not above twenty-fi\e in my
companv, thinking to surprise the house on
a sudden. Before I could surround the house,
the two Scots were gotten in the strong
tower, and I could see a boy riding from the
house as fast as his horse could carry him ;
I little suspecting what it meant. But
Thomas Carleton came to me presently, and
told me, that if I did not presently prevent
it, both myself and all my company would
be either slain or taken prisoners. It was
strange to me to hear this language. He then
said to me, " Do you see that boy that ridetli
away so fast ? He will be in Scotland within
this half liour; and he is gone to let them
know, that you are here, and to what end
you arc come, and the small number you
have with you ; and that if they will make
haste, on a sudden they may surprise us,
and do with us what they please." Hereupon
we took advice what was best to be done.
We sent notice presently to all parts to raise
the country, and to come to us with all the
speed they could ; and withall we sent to
Carlisle to raise tlie townsmen ; for without
foot we could do no good against the tower.
There we staid some hours, expecting more
company; and within short time after the
country came in on all sides, so that we
were quickly between three and four hundred
horse ; and, after some longer stay, the foot
of Carlisle came to us, to the number of
three or four hundred men ; w hom we pre-
sently set to work, to get to the lop of the
tower, and to uncover the roof; and then
some twenty of them to fall down together,
and by that means to win the tower. — The
Scots, seeing their present danger, offered to
parle)', and yielded themselves to my mercy.
They had no sooner opened the iron gate,
and yielded themselves my prisoners, but we
might see 4txj horse within a quarter of a
mile coming to their rescue, and to surprise
me and my small company ; but of a sudden
they stayed, and slooa at gaze. Then had I
more to do than e\ er ; for all our Borderers
came crying, with full mouths, "Sir, give us
leave to set upon them; for these are they
that ha\e killed our fathers, our brothers,
and uncles, and our cousins ; and they an:
coming, thinking to surprise you, upon weak
grass nags, such as they could get on a
sudden; and God hath put them into your
hands, that we may take revenge of them
for much blood that they have spilt of ours."
I desired they would be patient a while,
and bethought myself, if 1 siiould give them
their will, there would be few or none of the
Scots that would escape unkilled ; (.there ^\ as
so many deadly feuds among them ;) and
therefore I resolved w ith myself to give them a
fair answer, but not to give them their desire.
So I told them, that if I were not there myself,
they might then do what they pleased them-
IJ3
14
(Itofee io
selves; but being present, if I should give
tliern leave, the blood that should be spilt
that day would lie very hard upon my con-
science. And therefore I desired them, for
my sake, to forbear; and, if the Scots did
not presently mal<e away with all the speed
they could, upon my sending to them, they
should then ha^•e their wills to do what they
pleased. They were ill satisfied with my
answer, but durst not disobey. I sent with
speed to the Scots, and bade them pack.
awav- with all the speed tliey could ; for if
they stayed the messenger's return, they
should few of them return to tlieir own
home. They made no stav ; but they were
returned homewards before the messenger
had made an end of liis message. Thus, by
God's mercy, I escaped a great danger ;
and, by my means, there were a great many
men's lives saved that day.'
Note XLV.
On many a cai'rn's^'iry pyramid^
Wlierc iirjisofntighty chief s lie hid. — P. 20.
Tiie cairns, or piles of loose stones, which
crown the summit of most of our Scottish
hills, and arc found in other rem.arkable
situations, seem usuallv, tliough not univer-
.sally, to have been sepulchral monuments.
Six flat stones are commonly found in the
centre, forming a cavity of greater or smaller
dimensions, in which an urn is often placed.
The author is possessed of one, discovered
beneath an immense cairn at Roughlee, in
Liddesdale. It is of the most barbarous
construction ; the middle of the substance
alone iiaving been subjected to the fire, over
which, when hardened, the artist had laid an
inner and outer coat of unbaked clay, etched
with some very rude ornaments; his skill
apparently being inadequate to baking the
vase, when completely finished. The contents
were bones and ashes, and a quantity of
beads made of coal. This seems to have
been a barbarous imitation of the Roman
fashion of sepulture.
Note XLVI.
For pathless marsh, and Dioiuitaiii cell,
The peasant left his lowly shed. — P. a.
The morasses were tlie usual refuge of the
Border herd.smen, on the approach of an
English ariny. — {Mijistrclsy of the Scottish
Border, vol. i. p. 393.) Caves, hewed in the
most dangerous and inaccessible places, also
afforded an occasional retreat. Such caverns
ma\' be seen in the precipitous banks of the
Teviot at Sunlaws, upon the Ale at Ancram,
upon the Jed at Hundalee, and in many
other places upon tlic Border. The banks
of the Eske, at Gorton and Hau thornden,
are hollowed into similar recesses. But
even these dreary dens were not always
secure places of concealment. ' In the way
as we came, not far from this place, (Long
Niddry,) George Ferres, a gentleman of my
Lord Protector's happened upon a
cave in the grounde, the mouth whereof was
so worne with the fresh printe of steps, that
he seemed to be certayne thear wear some
folke within ; and gone doune to trie, he was
readily reccyved with a hakebut or two. He
left them not yet, till he had known wheyther
thei wolde be content to yield and come out ;
which they fondly refusing, he went to my
lord's grace, and upon utterance of the
thynge, gat licence to deale with them as he
coulde ; and so returned to them, with a
skore or two of pioners. Three ventes had
their cave, that we wear ware of, whereof he
first stopt up on ; anoother he fill'd full of
strawe, and set it a f^'er, whereat they within
cast water apace ; but it was so wel mayn-
teyned without, that the f3-er prevayled, and
thei within fayn to get them belyke into
anoother parler. Then devysed we (for I
hapt to be with him) to stop the same up,
whereby we should eyther smoother them,
or fynd out their ventes, if thei hadde any
moe ; as tliis was done at another issue,
about xii score of, we moughte see the fume
of their smoke to come out: the which con-
tinued with so great a force, and so long a
while, that we could not but thinkc they
must needs get them out, or smoother within :
and forasmuch as we found not that they
dyd the tone, we thought it for certain thei
wear sure of the toother.' — \'.\~i'X'EM^sAcco7ini
of Somerset's Expedition into Scotland,
apud Dalyell's Frag)ne}its.
Note XLVII.
Show'd soittliern ravage was begun. — P. 22.
From tiie following fragment of a letter
from the Earl of Northumberland to King
Henry VIII, preserved among the Cotton
MSS. Calig. B. vii. 179, the reader may
estimate the nature of the dreadful war
which was occasionall)' waged upon the
Borders, sharpened by mutual cruelties, and
the personal hatred of the wardens, or
leaders.
Some Scotti.sh Barons, says the Earl, liad
threatened to come within 'three miles of
my pore house of Werkworth, where I lye,
and gif me light to put on my clothes at
mydnight ; and alsoo the said Marke Carr
said there opynly, that, seyng they had a
governor on the Marches of Scotland, as well
as they had in Ingland, he shulde kcpe your
highness instructions, gj'ffyn unto your ga-
ry son, for making of any day-forrey ; for he
and his frientis wolde burne enough on the
nyght, lettyng your counsaill here defyne a
notable acte at thcyre pleasures. Upon
whiclie, in your highnes name, I comaundet
dewe watclie to be kepte on your Marchies,
for com^'ng in of any Scotts. — Neuertheles,
upon Thursday at night last, came thyrty^
ZU ;Sa^ of tU BA&t (IWimtvd.
75
liglit horsemen into a litil village of" niyne,
called Wliitell, havinjj not past sex houses,
lyirijr towards Ryddisdaill, upon Shilbotell
More, and there wold have fyred the said
liowses, hut ther was no fyre to get there,
and they forgate to brynge any withe theyme ;
and took a wyf being great'with chylde, in
the said towne, and said to hyr, Wher we
can not gyve the lard ly<jht, yet we shall doo
this in spyte of hym ; and gyve her iii mortall
wounds upon the held, and another in the
right side, with a dagger : whereupon the
said wyf is deede, and the childe in her bely
is loste. Beseeching your most gracious
highness to reduce unto your gracious
memory this wylful and shamcfull murder,
done within this your highnes rcalmc, not-
withstanding all the inhabitants thereabout
rose unto the said fray, and gave warnynge
by becons into the countrey afore theyme,
and yet the Scottsmen (]yde escape. And
uppon certeyne knowledge to my brother
Clyfforthe, and me, had by credible persons
ot Scotland, this abomynable act not only
to be done by dyverse of the Mershe, but
also the afore named persons of Tyvidaill,
and consented to, as by appearance, by
the Erie of Murey, upon Friday at night
last, let slyp C of the best horsemen of
Glendaill, with a parte of your highnes sub-
jects of Berwyke, together with George
Dowglas, whoo came into Ingland agayne,
in the daw^ning of the day ; but afore theyre
retorne, they dyd mar the Earl of Murreis
provisions at Coldingham ; for they did not
only burne the said town of Coldingham,
with all the corne thereunto belonging, which
is esteemed worthe cii inarke sterling ; but
alsoo burned twa townes nye adjoining
thereunto, called Branerdergestand the Black
Hill, and toke xxiii persons, Ix horse, with cc
hed of cataill, which, nowe, as I am informed,
hathe not only been a staye of the said Rrle
of Murreis not coming to the Bordure as yet,
but alsoo, that none inlande man will adven-
ture theyr self uppon the Marches. And as
for the tax that shulde have been grauntyd for
fmding of the said iii hundred men, is utterly
denyed. Upon which the King of Scotland
departed from Edynburgh to Stirling, and
as yet there doth remayn. And also I, by
the advice of my brother Clyfforth, have
devysed, that within this iii nyghts, Godde
willing, Kelsey, in like case, shall be brent,
with all the corn in the said town ; and then
they shall have noo place to lye any garyson
in nygh unto the Borders. And as I shall
atteigne further knowledge, I shall not faill
to satisfye your highnes, according to my
most bounden dutie. And for this Durnyng
of Kelsey is devysed to be done secretly,
by Tyndaill and Ryddisdale. And thus the
lioly Trynite and ■ your most royal estate,
with long lyf, and as much increase of honour
as your most noble heart can desire. Ai
II 'erkworth the w'udday of October.^ (i5«-!-)
NoteXLVIII.
Wait Tiiilimi. — P. 2J.
This person was, in my younger days, the
theme of many a fireside tale. He was a
retainer of the Buccleuch family, and held
for his Border service a small tower on the
frontiers of Liddesdale. Watt was, by pro-
fession, a sutor^ but, by inclination and
practice, an archer and warrior. Upon one
occasion, the captain of Bewcastle, military
governor of that wild district of Cumberland,
IS said to have made an incursion into Scot-
land, in which he was defeated, and forced to
fly. Watt Tinlinn pursued him closely
through a dangerous morass ; the captain,
however, gained the firm ground ; and seeing
Tinlinn dismounted, and floundering in the
bog, used these words of insult : — ' Sutor
Watt, ye cannot sew your boots ; the heels
yisp^ and the seams I'l've'.' — ' If I cannot sew, '
retorted Tinlinn, discharging a shaft, which
nailed the captain's thigh to his saddle, — ' If
I cannot sew, I ca.nyerk/'-.''
Note XLIX.
Billhope stag.—V. 22.
There is an old rhyme, which thus cele-
brates the places in Liddesdale remarkable
for game :
* Billhope braes for bucks and raes.
And Carit haugh for swine.
,\iid Tarras for tile good bull-trout,
If he be ta'en in time."
The bucks and roes, as well as the old
swine, are now extinct ; but the good bull-
trout is still famous.
Note L.
Bel/ed Will Howard.— V. 22.
Lord William Howard, third son of
Thomas, Uuke of Norfolk, succeeded to
Naworth Castle, and a large domain annexed
to it, in right of his wife Elizabeth, sister of
George Lord Dacre, who died without heirs
male, in the i ith of Queen Elizabeth. By a
poetical anachronism, he is introduced into
the romance a few years earlier than he
actually flourished. He was warden of the
Western Marches : and, from the rigour w ith
which he repressed the Border excesses, the
name of Belted Will Howard is still famous
in our traditions. In the castle of Naworth,
liis apartments, containing a bedroom, ora-
tory, and library, are still shown. They
impress us with an tnipleasing idea of the life
of a lord warden of the Marches. Three or
four strong doors, separating these rooms
f rom the rest of the castle, indicate the appre-
1 Risp. creak.— ^iw, tear.
2 Yerk, to twitch, as shoemakers do, in securing thu
stitches of their work.
76
Qtcf^ff io
lipiisions of treachery from his garrison ; and
the secret windinij passages, through wliicli
he oould privately descend into the guard-
room, or even into the dungeons, imply the
necessity of no small degree of secret super-
intendence on the part of the governor. As the
ancient books and furniture liave remained
undisturbed, the \enerable appearance of
these apartments, and tlie armour scattered
around the chamber, almost lead us to expect
the arrival of the warden in person. Naworth
Castle is situated near Brampton, in Cumber-
land. Lord A\'illiam Howard is ancestor of
the Earls of Carlisle.
Note LI.
Lord Dacrc. — P. 22.
The well-known name of Dacre is derived
from the exploits of one of their ancestors at
the siegeof Acre, or Ptolemais, under Richard
Coeur de Lion. There were two powerful
branches of that name. The first family,
called Lord Dacres of the South, held the
castle of the same name, and are ancestors to
the present Lord Dacre. The other family,
descended from the same stock, were called
Lord Dacres of the North, and were barons
of Gilslantl and Graystock. A chieftain of
the latter branch was warden of (he West
Marches during the reign of Edward VI. He
was a man of a hot and obstinate character,
as appears from some particulars of Lord
Surrey's letter to Henry VIII, giving an
account of his behaviour at the siege and
storm of Jedburgh. It is printed in the
Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border.^ Appendix
to the Introduction.
Note LI I.
The German hackbut men. — P. 22.
In the wars with Scotland, Henry VIII and
his successors employed numerous bands of
mercenary troops. At the battle of Pinky,
there were in the English army six hundrerl
liackbutters on foot, and two hundred on
horseback, composed chiefly of foreigners.
On the 27th of September, 1549, the Duke of
Somerset, Lord Protector, writes to the Lord
Dacre, warden of the West IMarches : — 'The
Almains, in number two thousand, very
valiant soldiers, shall he sent to you shortly
from Newcastle, together with Sir Thomas
Holcroft, and with the force of your wardenry,
(which we would were advanced to the inost
strength of horsemen that might be,) shall
make the attempt to Loughmaben, being of
no such strength but that it may be skailed
r. ith ladders, w hereof, beforehand, we would
you caused secretly some number to be pro-
vided ; or else undermined with the pyke-axe,
and so taken : either to be kept for the King's
Majesty, or otherwise to be defaced, and
taken from the ])rotits of the enemy. And in
like manner the house of Carlaxerock to be
used.' Repeated mention occurs of the Al-
mains, in the subsequent correspondence;
and the enterprise seems finally to have been
abandoned, from the difficulty of providing
these strangers with the necessary ' victuals
and carriages in so poor a country as Dum-
fries-shire.'— History 0/ Cumberland, vol. i.
Introd. p. Ixi. From the battle-pieces of the
ancient Flemish painters, we learn, that the
Low Country and German soldiers marched
to an assault with their right knees bared.
And we may also observe, in such pictures,
the extravagance to which they carried the
fashion of ornamenting their dress with knots
of ribbon. This custom of the Germans is
alluded to in the Mirrour for Magistrates,
p. 121 :
' Tlieir pleited ^anuents therewith well accord.
All jagde and frounst, with divers colours deckt.
Note LIII.
* Ready, aye ready," for the f eld. — P. 2.^
Sir John Scott of Thirlestane flourished in
the reign of James V, and possessed the
estates of Thirlestane, Gamescleuch, etc.,
lying upon the river of Ettrick, and extending
to St. Mary's Loch, at the head of Yarrow.
It appears, that when James had assembled
his nobility, and their feudal followers, at
Fala, with the purpose of invading England,
and was, as is well known, disappointed by
the obstinate refusal of his peers, this baron
alone declared himself ready to follow the
King wherever lie should lead. In memory
of his fidelity, James granted to his family a
charter of arms, entitling them to bear a
border of fleurs-de-luce, similar to the tres-
sure in the royal arms, with a bundle of spears
for the crest ; inotto, Ready, aye ready. The
charter itself is printed by Nisbet ; but his
work being scarce, I insert the following
accurate transcript from the original, in the
possession of the Right Honourable Lord
Napier, the representative of John of Thirle-
staine.
'James Rex.
'We James, by the grace of God, King of
Scottis, considerand the ffaith and guid
servis of of of 1 right traist friend John Scott
of Thirlestane, quha cummand to our hoste
at Soutra-edge, w'ith three score and ten
launcieres on horseback of his friends and
followers, and beand willing to gang with
ws into England, when all our nobles and
others refused, he was ready to stake at all
our bidding; ITor the quhilk cause, it is our
will, and we doe straitlie command and
charg our lion herauld and his deputies for
the time beand, to give and to graunt to the
said John Scott, ane Border of ffleure de
lises about his coatte of armes, sik as is on
our royal banner, and alsua ane bundell of
1 Sic in orij^.
ZU Bap of tk Baet (^Xinetnt
'1
launces above his helmet, with thir word<;,
Rcaddy, ay Rcaddy, that he and all his aftei -
cummers may bruik the samine as a pledge
and taiken of" our guid will and kyndnes for
his true worthines; and thir our letters seen,
ye nae waes Tailzie to doe. Given at Ffalla
Muire, under our hand and privy cashet, the
xxvii day of July, m c and xxxii zeires.l By
ihe King's graces speciall ordinance.
'Jo. Arskine.'
On the back of the charter is written,
'Edin. 14 January, 1713. Registred, con-
form to the act of parliament made anent
probative writs, per jSI'Kaile, pror. and pro-
duced by Alexander Borthwick, servant to
Sir William Scott of Thirlestane. M. L. J.'
Note LIV.
yiw aged Knight, io danger s/eel'd,
II 'ah many a moss-trooper came on ;
And acnre in a golden field,
'J he stars and crescent graced his shield,
Without the bend of Murdieston. — P. 2^.
The family of Harden are descended from
a younger son of the Laird of Buccleucli,
who flourished before the estate of Murdieston
was acquired by the marriage of one of those
chieftains with the heiress, in 1206. Hence
they bear the cognizance of the Scotts upon
the field ; whereas those of the Buccleuch are
disposed upon a bend dexter, assumed in
consequence of that marriage. — See Gl,.\D-
ST.^MN'R of Whitetazi'e's MSS., anci ScOTT 0/
Stokoe's Pedigree, Newcastle, 17.S3.
Walter Scott of Harden, who flourished
during the reign of Queen Mary, was a re-
nowned Borfler freebooter, concerning whom
trarlition has preserved a variety of anec-
dotes, some of which have been published
in the Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border;
others in Levi:)E>j's See Jies of Infancy ; an<l
others, more lately, in 7'he Mountain Bard,
a collection of Bor<ier ballads by Mr. James
Hogg. The bugle-horn, said to have been
used by this formidable leader, is preserved
by his descendant, the present Mr. Scott of
Harden. His castle was situated upon the
\ery brink of a dark and precipitous dell,
through which a scanty rivulet steals to meet
the Borthwick. In the recess ot this glen he
is said to have kept his spoil, which served
for the daily maintenance of his retainers,
until the production of a pair of clean spurs,
in a covered dish, announced to the hungry
band, that they must ride for a supply of
provisions. He was married to Mary Scott,
daughter of Philip Scott of Dryhope, and
called in song the Flower of Yarrow. He
possessed a verj' extensive estate which
was divided among his five sons. There are
numerous descendants of this old marauding
Baron. The following beautiful passage of
' So ill Scott's own Note ; but it was in Nov. 1542
that this motto was earned by Scott of Tliirlestane. .
Levden's Scenes of hi fancy, is founded on
a tmdition respecting an infant captive, whom
Walter of Harden carried off in a predatory
incursion, and who is said to have become
the author of some of our most beautiful
pastoral songs:
' \\'here Eortha hoarse, that loads the meaJs with
sand,
Rolls her red tide to Teviot's western strand.
Through slaty hills, whose sides are shagg'd with thorn.
^\"here springs, in scatter'd tufts, the dark-green com,
Towers wood -girt Har<lcn, far above the vale,
.•\nd clouds of ravens o'er the turrets sail.
A hardy race, who never shrunk from war.
The Scottf to rival realms a mighty bar.
Here fixed his mountain home ; — a wide domain,
And rich the soil, had purple heath been' grain ;
lint what the niggard ground of wealth denied,
I'rom fields more bless'd his fearless arm supplied.
The waning harvest-moon shone cold and bright ;
The warder's horn was heard at dead of night ;
.\nd as the massy portals wide were flung,
"With stamping hoofs the rocky pavement rung.
"What fair, half veil'd, leans from her latticed hall.
A\'here red the wavering gleams of torchlight fall?
'Tis "Harrow's fairest flower, who, through the gloom.
Looks, wistful, for her lover's dancing plume.
Amid the piles of spoil, that strew'd the ground.
Her ear, all anxious, caught a wailing soimd ;
A\'ith trembling haste the youthful matron flew.
And from the hurried heaps an infant drew.
Scared at the light, his little hands he flung
Around her neck, and to her bosom clung ;
AVhile beauteous Mary soothed, in accents mild,
His fluttering soul, and clasp'cl her Ibster child.
t)f milder mood the gentle captive grew.
Nor loved the scenes that scared his infant view ;
In vales remote. IVom camps and castles far.
He shunn'd the fearful shuddering joy of war ;
Content the love of simple swains to sing.
Or wake to fame the harp's heroic string.
His are the strains, whose wandering echoes thrill
The shepherd, lingering on the tw ilight hill,
AVhen evening brings the merry folding hours.
And sun-eyed daisies close their winking flowers.
He lived o'er '^'arrow's Flower to shed the tear.
To strew the holly leaves o'er Harden's bier :
But none was found above the minstrel's tomb,
I'-inblem of peace, to bid the daisy bloom :
He, nameless as the race from which he sprung.
Saved other names, and left his own unsung.'
Note LV.
Scotts of Eskdale, a stahaart band.—V. 2^.
In this, and the following stanzas, some ac-
count is given of the mode in which the
property in the valley of Esk was transferreil
from the Beattisons, its ancient possessors, to
the name of Scott. It is needless to repeat
the circumstances, which are given in the
poem, literally as they have been preserved
l)y tradition. Lord Maxwell, in the latter
part of the sixteenth century, took upon him-
self the title of Earl of Morton. The de-
scendants of Beattison of Woodkerrick, who
aided the Earl to escape from his disobedient
vassals, continued to hold these lands within
the memory of man, and were the only Beat-
tisons who had property in the dale. The
old people give locality to the story, by
showing the Galliard's Haugh, the 'place
where Buccleuch's men were concealed, &c.
76
Otofetf (0
lipiisions of treachery from his jjarrisoii ; and
tlie secret windiiitj passages, through which
he could privately descend into the guard-
room, or even into the dungeons, imply the
necessity of no small degree of secret super-
intendence on the part of the governor. As the
ancient books and furniture liave remained
undisturbed, the \enerable appearance of
these apartments, and the armour scattered
around the chamber, almost lead us to expect
the arrival of the warden in person. Naworth
Castle is situated near Brampton, in Cumber-
land. Lord A\'illiam Howard is ancestor of
the Earls of Carlisle.
Note LI.
Lord Dacrc. — P. 22.
The well-known name of Dacre is derived
from the exploits of one of their ancestors at
the siegeof Acre, or Ptolemais, under Richard
Coeur de Lion. There were two powerful
branches of that name. The first familv,
called Lord Dacres of the South, held the
castle of the same name, and arc ancestors to
(lie present Lord Dacre. The other family,
descended from the same stock, were called
Lord Dacres of the North, and were barons
<it Gilsland and Graystock. A chieftain of
the latter branch was warden of the West
Marches during the reign of Edward VL He
was a man of a hot and obstinate character,
as appears from some particulars of Lord
Surrey's letter to Henry VUI, giving an
account of liis behaviour at the siege and
storm of Jedburgh. It is printed in the
Minslrehy ofilie Scottish Border, Appendix
to the Introduction.
Note LII.
The German liackbitt men. — P. 22.
Ill tlie wars with Scotland, llenrj- VTII and
his successors employed numerous bands of
mercenary troops. At the battle of Pinkv,
there were in the English army six hundred
liackbutters on foot, and two hundred on
liorseback, composed chiefU' of foreigners.
On the 27th of September, I54<), the Duke of
Somerset, Lord Protector, writes to the Lord
Dacre, warden of the West Marches: — 'The
Almains, in number two thousand, very
\aliant soldiers, shall be sent to you shortly
from Newcastle, together with Sir Thomas
Holcroft, and with the force of your wardenry,
(which we would were advanced to the ino'st
strength of horsemen that might be,) shall
make the atteinpt to Loughmaben, being of
no such strength but that it may be skailcd
with ladders, whereof, beforeliand, we would
30U caused secretly some number to be pro-
vided ; or else undermined with the pyke-axe,
and so taken : either to be kept for the King's
Majesty, or otherwise to be defaced, and
taken from the profits of the enemy. And in
like manner the house of Carlaverock to be
used.' Repeated mention occurs of the Al-
mains, in the subsequent correspondence;
and the enterprise seems finally to have been
abandoned, from the difficulty of providing
these strangers with the necessary ' victuals
and carriaa;es in so poor a country as Dum-
fries-shire.'— History 0/ Cumberland, vol. i.
Introd. p. Ixi. From the battle-pieces of the
ancient Flemish painters, we learn, that the
Low Country and German soldiers marched
to an assault with their right knees bared.
And we may also observe, in such pictures,
the extra\agance to which they carried the
fashion of ornamenting their dress with knots
of ribbon. This custom of the Germans is
alluded to in the Mirroiir for Magistrates,
p. 121 :
' Their pleited j^fannents therewith well accord.
All jagde and frounst, with divers colours deckt.
Note LI 1 1.
'Ready, aye ready," for t!ie field. — P. 2},.
Sir John Scott of Thirlestane nourished in
the reign of James V, and possessed the
estates of Thirlestane, Gamescleuch, &c.,
l)'iiig upon the river of Ettrick, and extending
to St. Mary's Loch, at the head of Yarrow.
It appears, that when James had assembled
his nobility, and their feudal followers, at
Fala, with the purpose of invading England,
and was, as is well known, disappointed by
the obstinate refusal of his peers, this baron
alone declared liimself ready to follow the
King wherever he should lead. In memory
of his fidelity, James granted to his family a
charter of arms, entitling them to bear a
border of fleurs-de-luce, similar to the trea-
sure in the royal arms, with a bundle of spears
for the crest ; motto, Ready, aye ready. The
charter itself is printed by Nisbet ; but liis
work being scarce, I insert the following
accurate transcript from the original, in the
possession of the Right Honourable Lord
Napier, the representative of John of Thirle-
staine.
'James Rex.
'We James, by the grace of God, King of
Seottis, considerand the ffaith and guid
servis of of of 1 right traist friend John Scott
of Thirlestane, quha cummand to our hoste
at Soutra-edge, with three score and ten
launcieres on horseback of his friends and
followers, and beand willing to gang with
ws into England, when all our nobles and
others refused, he was ready to stake at all
our bidding; ffor the quhilk cause, it is our
will, and we doe straitlie commanil and
charg our lion herauld and his deputies for
the time beand, to give and to graunt to the
said John Scott, ane Border of flleure dc
iises about his coatte of armes, sik as is on
our royal banner, and alsua ane bundell of
1 .Sic in ori^.
ZU ^(^2 ^f ^^^ ^^^^ (^Mmtvd.
11
launces above his helmet, with thir words,
Rcadiiy, ay Rcaddy, that he and all his aiter-
rummors may bruik the samine as a pledge
and taiken of our guid will and kyntlnes for
liis true worthines; and thir our letters seen,
ve nae waes failzie to doe. Given at Ffalla
Muire, under our hand and privy cashet, the
xxvii day of July, m c and xxxii zeires.l By
the King's graces speciall ordinance.
'Jo. Arskine.'
On the back of the charter is written,
'Edin. 14. January, 171.^ Registred, con-
form to the act of parliament made anent
probative writs, per M'Kaile, pror. and pro-
duced by Alexander Bortliwick, servant to
Sir William Scott of Thirlestane. M. L. J."
Note LIV.
Au aged Knight^ io danger sUfl'd,
ll'i//i nia)iy a jiinss-trooper came on ;
And a-!irf in a golden field,
1 lie slais and crescent graced Jiis shield,
Without Ihe bend of Mitrdieston. — P. j^.
The family of Harden are descended from
a younger son of the Laird of Buccleuch,
who llouri--hed before the estate of Murdieston
was ac([uired by the marriage of one of those
chieftains with the heiress, in i2q6. Hence
they bear the cognizance of the Scotts upon
the field ; \\ hereas those of the Buccleuch are
disposed upon a bend dexter, assumed in
consec|uence of that marriage.— See GlAD-
STAINE of IVhitelawe's AfSS., and ScOTT of
Stohoe's Pedigree, Newcastle, lyS^^.
Walter Scott of Harden, who flourished
during the reign of Queen Mary, was a re-
nowned Border freebooter, concerning whom
tradition has preserved a variety of anec-
dotes, some of which have been published
in the Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border;
others in Levden's Scenes of Infancy ; and
others, more lately, in The Klonntain Bard,
a collection of Border ballads by Mr. James
Hogg. The bugle-horn, said to have been
used by this formidable leader, is preserved
by his descendant, the present Mr. Scott of
Harden. His castle was situated upon the
\ery brink of a dark and precipitous dell,
through which a scanty rivulet steals to meet
the Borthwick. In the recess ot this glen he
is said to lia\e kept his spoil, which served
for the daily maintenance of his retainers,
until the production of a pair of clean spurs,
in a covered dish, announced to the hungry
band, that they must ride for a supply of
provisions. He was married to Mary Scott,
daughter of Philip Scott of Dryhope, anil
called in song the Flower of Yarrow. Ho
possessed a very extensive estate, which
was divided among his five sons. There are
numerous descendants of this old inarauding
Baron. The following beautiful passage of
1 So in Scott's own Note ; but it was in Nov. 1542
that this motto was earned by Scott of Tliirlestane.
Levden's Scenes of Itifaficy, is founded on
a tradition respecting .in infant captive, whom
Walter of Harden carried off in a predatory
incursion, and who is said to have become
the author of some of our most beautiful
pastoral songs:
' 'Where Bortha hrarsc, that loads the meaJs with
santi,
Rolls her red tide to Teviot's western strand.
Through slaty hills, whose sides are shagtf'd with thorn.
'Wliere springs, in scatter'd tufts, the dark-preen com,
Towers wood-girt Harden, far above the vale.
And clouds of ravens o'er the turrets sail.
A hardy race, who never shrunk from war.
The Scott, to rival realms a mighty bar,
Here fixed his mountain home ; — a wide domain,
.■\nd rich the soil, had purple heath been'grain ;
Hut what the niggard ground of wealth tlenietl.
l-'rom fields more blcss'd his fearless arm supplied.
The waning harvest-moon shone cold and bright ;
The warder's horn was heard at dead of night ;
And as the massy portals wide were flung.
'With stamping hoofs the rocky pavement rung.
'What fair, half veii'd, leans from her latticed hall.
'Where red the wavering gleams of torchlight fall?
'Tis \'arrow's fairest flower, wlio, through the gloont,
Looks, wistful, for her lover's dancing plume.
.\niid the piles of spoil, that strew'd the ground.
Her ear, all anxious, caught a wailing soimd ;
With trembling haste the youthful matron flew.
And from the hurried heaps an infant drew.
Scared at the light, his little hands he flung
Around her neck, and to her bosom clung ;
While beauteous Mary soothed, in accents mild,
His fluttering soul, and clasp'd her fbster chilti.
Of milder mood the gentle captive grew.
Nor lovetl tlie scenes that scare<,l his infant view ;
In vales remote, from camps and castles far.
He shunn'd the fearful shuddering joy of war ;
Content the love of simple swains to sing.
Or wake to fame the harp's heroic string.
His are the strains, whose wandering echoes thrill
The sli.plu-r.l, liiu;ering on the twilight hill.
When '■'.' 11 . 1 III :> tiie merry folding hours.
And sill: I . close their winking flowers.
Heli\' I 1 "i . 1 1 .'. s Flower to shed the tear.
To strew tlie huUy le.ives o'er Harden's bier :
But none was found above the minstrel's tomb.
Emblem of peace, to bid the daisy bloom :
He, nameless as the race from which he sprung.
Saved other names, and left liis own unsung.'
Note LV.
Scotts of Eskdale, a stakuart band. — P. 23.
In this, and the following stanzas, soine ac-
count is given of the mode in which the
property in the valley of Esk was transferred
from the Beattisons, its ancient possessors, to
the name of Scott. It is needless to repeat
the circumstances, which are given in the
Eoem, literally as they have been preserved
y tradition. Lord Maxwell, in the latter
part of the sixteenth century, took upon him-
self the title of Earl of Morton. The de-
scendants of Beattison of Woodkerrick, who
aided the Earl to escape from his disobedient
vassals, continued to hold these lands within
the meinory of man, and were the only Beat-
tisons who had property in the dale. The
old people give locality to the story, bv
showing the Galliard's Haugh, the "place
w here Buccletich's men were concealed, &.c.
78
Qtofee io
Note LVI.
Their gatherhtgzvordzvasBelknden. — P.25.
Bellenden is situated near the head of
Borthwick water, and being in the centre of
the possessions of the Scotts, was frequently
used as theirplaceofrendezvous and gathering
word. — Survey of Selkirkshire, in Macfar-
lane's MSS., Advocates' Library. Hence
Satchells calls one part of his genealogical
account of the families of that clan, his Bell-
enden.
Note LVI I.
The camp their home, their law the sword,
Thcv knew 110 country, own'd no lord.
-P. 26.
The mercenarj' adventurers, whom, in 1380,
the Earl of Cambridge carried to the assist-
ance of the King of Portugal against the
Spaniards, mutinied for want of regular pay.
At an assembly of their leaders, Sir John
Soltier, a natural son of Edward the Black.
Prince, thus addressed them : ' " I counsayle,
let us be alle of one alliance, and of one
accorde, and let us among ourselves reyse
up the banner of St. George, and let us be
frendes to God, and enemyes to alle the
worlde ; for without we make ourselfe to be
feared, we gete nothynge."
' " Bymyfayth," quod Sir William Helmon,
"ye saj'e right well, and so let us do." They
all agreed with one voyce, and so regarded
among them who shulde be their capitayne.
Then they ad vysed in the case how they coude
nat have a better capitayne than Sir John
Soltier. For they sulde than have good
leyscr to do yvel, and they thought he was
more metelyer thereto than any other. Then
they raised up the penon of St. George, and
cried, "A Soltier! a Soltier! the valyaunt
bastarde ! frendes to God, and enemies to
all the worlde !" '—Froissart, vol. i. ch.
393- .
Note LVIII.
That he may suffer niarch-treason-f>ain.
— P. 27.
Several species of offences, peculiar to the
Border, constituted what was called march-
treason. Among others, was the crime of
riding, or causing to ride, against the opposite
country during the time of truce. Thus, in
an indenture made at the water of Eske, be-
side Salom, on the 25th day of March, 1334,
betwixt noble lords and mighty, Sirs Henry
Percv, Earl of Northumberland, and Archi-
bald Douglas, Lord of Galloway, a truce is
agreed upon until the ist day of July; and
it is expressly accorded, ' Gif onv stellis
authir on the ta part, or on the tothyr, that
he shall be hanget or heofdit ; and gif ony
company stellis any gudes within the trieux
beforesayd, ane of that company sail be
hanget or heofdit, and the remnant sail
restore the gudys stolen in the dubble.' —
History of W 'est/noreland and Ciimbcrlaitd,
Introd. p. xxxix.
Note LIX.
Delnraine
Will cleanse him, bvoath, of march-treason
stain.— V. 28.
In dubious cases, the innocence of Border
criminals was occasionally referred to their
own oath. The form of excusing bills, or
indictments, bv Border-oath, ran thus : ' You
shall swear by heaven above you, hell
beneath vou, bv your part of Paradise, by
all that God made in six days and seven
nights, and by God himself, you are whart
out sackless of art, part, way, witting, ridd,
kenning, having, or recetting of any of the
goods and cattels named in this bill. So help
you God.' —Histot'y ofCittnberland, Introa.
p. XXV.
Note LX.
Knighthood he took of Douglas^ sword.
—P. 28.
The dignity of knighthood, according to
the original institution, had this peculiarity,
that it did not flow from the monarch, but
could be conferred by one who himself pos-
sessed it, upon any squire who, after due
probation, was found to merit the honour of
chivalry. Latterly, this power was confined
to generals, who were wont to create knights
bannerets after or before an engagement.
Even so late as the reign of Queen Elizabeth,
Essex highly offended his jealous sovereign by
the in<ii6criminate exertion of this privilege.
Among others, he knighted the witty Sir
John Harrington, whose favour at court was
by no means enhanced by his new honours. —
See the Nngae Ajitiqnae, edited by Mr. Park.
But probably the latest instance of knight-
hood, conferred by a subject, was in the case
of Thomas Ker, knighted by the Earl of
Huntly, after the defeat of the Earlof Argyle
in the battle of Belrinnes. The fact is at-
tested, both by a poetical and prose account
of the engagement, contained in an ancient
MS. in the Advocates' Library, and edited
by Mr. Dalyell, in Godly Sangs and Ballets,
Edin. 1802.
Note LXI.
When English blood swelVd Ancram's
ford.-V. 28.
The battle of Ancram Moor, or Peniel-
heuch, was fought A. I). 1545. The English,
commanded by Sir Ralph Evers, and Sir
Brian Latoun, were totally routed, and both
their leaders slain in the action. The Scot-
tish army was commanded by Archibald
Douglas, Earl of Angus, assisted by the
Lain! of Buccleuch and Norman Lesley.
ZU ^<x^ of tU &<iQt (^Mmtvit
79
Note LXII.
Par Tv/io, itijield or foray slack,
Saw the blanche lion e^erfall back ? — P. 2g.
This was the cognizance of the noble house
of troward in all its branches. The crest, or
bearing, of a warrior, was often used as a
jwtmne de gnerre. Thus Richard III ac-
quired his well-known epithet. The Boar of
York. In the violent satire on Cardinal
Wolsey, written by Rov, cominonU', but
erroneously, imputed to Dr. Bull, the Duke
of iJuckingliam is called ihc Beautiful Swait,
and the Duke of Norfolk, or Earl of Surrey,
the White Lion. As the book is extremely
rare, and the whole passage relates to the
emblematical interpretation of heraldry, it
shall be here given at length.
' The Desi-ription o/the Artftfs.
* Of the proud Cardinal this is the sheldc.
Borne up betweene two angels of Sathan ;
The six oloudy axes in a bare felde,
Slieweth tlie crueUe of the red man,
"Which hath devoured the Beautiful Swan,
Mortal enemy unto the Whyte Lion,
Carter of Vorke, the vyle butcher's sonne,
'ihe six bulles heddes m a felde blacke,
Bctokeneth his stordy furiousness,
AVlicrefore, the ^odly lyi<ht to put abacke,
He bryn^cth in his dyvlish darcness ;
The bantlog in tlie niiddcs doth expresse
The mastitl curre bred in Ypswich toune,
C.nawynge with his teth a kinj^^es crownc.
The cloubbe si;jnifieth playne his tiranny.
Covered over with a Carchnall's hatt,
■\Vherein shall be ulfilled the prophecy,
Ai\ !■ lip. J.i ke, and put on thy salatt,
1 'I i!ii' 1 \ 111'- i^ come of baijge and walatt.
1 ' 111! - I I] I lievalry thus thrown doune,'
A\ 111 u I Ml, I'll- si, take hcdo. and beware thy crownc.'
There were two copies of this very scarce
satire in the library of the late John, Duke of
Roxburghe. See an account of it also in Sir
Egorton Brj-dges' curious miscellany, the
Ceitsura Literaria.
Note LXIII.
Let Musgraz'e niectfercc Deloraine
In single fight. — P. 29.
It may easily be supposed, that trial by
sini;le combat, so peculiar to the feud.al
system, was common on the Borders. In
1558, the -well-known Kirkaldy of Grange
fought a duel with Ralph Evre, brother
to the then Lord Evre, in consequence
of a dispute about a prisoner said to
have been ill treated by the Lord Evre.
Pitscottie gives the following account of the
affair:— ''1 he Lord of I vers his brother pro-
voked William Kircaldy of Grange to fight
with him, in singular combat, on Iiorseback,
with spears; who, keeping the appointment,
accompanied with Monsieur d'tjssel, lieu-
tenant to the French King, and the garrison
of Haymouth, and Mr. I vers, accompanied
with the governor and garrison of Berwick,
it was discharged, under the pain of treason,
that any man should come near the cham-
jiions within a flight-sliot, except one man
lor i-ither ol them, to bear fheir spears, two
trumpets, and two lords to be judges. When
they were in readiness, the trumpets sounded,
the heraulds cried, and t he judges, let thein go.
They then encountered very fiercely ; but
Grange struck his spear through his adver-
sary's shoulder, and bare him off his horse,
being sore wounded : But whether he died,
or not, it is uncertain.' — P. 202.
The following indenture will show at how
late a period the trial by combat was re-
sorted to on the Border, as a proof of guilt
or innocence : —
' It is agreed between Thomas Musgrave
and Launcelot Carleton, for tlie true trial of
such controversies as are betwixt them, to
have it openly tried by way of combat,
before God and the face of the world, to try
it in Canonbyholme, before England and
Scotland, upon Thursday in Easter-week,
being the eighth day of April next ensuing,
A. D. 1602, betwixt nine of the clock, and one
of the same day, to fight on loot, to be armed
with jack, steel cap, plaite sleeves, plaitt:
breaches, plaitesockes, two basleard swords,
the blades to be one yard and half a quarter
in length, two Scotch daggers, or dorks, at
their girdles, and either of them to provide
armour and weapons for theinselves, accord-
ing to this indenture. Two gentlemen to be
appointed, on the field.tovievv both the parties,
to see that they both be equal in arms and
weapons, according to this indenture ; and
being so viewed by the gentlemen, the gentle-
men to ride to the rest of the company, and
to leave them but two boys, viewed by the
gentlemen, to be under sixteen years of age,
to hold their horses. In testiinony of this
our agreement, we have both set our hands to
this indenture, of intent all matters shall be
made so plain, as there shall be no question
to stick upon that day. Which indenture,
as a witness, shall be delivered to two gentle-
men. And for that it is convenient the
world should be privy to every particular of
the grounds of the ([uarrel, we have agreed
to set it down in this indenture betwixt us,
that, knowing the quarrel, their eyes may be
witness of the trial.
'the grounds of the quarrel.
' I. Lancelot Carleton did charge Thomas
Musgave before the Lords of her Majesty's
Privy Council, that Lancelot Carleton was
told by a gentleman, one of her Majesty's
sworn servants, that Thomas Musgrave had
offered to deliver her Majesty's Castle of
Bewcastle to the King of Scots; and to wit-
ness the same, Lancelot Carleton had a
letter under the gentleman's own hand for
his discharge.
' 2. He chargeth him, that whereas her
Majesty doth yearly bestow a great fee upon
him, as captain of Bewcastle, to aiil and defend
her Majesty's subjects therein : Thomas
Musgrave hath neglected his duty, for that
her Majesty's Castle of Bewcastle was by
him made a den of thieves, and an harbour
and receipt for murderers, felons, and :dl
8o
(Ito^ee to
sorts of misdemeanors. The precedent was
Quintin Whitehead and Runion Blackburne.
'3. He chargeth him, that his office of
Bewcastle is open for the Scotch to ride in
and tlirough, and small resistance made by
him to the contrary.
'Thomas Musgfave doth deny all this
charge; and saith, that he will prove that
Lancelot Carleton doth falsely belvhim, and
will prove the same by way of combat, ac-
cording to this indenture. Lancelot Carleton
hath entertained the challenge; and so, by
God's permission, will prove it true as
before, and hath set his haml to the same.
(Signed) 'Thom.as Musgrave.
' L.AN'CELOT Carleton.'
Note LXIV.
'Ife, iJic jovial harper. — P. 30.
The person here alluded to, is one of our an-
cient Border minstrels, called Rattling Roar-
ing Willie. This sonhriqiiet was probably de-
rived from his bullying disposition ; being, it
would seem, such a roaring boy, as is fre-
ouently mentioned in old plays. While
drinking at Newmill, upon Teviot, about
five miles above Hawick, Willie chanceil to
quarrel with one of his own profession, who
was usually distinguished by the odd name
of Sweet Milk, from a place on Rule Water
so called. They retired to a meadow on
the opposite side of the Teviot, to decide the
contest with their swords, and Sweet Milk
was killed on the spot. A thorn-tree marks
the scene of the murder, which is still called
Sweet Milk Thorn. Willie was taken and
executed at Jedburgh, bequeathing his name
to the beautiful Scotch air, called ' Rattling
Roaring Willie.' Ramsay, who set no value
on traditionary lore, published a few verses
of this song in the Tca-Tab!e Misallajiy^
carefully suppressing all which had any con-
nexion with the histori,' of the author and
origin of the piece. In this case, however,
honest Allan is in some degree justified, by
the extreme worthlessness of the poetn,'. A
verse or two may be taken, as illustrative of
the history of Roaring Willie, alluded to in
the text :—
' Xow Willie's gane to Jeddart,
And he 's for the rood-day 1 :
But Stobs and young Falnash -
They follow'd him a' the way ;
They follow'd him a' the way,
They sought him up and down.
In the links of Ousenam water
They fand him sleeping sound.
Stobs light air his horse,
And never a word he spak,
Till he tied Willie's hands
Fu" fast behind his back;
Fu' fast behind his back.
And down beneath his knee.
.\nd drink will be dear to Willie.
A\'hen sweet milk ^ gars him die.
1 The day of the Rood-fair at Jedburgh.
^ Sir Gilbert Elliot of Stobs, and Scott of F'.ilnash.
3 A wretched pun on his antagonist's name.
Ah wae light on ye, Stobs 1
An ill death mot ye die ;
Ve're the first and foremost man
That e'er laid hands on me ;
That e'er laid hands on me.
And took my mare n-.e frae ;
Wae to you, Sir Gilbert Elliot !
Ye are my mortal fae I
The lasses of Ousenam water
Are rugging and riving their hair,
And a' for the sake of Willie,
His beauty was so fair :
His beauty was so fair,
And comely for to see,
And drink will be dear'to Willie.
When sweet milk gars him die.
Note LX\'.
He kiieiu each ordinance and clause
Of Black Lord Archibald's battle-laws.
In the Old Douglas' day.—V. 30.
The title to the most ancient collection of
Border regulations runs thus; — 'Be it re-
membered, that, on the i8th day of Decem-
ber 1468, Earl William Doitola's a.ss<tmh\<;i\
the whole lords, freeholders, and eldest Bor-
derers, that best knowledge had, at the col-
lege of Lincloiiden ; and there he caused
these lords and Borderers bodily to be sworn,
the Holy Gospel touched, that tliey, justly ancl
trul}', after their cunning, should decrete,
decern, deliver, and put in order and writing,
the statutes, ordinances, and uses of marche,
that were ordained in Black Archibald of
Doiiglcis's 'Sxsf., and Archibald his son's
days, in time of warfare ; and they came
again to him advise<ily with these statutes
and ordinances which were in time of war-
fare before. The said Earl William, seeing
the statutes in writing decreed and deliverea
by the said lords and Borderers, thought
them right speedt'ul and profitable to the
Borders ; the which statutes, ordinances, and
points of warfare, he took, and the whole
lords and Borderers he caused bodily to be
sworn, that they should maintain and supply
him at their goodly power, to do the law
upon those that should break the statutes
underwritten. Also, the said Earl William,
and lords, and eldest Borderers, made certain
points to be treason in time of warfare to be
used, which were no treason before his time,
but to be treason in his time, and in all time
coming.'
Note LXVI.
The Bloody Heart blaz'd i/t the van,
An7tou7tci7!g Douglas, dreaded name.
-P. 31.
The chief of this potent race of heroes,
about the date of the pogm, was Archibald
Douglas, seventh Earl of Angus, a man of
great courage and activity. The Bloody
Heart was the well-known cognizance of the
House of Douglas, assumed from the time
of good Lord James, to w liose care Robert
Bruce committed his heart, to be carried to
the Holy Land.
ZH ;Saj cf tU &Mi (J)lttt0fref.
8 1
Note LXVII.
Atid Sztn'itton laid the lance In res/.
That tamed of yore the sparkling crest
Of Clarence's Plantagenei.—V. 31.
At the battle of Beauge, in France, Thomas,
Duke of Clarence, brother to Henry V, was
unhorseil by Sir John Swinton of Swinton,
who distinguished him by a coronet set with
precious stones, which he wore around his
lielmet. The family of Swinton is one of the
most ancient in Scotland, and produced many
celebrated warriors.
Note LXVII I.
And shouting still ''A Home! a Home!'
-P. 12.
The Earls of Home, as descendants of the
I^unbars, ancient Earls of March, carried a
lion rampant, argent; but, as a difference,
changed the colour of the shield from gules
to vert, in allusion to Greenlaw, their ancient
possession. The slogan, or war-cry, of this
Fowerful family was 'A Home! a Home !'
t was anciently placed in an escrol above
the crest. The helmet is armed with a lion's
head erased gules, with a cap of state gules,
turnefl up ermine.
The Hepburns, a powerful family in East
Lothian, were usually in close alliance with
the Homes. The chief of this clan was
Hepburn, Lord of Hailes; a family wliich
terminated in the too famous Earl of Both-
NoTE LXIX.
And some, ivith many a merry shont.
In riot, i-evelry^ and rout.
Pursued the foot-ball play. — P. 32.
The foot-ball was anciently a very favourite
sport all through Scotlan<i, hut especially
upon the Borders. Sir John Carmichael of
Carmichael, Warden of the Middle Marches,
was killed in i6ix) by a band of the Arm-
strongs, returning from a foot-ball match.
Sir Robert Carey, in his Memoirs, mentions
a great meeting, appointed by the Scotch
riiUrs, to be held at Kelso for the purpose of
playing at foot-ball, but which terminated in
an incursion upon England. At present, the
foot-ball is often played by the inhabitants
of adjacent parishes, or of the opposite banks
of a stream. The victory is contested with
the utmost fury, and very serious accidents
have sometimes taken place in the struggle.
Note LXX.
' Twixt truce and zvar, siicli sudden chaiige
If 'as 7iot infrequent, 9ior held strange.
In the old Border-day.— V. 32.
Notwithstanding the constant wars upon
the Borders, and the occasional cruelties
which marked the m.ulual inroads the in-
habitants on either side do not appear to have
regarded each other with that violent and
personal animosity, which might have been
expected. On the contrary, like the outposts
of hostile armies, they often carried on
something resembling friendly intercourse,
even in tne mid'lle of hostilities; and it is
evident, from various ordinances against
trade and intermarriages, between English
and Scottish Borderers, that the governments
of both countries were jealous of their che-
rishing too intimate a connexion. Froissart
says of both nations, that ' Englyshmen on
the one party, and Scottes on the other party,
are good men of warre ; for when they meet
there is a harde tight without sparv'nge.
There is no hoo [/;-««] between them, as
long as spears, swords, axes, or daggers,
will endure, but lay on eche upon uther ; and
whan they be well beaten, and that the one
party hath obtained the victory, they then
glorifj-e so in theyre dedes of amies, and are
so joyfull, that such as be taken they shall be
ransometi, or that they go out of the feldc ;
so that shortly eche of them is so content
with other, that, at their departynge, cur-
tyslye they will say, God thank you.' — Ber-
NEk's'S Froissart, vol. ii. p. 153. The Border
meetings, of truce, which although places of
merchandise and merriment, often witnessed
the most bloody scenes, may serve to illus-
trate the description in the text. They are
vividly portrayed in the olil ballad of the
Reidsijuair. [See Minstrelsy, vol. ii. p. 15.]
Both parties carae armed to a meeting of the
wardens, yet they intermixed fearlessly and
peaceably with each other in mutual sports
and familiar intercourse, until a casual fray
arose : —
* Then was there nought but bow and s}v^.ir.
And every man pulled out a brand."
In the 29th stanza of this canto, there is
an attempt to express some of the mixed
feelings, with which the Borderers on each
side were led to regard their neighbours.
Note LXXI.
031 the darkei?ing plain,
Loud hollo, whoop, or whistle ran,
As hands, their stragglers to rcgai)!,
Gii'e the shrillwatctnvord of their clan.
-P- ?•}.
Patten remarks, with bitter censure, the
disorderly conduct of the English Borderers,
who attended the Protector Somerset on his
expedition against Scotland. 'As \vc wear
then a selling, and the tents a setting up,
among all things els commendable in our
hole journey, one thing seemed to me an
intoUerable disorder and abuse : that whereas
always, both in all tounes of war, and in all
campes of armies, quietness and stilnes,
without nois, is, principally in the night,
after the watch is set, observed, (I need not
reason why,) our northern prikcrs, the Bor»-
82
(Ucfee io
derers notwithstandyng;, witli fjreat enormitie,
(as thought me,) and not unHRe (to be playn)
unto a masteries hounde howlvng in a hie
way when he hath lost him he waited upon,
sum hoopynge, sum whistlvng, and most
with cryin'jr A Berwyke, a Bei-\vyke ! A
Fenwyk'e, a Fenwyke ! A Bulmer, a Bulmer !
or so ootherwise as theyr captains names
wear, never lin'de these troublous and dan-
gerous noyses all the nyghte longe. They
said, they did it to find their captain and
fellows; but if the souldiers of our oother
countreys and sheres liad used the same
maner, in that case we should have oft times
had the state of our campe more like the
outrage of a dissolute huntyng, than the quiet
of a well ordered armye. It is a feat of war,
in mine opinion, that might right well be left.
I could reherse causes (but yt I take it, they
are better unspoken than uttred, unless the
faut wear sure to be amended) that might
shew thei move ahveis more peral to our
armie, but in their one nyght's so doynge,
then they shew good service (as some sey) in
a hoole" wage' — Apxid Dalzell's Frag-
nieutSy p. 75.
Note LXXII.
To see how thou the chase conld^st tvhid^
Cheer the dark hlood-hoiuid oil hisway^
And with the bugle rouse the fray ! — P. 38.
The pursuit of Border marauders was
foUowea by the injured party and his friends
with blood-hounds and bugle-horn, and was
called the hot-trod. He was entitled, if his
dog could trace the scent, to follow the in-
vaders into the opposite kingdom ; a privilecre
which often occasioned bloodshed. In addi-
tion to what has been said of the blood-hound,
I may add, that the breed was kept up by
the Buccleuch family on their Border estates
till within the 18th centurj-. A person was
alive in the memory of man, who remembered
a blood-hound being kept at Eldinhope, in
Kttrick Forest, for whose maintenance the
tenant ha<l an allowance of meal. At that
time the sheep were always watched at night.
I'pon one occasion, when the duty had fallen
on the narrator, then a lad, he became ex-
hausted with fatigue, and fell asleep upon a
bank, near sun-rising. Suddenly he was
awakened by the tread of horses, and saw
five men, well mounted and armed, ride
briskly over the edge of the liill. They
stopped and looked at the flock ; but the day
was too far broken to admit the chance of
their carrying any of them off. One of them,
in spite, leaped from his horse, and coming
to the shepherd, seized him by the belt he
wore round his waist; and, setting his foot
upon his body, ]Hilled it till it broke, and
carried it away witli him. They rode off at
the gallop ; and the shepherd giving the
alarm, the blood-hound was turned loose,
and the people in the neighbourhood alarmed.
The marauders, however, escaped, notwith-
standing a sharp pursuit. This circumstance
serves to show now very long the license of
the Borderers continued in some degree to
manifest itself.
Note LXXIII.
She wrought vot by forbidden spell. — P. 40.
Popular belief, though contrary to the
doctrines of the Church, made a favourable
distinction betwixt magicians, and necro-
mancers, or wizards ; the former were sup-
posed to command the evil spirits, and the
latter to serve, or at least to be in league
and compact with, those enemies of mankind.
The arts of subjecting the demons were
manifold ; sometimes the fiends were actually
swindled by the magicians, as in the case of
the bargain betwixt one of their number and
the poet Virgil. The classical reader will
doubtless be curious to peruse this anec-
dote :—
' Viro-ilius %vas at scole at Tolenton, where
he stodyed djdygently, for he was of great
understandynge. Upon a tyme, the scolers
had lycense to go to play and sporte them in
the fyldes, after the usance of the old tyme.
And there was also Virgilius therbye, also
walkynge among the hylles alle about. It
fortuned he spyed a great hole in the syde of
a great hyll, wherein he went so depe, that
he culd not see no more lyght ; and than he
went a lytell farther therein, and than he saw
some lyght egayne, anil than he went fourth
strej'gHte, anu within a lytell \\3le after he
harde a yoyce that called "Virgilius! Vir-
gilius!" and looked aboute, and he colde
nat see no body. Than sajd he, (i. e. the
voice,) " Virgilius, see ye not the lytyll borde
lying besyde you there marked with that
word? " Than answered Virgilius, "I see that
borde well anough." The \oice said, "Doo
awaye that borde, and lette me out there
atte." Than answered Virgilius to the voice
that was under the lytell borde, and sayd,
" Who art thou that callest me so?" Than
answered the devyll, " I am a devyll conjured
out of the bod3-e of a certeyne man, and
banysshed here tyll the day of judgmend,
without that I be delyvered by the handes of
men. Thus, Virgilius, I pray the, delyver
me out of this payn, and I shall shewe unto
the many bokes of negromancye, and how
thou shalt come by it lyghtly, and know
the practyse therein, that no man in the
scyence ot negromancye shall passe the. And
moreover, I shall shewe and enforme the so,
that thou shalt have alle thy desyre, whereby
methinke it is a great gyfte for so lytyll a
doyng. For ye may also thus all your power
frendvshelpe,andmakerychcdyourenemyes."
Thorough that great promjse was Virgilius
tempted ; he baddc the fynd show the IJokes
ZU Ba^ of tU &<^(ii QUtnofref.
83
to hym, that he might have and occupy them
at his \\'yll ; and so the fynde shewed him.
And than Virgilius pulled open a borde, and
there was a lytell hole, and thereat wrang
the devyll out like a yell, and cam and stode
before Virgilius lyke a byggo man ; whereof
Virgilius was astonied and marveyled greatly
thereof, that so great a man myght come out
at so lytyll a liole. Than sayd Virgilius,
" Slmlde ye well passe into the hole tiiat j'e
cam out of?" — " Yea, I shall well," said the
devyl. — " I holde the best plegge that I have,
that ye shall not do it." — "Well," sayd the
devyll, "thereto I consent." And than the
devyll wrange himselfe' into the lytyll hole
agene ; and as he was therein, Virgilius
kyvered the hole ageyne with the borde close,
and so was the devyll begyled, and myght
nat there come out agen, but abydeth sKytte
styll therein. Than called the devyll drede-
fully to Virgilius, and said, "What have ye
done, Virgilius?" — Virgilius answered, "Abyde
there styll to your day appoynted ; " and fro
thens forth abydeth he there. And so Vir-
gilius became very connynge in the practyse
of the black scyence.'
This story may remind the reader of the
Arabian tale of the Fisherman and the im-
prisoned Genie ; and it is more than probable,
that many of the marvels narrated in the life
of Virgil, are of Oriental extraction. Among
such 1 am disposed to reckon the following
whimsical account of the foundation of Na-
ples, containing a curious theory concerning
the origin of the earthquakes with which it is
afflicted. Virgil, who was a person of gal-
lantry, had, it seems, carried off the daughter
of a certain Soldan, and was anxious to secure
his prize.
'Than he thought in his mynde how he
myghte marye hyr, and thought in his mynde
to tounde in the middes of the see a fayer
towne, with great landes belongynge to it ;
and so he diu by his cunnynge, and called it
Napells. And the fandacyon of it was of
egges, and in that town of Napells he made
a to.ver with iiii corners, and in the toppe he
set an apell upon an yronyarde, and no man
culde pull away that apell without he brake
it ; and thoroughe that yren set he a bolte,
and in that bolte set he a egge. And he
henge the apell by the stauke upon a chi-yne,
and so hangeth it still. And when the egge
styrreth, so shulde the towne of Napells
quake ; and whan the egge brake, then shulde
the towne sinke. Whan he had made an
ende, he lette call it Napells.' This appears
to have been an articleof current belief during
the middle ages, as appears from the statutes
of the order /Jii Sahtt Esprit an droit dcsir^
instituted in 1352. A chapter of the knights
is appointed to be held annually at the Castle
of the Enchanted Egg, near the grotto of
Virgil.— MoNTFAUCON, vol. ii. p. 3J9.
Note LXXIV.
A Dtcrlin sat itpoii her wrist.
Held by a leash ofsilkeji twist. — P. 40.
A merlin, or sparrow-hawk, was actually
carried by ladies of rank, as a falcon was, in
time of peace, the constant attendant of a
knight or baron. See Lath.\ii on Falconry.
■ — Godscroft relates, that when Marj' of Lor-
raine was regent, she pressed the Earl of
Angus to admit a royal garrison into his
Castle of Tantallon. To this he returned no
direct answer ; but, as if apostrophizing a
goss-hawk, which sat on his wrist, and which
he was feeding during the Queen's speech, he
exclaimed, ' The devil 's in this greedy glede,
she will never be full.' — Hume's History of
the House of Douglas, 1743, vol. ii. p. 131.
Barclay complains of the common ami indi;-
cent practice of bringing hawks and hounds
into churches.
Note LXXV.
And princely peacock's gilded train.
And o'er the boar-head, garnish'd braz'e.
—P. 40.
The peacock, it is well known, was con-
sidered, during the times of chivalry, not
merely as an exquisite delicacy, but as a dish
of peculiar solemnity. After being roasted
it was again decorated with its plumage, ana
a sponge, dipped in lighted spirits of wine,
was placed in its bill. When it was introduced
on (lays of grand festival, it was the signal
for the adventurous knights to take upon
them vows to do some deed of chivalry,
' before the peacock and the ladies.'
The boar's head was also a usual dish of
feudal splendour. In Scotland it was some-
times surrounded with little banners, dis-
filaying the colours and achievements of the
laron at whose board it was served. — PlN-
KERTON's History, vol. i. p. 432.
Note LXXVI.
Smote with his gauntlet stout Hunthill.
— P. 40.
The Rutherfords of Hunthill were an
ancient race of Border Lairds, whose names
occur in history, sometimes as defending the
frontier against the English, sometimes as
disturbing the peace of their own country.
Dickon Draw-the-sword was son to the
ancient warrior, called in tradition the Cock
of Hunthill, remarkable for leading into
battle nine sons, gallant warriors, all sons of
the aged champion. Mr. Rutherford, late of
New York, in a letter to the editor, soon
after these songs were first published, quoted
when upwards of eighty years old, a ballad
apparently the same with the Raid of the
Reidsquare, but which apparently is lost,
except the following lines : —
' Bauld Rutherfurd he was fu' stout,
"With all his nine sons him about,
He brouijlit the lads of jedbru^dit out,
And bauldly fought that da}-.'
84
Qtoiee (9
XOTE LXXVIT.
5/V his glove. — P. 41.
To bite the thumb, or the glove, seems not
to have been considered, upon the Border, as
a gesture of contempt, thougli so used by
Shakspeare, but as a pledge of mortal re-
venge. It is vet remembered, that a young
gentleman of Teviotdale, on the morning
after a hard drinking-bout, observe<l that he
had bitten his glove. He instantly demanded
of Ills companion, with whom he had quar-
relled ? And, learning that he had had words
with one of the party, insisted on instant
satisfaction, asserting, that though he re-
membered nothing of the dispute, yet he was
sure he never would have bit his glove unless
he had received some unpardonable insult.
He fell in the duel, which was fought near
Selkirk, in 1721.
Note LXXVIII.
Smce old Biiccleiich the name did gaiti,
\\ heti in the clench the buck was ta'eu.
-P. 41.
A tradition preserved by Scott of Satchells,
who published, in 1688, A true History of
the Ki^ht Honourable name of Scott, gives
the following romantic origin of that name.
Two brethren, natives of (iallowav, having
been banished from that countrv' for a riot,
or insurrection, came to Rankleburn, in
p'ttrick Forest, where the keeper, whose
name was Brs'done, received them joyfully,
on account oftheir skill in winding the horn,
and in the other mysteries of the chase.
Kenneth MacAlpin, then King of Scotland,
came soon after to hunt in the royal forest,
and pursued a buck from Ettrick'-heugh to
the glen now called Buckcleuch, about two
miles above the junction of Rankleburn with
the river Ettrick. Here the stag stood at
bay ; and the King and his attendants, who
followed on horseback, were thrown out by
the steepness of the hill and tlie morass,
lohn, one of the brethren from Galloway,
had followed the chase on foot ; and, now
coming in, seized the buck by the horns,
and, being a man of great strength and
activity, threw him on his back, and ran with
his burden about a mile up the steep hill, to
a place called Cracra-Cross, where Kenneth
had halted, and laid the buck at the sove-
reijin's feet '.
1 Froissart relates, that a knight of the liouse-
hold of the Coiiue de Foix exhibited a similar feat
of strength. The hall-lire had waxed low, and wood
was wanted to mend it. The kniglit went down
to the court->-ard, where stood an as5; laden with fag-
tjots, seized on the animal and burden, and, carrying
iiim up to the hall on his shoulders, tumbled him into
tlie chimney with his heels uppermost : a humane
lilcasantry, much applauded by the Count and all tlic
spectators.
' The deer being cureed In that place,
At his Majesy's demand,
Then John of Galloway ran apace,
And fetched water to his hand.
The King did wash into a dish.
And Galloway John he wot ;
He said, •* Thy name now after this
Shall ever be called John Scott.
The forest and the deer therein,
We commit to thy hand :
For thou shalt sure the ranger he,
If thou obey command ;
And for the buck thou stoutly brought
To us up that steep heuch,
The designation ever shall
Be John Scott in Buckscleuch."
In Scotland no Buckcleuch was then.
Before the buck in the cleuch was slain ;
Night's men at first they did appear,
Because moon and stars totheir arms they bear.
Their crest, supporters, and hunting-horn,
Show their beginning from hunting came :
Their name, and style, the book doth say,
John gained them both into one day.'
■W.A-TT'S Bellenden.
The Buccleuch arms have been altered, and
now allude less pointedly to this hunting,
whether real or fabulous! The family now
bear Or, upon a bend azure, a mullet betwixt
two crescents of the field ; in addition to
whicli, they formerlv bore in the field a
hunting-horn. The supporters, now two
ladies, were formerlv a hound anil buck, or,
according to the old terms, a hart ot leash
and a hart of greece. The family of Scott
of Howpasley and Thirlestaine long retained
the bugle horn ; they also carried a bent bow
and arrow in the sinister cantle, perhaps as a
difference. It is said the motto was^Best
riding by ^noonlight, in allusion to the
crescents "on the shield, and perhaps to the
habits of those who bore it. The motto now
given is Amo, — applying to the female sup-
porters.
Note LXXIX,
old Albert Grcemc,
The Minstrel of that ancient name.—Y. 41.
'John Graeme, second son oi Malice, Earl
of Monteith, commonly sirnamed /()/;« av'///
the Bright Sivord, upon some displeasure
risen against him at court, retired with nianv
of his clan and kindred into the English
Borders, in the reign of King Henry the
Fourth, where they seated themselves ; and
many of their posterity have continued there
ever since, ^fr. Sandford, speaking ot them,
says, (which indeed was applicable to most
of the Borderers on both sides, ) "They were
all stark mosstroopers, and arrant thieves :
Both to England and Scotland outlawed ;
yet sometimes connived at, because they
gave intelligence forth of Scotland, and
would raise 400 horse at any time upon a
raid of the English into Scotland. A saying
is recorded of a mother to lier son, (which
is now become proverbial,) J-iide, J-iowley,
tU &(^^ of iU ^<^&( Qlltneitef.
85
hougli's V ilie pot : that is, the last piece of
beef was in the pot, and therefore it was liigh
time for him to go and fetch more." ' — Intro-
duction to the History of Citnibcrlatid.
The residence of the Grames being chiefly
in the Debateable Land, so called because it
was claimed by both kingdoms, their depre-
dations extended both to England and Scot-
land, with impunity ; for as both wardens
accounted them the proper subjects of their
own prince, neither inclined to demand re-
paration for their excesses from the opposite
officers, which would have been an ac-
knowledgment of his jurisdiction over them. —
See a long correspondence on this subject
betwixt Lord Dacre and the English Privy
Council, in Introduction \.o History of Cum-
berland. The Debateable Land was finally
divided betwixt England and Scotland, by
commissioners appointed by both nations.
Note LXXX.
The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall.
-1'. 41.
This burden is adopted, with some alter-
ation, from an old Scottish song, beginning
thus: —
' She le.m'a lier back agailibt a tlioril,
The biiii bhines fair on CarHslc wa' :
.\nd there she has her youni^ babe born,
.\ncl the lyon shall be lord of a'.'
Note LXXXI.
Who has not heard of Surrey's fame?
-P. 4-'.
The gallant and unfortunate Henry How-
ard, Earl of Surrey, was unquestionably the
most accomplished cavalier of his time ; and
his sonnets display beauties which would do
honour to a more polished age. He was be-
headed on Tower-hill in i54(> ; a victim to
the mean jealousv of Henry VHI, who could
not bear so brilliant a character near his
throne.
The song of the supposed bard is founded
on an incident said to have happened to the
Earl in his travels. Cornelius Agrippa, the
celebrated alchemist, showed him, in a
looking-glass, the lovely Geraldine, to whose
service he had devoted his pen and his sword.
The vision represented her as indisposed,
and reclining upon a couch, reading her
lover's verses by the light of a waxen taper.
Note LXXXH.
• ■ ilie storin-szuepl Orcades ;
Where erst St. C/airs held princely szvay
O'er isle and islet, strait and bay.— V. 44.
The St. Clairs are of Norman extraction,
being descended from William de St. Clair,
second son of W'alderne Compte de St. Clair,
and Margaret, daughter to Richard Duke of
Normand)-. He was called, for his fair
deportment, the Seemly St. Clair ; and, set-
tling in Scotland during the reign of Malcolm
Caenmore, obtained large grants of land in
Mid-Lothian. — These domains were increased
by the liberality of succeeding monarchs to
the descendants of the familv, and compre-
hended the baronies of Rosline, Pentland,
Cowsland, Cardaine, and several others. It
is said a large addition was obtained from
Robert Bruce, on the following occasion : —
The King, in following the chase upon Pent-
land-hills, had often started a 'white fauncli
deer,' which had always escaped from his
hounds ; and he asked the nobles, who were
assembled around him, whether any of them
had dogs, which they thought might be more
successful. No courtier would affirm that
his hounds were fleeter than those of the
King, until Sir William St. Clair of Rosline
unceremoniously said, he would wager his
head that his two favourite dogs, Help and
Hold, would kill the deer before she could
cross the March-burn. The King instantly
caught at his unwarj- offer, and betted the
forest of Pentland-moor against the life of
Sir William St. Clair. All the hounds were
tied up, except a few ratches, or slow-hounds,
to put up the deer; while Sir William St.
Clair, posting himself in the best situation for
slipping his nogs, prayed devoutly to Christ,
the blessed Virgin, and St. Katherine. The
deer was shortly after roused, and the hounds
slipped ; Sir William following on a gallant
steed, to cheer his dogs. The hind, however,
reached the middle of the brook ; upon
which the hunterthrew liimself from his horse
in despair. At this critical moment, however,
Hohl stopped her in the brook; and Help,
coming up, turned her back, and killed her
on Sir William's side. The King descended
from the hill, embraced Sir William, and
bestowed on him the lands of Kirkton, Logan-
house, Earncraig, .tc, in free forestrie. Sir
William, in acknowledgment of St. Kathe-
rine's intercession, buift the chapel of St.
Katherine in the Hopes, the churchyard of
which is still to be seen. The hill, from
which Robert Bruce beheld this memorable
chase, is still called the King's Hill ; and the
place where Sir William hunted, is called the
Knight's Field. — MS. History of the Family
of St. Clair, by RICHARD AUGUSTIN H.\Y,
Canon of St. Getievieve.
This adventurous huntsman married Eliza-
beth, daughter of Malice Spar, Earl of Ork-
ney and Stratherne, in whose right tlieir son
Henry «as, in 1,^79, created Earl of Orkney,
by Haco, King of Norway. His title was
recognized by the Kings of Scotland, and
remained with his successors until it was
annexed to the crown, in 147I, by Act of
Parliament. In exchange for this earldom,
the castle and domains of Ravenscraig, or
Ravensheuch, were conferred on William
Saintclair, Earl of Caithness.
86
(^oke io
Note LXXXIII.
S/iV/ 7iods /heir palace to its Jail,
Tliy pride and sorrow, fair Kirkwall !
-P. 44-
The Castle of Kirkwall was built by the
St. Clairs, while Earls of Orkney. It was
dismantled by the Earl of Caithness about
1615, having been garrisoned against the
Government bv Robert Stewart, natural son
to the Earl of Orkney.
Its ruins afforded a sad subject of contempla-
tion to John, Master of St. Clair, who, flying
from his native country, on account of his
share in the insurrection i/i,'?, made some
stay at Kirkwall.
' I hatl occasion to entertain myself at
Kirkwall with the melancholv prospect of the
ruins of an old castle, the seat of the old Earls
ol Orkney, my ancestors ; and of a more
melancholy reflection, of so great and'noblean
estate as the Orkney and Shetland Isles being
taken from one of them bv James the Thircl|
forfaultrie, after his brother Alexander, Duke
of Albany, had married a daughter of my
family, arid for protecting and defending the
said Alexander against the King, who wished
to kill him, as lie had done his youngest
brother, the Earl of Mar ; and for which,
after the forfaultrie, he gratefully divorced
my forfaulted ancestor's sister; thougli I
cannot persuade myself that he had any
misalliance to plead against a familie in
whose veins tlie blood of Robert Bruce ran
as fresh as in his own ; for their title to the
crowne was by a daughter of David Bruce,
son to Robert ; and jDur alliance was by
marrj-ing a grandchild of the same Robert
Bruce, and daughter to the sister of the same
David, out of the familie of Douglass, which
at that time did not much sullie the blood,
more than my ancestor's having not long
before had the honour of marrying a daughter
of the King of Denmark's, who was named
Florentine, and has left in the town of Kirk-
wall a noble monument of the grandeur of
the times, the finest church ever I saw entire
in Scotland. I then had no small reason to
think, in that unhappy state, on the man)'
not inconsiderable services rendered since to
the royal familie, for these many years
bygone, on all occasions, when they stood
most in need of friends, which they have
thought themselves very often obliged to
acknowledge by letters yet extant, and in
a style more like friends than souveraigns ;
our attachment to them, without any other
thanks, having brought upon us considerable
losses, and among others, that of our all in
Cromwell's time; and left in that condition
without the least relief except what we found
in our own virtue. My father was the only
man of the Scots nation who had courage
enough to protest in Parliament against King
William's title to the throne, which was lost,
God knows how ; and this at a time w hen
the losses in the cause of the royall familie,
and their usual gratitude, had scarce left him
bread to maintain a numerous familie of
eleven children, who hail soon after sprung
up on him, in spite of all which, he had
honourably persisted in his principle. I say,
these things considered, and after being
treated as I was, and in that unlucky state,
when objects appear to men in their true
light, as at the hour of death, could I be
blamed for making some bitter reflections to
myself, and laughing at the extravagance
and unaccountable humour of men, and the
singularitie of my own case, (an exile for the
cause of the Stuart family,) when I ought to
have known, that the greatest crime I, or my
family, could ha\e committed, was per-
severing, to my own destruction, in serving
the royal family faithfully, though obstinately,
after so great a share of depression, and after
they had been pleased to doom me and my
familie to starve. — MS. Memoirs of John,
Master of St. Clair.
Note LXXXIV.
Of that Sea-Snake, tremendous ciirl'd.
Whose monstrous circle girds I lie world.
-P. 44.
The jortmtngandr, or Snake of the Ocean,
whose folds surround the earth, is one of the
wildest fictions of the Edda. It was Aery
nearly caught by the god Thor, who went to
fish for it with a hook baited with a bull's
head. In the battle betwixt the evil demons
and the divinities of Odin, which is to precede
the Ragnarockr, or Twilight of the Gods,
this Snake is to act a conspicuous part.
Note LXXXV.
Of those dread Maids, whose hidcons yell.
-P. 44.
These were the Valcyriiir, or Selectors of
the Slain, despatched by Odin from Valhalla,
to choose those who were to die, and to dis-
tribute the contest. They were well known
to the English reader as Gray's Fatal Sis-
ters.
Note LXXXVI.
Of Chiefs, who, guided through /he gloom
By the pale death-lights of the tomb,
Ransacked the graves ofivarriors old.
Their falchions wrench" d from corpses'
hold.—V. 44.
The northern warriors were usually en-
tombed with their arms, and tlieir other
treasures. Thus, Angantj'r, before com-
mencing the duel in which he was slain, stipu-
lated, that if he fell, his sword TyrCng should
be buried with him. His daughter, Hervor,
afterwards took it from his tomb. The dia-
logue which passed betwixt her and An.
gantyr's spirit on this occasion has been often
ZU ^(^^ of iU JSae^ (nime^ref.
translated. The whole history may be found
in the Hervarar-Saga. Indeed, the ghosts of
the northern warriors were not wont tamely
to suffer their tombs to be plundered; and
hence the mortal heroes had an additional
temptation to attempt such adventures; for
they held nothing more worthy of their valour
than to encounter supernatural beings. — Bar-
THOLINUS, I)e caitsis conlcmptae a Danis
mortis, lib. i. cap. 2, 9, lo, 13.
Note LXXXVII.
Castle Raz>cnshetich. — P. 44.
A large and strong castle, now ruinous,
situatedl)etwixt Kirkaldy and Dysart, on a
steep crag, washed by tlie I'rith of Forth. It
was conferred on Sir William St. Clair as a
slight compensation for the earldom of Ork-
ney, by a charter of King James III, dated
in 1471, and is now the property of Sir James
St. Clair Erskine, (now Earl of Rosslyn,)
representative of the family. It was long a
principal residence of the Barons of Roslin.
Note LXXXVIII.
SecnCd all on fire ■zct/litn, around.
Deep sacristy and altar\'i pale ;
Shone ez'cry pillar folia^s^c-honnd ;
And gliiiimerd all the dead men's 7nail.
-!•• 4.S-
The beautilul chapel of Roslin is still in
tolerable preservation. It was founded in
1446, by William St. Clair, Prince of Orkne)-
Duke of Oldenburgh, Earl of Caithness an(l
Stratherne, Lord St. Clair, Lord Niddesdale,
Lord Admiral of the Scottisli Seas, Lord
Chief Justice of Scotland, Lord Warden of
the three Marches, Baron of Roslin, Pentland,
Pentlandmoor, i^c, Knight of the Cockle, and
of the Garter, (as is affirmed,) High Chan-
cellor, Chamberlain, and Lieutenant of Scot-
land. This lofty person, whose titles, says
Godscroft, might weary a Spaniard, built
the castle of Roslin, where he resided in
princely splendour, and founded the chapel,
which IS in the most rich and florid style of
Gothic architecture. Among the profuse
carving on the pillars and buttresses, the
rose is frequently introduced, in allusion to
the name, with which, however, the flower
has no connection ; the etymology being
Rosslinnhe, the promontory of the linn, or
water-fall. The chapel is said to appear on
fire previous to the death of any of his descen-
dants. This superstition, noticed by Slezer,
in his Tkeatrnnt Scotiae, and alludeil to in
the text, is probably of Norwetnan derivation,
and may have been imported by the Earls of
Orkney into their Lothian dominions. The
tomb-fires of the north are mentioned in most
ot the Sagas.
The Barons of Roslin were buried in a
vault beneath the chapel floor. The manner
of their interment is thus described by Father
Ha)-, in the MS. history already quoted
' Sir William Sinclair, the father, was a
leud man. He kept a miller's daughter, with
whom, it is alleged, he went to Ireland ; yet I
think the cause of his retreat was rather
occasioned by the Presbyterians, who vexed
him sadly, because of his religion being
Roman Catholic. His son. Sir Wtlliam, died
during the troubles, and was interred in the
chapel of Roslin the very same day that the
battle of Dunbar was fought. When my
good-father was buried, his (i.e. Sir William's)
corpse seemed to be entire at the opening of
the cave; but when they came to touch his
body, it fell into dust. He was laying in his
armour, with a red velvet cap on his head, on
a flat stone ; nothing was spoiled except a
piece of the white furring that went round the
cap, and answered to the hinder part of the
head. All his predecessors were buried after
the same manner, in their armour: late Ros-
line, mv good father, was the first that was
buried in a coffin, against the sentiments of
King James the Seventh, who was then in
Scotland, and several other persons well
versed in antiquity, to whom my mother
would not hearken, thinking it beggarlj' to
be buried after that manner. The great
expenses she was at in burying her husband,
occasioned the sumptuary acts which were
made in the following parliament.'
Note LXXXIX.
For he ivas speechless, ghastly, wan.
Like hit)? ofwhont the story ran.
Who spoke the spectre-hound in Man. — P.4(>.
The ancient castle of Peel-town, in the Isle
of Man, is surrounded by four churches, now
ruinous. Through one of these chapels there
was formerly a passage from the guard- room
of the garrison. This was closed, it is said,
upon the following occasion ; 'They say, that
an apparition, called, in the Mankish lan-
guage, the Maitthe Doog, in the shape of a
large black spaniel, with curled shaggy hair,
was used to haunt Peel-castle ; and lias been
frequently seen in every room, but particu-
larly in the guard-chamber, where, as soon
as candles were lighted, it came and lay
down before the fire, in presence of all the
soldiers, who, at length, by being so much
accustomed to the siglit of it, lost great part
of the terror they were seized with at its first
appearance. They still, however, retained a
certain awe, as believing it was an evil
spirit, which only waited permission to do
them hurt ; and, for that reason, forebore
swearing, and all profane discourse, while in
its company. But though they endured the
shock of such a guest w hen altogether in a
body, none cared to be left alone with it. It
being the custom, therefore, for one of the
soldiers to lock the gates of the castle at a cer-
tain hour, and carry the keys to the captain,
88
(\Xok& io tU Ba^ of (0c ^aet {mxmtnU.
to whose apai tment, as I said before, the wav
led through the clmrch, tlicy agreed among
themselves, that whoever was to succeed the
ensuing niglit liis fellow in this errand, should
accompan)- him that went first, and by this
means no man would be exposed singly to
the danger ; for I forgot to mention, that the
Mauthe Doog WKS always seen to come out
from that passage at the close of the daj-,
and return to it again as soon as the morning
dauiied ; which made them look on this place
as its peculiar residence.
'One night a fellow being drunk, and by
the strength of his liquor rendered more
daring than ordinarily, laughed at the sim-
plicity of his companions, and, thougli it was
not his turn to go with the kev's, would needs
take that office upon him, to testify his cou-
rage. All the soldiers endeavoured to dis-
suade him ; but the more they said, the more
resolute he seemed, and swore that he de-
sired notliing more than that the Mantlte
Doog \so\i.\t\ follow him, as it had done the
others; for he would try if it were dog or
devil. After having talked in a very repro-
bate manner for some time, he snatched up
the keys, andwentout of the guard-room. In
some time after his departure, a great noise
was heard, but nobody had the boldness to
see what occasioned it, till the adventurer
returning, they demanded the knowledge of
him ; but as loud and noisy as he liad been
at leaving them, he was now become sober
and silent enough ; for he was ne\er heard to
speak more ; and though all the time he lived,
which was three days, he was entreated by
all who came near him, either to speak, or, if
he could not do tliat, to make some signs, by
which they might understand what had hap-
pened to him, yet nothing intelhgible could
Ije got from him, only that, by the distortion
of his limbs and features, it might be guessed
that he died in agonies more than is common
in a natural death.
'The Man/ he Doog was, howe\er, never
after seen in the castle, nor would any one
attempt to go through that passage ; for
whicli reason it was closed up, and another
way made. This accident happened about
three score years since; and I heard it at-
tested by several, but especially by an old
soldier, who assured me he had seen it oftener
than he had then hairs on liis head.'— Wal-
dron's Description of the Isle of Man^
P- 107-
Note XC.
St. Bride of Douglas.— Y. 46.
This was a favourite saint of the house of
Douglas, and of the Earl of Angus in par-
ticular, as we learn from the following pas-
sage : — ' The Queen-regent had proposed to
raise a rival noble to the ducal clignity ; and
discoursing of her purpose with Angus, he
answered, "Why not, madam ? we are happy
that have such a princess, that can know and
will acknowledge men's services, and is will-
ing to recompense it, but, by the might of
God," (this was hisoath when he was serious
and in anger; at other times, it was by St.
Bryde of Douglas,) "if he be a Duke, I will be
a Drake!" — So she desisted from prosecuting
of that purpose.'— GOUSCKOIT. vol. ii. p. i.^i.
QfVlannion.
Introduction to Canto
First.
TO
WILLIAM STEWART ROSE, ESQ.
Ashestiel, Ettrick Forest.
November's sky is chill and drear,
November's leaf is red and sear:
Late, gazing down the steepy linn,
That hems our little garden in.
Low in its dark and narrow glen
You scarce the rivulet might ken.
So thick the tangled greenwood grew.
So feeble trill'd the streamlet through :
Now, murmuring hoarse, and frequent
seen
Through bush and brier, no longer
green,
An angry brook, it sweeps the glade,
Brawls over rock and wild cascade.
And, foaming brown with doubled
speed.
Hurries its waters to the Tweed.
No longer Autumn's glowing red
Upon our Forest hills is shed ;
No more beneath the evening beam
Fair Tweed reflects their purple
gleam ;
Away hath pass'd the heather-bell
That bloom'd so rich on Needpath-
fell ;
Sallow his brow ; and russet bare
Are now the sister-heights of Yair. —
The sheep, before the pinching heaven,
To shelter'd dale and down are driven,
Where yet some faded herbage pines.
And yet a watery sunbeam shines :
In meek despondency they eye
The wither'd sward and wintry sk}',
And far beneath their summer hill,
.Stray sadly by Glenkinnon's rill :
The shepherd shifts his mantle's fold.
And wraps him closer from the cold ;
His dogs no merry circles wheel.
But shivering follow at his heel;
A cowering glance they often cast.
As deeper moans the gathering blast.
My imps, though hardy, bold, and
wild.
As best befits the mountain child.
Feel the sad influence of the hour.
And wail the daisy's vanished flower ;
Their summer gambols tell, and mourn,
And anxious ask, — Will spring return,
And birds and lambs again be gay,
And blossoms clothe the hawthorn
spray ?
Yes, prattlers, yes; the daisy's flower
Again shall paint your summer bower ;
Again the hawthorn shall supply
The garlands you delight to tie ;
The lambs upon the lea shall bound,
The wild birds carol to the round.
And, while you frolic light as the}'.
Too short shall seem the summer day.
To mute and to material things
New life revolving summer brings ;
90
QtlattitiOM.
The genial call dead Nature hears.
And in her glory reappears.
But oh ! my country's wintry state
What second spring shall renovate •
What powerful call shall bid arise
The buried warlike and the wise ;
The mind that thought for Britain's
weal,
The hand that grasp'd the victor steel ?
The vernal sun new life bestows
Even on the meanest flower that blows ;
But vainh", vainly ma^' he shine
Where glory weeps o'er Nelson's
shrine ;
And \-ainly pierce the solemn i^doom,
That shrouds, O Pitt, thy hallowed
tomb 1
Deep grav'd in every British heart,
O never let those names depart 1
Say to 3'our sons, — Lo, here his grave,
Who victor died on Gadite wave.
To him, as to the burning levin,
Short, bright, resistless course was
given.
Where'er his country's foes were
found,
Was heard the fated thunder's sound.
Till burst the bolt on j-onder shore,
Roll'd, blaz'd, destroy'd, — and was
no more.
Nor mourn ye less his perish'd
worth
Who bade the conqueror go forth,
And launch'd that thunderbolt of war
On Egj'pt, Hafnia, Trafalgar ;
Who, born to guide such high emprize.
For Britain's weal was early wise ;
Alas 1 to whom the Almighty gave,
For Britain's sins, an early grave !
His worth who, in his mightiest hour,
A bauble held the pride of power,
Spurn'd at the sordid lust of pelf.
And serv'd his Albion for herself;
Who, when the frantic crowd amain
.Strain'd at subjection's bursting rein,
O'er their wild mood lull conquest
gain'd.
The pride, he would not crush, rc-
strain'd.
Show'd their tierce zeal a worthier
cause.
And brought the iVeeman's arm to aid
the freeman's laws.
Had'st thou but liv'd, though stripp'd
of power,
A watchman on the loneh" tower,
Thy thrilling trump had rous'd the
land,
W'hen fraud or danger were at hand ;
By thee, as by the beacon-light.
Our pilots had kept course aright ;
As some proud column, though alone.
Thy strength had propp'd the tottering
throne :
Now is the stately column broke,
The beacon-light is quench'd in smoke,
The trumpet's silver sound is still.
The warder silent on the hill !
Oh think, how to his latest day.
When Death, just hovering, claim'd his
prey.
With Palinure's unalter'd mood.
Firm at his dangerous post he stood ;
Each call for needful rest repell'd,
With dying hand the rudder held,
Till, in his fall, with fateful sway,
The steerage of the realm gave way 1
Then, while on Britain's thousand
plains,
One unpolluted church remains.
Whose peaceful bells ne 'er sent around
The bloody tocsin's maddening sound,
But still, upon the hallow'd day.
Convoke the swains to praise and pray ;
While faith and civil peace are dear,
Grace this cold marble with a tear, —
He, who preserved them, Pitt, lies
here !
Nor 3-ct suppress the generous sigh,
Because his rival slumbers nigh ;
3n^tobucttett io (Canio -^itet
yi
Nor be thy reqitiescat dumb,
Lest it be said o'er Fox's tomb.
For talents mourn, untimely lost,
When best emploj-'d, and wanted
most ;
Mourn genius high, and lore profound.
And wit that lov'd to play, not
wound ;
i\nd all the reasoning powers divine.
To penetrate, resolve, combine ;
And feelings keen, and fancy's
glow. —
They sleep with him who sleeps
below :
And, if thou mourn'st they could not
save
From error Jiim who owns this grave,
Be every harsher thought suppress'd.
And sacred be the last long rest.
Here, where the end of earthh^ things
Lays heroes, patriots, bards, and
kings ;
Where stiff the hand, and still the
tongue,
Of those who fought, and spoke, and
sung;
Here, where the fretted aisles prolong
The distant notes of holy song.
As if some angel spoke agen,
'All peace on earth, good-will to
men ; '
If ever from an English heart,
O, licfe let prejudice depart.
And, partial feeling cast aside.
Record, that Fox a Briton died !
When Europe crouch'd to France's
yoke,
And Austria bent, and Prussia broke,
And the firm Russian's purpose brave.
Was barter'd by a timorous slave,
Even then dishonour's peace he
spurn'd,
The sullied olive-branch return'd,
Stood for his country's glory fast,
And nail'd her colours to the mast !
Heaven, to reward his firmness, gave
A portion in this honour'd grave,
And ne'er held marble in its trust
Of two such wondrous men the dust.
With more than mortal powers en-
do w'd,
How high they soar'd abo\e the
crowd I
Theirs was no connnon party race,
jostling b}' dark intrigue for place ;
Like fabled Gods, their mighty war
Shook realms and nations in its jar ;
Beneath each banner proud to stand,
Look'd up the noblest of the land,
Till through the British world were
known
Tlie names of Pitt and Fox alone.
Spells of such force no wizard grave
E'er fram'd in dark Thessalian cave,
Though his could drain the ocean dry,
And force the planets from the sky.
These spells are spent, and, spentwitii
these.
The wine of life is on the lees ;
Genius, and taste, and talent gone.
For ever tomb'd beneath the stone.
Where — taming thought to human
pride ! —
The mighty chiefs sleep side by side.
Drop upon Fox's grave the tear,
'Twill trickle to his rival's bier ;
O'er Pitt's the mournful requiem
sound.
And Fox's shall the notes rebound.
The solemn echo seems to cry,
' Here let their discord with them die.
Speak not for those a separate doom.
Whom Fate made Brothers in the
tomb ;
But search the land of living men,
Where wilt thou find their like agen ? '
Rest, ardent Spirits ! till the cries
Of dying Nature bid you rise ;
Not even your Britain's groans can
pierce
The leaden silence of your hearse ;
Then, O, how impotent and vain
This grateful tributary strain !
92
QlUvwtott.
[Canto
Thougli not unmark'd, from northern
clime,
Ye heard the Border Minstrel's rhyme :
His Gothic harp has o'et you rung ;
The Bard 3'oa deigu'd to praise, j^our
deathless names has sung.
Stay yet, illusion, stay a while,
My wilder'd fancy still beguile !
From this high theme ho\v can I part,
Ere half unloaded is my heart !
For all the tears e'er sorrow drew
^\nd all the raptures fancy knew,
And all the keener rush of blood,
That throbs through bard in bard-like
mood,
Were here a tribute mean and low,
Though all their mingled streams
could flow —
Woe, wonder, and sensation hi<^h.
In one spring-tide of ecstasy I
It will not be, it may not last,
The vision of enchantment 's past :
Like frostwork in the morning ray,
The fancied fabric melts away ;
Each Gothic arch, memorial-stone,
And long, dim, loft^^ aisle, are gone ;
And, lingering last, deception dear,
The choir's high sounds die on my
ear.
Now slow return the lonely down,
The silent pastures bleak and brown.
The farm begiitwith copsewood wild,
The gambols of each frolic child,
Mixing their shrill cries with the
tone
Of Tweed's dark waters rushing on.
Prompt on unequal tasks to run,
Thus Nature disciplines her son :
Meeter, she says, for me to straj',
And waste the solitarj^ daj%
In plucking from yon fen the reed.
And watch it floating down the
Tweed ;
Or id!}' list the shrilling la}',
With which the milkmaid cheers her
way,
Marking its cadence rise and fail,
As from the field, beneath her pail,
She trips it down the uneven dale :
Meeter for me, by yonder cairn.
The ancient shepherd's tale to learn
Though oft he stop in rustic fear,
Lest his old legends tire the ear
Of one, who, in his simple mind.
May boast of book-learn'd taste
refin'd.
But thou, my friend, can'st fitly tell,
(For few have read romance so well,)
How still the legendary lay
O'er poet's bosom holds its sway ;
How on the ancient minstrel strain
Time lays his palsied hand in vain ;
And how our hearts at doughty deeds,
By warriors wrought in steely weeds,
Still throb for fear and pity's sake ;
As when the Champion of the Lake
Enters Morgana's fated house,
Or, in the Chapel Perilous
Despising spells and demons' force,
Holds converse with the unburied
corse ;
Or when. Dame Ganore's grace to
move,
^Alas, that lawless was their love !)
He sought proud Tarquin in his den,
And freed full sixty knights ; or when,
A sinful man, and unconfess'd.
He took the Sangreal's holy quest,
And, slumbering, saw the vision high.
He might not view with waking eye.
The mightiest chiefs of British song
Scorn'd not such legends to prolong :
They gleam through Spenser's elfin
dream,
And mix in Milton's heavenlj- theme;
And Dryden, in immortal strain,
Had raised the Table Round again.
But that a ribald King and Court
Bade him toil on, to make them sport;
Demanded for their niggard pay,
Fit for their souls, a looser lay,
Licentious satire, song, and play;
I.]
ZU ^aeffe.
The world defrauded of the high
design,
Profan'd the God-given strength, and
marr d the lofty line.
Warm'd bj- such names, well may
we then,
Though dwindled sons of little men,
Essay to break a feeble lance
In the fair fields of old romance;
Or seek the moated castle's cell.
Where longthrough talismanandspell,
While tyrants rul'd, and damsels wept,
Thy Genius, Chivalrj^, hath slept :
There sound the harpings of the North,
Till he awake and sallj' forth.
On venturous quest to prick again,
In all his arms, with all his train,
Shield, lance, and brand, and plume,
and scarf.
Fa}', giant, dragon, squire, and dwarf.
And wizard with his wand of might,
And errant maid on palfrej- white.
Around the Genius %veave their spells,
Pure Love, who scarce his passion tells ;
Mystery, half veil'd and half reveal'd ;
And Honour, with his spotless shield ;
Attention, with fix'd eye ; and Fear,
That loves the tale she shrinks to hear ;
And gentle Courtesy ; and Faith,
Unchanged by sufferings, time, or
death ;
And Valour, lion-mettled lord,
Leaning upon his own good sword.
Well has thy fair achievement shown,
A worthj' meed may thus be won ;
Ytene's oaks — beneath whose shade
Their theme the merry minstrels made.
Of Ascapart, and Bevis bold,
An^^that Red King, who, while of old,
Through Boldrcwood the chase he led,
By his loved huntsman's arrow bled —
Ytene's oaks have heard again
Renew'd such legendary strain ;
For thou hast sung, how He of Gaul,
That Amadis so famed in hall,
For Oriana, foil'd in fight
The Necromancer's felon might ;
And well in modern verse hast wove
Partenopex's mystic love :
Hear, then, attentive to my la}',
A knightly tale of Albion's elder daj-.
Canto First.
I.
Day set on Norham's castled steep.
And Tweed's fair river, broad and
deep,
And Cheviot's mountains lone :
The battled towers, the donjon keep,
The loophole grates, where captives
weep,
The flanking walls that round it sweep,
In 3'ello\v lustre shone.
The warriors on the turrets high,
Moving athwart the evening sky,
Seem'd forms of giant height :
Their armour, as it caught the raj-s,
Flash'd back again the western blaze.
In lines of dazzling light.
II.
St. George's banner, broad and gaj',
Now faded, as the fading ray
Less bright, and less, was flung ;
The evening gale had scarce the power
To wave it on the Donjon Tower,
So heavily it hung.
The scouts had parted on their search,
The Castle gates were barr'd ;
Above the gloomy portal arch,
Timing his footsteps to a march,
The Warder kept his guard ;
Lo\v humming, as he paced along,
Some ancient Border gathering song.
III.
A distant trampling sound he hears;
He looks abroad, and soon appears
94
Q)lartttton.
[Canto
O'er HornclifC-hill n plump of spears
Beneath a pennon gay;
A liorseman, darting from the crowd,
Like lightning from a summer cloud.
Spurs on his mettled courser proud,
Before the dark array.
Beneath the sable palisade.
That clos'd the Castle barricade,
His bugle horn he blew ;
The warder hasted from the wall.
And warn'd the Captain in the hall,
P'or well the blast he knew ;
And joyfully that knight did call.
To sewer, squire, and seneschal.
' Now broach ye a pipe of Malvoisie,
Bring pasties of the doe,
And quickly make the entrance free.
And bid my heralds ready be.
And every minstrel sound his glee.
And all our trumpets blow ;
And, from the platform, spare ye not
To fire a noble salvo-shot ;
Lord Marmion waits below I '
Then to the Castle's lower ward
Sped forty 3'eomen tall,
The iron-studded gates unbarr'd,
Rais'd the portcullis' ponderous
guard,
The lofty palisade unsparr'd
And let the drawbridge fall.
Along the bridge Lord ^Larmion rode,
Proudly his red-roan charger trode,
His helm hung at the saddlebow ;
Well by his visage you might know
He was a stalworth knight, and keen,
And had in many a battle been ;
The scar on his brown cheek reveal'd
A token true of Bosworth field ;
His eyebrow dark, and eye of fire,
Show'd spirit proud, and prompt to
ire ;
Yet lines of thought upon his cheek
Did deep design and counsel speak.
His forehead, by his casqueworn bare,
His thick mustache, and curlj^ hair.
Coal-black, and grizzled here and
there,
But more through toil than age ;
His square-turn'd joints, and strength
of limb,
Show'd him no carpet knight so trim.
But in close fight a champion grim,
Li camps a leader sage.
Well was he arm'd from head to heel.
In mail and plate of Milan steel;
But his strong helm, of mighty cost.
Was all with burnish'd gold emboss'd ;
Amid the plumage of the crest,
A falcon hover'd on her nest.
With wings outspread, and forward
breast :
E'en such a falcon, on his shield,
Soar'd sable in an azure field :
The golden legend bore aright,
Z^\\]0 rI)ff{5S at inf, to tiratlj is titgljt.
Blue was the charger's broider'd rein ;
Blue ribbons deck'd his arching mane ;
The knightly housing's ample fold
Wasvelvet blue, and Irapp'd withgold.
Behind him rode two gallant squires,
Of noble name, and knightlj* sires ;
They burn'd the gilded spurs to claim ;
For well could each a war-horse tame.
Could draw the bow, the sword could
sway.
And lightly bear the ring away;
Nor less with courteous precepts
stor'd.
Could dance in hall, and carve at
board,
And frame love-ditties passing rare.
And sing them to a lady fair.
Four men-at-arms came at their backs,
With halbert, bill, and battle-axe :
I.]
ZU taetk.
95
They bore Lord Marmion's lance so
sti"ong,
And led his siimpter-mules along,
And ambling palfrey, when at need
Him listed ease his battle-steed.
The last and trustiest of the four,
On high his forky pennon bore ;
Like swallow's tail, in shape and hue,
Flutter'd the streamer glossy blue,
Where, blazon'd sable, as before,
The towering falcon seem'd to soar.
Last, twenty yeomen, two and two,
In hosen black, and jerkins blue.
With falcons broider'd on each breast,
Attended on their lord's behest.
Each, chosen for an archer good,
Knew hunting-craft by lake or wood ;
Each one a six-foot bow could bend,
And far a cloth-yard shaft could send ;
Each held a boar-spear tough and
strong.
And at their belts their quivers rung.
Their dusty palfrej's and arraj'
.Show'd they had march'd a weary way.
'Tis meet that I should tell you now.
How fairl}' arm'd, and order'd how,
The soldiers of the guard.
With musket, pike, and morion.
To welcome noble Marmion,
Stood in the Castle-yard :
Minstrels and trumpeters were there ;
Jhe gunner held his linstock 3'are,
For welcome-shot prepar'd :
Enter'd the train, and such a clang.
As then through all his turrets rang,
Old Norham never heard.
The guards their morrice-pikes ad-
vanc'd.
The trumpets flourish'd brave.
The cannon from the ramparts glanc'd,
And thundering welcome ga\-e.
A blithe salute, in martial sort.
The minstrels well might sound.
For, as Lord Marmion cross'd the court,
He scatter'd angels round.
' Welcome to Norham, Marmion !
Stout heart, and open hand I
Well dost thou brook thy gallant roan,
Thou flower of English land I '
Two pursuivants, whom tabai-ts deck.
With silver scutcheon rouncl t]i<-ir
neck,
.Stood on the steps of stone
By which you reach the donjon gate.
And there, with herald pomp and state.
They hail'd Lord Marmion :
They hail'd him Lord of Fontenaye,
Of Lutterward, and Scrivelbayc,
Of Tamvvorth tower and town ;
And he, their courtesy to requite.
Gave them a chain of twel\-e marks'
weight.
All as he lighted down.
' Now, largesse, largesse. Lord Mar-
mion,
Knight of the crest of gold !
A blazon'd shield, in battle won.
Ne'er guarded heart so bold.'
XII.
They marshall'd him to the Castle-hall,
Where the guests stood all aside.
And loudly flourish'd the trumpet-call.
And the heralds loudly cried,
' Room, lordings, room for Lord Mar-
mion
With the crest and helm of gold !
Full well we know the trophies won
In the lists at Cottiswold :
There, vainly Ralph de Wilton strove
'Gainst Marmion's force to stand ;
To him he lost his lady-love.
And to the King his land.
Ourselves beheld the listed field,
A sight both sad and fair ;
We saw Lord Marmion pierce his
shield.
And saw his saddle bare ;
96
QUarwton.
[Canto
We saw the victor win the crest
He wears with worthy pride ;
And on the gibbet-tree, revers'd,
His foeman's scutcheon tied.
Place, nobles, for the Falcon-Knight!
Room, room, ye gentles gay,
For him who conquer'd in the right,
Marmion of Fontenayc !'
Then stepp'd to meet that noble Lord,
Sir Hugh the Heron bold,
Baron ofTwisell, and of Ford,
And Captain of the Hold.
He led Lord Marmion to the deas,
Rais'd o'er the pavement high.
And plac'd him in the upper place :
They feasted full and high :
The wliiles a Northern harper rude
Chanted a rhyme of deadly feud,
'Hozv the fierce Thinvalls, and Rid-
h'vs all,
Stout IVillittiondswick,
And JIardn'diiig Dick,
And Hti^Iiie o/Haivdon, and Will o'
the JVall,
Have set on Sir Albany Fcatlicrston-
Itaiigli,
And taken liis life at the Dcadnian's-
shazc'
Scantly Lord Marmion's car could
brook
The harper's barbarous lay ;
Yet much he prais'd the pains he took,
And well those pains did pay:
For lady's suit, and minstrel's strain.
By knight should ne'er be heard in
vain.
XIV.
' Now, good Lord Marmion,' Heron
saj-R,
' Of your fair courtesy,
I pray you bide some little space
In this poor tower with me.
Here you may keep your arms from
rust.
May breathe your war-horse well ;
Seldom hath pass'd a week but giust
Or feat of arms befell :
The .Scots can rein a mettled steed.
And love to couch a spear ;
Saint George ! a stirring life they lead,
That have such neighbours near.
Then stay with us a little space.
Our northern wars to learn ;
I pray you, for your lady's grace ! '
Lord Marmion's brow grew stern.
The Captain mark'd his alter'd look.
And gave a squire the sign ;
A mighty wassail-bowl he took.
And crown'd it high with wine.
' Now pledge me here. Lord Marmion :
But first I pray thee fair,
Where hast thou left that page of thine.
That us'd to serve thy cup of wine,
Whose beauty was so rare ?
When last in Raby towers we met,
The boy I closeh' eyed.
And often mark'd his cheeks were wet,
With tears he fain would hide :
His was no rugged horse-boy's hand,
To burnish shield or sharpen brand,
Or saddle battle-steed ;
But meeter seem'd for lady fair.
To fan her cheek, or curl her hair,
Or through embroidery, rich and rare.
The slender silk to lead :
His skin was fair, his ringlets gold.
His bosom — when he sigh'd,
The russet doublet's rugged fold
Could scarce repel its pride !
Sa3'', hast thou given that lovely youth
To serve in lady's bower ?
Or was the gentle page, in sooth,
A gentle paramour ? '
Lord Marmion ill could brook such
jest ;
He roll'd his kindling ej'c,
With pain his rising wrath suppress'd,
Yet made a calm reply :
I-]
ZH tMtk,
97
' That boy tliou thought'st so goodly
fair,
He might not brook the northern air.
More of his fate if thou wouldst learn,
I left him sick in Lindisfarn :
Enough of him. But, Heron, say,
Why does thy lovely lady ga}'
Disdain to grace the hall to-day?
Or has that dame, so fair and sage.
Gone on some pious pilgrimage ? '
He spoke in covert scorn, for fame
Whisper'd light tales of Heron's dame.
Unmark'd, at least unrcck'd. the taunt.
Careless the Knight replied,
' No bird, whose feathers gail.y flaunt.
Delights in cage to bide :
Norham is grim and grated close,
Hemm'd in by battlement and fosse,
And many a darksome tower ;
And better loves my lady bright
To sit in libertj' and light.
In fair Queen Margaret's bower.
We hold our greyhound in our hand,
Our falcon on our glove ;
But where shall we find leash or
band
For dame that loves to rove ?
Let the wild falcon soar her swing.
She'll stoop when she has tir'd her
wing.'
xvm.
'Nay, if with Royal James's bride
The lovely Lady Heron bide.
Behold me here a messenger.
Your tender greetings prompt to bear ;
For, to the Scottish court address'd,
I journey at our King's behest,
And pray you, of your grace, provide
For me, and mine, a trusty guide.
I have not ridden in Scotland since
James back'd the cause of that mock
prince,
Warbeck, that Flemish counterfeit.
Who on the gibbet paid the cheat.
Then did I march with Surrey's
power.
What time we raz'd old Ayton
tower.'
XIX.
' For such-like need, my lord, I trow,
Norham can find you guides enow ;
For here be some have prick'd as far,
On Scottish ground, as to Dunbar;
Have drunk the monks of St. Bothan's
ale.
And driven the beeves of Lauderdale ;
Harried the wives of Greenlaw's goods,
And given them light to set their
hoods.'
XX.
' Now, in good sooth,' Lord Marmion
cried,
' Were I in warlike wise to ride,
A better guard I would not lack.
Than your stout foraj'ers at my back ;
But, as in form of peace I go,
A friendly' messenger, to know
Why through all Scotland, near and
far.
Their King is mustering troops for
war.
The sight of plundering Border spears
Might justify suspicious fears.
And deadly feud, or thirst of spoil.
Break out in some unseemly broil :
A herald were my fitting guide ;
Or friar, sworn in peace to bide ;
Or pardoner, or travelling priest.
Or strolling pilgrim, at the least '
XXI.
The Captain mus'd a little space,
And pass'd his hand across his face :
' Fain would I find the guide you want.
But ill may spare a pursuivant.
The only men that safe can ride
Mine errands on the Scottish side :
And though a bishop built this fort.
Few holy brethren here resort ;
Even our good chaplain, as I ween,
.Since our last siege, we have not seen :
98
QUarmton.
[ Canto
The mass he might not sing or say
Upon one stinted mea! a-day ;
So, safe he sat in DurhaiiT aisle,
And pray'd for our success the while.
Our Norham vicar, woe betide,
Is all too well in case to ride ;
The priest of Shoreswood — he could
rein
The wildest war-horse in your train ;
But then, no spearman in the hall
Will sooner swear, or stab, or brawl.
Friar John ofTillmouth were the man :
A blithesome brother at the can,
A welcome guest in hall and bower,
He knows each castle, town, and tower,
In which the wine and ale is good,
'Twixt Newcastle and Holy-Rood.
But that good man, as ill befalls.
Hath seldom left our castle walls.
Since, on the vigil of St. Bede,
In evil hour, he cross'd the Tweed,
To teach Dame Alison her creed.
Old Bughtrig found him with his wife ;
And John, an enemy to strife,
Sans frock and hood, fled for his life.
The jealous churl hath deeply swore
That, if again he venture o'er.
He shall shrieve penitent no more.
Little he loves such risks, I know ;
Yet, in your guard, perchance will go.
XXII.
Young Selby, at the fair hall-board,
Carv'd to his uncle and that lord,
And reverently took up the word :
' Kind uncle, woe were we each one.
If harm should hap to brother John.
He is a man of mirthful speech,
Can many a game and gambol teach ;
Full well at tables can he play.
And sweep at bowls the stake away.
None can a lustier carol bawl.
The needfullest among us all,
When time hangs heavy in the hall.
And snow comes thick at Christmastide,
And we can neither hunt, nor ride
A forav on the Scottish side.
The vow'd revenge of Bughtrig rude,
May end in worse than loss of hood.
Let Friar John, in safety, still
In chimney-corner snore his fill.
Roast hissing crabs, or flagons swill :
Last night, to Norham there came one.
Will better guide Lord Marmion.'
' Nephew,' quoth Heron, ' by my fay.
Well hast thou spoke; say forth thy
say.'
XXIII.
' Here is a holy Palmer come,
From Salem first, and last from Rome;
One that hath kiss'd the blessed tomb,
And visited each holy shrine
In Arab}' and Palestine ;
On hills of Armenie hath been.
Where Noah's ark maj^ yet be seen ;
By that Red Sea, too, hath he trod.
Which parted at the prophet's rod ;
In Sinai's wilderness he saw
The Mount, where Israel heard the
law,
'Mid thunder-dint, and flashing levin.
And shadows, mists, and darkness,
given.
He shows Saint James's cockle-shell ;
Of fair Montserrat, too, can tell ;
And of that Grot where olives nod.
Where, darling of each heart and eye,
From all the youth of Sicily
Saint Rosalie retired to God.
xxiv.
' To stout Saint George of Norwich
merry,
Saint Thomas, too, of Cantcrbuiy,
Cuthbert of Durham and Saint Bede,
For his sins' pardon hath he pray'd.
He knows the passes of the North,
And seeks far shrines beyond the
Forth ;
Little he eats, and long will wake,
And drinks but of the stream or lake.
This were a guide o'er moor and dale ;
But, when our John hath quaffd his
ale,
I.]
ZU taatk.
99
As little as the wind that blows,
And warms itself against his nose,
Kens he, or cares, which way he
goes.'
XXV.
'Gramercy!' quoth Lord Mannion,
'Full loth were I, that Friar John,
That venerable man, for me.
Were placed in fear or jeopardy.
If this same Palmer will me lead
From hence to Hol3'-Rood,
Like his good saint, I'll pay his meed.
Instead of cockle-shell, or bead.
With angels fair and good.
I love such holy ramblers ; still
They know to charm a weary hill.
With song, romance, or lay :
Some jovial talc, or glee, or jest,
Some lying legend, at the least.
They bring to cheer the wa\'.'
x.wi.
'Ah I noble sir,' young Sclb\- said.
And finger on his lip he laid,
' This man knows much, perchance
e'en more
Than he could learn b3' hol\- lore.
Still to himself he Is muttering.
And shrinks as at some unseen thing.
Last night we listen'd at his cell ;
Strange sounds we heard, and, sooth
to tell.
He murmur'd on till morn, howe'er
No living mortal could be near.
Sometimes I thought I heard it plain.
As other voices spoke again.
I cannot tell ; I like it not ;
Friar John hath told us it is wrote
No conscience clear and void of wrong
Can rest awake and pray so long.
Himself still sleeps before his beads
Have mark'd ten aves, and two
creeds.'
xxvii.
' Let pass,' quoth Marmion ; ' bv my
fay,
This man shall guide me on mj' waj',
Although the great arch-fiend and he
Had sworn themselves of companj-.
So please you, gentle youth, to call
This Palmer to the Castle-hall.'
The summon'd Palmer came in place ;
His sable cowl o'erhung his face ;
In his black mantle was he clad.
With Peter's keys, in cloth of red.
On his broad shoulders wrought ;
The scallop shell his cap did deck ;
The crucifix around his neck
Was from Loretto brought ;
His sandals were with travel tore ;
Staff, budget, bottle, scrip, he wore ;
The faded palm-branch in his hand
Show'd pilgrim from the Holj' Land.
XXVIII.
Whenas the Palmer came in hall.
Nor lord, nor knight, was there more
tall.
Or had a statelier step withal,
Or look'd more high and keen ;
For no saluting did he wait.
But strode across the hall of state.
And fronted Marmion where he sale.
As he his peer had been.
But his gaunt frame was worn with
toil ;
His cheek was sunk, alas the while !
And when he struggled at a smile,
His eye look'd haggard wild :
Poor wretch ! the mother that him
bare,
If she had been in presence there,
In his wan face, and sun-burn'd hair,
She had not known her child.
Danger, long travel, want, or woe.
Soon change the form that best we
know ;
For deadl}- fear can time outgo,
And blanch at once the hair ;
Hard toil can roughen form and face.
And want can quench the eye's bright
grace.
Nor does old age a wrinkle trace
More deeply than despair.
£ 2
lOO
QUArmton.
Happy whom none of these befall,
But this poor Palmer knew them all.
XXIX.
Lord Marmion then his boon did ask ;
The Palmer took on him the task,
So he would march with morning: tide,
To Scottish court to be his guide.
' But I have solemn vows to pay,
And may not linger by the way,
To fair St. Andrews bound,
Within the ocean-cave to pray.
Where good .Saint Rule his holy lay.
From midnight to the dawn of daj',
Sung to the billows' sound ;
Thence to Saint Fillan's blessed well,
Whose spring can frenzied dreams
dispel.
And the craz'd brain restore :
Saint Mary grant that cave or spring
Could back to peace my bosom bring,
Or bid it throb no more ! '
And now the midnight draught of
sleep,
Where wine and spices richly steep.
In massive bowl of silver deep.
The page presents on knee.
Lord Marmion drank a fair good rest,
The Captain pledg'd his noble guest.
The cup went through among the rest,
Who drain'd it merrily ;
Alone the Palmer pass'd it by,
Though Selby press'd him courteously.
This was a sign the feast was o'er ;
It hush'd the merry wassail roar,
The minstrels ceas'd to sound.
Soon in the castle nought was heard.
But the slow footstep of the guard.
Pacing his sober round.
XXXI.
With early dawn Lord Marmion rose :
And first the chapel doors unclose ;
Then, after morning rites were done
(A hasty mass from Friar John j
And knight and squire had broke their
fast
On rich substantial repast.
Lord Marmion's bugles blew to horse ;
Then came the stirrup-cup in course :
Between the Baron and his host
No point of courtesy was lost ;
High thanks were by Lord Marmion
paid,
Solemn excuse the Captain made.
Till, filing from the gate, had pass'd
That noble train, their Lord the last.
Then loudly rung the trumpet call ;
Thunder d the cannon from the wall.
And shook the Scottish shore ;
Around the castle eddied slow.
Volumes of smoke as white as snow.
And hid its turrets hoar ;
Till the3' roll'd forth upon the air,
And met the river breezes there.
Which gave again the prospect fair.
Introduction to canto
Second.
TO THE
RFA'. JOHN MARRIOTT, A.M.
Ashestiel, Ettrick Forest.
The scenes are desert now, and bare,
Where flourish'd once a forest fair,
When these waste glens with copse
were lin'd.
And peopled with the hart and hind.
Yon Thorn — perchance whose pricklx-
spears
Have fenc'd him for three hundred
^•ears.
While fell around his green com-
peers-
Yon lonely Thorn, would he could tell
The changes of his parent dell.
Since he, so grey and stubborn now,
Wav'd in each breeze a sapling bough;
3nfrobucfton io (tanio ^econ^.
lOI
Would he could tell how deep the shade
A thousand mingled branches made ;
How broad the shadows of the oak,
How clung the rowan to the rock.
And through the foliage show'd his
head,
With narrow leaves and berries red ;
What pines on every mountain sprung,
O'er every dell what birches hung.
In every breeze what aspens shook,
What alders shaded every brook I
' Here, in my shade,' methinks he 'd
say,
'The mighty stag at noontide lay :
The wolf I 've seen, a fiercer game,
(The neighbouring dingle bears his
name,
With lurching step around me prowl,
And stop, against the moon to howl ;
The mountain-boar, on battle set,
His tusks upon my stem would whet ;
While doe, and roe, and red-deergood.
Have bounded by, through gay green-
wood.
Then oft, from Newark's riven tower,
Sallied a Scottish monarch's power :
A thousand vassals muster 'd round
With horse, and hawk, and horn, and
hound ;
And I might see the youth intent
( iuard every pass with crossbow bent ;
And through the brake the rangers
stalk,
And falc'ners hold the readj- hawk ;
And foresters, in greenwood trim.
Lead in the leash the gazehounds grim,
Attentive, as the bratchet's bay
From the dark covert drove the prey.
To slip them as he broke away.
The startled quarrj^ bounds amain,
As fast the gallant greyhounds strain ;
Whistles the arrow from the bow.
Answers the harquebuss below ;
While all the rocking hills reply
To hoof-clang, hound. and hunters' cry,
And bugles ringing lightsomely.'
Of such proud huntings, many tales
Yet linger in our lonely dales,
Up pathless Ettrick and on Yarrow.
Where erst the outlaw drew his arrow.
But not more blithe that silvan court.
Than we have been at humbler sport ;
Though small our pomp, and mean
our game.
Our mirth, dear Marriott, was the same.
Remember st thou my greyhounds
true ?
O'er holt or hill there never Hew,
From slip or leash there never sprang,
Wore fleet of foot, or sure of fang.
Nor dull, between each merry chase,
Pass'd by the intermitted space ;
For we had fair resource in store.
In Classic and in Gothic lore :
We mark'd each memorable scene.
And held poetic talk between ;
Nor hill nor brook we pac'd along.
But had its legend or its song.
All silent now — for now are still
Thy bowers, untenanted Bowhil! !
No longer, from thy mountains dun.
The yeoman hears the well-known
gun.
And while his honest heart glows
warm,
At thought of his paternal farm.
Round to his mates a brimmer fills.
And drinks ' The Chieftain of the
Hills:'
No fairy forms, in Yarrow's bowers.
Trip o'er the walks, or tend the flowers,
Fair as the elves whom Janet saw
By moonlight dance on Carterhaugh ;
No youthful Baron 's left to grace
The Forest-Sheriff's lonelj' chase,
And ape, in manly step and tone.
The majesty of Oberon :
And she is gone, whose lovely face
Is but her least and lowest grace ;
Though, if to Sylphid Queen 'twere
given
To show our earth the charms of
Heaven,
102
QYlartntott.
She could not glide along the air
With form more light, or face more fair.
No more the widow's deafen'd ear
Grows quick that lady's step to hear;
At noontide she expects her not,
Nor busies her to trim the cot ;
Pensive she turns her humming wheel,
Or pensive cooks her orphans' meal ;
Yet blesses, ere she deals their bread,
The gentle hand b^^ which they're fed.
From Yair — which hills so closely
bind.
Scarce can the Tweed his passage find.
Though much he fret and chafe and
toil
Till all his eddying currents boil, —
Her long-descended lord has gone,
And left us by the stream alone.
And much I miss those sportive boys,
Companions of my mountain joys.
Just at the age 'twixt boj' and 3'outh,
When thought is speech, and speech
is truth.
Close to my side, with what delight
Theypress'd to hear of Wallace wight.
When, pointing to his airy mound,
I call'd his ramparts holy ground !
Kindled their brows to hear me speak ;
And I have smiled, to feel my cheek,
Despite the difl'erence of our years.
Return again the glow of theirs.
Ah, happy boys ! such feelings pure.
They will not, cannot, long endure ;
Condemn'd to stem the world's rude
tide,
You may not linger by the side ;
For Fate shall thrust you from the
shore.
And Passion ply the sail and oar.
Yet cherish the remembrance still.
Of the lone mountain, and the rill;
For trust, dear boys, the time will
come.
When fiercer transport shall be dumb.
And 3'ou will think right frequentl}'.
But, well I hope, without a sigh.
On the free hours that we have spent
Together on the brown hill's bent.
When, musing on companions gone.
We doubly feel ourselves alone,
Something, my friend, we yet may gain;
There is a pleasure in this pain :
It soothes the love of lonely rest.
Deep in each gentler heart impress'd.
'Tis silent amid worldly toils,
And stifled soon by mental broils ;
But, in a bosom thus prepar'd.
Its still small voice is often heard.
Whispering a mingled sentiment,
'Twixt resignation and content.
Oft in my mind such thoughts awake,
By lone Saint Mary's silent lake ;
Thou know'st it well, — nor fen, nor
sedge.
Pollute the pure lake's crystal edge ;
Abrupt and sheer, the mountains sink
At once upon the level brink ;
And just a trace of silver sand
Marks where the water meets the land.
Far in the mirror, bright and blue,
Each hill's huge outline you may view;
Shaggy with heath, but lonely bare,
Nortree, norbush, nor brake, is there,
Save where, of land, yon slender line
Bears thwart thelake the scatter'd pine.
Yet ev^en this nakedness has power.
And aids the feeling of the hour:
Nor thicket, dell, nor copse you spy,
Where living thingconceal'dmightlie;
Nor point, retiring, hides a dell.
Where swain, or ^voodman lone,
might dwell ;
There 's nothing left to fancy's guess,
You see that all is loneliness :
And silence aids — though the steep
hills
Send to the lake a thousand rills ;
In summer tide, so soft they weep.
The sound but lulls the ear asleep ;
Your horse's hoof-tread sounds too
rude,
So stilly is the solitude.
3nfroiucfton io Canto ^econb.
Nought living meets the ej'c or ear,
But well I ween the dead are near;
For though, in feudal strife, a foe
Hath laid Our Lady's chapel low,
Yet still, beneath the hallov/d soil.
The peasant rests him from his toil.
And, dying, bids his bones be laid.
Where erst his simple fathers pray'd.
If age had tamed the passions' strife.
And fate had cut my ties to life.
Here, have I thought, 'twere sweet to
dwell.
And rear again the chaplain's cell,
Like that same peaceful hermitage.
Where Milton longM to spend his age.
'Twere sweet to mark the setting clay
On Bourhope's lonely top decay;
And, as it faint and feeble died
On the broad lake, and mountain's
side.
To say ' Thus pleasures fade away ;
Youth, talents, beauty, thus decay,
And leave us dark, forlorn, and grey;'
Then gaze on Dryliope's ruin'd tower.
And think on Yarrow's faded Flower :
And when that mountain-sound I
heard.
Which bids us be for storm prepar'd,
The distant rustling of his wings.
As up his force the Tempest brings,
'Twere sweet, ere yet his terrors rave.
To sit upon the Wizard's grave,
That Wizard Priest's, whose bones
are thrust
From company of holy dust.
On which no sunbeam ever shines
(So superstition's creed divines),
Thence view the lake with sullen roar
Heave her broad billows to the shore ;
And mark the wild-swans mount the
gale,
Spread wide through mist their snowy
sail,
And ever stoop again to lave
Their bosoms on the surging wave :
Then, when against the driving hail
No longer might my plaid avail,
Back to my lonely home retire.
And light my lamp, and trim my fire;
There ponder o'er some mystic lay.
Till the wild tale had all its sway,
And, in the bittern's distant shriek,
I heard unearthly voices speak,
And thought the Wizard Priest was
come,
To claim again his ancient home !
And bade mj' busy fancy range.
To frame him fitting shape and strange.
Till from the task my brow I clear'd,
And smil'd to think that I had fear'd.
But chief 'twere sweet to think
such life
i^Though but escape from fortune's
strife
Something most matchless, good anl
wise,
A great and grateful sacrifice ;
And deem each hour to musing given,
A step upon the road to heaven.
Yet him, whose heart is ill at ease.
Such peaceful solitudes displease :
He loves to drown his bosom's jar
Amid the elemental war :
And my black Palmer's choice had been
Some ruder and more savage scene.
Like that which frowns round dark
Loch-skene.
There eagles scream from isle to shore ;
Down all the rocks the torrents roar;
O'er the black waves incessant driven,
Dark mists infect the summer heaven ;
Through the rude barriers of the lake.
Away its hurrying waters break,
Faster and whiter dash and curl,
Till down yon dark abyss they hurl.
Rises the fog-smoke white as snow.
Thunders the viewless stream below,
Diving, as if condemn'd to lave
Some demon's subterranean cave.
Who, prison'd by enchanter's spell.
Shakes the dark rock with groan and
yell.
104
(nUtrittton.
[Canto
And well that Palmer's form and mien
Had suited with the stormy scene,
Just on the edge, straining his ken
To view the bottom of the den,
Where, deep deep down, and far
within.
Toils with the rocks the roaring linn ;
Then, issuing forth one foamy wave.
And wheelinground the Giant's Grave,
White as the snowy charger's tail,
Drives down the pass of Moftatdale.
Marriott, thy harp, on Isis strung.
To many a Border theme has rung :
Then list to me, and thou shalt know
Of this mysterious man of woe.
Canto Second.
^9it Convtni.
The breeze, which swept away the
smoke
Round Norham Castle roll'd,
When all the loud artillery spoke.
With lightning-flash, and thunder-
stroke,
As Marmion left the Hold,—
It curl'd not Tweed alone, that breeze,
P'or, far upon Northumbrian seas.
It freshly blew, and strong,
Where, from high Whitby's cloister'd
pile.
Bound to Saint Cuthbert's Holy Isle,
It bore a bark along.
Upon the gale she stoop'd her side.
And bounded o'er the swelling tide.
As she were dancing home :
The merry seamen laugh'd to see
Their gallant ship so lustily
P'urrow the green sea-foam.
Much joy'd they in their honour'd
freight ;
For, on the deck, in chair of state,
The Abbess of Saint Hilda plac'd,
With five fair nuns, the galley grac'd.
II.
'Twas sweet to see these holy maids.
Like birds escaped to greenwood
shades.
Their first flight from the cage,
How timid, and how curious too,
For all to them was strange and new,
And all the common sights they view
Their wonderment engage.
One eyed the shrouds and swelling sail,
With many a benedicite ;
One at the rippling surge grew pale,
And would for terror pray ;
Then shriek'd, because the sea-dog,
nigh,
His round black head, and sparkling
eye,
Rear'd o'er the foaming spray ;
And one would still adjust her veil,
Disorder'd by the summer gale.
Perchance lest some more worldly eye
Her dedicated charms might spy ;
Perchance, because such action grac'd
Her fair-turn'd arm and slender waist.
Light was each simple bosom there,
Save two, who ill might pleasure share.
The Abbess and the Novice Clare.
III.
The Abbess was of noble blood.
But early took the veil and hood,
Ere upon life she cast a look,
Or knew the world that she forsook.
Fair too she was, and kind had been
As she was fair, but ne'er had seen
For her a timid lover sigh,
Nor knew the influence of her eye.
Love, to her ear, was but a name,
Combined with vanity and shame ;
Her hopes, her fears, her joys, were all
Bounded within the cloister wall :
The deadliest sin her mind could reach.
Was of monastic rule the breach ;
And her ambition's highest aim
To emulate Saint Hilda's fame.
II.]
ZU tonvtrxt
105
For this she gave her ample dower,
To raise the convent's eastern tower ;
For this, with car\ring rare and quaint,
She deck'd the chapel of the saint,
And gave the relic-shrine of cost.
With ivory and gems emboss'd.
The poor her Convent's bounty blest,
The pilgrim in its halls found rest.
IV.
Black was her garb, her rigid rule
Reform'd on Benedictine school ;
Her cheek was pale, her form was
spare ;
Vigils, and penitence austere,
Had early quench'd the light of youth,
But gentle was the dame, in sooth ;
Though, vain of her religious sway,
She loved to see her maids obey,
Yet nothing stern was she in cell.
And the nuns loved their Abbess well.
Sad was this voyage to the dame :
Summon'd to Lindisfarne, she came.
There, with Saint Cuthbert's Abbot old,
And Tynemouth's Prioress, to hold
A chapter of Saint Benedict
For inquisition stern and strict
On two apostates from the faith,
And, if need were, to doom to death.
V.
Nought say I here of Sister Clare.
Save this, that she was young and fair;
As yet a novice unprofess'd,
Lovely and gentle, but distress'd.
She was betroth'd to one now dead.
Or worse, who had dishonour'd fled.
Her kinsmen bade her give her hand
To one, who lov'd her for her land :
Herself, almost heart-broken now.
Was bent to take the vestal vow.
And shroud, within Saint Hilda's
gloom,
Her blasted hopes and wither'd bloom.
She sate upon the galley's prow.
And seem'd to mark the waves below ;
Nay, seem'd, so fix'd her look and eye.
To count them as they glided by.
She saw them not- — ^'twas seeming
all;
Far other scene her thoughts recall, —
A sun-scorch'd desert, waste and bare,
Nor waves, nor breezes, murmur'd
there ;
There saw she where some careless
hand
O'er a dead corpse had heap'd the
sand
To hide it — till the jackals come
To tear it from the scanty tomb.
See what a woful look was given
As she raised up her eyes to heav-en !
VII.
Lovel^', and gentle, and distress'd —
These charms might tame the fiercest
breast :
Harpers have sung, and poets told.
That he, in fury uncontroll'd,
The shaggy monarch of the wood,
Before a virgin, fair and good.
Hath pacified his savage mood.
But passions in the human frame
Oft put the lion's rage to shame :
And jealousy, by dark intrigue,
With sordid avarice in league.
Had practis'd with their bowl and
knife
Against the mourners harmless life.
This crime was charg'd 'gainst those
who lay
Prison'd in Cuthbert's islet gre}'.
VIII.
And now the vessel skirts the strand
Of mountainous Northumberland ;
Towns, towers, and halls, successive
rise.
And catch the nuns' delighted eyes.
Monk-Wearmouth soon behind them
lay,
And Tynemoutli's priory and bay ;
They mark'd, amid her trees, the hall
Of lofty Seaton-Delaval ;
li 3
io6
(TlUtmion.
LCanto
'I'hey saw the Blj'the and Wansbeck
Hoods
Rush to the sea throui;h sounding
woods ;
They pass'd the tower ot' Widdering-
ton,
Mother of many a valiant son ;
At Coquet-isle their beads they tell
To the good Saint who own'd the cell ;
Then did the Alne attention claim,
And Warkworth, proud of Percy's
name ;
And next, they cross "d themselves, to
hear
The whitening breakers sound so near,
Where, boiling through the rocks,
they roar,
On Dunstanborough's cavern'd shore ;
Thy tower, proud Bamborough, mark'd
they there,
King Ida's castle, huge and square,
From its tall rock look grimly down,
And on the swelling ocean frown ;
Then from the coast they bore away,
And reach'd the Holy Island's bay.
IX.
The tide did now its flood-mark gain.
And girdled in the Saint's domain :
For, with the flow and ebb, its style
Varies from continent to isle ;
Dry shod, o'er sands, twice every day,
The pilgrims to the shrine find way ;
Twice every day, the waves efface
Of staves and sandall'd feet the trace.
As to the port the galley flew.
Higher and higher rose to view
The Castle with its battled walls,
The ancient Monastery's halls,
A solemn, huge, and dark-red pile,
Plac'd on the margin of the isle.
X.
In Saxon strength that Abbey frown'd,
With massive arches broad and round,
That rose alternate, row and row.
On ponderous columns, short and
low,
Built ere the art was known.
By pointed aisle, and shafted stalk,
The arcades of an alley 'd walk
To emulate in stone.
On the deep walls, the heathen Dane
Had pour'd his impious rage in vain ;
And needful was such strength to these
Expos'd to the tempestuous seas,
Scourg'd by the winds' eternal swaj'.
Open to rovers fierce as they,
Which could twelve hundred years
withstand
Winds, waves, and northern pirates'
hand.
Not but that portions of the pile,
Rebuilded in a later style,
Show'd where the spoiler's hand had
been ;
Not but the wasting sea-brec^je keen
Had worn the pillar's carving quaint.
And moulder'd in his niche the saint,
And rounded, with consuming power,
The pointed angles of each tower ;
Yet still entire the Abbey stood.
Like veteran, worn, but unsubdu'd.
Soon as they near'd his turrets strong,
The maidens rais'd Saint Hilda's~song,
And with the sea- wave and the wind,
Their voices, sweetly shrill, com-
bin'd.
And made harmonious close ;
Then, answering from the sandy
shore,
Half-drown'd amid the breakers'
roar.
According chorus rose :
Down to the haven of the Isle,
The monks and nuns in order file,
From Cuthbert's cloisters grim ;
Banner, and cross, and relics there,
To meet Saint Hilda's maids, they bare ;
And, as they caught the sounds on air,
They echo'd back the hymn.
The islanders, in joyous mood,
Rush'd cmulously through the flood,
II.]
ZU tonHnt
107
To hale the bark to land ;
Conspicuous by her veil and hood,
Signing the cross, the Abbess stood,
And bless'd them with her hand.
Suppose we now the welcome said,
Suppose the Convent banquet made :
All through the holy dome,
Through cloister, aisle, and gallery.
Wherever vestal maid might pry,
Nor risk to meet unhallow'd eye,
The stranger sisters roam, —
1 ill fell the evening damp with dew,
And the sharp sea-breeze coldly blew,
For there, even summer night is chill.
Then, having stray'd and gaz'd their
fill.
They clos'd around the fire ;
And all, in turn, essay'd to paint
The rival merits of their saint,
A theme that ne'er can tire
A holy maid ; for, be it known.
That their saint's honour is their own.
Then Whitb^-'s nuns exulting told,
How to their house three Barons bold
Must menial sen'ice do ;
While horns blow out a note of shame,
And monks cry ' Fye upon your name !
In wrath, for loss of silvan game,
.Saint Hilda's priest ye slew.' —
'This, on Ascension-day, each year,
While labouring on our harbour-pier,
Must Herbert, Bruce, and Percj'
hear.'
They told how in their convent-cell
A Saxon princess once did dwell,
The lovely Edelfled ;
And how, of thousand snakes, each one
Was chang'd into a coil of stone,
When holy Hilda prayd ;
Themselves, within their holy bound,
Tlieir stony folds had often found.
They told how sea-fowls' pinions fail,
As over Whitby's towers they sail,
And, sinking down, with tlutterings
faint.
They do their homage to the saint.
Nor did Saint Cuthbert's daughters lail
To vie with these in holy tale ;
His body's resting-place, of old.
How oft their patron chang'd, they
told ;
How, when the rude Dane burn'd
their pile.
The monks fled forth from Holy Isle ;
O'er northern mountain, marsh, and
moor,
From sea to sea, from shore to shore,
.Seven j^ears Saint Cuthbert's corpse
they bore.
They rested them in fair Melrose;
Hut though, alive, he lov'd it
well.
Not there his relics might repose ;
For, wondrous tale to tell !
In his stone-coffin forth he rides,
A ponderous bark for river tides,
Yet light as gossamer it glides,
Downward to Tilmouth cell.
Nor long was his abiding there.
For southward did the saint repair ;
Chester-le-Street, and Rippon, saw
His holy corpse, ere Wardilaw
Hail'd him with joy and fear ;
And, after many wanderings past,
He chose his lordly seat at last.
Where his cathedral, huge and vast,
Looks down upon the Wear :
There, deep in Durham's Gothic shade.
His relics are in secret laid ;
But none may know the p>iace,
Save of his holiest servants three.
Deep sworn to solemn secrecy.
Who share that wondrous grace.
Who may his miracles declare !
Even Scotland's dauntless king, and
heir,
E 5
10^
QUatritttOtt.
[Canto
(Although with them they led
Gahvegians, wild as ocean's gale,
And Lodon's knights, all sheath'd in
mail,
And the bold men of Teviotdale,;
Before his standard fled.
'Twas he, to vindicate his reign,
Edg'd Alfred's falchion on the Dane,
And turn'd the Conqueror back again,
When, with his Norman bowj-er band.
He came to waste Northumberland.
XVI.
Butfain .Saint Hilda'snunswouldlearn
If, on a rock, by Lindisfarne,
Saint Cuthbert sits, and toils to frame
The sea-born beads that bear his name :
Such tales had Whitby's fishers told,
And .said they might his shape behold.
And hear his anvil sound ;
A deaden'd clang, a huge dim form,
Seen but, and heard, when gathering
storm
And night were closing round.
But this, as tale of idle fame,
The nuns of Lindisfarne disclaim.
XVII.
While round the fire such legends go,
Far different was the scene of woe.
Where, in a secret aisle beneath,
Council was held of life and death.
It wasmoredarkand lone that \ault,
Than the worst dungeon cell :
Old Colwulf built it, for his fault.
In penitence to dwell.
When he, for cowl and beads, laid down
The Saxon battle-axe and crown.
This den, which, chilling every sense
Of feeling, hearing, sight.
Was calTd the Vault of Penitence,
Excluding air and light.
Was, by the prelate Sexhelm, made
A place of burial for such dead.
As, having died in mortal sin,
Might not be laid the church within.
'Twas now a place of punishment ;
Whence if so loud a shriek were sent
As reach'd the upper air.
The hearers bless'd themselves, and
said
The spirits of the sinful dead
Bemoan'd their torments there.
But though, in the monastic pile.
Did of this penitential aisle
Some vague tradition go,
Few only, save the Abbot, knew
Where the place lay ; and still more few
Were those who had from him the clew
To that dread vault to go.
Victim and executioner
Were blindfold when transported
there.
In low dark rounds the arches hung.
From the rude rock the side-walls
sprung ;
The grave-stones, rudely sculptur'd
o'er.
Half sunk in earth, by time half wore,
Were all the pavement of the floor ;
The mildew-drops fell one by one,
With tinkling plash, upon the stone.
A cresset, in an iron chain,
Which served to light this drear
domain.
With damp and darkness seem'd to
strive.
As if it scarce might keep alive ;
And yet it dimly serv'd to show
The awful conclave met below.
There, met to doom in secrecj-.
Were plac'd the heads of convents
three — •
All servants of Saint Benedict,
The statutes of whose order strict
On iron table lay;
In long black dress, on seats of stone.
Behind were these three judges shown
By the pale cresset's ray :
The Abbess of Saint Hilda's, there,
Sat lor a space with visage bare,
n.]
ZU towint
109
Until, to hide her bosom's swell,
And tear-drops that for pity fell.
She closely drew her veil :
Yon shrouded figure, as I guess,
By her proud mien and flowing dress.
Is Tynemouth's haughty Prioress,
And she with awe looks pale :
And he, that Ancient Man, whose sight
Has long been quench'd by age's night,
Upon whose wrinkled brow alone.
Nor ruth, nor mercy's trace, is shown,
Whose look is hard and stern, ^ —
Saint Cuthbert's Abbot is his style ;
For sanctity call'd, through the isle.
The Saint of Lindisfarnc.
XX.
Before them stood a guilty pair;
But, though an equal fate they share.
Yet one alone deserves our care.
Her sex a page's dress belied ;
The cloak and doublet, loosely tied,
Obscur'd her charms, but could not
hide.
Her cap down o'erher face she drew;
And, on her doublet breast.
She tried to hide the badge of blue,
Lord Marmion's falcon crest.
But, at the Prioress' command,
A Monk undid the silken band
That tied her tresses fair,
,And rais'd the bonnet from her head,
And down her slender form they
spread,
In ringlets rich and rare.
Constance de Beverley the3' know,
Sister profess'd of Fontevraud,
Whom the Church number'd with the
dead.
For broken vows, and convent fled.
XXI.
When thus her face was given to view,
(Although, so pallid was her hue.
It did a ghastly contrast bear
To those bright ringlets glistering fair.")
Her look compos'd, and stead\' eye.
Bespoke a matchless constanc\' ;
And there she stood so calm and pale,
That, but her breathing did not fail,
And motion slight of eye and head,
And of her bosom, warranted
That neither sense nor pulse she lacks.
You might have thought a form of wax.
Wrought to the very life, was there ;
So still she was, so pale, so fair.
Her comrade was a sordid soul.
Such as does murder for a meed ;
Who, but of fear, knows no control,
Because his conscience, sear'd and foul.
Feels not the import of his deed ;
One whose brute-feeling ne'er aspires
Beyond his own more brute desires.
Such tools the Tempter ever needs,
To do the savagest of deeds ;
For them no vision'd terrors daunt.
Their nights no fancied spectres haunt,
One fear with them, of all most base.
The fear of death, alone finds place.
This wretch was clad in frock and cowl.
And sham'd not loud to moan and howl,
His body on the floor to dash,
And crouch, like hound beneath tlic
lash ;
While his mute partner, standing near,
Waited her doom without a tear.
Yet well the luckless wretch might
shriek,
Well might her paleness terror speak !
For there were seen in that dark wall.
Two niches, narrow, deep and tall :
Who enters at such grisly door.
Shall ne'er, I ween, find exit more.
In each a slender meal was laid.
Of roots, of water, and of bread :
B3'' each, in Benedictine dress,
Two haggard monks stood motionless ;
Who, holding high a blazing torch,
Show'dthegrim cntranceof the porch :
Reflecting back the smoky beam.
The dark-red walls and arches gleam.
no
QHarmion.
[Canto
Hewn stones and cement were dis-
play'd.
And building: tools in order laid.
XXIV.
These executioners were chose,
As men who were with mankind foes.
And, with despite and en\y fir'd,
Into the cloister had retir'd ;
Or who, in desperate doubt of grace,
Strove, by deep penance, to efface
Of some foul crime the stain ;
For, as the vassals of her will.
Such men the Church selected still,
As either joy'd in doing ill.
Or thought more grace to gain,
If, in her cause, they wrestled down
Feelings their nature strove to own.
By strange device were they brought
there,
They knew not how, nor knew not
where.
XXV.
And now that blind old Abbot rose,
To speak the Chapter's doom,
On those the wall was to enclose,
Alive, within the tomb ;
But stopp'd, because that vvoful Maid,
Gatheringher powers, tospeakessay'd.
Twice she essay'd, and twice in vain ;
Pier accents might no utterance gain ;
Nought but imperfect murmurs slip
From her convuls'd and quivering lip ;
Twixt each attempt all was so still,
You seem'd to hear a distant rill ;
'Tvvas ocean's swells and falls ;
For though this vault of sin and fear
Was to the sounding surge so near,
A tempest there you scarce could
hear.
So massive were the walls.
At length, an effort sent apart
The blood that curdled to her heart.
And light came to her eye,
And colour dawn'd upon her cheek,
A hectic and a flutter'd streak.
Like that left on the Cheviot peak,
By Autumn's stormy sk}' ;
And when her silence broke at length,
.Still as she spoke she gather'd strength,
And arm'd herself to bear.
It was a fearful sight to see
Such high resolve and constancy
In form so soft and fair.
XXVI I.
' I speak not to impl re j'our grace, —
Well know I, for one minute's space
Successless might I sue :
Nor do I speak your prayers to gain ;
For if a death of lingering pain.
To cleanse my sins, be penance vain.
Vain are your masses too.
I listen'd to a traitor's tale,
I left the convent and the veil ;
For three long years I bow'd mj'
pride,
A horse-boy in his train to ride ;
And well my folly's meed he gave,
Who forfeited, to be his slave.
All here, and all beyond the grave.
He saw young Clara's face more fair,
He knew her of broad lands the
heir,
Forgot his vows, his faith forswore.
And Constance was belov'd no more.
'Tis an old tale, and often told ;
But did my fate and wish agree.
Ne'er had been read, in stor}' old,
Of maiden true betray'd for gold,
That lov'd, or was aveng'd, like
me I
XXVIII.
'The King approv'd his favourite's
aim ;
In vain a rival barr'd his claim.
Whose fate with Clare's was plight,
For he attaints that rival's fame
With treason's charge — and on they
came.
In mortal lists to fight.
II.]
ZU tonnnt
Their oaths are said,
Their prayers are pray'd,
Their lances in the rest arc laid,
They meet in mortal shock ;
And, hark! the throng, with thun-
dering cry.
Shout "Marmion, Marmion ! to the sky,
De Wilton to the block ! "
Say 3'e, who preach Heaven shall
decide
When in the lists two champions ride.
Say, was Heaven's justice here ?
When, loyal in his love and faith,
Wilton found overthrow or death
Beneath a traitor's spear ?
How false the charge,how true he fell,
This guilt3' packet best can tell.'
Then drew a packet from her breast,
Paus'd, gather'd voice, and spoke the
rest.
XX IX.
' Still was false Marmion's bridal staid ;
To Whitby's convent fled the maid,
The hated match to shun.
" Ho ! shifts she thus ? " King Henrj'
cried ;
"Sir Marmion, she shall be thy bride
If she were sworn a nun."
One way remain'd — the King's com-
mand
-Sent Marmion to the Scottish land :
I linger'd here, and rescue plann'd
For Clara and for me :
This caitiff Monk, for gold, did swear
He would to Whitby's shrine repair.
And, by his drugs, m}- rival fair
A saint in heaven should be.
Rut ill the dastard kept his oath,
Whose cowardice has undone us both.
'And now mj- tongue the secret tells
Not that remorse my bosom swells.
Rut to assure my soul that none
Shall ever wed with Marmion.
Had fortune my last hope betray'd.
This packet, to the King convey'd.
Had given him to the headsman's
stroke,
Although my heart that instant broke.
Now, men of death, work forth j-our
will.
For I can sufi'er, and be still :
And come he slow, or come he fast.
It is but Death who comes at last.
'Yet dread me, from my living toml>,
Ye vassal slaves of bloody Rome !
If Marmion's late remorse should
wake.
Full soon such vengcr^if e will he take.
That 3^ou should wish the fiery Dane
Had rather been your guest again.
Behind, a darker hour ascends I
The altars quake, the crosier bends.
The ire of a despotic King
Rides forth upon destruction's wing ;
Then shall these vaults, so strong and
deep
Burst open to the sea-winds' sweep ;
Some traveller then shall find my
bones
Whitening amid disjointed stones.
And, ignorant of priests' cruelty.
Marvel such relics here should be.'
XXXII.
Fix'd was her look, and stern her air:
Back from her shoulders stream'd her
hair ;
The locks, that wont her brow to
shade,
Star'd up erectly from her head ;
Her figure seem'd to rise more high ;
Her voice, despair's wild energy
Had given a tone of prophecj-.
Appall'd the astonish'd conclave sate ;
With stupid eyes, the men of fate
Gaz'd on the light inspired form,
And listen'd for the avenging storm;
The judges felt the victim's dread ;
No hand was mov'd, no word was
said.
112
Q)Urmton.
Till thus the Abbot's doom was given,
Raising his sightless ballsto heaven : —
' Sister, let thy sorrows cease ;
Sinful brother, part in peace ! '
From that dire dungeon, place of
doom,
Of execution too, and tomb,
Pac'd forth the judges three ;
Sorrow it were, and shame, to tell
The butcher-work that there befell.
When they had glided from the cell
Of sin and misery.
XXXIII.
An hundred winding steps convey
That conclave to the upper day ;
But, ere they breath'd the fresher air,
The}' heard the shriekings of despair.
And many a stifled groan :
With speed their upward wa}* thej'
take,
fSuch speed as age and fear can make,)
And cross'd themselves for terror's
sake,
As hurrying, tottering on :
Even in the vesper's heavenl}'' tone,
They seem'd to hear a dying groan.
And bade the passing knell to toll
For welfare of a parting soul.
Slow o'er the midnight wave it swung,
Northumbrian rocks in answer rung ;
To Warkworth cell the echoes roll'd,
His beads the wakeful hermit told.
The Bamborough peasant rais'd his
head,
But slept ere half a prayer he said ;
So far was heard the mighty knell,
The stag sprung up on Cheviot Fell,
Spread his broad nostril to the wind.
Listed before, aside, behind,
Then couch d him down beside the
hind,
And quak'd among the mountain fern.
To hear that sound so dull and stern.
Introduction to Canto
Third.
TO
WILLIAM ERSKINE, ESQ.
Ashesiiel, Ettnck Forest.
Like April morning clouds, that pass,
With varying shadow, o'er the grass.
And imitate, on field and furrow.
Life's chequer'd scene of joj' and
sorrow ;
Like streamlet of the mountain north,
Now in a torrent racing forth,
Now winding slow its silver train.
And almost slumbering on the plain ;
Like breezes of the autumn day.
Whose voice inconstant dies awa}',
And ever swells again as fast.
When the ear deems its murmur past ;
Thus various, my romantic theme
Flits, winds, or sinks, a morning dream.
Yet pleas'd, our eye pursues the trace
Of Light and Shade's inconstant race ;
Pleas'd, views the rivulet afar,
Weaving its maze irregular ;
And pleas'd, we listen as the breeze
Heaves its wild sigh through Autumn
trees :
Then.wild as cloud, or stream, or gale.
Flow on, flow unconfin'd. my Tale !
Need I to thee, dear Erskine, tell
I love the license all too well,
In sounds now lowly, and now strong,
To raise the desultory song ?
Oft, when 'mid such capricious chime.
Some transient fit of lofty rhjnne
To thy kind judgment seem'd excuse
For many an error of the muse,
Oft hast thou said, ' If, still misspent.
Thine hours to poetry are lent,
Go, and to tame thj' wandering course,
Quaff from the fountain at the source ;
Jnfvc^ucfion io Canfo Z^iv^.
Approach those masters, o'er whose
tomb
Immortal laurels ever bloom :
Instructive of the feebler bard,
Still from the grave their voice is
heard ;
From them, and from the paths they
show'd,
Choose honour'd guide and practis'd
road ;
Nor ramble on through brake and
maze,
With harpers rude of barbarous days.
' Or deem'st thou not our later time
Yields topic meet for classic rhyme ?
Hast thou no elegiac verse
For Brunswick's venerable hearse ?
What ! not a line, a tear, a sigh.
When valour bleeds for libertj' ?
Oh, hero of that glorious time.
When, withunrivall'd light sublime, —
Though martial Austria, and though
all
The might of Russia, and the Gaul,
Though banded Europe stood lier
foes — ■
The star of Brandenburgh arose !
Thou couldst not live to see her beam
For ever quench'd in Jena's stream.
Lamented Chief! it was not given
To thee to change the doom of
Heaven,
And crush that dragon in its birth,
Predestin'd scourge of guilty earth.
Lamented Chief! — not thine the power.
To save in that presumptuous hour,
When Prussia hurried to the field,
And snatch'd the spear, but left the
shield !
Valour and skill 'twas thine to trj%
And, tried in vain, "twas thine to die.
Ill had it seem'd thy silver hair
The last, the bitterest pang to share,
For princedoms reft, and scutcheons
riven.
And birthrights to usurpers given ;
Thy land's, thy children's wrongs to
feel.
And witness woes thou couldst not
heal !
On thee relenting Heaven bestows
For honour'd life an honour'd close;
And when revolves, in time's sure
change.
The hour of Germany's revenge.
When, breathing fury for her sake.
Some new Arminius shall awake,
Her champion, erehe strike, shall come
To whet his sword on Brunswick's
tomb.
'Or of the Red-Cross hero teach.
Dauntless in dungeon as on breach :
Alike to him the sea, the shore,
The brand, the bridle, or the oar.
Alike to him the war that calls
Its votaries to the shatter'd walls.
Which the grim Tuik, besmcar'd
with blood.
Against the Invincible made good ;
Or that, whose thundering voice could
wake
The silence of the polar lake,
When stubborn Russ, and metal'd
Swede,
On the warp'd wave their death-game
play'd ;
Or that, where Vengeanceand Affright
Howl'd round the father of the fight.
Who snatch'd, on Alexandria's sand.
The conqueror's wreath with d_ving
hand.
'Or, if to touch such chord be thine.
Restore the ancient tragic line.
And emulate the notes that wrung
From the wild harp, which silent hung
By silver Avon's holy shore,
Till twice an hundred years roll'd
o'er ;
When she, the bold Enchantress, came
With fearless hand and heart on
flame!
114
QYlarntton.
[Canto
From the pale willow snatch'd the
treasure.
And swept it with a kindred measure,
Till Avon's swans, while rung the
grove
With Montfort's hate and Basil's love,
Awakening at the inspired strain,
Deem'd their own Shakspeare liv'd
again.'
The friendship thus thy judgment
wronging
With praises not to me belonging.
In task more meet for mightiest
powers
Wouldst thou engage my thriftless
hours.
Butsaj^mj'Erskine, hast thou weigh 'd
That secret power by all obey'd.
Which warps not less the passive mind.
Its source conceal'd or undefin'd ;
Whether an impulse, that has birth
Soon as the infant wakes on earth.
One with our feelings and our powers,
And rather part of us than ours ;
Or whether fitlier term'd the sway
Of habit, form'd in early daj^ ?
Howe'er deriv'd, its force confest
Rules with despotic sway the breast.
And drags us on by viewless chain,
While taste and reason plead in vain.
Look east, and ask the Belgian whj'.
Beneath Batavia's sultry skj',
He seeks not eager to inhale
The freshness of the mountain gale,
Content to rear his whiten'd wall
Beside the dank and dull canal ?
He'll say, from youth he loved to see
The white sail gliding by the tree.
Or see yon weatherbeaten hind.
Whose sluggish herds before him wind.
Whose tattcr'd plaid and ruggedcheek
His northern clime and kindred speak;
Through England's laughing meads he
goes
And England's wealth around him
flows ;
Ask, if it would content him well,
At ease in those gay plains to dwell,
Where hedge-rows spread a verdant
screen.
And spires and forests intervene.
And the neat cottage peeps between ?
No ! not for these will he exchange
His dark Lochaber's boundless range;
Not for fair Devon's meads forsake
Ben Nevis grey, and Garry's lake.
Thus while I ape the measure wild
Of tales that charm'd me yet a child.
Rude though they be, still with the
chime
Return the thoughts of early time;
And feelings, rous'd in life's first day.
Glow in the line, and prompt the lay.
Then rise those crags, that mountain
tower
Which charm'd my fancy's wakening
hour.
Though no broad river swept along.
To claim, perchance, heroic song ;
Though sigh'd no groves in summer
gale,
To prompt of love a softer tale ;
Though scarce a puny streamlet's speed
Claim'd homage from a shepherd's
reed ;
Yet was poetic impulse given,
Bythegrecn hilland clear blue heaven.
It was a barren scene, and wild.
Where naked cliffs were rudelj' pil'd ;
But ever and anon between
Lay velvet tufts of loveliest green ;
And well the lonely infant knew
Recesses where the wall-flowergrew.
And honej'-suckle lov'd to crawl
Up the low crag and ruin'd wail.
Ideem'dsuch nooks thesweetest shade
The sun in all its round survey'd ;
And still I thought thatshatter'd tower
The mightiest work of human power;
And marvell'd as the aged hind
With some strange tale bewitch'd mj^
mind,
III.]
ZU ^06td, or 5nn.
115
Of forayers, who, with headlong force,
Down from that strength had spurr'd
their horse.
Their southern rapine to renew.
Far in the distant Cheviots bhie,
And, home returning, fill'd the hall
With revel, wassel-rout, and brawl.
Methought that still with trump and
clang
The gateway's broken arches rang ;
Methought grim features, seam'd with
scars,
Glar'd through the window's rusty
bars.
And ever, by the winter hearth,
Old tales I heard of woe or mirth.
Of lovers' slights, of ladies' charms,
Of witches' spells, of warriors' arms ;
Of patriot battles, won of old
By Wallace wight and Bruce the bold;
Of later fields offend and fight.
When, pouring from their Highland
height,
The Scottish clans, in headlong swa\%
Had swept the scarlet ranks away.
While stretch'd at length upon the
floor.
Again I fought each combat o'er.
Pebbles and shells, in order laid.
The mimic ranks of war displa^^'d ;
And onward still the .Scottish Lion bore.
And still the scatter'd Southron fled
before.
Still, with vain fondness, could I
trace.
Anew, each kind familiar face,
That brighten'd at our evening fire !
From the thatch'd mansion's grey-
hair'd Sire,
Wise without learning, plain and good,
And sprung of Scotland's gentler
blood ;
Whose eye, in age, quick, clear, and
keen,
Show'd what in youth its glance had
been ;
Whose doom discording neighbours
sought.
Content with equity unbought ;
To him the venerable Priest,
Our frequent and familiar guest.
Whose life and manners well could
paint
Alike the student and the saint;
Alas I whose speech too oft I broke
With gambol rude and timeless joke :
For I was wayward, bold, and wild,
A self-will'd imp, a grandame's child ;
But half a plague, and half a jest.
Was still endur'd, belov'd, carcss'd.
For me, thus nurtur'd, dost thou ask.
The classic poet's well-conn'd task ?
Nay, Erskine, nay ; on the wild hill
Let the wild heath-bell flourish still ;
Cherish the tulip, prune the vine.
But freely let the woodbine twine.
And leave untrimm'd the eglantine :
Nay, my friend, nay ; since oft th}'
praise
Hath given fresh vigour to m^- lays ;
.Since oft thj' judgment could refine
My fiatten'd thought, or cumbrous line;
Still kind, as is thy wont, attend.
And in the minstrel spare the friend.
Though wildas cloud, asstream, as gale.
Flow forth, flow unrestrain'd, my Tale !
Canto Third.
C6e ^oetd, or 3"n-
The livelong day Lord Marmion rode :
The mountain path the Palmer show'd.
By glen and streamlet winded still.
Where stunted birches hid the rill.
They might not choose the lowland
road,
For the Merse forayers were abroad.
ii6
QlUrinton.
[Canto
Who, fir'd with hate and thirst of
prej-,
Had scarcel}' fail'd to bar their waj\
Oft on the trampling band, from crown
Of some tall clift", the deer look'd
down ;
On wing of jet, from his repose
In the deep heath, the black-cock
rose ;
Sprung from the gorse the timid roc,
\or waited for the bending bow ;
And when the stony path began,
By which the naked peak they wan,
Up flew the snowy ptarmigan.
The noon had long been pass'd before
They gain'd the height of Lammer-
moor ;
Thence winding down the northern
way,
Before them, at the close of day.
Old Gifibrd's towers and hamlet lav.
No summons calls them to the tower,
To spend the hospitable hour.
To Scotland'scamp the Lordwasgone :
His cautious dame, in bower alone.
Dreaded her castle to unclose.
So late, to unknown friends or foes.
On through the hamlet as theypac'd,
Before a porch, whose front was
grac'd
With bush and flagon trimly plac'd,
Lord Marmion drew his rein ;
The village inn seem'd large, though
rude ;
Its cheerful fire and heart3f food
Might well relieve his train.
Down from their seats the horsemen
sprung.
With jingling spurs the court-yard
rung ;
They bind their horses to the stall,
For forage, food, and firing call,
And various clamour fills the hall :
Weighing the labour with tiie cost.
Toils everywhere the bustling host.
Soon, b}' the chimney's merrj' blaze,
Through the rude hostel might you
gaze;
Might see, where, in dark nook aloof.
The rafters of the sooty roof
Bore wealth of winter cheer;
Of sea-fowl dried, and solands store,
And gammons of the tuskj' boar,
And savoury haunch of deer.
The chimney arch projected wide ;
Above, around it, and beside.
Were tools for housewives" hand ;
Nor wanted, in that martial day,
The implements of Scottish fray.
The buckler, lance, and brand.
Beneath its shade, the place of state.
On oaken settle Marmion sate.
And view'd around the blazing hcartli.
His followers mix in noisy mirth ;
Whom with brown ale, in jolly tide.
From ancient vessels ranged aside,
Full actively their host supplied.
Theirs was the glee of martial breast,
And laughter theirs at little jest ;
And oft Lord Marmion deigned to aid.
And mingle in the mirth thej- made ;
For though, with men of high degree,
The proudest of the proud was he,
Yet, train'd in camps, he knew the art
To \vin the soldier's hardy heart.
They love a captain to obey,
Boisterous as March, yet fresh as May;
With open hand, and brow as free,
Lover of wine and minstrelsj^;
Ever the first to scale a tower,
As venturous in a ladj''s bower :
Such buxom chief shall lead his host
From India's fires to Zembla's frost.
Resting upon his pilgrim staff.
Right opposite the Palmer stood ;
His thin dark visage seen but half,
Half hidden bv his hood.
III.]
ZH l^oetd, or ^m.
117
Still fix'd on Marmion was his look,
Which he, who ill such gaze could
brook,
Strove by a frown to quell ;
But not for that, though more than
once
Full met their stern encountering
glance.
The Palmer's visatre fell.
By fits less frequent from the crowd
Was heard the burst of laughter loud ;
For still, as squire and archer star'd
On that dark face and matted beard.
Their glee and game dcclin'd.
All gaz'd at length in silence drear,
Unbroke, save when in comrade's ear
Some yeoman, wondering in his fear,
Thus whisper d forth his mind : —
' .Saint Mary ! saw'st thou e'er such
sight? _
How pale his cheek, his c^'c how
bright.
Whene'er the firebrand's fickle light
Glances beneath his cowl ! /
Full on our Lord he sets his cn'c ;
For his best palfrey, would not I
Endure that sullen scowl.'
But Marmion, as to chase the awe
Which thus had quell'd their hearts
who saw
The ever-var3ring fire-light show
That figure stern and face of woe.
Now call'd upon a squire :
' Fitz-Eustace, know'st thou not some
lay,
To speed the lingering night away •
We slumber by the fire.'
'. So pleaseyou,' thus the youth rejoin'd,
' Our choicest minstrel 's left behind.
Ill may we hope to please your ear.
Accustom'd Constant's strains to hear.
The harp full deftly can he strike,
And wake the lover's lute alike ;
To dear Saint Valentine, no thrush
Sings livelier from a spring-tide bush,
No nightingale her love-lorn tune
More sweetly warbles to the moon.
Woe to the cause, whate'er it be,
Detains from us his melody,
Lavish'd on rocks, and billows stern,
Or duller monks of Lindisfarne.
Now must I venture, as I may,
To sing his favourite roundela3'.'
A mellow voice Fitz-Eustace had.
The air he chose was wild and sad ;
.Such have I heard, in .Scottish land,
Rise from the busy harvest band,
When falls before the mountaineer,
On Lowland plains, the ripend ear.
Now one shrill voice the notes prolong.
Now a wild chorus swells the song :
Oft have I listen'd, and stood still,
As it came soften'd up the hill,
And deem'd it the lament of men
Who languish'd for their native glen ;
And thought how sad would be such
sound
On Susquehana's swampy ground,
Kentucky's wood-encumber'd brake.
Or wild Ontario's boundless lake,
Where heart-sick exiles, in the strain,
Recall'd fair Scotland's hills again 1
SONG.
Where shall the lover rest,
Whom the fates sever
From his true maiden's breast,
Parted for ever ?
Where, through groves deep and high,
.Sounds the far billow,
Where early violets die.
Under the willow.
C7ionis.
Elculoiu, &c. Soft shall be his pillu'.\-.
ii8
QlUtrmton.
[Canto
There, through the summer da}-,
Cool streams are laving ;
There, while the tempests sway,
Scarce are boughs waving ;
There, thy rest shalt thou take,
Parted for ever,
Never again to wake,
Never, O never 1
Clwnis.
Klcu loro, &c. Never, O never !
Where shall the traitor rest.
He, the deceiver,
Who could win maiden's breast.
Ruin, and leave her?
In the lost battle,
Borne down by the flying.
Where mingles war's rattle
With groans of the dying.
Chorus.
Elcn loro, &c. There shall he be lyin§
Her wing shall the eagle flap
O'er the false-hearted ;
His warm blood the wolf shall lap.
Ere life be parted.
.Shame and dishonour sit
By his grave ever;
Blessing shall hallow it.
Never, O never 1
Chorus.
F.lcn loio, &c. Never, O never!
It ceased, the melancholy sound ;
And silence sunk on all around.
The air was sad ; but sadder still
It fell on Marmion's ear.
And plain'd as if disgrace and ill,
And shameful death, w-erc near.
He drew his mantle past his face,
Between it and the band.
And rested with his head a space.
Reclining on his hand.
His thoughts I scan not; but I ween,
That, could their import have been
seen.
The meanest groom in all the hall.
That e'er tied courser to a stall.
Would scarce have wish'd to be their
For Lutterward and Fontenaye,
Xlll.
High minds, of native pride and force.
Most deeply feel thy pangs, Remorse!
Fear, for their scourge, mean villains
have ;
Thou art the torturer of the brave
Yet fatal strength they boast to steel
Their minds to bear the wounds they
feel,
Even while they writhe beneath the
smart
Of civil conflict in the heart.
For soon Lord Marmion raised his head,
And, smiling, to Fitz-Eustace said —
' Is it not strange, that, as ye sung,
Seem'd in mine ear a death-peal rung,
Such as in nunneries they toll
For some departing sister's soul ?
Say, what may this portend?'
Then first the Palmer silence broke
The livelong day he had not spoke^ —
' The death of a dear friend.'
XIV.
Marmion, whose steady heart and eye
Ne'er changed in worst extremit}- ;
Marmion, whose soul could scantly
brook.
Even from his King, a haughty look ;
Whose accent of command controll'd,
In camps, the boldest of the bold-
Thought, look, and utterance fail'd him
now,
Fall'n was his glance, and flush'd his
brow :
For either in the tone.
Or something in the Palmer's look.
So full upon his conscience strook,
That answer he found none.
m.]
ZU ^oefef, at ';^mu
119
Thus oft it haps, that when within
They shrink at sense of secret sin,
A feather daunts the brave ;
A fooFs wild speech confounds the wise,
iVnd proudest princes vail their e3-es
Before their meanest slave.
Well might he falter ! By his aid
Was Constance Beverley betray'd.
Not that he augur'd of the doom,
Which on the living closed the tomb ;
But, tired to hear the desperate maid
Threaten by turns, beseech, upbraid ;
And wroth, because in wild despair,
■She practis'd on the life of Clare;
Its fugitive the Church he gave,
Though not a victim, but a slave;
And deem'drestraintin convent strange
Would hide her wrongs, and her
revenge.
Himself, proud Henry's favourite peer,
Held Romish thunders idle fear.
Secure his pardon he might hold.
For some slight mulct of penance-gold.
Thus judging, he gave secret way,
When the stern priests surpris'd their
prey.
His train but deem'd the favourite page
Was left behind, to spare his age ;
Or other if they deem'd, none dar'd
To mutter what he thought and heard :
Woe to the vassal, who durst pry
Into Lord Marmion's privacy !
His conscience slept — he deem'd her
well,
And safe secured in distant cell ;
But, waken'd by her favourite lay.
And that strange Palmer's boding say,
That fell so ominous and drear
Full on the object of his fear
To aid remorse's venom'd throes.
Dark tales of convent-vengeance rose ;
And Constance, late betray'd and
scorn'd.
All lovely on his soul return'd ;
Lovely as when, at treacherous call,
She left her convent's peaceful wall,
Crimson'd with shame, with terror
mute.
Dreading alike escape, pursuit.
Till love, victorious o'er alarms.
Hid fears and blushes in his arras.
XVII.
' Alas ! ' he thought, ' how changed
that mien I
How changed these timid looks ha\'e
been,
Since ^^ears of guilt, and of disguise,
Have steel'd her brow, and arm'd her
eyes !
No more of virgin terror speaks
The blood that mantles in her cheeks ;
Fierce, and unfeminine, are there,
Frenzy for joy, for grief despair ;
And I the cause — for whom were given
Her peace on earth, her hopes in
heaven !
Would,' thought he, as the picture
grows,
' I on its stalk had left the rose !
Oh, why should man's success remo\e
The very charms that wake his love I
Her convent's peaceful solitude
Is now a prison harsh and rude ;
And, pent within the narrow cell.
How will her spirit chafe and swell !
How brook the stern monastic laws I
The penance how — and I the cause 1
Vigil and scourge — perchance even
worse ! '
And twice he rose to cry, ' To horse ! '
And twice his Sovereign's mandate
came.
Like damp upon a kindling flame ;
And twice he thought, ' Gave I not
charge
She should be safe, though not at
large ?
Thej' durst not, for their island, shred
One golden ringlet from her head.'
QUavmiott.
[Canto
XVIII.
While tlius in Marmion's bosom strove
Repentance and reviving love,
Like whirlwinds, whose contending
sway
I 've seen Loch Vennachar obej',
Their Host the Palmer's speech had
heard.
And, talkative, took up tlic word :
' Ay, reverend Pilgrim, you, who stray
From Scotland's simple land away,
To visit realms afar,
Full often learn the art to know
Of future weal, or future woe,
By word, or sign, or star ;
Yet might a knight his fortune hear,
If, knight-like, he despises fear,
Not far from hence ; — if fathers old
Aright our hamlet legend told.'
I'hese broken words the menials move
( For marvels still the vulgar love) ;
And, Marmion giving license cokl.
His talc the host thus gladly told : —
xix.
Tin: host's tale.
' i\. Clerk could tell what years have
flown
.Since Alexander fill'd our throne
( Third monarch of that warlike name),
And eke the time when here he came
To seek .Sir Hugo, then our lord :
A braver never drew a sword ;
A wiser never, at the hour
Ofmidnight, spoke the word of power :
The same, whom ancient records call
The founder of the Goblin-Hall.
I would, Sir Knight, your longer stay
Gave you that cavern to survey.
Of lofty roof, and ample size,
Beneath the castle deep it lies :
To hew the living rock profound.
The floor to pave, the arch to round,
There never toil'd a mortal arm ;
It all was wrought byword and charm ;
And I have heard my grandsire sa\-,
That the \vild clamour and afl'ray
Of those dread artisans of hell.
Who labour'd under Hugo's spell,
Sounded as loud as ocean's war
Among the caverns of Dunbar.
'The King Lord Gifford's castle sought.
Deep labouring with uncertain thought;
Even then he muster'd all his host,
To meet upon the western coast :
For Norse and Danish galleys plied
Their oars within the frith of Clyde.
There floated Haco's banner trim,
Above Norweyan warriors grim,
Savage of heart, and large of limb ;
Threatening both continent and isle,
Bute, Arran, Cunninghame, and Kyle.
Lord Gifford, deep beneath the ground,
Heard Alexander's bugle sound.
And tarried not his garb to change,
But, in his wizard habit strange.
Came forth, — aquaintandfeariulsight ;
His mantle lined with fox-skins white ;
His high and wrinkled forehead bore
A pointed cap, such as of yore
Clerks say that Pharaoh's Magi wore :
His shoes were mark'd with cross and
spell,
Upon his breast a pentacle ;
His zone, of virgin parchment thin.
Or, as some tell, of dead man's skin,
Bore many a planetary sign.
Combust, and retrograde, and trine;
And in his hand he held prcpar'd,
A naked sword without a guard.
' Dire dealings with the fiendish race
TIad mark'd St range lines upon his face;
Vigil and fast had worn him grim.
His eyesight dazzled seem'd and dim,
As one unus'd to upper day ;
Even his own menials with dismay
Beheld, Sir Knight, the grisly Sire,
In his unwonted wild attire ;
Unwonted, for traditions run.
He seldom thus beheld the sun.
Ill]
ZU ll^o^ti?, or 3nn.
" I know,'' he said — his voice was
hoarse,
And broken seem'd its hollow force, —
" I know the cause, although untold.
Why the King seeks his vassal's hold :
Vainly from me my liege would know
His kingdom's future weal or woe ;
But 3'et, if strong his arm and heart,
His courage may do more than art.
XXII.
' " Of middle air the demons-«roud,
Who ride upon the racking cloud.
Can read, in fix'd or wandering star,
The issue of events afar;
But still their sullen aid withhold,
Save when b^^ mightier force con-
troll'd.
Such late I summon'd to my hall ;
And though so potent was the call
That scarce the deepest nook of hell
I deem'd a refuge from the spell.
Vet, obstinate in silence still,
I'hc haughty demon mocks my skill.
But thou — who little know'st thy
might,
As born upon that blessed night
When yawning graves, and dying
groan,
Proclaira'd hell's empire overthrown —
With untaught valour shalt compel
Response denied to magic spell."
" Gramercy," quoth our Monarch free,
" Place him but front to front with me,
And, by this good and honour'd brand.
The gift of Coeur-de-Lion's hand,
Soothly I swear, that, tide what tkJe,
The (.lemon shall a buffet bide."
His bearing bold the wizard view'd.
And thus, well pleas'd, his speech
renew' d : —
" There spoke the bloodof Malcolm 1 —
mark :
Forth pacing hence, at midnight dark,
The rampart seek, whose circling
crown
Crests the ascent of \-uiKler down :
A southern entrance shalt thou find;
There halt, and there thy bugle wind,
And trust thine elfin foe to see.
In guise of thy worst enemy :
Couch then thy lance, and spur thy
steed —
Upon him ! and Saint George to speed !
If he go down, thou soon shalt know
Whate'er these airy sprites can show;
If thy heart fail thee in the strife,
I am no warrant for thy life."
XXIII.
' Soon as the midnight bell did ring,
Alone, and arm'd, forth rode the King
To that old camp's deserted round :
.Sir Knight, you well might mark the
mound,
Left hand the town, — the Pictish race.
The trench, long since, in blood did
trace ;
The moor around is brown and bare,
The space within is green and fair.
The spot our village children know,
For there the earliest wild-flowers
grow ;
But woe betide the wandering wight,
That treads its circle in the night I
The breadth across, a bowshot clear,
Gives ample space for full career:
Opposed to the four points of heaven,
By four deep gaps are entrance given.
The southernmost our Monarch past.
Halted, and blew a gallant blast ;
And on the north, within the ring,
Appear'd the form of England's King,
Who then, a thousand leagues afar.
In Palestine wag'd holy war :
Yet arms like England's did he \vield.
Alike the leopards in the shield,
I Alike his Syrian courser's frame,
I The rider's length of limb the same :
Long afterwards did Scotland know,
Fell Edward was her deadliest foe.
XXIV.
' The vision made our Monarch start.
But soon he inann'd his noble heart,
QUarntion.
[Canto
And in the first career they ran,
The Elfin Knight fell, horse and
man ;
Yet did a splinter of his lance
Through Alexander's visor glance,
And razed the skin — a piun' wound.
The King, light leaping to the ground.
With naked blade his phantom foe
Compell'd the future war to show.
Of Largs he saw the glorious plain,
Vv^'here still gigantic bones remain,
Memorial of the Danish war;
Himself he saw, amid the field.
On high his brandish"d war-axe wield,
And strike proud Haco from his
car.
While all around the shadowy Kings
Denmark's grim ravens cower'd their
wings,
"lis said, that, in that awful night,
Remoter visions met his sight.
Foreshowing future conquests far,
Wiien our sons' sons wage northern
war ;
A royal city, tower and spire,
Redden'd the midnight sky with fire.
And shouting crews her navy bore,
Triumphant, to the victor shore.
Such signs may learned clerks explain,
They pass the wit of simple swain.
' The joyful King turn'd home again.
Headed his host, and quell'd the Dane ;
But yearly, when return'd the night
Of his strange combat with the sprite,
His wound must bleed and smart ;
Lord Giftord then \vould gibing say,
'■ Bold as ye were, my liege, ye pay
The penance of your start."
Long since, beneath Dunfermline's
nave,
King Alexander fills his grave ;
Our Lady give him rest !
Yet still the knightly spear and shield
The Elfin Warrior doth wield.
Upon the brown hill's breast ;
And many a knight hath prov'd his
chance.
In the charm'd ring to break a lance,
But all have foully sped ;
.Save two, as legends tell, and they
Were Wallace wight, and Gilbert Hay.
Gentles, my tale is said.'
XXVI.
The quaiglis were deep, the liquor
strong.
And on the tale the yeoman-throng
Had made a comment sage and long,
But Marmion gave a sign :
And, with their lord, the squires retire;
The rest, around the hostel fire.
Their drowsy limbs recline ;
For pillow, underneath each head,
The quiver and the targe were laid.
Deep slumbering on the hostel floor,
Oppress'd with toil and ale, they snore:
The dying flame, in fitful change,
Threw on the group its shadows
strange.
xxvn.
Apart, and nestling in the hay
Of a waste loft, Fitz-Eustace lay;
Scarce, by the pale moonlight, were
seen
The foldings of his mantle green :
Lightly he dreamt, as youth will
dream.
Of sport by thicket, or by stream ;
Of hawk or hound, of ring or glove,
Or, lighter yet, of lady's love.
A cautious tread his slumber broke,
And, close beside him, when he woke,
In moonbeam half, and half in gloom,
Stood a tall form, with nodding plume ;
But, ere his dagger Eustace drew.
His master Marmion's voice he knew.
' Fitz-Eustace ! rise, I cannot rest ;
Yon churl's wild legend haunts my
breast,
Ill]
ZU 5o0<cF, or 3nn.
And graver thoughts have chafed my
mood :
The air must cool mj' feverish blood;
And fain would I ride forth, to see
The scene of elfin chivalry.
Arise, and saddle me my steed ;
iVnd, gentle Eustace, take good heed
Thou dost not rouse these drowsy
slaves ;
I would not, that the prating knaves
Had cause for saying, o'er their ale.
That I could credit such a tale.' —
Then softly down the steps they slid,
Eustace the stable door undid,
i\nd, darkling, Marmion's steed
array'd,
Wliile, whispering, thus the Baron
said : —
XXIX.
'Didst never, good mv vouth, hear
tell.
That on the hour when 1 was born,
Saint George, who graced my sire's
chapelle,
Down from his steed of marble fell,
A weary wight forlorn ?
The flattering chaplains all agree.
The champion left his steed to me.
I would, the omen's truth to show,
That I could meet this Elfin Foe I
Blithe would I battle, for the right
To ask one question at the sprite :
Vain thought ! for elves, if elves there
be,
An^empty race, by fount or sea,
To dashing waters dance and sing.
Or round the green oak wheel their
ring.'
Thus speaking, he his steed bestrode.
And from the hostel slowly rode.
Fitz-Eustace followed him abroad.
And mark'd him pace the village
road,
And listen'd to his horse's tramp,
Till, by the lessening sound,
He judg'd that of the Pictish camp
Lord Marmion sought the round.
Wonder it seem'd, in the squire's eyes,
That one, so wary held, and wise, —
Of whom 'twas said he scarce received
For gospel what the church be-
lieved,—
Should, stirr'd by idle tale.
Ride forth in silence of the night,
As hoping half to meet a sprite,
Array'd ki plate and mail.
For little did Fitz-Eustace know.
That passions, in contending flow,
Unfix the strongest mind ;
Wearied from doubt to doubt to flee,
We welcome fond credulitii'.
Guide confident, though blind.
XXXI.
Little for this Fitz-Eustace car'd,
But, patient, waited till he heard,
At distance, prick'd to utmost speed,
The foot-tramp of a flying steed.
Come town-ward rushing on ;
First, dead, as if on turf it trode.
Then, clattering on the village road ; —
In other pace than forth he yode,
Return'd Lord Marmion.
Down hastily he sprung from selle.
And, in his haste, wellnigh he fell;
To the squire's hand the rein he threw,
And spoke no word as he withdrew:
But 3'et the moonlight did betray,
The falcon-crest was soil'd with clay;
And plainly might Fitz-Eustace see,
By stains upon the charger's knee.
And his left side, that on the moor
He had not kept his footing sure.
Long musing on these wondroussigns.
At length to rest the squire reclines.
Broken and short ; for still, between,
Would dreams of terror intervene.
Eustace did ne'er so blithely mark
The first notes of the morning lark.
124
QHatrmiott.
Introduction to Canto
Fourth.
JAMES SKENE, Esq.
Ashestiel, Ettrick Forest.
An ancient Minstrel sagclj' said
• Where is the life which late we led!'
That motley clown in Arden wood,
Whom humorous Jaques with envy
view'd,
Not even that clown could amplify
On this trite text so long as I.
Eleven years we now may tell,
Since we have known each other well ;
Since, riding side by side, our hand
First drew the voluntary brand ;
And sure, through many a variedscene,
Unkindness never came between.
Away these winged years have flown,
To join the mass of ages gone ;
And though deep mark'd, like all below.
With chequer'd shades ofjoyandwoc ;
Though thou o'er realms and seas hast
rang'd,
Mark'd cities lost, and empires chang'd,
While here, at home, my narrower ken
Somewhat of manners saw, and men ;
Though varying wishes, hopes, and
fears,
Fever'd the progress of these years,
Yetnow, days, weeks, and months, but
seem
The recollection of a dream, —
So still we glide down to the sea
Of fathomless eternity.
Even now it scarcely seems a day.
Since first I tuned this idle lay ;
A task so often thrown aside.
When leisure graver cares denied.
That now, November's dreary gale.
Whose voice inspir'd my opening tale.
That same November gale once more
Whirls the dryleaveson Yarrovvshorc.
Their vex'd boughs streaming to the
sky,
Once more our naked birches sigh,
And Blackhouse heights, and Ettrick
Pen,
Have donn'd their wintry shrouds
again :
And mountain dark, and flooded mead,
Bid us forsake the banks of Tweed.
Earlier than wont along the sky,
Mix'd with the rack, the snow mists
«y;
The shepherd, who in summer sun.
Had something of our envy won,
As thou with pencil, I with pen,
The features trac'd of hill and glen;—
He who, outstretch'd the livelong day,
At ease among the heath-flowers lay,
View'd the light clouds with vacant
look.
Or slumber'd o'er his tatter'd book.
Or idly busied him to guide
His angle o'er the lessen'd tide ; —
At midnight now, the snowy plain
Finds sterner labour for the swain.
When red hath set the beamless sun.
Through heavy vapours dark and dun ;
When the tir'd ploughman, dry and
warm,
Hears, half asleep, the rising storm
Hurling the hail, and sleeted rain,
Against the casement's tinkling pane;
The sounds that drive wild deer, and
fox,
To shelter in the brake and rocks,
Are warnings which the shepherd ask
To dismal and to dangerous task.
Oft he looks forth, and hopes, in vain.
The blast may sink in mellowing rain ;
Till, dark above, and white below.
Decided drives the flaky snow,
And forth the hardy swain must go.
Long, with dejected look and whine,
To leave the hearth his dogs repine ;
Whistling and cheering them to aid,
Aroundhis back he wreathes the plaid:
5nfroiudton to Canto ^ouvt^.
His flock he gathers, and he guides,
To open downs, and mountain-sides.
Where fiercest though the tempest
blow,
Least deeply lies the drift below.
The blast, that whistles o'er the fells,
Stiffens his locks to icicles ;
Oft he looks back, while, streaming far.
His cottage window seems a star, —
Loses its feeble gleam, — and then
Turns patient to the blast again,
And, facing to the tempest's sweep,
Drives through the gloom his lagging
sheep.
If fails his heart, if his limbs fail,
Benumbing death is in the gale :
His paths, his landmarks, all unknown.
Close to the hut, no more his own,
Close to the aid he sought in vain,
The morn maj' find the stiften'd swain :
The widow sees, at dawning pale.
His orphans raise their feeble wail ;
And, close beside him, in the snow,
Poor Yarrow, partner of their woe.
Couches upon his master's breast.
And licks his cheek to break his rest.
Who envies now the shepherd's lot.
His healthy fare, his rural cot,
His summer couch by greenwood tree,
His rustic kirn's loud revelrj^
His native hill-notes, tun'd on high,
To Marion of the blithesome eye ;
His crook, his scrip, his oaten reed.
And all Arcadia's golden creed ?
Changes not so with us, my Skene,
Of human life the varj'ing scene 1
Our youthful summer oft we see
Dance by on wings of game and glee.
While the dark storm reserves its
rage.
Against the winter of our age :
As he, the ancient Chief of Troy,
His manhood spent in peace and joj' ;
But Grecian fires, and loud alarms,
Call'd ancient Priam forth to arms.
Then happy those, since each must
drain
His share of pleasure, share of pain, —
Then happj- those, beloved of Heaven,
To whom the mingled cup is given ;
Whose lenient sorrows find relief,
Whosejoysarechasten'dbj'their grief.
And such a lot, my Skene, was thine.
When thou of late wcrt doom'd to
twine.
Just when thj^ bridal hour was by.
The cypress with the mj'rtle tie.
Just on thy bride her Sire had smil'd.
And bless'd the union of his child.
When lo\'c must change its joyous
cheer.
And wipe aftection's filial tear.
Nor did the actions next his end,
Speak more the father than the friend :
Scarce had lamented Forbes paid
The tribute to his Minstrel's shade;
The tale of friendship scarce was told.
Ere the narrator's heart was cold :
Far ma}' we search before we find
A heart so manlj' and so kind !
But not around his honour'd urn,
Shall friends aloneand kindred mourn ;
The thousand eyes his care had dried.
Pour at his name a bitter tide ;
And frequent falls the grateful dew,
For benefits the world ne'er knew.
If mortal charit}' dare claim
The Almighty's attributed name,
Inscribe above his mouldering clay
'The widow's shield, the orphan's stay.'
Nor, though it wake thy sorrow, deem
My verse intrudes on this sad theme ;
For sacred was the pen that wrote,
' Thy father's friend forget thou not :'
And grateful title maj'' I plead,
For many a kindly -word and deed.
To bring my tribute to his grave :
'Tis little, but 'tis all I have.
To thee, perchance, this rambling
strain
Recalls our summer walks again ;
126
QUavittton.
[Canto
When, doing nought — and, to speak
true.
Not anxious to find aught to do —
The wild unbounded hills \vc rang'd.
While oft our talk its topic chang'd,
And, desultory as our way,
Rang'd, unconfin'd, from grave to gay.
Even when itflagg'd,asoft will chance.
No effort made to break its trance,
We could right pleasantly pursue
Our sports in social silence too ;
Thou gravely labouring to portra3^
The blighted oak's fantastic spray;
I spelling o'er, with much delight,
The legend of that antique knight,
Tirante by name, yclep'd the White.
At cither's feet a trusty squire,
Pandourand Camp, with ej'es of fire,
Jealous, each other's motions view'd.
And scarce suppress'd their ancient fend.
The laverock whistled from the cloud ;
The stream was lively, but not loud ;
From the white thorn the May-flower
shed
Its dewy fi'agrance round our head :
Not Ariel lived more merrily
Under the blossom'd bough, than we.
And blithesome nights, too, have
been ours.
When Winter stript the summer's
bowers.
Careless we heard, what now I hear,
The wild blast sighing deep and drear,
When fires were bright, and lamps
beam'd gaj'.
And ladies tun'd the lovely lay ;
And he was held a laggard soul,
Who shunn'd to quaff the sparkling
bowl.
Then he, whose absence we deplore.
Who breathes the gales of Devon's shore.
The longer miss'd, bewail'd the more ;
And thou, and I, and dear-loved Rae',
And one whose name I may not say-,- —
1 Sir WiUiam Rae of St. Catharine's, Bart., subse-
quently Lord Advocate of Scotland.
2 Sir William Forbes of Pitsligo, Bart.
For not Mimosa's tender tree
Shrinks sooner from the touch than
he,—
In merry chorus well combin'd,
V/ith laughter drown'd the whistling
wind.
Mirth was within ; and Care without
Might gnawher nails to hear ourshout.
Not but amid the buxom scene
Some grave discourse might inter-
vene—
Of the good horse that bore him best,
His shoulder, hoof, and arching crest :
For, like mad Tom's, our chiefest care.
Was horse to ride, and weapon wear.
Such nights we 've had ; and, though
the game
Of manhood be more sober tame.
And though the field-day, or the drill,
Seem less important now — yet still
Such may we hope to share again.
The sprightly thought inspires my
strain !
And mark, how, like a horseman true,
Lord Marmion's march I thus renew.
Canto Fourth.
I.
Eustace, I said, did blithely mark
The first notes of the merry lark.
The lark sang shrill, the cock he crew,
And loudly Marmion's bugles blew,
And with their light and lively call
Brought groom and yeoman to the
stall.
Whistling they came, and free of
heart,
But soon their mood was chang'd;
Complaint was heard on every part,
Of something disarrang'd.
Some clamour'd loud for armour lost;
Some brawl'd and wrangled with the
host J
IV.]
Z^i tamp.
127
' By Becket's bones,' cried one, ' I
fear,
That some false Scot has stolen 1113-
spear 1 '
Young Blount, Lord Marmion's second
squire,
Found his steed wet with sweat and
mire ;
Although the rated horse-boy sware,
Last night he dress'd him sleek and
fair.
While chaf d the impatient squire, like
thunder
Old Hubert shouts in fear and won-
der—
' Help, gentle Blount I help, comrades
all!
Bevis lies d3'ing in his stall :
To Marmion who the plight dare tell,
Of the good steed he lo\es so well ? '
Gaping for fear and ruth, they saw
The charger panting on his straw ;
Till one, who ■would seem wisest,
cried —
' What else but evil could betide.
With that cursed Palmer for our
guide ?
Better we had through mire and bush
Been lantern-led bv Friar Rush.'
Fitz-Eustace, who the cause but
guess'd,
Nor wholly understood.
His comrades' clamorous plaints
suppress'd, —
He knew Lord Marmion's mood.
Him, ere he issu'd forth, he sought.
And found deep plung'd in gloomy
thought,
And did his tale display
Simply as if he knew of nought
To cause such disarray.
Lord Marmion gave attention cold.
Nor marvell'd at the wonders told, —
Pass'd them as accidents of course,
And bade his clarions sound to horse.
Young Henry Blount, meanwhile, the
cost
Had reckon'd with their Scottish host;
And, as the charge he cast and paid,
' III thou deserv'st thy hire,' he said ;
' Dost see, thou knave, my horse's
plight?
Fairies have ridden him all the night,
And left him in a foam !
I trust that soon a conjuring band.
With English cross, and blazing brand.
Shall drive the devils from this land.
To their infernal home :
For in this haunted den, I trow,
All night the}^ trample to and fro.'
The laughing host look'd on the hire, —
' Gramercy, gentle southern squire.
And if thou comest among the rest,
With Scottish broadsword to be blest.
Sharp be the brand, and sure the blow.
And short the pang to undergo.'
Here stay'd their talk, — for Marmion
Gave now the signal to set on.
The Palmer showing forth the wa}-,
They journe\^"d all the morning day.
IV.
The green-sward way was smooth and
good.
Through Humbie's and through Sal-
toun's wood ;
A forest glade, which, varj-ing still.
Here gave a view of dale and hiil,
There narrower clos'd, till over head
A vaulted screen the branches made.
' A pleasant path,' Fitz-Eustace said ;
' Such as where errant-knights might
see
Adventures of high chivalry ;
Might meet some damsel flying fast,
With hair unbound, and looks aghast ;
And smooth and level course were here,
In her defence to break a spear.
Here, too, are twilight nooksand dells ;
And oft, in such, the storj' tells,
The damsel kind, from danger freed,
Did grateful pay her champion's meed.'
128
Qllanttton.
[Canto
He spoke to cheer Lord Marmion's
mind :
Perchance to show his lore design'd ;
For Eustace much had por'd
Upon a huge romantic tome,
In the hall window of his home,
Imprinted at the antique dome
Of Caxton, or De Worde.
Therefore he spoke, — but spoke in vain,
For Marmion answer'd nought again.
V.
Now sudden, distant trumpets shrill.
In notes prolong'd bj' wood and hill.
Were heard to echo far;
Each ready archer grasp'd his bow.
Rut by the flourish soon the}^ know,
Thej' breath'd no point of war.
Yet cautious, as in foeman's land.
Lord Marmion"sorder speeds the band.
Some opener ground to gain ;
And scarce a furlong had they rode.
When thinner trees, receding, show'd
A little woodland plain.
Just in that advantageous glade.
The halting troop a line had made.
As forth from the opposing shade
Issu'd a gallant train.
VI.
First came the trumpets, at whose clang
So late the forest echoes rang ;
On prancing steeds thej- forward
press'd,
With scarlet mantle, azure vest ;
Each at his trump a banner wore.
Which Scotland's royal scutcheon
bore:
Heralds and pursuivants, by name
Bute, Islaj', Marchmount, Rolhsay,
came.
In painted tabards, proudly showing
Oules, Argent, Or, and Azure glowing,
Attendant on a King-at-arms,
Whose hand the armorial truncheon
held.
That feudal strife had often quell'd.
When wildest its alarms.
He was a man of middle age ;
In aspect manlj-, grave, and sage,
As on King's errand come ;
But in the glances of his eye,
A penetrating, keen, and slj'
Expression found its home ;
The flash of that satiric rage.
Which, bursting on the early stage.
Branded the vices of the age.
And broke the keys of Rome.
On milk-white palfrey forth he pac'd;
His cap of maintenance was grac'd
With the proud heron-plume.
From his steed's shoulder, loin, and
breast.
Silk housings swept the ground.
With Scotland's arms, device, and
crest,
Embroider'd round and round.
The double tressure might j'ou see,
First by Achaius borne.
The thistle and the fleur-de-lis,
And gallant unicorn.
So blight the King's armorial coat,
Thatscarcethe dazzled eye could note.
In living colours, blazon'd brave,
The Lion, which his title gave.
A train, which well besecm'd his slate,
But all unarm'd, around him wait.
Still is thy name in high account.
And still thy verse has charms.
Sir David Lindesay of the Mount,
Lord Lion King-at-arms !
VIII.
Down from his horse did Marmion
spring,
Soon as he saw the Lion-King ;
For well the stately Baron knew
To him such courtesy was due,
Whom royal James himself had
crown'd,
And on his temples plac'd the round
Of Scotland's ancient diadem :
And wet his brow with hallow'd wine.
And on his finger given to shine
The emblematic gem.
IV.]
t$t tamip.
129
Their mutual greetings dulj' made,
J'he Lion tlius his message said : —
' Though Scotland's King hath deeply
swore
Ne'er to knit faith with Henry more,
And strictly hath forbid resort
From England to his royal court ;
Yet, for he knows Lord Marmion's
name,
And honours much his warlike fame,
My liege hath deem'd it shame, and lack
Of courtesy, to turn him back ;
And, by his order, I, your guide,
Must lodging fit and fair provide,
Till finds King James meet time to see
The llower of English chivalry.'
Though inly chaf'd at this delay.
Lord Marmion bears it as he may.
The Palmer, his mysterious guide,
Beholding thus his place supplied,
Sought to take leave in vain :
Strict was the Lion-King's command.
That none, who rode in Marmion's
band.
Should sever from the train :
' England has here enow of spies
In Lady Heron's witching eyes:'
To Marchmount thus, apart, he said.
But fair pretext to Marmion made.
The right-hand path they now decline,
And trace against the stream the Tyne.
At length up that wild dale thej'wind,
Where Crichtoun Castle crowns the
bank ;
For there the Lion's care assign'd
A lodging meet for Marmion's rank.
That Castle rises on the steep
Of the green vale of Tyne:
And far beneath, where slow they
creep.
From pool to eddy, dark and deep,
Where aldersmoist,andwillows weep.
You hear her streams repine.
The towers in different ages rose ;
Their various architecture shows
The builders' various hands;
A mighty mass, that could oppose.
When deadliest hatred fir'd its foes,
The vengeful Douglas bands.
XI.
Crichtoun I though now thy miry court
But pens the lazy steer and sheep,
Thy turrets rude, and totter'd Keep,
Have been the minstrel's lov'd resort.
Oft have I trac'd, within thy fort,
Of mouldering shields the mystic
sense.
Scutcheons of honour, or pretence,
Ouarter'd in old armorial sort,
Remains of rude magnificence ;
Nor wholly 3'et had time defac'd
Thy lordly gallery fair ;
Nor yet the stony cord unbrac'd,
Whosetwistedknots, with roses lac'd,
Adorn thy ruin'd stair.
Still rises unimpair'd below,
The court-yard's graceful portico ;
Above its cornice, row and row
Of fair hewn facets richly show
Their pointed diamond form,
Though therebut houseless cattle go
To shield them from the storm.
And, shuddering, still may we
explore,
Where oft whilom were captives
pent,
The darkness of thy Massy More ;
Or, from thy grass-grown battle-
ment,
Maj' trace, in undulating line,
The sluggish mazes of the Tyne.
Another aspect Crichtoun show'd,
As through its portal Marmion rode ;
But yet 'twas melancholy state
Received him at the outer gate ;
For none were in the Castle then.
But women, boys, or aged men.
I30
QUavmton.
[Canto
With eyes scarce dried, the sorrowing
dame
To welcome noble Marmion came ;
Her son, a stripling twelve years old,
Proffer'd the Baron's rein to hold ;
For each man that could draw a
sword
Had march'd tliat morning with their
lord,
Earl Adam Hepburn, — he who died
On Flodden, by his sovereign's side.
Long ma\' his Lady look in vain I
She ne'er shall sec his gallant train,
Come sweeping back through Crich-
toun-Dean.
'Twas a brave race, before the name
Of hated Bothwell stain'd their fame.
XIII.
And here two days did Marmion rest,
With every rite that honour claims
Attended as the King's own guest : —
Such the command of Royal James,
Who marshall'd then his land's array,
Upon the Borough-moor that lay.
Perchance he would not foeman's ej'e
Upon his gathering host should prj-,
Till full prepar'd was every band
To march against the English land.
Here while they dwelt, did Lindesaj''s
wit
Oft cheer the Baron's moodier fit ;
And, in his turn, he knew to prize
Lord Marmion's powerful mind, and
wise, —
Train'd in the lore of Rome and
Greece,
And policies of war and peace.
XIV.
It chanc'd, as fell the second night,
That on the battlements they walk'd.
And, by the slowly fading light,
Of varying topics talk'd ;
And, unaware, the Herald-bard
Said Marmion might his toil have
spar'd,
In travelling so far;
For that a messenger from heaven
In vain to James had counsel given
Against the English war ;
And, closer questiond, thus he told
A tale which chronicles of old
In Scottish story have enroll'd : —
XV.
SIR DAVID LINDESAy's TALE.
* Of all the palaces so fair,
Built for the ro3'al dwelling.
In Scotland, far beyond compare
Linlithgow is excelling;
And in its park in jovial June,
How sweet the merry linnet's tune,
How blithe the blackbird's laj- !
The wild-buck bells from fernj' brake,
The coot dives nierrj' on the lake ;
The saddest heart might pleasure take
To see all nature gay.
But June is to our sovereign dear
The heaviest month in all the year :
Too well his cause of grief you know,
June saw his father's overthrow.
Woe to the traitors, who could bring
The princely boy against his King !
Still in his conscience burns the sting.
In offices as strict as Lent,
King James's June is ever spent.
XVI.
' When last this ruthful month was
come
And in Linlithgow's holy dome
The King, as wont, was praying;
While, for his royal father's soul,
The chanters sung, the bells did toll,
The Bishop mass was saj'ing —
For now the year brought round again
The day the luckless king was slain —
In Katharine's aisle the Monarch
knelt,
With sackcloth-shirt, and iron belt,
And eyes with sorrow streaming ;
Around him in their stalls of state,
The Thistle's Knight-Companions
sate,
Their banners o'er them beaming.
IV.]
Z^t Ccimp.
131
I too was there, and, sooth to tell,
Bedeafon'd with the jangling knell,
Was watching where the sunbeams
fell.
Through the stain'd casement
gleaming;
But, while Imark'dwhat next befell,
It seem'd as I were dreaming.
Stepp'd from the crowd a ghostly wight.
In azure gown, with cincture white;
His forehead bald, his head was bare,
Down hung at length his j^ellow hair.
Now, mock me not, when, good 013-
Lord,
I pledge to j-ou my knightly word,
That, when I saw his placid grace.
His simple majest\^ efface.
His solemn bearing, and his pace
So stately gliding on,
Seem'd to me ne'er did limner paint
So just an image of the Saint
Who propp'd the Virgin in her faint.
The lo\'ed Apostle John '.
' He stepp'dbefore the Monarch's chair.
And stood with rustic plainness there.
And little reverence made ;
Nor head, nor body, bow'd nor bent,
But on the desk his arm he leant.
And words like these he said.
In a low voice, but never tone
So thrill'd through vein, and ner\e,
and bone :
" My mother sent me from afar,
Sir King, to warn thee not to war ;
Woe waits on thine array ;
If war thou wilt, of woman fair,
Her witching wiles and wanton snare,
James Stuart, doubly warn'd, beware :
C'lod keep thee as he may ! "
The wondering Monarch seem'd to
seek
For answer, and found none ;
And when he rais'd his head to
speak.
The monitor was frone.
The Marshal and myself had cast
To stop him as he outward pass'd ;
But, lighter than the whirlwind's
blast,
He vanish'd from our ej'cs.
Like sunbeam on the billow cast,
That glances but, and dies.' —
XVIII.
While Lindesaj' told his mar\el
strange,
The twilight was so pale.
He mark'd jiot Marmion's colour
change.
While listening to the tale;
But, after a suspended pause.
The Baron spoke : ' Of Nature'slaws
So strong I held the force.
That never superhuman cause
Could e'er control their course.
And, three days since, had judg'd
your aim
Was but to make your guest your
game.
But I have seen, since past the Tweed,
What much has chang'd m\' sceptic
creed.
And made me credit aught.' He staid ;
And seem'd to wish his words unsaid :
But, by that strong emotion press'd.
Which prompts us to unload our breast,
Even when discovery 's pain.
To Lindesay did at length unfold
The tale his village host had told.
At GifTord, to his train.
Nought of the Palmer sa\'s he there.
And nought of Constance, or of Clare;
The thoughts, which broke his sleep,
he seems
To mention but as feverish dreams.
XIX.
' In vain,' said he, ' to rest I spread
My burning limbs, and couch'd mj'
head :
Fantastic thoughts return'd ;
And, by their wild dominion led,
My heart \vithin me burn'd.
F 2
132
QUavmton.
[Canto
So sore ■was the delirious goad,
I took my steed, and forth I rode,
And, as the moon shone bright and cold,
Soon reach'd the camp upon the \vold.
The southern entrance I pass'd through.
And halted, and m\' bugle blew.
Methought an answer met my ear;
Yet was the blast so low and drear.
So hollow, and so faintly blown.
It might be echo of my own.
XX.
' Thus judging, for a little space
I listen'd, ere I left the place ;
But scarce could trust my eyes,
Nor yet can think they serv'd me true
When sudden in the ring I view.
In form distinct of shape and hue,
A mounted champion rise.
I 've fought, Lord-Lion, many a da}-,
In single fight, and mix'd aflVay,
And ever, I myself may say.
Have borne me as a knight ;
But when this unexpected foe
Seem'd starting from the gulf below —
I care not though the truth I show —
I trembled with aft'right ;
And as I plac'd in rest my spear,
M}' hand so shook for very fear,
I scarce could couch it right.
XXI.
* Why need my tongue the issue tell ?
We ran our course, — my charger fell ;
What could he 'gainst the shock of
hell ?
I roll'd upon the plain.
High o'er my head, with threatening
hand,
The spectre shook his naked brand ;
Yet did the worst remain :
My dazzled ej'es I upward cast, —
Not opening hell itself could blast
Their sight, like what I saw I
Full on his face the moonbeam strook, —
A face could never be mistook !
I knew the stern vindictive look,
And held my breath for awe.
I saw the face of one who, fled
To foreign climes, has long been
dead, — •
I well believe the last;
For ne'er, from vizor rais'd, did stare
A human warrior, with a glare
So grimly and so ghast.
Thrice o'er my head he shook the
blade ;
But when to good Saint George I
pray'd,
(The first lime ere I ask'd his aid,)
He plung'd it in the sheath ;
And, on his courser mounting light,
He seem'd to vanish from my sight :
The moonbeam droop'd, and deepest
night
Sunk down upon the heath.
'Twerelongtotell what cause I have
To know his face, that met me
there,
Call'd by his hatred from the grave.
To cumber upper air :
Dead or alive, good cause had he
To be my mortal enemy.'
Marvell'd Sir David of the Mount ;
Then, learn'd in story, 'gan recount
Such chance had happ'd of old.
When once, near Norham, there did
fight,
A spectre fell of fiendish might.
In likeness of a Scottish knight.
With Brian Buhner bold,
And train'd him nigh to disallow
The aid of his baptismal vow.
'And such a phantom, too, 'tis said.
With Highland broadsword, targe,
and plaid.
And fingers, red with gore,
Is seen in Rothiemurcus glade.
Or where the sable pine-trees shade
Dark Tomantoul, and Auchnaslaid,
Dromouchty, or Glenmore.
And yet, whate'er such legends say,
Of warlike demon, ghost, or fay,
IV.]
Z^i Cam^).
133
On mountain, moor, or plain.
Spotless in faith, in bosom bold,
True son of chivalry should hold.
These midnight terrors vain ;
For seldom have such spirits power
To harm, save in the evil hour.
When guilt we meditate within,
Or harbour unrepented sin.'
Lord Marmion turn'd him half aside.
And twice to clear his voice he tried,
Then press'd Sir David's hand, —
But nought, at length, in answer said ;
And here their farther converse staid,
Each ordering that his band
Should bowne them with the rising
day.
To Scotland's camp to take their
way.
Such was the King's command.
Early they took Dun-Edin's road ;
And I could trace each step they
trode :
Hill, brook, nor dell, nor rock, nor
stone.
Lies on the path to me unknown.
Much might it boast of storied lore ;
But. passing such digression o'er.
Suffice it that the route was laid
Across the furzy hills of Braid.
They pass'd the glen and scanty rill,
And climb'd the opposing bank, until
They gain'd the top of Blackford Hill.
Blackford! on whose uncultur'dbreast,
Among the broom, and thorn, and
whin,
A truant-boy, I sought the nest,
Or listed, as I lay at rest,
While rose, on breezes thin,
The murmur of the citj' crowd.
And, fnim his steeple jangling loud.
Saint Giles's mingling din.
Now, from the summit to the plain,
"Waves all the hill with yellow grain;
And o'er the landscape as I look,
Nought do I see unchang'd remain.
Save the rude cliffs and chiming
brook.
To me they make a heavy moan.
Of early friendships past and gone.
But different far the change has been,
.Since Marmion, from the crowm
Of Blackford, saw that martial scene
Upon the bent so brown :
Thousand pavilions, white as snow.
Spread all the Borough-moor below.
Upland, and dale, and down —
A thousand did I say? I ween,
Thousands on thousands there were
seen,
That chequer'd all the heath between
The streamlet and the town ;
In crossing ranks extending far.
Forming a camp irregular ;
Oft giving way, where still there stood
Some relics of the old oak wood,
That darkly huge did intervene.
And tam'd the glaring white with
green :
In these extended lines there lay
A martial kingdom's vast array.
For from Hebudes, dark with rain.
To eastern Lodon's fertile plain.
And from the southern Redswirc edge,
To farthest Rosse's rocky ledge ;
From west to east, from south to north,
Scotland sent all her warriors forth.
Marmion might hear the mingled hum
Of myriads up the mountain come ;
The horses' tramp, and tingling clank.
Where chiefs review'd their vassal rank,
And charger's slirilling neigh ;
And see the shifting lines advance.
While frequent flash'd, from shield and
lance.
The sun's retlected raj'.
134
QUarmtcn.
[Canto
Thin curling in the morning air,
The wreaths of faihng smoke declare
To embers now the brands decay'd,
Where the night-watch their fires had
made.
They saw, slow rolling on the plain.
Full many a baggage-cart and wain,
And dire artillery's clumsy car,
By sluggish oxen tugg'd to war ;
And there were Borthwick's Sisters
Seven,
And culverins which France had
given.
Ill-omen"d gift ! the guns remain
The conqueror's spoil on Flodden
plain.
Nor mark'd they less, where in the
air
A thousand streamers flaunted fair ;
Various in shape, device, and hue.
Green, sanguine, purple, red, and
blue,
Broad, narrow, swallow-tail'd, and
square.
Scroll, pennon, pensil, bandrol, there
O'er the pavilions ilcw.
Highest and midmost, was descried
The roj'al banner floating wide ;
The staff, a pine-tree, strong and
straight,
Pitch'd deeply in a massive stone,
Which still in memory is shown.
Yet bent beneath the standard's
weight
Whene'er the western wind nn-
roll'd,
With toil, the huge and cumbrous
fold.
And gave to view the dazzling field.
Where, in proud Scotland's royal
shield.
The ruddy lion ramp'd in gold.
XXIX.
Lord Marmion view'd the landscape
bright.
He view'd it with a chief's delight.
Until within him burn'd his heart,
And lightning from his eye did part,
As on the battle-day;
Such glance did falcon never dart.
When stooping on his prey.
' Oh I well, Lord-Lion, hast thou said.
Thy King from warfare to dissuade
Were but a vain essay ;
For, by St. George, were that host
mine.
Not power infernal nor divine.
Should once to peace my soul incline,
Till I had dimm'd their armour's shine
In glorious battle-fray I '
Answcr'd the Bard, of milder mood :
• Fair is the sight, — and yet 'twere
good.
That kings would think withal,
When peace and wealth their land
has blcss'd,
'Tis better to sit still at rest.
Than rise, perchance to fall.'
Still on the spot Lord Marmion stay'd,
For fairer scene he ne'er survey 'd.
When sated with the martial show
That peopled all the plain below.
The wandering eye could o'er it go,
And mark the distant city glow
With gloomy splendour red ;
For on the smoke-wreaths, huge and
slow.
That round her sable turrets flow,
The morning beams were shed.
And ting'd themwith alustrcproud,
Like that which streaks a thunder-
cloud.
Such dusky grandeur cloth'd the
height.
Where the huge Castle holds its state,
And all the steep slope down.
IV.]
ZU tamip.
135
Whose ridgy back heaves to the sky,
Pil'd deep and massy, close and high,
Mine own romantic town !
But northward fat, with purer blaze.
On Ochil mountains fell the rays.
And as each heathy top they kiss'd,
It gleam'd a purple ameth3'st.
Yonder the shores of Fife you saw ;
Here Preston-Bay and Berwick-Law :
And, broad between them roll'd,
The gallant Frith the eye might note,
Whose islands on its bosom float,
Like emeralds chas'd in gold.
Fitz-Eustace' heart felt closely pent ;
As if to give his rapture vent.
The spur he to his charger lent,
And rais'd his bridle hand,
And, making demi-volte in air,
Cried ' Where 's the coward that would
not dare
To fight for such a land ! '
The Lindesay smiFd his joy to see ;
Nor Marmion's frown repress'd his
glee.
Thus while the}' look'd, a flourish
proud.
Where mingled trump, and clarion
loud,
And fife, and kettle-drum,
And sackbut deep, and psaltery.
And war-pipe with discordant cry,
i\nd cj'mbal clattering to the sky.
Making wild music bold and high,
Did up the mountain come ;
The whilst the bells, with distant
chime.
Merrily toll'd the hour of prime,
And thus the Lindesay spoke :
'Thus clamour still the war-notes when
The king to mass his way has ta'en,
Or to St. Katharine's of Sienne,
Or Chapel of Saint Rocque.
To you they speak of martial fame ;
But me remind of peaceful game,
When blither was their cheer,
Thrilling in Falkland-woods the air,
In signal none his steed should spare,
But strive which foremost might repair
To the downfall of the deer.
XXXII.
'Norless/he said, 'when looking forth,
I view yon Empress of the North
Sit on her hilly throne ;
Her palace's imperial bowers,
Her castle, proof to hostile powers,
Her stately halls and holy towers —
Nor less,' he said, ' I moan.
To think what woe mischance may
bring.
And how these merry bells may ring
The death-dirge of our gallant king ;
Or with the larum call
The burghers forth to watch and
ward,
'Gainst southern sack and fires to
guar
Dun-Edin's leagucr'd wall.
But not for my presaging thought
Dream conquest sure, or cheaply
bought !
Lord Marmion, I say nay :
God is the guider of the field.
He breaks the champion's spear and
shield, —
But thou thyself shalt say.
When joins yon host in dcadl}' stowre.
That England's dames must weep in
bower,
Her monks the death-mass sing ;
For never saw'st thou such a power
Led on by such a King.'
And now, down-winding to the
plain.
The barriers of the camp they gain,
And there they made a stay. —
There stays the Minstrel, till he
fling
His hand o'er every Border string.
And fit his harp the pomp to sing,
Of Scotland's ancient Court and King,
In the succeeding laj'.
136
QUarntton.
Introduction to Canto
Fifth.
TO
GEORGE ELLIS, Esq
Edinburgh .
When dark December glooms the day,
And takes our autumn joys away ;
When short and scant the sunbeam
throws,
Upon the weary waste of snows,
A cold and profitless regard,
Like patron on a needy bard ;
When silvan occupation 's done.
And o'er the chimney rests the gun,
And hang, in idle trophj', near,
The game-pouch, fishing-rod, and
spear ;
When wiry terrier, rough and grim,
And greyhound, with his length of
limb.
And pointer, now cmploy'd no more,
Cumber our parlour's narrow floor;
When in his stall the impatient steed
Is long condemn'd to rest and feed ;
When from our snow-encircled home
Scarce cares the hardiest step to roam.
Since path is none, save that to bring
The needful water from the spring ;
When wrinkled news-page, thrice
conn'd o'er.
Beguiles the dreary hour no more,
And darkling politician, cross'd,
Inveighs against the lingering post,
And answering housewife sore com-
plains
Of carriers' snow-impeded wains;
When such the country cheer, I come,
Well pleas'd, to seek our c\\.y home ;
For converse, and for books, to change
Tlie Forest's melancholy range.
And welcome, with renew'd delight,
The busy day and social night.
Not here need mydespondingrhyme
Lament the ravages of time.
As erst by Newark's riven towers.
And Ettrick stripp'd of forest bowers.
True, Caledonia's Queen is chang'd,
Since on her dusky summit rang'd,
Within its steepy limits pent.
By bulwark, line, and battlement,
And flanking towers, and laky flood,
Guarded and garrison'd she stood,
Denying entrance or resort.
Save at each tall embattled port ;
Above whose arch, suspended, hung
Portcullis spiked with iron prong.
That long is gone, — but not so long.
Since, early clos'd, and opening late,
Jealous revolved the studded gate.
Whose task, from eve to morning tide,
A wicket churlishly supplied.
Stern then, and steel-girt was thy
brow,
Dun-Edin ! O, how alter'd now,
When safe amid thy mountain court
Thou sit'st, like Empress at her sport,
And liberal, unconfin'd, and free.
Flinging thy white arms to the sea,
For thy dark cloud, with umber'd
lower,
That hung o'er cliff.and lake, and tower.
Thou gleam'st against the western ray
Ten thousand lines of brighter day.
Not she, the Championess of old,
In Spenser's magic tale enroH'd,
She for the charmed spear renown'd.
Which forcd each knight to kiss the
ground,-—
Not she more chang'd, when, plac'd
at rest,
What time she was Malbecco's guest,
She gave to flow her maiden vest ;
When from the corslet'sgrasp reliev'd,
Free to the sight her bosom heav'd ;
Swcetwas herblueeye'smodest smile.
Erst iiidden by the avcntaj'lc ;
And down hershoulders graceful roll'd
Her locks profuse, of paly gold.
^nfrobuchon io tanic §ift^.
U1
The}' who whilom, in midnight fight,
Had marvell'd at her matchless might,
No less her maiden charms approv'd,
But looking lik'd, and liking lov"d.
The sight could jealous pangs beguile,
And charm Malbecco's cares a while ;
And he, the wandering Squire of
Dames,
Forgot his Columbella's claims.
And passion, erst unknown, could gain
The breast of blunt Sir Satyrane ;
Nor durst light Paridel advance,
Bold as he was, a looser glance.
She charm'd, at once, and tamed the
heart,
Incomparable Britomarte !
So thou, fair City ! disarray'd
Of battled wall, and rampart's aid.
As stately seem'st, but lovelier far
Than in that panoply of war.
Nor deem that from thy fenceless
throne
Strength and security are flown ;
Still, as of yore. Queen of the North!
Stillcanstthou send thychildren forth.
Ne'er readier at alarm-bell's call
Thy burghers rose to man th^' wall,
'J'han now, in danger, shall be thine,
Thy dauntless voluntarj^ line ;
For fosse and turret proud to stand.
Their breasts the bulwarks of the land.
Thy thousands, train'd to martial toil.
Full red would stain their native soil.
Ere from thy mural crown there fell
The slightest knosp, or pinnacle.
And if it come, — as come it maj%
Dun-Edin 1 that eventful day, —
Renown'd for hospitable deed.
That virtue much with Heaven may
plead,
In patriarchal times whose care
Descending angels deign'd to share ;
That claim may wrestleblessingsdown
On those who fight for The Good Town,
Destin'd in every age to be
Refuge of injured royalty ;
Since first, when conquering York
arose.
To Henry meek she gave repose.
Till late, with wonder, grief, and awe.
Great Bourbon's relics sad she saw '.
Truce to these thoughts ! — for, as
they rise,
How gladlj' I avert mine eyes,
Bodings, or true or false, to change,
For Fiction's fair romantic range,
Or for tradition's dubious light.
That hovers 'twixt the day and night :
Dazzling alternately and dim.
Her wavering lamp I 'd rather trim.
Knights, squires, and lovely dames to
sec.
Creation of my fantasy,
Than gaze abroad on reeky fen.
And make of mists invading men.
Who loves not more the night of
June
Than dull December's gloomy noon 1
The moonlight than the fog of frost ?
And can we say, which cheats the most?
But who shall teach my harp to
gain
A sound of the romantic strain.
Whose Anglo-Norman tones whilerc
Could win the royal Henry's ear.
Famed Beauclerc call'd, for tiiat he
lov'd
The minstrel, and his lay approv'd ]
Who shall these lingering notes
redeem.
Decaying on Oblivion's stream ;
Such notes as from the Breton tongue
Marie translated, Blondel sung? —
O ! born. Time's ravage to repair.
And make the dying Muse thy care ;
Who, when his scythe her hoary foe
Was poising for the final blow,
1 In January, 1796, the exiled Count d'Artois, afte
wards Ch.arles X of France, took up his residenre i
llolyrood, where he remained until August, 179';-
F3
138
QUartttton.
[Canto
The weapon from his hand could
wring.
And break his glass, and shear his wing.
And bid, reviving in his strain,
The gentle poet live again ;
Thou, who canst give to lightest lay
An unpcdantic moral ga^-.
Nor less the dullest theme bid Hit
On wings of unexpected wit ;
In letters as in life approv'd,
Example honour'd, and belov'd, —
Dear Ellis ! to the bard impart
A lesson of thy magic art.
To win at once the head and heart, —
At once to charm, instruct, and mend,
My guide, my pattern, and my friend!
Such minstrel lesson to bestow
Be long thy pleasing task, — but, O I
No more by thj' example teach, —
"What few can practise, all can
preach, —
With even patience to endure
Lingering disease, and painful cure,
And boast affliction's pangs subdu'd
By mild and manly fortitude.
Enough, the lesson has been given :
Forbid the repetition. Heaven !
Come listen, then ! for thou hast
known,
And lov'd the Minstrel's varying tone.
Who, like his Border sires of old,
Wak'd a wild measure rude and bold,
Till Windsor's oaks, and Ascot plain.
With wonder heard the northern
strain.
Come listen I bold in thy applause.
The Bard shall scorn pedantic laws ;
And, as the ancient art could stain
Achievements on the storied pane.
Irregularly tiac'd and plann'd.
But yet so glowing and so grand, —
So shall he strive, in changeful hue.
Field, feast, and combat, to renew,
Andlo\'cs,and arms, and harpers' glee.
And all the pomp of chivalry.
Canto Fifth.
Z^t Couvi.
The train has left the hills of Braid ;
The barrier guard have open made
(.So Lindesay bade) the palisade.
That closed the tented ground ;
Their men the warders backward drew,
And carried pikes, as they rode through
Into its ample bound.
Fast ran the .Scottish warriors there,
Upon the Southern band to stare,
And envy with their wonder rose,
To see such well-appointed foes ;
Such length of shafts, such mighty
bows.
So huge, that many simply thought
But fora vaunt such weapons wrought ;
And little deem'd their force to feel,
Through links of mail, and plates of
steel,
When rattling upon Flodden vale.
The cloth-yard arrows flew like hail.
Nor less did Marmion's skilful view
Glance every line and squadron
through ;
And much he marvell'd one small land
Could marshal forthsuch various band:
For men-at-arms were here,
Heavily sheath'd in mail and plate,
Like iron towers for strength and
weight,
On Flemish steeds of bone and height.
With battle-axe and spear.
Young knights and squires, a lighter
train,
Practis'd their chargers on the plain,
By aid of leg, of hand, and rein.
Each warlike feat to show,
To pass, to wheel, the croupe to gain.
And high curvett, that not in vain
The sword sway might descend amain
On foeman's casque below.
v.]
ZH Coud.
139
He saw the hardy burghers there
March arm'd, on foot, with faces bare,
For vizor they wore none,
Nor waving pkime, nor crest of knight ;
But burnish'd were their corslets
bright,
Their brigantines, and gorgets Hght,
Like very silver shone.
Long pikes they had forstandingfight,
Two-handed swords thej^ wore,
And many wielded mace of weight.
And bucklers bright they bore.
On foot the yeoman too, but dress'd
In his steel-jack, a swarthy vest,
With iron quilted well ;
Each at his back (a slender store)
His forty days' provision bore,
As feudal statutes tell.
His arms were halbert, axe, or spear,
A crossbow there, a hagbut here,
A dagger-knife, and brand.
Sober he seem'd, and sad of cheer,
As loth to leave his cottage dear.
And march to foreign strand ;
Or musing, who would guide his steer
To till the fallow land.
Yet deem not in his thoughtful eye
Did aught of dastard terror lie ;
More dreadful far his ire.
Than theirs, who, scorning danger's
name.
In eager mood to battle came,
Their valour like light straw on flame,
A fierce but fadiner fire.
Not so the Borderer : bred to war,
He knew the battles din afar.
And joy'd to hear it swell.
His peaceful day was slothful ease ;
Nor harp, norpipe, his ear could please
Like the loud slogan yell.
On active steed, with lance and blade.
The light-arm'd pricker plied his
trade, —
Let nobles fight for fame ;
Let vassals follow where they lead,
Burghers to guard their townships
bleed,
But war 's the Borderer's game.
Their gain, their glory, their delight.
To sleep the day, maraud the night,
O'er mountain, moss, and moor ;
Joyful to fight they took their way,
Scarce caring who might win the day.
Their booty was secure.
These, as Lord Marmion's train pass'd
, by,
Look'd on at first with careless eye.
Nor marvell'd aught, well taught to
know
The form and force of English bow.
But when they saw the Lord array'd
In splendid arms and rich brocade,
Each Borderer to his kinsman said, —
' Hist, Ringan ! seest thou there ?
Canst guess which road they '11 home-
ward ride ?
O ! could we but on Border side,
By Eusedale glen, or Liddell's tide,
Beset a prize so fair I
That fangless Lion, too, their guide.
Might chance to lose hisglisteringhide ;
Brown Maudlin, of that doublet pied,
Could make a kirtle rare.'
Next, Marmion mark'd the Celtic race.
Of ditTerent language, form, and face,
A various race of man ;
Justthen the Chiefs theirtribesarraj''d.
And wild and garish semblance made.
The chequer'd trews, and belted plaid.
And varying notes the war-pipes bray'd.
To every varying clan ;
Wild through their red or sable hair
Look'd out their eyes with savage stare,
On Marmion as he pass'd ;
Their legs above the knee were bare ;
Their frame was sinewy, short, and
spare,
And harden'd to the blast ;
140
(llldrmton.
[Canto
Of taller race, the chiefs they own
Were by the eagle's plumage known.
The hunted red-deer's undress'd hide
Their hairy buskins well supplied ;
The graceful bonnet deck'd their head ;
Back from their shoulders hung the
plaid ;
A broadsword of unwieldy length,
A dagger proved for edge andstrength,
A studded targe they wore,
And quivers, bows, and shafts, — but,0 I
Short wasthe shaft, and weak the bow.
To that which England bore.
The Isles-men carried at their backs
The ancient Danish battle-axe.
They raised a wild and wondering cry.
As with his guide rode Marmion by.
Loud were their clamouring tongues,
as when
The clanging sea-fowl leave the fen.
And, with their cries discordant mix'd,
Grumbled and yell'd the pipes betwixt.
Thus through the Scottish camp they
pass'd,
And reach'd the City gate at last,
Where all around, a wakeful guard,
Arm'd burghers kept their watch and
ward.
Well had they cause of jealous fear.
When lay encamp'd, in field so near,
The Borderer and the Mountaineer.
As through the bustling streets they
go,
All was alive with martial show :
At every turn, with dinning clang,
The armolirer's anvil clash' d and rang ;
Or toil'd the swarthy smith, to wheel
The bar that arms the charger's heel ;
Or axe, or falchion, to the side
Of jarring grindstone was applied.
Page, groom, and squire, with hurrying
pace.
Through street, and lane, and market-
place.
Bore lance, or casque, or sword ;
While burghers, with important face,
Describ'd each new-come lord,
Discuss'd his lineage, told his name,
His following, and his warlike fame.
The Lion led to lodging meet,
Which high o'erlook'd the crowded
street ;
There must the Baron rest.
Till past the hour of vesper tide,
And then to Holy-Rood must ride, —
.Such was the King's behest.
Meanwhile the Lion's care assigns
A banquet rich, and costly w'ines,
To Marmion and his train ;
And when the appointed hour suc-
ceeds.
The Baron dons his peaceful weeds,
And following Lindesay as he leads
The palace-halls they gain.
Old Holy-Rood rung merrily,
That night, with wassell, mirth, and
glee :
King James within her princely
bower.
Feasted the Chiefs of .Scotland's power,
.Summon'd to spend the parting hour ;
For he had charged, that his array
•Should southward march by break of
day.
Well lov'd that splendid monarch aye
The banquet and the song.
By day the tourney, and by night
The merr}' dance, trac'd fast and light,
Themaskersquaint, thepageantbright.
The revel loud and long.
This feast outshone his banquets past,
It was his blithest — and his last.
The dazzling lamps, from gallery ga^-,
Cast on the Court a dancing ray ;
Here to the harp did minstrels sing ;
There ladies touch'd a softer string ;
With long-ear'd cap, and motley vest,
The licensed fool retail'd his jest;
His magic tricks the juggler plied ;
At dice and draughts the gallants vied ;
v.]
ZU Court
141
While some, in close recess apart,
Courted the ladies of their heart,
Nor courted them in vain ;
For often, in the parting hour,
Victorious Love asserts his power
O'er coldness and disdain ;
And flinty is her heart, can view
To battle march a lover true,
Can hear, perchance, his last adieu,
Nor own her share of pain.
VIII.
Through this mix'd crowd of glee and
game.
The Kingto greet Lord Marmion came,
While, reverent, all made room.
An easy task it was, I trow,
King James's manly form to know,
Although, his courtesy to show,
He doff'd, to Marmion bending low,
His broider'd cap and plume.
Foi' royal was his garb and mien,
His cloak, of crimson velvet pil'd,
Trimm'd with the fur of marten wild ;
His vest of changeful satin sheen,
The dazzled eye bcguil'd ;
His gorgeous collar hung adown,
Wrought with the badge of Scotland's
crown,
The thistle brave, of old renown :
His trusty blade, Toledo right,
Descended from a baldi ic bright ;
White were his buskins, on the heel
His spurs inlaid of gold and steel ;
His bonnet, all of crimson fair.
Was button'd with a ruby rare :
And Marmion dcem'dhcne'erhadseen
A prince of such a noble mien.
IX.
The Monarch's form was middle size ;
For feat of strength, or exercise,
Shaped in proportion fair;
And hazel was his eagle eye.
And auburn of the darkest dye,
His short curl'd beard and hair.
Light was his footstep in the dance.
And firm his stirrup in the lists;
And, oh ! he had that merry glance
That seldom lady's heart resists.
Lightly from fair to fair he (lew.
And lov'd to plead, lament, and sue,
Suit lightly won, and short-liv'd pain,
For monarchs seldom sigh in vain.
I said he joy'd in banquet bower;
But, 'mid his mirth, 'twas often strange.
How suddenly his cheer would change.
His look o'ercast and lower.
If, in a sudden turn, he felt
The pressure of his iron belt,
That bound his breast in penance pain.
In memory of his father slain.
Even so 'twas strange how, evermore,
Soon as the passing pang was o'er.
Forward he rush'd, with double glee,
Into the stream of revelry ;
Thus, dim-seen object of affright
Startles the courser in his flight,
And half he halts, half springs aside ;
But feels the quickening spur applied.
And, straining on the tighten'd rein.
Scours doubly swift o'er hill and plain.
O'er James's heart, the courtiers say.
Sir Hugh the Heron's wife held sway:
To Scotland's Court she came.
To be a hostage for her lord,
Who Cessford's gallant heart had
gor'd.
And with the King to make accord.
Had sent his lovely dame.
Nor to that lady free alone
Did the gay King allegiance own ;
For the fair Queen of France
.Sent him a turquois ring and glove,
And charg'd him, as her knight and
love.
For her to break a lance ;
And strike three strokes with Scottish
brand.
And march three miles on Southron
land,
And bid the banners of his band
In English breezes dance.
142
QUarmton.
[Canto
And thus for France's Queen lie
tlrcst
His manly limbs in mailed vest ;
And thus admitted English fair
His inmost counsels still to share ;
And thus, for both, he madly plann'd
The ruin of himself and land !
And yet, the sooth to tell,
Nor England's fair, nor France's
Queen,
Were worth one pearl-drop, bright
and sheen,
From Margaret's eyes that fell, —
His own Queen Margaret, who, in
Lithgow's bower.
All lonely sat, and wept the weary
hour.
The Queen sits lone in Lithgow pile.
And weeps the weary day
The war against her native soil.
Her Monarch's risk in battle broil: —
And in gay Holy-Rood, the while.
Dame Heron rises with a smile
Upon the harp to play.
Fair was her rounded arm, as o'er
The strings her fingers flew ;
And as she touch'd and tuned them
all.
Ever her bosom's rise and fall
Was plainer given to view ;
For, all for heat, was laid aside
Her wimple, and her hood untied.
And first she pitch'd her voice to sing.
Then glanced her dark eye on the
King,
And then around the silent ring ;
And laugh'd, and blush'd, and oft did
say
Her pretty oath, by Yea, and Na\',
She could not, would not, durst not
play !
At length, upon the harp, with glee.
Mingled with arch simplicity,
A soft, yet lively', air she rung,
While thus the wily lad}- sung :
LOCHINVAR.
O. j'oung Lochinvar is come out of
the west,
Through all the wide Border his steed
was the best ;
And save his good broadsword he
weapons had none.
He rode all unarm'd, and he rode all
alone.
So faithful in love, and so dauntless
in war.
There never was knight like the
young Lochinvar.
He staid not for brake, and he stopp'd
not for stone.
He swam the Eske river where ford
there was none ;
But ere he alighted at Netherby gate,
The bride had consented, the gallant
came late :
For a laggard in love, and a dastard
in v/ar.
Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave
Lochinvar.
Soboldlyheenter'dthe Netherby Hall,
Among bride's-men, and kinsmen, and
brothers, and all :
Then spoke the bride's father, his
hand on his sword,
(For the poor craven bridegroom said
never a word,)
' O come ye in peace here, or come ye
in war.
Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord
Lochinvar? '
' I long woo'd your daughter, my suit
you denied ; —
Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs
like its tide —
And now am I come, with this lost
love of mine,
To lead but one measure, drink one
cup of wine.
v.i
ZU Courf.
M3
There are maidens in Scotland more
lovely by far,
That would gladly be bride to the
young Lochinvar.'
The bride kiss'd the goblet : the knight
took it lip,
He qualT'd otV the wine, and he threw
down the cup.
She look'd down to blush, and she
look'd up to sigh,
With a smile on her lips, and a tear in
her eye.
He took her soft hand, ere her mother
could bar, —
' Now tread we a measure ! ' said
young Lochinvar.
So stately his form, and so lovely her
face,
That never a hall such a galliard did
grace ;
While her mother did fret, and her
father did fume.
And the bridegroom stood dangling
his bonnet and plume ;
And the bride-maidens whisperd,
' 'Twere better by far.
To have match'd our fair cousin with
young Lochinvar.'
One touch to her hand, and one word
in her ear.
When they reach'd the hall-door, and
the charger stood near;
So light to the croupe the fair lady he
swung,
So light to the saddle before her he
sprung !
' She is won ! we are gone, over bank,
bush, and scaur ;
They '11 have fleet steeds that follow,'
quoth young Lochinvar.
There was mounting 'mong Graemes
of the Netherbj' clan ;
Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves,
the}' rode and they ran :
There was racing and chasing on
Cannobie Lee,
But the lost bride of Netherby neer
did they see.
So daring in love, and so dauntless in
war.
Have 3'e e'er heard of gallant like
young Lochinvar? —
The Monarch o'er the siren hung
And beat the measure as she sung;
And, pressing closer, and more near,
He whisper'd praises in her ear.
In loud applause the courtiers vied ;
And ladies wink'd, and spoke aside.
The witching dame to Mannion
threw
A glance, where seeni'd to reign
The pride that claims applauses due,
And of her royal conquest too,
A real or feign'd disdain :
Familiar was the look, and told,
Marmion and she were friends of old.
The Kingobserv'd their meeting eyes.
With something like displeas'd sur-
prise ;
For monarchs ill can rivals brook,
Even in a word, or smile, or look.
Straight took he forth the parchment
broad,
Which iVIarmion's high commission
show'd :
' Our Borders sack'd by many a raid.
Our peaceful liege-men robb'd,' he
said :
' On day of truce our Warden slain.
Stout Barton kill'd, his vessels ta'en —
Unworthy were we here to reign,
.Shouldthese forvengeancecry in vain;
Our full defiance, hate, and scorn.
Our herald has to Henry borne.'
He paus'd, and led where Douglas
stood.
And with stern eye the pageant view'd :
144
QUatrmion.
[Canto
I mean that Douglas, sixth of yore,
Who coronet of Angus bore.
And, when his blood and heart were
high,
Did the third Jaines in camp defy,
And all his minions led to die
On Lauder's dreary Hat :
Princes and favourites long grew tame
And trembled at the homely name
Of Archibald Bell-the-Cat ;
The same who left the dusky vale
Of Hermitage in Liddisdale,
Its dungeons, and its towers.
Where Bothwell's turrets brave the
air,
And Bothwell bank is blooming fair,
To fix his princely bowers.
Though now, in age, he had laid down
His armour for the peaceful gown,
And for a staff his brand,
Yet often would flash forth the fire,
That could, in youth, a monarch's ire
And minion's pride withstand ;
And even that day, at council board,
Unapt to soothe his sovereign's
mood.
Against the war had Angus stood.
And chafd his royal lord.
His giant-form, like ruin'd tower.
Though fall'n its muscles' brawny
vaunt,
Huge-bon'd, and tall, and grim, and
gaunt,
Seem'd o'er the gaudy scene to lower:
His locks and beard in silver grew ;
His eyebrows kept their sable hue.
Near Douglas when the Monarch stood.
His bitter speech he thus pursued :
' Lord Marmion, since these letters say
That in the North j^ou needs must stay
While slightest hopes of peace
remain,
Uncourtcous speech it were, and stern,
To say — Return to Lindisfarne
Until my herald come again.
Then rest you in Tantallon Hold ;
Your host shall be the Douglas bold, —
A chief unlike his sires of old.
He wears their motto on his blade.
Their blazon o'er his towers display'd ;
Yet loves his sovereign to oppose,
More than to face his country's foes.
And, I bethink me, by St. .Stephen,
But e'en this morn to me was given
A prize, the first fruits of the war,
Ta'en by a galley from Dunbar,
A bevy of the maids of Heaven.
Under your guard, these holy maids
Shall safe return to cloister shades.
And, while they at Tantallon stay,
Requiem for Cochran's soul may saj'.'
And, with the slaughter'd favourite's
name,
Across the Monarch'sbrow there came
A cloud of ire, remorse, and shame.
In answer nought could Angus speak ;
His proud heart swcll'd wellnigh to
break :
He turn'd aside, and down his cheek
A burning tear there stole,
His hand the Monarch sudden took.
That sight his kind heart could not
brook :
' Now, by the Bruce's soul,
Angus, my hasty speech forgive!
For sure as doth his spirit live.
As he said of the Douglas old,
I well may say of you,
That never king did subject hold.
In speech more free, in war more bold.
More tender and more true :
Forgive me, Douglas, once again.' — •
And, while the King his hand did
strain.
The old man's tears fell down like
rain.
To seize the moment Marmion tried,
And whisper'd to the King aside :
' Oh ! let such tears unwonted plead
For respite short from dubious deed !
v.]
tU touvi.
Mi
A child will weep a bramble's smart,
A maid to see her sparrow part,
A stripling for a woman's heart :
But woe awaits a country, when
She sees the tears of bearded men.
Then oh ! what omen, dark and high,
When Douglas wets his manly eye ! '
XVII.
Displeas'd was James, that stranger
vicw"d
And tamper'd with his changingmood.
' Laugh those that can, weep those
that may,'
Thus did the fiery Monarch say,
' Southward I march bj- break of day ;
And if within Tantallon stiong
The good Lord Marmion tarries long,
Perchance our meeting next may fall
At Tamworth, in his castle-hall.'
The haughty Marmion felt the taunt.
And answer'd, grave, the royal vaunt :
' Muchhonour'dweremj-humble home
If in its halls King James should come ;
But Nottingham has archers good,
And Yorkshire men are stern of mood ;
Northumbrian prickers wild and rude.
On Derby Hills the paths are steep ;
In Ouse and T\'ne the fords are deep ;
And many a banner will be torn.
And many a knight to earth be borne,
And many a sheaf of arrows spent.
Ere Scotland's King shall cross the
Trent :
Yet pause, brave Prince, while yet
you may I '
The Monarch lightly turn'd awaj-,
And to his nobles loud did call, —
' Lords, to the dance 1 a hall ! a hall ! '
Himself his cloak and sword flung b}-,
And led Dame Heron gallantly ;
And minstrels, at the royal order,
Rung out 'Blue Bonnets o'er the
Border.'
xvin.
Leave we these revels now, to tell
What to Saint Hilda's maids befell,
Whose galley, as they sail'd again
To Whitby, by a Scot was ta'en.
Now at Dun-Edin did thej' bide.
Till James should of their fate decide ;
And soon, by his command,
Were gently summon'd to prepare
To journey under Marmion's care.
As escort honour'd, safe, and fair.
Again to English land.
The Abbess told her chaplet o'er.
Nor knew which saint she should im-
plore ;
For, when she thought of Constance,
sore
She fear'd Lord Marmion's mood.
And judge what Clara must have felt !
The sword that hung in Marmion's
belt
Had drunk De Wilton's blood.
Unwittingly, King James had given.
As guard to Whitby's shades,
The man most dreaded under Heaven
By these defenceless maids :
Yet what petition could avail,
Or who would listen to the talc
Of woman, prisoner, and nun,
'Mid bustle of a war begun ?
They deem'd it hopeless to avoid
The convoy of their dangerous guide,
XIX.
Their lodging, so the King assign'd.
To Marmion's, as their guardian .join'd ;
And thus it fell, that, passing nigh.
The Palmer caught the Abbess' ej^e,
Who warn'd him bj' a scroll,
She had a secret to reveal.
That much concern'd the Church's
weal,
And health of sinner's soul ;
And, with deep charge of secrec}',
.She named a place to meet,
Within an open balcony.
That hung from dizzy pitch, and high,
Above the stately street ;
To which, as common to each home,
At night they might in secret come.
146
QUatntttcn.
[Canto
At night, in secret, there tliey came,
Tlic Pahner and the holy Dame.
The moon among the clouds rose high.
And all the citj' hum was by.
Upon the street, where late before
Did din of war and warriors roar,
You might have heard a pebble fall,
A beetle hum, a cricket sing,
An owlet flap his boding wing
On Giles's steeple tall.
The antique buildings, climbing high,
Whose Gothic frontletssoughtthesky,
Were here wrapt deep in shade ;
There on their brows the moonbeam
broke.
Through the faint wreaths of silvery
smoke,
And on the casements play'd.
And other light was none to see,
Save torches gliding far.
Before some chieftain of degree.
Who left the roj-al revelry
To bowne him for the war.
A solemn scene the Abbess chose,
A solemn hour, her secret to disclose.
' O holy Palmer ! ' she began,
' For sure he must be sainted man,
Whose blessed feet have trod the
ground
Where the Redeemer's tomb is found,
For His dear Church's sake, my tale
Attend, nor deem of light avail.
Though I must speak of worldly love.
How vain to those who wed above !
De Wilton and Lord Marmion \voo'd
Clara de Clare, of Gloster's blood —
(Idle it were of Whitby's dame,
To say of that same blood I came) ;
And once, when jealous rage was high.
Lord Marmion said despiteously
Wilton was traitor in his heart.
And had made league with Martin
Swart
When he came here on Simnel's part,
And only cowardice did restrain
His rebel aid on .Stokefield's plain, — •
And down he threw his glove : — the
thing
Was tried, as wont, before the King;
Where frankly did De Wilton own,
That Swart in Gueldres he had known ;
And that between them then there
went
Some scroll of courteous compliment.
For this he to his castle sent ;
But when his messenger return'd,
Judge how de Wilton's fury burn'd I
For in his packet there was laid
Letters that claim'd disloyal aid.
And proved King Henry's cause be-
tray'd.
His fame, thus blighted, in the field
He strove to clear, by spear and
shield ; —
To clear his fame in vain he strove.
For wondrous are His ways above !
Perchance some form was unobserv'd ;
Perchance in praj'er, or faith, he
swerv'd ;
Else how could guiltless champion
quail,
Or how the blessed ordeal fail ?
' His squire, who now De Wilton saw
As recreant doom'd to suffer law,
Repentant, own'd in vain.
That, while he had the scrolls in care,
A stranger maiden, passing fair,
Haddrench'dhim with abeverage rare;
His words no faith could gain.
With Clare alone he credence won,
Who, rather than wed Marmion,
Did to Saint Hilda's shrine repair,
To give our house her livings fair
And die a vestal vot'ress there.
The impulse from the earth was given,
But bent her to the paths of heaven.
A purer heart, a lovelier maid.
Ne'er sheltcr'd her in Whitb3''s shade,
No, not since Sa.N.on Edeltled ;
v.]
ZU £ourf.
147
Only one trace of earthly strain,
That for her lover's loss
She cherishes a sorrow vain,
And murmurs at the cross.
And then her heritage ; — it goes
Along the banks of Tame ;
Deep fields ofgrain the reaper mows,
In meadows rich the heifer lo<vs,
The falconer and huntsman knows
Its woodlands for the game.
Shame were it to Saint Hilda dear,
And I, her humble votVess here.
Should do a deadly sin.
Her temple spoil'd before mine eyes,
If this false Marmion such a prize
By my consent should win ;
Yet hath our boisterous monarch sworn
That Clare shall from our house be torn.
And grievous cause have I to fear,
Such mandate doth Lord Marmion
bear.
XXHI.
' Now, prisoner, helpless, and betray'd
To evil power, I claim thine aid.
By every step that thou hast trod
To holy shrine and grotto dim ;
By every mart3'r's tortur'd limb.
By angel, saint, and seraphim,
And by the Church of God !
For mark : — ^When Wilton was be-
tray'd,
And with his squire forg'd letters laid,
She was, alas I that sinful maid,
By whom the deed was done ;
O I shame and horror to be said —
She was a perjur'd nun !
No clerk in all the land, like her.
Traced quaint and varying character.
Perchance you may a marvel deem.
That Marmion's paramour
(For such vile thing she was) should
scheme
Her lover's nuptial hour;
But o'er him thus she hop'd to gain,
As privy to his honour's stain,
lUimitible power;
For this she secretly retain'd
Each proof that might the plot reveal,
Instructions with his hand and seal ;
And thus Saint Hilda deign'd.
Through sinner's perfidj^ impure,
Her house's glory to secure.
And Clare's immortal weal.
''Twere long, and needless, here to tell
How to my hand these papers fell ;
With me they must not stay.
Saint Hilda keep her Abbess true !
Who knows what outrage he might do.
While journeying by the way ?
0 blessed Saint, if e'er again
1 venturous leave thy calm domain,
To travel or by land or main.
Deep penance ma^' I paj' !
Now, saintly Palmer, mark m3' praj'er:
I give this packet to thy care,
For thee to stop they will not dare ;
And O I with cautious speed,
To Wolsey's hand the papers bring.
That he may show them to the King;
And, for thy well-earn'd meed,
Thou holy man, at Whitby's shrine
A weekly mass shall still be thine,
While priests can sing and read.
What ail'st thou? Speak 1' For as he
took
The charge, a strong emotion shook
His frame ; and, ere reply.
They heard a faint, yet shrilly tone,
Like distant clarion feebly blown.
That on the breeze did die ;
And loud the Abbess shriek'd in fear,
' .Saint Withold,saveus! What is here?
Look at yon City Cross !
See on its battled tower appear
Phantoms, that scutcheons seem to rear,
And blazon'd banners toss ! '
Dun-Edin's Cross, a pillar'd stone.
Rose on a turret octagon ;
148
QUarittton.
[Canto
(But now is razed that monument,
Whence royal edict rang,
And voice of Scotland's law was sent
In glorious trumpet-clang.
O I be his tomb as lead to lead.
Upon its dull destroyer's head ! —
A minstrel's malison is said.)
Then on its battlements they saw
A vision, passing Nature's law,
Strange, wild, and dimly seen ;
Figures that seem'd to rise and die,
Gibber and sign, advance and fly.
While nought confirm'd could ear or
eye
Discern of sound or mien.
Yet darkly did it seem, as there
Heralds and Pursuivants prepare.
With trumpet sound and blazon fair,
A summons to proclaim ;
But indistinct the pageant proud.
As fancy forms of midnight cloud,
When flings the moon upon her shroud
A wavering tinge of flame ;
It flits, expands, and shifts, till loud,
From midmost of the spectre crowd,
This awful summons came : —
' Prince, prelate, potentate, and peer,
Whose names I now shall call,
Scottish, or foreigner, give ear ;
Subjects of him who sent me here,
At his tribunal to appear,
I summon one and all :
I cite 3'ou bj' each deadlj^ sin.
Thate'erhathsoil'd yourhearts within :
I cite 3'ou by each brutal lust.
That e'er defil'd 3'our earthly dust, —
By wrath, by pride, by fear.
By each o'ermastering passion's tone,
By the dark grave, and dying groan !
When fortj' days are pass'd and gone,
I cite you, at your Monarch's throne,
To answer and appear.'
Then thunder'd forth a roll of names :
The first was thine, unhappy James !
Then all th^' nobles came.
Crawford, Glencairn, Montrose, Argyle,
Ross, Bothwell, Forbes, Lennox,
Lyle—
Wh}' should I tell their separate
style !
Each chief of birth and fame.
Of Lowland, Highland, Border, Isle,
Foredoom'd to Flodden's carnage pile,
Was cited there by name ;
And Marmion, Lord of Fontenaye,
Of Lutterward, and Scrivelbaj'e ;
De Wilton, erst of Aberley,
The self-same thundering voice did saj'.
But then another spoke :
' Thy fatal summons I deny.
And thine infernal Lord defy,
Appealing me to Him on High,
Who burst the sinner's yoke.'
At that dread accent, with a scream.
Parted the pageant like a dream.
The summoner was gone.
Prone on her face the Abbess fell.
And fast, and fast, her beads did tell ;
Her nuns came, startled by the yell,
And found her there alone.
She mark'd not, at the scene aghast.
What time, or how, the Palmer pass'd.
xxvii.
Shift we the scene. The camp doth
move,
Dun-Edin's streets are empty now,
Save when, for weal of those the3'
love.
To pray the prayer, and vow the
vow.
The tottering child, the anxious fair,
The grey-hair'd sire, with pious care.
To chapels and to shrines repair — •
Where is the Palmer now • and where
The Abbess, Marmion, and Clare •
Bold Douglas ! to Tantallon fair
Thej^ journey in thy charge:
Lord Marmion rode on his right hand.
The Palmer still was with the band ;
Angus, like Lindesa}*. did command.
That none should roam at large.
v.]
ZU ^outt.
149
But in that Palmer's altcr'd mien
Awondrous changemightnowbcseen;
Freely he spoke of war,
Of marvels wrought by single hand,
When lifted for a native land ;
And still look'd high, as if he plann'd
Some desperate deed afar.
His courser would he feed and stroke,
j\nd, tucking up his sable frocke,
Would first his mettle bold provoke,
Then soothe or f|uell his pride.
Old Hubert said that never one
He saw, except Lord Marmion,
A steed so fairly ride.
XXVIII.
Some half-hour's march behind, there
came,
By Eustace governd tair,
A troop escorting Hilda's Dame,
With all her nuns, and Clare.
No audience had Lord Marmion sought ;
Ever he fear'd to aggravate
Clara de Clare's suspicious hate ;
And safer 'twas, he thought,
To wait till, from the nuns remov'd,
The influence of kinsmen lov'd.
And suit by Henry's self approv'd,
Her slow consent had wrought.
His was no llickcringilame, that dies
Unless when fann'd by looks and
sighs.
And lighted oft at lady's eyes ;
He long'd to stretch his wide com-
mand
O'er luckless Clara's ample land :
Besides, when Wilton with him
vied.
Although the pang of humbled pride
The place of jealousy supplied.
Yet conquest by that meanness won
He almost loath'd to think upon,
Led him, at times, to hate the cause.
Which made him burst through
honour's laws.
If e'er he lov'd, 'twas her alone,
Who died within that vault of stone.
And now, when close at hand they saw
North Berwick's town, and lofty Law,
Fitz-Eustace bade them pause a while.
Before a venerable pile,
Whose turrets view'd, afar,
The lofty Bass, the Lambic Isle,
The ocean's peace or war.
At tolling of a bell, forth came
The convent's venerable Dame,
And pray'd Saint Hilda's Abbess rest
With her, a loved and honour'd guest,
Till Douglas should a bark prepare
To waft her back to Whitby fair.
Glad was the Abbess, you may guess,
And thank'd the Scottish Prioress ;
i\nd tedious were to tell, I ween.
The courteous speech that pass'd
between.
0'crjo\''d the nuns their palfrej'S
leave ;
But when fair Clara did intend,
Like them, from horseback to descend,
Fitz-Eustace said — ' I grieve.
Fair lad}-, grieve e'en from my heart,
Such gentle company to part ;
Think not discourtesy ;
But lords' commands must be obey'd ;
And Marmion and the Douglas said,
That j'ou must wend with me.
Lord Marmion hath a letter broad,
Which to the Scottish Earl he show'd,
Commanding, that, beneath his care,
Without delay, you shall repair
To your good kinsman, Lord Fitz-
Clarc.'
The startled Abbess loud exclaim'd ;
But she, at whom the blow was aim'd,
Grew pale as death, and cold as lead ;
She deem'd she heard her death-doom
read.
' Cheer thee, my child: 'the Abbess said,
• They dare not tear thee from my hand,
To ride alone with armed band.'
I50
(yilartnton.
[Canto
' Na3% holy mother, nay,'
Fitz-Eustace said ; 'the lovely Clare
Will be in Lady Angus' care,
In Scotland while we stay ;
And, -when we move, an easy ride
Will bring us to the English side,
Female attendance to provide
Befitting Gloster's heir:
Nor thinks nor dreams my noble lord
By slightest look or act or word
To harass Lady Clare.
Her faithful guardian he will be,
Nor sue for slightest courtesy
That e'en to stranger falls,
Till he shall place her, safe and free.
Within her kinsman's halls.'
He spoke, and blush'd with earnest
grace ;
His faith was painted on his face,
And Clare's worst fear reliev'd.
The Lady Abbess loud exclaim'd
On Henry, and the Douglas blam'd,
Entreated, threaten'd, griev'd ;
To martj'r, saint, and prophet pray'd,
Against Lord Marmion inveigh'd,
And call'd the Prioress to aid,
To curse with candle, bell, and book.
Her head the grave Cistertian shook :
'The Douglas, and the King,' she
said,
' In their commands will be obej''d ;
Grieve not, nor dream that harm can fall
The maiden in Tantallon hall.'
XXXI.
The Abbess, seeing strife was vain,
Assumed her wonted state again —
For much of state she had —
Compos'd her veil, and rais'd her
head,
And ' Bid,' in solemn voice she said,
' Thy master, bold and bad.
The records of his house turn o'er,
And,whenheshall there written see,
That one of his own ancestry
Drove the Monks forth of Coventry,
Bid him his fate explore !
Prancing in pride of earthly trust,
His charger hurl'd him to the dust.
And, by a base plebeian thrust,
He died his band before.
God judge 'twixt Marmion and me ;
He is a Chief of high degree.
And I a poor recluse :
Yet oft, in holy writ, we see
Even such weak minister as me
May the oppressor bruise :
For thus, inspir'd, did Judith slay
The mighty in his sin,
And Jael thus, and Deborah " ■
Here hasty Blount broke in :
' Fitz-Eustace, we must march our
band :
Saint Anton' fire thee ! wilt thou
stand
All day, with bonnet in thy hand,
To hear the Lady preach ?
By this good light ! if thus we stay,
Lord Marmion, for our fond delay,
Will sharper sermon teach.
Come, don thy cap, and mount thy
horse ;
The Dame must patience take per-
force.'
' Submit we then to force,' said Clare,
' But let this barbarous lord despair
His purpos'd aim to win ;
Let him take living, land, and life ;
But to be Marmion's wedded wife
In me were deadly sin :
And if it be the King's decree,
That I must find no sanctuary.
In that inviolable dome.
Where even a homicide might come,
And safely rest his head.
Though at its open portals stood.
Thirsting to pour forth blood for blood,
The kinsmen of the dead ;
Yet one asylum is my own
Against the dreaded hour ;
A low, a silent, and a lone,
Where kings have little power.
v.]
€U toutt
ir.i
One victim is before me there. —
Mother, your blessing, and in prayer
Remember your unhappy Clare ! '
Loud weeps the Abbess, and bestows
Kind blessings many a one :
Weeping and wailing loud arose,
Round patient Clare, the clamorous
woes
Of every simple nun.
His eyes the gentle Eustace dried.
Andscarce rude Blount the sight could
bide.
Then took the squire her rein,
And gently led away her steed,
And, by each courteous word and
deed,
To cheer her strove in vain.
X.XXIII.
But scant three miles the band had
rode,
When o'er a height they pass'd,
And, sudden, close before them show'd
His towers, Tantallon vast ;
Broad, massive, high, and stretching
far,
And held impregnable in war.
On a projecting rock they rose.
And round three sides the ocean
flows.
The fourth did battled walls enclose.
And double mound and fosse.
By narrow drawbridge, outworks
strong.
Through studded gates, an entrance
long.
To the main court thcj' cross.
It was a ^vide and stately square :
Around were lodgings, fit and fair,
And towers of various form,
Which on the court projected far,
And broke its lines quadrangular.
Here was square keep, there turret
high,
Or pinnacle that sought the sky.
Whence oft the Warder could descry
The gathering ocean-storm.
XXXIV.
Heredid they rest. The princely care
Of Douglas, why should I declare.
Or say they met reception fair ?
Or why the tidings saj-.
Which, varying, to Tantallon came,
By hurrying posts or fleeter fame,
With ever varying day?
And, first they heard King Jnmcs had
won
Etall,and Wark, and Ford; and then,
That Norham Castle strong was
ta'en.
At that sore marvell'd Marmion ; —
And Douglas hop'd his Monarch's hand
Would soon subdue Northumberland
But whisper'd news there came.
That, while his host inactive lay.
And melted by degrees away,
King James was dallying off the day
With Heron's wily dame.
.Such acts to chronicles I yield ;
Go seek them there, and see :
Mine is a tale of Flodden Field,
And not a history.
At length they heard the Scottish host
On that high ridge had made their
post.
Which frowns o'er Millfield Plain;
And that brave Surrey many a band
Had gather'd in the Southern land.
And march'd into Northumberland,
And camp at Wooler ta'en.
Marmion, like charger in the stall,
That hears, without, the trumpet-call.
Began to chafe, and swear —
' A sorry thing to hide my head
In castle, like a fearful maid,
When such a field is near !
Needs must I see this battle-day :
Death to my fame if such a fray
Were fought, and Marmion away !
The Douglas, too, I wot not why,
Hath 'bated of his courtesy :
No longer in his halls I '11 stay.'
Then bade his band they should arraj'
For march against the dawning day.
i^2
Qtlarmt'on.
Introduction to Canto
Sixth.
TO
RICHARD HEBER, Esq.
Mcrtoun-Honse, Cliristntas.
Heap on more wood ! — the wind is
chill ;
But let it whistle as it will,
We '11 keep our Christmas merry still.
Each age has decm'd the new-born
year
The fittest time for festal cheer :
Even, heathen j'ct, the savage Dane
At lol more deep the mead did drain;
High on the beach his galleys drew,
And feasted all his pirate crew ;
Then in his low and pine-built hall.
Where shields and axes deck'd the wall,
Theygorged upon the halfdress'dsteer;
Caroused in seas of sable beer;
While round, in brutal jest, were
thrown
Thchalf-gnavv'drib, and marrow-bone:
Or listen'dall, in grim delight,
While Scalds yell'd out thejoj's offight.
Then forth, in frenzj% would they hie,
While wildly-loose their red locks tl}-.
And dancing round the blazing pile.
They make such barbarous mirth the
while.
As best might to the mind recall
The boisterous joys of Odin's hall.
And Avell our Christian sires of old
Loved when the year its course had
roll'd,
And brought blithe Christmas back
again,
With all his hospitable train.
Domestic and religious rite
Gave honour to the holy night ;
On Christmas eve the bells were rung ;
On Christmas eve the mass was sung :
That only night in all the year,
Sa\v the stoled priest the chalice rear.
The damsel donn'd her kirtle sheen ;
The hall was dress'd with hollygreen ;
Forth to the wood did merry-men go.
To gather in the mistletoe.
Then open'd wide the Baron's hall
To vassal, tenant, serf, and all ;
Power laid his rod of rule aside.
And Ceremony doff'd his pride.
The heir, with roses in his shoes.
That night might village partner
choose ;
The Lord, underogating, share
The vulgar game of ' post and pair.'
All hail'd, with uncontroll'd delight.
And general voice, the happy night.
That to the cottage, as the crown.
Brought tidings of salvation down.
The fire, with well-dried logs sup-
plied,
Went roaring up the chimnej- wide ;
The huge hall-table's oaken face,
Scrubb'd till it shone, the day to grace,
Bore then upon its massive board
No mark to part the squire and lord.
Then was brought in the lusty brawn,
By old blue-coated serving-man ;
Then the grim boar's head frown'd
on high.
Crested with ba3's and rosemary.
Well can the green-garb'd ranger tell.
How, when, and where, the monster
fell;
What dogs before his death he tore,
And all the baiting of the boar.
The wassel round, in good brown bowls,
Garnish'd with ribbons, blithely- trowls.
There the huge sirloin reek'd ; hard bj^
Plum-porridge stood, and Christmas
pie ;
Nor fail'd old Scotland to produce.
At such high tide, her savoury goose.
Then came the merry maskers in.
And carols roar'd with blithesome
din ;
^ntroiuch'on to Canto ^trt0.
153
If unmelodious was the song,
It was a hearty note, and strong.
Who lists may in their mumming see
Traces of ancient mystery ;
White shirts suppHed the masquerade,
And smutted cheeks the visors made ;
But, O ! what maskers, richly dight,
Can boast of bosoms half so light !
England was merry England, when
OldChristmasbrought hissportsagain.
'Twas Christmas broach'd the mightiest
ale ;
'Twas Christmas told the merriest
tale;
A Christmas gambol oft could cheer
The poor man's heart through half the
year.
Still linger, in our northern clime,
Some remnants of the good old time ;
And still, within our vallej^s here.
We hold the kindred title dear.
Even when, perchance, its far-fetch'd
claim
To Southron ear sounds empty name ;
P'or course of blood, our proverbs
deem.
Is warmer than the mountain-stream.
And thus, mj' Christmas still I hold
Where my great-grandsire came of old,
With amber beard, and flaxen hair,
And reverend apostolic air —
The feast and holy-tide to share,
And mix sobriety with wine.
And honest mirth with thoughts divine :
Small thought was his, in after time
E'er to be hitch'd into a rhyme.
The simple sire could onl}' boast,
That he was loyal to his cost ;
The banish'd race of kings rever'd,
And lost his land, — but kept his beard.
In these dear halls, where welcome
kind
Is with fair liberty combin'd ;
Where cordial friendship gives the
hand,
And flies constraint the magic wand
Of the fair dame that rules the land ',
Little we heed the tempest drear,
While music, mirth, and social cheer,
.Speed on their wings the passing year.
And Mertoun's halls are fair e'en now,
When not a leaf is on the bough.
Tweed loves them well, and turns again,
As loath to leave the sweet domain,
And holds his mirror to her face.
And clips her with a close embiace : —
Gladly as he, we seek the dome.
And as reluctant turn us home.
How just that, at this time of glee,
My thoughts should, Heber, turn to
theel'
For many a merr^' hour we've known.
And heard the chimes of midnight's
tone.
Cease, then, myfriend! a moment cease,
And leave these classic tomes in peace!
Of Roman and of Grecian lore,
.Sure mortal brain can hold no more.
Theseancients, as Noll Bluffmight say,
' Were pretty fellows in their da3' ;'
But time and tide o'er all prevail —
On Christmas eve a Christmas tale — -
Of wonder and of war — ' Profane I
What ! leave the lofty Latian strain.
Her stately'' prose, her verse's charms,
To hear the clash of rusty arms :
In Fairy Land or Limbo lost.
To jostle conjurer and ghost.
Goblin and witch! ' — Naj', Heber dear.
Before you touch my charter, hear :
Though Leyden -' aids, alas ! no more,
My cause with many-languaged lore,
This may I say : — in realms of death
Ulysses meets Alcides' ivrnith ;
Aeneas, upon Thracia's shore,
The ghost of murder'd Polydore ;
1 ■ A Indy of noble German descent, born Countess
Harriet Hrulil of Martinskirchen, married to H Scott,
)-:si|. of Harden (now Lord Polwarth), the author's
relative and much valued friend almost from in-
fuicy.' — Bcrdey Miiistyelsy,
2 John I-eyden, M.D., of great service to Scott in
the i)reparation of the Border Minstrelsy, died at
Java in i8ii, in his 36th year.
154
QUavmtott.
[Canto
For omens, we in Livy cross,
At every turn, lonittis Bos.
As grave and duly speaks that ox,
As if he told the price of stocks ;
Or held, in Rome republican.
The place of common-councilman.
All nations have their omens drear,
Their legends wild of woe and fear.
To Cambria look— the peasant see
Bethink him of Glendowcrd}'.
And shun 'the spirit's Blasted Tree.'
The Highlander, whose red claj'morc
The battle turn'd on I\Iaida's shore,
Will, on a Friday morn, look pale.
If ask'd to tell a fairy tale:
He fears the vengeful Elfin King.
Who leaves that day his grassy ring :
Invisible to human ken.
He walks among the sons of men.
Did'st e'er, dear Heber, pass along
Beneath the towers of Franchemont,
Which, like an eaglets nest in air.
Hang o'er the stream and hamlet fair?
Deep in their vaults, the peasants say,
A mightj^ treasure buried lay,
Amass'd through rapine and through
wrong
By the last Lord of Franchemont.
The iron chest is bolted hard,
A huntsman sits, its constant guard ;
Around his neck his horn is hung,
His hanger in his belt is slung ;
Before his feet his blood-hounds lie;
An 'twere not for his gloomy eye,
Whose withering glance no heart can
brook.
As true a huntsman doth he look
As bugle e'er in brake did sound.
Or ever hollow'd to a hound.
To chase the fiend, and win the prize,
In that same dungeon ever tries
An aged necromantic priest ;
It is an hundred j'ears at least,
Since 'twixt them first the strife begun.
And neither yet has lost nor won.
And oft theConjurer'swordswill make
The stubborn Demon groan and quake ;
And oft the bands of iron break,
Or bursts one lock, that still amain,
Fast as 'tis open'd, shuts again.
That magic strife within the tomb
May last until the day of doom.
Unless the adept shall learn to tell
The very word that clench'd the spell.
When Franch'mont lock'dthe treasure
cell.
An hundred years are pass'd and gone,
And scarce three letters has he won.
Such general superstition may
Excuse for old Pitscottie say ;
Whose gossip history has given
My song the messenger from Heaven,
That warn'd, in Lithgow, Scotland's
King,
Nor less the infernal summoning ;
Ma3^pass the Monk of Durham's tale.
Whose demon fought in Gothic mail ;
May pardon plead for Fordun grave,
Wiio told of Gillbrd's Goblin-Cave.
But why such instances to you,
Who, in an instant, can renew
Your treasured hoards ofvarious lore.
And furnish twenty thousand more ?
Hoards, not like theirs whose volumes
rest
Like treasures in thePranch'mont chest,
While gripplc owners still refuse
To others what they cannot use;
Give them the priest's whole century'.
They shall not spell you letters three;
Their pleasure in the books the same
The magpie takes in pilfer'd gem.
Thy volumes, open as thy heart.
Delight, amusement, science, art.
To every ear and eye impart ;
Yet who of all who thus employ them.
Can like the owner's self enjoy them ? —
But, hark! I hear the distant drum !
The day of Flodden Field is come. —
Adieu, dear Heber ! life and health.
And store of literary wealth.
VLl
ZU (gattk.
Canto Sixth.
While great events were on the gale,
And each hour brought a varying tale,
And the demeanour, changed and cold.
Of Douglas, fretted Marniion bold,
And, like the impatient steed of war,
He snuflTd the battle from afar;
And hopes were none, that back again
Herald should come from Tcrouenne,
Where England's King in leaguer laj',
Before decisive battle-day ;
Whilst these thingswcrc,themournful
Clare
Did in the Dame's devotions share :
Forthe good Countess ceaseless pray'd
To Heaven and Saints, her sons to aid,
And, with short interval, did pass
From praj'er to book, from book to mass,
And all in high Baronial pride, —
A life both dull and dignified ;
Yet as Lord Marmion nothing press'd
Upon her intervals of rest.
Dejected Clara well could bear
Tlie formal state, the lengthen'd prayer,
Though dearest to her wounded heart
The hours that she might spend apart.
I said Tantallon's dizzy steep
Hung o'er the margin of the deep.
Many a rude tower and rampart there
Repell'd the insult of the air.
Which, when the tempest ve.x'd the
sk\'.
Half breeze, half spray, came whistling
by.
Above the rest, a turret square
Did o'er its Gothic entrance bear.
Of sculpture rude, a stony shield ;
Tlic Bloody Heart was in the Field,
And in the chief three mullets stood.
The cognizance of Douglas blood.
The turret held a narrow stair,
Which, mounted, gave j-ou access
where
A parapet's embattled row
Did seaward round the castle go.
Sometimes in dizzy steps descending,
Sometimes in narrow circuit bending,
.Sometimes in platform broad extend-
ing.
Its varying circle did combine
Bulwark, and bartizan, and line.
And bastion, tower, and vantage-coign ;
Above the booming ocean leant
The far-projecting battlement;
The billows burst, in ceaseless How,
Upon the precipice below.
Where'er Tantallon faced the land,
Gate-works, and walls, were strongly
mann'd ;
No need upon the sea-girt side ;
The steepy rock, and frantic tide.
Approach of human step denied ;
And thus these lines and ramparts
rude
Were left in deepest solitude.
And, for they were so lonely, Clare
Would to these battlements repair.
And muse upon her sorrows there.
And list the sea-bird's cry ;
Or slow, like noontide ghost, would
glide
Along the dark-grej' bulwarks' side,
And ever on the heaving tide
Look down with weary eye.
Oft did the cliff and swelling main
Recall the thoughts of Whitby's fane, —
A home she ne'er might see again ;
For she had laid adown,
.So Douglas bade, the hood and veil,
And frontlet of the cloister pale,
And Benedictine gown :
It %vere unseeml}' sight, he said,
A novice out of convent shade.
Nowherbright locks, with sunny glow.
Again adorn'd her brow of snow ;
156
QUatrittiott.
[Canto
Her mantle rich, whose borders, round,
A deep and fretted broidery bound.
In golden foldings sought the ground ;
Of holy ornament, alone
Remain'd a cross with ruby stone;
And often did she look
On that which in her hand she bore.
With velvet bound, and broider'd o'er,
Her breviary book.
In such a place, so lone, so grim,
At dawning pale, or twilight dim,
It fearful would have been
To meet a form so richly dress'd.
With book in hand, and cross on
breast,
And such a woeful mien.
Fitz-Eustace, loitering with his bow,
To practise on the gull and crow,
.Saw her, at distance, gliding slow,
And did by Mary swear
Some love-lorn Fay she might have
been.
Or, in Romance, some spell-bound
Queen ;
Forne'er, in work-day world, was seen
A form so witching fair.
Once walking thus, at evening tide.
It chanced a gliding sail she spied,
And, sighing, thought — 'The Abbess,
there,
Perchance, does to her home repair;
Her peaceful rule, where Dut3% free,
Walks hand in hand with Charity ;
Where oft Devotion's tranced glow
Can such a glimpse of heaven bestow,
That the enraptur'd sisters see
High vision and deep mystery;
The very form of Hilda fair.
Hovering upon the sunny air,
And smiling on her votaries' prayer.
O I wherefore, to my duller eye,
Did still the Saint her form deny I
Was it, that, seard by sinful scorn.
My heart could neither melt nor
burn ?
Or lie my warm aftections low,
With him, that taught them first to
glow ?
Yet, gentle Abbess, well I knew.
To pay thy kindness grateful due.
And well could brook the mild com-
mand,
That ruled thy simple maiden band.
How difierent now! condemn'd to
bide
M3' doom from this dark tyrant's pride.
But Marmion has to learn, ere long,
That constant mind, and hate of wrong.
Descended to a feeble girl,
From Red De Clare, stout Gloster's
Earl:
Of such a stem, a sapling weak
He ne'er shall bend, although he break.
' But see ! what makes this armour
here ? ' —
For in her path there lay
Targe, corslet, helm ; she view'd them
near.
'The breastplate pierc'd I — Ay, much
I fear.
Weak fence wertthou 'gainst foeman's
spear.
That hath made fatal entrance here,
As these dark blood-gouts say.
Thus Wilton — oh! not corslet's warp,
Not truth, as diamond pure and hard,
Could be thy manly bosom's guard,
On j'on disastrous day ! '
She raised her ej'es in mournful
mood, —
Wilton himself before her stood !
It might haveseem'd his passing ghost,
For every youthful grace was lost ;
And joy unwonted, and surprise.
Gave their strange wildness to his
eyes.
Expect not, noble dames and lords.
That I can tell such scene in words :
What skilful limner e'er would choose
To paint the rainbow's varying hues,
VI.]
ZU (§CittU.
157
Unless to mortal it were given
To dip his brush in dyes of heaven ?
Far less can my weak line declare
Each changing passion's shade ;
Brightening to rapture from despair,
Sorrow, surprise, and pity there,
And joy, with her angelic air.
And hope, that paints the future fair.
Their varying hues display 'd :
Each o'er its rival's ground extending.
Alternate conquering, shifting, blcnd-
i'lg,
Till all, fatigued, the conflict yield.
And mighty Love retains the field.
Shortly I tell what then he said.
By many a tender word delay'd,
And modest blush, and bursting sigh.
And question kind, and fond reply : —
DE WILTON S HISTORY.
' Forget we that disastrous daj'.
When senseless in the lists I lay.
Thence dragg'd, — but how I cannot
know.
For sense and recollection fled, —
I found me on a pallet low.
Within my ancient beadsman's
shed.
Austin, — remember'st thou, my
Clare.
How thou didst blush, when the old
man.
When first our infant love began.
Said we would make a matchless
pair? —
Menials, and friends, and kinsmen fled
From the degraded traitor's bed, —
He only held my burning head.
And tended me for many a day.
While wounds and fever held their
sway.
But far more needful was his care.
When sense return'd to wake despair ;
For I did tear the closing wound.
And dash me frantic on the ground.
If e'er I heard the name of Clare.
At length, to calmer reason brought.
Much by his kind attendance wrought.
With him I left my native strand,
And, in a palmer's weeds array'd.
My hated name and form to shade,
I journey'd many a land ;
No more a lord of rank and birth,
But mingled with the dregs of earth.
Oft Austin for m}' reason fcar'd.
When I would sit, and deeply brood
On dark revenge, and deeds of blood,
Or wild mad schemes uprear'd.
My friend at length fell sick, and said,
God would remove him soon :
And, while upon his dying bed,
He begg'd of me a boon — ■
If e'er my deadliest enemy
Beneath my brand should conquer'd lie.
Even then my mercy should awake.
And spare his life for Austin's sake.
' Still restless as a second Cain,
To Scotland next my route was ta'en.
Full well the paths I knew.
Fame of my fate made various sound.
That death in pilgrimage I found,
That I had perish'd of my wound, —
None cared which tale was true :
And living eye could never guess
■JDe Wilton in his Palmer's dress;
For now that sable slough is shed,
And trimm'd m}' shaggy beard and
head,
I scarcely know me in the glass.
A chance most wondrous did provide.
That I should be that Baron's guide —
I will not name his name !
Vengeance to God alone belongs ;
But, when I think on all m_v wrongs,
My blood is liquid flame !
And ne'er the time shall I forget.
When, in a Scottish hostel set.
Dark looks we did exchange :
What were his thoughts I cannot tell ;
But in my bosom muster'd Hell
Its plans of dark revenge.
(rtlarittton.
[Canto
' A word of vulgar augurj%
That broke from me, I scarce knew
why,
Brought on a village tale ;
Which wrought upon his moody sprite,
And sent him armed forth bj' night.
I borrow'd steed and mail,
And weapons, from his sleeping band ;
And, passing from a postern door,
We met, and 'counter'd hand to hand, —
He fell on Gilford moor.
For the death-stroke m3' brand I drew,
(O then my helmed head he knew.
The Palmer's cowl was gone,)
Then had three inches of my blade
The heav3' debt of vengeance paid ;
My hand the thought of Austin staid ;
I left him there alone.
O good old man ! even from the grave
Thy spirit could thy master save :
If I had slain my foeman, ne'er
Had Whitby's Abbess, in her fear.
Given to my hand this packet dear,
Of power to clear my injured fame,
And vindicate De Wilton's name.
Perchance you heard the Abbess tell
Of the strange pageantry of Hell,
That broke our secret speech — ■
It rose from the infernal shade.
Or featly was some juggle play'd,
A tale of peace to teach.
Appeal to Heaven I judged was best.
When my name came among the rest.
' Now here, within Tantallon Hold,
To Douglas late my tale I told.
To whom my house was known of old.
Won by my proofs, his falchion bright
This eve anew shall dub me knight.
These were the arms that once did
turn
The tide of fight on Otterburne,
And Harry Hotspur forced to yield,
When the Dead Douglas won the field.
These Angus gave — his armourer's
care,
Ere morn shall ever^' breach repair ;
For nought, he said, was in his halls,
But ancient armour on the walls.
And aged chargers in the stalls.
And women, priests, and grcy-hair'd
men,
The rest were all in Twisel glen.
And now I watch mj^ armour here.
By law of arms, till midnight 's near ;
Then, once again a belted knight.
Seek Surrey's camp with dawn of light.
' There soon again we meet, my
Clare I
This Baron means to guide thee
there :
Douglas reveres his King's command.
Else would he take thee from his
band.
And there thy kinsman, Surrey, too,
Will give De Wilton justice due.
Now meeter far for martial broil.
Firmer my limbs, and strung bj' toil.
Once more'- — -' O Wilton ! must we
then
Risk new-found happiness again,
Trust fate of arms once more ?
And is there not an humble glen,
Where we, content and poor.
Might build a cottage in the shade,
A shepherd thou, and I to aid
Thy task on dale and moor ?
That reddening brow ! — too well
I know.
Not even thy Clare can peace bestow,
While falsehood stains thy name:
Go then to fight ! Clare bids thee go !
Clare can a warrior's feelings know,
And weep a warrior's shame,
Can Red Earl Gilbert's spirit feel.
Buckle the spurs upon thy heel.
And belt thee with thy brand of
steel.
And send thee forth to fame I '
VI.]
ZU (g<itt(t.
159
That night, upon the rocks and baj-,
The midnight moonbeam slumbering
lay,
And pour'd its silver light, and pure,
Through loop-hole, and through em-
brazure,
Upon Tantallon tower and hall ;
But chief where arched,windows wide
Illuminate the chapel's pride,
The sober glances fall.
Much was there need ; though, seam'd
with scars,
Two veterans of the Douglas' wars,
Though two grej' priests were there.
And each a blazing torch held high,
You could not b}' their blaze descrj'
The chapel's carving fair.
Amid that dim and smoky light.
Chequering the silver moonshine
bright,
A bishop b}' the altar stood,
A noble lord of Douglas blood.
With mitre sheen, and rocquet white,
"'k'et show'd his meek and thoughtful
ej'e
But little pride of prelacy;
More pleas'd that, in a barbarous age.
He gave rude Scotland Virgil's page,
Than that beneath his rule he held
The bishopric of fair Dunkeld.
Beside him ancient Angus stood,
Doff'd his furr'd gown, and sable hood :
O'er his huge form and visage pale,
He wore a cap and shirt of mail ;
Andlean'dhislarge and wrinkled hand
Upon the huge and sweeping brand
"Which wont of yore, in battle fray.
His foeman's limbs to shred away,
As wood-knife lops the sapling spray.
He seem'das,from the tombsaround
Rising at judgment-day.
Some giant Douglas may be found
In all his old arraj- ;
So pale his face, so huge his limb.
So old his arms, his look so grim.
Then at the altar Wilton kneels.
And Clare the spurs bound on his heels ;
And think what next he must have felt.
At buckling of the falchion belt I
And judge how Clara changed her
hue.
While fastening to her lover's side
A friend, which, though in danger tried,
He once had found untrue I
Then Douglas struck him with his
blade :
' Saint Michael and Saint Andrew aid,
I dub thee knight.
Arise, Sir Ralph, De Wilton's heirl
For King, for Church, for Lady fair.
See that thou fight.' —
And Bishop Gawain, as he rose.
Said — 'Wilton! grieve not for thy
woes,
Disgrace, and trouble ;
For He, who honour best bestows.
May give thee double.' —
De Wilton sobb'd, for sob he must — •
' Where'er I meet a Douglas, trust
That Douglas is my brother I ' —
' Nay, nay,' old Angus said, ' not so;
To Surrey's camp thou now must go,
Thy wrongs no longer smother.
I have two sons in yonder field ;
And, if thou meet'st them under shield,
Upon them bravely — do thy worst;
And foul fall him that blenches first ! '
Not far advanc'd was morning daj-,
When Marmion did his troop arraj-
To Surrey's camp to ride ;
He had safe conduct for his band.
Beneath the roj^al seal and hand.
And Douglas gave a guide :
The ancient Earl, with statelj- grace,
Would Clara on her palfrey place.
And whisper'd in an under tone,
' Let the hawk stoop, his prey is
llown.'
i6o
(TUarniton.
[Canto
The train from out the castle drew,
But Marmion stopp'd to bid adieu : —
' Though sometiiing I niiglit 'plain,'
he said,
' Of cold respect to stranger guest,
Sent hither by your King's behest,
While in Tantallon's towers I staid ;
Part we in friendship from your land,
And, noble Earl, receive my hand.'
But Douglas round him drew his
cloak.
Folded his arms, and thus he spoke :
' Mv manors, halls, and bowers, shall
still
Be open, at my Sovereign's will.
To each one whom he lists, howe'er
Unmeet to be the owner's peer.
My castles are my King's alone.
From turret to foundation-stone —
The hand of Douglas is his own ;
And never shall in friendly grasp
The hand of such as Marmion clasp.'
Biu-n'd Marmion's swarthy cheek like
fire,
And shook his very frame for ire.
And 'This to me ! ' he said ;
' An 'twere not for thy hoary beard,
.Such handas Marmion's had not spar'd
To cleave the Douglas' head !
And, first, I tell thee, haughty Peer,
He, who does England's message here,
Although the meanest in her state.
May well, proud Angus, be thy mate :
And, Douglas, more 1 tell thee here.
Even in thy pitch of pride.
Here in thy hold, thy vassals near —
(Naj', never look upon your lord.
And lay your hands upon j'our sword !)
I tell thee, thou'rt defied !
And if thou said'st I am not peer
To any lord in Scotland here,
Lowland or Highland, far or near.
Lord Angus, thou hast lied 1 '
On the Earl's cheek the flush of rage
O'ercame the ashen hue of age :
Fierce he broke forth, * And dar'st
thou then
To beard the lion in his den,
The Douglas in his hall ?
And hop'st thou hence unscathed to go
No, by Saint Bride of Bothwell, no !
Up drawbridge, grooms — what, war-
der, ho !
Let the portcullis fall.'
Lord Marmion turn'd, — well was his
need.
And dash'd the rowels in his steed.
Like arrow through the archway
sprung.
The ponderous grate behind him
rung : ^
To pass there was such scanty room.
The bars, descending, razed his plume.
The steed along the drawbridge flies,
Just as it trembled on the rise ;
Nor lighter does the swallow skim
Along the smooth lake's level brim :
And when Lord Marmion reach'd his
band.
He halts, and turns with clenched hand,
And shout of loud defiance pours,
And shook his gauntlet at the towers.
' Horse ! horse ! ' the Douglas cried,
'and chase ! '
But soon he rein'd his fury's pace :
' A royal messenger he came.
Though most unworthy of the name. —
A letter forged ! Saint Jude to speed I
Did ever knight so foul a deed !
At first in heart it liked me ill.
When the King prais'd his clerkly skill.
Thanks to Saint Bothan, son of mine,
Save Gawain, ne'er could pen a line :
So swore \, and I swear it still.
Let my boy-bishop fret his fill.
Saint Mary mend my fiery mood !
Old age ne'er cools the Douglas blood,
I thought to slay him where he stood.
'Tis pity of him too,' he cried :
' Bold can he speak, and fairly ride,
VI.]
ZU (f afffe.
i6i
I warrant him a warrior tried.' -
With this his mandate he recalls,
And slowly seeks his castle halls.
XVI.
The 'day in Marmion's journey wore ;
Yet, ere his passion's gust was o'er,
They cross'd the heights of Stanrig-
moor.
H is troop more closely there he scann'd,
And miss'd the Palmer from the band.
' Palmer or not,' young Blount did say,
' He parted at the peep of day;
Good sooth, it was in strange array.'
' In what array ? ' said Marmion, quick.
' My Lord, I ill can spell the trick ;
But all night long, with clink and bang,
Close to my couch did hammers clang ;
At dawn the falling drawbridge rang,
And from a loop-hole while I peep,
Old Bell-the-Cat came from the Keep,
Wrapp'd in a gown of sables fair,
As fearful of the morning air ;
Beneath, when that was blown aside,
A rusty shirt of mail I spied,
By Archibald won in bloodj' work,
Against the Saracen and Turk :
Last night it hung not in the hall ;
I thought some marvel would befall.
And next I saw them saddled lead
Old Cheviot forth, the Earl's beststeed,
A matchless horse, though something
old,
Prompt in his paces, cool and bold.
I heard the Sheriff Sholto say.
The Earl did much the Master pray
To use him on the battle-da}- ;
But he preferr'd' ' Naj', Henrj-,
cease !
Thou sworn horse-courser, hold th^'
peace.
Eustace, thou bcar'st a brain — I pray,
What did Blount see at break of day ? '
XVII.
' In brief, mj' lord, we both descried
(For then I stood by Henrj^'s side)
The Palmer mount, and outwards ride,
LTponthe Earl's own favourite steed :
All shcath'd he was in armour bright,
And much resembled that same knight,
.Subdir'd by you in Cotswold fight :
Lord Angus wish'd him speed.'
The instant that Fitz-Eustace spoke,
A sudden light on Marmion broke ; —
'Ah I dastard fool, to reason lost ! '
He mutter'd ; ' "twas nor fay nor
ghost
I met upon the moonlight wold.
But living man of earthly mould.
O dotage blind and gross !
Had I but fought as wont, one thrust
Had laid De Wilton in the dust.
My path no more to cross.
How stand we now ? — he told his tale
To Douglas; and with some avail;
'Twas therefore gloom'd his rugged
brow.
Will Surrey dare to entertain,
'Gainst Marmion, charge disproved
and vain ?
Small lisk of that, I trow.
Yet Clare's sharp questions must
I shun.
Must separate Constance from the
Nun —
0 what a tangled web we weave,
When first we practise to deceive !
A Palmer too 1 — no wonder wh}'
1 felt rebuk'd beneath his eye :
I might have known there was but one.
Whose look could quell Lord Marmion.'
.Stung with these thoughts, he urg'd
to speed
His troop, and reach'd at eve the
Tweed,
Where Lennel's convent clos'd their
march ;
(There now is left but one frail arch.
Yet mourn thou not its cells ;
Our time a fair exchange has made ;
Hard by, in hospitable shade,
A reverend pilgrim dwells,
G
l62
QUatittt'en.
[Canto
Well worth tlie whole Bcrnardinc
Ijrood,
That e'er wore sandal, frock, or hood.)
Yet did Saint Bernard's Abbot there
Give Marmion entertainment fair.
And lodging for his train and Clare.
Next morn the Baron climb'd the
tower,
To view afar the Scottish power,
Encamp'd on Flodden edge :
The white pavilions made a show,
Like remnants of the winter snow,
Along the dusky ridge.
Long Marmion look'd : at length his
eye
Unusual movement might descry
Amid the shifting lines :
The Scottish host drawn out appears,
For, flashing on the hedge of spears
The eastern sunbeam shines.
Their front now deepening, now
extending ;
Their Hank inclining, wheeling, bend-
ing.
Now drawing back, and now descend-
ing,
The skilt'ul Marmion well could know
They watch'd the motions of some foe.
Who travers'd on the plain below.
Even so it was. From Flodden ridge
The .Scots beheld the English host
Leave Barmore-wood, their evening
])Ost,
And heedful watchVl them as they
cross'd
The Till b^' Twisel Bridge.
High sight it is, and haughty, while
They dive into the deep defile ;
Beneath the cavern'd cliflf thej' fall.
Beneath the castle's airy wall ;
By rock, by oak, bj' hawthorn-tree,
Troop after troop are disappearing ;
Troop after troop their banners rear-
ing,
Upon the eastern bank you sec;
Still pouring down the rocky den,
Where flows the sullen Till,
And rising from the dim-wood glen,
Standards on standards, men on men,
In slow succession still.
And, sweeping o'er the Gothic arch.
And pressing on, in ceaseless march,
To gain the opposing hill.
That morn, to manj^ a trumpet clang,
Twisel ! th}' rock's deep echo rang;
And many a chief of birth and rank,
Saint Helen ! at thy fountain drank.
Thj'hawthorn glade, which now we see
In spring-tide bloom so lavishly.
Had then from majiy an axe its doom,
To give the marching columns room.
And whj- stands Scotland idh' now,
Dark Flodden ! on thy airy brow.
Since England gains the pass the while,
And struggles through the deep defile ?
What checks the fiery soul of James?
Why sits that champion of the dames
Inactive on his steed,
And sees, between him and his land,
Between him and Tweed's southern
strand,
His host Lord Surrey lead ?
What 'vails the vain knight-errant's
brand ?
O, Douglas, for th}' leading wand !
Fierce Randolph, for thy speed !
O for one hour of Wallace wight.
Or wcll-skill'd Bruce, to rule the fight,
And cry ' Saint Andrew and our
right ! '
Another sight had seen that morn.
From Fate's dark book a leaf been torn,
And Flodden had been Bannock-
bourne !
The precious hour has pass'd in \ain,
And England's host has gain'd the
plain ;
Wheeling their march, anil circling
still,
Around the base of Flodden hill.
VI.]
ZU (gc^iiU.
163
Ere yet the bands met Marmion's eye
Fitz-Eustace shouted loud and high,
' Hark ! hark 1 my lord, an English
drum !
And see ascending- squadrons come
Between Tweed's river and the hill,
Foot, horse, and cannon : hap what
hap,
My basnet to a prentice cap.
Lord Surrey's o'er the Till 1
Yet more ! yet more I — how far array'd
They file from out the hawthorn
shade,
And sweep so gallant by !
With all their banners bravely spread.
And all their armour flashing high.
Saint George might w'aken from the
dead,
To see fair England's standards fl}'.'
' Stint in thy prate,' quoth Blount,
' thou 'dst best.
And listen to our lord's behest.
With kindling brow Lord Marmion
said,
'This instant be our band array'd ;
The river must be quickly cross'd.
That we may join Lord Surre3''s
host.
If fight King James. — as well I trust,
Thatfighthewill.and fight he must, —
The Lady Clare behind our lines
Shall tarry, while the battle joins.'
Himself he swift on horseback threw.
Scarce to the Abbot bade adieu ;
Far less would listen to his prayer
To leave behind the helpless Clare.
Down to the Tweed his band he
drew.
And mutter'd as the flood they view,
' The pheasant in the falcon's claw,
He scarce will yield to please a daw :
Lord Angus may the Abbot awe.
So Clare shall bide with me.'
Then on that dangerous ford, and deep,
Where to the Tweed Leafs eddies
creep.
He ventured desperately :
And not a moment will he bide.
Till squire, or groom, before him
ride ;
Headmost of all he stems the tide,
And stems it gallantly.
Eustace held Clare upon her horse,
Old Hubert led her rein.
Stoutly they brav'd the current's
course,
And, though far downward driven
per force.
The southern bank thc3- gain ;
Behind them, straggling, came to
shore,
As best they might, the train :
Each o'er his head his yew-bow bore,
A caution not in vain ;
Deep need that day that every string.
By wet unharm'd, should sharply ring.
A moment then Lord Marmion staid,
And breath'd his steed, his men
array'd.
Then forward mov'd his band.
Until, Lord Surrey's rear-guard won.
He halted b^' a Cross of Stone,
That, on a hillock standing lone,
Did all the field command.
Hence might they see the full array
Of either host, for deadly fray;
Their marshall'd lines stretch'd east
and west,
And fronted north and south.
And distant salutation pass'd
From the loud cannon mouth ;
Not in the close successive rattle,
That breathes the \oice of modern
battle,
But slow and far between.
The hillock gain'd. Lord Marmionstaid:
' Here, by this Cross,' he gently said,
' You well may view the scene.
G 2
164
QUafittton.
[Canto
Here shalt thou tarry, lovely Clare :
O ! think of Marmion in thy prayer !
Thou wilt not ? — well, no less my care
Shall, ^vatchful, for thy weal prepare.
You. Blount and Eustace, are her
guard,
With ten pick'd archers of mj- train ;
With England if the daj' go hard,
To Berwick speed amain.
But if we conquer, cruel maid,
My spoils shall at your feet be laid,
When here we meet again.'
He ^vaited not for answer there,
And would not mark the maid's despair,
Nor heed the discontented look
From either squire; but spurr'd amain,
And, dashing through the battle plain,
His way to Surrey took.
XXIV.
' The good Lord Marmion, by my life !
Welcome to danger's hour !
Short greeting serves in time of strife :
Thus have I rang'd my power :
Myself will rule this central host,
Stout Stanley fronts their right,
My sons command the vaward post,
With Brian Tunstall, stainless
knight ;
Lord Dacre, with his horsemen light,
Shall be in rearward of the fight,
And succour those that need it most.
Now, gallant Marmion, well I know
Would gladly to the vanguard go ;
Edmund, the Admiral, Tunstall there,
With thee their charge will blithely
share ;
There fight thine own retainers too.
Beneath Do Burg, thy steward true.'
'Thanks, noble SurrejM' Marmion said.
Nor farther greeting there he paid ;
But, parting like a thunderbolt.
First in the vanguard made a halt.
Where such a shout there rose
Of Marmion! Marmion! that the cry,
Up Flodden mountain shrilling high,
Startled the Scottish foes.
Blount and Fitz-Eustace rested still
With Lady Clare upon the hill !
On which ffor far the day was spent),
The western sunbeams now were
bent.
The cry they heard, its meaning knew.
Could plain their distant comrades
view :
Sadly to Blount did Eustace sa3%
' Unworthy office here to stay !
No hope of gilded spurs to-day.
But see ! look up — on Flodden bent
The Scottish foe has fired his tent.'
And sudden, as he spoke.
From the sharp ridges of the hill,
All downward to the banks of Till,
Was wrcath'd in sable smoke.
Volum'd and fast, and rolling far.
The cloud envelop'd Scotland's war,
As down the hill they broke ;
Nor martial shout, nor minstrel tone,
Announc'd their march ; their tread
alone,
At times one warning trumpet blown,
At times a stifled hum.
Told England, from his mountain-
throne
King James did rushing come.
Scarce could they hear, or see their
foes,
Until at weapon-point they close.
Thej' close, in clouds of smoke and
dust,
With sword-sway, and with lance's
thrust ;
And such a yell was there.
Of sudden and portentous birth,
As if men fought upon the earth.
And fiends in upper air;
O life and death were in the shout,
Recoil and rally, charge and lout.
And triumph and despair.
Long look'd the anxious squires ; their
eye
Could in tlie darkness nought descr}'.
VI.]
ZU (gatik.
165
At length the freshening western
blast
Aside the shroud of battle cast;
And, first, the ridge of mingled spears
Above the brightening cloud appears ;
And in the smoke the pennons flew,
As in the storm the white sea-mew.
Then mark'd they, dashing broad and
far.
The broken billows of the war.
And plumed crests of chieftains brave.
Floating like foam upon the wave ;
But nought distinct they see :
Wide rag'd the battle on the plain ;
Spears shook, and falchions flash'd
amain ;
Fell England's arrow-flight like rain ;
Crests rose, and stoop'd, and rose
again,
Wild and disorderly.
Amid the scene of tumult, high
They saw Lord Marmion's falcon fly :
And stainless TunstalTs banner white,
And Edmund Howard's lion bright,
Still bear them bravely in the fight :
Although against them come.
Of gallant Gordons many a one.
And many a stubborn Badenoch-man,
And many a rugged Border clan.
With Huntly, and with Home.
Far on the left, unseen the while,
Stanle\' broke Lennox and Argyle ;
Though there the western mountaineer
Rush'd with bare bosom on the spear.
And Hung the feeble targe aside.
And with both hands the broadsword
plied.
'Twas vain : — But Fortune, on the
right.
With fickle smile, cheer'd Scotland's
fight.
Then fell that spotless banner white,
The Howard's lion fell ;
Yet still Lord Marmion's falcon flew
With wavering flight, while fiercer
grew
Around the battle-yell.
The Border slogan rent the sky !
A Home ! a Gordon ! was the cry :
Loud were the clanging blows ;
Advanc'd, forc'd back, now low, now
high,
The pennon sunk and rose ;
As bends the bark's mast in the gale,
When rent are rigging, shrouds, and
sail.
It waver'd 'mid the foes.
No longer Blount the view could bear :
' By Heaven.and all its saints I I swear
I will not see it lost 1
Fitz-Eustace, you with Lady Clare
May bid your beads, and patter
prayer, —
I gallop to the host.'
And to the fray he rode amain,
Follow'd by all the archer train.
The fiery youth, with desperatecharge.
Made, for a space, an opening large.
The rescued banner rose,
But darkly clos'd the war around,
Like pine-tree, rooted from the ground,
It sunk among the foes.
Then Eustace mounted too :— yet staid
As loath to leave the helpless maid.
When, fast as shaft can fly.
Bloodshot his ej'eSjhis nostrils spread,
The loose rein dangling from his head.
Housing and saddle bloody red.
Lord Marmion's steed rush'd by ;
And Eustace, maddening at the sight,
A look and sign to Clara cast
To mark he would return in haste,
Then plung'd into the fight.
XXVIII.
Ask me not what the maiden feels,
Left in that dreadful hour alone :
Perchance her reason stoops, or reels ;
Perchance a courage, not her own.
Braces her mind to desperate tone.
i66
Qltarmton.
[Canto
The scatter'd van of England wheels ;
She only said, as loud in air
The tumult roai'd, ' Is Wiltonthercl'
They fl}-, or, madden'd by despair,
P"ightbutto die, — Ts Wilton there?'
With that, straight up the hill there
rode
Two horsemen drench'd with gore.
And in their arms, a helpless load,
A wounded knight they bore.
His hand still strain'd the broken brand;
His arms were smear'd with blood
and sand :
Dragg'd from among the horses' feet,
With dinted shield, and helmet beat.
The falcon-crest and plumage gone.
Can that be haughty Marmion !
Yoimg Blount his armour did unlace,
And, gazing on his ghastly face,
Said ' By Saint George, he 's gone !
Thatspear-Avound has ourmasterspcd.
And see the deep cut on his head !
Good-night to Marmion.'
' Unnurtur'd Blount ! th}' brawling
cease :
He opes his eyes,' said Eustace ;
' peace ! '
When, doff'd his casque, hefeltfreeair,
Around 'gan Marmion wildly stare : —
' Where's Harry Blount? Fitz-Eustace
where ?
Linger ye here, ye hearts of hare !
Redeem my pennon, — charge again !
Crj' ' Marmion to the rescue ! '■ — Vain !
Last of my race, on battle-plain
That shout shall ne'er be heard again I
Yet mj^ last thought is England's ; fl}'.
To Dacre bear my signet-ring :
Tell him his squadrons up to bring.
Fitz-Eustace, to Lord .Surrey hie ;
Tunstall lies dead upon the field.
His life-blood stains the spotless
shield :
Edmund is down : - mj' life is reft ;
The Admiral alone is left.
Let Stanley charge with spur of
fire, — •
WithChester charge, and Lancashire,
Full upon Scotland's central host,
Or victory and England's lost.
Must I bid twice ? — hence, varlets !
fly! _
Leave Marmion here alone — to die.'
They parted, and alone ho laj' ;
Clare drew her from the sight away,
Till pain wrung fortli a lowly moan.
And half he murmur'd, ' Is there none,
Of all my halls have nurst,
Page, squire, or groom, one cup to
bring
Of blessed water from the spring,
To slake mj' d3-ing thirst ! '
XXX.
O Woman I in our hours of ease,
Uncertain, coy, and hard to please,
And variable as the shade
By the light quivering aspen made ;
When pain and anguish wring the
brow,
A ministering angel thou !
Scarce were the piteous accents said.
When, with the Baron's casque, the
maid
To the nigh streamlet ran :
Forgotwcrehatred, wrongs, and fears;
The plaintive voice alone she hears.
Sees but the dying man.
She stoop'd her by the runnel's side,
But in abhorrence backward drew;
For, oozing from the mountain's side.
Where raged the war, a dark-red tide
Was curdling in the streamlet blue.
Where shall she turn ? — behold her
mark
A little fountain cell,
Where water, clear as diamond-spark.
In a stone basin fell.
Above, some half-worn letters say.
Drink. torarg. pilgrim. ivink.nnti.prau.
JFor . li)r . ktnti . soul . of . 5ubil . (Tivrji .
2M\)0 . built . tljis . rross . anti . iufll.
VI.1
ZU (g<^ttk.
167
She fill'd tlie helm, and bacli she hied,
And with surprise and joy espied
A monksupportingMarmion's head :
A pious man, whom duty brought
To dubious verge of battle fought,
To shrievcthe dj'ing, bless the dead.
x.xxi.
Deep drank Lord Marmion of the wave,
And, as she stoop'd his brow to lave —
' Is it the hand of Clare,' he said,
' Or injur'd Constance, bathes my
head ? '
Then, as remembrance rose, —
' Speak not to me of shrift or prayer!
I must redress her woes.
Short space, few words, are mine to
spare :
Forgive and listen, gentle Clare !'
' Alas ! ' she said, ' the while, —
O, think of your immortal weal I
In vain for Constance is your zeal ;
She died at Holy Isle.'
Lord Marmion started from the ground,
As light as if he felt no wound ;
Though in the action burst the tide,
In torrents, from his wounded side.
' Then it was truth,' he said ; ' I knew
That the dark presage must be true.
I would the Fiend, to whom belongs
The vengeance due to all her wrongs,
Would spare me but a day !
For wasting fire, and dj'ing groan.
And priests slain on the altar stone,
Might bribe him for delay.
It may not be ! this dizzy trance —
Curse on j'on base marauder's lance,
And doubly curs'd my failing brand !
A sinful heart makes feeble hand.'
Then, fainting, down on earth he sunk,
Supported by the trembling Monk.
XXXII.
With fruitless labour, Clara bound,
And strove to stanch the gushing
wonnd :
The ]\Ionk, with unavailing cares.
Exhausted all the Church's prayers.
Ever, he said, that, close and near,
A lady's voice was in his ear.
And that the priest he could not hear ;
For that she ever sung,
' In the lost battle, bonic doivn by the
fyliig,
IVherc iiiliigles ivai's vatllc ivilh groans
of the dying ! '
.So the notes rung ; —
'Avoid thee, Fiend 1 with cruel hand,
Shake not the dying sinner's sand I
O, look, my son, upon yon sign
Of the Redeemer's grace divine ;
O, think on faith and bliss 1
By many a death-bed I have been.
And inan3' a sinner's parting seen,
But never aught like this.'
The war, that for a space did fail.
Now trcbij' thundering swell'd the
gale.
And — Stanley ! was the cry ;
A light on Marmion's visage spread,
And fired his glazing ej^e :
With dying hand, above his head,
He shook the fragment of his blade.
And shouted ' Victory !
Charge, Chester, charge! On, Stanley,
on ! '
Were the last words of Marmion.
XXXIII.
By this though deep the evening fell,
.Still rose the battle's deadly' swell.
For still the Scots, around their King,
Unbroken, fought in desperate ring.
Where's now their victor vawanl
wing,
WliercHuntly, and where Home? —
O, for a blast of that dread horn.
On Fontarabian echoes borne.
That to King Charles did come,
When Rowland brave, and Olivier,
And every paladin and peer,
On Roncesvalles died I
Such blast might warn them, not in vain,
To c|uit the jjlunder of the slain,
And turn the doubtful day again,
i68
QUarittton.
[Canto
While yet on Flodden side.
Afar, the Royal Standard flies,
And round it toils, andbleeds,anddies,
Our Caledonian pride I
In vain the wish — for far away,
While spoil and havoc mark their way.
Near Sybil's Cross the plunderers
stray.
' O, Lady,' cried the Monk, ' away I '
And plac'd her on her steed,
And led her to the chapel fair,
Of Tilmouth upon Tweed.
There allthenightthej'spent in prayer.
And at the dawn of morning, there
She met her kinsman, Lord Fitz-Clarc.
xx.xiv.
But as the\' left the dark'ning heath,
M ore desperate grew the strife of death .
The English shafts in volleys hail'd,
Inheadlong charge theirhorseassaild ;
Front, flank, and rear, the squadrons
sweep
To break the Scottish circle deep.
That fought around their King.
But 3'et, though thick the shafts as snow,
Though charging knights like whirl-
winds go,
Though bill-men ply the ghastl\- blow,
LTnbrokcn was the ring ;
The stubborn spear-men still made
Their dark impenetrable wood,
Each stepping where his comrade
stood,
The instant that he fell.
No thought was there of dastard flight;
Link'd in the serried phalanx tight,
Groom fought like noble, squire like
knight,
As fearlessly and well ;
Till utter darkness closed her wing
O'ertheir thin host and wounded King.
Then skilful .Surrey's sage commands
Led backfromstrifehisshatter'dbands ;
And from the charge the\'' drew.
As mountain-waveSjfrom wasted lands,
Sweep back to ocean blue.
Then did their loss his foemen know;
Their King, their Lords, their might-
iest low,
Thej- melted from the field as snow.
When streams are swoln and south
winds blow.
Dissolves in silent dew.
Tweed's echoes heard the ceaseless
plash,
While many a broken band,
Disorder'd, through her currents dash.
To gain the Scottish land ;
To town and tower, to town and dale.
To tell red Flodden's dismal tale,
And raise the universal wail.
Tradition, legend, tune, and song.
Shall many an age that wail prolong:
Still from the sire the son shall hear
Of the stern strife, and carnage drear.
Of Flodden's fatal field,
Where shiver'd was fair Scotland's
spear.
And broken was her shield I
XXXV.
Daj" dawns upon the mountain's side:
There, .Scotland ! lay thy bravest pride.
Chiefs, knights, and nobles, many a one:
The sad survivors all are gone.
View' not that corpse mistrustfully,
Defac'd and mangled though it be;
Nor to yon Border castle high.
Look northward with upbraiding eye;
Nor cherish hope in vain.
That, journej'ing far on foreign strand,
The Royal Pilgrim to his land
May yet return again.
He saw the wreck his rashness
wrought ;
Reckless of life, he desperate fought,
And fell on Flodden plain :
And well in death his trusty brand.
Firm clench'd within his manly hand,
Besecm'd the monarch slain.
But, O ! how changed since yon blithe
night :
Gladly I turn me from the sight,
Unto my tale again.
VI.]
ZU ^attk.
169
Short is my tale : Fitz-Eustace' care
A pierc'd and mangled body bare
To moated Lichfield's lofty pile ;
And there, beneath the southern aisle
A tomb, with Gothic sculpture fair,
Did long Lord Marmion's image bear.
(Now vainly for its sight you look ;
'Twas levell'd when fanatic Brook
The fair cathedral storm'd and took ;
But, thanks to Heaven and good Saint
Chad,
A guerdon meet the spoiler had I)
There erst was martial Marmion found.
His feet upon a couchant hound.
His hands to heaven uprais'd ;
And all around, on scutcheon rich.
And tablet carv'd, and fretted niche.
His arms and feats were blaz'd.
And yet, though all was carv'd so fair.
And priest for Marmion breath'd the
prayer,
The last Lord Marmion lay not there.
From Ettrick woods a peasant swain
Follow'd his lord to Flodden plain, —
One of those flowers, whom plaintive
lay
In Scotland mourns as 'wede away :'
Sore wounded, Sybils Cross he spied,
And dragg'd him to its foot, and died,
Close by the noble Marmion's side.
The spoilers stripp'd and gash'd the
I slain,
' And thus their corpses were mista'en ;
And thus, in the proud Baron's tomb.
The lowly woodsman took the room.
xxxvii.
Less easy task it were, to show
Lord Marmion's nameless grave, and
low.
They dug his grave e'en where he lay.
But every mark is gone ;
Time's wasting hand has done away
The simple Cross of Sybil Grey,
And broke her font of stone :
But yet from out the little hill
Oozes the slender springlet still ;
Oft halts the stranger there,
For thence may best his curious eye
The memorable field descry ;
And shepherd boys repair
To seek the water-flag and rush,
And rest them by the hazel bush.
And plait their garlands fair ;
Nor dream thej' sit upon the grave.
That holds the bones of Marmion brave.
When thou shalt find the little hill.
With thy heart commune, and be still.
If ever, in temptation strong.
Thou left'st the right path for the
wrong ;
If every devious step, thus trod.
Still led thee farther from the road ;
Dread thou to speak presumptuous
doom
On noble Marmion's lowly tomb ;
But saj', * He died a gallant knight.
With sword in hand, for England's
right.'
I do not rhyme to that dull elf,
Who cannot image to himself.
That all through Flodden's dismal
night,
Wilton was foremost in the fight ;
That, Vv'hen brave .Surrey's steed was
slain,
'Twas Wilton mounted him again ;
'Twas Wilton's brand that deepest
hew'd,
Amid the spearmen's stubborn wood :
Unnam'd by Hollinshed or Hall,
He was the living soul of all :
That, after fight, his faith made plain,
He won his rank and lands again ;
And charg'd his old paternal shield
\\ith bearings won on Flodden field.
Nor sing I to that simple maid.
To whom it must in terms be said.
That King and kinsmen did agree,
To bless fair Clara's constancy ;
G 3
170
(ttXatrmton.
[Canto VI.
Who cannot, unless I relate,
Paint to her mind the bridal's state ;
That Wolsey'svoice the blessing spoke,
More, Sands, and Denny, pass'd the
joke :
That bluff King Hal the curtain drew,
And Catherine's hand the stocking
threw^ ;
And afterwards, for manj' a day,
That it was held enough to say.
In blessing to a wedded pair,
' Love they like Wilton and like
Clare 1 '
Why then a final note prolong,
Or lengthen out a closing song,
Unless to bid the gentles speed,
Who long have listed to my rede ?
To Statesmen grave, if such may deign
To read the Minstrel's idle strain,
Sound head, clean hand, and piercing
wit.
And patriotic heart — as Pitt !
A garland for the hero's crest,
And twin'd by her he loves the
best ;
To every lovely lady bright.
What can I wish but faithful knight i
To every faithful lover too.
What can I wish but lady true •
And knowledge to the studious sage ;
And pillow to^c head of age.
To thee, dear schoolboy, whom my
lay
Has cheated of thy hour of play,
Light task, and merry holiday !
To all, to each, a fair good-night,
And pleasing dreams, and slumbers
light !
END OF MARMION.
Jnfro^ucfton an5 (Uofce to QUarmion.
INTRODUCTION TO THE FIRST EDITION.
Tt is harilly to 1)(> expected, that an Autlior
wlioiii till- public have honoured with some
def;;ree of applause, should not be acain a
1 1 ispasser on their kindness. Yet the Author
ol Makmion must be supposed to feel some
anxiety concerninjj its success, since he is
sensible that he hazards, by this second in-
trusion, any reputation which his first poem
may have procured him. The present story
turns upon the private adventures of a fic-
titious character ; but is called a Tale of
Flodden Field, because the hero's fate is con-
necteil with that memorable defeat, and th<"
causes which led to it. The design of the
Author was, if possible, to apprise his readers,
at the outset, of the date of his story, and to i
prepare them for the manners of the age in
whicli it is laid. Any historical narrative,
far more an attempt at epic i-omposition,
exceeded his plan of a romantic tale; yet
he may be permitted to hope, from the popu-
larity of The L.\y of the Last Minstrel,
that an attempt to paint the matmers ol the
feudal times, upon a broader scale, and in the
course of a more interesting story, will not
be unacceptable to the public.
The poem opens about the commencement
of August, and concludes with the defeat of
Flodden. 9th September, 15 1,^
ASHESTIEL, 180S.
INTRODUCTION TO THE EDITION OF 1830.
What I Iia\e to say respecting this poem
may be briefly told. In the Introduction to
' The Lay of the Last Minstrel,' I have men-
tioned the circumstances, so far as my literary
life is concerned, which induced me to resign
the active pursuit of an honourable profession,
for the more precarious resources of literature.
My appointment to the Sheriffdom of Selkirk
called for a change of residence. I left, there-
fore, the pleasant cottage I had upon the side
of the Esk, for the 'pleasanter banks of the
Tweed,' in order to compl)' with the law,
which requires that the Sheriff shall be resi-
dent, at le.ast during a certain number of
months, within his jurisdiction. We found a
delightful retirement, by my becoming the
tenant of my intimate friend and cousin-
gennan, Colonel Russell, in his mansion of
Ashestiel, which was unoccupied, during his
absence on military ser\ice in India. The
Iiouse was adequate to our accommodation,
and the exercise of a limited hospitality.
The situation is uncommonly lieautiful, by
the side of ;i line river, whose streams are there
^•ery favourable for angling, surrnundeil by
the remains of natural woods, and by hills
abounding in game. In point of society, ac-
cording to the heartfelt phrase of Scripture,
we dwelt 'amongst our own people ;' and as
the distance from the metropolis was only
thirty miles, we were not out of reach of our
Edinburgh friends, in which city we spent the
terms of the summerand winter Sessions of the
Court, that is, five or six months in the year.
An important circumstance had, about the
same time, taken place in my life. Hopes had
been held out to me from an influential quar-
ter, of a nature to relieve me from the anxiety
which I must have otherwise felt, as one upon
the precarious tenure of whose own life rested
the principal prospects of his family, and es-
pecially as one who had necessarily some de-
pendence upon the favour of the public, which
IS proverbially capricious; though it is but
justice to add, that, in my own case, I have
notfound itso. Mr. Pitt had expressed a wish
to my personal friend, the Right Honourable
William Dundas. now Lord Clerk Register
G 5
172
3nfrobuch'on io QUavttttett.
of Scotland, that some fitting opportunity
should he taken to he of service to me ; and
as my views and wishes pointed to a future
rather than an immediate provision, an op-
portunity of accomplishing this was soon
found. One of the Principal Clerks of Session,
as they are called, (official persons who occupy
an important and responsible situation, and
enjoy a considerable income,) who hadserved
upwards of thirty j-ears, felt himself, from
age, and the infirmity of deafness with which it
was accompanied, desirous of retiring from
his official situation. As the law then stood,
such official persons were entitled to bargain
with their successors, either for a sum of
money, which was usually a considerable one,
or for an interest in the emoluments of the
office during their life. My predecessor, whose
services had been unusually meritorious,
stipulated for the emoluments of his office
during his life, while I should enjoy the sur-
vivorship, on the condition that I discharged
thedutiesoftheofficointhemeantime. Mr.Pitt,
however, having died in the interval, his ad-
ministration was dissolved, and was succeeded
by that known by the name of the Fox and
Grenville Ministry. My affair was so far
completed, that my commission lay in the
office subscribed by his Majesty ; but, from
hurry or mistake, the interest of mv prede-
cessor was not expressed in it, as ha<i been
usual in such cases. Although, therefore, it
only required payment of the fees, I could
not in honour take out the commission in the
present state, since, in the event of mv dving
before him, the gentleman whom I succeeded
must have lost the vested interest which he
had stipulated to retain. I had the honour
of an interview with Earl Spencer on the
subject, and he, in the most iiandsome manner,
gave directions that the commission sliould
issue as originally intended ; adding, that the
matter having received the royal assent, he
regarded only as a claim of justice what he
would have willingly done as an act of favour.
I never saw Mr. Fox on this, or on anv other
occasion, and never made anv application to
liiin, conceiving that in doing so I might have
been supposed to express political opinions
contrary to those which I had always professed.
In his private capacitv, there is no man to
whom I would have been more proud to owe
an obligation, had I been so distinguished.
By this arrangement I obtained the sur-
vivorship of an office, the emoluments of which
were fully adequate to my wishes ; and as the
law respecting the mode of providing for
superannuatea officers was, aoout C\e or
six years after, altered from that which ad-
mitted the arrangement of assistant and
successor, my colleague very handsomely
took the opportunity of the alteration, to ac-
cept of the retiring annuity provided in such
cases, and admitted me to the full benefit of
the office
But although the certainty of succeeding to
a considerable income, at the time I obtained
it, seemed to assure me of a quiet harbour in
my old age, I did not escape my share of in-
convenience from the contrary tides and
currents by which we are so often encountered
in our journev- through life. Indeed, the
publication of my next poetical attempt was
prematurely accelerated, from one of^ those
unpleasant accidents which can neither be
foreseen nor avoided.
I had formed the prudent resolution to
endeavour to bestow a little more labour
than I had yet done on my productions, and
to be in no hurrj- again to announce myself
asacandidateforliterarj-fame. Accordingly,
particular passages of a poem, which was
finally called 'Marmion,' were laboured with
a good deal of care, by one by whom much
care was seldom bestowed. Whether the
work was worth the labour or not, I am no
competent judge ; but I may be permitted to
say, that the period of its composition was a
very happv one in my lile ; so much so, that
I remember with pleasure, at this moment,
some of the spotsin which particular passages
were composed. It is probably owing to this,
that the Introductions to the several Cantos
assumed the form of familiar epistles to my
intimate friends, in which I alluiied, perhaps
more than was necessary or graceful, to my
domestic occupations and amusements — a
loquacity which may be excused by those
who remember that I was still young, light-
headed, and happy, and that 'out of the abund-
ance of the heart the mouth speaketh.'
The misfortunes of a near relation and
friend, which happened at this time led me
to alter my prudent determination, which had
been, to use great precaution in sending this
poem into the world ; and made it convenient
at least, if not absolutely necessary', to hasten
its publication. The publishers of 'The Lay
of the Last Minstrel,' emboldened by the
success of that poem, willingly offered a
thousand pounds for ' Marmion.' The trans-
action being no secret, afforded Lord Byron,
who was then at general war with all who
blacked paper, an apology for including me
in his satire, entitled ' English Bards and
Scotch Reviewers." I never could conceive
how an arrangement between an author and
his publishers, if satisfactory to the persons
concerned, could afford matter of censure to
any third party. I had taken no unusual or
ungenerous means of enhancing the value of
my merchandise— I had never higgled a mo-
ment about the bargain, but accepted at once
what I considered the handsome offer of
my publishers. These gentlemen, at least,
were not of opinion that they had been taken
advantage of in the transaction, which indeed
was one of their own framing; on the con-
trary, the sale of the poem was so far
beyond their expectation, as to induce them
to supply the Author's cellars with what is
always an acceptable present to a young
Scottish housekeeper, namely, a hogshead of
excellent claret.
Qtofee to QUarmton.
173
The poem was finished in too much haste
to allow me an opportunity of softening down,
ifiiot removinfj, some of its most prominent
defects. The nature of Marmion's fjuilt, al-
though similar instances were found, and
niijjht be quoted, as existing in feudal times,
was nevertheless not sufficiently peculiar to be
in<licative of the character of the period,
forgery being the crime of a commercial,
rather than a proud and warlike age. This
gross defect ought to have been remedied or
palliated. Yet I suffered the tree to lie as it
had fallen. I remember my friend. Dr.
Leyden, then in the East,\vrote me a furious
remonstrance on the subject. I have, never-
theless, always been of opinion^ that cor-
rections, however in themselves judicious,
have a bad effect — after publication. An
author is never so decidedly condemned as on
his own confession, and may long find apolo-
gists and partisans, until he gives up his own
cause. I was not, therefore, inclined to aflord
matter for censure out of my own admissions ;
and, by good fortune, the novelty of the sub-
ject, and, if I may say so, some force and
vivacity of description, were allowed to atone
for many imperfections. Thus the second ex-
periment on the public patience, generally the
most perilous, — for the public are then most
apt to judge with rigour, what in the first
instance they had received, perhaps, with
impruiient generosity, — was in my case
decidedly successful. I had the good fortune
to pass this ordeal favourably, and the return
of sales before me makes the copies amount
to thirty-six thousand printed between i8o8
anil 1825, besides a considerable sale since
that period. I shall here pause upon the
subject of ' Marmion,' and, in a few prefatory
words to 'The Lady of the Lake,' the last
poem of mine which obt.ained emimnt success,
I will continue the task which I have imposed
on myself respecting the origin of my pro-
ductions.
Akbotsfori), April^ 1830.
NOTES.
Note \.
As wlten the Cliawf>io?i of the Lake
Enters Morpana^ s fated /louse,
Or ill the Chafet Perilous,
Despising spells and demons'' force.
Holds conz'erse with the unburied corse.
-P. 92.
The romance of the Morte Arthur contains
a sort of abridgement of the most celebrated
adventures of the Round Table ; and, being
written in comparativelj' modern language,
gives the general reader an excellent idea of
what romances of clii\alry actually were. It
has also the merit of being written in pure old
English ; and many of the wild adventures
which it contains are told with a simplicity
bordering upon the subli_me. Several of these
are referred to in the text ; and I would have
illustrated them by more full extracts, but as
this curious work is about to be republished,
I confine myself to the tale of the Chapel
Perilous, and of the quest of Sir Launcelot
after the Sangreal.
' Right so Sir Launcelot departed, and
when he came to the Chapell Perilous, he
alighted downe, and tied his horst? to a little
gate. And as soon as he Cas within the
churchyard, he saw, on the front of the
chapell, many faire rich shields turned upside
downe; andmany of the shields Sir Launcelot
had scene knights have before ; with that he
saw stand by him thirtie great knights, more,
by a yard, than any man that ever he had
scene, and all those grinned and gnashed at
Sir Launcelot ; and when he saw their
countenance, hee dread them sore, and so
put his shield afore him, and tooke his sword
in his hand, ready to doe battaile ; and they
were all armed in black harneis, readv, with
their shields and swords drawn. And when
Sir Launcelot would have goni- through
them, they scattered on every side ot him,
and gave him the way; ana therewith he
waxed all bold, and entered into the chaiiell,
and then hee saw no light but a dimme lampe
burning, and then was he ware of a corps
covered with a cloath of silke ; then Sir
Launcelot stooped downe, and cut a piece 01
that cloth away, and then it fared under him
as the earth had quaked a little, whereof he
was afeard, and then hee saw a faire sword
lye by the ilead knight, and that he gat in his
hand, and hied him out of the chappell. As
soon as he was in the chappell-yerd, all the
knights spoke to him with a grimly voice,
and said, " Knight, Sir Launcelot, lay that
sword from thee, or else thou shalt die." —
"Whether I live or die," said Sir Launcelot,
"with no great words get yee it againe,
therefore fight for it and yee list." Therewith
he passed through them; and, beyond the
chappell-yerd, there met him a faire damosell,
and said, " Sir Launcelot, leave that swonl
behind thee, or thou wilt die for it."^ — " I will
not leave it," said Sir Launcelot, "for no
threats." — "No?" saidshe; "and ye did leave
that sword. Queen Guenever should ye never
see." — "Then were I a fool and I would leave
this sword," said Sir Launcelot. " Now,
gentle knight," said the damosell, " I require
thee to kiss me once." — " Nay," said Sir
Launcelot, "that God forbid!" — "Well, sir,"
said she, "and thou haddest kissed me thy
174
(Uof^e io
life dayes had been done : but now, alas!"
said she, "I have lost all my labour; fori
ordeined this chappell for thy sake, and for
Sir Gawaine: and once I had Sir Gawaine
within it ; ami at that time he fought with
that knight which there lieth dead in yonder
chappell. Sir Gilbert the bastard, and at that
time hee smote off Sir Gilbert the bastard's
left hand. And so, Sir Launcelot, now I tell
thee, that I have loved thee this seaven yeare :
but there may no woman have thy love but
Queene Guenever ; but sithen I may not
rejoj'ice thee to have thy body ali\e, I had
kept no more joy in this world but to have
had thy dead body ; and I would have balmed
it .and served, and so have kept it in my life
daies, and daily I should have clipped thee,
and kissed thee, in the despite of Queen
Guenever." — "Yea say well," said Sir
Launcelot ; "Jesus preserve me from your
subtill craft." And therewith he took his
horse, and departed from her.'
Note II.
A sinful man, and iinconfoss'd,
He took the SaJigreaV s holy quest,
And, slitmheritig, saw the t'lSinn high.
He might not view -with waking eve.
—P. 92.
One day, when .\rthur was holding a high
feast with his Knights of the Round Table,
the Sangreal, or vessel out of which the last
passover was eaten, (a precious relic, which
had long remained concealed from human
eyes, because of the sins of the land,) suddenly
appeared to him and all his chiv.alry. The
consequence of this vision was, that all the
knights took on them a solemn vow to seek
the Sangreal. But, alas! it could only be
revealed to a knight at once accomplished in
earthly chivalry, and pure and guiltless of
evil conversation. All Sir Launcelot's noble
accomplishments were therefore rendered
vain by his guilty intrigue with Queen Gue-
never, or Ganore ; and in his holy quest he
encountered only such disgraceful disasters
as that which follows: — •
' But Sir Launcelot rode overthwart and
endlong in a wild forest, and held no path
but as wild adventure led him ; and at the
last, he came unto a stone crosse, which
departed two wayes, in wast land ; and, by
the crosse, was a stone that was of marble ;
but it was so dark, that Sir Launcelot might
not well know what it was. Then Sir
Launcelot looked by him, and saw an old
chappell, and there he wend to have found
people. And so Sir Launcelot tied his horse
to a tree, and there he put off his shield, and
hung it upon a tree, and then hee went unto
the chappell doore, and found it wasted and
broken. And within he found a faire altar,
full richly arrayed with cloth of silk, and
there stood a faire candlestick, which beare
six great candles, and the candlesticke was
of silver. And when Sir Launcelot saw this
light, hee had a. great will for to enter into
the chappell, but he could find no place where
hee might enter. Then was he passing heavie
and dismaied. Then he returned, and came
againe to his horse, and tooke off his saddle
and his bridle, and let him pasture, and
unlaced his helme, and ungirded his sword,
and laid him downe to sleepe upon his shield,
before the crosse.
' And so hee fell on sleepe ; and, halfe
waking and halfe sleeping, he saw come by
him two palfrevs, both faire and white, the
which beare a litter, therein lying a sicke
knight. And when he w.as nigh the crosse,
he there abode still. All this Sir Launcelot
saw and beheld, for hee slept not verily, and
hee heard him say, " O sweete Lord, when
shall this sorrow leave me, and when shall
the holy vessell come by me, where through
I shall be blessed, for I have endured thus
long for little trespasse I " And thus a great
while complained the knight, and allwaies
Sir Launcelot heard it. With that Sir
Launcelot saw the candlesticke, with the fire
tapers, come before the crosse ; but he could
see nobody that brought it. Also there came
a table of silver, ancf the holy vessell of the
Sancgreall, the which Sir Launcelot had seen
before that time in King Petchour's house.
And therewithall the sicke kniojht set him
upright, and held up both his hands, and said,
" Faire sweete Lord, which is here within the
holy vessell, take heede to mee, that I may
bee hole of this great malady!" And there-
with upon his hands, and upon his knee>, he
went so nigh, that he touched the holy
vessell, and Kissed it: And anon he was hole,
and then he said, " Lord God, I thank thee,
for I am healed of this malady." Soo when
the holy vessell had been there a great while,
it went into the chappelle againe, with the
candlesticke and the light, so that Sir
Launcelot wist not where it became, for he
was overtaken with sinne, that hee had no
power to arise against the holy vessell,
wherefore afterward many men said of him
shame. But he tooke repentance afterward.
Then the sicke knight dressed him upright,
and kissed the crosse. Then anon his squire
brought him his armes, and asked his lord
how he did. " Certainly," said hee, "Ithanke
God right heartily, for through the holy
vessell I am healed : But I have right great
mervaile of this sleeping knight, which hath
had neither grace nor power to awake <luring
the time that this holy vessell hath beene here
present." — " I dare it right well say," said the
squire, "that this same knight is defouled
with some manner of deadly sinne, whereof he
has never confessed." — " By my faith," said
the knight, "whatsoever he be, he isunhappie;
for, as f deeme, hee is of the fellowship of the
Round Table, the which is entered into the
quest of the Sancgreall." — "Sir," said the
(yilannton.
squire, "here I liave brought you all your
armes, save your helme and )our suoni ;
and, therefore, by mine assent, now may ye
take this knight's helme and his sword;'
and so he did. And when lie was cleane
armed, he took Sir Launcelot's horse, for he
was better than liis owne, and so they
departed from the crosse.
Then anon Sir Launcelot awaked, and
set himselfe upright, and he thought him
what hee had tlu-re seene, and whether it
were dreames or not ; right so he heard a
\oice that said, "Sir Launcelot, more hardy
than is the stone, and more bitter than is the
wood, and more naked and bare than is the
liefe of the fig-tree, therefore go thou from
hence, and withdraw thee from this holy
place ;" and when Sir Launcelot heard this,
he was passing heavy, and wist not what to
doe. And so lie <leparted sore weeping, and
cursed the time that he was borne ; for then
he deemed never to have had more worship ;
for the words went unto liis heart, till that
he knew wherefore that hee was so called.'
Note III.
And Drydeti, in immortal strain^
Had raised the Table Round again.
—P. 92.
Dryden's melancholy account of his pro-
jected Epic Poem, blasted hy the selfish and
sordid parsimony of his patrons, is contained
:n an 'Essay on Satire,' addressed to the
Earl of Dorset, and prefixed to the Trans-
lation of Juvenal. After mentioning a plan
of supplying machinery from the guardian
angels of kingdoms, mentioned in the Book
of Daniel, he adds,^
' Thus, my lord, I have, as briefly as I
could, given your lordship, and by you the
world, a rude draught of what I have been
long labouring in my imagination, and what
I had intended to have put in practice ;
(though far unable for the attempt of such a
poem ;i and to have lelt the stage, to which
my genius never much inclined me, for a
work which would ha\e taken up my life in
the performance of it. This, too, I had
intended chiefly for the honour of my native
country, to which a poet is particularly
obliged. Of two subjects, both relating to it,
I was doubtful whether I should choose that
of King Arthur conquering the Saxons,
which, being farther distant in time, gives the
greater scope to my invention ; or that of
Edward the Black Prince, in subduing Spain,
and restoring it to the lawful prince, though
a great tyrant, Don Pedro the Cruel ; which,
for the compass of time, including only the
expedition of one year, for the greatness of
the action, and its answerable event, for the
magnanimity of the English hero, opposed to
the ingratitude of the person whom he
restored, and for the many beautiful episodes
which I had interwoven with the principal
design, together with the characters of the
chiefest English persons, (wherein, after
Mrgil and Spenser, I would have taken
occasion to represent my living friends and
patrons of the noblest families, and also
shadowed the events of future ages in the
succession of our imperial line.) — with these
helps, and those of the machines which I
ha\e mentioned, I might perhaps have done
as well as some of my predecessors, or at
least chalked out a way for others to amend
my errors in a like design ; but being
encouraged onh- with fair words by King
Charles II, my little salary ill paid, and no
prospect of a future subsistence, I was then
discouraged in the beginning of my attempt;
and now age has overtaken me, and want, a
more insufierable evil, through the change of
the times, has wholly disabled me.'
Note IV.
Their theme the merry minstrels made.
Of Ascapart, and Bez'is bold. — P. 93.
The ' Historj- of Bevis of Hampton is
abrido;ed by my friend jNIr. George Ellis,
with that liveliness which extracts amusement
even out of the most rude and unpromising
of our old tales of chivalry. Ascapart, a
most important personage in the romance, is
thus described in an extract : —
'This i^eaiint was miglity aiui strong,
And full thirty foot was long.
He was bristled like a sow ;
.'V foot he had between each brow ;
His lips were great, and hung aside ;
His eyen were hollow, his mouth was wide ;
Lothly he was to look on than.
And liker a devil than a man.
His statr was a youn_:^ oak.
Hard and heavy was liis stroke.
Specimens 0/ Metrical Romciiiiis, vol. ii. p. i-/;.
I am happy to say that the memory of
Sir Bevis is still fragrant in his towii of
Southampton ; the gate of which is senti-
nelled by the effigies of that doughty knight-
errant and his gigantic associate.
Note V.
Day set on Norham^s castled steep.
And Tivecd'sfair rixer, broad and deep,
^■c. —P. 93.
The ruinous castle of Norham 1 anciently
called Ubbanford) is situated on the southern
liank of the Tweed, about six miles above
Berwick, and where that ri\er is still the
boundary between England and Scotland.
The extent of its ruins, as well as its historical
importance, shows it to have been a place of
magnificence, as well as strength. Edward I
resided there when he was created umpire of
176
(Tlefee to
the dispute concerningthe Scottish succession.
It was repeatedly taRen and retal\en during-
the wars between England and Scotland ;
and, indeed, scarce any happened, in which
it had not a principal share. Xorhani Castle
is situated on a steep bank, which overhangs
the river. The repeated sieges which the
castle had sustained rendered frequent repairs
necessary. In 1 164, it was almost rebuilt by
Hugh Pudsey, Bishop of Durham, who added
a huge keep, or donjon ; notwithstanding
which. King Henry II, in 1174, took the
castle from the bishop, and committed the
keeping of it to William de Neville. After
this period it seems to have been chiefly
garrisoned by the King, and considered as a
royal fortress. The Greys of Chillingham
Castle were frequently the castellans, or
captains of the garrison: yet, as the castle
was situated in the patrimony of St. Cuthbert,
the property was in the see of Durham till tlie
Reformation. After that period, it passed
through various hands. At the union of the
crowns, it was in the possession of Sir Robert
Carey (afterwards liarl of Monmouth) for
his own life, and that of two of his sons.
After King James's accession, Carey sold
Norham Castle to George Home, Earl of
Dunbar, for^6,cx«. See his curious Memoirs,
published by Mr. Constable of Edinburgh.
According to Mr. Pinkerton, there is, in the
British Museum, Cal. B. 6. 216, a curious
memoir of the Dacres on the state of Norham
elastic in 1522, not long after the battle of
Flodden. The inner ward, or keep, is
represented as impregnable : — ' The pro-
visions are three great vats of salt eels,
forty-four kine, three hogsheads of salted
salmon, forty ([uarters of grain, besides many
cows and four hundred sheep, lying under
the castle-wall nightly; but a number of the
arro^\■s wanted feathers, and a good Fletcher
\J. e. m.aker of arrows] was required.' —
Hislory of Scotland^ vol. ii. p. 201, note.
The ruins of the castle are at present
considerable, as well as picturesque. They
consist of a large shattered tower, with many
vaults, and fragments of oth(^r edifices,
enclosed within an outward wall of great
circuit.
Note VI.
The battled towers, the donjon keep.
- P- W-
It is perhaps unnecessary to remind my
readers, that the donjon, in its proper signi-
fication, means the strongest part of a feudal
castle ; a high square tower, with walls of
tremendous thickness, situated in the centre
of the other buildings, from which, however,
it was usuallj' detached. Here, in case of
the outward defences being gained, the
garrison retreated to make their last stan<].
The donjon contained the great hall, and
principal rooms of state for solemn occasions.
and also the prison of the fortress; from
which last circumstance we derive the modern
and restricted use of the word dn)igeo7t.
Ducange (r'oceDUNjO) conjectures plausibly,
that the name is derived from these keeps
being usually built upon a hill, which in
Celtic is called DUN. Borlase supposes the
word came from the darkness of the apart-
ments in these towers, which were thence
figuratively called Dungeons ; thus deriving
the ancient word from the modern application
of it.
Note VII.
Well was he arnC d from head to heel.
In mail and plate of Milan steel. — P. 94.
The artists of Milan were famous in the
middle ages for their skill in armoury, as
appears from the following passage, in which
Froissart gives an account of the preparations
made by Henry, Earl of Hereford, afterwards
Henry IV, and Thomas, Duke of Norfolk,
Earl Marischal, for their proposed combat in
the lists at Coventry: — 'These two lords
made ample provision of all things necessary
for the combat ; and the Earl of Derby sent
off messengers to Loinbardv, to have armour
from Sir Galeas, Duke of Milan. The Duke
complied with joy, and gave the knight,
called Sir Francis, who had brought the
message, the choice of all his armour for the
Earl of Derby. When he had selected what
he wished for in plated and mail armour, the
Lord of Milan, out of his abundant love
for the Earl, ordered four of the best ar-
mourers in Milan to accompany the knight
to England, that the Earl of Derby might be
more completely armed.' — JOHNES' Frois-
sart, \ol. iv. p. 597.
Note VIII.
JJ'ho checks at me, to death is dight. — P. 94.
The crest and motto of M.armion are
borrowed from the following story ; — Sir
David de Lindsay, first Earl of Crauford,
was, among other gentlemen of quality,
attended, during a visit to London, in i.^qii,
by Sir Willi.am Dalzell, who was, according
to my authority. Bower, not only excelling
in wisdom, but also of a lively wit. Chancing
to be at the court, he there saw Sir Piers
Courtenay, an English knight, famous for
skill in tilting, and for the beauty of his
person, parading the palace, arrayed in a
new mantle, bearing for device an embroi-
dered falcon, with this rhyme, — •
■I bear a falcon, fairest of flight,
■\\liObo pinches at lier, his death is (Uijht
In jjr.iith.'
The Scottish knight, being a wag, appeared
next day in a dress exactly similar to that of
Courtenay, but bearing a magpie instead of
(Tltannion.
177
the falcon, with a motto ingeniously con-
trived to rhyme to the vaunting inscription
of Sir Piers: —
' I Ijear a pie picking at a piece.
Whoso picks at her, I shall pick at his nese 1,
111 faith/
This affront could only be expiated by a
just with sharp lances. In the course, Dal-
zell left his helmet unlaced, so that it gave
way at the touch of his antagonist's lance,
and he thus avoided the shock of the en-
counter. This happened twice: — in tlie third
encounter, the handsome Courtenay lost two
of his front teeth. As the Englishman com-
plained bitterly of Dalzell's fraud in not
fastening his helmet, the Scottishman agreed
to run six courses more, each champion
staking in the hand of the King two hundred
pounds, to be forfeited, if, on entering the
lists, any unequal advantage should be de-
tected. This being agreed to, the wily Scot
demanded that Sir Piers, in addition to the
loss of his teeth, should consent to the ex-
tinction of one of his eyes, he himself having
lost an eye in the fight of Otterburn. As
Courtenay demurred to this equalization of
optical powers, Dalzell demanded the forfeit;
which, after much altercation, the King ap-
pointed to be paid to him, saying, he surpassed
the English noth in wit and valour. This
must appear to the reader a singular speci-
men of the humour of that time. I suspect
the jockey Club would have given a different
decision from Henrv IV.
Note IX.
They haiPd Lord Mar mum :
They haiTd hi»i Lord of Fon/eiiaye,
Of Liiltcrward, and Scrivclbaye,
Of Tamivorth iou<er and iozvii.
-1^- 95-
Lord Marmion, the principal character of
the present romance, is entirely a fictitious
personage. In earlier times, indeed, the
family of Marmion, Lords of Fontenav, in
Normandy, was highly distinguishe<l. Robert
de Marmion, Lord of Fontenav, a distin-
guished follower of the Conqueror, obtained
a grant of the castle and town of Tamworth,
and also of the manor of Scrivelbv, in Lincoln-
shire. One, or both, of these noble posses-
sions, was held by the honourable service of
being the royal champion, as the ancestors
of Marmion had fonnerly been to the Dukes
of Normandy. But after the castle and
demesne of Tamworth had passetl through
four successive barons from Robert, the
famih' became extinct in the person of Philip
de Marmion, who died in Joth Edward I
without issue male. He was succeetled in
his castle of Tamworth by Alexander de
Freville, who married Mazera, his grand-
daughter. Baldwin de Freville, Alexander's
descendant, in the reign of Richard I, by the
supposed tenure of his castle of Tamworth,
claimed the office of royal champion, and to
do the service appertaining ; namely, on the
day of coronation, to ride, completely armed,
upon a barbed horse, into Westminster Hall,
and there to challenge the combat against
any who would gainsay the King's title. But
this office was adjudged to Sir John Dvmoke,
to whom the manor of Scrivelby had de-
scended by another of the coheiresses of
Robert de Marmion ; and it reinains in that
family, whose representative is Hereditary
Champion of England at the present day.
The family and possessions of Freville have
merged in the Earls of Ferrars. I have not,
therefore, created a new family, but only
revived the titles of an old one in an imagiri-
aiy personage.
It was one of the Marmion family, who, in
the reign of Edward 1 1, performed that chival-
rous feat before the very castle of Norluim,
which Bishop Percy has woven into his beau-
tiful ballad, 'The Hermit of Warkworth.' —
The story is thus toUl hy Leland ; —
' The Scottes cam yn to the marches of
England, and destroyed the castles of Werk
and Herbotel, and overran much of North-
umberland marches.
' At this tyme, Thomas Gray and his
friendes defended Norham from the Scottes.
' It were a wonderful processe to declare,
what mischefes cam by hungre and asseges
by the space of xi yeres in Northumberland ;
for the Scottes became so proude, after they
had got Berwick, that they nothing esteemed
the Englishmen.
' About this tyme there was a greate feste
made yn Lincolnshir, to which came many
gentlemen and ladies ; and amonge them
one lady brought a heauline for a man of
were, with a very riche creste of gold, to
William Marmion, knight, with a letter of
commandement of her lady, that he should go
into the daungerest place in England, and
ther to let the heaulme be scene and known
as famous. So he went to Norham ; whitiier,
within 4 days of cuniraing, cam Philip
Moubray, guardian of Berwicke, having yn
his bande 40 men of armes, the ver)- flour of
men of the Scottish marches.
'Thomas Gray, capitayne of Norham,
seynge this, brought his garison afore the
barriers of the castel, behind whom cam
William, richly arrayed, as al glittering in
gold, and wearing the heaulme, his lady's
present.
'Then said Thomas Gray to Marmion,
" Sir Knight, ye be cum hither to fame your
helmet : mount up on yowr horse, and ride
lyke a valiant man to yowr foes even here at
hand, and I forsake God if I rescue not thy
body deade or aly\e, or I myself wvl dye for
it."'
' Whereupon he toke his cursere, and rode
178
(Uofee to
among the throng of ennpinves; the which
laved sore stripes on liiin, and pulled him at
the last out of his sadel to the grounde.
'Then Thomas Gray, with al the hole gar-
rison, lette prick vn among the Scottes, and
so wondid them and their horses, that they
were overthrowan ; and Marmion, sore beten,
was horsid agayn, and, with Gray, persewed
the Scottes yn chase. There were taken 50
horse of price ; and the women of Norhain
brought tliem to the foote men to follow the
chase.'
Note X.
Largesse, largesse. — P. 95.
This was the cry with which heralds and
pursuivants were wont to acknowledge the
l)Ounty received from the knights. Stewart
of Lorn distinguishes a ballad, in which he
satirizes the narrowness of James V and his
courtiers, by the ironical burden —
* Lerges, Ur^es, iey^es, Jtay,
Ler^es of this 7tCtv-yeir day.
First ier<jes of the Kintj, my chief,
Quhilk come als quiet as a theif.
And in my hand sUd schilhngis tway,
To put his lergnes to the prief.
For lerges of this new-yeir day."
The heralds, like the minstrels, were a race
allowed to have great claims upon the liber-
ality of the knights, of whose feats the3' kept
a record, and proclaimed them aloud, as in
the text, upon suitable occasions.
At Berwick, Norham, and other Border
fortresses of importance, pursuivants usually
resided, whose inviolable character rendered
them the only persons that could, with per-
fect assurance of safety, be sent on necessary
embassies into Scotland. This is alluded to
in stanza xxi, p. 97.
Note XI.
Sir Hugh the Heron bold,
Baro7i of Twisell, and of Ford,
And Captain of the Hold.—V. 96.
Were accuracy of any consequence in a
fictitious narrative, tliis castellan's name
ought to have been William ; for William
Heron of Ford was husband to the famous
Lady Ford, whose siren charms are said to
have cost our James IV so dear. Moreover,
the said William Heron was, at the time sup-
posed, a prisoner in Scotland, being sur-
rendered by Henrv VHI, on account of his
share in the slaughter of Sir Robert Ker of
Cessford. His wife, represented in the text
as residing at the Court of Scotland, was, in
fact, living in her own Castle at Ford. — See
Sir RlrH.VRi) Hkron's curious Genealogy 0/
the Heron Family.
Note XII.
The lohilcs a Northern harper I'lide
Chanted a rhyme of deadly feud,
' Hotc the fierce ThirTiralls, and Ridleys
all,' ftfC—V. C)6.
This old Northumbrian ballad was taken
down from the recitation of a woman eighty
years of age, mother of one of the miners of
Alston-moor, by an agent for the lead mines
there, who communicated it to mv friend and
correspondent, R. Surtees, Esquire, of Mains-
forth. She had not, she said, heard it for
many years ; but, when she was a girl, it
used to be sung at the merry-makings 'till
the roof rung again.' To preserve this curi-
ous, though rucie rhyme, it is here inserted.
The ludicrous turn given to the .slaughter,
marks that wild and disorderly state of
society, in which a murder was not merely a
casual circumstance, but, in some cases, an
exceedingly good jest. The structure of the
ballad resembles the 'Fray of Suporti,'
having the same irregular stanzas and wild
chorus.
I.
Hoot awa", lads, hoot awa'.
Ha' ye heard how the Ridleys, and Thirwalls, and a'
Ha' set upon Albany 2 Featherstonhaugh,
.\nd t.aken his hfe at the Deadmanshaugh !
There was Willimoteswick,
And Hardriding Dick,
And Hughie of Hawden, and Will of the W.i',
I canno' tell a', I canno' tell a'.
And mony a mair that the deil may knaw.
II.
The auld man went down, but Nicol, his son,
Kan away afore the fight was begim ;
And he run, .and he run.
And afore tjiey were done.
There was many a Featherston gat sic a stun.
As never was seen since the world begun.
III.
T canno* tell ,a', I canno" tell a' ;
Some gat a skelpS, and some gat a claw ;
But they gard the Featherstons haud their ja\v4, —
Nicol. and Alick, and a*.
Some gat a hurt, and some gat nane ;
Some had harness, and some gat sta'en 5,
IV.
Ane gat a twist o' the craig ^ :
Ane gat a bunch "' o' the wanie ^ ;
Symy Haw gat lamed of a leg.
And syne ran wallowing ^ hame.
V.
Hoot, hoot, the old man's slain outright !
Lay him now wi' his face down :— he's a sorrowful
sight.
Janet, thou donot '0.
I'll lay my best bonnet.
Thou gets a new gude-man afore it be night.
1 See Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border, vol. ii.
p. 124.
2 Pronounced A-wbotty.
3 Skelp signifies slap, or rather is the same word
which was originally spelled schlap.
^ Hold their j\i~v, a vulgar expression still in use.
5 Cot stolen, or; were plundered ; a very likely ter-
mination of the fray.
■i Neck. ' Punch. » Belly. ' Bellowing.
1' Silly slut, Theborderbardcallsher so, because
she was weeping for her slain husband ; a loss which he
seems to think might be soon repaired.
QUarmt'ott.
179
Ho
, I.mIs. Ii^
vay,
We'sa' 1- li.iiu
Tak u| . tl.r .i.-,u 1 mill, aiui lay him ahint tin- 1 .iygin.
Here's the Bailey u' Haltwhistlel.
Wi' his great bull's pizzle.
That bup'd up the brorV,— and syne in the
piggin 2.
In explanation of this ancient ditty, Mr.
Surtees lias furnished me with the following
local memorandum : — Willimoteswick, the
chief seat of the ancient family of Ridley, is
situated two miles above the confluence of
the Allon and Tyne. It was a house of
strenijth, as appears from one oblong tower,
still in tolerable preservation^. It has been
long in possession of the Blacket family.
Hardriding Dick, is not an epithet referring
to horsemanship, but means Richard Ridley
of Hardriding *, the seat of another family of
that name, which, in the time of Charles I,
was sold on account of expenses incurred by
the loyalty of the proprietor, the immediate
ancestor of Sir Matthew Ridley. Will of the
\Va' seems to be William Ridley of Wall-
town, so called from its situation on the great
Roman wall. Thirlwall Castle, whence the
clan of ThirKvalls derived their name, is
situated on the small river of Tippel, near
the western boundary of Northumberland.
It is near the wall, and takes its name from
the rampart having been thirled, i.e. pierced,
or breached, in its vicinity. Featherstoii
Castle lies south of the Tyne, towards Als-
ton-moor. Albany Featherstonhaugh, the
chief of that ancient family, made a figure in
the reign of Edward VI. A feud did cer-
tainly exist between the Ridleys and Feather-
stons, productive of such consequences as the
ballad narrates. 24 Oct. udo Henrici 8jv'.
Iitqiiisilio capt. apiid Haiitzv/ii'si/e, sup.
visum corpus Alexaiidri Featlierstoti,
Goi. apiid Greiisilhaiigk felonice intcr-
fccti, 21 Oct. per Nicolauni. Ridley dc
L'lit/iaitke, Gen. Hitgon Ridle, Nicolait»i
Rid/c, ct alios ejusdoii itO)ninis. Nor
wi'ie the Featherstons without their revenge
for ,^hto Henrici 8vi, we have — Utlagatio
Nicolai Fetlicrslon, ac Thome A^y.vsoit
,\c. .5c pro hoinicidio Will. Ridle de
Morale.
1 The Bailiff of Haltwhistle seems to have arrived
when the fray was over. This supporter of social
order is treated w ith characteristic irreverence by the
moss-trooping poet.
2 An iron pot with two ears.
3 ^\'illimoteswick was, in prior editions, confounded
with Ridley Hall, situated two miles lower, on the same
side of the Tyne, the hereditary seat of "William C.
Lowes, Hsti.
■1 Ridley, the bishop and martyr, was, according to
some authorities, born at Hardriding, where a chair
was preserved called the Bishop's Chair. Others, and
particularly his biographer and namesake Dr. Gloces-
ter Ridley, assign the honour of the martyr's birth to
Willimoteswick.
Note XIII.
James liack'd the cause of that m-/ch prince,
ll'arbech. that Flemish couuterjcit,
11 'ho on the gilibet paid the cheat.
'J heu did 1 tuarch with Surrey's power.
If 'hat lime we raz'd old Ayton lozver.
-P. 97.
The stor)- of Perkin Warbeck, or Richard,
Duke of York, is well known. In 1496, he was
received honourably in Scotland ; and James
IV, after conferring upon him in marriage
his own relation, the Lady Catharine Gordon,
made war on England in behalf of his pre-
tensions. To retaliate an invasion of Eng-
land, Surrey advanced into Berwickshire at
the head of considerable forces, but retreated,
after taking the inconsiderable fortress of
Ayton. Ford, in his Dramatic Chronicle of
Perkin ^\"arbcck, makes the most ot this in-
road :
.Surrey.
' .\re all our braving enemies shrunk back, *
Hid in the foggcs of their distcmper'd climate.
Not dariiiv; t.. lielmM ,,i.r CMluurs «ave
In spii;lit .il'llii-, inf.-. led a\ri-'- Can they
Koi.ke ,,11 the -.trenj^tli ,.f (Vundresline ilefac't ;
The -lurie ..f Hevl. aihall dovaste.l ; that
(If Edington cast downe ; the pile of Inilden
( Irethrowne : And this, the strongest of their forts,
Cild Ayton Castle, yeelded and demolished.
And yet not peepe abroad? The Scots are bold,
Hardie in battayle, but it seems the cause
They undertake considered, appeares
Unjoynted in the frame on't.'
Note XIV.
T trow,
Norham can fiud you guides encnv:
For here be sonic liai'e prick' d as far^
On Scottish ground, as to ])nnl)ar ;
Ha-L'c drunk the monks of St. Jiothan's ale,
And driz'cn the beeves of Lauderdale ;
Harried the 7vives of Greenlaw's goods.
And given them light to set their hoods.
-P. 9r.
The garrisons of the English castles of
Wark, Norham, and Berwick, were, as may
be easily supposed, very troublesome neigh-
bours to Scotland. Sir Richard Maitlanci of
Ledington wrote a poem, called ' The Blind
Baron's Comfort,' when his barony of
Blythe, in Lauderdale, was harriedhy'R.ow-
land Foster, the English captain of Wark,
with his company, to the number of 300 men.
They spoiled the poetical knight of 5,oc)o
sheep, 2ix) nolt, ;^o horses and mares; the
whole furniture of his house of Blythe, worth
100 pounds Scots {£^V^ 6s. ^d.), and every-
thing else that was portable. 'This spoil was
committed the 16th day of May, 1570 (and
the said Sir Richard was threescore and
fourteen years of age, and grown blind), in
time of peace ; when nane of that country
i8o
(tlofee (o
///5i/£//crf[('xiK'Cted]such a thing.' — 'The Blind
Baron's Comfort' consists in a string of
puns on the word Blyllu\ tlic name of the
lands thus despoiled.' Like John Littlewit,
he had 'a conceit left in his misery — a miser-
able conceit.'
The last line of the text contains a phrase,
by which the Borderers jocularly intimated
the burning a house. When the Maxwells,
in 1685, burned the Castle of Lochwood,
they said they did so to give the Lady John-
stone 'light to set her hood.' Nor was the
i)hraseinapplicable; for, inaletter, towhich I
have mislaid the reference, the Earl of North-
umberland writes to the King and Council,
that he dressed himself at midnight, at Wark-
worth, by the blaze of the neighbouring
villages burneil by the Scottish marauders.
Note XV.
Tlie pri'csi of Slioreswood — he could rein
The lui/dest war-horse in your train.
—P. 98.
This churchman seems to have been akin
to Welsh, the vicar of St. Thomas of Exeter,
a leader among the Cornish insurgents in
1540. 'This man,' says Hollinshed, 'had
many good things in liini. He was of no
great stature, but well set, and inightilie
compact: He was a very good wrestler;
shot well, both in the long bow and also in
the cross-bow; he liandled his hand-gun and
peece very well; he was a very good wood-
man, and a hardie, and such a one as would
not give his head for the polling, or his beard
for the washing. He was a companion in
any exercise of activitie, anil of a courteous
and gentle behaviour. He descended of a
good honest parentage, IxMUg borne at Pene-
verin in Cornwall ; and yet, in this rebellion,
an arcli-captain and a principal doer.' — -Xol.
iv. p. 958, 4to edition. This model of clerical
talents had the misfortune to be hanged
upon the stei'ple of his own church.
Note XVL
iha/ Grot ivhcrc olives -nod.
Where, darling nf each heart and cyC:,
From all t/te yonlli of Sicily
Saint Rosalie retired to God. — P. 98.
' Sante Rosalia was of Palermo, and born
of a very noble family, and, when very young,
abhorred so much the vanities of this world, and
avoided the converse of mankind, resolving
to dedicate herself wholly to Cod Almighty,
that she, by divine inspiration, forsook her
father's house, and never was more heard of
till her body was found in that cleft of a
rock, on that almost inaccessible mountain,
where now the cliapcl is built ; and they
affirm she was carried up there by the hands
of angels ; for that place was not formerly so
accessible (as now it is) in the days of the
Saint ; and even now it is a very bad, and
steepy, and breakneck way. In this frightful
place, this holy woman lived a great many
years, feeding onlyon what she foundgrowing
on that barren mountain, and creeping into
a narrow and dreadful cleft in a rock, which
was always dropping wet, and was her place
of retirement as well as prayer ; having worn
out even the rock with her knees in a certain
place, which is now open'd on ])urpose to
show it to those who come here. This chapel
is very richly adorn'd; and on the spot
where the Saint's dead body was discover'd,
which is just beneath the hole in the rock,
which is open'd on purpose, as I said, there
is a very fine statue of marble, representing
her in a lying posture, railed in all about
with fine iron and brass work ; and the altar,
on which they say mass, is built just over
it.' — Voyage to Sicily and Malta, by Mr.
John Dryden (son to the poet), p. 107.
Note XVTL
Friar John
Himself still sleeps before his heads
Hai'c mark' d ten aves, and txvo creeds.
—P. 99.
Friar John understood the soporific virtue
of his beads and breviary, as well as his
namesake in Rabelais. ' But Gargantua
could not .sleep by any means, on which side
soever he turned himself. Whireupon the
monk said to him, "I never sleep soundly
but when I am at sermon or prayers : Let
lis therefore begin, you and I, the seven
penitential psalms, to try whether you shall
not (juickly fall asleep." The conceit pleased
Ciargantua very well ; and beginning the first
of these psalms, as soon as they came to
Beati (inoriim, tliej' fell asleep, both the one
and the other.'
Note XYIII.
Tlie summon' d Palmer came in place.
— P. Q9-
A Palmer, opposed to a Pilgrim, was one
who made it his sole business to visit different
holy shrines; travelling incessantlv, and
subsisting by charity: whereas the Pilgrim
retirecl to his usual home and occupations,
when he had paid his devotions at the
particular spot which was the object of his
pilgrimage. The Palmers seem to have been
the Questionarii of the ancient Scottish
canons 124.' and 12()(). There is in the
Bannatyne MS. a burlesijue account of two
such i)irsons, entitled, 'Simmy and his
broiher.' Their accoutrements are thus
QTlrtrwton.
i8i
ludicrously described (I discard the ancient
spcllinjj) —
• Syne shaped them up, to loup on lens.
Two tabards of the tartan ;
They counted nought what their cloutb were
When sew'd them on, in certain.
Syne clanipit up St. Peter's keys.
Made of an old red jjartanc ;
St, James's shells, on t'other side, shows
As pretty as a partane
Toe,
On Symniye and his brother
Note XIX.
To fair St. Atidi'cws bomaf,
Willttit the occaii-ca-,'e to f>ra\\
Wlicrc good Saint Rule his holy hiy.
From midnight to the dazvii of day\
Sung to the billows' sound. — P. ux).
St. Regulus (Scotlicc^ St. Rule), a monk of
Patrae, in Achaia, \varne<l by a vision, is
said, A.D. 370, to have sailed westward,
until he landed at St. Andrews in Scotland,
V here he founded a chapel anfl tower. The
latter is still standinjj ; and, though we may
doubt the precise date of its foundation, is
certainly one of the most ancient edifices in
Scotland. A c,-! ve, nearly fronting the ruinous
castle of the Archbishops of St. Andrews,
bears the name of this religious person. It
is difficult of access- and tne rock in which
it is hewed is washed by the German Ocean.
It is nearly round, about ten feet in diameter,
and the same in height. On one side is a
sort of stone altar; on the other an aperture
into an iimer den, where the miserable
ascetic, who inhabited this dwelling, probably
slept. At full tide, egress and regress are
hardly practicable. As Regulus first colonized
the metropolitan see of Scotland, and con-
Aerted the inhabitants in the vicinity, he has
some reason to complain, th.at the ancient
name of Killrule (6'i^//(2 /('fio'«//) should ha\e
been superseded, even in favour of the ttitelar
saint of Scotland. The reason of the change
was, that St. Rule is said to ha\ e brought to
Scotland the relics of St. Andrew.
Note XX.
" Saint Fillan's blessed ■zLvIl,
IVhose spring can frenzied dreams dispel^
A/id the eras' d brain restore. — P. 100.
St. Fillan was a Scottish saint of soine
reputation, .\lthough Popery is, with us,
matter of abomination, yet the common
people still rrtain some of the superstitions
connected with it. There are in Perthshire
several wells and springs dedicated to St.
Fill.an, which are still places of pilgrimage
.•".nd offerings, even among the Protestants.
They are held powerful in cases of madness ;
and, in some of very late occurrence, lunatics
have been left all night bound to the holy-
stone, in confidence that the saint would cure
and unloose them before morning. — [See
various notes to the Minstrelsy of the Scottish
Border. \
Note XXI.
The scenes are desert noii\ and hare,
Wherejlonrisli d once a forest fair. — P. kx).
Ettrick Forest, now a range of mountainous
sheep-walks, was anciently- reserved for the
pleasure of the royal chase. Since it was
disparked, the wood has been, b}- degrees,
almost totally destroyed, although, where\er
protected from the sheep, copses soon arise
without any planting. When the King huntid
there, he often summoned the array- of tin:
country to meet and assist his sport. Thus,
in 1528, lames V 'made proclamation to all
lords, barons, gentlemen, landward-men, and
freeholilers, that they should compear at
liilinburgh, with a month's victuals, to pass
with the King where he pleased, to danton
the thieves of Tiviotdale, Annandale, Piddis
d;ile, and other parts of that country; and
also warned all gentlemen that had gof)d
dogs to bring them, that he might hunt in
the said country as he pleased: The whilk
the Earl of Argyle, the Earl of Huntley, the
Earl of Athole, and so all the rest of the
gentlemen of the Highland, did, and brought
their hounds with them in like manner, to
hunt with the King, as he pleased.
'The second day of June the King past
out of Edinburgh to the hunting, with many
of the nobles and gentlemen of Scotl.md with
him, to the number of twelve thousand men ;
and then past to Meggitland, and hounderi
and hawked all the country- and bounds ;
that is to say, Craminat, Pappertlaw, St.
Mar)--laws, Carlavrick, Chapel, Ewindoores,
an<l Longhope. I heard say, he slew, in
these bounds, eighteen score of harts'.'
These huntings had, of course, a military
character, and attendance upon them was
a part of the duty of a vassal. The act for
abolishing ward or military tenures in Scot-
land, enumerates the services of hunting,
hosting, watching, and warding, as those
which were in future to be illegal.
Taylor, the water-poet, has given an
accoiint of the mode in which these huntings
were conducted in the Highlands of Scotland,
in the seventeenth century, having been
present at Braemar upon such an occa-
sion : -
'There did I find the truly noble and right
honourable lords, John Erskine, Earl of Mar;
James Stewart, Earl of Murray; George
Gordon, Earl of Engye, son and heir to tlie
Marquis of Huntley; James Erskine, Earl
of Buchan ; and John, Lord Erskine, son
1 I'itscottie's History 0/ Sco/latHi, foli.. editimi, ■
II. 143.
l82
Qtotee to
and heir to the Earl of Mar, and their Coun-
tesses, with my much honoured, and my last
assured and approved friend, Sir Wi'lliam
Murray, knight of Abercarney. and hundreds
ot others, knights, esquires, and their fol-
lowers ; all and every man, in general, in
one habit, as if Lvciirgus had been there,
and made laws of equalitj- ; for onee in the
year, which is the whole month of August,
and sometimes part of September, many of
the nobility and gentry of the kingdom (for
their pleasure) do come into these Highland
countries to hunt ; where thev do conform
themselves to the habit of the Highlandmen,
who, for the most part, speak nothing but
Irish ; and, in former time, were those people
which were called the Redshanks. Their
hal)it is— shoes, with but one sole a-piece ;
stockings (which they call short hose), made
of a warm stuff of diverse colours, which
the}- call tartan ; as for breeches, many of
them, nor their forefathers, never wore any,
but a jerkin of the same stuff that their hose
is of; their garters being bands or wreaths
of haj' or straw; with a plaid about their
shoulders ; wliich is a mantle of di\c'rse
colours, much finer and lighter stuff than
their hose ; with blue flat caps on their heads ;
a handkerchief, knit with two knots, about
their necks: and thus are they attired. Now
their weapons are — long bowes and forked
arrows, swords and targets, harquebusses,
muskets, durks, and Lochaber axes. With
these arms I found many of them armed for
the hunting. As for their attire, any man,
of what degree soever, that comes amongst
them, must not disdain to wear it ; for, if
they do, then they will disdain to hunt, or
willingly to bring in their dogs ; but if men
be kincf unto them, and be in their habit,
then are they conquered with kindness, and
the sport will be plentiful. This was the
reason that I found so many noblemen and
gentlemen in those shapes. But to proceed
to the hunting : — ■
' My good Lord of Marr having put me
into that shape, I rode with him from his
house, where 1 saw the ruins of an old castle,
called the Castle of Kindroghit. It was
built by King Malcolm Canmore (for a
hunting-house), who reigned in Scotland,
when Edward the Confessor, Harold, and
Norman William, reigned in England. I
speak of it, because it was the last house I
saw in those parts ; for I was the space of
twelve days after, before I saw either house,
corn-field, or habitation for any creature, but
deer, wild horses, wolves, and such like
creatures,— which made me doubt that I
should never have seen a house again.
'Thus, the first day, we travelled eight
miles, where there were small cottages, built
on purpose to lodge in, which they call Lon-
<]uhards. I thank my good Lord itrskine, he
commanded that I sliould always be lodged
in his lodging : the kitchen being always on
the side of a bank ; many kettles and pots
boiling, and many spits turning and winding,
with great variety of cheer, — as venison
baked; sodden, rost, antl stewed beef;
mutton, goats, kid, hares, fresh salmon,
pigeons, hens, capons, chickens, partridges,
muir-coots, heath-cocks, caperkellies, and
termagants ; good ale, sackc, white and
claret, tent (or allegant), with most potent
aquaA'itae.
'All these, and more than these, we had
continually in superfluous abundance, caught
by falconers, fowlers, fishers, and brought by
my lord's tenants and purveyors to victual
our camp, which consisteth of fourteen or
fifteen hundred men and horses. The manner
of the hunting is this: Five or six hundred
men do rise early in the morning, and they
do disperse themselves divers ways, and
seven, eight, or ten miles compass, they do
bring, or chase in, the deer in many herds
(two, three, or four hundred in a herd), to
such or such a place, as the noblemen shall
appoint them ; then, w hen day is come, the
lords and gentlemen of their companies do
ride or go to the said places, sometimes
wading up to the middles, through burns
and rivers; and then, they being come to
the place, do lie down on the ground, till
those foresaid scouts, which are called the
Tinkhell, do bring down the deer; but, as
the proverb says of the bad cook, so these
tinkhell men do lick their own fingers; for,
besides their bows and arrows, which they
carry with them, we can hear, now and then,
a harquebuss or a musket go off, which they
do seldom discharge in vain. Then, after
we had staid there three hours, or thereabouts,
we might perceive the deer appear on the
hills round about us (their heads making a
show like a wood), which, being followed
close by the tinkhell, are chased down into
the valley where we lay ; then all the valley,
on each side, being way-laid with a hundred
couple of strong Irish greyhounds, they are
all let loose, as occasion serves, upon the
herd of deer, that with dogs, guns, arrows,
durks, and daggers, in the space of two
hours, fourscore fat deer were slain ; which
after are disposed of, some one way, and
some another, twenty and thirty miles, and
more than enough left for us, to make mcrr)'
withall, at our rendezvous.'
Note XXII.
By lone Saint Mary's silent lake. — P. 102.
This beautiful sheet of water forms the
reservoir from which the Yarrow takes its
source. It is connected with a smaller lake,
called the Loch of the Lowes, and surrounded
by mountains. In the winter, it is still fre-
quented b)- tlights of wild swans; hence my
friend Mr. Wordsworth's lines : —
' The swan on sweet St. Mary's lake
IToats double, swan and shadow.'
QTlArittton.
183
Near the lower extremity of the lake are
the ruins of Dryhope tower, the birth-place
of Mary Scott, (laughter of Philip Dryhope,
and famous by the traditional name of the
Flower of Yarrow. Slie was married to
Walter Scott of Harden, no less renowned
for his depredations, than his bride for her
beauty. Her romantic appellation was, in
later days, with equal justice, conferred on
Miss Mary Lilias Scott, the last of the elder
branch of the Harden family. The author
well remembers the talent and spirit of the
latter Flower of Yarrow, though age had
then injured the charms which procured her
tin; narne. The words usually sung to the
air of ' Tweedside,' beginning, ' W'liat beauties
does Flora disclose,' were composed in her
lionour.
Note XXIII.
in feudal strife, a foe
Hath laid Our Lady's chapel low. — P. 103.
The chapel of St. Mar\- of the Lowes {de
lacuhus) was situated on the eastern side of
the lake, to which it gives name. It was
injured by the clan of Scott, in a feud with
the Cranstouns ; but continued to be a place
of worship during the seventeenth centurv.
The \estic;es of the building can now scarcely
be traced; but the burial ground is still used
as a cemetery. A funeral, in a spot so very-
retired, has an uncommonly striking effect.
The vestiges of the chaplain's house are yet
■visible. Being in a high situation, it coin-
manded a full view of the, lake, with the
opposite mountain of Bourhope, belonging,
with the lake itseif, to Lord Napier. On the
left hand is the tower of Dryhope, mentioned
in a preceding note.
Note XXIV.
ilie lVi::ard' s grave.
That ll'i-ard Priest's, whose hones are
th rust
From coinfany of holy dust. — P. 103.
At one corner of the burial ground of the
demolished chapel, but without its precincts,
is a small mound, called Biiiraui' s Corse,
where tradition deposits the remains of a
necromantic priest, the former tenant of the
chaplainrv". His story much resembles that
of Ambrosio in 'The Monk,' and has been
made the theme of a ballad, h\ my friend
Mr. James Hogg, more poetically designed
the Ettrick Shepherd. To liis volume,
entitled 'The Mountain Bard,' which contains
this, and many other legendary stories and
ballads of great merit, I refer the curious
reader.
Note XXV.
Some ruder and more savage scene,
Like that xvliich frowns round dark Loch-
skcne. — P. 103.
Loch-skene is a mountain lake, of con-
siderable size, at the head of the Moffat-
water. The character of the scenery is
uncommonly savage ; and the earn, or Scot-
tish eagle, has, for many age.s, built its nest
yearl\- upon an islet in the lake. Loch-skene
discharges itself into a brook, which, after
a short and precipitate course, falls from
a cataract of immense height, and gloomy
grandeur, called, from its appearance, the
Grey Mare's Tail.' The 'Giant's Grave,'
afterwards mentioned, is a sort of trench,
which bears that name, a little way froin the
foot of the cataract. It has the appearance of
a battery, designed to command the pass.
Note XXVI.
high Whitby's cloister d pile.— W 104.
The Abbey of Whitby, in the Archdeaconry
of Cleveland, on the coast of Yorkshire,
was founded A. D. 657, in consequence <>t
a vow of Oswy, King of Northumberland.
It contained both monks and nuns ol the
Benedictine order; but, contrary to what
was usual in such establishments, the abbess
was superior to the abbot. The monastery
was afterwards ruined by the Danes, and
rebuilt by William Percy, 'in the reign of the
Conqueror. There were no nuns there in
Henry the Eighth's time, nor long before it.
The ruins of U'hitby Abbey are very magni-
ficent.
Note XXVII.
Saint Cuthherfs Holy Islc.—V. 104.
Lindisfarne, an isle on the coast of
Northumberland, was called Holy Island,
from the sanctity of its ancient monasten,-,
and from its having been the episcopal seat
of the see of Durham during the early ages
of British Christianity. A succession of holy
men held that office': but their merits \yere
swallowed up in the superior fame of St.
Cutlibert, who was sixth Bishop of Durham,
and who bestowed the name of his 'patri-
mony' upon the extensive property ot the
see. ' The ruins of the monastery upon Holy
Island betoken great antiquity. The arches
are, in general, strictly Saxon ; and the
pillars which support them, short, strong,
and massy. In some places, however, there
are pointed windows, which indicate that
the building has been repaired at a period
long subsequent to the original foundation.
The exterior ornaments of the building,
being of a light sandy stone, have been
wasted, as described in the text. Lindisfarne
Qtofee to
is not properly an island, but rather, as the
venerahle Beile has termed it, a semi-isle;
for, although surrounded bv the sea at full
tide, the ebb leaves the sands dry between it
and the opposite coast of Northumberland,
from which it is about three miles distant.
Note XXVIII.
T/teii IV/iitby's units exulting /old,
How to their Iiouse three Barons bold
Must menial service do. — P. I07.
The popular account of this curious service,
wliich was probably- considerably exagger-
ated, is thus given in ' A True Account '
printed and circulated at Whitb)' : ' In the
fifth year of the reign of Henry II, after the
conquestofEngland by William, Duke of Nor-
mandy, the Lord of Uglebarnby, then called
William de Bruce; the Lord'of Smeaton,
called Ralph de Percy ; with a gentleman
and freeholder called Allatson, did, on the
i6th of October, 1159, appoint to meet and
hunt the wild-boar, inacertainwood, ordescrt
place, belonging to the Abbot of Whitby :
the place's name was Eskdale-side ; and the
abbot's name was Sedman. Then, these young
gentlemen being met, with their hounds and
boar-staves, in the place before mentioned,
and there having found a great wild-boar,
the hounds ran him well near about the chapel
and hermitage of Eskdale-side, where was a
monk of Whitby, who was an hermit. The
boar, being very sorely pursued, and dead-
run, took in at the chapel-door, there laid jiim
down, and presently died. The hermit shut
the hounds out of the chapel, and kept himself
within at his meditations and prayers, the
liounds standing at bay without. The gentle-
men, in the thick of the wood, being just
behind their game, followed the crj- ol their
hounds, and so came to the hermitage, calling
on the hermit, who opened the door and came
forth; and within they found the boar lying
dead : for wliich, tlie gentlemen, in a very great
fury, because the hounds were put from their
game, did most violently and cruelly run at
the hermit with their boar-staves, whereby he
soon after died. Thereupon the gentlemen,
perceiving and knowing that they were in
peril of death, took sanctuary at Scarborough :
But at that time the abbot being in very
great favour with tlie King, removed them out
of the sanctuar)'; whereby they came in
danger of the law, and not to be privileged, but
likely to have the severity of the law, which
was death for death. But the hermit, being
a holy and devout man, and at the i)oint of
death, sent for the abbot, and <lesireu him to
send for the gentlemen who had wounded
him. The abbot so doing, the gentlemen
came; and the hermit, being verj' sick and
weak, sail unto them, " I am sure to die of
those wounds you liave given me." — The
abbot answered, "They shall as surely die
for the same." — But the hermit answered,
"Not so, for I will freely forgive them my
death, if they will be content to be enjoined
the penance I shall lay on them for the safe-
guard of their souls." Tlie gentlemen being
present, bade him save their lives. Then
said the hermit, " You and yours shall hold
your lands of the Abbot of Whitby, and his
successors, in this manner : That, upon As-
cension-day, vou, or some of you, shall come
to the wood of the Stray-heads, which is in
Eskdale-side, the same day at sun-rising, and
there shall the abbot's officer blow his horn,
to the intent that you may know where to
find him ; and he shall deliver unto you,
William de Bruce, ten stakes, eleven strout
stowers, and ele\en vethers, to be cut by you,
or some of you, with a knife of one penny
price : and you, Ralph de Percy, shall take
twent3-one of each sort, to be cut in the same
manner ; and you, Allatson, shall take nine
of each sort, to be cut as aforesaid, and to be
taken on your backs and carried to the town
of Whitby, and to be there before nine of the
clock the same day before mentioned. At
the same hour of nine of the clock, if it be
full sea, your labour and service shall cease;
and if low water, each of you shall set your
stakes to the brim, each stake one j'ard from
the other, and so yether them on each side
with )our yethers ; and so stake on each side
with your strout stowers, that they may
stand three tides without removing by the
force thereof. Eacii of you shall do, make,
and execute the said service, at that very
hour, every year, except it be full sea at that
hour; but when it shall so fall out, this ser-
vice shall cease. You shall faithfully do this,
in remembrance that j'OU did most cruelly
slay me ; and that you may the better call
to God for mercy, repent unfeigncdly of your
sins and do good works. The officer of Esk-
dale-side shall blow, Out on you! Out on
you! Out on you/ for this heinous crime.
If you, or your successors, shall refuse this
service, so long as it shall not be full sea at
the aforesaid hour, you or yours, shall forfeit
your lands to the Abbot of Whitby, or his
successors. This I entreat, and earnestly
beg, that you may have lives and goods
preserved for this service : and I request of
you to promise, by your parts in Heaven,
that it shall be done by you and your suc-
cessors, as is aforesaid requested ; and I will
confirm it by the faith of an honest man."^
Then the hermit said, "My soul longeth for
the Lord ; and I do as freely forgive these
men my death as Christ forgave the thieves
on the cross." And, in the presence of the
abbot and the rest, he said moreover these
words : " In manustuos, Doniiiicconimendo
spirituin nicuni, a vinculis cnim mortis
redetnisti me, Doininc I'eritatis. Amen." —
So he yielded up tlie ghost the eighth day of
December, anno Domini 1150, whose .soul
God have mercy upon. Amen.'
QUdfrnton.
185
'This service,' it is added, 'still continues
to be performed with the prescribed cere-
monies, though not by the proprietors in
person. Part of the lands charged therewith
are now held by a gentleman of the name of
Herbert.'
Note XXIX.
in Ihcir com'cnt cell
A Saxon princess once did dwell,
Tlic lovely Edeljled. — P. 107.
She was the daughter of King Oswy, who,
in gratitude to Heaven for the great victory
wliirh he won in 655, against Penda, the
Pagan King of Mercia, dedicated Edeltleda,
then but a year old, to the service of God, in
the monastery of Whitby, of which St. Hilda
was then abbess. She afterwards adorned the
place of her education with great magnifi-
cence.
Note XXX.
of thousand snakes, each one
IVds changed into a coil of stone.
When holy Hilda pray' d ;
They told, haw sea-Jowls^ pinioiis fail.
As over Whitby's towers they sail. — P. 107.
These two miracles are mucli insisted upon
hy all ancient writers who have occasion to
mention either Whitbv or St. Hilda. The
relics of the snakes which infested the pre-
cincts of the convent, anil were, at the abbess's
prayer, not only beheaded, but petrified, are
still found about the rocks, and are termed by
Protestant fossilists, Ainnioniiae.
The other miracle is thus mentioned by
Camden : ' It is also ascribed to the power of
her sanctity, that these wild geese, which, in
the winter, fly in great flocks to the lakes and
ri\ers unfrozen in the southern parts, to the
great amazement of everv one, fall down
suddenly upon the ground, when thev are in
their flight over certain neighbouring fields
hereabouts : a relation I shouhi not have
made, if I had not received it from several
credible men. But those who are less in-
clined to heed superstition, attribute it to
some occult quality in the ground, and to
somewhat of antipathy between it and the
geese, such as they say is betwixt wolves and
scyllaroots : For that such hidden tenden-
cies and aversions, as we call sympathies and
antipathies, are implanted in many things
by provident Nature for the preservation of
them, is a thing so evident that everybody
grants it.' jMr. Charlton, in his Historv' of
^\■||itby, points out the true origin of the fable,
from the number of sea-gulls that, when flying
from a storm, often alight near Whitby ;
and from the woodcocks, and other birds of
passage, who do the same upon their arrival
on shore, after a long flight.
Note XXXI.
His body's reslinfr.place, of old.
How oft their patron chang'd, thev told.
—P. 107.
St. Cuthbert was, in the choice of his sepul-
chre, one of the most mutable and unreason-
able saints in the Calendar. He died A.u. 688,
in a hermitage upon the Fame Islands,
having resigned the bishopric of Lindisfarne,
or Holy Isl.and, about two years before 1.
His body was brought to Lindisfarne, where
it remained until a descent of the Danes,
about 79?, when the monastery was nearly-
destroyed. The monks fled to Scotland with
what they deemed their chief treasure, the
relics of St. Cuthbert. The Saint was, how-
ever, a most capricious fellow-traveller;
which was the more intolerable, as, like Sin-
bad's Old Man of the Sea, he journeyed upon
the shoulders of his companions. Thev
paradeti him through Scotland for several
years, and came as tar west as Whithern, in
Galloway, whence they attempted to sail for
Ireland, but were driven back by tempests.
He at length made a halt at Norham ; from
thence he went to iMelrose, where he remained
stationary for a short time, and then caused
himself to be launched upon the Tweed in a
stone cofTm, which landed him at Tilmouth,
in Northumberland. This boat is finely
shaped, ten feet long, three feet and a half in
diameter, and only tour inches thick ; so that,
with ver\- little assistance, it might certainly
have swam : It still lies, or at least did so a
few years ago, in two pieces, beside the
ruined chapel of Tilmouth. From Tilmouth,
Cuthbert wandered into Yorkshire; and at
length made a long stay at Chester-le-street,to
which the bishop's see was transferred. At
length, the Danes, continuing to infest the
country, the monks remo\ed to Ripon for a
season ; and it was in return from thence to
Chester-le-street, that, passing through a
forest called Dunholme, the Saint and his car-
riage became immoveable at a place named
Wardlaw, or Wardilaw. Here the Saint chose
his place of residence ; and al I who have seen
Durham must admit, that, if difficult in his
choice, he evinced taste in at length fixing it.
It is said that the Northumbrian Catholics
still keep secret the precise spot of the Saint's
sepulture, which is only entrusted to three
persons at a time. When one dies, the
survivors associate to them, in his room,
a person judged fit to be the depositary of so
valuable a secret.
[The resting-place of the remains of this
Saint is not now matter of uncertainty. So
recently as 17th May, 1S27, 113Q years after
his death, their discover^' and disinterment
1 He resumed the bishopric of Lindisfarne, ^vhich,
owin;,^ to li.id health, he aijain relinquished within less
than three months before his death. — RAINE'S S/.
Cuthbert.
i86
Qto^ee io
were effected. Under a blue stone, in the
middle of the siirine of St. Cuthbert, at the
eastern extremity of the clioir of Durham
Catliedral, there was then found a walled
jjrave, containing the cofllns of the Saint.
The first, or outer one, was ascertaineil to be
that of 154I, the second of 104 1 ; the third, or
inner one, answering in every particular to
the description of that of 6(>8, was found to
contain, not indeed, as had been averred
then, and even until 1539, the incorruptible
bod\', but the entire skeleton of the Saint ;
tlie bottom of the grave being perfectly dr}',
free from offensive smell, and without the
slightest symptom that a human bod3-had ever
undergonedecomposition with in its walls. The
skeleton was found swathed in five silk robes
of emblematical embroiderv', the ornamental
parts laid with gold leaf, and these again
covered with a robe of linen. Beside the
skeleton were also deposited several gohl and
silver /;/j;^;//<7, an<l other relics of the Saint.
The Roman Catholics now allow that the
coffin was that of St. Cuthbert.
The bones of the Saint were again restored
to the grave in a new coffin, amid the frag-
ments of the former ones. Those portions of
the inner coflin which could be preserved, in-
cluding one of its rings, with the silver altar,
golden cross, stole, comb, two maniples,
bracelets, girdle, gold wire of tlie skeleton,
and fragments of the five silk robes, and some
of the rings of the outer coffin made in 1541,
were deposited in the library of the Dean
and Chapter, where they are now preserved.
For ample details of the life of St. Cuth-
bert,— his coffin-journeys, <an account of the
opening of his tomb, and a description of the
silk robes and other relics found in it, — the
reader interested in such matters is referred
to a work entitled ' Saint Cuthbert, by James
Kaine, ]M..\.,' (4to, Durham, l82<S,) where he
will find nmch of antiquarian history, cere-
monies, an<l superstitions, to gratify his curi-
osity.]— Ed.
Note XXXII.
Even Scotland' s dauntless kiiig^aiid hcti% . . .
Before his standard fled.— V'f. 10S-9.
Every one has heard that when David I,
with his son Henry, invaded Northumberland
in 1 136, the English host marched against
them under the holy banner of St. Cuthbert ;
to the efficacy of which was imputed the
great victory which they obtained in the bloody
battle of Northallerton, or Cutonmoor. The
conquerors were at least as much indebted to
the jealousy and intractability of the different
tribe^s who'composed David's army ; among
whom, as mentioned in the text, were the
Galwegians, tin' Britons of Strath-Clvde, the
men of Tevintrlale and Lothian, with many
Norman and Cerm.an warriors, who asserted
the cause of the Empress Maud. See ChAL-
MEKS' Caledonia^ vol. i. p. 622 ; a most la-
borious, curious, and interesting publication,
from which considerable defects of style and
manner ought not to turn aside the Scottish
antiquarj'.
Note XXXIII.
' Twas fie, to ''indicate /lis reign,
Edg'd Alfred's falchion on the Dane,
And turn' d tlie Conqueror back again.
—P. 108.
Cuthbert, we have seen, liad no great reason
to spare the Danes, when opportunity offered.
Accordingly, I find, in Simeon of Durham,
that the Saint appeared in a vision to Alfred,
when lurking in the marshes of Glastonburj',
and promised him assistance and victory
o\ er his heathen enemies ; a consolation,
which, as was reasonable, Alfred, after the
victory of Ashendown, rewarded, by a royal
offering at the shrine of the Saint. As to
William the Conqueror, the terror spread
before his armv, when he marched to punish
the revolt of the Northumbrians, in ick>6, had
forced the monks to ily once more to Holy
Island with the body of the Saint. It was,
however, replaced before William left the
north ; and, to balance accounts, the Con-
queror having intimated an indiscreet curio-
sity to view the Saint's body, he was, while
in the act of commanding the shrine to be
opened, seized with heat and sickness, ac-
companied with such a panic terror, that, not-
withstanding there was a sumptuous dinner
prepared for him, he fled without eating a
morsel (which the monkish historian seems
to have thought no small part both of the
miracle and the penance), and never drew
his bridle till he got to the river Tees.
Note XXXIV.
Saint Cuthbert sits, and toils to frame
The sea-born beads that bear his name.
—P. 108.
Although we do not learn that Cuthbert
was, during his life, such an artificer as Dun-
stan, his brother in sanctit)-, yet, since his
death, he has acquired the reputation of
forging those Entrochi which are found
among the rocks of Holy Island, and pass
there by the name of St' Cuthbert's Beads.
While at this task, he is supposed to sit
during the night upon a certam rock, and
use another as his anvil. This story was
perhaps credited in former days; at least
the Saint's legend contains some not more
probable.
QUarmton.
187
Note XXXV.
Old Colwiil/.—P. 108.
Ceolwulf, orCoKvulf, Kinj^of Nortliumber-
land, flourished in tlie eighth century. He
was a man of some learning ; for the vener-
;il)Ie Bede dedicates to him his ' Ecclesiastical
History.' He abdicated the throne about
7vS, and retired to Holy Island, where he
died in the odour of sanctity'. Saint as Col-
wulf was, however, I fear the foundation of
till- penance vault does not correspond with
his character; for it is recorded among his
memorabilia, that, finding the air ot the
i^lanrl r.iw and cold, he indulged the
ii'onks, whose rule had hitiierto confined
lh<ni to milk or water, with the comfortable
pri\ilege of using wine or ale. If any rigid
antiqu.iry insists on this objection, he is wel-
come to suppose the penance-vault was in-
tended, by the founder, for the more genial
purposes of a cellar.
These penitential vaults were the Gcisscl-
gcwolbc of German convents. In the earlier
and more rigid times of monastic discipline,
they were sometimes used as a cemetery for
the lay benefactors of the convent, whose un-
sanctified corpses were then seldom permitted
to pollute the choir. They also served as
places of meeting for the chapter, when
measures of uncommon severity were to be
adopted. But their most frequent use, as im-
plied by the name, was as places for performing
penances, or undergoing punishment.
Note XXXVI.
Tyitemoufh' s haughty Prioress. — P. 109.
That there was an ancient priory at Tyne-
moiith is certain. Its ruins are situated on a
high rocky point ; and, doubtless, many a
vow was mafle to the shrine by the distressed
mariners who drove towards the iron-bound
coast of Northumberland in stormy weather.
It was anciently a nunnery ; for Virca, abbess
of TynemouthJ presented St. Cuthbert (yet
alive) with a rare winding-sheet, in emulation
of a holy lady called Tuda, who had sent him
a cofTin' But, as in the case of AV'hitby, and
of Holy Island, the introduction of nuns at
Tynemouth in the reign of Henry VIII is an
anachronism. The nunnery at Holy Island
is altogether fictitious. Indeed, St. Cuthbert
was unlikely to permit such an establishment ;
for, notwithstanding his accepting the mor-
tuary gifts above mentioned, and his carrying
on a \ isiting acquaintance with the Abbess
of Coldingham, he certainly hated the whole
female sex ; and, in revenge of a slippery
trick plaved to him by an Irish princess, he,
after <leath. inflicted severe penances on such
as presumed to .ipproach within a certain dis-
tance of his shrine.
Note XXXVII.
Oit Ihose the zcall zvas lo enclose.
Alive, zvithin the tomb. — P. no.
It is well known, that the religious, who
broke their vows of chastity, were subjected to
the same penalty as the Roman vestals in a
similar case. A small niche, sufficient to en-
close their bodies, was made in the massive
wall of the convent ; a slender pittance of food
and water was deposited in it, and the awtul
words, V.-iDE IN P.\CE, were the signal for im-
muring the criminal. It is not likely that, in
latter times, this punishment was often re-
sorted to ; but, among the ruins of the Abbey
of Coldingham, were some years ago dis-
covered the remains of a female skeleton,
which, from the shape of the niche, and
position of the figure, seemed to be that of an
immured nun.
Note XXXVIII.
The village inn. — P. 116.
The accommodationsof aScottishhostelrie,
or inn, in the sixteenth century, may be col-
lected from Dunbar's admirable tale of 'The
Friars of Berwick.' Simon Lawder, 'the gay
ostlier,' seems to have lived very comfortably;
and his wife decorated her person with a
scarlet kirtle, and a belt of silk and silver,
and rings upon her fingers ; and feasted her
paramour with rabbits, capons, partridges,
and Bourdeaux winc-7 At least, if the Scot-
tish inns were not good, it was not for want of
encouragement from the legislature; who,
so early as the reign of James I, not only
enacted, that in all boroughs .ind fairs there
be hostellaries, having stables and chambers,
and provision for man and horse, but by
another statute, ordained that no man, travel-
ling on horse or foot, should presume to lodge
anywhere except in these hostellaries ; and
that no person, save innkeepers.should receive
such travellers, under the penalty of forty
shillings, for exercising such hospitality.
But, in spite of these provident enactments,
the Scottish hostels are but indifferent, and
strangers continue to find reception in the
houses of individuals.
Note XXXIX.
The death of a dear fricud. — P. i iS.
Among other omens to which faithful
credit is given among the Scottish peasantry,
is what is called the 'dead-bell,' exphiined
by my friend James Hogg, to be that tinkling
in the ears which the country people regard
as the secret intelligence of some friend's
decease. He tells a story to the purpose in
the ' Mountain Bard,' p. 26.
/*» ) lady, 'tis dark, an" I heard the dead-bell !
An' 1 darena gae yonder for gowd nor fee.'
i88
Qtef^e to
' By the dead-bell is meant a tinkling; in the
ears, \vhich our peasantry in the country re-
gard as a secret intelligence of some friend's
decease. Thus this natural occurrence strikes
many with a superstitious awe. This reminds
me of a trilling anecdote, which I will here
relate as an instance : — Our two servant-girls
agreed to go an errand of their own, one night
alter supper, to a considerable distance, from
which I strove to persuade them, but could not
prevail. So, after going to the apartment
where I slept, I took a drinking-glass, and,
coming close to the back of the door, made
two or three sweeps round the lips of the glass
with my linger, which caused a loud shrill
sound. I then overheard the followinu; dia-
logue: — B. "Ah, mercv! the dead-bell went
through my head just now with such a knell
as I never heard.' — /. " I heard it too." — B.
"Did you indeed? That is remarkable. I
never knew of two hearing it at the same
time before." — /. "We will not go to Midge-
hope to-night." — B. "I would not go for all
the world. I shall warrant it is my poor
brother Wat: who knows what these wikl
Irishes may have done to him ? " ' — HoGG's
Moitittaiti Bai-d, 3rd edit., pp. 31-2.]
Note XL.
The Gobliji-HaU.^V. 120.
A vaulted hall under the ancient castle of
Clifford or Vester, (for it bears either name
indifl'erently,) the construction of which has
from a very remote period been ascribed to
ma^ic. The Statistical Account of the Parish
of Oarvald and Baro gives the following ac-
count of the present state of this castle and
apartment : — ' Upon a peninsula, formed by
the water of Hopes on the east, and a large
rivulet on the west, stands the ancient castle
of Yester. Sir David Dalrvmple, in his An-
nals, relates, that "Hugh Gifford de Yester
died in 1267; that in his castle there was a
capacious cavern, formed bv magical art,
and called in the country Bo^Hall, i.e. Hob-
goblin Hall." A stair of twenty-four steps
led down to this apartment, which is a large
and spacious hall, with an arched roof; and
though it hath stood for so many centuries,
and Deen exposed to the external air for a
period of fifty or sixty years, it is still as firm
and entire as if it had only stood a few years.
From the floor of this hall, another stair of
thirty-six steps leads down to a pit which hath
a communication with Hopes-water. A great
part of the walls of this large and ancient
castle are still standing. There is a tradition,
that the castle of Yester was the last forti-
fication, in this country, that surrendered
to General Gray, sent into Scotland by Pro-
tector Somerset.' Stalistical Accoitut^ Vol.
xiii. — I have only to add, that, in 1737, the
Goblin Hall was tenanted by the Marquis of
Tweeddale's falconer, as I learn from a poem
by Boyse, entitled ' Retirement,' written upon
visiting Vester. It is now rendered inacces-
sible by the fall of the stair.
Sir David Dalrymple's authority for the
anecdote is in Fordun, whose words are, —
'.A. u. MCCLXVII. Hugo Giffard de YcsUr
uwfitur ; cujuscas/rnt)!, vcl sallcincaveaiit^
ct dougioiteui. arte dacmotiica aii/iquae rc-
lationes fcrutit fahrifaciiim : nam ibidem
liabettir niirabilis specus siib/ei'rajieiis,
opere iiiirifico cottstrucius, niagno ierra-
7-itnt spatio pro/e/a/its, qui coinmiuiiter
33o=li)aU appeHa/us est.' Lib. X. cap 21. —
Sir Daviil conjectures, that Hugh de Gifford
must either have been a very wise man, or a
great oppressor.
Note XLI.
There floated Haco's banner trim,
Above Norvjeyan warriors grim, — P. 120.
In 1 2(13, Haco, King of Norway, came into
the Frith of Clyde with a powerful armament,
and m.ade a descent at Largs, in Ayrshire.
Here he was encountered and defeated, on
the 2nd October, by Alexander III. Haco re-
treated to Orkney, where he died soon after
this disgrace to his arms. There are still
existing, near the place of battle, many bar-
rows, some of which, having been opened,
were found, as usual, to contain bones and
urns.
Note XLII.
wi-ard habit strange. — P. 1 20.
'Magicians, as is well known, were very
curious in the choice and form of their vest-
ments. Their caps are oval, or like pyra-
mids, wHth lappets on each side, and fur within.
Their gowns are long, and furred with fox-
skins, under which they have a linen garment
reaching to the knee. Their girdles are three
inches broad, and have many cabalistical
names, with crosses, trines, and circles in-
scribed on them. Their shoes should be of
new russet leather, with a cross cut upon them.
Their knives are dagger-fashion ; and their
swords have neither guard nor scabbard.' — ■
See these, and many other particulars, in the
Discourse concerning Devils and Spirits,
annexed to Regin.Ald Scott's Discovery 0^
Witchcraft, edition 1665.
NoteXLIII.
Upon his breast a pentacle. — P. 120.
' A pentacle is a piece of fine linen, fohled
with five corners, according to the five senses,
and suitably inscribed with characters. This
the magician extends towarils the spirits
which he invokes, when they are stubborn
and rebellious, and refuse to "be conformable
unto the ceremonies and rites of magic' — See
the Discourses, &c. above mentioned, p. 66.
QUdtrmion.
i8g
Note XLIV.
As horii iipoit that blessed niefhi
When yarouiug- gra^'cs^ and dviitg groan,
Procla'iw'd hell's empire ovcrthrinvn.
-P. 121.
It is a popular article of faith, that those
wlio are born on Christmas, or Good Friday,
lia\ (■ tlic power of seeing spirits, and even of
commanding them. The Spaniards imputed
tlu- haggard and downcast looks of their
Pliilip II to the disagreeable visions to which
this privilege subjected him.
Note XLV.
Yet still the knightly spear and s/iiehl
The Eljin II 'arrior doth tvield
Upon tlie hroxvn hilt's breast. — P. 122.
The following extract from the Essay upon
the Fairy Superstitions, in the ' Minstrelsy of
tlie Scottisli Border,' vol. ii, will show whence
many of the particulars of the combat be-
tween Alexander III and the Goblin Knight
are derived : —
GerAase of Tilbur^', Otia Imperial ap.
Script, rer. Brn7isvic (vol. i. p. 797), relates
the following popular story concerning a fairy
knight : ' Osbert, a bold and powerful baron,
visited a noble family in the \icinity of W'an-
dlebury, in the bishopric of Ely. Among
other stories related in the social circle of his
friends, who, according to custom, amused
each other by repeating ancient tales and
traditions, he was informed, that if any
knight, unattended, entered an adjacent
plain by moonlight, and challenged an ad-
versary to appear, he would be immediately
encountered by aspirit in the form of a knight.
Osbert resolved to make the experiment, and
set out, attended by a single squire, whom he
ordere<l to remain without the limits of the
plain, which was surrounded by an ancient
intrenchment. On repeating the challenge,
he was instantly assailed by an adversary,
whom he (luickly unhorsed, and seized the
reins of his steed. During this operation, his
ghostly opponent sprung up, and darting his
spear, like a javelin, at Osbert, wounded him
in the thigh. Osbert returned in triumph
with the horse, which lie committed to the
care of his servants. The horse was of a
sable colour, as well as his whole accoutre-
ments, and apparentlv of great beauty and
vigour. He remained with his keeper till
cock-crowing, when, with eyes flashing fire,
he reared, spurned the ground, and vanished.
On disarming himself, Osbert perceived that
he was wounded, and that one of his steel
i)00t3 was full of blood.' Gervase adds, that,
'as long as he lived, the scar of his wound
opened afresh on the anniversary of the eve
on which he encountered the spirit.' Less
lortunate was the gallant Bohemian knight,
who, travelling by night with a single com-
panion, ' came in sight of a fairy host, arrayed
under displayed banners. Despising the re-
monstrances of his friend, the knight pricked
forward to break a lance with a champion,
who advanced from the ranks apparently
in defiance. His companion beheld the Bo-
hemian overthrown, horse and man, by his
aerial adversary; and returning to the spot
next morning, he found the mangled corpses
of the knight and ^.tcn^iV— Hierarchy of
Blessed Angels, p. 554.
Besides these instances of ElCn chivalry
above ([uoted, many others might be alleged
in support of employing fairy machinery in
this manner. The forest of Glenmore, in the
North Highlands, is believed to be haunted
by a spirit called Lham-dearg, in the arrav
of an ancient warrior, having a bloody hand,
from which he takes his name. He insists
upon those with whom he meets doing battle
with him ; and the clergyman, who makes
up an account of the district, extant in the
Macfarlane MS. in the Advocates' Library,
gravely assures us, that, in his time, Lhani-
dearg' iowf^xt with three brothers whom he
met ill his walk, none of whom long sur-
vived the ghostly conflict. Barclay, in his
' Euphormion,' gives a singular account of
an officer who had ventured, with his servant,
rather to intrude upon a haunted house in a
town in Flanders, than to put up w itli worse
<iuarters elsewhere. After taking the usual
precautions of providing fires, lights, and
arms, they watched till midnight, when be-
hold ! the severed arm of a man dropped from
the ceiling ; this was followed by the legs, the
other arm, the trunk, and the head of the
body, all separately. The members rolled
together, united themselves in the presence
of the astonished soldiers, and formed a
gigantic warrior, who defied them both to
combat. Their blows, although they pene-
trated the body and amputated the limbs of
their strange antagonist, had, as the reader
may easily oelieve, little eftect on an enemy
who possessed such powers of self-union ; nor
did his efforts make more effectual impression
upon them. How the combat terminated I
do not exactly remember, and have not the
book by me ; but I think the spirit made
to the intruders on his mansion the usual
proposal, that they should renounce their
redemption ; which being declined, he was
obliged to retract.
The most singular tale of the kind is con-
tained in an extract communicated to me by
my friend Mr. Surtees of Mainsforth, in the
Bishopric, who copied it from a MS. note in
a copv of Burthogge, 'On the Nature of
Spirits, 8vo, 1694,' which had been the pro-
perty of the late Mr. Gill, attorney-general to
Egerton, Bishop of Durham. 'It was not,'
says my obliging correspondent, ' in Mr. Gill's
own hand, but probably a hundred years
older, and was said to be, E libre Convent.
Diinelni. per T. C. extract., whom I belie\e
IQO
(Uotee (o
to have been Thomas Crailocke, Esq., bar-
rister, who hehl several offices under the See
of Diuham a hundred years ago. Mr. Gill
was possessei! of most of his manuscripts.'
The extract, which, in fact, suggfested the
intro<luction of the tale into the present poem,
runs thus : —
' Rem inirain hitjiismodi quae Jiostris
ictupcrihiis et'etlif, tes/e viro iiobili ac fide
digiiissimo, eiiarrare hand pigehit. Radul-
pntts Buhner^ cunt e cas/ris, quae tunc tciii-
foris prope Norhain posi/a erauf, ohlccta-
iionis causa, cvi/ssef, ac in tilteriore J^uedae
Ttpu pyaedain cum cauihus lepoi-ariis iJisc-
qucrctuf, forte cum Scoto quodam iiobili,
sibi antehaCy lit videbatuf, familiaritcr
cognito, congj'cssus est ; ac, tit fas erat
inter iniinicos, Jiagrantc bello, brevissima
intcrrogationis mora interpositd, altcr-
utros ittz'iceni incitato ciirsu infestis ani-
mis petiere. Noster, prima occiirsu, equo
pracacerrimo hostis impetit labante, in
terrain eversiis pectore ct capitc laeso, san-
guineni, niortiw similis, cToiiiebat. Quern
lit se acgre liabentent com iter allociitiis est
alter, pollicitiisqiie. modo aiixiliunt non
abitegaret, monitisque ohtemperaiis ab omni
rerum sacraritm cogitatione abstinerel, nee
Deo, Deiparae Virgini, Sanctove nllo,
preccs aut z'Ota efferret z'cl inter scse con-
ciperet, se brez'i etnn saiium zmlidiimqiic
restittitnrum esse. Prae angore oblata
conditio acccpta est ; ac z'eterator ille nescio
quid obscaeni niurmiiris insusurrans,
preheiisa manii, dicto citius in pedes sa>tum
lit ayiteasublevavit. Noster antcin, maxima
prae rei iiiauditu nozntate formidine per-
ciilsus. Ml Jesu ! exclamat, vcl quid simile ;
ac sttbito respiciens tiec liostem 7iec iillam
alium conspicit, equum solum gra^'issimo
ntiper casii aftlictiim, per summam pacem
in rivofluz'ii pascentem. Adcastra ilaque
mirabundus rei'ertens, fidci diibius, rem
prima occultavit, dciii, confecto hello. Con-
fessor i siio totam asscrtiit. Deliisoria pro-
cul ditbio res tola, ac malaz>cte>-atoris illins
aperitiirfraus, qua Jtomiiiein Christianiim
ad z'etitumtaleauxiliumpelliceret. Nomen
titcniiqiu mills {nobilis alias acclari) rcti-
cendiim duco, cum hand dtihium sit qiiin
Diabolns, Deo pcrmittente, formam quant
tibuerit, imino angeli liicis, sacro ocitlo Dei
teste, posse assiimcre!' The MS. chronicle,
from which Mr. Cradocke took this curious
extract, cannot now be found in the Chapter
Library of Durham, or, at least, has hitherto
escaped the researches of my friendly corre-
spomlcnt.
Lindesay is made to allude to this adven-
ture of Ralph Bulmer, as a well-known story,
in the 4th Canto, Stanza xxii. p. nj.
The northern champions of old were accus-
tomed peculiarly to search for, and delight in,
encounters with such military spectres. See
a whole chapter on the subject, in B.\KTH0LI-
NUS, De Causis conteniptac Mortis a Danis,
P- 25.^
Note XLVI.
Close to the hut, no more his ozun.
Close to the aid lie sought in ztain.
The morn may find the stiffened szvain.
-V. 125.
I cannot help here mentioning, that, on
the night in which these lines were written,
suggested, as they were, by a sudden fall of
snow, beginning after sunset, an unfortunate
man perished exactly in the manner here
described, and his body was next morning
found close to his own house. The accident
happened within five miles of the farm of
Ashestiel.
Note XLVII.
Forbes. — P. 125.
Sir William Forbes of Pitsligo, Baronet;
uneijualled, perhaps, in the degree of indi-
vidual affection entertained for him by his
friends, as well as in the general respect and
esteem of Scotland at large. His ' Life of
Beattie,' whom he befriended and patronized
in life, as well as celebrated after his decease,
was not long published, before the benevolent
and affection.ite biographer was called to
follow the subject of his narrative. This
melancholy event very shortly succeeded the
marriage of the friend, to whom this intro-
duction is addressed, with one of Sir William's
daughters.
Note XLVIII.
Friar Rush. — P. 127.
Alias, ' Will o' the Wisp.' This personage
is a strolling demon, or esprit follet, who,
once upon a time, got admittance into a
monastery as a scullion, and played the
monks many pranks. He was also a sort of
Robin Goodfellow, and Jack o' Lanthern.
It is in allusion to this mischievous demon
that Milton's clown speaks, — •
' She w.ns pinched, and pulled, she said,
And he l.y Friar's LuiDiern led.'
' The History of Friar Rush' is of extreme
rarity, and, for some time, even the existence
of such a hook was doubted, although it is
expressly alluded to by Reginald Scott, in his
' Discovery of Witchcraft.' I have perused a
copy in the valuable library of my friend Mr.
Heber ; and I observe, from Mr. Beloe's
'Anecdotes of Literature,' that there is one
in the excellent collection of the Marquis of
Stafford.
Note XLIX.
Siy Daz'id Lindesay of the Mount,
Lord Lion King-at-arms. — P. 128.
The late elaborate edition of Sir David
Lindesay's Works, by Mr. George Chalmers,
has probably introduced him to many of my
readers. It is perhaps to be regretted, that
the learned Editor had not bestowed more
(Wlavwion.
191
pains in elucidatinjj^ his author, even although
lie should have omitted, or at least reserved,
his disquisitions on the origin of the language
used by the poet. But, with all its faults,
liis work is an acceptable present to Scottish
antiquaries. Sir David Lindesay was well
known lor his early efforts in favour of the
Reformed doctrines ; and, indeed, his play,
coarse as it now seems, must have had a
fowerful effect upon the people of his age.
am uncertain if I abuse poetical licence,
by introducing Sir David Lindesay in the
character of Lion-Herald, sixteen years be-
fore he obtained that office. At any rate, I
am not the first who has been guilty of the
anachronism; for the author of ' Flodden
I'icld' despatclies Dallamoitiit, which can
mean noboily but Sir David de la Mont, to
France, on the message of defiance from
James IV to Henry VIII. It was often an
office imposed on the Lion King-at-Arms, to
receive foreign ambassadors ; and Lindesay
himself did this honour to Sir Ralph Sadler,
in i5;(()-4o. Indeed, the oath of the Lion, in
its first article, bears reference to his frequent
employment upon royal messages and em-
bassies.
The office of heralds, in feudal times, being
held of the utmost importance, the inaugu-
ration of I he Ivings-at-arms, who presided over
their colleges, was proportionally solemn.
In fact, it w.as the mimicry of a royal coro-
nation, except that the unction was made
with wine instead of oil. In Scotland, a
namesake and kinsman of Sir David Linde-
say, inaugurated in 1592, 'was crowned by
King James with the ancient crown of Scot-
land, which was used before the Scottish
kings assumed a close crown ; ' and, on
occasion of the same solenmity, dined at
the King's table, wearing the crown. It is
probable that the coronation of his prede-
cessor was not less solemn. So sacred was
the herald's office, that, in 1515, Lord Drum-
mond was by Parliament declared guilty of
treason, and his lands forfeited, because he
had struck with his fist the Lion King-at-
arms, when he reproved him for his follies.
Nor was he restored, but at the Lion's earnest
solicitation.
Note L.
Crichtoim Castle. — P. 129.
A large ruinous castle on the banks of the
Tyne, aLout ten miles from Edinburgh. As
indicated in the text, it was built at different
times, and with a very differing regard to
splendour and accommodation. The oldest
part of the building is a narrow keep, or
tower, such as formed the mansion of a lesser
Scottish baron ; but so many additions have
been made to it, that there is now a large
court-yard, surrounded by buildings of dif-
ferent'awes. The eastern front of the court
is raised above a portico, and decorated with
entablatures, bearing anchors. All the stones
of this front are cut into diamond facets, the
angular projections of which have an un-
commonly rich appearance. The inside of
this part of the building appears to have
contained a gallery of great length, and un-
common elegance. Access was given to it by
a magnificent staircase, now quite destroyed.
The soffits are ornamented with twining cord-
age and rosettes ; and the whole seems to
have been tar more splendid than was usual
in Scottish castles. The castle belonged
originally to the Chancellor, Sir William
Crichton, and probably owed to him its first
enlargement, as well as its being taken by the
Earl of Douglas, who imputed to Crichton's
counsels the death of his predecessor. Earl
William, beheaded in Edinburgh Castle, with
his brother, in 1440. It is said to have been
totally demolished on that occasion ; but the
present state of the ruin shows the contrary.
In 148^ it was garrisoned by Lord Crichton,
then its proprietor, against King James III,
whose displeasure he had incurred by seducing
his sister Margaret, in revenge, it is said, for
the monarch having dishonoured his bed.
From the Crichton family the castle passed
to that of the Hepburns, Earls Bothwell ;
and when the forfeitures of Stewart, the last
Earl Bothwell, were divided, the barony and
castle of Crichton fell to the share of the
Earl of liuccleuch. They were afterwards
the property of the Pringles of Clifton, and
are now that of Sir John Callander, Baronet.
It were to be wished the proprietor wouhl
take a little pains to preserve these splendid
remains of antiquity, which are at present
used as a fold for sheep, and wintering cattle ;
although, perhaps, there are very few ruins in
Scotland which display so well the style and
beauty of ancient castle-architecture. The
castle of Crichton has a dungeon vault, called
the Massy More. The epithet, which is not
uncommonly applied to tne prisons of other
old castles in Scotland, is of Saracenic origin.
It occurs twice in the ' Epistolac Itiiierariae '
of Tollius. ' Career siib/erraneus, si'z'e, ttl
Mauri appellant, W\Z'^\OVlK\,'' p. 147; and
again, ' Cogiiiitur oiniies Captivi sub hoc-
tent in ergaslula snbterranea, quae Titrcae
Algezcrani vocaut M.\ZMOKKAS,' p. 243.
The same word applies to the dungeons of
the ancient Moorish castles in Spain, and
serves to show from what nation the Gothic
style of castle-building was originally de-
rived.
Note LI.
Earl Adam Hepburn.— V. 130.
He was the second Earl of Bothwell, and
fell in the field of Flodden, where, according
to an ancient English poet, he distinguished
192
Qfloiee io
himself by a furious attempt to retrieve the
day : —
' Tlien ..n llio S. ..tti^li p-ift. ""'l,''!' proud.
The l-.ail ■>! l;iitli\vtU then out brast,
And s,tcp(iiii- l.iiili.with stomach good,
Into the eiicuiiei' throng he thrast ;
And Bo/hwc-/l I Botlnvell I cried bold,
To cause his souldiers to ensue,
But there he caught a weUcome cold,
The Englishmen straight down him threw.
Thus Haburn through his hardy heart
His fatal fine in conflict found,' S:c.
Flodden Field, a Poem ; edited by
H. Weber. Edin. 180S.
Adam was grandfather to James, Earl of
Bothwcll, too well known in the history of
Queen Mary.
Note LII.
For that a messenger from heaven
In vain lo James had counsel given
Against the English war.—V. 130.
This story is told by Pitscottie with charac-
teristic sim'plicity:— "The Kinj^, seeing that
France could get no support ot him lor that
time made a proclaination, full hastily,
through all the realm of Scotland, both cast
and west, south and north, as well in the isles
as in the firm land, to all manner of men
between sixty and sixteen years, that they
should be ready, within twenty days to pass
with him, with forty days victual, and to meet
at the Burrow-muir of Edinburgh, and there
to pass forward where he pleased. His pro-
clamations were hastily obeyed, contrary the
Council of Scotland's will; but every man
loved his prince so well that they would on no
ways disobey him ; but every man caused
make his proclamation so hastily, conform to
the charge of the King's proclamation.
'The King came to Lithgow, where he
happened to be for the time at the Council,
very sad and dolorous, making his devotion
to God, to send him good chance and fortune
in his voyage. In this meantime tliere came
a man, clad in a blue gown, in at the kirk
door, and belted about him in a roll of linen
cloth • a pair of brotikings ' on his feet, to
the great of his legs ; with all other hose and
clothes conform thereto : but he had noth'ng
on his head, but syde'^ red yellow hair behind,
and on his haffets^ which wan down to his
shoulders; but his forehead was bald and
i)ai-c. He seemed to be a man of two-and-
lifty years, with a great pike-staff in his hand,
and came first forward among the lords, cry-
ing and speiring* for the King, saying, he
desired to speak with him. While, at the
last he came where the King was sitting in
the desk at his prayers ; but when he saw the
King he made him little reverence or salu-
tation, but leaned down groffling on the desk
before him, and said to him in this manner
as after follows. " Sir King, my mother hath
sent me to you, desiring you not to pass, at
this time, where thou art purposed ; for ifJJiou
Tuuskins. = I.ong. = Cheeks. ^ .\sking.
does, thou wilt not fare well in thy journey,
nor none that passeth with thee. Further,
she bade thee mell ' with no woman, nor use
their counsel, nor let them touch thy body,
nor thou theirs; for, if thou do it, thou wilt
be confounded and brought to shame."
' By this man had spoken thir words unto
the King's grace, the evening-song was near
done, and the King paused on thir words,
studying to give him an answer ; but, in the
meantime, before the King's eyes, and in the
presence of all the lords that were about him
for the time, this man vanished away, and
could no ways be seen or comprehended, but
vanished away as he had been a blink of the
sun, or a whip of the whirlwind, and could no
more be seen. I heard say. Sir David Linde-
say Lyon-herauld, and John Inglis the mar-
shal, who were, at that time, young men, and
special servants to the King's grace, were
standing presently beside the King, who
thought to have laid hands on this man, that
they might have speired further tidings at
him: But all for nought; they could rot
touch him; for he vanished away betwixt
them, and was no more seen.'
Buchanan, in more elegant, though not
more impressive language, tells the same
story, and quotes the personal information of
our Sir David Lindesay : '/;/ iis, (i.e. (/nt
propins astiterant) fitit David Lindesins,
Monlanus, homo spectatae fidei et probitaiis,
nee a liter arn/n stiidiis alien us, et cujus to-
il us vitae tenor longissime a mentiendoah-
erat ; a quo nisi ego haec nil iradidi, pro
certis acceplssem, ut vulgatam vajiis rtt-
morihus/abuhnn, omissurus eratn.' — Lib.
xiii. The King's throne, in St. Catherine's
aisle, which he had constructed for himself,
with twelve stalls fortheKnightsCompanions
of the Order of the Thistle, is still shown as
the place where the apparition was seen. I
know not by what means St. Andrew got the
credit of having been the celebrated monitor
of James IV ; for the expression in Lindesay's
narrative, 'My mother has sent me,' could
only be used by St. John, the adopted son of
the'Virgin Mary. The whole story is so well
attested, that we have only the choice between
a miracle or an imposture. Mr. Pinkerton
plausibly argues, from the caution against in-
continence, that the Queen was privy to the
scheme of those who had recourse to this
expedient to deter King James from his im-
politic war.
Note LTII.
The wild-buck bells— P. 130.
I am glad of an opportunity to describe the
crv' of the deer by another word than braymg,
although the latter has been sanctifie<l by the
use of the Scottish metrical translation ot the
Psalms. Bell seems to be an abbreviation ot
bellow. This sylvan sound conveyed great
1 Meddle.
(yUarrttt'cn.
193
delight to our ancestors, chiefly, I suppose,
from association. A gentle knignt in the reign
of Henry VIII, Sir Thomas Wortley, built
Wantley Lodge, in Wancliffe Forest, for the
pleasure (as an ancient inscription testifies) of
'listening to the hart's bell.''
Note LIV.
June saw his father's over/hyow. — P. 130.
The rebellion against James III was signal-
ized by the cruel circumstance of his son's
presence in the hostile army. When the King
saw his own banner displayed against himself,
an<l his son in the faction of his enemies, he
lost the little courage he had ever possessed,
fled out of the field, fell from his horse as it
started at a woman and water-pitcher, and
was slain, it is not w ell understood by whom.
James IV, after the battle, passe<l to Stirling,
and hearing the monks of the chapel-royal
deploring the death of his father, their tbuncler
he was seized with deep remorse, which mani-
fested itself in severe penances. See a
following Note on stanza ix. of canto v. The
battle of Sauchie-burn, in which James III
fell, was fought 18th June, 14S8.
Note UV.
The Borough-moor. — P. 133.
The Borough, or Common Moor of Edin-
burgh, wasofxery great extent, reaching from
the southern walls of the city to the bottom
of Braid Hills. It was anciently a forest;
and, in that state, was so great a nuisance,
that the inhabitants of E(iinlnirgh had per-
mission granted to them of building wooden
galleries, projecting over the street, in order
to encourage them to consume the timber,
w hich they seem to have done very effectually.
When James IV mustered the array of the
kingdom there, in 1^13, the Borough-moor
was, according to Hawthornden, 'a field
spacious, and delightful by the shade of many
stately and aged^oaks.' Upon that, and
similar occasions, the royal standard is tra-
ditionally said to have been displayed from
the Hare-Stane, a high stone, now built into
the wall, on the left hand of the highway
leading towards Braid, not far from the head
of BurntsCeld Links. The Hare-Stane prob-
ably derives its name from the British word
Har, signifying an army.
Note LVI.
Pavilions. — P. 134.
I do not exactly know the Scottish mode
of encampment in 151^, but Patten gives a
curious description of that which he saw after
the battle of Pinkey, in 1547 : — ' Here now, to
say somewhat of the manner of their camp.
As they had no pavilions, or round houses, of
any commendable compass, so wear there few
other tentes with posts, as the used manner
of making is; and of these few also, none of
above twenty foot length, but most far under ;
for the most part all very sumptuously beset
(after their fashion), for the love of France
with fleur-de-lys, some of blue buckeram,
some of black, and some of some other
colours. These white ridges, as I call them,
that, as we stood on FauxsydeBray, did make _
so great muster toward us, which I did take
then to be a number of tentes, when we came,
we found it a linen drapery, of the coarser
cambryk in dede, for it was all of canvas
sheets, and wear the tenticlcs, or rather ca-
byns and couches of their soldiers ; the which
(nmch after the common building of their
country beside) had they framed of foursticks,
about an ell long a piece, whearof two fast-
ened together at one end aloft, and the two
endes beneath stuck in the ground, an ell
asunder, standing in fashion like the bowes
of a sowes yoke ; over two such bowes (one,
as it were, at their head, the other at their
feet) they stretched a sheet down on both
sides, whereby their cabin became roofed like
a ridge, but skant shut at both ends, and not
very close beneath on the sides, unless their
sticks were the shorter, or their wives the
more liberal to lend them larger napery :
howbeit, when they had lined them, and
stuff'd them so thick with straw, with the
weather as it was not verj- cold, when they
wear ones couched, they were as warm as
they had been wrapt in horses dung.' —
P.\tten's Account of SoinerseC s Expedi-
tion.
Note LVII.
in proud Scotland's royal shield.
The ruddy lion ramp' d in gold. — P. 134.
The well-known arms of Scotland. If you
will believe Boethius and Buchanan, the
double tressure round the shield, mentioned,
CO It n tcrflciir-de-lysed or litigiicd and armed
aciire, was first assumed by Echaius, King
of Scotland, contemporary of Charlemagne,
and founder of the celebrated League with
France ; but later antiquaries make poor
Eochy, or Achy, little better than a sort of
King of Brentford, whom old Grig (who has
also swelled into Gregorius Magnus) asso-
ciated with himself in the important duty of
governing some part of the north-eastern
coast of Scotland.
Note LVIII.
Caledonia's Queen is chan^'d.
-P. ii6.
The Old Town of Edinburgh was secured
on the north side by a lake, now drained, and
on the south by a wall, which there was some
attempt to make defensible even so late as
1745. The gates, and the greater part of the
\\ all, have been pulled down, in the course of
the late extensive and beautiful enlargement
of the city. My ingenious and valued friend,
H
194
(tioke to
Mr. Thomas Campbell, proposed to celebrate
Edinburgh under the epithet here borrowed.
But the ' Queen of the North ' has not been so
fortunate as to receiv'e from so eminent a pen
the proposed distinction.
Note LIX.
Since firsf, ivhcn congiicring York arose,
7"o Henry iiicck slic gave repose. — V. 137.
Honrv VI, with his Queen, his heir, and
the chiefs of his famih', fled to Scotland after
the fatal battle of Towton. In tliis note a
doubt was formerly expressed, whether Henry
VI came to Edinburgh, though his Queen
certainly did ; Mr. Pinkerton inclining to
believe that he remained at Kirkcudbright.
But my noble friend. Lord Napier, has pointed
out to me a grant by Henr}', of an annuity of
forty marks to his Lordship's ancestor, John
Napier, subscribed by the King himself, at
Edinburgh, the 28th day of August, in the
thirty-ninth year of his reign, which corre-
ponds to the'vear of God, 1461. This grant,
Douglas, with his usual neglect of accuracy,
dates in 1368. But this error being corrected
from the copy in Macfarlane's MSS., pp. ng-
120, removes all scepticism on the subject of
Henry VI being really at Edinburgh. John
Napier was son and heir of Sir Alexander
Napier, and about this time was Provost of
Edinburgh. The hospitable reception of the
distressed monarch and his family, called
forth on Scotland the encomium of Molinet,
a contemporary poet. The English people,
he says, — •
* Un^^ noit-uean yoy crea-att.
Par despitaixvoutoir,
Le viel en ddyonth'cnt,
Et son hgitinic hoir.
Qui fuytyf alia frcndre,
D'Jiscossi Ic garand,
I}e tons sieclt'S U viendre,
1st h- fills tolli-ran/:
— 'Recollection des Avantures, *
Note LX.
■ ihi romantic strain,
IX'/iosc Anglo-Normati tones ivJiilcre
Could win the royal Henry's ear. — P. 137.
Mr. Ellis, in his valuable Introduction to
the ' Specimens of Romance,' has proved, by
the concurring testimony of La Ravaillere,
Tressan, but especially the Abbe de la Rue,
that the courts of our Anglo-Norman Kings,
rather than those of the French monarch,
produced the birth of Romance literature.
Marie, soon after mentioned, compiled from
Armorican originals, and translated into
Norman-French, or romance language, the
twelve curious Lays, of which Mr. Ellis has
given us a precis in the Appendix to his
Introduction. The story of Blondel, the
famous and faithful minstrel of Richard I,
needs no commentary.
Note LXI.
The cloth-yard arrozvs. — P. 138.
This is no poetical exaggeration. In some
of the counties of England, distinguished for
archery, shafts of this extraordinary length
were actually used. Thus, at the battle of
Blackheath, between the troops of Henry
VII and the Cornish insurgents, in 1496, the
bridge of Dartford was defended by a picked
band of archers from the rebel army, 'whose
arrows,' says Hollinshed, 'were in length a
full cloth }hrd.' The Scottish, according to
Ascham, had a proverb, that every English
archer carried under his belt twenty-four
Scots, in allusion to his bundle of unerring
shafts.
Note LXII.
To pass, to wheel, the croupe to gain.
And high ciirvett, that not in i>ain
The sword sway viiglit descend amain
On foeman' s casque below. — P. 138.
'The most useful air, as the Frenchmen
term it, is territerr; the conrbettes, cabri-
oles, or tin pas ct lui sault, being fitter for
horses of paradeand triumph than for soldiers :
yet I cannot deny but a deniivolte with cour-
bettes, so that they be not too high, may be
useful in a fight or ineslce; for, as Labroue
hath it, in his Book of Horsemanship, Mon-
sieur de Montmorency having a horse that
was excellent in performing the dcmii'oltc,
did, with his sword, strike down two adver-
saries from their horses in a tourney, where
divers of the prime gallants of France did
meet ; for, taking his time, when the horse
was in tlie height of his coiirhctte, and dis-
charging a blow then, his sword fell with such
w eight and force upon the two cavaliers, one
afte'r another, that he struck them from their
horses to the ground.' — Lord Herbert of
Cherbnrys Life, p. 48.
Note LXIII.
He saw the hardy burghers there
March arni'd, on foot, with faces bare.
— P. 139.
The Scottlsli burgesses were, like yeomen,
apjiointcd to be armed with bows and sheaves,
sword, buckler, knife, spear, or a good axe
instead of a bow, ifworth;^; 100 : tlieir armour
to be of white or bright harness. They wore
white hats, i.e. bright steel caps without
crest or visor. By an act of James IV their
weapon-schawings are appointed to be held
four times a-ycar, under the aldermen or
bailiffs.
QUavmtcn.
^95
Note LXIV.
On foot the yeoman /oo^ . . .
£nc/i at his back (a slender store)
His forty days' provisio)i bore^
His arms were halbcrt, axe, or sf'ear.
-P. 139.
Bows and quivers were in vain recom-
mended to the peasantry of Scotland, by
repeated statutes ; spears and axes seem
universally to have been use<l instead of them.
Their defensive armour was the plate-jack,
hauberk, or brigantinc; and their missile
weapons crossbows and culverins. All wore
swords of excellent teniper, according to
Patten ; and a voluminous handkerchief
round their neck, 'not for cold, but for cut-
ting.' The mace also was much used in the
Scottish army. The old poem on the battle
of Flodden mentions a band^
' Who manfully did meet their foes.
"With leaden mauls, and lances long.'
When the feudal array of the kingdom was
called forth, each man was obliged to appear
with forty days' provision. When this was
expended, which took place before the battle
of Flodden, the army melted away of course.
Almost all the Scottish forces, except a
few knights, men-at-arms, and the Border-
prickers, who formed excellent light-cavalry,
acted upon foot.
Note LXY.
A ban qttet rich, and costly wines. — P. 140.
In all transactions of great or petty im-
portance, and among whomsoever taking
place, it would seem that a present of wine
was a uniform and indispensable preliminary.
It was not to Sir John Falstaft alone that such
an introductory jireface was necessary, how-
ever well judged and acceptable on the part
of Mr. Brook ; for Sir Ralph Sadler, while on
an embassy to Scotlan<l in 15,^0-40, mentions,
with complacency, 'the same night came
Rothesay (the herald so called) to me again,
and brought me wine from the King, both
white and red.' — Clitford's Edition, p. 39.
Note LXVI.
his iron belt,
That bound his breast in penance pain,
In memory of his father slain. — P. 141.
Few readers need to be reminded of this
belt, to the weight of which James added
certain ounces every year that he lived.
Pitscottie founds his belief, that Jam.es was
not slain in the battle of Flodden, because
the English never had this token of the iron
belt to show to any Scottishman. The person
and character of James are delineated accord-
ing to our best historians. His romantic
disposition, which led him highly to relish
gaiety, approaching to license, was, at the
same time, tinged with enthusiastic devo-
tion. These propensities sometimes formed
a strange contrast. He was wont, during his
fits of devotion, to assume the dress, and
conform to the rules, of thi- order of Francis-
cans ; and when he had tints done penance
for some time in Stirling, to plunge again into
the tide of pleasure. Probably, too, with no
unusual inconsistency, he sometimes laughed
at the superstitious observances to which he
at other times subjected himself. There is
a very singular poem bv Dunbar, .seemingly
addressed to James IV, on one of these
occasions of monastic seclusion. It is a most
daring and profane parody on the services of
the Church of Rome, entitled,^
Ditnbat's Diri£;e to the KiitiT
Byiiinj^ oivcr ta?:i; in Strivittng^,
' We that are here, in heaven's glory.
To you that arc in Purgatory,
Commend us on our hearty wise ;
I mean we folks in Paradise,
In Kdinburgh. with all merriness.
To you in Stirling, with distress.
Where neither pleasure nor delight is,
For pity this epistle writis,* 1*^:0.
See the whole in Sibbald's Collection, vol. i.
P- 234-
Note LXVII.
Sir Hiigli the Heron's wife. — P. 141.
It has been already noticed [see note to
stanza xiii. of canto i, p. 178I that King Jaines's
acquaintance with Lady Heron of Ford did
not commence until he marched into Eng-
land. Our historians impute to the King's
infatuated passion the delays which led to
the fatal defeat of Flodden. The author of
'The Genealogy of the Heron Family'
endeavours, with laudable anxiety, to clear
the Lady Ford from this scandal ; that she
came and went, however, between the armies
of James and Surrey, is certain. See PlN-
kerton's History, and the authorities he
refers to, vol. ii. p. 99. Heron of Ford had
been, in 1511, in some sort accessory to the
slaughter "of Sir Robert Kerr of Cessford,
Warden of the Middle Marches. It was
committed by his brother the bastard, Lil-
burn, and Starked, three Borderers. Lilburn
and Heron of Ford were delivered up by
Henry to James, and were imprisoned in
the fortress of Fastcastle, where the former
died. Part of the pretence of Lady Ford's
negotiations with James was the liberty of
her husband.
H 2
tg6
Qtefee io
Note LXVIII.
ihc fair Queen of France
Seiif him a iurqiwis ring and glove.
And charg" d liitn, as her knighl and love,
For her to break a lance. — P. 141.
' Also the Queon of France wrote a love-
letter to the King- of Scotland, calling; him
lier love, showing him that she had suffered
much rebuke in France for the defending
of his Iionour. She believed surely that he
would recompense her again with some of
his kingly support in her necessity ; that is to
say, that he would raise her an army, and
come three foot of ground on English ground,
for her sake. To that effect she sent him
a ring off her finger, with fourteen thousand
French crowns to pay liis expenses.' PlT-
SCOTTIE, p. IK). — A turquois ring: probably
this fatal gift is, with James's sword and
dagger, preserved in the College of Heralds,
London.
Note LXIX.
Archibald Bell-lhe-Caf.—V. 144.
Archibald Douglas, Earl of .Vngus, a man
remarkable for strength of body and mind,
acquired the popular name of Bell-the-Ca/,
upon the following remarkable occasion: —
James the Third, of whom Pitscottie com-
plains, that he delighted more in music, and
'policies of building,' than in hunting, hawk-
ing, and other nmjle exercises, was so ill
advised, as to make favourites of his archi-
tects and musicians, whom the same historian
irreverently terms masons and fiddlers. His
nobility, who did not sympathize in the King's
respect for the fine arts, were extremely
incensed at the honours conferred on those
persons, particularly on Cochrane, a mason,
wlio had been created Earl of Mar ; and,
.seizing the opportunity, when, in 1482, the
King had convoked the whole array of the
country to march against the English, they
lield a midnight council in the church of
Lauder, for tlie purpose of forcibly removing
these minions from the King's person.
When all had agreed on the propriety of this
measure, Lord Gray told the assembly the
apologue of the Mice, who had formed a
resolution, that it would be highly advanta-
geous to their community to tie a bell round
the cat's neck, that they might hear her
approach at a distance ; but which public
measure unfortunately miscarried, from no
mouse being willing to undertake the task of
fastening the bell. ' I understand the moral,'
said Angus, 'and, that what we propose may
not lack execution, I will bell-the-cat.^ The rest
of the strange scene is thus told by Pitscottie.
'By this was advised and spoken by their
lords foresaid, Cochran, the Earl of Mar,
came from the King to the council, (which
council was holden in the kirk of Lauder for
the time,) who was well accompanied with
a band of men of war, to the number of three
hundred light axes, all clad in white livery,
and black bends thereon, that they might be
known for Cochran the Earl of Xlar's men.
Himself was clad in a riding-pie of black vel-
vet, with a great chain of gold about his neck,
to the value of five hundred crowns, and four
blowing horns, with both the ends of gold
and silk, set with a precious stone, called a
berryl, hanging in the midst. This Cochran
had his heumont borne before him, overgilt
with gold, and so were all the rest of his horns,
and all his pallions were of fine canvas of
silk, and the cords thereof fine twined silk,
and the chains upon his pallions were double
overgilt with gold.
'This Cochran was so proud in his conceit,
that he counted no lords to be marrows to
him, therefore he rushed rudely at the kirk-
door. The council inquired who it was that
perturbed them at that time. Sir Robert
Douglas, Laird of Lochleven, was keeper of
the kirk-door at that time, who inquired
who that was that knocked so rudely? and
Cochran answered, "This is I, the Earl of
Mar." The which news pleased well the lords,
because they were ready boun to cause take
him, as is before rehearsed. Then the Earl
of .-Vngus passed hastily to the door, and
with him Sir Robert Douglas of Lochleven,
there to receive in the Earl of Mar, and so
many of his complices who were there, as they
thought good. And the Earl of Angus met
with the Karl of Mar, as he came in at the
door, and pulled the golden chain from his
craig, and said to him, a towl would set him
better. Sir Robert Douglas syne pulled the
blowing horn from jiim in like manner, and
said, " He had been the hunter of mischief
over long." This Cochran asked, " My lords,
is it mows'-, or earnest?" They answered,
and said, " It is good earnest, and so thou
shalt find; for thou and thy complices have
abused our prince tliis long time ; of whom
thou shalt have no more credence, but shalt
have thy reward according to thy good ser-
vice, as thou hast deserved in times bypast;
right so the rest of thy followers."
' Notwithstanding, 'the lords held them
quiet till they caused certain armed men to
pass into the King's pallion, and two or three
wise men to pass with them, and give the
King fair pleasant words, till they laid hands
on all the King's servants, and took them and
hanged them before his eyes over the bridge
of Lawder. Incontinent'they brought forth
Cochran, and his hands bound with a tow,
who desired them to take one of his own pal-
lion tows and bind his hands, for he thought
shame to have his hands bound with such tow
of hemp, like a thief. The lords answered,
he was a traitor, he deserved no better ; and,
for despight, they took a hair tether', and
hanged him over the bridge of Lawder, above
the rest of his complices.' — PITSCOTTIE, p. 78,
folio edit.
1 Rope.
- Jest.
QTlatrtnton.
197
Note LXX.
Against the ivar Jiad Angus s/ood,
And chaf d his royal lord. — P. 144.
Angus was an old man wlien the war
against England was resolved upon. He
earnestly spoke against that measure from
its commencement ; and, on the eve of the
battle of Flodden, remonstrated so freely
upon the impolicy of fighting, that the King
said to him, with scorn and indignation, 'if
he was afraid he might go home.' The Earl
burst into tears at tliis insupportable insult,
and retired accordingly, leaving his sons
George, Master of Angus, and Sir William
of Glenbervie, to command his followers.
They were both slain in the battle, with two
hundred gentlemen of the name of Douglas.
The aged Earl, broken-hearted at the calami-
ties of his house and his country, retired into
a religious house, where he died about a year
after the field of Flodden.
Note LXXI.
Tantallon Hold. — V. 144.
The ruins of Tantallon Castle occupy a
high rock projecting into the German Ocean,
about two miles east of North Berwick. The
building is not seen till a close approach, as
there is rising ground betwixt it and the land.
The circuit is of large extent, fenced upon
three sides by the precipice which overhangs
the sea, and on the fourth by a double ditch
and very strong outworks. Tantallon was
.1 principal castle of the Douglas family, and
when the Earlof Angus was banished, in 1527,
it continued to hold out against James V.
The King went in person against it, and
for its reduction, borrowed from the Castle
of Dunbar, then belonging to the Duke of
Albany, two great cannons, whose names, as
Pitscottie informs us with laudable minute-
ness, were ' Thrawn-mouth'd Meg and her
Marrow ' ; also, ' two great botcards, and two
moyan, two double falcons, and four quarter
falcons ' ; for the safe guiding and redelivery
of which, three lords were laid in pawn at
Dunbar. Yet, notwithstanding all this
apparatus, James was forced to raise the
siege, and only afterwards obtained posses-
sion of Tantallon by treaty with the governor,
Simon Panango. When the Earl of Angus
returned from banishment, upon the death of
James, he again obtained possession of Tan-
tallon, and it actually afforded refuge to an
English ambassador, under circumstances
similar to those described in the text. This
was no other than the celebrated Sir Ralph
Sadler, who resided there for some time under
Angus's protection, after the failure of his
negotiation for matching the infant Mary
with Edward VI. He says, that though this
place was poorly furnished, it was of such
strength as might warrant him against the
malice of his enemies, and that he now
thought himself out of danger.
There is a military tradition, that the old
Scottish March was meant to express the
words,
' Dinjj down Tantallon
Male a brig to the Ba;5.'
Tantallon was at length ' dung down ' and
ruined by the Covenanters; its lord, the
Marquis of Douglas, being a favourer of the
royal cause. The castle and barony were
sold in the beginning of the eighteenth cen-
tury to Presifl(>nt Dalrymple of North Ber-
wick, by the then Marquis of Douglas.
Note LXXII.
Their inotto on his blade. — P. 144.
A very ancient sword, in possession of
Lord Douglas, bears, among a great deal of
flourishing, two hands pointing to a heart,
which is placed betwixt them, and the date
i_^29, being the year in which Bruce charged
tile Good Lord Douglas to carry his heart
to the Holy Land. The following lines (the
first couplet of which is quoted by Godscroft
as a popular saying in his time) are inscribed
around the emblem : —
' So mony g^uid as of ye Dovglas beinge,
Uf ane surname was ne'er in Scotland seine.
I will ye charge, efter yat I depart.
To holy grawe, and thair bury my hart :
Let it remane ever BCrTHE TVMK AM) HOVVK,
To yc last day I sie my Saviour.
I do protest in tyme of al my ringe,
"^'e lyk subject had never ony keing.'
This curious and valuable relic was nearly
lost during the civil war of 1745-6, being
carried away from Douglas Castle by some
of those in arms for Prince Charles. But
great interest having been made by the Duke
of Douglas among tlie chief partisans of the
Stuart, it was at length restored. It re-
sembles a Highland claymore, of the usual
size, is of an excellent temper, and admirably
poised.
Note LXXI 1 1.
Martin Swart. — P. 146.
A German general; who commanded the
auxiliaries sent by the Duchess of Burgundy
with Lambert Simnel. He was defeated
and killed at Stokefield. The name of this
German general is preserved by that of the
field of battle, which is calle'd, after him,
Swart-moor. — There were songs about him
long current in England. — See Dissertation
prefixed to RiTSON's Ancient SongSy 1792,
p. Ixi.
io8
Qtefee io
Note LXXIV.
Perchance sojiie form 7Vas 7i7iohscrz^d ;
Perchance ill prayer, or faith, lieswerz''d.
—P. 146.
It was early necessar}- for those who felt
themselves obliged to believe in the divine
judgment being enunciated in the trial by
duel, to find salvos for the strange and
obviously precarious chances of the combat.
Various curious evasive shifts, used by those
who took up an unrighteous quarrel, were
supposed sufficient to convert it into a just
one. Thus, in the romance of 'Amys and
Amelron,' the one brother-in-arms, fighting
for the other, disguised in liis armour, swears
that lie did not commit the crime of which
the Steward, liis antagonist, truly, though
maliciously, accused liim whom he repre-
sented. Brantome tells a story of an Italian,
who entered the lists upon an unjust quarrel,
but, to make his cause good, fled from his
enemy at the first onset. ' Turn, coward ! '
exclaimed his antagonist. 'Thou liest,' said
the Italian, 'coward am I none ; and in this
quarrel will I fight to the death, but my first
cause of combat was unjust, and I abandon
it.' '_/c 7'ons laisse a fejiscr,^ adds Bran-
tome, 'j// iiy a pas dc Vabiis la.'' Elsc-
wliere he says, very sensibly, upon the
confidence which those who had a righteous
cause entertained of victory : ' Un autre ahiis
y ax'oit-i/, que cettx qui avoieiit un juste
siibjct dc quercl/c, ct qit'on lesfaisoit jurer
avaiit ciilrcr au ca7np.,peusoicut cstre aiissi-
iosf vaiiiqueitrs, voire s'cji assitroicnt-t-ils
du tout, viesntcs que Iciirs coiifesseurs,
parraiiiset confidants Icitrs en respondoient
toiit-afaif, comnie si Dicu leur en eiist
doiiiie line patcnte ; ct ne regardant point
a d^atttrcs failles passecs, ct que Dieii en
garde la punition a ce coup la pour plus
grande, despiteuse, ct exemplaire.^ — ' Dis-
cours sur les Duels.'
Note LXXV.
The Cross.— T. 147.
The Cross of Edinburgh was an ancient
and curious structure. The lower part was
an octagonal tower, sixteen feet in cliameter,
and about fifteen feet high. At each angle
there was a pillar, and between them an arch,
of the Grecian shape. Above these was a
projecting battlement, with a turret at each
corner, and medallions, of rude but curious
workmanship, between them. Above this
rose the proper Cross, a column of one stone,
upwards of twenty feet high, surmounted
with a unicorn. This pillar is preserved in
the grounds of the property of Drum, near
Edinburgh. The Magistrates of Edinburgh,
in 1756, with consent of the Lords of Session
(proA pudor I) destroyed this curious monu-
ment, under a wanton pretext that it
encumbered the street ; while, on the one
hand, they left an ugly mass called the
Luckenbooths, and, on the other, an awkward,
long, and low guard-house, which were fifty
times more encumbrance than the venerable
and inoffensive Cross.
From the tower of the Cross, so long as it
remained, the heralds published the acts of
Parliament ; and its site, marked \iy radii,
diverging from a stone centre, in the High
Street, is still the place where proclamations
are made.
[The pillar has been restored to its place in
High St.]
Note LXXVI.
This awful summons came. — P. 148.
This supernatural citation is mentioned by
all our Scottish historians. It was, probably,
like the apparition at Linlithgow, an attempt,
by those averse to the war, to impose upon
the superstitious temper of James IV. The
following account from Pitscottie is char-
acteristically minute, and furnishes, besides,
some curious particulars of the equipment of
the army of James IV. I need onlj- add to it,
tliat Plotcock, or Plutock, is no other than
Pluto. The Christians of the middle ages by
no means misbelieved in the existence of the
heathen deities ; they onlj' considered them
as devils ; and Plotcock, so far from implying
anything fabulous, was a synonyme of the
grand enemy of mankind. ' Vet all thir
warnings, and uncouth tidings, nor no good
counsel, might stop the King, at this present,
from his vain purpose, and wicked cnter-
prize, but hasted him fast to Edinburgh, and
there to make his provision and furnishing,
in having forth his army against the day ap-
pointed, that thcv should meet in the Burrow-
muir of Edinburgh : That is to say, seven
cannons that he had forth of the Castle of
Edinburgh, which were called the Seven
Sisters, casten by Robert Borthwick, the
master-gunner, with other small artillerj',
bullet, powder, and all manner of order, as
the master-gunner could devise.
'In this meantime, when they were taking
forth their artillerj', and the King being in
the Abbey for the time, there was a cry heard
at the Market-cross of Edinburgh, at the hour
of midnight, proclaiming as it had been a
summons, which was named and called by
the proclaimer thereof, Tlie Summons of
Plotcock ; which desired all men to compear,
both Earl, and Lord, and Baron, and all
honest gentlemen within the town, (every man
specified by his own name,) to compear,
within the space of forty days, before his
master, where it should happen him to ap-
point, and be for the time, under the pain
of disobedience. But whether this summons
was proclaimed by vain persons, night
QUannt'on.
199
walkers, or drunken men, for their pastime,
or if it was a spirit, I cannot tell truly; but
it was shewn to me, that an indweller of the
town, Mr. Richard Lawson, being evil-dis-
posed, ganging in his gallery-stair foreanent
the Cross, hearing this voice proclaiming
this summons, thought marvel what it should
be, cried on his servant to bring him his
purse ; and when he had brought him it, he
took out a crown, and cast over the stair,
saying, " I appeal from tliat summons, judg-
ment, and sentence thereof, and takes me all
whole in the merry of God, and Christ Jesus
his son. " Verily, the author of this, that
caused me write the manner of this sum-
mons, was a landed gentleman, who was at
that time twenty years of age, and was in the
town the time of the said summons ; and
thereafter, when the field was stricken, he
swore to me, there was no man that escaped
that was called in this summons, but tnat
one man alone which made his protestation,
and appealed from the said summons ; but
all the lave were perished in the field with the
king.'
Note LXXVII.
one of his own ancestry
Drove the Alonks forth of Coventry.
—P. 150.
This relates to the catastrophe of a real
Robert de Marmion, in the reign of King
Stephen, whom William of Newbury describes
with some attributes of my fictitious hero :
'Homo bcllicosns^ ferocia et asliicia fere
nullo siio tempore impar.'' This Baron,
having expelled the Monks from the church
of Coventry, was not long of experiencing
the divine judgment, as the same monks, no
doubt, termed his disaster. Having waged
a feudal war with the Earl of Chester, Mar-
mion's horse fell, as he charged in the van of
his troop, against a body of the Earl's fol-
lowers : the rider's thigh being broken by the
fall, his head was cut off by a common foot-
soldier, ere he could receive any succour.
The whole story is told by William of New-
buiy.
Note LXXVIII.
tltc- savage Dane
At lot more deep the mead did drain.
-P. 152.
The lol of the heathen Danes (a word still
applied to Christmas in Scotland) was
solemnized with great festivity. The humour
of the Danes at table displaj-ed itself in
pelting each other with bones; and Torfaeus
tells a long and curious storv, in the
History of Hrolfe Kraka, of one Hottus, an
inmate of the Court of Denmark, who was
so generally assailed with these missiles, that
he constructed, out of the bones with which
he was overwhelmed, a very respectable in-
trenchment, against those who continued tiie
raillery. The dances of the nortliern warriors
round the great fires of pine-trees, are com-
memorated by Olaus Magnus, who says,
the)' danced with such fury holding each
other by the hands, that, if the grasp of any
failed, he was pitched into the fire with the
velocity of a sling. The sufferer, on such
occasions, was instantly plucked out, and
obliged to quaff off a certain measure of ale,
as a penalty for ' spoiling the king's fire.'
Note LXXIX.
On Christmas eve.— 7. 152.
In Roman Catholic countries, mass isnever
said at night, except on Christmas eve.
Each of the frolics with which that holyday
used to be celebrated, might admit of a long
and curious note ; but I shall content myself
with the following description of Christmas,
and his attributes, as personified in one of
Ben Jonson's Masques for the Court.
'£';//rr Christm.as, with tivo or three of
the Guard. He is attired in round hose, lonfr
stockings, a close doublet, a high-crowned
hat, with a brooch, a long thin beard, a
truncheon, little ruffs, white shoes, his scarfs
and garters tied cross, and his drum beaten
before him. — The names of his children,
tvith their at/ ires: Miss-Rute, in a velvet
cap, with a sprig, a short cloak, great yellow
ruff, like a reveller; his torch-bearer bearing
a rope, a cheese, and a basket; — Caroli, a
long tawny coat, with a red cap, and a flute
at his girdle ; historch-bearercarryingasong-
book open ; — Mindd-pie^ like a fine cook s
wife, drestneat, her man carrj'inga pie, dish,
and spoons ; — Gambott, like a tumbler, with
a hoop and bells: his torch-bearer arm'd
with cole-staff, and blinding cloth ; — Post and
Pair, with a pair-royal of aces in his hat,
his garment all done over with pairs and
purs ; his squire carrying a box, cards, and
counters; — JVe-aJ-year's-Gift, in a blue coat,
serving-man like, with an orange, and a sprig
of rosemary gilt on his head, his hat full of
brooches, with a collar of gingerbread ; his
torch-bearer carrying a march-pain, with a
bottle of wine on'eit'her arm \—Mnmmi>!g;
in a masquing pied suit, with a visor; his
torch-bearer carrying the box, and ringing
it ; — VVassal, like a neat sempster and song-
ster ; her page bearing a brown bowl, drest
with ribbands, and rosemary, before her; — ■
Offering, in a short gown, with a porter's
staff in his hand ; a wyth borne before him,
and a bason, by his' torch-bearer;— ^(ziy
Cocke, drest like a boy, in a fine long coat,
biggin, bib, muckender, and a little dagger ;
his usher bearing a great cake, with a bean
and a pease.'
200
(Uofe0 (o
Note LXXX.
W/it^ lists jnay in their niuiiiniijtg see
Traces of ancient mystery. — P. 153.
It seems certain, that the Miimincrs of
England, who (in Northumberland at least)
used to go about in disguise to the neigh-
bouring houses, bearing the then useless
ploughshare ; and the (J?;/.y(2r(/j- of Scotland,
not yet in total disuse, present, in some
indistinct degree, a shadow of the old m}-s-
teries, which were the origin of the English
drama. In Scotland, (iiie ipso teste,) we were
wont, during my boyhood, to take the char-
acters of the apostles, at least of Peter, Paul,
and Judas Iscariot ; the first had the keys,
the second carried a sword, and the last the
bag, in which the dole of our neighbours
plumb-cake was deposited. One played a
champion, and recited some traditional
rhymes ; another was
* Alexander, King of Macedon,
Who conquer'd all the \vorki but Scotland alone :
"When he came to Scotland his courage grew cold,
To see a little nation courageous and bold.'
These, and many such verses, were repeated,
but by rote, and unconnectedly. There was
also, occasionally, I believe, a Saint George.
In all, there was a confused resemblance of
the ancient mysteries, in whicJi the characters
of Scripture, the Nine Worthies, and other
popular personages, were usually exhibited.
It were much to oe wished that the Chester
Mysteries were published from the MS. in the
Museum, with the annotations which a dili-
gent investigator of popular antiquities might
still supply. The late acute and valuable
antiquar}-, Mr. Ritson, showed me several
memoranda towards such a task, which are
probably now dispersed or lost. See, however,
his Remarks on S/iakspeare, 1783, p. 38.
Since the first edition of Marm ion appeared,
this subject has received much elucidation
from the learned and extensive labours of
Mr. Douce ; and the Chester Mysteries
[edited by J. H. Markland, Esq.] have been
printed in a style of great elegance and
accuracy tin 1818) by Bensley and Sons,
London, for the Roxburghe Club. 1830.
Note LXXXI.
Where tny great-grandsire came of old.
With amber beard, and f.axeti hair.
- P. 153-
Mr. Scott of Harden, my kind and affec-
tionate friend, and distant relation, has the
original of a poetical invitation, addressed
from his grandfather to my relative, from
which a fi'v lines in the text are imitated.
They are dated, as tlie epistle in the text,
from Mertoun-House, the seat of the Harden
family.
' With amber beard, and flaxen hair,
And reverend apostolic air,
Free of anxiety and care,
Come hither, Christmas-day, and dine ;
We '11 mix sobriety with wine,
And easy mirth with thoughts divine.
"W'e Christians think it holiday,
Cln it no sin to feast or play ;
Others, in spite, may fast and pray.
No superstition in the use
Our ancestors made of a goose ;
Why may not we, as well as they,
Be innocently blithe that day.
On goose or pie, on wine or ale,
And scorn enthusiastic zeal? —
Pray come, and welcome, or plague rott
Your friend and landlord, Walter Scott.
' .!/>-. U'al/ey Scott, Lessitdat.'
The venerable old gentleman, to whom the
lines are addressed, was the j-ounger brother
of Williain Scott of Raeburn. Being the
cadet of a cadet of the Harden family, he
had very little to lose ; yet he contrived to
lose the small property he had, by engaging
in the civil wars and intrigues of the house of
Stuart. His veneration for the exiled family
was so great, that he swore he would not
shave his beard till they were restored : a
mark of attachment, which, I suppose, had
been common during Cromwell's usurpation ;
for, in Cowley's 'Cutter of Coleman Street,'
one drunken cavalier upbraids another, that,
when he was not able to afford to pay a
barber, he affected to ' wear a beard for the
King.' I sincerely hope this was not abso-
lutely the original reason of my ancestor's
beard ; which, as appears from a portrait in
the possession of Sir Henrj- Hay Macdougal,
Bart., and another painted for the famous
Dr. Pitcairn, was a beard of a most dignified
and venerable appearance.
NoteLXXXII.
The Spirit's Blasted Tree.—V. 154.
I am permitted to illustrate this passage,
by inserting ' Ceubrcn yr Ellyll, or The
Spirit's Blasted Tree, ' a legendary tale, by
the Reverend George Warrington.
The event, on which this tale is founded, is
preserved by tradition in the family of the
Vaughans of Hengwyrt ; nor is it entirely
lost, even among the common people, who
still point out this oak to the passenger.
The enmity between the two Welsh chief-
tains, Howel Sele, and Owen Glendvvr, was
extreme, and marked by vile treachery in the
one, and ferocious cruelty in the other.
The story is somewhat changed and softened,
as more' favourable to the character of the
two chiefs, and as better answering the
purpose of poetry, by admitting the passion
of pity, and a greater degree of sentiment in
the description. Some trace of Howel Sele's
mansion was to be seen a few years ago, and
QUarmten*
may perhaps be still visible, in the park
of Nannau, now belonginof to Sir Robert
Vaughan, Baronet, in the wild and romantic
tracks of Merionethshire. The abbey men-
tioned passes under two names, Vener and
Cymmer. The former is retained, as more
generally used.
THE SriKIT'S BLASTED TREE.
Ceubren yr Ellyll.
* Through Nannau's Chase, as Howd pass'd,
A chief esteem'd both brave and kind,
Ear distant borne, the stay-hounds' cry
Came murmuring on the hollow wind.
Starting, he bent an eager ear, —
How should the sounds return again ?
His hounds lay wearied from the chase,
And all at home his hunter train.
Then sudden anger flashed liis eye,
And deep revenge he vow'd to take,
On that bold man who dared to force
His red-deer from the forest brake.
Unhappy Chief! would nought avail.
No signs impress thy heart with fear.
Thy lady's dark mysterious dream,
Thy warning from the hoary seer 2
Three ravens gavfe the note of death,
As through mid-air they wing'd their way ;
Then o'er his head, in rapid flight,
They croak, — they scent their destined prey.
Ill-omen'd bird I as legends say ,
Who hast the wondrous power to know,
"While health fills high the throbbing veins.
The fated hour when blood must flow.
Blinded by rage, alone he pass'd.
Nor sought his ready vassals' aid :
But what his fate lay long unknown,
For many an anxious year delay' d.
A peasant mark'd his angry eye ;
He saw him reach the lake's dark bourne,
He saw him near a Blasted Oak,
But never from that hour return.
Three days pass'd o'er, no tidings came ; —
Where should the Chief his steps delay V
With wild alarm the servants ran.
Vet knew not where to point their way.
His vassals ranged the mountain's height,
The covert close, the wide-spread plain ;
But all in vain their eager search.
They ne'er must see their lord again.
Vet Fancy, in a thousand shapes.
Bore to his home the Chief once more ;
Some saw him on high Moal's top.
Some saw him on the winding shore.
With wonder fraught the tale went round,
Amazement chain'd the hearer's tongue :
Each peasant felt his own sad loss,
Vet fondly o'er the story hung.
Oft by the moon's pale shadowy light.
His aged nurse and steward grey
AVould lean to catch the storied sounds,
Or mark the flitting spirit stray.
Pale lights on Cader's rocks were seen,
And ini<hiight voices heard to moan ;
'Twas even said the Blasted Oak,
Convulsive, heaved a hollow groan :
And to this day the peasant still,
With cautious fear, avoids the ground:
In each wild branch a spectre sees,
And trembles at each rising sound.
Ten annual suns had held their course,
In sunnner's smile, or winter storm ;
The lady shed the widow'd tear.
As oft she traced his manly form.
Vet still to hope her heart would cling,
As o'er her mind illusions play, —
Of travel f<»nd, perhaps her lord
To distant lands had steer'd his way.
'Twas now November's cheerless hour.
Which drenching rain and clouds deface ;
Dreary bleak Robell's tract appear'd.
And dull and dank each valley's space.
Loud o'er the weir the hoarse flood fell.
And (.iash'd the foaming spray on high ;
Tlie west wind bent the forest tops,
And angry frown'd the evening sky.
A stranger pass'd Llanelltid's bourne.
His dark-grey steed with sweat besprent.
Which, wearied with the lengthen'il way.
Could scarcely gain the hill's ascent.
The portal reach'd, — the iron bell
Loud sounded round the outward wall ;
Quick sprang the warder to the gate ,
To know what meant the clani'rous call,
" O I lead me to your lady soon ;
Say,— it is my sad lot to tell,
To clear the fate of that brave knight.
She long has proved she loved so well."
Tlien, as he cross'd the spacious hall.
The menials look surprise and fear ;
Still o'er his harp old Modred hung.
And touch'd the notes for griefs worn ear
The lady sat amidst her train ;
A mellow'd sorrow mark'd her loi)k :
Then, asking what his mission meant.
The graceful stranger sigh'd and spoke :—
'* O could I spread one ray of hope.
One moment raise thy soul from woe,
Gladly my tongue would tell its tale,
My words at ease unfetter'd flow i
*' Now, lady, give attention due,
The story claims thy full belief:
E'en in the worst events of life.
Suspense removed is some relief.
'* Though worn by care, see Madoc here.
Great Glyndwr's friend, thy kindred's foe
Ah, let his name no anger raise.
For now that mighty Chief lies low.
" E'en from the day, when, chain'd by fate,
By wizard's dream, or potent spell.
Lingering from sad Salopia's field,
'Reft oihis aid the Percy fell ;—
*' E'en from that day misfortune still.
As if for violated faith,
Pursued him with unwearied step ;
Vindictive still for Hotspur's death.
** Vanquish'd at length, the Glyndwr fled.
Where winds the Wye her devious fiuod ;
To find a casual shelter there,
In some lone cot, or desert wood.
H 3
(Uefee to
"Clothed ill a shepherd's humble guise,
He gain'd by toil his scanty bread ;
He who had Cambria's sceptre borne,
And her brave sons to glory led I
*' To penury extreme, and grief,
The Chieftain fell a ling-ering prey;
I heard his last few faltering words,
Such as with pain I now convey.
'' * To Sele's sad widow bear the tale,
Nor let our horrid secret rest ;
Give but /lis corse to sacred earth,
Then may my parting soul be blest.' —
*' Dim wax'd the eye that fiercely shone.
And faint the tongue that proudly spoke,
And weak that arm, still raised to me,
Which oft had dealt the mortal stroke.
" How could I t/ten his mandate bear ?
Or how his last behest obey V
A rebel deem'd, with him I fied ;
With him 1 shunn'd the light of day.
" Proscribed by Henry's hostile rage,
My country lost, despoil'd my land,
Desperate, I fled my native soil.
And fought on Syria's distant strand.
" Oh, had thy long-lamented lord
The holy cross and banner view'd,
Died in the sacred cause, who fell
Sad victim of a private feud 1
•' Led by the ardour of the chase.
Far distant from his own domain.
From where Garthmaelan spreads her shades,
The Glyndwr sought the opening plain.
" With head aloft and antlers wide,
A red buck roused then cross'd in view :
Stung with the sight, and wild with rage.
Swift from the wood fierce Howel flew.
•' With bitter taunt and keen reproach.
He, all impetuous, pour'd his rage ;
Reviled the Chief, as weak in arms,
And bade him loud the battle wage.
*' Glyndwr for once restrain'd his sword,
And, still averse, the fight delays;
But soften'd words, like oil to fire,
Made anger more intensely blaze.
'* They fought ; and doubtful long the fray :
The Glyndwr gave the fatal wound 1
Still mournful must my tale proceed,
And its last act all dreadful sound.
" How could we hope for wish'd retreat.
His eager vassals ranging wide,
His bloodhounds' keen sagacious scent.
O'er many a trackless mountain tried.
*' I mark'd a broad and Blasted Oak,
Scorch'd by the lightning's livid glare ;
Hollow its stem from branch lo root,
And all its shrivell'd arms were bare.
*'Bc this, T cried, his proper grave !^
(The thought in me was deadly sin.)
Aloft we raised the hapless Chief,
And dropp'd his bleeding corpse within."
A shriek from all the damsels burst,
That pierced the vaulted roofs be'.ow ;
While horror-struck the Lady stood,
A living form of sculptured woe.
With stupid stare and vacant gaze,
Full on his face her eyes were cast,
Absorb'd !— she lost her present grief,
And faintly thought of things long past.
Like wild-fire o'er a mossy heath,
The rumour through the hamlet ran ;
The peasants crowd at morning dawn,
To hear the tale— behold the man.
He led them near the Blasted Oak,
Then, conscious, from the scene withdrew;
The peasants work with trembling haste,
And lay the whiten'd bones to view !—
Back they recoil'd !~the right hand still.
Contracted, grasp'd a rusty sword ;
Which erst in many a battle gleam'd,
And proudly deck d their slaughter'd lord.
They bore the corse to Vener's shrine.
With holy rites and prayers address'd ;
Nine white-robed monks the last dirge sang,
And gave the angry spirit rest.'
Note LXXXIII.
77/^ Highla)idc}' ....
Will^ 071 a Friday uiorn^ look palc^
Ifask'dio tell a fairy /a/^,''— P.154.
The Daoine s/ii\ or Meu of Peace ^ of tlie
Scottish Highlanders, rather resemble the
Scandinavian Diiergar than the English
Fairies. Notwithstanding their name, they are^
if not absolutely malevolent, at least peevish,
discontented, and ant to do mischief on slight
provocation. The belief of their existence is
deeply impressed on the Highlanders, who
think they are particularly offended at mortals
who talk of them, who wear their favourite
colour green, or in any respect interfere with
theiraffairs. Thisisespecially tobe avoided on
Friday, when, whether as dedicated to Venus^
with whom, in Germany, this subterraneous
people are held nearly connected, or for a
more solemn reason, they are more active, and
possessed of greater power. Some curious
particulars concerning the popular super-
stitions of the Highlanders may be founa in
Dr. Graham's Picturesque Sketches of Perth-
shire,
Note LXXXIV.
The towers of Franchcmojii. — P. 154.
The journal of the friend to whom the Fourth
Canto of the Poem is inscribed, furnished me
with the following account of a striking super-
stition.
* Passed the pretty little village of Franche-
mont (near Spaw), with the romantic ruins of
the old castle of the Counts of that name.
The road leads through many delightful \ ales
on a rising ground; at the extremity of one
QUarmt'ott.
of tliem stands the ancient castle, now the
subject of man)- superstitious legends. It is
firmly beUeved by the neighbouring- peasantry,
that the last Baron of Franchemont deposited,
in one of the vaults of the castle, a ponderous
chest, containing an immense treasure in gold
and silver, which, by some magic spell, was
intrusted to the care of the Devil, who is con-
stantl V found sitting on the chest in the shapeof
a huntsman. Any one adventurous enough
to touch the chest is instantly seized with the
palsy. Upon one occasion, a priest of noted
piety was brought to the vault: he used all
the arts of exorcism to persuade his infernal
majesty to vacate his seat, but in vain ; the
huntsman remained immovable. At last,
moved by the earnestness of the priest, he
told him that he would agree to resign the
cliest, if the exorciser would sign his name
with blood. But the priest understood his
meaning, and refused, as by that act he woul d
have delivered over his soul to the Devil.
Yet if anybody can discover the mystic words
used by the person who deposited the treasure,
and pronounce them, the fiend must instantly
<lecamp. I had many stories of a similar
nature from a peasant, who had himself seen
the Devil in the shape of a great cat.'
Note LXXXV.
The t'cryform of Hilda Jati%
Hovering itpon the sunny air.
And smiling on her votaries^ pravcr.
—P. 156.
' I shall only produce one instance more
of the great veneration paid to Lady Hilda,
which still prevails even in these our days;
and tliat is, the constant opinion that she
rendered, and still renders, herself visible, on
some occasions, in the Abbey of Streanshalh or
Whitby, where she so long resided. At a
particular time of theyear(viz. in the summer
months), at ten or eleven in the forenoon,
the sunbeams fall in the inside of the northern
part of the choir; and 'tis then that the
spectators, who stand on the west side of
Whitby churchyard, so as just to see the most
northerly part of the abbey pass the north end
of Whitby church, imagine they perceive, in
one of the highest windows there, the resem-
blance of a woman arraveil in a shroud.
Though we are certain this is only a reflection
caused by the splendour of the sunbeams, yet
fame reports it, and it is constantly believed
among the vulgar, to be an appearance of
Lady Hilda in her shroud, or rather in a
glorified state ; before which I make no
doubt, the Papists, even in these our days,
offer up their prayers with as much zeal and
devotion as before any other image of their
most glorified saint.'— CHARLTON'S History
of \\ hilby, p. 33.
Note LXXXVI.
tlie huge and szvecpiug brand
Which zvont of yoi'e, in battle fray.
His foeman's limbs to shred azvay.
As ivood-knife lops the sapling spray.
—P. 150.
Tlie Earl of Angus had strength and per-
sonal activity corresponding to nis courage.
Spens of Kilspindie, a favourite of James IV,
having spoken of him lightly, the Earl met
him while hawking, and, compelling him to
single combat, at one blow cut asunder his
thighbone, and killed him on the spot. But
ere he could obtain James's pardon for tliis
slaughter, Angus was obliged to yield his
castle of Hermitage, in exch.ange for that of
Bothwell, which was some diminution to the
family greatness. The sword with which he
struck so remarkable a blow, was presented
by his descendant James, Earl of Morton,
afterwards Regent of Scotland, to Lord Lin-
desay of the Byres, when he defied Bothwell
to single combat on Carberrj- Hill. See In-
troduction to the Minstrelsy of the Scottish
Border.
Note LXXXVII.
And hop' St thoii hence unscathed to go ?
No! by Saint Bride of Bothwell, 7:0'
Lp draivbridge, grooms! — what, warder,
ho !
Let the portcullis fall.— V. 160.
This ebullition of violence in the potent Earl
of Angus is not without its example in the
real historj- of the house of Douglas, whose
chieftains possessed the ferocit}', with the
heroic virtues of a savage state. The most
curious instance occurred in the case of Mac-
lellan. Tutor of Bombay, who, having refused
to acknowledge the pre-eminence claimed by
Douglas over the gentlemen anil Barons of
Gallowa}-, was seized and imprisoned by tht;
Earl, in his castle of the Thrieve, on the
borders of Kirkcudbrightshire. Sir Patrick
Gray,commanderof King James the Second's
guard, was uncle to the Tutor of Bombay,
and obtained from the King a 'sweet letter of
supplication,' praying the Earl to deliver his
prisoner into Gray's hand. When Sir Patrick
arrived at the castle, he was received with all
the honour due to a favourite servant of the
King's househoUl ; but while he was at dinner,
the Earl, who suspected his errand, caused
his prisoner to be led forth and beheaded.
After dinner. Sir Patrick presented the King's
letter to the Earl, who received it with great
affectation of reverence ; 'and took him by
the hand, and led him forth to the green, where
the gentleman was lying dead, and showed
him the manner, and said, "Sir Patrick, you
are come a little too late ; yonder is your
sister's son lying, but he wants the head :
take his bod}-, and do with it what you will." — ■
Sir Patrick answered again, with a sore heart,
204
(Uofee to
and said, "My lord, if ye have taken from him
liis head, dispone upon the body as ye please ;"
and with that called for his horse, and leaped
thereon ; and when he was on horseback, he
said to the Earl on this manner, "My lord, if
I live you shall be rewarded for your labours
that you have used at this time, according to
your dements."
'At this saying the Earl was highl3- offended,
and cried for horse. Sir Patrick, seeing the
Earl's fury, spurred his horse, but he was
chased near Edinburgh ere they left him ;
and had it not been his led horse was so tried
and good, he had been taken.' — Pitscottie's
History^ p. 39.
Note LXXXVIII
A letter foj'f^ed ! Saint Jttde to speed !
Did eve}' knight so foul a deed.'—P. 160.
Lest the reader should partake of the Earl's
astonishment, and consider the crime as in-
consistent \\\t\\ the manners of the period, I
have to remind him of the numerous forgeries
(partly executed by a female assistant) de-
vised by Robert of Artois, to forw'ard his
suit against tlie Countess Matilda ; which,
being detected, occasioned his flight into
England, and proved the remote cause of
Edward the Third's memorable wars in
France. John Harding also was expresslv
hired by Edward VI to forge such docu-
ments as might appear to establish the claim
of fealty asserted over Scotland by the
English monarchs.
Note LXXXIX.
Lennd's convent. — P. 161.
This was a Cistertian house of religion, now
almost entirely demolished. Lennel House
is now the residence of my venerable friend,
Patrick Brydone, Esquire, so well known in
the literary world. It is situated near Cold-
stream,almost opposite to Cornhlll, and conse-
quently very near to Flodden Field.
Note XC.
Twisel Bridge. — P. 162.
On the evening previous to the memorable
battle of Flodden, Surrey 's head-quarters were
at Barmoor Wood, and King James held an
inaccessible position on the ridge of Flodden-
liill, one of the last and lowest eminences
detached from the ridge of Cheviot. The Till,
a deep and slow river, winded between the
armies. On the morning of September 9, 1513,
Surrey marched in a north-westerly direction,
and crossed the Till, with his ^•an andartillery,
atTwisel-bridge, nigh where that river joins the
Tweed, his rear-guard column passing about
a mile higher, by aford. This movement had
the double effect of placing his army between
King James and his supplies from Scotland,
and of striking the Scottish monarch with
surprise, as he seems to have relied on tl;e
depth of the river in his front. But as the
passage, both over the bridge and through the
ford, was difficult and slow, it seems possible
that the English might have been attacked to
great advantage while struggling with these
natural obstacles. I know not if we are to
impute James's forbearance to want of mili-
tary skill, or to the romantic declaration
which Pitscottie puts in his mouth, ' that he
was determined to have his enemies before
him on a plain field,' and therefore would
suffer no interruption to be given, even by
artillery, to their passing the river.
The ancient bridge of Twisel, bv which the
English crossed the Till, is still standing
beneath Twisel Castle, a splendid pile of
Gothic architecture, as now rebuilt by Sir
Francis Blake, Bart., whose extensive planta-
tions have so much improved the country
around. The glen is romantic and delightful,
with steep banks on each side, covered with
copse, particularly with hawthorn. Beneath
a tall rock, near the bridge, is a plentiful foun-
tain, called St. Helen's Well.
NoteXCI.
Hence might they see the fiil! array,
0/ either host, for deadly fray.—V. 163.
The reader cannot here expect a full account
of the battle of Flodden ; but, so far as is
necessar)' to understand the romance, 1 beg
to remind him, that, when the English army, by
their skilful countermarch, were fairly placed
between King James and his own country,
the Scottish monarch resolved to fight ; and,
setting lire to his tents, descended from the
ridge of Flodden to secure the neighbouring
eminence of Brankstone, on which that village
is built. Thus the two armies met, almost
without seeing each other, when, according
to the old poem of ' Flodden Field,'
' The English line stretch'd east and west.
And southward were their faces set ;
The Scottisli northward proudly prest.
And manfullj- their foes they met.'
The English army advanced in four divisions.
On the right, which first engaged, were the
sons of Earl Surrey, namely, Thomas Howard,
the Admiral of England, and vSir Edmund,
the Knight Marshal of the army. Their divi-
sions were separated from each other ; but,
at the request of Sir Edmund, his brother's
battalion was drawn very near to his own.
The centre was commanded by Surrey in per-
son ; the left wing by Sir Edward Stanley,
with the men of Lancashire, and of the palati-
nate of Chester. Lord Dacres, with a large
body of horse, formed a reserve. When tlie
smoke, which the wind had driven between
the armies, ^\■as somewhat dispersed, they
QTlannton,
205
perceived the Scots, who had moved down the
hill in a similar order of battle, and in deep
silence. The Earls of Huntley and of Home
commanded their left wing, and charged Sir
Edmund Howard with such success as en-
tirely to defeat his part of the English right
wing. Sir Edmund's banner was beaten down,
and he himself escaped with difficulty to his
brother's division. The Admiral, howe\er,
stood firm ; and Dacre advancing to his sup-
port with the reserve of cavalry, probably be-
tween the interval of the divisionscommanded
by the brothers Howard, appears to have kept
the victors in eflectual check. Home's men,
chiefly Borderers, began to pillage the bag-
gage of both armies ; and their leader is
branded by the Scottish historians with negli-
gence or treachery. On the other hand,
Huntley, on whom they bestow many enco-
miums, is said hy the English historians to
have left the field after the first charge.
Meanwhile the Admiral, whose (lank these
chiefs ought to have attacked, availed himself
of their inactivity, and pushed forward against
another large division of the Scottish army
in his front, headed by the Earls of Crawford
and iVIontrose, both of whom were slain, and
their forces routed. On the left, the success
of the English was yet more decisive; for the
Scottish nght wing, consisting of undisciplined
Highlanders, commanded by Lennox and
Argyle, was unable to sustain the charge of
Sir Edward Stanlev, and especially the severe
execution of the Lancashire archers. The
King and Surrey, who commanded the re-
spective centres of their armies, were mean-
while engaged in close and dubious conflict.
James, surrounded by the flower of his king-
dom, and impatient of the galling discharge
of arrows, supported also by his reserve under
Bothwell, charged with sucii fury, that the
standard of Surrey was in danger. A t that
critical moment, Stanley, who had routed the
left wing of the Scottish, pursued his career
of victory, and arrived on the right flank,
and in the rear of James's division, which,
throwing itself intoa circle, disputed the battle
till night came on. Surrey then drew back
his forces ; for the Scottish centre not having
been broken, and their left wing being vic-
torious, he yet doubted the event of tlie field.
The Scottish army, however, felt their loss,
and abandoned the field of battle in disorder,
before dawn. They lost, perhaps, from eight
to ten thousand men ; but that included the
\ery prime of their nobilit^', gentry, and even
clergy. Scarce a family of eminence but has
an ancestor killed at Flodden ; and there is no
province in Scotland, even at this day, where
the battle is mentioned without a sensation
of terror and sorrow. The English lost also a
great number of men, perhaps within one-third
of the vanquished, but they were of inferior
note. — See theonly distinct detail of the Field
of Flodden in PiSKERTON'S Hisloy\\ Book
xi ; all former accounts being full of blunders
and inconsistency.
The spot from which Clara views the battle
must be supposed to have been on a hillock
commanding the rear of the English right
wing, which was defeated, and in w Iiich con-
flict Marmion is supposed to have fallen.
Note XCIL
Brian Tuns/a!!^ stainless kiii^hl.
—P. 164.
Sir Brian Tunstall, called in the romantic
language of the time, Tunstall the Undefiled,
was one of the few Englishmen of rank slain
at Flodden. He figures in the ancient English
poem, to which I may safely refer my reaclers ;
as an edition, with full explanatory notes,
has been published by my friend, Mr. Henry
Weber. Tunstall, perhaps, derived his epithet
of ii7idefi!cd horn his white armour and ban-
ner, the latter bearing a white cock, about to
crow, as well as from his unstained loyalty
and knightly faith. His place of residence was
Thurland Castle.
Note XCIII.
Reckless of life, he desperate fi iighl.
And fell on Flodden plain :
A}id zijell in death his trusty brand,
Firm clenck'd luithin his wanly hand,
Beseem' d the monarch slain. — P. 168.
There can be no doubt that King James fell
in the battle of Floddim. He was killed, says
the curious French Gazette, within a lance's
length of the Earl of Surrey' ; and the same
account adds, that none of his division were
made prisoners, thougli many were killed ; a
circumstance that testifies the desperation of
their resistance. The Scottish historians re-
cord many of the idle reports which passed
among the vulgar of their day. Home was
accusetl, by the popular ^oice, not onlj- of
failing to support the Kinij, but even of having
carried him out of the field, and murdered hiin.
And this tale was re\ived in my remembrance,
by an unauthenticated story of a skeleton,
wrapped in a bull's hide, and surrounded witli
an iron chain, saiti to have been found in the
well of Home Castle; for which, on inquiry,
I could never find any better authority than
the sexton of the parish having said, that, //"
the zvell -were cleaned out, he zvould not be
surprised at such a discovery. Home was
the chamberlain of the King, and his prime
favourite ; he had much to lose (in fact did
lose all) in consequence of James's death, ami
nothing earthly to gain by that event : but
the retreat.or inactivity of the left wing which
he commanded, after defeating Sir Edmund
Howard, and even the circumstance of his
returning unhurt, and loaded with spoil, from
so fatal'a conflict, rendered the propagation
of any calumny against him easy and accept-
;o6
Qtofee (o QYlatrmt'oyt.
able. Other reports gave a still more ro-
mantic turn to the King's fate, and averred
that James, ■weary of greatness after the
carnage among his nobles, had gone on a
pilgrimage, to merit absolution for the death of
his father, and the breach of his oath of amity
to Henr)% In particular, it was objected to the
English, that they could never show the token
of the iron belt, which, jiowever, he was likely
enough to have laid aside on the day of battle,
as encumbering his personal exertions. The}'
produce a better evidence, the monarch's
sword and dagger, which are still preserved
in the Heralds' College in London. Stowe
has recorded a degrading story ot the disgrace
with which the remains of the unfortunate
monarch were treated in his time. An un-
liewn column marks the spot where James fell,
still called the King's Stone.
Note XCIV.
The fair cathedral stor}7i' d atid took.
—P. 169.
This storm of Lichfield cathedral, which
had been garrisoned on the part of the King,
took place in the Great Civil War. Lord
Brook, who, with Sir John Gill, commanded
the assailants, was shot with a musket-ball
throutfh the vizor of his helmet. The royalists
remarked that he was killed by a shot fired
from St. Chad's cathedral, and upon St. Chad's
Day, and received his death-wound in the
very ej-e with which, he had said, he hoped to
see the ruin of all the cathedrals in England.
The magnificent church in question sutTered
cruelly upon this, and other occasions; the
principal spire being ruined by the fire of the
besiegers.
ZU Sai^ of t^t Bid^t.
TO THE HOST NOBLE
JOHN JAMES MARQUIS OF ABERCORN
THIS POEM IS INSCRIBED BV
THE AUTHOR.
The Scene of the following Poem is laid chiefly in the vicinity of Loch Katrine, in
the Western Highlands of Perthshire. The time of Action includes Six Dajs, and the
transactions of each Day occupy .a Canto.
Canto First.
Zf)t CUet.
Harp of the North ! that mouldering
long hast hung
On the witch-elm that shades Saint
Fillan's spring,
And down tlie fitful breeze thy num-
bers flung.
Till envious ivy did around thee
cling,
Muffling with verdant ringlet ever\-
string, —
O minstrel Harp, still must thine
accents sleep?
'Mid rustling leaves and fountains
murmuring.
Still must thy sweeter sounds their
silence keep,
Nor bid a warrior smile, nor teach a
maid to weep ?
Not thus, in ancient days of Caledon,
Was thy voice mute amid the festal
crowd.
When lay of hopeless love, or glory
won,
Aroused the fearful, or subdued
the proud.
At each according pause was heard
aloud
Thine ardent symphony- sublime
and high !
Fair dames and crested chiefs atten-
tion bow'd ;
For still the burden of thj' minstrelsy
Was Knighthood's dauntless deed,
and Beauty's matchless eye.
O wake once more 1 how rude soe'er
the hand
That ventures o'er thj- magic maze
to stray ;
O wake once more ! though scarce my
skill command
Some feeble echoing of thine earlier
lay:
Though harsh and faint, and soon to
die away,
And all unworthj- of tliy nobler
strain,
Yet if one heart throb higher at its
sway.
The wizard note has not been
touch'd in vain.
Then silent be no more ! Enchantress,
wake again !
208
tU &cib^ of tU B^U.
[Canto
The stag at eve had drunk his fill,
Where danced the moon on Monan's
rill.
And deep his midnight lair had made
In lone Glenartney's hazel shade ;
But, -when the sun his beacon red
Had kindled on Benvoirlich's head,
The deep-mouth'd bloodhound's heavy
bay
Resounded up the rocky way,
And faint, from farther distance borne,
V/ere heard the clanging hoof and
horn.
11.
As Chief, who hears his warder call,
'To arms! the foemen storm the wall,'
The antler'd monarch of the waste
Sprung from his heathery couch in
haste.
But, ere his fleet career he took,
The dew-drops from his flanks he
shook ;
Like crested leader proud and high,
Toss'd his beam'd frontlet to the sky ;
A moment gazed adown the dale,
A moment snufi''d the tainted gale,
A moment listen'd to the cry.
That thicken'd as the chase drew nigh ;
Then, as the headmost foes appear'd.
With one brave bound the copse he
clcar'd.
And, stretching forward free and far,
Sought the wild heaths of Uam-Var.
Yell'd on the view the opening pack ;
Rock, glen, and cavern, paid them
back ;
To many a mingled sound at once
The awaken'd mountain gave re-
sponse.
A hundred dogs bay'd deep and strong,
Clatter'd a hundred steeds along.
Their peal the merry horns rung out,
A hundred voices join'd the shout;
With hark and whoop and wild
halloo,
No rest Benvoirlich's echoes knevi'.
Far from the tumult fled the roe.
Close in her covert cower'd the doe ;
The falcon, from her cairn on high,
Cast on the rout a wondering eye,
Till far beyond her piercing ken
The hurricane had swept the glen.
Faint and more faint, its failing din
Return'd from cavern, clift", and linn,
And silence settled, wide and still,
On the lone ^vood and mighty hill.
Less loud the sounds of silvan war
Disturb'd the heights of Uam-Var,
And roused the cavern, where, 'tis told,
A giant made his den of old ;
For ere that steep ascent was won,
High in his pathway hung the sun.
And many a gallant, stay'd perforce.
Was fain to breathe his faltering horse,
And of the trackers of the deer.
Scarce half the lessening pack was
near ;
So shrewdly on the mountain side
Had the bold burst their mettle tried.
The noble stag was pausing now
Upon the mountain's southern brow.
Where broad extended, far beneath.
The varied realms of fair Menteith.
With anxious eye he wander'd o'er
Mountainand meadow, mossand moor,
And ponder'd refuge from his toil
By far Lochard or Aberfoyle.
But nearer was the copsewood grey,
That waved and wept on Loch-Achray,
And mingled with the pine-trees blue
On the bold cliffs of Benvenue.
Fresh vigour with the hope return'd,
With flying foot the heath he spurn'd.
Held westward with unwearied race.
And left behind llic panting chase.
I.l
ZU C^aee.
J09
'Twere long to tell what steeds gave
o'er,
As swept the hunt througli Cambus-
more:
What reins were tighten'd in despair,
When rose Benledi"s ridge in air ;
Who flagg'd upon Bochastle's heath.
Who shunn'd to stem the flooded
Teith,—
For twice that day, from shore to shore.
The gallant stag swam stoutly o'er.
Few were the stragglers, following far,
That reach'd the lake of Vennachar ;
And when the Brigg of Turk was won,
The headmost horseman rode alone.
Alone, but with unbated zeal,
That horseman plied the scourge and
steel ;
For jaded now, and spent with toil,
Emboss'd with foam, and dark Vv'ith
soil.
While every gasp with sobs he drew.
The labouring stagstrain'd fullinview.
Two dogs ofblackSaintHubert's breed,
Unmatch'd for courage, breath, and
speed.
Fast on his flying traces came,
And all but won that desperate game ;
For, scarce a spear's length from his
haunch.
Vindictive toil'd the bloodhounds
stanch ;
Nor nearer might the dogs attain,
Nor farther might the quarry strain.
Thus up the margin of the lake.
Between the precipice and brake,
O'er stock and rock their race they take.
The Muntermark'd that mountain high.
The lone lake's western boundary.
And deem'd the stag must turn to bay,
Wlicre that huge rampart barr'd the
wa\- ;
Already glorying in the prize,
Measured his antlers with his ej'es ;
For the death-wound and death-halloo,
IMuster'd his breath, his whinyard
drew ; —
But thundering as he came prepared.
With ready arm and weapon bared,
The wih^ quarry shunn'd the shock,
And turn'd him from the opposing
rock ;
Then, dashing down a darksome glen.
Soon lost to hound and hunter's ken.
In the deep Trosachs' wildest nook
His solitary refuge took.
There, while close couch'd, the thicket
shed
Cold dews and wild-flowers on his head,
He heard the baffled dogs in vain
Rave through the hollow pass amain,
Chiding the rocks that yell'd again.
IX.
Close on the hounds the hunter came,
To cheer them on the vanish'd game ;
But, stumbling in the rugged dell.
The gallant horse exhausted fell.
The impatient rider strove in vain
To rouse him with the spur and rein,
F'or the good steed, his labours o'er,
Stretch'd his stilf limbs, to rise no
more ;
Then, touch'd with pitj' and remorse.
He sorrow'd o'er the expiring horse ;
' I little thought, when first thy rein
I slack'd upon the banks of Seine,
That Highland eagle e'er should feed
On th}^ fleet limbs, mymatchless steed !
Woe worth the chase, woe \vorth the
day.
That costs thy life, my gallant grey ! '
X.
Then through the dell his horn
resounds.
From vain pursuit to call tlie hounds.
Back limp'd, with slow and crippled
pace,
The sulky leaders of the chase;
ZU Babp of tU Bafte.
[Canto
Close to theirmaster's side they press'd,
With drooping tail and humbled crest;
But still the dingle's hollow throat
Prolong'd the swelling bugle-note.
The owlets started from their dream,
The eagles answer'd with their
scream.
Round and around the sounds were
cast,
Till echo seem'd an answering blast ;
And on the hunter hied his way.
To join some comrades of the day ;
Yet often paused, so strange the road.
So wondrous were the scenes it
show'd.
The western waves of ebbing day
RolI'd o'er the glen their level way ;
Each purple peak, each flinty spire.
Was bathed in floods of living fire.
But not a setting beam could glow
Within the dark ravines below,
Where twined the path in shadow hid,
Round many a rocky pyramid.
Shooting abruptl}' from the dell
Its thunder-splinter'd pinnacle;
Round many an insulated mass,
The native bulwarks of the pass.
Huge as the tower which builders vain
Presumptuous piled on Shinar's plain.
The rocky summits, split and rent,
Form'd turret, dome, or battlement,
Or seem'd fantastically set
With cupola or minaret.
Wild crests as pagod ever deck'd.
Or mosque of Eastern architect.
Nor were these earth-born castles bare.
Nor lack'd they many a banner fair ;
For, from their shiver'd brows dis-
play'd,
Far o'er the unfathomable glade.
All twinkling with the dewdrop sheen,
The brier-rose fell in streamers green,
Andcreepingshrubs, of thousand dj'es.
Waved in the west-wind's summer
sighs.
Boon nature scatter'd, free and wild.
Each plant or flower, the mountain's
child.
Here eglantine embalm'd the air,
Hawthorn and hazel mingled there ;
The primrose pale, and violet flower,
Found in each cliff a narrow bower;
Fox-glove and night-shade, side by
side.
Emblems of punishment and pride,
Group'd their dark hues with every
stain
The weather-beaten crags retain.
With boughs that quaked at every
breath.
Grey birch and aspen wept beneath ;
Aloft, the ash and warrior oak
Cast anchor in the rifted rock ;
And, higher j^et, the pine-tree hung
His shatter'd trunk, and frequent flung,
Where seem'd the clifts to meet on
high,
His boughs athwart the narrow'd sky.
Highest of all, where white peaks
glanced.
Where glist'ning streamers waved and
danced,
The wanderer's eye could barely view
The summer heaven's delicious blue ;
So wondrous wild, the whole might
seem
The scenery of a fairy dream.
XIII.
Onward, amid the copse 'gan peep
A narrow inlet, still and deep,
Aftording scarce such breadth of brim
As served the wild duck's brood to
swim.
Lost for a space, through thickets
veering.
But broader when again appearing,
Tall rocks and tufted knolls their face
Could on the dark-blue mirror trace;
And farther as the hunter stray'd,
.Still broader sweep its channels made.
I.]
ZU tUet
211
The shaggy mounds no longer stood,
Emerging from entangled -wood,
But, wave-encircled, seem'd to float,
Like castle girdled with its moat ;
Yet broader floods extending still
Divide them from their parent hill,
Till each, retiring, claims to be
An islet in an inland sea.
And now, to issue from the glen,
No pathway meets the wanderer's ken,
Unless he climb, with footing nice,
A far projecting precipice.
The broom's tough roots his ladder
made,
The hazel saplings lent their aid;
And thus an airy point he won,
Where, gleaming with the setting sun,
One burnish'd sheet of living gold,
Loch Katrine lay beneath him roll'd ;
In all her length far winding laj'.
With promontory, creek, and bay,
And islands that, empurpled bright,
Floated amid the livelier light.
And mountains, that like giants stand.
To sentinel enchanted land.
High on the south, huge Benvenue
Down to the lake in masses threw
Crags, knolls, and mounds, confusedlj-
hurl'd.
The fragments of an earlier world ;
A wildering forest feather'd o'er
His ruin'd sides and summit hoar,
While on the north, through middle
air,
Ben-an heaved high his forehead bare.
From the steep promontory gazed
The stranger, raptured and amazed.
And, 'What a scene were here,' he
cried,
' For princely pomp, or churchman's
pride !
On this bold brow, a lordly tower;
In that soft vale, a lady's bower;
On yonder meadow, far away,
The turrets of a cloister grey ;
How blithely might the bugle-horn
Chide, on the lake, the lingering morn !
How sweet, at eve, the lover's lute
Chime, when the groves were still
and mute !
And, when the midnight moon should
lave
Her forehead in the silver wave,
How solemn on the ear would come
The holy matins' distant hum.
While the deep peal's commanding
tone
Should wake, in yonder islet lone,
A sainted hermit from his cell.
To drop a bead with every knell — •
And bugle, lute, and bell, and all,
.Should each bewilder'd stranger call
To friendly feast, and lighted hall.
XVI.
' Blithe were it then to wander here !
But now, — beshrew yon nimble deer, —
Like thatsame hermit's, thin and spare.
The copse must give my evening fare;
Some mossy bank my couch must be.
Some rustling oak my canopy.
Yet pass we that ; the war and chase
Give little choice of resting-place; —
A summer night, in greenwood spent.
Were but to-morrow's merriment :
But hosts may in these ■wilds abound,
.Such as are better miss'd than found;
To meet with Highland plunderers
here
Were worse than loss of steed or
deer. — •
I am alone ; — my bugle-strain
May call some straggler of the train ;
Or, fall the worst that may betide,
Ere now this falchion has been tried.'
But scarce again his horn he wound,
When lo ! forth starting at the sound,
From underneath an aged oak.
That slanted from the islet rock,
tU Bal^ of tU BaU.
[Canto
A damsel guider of its wa3'',
A little skiff shot to the bay,
That round the promontory steep
Led its deep line in graceful sweep,
Eddying, in almost viewless wave,
The weeping willow-twig to la\'e,
And kiss, with whispering sound and
slovv'.
The beach of pebbles bright as snow.
The boat had touch'd this silver strand,
Just as the Hunter left his stand.
And stood conceaTd amid the brake,
To view this Lady of the Lake.
The maiden paused, as if again
She thought to catch the distant strain.
With head up-raised, and look intent,
And eye and ear attentive bent,
And locks flung back, and lips apart.
Like monument of Grecian art.
In listening mood, she seem'd to stand,
The guardian Naiad of the strand.
XVIII.
And ne'er did Grecian chisel trace
A Nymph, a Naiad, or a Grace
Of finer form, or lovelier face !
What though the sun, with ardent
frown,
Had slightly tinged her cheek with
brown ;
The sportive toil, which , short and light.
Had dyed her glowing hue so bright,
Served too in hastier swell to show
Short glimpses of a breast of snow :
What though no rule of courtly grace
To measured mood had train'd her
pace ;
A foot more light, a step more true,
Ne'er from the heath-flower dash'd
the dew ;
E'en the slight harebell raised its head.
Elastic from her airy tread :
What though upon her speech there
himg
The accents of the mountain tongue ;
Those silver sounds, so soft, so dear.
The listener held his breath to hear !
A Chieftain's daughter seem'd the
maid ;
Her satin snood, her silken plaid,
Hergolden brooch, such birth betray'd.
And seldom was a snood amid
Such wild luxuriant ringlets hid.
Whose glossy black to shame might
bring
The plumage of the raven's wing ;
And seldom o'er a breast so fair,
Mantled a plaid with modest care.
And never brooch the folds conibin'd
Above a heart more good and kind.
Her kindness and her worth to spy,
You need but gaze on Ellen's eye ;
Not Katrine, in her mirror blue,
Gives back the shaggy banks more
true.
Than every free-born glance confess'd
The guilelessmovementsof herbreast ;
Whether joy danced in her dark eye,
Or woe or pity claim'd a sigh,
Or filial love was glowing there,
Or meek devotion pour'd a prayer,
Or tale of injury call'd forth
The indignant spirit of the North.
One only passion unreveal'd,
With maiden pride the maid conceal'd,
Yet not less purely felt the flame ; — ■
O need I tell that passion's name?
Impatient of the silent horn.
Now on the gale her voice was
borne : —
' Father ! ' she cried ; the rocks around
Loved to prolong the gentle sound.
A while she paused, no answer came ;
' Malcolm, was thine the blast?' the
name
Less resolutely uttcr'd fell;
The echoes could not catch tlie
swell.
'A stranger I,' the Huntsman said,
Advancing from the hazel shade.
Ij
ZH ^h&t.
The maid, alarm'd, with hasty oar,
Push'd her hght shallop from the shore,
And when a space was gain 'd between,
Closer she drew her bosom's screen ;
(So forth the startled swan would
swing,
So turn to prune his ruffled wing.)
Then safe, though fiutter'd and amazed.
She paused, and on the stranger gazed.
Not liis the form, nor his the cj-e.
That 3'outhful maidens wont to fly.
XXI.
On his bold visage middle age
Had slightly press'd its signet sage,
Yet had not quench'd the open truth
And fiery vehemence of youth;
Forward and frolic glee was there,
The will to do, the soul to dare,
The sparkling glance, soon blown to
fire,
Of hasty love, or headlong ire.
His limbs were cast in manly mould.
For hardy sports or contest bold ;
And though in peaceful garb array'd.
And weaponless, except his blade.
His stately mien as well implied
A high-born heart, a martial pride,
As if a Baron's crest he wore.
And sheathed in armour trodc the
shore.
Slighting the petty need he show'd.
He told of his benighted road ;
His ready speech flow'd fair and free,
In phrase of gentlest courtesj' ;
Yet seem'd that tone, and gesture
bland,
Less used to sue than to command.
XXII.
A while the maid the stranger eyed,
And, reassured, at length replied.
That Highland halls were open still
To wilder'd wanderers of the hill.
' Nor think you unexpected come
To yon lone isle, our desert home ;
Before the heath had lost the dew,
This morn, a couch was puU'd forj'ou ;
On yonder mountain's purple head
Have ptarmigan and heath-cock bled,
And our broad nets have swept the
mere.
To furnish forth your evening cheer.'
' Now, by the rood, my lovely' maid,
Your courtesy has err'd,' he said ;
' No right have 1 to claim, misplaced,
The welcome of expected guest.
A wanderer, here by fortune tost.
My way, my friends, my courser lost,
I ne'er before, believe me, fair,
Have ever drawn j'our mountain air,
Till on this lake's romantic strand
I found a fay in fairy land ! '
XXIII.
' I well believe,' the maid replied,
As her light skiff approach'd the side,
' I well believe that ne'er before
Your foot has trod Loch Katrine's
shore ;
But 3-et, as far as 3'csternight,
Old Allan-Bane foretold 3'our plight, —
A grey-hair'd sire, whose ej'e intent
Was on the vision'd future bent.
He saw your steed, a dappled grey,
Lie dead beneath the birchen way ;
Painted exact your form and mien.
Your hunting suit of Lincoln green,
That tassell'd horn so gaily gilt.
That falchion's crooked blade and hilt,
That cap with heron plumage trim,
And yon two hounds so dark and grim.
He bade that all should ready be
To grace a guest of fair degree ;
But light I held his prophecy.
And deem'd it was my father's horn
Whose echoes o'er the lake were
borne.'
XXIV.
The stranger smiled : ' Since to your
home
A destined errant-knight I come.
Announced by prophet sooth and old,
Doom'd, doubtless, for achievement
bold,
214
Z()t Ba^^ of tU Bafte.
[Canto
I '11 lightly front each high emprise
For one kind glance of those bright
eyes.
Permit me, first, the task to guide
Your fairy frigate o'er the tide.'
The maid, with smile suppress'd and
sly,
The toil unwonted saw him try;
For seldom sure, if e'er before.
His noble hand had grasp'd an oar :
Yet with main strength his strokes
he drew.
And o'er the lake the shallop flew ;
With heads erect, and whimpering cr^',
The hounds behind their passage ply.
Nor frequent does the bright oar break
The dark'ning mirror of the lake,
Until the rockj- isle they reach,
And moor their shallop on the beach.
The stranger view'd the shorearound ;
'Twas all so close with copsewood
bound.
Nor track nor pathway- might declare
That human foot frequented there.
Until the mountain-maiden show'd
A clambering unsuspected road,
That winded through the tangled
screen.
And open'd on a narro\s' green,
Where weeping birch and wi^o^v
round
With their long fibres swept the
ground.
Here, for retreat in dangerous hour,
Some chief had framed a rustic bower.
XXVI.
It was a lodge of ample size.
But strange of structure and device ;
Of such materials, as around
The workman's hand had readiest
found ;
Lopp'd ofT their boughs, their hoar
trunks bared,
And b^- the hatchet rudely squared.
To give the walls their destined height
The sturdy oak and ash unite ;
While moss and clay and leaves
combin'd
To fence each crevice from the wind.
The lighter pine-trees, over-head.
Their slender length for rafters
spread.
And wither'd heath and rushes dry
Supplied a russet canopy.
Due westward, fronting to the green,
A rural portico was seen.
Aloft on native pillars borne.
Of mountain fir, with bark unshorn,
Where Ellen's hand had taught to
twine
The iv\- and Idaean vine,
The clematis, the favour'd flower
Whichboasts the name ofvirgin-bower.
And every hardy plant could bear
Loch Katrine's keen and searching air.
An instant in this porch she staid,
And gaily to the stranger said,
' On heaven and on thy ladj' call,
And enter the enchanted hall !'
' M3' hope, my heaven, m}- trust must be,
My gentle guide, in following thee.'
He cross'd the threshold^and a clang
Of angrj- steel that instant rang.
To his bold brow his spirit rush'd.
But soon for vain alarm he blush'd
When on the floor he saw display'd,
Cause of the din, a naked blade
Dropp'd from the sheath, that careless
flung.
Upon a stag's huge antlers swung ;
For all around, the walls to grace.
Hung trophies of the fight or chase :
A target there, a bugle here,
A battle-axe, a hunting-spear.
And broadswords, bows, and arrows
store.
With the tusk'd trophies of the boar.
Here grins the wolf as when he died.
And there the wild-cat's brindled hide
I.]
^0e t^aH.
15
The frontlet of the elk adorns,
Or mantles o'er the bison's horns ;
Pennons and flags defaced and stain'd,
That blackening streaks of blood
retain'd,
And deer-skins, dappled, dun, and white,
With otter's fur and seal's unite.
In rude and uncouth tapestry all,
To garnish forth the silvan hall.
XXVIII.
The wondering stranger round him
gazed.
And next the fallen weapon raised :
Few were the arms whose sinewy
strength
Sufficed to stretch it forth at length ;
And as the brand he poised and sway'd,
' I never knew but one,' he said,
'Whose stalwart arm might brook to
wield
A blade like this in battle-field.'
She sigh'd, then smiled and took the
word :
'You see the guardian champion's
sword ;
As light it trembles in his hand,
As in my grasp a hazel wand ;
My sire's tall form might grace the part
Of Ferragus or Ascabart ;
But in the absent giant's hold
Are women now, and menials old.'
XXIX.
The mistress of the mansion came,
Mature of age, a graceful dame ;
Whose easy step and stately port
Had well become a princely court ;
To whom, though more than kindred
knew,
Young Ellen gave a mother's due.
Meet welcome to her guest she made,
And every courteous rite was paid
That hospitality could claim,
Though all unask'd his birth and
name.
Such then the reverence to a guest,
That fellest foe might join the feast,
And from his deadliest foeman's door
Unquestion'd turn, the banquet o'er.
At length his rank the stranger names,
'The Knight of Snowdoun, James
Fitz-James ;
Lord of a barren heritage,
Which his brave sires, from age to
age,
By their good swords had held with
toil;
His sire had fallen in such turmoil.
And he, God wot, was forced to stand
Oft for his right with blade in hand.
This morning, with Lord Moray's train.
He chased a stalwart stag in vain,
Outstripp'd his comrades, miss'd the
deer.
Lost his good steed, and wander'd here. '
XXX.
Fain would the Knight in turn require
The name and state of Ellen's sire.
Well show'd the elder lady's mien,
That courts and cities she had seen ;
Ellen, though more her looks display'd
The simple grace of silvan maid,
In speech and gesture, form and face,
Show'd she was come of gentle race.
'Twere strange, in ruder rank to find
Such looks, such manners, and such
mind.
Each hint the Knight of Snowdoun
gave.
Dame Margaret heard with silence
grave ;
Or Ellen, innocentl}' ga}',
Turn'd all inquiry light away —
' Weird women we ! by dale and down
We dwell, afar from tower and town.
We stem the flood, we ride the blast.
On wandering knights our spells we
cast ;
While viewless minstrels touch the
string,
'Tisthus our charmed rhymes we sing.'
She sung, and still a harp unseen
Fill'd up the symphony between.
2l6
Z^t Ba^5 of i$t BaU,
[Canto
SON'G.
' Soldier, rest ! thy warfare o'er,
Sleep the sleep that knows not
breaking ;
Dream of battled fields no more,
Days of danger, nights of waking.
In our isle's enchanted hall.
Hands unseen thy couch are strew-
ing,
Fairj' strains of music fall,
Every sense in slumber dewing.
Soldier, rest I thy warfare o'er.
Dream of fighting fields no more :
Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking,
Morn of toil, nor night of waking.
' No rude sound shall reach thine car,
Armour's clang, orwar-steed champ-
ing,
Trump nor pibroch summon here
Mustering clan, or squadron tramp-
ing.
Yet the lark's shrill fife may come
At the day-break from the fallow,
And the bittern sound his drum.
Booming from the sedgy shallow.
Ruder sounds shall none be near,
Guards nor warders challenge here,
Here's no war-steed's neigh andcham p-
ing,
Shoutingclans.or squadronsstamping.'
XXXII.
She paused — then, blushing, led the lay
To grace the stranger of the day.
Her mellow notes awhile prolong
The cadence of the flowing song.
Till to her lips in measured frame
The minstrel verse spontaneous
came: —
SOXG COXTINUED.
' Huntsman, rest ! thy chase is done ;
While our slumbrous spells assail ye,
Dream not, with the rising sun,
Busfles here shall sound reveille.
Sleep I the deer is in his den ;
Sleep! thyhoundsarebytheelying;
Sleep! nor dream in j'onder glen,
How thy gallant steed lay dying.
Huntsman, rest ! thy chase is done,
Think not of the rising sun.
For at dawning to assail ye,
Here no bugles sound reveille.'
XXXIII.
The hall was clear'd — the stranger's
bed
Wasthere of mountain heathcrspread,
Where oft a hundred guests had lain,
And dream'd their forest sports again.
But vainly did the heath-flower shed
Its moorland fragrance round his head ;
Not Ellen's spell had lull'd to rest
The fever of his troubled breast.
In broken dreams the image rose
Of varied perils, pains, and woes:
His steed now flounders in the brake,
Now sinks his barge upon the lake;
Now leader of a broken host,
His standard falls, his honour 's lost.
Then, — from my couch may heavenly
might
Chase that worst phantom of the
night! —
Again return'd the scenes of ^-outh,
Of confident undoubting truth ;
Again his soul he interchanged
With friends ^vhose hearts were long
estranged.
They come, in dim procession led,
The cold, the faithless, and the dead ;
As warm each hand, each brow as gay.
As if they parted yesterday.
And doubt distracts him at the view —
O were his senses false or true?
Dream'd he of death, or broken vow,
Or is it all a vision now ?
xxxiv.
At length, with Ellen in a grove
He seem'd to walk, and speak of love ;
.She listened with a blush and sigh.
His suit waswarm,his hopes were high.
II.]
t$t :idM\^.
217
He sought her jnelded hand to clasp.
And a cold gauntlet met his grasp :
The phantom's sex was changed and
gone,
Upon its head a helmet shone;
Slowlj' enlarged to giant size,
With darken'd cheek and threatening
eyes,
The grisly visage, stern and hoar.
To Ellen still a likeness bore.
He woke, and, panting with affright,
Recall'd the vision of the night.
The hearth's decaying brands were
red,
And deep and dusky lustre shed,
Half showing, half concealing, all
The uncouth trophies of the hall.
'Mid those the stranger fix'd his eye,
Where that huge falchion hung on
high,
And thoughts on thoughts, a countless
throng,
Rush'd, chasing countless thoughts
along.
Until, the giddy whirl to cure.
He rose, and sought the moonshine
pure.
XXXV.
The wild-rose, eglantine, and broom,
Wasted around their rich perfume ;
The birch-trees wept in fragrant balm.
The aspens slept beneath the calm ;
Thesilver light, with quiveringglance,
Play d on the water's still expanse :
Wild were the heart whose passion's
sway
Could rage beneath the sober ray I
He felt its calm, that warrior guest,
W^hile thus he communed with his
breast :
'Why is it, at each turn I trace
Some memory of that exiled race ]
Can I not mountain-maiden spy,
But she must bear the Douglas eye ?
Can I not view a Highland brand,
But it must match the Douglas hand ?
Can I not frame a fever'd dream,
But still the Douglas is the theme?
I "11 dream no more ; by manly mind
Not even in sleep is will resign'd.
My midnight orisons said o'er,
I '11 turn to rest, and dream no more.'
His midnight orisons he told,
A prayer with ever}' bead of gold,
Consign'd to heaven his cares and
woes,
And sunk in undisturb'd repose ;
Until the heath-cock shrilly crew,
And morning dawn'd on Benvenue,
Canto Second.
Z(>c 36fanb.
I.
At morn the black-cock trims his jetty
wing,
'Tis morning prompts the linnet's
blithest lay.
All Nature's children feel the matin
spring
Of life reviving with reviving day ;
And while yon little bark glides down
the ba3%
Wafting the stranger on his way
again,
j Morn's genial influence roused a
minstrel grey,
And sweetly o'er the lake was heard
thy strain,
Mix'd with the sounding harp, O white-
hair'd Allan-Bane !
II.
SONG.
' Not faster yonder rowers' might
Flings from their oars the spray.
Not faster yonder rippling bright.
That tracks the shallop's course in
light,
Melts in the lake away,
ZU ;Sa^^ of t^^ BaU.
[Canto
Than men from memoiy erase
The benefits of former days ;
Then, stranger, go ! good speed the
while,
Nor think again of the lonely isle.
High place to thee in royal court,
High place in battled line,
Good hawk and hound forsilvan sport,
Where beauty sees the brave resort.
The honoured meed be thine !
True be thy sword, thy friend sincere,
Thy lady constant, kind, and dear,
And lost in love's and friendship'ssmile
Be memory of the lonely isle.
SOXG CONTINUED.
'But if beneath yon southern sky
A plaided stranger roam,
Whose drooping crest and stifled sigh.
And sunken cheek and heavy eye.
Pine for his Highland home ;
Then, warrior, then be thine to show
The care that soothes a wanderer's
woe ;
Remember then thy hap ere while,
A stranger in the lonely isle.
' Or if on life's uncertain main
Mishap shall mar thy sail ;
If faithful, wise, and brave in vain.
Woe, want, and exile thou sustain
Beneath the fickle gale ;
Waste not a sigh on fortune changed.
On thankless courts, or friends es-
tranged.
But come where kindred worth shall
smile
To greet thee in the lonely isle.'
IV.
As died the sounds upon the tide.
The shallop reach'd the mainland side,
And ere his onward way he took,
The stranger cast a lingering look,
Where easily' his eye might reach
The Harper on the islet beach,
Reclined against a blighted tree,
As wasted, grey, and worn as he.
To minstrel meditation given.
His reverend brow ■was raised to
heaven.
As from the rising sun to claim
A sparkle of inspiring flame.
His hand, reclined upon the wire,
Seem'd watching the awakening fire ;
So still he sate, as those who wait
Till judgment speak the doom of fate;
So still, as if no breeze might dare
To lift one lock of hoary hair ;
So still, as life itself were fled,
In the last sound his harp had sped.
V.
Upon a rock with lichens wild.
Beside him Ellen sate and smiled.
.Smiled she to see the stately drake
Lead forth his fleet upon the lake,
While her vex'd spaniel, from the
beach
Bay'd at the prize beyond his reach?
Yet tell me, then, the maid who knows,
Why deepen'd on her cheek the rose ?
Forgive, forgive. Fidelity !
Perchance the maiden smiled to see
Yon parting lingerer wave adieu,
And stop and turn to wave anew ;
And, lovely ladies, ere your ire
Condemn the heroine of my lyre,
Show me the fair would scorn tospjv
And prize such conquest of her eye !
VI.
While yet he loiter'd on the spot.
It seem'd as Ellen mark'd him not;
But when he turn'd him to the glade,
One courteous parting sign she made ;
And after, oft the knight would say,
That not when prize of festal day
Was dealt him by the brightest fair
Who e'er wore jewel in her hair,
So highly did his bosom swell,
As at that simple mute farewell.
Now with a trusty mountain-guide.
And his dark stag-hounds by his side,
11.]
tU ^ef^n^.
219
He parts ; the maid, unconscious still,
Watch'd him wind slowly round the
hill ;
But when his stately form was hid,
The guardian in her bosom chid :
' Thy Malcolm ! vain and selfish maid!'
'Twasthusupbraidingconsciencesaid :
' Not so had Malcolm idly hung
On the smooth phrase of southern
tongue ;
Not so had Malcolm strain'd his e3'e,
Another step than thine to spy.'
'Wake, Allan-Bane,' aloud she cried,
To the old Minstrel by her side;
' Arouse thee from thy moody dream !
I "11 give thj' harp heroic theme,
And warm thee with a noble name ;
Pour forth the glory of the Graeme 1 '
Scarce from her lip the word had
rush'd,
When deep the conscious maiden
blush'd ;
For of his clan, in hall and bower.
Young Malcolm Graeme was held the
flower.
The Minstrel waked his harp; three
times
Arose the well-known martial chimes.
And thrice their high heroic pride
In melancholy murmurs died.
' Vainly thou bid'st. O noble maid,'
Clasping his wither'd hands, he said,
'Vainly thou bid'st me wake the
strain.
Though all unwont to bid in vain.
Alas! than mine a mightier hand
lias tuned my harp, my strings has
spann'd !
I touch the chords of joj-, but \ov/
And mournful answer notes of woe ;
And the proud march, which victors
tread,
Sinks in the \vailing for the dead.
O well for me, if mine alone
That dirge's deep prophetic tone !
If, as my tuneful fathers said,
This harp, which erst Saint Modan
sway'd,
Can thus its master's fate foretell.
Then welcome be the minstrel's k|(^ll !
vni.
' But ah ! dear lady, thus it sigh"d
The eve thy sainted mother died ;
And such the sounds which, while
I strove
To wake a lay of war or love.
Came marring all the festal mirth,
Appalling me who gave them birth,
And, disobedient to mj^ call,
Wail'd loud through Bothwell's ban-
ner'd hall.
Ere Douglases, to ruin driven,
Were exiled from their native heaven.
Oh ! if j'et worse mishap and woe
My master's house must undergo,
Or aught but weal to Ellen fair
Brood in these accents of despair.
No future bard, sad Harp ! shall fling
Triumph or rapture from thy string ;
One short, one final strain shall i\o\v,
Fraught %vith unutterable woe,
Then shiver'd shall thy fragments lie.
Thy master cast him down and die !'
IX.
Soothing she answer'd him, 'Assuage,
Mine honour'd friend, the fears of age ;
All melodies to thee are known.
That harp has rung, or pipe has blown,
In Lowland vale or Highland glen.
From Tweed to Spejr — what marvel,
then,
At times, unbidden notes should rise,
Confusedly bound in memory's ties,
Entangling, as they rush along.
The war-march with the funeral song 1
Small ground is no\v for boding fear ;
Obscure, but safe, we rest us here.
My sire, in native virtue great.
Resigning lordship, lands, and state.
Not then to fortune more resign'd,
Than yonder oak might give the wind ;
ZU ;Sa^p of tU Bafte.
[Canto
The graceful foliage storms may reave,
The noble stem they cannot grieve.
For me,' — she stoop'd, and, looking
round,
Pluck'd a blue hare-bell from the
ground, —
'For me, whose memory scarce conve3's
An image of more splendid da\'s.
This little flower, that loves the lea,
May "well my simple emblem be ;
It drinks heaven's dew as blithe as rose
That in the king's own garden grows ;
And when I place it in my hair,
Allan, a bard is bound to swear
He ne'er saw coronet so fair.'
Then plaj-full}' the chaplet Avild
She wrcath'd in her dark locks, and
smiled.
X.
Her smile, her speech, with winning
sway.
Wiled the old harper's mood awa}'.
With such a look as hermits throw,
When angels stoop to soothe their woe,
He gazed, till fond regret and pride
Thrill'd to a tear, then thus replied :
' Loveliest andbest ! thoulittleknow'st
The rank, the honours, thou hast lost I
O might I live to see thee grace.
In Scotland's court, thy birth-right
place,
To see my favourite's step advance.
The lightest in the courtly dance,
The cause of every gallant's sigh,
And leading star of every eye,
And theme of everj' minstrel's art,
The Lady of the Bleeding Heart 1'
XI.
' Fair dreams are these,' the maiden
cried,
(Light was her accent, yet she sigh'd ;)
' Yet is this mossy rock to me
Worth splendid chair and canopy;
Nor would my footsteps spring more
gay
In courtly dance than blithe strathspey,
Nor half so pleased mine ear incline
To royal minstrel's lay as thine.
And then for suitors proud and high.
To bend before my conquering eye, —
Thou, flattering bard ! thyself wilt
say,
That grim Sir Roderick owns its sway.
The Saxon scourge. Clan- Alpine's
pride,
The terror of Loch Lomond's side.
Would, at my suit, thou know'st, delay
A Lennox foray — for a day.'
The ancient bard his glee repress'd :
' 111 hast thou chosen theme for jest !
For who, through all this western wild,
Named Black Sir Roderick e'er, and
smiled ?
In Holy-Rood a knight he slew ;
I saw, when back the dirk he drew.
Courtiers give place before the stride
Of the undaunted homicide ;
And since, though outlaw'd, hath his
hand
Full sternly kept his mountain land.
Who else dared give — ah 1 woe the day,
That I such hated truth should say —
The Douglas, like a stricken deer,
Disown'd by every noble peer,
Even the rude refuge we have here ?
Alas, this wild marauding Chief
Alone might hazard our relief.
And now thy maiden charms expand,
Looks for his guerdon in thy hand ;
Full soon may dispensation sought,
To backhis suit, from Rome be brought.
Then, though an exile on the hill,
Thy father, as the Douglas, still
Be held in reverence and fear ;
And though to Roderick thou 'rt so
dear,
That thou might 'st guide with silken
thread,
.Slave of thy will, this chieftain dread,
Yet, O loved maid, thy mirth refrain !
Thy hand, is on a lion's mane.'
II.]
ZU ^Bian}>.
221
' Minstrel,' the maid replied, and high
Her father's soul glanced from her
eye,
' My debts to Roderick's house I know :
All that a mother could bestow,
To Lady Margaret's care I owe,
Since first an orphan in the wild
She sorrow'd o'er her sister's child ;
To her brave chieftain son, from ire
Of Scotland's king who shrouds my sire,
A deeper, holier debt is owed ;
And, could I pay it with my blood,
Allan ! Sir Roderick should command
My blood, my life, — but not my hand.
Rather will Ellen Douglas dwell
A votaress in Maronnan's cell ;
Rather through realms beyond the sea,
Seeking the world's cold charitj'.
Where ne'er was spoke a Scottish
word,
And ne'er the name of Douglas heard.
An outcast pilgrim will she rove,
Than wed the man she cannot love.
* Thoushakest, good friend, thy tresses
grey.
That pleading look, what can it say
Rut what I own ? — I grant him brave.
But wild as Bracklinn's thundering
wave ;
And generous — save vindictive mood,
Or jealous transport, chafe his blood :
I grant him true to friendly band,
As his claymore is to his hand ;
But O ! that very blade of steel
More mercy for a foe would feel :
I grant him liberal, to fling
Among his clan the wealth they bring,
When back by lake and glen they wind,
And in the Lowland leave behind,
Where once some pleasant hamlet
stood,
A mass of ashes slaked with blood.
The hand that for my father fought
I honour, as his daughter ought ;
But can I clasp it reeking red.
From peasants slaughter'd in their shed ?
No ! wildly while his virtues gleam.
They make his passions darker seem,
And flash along his spirit high.
Like lightning o'er the midnight sky.
While yetachild, — andchildrcn know,
Instinctive taught, the friend and foe, —
I shudder'd at his brow of gloom.
His shadowy plaid, and sable plume;
A maiden grown, I ill could bear
His haughty mien and lordly air :
But, if thou join'st a suitor's claim.
In serious mood, to Roderick's name,
I thrill with anguish ! or, if e'er
A Douglas knew the word, with fear.
To change such odious theme were
best ;
What think'st thou of our stranger
guest ?'
XV.
' What think I of him ? — woe the while
That brought such wanderer to our isle !
Thy father's battle-brand, of yore
For Tine-man forged by fairy lore.
What time he leagued, no longer foes,
His Border spears with Hotspur's
bows.
Did, self-unscabbarded, foreshow
The footstep of a secret foe.
If courtly spy hath harbour'd here.
What may we for the Douglas fear ?
What for this island, deem'd of old
Clan-Alpine's last and surest hold 1
If neither spy nor foe, I pray
What yet may jealous Roderick say?
Nay, wave not thy disdainful head.
Bethink thee of the discord dread
That kindled, when at Beltane game
Thou led'st the dance with Malcolm
Graeme ;
Still, though thy sire the peace renew'd.
Smoulders in Roderick's breast the
feud.
Beware ! — But hark, what sounds
are these?
My dull ears catch no faltering breeze ;
ZU Bcib^ of tU Mii^t.
[Canto
No weeping birch, nor aspens wake,
Nor breath is dimpling in the lake ;
Still is the canna's hoary beard ;
Yet, by my minstrel faith, I heard —
And hark again ! some pipe of war
Sends the bold pibroch from afar.'
Far up the lengthen'd lake were spied
Four darkening specks upon the tide,
That, slow enlarging on the view,
Four mann'd and masted barges grew.
And, bearing downwards from Glen-
, ^^''■^'
Steer'd full upon the lonely isle ;
The point of Brianchoil thej^ pass'd,
And, to the windward as they cast.
Against the sun they gave to shine
The bold Sir Roderick's banner'd
Pine.
Nearer and nearer as thej^ bear,
Spears, pikes, and axes flash in air.
Now might you see the tartans brave.
And plaids and plumage dance and
^vavc :
Now see the bonnets sink and rise,
As his tough oar the rower plies ;
See, flashing at each sturdj^ stroke.
The wave ascending into smoke ;
See the proud pipers on the bow.
And marktlie gaudy streamers flow
From their loud chanters down, and
sweep
The furrovv'd bosom of the deep.
As, rushing through the lake amain,
They plied the ancient Highland strain.
Ever, as on they bore, more loud
And louder rung the pibroch proud.
At first the sound,. by distance tame,
Mellow'd along the waters came,
And, lingering long by cape and bay,
Wail'd every harsher note away ;
Then bursting bolder on the ear,
The clan's shrill Gathering they could
hear;
Those thrilling sounds, that call the
might
Of old Clan-Alpine to the fight.
Thick beat the rapid notes, as when
The mustering hundreds shake the
glen.
And, hurrying at the signal dread,
The batter'd earth returns their tread.
Then prelude light, of livelier tone,
Express'd their merry marching on.
Ere peal of closing battle rose.
With mingled outcry, shrieks, and
blows ;
And mimic din of stroke and ward,
As broad sword upon target jarr'd ;
And groaning pause, ere yet again.
Condensed, the battle yell'd amain;
The rapid charge, the rallying shout,
Retreat borne headlong into rout,
And bursts of triumph, to declare
Clan- Alpine's conquest — all were
there.
Nor ended thus the strain ; but slow
Sunk in a moan prolong'd and low.
And changed the conquering clarion
swell
For wild lament o'er those that fell.
XVI I r.
The war-pipes ceased; but lake and
hill
Were busy with their echoes still ;
And, when they slept, a vocal strain
Bade their hoarse chorus wake again,
While loud a hundred clansmen raise
Their voices in theirChieftain's praise.
Each boatman, bending to his oar,
With measured sweep the burden
bore,
In such wild cadence, as the breeze
Makes through December's leafless
trees.
The chorus first could Allan know,
' Roderick Vich Alpine, ho ! iro ! '
And near, and nearer as they
row'd,
Distinct tlie martial dittv flow'd.
II.]
ZU ^Q((int.
223
BOAT SONG.
' Plail to the Chief who in triumph
advances !
Honour'd and bless'd be the ever-
green Pine !
Long may the tree, in his banner that
glances,
Flourish, the shelter and grace of
our line !
Heaven send it happy dew,
Earth lend it sap anew,
Gayly to bourgeon, and broadly to
grow,
While every Highland glen
Sends our shout back agen,
Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho 1 ieroe!
'Ours is no sapling, chance-sown by
the fountain.
Blooming at Beltane, in winter to
fade ;
When the whirlwind has stripp'd
every leaf on the mountain,
The more shall Clan-Alpine exult in
her shade.
Moor'd in the rifted rock,
Proof to the tempest's shock,
Firmer he roots him the ruder it
blow ;
Menteith and Breadalbane, then,
Echo his praise agen,
Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho 1 ieroe !
' Proudly our pibroch has thrilTd in
Glen Fruin,
And Bannochar's groans to our slo-
gan replied ;
Glen Luss and Ross-dhu, they are
smoking in ruin,
And the best of Loch Lomond lie
dead on her side.
Widow and Saxon maid
Long shall lament our raid,
Think of Clan-Alpine with fear and
with woe ;
Lennox and Leven-glen
.Shake when they hear agen,
Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho 1 ieroe !
' Row, vassals, row, for the pride of
the Highlands !
Stretch to your oars, for the e\'er-
green Pine !
O ! that the rose-bud that graces j-on
islands
Were wreathed in a garland around
him to twine !
O that some seedling gem,
Worthy such noble stem,
Honour'd and bless'd in their shadow
might grow !
Loud should Clan-Alpine then
Ring from her deepmost glen,
Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho ! ieroe!'
With all her joj'ful female band
Had Ladj' Margaret sought the strand.
Loose on the breeze their tresses flew,
And high their snowy arms they threw,
As echoing back with shrill acclaim,
And chorus wild, the Chieftain's name;
While, promptto please, with mother's
art.
The darling passion of his heart.
The Dame call'd Ellen to the strand.
To greet her kinsman ere he land :
' Come, loiterer, come ! a Douglas thou.
And shun to wreathe a victor's brow ';'
Reluctantly and slow, the maid
The unwelcome summoning obey'd,
And, when a distant bugle rung,
In the mid-path aside she sprung :
• List, Allan-Bane ! From mainland
cast,
I hear my father's signal blast.
Be ours,' she cried, 'the skiff to guide,
And waft him from the mountain side.'
Then, like a sunbeam, swift and bright,
She darted to her shallop light,
224
ZU Babp of iU ^<ifte.
[Canto
And, eagerly while Roderick scann'd,
For her dear form, his mother's band,
The islet far behind her lay,
And she had landed in the bay.
XXII.
Some feelings are to mortals given.
With less of earth in them than heaven :
And if there be a human tear
From passion's dross refined and clear,
A tear so limpid and so meek.
It would not stain an angel's cheek,
'Tis that which pious fathers shed
Upon a duteous daughter's head !
And as the Douglas to his breast
His darling Ellen closely press'd.
Such holy drops her tresses steep'd,
Though 'twas an hero's eye that
weep'd.
Nor while on Ellen's faltering tongue
Her filial welcomes crowded hung,
Mark'd she, that fear (aflection's proof)
Still held a graceful youth aloof;
No ! not till Douglas named his name.
Although the youth was Malcolm
Graeme.
xxni.
Allan, with wistful look the while,
Mark'd Roderick landing on the isle;
His master piteously he ej'ed,
Then gazed upon the Chieftain's pride.
Then dash'd, with hasty hand, away
From his dimm'd eye the gathering
spray ;
And Douglas, as his hand he laid
On Malcolm's shoulder, kindly said,
' Canst thou, young friend, no meaning
spy
In my poor follower's glistening eye]
I '11 tell thee: — he recalls the day,
When in my praise he led the lay
O'er the arch'd gate of Bothwell proud.
While manj^ a minstrel answer'd loud,
When Percy's Norman pennon, won
In bloody field, before me shone,
And twice ten knights, the least a name
As mighty as yon Chief may claim,
Gracing my pomp, behind me came.
Yet trust me, Malcolm, not so proud
Was I of all that marshall'd crowd,
Though the waned crescent own'd my
might,
And in my train troop'd lord and
knight.
Though Blantyre hymn'd her holiest
lays.
And Bothwell's bards flung back my
praise,
As when this old man's silent tear,
And this poor maid's affection dear,
A welcome give more kind and true,
Than aught my better fortunes knew.
Forgive, my friend, a father's boast,
O ! it out-beggars all I lost ! '
XXIV.
Delightful praise ! Like summer rose,
That brighter in the dew-drop glows,
The bashlul maiden's cheek appear'd,
For Douglas spoke, and Malcolm heard.
The flush of shame-faced joy to hide.
The hounds, the hawk, her cares divide ;
The loved caresses of the maid
The dogs with crouch and whimper
paid ;
And, at her whistle, on her hand
The falcon took his favourite stand,
Closed his dark wing, relax'd his eye,
Nor, though uniiooded, sought to fly.
And, trust, while in such guise she
stood.
Like fabled Goddess of the wood,
That if a father's partial thought
O'ervveigh'd lier worth and beauty
aught.
Well might the lover's judgment fail
To balance with a juster scale ;
For with each secret glance he stole,
The fond enthusiast sent his soul.
XXV.
Of stature tall, and slender frame.
But firmly knit, was Malcolm Graeme.
The belted plaid and tartan hose
Did ne'er more graceful limbs disclose ;
II.
ZU ^akn'^.
225
His flaxen hair, of sunny hue,
Curl'd closely round his bonnet blue.
Train'd to the chase, his eagle ej'e
The ptarmigan in snow could spy :
Each pass, by mountain, lake, and
heath.
He knew, through Lennox and
Mentcith ;
Vain was the bound of dark-brown doc
When Malcolm bent his sounding
bow;
And scarce that doe, though wing'd
with fear,
Outstripp"d in speed the mountaineer:
Right up Ben-Lomond could he press,
And not a sob his toil confess.
His form accorded with a mind
Lively and ardent, frank and kind;
A blither heart, till Ellen came,
Did never love nor sorrow tame ;
It danced as lightsome in his breast
As play'd the feather on his crest.
Yet friends, who nearest knew the
youth,
His scorn of wrong, his zeal for truth,
And bards, who saw his features bold
When kindled by the tales of old,
.Said, were that youth to manhood
grown ,
Not long should Roderick Dhu's
renown
Be foremost voiced by mountain fame,
But quail to that of Malcolm Graeme.
Now back thej^ wend their watery way,
And, ' O my sire ! ' did Ellen say,
' Why urge thj^ chase so far astray ?
And whj' so late return'd ? And
why '—
The rest was in her speaking eye.
' M}-- child, the chase I follow far,
'Tis mimicry of noble war ;
And with that gallant pastime reft
Were all of Douglas I have left.
I met young Malcolm as I stray'd,
Ear eastward, in Glenfinlas' shade.
Nor stray'd I safe; for. all around,
Hunters and horsemen scour'd the
ground.
This 3'outh, though still a royal ward,
Risk'd life and land to be my guard,
And through the passes of the wood
Guided my steps, not unpursued ;
And Roderick shall his welcome make.
Despite old spleen, for Douglas' sake.
Then must he seek Strath-Endrick
glen,
Nor peril aught for me agen.'
Sir Roderick, who to meet them came,
Redden'd at sight of Malcolm Grcemc,
Yet, not in action, word, or eye,
Fail'd aught in hospitalit3'.
In talk and sport they whiled awa\-
The morning of that summer da}-;
But at high noon a courier light
Held secret pailey with the knight.
Whose moody aspect soon declared
That evil were the news he heard.
Deep thought seem'd toiling in his
head ;
Yet was the evening banquet matie.
Ere he assembled round the flame
His mother, Douglas, and the Graeme,
And Ellen too ; then cast around
His eyes, then fix'd them on the ground,
As studying phrase that might avail
Best to convey unpleasant tale.
Long with his dagger's hilt he plaj'Vl,
Then raised his haughty brow, and
said ;
' Short be my speech ; nor time
affords.
Nor my plain temper, glozing words.
Kinsman and father — if such name
Douglas vouchsafe to Roderick's claim;
Mine honour'd mother; Ellen — \vh3-,
My cousin, turn away thine eye ?
And Graeme — in whom I hope to know
Eull soon a noble friend or foe,
I
226
ZU ;Sa^p of tU BaU.
[Canto
When age sliall give thee th}' com-
mand
And leading in thj- native land :
List all ! — The King's vindictive pride
Boasts to have tamed the Border-side,
Where chiefs, with hound and hawk
who came
To share their monarch's silvan game.
Themselves in bloody toils were
snared ;
And when the banquet they prepared,
And wide their loyal portals flung,
O'er their own gateway struggling
hung.
Loud cries their blood from Meggat's
mead,
From Yarrow braes, and banks of
Tweed,
Where the lone streams of Ettrick
glide,
And from the silver Teviot's side;
The dales, where martial clans did
ride,
Are now one sheep-walk, waste and
wide.
This t3'rant of the Scottish throne,
So faithless and so ruthless known,
Now hither comes ; his end the same,
The same pretext of silvan game.
What grace forHighland Chiefs, judge
ye
By fate of Border chivalry.
Yet more ; amid Glenfinlas green,
Douglas, thy stately form was seen :
This by espial sure I know.
Your counsel ! in the streight I show.'
Ellen and Margaret fearfully
Sought comfort in each other's eye.
Then turn'd their ghastly look, each
one.
This to her sire, that to her son.
The hasty colour went and came
In the bold cheek of Malcolm Grreme ;
But from his glance it well appear'd,
'Twas but for Ellen that he fear'd ;
While, sorrowful, but undisma3''d.
The Douglas thus his counsel said : —
' Brave Roderick, though the tempest
roar,
It may but thunder and pass o'er ;
Nor will I here remain an hour,
To draw the lightning on thy bower;
Eor well thou know'st, at this grey
head
The roj'al bolt were fiercest sped.
Eor thee, who, at thy King's command.
Canst aid him with a gallant band,
Submission, homage, humbled pride,
Shall turn the Monarch's wrath aside.
Poor remnants of the Bleeding Heart,
Ellen and I will seek, apart.
The refuge of some forest cell,
There, like the hunted quarry, dwell.
Till on the mountain and the moor.
The stern pursuit be pass'd and o'er.'
XXX.
' No, by mine honour,' Roderick said,
' So help me heaven, and my good
blade !
No, never ! Blasted be yon Pine,
My fathers' ancient crest and mine.
If from its shade in danger part
The lineage of the Bleeding Heart !
Hear my blunt speech : Grant me
this maid
To wife, thy counsel to mine aid;
To Douglas, leagued with Roderick
Dhu,
Will friends and allies flock enow;
Like cause of doubt, distrust, and grief,
Will bind to us each Western Chief.
When the loud pipes my bridal tell,
The Links of Eorth shall hear the knell.
The guards shall start in Stirling's
porch ;
And, when I light the nuptial torch,
A thousand villages in flames
Shall scare the slumbers of Kingjames !
Naj', Ellen, blench not thusawaj-.
And, mother, cease these signs, I pra}';
I meant not all my heat might sa}-.
II.]
Z^i 36fanfe.
Small need of inroad, or of fight,
When the sage Douglas ina3' unite
Each mountain clan in friendlj' band,
To guard the passes of their land,
Till the foil'd king, from pathless glen.
Shall bootless turn him home agen.'
There are who have, at midnight hour.
In slumber scaled a dizzy tower.
And, on the verge that beetled o'er
The ocean-tide's incessant roar,
Dream'd calmly out their dangerous
dream,
Till waken'd by the morning beam ;
When, dazzled hy the eastern glow,
Such startler cast his glance below,
And saw unmeasured depth around,
And heard unintermitted sound,
And thought the battled fence so frail.
It waved like cobweb in the gale ; —
Amid his senses' giddy wheel,
Did he not desperate impulse feel,
Headlong to plunge himself below.
And meet the worst his fears fore-
show ?
Thus, Ellen, dizzy and astound.
As sudden ruin yawn'd around.
By crossing terrors wildly toss'd,
Still for the Douglas fearing most,
Coujd scarce the desperate thought
W'ithstand,
To buy his safety with her hand.
Such purpose dread could Malcolm
spy
In Ellen's quivering lip and eye.
And eager rose to speak ; but ere
His tongue could hurry forth his fear.
Had Douglas mark'd the hectic strife.
Where death seem'd combating with
life;
For to her cheek, in feverish flood.
One instant rush'd the throbbingblood,
Then ebbing back, with sudden sway.
Left its domain as wan as claj-.
•Roderick, enough I enough I 'hecried,
• My daughter cannot be thj' bride ;
Not that the blush to wooer dear,
Nor paleness that of maiden fear.
It may not be ; forgive her, Chief,
Nor hazard aught for our relief.
Against his sovereign, Douglas ne'er
Will level a rebellious spear.
'Twas I that taught his youthful hand
To rein a steed and wield a brand ;
I see him yet, the princely boy !
Not Ellen more my pride and joy ;
I love him still, despite my wrongs.
By hasty wrath, and slanderous
tongues.
O seek the grace you well may find.
Without a cause to mine combined.'
XXXIII.
Twice through the hall the Chieftain
strode ;
The waving of his tartans broad,
And darken'd brow, where wounded
pride
With ire and disappointment vied,
Seem'd, by the torch's gloomy light,
Like the ill Demon of the night.
Stooping his pinions' shadowy sway
Upon the nighted pilgrim's way :
But, unrequited Love I thy dart
Plunged deepest its envenom'd smart.
And Roderick, with thine anguish
stung.
At length the hand of Douglas wrung.
While eyes, that mock'd at tears before,
With bitter drops were running o'er.
The death-pangs oflong-cherish'd hope
Scarce in that ample breast had scope,
But, struggling vAth his spirit proud.
Convulsive heaved its chcquer'd
shroud.
While every sob — so mute were all — •
Was heard distinctly through the hall.
The son's despair, the mother's look,
111 might the gentle Ellen brook ;
She rose, and to her side there came,
To aid her parting steps, the Graeme.
I 2
228
ZU &al2 of iU JSafte.
[Canto
Then Roderick from the Douglas
broke ;
As flashes flame through sable smoke,
Kindling its wreaths, long, dark, and
low,
To one broad blaze of ruddy glow,
So the deep anguish of despair
Burst, in fierce jealousy, to air.
With stalwart grasp his hand he laid
On Malcolm's breast and belted plaid :
' Back, beardless boy! ' he sternly said,
' Back, minion ! hold'st thou thus at
naught
The lesson I so lately taught ?
This roof, the Douglas, and that maid.
Thank thou for punishment delay'd.'
Eager as greyhound on his game.
Fiercely with Roderick grappled
Graeme.
' Perish my name, if aught aflord
Its Chieftain safety save his sword 1'
Thus as they strove, their desperate
hand
Griped to the dagger or the brand,
And death had been— but Douglas
rose,
And thrust between the struggling
foes
His giant strength : — ' Chieftains,
forego !
I hold the first who strikes, my foe.
Madmen, forbear your frantic jar !
What I is the Douglas fall'n so far,
His daughter's hand is doom'd the
spoil
Of such dishonourable broil?'
Sullen and slowly they unclasp,
As struck with shame, their desperate
grasp,
And each upon his rival glared,
With foot advanced, and blade half
bared.
XXXV.
Ere yet the brands aloft were flung,
Margaret on Roderick's mantle hung,
And Malcolm heard his Ellen's scream,
As falter'd through terrific dream.
Then Roderick plunged in sheath his
sword.
And veil'd his wrath in scornful word.
'Rest safe till morning; pity 'twere
Such cheek should feel the midnight
air !
Then mayest thou to James Stuart tell
Roderick will keep the lake and fell,
Nor lackey, with his freeborn clan,
The pageant pomp of earth 1 3' man.
More would he of Clan-Alpine know,
Thou canst our strength and passes
show.
Malise, what ho!' — his henchman
came ;
'Give our safe-conduct to the Graeme.'
Young Malcolm answer'd, calm and
bold,
' Fear nothing for thy favourite hold ;
The spot an angel deigned to grace
Is bless'd, though robbers haunt the
place.
Thy churlish courtesy for those
Reserve, who fear to be thy foes.
As safe to me the mountain way
At midnight as in blaze of da}-,
Though with his boldest at his back
Even Roderick Dhu beset the track.
Brave Douglas, — lovely Ellen, — nay,
Nought here of parting will I say.
Earth does not hold a lonesome glen
So secret, but we meet agen.
Chieftain ! we too shall find an hour. '
He said, and left the silvan bower.
XXXVI.
Old Allan follow'd to the strand
(^Such was the Douglas's command^
And anxious told, how, on the morn.
The stern Sir Roderick deep had sworn
The Fiery Cross should circle o'er
Dale, glen, and valley, down, and
moor.
Much were the peril to the Gra?me,
From those who to the signal came;
III.]
ZH (Baf^enng.
229
Far up the lake 'twere safest land,
Himself would row him to the strand.
He gave his counsel to the wind.
While Malcolm did, unheeding, bind.
Round dirk and pouch and broad-
sword roll'd,
His ample plaid in tighten'd fold,
And stripp'd his limbs to such array
As best might suit the watery wa}';
XXXVII.
Then spoke abrupt : ' Farewell to thee.
Pattern of old fidelity ! '
The Minstrel's hand he kindly
press'd, —
' O I could I point a place of rest !
My sovereign holds in ward my land.
My uncle leads my vassal band ;
To tame his foes, his friends to aid,
Poor Malcolm has but heart and blade.
Yet, if there be one faithful Graeme
Who loves the Chieftain of his name,
Not longshall honour'd Douglas dwell,
Like hunted stag, in mountain cell ;
Nor, ere yon pride-swoll'n robber
dare —
I may not give the rest to air !
Tell Roderick Dhu, I owed him
nought,
Not the poor service of a boat.
To waft me to yon mountain-side.'
Then plunged he in the flashing tide.
Bold o'er the flood his head he bore,
And stoutly steer'd him from the
shore ;
And Allan strain'd his anxious eye,
Far 'mid the lake his form to spy.
Darkening across each puny wave.
To which the moon her silver gave.
Fast as the cormorant could skim,
The swimmer plied each active limb ;
Then landing in the moonlight dell,
Loud shouted, of his weal to tell.
The Minstrel heard the far halloo.
And joyful from the shore withdrew.
Canto Third.
Z-f)t (Battering.
I.
Time rolls his ceaseless course. The
race of yore.
Who danced our infancy upon their
knee.
And told our marvelling boyhood
legends store,
Of their strange ventures happ'd by
land or sea,
How are they blotted from the things
that be !
How few, all weak and wither'd of
their force.
Wait on the verge of dark eternity.
Like stranded wrecks, the tide
returning hoarse.
To sweep them from our sight I Time
rolls his ceaseless course.
Yet live there still who can remember
well.
How, when a mountain chief his
bugle blew,
Both field and forest, dingle, cliff, and
dell.
And solitary heath, the signal knew ;
And fast the faithful clan around him
drew.
What time the warning note was
keenly wound.
What time aloft their kindred banner
flew.
While clamorous war-pipes yeil'd
the gathering sound,
And while the Fiery Cross glanced,
like a meteor, round.
The summer dawn's reflected hue
To purple changed Loch Katrine blue ;
Mildly and soft the western breeze
Just kiss'd the Lake, just stirr'd the
trees,
!30
tU Babp of iU JSafie.
[Canto
And the pleased lake, like maiden coy,
Trembled but dimpled not for joy;
The mountain-shadows on her breast
Were neither broken nor at rest;
In bright uncertainty they lie,
Like future joys to Fancy's eye.
The water-lily to the light
Her chalice rear'd of silver bright ;
The doe awoke, and to the lawn,
Begemm'd with dew-drops, led her
fawn ;
The grey mist left the mountain side,
The torrentshow'd its glistening pride ;
Invisible in flecked sky,
The lark sent down her revelry ;
The blackbird and the speckled thrush
Good-morrow gave from brake and
bush ;
In answer coo'd the cushat dove
Her notes of peace, and rest, and love.
III.
Nothoughtof peace, nothought of rest.
Assuaged the storm in Roderick's
breast.
With sheathed broadsword in his hand ,
Abrupt he paced the islet strand,
And eyed the rising sun, and laid
His hand on his impatient blade.
Beneath a rock, his vassals' care
Was prompt the ritual to prepare,
With deep and deathful meaning
fraught;
For such Antiquity had taught
Was preface meet, ere yet abroad
The Cross of Fire should take its road.
The shrinking band stood oft aghast
At the impatient glance he cast ; —
Such glance the mountain eagle threw.
As, from the cliffs of Benvenue,
.She spread her dark sails on the wind,
And, high in middle heaven, reclined,
With her broad shadow on the lake,
Silenced the warblers of the brake.
IV.
A heap of witlier'd boughs v/as piled.
Of juniper and rowan wild,
Mingled with shivers from the oak.
Rent by the lightning's recent stroke.
Brian, the Hermit, by it stood,
Barefooted, in his frock and hood.
His grisled beard and matted hair
Obscured a visage of despair ;
His naked arms and legs, seam'd o'er,
The scars of frantic penance bore.
That monk, of savage form and face,
The impending danger of his race
Had drawn from deepest solitude,
Far in Benharrow's bosom rude.
Not his the mien of Christian priest.
But Druid's, from the grave released,
Whose harden'd heart and ej'c might
brook
On human sacrifice to look ;
And much, 'twas said, of heathen lore
Mix'd in the charms he mutter'd o'er.
The hallow'd creed gave only worse
And deadlier emphasis of curse;
No peasant sought that Hermit's
prayer.
His cave the pilgrimshunn'dwithcare,
The eager huntsman knew his bound,
And in mid chase call'd off his hound ;
Or if, in lonely glen or strath,
The desert-dweller met his path.
He pray'd, and sign'd the cross
between.
While terror took devotion's mien.
v.
OfBrian's birth strange tales were told.
His mother watch'd a midnight fold,
Built deep within a dreary glen.
Where scatter'd lay the bones of men.
In some forgotten battle slain.
And bleach'dbydrifting windandrain.
It might have tamed a warrior's heart,
To view such mockery of his art !
The knot-grass fetter'd there the hand
Which once could burst an iron band ;
Beneath the broad and ample bone,
That buckler'd heart to fear unknown,
A feeble and a timorous guest,
The field-fare framed her lowly nest ;
III.]
ZU (Saf^einng.
231
There the slow bhnd-worm left his
shine
<Jn the fleet limbs that inock'd at time ;
^Viid there, too, laj' the leader's skull.
Still wreathed with chaplet, flush'd
and full.
For heath-bell with her purple bloom
Supplied the bonnet and the plume.
All night, in this sad glen, the maid
Sate, shrouded in her mantle's shade :
■ — She said no shepherd sought her
side.
No hunter's hand her snood untied ;
Yet ne'er again to braid her hair
The virgin snood did Alice wear ;
Gone was her maiden glee and sport,
Her maiden girdle all too short,
Nor sought she, from that fatal night,
Or holy church or blessed rite,
But lock'd her secret in her breast,
And died in travail, unconfess'd.
jVlone, among his young compeers.
Was Brian from his infant years ;
A moody and heart-broken boy.
Estranged from sj'mpathj' and joy,
Bearing each taunt which careless
tongue
On his mysterious lineage flung.
Whole nights he spent by moonlight
pale,
To wood and stream his hap to wail.
Till, frantic, he as truth received
What of his birth the crowd believed.
And sought, in mist and meteor fire,
To meet and know his Phantom Sire !
In vain, to soothe his wayward fate,
The cloister oped her pitying gate ;
In vain, the learning of the age
Unclasp'd the sable-letter'd page ;
Even in its treasures he could find
Food for the fever of his mind.
Eager he read whatever tells
Of magic, cabala, and spells.
And every dark pursuit allied
To curious and presumptuous pride ;
Till with fired brain and nerves o'er-
strung.
And heart with mystic horrors wrung.
Desperate he sought Benharrow's
den.
And hid him from the haunts of men.
The desert gave him visions wild,
Such as might suit the spectre's child.
Where with black cliffs the torrents
toil.
He watch'd the wheeling eddies boil.
Till, from their foam, his dazzled eyes
Beheld the River Demon rise ;
The mountain mist took form and limb,
Of noontide hag, or goblin grim ;
The midnight wind came wild and
dread,
Swell'd with the voices of the dead ;
Far on the future battle-heath
His eye beheld the ranks of death :
Thus the lone Seer, from mankind
hurl'd.
Shaped forth a disembodied world.
One lingering sympathy of mind
Still bound him to the mortal kind ;
The only parent he could claim
Of ancient Alpine's lineage came.
Late had he heard, in prophet's dream,
The fatal Ben-Shie's boding scream ;
Sounds, too, had come in midnight
blast,
Of charging steeds, careering fast
Along Benharrow's shingly side,
Where mortal horseman ne'er might
ride ;
The thunderbolt had split the pine;
All augur'd ill to Alpine's line.
He girt his loins, and came to show
The signals of impending woe.
And now stood prompt to bless or ban,
As bade the Chieftain of his clan.
'Twas all prepared ; and from the rock.
i A goat, the patriarch of the flock.
23^
t^t Ba^^ of tU ^<^6«.
[Canto
Before the kindling pile was laid.
And piercedby Roderick's ready blade.
Patient the sickening victim eyed
The life-blood ebb in crimson tide,
Down his clogg'd beard and shaggy
limb,
Till darkness glazed his eyeballs dim.
The grisly priest, with murmuring
prayer,
A slender crosslet form'd with care,
A cubit's length in measure due ;
The shaft and limbs were rods of yew,
Whose parents in Inch-Cailliach wave
Their shadows o'er Clan-Alpine's grave,
And, answering Lomond's breezes
deep.
Soothe many a chieftain's endless sleep.
TheCross, thus form'd, heheldon high,
With wasted hand, and haggard eye.
And strange and mingled feelings woke.
While his anathema he spoke :
' Woe to the clansman, who shall view
This symbol of sepulchral j'ew.
Forgetful that its branches grew
Where weep the heavens their holiest
dew
On Alpine's dwelling low I
Deserter of his Chieftain's trust,
He ne'er shall mingle with their dust.
But, from his sires and kindred thrust,
Each clansman's execration just
Shall doom him wrath and woe.'
He paused ; — the word the vassals
took.
With forward step and fiery look.
On high their naked brands they
shook,
Their clattering targets wildly strook ;
And first in murmur low.
Then, like the billow in his course.
That far to seaward finds his source,
And flings to shore his muster'd force,
Burst, with luud roar, their answer
hoarse,
' Woe to the traitor, \voc !
Ben-an's grey scalp the accents knew.
The joyous wolf from covert drew.
The exulting eagle scream'd afar, — ■
They knew the voice of Alpine's war.
The shout was hush'd on lake and fell.
The monk resumed his mutter'd spell :
Dismal and low its accents came.
The while he scathed the Cross with
flame ;
And the few words that rcach'd the air,
Although the holiest name was there,
Had more of blasphemy than prayer.
But when he shook above the crowd
Its kindled points, he spoke aloud :
' Woe to the wretch who fails to rear
At this dread sign the ready spear !
For, as the flames this symbol sear,
His home, the refuge of his fear,
A kindred fate shall know ;
P'ar o'er its roof the volumed flame
Clan-Alpine's vengeance shall pro-
claim.
While maids and matrons on his name
Shall call down wretchedness and
shame.
And infamy and woe.'
Then rose the cry of females, shrill
As goss-hawk's whistle on the hill.
Denouncing misery and ill.
Mingled with childhood's babbling trill
Of curses stammer'd slow ;
Answering, with imprecation dread,
' Sunk be his home in embers red !
And cursed be the meanest shed
Thate'er shall hide thehouselesshead.
We doom to want and woe I '
A sharp and shrieking echo gave,
Coir-Uriskin, thy goblin cave !
And the grey pass where birches wave
On Beala-nam-bo.
iiicii deeper jiaused the priest anew.
And hard his labouring breath he drew,
III.]
^0e (Baf^m'ng.
While, with set teeth and clenched
hand,
And eyes that glow'd liiic fiery brand,
He meditated curse more dread,
And deadher, on the clansman's head,
Who, summon'd to his Chieftain's aid,
The signal saw and disobey' 'd.
The crosslet's points of sparkling wood.
He quenched among the bubbling
blood,
And, as again the sign he rear'd,
Hollowand hoarse his voice was heard:
'When flits this Cross from man to
man,
Vich-Alpine's summons to his clan,
Burst be the ear that fails to heed I
Palsied the foot that shuns to speed !
May ravens tear the careless eyes.
Wolves make the coward heart their
prize !
As sinks that blood-stream in the earth,
So may his heart's-blood drench his
hearth !
As dies in hissing gore the spark,
Quench thou hislight, Destruction dark,
i\.nd be the grace to him denied.
Bought by this sign to all beside !'
He ceased ; no echo gave agen
The murmur of the deep Amen.
Then Roderick, with impatient look,
From Brian's hand the sj'mbol took :
'Speed, Malise, speed!' he said, and
gave
The crosslet to his henchman brave.
' The muster-place be Lanrick mead —
Instant the time ; speed, Malise, speed 1'
Like heath-bird, when the hawks
pursue,
A barge across Loch Katrine flew ;
High stood the henchman on the
prow ;
So rapidly the barge-men row.
The bubbles, where they launch'd the
boat.
Were all unbroken and afloat,
Dancing in foam and ripple still,
When it had near'd the mainland hill ;
And from the silver beach's side
Still was the prow three fathom wide,
When lightly bounded to the land
The messenger of blood and brand.
Speed, Malise, speed I the dun deer's
hide
On lleeter foot was never tied.
Speed, Malise, speed ! such cause of
haste
Thine active sinews never braced.
Bend 'gainst the steepy hill thy
breast,
Burst down like torrent from its crest ;
With short and springing footstep pass
The trembling bog and false morass;
Across the brook like roebuck bound.
And thread the brake like questing
hound ;
Tlie crag is high, the scaur is deep.
Yet shrink not from the desperate leap :
Parch'd are thy burning lips and brow,
Yet by the fountain pause not now ;
Herald of battle, fate, and fear,
.Stretch onward in thy fleet career!
The wounded hind thou track'st not
now,
Pursuest not maid through greenwood
bough,
Nor pliest thou now thy Hying pace.
With rivals in the mountain race ;
But danger, death, and warrior deed,
Are in thy course ; speed, Malise,
speed !
Fast as the fatal symbol flies,
In arms the huts and hamlets rise ;
From winding glen, from upland
brown,
They pour'd each hardy tenant down.
Nor slack'd the messenger his pace ;
He show'd the sign, he named the
place,
1 ?,
'34
ZU Baip of tU ^ciU.
I Canto
And, pressing forward like the wind,
Left clamour and surprise behind.
The fisherman forsook the strand,
The swarthy smith took dirk and
brand ;
With changed cheer, the mower bhthe
Left in the half-cut swath the scythe ;
The herds without a keeper stray'd,
The plough was in mid-furrow staid,
The falc'ner toss'd his hawk away.
The hunter left the stag at bay ;
Prompt at the signal of alarms,
Each son of Alpine rush'd to arms;
So swept the tumult and aftray
Along the margin of Achray.
Alas, thou lovely lake I that e'er
Thy banks should echo sounds of fear !
The rocks, the bosky thickets, sleep
So stilly on thy bosom deep,
The lark's blithe carol, from the cloud,
Seems for the scene too gaWy loud.
Speed, Malise, speed ! the lake is past,
Duncraggan's huts appear at last.
And peep, like moss-grown rocks, half
seen,
Half hidden in the copse so green ;
riieremayest thou rest, thy labour done.
Their Lord shall speed the signal on.
As stoops the hawk upon his prey,
The henchman shot him down the way.
— What woeful accents load the gale?
The funeral yell, the female wail !
A gallant hunter's sport is o'er,
A valiant warrior fights no more.
Who, in the battle or the chase,
At Roderick'sside shall fill his place ! —
Within the hall, where torches' ray
Supplies the excluded beams of day.
Lies Duncan on his lowly bier,
And o'er him streams his widow's tear.
His stripling son stands mournful by.
His youngest weeps, but knows not
■\vhy ;
The village maids and matrons round
The dismal coronach rcsountl.
XVI.
CORONACH.
' He is gone on the mountain.
He is lost to the forest.
Like a summer-dried fountain.
When our need was the sorest.
The font, reappearing,
From the rain-drops shall borrow,
But to us comes no cheering.
To Duncan no morrow !
The hand of the reaper
Takes the ears that are hoary.
But the voice of the weeper
Wails manhood in glory.
The autumn winds rushing
Waft the leaves that are searest.
But our flower was in flushing,
When blighting was nearest.
Fleet foot on the correi,
.Sage counsel in cumber,
Red hand in the foray.
How sound is thy slumber !
Like the dew on the mountain,
Like the foam on the river,
Like the bubble on the fountain.
Thou art gone, and for ever I '
XVI I .
Sec Stumah, who, the bier beside,
H is master's corpse with wonder eyed,
Poor Stumah ! whom his least halloo
Could send like lightning o'er the dew.
Bristles his crest, and points his ears.
As if some stranger step he hears.
'Tis not a mourner's muffled tread
Who comes to sorrow o'er the dead.
But headlong haste, or deadly fear.
Urge the precipitate career.
All stand aghast : — unheeding all,
The henchman bursts into the hall ;
Before the dead man's bier he stood ;
Held forth the Cross besmear'd with
blood ;
' The muster-place is Lanrick mead ;
Speed forth the signal I clansmen,
speed I '
m.]
ZU (Bat^etrm^.
'35
Angus, the heir of Duncan's line,
^Sprung forth and seized the fatal sign.
In haste the stripling to his side
His father's dirk and broadsword tied ;
But when he saw his mother's eye
Watch him in speechless agony,
Back to her open'd arms he flew,
Press'd on her lips a fond adieu —
' Alas I ' she sobb'd, ' and yet, be gone.
And speed thee forth, like Duncan's
son ! '
One look he cast upon the bier,
Dash'dfrom his eye the gathering tear.
Breathed deep to clear his labouring
breast,
And toss'd aloft his bonnet crest.
Then, like the high-bred colt, when,
freed,
First he essays his fire and speed.
He vanish'd, and o'er moor and moss
Sped forward with the Fiery Cross.
Suspended was the widow's tear.
While yet his footsteps she could hear;
And when she mark'd the henchman's
eye
Wet with unwonted sympathy',
' Kinsman,' she said, 'his race is run.
That should have sped thine errand on ;
The oak has fall'n, — the sapling bough
Is all Duncraggan's shelter now.
Yet trust I well, his duty done.
The orphan's God will guard my son.
And you, in many a danger true.
At Duncan's best your blades that drew.
To arms, and guard that orphan'shead I
Let babes and women wail the dead.'
Then weapon-clang, and martial call,
Resounded through the funeral hall,
Whilefrom the walls theattendant band
Snatch'dsword and targe, with hurried
hand ;
And short and flitting energy
Glanced from the mourner's sunken eye,
As if the sounds to warrior dear,
Misht rouse her Duncan from his bier.
But faded soon that borrow'd force ;
Grief claim'd his right, and tears their
course.
Benledi saw the Cross of Fire,
It glanced like lightning up Strath-Ire ;
O'er dale and hill the summons flew,
Norrest norpauseyoung Angus knew ;
The tear that gather'd in his ej-e
He left the mountain breeze to dry ;
Until, where Teith's young waters roll,
Betwixt him and a wooded knoll,
Thatgraced the sable strath withgreen,
The chapel of St. Bride was seen.
Swoln was the stream, remote the
bridge.
But Angus paused not on the edge ;
Though the dark waves danced dizzil}'.
Though reel'd his sympathetic eye,
He dash'd amid the torrent's roar :
His right hand high the crosslet bore.
His left the pole-axe grasp'd, to guide
And stay his footing in the tide.
He stumbled twice — the foam splash'd
high.
With hoarserswellthestream raced by ;
And had he fall'n, — for ever there
Farewell Duncraggan's orphan heir :
But still, as if in parting life,
Firmer he grasp'd the Cross of strife.
Until the opposing bank he gain'd.
And up the chapel pathway strain'd.
XX.
A blithesome rout, that morning tide,
Had sought the chapel of St. Bride.
Her troth Tombea's Mary gave
To Norman, heir of Armandavc.
And, issuing from the Gothic arch.
The bridal now resumed their march.
In rude, but glad procession, came
Bonneted sire and coif-clad dame ;
And plaided youth, with jest and jeer,
Whichsnooded maiden would not hear;
And children, that, unwitting why,
Lent the gay shout their shrilly cry ;
1 .T
236
Z$t Ba^^ of tU BaU.
[Canto
And minstrels, that in measures vied
Before the young and bonny bride,
Whose downcast eye and cheek dis-
close
The tear and blush of morning rose.
With virgin step, and bashful hand,
She held the 'kerchiefs snowy band ;
The gallant bridegroom bj' her side,
Beheld his prize with victor's pride,
And the glad mother in her ear
Was closely whisperingword of cheer.
Who meets them at the churchj'ard
gate ?
The messenger of fear and fate !
Haste in his hurried accent lies,
And grief is swimming in his eyes.
All dripping from the recent flood,
Panting and travel-soil'd he stood,
The fatal sign of fire and sword
Held forth, and spoke the appointed
word :
' The muster-place is Lanrick mead ;
Speed forth the signal 1 Norman,
speed 1 '
And must he change so soon the hand,
Just link'd to his by holy band,
For the fell Cross of blood and brand ?
And must the day, so blithe tliat rose,
And promised rapture in the close,
Before its setting hour, divide
The bridegroom from the plighted
bride ?
O fatal doom ! it must 1 it must I
Clan-Alpine's cause, her Chieftain's
trust,
Her summons dread, brook no delay ;
Stretch to the race ; away ! away !
Yet slow he laid his plaid aside.
And, lingering, eyed his lovely bride.
Until he saw the starting tear
Speak woe he might not stop to cheer ;
Then, trusting not a second look.
In haste he sped him up the brook.
Norbackward glanced, till on the heath
Where Lubnaig's lake supplies the
Teith.
What in the racer's bosom stirr'd ?
The sickening pang of hope deferr'd,
And memory, with a torturing train
Of all his morning visions vain.
Mingled with love's impatience, came
The manly thirst for martial fame ;
The stormy joy of mountaineers.
Ere yet they rush upon the spears ;
And zeal for Clan and Chieftain
burning.
And hope, from well-fought field
returning,
With war's red honours on his crest,
To clasp his Mary to his breast.
Stung by such thoughts, o'er bank
and brae,
Like fire from Hint he glanced away.
While highresolve,and feelingstrong,
Burst into voluntary song : —
SONG.
' The heath this night must be my bed.
The bracken curtain for my head.
My lullaby the warder's tread.
Far, far from loveand thee, Mary ;
To-morrow eve, more stilly laid.
My couch may be my bloody plaid.
My vesper song, thj' wail, sweet maid !
It will not waken me, Mary !
I may not, dare not, fancy now
The grief that clouds thylovelj' brow,
I dare not think upon thy vow,
And all it promised me, Mary.
No fond regret must Norman know ;
When bursts Clan-Alpine on the foe,
His heart must be like bended bow.
His foot like arrow free, Marj'.
A time will come with feeling fraught,
For, if I fall in battle fought.
Thy hapless lover's dying thought
Shall be a thought on thee, Mary.
III.l
ZU (Battering.
237
And if retiirn'd from conquer'd foes,
How blithely will the evening close,
How sweet the linnet sing- repose,
Tomyyoungbrideandme, Mary 1'
XXIV.
Not faster o'er thy heathery braes,
Balquidder,speeds the midnight blaze,
Rushing, in conflagration strong,
Thy deep ravines and dells along.
Wrapping thy cliffs in purple glow,
And reddening the dark lakes below ;
Nor faster speeds it, nor so far,
As o'er thy heaths the voice of war.
The signal roused to martial coil
The sullen margin of Loch Voil,
Waked still Loch Doinc, and to the
source
Alarm'd, Bah-aig, thy swampy course ;
Thence southward turn'd its rapid
road
Adown Strath-Gartne3''s valley broad.
Till rose in arms each man might claim
A portion in Clan-Alpine's name.
From the grey sire, whose trembling
hand
Could hardly buckle on his brand,
To the raw boy, whose shaft and bow
Were yet scarce terror to the crow.
Each valley, each sequester'd glen,
Muster'd its little horde of men.
That met as torrents from the height
In Highland dales their streams unite.
Still gathering, as they pour along,
A voice more loud, a tide more strong,
Till at the rendezvous they stood
By hundreds prompt for blows and
blood ;
Each train'd to arms since life began,
Owning no tie but to his clan,
No oath, but by his chieftain's hand,
No law, but Roderick Dhu's command.
XXV.
That summer morn had Roderick Dhu
Survey'd the skirts of Benvenue,
And sent his scouts o'er hill and heath.
To view the frontiers of Menteith.
AUbackwardcamewithnews of truce ;
Still lay each martial Graeme and Bruce,
In Rednoch courts no horsemen wait,
No banner waved on Cardross gate,
O n Duchray 's towers no beacon shone ,
Nor scared the herons from Loch Con ;
All seem'd at peace. — Now, wot ye
why
The Chieftain, with such anxious cj-e,
Ere to the muster he repair,
This western frontier scann'd with
care ?—
In Benvenue's most darksome cleft,
A fair, though cruel, pledge was left ;
For Douglas, to his promise true,
That morning from the isle withdrew.
And in a deep sequester'd dell
Had sought a low and lonely cell.
B3' many a bard, in Celtic tongue,
Has Coir-nan-LIriskin been sung ;
A softer name the Saxons .gave.
And call'd the grot the Goblin-cave.
It was a wild and strange retreat.
As e'er was trod by outlaw's feet.
The dell, upon the mountain's crest,
Yawn'dlikeagash on warrior's breast ;
Its trench had staid full many a rock,
Hurl'd by primeval earthquake shock
From Benvenue's grey summit wild,
And here, in random ruin piled,
Thej' frown'd incumbent o'er the spot,
And form'd the rugged silvan grot.
The oak and birch,with mingled shade.
At noontide there a twilight made,
Unless when short and sudden shone
Some stragglingbeam on clitTor stone.
With such a glimpse as prophet's eye
Gains on thy depth. Futurity.
No murmur waked the solemn still,
Save tinkling of a fountain rill ;
But when the wind chafed with the
lake,
A sullen sound would upward break,
With dashing hollow voice, that spoke
The incessant war of wave and rock.
238
Z$i Bal^ of tU ;8afte.
[Canto
Suspended clifis, with hideous swaj-,
Seem'd nodding o'er the cavern gre\'.
From such a den the wolf had sprung,
In such the wild-cat leaves her young ;
Yet Douglas and his daughter fair
Sought for a space their safety there.
Grej'' Superstition's whisper dread
Debarr'd the spot to vulgar tread ;
For there, she said, did fays resort,
And satj-rs hold their silvan court,
By moonlight tread their mystic maze,
And blast the rash beholder's gaze.
Now eve, with western shadows long.
Floated on Katrine bright and strong,
When Roderick, with a chosen few,
Repass'd the heights of Benvenue.
Above the Goblin-cave they go,
Through thewild pass of Beal-nambo :
The prompt retainers speed before,
To launch the shallop from the shore,
For cross Loch Katrine lies his way
To view the passes of Achray.
And place his clansmen in array.
Yet lags the chief in musing mind.
Unwonted sight, his men behind.
A single page, to bear his sword,
Alone attended on his lord ;
The rest their way through thickets
break,
And soon await him by the lake.
It was a fair and gallant sight.
To view them from the neighbouring
height.
By the low-levell'd sunbeams light !
For strength and stature, from the
clan
Each warrior was a chosen man.
As even afar might well be seen.
By their proud step and martial mien.
Their feathers dance, their tartans
float,
Their targets gleam, as by the boat
A wild and warlike group they stand.
That well became such mountain-
strand.
Their Chief, with step reluctant, still
Was lingering on the craggy hill.
Hard by where turn'd apart the road
To Douglas's obscure abode.
It was but with that dawning morn.
That Roderick Dhuhadproudl_vsworn
To drown his love in war's wild roar.
Nor think of Ellen Douglas more;
But he who stems a stream with sand,
And fetters flame with flaxen band,
Has yet a harder task to prove,
By firm resolve to conquer love !
Eve finds the Chief, like restless ghost.
Still hovering near his treasure lost;
For though his haughty heart denj'
A parting meeting to his eye,
Still fondly strains his anxious ear,
The accents of her voice to hear.
And inly did he curse the breeze
That waked to sound therustlingtrees.
But hark I what mingles in the strain ?
It is the harp of Allan-Bane,
That wakes its measure slow and high.
Attuned to sacred minstrelsy.
What melting voice attends the strings?
'Tis Ellen, or an angel, sings.
HYMN TO THE VIRGIN.
• Ave Maria ! maiden mild I
Listen to a maiden's prayer I
Thou canst hear though from the wild.
Thou canst save amid despair.
Safe may we sleep beneath thy care.
Though banish'd, outcast, and re-
viled ;
Maiden ! hear a maiden's prayer —
Mother, hear a suppliant child !
Ave Maria I
Ave Maria ! undefiled I
The flinty couch we now must share
Shall seem with down of eider piled.
If thy protection hover there.
IV.]
Z^t (prop6ecp.
239
Tlie imirk\' cavern's heavy air
Shall breathe of balm if thou hast
smiled ;
Then. Maiden ! heara maiden's praj-er;
Mother, list a suppliant child !
Ave Maria !
Ave Maria 1 stainless styled !
Foul demons of the earth and air,
From this their wonted haunt exiled,
Shall flee before thy presence fair.
We bow us to our lot of care.
Beneath thy guidance reconciled ;
Hear for a maid a maiden's prayer,
And for a father hear a child !
Ave Maria ! '
Died on the harp the closing h\-mn.
Unmoved in attitude and limb,
As list'ning still, Clan-Alpine's lord
Stood leaning on his heavy sword,
Until the page, with humble sign.
Twice pointed to the sun's decline.
Thenwhilehis plaid he round him cast,
'It is the last time, 'tis the last,'
He mutter'd thrice, — 'the last time e'er
That angel voice shall Roderick hear!'
It was a goading thought— his stride
Hied hastier down the mountain-side ;
.Sullen he flung him in the boat,
And instant 'cross the lake it shot.
The}' landed in that silvery bay,
And eastward held their hasty way,
Till, with the latest beams of light,
The band arrived on Lanrick height,
Where muster'd, in the vale below,
Clan-Alpine's men in martial show.
xxxi.
A various scene the clansmen made ;
Some sate, some stood, some slowlj'
stray'd ;
But most, with mantles folded round,
Were couch'd to rest upon the ground,
Scarce to be known by curious eye.
From the deep heather where they lie, |
So well was match'd the tartan screen
With heath-bell daik and brackens
green ;
Unless where, here and there, a blade.
Or lance's point, a glimmer made,
Like glow-worm twinkling through
the shade.
But when, advancing through the
gloom,
The}' saw the Chieftain's eagle plume,
Their shout of welcome, shrilland wide,
Shook the steep mountain'ssteady side.
Thrice it arose, and lake and fell
Three times return'd the martial yell ;
It died upon Bochastle's plain,
And Silence claim'd her evening reign.
Canto Fourth.
Zfii (ptop6ec^.
I.
'Thk rose is fairest when 'tis budding
new.
And hope is brightest when it dawns
from fears ;
The rose is sweetest wash'd with
morning dew.
And love is loveliest when ombalm'd
in tears.
O wilding rose, whom fancy thus en-
dears,
I bid your blossoms in my bonnet
wave.
Emblem of hope and love through
future years ! '
Thus spoke j'oung Norman, heir of
Armandave,
What time the sun arose on Venna-
char's broad wa\-e.
Sucli fond conceit, half said, half sung,
I,o\-e prompted to the bridegroom's
tongue.
240
ZU Bci.1^ of iU Bafte.
[Canto
All while he stripp'd the wild-rose
spray,
His axe and bow beside him lay,
For on a pass 'twixt lake and wood,
A wakeful sentinel he stood.
Hark ! on the rock a footstep rung.
And instant to his arms he sprung.
' Stand, or thou diest !— What, Malise ?
soon
Art thou rctuni'd from Braes of Doune.
By thy keen step and glance I know,
Thou bring'st us tidings of the foe.'
For while the Fiery Cross hied on,
On distant scout had Malise gone.")
'Where sleeps the Chief?' the hench-
man said.
' Apart, in yonder misty glade ;
To his lone couch Fll be your guide ;'
Then call'd a slumberer by his side,
And stirr'd him with his slacken'd
bow — •
' Up, up, Glentarkin ! rouse thee, ho !
We seek the Chieftain ; on the track.
Keep eagle watch till I come back.'
Together up the pass they sped :
' What of the foemen?' Norman said.
' Varying reports from near and far;
This certain, that a band of war
Has for two daj's been read}' bonne.
At prompt command, to march from
Doune ;
King James the while, with princely
powers,
Holds revelry in Stirling towers.
Soon will this dark and gathering cloud
Speak on our glens in thunder loud.
Inured to bide such bitter bout.
The warrior's plaid may bear it out ;
But, Norman, how wilt thou provide
A shelter for thy bonny bride?'
'What! know ye not that Roderick's
care
To the lone isle hath caused repair
Eacli maid and matron of the clan,
And cvci'v child and aged man
Unfit for arms; and given his charge.
Nor skift' nor shallop, boat nor barge.
Upon these lakes shall float at large,
But all beside the islet moor,
That such dear pledge may rest secure?'
' 'Tis well advised ; the Chieftain's plan
Bespeaks the father of his clan.
But wherefore sleeps Sir Roderick Dhu
Apart from all his followers true ? '
' It is, because last evening-tide
Brian an augury hath tried,
Of that dread kind which must not be
Unless in dread extremity.
The Taghairm call'd ; bj^ which, afar.
Our sires foresaw the events of war.
Diincraggan's milk-white bull thej^
slew ' —
RIALISE.
' Ah ! well the gallant brute I knew 1
The choicest of the prey we had,
When swept our merry-men Gallangad.
H is hide was snow, his horns were dark.
His red eye glow'd like fiery spark ;
So fierce, so tameless, and so fleet.
Sore did he cumber our retreat.
And kept our stoutest kernes in awe,
Even at the pass of Beal 'maha.
But steep and flinty was the road.
And sharp the hurrying pikemen's
goad,
And when we came to Dcnnan's Row,
-A child might scatheless stroke his
brow."
V.
NORI\IAN.
' That bull was slain : his reeking hide
They strctch'd the cataract beside,
Whose waters their wild tumult toss
Adown the black and craggy boss
Of that huge cliff, whose ample verge
Tradition calls the Hero's Targe.
Couch'd on a shelve beneath its brink.
Close where the thundering torrents
sink.
IV.]
ZS>t (pro^)0ec^.
Rocking beneath their headlong swaj-,
And drizzled by the ceaseless spray,
Midst groan of rock, and roar of stream,
The wizard waits prophetic dream.
Nordistant rests the Chief; — but hush!
See, gliding slow through mist and
bush,
The hermit gains yon rock, and stands
To gaze upon our slumbering bands.
Seems he not, Malise, like a ghost,
That hovers oer a slaughter'd host •
Or raven on the blasted oak,
That, watching while the deerisbroke,
His morsel claims with sullen croak?'
MALISE.
' Peace ! peace ! to other than to me,
Thy words were evil augury ;
But still I hold Sir Roderick's blade
Clan-Alpine's omen and her aid.
Not aught that, glean'd from heaven or
hell.
Yon fiend-begotten monk can tell.
TheChieftainjoins him, see ; and now,
Together they descend the brow.'
VI.
And, as they came, with Alpine's Lord
The Hermit Monk held solemn word :
' Roderick ! it is a fearful strife,
For man endow'd with mortal life,
Whose shroud of sentient clay can still
Feel feverish pang and fainting chill.
Whose eye can stare in stony trance.
Whose hair can rouse like warriors
lance, — ■
'Tis hard for such to view unfurl'd
The curtain of the future world.
Yet — witness ev-ery quaking limb.
My sunken pulse, mj;- ej'eballs dim,
M\' soul with harrowing anguish
torn —
This for my Chieftain have I borne 1
The shapes that sought my fearful
couch,
An human tongue may ne'er avouch ;
No mortal man, save he who, bred
Between the living and the dead,
Is gifted beyond nature's law.
Had e'er survived to sa}' he saw.
At length the fateful answer came.
In characters of living flame !
Not spoke in word, nor blazed in scroll,
But borne and branded on mj' soul —
Which spills the forejiost foeman's
LIFE,
That party coxouers in the strife l'
VII.
' Thanks, Brian, for thy zeal and care!
Good is thine augury, and fair.
Clan-Alpine ne'er in battle stood.
But first our broadswords tasted blood.
A surer victim still I know,
Self-offer'd to the auspicious blow :
A spy has sought mj- land this morn, —
No eve shall witness his return !
My followers guard each pass's mouth.
To east, to westward, and to south ;
Red Murdoch, bribed to be his guide,
Has charge to lead his steps aside,
Till, in deep path or dingle brown.
He light on thoseshall bring him down.
— But seewhocomeshisnewstoshow !
Malise! what tidings of the foe?'
VIII.
' At Doune,o"ermanyaspearandglaive
Two Barons proud their banners wave.
I saw the Moray's silver star,
And mark'd the sable pale of Mar.'
' By Alpine's soul, high tidings those !
I love to hear of worthy foes.
When move they on?' 'To-morrow's
noon
Will see them here for battle boune.'
' Then shall it see a meeting stern !
But, for the place — say, couldst thou
learn
Nought of the friendly clans of Earn ?
Strengthen'd by them, we well might
bide
The battle on Benledi's side.
Tiiou couldst not? Well! Clnn-Alpine's
men
Shall mail the Trosachs' shagg\' glen ;
242
tU JSai^ of tU BaU.
[Canto
Within Loch Katrine's e:ore:e we '11
fight,
All in our maids' and matrons' sight,
Each for his hearth and household fire,
Father for child, and son for sire,
Lover for maid beloved 1 — But why —
Is it the breeze affects mine eye ?
Or dost thou come, ill-omen'd tear !
A messenger of doubt or fear ?
No ! sooner may the Saxon lance
Unfix Benledi from his stance,
Than doubt or terror can pierce through
The unyielding heart of Roderick Dhu !
'Tis stubborn as his trusty targe.
Each to his post — -all knowtheir charge.'
The pibroch sounds, the bands advance.
The broadswords gleam, the banners
dance.
Obedient to the Chieftain's glance.
I turn me from the martial roar.
And seek Coir-Uriskin once more.
Where is the Douglas ? — he is gone ;
And Ellen sits on the grey stone
Fast by the cave, and makes hermoan ;
While vainly Allan's words of cheer
Are pour'd on her unheeding ear :
' He will return — dear lady, trust ! —
With joy return ; he will, he must.
Well was it time to seek afar
Some refuge from impending war,
When e'en Clan-Alpine's rugged
swarm
Are cow'd by the approaching storm.
I saw their boats with many a light
Floating the live-long yesternight,
Shifting like flashes darted forth
By the red streamers of the north ;
I mark'd at morn how close they ride,
Thick moor'd by the lone islet's side,
Like wild-ducks couching in the fen.
When stoops the hawk upon the glen.
Since this rude race dare not abide
The peril on the mainland side,
Shall not thy noble father's care
Some safe retreat for thee prepare ? '
' No, Allan, no I Pretext so kind
My wakeful terrors could not blind.
When in such tender tone, yet grave,
Douglas a parting blessing gave.
The tear that glisten'd in his eye
Drown'dnothis purpose fix'dandhigh.
My soul, though feminine and weak,
Can image his ; e'en as the lake.
Itself disturb'd by slightest stroke,
Reflects the invulnerable rock.
He hears report of battle rife.
He deems himself the cause of strife.
I saw him redden, when the theme
Turn'd, Allan, on thine idle dream
Of Malcolm Graeme in fetters bound.
Which I, thou saidst, about him wound.
Think'st thou he trow'd thine omen
aught ?
Oh no ! 'twas apprehensive thought
For the kind youth, — for Roderick
too —
Let me be just) that friend so true ;
In danger both, and in our cause !
Minstrel, the Douglas dare not pause.
Why else that solemn warning given,
" If not on earth, we meet in heaven I "
Why else, to Cambus-kenneth's fane,
If eve return him not again.
Am I to hie, and make me known ?
Alas I he goes to Scotland's throne.
Buys his friend's safety with his own;
He goes to do — what I had done,
Had Douglas' daughter been his son ! '
' Nay, lovely Ellen 1 — dearest, nay !
If aught should his return delay,
He only named yon holy fane
As fitting place to meet again.
Be sure he 's safe ; and for the G raeme, —
Heaven's blessing on his gallant name I
My vision'd sight may yet prove true.
Nor bode of ill to him or you.
IV.]
ZU ^vop^u^.
243
When did my gifted dream beguile ?
Think of the stranger at the isle,
And think upon the harpings slow,
That presaged this approaching woe !
Sooth was my prophecy of fear ;
Believe it when it augurs cheer.
Would we had left this dismal spot !
Ill luck still haunts a fairy grot.
Of such a wondrous tale I know —
Dear lad}', change that look of woe,
My harp was wont thy grief to cheer.'
' Well, be it as thou wilt ; I hear,
But cannot stop the bursting tear.'
The Minstrel tried his simple art.
But distant far was Ellen's heart :
BALLAD.
Alice Brand.
Merry it is in the good greenwood,
When the mavis and merle are
singing,
When the deer .sweeps bj', and the
hounds are in cry.
And the hunter's horn is ringing.
* O Alice Brand, my native land
Is lost for love of you ;
And we must hold bj- wood and wold.
As outlaws wont to do.
'O Alice, 'twas all for th}' locks so
bright.
And 'twas all for thine eyes so blue,
That on the night ofour luckless flight
Thy brother bold I slew.
' Now must I teach to hew the beech
The hand that held the glaive,
For leaves to spread our lowly bed,
And stakes to fence our ca\'e.
' And for vest of pall, th}' fingers small.
That wont on harp to stray,
A cloak must shear from the slaughter'd
deer.
To keep the cold away.'
'■ O Richard 1 if mj' brother died,
"Twas but a fatal chance ;
For darkling was the battle tried,
And fortune sped the lance.
' If pall and vair no more I wear.
Nor thou the crimson sheen.
As warm, we '11 say, is the russet grey,
As gay the forest-green.
'And, Richard, if our lot be hard.
And lost th}' native land,
Still Alice has her own Richard,
And he his Alice Brand.'
'Tis merry, 'tis merry, in good green-
wood,
.So blithe Lady Alice is singing;
On the beech's pride, and oak's brown
side.
Lord Richard's axe is ringing.
Up spoke the moody Elfin King,
Who won'd within the hill ;
Like wind in the porch of a ruin'd
church.
His voice was ghostly shrill.
' Why sounds j'on stroke on beech
and oak.
Our moonlight circle's screen ?
Or who comes here to chase the deer.
Beloved ofour Elfin Queen ?
Or who may dare on wold to wear
The fairies' fatal green ?
'Lip, Urgan, up ! to yon mortal hie.
For thou wert christen'd man ;
For cross or sign thou wilt not fly,
Foi- mutter'd word or ban.
' Lay on him the curse of the witlier'd
heart.
The curse of the sleepless eye ;
Till he wish and pray that his life would
part.
Nor vet find leave to die.'
244
ZU Bab^ of tU ^Eo-ic.
[Canto
'Tis merry, 'tis merry, in good green-
wood.
Though the birds have still'd their
singing ;
The evening blaze doth Ahce raise,
And Richard is fagots bringing.
Up Urgan starts, that hideous dwarf.
Before Lord Richard stands.
And, as he cross'dand bless'd himself,
' I fear not sign,' quoth the grisly elf,
' That is made with bloody hands.'
But out then spoke she, Alice Brand,
That woman, void of fear, —
' And if there 's blood upon his hand,
'Tis but the blood of deer."
' Now loud thou liest, thou bold of mood !
It cleaves unto his hand,
The stain of thine own kindly blood,
The blood of Ethert Brand.'
Then forward stepp'd she, Alice Brand,
And made the holy sign, —
'Andif there'sbloodon Richard'shand,
A spotless hand is mine.
' And I conjure thee, Demon elf,
By Him whom Demons fear,
To show us whence thou art thyself.
And what thine errand here?'
' 'Tis merry, 'tis merry, in Fairy-land,
When fairy birds are singing,
When the court doth ride by their
monarch's side.
With bit and bridle ringing:
'And gaily shines the Fair\'-land —
But all is glistening show,
Like the idle gleam that December's
beam
Cau dart on ice and snow.
'And fading, like that varied gleam,
Is our inconstant shape,
Who now like knight and lady seem.
And now like dwarf and ape.
' It was between the night and day,
V/hen the Fairy King has power,
That I sunk down in a sinful fray,
And, 'twixtlifc and death, wassnatch'd
away
I\) the joyless Elfin bower.
' But wist I of a woman bold.
Who thrice my brow durst sign,
I might regain my mortal mold,
As fair a form as thine. '
She cross'd him once, she cross'd him
twice,
That lady was so brave ;
The fouler grew his goblin hue,
The darker grew the cave.
She cross'd him thrice, that lady bold ;
He rose beneath her hand
The fairest knight on Scottish mold,
Her brother, Ethert Brand !
Merry it is in good greenwood,
When the mavis and merle are sing-
ing,
But merrierwere they in Dunfermline
gi"cy,
When all the bells were ringing.
Just as the minstrel sounds were staid,
A stranger climb'd the steepy glade :
His martial step, his stately mien.
His hunting suit of Lincoln green,
His eagle glance remembrance claims :
'Tis Snowdoun's Knight, "tis James
Fitz-James.
Ellen beheld as in a dream,
Then, starting, scarce suppress'd a
scream :
' O stranger I in such hour of fear,
What evil hap has brought thee here ? '
'An evil hap how can it be.
That bids me look again on thee ?
By promise bound, mj' former guide
Met me betimes this morning tide,
And marshaird,over bank and boiu-ne,
The happy path of my return.'
IV.
ZU (pvopUc^.
^45
' I'hc happy path ! — what ! said he
nought
Of war, of battle to be fought,
Of guarded pass ? " ' No, by my faith !
Nor saw I aught could augur scathe.'
' O haste thee, Allan, to the kern, —
Yonder his tartans I discern ;
Learn thou his purpose, and conjure
That he will guide the stranger sure !
What prompted thee, unhappy man ?
The meanest serf in Roderick's clan
Had not been bribed by love or fear.
Unknown to him to guide thee here.'
' Sweet Ellen, dear my life must be,
Since it is worthy care from thee ;
Yet life I hold but idle breath,
When love or honour's weigh'd with
death.
Then let me profit by my chance.
And speak my purpose bold at once.
I come to bear thee from a wild.
Where ne'er before such blossom
smiled ;
By this soft hand to lead thee far
From frantic scenes offend and war.
Near Bochastle my horses wait ;
They bear us soon to Stirling gate.
I '11 place thee in a lovely bov\<'cr,
I '11 guard thee like a tender ilower' —
•O ! hush, SirKnight! 'twerefemaleart,
To say I do not read thy heart ;
Too much, before, my selfish ear
Was idly soothed my praise to hear.
That fatal bait hath lured thee back.
In deathful hour, o'er dangerous track ;
And how, O how, can I atone
The wreck my vanity brought on !
One way remains — I '11 tell him all ;
Yes I struggling bosom, forth it shall I
Thou, whose light folly bears the blame,
Buy thine own pardonwith thy shame 1
But first, my father is a man
Outlaw'd and exiled under ban ;
The price of blood is on his head ;
With me 'twere infamy to wed.
Still wouldst thou speak ] then hear
the truth 1
Fitz-James, there is a noble youth,
If yet he is ! exposed for me
And mine to dread extremity —
Thou hast the secret of my heart ;
Forgive, be generovis, and depart'.'
xviii.
Fitz-James knew every wily train
A lady's fickle heart to gain ;
But here he knew and felt them vain.
There shot no glance from Ellen's eye.
To give her steadfast speech the lie ;
In maiden confidence she stood.
Though mantled in hercheektheblood,
And told her love with such a sigh
Of deep and hopeless agony.
As death had seal'd her Malcolm's
doom,
And she sat sorrowing on his tomb.
Hope vanish'd from Fitz-James's eye.
But not with hope fied sympathy.
He proffer'd to attend her side.
As brother would a sister guide.
• O ! little know'st thou Roderick's
heart !
Safer for both we go apart.
O haste thee, and from Allan learn.
If thou may'st trust yon wily kern.'
With hand upon his forehead laid.
The conflict of his mind to shade,
A parting step or two he made ;
Then, as some thought had cross'd his
brain.
He paused, and turn'd,and came again.
' Hear, lady, yet, a parting word !
It chanced in fight that my poor sword
Preserved the life of Scotland's lord.
This ring the grateful Monarch gave,
And bade, when I had boon to crave,
To bring it back, and boldly claim
The recompense that I would name.
Ellen, I am no courtly lord.
But one who lives by lance and sword,
246
t9,i Bo.^^ of tU ^ftfte.
[Canto
Whose castle is his lielm and shield,
His lordship the embattled field.
What from a prince can I demand,
Who neither reck of state nor land ?
Ellen, thy hand — the ring is thine ;
Each guard and usher knows the sign.
Seek thou the King without delay ;
This signet shall secure thy way ;
And claim thy suit, whate'er it be,
As ransom of his pledge to me.'
He placed the golden circlet on.
Paused, kiss'd her hand, and then was
gone.
The aged Minstrel stood aghast.
So hastily Fitz-James shot past.
He join'd his guide, and wending down
The ridges of the mountain brown,
Across the stream they took their way,
That joins Loch Katrine to Achray.
All in the Trosachs' glen was still.
Noontide was sleeping on the hill :
.Sudden his guide whoop'd loud and
high—
' Murdoch 1 was that a signal cry ?'
He stammer'd forth, ' I shout to scare
Yon raven from his dainty fare.'
He look'd, he knew the raven's prej' —
His own brave steed : — ' Ah 1 gallant
grey !
For thee, for me perchance, 'twere well
We ne'er had seen the Trosachs' dell.
Murdoch, move first — but silently ;
Whistle or whoop, and thou shalt die I '
Jealous and sullen, on they fared.
Each silent, each upon his guard.
Now wound the path its dizzy ledge
Around a precipice's edge,
When lo ! a wasted female form,
Blighted by wrath of sun and storm,
In tatter'd weeds and wild arraj*,
Stood on a cliff beside the wa}%
And glancing round her restless e\'e.
Upon the wood, the rock, the sky.
Seem'd nought to mark, yet all to
spy.
Her brow was wreath'd with gaudy
broom ;
With gesture wild she waved a plume
Of feathers, which the eagles fling
To crag and cliff from dusky w^ing ;
Such spoils her desperate step had
sought.
Where scarce was footing for the goat.
The tartan plaid she first descried,
And shriek'd till all the rocks replied ;
As loud she laugh'd when near they
drew.
For then the Lowland garb she knew ;
And then her hands she wildly wrung.
And then she wept, and then she sung.
She sung ! — the voice, in better time,
Perchance to harp or lute might chime ;
And now, though strain'd and rough-
en'd, still
Rung wildly sweet to dale and hill :
' They bid me sleep, they bid me pray.
They say my brain is warp'd and
wrung ;
I cannot sleep on Highland brae,
I cannot pray in Highland tongue.
But were I now where Allan glides,
Or heard my native Devan's tides,
.So sweetly would I rest, and pray
That Heaven would close my wintry
day!
''Twas thus m^'hair they bade me braid.
They made me to the church repair ;
It was my bridal morn, they said.
And my true love would meet me
there.
But woe betide the cruel guile,
That drown'd in blood tlie morning
smile 1
And woe betide the fairy dream !
I only waked to sob and scream.'
IV.]
ZU $rop0ecp.
247
'Who isthismaid? what ineans her lay?
She hovers o'er the hollow way,
And flutters wide her mantle grey,
As the lone heron spreads his wing.
By twilight, o'er a haunted spring.'
' 'Tis Blanche of Devan,' Murdoch said,
'A crazed and captive Lowland maid,
Ta'en on the morn she was a bride.
When Roderick foray'd Devan-sidc.
The gay bridegroom resistance made,
And feltour Chief's unconquer'd blade ;
I marvel she is now at large.
But oft she 'scapes from Maudlin's
charge.
Hence, brain-sick fool !' He raised his
bow :
' Now if thou strik'st her but one blow,
I '11 pitch thee from the cliff as far
As ever peasant pitch'd a bar !'
'Thanks, champion, thanks!' the
maniac cried,
And press'd her to Fitz-James's side ;
' .See the grey pennons I prepare
To seek my true-love through the air I
I will not lend that sa\-age groom.
To break his fall, one downy plume !
No ! deep amid disjointed stones.
The wolves shall batten on his bones,
And then shall his detested plaid.
By bush and brier in mid-air staid,
Wave forth a banner fair and free.
Meet signal for their revelry.'
' Hush thee, poor maiden, and be still 1'
' O I thou look'st kindly, and I will.
Mine eye has dried and wasted been.
But still it loves the Lincoln green ;
And, though mine ear is all unstrung,
.Still, still it loves the Lowland tongue.
' For O my sweet William was
forester true,
He stole poor Blanche's heart
away 1
His coat it was all ol the greenwood
hue.
And so blithely he trill'd the
Lowland la\'I
• It was not that I meant to tell . . .
But thou art wise and guessest well.'
Then, in a low and broken tone.
And hurried note, the song went on.
Still on the Clansman, fearfull3-.
She fix'd her apprehensive eye ;
Then turn'd it on the Knight, and then
Her look glanced wildly o'er the glen.
' The toils are pitch'd, and the stakes
are set,
Ever sing merrily, merrily;
The bows they bend, and the knives
they whet,
Hunters live so cheerily.
' It was a stag, a stag of ten.
Bearing its branches sturdily ;
He came stately down the glen.
Ever sing hardily, hardily.
' It was there he met with a wounded
doc,
.She was bleeding deathfully ;
She warn'd him of the toils below,
O, so faithfully, faithfully !
' He had an eye, and he could heed,
Ever sing warily, warily ;
He had a foot, and he could speed —
Hunters watch so narrowly."
Fitz-James's mind was passion-toss'd,
When Ellen's hints and fears werelost ;
But Murdoch's shout suspicion
wrought,
And Blanche's songconviction brought.
Not like a stag that spies the snare,
But lion of the hunt aware,
He waved at once his blade on high,
I ' Disclose thy treachery, or die I'
ZU Babp of tU B(xU.
[Canto
Forth at full speed the Clansman Hew,
But in his race his bow he drew.
Theshaftjust grazed Fitz-James'screst,
And thrill'd in Blanche's faded breast 1
Murdoch of Alpine ! prove thy speed,
Fof ne'er had Alpine's son such need !
With heart of fire, and foot of wind,
The fierce avenger is behind !
Fate judges of the rapid strife — ■
The forfeit death — the prize is life !
Thy kindred ambush lies before,
Closecouch'd upon the heathery moor;
Them couldst thou reach ! — it may
not be —
Thine ambush'd kin thou nc'ershalt see,
The fiery Saxon gains on thee !
— Resistless speeds the deadly thrust,
As lightning strikes the pine to dust;
With foot and hand Fitz-James must
strain,
Frc he can win his blade again.
Bent o'er the fall'n, with falcon eye.
He grimly smiled to see him die ;
Then slower wended back his way.
Where the poor maiden bleeding la}'.
She sate beneath the birchen- tree,
Her elbow resting on her knee ;
She had withdrawn the fatal shaft.
And gazed on it, and feebly laugh'd ;
Her wreath ofbroom and feathers grey,
Daggled with blood, beside her lay.
The Knight to stanch the life-stream
tried ;
' Stranger, it is in vain !" she cried.
' This hour of death has given me more
Of reason's power than years before ;
For, as these ebbing veins decay,
My frenzied visions fade away.
A helpless injured wretch I die.
And something tells me in thine eye,
That thou wert mine avenger born. —
Seest thou this tress ? — O ! still I 've
worn
This little tress of yellow hair.
Through danger, frcnz}-, and despair I
It once was bright and clear as thine,
But blood and tears have dimm'd its
shine.
I will not tell thee when 'twas shred,
Norfrom what guiltless victim's head —
My brain would turn ! — but it shall
wa\-e
Like plumage on thy helmet brave,
Till sun and wind shall bleach the
stain,
And thou wilt bring it me again. —
I waver still. O God ! more bright
Let reason beam her parting light !
O ! by thy knighthood's honour'd sign,
And for thy life preserved by mine,
When thou shalt sec a darksome man.
Who boasts him Chief of Alpine's
Clan,
With tartans broad, and shadowy
plume,
And hand of blood, and brow of gloom,
Be thy heart bold, thy weapon strong,
And wreak poor Blanche of Devan's
wrong !
They watch for thee by pass and
fell . . .
Avoid the path . . . O God ! . . .
farewell.'
A kindly heart had brave Fitz-James;
Fast pour'd his eyes at pity's claims ;
And now, with mingled grief and ire,
He saw the murder'd maid expire.
' God, in my need, be my relief,
As I wreak this on yonder Chief!'
A lock from Blanche's tresses fair
Heblended with her bridegroom's hair ;
The mingled braid in blood he dyed.
And placed it on his bonnet-side :
' By Him whose word is truth ! I swear,
No other favour will I wear.
Till this sad token I imbrue
In the best blood of Roderick Dim !
Buthark ! whatmeansyon fainthalloo?
The chase is up; but they shall know.
The stag at bay 's a dangerous foe.'
iv.i
ZU (pto^j^ec^.
249
Barr'd from the known but guarded
way,
Through copse and diffs Fitz-Jaines
must stray,
Andot'tmustchangehis desperate track,
By stream and precipice turn'd back.
Heartless, fatigued, and faint, at length,
From lack of food and loss of strength,
He couch'd him in a thicket hoar,^
And thought his toils and perils o'er:
• Of all my rash adventures past.
This frantic feat must prove the last !
Whoe'ersomad but might haveguess'd.
That all this Highland hornet's nest
Would muster up in swarms so soon
As e'er they heard of bands at Doune!
Like bloodhounds now they search
me out, —
Hark, to the whistle and the shout ! —
If farther through the wilds I go,
I only fall upon the foe :
I'll couch me here till evening grey.
Then darkling try my dangerous way.'
XXIX.
The shades of eve come slowly down,
The woods are wrapt in deeper brown,
The owl awakens from her dell,
The fox is heard upon the fell ;
Enough remains of glimmering light
To guide the wanderer's steps aright.
Yet not enough from far to show
His figure to the watchful foe.
With cautious step, and ear awake.
He climbs the crag and threads the
brake ;
And not the .summer solstice, there,
Temper'd the midnight mountain air,
But every breeze, that swept the wold,
Benumb'd his drenched limbs with
cold.
In dread, in danger, and alone,
Famish'd and chill'd, through ways
unknown.
Tangled and steep, he jourucy'd on ;
Till, as a rock's huge point he turn'd,
A watch-fire close before him burn'd.
XXX.
Beside its embers red and clear,
Bask'd in his plaid a mountaineer ;
And up he sprungwith sword in hand,—
'Thy name and purpose! Saxon,
standi'
'A stranger.' 'What dost thou re-
quire T
' Rest and a guide, and food and fire.
My life's beset, my path is lost.
The gale has chill'd my limbs with frost.'
'Artthou a friend to Roderick?' 'No.'
'Thou darest not call thyself a foe?'
' I dare ! to him and all the band
He brings to aid his murderous hand.'
'Bold words! but, though the beast
of game
The privilege of chase may claim,
Thoughspaceandlawthestagwelend,
Ere hound we slip, or bow we bend,
Who ever reck'd, where, how, or when.
The prowling fox was trapp'd or slain?
Thus treacherous scouts,— yet sure
they lie
Who say thou cam'st a secret spy ! '
' They do, by heaven ! Come Roderick
Dhu,
And of his clan the boldest two.
And let me but till morning rest,
I write the falsehood on their crest.'
' If by the blaze I mark aright.
Thou bear'st the belt and spur of
Knight.'
'Then by these tokens maycst thou
know
Each proud oppressor's mortal foe.'
' Enough, enough ; sit down and share
A soldier's couch, a soldier's fare.'
He gave him of his Highland cheer,
The harden'd flesh of mountain deer ;
Dry fuel on the fire he laid.
And bade the Saxon share his plaid.
He tended him like welcome guest,
Then thus his farther speech addrcss'd :
250
ZU ;Sabp of iU Bafte.
[Canto
'Stranger, I am to Roderick Dhu
A clansman born, a kinsman true.;
Each word against his honour spoke,
Demands of me avenging stroke ;
Yet more, — upon thy fate, 'tis said,
A mighty augury is laid.
It rests with me to ■wind my horn, —
Thou art with numbers overborne ;
It rests with me, here, brand to brand,
Worn as thou art, to bid thee stand :
But, not for clan, nor kindred's cause.
Will I depart from honour's laws ;
To assail a wearied man were shame,
And stranger is a holy name ;
Guidance and rest, and food and fire,
In vain he never must require.
Then rest thee here till dawn of day ;
Myself will guide thee on the way.
O'er stock and stone, through watch
and ward.
Till past Clan- Alpine's outmost guard,
As far as Coilantogle's ford ;
From thence thy warrant is thj^sword.'
' I take thy courtesy, by heaven,
As freely as 'tis nobly given ! '
' Well, rest thee ; for the bittern's cry
Sings us the lake's wild lullaby.'
With that he shook the gather'd heath.
And spread his plaid upon the wreath ;
And the brave foemen, side by side,
Lay peaceful down, like brothers tried,
And slept until the dawning beam
Purpled the mountain and the stream.
Canto Fifth.
Z?>i Comfiaf.
Fair as the earliest beam of eastern
light,
When first, bj' the bcwildcr'd pil-
grim spied.
It smiles upon the dreary brow of night,
And silvers o'er thetorrent'sfoaming
tide,
And lights the fearful path on moun-
tain side, —
Fair as that beam, although the
fairest far,
Giving to horror grace, to danger
pride,
Shine martial Faith, and Courtesy's
bright star.
Through all the wreckful storms that
cloud the brow of War.
That early beam, so fair and sheen,
Was twinkling through the hazel
screen.
When, rousing at its glimmer red,
The warriors left their lowly bed,
Look'd out upon the dappled sky,
Mutter'd their soldier matins by.
And then awaked their fire, to steal,
As short and rude, their soldier meal.
That o'er, the Gael around him threw
His graceful plaid of varied hue,
And, true to promise, led the way,
By thicket green and mountain grey.
A wildering path ! they winded now
Along the precipice's brow,
Commanding the rich scenes beneath.
The windings of the Forth and Teith,
And all the vales beneath that lie,
Till Stirling's turrets melt in sky;
Then, sunk in copse, their farthest
glance
Gain'd not the length of horseman's
lance.
'Twas oft so steep, the foot was fain
Assistance from the hand to gain ;
So tangled oft, that, bursting through.
Each hawthorn shed her showers of
devv', —
That diamond dew, so pure and clear.
It rivals all but Beauty's tear.'
jVI length thcj' came where, stern and
steep,
The hill sinks ilown upon the deep.
v.]
ZU tomUt
2gl
Here Vennachar in silver ilows,
There, ridge on ridge, Bcnledi rose ;
Ever tlie liollow path twined on,
Beneath steep bank and threatening
stone ;
An hundred men might liold tlie post
Witli liardihood against a liost.
Tlic rugged mountain's scanty cloalc
Was dwarfish shrubs of bircli and oak.
With shingles bare, and clifl's between,
And patches bright of bracken green,
And heather black, that waved so high,
It held the copse in rivalry.
But where the lake slept deep and still,
Dank osiers fringed the swamp and hill;
And oft both path and hill were torn,
Where wintry torrents down had
borne,
And heap'd upon the cumber'd land
Its wreck of gravel, rocks, and sand.
.So toilsome was the road to trace,
The guide, abating of his pace.
Led slowly through the pass's jaws,
i\nd ask'd Fitz-James, by what strange
cause
He sought these wilds, traversed by
few.
Without a pass from Roderick Dhu.
'Brave Gael, my pass in danger tried,
Hangs in my belt, and by my side ;
Yet, sooth to tell,' the Saxon said,
' I dreamt not now to claim its aid.
When here, but three da^-s since,
I came.
Bewilder'd in pursuit of game,
All seem'd as peaceful and as still
As the mist slumbering on yon hill ;
Thj- dangerous Chief was then afar,
Nor soon expected back from war.
Thus said, at least, my mountain-
guide.
Though deep, perchance, the villain
lied."
' Yet why a second venture try ? '
' A warrior thou, and ask me why ]
Moves our free course by such fix'd
cause
As gives the poor mechanic laws ?
Enough, I sought to drive away
The lazy hours of peaceful day ;
Slight cause will then suffice to guide
A Knight's free footsteps far and
wide, —
A falcon flown, a greyhound stra\'"d,
The mcrrj^ glance of mountain maid:
Or, if a path be dangerous known,
The danger's self is lure alone.'
V.
'Thy secret keep, I urge thee not;
Yet, ere again ye sought this spot,
Say, heard ye nought of Lowland war.
Against Clan-Alpine, raised by Mar?'
' No, by my word ; — of bands prepared
To guard King James's sports I heard ;
Nor doubt I aught, but, when theyhcar
This muster of the mountaineer,
Their pennons will abroad be Hung,
Which else in Doune had peaceful
hung.'
' Free be they flung! for we were lolli
Their silken folds should least the moth.
Free be they flung ! as free shall wave
Clan-Alpine's pine in banner brave.
But, Stranger, peaceful since you came,
Bewilder'd in the mountain game.
Whence the bold boast liy which ^'uu
show
Vich- Alpine's vow'd and mortal foe 1 '
' Warrior, but yester-morn, I knew
Nought of thy Chieftain, Roderick
Dim,
•Save as an outlaw'd desperate man.
The chief of a rebellious clan.
Who, in the Regent's court and sight,
With ruffian dagger stabb'd a knight :
Yet this alone might from his part
Sever each true and loyal heart.'
VI.
Wrothful at such arraignment foul.
Dark lower'd the clansman's sable
scowl.
!52
ZU Bal^ of tU Bafte.
[Canto
A space he paused, then sternly said,
'And heard'st thou why he drew his
blade ?
Heard'st thou that shameful word and
blow
Brought Roderick's vengeance on his
foe?
What reck'd the Chieftain if he stood
On Highland heath, or Holy-Rood ?
He rights suchwrongwhereit is given,
If it were in the court of heaven.'
' Still was it outrage ; — yet, 'tis true,
Not then claim'd sovereignty his due ;
While Albany, with feeble hand,
Held borrow'd truncheon of command,
The j'oung King, mew'd in Stirling
tower,
Was stranger to respect and power.
But then, thy Chieftain's robber life !
Winning mean prey b^^ causelessstrife,
Wrenchingfrom ruin'd Lowland swain
His herds and harvest reared in vain.
Methinks a soul, like thine, should
scorn
The spoils from such foul foray borne.'
The Gael beheld him grim the while,
And answer'd with disdainful smile,
'.Saxon, from 3'onder mountain high,
I mark'd thee send delighted eye,
Far to the south and east, where lay,
Extended in succession gay,
Deep waving fields and pastures green.
With gentle slopes and groves be-
tween :
These fertile plains, that soften'd vale.
Were once the birthright of the Gael ;
The stranger came with iron hand,
And from our fathers reft the land.
Where dwell we now? See, rudely
swell
Crag over crag, and fell o'er fell.
Ask we this savage hill we tread,
For fatten'd steer or household bread ;
Ask we for flocks these shingles dry.
And well the mountain might reply, — ■
" To you, as to your sires of yore,
Belong the target and claymore !
I give you shelter in my breast,
Your own good blades must win the
rest."
Pent in this fortress of the North,
Think'st thou we will not sally forth,
To spoil the spoiler as we may,
And from the robber rend the prey?
A}', by my soul ! While on yon plain
The .Saxon rears one shock of grain.
While of ten thousand herds there
strays
But one along yon rivei''s maze,
The Gael, of plain and river heir,
.Shall with strong hand redeem his
share.
Where live the mountain Chiefs who
hold,
That plundering Lowland field and fold
Is aught but retribution true ?
Seek other cause 'gainst Roderick
Dhu.'
Answer'd Fitz-James,' And, if I sought,
Think'st thou no other could be
brought ?
What deem ye of my path waylaid ?
My life given o'er to ambuscade ?'
' As of a meed to rashness due :
Hadst thou sent warning fair and true —
I seek my hound, or falcon stray'd,
I seek, good faith, a Highland maid —
Free hadst thou been to come and go ;
But secret path marks secret foe.
Nor yet, for this, even as a spy,
Hadst thou unheard been doom'd to
die,
Save to fulfil an augury.'
' Well, let it pass ; nor will I now
Fresh cause of enmity avow.
To chafe thy mood and cloud thy brow.
Enough, I am by promise tied
To match me with this man of pride :
Twice have I sought Clan-Alpine's glen
In peace ; but when I come agen,
v.]
ZU Cotttfiaf.
253
I come with banner, brand, and bow,
As leader seeks his mortal foe.
For love-lorn swain, in lad3''s bower
Ne'er panted for the appointed hour,
As I, until before me stand
This rebel Chieftain and his band ! '
' Have, then, thy wish ! ' He whistled
shrill,
And he was answer'd from the hill ;
Wild as the scream of the curlew.
From crag to crag the signal flew.
Instant, through copse and heath,
arose
Bonnets and spears and bended bows ;
On right, on left, above, below,
Sprung up at once the lurking foe ;
From shingles grey their lances start,
The bracken bush sends forth the
dart,
The rushes and the willow-wand
Are bristling into axe and brand,
And every tuft of broom gives life
To plaided warrior arm"d for strife.
That whistle garrison'd the glen
At once with full five hundred men,
As if the 3'awning hill to heaven
A subterranean host had given.
Watching their leader's beck and will.
All silent there they stood, and still.
Like the loose crags, whose threatening
mass
Lay tottering o'er the hollow pass,
As if an infant's touch could urge
Their headlong passage down the
verge,
With step and weapon forward flung,
LTpon the mountain-side they hung.
The Mountaineer cast glance of pride
Along Benledi's living side.
Then fix'd his e3'e and sable brow
Full on Fitz-James — ' How say'st thou
now ?
These are Clan-Alpine's warriors
true;
And, Saxon, — I am Roderick Dhu!'
Fitz-James was brave. Though to his
heart
The life-blood thrill'dwith sudden start,
He mann'd himself with dauntless air,
Return'd the Chief his haughty' stare,
His back against a rock he bore,
And firmly placed his foot before :
'Come one, comeall ! this rock shall i]y
From its firm base as soon as L'
Sir Roderick mark'd, and in his ej'cs
Respect was mingled with surprise,
And the stern joy which warriors feel
In foemen worthy of their steel.
Short space he stood, then waved his
hand :
Down sunk the disappearing band ;
Each warrior vanish'd where he stood.
In broom or bracken, heath or wood :
Sunkbrandand spear and bended bow.
In osiers pale and copses low ;
It seem'd as if their mother Earth
Had swallow'd up her warlike birth.
The wind's last breath had toss'd in air
Pennon, and plaid, and plumage fair;
The next but swept a lone hill-side,
Where heath and fern were waving
wide :
The sun's last glance was glinted back,
From spear and glaive, from targe and
jack ;
The next, all unreflected, shone
On bracken green and cold gre\' stone
XI.
Fitz-James look'd round, \-et scarce
believed
The witness that his sight received ;
Such apparition well might seem
Delusion of a dreadful dream.
Sir Roderick in suspense he eyed,
And to his look the Chief replied,
* Fear nought — nay, that I need not
say-
But doubt not aught from mine arra^'.
Thou art my guest; I pledged mj' word
As far as Coilantogle ford :
'^4
tU Bdti^ of tU :Bafte.
[Canto
Nor wovild I call a clansman's brand
For aid against one valiant hand,
Though on our strife la}' every vale
Rent by the Saxon from the Gael.
So move we on ; I only meant
Toshowthe reed on which you leant,
Deeming this path you might pursue
Without a pass from Roderick Dhu.'
They moved. I said Fitz-James was
brave
As ever knight that belted glaive.
Yet dare not say that now his blood
Kept on its wont and temper'd flood,
AsjfollowingRoderick's stride, he drew
That seeming lonesome pathway
through,
Which yet, by fearful proof, was rife
With lances, that, to take his life.
Waited but signal from a guide
So late dishonour'd and defied.
Ever, by stealth, his eye sought round
The vanish'd guardians of the ground,
And still, from copse and heather deep,
Fancysawspear and broadsword peep,
And in the plover's shrilly strain,
The signal-whistle heard again.
Nor breathed he free till far behind
The pass was left ; for then thej' wind
Along a wide and level green,
Where neither tree nor tuft was seen,
Nor rush nor bush of broom was near,
To hide a bonnet or a spear.
The Chief in silence strode before.
And reach'd that torrent's sounding
shore.
Which, daughter of three mighty lakes,
From Vennachar in silver breaks,
Sweeps through the plain, and cease-
less mines
On Bochastle the mouldering lines.
Where Rome, the Empress ofthe world,
Of yore her eagle wings unfurl'd.
And here his course the Chieftain staid.
Threw down his target and his plaid.
And to the Lowland warrior said :
' Bold Saxon 1 to his promise just,
Vich-Alpine has discharged his trust.
This murderous Chief, this ruthless
man.
This head of a rebellious clan,
ilath led thee safe, through watch and
ward.
Far past Clan-Alpine's outmost guard.
Now man to man, and steel to steel,
A Chieftain's vengeance thou shalt feel.
See here, all vantageless I stand,
Arm'd like thj-self with single brand :
For this is Coilantogle ford.
And thou must keep thee with thy
sword.'
The Saxon paused : ' I ne'er delay'd,
When foeman bade me draw^ mj^ blade ;
Nay, more, brave Chief, I vow'd thj- j.
death ;
Yet sure thy fair and generous faith,
And my deep debt for life preserved,
A better meed have well deserved :
Can nought but blood our feud atone •
Are there no means?' • No, Stranger,
none !
And hear, to fire thy flagging zeal, —
The Saxon cause rests on thy steel ;
For thus spoke Fate, bj' prophet bred
Between the living and the dead :
"Who spills the foremost foeman's life
His party conquers in the strife."'
'Then, by my word," the Saxon said,
' The riddle is already read.
Seek yonder brake beneath the cliff;
TliereliesRedMurdochjStarkandstiff.
Thus Fate has solved her prophecj'.
Then yield to Fate, and not to me.
To James, at Stirling, let us go.
When, if thou wilt be still his foe.
Or if the King shall not agree
To grant thee grace and favour free,
I ]5light mine honour, oath, and word,
Tliat, to thy native strengths restored.
With each advantage shalt thou stand,
j That aids thee now, to guard thy land."
ZU tomUt
255
Dark liglitning flashVi from Roderick's
eye :
' Soars thy presumption, then, so high,
Because a wretched kern ye slew,
Homage to name to Roderick Dhu ?
He yields not, he, to man nor Fate !
Thou add'st but fuel to my hate :
My clansman's blood demands revenge.
Not yet prepared ? By heaven, I change
My thought, and hold thy valour light
As that of some vain carpet knight.
Who ill deserved my courteous care,
And whose best boast is but to wear
A braid of his fair lady's hair.'
' I thank thee, Roderick, for the word !
It nerves my heart, it steels my sword ;
For I have sworn this braid to stain
In the best blood that warms thy vein.
Now, truce, farewell ! and, ruth,
begone !
Yet think not that by thee alone,
Proud Chief! can courtesy be shown ;
Though not from copse, or heath, or
cairn,
Start at my whistle clansmen stern.
Of this small horn one feeble blast
Would fearful odds against thee cast.
But fear not, doubt not — which thou
wilt—
We try this quarrel hilt to hilt.'—
Then each at once his falchion drew,
Each on the ground his scabbard threw,
Each look'd to sun, and stream, and
plain.
As what he ne'er might see again ;
Then foot, and point, and eye opposed,
In dubious strife they darkly closed.
XV.
Ill fared it then with Roderick Dhu,
That on the field his targe he threw,
Whose brazen studs and tough bull-
hide
Had death so often dash'd aside ;
For, train'd abroad his arms to%vield,
Fitz-James's blade was sword and
shield.
He practised every pass and ward.
To thrust, to strike, to A int, to guard ;
While less expert, though stronger
far,
The Gael maintain'd unequal war.
Three times in closing strife they stood,
And thrice the Saxon blade drank
blood ;
No stinted draught, no scanty tide,
The gushing flood the tartans dyed.
Fierce Roderick felt the fatal drain,
And shower'd his blows like wintry
rain ;
And, as firm rock, or castle-roof,
Against the winter shower is proof.
The foe, invulnerable still,
Foil'd his wild rage by steady skill ;
Till, at adv-antage ta'en, his brand
Forced Roderick's weapon from his
hand.
And backward borne upon the lea,
Brought the proud Chieftain to his
knee.
XVI.
' Now, yield thee, orby Him vvhomade
The world, thy heart's blood dyes m}'
blade ! '
• Thy threats, thy merc^', I def3- 1
Let recreant 3'ield, who fears to die.'
Like adder darting from his coil.
Like wolf that dashes through the toil.
Like mountain-cat who guards her
young.
Full at Fitz-James's throat he sprung;
Received, but reck'd not of a wound.
And lock'd his arms his foeman round.
Now, gallant Saxon, hold thine own 1
No maiden's hand is round thee thrown !
That desperate grasp thj'' frame might
feel
Through bars of brass and triple steel !
They tug, they strain ! down, down
they go.
The Gael above, Fitz-James below.
The Chieftain's gripe his throat
compress'd.
His knee was plan-ted in his breast;
2=;6
ZU BcCt^ of tU ^A^it.
[Canto
His clotted locks he backward threw,
Across his brow his hand he drew,
From blood and mist to clear his sight,
Then gleam'd aloft his dagger bright '
But hate and fury ill supplied
The stream of life's exhausted tide.
And all too late the advantage came.
To turn the odds of deadly game ;
For, while the dagger gleam'd on high,
Reel'd soul and sense, reel'd brain
and eye.
Down came the blow — but in the heath ;
The erring blade found bloodless
sheath.
The struggling foe may now unclasp
The fainting Chiefs relaxing grasp ;
Unwounded from the dreadful close.
But breathless all, Fitz-James arose.
He falter'd thanks to Heaven fo'- ' .c,
Redeem'd, unhoped, from desperate
strife ;
Next on his foe his look he cast.
Whose every gasp appear'd his last ;
In Roderick's gore he dipt the braid — •
' Poor Blanche ! thy wrongs are dearly
paid :
Yet with thy foe must die, or live,
The praise that Faith and Valour give.'
With that he blew a bugle-note.
Undid the collar from his throat,
Unbonneted, and by the wave
Sate down his brow and hands to lave.
Then faint afar are heard the feet
Of rushing steeds in gallop fleet ;
Thesounds increase, and now are seen
Fourmountedsquiresin Lincolngreen ;
Two who bear lance, and two who lead,
By loosen'd rein, a saddled steed ;
Each onward held his headlongcourse.
And by Fitz-James rein'd up his horse.
With wonder view'd the bloody spot —
— ' Exclaim not, gallants ! question not.
You. Herbert and Luffness, alight,
Andbindthewoundsofj-onder knight;
Let the grey palfrey bear his weight.
We destined for a fairer freight.
And bring him on to Stirling straight ;
1 will before at better speed.
To seek fresh horse and fitting weed.
The sun rides high ; I must be boune,
To see the archer-game at ncJon ;
But lightly Bayard clears the lea.
De Vaux and Herries, follow me.
'Stand, Baj-ard, stand!' The steed
obey'd,
With arching neck and bended head,
And glancing eye and quivering ear.
As if he loved his lord to hear.
No foot Fitz-James in stirrup staid,
No grasp upon the saddle laid.
But wreath'd his left hand in the mane,
And lightly bounded from the plain,
Turn'd on the horse his armed heel,
And stirr'd his courage with the steel
Bounded the fiery steed in air,
The rider sate erect and fair.
Then like a bolt from steel crossbow
Forth launch'd, along the plain the\'
go.^
Theydash'd that rapid torrent through.
And up Carhonie's hill they flew ;
Still at the gallop prick'd the Knight,
His merry-men follow'd as they might.
Along thy banks, swift TeithI they
ride.
And in the race they mock thy tide ;
Torry and Lendrick now are past,
And Deanstown lies behind them cast ;
They rise, the banner'd towers of
Doune,
They sink in distant woodland soon ;
Blair-Drummond sees the hoofs strike
fire,
They sweep like breeze througli
Ochtertyre ;
They mark just glance and disappear
The lofty brow of ancient Kier ;
They bathe their courser's sweltering
sides,
Dark Forth ! amid thy sluggish tides,
ZU £:om6af.
!57
And on the opposing shore takeground,
With plash, with scramble, and with
bound.
Right-hand they leave thy clifis, Craig-
Forth !
And soon the bulwark of the North,
Grey Stirling, with her towers and
town.
Upon their fleet career look'd down.
XIX.
As up the flinty path they strain'd
Sudden his steed the leader rein'd ;
A signal to his squire he flung,
Who instant to his stirrup sprung :
' Scest thou, De Vaux, yon woodsman
gi'ey,
Who town-ward holds the rocky waj^
Of stature tall and poor array ?
Mark'st thou the firm, j'et active stride,
With which he scales the mountain-
side ?
Know'st thou from whence he comes,
or \vhom ? '
' No, by my word ; a burly groom
He seems, who in the field or chase
A baron's train would nobly grace.'
' Out, out, De Vaux ! can fear supplj',
And jealousy, no sharper eye ?
Afar, ere to the hill he drew,
That statel3' form and step I knew ;
Like form in Scotland is not seen,
Treads not such step on Scottish green.
'Tis James of Douglas, b}' .Saint .Serle !
The uncle of the banish'd Earl,
Awa}-, awa}' to court, to show
The near approach of dreaded foe :
The King must stand upon his guard ;
Douglas and he must meet prepared.'
Then right-hand \vheerd their steeds,
and straight
They won the castle's postern gate,
XX.
The Douglas, who had bent his way
From Cambus-Kenneth's abbey gre3%
Now, as he climb'd the rockj' shelf.
Held sad communion with himself:
' Vcs I all is true my fears could frame ;
A prisoner lies the noble Graeme,
And fiery Roderick soon will feel
The vengeance of the royal steel.
I, only I, can ward their fate ;
God grant the ransom come not late !
The y\bbess hath her promise given
My child shall be the bride of Heaven ;
Be pardon'd one repining tear!
For He who gave her knows how
dear.
How excellent — but that is by.
And now my business is to die.
Ye towers I within whose circuit dread
A Douglas bj^ his sovereign bled ;
And thou, O sad and fatal mound 1
That oft hast heard the death-axe sound,
As on the noblest of the land
Fell the stern headsman's bloody hand,
The dungeon, block, and nameless
tomb
Prepare, for Douglas seeks his doom !
But hark 1 what blithe and jolly peal
Makes the Franciscan steeple reel ?
And see ! upon the crowded street,
In motley groups what masquers meet!
Banner and pageant, pipe and drum.
And merry morrice-danccrs come.
I guess, b^^ all this quaint array.
The burghers hold their sports to-da}-.
James will be there ; he loves such
show.
Where the good j'eoman bends hisbow,
And the tough wrestler foils his foe,
As well as where, in proud career.
The high-born filter shivers spear.
Fll follow to the Castle-park,
And plaj' my prize ; King James shall
mark
If age has tamed these sinews stark.
Whose force so oft, in happier days,
His boyish wonder loved to praise.'
The Castle gates were open flung.
The quivering dra^vbridge rock'd and
rung,
258
Z^t Baip of tU Ba6e.
[Canto
And echo'd loud the flinty street
Beneath the coursers' clattering feet,
As slowly down the steep descent
Fair Scotland's King and nobles went,
While all along the crowded way
"Was jubilee and loud huzza.
And ever James was bending low
To his white jennet's saddle-bow,
Doffing his cap to city dame,
Who smiled and blush'd for pride and
shame.
And well the simperer might be vain ;
He chose the fairest of the train.
Gravely he greets each city sire,
Commends each pageant'squaint attire,
Gives to the dancers thanks aloud,
And smiles and nods upon the crowd,
Who rend the heavens with their
acclaims,
'Long live the Commons' King, King
James !'
Behind the King throng'd peer and
knight,
And noble dame and damsel bright.
Whose fiery steeds ill brook'd the staj''
Of the steep street and crowded way.
But in the train you might discern
Dark lowering brow and visage stern ;
There nobles mourn'd their pride re-
strain'd,
And the mean burgher's joys disdain'd;
And chiefs, who, hostage for their clan,
Were each from home a banish'd man.
There thought upon their own grey
tower,
Their waving woods, their feudal
power.
And deem'd themselvesashameful part
Of pageant which they cursed in heart.
Now, in the Castle-park, drew out
Their chequer'd bands the joyous rout.
There morricers, with bell at heel.
And blade in hand, their mazes wheel ;
But chief, beside the butts, there stand
J-^old Robin Hood and all his band —
Friar Tuck with quarterstafFand cowl.
Old Scathclocke with his surly scowl,
Maid Marion, fair as ivory bone,
Scarlet, and Mutch, and Little John ;
Their bugles challenge all that will,
In archery to prove their skill.
The Douglas bent a bow of might ;
His first shaft centered in the white.
And when in turn he shot again,
His second split the first in twain.
From the King's hand must Douglas
take
A silver dart, the archer's stake ;
Fondl}' he watch'd, with watery' eye,
Some answering glance of sympathy;
No kind emotion made reply !
Indifferent as to archer wight,
The monarch gave the arrow bright.
Now. clear the ring! for, hand to
hand.
The manly wrestlers take their stand.
Two o'er the rest superior rose.
And proud demanded mightier foes,
Nor call'd in vain ; for Douglas came.
— For life is Hugh of Larbert lame ;
Scarce better John of Alloa's fare.
Whom senseless home his comrades
bear.
Prize of the wrestling match, the King
To Douglas gave a golden ring.
While coldly glanced his eye of blue,
As frozen drop of wintry dew.
Douglas would speak, but in his breast
His struggling soul his words sup-
press'd ;
Indignant then he turn'd him where
Their arms the brawny yeomen bare,
To hurl the massive bar in air.
When each his utmost strength had
shown,
The Douglas rent an earth-fast stone
From its deep bed, then heaved ithigh.
And sent the fragment through the sky
A rood bej-ond the farthest mark.
And still in Stirling's royal park.
V.J
ZU tomint.
259
The grey-hair'd sires, who know the
past,
To strangers point the Douglas-cast,
And moralize on the decay
Of Scottish strength in modern day.
XXIV.
The vale with loud applauses rang,
The Ladies' Rock sent back the clang.
The King, with look unmoved, be-
stow'd
A purse well-fill'd with pieces broad.
Indignant smiled the Douglas proud.
And threw the gold among the crowd,
Who now, with anxious wonder, scan,
And sharper glance, the dark grey
man ;
Till whispers rose among the throng.
That heart so free, and hand so strong,
Must to the Douglas blood belong;
The old men mark'd, and shook the
head.
To see his hair with silver spread ;
And wink'd aside, and told each son.
Of feats upon the English done.
Ere Douglas of the stalwart hand
Was exiled from his native land.
The women praised his stately form.
Though vvreck'd by many a winter's
storm ;
The youth with awe and wonder saw
His strength surpassing Nature's law.
Thusjudged,as is their wont, the crowd.
Till murmur rose to clamours loud.
But not a glance from that proud ring
Of peers, who circled round the King,
With Douglas held communion kind.
Or call'd the banish'd man to mind ;
No, not from those who, at the chase,
Once held his side the honour d place.
Begirt his board, and, in the field.
Found safety underneath his shield ;
For he, whom roj'al eyes disown.
When was his form to courtiers
known !
XXV.
The Monarch saw the gambols flag,
And bade let loose a gallant stag.
Whose pride, the holiday to crown.
Two favourite gre3'hounds should pull
down,
That venison free, and Bourdeaux
wine.
Might serve the archery to dine.
But Lufra, whom from Douglas' side
Nor bribe nor threat could e'er divide,
The fleetest hound in all the North,
Brave Lufra saw, and darted forth.
She left the royal hounds mid-waj-.
And dashing on the antler'd pvey.
Sunk her sharp muzzle in his flank.
And deep the flowing life-blood drank.
The King's stout huntsman saw the
sport
By strange intruder broken short,
Came up, and with his leash unbound.
In anger struck the noble hound.
The Douglas had endured, that morn,
The King's cold look, the nobles'
scorn.
And last, and worst to spirit proud,
Had borne the pity of the crowd ;
But Lufra had been fondly bred.
To share his board, to watch his bed.
And oft would Ellen Lufra's neck
In maiden glee with garlands deck ;
They were such playmates, that with
name
Of Lufra, Ellen's image came.
His stifled wrath is brimming high,
In darken'd brow and flashing eye ;
As waves before the bark divide.
The crowd gave way before his stride ;
Needs but a bufifet and no more.
The groom lies senseless in his gore.
Such blow no other hand could deal,
Though gauntleted in glove of steel.
Then clamour'd loud the royal train,
And brandish'd swords and staves
amain.
But stern the Baron's warning —
' Back !
Back, on your lives, ye menial pack !
K 2
26o
ZU :Sa^p of tU Bafte.
[Canto
Beware the Douglas. Yes ! behold,
King James ! the Douglas, doom'd of
"old.
And vainly sought for near and far,
A victim to atone the %var,
A willing victim, no^v attends,
N or craves thj' grace but for his friends.'
' Thus is mj' clemency repaid ?
Presumptuous Lord 1 ' the monarch
said ;
'Of thy mis-proud ambitious clan,
Thou, JamesofBothwell.wert the man,
The only man, in whom a foe
Mj' woman-mercj'- would not know :
But shall a Monarch's presence brook
Injurious blow, and haughty look?
"What ho I the Captain of our Guard !
Give the offender fitting ward.
Break off" the sports I' — for tumult rose.
And yeomen 'gan to bend their bows.
'Break oft" the sports!' he said, and
frown'd,
'And bid our liorsemen clear the
groimd."
x.wn.
Then uproar wild and misarray
Marr'd the fair form of festal day.
The horsemen prick'd among the
crowd,
Repell'd by threats and insult loud ;
To earth are borne the old and weak.
The timorous fly, the women shriek ;
With flint, with shaft, with staff", with
bar.
The hardier urge tumultuous war.
At once round Douglas darkly sweep
The royal spears in circle deep.
And slowly scale the pathway steep;
While on the rear in thunder pour
The rabble with disorder'd roar.
With grief the noble Douglas saw
The Commons rise against the law.
And to the leading soldier said,
• Sir JohnofHj-ndford 1 'twas my blade
That knighthood on thy shoulder laid ;
For that good deed, permit me then
A word with these misguided men.
XXVIII.
'Hear, gentle friends 1 ere yet for me,
Ye break the bands of fealty.
My life, my honour, and my cause,
I tender free to Scotland's laws.
Are these so weak as must require
The aid of your misguided ire?
Or, if I suflfer causeless wrong.
Is then my selfish rage so strong,
My sense of public weal so low.
That, for mean vengeance on a foe,
Those cords of love I should unbind.
Which knit mj' country and my kind ?
Oh no I Belie\-e, in yonder tower
It will not soothe my captive hour
To know those spears our foes should
dread
For me in kindred gore are red ;
To know, in fruitless brawl begun,
For me that mother wails her son ;
For me that widow's mate expires;
For me that orphans weep their sires ;
That patriots mourn insulted laws.
And curse the Douglas for the cause.
O let your patience ward such ill,
And keep 3'our right to love me still I
XXIX.
The crowd's wild furj' sunk again
In tears, as tempests melt in rain.
With lifted hands and eyes, theypray'd
For blessings on his generous head,
Who for his country felt alone.
And prized her blood beyond his own.
Old men, upon the verge of life,
Bless'd him who staid the civil strife:
And mothers held their babes on high.
The self-devoted Chief to spy.
Triumphant over wrongs and ire.
To whom the prattlers owed a sire :
Even the rough soldier's heart \vas
moved ;
As if behind some bier beloved,
With trailing arms and drooping head.
The Douglas up the hill he led.
And at the Castle's battled verge.
With sighs resign'd his honour'd
charge.
v.]
Z^t tomUi.
261
The ofl'eiidcd Monarch rode apart.
With bitter thought and swelling heart,
And ^\■ould not now vouchsafe again
Through Stirling streets to lead his
train.
' O Lennox, who would wish to rule
This changeling crowd, this common
fool?
Hear'st thou,' he said, ' the loud
acclaim.
With which they shout the Douglas
name ?
With like acclaim, the vulgar throat
Strain'd for King James their morning
note ;
With like acclaim thej' hail'd the day
When first I broke the Douglas' sway ;
And like acclaim would Douglas greet,
If he could hurl me from m\' seat.
Who o'er the herd would wish to reign.
Fantastic, fickle, fierce, and vain ?
Vain as the leaf upon the stream.
And fickle as a changeful dream ;
I'antastic as a woman's mood,
.'\nd fierce as Frenz\-"s fever'd blood.
Thou many-headed monster-thing,
O who would wish to be thy king !
Your grace will hear of battle fought;
But earnestly the Earl besought.
Till for such danger he provide,
With scantv train vou will not ride.'
'Thou warn'st me I have done amiss;
I should have earlier look'd to this:
I lost it in this bustling day.
Retrace with speed thy former way ;
Spare not for spoiling of thy steed.
The best of mine shall be thy meed.
.Say to our faithful Lord of Mar,
We do forbid the intended war :
Roderick, this morn, in single fight,
Was made our prisoner by a knight ;
And Douglas hath himself and cause
Submitted to our kingdom's laws.
The tidings of their leaders lost
Will soon dissolve the mountain host.
Nor would we that the vulgar feel,
For their Chief's crimes, avengingslcel.
Bear Mar our message, Braco : fly! '
He turn'd his steed, — ' My liege, I hie,
Yet, ere I cross this lih' lawn,
I fear the broadswords will be drawn.'
The turf the fl3'ing courser spurn'd.
And to his towers the King return 'd.
'But soft! what messenger of speed
Spurs hitherward his panting steed ?
1 guess his cognizance afar —
What from our cousin, John of Mar?'
■ He prays, my liege, your sports keep
bound
Within the safe and guarded ground:
For some foul purpose yet unknown —
Most sure for evil to the throne —
The outlaw'd Chieftain, Roderick Dhu,
Mas summon'd his rebellious crew ;
'Tis said, in James of Bothwell's aid
These loose banditti stand array'd.
The Earl of Mar, this morn, from
Doune,
To break their muster march'd, and
soon
111 with King James's mood, that day,
.Suited gay feast and minstrel la}' ;
Soon were dismiss'd the courtl}' throng.
And soon cut short the festal song.
Nor less upon the sadden'd town
The evening sunk in sorrow down.
The burghers spoke of civil jar.
Of rumour'd feuds and mountain war,
Of Moray, Mar, and Roderick Dhu,
Ail up in arms : — the Douglas too,
The\'mourn'd him pent within the hold
' Where stout Earl William was of old,'
And there his word the speaker staid,
And finger on his lip he laid.
Or pointed to his dagger blade.
But jaded horsemen, from the west,
At evening to the Castle press'd ;
262
ZU Bcit^ of i^t JSafte,
[Canto
And bus}- talkers said they bore
Tidings of fight on Katrine's shore;
At noon the deadly fray begun,
And lasted till the set of sun.
Thus giddy rumour shook the town.
Till closed the Night her pennons
brown.
Canto Sixth.
C^c (5uarb=(Jlootn.
The sun, awakening, through the
smoky air
Of the dark cit\- casts a sullen glance,
Rousing each caitiff to his task of care,
Of sinful man the sad inheritance ;
Summoning revellers from the lagging
dance,
Scaring the prowling robber to his
den ;
Gilding on battled tower the warder's
lance,
And warning student pale to leave
his pen,
And yield his drowsy eyes to the
kind nurse of men.
What various scenes, and, O ! what
scenes of woe,
Are witness'd by that red and
struggling beam !
The fever'd patient, from his pallet low,
Through crowded hospital beholds
its stream ;
The ruin'd maiden trembles at its
gleam,
The debtor wakes to thought of
gyve and jail.
The love-lorn wretch starts from
tormenting dream ;
The wakeful mother, by the glim-
mering pale,
Trims her sick infant's couch, and
soothes his feeble wail.
At dawn the towers of Stirling rang
With soldier-step and weapon-clang,
While drums, with rolling note, foretell
Relief to weary sentinel.
Through narrow loop and casement
barr'd.
The sunbeams sought the Court of
Guard.
And, struggling with the smoky air,
Deaden'd the torches' yellow glare.
In comfortless alliance shone
The lights through arch of blacken'd
stone.
And show'd wild shapes in garb of war,
Faces deform'd with beard and scar.
All haggard from the midnight watch,
And fever'd with the stern debauch ;
For the oak table's massive board.
Flooded with wine, \vith fragments
stored.
And beakers drain'd, and cups o'er-
thrown,
Show'd in what sport the night had
llown.
Some, wear}', snored on floor and
bench ;
Some labour'd still their thirst to
quench ;
Some, chill'd with watching, spread
their hands
O'er the huge chimney's dying brands.
While round them, or beside them
flung,
At every step their harness rung.
These drew not for their fields the
sword.
Like tenants of a feudal lord.
Nor own'd the patriarchal claim
Of Chieftain in their leader's name ;
Adventurers they, from far who roved.
To live by battle which they loved.
There the Italian's clouded face,
The swarthy Spaniards there you
trace ;
VI.]
'^^t (5uar^?(Uooin.
263
The mountain-loving Svvitzer there
More freely breathed in mountain-air ;
The Fleming there despised the soil,
That paid so ill the labourer's toil ;
Their rolls show'd French and Ger-
man name ;
And merry England's exiles came,
To share, with ill conceal'd disdain.
Of Scotland's pay the scanty gain.
All brave in arms, well train'd to wield
The heavy halberd, brand, and shield ;
In camps licentious, wild, and bold;
111 pillage fierce and uncontroll'd ;
And now, by holytidc and feast.
From rules of discipline released.
The\- held debate of bloody fray.
Fought 'twixt Loch Katrine and
Achray.
Fierce was their speech, and, "mid
their words,
Their hands oft grappled to their
swords ;
Nor sunk their tone to spare the ear
Of wounded comrades groaning near.
Whose mangled limbs, and bodies
gored,
Bore token of the mountain sword,
Though, neighbouring to the Court
of Guard,
Their prayers and feverish wails were
heard ;
Sad burden to the ruffian joke,
And savage oath by fury spoke !
At length up-started John of Brent.
A yeoman from the banks of Trent ;
A stranger to respect or fear,
In peace a chaser of the deer,
In host a hardy mutineer.
But still the boldest of the crew,
"When deed of danger was to do.
He grieved, that day, their games cut
short,
And marr'd the dicer"s brawling sport.
And shouted loud, ' Renew the bowl I
And, while a merry catch I troll,
Let each the buxom chorus bear.
Like brethren of the brand and spear: —
SOLDIER S SONG.
' Our vicar still preaches that Peter
and Poule
Laid a swinging long curse on the
bonny brown bowl.
That there 's wrath and despair in the
jollj'^ black-jack,
And the seven deadly sins in a fiagon
of sack ;
Yet whoop, Barnaby 1 oft' with thy
liquor,
Drink upsees out, and a tig for the
vicar 1
Our vicar he calls it damnation to sip
The ripe ruddy dew of a woman's
dear lip,
Sa3-s, that Beekebub lurks in her
kerchief so sly.
And Apollyon shoots darts from her
merry black e3-e ;
Yet whoop. Jack! kiss Gillian the
quicker,
Till she bloom like a rose, and a fig
for the vicar !
Our vicar thus preaches — and why
should he not ?
For the dues of his cure are the
placket and pot ;
And "tis right of his office poor laymen
to lurch,
Who infringe the domains of our good
Mother Church.
Yet whoop, bully-boys ! oft' with your
liquor,
.Sweet Marjorie's the word, and a fig
for the vicar ! '
The warder's challenge,heardwithout,
Staid in mid-roar the merry shout.
264
e6e Bab^ of t^t BaU.
[Canto
A soldier to the portal went, —
'Here is old Bertram, sirs, of Ghent ;
And, beat for jubilee the drum I
A maid and minstrel with him come."
Bertram, a Fleming, grey and scarr'd,
Was entering now the Court of Guard,
A harper with him, and in plaid
All muffled close, a mountain maid.
Who backward shrunk to 'scape the
view
Of the loose scene and boisterous crew.
'What news?' they roar'd. 'I only
know.
From noon till eve we fought with foe.
As wild and as untamcable
As the rude mountains where they
dwell ;
On both sides store of blood is lost.
Nor much success can either boast."
'But whence thy captives, friend?
such spoil
As theirs must needs reward thy toil.
Old dost thou wax, and wars grow
sharp ;
Thou now hast glee-maiden and harp !
Get thee an ape, and trudge the land,
The leader of a juggler band.'
' No, comrade ; no such fortune mine.
After the fight these sought our line,
That aged harper and the girl.
And, having audience of the Earl,
Mar bade I should purvey them steed,
And bring them hitherward with speed.
Forbear your mirth and rude alarm,
For none shall do them shame or
harm,'
'Hearye his boast? 'cried John of Brent,
Ever to strife and jangling bent ;
' Shall he strike doe beside our lodge,
And 3'et the jealous niggai'd grudge
To pay the forester his fee ?
I "11 have my share, ho\ve'er it he.
Despite of Moray, Mar, or thee.'
Bertram his forward step withstood ;
And, burning in his vengeful mood,
Old Allan, though unfit for strife,
Laid hand upon his dagger-knife ;
But Ellen boldly stepp'd between,
A nd dropp'd at once the tartan screen :
So, from his morning cloud, appears
The sun of May, through summer tears.
The savage soldiery, amazed,
As on descended angel gazed ;
Even hardy Brent, abash'd and tamed.
Stood half admiring, half ashamed.
Boldly she spoke, ' Soldiers, attend !
My father was the soldier's friend ;
Cheer'd him in camps, in marches led.
And with him in the battle bled.
Not from the valiant, or the strong,
Should exile's daughter suffer wrong.'
Answer'd De Brent, most forward still
In every feat or good or ill —
' I shame me of the part I play'd :
And thou an outlaw's child, poor maid !
An outlaw I by forest laws.
And merrN' Needwood knows the cause.
Poor Rose — if Rose be living now' —
He wiped his iron eye and brow —
' Must bear such age, I think, as thou.
Hear ye, my mates ; — I go to call
The Captain of our watch to hall :
There lies my halberd on the floor;
And he that steps my halberd o'er,
To do the maid injurious part,
M3- shaft shall quiver in his heart I
Beware loose speech, or jesting rough:
Ye all know John de Brent. Enough.'
Their Captain came, a gallant young,
(Of Tullibardine's house he sprung,"
Nor wore he yet the spurs of knight ;
Gay was his mien, his humour light,
And, though by courtesy controll'd.
Forward his speech, his bearing bold,
The high-born maiden ill could brook
The scanning of his curious look
And dauntless eye ; — and yet, in sooth.
Young Lewis was a generous youth ;
VI.]
ZU <5uavb?(Boom.
26.n;
But Ellen's lovely face and mien,
111 suited to the garb and scene,
Might lightly- bear construction strange,
And give loose fanc3' scope to range.
'Welcome to Stirling towers, fair maid!
Come ye to seek a champion's aid.
On palfrey white, with harper hoar,
Like errant damosel of yore ?
Does thy high quest a knight require,
Or may the venture suit a squire?'
Her dark eye flash'd ; she paused and
sigh'd,
' O what have I to do with pride !
Through scenes of sorrow, shame, and
strife,
A suppliant for a father's life,
I crave an audience of the King.
Behold, to back my suit, a ring,
The royal pledge of grateful claims.
Given by the Monarch to Fitz-James.'
The signet-ring young Lewis took,
With deep respect and alter'd look ;
And said, * This ring our duties own ;
And pardon, if to worth unknown,
In semblance mean obscurely veil'd,
Lady, in aught my folly fail'd.
Soon as the day flings wide his gates.
The King shall knowwhatsuitorwaits.
Please j'ou, meanwhile, in fitting bower
Repose you till his waking hour ;
Female attendance shall obej'
Your hest, for service or array.
Permit I marshall you the way.'
But, ere she followed, with the grace
And open bountj^ of her race,
She bade her slender purse be shared
Among the soldiers of the guard.
The restwith thanks their guerdon took;
But Brent, with shy and awkward look.
On the reluctant maiden's hold
Forced bluntly back the proffer'd gold —
' Forgive a haughty English heart,
And O forget its ruder part I
The vacant purse shall be my share,
Which in my barret-cap I '11 bear,
Perchance, in jeopardy of war,
Where gayer crests may keep afar.'
With thanks ('twas all she could) the
maid
His rugged courtesy repaid.
When Ellen forth with Lewis went,
Allan made suit to John of Brent :
' My lad}' safe, O let your grace
Give me to see my master's face I
His minstrel I ; to share his doom
Bound from the cradle to the tomb ;
Tenth in descent, since first my sires
Waked for his noble house their lyres;
Nor one of all the race was known
But prized its weal above their own.
With the Chief's birth begins our care ;
Our harp must soothe the infant heir,
Teach theyouth tales of fight, andgrace
His earliest feat of field or chase ;
In peace, in war, our rank we keep,
We cheer his board, wesoothe his sleep.
Nor leave him till we pour our verse,
A doleful tribute ! o'er his hearse.
Then let me share his captive lot ;
It is my right, deny it not ! '
' Little we reck,' said John of Brent,
' We Southern men, of long descent ;
Nor wot we how a name, a word,
Makes clansmen vassals to a lord :
Yet kind my noble landlord's part, — •
God bless the house of Beaudesert !
And, but I loved to drive the deer.
More than to guide the labouring steer,
I had not dwelt an outcast here.
Come, good old Minstrel, follow me ;
Thy Lord and Chieftain shalt thou see.'
Then, from a rusted iron hook,
A bunch of ponderous keys he took.
Lighted a torch, and Allan led
Through grated arch and passage dread ;
Portals they pass'd, where, deep
within,
Spoke prisoner's moan, and fetters' din;
K 3
266
ZU Ba^^ of iU Bafte.
[Canto
Through rugged vaults, where, loosely
stored,
Lay wheel, and axe, and headsman's
sword.
And many an hideous engine grim.
For wrenchingjoint, and crushing limb,
By artist form'd, who deem'd it shame
And sin to give their work a name.
They halted at a low-brow'd porch.
And Brent to Allan gave the torch,
While bolt and chain he backward
roU'd,
And made the bar unhasp its hold.
They enter'd : 'twas a prison-room
Of stern security and gloom,
Yet not a dungeon ; for the day
Through loft\' gratings found its way,
And rude and antique garniture
Deck'd the sad walls and oaken floor ;
Such as the rugged days of old
Deem'd lit for captive noble's hold.
' Here,' said De Brent, ' thou maj^st
remain
'Jill the leech visit him again.
Strict is his charge, the warders tell,
To tend the noble prisoner well.'
Retiring then, the bolt he drew.
And the lock's murmurs growl'd anew.
Roused at the sound, from lowly bed
A captive feebly raised his head ;
The wondering Minstrel look'd, and
knew
Not his dear lord, but Roderick Dhu !
For, come from where Clan-Alpine
fought.
They, erring, deem'd the Chief he
sought.
As the tall ship, whose lofty prore
Shall never stem the billows more.
Deserted by her gallant band.
Amid the breakers lies astrand.
So, on his couch, lay Roderick Dhu
And oft his fever'd limbs he threw
In toss abrupt, as when her sides
Lie rocking in the advancing tides.
That shake her frame with ceaseless
beat.
Yet cannot heave her from her seat ;
O ! how unlike her course at sea !
Or his free step on hill and lea !
Soon as the Minstrel he could scan,
' What of thy lady ? of my clan ?
My mother? Douglas ? tell me all ?
Have they been ruin'd in my fall ?
Ah, yes 1 or wherefore art thou here ?
Yet speak, speak boldh% do not fear,'
(For Allan, who his mood well knew.
Was choked with grief and terror
too.) —
'Who fought — who fled? Old man,
be brief;
Some might — for they had lost their
Chief.
Who basely live ? who bravely died ?'
' O, calm thee, Chief!' the Minstrel
cried,
'Ellen is safe.' — 'For that, thank
Heaven ! '
' And hopes are for the Douglas given ;
The Lady Margaret, too, is well ;
And, for thy clan, — on field or fell,
Has never harp of minstrel told.
Of combat fought so true and bold.
Thy stately Pine is yet unbent,
Though many a goodly bough is rent.'
The Chieftain rear'd his form on high.
And fever's fire w"as in his eye ;
But ghastly, pale, and livid streaks
Chequer'd his swarthy brow and
cheeks.
— ' Hark, Minstrel ! I ha\-e heard th.ee
play.
With measure bold, on festal daj',
In yon lone isle, . . . again where ne'er
Shallharperplaj% or warrior hear! . . .
That stirring air that peals on high,
O'er Dermid's race our victory.
Strike it I and then (for well thou
canst)
Free from thy minstrel-spirit glanced,
VI.
ZH (Buari?(Hoom.
267
Fling me the picture of the fight
When met my clan the Saxon might.
I 'II listen, till my fancy hears
Jhe clang of swords, the crash of
spears I
These grates, these walls, shall vanish
then.
For the fair field of fighting men,
And my free spirit burst away,
As if it soar'd from battle fray.'
The trembling Bard with awe obey'd,
Slow on the harp his hand he laid ;
But soon remembrance of the sight
He witness'd from the mountain's
height.
With what old Bertram tuld at night,
Awaken'd the full power of song,
And bore him in career along —
As shallop launch'd on river's tide,
That slow and fearful leaves the side,
But, when it feels the middle stream.
Drives downward swift as lightning's
beam :
B.\TTLE OF BEAL AN' DUIXE.
' The Minstrel came once more to view
The eastern ridge of Benvenue,
For, ere he parted, he would saj'
Farewell to lovely Loch Achray :
Where shall he find, in foreign land,
So lone a lake, so sweet a strand I
There is no breeze upon the fern,
Nor ripple on the lake ;
Upon her eyry nods the erne.
The deer has sought the brake ;
The small birds will no*^ sing aloud.
The springing trout lies still.
So darkly glooms yon thundercloud,
That swathes, as with a purple
shroud,
Benledi's distant hill.
Is it the thunder's solemn sound
That mutters deep and dread.
Or echoes from the groaning ground
Tlie warrior's measured tread ?
Is it the lightning's quivering glance
That on the thicket streams.
Or do they flash on spear and lance
The sun's retiring beams ?
I see the dagger-crest of Mar,
1 see the Moray's silver star
Wave o'er the cloud of Saxon war,
That up the lake comes winding far I
To hero bound for battle-strife.
Or bard of martial lay,
'Twere worth ten years of peaceful
life,
One glance at their arra}^ !
x\i.
' Their light-arm'd archers far and
near
Survey'd the tangled ground ;
Their centre ranks, with pike anil
spear,
A twilight forest frown'd ;
Their barbed horsemen, in the rear,
The stern battalia crown'd.
No cymbal clash'd, no clarion rang.
Still were the pipe and drum ;
Save heavy tread, and armour's
clang,
The sullen march was dumb.
There breathed no wind their crests
to shake,
Or wave their flags abroad :
Scarce the frail aspen seem'd to
quake.
That shadow'd o'er their road.
Their va ward scouts no tidings bring,
Can rouse no lurking foe.
Nor spy a trace of living thing.
Save when they stirr'd the roe ;
The host moves like a deep-sea
wave ,
Where rise no rocks its pride to
brave.
High-swelling, dark, and slow.
The lake is pass'd, and now they gain
A narrow and a broken plain.
Before the Trosachs' rugged jaws ;
And here the horse and spearmen pause,
K 5
268
ZU ;Bft^j of f0e BaU.
[Canto
While, to explore the dangerous glen,
Dive through the pass the archer-men.
xvii.
' At once there rose so wild a j-ell
Within that dark and narrow dell,
As all the fiends, from heaven that fell,
Had peal'd the banner-cry of hell !
Forthfromthe pass in tumult driven,
Like chaff before the wind of heaven.
The archer}- appear ;
For life ! for life ! their plight they
ply-
Andshriek, and shout, and battle-cry.
And plaids andbonnetswavinghigh,
And broadswords flashing to the sky,
Are maddening in the rear.
Onward they drive, in dreadful race.
Pursuers and pursued ;
Before that tide of flight and chase.
How shall it keep its rooted place,
The spearmen's twilight wood '
"Down, down," cried Mar, '"your
lances down 1
Bear back both friend and foe!"
Like reeds before the tempest's
frown.
That serried grove of lances brown
At once lay levell'd low ;
And closely shouldering side to side,
The bristling ranks the onset bide.
'" We '11 quell the savage moun-
taineer,
As their Tinchcl cows the game!
They come as fleet as forest deer.
We'll drive them back as tame."
XVIII.
' Bearing before them, in their course,
The relics of the archer force,
Like wavewith crestof sparklingfoam,
Right onward did Clan-Alpine come.
Above the tide, each broadsword
bright
Was brandishing like beam of light.
Each targe was dark below ;
And with the ocean's mighty swing,
When heaving to the tempest's wing,
They hurl'd them on the foe.
I heard the lance's shivering crash.
As when the whirlwind rends the ash,
1 heard the broadsword's deadly clang.
As if an hundred anvils rang!
But Moray wheel'd his rearward rank
Of horsemen on Clan-Alpine's flank,
" My banner-man, advance !
I see," he cried, "their colunm shake.
Now, gallants ! for your ladies' sake.
Upon them with the lance!"
The horsemen dash'd among the
rout.
As deer break through the broom ;
Their steeds are stout, their swords
are out.
They soon make lightsome room.
Clan-Alpine's best are backward
borne!
Where, w'here was Roderick
then ?
One blast upon his bugle-horn
Were worth a thousand men !
And refluent through the pass of fear,
The battle's tide was pour'd ;
Vanish'd the Saxon's struggling
spear,
Vanish'd the mountain-sword.
As Bracklinn's chasm, so black and
steep,
Receives her roaring linn,
As the dark caverns of the deep
Suck the wild whirlpool in,
So did the deep and darksome pass
Devour the battle's mingled mass :
None linger now upon the plain.
Save those who ne'er shall fight again.
' Now westward rolls the battle's
din.
That deep and doubling pass within.
Minstrel, away, the work of fate
Is bearing on : its issue wait.
Where the rudeTrosachs' dread defile
Opens on Katrine's lake and isle.
Grey Benvenue I soon repass'd.
Loch Katrine lay beneath me cast.
VI.]
ZU <BuarbiQ^oom.
269
The sun is set; the clouds are met,
The lowering scowl of heaven
An inky hue of livid blue
To the deep lake has given ;
Strange gusts of wind from mountain-
glen
Swept o'er the lake, then sunk agen.
I lieeded not the edd3-ing surge,
Mine ej'e but saw the Trosachs' gorge,
Mine ear but heard the sullen sound,
Wliich like an earthquake shook the
ground,
And spoke the stern and desperate
strife
That parts not but with parting life.
Seeming, to minstrel ear, to toll
Ihe dirge of many a passing soul.
Nearer it comes ; the dim-wood glen
The martial flood disgorged agen,
But not in mingled tide ;
The plaided warriors of the North
High on the mountain thunder forth
And overhang its side ;
While by the lake below appears
The dark'ning cloud of Saxon spears.
At weary baj' each shatter'd band,
Eyeing their foemen, sternlj' stand;
Their banners stream like tatter'd sail.
That flings its fragments to the gale,
And broken arms and disarray
Mark'd the fell havoc of the dav.
'Viewing the mountain's ridge a-
skance,
The Saxon stood in sullen trance,
Till Moray pointed with his lance,
And cried — ' Behold yon isle !
Seel none are left to guard its strand,
Butwomenweak,thatwring the hand:
'Tis there of yore the robber band
Their boot}' wont to pile;
My purse, with bonnet-pieces store.
To him will swim a bow-shot o'er.
And loose a shallop from the shore.
Lightly we '11 tame the war-wolf then.
Lords of his mate, and brood , and den. '
Forth from the ranks a spearman
sprung.
On earth his casque and corslet rung,
He plunged him in the wave:
All saw the deed, the purpose knew,
And to their clamours Benvenue
A mingled echo gave ;
Tlic Saxons shout, their mate to cheer.
The helpless females scream for fear.
And yells for rage the mountaineer.
'Twas then, as by the outcry riven,
Pour'd down at once the lowering
heaven :
A whirlwind swept Loch Katrine's
breast.
Her billows rear'd their snowj- crest.
Well for thcswimmerswell'dthej-high.
To mar the Highland marksman's eye :
For round him showcr'd, 'mid rain
and hail,
The vengeful arrows of the Gael.
In vain ; he nears the isle, and lo 1
His hand is on a shallop's bow.
Just then a flash of lightning came,
It tinged the waves and strand witli
flame;
I mark'd Duncraggan's widow'd dame.
Behind an oak I saw her stand,
A naked dirk gleam'd in her hand :
It darken'd; but, amid the moan
Of waves, I heard a d3'ing groan ;
Another flash I — the spearman floats
A weltering corse beside the boats,
And the stern matron o'er him stood,
Her hand and dagger streaming blood.
XXI.
''•Revenge I revenge!" the .Saxons
cried.
The Gaels' exulting shout replied.
Despite the elemental rage.
Again they hurried to engage;
But, ere they closed in desperate fight.
Bloody with spurring came a knight.
Sprung from his horse, and, from
a crag.
Waved 'twixt the hosts a milk-white
flag.
ZU J^aip of iU ^afte.
[Canto
Clarion and trumpet by his side
Rung forth a truce-note high and wide,
While, in the Monarch's name, afar
An herald's voice forbade the war.
For Bothwell's lord, and Roderick
bold,
Were both, he said, in captive hold.' '
But here the lay made sudden stand '.
The harp escaped the Minstrel's hand '.
Oft had he stolen a glance, to spy
How Roderick brook'd his minstrelsy:
At first, the Chieftain, to the chime.
With lifted hand, kept feeble time;
That motion ceased, yet feeling strong
Varied his look as changed the song ;
At length, no more his deafen'd ear
The minstrel melody can hear ;
His face grows sharp, his hands are
clench'd,
As if some pang his heart-strings
\vrenchd ;
Set are his teeth, his fading eye
Is sternly fix'd on vacancy- ;
Thus, motionless, and moanless, drew
His parting breath, stout Roderick
Dhu!
Old Allan-bane look'd on aghast,
While grim and still his spirit pass'd :
But when he saw that life was fled.
He pour'd his wailing o'er the dead :
XXII.
LAMENT.
' And art thou cold and lowly laid,
Thy foeman's dread, thy people's aid,
Breadalbane's boast. Clan- Alpine's
shade !
For thee shall none a requiem say?
For thee, who loved the minstrel's lay,
For thee, of Bothwell's house the stay,
The shelter of her exiled line.
E'en in this prison-house of thine,
I'll wail for Alpine's honour' d Pine !
'What groans shall yonder valleys fill !
Whatshrieksofgriefshall rendyon hill !
What tears of burning rage shall thrill.
When mourns thy tribe thy battles
done,
Thy fall before the race was won,
Thy sword ungirt ere set of sun 1
There breathes not clansman of thy line,
But would have given his life for thine.
O woe for Alpine's honour'd Pine 1
' Sad was thy lot on mortal stage I
The captive thrush maybrook the cage.
The prison'd eagle dies for rage.
Brave spirit, do not scorn my strain !
And, when its notes awake again,
Even she, so long beloved in vain,
Shall with my harp her voice combine,
And mix her woe and tears with mine,
To wail Clan-Alpine's honour'd Pine.'
XXIII.
Ellen the while with bursting heart
Remain'd in lordly bower apart.
Where play'd with many-colour'd
gleams.
Through storied pane the rising beams.
In vain on gilded roof they fall,
And lightened up a tapestried wall,
And for her use a menial train
A rich collation spread in vain.
The banquet proud, the chamber gaj',
Scarce drew one curiousglanceastray;
Or, if she look'd, 'twas but to say,
With better omen dawn'd the day
In that lone isle, where waved on high
The dun-deer's hide for canop\- ;
Where oft her noble father shared
The simple meal her care prepared,
While Lufra, crouching bj^ her side
Her station claim'd with jealous pride,
And Douglas, bent on woodland game.
Spoke of the chase to Malcolm Graeme,
Whose answer, oft at random made.
The wandering of his thoughts
betraj''d.
Those who such simple joys have
knov>-n.
Are taught to prize them when thej-'re
g:one.
VI.]
ZU (5uar^?(Koom.
But sudden, see, she lifts her head !
The window seeks with cautious tread.
What distant music has the power
To win her in this woful hour!
'Twas from a turret that o'erhung
Her latticed bower, the strain was sung:
LAY OF THE IMPRISONED HUNTSMAN.
' My hawk is tired of perch and hood,
My idle grej'hound loathes his food,
My horse is weary of his stall,
And I am sick of captive thrall.
1 wish I were, as I ha\-e been,
Hunting the hart in forest green.
With bended bowandbloodhoundfree,
For that "s the life is meet for me.
I hate to learn the ebb of time
From yon dull steeple's drowsy chime.
Or mark it as the sunbeams crawl,
Inch after inch, along the wall.
The lark was wont my matins ring.
The sable rook my vespers sing ;
These towers, although a king's they be,
Have not a hall of joy for me.
No more at dawning morn I rise.
And sun myself in Ellen's eyes,
Drive the fleet deer the forest through.
And homeward wend with evening
dew ;
A blithesome welcome blithely meet.
And lay my trophies at her feet,
While fled the eve on wing of glee :
That life is lost to love and me 1'
The heart-sick lay was hardly said.
The list'ner had not turn'd her head.
It trickled still, the starting tear.
When light a footstep struck her ear.
And Snowdoun's graceful knight ^vas
near.
She turn'd the hastier, lest again
The prisoner should renew his strain.
'O welcome, brave Fitz-James!' she
said ;
' How may an almost orphan maid
Pay the deep debt' 'O say not so!
To me no gratitude you owe.
Not mine, alas ! the boon to give,
And bid th}' noble father live;
I can but be thy guide, sweet maid.
With Scotland's king thj' suit to aid.
No tyrant he, though ire and pride
May lay his better mood aside.
Come, Ellen, come! 'tis more than time.
He holds his court at morning prime.'
With beating heart, and bosom wrung.
As to a brother's arm she clung.
Gently he dried the falling tear,
And gently whisper'dhope and cheer;
Her faltering steps half led, half staid.
Through gallery fair, and high arcade,
Till, at his touch, its wings of pride
A portal arch unfolded wide.
Within 'twas brilliant all and light,
A thronging scene of figures bright ;
It glow'd on Ellen's dazzled sight.
As when the setting sun has given
Ten thousand hues to summer even,
And from their tissue fancy frames
Aerial knights and fairy dames.
Still by Fitz-James her footing staid ;
A few faint steps she forward made.
Then slow her drooping head she
raised.
And fearful round the presence gazed ;
For him she souglit, who own'd this
state.
The dreaded prince \vhosc will was
fate.
She gazed on many a princely port,
Might well have ruled a ro3'al court ;
On many a splendid garb she gazed,
Then turn'd bewilder'd and amazed.
For all stood bare ; and, in the room,
Fitz-James alone wore cap and plume.
To him each lady's look was lent;
On him each courtier's eve was bent ;
272
ZU ^Baip of iU Bafte.
[Canto
Midst furs, and silks, and jewels sheen,
He stood, in simple Lincoln green.
The centre of the glittering ring.
And Snowdoun's Knight is Scotland's
King !
As wreath of snow, on mountain-
breast,
Slides from the rock that gave it rest.
Poor Ellen glided from her staj^
And at the Monarch's feet she lay ;
No word her chokingvoice commands ;
She show'd the ring, she clasp'd her
hands.
O I not a moment could he brook.
The generous prince, that suppliant
look!
Gently he raised her; and, the while,
Check'd with a glance the circle's smile;
Graceful, but grave, her browhekiss'd.
And bade her terrors be dismiss'd :
'Yes, fair, the wandering poor Fitz-
James
The fealty of Scotland claims.
To him thy woes, thy wishes, bring;
He will redeem his signet ring.
Ask nought for Douglas; yester even,
His prince and he have much forgiven.
Wrong hath he had from slanderous
tongue,
I, from his rebel kinsmen, wrong.
We would not, to the vulgar crowd.
Yield what they craved with clamour
loud ;
Calmly we heard and judged his cause,
Our council aided, and our laws.
I stanch'd th3-father's death-feud stem
With stout De Vaux and Grey Glen-
cairn ;
And Bothwell's Lord henceforth we
own
The friend and bulwark of our Throne.
But, lovely infidel, how now?
What clouds thy misbelieving brow?
Lord James of Douglas, lend thineaid;
Thou must confirm this doubtingmaid.'
xxvin.
Then forth the noble Douglas sprung,
And on his neck his daughter hung.
The Monarch drank, that happy hour.
The sweetest, holiest draught of Power,
When it can say, with godlike voice,
Arise, sad Virtue, and rejoice !
Yet would not James the general ej^e
On Nature's raptures long should prj' ;
He stepp'd between — ' Nay, Douglas,
nay.
Steal not my proselyte away !
The riddle 'tis my right to read,
That brought this happy chance to
speed.
Yes, Ellen, when disguised I stray
In life's more low but happier waj-,
'Tis under name which vcilsmypower.
Nor falsely veils, for Stirling's tower
Of yore the name of Snowdoun claims.
And Normans call mc James Fitz-
James.
Thus watch I o'er insulted laws.
Thus learn to right the injured cause.'
Then, in a tone apart and low, —
' Ah, little traitress ! none must know
What idle dream, what lighter thought.
What vanity full dearly bought,
Join'd to thine eye's dark witchcraft,
drew
My spell-bound steps to Benvenue,
In dangerous hour, and all but gave
Thy Monarch's life to mountain
glaive ! ' —
Aloud he spoke—' Thou still dost hold
That little talisman of gold.
Pledge of my faith, Fitz-James's ring;
What seeks fair Ellen of the King?'
Full well the conscious maiden guess'd
He probed the weakness of her breast;
But, with that consciousness, there
came
A lightening of her fears for Grseme,
./Vndmoreshedeem'dthe Monarch's ire
Kindled 'gainst him, who, for her sire,
VI.1
ZU (5uavi?(Rooin.
Rebellious broadsword boldly drew ;
And, to her generous feeling true,
She craved the grace of Roderick Dhu.
' Forbear thy suit: the King of kings
Alone can stay life's parting wings :
I know his heart, I know his hand,
Have shared his cheer, and proved
his brand :
My fairest earldom would I give
To bid Clan-Alpine's Chieftain live !
Hast thou no other boon to crave ?
No other captive friend to save ? '
Blushing, she turn'd her from the King,
And to the Douglas gave the ring.
As if she wish'd her sire to speak
The suit that stain'd her glowing
cheek. —
' Nay, then,mypledgehaslostitsforcc.
And stubborn justice holds her course.
Malcolm , come forth !' An d at the word,
Down kneel'd the Gramme to Scotland's
Lord.
' For thee, rashyouth, no suppliant sues.
From thee may Vengeance claim her
dues,
Who, nurtured underneath our smile.
Hast paid our careby treacherouswile.
And sought, amid thj' faithful clan,
A refuge for an outlaw'd man,
Dishonouring thus thy loj'al name.
Fetters and warder for the Graeme ! '
His chain of gold the King unstrung,
The links o'er Malcolm's neck he flung.
Then gently drew the glittering band,
And laid the clasp on Ellen's hand.
Harp of the North, farewell ! The hills
grow dark.
On purple peaks a deeper shade
descending ;
In twilight copse the glow-worm lights
her spark,
The deer, half-seen, are to the covert
wending.
Resume thy wizard elm I tlie fountain
lending.
And the wild breeze, thy wilder
minstrelsy;
Thy numbers sweet with nature's
vespers blending.
With distant echo from the fold and
i lea.
And herd-boy's evening pipe, and hum
of housing bee.
!
Yet once again farewell, thou IMinstrel
harp !
Yet once again forgive mj- feeble
sway,
And little reck I of the censure sharp
Maj' idl3' cavil at an idle laj'.
I Much have I owed thy strains on life's
long way.
Through secret woes the world has
never known.
When on the wear\- night dawn'd
wearier daj'.
And bitterer was the grief d(;vour'd
alone.
That I o'erlive such woes, Enchantress 1
is thine own.
Hark ! as my lingering footsteps slow
retire.
Some .Spirit of the Air has waked
thy string !
'Tis now a seraph bold, with touch of
fire,
'Tis now the brush of Fairy's frolic
wing.
Receding now, thedyingnumbers ring-
Fainter and fainter down the rugged
dell.
And nowthe mountain breezes scared}-
bring
A wandering witch-note of the dis-
tant spell —
And now, 'tis silent all I — Enchantress,
fare thee well '.
END OF THE LADY OF THE LAKE.
f?C I'i ^ V-^ Y
Jnfro5uc^ton anb Qtofc© to Z^c Ba^'^ of t^c Ba^c,
IXTRODUCTION TO THE EDITION OF 1830.
Aftek the success of ' .Marmion,' I felt
inclineil to exclaim with I'lysses in the
' Odyssey ' —
Oyro? jaei' 5»j ae^Ao? aartro? tr'KTeTe'Ae(TTat*
NOi' avTe iTKonot' a\Aoi'. Odys. \'. 1. 5.
'One venturous ijanie niy hnnd lias won to-ilaj*
Another, gallants, yet remains to pla\'.'
The ancient manners, the habits and cus-
toms of the aboriginal race by whom the
Highlands of Scotland were inhabited, liad
always appeared to me peculiarly adapted to
poetry. The change in their inanners, too,
had taken place almost within inyown time,
or at least I had learned many particulars
concerning the ancient state of the Highlands
from the old men of the last generation. I
had always thought the old Scottish Gael
highly adapted for poetical composition.
The feuds, and political dissensions, which,
half a century earlier, would have rendered
the richer and wealthier part of the kingdom
indisposed to countenance a poem, the scene
of which was laid in the Highlands, were
now sunk in the generous compassion which
the English, more than any other nation,
feel for the inisfortunes of an honourable foe.
The Poems of Ossian had, by their popularit}-,
sufficiently shown, that if writings on High-
land subjects were qualified to interest the
reader, mere national prejudices were, in the
present day, xery unlikely to interfere with
their success.
I had also read a great deal, seen much,
and heard more, of that romantic country,
where I was in the habit of spending some
time every autumn ; and the scenery of Loch
Katrine was connected with the recollection
of many a dear friend and merry expedition
of former days. This poem, the action of
which lav among scenes so beautiful, and so
deeply imprinted on iny recollection, was
a labour of love ; and it was no less so to
recall the inanners and incidents introduced.
The frequ'i-nt custom of James IV, and par-
ticularly of James V, to walk through their
kingdom in disguise, afforded me the hint of
an incident, which never fails to be interesting,
if managed with the slightest address or
dexterity.
I ma}' now confess, however, that the
employment, though attended with great
pleasure, was not without its doubts and
anxieties. A lady, to whom I was nearly
related, and with whom I lived, during her
whole life, on the most brotherly terms of
affection, was residing with me at the time
when the work was in progress, and used to
ask me, what I could possiblj- do to rise so
early in the morning (that happening to be
the most convenient time to me for com-
positionV At last I told her the subject of
my meditations ; and I can never forget the
anxiety and affection expressed in her repl)-.
'Do not be so rash,' she said, ' m}- dearest
cousin. You are already popular — more so,
perhaps, than you yourself will believe, or
than even I, or other partial friends, can
fairly allow to 3'our merit. You stand high —
do not rashly attempt to climb higher, and
incur the risk of a fall ; for, depend upon it,
a favourite will not be permitted even to
stumble with impunity.' I replied to this
affectionate expostulation in the words of
Montrose —
' lie eitlier fears his fate too much,
Or his deserts are small,
AVho dares not put it to the touch
To gain or lose it all.'
' If I fail,' I said, for the dialogue is strong
in ray recollection, ' it is a sign that I ought
never to have succeeded, and I will write
>froiucfton to ZU ^ab^ of t^c &aU.
•■15
prose for life : you shall see no change in my
temper, nor will I eat a single meal the worse.
But if I succeed,
" I'p with the bonnie blue bonnet.
The dirk, and the feather, and a' I "
Afterwards, I showed my affectionate and
anxious critic the first canto of the poem,
which reconciled her to my imprudence.
Nevertheless, althougli I answered thus con-
fidently, with the obstinacy often said to be
proper to those who bear my surname,
I acknowledge that my confidence was con-
sic lerably shaken by the warning of her
excellent taste and unbiassed friendship.
Nor was I much comforted by her retracta-
tion of the unfavourable judgment, when
I recollected how likely a natural partiality
was to effect that change of opinion. In sucli
cases, affection rises like a light on the
canvas, improves any favourable! tints whicli
it formerly exhiliited, and throws its defects
into the shade.
I remember that about the same time
a friend starteil in to ' heezeup my hope,' like
the ' sportsman with his cutty gun ' in the old
song. He was bred a farmer, but a man
of powerful understanding, natural good
taste, and warm poetical feeling, perfectly
competent to supply the wants of an im-
perfect or irregular education. He was
a passionate admirer of field-sports, which we
often pursued together.
As this friend happened to dine with me at
Ashestiel one day, 1 took the opportunity of
reading to him the first canto of ' The Lady
of the Lake,' in order to ascertain the effect
the poem was likely to produce upon a person
who was but too favourable a representative
of readers at large. It is, of course, to be sup-
posed that I determined rather to guide my
opinion by what my friend miglit appear to
feel, tlian'liy what he might think fit to say.
His reception of my recitation, or prelection,
was rather singular. He placed his hand
across his brow, and listenetl with great
attention through the whole account of the
stag-hunt, till the dogs threw theinselves into
the lake to follow their master, \\ho embarks
with Ellen Douglas. He then started up
with a sudden exclamation, struck his
hand on the table, and declared, in .a voice
of censure calculated for the occasion, that
the dogs must have been totally ruined
by being permitted to take the water after
such a severe chase. I own I was much
encouraged by the species of reverie which
had possessed so zealous a follower of the
sports of the ancient Nimrod, %\ ho had been
completely surprised out of all doubts of the
reality of the tale. Another of his remarks
gave me less pleasure. He detected the
identity of the King with tiie wandering
knight, Fitz-James, \vhen he winds his bugle
to summon his attendants. He was prob-
ably thinking of the lively, but somewhat
licentious, old ballad, in which the ilenoue-
ment of a royal intrigue takes place .ts
follows :
' He took a bugle frae his side.
He l)lew both loud and shrill.
And four-and-twenty belteil knights
Came skippincr owcr the hill ;
Then he took out a little knife,
Let a' his duddies fa',
And he was the brawest cfentleman
That was amantj them a'.
And we'll go no more a-roving," ^v-c. 1
This discovery, as Mr. Pepys says of the
rent in his camlet cloak, was but a trifle, yet
it troubled me ; and I was at a good deal of
pains to efface any marks l)y which I thought
my secret could be traced before the con-
clusion, when I relied en it witli the same
hope of producing effect, with which the Irish
postboy is said to reserve a 'trot for the
avenue.'
I took uncommon pains to verif}' the
accuracy of the local circumstances of this
story. I recollect, in particular, that to
ascertain whether I was telling .a probable
tale, I went into Perthshire, to see whether
King James could actually have ridden from
the banks of Loch Venhachar to Stirling
Castle within the time supposed in the Poem,
and had the pleasure to satisfy mj'self that it
was quite practicable.
After a considerable delay, 'The Lady of
the Lake' appeared in May iSio; antf its
success was certainly so extraordinary as to
induce me for the moment to conclude that
I had at last fixed a nail in the proverbially
inconstant wheel of Fortune, whose stability
in behalf of an individual who had so boldly
courted her favours for three successive times,
had not as yet been shaken. I had attained,
pel haps, that degree of public reputation at
which prudence, or certainly timidit}-, would
have made a halt, and discontinued efforts
by which I was far more likely to diminish
my fame than to increase it. But, as the
celebrated John Wilkes is saitl to have
explained to his late Majesty, that he him-
self, amid his full tide of jiopularity, was
never a Wilkite, so I can, with honest truth,
exculpate ni)'self from h.aving been at any
time a partisan of iny own poetry, even when
it was in the highest fashion with the
million. It must not be supposed, tliat I was
either so ungrateful, or so superabundantly
candid, as to despise or scorn the value of
those whose voice had ele\ated me so mucli
higher than my own opinion told me I de-
served. I felt, on the contrary, the more
orateful to the public, as receiving that irom
partiality to me, which I could not have
claimed from merit; and I endeavoured to
deserve the partiality, by continuing such
exertions as I w.as capable of for their amuse-
ment.
It may be that I did not, in this continued
course of scribbling, consult either the interest
1 The Jolly Beggar, attributed to King Ja
Herd's Colkctioii, 1776.
■ v.-
!76
Qtotee io
of the public or my own. But the former
had effectual means of defending themselves,
and could, by their coldness, suflTiciently
check any approach to intrusion ; and for
myself, I haa now for several years dedicated
my hours so much to literary labour, that
I should have felt difficulty in employing
myself otherwise ; and so, like Dogberry,
I generously bestowed all my tediousness on
the public, comforting myself with the reflec-
tion, that if posterity should think me
undeserving of the favour with which I was
regarded by my contemporaries, ' they could
not but say I Jia^ the crown,' and had
enjoyed for a time that popularity which is so
much coveted.
I conceived, however, that I held the dis-
tinguished situation I had obtained, however
unworthi!}-, rather like the champion of
pugilism, on the condition of being always
ready to show proofs of my skill, than in the
manner of the champion of chivalry, who
performs his duties only on rare and solemn
occasions. I was in any case conscious that
I could not long hold a situation which the
caprice, rather than the judgment, of the
public, had bestowed upon me, and preferred
l)eing deprived of my precedence i)y some
more worthy rival, to sinking into contempt
for my indolence, and losing my reputation
by what Scottish lawyers call the iieo^aih'e
proscription. Accordingly, those who choose
to look at the Introduction to Rokeb)-, in the
present edition, will be able to trace the steps
by which I declined as a poet to figure as
a novelist ; as the ballad says. Queen
Eleanor sunk at Charing- Cross to rise again
at Qucenhithe.
It only remains for me to say that, during
my short pre-eminence of popularity, I faith-
fully observed the rules of moderation which
I had resolved to follow before I began my
course as a man of letters. If a man is
determined to make a noise in the world, he
is as sure to encounter abuse and ridicule, as
he who gallops furiously through a village,
must reckon on being followed by the curs in
full cry. Experienced persons know, that in
stretching to flog the latter, the rider is \Qry
apt to catch a bad fall ; nor is an attempt to
chastise a malignant critic attended with less
danger to the author. On this principle, I let
parody, burlesque, and squibs, find their own
level ; and while the latter hissed most
fiercely, I was cautious never to catch them
up, as schoolboys do, to throw them back
against the naughty boy who fired them off,
wisely remembering that they are, in such
cases, apt to explode in the handling. Let
me add, that my reign (since Byron has so
called it) was marked by some instances of
good-nature as well as patience. I never
refused a literary person of merit such
services in smoothing his way to the public
as were in my power : and I had the advan-
tage, rather an uncommon one with our
irritable race, to enjoy general favour,
without incurring perrnanent ill-will, so far
as is known to me, among any of my con-
temporaries.
W. S.
Abbotsforb, April iSio.
NOTES.
Note I.
i/ic heights of Vain- I'ar,
And roused the cavern, w/icre, '/is told,
A giant made his den of old. — P. 20S.
\'a-var, as the name is pronounced, or more
propcrl)' Vaighni07\ is a mountain to the
north-east of the village of Callender in
Menteith, deriving its name, which signifies
the great den, or cavern, from a sort of retreat
among the rocks on the south side, said, by
tradition, to have been tlic abode of a giant.
In latter times, it was the refuge of robbers
and banditti, who have been only extirpated
within these forty or fifty years. Strictly
speaking, this stronghold is not a cave, as
the name would imply, but a sort of small
enclosure, or recess, surrounded with large
rocks, and open above head. It may have
been originally designed as a toil for deer,
who might get in from the outside, but would
find it ilillicult to return. This opinion pre-
vails among the old sportsmen anci deer-
stalkers in the neighbourhood.
Note II.
Two dogs of black Saint Huberts breed.
Unmatched for courage, breath, and speed.
— P. 209.
'The hounds which we call Saint Hubert's
hounds, are commonly all blacke, )et neucr-
theless, the race is so mingU-d at these days,
that we find them of all colours. These are
the hounds which the abbots of St. Hubert
hauc always kept some of their race or kind,
in honour or remembrance of the saint, which
was a hunter with S. Eustace. Whereupon
we may conceiue that (by the grace of God)
all good huntsmen shall follow them into
paradise. To return vnto my foriner purpose
this kind of dogges hath bene dispersed
through the counties of Henault, Lorayne,
Flanclers, and Burgoyne. They are mighty
of body, neuertheless their Icgges arc low and
short, likewise they are not swift, although
they be very good of sent, hunting chaces
which arc farre straggled, fearing neither
water nor cold, and doo more couet the
Z^t Babp of tU JSafte.
277
diaces that smell, as foxes, bore, and such
like, than other, because, they find themselves
neither of swiftness nor courage to hunt and
kill the chaces that are lighter and swifter.
The bloodhounds of this colour proue good,
especially tliose that are cole blacke, but
I made no great account to breed on them,
or to keepe the kind, and yet I found a book
which a hunter did dedicate to a |)rince of
Lorayne, which seemed to loue hunting much,
wherein was a blason which the sanut hunter
gaue to his bloodhound, called Souyllard,
whicli was white : —
•• My name cilnc firsl from liuly I lul.ert'b race.
Suuj'llartl my sire, a hound of sinijular ^^race."
Whereupon we may presume that some of
the kind proue white sometimes, but they are
not of the kind of the Grefflers or Bouxes,
which we haue at these daves." — 77ie noble
Art of I 'cjicrtc or HiDttiiig^ iranslalcd a)td
collected for the Use of all Noble wen and
Gentlemen. Lond. 1611, 410, p. i^.
Note III.
/•£>;- t/ie death-wound and deat/t-/ialloo.
Mastered his breath, his zvhi'nyard drczv.
— r. 2tx>
When the stag turned to bay, the ancient
hunter had the perilous task of going in upon,
and killing or disabling the desperate animal.
At certain times of the year this was held
particularly dangerous, a wound received
trom a stag's horn being then deemed
poisonous, and more dangerous than one
from the tusks of a boar, as the old rhyme
testifies : —
■If thou be hurt nitli hart, it briiigfs thee to thy bier,
But barber's hand will boar's hurt heal, therefore
thou need'st not fear.'
At all times, however, the task was danger-
ous, and to be adventured upon wisely and
warily, either by getting behind the stag
while he was gazing on the hounds, or by
watching an opportunity to gallop roundly in
upon him, and kill him with the sword.
See many directions to this purpose in the
Booke of Hunting, chap. 41. W'ilson the
liistorian has recorded a providential escape
which befell him in this hazardous sport, while
a youth and follower of the Earl of Sussex.
'Sir Peter Lee, of Lime, in Cheshire,
invited my lord one summer to hunt the
stagg. And having a great stagg in chase,
and many gentlemen in the pursuit, the stagg
took soyle. And divers, whereof 1 was one,
alighted, and stood with swords drawne, to
have a cut at him, at his coming out of the
water. The staggs there being wonderfully-
fierce and dangerous, made us youths more
eager to be at him. But he escaped us all.
And it was my misfortune to be hindered of
my coming nere him, the way being sliperie,
by a falle ; which gave occasion to some,
who did not know mee, to speak as if 1 had
falne for feare. Which being told mee, I left
the stagg, and followed the gentleman who
[first] spake it. But I found him of that cold
temper, that it seems his words made an
escape from him ; as by his denial and
repentance it appeared. But this made mee
more violent in the pursuit of the stagg, to
recover ray reputation. And I happened to
be the only horseman in, when the dogs
sett him up at bay ; and approaching near
him on horsebacke, he broke through the
ilogs, and run at mee, and tore my horse's
side with his homes, close by my thigh.
Then I quitted my horse, and grew more
cunning (for the dogs had sette him up
againe), stealing behind him with my sworcf,
and cut his hamstrings; and then got u])on
his back, and cut his throate; which, as
I was doing, the company came in, and
blamed my rashness for running such a
ha.zdLV(^.'—V)iC}Cs Desiderata Cnn'osa, ii. 464.
Note IV.
Ajid nozv, to issue from the glen,
A-o pathway meets the zvanderer^s ken.
Unless he climb, zvith footing nice,
Afar proJecti>ig precipice. — 1'. 211.
Until the present road was made through
the romantic pass which 1 have presump-
tuously attempted to describe in the preceding
stanzas, there was no mode of issuing out of
the defile called the Trosachs, excepting b)-
a sort of ladder, composed of the branches
and roots of trees.
Note V.
To meet with Highland plunderers here.
Were zvorse than loss of steed or deer.
— V.2\\.
The clans who inhabited the romantic
regions in the neighbourhood of Loch Katrine
were, even until a late period, much addicted
to predatory excursions upon their Lowland
neighbours. ' In former tnties, those parts of
this district, which are situated beyond the
Grampian range, were rendered almost inac-
cessible by strong barriers of rocks, and
mountains, and lakes. It was a border
country, and, though on the very verge of
the low country, it was almost totally se-
questered from the world, and, as it were,
insulated with respect to society. 'Tis well
known that in the Highlands, it was, in for-
mer times, accounteU not only lawful, but
honourable, among hostile tribes, to commit
depredations on one another ; and these
habits of the age were perhaps strengthened
in this district, by the circumstances which
have been mentioned. It bordered on a
country, the inhabitants of which, while they
were rfcher, were less w arlike than they, and
widely differenced by language and manners.'
—Graham's Sketches of Scenery in Perth-
2)8
(lXoit6 to
sJii/'c. Ediii. 1806, p. 97. The rL-ader will
therefore be pleased to remember, that the
scene of this poem is laid in a time,
' When tooniing faulds, or sweepin^^ of a j^Ien,
liad still been held the deed of gallant men.'
Note VI.
A gj'ey-hair^ d sirc^ whose eye iiilait
Was on the I'isioji'd future bent. — P. J13.
If force of evidence could authorise us to
believe facts inconsistent with the general
laws of nature, enough might be produced in
favour of the existence of the Second-sight. It
is called in Gaelic Taishitaratigh^ from
T'aish, an unreal or shadowy appearance ;
and those possessed of the faculty are called
^raishatrin^ wliich may be aptly translated
visionaries. Martin, a steady believer in the
second-sight, gives the following account ot
it :—
'The second-sight is a singular faculty,
of seeing an otherwise invisible object, with-
out any previous means used by the person
that used it for that end : the vision makes
such a lively impression upon the seers, that
they neither see, nor think of anything else,
except the vision, as long as it continues ;
and then they appear pensive or jovial, ac-
cording to the object that was represented to
them.
' At the sight of a vision, the eyelids of the
person are erected, and the eyes continue
staring until the object vanish. This is
obvious to others who are by, wlien the
persons happen to see a \ision, and occurred
more than once to my own observation, and
to others that were with me.
'There is one in Skie, of whom his acquaint-
ance observed, that when he sees a vision, the
inner part of his evelids turns so far upwards,
that, after the object disappears, lie must
draw them down with his fingers, and some-
times employ others to draw them down,
which he finds to be the much easier way.
' This faculty of the second-sight does not
lineally descend in a family, as some imagine,
for I know several parents who are endowed
with it, but their children not, TiwAvice versa ;
neitherisitacquired by anypreviouscompact.
And, after a strict enquirv, I could never learn
that this faculty was coinmunicable any way
whatsoever.
' The seer knows neither the object, time,
nor place of a vision, before it appears ; and
the same object is often seen bv different
persons living at a considerable distance from
one another. The true way of judging as to
the time and circumstance of an object, is by
observation ; for several persons of judcjment,
without tliis faculty, are more capable to
judge of the design of a vision, than a novice
that is a seer. If an object appear in the dav
or night, it will come to pass sooner or
later accordinglv.
'If an object is seen early in the morning
(which is not frequent) it will be accomplished
in a few hours afterwards. If at noon, it will
commonly be accomplished that verj-day. If
in the evening, perhaps that night ; if after
candles be lighted, it will be accomplished
that night : the later alwa3s in accomplish-
ment, by weeks, months, and sometimes
years, according to the time of night the
vision is seen.
' When a shroud is perceived about one, it is
a sure prognostic of death ; thetime is judged
according to the height of it about the person ;
for if it is seen above the middle, death is not
to be expected for the space of a year, and
perhaps some months longer ; and as it is
irequentlj' seen to ascend higher towards the
head, death is concluded to oe at hand with-
in a few days, if not hours, as daily experi-
ence confirms. Examples of this kind were
shewn me, when the persons of whom the
observations were then made, enjoyed perfect
health.
' One instance was lately foretold by a seer,
that was a novice, concerning the death of one
of my acquaintance ; this was communicated
to a few onlv, and with great confidence ; I
being one of the number, did not in the least
regard it, until the death of the person,
about the time foretold, did confirm me of
the certainty of the prediction. The novice
mentioned abo\e, is now a skilful seer, as
appears from many late instances ; he lives
in the parish of St. Mary's, the most northern
in Skie.
'If a woman is seen standing at a man's
left hand, it is a presage that she will be liis
wife, whether they be married to others, or
unmarried at the time of the apparition.
' If two or three women are seen at once
near a man's left hand, she that is next him
will undoubtedly be his wife first, and so on,
whether all three, or the man, be single or
married at the time of the \ision or not ; of
which there are several late instances among
those of my acquaintance. It is an ordinary
thing for them to see a man that is to coine
to the house shortly after : and if he is not of
the seer's acquaintance, jet he gives such a
lively description of his stature, complexion,
habit, &c. that upon his arrival he answers
the character given him in all respects.
' If the person so appearing be one of the
seer's acquaintance, he will tell his name, as
well as other particulars ; and he cau tell by
his countenance whether he comes in a goo(]'
or bad humour.
' I have been seen thus myself by seers of
both sexes, at some hundred miles' distance ;
some that saw me in this manner had never
seen me personallv, and it happened ac-
cording to their vision, without any previous
design of mine to go to those places, my
coming there being purelv accidental.
' It is ordinary with them to see houses,
gardens, and trees, in places void of all three ;
and this in progress of time uses to be ac-
complished:. as at Mogshot, in the Isle of
ZU ^«^? of iU Bah.
'■19
Skie, where there were but a few sorry cow-
liouses, thatched with straw, yet in a very few
years after, the vision, which appeared often,
was accomplished, l)v the buildinjr of several
jjood houses on the very spot represented by
the seers, and by the planting of orchards
there.
'To see a spark of fire fall upon one's arm
or breast, is a forerunner of a dead child to be
seen in the arms of those persons ; of which
there are several fresh instances.
' To see a seat empty at the time of one's
sitting- in it, is a presage of that person's
death soon after.
' When a novice, or one that has lately ob-
tained the second-sight, sees a vision in the
niglit-time without floors, and he be near a
fire, he presently falls into a swoon.
' Some find themselves as it were in a crowd
of people, having a corpse which they carry
along with them ; and after such visions, the
seers come in sweating, and describe the
people that appeared : it there be any of their
acquaintanceamong'em, thevgivean account
of their names, as also of the Ijearers, but
they know nothing concerning tlie corpse.
' All those who have the second-sight do not
always see these visions at once, though tlicy
be together at the time. But if one who has
this faculty, designedly touch his fellow-seer
at the instant of a vision's appearing, then the
second sees it as well as the first ; and this is
sometimes discerned by those that are near
them on such occasions.' — M.\ktin's De-
scriptionof the IVesiern Islands, 1716, 8 vo,
p. ,^(jo e/ scq.
To these |)articulars innumerable examples
might be added, all attested by grave and
credible authors. But, in despite of evidence
which neither Bacon, Boyle, nor Johnson
were able to resist, the Taixch, with all its
\isioTiary properties, sceins to be now uni-
versally abandoned to the use of poetry.
The exquisitely beautiful poem of l^ochiel
will at once occur to the recollection of every
reader.
Note VH.
Here, for retreat in dangerous hour,
Sojne chief had fratited a rustic bower.
-P. -'14.
The Celtic chieftains, whose liycs were con-
tinually exposed to peril, had usually, in the
most retired spot of their domains, some
place of retreat for the liour of necessity,
which, as circumstances would admit, was a
tower, a cavern, or a rustic hut, in a strong
and secluded situation. One of these last
gave refuge to the unfortunate Charles Ed-
ward, in his perilous wanderings after the
battle of Culloden.
' It was situated in the face of a very rough,
liisih, an<i rocky mountain, called I^etter-
niliclik, still a part of Beualder, full of great
stones and crevices, and some scattered wood
interspersed. The habitation calletl the
Cage, in the face of that mountain, was with-
in a small thick bush of wood. There were
first some rows of trees laid down, in order
to level the floor for a habitation ; and as the
place was steep, this raised the lower side to
an equal height with the other : and these
trees, in the way of joists or planks, were
levelled with earth and gravel. Then-were
betwixt the trees, growing naturally on their
own roots, some stakes fixed in the earth,
which, with the trees, were interwoven with
ropes, made of heath and birch twigs, up to
the top of the Cage, it being of a round or
rather oval shape ; and the whole thatched
and covered over with fog. The whole
fabric hung, as it were, by a large tree, which
reclined from theone end, all alongthe roof,
to the other, and which gave it the name of
the Cage ; and by chance there happened to
be two stones at a small distance from one
another, in the side next the precipice, re-
sembling the pillars of a chimney, where the
fire was placed. The smoke had its vent out
here, all alongthe fall of the rock, which was
so much of the same colour, that one could
<liscover no difference in the clearest da}'.' — ■
Hojie's History 0/ the Rcbdlion, Lond.
i8u.', 4to, p. 38 1.
Note Vni. - - •
My sire's tall form might grace the part
Of Ferragus or Ascabart. — 1'. j 1 5.
These two sons of Anak flourished in
romantic fable. The first is widl known to
the admirers of Ariosto, by the name of
Ferrau. He was an antagonist of Orlando,
and was at length slain by him in siiigle
combat. There is a romance in the Aucliin-
leck IMS., in which Ferragus is thus de-
scribed ; —
' CMi a day come tidinir
l^nto Charls tfie Kin;^,
Af of a doug^titi Icnight
"Was conien to Navers,
.Stout lie was and fers,
Vernagu he higlit.
Of Babiloun ttie soudaii
Thider him sende gan,
With King Charls to fight.
S.) hard he was to fond 1
That no dint of brond
No ^'reued him, aplij::Iit.
He hadde tvventi men stren^the
.■\nd f .rti fet oflengthe,
Thilf;c painim liede-,
And four feet in the face,
V-meten " in the place,
And fifteen in brede ■*.
His nose was a fot and more :
His brow, as bristles wore 5 ;
He that it seirjlie it sede.
He loked lothelichc.
And was swart ** as any piche.
Of him men might adrede.'
eo/ Charlemagne, 11.461-484.
Auchinleck MS., folio 265.
1 I-unnd, pru\ed. 2 Had.
I Breadth. J \Vere.
Me
:8o
(Jtefee to
Ascapart, or Ascabart, makes a very
material figure in the History ot" Bevis of
Hampton, by whom he was conquered. His
effigies may be seen guarding one side of
a gate at Southampton, wliile the other is
occupied by Sir 13evis himself The dimen-
sions of Ascabart were little inferior to those
of Ferragus, if the following description be
correct : —
' Thej' inetten with a geaunt,
With a lotliehche seniblaunt.
He was ^\■onderIiche strong,
Uome ' thretti fote long.
His herd was bot yret and rowe 2 ;
A space of a fot betweene is ■< browe ;
His clob was, to }-eue 1 a strok,
A lite bodi of an oak 5.
Beues Iiadtle of him wundi-r gret,
And askede him what a het''.
And yaf^ men of his contre
"Were ase meche ^ ase was he.
" Me name," a sede •', " is Ascopard,
Garci ine sent hiderward.
l''or to bring this queue aycii,
And the Beues her of-sleu i".
Incham Garci isU champioun.
And was i-driue out of me i- toun
Al for that ich was so lltei'.
Eueri man me wolde smite,
Ich was so lite and so merugliH.
Eueri man me clepede dwerugh Ij,
And now icham in this londe,
I wax mor '« ich understonde,
And stranger than other tene '' ;
And that schel on us be sene."
Siy fiez'is o/Ha»tfton, i. i_-5ii'.
.Inchiiileck MS., fol. 189.
Note IX.
I'liougli all intask'd /ii's birth and name.
-P. ..5.
The Higlilanders, wlio carried hospitality
to a punctilious excess are said to have
considered it as churlish, to ask a stranger
his naine or lineage, before he had taken re-
freshment. Feuds were so frequent among
thein, that a contrary rule would in many
cases have produced the discovery of some
circumstance which inight have excluded
the guest from the benefit of the assistance
lie stood in need of.
Note X.
' and still a liarp 11 n seen
Fill d up the syniplwJiy bel-vccn.
—1". -M.v
'They' (meaning the Higlilanders) 'de-
light much in musicke, but chicflv in liarps
and clairschoes of their own fashion. The
1 Fully. 2 Rough. = His. ■! Give. 6 The
stem of a little oak-tree. <> He higlit, was called.
T If. » Great. » He said. I c Slav. n His.
12 My. 13 IJttle. 11 Lean. ' 15 Dwarf.
1« Greater, taller. " Ten.
strings of the clairschoes are made of brass
wire, and the strings of the harps of sinews ;
which strings they strike either with their
nayles, growing long, or else with an instru-
ment appointed for that use. They take
great pleasure to decke their harps and
clairschoes with silver and precious stones ;
the poore ones that cannot attayne hereunto,
decke them with christall. They sing verses
prettily compound, contayning (for the most
part) prayses of valiant men. There is not
almost any other argument, whereof their
rhymes intreat. They speak the ancient
French language altered a little 1.' — ■" The
harp and clairschoes are now only heard of
in the Highlands in ancient song. At what
period these instruments ceased to be used,
IS not on record ; and tradition is silent on this
head. But, as Irish harpers occasionally
visited the Highlands and Western Isles till
lately, the harp might have been extant so
late as the middle of the last century. Thus
far we know, that from remote times down
to the present, harpers were received as wel-
come guests, particularly in the Highlands
of Scotland ; and so late as the latter end of
the sixteenth century, as appears by the
above quotation, the harp was in common use
among the natives of the Western Isles. How
it happened that the noisy and unharmonious
bagpipe banished the soft and expressive
harp, we cannot say; but certain it is, that
the bagpipe is now the onh' instrument that
obtains universally in the Higliland districts.'
— Campbell's Journey through North
Britain. Lond. 1808. 4to. i. 1-5.
Mr. Gunn, of Edinburgh, has lately pub-
lished a curious Essay upon the Harj) and
Harp Music of the Highlands of Scotland.
That the instrument was once in common use
there is most certain. Clelland numbers an
acquaintance with it among the few accom-
plishments which his satire allows to the
Highlanders : —
' In nothing they're acoiunted sharp,
lixcept in bagpipe or in harp.'
Note XI.
Months genialinflnence roused a minstrel
grey.—?. 217.
That Highland chieftains, to a late period,
retained in their service the bard, as a family
officer, admits of very easy proof. The
author of the Letters from the North of Scot-
land, an officer of engineers, quartered at
Inverness about i"2<), who certainly cannot
be deemed a favourable witness, gives the
following account of the office, and of a b.nrd
whom he heard exercise his talent of recita-
1 Vide ' Certayue Matters concerning the Realme
of Scotland, &c. as they were Anno Domini :597.'
Lund. 1603, 4to.
ZU Ba^^ of tU ;Saae.
281
tion : — 'The bard is skilled in the genealogy
of all the Highland families, sometimes pre-
ceptor to the young laird, celebrates in Irish
verse the original of tlie tribe, the famous
warlike actions of the successive heads, and
sings his own lyricksasan opiate to the chief
when indisposed for sleep ; but poets are net
equally esteemed and honourea in all coun-
tries. I happened to be a witness of the dis-
honour done to the muse at the house of one
of the chiefs, where two of these bards were
set at a good distance, at the lower end of a
long table, with a parcel of Highlanders of no
extraordinary appearance, over a cup of ale.
Poor inspiration ! They were not asked to
ilrink a glass of wine at our table, though
the whole company consisted only of the
"real man, one of his near relations, and my-
,-.elf. After some little time, the chief ordered
one of them to sing me a Highland song.
The bard readily obeyed, and with a hoarse
■voice, and in a tune of few various notes, be-
gan, as I was told, one of his own h'ricks ;
and when he had proceeded to the fourth or
fifth stanza, I perceived, by the names of
several persons, glens, and mountains, which
I had known or heard of before, that it was
an account of some clan battle. But in hi.s
going on the chief (who piques iiimselfupon
liis school-learning), at some particular
passage, bid him cease, and cried out,
'There's nothing like that in Virgil or
Homer." I bowed, and told him I belie\ed
bo. This you may believe was very edifying
and delightful.' — 'Le//crs, ii. 167.
Note XH.
T/te Grtrme. — P. 219.
The ancient and powerful family of Graham
(which, for metrical reasons, is here spelt
after the Scottish pronunciation) lield ex-
tensive possessions in the counties of Dum-
barton and Stirling. Few families can boast
of more historical renown, having claim to
three of the most remarkable characters in
the Scottish annals. Sir John the Gra-me,
the faithful and undaunted partaker of the
labours and patriotic warfare of Wallace, fell
in the unfortunate field of Falkirk, in IJ98.
The celebrated Marquis of Montrose, in whom
De Retz saw realized his abstract idea of the
ln-roes of antiquity, was the second of these
\s orthies. And, notwithstanding the severity
of his temper, and the rigour with which he
executed the oppressive mandates of the
princes whom he served, I do not hesitate to
name as a third, JohnGr;eineof Claverhouse,
Viscount of Dundee, wliose heroic death in
the arms of victory mav be allowed to cancel
the meinorv of his cruelt)- to the Noncon-
formists during the reigns of Charles H and
James U.
Note XHl.
lyu's harp, ■;i.</iic/i erst Saint Modaii szvay'd.
—P. 2iy.
I am not prepared to show that Saint Modan
was a performer on the harp. It was, how-
ever, nounsaintlyaccomplishment ; for Saint
Dunstan certainly did plav upon that instru-
ment, which retaining, as was natural, a por-
tion of the sanctity attached to its master's
character, announced future events b}' its
spontaneous sounds. ' But labouring once
in these mechanic arts for a devout matrone
that had sett him on work, his violl, that
hung by him on the wall, of its own accord,
without anie man's helpe, distinctly sounded
this anthime : — Gaudciit in coelis atiiiiiac
sanclornm qui Christivcsti^ia siuitscatti ;
ct quia pro ciiis aniore sanguiuem siitijii
fnderiint, idco cum Cliristo gaitdciU
aelcrniini. Whereat all the companie being
much astonished, turned their eyes from
beholding him working, to looke on that
strange accident. . . . Not long after, manie
of the court that hithcrunto had borne
a kind of fayned friendship towards him,
began now greatly to envie at his progress
and rising in goodnes, using manie crooked,
backbiting meanes to diffame his vertues with
the black maskes of hypocrisie. And the
bettcr to authorize their cahimnie, they
brought in this that happened in the violl,
anirniing it to ha\ e been done by art inagick.
\\'hat more? This wicked rumour encreased
davly till the king and others of the nobilitie
taking liould thereof, Dunstan grew odious
in their siglit. Therefore he resolued to
leaue the court and go to Elphegus, surnamed
the Bauld, then Bishop of Winchester, who
was his cozen. Which his enemies under-
standing, they layd wayt for him in the way,
and hauing throwne him off his horse, beate
liim, and dragged him in the durt in the most
miserable manner, meaning to have slaine
him, had not a companie of masliue dogges
that came unlookt uppon them defeiuKd
and redeemed him from theircrueltie. Wl'.en
with sorrow he was ashamed to see dogges
more humane than they. And giuing thankes
to Alinightie God, he sensibly againe per-
ceiued that the tunes of his \\o\\ had giuen
him a warning of future accidents.' — Floncr
of ilie Liz'cs of i lie most reiiovjiicd Saincts
of England. Scotland, and Ireland, by the
R. Father Hierome Porter. Dowa3'. 103.',
4to, tome i. p. 4:18.
The same supernatural circumstance is
alluded to by the anonymous author of ' Grim,
the Collier of Croydon.'
* [Dicustati's harp soiutds on the "tall. ]
rort-sf ]lark, hark, my lords, the holy abbot's harp
Sounds by itself so hanging on the wall I
Dunstan. Unhallow'd man, that scorn'st the sacred
rede,
Hark, how- the testimony of ray truth
Sounds heavenly music with an angel's hand,
To testify Dunstan's integrity
.\nd prove thy active boast of no effect.'
Qtofee to
Note XIV.
Hf'i; Douglases, io ruin driven^
li 'ere exiled from their native heai'en.
—P. 219.
The downfall of the Douglases of the
house of Antrus during the reign of James V
is the event alluded to in the text. The
Earl of Angus, it will be remembered, had
married thecjueen dowager, and availed him-
self of the right which he thus acquired, as
well as of his extensive power, to retain
the king in a sort of tutelage, which ap-
proached ver3' near to captivity. .Several
open attempts were made to- rescue James
from this thraldom, with which he was well
known to be deeply disgusted ; but the valour
of the Douglases and their allies gave them
the victory in every conflict. At length the
king, while residing at Falkland, contrived
to escape by night out of liis own court and
palace, and rode full speed to Stirling Castle,
where the governor, who was of the opposite
faction, jovfully received him. Being thus
at liberty, James speedily suinmoned around
him such peers as he knew to be most in-
imical to the domination of Angus — and laid
his complaint before them, says Pitscottie,
' with great lamentations ; showing to them
how he was holden in subjection, thir years
bygone, by the Earl of Angus and his kin
and friends, who oppressed the whole country
and spoiled it, under the pretence of justice
and Ins authority ; and had slain many of his
lieges, kinsmen, and friends, because they
woulil have had it mended at their hands,
and put him at liberty, as he ought to have
been, at the counsel of his whole lords, and
not have been subjected and corrected with
no particular men, by the rest of his nobles.
Therefore, said he, I desire, my lords, that I
may be satisfied of the said earl, his kin, and
friends ; for I avow that Scotland shall not
hold us both while [i. e. till] I be revenged on
him and his.
' The lords, hearing the king's complaint and
lamentation, and also the great rage, fury,
and malice that he bore toward the Earl of
Angus, his kin and friends, they concluded
all, and thought it best that he should bo
suinmoned to underly the law ; if he found
no caution, nor j'et compear himself, that he
should be put to the horn, with all his kin
and friends, so many as were contained in the
letters. And farther, the lords ordained, by
advice of his majesty, that his brother and
friends should be summoned to find caution
to underly the law within a certain day, or
else be put to the horn. But the earl ap-
peared not, nor none for him ; and so he
was put to the horn, with all his kin and
friends ; so many as were contained in the
summons that compeared not were banished,
and holden traitors to the king.'
Note XV.
In Holy-Rood a Knight he slew.—V. 220.
This was by no means an uncommon
occurrence in the Court of Scotland ; nay, the
presence of the sovereign himself scarcely
restrained the ferocious and inveterate
feuds which were the perpetual source of
bloodshed among the Scottish nobility. The
following instance of the murder of Sir
William Stuart of Ochiltree, called The
Bloody, by the celebrated Francis, Earl of
Bothwell, may be produced among many;
but as the oftence given in the royal court
will hardly bear a vernacular translation,
I shall leave the story in Johnstone's Latin,
referring for further particulars to the naked
simplicity of Birrell's Diarv, July ^^^o, 1588.
' Mors i?uprobi hoiiiinis iion lam ipsa
iintiierita, qiiani pessiino exeinplo in piibli-
cuni, faedc pcrpeirata. Gnlielmiis Stuar-
tus Alkiltriiis, Arani J rater, 7ia/ura ac
moribits, ctijits saepiits meiiiiiti, intlgo
proptersiteinsa7!gitiniss7s.ng\i\na.r\\isdictiis,
a Bo/hz'clio, in Snjictae Criicis Regia ex-
ardesccnte ira, inendacii probro lacessitns,
ohscaeniDn oscitlitni libcrins retorqttebat ;
Bothveliits hanc couluineliani taciins tiilit,
sed ingeniiiin irariini ^noleni aninto con-
ccpit. Utrinnue postridic Edinburgi con-
vent 11 in, totidein nitmcro coniitibusarmatis,
praesidii causa, et acrilcr pngnatum est ;
caeteris aniicis el clicntihns mctii torpenti-
biis, ant z'i absterrilis, ipse Stnartits fbr-
tissime diniicat ; tandem cxciisso gladio a
Bothvclio, Scythica fcrilatc transfoditiir,
sine ciijitsqnani inisericordia ; habnit ita-
(jiie ipiem dcbiiit exitnni. Digitus erat
Sttiartns qui paterctiir ; Bothveliits qtii
faccrct. Viilgns sajtgttinein sanguine prac-
dicabit, et horiini criiore innocuoritni ma-
nibus egrcgie parentatuni.'' — Johnstoni
Historia Reruin Britannicarnin, ab anno
1572 ad annum 1628. Amstelodami 1665,
fob, p. 135.
Note XVI.
The Douglas, like a stricken deer,
Disffivti'd by every noble peer. — P. 220.
The exile state of this powerful race is not
exaggerated in this and subsequent passages.
The hatred of James against the race of
Douglas was so inveterate, that numerous
as their allies were, and disregarded as the
regal authority had usually been in similar
cases, their nearest friends, even in the most
remote parts of Scotland, durst not entertain
them, unless under the strictest and closest
disguise. James Douglas, son of the ban-
ished Earl of.\ngus, afterwards well known
by the title of Earl of Morton, lurked, during
the exile of his family, in the north of Scotland,
Z^t Babp of tU iS<»6c.
28:
under the assumed name of James Innes,
otherwise Jatnes the Grieve (i.e. Rcve or
Bailiff). 'And as he bon- tlie name,' says
Godscroft, ' so did he also ixirute the office
of a grieve or overseer ot the lands and rents,
the corn and cattle of him with whom he
lived.' From the habits of frugality and
observation which he acquired in his humble
situation, the historian traces that intimate
acquaintance with popular character which
enabled him to rise so liigh in the state, and
that honourable econom)' by which lie re-
paired and established the shattered estates
of Angus and Morton. — History oftlte House
of Douglas, Edinburgh, 17-13, vol. ii. p. 160.
Note XVII.
Mayoitnan^s cell. — V. .'.m.
The parish of Kilmaronock, at tlic eastern
extremity of Loch Lomond, derives its name
Irom a cell or chapel, (ie<iicated to Saint
Maronock, or Marnock, or Maronnan, about
w hose sanctity \ery little is now remembered.
There is a fountain de\oted to him in the
same jjarish ; but its virtues, like the merits
of its patron, have fallen into oblivion.
Note XVIII.
BracklitiJis tituudcriiig ivai'e. — V. jji.
This isa beautiful cascaiie made by a moun-
tain stream called the Keltic, at a place called
the Bridge of Bracklinn, about a mile from
the village of Callender in Menteith. Above
a chasm, where the brook precipitates itself
from a lieight of at least fifty feet, there is
thrown, for the convenience of the neighbour-
hood, a rustic footbridge, of about three feet
in breadth, and without ledges, which is
scarcely to be crossed by a stranger without
awe and apprehension.
Note XIX.
For Tine-man forgcdhy fairy lore. — P. 2^1.
Archibald, the third Karl of Douglas, was
so unfortunate in all his enterprises, that he
acquired the epithet of TlN'E-lUN, because he
iincd, or lost, his followers in every battle
which he fought. He was vanquished, as
every reader must remember, in the bloody
battle of Homildon-hill, near \\'ooler, where
he himself lost an eye, and was made prisoner
by Hotspur. He was no less unfortunate
\\ hen allied w itii Percy, being w ounded and
taken at the battle of Shrewsbury. He was
so unsuccessful in an attempt to besiege
Roxburgh Castle, that it was called the Foul
Raid, or disgraceful expedition. His ill-for-
tune left him indeed at the battle of Beaugc,
in France ; but it was only to return with
double emphasis at the subsequent action of
Vernoil, the last and most unlucky of his
encounters, in which he fell, with the (lower
of the Scottish chivalry, then serving as
auxiliaries in F" ranee, and about tw o thousand
common soldiers, A.D. 14.14.
Note XX.
Did, self-uuscahbarded, foreshow
The footstep of a secret foe. — P. 221.
The ancient warriors, whose hope and con-
fidence rested chiefly in their blades, were
accustomed to deduce omens from them,
especially from such as were supposed to
have been fabricated by enchanted skill, of
which we have various instances in the
romances and legends of the time. The
wonderful sword Skofnung, wielded by the
Celebrated Hrolf Kraka, was of tliis descrip-
tion. It was deposited in the toad) of the
monarch at his death, and taken from thence
b)' Skeggo, a celebrated pirate, w ho bestowed
it upon his son-in-law, Kormak, with the
following curious directions : — ' "The manner
of using it will appear strange to you.
A small bag is attached to it, which take
heed not to violate. Let not the rays of the
sun touch the upper part of the handle, nor
unsheathe it, unless thou art ready for battle.
But when thou comest to the place of fight,
go aside from the rest, grasp and extend the
sword, and breathe upon it. Then a small
worm will creep out of the handle ; lower the
handle, that he may more easily return into
it." Kormak, after having received the
sword, returned home to his mother. He
showed the sword, and attempted to draw it,
as unnecessarily as ineffectually, for he could
not pluck it out of the sheath. His mother,
Dalla, exclaimed, "Do not despise the
counsel given to thee, my son." Kormak,
however, repeating his efforts, ])ressed down
the handle with his feet, and tore off the bag,
when Skofnung emitted a hollow groan : but
still he could not unsheathe the sword. Kor-
mak then went out with Bessus, whom he
had challenged to fight with him, and drew
apart at the place of combat. He sat down
upon the ground, and ungirding the sword,
which he bore above his vestments, did not
remember to shield the hilt from the raj-s
of the sun. In vain he endeavoured to draw
it, till he placed his foot against the liilt;
then the worm issued from it. But Kormak
did not rightly handle the weapon, in con-
sequence whereof good fortune deserted it.
.-\s he unsheatheii Skofnung, it emitted
a hollow murmur.' — liarlholini dc Causis
Coutonptac a Danis adhiic Gcittilibus
(Tlofee io
Mor/is, Libri Tfes. Ilq/iu'ac, i68y, 4to,
P- >7A- , . , .
To tl'.c liistoiy of tins sentient and prescient
weapon, I bejr leave to add, from ineinory,
the following; legend, for which I cannot
produce any better authority. A youn{r
nobleman, ot'higli hopes and fortune, chanced
to lose liis way in the town which he in-
habited, the capital, if I mistake not, ot
a German province. He had accidentally
involved himself among the narrow and
winding streets of a suburb, inhabited by the
lowest order of the people, and an approach-
ing thunder-shower determined him to ask
a short refuge in the most decent habitation
that was near him. He knocked at tlie
door, which was opened by a tall man, of
a grisly and ferocious aspect, and sordid
dress. The stranger was readily ushered to
a chamber, ■v\here swords, scourges, and
machines, which seemed to be implements
of torture, were suspended on the wall.
One of these swords dropped from its scab-
bard, as the nobleman, after a moment's
hesitation, crossed the threshold. His host
immediatelystaredat him with such a marked
expression, that the young man could not
lieip demanding his name and business, and
the meaning of his looking at him so fi.xedly.
'I am,' answered the man, 'the public
executioner of this city ; and the incident
vou ha\e observed is a sure augury that
\ shall, in discharge of my duty, one day
cut off your head with the weapon which
lias just now spontaneously unsheathed it-
self.' The nobleman lost no time in h-aving
liis place of refuge; but, engaging in some
j)f the plots of the ])eriod, was shortly after
decapitated by that very man and instrument.
Lord Lovat is said, by the author of the
Letters from Scotland, to liave aflirmcd,
that a number of swords that hung up in
llie hall of the mansion-house, leaped ot
themselves out of the scabbard at the instant
he was born. The story passed current
among his clan, but, like' that of the story
I have just quoted, proved an unfortunate
omen.^Lc//t-rs_/'rom Sco/laiid, vol. ii. ]). .'14.
Note XXI.
7Vwsc //iril/im;- soiinrls, ihai call tlic viiglit
0/ old Clan-Alpine to ihe fght.-V. 222.
The connoisseurs in jiipe-music .-illect to
discover in a well-composed pibmeh, the
imitative sounds of march, conOict, fig'nt,
]nirsuit, and all the ' current of a heady fight.'
To this opinion Dr. Heattie has given his
suffrage, in the following elegant passage : —
'A pibroch is a species of tune, peculiar,
1 think, to the Highlands and Western Isles
of Scotland. It is performed on a bagpipe,
and differs totally from all other music. Its
rhythm is so irregular, and its notes, espe-
cially in the quick movement, so mixed and
huddled together, that a stranger linds it
impossible to reconcile his ear to it, so as to
perceive its modulation. Some of these
pibrochs, being intended to represent a
battle, begin with a grave motion resembling
a inarch ; then gradually quicken into the
onset ; run off with noisy confusion, and
turbulent rapidity, to imitate the conilict
and pursuit; then swell into a few flourishes
of triumphant joy ; and perhaps close with
the wild and slow wailings of a funeral \>xo-
i:K'=,s\on.'— Essavon Langhlcrand Ludicrous
Coinposilion, chap. iii. Note.
Note XXII.
Rodcrigli I'ich Alpine dim, ho! icroe !
— r. 22^.
Besides his ordinary name and surname,
which were chiefly used in the intercourse
with the Lowlands, every Highland chief had
an epithet expressive of his patriarchal dignity
as head of the clan, and which was common
to all his predecessors and successors, as
Pharaoh to the kings of Egypt, or Arsaces
to those of Paithia. This name \xas usually
a ])atronvmic, expressive of his descent from
the foun(li-r of the family. Thus the Duke
of .\rgyle is called IMacCallum More, or the
son of Colin the Great. Sometimes, how-
ever, it is derived from armorial distinctions,
or the memory of some great feat; thus
Lord Seaforth, as chief of the Mackenzies,
or Clan Kennet, bears the epithet of Caber-fae,
or Buck's Head, as representative of Colin
Fitzgerald, founder of the family, who saved
the Scottish king when endangered by a stag.
But besides this title, which belonged to his
office and (hgnity, the chieftain had iisuajly
another peculiar to himself, which distin-
guished him from the chieftains of the same
race. This was sometimes derived from
complexion, as dhn or 7-oy ; sometimes from
size, as beg or inore\ at other times from
some peculiar exploit, or from some peculi-
arity of habit or appearance. The line ol
the text therefore signifies,
' in.ick Roderick, the descendant of Alpine."
The song itself is intended as an imitation
of the jorraii/s, or lioat songs, of the
Highlanders, which were usually composed
in honour of a favourite chief. They are so
adapted as to keep time with the sweep oi
the oars, and it is easy to distinguish between
those intended to be sung to the oars of
a galley, where the stroke is lengthened and
dmiijleil, as it were, and those which were
timed to the rowers of an ordinary boat.
\
C0e Bab^ of tU ;Sa8e.
2Sr,
Note XXIII.
T/tc hcst flf Loch Lomond !ic dead on Iter side.
-P. 223.
Tlie Lennox, as the district is called, wliicli
pncirclfsthelowerextremity of Locli Lomond,
was peculiarly exposed to tlie incursions of the
mountaineers, who inhabited the inaccessible
fastnesses at the upper en<l of the lake, and
the neijrhbourinjj district of Loch Katrine.
These were often marked by circumstances
<jf great ferocity, of which the noted conflict
of Glen-fruin is a celebrated instance. This
was a clan-battle, in wliich the Macsjrejjors,
headed b}' Allaster Macgre^ror, chief of the
clan, encountered the sept of Colcjuhouns,
commanded by Sir Humphry Colciuhoun of
Luss. It is on all liands allowed that the
action was desperately fought, and that the
Colquhouns were defeated with great slaugh-
ter, leaving two liundrefl of tlieir name
dead upon the field. But ])opular tradition
lias added other horrors to the tale. It is
said, that Sir Humphry Colquhoun, who
was on horseback, escaped to the castle of
IJenechra, or Banochar, and was next day
dragged out and murdered by the victorious
Macgregors in cold blood. Buchanan of
Auclimar, liowever, speaks of his slaughter
as a subsequent event, and as perpetrated by
the Macfarlanes. Again, it is reported that
the Macgregors murdered a number of
youths, wliom report of the intended battle
liad brought to be spectators, and whom the
Colquhouns, anxious for their safety, liad
shut up in a barn to be out of danger. One
account of tlie Macgregors denies this cir-
cumstance cntirelv : another ascribes it to
the saiage and bloodthirsty disposition of a
single individual, the bastard brother of the
Laird of Macgregor, who amused liimself
with this second massacre of the innocents,
in express disobedience to the chief, by whom
he was left tlieir guardian during the pursuit
of the Colquhouns. It is added, that .Mac-
gregor bitterlvlamented this atrocious action,
ann prophesied the ruin wliich it must bring
upon their ancient clan. Tlie following
account of the conflict, which is indeed
drawn up by a friend of the Clan-Gregor,
is altogether silent on tlie murder of
the youths. 'In the spring of the 3'ear
1602, there happened great dN-ensions and
troubles between the laird oi I^uss, chief of
the Colquhouns, and Alexander, laird of
Macgregor. The original of these quarrels
proceeded from injuries and provocations
mutually given and received, not long before.
Macgregor, however, wanting to have them
ended in friendly conferences, marched at the
head of two hundred of his clan to Leven,
which borders on Luss, his country, with
a view of settling matters by the mediation
of friends : but Luss had no such intentions,
and projected his measures with a different
view, for he privately drew together a body
of 300 liorse and 500 foot, composed partlj-
of his own clan and iheir followers, and
partly of the Buchanans, his neighbours, and
resolved to cut off Macgregor and his party to
a man, in case the issue of tlie conference did
not answer his inclination. But matters fell
otherwise than he expected ; and though
Macgregor had previous information of his
insidious design, yet dissembling his resent-
ment, he kept thi- ap])ointment, and parted
good fri<'nds in appearance.
' No sooner was he gone, than J^uss,
thinking to surprise him and his party in full
securitv, and without any dread or aii[)ieheii-
sion of his treacliery, followed with all speed,
and came up with liim at a ])!ace cailecl
Glenfroon. Macgregor, upon the alarm, di-
vided his men into two parties, the greatest
part whereof he commanded Iiimself, : iid the
other he committed to the care of his brother
John, who, by liis orders, led them about
another way, and attacked the Colquhouns
in (lank. Here it was fought with great
bravery on both sides for a considerable time;
and, notwithstanding the vast disproportion
of numbers, Macgregor, in the end, obtained
an absolute victory. So great w as the rout,
that 2(X) of the Colquhouns were left dead
upon the spot, most of tl'.e leading men were
killeil, andamultitudeof prisoners taken. But
what seemed most surprising and incredible
in this defeat, was, that none of the Mac-
gregors were missing, except John, the laird's
brother, and one common fellow, though
indeed many of them were wounde<l.' — Pro-
fessor Ross's History of the Family of
Sutherland^ 1631.
The consequences of the battle of Glen-
fruin were very calamitous to the family of
Macgregor, who had already been considered
as an unruly clan. The widows of the slain
Colquhouns, sixty, it is said, in number,
appeared in doleful procession before the
king at Stirling, each liding upon a wliite
palfrey, and bearing in her hand the bloody
shirt of her husband di,splayed upon a pike.
James W was so much moved by the com-
plaints of this 'choir of mourning dames,'
that he let loose his vengeance against
the Macgregors, without either bounds or
moderation. The ver\- name of the clan was
proscribed, and those by whom it had been
borne were given up to sword and fire, and
absolutelj' liunted down by bloodhounds
like wild beasts. Argvle and the Campbells,
on the one hand, j\!ontrose, with the Gra-
liames and Buchanans, en the other, are sai.l
to have been the chief instruments in sup-
pressing this devoted clan. The Laird of
Macgregor surrendered to the former, on
condition that lie would take him out of
Scottish nrround. But, to use Birrel's expres-
sion, he kept 'a Highlandman's promise';
and, although he fulfilled his word to the
letter, by carrying him as far as Berwick, he
afterwards brought him back to Edinburgh,
where he was executed with eighteen of his
clan.— Birrel's IJiarv, Oct. 2, 160^ The
286
Qtcfee io
Clan-Gregor being thus driven to utter
despair, seem to nave renounced the laws
from the lienefit of which they were excluded,
and their depredations produced new acts
of council, confirming the severity of their
proscription, which had only the effect of
rendering them still more united and des-
perate. It is a most extraordinary proof of
the ardent and invincible spirit of clanship,
that, notwithstanding the repeated proscrip-
tions providently ordained by the legislature
'for the tinieoux prevcniiijg the disorders
and oppression that may fall out by the said
name and clan of Macgregors, and their
followers,' they were in 1715 and 1745 a po-
tent clan, and continue to subsist as a distinct
and numerous race.
Note XXIV.
The Killer's ziitidicthie pride
Boasts to have tained the Border-side.
—P. 226.
In 152Q, James V made a convention at
Edinburgh for the purpose of considering the
best mo(le of quelling the Border robbers,
who, during the license of his minority, ami
the troubles which followed, had committed
many exorbitances. Accordingly, he assem-
bled a flying army of ten thousand men,
consisting of his principal nobility and their
followers, who were directed to bring their
hawks and dogs with them, that the monarch
might refresh himselfwith sport during the
intervals of military execution. With this
array he swept through Ettrick Forest, where
he hanged over the gate of his own castle.
Piers Cockburn of Henderland, who had
prepared, according to tradition, a feast for
nis reception. He caused Adam Scott of
Tushielaw also to be executed, who was
distinguished by the title of King of the
Border. But the most noted victim of justice,
during that expedition, was John Armstrong
of Gilnockie, famous in Scottish song, who,
confiding in his own supposed innocence, met
the King, with a retinue of thirty-six persons,
all of whom were hanged at Carlenrig, near
the source of the Teviot. The effect of this
severity was such, that, as the vulgar ex-
pressed it, 'the rush-bush k<'pt the cow,' and
thereafter was great peace and rest a long
time, wherethrough the King had great profit;
for he had ten thousand sheep going in the
Ettrick Forest in keeping by Andrew Bell,
who made the King as good count of them
as they had gone m the bounds of Fife.' —
PiTSCOTTlE's History, p. 153.
Note XXV.
What grace for Highland Chiefs, judge ye
By fate of Border chivalry. — P. 226.
James was in fact equally attentive to re-
strain rapine and feudal oppression in every
part of his dominions. ' The king past to the
Isles, and there helil justice courts, and
punished both thief and traitor according to
their demerit. And also he caused great
men to show their holdings, wherethrough he
found many of the said lands in non-entry;
the which he confiscate and brought home to
his own use, and afterwards annexed them
to the crown, as ye shall hear. Syne brought
many of the great men of the Isles captive
with him, such as Mudvart, M'Connel,
M'Loyd of the Lewes, M'Neil, M'Lane,
M'Intosh, John Miidyart, M'Kay, M'Kenzie,
with many other that I cannot rehearse at
this time. Some of them he put in ward and
some in court, and some he took pledges for
good rule in time coming. So he brought
the Isles, both north and south, in good rule
and peace ; wherefore he had great profit,
service, and obedience of people a long time
thereafter; and as long as he had the heads
of the country in subjection, they lived in
great peace and rest, and there was great
riches and policy by the king's justice.' —
PiTSCOTTIE, p. 152.
Note XXVI.
Rest safe till morning ; pity ^twere
Such cheek should feel the midnight air.
—P. 228.
Hardihood was in every respect so essential
to the character of a Highlander, that the
reproach of effeminacy was the most bitter
which couUl be thrown upon him. Yet it
was sometimes hazarded on what we might
presume to think slight grounds. It is re-
ported of Old Sir Ewen Cameron of Lochiel,
when upwards of seventy, that he was sur-
prised by night on a hunting or military
expedition. He wrapped him in his plaid,
and lav contentedly diiwu upon the snow,
with wliich the ground happened to be
covered. Among liis attendants, who were
preparing to take their rest in the same man-
ner, he observed that one of his grandsons,
for his better accommodation, had rolled
a large snowball, and placed it below his
head. The wrath of the ancient chief was
awakened by a symptom of what he conceived
to be degenerate luxury. ' Out upon thee,'
said he, kicking the frozen bolster from the
head which it supported ; 'art thou so effem-
inate as to need a pillow?' The officer of
engineers, whose curious letters from the
Highlands have been more than once quoted,
tellsasimilarstoryof Macdonaldof Keppoch,
and subjoins the following remarks : — ' This
and many other stories are romantick ; but
there is one thing, that at first thought might
seem very romantick, of which I have been
credibly assured, that when the Highlanders
are constrained to lie among the hills, in
cold dry windy weather, they sometimes soak
the plaid in some river or burn (i. e. brook),
and then, holding up a corner of it a little
ZU ^A^H of tU MaU.
tSy
above their heads, they turn themselves round
and round, till they are enveloped by the
whole mantle. They then lay themselves down
on the heath, upon the leeward side of some
hill, where the wet and the warmth of their
bodies make a steam like that of a boiling
kettle. The wet, they say, keeps them warm
by thickening the stuff, and keeping the wind
from penetrating. I must confess I should
have been apt to question this fact, had I not fre-
quently seen them wet from morning to night,
and even at the beginning of the rain, not
so much as stir a few yards to shelter, but
continue in it without necessity, till they were,
as we say, wet through and through. And
that is soon effecte<l by the looseness and
spunginess of the plaiding; but the bonnet
is frequently taken off and wrung like a dish-
clout, and then put on again. They have been
accustomed from their infancy to be often
wet, and to take the water like spaniels,
and this is become a second nature, and
can scarcely be called a hardship to them,
insomuch that I used to say, they seemed to
be of the duck kind, and to love water as
well. Though I never saw this preparation
for sleep in windy weather, yet, setting out
earlv in a morning from one of the huts, I
have seen tlie marks of their lodging, where
the ground has been free from rime or snow,
which remained all round the spot when' they
had ]a.'m.'—LeiUys from Scotland^ Lend.
1754, Svo, ii. p. 108.
I Note XXVU.
Ills Iieiiclnnan came. — P. 228.
'This officer is a sort of secretarj-, and is
to be ready, upon all occasions, to venture
his life in defence of his master; and at
drinking-bouts he stands behind his seat, at
his haunch, from whence his title is derived,
and watchesthe conversation, to see if anyone
offends his patron. An English ofiicerbeingin
company with a certain chieftain, and several
other Highland gentlemen, near Killichumen,
had an argument with the great man ; and
both being well warmed with usky, at last
the ilisput(> grew very hot. A youtli who was
henchman, not understanding one word of
linglish, imagined his chief was insulted, and
thereupon drew his pistol from his side,
and snapped it at the officer's head : but the
pistol missed fire, otherwise it is more than
probable he might have suffered death from
the hand of that little vermin. But it is very
disagreeable to an Englishman over a bottle,
with the Highlanders, to see every one of them
have his gilly, that is, his sen'ant, standing
behind him all the while, let what will be the
siibjrct of conversation.' — Letters froni- Scot-
I land, ii. 159.
Note XXVIII.
And zoliile the Fiery Cross glaitced, like
a meteor, round. — P. 229.
When a chieftain designed to summon his
clan upon any sudden or important emer-
genc)', he slew a goat, and making a cross of
any light wood, seared its extremities in the
fire, and extinguished them in the blood of the
animal. This was called the Fiery Cross,
also Creaii Farigh, or the Cross oj' Shame,
because disobedience to what the symbol
implied, inferred infamv. It was delivereil
to a swift and trustv messenger, who ran
full speed with it to the next hamlet, where
he presented it to the principal person, with
a smgle word, implying the place of ren-
dezvous. He who received the symbol was
bound to send it forward, with equal de-
spatch, to the next village ; and thus it passed
with incredible celerity through all tne dis-
trict which owed allegiance to the chief,
and also among his allies and neighbours,
if the danger was common to them. At
sight of the Fiery Cross, every man, from
sixteen years ohl to sixty, capable of bear-
ing arms, was obliged instantly to repair,
in his best arms and accoutrements, to the
place of rendezvous. He who failed to appear
suffered the extremities of fire and sword,
which were emblematically denounced to
the disobedient by the bloody and burnt
marks upon this warlike signal. During the
civil war of 1745-6, the Fiery Cross often
made its circuit ; and upon one occasion it
passed through the whole district of Bread-
albane, a tract of thirty-two miles, in three
hours. The late Alexander Stewart, Esq.,
of Invernahyle, described to me his having
sent round the Fiery Cross through the
district of Appine, during the same com-
motion. The coast was threatened by a
descent from two English frigates, and the
flower of the young men were with the
army of Prince Charles Edward, then in
England ; yet the summons was so effectual,
that even old age and childhooii obeyed
it ; and a force was collected in a few
hours, so numerous and so enthusiastic,
that all attempt at the intended diversion
upon the country of the absent warriors
was in prudence abandoned, as desperate.
This practice, like some others, is common
to the Highlanders with the ancient Scandi-
navians, as will appear by the following ex-
tract from Olaus Magnus : —
' When the enemy is upon the sea-coast,
or within the limits of northern kingdomes,
then presently, by the command of the
principal governours, with the counsel and
consent of the old soldiers, who are notably
skilled in such like business, a staff of three
hands length, in the common sight of them
all, is carried, by the speedy running of some
active young man, unto that village or city,
with this command, — that on the third,
288
Qtotee (o
fourtli. orpiglnli day, one, two, orthree, orolse
rvery iii.ui in particular, from fifteen yearsold,
shall come with his arms, and expenses for
ten or twenty days, upon pain that liis or
th -ir houses shall beburnt(which is intimated
hy the burning of the staff,) or else the
master to be hanged (which is signified by
the cord tied to it,) to appear speedily on
such a bank, or field, or valley, to hear the
cause he is called, and to hear orders from
the sai 1 provincial governours what he sliall
do. Wherefore that messenger, swifter than
any post or waggon, having done his com-
mission, comes slowly back again, bringing
a token with him that he hath done all
legallv, and every moment one or another
runs to every village and tells tho:e places
what they must do The mes-
sengers, therefore, of the footmen, that are to
give warning to the people to meet for the
battail, run fiercely and swiftly ; for no snow,
no rain, nor heat can stop tlicm, nor night
hold them ; but they will soon run the race
they undertake. The first messenger tells
it to the next -v'illage, and that to tlie next ;
and so the hubbub runs all over till they
all know it in that stift or territon,-, where,
when and wherefore they must meet.' —
OL.AUS M.AGNTS' History of the Gothx,
englished bv J. S. Lend. 1658, bookiv. chap.
Note XXIX.
That monk, of sa^a^c form and face.
-P. 230.
The state of religion in the middle ages
afforded considerable facilities for those
whose mode of life excluded them from
regular worship, to secure, nevertheless, the
ghostly assistance of confessors, perfectly
willing to adapt the nature of their doctrine
to the necessities and peculiar circumstances
of their flock. Robin Hood, it is well
known, liad his celebrated domestic chap-
lain, Friar Tuck. And that same curtal
friar was probably matched in manners
and appearance by the ghostl)- fathers of
the Tvnedale robbers, who are thiis de-
scribed in an excommunication fulminated
against their patrons by Richard Fox,
Bishop of Durham, tempore Henrici VIII.
'We have further understood, that there
are many chaplains in the said territories
of Tynedale and Redesdale, who are public
and open maintainers of concubinage, ir-
regular, suspended, excommunicated, and
interdicted persons, and withal so utterly
ignorant of letters, that it lias been found
l)y those who objected this to them, that
there were some who. having celebrated
mass for ten years, were still unable to
read the sacramental service. We have
also understood tliere are persons among
them who, although not ordained, do take
upon them the offices of priesthood ; and,
in contempt of God, celebrate the divine
and sacred rites, and administer the sacra-
ments, not onlv in sacred and dedicated
places, but in those which are profane and
interdicted, and most wretchedly ruinous ;
they themselves being attired in ragged,
torn, and most filthy vestments, altogether
unfit to be used in divine, or even in temporal
offices. The which said chaplains do ad-
minister sacraments and sacramental rights
to the aforesaid manifest and infamous thieves,
robbers, depredators, receivers of stolen
goods, and plunderers, and that without resti-
tution, or intention to restore, as evinced
!))• the act ; and do also openly admit
them to the rites of ecclesiastical sepulchre,
without exacting sccuritv for restitution,
although they are prohibited from doing
so by the sacred canons, as well as bv
the institutes of the saints and fathers. All
which infers the heavy peril of their own
souls, and is a pernicious example to the
other believers in Christ, as well as no slight,
but an aggravated injury, to the numbers
despoiled and plundered of their goods,
gear, herds, and chattels 1.'
To this livelv and picturesque description
of the confessors and churchmen of predatory-
tribes, there may be added some curious
particulars respecting the priests attached
to the several septs of native Irish, during
the reign of Queen Elizabeth. These friars
had indeed to plead, that the incursions,
which tliey not only pardoned, but even
encouraged, were made upon those hostile
to them, as well in religion as from national
antipathy ; but by Protestant writers they
are uniformly alleged to be the chief in-
struments of Irish insurrection, the very
well-spring of all rebellion towards the
English government. Litligow, the Scottish
traveller, declares the Irish wood-kerne, or
predatory tribes, to be but the hounds of
their hunting priests, who directed their in-
cursions by their pleasure, partly for .sus-
tenance, partly to gratify animosity', partly
to foment general division, and always for
the better security and easier domination
of the friars -'. Derrick, the liveliness and
minuteness of whose descriptions may fre-
quentlv apologize for his doggerel verses,
after describing an Irish feast, and the en-
couragement given, by the songs of the
bards, to its termination in an incursion
upon the parts of the country more im-
mediately under the dominion of the Eng-
1 The Monition agrainst the Robbers of Tj'ncd.ile
and Redesdale. witli wliich I was favoured liy iny
friend, Mr. Surtees of Mainsforth, may he found i\i
the original I.atin, in the Appendi.K to the Intro,
diiction to the Border Minstrelsy, N'o. \'II. vol. i.
!'■ -?-•■ „ , ,
-' l.ithgows Travels, first edition, p. 411.
ZU ^a&? of tU Bafte.
289
lish, records the no less powerful arguments
used by tlie friar to excite their animosity : —
' And more t' augment the flame,
and rancour of their harte.
The frier, of his counsells vile,
to rebelles dotli imparte,
Atfirinin^ that it is
an almose deede to God,
To make the English suhjectes taste
the Irish rebells' rodde.
To spoile, to kill, to burne,
this frier's counsell is ;
And for the doing of the same,
he warrantes heavenlie blisse.
]Ie tells a holie tale ;
the white he tournes to black ;
And through the pardons in his male,
he workes a knavishc knacke. '
The wreckful invasion of a part of the
English pale is then described with some
spirit ; the burning of houses, driving off
cattle, and all pertaining to such predatory
inroads, are illustrated by a rude cut. The
defeat of the Irish, by a party of English
soldiers from the next garrison, is then com-
memor.tted, and in like manner adorned
with an engraving, in which the frier is
exhibited mourning over the slain chieftain ;
or, as the rubric expresses it,
' The frier then, that treacherous knave ; with ough
ough-hone lament.
To see his cousin Devill's-son to have 50 foul event.'
The matter is handled at great length in
the text, of which the following verses are
more than sufficient sample :
' The frier seyng this,
laments tliat lucklesse parte,
And curseth to the pitte of hell
the death man's sturdie hearte ;
■yet for to quight them with
the frier taketh paine,
For al the sjiines that ere he did
remission to obtaine.
And therefore serves his booke,
the candell and the bell ;
But thinke you that such apishc toies
bring damned souls from hell?
It 'longs not to my parte
infernall things to knowe ;
But I beleve till later daie.
thei rise not from belowe.
Yet hope that friers give
to this rebellious rout.
If that their souls should chaunce in hell,
to bringe them quicklie out,
Doeth make them lead suche lives,
as neither God nor man,
"Without revenge for their desartes,
permitte or sutfer can.
Thus friers are the cause,
the fountain, and the spring,
Of hurleburles in this lande,
of eche unhappie thing.
Thei cause them to rebell
against their soveraigne queue.
And through rebellion often tynies,
their lives do vanish clene.
So as by friers meanes,
in whom all follie swimme.
The Irishe karne doe often lose
the life, with hedde and linnne 1.*
'This curious picture of Ireland was inserted by
the author in the republication of Somers' Tracts,
vol. i, in which the plates have been also inserted,
from the only impressions known to exist, belonging
to the copy in the Advocates' Library. See Somers'
Tracts, vol. i. pp. 591, 594.
As the Irish tribes and those of the
Scottish Highlands are much more intimately
allied, by language, manners, dress, and cus-
toms, than the antiquaries of cither country
have been willing to admit, I JIatter myself
I have liere produced a strong warrant for
the character sketched in the text. The
following picture, though of a different kind,
serves to establisli the existence of ascetic
religionists, to a comparatively late period, in
the Highlands and Western Isles. There
is agreat deal ofsimplicitv in the description,
for which, as for much similar information,
I amobliged to Dr. John Martin, who visited
the Hebrides at the suggestion of Sir
Robert Sibbald, a Scottish antiquarian of
eminence, and early in the eighteenth cen-
tury published a description of them, which
procured him admission into the Royal
Society. He died in London about 171Q.
His work is a strange mixture of learning,
observation, and gross credulity.
' I remember,' says this author, ' I have
seen an old lay-capuchin here (in the island
of Benbecula), called in their language
Brahir-bocht, that is, Poor Brother \ which
is literally true ; for he answers this char-
acter, having nothing but what is given
him ; he holds himself fully satisfied with
food and raj'ment, and lives in as great
simplicity as any of his order ; his diet is
ver>- mean, and'he drinks only fair water;
his habit is no less mortifying than that of
his brethren elsewhere : he wears a short
coat, which comes no farther than his
middle, with narrow sleeves like a waist-
coat : he wears a plad above it, girt about
the middle, which reaches to his knee : the
plad is fastened on his breast with a wooden
pin, his neck bare, and his feet often so
too ; he wears a hat for ornament, and the
string about it is a bit of a fisher's line,
made of horse-hair. This plad he wears in-
stead of a gown worn by those of his order
in other countries. I told him he wanted
the (laxen girdle that men of his order
usually wear ; he answered me, that he
wore a leathern one, which was the same
thing. Upon the matter, if he is spoke to
when at meat, he answers again ; which is
contrary to the custom of his order. This
poor man frequently diverts himself with
angling of trouts ; he lies upon straw, and
has no bell (as others have) to call him to
his devotions, but only his conscience, as
he told me. '^Martin's Description of the
IJ 'ester Jt Highlands^ p. 82.
Note XXX.
Of Brian's birth strange tales ".cere told.
—P. 230.
The legend which follows is not of the
author's invention. It is possible he may
differ from modern critics, in supposing
that the records of human superstition, if
290
Qtofee io
peculiar to, and characteristic of, the
country in which the scene is laid, are a
legitimate subject of poetry. He gives,
however, a read\' assent to the narrower
proposition which condemns all attempts
of an irregular and disordered fancy to ex-
cite terror, by accumulating a train of
fantastic and incoherent horrors, whether
borrowed from all countries, and patched
upon a narrative belonging to one which
knew them not, or derived from the author's
own imagination. In the present case,
therefore, I appeal to the record wliich I
have transcribed, with the variation of a
very few words, from the geographical col-
lections made by the Laird of Macfarlane.
I know not whether it be necessary to re-
mark, that the miscellaneous concourse of
youths and maidens on the night and on
the spot where the miracle is said to ha\e
taken place, might, even in a credulous age,
have somewhat diminished the wonder
, which accompanied the conception of Gilli-
Doir-MagrevoUich.
' There is bot two myles from Inverloghie,
the church of Kilmalee, in Lochyeld. In
ancient tymes there was ane church budded
upon ane hill, which was above this church,
which doeth now stand in this toune ;
and ancient men doeth say, that there
was a battell foughten on ane litle hill
not the tenth part of a myle from this
church, be certaine men which they did
not know what they were. And long tyme
thereafter, certaine herds of that toune, and
of the next toune, called I'nnatt, both wenches
and youthes, did on a tyme conveen with
others on that hill ; .-md the day being some-
what cold, clid gather the bones of the dead
men that were slayne long tyme before in
that place, and did make a fire to warm
them. At last they did all remove from
the fire, except one maid or wench, which
was verie cold, and she did remaine there
for a space. She being quyetlie her alone,
without anie other companie, took up her
cloaths above her knees, or thereby, to
warm her; a wind did come and caste the
ashes upon her, and she was conceived of
ane man-chyld. Several 1 tvmes thereafter
she was verie sick, and at last "she was knowne
tobe withchyld. And then her parents did ask
at her the matter jieiroff, which tlie wench
could not weel answer which way to satisfie
them. At last she resolved them with ane
answer. As fortune fell upon her concerning
this marvellous miracle, the chy Id being borne,
his name was called Gili-doir Alafrlii-cvoUich^
that is to say, the Black Child, Son to
ilie Bones. So called, his grandfather sent
him to school, and so he was a good
schollar, and godlie. He did build this
church which doeth now stand in Lochyeld,
called Kilmalie.'— MACF.\KL.'iNE, lit supra,
ii. iS8.
Note XXXI.
Yet ne'er again to braid her hair
llic z'irgin snood did Alice ivcar.
-P. 231-
The snood, or riband, w-ith which a Scottish
lass braided her hair, had an emblematical
signification, and applied to her maiden
character. It was exchanged for the cnrch,
toy, or coif, when she passed, by marriage,
into the matron state. But if the damsel was
so unfortunate as to lose pretensions to the
name of maiden, without gaining a right to
that of matron, she was neither permitted
to use the snood, nor advanced to the
graver dignity of the curch. In old Scot-
tish songs there occur many sly allusions
to such misfortune ; as in the old words to
the popular tune of ' Ower the muir amang
the heather.'
' Down amang the broom, the broom,
Down amang the broom, my dearie,
The lassie lost her silken snood.
That gard her greet till she was wearie.'
Note XXXII.
The desert gave him visions wild,
Snch as mi^ht suit the spectre's child.
^P- 2.^t.
In adopting the legend concerning the
birth of the founder of the Church of Kil-
malie, the author has endeavoured to trace
the effects which such a belief was likely to
produce, in a barbarous age, on the person
to whom it related. It seems likely that
lie must have becoine a fanatic or an im-
postor, or that mixture of both which forms
a more frequent character than either of
them, as existing separately. In trutli,
ma<l persons are frequently more anxious
to impress upon others a faith in their
visions, than they are themselves confirmed
in their reality ; as, on the other hand, it
is difficult for the most cool-headed impostor
long to personate an enthusiast, without in
some degree believing what he is so eager
to have believed. It was a natural attribute
of such a character as the supposed hermit,
that he should credit the numerous super-
stitions with which the minds of ordinary
Highlanders are almost always imbued.
A few of these are slightly alluded to in
this stanza. The River-demon, or River-
horse, for it is that form which he commoidy
assumes, is the Kelpy of the Lowlands, an
evil and malicious spirit, delighting to for-
bode and to witness calamity. He frequents
most Highland lakes and rivers ; and one
of his most memorable exploits was per-
formed upon the banks of Loch Vennachar,
in the very district which forms the scene
of our action : it consisted in the destruction
ZU ;Saip of tU ^Afte.
291
of a funeral procession with all its attend-
ants. The ' noontide hag,' called in Gaelic
G/as/ic/i, a tall, emaciated, gigantic female
figure, is supposed in particular to haunt the
district of Knoidart. A goblin, dressed in
antique armour, and having one hand covered
with blood, called from that circumstance,
Lhani-dcarg'^ or Red-hand, is a tenant of
the forests of Glenmore and Rothiemurcus.
Other spirits of the desert, all frightful in
shape and malignant in disposition, are
believed to frequent different mountains
and glens of the Highlands, where any
unusual appearance, produced by mist, or
the strange lights that are sometimes thrown
upon particular objects, never fails to pre-
sent an apparition to the imagination of the
solitary and melancholy mountaineer.
Note XXXIII.
The fatal Reii-Shie's hodijtg scream.
-P. 2,^1.
Most great families in the Highlands were
supposed to have a tutelar, or rather a
domestic spirit, attached to them, who took
an interest in their prosperity, and intimated,
by its wailings, any approaching disaster.
That of Grant of Grant was called May
Motillac/i, and appeared in the form of a
girl, who had her arm covered with hair.
Grant of Rothiemurcus had an attendant
called Bodac/i-aii-ditu, or the Ghost of the
Hill ; and many other examples might be
mentioned. The Han-Schie implies a female
Fairv, whose lamentations were often sup-
posed to precede the death of a chieftain
of particular families. When she is visible,
it is in the form of an old woman, with a
blue mantle and streaming hair. A super-
stition of the same kind is, I believe, uni-
versally received by the inferior ranks of the
native Irish.
The death of the head of a Highland
family is also sometimes supposed to be
announced by a chain of lights of different
colours, called Dr'eng, or death of the
Druid. The direction which it takes, marks
the place of the funeral. [See the Essay
on Fairy Superstitions in the Border Min-
strelsy.]
Note XXXIV.
Sounds., too., had come in midnight blast,
Of chargi)tg steeds, careering fast
Along HenTiarrow' s shingly side.
Where mortal horseman 7ie'er might ride.
—P. 231.
A presage of the kind alluded to in the
text is still believed to announce death
to the ancient Highland family of M'Lean
of Lochbuy. The spirit of an ancestor slain
in battle is heard to gallop along a stony
bank, and then to ride thrice around the
family residence, ringing his fairy bridle,
and thus intimating the approaching calamity.
How easily the eve, as well as the car,
may be deceived upon such occasions, is
evident from the stories of armies in the
air, and other spectral plienomen.a with
which history abounds. Such an apparition
is said to have been witnessed upon the
side of Southfell mountain, between Penrith
and Keswick, upon the 23rd June 1744, by
two persons, William Lancaster of lilakc-
hills, and Daniel Stricket, his servant,
whose attestation to the fact, with a full
account of the apparition, dated the 21st
July 17^5, is printed in Clarke's Survey of
the Lalies. The apparition consistetl of
several troops of horse moving in regular
order, with a steady rapid motion, making
a curved sweep around the fell, and seeming to
the spectators to disappear over the ridge of
the mountain. Many persons witnessecTthis
Ehenomenon, and observed the last, or last
ut one, of the supposed troop, occasionally
leave his rank, and pass at a gallop to the
front, when he resumed the same steady
pace. This curious appearance, making the
necessary allowance for imagination, may
be perhaps sufiiciently accounted for by
optical deception. — Survey of the Lakes,
P- 25.
Supernatural intimations of approachinfr
fate are not, I believe, confined to Highland
f.amilies. Howel mentions having seen, at
a lapidary's, in 1632, a monumental stone,
prepared for four persons of the name of
Oxenham, before the death of each of whom,
the inscription stated a white bird to have
appeared and fluttered around the bed while
tlie patient was in the last atjony. — Familiar
Letters, edit. 1726, 247. Glanville mentions
one family, the members of which recei\ed
this solemn sign bv music, the sound of which
floated from the family residence, and seemed
to die in a neighbouring wood ; another,
that of Captain Wood of Hampton, to
whom the signal was given by knocking.
But the most remarkable instance of the
kind occurs in the MS. Memoirs of Lady
Fanshaw, so exemplary- for her conjugal
affection. Her husband. Sir Richard, and
she, chanced during their abode in Ireland
to visit a friend, the head of a sept, who
resided in his ancient baronial castle, sur-
rounded with a moat. At midnight she was
awakened by a ghastly and supernatural
scream, and, looking out of bed, beheld, by
the moonlight, a female face and part of the
form, hovering at the window. Trie distance
from the ground, as well as the circumstance
of the moat, excluded the possibility that
what she beheld was of this world. The
face was that of a young and rather handsome
woman, but pale ; and the hair, which was
reddish, was loose and dishevelled. The dress,
which Lady Fanshaw's terror did not prevent
her remarking accurately, was that of the
>92
(Tlofee io
ancient Irish. This apparition continued to
exhibit itself for some time, and tlien vanished
with two shrieks, similar to that which liad
first excited Lady Fansliaw's attention. In
the morning, with infinite terror, slie com-
municated to her liost wliat she liad witnessed,
and found him prepared not only to credit
but to account for the apparition. 'A near
relation of my family,' said he, 'expired last
night in this castle. We disguised our certain
expectation of the event from you, lest it
should throw a cloud over the cheerful
reception which was due to you. Now, before
such an event happens in this family and
castle, the female spectre whom you have
seen always is visible. She is believed to be
the spirit of a woman of inferior rank, whom
one of my ancestors degraded himself by
marrj'ing, and whom afterwards, to expiate
the fiishonour done his family, he caused to
be drowned in the castle moat.'
Note XXXV.
IT'/iose painifs in Inch-CaiUiach xvave
Tlieir s/indows o'er Claii-Alpinc's i^rave.
-P. 23-'-
Incli-Cailliach, the Isle of Nuns, or of Old
Women, is a most beautiful island at the
lower extremity of Loch Lomond. The
church belonging to the former nunnerj- was
long used as the place of worship for the
parish of Buchanan, but scarce any vestiges
of it now remain. The burial-ground con-
tinues to be used, and contains the family
places of sepulture of several neiglibouring
clans. The monuments of the lairds of
Macgregor, and of other families, claiming
a descent from the old Scottish King Alpine,
are most remarkable. The Highlanders are
as zealous of their riglits of sepulture, as
may be expected from a people whose whole
laws and government, if clanship can be
called so, turned upon the single principle of
family descent. ' INIay his ashes be scattered
on the water,' was one of the deepest and
most solemn imprecations which they used
against an enemy. [See a detailed description
of the funeral ceremonies of a Highland
chieftain in the Fair Maid of Perth. Xl'avcr-
!cv Novch\ vol. 45, chaps, x. and xi. Edit.
Note XXXVI.
the dim deer's hide
Onjleclerfool was never tied. — P. 233.
The present brogue of the Highlanders is
made of h.alfdried leather, with holes to
admit and let out the water; for walking
the moors dry-shod is a matter altogether
out of the question. The ancient buskin
was still ruder, being made of undressed
deer's hide, with the hair outwards ; a cir-
cumstance which procured the Highlanders
the well-known epithet of Red-shanks. The
process is very accurately tleseribed by one
Elder (himself a Highlander) in the project
for a union between P^ngland and Scotland,
addressed to Henry VIII. ' We go a-hunting,
and after that we have slain red-deer, we
flay off the skin by-and-by, and setting of
our bare-foot on the inside thereof, for want
of cunning shoemakers, by your grace's
pardon, we play the cobblers, compassing
and measuring so much thereof as shall
reach up to our ankles, pricking the upper
part thereof with holes, that the water may
repass where it enters, and stretching it up
with a strong thong of the same above our
said ankles. So, .ind please your noble
grace, we make our shoes. Therefore, we
using such manner of shoes, the rough hairy
side outwards, in your grace's dominions of
England, we be cafled Roiighfooted Scots.' —
Pixkekton's History, vol. ii. p. 397.
Note XXXVII.
The dismal coronach. — P. 234.
The Coronach of the Highlanders, like
the Ulnlatns of the Romans, and the Uhiloo
of the Irish, was a wild expression of lamenta-
tion, poured forth by the mourners over the
body of a departed friend. When the words
of it were articulate, they expressed the
praises of the deceased, and the loss the
clan would sustain by his death. The fol-
lowing is a lamentation of this kind, literally
translated from the Gaelic, to some of the
ideas of which the text stands indebted. The
tune is so popular, that it has since become
the war-march, or Gathering of the clan.
Cc-oiimh on Sir !.aHchlau, Chi,-/ 0/ .Maclean.
"Which of all the Senachies
Can trace thy line from the root up to Paradise
Hut Macvuir'ih, the son of Fergus?
No sooner had thine ancient stately tree
Taken firm root in Albion,
Than one of thy forefathers fell at Harlaw.—
'Twas then we lost a chief of deathless name.
Tis no base weed— no planted tree,
Nor a seedling of last Autumn :
Nor a sapling planted at Beltain 1 ;
^\■ide, wide around were spread its lofty branches-
Hut the topmost bough is lowly laid !
Thou hast forsaken us before Sawaine2.
Thy dwelling is' the winter house;—
Loud, sad, sad, and mighty is thy death-song !
( »h ! courteous champion of Montrose !
I ih ! stately warrior of the Celtic Isles !
Th'ju sh.ilt buckle thy harness on no more !
The coronach has for some years past
been superseded at funerals by the use of
the bagpipe ; and that also is, like many
other Highland peculiarities, falling intij
disuse, unless in remote districts.
1 Bell's fire, or 'Whitsunday. 2 Hallowi-'c^n.
ZH Babp of iU Bafte.
293
Note XXXVIII.
Betiledi saw the Cross of Fire^
It glanced like lightni)!^ itp Stralh-Ire.
-P. 235-
Inspection of the provincial map of Perth-
shire, or any large map of Scotland, will
trace the progress of the signal through the
small district of lakes and mountains, which,
in exercise of my poetical privilege, I have
subjecteil to the authority of my imaginary
chieftain, and which, at the period of my
romance, was really occupied by a clan who
claimed a descent from Alpine ; a clan the
most unfortunate, and most persecuted, but
neither the least distinguished, least power-
ful, nor least brave, of the tribes of the Gael.
' Sliocli non riot^hridh tluchaisach
Bha-shios an Duii-Staiobhiiiish
Ai<^ an roubh crun na Halba othus
'Stag^ a clieil duchas fast ris.'
The first stage of the Fiery Cross is to
Duncraggan, a place near the Brigg of Turk,
where a short stream divides Loch Achray
from Loch Vennachar. From thence, it
passes towards Callender, and then, turning
to the left up the pass of Leny, is consigned
to Norman at the chapel of Saint Bride,
which stood on a small and romantic knoll
in the middle of the valley, called Strath-Ire.
Tombea and Arnandave, or Ardmanda\e,
are names of places in the vicinity. The
alarm is then supposed to pass along the
lake of Lubnaig, and through the various
glens in the district of Balquiuder, including
the neighbouring tracts of Gleiilinlas and
Strathgartney.
Note XXXIX.
Not faster o'ci- thy heathery braes,
Balqiiidder^ speeds the midnight blase.
-P- 2.?7-
It inay be necessary to inform the southern
reader, that the heath on the Scottish moor-
lands is often set fire to, that the sheep may
have the advantage of the young herbage
produced, in room of the tough old heather
plants. Thiscustom (execrated by sportsmen)
produces occasionally the most beautiful
nocturnal appearances, similar almost to the
discharge of a volcano. This simile is not
new to poetry. The charge of a warrior, in
the fine ballad of Hardyknute, is said to be
' like fire to heather set.'
Note XL.
No oath, but by his chicftaiii's hand.
No law, but Roderick DhiCs conimaiid.
-P- 2,^7-
The deep and implicit respect paid by the
Highland clansmen to their chief, rendered
this both a common and a solemn oath. In
other respects they were like most savage
nations, capricious in their ideas concerning
the obligatory power of oaths. One solemn
mode of swearing was by kissing the dirk,
imprecating upon themselves death by that,
or a similar weapon, if they broke their vow.
But for oaths in the usual form, they are
said to have had little respect. As for the
reverence due to the chief, it may be guessed
from the following odd example of a Highland
point of honour : —
'The clan whereto the above-mentioned
tribe belongs, is the only one I have heard
of, which is without a chief; that is, being
diviiied into families, under several chieftains,
without any particular patriarch of the whole
name. And this is a great reproach, as may
appear from an affair that fell out at my
table, in the Highlands, between one of that
name and a Cameron. The provocation
given by the latter was, " Name your chief."
— The return of it at once was, "You are
a fool." They went out next morning, but
having early notice of it, I sent a small party
of soldiers after them, which, in all proba-
bility, prevented some barbarous mischief
that might have ensued: for the chiefless
Highlander, who is himself a petty chieftain,
was going to the place appointed with a small
sword and pistol, whereas the Cameron (an
old man) took with him only his broadsword,
according to the agreement.
'When all was over, and I had, at least
seemingly, reconciled them, I was told the
words, of which I seemed to think but
slightly, were, to one of the clan, the greatest
of all provocations.'— Z,e//fr.9/>-(y;« Scotland,
vol. ii. p. 221.
Note XLI.
a lozv and lonely cell.
By many a bard, in Celtic tongue.
Has Coir-nan-Uriskin been sung. — P. 237.
This is a very steep and most romantic
hollow in the mountain of Benvenue, over-
hanging the south-eastern extremity of Loch
Katrine. It is surrounded with stupendous
rocks, and overshadowed with birch-trees,
mingled with oaks, the spontaneous pro-
duction of the mountain, even where its
cliffs appear denuded of soil. A dale in so
wild a situation, and amid a people whose
genius bordered on the romantic, did not
remain without appropriate deities. The
name literally implies the Corri, or Den, of
the Wild or Shaggj' men. Perhaps this, as
conjectured by Mr. Alexander Campbell ',
may have originally only implied its being
the haunt of a ferocious banditti. But tra-
dition has ascribed to the Urisk, who gives
name to the cavern, a figure between a goat
and a man ; in short, however much the
classical reader may be startled, precisely
icy/i-oiii Jidiiibui-^h, 1802, p. lou.
294
Qtotee io
that of the Grecian Satyr. The Uri'sk seeins
not to have inherited, with the form, the
petulance of the sylvan deity of the classics :
liis occupation, on the contrary, resembled
those of Milton's Lubbar Fiend, or of tlie
Scottish Brownie, though he differed from
both in name and appearance. ' The Urisks,''
says Dr. Graham, Were a set of lubberly
supernaturals, who, like the Brownies, could
l)e gained over by kind attention, to perform
the drudgery of the farm, and it was believed
that many of the families in the Highlands
had one of the order attached to it. They
were supposed to be dispersed over the
Highlands, each in his own wild recess, but
the solemn stated meetings of the order were
regularly held in thisCaveof Benvenue. This
current superstition, no doubt, alludes to
some circumstance in the ancient history of
this country.' — Sa'Jiery on the Southern
Confines of Perthshire^ p. 19, 1806. — It must
be owned that the Coir:, or Den, <loes not, in
its present state, meet our ideas of a subter-
raneous grotto, or cave, being only a small
and narrow cavity, among huge fragments
of rocks rudely piled together. But such
a scene is liable to convulsions of nature,
which a Lowlander cannot estimate, and
which may have choked up what was
originally a cavern. At least the name and
tradition warrant the author of a fictitious
tale to assert its having been such at the
remote period in which this scene is laid.
Note XLH.
Tlie ivild pass of Beal-iiam-bo. — P. 23S.
Bealach-nam-bo, or the pass of cattle, is
a most magnificent glade, overhung with
aged birch-trees, a little liigher up tlie moun-
tain than the Coir-nan-Uriskin, treated of in
a former note. The whole composes the
most sublime piece of scenery that imagination
can conceive.
Note XLHI.
A single pagc^ io hear his szvord,
Atone attended on his lord.- — P. 23S.
A Highland chief, Iieing as absolute in his
patriarchal authority as any prince, had
a corresponding number of officers attached
to his i)erson. He liad his body-guards,
called Liiiehttach, picked from his clan for
strengtii, activity-, and entire devotion to his
person. These, according to their deserts,
were sure to share abundantly in the rude
profusion of his hospitality. It is recorded,
for exampl<>, by tradition,' that Allan Mac-
Lean, chief of that clan, happened upon
a time to hear one of these favourite re-
tainers ol)serve to his comrade, that their
chief grew old. ' Whence do you infer that ? '
replied the other. — 'When was it,' rejoined
the first, ' that a soldier of Allan's was
obliged, as I am now, not only to eat the
flesh from the bone, but even to tear off the
inner skin, or filament ? ' The hint was quite
sufficient, and MacLean next morning, to
relieve his followers from such dire necessity,
undertook an inroad on the mainland, the
ravage of which altogether effaced the
memory of his former expeditions for the like
purpose.
Our officer of Rngineers, so often quoted,
has given us a distinct list of the domestic
officers who, independent of Liiichttach, or
gardes de corf's, belonged to the establish-
ment of a Highland Chief. These are,
1. The llenchmaii. See these notes, p. 287.
2. The Bard. See pp. 280-1. 3. Btadicr, or
spokesman. 4. G/7//^-;«(7;-r, or sword-bearer,
alluded to in the text. 5. Giltie-casfiiie, who
carried the chief, if on foot, over the fords.
6. Gil!ie-co»tstrai)ie, who leads the chief's
horse. 7. Gillie-Trushanarinsliy the bag-
gage man. 8. The piper. 9. The piper's
gillie or attendant, who carries the bagpipe 1.
Although this appeared, naturally enough,
very ridiculous to an English officer, who
considered the master of such a retinue as
no more than an English gentleman of ^500
a-year, 3et in the circumstances of the chief,
whose strength and importance consisted in
the number and attachment of his followers,
it was of the last consequence, in point of
policy, to have in his gift subordinate offices,
which called immediately round his person
those who were most devoted to him, and,
being of value in their estimation, were also
the means of rewarding them.
Note XLIV.
Tlie Taghairm called ; by which, afar.
Our sires foresazi) the events ofinar.
— P. 240.
The Highlanders, like all rude people, had
various superstitious modes of inquiring into
futurity. One of the most noted was the
Taghairm, mentioned in the text. A person
was wrapped up in the skin of a newly-slain
bullock, and deposited beside a waterfall, or
at the bottom of a precipice, or in some other
strange, wild, and unusual situation, where
the scenery around him suggested nothing
but objects of horror. In this situation, he
revolved in his mind the question proposed ;
and whatever was impressed upon liim by his
exalted imagination, passed for the inspiration
of the disembodied spirits, who haunt the
desolate recesses. In some of these Hebrides,
tliey attributed the same oracular power to
a large black stone by the seashore, which
they approached with certain solemnities,
and considered the first fancy which came
into their own minds, after they did .so, to be
1 Letters from Scotland, vol. ii. p. 13.
ZU Bcil^ of tU ^<»Ke.
=95
the undoubted dictate of the tutelar deity of
the stone, and, as such, to be, if possible,
punctually complied with. Martin has re-
corded the following curious modes of High-
land augury, in which the Taghairm, and its
effects upon the person who was subjected to
it, may serve to illustrate the text.
' It was an ordinary thing among the over-
rurious to consult an invisible oracle, con-
cerning the fate of families and battles, &c.
This was performed three different ways :
the first was by a company of men, one of
wliom, being detached by lot, was afterwards
carried to a river, which was the boundary
between two villages; four of the company
laid hold on liim, and, having shut his eyes,
they took him by the legs and arms, and
then, tossing him to and again, struck his
hips with force against the bank. One of
them cried out, What is it you have got
here? another answers, A log of birch-wood.
The other cries again. Let his in\isible
friends appear from all quarters, and let
them relieve him by giving an answer to our
present deman<ls: and in a few minutes
after, a number of little creatures came from
the sea, who answered the question, and
disappeared suddenly. The man was then
set at liberty, and they all returned home, to
take their measures according to the pre-
diction of their false prophets; but the poor
dilude<l fools were abused, for their answer
was still ambiguous. This was always prac-
tised in the night, and may literally be called
the works of darkness.
' I had an account from the most intelligent
and judicious men in the Isle of Skie, that
about sixty-two years ago, the oracle was
thus consulted only once, and that was in
the parish of Kilmartin, on the east side, by
a wicked and mischievous race of people,
who are now extinguished, both root and
branch.
' The second way of consulting the oracle
was by a party of men, who first retired to
solitary places, remote from any house, anil
there they singled out one of their number,
and wrapt him in a big cow's hide, which
they folded about him ;liis whole body was
covered with it, except his head, and so left
in this posture all night, until his invisible
friends relieved him, by giving a proper
answer to the question in nand ; which he
received, as he fancied, from several persons
that he found about him all that time. His
consorts returned to him at the break of
day, and then he communicated his news to
them ; which often proved fatal to those
concerned in such unwarrantable enquiries.
'There was a third way of consulting,
which was a confirmation of the second
above mentioned. The same company who
put the man into the hide, took a live cat,
and put him on a spit ; one of the number
was employed to turn the spit, and one of
his consorts enquired of him, What are you
doing? he answered, I roast this cat, until
his friends answer the question ; which must
be the same that was proposed by the man
shut up in the hide. And afterwards, a very-
big cat 1 comes, attended by a number of
lesser cats, desiring to relieve the cat turned
upon the spit, and then answers the question.
If this answer proved the same that was
given to the man in the hide, then it was
taken as a confirmation of the other, which,
in this case, was believed infallible.
' Mr. Alexander Cooper, present minister
of North-Vist, told me, that one John Erach,
in the Isle of Lewis, assured him, it was his
fate to have been led by his curiosity with
some who consulted this oracle, and that he
was a night within the hide, as above
mentioned ; during which time he felt antl
heard such terrible things, that he could not
express them ; the impression it made on
him was such as could never go off, and he
said, for a thousand worlds he would never
again be concerned in the like performance,
for this had disordered him to a high degree.
Ht! confessed it ingenuously-, antl with an
air of great remorsCj and seemed to be very
penitent under a just sense of so great
a crime : he ileclared this about five years
since, and is still living in the Lewis for any
thing I know.' — Dcso-iptioii of ilte Western
Isles, p. I lo. See also Pen.v.ANT's Scottisk
2'oiir, vol. ii. p. 361.
Note XLV.
T/ie choicest of t lie -pfey we liad,
II lieii swept uiir werry-iiien GaUaiii^ad.
—P. 240.
I know not if it be worth observing, that
this passage is taken almost literally from
the mouth of an old Highland Kern or
Ketteran, as they were called. He use<l to
narrate the merry doings of the good old
time when he was follower of Rob Roy
MacGregor. This leader, on one occasion,
thought proper to make a descent upon the
lower part of the Loch Lomond district,
and summoned all the heritors ami farmers
to meet at the Kirk of Drymen, to pay him
black-mail, i.e. tribute for forbearance and
Crotection. As this invitation was supported
v a band of thirty or forty stout lellows,
only one gentleman — an ancestor, if I mis-
take not, of the present Mr. Grahame of
Gartmore— ventured to decline compliance.
Rob Roy instantly swept his land of all he
could drive away, and among the spoil was
a bull of the old Scottish wild breed, whose
ferocity occasioned great plague to the
Ketterans. ' But ere we had reached the
Row of Dennan,' said the old man, 'a child
1 The reader may liave met with the stoiy of th(
' King of the Cats,' in Lord Littleton's Letters. It v
well known in the Higiilands as a nursery tale.
296
(Itofee io
might have scratched his cars V The cir-
cumstance is a minute one, hut it paints the
times when the poor beeve was compelled
• To lioof it o'er as many weary miles,
With goading: pil;emen lioUowing at liis heels,
As e'er the bravest antler of the woods.'
Note XLVI.
M(7/ ////^v; c////^, whose ample verge
Tradition calls flic Hero's 7^arge.—V. 240.
There is a rock so named in the Forest of
Glenfinlas, by wliich a tumultuary cataract
takes its course. Tliis wild place is said in
former times to Iiave afforded refuge to an
outlaw, who was supplied with provisions Iiy
a woman, who lowered them down from the
brink of the precipice above. His water he
procured for himself, by letting down a flagon
tied to a string, into the black pool beneath
the fall.
Note XLVI I.
Or raven on Ihe blasted oak,
That, watching while the deer is broke,
J lis morsel claims rvith sullen croak ?
-P. 241-
"BroVic =qiiartered. Everything belong-
ing to the chase was matter of solemnity
among our ancestors ; but nothing was more
so than the mode of cutting up, or, as it was
technically called, breaking, the slaughtered
stag. The forester had his allotted portion ;
the hounds had a certain allowance ; and, to
make the division as general as possible, the
very birds had tlieir share also. 'There is
a little gristle,' says Turberville, 'which is
upon the spoone of the brisket, which we call
the raven's bone ; and I have seen in some
places a raven so wont and accustomed to it,
that she would never fail to croak and cry
for it all the time you were in breaking up of
till! deer, and would not depart till she had
it.' In the very ancient metrical romance of
Sir Tristrem, that peerless knight, who is said
to have been the very deviser of all rules of
chase, did not omit the ceremony : —
■ The raucii he yaue his yiftes
.Sat on tliu foiirched tre.'
Sir Tyistrcm.
The raven might also challenge his rights
by the Book of St. Albans ; for thus says
Dame Juliana Berners :—
' .Shtteth anon
The bely to the siile, from the corbyn bono ;
That is corbyn's fee, at the death he will be.'
' This anecdote was, in former editions, inaccurately
ascribed to Gregor Macgregor of Glengyle, called
Ghluiie Dhu, or Black-knee, a relation of Rob Roy,
but, as I have been assured, not addicted to his
predatory excesses.— A'e/f/c Third Editioji.
Jonson, in 'The Sad Shepherd,' gives
a more poetical account of the same cere-
mony : —
■ Maria}!. He that undoes him,
Doth cleave the brisket bone, upon the spoon
Of which a little gristle grows— you call it —
Robin ffood.—Thc raven's bone.
Mariatr, Now o'er head sat a raven
On a sere bough, a grown, great bird, and hoarse.
Who, all the while the deer was breaking up.
So croak'd and cried for 't, as all the huntsmen,
Especially old Scathlock, thought it ominous.'
NOTE XLVIII.
Which spills the foremost foeman's life.
That party conquers in the strife.' — P. 241.
Though this be in the text described as
a response of the Tagliairm, or Oracle of the
Hide, it was of itself an auo;ury frequently
attended to. The fate of the battle was often
anticipated in the imagination of tlie com-
batants, bv observing which party first shed
blood. It' is said that the Highlanders under
Montrose were so deeply imbued with this
notion, that, on the morning of the battle of
Tippcrmoor, they murdered a defenceless
herdsman, whom they found in the fields,
merely to secure an advantage of so much
consequence to their partj'.
NOTE XLIX.
Alice Brand.— v. 243.
This I'ittle fairy tale is founded upon a very
curious Danish ballad, which occurs in the
Kconpe I'iser, a collection of lieroic songs,
first publislied in 1591, and reprinted in 1695,
inscribed by Anders Sofrensen, the collector
and editor^ to Sophia Queen of Denmark.
I have been favoured with a literal translation
of the original, by my learned friend Mr.
Robert Jamieson, whose deep knowledge of
Scandinavian antiquities will, I hope, one
day be displayed in illustration of the history
of Scottish Ballad and Song, for which no
man possesses more ample materials. Tlie
story will remind the readers of the Border
Minstrelsy of the tale of Young Tamlane.
But this is only a solitary and not very
marked instance of coincidence, whereas
several of the other ballads in the same
collection find exact counterparts in the
Ka:mpe Viscr. Which may have been the
originals, will be a question for future anti-
quaries. Mr. Jamieson, to secure the power
of literal translation, has a<iopted the old
Scottish idiom, which approaelies so near to
that of the Danish, as almost to give word for
word, as well as line for line, and indeed in
many verses the orthography alone is altere<l.
As Wester Haf, mentioned in the first
stanzas of the liallad, means the \\'est Sea,
in opposition to the Baltic, or East Sea,
Mr. Jamieson inclines to be of opinion, that
the scene of the disenchantment is laid in one
of the Orkney, or Hebride Islands. To each
ZU ;8a^^ of tU JS<>6e.
297
verse in the original is added a burden,
having a kind of meaning of its own, but not
applicable, at least not uniformly afipHcable,
to the sense of the stanza to which it is sub-
joined : this is very common both in Danish
and Scottish song.
THE KLFIX GRAY.
TRANSLATED FROM THE DANISH K^MPE VISER,
p. 143, AND FIRST PUBLISHED IN 1591,
rey it£^g-e>- en void i\ l-'ester Ha/,
Der a^tcr en bonds at byg^e:
ILindfor^r did baade JiOi^ 0^ hufid,
^S a^er der o>?i vi?iiereji at lii.'^e.
(DE VILDE DIUR OG DIURENE UDI SKOFVEN.)
1. There liggs a wold in Wester Haf,
There a husbande means to bijjg,
And thither he carries baith hawk and hound.
There meaning the winter to ligg".
{ The ivild deer and daes z' the shaw out.)
2. He taks wi' him baith hound and cock,
The laniJ^er he means to stay,
The wild deer in the shaws that are
May sairly rue the day.
{The ivild deer, &-€.)
3. He's hew'd the beech, and he's fell'd the aik,
Sae has he the poplar gray ;
And grim in mood was the grewsome elf,
That be sae bald he may.
4. He hew'd him kipples, he hew'd him bawks,
W'i'mickle moil and haste,
Syne speer'd the lilf i' the knock that bade,
• Wha's hacking here sae fast 't '
5. Syne up and spak the weiest Elf,
Croan'd as an inimert snia :
* It's here is come a Christian man ;—
1 '11 fley him or he ga.'
6. It's up syne started the firsten Elf,
And glower'd about sae grim :
'It's we'll awa' to the husbande's house,
And hald a court on him.
7. * Here hews he down baith skugg and shaw
And works us skaith and scorn :
His Iniswife he sail gie to me ; —
They's rue the day they were born I
8. The Elfen a' i' the knock that were,
Gaed dancing in a string ;
They nighed near the husband's house,
Sae lang their tails did hing.
9. The hound he yowls i' the yard.
The herd loots in his horn ;
The earn scraighs, and the cock craws.
As the husbande has gi'en hnn his corn.
10. The Elfen were five score and seven,
Sae laidly and sae grim ;
And they the husbande's guests maun be,
To eat and drink wi' him.
n. The husbande, out o' Villenshaw.
At his winnock the Elves can see :
' Help me, now, Jesu, Mary's son ;
Thir Elves they mint at me 1'
12. In every nook a cross he coost,
In his chaliner maist ava;
The Elfen a' were fley'd tliereat,
And flew to the wild-wood shaw.
. And some flew east, and some flew west,
And some to the norwart flew ;
And some they flew to the deep dale dow
There still they are, I trow.
. It was then the weiest Elf,
In at the door braids he ;
Agast was the husbande, for that Elf
Eor cross nor sign wad flee,
. The Iiuswife she was a canny wife.
She set the Elf at the board ;
She set before him baith ale and meat,
Vk'V mony a weel-waled word.
, ' Hear thou, Gudeman o' Villenshaw,
Wliat now I sa>^ to thee ;
Wha bade thee bigg within our bounds,
Without the leave o' mcV
. ' But, an' thou in our bounds will bigg,
And bide, as well as may be.
Then thou thy dearest huswife maun
To me for a lemman gie,'
Up spak the luckless husbande then,
As God the grace him gae;
' Eline she is to me sae dear,
Her thou may nae-gate hae,'
Till the Elf he answer'd as he couth :
' Let but my huswife be.
And tak whale'er. o' gude or gear.
Is mine, awa wi' thee.' —
* Then Ell thy Eline tak and thee,
Aneath my feet to tread ;
And hide thy goud and white munie
Aneath my dwalling stead.'
The husbande and his househald a'
In sary rede they join :
* Ear better that she be now forfairn,
Nor that we a' should tyne.'
U]i. will of rede, the husbande stood,
Wi' heart fu' sad and sair ;
And he has gien his huswife Eline
Wi" the young Elfe to fare.
Then blyth grew he, and sprang about ;
He took her in his ann :
The rud it left her comely cheek ;
Her heart was clem'd wi' harm.
A waefu' woman then she was ane.
And the moody tears loot fa' :
'God rew on me. unseely wife,
How hard a weird I fa' !
' My fay I plight to the fairest wight
That man on mold mat see ; —
Maun I now mellwi' a laidly El,
His light lemman to be 2 '
He minted ance — he minted twice,
Wae wax'd her heart that syth :
Syne the laidliest fiend he grew that e'er
To mortal ee did kyth.
When he the thirden time can mint
To Mary's son she pray'd.
And the laidly Elf was clean awa.
And a fair knight in his stead.
This fell under a linden green.
That again his shape he found ;
0' wae and care was the word nae mair,
A' were sae glad that stound.
'O dearest Eline, hear thou this,
And thou my wife sail be.
And a' the goud in merry Englancl
Sae freely I'll gi'e thee !
' Whan I was but a little wee bain
My mitht-r died me fra ;
Mv stcpmither sent me awa" fra In
1 turn'd till an Jztjin Gray,
L 3
298
Qtofce io
31. ' To thy husbaiide I a gift ^vill gie,
V/V inickle state and gear,
As mends for Elinc his huswife ; —
Thou's be my heartis dear.' —
3J. ' Thou nobit knyght, we thank now God
That lias freed us frae skaith ;
Sae wed thou thee a maiden free,
And joy attend ye baith !
3^. ' Sin' I to thee nae inaik can be
My dochtcr may be thine ;
And thy gud will right to fulfill,
Lat this be our propine.' —
34. 'I thank thee, Eline, thou wise woman;
My praise tliy worth sail ha'e ;
And thy love gin I fail to win,
Thou here at hame sail stay.'
35. The husbande biggit now on his oe,
And nae ane wrought him wrang;
His dochter wore crown in Engeland,
And happy lived and lang.
36. Now Eline. the husbande's huswife, has
Cour'd a' her grief and harms ;
She 's mither to a noble queen
That sleeps iii a kingis arms.
GLOSSARY.
Stanza i. U'oid, a wood; woody fastness. Hus-
baiide, from the Dan. has, with, and honde^ a villain,
or bondsman, who was a cultivator of the ground,
and could not quit the estate to which he was at-
tached without the permissior. of his lord. This is
tlie sense of the word in the old Scottish records. In
the Scottish ' Burghe Laws,' translated from the Rci^.
Mixjest. (Auchinleck MS. in the Adv. Lib.) it is used
indiscriminately with the Dan. and Swed. bouie.
^^SS* build. -^'i^i*. lie- Daes, does.
2. Sha7v, wood. Sai'rly, sorely.
3. ^-ii/:, oak. Grewsome^ terrible. Baid,\io\Ci.
4. Kipplcs (couples), beams joined at the top. for
supporting a roof, in building. Juxiuks, balks ; cross-
beams. Moil, laborious industry. Jj/^tr^-V, asked.
Knock, hillock.
5. U'ezfsf, smallest. Crean^d, shrunk, diminished ;
from the Gaelic, crian, very small. Inunert, emmet ;
ant. Christian, used in the Danish ballads, tVc.
in contradistinction to dentojiiac, as it is in Eng-
land in contradistinction to brute; in which sense,
a person of the lower class in England would call
a Jeiv or a Tnrk a Christian. Fley^ frighten.
6. Glowrd, stared. JIald, hold.
7. Skiii:^^, shade. Skaith, liarm,
8. Nis^hed, approached.
9. Yo7vis, howls. Toots.~\\\ the Dan. tiide is
applied both to the howling of a dog, and the sound
of a horn. Scraishs, screams.
10. Laidly^ loathly; disgustingly it^iy, G>-i?fi,
fierce.
11. IVinnock, window. Mint, aim at.
J2. Coost, cast. Chalmer, chamber. Maist,
most. Ava, of all.
13. Nonvart, northward. Troiu, believe.
14. Braids^ strides quickly forward, Wad^ would.
15. Canny, adroit. Mofty, many. Weel-waied,
welUchosen.
17. -/", if. .fffViV, abide. /.fw^w/t?;:, mistress.
iS. Xae-^ata, nowise.
19. Couth, could, knew how to. Lat bf, let alone.
Gude, goods ; property,
20. Aneath^ beneath,
place,
21. Sary, sorrowful.
For/air}i, forlorn ; lost
be lost ; perish.
22. Will of rede, bewildered in thought; in the
Danish original * T'ildra'adage' ; Lat. * inops consilii' ;
Or. arropwi'. This expression is left among the
desiderata in the Glossary to Ritson's Romances, and
has never been explained. It is obsolete iii the
Danish as well as in English. Fare, go.
Dwallini^'Stead, dwelling-
Rede, counsel ; consultation.
gone. Tyne (verlj neut.),
23. Rnd, red of the cheek. Clem'd, in the Danish
klenit (which in the north of England is still in use,
as the word sta>-<.'€d is with us| ; brought to a dying
state. It is used by our dd comedians. Harm,
grief; as in the original, and in the old Teutonic,
English, and Scottish poetry.
24. Wae/it'y woeful. Moody, strongly and wilfully
passionate. Rew, take ruth ; pity, Unseely, un-
happy; unblest. Weird, fate. Fa (Isl., Dan.,
and Swed.), take ; get ; acquire ; procure ; have for
my lot. — This Gothic verb answers, in its direct and
secondary significations, exactly to the Latin capio ;
and Allan Ramsay was right in his definition of it. It
is quite a different word fromyii", an abbreviation of
'fall^ or befall; and is the principal root in FANGEN,
x.ofan^, take, or lay hold of.
25. Fay, faith. Mold, mould ; earth, ^fat, mote ;
might. Maun, must. Mell, mix. Ill, an Elf.
This term, in the Welsh, signifies what has in itself
the power of 7 not ion ; a 7novinir principle \ an in-
telligence ; a spirit ; an angel. In the Hebrew it
bears the same import.
1:6. Min/id, attempted ; meant ; showed a mind,
or intention to. The original is —
* Hand >nindte hende forst — og anden gang;— •
Hun giordis i hiortet sa vee :
End blef hand den lediste deif-vel
Mand kunde med oyen see.
Der hand vUde niinde den tredie gang,' &c,
Syth, tide, time. Kyth, appear.
28. Stound, hour: time; moment.
29. Merry (old Teut. jnere), famous; renowned;
answering, in its etymological meaning, exactly to the
Latin inactus. Heuce ^nerry-tnen, as the address
of a chief to his followers ; meaning, not men of mirth,
but of renown. The term is found in its original sense
in the Gael, fnara, and the AVelsh niawr, great; and
in the oldest Teut. Romances. 7nar, tner, and ?«t?v,
have sometimes the same signification.
31. Me7idst amends ; recompense.
33. Maik, match; peer; equal. Propine, p\Q^^G\
gift.
35. oe, an island of the secojtd magnitude ; an island
of i[\G first magnitude being called a land, and one
of the ^/[:>-(/ magnitude a holm,
36. Cour'd, recover'd.
THE GHAIST'S WARNING.
TKAXSLATED FROM THE DANISH K.-HMPE
VISER, p. 721.
By the permission of Mr , ya7?tieso}i, this ballad ;
added from the saine curious Collection. .
cofitains so7ne passages of great pathos.
Svend Dyring hand rider sig op under be,
[yarejeg selver U7tg)
Derfaste ha7td sig saa ve7i en tnoe-
(Mig lyster 2(di lundeii at ride,) &c.
1. Child Dyring has ridden him up under oe J,
[And O gin I were you 7ig !)
There wedded he him sae fair2 a may.
\,l' the greenwood it lists me to ride.)
1 * Under oe.' — The original expression has been
preserved here and elsewhere, because no other could
be found to supply its place. There is just as much
meaning in it in the translation as in the original ; but
it is a standard Danish ballad phrase; and as such, it
is hoped, will be allowed to pass.
2 ' /^rt2>.'— The Dan. and Swed. t>en, van, or 7vnnr,
and the Gael, baft, in the oblique cases bhan {7'iin),
is the origin of the Scottish bonny jVfhich has so much
l)uz2led all the etymologists.
ZU &0'^^ of tU ;Baac.
299
^. Thegitlier they lived for seven lang year,
And they seven bairns hae gotten in fere.
(/' the ^rccn-wood^ &-c.\
3. Sae Death 's come there intill that stead,
And that winsome lily flower is dead.
4. That swain he has ridden him up under ue,
And syne he has married anither may.
5. He's married a may, and he's fessen her hame ;
]iut she was a jjrim and a laidly dame.
■ 7. The hairns they stood wi' dale and doiit : —
She up wi' her foot, and she kick'd them out.
8. Nor ale nor mead to the bairnies she gave :
' But hunger and hate frae me ye's have.'
9. She took frae them the bowster blae.
And said, ■ ^'c sail ligg i' the bare strae !
10. She took frae them the grotf wax-light :
Says, ' Now ye sail ligg i' the mirk a' night !'
1 1. 'Twas lang i' the night, and the bairnies jjrat ;
Tlieir mither she under the mools heard that :
I1-. That heard the wife under the eard that I.iy :
• 1-or sooth maun 1 to my bairnies gae ! '
1 i- That wife can stand up at our Lord's knee.
And ' May I gang and my bairnies see?'
14. She prigged sae sair, and she prigged sae lang.
That he at the last ga'e her leave'to gang.
15. 'And thou sail come back when the cock does crav
l-'or thou nae langer sail bide awa.'
16. Wi' her banes sae stark a bowt she gae :
She's riven baith wa' and marble gray I.
17. AVhan near to the dwallingshe can gang.
The dogs they wow'il till the lift it rang.
18. When she came till the castell yett.
Her eldest dochter stood thereat.
19. ' Why stand ye here, dear dochter mine?
How are sum' brithers and sisters thine '{ ' —
20. ' For sooth ye're a woman baith fair and fine ;
But ye are nae dear mither of mine.' —
21. 'Och ! how should I be fine or fair?
My cheek it is pale, and the grouml's my l,\ir. —
22. ' My mither was white, wi' cheek sae reil ;
But thou art \v,in, and liker ane dead.' —
• Och ! h(
.Sae lang .
' should I be white and red,
I've been cauld and dead?'-
24. When she cam till the chalmer in,
Down the bairns' cheeks the tears did 1
25. She buskit the tane, and she brush'd it there
She kem'd and plaited the tither's hair.
^ The original of thi:
very fine.
id the following stanza
■ Hun skod op sin6 modige been,
Der revenede muur og graa marmorslcen.
Der hun gik igennem den by.
De hitndi de tude saa hojt i sky;
The thirden she doodl'd upon her knee,
And the fourthen she dichted sae cannilit
She's t.a'en the fifthen upon her lap,
And sweetly suckled it at her i)ap.
Till her eldest dochter syne said she,
' Ye bid Child Dyring come here to me.*
^^'han he cam till the chalmer in,
M'i' angry mood she said to him :
* I left you routh o' ale ant
My bairnies quail for hung
* I left ahind me braw bowsters blae
My bairnies are liggin' i' the bare str
' 1 left ye sae mony a gr<)ff wax-light ;
My bairnies ligg i' the mirk a' night.
' Ghi aft I come b,ack to visit thee,
Wae, dowy, and weary thy luck sliall be
Up spak little Kirstin in bed that lay
' "To thy bairnies I'll do the best I ma;
Aye when they heard the dog nirr an<l In
Sae ga'e they the bairnies bread and ale.
Aye whan the dog ilid wow, in haste
They cross'd and sain'd thcmsells frae the :
Aye whan the little dog yowl'd, with fear
Llnd O/rin I 7ue>-e yoiiiig I )
They shook at the thought the dead was near
(/' the i^reoiTvood it lists tne to ride.)
{Pair icfords j
nouy a heart they thecr.)
CLOSS.VRV.
Stanza i. JIfay, maid. Lists, pleases.
2. Bair>!s, children. In /ere, together.
3. Stead, place. Jl'insome, engaging
joy (old Teut.).
4. Syne, then.
5. .Ftj-j-fH, fetched; brought.
6. Drave, drove.
7. Dule, sorrow. Doiit. fear.
9. £o7rstt-r, bolster; cushion; bed.
.Str
Jit,!,
e, str
blue
10. Gri'ff', great; large in girt. .1/ar/k, mirk;
dark.
11. Lai:x; t" the nio-ht, late. Gr,it, wept. Moots,
mould : earth.
12. Eard, earth. Gtxe, go.
14. Pri^i;ed, entreated earnestly and perseveriugly.
Gang, go.
15. Craiu, crow.
16. i)'ir«t'.f, bones. Stari; strong. /j'orc/, bolt ;
elastic spring, like that of a httt or arrow from a bow.
Riven, split asunder. Jl'a', wall.
17. 7/ ■i)7«'rf. howled. /.i//, sky, firmament ; air.
18 }'ett, gate.
19. S/na', small.
■2f. Cauld, cold.
24. Tilt, to. Kin, run.
25. Euskit, dressed. Kenid, combed. Tither,
the other.
Vi. Koiith, plenty. Quail, are quelled; die.
Xeed, want.
31. Ahind, behind. Br,ra; brave ; fine.
33. Dowy, sorrowful.
35. Nirr, snarl. Bell, bark.
36. .Sir j'^'i^, blessed ; literally, .r;X'«<rrf with thit si!;n
" ' " ■ troduction of Christianity,
a sjiell against the
of the cross. Befi
Jiiou-s were used
power of enchantment and
ghost.
evil
;//,/,
L 5
300
(Ttofe« (o
Note L.
//te moody Elfin King. — P. 243.
In a long dissertation upon the Fairy
Superstitions, published in the Minstrelsy of
the Scottish Border, the most valuable part
of which was supplied by my learned and
indefatigable friend, Dr. John Leyden, most
of the circumstances are collected which can
throw light upon the popular belief which
even vet prevails respecting them in Scotland.
Dr. Grahame, author of an entertaining work
upon the Scenery of the Perthshire Highlands,
already frequently quoted, has recorded, with
great accuracy, the peculiar tenets held by
the Highlanders on tnis topic, in the vicinity
of Loch Katrine. The learned author is in-
clined to deduce the whole mythology from
the Druidical system, — an opinion to which
there are many objections.
' The Daoine Shi\ or Men of Peace of the
Highlanders, though not absolutely malevo-
lent, are believed to be a peevish, repining
race of beings, who, possessing themselves but
a scanty portion of happiness, are supposed
to envy mankind their more complete and
substantial enjoyments. They are supposed
to enjoy in their subterraneous recesses a sort
of shadowy happiness, — a tinsel grandeur ;
which, however, they would willingly ex-
change for the more solid jovs of mortality.
'They are believed to inhabit certain round
grassy eminences, where they celebrate their
nocturnal festivities by the light of the moon.
About a mile beyond the source of the Forth
above Lochcon, there is a place called
CoirshCan, or the Cove of the Men of Peace,
which is still supposed to be a favourite placid
of their residence. In the neighbourhood are
to be seen many round conical eminences ;
Earticularly one, near the head of the lake,
3- the skirts of which manv are still afraid to
pass after sunset. It is believed, that if, on
Hallow-eve, any person, .alone, goes round
one of these liills nine times, towarcls the left
hand (sinistrorsuDi) a door shall open, by
which he will be admitted into their subter-
raneous abodes. Many, it is said, of mortal
race, have been entertained in their secret
recesses. There they have been received into
the most splendid apartments, and regaled
with the most sumptuous banquets, and
delicious wines. Their females surpass the
daughters of men in beauty. The scewingly
happy inhabitants pass their time in festivity,
and in dancing to notes of the softest music.
But unhappy is the mortal who joins in their
joys, or ventures to partake of their dainties.
By this indulgence, he forfeits for ever the
society of men, and is bound down irrevocably
to the condition of Shi'tc/i, or Man of Peace.
'A woman, as is reported in the Highland
tradition, was conveyed, in days of yore, into
the secret recesses of the Men of Peace.
There she was recognized by one who had
jbrmerly been an ordinary mortal, but who
had, by some fatality, become associated
with the Shi'ichs. This acquaintance, still
retaining some portion of human benevolence,
warned her of her danger, and counselled her,
as she valued her liberty, to abstain from
eating and drinking with them for a certain
space of time. She complied with the counsel
of her friend; and when the period assigned
was elapsed, she found herself again upon
earth, restored to the society of mortals. It
is added, that when she examined the viands
which had been presented to her, and which
had appeared so tempting to the eye, they
were found, now that the enchantment was
removed, to consist only of the refuse of the
earth.' — Pp. 107-111.
Note LI.
U'/iy sounds yon stroke on beech and oaky
Our moonlight circle's screen ?
Or wlio comes here /o chase the deer.
Beloved of our Elfin Queen? — P. 243.
It has been already observed, that fairies,
if not positively malevolent, are capricious,
and easily offended. They are, like other
proprietors of forests, peculiarly jealous of
their rights of vert and venison, as appears
from the cause of offence taken, in the
original Danish ballad. This jealousy was
also an attribute of the northern Duergar,
or dwarfs ; to many of whose distinctions the
fairies seem to have succeeded, if, indeed,
they are not the same class of beings. In the
huge metrical record of German Chivalry,
entitled the Helden-Buch, Sir Hildebrand, and
the other heroes of whom it treats, are en-
gaged in one of their most desperate adven-
tures, from a rash violation of the rose-garden
of an lilfin, or Dwarf King.
There are yet traces of a belief in this
worst and most malicious order of Fairies,
among the Border wilds. Dr. Leyden has
introduced such a dwarf into his ballad
entitled the Cout of Keeldar, and has not for-
got hischaracteristic detestation of the chase.
' Till! third blast that young Keeld;ir blew,
Still stood the limber fern,
-Vnd a wee man, of swarthy hue,
Upstarted by a cairn.
His russet weeds were brown as hralli
That clothes the upland fell ;
And the hair of his head was frizzly red
.\s the purple heather-bell.
An urchin, clad in prickles red.
Clung cow'ring to his arm ;
The hounds they howl'd, and backward (led.
As struck liy fairy charm.
" Why rises high the stag-hound's cry,
Where stag-hound ne'er should be 't
Why wakes that horn the silent morn,
Without the leave of me J" —
ZH JSabp of iU ;Safte.
** Brown dwarf, that o'er the nioorlautl strays
Thy name to Keeklar tell ! " —
" The Brown man of the Muorb, who stays
Beneath the heather-bell.
*''Tis sweet beneath the heather-bell
To live in autumn brown ;
And sweet to hear the lav'rock's swell,
Far, far from tower and town.
" But woe betide the shrilling horn.
The chase's surly cheer !
.\nd ever that hunter is forlorn.
Whom first at morn I hear." '
The poetical picture here jjiven of tlie
Duerjjar corresponds exactly with the follow-
ing Northumbrian lejjentl, with which I was
lately favoured Ijy my learned and kind
friend, Mr. Surtees of Mainsforth, wlio has
bestowed indefatigable labour upon the an-
tiquities of the English Border counties.
The subject is in itself so curious, that the;
length of the note will, I hope, be pardoned.
' I have only one record to offer of the
appearance of our Northumbrian Duergar.
Mv narratrix is Elizabeth Cockburn, an old
wife of Ofterton, in this county, whose credit,
in a case of this kind, will not, I hope, be
much impeached, when I add, that she is, by
her dull neighbours, supposed to be occasion-
ally insane, but, by herself, to be at those
times endowed with a faculty of seeing
visions, and spectral appearances which shun
the common ken.
' In the year before the great rebellion, two
young men from Newcastle were sporting on
the high moors above Elsdon, and after
pursuing their game several hours, sat down
to dine in a green glen, near one of the
mountain streams. After their repast, the
younger lad ran to the brook for water, and
after stooping to drink, was surprised, on
lifting his head again, by the appearance of
a brown dwarf, who stood on a crag covered
with brackens, across the burn. This ex-
traordinary personage did not appear to be
abo\e half the stature of a common man, but
was uncommonly stout and broad-built,
having the appearance of vast strength. His
dress was entirely brown, the colour of the
brackens, and his head covered with frizzled
red hair. His countenance was expressive
of the most savage ferocit)-, and his eyes
glared like a bull. It seeins he addressed
the young man first, threatening him with
his \engeance, for having trespassed on his
<iemesnes, and asking him if he knew in
whose presence he stood ? The youth replied,
that he now supposed him to be the lord of
the moors ; that he offended through ignor-
ance ; and offered to bring him the game he
had killed. The dwarf was a little mollilied
by this submission, but remarked, that
nothing could be more offensive to him than
such an offer, as he considered the wild
animals as his subjects, and never failed to
avenge their destruction. He condescended
further to inform him, that he was, like him-
self, mortal, though of years far exceeding
the lot of common humanity; and I what
I should not have had an idea of) that In-
hoped for salvation. He never, he added, fed
on anything that had life, but lived in the
summer on wortle-berries, and in winter on
nuts and apples, of which lie had great store
in the woods. Finally, he invited his new
acquaintance to accompany him home and
partake his hospitality ; an offer which the
youth was on the point of accepting, ancl
was just going to spring across the brook
(which, if he had done, says Elizabeth, the
dwarf would certainly have torn him in
pieces), when his foot was arrested by the
voice of his companion, who thought he had
tarried long ; and on looking round again,
"the wee brown man was fled." The story
adds, that he was imprudent enough to slight
the adinonition, and to sport over the moors
on his way homewards; but soon after his
return, he fell into a lingering disorder, and
died within the year.'
Note LII.
Or who may dare on wold to wear
The fairies' fatal green ? — P. 243.
As the Daoine Shi', or Men of Peace, wore
green habits, they were supposed to take
offence when any mortals ventured to assume
their favourite colour. Indeed, from some
reason which has been, perhaps, originally
a general superstition, _^/Tf« is held in Scot-
land to be unlucky to particular tribes and
counties. The Caithness men, who hold this
belief, allege as a reason, that their bands
wore that colour when they were cut off at the
battle of Flodden ; and for the same reason
they avoid crossing the Ord on a Monday,
being the day of the week on which their ill-
omened array set forth. Green is also dis-
liked by those of the name of Ogilvy ; but
more especially is it held fatal to the whole
clan of Graharae. It is remembered of an
aged gentleman of that name, that when his
horse fell in a fox-chase, he accounted for it
at once by observing, that the whipcord
attached to his lash was of this unlucky
colour.
Note LII I.
For tlioii iiuert christened 7}iaii. — P. 245.
The elves were supposed greatly to envy
the privileges acquired by Christian initiation,
and they gave to those mortals who had fallen
intotheirpowera certain precedence, founded
upon this advantageous distinction. Tamlane,
in the old ballad, describes his own rank in
the fairy procession : — •
' For I ride on a milk-white steed
And aye nearest the town ;
Because I was a christen'd knight
They giye me that renown,'
Qtcfee io
I presume that, in the Danish ballad of the
JS/fia Grny (see above, p. 297), the obstinacy
of the ' Weiest Elf,' who would not tlee for
cross or sign, is to be derived from the cir-
cumstance of his having been 'christen'd
man.'
How eager the Elves were to obtain for
theiroffsprmgthe prerogatives of Christianity
will be proved by the following story : — ' In
the district called Haga, in Iceland, dwelt
a nobleman called Sigward Forster, who had
an intrigue with one of the subterranean
females. The elf became pregnant, and
exacted from her lover a firm promise
that he would procure the baptism of the
infant. At the appointed time, the mother
came to the churchyard, on the wall of
which she placed a golden cup, and a stole
for the priest, agreeable to the custom of
making an offering at baptism. She then
stood a little apart. When the priest left the
church, he enquired the meaning of what he
saw, and demanded of Sigward if he avowed
himself the father of the child. But Sigward,
ashamed of the connection, denied the p.ater-
nity. He was then interrogated if he desired
that the child should be baptized ; but this
also he answered in the negative, lest, by such
request, he should admit himself to be the
father. On which the child was left untouched
and unbaptized. Whereupon the mother, in
extreme wrath, snatched up the infant and the
cup, and retired, leaving trie priestly cope, of
which fragments are still in preservation.
But this female denounced and imposed upon
Sigward and his posterity, to the ninth genera-
tion, a singular disease, with which many of
his descendants are afnicte<l at this d.ay.'
Thus wrote Einar Dudmond, pastor of the
parish of Garpsdale, in Iceland, a man pro-
foundly versed in learning, from whose
manuscript it was extracted by the learned
Tor{x\xs.—//isioria Hrolfi Krakii, Ha/11 ice,
Note LIV.
And gaily s/ii'nes the Fairy-land —
But all is glistenitig shcru). — P. 244.
No fact respecting Fairy-land seems to be
better ascertained than the fantastic and
illusory nature of their apparent pleasure and
splendour. It has been already noticed in the
former quotations from Dr. Grahame's en-
tertaining volume, and maybe confirmed by
the following Highland tradition : 'A woman,
whose new-born child had been conveyed by
them into their secret abodes, was also carried
thither herself, to remain, however, only until
she should suckle her infant. She one day,
during this period, observed the Shi'ichs
busily employed in mixing various ingre-
dients in a boiling caldron ; and, as soon as
the composition was prepared, she remarked
that they all carefully anointed their eyes
with it, laying the remainder aside for future
use. In a moment when they were all absent,
she also attempted to anoint her eyes with
the precious drug, but had time to apply it to
one eye only, when the /^ao/V/f 6'///' returned.
But with that eye she was henceforth enabled
to see everything as it really passed in their
secret abodes. She saw every object, not as
she hitherto had done, in deceptive splendour
and elegance, but in its genuine colours and
form, f he gaudy orn.aments of the apart-
ment were reduced to the walls of a gloomy
cavern. Soon after, having discharged her
office, she was dismissed to her own home.
Still, however, she retained the faculty of
seeing, with her medicated eye, everj-thing
that was done, anywhere in her presence, by
the deceptive art of the order. One dav,
amidst a throng of people, she chanced to
observe the Shi' ich^ or man of peace, in wliose
possession she had left her child ; though to
every other eye invisible. Prompted by
maternal affection, she inadvertently ac-
costed him, and began to enquire after the
welfare of her child. The man of peace,
astonished at being thus recognized by one
of mortal race, demanded how she had been
enabled to disco\ er him. Awed by the terrible
frown of his countenance, she acknowledged
what she had done. He spat in her eye,
and extinguished it for ever.' — Gkah.\me's
Sketches^ pp. 116-118. It is very remarkable
that this storj-, translated by Dr. Grahame
from popular Gaelic tradition, is to be found
in the Otia Imperialiaof Gervase of Tilbury.
A work of great interest might be compiled
upon the origin of popular fiction, and the
transmission of similar tales from age to age,
and from country to countrj'. The mythologj'
of one period would then appear to pass into
the romance of the next centurj-, and that
into the nursery tale of the subsequent ages.
Such an investigation, while it went greatly
to diminish our ideas of the richness of human
invention, would also show tllat these fictions,
however wild and childish, possess such
charms for the populace, as enable them to
penetrate into countries unconnected by
manners and language, and having no ap-
parent intercourse to afford the means of
transmission. It would carrj' me far beyond
my bounds, to produce instances of this com-
munity of fable among nations who never
borrowed from each other anything intrinsi-
cally worth learning. Indeed, the wide diffu-
sion of popular fictions may be compared to
the facility with which straws and feathers are
disperseil abroad by the wind, while valuable
metals cannot be transported without trouble
and labour. There lives, I believe, only one
gentleman, whose unlimited acquaintance
with this subject might enable him to do it
justice ; I mean my friend, Mr. Francis Douc(%
of the British Museum, whose usual kindness
will, I hope, pardon my mentioning his name,
while on a subject so closely connected with
his extensive and curious researches.
tU ;8a^^ of tU J^Afte.
503
Note LV.
1 siiiik down ill a xiii fill fray,
And, ' tivixtlifeand death, was snatclCd
away
To the joyless Elfin bower. — P. 244.
The subjects of Fairy-land were recruited
from the regions of humanity by a sort of
crimping system, which extended to adults
as well as to infants. Many of those who were
in this world supposed to have discharged
the debt of nature, had only become lienizens
of the ' Londe of Faery.' In the beautiful
Fairy Romance of Orfee and Heurodiis
(Orpheus and Eurydice) in the Auchinleck
MS. is the following striking enumeration of
persons thus abstracted from middle earth.
Mr. Ritson unfortunately publislied this
romance from a copy in which the following,
and many other highly poetical passages, do
not occur: —
' Then he gan biholde about al.
And seiglie ful Hgjreancl w ith in the wal,
Of fulk that were thidder y-brouj;ht.
Anil thought dede and nere nouj,dit ;
Some stode withouten hadde ;
And sum non armes nade ;
And some thurch the bodi hadde wounde ;
And some lay wode y-bounde ;
And sum armed on hors sete ;
And sum astrangled as thai etc ;
And sum war in water adreynt ;
And sum with fire al forschreynt ;
Wives ther lay on childe bedde ;
Sum dede, and sum awedde ;
And wonder fele ther lay besides.
Right as thai slepe her undertides :
Eche was thus in the warl y-nome.
With fairi thidor y-come.'
Note LVI.
WJio ever recked, where, how, or when,
7 he prowling fox was trapped or slain ?
- P. 249.
St. John actually used this illustration when
engaged in confuting the plea of law pro-
posed for the unfortunate Earl of Strafford:
It was true, we gave laws to hares and deer,
because they are oeasts of chase ; but it was
never accounted either cruelty or foul play
to knock foxes or wolves on the head as they
can be found, because the)' are beasts of prey.
In a word, the law and humanity were alike ;
the one being more fallacious, and the other
more barbarous, than in any age had been
vented in such an authority." — Clarendon's
History of Ihe Rebellion. Oxford, 1702, fol.
vol. p. 183.
Note LVII.
his Highland cheer,
The hardened flesh of tnonntain deer.
-P. 249.
The Scottish Highlanders in former times
had a concise mode of cooking their venison,
or rather of dispensing with cookinfr it, whicli
appears greatly to have surprised tne French
whom chance made acquainted with it. The
Vidame of Charters, when a hostage in
England, during the reign of Edward VI
was permitted to travel mto Scotland, and
penetrated as far as to the remote Highlands
(an fin fond des Sain>ages). After a great
hunting party, at which a most wonderful
quantity of game was destroyed, he saw these
i'cottish Saz'ages devour a part of their veni-
son raw, without any farther preparation
than compressing it between two batons of
wood, so as to force out the blood, and render
it extremely hard. This they reckoned a
great delicacy ; and when the Vidame partook
of it, his compliance with their taste rendered
him extremely popular. This curious trait of
manners was communicated by Mons. de
Montmorency, a great friend of the Vidame,
to Brantoine, by whom it is recorded in Vies
dcs Homines Illiistres, Discoiirs, Ixxxix. art.
14. The process by which the raw venison
W.1S rendered eatable is described very
minutely in the romance of Perceforest, where
Estonne, a Scottish knight-errant, having
slain a deer, says to his com.panion Claudius :
' Sire, or mangerez vous et moy aussi. \'oire
si nous auions de feu, dit Claudius. Par
Tame de mon pere, dist Estonne, ie vous
atourneray et cuiray a la maniere do nostre
pays comme pour cheualier errant. Lors
tira son espee, et sen vint a la branclie dung
arbre, et y fait vng grant trou, et puis fend la
branche bien dieux pieilx, et boute la cuisse
du serf entredeux, et puis prent le licol de son
cheval, et en lye la branche, et destraint si
fort, que le sang et les huineurs de la chair
saillent hors, et demeure la chair doulce
et seiche. Lors prent la chair, et oste ius
le cuir, et la chaire demeure aussi blanche
comme si ce feust dung chappon. Dont dist
a Claudius, Sire, ie la \ous ay cuiste a la
guise de mon pays, vous en pouez manger
har<lyement, car le mangeray premier. Lors
met sa main a sa selle en vng lieu quil y auoit,
et tire hors sel et poudre de poiurc et gin-
gembre, mesle ensemble, et le iecte dessus,
et le frote sus bien fort, puis le couppe a
moytie, et en donne a Claudius Tune des
pieces, et puis mort en I'autre aussi sauou-
reussement quil est aduis que il en feist la
pouldre voller. Quant Claudius veit quil le
mangeoit de tel goust, ilen print grant faim,
et commence a manger tresvoulentiers, et
dist a Estonne : Par I'ame de moy, ie ne
mangea}' oncquesmais de chair atournee
de telle guise : mais doresenauant ie ne me
retourneroye pas hors de mon chemin pour
auoir la cuite. Sire, dist Estonne, quant ie
suis en desers d'Ecosse, dont ie suis seigneur,
ie cheuaucheray huit iours ou quinze que ie
n'entreray en chastel ne en maison, et si ne
verray feu ne personne viuant fors que bestes
sauuages, et de celles mangeray atournees
en ceste maniere, et mieulx me plaira que la
viande de I'empereur. Ainsi sen vont man-
geant et cheuauchant iusques adonc quilz
arriuerent sur une moult belle fontaine rjue
estoit en vne valee. Quant Estonne la vit il
dist a Claudius, allons boire a ceste fontaine.
304
(Uofee io
Or beuuons, dist Estonnc, du boir (jue le grant
dieu a pourueu a toutes gens, et que ine plaist
inieulx que les ceruoises d'Angleterre.' — JLa
TrcsclegantcHysioire du trcsuohlc RoyPcrcc-
J'oresi. Paris, 1531, fol. tome i. fol. Iv. vers.
After all, it may be doubted whether la
chaiye jwstyee, for so the French called the
.venison thus summarily prepared, was any-
thingf more than a mere rudekind of deer-ham.
Note LVIII.
Not then claimed sovereignty /it's due;
\MiiU Albany, with feeble hand.
Held borrow'' d truncheon o/' command.
—P. 252.
There is scarcely a more disorderly period
in Scottish history than that which succeeded
the battle of Flodden, and occupied the
minority of James V. Feuds of ancient
standingbrokeout likeold wounds, and every
(juarrel among the independent nobility,
which occurred daily, and almost hourly,
gave rise to fresh bloodshed. 'There arose,'
says Pitscottie, 'great trouble and deadly
feuds in many parts of Scotland, both in the
north and west parts. The Master of Forbes,
in the north, slew the Laird of Meldrum,
under tryst : ' (i. e. at an agreed and secure
■meeting). ' Likewise, the Laird of Drum-
melzier slew the Lord Fleming at the hawk-
ing ; and likewise there was slaughter among
many otlier great lords.'. — P. 121. Nor was
the matter much mended under the govern-
ment of the Earl of Angus : for though he
caused the King to ride through all Scotland,
' under the pretence and colour of justice, to
punish thief and traitor, none were found
greater than were in their own company.
And none at that time durst strive with a
Douglas, nor yet a Douglas's man ; for if
they would, tliey got the worst. Therefore,
none durst plainzie of no extortion, theft,
reiff, nor slaughter, done to them by the
Douglases, or tlieir men ; in that cause they
were not heard, so long as the Douglas had
the court in guiding.' — Ibid. p. 133.
Note LIX.
The Gael, of plain and riz'er heir.
Shall zuith strong- hand redeem his share.
-P. 252.
The ancient Highlanders verified in their
practice the lines of Gray : —
* An iron race the mountain clilTs maintain.
Foes to tlie gentler gfenius of the plain ;
For where unwearied sinews must be found,
"With side-long plough to quell the flinty groimd ;
To turn the torrent's swift descending ilood ;
To tame the savage rushing from the wood ;
"What wonder if, to patient valour train'd.
They guard with spirit what by strength tliey gain'd :
And while their rocky ramparts round they see
The rough abode of want and liberty,
(As lawless force from confidence will grow,)
Insult the plenty of the vales below?"
rra^t?ieiit o>i the Alliance qfjitittcatton
and GovernmefU,
So far, indeed, was a Creagh, or foray,
from being held disgraceful, that a young
chief was always expected to show his talents
for command so soon as he assumed it, by
lea<]ing his clan on a successful enterprize of
this nature, either against a neighbouring
sept, for which constant feuds usually fur-
nished an apology, or against the Sassenach,
Saxons, or Lowlanders, for which no apology
was necessary. The Gaels, great traditional
historians, never forgot that the Lowlands
had, at some remote period, been the property
of their Celtic forefathers, which furnished an
ample vindication of all the ravages that tliey
could make on the unfortunate districts which
lay within their reach. Sir James Grant of
Grant is in possession of a letter of apology
from Cameron of Lochiel, whose men had
committed some depredation upon a farm
called Moines, occupied by one of the Grants.
Lochiel assures Grant, that, however the
mistake had happened, his instructions were
precise, that the party should foray the pro-
vince of Moray (a Lowland district), where, as
he coolly observes, ' all men take their prey.'
Note LX.
1 only meant
To show the reed on ■which yon leajit.
Deeming this path yon might pnr.siie
Without a pass from Roderick Dhu.
-P- -\S4.
This incident, like some other passages in
the poem, illustrative of the char.acter of the
ancient Gael, is not imaginary, but borrowed
from fact. The Highlanders, with the incon-
sistency of most nations in the same state,
were alternately capable of great exertions
of generosity, and of cruel revenge and per-
fidy. The following story I can only quote
from tradition, but with such an assurance
from those by whom it was communicated,
as permits me little doubt of its authenticity.
Early in the last century, John Gunn, a noted
Cateran, or Highland robber, infested Inver-
ness-shire, and levied black-mail up to the
walls of the provincial capital. A garrison
was then maintained in the castle of that
town, and their pay (country banks being
unknown) was usually transmitted in specie,
under the guard of a small escort. It chanced
that the officer who commanded this little
party was unexpectedly obliged to halt, about
tliirty miles from Inverness, at a miserable
inn. About nightfall, a stranger, in the
Highland dress, and of very prepossessing
appearance, entered the same house. Separate
accommodation being impossible, the English-
man offered the newly-arrived guest a part
of his supper, which was accepted with re-
luctance. By the conversation lie found his
new acquaintance knew well all the passes of
the countr)', which induced him eagerly to
request his company on the ensuing morning.
He neither disguised his business andcliarge,
ZU iSa^p of iU ;Saae.
305
nor his apprehensions of that celebrated free-
booter, John Gunn. The Highlander liesi-
tate'l a moment, and then frankly consented
to be his guide. Forth they set in the
morning; and, in travelling through a solitary
and dreary glen, the discourse again turned
on John Gunn. 'Would you like to sec
him ? ' said the guide ; and, without waiting
an answer to this alarming question, he
whistled, and the English officer, with his
small party, were surrounded by a body of
Highlanders, whose numbers put resistance
out of question, and who were all well armed.
'Stranger,' resumed the guide, 'I am that
\trv John Gunn by whom you feared to be
intercepted, .and not without cause: for
I came to the inn last night with the express
purpose of learning your route, that I and my
followers might ease you of your charge by
the road. But I am incapable of betraying
the trust you reposed in me, and having
convinced you that you were in my power,
I can only dismiss you unplundered and
uninjured.' He then gave the officer direc-
tions for his journey, and disappeared with
his party as suddenly as they had presented
themselves.
Note LXI.
' Oil Bochasile the -mouldering lines,
I py/iere Rome, the Empress of the world,
^ Of yore her eagle wings luifiirVd. — P. 254.
The torrent which discharges itself from
Loch Vennachar, the lowest and eastmost
of the three lakes which form the scenery
adjoining to the Trosachs, sweeps through
a flat and extensive moor, called Bochastle.
Upon a small eminence, called the Dun of
Bochastle, and indeed on the plain itself, are
some intrenchments, which have been thought
Roman. There is, adjacent to Callender,
a sweet villa, the residence of Captain Fair-
foul, entitled the Roman Camp.
['One of the most entire and beautiful
remains of a Roman encampment now to be
found in Scotland, is to be seen at Ardoch,
near Greenloaning, about six miles to the
eastward of Dunblane. This encampment
is supposed, on good grounds, to have been
constructed during the fourth campaign of
'' Agricola in Britain ; it is ii)6ofeet in length,
and 900 in breailth ; it could contain 26,0(.xi
men, according to the ordinary distribution
of the Roman soldiers in their encampments.
There appears to have been three or four
ditches, strongly fortified, surrounding the
camp. The four entries crossing the lines
are still to be seen distinctly. 'Y\\<^ geiieraVs
quarter rises above the level of the camp,
but is not exactly in the centre. It is
a regular square of twenty yards, enclosed
with a stone wall, and containing the
foundations of a house, 30 feet by 20.
There is a subterraneous communication
with a smaller encampment at a little
distance, in which several Roman helmets,
spears, &c., have been found. From this
camp at Ardoch, the great Roman highway
runs east to Bertha, about 14 miles distant,
where the Roman army is believed to have
passed over the Tay into Strathmore.' —
Grahame.I
Note LXH.
See here, all vantageless I stand,
Arm^d like thyself with single brand.
-P. 254.
The duellists of former times did not
always stand upon those punctilios respecting
equality of arms, which are now judged
essential to fair combat. It is true, that in
former combats in the lists, the parties were,
by the judges of the field, put as nearly as
possible in the same circumstances. But in
private duel it was often otherwise. In that
desperate combat which was fought between
Quelus, a minion of Henry III of France,
and Antraguet, with two seconds on each
side, from which onlj' two persons escaped
ali\e, Quelus complained that his antagonist
had over him the advantage of a poniard
which he used in parrying, while his left
hand, which he was forced to employ for the
same purpose, was cruelly m.angied. When
he charged Antraguet with this odds, 'Thou
hast done wrong,' answered he, 'to forget
thy dagger at home. We are here to fignt,
and not to settle punctilios of arms.' In
a similar duel, however, a younger brother
of the house of Aubanye, in Angoulesme,
behaved more generously on the like occasion,
and at once threw away his dagger when his
enemy challenged it as an undue advantage.
But at this time hardly anything can be
conceived more horribly brutal and savage
than the mode in which private- quarrels were
conducted in France. Those who were most
jealous of the point of honour, ami acquired
the title of Ruffnies, did not scruple to take
every advantage of strength, numbers, sur-
prise, and arms, to accomplish their revenge.
The Sieur de Brantome, to whose discourse
on duels I am obliged for these particulars,
gives the following account of the deatli and
principles of his friend, the Baron deVitaux: —
' I'ay oui center a un Tireur d'armes, qui
apprit a MiUaud a en tirer, lequel s'appelloit
Seigneur le Jacques Ferron, de la ville d'Ast,
qui avoit este a moy, il fut despuis tue'
a Saincte-Basille en Gascogne, lors que
Monsieur du Mayne I'assicgea lui servant
d'lngenieur; etdemalheur, je I'avoisaddressj
audit Baron quelques trois mois auparavant,
pour I'exercer a tirer, bien qu'il en S9eust
prou ; mais il ne'en fit compte ; et le laissant,
Millaud s'en servit, et le rendit fort adroit.
Ce Seigneur Jacques done me raconta, qu'il
s'estoit monte sur un noyer, assez loing,
pour en voir le combat, et qu'il ne vist jamais
homme y aller plus bravement, ny plus
3o6
Qteiee (o
resoluinent, 113' de grace plus asseuree ny
diJterminef. II conimen^'a de marcher de
cinquante pas vers son eniieray, relevant
souvent ses moustaches en haut d'une main ;
et estant a vingt pas de son ennemy, (non
plustost,) il mit la main, a I'espee qu'il tenoit
en la main, non (ju'il I'eust tirt'e encore ; mais
en marchant, il fit voUer le fourreau en I'air,
en le secouant, ce qui est le beau de cela, et
qui monstroit bien une grace de combat bien
asseuree et froide, et nullement te'meraire,
comme il y en a qui tirent leurs espees de
cinq cents pas de I'ennemy, voire de mille,
comme j'en a)' veu aucuns. Ainsi mourut
ce brave Baron, le paragon de France, qu'on
nommoit tel, a bien venger ses querelles,
par grandes et dtterminees resolutions. II
n'estoit pas seulement estime en France,
mais en Italie, Espaigne, AUemaigne, en
Boulogne et Angleterre ; et desiroient fort
les Etrangers, venant en France, le voir ;
car je I'ay veu, tant sa renommee voUoit. II
estoit fort petit de corps, mais fort grand de
courage. Ses ennemis disoient qu'il ne tuoit
pas bien ses gens, que par advantages et
supercheries. Certes, ie tiens de grands
capitaines, et mesme d'ltaliens, qui ont estez
d'autres fois les premiers vengeurs du monde,
in o^in wodo, disoient-ils, qui ont tenu cette
maxime, qu'une supercherie ne se devoit
payer que par semblable monnoye, et n'y
alloit point lii de deshonneur.' — CEiivres de
Brantoi>teJ?a.f\s, 1787-.S. Tomeviii. pp.yo-ya.
It may be necessary to inform the reader,
that this paragon of France was the most
foul assassin of his time, and had committed
many desperate nmrders, chiefly by the
assistance of his hired banditti; from which
it may be conceived how little the point of
honour of the period deserved its name.
I have chosen to give my heroes, who are
indeed of an earlier period, a stronger
tincture of the spirit of chivalry.
Note LXIII.
in fared z'f //ten unlh Roderick Dhii^
That oil the field his targe he thre~i.'
For^ trained abroad his arms to ivicld,
Fit~- lames' s Made was sword and shield.
-P- ^>>
A round target of light wood, covered with
strong leather, and studded with brass or
iron, was a necessary part of a Highlander's
equipment. In charging regular troops, they
received the thrust of the bayonet in this
buckler, twisted it aside, and used the broad-
sword against the encumbered soldier. In
the civil war of 1745, most of the front
rank of the clans were thus armed: and
Captain Grose informs us, that, in 1747, the
privates of the 42nd regiment, then in Flanders,
were, for the most part, permitted to carry
targets. — -Military Antiquities, vol, i. p. 164.
A person thus armed had a considerable
advantage in private fray. Among verses
between Swift and Sheridan, lately pub-
lished by Dr. Barret, there is an account of
such an encounter, in which the circum-
stances, and consequently the relative superi-
ority of the combatants, are precisely the
reverse of those in the text : —
' A Highlander once foug-ht a Frenchman at Margate,
The weapons, a rapier, a backsword, and target ;
Brisk Monsieur advanced as fast as he could,
But all his fine pushes were caught in the wood,
And Sawney, with backsword, did slash him and
nick him.
■While t* other, enraged that he could not once prick
him.
Cried, *' Sirrah, you rascal, you son of a whore,
Me will fight you, be gar ! if you'll come from ypur
door. " '
The use of defensive armour, and particu-
larly of the buckler, or target, was general in
Queen Elizabeth's time, although that of
the single rapier seems to have been occa-
sionally practised much earlier. Rowland
Yorke, however, who betrayed the fort of
Zutphen to the Spaniards, for which good
service he was afterwards poisoned by them,
is said to have been the first who brought the
rapier fight into general use. Fuller, speak-
ing of the swash-bucklers, orbuUies, of Queen
Eliz.abeth's time, says — ' West Smithfield was
formerly called Riiffians' Hall, where such
men usually met, casually or otherwise, to
try masteries with sword and buckler. More
were frightened than hurt, more hurt than
killed therewith, it being accounted unmanly
to strike beneath the knee. But since that
desperate traitor Rowlan<l Yorke first intro-
duced thrusting with rapiers, sword and
buckler are disused.' In 'The Two Angry
Women of Abingdon,' a comedy, printed in
159Q, we have a pathetic complaint : — 'Sword
and buckler fight begins to grow out of use.
I am sorry for it : I shall never see good
manhood again. If it be once gone, this
poking fight of rapier and dagger will come
up ; then a tall man, and a good sword-and-
buckler man, will be spitted like a cat or
rabbit.' But the rapier liad upon the conti-
nent long superseded, in private duel, the use
of sword and shield. The masters of the
noble science of defence were chiefly Italians.
They made great mystery of their art and
mode of instruction, never suffered any person
to be present but the scholar who was to be
taught, and even examined closets, beds, and
other places of possible concealment. Their
lessons often ga\e the most treacherous
advantages ; for the challenger, having the
right to choose his weapons, frequently
selected some strange, unusual, and incon-
venient kind of arms, the use of which he
practised under these instructors, and thus
killed at his ease his antagonist, to whom it
was presented for the first time on the field of
battle. See Brantome's Discoitrseon Duels,
and the work on the same subject, ' sigen/e-
ineiit ecrit,' by the venerable Dr. Paris de
Puteo. The Highlanders continued to use
broadsword and target until disarmed after
the affair of 1745-6.
^U Bai^ of tU BaU.
307
Note LXIV.
f. Thy threats, thy mercy, I defy !
i Let recreant yield, who fears to die.
— !*• 255-
I liave not ventured to render this duel so
savagely desperate as that of the celebrated
Sir E/an of Lochiel, chief of the clan
Cainevon, called, from his sable complexion,
Ewan Dhu. He was the last man in Scot-
land who maintained the royal cause during
tlie great Civil War, and his constant incur-
sions rendered him a very unpleasant neigh- I
bour to the republican garrison at Inverlochy,
now Fort-William. The governor of the
fort detached a party of three hundred men
to lay waste Lochiel's possessions, and cut
down his trees ; but, in a sudden and desper-
ate attack, made upon them by the chieftain
with very inferior numbers, they were almost
all cut to pieces. The skirmish is detailed in
a curious memoir of Sir Ewan's life, printed
in the Appendi.\ of Pennant's Scottish Tour.
' In this engagement, Lochiel himself had
several wonderful escapes. In the retreat of
the English, one of the strongest and bravest
of the officers retired behind a bush, when he
observed Lochiel pursuing, and seeing him
unaccompanied with any, he leapt out, and
thought him his prey. They met one another
with equal fury. The combat was long and
doubtful : the English gentleman had by far
the advantage in strength and size; but
Lochiel, exceeding him in nimbleness and
agility, in the end tript the sword out of his
hand ; they closed and wrestled, till both fell
to the ground in each other's arms. The
Englisii officer got above Lochiel, and
pressed him hard, but stretching forth his
neck, by attempting to disengage himself,
Lochiel, who by this time had his hands at
liberty, with his left hand seized him by the
collar, andjumping at his extended throat, he
bit it with his teeth quite through, and kept
sucli a hold of his grasp, that he brought
away his mouthful : this, he said, was the
sweetest bit lie ever had in his lifetime.^ —
Vol. i. p. 375.
I Note LXV.
!* Ye towers! 'within -whose circuit dread
' A Douglas by his sovereign bled ;
And thou, O sad and fatal mound!
That oft hast licard the deatli-axe sound.
"j -P- 257-
An eminence on the north-east of the Castle,
where state criminals were executed. Stir-
ling was often polluted with noble blood. It
is thus apostrophized by J. Johnston :^
' Discordia tristis
Heu quoties procerum sanguine tinxit liuinum !
] Hoc uno infelix, et.felix cetera ; nusquam
Laetior aut coeli frons geniusve soli.'
The fate of William, eighth Earl of Douglas,
whom James II stabbed in Stirling Castle
with his own hand, and while under his royal
safe -conduct, is familiar to all who read
Scottish liistory. Murdack Duke of Albany,
Duncan Earl of Lennox, jiis father-in-law, and
his two sons, Walter and Alexander Stuart,
were executed at Stirling, in i4-'5. They
were beheaded upon an eminence without
the castle walls, but making part of the same
hill, from whence they could behold their
strong castle of Doune, and their extensive
possessions. This 'heading hill,' as it was
sometimes termed, bears commonly the less
terrible name of Hurly-hacket, from its
having been the scene of a courtly ainuse-
ment alluded to by Sir David Lindsay, who
says of the pastimes in which the young king
was engaged,
' Some harled hinrto the Hurly-hacket ;'
which consisted in sliding, in some sort of
chair it may be supposed, from top to bottom
of a smooth bank. The boys of Edinburgh,
about twenty years ago, used to play at the
hurly-hacket, on the Calton Hill, using for
their seat a horse's skull.
Note LXVI.
The burghers hold their s/rorts to-day.
— P- 257-
Every burgh of Scotland, of the least note,
but more especially the considerable towns,
had their solemn flay, or festival, when feats
of archery were exhibited, and prizes ilistri-
buted to those who excelled in wrestling,
hurling the bar, and the other gymnastic
exercises of the period. Stirling, a usual
place of royal residence, was not likely to be
deficient in pomp upon such occasions,
especially since James V was very partial to
them. His ready participation in these popu-
lar amusements was one cause of his acquir-
ing the title of Kingof the Commons, or jRe.v
PUbciorum, as Lesley has latinized it. The
usual prize to the best shooter was a silver
arrow. Such a one is preserved at Selkirk
and at Peebles. At Dumfries, a silver gun
was substituted, and the contention trans-
ferred to fire-arms. The ceremony, as theie
performed, is the subject of an excellent
Scottish poem, by Mr. John Mayne, entitled
the Siller Gun, 1808, which surpasses the
efforts of Fergusson, and comes near to those
of Burns.
Of James's attachm.ent to archery, Pit-
scottie, the faithful, though rude recorder of
the manners of that period, has given us
evidence : —
' In this year there came an embassador
out of England, named Lord William
Howard, with a bishop with him, with many
other gentlemen, to the number of threescore
horse, which were all able men and waled
[picked] men for all kinds of games and
pastimes, shooting, louping, running, wrest-
ling, and casting of the stone, but they were
3o8
Qtoiee io
well 'sayed [essayed or tried] ere tliey passed
out of Scotland, and that by their own
provocation; but ever they tint : till at last,
the Queen of Scotland, the king's mother,
favoured the English-men, because she was
the King of England's sister ; and therefore
she took an enterprise of archery upon the
English-men's hands, contrary her son the
king, and any six in Scotland that he would
wale, either gentlemen or yeomen, that the
Englishmen should shoot against them,
either at pricks, revers, or buts, as the Scots
pleased.
'The king, hearing this of his mother, was
content, andgart her pawn a hundred crowns,
and a tun of wine, upon the English-men's
hands ; and he incontinent laid down as much
for the Scottish-men. The field and ground
was chosen in St. Andrews, and three landed
men and three yeomen chosen to shoot
against the English-men, — to wit, David
Wemyss of that ilk, David Arnot of that ilk,
and Mr. John Wedderburn, vicar of Dundee ;
the yeomen, John Thomson, in Leith, Steven
Taburner, with a piper, called Alexander
Bailie ; they shot very near, and warred
[worsted] the English-men of the enterprise,
and wan the hundred crowns and the tun of
wine, which made the king very merry that
his men wan the victory.' — P. 147.
Note LXVII.
J^o6u! Hood.—V. 258.
The exhibition of this renowned outlaw
and his band was a favourite frolic at such
festivals as we are describing. This sporting,
in which kings did not disdain to be actors,
was prohibited in Scotland upon the Refor-
mation, by a statute of the 6th Parliament of
Queen Mary, c. 61, A.D. 1555, which ordered,
under heavy penalties, that ' na manner of
person be chosen Robert Hude, nor Little
John, Abbot of Unreason, Queen of May,
nor otherwise.' But in 1561, the 'rascal
multitude,' says John Knox, 'were stirred
up to make a Robin Hude, wliilk enormity
was of many years left and damned by
statute and act of Parliament ; yet would
they not be forbidden.' Accordingly, they
raised a verj- serious tumult, and at length
made prisoners the magistrates who en-
deavoured to suppress it, and would not
release them till they extorted a formal pro-
mise that no one should be punished for his
share of the disturbance. It would seem,
from the complaints of the General Assembly
of the Kirk, that these profane festivities
were continued down to 1592 1. Bold Robin
was, to say the least, equally successful in
maintaining his ground against the reformed
clergy of England : for the simple and evan-
gelical Latimer complains of coming to a
1 Book of the Universal Kirk, p. 414.
country church, where the people refused to
hear him, because it was Robin Hood's day ;
and his mitre and rochet were fain to give
way to the village pastime. Much curious
information on this subject may be found in
the Preliminary Dissertation to the late Mr.
Ritson's edition of the songs respecting this
memorable outlaw. The game of Robin
Hood was usually acted in May ; and he was
associated withthe morrice-dancers, on whom
so much illustration has been bestowed by
the commentators on Shakespeare. A very
lively picture of these festivities, containing
a great deal of curious information on the
subject of the private life and amusements of
our ancestors, was thrown, by the late in-
genious Mr. Strutt, into his romance entitled
Queenhoo Hall, published after his death, in
Note LXVHL
Iiidifferctit as to archer wight.
The monarch gaz'e the arrowbri'ght. — P. 258.
The Douglas of the poem is an imaginary
person, a supposed uncle of the Earl of
Angus. But the King's behaviour during an
unexpected interview with the Laird of Kil-
spindie, one of the banished Douglases,
under circumstances similar to those in the
text, is imitated from a real story told by
Hume of Godscroft. I would have availed
myself more fully of the simple and affecting
circumstances of the old history, had they
not been already woven into apathetic ballad
by my friend Mr. Finlay'''.
'His (the king's) implacability (towards
the family of Douglas) did also appear in his
carriage towards Archibald of Kilspindie,
whom he, when he was a child, loved sin-
gularly well for his ability of body, and was
wont to call him his Grey-Steill '. Archibald,
being banished into England, could not well
comport with the humour of that nation,
which he thought to be too proud, and that
they had too high a conceit of themselves,
joined with a contempt and despising of all
others. Wherefore, being wearied of that
life, and remembering the king's favour of
old towards him, he determined to try the
king's mercifulness and clemency. So he
comes into Scotland, and taking occasion of
the king's hunting in the park at Stirling, he
casts himself to be in his way, as he wa
coming home to the castle. So soon as the
king saw him afar off, ere he came near, he
guessed it was he, and said to one of his
courtiers, yonder is my Grey-Steill, Archi-
bald of Kilspindie, if he be alive. The other
answered, that it could not be he, and that
he durst not come into the king's presence.
The king approaching, he fell upon his knees
2 See Scottish Historical and Romantic Ballads.
Clasifow, 1808, vol. ii. p. 117.
3 A champion of popular romance. See J-'//ts's
Rofftances. vol. iii.
tU ^<i^? of tU ;Saae.
309
and craved pardon, and promised from
thenceforward to abstain from meddling in
public affairs, and to lead a quiet and private
life. The king went by without giving him
any answer, and trotted a good round pace
up the hill. Kilspindie followed, and though
he wore on him a secret, a shirt of mail, tor
liis particular enemies, was as soon at the
castle gate as the king. There he sat him
down upon a stone without, and entreated
some of the king's servants for a cup of
drink, being weary and thirsty ; but tliey,
fearing the king's displeasure, durst give him
none. When the king was set at his dinner,
he asked what he had done, what he had
said, and whither he had gone ? It was told
liim that he had desired a cup of drink, and
liad gotten none. The king reproved them
very sharply for their discourtesy, and told
them, that if he had not taken an oath that
no Douglas should ever serve him, he would
have received him into his service, for he had
seen him sometime a man of great ability.
Then he sent him word to go to Leith, and
expect his further pleasure. Then some
kinsman of David Falconer, the cannonier,
that was slain at Tantallon, began to quarrel
with Archibald about the matter, wherewith
the king showed himself not well pleased when
he heard of it. Then he commanded him to
go to France for a certain space, till he heard
farther from him. And so he did, and died
shortly after. This gave occasion to the
King "of England (Henry VIII) to blame his
nephew, alleging the old saying. That a
king's face should give grace. For this
Archibald (whatsoever were Angus's or Sir
George's fault) had not been principal actor
of anything, nor no counsellor nor stirrer up,
but only a follower of his friends, and that
nowavs cruelly disposed.' — Htimc of Gods-
ci'oj't^ ii. U)/.
Note LXIX.
Pft::e of the lui-cstling match, the Kiuq-
To F)oitglas gave a golden ring. — 1'. 258.
The usual prize of a wrestling was a ram
and a ring, but the animal would have em-
barrassed my storv. Thus, in the Cokes Tale
of Gamelyn, ascribed to Chaucer :
' There happed to be there beside
Tryed .1 wresthng :
And therefore there was y-setten
A ram and als a ring.'
Again the Litil Geste of Robin Hood :
• By a liridge ^^ as a wrestling,
And there taryed was he,
And there was all the best yemen
(.)f all the west countrey.
A full fayre game there was set up,
A white bull up y-pight,
A great courser with saddle and brydle,
AVith gold burnished full bryght ;
A payre of gloves, a red golde ringe,
A pipe of wyne, good fay ;
"What man beneth him best, I wis.
The prise shall bear away.*
KiTSON'b Kobin Hood, vol. i.
Note LXX.
These drew not for their fields the sword,
Like tenants of a feudal lord.
Nor oivn'd the patriarchal claim
Of Chief tain in their leader's name ;
Adx'eiitnrers they — P. 262.
The Scottish armies consisted chiefly of
the nobility and barons, with their vassals,
who held lands under them, for military
service by themselves and their tenants. The
patriarchal influence exercised by the heads
of clans in the Highlands and Borders was
of a different nature, and sometimes at
variance with feudal principles. It flowed
from the Patria Potestas, exercised by the
chieftain as representing the original father
of the whole name, and was often obeyed in
contradiction to the feudal superior. James
V seems first to have introduced, in addition
to the militia furnished from these sources,
the service of a small number of mercenaries,
who formed a body-guard, called the Foot-
Band. The satirical poet, Sir David Lindsay
(or the person who wrote the prologue to his
play of the 'Three Estaites,') has introduced
Finlay of the Foot-Band, who, after much
swaggering upon the stage, is at length put
to flight by the Fool, who terrifies him by
means of a sheep's skull upon a pole. I have
rather chosen to give them the harsli features
of the mercenary soldiers of the period, than
of this Scottish Thraso. These partook of the
character of the Adventurous Companions
of Froissart or the Condottieri of Italy.
One of the best and liveliest traits of such
manners is the last will of a leader, called
Geffroy Tete Noir, who having been slightly
wounded in a skirmish, his intemperance
brought on a mortal disease. When he
found himself dying, he summoned to his
bedside the adventurers whom he com-
manded, and thus addressed them : —
' Fayre sirs, quod Geffray, I knowe well
ve have alwaves served and honoured me as
inen ought to serve their soveraygne and
capitayne, and I shal be the gladder if ye wyll
agre to have to your capitayne one tliat is
discended of my blode. Beholde here Aleyne
Roux, my cosyn, and Peter his brother, who
are men of amies and of my blode. I require
you to make Aleyne your capitayne, and to
swere to hym faythe, obeysaunce, love, and
loyalte, here in my presence, and also to his
brother : howe be it, I wyll that Aleyne have
the soverayne charge. Sir, quod they, we
are well content, for ye hauve ryght well
chosen. There all the companyons made
them servyant to Aleyne Roux and to Peter
his brother.' — LoRD Berners' Froissart.
Note LXX I.
Thou nffO) hast glee-maiden and harp .'
Get thee an ape, and trudge the land.
The leader of a Juggler band. — P. 2()4.
The jongleurs, or jugglers, as we learn
3IO
(Tlofe0 to
from the elaborate work of the late Mr,
Strutt, on the sports and pastimes of the
people of England, used to call in the aid of
various assistants, to render these jperlorin-
ances as captivating as possible. The glee-
maiden was a necessary attendant. Her
duty was tumbling and dancing ; and there-
fore the Anglo-Saxon version of Saint Mark's
Gospel states Herodias to have vaulted or
tumbled before King Herod. In Scotland,
these poor creatures seem, even at a late
period, to have been bondswomen to their
masters, as appears from a case reported
by Fountainhall:— 'Reid the mountebank
pursues Scott of Harden and his ladv, for
stealing away from him a little girl, called
the tumbling' lassie, that danced upon his
stage : and he claimed damages, and pro-
duced a contract, whereby he bought her
from her mother for £m Scots. But we
have no slaves in Scotland, and mothers
cannot sell their bairns; and phvsicians
attested the employment of tumbling would
kill her; and her joints were now grown stiff,
and she declined to return ; though she was at
least a 'prentice, and so could not run away
from lier master : yet some cited Moses's
law, that if a servant shelter himself with
thee, against his master's crueltv, thou shalt
surely not deli\er him up. 'The Lords,
renitcrUe caticcllario, assoilzied Harden, on
the 27th of January (1687).'— FOUNTAIX-
H.^Li,'S Dea'sioas, \o\. i. p. 4^q 1.
The facetious qualities of the ape soon
rendered him an acceptable addition to the
strolling band of the jongleur. Ben Jonson,
in his splenetic introduction to the comedy
of 'Bartholomew Fair,' is at pains to inform
the audience ' that he has ne'er a sword-and-
buckler man in his Fair, nor a juggler, with
a well-educated ape, to come over tliechaine
for the King of England, and back again for
the Prince, and sit still on his haunches for
the Pope and the King of Spaine."
Note LXXH.
T/iaf siirj'ing air that peals on high.
O'er Dermid's race ottr victory.
Strike it.' -I-P. 266.
There are several instances, at least in
tradition, of persons so much attached to
particular tunes, as to require to hear them
on their deathbed. Such an anecdote is
mentioned by the late Mr. Riddel of Glen-
riddel, in his collection of Border tunes,
respecting an air called the 'Dandling of
1 Though less to my purpose, I cannot help noticinij
a circumstance respecting another of this Mr. Reid's
attendants, which occurred during James II's zeal for
Catholic proselytism, and is told by Foimtainhall, with
dry Scotch irony :— " yamiayy lyth, 1687.— Reid the
mountebank is received into the Popish church, and
one of his blackamores was persuaded to accept of
baptism from the Popish priests, and to turn Christian
papist ; which was a great trophy : he was called
James, after the king and chancellor, and the Apostle
J.inies.' — Ibid. p. 440.
the Bairns,' for which a certain Gallovidian
laird is said to have evinced this strong
mark of partiality. It is popularly told of
a famous freebooter, that he composed the
tune known by the name of Macpherson's
Rant, while under sentence of death, and
played it at the gallows-tree. Some spiriteil
words have been adapted to it by Burns.
A similar story is recounted of a Welsh
bard, who composed and plaved on his
deathbed the air called Dafyci'dy Garregg-
IVeti. But the most curious example is
given by Brantome, of a maid of honour at
the court of France, entitled. Mademoiselle
de Limeuil. 'Durant sa maladie, dont elle
trespassa, jamais elle ne cessa, ains causa
tousjours; car elle estoit fort grande par-
leuse, brocardeuse, et tres-bien et fort a pro-
pos, et tres-belle avec cela. Quand I'heure
de sa fin fut venue, elle fit venir a soy son
Aalet (ainsi que le filles de la cour en ont
chacune un), qui s'appelloit Julien, et scavoit
tres-bien joiier du violon. "'Julien," luy dit
elle, "preriez vostre violon, et sonnez moy
tousjours jusques a ce que vous me voyez
morte (car je m'y en vais) la de'faite des
Suisses, et le mieux (jue vous pourrez, et
quand vous serez sur le mot, 'Tout est
perdu,' sonnez le par (]uatre ou cing fois le
plus piteusement que vous pourrez," ce qui
fit I'autre, et elle-mesme luy aidoit de la
voix, et quand ce vint "tout est perdu," elle
le reitera par deux fois ; et se toumant de
I'autre costo du chevet, elle dit a ses com-
pagnes : '"Tout est perdu a ce coup, et a bon
escient ; " et ainsi de'ce'da. Voila une morte
joyeuse et plaisante. Je tiens ce conte de
deux de ses compagnes, dignes de foi, qui
virent jouer ce mystere.'—CEitvres de Bran-
t07ne, iii. 507. The tune to which this fair
lady chose to make her final exit, was com-
posed on the defeat of the Swiss at Marignano.
The burden is quoted by Panurge, in Rabelais,
and consists of these words, imitating the
jargon of the Swiss, whicli is a mixture of
French and German :
' Tout est verlore,
La Tintelore.
Tout est verlore, bi Got '.
Note LXXIII.
Battle of BeaV an Dnine.—'P. 267.
A skirmish actually took place at a pass
thus called in the Trosachs, and closed with
the remarkable incident mentioned in the
text. It was greatly posterior in date to
the reign of James V.
' In this roughly- wooded island -, the coun-
try people secreted their wives and children,
and their most valuable effects, from the
rapacity of Cromwell's soldiers, during their
inroad into this country, in the time of the
republic. These invaders, not venturing to
- That at the eastern extremity of Loch Katrine.
ZU JSai^ of tU :Sa6e.
3"
ascend by the ladders, along the side of tlie
lake, took a more circuitous road, through
the heart of the Trosaclis, the most frequented
jiath at that time, which penetrates the
wilderness about half way between Binean
and the lake, by a tract called Yea-chilleach,
or the Old Wife's Bog.
' In one of the defiles of this by-road, the
men of the country at that time hung upon
the rear of the invading enemy, and shot one
of Cromwell's men, whose grave marks the
scene of action, and gives name to that pass.
In revenge of this insult, the soldiers resolved
to plunder the island, to violate the women,
and put the cliildren to death. With this
brutal intention, one of the party, more
expert than the rest, swam towards the
island, to fetch the boat to his comrades,
which had carried the women totheir asylum,
and lav moored in one of the creeks. His
companions stood on the shore of the main-
land, in full view of all that was to pass,
waiting anxiously for liis return with the
boat. But just as the swimmer had got to
the nearest point of the island, and was
laving hold of a black rock, to get on shore,
a heroine, who stood on the very point where
he meant to land, hastily snatching a dagger
from below her apron, with one stroke
severed his head from the body. His party
seeing this disaster, and relinquishing all
future hope of revenge or conquest, made
the best of their way out of their perilous
situation. This amazon's great-grandson
lives at Bridge of Turk, who, besides others,
attests the anecdote.' — Skelch of the Scenery
iicay Callendar, Stirling, iH<)6, p. ii). I have
only to add to this account, that the heroine's
name was Helen Stuart.
Note LXXIV.
And Snowdotni's Knight is Scotland's
King.—V. 2J2.
This discovery will probablv I'cmind the
reader of the beautilul Arabian tale of
// Bondocani. Yet the incident is not
borrowed from that elegant story, but from
Scottish tradition. James V, of whom we
are treating, was a monarch whose good and
benevolent intentions often rendered his
romantic freaks venial, if not respectable,
since, from his anxious attention to the
interests of the louer and most oppressed
class of his subjects, he was, as we have seen,
popularly termed the King of the Co7nntons.
For the purpose of seeing that justice was
regularly administered, and frequently from
the less justifiable motive of gallantry, he
used to traverse the vicinage of his several
palaces in various disguises. The two ex-
cellent comic songs, entitle<i, 'TheGaberlunzie
man,' and '^^'e'll gae nae mair a roving,'
are said to have been founded upon the
success of his amorous adventures when
travelling in the disguise of a beggar. The
latter is perhaps the best comic ballad in
any language.
Another adventure, which liad nearly cost
James his life, is said to have taken place at
the village of Cramond, near Edinburgh,
where he had rendered his addresses accept-
able to a pretty girl of the lower rank. Four
or five persons, whether relations or lovers
of his m.istress is uncertain, beset the tlisguised
monarch as he returned from his rendezvous.
Naturally gallant, and an admirable master
of his weapon, the king took post on the high
and narrow bridge over the Almond river,
and defended himself bravely with his sword.
A peasant, who was threshing in a neigh-
bouring barn, came out upon tlie noise, and
whether moved by compassion or by natural
gallantry, took the weaker side, and laid
about with his flail so effectually, as to
disperse the assailants, well threshed, even
according to the letter. He then conducte<l
the king into his barn, where his guest
re(juested a basin and a towel, to remove the
stains of the broil. This being procured
with difficulty, James employe(r himself in
learning what was the summit of his de-
liverer's earthly wishes, and found that they
were bounded by the desire of possessing, in
property, the farm of Braehead, upon which
ne laboured as a bondsman. The lands
chanced to belong to the crown ; and James
directed him to come to the palace of
Holyrood, and enquire for the Guidman
(i. e. farmer) of Ballengiech, a name by which
he was known in his excursions, and which
answered to the // Bondocatii of Haroun
Alraschid. He presented himself accordingly,
and found, with due astonishment, that he
had saved his monarch's life, and that he
was to be gratified with a crown charter of
the lands of Braehead, under the service of
presenting a ewer, basin and towel, for the
king to wash his hands when he shall happen
to pass the Bridge of Cramond. This person
was ancestor of the Howisons of Braehead,
in Mid-Lothian, a respectable family, who
continue to hold the lands (now passed into
the female line) under the same tenure.
Another of James's frolics is thus narrated
by Mr. Campbell from the Statistical Ac-
count:— 'Being once benighted when out
a-hunting, and separated from his attendants,
he happened to enter a cottage in the midst
of a moor at the foot of the Ochil hills, near
Alloa, where, unknown, he was kindly
received. In order to regale their unexpected
guest, the giidenian (i.e. landlord, farmer)
desired the gitdcwife to fetch the hen that
roosted nearest the cock, which is always the
plumpest, for the stranger's supper. The
king, highly pleased with his night's lodging
ancf hospitable entertainment, told mine host
at parting, that he should be glad to return
his civility, and requested that the first time
he came to Stirling, he would call at the
castle, and enquire for the Gitdemaii of
Ballengtiich.
3t:
(Itotee to tU ^a^p of tU Bafie.
'Donaldson, the landlord, did not fail to
call on the Gudeman of Balleiigiiich^ when
his astonishment at finding that the king
had been his guest afforded no small amuse-
ment to the merry monarch and his courtiers ;
and, to carry on the pleasantry, he was
thenceforth designated by James with the
title of King of the Moors, which name and
designation have descended from father to
son ever since, and they have continued in
possession of the identical spot, the property
of Mr. Erskine of Mar, till very lately, when
this gentleman, with reluctance, turned out
the descendant and representative of the
King of the Moors, on account of his
majesty's invincible indolence, and great
dislike to reform or innovation of any kind,
although, from the spirited example of his
neighbour tenants on the same estate, he is
convinced similar exertion would promote
his advantage.'
The author requests permission yet farther
to verify the subject of his poem, by an ex-
tract from the genealogical work of Buchanan
of Auchmar, upon Scottish surnames : —
'This John Buchanan of Auchmar and
Arnprvor was afterwards termed King of
Kippen, upon the following account. King
James V, a very sociable, debonair prince,
residing at Stilling, in Buchanan of Arn-
prj'or's time, carriers were very frequently
passing along the common road, being near
Arnpryor's house, with necessaries for the use
of the king's family : and he, having some
extraordinary' occasion, ordered one of these
carriers to leave his load at his house, and
he would pay him for it; which the carrier
refused to do, telling him he was the king's
carrier, and his load for his majesty's use ;
to which Arnprvor seemed to have small
regard, compelling the carrier, in the end,
to leave his load ; telling him, if King James
was King of Scotland, he was King of
Kippen, so that it was reasonable he should
share with his neighbour king in some of
these loads, so frequently carried that road.
The carrier representing this usage, and
telling the story, as Arnpryor spoke it, to
some of the king's servants, it came at
length to his majesty's ears, who, shortly
thereafter, with a few attendants, came to
visit his neighbour king, who was in the
meantime at dinner. King James, having
sent a servant to demand access, was denied
the same by a tall fellow with a battle-axe,
who stood porter at the gate, telling, there
could be no access till dinner was over. This
answer not satisfying the king, he sent to
demand access a second time ; upon which
he was desired by the porter to desist,
otherwise he would' find cause to repent his
rudeness. His majesty finding this method
would not do, desired the porter to tell his
master that the Goodman of Ballageich
desired to speak with the King of Kippen.
The porter telling Arnpryor so much, he, in
all humble manner, came and received the
king, and having entertained him with much
sumptuousness and jollity, became so agree-
able to King James,' that he allowed him to
take so much of any provision he lound
carrying that road as he had occasion for ;
and seeing he made the first visit, desired
Arnprvor in a few days to return him a
second to Stirling, which he performed, and
continued in very much favour with the
king, alwavs thereafter being termed King
of Kippen w'hile he lived. '—BuCH.\NAN's£',s6'i7V
upon the Family of Buchanan. Edin. 1775,
8\o, p. 74.
The readers of Ariosto must give credit for
the amiable features with which King James 'V
is represented, since he is generally con-
sidered as the prototype of Zerbino, the most
interesting hero of the Orlando Furioso.
Note LXXV.
Stirling's tower
Of yore the name of Snowdonn claims.
—P. 272.
William of Worcester, who wrote about
the middle of the fifteenth century, calls
Stirling (Castle Snowdoun. Sir Daviil Lind-
say bestows the same epithet upon it in his
complaint of the Papingo :
' Adieu, fair Snawdoun, with thy towers high.
Thy chaple-royal, park, and table round ;
May, lune, and July, would I dwell in thee,
Were I a man, to hear the hirdis sound.
AVhilk doth againe thy royal rock rebound.'
Mr. Chalmers, in his late excellent edition
of Sir David Lindsay's works, has refuted
the chimerical derivation of Snawdoun from
snedding, or cutting. It was probably
derived from the romantic legend which
connectrd Stirling with King Arthur, to
which the mention of the Round Table gives
countenance. The ring within which justs
were formerly practised, in the castle park,
is still called' the Round Table. Snawdoun
is the official title of one of the Scottish
heralds, whose epithets seem in all countries
to have been fantastically adopted from
ancient history or romance.
It appears (see Note LXXIV) that the real
name by which James was actually dis-
tinguished in his private excursions, was the
Goodman of Ballengitich ; derived from a
steep pass leaciing up to the Castle of
Stirling, so called. But the epithet would
not have suited poetr)', and would besides at
once, and prematurely, have announced the
plot to many of my countr\-men, among
whom the traditional stories above mentioned
are still current.
JOHN B. S. MORRITT, Esq.,
THIS POEM,
THE SCENE OF WHICH IS LAID IN HIS BEAUTIFL'I. DEMESNE OF KOKEBV,
IS INSCRIBEU, IN TOKEN OF SINCEKE FRIENDSHIP, BY
WALTER SCOTT.
The Scene of this Poem is laid at Rokeby, near Greta Bridge, in Yorl<shire, and sliitts to
tlie adjacent fortress of Barnard Castle, and to other places in that vicinity.
The Time occupied by the Action is a space of Five Days, Three of which arc supposed to
elapse between the entl of the Fifth and beginninjj; of the Sixth Canto.
The date of the supposed events is immediately subsequent to the great Battle of Marston
Moor, July 3, 1644. lliis period of public confusion has been chosen, without any purpose of
combining the Fable with the Military or Political Events of the Ci\il Wat, but only as
affording a degree of probability to the Fictitious Narrative now presented to the Public.
Canto First.
The Moon is in her summer glow.
But hoarse and high the breezes blow.
And, racking o'er her face, the cloud
Varies the tincture of her shroud;
On Barnard's towers, and Tees's
stream,
She changes as a guilty dream.
When conscience, with remorse and
fear.
Goads sleeping fancy's wild career.
Herlight seems now^theblush of shame,
Seems now fierce anger's darker llame.
Shifting that shade, to come and go.
Like apprehensions hurried glow ;
Then sorrow's livery dims the air.
And dies in darkness, like despair.
Such varied hues the warder sees
Reflected from the woodland Tees,
Then from old Baliol's tower looks
forth.
Sees the clouds mustering in the
north,
Hears, upon turret-roof and wall,
By fits the plashing rain-drop fall.
Lists to the breeze's boding sound,
And wraps his shaggy mantle round.
II.
Those towers, which in the changeful
gleam
Throw murk\' shadows on the stream,
Tjiose towers of Barnard hold a guest.
The emotions of whose troubled breast,
In wild and strange confusion driven,
Rival the flitting rack of heaven.
Ere sleep stern Oswald's senses tied,
Oft had he changed his weary side,
314
(noftefip.
[Canto
Composed his limbs, and vainly sought
By effort strong to banish thought.
Sleep cam.e at length, but with a train
Of feelings true and fancies vain,
Mingling, in wild disorder cast,
The expected future with the past.
Conscience, anticipating time.
Already rues the enacted crime,
And calls her furies forth, to shake
The sounding scourge and hissing
snake ;
While her poorvictim'soutwardthroes
Bear witness to his mental woes.
And show what lesson may be read
Beside a sinner's restless bed.
III.
Thus Oswald's labouring feelings trace
Strange changes in his sleeping face.
Rapid and ominous as these
With which the moonbeams tinge the
Tees.
There might be seen of shame the blush.
There anger's dark and fiercer flush,
While the perturbed sleeper's hand
.Seem'd grasping dagger-knife, or
brand.
Relax'd that grasp, the heavy sigh.
The tear in the half-opening eye.
The pallid cheek and brow, confess'd
That grief was busy in his breast ;
Nor paused that mood — a sudden start
Impell'd the life-blood from the heart :
Features convulsed, and niuttenngs
dread,
.Show terror reigns in sorrow's stead.
That pang the painful slumber broke.
And Oswald with a start awoke.
IV.
He woke, and fear'd again to close
His eyelids in such dire repose ;
He woke, — towatch the lamp, and tell
From hour to hour the castle-bell,
Or listen to the owlet's cry,
Or the sad breeze that whistles b}'.
Or catcli. by fits, the tuneless rhyme
Wi til which t lie warder cheats the time,
And envying think, how, when the
sun
Bids the poor soldier's watch be done,
Couch'd on his straw, and fancy-free,
He sleeps like careless infancy.
Far town-ward sounds a distant tread,
And Oswald, starting from his bed,
Hath caught it, though no human ear,
Unsharpen'd by revenge and fear.
Could e'er distinguish horse's clank
Until it reach'd the castle bank.
Now nigh and plain the sound appears.
The warder's challenge now he hears,
Then clanking chains and levers tell
That o'er the moat the drawbridge fell.
And, in the castle court below,
Voices are heard, and torches glow,
As marshalling the stranger's way
Straight for the room where Oswald
^ lay ;
The cry was, — • Tidings from the host.
Of weight — a messenger comes post.'
Stifling the tumult of his breast,
His answer Oswald thus express'd —
' Bring food and wine, and trim the
fire ;
Admit the stranger, and retire.'
The stranger came with heavy stride,
The morion's plumes his visage hide,
And the buff-coat, an ample fold,
Mantles his form's gigantic mould.
Full slender answer deigned he
To Oswald's anxious courtesy.
But mark'd, bj' a disdainful smile.
He saw and scorn'd the petty wile.
When Oswald changed the torch's
place,
Anxious that on the soldier's face
Its partial lustre might be thrown.
To show his looks, yet hide his own.
His guest, the while, laid low aside
The ponderous cloak of tough bull's
hide,
I.]
(HofteB^.
315
And to the torch glanced broad and
clear
The corslet of a cuirassier;
Then from his brows the casque he
drew.
And from the dank plume dash'd the
dew,
From gloves of mail relieved his hands,
And spread them to the kindling brands,
And, turning to the genial board.
Without a health, or pledge, or word
Of meet and social reverence said,
Deeply he drank, and fiercely fed ;
As free from ceremony's sway,
As famish'd wolf that tears his prey.
With deep impatience, tinged with fear,
His host beheld him gorge his cheer.
And quaff" the full carouse, that lent
His brow a fiercer hardiment.
Now Oswald stood a space aside,
Now paced the room with hast}' stride.
In feverish agonj^ to learn
Tidings of deep and dread concern.
Cursing each moment that his guest
Protracted o'er his rufhan feast.
Yet, viewing with alarm, at last,
The end of that uncouth repast.
Almost he seemd their haste to rue,
As, at his sign, his train withdrew,
And left him with the stranger, free
To question of his mj'stery.
Then did his silence long proclaim
A struggle between fear and shame.
Much in the stranger's mien appears
To justify suspicious fears.
On his dark face a scorching clime,
And toil, had done the work of time,
Roughen'dthebrow, the temples bared,
And sable hairs with silver shared.
Yet left — what age alone could tame —
The lip of pride, the eye of flame ;
The full-drawn lip that upward curl'd.
Theeye, thatseem'dto scorn the world.
That lip had terror never blench'd ;
Ne'er in that eye had tear-drop
quench'd
The flash severe of swarthj^ glow,
Thatmock'd at pain, and knew not woe.
Inured to danger's direst form,
Tornade and earthquake, flood and
storm.
Death had he seen by sudden blow,
By wasting plague, bj^ tortures slow.
By mine or breach, by steel or ball,
Knew all his shapes, and scorn'd them
all.
IX.
But yet, though Bertram's harden'd
look.
Unmoved, could blood and danger
brook,
Still worse than apathj* had place
On his swart brow and callous face ;
For evil passions, cherish'd long.
Had plough'd them with impressions
strong.
All that gives gloss to sin, all gay
Light folly, past with j^outh awaj'.
But rooted stood, in manhood's hour,
The weeds of vice without theirflower.
And 3'et the soil in which they grew,
Had it been tamed when life was new,
Had depth and vigour to bring forth
The hardier fruits of virtuous worth.
Not that, e'en then, his heart had
known
The gentler feelings' kindly tone ;
But lavish waste had been refined
To bount}' in his chasten'd mind.
And lust of gold, that waste to feed,
Been lost in love of glory's meed,
And, frantic then no more, his pride
Had ta'en fair virtue for its guide.
Even now, by conscience unrestrain'd.
Clogg'd by gross vice, by slaughter
stain'd.
Still knew his daring soul to soar,
And mastery o'er the mind he bore ;
3i6
(RofteB^.
[Canto
For meaner guilt, or heart less hard,
Quail'd beneath Bertram's bold regard.
And this felt Oswald, while in vain
He strove, by many a winding train,
To lure his sullen guest to show,
Unask'd, the news he long'd to know,
While on far other subject hung
His heart, than falter'd from his tongue.
Yet nought for that his guest did deign
To note or spare his secret pain.
But still, in stern and stubborn sort,
Return'd him answer dark and short,
Or started from the theme, to range
In loose digression wild and strange,
Andforcedthe embarrass'dhosttobuy,
By query close, direct reply.
XI.
A while he glozed upon the cause
Of Commons, Covenant, and Laws,
And Church Reform'd — but felt rebuke
Beneath grim Bertram's sneeringlook,
Then stammer'd — ' Has a field been
fought ?
Has Bertram news of battle brought ?
I'or sure a soldier, famed so far
In foreign fields for feats of war,
On eve of fight ne'er left the host
Until the field were won and lost.'
' Here, in your towers by circling Tees,
You, Oswald Wyclift'e, rest at case ;
Why deem it strange that others come
To share such safe and easy home,
From fields where danger, death, and
toil,
Arc the reward of civil broil ?'
' Naj', mock not, friend! since well
we know
The near advances of the foe,
To mar our northern army's work,
Encamp'd before beleaguer'd York ;
Thy horse ■with valiant Fairfax la\-,
And nuist have fought ; how went the
day?'
XII.
' Wonldst hear the talc ? On Marston
heath
Met, front to front, the ranks of death ;
Flourish'd the trumpets fierce, and
now
Fired was each eye, and flush'd each
brow ;
On either side loud clamours ring,
"God and the Cause !"—" God and
the King ! ''
R ight English all, they rush'd to blows.
With nought to win, and all to lose.
I could have laugh'd^but lack'd the
time —
To see, in phrenesy sublime,
How the fierce zealots foughtand bled
For king or state, as humour led ;
Some for a dream of public good,
Sonic for church-tippet, gown, and
hood,
Draining their veins, in death to claim
A patriot's or a martyr's name.
Led Bertram Risingham the hearts.
That counter'd there on adverse parts,
No superstitious fool had I
Sought El Dorados in the sky !
Chili had heard me through her states,
And Lima oped her silver gates.
Rich Mexico I had march'd through,
And sack'd the splendours of Peru,
Till sunk Pizarro's daring name,
And, Cortez, thine, in Bertram's fame.'
' Still from the purpose wilt thou stray!
Good gentle friend, howwentthe day?'
' Good am I deem'd at trumpet-sound.
And good where goblets dance the
round,
Though gentle ne'er was join'd, till
now.
With rugged Bertram's breast and
brow.
But I resume. The battle's rage
Was like tlie strife Vv'hich currents
\vage
Where Orinoco, in his pride,
Rolls to the main no tribute tide.
But 'gainst broad ocean urges far
A rival sea of roaring war;
I]
(TlofteBp.
317
While, in ten thousand eddies driven,
Tlie billows fling their foam to heaven,
And the pale pilot seeks in \aiii
Where rolls the river, where the main.
I'.ven thus, upon the bloody fiekl.
The cddj'ing tides of conflict wheel'd
Ambiguous, till that heart of flame,
Hot Rupert, on our squadrons came,
Hurling against our spears a line
Of gallants, fiery as their wine ;
Then ours, though stubborn in their
zeal.
In zeal's despite began to reel.
What wouldst thou more? In tumult
tost.
Our leaders fell, our ranks were lost.
A thousand men, who drew the sword
For both the Houses and the Word,
Preach'd forth from hamlet, grange,
and down,
To curb the crosier and the crown.
Now, stark and stiflf, lie stretch'd in
gore,
And ne'er shall rail at mitre more. —
Thus fared it, when I left the fight.
With the good Cause and Commons'
right.'
XIV.
' Disastrous news !' dark Wycliffc said ;
Assumed despondence bent his head.
While troubled joy was in his eye,
The well-feign'd sorrow to belie.
' Disastrous news I — when needed
most.
Told ye not that your chiefs were lost ?
Complete the woful tale, and saj',
Who fell upon that fatal day ;
What leaders of repute and name
Bought by theirdeath a deathless fame.
If such mj'- direst foeman's doom.
My tears shall dew his honour'd tomb.
No answer? Friend, of all our host,
Thou know'st whom I should hate
the most,
Whom thou too, once, wert wont to
hate,
Yet leavest me doubtful of his fate.'
With look unmoved, • Of friend or foe,
Aught,' answcr'd Bertram, 'wouldst
thou know.
Demand in simple terms and plain,
A soldier's answer shalt thou gain ;
For question dark, or riddle high,
I ha\'e nor judgment nor reph'.'
The wrath his art and fear suppross'd
Now blazed at once in Wyclifle's breast ;
And brave, from man so meanlj^ born,
Roused his hereditary scorn.
' Wretch ! hast thou paid thy bloods-
debt ?
Philip of Mortham, lives he yet ?
False to thy patron or thine oath.
Trait' reus or perjured, one or both.
Slave ! hast thou kept tin' promise
pliRlit,
To slay thy leader in the fight ?'
Then from his seat the soldier sprung,
And W3'clifte's hand he strongly
wrung;
His grasp, as hard as glove of mail.
Forced the red blood-drop from the
nail —
'A health!' he cried; and, ere he
quaft'd,
Flung from him W3'clifte's hand, and
laugh'd :
' Now, Oswald Wyclifte, speaks thy
heart !
Now play'st thou well thy genuine part!
Worthy, but for thy craven fear.
Like me to roam a bucanier.
What reck'st thou of the Cause divine,
I fMortham's wealth and lands be thine?
Whatcarestthoufor beleaguer'd York,
If this good hand have done its work?
Or what, though Fairfax and his best
Are reddening Marston's swarthy
breast,
If Philip Mortham with them lie.
Lending his life-blood to the dye ?
Sit, then ! and as 'mid comrades free
Carousing after victory,
3i8
(BofteBj.
[Canto
When tales are told of blood and fear,
That boys and women shrink to hear,
From point to point I frankly tell
The deed of death as it befell.
'When purposed vengeance I forego,
Term me a wretch, nor deem me foe ;
And when an insult I forgive,
Then brand me as a slave, and live !
Philip of Mortham is with those
Whom Bertram Risingham calls foes ;
Or whom more sure revenge attends.
If number'd with ungrateful friends.
As was his wont, ere battle glow'd,
Along the marshall'd ranks he rode,
And wore his vizor up the while.
I saw his melancholy smile.
When, full opposed in front, he knew
Where Rokebv's kindred banner flew.
"And thus," he said, "will friends
divide ! "
I heard, and thought how, side by side,
We two had turn'd the battle's tide
In many a well-debated field.
Where Bertram's breast was Philip's
shield.
I thought on Darien's deserts pale,
Where death bestrides the evening
gale.
How o'er my friend my cloak I threw.
And fenceless faced the deadlj' dew ;
I thought on Quariana's cliff,
Where, rescued from our foundering
skiff.
Through the white breakers' wrath
I bore
Exhausted Mortham to the shore ;
And when his side an arrow found,
I suck'd the Indian's venom'd wound.
These thoughts like torrents rush'd
along.
To sweep away my purpose strong.
' Heartsare not flint , and flints are ren t ;
Hearts are not steel, and steel is bent.
When Mortham bade me, as of j'ore,
Be near him in the battle's roar,
I scarcely saw the spears laid low,
I scarcely heard the trumpets blow ;
Lost was the war in inward strife,
Debating Mortham's death or life.
'Twas then I thought, how, lured to
come,
As partner of his wealth and home,
Years of piratic wandering o'er.
With him I sought our native shore.
But Mortham's lord grew far estranged
From the bold heart with whom he
ranged ;
Doubts, horrors, superstitious fears,
.Sadden'd and dimm'd descending
years ;
The wily priests their victim sought,
And damn'd each free-born deed and
thought.
Then must I seek another home.
My licence shook his sober dome ;
If gold he gave, in one wild day
I revell'd thrice the sum away.
An idle outcast then I stray 'd.
Unfit for tillage or for trade,
Deem'd, like the steel of rusted lance,
Useless and dangerous at once.
The women fear'd my hardy look,
At my approach the peaceful shook;
The merchant saw my glance of flame,
And lock'd his hoards when Bertram
came ;
Each child of coward peace kept far
From the neglected son of war.
XVIII.
'But civil discord gave the call,
And made my trade the trade of all.
By Mortham urged, I came again
His vassals to the fight to train.
What guerdon waited on my care ?
I could not cant of creed or pra\-er;
Sour fanatics each trust obtain'd.
And I, dishonour'd and disdain'd,
Gain'd but the high and happy lot,
In these poor arms to front the shot !
I.]
(KofteBp.
319
All this thou know'st, thj^ gestures tell ;
Yet hear it o'er, and mark it well.
'Tis honour bids me now relate
Each circumstance of Mortham's fate.
XIX.
' Thoughts, from the tongue that slowly
part,
Glance quick as lightning through the
heart.
As my spur press'd my courser's side,
Philip of Mortham's cause was tried.
And, ere the charging squadrons mix'd,
His plea was cast, his doom was fix'd.
I watch'd him through the doubtful
fra3'
That changed as March's moody day,
Till, like a stream that bursts its bank,
Fierce Rupert thunder'd on our flank.
'Twas then, midst tumult, smoke, and
strife,
Where each man fought for death or
life,
'Twas then I fired mj' petronel.
And Mortham, steed and rider, fell.
One dying look he upward cast.
Of wrath and anguish — 'twas his last.
Think not that there I stopp'd to view
What of the battle should ensue ;
But ere I clear'd that blood}^ press.
Our northern horse ran masterless ;
Monckton and Mitton told the news,
Howtroops of Roundheads choked the
Ouse,
And manj' a bonny Scot, aghast.
Spurring his palfrey northward, past,
Cursing the day when zeal or meed
First lured their Lesley o'er the Tweed.
Yet when I reach'd the banks of Swale,
Had rumour learn'd another tale ;
With hisbarb'd horse, fresh tidings say,
Stout Cromwell has redeem'd the day :
But whether false the news, or true,
Oswald, I reck as light as you.'
XX.
Not then by Wyclifle might be shown
How his pride startled at the tone
In which his 'complice, fierce and free.
Asserted guilt's equality.
In smoothest termshis speech he wove,
Of endless friendship, faith, and love;
Promised and vow'd in courteous sort,
But Bertram broke professions short.
' Wyclift'e, be sure not here I stay.
No, scarcely till the rising day ;
Warn'd by the legends of my youth,
I trust not an associate's truth.
Do not my native dales prolong
Of Percy Rede the tragic song,
Train'd forward to his bloody fall,
By Girsonfield, that treacherous Hall
Oft, by the Pringle's haunted side.
The shepherd sees his spectre glide.
And near the spot that gave mc name,
The moated mound of Risingham,
Where Reed upon her margin sees
Sweet Woodburne's cottages and
trees,
Some ancient sculptor's art has shov^'n
y\n outlaw's image on the stone ;
Unmatch'd in strength, a giant he.
With quixer'd back, and kirtled knee
Ask how he died, that hunter bold,
The tameless monarch of the wold,
And age and infancy can tell,
B3' brother's treachery he fell.
Thus warn'd by legends of my ^-outh,
I trust to no associate's truth.
'When last we reason'd of this deed.
Nought, I bethink me, was agreed,
Or by what rule, or when, or where.
The wealth of Mortham we should
share ;
Then list, while I the portion name,
Our diii'ering laws give each to claim.
Thou, vassal sworn to England's
throne.
Her rules of heritage must own ;
They deal thee, as to nearest heir,
I'hj' kinsman's lands and livings fair,
And these I yield : — do thou revere
The statutes of the Bucanier.
320
(KoRefip.
[Canto
Friend to the sea, and foeman sworn
To all that on her waves are borne,
When falls a mate in battle broil,
His comrade heirs his portion'd spoil;
When dies in fight a daring foe,
He claims his wealth who struck the
blow ;
And either rule to me assigns
Those spoils of Indian seas and mines,
Hoarded in Mortham's caverns dark;
Ingot of gold and diamond spark,
Chalice and plate from churches borne.
And gems from shrieking beauty torn,
Each string of pearl, each silver bar,
And all the wealth of western war.
I go to search, where, dark and deep,
Those Transatlantic treasures sleep.
Thou must along — for, lacking thee.
The heir will scarce find entrance free ;
And then farewell. I haste to try
Each varied pleasure wealth can buy ;
When cloy'd each wish, these wars
afford
Fresh work for Bertram's restless
sword."
XXII.
An undecided answer hung
On Oswald's hesitating tongue.
Despite his craft, he heard with awe
This ruffian stabber fix the law ;
While his own troubled passions veer
Through hatred, joy, regret, and fear ;^
Joy'd at the soul that Bertram flies.
He grudged the murderer's mighty
prize.
Hated his pride's presumptuous tone,
And fear'd to wend with him alone.
At length, that middle course to steer.
To cowardice and craft so dear,
' His charge,' he said, 'would ill allow
His absence from the fortress now ;
Wilfrid on Bertram should attend.
His son shouldjourney with his friend.'
Contempt kept Bertram's anger down,
And wreathed tosavagesmilehisfrown.
' Wilfrid, or thou — 'tis one to me,
Whichever bears the golden key.
Yet think not but I mark, and
smile
To mark, thy poor and selfish wile !
If injury from me j'ou fear,
What, Oswald Wyclifte, shields thee
here ?
I've sprung from walls more high than
these,
I've swam through deeper streams
than Tees.
Might I not stab thee, ere one yell
Could rouse the distant sentinel ?
Start not — it is not my design,
But, if it were, weak fence were thine;
And, trust me, that, in time of need.
This hand hath done more desperate
deed.
Go, haste and rouse thj' slumbering
son ;
Time calls, and I must needs be gone.'
Nought of his sire's ungenerous part
Polluted Wilfrid's gentle heart ;
A heart too soft from early life
To hold with fortune needful strife.
His sire, while yet a hardier race
Of numerous sons were WyclifTe's
grace,
On Wilfrid set contemptuous brand.
For feeble heart and forceless hand ;
But a fond mother's care and joy
Were centred in her sicklj' boy.
No touch of childhood's frolic mood
Show'd the elastic spring of blood ;
Hour after hour he loved to pore
On Shakespeare's rich and varied lore,
But turn'd from martial scenes and
light.
From Falstaff s feast and Percy's fight.
To ponder Jaques' moral strain.
And muse with Hamlet, wise in vain,
And weep himself to soft repose
O'er gentle Desdemona's woes.
I.]
(Bo6e6p.
In youth besought not pleasures found
By youth in horse, and hawk, and
hound,
But loved the quiet joys that wake
B3' lonely stream and silent lake ;
In Deepdale's solitude to lie,
Where all is cliff and copse and sky;
To climb Catcastle's dizzy peak,
Or lone Pendragon's mound to seek.
Such was his wont ; and there his
dream
Soar'd on some wild fantastic theme,
Of faithful love, or ceaseless Spring,
Till Contemplation's wearied wing
The enthusiast could no more sustain.
And sad he sunk to earth again.
XXVI.
He loved — as many a lay can tell
Preserved in Stanmore's lonely dell ;
For his was minstrel's skill, he caught
The art unteachable, untaught ;
He loved — his soul did natiu-e frame
For love, and fancy nursed the flame ;
Vainly he loved— for seldom swain
Of such soft mould is loved again ;
Silent he loved — in every gaze
Was passion, friendship in his phrase.
So mused his life away, till died
His brethren all, their father's pride.
Wilfrid is now the only heir
Of all his stratagems and care,
And destined, darkling, to pursue
Ambition's maze by Oswald's clue.
XXVII.
Wilfrid must love and woo the bright
Matilda, heir of Rokeby's knight.
To love her was an easy best,
The secret empress of his breast ;
To woo her was a harder task
To one that durst not hope or ask.
Yet all Matilda could, she gave
In pity to her gentle slave ;
Friendship, esteem, and fair regard,
And praise, the poet's best reward !
She read the tales his taste approved,
And sung the lays he framed or loved ;
Yet, loth to nurse the fatal flame
Of hopeless love in friendship's name.
In kind caprice she oft withdrew
The favouring glance to friendship
due,
'Jlicn grieved to see her victim's pain,
And gave the dangerous smiles again.
So did the suit of Wilfrid stand
When war's loud summons waked the
land.
Three banners, floating o'er the Tees,
The woe-foreboding peasant sees ;
In concert oft they braved of old
The bordering Scot's incursion bold ;
Frowning defiance in their pride,
Their vassals now and lords divide.
From his fair hall on Greta banks
The Knight of Rokeby led his ranks.
To aid the valiant northern Earls
Who drew the sword for royal Chailes.
Wortham, by marriage near allied, —
His sister had been Rokeby's bride.
Though long before the civil fray
In peaceful grave the lady lay, —
Philip of Mortham raised his band,
And march'd at Fairfax's command ;
While Wj-clift'e, bound by many a train
Of kindred art with wily Vane,
Less prompt to brave the bloody field.
Made Barnard's battlements his shield,
Secured them with his Lunedale
powers,
And for the Commons held the towers.
The lovely heir of Rokeby's Knight
Waits in his halls the event of fight ;
For England's war revered the claim
Of every unprotected name,
And spared, amid its fiercest rage.
Childhood and womanhood and age.
But Wilfrid, son to Rokeby's foe,
Must the dear privilege forego.
322
(RofteBj.
[Canto
By Greta's side, in evening grey.
To steal upon Matilda's waj-.
Striving, with fond hypocrisy,
For careless step and vacant eye ;
Calming each anxious look and glance,
To give the meeting all to chance,
Or framing, as a fair excuse,
The book, the pencil, or the muse ;
Something to give, to sing, to say,
Some modern tale, some ancient lay.
Then, while the long'd-for minutes
last,—
Ah ! minutes quickly over-past !
Recording each expression free,
Of kind or careless courtes^^
Each friendly look, each softer tone.
As food for fancy when alone.
All this is o'er — but still, unseen,
Wilfrid may lurk in Eastwood green,
To watch Matilda's wonted round,
Whilesprings his heart at every sound.
She comes ! — 'tis but a passing sight.
Yet serves to cheat his weary night ;
She comes not — he will wait the
hour
When her lamp lightens in the tower;
'Tis something yet, if, as she past,
Her shade is o'er the lattice cast.
' What is my life, my hope ? ' he said ;
' Alas 1 a transitory shade.'
Thus wore his life, though reason
strove
For mastery in vain with love,
Forcing upon his thoughts the sum
Of present woe and ills to come,
While still he turn'd impatient ear
From Truth's intrusive voice severe.
Gentle, indift'erent, and subdued,
In all but this, unmoved he view'd
Each outward change of ill and good.
But Wilfrid, docile, soft, and mild,
Was Fancy's spoil'd and wayward
child;
In her bright car she bade liini ride,
With one fair form to grace his side,
Or, in some wild and lone retreat,
Flung her high spells around his seat,
Bathed in her dews his languid head,
Her fairy mantle o'er him spread.
For him her opiates gave to flow
Which he who tastes can ne'er forego,
And placed him in her circle, free
From every stern reality.
Till, to the Visionary, seem
Her daj'-dreams truth, and truth a
dream.
Woe to the youth whom Fancy gains,
Winning from Reason's hand the reins!
Pity and woe ! for such a mind
Is soft, contemplative, and kind ;
And woe to those who train such youth,
And spare to press the rights of truth,
The mind to strengthen and anneal,
While on the stithy glows the steel I
O teach him, while your lessons last.
To judge the present by the past ;
Remind him of each wish pursued.
How rich it glow'd with promised good;
Remind him of each wish enjoy'd,
How soon his hopes possession cloy'd!
Tell him, we play unequal game
Whene'er we shoot by Fancy's aim ^
And, ere he strip him for her race,
Show the conditions of the chase.
Two sisters by the goal are set,
Cold Disappointment and Regret;
One disenchants the winner's eyes
And strips of all its worth the prize.
While one augments its gaudy show
More to enhance the loser's woe.
The victor sees his fairy gold
Transform'd, when won, to dross}'
mold ;
But still the vanquish'd mourns his loss.
And rues, as gold, that glittering dross.
XXX 11.
More wouldst thou know — yon tower
survey.
Yon couch unpress'd since parting da}',
Ill
(RofteBp.
323
Yon iintrimm'd lamp, whose j'ellow
gleam
Is mingling with the cold moonbeam,
And 3'on thin form l^the hectic red
On his pale cheek unequal spread ;
The head reclined, the loosen'd hair.
The limbs relax'd, the mournful air.
See, he looks up; — a woful smile
Lightens his woeworn cheek a while, —
'Tis Fancy wakes some idle thought
To gild the ruin she has wrought ;
For, like the bat of Indian brakes.
Her pillions fan the wound she makes,
And soothing thus the dreamer's pain,
She drinks his life-blood from the vein.
Now to the lattice turn his eyes.
Vain hope ! to see the sun arise.
The moon with clouds is still o'ercast,
Still howls by fits the stormy blast ;
Another hour must wear away
Ere the East kindle into daj'.
And hark ! to waste that wear^^ hour
He tries the minstreFs magic power :
SONG.
To THE Moon.
' Hail to thy cold and clouded beam,
Pale pilgrim of the troubled sk}' !
Hail, though the mists that o'er thee
stream
Lend to th^' brow their sullen dye I
How should thy pure and peaceful ej^e
Untroubled view our scenes below,
Or how a tearless beam supply
To light a world of war and woe !
Fair Queen! I will not blame thee now.
As once by Greta's fairy side ;
Each little cloud that dimm'd thy brow
Did then an angel's beauty hide.
And of the shades I then could chide.
Still are the thoughts to memory
dear,
For, while a softer strain I tried.
They hid my blush, and calm'd m}'
fear.
Then did I swear thy ra}' serene
Was form'd to light some lonelj' dell,
B}- two fond lovers onlj' seen
Reflected from the crystal well ;
Or sleeping on their mossy cell,
Or quivering on the lattice briglit,
Or glancing on their couch, to tell
How svviftlj' wanes the summer
night!'
He starts ; a step at this lone hour ?
A voice ! his father seeks the tower.
With haggard look and troubled sense,
Fresh from his dreadful conference.
' Wilfrid ! what, not to sleep address'd ]
Thou hast no cares to chase thy rest.
Mortham has fall'n on Marston-moor ;
Bertram brings warrant to secure
His treasures, bought b^' spoil and
blood,
For the State's use and public good.
The menials will thy voice obey ;
Let his commission have its way
In every point, in every word.'
Then, in a whisper — 'Take thy sword !
Bertram is — what I must not tell.
I hear his hasty step, farewell!'
Canto Second.
Far in the chambers of the west
The gale had sigh'd itself to rest ;
The moon was cloudless now and clear.
But pale, and soon to disappear.
The thin grey clouds wax diml}' light
On Brusleton and Houghton height ;
And the rich dale, that eastward lay
Waited the wakening touch of day.
To give its woods and cultured plain,
And towers and spires, to light again.
But, westward, Stanmore's shapeless
swell.
And Lunedale wild, and Kelton-fell,
324
(BofteB^.
[Canto
And rock-begirdlcd Gilmanscar,
And Aikingarth, laj' dai k afar ;
While, as a livelier twilight falls,
Emerge proud Barnard's banner'd
\valls.
High-crown'd he sits, in dawning pale,
The sovereign of the lovely vale.
What prospects, from his watch-tower
high.
Gleam gradual on the \varder's e3'e I —
Far sweeping to the east, he sees
Down his deep woods the course of
Tees,
And tracks his wanderings by the
steam
Of summer vapours from the stream;
And ere he paced his destined hour
By Brackenburj^'s dungeon-tower,
These silver mists shall melt away
And dew the woods with glittering
spray.
Then in broad lustre shall be show-n
That mighty trench of living stone,
And each huge trunk that , from the side,
Reclines him o'er the darksome tide,
Where Tees, full man}' a fathom low,
Wears with his rage no common foe;
For pebbly bank nor sand-bed here,
Nor clay-mound, checks his fierce
career,
Condemn'd to mine a channell'd way
O'er solid sheets of marble gre}'.
Nor Tees alone, in dawning bright,
Shall rush upon the ravish'd sight ;
But many a tributary stream
Each from its own dark dell shall gleam:
Staindrop, who, from her silvan
bowers,
Salutes proud Raby's battled towers;
The rural brook of Egliston,
And Balder, named from Odin's son ;
And Greta, to whose banks ere long
We lead the lovers of the song ;
And silver Lune, from Stanmore wild.
And fairy Thorsgill's murmuring child,
And last and least, but loveliest still.
Romantic Deepdale's slender rill.
Who in that dim-wood glen hath
stray'd,
Yet long'd for Roslin's magic glade ?
Who, wandering there, hath sought
to change
Evenforthat valeso stern and strange.
Where Cartland's Crags, fantastic rent.
Through her green copse like spires
are sent ?
Yet, Albin, j-et the praise be thine.
Thy scenes and stor^' to combine !
Thou bid'sthim, who by Roslin strays.
List to the deeds of other days ;
'Mid Cartland's Crags thou show'st
the cave.
The refuge of thy champion brave ;
Giving each rock its storied tale,
Pouring a lay for every dale.
Knitting, as with a moral band,
Thy native legends with thy land,
To lend each scene the interest high
Which genius beams from Beaut\-"s
eye.
IV.
Bertram awaited not the sight
Which sun-rise shows from Barnard's
height,
But from the towers, preventing da}'
With Wilfrid took his early wa}'.
While misty dawn, and moonbeam
pale.
Still mingled in the silent dale.
By Barnard's bridge of stately stone
The southern bank of Tees they won ;
Their winding path then eastward cast,
And Egliston's grey ruins pass'd ;
Each on his own deep visions bent,
Silent and sad they onward went.
Well may you think that Bertram's
mood
To Wilfrid savage seem'd and rude;
Well may you think bold Risingham
Held Wilfrid trivial, poor, and tame;
II.]
QPlcfteB^.
325
And small the intercourse, I ween,
Such uncongenial souls between.
V.
Stern Bertram shunn'd the nearer way
Through Rokeby's park and chase that
lay,
And, skirting high the valley's ridge,
Theycross'dby Greta's ancient bridge,
Descending ^vhere her waters wind
Free for a space and unconfined.
As, 'scaped from Brignal's dark-wood
glen.
She seeks wild Mortham's deeper den.
There, as his eye glanced o'er the
mound
Raised by that Legion longrenown'd,
Whose v'otive shrine asserts their
claim
Of pious, faithful, conquering fame,
'.Stern sons of war!' sadWilfrid sigh'd,
' Behold the boast of Roman pride I
What now of all your toils are known?
A grassy trench, a broken stone ! '
This to himself; for moral strain
To Bertram were address'd in vain,
VI.
Of different mood, a deeper sigh
Awoke when Rokeby's turrets high
Were northward in the dawning seen
To rear them o'er the thicket green.
O then, though Spenser's self had
stray' d
Beside him through the lovely glade.
Lending his rich luxuriant glow
Of fancy, all its charms to show,
Pointing the stream rejoicing free,
As captive set at liberty.
Flashing her sparkling waves abroad,
And clamouring joyful on her road ;
Pointing where, up the sunny banks.
The trees retire in scatter'd ranks.
Save where, advanced before the rest.
On knoll or hillock rears his crest,
Lonely and huge, the giant Oak,
As champions, when their band is
broke,
.Stand forth to guard the rearward post.
The bulwark of the scatter'd host :
All this, and more, might Spenser say,
Yet waste in vain his magic la}'.
While Wilfrid eyed the distant tower
Whose lattice lights Matilda's bower.
The open vale is soon passed o'er ;
Rokeby, though nigh, is seen no more ;
Sinking mid Greta's thickets deep,
A wild and darker course they keep,
A stern and lone, yet lovely road.
As e'er the foot of Minstrel trode !
Broad shadows o'er their passage fell,
Deeper and narrower grew the dell ;
It seem'd some mountain, rent and
riven,
A channel for the stream had given,
So high the clifls of limestone grej'
Ilung beetling o'er the torrent's way.
Yielding, along their rugged base,
A flinty footpath's niggard space.
Where he, who winds 'twixt rock and
wave,
May hear the headlong torrent rave.
And like a steed in frantic fit.
That flings the froth from curb and bit.
May view her chafe herwaves to spray
O'er every rock that bars her wa\%
Till foam-globes on her eddies ride
Thick as the schemes of human pride
That down life's current drive amain,
As frail, as frothy, and as vain 1
The cliffs that rear their haughty head
High o'er the river's darksome bed
Were now all naked, wild, and grey,
Now wavingall with greenwood spra}';
Here trees to every crevice clung,
And o'er the dell their branches hung;
And there, all splinter'd and uneven.
The shiver'd rocks ascend to heaven ;
Oft, too, the ivy swath'd their breast.
And wreathed its garland round their
crest,
326
(KoSefip.
[Canto
Or from the spires bade loosely flare
Its tendrils in the middle air.
As pennons wont to wave of old
O'er the high feast of Baron bold,
When revell'd loud the feudal rout,
And the arch'd halls return'd their
shout ;
Such and more wild is Greta's roar,
And such the echoes from her shore :
And so the ivied banners gleam.
Waved wildl3'o'erthebrawlingstream.
Now from the stream the rocks recede
But leave between no sunn}^ mead —
No, nor the spot of pebbly sand.
Oft found by such a mountain strand,
Forming such warm and drj' retreat
As fancy deems the lonely seat
Where hermit, wandering from his
cell,
His rosary might love to tell.
But here, 't'wixt rock and river, grew
A dismal grove of sable yew,
With whose sad tints were mingled
seen
The blighted fir's sepulchral green.
Seem'd that the trees their shadows
cast,
The earth that nourish'd them to blast ;
For never knew that swarthy grove
The verdant hue that fairies love;
Nor wilding green, nor woodland
flower,
Arose within its baleful bower :
'J'lie dank and sable earth receives
Its only carpet from the leaves.
That, from the withering branches cast,
Bestrew'd the ground with everj- blast.
Though now the sun was o'er the
hill.
In this dark spot 'twas twilight still,
Save that on Greta's farther side
Some straggling beams through copse-
wood glide ;
And wild and savage contrast made
That dingle's deep and funeral shade.
With the bright tints of early day,
Which, glimmering through the ivy
spray,
On the opposing summit lay.
The lated peasant shunn'd the dell ;
For Superstition wont to tell
Of many a grisly sound and sight,
Scaring its path at dead of night.
When Christmas logs blaze high and
\vide,
Such wonders speed the festal tide ;
While Curiosity and Fear,
Pleasure and Pain, sit crouching near,
Till childhood's cheek no longer glows,
And village maidens lose the rose.
The thrilling interest rises higher,
The circle closes nigh and nigher.
And shuddering glance is cast behind
As louder moans the wintry wind.
Believe, that fitting scene was laid
For such wild tales in Mortham glade ;
For who had seen on Greta's side,
Bj' that dim light, fierce Bertram stride.
In such a spot, at such an hour, —
If touch'd by Superstition's power,
Might well have deem'd that Hell had
given
A murderer's ghost to upper heaven,
While Wilfrid's form had seem'd to
glide
Like his pale victim by his side.
Nor think to village swains alone
Are these unearthly terrors known ;
For not to rank nor sex confined
Is this vain ague of the mind :
Hearts firm as steel, as marble hard,
'Gainst faith, and love, and pit}- barr'd,
Have quaked like aspen leaves in May
Beneath its universal sway.
Bertram had listed many a tale
Of wonder in his native dale.
That in his secret soul rctain'd
The credence theyin childhood gain'd;
II.J
(HoaeB^.
3-1
Nor less his wild adventurous youth
Believed in every legend's truth ;
Learn'd when, beneath the tropic gale,
Full swell'd the \'essers steady sail,
And the broad Indian moon her light
Pour'd on the watch of middle night,
When seamen love to hear and tell
Of portent, prodigy, and spell :
What gales are sold on Lapland's shore,
How whistle rash bids tempests roar,
Of witch, of mermaid, and of sprite,
Of Erick's cap and Elmo's light ;
Or of that Phantom Ship, whose form
Shootslikeameteorthrough thestorm ;
When the dark scud comes driving
hard,
And lower'd is every topsail-yard.
And canvas, wove in earthly looms.
No more to brave the storm presumes !
Then, 'mid the war of sea and sky,
Top and top-gallant hoisted high,
Full spread and crowded every sail,
The Demon Frigate braves the gale ;
And well the doom'd spectators know
The harbinger of wreck and woe.
Then, too, were told, in stifled tone.
Marvels and omens all their own ;
How, by some desert isle or ke}'',
Where Spaniards wrought their
cruelty,
Or where the savage pirate's mood
Repaid it home in deeds of blood,
Strange nightlysounds ofwoeand fear
Appall'd the listening Bucanier,
Whoselight-arm'd shallop anchor'dla}'
In ambush by the lonely bay.
The groan of grief, the shriek of pain.
Ringfrom the moonlight groves of cane;
The fierce adventurer's heart thev
scare,
Who wearies memory for a prayer.
Curses the roadstead, and with gale
Of early morning lifts the sail,
To give, in thirst of blood and pre\^
A legend for another bay.
Thus, as a man, a youth, a child,
Train'd in the m3'stic and the wild.
With this on Bertram's soul at times
Rush'd a dark feeling of his crimes ;
Such to his troubled soul their form
As the pale Death-ship to the storm,
And such their omen, dim and dread,
As shrieks and voices of the dead.
That pang, whose transitorj^ force
Hover'd 'twi.xt horror and remorse ;
That pang, perchance, his bosom
press'd,
As Wilfrid sudden he addrcs^'d : —
' Willrid, this glen is never trodc
Until the sun rides high abroad ;
Yet twice have I beheld to-day
A Form that secm'd to dog our way ;
Twice from my glance itseem'd to flee,
And shroud itself by clift' or tree.
How think'st thou ? — Is our path way-
laid ?
Or hath th^' sire m\' trust betray'd ?
If so ' Ere, starting from his dream.
That turn'd upon a gentler theme,
Wilfrid had roused him to replj',
Bertram sprung forward, shouting
high,
' Whate'cr thou art, thou now shalt
stand !'
And forth he darted, sword in hand.
As bursts the levin in its wrath.
He shot him down the sounding path :
Rock, wood, and stream rang wildly
out
To his loud step and savage shout.
.Seems that the object of his race
Hath scaled the cliffs ; his frantic chase
-Sidelong he turns, and now 'tis bent
Right up the rock's tall battlement;
Straining each sinew to ascend.
Foot, hand, and knee their aid nuist
lend.
Wilfrid, all dizz^' with dismay.
Views from beneath his dreadful way :
328
(KofteBp.
[Canto
Now to the oak's warp'd roots he
clings,
Now trusts his weight to ivy strings ;
Now, like the wild-goat, must he dare
An unsupported leap in air;
Hid in the shrubby rain-course now,
You mark him by the crashing bough,
And by his corslet's sullen clank.
And by the stones spurn'd from the
bank,
And by the hawk scared from her
nest,
And ravens croaking o'er their guest,
Who deem his forfeit limbs shall pay
The tribute of his bold essay.
Sec, he emerges ! desperate now
All farther course ; yon beetling brow,
In craggy nakedness sublime.
What heart or foot shall dare to climb ?
It bears no tendril for his clasp,
Presents no angle to liis grasp :
Sole stay his foot may rest upon
Is yon earth-bedded jetting stone.
Balanced on such precarious prop.
He strains his grasp to reach the top.
Justas the dangerous stretch he makes,
By heaven, his faithless footstool
shakes !
Beneath his tottering bulk it bends,
It sways, ... it loosens, ... it de-
scends I
And downward holds its headlong
way,
Crashing o'er rock and copsewood
spray.
I.oud thunders shake the echoing dell 1
Fell it alone ? Alone it fell
Just on the very verge of fate,
The hard}- Bertram's falling weight
He trusted to his sinewy hands,
And on the top unharm'd he stands !
Wilfrid a safer path pursued ;
At intervals where, roughly hew'd,
Rude steps ascending from the dell
Render'd the clifi's accessible.
By circuit slow he thus attain'd
The height that Risingham had gain'd,
And when he issued from the wood.
Before the gate of Mortham stood.
'Twas a fair scene ! the sunbeam lay
On battled tower and portal grey :
And from the grassy slope he sees
The Greta flow to meet the Tees;
Where, issuing from her darksome
bed.
She caught the morning's eastern red,
And through the softening vale below
Roll'd her bright waves, in ros}' glow,
All blushing to her bridal bed.
Like some shy maid in convent bred ;
While linnet, lark, and blackbird gay,
Sing forth her nuptial roundela3\
'Twas sweetly sung, that roundelay ;
That summer morn shone blithe and
gay ;
But morning beam, and wild-bird's
call,
Awaked not Mortham's silent hall.
No porter, by the low-brow'd gate,
Took in the wonted niche his seat ;
To the paved court no peasant drew;
Waked to their toil no menial crew;
The maiden's carol was not heard,
As to her morning task she fared :
In the void offices around
Rung not a hoof, nor bay'd a hound ;
Nor eager steed, with shrilling neigh,
Accused the lagging groom's delay ;
Untrimm'd, undress'd, neglected now.
Was alley'd walk and orchard bough ;
All spoke the master's absent care,
All spoke neglect and disrepair.
South of the gate, an arrow-flight.
Two mighty elms their limbs unite,
As if a canopy to spread
O'er the lone dwelling of the dead ;
For their huge boughs in arches bent
Above a massive monument.
II.]
(Rom^.
329
Carved o'er in ancient Gothic wise,
With many a scutcheon and device :
There, spent with toil and sunk in
gloom,
Bertram stood pondering by the tomb.
' It vanish'd, like a flitting ghost !
Behind this tomb,' he said, ' 'twas lost —
This tomb, where oft I deem'd lies
stored
Of Mortham's Indian wealth the hoard.
'Tis true, the aged servants said
Here his lamented wife is laid ;
But weightier reasons may be guess'd
For their lord's strict and stern behest,
That none should on his steps intrude,
Whene'er he sought this solitude. —
An ancient mariner I knew.
What time I sail'd with Morgan's
crew.
Who oft, 'mid our carousals, spake
Of Raleigh, Frobisher, and Drake;
Adventurous hearts ! who barter'd,
bold,
Their English steel for Spanish gold.
Trust not, would his experience say,
Captain or comrade with your prey ;
But seek some charnel, when, at full,
The moon gilds skeleton and skull :
There dig, and tomb your precious
heap,
And bid the dead j-our treasure keep ;
Sure stewards thej', if fitting spell
Their service to the task compel.
Lacks there such charnel ? kill a slave.
Or prisoner, on the treasure-grave ;
And bid his discontented ghost
Stalk nightly on his lonely post.
.Such was his tale. Its truth, I ween,
Is in my morning vision seen.'
Wilfrid, who scorn'd the legend wild,
In mingled mirth and pity smiled.
Much marvelling that a breast so bold
In such fond tale belief should hold;
But yet of Bertram sought to know
The apparition's form and show.
The power within the guilty breast,
Oft vanquish'd, never quite suppress'd.
That unsubdued and lurking lies
To take the felon by surprise.
And force him, as by magic spell,
In his despite his guilt to tell, —
That power in Bertram's breast awoke ;
Scarce conscious he was heard, he
spoke :
' 'Twas Mortham's form, from foot to
head !
His morion, with the plume of red.
His shape, his mien — 'twas Mortham
right,
As when I slew him in the fight.'
'Thou slay him? thou?' — With con-
scious start
He heard, then mann'd his haughty
heart : —
' I slew him ? 1 1 I had forgot
Thou, stripling, knew'st not of the
plot.
But it is spoken ; nor will I
Deed done, or spoken word, deny.
I slew him ; I! for thankless pride ;
'Twasbythishandthat Mortham died!'
Wilfrid, of gentle hand and heart.
Averse to every active part.
But most averse to martial broil.
From danger shrunk, and turn'd from
toil ;
Yet the meek lover of the lyre
Nursed one brave spark of noble fire :
Against injustice, fraud, or wrong,
His blood beat high, his hand wax'd
strong.
Not his the nerves that could sustain.
Unshaken, danger, toil, and pain ;
But, when that spark blazed forth to
flame.
He rose superior to his frame.
And now it came, that generous mood ;
And, in full current of his blood,
M 3
33°
(RefteBp.
[Canto
On Bertram lie laid desperate hand.
Placed firm his foot, and drewhisbrand.
' Should every fiend to whom thou 'rt
sold
Rise in thine aid, I keep my hold.
Arouse there, ho 1 take spear and
sword ! •
Attach the murderer of your Lord 1 '
A moment, fix'd as h^- a spell,
Stood Bertram. It seem'd miracle
That one so feeble, soft, and tame
Set grasp on warlike Risingham.
But when he felt a feeble stroke,
The fiend within the ruffian woke !
To wrench the sword from Wilfrid's
hand.
To dash him headlong on the sand,
Was but one moment's work, — one
more
Had drench'd the blade in Wilfrid's
gore;
But, in the instant it arose,
To end his life, his love, his woes,
A warlike form, that mark'd the scene.
Presents his rapier sheath'd between.
Parries the fast-descending blow,
And steps 'twixt Wilfrid and his foe ;
Nor then unscabbarded his brand.
But, sternly pointing with his hand.
With monarch's voice forbade the fight ,
And motion'd Bertram from his sight.
'Go, and repent,' he said, 'while time
Is given thee ; add not crime to crime.'
XXII.
Mute, and uncertain, and amazed.
As on a vision Bertram gazed I
'Twas Mortham's bearing, bold and
high,
His sinew3^ frame, his falcon eye.
His look and accent of command,
The martial gesture of his hand.
His stately form, spare-built and tall,
His war-bleach'd locks — 'twas Mor-
tham all.
Through Bertram's dizzy brain career
A thousand thoughts, and all of fear;
His wavering faith received not quite
The form he saw as Mortham's sprite;
But more he fear'd it, if it stood
His lord, in living flesh and blood.
What spectre can the charnel send
So dreadful as an injured friend ?
Then, too, the habit of command.
Used by the leader of the band.
When Risingham, for man}' a daj',
Had march'd and fought beneath his
sway,
Tamed him — and, with reverted face,
Backwards he bore his sullen pace ;
Oft stopp'd,andoftonMortham stared,
And dark as rated mastiff" glared ;
But when the tramp of steeds was
heard,
Plunged in the glen, and disappear'd.
Nor longer there the Warrior stood.
Retiring eastward through the wood ;
But first to Wilfrid warning gives,
'Tell thou to none that Mortham lives.'
XXIII.
Still rung these words in Wilfrid's ear.
Hinting he knew not what of fear;
When nearer came the coursers'
tread,
And, with his father at their head,
Of horsemen arm'd a gallant power
Rein'd up their steeds before the tower.
' Whence these pale looks, my son ? '
he said :
' Where 's Bertram ? why that naked
blade?'
Wilfrid ambiguously replied,
^For Mortham's charge his honour
tied,)
' Bertram is gone — the villain's word
Avouch'd him murderer of his lord !
Even now we fought ; but, when your
tread
Announced j'ou nigh, the felon fled.'
In Wycliffe's conscious eye appear
A guilty hope, a guilty fear ;
II.]
(RofteBp.
331
On his pale brow the devvdrop broke,
And his Hp quiver'd as he spoke :
'A murderer: Philip Mortham died
Amid the battle's wildest tide.
Wilfrid or Bertram raves, or you I
Yet, grant such strange confession
true,
Pursuit were vain ; let him fly far —
Justice must sleep in civil war.'
A gallant Youth rode near his side,
Brave Rokeby's page, in battle tried ;
That morn, an embassy of weight
He brought to Barnard's castle gate.
And follow'd now in Wyclifte's train.
An answer for his lord to gain.
His steed, whose arch'd and sable neck
An hundred wreaths of foam bedeck,
Chafed not against the curb more high
Than he at Oswald's cold reply;
He bit his lip, implored his saint,
(His the old faith) then burst restraint.
'Yes! I beheld his bloody fall.
By that base traitor's dastard ball.
Just when I thought to measure sword,
Presumptuous hope 1 with Mortham's
lord.
And shall the murderer 'scape, who
slew
His leader, generous, brave, and true ?
Escape, while on the dew you trace
The marks of his gigantic pace?
No ! ere the sun that dew shall dry.
False Risingham shall yield or die.
Ring out the castle 'larum bell!
Arouse the peasants with the knell !
Meantime disperse — ride, gallants,
ride !
Beset the wood on every side.
But if among you one there be
That honours Mortham's memory.
Let him dismount and follow me!
Else on your crests sit fear and shame,
And foul suspicion dog your name 1 '
XXVI.
Instant to earth young Redmond
sprung ;
Instant on earth the harness rung
Of twenty men of Wyclifie's band.
Who waited not their lord's command.
Redmond his spurs from buskins drew.
His mantle from his shoulders threw.
His pistols in his belt he placed,
The greenwood gain'd, the footsteps
traced,
.Shouted like huntsman to his hounds,
'To cover, hark!' and in he bounds.
Scarce heard was Oswald's anxious cry,
'Suspicion! yes, pursue him— tly ;
But venture not, in useless strife.
On ruffian desperate of his life.
Whoever finds him, shoot him dead !
Five hundred nobles for his head ! '
XXVII.
The horsemen gallop'd, to make good
Each path that issued from the wood.
Loud from the thickets rung the shout
Of Redmond and his eager rout;
With them was Wilfrid, stung with ire,
And envying Redmond's martial fire,
And emulous of fame. — But where
Is Oswald, noble Mortham's heir?
He, bound by honour, law, and faith,
Avenger of his kinsman's death? —
Leaning against the elmin tree,
With drooping head and slacken'd
knee,
And clenched teeth, and close-clasp'd
hands.
In agony of soul he stands !
His downcast eye on earth is bent,
His soul to every sound is lent ;
For in each shout that cleaves the air
May ring discovery and despair.
xxviir.
What'vail'd ithim,that brightly play'd
The morning sun on Mortham's glade?
All seems in giddy round to ride.
Like objects on a stormy tide,
332
(RofteBj.
[Canto
Seen eddying by the moonlight dim,
Imperfectly to sink and swim.
What 'vail'd it, that the fair domain,
Its battled mansion, hill, and plain.
On which the sun so brightly shone,
Envied so long, was now his own •
The lowest dungeon, in that hour.
Of Brackenbur\''s dismal tower.
Had been his choice, could such a doom
Have open'd Mortham's bloody tomb !
Forced, too. to turn unwilling ear
To each surmise of hope or fear,
Murmur'd among the rustics round,
Who gather'd at the "larum sound ;
He dared not turn his head awa\-.
E'en to look up to heaven to praj'.
Or call on hell, in bitter mood,
For one sharp death-shot from the
wood !
XXIX.
At length, o'erpast that dreadful space.
Back straggling came the scatter'd
chase ;
Jaded and weary, horse and man.
Rcturn'd the troopers, one by one.
Wilfrid, the last, arrived to say.
All trace was lost of Bertram's wa\'.
Though Redmond .still, up Brignal
wood,
The hopeless quest in vain pursued. —
O. fatal doom of human lace 1
What tj-rant passions passions chase '
Remorse from Oswald's brow is gone.
Avarice and pride resume their throne ;
The pang of instant terror b\%
They dictate thus their slave's reph' :
' Ay — let him range like hasty hound
And if the grim wolfs lair be found,
.Small is my care how goes the game
With Redmond, or with Risingham.
Nay, answer not, thou simple boy I
Thy fair Matilda, all so coy
To thee, is of another mood
To that bold youth of Erin's blood.
Thy ditties will she freely praise.
And pa}' thy pains with courtly phrase;
In a rough path will oft command — ■
Accept at least — thy friendly hand ;
His she avoids, or, urged and pray'd,
Unwilling takes his proffer'd aid,
While conscious passion plainh* speaks
In downcast look and blushing cheeks.
Whene'er he sings will she glide nigh,
And all her soul is in her e3'e ;
Yet doubts she still to tender free
The wonted words of courtesy.
These are strong signs ! yet wherefore
sigh.
And wipe, efteminate. thine eye?
Thine shall she be, if thou attend
The counsels of thy sire and friend.
' Scarce wert thou gone, when peep
of light
Brought genuine news of Marston'g
fight.
Brave Cromwell turn'd the doubtful
tide.
And conquest bless'd the rightful side;
Three thousand cavaliers lie dead,
Rupert and that bold Marquis fled:
Nobles and knights, so proud of late.
Must fine for freedom and estate.
Of these, committed to my charge,
Is Rokeby, prisoner at large ;
Redmond, his page, arrived to say
He reaches Barnard's towers to-da^-.
Right heavy shall his ransom be,
Unless that maid compound with thee !
Go to her now — be bold of cheer.
While her soul floats 'twixt hope and
fear;
It is the verj' change of tide,
When best the female heart is tried —
Pride, prejudice, and modesty,
Are in the current swept to sea ;
And the bold swain, who plies his oar,
May lightly row his bark to shore.'
III.
(JloaeBp.
333
Canto Third.
The hunting tribes of air and earth
Respect the brethren of their birth ;
Nature, who loves the claim of kind,
Less cruel chase to each assign'd.
The falcon, poised on soaring wing,
Watches the wild- duck by tb.e spring ;
The slow-hound wakes the fox's lair;
The greyhound presses on the hare ;
The eagle pounces on the lamb ;
The wolf devours the fleecy dam ;
Even tiger fell, and sullen bear,
Their likeness and their lineage spare :
Man, only, mars kind Nature's plan,
And turns the fierce pursuit on man ;
Plj-ing war's desultory trade,
Incursion, flight, and ambuscade,
Since Nimrod, Cush's mighty son.
At first the bloody game begun.
The Indian, prowling for his prey.
Who hears the settlers track his way,
And knows in distant forest far
Camp his red brethren of the war ;
He, when each double and disguise
To baffle the pursuit he tries.
Low crouching now his head to hide,
Where swampy streams through
rushes glide.
Now covering with the wither'd leaves
The footprints that the dew receives :
He, skill'd in every silvan guile,
Knows not, nor tries, such various wile,
As Risingham, when on the wind
Arose the loud pursuit behind.
In Redesdale his youth had heard
Each art her wily dalesmen dared,
When Rooken-edge, and Redswair
high,
To bugle rung and bloodhound's cr^-.
Announcing Jedwood-axe and spear.
And Lid'sdale riders in the rear;
And well his venturous life had proved
The lessons that his childhood loved.
Oft had he shown, in climes afar,
Each attribute of roving war ;
The sharpen'd ear, the piercing e\'e.
The quick resolve in danger nigh ;
The speed, that in the flight or chase,
Outstripp'd the Carib's rapid race ;
The steady brain, the sinew3- limb,
To leap, to climb, to dive, to swim ;
The iron frame, inured to bear
Each dire inclemency of air,
Nor less confirm'd to undergo
Fatigue's faint chill, and famine's throe.
These arts he proved, his life to save,
In peril oft by land and wave.
On Arawaca's desert shore,
Or where La Plata's billows roar.
When oft the sons of vengeful Spain
Track'd the marauder's steps in vain.
These arts, in Indian warfare tried.
Must save him now bv Greta's side.
'Twas then, in hour of utmost need.
He proved his courage, art, and speed
Now slow he stalk'd with stealthy pace.
Now started forth in rapid race,
Oft doubling back in maz}' train.
To blind the trace the dews retain ;
Now clombe the rocks projecting high.
To baftle the pursuer's e^'e ;
Now sought the stream, whose brawl-
ing sound
The echo of his footsteps drown'd.
But if the forest verge he nears,
There trample steeds, and glimmer
spears ;
If deeper down the copse he drew,
He heard the rangers' loud halloo.
Beating each cover while the\' came.
As if to start the silvan game.
'Twas then — like tiger close beset
At every pass with toil and net,
'Counter'd,where'er he turns his glare.
By clashing arms and torches" flare.
Who meditates, with furious bound,
To burst on hunter, horse, and hound, —
334
QPlcftefij.
[Canto
'Twas then that Bertram's soul arose,
Prompting to rush upon his foes :
But as that crouching tiger, cow'd
By brandish'd steel and shouting
crowd,
Retreats beneath the jungle's shroud,
Bertram suspends his purpose stern,
And couches in the brake and fern.
Hiding his face, lest foemen spy
The sparkle of his swarthy eye.
V.
Then Bertram might the bearing trace
Of the bold youth who led the chase ;
Who paused to list for every sound,
Climb'd every height to look around,
Then rushing on with naked sword,
Each dingle's bosky depths explored.
'Twas Redmond— by the azure eye ;
'Twas Redmond— by the locks that fly
Disorder'd from his glowing cheek ;
Mien, face, and form, young Redmond
speak.
A form more active, light, and strong,
Ne'er shot the ranks of war along ;
The modest, yet the manly mien,
Might grace the court of maiden queen ;
A face more fair you well might find,
For Redmond's knew thesun and wind.
Nor boasted, from their tinge when
free,
The charm of regularity ;
But every feature had the power
To aid the expression of the hour :
Whether gay wit, and humour sly,
Danced laughing in his light-blue eye ;
Or bended brow, and glance of fire.
And kindling cheek, spoke Erin's ire ;
Or soft and sadden'd glances show
Her ready sympathy with woe ;
Or in that wayward mood of mind,
When various feelings are combined.
When joy and sorrow mingle near,
And hope's bright wings arc check'd
by fear,
And risingdoubtskeeptransport down,
And anger lends a short-lived frown ;
In that strange mood which maids
approve.
Even when they dare not call it love ;
With every change his features play'd.
As aspens show the light and shade,
VI.
Well Risingham young Redmond
knew :
And much he marvell'd that the crew,
Rousedtorevenge bold Mortham dead,
Were by that Mortham's foeman led;
For never felt his soul the woe
That wails a generous foeman low,
Far less that sense of justice strong,^
That wreaks a generous foeman's
wrong.
But small his leisure now to pause ;
Redmond is first, whate'er the cause :
And twice that Redmond came so near
Where Bertram couch'd like hunted
deer.
The very boughs his steps displace
Rustled against the ruffian's face,
Who, desperate, twice prepared to
start.
And plunge his dagger in his heart!
But Redmond turn'd a difTerent way.
And the bent boughs resumed their
swaj',
j And Bertram held it wise, unseen,
: Deeper to plunge in coppice green.
! Thus, circled in his coil, the snake.
When roving hunters beat the brake.
Watches with red and glistening eye.
Prepared, if heedless step draw nigh,
With forked tongue and venom'd fang
Instant to dart the deadly pang;
But if the intruders turn aside,
Away his coils unfolded glide,
And through the deep savannah wind.
Some undisturb'd retreat to find.
VII.
But Bertram, as he backward drew.
And heard the loud pursuit renew.
And Redmond's hollo on the wind,
Oft muttcr'd in his savage mind—
III.]
(UoMp.
3:
' Redmond O'Neale I were thou and I
Alone this day's event to tiy,
With not a second here to see
But the grey cliff and oaken tree, —
Thatvoice of thine, that shouts so loud,
Should ne'errepeat its summons proud!
No ! nor e'er try its melting power
Again in maiden's summer bower.'
Eluded, now behind him die,
Faint and more faint, each hostile cry ;
He stands in Scargill wood alone,
Nor hears he now a harsher tone
Than the hoarse cushat's plaintive cry,
Or Greta's sound that murmurs by;
And on the dale, so lone and wild,
Tlie summer sun in quiet smiled.
He listen'd long with anxious heart.
Ear bent to hear, and foot to start.
And, while his stretch'd attention
glows,
Refused his weary frame repose.
'Twas silence all — he laid him down
Where purple heath profusely strown,
And throatwort, with its azure bell.
And moss and thyme his cushion swell.
There, spent with toil, he listless
eyed
The course of Greta's plaj-ful tide;
Beneath her banks now edd3ing dun,
Now brightly' gleaming to the sun,
As, dancing over rock and stone,
In j'ellow light her currents shone,
Matching in hue the favourite gem
Of Albin's mountain diadem.
Then, tired to watch the current's plaj-,
He turn'd his weary eyes away
To where the bank opposing show'd
Its huge square cliffs through shaggy
wood.
One, prominent above the rest,
Rear'd to the sun its pale grej' breast ;
Around its broken summit grew
The hazel rude, and sable 3'ew ;
A thousand varied lichens dyed
Its waste and weather-beaten side
And round its rugged basis laj",
B\' time or thunder rent awa}'.
Fragments, that, from its frontlet torn,
Were mantled now by verdant thorn.
Such was the scene's wild majesty
That fill'd stern Bertram's gazing eye.
In sullen mood he laj' reclined,
Revolving, in his stormy mind
The felon deed, the fruitless guilt,
His patron's blood by treason spilt;
A crime, it seem'd, so dire and dread,
That it had power to wake the dead.
Then, pondering on his life betray'd
By Oswald's art to Redmond's blade.
In treacherous purpose to withhold,
Soseem'dit, Mortham'spromisedgold,
A deep and full revenge he vow'd
On Redmond, forward, fierce, and
proud ;
Revenge on Wilfrid — on his sire
Redoubled vengeance, swift and
dire ! —
If, in such mood, ;as legends say.
And well believed that simple daj-,^
The Enemy of Man has power
To profit by the evil hour.
Here stood a wretch, prepared to
change
His soul's redemption for revenge I
But though his vows, with such a fire
Of earnest and intense desire
For vengeance dark and fell, were
made,
As well might reach hell's lowest shade,
Nodeeperclouds the grove embrown'd.
No nether thunders shook the ground :
The demon knew his vassal's heart.
And spared temptation's needless art.
Oft, mingled with the direful theme,
Came l\Iortham's form. Was it a
dream ?
Or had he seen, in vision true,
That very Mortham whom he slew?
336
(Uoftefij.
[Canto
Or had in living flesh appear'd
The onl}' man on earth he fear'd ? —
To try the mystic cause intent,
His eyes, that on the cliff were bent,
'Counter'd at once a dazzling glance,
Like sunbeam flash'd from sword or
lance.
At once he started as for fight,
But not a foeman was in sight ;
He heard the cushat's murmur hoarse,
He heard the river's sounding course ;
The solitary woodlands lay.
As slumbering in the summer ra}'.
He gazed, like lion roused, around.
Then sunk again upon the ground.
'Twas but, he thought, some fitful
beam,
Glanced sudden from the sparkling
stream;
Then plunged him in his gloomy train
Of ill-connected thoughts again.
Until a voice behind him cried,
' Bertram ! well met on Greta side.'
Instant his sword was in his hand,
As instant sunk the ready brand ;
Yet, dubious still, opposed he stood
To him that issued from the wood :
' Guy Denzil ! is it thou ? ' he said ;
' Do we two meet in Scargill shade ? —
Stand back a space! — thy purpose
show,
Whether thou comest as friend or foe.
Report hath said, that Denzil's name
From Rokebj-'s band was razed with
shame.' —
'A shame I owe that hot O'Neale,
Who told his knight, in peevish zeal,
Of mj' marauding on the clowns
Of Calverley and Bradford downs.
I reck not. In a war to strive,
Where, save the leaders, none can
thrive,
Suits ill my mood; and better game
Awaits us both, if thou 'rt the same
Unscrupulous, bold Risingham,
Who watch'd with me in midnight
dark,
To snatch a deer from Rokeby-park.
How think'st thou ? ' ' Speak thy pur-
pose out ;
I love not mystery or doubt.'
' Then list. Not far there lurk a crew
Of trusty comrades, stanch and true,
Glean'd from both factions — Round-
heads, freed
From cant of sermon and of creed ;
And Cavaliers, whose souls, like mine,
Spurn at the bonds of discipline.
Wiser, we judge, by dale and wold,
A warfare of our own to hold,
Than breathe our last on battle-down.
For cloak or surplice, mace or crown.
Our schemes are laid, our purpose set,
A chief and leader lack we yet.
Thou art a wanderer, it is said;
For Mortham's death thy steps way-
laid,
Thy head at price — so say our spies,
Who range the valley in disguise.
Join then with us :^though wild debate
And wrangling rend our infant state.
Each, to an equal loth to bow,
Will vield to chief renown'd as thou.'
' Even now, 'thought Bertram, passion-
stirr'd,
' I call'd on hell, and hell has heard !
What lack I, vengeance to command.
But of stanch comrades such a band ?
This Denzil, vow'd to every evil.
Might read a lesson to the devil.
Well, be it so ! each knave and fool
Shall serve as my revenge's tool.'
Aloud, ' I take thy proffer, Guy,
But tell me where thy comrades lie?'
' Not far from hence,' Guy Denzil said;
' De-cend, and cross the river's bed.
Where rises yonder cliff so grey.'
' Dothou,' said Bertram, 'lead the way.'
III.]
(RofteSp.
337
Then mutter'd, ' It is best make sure ;
Guy Denzil's faith was never pure.'
He follow'd down the steep descent,
Then through the Greta's streams they
went;
And, when thej' reach'd the farther
shore,
They stood the lonely cliff" before.
With wonder Bertram heard within
The flinty rock a murmur'd din ;
But when Guy pull'd the wilding
spray,
And brambles, from its base away,
He saw, appearing to the air,
A little entrance, low and square,
Like opening cell of hermit lone,
Dark, winding through the living stone.
Here enter'd Denzil, Bertram here;
And loud and louder on their ear,
As from the bowels of the earth.
Resounded shouts of boisterous mirth.
Of old, the cavern strait and rude
In slat}^ rock the peasant hew'd ;
And Brignal's woods, and Scargill's
wave,
E'en now, o'er many a sister cave,
"Where, far within the darksome rift,
The wedge and lever ply their thrift.
But war had silenced rural trade.
And the deserted mine was made
The banquet-hall, and fortress too,
Of Denzil and his desperate crew.
There Guilt his anxious revel kept ;
There, on his sordid pallet, slept
Guilt-born Excess, the goblet drain'd
Still in his slumbering grasp retain'd;
Regret was there, his ej'e still cast
With vain repining on the past ;
Among the feasters waited near
Sorrow, and unrepentant Fear,
And Blasphemy, to frenzy driven.
With his own crimes reproaching
heaven ;
While Bertram show'd,amid the crew,
The Master-Fiend that Milton drew.
Hark ! the loud revel wakes again,
To greet the leader of the train.
Behold the group by the pale lamp.
That struggles with the earthy damp.
By what strange features Vice hath
known
To single out and mark her own !
Yet some thereare, whose brows retain
Less deeplystamp'dherbrand and stain.
.See yon pale stripling ! when a boy,
A mother's pride, a father's J03' I
Now, 'gainst the vault's rude walls
reclined.
An early image fills his mind :
The cottage, once his sire's, he sees,
Embower'd upon the banks of Tees ;
He views sweet Winston's woodland
scene,
And shares the dance onGainford-green.
A tear is springing — but the zest
Of some wild tale, or brutal jest.
Hath to loud laughter stirr'd the rest.
On him they call, the aptest mate
For jovial song and merry feat :
Fast flies his dream — with dauntless air,
As oVie victorious o'er Despair,
He bids the ruddy cup go round.
Til 1 sense and sorrow both are drown'd ;
And soon, in merry wassail, he.
The life of all their revelry,
Peals his loud song! The muse has
found
Her blossoms on the wildest ground,
'Mid noxious weeds at random strew'd,
Themselves all profitless and rude.
With desperate merriment he sung,
The cavern to the chorus rung ;
Yet mingled with his reckless glee
Remorse's bitter agony,
XVI.
SONG.
O, Brignal banks are wild and fair,
And Greta woods are green.
And you ma\' gather garlands there
Would grace a summer queen.
338
(RofteB^.
[Canto
And as I rode by Dalton-hall.
Beneath the turrets high,
A maiden on the castle wall
Was singing merrily, —
' O, Brignal banks are fresh and fair,
And Greta woods are green ;
I'd rather rove with Edmund there,
Than reign our English queen.'
' If, maiden, thou wouldst wend with
me,
To leave both tower and town,
Thou first must guess what life lead we,
That dwell by dale and down.
And if thou canst that riddle read,
As read full well you may.
Then to the greenwood shalt thou
speed,
As blithe as Queen of May."
Yet sung she, ' Brignal banks are fair.
And Greta woods are green ;
I 'd rather rove with Edmund there.
Than reign our English queen.
I read you, b\- your bugle-horn,
And by your palfrey good,
I read j-ou for a ranger sworn.
To keep the king's greenwood."
'A ranger, lady, winds his horn,
And 'tis at peep of light;
His blast is heard at merry morn,
And mine at dead of night."
Yet sung she, 'Brignal banks are
fair.
And Greta woods are gay ;
I would I were with Edmund there.
To reign his Queen of Maj^I
With burnish'd brand and musketoon,
So gallantlj^ you come,
I read j'ou for a bold dragoon,
That lists the tuck of drum.'
' I list no more the tuck of drum.
No more the trumpet hear ;
But when the beetle sounds his hum,
My comrades take the spear.
And OI though Brignal banks be fair,
And Greta woods be gay,
Yet mickle must the maiden dare.
Would reign my Queen of May !
Maiden ! a nameless life I lead,
A nameless death Til die;
The fiend, ^vhose lantern lights the
mead.
Were better mate than I !
And \yhen I 'm with my comrades met
Beneath the greenwood bough,
What once we were we all forget,
Nor think what we are now.
Yet Brignal banks are fresh and fair.
And Greta woods are green.
And you may gather garlands there
Would grace a summer queen."
When Edmund ceased his simple song.
Was silence on the sullen throng,
Till waked some ruder mate their glee
With note of coarser minstrels^-.
But, far apart, in dark divan,
Denzil and Bertram many a plan,
Of import foul and fierce, design'd,
While still on Bertram's graspingmind
The wealth ofmurder'd Mortham hung;
Though halfhefear'dhisdaringtongue,
When it should give his wishes birth.
Might raise a spectre from the earth !
At length his wondrous tale he told :
When, scornful, smiled his comrade
bold;
For, train'd in license of a court.
Religion's self was Denzil's sport;
Then judge in what contempt he held
The visionary tales of eld !
His awe for Bertram scarce repress'd
The unbeliever's sneering jest.
' 'Twere hard,' he said, ' for sage or seer
To spell the subject of your fear:
Nor do I boast the art renown'd.
Vision and omen to expound.
m.]
(Boftefip,
Yet, faith if I must needs aflford
To spectre ^vatching treasured hoard,
As bandog keeps his master's roof,
Bidding the plunderer stand aloof.
This doubt remains — thy goblin gaunt
Hath chosen ill his ghostly haunt ;
For why his guard on Mortham hold,
When Rokeby castle hath the gold
Th}' patron won on Indian soil,
By stealth, by piracy, and spoil ? '
At this he paused, for angry shame
Lower'd on the brow of Risingham.
He blush'd to think that he should
seem
Assertor of an airy dream,
And gave his wrath another theme.
' Denzil,' he says, ' though lowly laid,
Wrong not the memory of the dead ;
For, while he lived, at Mortham's look
Thy very soul, Guy Denzil, shook !
And when he tax'd thj- breach of word
To yon fair Rose of Allenford,
Isawtheecrouch like chasten'd hound,
Whose back the huntsman's lash hath
found.
Nor dare to call his foreign wealth
The spoil of piracy or stealth;
He won it bravely with his brand
When Spain waged warfare with our
land.
Mark, too — I brook no idle jeer.
Nor couple Bertram's name with fear ;
Mine is but half the demon's lot.
For I believe, but tremble not. —
Enough of this. — Sa}-, whj' this hoard
Thou deem'st at Rokeby castle stored ;
Or think'st that Mortham would
bestow
His treasure with his faction's foe?'
Soon quench'd was Denzil's ill-timed
mirth ;
Rather he would have seen the earth
Give to ten thousand spectres birth.
Than venture to awake to flame
The deadly wrath of Risingham.
Submiss he answer'd, ' Mortham's
mind,
Thou know'st, to J03' was ill inclined.
In youth, 'tis said, a gallant free,
A lusty reveller was he ;
But since return "d from over sea,
A sullen and a silent mood
Hath numb'd the current of his blood.
Hence he refused each kindly call
To Rokeby's hospitable hall.
And our stout knight, at dawn of morn
Who loved to hear the bugle-horn^
Nor less, when eve his oaks embrown'd ,
To see the ruddy cup go round.
Took umbrage that a friend so near
Refused to share his chase and cheer;
Thus did the kindred barons jar,
Ere the}' divided in the war.
Yet, trust me, friend, Matilda fair
Of Mortham's wealth is destined heir.'
X.XII.
'Destined to her ! to yon slight maid !
The prize my life had wellnigh paid.
When 'gainst Laroche, byCaj-o'swave,
I fought my patron's wealth to save ! —
Denzil, I knew him long, yet ne'er
Knew him that joyous cavalier,
Whom j'outhful friends and earlj- fame
Call'd soul of gallantry and game.
A moody man, he sought our crew,
Desperate and dark, whom no one
knew ;
And rose, as men with us must rise,
By scorning life and all its ties.
On each adventure rash he roved.
As danger for itself he loved ;
On his sad brow nor mirth nor wine
Could e'er one wrinkled knot untwine;
111 was the omen if he smiled.
For 'twas in peril stern and wild ;
Butwhen he laugh'd, each luckless mate
Might hold our fortune desperate.
Foremost he fought in every broil,
Then scornful turn'd him from the
spoil ;
340
(RofteBj.
[Canto
Nay, often strove to bar the wa}-
Between his comrades and their prej^;
Preaching, even then, to such as we,
Hot with our dear-bought victory,
Of mercy and humanit}'.
I loved him well; his fearless part.
His gallant leading, won my heart.
And after each victorious fight,
'Twas I that wrangled for his right,
Redeem'd his portion of the prey
That greedier mates had torn away :
In field and storm thrice saved his
life,
And once amid our comrades' strife. —
Yes, I have loved thee! well hath
proved
My toil, my danger, how I loved 1
Yet will I mourn no more thj* fate,
Ingrate in life, in death ingrate.
Riseif thou canst 1' he look'd around.
And sternly stamp'd upon the ground —
' Rise, with thy bearing proud and
high.
Even as this morn it met mine eye.
And give me, if thou darest, the lie I '
He paused ; then, calm and passion-
freed.
Bade Denzil with his tale proceed.
'Bertram, to thee I need not tell.
What thou hast cause to wot so well.
How Superstition's nets were twined
Around the Lord of Mortham's mind ;
But since he drove thee from his tower,
A maid he found in Greta's bower.
Whose speech, like David's harp, had
sway,
To charm his evil fiend away.
I know not if her features moved
Remembrance of the wife he loved;
But he would gaze upon her eye.
Till his mood soften'd to a sigh.
He, whom no living mortal sought
To question of his secret thought.
Now everj' thought and care confess'd
To his fair niece's faithful breast ;
Nor was there aught of rich and rare.
In earth, in ocean, or in air,
But it must deck Matilda's hair.
Her love still bound him unto life ;
But then awoke the civil strife.
And menials bore, by his commands,
Three coffers, with their iron bands.
From Mortham's vault, at midnight
deep.
To her lone bower in Rokeby-keep,
Ponderous with gold and plate of pride.
His gift, if he in battle died.'
'Then Denzil, as I guess, lays train.
These iron-banded chests to gain ;
Else, wherefore should he hover here.
Where many a peril waits him near.
For all his feats of war and peace,
For plunder'd boors, and harts of
grease ?
Since through the hamlets as he fared,
What hearth has Gu\''s marauding
spared,
Or where the chase that hath not rung
With Denzil's bow, at midnight
strung? '
' I hold my wont — my rangers go
Even now to track a milk-white doe.
By Rokeby-hall she takes her lair.
In Greta wood she harbours fair.
And when my huntsman marks her
way,
What think'st thou, Bertram, of the
prey ?
Were Rokeby's daughter in our
power,
We rate her ransom at her dower.'
' 'Tis well I there "s vengeance in the
thought !
Matilda is by Wilfrid sought ;
Andhot-brain'd Redmond, too, 'tissaid,
Pays lover's homage to the maid.
m.]
(nofiefij.
341
Bertram she scorn'd — if met by chance,
She turn'd from me her shuddering
glance,
Lilic a nice dame, that will not brook
On what she hates and loathes tolook;
.She told to Mortham she could ne'er
Behold me without secret fear,
Foreboding evil ; — she may rue
To find her prophecj' fall true I
The war has weeded Rokeby's train,
Few followers in his halls remain ;
I f thy scheme miss, then, briefand bold.
We are enow to storm the hold ;
Bear off the plunder, and the dame,
And leave the castle all in flame.'
' Still art thou Valour's venturous son !
Yet ponder first the risk to run :
The menials of the castle, true,
And stubborn to their charge, though
few ;
The wall to scale — the moat to cioss —
The wicket-grate — theinner fosse'
^'Fool! if we blench for toys like
these.
On what fair guerdon can we seize ?
Our hardiest venture, to explore
Some wretched peasant's fenceless
door,
And the best prize we bear away.
The earnings of his sordid day.' — •
' A while th}' hast^^ taunt forbear:
In sight of road more sure and fair.
Thou wouldst not choose, in blindfold
wrath.
Or wantonness, a desperate path ?
List, then ; for vantage or assault,
From gilded vane to dungeon-vault,
Each pass of Rokeby-house I know :
There is one postern, dark and low,
That issues at a secret spot.
By most neglected or forgot.
Now, could a spial of our train
On fair pretext admittance gain,
That sally-port might be unbarr'd :
Then, vain werebattlementandward ! '
' Now speak'st thou well : to me the
same.
If force or art shall urge the game ;
Indifferent, if like fox I wind.
Or spring like tiger on the hind.
But, hark ! our merry-men so gay
Troll forth another roundelay.'
' A weary lot is thine, fair maid,
A weary lot is thine !
To pull the thorn thy brow to braid.
And press the rue for wine !
A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien,
A feather of the blue,
A doublet of the Lincoln green, —
No more of mc you knew,
My love !
No more of me you knew.
This morn is merry June, I trow,
The rose is budding fain ;
But she shall bloom in winter snow,
Ere we two meet again,'
He turn'd his charger as he spake,
Upon the river shore.
He gave his bridle-reins a shake.
Said, 'Adieu for evermore.
My love I
And adieu for evermore.^
' What youth is this, your band among,
The best for minstrelsy and song ?
In his wild notes seem aptly met
A strain of pleasure and regret.' —
' Edmund of Winston is his name ;
The hamlet sounded with the fame
Of early hopes his childhood gave, —
Now centred all in Brignal cave !
I watch him well — his wayward course
.Shows oft a tincture of remorse.
Some early love-shaft grazed his heart.
And oft the scar will ache and smart.
Yet is he useful ;— of the rest.
By fits, the darling and the jest,
342
(BofteBp.
[Canto
His harp, his story, and his lay,
Oft aid the idle hours away :
When unemploy'd, each fiery mate
Is ripe for mutinous debate.
He tuned his strings e'en now — again
He wakes them, with a blither strain.'
XXX.
SONG.
Allen-a-Dale.
Allen-a Dale has no fagot for burning,
Allen-a-Dale has nofurro'wforturning,
Allen-a-Dale has no fleece for the
spinning,
Yet Allen-a-Dale has red gold for the
winning.
Come, read me my riddle 1 come,
hearken my talc !
And tell me the craft of bold Allen-a-
Dale.
The Baron of Ravensworth prances
in pride.
And he vie\vs his domains upon Ar-
kindale side ;
The mere for his net, and the land for
his game,
The chase for the wild, and the park
for the tame ;
Yet the fish of the lake, and the deer
of the vale,
Are less free to Lord Dacre than
Allen-a-Dale 1
Allen-a-Dale was ne'er belted a knight,
Though his spur be as sharp, and his
blade be as bright :
Allen-a-Dale is no baron or lord,
Yet twenty tall j'eomen will draw at
his word ;
And the best of our nobles his bonnet
will vail.
Who at Rere-cross on Stanmore meets
Allen-a-Dale.
Allen-a-Dale to his wooing is come ;
The mother, she ask'd of his household
and home :
' Though the castle of Richmond stand
fair on the hill,
My hall," quoth bold Allen, 'shows
gallanter still ;
'Tis the blue vault of heaven, with its
crescent so pale.
And W'ith all its bright spangles I' said
Allen-a-Dale.
The father was steel, and the mother
was stone ;
They lifted the latch, and they bade
him be gone ;
But loud, on the morrow, their wail
and their cry :
He had laugh'd on the lass with his
bonny black eye.
And she fled to the forest to hear a love-
tale,
And the youth it was told by was
Allen-a-Dale !
' Thou see'st that, whether sad or gay.
Love mingles ever in his lay.
But when his boyish wayward fit
Is o'er, he hath address and wit ;
0 ! 'tis a brain of fire, can ape
Each dialect, each various shape.'
' Na\-, then, to aid thy project, Guy —
Softl who comes here?' 'My trusty spy.
Speak, Hamlin I hast thou lodged our
deer?'
' I have — but two fair stags are near.
1 watch'd her, as she slowly stray'd
From Egliston up Thorsgill glade ;
But Wilfrid Wycliffe sought her side,
And then youngRedmond, in his pride.
Shot down to meet them on their way;
Much, as it seem'd, was theirs to say:
There's time to pitch both toil and net
Before their path be homeward set.'
A hurried and a whisper'd speech
Did Bertram's will to Denzil teach ;
Who, turning to the robber band.
Bade four, the bravest, take the brand.
IV.]
(RofteBp.
343
Canto Fourth.
When Denmark's raven soar'd on high,
Triumphant through Northumbrian
sky,
Till, liovering near, her fatal croak
Bade Reged's Britons dread the yoke,
And the broad shadow of her wing
Blacken'd each cataract and spring.
Where Tees in tumult leaves his source,
Thundering o'er Caldron and High-
Force ;
Bcneaththe shade the Northmen came,
Fix'd on each vale a Runic name,
Rcar'd high their altar's rugged stone,
And gave their Gods the land they won.
Then, Balder, one bleak garth was
thine,
And one sweet brooklet's silver line.
And Woden's Croft did title gain
From the stern Father of the Slain ;
But to the Monarch of the Mace,
That held in fight the foremost place.
To Odin's son, and Sifia's spouse,
Near Stratforth high they paid their
\'OWS,
Remember'd Thor's victorious fame,
And gave the dell the Thunderer's
name.
II.
Yet Scald or Kemper err'd, I ween.
Who gave that soft and quiet scene.
With all its varied light and shade.
And ever^' little sunny glade,
And the blithe brook that strolls along
Its pebbled bed with summer song,
To the grim God of blood and scar.
The grisly King of Northern War.
O, better were its banks assign'd
To spirits of a gentler kind !
For where the thicket-groups recede,
And the rath primrose decks the mead.
The velvet grass seems carpet meet
For the light fairies' lively feet.
Yon tufted knoll, with daisies strown.
Might make proud Oberon a throne.
While, hidden in the thicket nigh.
Puck should brood o'er his frolic sly ;
And where profuse the wood-vetch
clings
Round ash and elm, in verdant rings,
Its pale and azure-pencill'd flower
.Should canopy Titania's bower.
Here rise no cliffs the vale to shade;
But, skirting every sunny glade,
In fair varietj^ of green
The woodland lends its silvan screen.
Hoary, yet haughtj', frowns the oak,
Its boughs by weight of ages broke;
And towers erect, in sable spire.
The pine-tree scathed by lightning-
fire ;
The drooping ash and birch, between.
Hang their fair tresses o'er the green,
And all beneath, at random grow
Each coppice dwarf of varied show.
Or, round the stems profusely twined.
Fling summer odours on the wind.
Such varied group Urbino's hand
Round Him of Tarsus nobly plann'd.
What time he bade proud Athens own
On Mars's Mount the God Unknown I
Then grey Philosophy' stood nigh.
Though bent by age, in spirit high :
There rose the scar-seam'd Veteran's
spear,
There Grecian Beauty bent to hear.
While Childhood at her foot was placed,
Or clung delighted to her waist.
'And rest we here,' Matilda said.
And sat her in the varying shade.
'Chance-met, we well may steal an
hour.
To friendship due, from fortune's
power.
Thou, Wilfrid, ever kind, must lend
Thy counsel to thy sister-friend ;
544
(BofieBp.
[Canto
And, Redmond, thou, at my behest.
No farther urge thy desperate 'quest.
For to my care a charge is left,
Dangerous to one of aid bereft ;
Welhiigh an orphan, and alone,
Captive her sire, her house o'erthrovvn.'
Wilfrid, with wonted kindness graced,
Beside her on the turf she placed;
Then paused, with downcast look and
eye.
Nor bade young Redmond seat him
nigh.
Her conscious dithdence he saw.
Drew backward, as in modest awe.
And sat a little space removed,
Unmark'd to gaze on her he loved.
Wreath'd in its dark-brown rings, her
hair
Half hid Matilda's forelicad fair.
Half hid and half reveal'd to view
Her full dark eye of hazel hue.
The rose, with faint and feeble streak.
So slightly tinged the maiden's cheek,
That you had said her hue was pale ;
But if she faced the summer gale,
Or spoke, or sung, or quicker moved,
Or heard the praise of those she loved.
Or when of interest was express'd
Aught that waked feeling in her breast.
The mantling blood in ready play
Rivall'd the blush of rising day.
There was a soft and pensive grace,
A cast of thought upon her face,
That suited well the forehead high.
The eyelash dark, and downcast eye ;
The mild expression spoke a mind
In duty firm, composed, resign'd ;
"Tis that which Roman art has given
To mark their maiden Queen of Heaven,
In hours of sport, that mood gave way
To Fancy's light and frolic play ;
And when the dance, or tale, or song,
In harmless mirth sped time along.
Full oft her doating sire would call
His Maud the merriest of them all.
But days of war and civil crime
Allow'd but ill such festal time,
And her soft pensiveness of brow
Plad deepen'd into sadness now.
In Marston field her father ta'en,
Her friends dispersed, brave Mortham
slain.
While every ill her soul foretold.
From Oswald's thirst of power and
gold,
And boding thoughts that she must part
With a soft vision of her heart, —
All lower'd around the lovely maid,
To darken her dejection's shade.
Who has not heard— while Erin yet
.Strove 'gainst the Saxon's iron bit —
Who has not heard howbrave O'Neale
In English blood imbrued his steel,
Against St. George's cross blazed high
The banners of his Tanistry,
To fiery Esse.x gave the foil,
And reign'd a prince on Ulster's soil?
But chief arose his victor pride.
When that brave I\Iarshal fought and
died,
And Avon-Duff to ocean bore
His billows, red with Saxon gore.
'Twas first in that disastrous fight,
Rokeby and Mortham proved their
might.
There had the^- fallen 'mongst the rest.
But pit3' touch'd a chieftain's breast;
The Tanist he to great O'Neale;
He check'd his followers' bloody zeal.
To quarter took the kinsmen bold,
And bore them to his mountain-hold.
Gave them each silvan jo}^ to know,
Slieve-Donard's cliffs and woods could
show.
Shared with them Erin's festal cheer,
Show'd them the chase ofwolf and deer.
And, when a fitting time was come.
Safe and unransom'd sent them home,
Loaded with many a gift, to prove
A generous foe's respect and love.
IV.]
(TRoKeB^.
345
Years speed away. OnRokeby's head
Some touch of early snow was shed ;
Calm lie enjoy'd, by Greta's wave,
The peace which James the Peaceful
gave,
While Mortham, far beyond the main,
Waged his fierce wars on Indian
Spain. —
It chanced upon a wintrj' night,
That whiten'd Stanmore's stormy
height.
The chase was o'er, the stag was kill'd,
In Rokeby-hall the cups were fill'd.
And by the huge stone chimney sate
The Knight in hospitable state,
I\Ioonless the sky, the hour was late.
When a loud summons shook the gate,
And sore for entrance and for aid
A voice of foreign accent pray'd.
The porter answer'd to the call.
And instant rush'd into the hall
A Man, whose aspect and attire
Startled the circle by the fire.
His plaited hair in elf-locks spread
Around his bare and matted head ;
On leg and thigh, close stretch'd and
trim.
His vesture show'd the sinewy limb ;
In saffron dj-ed, a linen vest
Was frequent folded round his breast ;
A mantle long and loose he wore,
Shagg3' ^vith ice, and stain'd with gore.
He clasp'd a burden to his heart,
And, resting on a knotted dart,
Thesnowfromhairandbeard he shook.
And round him gazed with wilder'd
look.
Then up the hall, with staggering pace.
He hasten'd by the blaze to place,
Half lifeless from the bitter air.
His load, a Boy of beauty rare.
To Rokeby, next, he louted low.
Then stood erect his tale to show,
With wild majestic port and tone,
Like envoy of some barbarous throne.
' Sir Richard, Lord of Rokeby, hear 1
Turlough O'Neale salutes thee dear;
He graces thee, and to thy care
Young Redmond gives, his grandson
fair.
He bids thee breed him as thy son.
For Turlough's daj-s of joy are done ;
And other lords have seized his land.
And faint and feeble is his hand ;
And all the glor3'' of Tyrone
Is like a morning vapour flown.
To bind the duty on thy soul,
He bids thee think on Erin's bowl !
If anj'^ wrong the young O'Neale,
He bids thee think of Erin's steel.
To Mortham first this charge was due,
But, in his absence, honours you. —
Now is my master's message b}'.
And Ferraught will contented die.'
His look grew fix'd, his cheek grew
pale.
He sunk when he had told his tale ;
For, hid beneath his mantle wide,
A mortal wound was in his side.
Vain was all aid — in terror wild.
And sorrow, scream'd the orphan
child.
Poor Ferraught raised his wistful
eyes.
And faintly strove to soothe his cries ;
All reckless of his dj'ing pain.
He blest and blest him o'er again !
And kiss'd the little hands outspread.
And kiss'd and cross'd the infant head,
And, in his native tongue and phrase,
Pray'd to each saint to watch his
days ;
Then all his strength together drew.
The charge to Rokeby to renew.
When half was falter'd from his breast.
And half by dying signs express'd,
' Bless the O'Neale ! ' he faintlj' said,
And thus the faithful spirit iled.
346
(RofteBp.
[Canto
'Twas long ere soothing might prevail
Upon the child to end the tale ;
And then he said, that from his home
His grandsire had been forced to roam,
Which hadnot beenif Redmond's hand
Had but had strength to draw the brand,
The brand of Lenaugh More the Red,
That hung beside the grey wolfs
head. —
"Twasfrom hisbroken phrase descried,
His foster-father was his guide.
Who, in his charge, from Ulster bore
Letters and gifts a goodlj- store ;
But ruffians met them in the wood,
Ferraught in battle boldl3' stood.
Till wounded and o'crpower'd at
length.
And stripp'd of all, his failing strength
Just bore him here — and then the
child
Renew'd again his moaning wild.
XI.
The tear down childhood's cheek that
flows
Is like the dewdrop on the rose ;
When next the summer breeze comes
by,
And waves the bush, the flower is dry.
Won bj' their care, the orphan child
.Soon on his new protector smiled.
With dimpled cheek and eye so fair,
Through his thick curls of flaxen hair :
But blithest laugh'd that cheek and
eye
When Rokeb3-'s little maid was nigh ;
'Twas his, with elder brother's pride,
Matilda's tottering steps to guide ;
His native laj'S in Irish tongue.
To soothe her infant ear he sung,
And primrose twined with dais}' fair
To form a chaplet for her hair.
By lawn, by grove, by brooklet's strand.
The children still were hand in hand.
And good Sir Richard smiling eyed
The earlj' knot so kindly tied.
But summer months bringwildingshoot
From bud to bloom, from bloom to fruit;
And years draw on our human span,
From child to boy. from boy to man ;
And soon in Rokeby's woods is seen
A gallant boy in hunter's green.
He loves to wake the felon boar
In his dark haunt on Greta's shore,
And loves, against the deer so dun.
To draw the shaft, or lift the gun :
Yet more he loves, in autumn prime,
The hazel's spreading boughs to climb,
And down its cluster'd stores to hail,
Where j^oung Matilda holds her veil.
And she, whose veil receives the
shower,
Is alter'd too, and knows her power;
Assumes a monitress's pride,
Her Redmond's dangerous sports to
chide ;
Yet listens still to hear him tell
How the grim wild-boar fought and fell,
Ho\v at his fall the bugle rung,
Till rock and greenwood answer flung;
Then blesses her, that man can find
A pastime of such savage kind !
XIII.
But Redmond knew to weave his tale
.So well with praise of wood and dale,
And knew so well each point to trace.
Gives living interest to the chase,
And knew so well o'er all to throw
His spirit's wild romantic glow,
That, while she blamed, and while
she fear'd,
She loved each venturous tale she
heard.
Oft, too, when drifted snow and rain
To bower and hall their steps restrain,
Together the}' explored the page
Of glowing bard or gifted sage ;
Oft, placed the evening fire beside,
The minstrel art alternate tried.
While gladsome harp and lively lay
Bade winter-night flit fast away :
IV.]
(Boftefip.
347
Thus, from their childhood, blending
still
Their sport, their study, and their skill,
A union of the soul they prove,
But must not think that it ^vas love.
But though they dared not, envious
Fame
Soon dared to give that union name;
And when so often, side by side,
From year to year the pair she eyed,
She sometimes blamed the good old
Knight,
As dull of ear and dim of sight,
Sometimes his purpose would declare,
That young O'Neale should wed his
heir.
The suit of Wilfrid rent disguise
And bandage from the lovers' eyes ;
'Twas plain that Oswald, for his son.
Had Rokeby's favour wellnigh won.
Now must they meet with change of
cheer.
With mutual looks of shame and fear ;
Now must Matilda stray apart.
To school her disobedient heart:
And Redmond now alone must rue
The love he never can subdue.
But factions rose, and Rokeby sware.
No rebel's son should wed his heir ;
And Redmond, nurtured while a child
In many a bard's traditions wild,
Now sought the lonelywood or stream.
To cherish there a happier dream.
Of maiden won by sword or lance,
As in the regions of romance ;
And count the heroes of his line.
Great Nial of the Pledges Nine,
Shane-D3-mas wild, and Geraldine,
And Connan-More.who vow'd his race
For ever to the fight and chase,
And cursed him, of his lineage born.
Should sheathe the sword to reap the
corn,
Or leave the mountain and the wold.
To shroud himself in castled hold.
From such examples hope he drew.
And brighten'd as the trumpet blew.
If brides were won by heart and blade,
Redmond had both his cause to aid,
And all beside of nurture rare
That might beseem a baron's heir.
Turlough O'Neale, in Erin's strife.
On Rokeby's Lord bestow'd his life,
And well did Rokeby's generous
knight
Young Redmond for the deed requite.
Nor was his liberal care and cost
Upon the gallant stripling lost :
Seek the North-Riding broad and wide,
Like Redmond none could steed
bestride ;
From Tynemouth search to Cumber-
land,
Like Redmond none could wield a
brand ;
And then, of humour kind and free,
And bearing him to each degree
With frank and fearless courtesy.
There never 3'outh was form'd to steal
Upon the heart like brave O'Neale.
.Sir Richard loved him as his son ;
And when the days of peace were
done,
And to the gales of war he gave
The banner of his sires to wave,
Redmond, distinguish'd by his care.
He chose that honour'd flag to bear.
And named his page, the next degree.
In that old time, to chivalry-.
In five pitch'd fields he well maintain'd
The honour'd place his worth obtain'd.
And high was Redmonds youthful
name
Blazed in the roll of martial fame.
Had fortune smiled on Marston fight,
The eve had seen him dubb'd a knight ;
I Twice, 'mid the battle's doubtful strife,
I Qf Rokeby's Lord he saved the life,
348
(Reftefip.
[Canto
But when he saw him prisoner made,
He kiss'd and then resign'd his blade,
And yielded him an easy prey
To those who led the Knight away ;
Resolved Matilda's sire should prove
In prison, as in fight, his love.
When lovers meet in adverse hour,
'Tis like a sun-glimpse through a
shower,
A wat'rj- ray an instant seen
The darkh' closing clouds between.
As Redmond on the turf reclined.
The past and present fill'd his mind :
' It \vas not thus,' Affection said,
' I dream'd of my return, dear maid !
Not thus, when, from thy trembling
hand,
I took the banner and the brand,
When round me, as the bugles blew.
Their blades three hundred warriors
drew,
And, while the standard I unroU'd,
Clash'd their bright arms, with clamour
bold.
Where is that banner now ? — its pride
Lies 'whelm'd in Ouse's sullen tide I
Where now these warriors ? — in their
gore.
They cumber Marston's dismal moor !
And what avails a useless brand,
Held by a captive's shackled hand,
That only would his life retain,
To aid th^' sire to bear his chain I'
Thus Redmond to himself apart ;
Nor lighter was his rival's heart ;
For Wilfrid, while his generous soul
Disdain'd to profit b\' control,
By man\- a sign could mark too
plain,
Save with such aid, his hopes were
vain. —
But now Matilda's accents stole
On the dark visions of their soul,
And bade their mournful musing lly,
Like mist before the zephyr's sigh.
XVIII.
' I need not to my friends recall,
How Mortham shunn'd my father's
hall;
A man of silence and of woe.
Yet ever anxious to bestow
On my poor self whate'er could
prove
A kinsman's confidence and love.
My feeble aid could sometimes chase
The clouds of sorrow for a space :
But oftener, fix'd bej^ond my power,
I mark'd his deep despondence lower.
One dismal cause, by all unguess'd.
His fearful confidence confess'd ;
And twicB it was my hap to see
Examples of that agony,
Which for a season can o'erstrain
And wreck the structure of the brain.
He had the awful power to know
The approaching mental overthrow.
And while his mind had courage yet
To struggle with the dreadful fit,
The victim writhed against its throes.
Like wretch beneath a murderers
blows.
This malady-, I well could mark,
Sprung from some direful cause and
dark ;
But still he kept its source conceal'd,
Till arming for the civil field ;
Then in my charge he bade me hold
A treasure huge of gems and gold.
With this disjointed dismal scroll.
That tells the secret of his soul.
In such wild words as oft betray
A mind by anguish forced astray.' —
mortham's history.
' Matilda ! thou hast seen me start,
As if a dagger thrill'd my heart,
When it has hap'd some casual phrase
Waked memory of my former days.
Believe, that few can backward cast
Their thoughts with pleasure on the
past ;
IV.]
(BofteBp.
349
But I I- — my youth was rash and vain,
And blood and rage m3' manhood stain.
And my grej' hairs must now descend
To my cold grave without a friend 1
Even thou, Matilda, wilt disown
Th}' kinsman, when his guilt is known.
And must I lift the bloody veil
That hides my dark and fatal tale ?
I must — I will— Pale phantom, cease!
Leave me one little hour in peace !
Thus haunted, think'st thou I have skill
Thine own commission to fulfil ?
Or, while thou point'st with gesture
fierce,
Thy blighted cheek, thy bloody hearse,
How can I paint thee as thou wert,
So fair in face, so warm in heart?
' Yes, she was fair ! — Matilda, thou
Hast a soft sadness on thy brow ;
But hers was like the sunny glow
That laughs on earth and all below I
We wedded secret — there was need —
Differing in country and in creed ;
And, when to Mortham's tower she
came,
We mention'd not her race and name,
Until thy sire, who fought afar,
Should turn him home from foreign
war,
On whose kind influence we relied
To soothe her father's ire and pride.
Few months we lived retired, unknown,
To all but one dear friend alone.
One darling friend — I spare his shame,
I will not write the villain's name !
My trespasses I might forget.
And sue in vengeance for the debt
Due by a brother worm to me.
Ungrateful to God's clemenc}^
That spared me penitential time,
Nor cut me off amid my crime.
' A kindly smile to all she lent,
But on her husband's friend 'twas bent
So kind, that, from its harmless glee,
The wretch misconstrued villanj-.
Repulsed in his presumpUious love,
A 'vengeful snare the traitor wove.
Alone we sat — the flask had flow'd.
My blood with heat unwonted glow'd.
When through the alley'd walk we
spied
With hurried step mj- Edith glide.
Cowering beneath the verdant screen.
As one unwilling to be seen.
Words cannot paint the fiendish smile
That curl'd the traitor's cheek the while!
Fiercely I question'd of the cause ;
He made a cold and artful pause.
Then pray'd it might not chafe my
mood —
"There was a gallant in the wood !"
We had been shooting at the deer ;
My cross-bow (evil chance !) was near :
That ready weapon of my wrath
I caught, and, hasting up the path.
In the yew grove my wife I found,
A stranger's arms her neck had bound !
I mark'd his heart — the bow I drew —
I loosed the shaft — 'twas more than
true !
I found my Edith's dying charms
Lock'din her murder'd brother's arms!
He came in secret to inquire
Her state, and reconcile her sire.
'All fled my rage — the villain first,
Whose craft my jealousy had nursed ;
He sought in far and foreign clime
To 'scape the vengeance of his crime.
The manner of the slaughter done
Was known to few, my guilt to none ;
Some tale my faithful steward framed —
I know not what — of shaft mis-aim'd ;
And even from those the act who knew,
He hid the hand from which it flew.
Untouch'd by human laws I stood.
But God had heard the cry of blood !
There is a blank upon my mind,
A fearful vision ill-defined,
350
(^ofteBj.
[Canto
Of raving till mj' flesh was torn,
Of dungeon-bolts and fetters worn —
And when I waked to woe more mild,
And question'd of my infant child —
(Have I not written, that she bare
A boy, like summer morning fair? —
With looks confused mj^ menials tell
That armed men in Mortham dell
Beset the nurse's evening way.
And bore her, with her charge, awaj'.
My faithless friend, and none but he,
Could profit by this villany ;
Him, then, I sought, with purpose dread
Of treble vengeance on his head 1
He "scaped me — but my bosom's wound
Some faint relief from wanderingfound;
And over distant land and sea
I bore my load of misery.
XXllI.
''Twasthen that fate mj- footsteps led
Among a daring crew and dread.
With whom full oft my hated life
I ventured in such desperate strife,
That even my fierce associates saw
My frantic deeds with doubt and awe.
Much then I learn'd, and much can
show,
Of human guilt and human woe,
Yet ne'er have, in my wanderings,
known
A wretch, whose sorrows match'd mj'
own !
It chanced, that after battle fray,
Upon the bloody field we lay ;
The yellow moon her lustre shed
Upon the wounded and the dead.
While, sense in toil and wassail
drown' d,
M3' ruffian comrades slept around,
There came a voice — its silver tone
Was soft, Matilda, as thine own —
'Ah, wretch!' it said, 'what makest
thou here,
While unavenged my bloody bier.
While unprotected lives mine heir,
Without a father's name and care?'
xxiv.
' I heard — obey'd — and homeward
drew ;
The fiercest of our desperate crew
I brought, at time of need to aid
My purposed vengeance, longdelaj^'d.
But, humble be my thanks to Heaven,
That better hopes and thoughts has
given.
And b}' our Lord's dear prayer has
taught,
Mercy by mercy must be bought ! —
Let me in misery rejoice —
I 've seen his face — I 've heard his
voice —
I claim'd of him my onlj' child ;
As he disown'd the theft, he smiled !
That ver3' calm and callous look.
That fiendish sneer his visage took,
As when he said, in scornful mood,
" There is a gallant in the wood !" —
I did not slay him as he stood —
All praise be to my Maker given !
Long suflfrance is one path to Heaven."
XXV.
Thus far the woful tale was heard.
When something in the thicket stirr'd.
Up Redmond sprung; the villain Guy
(^For he it was that lurk'd so nigh)
Drewback — hedurstnot cross his steel
A moment's space with brave O'Neale,
For all the treasured gold that rests
In Mortham's iron-banded chests.
Redmond resumed his seat; — he said,
Some roe was rustling in the shade.
Bertram laugh'd grimly when he saw
His timorous comrade backward draw:
' A trusty mate art thou, to fear
A single arm, and aid so near !
Yet have I seen thee mark a deer.
Give me thy carabine ; I 'II show
An art that thou wilt gladly know,
How thou mayst safely quell a foe.'
XXVI.
On hands and knees fierce Bertram
drew
Thespreading birch and hazels through,
IV.]
(Koftefip.
351
Till he had Redmond full in view;
The gun he levell'd — mark like this
Was Bertram never known to miss,
When fair opposed to aim there sate
An object of his mortal hate.
That daj' young Redmond's death had
seen,
But twice Matilda came between
The carabine and Redmond's breast,
Just ere the spring his finger press'd.
A deadly oath the rutSan swore.
But yet his fell design forbore :
' It ne'er,' he mutter'd, 'shall be said,
That thus I scath'd thee, haughty maid !'
Then moved to seek more open aim,
When to his side Guy Denzil came :
' Bertram, forbear ! we are undone
For ever, if thou fire the gun.
By all the fiends, an armed force
Descends the dell, of foot and horse 1
We perish if they hear a shot —
Madman I we have a safer plot —
Naj', friend, be ruled, and bear thee
back 1
Behold, down yonder hollow track.
The warlike leader of the band
Comes, with his broadsword in his
hand.'
Bertram look'd up ; he saw, he knew
That Denzil's fears had counsell'd true.
Then cursed his fortune and withdrew.
Threaded the woodlands undescried.
And gain'd the cave on Greta side.
xxvii.
They whom dark Bertram, in his wrath,
Doom'd to captivity or death,
Their thoughts to one sad subject lent,
Saw not nor heard the ambushment.
Heedless and unconcern'd they sate.
While on the very verge of fate ;
Heedless and unconcern'd remain'd.
When Heaven the murderer's arm
restrain'd ;
As ships drift darkling down the tide,
Nor see the shelves o'er which thej^
glide.
Uninterrupted thus thej- heard
What Mortham's closing tale declared.
He spoke of wealth as of a load,
B}' Fortune on a wretch bestow'd,
In bitter mockery of hate,
His cureless woes to aggravate ;
But 3'et he pray'd Matilda's care
Might save that treasure for his heir —
His Edith's son— for still he raved
As confident his life was saved ;
In frequent vision, he averr'd.
He saw his face, his voice he heard ;
Then argued calm — had murder been,
The blood, the corpses, had been seen;
Some had pretended, too, to mark
On Windermere a stranger bark,
Whose crew, with jealous care, yet
mild,
Guarded a female and a child.
While these faint proofs he told and
press'd,
Hope seem'd to kindle in his breast ;
Though inconsistent, vague, and vain,
Itwarp'd his judgment and his brain.
These solemn words his stor^' close: —
' Heaven witness for me, that I chose
My part in this sad civil fight,
Movedby nocause but England's right.
My country's groans have bid me draw
Mj- sword for gospel and for law ; —
These righted, I fling arms aside.
And seek my son through Europe wide.
My wealth, on which a kinsman nigh
Already casts a grasping eye.
With thee may unsuspected lie.
When of my death Matilda hears.
Let her retain her trust three 3-ears ;
If none, from me, the treasure claim,
Perish'd is Mortham's race and name:
Then let it leave her generous hand.
And flow in bounty o'er the land ;
Soften the wounded prisoner's lot,
Rebuild the peasant's ruin'd cot;
So spoils, acquired by fight afar,
Shall mitigate domestic war."
352
(RofteB^.
[Canto
The generous youths, who well had
known
Of Mortham's mind the powerful tone,
To that high mind, by sorrow swerved,
Gave sympathy his woes deserved ;
But Wilfrid chief, who saw reveal'd
Why Morthamwish'd his life conceal'd,
In secret, doubtless, to pursue
The schemes his wilder'd fancy drew.
Thoughtful he heard Matilda tell,
That she would share her father's cell,
His partner of captivity.
Where'er his prison-house should be ;
Yet grieved to think that Rokeby-hall,
Dismantled, and forsook by all.
Open to rapine and to stealth,
Had now no safeguard for the wealth
Entrusted by her kinsman kind,
And for such noble use design'd.
'Was Barnard Castle then her choice,'
Wilfrid inquired with hasty voice,
'Since there the victor's laws ordain,
Her father must a space remain ? '
A flutter'd hope his accents shook,
A flutter'd joy was in his look.
Matilda hasten'd to reply,
For anger flash'd in Redmond's eye : —
'Duty,' she said, with gentle grace,
* Kind Wilfrid, has no choice of place ;
Else had I for my sire assign'd
Prison less galling to his mind,
Than that his wild-wood haunts which
sees
And hears the murmur of the Tees,
Recalling thus, with every glance,
What captive's sorrow can enhance;
But where those woes arehigh est, there
Needs Rokeby most his daughter's
care.'
He felt the kindly check she gave.
And stood abash'd — then answcr'd
grave :
' I sought thy purpose, noble maid,
Thy doubtsto clear, thyschemes to aid.
I have beneath mine own command.
So wills my sire, a gallant band.
And well could send some horseman
wight
To bear the treasure forth by night,
And so bestow it as you deem
In these ill days may safest seem.' —
'Thanks, gentle Wilfrid, thanks,' she
said :
' O, be it not one day delay'd !
And, more, thy sister-friend to aid,
Be thou thyself content to hold,
In thine own keeping, Mortham's gold,
Safest with thee.' — While thus she
spoke,
Arm'dsoldiersonthcirconverse broke.
The same of whose approach afraid.
The ruffians left their ambuscade.
Their chief to Wilfrid bended low,
Then look'd around as for a foe.
' What mean'st thou, friend,' j'oung
Wyclift'e said,
' Why thus in arms beset the glade ? '
' That would I gladly learn from you •,
For up my squadron as I drew,
To exercise our martial game
Upon the moor of Barninghame,
A stranger told you were waylaid,
Surrounded, and to death betray'd.
He had a leader's voice, I ween,
A falcon glance, a warrior's mien.
He bade me bring you instant aid ;
I doubted not, and I obey'd."
XXXI.
Wilfrid changed colour, and, amazed,
Turn'd short, and on the speaker gazed;
While Redmond every thicket round
Track'd earnest as a questing hound.
And Denzil's carabine he found ;
Sure evidence, by which they knew
The warning was as kind as true.
Wisest it seem'd, with cautious speed
To leave the dell. It was agreed
That Redmond, with Matilda fair, ,
And fitting guard, should home repair;
At nightfall Wilfrid should attend.
With a strong band, his sister-friend,
v.]
(^©aefip.
;53
Tobearvvithher from Rokeby's bowers
To Barnard Castle's lofty towers,
Secret and safe, the banded chests
In which the wealth of Mortham rests.
This hasty purpose fix'd, they part,
Each with a grieved and anxious heart.
Canto Fifth.
The sultry summer day is done.
The western hills have hid the sun.
But mountain peak and village spire
Retain reflection of his fire.
Old Barnard's towers are purple still
To those that gaze from Toller-hill;
Distant and high, the tower of Bowes
Like steel upon the anvil glows ;
And Stanmore's ridge, behind that lay,
Rich with the spoils of parting day,
In crimson and in gold array'd,
Streaks 3'et a while the closing shade.
Then slow resigns to darkening heaven
The tints which brighter hours had
given.
Thus aged men, full loth and slow.
The vanities of life forego,
And count their youthful follies o'er.
Till Memory lends her light no more.
The eve, that slow on upland fades,
Has darker closed on Rokeby's glades.
Where, sunk within their banks pro-
found,
Her guardian streams to meeting
wound.
The stately oaks, whose sombre frown
Of noontide made a twilight brown,
Impervious now to fainter light.
Of twilight make an early night.
Hoarse into middle air arose
The vespers of the roosting crows.
And with congenial murmurs seem
To wake the Genii of the stream ;
For louder clamour'd Greta's tide,
And Tees in deeper voice replied.
And fitful waked the evening wind,
Fitful in sighs its breath I'esign'd.
Wilfrid, whose fancy-nurtured soul
Felt in the scene a soft control.
With lighter footstep press'd the
ground,
And often paused to look around ;
And, though his path was to his love.
Could not but linger in the grove
To drink the thrilling interest dear,
Of awful pleasure check'd by fear.
.Such inconsistent moods have we,
Even when our passions strike the key.
Now, through the wood's dark mazes
past.
The opening lawn he reach'd at last.
Where, silver'd by the moonlight raj'.
The ancient Hall before him lay.
Those martial terrors long were fled
That frown'd of old around its head :
The battlements, the turrets grey,
.Seem'd half abandon'd to decay;
On barbican and keep of stone
Stern Time the foeman's work had
done.
Where banners the invader braved,
The harebell now and wallflower
waved ;
In the rude guard-room, where ofj'ore
Their weary hours the warders wore,
Now, while the cheerful fagots blaze.
On the paved floor the spindle plaj's ;
The flanking guns dismounted lie,
The moat is ruinous and drj'.
The grim portcullis gone — and all
The fortress turn'd to peaceful Hall.
But 3'et precautions, lately ta'en,
.Show'd danger's day revived again ;
The court-yard wall show'd marks of
care.
The fall'n defences to repair,
354
(Roftefij.
[Canto
Lending such strength as miglU with-
stand
The insult of marauding band.
The beams once more were taught to
bear
Tlic trembling drawbridge into air,
And not, till questioned o"er and o'er.
For Wilfrid oped the jealous door;
And when he enter'd, bolt and bar
Resumed their place with sullen jar ;
Then, as he cross'd the vaulted porch,
The old grey porter raised his torch,
And view'd him o'er, from foot to head,
Ere to the hall his steps he led.
That huge old hall, of knightly state.
Dismantled seem'd and desolate.
The moon through transom-shafts of
stone,
Which cross'd the latticed oriels,
shone.
And, by the mournful light she gave,
The Gothic vault seem'd funeral cave.
Pennon and banner waved no more
O'er beams of stag and tusks of boar.
Nor glimmering arms \vere marshall'd
seen
To glance those silvan spoils between.
Tliose arms, those ensigns, borne
away,
Accomplish'd Rokeby's brave arra3'.
But all \vere lost on Marston's day !
Yet here and there the moonbeams fall
Where armour yet adorns the wall.
Cumbrous of size, uncouth to sight,
And useless in the modern fight ;
Like veteran relic of the wars,
Known only by neglected scars.
Matilda soon to greet him came,
And bade them light the evening flame ;
Said, all for parting was prepared.
And tarried but for Wilfrid's guard.
But then, reluctant to unfold
His father's avarice of gold,
He hinted, that lest jealous eye
Should on their precious burden pry,
He judged it best the castle gate
To enter when the night wore late ;
And therefore he had left command
With those he tiusted of his band,
That they should be at Rokeby met,
What time the midnight-watch was
set.
Now Redmond came, whose anxious
care
Till then was busied to prepare
All needful, meetly to arrange
The mansion for its mournful change.
With Wilfrid's care and kindness
pleased,
His cold unready hand he seized.
And press'd it, till his kindly strain
The gentle youth return'd again.
.Seem'd as between them this was said,
' Awhile let jealousy be dead ;
And let our contest be, whose care
Shall best assist this helpless fair.'
There was no speech the truce to bind,
It was a compact of the mind, —
A generous thought at once impress'd
On either rival's generous breast.
Matilda well the secret took,
From sudden change of mien and look ;
And — for not small had been her fear
Of jealous ire and danger near —
Felt, even in her dejected state,
A joy beyond the reach of fate.
Theyclosed beside the chimney's blaze,
And talk'd,and hoped for happier days,
And lent their spirits' rising glow
Awhile to gild impending woe ;
High privilege of youthful time,
Worth all the pleasures of our prime !
The bickering fagot sparkled bright.
And gave the scene of love to sight,
Bade Wilfrid's cheek more livelyglow,
Play'd on Matilda's neck of snow.
Her nut-brown curls and forehead high.
And laugh'd in Redmond's azure e\'e.
Two lovers b}' the maiden sate.
Without a glance of jealous hate;
v.]
(RoM^.
356
The maid her lovers sat between,
With open brow and equal mien ;
It is a sight but rarel}' spied,
Thanks to man's wrath and woman's
]iride.
VII.
While thus in peaceful guise they sate
A knock alarm'd the outer gate,
Ar.d ere the tardy porter stirr'd
The tinkling of a harp was heard.
A manly voice, of mellow swell,
Bore burden to the music well.
' Summer eve is gone and past,
Summer dew is falling fast ;
I have wander'd all the daj-,
Do not bid me farther stray !
Gentle hearts, of gentle kin.
Take the wandering harper in 1'
But the stern porter answer gave,
With ' Get thee hence, thou strolling
knave !
The king wants soldiers ; war, I trow,
Were meeter trade for such as thou.'
At this unkind reproof, again
Answer'd the ready minstrel's strain.
SONG RESUMED.
' Bid not me, in battle-field,
Buckler lift, or broadsword wield I
All my strength and all my art
Is to touch the gentle heart
With the wizard notes that ring
From the peaceful minstrel-string.'
The porter, all unmoved, replied, — •
' Depart in peace, with Heaven to
guide ;
If longer by the gate thou dwell,
Trust me, thou shalt not part so well.'
With somewhat of appealing look.
The harper's part young Wilfrid took :
'These notes so wild and ready thrill.
They show no vulgar minstrel's skill ;
Hard were his task to seek a home
More distant, since the night is come;
And for his faith I dare engage—
Your Harpool's blood is sour'd by age;
His gate, once readily display'd
To greet the friend, the poor to aid,
Now even to me, though known of old,
Did but reluctantly unfold.' —
' O blame not, as poor Harpool's crime.
An evil of this evil time.
He deems dependent on his care
The safety of his patron's heir,
Nor judges meet to ope the tower
To guest unknown at parting hour.
Urging his dut}^ to excess
Of rough and stubborn faithfulness.
For this poor harper, I would fain
He may relax : — Hark to his strain ! ' —
IX.
SONG RESUMED.
' I have song of war for knight,
Lay of love for lady bright,
Faiiy tale to lull the heir,
Goblin grim the maids to scare ;
Dark the night, and long till day.
Do not bid me farther stray !
Rokebj^'s lords of martial fame,
I can count them name by name ;
Legends of their line there be,
Known to few, but known to me;
If you honour Rokeby's kin
Take the wandering harper in 1
Rokeby's lords had fair regard
For the harp and for the bard ;
Baron's race throve never well
Where the curse of minstrel fell;
If you love that noble kin
Take the weary harper in I' — •
'Hark! Harpool parleys — there is
hope,'
Said Redmond, 'that the gate will ope.'
— ' For all thj' brag and boast, I trow.
Nought know'st thou of the Felon Sow,'
N 2
356
(^oUfy
[Canto
Quoth Harpool, ' nor how Greta-side
She roam'd, and Rokeby forest wide ;
Nor how Ralph Rokeby gave the
beast
To Richmond's friars to make a feast.
Of Gilbert Griffinson the tale
Goes, and of gallant Peter Dale,
That well could strike with sword
amain,
And of the valiant son of Spain,
Friar Middleton, and blithe Sir Ralph ;
There were a jest to make us laugh !
If thou canst tell it, in j'on shed
Thou'st won thy supper and thy bed."
Matilda smiled; 'Cold hope,' said she.
' From Harpool's love of minstrels}' 1
But, for this harper, may we dare,
Redmond, tomendhis couch and fare?'
' O, ask me not ! At minstrel-string
M}' heart from infancy would spring ;
Nor can I hear its simplest strain
But it brings Erin's dream again.
When placed by Owen Lysagh's knee,
(The Filea of O'Neale was he,
A blind and bearded man, whose eld
"Was sacred as a prophet's held.
I've seen a ring of rugged kerne,
With aspects shaggy, wild, and stern.
Enchanted by the master's la}'.
Linger around the livelong day.
Shift from wild rage to wilder glee,
To love, to grief, to ecstasy.
And feel each varied change of soul
Obedient to the bard's control.
Ah, Clandeboy ! thy friendly Coor
Slieve-Donard's oak shall light no
more ;
Nor Owen's harp, beside the blaze.
Tell maiden's love, or hero's praise !
The mantlingbrambles hide thy hearth,
Centre of hospitable mirth ;
All undistinguish'd in the glade
My sires' glad home is prostrate laid.
Their vassals wander wide and far.
Serve foreign lords in distant war,
And now the stranger's sons enjoy
The lovely woods of Clandebo}' ! '
He spoke, and proudly turn'd aside,
The starting tear to dry and hide.
Matilda's dark and soften'd eye
Was glistening ere O'Neale's was dry.
Her hand upon his arm she laid,
' It is the will of Heaven,' she said.
' And think'st thou, Redmond,I can part
From this loved home with lightsome
heart.
Leaving to wild neglect whate'er
Even from my infancy was dear?
For in this calm domestic bound
Were all Matilda's pleasures found.
That hearth, mj' sire was wont to grace,
Full soon may be a stranger's place;
This hall, in which a child I play'd.
Like thine, dear Redmond, lowly laid.
The bramble and the thorn may braid;
Or, pass'd for aye from me and mine.
It ne'er may shelter Rokeby's line.
Yet is this consolation given,
Mv Redmond — 'tis the will of Heaven.'
Her word, her action, and her phrase,
Were kindly as in early days ;
For cold reserve had lost its power
In sorrow's sympathetic hour.
Young Redmond dared not trust his
voice ;
But rather had it been his choice
To share that melancholy hour.
Than , arm'd with all a chieftain's power,
In full possession to enjoy
Slieve-Donard wide, and Clandeboy.
The blood left Wilfrid's ashen cheek;
Matilda sees, and hastes to speak —
' Happy in friendship's ready aid.
Let all my murmurs here be stay'd !
And Rokeby's maiden will not part
From Rokeby's hall with moody heart.
This night at least, for Rokeby's fame,
The hospitable hearth shall flame,
v.]
(Ko6e6^.
357
And, ere its native heir retire,
Find for the wanderer rest and fire,
While this poor harper, by the blaze,
Recounts the tale of other daj'S.
Bid Harpool ope the door with speed.
Admit him, and relieve each need.
Meantime, kind Wycliffe, wilt thou try
Thy minstrel skill ? Nay, no reply —
And look not sad ! I guess thy thought,
Thy verse with laurels would be bought,
And poor Matilda, landless now,
Has not a garland for thy brow.
True, I must leave sweet Rokeby"s
glades,
Nor wander more in Greta shades ;
But sure, no rigid jailer, thou
Wilt a short prison-walk allow.
Where summer flowers grow wild at
will,
On Marwood-chasc and Toller Hill ;
Then holly green and lily gay
.Shall twine in guerdon of thy lay.'
The mournful youth, a space aside,
To tune Matilda's harp applied ;
And then a low sad descant rung.
As prelude to the lay he sung.
xm.
The Cypress Wre.\th.
O Lady, twine no wreath for me,
Or twine it of the cypress-tree !
Too lively glow the lilies light.
The varnish'd holly's all too bright,
The May-flower and the eglantine
Maj'shadeabrowless sad than mine;
But, Lady, weave no wreath for me,
Or weave it of the cypress-tree !
Let dimpled Mirth his temples twine
With tendrils of the laughing vine ;
The manly oak, the pensive 3'ew,
To patriot and to sage be due ;
The myrtle bough bids lovers live.
But that Matilda will not give ;
Then, Lad}', twine no wreath for me,
Or twine it of the cypress-tree I
Let merry England proudly rear
Her blended roses, bought so dear;
Let Albin bind her bonnet blue
With heath and harebell dipp'd in
dew ;
On favour'd Erin's crest be seen
The flower she loves of emerald
green —
But, Lady, twine no wreath forme,
Or twine it of the cypress-tree 1
Strike the wild harp, while maids
prepare
The ivy meet for minstrel's hair ;
And, \vhile his crown of laurel-
leaves
With bloody hand the victor weaves,
Let the loud trump his triumph tell ;
But when you hear the passing-bell,
Then, Lady, twine a wreath for me.
And twine it of the cj'press-tree 1
Yes! twine for me the cypress-bough;
But, O Matilda, twine not now !
Stay till a few brief months are past,
And I have look'd and loved my last 1
When villagers mj' shroud bestrew
With pansies, rosemary, and rue, —
Then, Lady, weave a wreath forme,
And weave it of the cypress-tree 1
O'Neale observed the starting tear.
And spoke \vith kind and blithesome
cheer — -
' No, noble Wilfrid ! ere the day
When mourns the land thy silent lay.
Shall many a wreath be freely wove
By hand of friendship and of love.
I would not wish that rigid Fate
Had doom'd thee to a captive's state.
Whose hands are bound by honour's
law,
Who wears a sword he must not
draw ;
But were it so, in minstrel pride
The land together would we ride,
358
(RoRe6p.
[Canto
On prancing steeds, like harpers old,
Bound for the halls of barons bold :
Each lover of the lyre we'd seek,
From Michael's Mount to Skiddaw's
Peak,
Surve}' wild Albin's mountain strand.
And roam green Erin's lovely land ;
While thou the gentler souls should
move
With lay ofpitj' and of love,
And I, thy mate, in rougher strain.
Would sing of war and warriors slain.
Old England's bards were vanquish'd
then.
And Scotland's vaunted Hawthornden,
And, silenced on lernian shore,
M'Curtin's harp should charm no more!'
In lively mood he spoke, to wile
From Wilfrid's woeworn cheek a
smile.
XV.
'But,' said Matilda, ' ere thy name,
Good Redmond, gain its destined fame,
Say, wilt thou kindly deign to call
Thy brother-minstrel to the hall ?
Bid all the household, too, attend.
Each in his rank a humble friend ;
I know their faithful hearts will grieve
When their poor mistress takes her
leave ;
So let the horn and beaker flow
To mitigate their parting woe.'
The harper came;— in youth's first
prime
Himself; in mode of olden time
His garb was fashion'd, to express
The ancient English minstrel's dress,
A seemly gown of Kendal green.
With gorget closed of silver sheen ;
His harp in silken scarf was slung.
And by his side an anlace hung.
It secm'd some masquer's quaint array
For revel or for holiday.
He made obeisance with a free
Yet studied air of courtesy.
Each look and accent, framed to
please,
Seem'd to affect a playful ease ;
His face was of that doubtful kind
That wins the eye, but not the mind ;
Yet harsh it seem'd to deem amiss
Of brow so young and smooth as
this.
His was the subtle look and sly.
That, spying all, seems nought to
spy;
Round all the group his glances stole,
Unmark'd themselves, to mark the
whole.
Yet sunk beneath Matilda's look,
Nor could the eye of Redmond brook.
To the suspicious, or the old.
Subtile and dangerous and bold
Had seem'd this self-invited guest ;
But young our lovers, — and the rest.
Wrapt in their sorrow and their fear
At parting of their mistress dear,
Tear-blinded to the Castle-hall
Came as to bear her funeral pall.
All that expression base was gone
When waked the guest his minstrel
tone ;
It fled at inspiration's call,
As erst the demon fled from Saul.
More noble glance he cast around,
I\Iore free-drawn breath inspired the
sound.
His pulse beat bolder and more high.
In all the pride of minstrelsy !
Alas ! too soon that pride was o'er.
Sunk with the lay that bade it soar !
His soul resumed, with habit's chain.
Its vices wild and follies vain.
And gave the talent, with him born.
To be a common curse and scorn.
Such was the 3'outh whom Rokeby's
maid.
With condescending kindness, pray'd
Here to renew the strains she loved.
At distance heard and well approved.
v.]
(Ro6e6^.
559
XVIII.
SONG.
The Harp.
I was a wild and wayward boy,
Wychildhoodscorn'deachchildishtoy ;
Retired from all, reserved and coy,
To musing prone,
I woo'd my solitary jo}',
My Harp alone.
My youth, withhold Ambition's mood,
Despised the humble stream and wood
Where my poor father's cottage stood.
To fame unknown ;
What should my soaring views make
good ?
My Harp alone !
Love came with all his frantic fire,
And wild romance of vain desire:
The baron's daughter heard mj' Ij're,
And praised the tone; —
What could presumptuous hope in-
spire ?
My Harp alone I
At manhood's touch the bubble burst,
And manhood's pride the vision curst,
And all that had my folly nursed
Love's swaj' to own ;
Yet spared the spell that lull'd me first,
My Harp alone !
Woe came with war, and want with
woe ;
And it was mine to undergo
Each outrage of the rebel foe :
Can aught atone
My fields laid waste, my cot laid low?
My Harp alone !
Ambition's dreams I've seen depart,
Have rued of penury the smart,
Have felt of love the venom'd dart
When hope was flown ;
Yet rests one solace to my heart, —
My Harp alone !
Then over mountain, moor, and hill.
My faithful Harp, I '11 bear thee still ;
And when this life of want and ill
Is well-nigh gone,
Thy strings mine elegy shall thrill,
Pily Harp alone!
' A pleasing lay ! ' Matilda said ;
But Harpool shook his old grey
head,
And took his baton and his torch
To seek his guard-room in the porch.
Edmund observed ; with sudden
change,
Among the strings his fingers range,
Until they waked a bolder glee
Of military melody ;
Then paused amid the martial sound,
And look'd with well-fcign'd fear
around ;
' None to this noble house belong,'
He said, ' that would a minstrel wrong
Whose fate has been, through good
and ill.
To love his Roj^al Master still ;
And with your honour'd leave, would
fain
Rejoice you with a lo\-al strain.'
Then, as assured by sign and look.
The warlike tone again he took ;
And Harpool stopp'd, and turn'd to
hear
A dittj' of the Cavalier.
SONG.
The Cavalier.
While the dawn on the mountain was
misty and grc}%
My true love has mounted his steed
and away.
Over hill, over valley, o'er dale, and
o'er down ;
Heaven shield the brave Gallant that
fights for the Crown 1
36o
(UofteBp.
[Canto
He has dofl""d the silk doublet the
breastplate to bear,
He has placed the steel-cap o'er his
long flowing hair,
From his belt to his stirrup his broad-
sword hangs down, —
Heaven shield the brave Gallant that
fights for the Crown I
For the rights of fair England that
broadsword he draws,
Her King is his leader, her Church is
his cause ;
His watchword is honour, his pay is
renown, —
God strike with the Gallant that
strikes for the Crown I
They may boast of their Fairfax, their
Waller, and all
The roundheaded rebels of West-
minster Hall ;
But tell these bold traitors of London's
proud town
That the spears of the North have
encircled the Crown!
There's Derby and Cavendish, dread
of their foes;
There's Erin's high Ormond, and
Scotland's Montrose !
Would you match the base Skippon,
and Massej', and Brown,
With the Barons of England that
fight for the Crown ?
Now jo3^ to the crest of the brave
Cavalier I
Be his banner unconquer'd, resistless
his spear.
Till in peace and in triumph his toils
he maj'' drown
In a pledge to fair England, her
Church, and her Crown !
'Alas!' Matilda said, 'that strain.
Good harper, now is heard in vain I
The time has been, at such a sound.
When Rokeby's vassals gather'd
round,
An hundred manly hearts would
bound ;
But now the stirring verse we hear,
Like trump in dying soldier's ear 1
Listless and sad the notes we own.
The power to answer them is flown.
Yet not without his meet applause
Be he that sings the rightful cause,
Even when the crisis of its fate
To human eye seems desperate.
While Rokeby's heir such power
retains
Let this slight guerdon pay thy
pains : —
And lend thy harp ; I fain would try
If my poor skill can aught supply,
Ere yet I leave mj^ fathers' hall.
To mourn the cause in which we fall.'
The harper, with a downcast look,
And trembling hand, her bounty took.
As yet, the conscious pride of art
Had steel'd him in his treacherous part;
A powerful spring, of force unguess'd,
That hath each gentler mood sup-
press'd.
And reign'd in manj^ a human breast;
From his that plans the red campaign.
To his that wastes the woodland reign.
The failing wing, the bloodshot eye,
The sportsman marks with apathy.
Each feeling of his victim's ill
Drown'd in his own successful skill.
The veteran, too, who now no more
Aspires to head the battle's roar.
Loves still the triumph of his art.
And traces on the pencill'd chart
Some stern invader's destined waj^
Through blood and ruin, to his prej^;
Patriots to death, and towns to flame.
He dooms, to raise another's name.
And shares the guilt, though not the
fame.
v.]
(KefieBp.
361
What pays him for his span of time
Spent in premeditating crime •
What against pity arms his heart ? —
It is the conscious pride of art.
XXIII.
But principles in Edmund's mind
Were baseless, vague, and undefined.
His soul, like bark with rudder lost,
On Passion's changeful tide was tost;
Nor Vice nor Virtue had the power
Beyond the impression of the hour ;
And O ! when Passion rules, how rare
The hours that fall to Virtue's share I
Yet now she roused her — for the pride,
That lack of sterner guilt supplied.
Could scarce support him when arose
The lay that mourned Matilda's woes.
SONG.
The Farewell.
' The sound of Rokeby's woods I hear.
They mingle with the song:
Dark Greta's voice is in mine ear,
I must not hear them long.
From everj' loved and native haunt
The native heir must stray.
And, like a ghost whom sunbeams
daunt,
Must part before the day.
Soon from the halls my fathers rcar'd,
Their scutcheons may descend,
A line so long beloved and fear'd
May soon obscurely end.
No longer here Matilda's tone
Shall bid those echoes swell ;
Yet shall thej^ hear her proudli' own
The cause in which we fell.'
The Lady paused, and then again
Resumed the lay in loftier strain.
XXIV.
'Let our halls and towers decay,
Be our name and line forgot.
Lands and manors pass away, —
We but share our Monarch's lot.
If no more our annals show
Battles won and banners taken,
Still in death, defeat, and woe,
Ours be loyaltj' unshaken !
Constant still in danger's hour,
Princes own'd our fathers' aid ;
Lands and honours, wealth and power,
Well their loyalty repaid.
Perish wealth, and power, and pride !
Mortal boons by mortals given ;
But let Constancy abide, —
Constancy's the gift of Heaven.'
XXV.
While thus Matilda's lay was heard
Athousand thoughts in Edmundstirr'd.
In peasant life he might have known
As fair a face, as sweet a tone ;
But village notes could ne'er supply
That rich and varied melody ;
And ne'er in cottage-maid was seen
The easy dignity of mien.
Claiming respect, yet waiving state,
That marks the daughters of the great.
Yet not, perchance, had these alone
His scheme of purposed guilt o'er-
thrown ;
But while her energy of mind
Superior rose to griefs combined.
Lending its kindling to her eye,
Giving her form ne\v majest}-, —
To Edmund's thought Matilda seem'd
The very object he had dream'd ;
When, long ere guilt his soul had
known,
In Winston bowers he mused alone,
Taxing his fancy to combine
The face, the air, the voice divine.
Of princess fair, by cruel fate
Reft of her honours, power, and state,
Till to her rightful realm restored
By destined hero's conquering sword..
XXVI.
'Such was my vision!' Edmund
thought ;
•And have I, then, the ruin wrought
N3
362
(nefteBp.
[Canto
Of such a maid, that fancy ne'er
In fairest vision form'd her peer ?
Was it my hand that could unclose
The postern to her ruthless foes ?
Foes, lost to honour, law, and faith,
Their kindest mercy sudden death !
Have I done this ? I! who have swore,
That if the globe such angel bore,
I would have traced its circle broad
To kiss the ground on which she
trod! —
And now — O ! would that earth would
rive,
And close upon me while alive I —
Is there no hope ? Is all then lost ? —
Bertram's already on his post I
Even now, beside the Hall's arcli'd
door,
I saw his shadow cross the floor I
He was to wait my signal strain —
A little respite thus we gain :
By what I heard the menials say,
Young Wycliffe's troop are on their
way-
Alarm precipitates the crime I
My harp must wear away the time.' —
And then, in accents faint and low.
He falter'd forth a tale of woe.
BALLAD.
' y\nd whither would you lead me,
then ? '
Quoth the Friar of orders grej* ;
And the Ruffians twain replied again,
' By a dying \voman to praj-.'
' I see,' he said, 'a lovely sight,
A sight bodes little harm,
A lady as a lily bright.
With an infant on her arm.'
' Then do thine office. Friar grej',
And see thou shrive her free 1
Else shall the sprite, that parts to-
night,
Fling all its guilt on thee.
' Let mass be said, and trentals read.
When thou'rt to convent gone.
And bid the bell of St. Benedict
Toll out its deepest tone.'
The shrift is done, the Friar is gone.
Blindfolded as he came —
Next morning, all in Littlecot Hall
Were weeping for their dame.
Wild Darrell is an alter'd man,
The village crones can tell ;
He looks pale as clay, and strives to
pray,
If he hears the convent bell.
If prince or peer cross Darrell's way,
He'll beard him in his pride —
If he meet a Friar of orders grej',
He droops and turns aside.
' Harper ! methinks thy magic lays,'
Matilda said, 'can goblins raise !
Well-nigh my fancy can discern.
Near the dark porch, a visage stern;
E'en now, in yonder shadowy nook,
I see it I — Redmond, Wilfrid, look ! —
A human form distinct and clear —
God, for thy mercy I — It draws near 1'
She saw too true. .Stride after stride,
The centre of that chamber wide
Fierce Bertram gain'd ; then made a
stand.
And, proudly waving with his hand,
Thunder'd — ' Be still, upon j^our
lives I —
He bleeds who speaks, he dies who
strives.'
Behind their chief, the robber crew
Forth from the darken'd portal drew
In silence — save that echo dread
Return'd their heavy measured tread.
The lamp's uncertain lustre gave
Their arms to gleam, their plumes to
wave ;
File after file in order pass.
Like forms on Banquo's mystic glass.
v.]
(BofieBp.
363
Then, halting at their leader's sign,
At once the\' form'd and curved their
line.
Hemming within its crescent drear
Their victims, like a herd of deer.
Another sign, and to the aim
Lcvell'd at once their muskets came,
As waiting but their chieftain's word
To make their fatal volley heard.
XXIX.
IJack in a heap the menials drew;
Yet, even in mortal terror, true,
Their pale and startled group oppose
Between Matilda and the foes.
'O, haste thee, Wilfrid 1 ' Redmond
cried;
' Undo that wicket by thy side !
Bear hence Matilda — gain the wood — •
The pass may be a while made good —
Thy band, ere this, must sure be nigh —
0 speak not — dally not — but ily! '
While yet the crowd their motions
hide,
Through the low wickct-door they
glide.
Through vaulted passages they wind,
In Gothic intricacy twined;
Wilfrid half led, and half he bore,
Matilda to the postern-door.
And safe beneath the forest tree
The Lady stands at liberty.
The moonbeamSjthe fresh gale's caress,
Renew'd suspended consciousness; —
'Where's Redmond?' eagerly she
cries :
' Thou answer'st not — he dies ! he dies !
And thou hast left him, all bereft
Of mortal aid — with murderers left!
1 know it well — he would not yield
His sword to man — his doom is seal'd 1
For my scorn'd life, which thou hast
bought
At price of his, I thank thee not.'
XXX.
The unjust reproach, the angry look.
The heart of Wilfrid could not brook.
'Lady,' he said, ' my band so near,
In safety thou may'st rest thee here.
For Redmond's death thou shalt not
mourn,
If mine can buy his safe return.'
He turn'd away — his heart throbb'd
high,
The tear was bursting from his ej-e ;
The sense of her injustice press'd
Upon the maid's distracted breast, —
' Stay, Wilfrid, stay I all aid is vain I'
He heard, but turn'd him not again ;
He reaches now the postern-door.
Now enters — and is seen no more.
xxxr.
With all the agony that e'er
Was gender'd 'twixt suspenseand fear.
She watch'd the line of windows tall,
Whose Gothic lattice lights the Hall,
Distinguish'd by the paly red
The lamps in dim reflection shed.
While all beside in wan moonlight
Each grated casement glimmer'd white.
No sight of harm, no sound of ill,
It is a deep and midnight still.
Who look'd upon the scene had guess'd
All in the Castle were at rest :
When sudden on the windows shone
A lightning flash, just seen and goncl
A shot is heard — -Again the flame
Flash'd thick and fast — a volley came !
Then echo'd wildly, from within,
Of shout and scream the mingled din.
And weapon-clash and maddening cr3',
Of those who kill, and those who die! —
As fill'd the Hall with sulphurous
smoke.
More red, more dark, the death-flash
broke ;
And forms were on the lattice cast,
That struck, or struggled, as the}- past.
XXXII.
What sounds upon the midnight wind
Approach so rapidly behind ?
It is, it is, the tramp of steeds I
Matilda hears the sound, she speeds,
N5
364
(Beftefi^.
[Canto
Seizes upon the leader's rein —
' O, haste to aid, ere aid be vain !
Fly to the postern — gain the Hall I '
From saddle spring the troopers all ;
Their gallant steeds, at liberty.
Run wild along the moonlight lea.
But, ere they burst upon the scene,
Full stubborn had the conflict been.
When Bertram mark'd Matilda's flight
It gave the signal for the fight ;
And Rokeby's veterans, seam'd with
scars
Of Scotland's and of Erin's wars,
Their momentary panic o'er,
Stood to the arms which then they bore ;
(Forthey were weapon'd, and prepared
Their mistress on her way to guard.)
Then cheer'd them to the fight O' Neale,
Then peal'd the shot, and clashed the
steel ;
The war-smoke soon with sable breath
Darken'd the scene of blood and death,
While on the few defenders close
The Bandits, with redoubled blows,
And, twice driven back, yet fierce
and fell
Renew the charge with frantic yell.
XXXIII.
Wilfrid has fall'n — but o'er him stood
Young Redmond, soil'd with smoke
and blood,
Cheeringhismates with heartand hand
Still to make good their desperate
stand.
' Up, comrades, up! in Rokeby halls
Ne'er be it said our courage falls.
What ! faint ye for their savage cry.
Or do the smoke-wreaths daunt your
eye?
These rafters have return'd a shout
As loud at Rokebj''s wassail rout,
As thick a smoke these hearths have
given
At Hallow-tide or Christmas-even.
Stand to it yet I renew the fight,
For Rokeby's and Matilda's right!
These slaves ! they dare not, hand to
hand.
Bide buiTet from a true man's brand.'
Impetuous, active, fierce, and young,
Upon the advancing foes he sprung.
Woe to the wretch at whom is bent
Hisbrandish'dfalchion'ssheer descent!
Backward they scatter'd as he came,
Like wolves before the levin flame.
When, 'mid their howling conclave
driven.
Hath glanced the thunderbolt of
heaven.
Bertram rush'd on — but Harpool
clasp'd
His knees, although in death he gasp'd,
His falling corpse before him fiung.
And round the trammell'd ruffian clung.
Just then, the soldiers fill'd the dome.
And, shouting, charged the felons home
.So fiercely, that, in panic dread,
They broke, thej' yielded, fell, or fied.
Bertram's stern voice they heed no
more,
Though heard above the battle's roar ;
While, trampling down the dying man,
He strove, with volle3''dthreatand ban,
In scorn of odds, in fate's despite.
To rally up the desperate fight.
XXXIV.
.Soon murkier clouds the Hall enfold
Than e'er from battle-thunders roll'd ;
So dense, the combatants scarce know
To aim or to avoid the blow.
Smothering and blindfold grows the
fight-
But soon shall dawn a dismal light !
'Mid cries, and clashing arms, there
came
The hollow sound of rushing flame ;
New horrors on the tumult dire
Arise — the Castle is on fire !
Doubtful, if chance had cast the brand.
Or frantic Bertram's desperate hand.
Matilda saw— for frequent broke
From the dim casements gusts of smoke
v.]
(BofieBp.
365
Yon tower, which late so clear defined
On the fair hemisphere reclined,
That, pencill'd on its azure pure,
The eye could count each embrazure,
Now, swath'd within the sweeping
cloud.
Seems giant-spectre in his shroud ;
'J'ill,from each loop-hole flashing light,
A spout of fire shines ruddy bright.
And, gathering to united glare.
Streams high into the midnight air;
A dismal beacon, far and wide,
That waken'd Greta's slumbering side.
Soon all beneath, through gallery long,
And pendant arch, the fire flash'd
strong.
Snatching whatever could maintain.
Raise, or extend, its furious reign;
Startling, with closer cause of dread,
The females who the conflict fled,
And now rush'd forth upon the plain.
Filling the air with clamours vain.
But ceased not j-et, the Hall within.
The shriek, the shout, the carnage-din.
Till bursting lattices give proof
The flames have caught the rafter'droof.
What! wait they till its beams amain
Crash on the slayers and the slain ?
The alarm is caught — the drawbridge
falls.
The warriors hurry from the walls,
But, by the conflagration's light,
Upon the lawn renew the fight.
Each strugglingfelon down was hew'd,
Not one could gain the sheltering wood;
But forth the aflVighted harper sprung,
And to Matilda's robe he clung.
Her shriek, entreaty, and command,
Stopp'd the pursuer's lifted hand.
Denzil and he alive were ta'en ;
The rest, save Bertram, all are slain.
XXXVI.
And whereis Bertram ? — Soaring high.
The general flame ascends the sk}';
In gather'd group the soldiers gaze
Upon the broad and roaring blaze,
When, like infernal demon, sent.
Red from his penal element,
To plague and to pollute the air, —
His face all gore, on fire his hair.
Forth from the central mass of smoke
The giant form of Bertram broke !
His brandish'd sword on high he rears,
Then plunged among opposing spears ;
Round his left arm his mantle truss'd,
Received and toil'd three lances' thrust;
Nor these his headlong course with-
stood,
Like reeds he snapp'd the tough ash-
wood.
In vain his foes around him clung;
With matchless force aside he flung
Their boldest, — as the bull, at bay.
Tosses the ban-dogs from his way,
Through forty foes his path he made,
And safely gain'd the forest glade.
Scarce was this final conflict o'er,
When from the postern Redmond bore
Wilfrid, who, as of life bereft,
Had in the fatal Hall been left,
Deserted there by all his train ;
But Redmond saw, and turn'dagain. —
Beneath an oak he laid him down.
That in the blaze gleam'd ruddy brown,
And then his mantle's clasp undid;
Matilda held his drooping head,
Till, given to breathe the freer air.
Returning life repaid their care.
He gazed on them with heavy sigh, —
' I could have wish'd even thus to
die!'
No more he said — for now with speed
Each trooper had regain'd his steed;
The readj' palfreys stood array'd
For Redmond and for Rokeby's maid ;
Two Wilfrid on his horse sustain,
One leads his charger by the rein.
But oft Matilda look'd behind.
As up the Vale of Tees thejr wind,
366
(Hoftefi^.
[Canto
Where far the mansion of her sires
Beacon'd the dale with midnight fires.
In gloomy arch above them spread,
The clouded heaven lower'd bloody
red ;
Beneath, in sombre light, the Hood
Appear'd to roll in waves of blood.
Then, one by one, was heard to fall
The tower, the donjon-keep, the hall.
Each rushing down with thunder
sound,
A space the conflagration drown'd ;
Till, gathering strength, again it rose.
Announced its triumph in its close,
Shook wide its light the landscape o'er,
Then sunk — and Rokeby was no more I
Canto Sixth.
The summer sun, whose early power
Was wont to gild Matilda's bowei',
And rouse her with his matin ray
Her duteous orisons to pay, —
That morning sun has three times seen
The flowers unfold on Rokeby green,
But sees no more the slumbers fly
From fair Matilda's hazel ej'e ;
Thatmorningsunhas three times broke
On Rokeby's glades of elm and oak,
But, rising from their silvan screen,
Marks no grey turrets glance between.
A shapeless mass lie keep and tower.
That, hissing to the morning shower.
Can but with smouldering vapour pay
The early smile of summer day.
The peasant, to his labour bound.
Pauses to view the blacken'd mound.
Striving, amid the ruin'd space.
Each well-remember'd spot to trace.
That length of frail and fire-scorch'd
wall
Once screen'd the hospitable hall ;
When yonder broken arch was whole,
"Twas there was dealt the weeklj' dole ;
And where yon tottering columns nod.
The chapel sent the hymn to God. —
So flits the world's uncertain span !
Nor zeal for God, nor love for man,
Gives mortal monuments a date
Beyond the power of Time and Fate.
The towers must share the builder's
doom ;
Ruin is theirs, and his a tomb :
But better boon benignant Heaven
To Faith and Charitj^ has given.
And bids the Christian hope sublime
Transcend the bounds of Fate and
Time.
II.
Now the third night of summer came,
Since that which witness'd Rokeby's
flame.
On Brignal clifis and Scargill brake
The owlet's homilies awake,
The bittern scream'd from rush and
flag.
The raven slumber'd on his crag.
Forth from his den the otter drew, —
Grayling and trout their tyrant knew,
As between reed and sedge he peers,
With fierce round snout and sharpen'd
ears,
Or, prowling by the moonbeam cool.
Watches the stream or swims the
pool ; —
Perch'd on his wonted eyrie high,
Sleep seal'd the tercelet's wearied
eye.
That all the day had watch'd so well
The cushat dart across the dell.
In dubious beam reflected shone
That lofty cliff" of pale grey stone,
Beside whose base the secret cave
To rapine late a refuge gave.
The crag's wild crest of copse and yew
On Greta's breast dark shadows threw:
Shadows that met or shunn'd the sight
With every change of fitful light ;
As hope and fear alternate chase
Our course through life's uncertain
race.
VI.]
(RofteBp.
367
Gliding by crag and copsevvood green,
A solitary form was seen
To trace with stealthy pace the wold,
Like fox that seeks the midnight fold,
And pauses oft, and cowers dismay'd.
At every breath that stirs the shade.
He passes now the ivy bush, —
The owl has seen him, and is hush ;
He passes now the dodder'd oak, —
Ye heard the startled raven croak ;
Lower and lower he descends,
Rustle the leaves, the brushwood
bends ;
The otter hears him tread the shore,
And dives, and is beheld no more;
And by the clifl" of pale grey stone
The midnight wanderer stands alone.
Methinks, that by the moon we trace
A well-remember'd form and face !
That stripling shape, that cheek so
pale.
Combine to tell a rueful tale,
Of powers misused, of passion's force,
Of guilt, of grief, and of remorse !
'Tis Edmund's eye, at every sound
That flings that guilty glance around :
'Tis Edmund's trembling haste divides
The brushwood that the cavern hides ;
And, when its narrow porch lies bare,
'Tis Edmund's form that enters there.
His flint and steel have sparkled bright,
A lamp hath lent the cavern light;
Fearful and quick his eye surve3's
Each angle of the gloomy maze.
Since last he left that stern abode
It seem'd as none its floor had trode ;
Untouch'd appear'd the various spoil,
The purchase of his comrades' toil ;
Masks and disguises grim'd with mud,
Arms broken and defiled with blood,
And all the nameless tools that aid
Night-felons in their lawless trade.
Upon the gloomy walls were hung.
Or lay in nooks obscurely flung.
Still on the sordid board appear
The relics of the noontide cheer :
Flagons and emptied flasks were there,
And bench o'erthrown, and shatter'd
chair ;
And all around the semblance show'd,
As when the final revel glow'd.
When the red sun was setting fast.
And parting pledge Guy Denzil past.
'To Rokeby treasure-vaults!' thc^'
qualTd,
And shouted loud and wildly laugh'd,
Pour'dmaddeningfromtherocky door,
And parted — to return no more !
They found in Rokeby vaults their
doom, —
A bloody death, a burning tomb [
There his own peasant-dress he spies,
Dofl'd to assume that quaint disguise ;
And, shuddering, thought upon his
glee.
When prank'd in garb of minstrelsy.
' O, be the fatal art accurst,'
He cried, ' that moved my folly first ;
Till, bribed by bandits' base applause,
I burst through God's and Nature's
laws !
Three summer days are scantly past
Since I have trod this cavern last,
A thoughtless wretch, and prompt to
err —
But, O, as yet no murderer !
Even now I list my comrades' cheer,
That general laugh is in mine ear,
Which raised my pulse and steel'd nij'
heart,
As I rehearsed my treacherous part —
And would that all since then could
seem
The phantom of a fever's dream !
But fatal Memory notes too well
The horrors of the dying yell
From my despairing mates that broke.
When flash'd the fire and roll'd the
368
(Hoftefi^.
[Canto
When the avengers shouting came,
And hemm'd us 'tvvixt the sword and
flame !
My frantic flight, — the lifted brand, —
That angel's interposing hand !
If, for my life from slaughter freed,
I yet could pay some grateful meed !
Perchance this object of my quest
May aid ' — he turn'd, nor spoke the
rest.
Due northward from the rugged hearth ,
With paces five he metes the earth,
Then toil'd with mattock to explore
The entrails of the cavern floor.
Nor paused till, deep beneath the
ground.
His search a small steel casket found.
Just as he stoop'd to loose its hasp
His shoulder felt a giant grasp ;
He started, and look'd up aghast,
Then shriek'd ! — 'Twas Bertram held
him fast.
'Fear not!' he said; but who could
hear
That deep stern voice, and cease to fear?
' Fear not ! — By heaven, he shakes as
much
As partridge in the falcon's clutch ! ' —
He raised him, and unloosed his hold.
While from the opening casket roll'd
A chain and reliquaire of gold.
Bertram beheld it with surprise,
Gazed on its fashion and device.
Then, cheering Edmund as he could.
Somewhat he smooth'd his rugged
mood ;
For still the youth's half-lifted eye
Ouiver'd with terror's agony.
And sidelong glanced, as to explore,
In meditated flight, the door.
'Sit,' Bertram said, 'from danger free:
Thou canst not, and thou shalt not,
flee.
Chance brings me hither; hillandplain
I 've sought for refuge-place in vain.
And tell me now, thou aguish boy.
What makest thou here ? what means
this to}' ?
Denzil and thou, I mark'd, were ta'en ;
What lucky chance unbound your
chain ?
I deem'd, long since on Baliol's tower,
Your heads were warp'd with sun
and shower.
Tell me the whole — and, mark! nought
e'er
Chafes me like falsehood, or like fear.'
Gathering his courage to his aid,
But trembling still, the 3'outh obey'd.
' Denzil and I two nights pass'd o'er
In fetters on the dungeon floor.
A guest the third sad morrow brought ;
Our hold dark Oswald Wycliffe sought,
And eyed my comrade long askance.
With fix'd and penetrating glance.
" Guy Denzil art thou call'd ?" — "The
same." —
" At Court who served wild Bucking-
hame ;
Thence banish'd, won a keeper's place.
So Villiers will'd, in Marwood-chase ;
That lost — I need not tell thee wh^' —
Thou madest thy wit thy wants supply.
Then fought for Rokeby : — Have I
guess'd
My prisoner right?" — "At thy be-
hest.''—
He paused a while, and then went on
With low and confidential tone ; —
Me, as I judge, not then he saw,
Close nestled in my couch of straw. —
" List to me, Guy. Thou know'st the
great
Have frequent need of what they
hate ;
Hence, in their favour oft we see
Unscrupled, useful men like thee.
Were I disposed to bid thee live
What pledge of faith hast thou to
give ? "
VI.]
(UoReB^.
369
'The readj^ Fiend, who never yet
Hath failed to sharpen Denzil's wit,
Prompted his lie — " His only child
Should rest his pledge." — The Baron
smiled,
Andturn'dto me — "Thouarthissonl"
I bowed — our fetters were undone,
And we were led to hear apart
A dreadful lesson of his art.
Wilfrid, he said, his heir and son,
Had fair Matilda's favour won ;
And long since had their union been
But for her father's bigot spleen.
Whose brute and blindibld party rage
Would, force per force, her hand
engage
To a base kern of Irish earth.
Unknown his lineage and his birth.
Save that a d\-ing ruffian bore
The infant brat to Rokeby door.
Gentle restraint, he said, would lead
Old Rokeby to enlarge his creed ;
But fair occasion he must find
For such restraint well-meant and kind,
The Knight being rcnder'd to his charge
But as a prisoner at large.
IX.
' He school'd us in a well-forged tale,
Of scheme the Castle walls to scale.
To which was leagued each Cavalier
That dwells upon the Tj'ne and Wear;
That Rokeb}', his parole forgot,
Had dealt with us to aid the plot.
Such was the charge, which Denzil's
zeal
Of hate to Rokeby and O'Neale
Profter'd, as witness, to make good.
Even though the forfeit were their
blood.
I scrupled, until o'er and o'er
His prisoners' safety Wycliffe swore ;
And then — alas ! what needs there
more ?
I knew I should not live to say
The proffer I refused tliat daj' ;
Ashamed to live, j'et loth to die,
I soil'd me with their infamy !' —
'Poor youth,' said Bertram, 'wavering
still,
Unfit alike for good or ill !
But what fell next ? ' — 'Soon as at large
Was scroll'd and sign'd our fatal charge.
There never yet, on tragic stage,
Was seen so well a painted rage
As Oswald's show'd ! With loud alarm
He call'd his garrison to arm ;
From tower to tower, from post to post,
He hurried as if all were lost ;
Consign'd to dungeon and to chain
The good old Knight and all his train ;
Warn'd each suspected Cavalier,
Within his limits, to appear
To-morrow, at the hour of noon.
In the high church of Egliston.'
X.
'Of Egliston 1 — Even now I pass'd,'
Said Bertram, 'as the night closed fast ;
Torches and cressets gleam'd around,
I heard the saw and hammer sound,
And I could mark they toil'd to raise
A scaffold, hung with sable baize.
Which the grim headsman's scene
displayed.
Block, axe, and sawdust ready laid.
.Some evil deed will there be done,
Unless Matilda wed his son ; —
She loves him not — 'tis shrewdly
guess'd
That Redmond rules the damsel's
breast.
This is a turn of Oswald's skill ;
But I may meet, and foil him still !
How earnest thou to thy freedom?' —
' There
Lies mystery more dark and rare.
Inmidst of Wycliffe 'swell-feign'd rage,
A scroll was offer'd by a page.
Who told, a muffled horseman late
Had left it at the Castle-gate.
He broke the seal— his cheek show'd
change,
.Sudden, portentous, wild, and strange;
370
(Boftefij.
[Canto
The mimic passion of his eye
Was turn'd to actual agony ;
His hand like summer sapling shook,
Terror and guilt were in his look.
Denzil he judged, in time of need.
Fit counsellor for evil deed ;
And thus apart his counsel broke,
While with a ghastly smile hespoke : —
' ■■•' As in the pageants of the stage,
The dead awake in this wild age.
Mortham — whom all men deem'd
decreed
In his own deadly snare to bleed.
Slain by a bravo, whom, o'er sea.
He train'd to aid in murdering me, —
Mortham has 'scaped ! The coward shot
The steed, but harm'd the rider not."'
Here, with an execration fell,
Bertram leap'd up, and paced the cell: —
' Thine own grey head, or bosom dark,'
He mutter'd, 'may be surer mark 1'
Then sat, and sign'd to Edmund, pale
With terror, to resume his tale.
' WyclilYe went on : — "Mark with what
llights
Of wilder'd reverie he writes : —
THE LETTER.
' " Ruler of Mortham's destiny !
Though dead, thy victim lives to thee.
Once had he all that binds to life,
A lovely child, a lovelier wife ;
Wealth, fame, and friendship, were
his own —
Thou gavcst the word, and they are
flown.
Mark how he pays thee: — To thy hand
He yields his honours and his land,
One boon premised ; — Restore his
child !
And, from his native land exiled,
Mortham no more returns to claim
His lands, his honours, or his name ;
Refuse him this, and from the slain
Thou shalt see Mortham rise again,"
'This billet while the Baron read.
His falteringaccentsshow'd his dread ;
He press'd his forehead with his palm.
Then took a scornful tone and calm ;
■' Wild as the winds, as billows wild 1
What wot I of his spouse or child ?
Hither he brought a joj'ous dame,
Unknown her lineage or her name :
Her, in some frantic fit, he slew;
The nurse and child in fear withdrew.
Heaven be my witness ! wist I where
To find thisj-outh, mj'kinsman'sheir, —
Unguerdon"d, I would give with joy
The father's arms to fold his boy,
And Mortham's lands and towers
resign
To the just heirs of Mortham's line."
Thou know'st that scarcely e'en his
fear
Suppresses Denzil's cynic sneer ; — •
•' Then happy is thy vassal's part,"
He said, '"to ease his patron's heart!
In thine own jailer's watchful care
Lies Mortham's just and rightful heir;
Th3' generous wish is fully won, —
Redmond O'Neale is Mortham's
son."
' Up starting with a frenzied look.
His clenched hand the Baron shook:
" Is Hell at work ? or dost thou rave,
Or darest thou palter with me, slave !
Perchance thou wot'st not, Barnard's
towers
Have racks, of strange and ghastly
powers."
Denzil, who well his safety knew.
Firmly rejoin'd, " I tell thee true.
Thj' racks could give thee but to know
The proofs, which I, untortured,
show.
It chanced upon a winter night,
Wiien early snow made Stanmore
white,
VI.
(Boftefip.
371
That very night, when first of all
Redmond O'Neale saw Rokeby-hall,
It was my goodly lot to gain
A reliquary and a chain,
Twisted and chased of massive gold.
— Demand not how the prize I hold !
It was not given, nor lent, nor sold.
Gilt tablets to the chain were hung.
With letters in the Irish tongue.
I hid my spoil, for there was need
That I should leave the land with
speed ;
Nor then I deem'd it safe to bear
On mine own person gems so rare.
Small heed I of the tablets took,
But since have spell'd them by the
book,
When some sojourn in Erin's land
Of their wild speech had given com-
mand.
But darkling was the sense; the phrase
And language those of other days,
Involved of purpose, as to foil
An interloper's prying toil.
The words, but not the sense, I knew,
Till fortune gave the guiding clew.
' " Three days since was that clew
reveal'd,
In Thorsgill as I lay eonceal'd.
And heard at full when Rokeby's maid
Her uncle's history display'd ;
And now I can interpret well
Each syllable the tablets tell.
Mark, then : Fair Edith was the jo}-
Of old O'Neale of Clandeboy ;
But from her sire and country fled,
In secret Mortham's Lord to wed.
O'Neale, his first resentment o'er,
Despatch'd his son to Greta's shore,
Enjoining he should make him known
(Until his farther will were shown)
To Edith, but to her alone.
What of their ill-starr'd meeting fell
Lord Wvcliftc knows, and none so
well.
'" O Neale it was, who, in despair,
Robb'd Mortham of his infant heir ;
He bred him in their nurture wild,
And call'd him murder'd Connel's
child.
Soon died the nurse ; the clan believed
What from their Chieftain the}' re-
ceived.
His purpose was, that ne'er again
The boy should cross the Irish main ;
But, like his mountain sires, enjoy
The woods and wastes of Clandebo}'.
Then on the land wild troubles came.
And stronger chieftains urged a claim.
And wrested from the old man's hands
His native towers, his father's lands.
Unable then, amid the strife,
To guard young Redmond's rights or
life.
Late and reluctant he restores
The infant to his native shores,
With goodly gifts and letters stored,
With many a deep conjuring word.
To Mortham and to Rokeby's Lord.
Nought knew the clod of Irish earth,
Who was the guide, of Redmond's
birth;
Butdeem'dhis Chiefs commandswcre
laid
On both, by both to be obey'd.
How he was wounded by the wa}*,
I need not, and I list not say."
' ''A wondrous tale! and, grant it true,
What," Wycliffe answer'd, "might I
do?"
Heaven knows, as willingl}' as now
I raise the bonnet from my brow,
Would I my kinsman's manors fair
Restore to Mortham, or his heir ;
But Mortham is distraught — O'Neale
Has drawn for tyranny his steel,
Malignant to our rightful cause.
And train'd in Rome's delusive laws.
372
(HeaeB^.
[Canto
-They whisper'd
Hark thee apart
long,^
Till Denzil's voice grew bold and
strong :
"My proofs ! I never will," he said,
"Show mortal man where theyare laid.
Nor hope discovery to foreclose,
By giving me to feed the crows ;
For I have mates at large, who know
Where I am wont such to3'S to stow.
Free me from peril and from band,
These tablets are at thy command ;
Nor were it hard to form some train,
To wile old Mortham o'er the main.
Then, lunatic's nor papist's hand
Should wrest from thine the goodly
land."
— "Hike thywit,"saidW3'clifte,"well;
But here in hostage shalt thou dwell.
Thy son, unless my purpose err,
May prove the trustier messenger.
A scroll to Mortham shall he bear
From me, and fetch these tokens rare.
Gold shalt thou have, and that good
store.
And freedom, his commission o'er ;
But if his faith should chance to fail.
The gibbet frees thee from the jail."
' Mesh'd in the net himself had twined.
What subterfuge could Denzil find ?
He told me, with reluctant sigh,
That hidden here the tokens lie ;
Conjured my swift return and aid
By all he scofi''d and disobey'd.
And look'd as if the noose were tied,
And I the priest who left his side.
This scroll for Mortham Wycliffe gave.
Whom I must seek by Greta's wave ;
Or in the hut where chief he hides,
Where Thorsgill's forester resides.
(Thence chanced it, wandering in the
glade,
That he descried our ambuscade.)
I was dismiss'd as evening fell,
And reach'd but no^v this rocky cell.' —
' GiveOswald'sletter.' — Bertram read,
And tore it fiercely, shred bj' shred: — ■
' All lies and villany ! to blind
His noble kinsman's generous mind,
And train him on from day to daj',
Till he can take his life away.
And now, declare thy purpose, youth.
Nor dare to answer, save the truth ;
If aught I mark of Denzil's att,
ril tear the secret from thy heart!'
' It needs not. I renounce,' he said,
' My tutor and his deadly trade.
Fix'd was my purpose to declare
To Mortham, Redmond is his heir;
To tell him in what risk he stands,
And yield these tokens to his hands.
Fix'd was my purpose to atone,
Far as I ma}'', the evil done ;
And fix'd it rests — if I survive
This night, and leave this cave alive.' —
' And Denzil ? ' — ' Let them ply the
rack,
Even till his joints and sinews crack !
If Oswald tear him limb from limb.
What ruth can Denzil claim from him,
Whose thoughtlessyouth he led astray.
And damn'd to this unhallow'd way ?
He school'd me, faith and vows were
vain ;
Now let my master reap his gain.'
' True,' answer'd Bertram, ' 'tis his
meed ;
There 's retribution in the deed.
But thou — thou art not for our course,
Hast fear, hast pity, hast remorse ;
And he, with us the gale who braves,
Must heave such cargo to the waves,
Or lag with overloaded prore.
While barks unburden'd reach the
shore.'
He paused, and, stretching him at
length,
Seem'd to repose his bulk}' strength.
VI.]
QRoaefij.
373
Communing with his secret mind,
As half he sat, and half recHned,
One ample hand his forehead press'd,
And one was dropp'd across his breast.
The shaggy eyebrows deeper came
Above his eyes of swarthy flame ;
His lip of pride awhile forbore
The haughty curve till then it wore ;
The unalter'd fierceness of his look
A shade of darken'd sadness took, —
For dark and sad a presage press'd
Resistlessly on Bertram's breast,—
And when he spoke, his wonted tone,
So fierce, abrupt, and brief, was gone.
His voice was steady, low, and deep,
Like distant waves when breezes sleep;
And sorrow mix'd with Edmund's fear,
Its low unbroken depth to hear.
'Edmund, in thy sad tale I find
The woe that warp'd my patron's mind:
'Tvvould wake the fountains of the
eye
In other men, but mine are drj-.
Mortham must never see the fool
That sold himself base Wj'cliffe's tool ;
Yet less from thirst of sordid gain,
Than to avenge supposed disdain.
Say, Bertram rues his fault; — a word,
Till now, from Bertram never heard :
Sa}', too, that Mortham's Lord he
prays
To think but on their former days;
On Quariana's beach and rock.
On Cayo's bursting battle-shock,
On Darien's sands and deadly dew,
And on the dart Tlatzeca threw ; —
Perchance mj^ patron yet may hear
More that may grace his comrade's
bier.
I\Iy soul hath felt a secret weight,
A warning of approaching fate :
A priest had said, " Return, repent 1 "
As well to bid that rock be rent.
Firm as that flint I face mine end ;
My heart may burst, but cannot bend.
The dawning of mj' youth, with awe,
And prophecy, the Dalesmen saw;
For over Redesdale it came.
As bodeful as their beacon-flame.
Edmund, thyyearswere scarcely mine,
When, challenging the clans of Tyne
To bring their best my brand to prove,
O'er Hexham's altar hung mj' glove ;
But Tynedale, nor in tower nor town.
Held champion meet to take it down.
My noontide, India may declare ;
Like her fierce sun, I fired the air !
Like him, to wood and cave bade fly
Her natives, from mine angry eye.
Panama's maids shall long look pale
When Risingham inspires the tale;
Chili's dark matrons long shall tame
The froward child withBertram'sname.
And now, my race of terror run,
Mine be the eve of tropic sun 1
No pale gradations quench his ra^-,
No twilight dews his wrath allaj' ;
With disk like battle-target red.
He rushes to his burning bed,
Dyes the wide wave with bloody light,
Then sinks at once — and all is night.
' Now to thy mission, Edmund. Fly,
Seek Mortham out, and bid him hie
To Richmond, where his troops arc
laid,
And lead his force to Redmond's aid.
Say, till he reaches Egliston,
A friend will watch to guard his son.
Now, fare-thee-well ; for night draws
on,
And I would rest me here alone.'
! Despite his ill-dissembled fear,
There swam in Edmund's eye a tear;
' A tribute to the courage high
! Which stoop'd not in extremity,
I But strove, irregularly great,
To triumph o'er approaching fate 1
i Bertram beheld the dewdrop start,
i It almost touch'd his iron heart : — ■
374
(HofteB^.
[Canto
' I did not think there lived,' he said,
' One who would tear for Bertram
shed.'
He loosen'd then his baldric's hold,
A buckle broad of massive gold ; —
' Of all the spoil that paid his pains.
But this with Risingham remains;
And this, dear Edmund, thoushalttakc.
And wear it long for Bertram's sake.
Once more — to Mortham speed amain;
Farewell 1 and turn thee not again.'
XXIII.
The night has yielded to the morn,
And far the hours of prime are worn.
Oswald, who, since the dawn of day,
Had cursed his messenger's delay,
Impatient question'd now his train,
'Was Denzil's son return'd again?"
It chanced there answer'd of the crew,
A menial, who young Edmund knew:
' No son of Denzil this,' he said ;
' A peasant boy from Winston glade,
For song and minstrelsy renown'd.
And knavish pranks, the hamlets round."
' Not Denzil's son ! — From Winston
vale ! —
Then it was false, that specious tale ;
Or, worse, he hathdespatch"dtheyouth
To show to Mortham's Lord its truth.
Fool that I was! — but 'tis too late; —
This is the very turn of fate ! — ■
The tale, or true or false, relies
On Denzil's evidence ! — He dies ! —
Ho ! Provost Marshall ! instantly
Lead Denzil to the gallows-tree !
Allow him not a parting word ;
Short be the shrift, and sure the cord !
Then let his gory head appal
Marauders from the Castle-wall.
Lead forth thy guard, that duty done.
With best despatch to Egliston.
— Basil, tell Wilfrid he must straight
Attend me at the Castle-gate.'
XXIV.
' Alas! ' the old domestic said,
And shook his venerable head,
'Alas, my Lord ! full ill to-day
May my young master brook the way!
The leech has spoke with grave alarm
Of unseen hurt, of secret harm,
Of sorrow lurking at the heart.
That mars and lets his healing art.' —
' Tush, tell not me ! — Romantic boys
Pine themselves sick for airy toys.
I will find cure for Wilfrid soon;
Bid him for Egliston be boune,
Andquick! — I hearthedulldeath-drum
Tell Denzil's hour of fate is come.'
Hepausedwithscornfulsmile, and then
Resumed his train of thought agen.
' Now comes my fortune's crisis near!
Entreaty boots not — instant fear.
Nought else, can bend Matilda's pride,
Or win her to be Wilfrid"s bride.
But when she sees the scaffold placed,
With axe and block and headsman
graced,
And when she deems, that to deny
Dooms Redmond and her sire to die,
She must give way. Then, were the
line
Of Rokebj' once combined with mine,
I gain the weather-gage of fate !
If Mortham come, he comes too late,
While I, allied thus and prepared,
Bid him defiance to his beard.
If she prove stubborn, shall I dare
To drop the axe? — soft! pause we there.
Mortham still lives — yon youth may tell
Histale — andP'airfaxloveshimwell; — •
Else, wherefore should I now delay
To sweep this Redmond from my
way ?
But she to piety perforce
Must yield. — Without there! sound
to horse.'
XXV.
'Twas bustle in the court below :
' Mount, and march forward !' — Forth
they go ;
Steeds neigh and trample all around.
Steel rings, spears glimmer, trumpets
sound.
VI.]
(TloaeBp.
^ k- J
Just then was sung his parting hymn ;
And Denzil turn'd his ej'eballs dim,
And, scarcely conscious what he sees,
Follows the horsemendovvn the Tees;
And scarcely conscious what he hears,
The trumpets tingle in his cars.
O'er the long bridge they "re sweeping
now.
The van is hid by greenwood bough ;
But ere the rearward had pass'd o'er,
Guy Denzil heard and saw no more !
One stroke, upon the Castle bell,
To Oswald rung his d\nng knell.
XXVI.
Oh for that pencil, erst profuse
Of chivalry's emblazon'd hues.
That traced of old, in Woodstock bower,
The pageant of the Leaf and Flower,
And bodied forth the tourney high
Held for the hand of Emily !
Then might I paint the tumult broad
That to the crowded abbey flow'd,
And pour'd, as with an ocean's sound,
Into the church's ample bound !
Then might I show each varying mien,
Exulting, woful, or serene ;
Indifference, with his idiot stare,
And Sympathy, \vith anxious air ;
Paint the dejected Cavalier,
Doubtful, disarm'd, and sad of cheer;
i\nd his proud foe, whose formal e^'c
Claim'd conquest now and masterv ;
And the brute crowd, whose envious
zeal
Huzzas each turn of Fortune's wheel.
And loudest shouts when lowest lie
I^xalted worth and station high.
Yet what may such a wish avail ?
"Tis mine to tell an onward tale,
Hurrying, as best I can, along.
The hearers and the hasty song; — ■
Like traveller when approaching
home.
Who sees the shades of evening come,
y\nd must not now his course delaj^
Or choose the fair but winding way ;
Nay, scarcely maj' his pace suspend,
Where o'er his head the wildings bend,
To bless the breeze that cools his brow,
Or snatch a blossom from the bough.
XXVII.
The reverend pile la3' wild and waste,
Profaned, dishonour'd, and defaced.
Through storied lattices no more
In soften'd light the sunbeams pour.
Gilding the Gothic sculpture rich
Of shrine, and monument, and niche.
The Ci\-il fury of the time
Made sport of sacrilegious crime ;
For dark Fanaticism rent
Altar, and screen, and ornament.
And peasant hands the tombs o'erthrew
Of Bowes, of Rokeby, and Fitz-Hugh.
And now was seen, unwonted sight.
In holy walls a scaffold dight !
Where once the priest, of grace divine
Dealt to his flock the mystic sign ;
There stood the block display'd, and
there
The headsman grim his hatchet bare ;
And for the word of Hope and Faith,
Resounded loud a doom of death.
Thrice the fierce trumpet's breath was
heard,
And echo'd thrice the herald's word.
Dooming, for breach of martial laws.
And treason to the Commons' cause.
The Knight of Rokeby and O'Nealc
To stoop their heads to block and steel.
Thetrumpets flourish'dhigh and shrill,
Then was a silence dead and still ;
And silent pra\'^ers to heavenwere cast,
And stifled sobs \vere bursting fast,
Till from the crowd begun to rise
Murmurs of sorrow or surprise.
And from the distant aisles there came
Deep-mutter'd threats, with Wycliffe's
name.
XXVIII.
But Oswald, guarded by his band,
Powerful in evil, waved his hand.
And bade Sedition's voice be dead,
On peril of the murmurer's head.
376
(RoReB^.
[Canto
Then first his glance sought Rokeby's
Knight ;
Who gazed on the tremendous sight
As calm as if he came a guest
To kindred Baron's feudal feast,
As calm as if that trumpet-call
Were summons to the banner d hall ;
Firm in his loyalty he stood,
And prompt to seal it with his blood.
With downcast look drew Oswald
nigh,—
He durst not cope with Rokeby's
eye! —
And said, with low and faltering breath,
' Thou know'st the terms of life and
death.'
The Knight then turn'd, and sternly
smiled :
' The maiden is mine only child,
Yet shall my blessing leave her head,
If with a traitor's son she wed.'
Then Redmond spoke : 'The life of one
Might thy malignity atone,
On me be flung a double guilt I
Spare Rokeby's blood, let mine be
spilt!'
W^'cliffe had listcn'd to his suit,
But dread prevail'd, and he was mute.
And now he pours his choice of fear
In secret on Matilda's ear;
' An union form'd with me and mine
Ensures the faith of Rokeby's line.
Consent, and all this dread array.
Like morning dream, shall pass away;
Refuse, and, by my duty press'd,
I give the word — thou know'st the
rest.'
Matilda, still and motionless,
With terror heard the dread address,
Pale as the sheeted maid who dies
To hopeless love a sacrifice ;
Then wrung her hands in agon3'.
And round her cast bewildcr'd eye.
Now on the scaffold glanced, and now
On Wyclilie's unrelenting brow.
She veil'd her face, and, with a voice
Scarce audible, — " I make my choice !
SparebuttheirlivesI — foraught beside,
Let Wilfrids doom m\' fate decide.
He once was generous 1' — As she
spoke.
Dark Wj'clifle's joy in triumph broke: —
' Wilfrid, %vhere loiter'd ye so late •
Why upon Basil rest thy weight?
Art spell-bound by enchanter's
wand ? — ■
Kneel, kneel, and take her 3'ielded
hand ;
Thank her with raptures, simple boy 1
Should tears and trembling speak thy
joy?'—
'O hush, my sire! To prayer and tear
Of mine thou hast refused thine ear ;
But now the awful hour draws on
When truth must speak in loftier tone.'
XXX.
He took Matilda's hand : — ' Dear maid,
Couldst thou so injure me,' he said,
' Of thy poor friend so basely deem,
As blend with him this barbarous
scheme ?
Alas ! my efforts, made in vain.
Might well have saved this added pain.
But now, bear witness earth and
heaven.
That ne'er was hope to mortal given,
So twisted with the strings of life.
As this — to call Matilda wife !
I bid it now for ever part.
And with the eff"ort bursts my heart !'
His feeble frame was worn so low
With wounds, with watching,and with
woe.
That nature could no more sustain
The agony of mental pain.
He kneel'd — his lip her hand had
press'd,- — •
Just then he felt the stern arrest;
Lower and lower sunk his head, —
They raised him, — but the life was
lied !
VI.]
(Roaefi^.
377
Then, first alarm'd, his sire and train
Tried every aid, but tried in vain.
The soul, too soft its ills to bear,
Had left our mortal hemisphere,
And sought in better world the meed
To blameless life by Heaven decreed.
The wretched sire beheld, aghast.
With Wilfrid all his projects past.
All turn'd and centred on his son.
On Wilfrid all — and he was gone.
'And I am childless now,' he said;
' Childless, through that relentless
maid !
A lifetime's arts, in vain essay'd,
Are bursting on their artist's head!
Here lies my Wilfrid dead — and there
Comes hated Mortham for his heir,
Eager to knit in happy band
With Rokcby's heiress Redmond's
hand.
And shall their triumph soar o'er all
The schemes deep-laid to work their
fain
Nol — deeds, which prudence might
not dare,
Appal not vengeance and despair.
The murd'ress weeps upon his bier —
I "11 change to real that feigned tear!
They all shall share destruction's
shock ; —
Ho! lead the captives to the block!'
But ill his Provost could divine
His feelings, and forbore the sign.
* Slave ! to the block ! — or I, or they,
Shall face the judgment-seat this day!'
The outmost crowd have heard a sound
Like horse's hoof on harden'd ground;
Nearer it came, and yet more near, —
The very death's-men paused to hear.
'Tis in the churchyard now — the tread
Hath waked the dwelling of the dead !
Fresh sod, and old sepulchral stone,
Return the tramp in varied tone.
All eyes upon the gateway hung.
When through the Gothic arch there
sprung
A horseman arm'd, at headlong speeds
.Sable his cloak, his plume, his steed.
Fire from the flinty floor was spurn'd,
The vaults unwonted clang return'd ! —
One instant's glance around he threw.
From saddlebow his pistol drew.
Grimly determined was his look !
His charger with the spurs he strook —
All scatter'd backward as he came.
For all knew Bertram Risingham !
Three bounds that noble courser gave ;
The first has reach'd the central nave.
The second clear'd the chancel wide,
The third — he was at Wj^cliflfc's side.
Full levell'd at the Baron's head,
Rung the report — the bullet sped — •
And to his long account, and last.
Without a groan dark Oswald past !
All was so quick, that it might seem
A flash of lightning, or a dream.
While yet the smoke the deed conceals,
Bertram his ready charger wheels ;
But flounder'd on the pavement-floor
The steed, and down the rider bore,
And, bursting in the headlong sway.
The faithless saddle-girths gave way.
'Twas while he toil'd him to be freed,
And with the rein to raise the steed,
That from amazement's iron trance
All Wyclifie's soldiers waked at once.
Sword, halberd, musket-but, their
blows
Hail'd upon Bertram as he rose ;
A score of pikes, with each a wound,
Bote down and pinn'd him to the
ground ;
But still his struggling force he rears,
'Gainst hacking brands and stabbing
spears ;
Thrice from assailants shook him free,
Once gain'd his feet, and twice his
knee.
378
(RofteBj.
[Canto VI.
By tenfold odds oppressed at length,
Despite his struggles and his strength,
He took a hundred mortal wounds
As mute as fox 'mongst mangling
hounds ;
And ^vhen he died, his parting groan
Had more of laughter than of moan !
— They gazed, as \vhen a lion dies,
And hunters scarcely trust their eyes,
But bend their %veapons on the slain
I-est the grim king should rouse again !
Then blow and insult some renew'd,
And from the trunk the head had
hew'd,
But Basil's voice the deed forbade ;
A mantle o"er the corse he laid : —
' Fell as he was in act and mind,
He left no bolder heart behind :
Then give him, for a soldier meet,
A soldier's cloak for winding-sheet.'
No more of death and dying pang,
No more of trump and bugle clang.
Though through the sounding woods
there come
Banner and bugle, trump and drum.
Arm'd with such powers as well had
freed
Young Redmond at his utmost need,
And back'd with such a band of horse
As might less ample powers enforce ;
Possess'd of every proof and sign
That gave an heir to Mortham's line,
And yielded to a father's arms
An image of his Edith's charms, —
Morthani is come, to hear and see
Of this strange morn the history.
What saw he ■ — not the church's floor
Cumber'd with dead and stain'd with
gore;
What heard he ? — not the clamorous
crowd.
That shout their gratulations loud :
Redmond he saw and heard alone,
Clasp'd him, and sobb'd, 'My son! my
son 1' —
XXXV.
This chanced upon a summer morn,
When 3^ellow waved the heavy corn;
But when brown August o'er the land
Call'd forth the reapers' busy band,
A gladsome sight the silvan road
From Egliston to Mortham show'd.
Awhile the hardy rustic leaves
The task to bind and pile the sheaves.
And maids their sickles fling aside
To gaze on bridegroom and on bride.
And childhood's wondering group
draws near.
And from the gleaner's hands the ear
Drops, while she folds them fora prayer
And blessing on the lovely pair.
'Twas then the Maid of Rokeby gave
Her plighted troth to Redmond brave;
And Teesdale can remember yet
How Fate to Virtue paid her debt,
And, for their troubles, bade them prove
A lengthen'd life of peace and love.
Time and Tide had thus their sway.
Yielding, like an April da}',
Smiling noon for sullen morrow.
Years of joy for hours of sorrow !
END OF ROKEBY.
Jnfro^ucfion an6 (Tto^co to (Ko
INTRODUCTION TO THE EDITION OF 1830.
Between tlie publication of 'The Lady of
the Lake,' wliich was so eminently successful,
and tliat of 'Rokeby,' in i8i,^, tliree years
had intervened. I sliall not, I believe, be
accused of ever having attempted to usurp
a superiority over many men of genius, my
contemporaries ; but, in point of popularity,
not of actual talent, the caprice of the public
had certainly given me such a temporary
superiority over men, of whom, in regard to
poetical fancy and feeling, I scarcely thought
myself worthy to loose tin; shoe-latchet, (^n
the other hand, it would be absurd afl'ectation
in me to deny that I conceived myself to
understand, more perfectly than many of my
contemporaries, the manner most likely to
interest the great mass of mankind. Yet,
even with this belief, I must truly and fairly
say that I alwaj's considered m3'self rather
as one who held the bets, in time to bo paid
over to the winner, than as having any pre-
tence to keep them in mv own right.
In the meantime years crept on, and not
without their usual depredations on the
passing generation. My sons had arrived
at the age when the paternal home was no
longer their best abode, as both were des-
tined to active life. The field-sports, to
which I was peculiarly attached, had now
less interest, and were replaced by other
amusements of a more quiet character; and
the means and opportunity of pursuing these
were to be sought for. I had, indeed, for
some years attended to farming, a know-
ledge of which is, or at least was tlien, indis-
pensable to the comfort of a family residing
in a solitary' country-house ; but although
this was the favourite amusement of many
of my friends, I have ne\er been able to con-
sider it as a source of pleasure. I never
could think it a matter of passing importance
that my cattle or crops were better or more
plentiful than those of my neighbours, an'd
nevertheless I began to feel the necessity of
some more quiet out-door occupation, dif
ferentv from those I had hitherto pursued.
I purchased a small farm of about one
hundred acres, with the purpose of (ilanting
and improving it, to which property circum-
stances afterwards enabled me to make con-
siderable additions; and thus an era took
place in my life, almost equal to the im-
])ortantone mentioned by the \'icar of Wake-
iield when he removed Irom the blue room
to tlie brown. In point of neighbourhood,
at least, the changi- of residence made little
Dioi'e diffcrenci-. Abbotsford, to which we
removed, was only six or seven miles down
the Tweed, and lay on the same beautiful
stream. It di'l not possess the romantic
character of Ashestiel, my former residence ;
but it had a stretch of meadow-land along
the river, and possessed, in the phrase of the
landscape-gardener, considerable capabili-
ties. Above all, the land was my own, like
Uncle Tob3''s bowling-green, to do what I
would with. It had been, though the grati-
fication was long postponed, an early wish
of mine to connect myself with my mother
earth, and prosecute those experiments by
w hieli a species of creative power is exercised
over the face of nature. I can trace, even to
childhood, a pleasure derived from Dodsley's
account ofShenstone'sLeasowes, and I envied
the poet much more for the pleasure of
accomplishino; the objects detailed in his
friend's sketcli of his grounds, than for the
possession of pipe, crook. Hock, and Phillis
to boot. My memory, also, tenacious of
quaint expressions, still retained a plirase
which it had gathered from an old almanack
ot Charles the Second's time (when every-
thing down to almanacks affected to be
smart"), in which the reailer, in the month of
June, is advised for health's sake to walk
a mile or two every day before breakfast,
and, if he can possibly so manage, to let his
exercise be taken upon his own land.
^\'ith the satisfaction of having attained
the fulfilment of an early and long-cherished
hope, I commenced my improvements, as
delightful in their progress as those of the
38o
5nfrol)uch'on to Qjloftefi^.
cliild wlio first makes a drpss for a new doll.
The nakedness of the land was in time hidden
by woodlands of considerable extent; the
smallest of possible cottages was progres-
sively expancied into a sort of dream of a man-
sion house, w himsical in the exterior, but con-
venient within. Nor did I forget what is the
natural pleasure of every man who has been
a reader ; I mean the filling the shelves of .a
tolerably large library. All these objects I
kept in view, to be executed as convenience
should serve ; and, although I knew many
years must elapse before they could be
attained, I was of a disposition to comfort
myself with the Spanish proverb, ' Time and
I against any two.'
The difficult and indispensable point of
finding a permanent subject of occupation
was now at length attained ; but there was
annexed to it the necessity of becoming
again a candidate for public favour; for, as
1 was turned improver on the earth of the
everyday world, it was under condition that
the small tenement of Parnassus, which might
be accessible to my labours, should not re-
main uncultivated.
I meditated, at first, a poem on the subject
of Brttce, in which I made some progress, but
afterwards judged it advisable to lay it aside,
supposing that an English story might have
more novelty ; in consequence, the precedence
was given to ' Rokeby.'
If subject and scenery could have influenced
the fate of a poem, that of ' Rokeby ' should
have been eminently distinguished; for the
grounds belonged to a dear friend with whom
I had lived in habits of intimacy for many
years, and the place itself united the romantic
beauties of the wilds of Scotland with the rich
and smiling aspect of the southern portion of
the island. ButtheCavaliersand Roundheads
whom I attempted to summon up to tenant
this beautiful region, had for the public neither
the novelty nor the peculiar interest of the
primitive Highlanders. This, perhaps, was
scarcely to be expected, considering that the
general mind sympathizes readily and at once
with the stamp which nature herself has affixed
upon the manners of a people living in a simple
and patriarchal state ; whereas it has more
difficulty in understanding or interesting it self
in manners founded upon those peculiar habits
of thinking or acting wliich are produced by
the progress of societ}-. We could read with
pleasure the tale of the adventures of a Cos-
sack or a Mongol Tartar, while we only
wonder and stare over those of the lovers
in 'The Pleasing Chinese History,' where the
embarrassments turn upon difficulties arising
out of unintelligible delicacies peculiar to the
customs and manners of that affected people.
The cause of my failure had, however, afar
deeper root. The manner, or style, which,
by its novelty, attracted the public in an un-
usual degree, had now, after having been three
times before them, exhausted the patience of
the reader, and began in the fourth to lose its
charms. The reviewers may be said to ha^e
apostrophized the author in the language of
Parnell's Edwin—
* And here reverse the charm, he cries,
Antl let it fairly now .suffice,
The gambol has been shown.'
The licentious combination of rhymes, in
a manner not perliaps very congenial to our
language, had not been confined to the author.
Indeed, in most similar cases, the inventors
of such novelties have their reputation de-
stroyed by their own imitators, as Actaeon
fell under the furv of his own dogs. The pre-
sent author, likeBobadil, had taught his trick
offence to a hundred gentlemen (and ladies')
who could fence very nearly or quite as well
as himself. For this there was no remedy ;
the harmony became tiresome and ordinary,
and both the original inventor and his inven-
tion must have fallen into contempt if he had
not found out another road to public favour.
What has been said of the metre only, must
be considered to apply equally to the struc-
ture of the poem and of the stj-le. The very
best passages of any popular style are not,
perhaps, susceptiljle of imitation, but they
may be approached by men of talent ; and
those who are less able to copy them at least
lay hold of their peculiar features so as to
produce a strong burlesque. In either way,
the effect of the manner is rendered cheap
and common ; and, in the latter case, ridicu-
lous to boot. The evil consequences to an
author's reputation are at least as fatal as
those which come upon the musical composer
when his melody falls into the hands of the
street ballad-singer.
Of the unfavourable species of imitation,
the author's style gave room to a very large
number, owing to an appearance of facility
to which some of those who used the measure
unquestionably leaned too far. The effect of
the more favourable imitations, composed by
persons of talent, was almost equally un-
fortunate to the original minstrel, by showing
that they could overshoot him with his own
bow. In short, the popularity which once
attended the School^ as it was called, was now
fast decaying.
Besidesallthis, toliavekepthisground at the
crisis when 'Rokeby' appeared, its author ought
to have put forth his utmost strength, and to
have possessed at least all his original advan-
tages, for a mighty and unexpected rival was
advancing on the stage — a rival not in poetical
powers onh-, but in that art of attracting
popularity in which the present writer had
hitherto preceded better men than himself.
The reader will easily see that Byron is here
meant, who, after a little velitation of no great
promise, now appeared asaseriouscandidate,
m the First Two Cantos of ' Childe Harold.'
I was astonished at the power evinced by
that work, which neither the 'Hours of Idle-
ness ' nor the ' English Bardsand Scotch Re-
viewers ' had prepared me to expect from its
author. There ^vas a depth in his thought,
(Incite to (UogeBp.
381
an eager abundance in his diction, which
argued full confidence in the inexhaustible
resources of which he felt himself possessed ;
and there was some appearance of that labour
of the file which indicates that the author is
conscious of the necessity of doing every just ice
to his work that it may pass warrant. Lord
Byron was also a traveller, a man whose ideas
were fired by having seen, in distant scenes of
difficulty and danger, the places whose very
names are recorded in our bosoms as the
shrines of ancient poetry. For his own mis-
fortune, perhaps, but certainly to the high
increase of his poetical character, nature had
mixed in Lord Byron's system those passions
which agitate the human heart with most
violence, and which may be said to have
hurried his bright career to an early close.
There would have been little wisdom in
measuring my force with so formidable an
antagonist ; and I was as likely to tireotplay-
ing the second fiddle in the concert, as my au-
dience of hearing me. Age also was advancing.
I was growing insensible to those subjects
of excitation by which youth is agitated.
I had around me the most pleasant but least
exciting of all society, that of kind friends
and an affectionate family. My circle of
employments was a narrow one ; it occupied
me constantly, and it became daily more
difficult for me to interest myself in poetical
composition.
' Ilnu happily the d,iys of Thnlab,T went by !'
Vet, though conscious that I must be, in
the opinion of good judges, inferior to the
place I had for four or five years held in letters,
and feeling alike that the latter was one to
which 1 lunlonly a temporary right, I could
not brook the idea of relinquishing literary
occupation, which had been so long my chief
diversion. Neither was I disposed to choose
the alternative of sinking into a mere editor
and commentator, though that was a species
of labour which I had practised, and to which
I was attached. But I could not endure to
think that I might not, whether known or
concealed, do something of more importance.
My inmost thoughts were those of the Trojan
captain in the galley race —
' Non jam prima peto Mnestheus, neque vincere
certo :
Quanqurim O !— sed superent, quibus hoc, Neptune,
dcdisti.
Extremos pndeat rediisse : hoc vincite, cives,
Et prohibete nefas." — .4i.\'. v. 194-197.
I had, indeed, some private reasons for my
Qiiaiijiiaiit O! which were not worse than
those of Mnestheus. I have already hinted
that the materials were collected for a poem
on the subject of Bruce, and fragments of it
had been shown to some of my friends, and
received with applause. Notwithstanding,
therefore, the eminent success of Byron, and
the great chance of his taking the wind out
of my sails, there was, I judged, a species of
cowardice in desisting from the task which
I had imdertaken, and it was time enough to
retreat when the battle should be more de-
cidedly lost. The sale of ' Rokeby,' excepting
as compared with that of 'The Lady of the
Lake,' was in the highest degree respectable ;
and as it included fifteen hundred (]uartos, in
those quarto-reading days, the trade had no
reason to be dissatisfied.
W.ALTER SCOTT.
Abbotsford, April 1S30.
NOTES.
Note \. 1
Oh Barnard's towers, atid Tees' s sO'Cain. I
'Barnard Castle,' saith old Lelaml,
'standeth stately upon Tees.' It is founded
upon a very high bank, and its ruins impend ;
over the river, including within the area |
a circuit of six acres and upwards. This
once magnificent fortress derives its name
from its founder, Barnard Baliol, the ances-
tor of the short and unfortunate dynasty of
that name, which succeeded to the Scottish
throne under the patronage of Eiiward I and
Edward III. Baliol's Tower, afterwards
mentioned in the poem, is a round tower of
great size, situated at the western extremity
of the building. It bears maiks of great
antiquity, and was remarkable for the curious
constmction of its vaulted roof, which has
been lately greatly injured by the opera-
tions of some persons, to whom the tower has
been leased for the purpose of making patent
shot ! The prospect from the top of Baliol's
Tower commands a rich and magnificent
view of the wooded valley' of the Tees.
Barnard Castle often changed masters
during the middle ages. Upon the forfeiture
of the unfortunate John Baliol, the first king
of Scotland of that family, Edward I seized
this fortress among the other English estates
of his refractory vassal. It was afterwards
vested in the Beauchamps of Warwick, and
in the Staffords of Buckingham, and was also
sometimes in the possession of the Bishops of
Durham, and sometimes in that of the crown.
Richard III is said to have enlarged and
strengthened its fortifications, and to have
made it for some time his principal residence,
for the purpose of bridling and suppressing
the Lancastrian faction in the northern
counties. From the Staffords, Barnard
382
Qte^ee to
Castle passed, probably by marriage, into
the possession of the powerful Nevilles, Earls
of ^Vcstmorelan(^, and bcdonn;ed to the last
representative of that family, when he en-
gaji'd with the Earl of Northumberland in
the ill-concerted insurreetioii of the twelfth of
Queen Elizabeth. I'pon this occasion, how-
ever. Sir George Bowes ofSlieatlam, who held
great possessions in the neighbourliood, anti-
cipated the two insurgent earls, by seizing
upon and garrisoning Barnard Castle, which
he held out for ten days against all their
forces, and then surrendered it upon honour-
able terms. See Sadler's State Papers, vol.
ii. p. ,^^o. In a ballad, contained in Percy's
Reliques of Ancient Poetry, vol. i., the siege
is thus commemorated : —
• Then Sir George Bowes he straight way rose,
After them some spoyle to make :
These nol>le erles turned back ai^aine.
And aye they vowed that knight to take.
That baron he to his castle fled ;
To Barnard Castle then fied lie ;
The uttermost walles were eathc to won,
The erles have won them presentlie.
The uttermost walles were lime and brick ;
But thoutjh they won them soon anone,
I.oni^ ere tliey wan the innermost walles,
]-"or they were cut in rock and stone.'
By the suppression of this rebellion, and the
consequent forfeiture of the Earl of West-
morel.md, Barnard Castle reverted to the
crown, and was sold or leased out to Car,
Earl of Somerset, the guilty and unhappy
favourite of James I. It was afterwarils
granted to Sir Henry Vane the elder, and was
therefore, in all probability, occupied for the
Parliament, whose interest during the Civil
War was so keenly espoused by the Vanes.
It is now, with the other estates of that family,
the property of the Right Honourable Earl
of Darlington.
Note II.
• ■ 110 hiivtaii car,
Ufisliarpcii'd by I'cvciigc and /car.
Could c\'r disihigitish Jwrsc's claiik.
—P. 314.
I have had occasion to remark, in real
life, the effect of keen and fervent anxiety in
giving acuteness to the organs of sense. My
gifted friend. Miss Joanna Bail lie, whose
dramatic works display such intimate ac-
quaintance with the operations of human
passion, has not omitted this remarkable cir-
cumstance : —
' De Moiil/oy/. (Off-?i:-s .!.'nnrd.) Tis Rezenvelt :
I heard his well-known foot.
From the first staircase mountinsj step by step.
Freh. How quick an ear thou iiast for distant sound !
I heard him not.
(De Montfo't looki
:,ci.
■iloit.) ■
Note III.
The morion^ s plitincs liis visage hide.
And the biiff-coat, an ample fold.
Mantles his forni's gigantic mould.
—I'- 3U-
The use of complete suits of armour was
fallen into disuse during the Civil War,
though they were still worn by leaders of
rank and importance. ' In the reign of King
James I,' says our military antiquary, 'no
great alterations were made in the article of
defensive armour, except that the buff-coat,
or jerkin, which was originally worn under
the cuirass, now became frequently a substi-
tute for it, it having been found that a good
buff leather would of itself resist the stroke of
asword; this, however,only occasionally took
place among the light-armed cavalry and
infantry, complete suits of armour being s^iill
used among the heavy horse. Buff-coats
continued to be worn by the city trained-
bands till within the memory of persons now
living, so that ilefensive armour may, in some
measure, be said to have terminated in the
same materials with which it began, that is,
the skins of animals, or leather.'— Grose's
Military Antiquities. Lend. 1801, 4to, vol.
ii.p. 323.
Of t he buff-coats, which were worn over the
corslets, several are yet preserved ; and
Captain Grose has given an engraving of one
which was used in the time of Charles I by
Sir Francis Rhodes, Bart, of Balbrough-Hall,
Derbyshire. They were usually lined with
silk or linen, secured before by buttons, or
by a lace, and often richly decorated with
gold or silver embroidery. From the fol-
lowing curious account of a dispute respect ing
a buff-coat between an old roundhead captain
and a justice of peace, by whom his arms
were seized after the Restoration, we learn,
that the value and importance of this de-
fensive garment were considerable : — 'A party
of horse came to my house, commanded by
Mr. Peebles ; and he told me he was come
for my arms, and that I must deliver them.
I asked him for his order. He told me he
had a better order than Oliver used to give;
and, clapping his liand upon his sword-hilt,
he said, that was his order. I told him, if he
Iiadnone but that, it was not sufficient to take
my arms ; and then he pulled out his warrant,
and I read it. It was signed by Wentworth
Armitage, a general warrant to searcli all
persons they suspected, and so left the power
to the soldiers at their pleasure. They came
to us at Coalley-Hall, about sun-setting;
and I caused a candle to be lighted, and
conveyed Peebles into the room where my
arms were. My arms were near the kitchen
fire ; and there they took away fowling-pieces,
Cistols, muskets,' carbines, and such like,
etter than ^20. Then Mr. Peebles asked me
for my bufl-coat ; and I told him they had
no order to take away my apparel. He
told me I was not to dispute their orders;
(HoaeB^.
583
[ but if I would not deliver it, he would carry
I me away prisoner, and hail me out of doors.
i Yet he let me alone unto the next mornin"',
■ that I must wait upon Sir John, at Halifax ;
and, coming before him, he threatened ine,
and said, if I did not send the coat, for it
was too good for me to keep. I told him it
was not in his power to demand my apparel ;
and he, growing into a fit, called me rebel
and traitor, and said, if I did not send the
coat with all speed, he would send me where
I did not like well. I told him I was no rebel,
and he did not well to call me so before these
soldiers and gentlemen, to make me the mark
for every one to shoot at. I departed the
room ; yet, notwithstanding all the threaten-
ings, did not send the coat. But the next day
he sent John Lyster, the son of Mr. Thomas
Lyster, of Shipden Hall, for tliis coat, with
a letter, verbatim thus: — "Mr. Hodson, I
admire you will play tlie child so with me as
you have done, in writing such an inconsider-
ate letter. Let me have the buff-coat sent
forthwith, otherwise you shall so hear from
me as will not very well please 50U." I was
not at home when this messenger came ; but
I had ordered my wife not to deliver it, but,
if they would take it, let them look to it :
and he took it away; and one of Sir John's
brethren wore it many years after. They
sent Captain Butt to compound with my wile
about it; but I scntworil I would have my
own again : but he advised me to take a price
I for it, and make no more ado. I said, it was
( hard to take my arms and apparel too ; I had
laid out a great deal of money for them ;
I hoped they did not mean to destroy me, by
takinjr my goods illejjally from me. He said
he would make up the matter, if I pleased,
betwixt us; and, it seems, had broujjht Sir
John to a price for my coat. I would not
have taken /1 10 for it ; he would have given
about /4 ; but, wanting my receipt for the
money, he kept both sides, and I had never
sat isfaction . ' — Memoirs ofCaptaiuHodgsoti.
Edin. 1806, p. 178.
Note IV.
On his dark face a scorching clime.
And toil, had done the ■zt'ori of time.
Death had he seen by sudden hlozi\
By Tcasti)ig plague, by tortures slow.
In this character, I have attempted to
skrtcli one of these West Indian adventurers,
who, during the course of the seventeenth
century, were popularly known by the name
of Bucaniers. The successes of the English
in the predatory incursions upon Spanish
America, during; the reign of Elizabeth, had
never been forgotten ; and, from that period
downward, the exploits of Drake and Raleigh
were imitated, upon a smaller scale indeed,
but with equally desperate valour, by small
bands of pirates, gathered from all nations,
but chiefly French and English. The en-
grossing policy of the Spaniards tended
greatly to increase the number of these free-
booters, from whom their commerce and
colonies suffered, in the issue, dreadful cala-
mity. The Windward Islands, which the
Spaniards did not deem worthy their own
occupation, had been gradually settled by
adventurers of the Fri>nch and English nations.
But Frederic of Toledo, who was despatched
in 1630 with a powerful fleet against tlie
Dutch, had orders from the Court of Madrid
to destroy these colonies, whose vicinity at
onceoffended the pride and excited the jealous
suspicions of their Spanish neighbours. This
order the Spanish Admiral executeil with
sufficient rigour; but the only consequence
was, that the planters being rendered des-
perate by persecution, began, under the well-
known name of Bucaniers, to commence
a retaliation so horridly savage, that the
perusal makes the reader shudder. When
they carric<i on their depredations at sea,
they boarded, without respect to disparity of
number, every Spanish vessel that came in
their way ; and, aemeaning themselves, both
in the battle and after the comjuest, more like
demons than human beings, they succeeded
in impressing their enemies with a sort of
superstitious terror, which rendered them in-
capable of offering effectual resistance. From
piracy at sea, they advanced to making
predatory descents on the Spanish territories ;
in which they displayed the same furious and
irresistible valour, the same thirst of spoil,
and the same brutal inhumanity to their
captives. The large treasures which they ac-
quired in their adventures, they dissipated by
the mostunboimded licentiousness in gaming,
women, wine, and debauchery of every species.
When their spoils were thus waste(l| they
entered into some new association, and under-
took new adventures. For farther particulars
concerning these extraordinary banditti, the
reader may consult Raynal, or the common
and popular book called the History of the
Bucaniers.
Note X.
On Mars ton heath
Mel, front to front, the ranks of death.
—P. 316.
The well-known and desperate battle of
Long-Marston Moor, which terminated so
unfortunately for the cause of Charles, com-
menced under very different auspices. Prince
Rupert had marched with an army of 20,000
men for the relief of York, then besieged by
Sir Thomas Fairfax, at the head of the
Parliamentary army, and the Earl of Leven,
with the Scottish auxiliary forces. In this he
so completely succeeded, that he compelled
the besiegers to retreat to Marston Moor,
a large open plain, about eight miles distant
from the city. Thither they were followed
384
(Tlofee io
by the Prince, who had now united to his
army the garrison of York, probably not less
than :o,ooo men strong', under the gallant
Marquis (then Earl) of Newcastle. White-
locke has recorded, with much impartiality,
the following particulars of this eventful day :
— 'The right wing of the Parliament was
commanded by Sir Thomas Fairfax, and
consisted of all liis horse, and three regiments
of the Scots horse ; the left wing was com-
manded by the Earl of Manchester and
Colonel Cromwell. One body of their foot
was commanded by Lord Fairfax, and
consisted of his foot, and two brigades of the
Scots foot for reserve ; and the main body
of the rest of the foot was commanded by
General Levcn.
'The right wing of the Prince's army was
commanded by the Earl of Newcastle ; the
left wing by the Prince himself; and tlie
main body by General Goring, Sir Charles
Lucas, and Major-General Porter. Thus
were both sides drawn up into battalia.
'July 3rd, 1644. In this posture both
armies faced each other, and about seven
o'clock in the morning the light began
between them. The Piince, with his left
wing, fell on the Parliament's right wing,
routed them, and pursuer! them a great way :
the like did General Goring, Lucas, and
Porter, upon the Parliament's main body.
The three generals, giving all for lost, hasted
out of the field, and many of their soldiers
fled, and threw down their arms ; the King's
forces too eagerly following them, the victory,
now almost achie\ed by them, was again
snatched out of their hands. For Colonel
Cromwell, with the brave regiment of his
countrymen, and Sir Thomas Fairfax, having
rallied some of his horse, fell upon the
Prince's right wing, where the Earl of
Newcastle was, and routed them ; and the
rest of their companions rallying, they fell
altogether upon the di\ided bodies of Rupert
and Goring, and totally dispersed them, and
obtained a complete victory, after three
hours' fight.
'From this battle and the pursuit, some
reckon were buried 7(XM Englishmen; all
agree that abcjve 3000 of the Prince's men
were slain in the battle, besides those in the
chase, and 3000 prisoners taken, many of their
chief officers, twenty-five pieces of ordnance,
forty-seven colours, io,cxio arms, two wag-
gons of carabins and pistols, 130 barrels
of powder, and all their bag and bag-
gage.'— Whitelocke's Memoirs, fol. p. 89.
Lond. 1682.
Lord Clarendon informs us, that the King,
Erevious to receiving the true account of the
attle, had been informed, bv an express
from Oxford, 'that Prince Rupert hacl not
only relieved York, but totally defeated the
Scots, with many particulars to confirm it,
all which was so much belie\ed there, that
they had made public lires of joy for the
victory.'
Note VI.
^ro)ickton and Mi/ton fold the news.
How troops of Rotiudheads choked tlie Oiise,
And many a bonny Scot, a£^/iast,
Spurring his palfrey northzuard, past,
Cursing the day ivhen acal or meed
First lured their Les/ey o^er the Tweed.
-P. 319.
Monckton and Mitton are villages near
the river Ousc, and not verv distant from the
field of battle. The particulars of the action
were violently disputed at the time ; but
the following extract, from the Manuscript
History of the Baronial House of Somerville,
is decisive as to the flight of the Scottish
general, the Earl of Leven. The particulars
are given by the author of the history on the
authority of his father, then the representative
of the family. This curious manuscript has
been published by consent of my noble friend,
the present Lonl Somerville.
'The order of this great battell, wherin
both armies was neer of ane equall number,
consisting, to the best calculatione, neer to
three score thousand men upon both sydes,
I shall not take upon me to discryve ; albeit,
from the draughts then taken upon the place,
and information I receaved from this gentle-
man, who being then a volunteer, as having
no command, had opportunitie and libertie
to ryde from the one wing of the armieto the
other, to view all ther several squadrons of
horse and battallions of foot, how formed,
and in what manner drawn up, with every
other circumstance relating to the fight, and
that both as to the King's armies and that
of the Parliament's, amongst whom, untill
the engadgment, he went from statione to
statione to observe ther order and forme ;
but that the descriptione of this battell, with
the various success on both sides at the
beginning, with the loss of the royal armie,
and the sad effects that followed that mis-
fortune as to his Majestie's interest, hes been
so often done already by English authors,
little to our commendatione, how justly
I shall not dispute, seing the truth is, as our
principall generall fled that night neerfourtie
mylles from the place of the fight, that part
of the armie where he commanded being
totallie routed; but it is as true, that much
of the victorie is attributed to the good con-
duct of David Lesselie. lievetennent-generall
of our horse. Cromwell himself, that minione
of fortune, but the rod of God's wrath, to
punish eftirward three rebellious nations,
disdained not to take orders from him, albeit
then in the same qualitie of command for the
Parliament, as being lievetennent-general to
the Earl of Manchester's horse, whom, with
the assistance of the Scots horse, haveing
routed the Prince's right wing, as he had
done that of the Parliament's. These two
commanders of the horse upon that wing
wisely restrained the great bodies of their
horse from persuing these brocken troups,
(KofteBp.
38i
but, wheelling to the left-hand, falls in upon
the naked flanks of the Prince's main battal-
lion of foot, carying them doune with great
violence ; nether mett they with any great
resistance untill they came to the Marques
of Newcastle his battallione of White Coats,
who, IJrst peppering them soundly with ther
shott, when they came to charge, stoutly bore
them up with their picks that they could not
enter to break them. Here the Parliament's
horse of that wing recoaved ther greatest
losse, and a stop for sometyme putt to ther
hoped-for victorie ; and that only by the
stout resistance of this gallant battallione,
which consisted neer of four thousand foot,
until at length a Scots regiment of dragouns,
commanded by Collonell Frizeall, with other
two, was brought to open them upon some
hand, which at length they did, when all the
ammunitione was spent. Having refused
quarters, every man fell in the same order
and ranke wherein he had foughten.
'Be this execution was done, the Prince
returned from the persuite of the right wing
of the Parliament's horse, which he hail
beatten and followed too farre, to the losse
of the battell, which certanely, in all men's
opinions, he might have caryed if he had not
been too violent upon the pursuite: which
gave his enemies upon the left-hand oppor-
tunitie to disperse and cut doune his infantrie,
who, haveing cleared the field of all the
standing bodies of foot, wer now, with many
. . . . of their oune, standing read)' to
receave the charge of his allmost spent horses,
if he should attempt it; which the Prince
observeing, and seemg all lost, he retreated
to Yorke with two thousand horse. Not-
withstanding of this, ther was that night such
a consternatione in the Parliament armies,
that it 's believed bv most of those that wer
there present, that if the Prince, haveing so
great a body of horse inteire, had made ane
onfall that night, or the ensueing morning
be-tvme, he had carryed the victorie out of
ther hands ; for it 's certane, by the morning's
light, he had rallyed a body of ten thousand
men, wherof ther was neer three thousand
gallant horse. These, with the assistance of
the toune and garrisoune of Yorke, might
have done much to have recovered the
victon,-, for the loss of this battell in effect
lost the King and his interest in the three
kingdomes ; his Majestic never being able
eftir this to make head in the north, but lost
liis garrisons every day.
'As for Generall Lesselie, in the beginning
of this flight haveing that part of the army
quite brocken, whare he had placed himself,
by the valour of the Prince, he imagined,
and was confermed by the opinione of others
then upon the place with him, that the battell
was irrecoverably lost, seeing they wer fleeing
upon all hands ; theirfore they humblie in-
treated his excellence to reteir and wait his
better fortune, which, without farder advyse-
ing, he did ; and never drew bridle untill he
came the lenth of Leads, having ridden all
that night with a cloak of drap de'bcrrie
about him, belonging to this gentleman of
whom I write, then in his retinue, with many
other officers of good qualitie. It was neer
twelve the next day befor they had the
certanety who was master of the field, when
at length ther arryves ane expresse, sent by
David Lesselie, to acquaint the General they
had obtained a most glorious victory, and
that the Prince, with his brocken troupes,
was fled from Yorke. This intelligence was
somewhat amazeing to these gentlemen that
had been eye-witnesses to the disorder of the
armie before ther retearing, and had then
accompanyed the General in his flight ; who,
being much wearyed that evening of the
battell with ordering of his armie, and now
quite spent with his long journey in the
night, had casten himselfe doune upon a bed
to rest, when this gentleman comeing quyetly
into his chamber, he awoke, and hastily cryes
out, " Lievetennent-collonell, what news ? "■ — ■
"All is safe, may it please your Excellence ;
the Parliament's armie hes obtained a great
victory;" and then delyvers the letter. The
Generall, upon the hearing of this, knocked
upon his breast, and sayes, " I would to God
I had died upon the place ! " and then opens
the letter, which, in a few lines, gave ane
account of the victory, and in the close
pressed his speedy returne to the armie
which he did the next day, being accompanyed
some mylles back by this gentleman, who
then takes his leave of him, and receaved at
parting many expressions of kyndenesse, with
promises that he would never be unrayndful
of his care and respect towards him ; and in
the end he intreats him to present his service
to all his friends and acquaintances in Scot-
land. Thereftir the Generall sets forward in
his journey for the armie, as this gentleman
did for . . . . , in order to his trans-
portatione for Scotland, where he arryved
sex dayes eftir the light of Mestoune Muir,
and gave the first true account and descrip-
tione of that great battell, wherein the
Covenanters then gloryed soe much, that
they impiously boasted the Lord had now
signally appeared for his cause and people;
it oeing ordinary for them, dureing the whole
time of this warre, to attribute the greatnes
of their success to the goodnes and justice of
ther cause, untill Divine Justice trysted them
with some crosse dispensatione, and then you
might have heard this language from them,
"That it pleases the Lord to give his oum-
the heavyest end of the tree to bear, that the
saints and the people of God must still be
sufferers while they are here away, that the
malignant party was God's rod to punish
tliem for ther unthankfuUnesse, which in the
end he will cast into the fire ; " with a thousand
other expressions and scripture citations,
prophanely and blasphemously uttered by
them, to palliate ther villainie and rebellion.'
— Mcvioij's of the Sotitervilles. Edin. 1815.
386
(Uotee to
Note VII.
IVi'/A /lis barb' d horse, fresh tidings say.
Stout Cromwell has redeem'' d the day.
-P. 319.
Cromwell, with his regiment of cuirassiers,
had a principal share in turnino; the fate ot
the day at Marston Moor ; which was equally
matter of triumph to the Independents, and
of grief and heart-burning to the Presby-
terians and to the Scottish. Principal Baillie
expresses his dissatisfaction as follows : —
'The Independents sent up one quickly to
assure that all the glory of that night was
theirs ; and they and their Major-General
Cromwell liad done it all there alone: but
Captain Stuart afterward showed the vanity
and falsehood of their disgraceful relation.
God gave us that victory wonderfully. There
were three generals on each side, Lesley,
Fairfax, and Manchester ; Rupert, Newcastle,
and King. Within half an hour and less, all
six took them to their heels; — this to you
alone. The disadvantage of the ground, and
violence of the Jlower of Prince Rupert's
horse, carried all our right wing down ; only
Eglinton kept ground, to his great loss; his
lieutenantcrowner, a brave man, I fear shall
die, and his son Robert be mutilated of an
arm. Lindsay had the greatest hazard of
any ; but the beginning of the victory was
from David Lesly, who before was much
suspected of evil designs: he, with the Scots
ancl Cromwell's horse, having the advantage
of the ground, did dissipate all before them.'
— Pailme's Letters and Journals. Edin.
1785, 8vo, ii. 36.
Note VIII.
Do not my native dales prolong
0/ Percv Rede the tragic song,
Train' d forzvard to his bloody fall.
By Girsonjield, that treacherous Hall)
—P. 319.
In a poem, entitled 'The Lay of the Reed-
water Minstrel,' Newcastle, 1809, this tale,
with many others peculiar to the valley of
the Reed, is commemorated: — 'The par-
ticulars of the traditional story of Parcy Ree<l
of Troughend, and the Halls of Girsonfield,
the author had from a descendant of the
family of Reed. From his account, it appears
that Percival Reed, Esauire, a keeper of
Reedsdale, was betrayed by the Halls (hence
denominated the false-hearted Ha's)toaband
of moss-troopers of the name of Crosier, who
slew him at Batinghope, near the source of
the Reed.
' The Halls were, after the murder of Parcy
Reed, held in such universal abhorrence and
contempt by the inhabitants of Reedsdale,
for their cowardly and treacherous behaviour,
that they were obliged to leave the country.'
I n another passage, we are informed that the
ghost of the injured Borderer is supposed to
haunt the banks of a brook called the Pringle.
These Redes of Troughend were a very
ancient family, as may be conjectured from
their deriving their surname from the river
on which thevhad their mansion. An epitaph
on one of their tombs affirms, that the family
held their lands of Troughend, which are
situated on the Reed, nearly opposite to
f)tterburn, for the incredible space of nine
hundred years.
Note IX.
And near the spot that gaz'e me Jiame,
The 7noated mound of Risingliam,
Where Reed upon her margin sees
Sweet Woodburne's cottages and trees.
Some attcicnt sculptor's art has shown
' An outlaw's image on the stone. — P. 319.
Risingham, upon the river Reed, near the
beautiful hamlet of Woodburn, is an ancient
Roman station, formerly called Habitancum.
Camden says, that in his time the popular
account bore, that it had been the abode of
a deity, or giant, called Magon ; and appeals,
in support of this tradition, as well as to
the etj-mology of Risingham, or Reisenham,
which signifies, in German, the habitation
of the giants, to two Roman altars taken
out of the river, inscribed, Deo MoGONTI
C.\DEN0RUM. About half a mile distant
from Risingham, upon an eminence covered
with scattered birch-trees and fragments of
rock, there is cut upon a large rock, in alto
relievo, a remarkable figure, called Robin
of Risingham, or Robin of Reedsdale. It
presents a hunter, with his bow raised in one
hand, and in the other what seems to be
a hare. There is a quiver at the back of the
figure, and he is dressed in a long coat, or
kirtle, coming down to the knees, and
meeting close, with a girdle bound round
him. Dr. Horseley, who saw all monuments
of antiquity with Roman eyes, inclines to
think this figure a Roman archer: and
certainly the bow is rather of the ancient size
than of that which was so formidable in the
hand of the English archers of the middle
ages. But the rudeness of the whole ligure
prevents our founding strongly upon mere
inaccuracy of proportion. The popular tra-
ciition is, "that it represents a giant, whose
brother resided at Woodburn, and he himself
at Risingham. It adds, that they subsisted
by hunting, and that one of them, finding
the game become too scarce to support
tliem, poisoned liis companion, in whose
memory the monument was engraved. What
strange and tragic circumstance may be
concealed under this legend, or whether it is
utterly apocryphal, it is now impossible to
discover.
The name of Robin of Redesdale was given
to one of the Umfravilles, Lords of Pruclhoe,
and afterwards to one Hilliard, a friend and
fol lower ofthe king-making Earl of \\'ar\vick.
This person commanded an army of North-
(Ro6e6p.
387
ainptonshiro and northern men, who seizeil
on and belieaded the Earl Rivers, father to
Edward tlie Fourth's queen, and his son,
Sir John Woodville.— See HoLINSHED, ad
Note X.
do thon revere
The statutes of the Bucanier. — P. 319.
The 'statutes of the Bucaniers' were, in
reality, more equitable than could have been
expected from the state of society under
which they had been formed. They chiefly
related, as may readily be conjectured, to
the distribution and the inheritance of their
plunder.
When the expedition was completed, the
fund of prize-money acquired was thrown
together, each party takinjr his oath that he
had retained or concealed no part of the
common stock. If any one transgressed in
this important particular, the punishment
was, his being set ashore on some desert key
or island, to shift for himself as he couUl.
The owners of the vessel had then their share
assigned for the expenses of the outfit. These
were generally old pirates, settled at Tobago,
Jamaica, St. Domingo, or some other French
or English settlement. The surgeon's and
carpenter's salaries, with the price of pro-
visions and ammunition, were also defrayed.
Then followed the compensation due to the
maimed and wounded, rated according to
the damage they had sustained ; as six
hundred pieces of eight, or six slaves, for the
loss of an arm or leg, and so in proportion.
' .\fter this act of justice and humanity, the
remainder of the booty was divided into as
many shares as there were Bucaniers. The
commander could only lav claim to a single
share, as the rest; but they complimented
him with two or three, in proportion as he
had aojuitted himself to their satisfaction.
When the vessel was not the property of the
whole company, the person who liad fitted it
out, and furnished it with necessary arms
and ammunition, was entitlini to a third of
all the prizes. Fa\our had never any in-
fluence in the division of the booty, for ever}-
share was determined by lot. Instances of
such rigid justice as this are not easily met
with, and they extended even to the dead.
Their share was given to the man who was
known to be their companion when alive,
and therefore their heir. If the person who
had been killed had no intimate, his part was
sent to his relations, when they were known.
If there were no friends nor relations, it was
distributed in charity to the poor and to
churches, which were to pray for the person
in whose name these benefactions were given,
the fruits of inhuman, but necessary piratical
plunders.' — Ravnai.'S History of European
Settlements iii the East and West Indies^
by fiistatiioud. Lond. 1776, <Svo, iii. p. 41.
Note XI.
The course of Tees. — P. 324.
The view from Barnard Castle commands
the rich and magnificent valley of Tees.
Immediately adjacent to the river, the banks
are very thickly wooded ; at a little distance
they are more open and cultivated; but,
being interspersed with hedge-row s, and with
isolated trees of great size and age, they still
retain the richness of woodland scenery. The
river itself flows in a deep trench of solid
rock, chiefly limestone and marble. The
finest view of its romantic course is from
a handsome modern-built bridge over the
Tees, by the late Mr. Morritt of Rokeby. In
Leland's time, the marble quarries seem to
have been of some value. 'Hard under the
cliff by Egliston, is found on eche side ofTese
very lair marble, wont to be taken up booth
by marbelers of Barnardes Castelle and of
Eglisten, and partly to have been wrought
by them, and partly sold onwrought to
others.''— Itinerary. Oxford, 1768, 8vo, p. 8<S.
Note XII.
Egliston^ s grey rui)is. — P. 324.
The ruins of this abbey, or priory, (for
Tanner calls it the former, and Leland the
latter,) are beautifully situated upon the
angle, formed by a little dell called Thorsgill,
at Its junction with the Tees. A good part
of the religious house is still in some degree
habitable, but the church is in ruins. Eglis-
ton was dedicated to St. Mary and St. John
the Baptist, and is supposed to have been
founded by Ralph de Multon about the end
of Henry the Second's reign. There were
formerly the tombs of the families of Rokeby,
Bowes, and Fitz-Hugh.
Note Xlll.
■ t!te wound,
Raised by that Legion long renown' d ,
Whose z'otive shrine asserts their claim
Of pious, faithful, conquering fame.
— P- i^S-
Close behind the George Inn at Greta
Bridge there is a well-preserved Roman
encampment, surrounded with a triple ditch,
lying between the river Greta and a brook
called the Tutta. The four entrances are
easily to be discerned. Very many Roman
altars and monuments have been found in
the vicinity, most of which are preserved at
Rokeby by my friend Mr. Morritt. Among
others I's a small votive altar, with the inscrip-
tion, LEG. VI. VIC. P. F. F., which has been
rendered Z,^^/ij. Sexta. Victrix. Pia. Fortis.
Fidclis.
388
Qtofee to
Note XIV.
Rokeby's turrets high. — P. 325.
This ancient manor long' gave name to
a family by whom it is said to have been
possessed from the Conquest downward,
and who are at different times distinguished
in history. It was the Baron of Rokeoy who
finally defeated the insurrection of the Earl of
Northumberland, tempore Hen. IV, of which
Holinshed gives the following account: — 'The
King, advertised hereof, caused a great armie
to be assembled, and came forward with
the same towards his enemies ; but yer the
King came to Nottingham, Sir Thomas, or
(as other copies hauei Sir Rafe Rokesbie,
Shiriffe of Yorkeshire, assembled the forces
of the countrie to resist the Earle and his
power ; coming to Grimbautbrigs, beside
Knaresborough, tliere to stop them the
passage ; but they returning aside, got to
Weatherbie, and so toTadcaster, and finally
came forward unto Bramham-moor, near to
Haizlewood, where they chose their ground
meet to fight upon. The Shiriffe was as
readie to giuc battell as the Erie to receiue it ;
and so with a standard of S. George spread,
set fiercelie vpon the Earle, who, vnder a
Standard of his owne armes, encountered his
aduersaries with great manhood. There was
a sore incounter and cruell conflict betwixt
the parties, but in the end the victorie fell to
the Shiriffe. The Lord Bardolfe was taken,
but sore wounded, so that he shortlie after
died of the Imrts. As for the Earle of North-
umberland, he was slain outright; so that
now the prophecy was fulfilled, which gaue
an inkling of this his heauy hap long before,
namelie,
" Stirps Persitina periet confusa ruina."
For tliis Earle was the stocke and maine
root of all that were left aliue, called by the
name of Persie ; and of manie moreby diuers
slaugliters dispatched. For whose misfortune
the people were not a little sorrie, making
report of the gentleman's valiantnesse, re-
nowne, and honour, and applieing vnto him
certeine lamentable verses out of Lucaine,
saieng,
"Sed nos nee sanguis, nee tantum vulnera nostri
Affecere senis : quantum gestata per urbem
( )ra ducis. quae transfixo deformia pilo
Vidimub,"
For his head, full of siluer horie haires, being
put upon a stake, was openlie carried through
London, and set vpon the bridge of the same
citif : in like manner was the Lord Bar-
dolfes.' — HoLINSHED's Chronicks. Lond.
1808, 4to, iii. 45. Tlie Rokeby, or Rokesby
family, continued to be distinguished until
the great Civil War, when, having embraced
the cause of Charles I, they suffered severely
by fines and confiscations. The estate then
passed from its ancient possessors to the
family of tlie Robinsons, from whom it was
purchased by the father of my valued friend,
the present proprietor.
Note XV.
A sieru and lone^ yet lovely road.,
As e'er the foot of Minstrel trode !
What follows is an attempt to describe the
romantic glen, or rather ravine, througli
which the Greta finds a passage between
Rokeby and Mortham ; the former situated
upon the left bank of Greta, the latter on
the right bank, about half a mile nearer to
its junction with the Tees. The river runs
with very great rapidity over a bed of solid
rock, broken by many shelving descents,
down which the stream dashes with great
noise and impetuosity, vindicating its ety-
mology, whicli has been derived from the
Gothic, Gridan, to clamour. The banks
partake of the same wild and romantic
character, being chiefly lofty cliffs of lime-
stone rock, whose grey colour contrasts
admirably with the various trees and shrubs
which find root among their crevices, as well
as with the hue of the ivy, which clings around
them in profusion, and hangs down from
their projections in long sweeping tendrils.
At other points the rocks give place to pre-
cipitous banks of earth, bearing large trees
intermixed with copsewood. In one spot the
dell, which is elsewhere very narrow, widens
for a space to leave room for a dark grove of
yew trees, intermixed here and there with
aged pines of uncommon size. Directly
opposite to this sombre thicket, the cliffs on
the other side of the Greta are tall, white,
and fringed with all kinds of deciduous
shrubs. The whole scenery of this spot is
so much adapted to the ideas of superstition,
that it has acquired the name of Blockula,
from the place were the Swedish witches were
supposed to hold tlieir Sabbath. The dell,
however, has superstitions of its own growth,
for it is supposed to be haunted by a female
spectre, called the Dobie of Mortham. The
cause assigned for her appearance is a lady's
having been whilom murdered in the wood,
in evidence of which, her blood is shown upon
the stairs of the old tower at Mortham.
But whether she was slain by a jealous
husband, or by savage banditti, or by an
uncle who coveted her estate, or by a rejected
lover, are points upon which the traditions of
Rokeby do not enable us to decide.
Note XVI.
How whistle rash bids tempests roar.
-P. y-1-
That this is a general superstition, is well
known to all who have been on ship-board,
or who have conversed with seamen. The
most formidable whistler that I remember to
have met with was the apparition of a certain
Mrs. Leakey, who, about 16^6, resided, we
are told, at Mynehead, in Somerset, where
her only son drove a considerable trade
between that port and Waterford, and was
(RofteB^.
389
owner of several vessels. This old gentle-
woman was of a social disposition, and so
acceptable to her friends, that they used to
say to her and to each other, it were pity such
an excellent good-natured old lady should
die; to which she was wont to replv, that
whatever pleasure they niiglit find in her
company just now, they would not greatly
like to see or converse with her after death,
which nevertheless she was apt to think
might happen. Accordingly, after her death
and funeral, she began to appear to various
persons by night and by noonday, in her
own house, in the town and fields, at sea
and upon shore. So far had she departed
from her former urbanity, that she is recorded
to have kicked a doctor of medicine for his
impolite negligence in omitting to hand her
over a stile. It was also her humour to
appear upon the quay, and call for a boat.
But especially so soon as any of her son's
ships approached the harbour, 'tliis ghost
would appear in the same garb and likeness
as when she was alive, and, standing at the
mainmast, would blow with a whistle, and
though it were never so great a calm, yet
immediately there would arise a most dread-
ful storm, that would break, wreck, and
drown ship and goods.' ■ When she had thus
proceeded until her son had neither credit to
freight a vessel, nor could have procured
men to sail in it, she began to attack the
persons of his family, and actually strangled
their only child in 'the cradle. The rest of
her story, showing how the spectre looked
over the shoulder of her daughter-in-law
while dressing her hair at a looking-glass,
and how Mrs. Leakey the younger took
courage to address her, and how the beldam
despatched her to an Irish prelate, famous
for his crimes and misfortunes, to exhort
him to repentance, and to apprize him that
otherwise he would be hanged, and how tlic
bishop was satisfied with replying, that if he
was born to be hanged, he should not be
drowned ; — all these, with many more par-
ticulars, may be found at the end of one of
John Dunton's publications, called Athenian-
ism, London, 1710, where the tale is engrossed
under the title of ' The Apparition Evidence.'
Note XVII.
Of Erick's cap and Elmo's liglit.
-P. .32-.
'TliisEricus, Kingof Sweden, inhistime was
held second to none in the magical art ; and
he was so familiar with the evil spirits, which
he exceedingly adored, that which way soever
he turned liis cap, the wind would presently
blow that way. From this occasion he was
called Windy Cap ; and many men believed
that Regnerus, King of Denmark, by the
conduct of this Ericus, who was his nephew,
did happilj- extend his piracy into the most
rem.ote parts of the earth, and conquered
many countries and fenced cities by his
cunning, and at last was his coadjutor ; that
by the consent of the nobles, he should b(^
chosen King of Sweden, which continued
a longtime with him very happily, until he
died of old age.'— OlAUS, ui supra, p. 45.
Note XVIII.
7^/ic Demon Frigaii:. — P. 327.
This isan allusion to a well-known nautical
superstition concerning a fantastic vessel,
called by sailors the Flying Dutchman, and
supposed to be seen about the latitude of
the Cape of Good Hope. She is distinguished
from earthly vessels by bearing a press
of sail when all others are unable, from stress
of weather, to show an inch of canvas.
The cause of her wandering is not altogether
certain ; but the general account is, that she
was originally a vessel loaded witli great
wealth, on board of which some horrid act ot
murder and piracy had been committed ; tliat
the plague broke out among the wicked crew
who had perpetrated the crime, and that
thev sailed in vain from port to port, offering,
as the price of shelter, the whole of their ill-
gotten wealth ; that they were excluded from
every harbour, for fear of the contagion whicli
was devouring them ; and that, as a punish-
ment of their crimes, the apparition of the
ship still continues to haunt those seas in
which the catastrophe took place, and is
considered liy the mariners as the worst of all
possible omens.
My late lamented friend. Dr. John Lcyden,
has introduced this phenomenon into his
' Scenes of Infancy,' imputing, with poetical
ingenuitv, the dreadful judgment to the first
ship which commenced the slave trade: — •
' Stout was the ship, from Benin's pahny shore
That first the weijjht of harter'd captives bore ;
Bedimni'd with blood, the sun with shrinking- beams
Beheld her bounding o'er the ocean streams ;
But. ere the moon her silver horns had rear'd,
Amid the crew the speckled plague appear'd.
Faint and despairing, on their watery bier.
To every friendly shore the sailors steer;
Repell'd from port to port, they sue in vain,
And track with slow unsteady sail the main.
Where ne'er the bright and buoyant wave is seen
To streak with wandering foam the sea-weeds green,
Towers the tall mast, a lone and leafless tree.
Till self-impell'd amid the waveless sea ;
AVhere summer breezes ne'er were heard to sing.
Nor hovering snow-birds spread the downy wing,
Fix'd as a rock amid the boundless plain.
The yellow stream pollutes the stagnant main.
Till far through night the funeral flames aspire,
As the red lightning smites the ghastly pyre.
Still doom'd by fate on weltering billows roU'd,
Along the deep their restless course to hold.
Scenting the storm, the shadowy sailors guide
The prow with sails opposed to wind and tide ;
The Spectre Ship, in livid glimpsing light.
Glares baleful on the shuddering watch at night,
Vnblest of God and man !— Till time shall end,_
Its view stranj^e horror to the storm shall lend.'
390
(Uotee ^0
Note XIX.
hy some desert isle or key. — P. ^i-j.
What contributed much to the security of
the Bucaniers about the Windward Islands,
was the great number of little islets, called
in that country keys. These are small sandy
patches, appearing just above the surface of
the ocean, covered only with a few bushes and
weeds, but sometimes affording springs of
water, and, in general, much frequented by
turtle. Such little uninhabited spots afforded
the pirates good harbours, either for refitting
or for the purpose of ambush ; they were
occasionally the hiding-place of their treasure,
and often afforded a shelter to themselves.
As many of the atrocities which they practised
on their prisoners were committed in such
spots, there are some of these keys which
even now have an indifferent reputation
among seamen, and where they are with
difficulty prevailed on to remain ashore <at
night, on account of the visionary terrors
inci<1ent to places which have been thus con-
taminated.
Note XX.
Before the gate of Morthani stood.
-P. 328.
The castle of Mortham, which Lcland
terms ' Mr. Rokesby's Place, in ripa citer^
scant a quarter of a mile from Greta Bridge,
and not a quarter of a mile beneath into
Tees,' is a picturesque tower, surrounded by
buildings of different ages, now converted
into a farm-house and offices. The battle-
ments of the tower itself are singularly
elegant, the architect having broken them
at regular intervals into different lieights ;
while those at the corners of (he tower pro-
ject into octangular turrets. The}' are also
from space to space covered with stones laid
across them, as in modern embrasures, the
whole forming an uncommon and beautiful
effect. The surrounding buildings are of a less
happy form, being pointed into high and
steep roofs. A wall, with embrasures, encloses
the southern front, where a low portal arch
affords an entry to what was the castle-court.
At some distance is most happily placed,
between the stems of two magnificent elms,
the monument alluded to in the text. It is
said to have been brought from the ruins of
Egliston Prior}', and, from the armoury with
which it is richly carved, appears to have
been a tomb of the Fitz-Hughs.
The situation of Mortham is eminently
beautiful, occupying a high bank, at the
bottom of which the Greta winds out of the
dark, narrow, and romantic dell, which the
text has attempted to describe, and flows
onward through a more open valley to meet
the Tees about a quarter of a mile from the
castle. Mortham is surrounded by old trees,
happilvand widely grouped with Mr. Morritt's
new plantations.
Note XXI.
There dig, and toiiih your precious heap,
Atid bid tlie dead your treasure keep.
-P. 3^9-
If time did not permit the Bucaniers to
lavish away their plunder in their usual
debaucheries, they were wont to hide it, with
many superstitious solemnities, in the desert
islands and keys which they frequented, and
where much treasure, whose lawless owners
perished without reclaiming it, is still sup-
posed to be concealed. The most cruel of
mankind are often the most superstitious ;
and these pirates are said to have had re-
course to a horrid ritual, i n order to secure an
unearthly guardian to their treasures. They
killed a Negro or Spaniard, and buried him
with the treasure, believing that his spirit
would haunt the spot, and terrify away all in-
truders. I cannot produce any other authority
on which this custom is ascribed to them than
that of maritime tradition, which is, however,
amply sufficient for the purposes of poetry.
Note XXII.
The power
Tliat unsubdued and lurking lies
To take the felon hy surprise.
And force hint, as by magic spell.
In his despite his guilt to tell. — P. 329.
All who are conversant with the adminis-
tration of criminal justice, must remember
many occasions in which malefactors appear
to have conducted themselves with a species
of infatuation, either by making unneces-
sary confidences respecting their guilt, or by
suffden and involuntary allusions to circum-
stances by which it could not fail to be
exposed. A remarkable instance occurred
in the celebrated case of Eugene Arain. A
skeleton being found near Knaresborougli,
was supposed, by the persons who gathered
around the spot, to be the remains of one
Clarke, who had disappeared some years
before, under circumstances leading to ,1
suspicion of his having been murderecT. One
Houseman, who had mingled in the crowd,
suddenly said, while looking at the skeleton,
and hearing the opinion which was buzzed
around, 'That is no more Dan Clarke's bone
than it is mine I ' — a sentiment expressed so
positively, and with such peculiarit)' of
manner, as to lead all who heard him to infer
tliat he must necessarily know where the
real body had been interred. Accordingly,
being apprehended, he confessed having
assisted Eugene Aram to murder Clarke,
and to hide his body in Saint Robert's Cave.
It happened to the author himself, while con-
\ersingwith a person accused of an atrocious
crime, for the purpose of rendering him pro-
fessional assistance upon his trial, to hear
the prisoner, after the most solemn and
reiterated protestations that he was guiltless.
(RoReB^.
391
sud<ienl3-, and, as it were, involuntarily, in
the course of his communications, make such
an admission as was altogether incompatible
with innocence.
Note XXIII.
Brackcnbiiry' s dismal /otvcr. — P. 332.
This tower has been already mentioned.
It is situated near the north-eastern ex-
tremity of the wall which encloses B.arnard
Castle, and is traditionally said to have been
the prison. By an odd coincidence, it bears
a name which we naturally connect with
imprisonment, from its being that of Sir
Robert Brackenbury, lieutenant of the
Tower of London under Edward IV and
Richard III. There is, indeed, some reason
to conclude, that the tower may actually
have derived the name from that family,
for Sir Robert Brackenbury himself pos-
sessed considerable property not far from
Barnard Castle.
Note XXIV.
Nobles and Icizij^/i/s, so proud of late.
Must Jiite for freedom and estate.
Right /leavy s/iall /lis rajisom he.
Unless that maid coDipoiiitd zvith thee !
After the battle of Marston Moor, the
Earl of Newcastle retired beyond sea in dis-
gust, and many of his followers laid down
their arms, and made the best composition
they could with the Committees of Parlia-
ment. Fines were imposed upon them in
proportion to their estates and degrees of
delinquency, and these fines were often
bestowed upon such persons as had deserved
well of the Commons. In some circum-
stances it happened, that the oppressed
cavaliers were fain to form family alliances
with some powerful person among the
triumphant party. The whole of Sir Robert
Howard's excellent comedy of The Com-
mittee turns upon the plot of Mr. and Mrs.
Day to enrich their famil)-, by compelling
Arabella, whose estate was uniler sequestra-
tion, to marry their son Abel, as the price
liy which she was to compound with Parlia-
ment for delinquency ; that is, for attachment
to the royal cause.
Note XXV.
The Indian, prowling for his prey,
U 'ho hears the settlers track his "li'ay.
-P. 333-
The patience, abstinence, and ingenuity
exerted by the North-American Indians,
when in pursuit of plunder or vengeance, is
the most distinguished feature in their char-
acter ; and the activity and address which
they display in their retreat is equally sur-
prising. Adair, whose absurd hypotheses
and turgid style do not affect the general
authenticity of his anecdotes, has recorded
an instance which seems incredible.
'When the Chickasah nation was engaged
in a former war with the Muskohge, one of
their young warriors set off against them to
revenge the blood of a near relation. . . .
He went through the most unfrequented and
thick parts of the woods, as such a dangerous
enterprise required, till he arrived opposite
to the great and old beloved town of refuge,
Koosah, which stands high on the eastern
side of a bold river, about 250 yards broad,
that runs by the late dangerous Albehama-
I'"ort, down to the black poisoning Mobille,
and so into the Gulf of Mexico. There he
concealed himself under cover of the top of
a fallen pine-tree, in view of the ford of the
old trading-path, where the enemy now and
then pass the river in their light poplar
canoes. All his war-store of provisions con-
sisted of three stands of barbicued venison,
till he had an opportunity to revenge blood,
and return home. He waited with watchful-
ness and patience almost three days, when
a young man, a woman, and a girl, passed
a little wide of him an hour before sunset.
The former he shot down, tomahawked the
other two, and scalped each of them in
a trice, in full view of the town. By way of
bravado, he shaked the scalps before them,
sounding the awful death-whoop, and set off
along the trading-path, trusting to his heels,
w hile a great many of the enemy ran to their
arms and gave chase. Seven miles from
thence he entered the great blue ridge of the
A palahche Mountains. About an hour before
day he had run over seventy miles of that
mountainous tract ; then, after sleeping two
hours in a sitting posture, leaning his back
against a tree, he set off again with fresh
speed. As he threw away the venison when
he found himself pursued by the enemy, he
was obliged to support nature with such
herbs, roots, and nuts, as his sharp eyes,
with a running glance, directed him to snatch
up in his course. Though I often have rode
that war-path alone, when delay might have
proved dangerous, and with as fine and
strong horses as any in America, it took me
five days to ride from the aforesaid Koosah
to this sprightly warrior's place in the Chic-
kasah country, the distance of 300 computed
miles ; yet he ran it, and got home safe and
well at about eleven o'clock of the third
day, which was only one day and a half
and two nights.'— Adaik's History of
the American Indians. Lond. 1775, 4to.
P- 395-
392
(Itoiee to
Note XXVI.
/;/ Rcdcsdale his yoiiih liad heard
Each art her tvt'/y dalesmen daj'ed,
II 'hen Rooke7t-edgi\ and Redswair high.
To bugle rung and bloodhound's cry.
'What manner of cattle-stealers the-y are
that inhabit these valleys in the marches of
both kingdoms, John Lesley, a Scotche man
himself, and Bishop of Ross, will inform you.
They sally out of their own borders in the
night, in troops, through unfrequented by-
ways and many intricate windings. All the
day-time they refresh themselves and their
horses in lurking holes they had pitched upon
before, till they arrive in the dark in those
places they have a design upon. As soon as
they have seized upon the booty, they, in like
manner, return home in the night, through
blind ways, and fetching manv a compass.
The more skilful any captain is to pass
through those wild deserts, crooked turnings,
and deep precipices, in the thickest mists, his
reputation is the greater, and he is looketl
upon as a. man of an excellent head. And
they are so very cunning, that they seldom
have their booty taken from them, unless
sometimes when, by the help of bloodhounds
following them exactly upon the track, they
may chance to fall into the hands of their
adversaries. When being taken, they have
so much persuasive eloquence, and so many
smooth insinuating words at command, that
if they do not move their judges, nay, and
even their adversaries, (notwithstanding the
severity of their natures,) to have mercy, yet
they incite them to admiration and com-
passion.'— Camden's Britannia.
The inhabitants of the valleys of Tyne and
Reed were, in ancient times, so inordinately
addicted to these depredations, that in 1564,
the Incorporated Merchant-adventurers of
Newcastle made a law that none born in
these districts should be admitted apprentice.
|rhe inhabitants are stated to be so generally
addicted to rapine, that no faith should be
reposed in those proceeding from 'such lewde
and wicked progenitors.' This regulation
continued to stand unrepealed until 1771.
A beggar, in an old play, describes himself
as 'born in Redesdale, in Northumberland,
and come of a wight-riding surname, called
the Robsons, good honest men and true,
saving a liltle shifting for their living,
God liclp thcni!' — a description which would
Jiave applied to most Borderers on both sides.
Reidswair, famed for a skirmish to which
it gives name, [see Border Minstrelsy, vol.
ii. p. ic;,] is on the very edge of the Carter-
fell, which divides England from Scotland.
The Rooken is a place upon Reedwater.
Bertram, being described as a native of these
dales, where the habits of hostile depredation
long sun-ived the union of the crowns, may
liave been, in some degree, prepared by
education for tlie exercise of a similar trade
in the wars of the Bucaniers.
Note XXVII.
Hiding Ills face, lestfoemcn s/^y
The sparkle of his swaj-thy eye. — P. 3,^4.
After one of the recent battles, in which
the Irish rebels were defeated, one of their
most active leaders was found in a bog, in
which he was immersed up to the shoulders,
while his head was concealed by an im-
pending ledge of turf. Being detected and
seized, notwithstanding his precaution, he
became solicitous to know how his retreat
had been discovered. ' I caught,' answered
the Sutherland Highlander, by whom he was
taken, 'the sparkle of your eye.' Those who
are accustomed to mark hares upon their
form usually discover them by the same
circumstance.
Note XXVIII.
Here stood a wretch, -prepared to change
His so/il's redemption for reveus^e I
-P- 3.3,v
It is agreed by all the writers upon magic
and witchcraft, that revenge was the most
common motive for the pretended compact
between Satan and his vassals. The in-
genuity of Reginald Scot has \ery happily
stated how such an opinion came to root
itself, not only in the minds of the public and
of the judges, but even in that of the poor
wretches themselves who were accused of
sorcery, and were often firm believers in
their own power and their own guilt.
' One sort of such as are said to be
witches, are women which be commonly old,
lame, blear-eyed, pale, foul, and full of
wrinkles ; poor, sullen, superstitious, or
papists, or such as know no religion ; in
whose drowsie minds the devil hath gotten
a fine seat ; so as what miscliief, mischance,
calamity, or slaughter is brought to pass,
they are easilv perswaded the same is done
by themselves, imprinting in their minds an
earnest and constant imagination there-
of. . . . These go from house to house, and
from door to door, for a pot of milk, yest,
drink, pottage, or some such relief, without
the which they could hardly live ; neither
obtaining for their .service or pains, nor yet
by their art, nor yet at the devil's hands,
(with whom they are said to make a perfect
and visible bargain,) either beauty, money,
promotion, w-ealtli, pleasure, honour, know-
jerlge, learning, or any other benefit whatso-
ever.
'It falleth out many a time, that neither
their necessities nor their expectation is
answered or served in those places where
they beg or borrow, but rather their lewd-
ness is by their neighliours reproved. And
fartlier, in tract of time the witch waxeth
odious and tedious to her neighbours, and
they again are despised and despited of her ;
so as sometimes she curseth one, and some-
times another, and that from the master of
(Uoftefi^.
393
tlie liouse, liis wife, cliildrcn, cattle, &c., to
the little pig that lieth in tlie stie. Thus, in
process of time, tiiey have all displeased her,
and she hath wished evil luck unto them all;
perhaps with curses and imprecations made
in form. Doubtless (at length) some of lier
neighbours die or fall sick, or some of their
children are visited with diseases that vex
them strangely, as apoplexies, epilepsies,
convulsions, hot fevers, worms, &c., whicli,
by ignorant parents, are supposed to be the
vengeance of witches. . . .
'The witch, on the other side, expecting
herneighbours' mischances, and seeing things
sometimes come to pass according to her
wishes, curses, and incantations, (for Bodin
himself confesses, that not above two in a
hundred of their witchings or wishings take
effect,) being called before a justice, by due
examination of the circumstances, is driven
to see her imprecations and desires, and her
neighbours' liarms and losses, to concur, and,
as it were, to take effect ; and so confesseth
that she (as a goddess) hath brought such
things to pass. Wherein not only she, but
the accuser, and also the justice, are foullj'
deceived and abused, as being, through her
confession, and other circumstances, per-
swaded(to the injury of God's glory) that she
Iiath done, or can 'dn, that Wiich is proper
only to God himself.' — Scot's Discovery
of Wiicho'a/t. Lond. 1655, f°'- PP- 4i 5-
Note XXIX.
Of my mai'audiiig on the clotvns
Of Calverley and Bradford dotuus.
-P- 336.
The troops of the King, when they first
took the field, were as well disciplined as
could be expected from circumstances. But
as the circumstances of Charles became less
favourable, and his funds for regularly pay-
ing his forces decreased, habits of military
license prevailed among them in greater
excess. Lacy the player, who ser\ed his
master during the Civil War, brought out,
after the Restoration, a piece called The Old
Troop, in which he seems to have commem-
orated some real incidents which occurred in
his military career. The names of the officers
of the Troop sufficiently express their habits.
We have Flea-flint Plunder-Master-General,
Captain Ferret-farm, and Quarter-Master
Burn-drop. The officers of the Troop are in
league with these worthies, and connive at
their plundering the country for a suitable
share in the booty. All this was undoubtedly
drawn from the life, which Lacy had an
opportunity to study. The moral of the
whole is comprehended in a rebuke given to
the lieutenant, whose disorders in the country
are said to prejudice the King's cause more
than his courage in the field could recom-
pense. The piece is by no means void of
farcical humour.
Note XXX.
BrignaV s tvoods^ and Scargill's rvar<c,
E'en nou\ o'er many a sister caz'e. — P. 337.
The banks of the Greta, below Rutherford
Bridge, abound in seams of greyish slate,
which are wrought in some places to a very
great depth under ground, thus forming arti-
ficial caverns, which, when the seam has
been exhausted, are gradually hidden by the
underwood which grows in profusion upon
the romantic banks of the river. In times of
public confusion, they might be well adapted
to the purposes of banditti.
Note XXXI.
When Spain waged warfare with our
land.— v. 339.
There was a short war with Spain in l6.'5-6,
which will be found to agree pretty well with
the chronology of the poem. But probably
Bertram helu an opinion very common
among the maritime lieroes of the age, that
' there was no peace be3'ond the Line.'
The Spanish giiarda-costas were constantly
employed in aggressions upon the trade and
settlements of the English and French ; and,
by their own severities, gave room for the
system of bucaniering, at first adopted in
self-defence and retaliation, and afterwards
persevered in from habit and thirst of plunder.
Note XXXIL
oitr comrades' strife. — P. 340.
The laws of the Bucaniers, an<l their suc-
cessors the Pirates, however severe and
equitable, were, like other laws, often set
aside by the stronger party. Their quarrels
about the division of the spoil fill their
history, and they as frequently arose out of
mere frolic, or the tyrannical humour of their
chiefs. An anecdote of Teach, (called Black-
beard,) shows that their habitual indifference
for human life extended to their companions,
as well as their enemirs and captives.
'One night, drinking in his cabin witli
Hands, the pilot and another man. Black-
beard, without any provocation, privately
draws out a small pair of pistols, and cocks
them under the table, which, being perceived
by the man, he withdrew upon deck, leaving
Hands, the pilot, and the captain together.
When the pistols were ready, he blew out
the candles, and, crossing his hands, dis-
charged them at his company. Hands, the
master, was shot through the knee, and
lamed for life ; the other pistol did no exe-
cution.'—Johnson's History of Pirates.
Lond. 1724, 8vo, vol. i. p. 3<S.
Another anecdote of this worthy may be
also mentioned. ' The hero of whom we ani
writing was thoroughly accomplished this
way, and some of his frolics of wickedness
O 3
394
Qtofee to
were so extravagant, as if he aimed at making-
his men believe Tie was a devil incarnate ; for,
being one day at sea, and a little flushed
with drink, "Come," says he, " let us make
a hell of our own, and try how long; we can
bear it." Accordingh", he, with two or three
others, went down into the hold, and, closing
up all the hatches, filled several pots full of
brimstone and otlier combustible matter, and
set it on fire, and so continued till they were
almost suffocated, when some of the men
cried out for air. At length he opened the
hatches, not a little pleased that he held out
the longest.' — Idi'd. p. 90.
Note XXXIII.
• my rairgers go
Even now to track a inilk-wliitc doe.
-P. 340.
' Immediately after supper, the huntsman
should go to his master's chamber, and if he
serve a king, then let him go to the master of
the game's chamber, to knowin what quarter
he determineth to hunt the day following,
that he may know his own quarter ; that
done, he may go to bed, to the end that he
may rise the ear Her in the morning, according
to the time and season, and according to the
place where he must hunt : then when lie is
up and ready, let him drinke a good draught,
and fetch his hound, to make him breake his
fast a little : and let him not forget to fdl his
liottel with good wine: that done, let him
take a littlevinegar intothepalmeof hishand,
and put it in the nostrils of his hound, for to
make him snuffe, to the end liis scent maybe
the perfpcter, then let him go to the wood.
.... When the huntsman perceiveth that it
is time to begin to beat, let him put his hound
before him, and .beat the outsides of springs
or thickets ; and if he find an hart or deer
that likes him, let him mark well wliether it
be fresh or not, which he may know as well
by the maner of his hounds drawing, as also
by the C3'e When lie hath well
considered what maner of hart it may be, and
hath marked every thing to judge by, then
let him draw till he come to the couert where
he is gone to ; and let him harbour him if he
can, still marking all his tokens, as well by
the slot as by the entries, fovles, or such-like.
That done, let him plash or Sruse down small
twigges, some aloft and some below, as the
art requircth, and therewithall, whilest his
hound is bote, let him beat the outsides, and
make his ring-walkes, twice or thrice about
the wood.' — The Noble Ai-t of I'enerie, or
Hiintuig. Lond. 161 1, 4to, pp. 76, 77.
Note XXXIV.
Adieu Jor evermore. — P. 341.
The last verse of this song is taken from
the fragment of an old Scottish ballad, of
which I only recollected two verses when the
first edition of Rokeby was published. Mr.
Thomas Sheridan kindly pointed out to me
an entire copy of this beautiful song, which
seems to express the fortunesof some follower
of the Stuart family : -
It was a' for our rightful kin;;
That we left fair Scotland's strand
It was a' for our rightful king
That we e'er saw Irish land,
My dear.
That we e'er saw Irish land.
Now all is done that man can do,
And all is done in vain !
My love ! my native land, adieu I
For I must cross the main,
My dear,
I"or I must cross the main.
He turn'd him round and right .about,
All on the Irish shore,
He gave his bridle-reins a shake,
AVith, Adieu for evermore,
My dear !
Adieu for evermore !
The soldier frae the war return-,.
And the merchant frae the main,
But I hae parted wi' my love.
And ne'er to meet again.
My dear,
And ne'er to meet again.
"When day is gone and night is come,
And .a' are boun' to sleep.
I think on them that *s far awa
The lee-lang night, and weej),
My dear.
The lee-lang night, and weep.
Note XXXV.
Rere-cross on Staninore. — P. ,^42.
This is a fragment of an old cross, with its
pediment, surrounded by an intrenchment,
upon the very summit of the waste ridge of
Stanmore, near a small house of entertain-
ment called the Spittal. It is called Rere-
cross, or Ree-cross, of which Holinshed gives
us the following explanation ; —
' At length a peace was concluded betwixt
the two kings vnder these conditions, that
Malcolme should enjoy that part of North-
umberland which lieth "betwixt Tweed, Cum-
berl.and, and Stainmore, and doo homage to
the Kinge of England for the same. In the
midst of Stainmore there shall be a crosse
set up, with the Kinge of England's image
on the one side, and the Kinge of Scotland's on
the other, to signifie that one is march to
England, and the other to Scotland. _ This
crosse was called the Roi-crosse, that is, the
crosse of the King.'— HOLINSHED. Lond.
i8i)S, 4to, v. 280.
Holinshed's sole authority seems to have
been Boethius. But it is not improbable
that hisaccountmaybethe trueone, although
the circumstance does not occur in Wintoun's
Chronicle. The situation of the cross, and
the pains taken to defend it, seem to indicate
that it was intended for a land-mark of im-
portance.
(Ko6e6p,
395
Note XXXVI.
Hast thoii lodged our deer }—V, 34.2,
The duty of the ranger, or pricker, was
first to lodge or harbour tlie deer ; i. e. to
discover his retreat, as described at length
in Note XXXIII, and then to make his report
to his prince or master : —
• Before the King I come report to make,
Then husht and peace for noble Tristranie's sake. . .
My liege, I went this morning on my quest.
My hound did stick, and seem'd to vent some beast.
I held him short, and drawing after him,
I might behold the hart was feeding trym ;
His head was high, and large in each degree.
Well paulmed eke. and seem'd full sound to be.
Of colour browne, he beareth eight and tennc,
Of stately height, and long he seemed then.
His beam seem'd great, in good proportion led,
"VVell barred and round, well pearled neare his liead.
He seemed fayre tweene blacke and berrie brounde,
He seemed well fed by all the signes 1 found.
For when I had well marked him with eye,
I stept aside, to watch where he would lye.
And when I had so wayted full an houre.
That he might be at layre and in his boure,
1 cast about to harbour him full sure ;
My hound by sent did me thereof assure. . .
Then if he ask what slot or view I fnuml,
I say the slot or view was long on ground ;
The toes were great, the joynt bones round and
short,
The shinne bones large, the dew-claws close in jjort :
Sliort iitynted was he, hollow-footed eke,
An hart to hunt as any man can seeko.'
The Art of I'eneric, ut supra, p. 97.
Note XXXVII.
When Dctnnai'k's raven soared on higk^
l^riitmphani through Northmnhriaji sky\
7"/7/, hovertng 72ear^ her fatal croak
Bade Reged^s Britons dread the yoke.
-P- 34,5-
About the year of God 866, the Danes,
under their celebrated le.iders Inguar (more
properly Agnar) and Hubba, sons, it is said,
of tne still more celebrated Regnar Lodbrog,
invaded Northumberland, bringing with them
the magical standard, so often mentioned
in poetry, called ReAFEN, or Rumfan, from
its bearing the figure of a raven : —
* Wrought by the sisters of tlic Danish king,
Of furious Ivar in a midnii^'Iit hour :
"While the sick moon, at their enclianted songf
\V'rapt in pale tempest, labour'd throUL,'h the clouds.
The demons of destruction then, they say.
Were all abroad, and mixing with the woof
Their baleful power : The sisters ever suul^,
** Shake, standard, shake this ruin on our foes."'
THOMSON and MALLET'S Al/rcii.
The Danes renewed and extended their
incursions, and began to colonize, establishing
a kind of capital at York, from which the)'
spread their conquests and incursions in
every direction. Stanmore, which divides
the mountains of Westmoreland .and Cum-
berland, was probably the boundary of the
Danish kingdom in that direction. The dis-
trict to the west, known in ancient British
history by the name of Reged, had never
been conquered by the Saxons, and continued
to maintain a precarious independence until
it was ceded to Malcolm, King of Scots, by
William the Conqueror, probably on account
of its similarity in language and manners to
the neighbouring British kingdom of Strath-
Clyde.
Upon the extent and duration of the Danish
sovereignty in Northumberland, the curious
may consult tlie various authorities (]uoted
in the Gcsta ct I'csti^ia DaitoriDii extra
Daiiiaiii, tom. ii. p. 40. The most powerful
of their Northumbrian leaders seems to have
been Ivar. called, from the extent of his con-
quests, W'idjam, that is, The Slridcr.
Note XXXVIII.
Beneath the shade tlie Nnrthiiien came,
Fix^d on each z'ate a Runic name.— P. 34^.
The heathen Danes have left several traces
of their religion in the upper part of Teesdah'.
Balder-garth, which derives its name from
the unfortunate son of Odin, is a tract of
waste land on the very ridge of Stanmore ;
and <a brook, which falls into the Tees near
Barnard Castle, is named after the saine
deity. A field upon the banks of the Tees is
also termed Woden-Croft, from the supreme
deit)' of the Edda. Thorsgill, of which a de-
scription is attempted in st.anza ii, is a beauti-
ful little brook and dell, running up behind
the ruins of Egliston Abbey. Thor was the
Hercules of the Scandinavian mythology,
a dreadful giant-queller, and in that capacity
the chainpion of the gods, and the defender
of Asgard, the northern Olympus, against the
frequent attacks of the inhabitants of Jotun-
hem. There is an old poem in the Edda of
Sosmund, called the Song of Thrym, which
turns upon the loss and recover)- of the Mace,
or Hammer, which was Thor's principal wea-
pon, and on which much of his power seems to
have depended. It may be read to great ad-
vantage in a version equally spirited .and liter.al,
among the Miscellaneous Translations and
Poems of the Honourable William Herbert.
XXXIX.
Who has iiot heard hozv brave C Neale
In English b/ood imbrued his steel ? — P. 344.
The O'Neale here meant, for more than
one succeeded to the chieftainship during tin-
reign of Elizabeth, was Hugh, the grandson
of Con O'Neale, called Con B.acco, or the
Lame. His father, Matthew O'Kelly, was
illegitimate, and, being the son of a black-
smith's wife, was usually called Matthew the
Blacksmith. His father, nevertheless, des-
tined his succession to him ; anrl he was
created, by Elizabeth, Baron of Dungannon.
Upon the death of Con Bacco, this Matthew
596
(^okB to
was slain \>y his hrotiipr. Hugh narrowly
escapeil the same fate, and was protected by
the English. Shane O'Neale, his uncle, called
Shane Dymas, was succeeded by Turlough
Lynogh O'Neale ; after whose death Hugh,
having assumed the chieftainship, became
nearly as formidable to the English as any
by whom it had been possessed. He rebelled
repeatedly, and as often made submissions,
of which it was usually a condition that he
should not any longer assume the title of
O'Neale ; in lieu of which he was created
Earl of Tyrone. But this condition he never
observed longer than until the pressure of
superior force was withdrawn. His baffling
the gallant liarl of Essex in the field, and
overreaching him in a treaty, was the in-
duction to that nobleman's tragedy. Lonl
Mountjoy succeeded in iinally subjugating
O'Neale; but it was not till the succession
of James, to whom he made personal sub-
mission, and was received with civility at
court. Yet, according to Morrison, 'no
respect to him could containe many weomen
in those parts, who had lost husbands and
children in the Irish warres, from flinging
durt and stones at the carle as he passed,
and from reuiling him \\ itli bitter words ;
yea, when the earle had been at court, ancl
there obtaining his majcstie's direction for
his pardon and performance of all con-
ditions promise<l him by the Lord Mountjoy,
was about September to returne, he durst
not pass by tliose parts without direction to
the shiriffes, to convey him with troops of
horse from place to place, till he was safely
imbarked and put to sea for Ireland.' —
Itinerary^ p. 2g6.
Note XL.
But chief arose his viclor pride^
U'Aen that brave Marshal /ought ajid died.
The chief victoiy which Tyrone obtained
over the English was in a batth- fought near
Blackwater, while he besieged afort garrisoned
by the English, which commanded the passes
into his country.
'This captain and his few warders did
with no less courage suffer hunger, and,
having eaten the few horses they had, lived
■\pon hearbes growing in the ditches and
\yals, suffering all extremities, till the lord-
lieutenant, in the moneth of August, sent
Sir Henry Bagnal, marshall of Ireland, with
the most choice companies of foot and horse-
troopes of the English army to victual this
fort, and to raise the rebels siege. When the
English entered the place and thicke woods
beyond Armagh, on the east side, Tyrone
(with all the rebels assembled to him) pricked
forward with rage, enuy, and settled rancour
against the marshall, assayled the English,
and turning his full force against the mar-
shall's person, had the successe to kill him,
valiantly fighting among the thickest of the
rebeJs. ^^'hereupon the English being dis-
mayed with his death, the rebels obtained
a great victory against them. I terme it
great, since the English, from their first
arriual in that kingdome, neuer had received
so great an ouerthrow as this, commonly
called the Defeat of Blackewater ; thirteene
valiant captaines and 1500 common souldiers
(whereof many were of the old companies
which had serued in Brittany vnder General
Norreys) were slain in the field. The jdelding
of the fort of Blackewater followed this
disaster, when the assaulted guard saw no
hope of relief ; but especially vpon messages
sent to Captain \\'illiams from our broken
forces, retired to Armagh, professing that all
their safety depended \pon his yielding the
fort into the hands of Tyrone, without which
danger Captaine Williams professed that no
want or miserie should have induced him
thereunto.'— FvNES MoRVSON's Itinerary.
London, 1617, fol. part ii. p. 24.
T3-rone is said to have enterta'ined a per-
sonal animosity against the knight-marshal,
Sir Henry Bagnal, whom he accused of
detaining the letters which he sent to Queen
Elizabeth, explanatory of his conduct, and
offering terms of submission. The river,
called by the English, Blackwater, is termeil
in Irish, Avon-Duff, which has the same
signification. Both names are mentioned by
Spenser in his 'Marriage of the Thames and
the Medway.' But I understand that his
verses relate not to the Blackwater of Ulster,
but to a river of the same name in the south
of Ireland : —
'Swift Avon-nuff. wliitli of tlie liiiglibhinen
Is called Blackwater.'
Note XLI.
77^1,' Tan isl he io great O'Neale. — P. .^44.
' Eudox. What is that which you call
Tanist and Tanistry? These be names and
terms never heard of nor known to us.
'/;'<•;/. It is a custom amongst all the
Irish, that presently after the death of one
of their chiefe lords or captaines, they doe
presently assemble themselves to a place
generally appointed and knowne unto them,
to choose another in his stead, where they
do nominate and elect, for the most part not
the eldest sonne, nor any of the children of
the lord deceased, but the next to him in
blood, that is, the eldest and worthiest, as
commonly the next brother unto him, if he
have any, or the next cousin, or so forth,
as any is elder in that kindred or sept ; and
then next to them doc' they choose the next
of the blood to be Tanist, who shall next
succeed him in the said captainry, if he live
thereunto.
' Eudox. Do the)' not use any ceremony
in this election, for all barbarous nations are
(Roftefi^.
397
commonly great observers of ceremonies and
superstitious rites?
^Ircn. They use to place him that shall
be their captaine upon a stone, always
reserved to tliat purpose, and placed com-
monly upon a hill. In some of which I have
seen formed and engraven a foot, which they
say was the measure of their first captaine's
foot ; whereon hee standing, receives an oath
to preserve all the ancient former customes
of the countrey inviolable, and to deliver up
the succession peaceably to his Tanist, and
then hath a wand delivered unto him by
some w hose proper office that is ; after which,
'iescending from the stone, he turnetli himself
round, thrice forwards and thrice backwards.
' Eudox. But how is the Tanist chosen ?
* Ireii. They say he setteth but one foot
upon the stone, and receiveth the like oath
that the captaine did."— Spenseu's View of
the State of Ireland, apud Works, Lond.
1&15, 8vo. vol. viii. p. 306.
The Tanist, therefore, of O'Neale, was the
heir-apparent of his power. This kind of
succession appears also to have regulated,
in very remote times, the succession to the
crown of Scotland. It would have been
imprudent, if not impossible, to have as-
serted a minor's right of succession in those
stormy days, when the principles of policy
were summed up in my friend Mr. Words-
worth's lines: — •
' the good okl rule
Sutliceth them ; the simple plan,
Th;it they shouUl take who have the power,
Anil they >,houkl keep who can.'
Note XLII.
His plaited hair in elf-locks spread, l^-c.
-P- 345.
There is here an attempt to describe the
ancient Irish dress, of which a poet of Queen
Elizabeth's day has given us the following
particulars: —
' I niarvailde in my niynde.
and thereupon did muse,
To see a bride of heavenlie hewe
an ou^lie fere to chuse.
This bride it is the soile,
the bridegroome is the karne.
■\\ith writhed glibbes. like wicked sprits,
w iih visage rough and stearnc ;
\Vith sculles upon their poalles,
instead of civill cappes ;
With speares in hand, and swordes bcsyiles,
to beare otf after clappes ;
With jackettes long and large,
which shroud simplicitie,
Though spitfull darts which they do bears
iniporte iniquitie.
Their shirtes be very strange,
not reaching past the thie ;
With pleates on pleates thei pleated are
as thick as pleates may lye.
Whose sleaves hang trailing dounc
.ilm<ist unto the shoe ;
And \vith a mantell conunonlie
the Irish karne do goe.
Now some amongst the reste
doe use another wcede ;
A coate I meane, of strange devise,
which fancy tirst did breade.
His skirts be very shorte.
with pleates thick about.
And Irish trouzes moe to put
tlieir strange protactours out.
DERRICH's Jma^e 0/ Ireland, apud SO.MERS'
Tracts. Hdin. 1S09, 4to, vol. i. p. 585.
Some curious wooden engravings accom-
pany this poem, from whicli it would seem
that the ancient Irish dress was (the bonnet
excepted) very similar to that of the Scottish
Highlanders. The want of a covering on
the head was supplied by the mode of plaiting
and arranging the hair, which was called the
glibbe. These glibbes, according to Spenser,
were fit marks for a thief, since, when he
wished to disguise himself, he could either
cut it off entirely, or so pull it over his eyes
as to render it very hard to recognize him.
This, however, is nothing to the reprobation
with which the same poet regards that
favourite part of the Irish dress, the mantlf.
' It is a fit house for an outlaw, a meet bed
for a rebel, and an apt cloke for a thief.
First, the outlaw being tor his many crimes
and villanyes banished from the townes and
houses of honest men, and wandring in w aste
places far from danger of law, maketh his
mantle his house, and uniler it covereth him-
self from the wrath of heaven, from the offence
of the earth, and from the sight of men.
When it raineth, it is his pent-house ; when
it bloweth, it is his tent ; when it freezeth, it
is his tabernacle. In summer he can wear
it loose, in winter he can wrap it close ; at
all times he can use it ; never heavy, never
cumbersome. Likewise for a rebel it is as
serviceable ; for in his warre that he maketh,
(if at least it deserve the naine of warre,)
when he still flyeth from his foe, and lurketh
in the thicke woods and straite passages,
waiting for advantages, it is his bed, yea,
and almost his household stuff. For the
wood is his house against all weathers, and
his mantle is his couch to sleep in. Therein
he wrappeth himself round, and coucheth
himself strongly against the gnats, which in
that country doe more annoy the naked
rebels while they keep the woods, and doc
more sharply wound them, than all their
enemies swords or speares, which can seldom
come nigh them: yea, and oftentimes their
mantle serveth them when they are neere
driven, being wrapped about their left arme,
instead of a target, for it is hard to cut
thorough with a sword ; besides, it is light to
beare, light to throw away, and being (as
they commonly are) naked, it is to them all
in all. Lastly, for a thiefe it is so handsome
as it may seem it was first invented for him ;
for under it he may cleanly convey any fit
pillage that cometh handsomely in his way,
and when he goeth abroad in the night in
frcebooting, it is his best and surest friend;
for lying, as they often do, two or three
nights together abroad to watch for their
booty, with that they can prettily shroud
398
Qtotee (o
themselves under a bush or bankside till
they may conveniently do their errand ; and
when all is over, he can in his mantle passe
through any town or company, being close
hooded over his head, as he useth, from
knowledge of any to whom he is indangered.
Besides this, he or any man els that is
disposed to mischief or villany, may, under
his mantle, goe privily armed without sus-
picion of any, carry his head-piece, his skean,
or pistol, if he please, to be always in
readiness.' — Spenser's I'lcw of the State of
Ireland^ apud IVorks, ut supra, viii. 367.
The javelins, or darts, of the Irish, which
they threw with great dexterity, appear,
from one of the prints already mentioned,
to ha\e been about four feet long, with
a strong steel head and thick knotted shaft.
Note XLIII.
H'/t/t tuild majestic -port and tone^
Like envoy of some barbarous throne.
The Irish chiefs, in their intercourse with
the English, and with each other, were wont
to assume the language and style of inde-
pendent royalty. Morrison has preserved
a summons from Tyrone to a neighbouring
chieftain, which runs in tlie following terms ; —
'O'Nealecommendethhimuntoyou, Morish
Fitz-Thomas; O'Neale requesteth you, in
God's name, to take part with him, and
fight for your conscience and right ; and in
so doing, O'Neale will spend to see you
righted in all your affaires, and will help you.
And if you come not at O'Neale betwixt this
and to-morrow at twelve of the clocke, and
take his part, O'Neale is not beholding to
you, and will doe to the uttermost of his
power to overthrow you, if you come not to
him at furthest by Satturday at noone. From
Knocke Dumayne in Calrie, the fourth of
February, 1599.
'O'Neale requesteth you to come speake
with him, and doth giue you his word that you
shall receive no harme neither in comming
nor going from him, whether you be friend
or not, and bring with you to (j'Neale Gerat
Fitzgerald.
(Subscribed) 'O'NEALE.'
Nor did the royalty of O'Neale consist in
words alone. Sir John Harrington paid him
a visit at the time of his truce with Essex,
and, after mentioning his 'fern table, and
fern forms, spread under the stately canopy
of heaven,' he notices what constitutes the
real power of every monarch, the love, namely,
and allegiance of his subjects. ' His guards,
for the most part, were beardless boys with-
out shirts ; who in the frost wade as
familiarly through rivers as water-spaniels.
With what cliarm such a master makes them
love him, I know not ; but if he bid come,
they come ; if go, they do go; if he say do
this, they do it.' — Niigae Antiquae. Lond.
1784, Svo, vol. i. p. 251.
Note XLIV.
His fosterfather was his guide. — P. 346.
There was no tie more sacred among the
Irish than that which connected the foster-
father, as well as the nurse herself, with the
child they brought up.
'Foster-fathers spend much more time,
money, and affection on their foster-children
than their own ; and in return take from them
clothes, money for their several professions,
and arms, and, even for any vicious purposes,
fortunes and cattle, not so much by a claim
of right as by extortion; and they will even
carry those things off as plunder. All who
have been nursed by the same person pre-
serve a greater mutual affection and confi-
dence in each other than if they were natural
brothers, whom they will even hate for the
sake of these. When chid by their parents,
they fly to their foster-fathers, who frequently
encourage them to make open war on their
parents, train them up to every excess of
wickedness, and make them most abandoned
miscreants ; as, on the other hand, the nurses
make the young women, whom they bring
up for every excess. If a foster child is sick,
it is incredible how soon the nurses hear of it,
liowever distant, and with what solicitude
they attend it by day and night.' — Giraldiis
Cambrcnsis, quoted by Camden, iv. 368.
This custom, like many other Irish usages,
prevailed till of late in the' Scottish Highlands,
and was cherished by the chiefs as an easy
mode of extending their influence and con-
nexion ; and even in the Lowlands, during
the last century, the connexion between the
nurse and foster-child was seldom dissolved
but by the death of one party.
Note XLV.
Great Nial of tlie Pledges Nine. — P. 347.
NealNaighvallach,orOf the Nine Hostages,
is said to have been Monarch of all Ireland,
during the end of the fourth or beginning of
the fifth century. He exercised a predatory
warfare on the coast of England and of
Bretagne, or Armorica; and from the latter
country brought off the celebrated Saint
Patrick, a youth of sixteen, among other
captives, whom he transported to Ireland.
Neal derived his epithet from nine nations,
or tribes, whom he held under his subjection,
and from whom he took hostages. From
one of Neal's sons were derived the Kinel-
eoguin, or Race of 1 yrone, which afforded
monarchs both to Ireland and to Ulster.
Neal (according to O'Flaherty's Ogygia) was
killed by a poisoni'd arrow, in one ot his
descents on the coast of Bretagne.
(KofteBp.
399
Note XLVI.
Shaite-Dyiuas wild. — P. 347.
This Shane-Dyraas, or John the Wanton,
held the title and power of O'Neale in the
earlier part of Elizabeth's reign, against
whom he rebelled repeatedly.
' This chieftain is handed down to us as the
most proud and profligate man on earth. He
was immoderately addicted to women and
wine. He is said to have had joo tuns of
wine at once in his cellar at Dandram, but
usquebaugh was his favourite liquor. He
spared neither age nor condition of the fair
sex. Altho' so illiterate that he could not
write, he was not destitute of address ; his
understanding was strong, and his courage
daring. He had 6cxj men for his guard :
4ooofoot, 1000 horseforthe field. Heclaimed
superiority over all the lords of Ulster, and
called himself king thereof. When com-
missioners were sent to treat with him, he
said, "That, tho' the Queen were his sovereign
lady, he never made peace with her but at
her lodging \ that she had made a wise Earl
of Macartymore, but that he kept as good a
man as he; that he cared not for so mean
a title as Earl ; that his blood and power were
better than the best ; that his ancestors were
Kings of Ulster; and that he would give place
to none." His kinsman, the Earl of Kildare,
having persuaded him of the folly of contentl-
ing with the crown of England, he resolved
to attend the Queen, but in a style suited to
his princely dignity. He appeared in London
with a magnificent train of Irish Galloglasses,
arrayed in the richest habiliments of their
country, iheir heads bare, their hair flowing
on their shoulders, with their long and open
sleeves dj'ed with saffron. Thus dressed,
and surch.arged with military harness, and
armed with battle-axes, they afforded an
astonishing spectacle to the citizens, who
regarded them as the intruders of some very
distant part of the globe. But at Court his
versatility now prevailed ; his title to the
sovereignty of Tyrone was pleaded from
English laws and Irish institutions, and his
allegations were so specious, that the Queen
dismissed him with presents and assurances
of favour. In England this transaction was
looked on as the humiliation of a repenting
rebel ; in Tyrone it was considered as a treaty
ofpeace between two potentates.' — Camden'S
Britannia^ by Gough. London, 1806, fob,
vol. iv. p. 442.
When reduced to extremity by the English,
and forsaken by his allies, this Shane-Dyraas
fled to Clandeboy, then occupied by a colony of
Scottish Highlanders of the family of Mac-
Donell. He was at first courteously received;
but by degrees they began to quarrel about
the slaughter of some of their friends whom
Shane-Dymashad put todeath, and advancing
from words to deeds, fell upon him with their
broadswords, and cut liim to pieces. After
his death a law was made that none should
presume to take the name and title of
O'Neale.
Note XLVIL
Geraldine.— P. 347.
The O'Neales were closely allied with this
powerful and warlike family ; for Henry
Owen O'Neale married the daughter of
Thomas Earl of Kildare, and their son Con-
More married his cousin-german, a daughter
of Gerald Earl of Kildare. This Con-J\Iore
cursed any of his posterity who should learn
the English language, sow corn, or build
houses, so as to invite the English to settle in
their countrj-. Others ascribe this anathema
to his son Con-Bacco. Fearflatha O'Gnive,
bard to the O'Neales of Clannaboy, complains
in the same spirit of the towers and ramparts
with which the strangers had disfigured \.\\v.
fair sporting fields of Erin. — See WALKER'S
Irish Bards, p. 140.
Note XLVIIL
He chose that honour' d flag to hear.
— P- .U7-
Lacy informs us, in the old play already
quoted, how the cavalry raised by the country
gentlemen for Charles's service were usually
ofTicered. ' Vou, cornet, have a name that 's
proper for all cornets to be called by, for they
are all beardless boys in our armv. The
most part of our horse were raised thus: —
The honest country gentleman raises the troop
at h is own charge ; then he gets a Low-country
lieutenant to fight his troop safely ; then he
sends for his son from school to be his cornet :
and then he puts off his child's coat to put on
a buff-coat ; and this is the constitution of our
Note XLIX.
his fage^ the next degree.,
In that old time, to chivalry.— Y. 347.
Originally, the order of chivalry embraced
three ranks— i, the Page ; 2, the Squire ;
3, the Knight ; — a gradation which seems to
have been imitated in the mystery of free-
masonry. But, before the reign of Charles I,
the custom of serving as a squire had fallen
into disuse, though the order of the page
was still, to a certain degree, in observance.
This state of servitude was so far from infer-
ring anything degrading, that it was con-
sidered as the regular school for acquiring
every quality necessary for future distinction.
The proper nature, and the decay of the
institution, are pointed out by old Ben Jonson,
w ith his own forcible moral colouring. The
dialogue occurs between Lovell, ' a compleat
gentleman, a soldier, and a scholar, known to
have been page to the old Lord Beaufort, and
400
(Itofee io
so to have followed him in the French wars,
after companion of his studies, and left guar-
dian to his son,' and the facetious Goodstock,
host of the Light Heart. Lovel had offered to
take Goodstock's son for his page, which the
latter, in reference to the recent abuse of the
establishment, declares as ' a desperate course
oflife':—
■ Lovell. Call you that desperate, which by a Une
Of institution, from our ancestors
Hath been derived down to us, and received
In a succession, for the noblest way
Of breeding up our youth, in letters, arms,
Fair mien, discourses, civil exercise,
And all the blazon of a gentleman!
Where can he learn to vault, to ride, to fence.
To move his body gracefully ; to speak
His language purer ; or to tune his mind.
Or manners, more to the harmony of nature.
Than in the nurseries of nobility!
Host. Ay, that was when the nursery's self was
noble.
And only virtue made it, not the market.
That titles were not vented at the drum.
Or common outcry. Goodness gave the greatness.
And greatness worship : every house became
An academy of honour ; and those parts
We see departed, in the practice, now,
Quite from the institution.
Lovell. Why do you say so!
Or think so enviously! Do they not still
Learn there the Centaur's skill, the art of Thrace,
To ride ! or, Pollux' mystery, to fence !
The Pyrrhic gestures, both to dance and spring
In armour, to be active in the wars ?
To study figures, numbers, and proportions.
May yield them gre.at in counsels, and the arts
Grave Nestor and the wise Ulysses practised!
To make their English sweet upon their tongue.
As reverend Chaucer says?
Host. Sir, you mistake ;
To play Sir Pandarus, my copy hath it.
And carry messages to Madame Crcssida ;
Instead of backing the brave steed o' mornings,
To court the chambermaid : and for a leap
O' the vaulting horse, to ply the vaulting house :
For exercise of arms, a bale of dice.
Or two or three packs of cards to show the cheat,
And nimbleness of hand ; mistake a cloak
Upon my lord's back, and pawn it ; ease his pocket
Of a superfluous watch ; or geld a jewel
Of an odd stone or so ; twinge two or three buttons
From off my lady's gown : These are the arts
Or seven liberal deadly sciences
Of pagery, or rather paganism.
As the tides run ; to which if he apply him.
He may perhaps take a degree at Tyburn,
A year the earlier : come to take a lecture
Upon Aquinas at St. Thomas a Waterings,
And so go forth a laureat in hemp circle 1'
BEN JONSON'S i<er.v Imi, Act I. Scene III.
Note L.
Seem'' d half ahayidon d lo decay. — P. 35,^.
The ancient castle of Rokeby stood exactly
upon the site of the present mansion, by which
a part of its walls isenclosed. It is surrounded
bv a profusion of fine wood, and the park in
which it stands is adorned by the junction
of the Greta and of the Tees. The title
of Baron Rokeby of Armagh was, in 1777,
conferred on the' Right Reverend Richard
Robinson, Primate of Ireland, descended of
the Robinsons, formerly of Rokeby, in York-
shire.
Note LI.
Pokcbys lords of martial faijte.,
I call count iliem jiame by name. — P. 355.
The following brief pedigree of this very
ancient and once powerful family was kindly
supplied to the author by Mr. Rokebj; of
Northamptonshire, descended of the ancient
Barons of Rokeby : —
' Pedigree of the House of Rokeby.
Sir Alex. Rokeby, Knt. married to Sir
Hump. Liftle's ' daughter.
Ralph Rokeby, Esq. to Tho. Lumlej-'s
daughter.
Sir Tho. Rokeby, Knt. to Tho. Hubborn's
daughter.
Sir Ralph Rokeby, Knt. to Sir Ralph
Biggot's daughter.
Sir Thos. Rokeby, Knt. to Sir John de
Melsass' daughter, of Bennet Hall, in
Holderness.
Ralph Rokebv, Esq. to Sir Brian Staple-
ton's daughter, ofWeighill.
Sir Thos. Rokeby, Knt. to Sir Ralph
I'ry's daughter -.
Ralph Rokeby, Esq. to daughter of Mans-
field, heir of Morton ■'.
Sir Tho. Rokeby, Knt. to Stroode's
daughter and heir.
Sir Ralph Rokeby, Knt. to Sir James
Strangwayes' daughter.
Sir Thos. Rokeby, Knt. to Sir John
Hotham's daughter.
Ralph Rokeby, Esq. to Danby of Yaf-
forth's daughter and heir*.
Tho. Rokeby, Esq. to Rob. Constable's
daughter, of Cliff, serjt. at law.
Christopher Rokeby, Esq. to Lasscellsof
Brackenburgh's daughter ■''.
Thos. Rokeby, Esq. to the daughter of
Thweng.
Sir Thomas Rokeby, Knt. to Sir Ralph
Lawson's daughter, of Brough.
Frans. Rokebv, Esq. toFaucett's daughter,
citizen of London.
18. Thos. Rokeby, Esq. to the daughter of
^Vickliffe of Gales.
High Sheriffs of Yorkshire.
1337. II Edw. 3. Ralph Hastings and Thos.
de Rokeby.
1343. 17 Edw. 3. Thos. de Rokeby, pro sept,
annis.
1 I. isle. 2 Temp. Edw. edi. ^ Temp. Edw. 3tii.
•1 Temp. Henr. 7mi, and from him is the house of
Skvcrs, of a fourth brother.
0' l-rom him is the house of Hotham, and of the
second brother that had issue.
(RoMp.
401
1358. 25 Edw. 3. Sir Thomas Rokeby, Jus-
ticiary- of Ireland lor six
years ; died at the castle
of Kilka.
1407. 8 Hen. 4. Thomas Rokeby Miles, de-
feated and slew the Uukc
of Northumberland at the
battle of Bramham Moor.
1411. 12 Hen. 4. Thos. Rokeby Miles.
i486 Thomas Rokeby, Esq.
1539 Robert Holfjate, Bishop of
Landaff, afterwards P. of
York, Ld. Presidi'nt of the
Council for the Preserva-
tion of Peace in the North.
1564. 6 Eliz. Thomas Youno;e, Arrh-
bisliop of Vorke, Ld.
President.
30 Hen. 8. Tho. Rokeby, LL.D., one of
the Council.
Jn. Rokeby, LL.D., one of
the Council.
1572. 15 Eliz. Henry Hastings, Earl of
Huntingdon, Ld. Pre-
sident.
Jo. Rokeby, Esq., one of the
Council.
Jo. Rokeby, LL.D., ditto.
Ralph Rokeby, Esq., one of
the Secretaries.
I^74. 17 Eliz. To. Rokeby, Precentor of
lork.
7 Will. 3. Sir J. Rokeby, Knt., one of
the justices of the King's
Bench.
The family of De Rokeby came over with
the Conqueror.
The old motto belonging to the family is /;/
Biziio Dextra.
The arms, argent, chevron sable, between
three rooks proper.
'There is somewhat more to be found in our
family in the Scottish history about the affairsof
Dun-Bretton town, but what it is, and in w hat
time, I know not, nor can have convenient
leisure to search. But Parson Blackwood, tin-
Scottish chaplain to the Lord of Shrew sburj-,
recited to me once a piece of a Scottish song,
wherein was mentioned, that William Wallis,
the great deliverer of the Scots from the
English bondage, should, at Dun-Bretton,
have been brouglit up under a Rokeby, capt.-iin
then of the place ; and as he walked onaclifl,
should thrust him on a sudden into the sea,
and thereby have gotten that hold, which, I
think, was about the 33rd of Edward I, or
before. Thus, leaving ourancestorsof record,
we must also with them leave the Chronicle
of Malmesbury Abbey, called Eulogium
Historiarum, out of wliich Mr. Leland re-
porteth this historj-, and coppy down unwritten
story, the which have )-et the testimony of
later times, and the fresh roemcrv of men
yet alive, for their warrant and creditt, of
whom I have learned it, that in K. Henry
the 7th's reign, one Ralph Rokeby, Esq. was
owner of Morton, and I guess tliat this was
he that deceived the fryars of Richmond with
his felon swine, on which a jargon was made.'
The above is a quotation from a manuscript
written by Ralph Rokeby ; when he lived is
uncertain.
To what metrical Scottish tradition Parson
Blackwood alluded, it would be now in vain
to inquire. But in Blind Harry's History of
Sir William Wallace, we find a legend of one
Rukbic, whom he makes keeper of Stirling
Castle under the English usurpation, and
whom Wallace slays with his own hand : —
' In the great press Wallace and Rukbie met,
W'itli his good sword a stroke upon him set ;
Derlly to death the old Rukbie he drave,
But his two sons escaped among the lave.'
These sons, according to the romantic
Minstrel, surrendered the castleon conditions,
and went back to England, but returned to
Scotland in the days of Bruce, when one of
them became again keeper of Stirling Castle.
Immediately after this achievement follows
another engagement, between Wallace and
those Western Highlanders who embraced
the English interest, at a pass in Glendou-
chart, where man)' were precipitated into the
lake over a precipice. These circumstances
may have been confused in the narrative of
Parson Blackwood, or in the recollection of
Mr. Rokeby.
In the old ballad of Chevy Chase, there is
mentioned, among the English warriors,
' Sir Raff the ryche Rugbe,' which may apply
to Sir Ralph Rokeby, the tenth baroii in the
pedigree. The more modern copy ot the
ballad runs thus : —
' Good Sir Ralph Raby ther was slain,
■\Vhose prowess did surmount. -
This would rather seem to relate to one of
the Nevilles of Raby. But, as the whole
ballad is romantic, accuracj- is not to be
looked for.
Note LII.
The Felon Sozv. — P. 355.
The ancient minstrels had a comic as well
as a serious strain of romance ; and although
the examples of the latter are In- far the most
numerous, they are, perhaps, the less valu-
able. The comic romance was a sort of
parody upon the usual subjects of minstrel
poetry. If the latter described deeds of heroic
achievement, and the events of the battle, the
tourney, and the chase, the former, as in the
Tournament of Tottenham, introduced a set
of clowns debating in the field, with all the
402
Qtofee io
assumed circumstances of chivalry; or, as
in the Hunting of the Hare (see Weber's
Metrical Romances, \o\. iii), persons of the
same description following the chase, with
all the grievous mistakes and blunders
incident to such unpractised sportsmen.
The idea, therefore, of Don Quixote's frenzy,
although inimitably embodied and brought
out, w'as not, perhaps, in the abstract, alto-
gether original. One of the very best of
these mock romances, and whicli has no
small portion of comic humour, is the Hunt-
ing of the Felon Sow of Rokeby by the
Friars of Richmond. Ralph Rokeby, who
(for the jest's sake apparently) bestowed this
intractable animal on the convent of Rich-
mond, seems to have flourished in the time of
Henry VH, which, since we know not the
date of Friar Theobald's wardenship, to
which the poem refers us, may indicate that
of the composition itself Morton, the Mor-
tham of the text, is mentioned as being
this facetious baron's place of residence ;
accordingly, Leland notices, that ' Mr.
Rokeby hath a place called Mortham, a
little beneath Grentej--bridge, almost on the
mouth of Grentey.' That no information
may be lacking which is in my power to
supply, I have to notice, that the Mistress
Rokeby of the romance, who so charitably
refreshed the sow after she had discomfited
Friar Middleton and his auxiliaries, was, as
appears from the pedigree of the Rokeby
family, daughter and heir of Danby of Yaf-
fort.
This curious poem was first published in
Mr. Whitaker'sHistory of Craven, but, from
an inaccurate manuscript, not corrected very
happily. It was transferred by Mr. Evans
to the'new edition of his Ballads, with some
well-judged conjectural improvements. I
have been induced to give a more authentic
and full, though still an imperfect, edition of
this humorsome composition, from being
furnished with a copy from a manuscript in
the possession of Mr. Rokeby, to whom I
have acknowledged my obligations in the
last note. It has three or four stanzas more
than that of Air. Wliitaker, and the language
seems, where they differ, to have the more
ancient and genume readings.
THE FELOX SOW OF ROKEBY AND THE
FRIARS OF RICH.MOND.
■^'e men that will of aimters 1 winne.
Tl>at late within tliis land hath beene.
Of one I will you tell;
And of a sew 2 that was sea 3 stran^,
-Mas 1 that ever she lived sae lany,
For fell< folk did she whelU.
1 Both the MS. and Mr. Whitaker's copy read
nces.'ors, evidently a corruption of aiDiters, ad-
;. as corrected bj- Mr. Evans.
to provincial [jronunciation.
vent . _ _ _
2 Sow, accord___^ _ ,___
■■•■ So ; \i_.rkshire dialect. ' Vi
B A corruption of •jiu-U, to kill.
Sa:
She was mare 1 than other three,
The-grisliest beast that ere might be.
Her head was great and gray : '
She was bred in Rokeby wood,
There were few that thither goed2.
That came on live 3 away.
Her walk was endlong-* Greta side ;
Ihere was no bren ■"' that durst her bide.
That was froe '' heaven to hell :
Xor never man that had that might.
That ever durst come in her sight.
Her force it was so felL
Ralph of Rokeby, with good will, ,
The Fryers of Richmond gave her till".
Full well to garre ^ them fare ;
Fryar Middleton by his name.
He was sent to fetch her hame.
That rued him sine 9 full sare.
^Vith him tooke he wicht men two,
Peter Dale was one of thoe,
That ever was brim as beare 1" ;
And well durst strike with sword and knife.
And fight full manly for his life,
What time as mister ware ".
These three men went at God's will.
This wicked sew while they came till,
Liggan 12 under a tree ;
Rugg and rusty was her haire ;
She raise up with a felon farel^.
To fight against the three.
She was so grisely for to meete.
She rave the earth up with her feete.
And barkxame fro the tree ;
When Fryar Middleton her saugh '^,
Weet ye well he might not laugh.
Full earnestly look't hee.
These men of aunters that was so wight ^ ',
They bound them bauldly 16 for to fight.
And strike at her full sare :
Until a kiln they garred her flee,
Wold God send them the victory.
The wold ask him noa mare.
The sew was in the kiln hole down.
As they w-ere on the balke aboon 17,
For 18 hurting of their feet ;
They were so saulted 'J with this sew.
That among them was a stalworth stew.
The kiln began to reeke.
Durst noe man neigh her with his hand.
But put a rape ^> down with his wand.
And haltered her full meete ;
They hurled her forth against her will,
AVhiles they came into a hill
A little fro the street 2'.
I More, greater. 2 Went.
3 .\live. 4 Along the side of Greta.
5 Barn, child, man in general. 6 From.
" To. .** Make. ^ Since.
^^ Fierce as a bear. Mr. Whitaker's copy reads,
perhaps in consequence of mistaking the MS. , 'T'other
was Bryan of Bear.*
II Need were. Mr. Whitaker reads musters.
1- Lying, 13 A fierce countenance or manner.
" Saw.
15 Wight, brave. The Rokeby MS. reads incou>Uers,
and Mr. Whitaker rt/wifd-x/ocj.
I'j Boldly. 17 On the beam above.
1' To prevent \'> Assaulted. 2U Rope.
"' Watling Street. See the sequel.
(Roftefi^.
403
And there she made them such a fray,
If tliey should hve to Doomes-day,
They tharrow 1 it ne'er fortjett ;
She braded2 upon every side,
And ran on them g-apin^^^ full wide>
For nothing would she lett s.
She g:ave such brades 4 at the band
That Teter Dale had in his hand,
}Ie might not hold his feet.
She chafed them to and fro,
The wight men was never soe woe.
Their measure was not so meete.
She bound her boldly to abide ;
To Peter Dale she came aside,
With many a hiileous yell ;
She gaped soe wide and cried soe hee.
The Fryarseid. * I conjure thee 5,
Thou art a feind of hell.
• Thou art come hither for some traine c,
I conjure thee to go againe
Where thou wast wont to dwell/
He sayned? him with crosse and creede,
Toole forth a book, began to reade
Jii St. John his gospell.
The sew she would not Latin heare,
But rudely rushed at the Frear,
That blinked all his blee-^ ;
And when she would have taken her hold.
The l-ryar leaped as Jesus wold.
And bealed him^ with a tree.
She was as brim 10 as any beare.
For all their meete to labour there ",
To them it was no boote :
Upon trees and bushes that by her stood.
She ranged as she was wood 12,
And rave them up by roote.
He sayd. ' Ala?;, that I was Frear !
Antl I shall be rugged 13 in sunder here,
Hard is my destinie I
Wist 1' my brethren in this houre.
That I was sett in such a stourei^^
They would pray for me."
This wicked beast that wrought this woe,
Tooke that rape from the other two.
And then they fledd all three ;
They fledd away by "W'atling-street,
They had no succour but their fce^
It was the mure pity.
I Dare. 2 Rushed. 3 Leave it. 4 Pulls.
c This line is wanting in Mr. Whitaker's copy,
whence it has been conjectured that something
is wanting after this stanza, which now there is nu
occasion to suppose.
« Evil device. 7 Blessed. Fr. ^ Lost his colour.
'•• Sheltered himself. lu Fierce.
Jl The MS. reads, to iabour lueere. The text
seems to mean, that all their labour to obtain their
intended meat was of no use to them. Mr. Whitaker
reads,
' She was brim as any boar.
And gave a grisly hideous roar,
To them it was no boot.'
Besides the want of connection between the last line
and the two former, the second has a very modern
sound, and the reading of the Rokeby MS. with the
slight alteration in the text, is much better.
12 Mad. U Torn, pulled. H Knew.
15 Combat, perilous fight.
The feild it was both lost and wonne 1 ;
The sew went hame, and that full soone.
To Morton on the Greene ;
When Ralph of Riikeby saw the rape 2,
He wist 3 that there had been debate,
Whereat the sew had beene.
He bad them stand out of her way.
For she had had a sudden fraj', —
' 1 saw never so keene ;
Some new things shall we heare
Of her and Middleton the Frear,
Some battell hath there beene.
But all that served him for nought
Had they not better succour sought.
They were served therefore loe.
Then Mistress Rokeby came anon.
And for her brought shee meate full soone.
The sew came her unto.
She gave her meate upon the flower,
[Hi'atKs valde dejle}idiis.\
When Fryar Middleton came Iiome,
His brethren was full fain ilkone^.
And thanked God of his life ;
He told them all unto the end,
How he had foughten with a fiend.
And lived through mickle strife.
' ^^'6 gave her battell half a day.
And sithin 6 was fain to fly away.
For saving of our life " ;
And Pater Dale would never blinn^,
But as fast as he could ryn y,
Till he came to his wife.'
The warden said, * I am full of woe.
That ever ye should be torment so.
But wee with you had beene !
Hatl wee been there your brethren all.
Wee should have garred the warle 10 fall
That wrought you all this teyne l^
Fryar Middleton said soon, 'Nay,
In faith you would have fled away,
When most mister i- had beene ;
"^'ou will all speake words at hame,
A man wouUl ding * ' you every ilk ane.
And if it be as 1 weine.'
He look't so griesly all that niyht,
The warden said, * Yon man will fight
]f you say ought but good ;
Von guest '•! hath grieved him so sare,
Hold your tongues and speake noe mare.
He looks as he were wuude.'
1 This stanza, with the two following, and the frag-
ment of a fuurth, are not in Mr. Whitaker's eilition.
2 The rope about the sow's neck. 3 Knew.
4 This line is almost illegible. 5 Each one.
•5 Since then, after that.
" The above lines are wanting in Mr. Whitaker's
copy.
s Cease, stop. a Run.
1" Warlock, or wizard. 11 Harm. i- Need.
13 Beat. The copy in Mr. Whitaker's History of
Craven reads, perhaps better —
• The fiend would ding you down ilk one.'
1 1 • Yon guest,' may be yon ^est^ i. e. that ad-
venture ; or it may mean yon ghaist, or appari-
tion, which in old poems is applied sometimes to
what is supcrnaturally hideous. The printed coj.y
reads, • The beast hath,' cS:c.
404
Qtofee to
Tlie wartlen waged! on the mnrne,
Two boldest men that ever were borne,
1 weine, or ever shall be ;
The one was Gibbert Griffin's son,
Full niickle worship has he wonne,
Both by land and sea.
The other was a bastard son of Spain,
Many a Sarazin hath he slain;
His dint2 hathgart them die.
These two men the battle undertooke,
Ai^ainst the sew, as says the booke.
And sealed security.
That they should boldly bide and fight,
And skomfit her in maine and might,
Ur therefore should they die.
The warden sealed to them againe,
And said, 'In feild if ye be slain.
This condition make I :
' AV'e shall for you pray, sing, and read
To (loomesday with hearty speede, .
With all our progeny.'
Then the letters well was made,
liands bound with scales brade3.
As deedes of armes shouUl be.
These men of armes that weere so wight,
^\■ith armour and with brandes bright.
They went this sew to see ;
She made on them slike a rerd *,
That for her they were sare afer'd.
And almost bound to flee.
She came roveing them egaine ;
That saw the bastard son of Spaine,
He braded ^ out his brani.1 ;
Full spiteously at her he strake.
For all the fence that he could make.
She gat sword out of hand ;
And rave in sunder half his shielde,
And bare him backward in the feilde,
lie might not her gainstand.
She would have riven his privich geare,
But Gilbert with his sword uf werre,
He strake at her full strong.
On her shoulder till she held the swerd ;
Then was good Gilbert sore afer d.
When the blade brake in throng >'•.
Since in his hands he hath her tane,
She tooke him by the shoulder bane ^,
And held her hold full fast ;
She strave so stitlly in that stower^.
That through all his rich armour
The blood came at the last.
Then Gilbert grieved was sea sare.
That he rave otf both hide and hate.
The flesh came fro the bone ;
And with all force he felled her there,
And wann her worthily in werre.
And band her him alone.
And lift lier on a horse sea hee.
Into two panicrs well-made of a tre,
And to Richmond they did hay '* :
When they saw her come,
They sang merrily Te Deum,
The Fryers on that day 1".
' Hired, a Yorkshire phrase. 2 Blow.
3 Droad, large. * Such like a roar.
3 Drew out. ^ In the combat. 7 IJone.
8 Meetins;, battle. » Hie, h.astcn.
10 The MS. reads, UMst.--,keuly, <-Ti>y day.
They thanked God and St. Francis,
As they had won the best of prisl,
And never a man was slaine :
There did never a man more manly
Knight Marcus, nor yett Sir Gui,
Nor Loth of Louthyane K
If ye will any more of this.
In the Fryers of Kiclunond 'tis
In parchment gootl .and fine ;
And how Fryar Middleton that was so tend 3,
At Greta Bridge conjured a feind
In likeness of a swnie.
It is well known to many a man.
That Fryar Theobakl was warden than.
And this fell in his time ;
And Christ them bless both farre and neare.
All that for solace list this to he,are.
And him that made the rhime.
Ralph Rokeby with full good will.
The Fryers of Richmond he gave her till,
This sew to mend their fare :
F'ryar Middleton by his name.
Would needs bring the fat sew hame.
That rued him since full sare.
Note LIII.
T/ie Filea of O^Neale was he. — P. 356.
The Filea, or Ollainh Re Dan, was the
proper l)ard, or, as the name literally implies,
poet, liacli chieftain of distinction had one
or more in his service, whose ofiice was
usually hereditary. The late ingenious Mr.
Cooper Walker has assembled a curious
collection of particulars concerning this order
of men, in liis Historical Memoirs of the Irish
Bards. There were itinerant bards of less
elevated rank, but all were held in the highest
veneration. The Enjjiish, who considered
thein as chief supporters of the spirit of
national independence, were much disposed
to proscribe this race of poets, as Edward I
is said to have done in Wales. Spenser, while
he admits the merit of their wild poetry, as
'savouring of sweet wit and good invention,
and sprinkled with soine pretty flowers of
their natural device,' yet rigorously con-
demns the whole application of their poetry,
as abased to 'the gracing of wickeilness and
^■ice.' The household minstrel was admitted
even to the feast of the prince whom he
served, and sat at the same table. It was
one of the customs of which Sir Richard
Sewry, to whose charge Richard II com-
mitted the instruction of our Irish monarchs
in the civilisation of the period, found it most
difficult to break his royal disciples, though
he had also much ado to subject them to
other Englisli rules, and particularly to re-
concile them to wear breeches. 'The kyng,
iny souerevigne lord's entcnt was, that in
1 Price.
2 The father of Sir Gawain, in the romance of
Arthur and Merlin. The MS. is thus corrupted—
' Mure loth of Fouth Ryme.'
3 Hither ■ kiuil,' or 'well-known.'
(Reft^fip.
405
mancr, countenaunce, and apparel of clothyng,
they sholde use according to the maner of
Englande, for the kynge thought to make
them all four knyghtes : they had a fayre
house to lodge in, in Duvelyn, and I was
charged to abyde styll with them, and not
to departe ; and so two or three dayes
I suffered them to do as they lyst, and sayde
nothyng to them, but folowed their owne
appetj'tes : they wolde sitte at the table, and
make countenance nother good nor fayre.
Than I thought I shulde cause them to
chaunge that maner; they woUle cause their
inynstrells, their seruantes, and varlettes, to
sytte with them, and to eate in their owne
dyssche, and to drinke of their cuppes ; and
they shewed me that the usage of their cuntre
was good, for they sayd in all thyngs (except
their beddes) they were and lyved as comen.
So the fourthe day I ordayned other tables
to be couered in the hall, after the usage of
Englande, and I made these four knyghtes
to sytte at the hvghe table, and there
mynstrels at another borde, and their ser-
uauntes and varlettes at another byneth them,
wherof by semynge they were displeased,
and beheld each other, and wolde not eate,
and sayde, how I wolde take fro them their
good usage, wherein they had been norished.
Then I answered them, smylyng, to apeace
them, that it was not honourable for their
estates to do as they dydc before, and that
they must leave it, and use the custom of
Englande, and that it was the kynge's
pleasure they shulde so do, and how he was
charged so to order them. When they harde
that, they suffred it, bycause they had putte
themselfe under the of)esyancc of the Kynge
of England, and parceuered in the same as
long as I was with them ; yet they had one
use which I knew was well used in their
cuntre, and that was, they dyde were no
breches ; I caused breches of lynen clothe to
be made for them. Whyle I was with them
I caused them to leaue many rude thynges,
as well in clothvng as in other causes.
Moche ado I had at the fyrst to cause them
to weare gownes of sylke, furred with myn-
euere ancf gray ; for before these kynges
thought themselfe well apparelled whan they
had on a mantell. They rode alwayes with-
out saddles and styropes, and with great
payne I made them to ride after our usage.' —
Lord Berneks' Froissart. Lond. 1812,
4to, vol. ii, p. 621.
The influence of these bards upon their
patrons, and their admitted title to interfere
in matters of the weightiest concern, may be
also proved from the behaviour of one of
them at an interview between Thomas Fitz-
gerald, son of the Earl of Kildare, then
about to renounce the English allegiance,
and the Lord Chancellor Cromer, who made
a long and goodly oration to dissuade him
from his purpose. The young lord had come
to the council ' armed and weaponed,' and
attended by seven score horsemen in their
shirts of mail; and we are assured that the
chancellor, having set forth his oration ' with
such a lamentable action as his cheekes
were all beblubbered with teares, the horse-
men, namelie, such as understood not
English, began to diuine what the lord-
chancellor meant with all this long cir-
cumstance; some of them reporting that he
was preaching a sermon, others said that he
stood making of some heroicall poetry in the
praise of the Lord Thomas. And thus as
every idiot shot his foolish bolt at the wise
chancellor his discourse, who in effect had
nought else but drop pretious stones before
hogs, one Bard de Nelan, an Irish ritlimour,
and a rotten sheepe to infect a whole ilocke,
was chatting of Irish verses, as though his
toong had run on pattens, in commendation
of the Lord Thomas, investing him with the
title of Silken Thomas, bicaus his horsemens
jacks were gorgeouslj' imbroidered with
silke : and in the end he told him that he
lingered there ouer long; whereat the Lord
Thomas being quickened,' as Holinshed
expresses it, bid defiance to the chancellor,
threw down contemptuously the sword of
office, which, in his father's absence, he held
as deputy, and rushed forth to engage in
open insurrection.
Note LIV.
Ah^ Clandcboy ! thy friendly Jloor
Slieve-Donai'cr s oak shall light no ninrc.
Clandcboy is a district of Ulster, formerly
possessed by the sept of the O'Neales, and
Slieve-Donard, a romantic mountain in the
same province. The clan was ruined after
Tyrone's great rebellion, and their places ot
abode laiddcsolate. The ancient Irish, wild
and uncultivated in other respects, did not
yield e\en to their descendants in practising
the most free and extended hospitality ; and
doubtless the bards mourned the decay of the
mansion of their chiefs in strains similar to
the verses of the British Llywarch Hen on
a similar occasion, which are affecting, even
through the discouraging medium of a literal
translation : —
' Silent-breatliinfr ffale, long: wilt thou be lie.ird '.
Tliere is scarcely another deserving praise,
Since Urien is no more.
Many a dog that scented well the prey, and aerial
hawk,
Have been trained on this floor
Before Erlleon became polluted.
This hearth, ah, will it not be covered with nettles ;
"Whilst its defender lived.
More congenial to it was the foot of the needy
petitioner.
This hearth, will it not be covered with green sod
In the lifetime of Owain and Elphin,
Its ample cauldron boiled the prej' taken from the foe.
4o6
Qtofee (6
This hearth, will it not be covered with toad-stools I
Around tlie viand it prepared, more cheering was
The clattering sword of the fierce dauntless warrior.
This hearth, will it not be overgrown with spreading
brambles !
Till now, logs of burning wood lay on it,
Accustom'd to prepare the gifts c^f Reged I
This hearth, will it not be covered with thorns !
More congenial on it would have been the mixed
group
Of Owain's social friends united in harmony.
This hearth, will it not be covered with ants !
More adajited to it would have been tlie bright
torches
And harmless festivities 1
This hearth, will it not be covered with dock-leaves !
More congenial on its floor would have been
The mead, and the talking of wine-cheer'd warriors.
This hearth, will it not be turned up by the swine !
More congenial to it would have been the clamour
of men.
And the circling horns of the banquet.'
Heroic Etesies of I.lyiuarc Hen. hy OWEN.
Lond. 1792, 8vo, p. 41.
The hall of Cj'nddylan is gloomy this night,
Without fire, without bed —
1 nuist weep a while, and then be silent 1
The h.all of Cynddylan is gloomy this night,
Whliout fire, without candle—
Except God doth, who will endue me witli patience?
The hall of Cynddylan is gloomy this night,
Without fire, without being lighted —
Be thou encircled with spreading silence !
The hall of Cynddylan, gloomy seems its roof
Since the sweet smile of humanity is no more —
"W'oe to him that saw it, if he neglects to do gn.ul :
The hall of Cynddylan, art thou not bereft of lljy
appearance?
Thy shiekl is in the grave ;
"Whilst he lived there was no broken roof!
The hall of Cynddylan is without love tliis night,
Snue he tiiat ownVl it is no more —
Ah, death : it will be but a short time he will lea\e
me !
The hall of Cynddylan is not easy this niglif.
On the top of the rock of Hydwyth,
\\'ithout its lord, without company, without the
circling feasts 1
The hall of Cynddylan is gloomy this night,
Without fire, without songs —
Te.ars afflict the cheeks 1
The hall of Cynddylan is gloomy this night,
^V■ithout fire, without family—
My overflowing tears gush out I
The hall of Cynddylan pierces me to see it,
Without a covering, without fire —
My general dead, and I alive myself!
The hall of Cynddylan is the seat of chill grief this
night.
After the respect I experienced :
W'ithout the men, without the women, who reside
there 1
The hall of Cymldylan is silent this niglit.
After losing it's master—
The great merciful God, what sh.ill I d..?
Ibui. p. ^^.
Note LV.
M'CtirtMs harp.—V. 358.
' MacCurtin, horeditarv Ollamli of North
Munster, and Filea to Donougli, Earl of
Tliomond, and President of Munster. This
nobleman was amongst those who were
prevailed upon to join Elizabeth's forces.
Soon as it was known that he had basely
abandoned the interests of his country, Mac-
Curtin presented an adulatory poem to
MacCarthy, chief of Soutli Munster, and of the
Eugenian line, who, with O'Xeil, O'Donnel,
Lacy, and others, were deeply engaged in
protecting their violated country. In this
poem he dwells with rapture on the courage
and patriotism of MacCarthy ; but the verse
that should (according to an established law
of the order of the bar<is) be introduced in
the praise of O'Brien, he turns into severe
satire : — " How ain I afflicted (says he) that
the descendant of the great Brion Boiromh
cannot furnish me with a theme worthy the
honour and glory of his exalted race ! " Lord
Thomond, hearing this, vowed vengeance on
the spirited bard, who fled for refuge to the
county of Cork. One day observing the
exasperated nobleman and his equipage at
a small distance, he thought it was in vain to
fly, and pretended to be suddenly seized with
the pangs of death ; directing his wife to
lament over him, and tell his lordship, that
the sight of him, by awakening the sense of
his ingratitude, had so much affected him
that he could not support it ; and desired her
at the same time to tell his lordship, that he
entreated, as a dying request, his forgiveness.
Soon as Lord Thomond arrived, the feigned
tale was related to him. That nobleman
was moved to compassion, and not only
declared that he most heartily forgave him,
but, opening liis purse, presented the fair
mourner with some pieces to inter him.
This instance of his lordship's pity and
generosity gave courage to the trembling
bard ; who, suddenly springing up, recited an
extemporaneous ode in praise of Donough,
and, re-entering into his service, became once
more his favourite.' — W.ALKEr's Memoirs
ofllie Irish Bards. Lond. 1786, 4to, p. 141.
Note LYL
T/ic ancietif EiipUsJi viiiisircVs dress.
-P. 3,sH.
Among the entertainments presented to
Elizabeth at Kenilworth Castle, was the intro-
duction of a person designed to represent
a travelling minstrel, who entertained her
with a solemn story out of the Acts of King
Arthur. Of this person's dress and appear-
ance Mr. Laneham has given us a very accu-
rate account, transferred by Bishop Percy to
the preliminary Dissertation on Minstrels,
prefixed to \\\^' RcUqties 0/ Anciciil J'oelry,
\o\. i.
(Roa^fi^.
407
Note L\'II.
Lilllccot HaU.—V. 362.
The tradition from which tlic ballad is
founded, was supplied by a friend, (the late
Lord Webb Seymour,) whose account I will
not do the injustice to abridge, as it contains
an admirable picture of an old English hall :—
' Littlecote House stands in a low and
lonely situation. On three sides it is sur-
rounded by a park that spreads over the
adjoining hill ; on the fourth, by meadows
which are watered by the river Kennet. Close
on one side of the house is a thick grove of
lofty trees, along the verge of which runs one
of the principal avenues to it through the
park. It is an irregular building of great
antiquit}', and was probably erected about
the time of the termination of feudal warfare,
when defence came no longer to be an object
in a country mansion. Many circumstances,
however, in the interior of the house, seem
appropriate to feudal times. The hall is very
spacious, floored with stones, and lighted by
large transom windows, that are clothed with
casements. Its walls are hung with old
nulitary accoutrements, that have long been
left a prey to rust. At one end of the hall is
a range of coats of mail and helmets and
there is on every side abundance of old-
lashioned pistols and guns, manv of them
with matchlocks. Immediately tielow the
cornice hangs a row of leathern jerkins, made
in the form of a shirt, supposed to have been
worn as armour by the vassals. A large oak I
table, reaching nearly from one end of the
room to the other, might have feasted the I
whole neighbourhood, and an appendage to I
one end of it made it answer at other times |
for the old game of shutfleboard. The rest |
of the furniture is in a suitable style, par- 1
ticularly an arm-chair of cumbrous workman-
ship, constructed of wood, curiously turned,
with a high back and triangular seat, said to
have been used by fudge Popham in the reign
of Elizabeth. The entrance into the hall is
at one end, by a low door, communicating
with a passage that leads from the outer door
in the front of the house to a quadranole'
Within ; at the other, it opens upon a gloomy
staircase, by which you ascend to the firs't
floor, and, passing the doors of some bed-
chambers, enter a narrow gallery, which
extends along the back front of the house
from one end to the other of it, and looks
upon an old garden. This gallery is hung
with portraits, chiefly in the Spanish dresses
of the sixteenth century. In one of the bed-
chambers, which you pass in going towards
the gallery, is a bedstead with Tjlue furniture
which time has now made dingy and thread-
bare, and in the bottom of one of the bed
curtains you are shown a place where a small
not quTtc'^ure?''*' '' ■'' "'''"P^' °" """^ "^"^^ "^ i^^^^'
piece has been cut out and sewn in again, -
a circumstance which serves to identify the
scene of the following story : —
' It was on a dark rainy nin;ht in tlie month
of November, that an olcf midwife sat musing
by her cottage fireside, when on a sudden
she was startled by a loud knocking at the
door. On opening it she found a horseman,
who told her that her assistance was required
immediately by a person of rank, andtliat she
should be handsomely rewarded ; but that
there were reasons for keeping the affair
a strict secret, and, therefore, she must sub-
mit to be blindfolded, and to be conducted
in that condition to the bedchamber of the
lady. With .some hesitation the midwife
consented ; the horseman bound her eyes,
and placed her on a pillion behind him.
After proceeding in silence for many miles
through rough and dirty lanes, they stopped,
and the midwife was led into a house, which,
from the length of her walk through the
apartments, as well as the sounds about her,
she discovered to be the seat of wealth and
power. When the bandage was removeci
from her eyrs, she found herself in a bed-
chamber, in which were the lady on whose
account she had been sent for, and a man of
a haughty and ferocious aspect. The lady
was delivered of a fine boy. Immediately
the man commanded the midwife to give him
the child, and catching it from her, he hurried
across the room, and threw it on the back of
the fire, that was blazing in the chimney.
I The child, however, was strong, and, by its
I struggles, rolled itself upon the hearth when
the ruffian again seized it with fury, and, in
I spite of the intercession of the midwife, and
the more piteous entreaties of the mother,
thrust it under the grate, and, raking the
live coals upon it, soon put an end to its life.
The midwife, after spending some time in
afford injr all the relief in her power to the
wretcheil mother, was told that she must be
gone. Her former conductor appeared, who
again bound her eyes, and conveyed her
behind him to her own home ; he then paid
her handsomely, and departed. The midwife
was strongly agitated by the horrors of the
preceding night ; and she immediately made
a deposition of the facts before a magistrate.
Two circumstances afforded hopes of detect-
ing the house in which the crime had
been committed ; one was, that the midwife,
as she sat by the bedside, had, with a view to
discover the place, cut out a piece of the bed-
curtain, and sewn it in again ; the other was,
that as she had descended the staircase she
had counted the steps. Some suspicions fell
upon one Darrell, at that time the proprietor
of Littlecote House, and the domain around
It. The house was examined, and identified
by the midwife, and Darrell was tried at
Salisbury for the murder. By cornipting
his judge, he escaped the sentence of the law •
but broke his neck, by a fall from his horse
in hunting, in a few months after. The place
4o8
Qtefee fo
where this happened is still known by the
name of Darrell's Style,— a spot to be
dreaded by the peasant whom the. shades
of evening have overtaken on his way.
' Littlecote House is two miles from
Hungerford, in Berkshire, through which
the Bath road passes. The fact occurred
in the reign of Elizabeth. All the important
circumstances I have given exactly as they
are told in the country; some trifles only are
added, either to render the whole connected,
or to increase the impression.'
To Lord Webb's edition of this singular
story, the author can now add the following
account, extracted from Aubrey's Corre-
spondence. 1 1 occurs among other particulars
respecting Sir John Popham : —
'Sir . . . Dayrell, of Littlecote, in Com.
Wilts, having gott his lady's waiting woman
with child, when her travell came, sent a ser-
vant with a horse for a midwife, whom he
was to bring hoodwinked. She was brought,
and layd the woman, but as soon as the child
was born, she sawe the knight take the child
and murther it, and burn it in the fire in the
chamber. She having done her businesse,
was extraordinarily rewarded for lier paines,
and sent blindfolded away. This horrid
action did much run in her mind, and she
had a desire to discover it, but knew not
where 'twas. She considered with herself the
time that she was riding, and how many
miles she might have rode at that rate in
that time, and that it must be some great
person's house, for the roome was 12 foot
high ; and she should know the chamber if
she sawe it. She went to a Justice of
Peace, and search was made. The very
chamber found. The Knight was brought to
his trj-all ; and, to be short, this judge had
this noble house, parkc, and manner, and
(I thinke) more, for a bribe to save his
life.
'Sir John Popham gave sentence accord-
ing to lawe, but bein^'a great person and a
favourite, he procured a iioli prosequi.^
With this tale of terror the author has
combined some circumstances of a similar
legend, which was current at Edinburgh
during his childhood.
About the beginning of the eighteenth cen-
tury, when the large castles of the Scottish
nobles, an<l even the secluded hotels, like
those of the French noblesse, which they
possessed in Edinburgh, were sometimes the
scenes of strange and mysterious transactions,
a divine of singular sanctity was called up at
midnight to pray with a person at the point
of death. This w.as no unusual summons ;
but what followed was alarming. He was
put into a sedan-chair, and after he had been
transported to a remote part of the town, the
bearers insisted upon his being blindfolded.
The request was enforced by a cocked pistol,
and submitted to ; but in the course of the
discussion, he conjectured, from the phrases
employed by the chairmen, and from some
part of their dress, not completely concealed
by their cloaks, that they were greatly above
the menial station they had assumed. After
many turns and windings, the chair was car-
ried up stairs into a lodging, where his eyes
were uncovered, and he was introduced into
a bedroom, where he found a lady, newly
delivered of an infant. He was commanded
by his attendants to say such prayers by her
bedside as were fitting for a person not ex-
pected to survive a mortal disorder. He
ventured to remonstrate, and observe, that
her safe delivery warranted better hopes. But
he was sternh- commanded to obey the orders
first given, and with difficulty recollected him-
self sufficiently to acquit himself of the task
imposed on him. He was then again hurried
into the chair; but as they conducted him
down stairs, he heard the report of a pistol.
He was safely conducted home ; a purse
of gold was forced upon him ; but he was
warned, at the same time, that the least allu-
sion to this dark transaction would cost him
his life. He betook himself to rest, and, after
long and broken musing, fell into a deep
sleep. From this he was awakened by his
servant, with the dismal news that a fire of
uncommon fury had broken out in the house
of ... , near the head of the Canongate, and
that it was totally consumed ; with the shocking
addition, that the daughter of the proprietor,
a young lady eminent for beauty and accom-
plishments, had perished in the flames. The
clergyman had his suspicions, but to have
macfe them public would have availed nothing.
Hewas timid; thefamilywasofthefirstdistinc-
tion ; above all, the deed was done, and could
not be amended. Time wore away, however,
and with it his terrors. He became unhappy
at being the solitary depositary of this fearful
mystery, and mentioned it to some of his
brethren, through whom the anecdote ac-
quired a sort of publicity. The divine, how-
ever, had been long dearl, and the story in
some degree forgotten, when a fire broke out
again on the very same spot w here the house
of . , . . had formerly stood, and which was
now occupied by buildings of an inferior
description. When the llames were at their
height, the tumult, which usually attends
such a scene, was suddenly suspended by an
unexpected apparition. A beautiful female,
in a night-dress, extreme!)- rich, but at least
half a centur>- old, appeared in the very
midst of the fire, and uttered these tremen-
dous words in her vernacular idiom : ' Ajics
burned, /■zv/ct: burned; the ihird time I'll
scare you all 1 ' The belief in this stor)- was
formerly so strong, that on a fire breaking
out, and seeming to approach the fatal spot,
there was a gooa deal of anxiety testified, lest
the apparition should make good her denun-
ciation.
(RcfteBp.
409
Note LVIII.
^s thick a smoke these hearths have given
At Hallow-tide or Christinas-eveii. — P. 364.
Such an exhortation was, in similar circum-
stances, actually given to his followers by a
Welsh chieftain : —
' Enmity did continue betweene Howell ap
Rys ap Howell Vaughan and the sonnes of
John ap Meredith. After the death of Evan
ap R^ebert, Griffith ap Gronw (cosen-german
to John ap Meredith's sonnes of Gwynfryn,
who had long served in France, and had
charge there) comeing home to live in the
countrcy, it happened that a servant of his,
comeing to Csh in Stymllyn, his fish was
taken away, and the fellow beaten by Howell
ap Rys liis servants, and by his command-
ment. Griffith ap John ap Gronw took the
matter in such dudgeon that ho challenged
Howell ap Rvs to the field, which he refusing,
assembling his cosins John ap Meredith's
sonnes and his friends together, assaulted
Howell in his own house, after the maner
he had scene in the French warres, and con-
sumed with fire his barnes and his out-houses.
Whilst he was thus assaulting the hall, which
Howell ap Rys and many other people kept,
being a very strong house, he was shot, out
of a crevice of the house, through the sight of
his beaver into the head, and slayne outrijrht,
being otlierwise armed at all points. Not-
withstanding his death, the assault of the
house was continued with great vehemence,
the doores fired with great burthens of straw ;
besides this, the smoake of tlie out-houses and
barnes not farre distant annoyed greatly the
<lefendants, for that most of them lay under
boordes and benches upon the fioore, in the
hall, the better to avoyd the smoake. During
this scene of confusion onely the old man,
Howell ap Rj's, never stooped, but stood
valiantly in the midst of the fioore, armed
with a gleve in his hand, and called unto
them, and bid "them arise like men, for
shame, for he had knowne there as great a
smoake in that hall upon Christmas-even."
In the end, seeing the house could noe longer
defend them, being overlayed with a multi-
tude, upon parley betweene them, Howell ap
Rys was content to yeald himself prisoner
to Morris ap John ap Meredith, Johnap Mere-
dith's eldest Sonne, soe as he would swear
unto him to bring him safe to Carnarvon
Castle, to abide the trial I of the law for the
death of Graff' ap John ap Gronw, who was
cosen-german removed to the said Howell
ap Rys, and of the very same house he was
of. Which Morris ap John ap Meredith
undertaking, did put a guard about the said
Howell of his trustiest friends and servants,
who kept and defended him from the rage of
his kindred, and especially of Owen ap John
ap Meredith, his brother, who was very eager
against him. They passed by leisure thence
like a campe to Carnarvon : the whole coun-
trie being assembled, Howell his friends
Eosted a horseback from ooe place or other
y the way, who brought word that he was
come thither safe, for they were in great fear
lest he should be murthered, and that Morris
ap John ap Meredith could not be able to
defend him, neither durst any of Howell's
friends be there, for fear of the kindred. In
the end, being delivered by Morris ap John
ap Meredith to the Constable of Carnarvrwi
Castle, and there kept safely in ^\■ar(i untill
the assises, it fell out by law, that the burn-
ing of Howell's houses, and assaulting him in
liis owne house, was a more haynous offence
in Morris ap John ap Meredith and the rest,
than the death of Graff' ap John ap Gronw
in Howell, who did it in his own defence;
whereupon Morris ap John ap Meredith, with
thirty-five more, were indicted of felony, as
appeareth by the copie of the indictment,
which I had from the records.' — SiR JOHN
Wynne's History of the Gwydir Family.
Lond. 1770, 8vo, p. 1 16.
Note LIX.
O'er Hexham's altar hung my ^lovt.
-r. .^-.^
This custom among the Redesdalc; and
Tynedale Borderers is mentioned in the
interesting Life of Bernard Gilpin, where
some account is given of these wild districts,
which it was the custom of that excellent
man regularly to visit.
'This custom (of duels) still prevailed on
the Borders, where Saxon barbarism helit
its latest possession. These wild North-
umbrians, indeed, went beyond the ferocity of
their ancestors. They were not content with
a duel : each contending party used to mus-
ter what adherents he could, and commence
a kind of petty war. So that a pri\atc
grudge would often occasion much blood-
shed.
' It happened that a quarrel of this kind
was on foot when Mr. Gilpin was at Roth-
bur^-, in those parts. During the two or
three first daj's of his preaching, the contend-
ing parties observed some decorum, and
never appeared at church together. At
length, however, they met. One party had
been early at church, and just as I\Ir. Gilpin
began his sermon, the other entered. They
stood not long silent. Inflamed at the sight
of each other, they began to clash their
weapons, for they were all armed with javi'-
lins and swords, and mutually approached.
Awed, however, by the sacredness of the
place, the tumult in some degree ceased.
Mr. Gilpin proceeded : when again the com-
batants began to brandish their weapons,
and draw towards each other. As a fray
seemed near, Mr. Gilpin stepped from the
pulpit, went between them, and addressed
the leaders, put an end to the quarrel for the
present, but could not effect an entire recon-
4IO
(Uofee fo'(Rofie6j.
ciliation. The}^ promised liim, however, that
till the sermon was over they would maKe no
more disturbance. He then went again into
the pulpit, and spent the rest of the time in
endeavouring to make them ashamed of
what they had done. His behaviour and dis-
course affected them so much, that, at his
farther entreatv, they promised to forbear all
acts of hostility while he continued in the
countr)-. And so much respected was he
among them, that whoever was in fear of his
enemy used to resort where Mr. Gilpin was,
esteeming his presence the best protection.
'One Sunday morning, coming to a church
in those parts, before the people were assem-
bled, he observed a glove hanging up, and
was informed by the sexton, that it was
meant as a challenge to any one who should
take it down. Mr. Gilpin ordered the sexton
to reach it to him ; but upon his utterly
refusing to touch it, he took it down himself,
and put it into his breast. When the people
were assembled, he went into the pulpit, and,
before he concluded his sermon, took occa-
sion to rebuke them severely for these
inhuman challenges. "I fcear," saith he,
" that one among you hath hanged up a
glove, even in tliis sacred place, threatening
to figlit any one who taketh it down : see,
I ha\ e taken it down ; " and, pulling out
the glove, he held it up to the congregation,
and then showed them how unsuitable such
savage practices were to the profession of
Christianity, using such persuasives tomutual
love as he thought would most affect them.'
■ — Life of Bernard Gilpin. Lond. 1753,
8vo, p. 177.
Note LX.
A Iwrsemaii arin^d, at headlong speed.
—V. .377-
This, and what follows, is taken from a
real achievement of Major Robert Philipson,
called from his desperate and adventurous
courage, Robin the Devil ; which, as being
very inaccurately noticed in this note upon
the first edition, shall be now given in a more
authentic form. The chief place of his retreat
was not Lord's Island, in Denventwater, but
Curwen's Island, in the Lake of Winder-
mere : —
'This island formerly belonged to the
Philipsons, a familv of note in \\'estmoreland.
During the Civil Wars, two of tliem, an elder
and a younger brother, served the King. The
former, who w.as tlie proprietor of it, com-
manded a regiment; the latter was a major.
' The major, whose name was Robert, was
.1 man of great spirit and enterprise ; and for
his many feats of personal bravery had
obtained, among the Oliverians of those parts,
the appellation of Robin the Devil.
' After the war had subsided, and the dire-
ful effects of public opposition had ceased,
revenge and malice long kept alive the ani-
mosity of indi\iduals. Colonel Briggs, a
steady friend to usurpation, resided at this
time at Kendal, and, under the double char-
acter of a leading magistrate (for he was a
Justice of Peace) and an active commander,
held the country in awe. This person having
heard that Major Philipsonwasat hisbrother's
house on the island in Windermere, resolved,
if possible, to seize and punish a man who
had made himself so particularly obnoxious.
How it was conducted, my authority 1 does
not inform us — whether he got together the
navigation of the lake, ana blockaded the
place by sea, or whether he landed and car-
ried on his approaches in form. Neither do
we learn the strength of the garrison within,
nor of the works without. All we learn is,
that Major Philipson endured a siege of eight
months with great gallantrj-, till his brother,
the Colonel, raised a party and relieved him.
' It was now the Alajor's turn to make
reprisals. He put himself, therefore, at the
head of a little troop of horse, and rode to
Kendal. Here, being informed that Colonel
Briggs was at prayers, (for it was on a Sunday
morning,) he stationed his men properly in
the avenues, and himself armed, rode directly
into the church. It probably was not a regu-
lar church, but some large place of meeting.
It is said he intended to seize the Colonel and
carry him off; but as this seems to have been
totally impracticable, it is rather probable
that his intention was to kill him on the spot,
and in the midst of the confusion to escape.
Whatever his intention was, it was frustrated,
for Briggs happened to be elsewhere.
'The congregation, as might be expected,
was thrown into great confusion on seeing
an armed man on horseback make his
appearance among them ; and the Major,
taking advantage of their astonishment,
turned his horse round, and rode quietly out.
But having given an alarm, he was pre-
sentlv assaulted as he left the assembly,
and being seized, his girths were cut, and
he was unhorsed.
'At this instant his party made a furious
attack on the assailants, and the Major killed
with his own hand the man who had seized
him, clapped tlie saddle, ungirthed as it was,
upon his horse, and, vaulting into it, rode
full speed through the streets of Kendal,
calling his men to follow him ; and, with
his whole party, made a safe retreat to his
asylum in the lake. The action marked the
man. Many knew him : and they who did
not, knew as well from the exploit that it
could be nobody but Robin the Devil.'
1 Dr. Bum's History of Westiiiorelaiid.
€^t Botb of (^t 30fe0.
The Scene of this Poem lies, at first, in tlic Castle of Artornish, on thecoast of Argj-Ieshire ;
fi'i'l, aftenvards, in th<> Islands of Skye and Arran, and upon the coast of Ayrshire. Finally
it is laid near Stirlintj. The story opens in the spring of the year 1307, when Bruce, who had
lieen driven out of Scotland by the English, and the Barons who adhered to that foreign
interest, returned from the Island of Kachrin on the coast of Ireland, again to assert his
claims to the Scottish crown. Many of the personages and incidents introduced are of
historical celebrity. The authorities used are chiefly those of the venerable Lord Hailes,
as well entitled to be called the restorer of Scottish history, as Bruce the restorer of Scottish
Monarchy ; and of Archdeacon Barbour, author of a Metrical History of Robert Bruce.
Canto First.
Autumn departs ; but still his
inantle's fold
Rests on the groves of noble
Somerv'ille ;
Beneath a shroud of russet dropp'd
with gold
Tweed and his tributaries mingle
still;
Hoarser the wind, and deeper sounds
the rill,
Yet lingering notes of silvan music
swell,
The deep-toned cushat, and the
redbreast shrill ;
And yet some tints of summer
splendour tell
When the broad sun sinks down on
Ettrick's western fell.
Autumn departs ; from Gala's fields
no more
Come rural soundsourkindred banks
to cheer ;
Blent with the stream, and gale that
wafts it o'er,
No more the distant reaper's mirth
we hear.
The last blithe shout hath died upon
our ear,
And harvest-home hath liush'd the
clanging \vain ;
On the ^vaste hill no forms of life
appear.
Save where, sad laggard of the
autumnal train,
Some age-struck wanderer gleans few
ears of scatter'd grain.
Deem'st thou these sadden'd scenes
have pleasure still ?
Lovest thou through Autumn's fading
realms to stray,
To see the heath-flower wither'd on
the hill.
To listen to the wood's expiring la^'.
To note the red leaf shivering on the
spray,
To mark the last bright tints the
mountain stain.
On the waste fields to trace the
gleaner's waj'.
And moralize on mortal jo)- and
pain ?
O I if such scenes thou lovest, scorn
not the minstrel strain.
412
ZU ^ov^ of tU ^oite.
[Canto
No ! do not scorn, although its
hoarser note
Scarce with the cushat's homel\' song
can vie,
Though faint its beauties as the tints
remote
That gleam through mist inautumn's
evening sky.
And fe^v as leaves that tremble, sear
and dry,
When wild November hath his bugle
wound ;
Nor mock my toil — a lonely gleaner I,
Through fields time-wasted, on sad
inquest bound,
Where happier bards of yore have
richer harvest found.
So shalt thou list, and haph' not
unmoved,
Toawild taleof Albyn'swarriorday ;
In distant lands, by the rough West
reproved.
Still live some relics of the ancient lay.
For, when on Coolin's hills the lights
decay,
With such the .Seer of .Skye the eve
beguiles ;
'Tis known amid the pathlesswastes
of Reay,
In Harries known, and in lona's
piles,
Where rest from mortal coil the Mighty
of the Isles.
'Wake, Maid of Lorn I' the Minstrels
sung.
Thy rugged halls, Artornish ! rung.
And the dark seas, thy towers thatlave,
Heaved on the beach a softer wave,
As 'mid the tuneful choir to keep
The diapason of the Deep.
Lull'd were the winds on Inninmore,
And green Loch-Alline's woodland
shore,
As if Avild woods and waves had
pleasure
In listing to the lovely measure.
And ne'er to symphony more sweet
Gave mountain echoes answer meet,
Since, met from mainland and from isle,
Ross, Arran, Hay, and Argyle,
Each minstrel's tributary lay
Paid homage to the festal day.
Dull and dishonour'd w^ere the bard.
Worthless of guerdon and regard,
Deaf to the hope of minstrel fame.
Or lady's smiles, his noblest aim,
Who on that morn's resistless call
Were silent in Artornish hall.
'Wake, Maid of Lorn ! ' 'twas thus they
sung.
And yet more proud the descant rung,
' Wake, Maid of Lorn ! high right is
ours,
To charm dull sleep from Beauty's
bowers ;
Earth, Ocean, Air, have nought so shy
But owns the power of minstrelsy.
In Lettermore the timid deer
Will pause, the harp's wild chime to
hear ;
Rude Hciskar's seal, through surges
dark,
Will long pursue the minstrel's bark ;
To list his notes, the eagle proud
Will poise him on Bcn-Cailliach's
cloud;
Then let not Maiden's ear disdain
The summons of the minstrel train,
But, while our harps wild music make,
Edith of Lorn, awake, awake !
' O wake, while Dawn, with dewy
shine,
Wakes Nature's charms to vie with
thine !
She bids the mottled thrush rejoice
To mate thy melody of voice ;
I.]
ZU Bov^ of tU >fe0.
413
The dew that on the violet hes
Mocks the dark lustre of thine eyes ;
But, Edith, wake, and all we see
Of sweet and fair shall yield to thee ! ' —
'She comes not yet,' grey Ferrand
cried ;
'Brethren, let softer spell be tried,
Those notes prolong'd, that soothing
theme.
Which best may mix with Beauty's
dream,
And whisper, with their silvery tone.
The hope she loves, yet fears to own.'
He spoke, and on the harp-strings died
'J"he strains of flattery and of pride ;
More soft, more low, more tender fell
The lay of love he bade them tell.
'Wake, Maid of Lorn! the moments fly.
Which yet that maiden-name allow ;
Wake, Maiden, wake! the hour is nigh.
When Love shall claim a plighted
vow.
By Fear, thy bosom's fluttering guest.
By Hope, that soon shall fears
remove,
We bid thee break the bonds of rest,
And wake thee at the call of Love !
Wake, Edith, wake ! in yonder bay
Lies many a galley gaily mann'd.
We hear the merry pibrochs play,
We see the streamers' silken band.
What Chieftain's praise these pibrochs
swell.
What crest is on these banners wove.
The harp, the minstrel, dare not tell —
The riddle must be read by Love.'
Retired her maiden train among,
Edith of Lorn received the song,
But tamed the minstrel's pride had been
That had her cold demeanour seen ;
For not upon her cheek awoke
The glow ofpride when Flattery spoke.
Nor could their tenderest numbers
bring
One sigh responsive to the string.
As vainly had her maidens vied
In skill to deck the princely bride.
Her locks, in dark-brown length
array'd,
Cathleen of Ulne, 'twas thine to braid;
Young Eva with meet reverence drew
On the light foot the silken shoe.
While on the ankle's slender round
Those strings of pearl fair Bertha
wound.
That, bleach'd Lochryan's depths
within,
Seem'd duskj^ still on Edith's skin.
But Einion, of experience old.
Had weightiest task — the mantle's fold
In many an artful plait she tied.
To show the form it seem'd to hide.
Till on the floor descending roll'd
Its waves of crimson blent with trold.
O ! lives there now so cold a maid,
Who thus in beauty's pomp array'd,
In beauty's proudest pitch of power,
And conquest won — the bridal hour.
With every charm that wins the heart,
By Nature given, enhanced by Art,
Could 3'et the fair reflection view,
In the bright mirror pictured true,
And not one dimple on her cheek
A tell-tale consciousness bespeak? — ■
Lives still such maid ? — Fair damsels,
For further vouches not my lay,
Save that such lived in Britain's isle.
When Lorn's bright Edith scorn'd to
smile.
But Morag, to whose fostering care
Proud Lorn had given his daughter
fair,
Morag, who saw a mother's aid
By all a daughter's love repaid.
414
ZU ^ovl of tU 36fe0.
[Canto
(Strict was that bond — most kind of
all-
Inviolate in Highland hall)
Grey Morag sate a space apart,
In Edith's eyes to read her heart.
In vain the attendants' fond appeal
To Morag's skill, to Morag's zeal ;
She mark'd her child receive their care,
Cold as the image sculptured fair
(Form of some sainted patroness)
Which cloister'd maids combine to
dress ;
She mark'd — and knew her nursling's
heart
In the vain pomp took little part.
Wistful a while she gaz'd — then press'd
The maiden to her anxious breast
In finish'd loveliness — and led
To where a turret's airy head.
Slender and steep, and battled round,
O'erlook'd, dark Mull ! thy mighty
Sound,
Where thwarting tides, with mingled
roar.
Part thy swarth hills from Morven's
shore.
' Daughter,' she said, ' these seas
behold,
Round twice a hundred islands roH'd,
From Hirt, that hears their northern
roar,
To the green Hay's fertile shore ;
Or mainland turn, where many a tower
Owns thy bold brother's feudal power,
Each on its own dark cape reclined.
And listening to its own wild wind,
From where Mingarry, sternly placed,
O'erawes the woodland and the waste,
To where Dunstaflnage hears the
raging
Of Connal with his rocks engaging.
Think'st thou, amid this ample round,
A single brow but thine has frown'd,
To sadden this auspicious morn,
That bids the daughter of high Lorn
Impledge her spousal faith to wed
The heir of mighty Somerled I
Ronald, from many a hero sprung.
The fair, the valiant, and the young,
Lord of the Isles, whose lofty name
A thousand bards have given to fame,
The mate of monarchs, and allied
On equal terms with England's pride.
From chieftain's tower to bondsman's
cot,
Who hears the tale, and triumphs not?
The damsel dons her best attire.
The shepherd lights his beltane fire ;
Joy, joy! each warder's horn hath
sung,
Joy, joy ! each matin bell hath rung ;
The holy priest says grateful mass,
Loud shouts each hardy galla-glass.
No mountain den holds outcast boor
Of heart so dull, of soul so poor,
But he hath flung his task aside,
And claim'd this morn for holy-tide;
Yet, empress of this joyful day,
Edith is sad while all are gay.'
Proud Edith's soul came to her eye,
Resentment check'd the struggling
sigh.
Her hurrj'ing hand indignant dried
The burning tears of injured pride —
' Worag, forbear I or lend thy praise
To swell yon hireling harpers' laj's ;
Make to yon maids thy boast of power,
That they may waste a wondering
hour.
Telling of banners proudly borne,
Of pealing bell and bugle-horn.
Or, theme more dear, of robes of price,
Crownlets and gauds of rare device.
But thou, experienced as thou art,
Think'st thou with these to cheat the
heart,
That, bound in strong affection's chain.
Looks for return and looks in vain ?
No I sum thine Edith's wretched lot
In these briefwords— He loves her not!
I-]
ZU.^OVi of tU ^6(t6,
415
' Debate it not ; too long I strove
To call his cold observance love.
All blinded by the league that styled
Edith of Lorn — while yet a child
She tripp'd the heath by Morag's
side —
The brave Lord Ronald's destined
bride.
Ere yet I saw him, while afar
His broadsword blazed in Scotland's
war,
Train'd to believe our fates the same,
My bosom throbb'd when Ronald's
name
Came gracing Fame's heroic tale.
Like perfume on the summer gale.
What pilgrim sought our halls, nor
told
Of Ronald's deeds in battle bold ;
"Who touch'd the harp to heroes' praise,
But his achievements swell'd the lays-
Even Morag — not a tale of fame
Was hers but closed with Ronald's
name.
He came ! and all that had been told
Of his high worth seem'd poor and
cold.
Tame, lifeless, void of energy,
Unjust to Ronald and to me !
'Since then, what thought had Edith's
heart
And gave not plighted love its part ?
And what requital ? cold delay.
Excuse that shunn'd the spousal day.
It dawns, and Ronald is not here !
Hunts he Bentalla's nimble deer.
Or loiters he in secret dell
To bid some lighter love farewell.
And swear, that though he may not
scorn
A daughter of the House of Lorn,
Yet, when these formal rites are o'er.
Again they meet, to part no morel'
' Hush, daughter, hush ! thj' doubts
remove.
More nobly think of Ronald's love.
Look, where beneath the castle grey
His fleet unmoor from Aros bay !
See'st not each galley's topmast bend,
As on the j-ards the sails ascend ?
Hiding the dark-blue land, they rise
Like the white clouds on April skies ;
The shouting vassals man the oars.
Behind them sink Mull's mountain
shores.
Onward their merry course thej' keep
Through whistling breeze and foaming
deep.
And mark the lieadmost, seaward cast.
Stoop to the freshening gale her mast,
As if she veil'd its banner'd pride
To greet afar her prince's bride !
Thy Ronald comes, and while in speed
His galley mates the flying steed,
Hechideshersloth!' Fair Edithsigh'd,
Blush'djSadlj'smiled, and thus replied:
' Sweet thought, but vain ! No, Morag!
mark,
Type of his course, yon lonely bark,
That oft hath shifted helm and sail
To win its way against the gale.
Since peep of morn, my vacant ej'es
Have view'd by fits the course she
tries ;
Now, though the darkening scud
comes on,
And dawn's fair promises be gone.
And though the wearj' crew may see
Our sheltering haven on their lee,
Still closer to the rising wind
They strive her shivering sail to bind,
Still nearer to the shelves' dread verge
At every tack her course they urge,
As if they fear'd Artornish mere
Than adverse winds and breakers
roar.'
4i6
ZU Botrb of tU 3efe0.
[Canto
Sooth spoke the maid. Amid the tide
The skift"shemark'd lay tossing sore,
And shifted oft her stooping side
In weary tack from shore to shore.
Yet on her destined course no more
She gain'd, of forward way,
Than what a minstrel may compare
To the poor meed which peasants
share.
Who toil the livelong day ;
And such the risk her pilot braves,
That oft, before she wore,
Her boltsprit kiss'd the broken
waves ,
"Where in white foam the ocean raves
Upon the shelving shore.
Yet, to their destined purpose true.
Undaunted toil'd her hardy crew,
Nor look'd where shelter lay,
Nor for Artornish Castle drew,
Nor steer'd for Aros bay.
XV.
Thus while they strove with wind and
seas.
Borne onward by the willing breeze.
Lord Ronald's fleet swept by,
Streamer'd with silk, and trick'd with
gold,
Mann'd with the noble and the bold
Of Island chivalry.
Around their prows the ocean roars,
And chafes beneath their thousand
oars,
Yet bears them on their way :
So chafes the war-horse in his might.
That fieldward bears some valiant
knight,
Champs, till both bit and boss are white,
But, foaming, must obey.
On each gay deck they might behold
Lances of steel and crests of gold,
And hauberks with their burnish'd fold,
That shimmer'd fair and free ;
And each proud galley, as she pass'd,
To the wild cadence of the blast
Gave wilder minstrelsy.
Full many a shrill triumphant note
Saline and Scallastle bade float
Their misty shores around ;
And Morven's echoes answer'd well.
And Duart heard the distant swell
Come down the darksome Sound.
XVI.
So bore they on with mirth and pride,
And if that labouring bark hey spied,
'Twas with such idle eye
As nobles cast on lowly boor,
When, toiling in his task obscure,
They pass him careless by.
Let them sweep on with heedless eyes !
But, had they known what mighty
prize
In that frail vessel lay,
The famish'd wolf, that prowls the
wold,
Had scatheless pass'd the unguarded
fold,
Ere, drifting by these galleys bold,
Unchallenged were her way !
Andthou, Lord Ronald, sweepthouon,
With mirth, and pride, and minstrel
tone !
But had'st thou known who sail'd so
nigh.
Far other glance were in thine eye !
Far other flush were on thy brow,
That, shaded by the bonnet, now
Assumes but ill the blithesome cheer
Ofbridegroom when the bride is near!
XVII.
Yes, sweep they on 1 We will not
leave,
For them that triumph, those who
grieve.
With that armada gay
Be laughter loud and jocund shout.
And bards to cheer the wassail rout.
With tale, romance, and lay ;
And of wild mirth each clamorous art
Which, if it cannot cheer the heart,
May stupify and stun its smart.
For one loud busy day.
I]
ZU :Borb of tU 50fee.
417
Yes, sweep they on ! — Rut with that
skift'
Abides the minstrel tale,
Where there was dread of surge and
cliff,
Labour that strain'd each sinew stiff,
And one sad Maiden's wail.
All day with fruitless strife they toil'd,
With eve the ebbing currents boil'd
More fierce from strait and lake ;
And midway through the channel met
Conflicting tides that foam and fret,
And high their mingled billows jet.
As spears, that, in the battle set,
Spring upward as they break.
Then, too, the lights of eve were past,
And louder sung the western blast
On rocks of Inninmore ;
Rent was the sail, and .strain'd the
mast,
And manjr a leak was gaping fast.
And the pale steersman stood aghast,
And gave the conflict o'er.
'Twas then that One, whose lofty look
Nor labour dull'd nor terror shook,
Thus to the Leader spoke :
' Brother, how hopest thou to abide
The fury of this wilder'd tide,
Or how avoid the rock's rude side,
Until the day has broke ?
Uidst thou not mark the vessel reel,
With quivering planks, and groaning
keel,
At the last billow's shock 1
Yet how of better counsel tell,
Though here thou see'st poor Isabel
Half dead with want and fear;
For look on sea, or look on land.
Or 3'on dark sky — on every hand
Despair and death arc near.
For her alone I grieve — on me
Danger sits light by land and sea,
I follow where thou wilt ;
Either to bide the tempest's lour.
Or wend to 3'on unfriendly tower.
Or rush amid their naval power,
With war-cry wake their wassail-
hour,
And die with hand on hilt.'
That elder Leader's calm reply
In steady voice was given,
' In man's most dark extremity
Oft succour dawns from Heaven.
Edward, trim thou the shatter'd sail,
The helm be mine, and down the
gale
Let our free course be driven ;
.So shall we 'scape the western bay.
The hostile fleet, the unequal fray,
.So safely hold our vessel's wa}'
Beneath the Castle wall :
For if a hope of safety rest,
'Tis on the sacred name of guest,
Who seeks for shelter, storm-dis-
tress'd,
Within a chieftain's hall.
If not — it best beseems our worth.
Our name, our right, our lofty birth,
Bv noble hands to fall.'
The helm, to his strong arm consign'd,
Gave the reef'd sail to meet the wind,
And on her alter'd way.
Fierce bounding, forward sprung the
ship,
Like greyhound starting from the slip
To seize his flying prey.
Awaked before the rushing prow.
The mimic fires of ocean glow.
Those lightnings of the wave ;
Wild sparkles crest the broken tides,
And, flashing round, the vessel's sides
With elvish lustre lave,
While, far behind, their livid light
To the dark billows of the night
A gloomy splendour gave,
4i8
ZU ^ov^ of tu 50f^0-
[Canto
It seems as if old Ocean shakes
From his dark brow the lucid flakes
In envious pageantr}-,
To match the meteor-light that streaks
Grim Hecla's midnight sk}-.
Nor lack'd they steadier light to keep
Their course upon the darken'd deep ;
Artornish, on her frowning steep
"Twixt cloud and ocean hung,
Glanced with a thousand lights of glee,
And landward far, and far to sea,
Her festal radiance flung.
Bj'that blithe beacon-light theysteer'd,
Whose lustre mingled well
With the pale beam that now appcar'ii.
As the cold moon her head uprear'd
Above the eastern fell.
Thus guided, on theircourse they bore,
Until the\' near'd the mainland shore,
When frequent on the hollow blast
Wild shouts of merriment were cast,
And wind and wave and sea-birds'
cry
With wassail sounds in concert vie.
Like funeral shrieks with revelry,
Or like the battle-shout
By peasants heard from clifl's on high.
When Triumph, Rage, and Agonj'.
Madden the fight and rout.
Now nearer yet, through mist and
storm.
Dimly arose the Castle's form.
And deepen'd shadow made.
Far lengthen'd on the main below,
Where, dancing in reflected glow,
A hundred torches play'd,
Spangling the wave with lights as vain
As pleasures in this vale of pain,
That dazzle as they fade.
Beneath the Castle's sheltering lee,
They staid their course in quiet sea.
Hewn in the rock, a passage there
Sought the dark fortress by a stair,
So straight, so high, so steep.
With peasant's staff one valiant hand
Might well the dizzypasshave mann'd,
"Gainst hundreds arm'd with spear and
brand.
And plunged them in the deep.
His bugle then the helmsman wound;
Loud answer'd every echo round,
From turret, rock, and bay ;
The postern's hinges crash and groan.
And soon the Warder's cresset shone
On those rude steps of slippery stone,
To light the upward way.
' Thrice welcome, holy Sire I 'he said ;
' Full long the spousal train have staid ,
And, vex'd at th}' delay,
Fear'd lest, amidst these wildering
seas.
The darksome night and freshening
breeze
Had driven thy bark astray.'
' Warder,' the younger stranger said,
'Thine erring guess some mirth had
made
In mirthful hour ; butnightslike these,
When the rough winds wake western
seas,
Brook not of glee. We crav-e some aid
And needful shelter for this maid
Until the break of day;
For, to ourselves, the deck's rude plank
Is easy as the mossy bank
That 's breath'd upon by May.
And for our storm-toss'd skitV we
seek
Short shelter in this leeward creek,
Prompt when the dawn the east shall
streak
Again to bear awaj'.'
Answered the Warder, — ' In what
name
Assert ye hospitable claim ?
'Whence come, or whitiier bound?
I.]
tU Borb of tU 30fe0.
419
Hath Erin seen your parting sails ?
Or come 3-0 on Norweyan gales ?
And seek 3-e England's fertile vales,
Or Scotland's mountain ground?'
XXVI.
* Warriors — for other title none
For some brief space we list to own.
Bound by a vow — warriors are we ;
In strife by land, and storm by sea,
We have been known to fame ;
And these brief words have import
dear,
When sounded in a noble ear,
To harbour safe, and friendly cheer,
That giv^es us rightful claim.
Grant us the trivial boon we seek,
And we in other realms will speak
Fair of your courtesy ;
Deny — and be your niggard Hold
Scorn'd by the noble and the bold,
Shunn'd by the pilgrim on the wold,
And wanderer on the lea ! '
' Bold stranger, no — 'gainst claim like
thine
No bolt revolves by hand of mine;
Though urged in tone that more ex-
press'd
A monarch than a suppliant guest.
Be what ye will, Artornish Hall
On this glad eve is free to all.
Though 3'e had drawn a hostile
sword
'Gainst our ally, great England's Lord,
Or mail upon j^our shoulders borne
To battle with the Lord of Lorn,
Or, outlaw'd, dwelt by greenwood tree
With the fierce Knight of Ellerslie,
Or aided even the murderous strife
When Comyn fell beneath the knife
Of that fell homicide The Bruce,
This night had been a term of truce.
Ho, vassals ! give these guests your
care,'
And show the narrow postern stair."
XXVII r.
To land these two bold brethren leapt
(The weary crew their vessel kept)
And, lighted by the torches' flare,
That seaward flungtheirsmokj' glare.
The 3'ounger knight that maiden bare
Half lifeless up the rock ;
On his strong shoulder lean'd her
head.
And down her long dark tresses shed.
As the wild vine in tendrils spread,
Droops from the mountain oak.
Him follow'd close that elder Lord,
And in his hand a sheathed sword.
Such as few arms could wield ;
But when he boun'd him to such task.
Well could it cleave the strongest
casque,
And rend the surest shield.
The raised portcullis' arch they pass,
The wicket with its bars of brass.
The entrance long and low,
Flank'd at each turn by loop-holes
strait.
Where bowmen might in ambush wait
(If force or fraud should burst the
gate)
To gall an entering foe.
But every jealous post of ward
Was now defenceless and unbarr'd,
And all the passage free
To one low-brow'd and vaulted room,
Where squire and j-eoman, page and
groom.
Plied their loud revelry.
And ' Rest ye here,' the Warder bade,
'Till to our Lord your suit is said.
And, comrades, gaze not on the maid,
And on these men who ask our aid,
As if ye ne'er had seen
A damsel tired of midnight bark.
Or wanderers of a moulding stark,
And bearing martial mien.'
p 2
420
ZU Bori of tU 3efe6.
[Canto
But not for Eachin's reproof
Would page or vassal stand aloof,
But crowded on to stare,
As men of courtesy untaught.
Till fiery Edward roughU' caught
From one, the foremost there.
His chequer'd plaid, and in its shroud,
To hide her from the vulgar crowd,
Involved his sister fair.
His brother, as the clansman bent
His sullen brow in discontent,
Made brief and stern excuse; —
' Vassal, were thine the cloak of pall
Tliat decks thy Lord in bridal hall,
"Twere honour'd by her use.'
Proud was his tone, but calm ; his eye
Had that compelling dignity.
His mien that bearing haught and
high,
• Which common spirits fear ;
Needed nor word nor signal more.
Nod, wink, and laughter, all were
o'er;
Upon each other back the}^ bore,
And gazed like startled deer.
But now appear'd the Seneschal,
Commission'd by his lord to call
The strangers to the Baron's hall.
Where feasted fair and free
That Island Prince in nuptial tide.
With Edith there his lovely bride,
And her bold brother by her side.
And many a chief, the flower and
pride
Of Western land and sea.
Here pause we, gentles, for a space ;
And, if our tale hath won j-our grace,
Grant us brief patience, and again
We will renew the minstrel strain.
Canto Second.
Fill the bright goblet, spread the
festive board !
Summon the ga}', tlie noble, and the
fair!
Through the loud hall in joyous
concert pour'd
Let mirth and music sound the dirge
of Care !
But ask thou not if Happiness be
there.
If the loud laugh disguise convulsive
throe.
Or if the brow the heart's true liverj*
wear ;
Lift not the festal mask ! — enough
to know.
No scene of mortal life but teems
with mortal woe.
With beakers' clang, with harpers' laj'.
With all that olden time deem'd gaj',
The Island Chieftain feasted high ;
But there was in his troubled eye
A gloomy fire, and on his bro^v
Now sudden flush'd, and faded now,
Emotions such as draw their birth
From deeper source than festal mirth.
By fits he paused, and harper's strain
And jester's tale went round in vain.
Or fell but on his idle ear
Like distant sounds which dreamers
hear.
Then would he rouse him, and employ
Each art to aid the clamorous joy,
And call for pledge and laj',
And, for brief space, of all the crowd.
As he was loudest of the loud,
Seem gayest of the gay.
in.
Yet nought amiss the bridal throng
Mark'd in brief mirth, or musing long ;
The vacant brow, the unlistening ear,
11.]
tU Bov^ of tU ^sk0.
421
Tliey gave to thoughts of raptures
near.
And his fierce starts of sudden glee
Seem'd bursts of bridegroom's ecstasy.
Nor thus alone misjudged the crowd,
■Since lofty Lorn, suspicious, proud,
And jealous of his honour'd line,
And that keen knight, De Argentine,
(From England sent on errand high,
The western league more firm to tie,)
Both deem'd in Ronald's mood to find
A lover's transport-troubled mind.
But one sad heart, one tearful eye,
Pierced deeper through the mystery,
And watch'd, with agonj^ and fear,
Her wayward bridegroom's varied
cheer.
She watch'd, j-et fear'd to meet his
glance.
i\nd he shunn'd her.s ; till when by
chance
They met, the point of focman's lance
Had given a milder pang !
lieneath the intolerable smart
He writhed, then sternly mann'd his
heart
To play his hard but destined part.
And from the table sprang.
' Fill me the mighty cup !' he said,
' Erst own'd by royal Somerled ;
I'ill it, till on the studded brim
In burning gold the bubbles swim.
And every gem of varied shine
Glow doubly bright in rosy wine !
To you, brave lord, and brother mine
Of Lorn, this pledge I drink —
The union of Our House with thine,
Bv this fair bridal-link!'
' Let it pass round !' quoth He of Lorn,
' And in good time ; that winded horn
Must of the Abbot tell;
The laggard monk is come at last.'
Lord Ronald heard the bugle-blast.
And on the floor at random cast
The untasted goblet fell.
But when the Warder in his ear
Tells other news, his blither cheer
Returns like sun of May,
"When through a thunder-cloud it
beams !
Lord of two hundred isles, he seems
As glad of brief delay.
As some poor criminal might feel,
When, from the gibbet or the wheel,
Respited for a day.
' Brother of Lorn,' with hurried voice
He said, ' And you, fair lords, rejoice !
Here, to augment our glee,
Come wandering knights from travel tar,
Well proved, they say, in strife of war.
And tempest on the sea.
Ho ! give them at your board such place
As best their presences may grace.
And bid them welcome free!'
With solemn step, and silver wand,
The Seneschal the presence scann'd
Of these strange guests ; and well he
knew
How to assign their rank its due ;
For though the costly furs
That erst had deck'd their caps were
torn,
And their gay robes were overworn,
And soil'd their gilded spurs.
Yet such a high commanding grace
Was in their mien and in their face,
As suited best the princely dais.
And royal canopy ;
And there he marshall'd them their
place.
First of that company-.
VII.
Then lords and ladies spake aside.
And angr^' looks the error chide,
That gave to guests unnamed, un-
known,
A place so near their prince's throne ;
But Owen Erraught said,
422
ZU ^otri ^f <^^ 36f^6.
[Canto
' For forty years a seneschal.
To marshal guests in bower and hall
Has been my honour'd trade.
Worship and birth to me are known
By look, by bearing, and by tone,
Not by furr'd robe or broider'd zone ;
And 'gainst an oaken bough
I '11 gage my silver wand of state,
That these three strangers oft have sate
In higher place than now.'
VIII.
' I, too,' the aged Ferrand said,
' Am qualified by minstrel trade
Of rank and place to tell ;
Mark'dye the younger stranger's eye,
My mates, how quick, how keen, how
high,
How fierce its Hashes fell,
Glancing among the noble rout
As if to seek the noblest out.
Because the owner might not brook
On any save his peers to look?
And yet it moves me more.
That steady, calm, majestic brow,
"With which the elder chief even now
Scann'd the gay presence o'er.
Like being of superior kind.
In whose high-toned impartial mind
Degrees of mortal rank and state.
Seem objects of indifferent weight.
The lady too— though closely tied
The mantle veil both face and eye,
Her motions' grace it could not hide.
Nor could her form's fair sym-
metry.'
IX.
.Suspicious doubt and lordly scorn
Lour'd on the haughty front of Lorn.
From underneath his brows of pride,
The stranger guests he sternly eyed.
And whisper'd closely what the ear
Of Argentine alone might hear;
Then question'd, high and brief,
If, in their voyage, aught they knew
Of the rebellious Scottish crew,
Who to Rath-Erin's shelter drew.
With Carrick'.'i outlaw'd Chiet ?
And if, their winter's exile o'er.
They harbour'd still by Ulster's shore.
Or launch'd their galleys on the main,
To vex their native land again i
X.
That younger stranger, fierce and
high,
At once confronts the Chieftain's eye
With lock of equal scorn ;
' Of rebels have we nought to show ;
But if of Royal Bruce thou'dst know,
I warn thee he has sworn.
Ere thrice three days shall come and
go.
His banner Scottish winds shall blow,
Despite each mean or mighty foe,
From England's every bill and bow,
To Allaster of Lorn.'
Kindled the mountain Chieftain's ire,
But Ronald quench'd the rising fire ;
' Brother, it better suits the time
To chase the night with Ferrand's
rhyme.
Than wake, 'midst mirth and wine, the
jars
That flow from these unhappy wars.'
'Content,' said Lorn; and spoke apart
With Ferrand, master of his art,
Then whisper'd Argentine,
' The lay I named will carry smart
To these bold strangers' haughty heart.
If right this guess of mine.'
He ceased, and it was silence all,
Until the minstrel waked the hall:
The l^RoocH ov Lorn.
' Whence the brooch of burning gold.
That clasps the Chieftain's mantle-fold,
Wrought and chased with rare device.
Studded fair with gems of price.
On the varied tartans beaming.
As, through night's pale rainbow
gleaming,
Fainter now, now seen atar,
Fitful shines the northern star?
11.]
^U Borb of t^t ^eke.
423
Gem I ne'er wrought on Highland
mountain,
Did the fairy of the fountain,
Or the mermaid of the wave,
Frame thee in some coral cave ?
Did, in Iceland's darksome mine,
Dwarf's swart hands thy metal twine?
Or, mortal-moulded, comest thou here
From Ensrland's love, or France's fear?
'No ! — thy splendours nothing tell
Foreign art or faery spell.
Moulded thou for monarch's use,
By the overweening Bruce,
When the royal robe he tied
O'er a heart of wrath and pride ;
Thence in triumph wert thou torn,
By the victor hand of Lorn I
When the gem was won and lost,
Widely was the war-cry toss'd !
Rung aloud Bendourish fell,
Answer'd Douchart's sounding dell.
Fled the deer from wild Teyndrum,
When the homicide, o'ercome.
Hardly 'scaped with scathe and scorn.
Left the pledge with conquering Lorn !
*Vain was then the Douglas brand.
Vain the Campbell's A-aunted hand,
Vain Kirkpatrick's bloody dirk.
Making sure of murder's work ;
Barendown iled fast awa^'.
Fled the fiery De la Haye,
When this brooch, triumphant burne,
Bcam'd upon the breast of Lorn,
Farthest iled its former Lord,
Left his men to brand and cord,
Bloody brand of Highland steel,
English gibbet, axe, and wheel.
Let him fly from coast to coast,
Dogg'd by Comyn's vengeful ghost.
While his spoils, in triumph worn.
Long shall grace victorious Lorn !'
As glares the tiger on his foes,
Hcmm'd in by hunters, spears, and
bows.
And, ere he bounds upon the ring,
Selects the object of his spring, —
Now on the bard, now on his Lord,
So Edward glared and grasp'd his
sword ;
But stern his brother spoke, 'Be still!
What ! art thou yet so wild of will.
After high deeds and sufferings long.
To chafe thee for a menial's song? —
Well hast thou framed. Old Man, thy
strains,
To praise the hand that pays thy pains ;
Yet somethingmightthj'songhave told
Of Lorn's three vassals, true and bold,
Who rent their Lord from Bruce'shold
As underneath his knee he lay,
And died to save him in the fray.
I 've heard the Bruce's cloak and clasj)
Was clench'd within their dyinggrasp.
What time a hundred foemen more
Rush'd in, and back the victor bore.
Long after Lorn had left the strife.
Full glad to 'scape with limb and life.
Enough of this; and. Minstrel, hold
As minstrel-hire this chain of gold.
For future la\'s a fair excuse
To speak more nobl}' of the Bruce.'
'Now, b3- Columba's shrine, I swear.
And every saint that 's buried there,
'Tis he himself!' Lorn sternly cries,
'And for my kinsman's death he dies.'
As loudly Ronald calls, ' Forbear !
Not in my sight, while brand I v\-ear,
O'ermatch'd by odds,shallwarrior fall.
Or blood of stranger stain my hall !
This ancient fortress of my race
Shall be misfortune's resting-place.
Shelter and shield of the distress'd.
No slaughter-house for shipwreck'd
guest,'
424
ZU Botb of <6e 5ef^e-
[Canto
' Talk not to me,' fierce Lorn replied,
' Of odds or match! when Comyn died
Three daggers clash'd within his side !
Talk not to me of sheltering hall.
The Church of God saw Comyn fall I
On God's own altarstream'd his blood,
While o'er my prostrate kinsman
stood
The ruthless murderer— e'en as now —
With armed hand and scornful brow !
Up, all who love me ! blow on blow !
And lay the outlaw'd felons low !'
XVI.
Thenupsprangmany a mainland Lord,
Obedient to their Chieftain's word.
Barcaldine's arm is high in air,
And Kinloch-Alline's blade is bare,
Black Murthok's dirk has left its sheath,
And clench'd is Dermid's hand of death.
Their mutter'd threats of vengeance
swell
Into a wild and warlike yell ;
Onward they press with weapons high,
The aftVighted females shriek and fly.
And, .Scotland, then thy brightest ray
Had darken'd ere its noon of day,—
But every chief of birth and fame,
That from the Isles of Ocean came.
At Ronald's side that hour withstood
Fierce Lorn's relentless thirst for
blood.
XVII.
Brave Torquil from Dunvegan high,
Lord of the misty hills of Skye,
Mac-Niel, wild Bara's ancient thane,
Duart, of bold Clan-Gillian's strain,
I-'ergus, of Canna's castled bay,
Mac-Duffith, Lord of Colonsay,
Soon as they saw the broadswords
glance.
With ready weapons rose at once,
More prompt, that many an ancient
feud.
Full oft suppress'd, full oft renew'd,
Glow'd 'twixt the chieftains of Argyle,
And many a lord of ocean's isle.
Wild was the scene— each sword was
bare,
Back stream'd each chieftain's shaggy
hair.
In gloomy opposition set.
Eyes, hands, and brandish'd weapons
met ;
Blue gleaming o'er the social board,
Flash'd to the torches many a sword ;
And soon those bridal lights may shine
On purple blood for rosy wine.
XVIII.
While thus for blows and death pre-
pared.
Each heart was up, each weapon
bared,
Each foot advanced,— a surly pause
Still reverenced hospitable laws.
All menaced violence, but alike
Reluctant each the first to strike,
(For aye accursed in minstrel line
Is he who brawls 'mid song and
wine,)
And,match'd in numbers and in might.
Doubtful and desperate seem'd the
fight.
Thus threat and murmur died away,
Till on the crowded hall there lay
Such silence, as the deadly still
Ere bursts the thunder on the hill.
With blade advanced, each Chieftain
bold
Show'd like the Sworder's form ot old,
As wanting still the torch of life ^
To wake the marble into strife.
XIX.
That awful pause the stranger maid.
And Edith, seized to pray for aid.
As to De Argentine she clung.
Away her veil the stranger flung,
And, lovely 'mid her wild despair.
Fast stream'd her eyes, wide flow'd
her hair.
'O thou, of knighthood once theflower.
Sure refuge in distressful hour.
[1 Ou. touch of life J]
11.]
ZU Boxl of tU 3sfe0.
425
'J'hou, who in Judah well hast fought
For our dear faith, and oft hast sought
Renown in knightly exercise,
When this poor hand has dealt the
prize.
Say, can thy soul of honour brook
On the unequal strife to look,
When, butchor'd thus in peaceful hall,
Those once thy friends, my brethren,
fall!"
To Argentine she turn'd her word.
But her eye sought the Island Lord.
A flush like evening's setting flame
Glow'd on his cheek ; his hardy frame,
As with a brief convulsion, shook :
With hurried voice and eager look, —
* Fear not,' he said, ' my Isabel !
What said I ?— Edith ! all is well ;
Nay, fear not ; I will well provide
The safety of ni}' lovely bride —
My bride ? ' — but there the accents
clung
In tremor to his faltering tongue.
Now rose De ^Vrgentine, to claim
The prisoners in his sovereign's name.
To England's crown, who, vassals
sworn,
'Gainst their liege lord had weapon
borne —
(Such speech, I ween, was but to hide
His care their safety to provide ;
For knight more true in thought and
deed
Than Argentine ne'er spurr'd a
steed) —
AndRonaldjWhohis meaning guess'd,
Seem'd half to sanction the request.
This purpose fiery Torquil broke :
' Somewhat we 've heard of England's
yoke,'
He said, 'and, in our islands. Fame
Hath whisper'd of a lawful claim,
That calls the Bruce fair Scotland's
Lord,
Though dispossess'd by foreign sword.
This craves reflection — but though
right
And just the charge of England's
Knight,
Let England's crown her rebels seize
Where she has power ; — in towers
like these,
'Midst Scottish Chieftains summun'd
here
To bridal mirth and bridal cheer,
Be sure, with no consent of mine,
•Shall either Lorn or Argentine
With chains or violence, in our sight,
Oppress a brave and banish'd Knight.'
Then waked the wild debate again.
With brawling threat and clamour vain.
Vassals and menials, thronging in,
Lent their brute rage to swell the din ;
When, far and wide, a bugle-clang
From the dark ocean upward rang.
' The Abbot comes !' they cry at
once,
'The holy man, whose favour'd
glance
Hath sainted visions known ,
Angels have met him on the wa_\'.
Beside the blessed mart^'rs' ba^-,
And b}^ Columba's stone.
His monks have heard their hyinji-
ings high
Sound from the summit of Dun-Y,
To cheer his penance lone
When at each cross, on girth and wold,
(Their number thrice a hundred-fold,)
His prayer he made, his beads he told.
With Aves many a one-
He comes our feuds to reconcile,
A sainted man from sainted isle ;
We will his holy doom abide.
The Abbot shall our strife decide.'
.Scarcely this fair accord was o'er,
When through the wide revolving door
The black-stoled brethren wind ;
426
Z^t Bori of tU 30fe0.
[Canto
Twelve sandall'd monks, who relics
bore.
With manj' a torch-bearer before,
And many a cross behind.
Then sunk each fierce uplifted hand.
And dagger bright and flashing brand
Dropp'd swiftly at the sight ;
They vanish'd from the Churchman's
eye.
As shooting stars, that glance and die,
Dart from the vault of night.
xxin.
The Abbot on the threshold stood.
And in his liand the holy rood ;
Back on his shoulders flow'd his hood,
The torch's glaring raj'
Show'd, in its red and flashing light,
His wither'd cheek and amice white.
His blue eye glistening cold and
bright,
His tresses scant and grey.
'P'air Lords,' he said, 'Our Lady's
love,
And peace be with you from above,
And Benedicite I
— But what means this ? no peace is
here ! —
Do dirks unsheathed suit bridal cheer?
Or are these naked brands
A seemlj' show for Churchman's sight.
When he comes sumnion'd to unite
Betrothed hearts and hands ?'
Then, cloaking hate with fiery zeal,
Proud Lorn first answer'd the ap-
peal ; -
' Thou comest, O holy Man,
True sons of blessed church to greet,
But little deeming here to meet
A wretch, beneath the ban
Of Pope and Church, for murder done
Even on the sacred altar-stone 1 —
Well mayst thou wonder we should
know
•Such miscreant here, nor lay him low,
Or dream of greeting, peace, or truce.
With excommunicated Bruce !
Yet well I grant, to end debate,
Thy sainted voice decide his fate.'
Then Ronald pled the stranger's cause.
And knighthood's oath and honour's
laws ;
And Isabel, on bended knee.
Brought pray'rs and tears to back the
plea :
And Edith lent her generous aid,
And wept, and Lorn for mercy pray'd.
' Hence,' he exclaim'd, ' degenerate
maid !
Was't not enough to Ronald's bower
I brought thee, like a paramour.
Or bond-maid at her master's gate,
His careless cold approach to wait ?
But the bold Lord of Cumberland,
The gallant Cliff'ord, seeks thy hand;
His it shall be — Nay, no reply !
Hence ! till those rebel eyes be dry.'
With grief the Abbot heard and saw,
Yet nought relax'd his brow of awe.
Then Argentine, in England's name,
So highly urged his sovereign's claim.
He waked a spark, that, long sup-
press'd,
Had smoulder'd in Lord Ronald's
breast ;
And now, as from the flint the fire,
Hash'd forth at once his generous ire.
' Enough of noble blood,' he said,
' By English Edward had been shed.
Since matchless Wallace first had been
In mock'ry crown'd with wreaths of
green,
And done to death by felon hand,
Eor guarding well his father's land.
Where's Nigel Bruce? andDelaHaye,
And valiant Seton — where are they ?
Where Somerville, the kind and free?
And Eraser, flower of chivalry ?
It.:
t6e Bov^ of tU ^0^6.
427
Have tliey not been on gibbet bound,
Their quarters flung to hawk and
hound,
And hold we here a cold debate,
To yield more victims to their fate ?
What ! can the English Leopard's
mood
Never be gorged with northern blood?
Was not the life of Athole shed
To soothe the tyrant's sicken'd bed ?
And must his word, till djnng day,
Be nought but quarter, hang, and slay!
Thou frown'st, De Argentine; my
gage
Is prompt to j)rove the strife I wage.'
' Nor deem.' said stout Dunvcgan's
knight,
' That thou shalt brave alone the fight I
By saints of isle and mainland both,
By Woden wild (my grandsire's
oath).
Let Rome and England do theirworst,
Howe'er attainted or accursed.
If Bruce shall e'er find friends again
Once more to brave a battle-plain,
If Douglas couch again his lance,
Or Randolph dare another chance.
Old Torquil will not be to lack
With twice a thousand at his back.
Nay, chafe not at mj^ bearing bold.
Good Abbot ! for thou know'st of old,
Torquil's rude thought and stubborn
will
Smack of the wild Norwegian still ;
Nor will I barter Freedom's cause
For England's wealth, or Rome's
applause.'
The Abbot seem'd with eye severe
The hardy Chieftain's speech to hear;
Then on King Robert turn'd the Mopk,
But twice his courage came and sunk,
Confronted with the hero's look ;
Twice fell his eye, his accents shook ;
At length, resolved in tone and brow,
.Sternlj'hequestion'dhim — 'And thou,
Unhappy ! what hast thou to plead,
Why I denounce not on thy deed
That awful doom which canons tell
Shuts paradise, and opens hell ;
Anathema of power so dread,
It blends the living with the dead,
Bids each good angel soar away.
And every ill one claim his prey ;
Expels thee from the Church's care.
And deafens Heaven against thy
prayer ;
Arms every hand against thy life.
Bans all who aid thee in the strife.
Nay, each whose succour, cold and
scant,
With meanest alms relieves thy want;
Haunts thee while living, and, when
dead.
Dwells on th\- yet devoted head,
Rends Honour's scutcheon from thy
hearse,
Stills o'er thy bier the holy verse.
And spurns thy corpse from hallow'd
ground.
Flung like vile carrion to the hound ;
Such is the dire and desperate doom
For sacrilege, decreed by Rome ;
And such the well-deserved meed
Of thine unhallow'd, ruthless deed.'
•Abbot!' The Bruce replied, "thy
charge
It boots not to dispute at large.
This much, howe'er, I bid thee know.
No selfish vengeance dealt the blow,
For Comyn died his country's foe.
Nor blame I friends whose ill-timed
speed
Fulfill'd my soon-repented deed,
Nor censure those from whose stern
tongue
The dire anathema has rung.
I only blame mine own wild ire,
By Scotland's \vrongs incensed to fire.
P 5
428
ZH ^ovl of tS>t 30fe6.
[Canto
Heaven knows my purpose to atone,
Far as I may, the evil done,
And hears a penitent's appeal
From papal curse and prelate's zeal.
My first and dearest task achieved,
Fair Scotland from her thrall relieved,
Shall many a pri-fest in cope and stole
Say requiem for Red Comyn's soul,
While I the blessed cross advance,
And expiate this unhappy chance
In Palestine, with sword and lance.
But, while content the Church should
know
My conscience owns the debt I owe,
Unto De Argentine and Lorn
The name of traitor I return,
Bid them defiance stern and high,
And give them in their throats the liel
These brief words spoke, I speak no
more.
Do what thou wilt ; my shrift is o'er.'
Like man by prodigy amazed.
Upon the King the Abbot gazed ;
Then o'er his pallid features glance
Convulsions of ecstatic trance.
His breathing came more thick and
fast,
And from his pale blue eyes were cast
Strange rays of wild and wandering
light ;
Uprise his locks of siK'er white,
F"lush'd is his brow, through every
vein
In azure tide the currents strain,
And undistinguish'd accents broke
The awful silence ere he spoke.
' De Bruce ! I rose with purpose dread
To speak my curse upon thy head.
And give thee as an outcast o'er
To liim who burns to shed thy gore :
But, like the Midianite of old.
Who stood on Zophim, heaven-con-
troll'd.
I feel within mine aged breast
A power that will not be repressed.
It prompts my voice, it swells my
veins,
It burns, it maddens, it constrains I —
De Bruce, thy sacrilegious blow
Hath at God's altar slain thy foe :
O'ermaster'd yet by high behest,
I bless thee, and thou shalt be bless'd 1 '
He spoke, and o'er the astonish'd
throng
Was silence, awful, deep, and long.
Again that light has fired his eye.
Again his form swells bold and high,
The broken voice of age is gone,
"Tis vigorous manhood's lofty tone : —
' Thrice vanquish'd on the battle-plain,
Thy followers slaughter'd, fied, or
ta'en.
A hunted wanderer on the wild.
On foreign shores a man exil'd,
Disown'd, deserted, and distress'd,
I bless thee, and thou shalt be bless'd 1
Bless'd in the hall and in the field,
Under the mantle as the shield.
Avenger of thy country's shame,
Restorer of her injured fame,
Bless'd in thy sceptre and thy sword,
De Bruce, fair Scotland's rightful Lord,
Bless'd in thy deeds and in thy fame.
What lengthen'd honours wait thy
name !
In distant ages, sire to son
Shall tell thy tale of freedom won,
And teach his infants, in the use
Of earliest speech, to falter Bruce.
Go, then, triumphant! sweep along
Thy course, the theme of many a song!
The Power, whose dictates swell my
breast,
Hath bless'd thee, and thou shalt be
bless'd ! —
Enough — mj' short-lived strength
decays.
And sinks the momentary blaze.
m.]
Z^t Bovl of tU ^^i^e.
429
Heaven liatli our destined purpose
broke.
Not here must nuptial vow be sjioke ;
Brethren, our errand licre is o'er.
Our task discharo-ed. Unmoor, un-
moor ! '
His priests received the exhausted
Monk,
As breathless in their arms he sunk.
Punctual his orders to obey.
The train refused all longer stay,
Embark'd, raised sail, and bore away.
Canto Third.
Hast thou not mark'd, when o'er
thy startled head
Sudden and deep the thunder-peal
has roll'd,
How, when its echoes fell, a silence
dead
Sunk on the wood, the meadow,
and the wold •
The rye-grass shakes not on the
sod-built fold.
The rustling aspen's leaves are mute
and still.
The \vall-flower waves not on the
ruin'd hold,
Till, murmuring distant first, then
near and shrill,
The savage whirlwind wakes, and
sweeps the groaning hill.
Artornish ! such a silence sunk
Upon thy halls, when that grey Monk
His prophet-speech had spoke ;
And his obedient brethren's sail
Was stretch'd to meet the southern
gale
Before a whisper woke.
Then murmuring" sounds of doubt and
fear,
Close pour'd in manj' an anxious ear,
The solemn stillness broke;
And still they gazed with eager guess,
Where, in an oriel's deep recess.
The Island Prince seem'd bent to press
What Lorn, by his impatient cheer.
And gesture fierce, scarce deign'd to
hear.
III.
Starting at length, with frowning look.
His hand he clench'd, his head he shook,
And sternly flung apart —
' And deem'st thou me somean of mood.
As to forget the mortal feud,
Andclasp the hand with blood imbrued
From my dear Kinsman's heart ?
Is this thy rede ? — a due retiuMi
For ancient league and friendship
sworn !
But well our mountain proverb shows
The faith of Islesmen ebbs and flows.
Be it even so ; believe, ere long,
He that now bears shall wreak the
wrong.
Call Edith— call the Maid of Lorn :
My sister, slaves ! For further scorn.
Be sure nor she nor I will stay.
Away, De Argentine, away !
We nor ally nor brother know,
In Bruce's friend, or England's foe.'
IV.
But who the Chieftain's rage can tell,
When , sought from lowest dungeon cell
To highest tower the castle round,
No Lady Edith was there found !
He shouted, ' Falsehood I — treachery ' I
Revenge and blood ! a lordly meed
To him that will avenge the deed !
A Baron's lands 1' — His frantic mood
Was scarcely by the news withstood,
That Morag shared his sister's flight,
And that, in hurry of the night,
"Scaped noteless, and without remark.
Two strangers sought the Abbot's bark.
[ 1 Scott becms to )aave missed or dropt a line here.]
43°
ZU Bot^ of tH Jef^e.
[Canto
' Man every galley ! flj' — pursue !
The priest his treachery shall rue !
Ay, and the time shall quicklj- come
When we shall hear the thanks that
Rome
Will pay his feigned prophec\' !'
Such ^vas fierce Lorn's indignant crj- ;
And Cormac Doil in haste obej-'d,
Hoisted his sail, his anchor \veigh'd
(For, glad of each pretext for spoil,
A pirate sworn was Cormac DoiT.
But others, lingering, spoke apart, —
' The Maid has given her maiden heart
To Ronald of the Isles,
And, fearful lest her brother's word
Bestow her on that English Lord,
She seeks lona's piles,
And wisely deems it best to dwell
A votaress in the hol^' cell.
Until these feuds so fierce and fell
The Abbot reconciles.'
As impotent of ire, the hall
Echo'd to Lorn's impatient call,
* My horse, my mantle, and my train !
Let none who honours Lorn remain !'
Courteous, but stern, a bold request
To Bruce De Argentine express'd.
' Lord Earl,' he said, ' I cannot chuse
But yield such title to the Bruce,
Though name and earldom both are
gone,
Since he braced rebel's armour on —
But, Earl or serf — rude phrase was
thine
Of late, and launch'd at Argentine ;
Such as compels me to demand
Redress of honour at thy hand.
We need not to each other tell
That both can wield their weapons well;
Then do me but the soldier grace,
This glove upon thj' helm to place
Where we may meet in fight ;
And I will say, as still I "ve said.
Though by ambition far misled.
Thou art a noble knight."
'And I,' the princely Bruce replied,
' Might term it stain on knighthood's
pride
That the bright sword of Argentine
Should in a tyrant's quarrel shine ;
But, for your brave request.
Be sure thehonour'd pledge you gave
In every battle-field shall wave
Upon my helmet-crest ;
Believe, that if mj'' hasty tongue
Hath done thine honour causeless
wrong.
It shall be well redress'd.
Not dearer to my soul was glove,
Bestow'd in youth by lady's love.
Than this which thou hast given !
Thus, then, mj' noble foe I greet;
Health and high fortune till we meet.
And then — what pleases Heaven.'
Thus parted they ; for now, with sound
Like waves roll'd back from rockj-
ground.
The friends of Lorn retire ;
Eachmainland chieftain, with histrain.
Draws to his mountain towers again.
Pondering how mortal schemes prove
vain.
And mortal hopes expire.
But through the castle double guard,
By Ronald's charge, kept wakeful
ward.
Wicket and gate were trebly barr'd.
By beam and bolt and chain ;
Then of the guests, in courteous sort,
Hepra3''dexcuseformirthbroke short.
And bade them in Artornish fort
In confidence remain.
Now torch and menial tendance led
Chieftain and knight to bower and bed,
And beads were told, and Aves said.
And soon thej' sunk away
Into such sleep, as wont to shed
Oblivion on the wear^' head.
After a toilsome day.
m.]
ZU Bori of tU 3efc0.
431
But soon uproused, the Monarch cried
To Edward shimbering by his side,
' Awake, or sleep for a3'e 1
Even now there jarr'd a secret door,
A taper-light gleams on the floor,
Up, Edward, up, I sa\' !
Some one glides in like midnight
ghost —
Na}', strike not ! 'tis our noble Host.'
Advancing then his taper's flame,
Ronald stept forth, and with him came
Dunvegan's chief — each bent the
knee
To Bruce in sign of fealt}'.
And profier'd him his sword.
And hail'd him, in a monarch's stj-le.
As king of mainland and of isle.
And Scotland's rightful lord.
' And O,' said Ronald, ' Own'd of
Heaven !
Say, is my erring youth forgiven.
By falsehood's arts from duty driven,
Who rebel falchion drew.
Yet ever to thy deeds of fame.
Even while I strove against th}' claim,
Paid homage just and true ?'
' Alas ! dearj-outh, the unhappy time,'
Answer'd the Bruce, ' must bear the
crime,
Since, guiltier far than you.
Even r — hepaused ; for Falkirk's woes
Upon his conscious soul arose.
The Chieftain to his breast he press'd,
And in a sigh conceal'd the rest.
They proft'er'd aid, by arms and might,
To repossess him in his right ;
But well their counsels must be
weigh'd.
Ere banners raised and musters made.
For English hire and Lorn's intrigues
Bound many chiefs in southern leagues.
In answer, Bruce his purpose bold
To his new vassals frankly told.
' The winter worn in exile o'er,
I long'd for Carrick's kindred shore.
I thought upon my native Ayr,
And long'd to see the burly fare
That ClitTord makes, whose lordly call
Now echoes through my father's hall.
But first my course to Arran led,
Where valiant Lennox gathers head,
And on the sea, by tempest toss'd,
Our barks dispersed, our purpose
cross'd.
Mine own, a hostile sail to shun,
Far from her destined course had run,
When that wise will, %vhich masters
ours,
Compell'd us to your friendly towers.'
Then Torquil spoke : ' The timecraves
speed 1
We must not linger in our deed,
But instant pray our Sovereign Liege,
To shun the perils of a siege.
The vengeful Lorn, with all his powers.
Lies but too near Artornish towers.
And England's light-arm'd vessels
ride,
Not distant far, the waves of Clyde,
Prompt at these tidings to unmoor,
And sweep each strait, and guard each
shore.
Then, till this fresh alarm pass by.
Secret and safe my Liege must lie
In the far bounds of friendl}' Skj-e,
Torquil thy pilot and thy guide.'
' Not so, brave Chieftain,' Ronald
cried ;
' Myself will on my Sovereign wait.
And raise in arms the men of .Sleatc,
Whilst thou, renown'd where chiefs
debate,
Shalt sway their souls by counsel
sage.
And awe them by thy locks of age.'
' And if my words in weight shall fail.
This ponderous sword shall turn the
scale.'
432
ZU ;Bovb of tU ^eUs.
[Canto
'The scheme,' said Bruce, 'contents
me well ;
Meantime, 'twere best that Isabel,
For safety, with mj' bark and crew,
Again to friendly Erin drew.
There Ed ward, too, shallwith her wend,
In need to cheer her and defend,
And muster up each scatter'd friend.'
Here seem'd it as Lord Ronald's ear
Would other counsel gladlicr hear ;
But, all achieved as soon as plann'd,
Bothbarks, insecretarm'dand mann'd,
From out the haven bore ;
On diflerent voyage forth they ply,
This for the coast of winged Skye',
And that for Erin's shore.
XII.
"With Bruce and Ronald bides the tale.
To favouring winds they gave the sail,
Till Mull's dark headlands scarce the}'
knew,
And Ardnamurchan's hills were blue.
But then the squalls blew close and
hard,
And, fain to strike the galley's 3'ard,
And take them to the oar,
With these rude seas, in ^veary plight,
Theystrovethelivelongday and night,
Nor till the dawning had a sight
Of Sk\'e's romantic shore.
Where Coolin stoops him to the west,
They saw upon his shiver'd crest
The sun's arising gleam ;
But such the labour and delay,
Ere they were moor'd in Scavigh bay
(For calmer heaven compell'd to sta\')
He shot a western beam.
Then Ronald said, ' If true mine eye.
These are the savage wilds that lie
North of Strathnardill and Dunskyc ;
No human foot comes here.
And, sincethese adverse breezesblow.
If mj' good Liege love hunter's bow,
What hinders that on land we go.
And strike a mountain-deer?
[.I 'Insula alata.' George Buchanan.]
Allan, my page, shall with ixs wend ;
A bo\v full deftlj' can he bend.
And, if we meet a herd, maj' send
A shaft shall mend our cheer.'
Then each took bow and bolts in hand,
Their row-boat launch'd and leapt to
land.
And left their skiff and train.
Where a wild stream, with headlong
shock.
Came brawling down its bed of rock,
To mingle with the main.
XIII.
Awhile their route they silent made,
As men who stalk for mountain-
deer,
Till the good Bruce to Ronald said,
' .Saint Mary ' what a scene is
here !
I've traversed man}' a mountain-strand,
Abroad and in my native land.
And it has been my lot to tread
Where safety more than pleasure led ;
Thus, many a waste I've wander'd o'er,
Clombe many a crag, cross'd many a
moor.
But, by my halidome,
A scene so rude, so wild as this.
Yet so sublime in barrenness,
Ne'er did my wandering footsteps press,
Where'er I happ'd to roam.'
XIV.
No marvel thus the Monarch spake ;
For rarely human ej-e has known
A scene so stern as that dread lake,
With its dark ledge of barren stone.
Seems that primeval earthquake's sway
Hath rent a strange and shatter'd wa\'
Through the rude bosom of the hill,
And that each naked precipice,
Sable ravine, and dark abj'ss.
Tells of the outrage still.
The wildest glen, but this, can show
.Some touch of Nature's genial glow;
On high Benmore green mosses grow,
And heath-bells bud in deep Glencroe,
And copse on Cruchan-Bcn;
III.l
tU Bovb of tU 50fe0.
433
But here, — above, around, below,
On mountain or in glen,
Nor tree, nor shrub, nor plant, nor
flower,
Nor aught of vegetative power,
The wearj' ej^e may ken.
For all is rocks at random thrown,
Black waves, bare crags, and banks of
stone,
As if were here denied
The summer sun, the spring's sweet
dew,
That clothe with many a varied hue
The bleakest mountain-side.
And wilder, forward as they wound,
Were the proud cliffs and lake profound.
Huge terraces of granite black
Afforded rude and cumber'd track ;
For from the mountain hoar,
Hurl'd headlong in some night of fear.
When yeird the wolf and fled the deer.
Loose crags had toppled o'er ;
And some, chance-poised and balanced,
lay,
So that a stripling arm might sway
A mass no host could raise.
In Nature's rage at random thrown,
Yot trembling like tlie Druid's stone
On its precarious base.
The evening mists, with ceaseless
change.
Now clothed the mountains' loftv
range.
Now left their foreheads bare,
And round the skirts their mantle furl'd.
Or on the sable waters curl'd.
Or on the eddying breezes whirl'd.
Dispersed in middle air.
And oft, condensed, atoncethej^lower,
When, brief and fierce, the mountain
shower
Pours like a torrent down,
Andwhen return the sun's glad beams,
Whiten'd with foam a thousand streams
Leap from the mountain's crown.
'This lake, 'said Bruce, 'whose barriers
drear
Are precipices sharp and sheer.
Yielding no track for goat or deer.
Save the black shelves we tread.
How term you its dark waves? and how
Yon northern mountain's pathless
brow.
And j'onder peak of dread,
That to the evening sun uplifts
The griesly gulfs and slaty rifts
Which seam its shiver'd head?'
' Coriskin call the dark lake's name,
Coolin the ridge, as bards proclaim,
From old Cuchullin, chief of fame.
But bards, familiar in our isles
Rather with Nature's frowns than
smiles,
Full oft their careless humours please
By sportive names from scenes like
these.
I would Old Torquil were to show
His maidens with their breasts of snow,
Or that my noble Liege were nigh
To hear his Nurse sing lullaby!
'The Maids — tall cliffs with breakers
white.
The Nurse — a torrent's roaringmight,)
Or that your ej'e could see the mood
Of Corryvrekin's whirlpool rude.
When dons the Hag her whiten'd
hood 1
'Tis thus our islesmen's fancy frames.
For scenes so stern, fantastic names.'
Answer'd theBruce, ' And musingmind
Might here a graver moral find.
These mighty clifts, that heave on high
Their naked brows to middle skj'.
Indifferent to the sun or snow,
Where nought can fade, and nought
can blow.
May they not mark a Monarch's fate, —
Raised high 'mid storms of strife and
state,
434
^6« Borb of tU 30fee.
[Canto
Beyond life's lowlier pleasures placed,
His soul a rock, his heart a waste?
O'er hope and ]n\e and fear aloft
High rears his crowned head — But
soft:
Look, underneath 3'on jutting crag
Are hunters and a slaughter'd stag.
Who may they be ? But late you said
No steps these desert regionstread I ' —
xvni.
' So said I ; and believed in sooth,'
Ronald replied, ' I spoke the truth.
Yet now I spy, by yonder stone.
Five men ; they mark us, and come on ;
And bj' their badge on bonnet borne,
I guess them of the land of Lorn,
Foes to my Liege.' ' So let it be ;
I ' ve faced worse odds than five to three ;
But the poor page can little aid ;
Then be our battle thus array'd
If our free passage they contest;
Cope thou with two, I '11 match therest.'
' Not so, my Liege, for, by my life.
This sword shall meet the treble strife ;
My strength, my skill in arms, more
small,
And less the loss should Ronald fall.
But islesmen soon to soldiers grow,
Allan has sword as well as bow.
And were my Monarch's order given
Two shafts should make our number
even.'
' No ! not to save my life !' he said ;
'Enough of blood rests on my head
Too rashly spill'd — we soon shall
know
"Whether they come as friend or foe.'
XIX.
Nigh came the strangers, and more
nigh ;
Still less they pleased the Monarch's
eye.
Men were thej^ all of evil mien,
Down-look'd, unwilling to be seen;
They moved with half-resolved pace.
And bent on earth each gloomy face.
The foremost two were fair array'd
With brogue and bonnet, trews and
plaid,
And bore the arms of mountaineers.
Daggers and broadswords, bows and
spears.
The three, that lagg'd small space
behind,
Seem'd serfs of more degraded kind ;
Goat-skins or deer-hides o'er them
cast.
Made a rude fence against the blast ;
Their arms and feet and heads were
bare.
Matted their beards, unshorn their
hair ;
For arms, the caitiffs bore in hand
A club, an axe, a rusty brand.
Onward, still mute,the3-keptthe track;
'Tell who ye be, or else stand back,'
Said Bruce ; • in deserts when they
meet
Men pass not as in peaceful street.'
Still, at his stern command, the\' stood,
And proffer'd greeting brief and rude,
But acted courtesy so ill
As seem'd of fear, and not of will.
' Wanderers we are, as you may be ;
Men hither driven by wind and sea,
Who, if you list to taste our cheer.
Will share with you this fallow deer.
'If from the sea, where lies j'our bark?'
' Ten fathom deep in ocean dark !
Wreck'd yesternight : but we are men
Who little sense of peril ken.
The shades come down — the day is
shut —
Will you go with us to our hut?' —
' Our vessel waits us in the bay ;
Thanks for your profter — have good-
day.'
'Was that your galley, then, which
rode
Not far from shore when evening
glow'd ? '
Ill]
tU J^otb of tU 3efe0.
435
' It was.' ' Then spare j-our needless
pain,
There will she now be sought in vain.
We saw her from the mountain head,
When, with St. George's blazon red,
A southern vessel bore in sight,
Andj'ours raised sail, and took to flight.'
'Now, by the rood, unwelcome news!'
Thus with Lord Ronald communed
Bruce ;
'Nor rests there light enough to show
If this their tale be true or no.
The men seem bred of churlish kind.
Yet mellow nuts have hardest rind ;
We will go with them — food and fire
And sheltering roof our wants require.
Sure guard 'gainst treachery will we
keep.
And watch by turns our comrades'
sleep. —
Good fellows, thanks ; your guests
we'll be,
And well will pay the courtesy.
Come, lead us where yoiu- lodging
lies,
— Nay, soft ! we mix not companies.
Show us the path o'er crag and stone.
And we will follow you ; — lead on.'
They reach'd the dreary' cabin, made
Of sails against a rock display'd.
And there, on entering, found
A slender boj-, whose form and mien
111 suited with such savage scene.
In cap and cloak of velvet green.
Low seated on the ground.
His garb was such as minstrels wear,
Dark was his hue, and dark his hair.
His youthful cheek was marr'd by
care.
His eyes in sorrow drown'd.
'Whence this poor boy?' As Ronald
spoke.
The voice his trance of anguish broke:
As if awaked from ghastly dream,
He raised his head with start anrl
scream.
And wildl}' gazed around ;
Then to the wall his face he turn'd.
And his dark neck with blushes burn'd.
XXIII.
' Whose is the boy ?' again he said.
'By chance of war our captive made;
He may be yours, if you should hold
That music has more charms than gold ;
For, though from earliest childhood
mute.
The lad can deftly touch the lute,
And on the rote and viol play,
And well can drive the time awaj'
For those who love such glee ;
For me, the favouring breeze, when
loud
It pipes upon the galley's shroud.
Makes blither melody.'
' Hath he, then, sense ofspoken sound ?'
'Aj^c; so his mother bade us know,
A crone in our late shipwreck drown'd,
And hence the silly stripling's woe.
More of the youth I cannot say,
Our captive but since yesterday ;
When wind and weather wax'd so
grim.
We little listed think of him. —
But why waste time in idle words?
.Sit toyour cheer — unbelt your swords.'
.Sudden the captive turn'd his head,
And one quick glance to Ronald sped.
It was a keen and warning look,
And well the Chief the signal took.
' Kind host,' he said, ' our needs require
A separate board and separate fire ;
For know, that on a pilgrimage
Wend I, my comrade, and this page.
And, sworn to vigil and to fast
Long as this hallow'd task shall last,
We never doff the plaid or sword,
Or feast us at a stranger's board ;
436
ZU Bovl Of t0e 50fe0.
[Canto
And never share one common sleep,
But one must still his vigil keep.
Thus, for our separate use, good friend.
Well hold this hut's remoter end.'
' A churlish vow,' the eldest said,
'And hard, methinks, to be obey'd.
How say you, if, to wreak the scorn
That paj's our kindness harsh return.
We should refuse to share our meal?'
' Then say we that our swords are
steel.
And our vow binds us not to fast
Where gold or force may buy repast! '
Their host's dark brow grew keen and
fell,
His teeth are clcnch'd, liis features
swell ;
Yet sunk the felon's moody ire
Before Lord Ronald's glance of fire,
Nor could his craven courage brook
The Monarch's calm and dauntless
look.
With laugh constrain 'd. — 'Let ever}-
man
Follow the fashion of his clan !
Each to his separate quarters keep.
And feed or fast, or wake or sleep.'
Their fire at separate distance burns.
By turns thej' eat, keep guard b}-
turns ;
For evil seem'd that old man's ej-e.
Dark and designing, fierce yet shy.
Still he avoided forward look.
But slow and circumspectly took
A circling, never-ceasing glance,
B\' doubt and cunning mark'd at once.
Which shot a mischief-boding ray
From under eyebrows shagg'd and
grey.
The 3'ounger, too, who seem'd his
son,
Had that dark look the timid shun ;
The half-clad serfs behind them sate.
And scowl'd a glare 'twixt fear and
hate ;
Till all, as darkness onward crept,
Couch'd down, and seem'd to sleep,
or slept.
Nor he, that boy, whose powerless
tongue
Must trust his ej-es to wail his wrong',
A longer watch of sorrow made.
But stretch'd his limbs to slumber laid.
Not in his dangerous host confides
' The King, but wary watch provides.
Ronald keeps ward till midnight past,
j Then wakes the King, j'oung Allan
last ;
j Thus rank'd, to give the youthful page
; The rest required by tender age.
What is Lord Ronald's walccful
thought,
To chase the languor toil had brought?
(For deem not that he deign'd to throw
Much care upon such coward foe.)
He thinks of lovely Isabel,
When at her foeman's feet she fell,
Norlesswhen, placed in princely selle.
She glanced on him with favouring
eyes
At Woodstock when he won the prize.
Nor, fair in joy, in sorrow fair.
In pride of place as 'mid despair.
Must she alone engross his care.
His thoughts to his betrothed bride.
To Edith, turn — O how decide.
When here his love and heart are given,
And there his faith stands plight to
Heaven !
No drowsy ward 'tis his to keep.
For seldom lovers long for sleep.
Till sung his midnight h\^mn the owl,
Answer'd the dog-fox with his howl.
Then waked the King — at his request
Lord Ronald stretch'd himself to rest.
What spell was good King Robert's,
saj',
To dri\e the wcarv night aw.nv ?
m.]
tU &ovl of tU 50fe0.
437
His was tlie patriots burning thought,
Of Freedom's battle bravely fought,
Of castles storm'd, of cities freed,
Of deep design and daring deed,
Of England's roses reft and torn.
And Scotland's cross in triumph worn,
Of rout and rally, ^var and truce, —
As heroes think, so thought the Bruce.
No marvel, 'mid such musings high,
Sleep shunn'd the Monarch's thought-
ful eye.
Now over Coolin's eastern head
The greyish light begins to spread,
The otter to his cavern drew,
And clamour'd shrill the wakening
mew ;
Then watch'd the page — to needful rest
The King resign'd his anxious breast.
To y\llan's eyes was harder task,
The weary watch their safeties ask.
He trimm'd the lire, and gave to shine
With bickering light the splinter'd
pine ;
Then gazed awhile, where silent laid
Their hosts were shrouded by the plaid.
But little fear waked in his mind.
For he was bred of martial kind,
And, if to manhood he arrive.
May match the boldest knight alive.
Then thought he of his mother's tower.
His little sisters' greenwood bower.
How there the Easter-gambols pass.
And of Dan Joseph's lengthen'd mass.
But still before his weary eye
In rays prolong'd the blazes die —
Again he roused him — on the lake
Look'd forth, where now the twilight-
Hake
Of pale cold dawn began to wake.
On Coolin's cliffs the mist lay furl'd,
The morning breeze the lake had curl'd,
The short dark waves, heaved to the
land.
With ceaseless plash kiss'd cliff or
sand ; —
It was a slumbrous sound — he tvund
To tales at which his youth had burn'd.
Of pilgrim's path by demon cross'd.
Of sprightly elf or yelling ghost.
Of the wild witch's baneful cot.
And mermaid's alabaster grot.
Who bathes her limbs in sunless well.
Deep in Strathaird's enchanted cell.
Thither in fancy rapt he flies.
And on his sight the vaults arise ;
That hut's dark walls he sees no more,
His foot is on the marble iloor.
And o'er his head the dazzling spars
Gleam like a firmament of stars 1
Hark I hears he not the sea-n\-mpli
speak
Her anger in that thrilling shriek ! —
No ! all too late, with Allan's dream
Mingled the captive's warning scream.
As from the ground he strives to start
A ruffian's dagger finds his heart 1
Upward he casts his dizzy eyes, . . .
Murmurs his master's name, . . , and
dies !
XXIX.
Not HO awoke the King ! his liaiul
.Snatch'd from the ilame a knottctl
brand,
The nearest weapon of his wrath ;
With this he cross'd the murderer's
path.
And venged young Allan well I
The spatter'd brain and bubbling blood
Hiss'd on the half-extinguish'd wood.
The miscreant gasp'd and fell 1
Nor rose in peace the Island Lord ;
One caitiff died upon his sword.
And one beneath his grasp lies prone.
In mortal grapple overthrown.
Butwhile Lord Ronald's dagger drank
The life-blood from his panting Hank,
The Father-ruffian of the band
Behind him rears a coward hand I
O for a moment's aid.
Till Bruce, who deals no double blow,
Dash to the earth another foe,
Above his comrade laid 1
438
ZU Bovi of tU ^BkB.
[Canto
And it is gain'd — the captive sprung
On the raised arm, and closely clung,
And, ere he shook him loose,
The master'd felon press'd the ground,
And gasp'd beneath a mortal wound.
While o'er him stands the Bruce.
• Miscreant 1 while lasts th}' Hitting
spark.
Give me to know tlie purpose dark
That arm'd thy hand with murderous
knife
Against oft'enceless stranger's life?'
' No stranger thou 1 ' with accent fell,
Murmur'd the wretch ; ' I know thee
well ;
And know thee for the foeman sworn
Of my high chief, the mighty Lorn."
' Speak yet again, and speak the truth
For thy soul's sake ! — from whence
this youth ?
His country, birth, and name declare.
And thus one evil deed repair."
* Vex me no more ! . . . my blood
runs cold . . .
No more I know than I have told.
We found him in a bark we sought
With dift'erent purpose . . . and I
thought ' . . .
Fate cut him short ; in blood and broil,
As he had lived, died Connac Doil.
Then resting on his bloody blade.
The valiant Bruce to Ronald said,
' Now shame upon us both ! that boy
Lifts his mute face to heaven.
And clasps his hands, to testify
His gratitude to God on high
For stiange deliverance given.
His speechless gesture thanks hath
paid
Which our free tongues have left
unsaid ! '
He raised the youtii with kindly word,
But mark'd him shudder at the sword :
He cleansed it from its hue of death,
And plunged the \veapon in its sheath.
' Alas, poor child ! unfitting part
Fate doom'd, when with so soft a heart,
And form so slight as thine,
She made thee first a pirate's slave,
Then, in his stead, a patron gave
Of wayward lot like mine ;
A landless prince, whose wandering
life
Is but one scene of blood and strife —
Yet scant of friends the Bruce shall be,
But he'll find resting-place for thee.
Come, noble Ronald ! o'er the dead
Enough thy generous grief is paid,
And well has Allan's fate been wroke;
Come, wend we hence — the day has
broke.
Seek we our bark ; I trust the tale
Was false, that she had hoisted sail.'
Yet, ere they left that charnel-cell.
The Island Lord bade sad farewell
To Allan :— ' Who shall tell this tale,'
He said, ' in halls of Donagaile 1
Oh, who his widow'd mother tell.
That, ere his bloom, her fairest fell !
Rest thee, poor youth 1 and trust my
care
For mass and knell and funeral prayer;
While o'er those caitiffs, where they
lie.
The wolf shall snarl, the raven cry ! '
And now the eastern mountain's head
On the dark lake threw lustre red ;
Bright gleams of gold and purple streak
Ravine and precipice and peak —
(So earthly power at distance shows;
Reveals his splendour, hides his woes.)
O'er sheets of granite, dark and broad,
Rent and unequal, lay the road.
In sad discourse the warriors wind,
And the mute captive moves behind.
iv.i
ZU Borb of tU 3ef«0.
439
Canto Fourth.
Stranger ! if e'er thine ardent step
Iiatli traced
Tlie northern realms of ancient
Caledon,
Where the proud Queen of Wilder-
ness liatli placed.
By lake and cataract, her lonely
throne ;
Sublime but sad delight thy soul
hath known,
Gazing on pathless glen and moun-
tain high,
Listing where from the clifls the
torrents thrown
Mingle their echoes with the eagle's
And with the sounding lake, and with
the moaning sky.
Yes! 'twas sublime, but sad. The
loneliness
Loaded thy heart, the desert tired
thine eye ;
And strange and awful fears began
to press
Thy bosom with a stern solemnity.
Then hast thou wish'd some wood-
man's cottage nigh.
Something that show'd of life,
though low and mean ;
Glad sight, its curling wreath of
smoke to spy,
Glad sound, its cock's blithe carol
would have been,
Or children whooping wild beneath
the willows green.
Such are the scenes, where savage
grandeur wakes
Anawful thrill that softens into sighs;
Such feelings rouse them by dim
Rannoch's lakes.
In dark Glencoe such gloonn- rap-
tures rise :
Or farther, where, beneath the
northern skies.
Chides wild Loch-Eribol hiscaverns
hoar —
But, be the minstrel judge, they
yield the prize
Of desert dignitj' to that dread shore
That sees grim Coolin rise, and hears
Coriskin roar.
Through such wild scenes the cham-
pion pass'd,
When bold halloo and bugle-blast
Upon the breeze came loud and fast.
•There,' said the Bruce, 'rung Ed-
ward's horn 1
What can have caused such brief
return ?
And see, brave Ronald. — see him dart
O'er stock and stone like hunted hart,
Precipitate, as is the use,
In war or sport, of Edward Bruce.
— He marks us, and his eager cry
Will tell his news ere he be nigh.'
Loud Edward shouts, ' What make ye
here.
Warring upon the mountain-deer,
When Scotland wants her King ?
A bark from Lennox cross'd our track.
With her in speed I hurried back.
These jo^'ful news to bring —
The .Stuart stirs in Teviotdale,
And Douglas wakes his native vale ;
Thy storm-toss'd fleet hath won its
way
With little loss to Brodick-Bay,
And Lennox, with a gallant band,
W^aits but thy coining and command
To waft them o'er to Carrick strand.
There are blithe news ! — but mark the
close 1
Edward, the deadliest of our foes,
As with his host he northward pass'd,
Hath on the Borders breathed his last.'
440
ZU ^ori) of tU ^efee.
[Canto
Still stood the Bruce ; his steady cheek
Was little wont his joy to speak.
But then his colour rose :
' Now, Scotland 1 shortlyshalt thou see,
With God's high will, thy children free,
And vengeance on thy foes !
Yet to no sense of selfish wrongs.
Bear witness with me, Heaven, be-
longs
11 J' joy o'er Edward's bier;
I took my knighthood at his hand,
And lordship held of him, and land,
And well may vouch it here,
That, blot the story from his page,
Of Scotland ruin'd in his rage.
You read a monarch brave and sage.
And to his people dear.' —
' Let London's burghers mourn her
Lord,
And Croydon monks his praise record,'
The eager Edward said ;
' Eternal as his own, mj' hate
Surmounts the bounds of mortal fate.
And dies not with the dead !
Such hate was his on Solway's strand.
When vengeance clench'd his palsied
hand.
That pointed yet to Scotland's land
As his last accents pray'd
Disgrace and curse upon his heir,
If he one Scottish head should spare,
Till stretch'd upon the bloody lair
Each rebel corpse was laid I
Such hate was his, when his last breath
Renouncedthe peaceful house of death,
And bade his bones to Scotland's coast
Be borne by his remorseless host,
As if his dead and stony eye
Could still enjoy her misery !
Such hate was his — dark, deadly, long;
Mine — as enduring, deep, and strong!'
' I.ct women, Edward, war with words,
With curses monks, but men with
swords :
Nor doubt of living foes, to sate
Deepest revenge and deadliest hate.
Now, to the sea ! behold the beach.
And see the galley's' pendants stretch
Their fluttering length down favouring
gale !
1 Aboard, aboard ! and hoist the sail.
Hold we our way for Arran first,
Where meet in arms our friends
dispersed ;
Lennox the loyal, De la Haj-e,
And Boyd the bold in battle-fray.
I long the hardy band to head,
And see once more my standard spread.
Does noble Ronald share our course,
Or stay to raise his island force?'
' Come weal, come woe, by Brucc's
side,'
Replied the Chief, ' will Ronald bide.
And since two galleys yonder ride.
Be mine, so please my liege, dismiss'd
To wake to arms the clans of Uist,
' And all who hear the Minche's roar
On the Long Island's lonely shore.
The nearer Isles, with slight delay,
: Ourselves maj' summon in our waj- ;
j And soon on Arran's shore shall meet,
With Torquil's aid, a gallant fleet.
If aught avails their Chieftain's best
Among the islesmen of the west.'
Thus was their venturous council said.
But, ere their sails the galleys spread,
Coriskin dark and Coolin high
Echoed the dirge's doleful cry.
Along that sable lake pass'd slow — •
Fit scene for such a sight of woe -
The sorrowing islesmen, as they bore
The murder'd Allan to the shore.
At every pause, with dismal shout.
Their coronach of grief rung out.
And ever, when they moved again,
The pipes resumed their clamorous
strain,
And, with the pibroch's shrilling uail,
Mourn'd the young heir of Donagailo.
IV.]
ZU Bovi of tU Jefee.
441
Round and around, from clift'and cave,
His answer stern old Coolin gave,
Till high upon his misty side
Languish'd the mournful notes, and
died.
For never sounds, by mortal made,
Attain'd his high and haggard head,
That echoes but the tempest's moan,
Or the deep thunder's rending groan.
VII.
Merrily, merrily bounds the bark,
.She bounds before the gale,
The mountain breeze from Ben-na-
darch
Is joyous in her sail !
With fluttering sound like laughter
hoarse.
The cords and canvas strain,
The waves, divided by her force.
In rippling eddies chased her course
As if they laugh'd again.
Not down the breeze more blithely
Hew,
Skimmingthe wave, the light sea-mew.
Than the gaj' galley bore
Her course upon that favouring wind.
And Coolin's crest has sunk behind,
And .Slapin's cavernd shore.
'Twas then that warlike signals wake
Dunscaith's dark towers and Eisord's
lake.
And soon, from Cavilganigh's head,
Thick wreaths of eddying smoke were
spread ;
A summons these of war and wrath
To the brave clans of Sleat and Strath,
And, ready at the sight,
Each warrior to his weapons sprung,
And targe upon his shoulder flung,
Impatient for the fight.
Mac-Kinnon's chief, in warfare grey.
Had charge to muster their array,
And guide their barks to Brodick-Baj'.
VIII.
Signal of Ronald's high command,
A beacon gleam'd o'er sea and land.
From Canna's tower, that, steep and
grey.
Like falcon-nest o'erhangs the bay.
Seek not the giddy crag to climb.
To view the turret scathed by time ;
It is a task of doubt and fear
To aught but goat or mountain-deer
But rest thee on the silver beach,
And let the aged herdsman teach
His tale of former day ;
His cur's wild clamour he shall
chide.
And for thy seat by ocean's side
His varied plaid display ;
Then tell, how with their Chieftain
came,
In ancient times, a foreign dame
To yonder turret gre}'.
Stern was her Lord's suspicious mind,
Who in so rude a jail confined
So soft and fair a thrall 1
And oft, when moon on ocean slept.
That lovely lady sate and wept
Upon the castle-wall,
And turn'd her eye to southern climes.
And thought perchance of happier
times.
And touch'd her lute by fits, and
sung
Wild ditties in her native tongue.
And still, when on the cliff and bay
Placid and pale the moonbeams pla}'.
And every breeze is mute,
Upon the lone Hebridean's ear
Steals a strange pleasure mix'd with
fear.
While from that cliff he seems to hear
The murmur of a lute.
And sounds, as of a captive lone.
That mourns her woes in tongue
unknown.
Strange is the tale — but all too long
Already hath it staid the song —
Yet who may pass them by.
That crag and tower in ruins grey,
Nor to their hapless tenant pay
The tribute of a sigh •
44^
ZU Bovi of tU 30fe0.
[Canto
Merrily, merrily bounds the b;irk
O'er the broad ocean driven,
Her path by Ronin's mountains dark
The steersman's hand hath given.
And Ronin's mountains dark have
sent
Their hunters to the shore,
And each his ashen bow unbent,
And gave his pastime o'er,
And at the Island Lord's command,
Forhuntingspear took warrior's brand.
On Scooreigg next a warning light
Summon'd her warriors to the fight ;
A numerous race, ere stern MacLeod
O'er their bleak shores in vengeance
strode,
When all in vain the ocean-cave
Its refuge to his victims gave.
The Chief, relentless in his wrath,
With blazingheath blockades the path ;
In dense and stifling volumes roll'd.
The vapour fill'd the cavern'd hold 1
The warrior-threat, the infant's plain,
The mother's screams, were heard in
vain ;
The vengeful Chief maintains his lircs,
Till in the vault a tribe expires !
The bones which strew that cavern's
gloom
Too well attest their dismal doom.
Merrily, merrily goes the bark
On a breeze from the northward free,
So shoots through the morning sky
the lark,
Or the swan through the summer
sea.
The shores of Mull on the eastward
lay,
And Ulva dark and Colonsa3-,
And all the group of islets gay
That guard famed Stafta round,
riicn all unknovi'ii its columns rose,
Where dark and undisturb'd repose
The cormorant had found,
And the shy seal had quiet home.
And welter'd in that wondrous dome.
Where, astoshame the temples deck'd
By skill of earthly architect.
Nature herself, it seem'd, would raise
A Minster to her Maker's praise !
Not for a meaner use ascend
Her columns, or her arches bend ;
Nor of a theme less solemn tells
That mighty surge that ebbs and
swells,
And still, between each awful pause,
From the high vault an answer draws,
In varied tone prolong'd and high,
That mocks the organ's melody.
Nor doth its entrance front in vain
To old lona's holy fane,
That Nature's voice might seem to sa\',
' Well hast thou done, frail Child of
clay !
Thy humble powers that stately shrine
Task'd high and hard — but witness
mine 1'
Merrily, merrily goes the bark,
Before the gale she bounds ;
So darts the dolphin from the shark,
Or the deer before the hounds.
They left Loch-Tua on their lee,
And they waken'd the men of the
wild Tiree,
And the Chief of the sandy Coll ;
They paused not at Columba's isle.
Though peal'd the bells from the holy
pile
With long and measured toll ;
No time for matin or for mass.
And the sounds of the holy summons
pass
Away in the billows' roll.
Lochbuie's fierce and warlike Lord
Their signal saw, and grasp'd his
sword.
And verdant Hay call'd her hofjt.
And the clans of Jura's rugged coast
Lord Ronald's call obey,
IV.
ZH Bov^ of tU 36f^0.
443
And Scarba's isle, whose tortured
shore
Still rings to Corrievreken's roar,
And lonely Colonsay ;
— Scenes sung by him who sings no
more I
His bright and brief career is o'er,
And mute his tuneful strains ;
Ouench'd is his lamp of varied lore,
That loved the light of song to pour;
A distant and a deadly shore
Has Leyden's cold remains !
Ever the breeze blows merrily,
Butthegalley ploughs no more the sea.
Lest, rounding wild Cantj're, they
meet
The southern foeman's watchful fleet,
Thej' held unwonted way ; —
Up Tarbat's western lake they bore,
Then dragg'd their bark the isthmus
o'er,
As far as Kilmaconnel's shore,
Upon the eastern bay.
It was a wondrous sight to see
Topmast and pennon glitter free.
High raised above the greenwood tree.
As on dry land the galley moves,
By clift" and copse and alder groves.
Deep import from that selcouth sign
Did many a mountain Seer divine.
For ancient legends told the Gael
That when a royal bark should sail
O'er Kilmaconnel moss.
Old Albyn should in fight prevail,
And every foe should faint and quail
Before her silver Cross.
Now launch'donce more, the inland sea
They furrow with fair augury.
And steer for Arran's isle ;
The sun, ere yet he sunk behind
Ben-Ghoil, ' the Mountain of the Wind,'
Gave his grim peaks a greeting kind,
And bade Loch Ranza smile.
Thither their destined course they
drew ;
It seem'd the isle her monarch knew,
.So brilliant was the landward view,
The ocean so serene ;
Each puny wave in diamonds roll'd
O'er the calm deep, where hues of gold
With azure strove and green.
The hill, the vale, the tree, the tower,
Glow'd with the tints of evening's
hour.
The beach was silver sheen,
The wind breathed soft as lover's sigh,
And, oft renew'd, seem'd oft to die.
With breathless pause between.
O who, with speech of war and woes.
Would wish to break the soft repose
Of such enchanting scene !
Is it of war Lord Ronald speaks?
The blush that dyes his manly cheeks,
The timid look and downcast eye.
And faltering voice, the theme denj'.
And good King Robert's brow ex-
press'd
He ponder'd o'er some high request.
As doubtful to approve ;
Yet in his eye and lip the while
Dwelt the half-pitying glance and
smile.
Which manhood's graver mood be-
guile
When lovers talk of love.
Anxious his suit Lord Ronald pled ;
'And for mj^ bride betrothed,' he said,
My Liege hasheard the rumour spread,
Of Edith from Artornish fled.
Too hard her fate — I claim no right
To blame her for her hasty flight ;
Be joy and happiness her lot !
But she hath fled the bridal-knot,
And Lorn recall'd his promised plight
In the assembled chieftains' sight.
When, to fulfil our fathers' band,
I proffer'd all I could, my hand,
I was repulsed with scorn ;
444
Z^t &ovi of t0e 30fe0.
[Canto
Mine honour I should ill assert,
And worse the feelings of my heart,
If I should play a suitor's part
Again, to pleasure Lorn.'
' Young Lord,' the Royal Bruce replied,
'That question must the Church decide;
Yet seems it hard, since rumours state
Edith takes Clifford for her mate,
The very tie which she hath broke,
To thee should still be binding yoke.
But, for my sister Isabel^
The mood of ^voman who can tell •
I guess the Champion of the Rock,
Victorious in the tourney shock,
That knight unknown, to whom the
prize
She dealt, — had favour in her eyes ;
But since our brother Nigel's fate.
Our ruin'd house and hapless state,
From worldly joy and hope estranged,
Much is the hapless mourner changed.
Perchance,'here smiled the noble King,
'This tale may other musings bring.
Soon shall we know : yon mountains
hide
The little convent of Saint Bride ;
There, sent by Edward, she must stay.
Till fate shall give more prosperous
da\' ;
And thither will I bear thy suit.
Nor will thine advocate be mute.'
As thus they talk'd in earnest mood.
That speechless boybesidethem stood.
He stoop'd his head against the mast.
And bitter sobs came thick and fast,
A grief that would not be repress'd,
But seem'd to burst his ^-outhful breast.
His hands, against his forehead held,
As if by force his tears repell'd,
Butthroughhisfingers,long and slight.
Fast trill'd the drops of crystal bright.
Edward, who walk'd the deck apart,
First spied this conflict of the heart.
Thoughtless as brave, with bluntness
kind
He sought to cheer the sorrower's
mind ;
By force the slender hand he drew
From those poor eyes that stream'd
with dew.
As in his hold the stripling strove,
('Twas a rough grasp, though meant
in love)
Away his tears the warrior swept.
And bade shame on him that he wept.
' I would to heaven thy helpless tongue
Could tell me who hath wrought thee
wrong !
For, were he of our crew the best.
The insult went not unredress'd.
Come, cheer thee ; thou art now of age
To be a warrior's gallant page;
Thou shalt be mine ! a palfrey fair
O'er hill and holt my boy shall bear,
To hold my bow in hunting grove.
Or speed on errand to my love ;
For well I wot thou wilt not tell
The temple where my wishes dwell.'
Bruce interposed, ' Gaj' Edward, no,
This is no youth to hold thy bow,
To fill th3' goblet, or to bear
Thy message light to lighter fair.
Thou art a patron all too wild
And thoughtless, for this orphan child.
See'st thou not how apart he steals.
Keeps lonely couch, and lonely meals •
Fitter by far in yon calm cell
To tend our sister Isabel,
With Father Augustin to share
The peaceful change of convent prayer,
Than wander wild adventures through
With such a reckless guide as you.'
'Thanks, brother 1' Edward answer'd
gay,
' For the high laud thy words convey !
But we may learn some future daj-
If thou or I can this poor boy
Protect the best, or best employ.
IV.]
ZU Bovi of tU ^ef^e.
445
Meanwhile, ourvessel nears the strand ;
Launch we the boat, and seek the land.'
To land King Robert lighth- sprung,
And thrice aloud liis bugle rung
With note prolong'd and varied strain,
Till bold Ben-Ghoil replied again.
Good Douglas then, and De la Haj'e,
Had in a glen a hart at bay,
And Lennox cheer'd the laggard
hounds,
When waked that horn the greenwood
bounds.
'It is the foel' cried Boyd, who came
In breathless haste with ej-e of flame,
' It is the foe ! Each valiant lord
Fling bj' his bow, and grasphissword ! '
' Not so,' replied the good Lord James,
• That blast no English bugle claims.
Oft have I heard it fire the fight,
Cheer the pursuit, or stop the flight.
Dead were my heart, and deaf mine car,
If Bruce should call, nor Douglas hear!
Each to Loch Ranza's margin spring;
That blast was winded by the King!'
Fast to their mates the tidings spread.
And fast to shore the warriors sped.
Burstingfromglenand greenwood tree,
High waked their loyal jubilee I
Around the royal Bruce they crowd.
And clasp'd his hands, and wept aloud.
Veterans of early fields were there.
Whose helmets press'd their hoary
hair.
Whose swords and axes bore a stain
From life-blood of the red-hair'd Dane;
And boys, whose hands scarce brook'd
to wield
The heavy sword or bossy shield.
Men too were there, that bore the scars
Impress'd in Albyn's woful wars.
At Falkirk's fierce and fatal fight,
Teyndrum's dread rout, and Methven's
flight ;
The might of Douglas there was seen.
There Lennox with his graceful mien ;
Kirkpatrick, Closeburn's dreaded
Knight ;
The Lindsay, fiery, fierce, and light;
The Heir of murder'd De la Haye,
And Boyd the grave, and Seton ga^-.
Around their King regain'd they
press'd.
Wept, shouted, clasp'd him to their
breast.
And young and old, and serf and lord,
And he who ne'er unsheathed a sword,
And he in manj^ a peril tried,
Alike resolved the brunt to bide,
And live or die by Bruce's side !
Oh, War! thou hast th}' fierce delight.
Thy gleams of J03', intensely bright I
Such gleams,asfromthy polish'dshield
Fly dazzling o'er the battle-field !
Such transportswake, severe andhigh,
Amid the pealing conquest-crj- ;
Scarce less, when, after battle lost.
Muster the remnants of a host.
And as each comrade's name they tell,
Who in the well-fought conflict fell,
Knitting stern brow o'er flashing eye,
Vow to avenge them or to die !
Warriors ! — and where are warriors
found.
If not on martial Britain's ground?
And who, when waked with note of
fire.
Love more than they the British
lyre ? —
Know ye not, hearts to honour dear !
That joy, deep-thrilling, stern, severe.
At which the heartstrings vibrate high.
And wake the fountains of the eye ?
And blame ye, then, the Bruce, if trace
Of tear is on his manly face.
When, scanty relics of the train
That hail'd at Scone his early reign,
This patriot band around him hung,
And to his knees and bosom clung 1
446
C$e Bovl of tU 3efe0.
[Canto
Blame ye the Bruce ? — his brother
blamed,
But shared the weakness, while
ashamed ;
With haughty laugh his head heturn'd,
And dash'd away the tear he scorn'd.
XXI.
'Tis morning, and the Convent bell
Long time had ceased its matin knell,
Within thy walls, Saint Bride 1
An aged Sister sought the cell
Assign"d to Lady Isabel,
And hurriedly she cried,
'Haste, gentle Lady, haste; there waits
A noble stranger at the gates ;
Saint Bride's poor vot'ress ne'er has
seen
A Knight of such a princeh' mien ;
His errand, as he bade me tell.
Is with the Lady Isabel.'
The princess rose — for on her knee
Low bent she told her rosary^
* Let him by thee his purpose teach ;
I may not give a stranger speech.'
' Saint Bride forfend, thou roj^al Maid ! '
The portress cross'd herself and said ;
' Not to be prioress might I
Debate his will, his suit deny.'
' Has earthly show, then, simple fool.
Power o'er a sister of thy rule,
And art thou, like the worldly train.
Subdued by splendours light and vain ■ '
XXII.
' No, Ladj- 1 in old eyes like mine
Gauds have no glitter, gems no shine;
Nor grace his rank attendants vain,
One youthful page is all his train.
It is the form, the eye, the word,
The bearing of that stranger Lord ;
His stature, manly, bold, and tall.
Built like a castle's battled wall.
Yet moulded in such just degrees,
His giant-strength seems lightsome
case.
Close as the tendrils of the vine
His locks upon his forehead twine.
Jet-black, save where some touch of
gi'ey
Has ta'en the 3?outhful hue away ;
Weather and war their rougher trace
Have left on that majestic face.
But 'tis his dignity of eye !
There, if a suppliant, would I fly.
Secure, 'mid danger, wrongs, and grief,
Of sj^mpathy. redress, relief —
That glance, if guilty, would I dread
More than the doom that spoke me
dead ! '
'Enough, enough,' the princess cried,
''Tis .Scotland's hope, her joj-, her
pride '.
To meaner front was ne'er assign'd
Such masten,' o'er the common mind —
Bestow'd thj' high designs to aid,
Ho^v long, O Heaven I how long
dela3''d !
Haste, Mona, haste, to introduce
Mv darling brother, roval Bruce !'
They met like friends who part in pain,
And meet in doubtful hope again.
But when subdued that fitful swell,
The Bruce survej'"d the humble cell ;
'And this is thine, poor Isabel 1—
That pallet-couch, and naked wall.
For room of state, and bed of pall ;
For costly robes and jewels rare,
A string of beads and zone of hair;
And for the trumpet's sprightly call
To sport or banquet, grov-e or hall.
The bell's grim voice divides thy care,
'Twixt hours of penitence and prayer !
O ill for thee, mj' royal claim
From the First David's sainted name !
O woe for thee, that while he sought
His right, thy brother feebly fought 1'
' Now lay these vain regrets aside,
And be the unshaken Bruce!' she cried.
• For more I glor^' to have shared
The woes th\- venturous spirit dared,
IV.]
ZU Botr^ of tU 50fe0.
44V
When raising first thy valiant band
In rescue of th}^ native land,
Than had fair Fortune set me down
The partner of an empire's crown.
And grieve not that on Pleasure's
stream
No more I drive in giddj^ dream,
For Heaven the erring pilot knew.
And from the gulf the vessel drew,
Tried me with judgments stern and
great,
My house's ruin, thy defeat,
Poor Nigel's death, till, tamed, I own,
My hopes are fix'd on Heaven alone ;
Nor e'er shall earthly prospects win
Mv heart to this vain world of sin.'
' Naj', Isabel, for such stern choice,
First wilt thou wait thy brother's
voice;
Then ponder if in convent scene
No softer thoughts might intervene —
Say they were of that unknown
Knight,
Victor inWoodstock's tourne^'-fight —
Naj', if his name such blush 3'ou owe.
Victorious o'er a fairer foe I'
Truly his penetrating eye
Hath caught that blush's passingdye —
Like the last beam of evening thrown
On a white cloud — just seen and
gone.
Soon with calm cheek and steady eye
The princess made composed reph^ :
* I guess my brother's meaning well ;
For not so silent is the cell.
But we have heard the islesmen all
Arm in thy cause at Ronald's call,
And mine eye proves that Knight un-
known
And the brave Island Lord are one.
Had then his suit been earlier made,
In his own name, with thee to aid,
( But that his plighted faith forbade~!i
I know not . . . But thy page so near?
This is no talc for menial's car.'
XXVT.
Still stood that page, as far apart
As the small cell would space afford;
With dizz}' eye and bursting heart.
He leant his weight on Brucc's
sword.
The monarch's mantle too he bore.
And drew the fold his visage o'er.
'Fear not for him; inmurderousstrife/
Said Bruce, 'his warning saved my
life;
Full seldom parts he from m\^ side.
And in his silence I confide.
Since he can tell no tale again.
He is a boy of gentle strain.
And I have purposed he shall thvi-11
In Augustin the chaplain's cell.
And wait on thee, my Isabel.
Mind not his tears; I've seen them flow.
As in the thaw dissolves the snow.
'Tis a kind youth, but fanciful,
Unfit against the tide to pull.
And those that with the Bruce would
sail
Must learn to strive with stream and
gale.
But forward, gentle Isabel —
Mj- answer for Lord Ronald tell."
xxvii.
• This answer be to Ronald given —
The heart he asks is fix'd on heaven.
My love was like a summer flower,
That wither'd in the wintry hour.
Born but of vanity and pride.
And with these sunny visions died.
If further press his suit, then saj'
He should his plighted troth obej-,
Troth plighted both with ring and word ,
And sworn on crucifix and sword.
Oh, shame thee, Robert! I have seen
Thou hast a woman's guardian been !
Even in extremity's dread hour.
When press'd on thee the Southern
power.
And safety, to all human sight,
I Was only found in rapid llight.
448
ZH Bovr> of tU Jefee.
[Canto
Thou heard'st a wretched female plain
In agony of travail-pain,
And thou didst bid thy little band
Upon the instant turn and stand.
And dare the worst the foe might do,
Rather than, like a knight untrue,
I-eave to pursuers merciless
A woman in her last distress.
And wilt thou now deny thine aid
To an oppress'd and injured maid.
Even plead for Ronald's perfidy.
And press his fickle faith on me ? —
So witness Heaven, as true I vow,
Had I those earthlj' feelings now.
Which could my former bosom move
Ere taught to set its hopes abo\'c,
I'd spurn each proffer he could bring.
Till at my feet he laid the ring,
The ring and spousal contract both.
And fair acquittal of his oath,
By her who brooks his perjured scorn.
The ill-requited Maid of Lorn !'
With sudden impulse forward sprung
The page, and on her neck he hung;
Then, recollected instantly.
His head he stoop'd, and bent his knee,
Kiss'd twice the hand of Isabel,
Arose, and sudden left the cell.
The princess, loosen'd from his hold,
Blush'd angry at his bearing bold ;
But good King Robert cried,
'Chafe not, bj'' signs he speaks his
mind,
He heard the plan my care design'd.
Nor could his transports hide.
But, sister, now bethink thee well;
No easy choice the convent cell;
Trust, I shall play no tyrant part.
Either to force thy hand or heart.
Or suiTer that Lord Ronald scorn,
Or wrong for thee, the Maid of Lorn.
But think, — not long the time has been
That thou wert wont to sigh unseen.
And wouldst the ditties best approve
That told some lay of hapless love.
Now are thy wishes in thy power.
And thou art bent on cloister bower !
O ! if our Edward knew the change.
How v^^ould his busy satire range.
With many a sarcasm varied still
On woman's wish, and woman's will 1 '
'Brother, I well believe,' she said,
' Even so would Edward's part be
play'd.
Kindly in heart, in word severe,
A foe to thought, and grief, and fear.
He holds his humour uncontroll'd ;
But thou art of another mould.
Saj' then to Ronald, as I saj'.
Unless before my feet he lay
The ring which bound the faith he
swore.
By Edith freely yielded o'er.
He moves his suit to me no more.
Nor do I promise, even if now
He stood absolved of spousal \'ow.
That I would change my purpose
made
To shelter me in holy shade.
Biother, for little space, farewell !
To other duties warns the bell.'
' Lost to the world,' King Robert said.
When he had left the royal maid,
' Lost to the world by lot severe,
O what a gem lies buried here,
Nipp'd by misfortune's cruel frost,
The buds of fair affection lost !
But what have I with love to do?
For sterner cares my lot pursue.
Pent in this isle we may not lie.
Nor would it long our wants supply.
Right opposite, the mainland towers
Of m}' own Turnberrj' court our
powers ;
Might not my father's beadsman hoar,
Cuthbert, who dwells upon the shore.
Kindle a signal-flame, to show
The time propitious for the blow ?
v.]
Z^t Bovl of tU 50f«0«
449
It shall be so ; some friend shall bear
Our mandate with despatch and care ;
Edward shall find the messenger.
That fortress ours, the island fleet
May on the coast of Carrick meet.
O Scotland ! shall it e'er be mine
To wreak thy wrongs in battle-line,
To raise my victor-head, and see
Thy hills, thy dales, thy people free ?
That glance of bliss is all I crave,
Betwixt my labours and my grave ! '
Then down the hill he slowly went,
Oft pausing on the steep descent.
And reach'd the spot where his bold
train
Held rustic camp upon the plain.
Canto Fifth.
On fair Loch Ranza stream'd the
early day ;
Thin wreaths of cottage-smoke are
upward curl'd
From the lone hamlet, which her
inland bay
And circling mountains sever from
the world.
And there the fisherman his sail
unfurl'd,
The goat-herd drove his kids to
steep Ben-Ghoil,
Before the hut the dame her spindle
twirl'd,
Courting the sunbeam as she plied
her toil, —
For, wake where'er he ma}-, Man
wakes to care and coil.
But other duties call'd each convent
maid,
Roused by the summons of the
moss-grown bell ;
Sung were the matins, and the
mass was said.
And every sister sought her separate
cell/
Such was the rule, her rosary to tell.
And Isabel has knelt in lonely
prayer ; ^
The sunbeam, through the narrow
lattice, fell
Upon the snowy neck and long
dark hair,
As stoop'd her gentle head in meek
devotion there.
She raised her eyes, that duty done,
When glanced upon the pavement-
stone,
Gemm'd and enchased, a golden ring,
Bound to a scroll with silken string,
With few brief words inscribed to tell,
'This for the Ladj- Isabel.'
Within, the writing farther bore,
' 'Twas with this ring his plight he
swore.
With this his promise I restore ;
To her who can the heart command
Well may I yield the plighted hand.
And O 1 for better fortune born,
Grudge not a passing sigh to mourn
Her who was Edith once of Lorn !'
One single flash of glad surprise
Just glanced from Isabel's dark eyes,
But vanish'd in the blush of shame,
That, as its penance, instant came.
' O thought unworthy of my race !
Selfish, ungenerous, mean, and. base,
A moment's throb of joy to own.
That rose upon her hopes o'erthrown!
Thou pledge of vows too well believed,
Of man ingrate and maid deceived,
Think not thy lustre here shall gain
Another heart to hope in vain !
For thou shalt rest, thou tempting
gaud.
Where worldly thoughts are over-
awed.
And worldly splendours sinkdebased.'
Then by the cross the ring she placed.
Q
450
ZU Botrb of f^e ^qUq.
[Canto
Next rose the thought,— its owner far,
How came it here through bolt and
bar ?
But the dim lattice is ajar.
She looks abroad ; the morning dew
A light short step had brush'd anew,
And there were footprints seen
On the carved buttress rising still,
Till on the mossy window-sill
Their track effaced the green.
The ivy twigs were torn and fray"d,
As if some climber's steps to aid.
But who the hardy messenger,
Whose venturous path these signs
infer ?
'Strange doubts are mine I Mona,
draw nigh ;
Nought 'scapes old Mona's curious
eye—
What strangers, gentle mother, say,
Have sought these holy walls to-day?'
' None, Lady, none of note or name ;
Only your brother's foot-page came
At peep of dawn — I pray'd him pass
To chapel where they said the mass ;
But like an arrow he shot by,
And tears seem'd bursting from his eye. '
The truth at once on Isabel,
As darted by a sunbeam, fell.
' 'Tis Edith's self ! her speechless woe.
Her form, her looks, the secret show!
Instant, good Mona, to the bay,
And to my royal brother say,
I do conjure him seek my cell,
With that mute page he loves so well.'
' What ! know'st thou not his warlike
host
At break of day has left our coast?
My old eyes saw them from the tower.
At eve they couch'd in greenwood
bower.
At dawn a bugle-signal, made
Bv their bold Lord, their ranks array'd;
Up sprung the spears through bush
and tree,
No time for benedicite !
Like deer, that, rousing from their lair,
Just shake the dewdrops from their
hair,
And toss their armed crests aloft,
Such matins theirs!' 'Good mother,
soft—
Where does my brother bend his way?'
• As I have heard, for Brodick- Bay,
Across the isle ; of barks a score
Lie there, 'tis said, to waft them o'er,
On sudden news, to Carrick-shore.'
' If such their purpose, deep the need,'
Said anxious Isabel, 'of speed !
Call Father Augustine, good dame.'
The nun obey'd, the Father came.
v.
' Kind Father, hie without delay
Across the hills to Brodick-Bay.
This message to the Bruce be given ;
I pray him, by his hopes of Heaven,
That, till he speak with me, he stay !
Or, if his haste brook no delay,
That he deliver, on my suit,
Into thy charge that stripling mute.
Thus prays his sister Isabel,
For causes more than she may tell —
Away, good father ! and take heed
That life and death are on thy speed.'
His cowl the good old priest did on.
Took his piked staff and sandall'd
shoon.
And, like a palmer bent by eld,
O'er moss and moor his journey held.
VI.
Heavy and dull the foot of age,
And rugged was the pilgrimage;
But none was there beside, whose care
Might such important message bean
Through birchen copse he wander'd
slow,
Stunted and sapless, thin and low;
By many a mountain stream he pass'd,
From the tall cliffs in tumult cast,
v.]
ZH Bori of tU 36fe0.
451
Dashing to foam their waters dun,
And sparkHng in the summer sun.
Round his grey head the wild curlew
In many a fearless circle flew.
O'er chasms he pass'd, where fractures
wide
Crav'd wary eye and ample stride ;
He cross'd his brow beside tlie stone
Where Druids erst heard victims
groan ;
And at the cairns upon the wild,
O'er many a heathen hero piled.
He breathed a timid prayer for those
"Who died ere Shiloh's sun arose.
Beside Macfarlane's Cross he staid,
There told his hours within the shade,
And at the stream his thirst allay'd.
Thence onward journeying slowly
still,
As evening closed he reach'd the hill,
Where, rising through the woodland
green,
Old Brodick's got hie towers were seen:
From Hastings, late their English lord,
Douglas had won them by the sword.
The sun that sunk behind the isle
Now tinged them with a parting smile.
But though the beams of light deca}',
'Twas bustle all in Brodick-Bay.
The Bruce's followers crowd the shore.
And boats and barges some unmoor.
Some raise the sail, some seize the oar ;
Their eyes oft turn'd where glimmer'd
far
What might have seem'd an early star
On heaven's blue arch, save that its
light
Was all too flickering, fierce, and
bright.
Far distant in the south, the ray
Shone pale amid retiring day.
But as, on Carrick shore.
Dim seen in outline faintly blue,
The shades of evening closer drew.
It kindled more and more.
The monk's slow steps now press the
sands.
And now amid a scene he stands
Full strange to churchman's eye;
Warriors, who, arming for the fight,
Rivet and clasp their harness light.
And twinkling spears, and axes bright,
And helmets flashing high.
Oft, too, with unaccustom'd ears,
A language much unmeet he hears.
While, hastening all on board,
As stormj' as the swelling surge
That mix'd its roar, the leaders urge
Their followers to the ocean verge,
With many a haughty word.
VIII.
Through that wild throng the Father
pass'd
And reach'd the royal Bruce at last.
He leant against a stranded boat.
That the approaching tide must float,
And counted every rippling wave.
As higher yet her sides they lave.
And oft the distant fire he eyed,
And closer yet his hauberk tied.
And loosen'd in its sheath his brand.
Edward and Lennox were at hand,
Douglas and Ronald had the care
The soldiers to the barks to share.
The Monkapproach'd and homage paid;
' Andartthou come,' King Robert said,
' So far, to bless us ere we part ■ '
— ' M3' Liege, and with a loyal heart !
But other charge I have to tell,' —
And spoke the hest of Isabel.
'Now, b}' Saint Giles,' the Monarch
cried,
• This moves me much ! this morning
tide,
I sent the stripling to Saint Bride,
With my commandment there to bide.'
' Thither he came the portress show'd,
But there, my Liege, made brief abode.'
IX.
' 'Twas I,' said Edward, 'found employ
Of nobler import for the boy.
Q 2
452
ZU ^ovl of t9>i 3efe6.
[Canto
Deep pondering in my anxious mind,
A fitting messenger to find.
To bear thy written mandate o'er
To Cuthbert on the Carrick shore,
I chanced, at early dawn, to pass
The chapel gate to snatch a mass.
I found the stripling on a tomb
Low-seated, weeping for the doom
That gave his youth to convent gloom.
I told my purpose, and his eyes
Flash'd joyful at the glad surprise.
He bounded to the skiff", the sail
Was spread before a prosperous gale,
And well my charge he hath obey'd ;
For, see ! the rudd\' signal made,
That Clifford, with his merr\^-men all,
Guards carelessly our father's hall.'
' O wild of thought, and hard of heart I'
Answer'd the Monarch, ' on a part
Of such deep danger to employ
A mute, an orphan, and a boy !
Unfit for flight, unfit for strife,
■Without a tongue to plead for life !
Now, weie my right restored bN^
Heaven,
Edward, my crown I would have
given.
Ere, thrust on such adventure wild,
I perill'd thus the helpless child.'
Offended half, and half submiss,
' Brotherand Liege, of blame like this,'
Edward replied, ' I little dream'd.
A stranger messenger, I deem'd.
Might safest seek the beadsman's cell.
Where all thy squires are known so
well.
Noteless his presence, sharp his sense,
His imperfection his defence.
If seen, none can his errand guess ;
If ta'en, his words no tale express:
Methinks, too, yonder beacon's shine
Might expiate greater fault than mine.'
'Rash,' said King Robert, ' was the
deed ;
But it is done. Embark with speed !
Good Father, say to Isabel
How this unhapp3' chance befell ;
If well we thrive on yonder shore.
Soon shall my care her page restore.
Our greeting to our sister bear.
And think of us in mass and prayer.'
'Ay!' said the Priest, 'while this
poor hand
Can chalice raise or cross command.
While my old voice has accents' use,
Can Augustine forget the Bruce !'
Then to his side Lord Ronald press'd.
And whisper'd, ' Bear thou this
request,
That, when by Bruce's side I fight
For Scotland's crown and freedom's
right,
The princess grace her knight to bear
Some token of her favouring care;
It shall be shown where England's best
May shrink to see it on my crest.
And for the boy — since weightier care
For royal Bruce the times prepare,
The helpless j-outh is Ronald's charge,
His couch my plaid, his fence my targe.'
He ceased ; for many an eager hand
Had urged the barges from the strand.
Their number was a score and ten,
They bore thrice threescore chosen
men.
With such small force did Bruce at
last
The die for death or empire cast !
Now on the darkening main afloat,
Ready and mann'd rocks every boat;
Beneath their oars the ocean's might
Was dash'd to sparks of glimmering
light.
Faint and more faint, as ofl' they bore.
Their armour glanced against the
shore,
And, mingled with the dashing tide,
Their murmuring voices distant died.
v.]
Z^t Boti of t^t 3efe0.
453
'God speed them!' said the Priest,
as dark
On distant billows glides each bark ;
' O Heaven ! when swords for freedom
shine.
And monarch's right, the cause is
thine !
Edge doubly every patriot blow !
Beat down the banners of the foe !
And be it to the nations kno^vn
That Victory is from God alone ! '
As up the hill his path he drew.
He turn'd his blessings to renew ;
Oft turn'd, till on the darken'd coast
All traces of their course were lost ;
Then slowly bent to Brodick tower.
To shelter for the evening hour.
In night the fairy prospects sink,
Where Cumraj-'s isles with verdant
link
Close the fair entrance of the Clyde ;
The woods of Bute, no more descried,
Are gone — and on the placid sea
The rowers ply their task with glee,
While hands that knightly lances bore
Impatient aid the labouring oar.
The half-faced moon shone dim and
pale,
And glanced against the whiten'd sail ;
But on that ruddy beacon-light
Each steersman kept the helm aright,
And oft, for such the King's command,
That all at once might reach the strand.
From boat to boat loud shout and hail
Warn'd them to crowd or slacken sail.
South and by west the armada bore.
And near at length the Carrick shore.
As less and less the distance grows.
High and more high the beacon rose ;
The light, that seem'd a twinkling star.
Now blazed portentous, fierce, and far.
Dark-red the heaven above it glow'd,
Dark-red the sea beneath it flow'd,
Red rose the rocks on ocean's brim,
In blood-red light her islets swim ;
Wild scream the dazzledsea-fowl gave,
Dropp'd from their crags on plashing
wave ;
The deer to distant covert drew,
Theblackcockdeem'dit daj'.and crew.
Like some tall castle given to flame,
O'er half the land the lustre came.
' Now, good my Liege, and brother
sage,
What think ye of mine elfin page?'
' Row on ! ' the noble King replied,
' We'll learn the truth whatc'er betide ;
Yet sure the beadsman and the child
Could ne'er have waked that beacon
wild."
With that the boats approach'd the
land.
But Edward's grounded on the sand ;
The eager Knight leap'd in the sea
Waist-deep, and first on shore was he,
Though every barge's hardy band
Contended which should gain the land.
When that strange light which, seen
afar,
Seem'd stead3' as the polar star,
Now, like a prophet's fiery chair,
Seem'd travelling the realms of air.
Wide o'er thesky the splendourglows,
As that portentous meteor rose ;
Helm, axe, and falchion glitter'd bright.
And in the red and dusky light
His comrade's face each warrior saw,
Nor marvell'd it was pale with awe.
Then high in air the beams were lost,
And darkness sunk upon the coast.
Ronald to Heaven a prayer address'd,
And Douglas cross'd his dauntless
breast ;
'Saintjames protect us ! ' Lennox cried;
But reckless Edward spoke aside,
• Deem'st thou, Kirkpatrick, in that
flame
Red Comyn's angrj' spirit came,
Or would thy dauntless heart endure
Once more to make assurance sure ?'
454
ZU Bovi of f6e 30fe0.
[Canto
'Hush!' said the Bruce, 'we soon
shall know
If this be sorcerer's empty show,
Or stratagem of southern foe.
The moon shines out — upon the sand
Let every leader rank his band.'
Faintly the moon's pale beams supply
That ruddj^ light's unnatural dye ;
The dubious cold reflection la}'
On the wet sands and quiet bay.
Beneath the rocks King Robert drew
His scatter'd files to order due.
Till shield compact and serried spear
In the cool light shone blue and clear.
Then down a path that sought the tide,
That speechless page was seen to
glide;
He knelt him lowly on the sand,
y\nd gave a scroll to Robert's hand.
'A torch,' the I\Ionarch cried, 'what,
ho!
Nowshallwe Cuthbert's tidings know.'
But evil news the letters bare, —
The Clifford's force was strong and
ware,
Augmented, too, that very morn,
By mountaineers who came with
Lorn ;
Long harro\v'd by oppressor's hand.
Courage and faith had fled the land,
And over Carrick, dark and deep.
Had sunk dejection's iron sleep.
Cuthbert had seen that beacon-flame,
L^nwitting from what source it came.
Doubtful of perilous event,
Kdward's mute messenger he sent.
If Bruce deceived should venture o'< r.
To warn him fiom the fatal shore.
As round the torch the leaders crowd,
]-5ruceread these chilling news aloud.
' What council, nobles, have we
now ?
To ambush us in greenwood bough.
And take the chance which fate may
send
To bring our enterprise to end •
Or shall we turn us to the main
As exiles, and embark again ?'
Answer'd fierce Edward, ' Hap what
may.
In Carrick Carrick's Lord must stay.
I would not minstrels told the tale
Wildfire or meteor made us quail.'
Answer'd the Douglas, 'If mj' Liege
Maj' win yon walls by storm or siege.
Then were each brave and patriot heart
Kindled of new for loyal part.'
Answer'd Lord Ronald, 'Not for shame
Would I that aged Torquil came,
And found, for all our empty boast.
Without a blow we fled the coast.
I will not credit that this land,
So famed for Avarlike heart and hand.
The nurse of Wallace and of Bruce,
Will long with tyrants hold a truce.'
• Prove we our fate — the brunt we'll
bide!'
.So Boyd and Haye and Lennox cried ;
So said, so vow'd, the leaders all ;
.So Bruce resolved : 'And in my hall
Since the bold Southern make their
home,
The hour of payment soon shall come,
When with a rough and rugged host
Cliftord may reckon to his cost.
Meantime, through well-known bosk
and dell,
I'll lead where wo may shelter well '
XVII.
Now ask you whence that wondrous
light.
Whose fairy glow beguiled their
sight I
It ne'er was known — yet grev-hair'd
eld
-\ superstitious credence held.
That never did a mortal hand
Wake its broad glare on Carrick
strand :
v.]
Z^i- Bov^ of tU 36fe0.
455
Nay, and that on the self-same night
When Bruce cross'd o'er, still gleams
the light.
Yearly it gleams o'er mount and moor.
And glittering wave and crimson'd
shore —
But whether beam celestial, lent
By Hea\en to aid the King's descent,
Or fire hell-kindled from beneath,
To lure him to defeat and death.
Or were it but some meteor strange,
Of such as oft through midnight range,
Startling the traveller late and lone,
I know not ; and it ne'er was known.
Now up the rocky pass they drew,
And Ronald, to his promise true.
Still made liis arm the stripling's sta3^
To aid him on the rugged way.
' Now cheer thee, simple Amadine !
Why throbs that silly heart of thine?'
That name the pirates to their slave
(In Gaelic 'tis the Changeling) gave;
' Dost thou not rest thee on my arm ?
Do not my plaid-folds hold thee
warm ?
Hath not the wild bull's treble hide
This targe for thee and me supplied?
Is not Clan-Colla's sword of steel ?
And, trembler, canst thou terror feel ?
Cheer Ihee. and still that throbbing
heart ;
From Ronald's guard thou sjialt not
part.'
O ! many a shaft, at random sent.
Finds mark the archer little meant !
And many a word, at random spoken,
May soothe or wound a heart that's
broken !
Half sooth'd. half grieved, lialf
terrified.
Close drew the page to Ronald's side ;
A wild delirious thrill of joj'
Was in that hour of agony.
As up the steepy pass he strove,
Fear, toil, and sorrow lost in love I
The barrier of that iron shore,
The rock's steep ledge, is now climb'd
o'er ;
And from the castle's distant wall.
From tower to tower the warders
call:
The sound swings over land and sea,
And marks a watchful enemy.
The\' gain'd the Chase, a wide domain
Left for the Castle's silvan reign.
Seek not the scene — the axe, the
plough,
The boor's dull fence, have marr'd it
now ;
But then, soft swept in velvet green
The plain with many a glade between,
Whose tangled alleys far invade
The depth of the brown forest shade.
Here the tall fern obscured the lawn,
Fair shelter for the sportive fawn ;
There, tufted close with copsewood
green,
Was many a swelling hillock seen ;
And all around was verdure meet
For pressure of the fairies' feet.
The glossy holly loved the park,
The yew-tree lent its shadow dark,
And manj^ an old oak, worn and bare,
Withall itsshiver'd boughs. was there.
Lovely between, the moonbeams fell
On lawn and hillock, glade and dell.
The gallant Monarch sigh'd to see
Fhese glades so loved in childhood
free,
Bethinking that, as outlaw now.
He ranged beneath the forest bough.
Fast o'vv the nioonliglit Chase they
sped.
Well knew the band that measured
tread,
When, in retreat or in advance,
The serried w-arriors move at once ;
And evil were the luck, if dawn
Descried them on the open lawn.
456
ZU ^OVi of tU ^6k6.
[Canto
Copses they traverse, brooks they
cross,
Strain up the bank and o'er the moss.
From the exhausted page's brow
Cold drops of toil are streaming
now ;
"With effort faint and lengthen'd pause,
His wearj^ step the stripling draws.
'Nay. droop not j-etl' the warrior
said;
'Come, let me give thee ease and aid!
Strong are mine arms, and little care
A weight so slight as thine to bear.
What ! wilt thou not? — capricious
boy!
Then thine own limbs and strength
employ.
Pass but this night, and pass thy care,
I '11 place thee with a ladj' fair,
Where thou shalt tune thy lute to tell
How Ronald loves fair Isabel ! '
Worn out, dishearten'd, and dismay'd,
Here Amadine let go the plaid ;
His trembling limbs their aid refuse.
He sunk among the midnight dews !
What ma^- be done ? — the night is
gone —
The Bruce's band moves swiftly on —
Eternal shame, if at the brunt
Lord Ronald grace not battle's front !
'See yonder oak. witiiin \vhose trunk
Decaj' a darken'd cell hath sunk ;
Enter, and rest thee there a space.
Wrap in my plaid thy limbs, thy face,
I will not be, believe me, far ;
But must not quit the ranks of war.
Well will I mark the bosk^- bourne,
And soon, to guard thee hence, return.
Na3', weep not so, thou simple boj' !
But sleep in peace, and wake in joy.'
In silvan lodging close bestow'd,
He placed the page, and onward strode
With strength put forth, o'er moss and
brook,
And soon the marching band o'crtook.
Thus strangelj' left, long sobb'd and
wept
The page, till, ^vea^ed out, he slept.
A rough voice -waked his dream — ' Nay,
here,
Here b\^ this thicket, pass'd the deer^
Beneath that oak old Ryno staid —
What have we here ? — a Scottish plaid.
And in its folds a stripling laid •
Come forth ! thv name and business
tell !
What, silent ? then I gness thee well,
The spy that sought old Cuthbert's cell.
Wafted from Arran yester morn —
Come, comrades, we will straight
return.
Our Lord may choose the i^ack should
teach
To this young lurcher use of speech.
Thy bow-string, till I bind him fast.' —
' Nay, but he weeps and stands aghast ;
Unbound we'll lead him, fear it not;
'Tis a fair stripling, though a Scot.'
The hunters to the castle sped.
And there the hapless captive led.
XXIII.
.Stout ClifVord in the castle-court
Prepared him for the morning sport;
And now with Lorn held deep dis-
course,
Now gave command for hound and
horse.
War-steeds and palfreys paw'd the
ground.
And many a deer-dog howl'd around.
To Amadine, Lorn's well-known word
Replying to that Southern Lord,
Mix'd with this clanging din. might
seem
The phantasm of a fever'd dream.
The tone upon his ringing ears
Came like the sounds which fancy
hears,
When in rude waves or roaring winds
Some words of woe the muser finds.
v.]
Z^t ;Borb of t()t ^eke.
457
Until more loudly and more near.
Their speech arrests the page's ear.
'And was she thus,' said Clifford, ' lost?
The priest should rue it to his cost I
What says the monk ?' ' The holy -Sire
Owns, that in masquer's quaint attire
She sought his skiff, disguised, un-
known
To all except to him alone.
But, says the priest, a bark from Lorn
Laid them aboard that very morn.
And pirates seized her for their prey.
He proffer'd ransom-gold to pay.
And thej' agreed — but ere told o'er,
The winds blow loud, the billows roar ;
They sever'd, and they met no more.
He deems — such tempest vex'd the
coast —
Ship, crew, and fugitive, were lost.
So let it be, with the disgrace
And scandal of her loft}' race I
Thrice better she had ne'er been born.
Than brought her infamy on Lorn ! '
Lord Clifford now the captive spied ; —
'Whom, Herbert, hast thou there?'
he cried.
' A spy we seized within the Chase,
A hollow oak his lurking place.'
' What tidings can the youth afford ?'
' He plaj's the mute.' ' Then noose
a cord —
Unless brave Lorn reverse the doom
For his plaid's sake.' ' Clan-Colla's
loom,'
Said Lorn, whose careless glances trace
Rather the vesture than the face :
'Clan-Colla's dames such tartans twine;
Wearer nor plaid claims care of mine.
Give him, if my advice you crave,
His own scathed oak ; and let him
wave
In air, unless, by terror wrung,
A frank confession find his tongue.
Nor shall he die without his rite ;
Thou, Angus Roy, attend the sight,
And give Clan-Colla's dirge thy breath,
As they convey him to his death.'
' O brother ! cruel to the last I'
Through the poor captive's bosom
pass'd
The thought, but, to his purpose true,
Hesaid not, though he sigh'd, ' Adieul'
XXVI.
And will he keep his purpose still,
In sight of that last closing ill.
When one poor breath, one single
word,
May freedom, safety, life, afford ?
Can he resist the instinctive call,
For life that bids us barter all ? —
Love, strong as death, his heart hath
steel'd,
His nerves hath strung; he will not
yield I
Since that poor breath, that little word.
May yield Lord Ronald to the sword.
Clan-Colla's dirge is pealing wide.
The griesly headsman 's by his side ;
Along the greenwood Chase they bend.
And now their march has ghastly end !
That old and shatter d oak beneath.
They destine for the place of death.
What thoughts are his, while all in vain
His eye for aid explores the plain ?
What thoughts, while, withadizzj'ear,
He hears the death-prayer mutter'd
near ?
And must he die such death accurst. -
Or will that bosom-secret burst ?
Cold on his brow breaks terror's dew,
His trembling lips are livid blue;
The agon}' of parting life
Has nought to match that moment's
strife ! ■ -
XXVII.
But other witnesses are nigh,
Who mock at fear, and death defy ! '
Soon as the dire lament was play'd,
It waked the lurking ambuscade.
y 3
458
ZU Boti of tU 36f^e.
[Canto
The Island Lord look'd forth, and spied
The cause, and loud in fury cried,
*By Heaven, they lead the page to die.
And mock me in his agony !
The}^ shall abye it !' On his arm
Bruce laid strong grasp, ' They shall
not harm
A ringlet of the stripling's hair;
But, till I give the word, forbear.
Douglas, lead fift}- of our force
Up j'onder hollow water-course.
And couch thee midway on the wold.
Between the flyers and their hold :
A spear above the copse displaj^'d,
Be signal of the ambush made.
Edward, with forty spearmen, straight
Through j^onder copse approach the
gate,
And, when thou hear'st the battle-din,
Rush forward, and the passage win,
Secure the drawbridge — storm the
port,
And man and guard the castle-court.
The rest move slowlj' forth with me.
In shelter of the forest-tree,
Till Douglas at his post I see.'
XXVIII.
Like war-horse eager to rush on,
Compell'd to wait the signal blown,
Hid, and scarce hid, by greenwood
bough,
Trembling with rage, stands Ronald
now,
Andinhisgrasp his sword gleams blue.
Soon to be dj'cd with deadlier hue.
Meanwhile the Bruce, with stead}- eye.
Sees the dark death-train moving bj',
And, heedful, measures oft the space
The Douglas and his band must trace.
Ere they can reach their destined
ground.
Now sinks the dirge's wailing sound.
Now cluster round the direful tree
That slow and solemn company.
While hj-mn mistuned and mutter d
prayer
The victim for his fate prepare.
What glances o'er the greenwood
shade ?
The spear that marks the ambuscade!
'Now, noble Chief! I leave thee loose;
Upon them, Ronald ! ' said the Bruce.
XXIX.
'The Bruce, the Bruce!' to well-
known cry
His native rocks and woods reply.
' The Bruce, the Bruce ! ' in that dread
word
The knell of hundred deaths was heard.
The astonish'd Southern gazed at first.
Where the wild tempest was to burst,
That waked in that presaging name.
Before, behind, around it came !
Half-arm'd, surprised, on every side
Hemm'd in, hew'd down, they bled
and died.
Deep in the ring the Bruce engaged,
And fierce Clan-Colla's broadsword
raged !
Full soon the few who fought were
sped.
Nor better was their lot who fled,
And met, 'mid terror's wild career,
The Douglas's redoubted spear !
Two hundred yeomen en that morn
The castle left, and none return.
XXX.
Not on their flight press'd Ronald's
brand,
A gentler duty claim'd his hand.
He raised the page, where on the plain
His fear had sunk him with the slain :
And twice, that morn, surprise well
near
Betray'd the secret kept by fear;
Once, when, with life returning, came
To the bo3''s lip Lord Ronald's name,
And hardlj' recollection drown'd
The accents in a murmuring sound ;
And once, when scarce he could resist
The Chieftain's care to loose the vest.
Drawn lightly o'er his labouring
breast.
v.]
ZH ;Sovb of tU Jef^e.
459
But then the Brace's bugle blew,
F"or martial work was yet to do.
XXXI.
A harder task fierce Edward waits.
Ere signal given, the castle gates
His fury had assail'd ;
Such was his wonted reckless mood.
Yet desperate valour oft made good,
Even by its daring, venture rude,
Where prudence mighthave fail'd.
Upon the bridge his strength he threw,
And struck the iron chain in two.
By which its planks arose ;
The warder next his axe's edge
Struck down upon the threshold ledge,
'Tvvixt door and post a ghastly wedge 1
The gate they may not close.
Well fought the Southern in the fray,
Clifford and Lorn fought well that day,
But stubborn Edward forced his way
Against a hundred foes.
Loud came the cry, ' The Bruce, the
Bruce ' '
No hope or in defence or truce.
Fresh combatants pour in ;
Mad with success, and drunk with gore.
They drive the struggling foe before,
And ward on ward they win.
Unsparing was the vengeful sword,
And limbs were lopp'd and life-
blood pour'd,
The cry of death and conflict roar'd,
And fearful was the din 1
The startling horses plunged and flung,
Clamourd the dogs till turrets rung.
Nor sunk the fearful cr}-.
Till not a foeman was there found
Alive, save those who on the ground
Groan'd in their agon}' !
The valiant Clifford is no more ;
On Ronald's broadsword strcam'd
his gore.
But better hap liad he of Lorn,
Who, by the foemen backward borne,
Yet gain'd with slender train the port
Where la^' his bark beneath the fort,
And cut the cable loose.
Short were his shrift in that debate.
That hour of fury and of fate.
If Lorn encounter'd Bruce !
Then long and loud the victor-shout
From turret and from tower rung out,
The rugged vaults replied ;
And from the donjon tower on high,
The men of Carrick may descry
Saint Andrew's cross, in blazonry
Of silver, waving wide !
XXXIII.
The Bruce hath won his father's hall !
' Welcome, brave friends and com-
rades all,
Welcome to mirth and joy 1
The first, the last, is welcome here,
From lord and chieftain, prince and
peer.
To this poor speechless boy.
Great God ! once more my sire's abode
Is mine — behold the floor I trode
In tottering infancj' !
And there the vaulted arch, whose
sound
Echoed my joyous shout and bound
In boyhood, and that rung around
To youth's unthinking glee 1
O first, to thee, all-gracious Heaven,
Then to my friends, my thanks be
given 1 '
He paused a space, hisbrow he cross "d.
Then on the board his sword he toss'd.
Yet steaming hot ; with .Southern gore
From hilt to point 'twas crimson'd o'er.
' Bring here,' he said, ' the mazers four.
My noble fathers loved of yore.
Thrice let them circle round the board.
The pledge, fair Scotland's rights
restored I
And he whose lip shall touch the wine,
Without a vow as true as mine,
y 3
460
ZU Bert of tU 36fee.
[Canto
To hold both lands and life at nought,
Until her freedom shall be bought, —
Be brand of a disloyal Scot,
And lasting infamy his lot !
Sit, gentle friends I our hour of glee
Is brief, we'll spend it joyously !
Blithest of all the sun's bright beams,
When betwixt storm and storm he
gleams.
Well is our country's work begun,
But more, far more, must 3et be done.
Speed messengers the countrj'
through ;
Arouse old friends, and gather new ;
Warn Lanark's knights to gird their
mail.
Rouse the brave sons of Teviotdalc,
Let Ettrick's archers sharp their darts.
The fairest forms, the truest hearts !
Call all, call all ! from Reedswair-
Path,
To the wild confines of Cape-Wrath ;
Wide let the news through Scotland
ring,
The Northern Eagle claps his wing !'
Canto Sixth.
O WHO, that shared them, ever
shall forget
The emotions of the spirit-rousing
time.
When breathless in the mart the
couriers met.
Early and late, at evening and at
prime ;
When the loud cannon and the
merry chime
Hail'd news on news, as field on
field was won,
When Hope, long doubtful, soar'd
at length sublime,
And our glad eyes, awake as day
begun,
Watch'd Joy's broad banner rise, to
meet the rising sun !
O these were hours, when thrilling
jo3^ repaid
A long, long course of darkness,
doubts, and fears !
The heart-sick faintness of the hope
delaj^'d.
The waste, the woe, the bloodshed,
and the tears
That tiack'd with terror twenty
rolling years.
All was forgot in that blithe jubilee!
Her downcast eye even pale Afflic-
tion rears.
To sigh a thankful prayer, amid
the glee.
That hail'd the Despot's fall, and
peace and liberty !
Such news o'er Scotland's hills
triumphant rode,
When 'gainst the invaders turn'd
the battle's scale.
When Bruce's banner had victorious
flow'd
O'er Loudoun's mountain, and in
Ury's vale ;
When English blood oft deluged
Douglas-dale,
And fiery Edward routed stout St.
John,
When Randolph's war-cry swcll'd
the southern gale,
And many a fortress, town, and
tower was won,
And Fame still sounded forth fresh
deeds of glory done.
Blithe tidings ilcw from baron's
tower.
To peasant's cot, to forest-bower.
VI.]
Z^t Bori of tU Jefee.
461
And waked the solitary cell
Where lone Saint Bride's recluses
dwell.
Princess no more, fair Isabel,
A vot'ress of the order now,
Say, did the rule that bid thee wear
Dim veil and woollen scapulairc,
And reft thy locks of dark-brown hair,
That stern and rigid vow,
Did it condemn the transport high,
Which glisten'd in thy watery eye,
When minstrel or when palmer told
Each fresh exploit of Bruce the bold? —
And whose the lovely form that shares
Thy anxious hopes, thy fears, thy
prayers ?
No sister she of convent shade ;
So say these locks in lengthen'd braid,
So say the blushes and the sighs,
The tremors that unbidden rise.
When, mingled with the Bnice's fame,
ThebraveLord Ronald's praises came.
III.
Believe, his father's castle won,
And his bold enterprise begun,
That Brace's earliest cares restore
The speechless page to Arran's shore :
Nor think that long the quaint disguise
Conceal'd her from a sister's eyes ;
And sister-like in love they dwell
In that lone convent's silent cell.
There Bruce's slow assent allows
Fair Isabel the veil and vows ;
And there, her sex's dress regain'd,
The lovely Maid of Lorn remain'd.
Unnamed, unknown, while Scotland
far
Resounded with the din of war;
And many a month, and many a day,
In calm seclusion wore awa}'.
IV.
These days, these months, to years
had worn,
When tidings of high weight were
borne
To that lone island's shore ;
Of all the Scottish conquests made
By the First Edward's ruthless blade,
His son retain'd no more,
Northward of Tweed, but Stirling's
towers,
Beleaguer'd by King Robert's powers ;
And thej' took term of truce.
If England's King should not relieve
The siege ere John the Baptist's eve.
To yield them to the Bruce.
England was roused — on every side
Courier and post and herald hied,
To summon prince and peer,
At Berwick- bounds to meet their Liege^
Prepared to raise fair Stirling's siege,
With buckler, brand, and spear.
The term was nigh — they muster'd
fast.
By beacon and by bugle-blast
Forth mar.shall'd for the field ;
There rode each knight of noble name.
There England's hardy archers came.
The land they trode seem'tl all on
flame.
With banner, blade, and shield !
And not famed England's powers alone,
Renown'd inarms, the summons own ;
For Neustria's knights obc3''d,
Gascogne hath lent her horsemen
good,
And Cambria, but of late subdued.
Sent forth her mountain-multitude,
And Connoght pour'd from waste
and wood
Her hundred tribes, whose sceptre
rude
Dark Eth O'Connor sway'd.
Right to devoted Caledon
The storm of war rolls slowly on,
With menace deep and dread ;
So the dark clouds, with gathering
power.
Suspend awhile the threaten'd shower.
Till every peak and summit lower
Round the pale pilgrim's head.
46i
ZU JSori of tU ^gfee.
[Canto
Not with such pilgrim's startled ej'e
King Robert mark'd the tempest nigh !
Resolved the brunt to bide,
His royal summons warn'd the land,
That all who own'd their King's
command
Should instant take the spear and
brand,
To combat at his side.
O who may tell the sons of fame.
That at King Robert's bidding came,
To battle for the right !
From Cheviot to the shores of Ross,
From Solway-Sands to Marshal's-
Moss,
All boun'd them for the fight.
Such news the royal courier tells,
Who cameto rouse dark Arran's dells:
But farther tidings must the ear
Of Isabel in secret hear.
These in her cloister walk, next morn,
Thussharedshe with the Maid of Lorn :
'My Edith, can I tell how dear
Our intercourse of hearts sincere
Hath been to Isabel ?
Judge then the sorrow of my heart,
When I must say the words, We
part !
The cheerless convent-cell
Was not, sweet maiden, made for
thee ;
Go thou where thy vocation free
On happier fortunes fell.
Nor, Edith, judge thyself betray'd
Though Robert knows that Lorn's
high Maid
And his poor silent page were one.
Versed in the fickle heart of man,
Earnest and anxious hath he look'd
How Ronald's heart the message
brook'd
That gave him, with her last farewell,
The charge of Sister Isabel,
To think upon thy better right.
And keep the faith his promise plight.
Forgive him for thj' sister's sake.
At first if vain repinings wake —
Long since that mood is gone :
Now dwells he on thy juster claims.
And oft his breach of faith he blames — •
Forgive him for thine own I'
' No I never to Lord Ronald's bower
Will I again as paramour'
' Nay, hush thee, too impatient maid,
Until my final tale be said 1
The good King Robert would engage
Edith once more his elfin page.
By her own heart, and her own eye.
Her lover's penitence to try —
Safe in his royal charge and free,
Should such thy final purpose be,
Again unknown to seek the cell.
And live and die with Isabel.'
Thus spoke the Maid : King Robert's
eye
Might have some glance of policj- :
Dunstafl'nage had the monarch ta'en.
And Lorn had own'd King Robert's
reign ;
Her brother had to England fled,
And there in banishment was dead;
Ample, through exile, death, and flight.
O'er tower and land was Edith's right ;
This ample right o'er tower and land
Were safe in Ronald's faithful hand.
Embarrass'd eye and blushing cheek
Pleasure and shame, and fear bespeak I
Yet much the reasoning Edith made :
' Her sister's faith she must upbraid,
Who gave such secret, dark and dear,
In council to another's ear.
Wh}' should she leave the peaceful
cell?
How should she part with Isabel •
How wear that strange attire agen ?
How risk herself 'midst martial men ?
And how be guarded on the way? —
At least she might entreat delay.'
VI.]
ZU Bovi of iU Jefea.
463
Kind Isabel, with secret smile,
Saw and forgave the maiden's wile.
Reluctant to be thought to move
At the first call of truant love.
IX.
Oh, blame her not : When zephyrs
wake.
The aspen's trembling leaves must
shake ;
When beams the sun through April's
shower.
It needs must bloom, the violet flower ;
And Love, howe'er the maiden strive,
Must with reviving hope revive !
A thousand soft excuses came.
To plead his cause 'gainst virgin shame.
Pledged b\- their sires in earliest youth,
He had her plighted faith and truth —
Then . 'twas her Liege's strict command,
And she, beneath his royal hand,
A ward in person and in land : —
And, last, she was resolved to sta3-
Only brief space — one little daj- —
Close hidden in her safe disguise
From all, but most from Ronald'seyes —
But once to see him more I — nor blame
Herwish — tohear him name hername!
Then, to bear back to solitude
The thought he had his falsehood rued !
But Isabel, who long had seen
Her pallid cheek and pensive mien.
And well herself the cause might know,
Though innocent, of Edith's woe,
Jo3''d, generous, that revolving time
Gave means to expiate the crime.
High glow'd her bosom as she said,
'Well shall her sufferings be repaid 1'
Now came the parting hour — a band
From Arran's mountains left the land ;
Their chief. Fitz-Louis, had the care
The speechless Amadine to bear
To Bruce, with honour, as behoved
To page the monarch dearly loved.
X.
The Kinghaddeem'd the maiden bright
Should reach him lone before the fis-ht.
But storms and fate her course delay:
It was on eve of battle-day,
When o'er the Gillie's-hill she rode.
The landscape like a furnace glow'd,
And far as e'er the eye was borne,
The lances waved like autumn-corn.
In battles four beneath their eye,
The forces of King Robert lie.
And one below the hill was laid,
Reser\'ed for rescue and for aid ;
And three, advanced, form'd vaward-
line,
'Twixt Bannock's brook and Ninian's
shrine.
Detach'd was each, yet each so nigh
As well might mutual aid supply.
Beyond, the Southern host appears,
A boundless %vilderness of spears.
Whose verge or rear the anxious
e\-e
Strove far, but strove in vain, to sp\".
Thick flashing in the evening beam,
Glaives, lances, bills, and banners
gleam ;
And where the heaven join'd with
the hill.
Was distant armour flashing still,
So wide, so far, the boundless host
Seem'd in the blue horizon lost.
Down from the hill the maiden pass'd.
At the wild show of war aghast ;
And traversed first the rearward host,
Reser\-ed for aid where needed most.
The men of Carrick and of Ayr,
Lennox and Lanark, too, were there,
And all the western land ;
With these the valiant of the Isles
Beneath their chieftains rank'd their
files.
In many a plaided band.
There, in the centre, proudly raised,
The Bruce's royal standard blazed.
And there Lord Ronald's banner bore
A galley driven bj- sail and oar.
A wild, yet pleasing contrast, made
464
Z^t Mov}i of tU 30fe0.
[Canto
Warriors in mail and plate arraj''d,
With the pUimed bonnet and the plaid
By these Hebrideans worn ;
But O ! unseen for three long years,
Dear was the garb of mountaineers
To the fair Maid of Lorn !
For one she look'd — but he was far
Busied amid the ranks of war —
Yet with affection's troubled eye
She mark'd his banner boldly fl}',
Gave on the countless foe a glance,
And thought on battle's desperate
chance.
XII.
To centre of the vaward-line
Fitz-Louis guided Amadine.
Arm'd all on foot, that host appears
A serried mass of glimmering spears.
There stood the Marchers' warlike
band,
The warriors there of Lodon's land ;
Ettrick and Liddell bent the yew,
A band of archers fierce, though few;
The men of Nith and Annan's vale,
And the bold spears of Teviotdale; —
The dauntless Douglas these obey,
And the young Stuart's gentle sway.
North-eastward by Saint Ninian's
shrine.
Beneath fierce Randolph's charge,
combine
The warriors whom the hardy North
From Tay to Sutherland sent forth.
The rest of Scotland's war-array
With Edward Bruce to westward lay,
Where Bannock, with his broken bank
And deep ravine, protects their (lank.
Behind them, screen'd by sheltering
wood,
The gallant Keith, Lord Marshal, stood:
His men-at-arms bear mace and lance.
And plumes that wave, and helms
that glance.
Thus fair divided by the King,
Centre, and right, and left-ward wing,
Composed his front ; nor distant far
Was strong reserve to aid the war.
And 'twas to front of this array,
Her guide and Edith made their way.
Here must they pause ; for, in advance
As far as one might pitch a lance.
The Monarch rode along the van,
The foe's approaching force to scan,
His line to marshal and to range.
And ranks to square, and fronts to
change.
Alone he rode — from head to heel
.Sheathed in his ready arms of steel ;
Nor mounted yet on war-horse wight,
But, till more near the shock of fight,
Reining a palfrey low and light.
A diadem of gold was set
Above his bright steel basinet.
And clasp'd within its glittering twine
Was seen the glove of Argentine ;
Truncheon or leading staff he lacks.
Bearing, instead, a battle-axe.
He ranged his soldiers for the fight,
Accoutred thus, in open sight
Of either host. Three bowshots far.
Paused the deep front of England's
war,
And rested on their arms awhile.
To close and rank their warlike file,
And hold high council, if that night
Shouldviewthestrife, or dawning light.
O gay, yet fearful to behold.
Flashing with steel and rough with
gold.
And bristled o'er with bills and
spears,
With plumes and pennons waving fair,
Was that bright battle-front ! for there
Rode England's King and peers :
And who, that saw that monarch ride.
His kingdom battled by his side,
Could then his direful doom foretell!
Fair was his seat in knightly selle.
And in his sprightl3' eye was set
Some spark of the Plantagenet.
VI.]
ZU Boti of tU 30fe6.
465
Thougli light and wandering was liis
glance,
It flash'd at sight of shield and lance.
' Know'st thou,' he said, ' De Argentine,
Yon knight who marshals thus their
line ' '
' The tokens on his helmet tell
The Bruce, my Liege : I know him
well.'
' And shall the audacious traitor brave
The presence where our banners
wave ? '
* So please my Liege,' said Argentine,
'Were he but horsed on steed like mine,
To give him fair and knightlj' chance,
I would adventure forth my lance.'
' In battle-day,' the King replied,
' Nice tourney rules are set aside.
Still must the rebel dare our wrath ?
Set on him, sweep him from our path !'
And, at King Edward's signal, soon
Dash'd from the ranks Sir Henry
Boune.
Of Hereford's high blood he came,
A race renown'd for knightly fame.
He burn'd before his Monarch's eye
To do some deed of chivahy.
He spurr'd his steed, he couch'd his
lance.
And darted on the Bruce at once.
As motionless as rocks, that bide
The wrath of the advancing tide,
The Bruce stood fast. Each breast
beat high.
And dazzled was each gazing eye.
The heart had hardlj^ time to think,
The eyelid scarce had time to wink,
While on the King, like flash of flame,
Spurr'd to full speed the war-horse
came !
The partridge maj' the falcon mock
If that slight palfre\^ stand the shock ;
But, swerving from the Knight's career.
Just as they met, Bruce shnnn'd the
spear.
Onward the baffled warrior bore
His course — but soon his course was
o'er !
High in his stirrups stood the King,
And gave his battle-axe the swing.
Right on De Boune, the whiles he
pass'd.
Fell that stern dint, the first, the last !
Such strength upon the blow was put,
The helmet crash'd like hazel-nut ;
The axe-shaft, with its brazen clasp,
Was shiver'd to the gauntlet grasp.
Springs from the blow the startled
horse.
Drops to the plain the lifeless corse;
First of that fatal field, how soon,
How sudden, fell the fierce De Boune !
One pitying glance the IVIonarch sped
Where on the field his foe laj' dead ;
Then gently turn'd his palfrey's head,
And, pacing back his sober wa}-.
Slowly he gain'd his own arra}'.
There round their King the leaders
crowd,
And blame his recklessness aloud,
That risk'd 'gainst each adventurous
spear
A life so valued and so dear.
His broken weapon's shaft survey'd
The King, and careless answer made,
' My loss maj' pay nn^ folly's tax ;
I 've broke m}- trusty battle-axe."
'Twas then Fitz-Louis, bending low,
Did Isabel's commission show ;
Edith, disguised at distance stands,
And hides her blushes with her hands.
The Monarch's brow has changed its
hue.
Away the gory axe he threw.
While to the seeming page he drew.
Clearing war's terrors from his
eye.
Her hand with gentle ease he took.
With such a kind protecting look.
As to a weak and timid boy
466
ZU Bori of tU 30fc0.
[Canto
Might speak, that elder brother's care
And elder brother's love were there.
' Fear not,' he said, 'young Amadine I '
Then whisper'd, 'Still that name be
thine.
Fate plays her wonted fantasy,
Kind Amadine, with thee and me,
And sends thee here in doubtful hour.
But soon we are bej'ond her power;
For on this chosen battle-plain,
Victor or vanquish'd, I remain.
Do thou to yonder hill repair ;
The followers of our host are there,
And all who may not weapons bear.
Fitz-Louis, have him in thy care.
Joyful we meet, if all go well;
If not, in Arran's holy cell
Thou must take part with Isabel ;
For brave Lord Ronald, too, hath
sworn
Not to regain the Maid of Lorn
(The bliss on earth he covets most),
Would he forsake his battle-post,
Or shun the fortune that may fall
To Bruce, to Scotland, and to all.
But, hark ! some news these trumpets
tell;
Forgive my haste — farewell I farewell I '
And in a lower voice he said,
* Be of good cheer ; farewell, sweet
maid 1 '
XVIII.
'What train of dust, with trumpet-
sound
And glimmering spears, is wheeling
round
Our leftward flank ? ' the Monarch
cried
To Moray's Earl, who rode beside.
' Lo ! round th}' station pass the foes !
Randolph, thy wreath has lost a rose.'
The Earl his visor closed, and said,
' My wreath shall bloom, or life shall
fade.
Follow my household ! ' And they go
Like lightning on the advancing foe.
' My Liege,' said noble Douglas then,
' Earl Randolph has but one to ten :
Let me go forth his band to aid I '
' Stir not. The error he hath made,
Let him amend it as he may ;
I will not weaken mine array.'
Then loudly rose the conflict-cry,
And Douglas's brave heart swell'd
high, — ■
' M}- Liege,' he said, ' with patient ear
I must not Moray's death-knell hear ! '
' Then go — but speed thee back again.'
Forth sprung the Douglas with his
train :
But, when the}' won a rising hill,
He bade his followers hold them still.
' See, see ! the routed Southern t\y !
The Earl hath won the victory.
Lo ! where yon steeds run masterless,
His banner towers above the press.
Rein up ; our presence would impair
The fame we come too late to share.'
Back to the host the Douglas rode,
And soon glad tidings are abroad,
That, Dayncourt by stout Randolph
slain.
His followers fled with loosen'd rein.
That skirmish closed the busy day,
And couch'd in battle's prompt array,
Each army on their weapons lay.
.XIX.
It was a night of lovely June,
High rode in cloudless blue the moon,
Demayet smiled beneath her ray ;
Old Stirling's towers arose in light,
And, twined in links of silver bright,
Her winding river lay.
Ah, gentle planet ! other sight
Shall greet thee next returning night .
Of broken arms and banners tore,
And marshes dark with human gore.
And piles of slaughter'd men and
horse,
And Forth that floats the frequent
corse.
VI.]
ZU BoYl of tU Jef^e.
467
And many a wounded wretch to plain
Beneath th}'' silver light in vain !
But now, from England's host, the cry
Thou hear'st of wassail revelr3',
While from the Scottish legions pass
The murmur'd praj^er, the early
mass !
Here, numbers had presumption given ;
There, bands o'ermatch'd sought aid
from Heaven.
On Gillic's-hill, whose height com-
mands
The battle-field, fair Edith stands.
With serf and page unfit for war,
To eye the conflict from afar.
O ! with what doubtful agon\^
.She sees the dawning tint the skj' !
Now on the Ochils gleams the sun,
And glistens now Demayet dun;
Is it the lark that carols shrill,
Is it the bittern's early hum ?
No ! — distant, but increasing still,
The trumpet's sound swells up the
hill.
With the deep murmur of the drum.
Responsive from the Scottish host,
Pipe-clang and bugle-sound were
toss'd.
His breast and brow each soldier
cross'd.
And started from the ground ;
Arm'd and array'd for instant fight.
Rose archer, spearman, squire, and
knight.
And in the pomp of battle bright
The dread battalia frown'd.
Now onward, and in open view,
The countless ranks of England drew,
Dark rolling like the ocean-tide
When the rough west hath chafed his
pride.
And his deep roarsendschallenge wide
To all that bars his way !
In front the gallant archers trode,
The men-at-arms behind them rode,
And midmost of the phalanx broad
The Monarch held his swaj'.
Beside him many a war-horse fumes,
Around him waves a sea of plumes,
Where many a knight in battle known,
And some who spurs had first braced
on.
And deem'd that fight should see them
won,
King Edward's bests obey.
De Argentine attends his side.
With stout De Valence, Pembroke's
pride.
Selected champions from the train
To wait upon his bridle-rein.
Upon the Scottish foe he gazed ;
At once, before his sight amazed,
Sunk banner, spear, and shield ;
Each weapon-point is downward sent.
Each warrior to the ground is bent.
' The rebels, Argentine, repent !
For pardon they have kneel'd.'
'Ay! but they bend to other powers.
And other pardon sue than ours !
See where yon barefoot Abbot stands.
And blesses them with lifted hands I
Upon thespotwherethey have kneel'd
These men will die, or win the field.'
' Then prove we if they die or win !
Bid Gloster's Earl the fight begin."
Earl Gilbert waved his truncheon high
Just as the Northern ranks arose,
Signal for England's archery
To halt and bend their bows.
Then stepp'd each yeoman forth a pace,
Glanced at the intervening space,
And raised his left hand high ;
To the right ear the cords they bring;
At once ten thousand bow-strings ring,
Ten thousand arrows fly!
Nor paused on the devoted Scot
The ceaseless fury of their shot;
As fiercely and as fast
468
Z^t £ovi of tU 30fe0.
[Canto
Forth whistling came the grej--goose
wing
As the wild hailstones pelt and ring
Adown December's blast.
Nor mountain targe of tough bull-hide,
Nor lowland mail, that storm may bide ;
Woe, woe to Scotland's banner'd pride
If the fell shower may last !
Upon the right, behind the wood,
Each by his steed dismounted, stood
The Scottish chivalry ;
With foot in stirrup, hand on mane.
Fierce Edward Bruce can scarce
restrain
His own keen heart, his eager train,
Until the archers gain'd the plain;
Then ' Mount, ye gallants free 1 '
He cried ; and, vaulting from the
ground,
His saddle every horseman found.
On high t heir glitteringcrests the}' toss.
As springs thewild-fire from the moss ;
Theshieldhangsdown on everj'breast,
Each ready lance is in the rest,
And loud shouts Edward Bruce, —
' Forth, Marshal ! on the peasant foe !
We'll tame the terrors of their bow.
And cut the bow-string loose ! '
X.KIII.
Then spurs were dash'd in chargers'
flanks.
They rush'd among the archer ranks.
No spears were there the shock to let.
No Slakes to turn the charge were set.
And how shall yeoman's armour slight
Standthelonglance and maceofmight ?
Or what may their short swords avail
'Gainst barbecl horse and shirt of mail ?
Amid their ranks the chargers sprung,
High o'er their heads the weapons
swung.
And shriek and groan and vengeful
shout
Give note of triumph and of rout !
Awhile, with stubborn hardihood.
Their English hearts the strife made
good.
Borne down at length on every side,
Compell'd to flight, they scatter wide.
Let stags of Sherwood leap for glee,
And bound the deer of Dallom-Lee !
The broken bows of Bannock's shore
.Shall in the greenwood ring no more !
Round Wakefield's merrj- May-pole
now
The maids may twine the summer
bough.
May northward look with longing
glance
For those that wont to lead the dance,
For the blithe archers look in vain !
Broken, dispersed, in flight o'erta'en,
Pierc'd through, trode down, b}-
thousands slain.
They cumber Bannock's bloody plain,
XXIV.
The King with scorn beheld their flight.
' .Are these,' he said, ' our j'eomen
wight •
Each braggart churl couldboast before
Twelve Scottish lives his baldric bore !
Fitter to plunder chase or park
Than make a manly foe their mark.
Forward, each gentleman and knight !
Let gentle blood show generous might,
And chivalry redeem the fight 1 '
To rightward of the wild atlra^'
The field show'd fair and level way ;
But, in mid-space, the Bruce's care
Had bored the ground with many a pit,
With turf and brushwood hidden yet,
That form'd a ghastly snare.
Rushing, ten thousand horsemen came.
With spears in rest and hearts on (lame,
That panted for the shock 1
With blazing crests and banners
spread.
And trumpet-clangand clamour dread.
The wide plain thunder'd to their
tread
As far as Stirling rock.
Down ! downl inheadlongoverthrow,
Horseman and horse, the foremost go.
Wild floundering on the field !
VI.]
ZU iSori cf tH Jefee.
469
The first are in destruction's gorge,
Their followers wildly o'er them urge ;
The knightly helm and shield,
The mail, the acton, and the spear.
Strong hand, high heart, are useless
here !
Loud from the mass confused the cry
Of dying warriors swells on high,
And steeds that shriek in agony 1
They came like mountain-torrent red
That thunders o'er its rockj' bed ;
They broke like that same torrent's
wave
When swallow'd by a darksome cave.
Billows on billows burst and boil.
Maintaining still the stern turmoil.
And to their wild and tortured groan
Each adds new terrors of his own !
Too strong in courage and in might
"Was England j^et, to yield the fight.
Her noblest all are here ;
Names that to fear were never known,
Bold Norfolk's Earl De Brotherton,
And Oxford's famed De Vere.
There Gloster plied the bloodj' sword,
And Berkley, Grey, and Hereford ;
Bottetourt and .Sanzavere,
Ross, Montague, and Maulej', came.
And Courtena3''s pride, and Percy's
fame —
Names known too well in Scotland's
war
At Falkirk, Methven, and Dunbar,
Blazed broader yet in after j^ears
At Cressy red and fell Poitiers.
Pembroke \vith these, and Argentine,
Brought up the rearward battle-line.
With caution o'er the ground they
tread.
Slippery with blood and piled with
dead.
Till hand to hand in battle set,
The bills with spears and axes met,
And. closing dark on every side,
Raged the full contest far and wide.
Then was the strength of Douglas tried,
Then proved was Randolph's generous
pride,
And well did Stewart's actions grace
The sire of Scotland's royal race !
Firmly thej' kept their ground ;
As firmly England onward press'd.
And down went many a noble crest,
And rent was nianj' a valiant breast,
And Slaughter revell'd round.
Unflinching foot 'gainst foot was set.
Unceasing blow by blow was met ;
The groans of those who fell
Were drown'd amid the shriller clang
That from the blades and harness rang,
And in the battle-j-ell.
Yet fast they fell, unheard, forgot.
Both Southern fierce and hardy Scot ;
And O ! amid that waste of life,
What various motives fired the strife !
The aspiring Noble bled for fame,
The Patriot for his country's claim ;
This Knight his 3-outhful strength to
prove.
And that to win his lad3''s love ;
Some fought from ruffian thirst of blood ,
From habit some, or hardihood.
But ruffian stern, and soldier good.
The noble and the slave.
From various cause the same wild road.
On the same bloody morning, trode,
To that dark inn, the grave !
The tug of strife to Hag begins,
Though neither loses yet nor wins.
High rides the sun, thick rolls the dust.
And feeblerspeedstheblowand thrust.
Douglas leans on his war-sword now,
And Randolphwipes his bloody brow ;
Nor less had toil'd each Southern
knight.
From morn till mid-day in the fight.
Strong Egremont for air must gasp,
Beauchamp undoes his visor-clasp,
470
Zh Bov^ of t^t 30fe6.
[Canto
And Montague must quit his spear,
And sinks thy falchion, bold De Vere !
The blows of Berkley fall less fast,
And gallant Pembroke's bugle-blast
Hath lost its lively tone ;
Sinks, Argentine, thy battle-word,
And Percy's shout \vas fainter heard,
' My merry-men, fight on !'
Bruce, with the pilot's wary eye,
The slackening of the storm could sp3'.
' One effort more, and Scotland 's
free !
Lord of the Isles, my trust in thee
Is firm as Ailsa Rock ;
Rush on with Highland sword and
targe,
I, with my Carrick spearmen
charge :
Now, forward to the shock !'
At once the spears were forward
thrown.
Against thesunthebroadswordsshone;
The pibroch lent its maddening tone.
And loud King Robert's voice was
known —
' Carrick, press on ! they fail, they fail I
Press on, brave sons of Innisgail,
The foe is fainting fast !
Each strike for parent, child, and
wife.
For Scotland, liberty, and life, —
The battle cannot last !'
The fresh and desperate onset bore
Thefoes three furlongs back and more,
Leaving their noblest in their gore.
Alone, De Argentine
Yet bears on high his red-cross shield,
Gathers the relics of the field,
Renews the ranks where they have
reel'd.
And still makes good the line.
Brief strife, but fierce, his eflbrts raise
A bright but momentary blaze.
Fair Edith heard the Southern shout,
Beheld them turning from the rout.
Heard the wild call their trumpets sent
In notes 'twixt triumph and lament.
That rallying force, combined anew,
Appear'd in her distracted view
To hem the Islesmen round ;
' O God 1 the combat they renew
And is no rescue found !
And ye that look thus tamely on,
And see 3'our native land o'erthrown,
O ! are your hearts of flesh or stone ?'
The multitude that watch'd afar.
Rejected from the ranks of war,
Had not unmoved beheld the fight,
When strove the Bruce for .Scotland's
right ;
Each heart had caught the patriot
spark.
Old man and stripling, priest and clerk, /
Bondsman and serf ; even female hand '
Stretch'd to the hatchet or the brand;
But, when mute Amadine they
heard
Give to their zeal his signal-word,
A frenzy fired the throng ;
' Portents and miracles impeach
Our sloth — the dumb our duties
teach —
And he that gives the mute his
speech
Can bid the weak be strong.
To us, as to our lords, are given
A native earth, a promised heaven ;
To us, as to our lords, belongs
Thevengeanceforour nation's wrongs;
The choice, 'twixt death or freedom,
warms
Our breasts as theirs — To arms, to
arms !'
To arms they flew, — axe, club, or
spear, —
And mimic ensigns high they rear,
And, like a banncr'd host afar,
Bear down on England's wearied war.
VL]
ZH Bor^ of tU 30f«0-
471
XXXI.
Already scatter'd o'er the plain,
Reproof, command, and counsel vain,
The rearward squadrons fled amain,
Or made but doubtful staj' ;
But when they mark'd the seeming
show
Of fresh and fierce and marshall'd foe,
The boldest broke array.
0 give their hapless prince his due !
In vain the royal Edward threw
His person 'mid the spears,
Cried ' Fight ! ' to terror and despair,
Menaced, and wept, and tore his hair,
And cursed their caitiff fears ;
Till Pembroke turn'd his bridle rein,
And forced him from the fatal plain.
"With them rode Argentine, until
They gain'd the summit of the hill,
But quitted there the train :
' In yonder field a gage I left,
1 must not live of fame bereft ;
I needs must turn again.
Speed hence, mj' Liege, for on j'our
trace
The fiery Douglas takes the chase,
I know his banner well.
God send my Sovereign J03' and bliss
And many a happier field than this !
Once more, my Liege, farewell.'
xxxii.
Again he faced the battle-field, —
Wildly they fly, are slain, or yield.
' Now then,' he said, and couch'd his
spear,
' My course is run, the goal is near ;
One effort more, one brave career,
Must close this race of mine.'
Then in his stirrups rising high,
He shouted loud his battle-cry,
' Saint James for Argentine !'
And, of the bold pursuers, four
The gallant knight from saddle bore ;
But not unharm'd — a lance's point
Has found his breastplate's loosen'd
joint,
An axe has razed his crest :
Yet still on Colonsay's fierce lord.
Who press'd the chase with gory
sword,
He rode with spear in rest.
And through his bloodj' tartans bored,
And through his gallant breast.
Nail'd to the earth, the mountaineer
Yet writhed him up against the spear,
And svvunghis broadsword round!
— Stirrup, steel-boot, and cuish gave
way.
Beneath that blow's tremendous swa^'.
The blood gush'd from the wound ;
And the grim Lord of Colonsay
Hath turn'd him on the ground,
And laugh'd in death-pang, that his
blade
The mortal thrust so well repaid.
Now toil'd the Bruce, the battle done,
To use his conquest boldly won ;
And gave command for horse and
spear
To press the Southern's scatter'd rear,
Nor let his broken force combine.
When the war-cry of Argentine
Fell faintly on his ear ;
' Save, save his life,' he cried, 'O save
The kind, the noble, and the brave 1'
The squadrons round free passage
gave.
The wounded knight drew near;
He raised his red-cross shield no more.
Helm, cuish, and breastplate stream'd
with gore ;
Yet, as he saw the King advance.
He strove even then to couch his
lance —
The effort was in vain !
The spur-stroke fail'd to rouse the
horse ;
Wounded and weary, in mid-course
He stumbled on the plain.
Then foremost was the generous Bruce
To raise his head, his helm to loose:
' Lord Earl, the day is thine 1
472
ZH £oti of tU Jefee.
[Canto
My Sovereign's charge, and adverse
fate,
Have made our meeting all too late :
Yet this may Argentine,
As boon from ancient comrade, crave —
A Christian's mass, a soldier's grave.'
Bruce press'd his dying hand — its
grasp
Kindly replied; but, in his clasp,
It stiften'd and grew cold
' And, O farewell !' the victor cried,
' Of chivalry the flower and pride,
The arm in battle bold.
The courteous mien, the noble race,
The stainless faith, the manly face!
Bid Ninian's convent light their shrine
For late-wake of De Argentine.
O'er better knight on death-bier laid,
Torch never gleam'd, nor mass was
said ! '
XXXV.
Nor for De Argentine alone
Through Ninian'schurch these torches
shone,
And rose the death-prayer's awful
tone.
That yellow lustre glimmer'd pale
On broken plate and bloodied mail,
Rent crest and shatter'd coronet,
Of Baron, Earl, and Banneret ;
And the best names that England
knew
Claim'd in the death -prayer dismal due.
Yet mourn not, Land of Fame !
Though ne'er the leopards on thy
shield
Retreated from so sad a field.
Since Norman William came.
Oft may thine annals justly boast
Of battles stern by Scotland lost;
Grudge not her victory,
When for her freeborn rights she
strove ;
Riglits dear to all who freedom love,
To none so dear as thee I
XXXVI.
Turn we to Bruce, whose curious ear
Must from F"itz-Louis tidings hear;
With him, a hundred voices tell
Of prodigy and miracle,
' For the mute page had spoke.'
' Page 1 ' said Fitz-Louis, ' rather say
yVn angel sent from realms of day
To burst the English yoke.
I saw his plume and bonnet drop,
Whcnhurr3'ing from the mountain top :
A lo\'ely brow, dark locks that wave,
To his bright eyes new lustre gave,
A step as light upon the green
As if his pinions waved unseen !'
' Spoke he with none ?' ' With none —
one word
Burst when he saw the Island Lord
Returning from the battle-field.'
'What answer made the Chief?' 'He
kneel'd.
Durst not look up, but mutter'd low,
Some mingled sounds that none might
know,
And greeted him 'twixt joy and fear,
As being of superior sphere.'
XXXVII.
Even upon Bannock's bloody plain, .
Heap'd then with thousands of the
slain,
'Mid victor monarch's musings high.
Mirth laugh'd in good King Robert's
eye.
'And bore he such angelic air.
Such noble front, such waving hair?'
Hath Ronald kneel'd to him ?' he said,
' Then must we call the church to aid ;
Our will be to the Abbot known.
Ere these strange news are ^vider
blown ;
To Cambuskenneth straight ye pass,
And deck the church for solemn mass,
To pay for high deliverance given,
A nation's thanks to gracious Heaven.
Let him array, besides, such state,
As should on princes' nuptials wait ;
VI.]
ZU ^otri cf t(>t 36fee.
473
Ourself the cause, through fortune's
spite,
That once broke short that spousal
rite,
Ourself will grace, with early morn.
The bridal of the Maid of Lorn.'
Go forth, my Song, upon thy
venturous way ;
Go boldl}^ forth ; nor yet thy master
blame.
Who chose no patron for his
humble lay.
And graced thj' numbers with no
friendly name,
Whose partial zeal might smooth
th\' path to fame.
There zc'fls— and O 1 how man}'
sorrows crowd
Into these two brief words ' — there
was a claim
By generous friendship given — had
fate allo'w'd.
It well had bid thee rank the proudest
of the proud !
All angel now ; yei little less than all,
While still a pilgrim in our world
below !
What 'vails it us that patience to
recall.
Which hid its own to soothe all
other woe ;
What 'vails to tell, how Virtue's
purest glow
.Shone yet more lovely in a form so
fair :
And, least of all, what 'vails the
world should know
That one poor garland, twined to
deck thy hair,
Is hung upon thy hearse, to droop
and wither there I
END OF THE LORD OF THE ISLES.
3n(ro6uc^ion anb (Uo^ca ^o t^c Both of t^c Jefee.
INTRODUCTION TO THE EDITION OF 1833.
I COULD liardl)' have chosen a subject more
popular in Scotland than anything connected
with the Bruce's history, unless I had attempted
that of Wallace. But I am decidedly of
opinion that a popular, or what is called
a /akt'iip' t\i\e, though well qualified to ensure
the puolishers against loss, and clear their
shelves of the original impression, is rather
apt to be hazardous than otherwise to the
reputation of the author. He who attempts
a subject of distinguished popularity, has not
the privilege of awakening the enthusiasm ot
his audience ; on the contrary, it is already
awakened, and glows, it may be, mon-
ardently than that of the author himself. In
this case, the w.armth of the author is inferior
to that of the party whom he addresses, who
has, therefore, little chanceof being, in Bayes's
phrase, ' elevated and surprised ' by what he
lias thought of with more enthusiasm than the
writer. The sense of this risk, joined to the
consciousness of striving against wind and
tide, madethe task ofcomnosingthe proposed
poem somewhat heavvaiul hopiless ; but, like
the prize-fighter in ' As You Like It,' I was
to wrestle lor mv n-putation, and not neglect
any advantage. In a most agreeable pleasure-
\ioyage, which I have tried to commemorate
in the Introduction to the new edition of
'The Pirate,' I visited, in social and friendly
company, the coasts and islands of Scotland,
and made myself acquainted wit!i the locali-
ties of which I meant to treat. But this
voyage, which was in every other effect so
delightful, was in its conclusion saddened by
one of those strokes of fate which so often
mingle themselves with our pleasures. The
accomplished and excellent person who had
recommended to mi- the subject for ' The Lay
of the Last Minstrel,' and to whom I proposed
to inscribe what I alreadv suspected might
be the close of my poetical labours, was
unexpectedly removed from the world, which
she seemed only to have visited for purposes
of kindness and benevolence. It is needless
to say how the author's feelings, or the com-
Eosition of his trifling work, were affected
y a circumstance which occasioned so
many tears and so much sorrow. True it is,
that 'The Lord of the Isles ' was concluded,
unwillingly and in haste, under the painful
feeling of one who has a task which must be
finished, rather than with the ardour of one
who endeavours to perform that task well.
Although the poem cannot be said to have
made a favourable impression on the public,
the sale of fifteen thousand copies enabled
the author to retreat from the field with the
honours of war.
In the meantime, what was necessarily to
be considered as a failure was much recon-
ciled to my feelings by the success attending
my attempt in another species of coinposition.
'VVaverley' had, under strict incognito, taken
its flight from the press, just before I set out
upon the voyage already mentioned ; it had
now made its way to popularity, and the
success of that work and the \olumes which
followed, was sufficient to have satisfied
a greater appetite for applause than I have at
any time possessed.
I may as well add in this place, that, being
much urged by my intimate friend, now un-
happilvno more, William Erskine (a Scottish
judge, bj- the title of Lord Kinedder), I agreed
to write the little romantic tale called ' The
Bridal of Triermain ' ; but it was on the
condition that he should inake no serious
effort to disown the composition, if report
should la}- it at his door. As he was more
than suspected of a taste for poetry, and as I
took care, in several places, to mix something
which might resemble (as far as was in my
power) my friend's feeling and manner, the
train easily caught, and two large editions
were sold. A third being callenfor. Lord
Kinedder became unwilling to aid any longer
a deception which was going farther than he
expected or desired, and the real author's
name was given Upon another occasion,
I sent up anothi r of these trifles, which, like
schoolbo\s' kites, served to show how the
(Tlotea to f^e Bov^ of tU 3efe0.
475
wiml of popular taste was setting. The
manner was supposed to be that of a rude
niinstre! or scald, in opposition to ' The Bridal
of Trierniain,' whicli was designed to belong
rather to the Italian school. Tliis new fugitive
piece was called ' Harold the Dauntless ' ;
and I am still astonished at my having com-
mitted the gross error of selecting the very
name which Lord Byron had made so famous.
It encountered rather an odd fate. My in-
genious friend, Mr. James Hogg, had pub-
lished, about the same time, a work called
'The Poetic Mirror,' containing imitations of
the principal living poets. There was in it
a very good imitation of my own style, which
bore such a resemblance to ' Harold the
Dauntless,' that there was no discovering the
original from the imitation; and I believe
that maiiv who took the trouble of thinking
upon the subject, were rather of opinion that
my ingenious friend was the true, ami not the
fictitious Simon Pure. Since this period,
which was in theyear 1817, tlieauthor has not
been an intruder on the public by any
poetical work of importance.
W ALTER SCOTT.
Abbotsfoku, April i^T,o.
NOTES.
Note I.
77;_y ritggcd halls, Arlornish ! > nag.
The ruins of the Castle of .\rtornish are
situated upon a promontoi v, on the Morven,
or mainland side of the Sound of Mull, a name
given to the deep arm of the sea, which di-
A'ides that island from the continent. The
situation is wihl and romantic in the highest
degree, having on the one hand a high and
])recipitous chain of rocksoverhangingthesea,
and on the other the narrow entrance to the
beautiful salt-water lake, called Loch Alline,
which is in manj' places finch' fringed with
copsewood. The ruins of Artornish are not
now \evy considerable, and consist chiefly of
the remains of an old keep, or tower, with frag-
ments of outward defences. But in former days
it was a place of great consequence, being one
of the principal strongholds which the I^ords
of the Isles, during the period of their stormy
independence, possessed upon the mainlancl
of .-Vrgvleshire. Here thev assembled what
popular tradition calls their parliaments,
meaning', I suppose, their cour p/eiiu're, or
assembly of feudal and patriarchal vassals
and dependents. From this Castle of .Art Ornish,
upon the igth day of October, 1461, John de
Yle, designing himself Earl of Ross and Lord
of the Isles, granted, in the st^de of an in-
dependent sovereign, a commission to his
trusty and well-beloved cousins, Rotiald of
the Isles, and Duncan, Arch-Dean of the Isles,
for empowering them to enter into a treaty
with the most excellent Prince Edward, by
the grace of God, Kingof France and England
and Lord of Ireland. Edward IV, on his
part, named Laurence, Bishop of Durham,
the Earl of Worcester, the Prior of St. John's,
Lord Wenlock, and Mr. Robert .Stillington,
keeper of the privy seal, his deputies and
commissioners, to confer with those named by
the Lord of the Ish-s. The conference termin-
ateil ii\ a treatv, by which the Lord of the
Isles agreed to become a vassal to the crown
of England, ami to assist Edward IV and
James Earl of Douglas, then in banishment,
in subduing the realin of Scotland.
The first article pro\ ides, that John de Isle,
Earl of Ross, with his son Donald Balloch,
and his grandson John de Isle, with all their
subjects, men, people, and inhabitants, be-
come Aassals and liegemen to Edward IV
of England, and assist him in his wars in
Scotland or Ireland; and then follow tint
allowances to be made to the Lord of the
Isles, in recompense of his military service,
and the provisions for dividing such conquests
as their united arms should make upon the
mainland of Scot land among the confederates.
These appear such curious illustrations of the
period, that they are here subjoined :
' Item, The seid John Erie of Rosse shall,
from the seid fest of Whittesontyde next
comyng, yerely, duryng his lyf, have and
take, for tees and wages in tvme of peas, of
the seid most high and Christien prince e.
marc strrlvng of Engh'sh money ; and in
tyme of werre, as long as he shall entende
with his myght and power in the said
werres, in manner and fourme abovesaid,
he shall have wages of cc. lb. sterlyng of
ICnglish money yearl}- ; and after the rate
of the tyme that he shall be occupied in the
seid werres.
' Item, The seid Donahl sliall, from the
seid feste of Whittesontyde, have and take,
during his lyf, yerly, in tym(i of peas, for
his fees and wages, XX 1. sterlvng of Englysh
money, and, when he shall be occupied and
intend to the werre, with his myght and
power, and in manner and fourme aboveseid,
he shall ha^e and take, for his wages yearly,
xl 1. sterlynge of Englysh money ; or for the
rate of the t5me of werre
476
Qtotee to
'' Ite)ii, Tlio seid John, sonn and heire
apparaiit of the said Donald, shall have and
taKC, ycrely, from tlie scid fest, for his fees
and wages, in the tyme of peas, x 1. sterlynge
of Engjfysh money ; and for tyme of werre
and his intendynij thereto, in manner and
fourme aboveseid, lie shall have, for his fees
and wages, yearly xx 1. sterlynge of Englysh
money ; or after the rate of the tyme that
he shall be occupied in the werre : And the
seid John, th' Erie Donald and John, and
eche of them, shall have good and sufficiaunt
paiment of the seid fees and wages, as wel
tor tyme of peas as of werre, accordyng
to thees articulesand appoyntemcnts. Iteni^
It is appointed, accordeif, concluded, and
finally determined, that, if it so be that here-
after the said reaume of Scotlande, or the
more part thereof, be concjuered, sulxiued,
and brought to the obeissance of the seid
most high and Christien prince, and his
heires, or successoures, of the seid Lionell, in
fourme aboveseid descendyng, be the assist-
ance, helpe, and aide of the said John Erie
of Rosse, and Donald, and of James Erie of
Douglas, then, the said fees and wages for
the tyme of peas cessyng, the same erles
and Donald shall have, by the graunte of the
same most Christien prince, all the posses-
sions of the said reaume beyonde Scottish e
see, they to be departed equally betwix
them : eche of them, his heires and succes-
sours, to holde his pai te of the seid most
Christien prince, his heires and successours,
for evermore, in right of his croune of
England, by homage and feaute to be done
therefore.
'//£;«, If so be that, by tli' aide and assist-
ence of the seid James Erie of Douglas, the
said reaume of Scotlande be conquered and
subdued as above, then he shall have, enjoie,
and inherite all his own possessions, landes,
and inheritaunce, on this syde the Scottishe
see ; that is to saye, betwixt the seid Scot-
tishe see and Englande, such he hath rejoiced
and be possessed of before tliis; there to holde
them of the said most high and Christien prince,
hisheires, and successours, asisaboxcsaid, for
evermore, in right of the corounc of Englonde,
as weel the said Erie of Douglas, as his heires
and successours, by homage and feaute to be
done therefore.' — Rvmer'.s Fwdcra Conveii-
tiones hiterae cl cujttscHnqiie generis Acta
Piiblica, fol. vol. v. 1741.
Such was the treaty of Artornish ; but it does
not appeartliat the allies ever made any \pry
active effort to realize their ambitious designs.
It will serve to show both the power of these
reguli, and their independence upon the crown
of Scotland.
It is only farther necessary to say of the
Castle of Artornish that it is almost opposite
to the Bay of Aros, in the Island of the Mull,
where there was another castle, occasional
residence of the Lords of the Isles.
Note II.
Rude Heiskar^s seal, through surges dark.
Will long pursue the iniustrer s bark.
—P. 412.
The seal displays a taste for music, which
could scarcely be expected from his habits
and local predilections. They will long fol-
low a boat in which any musical instrument
is played, and even a tune simply whistled
has attractions for them. The Dean of the
Isles says of Heiskar, a small uninhabited
rock, about twelve (Scottish) miles from the
isle of Uist, that an infinite slaughter of seals
takes place there.
Note III.
a turrefs airy head,
Sleuder and sfeep, and hallled round,
O^erlook'd dark Mull.' thy mighty
Sound. — P. 414.
The Sound of Mull, which divides that
island from the continent of Scotland, is one
of the most striking scenes which the Hebrides
afford to the traveller. Sailing from Oban
to Aros, or Tobermory, through a narrow
channel, 3'et deep enough to bear vessels of
the largest burden, he has on his left the bold
and mountainous shores of Mull ; on the right
those of that district of Argylcshire, called
Morven, or Morvern, successively indented
by deep salt-water lochs, running up many
miles inland. To the south-eastward arise
a prodigious range of mountains, among
which Cruachan-Ben is pre-eminent ; and to
the north-east is the no less huge and pic-
turesque range of the Ardnamurchan hills.
Many ruinouscastles, situated generally upon
cliffs overhanging the ocean, add interest to
the scene. Those of Donolly and Dun-
staffnage are first passed, then that of Duart,
formerly belonging to the chief of the warlike
and powerful sept of Macleans, and the scene
of Miss Baillie's beautiful tragedy, entitled
'The Family Legend.' Still passing on to the
northward, Artornish and Aros become visible
upon the opposite shores ; and, lastly Min-
garry, and other ruins of less distinguished
note. In fine weather, a grander and more
impressive scene, both from its natural
beauties and associations with ancient history
and tradition, can hardly be imagined.
When the weather is rough, the passage is
both difficult aii<l dangerous, from the
narrowness of the channel, and in part from
the number of inland lakes, out of which sail)'
forth a number of conflicting and thwarting
titles, making the navigation perilous to open
boats. The sudden flaws and gusts of win<i
which issue without a moment's warning
from the mountain glens, are equallv
formidable. So that in unsettled weather,
a stranger, if not much accustomed to the
sea, may sometimes add to the other sublime
sensations excited by the scene, that feeling of
dignity which arises from a sense of danger.
ZU ^ov^ of tU 30f«0-
477
Note IV.
' //lese S£as behold^
Rotttid ttvice a /iinidred is/ands raltd.
Front Hirt, thai hears llieir Jiorlheiit roar^
To the grccii Hay's fertile shore.''— V. 414.
The number of tlie western isles of Scotland
exceeds two liundred, of wliich St. Kilda is
the most northerly, anciently calleil Hirth, or
Hirt, probably from 'earth,' being in fact the
whole globe to its inhabitants, llay, which
now belongs almost entirely to Walter
Campbell, Esq. of ShawCeld, is by far the
most fertile of the Hebrides, and has been
greatly improved under the spirited and
sag.icious management of the present pro-
prietor. This was in ancient times the
f)rincipal abode of the Lords of the Isles,
)eing, if not the largest, the most important
island of their .archipelago. In Martin's time,
some relics of their grandeur were yet extant.
' Loch-Finlagan, about three miles in circum-
ference, aftords salmon, trouts, and eels: this
lake lies in the centre of the isle. The Isle
Finlagan, from which this lake hath its name,
is in it. It's famous for being once the court
in which the great Mac-Donald, King of the
Isles, had his residence; his houses, chapel,
&c. are now ruinous. His guards de corps,
called Luchttach, kept guard on the lake side
nearest to the isle; the walls of their houses
are still to be seen there. The high court cf
judicature, consisting of fourteen, sat always
nere ; and there was an appeal to them from
ail the courts in the isles : the eleventh share
of the sum in debate was due to the principal
juilge. There was a big stone of seven foot
scjuare, in which there was a deep impression
made to receive the feet of Mac-Donald ; for
he was crowned King of the Isles standing in
this stone, and swore that he would continue
his vassals in the possession of their lands, and
do exact justice to all his subjects : and then
his father's sword was put into his hand. The
Bishop of Argyle and seven priests anointed
him king, in presence ot all the heads of the
tribes in the isles and continent, and were his
vassals ; at which time the orator rehearsed
a catalogue of his ancestors,' S;c. — Maktin''s
Accoinit of the ]l 'es/ern Isles, 8vo, London,
1716, pp 240-1.
Note V.
Mingarry, sternly placed,
Overawes the woodland and the waste.
-P. 414.
The Castle of Mingarry is situated on the
sea-coast of the district of Ardnamurchan.
The ruins, which are tolerably entire, are
surrounded by a very high wall, forming
a kind of polygon, for the purpose of adapting
itself to the projecting angles of a precipice
overhanging the sea, on which the castle
stands. It was anciently the residence of the
Mac-Ians, a clan of Mac-Donalds, descended
from Ian, or lohn, a grandson of Angus
Og, Lord of the Isles. The last time that
Mingarry was of military importance, occurs
in the celebrated Leabhar dearg, or Red-book
of Clanronald, a MS. renowned in the Os-
sianic controversy. Allaster Mac-Donald,
commonly called Colquitto, who commande(l
the Irish auxiliaries sent over by the Earl
of Antrim <Iuring the great civil war to the
assistance of Montrose, began his enterprise
in 1644 by taking the castles of Kinloch-
Alline an<l Mingarry, the last of which made
considerable resistance, as might, from the
strength of the situation, be expected. In the
meanwhile, Allaster Mac-Uonald's ships,
which had brought him o^er, were attacked in
Loch Eisord, in Skye, by an armament sent
round by the covenanting parliament, and
his own vessel was taken. This circumstance
is said chiefly to have induced him to continue
in Scotland,where there seemed littleprospect
of raising an army in behalf of the King. He
had no sooner moved eastward to join Mon-
trose, a junction which he eflected in the braes
of At hole, than the Marquis of Argyle besieged
the castle of Mingarry, but without success.
Among other warriors and chiefs whom
Argyle summoned to his camp to assist upon
this occasion wasJohnofMoidart, the Captain
of Clanronald. Clanronald appeared ; but,
far from yieldingeflectual assistance to Argyle,
he took the opportunity of being in arms to
lay w.iste the district of Sunart, then be-
longing to the adherents of .Vrgyle, and sent
part of the spoil to relieve the Castle of Min-
garry. Thus the castle was maintained until
relieved by Allaster Mac-Donald (Colquitto),
who had been detached for the purpose by
Montrose. These particulars are hardly worth
mentioning, were they not connected with the
inemorablesuccessesof Montrose, related by
an eyewitness, and hitherto unknown to Scot-
tish historians.
Note VI.
The heir 0/ mighty Sovurled. — P. 414.
Somerled was thane of .\rgyle and Lord of
the Isles, about the middle of the twelfth
century. He seems to have exercised his
authority in both capacities, independent of
the crown of Scotland, against which he often
stood in hostility. He made various incursions
upon the western lowlands during the reign
of Malcolm IV, and seems to have made
peace with him upon the terms of an inde-
pendent prince, about the3-ear 1157. In 1164,
he resumed the war against Malcolm, and in-
vaded Scotland with a large, but probably a
tumultuary army, collected in the isles, in the
mainland of Argyleshire, and in the neigh-
bouring provinces of Ireland. He was defeated
and slain in an engagement with a very
inferior force, near Renfrew. His son Gillico-
lane fell in the same battle. This rnighty
chieftain married a daughter of Olaus, King
of Man. From him our genealogists deduce
478
Qtoiec (0
two dynasties, distinguished in the stormy
history of the middle ages ; the Lords of" the
Isles descended from his elder son Ronald, —
andthe Lordsof Lorn, whotook theirsurname
of M'Dougal, as descended of his second son
Dougal. That Somerled's territories upon
the mainland, and upon the islands, should
have been thus divided between his two sons,
instead of passintr to the elder exclusively,
may illustrate the uncertainty of descent
among- the great Highland families, which
we shall presently notice.
Note VIL
Loydofthclsks. — V. 414.
The representative of this independent prin-
cipality, for such it seems tohave been, though
acknowledging occasionally the pre-eminence
of the Scottish crown, was, at the period of
the poem, Angus, called Angus Og ; but the
name has been, eiiphoiiiae gratia^ exchanged
for that of Ronald, which frequently occurs
in the genealogy. Angus was a protector of
Robert Bruce, whom he received in his Castle
ofDunnaverty, during the time of his greatest
distress. As I shall be equally liable to cen-
sure for attempting to decide a controversy
which has long existed between three distin-
guished chieftains of this family, who have
long disputed the representation of the Lord
of the Isles, or for leaving a question of such
importance altogether untouched, I choose,
in the first place, to give such information as
I have been able to derive from Highland
genealogists, and which, for those who have
patience to investigate such subjects, reallj'
contains some curious information concerning
the history of the Isles. In the second place,
I shall offer a i^.^- remarks upon the rules of
succession at that period, without pretending
to decide their bearing upon the question at
issue, which must depend upon evidence which
I have had no opportunity to examine.
'Angus Og,' says an ancient manuscript
translated from the Gaelic, 'son of Angus
Mor, son of Donald, son of Ronald, son of
Somerled, high chief and superior Lord of
Innisgall, (or the Isles of the Gael, the general
name given to the Hebrides,) he married
a daughter of Cunbui, namelv, Cathan ; she
was mother to lohn, son of Angus, and with
her came an unusual portion from Ireland,
viz. twenty-four clans, of whom twenty-four
families in Scotland are descended. Angus
had anotherson, namely, young John Fraoch,
whose descendants are callea Clan-Ean of
Glencoe, and the M'Donaldsof Fraoch. This
Angus Og died in Isla, where his body was
interred. His son John succeeded to the
inheritance of Innisgall. He had good de-
scenilants, namelv. three sons procreate of
Ann, daughter of Rodric, high chief of Lorn,
and one daughter, Mary, married to John
Maclean, Laird of Duart, and Lauchlan, his
brother. Laird of Coll ; she was interred in
the church of the Black Nuns. The eldest
sons of John were Ronald, Godfrey, and Angus.
. . . He gave Ronald a great inheritance.
These were the lands which he gave him,
viz. from Kilcumin in Abertarf to the river
Sell, and from thence to BeiUi, north of Eig
and Rum, and the two I'ists, and from
thence to the foot of the river Glaichan,
and threescore long ships. John married
afterwards Margaret Stewart, daughter to
Robert Stewart, King of Scotland, called
John Fernyear ; she bore him three good
sons, Donald of the Isles, the heir, John
the Tainister (i.e. Thane), the seconcj son,
and Alexander Carrach. John had another
son called Marcus, of whom the clan Mac-
donald of Cnoc, in 1 irowen, are descended.
This John lived long, and made donations
to IcolumkiU; he covered the chapel of
Eorsay-Elan, the chapel of Finlagam, and
the chapel of the Isle of Tsuibhne, and gave
the proper furniture for the service of God,
upholding the clergv and monks ; he built
or repaired the church of the Holy Cross im-
mediately before his death. He died at his
own castle of Arctorinish, many priests and
monks took the sacrament at his funeral, and
they embalmed the bod v of this dear man, and
brought it to IcolumkiU ; the abbot, monks,
and vicar, came as they ought to meet the
King of Fiongal, and out of great respect to
his memory mourned eight days and nights
over it, and laid it in the same grave with
his father, in the church of Oran, 13&).
' Ronald, son of John, was chief ruler of
the Isles in his father's lifetime, and was old
in the government at his father's death.
' He assembled the gentry of the Isles,
brought the sceptre from Kildonan in Eig,
and delivere(J it to his brother Donald, who
was thereupon called M'Donald, and Donald
Lord of the Isles, contrary to the opinion of
the men of the Isles.
' Ronald, son of John, son of Angus Og,
was a great supporter of the church and
clergv ; his descendants are called Clan-
ronafd. He gave the lands of Tiruma, in
Uist, to the minister of it for ever, for
the honour of God and Columkill ; he was
proprietor of all the lands of the north along
the coast and the isles ; he died in the
year of Christ 1386, in his own mansion of
Castle Tirim, leaving five children. Donald
of the Isles, son of John, son of Angus Og, the
brother of Ronald, took possession oflnisgall
by the consent of his brother and the gentry
thereof; they were all obedient to him : he
married Mary Lesley, daughter to the Earl
of Ross, and by her came the earldom of Ross
to the M'Donalds. After his succession to
that earldom, he was called M'Donald, Lord
of the Isles and Earl of Ross. There are
many things written of him in other places.
' He fought the battle of Garioch (i. e. Har-
law) against Duke Murdoch, the governor: the
Earl of Mar commanded the army, in support
of his claim to the earldom of Ross, which was
ceded to him bv King James the First, after
ZU ^ovb of iU 50fee.
479
his release from the King of England ; and
Duke Murdoch, his two sons and retainers
were beheaded : he gave lands in Mull and
Isla to the minister ot Hi, and every privilege
which the minister of lona had formerly,
besides vessels of gold and silver to Colum-
kill for the monaster)-, and became himself
one of the fraternity. He left issue, a lawful
heirtoInnisgallandKoss, namely, Alexander,
the son of Donald : he died in Isla, and his
body was interred in the south side of the
temple of Oran. Alexander, called John of
the Isles, son of Alexander of the Isles, son
of Donald of the Isles. Angus, the thinl
son of John, son of Angus Og, married
the (laughter of John, the son of Allan,
which connexion caused some disagree-
ment betwixt the two families about their
marches and division of lands, the one party
adhering to Angus, and the other to John :
the differences increased so much that John
obtained from Allan all the lands betwixt
Ab/iaii Fahda (i. e. the long river) and old na
sioimach (i. e, the fox-burn brook) in tlie
upper part of Cantyre. Allan went to the
king to complain of his son-in-law ; in a short
time theieafter, there happened to be a great
meeting about this young Angus's lands to
thenorth of Inverness, where he was murdered
by his own harper Mac-Cairbre, by cutting
his throat with along knife. He ' lived a year
thereafter, and many of those concerned were
delivered up to the king. Angus's wife was
pregnant at the time of his murder, and she
bore him a son who was named Donald, and
called Donald Du. He was kept in con-
finement until he was thirty years of age,
when he was released by the men of Glenco,
by the strong hand. After this enlargement,
he came to the Isles, and convened the gentry
thereof. There happened great feuds betwixt
these families while Donald Du was in con-
finement, insomuch that Mac-Cean of Ardna-
murchan destroyed the greatest part of the
posterityof JohnMorof the Isles and Cantyre.
For John Cathanach, son of John, son of
Donald Balloch, son of John Mor, son of John,
sonof .VngusOgl thechief of the descendants of
John Mor), and John Mor, son of John Catha-
nach, and young John, son of John Catha-
nach, and young Donald Balloch, son of
John Cathanach, were treacherously taken by
Mac-Cean in the island of Finlagan, in Isla,
and carried to Edinburgh, where lie got them
hanged at the Burrow-muir, and their bodies
were buried in the Church of St. Anthony,
called the New Church. There were none
left alive at that time of the children of John
Cathanach, except Alexander, the son of John
Cathanach, and Agnes Flach, who conci'aled
themselves in the glens of Ireland. Mac-
Cean, hearing of their hiding-places, went to
cut down the woods of these glens, in order
to destroy Alexander, and extirpate the whole
race. At length Mac-Ccan and Alexander
met, were reconciled, and a marriage alliance
took place ; Alexander married ^lac-Cean's
daughter, and she brought him good children.
The Mac-Donalds of the north had also de-
scendants ; for, after the death of John, Lord
of the Isles, Earl of Ross, and the murder of
Angus, Alexander, the son ot Archibald, the
son of Alexander of the Isles, took possession,
and John was in possession of the earldom
of Ross, and the north bordering country ; he
married a daughter of the Earl of Moray, of
whom some of the men of the north haa de-
scended. The Mac-Kenziesrose against Alex-
ander, and fought the battle called Blar na
Pait'C. Alexander had only a few of the men
of Ross at the battle. Ke went after that
battle to take possession of the Isles, and sailed
in a ship to the south to see if he could find
any of the posterity of John Mor alive, to rise
along with him ; but Mac-Cean of Ardnamur-
chan watched him as he sailed past, followed
him to Oransay and Colonsay, went to the
house where he was, and he and Alexander,
son of John Cathanach, murdered him there.
' A good while after these things fell oat,
Donald Galda, son of Alexander, son of
Archibald, became major; he, with the
advice and direction of the Earl of Moray,
came to the Isles, and Mac-Leod of the
Lewis, and many of the gentry of the Isles,
rose wilh him: they went by the promon-
tory of Ardnamiirclian, where they met
Alexander, the son of John Cathanach, were
reconciled to him, he joined his men with
theirs against Mac-Cean of Ardnamurchan,
came upon him at a place called the Silver
Craig, where he and his three sons, and a
great number of his people, were killed, and
Donald Galda was immediately declared Mac-
Donald: x\nd, after the affair of Ardna-
murchan, all the men of the Isles yielded to
him, but he did not live ab\ ve seven or eight
weeks after it ; he diedatCarnaborg, in Mull,
without issue. He had three sisters, daughters
of Alexander, son of Archibald, who were
portioned in the north upon the continent,
but the earldom of Ross was kept for them.
Alexander, theson of Archibald, had a natural
son, calle<l John Cam, of whom is descended
Achnacoichan, in Ramoeh, and Donald
Gorm, son of Ronald, son of Alexander Duson,
of John C'am. Donald Du, son of Angus,
son of John of the Isles, son of Alexander of
the Isles, son of Donald of the Isles, son of
John of the Isles, son of Angus Og, namely,
the true heir of the Isles and Ross, came after
his release from captivity to the Isles, and
convened the men thereof, and he and the
Earl of Lennox agreed to raise a great army
for the purpose of taking possession, and
a ship came from England with a supply ot
money to carry on the war, which landed at
Mull, and the money was given to Mac-Lean
of Duart to be distributed among the com.-
manders of the army, which they notreceiving
in proportion as it should have been distributed
48o
(Uotee to
among them, caused the army to disperse,
which, when the Earl of Lennox heard, he
disbanded his own men, and made it up with
the king. Mac-Donald went to Ireland to
raise men, but he died on his w'ay to Dublin,
at Drogheda, of a fever, without issue of either
sons or daughters.'
In this history may be traced, though the
Bard, or Seannachie, touches such a delicate
discussion with a gentle hand, the point of
difference between the three principal septs
descended from the Lords of the Isles. The
first question, and one of no easy solution,
where so little evidence is produced, respects
the nature of the connexion of John, called by
the Archdean of the Isles 'the Good John of
Ila,' and 'the last Lord of the Isles,' with
Anne, daughter of Roderick Mac-Dougal,
high-chief of Lorn. In the absence of positive
evidence, presumptive must be resorted to,
and I own it appears to render it in the highest
degree improoable that this connexion was
otherwise than legitimate. In the wars be-
tween David II and Edward Baliol, John of
the Isles espoused the Baliol interest, to which
he was probably determined by his alliance
witli Roderick of Lorn, who was, from every
family predilection, friendly to Baliol and
hostile to Bruce. It seems absurd to suppose,
that between two chiefs of the same descent,
and nearly equal power and rank, (though
the Mac-Dougals had been much crushed by
Robert Bruce,) such a connexion should ha\e
been that of concubinage ; and it appears
more likely that the tempting offer of an
alliance with the Bruce family, when they had
obtained the decided superiority in Scotland,
induced ' the Goodjohnof Ila ' to disinherit,
to a certain extent, his eldest son Ronald, who
came of a stock so unpopular as the Mac-
Dougals, and to call to his succession his
younger family, born of Margaret Stuart,
daughter of Robert, afterwards King of Scot-
lancl. The setting aside of this elder branch
of his family was most probably a condition
of his new alliance, and his being received
into favour with the dynasty he had always
opposed. Nor were the laws of succession at
this early period so clearly understood as to
bar such transactions. The numerous and
strangeclaims set up tothe crown of Scotland,
when vacant by the death of Alexander III,
make it manifest how yerj' little the inde-
feasible hereditary right of primogeniture was
valued at that period. In fact, the title of
the Bruces themselves to the crown, though
justly the most popular, when assumed with
the determination of asserting the inde-
pendence of Scotland, was upon pure principle
greatly inferior to that of Baliol. For Bruce,
the competitor, claimed as son of Isabella,
ifwwrfdaughter of David, Earl of Huntingdon;
and John Baliol, as grandson of Margaret,
the elder daughter of that same earl. So
zhat the plea of Bruce was founded upon the
very loose idea, that as the great-grandson of
David I, King of Scotland, and the nearest
collateral relation of Alexander III, he was
entitled to succeed in exclusion of the great-
great-grandson of the same David, though by
an elder daughter. This maxim savoured of
the ancient practice of Scotland, which often
called a brother to succeed to the crown as
nearer in blood than a grandchild, or even
a son of a deceased monarch. But, in truth,
the maxims of inheritance in Scotland were
sometimes departi'd from at periods when they
were much more distinctly understood. Such
a transposition took place in the family of
Hamilton, in i.=;i.^, when the descendants of
James, third Lord, by Lady Janet Home,
were set aside, with an appanage of great
\alue indeed, in order to call to the succession
those which he had by a subsequent marriage
with Janet Beatoun. In short, many other
examples might be quoted to show that the
quest ion of legitimacy is not always determined
by the fact of succession ; and there seems
reason to believe, that Ronald, descendant of
'John of Ila 'by Anne of Lorn, was legitimate,
and therefore Lord of the Isles dejiire, though
dejacto his younger half-brother Donald, son
of his father's second marriage with the
Princess of Scotland, superseded him in his
right, and apparently by his own consent.
From this Donald so preferred is descended
the family of Sleat, now Lords Mac-Donald.
On the other hand, from Ronald, the excluded
heir, upon whom a very large appanage was
settled, descended the chiefs of Glengary and
Clanronald, each of whom had large pos-
sessions and a numerous vassalage, and
boasted a long descent of warlike ancestry.
Their common ancestor Ronald was murdered
by the Earl of Ross, at the Monastery of
Elcho, A.D. 1346. I believe it has been subject
of fierce dispute, whether Donald, who carried
on the line of Glengan,', or Allan of Moidart,
the ancestor of the captains of Clanronald,
was the eldest son of Ronald, the son of John
of Isla. A humble Lowlander may be per-
mitted to waive the discussion, since a Sen-
nachie of no small note, who wrote in the
sixteenth century, expresses himself upon this
delicate topic in the following words : —
'I have now given you an account of every-
thing you can expect of the descendants of
the clan Colla, (i. e. the Mac-Donalds,) to the
death of Donald Du at Drogheda, namely,
the true line of those who possessed the Isles,
Ross, and the mountainous countries of
Scotland. It was Donald, the son of Angus,
that was killed at Inverness (by his own
harper Mac-i'Cairbre), son of John of the Isles,
son of Alexander, son of Donald, son of John,
son of Angus Og. And I know not which of his
kindred or relations is the true heir, except
these five sons of John, the son of Angus Og,
whom I here set down for you, namely, Ronald
and Godfrey, the two sons of the daughter
of Mac-Donald of Lorn, and Donaldand John
Mor, and Alexander Carrach, the three sons
of Margaret Stewart, daughter of Robert
Stewart, KingofScotland. '^/.^aMar Dcnrg.
ZU &0V^ of tU 36f^«J-
Note VIII.
T/ii: House of Loi'H. — P. 415.
Tlic House of Lorn, as we obser\ed in a
foriiipr note, was, like the Lord of the Isles,
descended from a son of Somerled, slain at
Renfrew, in 1 164. This son obtained the
succession of his mainland territories, com-
prehendingf the greater part of the three
districts of Lorn, in Argyleshire, and of course
might rather be considered as petty princes
than feudal barons. They assumed the patro-
nymic appellation of Mac-lJougal, by wliich
thev are distinguished in the history of tlie
middle ages. The Lord of Lorn who flourished
during the wars of Bruce was Allaster (or
Alexander) Mac-Dougal, called Allaster of
Argyle. He had married the third daughter
of John, called the Red Comyni, who was
slain by Bruce in the Dominican Church at
Dumfries, and hence he wasa mortal enemy of
that prince, and more than once reduced hinito
great straits during the early and distressed
period of his reign, as we shall have repeated
occasion to notice. Bruce, when lie began to
obtain an ascendency in Scotland, took the
first opportunity in his power to requite these
injuries. He marched into Argyleshire to
lay waste the country. John of Lorn, son of
the chieftain, was posted with his followers
in the formidable pass between Dalmally and
Bunawe. It is a narrow path along the verge
of the huge and precipitous mountain, called
Cruachan-Ben, and guarded on the other side
by a precipice overhanging Loch Awe. The
pass seems to the eye ot a soldier as strong as
it is wild and romantic to that of an ordinary
traveller. But the skill of Bruce had antici-
pated this difficulty. Mhile his main bodj-,
engaged in a skirmish with the men of Lorn,
detained their attention to the front of their
position, JamesofDouglas, with Sir. \lexander
Fraser, SirWilliam Wiseman, and Sir Andrew
Grey, ascended the mountain with a select
body of archery, and obtained possession of the
heights which commanded the pass. A volley
of arrows descending upon them directly
warned the .\rgyleshire men of their perilous
situation, and their resistance, which had
hitherto been bold and manly, was changed
into a precipitate flight. The deep and
rapid river of Awe was then (we learn the
fact from Barbour witli some surprise) crossed
by a bridge. This bridge the mountaineers
attempteato demolish, but Bruce's followers
were too close upon their rear ; they were,
therefore, without refuge and defence, and
I The aunt, accordinjr to Lord Hailes. But the
genealogj' is distinctly given by "Wyntoun :^
' Tlie thryd douchtyr of Red Cwmyn,
Alysawndyr of Argayle syne
Tuk, and weddyt til hys wyf,
And on hyr he gfat in-til hys lyfe
Jlion of Lome, the quhilk jjat
Ewyn of Lome eftyr that.'
WyNTOUN'S Chronicle, Book VIII. Chap. vi. line 216.
were dispersed with great slaughter. John
of Lorn, suspicious of the event, had early
betaken himself to the galleys which he had
upon the lake ; but the feelings which Barbour
assigns to him, while witnessing the rout and
slaughter of his followers, exculpate him from
the charge of cowardice.
' To Jhone off Lome it suld displese
I trow, quhen he his men mycht se,
Owte off his schippis fra the se,
lie slaj-ne and chassyt in the hill.
That he mycht set na help thar till.
Bot it angrys als gretumly.
To gtid hartis that ar worthi.
To se thar fayis fulfill thair will
As to thaim selff to thole the ill.'— B. VII. v. 594.
After this decisive engagement, Bruce laid
waste Argyleshire, and besieged Dunstaffnage
Castle, on the western shore of Lorn, com-
pelled it to surrender, and placed in that
principal stronghold of tlie Mac-Dougals a
garrison and governor of his ow n. The elder
Mac-Dougal, now wearied with the contest,
submitted to the victor; but his son, 'rebel-
lious,' says Barbour, ' as he wont to be," fled
to England by sea. When the wars between
the Bruce and Baliol factions again broke
out in the reign of David II, the Lords of
Lorn were again found upon the losing side,
owing to their hereditary enmity to the house
of Bruce. Accordingl}-, upon the issue of
that contest, they were deprived by David II
and his successor of by far the greater part of
their extensive territories, which were con-
ferred upon Stewart, called the Knight of Lorn.
The house of Mac-Dougal continued, how-
ever, to survive the loss of power, and affords
a very rare, if not a unique, instance of
a family of such unlimited power, and so dis-
tinguished during the middle ages, surviving
the decay of their grandeur, and flourishing
in a private station. The Castle of Dunolly,
near Oban, with its dependencies, was the
principal part of what remained to them, with
their right of chieftainship over the families of
their name and blood. These they continued
to enjoy until the year 1715, when the repre-
sentative incurred the penalty of forfeiture,
for his accession to the insurrection of that
period; thus losingthe remains of his inheritance
to replace upon the throne the descendants
of those princes, whoseaccession his ancestors
h.ad opposed at the expense of their feudal
, grandeur. The estate was, however, restored
about 1745, to the father of the present pro-
prietor, whom family experience had taught
the hazard of interfering with the established
government, and who remained quiet upon
that occasion. He therefore regained his
property when many Highland chiefs lost
theirs.
Nothing can be more wildly beautiful tlian
the situation of Dunolly. The ruins .are situ-
ated upon a bold and precipitous promontory-,
overhanging Loch Etive, and distant about a
mile from the village and port of Oban. The
principal part whicri remains is the donjon or
keep ; but fragments of other buildings, over-
482
(Uoiee io
grown with ivy, attest that it had been once
a place of importance, as larfje apparently as
Artornish or Dunstaffiiage. These fragments
enclose a courtyanl, of which the keep prob-
ably formed one side ; the entrance, being by
a steep ascent from tlie neck of the isthmus,
formerly cut across by a moat, and defended
doubtless by outworks and a drawbridge.
Beneath the castle standsthe present mansion
of the family, having on the one hand Loch
Etive, with its islands and mountains, on the
other two romantic eminences tufted with
copsewood. There are other accompaniments
suited to the scene ; in particular, a huge
upright pillar, or detached fragment of that
sort of rock called plum-pudding stone, upon
the shore, about a quarter of a mile from the
castle. It is called C/ac/iiia-cau, or the Dog's
Pillar, because Fingal is said to have used
it as a stake to which he bound his celebrated
dog Bran. Others say, that when the Lord
of the Isles came upon a visit to the Lord of
Lorn, the dogs brought for his sport were
kept beside this pillar. Upon the whole, a
more delightful and romantic spot can scarce
be conceived ; and it receives a moral inter-
est from the considerations attached to the
residence of a family once powerful enough
to confront and defeat Robert Bruce, and
now sunk into the shade of private life. It is
at present possessed by Patrick Mac-Dougal,
Esq., the lineal and undisputed representative
of the ancient Lords of Lorn. The heir of
Dunolly fell lately in Spain, fighting under
the Duke of Wellington, — a death well be-
coming his ancestry.
Note IX,
Awaked before ihe rushing prow,
The tnimicjires of ocean glozL\
Those lightnings of the wave.
—P. 417.
The phenomenon called by sailors Sea-fire,
is one of the most beautiful anil interesting
which is witnessed in the Hebrides. .\X
times the ocean appears entirely illuminated
around the vessel, and a long train of lam-
bent coruscations are perpetually burst-
ing upon the sides of the vessel, or pursuing
her wake through the darkness. These phos-
phoric appearances, concerning the origin of
which naturalists are not agreed in opinion,
seem to be called into action by the rapid
motion of the ship through the water, and are
probably owing to the water being saturated
with fish-spawn, or other animal substances.
They remind onestrongly of the description of
the sea-snakes in Mr. Coleridge's wild, but
highly poetical ballad of 'The .\ncient
Mariner' —
'Beyond the shadow of the ship
I watch'd tlie water-snakes,
Tliey moved in tracks of shiningf white.
And when they rear'd, the elvish light
Fell off ill hoary flakes.'
Note X.
The dark fortress. — P. 418.
The fort less of a Hebridean chiefwas almost
always on the sea-shore, for the facility of
communication which the ocean afforded.
Nothing can be more wild than the situations
which they chose, and the devices by whicli the
architects endeavoured to defend them.
Narrow stairs and arched vaults were the
usual moda of access ; and the drawbridge
appears at Dunstaffnage, and elsewhere, to
have fallen from the gate of the building to
the top of such a staircase ; so that any one
advancing with hostile purpose, founil him-
self in a state of exposed and precarious
elevation, with a gulf between him and the
object of his attack.
These fortresses were guarded with equal
care. The duty of the watch devolved chiefly
upon an ofTicer called the Cockman, who had
the charge of challenging all who approached
the castle. The very ancient family of Mac-
Niel of Barra kept this attendant at their
castle about a hundred years ago. Martin
gives the following account of the difficulty
which attended hisprocuringentrancethere: — •
'The little island Kismul lies about a quarter
of a mile from the south of this isle (Barra);
it is the seat of Mackneil of Barra ; there is
a stone wall round it two stories high, reach-
ing the sea ; and within the wall there is an
old tower and an hall, with other houses about
it. There is a little magazine in the tower, to
which no stranger has access. I saw the
officer called the Cockman, and an old cock
he is ; when I bid him ferry me over the water
to the island, he told me that he was but an
inferior officer, his business being to attend
in the tower ; but if (says he) the constable,
who then stood on the wall, will give you
access, I 'II ferry you over. I desin-d him to
procure me the constable's permission, and I
would reward him ; but having waited some
hours for the constable's answer, and not
receiving any, I was obliged to return with-
out seeing this famous fort. Mackneil and
his lady l)eing absent, was the cause of this
difficulty, and ofmy not seeing the place. I was
told some weeks .after, that tlie constable was
very apprehensive of some design I might
have in viewing the fort, and thereby tocxpose
it to theconquest of a foreign power ; of which
I supposed there was no great cause of fear.'
Note XL
That keen knight, De Argentine.
—P. 421.
Sir Egidius, or Giles de Argentine, was one
of the mostaccomplishedknigntsofthe period.
He had served in the wars of Henry of Lux-
emburg with such high reputation, that he
was, in popular estimation, the third worthy
ZU Bov^ of t^t jefee.
483
of the age. Those to whom fame assignerl
prcrpdcnco over him were, Henry of Luxem-
burg himself, and Robert Bruce. Argentine
had warred in Palestine, encountcrea tliriee
with the Saracens, and had slain two antago-
nists in each engagement : — an easy matter,
he said, for one Christian knight to slay
two Pagan dogs. His death corresponded
with his high character. With Aymer de
Valence, Earl of Pembroke, he was appointed
to attend immediately upon the person of
Edward H at Bannocfeburn. When the day
was utterly lost tliey forced the king from the
field. De Argentine saw the king safe from
immediate danger, and then took his leave
o( him ; ' God be w ith you, sir,' he said, ' it is
not my wont to fly.' So saying, he turned his
horse, cried liis war-cry, plunged into the
midst of the combatants, ano was slain.
Baston, a rhyming monk who had been
brought by E'lward to celebrate his expected
triumph, and who was compelled b)' the
victors to compose a poem on his defeat,
mentions with some feeling the death of Sir
Giles de Argentine :
I'ix scifratn mentetti cuj?i tr sui-Citmherc vidt.
'The first line mentions the three chief re-
quisites of a true knight, noble birth, valour,
and courteousness. Few Leonine couplets
can be produced that have so much sentiment.
I wish that I could have collected more ample
memorials concerning a character altogether
different from mofiern manners. Sir Giles
d'Argentine was a hero of romance in real
life.' So observes the e.\cellent Lord Hailes.
Note XII.
^ Fill me the tnighiy cup! ' he said,
' £rst own'd by royal So?nerled.'—'P. 421.
A Hebridean drinking-cup, of the most
ancient and curious workmanship, has been
long preserved in the castle of Dunvegan, in
Skye, the romantic seat of Mac-Leod of Mac-
Leod, the chief of that ancient and powerful
clan. The horn of Rorie More, preserved in
the same family, and recorded by Dr. John-
son, is not to be compared with this piece
of antiquity, which is one of the greatest curi-
osities in Scotland. The following is a pretty
accurate description of its shape and dimen-
sions, but cannot, I fear, be perfectly under-
stood without a drawing.
This very curious piece of antiquity is nine
inches and three-quarters in inside depth, and
ten and a half in height on the outside, the
extreme measureoverthelipsbeing four inches
and a half. The cup is divided into two parts
by a wrought ledge, beautifully ornamented,
about three-fourths of an inch in breadth.
Beneath this ledge the shape of the cup is
rounded off, and terminates in a flat circle,
like that of a tea-cup: four short feet support
the whole. Above the projecting ledgi; the
shape of the cup is nearly square, projecting
outward at the brim. The cup is made of
wood, (oak to all appearance,) but most
curiously wrought and embossed with silver
work, which projects from the vessel. There
are a number ot regular projecting sockets,
which appear to have been set witTi stones ;
two or three of them still hold pieces of coral,
the rest are empty. At the four corners of
the projecting ledge, or cornice, an^ four
sockets, much larger, probably for pebbles or
precious stones. The workmanship of the
silver is extremely elegant, and appears to
have been highly gilded. The ledge, brim,
and legs of the cup are of silver. The family
tradition bears that it was the property of Neil
Ghlune-dhu, or Black-knee. But who this
Neil was, no one pretends to say. Around tli(!
edge of the cup is a legend, perfectly legible,
in the Saxon black-letter, which seems to
run thus :
afo ; JoUts : Jtlif h : || i\\%\\ : Jjiiripis : pc : II
^)r : eftUuiir : titch : II ^iahia : ^Hgryucil : ||
€t : <Sput : So : 3hu : Jla : II (Clra : Jlloru Opa ; ;i
jKit : Alio : pi : 3r ; 930 H ©nili : ®imi :
The inscription may run thus at length:
Ufo Johaiittis Mich Magjii Principis de Hi-
Mauae Vich Lialiia Magryiieil et spcrat
Domino Ihcsii dari clcmeii/iam illorum
opera. Fecit Ajiiio Dominiqq}, Onili Oimi.
Which may run in English : Ufo, the son of
John, the son of Magnus, Prince of Man, the
grandson of Liahia iMacgrjneil, trusts in tlie
Lord Jesus that their works (i. e. his own and
those of his ancestors) will obtain mercy.
Oneil Oimi made this in the year of God
nine hundred and ninetj^-three.
But this version does not i nclude the puzzling
letters HR before the word Manae. Within
the mouth of the cup the letters JUs (Jesus)
are repeated four times. From this and other
circumstances it would seem to have been
a chalice. This circumstance may perhaps
account fortheuseofthetwoArabie numerals
03. These figures were introduced by Pope
Sylvester, A. I). 991, and might be used in a
vessel formed for church service so early as
993. The workmanship of the whole cup is
extremely elegant, and resembles, I am told,
antiques of the same nature preserved in
Ireland.
The cups thus elegantly formed, and highly
valued, were by no means utensils of mere show.
Martin gives the following account of the
festivals of his time, and I have heard similar
instances of brutality in the Lowlands at no
very distant period.
' The manner of drinking used by the chief
men of the Isles is called in their language
Streah, i.e. a Round ; for the company sat in
484
Qtofee to
a circle, the cup-bearer fill'd the drink round
to them, and all was drank out, whatever the
liquor was, whether strong or weak ; they
continued drinking; sonietinns twenty-four,
sometimes torty-eight hours: It was reckoned
a piece ofmanhood to drink until they became
drunk, and there were two men with a barrow-
attending punctually on such occasions. They
stood at the door until some became drunk,
and they carry'd them upon the barrow to
bed, and returned again to their post as long
as any continued fresh, and so carried off the
whole company, one by one, as they became
drunk. Several of my acijuaintance have
been witnesses to this custom of drinking,
but it is now abolished.'
This savage custom was not entirely done
away within this last generation. I have
heard of a gentleman who happened to be a
water-drinker, and was permitted to abstain
from the strong potations of the company.
The bearers carried away one man after
another, till no one was left but this Scottish
Mirglip. Thev then came to do him the same
good office, which, however, he declined as
unnecessary, and proposed to walk to his
bedroom. It was a permission he could not
obtain. Never such a thing had happened,
they said, in the castle ! that it was impossible
but he must require their assistance, at any
rate he must submit to receive it ; and carried
him off in the barrow accordingly. A classical
penalty was sometimes imposed on those who
balked the rules of good fellowshipby evading
their share of the banquet. The same author
continues : — -
'Among persons of distinction it was
reckoned an affront put upon any company to
broach a piece of wine, ale, or aquavitae, and
not to see it all drank out at one meeting. If
any man chance to go out from the comnan)-,
though but for a few minutes, he is obliged,
upon his return, and before he take his seat,
to make an apology for his absence in rhyme;
which if he cannot perform he is liable to such
a share of the reckoning as the company
thinks fit to impose : which custom obtains in
many places still, and is called Bianchiz Bard,
which, in their language, signifies the poet's
congratulating the company.'
Few cups were better, at least more
actively, employed in the rude hospitality of
the period, than those of Dunvegan ; one
of which we have just described. There is
in the Leabhar Dearg, a song, intimating
the overflowing gratitude of a bard of Clan-
Ronald, after the exuberance of a Hebridean
festival at the patriarchal fortress of Mac-
Leod. The translation being obviously very
literal, has greatly flattened, as I am informed,
the enthusiastic gratitude of the ancient bard;
and it must be owned that the works of Homer
or Virgil, tosa)' nothing of Mac-Vuirich, might
have suffered by their transfusion through
such a medium. It is pretty plain, that when
the tribute of poetical praise was bestowed,
the horn of Rorie More had not been inactive.
Upon Sif Roderic Mor Maclcod^ by Niall
Mor MacViiirich.
'The six nights I remained in the Dunvegan,
it was not a show of hospitality I met with
there, but a plentiful feast in thy fair hall
among thy numerous host of heroes.
'The family placed all around under the
protection of their great chief, raised by his
prosperity and respect for his warlike feats,
now enjoying the company of his friends at
the feast, — Amidst the sound of harps, over-
flow ing cups, and happy youth unaccustomed
to guile, or feud, partaking of the generous
fare by a flaming hre.
'Mighty Chief, liberal to all in yourprincely
mansion, filled with your numerous warlike
host, whose generous wine would overcome
the hardiest heroes, yet we continued to enjoy
the feast, so happy our host, so generous our
{a.re.'—Tra7is!atedby I). Mac-Uttosli.
It would be unpardonable in a modern
bard, who has experienced the hospitality of
Dunvegan Castle in the present daj-, to omit
paying his own tribute of gratitude for a re-
ception more elegant indeed, but not less
kindly sincere, than Sir Roderick More
himself could have afforded. But Johnson
has already described a similar scene in the
same ancient patriarchal residence of the
Lords of Mac-Leod: — 'Whatever is imaged
in the wildest tales, if giants, dragons, and
enchantment be excepted, would be felt by
him, who, wandering in the mountains without
a guide, or upon the sea without a pilot,
should be carried, amidst his terror and
uncertainty, to the hospitality and elegance
of Raasay or Dunvegan.'
Note XIII.
With solemn step, and silver wand.
The Seneschal the presence scanned
Of these strange guests. — P. 421.
The Sewer, to whom, rather than the
Seneschal, the office of arranging the guests
of an island chief appertained, was an officer
of importance in the family of a Hebridean
chief. — 'Every family liacf commonly two
stewards, which, in their language, were
called Marischal Tach : the first of these
served always at home, and was obliged to
be versed in the pedigree of all the tribes in
the isles, and in the highlands of Scotland;
for it was his province to assign every man
at table his seat according to his quality;
and this was done without one word speaking,
only by drawing a scon- with a white roa,
which this Marischal had in his hand, before
the person who was bid by him to sit down ;
and this was necessary to prevent disorder
and contention ; and thougn the Marischal
might sometimes be mistaken, the master
of the family incurred no censure by such an
escape; but this custom has been laid aside
ZU ;Sovi of iU 30f«'
485
of late. They had also cupbearers, who
always filled and carried the cup round the
company, and he himself always drank off
the lirst draught. They had likewise purse-
masters, who Kept their monej-. Both these
officers had an hereditary right to their office
in writing, and each of them had a town and
land for his service : some of those rights
I have seen fairly written on good parchment.'
—Martin's Wes/em Isles.
Note XIV.
■ Ihe yeheUions Scottislt cretv,
VV/io to Rath-Erin's shelter drew.
With Carrick's outlaw d Chief?— V. 422.
It must be remembered by all who have
read the Scottish history, that after he had
slain Comyn at Dumfries, and asserted his
right to the Scottish crown, Robert Bruce
was reduced to the greatest extremity by
the linjrlish and their adherents. He was
crowned at Scone by the general consent of
the Scottish barons, but his authority endured
but a short time. According to the phrase
said to have been used by his wife, he was
for that year 'a summer king, but not a winter
one.' On the 29th March, 1,^06, he was
crowned king at Scone. I'pon the 19th June,
in the same year, he w.as totally defeated at
Methven, near Perth ; and his most im-
portant adherents, with few e.xceptions, were
either executed or compelled to embrace the
English interest, for safety of their lives and
fortunes. After this disaster, his life was that
of an outlaw, rather than a candidate for
monarchy. He separated himself from the
females of his retinue, whom he sent for
safety to the castle of Kildrummie, in
Aberdeenshire, where they afterward became
captives to lingland. From Aberdeenshire,
Bruce retreatea to the mountainous parts of
Breadalbane, and approached the Borders
of Argyleshire. There, as mentioned in the
Appendix, Note VIII, and more fully in
Note XV, he was defeated by the Lord of
Lorn, who had assumed arms against him
in revenge of the death of his relative, John
the Red Comyn. Escaped from this peril
Bruce, with his few attendants, subsisted
by hunting and fishing, until the weather
compelled them to seek better sustenance
and shelter than the Highland mountains
afforded. With great ditriculty they crossed,
from Rowardennan probably, to the western
banks of Lochlomond, partly in a miserable
boat, and partly b}' swimming. The valiant
and loyal Earl of Lennox, to whose territories
they had now found their way, welcomed
them with tears, but was unable to assist
them to make an effectual head. The Lord
of the Isles, then in possession of great part
ofCantyre, received the fugitive monarch and
future restorer of his country's independence,
in his castle of Ounnaverty, in that district.
But treason, says Barbour, was so general.
that the King durst not abide there. Accord-
ingly, with the remnant of his followers,
Bruce embarked for Rath-Erin, or Rachrine,
the Recina of Ptolemy, a small island, lying
almost opposite to the shores of Ballycastle,
on the coast of Ireland. The islanders at
first lied from their new and armed guests,
but upon some explanation submitted them-
selves to Bruce's sovereignty. He resided
among them until the approach of spring
H07, when he again n^turned to Scotlanci,
with the desperate resolution to reconquer
his kingdom, or perish in the attempt. The
progress of his success, from its commence-
ment to its completion, forms the brightest
period in Scottish history.
Note XV.
The Brooch of Lorn. — P. 422.
It has been generally mentioned in the
preceding notes, that Robert Bruce, after his
<lefeat at Methven, being hard |)ressed by the
English, endeavoured, with the dispirited
remnant of his followers, to escape from
Breadalbane and the mountains of Perthshire
into the Argyleshire Highlands. But he was
encountered and repulsed, after a very severe
engagement, by the Lord of Lorn. Bruce's
personal strength and courage were never
displayed to greater advantage than in this
conflict. There is a tradition in the family of
the Mac-Dougals of Lorn, that their chieftain
engaged in personal battle with Bruce himsrlf,
while the latter was employed in protecting
the retreat of his men ; that Mac-Dougal was
struck down by the king, whose strength of
body was equal to his vigour of mini], and
would have been slain on the spot, had not
two of Lorn's vassals, a lather and son, whom
tradition terms Mac-Keoch, rescued him, by
seizing the mantle of the monarch, and
dragging him from above his adversary.
Bruce ri<l himself of these foes by two blows
of his redoubted battle-axe, but was so closely
pressed by the other followers of Lorn, that
he was forced to abandon the mantle, and
brooch which fastened it, clasped in the dying
grasp of the Mac-Keochs. A studded brooch,
said to have been that which King Robert
lost upon this occasion, was long preserved
in the family of Mac-Dougal, and was lost in
a Cre which consumed their temporary
residence.
The metrical history of Barbour throws an
air of credibility upon the tradition, although
it does not entirely coincide either in the
names or number of the vassals by whom
Bruce was assailed, and makes no mention
of the personal danger of Lorn, or of the loss
f>f Bruce's mantle. The last circumstance,
indeed, might be warrantably omitted.
.'Vccording to Barbour, the King, with his
handful of followers, not amounting probably
to three hundred men, encountered Lorn wilh
about a thousand Argyleshire men, in Glen-
486
OXokB to
Douchart, at the head of Breadalbane, near
Teyndrum. The place of action is still called
Dairy, or the King's Field. The field of
battle was unfavourable to Hruce's adherents,
who were chiefly men-at-arms. Many of the
horses were slain by the long^ pole-axes, of
which the Argyleshire Scottish had learned
the use from the Norwegians. At length
Bruce commanded a retreat up a narrow and
difficult pass, he himself bringing up the rear,
and repeatedly turning and driving back the
more venturous assailants. Lorn, observing
the skill and valour used by his enemy in
protecting the retreat of liis followers, 'Me-
thinks, Murthokson,' said he, addressing one
of his followers, 'he resembles Gol Mak-
inorn, protecting his followers from Fingal.'
— 'A most unworthy comparison,' observes
the Archdeacon of Aberdeen, imsuspicious
of the future fame of these names; 'he might
with more propriety have compared the King
to Sir Gaudefer de Layrs, protecting the for-
agers of Gadyrs against the attacks of Alex-
ander.' Two brothers, the strongest among
Lorn's followers, whose names Barbour
calls Mackyn-Drosser, (interpreted Durward,
or Porterson,) resolved to rid their chief of
this formidable foe. A third person (perhaps
the Mac-Keoch of the family tradition) as-
sociated himself with them for this purpose.
They watched their opportunity until Bruce's
party had entered a pass between a lake
(Loch Dochart probably) and a precipice,
where the King, who was the last of the
party, had scarce room to manage his steed.
Here his three foes sprung upon him at once.
One seized his bridle, but received a wound
which hewed off his arm; a second grasped
Bruce by the stirrup and leg, and endeavoured
to dismount him, but the King, putting spurs
to his horse, threw him down, still holding
by the stirrup. The third, taking advantage
of an acclivity, sprung up behind him upon
his horse. Bruce, however, whose personal
strength is uniformly mentioned as ex-
ceeding that of most men, extricated himself
from his grasp, threw him to the ground, and
cleft his skull with his sword. By similar
exertion he drew the stirrup from liis grasp
whom he had overthrown, and killed him
also with his sword as he lay among the
lior,se's feet. The story seems romantic, but
this was the age of romantic exploit ; and it
must be remembered that Bruce was armed
cap-a-pie, and the assailants were half-clad
mountaineers. Barbour adds the following
circumstance, highly characteristic of the
sentiments of chivalry. Mac-Naughton, a
Baron of Cowal, pointed out to the Lord of
Lorn the deeds of valour which Bruce
performed in this memorable retreat, with
the highest expressions of admiration. 'It
seems to give thee pleasure,' said Lorn, 'that
lie makes such havoc among our friends.' —
' Not so, by my faith,' replied Mac-Naughton ;
'but be he friend or foe who achieves high
deeds of chi\alrj', men should bear faithful
witness to his valour ; and never have I heard
of one, who, by his knightly feats, has extri-
cated himself from such dangers as have this
day surrounded Bruce.'
Note XVL
W'roii^Jit and chased with rare device.
Studded fair ivith gems of price. — P. 422.
Great art and expense was bestowed upon
the fibula, or brooch, which secured the
plaid, when the wearer was a person of
importance. Martin mentions having seen
a silver brooch of a hundred marks value.
'It was broad as any ordinary pewter plate,
the whole curiously engraven with various
animals, &c. There was a lesser buckle,
which was wore in the middle of the larger,
and above two ounces weight; it had in
the centre a large piece of crystal, or some
finer stone, and this was set all round with
several finer stones of a lessersize.' — If 'ester it
Islands. Pennant has given an engraving
of such a brooch as Martin describes, and
the workmanship of which is very elegant.
It is said to have belonged to the family of
Lochbuv.— See Pennant's Tour, vol. iii.
V- >4- '
Note XVII.
J'aii! li'as then the Douglas brand,
I'aiu the Camphell'svaunted hand. — P. 42,^.
The gallant Sir James, called the Good
Lord Douglas, the most faithful and valiant
of Bruce's adherents, was wounded at the
battle of Dairy. Sir Nigel, or Neil Campbell,
was also in that unfortunate skirmish. He
married Marjorie, sister to Robert Bruce,
and was among his most faithful followers.
In a manuscript account of the house of
Argylc, supplied, it would seem, as materials
for Archbishop Spottiswoode's History of the
Church of Scotland, I fmd the following
passage concerning Sir Niel Campbell; —
Moreover, when all the nobles in Scotland
had left King Robert after his hard success,
yet this noble knight was most faithful, and
shrinked not, as it is to be seen in an indenture
bearing these \\or'\fi: -Memorandutn quod
cum ah incariiafione Domini 1308 con-
vcutiim flit et coiicordatnin inter nobiles
I'iros Dominiim Ale.raiidrum de Seatoun
■inilitem et Doininiini Gilbertuin de Haye
ntilitein et Dominum Nigellum Campbell
■militeni apiid monaster ium de Cainbiis-
kenneih <)" Septeinbris qui facta sancta
e iicliarista,magnoq lie j H ram en to facto Jura-
runt se debere libertateni reoiiiet Robertiim
ntiper regem coroiiatiiiii contra oiiiiies
mortales Francos Anglos Scoto^ defendere
■usque ad ultiinuin ter milium vitae ipsoriiin.
Their sealles are appended to the indenturp_
in greene wax, togithir with the seal of
Gulfrid, Abbot of Cambuskenneth.'
ZU Bori of t6e defect.
487
Note XVIII.
When Conivn fell beneath the knife
Of that fell' homicide The Bruce.— V. 419
Vain Kirkpatrick's bloody dirk.
Making sure ofmi4rder's work. — P. 4J3.
Every reader must recollect that the
proximate cause of Bruce's assertinof his
right to the crown of Scotland, was the death
of John, called the Red Comyn. The causes
of this act of violence, equally extraordinary
from the high rank both of the perpetrator
and sufferer, and from the place where the
slau!:;;hter was committed, are variously re-
lated by the Scottish and English historians,
and cannot now be ascertamed. The fact
that they met at the high altar of the
Minorites, orGreyfriars' Church in Dumfries,
that their difference broke out into liigli and
insulting language, and that Bruce drew his
dagger and stabbed Comyn, is certain.
Rushing to tlie door of the church, Bruce
met two powerful barons, Kirkpatrick of
Closeburn, and James de Lindsay, who
eagerly asked him what tidings? 'Bad
tiiiings,' answered Bruce; 'I doubt I liave
slain Comyn.'— 'Doubtest tliou?' said Kirk-
patrick; 'I make sicker!' (i.e. sure.) W"a\\
these words, he and Lindsay rushed into the
church, and despatched the wounded Comyn.
The Kirkpatricks of Closeburn assumed, in
memory of this deed, a hand holding a dagger,
with the memorable words, "I make sicker.'
Some doubt having been started by the late
Lord Hailes as to the identity of the Kirk-
patrick who completed this day's work with
Sir Roger, then representative of the ancient
lamilv of Closeburn, my kind and ingenious
Iriend, Mr. Charles Kirkpatricke Sharpe, has
furnished me with the following memorandum,
which appears to fix the deed with his
ancestor: —
'The circumstances of the Regent Cum-
min's murder, from which the family of
Kirkpatrick, in Nithsdale, is said to nave
derived its crest and motto, are well known
to all conversant with Scottish historj-; but
Lord Hailes has started a doubt as to the
authenticity of this tradition, when recording
the murder of Roger Kirkpatrick, in his own
Castle of Caerlaverock, by Sir James Lindsaj-.
"Fordun," says his Lordship, "remarks that
Lindsay and Kirkpatrick were the heirs of
the two men who accompanied Robert Brus
at the fatal conference with Comyn. If
Fordun was rightly informed as to this
particular, an argument arises, in support of
a notion which I have long entertained, that
the person who struck his dagger in Comyn's
heart, was 7iot the representative of the
honourable family of Kirkpatrick in Niths-
ilale. Roger de K. was made prisoner at
the battle of Durham, in 1346. Roger de
Kirkpatrick was alive on the dth of .\ugust,
1^57; for, on that day, Humphry, the son
and heir of Roger de K., is proposed as one
of the j'oung gentlemen who were to be
hostages for David Bruce. Roger de K.
Miles was present at the parliament held at
Edinburgh, 25th September, 1357, and he is
mentioned as alive 3rd October, 1357
\Foedera)\ it follows, of necess.ary conse-
quence, that Roger de K., murdered in June
1357, must have been a different person."—
Annals of Scotland, vol. ii. p. 2\i.
'To this it may be answered, that at the
period of the regent's murder, there were
only two families of the name of Kirkpatrick
(nearly allied to each other) in existence —
Stephen Kirkpatrick, styled in the Chartulary
of Kelso( \2-'^) l)omi7iitsvillae de Closebtirti,
Piliuset haeres Domini Adede Kirkpatrick,
Militis, (whose father, Ivone de Kirkpatrick,
witnesses a charter of Robert Brus, Lord of
Annandale, before the year 1141,) had two
sons. Sir Roger, who carried on the line of
Closeburn, and Duncan, who married Isobel,
daughter and heiress of Sir David Torthor-
wald of that Ilk; thev had a charter of the
lands of Torthorwaldfroin King Robert Brus,
dated loth August, the year being omitted —
Umphray, the son of Duncan and Isobel,
got a charter of Torthorwald from the
king, i6th July, 1322 — his son, Roger of
Torthorwald, got a charter from John the
Grahame, son of Sir John Grahame of
Moskessen, of an annual rent of 40 shillings,
out of the lands of Overdryft, 1355 — his son,
William Kirkpatrick, grants a charter to
John of Garroch, of the twa merk land of
Glengip and Garvellgill, within the tenement
of Wamphray, 22nd April, 1372. From this,
it appears that the Torthorwald branch was
not concerned in the affair of Comyn's
murder, and the inflictions of Providence
which ensued; Duncan Kirkpatrick, if we
are to believe the Blind Minstrel, was the
lirm friend of Wallace, to whom lie was
related: —
" Ane Kyrk Patrick, that cruel was and kej-ne.
In Esdail wod that half yer he had beyne ;
^\'ith Ingliss men he couth nocht weyll accord.
Off Torthorowald he Jiarron was and Lord,
Uffkyn he was, and Wallace modyr ner;"— &-c.
Bk. \-. V. 920.
But this Baron seems to have had no share
in the adventures of King Robert; the crest
of his family, as it still remains on a carved
stone built into a cottage wall, in the ^•illage
of Torthorwald, bears some resemblance,
says Grose, to a rose.
'Universal tradition, and all our later
historians, have attributed the regent's death-
blow to Sir Roger K. of Closeburn. The
author of the MS. Historv of the Presbytery
of Penpont, in the Advocates' Library,
affirms, that the crest and motto were given
by the King on that occasion; and proceeds
to relate some circumstances respecting
a grant to a cottager and his wife in the
vicinity of Closeburn Castle, which are
certainly authentic, and strongly vouch for
the truth of the other report.— "The steep
(IXofee to
hill," (says lie,) "called the Dune of Tynron, !
of a considerable height, upon the top of
which there hath been some habitation or ;
fort. There have been in ancient times, on !
all hands of it, very thick woods, and great
about that place, which made it the more
inaccessible, into which K. Ro. Bruce is said
to have been conducted by Roger Kirkpatrick
of Closeburn, after they had killed the Cumin
at Dumfriess, which is nine miles from tins
place, whereabout it is probable that he did
abide for some time thereafter; and it is
reported, that during his abode there, he did
often divert to a poor man's cottage, named
Brownrig, situate in a small parcel of stoney
ground, encompassed with thick woods, where
he was content sometimes with such mean
accommodation as the place could aft'ord.
The poor man's wife being ad\ised to petition
the King for somewhat, was so modest in her
desires, that she sought no more but security
for the croft in her husband's possession, and
a liberty of pasturage for a very few cattle
of different kinds on the hill, and the rest of
the bounds. Of which priviledge that ancient
family, by the injury of time, hath a long
time been, and is, deprived : but the croft
continues in the possession of the heirs and
successours lineally descended of this Brown-
rig and his wife; 'so that this family, being
more ancient than rich, doth yet continue
in the name, and, as they say, retains the old
charter."— .1I/.S'. History of the Preshytery
of Pcupotit, in llie Advocates" Library of
Edinburgh.''
Note XIX.
Barcudown fled fast away.
Fled the fiery De la Haye.—V. 423.
These knights are enumerated by Barbour
among the small numberof Bruce's'adhercnts,
who remained in arms with him after the
battle of Methven.
•With him was a lioUl baron,
Schyr 'William the naroimdoun,
Schyr Gilbert de la llayc .alsua.'
There were more than one of the noble family
of Hay engaged in Bruce's cause; but the
principal was Gilbert de la Haye, Lord of
Errol, a stanch adherent to Kiiig Robert's
interest, and whom he rewarded by creating
him hereditary Lord High Constable ot
Scotland, a title which he used 16th March,
1308, where, in a letter from the peers of
Scotland to Philip the Fair of France, he is
designed Gilhcrliis de Hay Constnhularius
Scotiae. He was slain at the battle of
Halidoun-hill. Hugh de la Haye, his brother,
was made prisoner at the battle of Methven.
Note XX.
Well hast thou framed., Old Man, thy
strains.
To praise the hand that pays thy pains.
—P. 42.^.
The character of the Highland bards,
however high in an earlier period of society,
seems soon to have degenerated. The Irish
affirm, that in their kindred tribes severe laws
became necessary to restrain their avarice.
In the Highlands they seem gradually to
have sunk into contempt, as well as the
orators, or men of speech, with whose office
that of family poet was often united. — 'The
orators, in their language called Isdane,
were in high esteem both in these islands
and the continent; until within these forty
years, they sat always among the nobles and
chiefs of families in the streah, or circle. Their
houses and little villages were sanctuaries,
as well as churches, and they took place
before doctors of physick. The orators,
after the Druids were extinct, were brought
in to preserve the genealogy of families, and
to repeat the same at every succession of
chiefs; and upon the occasion of marriages
and births, they made epithalamiums and
panegvricks, which the poet or bard pro-
nounced. The orators, by the force of their
eloquence, had a powerful ascendant over
the greatest men in their time; for if any
orator did but ask the habit, arms, horse, or
any other thing belonging to the greatest
man in these islands, it was readily granted
them, sometimes out of respect, and some-
times for fear of being exclaimed against by
a satyre, which, in those days, was reckoned
a great dishonour. But these gentlemen
becoming insolent, lost ever since both the
profit and esteem which was formerly due to
their character; for neither their panegyricks
nor satyres are regarded to what they have
been, and they are now allowed but a small
salary. I must not omit to relate their way
of study, which is very singular: They shut
their doors and windows for a day's time,
and lie on their backs, with a stone upon
their belly, and plads about their heads, and
their eye's being covered, they pump their
brainsforrhetorical encomium or panegyrick;
and indeed they furnish such a style from
this dark cell as is understood by very few;
and if they purchase a couple of horses as
the reward of their meditation, they think
they have done a great matter. The poet,
or bard, had a title to the bridegroom's
upper garb, that is, the plad and bonnet; but
now he is satisfied with what the bridegroom
pleases to give him on such occasions.'—
M.^RTlN's Western Isles.
Note XXI.
ITas V not enough to Ronald's bower
I brought thee, like a paramour.— V. \:Ck
It was anciently customary in the High-
lands to bring the bride to the house of the
ZH Bcti of tU 3efe0.
489
liusbancl. Nay, in some cases the com-
plaisance was stretched so far, that she
remained there upon trial for a twelvemonth ;
and the bridegroom, even after this period
of cohabitation, retained an option of refusing
to fulfil his engagement. It is said that
a desperate feud ensued between the clans ot
Mac-Donald of Sleate and MacLeod, owing
to the former chief having availed himself
of this license to send back to Dunvcgan
a sister, ordaughterof the latter. Mac-Leod,
resenting the indignity, observed, that since
there was no wedding bonfire, there should
be one to solemnize the divorce. Ac-
cordingly, he burned and laid waste the
territories of Mac-Donald, who retaliated,
and a deadly feud, with all its accompani-
ments, took place in form.
Note XXII.
Since matchless Wallace Jirst had been
In inock'ry crozvu^d with wreaths of green.
— P. 4 j6.
Stow gives the following curious account
of the trial and execution of this celebrated
patriot: — "William Wallace, who had oft-
times set Scotland in great trouble, was
taken and brought to London, with great
numbers of men and women wondering
upon him. He was lodged in the house of
NVilliani Delect, a citizen of London, in
Fenchurchstreet. On the morrow, being
the eve of St. Bartholomew, he was brought
on horseback to Westminster. JohnLegrave
and Geffrey, knights, the mayor, sheriffs,
and aldermen of London, and many others,
lioth on horseback and on foot, accompanying
him; and in the great hall at Westminster,
he being placed on the south bench, crowned
with laurel, for that he had said in times past
that he ought to bear a crown in that hall,
as it was commonly reported; and being
appeached for a traitor by Sir Peter Malorie,
the king's justice, he answered, that he was
never traitor to the King of England; but
for other things whereof he was accused, he
confessed them ; and was after headed and
quartered.' — STOW, Chr. p. 209. Tliere is
something singularly doubtful about the
mode in which Wallace was taken. That he
was betrayed to the English is indubitable;
and popular fame charges Sir John Menteith
with the indelible infamy. 'Accursed,' says
Arnold Blair, 'be the day of nativity of John
de Menteith, and may his naine be struck
out ofthe book of life.' But John de jNIenteith
was all along a zealous fa\ourer of the
English interest, and was go\ernor of Dum-
barton Castle by commission from Edward
the First; and therefore, as the accurate
Lord Hailes has observed, could not be the
friend and confidant of Wallace, as tradition
states him to be. The truth seems to be,
that Menteith, thoroughly engaged in the
English interest, pursued Wallace closely,
ana made him prisoner through the treachery
of an attendant, whom Peter Langtoft calls
Jack Short.
■ ^\'ilIial^ AVnleis is noinen that master was nf thevcs,
Tidinij to tlie king is comeii that rubbery luischeives,
.Sir John of Menetest sued William so nigh.
He tok him when he ween'd least, oil niijht, his
lemau him bj-.
That was through treason of yack Short his man,
He was the encheson that Sir John so him ran,
Jack's brother had he slain, the Walleis that is said,
The more Jack was fain to do William that braid."
From this it would appear that the infamy
of seizing Wallace, must rest between a de-
generate Scottish nobleman, the v.tssal of
England, and a domestic, the obscure agent
of his treachery; between Sir John Menteith,
son of Walter, Earl of Menteith, and the
traitor Jack Short.
Note XXIII.
Whereas Nigel Bruce? and De la Haye,
.4nd valiatit Setoit — where are they ■
Where Sonerville, the kind and /ree }
And Fraser, flower of chivalry }
—P. 426.
W hen these lines were written, the author
was reinote from the means of correcting his
indistinct recollection concerning the indi-
vidual fate of Bruce's followers, after the
battle of Methven. Hugh de la Haye, and
Thomas Somerville of Lintoun and Cowdally,
ancestor of Lord Soinerville, were both made
prisoners at that defeat, but neither was
executed.
Sir Nigel Bruce was the younger brother
of Robert, to whom he committed the charge
of his wife and daughter, Marjorie, and the
defence of his strong castle ol Kildrumniie,
near the head of the Don, in Aberdeenshire.
Kildruminie long resisted the arms of tin;
Earls of Lancaster and Hereford, until the
magazine was treacherously burnt. The gar-
rison was then compelled to surrender at
discretion, and Nigel Bruce, a youth remark-
able for personal beauty, as well as for
gallantry, fell into the hands of the unre-
lenting Edward. He was tried by a special
commission at Berwick, was condemned, and
executed.
Christopher Seatoun shared the same un-
fortunate fate. He also was distintjuished
by personal valour, and signalized himself
in the fatal battle of Methven. Robert Bruce
adventured his person in that battle like a
knight of romance. He dismounted .VA-mer
lie Valence, Earl of Pembroke, but was in
his turn dismounted by Sir Philip Mowbra}'.
In this emergence Seatoun caine to his aid,
and remounted him. Langtoft mentions,
that in this battle the Scottish wore white
surplices, or shirts, over their armour, that
those of rank might not be known. In this
manner both Bruce and Seatoun escaped.
K- 3
490
(\\oU6 io
But ihe latter was afterwards betrayed to
the Englisli, througli ineans, according to
Barbour, of one MacNab, 'a disciple of Judas,'
in whom the unfortunate knight reposed
entire confidence. There was some peculi-
arity respecting his punishment ; because,
according to Matthew of Westminster, he
was considered not as a Scottish subject, but
an Englishman. He was therefore taken to
Dumfries, where he was tried, condemned,
and executed, for the murder of a soldier
slain by him. His brother, John de Seton,
had the same fate at Newcastle ; both were
considered as accomplices in the slaughter
of Comyn, but in what manner thej- were
particularlj' accessory to that deed does not
appear.
The fate of Sir Simon Frazer, or Frizel,
ancestor of the family of Lo\at, is dwelt
upon at great length, and with savage exulta-
tion, by the English historians. This knight,
who was renowned for personal gallantry,
and liigh deeds of chivalry, was also made
prisoner, after a gallant defence, in the battle
of Methven. Some stanzas of a ballad of the
times, which, for the sake of rendering it
intelligible, I have translated out of its rude
orthography, give minute particulars of his
fate. It was written immediately at the
period, for it mentions the Earl of Atliole as
not yet in custody. It was first published
by the indefatigable Mr. Ritson, but with so
many contractions and peculiarities of char-
acter, as to render it illegible, excepting by
antiquaries.
• This was before Snint Bartholomew's mass.
That Frizel was y-taken, were it more oiher less,
To .Sir Thomas of Muhon. jjeiitil baron and free,
And to Sir Johan Jose be-take tlio was he
To hand
He was y-fcttered wele
I3otli with iron and witli steel
To bringen of Scotland.
-Soon thereafter the tiding to the king come.
He sent him to London, with mony armed jj-room,
He came in at Newgate, I tell you it on a-phyht,
A garland of leaves on his head y-dight
Ofgrcen,
For he should be y-know,
Both of high and of low,
For traitour I ween.
Y-fettereil were his legs under his horse's wonibc,
Both with iron and w ith steel mancled were his liund,
A garland of pervynk 1 set upon his heved :,
Much was the power that him was bereved.
Inland.
So Cod me amend,
Little he ween'd
So to be brought in hand
This was upon our lady's even, forsooth I under-
stand,
The justices sate for the knights of Scotland, _
Sir Thomas of Multon, an kmde knyght and wise.
And Sir Ralph of Sandwich that mickle is told in
^"^^' And Sir Johan Aliel,
Moe I might tell by tale
Both of great and of small
Ve know sooth well.
I r<
vinkle.
2 Head.
Then said tlie justice, that gentil is and free.
Sir Simon Frizel the king's traiter hast thou be;
In water and in land that mony niighten see,
What sayst thou tliereto, how will tliou quite thee.
Do say.
So foul he him wist,
Xede war on trust
For to say nay.
AVitli fetters and with gives 1 y-Iiot he was to-draw
I'rom the Tower of London that many men might
know.
In a kirtle of burel, a selconth wise,
And a garland on his head of the new guise.
Through Cheapo
Many men of England
For to see Symond
Thitherward can leap.
Though he cam to the gallows first he was on hung.
All quick beheaded that him thought long ;
Then he was y-opened, his bowels y-brend 2,
The heved to London-bridge was send
To shende.
So evermore mote I the.
Some while weened he
Thus little to stand
He rideth through the city, as I tell may,
'V\'ilh gamen and with solace that was their play,
To London-bridge he took the way,
Mony was the wives child that thereon lackelli a
day -S
And said, alas !
That he was y-born
.\nd so vilely forelorn,
So fair man he was.
Now standeth the heved above the lu-brigge.
Fast by Wallace sooth for to segge ;
.\fter succour of Scotland long may he pry.
And after help of France what halt it to lie,
I ween.
Better him were in Scotland,
■With his axe in his hand,
To play on the green,' Szc,
The preceding stanzas contain probably as
minute an account as can be found of the
trial and execution of state criminals of the
period. Superstition mingled its horrors with
those of a ferocious state policy, as appears
from the following singular narrative :—
'The Friday next, before the assumption
of Our Lady, King Edward met Robert the
Bruce at Saint Johnstoune, in Scotland, and
with his companj-, of which company King
Edward quelde seven thousand. When
Robitrt the Bruce saw this mischief, and gaii
to flee, and hov'd him that men might not
him find ; but S. Simond Frisell pursued was
so sore, so that he turned ao;ain and abode
bataille, for he was a worthy knight and
a bolde of bodye, and the Englishmen pur-
suede him sore'on every side, and quelde the
steed that Sir Simon Frisell rode upon, and
then toke him and led him to the host. And
S. Symond began for to flatter and speke
fair, and saide, Lordys, I shall give you four
thousand markes of 'silver, and myne horse
and harness, and all my armoure and income.
Tho' answered Thobaude of Peyenes, that
was the kinges archer. Now, God me so
1 Gyves. ^ Burnt. ^ Lanientelh.
ZU Bati of tH 56fe0.
491
heipe, it !s for nought that thou speakest, for
all the gold of England I would not let thee
go without commandment of King Edward.
And tho" he was led to the King, and the
King would not see him, but commanded to
lead him away to his doom in London, on
Our Lady's even nativity. And he was hung
and drawn, and his head smitten off, and
hanged again with chains of iron upon the
gallows, and his head was set at London-
bridge upon a spear, and against Christmas
the body was burnt, for encheson {reason)
that the men that keeped the body saw many
devils ramping with iron crooks, running
upon the gallows, and horribly tormenting
the body. And many that them saw, .anon
thereafter died for dread, or waxen mad, or
sore sickness they had.' — MS. Chronicle ill.
ilic British Museum^ quoted by Ritsoit.
Note XXIV.
Was not the life of Athole shed
To soothe the tyrant's sicken' d bed?
-P. 427.
John de Strathbogie, Earl of Athole, had
attempted to escape out of the kingdom, but
a storm cast him upon the coast, when he
was taken, sent to London, and executed,
with circumstances of great barbarity, being
first half strangled, then let down from the
gallows while yet alive, barbarously dis-
membered, and his body burnt. It may
surprise the reader to learn, that this was
a ;«/V/^^(/ea? punishment ; for in respect that
his mother was a grand-daughter of King
John, by his natural son Richard, he was not
drawn on a sledge to execution, ' that point
was forgiven,' and he made the passage on
horseback. Matthew of Westminster tells
us that King Edward, then extremely ill,
received great ease from the news that his
relative was apprehended. ' Qiioaudito, Rex
Angliae, etsi gratnssiino morbo tunc Ian-
giieret^ leznus tauten ttilit dolorein.' To
this singular expression the text alludes.
Note XXV.
And must his word, till dying day.
Be nought but quarter, hang, andslavJ
-P. 4J7.
This alludes to a passage in Barbour,
singularly e.\pressive of the vindictive spirit
of Edward I. The prisoners taken at the
castle of Kildrummie had surrendered upon
condition that they should be at King Edward's
disposal. ' But his will,' says Barl)Our, 'was
always evil towards Scottishmen.' Thi- news
of the surrender of Kildrummie arrived when
he was in his mortal sickness at Burgh-upon-
Sands.
' And when he to the death was near,
The folk that at Kyldroiny wer
Come with prisoners that they had tane,
And syne to the k'm^ are gane.
And for to comfort him they taiild
How they the castell to them yauld ;
And how they till his will were brought,
To do off that whatever he thou.i^ht;
And ask'd what men should olTtiiem <hi.
Then look'd he angryly them to,
He said, grinning, " HANCS AND DRAWS."
That was wonder of sic saws.
That he, that to the death was near,
Should answer upon sic maner,
Forouten moaning and mercy ;
How might he trust on him to cry.
That sooth-fastly dooms all thing
To have mercy for his crying.
Off him that, throw his felony.
Into sic point had no mercy V
There was much truth in the Leonine
couplet, with which Matthew of Westminster
concludes his encomium on the first Edward : —
• Scotos Edwardus, dum vixit, suppeditavit,
Tenuit, afflixit, depressit, dilaniavit.'
Note XXVI.
While I the blessed cross adTance,
And expiate this unhappy chance
In Palestine, with sword and lance.
—P. 4::8.
Bruce uniformly professed, and probably
felt, compunction for h.aving violated the
sanctuary of the church bv the slaughter of
Comyn ; and finnllv, in his last hours, in
testiinony of his faith, penitence, and zeal,
he requested James Lord Douglas to carry
his heart to Jerusalem, to be there deposited
in the Holy Sepulchre.
Note XXVII.
De Bruce ! I rose with purpose dread
To speak in\< curse upon thv head.
—P. 428.
So soon as the notice of Comyn's slaughter
reached Rome, Bruce and his adherents were
excommunicated. It was published first by
the Archbishop of York, and renewed at
different times, particularly by Lambyrton,
Bishop of St. Andrews, in 1308 ; but it does
not appear to have answered the purpose
which the English monarch expected. Indeed,
for reasons which it may be difficult to trace,
the thunders of Rome descended upon the
Scottish mountains with less effect than in
more fertile countries. Probably the com-
parative poverty of the benefices occasioned
that fewer foreign clergj' settled in Scotland ;
and the interest of the native churchmen were
linked with that of their countrj-. Many of
the Scottish prelates, Lambyrton the primat>'
particularly, declared for Bruce, while he
was)-et under the ban of the church, although
he afterwards again changed sides.
R 5
492
Qtotec fo
Note XXVIII.
I feel within mine aged breast
A i>awef- that will not be repressed.
—P. 428.
Bruce, like other heroes, observed omens,
and one is recorded by tradition, .\fter he
had retreated to one o'f the miserable places
of shelter, in which he could venture to take
some repose after his disasters, he lay stretched
upon a handful of straw, and abandone<l him-
self to his melancholy meditations. He had
now been defeated four times, and was upon
the point of resolving to abandon all hopes
of further opposition to his fate, and to go to
the Holy Land. It chanced, his eye, while
he was thus pondering, was attracted by the
exertions of a spider, who, in order to fix his
web, endeavoured to swing himself from one
beamtoanotherabovehishead. Involuntarily
he became interested in the pertinacity with
which the insect renewed his exertions, after
failing six times ; and it occurred to him that
lie would decide his own course according to
the success or failure of the spider. At the
seventh effort the insect gained his object ;
and Bruce, in like manner, persevered and
carried his own. Hence it has been held
unlucky or ungrateful, or both, in one of the
name of Bruce to kill a spider.
The Archdeacon of Aberdeen, instead of
the abbot of this tale, introduces an Irish
Pythoness, who not only predicted his good
fortune as he left the island of Rachrin, but
sent her two sons along with him, to ensure
her own family a share in it.
• Then in schort time men myclit tliaim se
Scluite all thair i;alayis to tlie se,
And ber to se baith ayr and ster,
And othyr tliingis that niystir ' wer.
And as the king apon tlie sand
■\\'es gangand wp and doun, bidand-
Till that his menye redy war.
His ost come rycht till him thar.
And quhen that scho him halyst hail,
And priw^ spek till him scho made ;
And said, " Takis gud kep till my saw :
l"or or ye pass I sail yow schaw,
< Iff your fortoun a gret party.
Hot our all speceally
A wyttring her I sail yow ma,
Huhat end that your purposs sail ta.
I- or in this land is nane trewly
Wate thingis to cum sa weill as I.
Ve pass now furth on your wiage,
To wenge the harme, and the owtrag.
That Ingliss men has to yow done ;
liot ye wat nocht quhatkyne forton
Ve'mon drey in your werraying.
Bot w>t ye weill, with outyn lesing,
That fra ye now haifftakyn land,
Nane sa mychty, na sa strenth thi of hand,
Sail ger yow pass owt of your countriS
Till all to yow abandownyt be.
With in schort tyme ye sail be king,
And haiffthe land .at your liking,
.-\nd ourcum your fayis all.
Bot fele anoyis thole ye sail.
' Needful.
! Biding, waiting.
Or that your purposs end haiff tane :
Bot ye sail thaim ourdrj've ilkane.
And, that ye trow this sekerly.
My twa sonnys with yow sail I
Send to tak part of your trawaiU ;
For I wate weill thai sail nocht faill
To be rewardyt weill at rycht,
Quhen ye ar heyitto yowr inycht." '
Barbour's Bmcc, Book III. v. S56.
Note XXIX.
A hunted wandcref on the wild.
On foreis'n shores a man exiVd.
-P. 428.
This is not metaphorical. The echoes of
Scotland did actually
With the bloodhounds that b;
king."
A very curious and romantic tale is told
bv Barbour upon this subject, which may be
abridged as follows : —
When Bruce had .again got footing in Scot-
land in the spring of 1307, he continued to be
ill a very weak and precarious condition,
gaining, indeed, occasional advantages, but
obliged to fly before his enemies w-henever
thev assembled in force. Upon one occasion,
whfle he was lying with a small party in the
wilds of Cumnock, in Ayrshire, Aymer de
Valence, Earl of Pembroke, with his in-
veterate foe John of Lorn, came against him
suddenly with eight hundred Highlanders,
besides a large body of men-at-arms. They
brought with them a slough-dog, or blood-
hound, which, some say, had been once a
favourite with the Bruce himself, and there-
fore was least likely to lose the trace.
Bruce, whose force was under four hundred
men, continued to make head against the
cavalry, till the men of Lorn had nearly cut
off his retreat. Perceiving the danger of his
situation, he acted as the celebrated and ill-
requited Mina is said to have done in similar
circumstances. He divided his force into
tliree parts, appointed a place of rendezvous,
and commanded them to retreat by different
routes. But when John of Lorn arrived at
the spot where they divided, he caused the
hound to be put upon the trace, which im-
mediately directed him to the pursuit ot that
party which Bruce headed. This, therefore.
Lorn pursued with his whole force, paying
no attention to the others. The king again
subdivided his small body into three parts,
and with the same result, for the pursuers
attached themselves exclusively to that which
lie led in person. He then caused his followers
to disperse, and retained only his foster-
brother in his company. The slough-dog fol-
lowed the trace, and, neglecting the others,
attached himself ami his attendants to the
pursuit of the king. Lorn became convinced
tli.at his enemy was nearly in his power, and
detached five of his most active attendants
ZU ^ori of tU 3efe6.
493
to follow him, and interrupt his (light. They
did so witli all the agility of mountaineers.
'What aid wilt thou maker' said Bruce to
his single attendant, when he saw the five
men gain ground on him. 'The best I can,'
replied his foster-brother. 'Then,' said Bruce,
'here I make my stand.' The live pursuers
came up fast. The king took three to himself,
leaving the other two to his foster-brother.
He slew the first who encountered him ; but
observing his foster-brother hard pressed, he
sprung to his assistance, and despatched one
of his assailants. Leaving him to deal with
the survivor, he returned upon the other two,
both of whom he slew before his foster-brother
had despatched his single antagonist. When
this hard encounter was over, with a courtesy,
which in the whole work marks Bruce's char-
acter, he thanked his foster-brother for his
aid. 'It likes you to say so,' answered
his follower; 'but you yourself slew four of
the five.' — 'True,' said the king, 'but only
because I had better opportunity than you.
They were not apprehensive of me when tliev
saw me encounter three, so I had a moment's
time to spring to thy aid, and to return
equally unexpectedly upon my own oppo-
nents.'
In the meanwhile Lorn's party approached
rapidly, and the king and tiis foster-brother
betook themselves to a neighbouring wood.
Here they sat down, for Bruce was exhausted
by fatigue, until the cry of the slough-hound
came so near, that his foster-brother entreatetl
Bruce to provide for his safety by retreating
further. ' I have heard,' answered the king,
'that whosoever will wade a bow-shot length
down a running stream, shall make the slough-
hound lose scent. — Let us try the experiment,
for were yon devilish hound silenced, I should
care little for the rest.'
Lorn in the meanwhile advanced, and found
the bodies of his slain vassals, over whom he
made his moan, and threatened the most
deadly vengeance. Then he followed the
hound to the side of the brook, down which
the king had waded a great way. Here the
hound was at fault, and John of Lorn, after
long attempting in vain to recover Bruce's
trace, relinquished the pursuit.
'Others,' says Barbour, 'affirm, that upon
this occasion the king's life was sa\ ed by an
excellent archer who accompanied him, and
who perceiving they would be finally taken
by means of the bloodhound, hid himself in
a thicket, and shot him with an arrow. In
which way,' adds the metrical biographer,
'this escape happened I am uncertain, but
at that brook the king escaped from his
pursuers.'
' Ouhon tlie chasseris relyit war.
And Jhon of Lorn had met thaini thar,
He tauld Schyr Ayiner all the cass.
How that the kinjsf eschapyt wass :
And how that he his five men slew,
And syne to the wode him drew.
Quhen Schyr Aymer herd this, in hy
He sanyt bim for the ferly :
And said ; " He is gretly to pryss ;
Tor I knawnane that liffand is.
That at myschcyffaan help him swa.
I trow he suld be hard lo sla.
And he war bodyn i cwynly."'
(_in this wiss spak Schyr Aymcry."
B.\RBOUR'S Bruce, Hook \'. v. 391.
The English historians agree with Barbour
as to the mode in which the English pursueil
Bruce and his followers, and the dexterity
with which he evaded them. The following
is the testimony of Harding, a great enemy
to the Scottish nation : — ■
* The Kin^ Edward with hoost hym sought full sore,
IJut ay lie fled into woodes antl strayte forest.
And slewe his men at staytes and daungers thore,
.\nd at marreys and mires was ay full prest
1-n^lyshmen to kyll withoutyn any rest ;
In the mountaynes and craggcs he slew ay where.
.\nd in the nyght his foes he frayed full sere :
The King Edward with homes and houndes hini
^ soght.
With nienne on fote, through marris, mosse, and
Through wodes also, and mountens {wher thei
fought).
And euer the Kyng Edward hight men greate hyre,
] lym for to take and by myght conquere ;
Hut thei might hym not gette by force ne by train.
He satte by the fyre when thei went in the rain.*
H.\RDV\G'S Chronicle, pp. 303-4.
Peter Langtoft has also a passage con-
cerning the extremities to which King Robert
was reduced, which he entitles
De Roberto Bri<s et /iiga circa jk circa Jif.
' .\nd wele I understode that the Kyng Robyn
Has drunken of that blode the drink of Daii Waryn.
1 >an ^\■aryn he les tounes that he held,
"With wrong he mad a res. and misberyng of scheld,
Sithen into the forest he yede naked and wode,
Als a w ild beast, ete of the gr,a5 that stode.
Thus of Dan Waryn in his boke men rede,
God gyf the King Kobyn, that alle his kynde so
spede.
Sir Robynet the Brus he durst noure abide,
That thei mad him restus, both in more and wod-
side.
To while he inad this train, and did umwhile out-
rage.' &c.
I'ETER LAiNGTOFT'S Chronicle, vol. ii. 333.
S%'o. London, 1810.
Note XXX.
For, glad of each pretext for spoil,
A pirate sworit was Cor mac Doit.
-P. 430.
A sort of persons common in the isles, as
may be easily believed, until the introduction
of civil polity. Witness the Dean of the Isles'
account of Ronay. 'At the north end of
Raarsay, be half myle of sea frae it, laves
ane ile callit Ronay, maire then a myle in
lengthe, full of wood and heddir, with ane
havein for heiland galeys in the middis of it,
and the same havein is guid for fostering of
I Matched.
494
Qtofee (o
tlieives, riis;;jairs, and reivairs, till a nail,
upon the iieilliiig and spulzcintj of poor pepill.
This ile pcTteins to M'Gillychallan of Raarsay
by fortx-, and to the bisliope of the iles be
heritage." — SiR DoNALi) MuNRO's Descrip-
tion of the Western Islands of Scotland.
Edinburgh, 1805, p. 22.
XOTE XXXI.
^ Alas/ dear youth, the u)ihappy time,''
Answer'' d the Brnce, ' mnst bear the crime.
Since, guiltier far than yon,
Ez>en r — he paused ; for Falkirk^ s woes
Upon his conscious soul arose. — P. 4.^1.
I have followed the vultjar and inaccurate
tradition, that Bruce fought against Wallace,
and the array of Scotland, at the fatal battle
of Falkirk. The story, which seems to have
no better authority than that of Blind Harry,
bears, that having made much slaughter
during the engagement, he sat down to dine
with the conquerors without washing the
filthy witness from his hands.
' Fasting lie w.is. .ind liad been in great need,
Blooded were all his weapons and his weed ;
Southeron lords scom'd him in terms rude.
And said, BeboUl yon Scot eats his own blootl.
Then rued he sore, for reason bad be known.
That blood and land alike should be his own ;
"With them he lony was, ere he got away,
But conlrair Scots he foui^ht not from that day.*
The account given by most of our historians,
of the conversation between Bruce and
Wallace over the Carron river, is equally
apocryphal. There is full evidence that
Bruce was not at that time on the English
side, nor present at the battle of Falkirk;
nay, that he acted as a guardian of Scotland,
along with John Comyn, in the naine of
Haliol, and in opposition to the English.
He was the grandson of the competitor, with
whom he has been sometimes confounded.
Lord Hailes has well described, and in some
degree apologized for, the earlier part of his
life. — 'His grandfather, the competitor, had
patiently acquiesced in the award of Edward.
His father, yielding to the times, had served
under the English banners. But young
Bruce had more ambition, and a more
restless spirit. In his earlier years he acted
upon no regular plan. By turns the partisan
of Edward, and the vicegerent of Baliol, he
seems to have forgotten or stifled his pre-
tensions to the crown. But his character
developed itself by degrees, and in maturer
age became firm and consistent.' — Annals
of Scotland, p. 290, quarto, London, 1776.
Note XXXII.
These are the saz'a^^e wilds that lie
Xorth of Stralhnardill and Dunskve.
-P. 4.^-'.
The extraordinarj' piece of scenery which
I have here attempted to describe is, I think,
unparalleled in any part of Scotland, at least
in any which I have iiappened to visit. It
lies just upon the frontier of the Laird of
Mac-Leod's country, which is thereabouts
divided from the estate of Mr. Maccallister of
Strath-Aird, called Strathnardill by the Dean
of the Isles. The following account of it is
extracted from a journal ' kept during a tour
through the Scottish islands: —
'The western coast of Sky is highly
romantic, and at the same time displays
a richness of vegetation in the lower grounds
to which we have hitherto been strangers.
We passed three salt-water lochs, or deep
embayments, called Loch Bracadale, Loch
Einort, and Loch , and about 11 o'clock
opened Loch Slavig. We were now under
the western termination of the high ridge
of mountains called Cuillen, or Quillin, or
Coolin, whose weather-beaten and serrated
peaks we had admired at a distance from
Dunvegan. They sunk here upon the sea,
but with the same bold and peremptory aspect
which their distant appearance indicated.
They appeared to consist of precipitous
sheets of naked rock, down which the
torrents were leaping in a hundred lines of
foam. The tops of the ridge, apparently
inaccessible to human foot, were rent and
split into the most tremendous pinnacles.
Towards the base of these bare and pre-
cipitous crags the ground, enriched bj^ the
soil washed down from them, is comparatively
verdant and productive. Where we passed
within the small isle of Soa, we entered
Loch Slavig, under the shoulder of one of
these grisly mountains, and observed that
the opposite side of the loch was of a milder
character, the mountains being softened
down into steep green declivities. From the
bottom of the bay advanced a headland of
high rocks, which divided its depth into two
recesses, from each of which a brook issued.
Here it had been intimated to us we would
find some romantic scenery; but we were
uncertain up which inlet we should proceed
in search of it. We chose, against our better
judgment, the southerly dip of the bay, where
we saw a house which might afford us infor-
mation. We found, upon inquiry, that there
is a lake adjoining to each branch of the
bay; and walked a couple of miles to see
that near the farm-house, merely because
the honest Highlander seemed jealous of the
honour of his own loch, though we were
speedily convinced it was not that which
we were recommended to examine. It had
no particular merit, excepting from its neigh-
bourhood to a very high cliff, or precipitous
mountain, otherwise the sheet of water had
nothing differing from anj' ordinary low-
country lake. We returned and re-embarked
in our boat, for our guide shook his head at
our proposal to climb over the peninsula, or
rocky headland which divided the two lakes.
i This is the I'oefii own journal.— LOCKll.\Rr.
ZU Bovi of iU 50f^0.
49."
In rowing round tlic lieadland, we were
surprised at the infinite number of sea-fowl,
then busy apparently with a shoal offish.
'Arrived at the di-pth of the bay, we found
that the discharge from this second lake
forms a sort of waterfall, or rather a rapid
stream, which rushes down to the sea with
great fury and precipitation. Round this
place were assembled hundreds of trouts
and salmon, struggling to get up into the
fresh water: with a net we might have had
twenty salmon at a haul ; and a sailor, with
no belter hook than a crooked pin, caught
a dish of trouts during our absence. Ad-
vancing up tliis huddling and riotous brook,
we found ouiselves in a most extraordinary
scene ; we lost sight of the sea almost
immeaiately after we had climbed over a low
lidge of crags, and were surrounded by
mountains of naked rock, of the boldest and
most precipitous character. The ground on
which we walked was the margin of a lake,
which seemed to have sustained the constant
ravage of torrents from these rude neighbours.
The shores consisted of huge strata of naked
granite, here and there intermixed with bogs,
and heaps of gravel and sand piled in tlie
empty water-courses. Vegetation there was
little or none; and the mountains rose so
perpendicularly from the water edge, that
Borrowdale, or even Glencoe, is a jest to
them. We proceeded a mile and a half up
this deep, dark, and solitary lake, which was
about two miles long, half a mile broad, and
is, as we learned, of extreme depth. The
murky vapours which en\ eloped the mountain
ridges, obliged us by assuming a thousand
varied shapes, changing their drapery into
all sorts of forms, and sometimes clearing off
all together. It is true, the mist made us
pay the penalty by some heav^- and downright
showers, from the frequency of which a High-
land boy, whom we brought from the farm,
told us the lake was popularly called the
Water-kettle. The proper name is Loch
Corriskin, from the deep corrie, or hollow,
in the mountains of Cuilin, which affords the
basin for this wonderful sheet of water. It
is as exquisite a savage scene as Loch Katrine
is a scene of romantic beauty. After having
penetrated so far as distinctly to observe the
termination of the lake under an immense
precipice, which rises abruptly from the
water, we returned, and often stopped to
admire the ravages which storms must have
made in these recesses, where all human
witnesses were driven to places of more
shelter and security. Stones, or rather large
masses and fragments of rocks of a composite
kind, perfectly different from the strata of
the lake, were scattered upon the bare rocky
beach, in the strangest and most precarious
situations, as if abandoned by the torrents
which had borne them down from above.
Some lay loose and tottering upon the ledges
of the natural rock, with so little security,
that the slightest push moved them, though
their weight might exceed many tons. These
detached rocks, or stones, were chiefly what
is called plum-pudding stones. The bare
rocks, which formed the shore of the lakes,
were a species of granite. The opposite side
of the lake seemed quite pathless and in.
accessible, as a huge mountain, one of tho
detached ridges of the Cuilin hills, sinks in
a profound and perpendicular precipice down
to the water. On the left-hand side, which
we traversed, rose a higher and equally
inaccessible mountain, the top of which
strongly resembled the shivered crater of an
exhausted volcano. I never saw a spot in
which there was less appearance of vegetation
of any kind. The eye rested on nothing but
barren and naked crags, and the rocks on
which we walked by the side of the loch
were as bare as the pavements of Cheapside.
There are one or two small islets in the locli
which seem to bear juniper, or some such
low bushy shrub. Upon the whole, though
I have seen many scenes of more extensive
desolation, I never witnessed any in which
it pressed more deeply upon the eye and the
heart than at Loch Corriskin; at the same
time that its grandeur elevated and redeemed
it from the wild and dreary character of
utter barrenness.'
Note XXXIII.
Afcji were ihey all of einl mieii,
Down-look' (i, unwilling to be seen. — P. 434.
The story of Bruce's meeting the banditti
is copied, with such alterations as the fic-
titious narrative rendered necessary, from
a striking incident in the monarch's history,
told by Barbour, and which I shall give in
the words of the hero's biographer. It is the
sequel to the adventure of the bloodhound,
narrated in Note XXIX. It will be remem-
bered that the narrative broke off, leaving
the Bruce escaped from his pursuers, but
worn out with fatigue, and having no other
attendant but his foster-brother.
' And the gude Icing held forth liis way,
Betuix him and his man, quliill thai
Passyt owt throw the forest war ;
Syne in tlie more thai entryt thar.
It wes Imthe hey, and lang, and breid ;
Ami or tliai halffit passyt had,
Tliai saw on syd thre men cummand,
Lik to lycht men and wauerand.
Swerdis thai had, and axys nls :
And ane off thaim, apon his hals 1,
A mekill boundyn wethir bar.
Thai met the king, and hailst2 him thar ;
And the king thaim thar hailsing y.-iuld -'i ;
And askyt thaim quetliir thai wauld.
Thai said, Robert tlie Bruyss thai soucht
I-^or mete with him gitfthat thai moucht,
Thar duelling with him wauld thai ma^.
Tlie king said, " GifT that ye will swa,
Haldys furth your way with me.
And I sail ger yow sone him se.
1 Neck, shoulders.
3 Yielded, returned.
2 Hailed.
< Make.
496
(Itofee io
Thai persawj-t, be his speking,
That he wes the sehv-j-n Robert king.
And chnungyt contenance and late' ;
And held nocht in the fyrst state.
l"or tliai war fayis to the king ;—
And thoucht to cum in to sculking.
And duell with him, quhill that thai saw
Thar poynt, and bryng him than ofT daw.
Thai grantyt till his spek forthis.
Bot tlie king, that wes witty.
Persawyt weill. by thar hawing.
That thai luffyt him na thing :
And said, " Falowis, ye mon, all thre,
Forthir aqnent till that we be,
All be your selwyn furth ga ;
And, on the samyn wyss, w-e twa
Sail folow behind weill ner."
Ouoth thai. " Schyr. it is na mysterS
To trow in ws ony ill." —
" Nane do I," said he ; " bot I w ill.
That yhe ga fourth thus, quhill we
Better with othyr knawin be." —
■' We grant," thai said, "sen yc will sw.i :
And furth apon thair gate gan ga.
Thus yeid thai till the nycht wes ner.
And than the formast cummyn wer
Till a waist housband houss ; and thar
Thai slew the wethir that thai bar :
An<l slew fyr for to rost thar mete ;
And askyt the king gift he wald ete.
And rest him till the mete war dycht.
The king, that hungry was, Ik hycht,
Assentyt till thair spek in hy.
Bot he said, he w.ald anerry
At a fyr ; and thai all thre
On na wyss with thaim till gj'ddre be.
In the end off the houss th,ai suld ma
Ane othyr fyr ; and thai did swa.
Thai drew thaim in the houss end,
And halir the wethir till him send.
And thai rostyt in hy thair mete ;
And fell ryclit freschly for till etc.
For the king weill lang fastyt had ;
And had rycht mekill trawaill mad :
Tharfor he eyt full cgrely.
And quhen he had etyn liastily,
He had to sicp sa mekill will.
That lie moucht set na let thar till.
For quhen the wanys* fillyt ar.
Men worthysS hcwy euirmar ;
And to slepe drawys hewynes.
The king, that .all fortrawaillyt e wes.
Saw that him worthyt slep nedwayis.
Till his fostyr.brodyr he sayis ;
" May I traist in the, me to walk.
Till Ik a little sleping tak?"—
•• Ya, Schyr," he said, " till I may drey".
The king then wynkyt a litill wey ;
And .slepyt nocht full encrely ;
Bot glitmyt wp oft sodanly.
For he had dreid offth.ai thre men,
Th.at at the tothyr fyr war then.
That thai his fais war he wyst ;
Tharfor he slepyt as foule on twysts.
The king slepyt bot a litill than ;
Quhen sic sIcp fell on his man,
That he mycht nocht hald wp his ey,
Bot fell in slep, and rowtyt hey.
Now is the king in gret f)erile :
For slep he swa a litill quhile.
He sail be ded, for owtyn dreid.
For the thre tratours tuk gud held.
That he on slep wes, and liis man.
In full gret hy thai miss wp than.
And drew the suerdis hastily ;
And went towart the king in hy,
Ouhen th.at thai saw him sleip swa,
And slepand thoucht thei wald him sla.
1 Manner, 2 Therefore. 3 Need. * \'eins.
6 Become. ' Fatigticd with travel. 7 Endure.
8 Bir<l on bough.
The king wp blenkit hastily.
And saw his man slepand him by ;
.\nd saw cummand tlie tothyr thre.
Deliuerly on fute gat he ;
And drew his suerd owt, and thaim mete.
And, as he yude, his fute he set
Apon his man, weiU hewyly.
He waknyt, and raiss disily :
For the slep niaistryt hyin sway.
That or he gat wp, ane off thai,
That come for to sla the king,
Gaiff hym a strak in his rysing,
.Swa that he mycht help him no mar.
The king sa straitly stad 1 wes thar.
That he wes neuir yeyt sa stad.
Ke war the annyngZ that he had.
He had been dede, for owtyn wer.
But nocht for this on sic iiianer
He helpyt him, in that bargayne 4,
That thai thre tratowris he has slan.
Throw Goddis grace, and his inanheid.
His fostyr-brothyr thar was dede.
Then w-es he wondre will of waynS,
Quhen he saw him left allane.
His fostyr-brodyr menyt he :
And waryit 6 all the tothyr thre.
And syne hys way tuk him allane.
And rycht towart his tryst 7 is gane."
The Bruct, Book \'. v. 405.
Note XXXIV.
And ntcrntaid's alahaslcr groty
Who bathes her limbs in sunless well,
Deep in Strathaird' s ettchanied cell.
— !*• 4.37-
Imagination can hardly conceive anylliingf
more beautiful than the extraordinary grotto
discovered not many years since upon the
estate of Alexander Mac-Allister, Esq., of
Strathaird. It has since been inuch and
deservedly celebrated, and a full account of
its beauties has been published by Dr. Mac-
Leay of Oban. The general impression may
perhaps be gathered from the following
extr.act from a journal, which, written under
the feelings of the moment, is likely to be
more accurate than any attempt to recollect
the impressions then received.— 'The first
entrance to this celebrated cave is rude and
unpromising; but the light of the torches,
with which we were provided, was soon
reflected from the roof, floor, and walls,
which seem as if they were sheeted with
marble, partly smooth, partly rough with
frost-work and rustic ornaments, .ind partly
seeining to be wrought into statuary. The
floor forms a steep and difficult ascent, and
might be fancifully compared to a sheet of
water, whicli, while it rushed whitening and
foaming down a declivity, had been suddenly
arrested and consolidated by the spell of an
enchanter. Upon attaining the summit of
this ascent, the cave opens into a splendid
gallery, adorned with the most (lazzling
crystallizations, and finally descends with
r.apidity to the brink of a pool, of the most
1 So dangerously situated
2 Had it not been for the armour he wore.
^ Nevertheless. -1 Fray, or dispute.
* .Much afflicted. 6 Cursed.
7 The place of rendezvous appointed for his soldiers.
ZU Bor^ of tU 30^e0.
497
limpid water, about four or five yards broad.
There opens beyond this pool a portal arch,
formed by two columns of white spar, with
beautiful chasing upon the sides, which
promises a continuation of the cave. One
of our sailors swam across, for tliere is no
other mode of passinjj, and informed us (as
indeed we partly saw bj' the light he carried)
that the enchantment of Maccalister's cave
terminates with this portal, a little beyond
which there was only a rude cavern, speedily
choked with stones and earth. But the pool,
on the brink of which we stood, surrounded
by the most fanciful mouldings, in a substance
resembling white marble, and distinguished
by the depth and puritj' of its waters, might
have been the bathing grotto of a naiad.
The grounsof combined figures projecting, or
embossecl, by which the pool is surrounded,
are exquisitely elegant and fanciful. A
statuarj- might catch beautiful hints from the
singular and romantic disposition of those
stalactites. There is scarce a form, or group,
on which active fancy may not trace figures
or grotesque ornaments, which have been
gradually moulded in this cavern by the
dropping^ of the calcareous water hardening
into petrifactions. Many of those fine groups
have been injured by the senseless rage of
appropriation of recent tourists; and the
grotto has lost (I am informed), through the
smoke of torches, something of that vivid
silver tint which was originally one of its
chief distinctions. But enough of beauty
remains to compensate for all that may be
lost.'— Mr. Mac-Allister of Strathaird has,
with great propriety, built up the exterior
entrance to this cave, in order that strangers
may enter properly attended by a guide, to
prevent any repetition of the wanton and
selfish injur}- which this singular scene has
already sustained.
Note XXXV.
3V/ /(7 }io sense of selfish ■wt-ojig's,
Bear zvt/ness wi/h w/f. Heaven, belongs
^^yjoy o'er Edzuard's bier. — P. 440.
The generosity which does justice to the
character of an enemy, often marks Bruce's
sentiments, as recorded by the faithful Bar-
bour. He seldom mentions a fallen enemy
without praising such good qualities as he
might possess. I shall only take one instance.
Shortlv after Bruce landed in Carrick, in
131JO, Sir Ingram Bell, the English governor
of Avr, engaged a wealthy yeoman, \\ho
had hitherto been a follower of Bruce, to
undertake the task of assassinating him.
The King learned this treacherv, as he is
said to have done other secrets of the enemy,
by means of a female with whom he had an
intrigue. Shortly after he was possessed of
this mformation, Bruce, resorting to a small
thicket at a distance from his men, with onlv
a single, page to attend him, met the traitor,
accompanied by two of his sons. They
approached him with their wonted familiarity,
but Bruce, taking his page's bow and arrow,
commanded them to keep at a distance. As
they still pressed forward with professions
of zeal for his person and service, he, after
a second warning, shot the father with the
arrow; and being assaulted successively by
the two sons, despatched first one, who was
armed with an axe, then as the other charged
him with a spear, avoided the thrust, struck
the head from the spear, and cleft the skull
of the assassin with a blow of his two-handed
sword.
* lie rushed down of blood all red,
.\iul when the king saw they were dead,
All three lyinjj, he wiped his brand.
With that his boy came fast ninninj^.
And said, '* Our lord iniijht lowytl bi*
That g-ranted you niitjht and poweste2
To fell the felony and the pride,
Of three in so little tide."
The king said, " So our lord me see,
They have been worthy men all three,
Had tliey not been full of treason ;
But that made their confusion.'"
Barbour's £ri<c(, Bk. V. p. i<2.
Note XXXVI.
Such hate was his on So/way's strand.
When vengeance cletich'd his palsied hand.
That pointed yet to Scotland's land,—'P. 441).
To establish his dominion in Scotland had
been a favourite object of Edward's ambition,
and nothing could exceed the pertinacity with
which he pursued it. unless his inveterate
resentment against the insurgents, who so
frequently broke the English yoke when he
deemed it most firmly riveted. After the
battles of Falkirk and Methven, and the
dreadful examples which he had made of
Wallace and other champions of national
independence, he probably concluded every
chance of insurrection was completely anni-
hilated. This was in 1306, when Bruce, as
we have seen, was utterly expelled from
Scotland: yet, in the conclusion of the same
year, Bruce was again inarms and formidable ;
and in 1307, Edward, though exhausted l)y
a long and wasting malady, put himself at the
head of the army destined to destroy him
utterly. This was, perhaps, partly in conse-
([uence of a vow which he had taken upon
him, with all the pomp of chi\alry, upon the
day in which he clubbed his son a'knight, for
which see a subsequent note. But even
Iiis spirit of vengeance was unable to restore
his exhausted strength. He reached Burgh-
upon-Sands, a petty village of Cumberland,
on the shores of the Solway Firth, and there,
6th July, 1,307, expired in sight of the detested
and devoted country of Scotland. His dying
injunctions to his son required liim to
498
Qtotee to
continue the Scottish war, and never to
recall Ga\eston. Edward II disobeyed both
charsjts. Yet more to mark his animosity,
the dying monarch onicred his bones to be
carried with tlie invading armv. Froissart,
who probably liad the authority of eye-
witnesses, has given us the following account
of this remarkable charge: — ■
'In the said forest, the old King Robert of
Scotland dyd kepe hymselfe, whan King
Edward the Fyrst conquered nygh all Scot-
land ; for he was so often chased, that none
durst loge him in castell, nor fortresse, for
feare of the said Kyng.
'And ever whan the King was returned
into Ingland, than he would gather together
agayn his people, and concjuere townes,
castells, ana tortresses, iuste to Berwick,
some by battle, and some by fair speecli and
love: and when the said King Edward heard
thereof, than would he assemble his power,
and wyn the realme of Scotland again ; thus
the chance went between these two foresaid
Kings. It was shewed me, how that this
King Robert wan and lost his realm v. times.
So this continued till the said King Edward
died at Berwick : and when he saw tliat he
should die, he called before him his eldest
son, who was King after him, and there,
before all the Larones, he caused him to
swear, that as soon as he were dead, that
he should take his body, and boyle it in
a cauldron, till the flesh departed clean from
the bones, and than to bury the flesh, and
keep still the bones ; and tliat as often as the
Scotts should rebel! against him, he shouhl
assemble the people against them, and carry
with him the bones of his father; for he
believed verily, that if they had his bones
with them, that the Scotts should never
attain any victory against them. The which
thing was not accomplished, for when the
King died his son carried him to London.' —
Berners' Froiss.^Rt's ChroiiicU. London,
1812, pp. ,^9-40.
Edward's commands were not obeyed, for
he was interred in Westminster Abbey, with
the appropriate inscription:—
'Ed\v.\rdus Primus Scotorum m.vlleus
HIC EST. P.VCTUM SeRVA.'
Yet some steps seem to have been taken
towards rendering his body capable of occa-
sional transportation, for it was exquisitely
embalmed, as was ascertained when his tomb
was opened some years ago. Edward II
judged wisely in not carrying the dead body
of his father into Scotland, since he would
not obey his li\ ing counsels.
It ought to be observed, that thougli the
order of the incidents is reversed in the poem,
yet, in point of historical accuracy, Bruce
liad landed in Scotland, and obtained some
successes of consequence, before the death of
Edward I.
Note XXXVII.
Catnia^s toiler, tliat^ steep andgycy^
Likefalcoii-ucst o'crhajigs ilic bay. — P. 441.
The little island of Canna, or Cannay,
adjoins to those of Rum and Muick, with
which it forms one parish. In a pretty bay
opening towards the east, there is a lofty
and slender rock detached from the shore.
Upon the summit are the ruins of a very
small tower, scarcely accessible by a steep
and precipitous path. Here, it is said, one
of the kings, or Lords of the Isles, confined
a beautiful lady, of whom he was jealous.
The ruins are of course haunted by her
restless spirit, and many romantic stories
are told by the aged people of the island
concerning herfatein life, and her appearances
after death.
Note XXXVIH.
And RonMs jiiojintains dark have sent
Their hunters to the shore. — P. 442.
Ronin (popularly called Rum, a name
which a poet may be pardoned for avoiding
if possible) is a verj' rough and mountainous
island, adjacent to those of Eigg and Cannay.
There is almost no arable ground upon it, so
that, except in the plenty of the deer, which
of course are now nearly extirpated, it still
deserves the description bestowed by the
archdean of the Isles. ' Ronin, sixteen
myle north-wast from the ile of Coll, lyes
ane ile callit Ronin lie, of sixteen myle
long, and si.x in bredthe in the narrowest,
ane forest of heigh mountains, and abundance
of little deir in it, quhilk deir will never be
slane dounewith, but the principal saittis
man be in the height of the hill, because the
deir will be callit upwart ay be the tainchell,
or without tynchel they will pass upwart per-
force. In this ile will be gotten about Britane
als many wild nests upon the plane mure as
men pleasis to gadder, and yet by resson the
fowls hes few to start them except deir. This
ile lyes from the west to the eist in lenth, and
pertains to M'Kenabrey of Colla. Many
solan geese are in this ile.' — Monro's De-
sert ption of the If 'cstern Isles, p. 18.
Note XXXIX.
On Scooreigfr ne.xf a warning light
Siimtnon'd/ier zuarriors to thejight;
A nutnerous race, ere stern MacLeod
O'er their bleak shores in 7'engeatice strode,
-P. 44-^.
These, and the following lines of the stanza,
refer to a dreadful tale of feudal vengeance,
of which unfortunately there are relics that
still attest the truth. Scoor-Eigg is a high
peak in the centre of the small Isle of Eigg,
or Egg. It is well known to mineralogists,
as affording many interesting specimens, and
ZH iSorl) of tU 3ef^«.
499
to others whom cliance or curiosit); may lead
to the island, for the astonishing view of the
mainland and nei<(hbouring' isles whicli it
commands. I shall again avail myself of the
journal I have quoted.
' 26/// Aii^^usiy 1814. — At seven this morn-
ing we were in the Sound which divides the
Isle of Rum from that ofEigg. The latter,
although hilly and rocky, and traversed by
a remarkably high and barren ridge, called
Scoor-Rigg, has, in point ofsoil, a much more
promising appearance. Southward of both
lies the Isle of Muich, or Muck, a low and
fertile island, and though the least, yet
probably the most valuable of the three. We
manned the boat, and rowed along the shore
of Egg in quest of a cavern, which had been
the memorable scene of a horrid feudal ven-
geance. We had rounded more than half
the island, admiring the entrance of many
a bold natural cave, which its rocks exhibited,
without finding that which we sought, until
we procured a guide. Nor, indeed, was it
surprising that it should have escaped the
search of strangers, as there are no outward
indications more than might distinguish the
entrance of a fox-earth. This noted cave has
a very narrow opening, through which one
can hardly creep on his knees and hands.
It rises steep and lofty within, and runs into
the bowels of the rock to the depth of 255
measured feet ; the height at the entrance
may be about three feet, but rises within to
eighteen or twenty, and the bre.adth may vary
in the same proportion. The rude and stony
bottom of this cave is strewed with the bones
of men, women, and children, the sad relics
of the ancient inhabitants of the island, 200
in number, who were slain on the following
occasion :— The Mac-Donalds of the Isle of
Kgg, a people dependent on Clan-Ranald,
had done some injury to the Laird of Mac-
Leod. The tradition of the isle says, that it
was by a personal attack on the chieftain,
in which his back was broken. But that of
the other isles bears, more probably, that the
injury was offered to two or three of the Mac-
Leods, who, landing upon Eigg, and using
some freedom with the young women, were
seized by the islanders, bound hand and foot,
and turned adrift in a bo.at, which the winds
and waves safely conducted to Skye. To avenge
the offence given, Mac-Leod sailed with such
a body of men, as rendered resistance hope-
less. The natives, fearing his vengeance,
concealed themselves in this cavern, and, after
a strict search, the Mac-Leods went on board
their galleys, after doing what mischief they
could, concluding the inhabitants had left the
isle, and betaken themselves to the Long
Island, or some of Clan-Ranald's other pos-
sessions. But next morning they espied from
the vessels a man upon the island, and im-
mediately landing again, they traced his
retreat by the marks of his footsteps, a light
snow being unhappily on the ground. Mac-
Leod then surrounded the cavern, summoned
the subterranean garrison, .and demanded
that the individuals who had oft'ended him
should be delivered up to him. This was
peremptorily refused. The chieftain then
caused his people to divert the course of
a rill of water, which, falling over the entrance
of the cave, would have prevented his pur-
posed vengeance. He then kindled at the
entrance ot the cavern a huge fire, composed
of turf and fern, and maintained it with un-
relenting assiduity, until all within were
destroyed by suffocation. The date of this
dreadful deed must have been recent, if one
may judge from the fresh appearance of those
relics. I brought off, in spite of the prejudice
of our sailors, a skull from among the
numerous specimens of mortality which
the cavern afforded. Before re-embarking
we visited another cave, opening to the sea,
but of a character entirely different, being
a large open vault, as high as that of a cathe-
dral, and running back a great way into the
rock at the samit height. The height and
width of the opening gives ample light to the
whole. Here, after 1745, when the Catholic
priests were scarcely tolerated, the priest of
Eigg used to perform the Roman Catholic
service, most of the islanders being of that
persuasion. A huge ledge of rocks rising
about half-way up one side of the vault,
served for altar and pulpit ; and the appear-
ance of a priest and Highland congregation
in such an extraordinary place of worship,
might have engaged the pencil of Salvator.'
Note XL.
that ivojidroiis do?ne,
ll'/ure, as to s/ia»!c the temples deck'd
By skill py earthly architect,
Nature /lersel/, it seem'd, would raise
A Minster to her Maker'' s praise !
-P. 442.
It would be unpardonable to detain the
reader upon a wonder so often described,
and yet so incapable of being understood
by description. This palace of Neptune is
even grander upon a second than the first
view. The stupendous columns which form
the sides of the cave, the depth and strength
of the tide which rolls its deep and heavy
swell up to the extremity of the vault — the
variety of the tints formed b)- white, crimson,
and yellow stalactites, or petrifactions, which
occupy the vacancies between the base of
the broken pillars which form the roof, and
intersect them with a rich, curious, and varie-
gated chasing, occupying each interstice — the
corresponding variety below water, where
the ocean rolls over a dark-red or violet-
coloured rock, from which, as from a base,
the basaltic columns arise — the tremendous
noise of the swelling tide, mingling with the
deep-toned echoes of the vault, — are circum-
stances elsewhere unparalleled.
goo
Qtofee to
Nothinjj can be more, interesting tlian tlie
varied appearance of the little arcliipelay;o of
islets, of which Staffa istliemost remarkable.
This firoup, called in Gaelic Tresharnish,
affords a thousand varied views to the voyager,
as they appear in different positions with refer-
ence to his course. The xarietv of their
shape contributes much to the beauty of
these effects.
Note XLI.
Scenes sting' by /lim iclw sings no more.
-P. 443-
The ballad, entitled 'Macphailof Colonsay,
and the Mermaid of Corrievrekin,' [see
Border Minstrelsy, vol. iv. p. 285,] was com-
fiosed by John Leyden, from a tradition which
le found while making a tour through the
Hebrides about 1801, soon before his fatal
departure for India, where, after having made
farther progress in Oriental literature than
any man of letters who had embraced those
studies, he died a martyr to his zeal for
knowledge, in the island of Java, immediately
after the landing of our forces near Batavia,
in August 181 1.
Note XLII.
Up Tarbal's ivestern lake ihey bore.
Then dragg'd their bark /he isihtnus o'er.
— P- 44.V
The peninsula of Canty re is joined to South
Knapaale by a very narrow isthmus, formed
by the western and eastern Loch of Tarbat.
These two saltwater lakes, or bays, encroach
so far upon the land, and the extremities
come so near to each other, that there is not
above a mile of land to divide them.
' It is not long,' say.s Pennant, ' since vessels
of nine or ten tons were drawn by horses out
of the west loch into that of the east, to
avoid the dangers of the Mull of Cantyre, so
dreaded and so little known was the naviga-
tion round that promontory. It is the opinion
of many, that these little isthmuses, so fre-
quently styled Tarbat in North Britain, took
their name from the above circumstance ;
Tarruing, signifying to draw, and Bate, a
boat. This too might be called, by way of
pre-eminence, the Tarbat, from a very singu-
lar circumstance related by TorfcEus. When
Magnus, the barefooted king of Norway,
obtained from Donald-bane of Scotland the
cession of the Western Isles, or all those
places that could be surrounded in a boat,
ne added to them the peninsula of Cantyre
by this fraud ; he placed himself in the stern
of a boat, held the rudder, was drawn over
this narrow track, anil by this species of
navigation wrested the country trom his
brother monarch.'— PENNANT'S Scotland.
London, 1790, p. 190.
But that Bruce also made this passage,
although at a ceriod two or three years later
than in the poem, appears from the evidence
of Barbour, who mentions also the effect
produced upon the minds of the Highlanders,
from the prophecies current amongst them : —
' Hot to Kiilj; Kol.ert will we gang.
That we hatT left wnspokyn of lang.
<Juhen lie had coiiwoyit to the se
His hrodyr Eduuard, and his menye.
.Vnd othyr men oiT gret noblay.
To Tarbart thai held thair way,
In galayis ordanyt for thair far.
Hot thaim worthyt 1 draw thair schippis thar ;
And a myle wes betuix the seys ;
Hot that wes lompnyt^all with treis.
The King his schippis thar gert 3 draw,
-A.nd for the w>Tid couth < stoutly blaw
Apon thair bak, as thai wald ga.
He gert men rapys and mastis ta.
And set thaim in the schippis Iiey,
.\nd sayllis to the toppis tey ;
.\nd gert men gang thar by drawand.
The wynd thaiin helpyt, that was lilawand :
■Swa that, in a litill space,
Thair flote all our drawin was.
.\nd quhen thai, that in the His war.
Hard tell how the gud King had thar
( iert hys schippis with saillis ga
Owt our betuix [the] Tarbart [is] twa.
Thai war abaysit ^ sa wtrely.
For thai wyst, throw auld prophecy,
That he suld ger '■ schippis sua
lietuix thai seis with saillis ga,
.Suld wyne the Ilis sua till hand,
That naiie with strentli suld him withstand.
Tharfor they come all to the King.
Wes nane withstud his bidding,
Owtakyn ^ Jhone of Lome allayne.
Hot Weill sone eftre wes he tayiie ;
And present rycht to the King.
And thai that war of his leding.
That till the King had brokyn fay «,
A\'ar all dede, and destroyit away.'
Barbour's .5>-»«. Book X. v. 821.
Note XLIII.
The sun, ere yet he sunk behind
Ben-Ghoil, ' the Mountain of the Witid^
Gave his grirn peaks a greeting kind,
And bade Loch Ranca smile. — P. 443.
Loch Ranza is a beautiful bay, on the
northern extremity of .\rran, opening towards
East Tarbat Loch. It is well described by
Pennant: — 'The approach was magnificent;
a fine bay in front, about a mile deep, having
a ruined castle near the lower end, on a low
far projecting neck of land, that forms another
harbour, with a narrow passage ; but within
has three fathom of water, even at the lowest
ebb. Beyond is a little plain watered by
a stream, and inhabited by the people of
a small village. The whole is environed with
a theatre of mountains ; and in the back-
ground the serrated crags of Grianan-Athol
soar above.' — Pennant's Tour to the Wes-
tern Isles, pp. igi-2. Ben-Ghaoil, ' the moun-
tain of the winds,' is generally known by its
English, and less poetical name, ofGoatneld.
1 \\ere obliged to. 2 Laid with trees. 3 Caused.
•1 Could. i Confounded. 6 Make.
J Excepting. B Faitli.
tU Bctb cf t^t ^eke.
501
Note XLIV.
^ac/i to Loch Rama's maygi}i spritig ;
That blast was winded by the King!
-P- 445-
The passage in Barbour, 'describing the
landing of Bruce, and his being recognized
by Douglas and those of liis followers who
had preceded him, by the sound of his horn,
is in the original singularly simple and affect-
ing.— The king arrived in Arran with thirty-
three small row-boats. He interrogated
a female if there had arrived anv warlike
men of late in that country. ' Surely, sir,'
she replied, ' I can tell you of many who
lately came hither, discomfited the English
governor, and blockaded his castleof Brodick.
They maintain themselves in a wood at no
great distance.' The king, truly conceiving
that this must be Douglas and his followers,
who had lately set forth to try their fortune
in Arran, desired the woman to conduct him
to the wood. She obeyed.
' The kinjf then blew his horn on hiyh ;
An<l j;ert his men tliat were him by.
Hold them still, and all privy ;
And s>Tie again his home blew he.
James of Dovvglas heard him blow.
And at the last alone gan know.
And said, "Soothly yon is the king ;
I know long while since his blowing."
The third time therewithal! he blew.
And then Sir Robert Bold it knew ;
And s.iid, "Von is the king, but dread,
Go we forth till him, better speed."
Then went they till the king in hye.
And him inclined courteously.
And blithly welcomed them the king,
And was joyful of their meeting.
And kissed them ; and spearedl syne
How they had fared in hunting?
And they him told all. but lesing2:
Syne laud they God of their meeting.
Syne with the king till his harbourye
AV'ent both joyfu' .and jolly.'
B.\RBOUR'S Bruce, Book W pp. 115-116.
Note XLV.
his brothey blamed.
But shared the weakness, white ashamed ;
With haughty laugh his head he turu'd,
And dash d aivay the tear lie scorti'd.
-P. 446.
The kind, and yet Cerv character of Edward
Bruce, is well painted by Barbour, in the
jiccount of his behaviour after the battle of
Bannockburn. Sir Walter Ross, one of the
■very few Scottish nobles who fell in that
battle, was so dearly beloved by Edward,
that he wished the victory had been lost, so
Ross had lived.
' rjut-taken hira, men has not seen
Where he for any men made moaning.
And here the venerable Archdeacon intimates
a piece of scandal. Sir Edward Bruce, it
1 Asked,
2 Without lying.
seems, loved Ross's sister, par amours, to
the neglect of his own lady, sister to David
de Strathbogie, Earl of Athole. This criminal
passion had evil consequences ; for, in resent-
ment to the affront done to his sister, Athole
attacked the guard which Bruce had left at
Cambuskenneth, during the battle of Ban-
nockburn, to protect his magazine of pro-
visions, and slew Sir William Keith, the
commander. For which treason he was
forfeited.
In like manner, when in a sally from
Carrickfergus, Neil Fleming, and the guards
whom he commanded, haa fallen, after the
protracted resistance which saved the rest of
Edward Bruce's army, he made such moan
as surprised his followers :
* Sic moan he made men had ferly 1,
For he was not customably
Wont for to moan men any thing.
Nor would not hear men make moaning.
Such are the nice traits of character so often
lost in general history.
Note XLV I.
Than heard' St a -wretched female plain
In agony of travail-pain.
And thou didst bid thy little hand
Upon the instant turn and stand.
And dare the worst the foe might do.
Rather than, like a knight untrue,
Leai'e to pursuers merciless
A woman in her last distress— I'. 448.
This incident, which illustrates so happily
the chivalrous generosity of Bruce's charac-
ter, is one of the many simple and natural
traits recorded by Barbour. It occurred
during the expedition which Bruce made to
Ireland, to support the pretensions of his
brother Edward to the throne of that king-
dom. Bruce was about to retreat, and his
host was arrayed for moving.
' The king has heard a woman cry.
He asked what that was in hy2.
" It is the layndarS sir," sai ane.
" That her child-ilM right now has ta'en,
-\nd must leave now behind us here.
Therefore she makes an evil cheer ^."
The king said. "Certes^, it were pity
That she in that point left should be,
For certes I trow there is no man
That he no will rue" a woman than."
His hosts all there arested he.
And gert 8 a tent soon stinted' be.
And gert her gang in hastily,
And other women to be her by.
^\■hile she was delivered he bade ;
And syne forth on his ways rade.
And how she forth should carried be,
< )r he forth Aire 10, ordained he.
This was a full great courtesy.
That swilk a king and so mighty.
Gert his men dwell on this manner,
But for a poor lavender.'
Barbour's Bruce, Book xvi. pp. ^9-40.
1 Wonder.
■1 Child-bed.
S Caused.
2 Haste.
5 .Aspect.
» Pitched,
'" I-aundress.
6 Certainly. * I'ity,
'ii. Moved.
S02
(tioHti io
Note XLVII.
O^er cliasms he f'ass'd, inhere fractures
wide
Craved wary eye and ample stride. — P. 451.
The interior of tlie island of Arran abounds
with beautiful Highland scenery. The hills,
being very rocky and precipitous, afford some
cataracts of great height, though of incon-
siderable breadth. There is one pass over
the river Machrai, renowned for the dilemma
of a poor woman, who, being tempted by the
narrowness of the ravine to step across, suc-
ceeded in making the first movement, but
took fright when it became necessary to move
the other foot, and remained in a posture
equally ludicrous and dangerous, until some
passenger assisted her to extricate herself.
It is said she remained there some hours.
Note XLVIII.
He cross'd his brow beside the stone
Where Druids erst heard victims groan ,*
And at the cairns upon the wi/d,
O'er many a heathen hero piled. — P. 451.
The isle of .\rran, like those of Man and
.'\nglesea, abounds with many relics of
heathen, and probably Druidical, supersti-
tion. There are high erect columnsof unhewn
stone, the most early of all monuments, the
circles of rude stones, commonly entitled
Druidical, and the cairns, or sepulchral piles,
within which are usually found urns enclosing
ashes. Much doubt necessarily rests upon
the history of such monuments, nor is it
possible to consider them as exclusively
Celtic or Druidical. By much the finest
circles of standing stones, excepting Stone-
lienge, are those of Stenhouse, at Stennis, in
the island of Pomona, the principal isle of the
Orcades. These, of course, are neither Celtic
nor Druidical ; and we are assured that many
circles of the kind occur both in Sweden and
Norway.
Note XLIX.
Old Brodick's gothic towers were seen :
From Hastings, late their English lord,
Douglas had won them by the sword.
-P. 45"-
Brodick or Bratlnvick Castle, in the Isle of
Arran, is an ancient fortress, near an open
roadstead called Brodick-Bay, and not far
distant from a tolerable harbour, closed in
by the Island of Lamlash. This important
place had been assailed a short time before
Bruce's arrival in the island. James Lord
Douglas, who accompanied Bruce to his
retreat in Rachrine, seems, in the spring of
1^06, to have tired of his abode there, and set
out accordingly, in the phrase of the times,
to see what adventure God would send him.
Sir Robert Boyd accompanied him ; and his
knowledge of the localities of Arran appears
to have directed his course thither. They
landed in the island privately, and appear to
have laid an ambush for Sir John Hastings,
the English governor of Brodwick, and sur-
prised a considerable supply of arms and
provisions, and nearly took the castle itself.
Indeed, that they actually did so, has been
generally averred by historians, although it
does not appear from the narrative of Barbour.
f)n the contrary, it would seem that they
took shelter within a fortification of the
ancient inhabitants, a rampart called Tor an
Schian. When they were Joined by Bruce,
it seems probable that They had gained
Brodick Castle. At least tradition says,
that from the battlements of the tower he
saw the supposed signal-fire on Turnberry-
nook. The castle is now much modernized,
but has a dignified appearance, being sur-
rounded by flourishing plantations.
Note L.
Off, too, with unaccustomed ears,
A language much untneet he hears.
—P. 451-
Barbour, with great simplicity', gives an
anecdote, from which it would seem that the
vice of profane swearing, afterwards too
general among the Scottish nation, was, at
this time, confined to military men. As
Douglas, after Bruce's return to Scotland,
was roving .about the mountainous country
of Tweeddale, near the water of Line, he
chanced to hear some persons in a farm-house
say ' the devil.'' Concluding, from this hardy
expression, that the house contained warlike
guests, he immediately assailed it, and had
the good fortune to make prisoners Thomas
Randolph, afterwards the famous Earl of
Murray, and Alexander Stuart, Lord Bonkle.
Both were then in the English interest, an<i
had come into that country w ith the purpose
of driving out Douglas. They afterwards
ranked among Bruce's most zealous ad-
herents.
Note LI.
For, see ! the ruddy signal made.
That Clifford, with his jnerry-men all.
Guards carelessly our father's hall.
-P. 45-'-
The remarkable circumstance by which
Bruce was induced to enter Scotland, under
the false idea that a signal-fire was lighted
upon the shore near his maternal castle of
Turnberry — the disappointment which he met
with, and the train of success which arose out
of that very disappointment, are too curious
to be passed over unnoticed. The following
is the narrative of Barbour. Theintroduction
is a favourable specimen of his style, which
tU ^ov^ of iU ^eke.
503
seems to be in some degree the model for that
of Gawain Douglas : —
• This wes in veri, quhen wynter ticl,
Witli his blastis hidwyss to bid,
■V\'as our dry wyn : and byrdis sniale,
As turturis and the nychtyngale,
Bejjouth 2 rycht sariely 3 to syng ;
And for to male in thair sinj^ynjj
Swete notis, and sownys ser ■*,
And melodys plesand to her.
And the treis begouth to nia J
liurgeansfi, and brycht blomys alsun,
To wyn the helynj^' off thair hewid.
That «-ykkyt wyntir had thaim rewids.
And all gressys beguth to spryng.
In to that tyme the nobill king,
^V'ith his flote, and a few menyeS,
Thre hundyr I trow thai niycht be
Is to tile se, owte off Arane
A litiU forouth 10, ewyn gane.
Thai rowit fast, with all thair niycht.
Till that apon thaim fell the nycht.
That woux inyrkii apon grct maner,
Swa that thai wyst nocht cjuliar thai wer
l-'or thai na nediU had, na stane ;
I Jot row y t alwayis in till ane,
Stcrand all tyme apon the fyr.
That thai saw brynnand lycht and sehyr '-
It wes bot auenturi3 thaim led :
And thai in schorl tyme sa thaim sped.
That at the fyr arywyt thai ;
And went to land bot mar delay.
And Cuthbert, that has sene the fyr,
"W'as full off angyr, and off ire :
I-or he durst nocht do it away ;
And wes alsua dowtand ay
That his lord suld pass to se.
Tharfor thair cunimyn waytit he.
And met thaim at thair arywing.
He wes wele sone broucht to the King,
That speo't at him how he had done.
Antl he with sar hart tauld him sone.
How that he fand nane weill luffand ;
Bot all war fayis, that he fand :
And that the lord the 3'ersy.
M'ith ner thre hundre in cumpany,
Was in the castell thar besid,
FuUfillyt off dispyt and prid.
Bot ma than twa partis off his rout
War herberyt in the toune without :
*' And dyspytyt yow mar, Schir King,
Than men may dispyt ony thing."
Than said the King, in full gret ire ;
" Tratour, quhy maid thowthan the f>T?"—
" A I Schyr," said he, "sa God me se I
The fyr wes nevvyr maid for me.
Na, or the nycht, I wyst it nocht ;
Bot fra I wyst it, weill I tliocht
That ye, and haly your menye,
In hyl* suld put yow to the se.
For thi I cum to mete yow her.
To tell perellys that may aper."
The King wes off his spek angry.
And askyt his prywc men, in hy,
Quhat as thaim thoucht wes best to do,
Schyr Edward fryst answert thar to,
Hys brodyr that wes swa hard}-.
And said : " I saw yow sekyrly
Thar sail na perell, that may be,
Dryve me eftsonys'5 to the se.
Mj-ne auentur her tak will I,
Huhethir it be esfull or angry." —
1 Spring. - Began. 3 I.oftily. •! Several.
■'■' Make. "^ Buds. " Covering.
* Bereaved. » Men. 10 Before. n Dark.
'2 Clear. 13 Adventure. H Haste. 15 Soon after
" Brothyr," he said, " sen thou will sua.
It is gude that we samyn ta
Dissese or ese, or payne or play,
Hftyr as God will ws purway 1. "
And sen men sayis that the Persy
Myn heretage will occupy ;
And his menye sa ner ws lyis,
That ws dispytis mony wyss ;
Ga we and wenge 2 sum off the dispylc
-And that may we haiff done alss tite 3 ;
For thai ly traistly 4, but dreding
Off ws, or off our her cummyng.
.\nd thoucht we slepand slew Ihaiin all,
Repruff tharof na man sail.
For werrayour na forss suld ma,
Ouhethir he mycht ourcom his fa
Throw strentli, or throw suteltt- ;
Bot that gud faith ay haldyn be." '
B.\RBOUR's /.V;<a-, Book I\'.
Note LII.
JVJtw ask you zvhcncc thai xiioiidyotis li.^ht.
Whose fairy gloii) beguiled their sight ?
It ne'er was knoiiMi. — P. 454.
The following are the words of an inge-
nious correspondent, to whom I am obliged
for much information respecting Turnberry
and its neighbourhood. ' The only tradition
now remembered of the landing of Robert
the Bruce in Carrick, relates to the fire seen
by him from the Isle of Arran. It is still
generally reported, and religiously believed
by many, that this fire was really the work
of supernatural power, unassisted by the
hand of any mortal being; and it is said
that, for several centuries, the flame rose
yearly on the same hour of the same night
of the year, on which the king first saw it
:from the turrets of Brodick Castle; and
some go so far as to say, that if the exact
time were known, it would be still seen.
That this superstitious notion is very ancient,
is evident from the place where the fire is
said to have appeared, being called the
Bogles' Brae, beyond the remembrance of
man. In support of this curious belief, it is
said that the practice of burning heath for
the improvement of land was then unknown ;
that a spunkie (Jack o'lanthorn) coul<! not
have been seen across the breadth of the
Forth of Clyde, between Ayrshire and Arran ;
and that the courier of Bruce was his kinsman,
and never suspected of treachery.' — Letter
from Mr. Joseph Train, of Newton Stuart,
author of an ingenious Collection of Poems,
illustrative of many ancient Traditions in
Galloway and Ayrshire, Edinburgh, 1814.
[Mr. Train made a journey into Ayrshire at
Sir Walter Scott's request, on purpose to
collect accurate information for the Notes
to this poem ; and the reader will find more
of the fruits of his labours in Note LIV. This
is the same gentleman whose friendly assist-
ance is so often acknowledged in the Notes
and Introductions of the Waverley Novels.]
' I'repare. - -Vvenge. 8 'Juickly. 4 Confidently.
5o'4
(Uofee io
XOTE LIII.
The\' gain' d the Chase, a n'ide domain
Le/t/of the Castle's silvan reign.— V. 455.
The Castle of Tumberry, on the coast of
Ayrshire, was the property of Robert Bruce,
in right of his mother. Lord Hailes mentions
the following remarkable circumstance con-
cerning the mode in which he became pro-
prietor of it : — ' Martha, Countess of Carrick
in her own right, the wife of Robert Bruce,
Lord of Annandale, bare him a son, after-
wards Robert I (nth July, \2-\). The cir-
cumstances of her marriage were singular:
happening to meet Robert Bruce in her
(lomains, she became enamoured of him, and
with some violence led him to her castle
of Turnberr)-. A few days after she married
him, without the knowledge of the relations
of either party, and without the requisite
consent of the king. The king instantly
seized her castle and whole estates : She
aftervvards atoned by a fine for her feudal
delinquency. Little 'did Alexander foresee
that, from' this union, the restorer of the
Scottish monarchy was to arise.' — Atinals
of Scotland, vol. ii. p. 180. The same obliging
correspondent, whom I have quoted in the
preceding note, givesmethefollowingaccount
of the present state of the ruins of Turn-
berry : — ' Turnberry Point is a rock projecting
into the sea; the top of it is about eighteen
feet above high-water mark. Upon this rock
was built the castle. There is about twenty-
five feet high of the wall next to the sea yet
standing. Upon the land-side the wall is
only about four feet high ; the length has
been sixty feet, and the breadth forty-five :
it was surrounded bv a ditch, but that is now
nearly filled up. The top of the ruin, rising
between forty and fifty feet above the water,
has a majestic appearance from the sea.
There is not much local tradition in the vicinity
connected with Bruce or his historj-. In
front, however, of the rock, upon which stands
Culzean Castle, is the mouth of a romantic
cavern, called the Cove of Colean, in which
it is said Bruce and his followers concealed
themselves immediatelv alter landing, till
they arranged matters for their farther enter-
prises. Burns mentions it in the poem of
liallowe'en. The only place to the south
of Tuniberry worth mentioning, with reference
to Bruce's histon,', is the Weary Nuik, a
little romantic green hill, where he and his
party are said to have rested, after assaulting
the castle.'
Around the Castle of Turnberry was a
lexel plain of about two miles in extent,
forming the castle park. There could be
nothing, I am informed, more beautiful than
the copsewood and verdure of this extensive
meadow, before it was invaded by the plough-
•share.
Note LIV.
The Bruce hath won his father's hall!
-P. 459-
I have followed the flattering and pleasing
tradition, that the Bruce, after his descent
upon the coast of Ayrshire, actually gained
possession of his maternal castle. But the
tradition is not accurate. The fact is, that he
was only strong enough to alarm and drive
in the outposts of the English garrison, then
commanded, not by Clifford, as assumed in
the text, but b)- Percy. Neither was Clifford
slain upon this occasion, though he had several
skirmishes with Bruce. He fell afterwards
in the battle of Bannockburn. Bruce, after
alarming the castle of Turnberry, and sur-
prising some part of the garrison, who were
quartered without the walls of the fortress,
retreated into the mountainous part of Carrick,
and there made himself so strong, that the
English were obliged to evacuate Turnberry,
and at length the Castle of Ayr. Many of
his benefactions and royal gifts attest his
attachment to the hereditary followers of
his house, in this part of the country.
It is generally known that Bruce, in con-
sequence of his distresses after the battle of
Methven, was affected by a scorbutic disorder,
which was then called a leprosy. It is said
he experienced benefit from tne use of .a
medicinal spring, about a mile north of the
town of Ayr, called from that circumstance
King's Ease 1. The following is the tradition
of the countn,-, collected by Mr. Train : —
'After Robert ascended the throne, he founded
the priorj- of Dominican monks, everj- one
of whom was under the obligation of putting
up to Heaven a prayer once every week-day,
and twice in holydays, for the recovery of
the king ; and, after his death, these masses
were continued for the saving of his soul.
The ruins of this old monastery are now
nearly level with the ground. Robert like-
wise caused houses to be built round the
well of King's Case, for eight lepers, and
allowed eight bolls of oatmeal, and £,2%
Scotch money, per animm, to each person.
These donations were laid upon the lands
of Fullarton, and are now payable by the
Duke of Portland. The farm of Shie'ls, in
the neighbourhood of Ayr, has to give, if
required, a certain quantitv of straw for the
lepers' beds, and so mucli to thatch their
houses annually. Each leprous person had
a drinking-horn provided him by the king,
which continued to be hereditarv- m the house
to which it was first granted. One of those
identical horns, of very curious workmanship,
was in the possession of the late Colonel
Fullarton of that Ilk.'
My correspondent proceeds to mention
some curious remnants of antiquity respecting
1 Sir Walter .Scott had misread Mr. Train's AIS.,
which gave not King's Ease, but King's Casr,\.i-.
Casa /iegis, the name of the royal foundation described
below. Mr. Train's kindness enabled l.ockhart to
make this correction. — 1833.
ZU ^c>v^ of iU 30f^«.
503
tliis foundation. 'In compliment to Sir
William Wallace, the great deliverer of his
country, King Robert Bruce invested the
descendants of that hero with the right of
placing all the lepers upon the establishment
of King's Case. This patronage continued
in the familj- of Craigie, till it was sold along
with the lands of the late Sir Thomas Wallace.
The burgh of Ayr then purchased the right of
applying the donations of King's Case to the
support of the poordiouse of Ayr. The lepers'
charter stone was a basaltic block, exactly
the shape of a sheep's kidney, and weighing
an Ayrshire boll of meal. The surface of this
stone being as smooth as glass, there was not
any otiier way of lifting it than by turning the
hollow to the ground, there extending the
arms along each side of the stone, and clasping
the hands in the cavity. Young lads were
always considered as deserving to be ranked
among men, when they could lift the blue
stone of King's Case. It always lay beside
the well, till a few years ago, when some
English dragoons encampecl at that place
wantonly broke it, since which the fragments
have been kept by the freemen of Prestwick
in a place of security. There is one of these
charter-stones at the village of Old Daily, in
Carrick, which has become more celebrated
by the following event, which happened only
a few jears ago : — The village of New Daily
being now larger than the old pi ace of the same
name, the inhabitants insisted that the charter-
stone should be removed from the old town
to the new^ but the people of Old Daily were
unwilling to part with their ancient right.
Demancls and remonstrances were made on
each side without effect, till at last man,
woman, and child, of both villages, marched
out ancl by one desperate engagement put an
end to a war, the commencement of which no
person then living remembered. Justice and
victory, in this instance, being of the same
party, the villagers of the old town of Daily
now enjoy the pleasure of keeping the 6/itc-
slaue unmolested. Ideal privileges are often
attached to some of these stones. In Girvan,
ifamancan set his back against one of tin-
above description, he is supposed not liable
to be arrested for debt, nor can cattle, it is
imagined, be poinded as long as they are
fastened to the same stone. That stones were
often used as symbols to denote the right ol
possessing land, before the use of written
documents became general in Scotland is, I
think, exceedingly probable. The charter-
stone of Inverness is still kept with great care,
set in a frame, and hooped with iron, at the
market-place of that town. It is called by the
inhabitants of that district Clack na Couddin.
I think it is very likely that Carey has
mentioned this stone in his poem of Craig
I'haderick. This is only a conjecture, as I
have never seen tliat work. While the famous
marble chair was allowed to remain at Scoon,
it was considered as the charter-stone of the
kingdom of Scotland.'
Note LV.
'' Bring here' he said, 'the Diazersjour,
My noble fathers loved o/yorei— v. 439.
These mazers were large drinking-cups, or
goblets. Mention of them occurs in a curious
inventory of the treasure and jewels of
James III, which will be published, with
other curious documents of antiquity, by my
friend, Mr. Thomas Thomson, D. Register
of Scotland, under the title of 'A Collection
of Inventories, and other Records of the
Royal Wardrobe, Jewel-House,' &c. I copy
the passage in which mention is made of the
mazers, and also of a liabiliment, calleil
' King Robert Bruce's serk,' i.e. shirt, mean-
ing, perhaps, his shirt of mail; although no
other arms are mentioned in the inventory.
It might have been a relic of more sanctified
description, a penance shirt perhaps.
Extract from ' hivcntare of ane Parte of
the Goldaiid Silver conyeita>td iincoiiyeit,
fowellis, and itlher Stuff perteiui/ig to
Umquhile oure Soveraiie J^ords Fader,
that he had in Depots the Tyme of his
Deceis, and that come to the JIandis of
oure Soveraite Lord that 7!0tv is Jt.cccc.
LXXXVIIl.'
'Memorandum fundin in a bandit kist like
a gardeviantl, in the fyrst the grete chcnye-
of gold, contenand sevin score sex linkis.
Item, thre platis of silver.
Item, tuclf salfatis^.
Item, fyftene discheis * ouregilt.
Item, a grete gilt plate.
Item, twa grete bassingis'' ouregilt.
Item, Fouk M.is.VRis, c.m.led King Robert
THE Brocis, with a cover.
Item, a gnle eok maid of silver.
Item, the hede of silver of ane of the coveris
of masar.
Item, a fare dialle'"'.
Item, twa kasis of knyfiis".
Item, a pare of auld kniffis.
Itetn, takin be the smyth that opinnit the
lokkis, in gold fourty demyis.
Item, in Inglys grotis" .... xxiiii. li. and
the said silver given again to the takaris
of hym.
Item, ressavit in the clossat of Davidis tour,
ane haly water-fat of silver, twa boxis,
a cageat tume, a glas with rois-water, a
dosoune of torchis, King Robert Brucis
Serk.'
The real use of the antiquarian's studies
is to firing the minute information which he
collects to bear upon points of history. For
example, in the inventory I have just quoted,
there is given the contents of the black hist,
or chest, belonging to James III, which was
J Garci-vin, or wine-cooler. 2 Chain.
3 Salt-cellars, ancientlv tlie objcLt f>f mcicli curii.iis
workmanship.
1 Dishes. i Basins. « Dial.
" Cases of knives. ' English groats.
5o6
(Uotee ^0
his strong; box, and contained a quantity of
treasun-, in money and jewels, surpassing^
what might have been at the period expected
of 'poor Scotland's gear.' This illustrates
anil authenticates a striking passage in the
history of the house of Douglas, by Hume
of Go'dscroft. The last Earl of Douglas (of
the elder branch) had been reduced to mo-
nastic seclusion in the Abbey of Lindores,
by James II. James III, in his distresses,
would willingly have recalled him to public
life, and made him his lieutenant. ' But he,'
says Godscroft, ' laden with years and old
age, and weary of troubles, refused, saying,
Sir, you have keept mee, and your black
coffer in Sterling, too long, neither of us can
doe you any good : I, because my friends
have forsaken me, and my followers and
<!ependers are fallen from me, betaking
themselves to other masters ; and your
black trunk is too farre from you, and your
enemies are between you and it : or (as
others say) because there was in it a sort of
black coyne, that the king had caused to be
coyned by the advice of his courtiers ; which
moneyes (saith he) sir, if you had put out at
the first, the people would have taken it ;
and if you had employed mee in due time
I might have done you service. But now
there is none that will take notice of me, nor
meddle with your money.'— HUME's History
of the House of Douglas, fol. Edin. 1644,
p. 206.
Note LVI.
Arouse old friends, and gather new.
—P. 460.
As soon as it was known in Kyle, .says
ancient tradition, that Robert Bruce liad
landed in Carrick, with the intention of
recovering the crown of Scotland, the Laird
of Craigie, and forty-eight men in his im-
mediate neighbourhood, declared in favour
of their legitimate prince. Bruce granted
them a tract of land, still retained by the
freemen of Newton to this day. The original
charter was lost when the pestilence was
raging at Ayr; but it was renewed by one
of the Jameses, and is dated at Faulkland.
The freemen of Newton were formerly officers
by rotation. The Provost of Ayr at one time
w'as a freeman of Newton, and it happened
to hf. his turn, while provost in Ayr, to be
officer in Newton, both of which offices he
discharged at the same time.
The forest of Selkirk, or Ettrick, at this
period, occupied all the district which retains
that denomination, and embraced the neigh-
bouring dales of Twecddale, and at least the
Upper 'Ward of Clydesdale. All that tract
was probably as waste as it is mountainous,
and covered with the remains of the ancient
Galedonian Forest, which is supposed to
have stretched from Cheviot Hills as far as
Hamilton, and to have comprehended even
a part of Ayrshire. At the fatal battle of
Falkirk, Sir John Stewart of Bonkill, brother
to the Steward of Scotland, commanded the
archers of Selkirk Forest, who fell around
the dead body of their leader. The English
historians have commemorated the tall and
stately persons, as will as the unswerving
faith, of these foresters. Nor has their in-
teresting fall escaped the notice of an elegant
modern poetess, whose subject led her to
treat of that calamitous engagement.
■ Tlie gl.ince of the morn had sp.irkled bright
( )n their plumage green and their actons light ;
The bugle was strung at each hunter's side,
As they had been bound to the chase to ride ;
But the bugle is mute, and the shafts are spent.
The arm imnerved and the bow unbent.
And the tired forester is laid
I-\ar, far from the clustering greenwood shade I
Sore have they toil'd— they are fallen asleep,
And their slumber is heavy, and dull, and deep !
When over their bones the grass shall wave,
When the wild winds over their tombs shall rave,
Memory shall lean on their graves, and tell
llow .Selkirk's hunters bold around old Stewart
fell ! '
// 'allace, or the Fiirht o/Faikirk, by Miss
HOLFORD. Lond. 4to, 1809, pp. 170-1.
Note LVII.
H 'hen Bruce'' s banner had victorious flow'' d
O'er Loudoun's mountain, and in Ury's
vale. — P. 4fc.
The first important advantage gained \iy
Bruce, after landing at Turnberr)- was over
Aymer dc Valence, Earl of Pembroke, the
same by whom he had been defeated near
Methve'n. They met, as has been said, by
appointment, at Loudonhill, in the west of
Scotland. Pembroke sustained a defeat ; and
from that time Bruce was at the head of
a considerable flying army. Yet he was
subsequently obliged to retreat into Aber-
deenshire, and was there assailed by Comyn,
Earlof Buchan, desirous to avenge the death
of his relative, the Red Coinyn, and sup-
ported by a body of English troons under
Philip de Moubray. Bruce was ill at the
time of a scrofulou.s disorder, but took horse
to meet his enemies, although obliged to be
.supported on either side. He was victorious,
anci it is said that the agitation of his spirits
restored his health.
Note LVIII.
When English blood oft deluged Douglas-
dale. — P. 460.
The 'good Lord James of Douglas,' during
these commotions, often took from the
ICnglish his own castle of Douglas, but being
unable to garrison it, contented himself with
<lestroying the fortifications, and retiring into
the mountains. Asa reward to his patriotism,
it is said to have been prophesied, that how
often soever Douglas Castle should be de-
stroyed, it should always again arise more
ZH ;Soti of tU ^efee.
507
magnificent from its ruins. I'pon one of
theseoccasionsheusedfearful cruelty, causing
all the store of provisions, which the English
had laid up in his castle, to be heaped
together, liursting the wine and beer casks
among the wheat and tlour, slaughtering the
cattle upon the same spot, and upon the top
of the whole cutting the throats of the Englisli
prisoners. This pleasantry of the 'good Lord
James ' is commemorated under the name of
the Douglases Larder. A more pleasing
tale of chivalrj- is recorded by Godscroft. —
'By this means, and such other exploits, he
so affrighted the enemy, that it was counted
a matter of great jeopardie to keep this
castle, which began to be called the advert-
Uirotis (or hazardous) Castle of Douglas ;
whereupon Sir John Walton being in suit of an
English lady, she wrote to him, that when he
haclkept the adventurous Castle of liouglas
seven years, then he might think himself
worthy to be a suitor to her. Upon this
occasion Walton took upon him the keeping
of it, and succeeded to Thruswall, but he
ran the same fortune with the rest that were
before him. For Sir James, having first
ilressed an ambuscado near unto the place,
he made fourteen of his men take so manv
sacks, and fill them with grass, as though ft
had been corn, which they carried in the way
to l^anark, the chief market town in that
county : so hoping to draw forth the captain
I)y that bait, and either to take him or the
castle, or both. Neither was this expectation
frustrated, for the captain did bite, and came
forth to have taken this victual {as he sup-
posed). But ere he could reach these carriers,
Sir James, with his company, liad gotten
between the castle and him ; and these dis-
guised carriers, seeing the captain following
after them, did quickly cast off their sacks,
mounted tliemselves on horseback, and met
the captain with a sharp encounter, being so
much the more amazed, as it was unlooKed
for: wherefore, when he saw these carriers
metamorphosed into warriors, and ready to
assault him, fearing that which was, that
there was some train laid for them, he
turned about to have retired to his castle,
but there he also met with his enemies;
between which two companies he and his
whole followers were slain, so that none es-
caped : the captain afterwards beingsearched,
they found (as it is reported) his mistress's
letter about him.'— Hume's History of the
House of Douglas, fol. pp. 29-30 1
Note LIX.
And fiery Edward routed stout St. fohu.
—P. 460.
'John de St. John, with 15,000 horsemen,
ban advanced to oppose the inroad of the
Scots. By a forced march he endeavoured
1 This is the fuundation of the Author's last
ruiu.ince, Castln Daaj^t-rDiis. —I.OCK.HAK.T.
to surprise them, but intelligence of his
motions was timeously received. The courage
of Edward Bruce, approaching to temerity,
frequently enabled him to achiive what men
of more juiiicious valour would never have
attempteil. He ordered the infantry, and
the meaner sort of his army, to intrench
themselves in strong narrow ground. He
himself, with fifty horsemen well harnesse(i,
issued forth under cover of a thick mist, sur-
prised the English on their march, attacked
and dispersed them.' — DALRVMPLE's^«;/«/,r
of Scot/and. Edinburgh, quarto, 1779, p. 25.
Note LX.
Ii7ie>! Randolph's zvarcry su'eli'd the
southern gale. — 1'. 4(xi.
Thomas Randolph, Bruce's sister's son,
a renowned Scottish chief, was in the early
part of his life not more remarkable tor
consistency than Bruce himself. He espoused
his uncle's party when Bruce first assumed
the crown, and was made prisoner at the
fatal battle of Methven, in which his relative's
hopes appeared to be ruined. Randolph ac-
cordingly not only submitted to the English,
but took an active part against Bruce;
appeared in arms against him ; and, in the
skirmish where he was so closely pursued by
the bloodhound, it is said his nephew took his
standard with his own hand. But Randolph
was afterwards made prisoner by Douglas in
Tweeddale, and brought before King Robert.
Some harsh languagewas exchanged between
the uncle and nephew, and the latter was
committed for a time to close custody.
Afterwards, however, they were reconciled,
and Randolph was created F^arl of Moray
about 1312. After this period he eminently
distinguished himself, first by the surprise
of Edinburgh Castle, and afterwards by
many similar enterprises, conducted with
equal courage and ability.
Note LXI.
Stirling'' s towers,
Beleaguer'' d by King Robert's poxvers ;
And they took term of truce. — P. 461.
When a long train of success, active!}
improved by Robert Bruce, had made him
master of almost all Scotland, Stirling Castle
continued to hold out. The care of the
blockade was committed by the king to his
brother Edward, who concluded a treaty
with Sir Philip Mowbray, the governor, that
he should surrender tlie fortress, if it were
not succoured by the King of England before
St. John the Baptist's day. The Kingseverely
blamed his brother for the impolicy ot a treaty,
which gave time to the King of England to
advance to the relief of the castle with all his
assembled forces, and obliged himself either
to meet them in battle with an inferior force, or
to retreat with dishonour. ' Let all England
come,' answered the reckless Edward; 'wc
5o8
(Uefee to
will fight them were the}- more.' The con-
sequence was, of course, that each kingdom
mustered its strength for the expected battle;
and as the space agreed upon reached from
Lent to Miclsummer, full time was allowed
for that purpose.
Note LXII.
Zb stnntnon prince atid peer.
At Berwick-bounds to meet their Lie^e.
—P. 461.
There is printed in Rymcr's Faedera the
summons issued upon this occasion to the
sheriff of York ; and he mentions eighteen
other persons to whom similar ordinances
were issued. It seems to respect the infantry
alone, for it is entitled, De pcditibns ad
recussitni Castri de Stryveliti a Scot is
oisessi, properare facieitdis. This circum-
stance is also clear from the reasoning of the
writ, which states; ' \\'e have understood
that our Scottish enemies and rebels are
endeavouring to collect as strong a force as
possible of infantry, in strong and marshy
grounds, where the approacli of cavalry
would be liifficult, between us and the castle
of Stirling.' —It then sets forth Mowbray's
agreement to surrender the castle, if not
relieved before St. John the Baptist's day,
and the king's determination, with divine
grace, to raise the siege. 'Therefore,' the
summons further bears, 'to remove our said
enemies and rebels from such places as above
mentioned, it is necessary for us to have
a strong force of infantry fit for arms.' And
accordingly the sheriff of V'ork is commanded
to equip and send forth a body of four
thousand infantry, to be assemblc<l at Werk,
upon the tenth day of June first, under pain
of the royal displeasure, &c.
Note LXIII.
And Cambria, but of /ate subdued.
Sent forth her mountain-multitude.
—P. 461.
Edward the First, with the usual policy of
a conqueror, employed the Welsh, whom he
had subdued, to assist him in his Scottish
wars, for which their habits, as mountaineers,
particularly fitted them. But this policy was
not without its risks. Previous to the battle
of Falkirk, the Welsh quarrelled with the
English men-at-arms, an(l after bloodshed on
both parts, separated themselves from his
army, and the feud between them, at so
dangerous and critical a juncture, was recon-
ciled with ilitficulty. Edward II followed
his father's example in this particular, and
with no better success. They could not be
brought to exert themselves in the cause of
their conquerors. But they had an indif
ferent reward for their forbearance. Witiiout
arms, and clad only m scanty dresses of
linen cloth, they appeared naked in the eyes
even of the Scottish peasantry ; and after
the rout of Bannockburn, were massacred
by them in great numbers, as they retired
in confusion towards their own country. They
were under command of Sir Maurice de
Berkelej'.
Note LXIV.
And ConnoglU poured from ivaste and
■wood
Her hundred tribes, whose sceptre rude
Dark Eth O' Connor smay^d. — P. 461.
There is in the Fivdcra an invitation to
Eth O'Connor, chief of the Irish ofConnaught,
setting forth that the king was about to move
against his Scottish rebels, and therefore
requesting the attendance of all the force he
could inuster, either commanded by himself
in person, or by some nobleman of^his race.
These auxiliaries were to be commanded by
Richard de Burgh, Earl of Ulster. Similar
mandates were issued to the following Irish
chiefs, whose naines may astonish the un-
learned, and amuse the antiquary.
' Eth O Donnuld, Duci Hibernicorum de
Tyconil ;
Demod O Kahan, Duci Hibernicorum de
Fernetrew ;
Doneval O Neel, Duci Hibernicorum de
Tryowyn ;
Neel Macbreen, Duci Hibernicorum de
Kynallewan ;
Eth. Offyn, Duci Hibernicorum de Turtery;
Admely'Mac Anegus, Duci Hibernicorum
de Onehagh ;
Neel O Hanlan, Duci Hibernicorum de
Erthere ;
Bien Mac Mahun, Duci Hibernicorum de
Uriel;
Lauercagh Mac Wyr, Duci Hibernicorum
de Lougherin ;
Gillys O Railly, Duci Hibernicorum de
Bresfeny ;
Geffrey O Fergy, Duci Hibernicorum de
Montiragwil ;
I'elyn O Honughur, Duci Hibernicorum de
Connach ;
Donethuth O Bien, Duci Hibernicorum de
Tothmund ;
Dermod Mac Arthy, Duci Hibernicorum
de Dessemound ;
Denenol Carbragh ;
Maur. Kenenagh Mac Murgli ;
Murghugh O Bryn ;
David O Tothvill ;
Dermod O Tonoghur, Doffaly ;
Fyn O Dvmsy ;
Souethuth Mac Gillephatrick ;
Eyssagh O Morth ;
Gilbertus Ekelly, Duci Hibernicorum de
Omany ;
Mac Ethelau;
Omalan Helyii, Duci Hibernicorum Miilie.'
Rvmer's Faedera, vol. iii. pp. 47<'i 477-
ZU &OVl of iU 36f^6.
509
Note LXV.
Tlieir chief, FitaLouis.—V. 463.
Fitz-Louis, or Mac-Louis, otiicrwise called
Fullarton, is a family of ancient descent in
the Isle of Arran. They are said to be of
French origin, as the name intimates. They
attached themselves to Bruce upon his first
landing ; and Fergus Mac- Louis, or Fullarton,
received from the grateful monarch a charter,
dated 26th November, in the second year of
his reign (1307), for the lands of Kilmichel,
and others, which still remain in this very
ancient and respectable family.
Note LXVI.
hi haiiles four beneath their eye,
The forces of King Robert lie. — P. 463.
The arrangements adopted by King Robert
for the decisive battle of Bannockburn are
fjiven very distinctly by Barbour, and form
an edifying lesson to tacticians. Yet, till
commented upon by Lord Hailes, this im-
portant passage of history has been generally
and strangely misunderstood by historians.
I will here endeavour to detail it fully.
Two days before the battle, Bruce selected
the field of action, and took post there with
his army, consisting of about 30,cxx) dis-
ciplined men, and about half the number of
ilisorderly attendants upon the camp. The
ground was called the New Park of Stirling ;
it was partly open, and partly broken by
copses of wood and marshy ground. He
divided his regular forces into four divisions.
Three of these occupied a front line, separated
from each other, yet sufficiently near for the
purpose of communication. The fourth divi-
sion formed a reserve. The line extended in
a north-easterly direction from the brook
of Bannock, which was so rugj^ed and broken
as to cover the right flank effectually, to the
village of Saint Ninian's, probably in the line
of the present road from Stirlinjr to Kilsyth.
Edward Bruce commanded the right wing,
which was strengthened by a strong body
of cavalry under Keith, the Mareschal of
Scotland, to whom was committed the im-
portant charge of attacking the English
archers ; Douglas, and the young Steward
of Scotland, led the central wing; and
Thomas Randolph, Earl of Moray, the left
wing. The King himself commanded the
fourth division, which lay in reserve behinil
the others. The royal standard was pitched,
according to tradition, in a stone, having a
round hole for its reception, and thence called
the Bore-stone. It is still shown on the top
of a small eminence, called Brock's-brae, to
the south-west of Saint Ninian's. His main
body thus disposed, King Robert sent the
followers of the camp, fifteen thousand and
upwards in number, to the eminence in rear
of his army, called from that circumstance
the Gillies' ( i.e. the servants') Hill.
The military advantages of this position
were obvious. The Scottish left Hank, pro-
tected by the brook of Bannock, could not
be turned ; or, if that attempt were made,
a movement b)' the reserve might have
covered it. Again, the English could not
pass the Scottish army, anu move towards
Stirling, without exposing their flank to be
attacked while in march.
If, on the other hand, the Scottish line had
been drawn up east and west, and facing to
the southward, as affirmed by Buchanan, and
adopted by Air. Nimmo, the author of the
History of Stirlingshire, there appears nothing
to have prevented the English approaching
upon the carse, or level ground, from Falkirk,
either from turning the Scottish left flank,
or from passing their position, if they pre-
ferred it, without coming to an action, and
moving on to the relief of Stirling. And the
Gillies' Hill, if this less probable hypothesis
be adopted, would be situated, not in the
rear, as allowed by all the historians, but
upon the left flank of Bruce's army. The
only objection to the hypothesis above laid
down, i.s, that the left flank of Bruce's army
was thereby exposed to a sally from the
garrison of Stirling. But, first, the garrison
were bound to neutrality by terms of
Mowbray's treaty ; and Barbour even seems
to censure, as a bleach of faith, some secret
assistance which they rendered their country-
men upon the eve of bat tie, in placing temporary
bridges of doors and spars over the pools of
water in the carse, to enable them to advance
to the charge 1. Secondly, had this not been
the case, tlie strength of the garrison was
probably not sufficient to excite apprehension.
Thirdly, the adverse hypothesis leaves the
rear of the Scottish army as much exposed
to the Stirling garrison, as the left flank
would be in the case supposed.
It only remains to notice the nature of the
ground in front of Bruce's line of battle.
Being part of a park, or chase, it was con-
siderably interrupted with trees ; and an
extensive marsh, still visible, in some places
rendered it inaccessible, and in all of difficult
approach. More to the northward, where
the natural impediments were fewer, Bruce
fortified his position against cavalry, by
digging a number of pits so close together,
says IJarbour, as to resemble the cells in
a honeycomb. They were a foot in breadth,
and between two and three feet deep, many
rows of them being placed one behind the
other. They were slightly covered with
brushwood and green sods, so as not to be
obvious to an impetuous enemy.
All the Scottish army were on foot, ex-
cepting a select body of cavalry stationed
1 An assistance which (by the way) could not have
heen rendered, had not the EngUsh approached from
the south-east ; since, liad their inarch been due north,
the whole Scottish army must have been between
them and the garrison.
5IO
(IXoHe io
with Edward Bruce on the right wing, under
the immediate command of Sir Robert Keith,
the Marshal of Scotland, who were destined
for the important service of cliarging and
dispersing the English archers.
Thus judiciously posted, in a situation
fortified both byart and nature, Bruceawaited
the attack of the English.
Note LXVII.
Beyond^ the Southern host appears.
-P. 463.
Upon tlie 23rd June, 1314, the alarm
reached the Scottish army of the appro.acli of
the enemy. Douglas and the Marshal were
sent to reconnoitre with a body of cavalry ;
* And soon the great host have tliey seen,
Where shields shining were so slieen,
And basinets burnished bright,
That gave against the sun great light.
They saw so fele I brawdyne 2 lianers,
Standards and pennons and spears
And so fele knights upon steeds,
All flaming in their weeds.
And so fele bataills, and so broad,
And too so great room as they rode.
That the niaist host, and the stoutest
Of Christendom, and the greatest,
Should be abaysit for to see
Their foes into such quantity.'
The liruce, vol. ii. p. m.
The two Scottish commanders were cautious
in the account which they brought back to
their camp. To the king in private they
told the formidable state of the enemy ; but
in public reported that the English were
indeed a numerous host, but ill commanded,
and worse disciplined.
Note LXVIII.
With these the valiant of the Isles
Beneath their chieftains ranked their files.
-P. 463.
The men of Argyle, the islanders, and tlie
Higldanders in general, were ranked in the
rear. They must have been numerous, for
Bruce had reconciled himself with almost all
tlieir chieftains, excepting the obnoxious
MacDougals of Lorn. The following deed,
containing the submission of the potent Earl
of Ross to the King, was never before pub-
lislied. It is dated in the third year of
Robert's reign, that is, 1309.
' Obligacio Comitis Rossensis per Hom.v
GiUM Fiuei.itatem et Scriptum.
' Universis christi fidelibus ad (juorum noti-
clam presentes litere peruenerint Willielmus
Comes de Ross salutem in domino sempiter-
nam. Quia inagnificus princeps Doniinus
1 Many. a Displaye.l.
Robertus dei gracia Rex Scottorum Doininus
meus ex innata sibi bonitate, inspirataque
clemencia, et gracia speci.ili remisit michi
pure rancorem animi sui, et relaxauit ac con-
donauit michi omnimodas transgressiones
seu offensas contr.a ipsum et suos per me et
nieos vsque ad confeccionem literarum pre-
sencium perpetratas : Et terras nieas et
tenementa mea omnia graciose concessit.
Et me nichilominus de terra de Dingwal et
ferncroskry infra comitatum de .Suthyrland
de benigna liberalitate sua heriditarie in-
feodare curauit. Ego tantam principis
beneuolenciam efficaciter attendens, et pro
tot graciis michi factis, vicem sibi gratitudinis
meis pro viribus de cetero digne .... vita
cupiens exhibere, subicio et obligo me et
heredes meos et homines meos vniuersos
dicto Domino ineo Regi per omnia ....
erga suam regiam dignitatem, quod eriinus
de cetero fideles sibi et heredibus suis et
fidele sibi seruicium auxilium et concilium
.... contra omnes homines et feminas qui
vivere poterint aut mori, et super h . . .
Ego Willielmus pro me .... hominibus
meis vniuersis dicto domino meo Regi
. . . . manibus homagium sponte feci et
super dei ewangelia sacramentum prestiti
. . . . In quorum omnium testimonium
sigillum nieum, et sigilla Hugonis fdii et
heredis et Johannis filii mei vna cum sigillis
venerabilium patrum Dominorum Dauid et
Thome Moraviensis et Rossensis dei gracia
episcoporum presentibus I iteris sunt appensa.
Acta scripta et data apud Aldern in Morauia
vltimo die mensis Octobris, Anno Regni
dicti domini nostri Regis Robert! Tertio.
Testibus venerabilibus patribus supradictis,
Domino Bernardo Canccllario Regis, Domi-
nis Willielmode Haya, Johannede Striuelyn,
Willielmo Wysman, Johanne de Ffenton,
Dauid de Berkeley, et Waltero de Berkeley
militibus, magistro Waltero Heroc, Decano
ecclesie Morauie, magistro Willielmo de
Creswel eiusdem ecclesie precentore et inultis
aliis nobilibus clericis et laicis dictis die et
loco congregatis.'
The copy of this curious document was
supplied by my friend, Mr. Thomson, Deputy
Register of Scotland, whose researches into
our ancient records are daily throwing new
and important light upon the history of the
country.
Note LXIX.
The Monarch rode along the vaj:. — P. 464.
The English vanguard, commanded by the
Earls of Gloucester and Hereford, came in
sight of the Scottish army upon the evening
of the 23rd of June. Bruce was then riding
upon a little palfrey, in front of his foremost
line, putting his host in order. It was then
that the personal encounter took place
betwixt him and Sir Henry de Bohun, a
gallant English knight, the issue of which
ZH &ovl of (U Jefee.
5"
had a great effect upon the spirits of both
armies. It is thus recorded by Barbour : —
' And iiuhen Glosyster and Herfurd w.ir
^\'ith thair bataill, approchand ner,
licfor tliaim all thar come rydand,
^Vith helm on held, and sper in hand,
Scliyr Henry the Boune, the worthi,
That wes a wycht knycht, and a hardy ;
And to the Erie off Herfurd cusyne
Armyt in annys gud and fyne ;
Come on a sted, a bow schote ner,
Befor all othyr that thar wer :
And knew the King, for that he saw
Him swa rang his men on raw ;
And by the croune, that wes set
Alsua apon his bassynet.
And towart him he went in hy.
And [quhen] the King sua apertly
Saw him cum, forouth all his feris J,
In hy Still him the hors he steris.
And quhen Schyr Henry saw the King
Cum on, for owtyn abaysing-J,
Till him he raid in full gret hy.
He thoucht that he suld wciU lychtly
Wyn him, and haf him at his will,
Sen he him horsyt saw sa ill.
Sprent^ thai samyn in till a ling^.
Schyr Henry niyssit the noble King,
And he, that in his sterapys stud,
With the ax that wes hard and gud.
With sa gret mayneS racht him a dynt,
Tliat nothyr hat, na helm, mycht stynt.
The hewy7 duscheS that he him gave.
That ner the held till the harynys clave.
The hand ax schaft fruschit^ m twa ;
And he doune to the erd gan ga
All flatlynyslO, for him faillyt mycht.
This wes the fryst strak off the fycht.'
Barbour's Bruce, Book vni. v. 684.
The Scottish leaders remonstrated with the
Kin^ upon his temerity. He only answered,
' I have broken my good battle-axe.' — The
English vanguard retreated after witnessing
this single combat. Probably their generals
did not think it advisable to hazard an attack
while its unfavourable issue remained upon
their minds.
Note LXX.
' What train of dust, with trumpet sound
A ndglim mering spea rs, is whcelitig rou nd
Our leftward Jiank}^ — P. 466.
While the van of the English army ad-
vanced, a detached body attempted to
relieve Stirling. Lord Hailes gives the
following account of this manoeuvre and the
result, which is accompanied by circum-
stances highly characteristic of the chivalrous
manners of the age, and displays that
generosity which reconciles us even to their
ferocity upon other occasions.
Bruce had enjoined Randolph, who com-
manded the left wing of his army, to be
vigilant in preventing any advanced parties
oAhe English from throwing succours into
the castle of Stirling.
' Eight hundred horsemen, commanded by
1 Comrades.
< Spurred.
• Heav)'.
2 Haste. 3 Without shrinking.
5 Line. s Strength, or force.
» Clash. 9 Broke. 10 Flat.
Sir Robert Clifford, were detached from the
English army ; they made a circuit by the
low grounds to the east, and approached the
castle. The King perceived their motions,
and, coming up to Randolph, angrily ex-
claimed, "Thoughtless man! you have
suffered the enemy to pass." Randolph
hasted to repair his fault, or perish. As ne
advanced, the English cavalry wheeled to
.attack him. Randolph drew up his troops
in a circular form, w ith their spears resting
on the ground, and protended on every side.
At the tirst onset. Sir William Daynecourt,
an English commander of distinguished note,
was sT.iin. The enemy, far superior in
numbers to Randolph, environed him, and
pressed hard on his little band. Douglas
saw his jeopardy, and requested the King's
permission to go and succour him. "You
shall not move from your ground," cried
the King; "let Randolph extricate him-
self as he best may. I will not alter my
order of battle, and lose the advantage of
my position." — " In truth," replied Douglas,
"I cannot stand by and see Randolph perish ;
and, therefore, with your leave, I must aid
him." The King unwillingly consented,
and Douglas flew to the assistance of his
friend. While approaching, he perceived
that the English were falling into disorder,
and that the perseverance of Randolph had
prevailed over their impetuous courage.
"Halt," cried Douglas, "those brave men
h.ave repulsed the enemy ; let us not diminish
their glory by sharing it." '^DALRYMpr.E's
Annals of Scotland. 4to, Edinburgh, 1779,
PP- 44-45-
Two large stones erected at the north end
of the village of Newhouse, about a quarter
of a mile from the south part of Stirling,
ascertain the place of this memorable skir-
mish. The circumstance tends, were con-
firmation necessary, to support the opinion
of Lord Hailes, that the Scottish line had
Stirling on its leift (lank. It will be remem-
bered, that Randolph commanded infantry,
Daynecourt cavalry. Supposing, therefore,
according to the vulgar hypothesis, that the
Scottish line was drawn up, facing to the
south, in the line of the brook of Bannock,
and consequently that Randolph was
stationed with his left flank resting upon
Milntown bog, it is morally impossible that
his infantry, moving from that position, with
whatever celerity, could cut off from Stirling
a body of cavalry who had already passed
St. Ninian's', or, in other words, were already
between them and the town. Whereas, sup-
posing Randolph's left to have approached
St. Ninian's, the short movement to New-
house could easily be executed, so as to
intercept the English in the manner de-
scribed.
1 Barbour says expressly, they avoided the Ne
Park (where Bruce's army lay), and held ' well neai
tlie Kirk,' which can only mean St. Ninian's.
512
(Uofee (o
Note LXXI.
Rcs(>o>isiz'efroj}i the Scollish /wsf,
Pipe-clang and bii^lc-soitnd 'Mere tess'd.
-P. 467.
There is an old tradition, that the well-
known Scottish tune of ' Hey, tutti taitti,'
was Bruce's inarch at the battle of Bannock-
burn. The late Mr. Ritson, no jjranter of pro-
positions, doubts whether the Scots had any
martial music, and quotes Froissart's account
of each soldier in the host bearing; a little
liorn, on which, at the onset, thev would
make such a horrible noise, as if all the
devils of hell had been among them. He
observes, that these horns are the only music
mentioned by Barbour, and concludes, that
it must remain a moot point whether Bruce's
army were cheered by the sound even of a
solitary bagjpipe. — Historical Essay prefixed
io Ritsnii's Scottish Songs. — It may be
observed in passing, that the Scottish of this
period certainly observed some musical
cadence, even in winding their horns, since
Bruce was at once recognized by his followers
from liis mode of blowing. See Note XLIV
on Canto IV. But the tradition, true or fals(;,
has been the means of securing to Scotland
one of the finest lyrics in the language, the
celebrated war-song of Burns, — ' Scots, wha
liae wi' Wallace bled.'
Note LXXI I.
Now onward, and in open view.
The countless ranks oj England drew.
-P. 467.
Upon the 24th of June, the English army
advanced to the attack. The narrowness of
the Scottish front, and the nature of the
ground, did not permit them to have the full
advant.age of their numbers, nor is it very
easy to find out what was their proposed
order of battle. The vanguard, however,
appeared a distinct boily, consisting of
archers and spearmen on foot, and com-
manded, as alrea<ly said, by the Earls of
Gloucester and Hereford. Barbour, in one
place, mentions that they formed nine
li.\TTI,ES or divisions ; but from the following
passage, it appears that there was no room
or space for them to extend themselves, so
that, except the vanguard, the whole army
appeared to form one solid and compact
body ; — ■
'The English men, on either party,
That as angels slione brightly,
Were not array'd on such manner ;
For all tlieir battles samyn 1 were
In a schiltrum2. But whether it was
1 Together.
2 Sih:!tyu»i.—T\us word has been variously limited
or extended in its signification. In general, it seems
to imply a large body of men drawn up very closely
together. But it has been limited to imply a roun.l
Through the great straitness of the place
That they were in, to bide fighting ;
' ir that it was for abaysingl ;
T wete not. But in a schiltrum
It seemed they were all and some ;
t1ut ta'en the vaward anerly2.
That right with a great company.
Be them selwyn, arrayed were.
Who had been by, might have seen there
That folk ourtake a niekill feild
On breadth, where many a shining shield.
And many a burnished bright armour.
Anil many a man of great valour.
Might in that great schiltrum be seen:
And many a bright banner and sheen.'
B.\RBOUR'S Bruce, vol. ii. p. 137.
Note LXXI II.
See where yon barefoot Abbot stands.
And blesses them with lifted hands!
-P. 467.
' Maurice, abbot of Incliaffray, placing him-
self on an eminence, celebrated mass in
sight of the Scottish army. He then passed
along the front barefooted, and bearing a
crucifix in his hands, and exhorting the
Scots, in few and forcible words, to combat
for their rights and their liberty. The Scots
kneeleddown. "They yield," cried Edward;
"see, they iinplore mercy." — "They do,"
answered Ingelram de tJmfraville, "but
not ours. On that field they will be victori-
ous, or die." — Atnials of Scotland, vol. ii.
p. 47.
Note LXXIV.
'Forth, Marshal! on the peasant foe!
It 'e 'II tame the terrors of their bow.
And cut the bow-string loose ! ' — P. 468.
The English archers commenced the attack
with their usual bravery and dexteritj'.
But against a force, whose importance he
had learned by fatal experience, Bruce was
provided. A small but select body of
cavalry were detached from the right, under
comtnand of Sir Robert Keitli. They
rounded, as I conceive, the marsh called
Milntown bog, and, keeping the firm ground,
charged the left (lank and rear of the English
archers. As the bowmen had no spears nor
or circular body of men so drawn up. I cannot under-
stand it with this limitation in the present case. The
schiltrum of the Scottish army at Falkirk was un-
doubtedly of a circular form, in order to resist the
attacks of the English cavalry, on whatever quarter
they might be charged. But it does not appear how,
or why, the English, advancing to the attack at
Bannockburn, should have arrayed themselves in a
circular form. It seems more probable, that, by
sclultriim in the present case, Barbour means to
express an irregular mass into which the English
army was compressed by the unwieldiness of its
numbers, and the carelessness or iq;norance of its
leaders.
1 Frightening. 2 .Mnne.
ZH Bovi of tU >fe0.
513
lonfj weapons fit to defend themselves against
horse, tliev were instantly thrown into dis-
order, and spread through the whole English
army a confusion from which they never
fairly recovered.
■The Inglis archeris schot sa fast,
That mycht thair schot haff ony last,
It had bene hard to Scottis men.
Bot King Robert, that wele gan ken 1
That thair archeris war peralouss.
And thair schot rycht hard and grewouss,
Ordanyt, forouth2 the assemble,
Hys inarschell with a grct menye,
Fyve hundre armyt in to stele,
That on lycht horss war horsyt welle.
For to pryk 3 amang the archeris ;
And swa assaile thaim with tliair speris,
That thai na layser haiff to schute.
This niarschell that Ik of mute -I,
That Schyr Robert of Keyth was cauld,
As Ik befor her has yow tauld,
Quhen lie saw the bataillis sua
Assembill, and to gidder ga.
And saw tlie archeris schoyt stoutly ;
With all thaim off his cumpany,
In hy apon thaim gan he rid ;
And our tuk thaim at a sid •> :
And ruschyt amang thaim sa rudly,
Stekand thaim sa dispitously.
And in sic fusoun 6 berand doun.
And slayand thaim, for owtyn ransounT;
That thai thaim scalyts euirilkane 'J.
And fra that tyme furth thar wes nane
That assemblyt schot to ma 10.
Quhen Scottis archeris saw that thai sua
War rebutytn, thai woux hardy.
And wi:h all thair mycht schot egrcly
Amang the horss men, that thar raid;
And woundis will to thaim thai maid ;
And slew of thaim a full gret dele.'
Barbour's Bruce, Book IX. V. 228.
Although the success of this manoeuvre
was evident, it is very reinarkable that the
Scottish generals do not appear to have
profited by the lesson. Almost every sub-
sequent battle which they lost against
Englanil, was decided bv the archers, to
whom the close and compact array of tlic
Scottish phalanx afforded an exposed and
unresisting mark. The bloody battle of
Halidounhill, fought scarce twenty years
afterwards, was so completely gained by the
archers, that the English are said to have
lost only one knight, one esquire, and a few
foot-soldiers. At the battle of Neville's Cross,
in 1.S46, where David II was defeated and
made prisoner, John de Graham, observing
the loss which the Scots sustained from the
English bowmen, offered to charge and
disperse them, if a hundred men-at-arn^s w^ere
put under his command. 'Bit/, to confess
the truth,' says Fordun, 'he could not pro-
cure a single horseman for the service
proposed.' Of such little use is experience
in war, where its results are opposed by
habit or prejudice.
1 Know. 2 Disjoined from the main body.
' Spur. 4 That I speak of. 5 Set upon their flank.
6 Numbers. ' Ransom. « Dispersed.
' Every one. 10 Make. " Driven back.
Note LXXV.
Sac/i byaf^gart cJiitrl could boast before
Tweh'C Scottish lives his baldric bore!
-P. 46S.
Roger Ascham quotes a similar Scottish
proverb, ' whereby they give tlic whole praise
of shooting honestly to Englishmen, saying
thus, "that every English archer beareth
under his girdle twenty-four Scottes."
Indeed Toxophilus says before, and truly of
the Scottish nation, "The Scottes surely be
good men of warre in they re owne feates as
can be ; but as for shootingo, they can
neither use it to any profile, nor yet challenge
it for any praise."' — Works of Aschani^
edited by Bentiet, 4to, p. no.
It is said, I trust incorrectly, by an ancient
English historian, that the 'good Lord
James of Douglas' dreaded the superiority
of the English archers so much, that when
he made any of them prisoner, he gave him
the option of losing the forefinger of his right
hand, or his right eye, either species of
mutilation rendering him incapable to use
the bow. I have mislaid the reference to this
singular passage.
Note LXXVI.
Down! doztm! in headlong overthrow,
Horsernaii and horse, the foremost ^o.
—P. 468.
It is generally alleged by historians, that
the English men-at-arms fell into the hidden
snare which Bruce had prepared for them.
Barbour does not mention the circumstance.
According to his account, Randolph, seeing
the slaughter made by the cavalry on the right
wing among the archers, advanced courage-
ously against the main body of the English,
and entered into close combat witli them.
Douglas and Stuart, who commanded the
Scottish centre, led their division also to the
charge, and the battle becoming general
along the whole line, was obstinately main-
tained on both sides for a long space of
time ; the Scottish archers doing great execu-
tion ainong the English men-at-arms, after
the bowmen of England were dispersed.
Note LXXVI I.
And steeds that shrie/;. in agony. — P. 469.
I have been told that this line requires an
explanatory note ; and, indeed, those' who
witness the silent patience with which horses
submit to the most cruel usage, may be
permitted to doubt, that, in moments of
sudden and intolerable anguish, they utter
a most melancholy cry. Lord Erskine, in
a speech made in the House of Lords, upon
a bill for enforcinghumanity towards animals,
noticed this remarkable fact, in language
which I will not mutilate by attempting to
514
(Itofee to
repeat it. It was my fortune, upon one
occasion, to hear a horse, in a moment of
agonv, utter a thrilling scream, which I still
consider the most melancholy sound I ever
heard.
Note LXXVIII.
Lor(f of the Isles, my trust in tlice
Isfirni as A ilsa Rock ;
Rush on with Highland sword and targe^
/, with t?iy Carrick spearmen, charge.
—P. 470.
When the engagement between the main
bodies had lasted some time, Bruce made
a decisive movement, by bringing up the
Scottish reserve. It is traditionally said,
that at this crisis, he addressed the Lord of
the Isles in a phrase used as a motto by some
of his descendants, ' My trust is constant in
thee.' Barbour intimates, that the reserve
' assembled on one field,' that is, on the same
line with the Scottish forces already engaged ;
which leads Lord Hailes to conjecture that
the Scottish ranks must have been much
thinned by slaughter, since, in that circum-
scribed ground, there was room for the reserve
to fall into the line. But the advance of the
Scottish cavalry must have contributed
a good deal to form the vacancy occupied
by the reserve.
Note LXXIX.
To arms they Jlezv,— axe, clttb, or spear, —
And mimic ensigns high they rear.—V. 470.
Thefollowersofthe Scottish campobserved,
from the Gillies' Hill in the rear, the im-
pression produced upon the English army
by the bringing up of the Scottish reserve,
and, prompted by the enthusiasm of the
moment, or the desire of plunder, assumed,
in a tumultuary manner, such arms as they
found nearest, fastened sheets to tent-poles
and lances, and showed themselves like a new
army advancing to battle.
' Yomen, and swanys ', and pitaill -,
That in the Park yemyt wictaill 3,
War left ; quhen thai wyst but lesing^,
That thair lordis, with fell fechtyng,
On thair fayis assemblyt wer ;
Ane off thaini selwyns that war thar
Capitane of thaim all thai niaiil.
And schetis, that war suuieileli; « brad,
Thai festnyt in steid off baneris,
Apon lang treys and speris :
And said that thai wald se the fycM ;
And liolp thair lordis at thair niycht.
Quhen her till all assentyt wer,
In a rout asseniblit er 7 ;
Fyftene thowsand thai war, or lua.
And than in fc'ret hy >;an thai jja,
"With thair baneris, all in a rout.
As thai had men bene styth 8 and stout.
Thai come, with all that assemble,
Rycht quhill thai mycht the bataiU so;
Than all at anys thai gave a cry,
" Sla ! sla '. Apon thaim hastily ! "'
Barbour's Bruce, Book IX. V. 410.
The unexpected apparition, of what seemed
a new army, completed the confusion which
already prevailed among the English, who
fled in every direction, and were pursued
with immense slaughter. The brook of Ban-
nock, according to Harbour, was so choked
with the bodies of men and horses, that it
might have been passed dry-shod. The fol-
lowers of the Scottish camp fell upon the
disheartened fugitives, and added to the con-
fusion and slaughter. Many were driven
into the Forth, and perished there, which, by
the way, could hardly have happened, had
the armies been drawn upeast and west ; since,
in that case, to get at the river, the English
fugitives must have fled through the victorious
army. About a short mile from the field of
battle is a place called the Bloody Folds.
Here the Earl of Gloucester is said to have
made a stand, and died gallantly at the head
of his own military tenants and vassals. He
was much regretted by both sides ; and it is
said the Scottish would gladly have saved his
life, but, neglecting to wear his surcoat with
armorial bearings over his armour, he fell
unknown, after his horse had been stabbed
with spears.
SirMarmadukeTwenge, anEnglishknight,
contrived to conceal himself during the fury
of the pursuit, and when it was somewhat
slackened, approached King Robert. ' Whose
grisoner are you. Sir Marmaduke ? ' said
Iruce, to whom he was personally known.
' Yours, sir,' answered the knio;ht, ' I receive
you,' answered the king, and, treating him
with the utmost courtesy, loaded him with
gifts, and dismissed him without ransom.
The other prisoners were all well treated.
There might be policy in this, as Bruce
would naturally wish to acquire the good
opinion of the English barons, who were at
this time at great variance with their king.
But it also well accords with his high
chivalrous character.
Note LXXX.
1 Swains.
* Lying.
* Are.
2 Rabble. 3 Kept the provisions.
5 Selves. ^ Somewhat,
8 Stiff.
O give their hapless prince his due/
—P. 471.
Edward II, according to the best autho-
rities, showed, in the fatal field of Bannock-
burn, personal gallantry not unworthy of his
great sire and greater son. He remained on
the field till forced away by the Earl of
Pembroke, when all was lost. He then rode
to the Castle of Stirling, and demanded ad-
mittance ; but the governor, remonstrating
upon the imprudence of shutting himself up
in that fortress, \\ hich must so soon surrender
he assembled around his person five hundrea
ZU &ov\i of th Jefeg.
515
men-at-arms, and, avoiding the Geld of battle
and the -victorious army, lied towards Lin-
lithj;o\v, pursued by Douglas witli about
sixty lioise. They were augmented by Sir
Lawrenc^; Abernethy with twenty more,
whom Douglas met in the Torwood upon
their way to join the English army, and
whom he easily persuaded to desert the
defeated monarch, and to assist in the pur-
suit. They hung upon Edward's flight as far
as Dunbar, too few in number to assail him
with effect, but enough to harass his retreat
so constantly, that whoever fell an instant
behind, was instantly slain or made prisoner.
E<iward's ignominious flight terminated at
Dunbar, where the Earl of March, who still
professed allegiance to him, 'received him
full gently.' From thence, the monarch of
so great an empire, antl the late com-
mander of so gallant and numerous an army,
escaped to Bamborough in a fishing vessel.
Bruce, as will appear from the following
document, lost no titne in directing the
thunders of Parliamentary censure against
such part of his subjects as did not return to
their natural allegiance after the battle of
Bannockburn.
Apud Mon.^sterium de Cambuskenneth,
vi die novembris, m,ccc,.xiv.
Jndiciitvi Reditiiiii apiid KambuskiHel
contra oinnes illos qui ittiic ftteriint
coiilrafidetn et paceni DoDiini Regis.
Anno gracie millesimo tricentisimo quarto
decirao sexto die Novembris tenente par-
liamentum suum Excellentissimo principe
Domino Roberto Dei gracia Rege Scottorum
lllustri in monasterio de Cambuskyneth
concordatum fuit Cnaliter Judicatum [ac
super] hoc statutum de Concilio et Assensu
Episcoporum et ceterorum Prelatorum Comi-
tum Baronum et aliorum nobilium regni
Scocie nee non et tocius communitatis regni
predicti quod omnes qui contra lidem et
pacem dicti domini regis in bello seu alibi
mortui sunt [vel qui die] to die ad pacem
ejus et fidem non venerant licet sepius vocati
et legitime expectati fuissent de terris et
tenementis et omni alio statu infra regnum
Scocie perpetuo sint exheredati et habeantur
de cetero tanquara inimici Regis et Regni ab
omni vendicacione juris hereditarii vel juris
alterius cujuscunque in posterum pro se et
heredibus suis in perpetuum privati Ad per-
petuam igitur rei memoriam et evidentem
probacionem hujus Judicii et Statuti sigilla
Episcoporum et aliorum Prelatorum nee non
et comitum Baronum ac ceterorum nobilium
dicti Regni present! ordinacioni Judicio et
statute sunt appensa.
Sigillum Domini Regis
Sigillum Willelmi Episcopi Sancti Andree
Sigillum Roberti Episcopi Glascuensis
Sigillum Willelmi Episcopi Dunkeldensis
. . . Episcopi
. . . Episcopi
. . . Episcopi
Sigillum Alani Episcopi Sodorensis
Sigillum Johannis Episcopi Brechynensis
Sigillum Andree Episcopi Ergadiensis
Sigillum Frechardi Episcopi Cathanensis
Sigillum Abhatis de Scona
Sigillum Abbatis de Calco
Sigillum Abbatis de Abirbrothok
Sigillum Abbatis de Sancta Cruce
Sigillum Abbatis de Londoris
Sigillum Abbatis de Newbotill
Sigillum Abbatis de Cupro
Sigillum Abbatis de Paslet
Sigillum .\bbatis de Dunfermelyn
Sigillum Abbatis de Linclud<-n
Sigillum Abbatis de Insula Missarum
Sigillum Abbatis de Sancto Columba
Sigillum Abbatis de Deer
Sigillum Abbatis de Dulce Corde
Sigillum Prioris de Coldinghame
Sigillum Prioris de Rostynot
Sigillum Prioris Sancte Andree
Sigillum Prioris de Pittinwem
Sigillum Prioris de Insula de Lochlevin
Sigillum Senescalli Scocie
Sigillum Willelmi Comitis de Ros
Sigillum Gilberti de la Haya Constabularii
Scocie
Sigillum Roberti de Keth Mariscalli Scocie
Sigillum Hugonis de Ros
Sigillum Jacobide Duglas
Sigillum Johannis de Sancto Claro
Sigillum Thome de Ros
Sigillum Alexandri de Settone
Sigillum Walteri Haliburtone
Sigillum Davidis de Balfour
Sigillum Duncani de Wallays
Sigillum Thome de Dischingtonc
Sigillum Andree de Moravia
Sigillum Archibald! de Betun
Sigillum Ranulphi de Lyill
Sigillum Malcomi de Balfour
Sigillum Normanni de Lesley
Sigillum Nigelli de Campo bello
Sigillum Morni de Musco Campo
Note LXXXI.
Nor for De Argentine alojie.
Through Ninian''s church these torches
shone,
And rose the death-prayer^s awful tone.
—P. 472.
The remarkable circumstances attending
the death of De Argentine have been already
noticed (Note XI). Besides this renowned
warrior, there fell many representatives of
ill 6
(\XoUe to t^e Bov^ of tU ^^^s.
the noblest Ixjuses in England, which never
sustained a more bloody and disastrous de-
feat. Barbour says that two hundred pairs
of gilded spurs were taken from the field of
battle ; and that some were left the author
can bear witness, who has in his possession
a curious antique spur, dug up in the morass
not long since.
' It wes forsuth a gret ferJj",
To se saniyn 1 sa I'ele dede lie.
Twa huncire payr of spuris reid 2,
War tane of knichtis that wzr deid.'
I am now to take my leave of Barbour, not
■without a sincere wish that the public may
encourage the undertaking of my friend
Dr. Jamieson, who lias issued proposals for
publishing an accurate edition of his poem,
and of Blind Harry's ' M'allace °.' The only
good edition of 'The Bruce' was published
by Mr. Pinkerton, in 3 vols., in iJQo; and, the
learned editor having had no personal access
to consult the manuscript, it is not without
errors; and it has besides become scarce.
Of 'Wallace' there is no tolerable edition ; vet
these two poems do no small honour to the
early state of Scottish poetry, and 'The Bruce'
is justly regarded as containing authentic
historical facts.
The following list of the slain at Bannock-
burn, extracted from the continuator of
Trivet's Annals, will show the extent of the
national calamity.
List of the Si,.ai.v.
Knights <')■ Ktiights
Battiici-ets.
Gilbert declare, Earl
of Gloucester,
Robert de Clifford,
Payan Tybetot,
"William Le Mare-
schal,
John Com3'n,
William de Vescej-,
John de Montfort,
Nicolas de Hasteleigh,
William Dayncourt,
jEgidius de Argen-
teyne,
Edmond Comyn,
John Lovel (the rich',
Edmund de Hastynge,
Milo de Stapleton,
Simon Ward,
Robert de Felton,
Michael Poyning,
Edmund Maulley.
Knights.
Henr)- de Bonn,
Thomas de Ufford,
John de Elsingfelde,
John de Harcourt,
Walter de Hakelut,
Philip de Courtenay,
Hugo de Scales,
Radulph de Beau-
champ,
John de Penbrigge,
With 33 others of
the same rank, not
named.
1 Together. 2 Red, or gilded.
3 (The e.vtracts from Barbour in this edition of
Sir Walter Scott's poems have been uniformly cor-
rected by the text of Dr. Jamieson's Bruce, pub-
lished, along with Blind Harry's Wallace, Edin. 1820,
= vols. 4to.— LOCKHART.]
Prisoners.
Barons ff Baronets. Anselm
Henry de Boun, Earl
of Hereford,
Lord John Giffard,
^\'iUiam de Latimer,
Maurice de Berkelev, Roofer Corbet,
In.relram de Umfra- C,ilbert de Boiin,
de Mares-
chal,
Giles de Beauchamp,
John de Cyfrewast,
John Bluwet,
de
viUe,
Marmaduke
Twcnge,
John de Wyletone,
Robert de Maulee,
Henry Fitz-Hugh,
Thomas de Gra)-,
Walter de Beau-
champ,
Richard de Charon,
John de Wevelmton,
Robert de Nevil,
John de Segrave,
Gilbert Peeche,
John de Clavering,
Antony de Lucy,
Radulph de Camys,
John de Evere,
Andrew de Abrem-
hj-n.
Knights.
Thomas de Berkeley,
The son of Roger
Tyrrel,
Bartholomew de Ene-
feld,
Thomas de Ferrers,
Radulph and Tho-
mas Bottetort,
John and Nicholas
de Kingstone (bro-
thers),
William Lovel,
Henry de Wileton,
Baldwin de FreviU,
John de Cliveden ',
Adomar la Zouch.e,
John de Merewode,
John Maufe -,
Thomasand Odo Lele
Ercedekene,
Robert Beaupel (the
son),
John Mautravers, (the
son),
William and William
Gilfard and 34 other
knights, not named
by the historian.
And in sum there were slain, along with the
Earl of Gloucester, foity-two barons and
bannerets. The number of earls barons, and
bannerets made captive was twenty-two, and
sixty-eight knights. Many clerks and e-quires
were also there slain or taken. Roger de
Northburge, keeper of the king's signet
{Custos i'argiae Domini Regis), was made
prisoner with his twoclerks, Roger deWaken-
felde and Thomas de Switon, upon which
the king caused a seal to be made, and en-
titled \i\\\s privy seal, to distinguish the same
from the signet so lost. The Earl of Here-
ford was exchanged against Bruce's queen,
who had been detained in capti\ity e\er since
the year 1306. The Targia, or signet, was
restored to England through the intercession
of Ralph de Monthermer, ancestor of Lord
Moira, who is said to have found favour in
the eyes of the Scottish king. — Continuation
of Tkn'ET's Annals, Halls edit. Oxford,
1712, vol. ii. p. 14.
Such were the immediate consequences of
the field of Bannockburn. Its more remote
effects, in completely establishing the national
independence of Scotland, afford a boundless
field for speculation.
' Supposed Clinton. 2 Maule.
^arofii (^ <S)ciun(U6S.
Introduction.
There is a mood of mind we all have
known
On drowsy eve, or dark and low'ring
day.
When the tired spirits lose their
sprightly tone,
And nought can chase the lingering
hours away ;
Dull on our soul falls Fancy's daz-
zling ray,
And wisdom holds his steadier torch
in vain,
Obscured the painting seems, mis-
tuned the la3%
Nor dare we of our listless load
complain,
For who for sympathy may seek that
cannot tell of pain f
The jolly sportsman knows such
drearihood
When bursts in deluge the autumnal
rain,
Clouding that morn which threats
the heath-cock's brood ;
Of such, in summer's drought, the
anglers plain,
Who hope the soft mild southern
shower in vain ;
But, more than all, the discontented
fair,
Whom father stern and sterner aunt
restrain
From county-ball, or race occurring
rare,
Whileall her friends around their vest-
ments gay prepare.
Ennui I or, as our mothers call'd
thee, Spleen !
To thee w^e owe full man}^ a rare
device ;
Thine is the sheaf of painted cards,
I ween,
The rolling billiard-ball, the rattling
dice,
The turning-lathe for framing gini-
crack nice ;
The amateur's blotch'd pallet thou
mayst claim.
Retort, and air-pump threatening
frogs and mice
(Murders disguised by philosophic
name),
And much of trifling grave, and much
of buxom game.
Then of the books, to catch thy
drowsy glance
Compiled, what bard the catalogue
may quote !
Plaj's, poems, novels, never read
but once ; —
But not of such the tale fan- Edge-
worth wrote,
That bears thy name, and is thine
antidote ;
5i8
Igarofb tU ®aunffe00.
[ Canto
And not of such the strain my
Thomson sung,
Delicious dreams inspiring by his
note,
What time to Indolence his harp he
strung :
Oh ! might m^' lay be rank'd that
happier list among I
Each hath his refuge whom thy
cares assail.
For me, I love my study-fire to trim
And con right vacantlj'some idle tale,
Displaying on the couch each list-
less limb,
Till on the drowsy page the lights
grow dim,
And doubtful slumber half supplies
the theme,
While antique shapes of knight and
giant grim,
Damsel and dwarf, in long pro-
cession gleam.
And the romancer's talc becomes the
reader's dream.
'Tis thus my malady I well may bear,
Albeit outstretch'd like Pope's own
Paridcl
Upon the rack of a too-easj' chair,
And find, to cheat the time, a
powerful spell
In old romaunts of errantry that tell.
Or later legends of the Fairy-folk,
Or Oriental tale of Afrite fell.
Of Genii, Talisman, and broad-
wing'd Roc,
Though taste may blush and frown,
and sober reason mock.
Oft at such season, too, will rhymes
unsought
Arrange themselves in some ro-
mantic lay ;
The ■which, as things unfitting
graver thought,
Arc burnt or blotted on some wiser
day.
These few survive ; and, proudly
let me say,
Court not the critic's smile, nor
dread his frown ;
They well may serA'e to while an
hour awa3%
Nor does the volume ask for more
renown
Than Ennui's yawning smile what
time she drops it down.
Canto First.
List to the valorous deeds that were
done
By Harold the Dauntless, Count
Witikind's son !
Count Witikind came of a regal strain.
And roved with his Norsemen the
land and the main.
Woe to the realms which he coasted !
for there
Was shedding of blood, and rending
of hair,
Rape of maiden, and slaughter of priest,
Gathering of ravens and wolves to the
feast :
When he hoisted his standard black.
Before him was battle, behind him
wrack,
And he burn'd the churches, that
heathen Dane,
To light his band to their barks again.
On Erin's shores was his outrage
known,
The winds of France had his banners
blown ;
Little was there to plunder, yet still
His pirates had foray 'd on Scottish hill:
I.]
^Mo^^ tU ^Mntkes.
519
But upon merry England's coast
More frequent he sail'd, for he won
IV.
Time will rust the sharpest sword,
the most.
Time will consume the strongest cord ;
So wide and so far his ravage they
knew,
That which moulders hemp and steel
Mortal arm and nerve must feel.
If a sail but gleam'd white 'gainst the
welkin blue,
Of the Danish band, whom Count
Witikind led,
Trumpet and bugle to arms did call.
Burghers hasten'd to man the wall,
Many wax'd aged, and many were
dead :
Peasants fled inland his fury to 'scape,
Beacons were lighted on headland
and cape,
Himself found his armour full weighty
to bear,
Wrinkled his brows grew, and hoary
Bells were toll'd out, and aye as they
rung,
his hair ;
He lean'd on a staff, when his step
Fearful and faintly the grey brothers
sung,
' Bless us, Saint Mary, from flood and
from fire.
went abroad,
And patient his palfrey, when steed
he bestrode.
Ashe grewfcebler hiswildness ceased,
From famine and pest, and Count
He made himself peace with prelate
Witikind's ire ! '
III.
He liked the wealth of fair England
and priest, —
Madehis peace, and, stooping his head,
Patiently listed the counsel they said :
Saint Cuthbert's Bishop was holy
so well,
and grave.
That he sought in her bosom as native
Wise and good was the counsel he
to dwell.
He entcr'd the Humber in fearful
hour,
gave.
V.
'Thou hast murder'd, robb'd, and
And disembark'd with his Danish
spoil'd,
power.
Three Earls came against him with
Time it is thy poor soul were assoil'd;
Priests didst thou slay, and churches
all their train, — •
burn,
Two hath he taken, and one hath he
Time it is now to repentance to turn;
slain.
Fiends hast thou worshipp'd, with
Count Witikind left the Humber's
rich strand,
fiendish rite.
Leave now the darkness, and wend
And he wasted and warr'd in North-
into light :
umberland.
0 ! while life and space are given,
But the Saxon King was a sire in
Turn thee yet, and think of Heaven!'
age,
Weak in battle, in council sage ;
That stern old heathen his head he
raised,
Peace of thatheathen leader he sought,
Gifts he gave, and quiet he bought ;
And the Count took upon him the
peaceable style
Of a vassal and liegeman of Britain's
broad isle.
And on the good prelate he stedfastly
gazed :
' Gi\e me broad lands on the Wear
and the Tj'ne,
My faith I will leave, and I'll cleave
unto thine.'
520
^arof^ tU ©aunifee©.
[ Canto
Broad lands he gave him on Tyne and
Wear,
To be held of the Church by bridle
and spear ;
Part of Monkwearmouth, of Tynedale
part,
To better his will, and to soften his
heart :
Count Witikind was a joyful man,
Less for the faith than the lands he
wan.
The high church of Durham is dress'd
for the daJ^
The clergy are rank'd in their solemn
array :
There came the Count, in a bear-skin
warm,
Leaning on Hilda his concubine's arm.
He kneel'd before Saint Cuthbert's
shrine,
With patience unwonted at rites divine;
He abjured the gods of heathen race,
And he bent his head at the font of
grace.
But such was the grisly old proselyte's
look.
That the priest who baptized him
grew pale and shook ;
And the old monks mutter'd beneath
their hood,
' Of a stem so stubborn can never
spring good ! '
Up then arose that grim convertite.
Homeward he hied him when ended
the rite ;
The Prelate in honour will with him
ride.
And feast in his castle on Tync's fair
side.
Banners and banderols danced in the
wind,
Monks rode before them, and spear-
men behind ;
Onward they pass'd, till fairly did shine
Pennon and cross on the bosom of
Tyne;
And full in front didthatfortress lower,
In darksome strength with its buttress
and tower :
At the castle gate was young Harold
there.
Count Witikind's only oflspring and
heir.
Young Harold was fear'd for his
hardihood,
His strength of frame, and his fury of
mood.
Rude he was and wild to behold.
Wore neither collar nor bracelet of
gold,
Cap of vair nor rich array,
Such as should grace that festal day:
His doublet of bull's hide was all
unbraced,
Uncover'd his head, and his sandal
unlaced :
His shaggy black locks on his brow
hung low.
And his C3'es glanced through them
a swarthy glow ;
A Danish club in his hand he bore,
The spikes were clotted with recent
gore ;
At his back a she-wolf, and her wolf-
cubs twain.
In the dangerous chase that morning
slain.
Rude was the greeting his father he
made,
None to the Bishop, while thus he
said : —
'What priest-led hj'pocrite art thou.
With thy humbled look and thy
monkish brow,
Like a shaveling who studies to cheat
his vow ?
35<»vof^ tU ®aunffe00.
521
Canst thou be Witikind the Waster
known,
Royal Eric's fearless son,
Haughty Gunhilda's haughtier lord,
Who won his bride by the axe and
sword ;
From the shrine of Saint Peter tlie
chalice who tore,
And melted to bracelets for Freya
and Thor;
With one blow of his gauntlet who
burst the skull,
Before Odin's stone, of the Mountain
Bull ?
Then ye worshipp'd with rites that to
war-gods belong.
With the deed of the brave, and the
blow of the strong ;
And now, in thine age to dotage sunk.
Wilt thou patter thy crimes to a
shaven monk,
Lay down tliy mail-shirt for clothing
of hair.
Fasting and scourge, like a slave, wilt
thou bear ?
Or, at best, be admitted in slothful
bower
To batten with priest and with para-
mour ?
Oh! out upon thine endless shame !
Each Scald's high harp shall blast thy
fame.
And thy son will refuse thee a father's
name I '
X.
Ireful wax'd old Witikind's look,
His faltering voice with fury shook :
'Hear me, Harold of harden'd heart!
Stubborn and wilful ever thou wert.
Thine outrage insane I command thee
to cease,
Fear my wrath and remain at peace.
Just isthe debt of repentance I've paid.
Richly the Church has a recompense
made.
And the truth of her doctrines I prove
with my blade,
But reckoning to none of my actions
I owe,
And least to my son such accounting
will show.
Why speak I to thee of repentance or
truth,
Who ne'er from thy childhood knew
reason or rutli ?
Hence ! to the wolf and the bear in
her den ;
These are thy mates, and not rational
men.'
Grimly smiled Harold, and coldly
replied,
' We must honour our sires, if we fear
when they chide.
For me, I am yet what thy lessons
have made,
I was rock'd in a buckler and fed
from a blade ;
An infant, was taught to clasp hands
and to shout
From the roofs of the tower when the
flame had broke out ;
In the blood of slain foemen my
finger to dip.
And tinge with its purple my cheek
and my lip.
"Tis thou know'st not truth, that hast
barter'd in eld,
For a price, the brave faith that thine
ancestors held.
When this wolf,' — and the carcass he
flung on the plain, —
' Shall awake and give food to her
nurslings again,
The face of his father will Harold
review ;
Till then, aged Heathen, \'oung
Christian, adieu 1'
Priest, monk, and prelate, stood aghast.
As through the pageant the heathen
pass'd.
s 3
rv2 2
^arofb iU ®aunffe00.
[Cantc
A cross-bearer out of his saddle he
flung,
Laid his hand on the pommel, and
into it sprung.
Loud was the shriek, and deep the
groan,
When the holy sign on the earth was
thrown !
The fierce old Count unsheathed his
brand,
But the calmer Prelate stay'd his hand.
' Let him pass free ! Heaven knows
its hour;
But he must own repentance's power,
Pray and weep, and penance bear,
Ere he hold land by the Tyne and
the Wear.'
Thus in scorn and in wrath from his
father is gone
Young Harold the Dauntless, Count
Witikind's son.
XIII.
High was the feasting in Witikind's
hall,
Rcvcird priests, soldiers, and pagans,
and all ;
And e'en the good Bishop was fain
to endure
The scandal, which time and instruc-
tion might cure :
It were dangerous, he deem'd, at the
first to restrain,
In his wine and his wassail, a half-
christen'd Dane.
The mead flow'd around, and the ale
was drain'd dry,
Wdd was the laughter, the song, and
the cry ;
With Kyric Eleison, came clamor-
ously in
The war-songs of Danesmen, Nor-
weyan, and Finn,
Till man after man the contention
gave o'er,
Outstretch'd on the rushes that strew'd
the hall floor;
And the tempest within, having ceased
its wild rout.
Gave place to the tempest that
thunder'd without.
Apart fromthe wassail, in turret alone,
Lay flaxen-hair'd Gunnar, old Ermen-
garde's son ;
In the train of Lord Harold that page
was the first.
For Harold in childhood had Ermen-
garde nursed ;
And grieved was young Gunnar his
master should roam.
Unhoused and unfriended, an exile
from home.
He heard the deep thunder, the
plashing of rain,
Hesawthe red lightning through shot-
hole and pane ;
' And oh ! ' said the Page, ' on the
shelterless wold
Lord Harold is wandering in dark-
ness and cold !
What though he was stubborn, and
wayward, and wild,
He endured me because I was Ermen-
garde's child,
And often from dawn till the set of
the sun.
In the chase, by his stirrup, unbidden
I run ;
I would I were older, and knighthood
could bear,
I would soon quit the banks of the
Tyne and the Wear ;
For my mother's command, with her
last parting breath.
Bade me follow her nursling in life
and to death.
' It pours and it thunders, it lightens
amain,
As if Lok, the Destroyer, had burst
from his chain 1
I.]
^avon tU ®aunife00.
5^3
Accursed by the Church, and expeil'd
.So long he snorted, so loud he neigh'd.
by his sire,
There answer'd a steed that was bound
Nor Christian nor Dane give him
beside,
shelter or fire,
And the red flash of lightning show'd
And this tempest what mortal may
there where lay
houseless endure ?
His master. Lord Harold, outstretch'd
Unaided, unmantled, he dies on the
on the claj'.
moor !
Whate'er comes of Gunnar, he tarries
xvii.
not here.'
Up he started, and tluinder'd out,
He leapt from his couch and he grasp'd
' Stand : '
to his spear ;
And raised the club in his deadly
Sought the hall of the feast. Un-
hand.
disturb'd by his tread,
The flaxen-hair'd Gunnar his purpose
The wassailers slept fast as the sleep
told,
of the dead:
Show'd the palfrej' and profter'd the
' Ungrateful and bestial 1 ' his anger
gold.
broke forth,
' Back, back, and home, thou simple
* To forget 'mid your goblets the pride
boy !
of the North !
I'hou canst not share my grief or joy :
And you, ye cowl'd priests, wlio have
Have I not mark'd thee wail and cry
plenty in store.
When thou hast seen a sparrow die ?
Must give Gunnar for ransom a palfrey
And canst thou, as my follower should.
and ore.'
Wade ankle-deep through foeman's
XVI.
blood.
Dare mortal and immortal foe,
Then, heeding full little of ban or of
The gods above, the fiends below,
curse.
And man on earth, more hateful still.
He has seized on the Prior of Jorvaux's
The very fountain-head of ill ?
purse :
Desperate of life, and careless of death.
Saint Meneholt's Abbot next morning
Lover of bloodshed, and slaughter, and
has miss'd
scathe.
His mantle, deep furr'd from the cape
Such must thou be with me to roam,
to the wrist :
And such thou canst not be ; back, and
The Seneschal's keys from his belt he
home ! '
has ta'en
(Well drench'd on that eve was old
XVIII.
Hildebrand's brain .
Young Gunnar shook like an aspen
To the stable-yard he made his way,
bough
And mounted the Bishop's palfrey
As he heard the harsh voice and beheld
gay,
the dark brow,
Castle and hamlet behind him has cast,
And half he repented his purpose and
And right on his way to the moorland
vo\v.
has pass'd.
But now to draw back were bootless
Sore snorted the palfrey, unused to
shame,
face
And he loved his master, so urged his
A weather so wild at so rash a pace;
claim :
>H
^avef^ tU ©auntfess.
[ Canto
' Alas ! if mj' arm and my courage be
weak,
Bear with me a while for old Ermen-
garde's sake ;
Nor deem so lightly of Gunnar's faith
As to fear he would break it for peril
of death.
Have I not risk'd it to fetch thee this
gold,
This surcoat and mantle to fence thee
from cold ?
And, did I bear a baser mind.
What lot remains if I stay behind ?
The priests' revenge, thy father's
wrath,
A dungeon, and a shameful death.'
With gentler look Lord Harold eyed
The Page, then turn'd his head aside ;
And either a tear did his eyelash stain ,
Or it caught a drop of the passing rain.
' Art thou an outcast, then ? ' quoth he ;
' The meeter page to follow me.'
'Twere bootless to tell what climes
they sought,
Ventures achieved, and battles fought ;
How oft with few, how oft alone,
Fierce Harold's arm the field hath
won.
Men swore his eye, that flash'd so red
When each other glance was quench'd
with dread.
Bore oft a light of deadly flame.
That ne'er from mortal courage came.
Those limbs so strong, that mood so
stern,
That loved the couch of heath and fern,
Afar from hamlet, tower, and town,
More than to rest on driven down ;
That stubborn frame, that sullen mood,
Men deem'd must come of aught but
good ;
And they whisper'd, the great Master
Fiend was at one
With Harold the Dauntless, Count
Witikind's son.
Years after j^ears had gone and fled.
The good old Prelate lies lapp'd in lead;
In the chapel still is shown
His sculptured form on a marble stone,
With staff' and ring and scapulaire.
And folded hands in the act of
prayer.
Saint Cuthbert's mitre is resting now
On the haughty Saxon, bold Aldingar's
brow ;
The power of his crozier he loved to
extend
O'er whatever would break, or what-
ever would bend ;
And now hath he clothed him in cope
and in pall,
And the Chapter of Durham has met
at his call.
' And hear ye not, brethren,' the proud
Bishop said,
' That our vassal, the Danish Count
Witikind's dead?
All his gold and his goods hath he given
To holy Church for the love of Heaven,
And hath founded a chantry with
stipend and dole.
That priests and that beadsmen may
pray for his soul :
Harold his son is wandering abroad,
Dreaded by man and abhorr'd by God ;
Meet it is not, that such should heir
The lands of the Church on the Tyne
and the Wear,
And at her pleasure, her hallow'd hands
May now resume these wealthy lands.'
Answer'd good Eustace, a canon old :
' Harold is tameless, and furious, and
bold;
Ever renown blows a note of fame,
And a note of fear, when she sounds
his name :
Much of bloodshed and much of scathe
Have been their lot who have waked
his ^vrath.
II.]
Igavofi tU 'S)amtke6.
525
Leave him these lands and lordships
still,
Heaven in its hour mav change his
will ;
But if reft of gold, and of living bare,
An evil counsellor is despair.'
More had he said, but the Prelate
frown'd,
And murmur'd his brethren who sate
around,
And with one consent have they given
their doom,
That the Church should the lands of
Saint Cuthbert resume.
So will'd the Prelate ; and canon and
dean
Gave to his judgment their loud amen.
Canto Second.
'Tis merry in greenwood — thus runs
the old lay —
In the gladsome month of lively May,
When the wild birds' song on stem
and spray
Invites to forest bower;
Then rears the ash his airy crest,
Then shines the birch in silver vest,
And the beech in glistening leaves
is drest,
And dark between shows the oak's
proud breast.
Like a chieftain's frowning tower ;
Though a thousand branches join their
screen,
Yet the broken sunbeams glance be-
tween,
And tip the leaves with lighter green.
With brighter tints the flower :
Dull is the heart that loves not then
The deep recess of the wildwood glen,
Whereroeandred-deer find sheltering
den.
When the sun is in his power.
Less merry, perchance, is the fading
leaf
That follows so soon on the gatherVl
sheaf,
When the greenwood loses the
name ;
Silent is then the forest bound,
.Save the redbreast's note, and the
iT-istling sound
Of frost-nipt leaves that aie dropping
round,
Or the deep-mouth'd cry of the distant
hound
That opens on his game :
Yet then, too, I love the forest wide.
Whether the sun in splendour ride,
And gild its many-colour'd side ;
Or whether the soft and silvery haze,
In vapoury folds, o'er the landscape
straj^s,
And half involves the woodland maze,
Like an early widow's veil.
Where w-impling tissue from the gaze
The form half hides, and half betrays.
Of beauty wan and pale.
HI.
Fair Metelill was a woodland maid.
Her father a rover of greenwood shade,
By forest statutes undismay'd.
Who lived by bow and quiver ;
Well known was Wulfstane's archery,
By merry Tyne both on moor and lea.
Through wooded Weardale's glens
so free.
Well beside Stanhope'swildwood tree,
And well on Ganlesse river.
Yet free though he trespass'don wood-
land game.
More known and more fcar'd was the
wizard fame
Of Jutta of Rookhope, the Outlaw's
dame ;
Fear'd when she frown'd was her ej-e
of flame.
More fear'd when in wrath she
laugh'd ;
[26
^arof^ tU ®aunffe60.
[Canto
For then, 'twas said, more fatal true
To its dread aim her spell-glance flew,
Than when from Wulfstane's bended
yew
Sprung forth the grey-goose shaft.
Yet had this fierce and dreaded pair,
So Heaven decreed, a daughter fair;
None brighter crown'd the bed,
In Britain's bounds, of peer or prince,
Nor hath, perchance, a lovelier since
In this fair isle been bred.
And nought of fraud, or ire, or ill,
Was known to gentle Metelill,
A simple maiden she ;
The spells in dimpled smile that lie.
And a downcast blush, and the darts
that fly
With the sidelong glance of a hazel
eye.
Were her arms and witchery.
So young, so simple %vas she yet.
She scarce could childhood's joys
forget.
And still she loved, in secret set
Beneath the greenwood tree,
To plait the rushy coronet,
And braid with flowers her locks of
jet,
As when in infancy;
Yet could that heart, so simple, prove
The early dawn of stealing love :
Ah ! gentle maid, beware !
The power who, now so mild a guest,
Gives dangerous yet delicious zest
To the calm pleasures of thy breast,
Will soon, a tyrant o'er the rest.
Let none his empire share.
One morn, in kirtle green array'd.
Deep in the wood the maiden stray'd.
And, where a fountain sprung.
She sate her down, unseen, to thread
The scarlet berry's mimic braid.
And while the beads she strung.
Like the blithe lark, whose carol gay
Gives a good-morrow to the day,
So lightsomely she sung :
SONG.
' Lord William was born in gilded
bower.
The heir of Wilton's lofty tower;
Yet better loves Lord William now
To roam beneath wild Rookhope's
brow ;
And William has lived where ladies
fair
With gauds and jewels deck their
hair,
Yet better loves the dewdrops still
That pearl the locks of Metelill.
The pious Palmer loves, I wis.
Saint Cuthbert's hallow'd beads to
kiss ;
But I, though simple girl I be.
Might have such homage paid to me ;
For did Lord William see me suit
This necklace of the bramble's fruit,
He fain — but must not have his will —
Would kiss the beads of MeteHIl.
My nurse has told me many. a tale,
Howvowsof love are weak and frail;
My mother says that courtly youth
By rustic maid means seldom sooth.
What should they mean ? it cannot be
That such a warning's meant forme.
For nought, oh ! nought, of fraud or ill
Can William mean to Metelill!'
Sudden she stops, and starts to feel
A weighty hand, a glove of steel.
Upon her shrinking shoulders laid ;
Fearful she turn'd, and saw, dismay'd,
A Knight in plate and mail array'd,
His crest and bearing worn and
fray'd.
His surcoat soil'd and riven,
II.]
^avofb tU ®aunffe00.
527
Form'd like that giant race of j-ore,
Whose long-continued crimes out-
wore
The sufferance of Heaven.
Stern accents made his pleasure known,
Though then he used his gentlesttone:
' Maiden,' he said, 'sing forth th3- glee ;
Start not, sing on, it pleases me.'
Secured within his powerful hold,
To bend her knee, her hands to fold.
Was all the maiden might ;
And ' Oh ! forgive,' she faintly said,
' The terrors of a simple maid.
If thou art mortal wight !
But if — of such strange tales are told —
Unearthly warrior of the wold,
Thou comest to chide mine accents
bold.
My mother, Jutta, knows the spell.
At noon and midnight pleasing well
The disembodied ear ;
Oh ! let her powerful charms atone
For aught my rashness ma}' have done,
And cease thy grasp of fear.'
Then laugh'd the Knight ; his
laughter's sound
Half in the hollow helmet drown'd ;
His barred visor then he raised.
And steady on the maiden gazed.
He smooth'd his brows, as best he
might,
To the dread calm of autumn night,
When sinks the tempest roar ;
Yet still the cautious fishers eye
The clouds, and fear the gloomy sky,
And haul their barks on shore.
' Damsel,' he said, ' be wise, and learn
Matters of weight and deep concern :
From distant realms I come,
And, wanderer long, at length have
plann'd
In this my native Northern land
To seek myself a home.
Nor that alone ; a mate I seek ;
She must be gentle, soft, and meek ;
No lordly dame for me ;
Myself am something rough of mood.
And feel the fire of royal blood,
And therefore do not hold it good
To match in my degree.
Then, since coy maidens say my face
Is harsh, my form devoid of grace,
For a fair lineage to provide,
'Tis meet that my selected bride
In lineaments be fair ;
I love thine well ; till now I ne'er
Look'd patient on a face of fear,
But now that tremulous sob and tear
Become thy beauty rare.
One kiss — nay, damsel, coy it not !
And now go seek thy parents' cot.
And say, a bridegroom soon I come,
To woo my love and bear her home.'
X.
Home sprung the maid without a pause,
As leveret 'scaped from greyhound's
jaws ;
But still she lock'd.howe'erdistrcss'd,
The secret in her boding breast ;
Dreading her sire, who oft forbade
Her steps should stray to distant glade.
Night came : to her accustom'd nook
Her distaff aged Jutta took.
And by the lamp's imperfect glow
Rough Wulfstane trimm'd his shafts
and bow.
Sudden and clamorous, from the
ground
Upstarted slumbering brach and
hound ;
Loud knocking next the lodge alarms.
And Wulfstane snatches at his arms,
When open flew the yielding door,
And that grim Warrior press'd the
floor.
XI.
'■ All peace be here ! What ! none
replies ?
Dismiss your fears and your surprise.
r,2 8
^arof^ th ©autttfeee.
[ Canto
'Tis I; that Maid hath told my tale,—
Or, trembler, did thy courage fail ?
It recks not ; it is I demand
Fair Metelill in marriage band ;
Harold the Dauntless I, whose name
Is brave men's boast and caitiff's
shame.'
The parents sought each other's eyes,
With awe, resentment, and surprise :
Wulfstane, to quarrel prompt, began
The stranger's sizeand thewes to scan ;
But as he scann'd, his courage sunk,
And from unequal strife he shrunk,
Then forth, to blight and blemish, flies
The harmful curse from Jutta's eyes;
Yet, fatal howsoe'er, the spell
On Harold innocently fell !
And disappointment and amaze
Were in the witch's wilder'd gaze.
But soon the wit of woman woke.
And to the Warrior mild she spoke:
'Her child was all too young.' 'A
toy —
The refuge of a maiden coj-.'
Again, ' A powerful baron's heir
Claims in her heart an interest fair.'
' A trifle— whisper in his ear,
That Harold is a suitor here !'
Baffled at length she sought delay :
• Would not the Knight till morning
stay ?
Late was the hour; he there might rest
Till morn, their lodge's honour'd
guest.'
Such were her words ; her craft might
cast
Her honour'd guest should sleep his
last:
'No, not to-night; but soon,' he
swore,
' He would return, nor leave them
more.'
The threshold then his huge stride
crost.
And soon he was in darkness lost.
Appall'd a while the parents stood.
Then changed their fear to angry mood,
And foremost fell their words of ill
On unresisting Metelill :
Was she not caution'd and forbid,
Forewarn'd, implored, accused, and
chid.
And must she still to greenwood roam,
To marshal such misfortune home ?
' Hence, minion ! to thy chamber
hence !
There prudence learn, and penitence.'
She went, — her lonelj' couch to steep
In tears which absent lovers weep ;
Or, if she gain'd a troubled sleep,
FierceHarold's suitwas still the theme
And terror of her feverish dream.
Scarce was she gone, her dame and
sire
Upon each other bent their ire ;
'A \voodsman thou, and hast a spear,
And couldst thou such an insult bear?'
Sullen he said, ' A man contends
With men, a witch with sprites and
fiends ;
Not to mere mortal wight belong
Yon gloomy brow and frame so strong.
But thou — is this thy promise fair,
That your Lord William, wealthy
heir
To Ulrick, Baron of Witton-le-Wear,
Should Metelill to altar bear ?
Do all the spells thou boast'st as thine
Serve but to slay some peasant's kine.
His grain in autumn's storms to steep,
Or thorough fog and fen to sweep,
And hag- ride some poor rustic's sleep ?
Is such mean mischief worth the
fame
Of sorceress and witch's name?
Fame, which with all men's wish
conspires,
With thy deserts and my desires.
To damn thy corpse to penal fires?
II.]
Igaroft tU ©auntfe06.
529
Out on thee, witch ! aroint ! aroint I
What now shall put thy schemes in
joint ?
What save this trust3' arrow's point,
From the dark dingle when it flies,
And he who meets it gasps and dies.'
Stern she replied, ' I will not wage
War with thj^ folly or thy rage ;
But ere the morrow's sun be low,
Wulfstane of Rookhope, thou shalt
know
If I can venge me on a foe.
Believe the while, that whatsoe'er
I spoke, in ire, of bow and spear,
It is not Harold's destiny
The death of pilfer'd deer to die.
But he, and thou, and yon pale moon
(That shall be yet more pallid soon,
Before she sink behind the delH,
Thou, she, and Harold too, shall tell
What Jutta knows of charm or spell.'
Thus muttering, to the door she bent
Her wayward steps, and forth she
went,
And left alone the moody sire
To cherish or to slake his ire.
Far faster than belong'd to age
Has Jutta made her pilgrimage.
A priest has met her as she pass'd.
And cross'd himself and stood aghast :
.She traced a hamlet ; not a cur
His throat would ope, his foot would
stir ;
Bj' crouch, bj^ trembling, and bj' groan,
They made her hated presence known !
But when she trode the sable fell,
Were wilder sounds her way to tell ;
For far was heard the fox's yell,
Theblack-cockwaked and faintljr crew,
Scream'd o'er the moss the scared
curlew ;
Where o'er the cataract the oak
Lay slant, was heard the raven's croak ;
The mountain-cat, which sought his
prey,
Glared, scream'd, and started from
her way.
Such music cheer'd her journey lone
To the deep delLand rocking stone:
There, with unhallow'd hymn of
praise.
She call'd a God of heathen days:
XVII.
Invocation.
' From thy Pomeranian throne,
Hewn in rock of living stone,
Where, to thy godhead faithful yet,
Bend Esthonian, Finn, and Lett.
And their swords in vengeance whet,
That shall make thine altars wet.
Wet and red for ages more
With the Christians' hated gore,
Hear me! sovereign of the rock.
Hear me ! mighty Zernebock !
Mightiest of the mighty known,
Here thy wonders have been shown;
Hundred tribes in various tongue
Oft have here thy praises sung;
Down that stone with Runic seam'd,
Hundred victims' blood hathstream'd!
Now one woman comes alone,
And but wets it with her own,
The last, the feeblest of thy flock ;
Hear, and be present, Zernebock !
Hark ! he comes ! the night-blast cold
Wilder sweeps along the wold ;
The cloudless moon grows dark and
dim,
And bristling hair and quaking limb
Proclaim the Master Demon nigh, —
Those Vv'ho view his form shall die !
Lo ! I stoop and veil my head ;
Thou who ridest the tempest dread,
Shaking hill and rending oak.
Spare me ! spare me ! Zernebock.
He comes not yet! Shall cold delay
The votaress at her need repay ?
03O
'§avo(^ tU ©auntfege.
[ Canto
Thou — shall I call thee god or fiend ?
Let others on thy mood attend
With prayer and ritual ; Jutta's arms
Are necromantic words and charms ;
Mine is the spell that, utter'd once,
Shall wake thy master from his trance,
Shake his red mansion-house of pain,
And burst his seven-times-twistcd
chain !
So ! com'st thou ere the spell is
spoke ?
I own thy presence, Zernebock.'—
' Daughter of dust,' the deep voice
said,
— Shook while it spoke the vale for
dread,
Rock'd on the base that massive stone
The Evil Deity to own —
' Daughter of dust ! not mine the
power
Thou seek'st on Harold's fatal hour.
'Twixt heaven and hell there is a strife
Waged for his soul and for his life.
And fain would we the combat win,
And snatch him in his hour of sin.
There is a star now rising red.
That threats him with an influence
dread :
Woman, thine arts of malice whet,
To use the space before it set.
Involve him with the Church in strife,
Push on adventurous chance his life ;
Ourself will in the hour of need,
As best we may, thy counsels speed.'
So ceased the voice ; for seven
leagues round
Each hamlet started at the sound ;
But slept again, as slowly died
Its thunders on the hill's brown side.
'And is this all,' said Jutta stern,
' That thou canst teach and I can learn?
Hence ! to the land of fog and waste.
There fittest is thine influence placed,
Thou powerless, sluggish Deity !
But ne'er shall Briton bend the knee
Again before so poor a god.'
She struck the altar with her rod;
Slight was the touch, as when at need
A damsel stirs her tardy steed ;
But to the blow the stone gave place,
And, starting from its balanced base,
Roll'd thundering down the moon-
light dell, —
Re-echo'd moorland, rock, and fell;
Into the moonlight tarn it dash'd.
Their shores the sounding surges
lash'd.
And there was ripple, rage, and
foam ;
But on that lake, so dark and lone.
Placid and pale the moonbeam shone
As Jutta hied her home.
Canto Third.
Grey towers of Durham ! there
was once a time
I view'd your battlements with such
vague hope
As brightens life in its first dawning
prime ;
Not that e'en then came within
fancy's scope
A vision vain of mitre, throne, or
cope;
Yet, gazing on the venerable hall.
Her flattering dreams would in
perspective ope
Some reverend room, some pre-
bendary's stall ;
And thus Hope me deceived as she
deceiveth all.
Well yet I love thy mix'd and
massive piles,
Half church of God, half castle
'gainst the Scot,
III.]
Igarof^ tU ©Aunffeee.
531
And long to roam these venerable
aisles,
With records stored of deeds long
since forgot ;
There might I share my Surtees'
happier lot,
Who leaves at will his patrimonial
field
To ransack every crj-pt and hallow'd
spot,
And from oblivion rend the spoils
they yield,
Restoring priestly chant and clang of
knightly shield.
Vain is the wish — since other cares
demand
Each vacant hour, and in another
clime ;
But still that northern harp invites
j my hand,
Which tells the wonder of thine
j earlier time;
And fain its numbers would I now
1' command
To paint the beauties of that dawn-
, ing fair.
When Harold, gazing from its
lofty stand
Upon the western heights of Beau-
repaire.
Saw Saxon Eadmer's towers begirt
by winding Wear.
Fair on the half-seen streams the
sunbeams danced,
Betraying it beneath the woodland
bank,
And fair between the Gothic turrets
glanced
Broad lights, and shadows fell on
front and flank.
Where tower and buttress rose in
(martial rank,
And girdled in the massive donjon
Keep,
And from their circuit peal'd o'er
bush and bank
The matin bell with summons long
and deep,
And echo answer'd still with long-
resounding sweep.
The morning mists rose from the
ground.
Each merry bird awaken'd round,
As if in revelry ;
Afar the bugles' clanging sound
Call'd to the chase the lagging hound;
The gale breathed soft and free,
And seem'd to linger on its way
To catch fresh odours from the spray.
And waved it in its wanton play
So light and gamesomely.
The scenes which morning beams
reveal.
Its sounds to hear, its gales to feel
In all their fragrance round him steal,
It melted Harold's heart of steel.
And, hardly wotting why,
He dolTd his helmet's gloomy pride,
And hung it on a tree beside,
Laid mace and falchion by,
And on the greenswaid sate him
down.
And from his dark habitual frown
Relax'd his rugged brow : — ■
Whoever hath the doubtful task
From that stern Dane a boon to ask,
Were wise to ask it now.
His place beside young Gunnar took,
And mark'd his master's softeninglook.
And in his eye's dark mirror spied
The gloom of stormy thoughts subside.
And cautious watch'd the fittest tide
To speak a warning word.
So when the torrent's billows shrink.
The timid pilgrim on the brink
Waits long to see them wave and sink.
Ere he dare brave the ford,
532
^arof^ tU ®autttfe00.
[ Canto
And often, after donbtful pause,
His step advances or withdraws :
Fearful to move the slumbering ire
Of hisstern lord, thus stood the squire,
Till Harold raised his eye,
That glanced as when athwart the
shroud
Of the dispersing tempest-cloud
The bursting sunbeams fly.
' Arouse thee, son of Ermengarde,
Offspring of prophetess and bard !
Take harp, and greet this lovely prime
Withsomehigh strainof Runic rhyme,
Strong, deep, and powerful 1 Peal
it round
Like that loud bell's sonorous sound,
Yet wild by fits, as when the lay
Of bird and bugle hail the day.
Such was my grandsirc Eric's sport
When dawn gleam'd on his martial
court.
Ileymar the .Scald, with harp's high
sound,
Summon'd the chiefs who slept around;
Couch'd on the spoils of wolf and
bear,
They roused like lions from their
lair,
Then rush'd in emulation forth
To enhance the glories of the North.
Proud Eric, mightiest of thy race.
Where is thy shadowy resting-place ?
In wild Valhalla hast thou quafifd
From foeman's skull methcglin
draught,
Or wanderest where thy cairn was
piled
To frown o'er oceans wide and wild?
Or have the milder Christians given
Thy refuge in their peaceful heaven?
Where'er thou art, to thee are known
Our toils endured, our trophies won.
Our wars, our wanderings, and our
\vocs.'
He ceased, and Gunnar's song arose:
SONG.
* Hawk and osprey scream'd for joy
O'er the beetling clifi's of Hoy,
Crimson foam the beach o'crspread.
The heath Vv'as dyed with darker red,
When o'er Eric, Inguar's son,
Dane and Northman piled the stone;
.Singing wild the war-song stern,
'■ Rest thee, Dweller of the Cairn !"
Where eddying currents foam andboil
By Bersa's burgh and Graemsay's isle,
The seaman sees a martial form
Half-mingled with the mist and storm.
In anxious awe he bears away
To moor his bark in Stromna's baj'.
And murmurs from the bounding stern,
" Rest thee, Dweller of the Cairn !■"
What cares disturb the mighty dead?
Each honour'd rite was duly paid ;
No daring hand thy helm unlaced,
Thy sword, thy shield, were near
thee placed,
Thy flinty couch no tear profaned.
Without, with hostile blood was stain'd;
Within, 'twas lined with moss and fern;
Then rest thee, Dwellerofthe Cairn ! — •
He may not rest : from realms afar
Comes voice of battle and of war.
Of conquest wrought with bloody
hand
On Carmel's clifis and Jordan's strand,
When Odin's warlike son could daunt
The turban'd race of Termagannt.'
' Peace,' said the Knight, ' the noble
Scald
Our warlike fathers' deeds recall'd,
But never strove to soothe the son
With tales of what himself had done.
At Odin's board the bard sits high
Whose harp ne'er stoop'd to flattery;
III.]
'§avon tU ®aunffe00.
533
But highest he whose daring lay
Hath dared unwelcome truths to say.'
With doubtful smile young Gunnar
eyed
His master's looks, and nought re-
plied ;
But well that smile his master led
To construe what he left unsaid.
' Is it to me, thou timid youth,
Thou fear'st to speak unwelcome
truth ?
My soul no more thy censure grieves
Than frosts rob laurels of their leaves.
Say on ; and j^et — beware the rude
And wild distemper of my blood ;
Loth were I that mine ire should
■\vrong
Thej'outh that bore mj^shield so long,
And who, in service constant still.
Though weak in frame, art strong in
will.'
' Oh ! ' quoth the Page, ' even there
depends
My counsel, there m^- warning tends;
Oft seems as of my master's breast
Some demon were the sudden guest;
Then at the first misconstrued word
His hand is on the mace and sword.
From her firm seat his wisdom driven.
His life to countless dangers given.
O! \vould that Gunnar could suffice
To be the fiend's last sacrifice,
So that, when glutted with my gore,
He fled and tempted thee no more!'
Then v.-aved his hand, and shook his
head
The impatient Dane, while tlius he
said :
' Profane not, youth — it is not thine
To judge the spirit of our line —
The bold Berserkar's rage divine,
Through whose inspiring, deeds are
wrought
Past human strength and human
thought.
When full upon his gloomA' soul
The champion feels the influence roll,
He swims the lake, he leaps the wall.
Heeds not the depth, nor plumbs the
fall,
Unshielded, mail-less, on he goes
Singly against a host of foes ;
Their spears he holds like wither'd
reeds,
Their mail like maiden's silken weeds ;
One 'gainst a hundred will he strive.
Take countless wounds, and yet sur-
vive.
Then rush the eagles to his cry
Of slaughter and of victory ;
And blood he quaiTs like Odin's bowl,
Deep drinks his sword, deep drinks
his soul ;
And all that meet him in his ire
He gives to ruin, rout, and fire;
Then, like gorged lion, seeks some den,
And couches till he 's man agen.
Thou knovv'stthesignsoflookand limb.
When 'gins that rage to overbrim ;
Thou know'st when I am moved,
and why ;
And when thousee'st me roll mine eye.
Set my teeth thus, and stamp my foot,
Regard thy safety and be mute ;
But else speak boldl3' out whate'er
Is fitting that a knight should hear.
I love thee, j^outh. Thy lay has power
Upon my dark and sullen hour ; —
So Christian monks are wont to 533^
Demons of old were charm'd away ;
Then fear not I will rashly deem
111 of thy speech, whate'er the theme.'
As down some strait in doubt and
dread
The watchful pilot drops the lead.
And, cautious in the midst to steer,
The shoaling channel sounds with fear;
So, lest on dangerous ground he
swerved.
The Page his master's brow observed,
534
Igavof^ ti>t ©aunffeee.
[Canto
Pausing at intervals to fling
His hand o'er the melodious string,
And to his mood\' breast appl}-
The soothing charm of harmony,
While hinted half, and half exprest,
This warning song convey'd the rest:
' 111 fares the bark with tackle riven.
And ill when on the breakers driven ;
111 when the storm-sprite shrieks in air.
And the scared mermaid tears her
hair;
But worse when on her helm the hand
Of some false traitor holds command.
Ill fares the fainting Palmer, placed
'Mid Hebron's rocks or Rana's waste ;
111 when the scorching sun is high,
And the expected font is drj- ;
Worse when his guide o'er sand
and heath,
The barbarous Copt, has plann'd his
death.
Ill fares the Knight with buckler cleft.
And ill when of his helm bereft;
111 when his steed to earth is flung,
Or from his grasp his falchion wrung;
But worse, if instant ruin token,
When he lists rede by woman spoken.'
'How now, fond bo}-? Canst thou
think ill,'
Said Harold, ' of fair Metelill ? '
' She may be fair,' the Page replied.
As through the strings he ranged,
'She may be fair ; but 3'et,' he cried,
And then the strain he changed,- —
' She may be fair,' he sang, 'but yet
Far fairer have I seen
Than she, for all her locks of jet,
And eyes so dark and sheen.
Were I a Danish knight in arms.
As one day I may be.
My heart should own no foreign
charms ;
A Danish maid for me !
I love my fathers' northern land.
Where the dark pine-trees grow,
And the bold Baltic's echoing strand
Looks o'er each grassy oe.
I love to mark the lingering sun,
From Denmark loth to go.
And leaving on the billows bright,
To cheer the short-lived summer night,
A path of ruddy glow.
But most the northern maid I love,
With breast like Denmark's snow,.
And form as fair as Denmark's pine.
Who loves with purple heath to twine
Her locks of sunny glow;
And sweetly blends that shade of gold
With the cheek's rosy hue.
And Faith might for her mirror hold
That eye of matchless blue.
'Tis hers the manlj- sports to love
That southern maidens fear,
To bend the bow by stream and grove,
And lift the hunter's spear.
She can her chosen champion's flight
With eye undazzled see.
Clasp him victorious from the strife,
Or on his corpse yield up her life ;
A Danish maid for me ! '
Then smiled the Dane, ' Thou canst
so well
The virtues of our maidens tell,
Half could I wish my choice had been
Blue eyes, and hair of golden sheen.
And lofty soul ; yet what of ill
Hast thou to charge on Metelill • '
• Nothing on her,' young Gunnar said,
' But her base sire's ignoble trade.
Her mother, too— the general fame
Hath given to Jutta evil name,
IV.]
'§aton tU ®aunffc00.
535
And in her grey eye is a flame
Art cannot hide, nor fear can tame.
That sordid woodman's peasant cot
Twice have thine honour'd footsteps
sought,
And twice return'd with such ill rede
As sent thee on some desperate deed.'
'Thou errest ; Jutta wisely said.
He that comes suitor to a maid.
Ere link'd in marriage, should provide
Lands and a dwelling for his bride — ■
My father's, by the TN'ne and Wear,
I have reclaim'd.' 'O, all too dear,
And all too dangerous the prize,
E'enwereitwon,'youngGunnar cries ;
' And then this Jutta's fresh device.
That thou should'st seek, a heathen
Dane,
From Durham's priests a boon to gain,
When thou hast left their vassals slain
In their own halls!' Flash'd Harold's
eye,
Thunder'd his voice—' False Page,
you lie !
The castle, hall and tower, is mine,
Built by old Witikind on Tyne.
The wild- cat will defend his den,
Fights for her nest the timid wren ;
And think'st thou I '11 forego my right
For dread of monk or monkish knight?
Up and away, that deepening bell
Doth of the Bishop's conclave tell.
Thither will I, in manner due,
As Jutta bade, my claim to sue ;
And, if to right me they are loth.
Then woe to church and chapter both!'
Now shift the scene, and let the
curtain fall,
And our next entry be Saint Cuth-
bert's hall.
Canto Fourth.
Fui-L many a bard hath sung the
solemn gloom
Of the long Gothic aisle and stone-
ribb'd roof,
O'er-canopying shrine, and gor-
geous tomb.
Carved screen, and altar glimmering
far aloof
And blending with the shade— a
matchless proof
Of high devotion, which hath now
wax'd cold ;
Yet legends say that Luxurj-'s brute
hoof
Intruded oftwithin such sacred fold,
Like step of Bel's false priest, track'd
in his fane of old.
Well pleased am I, howe'er, that
when the rout
Of our rude neighbours whilome
deign'd to come,
Uncall'd, and eke unwelcome, to
sweep out
And cleanse our chancel from the
rags of Rome,
They spoke not on our ancient fane
the doom
To which their bigot zeal gave o'er
their own.
But spared the martyr'd saint and
storied tomb,
Though papal miracles had graced
the stone,
And though the aisles still loved the
organ's swelling tone.
And deem not, though 'tis now my
part to paint
A Prelate sway'd by love of power
and gold,
That all who wore the mitre of our
Saint
Like to ambitious Aldingar I hold ;
536
^arofi tU ©aunifeea.
[Canto
Since both in modern times and
days of old
It sate on those whose virtues might
atone
Their predecessors' frailties trebly
told :
Matthew and Morton we as such
may own —
And such [\l' fame speak truth) the
honour"d Barrington.
II.
But now to earlier and to ruder times,
As subject meet, I tune my rugged
rhj'mes,
Telling how fairly the chapter was
met,
And rood and books in seemly order
set;
Huge brass-clasp'd volumes, which
the hand
Of studious priest but rarely scann'd.
Now on fair carved desk display'd,
'Twas theirs the solemn scene to
aid.
O'erhead with many a scutcheon
graced,
And quaint devices interlaced,
A labyrinth of crossing rows.
The roof in lessening arches shows;
Beneath its shade, placed proud and
high.
With footstool and with canop3%
Sate Aldingar, — and prelate ne'er
More haughty graced Saint Cuthbert's
chair ;
Canons and deacons were placed
below.
In due degree and lengthen'd row.
Unmoved and silent each sat there.
Like image in his oaken chair;
Nor head, nor hand, nor foot they
stirr'd,
Nor lock of hair, nor tress of beard;
And of their eyes severe alone
The twinkle showd they were not
stone.
The Prelate was to speech address'd,
Each head sunk reverent on each
breast ;
But ere his voice was heard, without
Arose a wild tumultuous shout,
Offspring of wonder mix'd with fear,
Such as in crowded streets we hear
Hailing the flames, that, bursting
out.
Attract yet scare the rabble rout.
Ere it had ceased, a giant hand
Shook oaken door and iron band,
I'ill oak and iron both gave way,
Clash'd the long bolts, the hinges
bray,
And, ere upon angel or saint they can
call,
Stands Harold the Dauntless in midst
of the hall :
' Now save yc, my masters, both
rocket and rood,
Erom Bishoj) with mitre to Deacon
with hood 1
For here stands Count Harold, old
Witikind's son.
Come to sue for the lands which his
ancestors won.'
The Prelate look'd round him with
sore troubled eye.
Unwilling to grant, yet afraid to deny ;
While each Canon and Deacon who
heard the Dane speak,
To be safely at home would have
fasted a week :
Then Aldingar roused him, and
answer'd again,
' Thou suest for a boon which thou
canst not obtain ;
The Church hath no fiefs for an
unchristen'd Dane.
Thy father was wise, and his treasure
hath given,
That the priests of a chantry might
hymn him to heaven ;
IV.]
Igatof^ tU ©auntfeee.
537
And the fiefs which whilome he
possess'd as his due,
Have lapsed to the Church, and been
granted anew
To Anthony Conyers and Alberic
Vere,
For the service Saint Cuthbert's
bless'd banner to bear,
When the bands of the North come
to foray the Wear.
Then disturb not our conclave with
wrangling or blame,
But in peace and in patience pass
lience as ye came.'
Loud laugh'd the stern Pagan —
'They're free from the care
Of fief and of service, both Conyers
and Vere ;
.Six feet of your chancel is all they
will need,
A buckler of stone and a corselet of
lead.
Ho, Gunnar ! — the tokens 1' and,
sever'd anew,
A head and a hand on the altar he
threw.
Then shudder'd with terror both
Canon and Monk,
They knew the glazed eye and the
countenance shrunk.
And of Anthony Conyers the half-
grizzled hair.
And the scar on the hand of Sir
Alberic Vere.
There was not a churchman or priest
that was there
But grew pale at the sight, and betook
him to prayer.
VI.
Count Harold laugh'd at their looks
of fear :
•Was this the hand should your
banner bear ?
W^as that the head should wear the
casque
In battle at the Church's task ?
Was it to such you gave the place
Of Harold with the heavy mace ?
Find me between the Wear and Tj-ne
A knight will wield this club of mine, —
Give him mj' fiefs, and I \vill say
There's wit beneath the cowl of grey.'
He raised it, rough with many a stain,
Caught from crush'd skull and
spouting brain ;
He wheel'd it that it shrilly sung,
And the aisles echo'd as it swung.
Then dash'd it down with sheer
descent.
And split King Osric's monument.
' How like ye this music ' How trow
ye the hand
That can wield such a mace may be
reft of its land '
No answer ? — I spare ye a space to
agree,
And Saint Cuthbert inspire }'ou,
a saint if he be.
Ten strides through j'our chancel, ten
strokes on your bell.
And again I am with you ; grave
fathers, farewell.'
He turn'd from their presence, he
clash'd the oak door.
And the clang of his stride died away
on the floor ;
And his head from his bosom the
Prelate uprears
With a ghost-seer's look when the
ghost disappears :
'Ye Priests of Saint Cuthbert, now
give me your rede,
For never of counsel had Bishop
more need !
Were the arch-fiend incarnate in
flesh and in bone.
The language, the look, and the
lauoh were his own.
538
garof^ iU ©aunffe60.
[ Canto
In the bounds of Saint Cuthbert there
is not a knight
Dare confront in our quarrel yon
goblin in fight ;
Then rede me aright to his claim to
reply,
'Tis unlawful to grant, and "tis death
to deny.'
VIII.
On venison and malmsie that morning
had fed j
The Cellarer Vinsauf; 'twas thus that ^
he said :
' Delay till to-morrow the Chapter's ;
reply : [
Let the feast be spread fair, and the i
wine be pour'd high ; I
If he's mortal he drinks, if he drinks :
he is ours — •
His bracelets of iron, his bed in our i
towers.' I
This man had a laughing eye.
Trust not, friends, when such you spy;
A beaker's depth he well could drain,
Revel, sport, and jest amain ;
The haunch of the deer and the grape's
bright dye.
Never bard loved them better than I ;
But sooner than Vinsauf fiU'd me my
■wine,
Pass'd me his jest, and laugh'd at mine,
Though the buck were of Bearpark,
of Bourdeaux the vine,
With the dullest hermit I'd rather dine
On an oaken cake and a draught of
the Tyne.
IX.
Walwaj-n the leech spoke next : he
knew
Each plant that loves the sun and dew.
But special those wdiose juice can gain
Dominion o'er the blood and brain ;
The peasant who saw him by pale
moonbeam
Gathering such herbs by bank and
stream,
Deem'd his thin form and soundless
tread
Were those of wanderer from the dead.
' Vinsauf, thy wine,' he said, ' hath
power,
Ourg3'vesareheav3-, strong our tower ;
Yet three drops from this flask of mine.
More strong than dungeons, gyves, or
wine,
Shall give him prison under ground
More dark, more narrow, more
profound.
Shortrede, good rede, let Harold have,
A dog's death and a heathen's grave.'
I have lain on a sick man's bed,
W'atching for hours for the leech's
tread.
As if I deem'd that his presence alone
Were of power to bid my pain begone;
I have listed his words of comfort
given,
As if to oracles from heaven ;
I have counted his steps from my
chamber door,
I And bless'd them when they were
heard no more ;
j But sooner than Wahvayn my sick
I couch should nigh,
My choice were, by leech-craft un-
I aided, to die.
' Such service done in fervent zeal
The Church may pardon and conceal,'
The doubtful Prelate said, ' but ne'er
The counsel ere the act should hear.
Anselm of Jarrow, advise us now.
The stamp of wisdom is on thy brow ;
Thy days, thy nights, in cloister pent,
Are still to mystic learning lent ;
Anselm of Jarrow, in thee is my hope.
Thou well may'st give counsel to
Prelate or Pope.'
Answer'd the Prior: "Tis wisdom's use
Still to delay what we dare not refuse ;
IV.]
^arofi tU ^<xmtk60.
539
Ere granting the boon he comes hither
to ask,
Shape for the giant gigantic task ;
Let us see how a step so sounding
can tread
In paths of darkness, danger, and dread;
He may not, he will not, impugn our
decree,
That callsbut for proof of his chivalry;
And were Guy to return, or Sir Bevis
the Strong,
Our wilds have adventure might
cumber them long ;
The Castle of Seven Shields '
' Kind Anselm, no more !
The step of the Pagan approaches the
door.'
The churchmen were hush'd. In his
mantle of skin.
With his mace on his shoulder, Count
Harold strode in ;
There was foam on his lips, there was
fire in his eye.
For, chafed by attendance, his fury
was nigh.
' Ho ! Bishop,' he said, ' dost thou
grant me my claim •
Or must I assert it b}' falchion and
flame ? '
' On thy suit, gallant Harold,' the
Bishop replied.
In accents which trembled, ' we may
not decide,
Until proof of your strength and j-our
valour we saw ;
'Tis not that we doubt them, but such
is the law.'
'And would you. Sir Prelate, have
Harold make sport
For the cowls and the shavelings that
herd in thy court ?
Saj- what shall he do ? From the
shrine shall he tear
The lead bier of thy patron, and heave
it in air,
And through the long chancel make
Cuthbert take wing.
With the speed of a bullet dismissed
from the sling ? '
' Nay, spare such probation," the
Cellarer said,
' From the mouth of our minstrels th}'
task shall be read.
While the wine sparkles high in the
goblet of gold.
And the revel is loudest, th3' task shall
be told ;
And Ihj'self, gallant Harold, shall,
hearing it, tell
That the Bishop, his cowls, and his
shavelings, meant well.'
Loud revell'd the guests, and the
goblets loud rang.
But louder the minstrel, Hugh
Meneville, sang ;
And Harold, the hurry and pride of
whose soul,
E'en when verging to fury, own'd
music's control.
Still bent on the harper his broad
sable eye,
And often untasted the goblet pass'd
by;
Than wine, or than wassail, to him
was more dear
The minstrel's high tale of enchant-
ment to hear ;
And the Bishop that day might of
Vinsauf complain
That his art had but wasted his wine-
casks in vain.
The C.\stle of the Seven Shields.
A BALLAD.
The Druid Urien had daughters seven.
Their skill could call the moon from
heaven ;
540
Igatrof^ tU ®auttffe00.
[ Canto
So fair their forms and so high their
fame,
That seven proud kings for their
suitors came.
King Mador and Rhj's came from
Powis and Wales,
Unshorn was their hair, and unpruned
were their nails ;
From Strath-Clwyde was Ewain, and
Ewain was lame.
And the red-bearded Donald from
Galloway came.
Lot, King of Lodon, was hunchback'd
from youth ;
DunmailofCumbriahad never atooth ;
But Adolf of Bambrough, Northumber-
land's heir,
Was gay and was gallant, was young
and was fair.
There was strife 'mongst the sisters,
for each one would have
For husband King Adolf, the gallant
and brave ;
And envy bred hate, and hate urged
them to blows,
When the firm earth was cleft, and
the Arch-fiend arose I
He swore to the maidens their wish
to fulfil ;
They swore to the Ibe they would
work by his will.
A spindle and distaft" to each hath he
given,
' Now hearken my spell,' said the
Outcast of heaven.
' Ye shall ply these spindles at mid-
night hour.
And for every spindle shall rise a
tower.
Where the right shall be feeble, the
wrong shall have power,
And there shall ye dwell with your
paramour.'
Beneath the pale moonlight they sate
on the wold.
And the rhymes which they chanted
must never be told ;
And as the black wool from the distaff
they sped,
With blood from their bosom they
moisten'd the thread.
As light danced the spindles beneath
the cold gleam.
The castle arose like the birth of
a dream ;
The seven towers ascended like mist
from the ground.
Seven portals defend them, seven
ditches surround.
Within that dread castle seven
monarchs were wed,
But six of the seven ere the morning
lay dead ;
With their eyes all on fire, and their
daggers all red,
Seven damsels surround the North-
umbrian's bed.
' Six kingly bridegrooms to death we
have done,
Six gallant kingdoms King Adolf hath
won,
Six lovely brides all his pleasure to do,
Or the bed of the seventh shall be
husbandless too.'
Well chanced it that Adolf the night
when he wed
Had confess'd and had sain'd him
ere boune to his bed ;
He sprung from the couch and his
broadsword he drew,
And there the seven daughters of
Urien he slew.
The gate of the castle he bolted and
seal'd,
Andhungo'ereach arch-stonea crown
and a shield :
v.]
^arofi tU ^MntkBts,
541
To the cells of Saint Dunstan then
wended his waj',
And died in his cloister an anchorite
grey.
Seven monarchs' wealth in that castle
lies stow'd,
The foul fiends brood o'er them like
raven and toad ;
Whoever shall guestcn these chambers
within,
From curfew till matins, that treasure
shall win.
But manhood grows faint as the
\vorld waxes old !
There lives not in Britain a champion
so bold,
So dauntless of heart, and so prudent
of brain,
As to dare the adventure that treasure
to gain.
The waste ridge of Cheviot shall
wave with the rj'e.
Before the rude Scots shall North-
umberland fl}-,
And the flint clifts of Bambro" shall
melt in the sun,
Before that adventure be perill'd and
won.
' And is this my probation ? ' wild
Harold he said,
'Within a lone castle to press a lone
bed?
Good even, my Lord Bishop ; Saint
Cuthbert to borrow.
The Castle of Seven Shields receives
me to-morrow.'
Canto Fifth.
Denmark's sage courtier to her
princely youth,
Hranting his cloud an ouzel or
a whale.
Spoke, though unwittingly, apartial
truth ;
For Fantasy embroiders Nature's
veil.
The tints of ruddy eve, or dawning
pale.
Of the swart thunder-cloud, or
silver haze,
Arc but the ground-work of the
rich detail
Which Fantasy with pencil wiki
portra3's,
Blending what seems and is in the
wrapt muser's gaze.
Nor arc the stubborn forms of earth
and stone
Less to the Sorceress's empire given;
For not with unsubstantial hues
alone,
Caught from the varying surge, or
vacant heaven.
From bursting sunbeam, or from
flashing levin.
She limns her pictures : on the
earth, as air,
Arise her castles, and her car is
driven ;
And never gazed the eye on scene
so fair.
But of its boasted charms gave Fancy
half the share.
Up a wild pass went Harold, bent
to prove,
Hugh Meneville, the adventure of
thv lav ;
542
'§Mon tU ^amtkee.
[Canto
Gunnar pursued his steps in faith
and love,
Ever companion of liis master's
way.
Midward their path, a rock of
granite grey
From the adjoining cliO' had made
descent,
A barren mass, yet with her
drooping spray
Had a young birch-tree crovvn'd ils
battlement,
Twisting her fibrous roots through
cranny, flaw, and rent.
This rock and tree could Gunnar's
thought engage
Till Fancy brought the tear-drop to
his eye,
And at his master ask'd the timid
Page,
' What is the emblem that a bard
should spy
I]i that rude rock and its green
canopy ?'
And Harold said, ' Like to the
helmet brave
Of warrior slain in fight it seems
to lie,
And these same drooping boughs
do o'er it wave
Not all unlike tlie plume his lad^^'s
favour gave."
'Ah, no!' replied the Page; 'the
ill-starr'd love
Of some poor maid is in the emblem
shown,
Whose fates are with some hero's
interwove,
And rooted on a heart to love
unknown :
And as the gentle dews of heaven
alone
Nourish those drooping boughs,
and as the scathe
Of the red lightning rends both
tree and stone,
So faresitwith her unrequited faith ;
Her sole relief is tears, her only
refuge death.'
' Thou art a fond fantastic boj\'
Harold replied, ' to females coj',
Yet prating still of love ;
Even so amid the clash of war
I know thou lovest to keep afar.
Though destined by thy evil star
With one like me to rove.
Whose business and whose joys are
found
Upon the bloody battle-ground.
Yet, foolish trembler as thou art,
Thou hast a nook of my rude heart,
And thou and I will never part ;
Harold would wrap the world in flame
Ere injury on Gunnar came!'
The grateful Page made no reply,
But turn'd to Heaven his gentle eye,
And clasp'd his hands, as one who
said,
'My toils, my wanderings are o'erpaidl'
Then in a gayer, lighter strain,
Compell'd himself to speech again;
And, as they flow'd along,
His words took cadence soft and slow,
And liquid, like dissolving snow,
They melted into song.
' What though through fields of
carnage wide
I may not follow Harold's stride.
Vet who with faithful Gunnar's pride
Lord Harold's feats can see ?
And dearer than the couch of pride,
He loves the bed of grey wolf's hide.
When slumbering by Lord Harold's
side
In forest, field, or lea.'
v.]
'§Moit) tU ©aunffeee.
543
' Break off!' said Harold, in a tone
Where hurry and surprise \vere
shown,
With some slight touch of fear;
' Break off, we are not here alone ;
A Palmer form comes slowly on 1
B3' cowl, and staff, and mantle known,
My monitor is near.
Now mark him, Gunnar, hecdfull\-;
He pauses by the blighted tree —
Dost see him, youth? Thou could'st
not see
When in the \'ale of Galilee
I first beheld his form,
Nor when we met that other while
In Cephalonia's rocky isle
Before the fearful storm;
Dost see him now ? ' The Page,
distraught
With terror, answer'd,' I see nought,
And there is nought to see.
Save that the oak's scathed boughs
fling down
Upon the path a shadow brown.
That, like a pilgrim's dusky gown,
Waves with the waving tree.'
Count Harold gazed upon the oak
As if his eyestrings would have broke,
And then resolvedly said,
' Be what it will 3'on phantom grey,
Nor heaven, nor hell, shall ever say
That for their shadows from his
way
Count Harold turn'd dismay'd :
I'll speak him, though his accents fill
My heart with that unwonted thrill
Which vulgar minds call fear.
I will subdue it !' Forth he strode,
Paused where the blighted oak-tree
show'd
Its sable shadow on the road.
And, folding on his bosom broad
His arms, said, ' Speak, I hear.'
The Deep Voice said, ' O wild of will,
Furious thy purpose to fulfil,
Heart-sear'd and unrepentant still,
How long, O Harold, shall thy tread
Disturb the slumbers of the dead ?
Each step in thy wild waj' thou
makes t
The ashes of the dead thou wakest ;
And shout in triumph o'er thy path
The fiends of bloodshed and of wrath.
In this thine hour, yet turn and hear!
For life is brief and judgment near.'
Then ceased The Voice. The Dane
replied
In tones where awe and inborn pride
For mastery strove: ' In vain ye chide
The wolf for ravaging the flock,
Or wit'n its hardness taunt the rock ;
I am as they — m\' Danish strain
Sends streams of fire through every
vein.
Amid thy realms of goule and ghost,
Say, is the fame of Eric lost.
Or Witikind's the Waster, known
Where fame or spoil was to be won ;
Whose galleys ne'er bore off a shore
They left not black with flame ?
He was my sire, and, sprung of him.
That rover merciless and grim,
Can I be soft and tame ?
Part hence, and with my crimes no
more upbraid me,
I am that Waster's son, and am but
what he made me.'
The Phantom groan'd ; the mountain
shook around,
The fawn and wild-doe started at the
sound.
The gorse and fern did wildly round
them wave.
As if some sudden storm the impulse
gave.
544
garofi (H ©auntfeee.
[Canto
'AH thou hast said is truth ; yet on
the head
Of that bad sire let not the charge be
laid.
That he, like thee, with unrelenting
pace,
From grave to cradle ran the evil race :
Relentless in his avarice and ire.
Churches and towns he gave to sword
and fire ;
Shed blood like water, wasted every
land,
Like the destroying angel's burning
brand ;
Fulfill'd whate'er of ill might be
invented.
Yes! all these things he did — he did,
but he repented !
Perchance it is part of his punishment
still.
That his offspring pursues his example
of ill.
But thou, when th}' tempest of wrath
shall next shake thee,
Gird thy loins for resistance, my son,
and awake thee ;
If thou yield'st to thy fury, how
tempted soever.
The gate of repentance shall ope for
thee never ! ' —
XI.
' He is gone,' said Lord Harold, and
gazed as he spoke ;
' There is nought on the path but the
shade of the oak.
He is gone, whose strange presence
my feeling oppress'd,
Like the night-hag that sits on the
slumberer's breast.
My heart beats as thick as a fugitive's
tread.
And cold dews /op from my brow
and my heJd.
Ho I Gunnar, the flasket 3'on almoner
gave ;
He said that three drops would recall
from the grave.
For the first time Count Harold owns
leech-craft has power,
Or, his courage to aid, lacks the juice
of a flower ! '
The Page gave the flasket, which
Walwayn had fill'd
With the juice of wild roots that his
art had distill'd ;
So baneful their influence on all that
had breath.
One drop had been frenzy, and two
had been death.
Harold took it, but drank not ; for
jubilee shrill,
And music and clamour were heard
on the hill,
And down the steep pathway, o'er
stock and o'er stone.
The train of a bridal came blithe-
somely on ;
There was song, there was pipe, there
was trimbrel, and still
The burden was 'Joy to the fair
Metelill !'
Harold might see from his high stance,
Himself unseen, that train advance
With mirth and melody;
On horse and foot a mingled throng,
Measuring their steps to bridal song
And bridal minstrelsy ;
And ever when the blithesome rout
Lent to the song their choral shout,
Redoubling echoes roll'd about,
While echoing cave and cliff sent out
The answering S3-mphony
Of all those mimic notes which dwell
In hollow rock and sounding dell.
Joy shook his torch above the band,
By many a various passion fann'd ;
As elemental sparks can feed
On essence pure and coarsest weed.
Gentle, or stoi-my, or refined,
Joy takes the colours of the mind.
Igarofi tU ^Amikna.
545
Lightsome and pure, but unrepress'd,
He fired the bridegroom's gallant
breast ;
More feebly strove with maiden fear,
Yet still joy glimmer'd through the tear
On the bride's blushing cheek, that
shows
Like dewdrop on the budding rose ;
While Wulfstane's gloomy smile
declared
The glee that selfish avarice shared,
And pleased revenge and malice high
Joy"s semblance took in Jutta's eye.
On dangerous adventure sped,
The witch deem'd Harold with the
dead,
For thus that morn her Demon said :
' If, ere the set of sun, be tied
The knot 'twixt bridegroom and his
bride.
The Dane shall have no power of ill
O'er William and o'er Metelill.'
And the pleased witch made answer,
' Then
Must Harold have pass'd from the
paths of men I
Evil repose may his spirit have ;
Ma\' hemlock and mandrake find root
in his grave ;
May his death-sleep be dogged by
dreams of dismay,
And his waking be worse at the
answering da\' I '
XIV.
Such was their various mood of glee
Blent in one shout of ecstasy.
But still when Joy is brimming highest,
Of Sorrow and Misfortune nighest,
Of Terror with her ague cheek.
And lurking Danger, sages speak :
Thesehaunt each path, butchieftheylay
Their snares beside the primrose wa}-.
Thus found that bridal band their path
Beset by Harold in his wrath.
Trembling beneath his maddening
mood,
High on a rock the giant stood ;
His shout was like the doom of death
Spoke o'er their heads that pass'd
beneath.
His destined victims might not spy
The reddening terrors of his eye,
Thefrown of rage that writhed his face,
The lip that foam'd like boar's in chase ;
But all could see — and, seeing, all
Bore back to shun the threaten'd fall—
The fragment which their giant foe
Rent from the cliff"and heaved to throw.
XV.
Backward they bore : j^et are there
two
For battle who prepare ;
No pause of dread Lord William knew
Ere his good blade was bare ;
And Wulfstane bent his fatal yew.
But ere the silken cord he drew,
As hurl'd from Hecla's thunder, flew
That ruin through the air !
Full on the outlaw's front it came,
And all that late had human name.
And human face, and human frame.
That lived, and moved, and had free
will
To choose the path of good or ill.
Is to its reckoning gone ;
And nought ofWulfstane restsbehind,
Save that beneath that stone,
Half-buried in the dinted clay,
A red and shapeless mass there laj'
Of mingled flesh and bone !
XVI.
As from the bosom of the sky
The eagle darts amain.
Three bounds from 3^onder summit high
Placed Harold on the plain.
Asthescaredwild-fowl scream and fly.
So fled the bridal train ;
As "gainst the eagle's peerless might
The noble falcon dares the fight.
But dares the fight in vain,
So fought the bridegroom ; from his
hand
The Dane's rude mace has struck his
brand,
T
o46
Igavof^ tU ©aunffeee.
[Canto
Its glittering fragmentsstrewthesand.
Its lord lies on the plain.
Now, Heaven ! take noble William's
part,
And melt that yet iinmelted heart.
Or, ere his bridal hour depart,
The hapless bridegroom 's slain ! I
XVII.
Count Harold's frenzied rage is high,
There is a death-fire in his eye.
Deep furrows on his brow are
trench'd.
His teeth are set, his hand is
clench'd,
The foam upon his lip is white,
His deadly arm is up to smite !
But, as the mace aloft he swung,
To stop the blow young Gunnar
sprung,
Around his master's knees he clung
And cried, ' In mercy spare !
O think upon the words of fear
Spoke by that visionary .Seer ;
The crisis he foretold is here.
Grant mercy, or despair !'
This word suspended Harold's mood,
Yet still with arm upraised he stood.
And visage like the headsman's rude
That pauses for the sign.
' O mark thee with the blessed rood,'
The Page implored ; ' speak word of
good.
Resist the fiend, or be subdued ! '
He sign'd the cross divine;
Instant his eye hath human light,
Less red, less keen, less fiercely bright;
His brow relax'd the obdurate frown.
The fatal mace sinks gently down,
He turns and strides away;
Yet oft, like revellers who leave
Unfinish'd feast, looks back to grieve,
As if repenting the reprieve
He granted to his prey.
Yet still of forbearance one sign hath
he given.
And fierce Witikind's son made one
step towards heaven.
But though his dreaded footsteps part,
Death is behind and shakes his dart ;
Lord William on the plain is lying,
Beside him Metelill seems dying !
Bring odours, essences in haste —
And lo ! a fiasket richly chased ;
But Jutta the elixir proves
Ere pouring it for those she loves ;
Then Walwa3'n's potion was not
wasted,
For when three drops the hag had
tasted,
So dismal was her yell,
Each bird of evil omen woke,
The raven gave his fatal croak,
And shriek'd the night-crow from the
oak.
The screech-owl from the thicket broke.
And flutter'd down the dell !
So fearful was the sound and stern.
The slumbers of the full-gorged erne
Were startled, and from furze and fern
Of forest and of fell,
The fox and famish'd wolf replied
( For wolves then prowl'd the Cheviot
side).
From mountain head to mountain head
The unhallow'd sounds around were
sped ;
But when their latest echo fled.
The sorceress on the ground lay dead.
XIX.
Such was the scene of blood and
woes
With which the bridal morn arose
Of William and of Metelill ;
But oft, when dawning 'gins to spread,
The summer morn peeps dim and red
Above the eastern hill.
Ere, bright and fair, upon his road
The King of .Splendour walks abroad ;
So, when this cloud had pass'd awaj',
Bright was the noontide of their day,
And all serene its setting ray.
VI.]
Igarofi tH ^amtUee.
547
Canto Sixth.
I.
Well do I hope that this my minstrel
tale
Will tempt no traveller from southern
fields,
Whether in tilbury, barouche, or
mail.
To view the Castle of these Seven
Proud Shields.
Small confirmation its condition
yields
To Meneville's high lay : no towers
are seen
On the wild heath, but those that
fancy builds,
And, save a fosse that tracks the
moor with green.
Is nought remains to tell of what maj'
there have been.
And yet grave authors, with the
no small waste
Of their grave time, have dignified
the spot
By theories, to prove the fortress
placed
By Roman bands, to curb the
invading Scot.
Hutchinson, Horsley, Camden, I
might quote,
But rather choose the theory less civil
Of boors, who, origin of things forgot,
Refer still to the origin of evil.
And for their master-mason choose
that master-fiend the De\il.
n.
Therefore, I say, it was on fiend-
built towers
That stout Count Harold bent his
wondering gaze,
When evening dew was on the
heather flowers,
And the last sunbeams made the
mountain blaze,
And tinged the battlements of other
days
Withthebrightlevel light eresinking
[ down.
Illumined thus, the dauntless Dane
survey's
The Seven Proud Shields that o'er
I the portal frown,
xVnd on their blazons traced high marks
of old renown.
A wolf North Wales liad on his
armour-coat.
And Rhys of Powis-land a couchant
stag;
Strath-Clwyd's strange emblem was
a stranded boat,
Donald of Galloway's a trotting
nag;
A corn-sheaf gilt was fertile Lodon's
brag;
A dudgeon-dagger was by Dunmail
worn ;
Northumbrian Adolf gave a sea-beat
crag
Surmounted by a cross ; such signs
were borne
Upon these antique shields, all wasted
now and worn.
These scann'd, Count Harold sought
the castle-door
Whose ponderous bolts were rusted
to decay ;
Yet till thathour adventurous knight
forbore
The unobstructed passage to essay.
More strong than armed warders
in array.
And obstacle more sure than bolt
or bar,
Sate in the portal Terror and Dis-
may,
While Superstition, who forbade
to war
With foes of other mould than
mortal clay,
Cast spells across the gate, and barr'd
the onward way.
T 2
548
gavofi tU ®auntfe00.
[Canto
Vain now those spells ; for soon
with heavy clank
The feebly-fasten'd gate was inward
push'd.
And, as it oped, through that
emblazon'd rank
Of antique shields, the wind of
evening rush'd
With sound most like a groan, and
then was hush'd.
Is none who on such spot such
sounds could hear
But to his heart the blood had
faster rush'd ;
Yet to bold Harold's breast that
throb was dear —
It spoke of danger nigh, but had no
touch of fear.
IV.
Yet Harold and his Page no signs
have traced
Within the castle, that of danger
show'd ;
For still the halls and courts were
wild and waste,
As through their precincts the
adventurers trode.
The seven huge towers rose statel}^
tall, and broad,
Each tower presenting to their
scrutinj'
A hall in which a king might make
abode.
And fast beside, garnish'd both
proud and high,
Was placed a bower for rest in which
a king might lie.
As if a bridal there of late had
been,
Deck'd stood the table in each
gorgeous hall ;
And yet it was two hundred j-ears,
I ween,
Since date ofthatunhallow'd festival.
Flagons, and ewers, and standing
cups, were all
Of tarnish'd gold, or silver nothing
clear.
With throne begilt, and canopv of
pall.
And tapestry clothed the walls with
fragments sear :
Frail as the spider's mesh did that
rich woof appear.
In every bower, as round a hearse,
^vas hung
A dusky crimson curtain o'er the
bed.
And on each couch in ghastly wise
were flung
The wasted relics of a monarch
dead ;
Barbaric ornaments around were
spread.
Vests twined with gold, and chains
of precious stone.
And golden circlets, meet for
monarch's head ;
While grinn'd, as if in scorn amongst
them thrown.
The wearer's lleshless skull, alike with
dust bestrown.
For these were they who, drunken
with delight,
On pleasure's opiate pillow laid
their head,
For whom the bride's shy footstep,
slow and light.
Was changed ere morning to the
murderer's tread.
For human bliss and woe in the
frail thread
Of human life arc all so closely
twined,
That till the shears of Fate the
texture shred.
The close succession cannot be
disjoin'd,
Nor dare we, from one hour, judge
that which comes behind.
VI.]
"^avon tU '^<tmtk00.
i49
But where the work of vengeance
had been done,
In that seventh chamber, was a
sterner sight ;
There of the witch-brides lay each
skeleton.
Still in the posture as to death when
dight.
For this lay prone, by one blow
slain outright ;
And that, as one who struggled
long in dying ;
One bony hand held knife, as if to
smite ;
One bent on tlcshless knees, as
mercy crying ;
One lay across the door, as kill'd in
act of flying.
The stern Dane smiled this charnel-
house to see,
For his chafed thought return'd to
Metelill;
And ' Well,' he said, 'hath woman's
perfidy,
Emptj^ as air, as water volatile,
Been here avenged. The origin of ill
Through woman rose, the Christian
doctrine saith :
Nor deem I, Gunnar, that tii^-
minstrel skill
Can show example where a woman's
breath
Hath made a true-love vow, and,
tempted, kept her faith."
VII.
The minstrel-boy half smiled, half
sigh'd,
And his half-filling ej-es he dried,
And said, ' The theme I should but
wrong,
Unless it were my dying song,
(Our Scalds have said, in dying hour
"The Northern harp has treble power)
Else could I tell of woman's faith.
Defying danger, scorn, and death.
Firm was that faith, as diamond stone
Pure and unflaw'd, her love unknown,
And unrequited ; firm and pure,
Her stainless faith could all endure ;
From clime to clime, from place to place,
Through want, and danger, and
disgrace,
A wanderer's wayward steps could
trace.
All this she did, and guerdon none
Required, save that her burial-stone
Should make at length the secret
known,
'■'Thus hath a faithful woman done."
Not in each breast such truth is laid,
But Eivir was a Danish maid.'
• Thou art a wild enthusiast,' said
Count Harold, ' for thy Danish maid ;
And yet, 3'oung Gunnar, I will own
Hers were a faith to rest upon.
But Eivir sleeps beneath her stone, -
And all resembling her are gone.
What maid e'ershow'd such constancy
In plighted faith, like thine to me ?
But couch thee, bo}' ; the darksome
shade
Falls thickly round, nor be disma\-"d
Because the dead are bj'.
They were as we ; our little daj-
O'erspent, and we shall be as the^-.
Yet near me, Gunnar, be thou laid.
Thy couch upon my mantle made,
That thou mayst think, should fear
invade.
Thy master slumbers nigh.'
Thus couch'd they in that dread abode,
Until the beams of dawning glow'd.
An alter'd man Lord Harold rose ;
When he beheld that dawn unclose.
There 's trouble in his eyes,
And traces on his brow and cheek
Of mingled awe and wonder speak :
I ■ Mj' page,' he said, 'arise ;
55°
^Mon f^e ©aunffeee.
LCanto
Leave we this place, my page.' No
more
He utter'd till the castle door
They cross'd, but there he paused and
said,
'My wildness hath awaked the dead,
Disturb'd the sacred tomb I
Methought this night I stood on high.
Where Hecla roars in middle sky,
And in her cavern'd gulfs could spy
The central place of doom ;
And there before my mortal e3'e
Souls of the dead came Hitting by.
Whom fiends, with manj' a fiendish crj',
Bore to that evil den !
My eyes grew dizzy, and my brain
Was wilder'd, as the elvish train.
With shriek and howl, dragg'd on
amain
I'hose who had late been men.
'With haggard eyes and streaming
hair,
Jutta the Sorceress was there,
And there pass'd Wulfstane, lately'
slain.
All crush'd and foul with bloody stain.
More had I seen, but that uprose
A whirlwind wild, and swept the
snows ;
And with such sound as when at need
A champion spurs his horse to speed,
Three armed knights rush on, who lead
Caparison'd a sable steed.
Sable their harness, and there came
rhrough their closed visors sparks of
flame.
The first proclaim'd, in sounds of fear,
"Harold the Dauntless, welcome herel"
The next cried, "Jubilee ! we 've won
Count Witikind the Waster's son ! "
And the third rider sternly spoke,
" Mount, in the name of Zernebock !
From us, O Harold, were thy powers.
Thy strength, thy dauntlessness, are
Nor think, a vassal thou of hell,
With hell can strive." The fiend
spoke true !
My inmost soul the summons knew,
As captives know the knell
That says the headsman's sword is bare,
And, with an accent of despair,
Commands them quit their cell.
I felt resistance was in \ain,
My foot had that fell stirrup ta'en,
My hand was on the fatal mane,
When to my rescue sped
That Palmer's visionary form.
And, like the passing of a storm,
The demons yell'd and fled !
XI.
' His sable cowl. Hung back, reveal'd
The features it before conceal'd ;
And, Gunnar, I could find
In him whose counsels strove to stay
So oft my course on wilful ^vay,
My father Witikind 1
Doom'd for his sins, and doom'd for
mine,
A wanderer upon earth to pint;
Until his son shall turn to grace.
And smooth for him a resting-place.
Gunnar, he must not haunt in vain
This world of wretchedness and pain ;
I '11 tame my wilful heart to live
In peace, to pity and forgive ;
And thou, for so the Vision said.
Must in thy lord's repentance aid.
Thy mother was a prophetess.
He said, who by her skill could guess
How close the fatal textures join
Which knit tin' thread of life with mine;
Then, dark, he hinted of disguise
She framed to cheat too curious eyes.
That not a moment might divide
Thy fated footsteps from my side.
Methought while thus my sire did
teach,
I caught the meaning of his speech.
Yet seems its purport doubtful now.'
His hand then sought his thoughtful
brow ;
VI.]
l^avot^ tU ^Mntkee.
551
Then first he mark'd, that in the tower
His glove was left at waking hour.
XII.
Trembling at first, and deadly pale,
Had Gunnar heard the vision'd tale ;
But when he learnd the dubious close,
He blush'd like any opening rose,
And, glad to hide his tell-tale cheek,
Hied back that glove of mail to seek ;
When soon a shriek of deadly dread
Summon'd his master to his aid.
XIII.
What sees Count Harold in that bower,
So late his resting-place i
The semblance of the Evil Power,
Adored by all his race 1
Odin in living form stood there,
His cloak the spoils of Polar bear;
For plumy crest a meteor shed
Its gloomy radiance o'er his head,
Yet veil'd its haggard majesty
To the wild lightnings of his eye.
Such height was his, as when in stone
O'er Upsal's giant altar shown :
So flow'd his hoary beard ;
Such was his lance of mountain-pine.
So did his sevenfold buckler shine ;
But when his voice he rear'd,
Deep, without harshness, slow and
strong,
The powerful accents roll'd along.
And, while he spoke, his hand was laid
On captive Gunnar's shrinking head.
XIV.
'Harold,' he said, 'what rage is thine,
To quit the worship of thy line.
To leave thy Warrior-God ?
With me is glory or disgrace,
Mine is the onset and the chase,
Embattled hosts before my face
Are wither'd by a nod.
Wilt thou then forfeit that high seat
Deserved by many a dauntless feat,
Among the heroes of thy line,
Eric and fiery Thorarine ?
Thou wilt not. Only I can give
The joys for which the \-aliant live.
Victory and vengeance ; only I
Can give the joys for which they die,
The immortal tilt, the banquet full.
The brimming draught from foeman's
skull.
Mine art thou, witness this thy gIo\e,
The faithful pledge of vassal's love.'
XV.
' Tempter,' said Harold, firm of heart,
• I charge thee, hence ! whate'er thou
art,
I do def\' thcc, and resist
The kindling frenz\' of my breast.
Waked by thy words ; and of my mail,
Norglove, nor buckler, splent, nornail.
Shall rest with thee— that youth
release.
And God, or Demon, part in peace.'
'Eivir.' the Shape replied. ' is mine.
Mark'd in the birth- hour with my sign.
Think'st thou that priest with drops
of spray
Could wash that blood-red mark away ?
Or that a borrow'd sex and name
Can abrogate a Godhead's claim?'
Thrill'd this strange speech througli
Harold's brain,
He clench'd his teeth in high disdain.
For not his new-born faith subdued
Some tokens of his ancient mood :
' Now, by the hope so lately given
Of better trust and purer heaven,
I will assail thee, fiend I ' Then rose
His mace, and with a storm of blows
The mortal and the Demon close.
XVI.
Smoke roll'd above, fire flash'd around,
Darken'd the sky and shook the
ground;
But not the artillery of hell,
The bickering lightning, nor the rock
Of turrets to the earthquake's shock,
Could Harold's courage quell.
Sternly the Dane his purpose kept.
And blows on blows resistless heap'd.
Till quail'd that Demon Form,
Igarof^ tU ®aunffe00.
■Canto VI.
And — for his power to hurt or kill
Was bounded by a higher will — j
Evanish'd in the storm. ^
Norpaused the Champion of the North,
But raised, and bore his Eivir forth, j
From that wild scene of fiendish strife, !
To light, to liberty, and life ! j
XVII.
He placed her on a bank of moss, j
A silver runnel bubbled b}^ j
And new-born thoughts his soul
engross, j
And tremors yet unknown across \
His stubborn sinews fl}'.
The while with timid hand the dew
Upon her brow and neck he threw.
And mark'd how life with rosy hue
On her pale cheek revived anew,
And glimmer'd in her eye.
Inly he said, 'That silken tress
What blindness mine that could not
guess !
Or how could page's rugged dress
That bosom's pride belie ?
O, dull of heart, through wild and wave
In search of blood and death to ra\c.
With such a partner nigh 1 '
xvni.
Then in the mirror'd pool he peer'd,
Blamed his rough locks and shagg}'
beard,
The stains of recent conflict clear'd,
And thus the Champion proved,
That he fears now who never fear'd,
And loves who never loved.
And Eivir — life is on her cheek.
And yet she will not move or speak.
Nor will her eyelid fully ope ;
Perchance it loves, that half-shut eye.
T'hrough its long fringe, reserved and
shy,
Affection's opening dawn to spy ;
And the deep blush, which bids its dye
O'er cheek, and brow, and bosom fly,
Speaks shame-facedness and hope.
XIX.
But vainly seems the Dane to seek
For terms his new-born love to speak,
For words, save those of wrath and
wrong.
Till now were strangers to his tongue ;
So, when he raised the blushing maid.
In blunt and honest terms he said
(^'Twere well that maids, when lovers
woo,
Heard none more soft, were all as true):
' Eivir ! since thou for many a day
Hast follow'd Harold's wayward way,
It is but meet that in the line
Of after-life I follow thine.
To-morrow is Saint Cuthbert's tide,
And we will grace his altar's side,
A Christian knight and Christian bride ;
And of Witikind's son shall the marvel
be said,
That on the same morn he was
christen'd and wed.
CONCLUSION.
^\nd now. Ennui, what ails thee,
weary maid ?
And why these listless looks of
yawning sorrow ?
No need to turn the page, as if
'twere lead.
Or fling aside the volume till to-
morrow.
Be cheer'd ; 'tis ended — and I will
not borrow,
To try thy patience more, one
anecdote
From Bartholine, or Perinskiold,
or Snorro.
Then pardon thou thy minstrel, who
hath wrote
A Tale six cantos long, yet scorn'd
to add a note.
END OF HAROLD THE D.VUNTLESS.
Z^t fgtii>at of Ztuvmain,
Introduction.
Come, Lucy! while 'tis morning- hour
The woodland brook wc needs must
pass ;
So, ere the sun assume his power,
We shelter in our poplar bower,
Where dew lies long upon the flower,
Though vanish'd from the velvet
grass.
Curbing the stream, this stony ridge
May serve us for a silvan bridge ;
For here, compell'd to disunite,
Round petty isles the runnels
glide.
And chafing off their puny spite.
The shallow murmurers W'aste their
might.
Yielding to footstep free and light
Adry-shod pass from side to side.
Naj', why this hesitating pause ?
And, Lucy, as thy step withdraws,
Why sidelong eye the streamlet's brim?
Titania's foot without a slip.
Like thine, though timid, light, and
slim.
From stone to stone might safely trip.
Nor risk the glow-worm clasp to dip
That binds her slipper's silken rim.
Or trust thy lover's strength : nor fear
That this same stalwart arm of mine.
Which could yon oak's prone trunk
uprear.
Shall shrink beneath the burden dear
Of form so slender, light, and fine ;
So 1 now, the danger dared at last,
Look back, and smile at perils past !
And now we reach thefavourite glade.
Paled in by copsewood, cliff, and
stone.
Where never harsher sounds invade.
To break affection's whispering tone.
Than the deep breeze that waves the
shade.
Than the small brooklet's feeble
moan.
Come ! rest thee on thy wonted seat ;
Moss'd is the stone, the turf is green,
A place where lovers best may meet
Who would not that their love be
seen.
The boughs, that dim the summer sky.
Shall hide us from each lurking sp3^,
That fain would spread the invidious
tale,
How Lucy of the lofty e3-e,
Noble in birth, in fortunes high,
.She for whom lords and barons sigh,
Meets her poor Arthur in the dale.
How deep that blush 1 — liow deep
that sigh !
And why does Lucy shun mine eye ?
T3
554
^0e <^rti»af of Z^vkvmam.
[Canto
Is it because that crimson draws
Its colour from some secret cause,
Some hidden movement of the breast
She would not that her Arthur guess'd ?
O ! quicker far is lovers' ken
Than the dull glance of common men,
And, by strange sympathy, can spell
The thoughts the loved one will not
tell!
And mine, in Lucy's blush, saw met
The hues of pleasure and regret;
Pride mingled in the sigh her voice.
And shared with Love the crimson
glow ;
Well pleased that thou art Arthur's
choice,
Yet shamed thine own is placed
so low :
Thou turn'st thy self-confessing
cheek.
As if to meet the breeze's cooling ;
Then, Lucy, hear thy tutor speak,
For Love, too, has his hours of
schooling.
Too oft mj- anxious eye has spied
That secret grief thou fain wouldst
hide.
The passing pang of humbled pride :
Too oft, when through the splendid
hall.
The load-star of eachheart and ej'e,
i\Iy fair one leads the glittering ball,
Will her stol'n glance on Arthur fall,
With such a blush and such a sigh I
Thou wouldst not yield, for wealth
or rank,
The heart thy worth and beaut}'
won,
Nor leave me on this mossy bank,
To meet a rival on a throne :
Why, then, should \'ain repinings
rise,
Tiiat to thy lover fate denies
A nobler name, a wide domain,
A Baron's birth, a menial train,
Since Heaven assign'd him, for his
part,
A lyre, a falchion, and a heart 1
VI.
My sword — its master must be dumb ;
But, when a soldier names my
name,
.Approach, my Lucn'I fearless come,
Nor dread to hear of Arthur's
shame.
My heart ! 'mid all yon courtly crew,
Of lordly rank and lofty line,
Is there to love and honour true,
That boasts a pulse so warm as
mine ?
They praised thy diamonds' lustre
rare —
Match'd with thine eyes, I thought
it faded ;
They praised the pearls that bound
thy hair —
I only saw the locks they braided ;
Theytalk'dof wealthy dower and land,
And titles of high birth the token —
I thought of Lucy's heart and hand.
Nor knew the sense of what was
spoken.
And yet, if rank'd in Fortune's roll,
I might have learn'd their choice
unwise.
Who rate the dower above the soul.
And Lucy's diamonds o'er her eyes.
My lyre — it is an idle toy,
That borrows accents not its own,
Like warbler of Colombian sk}-,
That sings but in a mimic tone.
Ne'er did it sound o'er sainted well,
Nor boasts it aught of Border spell ;
Its strings no feudal slogan pour.
Its heroes draw no broad claymore;
No shouting clans applauses raise,
Becauscitsungtheir father's praise ;
On Scottish moor, or English down.
It ne'er was graced with fair renown ;
I.]
t'U (§v\td of Zvkvmain.
)55
Norwon — best meed to minstrel true —
One favouring smile from fair Buc-
CLEUCH !
By one poor streamlet sounds its tone,
And heard by one dear maid alone.
VIII.
But, if thou bid'st, these tones shall tell
Of errant knight, and dainozelle ;
Of the dread knot a Wizard tied.
In punishment of maiden's pride,
In notes of marvel and of fear,
That best may charm romantic ear.
For Lucy loves (like Collins, ill-
starred name.
Whose lay's requital was that tardy
fame.
Who bound no laurel round his living
head,
Sliould hang it o'er his monument whc n
dead)
For Lucy loves to tread enchanted
strand,
And thread, like him, the maze of fairy
land ;
Of golden battlements to view the
gleam.
And slumber soft by some Elysian
stream ;
Such lays she loves ; and, such my i
Lucy's choice, !
What other song can claim her Poet's
voice •
Canto First.
Where is the maiden of mortal strain
That may match with the Baron of
Triermain ?
She must be lovely, and constant, and
kind,
Holy and pure, and humble of mind,
Blithe of cheer, and gentle of mood,
Courteous, and generous, and noble
of blood ;
Lovely as the sun's first ray
When it breaks the clouds of an April
day;
Constant andtrueas the widow'd dove.
Kind as a minstrel that sings of love;
Pure as the fountain in rocky cave,
Wherenever sunbeam kiss'd the wave;
Humble as maiden that loves in vain,
Holy as hermit's vesper strain ;
Gentle as breeze that but whispers and
dies.
Yet blithe as the light leaves that
dance in its sighs ;
Courteous as monarch the morn he is
crown'd,
Generous as spring-dews that bless
the glad ground ;
Noble her blood as the currents that met
In theveinsofthe noblest Plantagenet:
Such must her form be, her mood,
and her strain.
That shall match with Sir Roland of
Triermain.
II.
Sir Roland dc Vaux he hath laid him
to sleep.
His blood it was fever'd, his breathing
was deep.
He had been pricking against the Scot,
The foray was long, and the skirmish
hot ;
His dinted helm and his buckler's plight
Bore token of a stubborn fight.
All in the castle must hold them still,
Harpers must lull him to his rest
With the slow soft tunes he loves the
best,
Till sleep sink dov.-n upon his breast
Like the dew on a summer hill.
It was the dawn of an autumn day ;
The sun was struggling with frost-fog
grey,
Tliat like a silvery crape was spread
Round Skiddaw's dim and distant
head,
sr/'
tU (§vilai of 'ZvkvmAin.
[Canto
And faintly gleam'd each painted pane
or the lordly halls of Triermain.
When that Baron bold awoke.
Starting he woke, and loudly did call.
Rousing his menials in bower and hall,
While hastily he spoke.
IV.
' Hearken, my minstrels! which of \'e all
Touch'd his harp with that dying fall.
So sweet, so soft, so faint,
It scem'd an angel's whisper'd call
To an expiring saint ?
And hearken, my merry-men ! what
time or where
Did she pass, that maid with her
heavenly brow,
With her look so sweet and her cj'es
so fair,
And hergraceful stepandher angelair,
And the eagle plume in her dark-brown
hair,
That pass'd from my bower e'en
now? '
V.
Answer'd him Richard de Bretville —
he
Was chief of the Baron's minstrelsy:
' Silent, noble chieftain, we
Have sat since midnight close,
When such lulling sounds as the
brooklet sings
Murmur'd from our melting strings,
And hush'd you to repose.
Had a harp-note sounded here
It had caught my watchful ear,
Although it fell as faint and shy
As bashful maiden's half-form'd sigh,
When she thinks her lover near.'
Answer'd Philip of Fasthwaite tall-
He kept guard in the outer hall :
' .Since at eve our watch took post.
Not a foot has thy portal cross'd;
Else had I heard the steps, though low
And light they fell, as when earth
receives,
In morn of frost, the withcr'd leaves
That drop when no winds blow.'
'Then come thou hither, Henry, my
page.
Whom I saved from the sack of
Hermitage,
When that dark castle, tower, and spire.
Rose to the skies a pile of fire,
And redden'dalltheNine-staneHill,
And the shrieks of death, that wildly
broke
Through devouring llame and smoth-
ering smoke,
Made thew'arrior's heart-blood chill.
The trustiest thou of all my train,
My fleetest courser thou must rein,
And ride to Lyulph's tower.
And from the Baron of Triermain
Greet well that sage of power.
He is sprung from Druid sires.
And British bards that tuned their lyres
To Arthur's and Pendragon's praise,
And his who sleeps at Duinnailraise.
Gifted like his gifted race,
He the characters can trace.
Graven deep in elder time
Upon Helvellyn's clift's sublime;
Sign and sigil well doth he know,
And can bode of weal and woe.
Of kingdoms' fall, and fate of wars.
From mystic dreams and course of stars.
He shall tell if middle earth
To that enchanting shape gave birth.
Or if 'twas but an airy thing,
.Such as fantastic slumbers bring,
Fram'd from the rainbow's varying
dyes
Or fading tints of western skies.
For, by the Blessed Rood I swear.
If that fair form breathe vital air,
No other maiden by my side
Shall ever rest De Vaux's bride!'
VII.
The faithful Page he mounts his steed.
And soon he cross'd green Irthing's
mead,
Dash'd o'er Kirkoswald's verdant plain,
And Eden barr'd his course in vain.
!■]
ZU (§vi^a( of Zvkvmm.
i57
He pass'd red Penrith's Table Round,
For feats of chivalry renown'd,
Left Maj'burgh's mound and stones of
power,
By Druids raised in magic hour,
And traced the Eamont'swindingway,
Till Ulfo's lake beneath him lay.
Onward he rode, the pathway still
Winding betwixt the lake and hill ;
Till, on the fragment of a rock.
Struck from its base by lightning
shock,
He saw the hoary Sage :
The silver moss and lichen twined.
With fern and deer-hair check'd and
lined,
A cushion fit for age ;
And o'er him shook the aspen-tree,
A restless, rustling canopj-.
Then sprung young Henry from his
selle,
And greeted Lyulph grave ;
And then his master's tale did tell,
And then for counsel crave.
The Man ofYearsmusedlonganddeep,
Of time's lost treasures taking keep.
And tlien, as rousing from a sleep,
His solemn answer gave.
LYULPH S TALK.
'King Arthur has ridden from merry
Carlisle
When Pentecost was o'er :
He journey'd like errant-knight the
while,
And sweetly the summer sun did smile
On mountain, moss, and moor.
Above his solitary track
Rose Glaramara's ridgy back.
Amid whose yawning gulfs the sun
Cast umber'd radiance red and dun.
Though never sunbeam could discern
The surface of that sable tarn.
In whose black mirror you maj' spy
The stars, while noon tide lights the skj'.
The gallant King he skirted still
The margin of that mighty hill ;
Rock upon rocks incumbent hung,
And torrents, down the gullies flung,
Join'd the rude river that brawl'd on,
Recoiling now from crag and stone.
Now diving deep from human ken.
And raving down its darksome glen.
The Monarch judged this desert wild,
With such romantic ruin piled,
Was theatre by Nature's hand
For feat of high achievement plann'd.
'That maid is born of middle earth.
And may of man be won.
Though there have glided since her
birth
Five hundred years and one.
But where 's the knight in all the north
That dare the adventure follow forth,
So perilous to knightly worth.
In the valley of Saint John?
Listen, youth, to what I tell,
And bind it on thy memory well ;
Nor muse that I commence the rhyme
Far distant 'mid the wrecks of time.
The mystic tale, by bard and sage.
Is handed down from Merlin's age.
' O rather he chose, that Monarch bold,
On vent'rous quest to ride,
In plate and mail, by wood and wold.
Than, with ermine trapp'd and clolJi
of gold.
In princely bower to bide :
The bursting crash of a foeman's spear
As it shiver'd against his mail.
Was merrier music to his ear
Than courtier's whisper'd tale:
And the clash of Caliburn more dear.
When on the hostile casque it rung,
Than all the lays
To their monarch's praise
That the harpers of Reged sung.
#•
r)B^
tU (^nbaP of ^vterwatn.
[Canto
He loved better to rest by wood or
river,
Tlian ill bower of his bride, Dame
Guenever,
For he left that lady, so lovely of cheer,
To follow adventures of danger and
fear ;
And the frank-hearted Monarch full
little did wot
That she smiled, in his absence, on
brave Lancelot.
' He rode, till over down and dell
The shade more broad and deeper fell ;
And though around the mountain's
head
Flow'd streams of purple, and gold,
and red,
Dark at the base, unblest by beam
Frown'd the black rocks, and roar'd
the stream.
With toil the King his way pursued
By lonely Threlkeld'6 waste and wood.
Till on his course obliquely shone
The narrow valley of Saint John,
Down sloping to the western skj',
Where lingering sunbeams love to lie.
Right glad to feel those beams again,
The King drew up his charger's rein;
With gauntlet raised he screen'd his
sight,
As dazzled with the level light,
And, from beneath his glove of mail,
Scann'd at his ease the lovely vale,
While 'gainst the sun his armour bright
Gleam'd ruddy like the beacon's light.
'Paled in by many a lofty hill,
The narrow dale lay smooth and still.
And, down its verdant bosom led,
A winding brooklet found its bed.
But, midmost of the vale, a mound
Arose with airy turrets crown'd.
Buttress, and rampire'scircling bound,
And might\- keep and tower;
Seem'd some primeval giant's hand
The castle's massive wallshad plann'd,
A ponderous bulwark to withstand
Ambitious Nimrod's power.
Above the moated entrance slung,
The balanced drawbridge trembling
hung,
As jealous of a foe ;
Wicket of oak, as iron hard,
With iron studded, clench'd,andbarr'd,
And prong'd portcullis, join'd to guard
The gloomy pass below.
But the grey walls nobanners crown'd,
Upon the watch-tower's airy round
No warder stood his horn to sound.
No guard beside the bridge was found.
And, where the Gothic gateway
frown'd,
Glanced neither bill nor bow.
' Beneath the castle's gloomy pride
In ample round did Arthur ride
Three times; nor living thing he spied,
Nor heard a living sound,
Save that, awakening from her dream,
The owlet now began to scream,
In concert with the rushing stream.
That wash'd the battled mound.
He lighted from his goodly steed.
And he left him to graze on bank and
mead ;
And slowly he climb'd the narrow waj'
That reach'd the entrancegrim and grey,
And he stood the outward arch below.
And his bugle-horn prepared to blow,
In summons blithe and bold,
Deeming to rouse from iron sleep
The guardian of this dismal Keep,
Which well he gucss'd the hold
Of wizard stern, or goblin grim,
Or pagan of gigantic limb.
The tyrant of the wold.
-W.
' The ivory bugle's golden tip
Twicetouch'd thcMonarch'smanlj'lip,
And twice his hand withdrew.
I.]
Zk ^viU? of ^vt'^rmatn.
Think not but Arthur's heart was
good I
His shield was cross'd by the blessed
rood.
Had a pagan host before him stood
He had charged them through
and through;
Yet the silence of that ancient place
Sunk on his heart, and he paused a
space
Ere yet his horn he blew.
But, instant as its "lannii rung,
The castle gate was open flung,
Portcullis rose with crashing groan
Full harshly up its groove of stone ;
The balance-beams obey'd the blast,
And down the trembling drawbridge
cast ;
The vaulted arch before him lay,
With nought to bar the gloomy way,
And onward Arthur paced, with hand
On Caliburn's resistless brand.
'An hundred torches, flashing bright,
Dispell'd at once the gloomj' night
That lour'd along the walls,
And show'd the King's astonish'd
sight
The inmates of the halls.
Nor wizard stern, nor goblin grim,
Nor giant huge of form and limb,
Nor heathen knight, was there ;
But the cressets, which odours flung
aloft,
Show'd by their yello\v light and soft,
A band of damsels fair.
Onward they came, like summer wave
'I'hat dances to the shore ;
An hundred voices welcome gave,
And welcome o'er and o'er !
An hundred lovely hands assail
The bucklers of the Monarch's mail.
And busy labour'd to unhasp
Rivet of steel and iron clasp.
One wrapp'd him in a mantle fair.
And one flung odours on his hair ;
His short curl'd ringlets one smooth'd
down.
One wreath'd them witli a myrtle
crown.
A bride upon her wedding-daj'
Was tended ne'er by troop so ga\'.
xvii.
' Loud laugh'd they all, — the King, in
vain.
With questions task'd the giddj' train ;
Let him entreat, or crave, or call,
'Tv.'asone replj' — loud laugh'd theyall.
Then o'er him mimic chains the}' fling.
Framed of thefairest flowers of spring.
While some their gentle force unite
Onward to drag the wondering knight;
Some, bolder, urge his pace with blows,
Dealt with the lilj'' or the rose.
Behind him were in triumph borne
The warlike arms he late had worn.
Four of the train combined to rear
The terrors of Tintadgel's spear ;
Two, laughingat their lack of strength,
Dragg'd Caliburn in cumbrous length;
One, while she aped a martial stride,
Placed on her brows thehelmit's pride;
Then scream'd, 'twixt laughter and
surprise,
To feel its depth o'crwhelm her eyes.
With revel-shout, and triumph-song,
Thus gaily march'd the giddy throng.
XVIII.
' Through many a gallery and hall
They led, I ween, their royal thrall ;
At length, beneath a fair arcade
Their march and song at once they
staid.
The eldest maiden of the band
i^The lovely maid was scarce
eighteen)
Raised, with imposing air, her hand.
And reverent silence did command.
On entrance of their Queen,
And they were mute. — But as a glance
They steal on Arthur's countenance
Bewilder'd with surprise,
56o
ZU (gvi'^ai of ^rievmattt.
[Canto
Their smother'd mirth again 'gan speak,
In archl3' dimpled chin and cheek,
And laughter-lighted eyes.
XIX.
'The attributes of those high daj-s
Now only live in minstrel laj-s ;
For Nature, now exhausted, still
Was then profuse of good and ill.
Strength was gigantic, valour high,
And wisdom soar'd beyond the sky,
And beauty had such matchless beam
As lights not now a lover's dream.
Yet e'en in that romantic age.
Ne'er were such charmsbymortal
seen,
As Arthur's dazzled eyes engage,
"When forth on that enchanted stage.
With glittering train of maid and page.
Advanced the castle's Queen !
While up the hall she slowly pass'd
Her dark eye on the King she cast.
That flash'd expression strong ;
The longer dwelt that lingering look,
Her cheek the livelier colour took,
And scarce the shame-faced King
could brook
The gaze that lasted long.
A sage, who had that look espied.
Where kindling passion strove with
pride,
Hadwhisper'd, "Prince, beware!
From the chafed tiger rend the prey,
Rush on the lion when at bay.
Bar the fell dragon's blighted way.
But shun that lovely snare '."
XX.
' At once, that inward strife suppress'd.
The dame approach'd her warlike
guest,
With greeting in that fair degree,
Where female pride and courtesy
Are blended with such passing art
As awes at once and charms the heart.
A courtly welcome first she gave,
Then of his goodness 'gan to crave
Construction fair and true
Of her light maidens' idle mirth,
Who drew from lonely glens their
birth,
Nor knew to pay to stranger worth
And dignity their due;
And then she pray'dthathe would rest
That night her castle's honour'd guest.
The Monarch meetly thanks express'd;
The banquet rose at her behest ;
With lay and tale, and laugh and jest.
Apace the evening flew.
XXI.
' The Lady sate the Monarch by,
Now in her turn abash'd and shy.
And with indifterence seem'd to hear
The toys he whisper'd in her ear.
Her bearing modest was and fair.
Yet shadows of constraint were there,
That show'd an over-cautious care
Some inward thought to hide;
Oft did she pause in full replj-,
And oft cast down her large dark eye,
Oft check'd the soft voluptuous sigh
That heav'd her bosom's pride.
Slight symptoms these, but shepherds
know
How hot the mid-day sun shall glow
From the mist of morning sky :
And so the wily Monarch guess'd
That this assumed restraint express'd
More ardent passions in the breast
Than ventured to the eye.
Closer he press'd, while beakers rang.
While maidens laugh'd and minstrels
sang.
Still closer to her ear —
But why pursue the common tale ?
Or wherefore show how knights
prevail
When ladies dare to hear?
Or wherefore trace, from what slight
cause
Its source one t3'rant passion draws,
Till, mastering all within.
Where lives the man that has not tried
How mirth can into follj- glide,
And folly into sin ?'
ZU Cf rt^af of Zvitvwain.
561
Canto Second.
I.
lyulph's tale, continued.
'Another day, another day,
And yet another, glides away !
The Saxon stern, the pagan Dane,
Maraud on Britain's shores again.
Arthur, of Christendom the flower.
Lies loitering in a lady's bower ;
The horn, that foemen wont to fear.
Sounds but to wake the Cumbrian deer.
And Caliburn, the British pride,
Hangs useless by a lover's side.
'Another day, another daj-.
And yet another, glides away !
Jleroic plans in pleasure drown'd.
He thinks not of the Table Round;
In lawless love dissolved his life,
He thinks not of his beauteous wile :
Better he loves to snatch a flower
From bosom of his paramour,
Than from a Saxon knight to wrest
The honours of his heathen crest 1
Better to wreathe, 'mid tresses brown.
The heron's plume her hawk struck
down.
Than o'er the altar give to flow
The banners of a Paynim foe.
Thus, week b}' week, and day b^' day,
His life inglorious glides away :
But she, that soothes his dream, with
fear
Beholds his hour of waking near I
'Muchforcehave mortal charmstostay
Our peace in Virtue's toilsome waj^ ;
But Guendolen's might far outshine
Each maid of merely mortal line.
Her mother was of human birth,
Her sire a Genie of the earth.
In days of old deem'd to preside
O'er lovers' wiles and beauty's pride.
By youtlis and virgins worshipji'il
long
With festive dance and choral song.
Till, when the cross to Britain came,
On heathen altars died the flame.
Now, deep in Wastdale solitude.
The downfall of his rights he rued,
And, born of his resentment heir.
Ho train'd to guile that lady fair.
To sink in slothful sin and shame
The champions of the Christian name.
Well skill'd to keep vain thoughts alive.
And all to promise, nought to give ;
The timid youth had hope in store.
The bold and pressing gain'd no more.
As wilder'd children leave their home
After the rainbow's arch to roam,
Her lovers barter'd fair esteem.
Faith, fame, and honour, for a dream.
' Her sire's soft arts the soul to tame
She practised thus, till Arthur came ;
Then frail humanity had part.
And all the mother claim'd her heart.
Forgot each rule her father gave.
Sunk from a princess to a slave,
Too late must Guendolen deplore ;
He, that has all, can hope no more !
Now must she see her lover strain,
At every turn, her feeble chain ;
Watch, to new-bind each knot, and
shrink
To view each fast-decaying link.
Art she invokes to Nature's aid.
Her vest to zone, her locks to braid ;
Each varied pleasure heard her call.
The feast, the tourney, and the ball :
Her storied lore she next applies.
Taxing her mind to aid her eyes ;
Now more than mortal wise, and then
In female softness sunk again ;
Now, raptured, with each wish com-
plying,
With feign'd reluctance now denj'ing;
Each charm she varied, to retain
A varying heart, and all in \ain 1
r/y.
ZU (^nbaf of Zvitvmain.
LCanto
•Thus in the garden's narrow bound,
Flank'dby some castle's Gothic round.
Fain would the artist's skill provide
The limits of his realms to hide.
The walks in labj^rinths he twines,
Shade after shade with skill combines,
With many a varied flowery knot,
And copse, and arbour, decks the spot,
Tempting the hasty foot to sta^-,
And linger on the lovely' way ;
Vain art! vain hope! 'tis fruitless all!
At length we reach the bounding wall.
And, sick of flower and trim-dress'd
tree,
Long for rough glades and forest free.
' Three summer months had scantly
flown
When Arthur, in embarrass'd tone.
Spoke of his liegemen and his throne ;
Said, all too long had been his staj',
And duties, which a monarch sway,
Duties, unknown to humbler men,
Must tear her knight from Guendolen.
She listen'd silentlj' the while,
Her mood express'd in bitter smile ;
Beneath her eye must Arthur quail.
And oft resume the unfinish'd tale,
Confessing, by his downcast eye,
The wrong he sought to justify.
He ceased. A moment mute she gazed.
And then her looks to heaven she rais'd;
One palm her temples veiled, to hide
The tear that sprung in spite of pride ;
The other for an instant press'd
The foldings of her silken vest!
VII.
' At her reproachful sign and look.
The hint the Monarch's conscience
took.
Eager he spoke — '• No, ladj-, no!
Deem not of British Arthur so.
Nor think he can deserter prove
To the dear pledge of mutual love.
I swear by sceptre and b3' sword.
As belted knight and Britain's lord,
That if a boy shall claim my care.
That boj' is born a kingdom's heir;
But if a maiden Fate allows.
To choose that maid a fitting spouse,
A summer-day in lists shall strive
My knights, the bravest knights alive.
And he, the best and bravest tried,
ShallArthur'sdaughterclaimforbride."
He spoke, with voice resolved and
high ;
The lady deign'd him not reply.
' At dawn of morn, ere on the brake
His matins did a warbler make,
Or stirr'd his wing to brush away
A single dewdrop from the spray.
Ere yet a sunbeam, through the mist,
The castle-battlements had kiss'd,
The gates revolve, the drawbridge falls,
And Arthur sallies from the walls.
DoflTd his soft garb of Persia's loom,
And steel from spur to helmet-plume,
His Lybian steed full proudly trode,
And joj'ful neigh'd beneath his load.
The Monarch gave a passing sigh
To penitence and pleasures by,
When, lo ! to his astonish'd ken
Appear'd the form of Guendolen.
' Bej'ond the outmost wall she stood.
Attired like huntress of the wood :
Sandall'd her feet, her ankles bare.
And eagle-plumage deck'd her hair;
Firm was her look, her bearing bold,
And in her hand a cup of gold.
"Thou goest ! " she said, "and ne'er
again
Must we two meet, in joy or pain.
Full fain would I this hour delay.
Though weak the wish —j'et, wilt thou
stay ?
No! thou look'st forward. -Still, attend!
Part we like lover and like friend."
Z^i (gi'iU? of ^n'ennaitt.
563
She raised the cup — '"'Not this the juice
Tlic shiggish vines of earth produce ;
Pledge we, at parting, in the draught
Which Genii love!" She said, and
quaffd ;
And strange unwonted lustres fly
From her flush'd cheek and sparkling
eye.
X.
'The courteous Monarchbenthimlow,
And, stooping down from saddlebow.
Lifted the cup, in act to drink.
A drop escaped the goblet's brink —
Intense as liquid fire from hell,
Upon the charger's neck it fell.
Screaming with agony and fright,
He bolted twenty feet upright !
The peasant still can show the dint
Where his hoofs lighted on the flint.
From Arthur's hand the goblet flew,
Scattering a shower of fiery dew.
That burn'd and blighted where it fell !
The frantic steed rush'd up the dell,
As whistles from the bow the reed ;
Nor bit nor rein could check his speed
Until he gain'd the hill;
Then breath and sinew fail'd apace,
And. reeling from the desperate race.
He stood, exhausted, still.
The Monarch, breathless and amazed,
Back on the fatal castle gazed :
Nor tower nor donjon could he spy,
Darkening against the morning skj- ;
But, on the spot where once the}-
frown'd,
The lonely streamlet brawl'd around
A tufted knoll, where dimly shone
Fragments of rock and rifted stone.
Musing on this strange hap the while.
The King wends back to fair Carlisle;
And cares, that cumber royal sway,
Wore memory of the past away.
'Full fifteenyears and more weresped.
Each brought new wreaths to Arthur's
head.
Twelve bloody fields, with g\ory fough t,
The Saxons to subjection brought :
R3'thon, the mighty giant, slain
By his good brand, relieved Bretagne:
The Pictish Gillamore in fight.
And Roman Lucius, own'd his might ;
And wide were through the world
renown'd
The glories of his Table Round.
Each knight who sought adventurous
fame.
To the bold court of Britain came.
And all who suffer'd causeless wrong.
From tyrant proud, or faitour strong,
SoughtArthur's presence, to complain.
Nor there for aid implored in vain.
XH.
' For this the King, with pomp and
pride,
Held solemn court at Whitsuntide,
And summon'd Prince and Peer,
All who owed homage for their land.
Or who craved knighthood from his
hand,
Or who had succour to demand.
To come from far and near.
At such high tide were glee and game
Mingled with feats of martial fame,
For many a stranger champion came
In lists to break a spear ;
And not a knight of Arthur's host,
Save that he trode some foreign coast,
But at this feast of Pentecost
Before him must appear.
Ah, Minstrels! when the Table Round
Arose, with all its warriors crown'd.
There was a theme for bards to sound
In triumph to their string !
Five hundred years are past and gone,
But Time shall draw his dj'ing groan
Ere he behold the British throne
Begirt with such a ring !
XIII.
'The heralds named the appointed spot.
As Caerleon or Camelot,
Or Carlisle fair and free.
564
ZU (§v\Ui of Zvkvmain.
[Canto
At Penrith, now, the feast was set,
And in fair Eamont's vale were met
The flower of Chivalry.
There Galaad sate with manly grace,
Yet maiden meekness in his face ;
There Morolt of the iron mace,
And love-lorn Tristrem there :
And Dinadam with lively glance,
And Lanval with the fairy lance.
And Mordred with his look askance,
Brunor and Bevidere.
Why should I tell of numbers more ?
Sir Cay, Sir Banier, and Sir Bore,
Sir Carodac the keen.
The gentle Gawain's courteous lore.
Hector de Mares and Pellinore,
And Lancelot, that evermore
Look'd stol'n-wise on the Queen.
'When wine and mirth did most abound,
And harpers play'd their blithest round,
A shrilly tnmipet shook the ground,
And marshals cleared the ring ;
A maiden, on a palfrey white,
Heading a band of damsels bright,
Paced through the circle, to alight
And kneel before the King.
Arthur, with strong emotion, saw
Her graceful boldness check'd by
awe.
Her dress, like huntress of the wold,
Her bow and baldric trapp'd with
gold.
Her sandall'd feet, her ankles bare.
And the eagle-plume that deck'd her
hair.
Graceful her veil she backward flung ;
The King, as from his seat lie sprung,
Almost cried, " Guendoleii !"
But 'twas a face more frank and wild.
Betwixt the woman and the child.
Where less of magic beauty smiled
Than of the race of men ;
And in the forehead's haughty grace
J'he lines of Britain's royal race,
Pendragon's, you might ken.
' Faltering, yet gracefully, she said —
" Great Prince ! behold an orphan
maid.
In her departed mother's name,
A father's vow'd protection claim !
The vow was sworn in desert lone,
In the deep valley of Saint John."
At once the King the suppliant raised,
And kiss'd her brow, her beautj-
praised ;
His vow, he said, should well be kept.
Ere in the sea the sun was dipp'd ;
Then, conscious, glanced upon his
queen ;
But she, unruffled at the scene
Of human frailty, construed mild,
Look'd upon Lancelot, and smiled.
'"Up! up! each knight ofgallant crest.
Take buckler, spear, and brand 1
He that to-day shall bear him best
Shall win my Gyneth's hand.
And Arthur's daughter, when a bride,
Shall bring a noble dower ;
Both fair Strath-Clyde and Reged
wide,
And Carlisle town and tower."
Then might you hear each valiant
knight
To page and squire that cried,
"Bring my armour bright, and my
courser wight !
'Tis not each day thatawarrior'smight
May win a royal bride."
Then cloaks and caps of maintenance
In haste aside the}^ fling;
The helmets glance, and gleams the
lance,
Andthesteel-weaved hauberks ring.
.Small care had they of their peaceful
array, —
They might gather it that wolde ;
I'or brake and bramble glitter'd ga^-
Witli pearls and cloth of gold.
n.]
ZU ^viUi of Zvmmain.
'Within Iriiinpet sound of the Table
Round
Were fifty champions free,
And they all arise to fight that prize,
They all arise but three.
Nor love's fond troth, nor wedlock's
oath,
One gallant could withhold.
For priests will allow of a broken vow
For penance or for gold.
But sigh and glance from ladies bright
Among the troop were thrown.
To plead their right, and true-love
plight.
And 'plain of honour flown.
The knights they busied them so fast,
"With buckling spur and belt.
That sigh and look, bj^ ladies cast,
Were neither seen nor felt.
From pleading, or upbraiding glance.
Each gallant turns aside.
And only thought, "'Ifspeeds my lance,
A queen becomes my bride !
She has fair .Strath-Clyde, and Reged
wide,
And Carlisle tower and town ;
She is the loveliest maid, beside,
That ever heir'd a crown."
So in haste their coursers they bestride,
And strike their visors down.
' The champions, arm'd in martial sort,
Have throng'd into the list,
And butthree knights of Arthur's court
Are from the tourney miss'd.
jVnd still these lovers' fame survives
For faith so constant shown, —
There were two who loved their
neighbours' wives,
And one who loved his own.
The first was Lancelot de Lac,
The second Tristrem bold,
The third was valiant Carodac,
Who won the cup of gold,
What time, of all King Arthur's crcvv*
i Thereof came jeer and laugh)
He, as the mate of lady true,
Alone the cup could quaft".
Though envy's tongue would fain
surmise
That, but for very s'name.
Sir Carodac, to fight that prize,
Had given both cup and dame ;
Yet, since but one of that fair court
Was true to w'edlock's shrine,
Brand him who will with base report,
He shall be free from mine.
XIX.
' Now caracoled the steeds in air.
Now plumes and pennons wanton'd
fair.
As all around the lists so wide
In panoply the champions ride.
King Arthur saw, with startled eye.
The flower of chivalry march bv,
The bulwark of the Christian creed.
The kingdom's shield in hour of need.
Too late he thought him of the woe
Might from their civil conflict ilow;
For well he knew they would not part
Till cold was many a gallant heart.
His hastj' vow he 'gan to rue.
And Gyneth then apart he drew ;
To her his leading-staft' resign'd,
But added caution grave and kind.
XX.
' " Thou see'st, my child, as promise-
bound,
I bid the trump for tourney sound.
Take thou my warder, as the queen
And umpire of the martial scene ;
But mark thou this : as Beauty bright
Is polar star to valiant knight.
As at her word his sword he draws,
His fairest guerdon her applause,
So gentle maid should never ask
Of knighthood vain and dangerous
task;
And Beauty's eyes should ever be
Like the twin stars that soothe the sea,
566
Z^t QBvibaf of ^riennatn.
LCanto
And Beauty's breath shall whisper
peace,
And bid the storm of battle cease.
I tell thee this, lest all too far
These knights urge tourney into war.
Blithe at the trumpet let them go.
And fairly counter blow for blow ;
No striplings these, who succour need
For a razed helm or falling steed.
But, Gyneth, when the strife grows
\varm.
And threatens death or deadly harm,
Thy sire entreats, thj' king commands,
Thou drop the warder from thy hands.
Trust thou thy father with thy fate,
Doubt not he choose thee fitting mate ;
Nor be it said, through Gyneth's pride
A rose of Arthur's chapiet died."
XXI.
'A proud and discontented glow
O'ershadow'd Gyneth's browof snow;
She put the warder by :
" Reserve thy boon, my liege," she
said,
''Thus chaffer'd down and limited,
Debased and narrow'd, for a maid
Of less degree than I.
No. petty chief, but holds his heir
At a more honour'd price and rare
Than Britain's King holds me !
Although the sun-burn'd maid, lor
dower,
Has but her father's rugged tower,
His barren hill and lee.
King Arthur swore. By crown and
szvord,
. Is belted knight and Britain's lord.
That a zvliole sinnuter's day should
.strive
His kin'ghts, the bravest knights alive '.
Recall thine oath I and to her glen
Poor Gyneth can return agen ;
Not on thy daughter W\\\ the stain.
That soils thy sword and crown,
remain.
But think not she will e'er be bride
Sa\e to the bravest, proved and tried;
Pendragon's daughter will not fear
Forclashing sword orsplinter'd spear,
Nor shrink though blood should
flow ;
And all too well sad Guendolen
Hath taught the faithlessness of men.
That child of hers should pity, when
Their meed they undergo."
' He frown'd and sigh'd, the Monarch
bold :
" I give what I may not withhold ;
For not for danger, dread, or death.
Must British Arthur break his faith.
Too late I mark thy mother's art
Hath taught thee this relentless part.
I blame her not, for she had wrong.
But not to these mj' faults belong.
Use, then, the warder as thou wilt;
But trust me, that, if life be spilt,
In Arthur's love, in Arthur's grace,
Gyneth shall lose a daughter's place."
With that he turn'd his head aside,
Nor brook'd to gaze upon her pride.
As, with the truncheon raised, she sate
The arbitress of mortal fate ;
Nor brook'd tomark,in ranks disposed,
How the bold champions stood
opposed,
For shrill the trumpet-flourish fell
Upon his ear like passing bell !
Then first from sight of martial tray
Did Britain's hero turn away.
' But Gyneth heard the clangour high
As hears the hawk the partridge cry.
Oh, blame her not ; the blood was hers
That at the trumpet's summons stirs I
And e'en the gentlest female eye
Might the brave strife of chivalry
Awhile untroubled view ;
So well accomplish'd was each knight,
To strike and to defend in fight.
Their meeting was a goodly sight.
While plate and mail held true.
n.j
ZU Q0nta? of Zvmnxain.
567
The lists \vith painted plumes were
strowii,
Upon the wind at random thrown,
But helm and breastplate bloodless
shone,
It seem'd their leather"d crests alone
Should this encounter rue.
And ever, as the combat grows,
The trumpet's cheery voice arose,
Like lark's shrill song the flourish (lows,
Heard while the gale of April blows
The merry greenwood through.
' But soon to earnest grew^ their game,
The spears drew blood, the swords
struck flame.
And, horse and man, to ground there
came
Knights, who shall rise no more !
Gone was the pride the war that graced,
Gay shields were cleft, and crests
defaced,
And steel coats riven, and helms
unbraced.
And penaons stream'd with gore.
Gone, too, w^ere fence and fair arraj-,
And desperate strength made deadly
way
At random through the blood}' fra}-,
And blows were dealt with headlong
sway.
Unheeding where the\' fell ;
And now the trumpet's clamours seem
Like the shrill sea-bird's wailing
scream,
Heard o'er the whirlpool's gulfing
stream,
The sinking seaman's knell 1
' .Seem'd in this dismal hour, that Fate
Would Camlan's ruin antedate.
And spare dark Mordred's crime ;
Already gasping on the ground
Lie twenty of the Table Round,
Of chivalry the prime.
yVrthur, in anguish, tore av.-ay
From head and beard his tresses grey,
And she, proud Gyneth, felt dismaj',
And quaked with ruth and fear;
Butstill shedeem'd hermother'sshade
Hung o'er the tumult, and forbade
The sign that had the slaughter staid,
And chid the rising tear.
Then Brunor, Taulas, Mador, fell,
Helias the White, and Lionel,
And many a champion more ;
Rochemont and Dinadam arc down.
And Ferrand of the Forest Brown
Lies gasping in his gore.
Vanoc, by mighty Morolt press'd
Even to the confines of the list.
Young Vanoc of the beardless face
(Fame spoke the youth of Merlin's
race)
O'erpow'er'd at Gyneth's footstool bled,
His heart's-blood dyed her sandals red.
But then the sky was overcast.
Then howl'd at once a whirlwind's
blast,
And, rent by sudden throes,
Yawn'd in mid lists the quaking earth.
And from the gulf, tremendous birth !
The form of Merlin rose.
• .Sternly the Wizard Prophet eyed
The dreary lists with slaughter dj'ed,
And sternly raised his hand :
"Madmen," he said, "your strife
forbear ;
And thou, fair cause of mischief, hear
The doom thy fates demand 1
Long shall close in stony sleep
Eyes for ruth that would not wcej) ;
Iron lethargy shall seal
Heart that pity scorn'd to feel.
Yet, because thy mother's art
Warp'd thine unsuspicious heart,
And for love of Arthur's race.
Punishment is blent with grace.
Thou shalt bear thy penance lone
In the Valley of Saint John,
568
Z^c (§nUt of tvkvmain.
[Canto
And this weird "^ shall overtake thee ;
Sleep, until a knight shall wake thee,
For feats of arms as far renown'd
As warrior of the Table Round.
Long endurance of thy slumber
Well may teach the world to number
All their woes from G^nieth's pride.
When the Red Cross champions
died."
'As Merlin speaks, on Gyneth'seye
Slumber's load begins to lie ;
Fear and anger vainly strive
Still to keep its light aliv-e.
Twice, with effort and with pause,
O'er her brow her hand she draws ;
Twice her strength in vain she tries,
From the fatal chair to rise ;
Merlin's magic doom is spoken,
Vanoc's death must now be wroken.
Slow the dark-fringed eyelids fall,
Curtaining each azure ball,
Slowly as on summer eves
Violets fold their dusky leaves.
The weighty baton of command
Now bears down her sinking hand.
On her shoulder droops her head ;
Net of pearl and golden thread,
Bursting, gave her locks to flow
O'er her arm and breast of snow.
And so lovely seem'd she there.
Spell-bound in her ivory chair,
That her angry sire, repenting.
Craved stern Meilin for relenting,
And the champions, for her sake.
Would again the contest wake ;
Till, in necromantic night,
Gyneth vanish'd from their sight.
' Still she bears her weird alone.
In the Valley of Saint John ;
And her semblance oft will seem.
Mingling in a champion's dream,
Of her weary lot to 'plain,
And crave his aid to burst her chain.
While her wondrous tale was new,
Warriors to her rescue drew.
East and west, and south and north.
From the Lifty, Thames, and Forth.
Most have sought in vain the glen,
Tower nor castle could they ken ;
Not at every time or tide,
Nor by every eye, descried.
Fast and vigil must be borne,
Many a night in watching worn.
Ere an eye of mortal powers
Can discern those magic towers.
Of the persevering few.
Some from hopeless task withdrew,
When they read the dismal threat
Graved upon the gloomy gate.
Few have braved the yawning door,
And those few return'd no more.
In the lapse of time forgot.
Wellnigh lost is Gyneth's lot ;
Sound her sleep as in the tomb.
Till waken'd by the trump of doom.'
END OF LYULPh's TALE.
Here pause my tale I for all too soon,
My Lucy, comes the hour of noon.
Already from thy lofty dome
Its courtly inmates 'gin to roam,
And each, to kill the goodly day
That God has granted them, his way
Of lazy sauntering has sought ;
Lordlings and witlings not a few.
Incapable of doing aught,
Yet ill at ease with nought to do.
Here is no longer place for me ;
For, Lucy, thou wouldst blush to sec
Some phantom, fashionably^ thin.
With limb oflath and kerchief 'd chin,
And lounging gape, or sneering grin,
Steal sudden on our privacj'.
And how should I, so humbly' born,
Endure the graceful spectre's scorn i
ir.]
^U (gvilaf! of Zvkvmciin.
]6c)
Faith 1 ill, I fear, while conjuring wand
Of English opU. is hard at hand.
11.
Or grant the hour be all too soon
For Hessian boot and pantaloon,
And grant the lounger seldom strays
Beyond the smooth and gravell'd maze,
Laud we the gods, that Fashion's train
Holds hearts of more adventurous
strain.
Artists are hers, who scorn to trace
Their rules from Nature's boundless
grace,
But their right paramount assert
To limit her by pedant art,
Damning whate'er of vast and fair
Exceeds a canvas three feet square.
This thicket, for iheir gumption fit,
May furnish such a happy bil.
Bards, too, are hers, wont to recite
Their own sweet lays by waxen light.
Half in the salver's tingle drown'd,
While the chassc-cafi glides around ;
And such may hither secret stray,
To labour an extempore :
Or sportsman, with his boisterous
hollo,
May here his wiser spaniel follow ;
Or stage-struck Juliet may presume
To choose this bovver for tiring-room ;
And we alike must shun regard.
From painter, player, sportsman,' bard, j
Insects that skim in Fashion's sky, '
Wasp, blue-bottle, or butterfly, ' !
Lucy, have all alarms for us, ' "•
For all can hum and all can 'buzz.
HI.
But oh, my Lucy, say how long
Westill must dread thistriflingthrong.
And stoop to hide, with coward art,""
The genuine feelings of the heart ! '
No parents thine whose just command
Should rule their child's obedient
hand ;
Thy guardians, with contending voice
Press each his individual choice.
And which is Lucy's ? Can it be
That puny fop, trimm'd cap-a-pie.
Who loves in the saloon to show'
The arms that never knew a foe ;
Whose sabre trails along the ground.
Whose legs m shapeless boots are
drown'd;
A new Achilles, sure .' the steel
Fled from his breast to fence his heel ;
One, for the simple manly grace
That wont to deck our martial race,
Who comes in foreign trashery '
Ot tinkling chain and spur,
A walking haberdashery,
Of feathers, lace, and fur:
In Rowley's antiquated phrase,
Horse-milliner of modern days'?
Or is it he, the wordy youth.
So early train'd for statesman's
part,
Who talks of honoiu, laith, and
truth,
As themes that he has got by
heart ;
Whose ethics Chesterfield can teach
Whose logic is from Single-speech;
Who scorns the meanest thought to
vent.
Save in the phrase of Parliament •
Who, in a tale of cat and mouse,'
Calls 'order,' and 'divides the ho'use,'
Who ' craves permission to reply '
Whose ' noble friend is in his eye'-'
Whose loving tender some have
reckon'd
A motion, you should gladly second ]
V.
What! neither? Can there be a third,
To such resistless swains preferr'd ? '
O why, my Lucy, turn aside.
With that quick glance of injured
pride ?
Forgive me, love, I cannot bear
That alter'd and resentful air.
!7o
ZU (§viU( of ZvUvmnin.
Were all the wealth of Russell mine,
And all the rank of Howard's line,
All would I give for leave to dry
That dewdrop trembling in thine e\'e.
Think not I fear such fops can wile
From Lucy more than careless smile ;
But yet if wealth and high degree
Give gilded counters currenc}'.
Must I not fear, when rank and birth
Stamp the pure ore of genuine Avorth ?
Nobles there are, whose martial fires
Rival the fame that raised their sires.
And patriots, skilTd through storms
of fate
To guide and guard the reeling state.
Such, such there are : if such should
come,
Arthur must tremble and be dumb,
Self-exiled seek some distant shore,
^\nd mourn till life and grief are o'er.
What sight, what signal of alarm.
That Lucy clings to Arthur's arm ]
Or is it, that the rugged way
Makes Beauty lean on lover's stay ?
Oh, no ! for on the vale and brake
Nor sight nor sounds of danger wake,
And this trim sward of veh'et green
Were carpet for the Fairy Queen.
That pressure slight was but to tell
That Lucy loves her Arthur well,
And fain would banish from his mind
Suspicious fear and doubt unkind.
But wouldst thou bid the demons lly
Like mist before the dawning sky,
There is but one resistless spell —
Saj', wilt thou guess, or must I tell ?
'Twcrc hard to name, in minstrel
phrase,
A landaulet and four blood-bays,
But bards agree this wizard band
Can but be bound in Northern land.
'Tis there — nay, draw not back thy
hand !
'Tis there this slender finger round
Must golden amulet be bound.
Which, bless'd with many a holy
prayer.
Can change to rapture lovers' care.
And doubt and jealousy shall die,
And fears give place to ecstasy.
Now, trust me, Lucy, all too long
Has been thy lover's tale and song.
O, wh3'' so silent, love, I pray •
Have I not spoke the livelong day •
And will not Lucy deign to say
One word her friend to bless.
I ask but one, a simple sound.
Within three little letters bound,
O, let the word be }'<>.'
Introduction to Canto
Third.
Long loved, longwoo'd, and lately won,
My life's best hope, and nowmineown I
Doth not this rude and Alpine glen
Recall our favourite haunts agen ?
A wild resemblance we can trace,
Though reft of everj' softer grace.
As the rough warrior's brow may bear
A likeness to a sister fair.
Full well advised our Highland host,
That this wild pass on foot be cross'd,
While round Ben-Cruach's mighty
base
Wheel the slow steeds and lingering
chaise.
The keen old carle,with Scottish pride.
He praised his glen and mountains
wide ;
An eye he bears for Nature's face,
A\% and for woman's lovely grace.
Even in such mean degree we find
The subtle Scot's observing mind;
ZH (§tiUi of Zvkvmain.
oil
For, nor the chariot nor the train
Could gape of vulgar wonder gain,
But when old Allan would expound
Of Beal-na-paish ^ the Celtic sound,
His bonnet doff'd, and bow, applied
His legend to my bonny bride ;
While Lucy blush'd beneath his eye,
Courteous and cautious, shrewd and
sly.
II.
Enough of him. Now, ere we lose,
Plunged in the vale, the distant views,
Turn thee, my love ! look back once
more
To the blue lake's retiring shore.
On its smooth breast the shadows
seem
Like objects in a morning dream.
What time the slumberer is aware
He sleeps, and all the vision 's air :
Even so, on yonder liquid lawn.
In hues of bright reflection drawn.
Distinct the shaggy mountains lie,
Distinct the rocks, distinct the sky :
The summer-clouds so plain we note
That we might count each dappled
spot :
We gaze and we admire, yet know
The scene is all delusive show.
Such dreams of bliss would Arthur
draw
When first his Lucy's form he saw ;
Yet sigh'd and sicken'd as he drew,
Despairing they could e'er prove true!
III.
But, Lucy, turn thee now, to view
Up the fair glen, our destined way :
The fairy path that we pursue,
Distinguish'd but bj' greener hue,
Winds round the purple brae,
Wliile Alpine flowers of varied dye
For carpet serve, or tapestry.
See how the little runnels leap.
In threads of silver, down the steep,
To swell the brooklet's moan !
1 Beal-na-paish the Vala of the Bridal,
Seems that the Highland Naiad
grieves.
Fantastic while her crown she weaves.
Of rowan, birch, and alder leaves,
So lovelj', and so lone.
There's no illusion there; Ihcse
flowers.
That wailing brook, these lovely-
bowers.
Are, Lucy, all our own ;
Andsince thine Arthurcairdtheewife,
.Such seems the prospect of his life,
A lovely path, on-winding still,
By gurgling brook and sloping hill.
'Tis true, that mortals cannot tell
What waits them in the distant dell ;
But be it hap, or be it harm.
We tread the pathway arm in arm.
IV.
And now, my Luc}', wot'st thou wli\'
I could thy bidding twice den}',
When twice you pray'd I would again
Resume the legendary strain
Of the bold Knight of Triermain?
At length yon peevish vow you swore,
That 3'ou would sue to me no more,
Until the minstrel fit drew near,
And made me prize a listening ear.
But, loveliest, when thou first didst
pray
Continuance of the knightly lay.
Was it not on the happy day
That made thy hand mine own ?
When, dizzied with mine ecstasy.
Nought past, or present, or to be,
Could I or think on, hear, or see,
Save, Lucy, thee alone !
A giddy draught my rapture was.
As ever chemist's magic gas.
V.
Again the summons I denied
In yon fair capital of Clyde :
M}' Harp — or let me rather choose
The good old classic form — my Muse,
{For Harp's an over-scutched phrase,
Worn out by bards of modern days;
Xt^t ^vxiXiS of Z-vUvmain.
[Canto
My Muse, then — seldom will shewake.
Save by dim wood and silent lake ;
She is the wild and rustic Maid,
Whose foot unsandall'd loves to tread
Where the soft greensward is inlaid
With varied moss and thyme ;
And, lest the simple lily-braid
That coronets her temples fade,
Slie hides her still in greenwood shade
To meditate her rhyme.
And nowshe comes. The murmur dear
Of the wild brook hath caught her ear,
The glade hath won her eye ;
She longs to join with each blithe rill
That dances down the Highland hill
Her blither nielod}'.
And now, my Lucy's way to cheer,
She bids Ben-Cruach's echoes hear
How closed the tale my love whilere
Loved for its chivalry.
List how she tells, in notes of flame,
' Childe Roland to the dark tower
came 1 '
Canto Third.
Bewcastle now must keep the Hold,
Speir-Adam's steeds must bide in
stall,
Of Hartley-burn the bowmen bold
Must only shoot from battled wall ;
And Liddesdale may buckle spur.
And Teviot now may belt the brand,
Taras and Ewes keep nightly stir,
And Eskdale foray Cumberland.
Of wasted fields and plunder'd flocks
The Borderers bootless may com-
plain ;
They lack the sword of brave do Vaux,
There comes no aid from Tricnnain.
That lord, on high adventure bound,
Hath wander'd forth alone,
And day and night keeps watchful
round
In the valley of Saint John.
11.
When first began his vigil bold.
The moon twelve summer nights was
old,
And shone both fair and full ;
High in the vault of cloudless blue,
O'er streamlet, dale, and rock, she
threw
Her light composed and cool.
Stretch'd on the brown hill's heathy
breast,
Sir Roland eyed the vale ;
Chief where, distinguish'd from the
rest,
Those clustering rocks uprear'd their
crest,
The dwelling of the fair distress'd,
As told grey Lyulph's tale.
Thus as he lay, the lamp of night
W^as quivering on his armour bright.
In beams that rose and fell,
And danced upon his buckler's boss,
That lay beside him on the moss,
As on a crystal well.
III.
Ever he watch'd, and oft he deem'd.
While on the mound the moonlight
stream'd.
It altcr'd to his eyes ;
Fain would he hope the rocks 'gan
change
To buttress'd walls their shapeless
range,
Fain think, by transmutation strange.
He saw grey turrets rise.
But scarce his heartwithhopethrobb'd
high,
]3efore the wild illusions fly
Which fancy had conceived,
Abetted by an anxious eye
That lonsj'd to be deceived.
III.]
ZU QBntcif of Zvkvmain.
573
It was a fond deception all,
Such as, in solitary hall,
Beguiles the musing eye,
When, gazing on the sinking fire,
Bulwark, and battlement, and spire,
In the red gulf we spy.
For, seen by moon of middle night,
Or by the blaze of noontide bright.
Or by the dawn of morning light.
Or evening's western flame,
In every tide, at ever}' hour,
In mist, in sunshine, and in shower,
The rocks remain'd the same.
Oft has he traced the charmed mound,
Oft climb'd its crest, or paced it round,
Yet nothing might explore,
.Save that the crags so rudelj' piled,
At distance seen, resemblance wild
To a rough fortress bore.
Yet still his watch the warrior keeps,
Feeds hard and spare, and seldom
sleeps.
And drinks but of the well :
Ever by day he walks the hill,
And when the evening gale is chill.
He seeks a rocky cell,
Like hermit poor to bid his bead.
And tell his Ave and his Creed,
Invoking every saint at need,
For aid to burst his spell.
And now the moon her orb has hid,
And dwindled to a silver thread,
Dim seen in middle heaven,
While o'er its curve careering fast,
Before the fury of the blast
The midnight clouds are driven.
The brooklet raved, for on the hills
The upland showers had swoln the
rills,
And down the torrents came ;
Mutter'd the distant thunder dread,
And frequent o'er the vale was spread
A sheet of lightning flame.
De Vaux, within his mountain cave,
(No human step the storm durstbrave)
To moody meditation gave
Each faculty of soul,
Till, lull'd by distant torrent sound.
And the sad winds that whistled round,
Upon his thoughts, in musingdro\vn'd,
A broken slumber stole.
'Twas then was heard a heavy sound
(Sound strange and fearful there to
hear,
'Mongst desert hills, where, leagues
around,
Dwelt but the gorcock and the
deer) :
As, starting from his couch of fern,
Again he heard, in clangor stern.
That deep and solemn swell, —
Twelve times, in measured tone, it
spoke.
Like some proud minster's pealing
clock,
Or city's larum-bell, —
What thought was Roland's first when
fell.
In that deep wilderness, the knell
Upon his startled ear?
To slander warrior were I loth.
Yet must I hold my minstrel troth, —
It was a thought of fear.
But lively was the mingled thrill
That chased that momentary chill,
For Love's keen wish was there.
And eager Hope, and Valour high,
And the proud glow of Chivalry,
That burn'd to do and dare.
Forth from the cave thewarriorrush'd.
Long ere the mountain-voice was
hush'd.
That answer'd to the knell ;
For long and far the unwonted sound,
Eddying in echoes round and round,
Was toss'd from fell to fell ;
574
Z-U (^vilai of Zvktrwixin.
[Canto
And Glaramara answer flung,
And Grisdale-pike responsive rung,
And Legbert heights their echoes
swung
As far as Derwent's deh.
Forth upon trackless darkness gazed
The Knight, bedeafen'd and amazed,
Till all was hush'd and still.
Save the swoln torrent's sullen roar,
And the night-blast that wildly bore
Its course along the hill.
Then on the northern sky there came
A light, as of reflected flame.
And over Legbert-head,
As if by magic art controlFd,
A mighty meteor slowly roll'd
Its orb of fiery red ;
Tliou wouldst have thought some
demon dire
Came, mounted on that car of fire,
To do his errand dread.
Far on the sloping valley's course,
On thicket, rock, and torrent hoarse.
Shingle and Scrae, and Fell and Force,
A dusky light arose :
Display'd, yet alter'd was the scene ;
Dark rock, and brook of silver sheen.
Even the gay thicket's summer green,
In bloody tincture glows.
Dc Vaux had mark'd the sunbeams
set,
At eve, upon the coronet
Of that enchanted mound,
And seen but crags at random flung,
Tliat, o'er the brawling torrent hung.
In desolation frown'd.
What sees he by that meteor's lour?
A banner'd Castle, keep, and tower.
Return the lurid gleam.
With battled walls and buttress fast.
And barbican and ballium vast.
And airy flanking towers, that cast
Their shadows on the stream.
'Tis no deceit I distinctly clear
Crenell and parapet appear.
While o'er the pile that meteor drear
Makes momentary pause ;
Then forth its solemn path it drew.
And fainter yet and fainter grew
Those gloomy towers upon the view,
As its wild light withdraws,
X.
Forth from the cave did Roland rush,
O'er crag and stream, through brier
and bush ;
Yet far he had not sped
Ere sunk was that portentous light
Behind the hills, and utter night
Was on the valley spread.
He paused perforce, and blew his horn.
And on the mountain-echoes borne
Was heard an answering sound,
A wild and lonely trumpet-note ;
In middle air it seem'd to float
High o'er the battled mound ;
And sounds were heard, as when a
guard
Of some proud castle, holding ward.
Pace forth their nightly round.
The valiant Knight of Triermain
Rung forth his challenge-blast again.
But answer came there none ;
And 'mid the mingled wind and rain.
Darkling he sought the vale in vain.
Until the dawning shone ;
And when it dawn'd, that wondrous
sight,
Distinctly seen by meteor light —
It all had pass'd away ;
And that enchanted mount once more
A pile of granite fragments bore,
As at the close of day.
XI.
Steel'd for the deed, De Vaux's heart
Scorn'd from his vent'rous quest to part,
He walks the vale once more ;
Rut only sees, by night or day,
That shatter'd pile of rocks so grey.
Hears but the torrent's roar.
III.]
ZU (§viU^ of Zvitvmc^in.
575
Till when, through hills of azure
borne,
The moon renew'd her silver horn,
just at the time her waning ray
Had faded in the dawning da}-,
A summer mist arose ;
Adown the vale the vapours float,
And cloudy undulations moat
That tufted mound of mystic note,
As round its base they close.
And higher no\y the fleecy tide
Ascends its stern and shaggy side.
Until the airy billows hide
The rock's majestic isle ;
It seem'd a veil of filmy lawn,
By some fantastic fairy drawn
Around enchanted pile.
The breeze came softly down the brook ,
And, sighing as it blew.
The veil of silver mist it shook,
And to De Vaux's eager look
Renew'd that wondrous view.
For, though the loitering vapourbraved
The gentle breeze, yet oft it waved
Its mantle's dewy fold ;
And still, when shook that filmy screen,
Were towers and bastions dimly seen.
And Gothic battlements between
Their gloomy length unroll'd.
Speed, speed, De Vaux, ere on thine
eye
Once more the fleeting vision die I
The gallant knight 'gan speed
As prompt and light as, when the
hound
Is opening, and the horn is wound.
Careers the hunter's steed.
Down the steep dell his course amain
Hath rivall'd archer's shaft ;
But ere the mound he could attain,
The rocks their shapeless form regain,
And, mocking loud his labour vain.
The mountain spirits laugh'd.
Far up the echoing dell was borne
Their wild unearthly shout of scorn.
Wroth wax'd the Warrior: 'Am I
then
Fool'd by the enemies of men,
Like a poor hind, whose homeward
way
Is haunted by malicious fay ?
Is Triermain become your taunt,
De Vaux your scorn ? False fiends,
av'aunt I '
A weighty curtal-axe he bare ;
The baleful blade so bright and square.
And the tough shaft of heben wood,
Were oft in Scottish gore imbrued.
Backward his stately form he drew.
And at the rocks the weapon threw,
Just where one crag's projected crest
Hung proudly balanced o'er the rest.
Hurl'd with main force, the weapon's
shock
Rent a huge fragment of the rock.
If bv mere strength, 'twere hard to
tell,
Or if the blow dissolved some spell,
But down the headlong ruin came.
With cloud of dust and flash of flame.
Down bank, o'er bush, its course was
borne,
Crush'd lay the copse, the earth was
torn,
Till staid at length, the ruin dread
Cumber'd the torrent's rocky bed.
And bade the waters' high-swoln tide
Seek other passage for its pride.
When ceased that thunder, Triermain
Survey'd the mound's rude front again ;
And, lo ! the ruin had laid bare,
Hewn in the stone, a winding stair.
Whose moss'd and fractured steps
might lend
The means the summit to ascend ;
And by whose aid the brave De Vaux
Began to scale these magic rocks.
And soon a platform won,
576
ZH Q0vtliaf of Zvkvmciin.
[Canto
Where, the wild witchery to close,
Within three lances' length arose
The Castle of Saint John !
No misty phantom of the air,
No meteor-blazon'd show was there ;
In morning splendour, full and fair,
The massive fortress shone.
Embattled high and proudly tower'd,
Shaded by pond'rous flankers, lovver'd
The portal's gloomy way.
Though for six hundred years and
more
Its strength had brook'd the tempest's
roar,
The scutcheon'd emblems which it
bore
Had suffer'd no decay :
But from the eastern battlement
A turret had made sheer descent.
And, down in recent ruin rent.
In the mid-torrent lay.
Else, o'er the Castle's brow sublime,
Insults of violence or of time
Unfelt had pass'd away.
In shapeless characters of yore,
The gate this stern inscription bore: —
' Patience waits the destined day.
Strength can clear the cumber'd way.
Warrior, who hast ^vaited long.
Firm of soul, of sinew strong.
It is given to thee to gaze
On the pile of ancient days.
Never mortal builder's hand
This enduring fabric plann'd;
Sign and sigil, word of power.
From the earth raised keep and tower.
View it o'er, and pace it round,
Rampart, turret, battled mound.
Dare no more ! To cross the gate
Were to tamper with thy fate ;
Strength and fortitude were vain,
View it o'er — and turn again.'
' That would I,' said the Warrior bold,
' If that my frame were bent and old.
And my thin blood dropp'd slow and
cold
As icicle in thaw ;
But while mj' heart can feel it dance.
Blithe as the sparkling wine of France,
And this good arm wields sword or
lance,
I mock these words of awe ! '
He said ; the wicket felt the sway
Of his strong hand, and straight gave
way.
And, with rude crash and jarring bray,
The rusty bolts withdraw ;
But o'er the threshold as he strode,
And forward took the vaulted road,
An unseen arm, with force amain.
The ponderous gate flung close again,
And rusted bolt and bar
Spontaneous took their place once
more,
While the deep arch with sullen roar
Return'd their surly jar.
' Now closed is the gin and the prey
within
Bj' the Rood of Lanercost !
But he that would win the war-wolfs
skin
May rue him of his boast.'
Thus muttering, on the Warrior went,
By dubious light down steep descent.
Unbarr'd, unlock'd, unwatch'd, a port
Led to the Castle's outer court :
There the main fortress, broad and tall.
Spread its longrange of bowerand hall,
And towers of varied size.
Wrought with each ornament extreme
That Gothic art, in wildest dream
Of fancy, could devise ;
But full between the Warrior's way
And the main portal arch, there \ay
An inner moat ;
Nor bridge nor boat
III.
ZU (^nfeaf of Zvkvmain.
177
Affords De Vaux the means to cross
The clear, profound, and silent fosse.
His arms aside in haste he flings,
Cuirass of steel and hauberk rings.
And down falls helm, and down the
shield.
Rough with the dints of many a field.
Fair was his manly form, and fair
His keen dark eye, and close curl'd
hair.
When, all unarm'd, save thatthe brand
Of well-proved metal graced his hand,
With nought to fence his dauntless
breast
But the close gipon's under-vest.
Whose sullied bufi" the sable stains
Of hauberk and of mail retains,
Roland De Vaux upon the brim
Of the broad moat stood prompt to
swim.
Accoutred thus he dared the tide,
And soon he reach'd the farther side,
And enter'd soon the hold.
And paced a hall, whose walls so wide
Were blazon'd all with feats of pride.
By warriors done of old.
In middle lists they counter'd here,
While trumpets seem'd to blow ;
And there, in den or desert dreai-,
Tliey quell'd gigantic foe.
Braved the fierce griffon in his ire.
Or faced the dragon's breath of fire.
Strange in their arms, and strange in
face,
Heroes they seem'd of ancient race.
Whose deeds of arms, and race, and
name.
Forgotten long by later fame,
Were here depicted, to appal
Those of an age degenerate.
Whose bold intrusion braved their fate
In this enchanted hall.
For some short space the venturous
knight
With these high marvels fed his sight.
Then sought the chambers upper end.
Where three broad easy steps ascend
To an arch'd portal door,
In whose broad folding leaves of state
Was framed a wicket window-grate,
And, ere he ventured more,
The gallant Knight took earnest view
The grated wicket-window through.
X.K.
Oh, for his arms ! Of martial weed
Had never mortal Knight such need !
He spied a stately gallery ; all
Of snow-white marble was the wall.
The vaulting, and the floor ;
And, contrast strange ! on either hand
There stood array'd in sable band
Four maids whom Afric bore ;
And each a Lybian tiger led.
Held by as bright and frail a thread
As Lucy's golden hair,--
For the leash that bound these mon-
sters dread
Was but of gossamer.
Each maiden's short barbaric vest
Left all unclosed the knee and breast,
And limbs of shapely jet ;
White was their vest and turban's fold,
On arms and ankles rings of gold
In savage pomp were set ;
A quiver on their shoulders lay,
And in their hand an assagay.
Such and so silent stood they there.
That Roland wellnigh hoped
He saw a band of statues rare,
Station'd the gazer's soul to scare ;
But when the wicket oped.
Each grislj' beast 'gan upward draw.
RoH'd his grim eye, and spread his
claw.
Scented the air, and licked his jaw ;
While these weird maids, in Moorish
tongue,
A wild and di'jmal v.-arning sung.
Rash adventurer, bear thee back!
Dread the spell of Dahomay I
^^e (^vtl>af of Ztitvmain.
[ Canto
Fear the race of Zaharak.
Daughters of the burniiu
day !
e:usts
' When the wliirlwind's
wheeling,
Ours it is the dance to braid ;
Zarah's sands in pillars reeling
Join the measure that we tread,
When the moon has donn'd her cloak,
And the stars are red to see,
Shrill when pipes the sad siroc.
Music meet for such as we.
' Where the shatter'd columns lie,
Showing Carthage once had been,
If the wandering Santon's eye
Our mysterious rites hath seen, —
Oft he cons the praj^er of death,
To the nations preaches doom,
" Azrael's brand hath left the sheath !
Moslems, think upon the tomb ! "
' Ours the scorpion, ours the snake,
Ours the hydra of the fen.
Ours the tiger of the brake,
All that plague the sons of men.
Ours the tempest's midnight wrack,
Pestilence that wastes by day :
Dread the race of Zaharak I
Fear the spell of Dahomay ! '
XXII.
Uncouth and strange the accents shrill
Rung those vaulted roofs among,
Long it was ere, faint and still.
Died the far-resounding song.
While yet the distant echoes roll,
'i'he Warrior communed with his soul :
' When first I took this venturous
quest,
I swore upon the rood,
Neither to stop, nor turn, nor rest,
For evil or for good.
My forward path too well I ween,
Lies 3'onder fearful ranks between !
For man unarm'd, 'tis bootless hope
With tigers and with fiends to cope ;
Yet, if I turn, what waits me there,
Save famine dire and fell despair-
Other conclusion let me try,
Since, choose howe'er I list, I die.
Forward, lies faith and knightly fame ;
Behind, are perjury and shame.
In life or death I hold my word I '
With that he drew his trusty sword,
Caught down a banner from the wall,
And enter'd thus the fearful hall.
XXIII.
On high each waj'ward maiden threw
Her swarth}' arm, with wild halloo^
On either side a tiger sprung:
Against the leftward foe he flung
The ready banner, to engage
With tangling folds the brutal rage;
The right-hand monster in mid air
He struck so fiercely and so fair.
Through gullet and through spinal
bone,
The trenchant blade had sheerh- gone.
His grisly brethren ramp'd and yell'd.
But the slight leash their rage withheld.
Whilst, 'twixt their ranks, the danger-
ous road
Firinh', though swift, the champion
strode.
Safe to the gallery's bound he lirew,
.Safe pass'd an open portal through ;
And when against pursuit he flung
The gate, judge if the echoes rung !
Onward his daring course he bore,
While, mix'd with dying growl and
roar.
Wild jubilee and loud hurra
Pursued him on his venturous way.
XXIV.
' Hurra, hurra ! our watch is done I
We hail once more the tropic sun.
Pallid beams of northern day.
Farewell, farewell I Hurra, hurra I
' P'ive hundred years o'er this cold
glen
Hath the pale sun come round agcn ;
Foot of man, till now, hath ne'er
Dared to cross the Hall of Fear.
III.
Z(>i Q0ni)al' of ^nennam.
fwO
'Warrior I thou, wliose dauntless
heart
Gives us from our ward to part,
Be as strong in future trial,
"Where resistance is denial.
' Now for Afric's glowing sk_v,
Zwenga wide and Atlas high,
Zaharak and Dahomaj' !
Mount the winds 1 Hurra, hurra 1 '
X.KV.
The wizard song at distance died,
As if in ether borne astray,
While through waste halls and
chambers wide
The knight pursued his steady way,
Till to a lofty dome he came.
That llash'd, with such a brilliant flame.
As if the wealth of all the world
Were there in rich confusion hurl'd.
For here the gold, in sand3' heaps.
With duller earth, incorporate, sleeps ;
Was there in ingots piled ; and there
Coin'd badge of emper\' it bare ;
Yonder, huge bars of silver lay,
Dimm'dby the diamond's neighbouring-
ray,
Like the pale moon in morning day ;
And in the midst four maidens stand,
The daughters of some distant land.
Their hue was of the dark-red dye.
That fringes oft a thunder skj- ;
Their hands palmetto baskets bare.
And cotton fillets bound their hair ;
Slim was their form, their mien was shy.
To earth they bent the humbled eye.
Folded their arms, and suppliant
kneel'd.
And thus their proffer'd gifts reveal'd.
XXVI.
CHORUS.
' See the treasures Merlin piled,
Portion meet for Arthur's child.
Bathe in wealth's unbounded stream,
Wealth that avarice ne'er could
dream '. '
riRST MAIDEN.
' See these clots of virgin gold I
Sever'd from the sparry' mould.
Nature's mj^stic alchemy
In the mine thus bade them lie ;
And their orient smile can win
Kings to stoop, and saints to sin.'
SECOND MAIDEN.
' See these pearls, that long have slept ;
These were tears by Naiads wept
For the loss of Marinel.
Tritons in the silver shell
Treasured them, till hard and white
i\s the teeth of Amphitrite.'
THIRD MAIDEN.
' Does a livelier hue delight •
Here are rubies blazing bright.
Here the emerald's fairy green .
And the topaz glows between ;
Here their varied hues unite.
In the changeful chrysolite.'
rOURTH MAIDEN.
' Leave these gems of poorer shine,
Leave them all, and look on mine !
While their glories I expand,
Shade thine ej-ebrows with thj^ hand.
Mid-day sun and diamond's blaze
Blind the rash beholder's gaze.'
• Warrior, seize the splendid store ;
Would 'twere all our mountains bore I
We should ne'er in future story
Read, Peru, thy perish'd gloiy 1 '
Calmly and unconcern'd, the knight
Waved aside the treasures bright : —
' Gentle maidens, rise, I prav !
Bar not thus my destined wa\'.
Let these boasted brilliant toys
Braid the hair of girls and boys !
Bid 3'our streams of gold expand
O'er proud London's thirsty land.
r,8o
Z-H ^niiaf of Z^vUvmain
[Canto
De Vaux of ^vealth saw never need,
Save to purvey him arms and steed,
And all the ore he deign'd to hoard
Inlays his helm, and hilts his sword.'
Thus gently parting from their hold.
He left, unmoved, the dome of gold.
And now the morning sun was high,
De Vaux was weary, faint, and dry ;
When, lo! a plashing sound he hears,
A gladsome signal that he nears
Some frolic water-run;
And soon he reach'd a court-j-ard
square.
Where, dancing in the sultry air.
Toss'd high aloft, a fountain fair
Was sparkling in the sun.
On right and left, a fair arcade.
In long perspective view displaj-'d
Alleys and bowers, for sun or shade :
But, full in front, a door,
Low-brow'd and dark, seem'd as it led
To the lone dwelling of the dead.
Whose memory was no more.
Here stopp'd De Vaux an instant's
space.
To bathe his parched lips and face,
And mark'd with well-pleased eye,
Refracted on the fountain stream,
In rainbow hues the dazzling beam
Of that gay summer sky.
His senses felt a mild control,
Like that which lulls the weary soul.
From contemplation high
Relaxing, when the car receives
The music that the greenwood leaves
Make to the breezes' sigh.
And oft in such a dreamy mood.
The half-shut eye can frame
Fair apparitions in the wood
As if the njMnphs of field and flood
In gay procession camo.
Are these of such fantastic mould.
Seen distant down the fair arcade.
These maids enlink"d in sister-fold,
Who, late at bashful distance staid ,
Now tripping from the greenwood
shade.
Nearer the musing champion draw,
And, in a pause of seeming awe,
Again stand doubtful now ?
Ah, that sly pause of witching powers
That seems to s,\v, ' To please be ours.
Be 3'ours to tell us how."
Their hue was of the golden glow
That suns of Candahar bestow.
O'er which in slight suffusion flows
A frequent tinge of paly rose ;
Theirlimbswerefashion'dfairandfree,
In nature's justest symmetry ;
And, wreathed with flowers, with
odours graced,
Their raven ringlets reach'd the waist :
In eastern pomp, its gilding pale
The hennah lent each shapely nail.
And the dark sumah gave the e\-e
More liquid and more lustrous dye.
The spotless veil of mistj' lawn.
In studied disarrangement, drawn
The form and bosom o'er,
To win the eye, or tempt the touch.
For modest}' show'd all too much —
Too much, yet promised more.
' Gentle knight, a while dclaj','
Thus they sung, ' thy toilsome wa}',
While we pay the dutj' due
To our Master and to 3'ou.
Over avarice, over fear.
Love triumphant led thee here ;
Warrior, list to us, for we
Are slaves to love, are friends to thee.
Though no treasured gems have \ve.
To proffer on the bended knee.
Though we boast nor arm nor hcait,
For the assagay or dart.
Swains allo\v each simple girl
Ruby lip and teeth of pearl ;
III.]
ZU Q2»n^af of Zvkvmain.
r-,8i
Or, if dangers more you prize,
Flatterers find them in our eyes.
' Staj-, then, gentle warrior, stay,
Rest till evening steal on daj' ;
Stay, O, stay ! in yonder bovvers
We will braid thy locks with tlowers.
Spread the feast and fill the wine,
Charm thy ear with sounds di\ine,
Weave our dances till delight
Yield to languor, day to night.
Then shall she you most approve.
Sing the lays that best you love.
Soft thy mossy couch shall spread,
Watch thy pillow, prop thj' head,
Till the weary night be o'er ;
Gentle warrior, wouldst thou more ?
Wouldst thou more, fair warrior ? she
Is sla\'e to love and slave to thee.'
xxxii.
O do not hold it for a crime
In the bold hero of my rhj'mc,
For Stoic look.
And meet rebuke.
He lack'd the heart or time;
As round the band of sirens trip,
He kiss'd one damsel's laughing lip.
And press'd another's proffer'd hand.
Spoke to them all in accents bland,
But broke their magic circle through;
' Kind maids,' he said, 'adieu, adieu !
My fate, my fortune, forward lies.'
He said, and vanish'd from their eyes;
But, as he dared that darksome wa}',
Still heard behind their lovely lay:
' Fair Flower of Courtes}', depart 1
CJo, where the feelings of the heart
With the warm pulse in concord
move ;
Go, where virtue sanctions love I '
XXXIII.
Downv\'ard De Vau.x through dark-
some ways
And ruin'd vaults has gone,
Till issue from their wilder'd maze.
Or safe I'etreat, seem'd none ;
And e'en the dismal path he strays
Grew worse as he went on.
For cheerful sun, for living air.
Foul vapours rise and mine-fires glare.
Whose fearful light the dangers shovv'd
That dogg'd him on that dreadful road.
Deep pits, and lakes of waters dun,
They show'd, but show'd not how to
shun.
These scenes of desolate despair,
These smothering clouds of poison'd
air,
How gladl3' had DeVaux exchanged,
Though 'twere to face yon tigers
ranged 1
Nay, sooth ful bards have said
So perilous his state seem'd now.
He wish'd him under arbour bough
With Asia's willing maid.
When, joj'ful sound I at distance near
A trumpet flourish'd loud and clear,
And as it ceased, a lofty lay
Seem'd thus to chide his lagging way.
'■ Son of Honour, theme of story.
Think on the reward before 3-0 I
Danger, darkness, toil despise ;
'Tis ambition bids thee rise.
' He that would her heights ascend,
Many a weary step must wend ;
Hand and foot and knee he tries ;
Thus ambition's minions rise.
'Lag not now, though rough the waj',
Fortune's mood brooks no delay ;
Grasp the boon that's spread before
ye,
Monarch's power, and conqueror's
glory ! '
It ceased. Advancing on tiie sound.
A steep ascent the wanderer found.
And then a turret stair :
Nor climb'd he far its steepy round
Till fresher blew the air.
r.8:
ZU (^tt'baf of Zvkvmaxn.
Canto
And next a welcome glimpse was given .
That cheer'd him with the light of
heaven.
At length liis toil had won
A lofty hall with trophies dress'd,
Where, as to greet imperial guest,
Four maidens stood, whose crimson
vest
Was bound with golden zone.
In plateand mail, than, robedin jjridc,
A monarch's empire own ;
Rather, far rather, would he be
A free-born knight of England free,
Than sit on despot's throne.'
So pass'd he on, when that fourth maid.
As starting from a trance.
Upon the harp her finger laid ;
Her magic touch the chords obey'd,
Their soul awaked at once !
Of Europe seem'd the damsels all ;
The first a nymph of lively Gaul,
Whose easy step and laughing e\-c
Her borrow'd air of awe belie ;
The next a maid of Spain,
Dark-eyed, dark-hair'd, sedate, 3'et
bold ;
White ivory skin and tress of gold.
Her shj- and bashful comrade told
For daughter of Almaine.
These maidens bore a royal robe.
With crown, with sceptre, and with
globe,
Emblems of emperj' ;
Tlic fourth a space behind them stood.
And leant upon a harp, in mood
(3f minstrel ecstasy.
Of merry England she, in dress
Like ancient British Druidess.
Her hair an azure fillet bound.
Her graceful vesture swept the ground.
And, in her hand display'd,
A crown did that fourth maiden hold.
But unadorn'd with gems and gold,
Of glossy laurel made.
At once to brave Uc Vaux knelt down
These foremost maidens three,
And proiTer'd sceptre, robe, and crown,
Liegedom and seignorie.
O'er many a region wide and fair.
Destined, they said, for Arthur's heir;
But homage \vould he none :
' Rather,' he said, ' Do Vaux would ride,
A wanlcn of the Border-side,
SONG OF THE FOURTH MAIDEN.
• Quake to your foundations deep,
Stately towers, and banner'd keep,
Bid your vaulted echoes moan,
As the dreaded step they own.
' Fiends, that wait on Merlin's spcil.
Hear the foot-fall ! mark it well !
Spread 3'our dusky wings abroad,
Boune ye for your homeward road I
' It is his, the first who c"cr
Dared the dismal Hall of Fear ;
His, who hath the snares defied
.Spread by pleasure, wealth, and prid<-
' Quake to your foundations deep.
Bastion huge, and turret steep !
Tremble, keep I and totter, tower I
This is Gynetii's waking hour.'
Thus while sJie sung, the venturous
knight
Has reach'd a bower, \\liere milder
light
Through crimson curtaijis fell;
Such soften'd shade the liill receives,
Her purple veil when twilight lea\cs
Upon its western swell.
That bower, the gazer to bewitcli.
Hath wondrous store of rare and rich
As e'er was seen with eye ;
For there bj- magic skill, I wis.
Form of each thing that living is
Was limn'cl in [iroper dye.
III.]
^U (§nia( of Zvkvmain.
n8:
Ail seem'd to sleep — the timid hare
On form, the stag upon his lair.
The eagle in her eyrie fair
Between the earth and sky.
But what of pictured rich and rare
Could win De Vaux's eye-glance,
where.
Deep slumbering in the fatal chair.
He saw King Arthurs child I
Doubt, and anger, and dismay,
From her brow had pass'd awa^y.
Forgot was that fell tourne\'-da\'.
For, as she slept, she smiled :
It seem'd, that the repentant Seer
Her sleep of manj' a hundred year
With gentle dreams beguiled
XXXVIIl.
That form of maiden loveliness,
'Twixtchildhoodand'twixtj-onth,
That ivory chair, that silvan dress.
The arms and ankles bare, express
Of Lyulph's tale the truth.
■Still upon her garment's hem
Vanoc's blood made purple gem,
i\nd the warder of command
Cumber'd still her sleeping hand ;
Still her dark locks dishevell'd How
From net of pearl o'er breast of snow;
And so fair the slumberer seems.
That De Vaux impeach'd his dreams.
Vapid all and void of might.
Hiding half her charms from sight.
Motionless a while he stands.
Folds his arms and clasps his Iiands,
Trembling in his fitful joy.
Doubtful how he should destroy
Long-enduring spell ;
Doubtful, too, when slowly rise
Dark-fringed lids of Gyneth's eyes.
What these eyes shall tell.
•Saint George! .Saint Marj'! can it be,
That they will kindlj- look on me I '
'Gentl}-, lo ! the warrior kneels.
Soft that lo\-clv hand he steals.
•Soft to kiss, and soft to clasp —
But the warder leaves his grasp;
Lightning fiashes. rolls tlic
thunder !
Gyneth startles from her sleep.
Totters tower, and trembles keeji.
Burst the castle-walls asunder '.
Fierce and frequent were the shocks, —
iVIelt the magic halls away;
But beneath their my.stic rocks,
In the arms of bold De Vaux,
Safe the princess Ia\' ;
Safe and free from magic power.
Blushing like the rose's flower
Opening to the day ;
And round the champion's brows were
bound
The crown that Druidess had wound.
Of the green laurel-ba^'.
And this was what remain'd of all
The wealth of each enchanted hall,
The garland and the dame :
But wiiere should warrior seek the
meed,
Due to high worth fur daring deed,
Except frum love and fame I
CONCLUSION.
My Lucy, when the maid is won,
The minstrel's task, thou know'st, is
done ;
And to rcfjuire of bard
That to his dregs the talc should run.
Were ordinance too hard.
Our lovers, briefly be it said,
Wedded as lovers wont to wed.
When tale or pla}' is o'er ;
Lived long and blest, loved fond and
true.
And saw a numerous race rene\v
The honours that they bore.
Know, too, that when a pilgrim strays,
Li morning mist or evening maze,
.'\long tile nioiuitain lone.
584
ZU Q^t^i&af of Znttmam.
[Canto III,
That fairy fortress often mocks
His gaze upon the castled rocks
Of the Valley of Saint John ;
But never man since brave De Vaux
The charmed portal won.
"Tis now a vain illusive show,
That melts whene'er thcsunbeams glow
Or the fresh breeze hath blown.
]^ut see, my love, where far below
Our lingering wheels are moving slow,
The whiles, up-gazing still.
Our menials eye our steepy way,
Marvelling, perchance, what whim can
stay
Our steps, when eve is sinking gi"cy.
On this gigantic hill.
So think the vulgar : Life and time
Ring all their joys in one dull chime
Of luxury and ease ;
And, O ! beside these simple knaves,
How many better born are slaves
To such coarse joys as these I
Dead to the nobler sense that glows
When nature's grander scenes unclose I
But, Lucy, we will love them yet,
The mountain's misty coronet,
The greenwood, and the wold ;
And love the more that of their maze
Adventure high of other da\-s
By ancient bards is told,
Bringing, perchance, like mj- poor
tale.
Some moral truth in liction's veil :
Nor love them less, that o'er the hill
The evening breeze, as now, comes
chill ;—
My love shall wrap her warm.
And. fearless of the slippery way.
While safe she trips the heathy brae,
Shall hang on Arthur's arm.
END OF IHF, BRID.VL OF TRIERMAIN.
Jn^ro^ucfion anb (JXotte to
Z^c (§xibai of Zvktmain,
INTRODUCTION TO THE ITRST EDITION.'
In tlie Edinhnrgh Aiiintal Register for
the year iSog, Three Frajjmeiits were inserted,
written in imitation of Living; Poets. It must
liave been apparent that, by tliese prolusions,
nothinfj burlesque, or disrespectful to the
authors, was intended, but tliat they were
offered to the public as serious, though
certainly very imperfect, imitations of that
style of composition, by wliich each of the
writers is supposed to be distinguished. As
these exercises attracted a greater degree
of attention than the author anticipated, he
lias been induced to complete one of them,
and present it as a separate publication-.
It IS not in this place that Jin examination
of the works of the master whom he has here
adopted as his model, can, with propriety,
be introduced : since his general acquiescence
in the favourable suffrage of the public must
necessarily be inferred from the attempt lu'
has now made. He is induced, by the nature
of his subject, to offer a few remarks on
what has been called Romantic Poetry; — the
popularity of which has been revived in the
present day, under the auspices, and by
the unparalleled success, of one individual.
The original purpose of poetry is either
religious or historical, or, as must frequently
happen, a mixture of both. To modern
readers, the poems of Homer have many
of the features of pure romance ; but in the
' Publiblied ia March 1813.
" Btintj much urgetl by my intimate friend, now
nnhappily no more, William Erskine, I agreed to
write tlie little romantic tale called * The Bridal of
'I'riermain ' ; but it was on the condition that he
should make no serious effort to disown the couipo-
sition, if report should lay it at his door. As he was
more than suspected of a taste for poetry, and as I took
care, in several places, to mix something which might
resemble (as far as was in my powerj my fricntl's
feeling and manner, the train easily caught, and t"o
large editions were sold. A tl'ird being called for.
Lord Kinedder became unwilling to aid any longer
a deception which was going farther than he expected
or desired, anil the real author's name was given.
estimation of his contemporaries, they pro-
bably derived their chief value from their
supposed historical authenticity. The same
may be generally said of the poetry of all
e.irly ages. The marvels and miracles which
the poet blends with his song, do not exceed
in number or extravagance the tlgments of
the historians of the same period of society ;
and, indeed, the difference betwixt poetry
and prose, as the vehicles of historical truth,
is always of late introduction. Poets, under
various denominations of Bards, Scalds,
Chroniclers, and so forth, are the first his-
torians of all nations. Their intention is to
relate the events thcj- have witnessed, or the.
traditions that have reached them ; and they
clothe the relation in rhyme, merelv as the
means of rendering it more solemn in tlu'.
narrative or more easily committed to
memory. But as the poetical historian im-
jiroves in the art of conveving information,
the authenticity- of his narrative unavoidably
declines. He is tempted to dilate and dwell
upon the events that are interesting to his
imagination, and, conscious how indifferent
his audience is to the naked truth of his poem,
his history graduallv becomes a romance.
It is in this situation that those epics ait-
found, which have been generally regarded as
the standards of poetry ; and it has happened
somewhat strangely, that the moderns haw
pointed out as the characteristics and peculiar
excellencies of narrative poetry the very
circumstances which the authors themselves
adopted, only because their art involved the
duties of the historian as well as the poet.
It cannot be believed, for example, that
Homer selected the siege of Troy as the most
appropriate subj ct for poetry; his purpose
was to write the early history of his country;
the event he has chosen, though not very
fruitful in varied incident, nor perfectly well
adapted for pcetr}', was nevertheless com-
bined with tr.idit:<jnary and genealogical
-,86
5n^vobuch'on io tU (^nl>af of Z-vkvmair^.
anecdotes extremely interestinj^ to tliose wlio \
were to listen to him ; and this he has adorned
liy the exertions of a genius, which, if it has
been equalle<l, has certainly been never i
surpassed. It was not till comparatively [
a late period that the general accuracy of his ;
narrative, or his purpose in coniposinjj it
was brought into question. Aoxfi 7rpcoT05
[6 'ArajOYopa;] (xatid i^ijcri •PajSopii'o? «i' I
TravTobaTTrj 'loropta) tyjv 'Oixr/pov 7rou;(7ti' arro-
*hr}vaaOaL eu'at irepc afiCTt's Kal 5t*catO(Ti'i'f?';'.
But whatever theories might be framed by
.speculati\'e men, his work was of an historical, |
not of an allegorical nature. 'ErauTtAAero j
fiiTO. TOU MeVrtw xai. 0770U t/cuuioTi: ac/)iVoiro,
TTarra tol en-t\wpta Stepajraro, Kai tcrropccui'
eTrvuOdv^TO* €lko<; S€ ^iu -qv Kai fjLi'Tq^odvvr] ndi''
Tiuu yod(hfcT6ai-. Instead of recommending
the choice of a subject similar to that of
Homer, it was to be expected that critics
should have exhorted the poets of these latter
days to adopt or in\ent a narrati^■e in itself [
more susceptible of poetical ornament, and |
(o iivail themselves of that advantage in
order to compensate, in some degree, the
inferiority of genius. The contrary course has
been inculcated by almost all the writers
upon the B'pcf'oeia; with what success, the
(ate ot Homir's numerous imitators may
best show. The ulliiitum siipp/iciinii of
criticism was inflicted on the author if he did
not choose a subject which at once deprived
him of all claim to originality, and placed
him, if not in actual contest, at least in fatal
comparison, with those giants in the land
whom it was most his interest to avoid. The
celc;brated receipt for writing an epic poem,
which appeared in J'/ie Guardian, was the
first instance in which common sense was
applied to this department of poetry ; and,
indeed, if the (|uestion be considered on its
own merits, we must be satisljed that narrative
poetry, if strictly confined to the great occur-
rences of history, would be deprived of the
individual interest which it is so well calculated
to excite.
Modern poets may tliereforc be pardoned
in seeking simpler subjects of Aerse, more
interesting in proportion to their simplicity.
Two or three figures, well grouped, suit the
iirtist better than a crowd, for whatever
])urpose assembled. For the same reason,
;i scene immediately presented to theimagina-
lion, and directly brouglit home to the feel-
ings, though involving the fate of but one or
two persons, is more fa\ourable for poetry
than the political struggles and convulsions
which influence the fate of kingdoms. The
former are within the reach and compre-
hension of all, and, if depicted with vigour,
seldom fail to fix attention : the other, if
more sublime, are more vague and distant,
1 Diogenes I^aertius, lib. ii. Anaxag. .Segin. II.
i Homeri Vita, in Herod. Henr. Stepli. 1570, p. 356.
less capable of being distinctly understood,
and infinitely less capable of exciting those
sentiments which it is the \ery purpose of
poetry to inspire. To generalize is always
to destroy effect. We would, for example,
be more interested in the fate of an individual
soldier in combat, than in the grand event
of a general action ; with the happiness of
two lovers raised froin misery ana anxiety
to peace and union, than with the successful
exertions of a whole nation. From what
causes this may originate, is a separate and
obviously an immaterial consideration. Be-
fore ascribing this peculiarity to causes
decidedly and odiously selfish, it is pro[)er to
recollect, that while men see only a limited
space, and wliile their affections and conduct
are regulated, not by aspiring to an universal
good, but by exerting their power of making
themselves and others happy within the
limited scale allotted to each individual, so
long will individual history and individual
\irtue be the readier and more accessible
road to general interest and attention ; and,
perhaps, we may add, that it is the more
useful, aswellasthemoreaccessible, inasmuch
as it affords an example capable of being
easily imitated.
According to the author's idea of Romantic
Poetry as distinguished from Epic, the formei
comprehends a fictitious narrative, frained
and combined at the ])leasure of the writer;
beginning and ending as he may judge best :
which neither exacts nor refuses the use of
supernatural machinery ; which is free from
the technical rules of the Epcc\ and is subject
only to those which good sense, good taste,
and good morals, apply to every species of
poetry without exception. The date may be
in a remote age, or in the present ; the story
may detail the adventures of a prince or of
a peasant. In a word, the author is absolute
master of his country and its inhabitants,
and everything is permitted to him, excepting
to be heavy or prosaic, for which, free aixl
unembarrassed as he is, he has no manner
of apology. Those, it is probable, will be
found the peculiarities of this species of com-
position ; andbeforejoiningtheoutcry against
the vitiated taste that fosters and encourages
it, the justice and grounds of it ought to be
made perfectly apparent. If the want of
sieges, and battles, and great military evo-
lutions, in our poetry, is complained of, let
us reflect, that the campaigns and heroes
of our days are perpetuated in a record that
neither requires nor admits of the aid of
fiction ; and if the complaint refers to the
inferiority of our bards, let us pay a just
tribute to their modesty, limiting them, as it
does, to subjects which, however indifferently
treated, have still ihe interest and charm
of novelty, and which thus prevents them
tVom adding insipidity to their other more
insuperable defects.
Qtotee ^0 tU (f trtfeaf of Zvkvmain.
587
NOTES.
Note I.
/./Xv Collins, ihfcad the ina::c of fairy laud.
Collins, according to Johnson, 'by in-
fluljjing some peculiar habits of thought, was
rminently dehghted with those flights of
imagination which pass the bounds of nature,
and to which the mind is reconciled onl^ by
a passive acquiescence in popular traditions.
He loved fairies, genii, giants, and monsters ;
he delighted to rove through the meanders
of enchantment, to gaze on the magnificence
of golden palaces, to repose by the waterfalls
of Elysiaii gardens.'
Note H.
'J'lie Baroii of Trieriiiaiu.~V. -.f,^.
'Irierniain was a ficf of the iiarony of
• jilsland, in Cumberland; it was possesseil
l)va Saxon family at the timeof theCon(]uest,
but, ';\fti-r the death of Gilmore, I.oul of
Tryermaine and Torcrossock, Hubert \'aux
gave Tryermaine and Tororossock to his
second son, Ranulph Vaux ; which Kanuljih
afterwards became heir to his elder brother
Robert, the founder of Lanercost, who died
without issue. Ranulph, being Lord ot all
Ciilsland, gaveGilmore's lands to his younger
son, n.amed Roland, and let the Barony
descend to his eldest son Robert, son of
Ranulph. Roland had issue Alexancier, and
he Ranulph, after whom succeeded Robert,
and they were named Rolands successively,
that were lords thereof, until the reign of
lidward the Fourth. That house ga\e for
arms, Vert, a bend dexter, chequy, or an<l
gules.' — Burn's Autiqitilies of W'cstiiiorc-
land and Cniiiberlaiid, vol. ii. p. 48.'.
This branch of Vaux, with its collateral
alliances, is now represented by the familv
of Braddyl ofConishead Priory, in thecountv
palatine of Lancaster; for it appears that
about the time above mentioned, the house
<if Triermain was united to its kindred family
\'aux of Caterlen, and, by marriage with the
heiress of Delamore and Leybourne, became
I he representative of those ancient and noble
families. The male line failing in John de
\'aux, about the year 1065, his daughter and
heiress, Mabel, married Christopher Rich-
mond, Esq., of Highhead Castle, in the county
of Cumberland, descended from an ancient
family of that name. Lords of Corby Castle,
in the same county, soon after the Conquest,
and which they alienated about the I5tli of
Kdward the Second, to Andrea de Harcia,
liarl of Carlisle. Of this family was Sir
Thomas de Riijemont (miles auratus;, in
the reign of King Edward the I'"irst, who
appears to have greatly distinguished himself
at the siege of Kaerlaveroc, with William,
Baron of Leybourne. In an ancient herahlie
poem, now extant, and preser\ed in the
British Museum, describing that siege, his
arms are stated to be. Or, 2 Bars Gemelles
(Jules, and a Chief Or, the same borne by
his descendants at the present day. The
Richmonds removed to their Castle of
Highhe.ad in the reign of Henry the Eighth,
when the then representative of the famih'
married Margaret, daughter of Sir Hugli
Lowther, by the Lady Dorothy de Clifford,
only child by a second marriage of Henry
I>ord Clifford, great grandson of John Lord
Clifford, by Elizabeth Percy, daughter ot
Henry (surnamed Hotspuri by Elizabeth
Mortimer, which said Elizabeth w'as daughter
of I'^dward Mortimer, third Earl of Marche,
by Philippa, sole daughter and heiress of
Lionel, Duke of Clarence.
The third in descent from the above-men.
tioned John Richmond, became the repi, -
sentativeof the familiesof Vaux, of Triermain,
C'aterlen, and Totcrossock, by his marriage
with Mabel de Vaux, the Ik iress of them.
His grandson, Heniy Richmond, died without
issue, leaving live sisters co-heiresses, loui
of whom married; but Margaret, who married
William Gale, Esq , of Whitehaven, was the
only one who had male issue surviving. She
had a son, and a daughter married to Henry
('urwen of Workington, Esq., who represented
the county of Cumberlantl for many years
in Parliament, and by her had a daughter,
married to John Christian, Esq.(nowC.urwen).
John, son and heir of William Gale, niarrieil
Saran, daughter and heiress of Christopher
Wilson of Bardsea Hall, in the county of
Lancaster, by Margaret, aunt and co-heiress
of Thomas Braddyl, Esq., of Braddyl, and
Conishead Priory, in the same county, and
had issue four sons and two daughters. 1st,
William Wilson, died an infant ; 2nd, Wilson,
who upon the death of his cousin, Thoinas
Braddyl, without issue, succeeded to his
estates, and took the name of Braddyl, in
pursuance of his will, by the King's sign-
manual : ^rd, William, died young ; and, 4th,
Heniy Richmond, a lieutenant-general ai
the aiiny, married Sarah, daughter of the
Rev. R. Baldwin ; Margaret married Richard
Greaves Townley, Esq. of Fulbourne, in the
county of Cambridge, and of Bellfield, in
the county of Lancaster; Sarah married to
George Bigland of Bigland Hall, in the same
county. Wilson Braildyl, eldest son of John
Gale, and grandson of Margaret Richmond,
married Jane, daughter and heiress of Mat-
thias Gale, Esq.,of CatgillHall, in thecountv
of Cumberland, by Jane, daughter an;l
u 5
588
(Itofee U
lieiress of tlie Rev. S. Bennet, D.D. ; am!,
as the eldest survivinji; male branch of the
families above-mentioned, he quarters, in
addition to liis own, their paternal coats in
the following order, as appears by the records
in the College of Arms, ist, Argent, a fess
azure, between 3 saltiers of the same, charged
with an anchor between j lions' heads erased,
or, — Gale. 2nd, Or, 2 bars gemelUs gules,
and a chief or, — Richmond. _:?rd. Or, a fess
chequev, or and gules between q gerbes
gules,— Vaux of CaterKn. 4th, Gules, a fess
chequej-, or and gules between g gerbes or, — ■
Vaux of Torcrossock. 5tli, Argent, (not vert,
as stated by Burn,) a bend chequey, or and
gules, for Vaux of Triermain. 6th, Gules,
a cross patonce, or, Delamore. 7th, Gules,
6 lions rampant argent, .^, 2, and i, — Ley-
bourne. — This more detailed genealogy of
the family of Triermain was obligingly sent
to the author by Major Braddyll of Conishead
Priory.
XOTE III.
I/c pass'd Kcti PcHfil/i's Tabic RoiDid.
— J'- TiT-l-
A circular intrenchment, about half a mile
from Penrith, is thus popularly termed. The
circle within the ditch is about one hundred
and sixty paces in circumference, with open-
ings, or approaches, directly opposite to each
other. As the ditch is on the inner side, it
could not be intended for the purpose of
defence, and it has reasonably been con-
jectured that the enclosure was designed for
the solenm exercise of feats of chivalry-, and
the i-mbankment around for the convenience
of the spectators.
Note I\'.
Maybnrgh's mound. — P. ^^'y).
Higher up the river liamont than Arthur's
Round Tatile, is a prodigious enclosure of
great anti<iuitj-, formed by a collection of
stones upon the top of a gently sloping hill,
called jMayburgh. In the plain which it
encloses there stands erect an unhewn stone
of twelve feet in height. Two similar masses
are said to have been destroyed during the
memory of man. The whole appears to be
a monument of Druidicnl times.
Note V.
'J he Moiiarck, breathless and a;nazctl,
Back ott the fatal castle ga=ed :
Nor tower nor donjon could he spy.
Darkening against the inornini^ skw
-P- 5'>.5-
— 'We now gained a view of the Vale of
St. John's, a very narrow dell, hemmed in I)y
mountains, through which a small brook
makes majiy meanderings, washing little
enclosures of grass-ground, which stretch up
the rising of the hills. In the widest part
of the dale you are struck with the appearance
of an ancient ruined castle, which seems to
stand upon the summit of a little mount, the
mountains around forming an amphitheatre.
This massive bulwark shows a front of various
towers, and makes an awful, rude, and Gothic
appearance, with its loftv turrets and ragge<l
battlements ; we traced the galleries, the
bending arches, the buttresses. The greatest
antiquity stands characterized in its archi-
tecture; the inhabitants near it assert it is an
antediluvian structure.
'The traveller's curiositv is roused, and he
prepares to make a nearer approach, when
that curiosity is put upon the rack, by his
being assured, that, if he advances, certain
genii who govern the place, by virtue of their
supernatural art and necromancy, will strip
it of all its beauties, and by enchantment,
transform the magic walls. The vale seems
adapted for the habitation of such beings ;
its gloomy recesses and retirements look like
haunts of evil spirits. There was no delusion
in the report ; we were soon convinced of its
truth ; for this piece of antiquity, so venerable
and noble in its aspect, as we drew near,
ihanged its figure, and proved no other than
a shaken massive pile of rocks, which stand
in the midst of this little vale, disunited from
the adioining mountains, and ha\e so much
the real form and resemblance ot a castle,
that they bear the name of the Castle Rocks
of St. John.' — Hutchinson's Excursion to
the Lakes, p. 121.
Note VI.
Thejlower of Chivalry.
'J here Galaad sate with manly grace,
i'et maiden meekness in his/ace;
There Morolt of the iron mace.
And love-lorn Tristrcin there.
-\'. 564-
The characters named in the stanza are all
of them more or less distinguished in the
romances which treat of King Arthur and
his Round Table, and their names are strung
together according to the established custom
ofminstrelsuponsuch occasions; for example,
in the ballad of theMarriage of Sir Gawaine —
' -Sir T^ancelot. Sir Steplien Ijultlc.
Tliey rode with tliem that ilayc-,
.\ncl. foremost of the conipan)-c.
There rode tiie stewarde Kaye.
'Sue did Sir Banier, and Sir Bore,
,Vnd eke Sir Garralte keen.
Sir Tristreiu too, that gentle kniglit.
To the forest fresh and jjreene.'
Note VII.
Lancelot, that ever more
Look'd stolcn-zvisc on the Queen. — P. 564.
Upon this delicate subject hear Richard
Robinson, citiz(-n of London, in his Assertion
of King .Vrthur : -- ' But as it is a thing
ZU (^tt^af of Zvuvmain.
589
suflficiently apparent tliat she (Guenever, wife
of Kinp^ Arthur) was beautiful, so it is a
thing (loubtril whether she was chaste, yea
or no. Truly, so far as I can with honestie,
1 would spare the impaj'red honour and
fame of noble women. But yet the truth
of the historic pluckes me by the eare, and
wllletli not onely. but commandeth me to
declare what the ancients have deemed of
her. To wrestle or contend with so great
aiithoritic were indeeile unto mei a con-
Iroversie, and that jjrcate.' — Asser/ioti of
I\i7!g Arlhiire. hnprinled hy John IJ'o/fe,
J.otidoii, i.^cS.'.
Note VIII.
There were ttuo who loved their neighbours'
ii<ives.
And one who loved his ffii>n. — P. 565.
' In our forefathers' tyme, when Papistrie,
as a staiulyng poole, covered and overflowed
all England, fewe books were read in our
tongue, savying certaine bookesof chevalrie,
as they said, tor pastime and pleasure ; which,
as some say, were made in the monasteries,
by idle monks or wanton chanons. As one,
for example, La Morte d' Art/iiire ; the
whole pleasure of which book standcth in
two speciall poynts, in open manslaughter
and bold bawdrj^e ; in which booke they
be counted the noblest knightes that do kill
most men without any quarrell, and commit
fowlest adoulteries by sutlest shiftes; as Sir
Launeelot, with the wife of King Arthur,
his master; Sir Tristram, with the wife of
KingMarke, his uncle ; Sir Lamerocke, with
the wife of King Lote, that was his own
aunt. This is good stuffe for wise men to
laugh at ; or honest men to take pleasure
at; yet I know when (iod's Bible was banished
the Court, and La Morte d'Arthure received
into the Prince's chamber.' -- AscilAM's
Schoohnaslcr.
"t^t (Pinion of ©on (RobericS*
JOHN WHITMORE, Esq.,
COMMITTEE OF SUBSCRIBERS FOR RELIP:f OF THE PORTUGUESE SUFFERERS,
IN WHICH HE PRESIDES,
THIS POEM,
(TIIF. A'ISION of don RODERICK,")
COMPOSED FOR TWR BENEFIT OF THE FUND UNDER THEIR MANAGEMENT,
IS RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED
KV
WALTER SCOTT.
Lives there a strain, whose sounds
of mounting fire
May rise distinguish'd o'er the
din of war;
Ordieditwithj'on master of thcl^'rc,
Who sung belcagucr'd Dion's evil
star ?
Such, WelHngton, might reach thee
from afar,
W^afting its descant wide o'er
ocean's range ;
Nor shouts, nor clashing arms, its
mood could mar.
All as it swell'd 'twixt each loud
trumpet-change.
That clangs to Britain victory, to
Portugal revenge !
Yes, such a strain, with all o'er-
pouring measure,
Might melodize with each tumul-
tuous sound.
Each voice of fear or triumph, woo
or pleasure.
That rings Mondego's ravaged
shores around ;
The thundering cry of hosts Avith
conquest crown'd,
The female shriek, the ruiii'd
peasant's moan,
The shout of captives from their
chains unbound,
The foil'd oppressor's deep and
sullen groan,
A nation's choral iiyinn for tyianny
o'erthrown.
I.]
ZH (Pt0ton of ©ott (Boimd.
59 r
III.
If ye can echo such triumphant lay.
But we, weak minstrels of a laggard
day,
Then lend the note to him ha^
loved 3'ou long ;
Skill'd but to imitate an elder page,
Who pious gather'd each tradition
Timid and raptureless, can we repay
The debt thou claim'st in this
grey.
That floats \'our solitary wastes
exhausted age ?
Thou giv'st our lyres a theme that
might engage
Those that could send thy name
along,
.(\nd with aflection vain gave them
new voice in song.
VI.
o'er sea and land,
While sea and land shall last ; for
Homer's rage
A theme ; a theme for Milton's
For not till now, how oft soe'or
the task
Of truant verse hath lighten'ij
might}' hand !
How much unmeet for us, a faint
(.Icgenerate hand.
graver care,
From muse or sylvan was he wont
to ask.
In phrase poetic, inspiration fail-;
IV,
Careless he gave his numbers lo
Y(^ mountains stern, within whose
the air ;
rugged breast
Tiiey came unsought for if ap-
The friends of Scottish freedom
plauses came ;
found repose ;
Nor for himself prefers he udw the
Ye torrents, whose hoarse sounds
pra^'er :
have soothed their rest,
Let but his verse befit a hero's
Returning from the field of
fame.
vanquish'd foes ;
Immortal be the verse — forgot the
Say, have ye lost each wild
poet's name !
majestic close,
That erst the choir of Bards or
VII.
Druids flung ;
Hark, from 3'on misly cairn their
What time their hymn of victory
answer tost :
arose.
• Minstrel, the fame of whose
And Cattraeth's glens with voice
romantic lyre.
of triumph rung,
And mystic Merlin harp'd, and gre\--
Capricious-swelling now, may soon
be lost.
hair'd Llj'warch sung !
Like the light flickering of a
cottage fire ;
V.
Oh, if your wilds such minstrelsy
If to such task presumptuous thou
aspire,
retain.
.Seek not from us the meed lo
As sure your changeful gales
warrior due :
seem oft to say,
Ageafteragehas gather'd son tosire.
When sweeping wild and sinking-
.Since our grey clilTs the din of
soft again.
conflict knew.
I, ike trumpet-jubilee, or harp's
Or, pealing through our vales, \ie-
wikl sway ;
torious bugles blew.
i^92
ZU (Pteion of ®on (^oimcft.
[I.
' Decay'd our old traditionary lore,
Save where the lingering fays
renew their ring,
By milk-maid seen beneath the
hawthorn hoar,
Or round the marge of Minch-
more's haunted spring;
Save ^vhere their legends grey-
hair'd shepherds sing.
That now scarce win a listening
ear but thine,
Of feuds obscure, and Border
ravaging.
^\nd rugged deeds recount in
rugged line.
Of moonlight foray made on Teviot.
Tweed, or Tyne.
i\.
■ Xo; search romantic lands, where
tlie near Sun
fiivcs with unstinted boon ethe-
real flame.
Where the rude \illager, his labour
done,
In verse spontaneous chants
some favour'd name.
Whether Olalia's charms his tribute
claim.
Her eye of diamond, and her
locks of jet ;
Or whether, kindling at the deeds
of Graeme,
He sing, to wild Morisco measure
set.
Old Albin's red claymore, green Erin's
bayonet I
X.
• Explore those regions, where the
flinty crest
Of wild Nevada ever gleams
with snows,
Wiicre in the proud Alhambra's
ruin'd breast
Barbaric monuments of pomp
repose ;
Or where the banners of more
ruthless foes
Than the fierce Moor float o"er
Toledo's fane,
From whose tall towers even now
the patriot throws
An anxious glance, to spy upon
the plain
The blended ranks of England, Por-
tugal, and Spain.
XI.
' There, of Numantianfire a swarthy
spark
•Still lightens in the sun-burnt
native's eye ;
Th.e stately port, slow step, and
visage dark,
Still mark enduring pride and
constancy'.
And, if the glow of feudal chivalry
Beam not, as once, thy nobles'
dearest pride,
Ilicria ! oft thy crestless peasantry-
Have seen the plumed Hidalgo
quit their side.
Have seen, yet dauntless stood — ■
gainst fortune fought and died.
XII.
' And cherish'd still by that un-
changing race,
Are themes for minstrelsy more
high than thine ;
Of strange tradition manj- a mystic
trace.
Legend and vision, prophecy and
sign ;
Where wonders wild of Arabesque
combine
With Gothic imagery of darker
shade.
Forming a model meet for minstrel
line.
(Jo, seek such theme!' The
Mountain Spirit said :
With filial awe I heard ; I heard,
and I obev'd.
II.]
ZU (Ptetott of ©on (Koiencft
II. -
59?.
Rearing their crests amid the
cloudless skies,
And darkl}' clustering in the pale j
moonlight,
Toledo's holy towers and spires
arise,
As from a trembling lake of silver
white.
Their mingled shadows intercept
the sight
Of the broad burial-ground out-
stretch'd below,
.And nought disturbs the silence
of the night ;
All sleeps in sullen shade, or
silver glow,
All save the heavy swell of Tcio's
ceaseless flow.
II.
All save the rushing swell of Teio's
tide,
Or, distant heard, a courser's
neigh or tramp ;
Their changing rounds as watchful
horsemen ride,
To guard the limits of King
Roderick's camp.
For, through the river's niglit-fog
rolling damp.
Was manj- a proud pavilion
dimlj' seen.
Which glimmer'd back, against the
moon's fair lamp.
Tissues of silk and silver twisted
sheen,
And standards proudly pitch'd, and
warders arm'd between.
HI.
l^ut of their monarch's person
keeping \vard,
Since last the deep-mouth'd bell
of vespers toll'd.
The chosen soldiers of the royal
guard
The post beneath the proud
cathedral hold :
A band unlike their Gothic sires of
old,
Who, for the cap of steel and
iron mace.
Rear slender darts, and casques
bedeckt with gold.
While silver-studded belts their
shoulders grace,
Where ivory quivqrs ring in the
broad falchion's place.
IV.
In the light language of an idle court.
The}' murmur'd at their master's
long delay,
And held his lengthen'd orisons in
sport :
' What ! will Don Roderick here
till morning sta^-.
To wear in shrift and prayer the
night away ?
And are his hours in such dull
penance past,
For fair Florinda's plunder'd charms
to pay ? '
Then to the east their weary
eyes thej' cast,
And wish'd the lingering dawn would
glimmer forth at last.
But, far WMthin, Toledo's prelate lent
An ear of fearful wonder to the
King;
The silver lamp a fitful lustre sent,
So long that sad confession
witnessing:
For Roderick told of many a hidden
thing.
Such as are lothly utter'd to the aii-,
When fear, remorse, and shame
the bosom wring.
And guilt his secret burden
cannot bear,
And conscience seeks in speech a
respite from despair.
594 ^0^ (Pieion of ©on (Roievtcft. [ii.
VI.
All is not as it seems ; the female train
I'uU on the prelate's face and silver
Know by their bearing to disguise
hair
their mood : '
The stream of failing- light was
But conscience here, as if in high
feebly roll'd :
Hut Roderick's visage, though his
disdain,
Sent to the monarch's cheek the
head was bare,
burning blood ;
Was shadow'd by liis hand and
mantle's fold.
While of his hidden soul the sins
he told,
He stay'd his speech abrupt, and up
the prelate stood.
IX.
Proud Alaric's descendant could
' 0 harden'd offspring ofan iron race!
not brook,
That mortal man his bearing should
What of thy crimes, Don
Roderick, shall I say ?
behold,
Or boast that he had seen, when
What alms, or prayers, or penance,
can efface
conscience shook.
Murder's darkspot, wash treason's
Fear tame a monarch's brow, remorse
stain away !
a warrior's look.
For the foul ravisher how shall I praj-,
VII.
Who. scarce repentant, makes his
'J"lu- old man's faded cheek wax'd
crime his boast ?
yet more pale
As many a secret sad the king
How hope Almighty vengeance
shall delay,
bewray'd.
Unless in mercy to 3-011 Ciiristian
i\s sign and glance eked out the
host,
unfinish'd tale,
He spare the shepherd, lest the
When in the midst his faltering
guiltless sheep be lost.'
whisper staid.
' 'J'hus roj'al Witiza was slain,' he
said ;
X.
Then kindled the dark tyrant in
' Yet, holy father, deem not it
his mood.
was I.'
And to his brow return'd its
Thus still ambition strives her
dauntless gloom ;
crimes to shade.
'And welcome then,' he cried, ' he
' Oh ! rather deem 'twas stern
blood for blood,
necessit}' ;
For treason treachery, for dis-
Self-preservation bade, and I must
kill or die.
honour doom !
Yet will I know whence come they,
vni.
or by whom.
' And if Florinda's shrieks alarm'd
Show, for thou canst ; give forth
the air.
the fated key.
If she invoked her absent sire in
y\nd guide me, priest, to that
vain.
mysterious room.
And on her knees implored that
Where, if aught true in old
I would spare,
tradition be.
Vet, reverend priest, thy sentence
His nation's future fates a Spanish
rash refrain.
king shall see.'
II.]
ZU (Pteton of ©on (Bo^^ncR.
39o
' Ill-fatedprince! recall tlie desperate
word,
Or pause ere yet the omen thou
obey !
Rethink, yon spell-bound portal
would afiord
Never to I'nrnier monarch
entrance-waj' ;
Nor shall it everope, old records say.
Save to a king, the last of all his
line,
What time his empire totters to
decaj',
And treason digs, beneath, her
fatal mine,
y\nd, high above, impends avenging
wrath divine.'
XII.
■ Pi"elate ! a monarch's fate brooks
no dela^' ;
Lead on ! ' The ponderous key
the old man took,
.iVnd held the winking lamp, and led
the way,
By winding stair, dark aisle, and
secret nook.
Then on an ancient gateway bent
his look ;
And, as the key the desperate
king essay'd.
Low mutter'd thunders the
cathedral shook,
And twice he stopp'd, and twice
new eft'ort made.
Till the huge bolts roll'd back, and the
loud hinges bray'd.
XIII.
Long, large, and loft_\', was that
vaulted hall ;
Roof, walls, and floor, were all of
marble stone,
C){ polish'd marble, black as fimeral
pall.
Carved o'er with signs and char-
acters unknown.
A pal\- light as of the dawning shone
Through the sad bounds, butwhence
they could not spy ;
For window to the upper air was
none ;
Yet by that light Don Roderick
could descry
Wonders that ne'er till then were seen
by mortal eye.
Grim sentinels, against the upper
wall,
Ofmoltenbronze, two statues held
their place ;
Massive their naked limbs, their
stature tall.
Their frowning foreheads golden
circles grace.
Moulded they seem'd for kings of
giant race,
That lived and sinn'd before the
avenging flood ;
This grasp'd a scythe, that rested
on a mace ;
This spread his wings for flight,
that pondering stood ;
Each stubborn seem'd and stern,
immutable of mood.
Fix'd was the right-hand giant's
brazen look
Upon his brother's glass ofshifting
sand,
As if its ebb he measured b}' a book,
Whose iron volume loaded his
huge hand ;
In which was wrote of many a fallen
land,
Of empires lost, and kings to exile
driven :
And o'er that pair their names in
scroll expand —
' Lo, Destiny and Time I to whom
by Heaven
The guidance of the earth is for a
season given.'
:M
ZU (Pt0ton of ©on (Jlo^encR.
[II.
Kven while they read, the sand-glass
wastes awaj' ;
And, as the last and lagging grains
did creep,
That right-hand giant 'gan his club
upswaj',
As one that startles from a heavy
sleep. I
I'^ill on the upper wall the mace's
sweep
At once descended with the force
of thunder,
And hurtling down at once, in
crumbled heap.
'J'he marble boundary was rent
asunder.
And gave to Roderick's view new
sights of fear and wonder.
XVII.
I'or they might spy, beyond tliat
mighty breach.
Realms as of Spain in vision'd
prospect laid.
Castles and towers, in due propor-
tion each.
As by some skilful artist's hand
portra\-'d :
Here, crossed by manj- a wild
Sierra's shade,
And boundless plains that tire the
traveller's 63*6 ;
There, rich with vineyard and with
olive glade.
Or deep-embrown'd by forests
huge and high,
Or wash'd by mighty streams, that
slowly murmur'd by.
XVIII.
And here, as erst upon the antique
stage,
Pass'd forth the band of masquers
trimly led,
In various forms, and various
equipage,
While fitting strains the hearer's
fancv fed ;
So, to sad Roderick's eye in order
spread,
Successive pageants fill'd tiiat
mystic scene,
Showing the fate of battles ere they
bled.
And issue of events that had not
been;
And, ever and anon, strange sounds
were heard between.
XIX.
First shrill'd an unrepeated female
shriek !
Itseemedasif Don Roderick knew
the call,
For the bold blood was blanching
in his cheek.
Then answer'd kettle-drum and
atabal,
Gong-peal and cymbal-clank the ear
appal.
The Tecbir war-cry, and the
Lelie's yell,
Ringwildl^'dissonantalongthehall.
Needs not to Roderick their dread
import tell ;
' The Moor 1 ' he cried, ' the Moor I—
ring out the tocsin bell !
XX.
• They come, they come, I see the
groaning lands
White with the turbans of each
Arab horde;
Swart Zaarah joins her misbelieving
bands.
Alia and Mahomet their battle-
word,
The choice thej' j'ield, the Koran
or the Sword ;
See how the Christians rush to
arms amain !
In yonder shout the voice of conflict
roar'd.
The shadowy hosts are closing
on the plain —
Now, God and Saint lago strike, for
the good cause of Spain '.
n.]
ZU (Pieton of ©on (Robevid
197
•By Heaven, the Moors prevail I j
the Christians yield !
Their coward leader gives for
flight the sign I i
The sceptred craven moimts to quit \
the field-
Is not yon steed Orelio ? Yes, 'tis j
mine I j
But never was she tiirn'd fVoni battle- i
line : [
Lo ! where the recreant spurs o'er
stock and stone ! i
Curses pursue the slave, and wrath
divine ! I
Rivers ingulph him I ' ' Hush." in
shuddering tone. ]
The Prelate said; 'rash Prince, yon i
\ision'd form's thine own.'
Just then, a torrent cros^'d tiic flier's
course ;
The dangerous ford tlic kingly-
Likeness tried ;
But the deep eddies wheini'd both
man and fiorse.
Swept like benighted ]>easant
down the tide ;
And the proud Moslemah spread far
and wide,
As numerous as their nati\e locust
band ;
Berber and Ismael's sons the spoils
divide.
With naked scimitars mete out
the land.
And for the bondsmen base the free-
born natives brand.
Then rose the grated Harem, to
enclose
The loveliest maidens of the
Christian line ;
Then, menials, to their misbelieving
foes.
Castile's young iioliles held for-
bidden wine ;
Then, too, theholy cross, salvation's
sign,
B3- impious hands was from the
altar thrown.
And the deep aisles of the i)oiluted
shrine
Echo'd, tor holy hymn and organ-
tone,
The Santon's frantic dance, the I'akir's
gibbering moan.
How fares Don Roderick ? K'en as
one who spies
Flames dart their glare o'er mid-
night's sable woof.
And hears around his children's
piercing cries,
And sees the pale assistants stand
aloof;
While cruel conscience hrinps him
bitter proof.
His folh'or his crime have cansi-d
his grief;
And Avhile abow him noils the
crumbling rool".
He curses earth and Hcaxtn.
himself in chief-
Desperate of earthly aid. desjiairiiig
Hea\en's relief!
That scytlie-arm'd giant tiii'ii'd In's
f'atal glass
And twilight on the lamlscape
closed her wings ;
Far to Asturian hills the war-sounds
pass,
.\nd in their stead rebeck or
timbrel rings ;
And to the sound the beU-deck'd
dancer springs,
Bazaars resound as when their
marts are met.
ZU QOieion of ©on (Ro^encS.
[II.
In tourney light the Moor his jcrrid
flings,
And on the land as evening
seem'd to set,
The Imaum's chant was heard from
mosque or minaret.
XXVI.
So pass'd that pageant. Ere another
came,
The visionary scene was wrapp'd
in smoke.
Whose sulph'rous wreaths were
cross'd bj- sheets of flame ;
With every flash a bolt explosive
broke.
Till Roderick deem'd the licnds
had burst their yoke,
And waved 'gainst lieavcn tlie
infernal gonfalone '.
r'or War a new and dreadful lan-
guage spoke.
Never by ancient warrior heard
or known ;
Lightning and smoke her breath, and
thunder was her tone.
IVom the dim landscape roll the
clouds away —
The Christians have regained
their heritage ;
Before the Cross has waned the
Crescent's ray
And many a monastery- decks the
stage.
And loftj- church, and low-brow'd
hermitage.
The land obeys a hermit and a
knight, —
The genii those of .Spain for man}-
an age ;
This clad in sackcloth, that in
armour bright,
.\nd that was Valour named, this
Bigotry was hight.
XXVIII.
Valour was harness'd like a chiet
of old,
Arm'd at all points, and prompt
for knightly gest ;
His sword was temper'd in the
Ebro cold,
Morena's eagle jilume adorn \1
his crest.
The spoils of Afric's lion bound his
breast.
Fierce he stepp'd forward and
flung down his gage ;
As if of mortal kind to brave the best.
Him follow'd his companion, dark
and sage.
As he, nu' master, sung the dangerous
Archimage.
XXIX.
Haughty xf heart and brow llie
warrior came.
In look and language proud as
proud might be.
Vaunting his lordship, lineage,
fights, and fame :
Yet was that barefoot monk more
proud than he :
And as the ivy climbs the tallest tree.
So round the loftiest soul his toils
he wound.
And with his spells subdued the
fierce and free.
Till ermined age, and youtii in
arms renown'd.
Honouring his scourge and hair-cloth,
meeklv kiss'd the ground.
And thus it chanced that \'alour
peerless knight,
W'ho ne'er to king or kaiser
veil'd his crest.
Victorious still in bull-feast or in
fight,
Since first his limbs with mail he
did invest.
II.]
Z^t (Pieton of ©on (Ro^mci
599
Stoop'd ever to tliat ancliorct's
behest ;
Nor reason'd of the right, nor of
the wrong,
But at his bidding laid tlie lance
in rest,
And wrought fell deeds the
troubled world along,
For he was fierce as brave, and piti-
less as strong.
Oft his proud galleys sought some
ne^v- found world.
Tliat latest sees the sun. or first
the morn ;
Still at that Wizard's feet their
spoils he hurl'd—
Ingots of ore friim ilch Potosi
borne,
Crowns by Caciques, nigrtttes by
Omrahs worn,
Wrought of rare gems, but broken,
rent, and foul ;
Idols of gold from heathen temples
torn,
Bedabbled all with Mood. With
grislj- scowl
The hermit mark'd the stains, and
smiled beneath his cowl.
Then did lie bless the offering, and
bade make
Tribute to Heaven of gratitude
and praise ;
And at his word the choral hymns
awake,
And manj- a hand the sil\-er
censer sways ;
But, with the incense-breath these
censers raise.
Mix steams from corpses smoul-
dering in the fire ;
The groans of prison'd victims mar
the lays,
And shrieks of agony confound
the quire ;
While, 'mid the mingled sounds, the
darken'd scenes expire.
Preluding light, were strains of
music heard.
As once again rexolved tliat
measured sand ;
Such sounds as when, for syi\an
dance prepared.
Gay Xeres summons fortii lier
vintage band;
When for the light l)oIero rtady
stand
The mo/o blithe, with gav niii-
chacha met.
He conscious of his broider'd cap
and band.
She of her netted locks and ligiit
corsette.
Each tiptoe perch'd to sjjring, and
shake the Castanet.
i\nd well such strains the opening
scene became ;
For Valour had relax'd his ardent
look.
And at a ladj-'s feet, like lion tame.
Lay stretch'd, full loth tlie weight
of arms to brook ;
And soften'd Bigotry, upon his book.
Patter'd a task of little good or ill:
But the blithe peasant plied hi^
]iruning-hook.
Whistled the nnikteer o'er \ale
and hill.
And rung from village-green the
meny seguidille.
Greyroyalty, grown impotent of toil.
Let the grave sceptre slip his
lazy hold :
6oo
Zk (Pteion cf ©on (Jlo^mcg.
III.
And, careless, saw his rule become [
the spoil i
Of a loose female and her minion
bold. I
But peace was on the cottage and j
the fold, !
From court intrigue, from bicker- \
ing faction far ; j
Beneath the chestnut-tree love's j
tale was told, |
And to the tinkling of the light I
guitar, i
Sweet stoop'd the western sun, sweet j
rose the evening star. j
As that sea-cloud, in size like
human hand,
When first from Carmel bj^ the
Tishbite seen.
Came slowly overshadowing Israel's
land,
A while, perchance, Ijodeck'd
with colours sheen,
While yet the sunbeams on its
skirts had been,
Limning with purple and with
gold its shroud,
'J'ill darker folds obscured the blue
serene,
And blotted heaven with one
broad sable cloud.
Then sheeted rain burst down, and
whirlwinds howl'd aloud :
l".vfn so, upon that peaceful scene
was pour'd,
I. ike gathering clouds, full many
a foreign band.
And he, their leader, wore in sheath
his sword.
And oft'er'd peaceful front and
open hand,
Veiling the perjured treachery he
plann'd
B3' friendship's zeal and honour s
specious guise,
Until he won the passes of the land ;
Then burst were honour's oath,
and friendship's ties !
He clutch'd his vulture-grasp, and
call'd fair Spain his prize.
XXXVIII.
An iron crown his anxious forehead
bore ;
And well such diadem his heart
became.
Who ne'er his purpose for remorse
gave o'er,
Or check'd his course for piety
or shame ;
Who, train'd a soldier, decm'd a
soldier's fame
Might flourish in the wreath of
battles won,
Though neither trutii nor honour
deck'd his name ;
Who, placed bj' fortune un a
monarcli's throne,
Keck'd not of monarch's laith, ur
mercj'"s kingly tone.
XXXIX.
From a rude isle his ruder lineage
came,
The spark that, from a suburb-
hovel's hearth
Ascending, wraps some capital in
flame,
Hath not a meaner or more sordid
birth.
And for the soul that bade him waste
the earth.
The sable land-flood from some
swamp obscure,
That poisons the glad husband-field
with dearth,
And bj' destruction bids its fame
endure.
Hath not a source more sullen, stag-
nant, and impure.
II]
ZU (Pieton of ©on (Bobmcft.
6oi
Before that leader strode a shadow^'
form ;
Her limbs like mist, her torch like
meteor show'd,
With Avhich she beckon'd him
through fight and storm,
And all he crusli'd that cross'd his
desperate road,
Nor thought, nor fear'd, nor look'd
on what he trode.
Realms could not glut his pride,
blood could not slake,
So oft as e'er she shook her torcli
abroad —
It was Ambition bade her terrors
^vakc,
Nor deign'd she, as of j'ore, a milder
form to take.
No longer now she spurn'd at mean
revenge,
Or staid her hand for conquer'd
foeman's moan ;
As when, the fates of aged Rome to
change.
By Caisar's side she crossed the
Rubicon.
Nor joy'd she to bestow the spoils
she won.
As when the banded powers of
Greece were task'd
To war beneath the 3^outh of Mace-
don :
No seemly veil hermodern minion
ask'd.
He saw her hideous face, and loved
the fiend unmask'd.
'I'liat prelate mark'd his march : On
banners, blazed
With battles won in man v a distant
land.
On eagle-standards and on arms he
gazed ;
'And hopest thou then,' he said,
' thy power shall stand ?
Oh, thou hast builded on the shifting
sand.
And thou hast temper'd it with
slaughter's flood ;
And know, fell scourge in the
Almighty's hand,
Gore-moisten'd trees shall perish
in the bud.
And by a bloodj' death shall die the
man of blood I'
XLIII.
The ruthless leader beckon'd from
his train
A wan fraternal shade, and bade
him kneel,
And paled his temples witii the
crown of Spain,
While trumpets rang, and heralds
cried, * Castile !'
Not that he loved him ; no ! in no
man's weal,
Scarce in his own, e'er joy'd that
sullen heart ;
Yet round that throne he bade his
warriors wheel
That the poor puppet might ])er-
form his part,
And be a sceptred slave, at his stern
beck to start.
XLIV.
But on the natives of that land mis-
used,
Notlongthe silence of amazement
hung.
Nor brook'd they long their friendly
faith abused ;
For, with a common sliriek. the
general tongue
Kxclaim'd, 'To arms!' and fast to
arms the\' sprung.
And Valour woke, that genius of
the land '.
Pleasure, and ease, and slotli, aside
he flung.
6o3 ZU QOiexon of ©on (Uotertc6.
[II.
As burst 111' awakening Nazarite
his band,
When 'gainst his treacherous toes lie
clench'd his dreadful hand.
That mimic monarch now cast
anxious eye
Upon the Satraps that begirt him
round,
Now doft""d his royal robe in act to 11 \-,
Skilful their force to sever or unite,
And train'd alike to vanquish or
endure.
Xor skilful less, cheap conquest to
ensure.
Discord to breathe, and jealousy
to sow,
To quell by boasting, and by bribes
to lure ;
While nought against them bring
the unpractised foe.
And from his brow the diadem ■ Save hearts for Freedom's cause, and
unbound.
So oft, so near, the patriot bugle
wound.
From Tarik's walls to Bilboa's
mountains blown,
hands for Freedom's blow.
XLVIII.
These martial satellites hard labour
found,
To guard a while his substituted
throne,
Light recking of his cause, but battling
for their own.
XLVI.
I'rom Alpuhara's peak that bugle
rung,
And it was echo'd from Corunna's
wall ;
Stately Seville responsive war-shot
flung,
Proudly thej' march ; hut, O 1 they
march not forth
By one hot field to crown a brief
campaign.
As when their eagles, sweeping
through the north,
Dcstroy'd at ever\- stoo]} aii
ancient reign 1
Far other fate had Heaven decreed
for Spain ;
In vain the steel, in vain the torcli
was plied.
New patriot armies started trom the
slain.
High blazed the war, and long,
and far, and wide.
Grenada caught it in her Moorish | And oft the God of battles blest the
hall ; I righteous side,
tialiciabadeherchildrenfightorfall, -
Wild Biscay shook his mountain-
coronet,
Valencia roused her at the battle-call.
And, foremost still where Valour's
sons are met.
First started to his gun each fier\-
Miquelet.
Nor unatoned, where freedom's foes
prevail,
Remain'd their savage ^vaste.
With blade and brand,
B\- day the invaders ravaged hill
and dale.
But, with the darkness, the
^'-^'"- guerilla band
But unappall'd and burning for the Came like night's tempest, and
fiirht avenged the land.
The invaders march., of victory And claim'd for blood tiic re-
securo ; I tributimi due.
Ilj
ZH (^tet'on of ©on (Boiertc6.
603
Probed the hard heart, and lopp'd '
the murd'rous hand ; '
And dawn, when o'er the scene j
her beams she threw, |
I\l idst ruins they had made, the spo ilers' |
corpses knew.
What minstrel verse may sing, or
tongue may tell.
Amid the vision 'd strife from sea to
sea.
How oft the patriot banners rose or
fell,
Still honour'd in defeat as vic-
tory!
For that sad pageant of events
to be,
Show'd every form of fight by
field and flood ;
Slaughter and ruin, shouting forth
their glee.
Beheld, while riding on the
tempest scud.
The waters choked with slain, the earth
bcdrench'd with blood 1
Yet raise thy head, sad city ! though
in chains,
Enthrall'd thou canst not be '.
Arise, and claim
Reverence from everj- heart where
freedom reigns,
For what thou worshippest ! Thy
sainted dame.
She of the Column, honour'd l>e h( r
name.
By all, whate'er their creed, who
honour love !
And, like the sacred relics of the (lame
That gave some martyr to the
bless'd above.
To every loyal heart may thy sad
embers pro\'e !
Then Zaragoza — blighted be the
tongue
That names thy name without the
honour due ;
For never hath the harp of minstrel
rung
Of faith so felly proved, so firmly
true !
Mine, sap. and bomb, thy shatter'd
ruins knew.
Each art of war's extremity had
room,
Twice from thy half-sack'd streets
the foe withdrew,
And when at length stern fate
decreed thy doom.
They won not Zaragoza, but her
( liiKlrcn's blooch' tunil..
Nor thine alonesuch wreck, Gerona
fair 1
Faithful to death thy heroes shall
be sung.
Manning the towers while o'er tlieii-
heads the air
Swart as the smoke from raging
furnace hung ;
Now thicker dark'ning where the
mine was sprung.
Now briefly lighten'd b}- tlic
cannon's flare.
Now arch'd with fire-sparks as the
bomb was flung,
And redd'ning now with con-
flagration's glare.
While by the fatal light the foes for
storm prepare.
While all around was danger, strife,
and fear.
While the earth shook, and dark-
ened was the sk^-,
And wide destruction stunn'd the
listening ear,
6o4
ZU (^teion of ©on (Hobmcft.
[II.
Appall'd the heart, and stiipified
the eye,
Afar was heard that thrice-repeated
In which old Albion's heart and
tongue unite,
Whene'er her soul is up, and pulse
beats high,
Whether it hail the wine cup or
the fight,
And bid each arm be strong, or bid
each lieart be light
] )on Roderickturn'd him as the shout
grew loud :
A \aried scene the changeful
vision show'd,
For, \vhere the ocean luingled with
the cloud,
A gallant navy stemm'd the
billows broad.
From mast and stern Saint George's
symbol flow'd,
Blent with the silver cross to
Scotland dear;
Mottling the sea their landward
barges row'd ;
And llash'd the sun on bayonet,
brand, and spear,
And the wild beach return'd the sea-
man's jovial cheer.
It was a dread yet spirit-stirring
sight !
The billows foam'd beneath a
thousand oars ;
Fast as they land the red-cross
lanks unite,
Legions on legions brighfning all
the shores.
Then banners rise, and cannon-sig-
nal roars,
Then peals the warlike thunder
of the drum,
Thrills the loud fife, the trumpet-
flourish pours.
And patriot hopes awake, and
doubts are dumb.
For, bold in freedom's cause, the bands
of ocean come 1
A various host thej' came, whose
ranks display
Each mode in which the warri(5r
meets the fight,
The deep battalion locks its firm
array,
And meditates his aim the marks-
man light ;
Far glance the light of sabres tlasii-
ing bright.
Where mounted squadrons shako
the echoing mead ;
Lacks not artillery breathing tlamc
and night,
Nor the fleet ordnance whirl'd by
rapid steed,
That rivals lightning's flash in ruin and
in speed.
A various host — from kindred
realms they came.
Brethren in arms, but rivals in
renown ;
For yon fair bands shall merry Eng-
land claim.
And with their deeds of valour
deck her crown.
Mers their bold port, and hers their
martial frown,
And hers their scorn of death in
freedom's cause,
Their eyes of azure, and their locks
of brown.
And the blunt speech that bursts
without a pause.
And freeborn thoughts, which league
the soldier with the laws.
II.]
ZH (Pteton of ©on (Koienc6.
6o,-;
And O ! loved warriors of the Min-
strel's land !
Yonder 3'our bonnets nod, your
tartans wave !
The rugged form may mark the
mountain band.
And harsher features, and a mien
more grave ;
But ne'er in battle-field throbb'd
heart so brave.
As that which beats beneath the
.Scottish plaid ;
And when the pibroch bids the
battle rave,
And level for the charge your
arms are laid,
WHicre lives the desperate foe that for
such onset staid ?
i.x.
Mark ! from yon stately ranks what
laughter rings
Mingling wild mirth with war's
stern minstrels}-,
His jest while each blithe comrade
round him llings.
And moves to death with military
glee :
Boast, Erin, boast them ! tameless,
frank, and free.
In kindness warm, and fierce in
danger known,
Rough nature's children, humorous
as she :
y\nd He, 3'on Chieftain — strike the
proudest tone
(Ifthybold harp, green Islel the Hero
is thine own.
I.XI.
Now on the scene Vimeira should be
shown,
On Talavera's fight should Rode-
rick gaze,
And hear Coninna wail her battle
won.
And see Busaco's crest with light-
ning blaze :
But shall fond fable mix with heroes'
praise ?
Hath fiction's stage for truth's
long triumphs room ?
And dare her wild-flowers mingle
with the bays,
That claim a long eternity to bloom
Around the warrior's crest, and o'er
the warrior's tomb 1
I.XII.
Or ma}' I give adventurous fancy
scope,
And stretch a bold hand to the
awful veil
That hides futurity from anxious
hope,
Bidding beyond it scenes of glorv
hail,
And painting Europe rousing at
the tale
Of .Spain's invaders from hci-
confines hurl'd,
While kindling nations buckU- on
their mail.
And Fame, with clarion-lilast and
wings unfurl'd,
To freedom and revenge awakes an
injured world ?
LXIII.
O vain, though anxious, is the
glance I cast,
Since fate has mark'd futurity
her own :
Yet fate resigns to worth the
glorious past.
The deeds recorded, and the
laurels won.
Then, though the vault of destiny
be gone,
King, prelate, all the phantasms
of my brain.
Melted away like mist-wreaths in
the sun,
Yet grant for faith, for valour,
and for Spain,
One note of pride and fire, a |)atriot's
l^arting strain !
606
ZU (Pieton of ©on (Jloiencft.
[HI.
III.
' Who shall command fistrella's
mountain-tide
Back to the source, %vhen tempest-
chafed, to hie ?
Who, when Gascogne's vex'd gulf
is raging wide,
Shall hush it as a nurse her
infant's cry ?
His magic power let such vain
boaster try,
And when the torrent shall his
voice obey,
And Biscay's whirlwinds list his
lullaby,
Let him stand forth and bar mine
eagles' waj',
And they shall heed his voice, and at
his bidding stay.
' Else ne'er to stoop, till high on
Lisbon's towers
They close their wings, the
symbol of our yoke,
And their own sea hath whelm'd
yon red-cross powers ! '
Thus, on the summit of Aherca's
rock,
To marshal, duke, and peer, Gaul's
leader spoke.
While downward on the land
his legions press,
Before them it was rich with vine
and flock,
And smiled like Eden in her
summer dress ;
Behind their wasteful march, a
reeking wilderness.
And shall the boastful chief main-
tain his word.
Though Heaven hatli heard the
wailings of the land.
Though Lusitania whet her venge-
ful sword,
Tliough Britons arm, and Wel-
lington command !
No ! grim Busaco's iron ridge shall
stand
An adamantine barrier to his force ;
And from its base shall wheel his
shatter'd band,
As from the unshaken rock the
torrent hoarse
Bears off its broken waves, and seeks
a devious course.
IV.
Yet not because Alcoba's mountain-
hawk
Hath on his best and bravest
made her food.
In numbers confident, yon chief
shall baulk
His lord's imperial thirst for spoil
and blood :
For full in view the promised
conquest stood.
And Lisbon's matrons from their
walls, might sum
The myriads that had half the world
subdued.
And hear the distant thunders of
the drum,
Tiiat bids the bands of France to storm
and havoc come.
V.
Four moons have heard these
thunders idly roU'd,
Have seen these wistful myriads
eye their prey,
As famish'd wolves sui-\'eya guarded
fold-
But in the middle path a Lion la\- !
At length they move — but not to
battle-fray.
Nor blaze yon fires where meets
the manly fight ;
Beacons of infamy, they light the
wav
111.
^^e (Pt0ton of ©on (Jlobencft.
607
Where cowardice and cruelty
unite
To damn with double shame their
ignominious flight I
O triumph for the fiends of lust and
wratli !
Ne'er to be told, yet ne'er to be
forgot,
What wanton horrors mark'd their
wreckful path !
The peasant butcher'd in his
ruin'd cot,
The hoary priest even at the altar
shot.
Childhood and age given o'er to
sword and llame,
"W'^oman to infamj-; — no crime forgot,
By which inventive demonsmight
proclaim
Immortal hate to man, and scorn
of God's great name !
The rudest sentinel, in Britain born.
With horror paused to view the
havoc done,
Gave his poor crust to feed some
wretch forlorn,
Wiped his stern eye, then fiercer
grasp'd his gun.
Nor with less zeal shall Britain's
peaceful son
Exultthedebt of sj-mpathy topaj- ;
Riches nor povertj- the tax shall
shun,
Nor prince nor peer, the wealthy
nor the gay.
Nor the poor peasant's mite, nor
bard's more worthless lay.
But thou — unfoughten wilt thou
yield to fate,
Minion of fortune, now miscall'd
in vain !
Can vantage-ground no confidence
create,
Marcella's pass, nor fiuarda's
mountain-chain ?
Vainglorious fugitive ! yet tui-n
again !
Behold, where, named by some
prophetic seer,
Flows Honour's Fountain ', as fore-
doom'd the stain
From thy dishonour'd name and
arms to clear —
Fallen child of fortune, turn, redeem
her favour here I
IX.
Yet, ere thou turn'st, collect each
distant aid ;
Those chief that never heard
the lion roar !
Within whose souls lives not a
trace portraj^'d,
Of Talavera, or Mondego's shore !
Marshal each band thou hast, and
summon more ;
Of war's fell stratagems exhaust
the whole ;
Rank upon rank, squadron on
squadron pour.
Legion on legion on thj- foeman
roll,
And wearj' out his arm ; thou canst
not quell his soul.
X.
O vainly gleams with steel Agneda's
shore,
\'ainl3' thy squadrons hide As-
suava's plain.
And front the flying thunders as
they roar,
With frantic charge and tenfold
odds, in vain !
And what avails thee that, for
Cameron slain.
Wild from his plaided ranks the
yell was given ?
' Sr, I'uentei d'Honoro.
6o8
ZU (Pieton of ®on (Hoiencfi.
I III.
Vengeance and grief gave mountain-
rage the rein,
And, at the bloody spear-point
headlong driven,
Thy despot's giant guards fled like
the rack of heaven.
Go, bailed boaster, teach th^'
haugiity mood
To plead at thine imperious
master's throne ;
Say, thou hast left his legions in
their blood,
Deceived his hopes, and frustrated
thine own ;
Say, that thine utmost skill and
valour shown,
B3' British skill and \-alour were
outvied ;
Last sa3% thy conqueror was Wel-
lington !
And if he chafe, be his own
fortune tried — •
CtoiI and our cause to friend, the
venture we'll abide.
]5ut you, ye heroes of that well-
fought day,
How shall a bard, unknowing
and unknown,
llis meed to each \'ictorious leader
pay,
Or bind on every brow the laurels
won ?
Yet fain my Iiarp woiUd wake its
boldest tone,
O'er the wide sea to hail Cadogan
brave ;
And he, perchance, the minstrel-
note might own.
Mindful of meeting brief that
fortune gave
"Mid yon far western isles that hear
the Atlantic ra\-e.
Yes ! hard the task, when Britons
wield the sword,
To give each chief and every field
its fame :
Hark ! Albuera thunders Beresford,
And red Barosa shouts for daunt-
less Graeme !
O for a verse of tumult and of flame,
Bold as the bursting of their
cannon sound,
To bid the world re-echo to their
fame !
For never upon gorj- battle-ground
With conquest's well-bought wreath
were braver victors crown'd !
O who shall grudge him Albuera 's
bays.
Who brought a race regenerate
to the field,
Roused them to emulate thcii-
fathers' praise,
Temper'd their headlong rage,
their courage steel'd.
And raised fair Lusitania's fallen
shield,
And gave new edge to Lusitania's
sword.
And taught her sons forgotten arms
to wield !
.Shiver'd my harp, and burst its
every chord,
If it forget thy worth, victorious
Beresford !
Not on that bloody field of battle
won,
Though Gaul's proud legions
roH'd like mist awaj',
Was half his self-devoted valour
shown ;
He gaged but life on that illus-
trious dav ;
m.] ^0e (^t0ton of ©on (Ro^enc6. 609
But when he toil'd those squadrons
Since first distinguish'd in the onset
to array,
bold,
Who fought like Britons in the
Wild sounding when the Roman
bloody game,
rampart fell !
Sharper than Polish pike or assagay,
By Wallace' side it rung the
He braved the shafts of censure
Southron's knell,
and of shame,
Alderne, Kilsythe, and Tibbcr,
And, dearer far than life, he pledged
own'd its fame.
a soldiers fame.
Tummell's rude pass can of its
XVI.
terrors tell,
Nor be his praise o'erpast who
But ne'er from prouder field arose
strove to hide
the name.
Beneath the warrior's vest affec-
Than when wild Ronda learn'd tin-
tion's wound,
conquermg sliout or ura'mc 1
Whose wish Heaven forhiscountrj^'s
weal denied ;
xviii.
Danger and fate he sought, but
But all too long, through seas un-
glory found.
known and dark,
From clime to clime, where'er war's
(With Spenser's parable I close
trumpets sound.
my tale'
The wanderer went ; yet, Cale-
By shoal and rock hath stecr'd m^'
donia, still
venturous bark,
Thine was his thought in march and
And landward now I drive before
tented ground ;
the gale.
He dream'd 'mid Alpuie cliff's of
And now the blue and distant shore
Athole's hill.
I hail.
And heard in Ebro's roar his Ljui-
And nearer now I see the port
doch's lovely rill.
expand,
And now I gladly- furl my wearysail.
XVII.
And as the prow light touches
0 hero of a race renown'd of old,
on the strand,
Whose war-cry oft has waked
I strike my red-cross flag and bind
the battle-swell.
my skiff" to land.
END OF THE VISION OF DON RODERICK.
Qto^ee (o t^t {^ieton of ®on (Ko^encft,
Quid dignum memorare tuis, Hispania, terris,
Vox humana valet ! — Claudian.
The poem is founded upon a Spanish
tradition particularly detailed in the fol-
lowing Notes, but bearing in general that Don
Roderick, the last Gothic King of Spain,
when the Invasion of the Moors was im-
pending, had the temerity to descend into
an ancient vault near Toledo, the opening of
which had been denounced as fatal to the
Spanish Monarchy. The legend adds that his
rash curiosity was mortified by an emblem-
atical representation of those Saracens who,
in the year, 714, defeated him in battle, and
reduced Spain under their dominion. I have
presumed to prolong the vision of the revo-
lutions of Spain down to the present eventful
crisis of the Peninsula ; and to divide it, by
a supposed change of scene, into three periods.
The first of these represents the Invasion of
the Moors, the defeat and death of Roderick,
and closes with the peaceful occupation ol
the country by the victors. The second
period embraces the state of the Peninsula,
ii\hen the conquests of the Spaniards and
Portuguese in the East and West Indies had
raised to the highest pitch the renown of
their arms, — sullied, however, by superstition
and cruelty. An allusion to the inhumanities
of the Inquisition terminates this picture.
The last part of the poem opens with the
state of Spain previous to the unparalleled
treachery of Bonaparte; gives a sketch of
the usurpation attempted upon that unsus-
picious and friendly kingdom, and terminates
with the arrival of the British succours. It
may be farther proper to mention that the
object of the poem is less to commemorate
or detail particular incidents than to exhibit
a general and impressive picture ot the
several periods brought upon the stage.
I am too sensible of the respect due to the
public, especially by one who has already
experienced more than ordinary indulgence,
to offer any apology for the inferiority of the
poetry to the subject it is chiefly designed
to commemorate. Yet I think it proper to
mention that while I was hastily executing
a work, written for a temporary purpose,
and on passing events, the task was most
cruelly interrupted by the successive deaths
of Lord President Blair, and Lord Viscount
Melville. In those distinguished characters
I had not only to regret persons whose lives
were most important to Scotland, but also
whose notice and patronage honoured my en-
trance upon active life ; and, I may add with
melancholy pride, who permitted my more
advanced age to claim no common share in
their friendship. Under such interruptions
the preceding verses, which my best and
liappiest efforts must have left far unworthy
of their theme, have, I am myself sensible,
an appearance of negligence and incoherence
which in other circumstances I might have
been able to remove.
Edinburgh, _/«;/£ 24, 1811.
NOTES.
Note I.
y}i!ff Cattraeth's glens ivilh voice of
Iriiimph rung,
And mys/ic Merlin liarp'd, and grey-hair' d
Llywarch sung! — P. 501.
This locality mav startle those readers
who do not recollect that much of the ancient
l>oetry preserved in Wales refers less to the
liistofy of the Principality to which that
name is now limited, than to events which
happened in the north-west of England, and
south-west of Scotland, where the Britons for
a long time made a stand against the Saxons.
The oattle of Cattraeth, lamented by the
celebrated Aneurin, is supposed, by the
(Ueiee io tU (Pteton of ©on (Roimcl
6ii
learned Dr. Leyden, to have been fought on
the skirts of Et'trick Forest. It is known to
the English reader by the paraphrase of
Gray, beginning,
■Had I but the torrent's mifrht,
Witli headlong rage and wild affright.' &c.
But it is not so generally known that the
champions, mourned in this beautiful dirge,
were the British inhabitants of Edinburgh,
who were cut off by the Saxons of Deiria, or
Northumberland, about the latter part of the
sixth century. — Turner's History of the
Anglo-Saxons, edition 1799, vol. i. p. 222.
Llywarch, the celebrated bard and monarch,
was Prince of Argood, in Cumberland ; and
his youthful exploits were performed upon
the Border, although in his age he was driven
into Powys by the successes of the Anglo-
Saxons. As for Merlin Wyllt, or the Savage,
his name of Cale<lonia, and his retreat into
the Caledonian wood, appropriate him to
Scotland. Fordun dedicates the thirty-first
chapter of the third book of his Scoto-
Chronicon, to a narration of the fleath of this
ci-'leljrated bard and prophet near Drumelzier,
a village upon Tweed, which is supposed to
have derived its name (quasi Tumulus
Merlini) from the event. The particular
spot in which he is buried is still shown, and
appears, from the following quotation, to
have partaken of his prophetic qualities: — •
'There is one thing remarkable here, which
is, that the burn called Pausayl runs by the
east side of this churchyard into the Tweed;
at the side of which burn, a little below the
churchyard, the famous prophet Merlin is
said to be buried. The particular place of
liis grave, at the root of a thorn tree, was
shown me, many years ago, by the old ancl
reverend minister of the place, Mr. Richard
Brown ; and here was the old prophecy ful-
filled, delivered in Scots rhyme, to this
purpose : —
"When Tweed and Pausayl meet at Merlin's grave,
Scotland and England shall one Monarch have. "
' For, the same day that our King James
the Sixth was crowned King of England the
river Tweed, by an extraordinary flood, so
far overflowed its banks, that it met and
joined with the Pausayl at the said grave,
which was never before observed to fall out.'
— Pennycuick's Description of T-weeddale.
Edin. 1715, iv. p. 26.
Note II.
■ Minchmore's haunted spritig. — P. 592.
A belief in the existence and nocturnal
revels of the fairies still lingers among the
vulgar in Selkirkshire. A copious fountain
upon the ridge of Minchmore, called the
Cheesewell, is supposed to be sacred to these
fanciful spirits, and it was customary to
propitiate them by throwing in something
upon passing it. A pin was the usual
oblation ; and the ceremony is still some-
times practised, though rather in jest than
earnest.
Note III.
the rude villager, his labour done,
In z'erse spontaneous chants some favoured
name. — P. ,S92.
The flexibility of the Italian and Spanish
languages, and perhaps the liveliness of their
genius, renders these countries distinguishecl
lor the talent of improvisation, wTiicli is
found even among the lowest of the people.
It is mentioned by Baretti andother travellers.
Note I'V.
Kindling at the deeds of Greeme.
-P. 592.
Over a name sacred for ages to heroic
verse, a poet may be allowed to exercise
some power. I have used the freedom, here
and elsewhere, to alter the orthography of
the name of mv gallant countryman, in
order to apprize the Southern reader of its
legitimate sound ; — Grahame being, on the
other side of the Tweed, usually pronounced
as a dissyllable.
Note V.
What! will Don Roderick here till
morning stay,
To wear in shrift and prayer the night
away ?
And are his hours in such dull penance
past,
Far fair Florinda^s plundered charms to
pay .'—P. 593.
Almost all the Spanish historians, as well
as the voice of tradition, ascribe the invasion
of the Moors to the forcible violation com-
mitted by Roderick upon Florinda, called
by the Moors, Caba or Cava. She was the
daughter of Count Julian, one of the Ciothic
monarch's principal lieutenants, who, when
the crime was perpetrated, was engaged in
the defence of Ceuta against the Moors. In
his indignation at the ingratitude of his
sovereign, and the dishonour of his daughter,
Count Julian forgot the duties of a Christian
and a patriot, and, forming an alliance with
Musa, then the Caliph's lieutenant in Africa,
he countenanced the invasion of Spain by
a body of Saracens and Africans, commanded
by the celebrated Tarik ; the issue of which
was the defeat and death of Roderick, and
the occupation of almost the whole peninsula
by the Moors. Voltaire, in his General
History, expresses his doubts of this popular
story, and Gibbon gives him some counten-
ance ; but the universal tradition is quite
X 2
6l2
(Tlofee to
sufficient for thn purposes of poetry. The
Spaniards, in detestation of Florinda's
memory, are said, by Cervantes, never to
bestow that name upon any human female,
reserving it for their dogs. Nor is the
tradition less inveterate among the Moors,
since the same author mentions. -ipromontor}-
on the coast of Barbary, called 'The Cape
of the Caba Rumia, which, in our tongue, is
the Cape of the Wicked Christian Woman ;
and it is a tradition among the Moors, that
Caba, the daughter of Count Julian, who was
the cause of the loss of Spain, lies buried
there, and they think it ominous to be forced
into that bay ; for they never go in otherwise
than bv necessitv.'
Note VI.
And ^itidc me, pries/, lo ihat myslcrioits
room.
Where, jfanghtiriieiii old iraditio}! be.
His nation's fntitre f ales a Spanish king
sliall see. — P. 594.
The transition of an incident from history
to tradition, and from tradition to fable and
romance, becoming more marvellous at each
step from its original simplicity, is not ill
exemplified in the account of the 'Fated
Chamber' of Don Roderick, as given by his
namesake, the historian of Toledo, contrasted
with subsequent and more romantic accounts
of the same subterranean discovery. I give
the Archbishop of Toledo's tale in the words
of Nonius, who seems to intimate (though
very modestlv). that the fafaie pa/atinm oi
which so much had been said, was only the
ruins of a Roman amphitheatre.
' Extra muros, septentrionem versus, ves-
tigia magni olim theatri sparsa visuntur.
Auctor est Rodericus, Toletanus Archiepis-
copus ante Arabum in Hispanias irruptionem,
h'Kja/ale pa/a/iiiin fuisse; quod invicti vectes
aeterna ferri robora claudebant, ne reseratum
Hispaniae excidium adferret ; quod in fatis
non vulgus solum, sed et prudcntissimi quique
credebant. Sed Roderici ultimi Gothorum
Regis animum infelix curiositas subiit, sciendi
cjuid sub tot vetitis claustris observaretur ;
ingentes ibi superiorum regum opes et
arcanos thesauros servari ratus. Seras et
pessulos perfringi curat, invitis omnibus ;
nihil praeter arculam repertum, et in ea
linteum, quo explicate novae et insolentes
hominum facies habitusque apparuere, cum
inscriptione Latina, Hispaniae excidium
ah ilia gente imniinere ; \'ultus habitusque
Maurorum erant. Quamobrem ex Africa
tantam cladem instare regi caeterisque per-
suasum ; nee falso ut Hispaniae annales
etiamnum queruntur.'^ — Hispania Ludovic.
Nonij, cap. lix.
]!ut, about the term of the expulsion of
the Moors from Grenada, we find, in the
Historia Vcrdadeyra del Key Don Rod-
rigo, a (pretended) translation from the
Arabic of the sage Alcayde Abulcacim Tarif
Abentarique, a legend which puts to shame
the modesty of the historian Roderick, with
his chest and prophetic picture. The custom
of ascribing a pretended Moorish original
to these legendary histories, is ridiculed by
Cervantes, who affects to translate the History
of the Kniglit of the Woful Figure, from the
Arabic of the sage Cid Hamet Bcnengeli.
As I have been indebted to the Historia
I'crdadeyra for some of the imagery em-
ployed in the text, the following literal
translation from the work itself may gratify
the inquisitive reader : —
' One mile on the east side of the city of
Toledo, among some rocks, was situated an
ancient tower, of a magnificent structure,
though much dilapidated by time, which
consumes all : four estadoes (i.e. four times
a man's height) below it, there was a cave
with a very narrow entrance, and a gate cut
out of the solid rock, lined with a strong
covering of iron, and fastened with many
locks ; .above the gate some Greek letters
are engraved, which, although abbreviated,
and of doubtful meaning, were thus inter-
preted, according to the exposition of learned
men : — "The King who opens this cave, and
can discover the wonders, will discover both
good and evil things." Many Kings desired
to know the mystery of this tower, and
sought to find out the manner with much
care ; but when they opened the gate, such
a tremendous noise arose in the cave, that it
appeared as if the earth was bursting; many
of those present sickened with fear, and others
lost their lives. In order to prevent such
great perils (as they supposed a dangerous
enchantment was contained within), they
secured the gate with new locks, concluding
that, though a King was destined to open it,
the fated time was not yet arrived. At last
King Don Rodrigo, led on by his evil fortune
and unlucky destiny, openetl the tower ; and
some bold attendants, whom he had brought
with him, entered, although agitated with
fear. Having proceeded a good way, they
fled back to the entrance, terrified with
a frightful vision which they had beheld.
The King was greatly moved, and ordered
many torches, so contrived that the tempest
in the cave could not extinguish them, to be
lighted. Then the King entered, not without
fear, before all the others. They discovered,
by degrees, a splendid hall, apparently built
in a very sumptuous manner ; in the middle
stood a Bronze Statue of very ferocious
appearance, which held a battle-axe in its
hands. With this he struck the floor violently,
giving it such heavy blows, that the noise in
the cave was occasioned by the motion of
the air. The King, greatly affrighted and
astonished, began to conjure this terrible
vision, promising that he would return with-
out doing any injury in the cave, after he
had obtained a sight of what was contained
in it. The statue ceased to strike the floor.
ZH (2>t0tott of ©on (Kobmca.
613
and tlie King-, with Iiis followers, somewhat
assured, ami recovering their courage, pro-
ceeded into the hall; and on the left of the
statue they fount! this inscription on the wall,
" Unfortunate King, thou hast entered here
in evil hour." On the right side of the wall
these w ords were inscribed, " By strange
nations thou shalt be dispossessed, and thy
subjects foully degraded." On the shoulders
of the statue other words were written, which
saiil, '' I call upon the Arabs." And upon his
breast was written, "I do my ofiice." At
the entrance of the hall there was placed
a round bowl, from which a great noise, like
the fall of waters, proceeiled. They found
no other thing in the hall : and when the
King, sorrowful and greatly affecteil, had
scarcely turned about to leave the cavern,
the statue again commenced its accustomed
blows upon the floor. After they had
mutually promised to conceal what they had
seen they again closed the tower, and
blocked up the gate of the cavern with earth,
that no memory might remain in the world
of such a portentous and evil-boding prodigy.
The ensuing midnight they heard great cries
and clamour from the cave, resounding like
the noise of battle, and the ground shaking
with a tremendous roar ; the whole edifice of
the old tower fell to the ground, by which
they were greatly affrighted, the vision which
they had beheld appearing to them as a dream.
'The King having left the tower, ordered
wise men to explain what the inscriptions
signified; and having consulted upon and
studied their meaning, they declared that
the statue of bronze, with the motion which
it made with its battle-axe, signified Time ;
and that its office, alluded to in the inscription
on its breast, was, that he never rests a smgle
moment. The words on the shoulders, "I call
upon the Arabs," they expounded, that, in
time, Spain would be conquered by the Arabs.
The words upon the left wall signified the
destruction of King Rodrigo ; those on the
right, the dreadful calamities which were to
fall upon the Spaniards and Goths, and that
the unfortunate King would be dispossessed
of all his states. Finall}-, the letters on the
portal indicated, that good would betide to
the conquerors, and evil to the conquered, of
which experience proved the truth.' — Hisioi'ia
I'erdadeyra del Rey Don Rodrigo. Quinta
impression. Madrid, 1654, iv. p. 25.
Note VII.
The Tecbir war-cry^ and /he Lclic^s yeU.
"P. .Sq6.
The Tecbir (derived from the words Alia
acbai; God is most mighty) was the original
war-cry of the Saracens. It is celebrated by
Hughes in the Siege of Damascus : —
' We heard the Tecbir ; so these .\rabb call
Their shout of onset, when, with loud appeal.
They challenge Heaven, as if demanding conquest,
The Leh'c, well known to the Christians
during the crusades, is the shout oi A//a ilia
Allci, the Mahomedan confession of faith.
It is twice used in poetry by my friend
Mr. W. Stewart Rose, in the romance of
Partenopex, and in the Crusade of St. Lewis.
Note VIII.
By Heaven, the Moors prevail ! /he Chris-
/iaiis yield I
Their coward leader gives Jar Jlighl I he
sign !
The seep/red craz>en vioiinis /o anil the
Jield-
Is not yon steed Orelio? — Ycs^ 'tis mine!
-P- 597-
Count Julian, the father of the injured
Florinda, with the connivance and assistance
of Oppas, Archbishop of Toleilo, invited, in
713, the Saracens into Spain. A considerable
anny arrived under the command of Tarik,
or Tarif, who bequeathed the well-known
name of Gibraltar {Gibel al Tarik, or the
mountain of Tarik) to the place of his landing.
He was joined by Count Julian, ravaged
Andalusia, and took Seville. In •j\\ thev
returned with a still greater force, and
Roderick marched into Andalusia at the
head of a great army, to give them battle.
The field was chosen near Xeres, and Mariana
gives the following account of the action : —
' Both armies being drawn up, the King,
according to the custom of the Gothic kings
when they went to battle, appeared in an
ivory chariot, clothed in cloth of gold,
cncouratjing his men ; Tarif, on the other
side, did the same. The armies, thus pre-
pared, waited only for the signal to fall on ;
the Goths gave the charge, their drums anil
trumpets sounding, and the Moors received
it with the noise of kettle-drums. Such were
the shouts and cries on both sides, that
the mountains and valleys seemed to meet.
First, they began with slings, darts, javelins,
and lances, then came to the swords ; a long
time the battle was dubious ; but the Moors
seemed to have the worst, till D. Oppas, the
archbishop, having to that time concealed
his treachery, in the heat of the fight, with
a great bod}' of his followers went over to
the infidels. He joined Count Julian, with
whom was a great number of Goths, and
both together fell upon the flank of our
army. Our men, terrified with that unparal-
leleil treachery, and tired with fighting, could
no longer sustain that charge, but were easily
put to flight. The King performed the part
not only of a wise general, but of a resolute
soldier, relieving the weakest, bringing on
fresh men in place of those that were tired,
and stopping those that turned their backs.
At length, seeing no hopes left, he alighted
out of his chariot for fear of being taken,
and mounting on a horse called Orelia, he
6i4
(\\okQ to
withdrew out of the battle. The Goths, w ho
still stood, missing him, were most part put
to the sword, the rest betook themselves to
ilight. The camp was immediately entered,
aiid the baggage taken. What number was
killed was not known : I suppose they were
so many it was hard to count them ; for this
single battle robbed Spain of all its glory,
and in it perished the renowned name of the
Goths. The King's horse, upper garment,
and buskins, covered with pearls and precious
stones, were found on the bank of the ri\<;r
Guadelite, and there being no news of him
afterwards, it was supposed he was drowned
passing the river.'— Mari.ana's History of
Spnhi^ book vi. chap. 9.
Orelia, the courser of Don Roderick,
mentioned in the text, and in the above
(]UOtation, was celebrated for her speed and
form. She is mentioned repeatedly in
Spanish romance, and also by Cervantes.
Note IX.
When f 01' /he !i[i;h/ bolero ready s/and,
The >i!o~o blithe^ 2vi/h ^ay niuchacha me/.
—P. SW-
The bolero is a very light and active dance,
iimch practised by the Spaniards, in which
castanets are always used. Moso and
niuchacha are equivalent to our phrase of
lad and lass.
Note X.
Wliile truinpcis rang^ and heralds cried
'Castile!'— V. 601.
The heralds, at the coronation of a Spanish
monarch, proclaim his name three times,
and repeat three times the word Cas/illa,
Castilla, Cas/illa ; which, with all other
ceremonies, was carefully copied in the mock
inauguration of Joseph Bonaparte.
Note XI.
High blamed the war, and long, and far,
and wide. — P. 6oj.
Those who were disposed to believe that
mere virtue and energy are able of theinselves
to work forth the salvation of an oppressed
people, surprised in a moment of confidence,
deprived of their officers, armies, and for-
tresses, who had every means of resistance
to seek in the very moment when they were
to be made use of, and whom the numerous
treasons among the higher orders deprived
of confidence in their natural leaders,^ — those
who entertained this enthusiastic but delusive
opinion maybe pardoned for expressing their
disappointment at the protracted warfare in
the Peninsula. There are, however, another
class of persons, who, having themselves the
highest dread or veneration, or something
allied to both, for the power of the modern
Attila, will nevertheless give the heroical
Spaniards little or no credit for the long,
stubborn, and unsubdued resistance of three
years to a power before whom their former
well-prepared, well-armed, and numerous
adversaries fell in the course of as many
months. While these gentlemen plead for
deference to Bonaparte, and crave
* Respect for his great place, and bid the devil
V>e duly honour'd for his burning throne,'
it may not be altogether unreasonable to
claim some modification of censure upon
those who have been long and to a great
extent successfully resisting this great enemy
of mankind. That the energy of Spain has
not uniformly been directed by conduct
equal to its vigour, lias been too obvious ;
that her armies, under their complicated
disadvantages, have shared the fate of such
as were defeated after taking the field
with every possible advantage of arms and
discipline, is surely not to be wondered at.
But tiiat a nation, under the circumstances of
repeated discomfiture, internal treason, and
the mismanagement incident to a temporary
and hastily adopted government, shouUI
have wasted, by its stubborn, uniform, and
prolonged resistance, myriads after myriads
of those soldiers who had overrun the world
— that some of its provinces should, like
Galicia, after being abandoned by their
allies, and overrun oy their enemies, have
recovered their freedom by their own unas-
sisted exertions ; that others, like Cat.alonia,
undism.\ved by the treason which betrayed
some fortresses, and the force which subdued
others, should not only have continued their
resistance, but have attained over their
victorious enemy a superiority, which is even
nt)W enabling them to besiege and retake
the places of strength which had been
wrested from them, is a tale hitherto untold
in the revolutionary war. To say that such
a people cannot be subdued, would be
presumption similar to that of those who
protested that Spain could not defend herself
for a year, or Portugal for a month ; but
that a resistance which has been continued
for so long a space, when the usurper, except
during the short-lived Austrian campaign,
had no other enemies on the continent,
should be now less successful, when repeated
<lefcats have broken the reputation of the
French armies, and when they are likely
(it would seem almost in desperation) to
seek occupation elsewhere, is a prophecy as
improbable as ungracious. And while we
are in the humour of severely censuring our
allies, gallant and devotecl as they have
shown themselves in the cause of national
liberty, because they may not instantly adopt
those measures which we in our wisdom
ZU (Pt0ton of ©on (Robm'cl
6lK
may deem essential to success, it might
be well if we endeavoured first to resolve
the previous questions, — First, Whether we
do not at this moment know much less of the
Spanish armies than those of Portugal, which
were so promptly condemned as totally in-
adequate to assist in the preservation of their
country? Second, Whether, independently of
any right we have to offer more than advice
and assistance to our independent allies, we
can expect that they should renounce entirely
the national pride, which is inseparable from
patriotism, and at once condescend not only
to be saved by our assistance, but to be saved
in our own w'ay? Third, Whether, if it bean
object (as uniloubtediy it is a main one)
that the Spanish troops should be trained
under British discipline, to the flexibility of
movement, and power of rapid concert and
combination, which is essential to modern
war — such a consummation is likely to be
produced by abusing them in newspapers
and periodical publications? Lastly, since
the undoubted authority of British officers
makes us now acquainted with part of the
horrors that attend invasion, and which the
providence of ("lod, the valour of our navv,
and perhaps the very efforts of these Span-
iards, have hitherto diverted from us, it may
be modestly questioned whether we ought to
be too forward to estimate and condemn the
feeling of temporarv stupefaction which they
create ; lest, in so Joing, we should resemble
the worthy clergyman who, while he had
himself never snufl'ed a candle with his fingers,
was disposed severely to criticise the conduct
of a martyr, who winced a little among his
flames.
Note XII.
77iiy zi'di! not Zara^o=a, hiil her c/ii/dirn's
bloody loiub.— V. Oo.v
The interesting account of Mr. Vaughan
lias made most readers acquainted with the
first siege of Zaragoza '. The last and fatal
siege of that gallant and devoted city is
detailed with great eloquence and precision
in the ' Edinburgh Annual Register ' for 1809,
— a work in which the affairs of Spain have
been treated of with attention corresponding
to their deep interest, and to the peculiar
.sources of information open to the historian.
The following are a lew brief extracts from
this splendid historical narrative; —
' A breach was soon made in the mud
walls, and then, as in the former siege, the
war was carried on in the streets and houses ;
but the French had been taught by experience,
that in this species of warfare the Zaragozans
derived a superiority from the feeling and
principle which inspired them, and the cause
for which they fought. The only means of
conquering Zaragoza was to destroy it house
1 See Narrative of the Siege of Zaragoza, by
KIcIiard Charles Vaughan, Esq., 1809.
by house, and street bystreet ; and upon this
system of destruction they proceeded. Three
companies of miners, and eight companies of
sappers, carried on this subterraneous war ;
the Spaniards, it is said, attempted to oppose
them oy countermines ; these were operations
to which they were wholly unused, and,
according to the French statement, their
miners were every day discovered and suff'o-
cated. Meantime, the bombardment was
incessantly kept up. " Within the last forty-
eight hours," said Palafox in a letter to his
friend C.eneral Doyle, "6000 shells have
been thrown in. Two-thirds of tlie town are
in ruins, but we shall perish under the ruins
of the remaining third rather than surrender.
In the course of the siege, above I7,0(X)
bombs were thrown at the town ; the stock
of powder with which Zaragoza had been
stored was exhausted ; thej- had none at last
but what they manufactun^d day by day ;
and no other cannon-balls than those which
were shot into the town, and which they
collected and fired back upon the enemy.'
In the midst of these horrors and privations,
the pestilence broke out in Zaragoza. To
various causes, enumerated b)- the annalist,
he adds, 'scantiness of food, crowded fjuar-
ters, unusual exertion of body, anxietv of
mind, and the impossibility of recruiting {heir
exhausted strength bv needful rest, in a city
which was almost incessantlj' bombarded,
and where every hour their sleep was broken
by the tremendous explosion of mines? There
was now no respite, either by day or night,
for this devoted city ; even the natural order
of light and darkness was destroyed in
Zaragoza; by day it was involved in a red
sulphureous atmosphere of smoke, which hid
the face of heaven ; b}- night, the fire of
cannons and mortars, and the flames of
burning houses, kept it in a state of terrific
illumination.
'When once the pestilence had begun, jt
was impossible to check its progress, or con-
fine it to one quarter of the cit}-. Hospitals
were imm<"diately established, — there were
above thirty of them ; as soon as one was
destroyed by the bombardment, the patients
were removed to another, and thus the
infection was carried to every part of Zara-
goza. Famine aggravated the evil ; the citv
had probabU" not been sulTicientl}- provided
at the commencement of the siege, and of
the pro\isions which it contained, much was
destroyed in the daily ruin which the mines
and bombs effected. Had the Zaragozans
and their garrison proceeded accordmg to
militarj' i-ules, they would have surrendered
before the end of January; their batteries
had then been demolished, there were open
breaches in many parts of their weak walls,
and the enemy were already within the city.
On the 30th, above sixtv houses were blown
up, and the French obtained possession of
the monasteries of the Augustmes and Las
Monicas, which adjoined each other, two of
6i6
(IXoUq to
tlic hist defensible places left. The enemy
forced their way into the church ; every
column, every chapel, every altar, became
a point of defence, which was repeatedly
attacked, taken, and retaken ; the pavement
was covered with blood, the aisles and body
of the church strewed with the dead, who
were trampled under foot by the combatants.
In the midst of this conflict, the roof,
shattered by repeated bombs, fell in ; tlie
few \\ho were not crushed, after a short
pause, which this tremendous shock, and
their own unexpected escape, occasioned,
renewed the fight with rekindled fury : fresh
parties of the cnemj- poured in ; monks, and
citizens, and soldiers, came to the defence,
and the contest was cpntinued upon the
ruins, and the bodies of the dead and the
dj'ing.'
Yet, seventeen days after sustaining these
extremities, <lid the heroic inhabitants of
Zaragoza continue their defence ; nor did
they then surrender until their despair had
extracted from the French generals a capitu-
lation, more lionourable than has lieen
granted to fortresses of the first order.
Who shall venture to refuse the Zaragozans
the eulogium conferred upon them by the
eloquence of Wordsworth ! — ' Most gloriously
have the citizens of Zaragoza pro\ed that the
true army of Spain, in a contest of this
nature, is the whole people. The same city
has also exemplified a melancholy, yea,
a dismal truth, — yet consolatory and full of
joj', — tliat when a people are called suddenly
to Cglit for their liberty, and are sorely
pressed upon, their best field of battle is the
floors upon which their children have played ;
the chambers where the family of each man
lias slept (his own or his neighbours); upon
or under the roofs by which they liave been
sheltered ; in the gardens of their recreation ;
in the street, or in the market-place ; before
the altars of their temples, and among their
congregated dwellings, blazing or uprooted.
'The government of Spain must ne\er
forget Zaragoza for a moment. Nothing is
wanting to produce the same effects every-
where out a leading mind, such as that city
was blessed with. In the latter contest this
has been proved ; for Zaragoza contained, at
that time, bodies of men from almost all
parts of Spain. The narrati\e of those
two sieges sliould be the manual of every
Spaniard. He may add to it the ancient
stories of Numantia and Saguntum ; let him
sleep upon the book as a pillow, and, if he
be a devout adherent to the religion of his
countr)-, let him wear it in his bosom for his
crucifix to rest upon.' — WORDSWOKTH Of/ the
CoiizicntioJi of Ciiilra.
Note XIII.
the vault of destiny. — P. 605.
Before finally dismissing the enchanted
cavern of Don Roderick, it may be noticed
tliat the legend occurs in one of Calderon's
jilays, entitled. La Virgin del Sagrario.
The scene opens with the noise of the chase,
and Recisundo, a predecessor of Roderick
upon the Gothic throne, enters pursuing astag.
The animal assumes the form of a man, and
defies the king to enter the cave, which forms
the bottom of the scene, and engage with him
in single combat. The king accepts the chal-
lenge, and they engage accordingly, but
without advantage on either side, which in-
duces the Genie to inform Recisundo, that
he is not the monarch for whom the adventure
of the enchanted cavern is reserved, and he
proceeds to predict the downfall of the Gothic
monarchy, and of the Christian religion,
which shall attend the disco\ery of its
mysteries. Recisundo, appalled by these
prophecies, orders the cavern to be secured
l)y a gate and bolts of iron. In the second
part of the same play, we are informed that
Don Roderick had removed the barrier, and
transgressed the prohibition of his ancestor,
and had been apprized by the prodigies which
he discovered of the approaching ruin of his
kingdom.
Note XIV.
While downward on the land his legions
press,
Before them it was rich with vine and flock.
And smiled like Eden in her sinnmcr
dress ;
Beliind ihei}' zuastefid tnarch, a recking
wilderness.— V. 606.
I have ventured to apply to the movements
of the French army that sublime passage in
the prophecies of Joel, which seems applicable
to them in more respects than that I have
adopted in the text. One would think their
ravages, their military appointments, the
terror which they spread among invaded
nations, their military discipline, their arts of
political intrigue and deceit, were distinctly
pointed out in the following verses of Scrip-
ture : — •
' 2. A day of darknessc and of gloominesse,
a day of clouds and of thick darknesse, as
the morning spread upon the mountains:
a great people and a strong, there hath not
been ever the like, neither shall be any more
after it, even to the veares of many generations.
3. A fire devoureth before them, and behind
them a flame burneth : the land is as the
garden of Eden before them, and behinde them
a desolate wilderness, yea, and nothing shall
escape them. 4. The appearance of them is as
the appearance of horses and as horsemen, so
shall they runne. 5. Like the noise of chariots
on the tops of mountains, shall they leap,
like the noise of a flame of fire that devoureth
the stubble, as a strong people set in battel
array. 6. Before their face shall the people be
much pained; all faces shall gatherblacknesse.
7. They shall run like mighty men, they shall
tU (Ptet'on of ©on (Robencl
617
climb the wall like men of warre, and they
shall march every one in his wayes, and they
shall not break their ranks. 8. Neither shall
one thrust another, thej- shall walk every one
in his path : and when they fall upon the
sword, they shall not be wounded. Q. They
shall run to and fro in the citie ; they shall
run upon the wall, they shall climbe up upon
the houses : they shall enter in at the windows
like a thief 10. The earth shall (]uake before
them, the heavens shall tremble, the sunne
and the moon shall be dark, and the starres
shall withdraw their shining.'
In verse 20th also, which announces the
retreat of the northern army, described in
such dreadful colours, into a ' land barren
and desolate,' and the dishonour with which
(lod afflicted them for having 'magnified
themselves to do great things,' there are
particulars not inapplicable to the retreat of
Massena ; — Divine Providence having, in all
ages, attached disgrace as the natural punish-
ment of cruelty and presumption.
Note XV.
7"/ie rudesi se7iti>iel^ in Britain born.
With horror paused to view the hazioc done.
Gave his poor crust to feed some wretch for-
lorn. V. 607.
Even the unexampled gallantry of the
British army in the campaign of 1810-11,
although they never fought but to conquer,
will do them less honour in history than their
humanity, attentive to soften to the utmost
of their power the horrors which war, in its
mildest aspect, must always inflict upon the
defenceless inhabitants of the country in
which it is waged, and which, on this occasion,
were tenfold augmented by the barbarous
cruelties of the French. Soup-kitchens were
established by subscription among the officers,
wherever the troops were quartered for any
length of time. The commissaries contributed
the heads, feet, &c. of the cattle slaughtered
for the soldiery : rice, vegetables, ana bread,
where it could be had, were purchased by
the officers. Fifty or sixty starving peasants
were daily fed at one of these regimental
establishments, and carried home the relics
to their famished households. The emaciated
wretches, who could not crawl from weakness,
were speedily employed in pruning their vines.
While pursuing Massena, the soldiers evinced
the same spirit of humanity, and in many
instances, when reduced themselves to short
allowance, from having out-marched their
supplies, they shared their pittance with the
starving inhabitants, who had ventured back
to view the ruinsof their habitations, burnt by
theretreatingenemy, and to bury the bodies of
their relations whom they had butchered. Is
it possible to know such facts without feeling
a sort of confidence, that those who so well
deserve victory are most likely to attain it ?
— It is not the least of Lord Wellington's
military merits, that the slightest disposition
towards marauding ineets immediate punish-
ment. Independently of all moral oblig.ation,
the army which is most orderly in a friendly
country, has alwaj's proved most formidable
to an armed enemy.
Note XVI.
\ 'ainglorioits fugitive ! — P. 607.
The French conducted this memorable
retreat with much oi^e fanfarronade\ixo\><;x
to their country, by which they attempt to
impose upon others, and perhaps on them-
selves, a belief that they are triumphing in
the very moment of their discomfiture. On
the .^oth March, 181 1, their rear-guard was
overtaken near Pega by the British cavalry.
Being well posted, and conceiving themselves
safe from infantry (who were indeed many
miles in the rear), and from artillery, they
indulged themselves in parading their bands
of music, and actually performed ' God save
the King.' Their ininstrelsy was, however,
deranged by the undesired accompaniment
of the British horse-artillery, on whose part in
the concert they had not calculated. The
surprise was sudden, and the rout complete ;
for the artillery and cavalr-)' did execution
upon them for about four miles, pursuing at
the gallop as often as they got beyond the
range of the guns.
Note XVII.
Vainly thy squadrons hide Assuaz'a^s
plain,
AndfrojitiheJlyiiifrthu7tdersas they roar.
With frantic charge and tenfold odds, in
vain I — P. 607.
In the severe action of Fuentes d' Honoro,
upon May 5, 181 1, the grand mass of the
French cavalry attacked the right of the
British position, covered bj' two guns of
the horse-artillery, and two squadrons of
cavalry. After suffering- considerably from
the Gre of the guns, which annoyed them in
every attempt at formation, the enemy turned
their wrath entirely towards them, distributed
brandy among their troopers, and advanced
to carry the field-pieces with the desperation
of drunken fury. They were in nowise checked
bv the heavy loss which they sustained in
this daring attempt, but closed, and fairly
mingled with the British cavalry, to whom
they bore the proportion often to one. Cap-
tain Ramsay (let me be permitted to name
a gallant countryman), who commanded the
two guns, dismissed them at the gallop, and
putting himself at the head of the mounted
artillerymen, ordered them to fall upon the
French, sabre in hand. This very unexpected
conversion of artillerymen into dragoons,
contributed greatly to the defeat of the enemy
already disconcerted by the reception they
X 3
6i8
(llotco to t^t (pieton of ©on (Robcrtcfi.
had met from ihc Iwo British squadrons ;
and the appearance of some small reinforce-
ments, notwithstanding the immense dispro-
portion of force, put them to absolute rout.
A colonel or major of their cavalry, and
many piisoners (almost all intoxicated), re-
maiiiecl in our possession. Those who con-
sider for a moment the difference of tlie
services, and how much an artilleryman is
necessarily and naturally led to identify his
own safety and utility with abiding by the
tremendous implement of war, to the exercise
of which he is chiefly, if not exclusively,
trained, will know how to estimate the
presence of mind which commanded so bold
a mancEuvre, and the steadiness and con-
fidence with which it was executed.
Note XVIII.
And u>liat avails thee that, for Cameron
slain.
Wild from his plaidcd ranks the yell was
giz'en? — P. 607.
The gallant Colonel Cameron was wounded
mortally during the desperate contest in the
streets of the village called Fuentesd'Honoro.
He fell at the head of his native Highlanders,
the 71st and 79th, who raised a dreadful
shriek of grief and rage. They charged,
with irresistible fury, the finest body of
French grenadiers ever seen, being a part
of Bonaparte's selected guard. The officer
who led the French, a man remarkable for
stature and symmetry, was killed on the
spot. The Frenchman who steppeil out of
Ins rank to take aim at Colonel Cameron
was also bayoneted, pierced with a thousand
wounds, and almost torn to pieces by the
furious Highlanders, who, underthe command
of Colonel Cadogan, bore the enemy out of
the contested ground at the point of the
bayonet. Massena pays my countrj^men
a singular compliment in his account of the
attacTc and defence of this ^ illage, in which
he says the British lost many officers, and
Scotch.
Note XIX.
O who shall grudge him Albiiera^s l>ays,
Who brought a race regenerate to the f eld.
Roused them to emulate their fathers''
praise^
Te})iper^d their headlong rage, their
courage steel' d,
And raised fair Lnsitania^s fallen shield.
—P. 608.
Nothing durino; the war of Portugal seems,
to a distinct observer, more deserving of
praise, than the self-devotion of Field-Mar-
shal Bercsford, who was contented to
undertake all the hazard of obloquy which
might have been founded upon any mis-
carriage in the highly important experiment
of training the Portuguese troops to an im-
proved state of discipline. In exposing his
military reputation to the censure of impru-
dence from the most moderate, and all manner
of unutterable calumnies from the ignorant
and malignant, he placed at stake the dearest
pledge which a military man had to offer, and
nothing but the deepest con\'iction of the
high and essential importance attached to
success can be supposed an adequate motive.
How great the chance of miscarriage was
supposed, may be estimated from the general
opinion of officers of unquestioned talents
and experience, possessed of every oppor-
tunity of information ; how completely the
experimenthas succeeded, and how much the
spirit and patriotism of our ancient allies
had been underrated, is evident, not only
from those victories in which they have borne
a distinguished share, but from the liberal
and highly honourable manner in which these
opinions have been retracted. The success
of this plan, with all its important conse-
quences, we owe to the indefatigable exertions
of Field-Marshal Beresford.
Note XX.
a race renown'' d of old,
JJ'hose wa r-cry oft has waked the battle-swell.
the conquering shout of Grante.
—P. 6(19.
This stanza alludes to the various achieve-
ments of the warlike family of Gneme, or
Grahame. They are said, by tradition, to
have descended from the Scottish chief, under
whose command his countrymen stormed the
wall built by the Emperor Severus between
the Firths of Forth and Clyde, the fragments
of which are still popularlj- called Gra;me's
Dyke. Sir John the Gra;me, 'the hardy,
wight, and wise,' is well known as the friend
of Sir VV'illiam Wallace. Alderne, Kilsj-the,
and Tibbcnnuir, were scenes of the victories
of the heroic Marquis of Montrose. The
pass of Killiecrankie is famous for the action
between King William's forces and the High-
landers in 1689,
■Where j:;1,k1 Dundee in faint huzzas expired.'
It is seldom that one line can number so
many heroes, and yet more rare when it can
appeal to the glory of a li\ing descendant in
support of its ancient renown.
The allusions to the private history and
character of General Grahame may be
illustrated by referring to the eloquent and
affecting speech of Mr. Sheridan, upon the
vote of thanks to the Victor of Barosa.
t^i 5tefb of nX>Atitioo:
A POEM.
'Though Valois braved j'oung Edward's gentle hand.
And Albert rush'd on Henry's way-worn band,
With Europe's chosen sons, in arms renown'd,
Yet not on Vere's bold archers long they look'd,
Nor Audley's squires nor Mowbray's yeomen brook'd,—
They saw their standard fall, and left their monarch bound.
Akenside.
HER GRACE
THE DUCHESS OF WELLINGTON,
PRINCESS OF WATERLOO,
THE F O I- 1. O W I N G \" E K S E S
A HE MOST KESPECTIUI.lv I N S C K I B E D
BY
THE AUTHOR.
It may be some apology for the imperfections of this poem, that it was composed
hastily, and during a short tour upon the Continent, when the Author's labours were
liable to frequent interruption ; but its best apology is, that it was written for the
purpose of assisting the Waterloo Subscription.
Abbotsforu, 1815.
Fair Brussels, thou art far behind,
Though, lingering on the morning
wind,
We yet may hear the liour
Peal'd over orchard and canal,
With voice prolong'd and measured
fall.
From proud Saint Michael's
tower ;
Thy wood, dark Soignies, holds us
now,
Where the tall beeches' glossy bough
For many a league around,
With birch and darksome oak between,
Spreads deep and far a pathless screen
Of tangled forest ground.
Stems planted close by stems defy
The adventurous foot — the curious eye
For access seeks in vain ;
X 5
620
e^e fiefi of (VOaUvioo.
And the brown tapestry of leaves,
Strew'd on the blighted ground,
receives
Nor sun, nor air, nor rain.
No opening glade dawns on our way,
No streamlet, glancing to the ray,
Our woodland path has cross'd ;
And the straight causeway which we
tread
Prolongs a line of dull arcade,
Unvaryingthroughthe unvaried shade
Until in distance lost.
A brighter, livelier scene succeeds ;
In groups the scattering wood recedes,
Hedge-rows, and huts, and sunny
meads,
And corn-fields glance between ;
The peasant, at his labour blithe.
Plies the hook'd staff and shorten'd
scj'the :
But ^vhen these ears were green,
Placed close within destruction's
scope.
Full little was that rustic's hope
Their ripening to have seen I
And, lo, a hamlet and its fane —
Let not the gazer with disdain
Their architecture view ;
For yonder rude ungraceful shrine
And disproportion'd spire are thine,
Immortal Waterloo !
Fear not the heat, though full and
high
The sun has scorch'd the autumn sky,
And scarce a forest straggler now
To shade us spreads a greenwood
bough ;
These fields have seen a hotter day
Than e'er was fired by sunny ray.
Yet one mile on — yon shatter'd hedge
Crests the soft hill whose long smooth
ridge
Looks on the field below,
And sinks so gently on the dale.
That not the folds of Beauty's veil
In easier curves can flow.
Brief space from thence the ground
again.
Ascending slowly from the plain,
Forms an opposing screen.
Which with its crest of upland ground
Shuts the horizon all around.
The soften'd vale between
Slopes smooth and fair for courser's
tread ; —
Not the most timid maid need dread
To give her snow-white palfrey head
On that wide stubble-ground ;
Norwood, nor tree, nor bush is there,
Her course to intercept or scare.
Nor fosse nor fence is found,
Save where, from out her shatter'd
bowers.
Rise Hougomont's dismantled towers.
Now, see'st thou aught in this lone
scene
Can tell of that which late hath been ? —
A stranger might reply,
' The bare extent of stubble-plain
Seems lately lighten'd of its grain ;
And yonder sable tracks remain
Marks of the peasant's ponderous wain,
When harvest-home was nigh.
On these broad spots of trampled
ground,
Perchance the rustics danced such
round
As Teniers loved to draw;
And where the earth seems scorch'd
b^' flame,
To dress the homely feast they came.
And toil'd the kerchiefed village dame
Around her fire of straw.'
So deem'st thou ; so each mortal deems,
Of that which isfrom that which seems :
But other harvest here,
^U ftef^ of (Batetfoo.
621
Than that which peasant's scythe-
demands,
Was gather'd in by sterner hands,
With baj'onet, blade, and spear.
No vulgar crop was theirs to reap,
No stinted harvest thin and cheap 1
Heroes before each fatal sweep
Fell thick as ripen'd grain ;
And ere the darkening of the day,
Piled high as autumn shocks, there lay
The ghastly harvest of the fray,
The corpses of the slain.
VI.
Ay, look again : that line, so black
And trampled, marks the bivouac ;
Yon deep-graved ruts the artillery's
track,
So often lost and won ;
And close beside, the harden'd mud
Still shows where, fetlock-deep in
blood.
The fierce dragoon through battle's
flood
Dash'd the hot war-horse on.
These spots of excavation tell
The ravage of the bursting shell ;
And feel'st thou not the tainted steam.
That reeks against the sultry beam,
From yonder trenched mound ?
The pestilential fumes declare
That Carnage has replenish'd there
Her garner-house profound.
VII.
Far other harvest-home and feast,
Than claims the boor from scythe
released,
On these scorch'd fields were
known !
Death hover'd o'er the maddening rout.
And, in the thrilling battle-shout.
Sent for the blood\r banquet out
A summons of his own.
Through rolling smoke the Demon's
eye
Could well each destined guest espy.
Well could his ear in ecstasy
Distinguish every tone
That fill'd the chorus of the fray —
From cannon-roar and trumpet-brav.
From charging squadrons' wild hurra,
From the wild clang that mark'd their
wa3' —
Down to the dying groan
And the last sob of life's decaj^
When breath was all but flown.
VIII.
Feast on, stern foe of mortal life,
Feast on ! but think not that a strife,
With such promiscuous carnage rife.
Protracted space may last ;
The deadly tug of war at length
Must limits find in human strength,
And cease when these are past.
Vain hope ! that morn's o'erclouded
sun
Heard the wild shout of fight begun
Ere he attain'd his height,
And through the war-smoke, vokuned
high,
Still peals that unremitted cry,
Though now he stoops to night.
For ten long hours of doubt and dread,
Freshsuccoursfromthe extended head
Of either hill the contest fed ;
Still down the slope they drew,
The charge of columns paused not.
Nor ceased the storm of shell and shot ;
For all that war could do
Of skill and force was proved that day,
And turn'd not yet the doubtful fray
On blood}^ Waterloo.
IX.
Pale Brussels I then what thoughts
were thine,
When ceaseless from the distant line
Continued thunders came !
Each burgher held his breath to hear
These forerunners of havoc near,
Of rapine and of flame.
What ghastly sights were thine to
meet,
When rolling through thy stately
street,
622
ZU S^^f^ «f (^<^ttrfoo.
The wounded show'd their mangled
plight
In token of the unfinish'd fight,
And from each anguish-laden wain
Theblood-dropslaid thy dust like rain 1
How often in the distant drum
Heard'st thou the fell Invader come,
While Ruin, shouting to his band.
Shook high her torch and gorj'
brand ! —
Cheer thee, fair City ! From yon stand,
Impatient, still his outstretch'd hand
Points to his prey in vain,
While maddening in his eager mood.
And all unwont to be withstood,
He fires the fight again.
' On ! on ! ' was still his stern exclaim;
' Confront the batter3''s jaws of flame !
Rush on the levell'd gun !
My steel-clad cuirassiers, advance !
Each Hulan forward with his lance !
My Guard, my Chosen, charge for
France,
France and Napoleon ! '
Loud answer'd their acclaiming shout.
Greeting the mandate which sent out
Their bravest and their best to dare
The fate theirleader shunn'd to share.
But He, hiscountry'sswordandshield,
Still in the battle-front revcal'd
Where danger fiercest swept the field,
Came like a beam of light;
In action prompt, in sentence brief,
'Soldiers, stand firm,' exclaim'd the
Chief,
' England shall tell the fight ! '
On came the whirlwind, like the last
But fiercest sweep of tempest-blast —
On came the whirlwind ! steel-gleams
broke
Like lightning through the rolling
smoke ;
The war was waked anew;
Three hundred cannon-mouths roar'd
loud,
And from their throats, with flash and
cloud,
Their showers of iron threw.
Beneath their fire, in full career,
Rush'd on the ponderous cuirassier.
The lancer couch'd his ruthless spear,
And hurrying as to havoc near.
The cohorts' eagles flew.
In one dark torrent, broad and strong,
The advancing onset roll'd along.
Forth harbinger'd by fierce acclaim.
That, from the shroud of smoke and
flame,
Peal'd wildl}' the imperial name.
But on the British heart were lost
The terrors of the charging host ;
For not an eye the storm that view'd
Changed its proud glance of fortitude.
Nor was one forward footstep staid.
As dropp'd the dying and the dead.
Fast as their ranks the thunders tear.
Fast they renew'd each serried square.
And on the wounded and the slain
Closed their diminish'd files again,
Till from their line, scarce spears'
lengths three,
Emerging from the smoke they see
Helmet, and plume, and panoply;
Then waked their fire at once !
Each musketeer's revolving knell
As fast, as regularly fell.
As when they practise to display
Their discipline on festal day ;
Then down went helm and lance !
Down were the eagle banners sent,
Down reeling steeds and riders went.
Corslets were pierced, and pennons
rent,
And, to augment the fray,
Wheel'd full against their staggering
flanks.
The English horsemen's foaming ranks
Forced their resistless way.
ZU Sief^ of (^afereoo.
623
Then to the musket-knell succeeds
The clash ofswords, the neigh ofsteeds;
As plies the smith his clanging trade,
Against the cuirass rang the blade ;
And while amid their close array
The well-served cannon rent their
way,
And while amid their scatter'd band
Raged the fierce rider's bloody brand,
Recoil'd in common rout and fear
Lancer and guard and cuirassier,
Horsemen and foot, a mingled host,
Their leaders fall'n, their standards lost.
Then, Wellington, thy piercing eye
This crisis caught of destiny;
The British host had stood
That morn 'gainst charge of sword
and lance
As their own ocean-rocks hold stance,
But when thy voice had said, ' Ad-
vance ! '
They were their ocean's flood.
O thou, whose inauspicious aim
Hath wrought thy host this hour of
shame,
Think'st thou thy broken bands will
bide
The terrors of yon rushing tide ?
Or will thy Chosen brook to feel
The British shock of levell'd steel.
Or dost thou turn thine eye
Where coming squadrons gleam afar.
And fresher thunders wake the war,
And other standards fly?
Think not that in yon columns, file
Thy conquering troops from Distant
Dyle—
Is Blucher yet unknown ?
Or dwells not in thy memory still,
(Heard frequent in thine hour of ill)
What notes of hate and vengeance
thrill
In Prussia's trumpet tone ?
What yet remains? shall it be thine
To head the relics of tli}- line
In one dread effort moi'e ?
The Roman lore thy leisure loved.
And thou canst tell what fortune proved
That Chieftain, who, of yore.
Ambition's dizzy paths essay 'd.
And with the gladiators' aid
For empire enterprised :
He stood the cast his rashness play VI,
Left not the victims he had made,
Dug his red grave with his own blade
And on the field he lost was laid,
Abhorr'd — but not despised.
XIV.
But if revolves th}' fainter thought
On safety, howsoever bought.
Then turn thy fearful rein and ride,
Though twice ten thousand men ha\e
died
On this eventful day,
To gild the military fame
Which thou, for life, in traftlc tame
Wilt barter thus away.
Shall future ages tell this talc
Of inconsistence faint and frail ?
And art thou he of Lodi's bridge,
Marengo's field, and Wagram's ridge !
Or is thj' soul like mountain-tide,
That, swell'd by winter storm and
shower.
Rolls down in turbulence of power,
A torrent fierce and wide ;
Reft of these aids, a rill obscure,
Shrinking unnoticed, mean and poor,
Whose channel shows display'd
The wrecks of its impetuous course.
But not one symptom of the force
By which these wrecks were
made !
XV.
Spur on thy way ! since now thine ear
Has brook'd thy veterans' wish to hear,
Who, as thy flight they eyed,
Exclaim'd, while tears of anguish came.
Wrung forth by pride, and rage, and
shame,
' O that he had but died ! '
624
^U S'^^^ «f (?^<^t^vfoo.
But yet, to sum this hour of ill,
Look, ere thou leavest the fatal hill,
Back on yon broken ranks
Upon whose wild confusion gleams
The moon, as on the troubled streams
When rivers break their banks,
And, to the ruin'd peasant's eye,
Objects half seen roll swiftly by,
Down the dread current hurl'd :
So mingle banner, wain, and gun,
Where the tumultuous flight rolls on
Of ■warriors, who, when morn begun.
Defied a banded world.
List ! frequent to the hurrying rout
The stern pursuers' vengeful shout
Tells that upon their broken rear
Rages the Prussian's bloody spear.
So fell a shriek was none,
When Beresina's icy Hood
Redden'd and thaw'd ^vith flame and
blood.
And, pressing on thy desperate way.
Raised oft and long their wild hurra.
The children of the Don.
Thine ear no yell of horror cleft
So ominous, when, all bereft
Of aid, the valiant Polack left —
Ay, left by thee — found soldier's grave
In Leipsic's corpse-encumber'd wave.
Fate, in those various perils past,
Reserved thee still some future cast ;
On the dread die thou now hast
thrown,
Hangs not a single field alone.
Nor one campaign ; thy martial fame.
Thy empire, dynasty, and name,
Ha\'e felt the final stroke ;
And now, o'er thy devoted head
The last stern vial's wrath is shed,
The last dread seal is broke.
Since li\'e thou wilt, refuse not now
Before these demagogues to bow.
Late objects of thy scorn and hate,
Who shall thy once imperial fate
Make wordy theme of vain debate
Or shall we say thou stoop'st less low
In seeking refuge from the foe
Againstwhose heart, in prosperous life.
Thine hand hath ever held the knife ?
Such homage hath been paid
By Roman and by Grecian voice,
And there were honour in the choice.
If it were freely made.
Then safely come : in one so low,
So lost, we cannot own a foe ;
Though dear experience bid us end
In thee we ne'er can hail a friend.
Come, howsoe'er : but do not hide
Close in thy heart that germ of pride,
Erewhile, by gifted bard espied,
That ' yet imperial hope ' ;
Think not that for a fresh rebound,
To raise ambition from the ground.
We yield thee means or scope.
In safety come : but ne'er again
Hold type of independent reign;
No islet calls thee lord.
We leave thee no confederate band.
No symbol of thy lost command,
To be a dagger in the hand
From which we wrench'd the
sword.
Yet even in yon sequester'd spot
May worthier conquest be thy lot
Than yet thy life has known ;
Conquest, unbought by blood or harm.
That needs nor foreign aid nor arm,
A triumph all thine own.
.Such waits thee when thou shalt
control
Those passions wild, that stubborn
soul.
That marr'd thy prosperous scene :
Hear this from no unmoved heart.
Which sighs, comparing what thou art
With what thou might'st have
been I
ZH S^^^^ of (^(^ttvioo.
625
Thou, too, whose deeds of fame
renew'd
Bankrupt a nation's gratitude.
To thine own noble heart must owe
More than the meed she can bestow.
For not a people's just acclaim,
Not the full hail of Europe's fame,
Thy Prince's smiles, thy State's decree.
The ducal rank, the garter'd knee, —
Not these such pure delight afford
As that, when hanging up thy sword,
Well may'st thou think, 'This honest
steel
Was ever drawn for public weal ;
And, such was rightful Heaven's
decree,
Ne'er sheathed unless with victory ! '
XX.
Look forth once more with soften'd
heart,
Ere from the field of fame we part ;
Triumph and sorrow border near.
And joy oft melts into a tear.
Alas I what links of love that morn
Has war's rude hand asunder torn !
For ne'er was field so sternly fought.
And ne'er was conquest dearer bought.
Here piled in common slaughter sleep
Those whom affection long shall weep :
Here rests the sire, that ne'er shall
strain
His orphans to his heart again ;
The son, whom on his native shore
The parent's voice shall bless no more ;
The bridegroom, who has hardly
press'd
His blushing consort to his breast;
The husband, whom through many a
year
Long love and mutual faith endear.
Thou canst not name one tender tie.
But here dissolved its relics lie !
O ! when thou see'st some mourner's
veil
Shroud her thin form and visage pale ;
Or mark'st the matron's bursting tears
Stream when the stricken drum she
hears ;
Or see'st how manlier grief, sup-
press'd.
Is labouring in a father's breast, —
With no enquiry vain pursue
The cause, but think on Waterloo !
XXI.
Period of honour as of woes,
What bright careers 'twas thine to close!
Mark'd on thy roll of blood what names
To Briton's memory, and to Fame's,
Laid there their last immortal claims !
Thou saw'st in seas of gore expire
Redoubted Picton's soul of fire,
Saw'st in the mingled carnage lie
All that of Ponsonbj' could die,
De Lancey change Love's bridal-
wreath
For laurels from the hand of Death,
Saw'st gallant Miller's failing eye
.Still bent where Albion's banners fly.
And Cameron in the shock of steel
Die like the offspring of Lochiel ;
And generous Gordon 'mid the strife
Fall while he watch'd his leader's life.
Ah ! though herguardian angel's shield
Fenced Britain's hero through thefield,
Fate not the less her power made
known,
Through his friends' hearts to pierce
his own !
XXII.
Forgive, brave Dead, the imperfect laj'!
Who may your names, your numbers,
say?
What high-strung harp, what lofty line.
To each the dear-earn'd praise assign.
From high-born chiefs of martial fame
To the poor soldier's lowlier name ?
Lightly ye rose that dawning day.
From your cold couch of swamp and
clay.
To fill, before the sun was low.
The bed that morning cannot know.
626
ZU Stef^ of (JOaterfoo.
Oft may the tear the green sod steep,
And sacred be the heroes' sleep,
Till time shall cease to run ;
And ne'er beside their noble grave,
Ma}' Briton pass and fail to crave
A blessing on the fallen brave
Who fought with Wellington !
Farewell, sad Field ! whose blighted
face
Wears desolation's withering trace ;
Long shall my memory retain
Thy shatter'd huts and trampled grain,
With every mark of martial wrong,
That scathe thy towers, fair Hougo-
mont !
Yet though thy garden's green arcade
The marksman's fatal post was made,
Though on thj' shatter'd beeches fell
The blended rage of shot and shell.
Though from thy blacken'd portals
torn.
Their fall thy blighted fruit-trees
mourn,
Has not such havoc brought a name
Immortal in the rolls of fame ?
Yes, Agincourt may be forgot.
And Cressj' be an unknown spot.
And Blenheim's name be new ;
But still in story and in song,
For many an age remember'd long,
Shall live the towers of Hougomont,
And field of Waterloo.
Stern tide of human Time ! that
know'st not rest,
But, sweeping from the cradle to
the tomb,
Bear'st ever downward on thy duskj-
breast
Successive generations to their
doom ;
While th}- capacious stream has
equal room
For the gay bark where pleasure's
streamers sport,
And for the prison-ship of guilt
and gloom,
The fisher-skifl', and barge that bears
a court.
Still wafting onward all to one dark
silent port ;^
Stern tide of Time ! through what
mysterious change
Of hope and fear have our frail barks
been driven !
For ne'er before, vicissitude so
strange
Was to one race of Adam's offspring
given.
And sure such varied change of sea
and heaven
Such unexpected bursts of J03' and
woe.
Such fearful strife as that where we
have striven,
Succeeding ages ne'er again shall
know,
Until the awful term when thou shalt
cease to flow 1
Well hast thou stood, my Countr}'!
the brave fight
Hast well maintain'd through good
report and ill ;
In thy just cause and in thy native
might.
And in Heaven's grace and justice
constant still ;
Whether the banded prowess,
strength, and skill
Of half the world against thee stood
array'd,
Or when, with better views and freer
will,
Beside thee Europe's noblest drew
the blade.
Each emulous in arms the Ocean
Queen to aid.
ZU itef^ of (^ftferfoo.
627
Well art thou now repaid ; though
slowly rose
And struggfled long with mists thy
blaze of fame,
Whilelikethedawn that intheorient
glows
On the broad wave its earlier lustre
came ;
Then eastern Egypt saw the growing
flame,
And Maida's myrtles glcam'd
beneath its ray,
Where first the soldier, stung with
generous shame,
Rivall'dthcherocsofthe wat'ryway,
And wash'd in focmen's gore unjust
reproach away.
Now, Island Empress, wave thy
crest on high,
And bid the banner of thy patron
flow,
Gallant Saint George, the flower of
Chivalry,
For thou hast faced, like him, a
dragon foe,
And rescued innocence from over-
throw,
And trampled down, like him,
tyrannic might,
And to the gazing world mayst
proudly show
The chosen emblem of thy sainted
Knight,
Who quell'd devouring pride, and
vindicated right.
Yet 'mid the confidence of just
renown.
Renown dear-bought, but dearest
thus acquired,
Write, Britain, write the moral lesson
down :
'Tis not alone the heart with valour
fired.
The discipline so dreaded and
aduiired.
In many a field of bloody conquest
known ;
Such may by fame be lured, by gold
be hired ;
'Tis constancy in the good cause
alone,
Best justifies the meed thy valiant sons
have won.
END OF THE FIELD OF WATERLOO.
(nofe0 ^0 (U fief^ of (^aUtko.
Note I.
77; ^ feasant, at his labour blithe.
Plies the hook'd staff aitd shorteiCd scythe.
—P. 620.
The reaper in Flanders carries in his left
hand a stick with an iron hook, with which he
collects as much grain as he can cut at one
sweep with a short scythe, which he holds in
his right hand. They carry on this double
process with great spirit and dexterity.
Note II.
Pale Brussels! then what thoughts were
thine. — P. 621.
It was affirmed by the prisoners of war, that
Bonaparte had promised his army, in case of
victory, twenty-four hours' plunderof the city
of Brussels.
Note III.
' On ! On 1 ' zi'as still his stern exclaim.
-P. 622.
The characteristic obstinacy of Napoleon
was never more fully displayed than in what
we may be permitted to nope will prove the
last of his fields. He would listen to no
advice, and allow of no obstacles. An e\e-
witness has given the following account of his
demeanour towards the end of the action : —
' It was near seven o'clock ; Bonaparte, who
till then had remained upon the ridge of the
hill whence he could best behold what passed,
contemplated with a stern countenance the
scene of this horrible slaughter. The more
that obstacles seemed to multiply, the more
his obstinacy seemed to increase. He became
indignant at these unforeseen difficulties; and,
far from fearing to push to extremities an
army whose confidence in him was boundless,
he ceased not to pour down fresh troops, and
to give orders to march forward — to charge
witli the bayonet — to carry by storm. He
was repeatedly informed, from different points,
that the day went against him, and that the
troops seemed to be disordered ; to which he
only replied, — ^^ En-avant ! En-avaiit 1 " '
'One general sent to inform the Emperor
that he was in a position which he could not
maintain, because it was commanded by
a battery, and requested to know, at the
same time, in what way he should protect
his division from the murderous fire of
the English artillerj-. "Let him storm the
battery," replied Bonap.irte, and turned his
back on the aide-de-camp who brought the
message.' — /?t:/a/w« de la Bataille de Mont-
St.Jean. Par niiTc main Oculairc. Paris.
1815, 8vo, p. 51^
Note IV.
The fate their leader shnini'd to share.
-P. 622.
It has been reported that Bonaparte charged
at the head of his guards, at the last period of
this dreadful conflict. This, however, is not
accurate. He came down indeed to a hollow
part of the high road, leading to Charleroi,
within less than a quarter of a mile of the
farm of La Haye Sainte, one of the points
most fiercely disputed. Here he harangued
the guards, and informed them that his
precedingoperations had destroyed the British
mfantry and cavalry, and that they hadonlv
to support the fire of the artillerv', which theV
were to attack with the bayonet. This
exhortation was received with shouts of Vive
r Entperetir, which were heard over all our
line, and led to an idea that Napoleon was
charging in person. I!ut the guards were led
on by Ney ; nor did Bonaparte approach
nearer the scene of action than the spot
already mentioned, which the rising banks
on each side rendered secure from all such
balls as did not come in a straight line. He
witnessed the earlier part of the battle from
places yet more remote, particularly from an
observatory' which had been placed there by
the King of the Netherlands, some weeks
before, for the purpose of surveying the
countrj-. It is not meant to infer from these
particulars that Napoleon showed, on that
Qtofee to tU 3^^^ «f (^(^i^^^oo.
629
memorable occasion, the least deficiency in
personal courage ; on tlie contrary, lie evinced
the greatest composure and presence of mind
during the whole action. But it is no less
true that report has erred in ascribing to him
any desperate efforts of valour for recovery
of the nattle ; and it is remarkable that
during the whole carnage, none of his suite
were either killed or wounded, whereas
scarcely one of the Duke of Wellington's
personal attendants escaped unhurt.
Note V.
England shall tell thejight! — P. 622.
In riding up to a regiment which was hard
pressed, the Dukecalled totlie men, 'Soldiers,
we must ne\ er be beat, — what will thej- say
in England-' It is needless to saj- how this
appeal was answered.
Note VI.
As plies /lie smith his clausing trade.
— I'. 623.
A private soldier of the Q5tli regiment
compared the sound which took place im-
mediately upon the British cavalry mingling
with those of the enemy, to 'n thousand
tinkers at work mendiiig pots and kettles.^
Note VII.
The British shock of leveird steel. — P. bix.
No persuasion or authority could prevail
upon the French troops to stand the shock
of the bayonet. The Imperial Guards, in
particular, hardly stood till the British were
within thirty yards of them, although the
French author, already quoted, has put into
their mouths the magn.animous sentiment,
'The Guards never yield — they die.' The
same author has covered the plateau, or
eminence, of St. Jean, which formed the
British position, with redoubts and retrench-
ments which never had an existence. As the
narrative, which is in many respects curious,
was writ ten b^' an eye-witness, he was probably
deceived by the appearance of a road and
ditch whicii run along part of the hill. It
may be also mentioned, in criticising this
work, that the writer mentions the Cli.iteau
of Hougomont to have been carried by the
French, although it was resolutely ancf suc-
cessfully defended during the whole action.
The enemy, indeed, possessed themselves of
the wood \iy which it is surrounded, and at
length set fire to the house itself; but the
British (a detachment of the Guards, under
the command of Colonel Macdonnell, and
afterwards of Colonel Home) made good the
garden, and thus preserved, by their desperate
resistance, the post which covered the return
of the Duke of \\'ellington's right flank.
(gattAie
TRANSLATED OK IMITATED
^xom t^t ^ttman.
WILLIAM AND HELEN.
From heavy dreams fair Helen rose,
And eyed the dawning red :
' Alas, my love, thou tarriest long !
O art thou false or dead ? '
With gallant Fred'rick's princely
power
He sought the bold Crusade ;
But not a word from Judah's wars
Told Helen how he sped.
With Paynim and with Saracen
At length a truce was made,
And every knight return'd to dry
The tears his love had shed.
Our gallant host was homeward bound
With many a song of joj' ;
Green waved the laurel in each plume,
The badge of victory.
And old and young, and sire and son,
To meet them crowd the way.
With shouts, and mirth, and melody.
The debt of love to pay.
Full many a maid her true-love met,
And sobb'd in his embrace,
And flutt'ring joy in tears and smiles
Array'd full many a face.
Nor joy nor smile for Helen sad ;
She sought the host in vain ;
For none could tell her William's
fate.
If faithless, or if slain.
The martial band is past and gone ;
She rends her raven hair,
And in distraction's bitter mood
She weeps with wild despair.
'O rise, my child,' her mother said,
' Nor sorrow thus in vain ;
A perjured lover's fleeting heart
No tears recall again.'
' O mother, what is gone, is gone,
What 's lost for ever lorn :
Death, death alone can comfort me;
O had I ne'er been born !
' O break, my heart — O break at once :
Drink my life-blood, Despair!
No joy remains on earth for me,
For me in heaven no share.'
' O enter not in judgment, Lord I'
The pious mother prays ;
' Impute not guilt to thy frail child !
She knows not what she says.
(Ptfftam onb ^efen.
631
' O say thy pater noster, child !
O turn to God and grace !
His will, that turn'd thy bliss to bale,
Can change thy bale to bliss.'
' O mother, mother, what is bliss ?
O mother, what is bale?
MyWilliam's love was heaven on earth.
Without it earth is hell.
'Why should I pray to ruthless
Heaven,
Since my loved William 's slain ?
I only pray'd for William's sake,
And all my prayers were vain.'
' O take the sacrament, my child,
And check these tears that ilow ;
By resignation's humble prayer,
O hallow'd be thy woe ! '
'No sacrament can quench this fire,
Or slake this scorching pain ;
No sacrament can bid the dead
Arise and live again.
' O break, my heart — O break at once !
Be thou my god, Despair !
Heaven's heaviest blow has fallen on
me.
And vain each fruitless prayer.'
' O enter not in judgment. Lord,
With thy frail child of clay !
She knows not what her tongue has
spoke ;
Impute it not, I pray !
' Forbear, mychild,this desperatewoe,
And turn to God and grace ;
Well can devotion's heavenly glow
Convert thy bale to bliss.'
' O mother, mother, what is bliss?
O mother, what is bale ?
Without my William what were
heaven,
Or with him what were hell' '
Wild she arraigns the eternal doom,
Upbraids each sacred power,
Till, spent, she sought her silent room.
All in the lonely tower.
She beat her breast, she wrung her
hands,
Till sun and day were o'er,
And through the glimmering lattice
shone
The twinkling of the star.
Then, crash ! the heavy drawbridge fell
That o'er the moat was hung ;
And, clatter ! clatter ! on its boards
The hoof of courser rung.
The clank of echoing steel was heard
As off the rider bounded ;
And slowly on the winding stair
A heavy footstep sounded.
And hark ! and hark! a knock — tap!
tap !
A rustling stifled noise ;
Door-latch and tinkling staples ring ;
At length a whispering voice :
' Awake, awake, arise, my love!
How, Helen, dost thou fare •
Wak'st thou, or sleep'st ? laugh'st
thou, or weep'st?
Hast thought on me, my fair?'
' My love ! my love ! — so late by night!
I waked, I wept for thee :
Much have I borne since dawn of morn;
Where, William, couldst thou be?'
' We saddle late — from Hungary
I rode since darkness fell ;
And to its bourne we both return
Before the matin-bell.'
' O rest this night within my arms,
And warm thee in their fold !
Chill howls through hawthorn bush
the wind :
I\Iy love is deadly cold.'
63:
(^affal>0 from tU (Berman.
' Let the wind howl through hawthorn
bush !
This night we must away ;
The steed is wight, the spur is bright ;
I cannot stay till day.
' Busk, busk, and boune ! thou mount'st
behind
Upon my black barb steed :
O'er stock and stile, a hundred miles,
We haste to bridal bed.'
' To-night — to-night a hundred miles?
O dearest William, stay !
Tlie bell strikes twelve — dark, dismal
hour !
O wait, my love, till day !'
'Look here, look here — the moon
shines clear —
Full fast I ween we ride ;
Mount and away 1 for ere the day
We reach our bridal bed.
' The blackbarbsnorts, the bridle rings ;
Haste, busk, and boune, and seat
thee :
The feast is made, the chamber spread,
The bridal guests await thee.'
Strong love prevail'd. .She busks, she
bounes,
.She mounts the barb behind,
i\nd round her darling William's waist
Her lily arms she twined.
And, hurry! hurry! off they rode,
As fast as fast might be ;
Spurn'd from the courser's thundering
heels
The flashing pebbles flee.
And on the right, and on the left.
Ere they could snatch a view,
Fast, fast each mountain, mead, and
plain.
And cot, and castle flew.
' Sit fast — dost fear ? The moon shines
clear ;
Fleet goes my barb — keep hold !
Fear'stthou ?' 'Onol' she faintlj^said;
' But why so stern and cold ?
' What 3'onder rings ? what yonder
sings ?
Why shrieks the owlet grey ?'
• 'Tis death-bells' clang, 'tis funeral
song,
The body to the clay.
' With song and clang, at morrow's
dawn,
Ye may inter the dead :
To-night I ride, with mj'j^oung bride,
To deck our bridal bed.
' Come with thy choir, thou cofhn'd
guest.
To swell our nuptial song !
Come, priest, to bless our marriage
feast !
Come all, come all along 1'
Ceased clang and song; down sunk
the bier ;
The shrouded corpse arose :
And, hurry ! hurry ! all the train
The thundering steed pursues.
And, forward ! forward ! on they go ;
High snorts the straining steed ;
Thick pants the rider's labouring
breath.
As headlong on they speed.
■ O William, why this savage haste ?
And where thy bridal bed ?'
''Tis distant far, low, damp, and chill.
And narrow, trustless maid.'
' No room for me r ' Enough for both;
Speed, speed, my barb, thy course I'
O'er thundering bridge, through boil-
ing surge
He drove the furious horse.
(^iffiant (xn^ ^efen.
633
Tramp I tramp 1 along the land they
rode,
Splash ! splash I along the sea ;
The scourge is wight, the spur is
bright.
The flashing pebbles flee.
Fled past on right and left how fast
Each forest, grove, and bower 1
On right and left fled past how fast
Each city, town, and tower!
'Dost fear? dost fear? The moon
shines clear,
Dost fear to ride with me ?
Hurrah ! hurrah ! the dead can ride 1 '
' O William, let them be !
' See there, see there 1 What yonder
swings.
And creaks 'mid whistling rain ?'
' Gibbet and steel, tli' accursed wheel ;
A murderer in his chain.
' Hollo 1 thou felon, follow here :
To bridal bed we ride ;
And thou shalt prance a fetter dance
Before me and my bride."
And, hurry 1 hurrj' 1 clash ! clash !
clash !
The \vasted form descends ;
And fleet as wind through hazel bush
The wild career attends.
Tramp! tramp! along the land thej'
rode,
Splash ! splash ! along the sea ;
The scourge is red, the spur drops
blood.
The flashing pebbles flee.
How fled what moonshine fainth'
show'd !
How fled what darkness hid !
How fled the earth beneath their feet.
The heaven above their head I
'Dost fear? dost fear? The moon
shines clear,
And well the dead can ride ;
Does faithful Helen fear for them ?'
' O leave in peace the dead !'
'Barb! barb! methinksl hearthecock;
The sand will soon be run :
Barb! barb! I smell the morning air;
The race is wellnigh done.'
Tramp ! tramp ! along the land they
rode.
Splash ! splash ! along the sea ;
The scourge is red, the spur drops
blood.
The flashing pebbles flee.
' Hurrah ! hurrah ! well ride the dead ;
The bride, the bride is come ;
And soon we reach the bridal bed,
For, Helen, here 's my home.'
Reluctant on its rusty hinge
Revolved an iron door,
And by the pale moon's setting beam
Were seen a church and tower.
With many a shriek and cr^'. \vhiz
round
The birds of midnight, scared ;
And rustling like autumnal leaves
Unhallow'd ghosts were heard.
O'er many a tomb and tombstone pale
He spurr'd the fiery horse.
Till sudden at an open grave
He check'd the wondrous course.
The falling gauntlet quits the rein,
Down drops the casque of steel.
The cuirass leaves his shrinking side.
The spur his gory heel.
The ej'es desert the naked skull,
The mould'ring flesh the bone,
Till Helen's lily arms entwine
A ghastly skeleton.
6.34
(^affabe from tU (Berman.
The furious barb snorts fire and foam,
And, with a fearful bound,
Dissolves at once in empty air,
And leaves her on the ground.
Half seen by fits, bj- fits half heard.
Pale spectres Hit along.
Wheel round the maid in dismal dance,
And howl the funeral song;
' E'en when the heart 's with anguish
cleft,
Revere the doom of Heaven !
Her soul is from her body reft :
Her spirit be forgiven I '
THE WILD HUNTSMAN.
The Wildgrave winds his bugle-horn,
To horse, to horse I halloo, halloo!
His ficrj' courser snufls the morn.
And thronging serfs their lord
pursue.
The eager pack, from couples freed,
Dash through the bush, the brier,
the brake ;
While, answering hound, and liorn.
and steed,
Tlie mountain echoes startling wake.
The beams of God's own hallow'd day
Had painted j-onder spire with gold,
And, calling sinful man to pra^',
Loud, lung, and deep the bell had
toll'd.
Rut still the Wildgrave onward rides ;
Halloo, halloo 1 and, hark again I
When, spurring from opposing sides.
Two Stranger Horsemen join the
train.
Who was each .Stranger. Icftand right.
Well may I guess, but dare not tell ;
The right-hand steed was silver white,
The left, the swarthv hue of hell.
The right-hand Horseman, young and
fair.
His smile was like the morn of Way ;
The left, from eye of tawnj' glare.
Shot midnight lightning's lurid ra^'.
He waved his huntsman's cap on high,
Cried, ' Welcome, welcome, noble
lordl
What sport can earth, or sea, or sk^-,
To match the princely chase, afford ? '
'Cease thj'loudbugle's clanging knell,'
Cried the fair 3'outh, with silver
voice ;
'And for devotion's choral swell,
Exchange the rude unhallow'd noise.
' To-day, the ill-omen'd chase forbear,
Yon bell yet summons to the fane ;
To-day the Warning Spirit hear.
To-morrow thou maj'st mourn in
vain.'
'Away, and sweep the glades along 1 '
The Sable Hunter hoarse replies ;
'To muttering monks leave matin-song,
And bells, and books, and mysteries.'
The W^ildgrave spurr'd his ardent
steed.
And, launching forward with a
bound,
' Who, for thy ilrows}' priestlike rede.
Would lea\e the jovial horn and
hound ?
' Hence, if our manly sport offend !
With pious fools go chant and pray :
Well hast thou spoke, m_v dark-brow'd
friend :
Halloo, halloo 1 and hark away 1 '
The Wildgrave spurr'd his courser
light,
O'er moss and moor, o'er holt and
hill;
And on the left and on the right.
Each Stranger Horseman follow'd
still.
Z^t (VOii^ ]^\xnt6mar\.
63J
Up springs, fromyoiider tangled thorn,
A stag more white than mountain
snow;
And louder rung the Wildgrave's horn,
'Hark forward, forward! holla, hoi'
A heedlesswretchhascross'dthe waj' ;
He gasps the thundering hoofs
below ; —
But, live who can, or die who may,
Still. ' forward, forward ! ' on they go.
See, where 3'on simple fences meet,
A field with Autumn's blessings
crown'd :
See, prostrate at the "Wildgrave's feet,
A husbandman with toil embrown'd:
' O mere}', mercy, noble lord I
Spare the poor's pittance,' was his
cry,
' Earn'd by the sweat these brows ha\e
pour'd.
In scorching hour of fierce Jul}'.'
Earnest the right-hand Stranger
pleads.
The left still cheering to the prey ;
The impetuous Earl no warning heeds,
But furious holds the onward waj'.
' Away, thou hound I so basely born.
Or dread the scourge's echoing
blow ! '
Then loudly rung his bugle-horn,
■ Hark forward, forward I holla, ho 1 '
So said, so done : A single bound
Clears the poor labourer's humble
pale;
Wild follows man, and horse, and
hound.
Like dark December's stormj- gale.
And man and horse, and hound and
horn,
Destructive sweep the field along;
While, joying o'er the wasted corn,
Fell Famine marks the maddening
throng.
Again uproused, the timorous prey
Scours moss and moor, and holt
and hill ;
Hard run, he feels his strength decay,
And trusts for life his simple skill.
Too dangerous solitude appear'd ;
He seeks the shelter of the crowd ;
Amid the flock's domestic herd
His harmless head he hopes to
shroud.
O'er moss and moor, and holt and hill,
His track the steady blood-hounds
trace ;
O'er moss and moor, unwearied still,
i The furious Earl pursues the chase.
I
Full lowly did the herdsman fall ;
' O spare, thou noble Baron, spare
I These herds, a widow's little all ;
I These flocks, an orphan's fleecy
care!'
Earnest the right-hand .Stranger
pleads,
The left still cheering to the prey ;
The Earl nor pra3'er nor pitj' heeds.
But furious keeps the onward wa\-.
' Unmanner'd dog ! To stop my sport
Vain were thy cant and beggar
whine.
Though human spirits, of thy sort,
Were tenants of these carrion kine ' '
Again he winds his bugle-horn,
• Hark forward, forward! holla, ho!'
And through the herd, in ruthless scorn,
He cheers his furious hounds to go.
In heaps the throttled victims fall ;
Down sinks theirmangled herdsman
near ;
The murderous cries the stag appal.
Again he starts, new-nerved by
fear.
636
(gaffaie front tU (Bertnan.
With blood besmear'd, and white with
foam,
While big the tears of anguish pour,
He seeks, amid the forest's gloom.
The humble hermit's hallow'd bower.
But man and horse, and horn and
hound,
Fast rattling on his traces go ;
The sacred chapel rung around
With, ' Hark away ! and, holla, ho ! '
All mild, amid the rout profane.
The holy hermit pour'd his prayer;
' Forbear with blood God's house to
stain ;
Revere his altar, and forbear !
' The meanest brute has rights to plead,
Which, wrong'dbycruelty, or pride.
Draw vengeance on the ruthless head :
Be warn'd at length, and turn aside.'
btill the Fair Horseman anxious pleads ;
The Black, wild whooping, points
the prey :
Alas ! the Earl no warning heeds,
But frantic keeps the forward way.
' Holy or not, or right or wrong.
Thy altar, and its rites, I spurn ;
Not sainted martyrs' sacred song.
Not God himself, shall make me
turn ! '
He spurs his horse, he winds his horn,
' Hark forward, forward ! holla, ho ! '
But off, on whirlwind's pinions borne,
The stag, the hut, the hermit, go.
And horse and man, and horn and
hound.
And clamour of the chase, was gone ;
For hoofs, and howls, and bugle-sound,
A deadly silence reign'd alone.
Wild gazed the affrighted Earl around ;
He strove in vain to wake his horn,
In vain to call : for not a sound
Could from his anxious lips be borne.
He listens for his trusty hounds ;
No distant baying reach'd his ears :
His courser, rooted to the ground.
The quickening spur unmindful
bears.
Still dark and darker frown the shades,
Dark as the darkness of the grave ;
And not a sound the still invades,
Save what a distant torrent gave.
High o'er the sinner's humbled head
At length the solemn silence broke ;
And, from a cloud of swarthy red.
The awful voice of thunder spoke.
' Oppressor of creation fair !
Apostate Spirits' harden'd tool !
Scorner of God ! Scourge of the poor!
The measure of thy cup is full.
* Be chased for ever through the wood ;
For ever roam the affrighted wild ;
And let thy fate instruct the proud,
God's meanest creature is his child."
'Tvvas hush'd : One flash, of sombre
glare.
With yellow tinged the forests
brown ;
Uprose the Wildgrave's bristling hair,
And horror chill'd each nerve and
bone.
Cold pour'd the sweat in freezing rill;
A rising wind began to sing ;
And louder, louder, louder still.
Brought storm and tempest on its
wing.
Earth heard the call ; her entrails rend ;
From yawning rifts, with manj'
a yell,
Mix'd with sulphureous flames, ascend
The misbegotten dogs of hell.
What ghastly Huntsman next arose,
Well may I guess, but dare not tell ;
His eye like midnight lightningglovvs.
His steed the swarthy hue of hell.
ZU Sitt^^l^in^,
637
The Wildgravc flics o'er bush and
thorn,
With many a shriek of helpless
woe ;
Behind him hound, and horse, and
horn,
And 'Hark away!' and 'Holla, ho !'
With wild despair's reverted eye.
Close, close behind, he marks the
throng.
With bloody fangs and eager cry ;
In frantic fear he scours along.
Still, still shall last the dreadful chase.
Till time itself shall have an end;
By day, they scour earth's cavern'd
space,
At midnight's witchinghour, ascend.
This is the horn, and hound, and horse,
That oft the lated peasant hears ;
Appall'd, he signs the frequent cross,
When the wild din invades his ears.
The wakeful priest oft drops a tear
For human pride, for human woe.
When, at his midnight mass, he hears
The infernal cry of 'Holla, ho '. '
THE FIRE-KING.
'Tlie blessing of the evil genii, which are
curses, were upon him.' — Eastern Tale.
Bold knights and fair dames, to my
harp give an ear,
Of love, and of war, and of wonder
to hear ;
And 3'ou haply may sigh, in the midst
of your glee.
At the tale of Count Albert, and fair
Rosalie.
O see you that castle, so strong and
so high \
And see you that lady, the tear in
her eye ?
And see you that palmer, from
Palestine's land,
The shell on his hat, and the staff
in his hand ?
• Now palmer, grey palmer, O tell
unto me,
What news bring j'ou home from the
Holy Countrie ?
And how goes the warfare by Galilee's
strand ?
And how fare our nobles, the flower
of the land V
' O well goes the warfare by Galilee's
wave.
For Gilead, and Nablous, and Ramah
we have ;
And well fare our nobles by Mount
Lebanon,
For the Heathen have lost, and the
Christians have won.'
A fair chain of gold 'mid her ringlets
there hung ;
O'er the palmer's grey locks the fair
chain has she flung :
'O palmer, grey palmer, this chain
be thy fee.
For the news thou hast brought from
the Holy Countrie.
'And, palmer, good palmer, by Gali-
lee's wave,
O saw ye Count Albert, the gentle
and brave ?
When the Crescent went back, and
the Red-cross rush'd on,
O saw ye him foremost on Mount
Lebanon ? '
' O lady, fair lady, the tree green it
grows ;
O lady, fair lady, the stream pure it
flows ;
638
(^affaie from tU <5erwan.
Your castle stands strong, and your
hopes soar on high ;
But, lady, fair lady, all blossoms to die.
'The green boughs they wither, the
thunderbolt fails,
It leaves of your castle but levin-
scorch'd walls ;
The pure stream runs muddy ; the
gay hope is gone ;
Count Albert is prisoner on Mount
Lebanon.'
O she 's ta'en a horse, should be fleet
at her speed ;
And she 's ta'en a sword, should be
sharp at her need ;
And she has ta'en shipping for
Palestine's land,
To ransom Count Albert from
Soldanrie's hand.
Small thought had Count Albert on
fair Rosalie,
Small thought on his faith, or his
knighthood, had he :
A heathenish damsel his light heart
had won.
The Soldan's fair daughter of Mount
Lebanon.
' O Christian, brave Christian, my
love vvouldst thou be,
Three things must thou do ere I
hearken to thee :
Our laws and our worship on thee
shalt thou take ;
And this thou shalt first do for
Zulema's sake.
' And, next, in the cavern, where
burns evermore
The mj'stical flame which the Curd-
mans adore.
Alone, and in silence, three nights
shalt thou wake ;
And this thou shalt next do for
Zulema's sake.
' And, last, thou shalt aid us with
counsel and hand,
To drive the Frank robber from
Palestine's land ;
For my lord and my love then Count
Albert I'll take.
When all this is accomplish'd for
Zulema's sake.'
He has thrown by his helmet, and
cross-handled sword.
Renouncing his knighthood, denying
his Lord ;
He has ta'en the green caftan, and
turban put on.
For the love of the maiden of fair
Lebanon.
And in the dread cavern, deep deep
under ground,
Which fifty steel gates and steel
portals surround.
He has watch'd until daybreak, but
sight saw he none,
.Save the flame burning bright on its
altar of stone.
Amazed was the Princess, the Soldan
amazed.
Sore murmur'd the priests as on
Albert they gazed ;
They search'd all his garments, and,
under his weeds,
They found, and took from him, his
rosary beads.
Again in the cavern, deep deep under
ground.
He watch'd the lone night, while the
winds whistled round ;
Far oft' was their murmur, it came not
more nigh,
The flame burn'd unmoved, and nought
else did he sp\'.
Loud murmur'd the priests, and
amazed was the King,
While many dark spells of their
witchcraft they sing ;
ZU S^te^Utn^.
639
They search'd Albert's body, and, lo !
on his breast
Was the sign of the Cross, by his
father impress'd.
The priests they erase it with care
and with pain,
And the recreant return'd to the
cavern again ;
But, as he descended, a whisper there
fell:
It was his good angel, who bade him
farewell !
High bristled his hair, his heart
flutter'd and beat,
And he turn'd him five steps, half
resolved to retreat ;
But his heart it was harden'd, his
purpose was gone.
When he thought of the Maiden of
fair Lebanon.
Scarce pass'd he the archway, the
threshold scarce trode.
When the winds from the four points
of heaven were abroad,
Thej' made each steel portal to rattle
and ring.
And, borne on the blast, came the
dread Fire-King.
Full sore rock'd the cavern whene'er
he drew nigh.
The fire on the altar blazed bickering
and high ;
In volcanic explosions the mountains
proclaim
The dreadful approach of the Monarch
of Flame.
Unmeasured in height, undistinguish'd
in form,
His breath it was lightning, his voice
it was storm ;
I ween the stout heart of Count Albert
^vas tame,
When he saw in his terrors the
Monarch of Flame.
In his hand a broad falchion blue-
glimmer'd through smoke.
And Mount Lebanon shook as the
monarch he spoke :
' With this brand shalt thou conquer,
thus long, and no more.
Till thou bend to the Cross, and the
Virgin adore.'
The cloud-shrouded Arm gives the
weapon ; and see !
The recreant receives the charm'd
gift on his knee :
The thunders growl distant, and faint
gleam the fires.
As, borne on the whirlwind, the phan-
tom retires.
Count Albert has arm'd him the
Paynim among.
Though his heart it was false, yet his
arm it was strong ;
And the Red-cross wax'd faint, and
the Crescent came on,
From the day he commanded on
Mount Lebanon.
From Lebanon's forests to Galilee's
wave.
The sands of Samaar drank the blood
of the brave ;
Till the Knights of the Temple, and
Knights of Saint John,
With Salem's King Baldwin, against
him came on.
The war-cymbals clatter'd, the trum-
pets replied.
The lances were couch'd, and they
closed on each side ;
And horsemen and horses Count
Albert o'erthrew.
Till he pierced the thick tumult King
Baldwin unto.
Against the chann'd blade which
Count Albert did wield,
The fence had been vain of the Kintc'i
Red-cross shield;
640
Q0affab0 from tU (Bertnan.
But a Page thrust liim forward the
monarch before,
i\nd cleft the proud turban the rene-
gade wore.
So fell was the dint, that Count
Albert stoop'd low
Before the cross'd shield, to his steel
saddlebow ;
And scarce had he bent to the Red-
cross his head,
'Bonne Grace, Notre Daiiie!^ he lui-
wittingly said.
Sore sigh'd the charm'd sword, for its
virtue was o'er,
It sprung from his grasp, and was
never seen more;
But true men have said, that the
lightning's red wing
Did waft back the brand to the dread
Fire-King.
He clench'd his set teeth, and his
gauntleted hand ;
He stretch'd, with one buflfet, that
Page on the strand.
As back from the stripling the broken
casque roll'd,
You might see the blue ey&s, and the
ringlets of gold.
Short time had Count Albert in horror
to stare
On those death-swimming eyeballs,
that blood-clotted hair ;
For down came the Templars, like
Ccdron in flood.
And dyed their long lances in Saracen
blood.
The Saracens, Curdmans, and Ish-
maelites yield
To the scallop, the saltier, and
crosslcted shield ;
And the eagles were gorged with the
infidel dead.
From Bethsaida's fountains to Naph-
tliali's head.
The battle is over on Bethsaida's plain.
Oh, who is yon Paynim lies stretch'd
'mid the slain ?
And who is yon Page lying cold at
his knee ?
Oh, who but Count Albert and fair
Rosalie !
The Lady was buried in Salem's
bless'd bound.
The Count he was left to the vulture
and hound :
Her soul to high mercy Our Lady
did bring ;
His went on the blast to the dread
Fire-King.
Yet many a minstrel, in harping, can
tell,
How the Red-cross it conquer'd, the
Crescent it fell :
And lords and gay ladies have sigh'd,
'mid their glee,
At the talc of Count Albert and fair
Rosalie.
FREDERICK AND ALICE.
Frederick leaves the land of France,
Homeward hastes his steps to
measure,
Careless casts the parting glance
On the scene of former pleasure.
Joying in his prancing steed.
Keen to prove his untried blade,
Hope's gay dreams the soldier lead
Over mountain, moor, and glade.
Helpless, ruin'd, left forlorn,
Lovely Alice wept alone ;
Mourn'd o'er love's fond contract torn,
Hope, and peace, and honour flown.
5Vebertcil ani ilftce.
641
]\Iark her breast's convulsive throbs !
See, the tear of anguish flows !
Minghng- soon with bursting sobs,
Loud the laugh of frenzy rose.
Wild she cursed, and wild she prayVi;
Se\-cn long days and nights are o'er;
Death in pity brought his aid,
As the village bell struck four.
Far from her, and far from France,
Faithless Frederick onward rides ;
Marking, blithe, the morning's glance
Mantling o'er the mountain's sides.
Heard ye not the boding sound,
As the tongue of j^onder tower,
Slowly, to the hills around,
Told the fourth, the fated hour?
Starts the steed, and snuffs the air,
Yet no cause of dread appears ;
Bristles high the rider's hair,
Struck with strange mj'sterious
fears.
Desperate, as his terrors rise,
In the steed the spur he hides;
From himself in vain he flies;
Anxious, restless, on he rides.
Seven long days, and seven long nights,
Wild he wander d, woe the while !
Ceaseless care and causeless fright
Urge his footsteps many a mile.
Dark the seventh sad night descends :
Rivers swell, andrain-streams pour;
While the deafening thunder lends
All the terrors of its roar.
Weary, wet, and spent with toil.
Where his head shall Frederick hide ?
Where, but in yon ruin'd aisle,
By the lightning's flash descried.
To the portal, dank and low.
Fast his steed the wanderer bound;
Down a ruin'd staircase slow.
Next his darkling way he wound.
Long drear vaults before him lie !
Glimmering lights are seen to glide !
' Blessed Mary, hear my cry !
Deign a sinner's steps to guide !'
Often lost their quivering beam,
Still the lights move slow before.
Till they rest their ghastly gleam
Right against an iron door.
Thundering voices from within,
Mix'd with peals of laughter, rose ;
As they fell, a solemn strain
Lent its wild and wondrous close !
Midst the din, he seem'd to hear
Voice of friends, b}' death removed ;
Well he knew that solemn air, —
'Twas the lay that Alice loved.
Hark ! for now a solemn knell
Four times on the still night broke
Four times, at its deaden'd swell.
Echoes from the ruins spoke.
As the lengthen'd clangours die,
Slowly opes the iron door !
Straight a banquet met his eye,
But a funeral's form it wore 1
Coftins for the seats extend ;
All with black the board was spread;
Girt by parent, brother, friend.
Long since number'd with the dead !
Alice, in her grave-clothes bound.
Ghastly smiling, points a seat ;
All arose, with thundering sound ;
All the expected stranger greet.
High their meagre arms they wave,
Wild their notes of welcome swell;
' Welcome, traitor, to the grave !
Perjured, bid the light farewell !'
642
Q^affabe from f0e (Bevntan.
THE BATTLE OF SEMPACH.
'TwAS when among our linden-trees
The bees had housed in swarms
(And grey-hair'd peasants say that
these
Betoken foreign arms) ;
Then look'd we down to Willisow,^ —
The land was all in flame ;
We knew the Archduke Leopold
With all his army came.
The Austrian nobles made their vow,
So hot their heart and bold,
' On Switzer carles we'll trample now,
And slay both young and old.'
With clarion loud, and banner proud,
From Zurich on the lake.
In martial pomp and fair array,
Their onward march they make.
' Now list, ye lowland nobles all :
Ye seek the mountain strand.
Nor wot ye what shall be your lot
In such a dangerous land.
' I rede ye, shrive ye of your sins,
Before ye farther go ;
A skirmish in Helvetian hills
May send your souls to woe.'
'But where now shall we find a priest
Our shrift that he may hear ? '
' The Switzer priest' hasta'en the field.
He deals a penance drear.
' Right heavily upon your head
He '11 la}' his hand of steel ;
And with his trusty partisan
Your absolution deal.'
'Twas on a Monday morning then,
The corn was steep'd in dew,
And merry maids had sickles ta'en.
When the host to Sempach drew.
1 All the Swiss clergy who were able to bear arms
foiijfht in this patriotic war.
The stalwart men of fair Lucerne
Together have they join'd ;
The pith and core of manhood stern,
Was none cast looks behind.
It was the Lord of Hare-castle,
And to the Duke he said,
' Yon little band of brethren true
Will meet us undismay'd.'
' O Hare-castle ^, thou heart of hare ! '
Fierce Oxenstern replied.
' Shaltsee then how the game will fare,'
The taunted knight replied.
There was lacing then of helmetsbright,
And closing ranks amain ;
The peaks they hew'd from their boot-
points
Might wellnigh load a wain''.
And thus they to each other said,
' Yon handful down to hew
Will be no boastful talc to tell,
The peasants are so few.'
The gallant Swiss Confederates there
They pray'd to God aloud.
And he displa}''d his rainbow fair
Against a swarthy cloud.
Then heart and pulse throbb'd more
and more
With courage firm and high.
And down the good Confederates bore
On the Austrian chivalry.
The Austrian Lion * 'gan to growl,
And toss his mane and tail ;
And ball, and shaft, and crossbow bolt.
Went whistling forth like hail.
2 In the original, HaasensUiii, or Harc-stonf.
3 This seems to allude to the preposterous fashion,
during the middle ages, of wearing boots with the
points or peaks turned upwards, and so long, tliat in
some cases they were fastened to the knees of the
wearer with small chains. A\'hen they alighted to
light upon foot, it would seem that the Austrian gentle-
men found it necessary to cut off these peaks, that
they might move with the necessary activity.
■1 A pun on the .\rchduke's name, LEOPOLD.
ZU ^attk of ^empac^.
^4.
Lance, pike, and halbert mingled there,
The game was nothing sweet;
Tlie boughs of many a stately tree
Lay shiver'd at their feet.
The Austrian men-at-arms stood fast.
So close their spears they laid ;
It chafed the gallant Winkelried,
Who to his comrades said :
' I have a virtuous wife at home,
A wife and infant son ;
I leave them to my country's care, —
This field shall soon be won.
' These nobles lay their spears right
thick,
And keep full firm arra}'.
Yet shall my charge their order break,
And make my brethren way.'
He rush'd against the Austrian band
In desperate career,
And with his body, breast, and hand,
Bore down each hostile spear.
Four lances splinter'd on his crest,
Six shiver'd in his side ;
Still on the serried files he press'd,
He broke their ranks, and died.
This patriot's self-devoted deed
First tamed the Lion's mood,
And the four forest cantons freed
From thraldom bj' his blood.
Right where his charge had made a
lane,
His valiant comrades burst,
With sword, and axe, and partisan,
And hack, and stab, and thrust.
The daunted Lion 'gan to whine,
And granted ground amain,
The Mountain Bull ' he bent his brows.
And gored his sides again.
I A pun on the UrUS, or wild bull, which gives
nnine to the Canton of Uri.
Then lost was banner, spear, and
shield
At .Sempach in the flight,
The cloister vaults at Konig's-field
Hold many an Austrian knight.
It was the Archduke Leopold,
So lordly would he ride,
But he came against the Switzer churls,
And they slew him in his pride.
The heifer said unto the bull,
' And shall I not complain ?
There came a foreign nobleman
To milk me on the plain.
' One thrust of thine outrageous horn
Has gall'd the knight so sore,
Tliat to the church3-ard he is borne
To range our glens no more.'
An Austrian noble left the stour.
And fast the flight 'gan take ;
.\nd he arrived in luckless hour
At Sempach on the lake.
He and his squire a fisher call'd
(^His name was Hans Von Rot) —
' For love, or meed, or charit}'.
Receive us in thy boat !'
Their anxious call the fisher heard,
And, glad the meed to win,
His shallop to the shore he steer'd.
And took the flyers in.
And while against the tide and wind
Hans stoutly row'd his way,
The noble to his follower sign'd
He should the boatman slaj'.
The fisher's back was to them turn'd.
The squire his dagger drew,
Hans saw his shadow in the lake.
The boat he overthrew.
He 'whelm'd the boat, and as they
strove,
He stunn'd them with his oar ;
' Now, drink ye deep, my gentle sirs,
You '11 ne'er stab boatman more.
644
(^affa^e from t2>t (Betrntan.
' Two gilded fishes in the lake
This morning have I caught,
Their silver scales ma}' much avail,
Their carrion flesh is naught.'
It was a messenger of woe
Has sought the Austrian land :
' Ah ! gracious lady, evil news 1
My lord lies on the strand.
'At Scmpach, on the battle-field,
His bloody corpse lies there.'
'Ah, gracious God !' the lady cried,
' What tidings of despair !'
Now would 3'ou know the minstrel
wight
Who sings of strife so stern,
Albert the .Souter is he hight,
A burgher of Lucerne.
A merry man was he, I wot,
The night he made the lay,
Returning from the bloody spot
Where God had judged the da\'.
THE NOBLE MORINGER.
O WILL you hear a knightly tale of
old Bohemian day ?
It was the noble Moringer in wedlock
bed he lay ;
He halsed and kiss'd his dearest
dame, that was as sweet as May,
And said, ' Now, lady of mj' heart,
attend the words I say.
' 'Tis I have vow'd a pilgrimage unto
a distant shrine.
And I must seek Saint Thomas-land,
and leave the land that 's mine ;
Hereshalt thou dwell the while instate,
so thou wilt pledge thy fay,
That thou for my return wilt wait
seven twelvemonths and a da v."
Then out and spoke that Lady bright,
sore troubled in her cheer,
' Now tell me true, thou noble knight,
what order takest thou here ?
And who shall lead thy vassal band,
and hold thy lordly swaj-,
And be thy lady's guardian true when
thou art far away ? '
Out spoke the noble Moringer, ' Of
that have thou no care,
There 's many a valiant gentleman of
me holds living fair;
The trustiest shall rule my land, mj^
vassals and my state,
And be a guardian tried and true
to thee, my lovely mate.
* As Christian man, I needs must keep
the vow which I have plight ;
When I am far in foreign land,
remember thy true knight ;
And cease, my dearest dame, to grieve,
for vain were sorrow now.
But grant thy Moringer his leave,
since God hath heard his vow.'
It was the noble Moringer from bed
he made him boune.
And met him there his Chamberlain,
with ewer and with gown :
He flung the mantle on his back,
'twas furr'd with miniver,
He dipp'd his hand in water cold,
and bathed his forehead fair.
' Now hear,' he said, 'Sir Chamberlain,
true vassal art thou mine.
And such the trust that I repose in
that proved worth of thine.
For seven years shalt thou rule my
towers, and lead my vassal train.
And pledge thee for my Lady's faith
till I return again.'
The Chamberlain was blunt and true,
and sturdily' said he,
'Abide, my lord, and rule your own,
and take this rede from me:
Z^t dtofife Qlloringer.
645
That woman's faith 's a brittle trust — j
seven twelvemonths didst thou
say ? 1
1 '11 pledge me for no lad3'"s truth be-
yond the seventh fair day.'
The noble Baron turn'd him round,
his heart was full of care.
Mis gallant Esquire stood him nigh,
he was Marstetten's heir,
To whom he spoke right anxiously,
' Thou trusty squire to me,
Wilt thou receive this weighty trust
when I am o'er the sea !
' To watch and ward my castle strong,
and to protect my land.
And to the hunting or the host to
lead my vassal band ;
And pledge thee for my Lady's faith
till seven long years are gone,
And guard her as Our Lady dear
was guarded by Saint John ? '
Marstetten's heir was kind and true,
but fier}', hot, and young.
And readily he answer made with too
presumptuous tongue :
'My noble lord, cast care awaj', and
on 3-our journey wend.
And trust this charge to me until
your pilgrimage have end.
' Rely upon mj' plighted faith, which
shall be truly tried,
To guard your lands, and ward your
towers, and with your vassals
ride ;
And for your lovely Lady's faith, so
virtuous and so dear,
I '11 gage my head it knows no change,
be absent thirty year.'
The noble Mcringcr took cheer when
thus he heard him speak,
And doubt forsook his troubled bro\v,
and sorrow left liis cheek ;
A long adieu he bids to all, hoists
topsails, and away,
And wanders in Saint Thomas-land
seven twelvemonths and a da3%
It was the noble Moringer within an
orchard slept.
When on the Baron's slumbering
sense a boding vision crept ;
And whisper'd in his ear a voice, ' ' Tis
time, Sir Knight, to wake,
Thy Ladj' and thy heritage another
master take.
' Thy tower another banner knows,
thy steeds another rein,
And stoop them to another's will thy
gallant vassal train ;
And she, the Lady of thy love, so
faithful once and fair.
This night within thy fathers' hall
she weds Marstetten's heir.'
It is the noble Moringer starts up
and tears his beard,
I ' Oh would that I had ne'er been born !
I what tidings have I heard I
To lose my lordship and ni}' lands
the less would be my care,
But, God ! that e'er a squire untrue
should wed my Lady fair.
' O good Saint Thomas, hear, 'he praj-'d,
' my patron Saint art thou,
A traitor robs me of my land even
while I paj' my vow !
My wife he brings to infamy that was
so pure of name,
And I am far in foreign land, and must
endure the shame.'
It was the good Saint Thomas, then,
who heard his pilgrim's prayer,
And sent a sleep so deep and dead
that it o'erpower'd his care ;
He waked in fair Bohemian land
outstretch'd beside a rill.
High on the right a castle stood, low
on the left a mill.
646
Q0affab0 from tU <Berman.
The Moringer he started upasonefrom
spell unbound,
And dizzy with surprise and joy gazed
wildly all around ;
' I know my fathers' ancient towers, |
the mill, the stream I know, j
Now blessed be my patron Saint who {
cheer'd his pilgrim's woe I '
He leant upon his pilgrim staft", and
to the mill he drew,
So alter'd was his goodly form that
none their master knew ;
The Baron to the miller said, ' Good
friend, for charity,
Tell a poor palmer in your land what
tidings ma}' there be ? '
Tiie miller answered him again, 'He
knew of little news,
Save that the Lady of the land did
a new bridegroom choose ;
Her husband died in distant land,
such is the constant word ;
His death sits heavy on our souls,
he was a worthy Lord.
' Of him I held the little mill which
wins me living free ;
God rest the Baron in his grave, he
still was kind to me !
And when Saint Martin's tide comes
round, and millers take their toll,
The priest that prays for Moringer
shall have both cope and stole.'
It was the noble Moringer to climb
the hill began,
And stood before the bolted gate
a woe and weary man ;
' Now help me, every saint in heaven
that can compassion take,
To gain the entrance of my hall this
woful match to break.'
His very knock it sounded sad, his
call was sad and slow,
For heart and head, and \oice and
hand, were heavy all with woe ;
And to the warder thus he spoke :
'Friend, to thy Lady say,
A pilgrim from Saint Thomas-land
craves harbour for a day.
' I 've wanderd many a weary step,
my strength is wellnigh done,
And if she turn me from her gate
I '11 see no morrow's sun ;
I pray, for sweet Saint Thomas' sake,
a pilgrim's bed and dole,
And for the sake of Moringer's, her
once-loved husband's soul.'
It was the stalwart warder then he
came his dame before,
• A pilgrim, worn and travel-toil'd,
stands at the castle-door ;
And praj's, for sweet Saint Thomas'
sake, for harbour and for dole,
And for the sake of Moringer, thy
noble husband's soul.'
The Lady's gentle heart ■was moved ;
' Do up the gate,' she said,
' And bid the wanderer welcome be
to banquet and to bed ;
i\nd since he names my husband's
name, so that he lists to stay,
These towers shall be his harbourage
a twelvemonth and a day.'
It was the stalwart warder then un-
did the portal broad ;
It was the noble Moringer that o'er
the threshold strode ;
' And have thou thanks, kind heaven,'
he said, ' though from a man
of sin,
That the true lord stands here once
more his castle-gate within.'
Then up the halls paced Moringer, his
step was sad and slow ;
It sat full heavN' on his heart, none
seem'd their Lord to know;
He sat him on a lowly bench, oppress'd
with Avoe and wrong.
Short space he sat, but ne'er to him
seem'd little space so long.
Z^^ (\XoBk Qnom^er.
647
Now spent was day, and feasting o'er,
and come was evening hour,
Tlie time was nigh when new-made
brides retire to nuptial bower;
'Our castle's wont,' a bridesman said,
'hath been both firm and long,
No guest to harbour in our halls till he
shall chant a song.'
Then spoke the youthful bridegroom
there as he sat by the bride,
' My merry minstrel folk,' quoth he,
'lay shalm and harp aside ;
Our pilgrim guest must sing a laj% the
castle's rule to hold,
And well his guerdon will I pay with
garment and with gold.'
' Chill flows the lay of frozen age,'
'twas thus the pilgrim sung ;
' Nor golden meed nor garment ga^'
unlocks his heavy tongue ;
Once did I sit, thou bridegroom gay, at
board as rich as thine.
And by my side as fair a bride with
all her charms was mine.
' But time traced furrows on my face,
and I grew silver-hair'd,
For locks of brown, and cheeks ofyouth,
she left this brow and beard ;
Once rich, but now a palmer poor,
I tread life's latest stage,
And mingle with j'our bridal mirth
the lay of frozen age.'
It was the noble Lady there this woful
lay that hears,
And for the aged pilgrim's grief her
eye was dimm'd with tears ;
She bade her gallant cupbearer agolden
beaker take,
And bear it to the palmer poor to
quafl" it for her sake.
It was the noble Moringer that dropp'd
amid the wine
^V bridal ring of burning gold so costly
and so line :
Now listen, gentles, to my song, it
tells you but the sooth,
'Twas with that very ring of gold he
pledged his bridal truth.
Then to the cupbearer he said, 'Do nie
one kindly deed.
And should my better days return,
full rich shall be thy meed ;
Bear back the golden cup again to
yonder bride so gay.
And crave her of her courtesy to
pledge the palmer grey.'
The cupbearer was courtlj^ bred, nor
was the boon denied,
The golden cup he took again, and
bore it to the bride ;
' Lady,' he said, '^^our reverend guest
sends this, and bids me pray.
That, in thy noble courtesy, thou
pledge the palmer grey.'
The ring hath caught the Ladj-'s eye,
she views it close and near,
Then might you hear her shriek aloud,
' The Moringer is here I'
Then might you see her start from
seat, while tears in torrents fell.
But whether 'twas for joy or woe, the
ladies best can tell.
But loud she utter'd thanks to Heaven,
and every saintly power,
That had return'd the Moringer before
the midnight hour;
And loud she utter'd vow on vow, that
never was there bride
That had like her preserved her troth,
or been so sorely tried.
' Yes, here I claim the praise,' she said,
' to constant matrons due,
Who keep the troth that they have
plight, so stedfastly and true ;
648
(^affab0 from t^t (Serman.
For count the term howe'er you will,
so that you count aright,
Seven twelvemonths and a da3' are out
when bells toll twelve to-night.'
It was Warstetten then rose up, his
falchion there he drew,
He kneeld before the Moringer, and
down his weapon threw ;
' M3' oath and knightly faith are broke,'
these were the ^vords he said,
'Thrntake, my liege, thj-vassal'ssword,
and take th}^ vassal's head.'
The noble Moringer he smiled, and
then aloud did say,
' He gathers wisdom that hath roam'd
seven twelvemonths and a day;
My daughter now hath fifteen years,
fame speaks her sweet and fair,
I give her for the bride you lose, and
name her for mj- heir.
'The young bridegroom hath youthful
bride, the old bridegroom the old.
Whose faith was kept till term and tide
so punctually were told ;
But blessings on the warder kind that
oped m}' castle-gate,
For had I come at morrow tide, I came
a da}' too late.'
THE ERL-KING.
FROM THE GERM.AN OF GOETHE.
O, WHO rides by night thro' the wood-
land so wild ?
It is the fond father embracing his
child ;
And close the boy nestles within his
loved arm.
To hold himself fast, and to keep
himself warm.
'O father, see yonder I see j^oader!'
he says ;
' My boy, upon what dost thou fear-
fully gaze ■ '
' O, 'tis the Erl-King with his crown
and his shroud.'
' No, my son, it is but a dark wreath
of the cloud.'
( The Ell-King speaks.)
' O come and go with me, thou loveliest
child ;
By many a gaj- sport shall thy time be
beguiled ;
My mother keeps for thee full many
a fair toy,
And many a fine flower shall she pluck
for my boy.'
'O father, my father, and did you
not hear
The Erl-King whisper so low in my
ear ■'
' Be still, my heart's darlhig — my child,
be at ease ;
It was but the wild blast as it sung
thro' the trees.'
Erl-King.
' O wilt thou go with me, thou loveliest
boy?
My daughter shall tend thee with care
and with joy ;
She shall bear thee so lightly thro'
wet and thro' wild.
And press thee, and kiss thee, and
sing to my child.'
' O father, my father, and saw you not
plain
The Erl-King's pale daughter glide
past thro' the rain ?'
'O yes, my loved treasure, I knew it
full soon ;
It was the grey willow that danced to
the moon.'
ZU <Srf?1Ctng.
649
Erl-Kiiig.
' (J come and go with me, no longer
dela^',
Or else, silly child, I will drag thee
away.'
'O father! O father I now, now, keep
your hold,
The Erl-Kinghas seized me — hisgrasp
is so cold !'
Sore trembled the father ; he spurr'd
thro' the wild,
Clasping close to his bosom his shud-
dering child;
He reaches his dwelling in doubt and
in dread,
But, clasp'd to his bosom, the infant
was dead.
END Ol' BALLADS FJIOM THL GERMAN
y 3 •
Qto^ee (o QBaffa^e from f^c Socman,
INTRODUCTORY NOTE.
Is carlv youth I had been an eager student
of Ballad^ Poetry, and the tree is still in inv
recollection beneath which I lay and first
entered upon tlie enchanting perusal of
Percy's ' Reliques of Ancient Poetry,' al-
though it has long perished in the general
blight ■which affected the whole race of
Oriental platanus to which it belonged. The
taste of another person had strongly en-
couraged my own researches into this species
of legendary lore. But I had never dreamed
of an attempt to imitate what gave me so
much pleasure.
I had, indeed, tried the metrical translations
which were occasionally recommended to
us at the High School. I got credit for
attempting to do what was enjoined, but very
little for the mode in which the task was
performed, and I used to feel not a little
mortified when my versions were placed in
contrast with others of admitted merit. At
one period of my schoolboy days I was so far
left to my own desires as to become guilty of
Verses on a Thunderstorm, which were much
approved of, until a malevolent critic sprung
up, in the shape of an apothecary's blue-
buskined wife, who affirmed that my most
sweet poetry was stolen from an old magazine.
I never forgave the imputation, and even now
I acknowledge some resentment against the
poor woman's memorj'. She indeed accused
me unjustly, when she said I had stolen mv
brooms ready made ; but as I had, like most
premature poets, copied all the words and
ideas of which my verses consisted, she was
so far right. I made one or two faint attempts
at verse, after I had undergone this sort of
daw-plucking at the hands of the apothecary's
wife ; but some friend or other always advised
me to put my verses in the fire, 'and. like
Dorax in the play, I submitted, though 'with
a swelling heart.' In short, excepting the
usual tribute to a mistress's eyebrow, which
is the language of passion rather than poetry,
I liad not for ten jears indulged the wish to
couple so much as /07'e and doz'e, when,
finding Lewis in possession of so much
reputation, and conceiving tliat, if I fell
behind him in poetical powers, I considerably
exceeded him in general information, I
suddenly took it into my head to attempt
the style of poetry by which he had raised
himself to fame.
This idea was hurried into execution, in
consequence of a temptation which others, as
well as the author, found it difTicult to resist.
The celebrated ballad of ' Lenore',' by Burger,
was about this timeintroduced into England ;
and it is remarkable, that, written as far
back as 1775, it was upwards of twenty years
before it was known in Britain, though calcu-
lated to make so strong an impression. The
wild character of the tale was such as struck
the imagination of all who read it, although
the idea of the lady's ride behind the spectre
horseman had been long before hit upon by
an English ballad-maker. But this pretended
English original, if in reality it be such, is so
dull, flat, and prosaic, as to leave the dis-
tinguished Germ an author all that is valuable
in his story, by clothing it with a fanciful
wildness of expression, which serves to set
forth the marvellous tale in its native terror.
The ballad of 'Lenore'' accordingly pos-
sessed general attractions for such of the
English as understood the language in which
it is written ; and, as if there had been
a charm in the ballad, no one seemed to cast
his ej'es upon it without a desire to make it
known by translation to his own countrymen,
and six or seven versions were accordingly
presented to the public. Although the present
author was one of those who intruded his
translation on the world at this time, he may
fairly exculpate himself from the rashness
of entering the lists against so many ri\'als.
The circumstances wliich threw him into
this competition were quite accidental, and
of a nature tending to show how much the
destiny of human life depends upon unim-
portant occurrences, to which little con-
sequence is attached at the moment.
About the summer of 1703 or 1704, the
celebrated Miss Laetitia Aikin, better known
(\ioU0 io {^affaie from tU <Bennmt.
651
as Mrs. Barbauld, paid a visit to Edinburgii,
and was recei\ed bv sucli literary society as
the place then boasted, with the hospitality
to which her talents and her worth entitled
lier. Amongothers, she waskindly welcomed
by the late excellent and admirea Professor
Dugald Stewart, his lady, and family. It
was in their evening society that Miss Aikin
drew from her pocket-book a version of
' Lenore,' executed by William Taylor, Esq.,
of Norwich, with as much freedom as was
consistent with great spirit and scrupulous
lidelit}'. She read this composition to the
company, who were electrified by the tale.
It was the more successful, that S-Ir. Taylor
had boldly copied the imitative harmony of
the German, and described the spectral
journey in language resembling that of the
original. Burger had thuspaintedtheghostly
career :
' I'nd hurrc, liurre, hop, hop, hop,
( "inij'i. fort ill sausendem Galopp,
Oasb Ros5 und Reitcr schnoben,
I'nd Kies und Funken stoben.'
The words W'ere rendered by the kindred
sounds in English :
* Tramp, tramp, across the land they specde,
Splash, splash, across the sea ;
Hurrah, the dead can ride apace I
Dost fear to ride with nieV
When Miss Aikin had finished her reci-
tation, she replaced in her pocket-book the
paper from which she had read it, and enjoyed
the satisfaction of having made a strong
impression on the hearers, whose bosoms
thrilled yet the deeper, as the ballad was not
to be more closely introduced to them.
The author was not present upon this
occasion, although he had then the dis-
tinguished ad\antage of being a familiar
friend and frequent visitor of Professor
Stewart and his family. But he was absent
from town while Miss Aikin was in Edin-
Imrgh, and it was not until his return that he
found all his friends in rapture with the
intelligence and good sense of their visitor,
but in particular with the wonderful transla-
tion from the German, by means of which she
had delighted and astonished them. The
enthusiastic description given of Burger's
ballad, and the brolcen account of the story,
of which only two lines were recollected,
inspired the author, who had some acquaint-
ance, as has been said, with the German
language, and a strong taste for popular
poetry, with a desire to see the original.
This was not a wish easily gratified ;
German works were at that time seldom
found in London for sale — in Edinburgh
never. A lady of noble German descent,!
whose friendship I have enjoyed for many
years, found means, however, to procure me
a copy of Burger's works from Hamburgh.
t Born Countess Harriet Bruhl of Martinskirchen,
and married to Hugh Scott, Esq., of Harden, after-
wards Lord Tolwarth. the author's relative, and much-
valued friend aUnost from infancy.
The perusal of the original rather exceeded
than disappointed the expectations which the
report of Mr. Stewart's family had induced
me to form. At length, when the book had
been a few hours in my possession, I found
myself giving an animated account of the
poem to a friend, and rashly added a promise
to furnish a copy in English ballad verse.
I well recollect that I began my task after
supper, and finished it about daybreak the
next morning, by which time the ideas which
the task had a tendency to summon up were
rather of an uncomfortable character. As
my object was much more to make a good
translation of the poem for those whom I
wished to please, than to acquire any poetical
fame for myself, I retained in my translation
the two lines which Mr. Taylor had rendered
with equal boldness and felicity.
My attempt succeeded far beyond my
expectations ; and it may readily be believed
that I was induced to persevere in a pursuit
which gratified my own vanity, while it
seemed to amuse others. I accomplished
a translation of ' Der Wilde Jager ' — a ro-
mantic ballad founded on a superstition
universally current in Germany, and known
also in Scotland and France. In this I took
rather more license than in versifying
' Lenore ' ; and I balladized one or two other
poems of Biirger with more or less success.
In the course of a few weeks, my own vanity,
and the favourable opinion of friends, in-
terested by the temporary revival of a species
of poetry containing a germ of popularity
of which perhaps they were not themselves
aware, urged me to the decisive step of
sending a selection, at least, of my transla-
tions to the press, to save the numerous
applications which were made for copies.
When was there an author deaf to such
a recommendation? In 1796, the present
author w as prevailed on, ' by request of
friends,' to indulge his own vanity by
publishing the translation of 'Lenore,' with
that of 'The Wild Huntsman,' in a thin
quarto.
The fate of this, my first publication, w as by
no means flattering. I distributed so many
copies among my friends as, according to
the booksellers, materialh' to interfere with
the sale ; and the number of translations
which appeared in England about the same
time, including that of Mr. Taylor, to which
I had been so much indebted, and which
was published in 'The Monthly Magazine,'
were sufficient to exclude a provincial writer
from competition. However different my
success might have been, had I been fortu-
nate enough to have led the way in the
general scramble for precedence, my efforts
sunk unnoticed when launched at the same
lime with those of Mt. Taylor (upon whose
property I had committed the kind of piracy
already noticed, and who generously forga\e
me the invasion of his rights) ; of my inge-
nious and amiable friend of many years,
Y 5
6r.2
Qlofee to
William Robert Spencer ; of Mr. Pye^ the.
laureate of the day, and many otiicrs besides.
Ill a word, my adventure, where so many
pushed off to sea, proved a dead loss, and
a great part of the edition was condemned
to the service of the trunk-maker. Nay, so
complete was the failure of the unfortunate
ballads, that the very existence of them was
soon fori^otten ; and, in a newspaper, in
which I \ ery lately read, to my no small
horror, a most appalling list of my own
\arious publications, I saw this, my first
offence, liad escaped the industrious collector,
for whose indefatijjable research I may in
pfratitude wish a better object.
The failure of my first publication did not
operate, in any unpleasant degree, either on
my feelings or spirits. I was coldly received
by strangers, but my reputation began rather
to increase among my own friends, and, on
the whole, I was more bent to show the
world that it had neglected something worth
notice, than to be affronted by its indifference.
Or rather, to speak candidly, I found pleasure
in the literary labour in which I had, almost
by accident, become engaged, and laboured,
less in the hope of pleasing others, tliough
certainly without despair of doing so, than
in the pursuit of a new and agreeable amuse-
ment to myself. I pursued the German
language keenly, and, though far from being
a correct scholar, became a bold and daring
reader, nay, even translator, of \arious
dramatic pieces from that tongue.
The want of books at that time (about
1-96) was a great interruption to the rapidity
of my movements ; for the young do not
know, and perhaps my own contemporaries
may have forgotten, the difliculty with which
publications were tlien procured from the
continent. The worthy and excellent friend,
of whom I gave a sketch many years after-
wards in tlie person of Jonathan Oldbuck,
procured me Adelung's Dictionary, through
the mediation of Father Pepper, a monk of
t he Scotch College of Rat isbon. Other wants
of the same nature were supplied by Mrs. Scott
of Harden, whose kindness in a similar
instance I have had already occasion to
acknowledge. Through this lady's con-
nections on the continent, I obtained copies
of Burger, Schiller, Goethe, and other
standard German works ; and though tlie
obligation be of a distant date, it still remains
impressed on my memory, after a life spent
in a constant interchange of friendship and
kindness with that family which is, ac-
cording to Scottish ideas, the head of my
house.
Being thus furnished with the necessary
originals, I began to translate on all sides,
certainly without anything like an accurate
knowledge of the language ; and, although
the dramas of Goethe, Schiller, and others,
powerfully attracted one wliose early at-
tention to the German had been arrested by
Mackenzie's Dissertation, and the play of
'The Robbers,' yet the ballad poetry, in
which I had made a bold essay, was still my
favourite. I was vet more delighted on
finding that the old English, and especially
the Scottish language, were so nearly similar
to the German, not in sound merely, but in
the turn of phrase, that they were capable of
being rendered line for line, with very little
variation.
NOTES.
WILLIAM AND HELEN.
(iMir.MEU KKOM THE 'LENOKE' OF
BURGER. )
P. 630.
The author had resolved to omit this ver-
sion of a well-known Poem, in any collection
which he mijjht make of his poetical trifles.
But the publishers ha\ing pleaded for its
admission, the author has consented, though
not unaware of the disadvantage at which
this youthful essay (for it was written in
1795) must appear with those which have
been executei' by much more able hands, in
particular that of Mr. Taylor of Norwich,
and that of Mr. Spencer.
The translation of this ballad was written
long before the author saw any other, and
originated in the following circumstances : —
A lady of high rank in the literaiy world
read this romantic tale, as translated by
Mr. Taylor, in the house of the celebrated
Professor Dugald Stewart, of Edinburgh.
The author was not present, nor indeed in
lidinburgli at the time ; but a gentleman
who had the pleasure of hearing the ballad,
afterwards told him the story, and repeated
the remarkable chorus^
'Trainp, tramp, across the land tliej' siJcede,
Splash, splash, across the sea ;
Hurrah, the dead can ride ajiace !
Dost fear to ride with ineV'
In attempting a translation, then intended
only to circulate among friends, the present
author did not hesitate to make use of this
impressive stanza ; for which freedom he has
since obtained the forgiveness of the ingeni-
ous gentleman to whom it properly belongs.
(^affaie fvow tU (Bevman.
653
THE WILD Hl'XTSMAN.
P. 6.,4.
This is a translation, or rather an imi-
tation, of the Wilde Jdger of the German
poet Burger. The tradition upon which it is
founded bears, that formerly a Waldgrave,
or keeper of a royal forest, named Faulken-
burgf, was so much addicted to the pleasures
of the cliase, and otlierwise so extremely
profligate and cruel, that he not only followeti
this unhallowed amusement on the Sabbath,
and other days consecrated to religious duty,
but accompanied it with the most unheard-
of oppression upon the poor peasants, who
were under his vassalage. When this second
Nimrod died, the people adopted a super-
stition, founded probablyon the man}' various
uncouth sounds heard in the depth of a
German forest, during the silence of the
night. They conceived they still heard the
cry of the Waldgrave's hounds ; and the
well-known cheer of the deceased hunter,
the sounds of his horses' feet, and the rustling
of the branches before the game, the pack,
and the sportsmen, are also distinctly dis-
criminatea; but the phantoms are rarely, if
ever, visible. Once, asabenighted Chasseur
heard this infernal chase pass by him, at the
sound of the halloo, with which the Spectre
Huntsman cheered his hounds, he could not
refrain from crying, ''Ghtck::u Falkctihitrghr
[Good sport to ye, Falkenburgh ! ] 'Dost
thou wish me good sport ?' answered a hoarse
voice; 'thou shalt share the game;' and
there was thrown at him what seemed to be
a huge piece of foul carrion. The daring
C/iasseuf lost two of his best horses soon
after, and never perfectly recovered the
personal eft'ects of this ghostly greeting.
This tale, though told with some'variations,
is universally believed all over Germany.
The French had a similar tradition con-
cerning an aerial hunter, who infested the
forest of Fountainbleau. He was sometimes
visible ; when he appeared as a huntsman,
surrounded with dogs, a tall grisly figure.
Some account of him may be found in ' Sully's
Memoirs,' who says he was called I.e Grand
Vencii): At one time he chose to hunt so
near the palace that the attendants, and, if
I mistake not. Sully himself, came out into
the court, supposing it was the sound of the
king returning from the chase. Thispliantom
is elsewhere called Saint Hubert.
The superstition seems to have been very
general, as appears from the following fine
poetical description of this phantom chase,
as it was heard in the wilds of Ross- shire.
' Ere since of old, the haughty thanes of Ross,—
.So to the simple swain tradition tells.—
Were wont with clans, and ready vassals throngM,
To wake the bounding stag, or guilty wolf.
There oft is heard, at midnight, or at noon,
Beginning faint, but rising still more loud,
-■^nd nearer, voice of hunters, and of hounds.
And horns, hoarse winded, blowing far and keen : —
Forthwith the hubbub multiplies ; the gale
Labours with wilder shrieks, and rifer din
Of hot pursuit; the broken cry of deer
Mangled by throttling dogs ; the shouts of men.
And hoofs, thick beating on the hollow hill.
.Sudden the grazing heifer in the vale
Starts at the noise, and both the herdsman's ears
Tingle with inward dread. Aghast, he eyes
The mountain's height, and all the ridges round,
Vet not one trace of living wight discerns.
Nor knows, o'erawed, antl trembling as he stands,
To what, or whom, he owes his idle fear.
To ghost, to witch, to fairj-, or to fiend ;
But wonders, and no end of wondering finds.
.•;/^<?)(;(Z— reprinted in Siotti':h DeTCtifli- e
Points, pp. 167, )68.
A posthumous miracle of Father Lesley,
a Scottish capuchin, related to his being
buried on a hill haunted by these unearthly
cries of hounds and huntsmen. After his
sainted relics had been deposit'=-d there, the
noise was never heard more. The reader
will find this, and other miracles, recorded
in the life of Father Bonaventura, which is
written in the choicest Italian.
THE FIRE-KING.
P. 637.
This ballad was written at the request of
Mr. Lewis, to be inserted in his 'Tales of
Wonder.' It is the third in a series of four
ballads, on the subject of Elementary Spirits.
The story is, however, partly historical ; for
it is recorded that, during the struggles of
the Latin kingdom of Jerusalem, a Knight-
Templar, called Saint-Alban, deserted to the
Saracens, and defeated the Christians in
many combats, till he was finally routed and
slain, in a conflict with King Baldwin, under
the walls of Jerusalem.
FREDERICK -VND ALICE.
P. 640.
This tale is imitated, rather than trans-
lated, from a fragment introduced in Goethe's
' Claudina von Villa Bella,' where it is sung
by a member of a gang of banditti, to engage
the attention of the family, while his com-
panions break into the castle. It owes any
little merit it may possess to my frientl
Mr. Lewis, to whom it was sent in an ex-
tremely rude state ; and who, after some
material improvements, published it in his
' Tales of Wonder.'
THE BATTLE OF SEMPACH.
P. 642.
These verses are a literal translation of
an ancient Swiss ballad upon the battle of
Sempach, fought July 9, 1386, being the
654
(Vlofee to (gdiale from tU (Batman.
victoiybywliichtlie Swiss cantons cstablislied
iheir independence; tlie author, Albert Tchudi,
denominated the Souter, from his profession
of a shoemaker. He was a citizen of Lucerne,
esteemed highly among liis countrymen,
both for his powers as a Mcisiey-Singe]% or
minstrel, and his courage as a soldier; so
that he might share the praise conferred by
Collins on Aeschylus, that —
'Not nlone he nursed the poet's flame,
r.ut rcacli'd from \'irtue's hand the patriot steel.'
The circumstance of their being written
by a poet returning from the well-fought
field he describes, and in which his country's
fortune was secured, may confer on Tchudi's
verses an interest which they are not entitled
to claim from their poetical merit. But
ballad poetry, the tnore literally it is trans-
lated, the more it loses its simplicity, witliout
acquiring citlier grace or strength ; and,
therefore, some of the faults of the verses
must be imputed to the translator's feeling it
a duty to keep as closely as possible to his
original. The various puns, rude attempts
at pleasantry, and disproportioned episodes,
must be set down to Tchudi's account, or to
the taste of his age.
The military antiquary will derive some
amusement from the minute particulars
which the martial poet has recorded. The
mode in which the Austrian men-at-arms
received the charge of the Swiss was by
forming a phalanx, which they defended with
their long lances. The gallant Winkelried,
who sacrificed his own lite bjTUsliing among
the spears, clasping in his arms as many as
he could grasp, and thus opening a gap in
those iron battalions, is celebrated in Swiss
history. When fairly mingled together, the
unwieldy length of their weapons, and cum-
brous weight of their defensive armour,
rendered the Austrian men-at-arms a very
unequal match for the light-armed moun-
taineers. The victories obtained by the
Swiss over the German chivalry, hitherto
deemed as formidable on foot as on horse-
back, led to important changes in the art of
war. The poet describes the Austrian knights
and squires as cutting the peaks from their
boots ere they could act upon foot, in allu-
sion to an inconvenient piece of foppery,
often inentionedin the middle ages. Leopold
III, Archduke of Austria, called 'The hand-
some man-at-arms,' was slain in the battle
of Sempach, with the flower of his chivalry.
THE NOBLE MORINGER.
P. 644.
The original of these verses occurs in
a collection of German popular songs,
entitled 'Sammlung Deutschen Volkslieder,'
Berlin, 1807, published by Messrs. Busching
and Von der Hagen, both, and more espe-
cially the last, distinguished for their ac-
quaintance with the ancient popular poetry
and legendary history of Germany.
Intlie German editor's notice of the ballad,
it is stated to have been extracted from
a manuscript Chronicle of NicolausThomann,
chaplain to Saint Leonard in Weisenhorn,
which bears the date 15^:5 ; and the song is
stated b}- the author to have been generally'
sung in the neighbourhood at that early
period. Thomann, as quoted by the German
editor, seems faithfully to have believed the
event he narrates. He quotes tombstones
and obituaries to prove the existence of the
personages of the uallad, and discovers that
there actually died, on the nth of'May, 1349,
a Lady Von Neuffen, Countess of Marstetten,
who was, by birth, of the house of Moringer.
This lad}- he supposes to have been Moringer's
daughter, mentioned in the ballad. He
quotes the same authority for the death of
Berckhold Von Neuften in the same year.
The editors, on the whole, seem to embrace
the opinion of Professor Smith of Ulm, who,
from the language of the ballad, ascribes its
date to the ist'i century.
The legend itself turns on an incident not
peculiarto Germany, and which, perhaps, was
not unlikely to happen in more instances than
one, when crusaders abode long in the Holv
Land, and their disconsolate dames received
no tidings of their fate. A story, very
similar in circumstances, but without the
miraculous machinery of Saint Thomas, is
told of one of the ancient Lords of Haigh-
hall in Lancashire, the patrimonial inherit-
ance of the late Countess of Balcarras ;
and the particulars are represented on stained
glass upon a window in that ancient manor-
house.
THE ERL-KINCt.
P. 648.
The Erl-King is a goblin that haunts the
Black Forest in Thuringia. To be read
by a candle particularly long in the snuff.
'^mitdione of t^t J^ncunt (^affab.
(CONTRIBUTED TO 'THE MINSTRELSY OF THE SCOTTISH BORDER.')
THOMAS THE RHYMER.
Part I. 'Ancient.)
True Thomas lay on Huntlie bank ;
A ferlie he spied wi' his ee ;
And there he saw a ladye bright
Come riding down by the Eildon-
tree.
Her shirt was o' the grass-green silk,
Her mantle o' the velvet fyne ;
At ilka tett of her horse's mane,
Hung fifty siller bells and nine.
True Thomas he puU'd aff his cap,
And louted low down to his knee,
'All hail, thou mighty Queen of
Heaven !
For thy peer on earth I never did sec.'
' O no, O no, Thomas,' she said,
'That name does not belang to me;
I am but the Queen of fair Elfland,
That am hither come to visit thee.
' Harp and carp, Thomas,' she said,
' Harp and carp along wi' me ;
And if 3-e dare to kiss my lips.
Sure of your bodie I will be.'
' Betide me weal, betide mc woe,
Thatweird shall never daunton mc ; '
Sync he has kiss'd her I'osy lips
All underneath the Eildon-trec.
' Now ye maun go wi' me,' she said,
'True Thomas, ye maun go wi' mc;
And ye maun serve me seven years.
Thro' weal or woe as may chance
to be.'
She mounted on her milk-white steed;
She 's ta'en true Thomas up behind :
And aye, whene'er her bridle rung.
The steed flewswifter thanthewind.
O they rade on, and farther on ;
The steed gaed swifter than the wind ;
Until they reach'd a desert wide.
And living land was left behind. .
' Light down, light down now, true
Thomas,
And lean your head upon my knee;
Abide and rest a little space.
And I will show you ferlies tlirce.
' O see 3^e not yon narrow road.
So thick besetwiththornsandbriers?
That is the path of righteousness,
Though after it but few inquires.
656
5tntfattone of t0e ilnctenf (gaffai.
'And see ye not that braid braid road,
That lies across that hly leven ?
That is the path of wickedness,
Though some call it the road to
heaven.
'And see ye not that bonny road.
That winds about the fernie brae?
That is the road to fair Elfland,
Where thou and I this night maun
gae.
' But, Thomas, ye maun hold your
tongue,
Whatever ye may hear or see ;
For, if ye speak word in Elf3'n land,
Ye '11 ne'er get back to 3'our ain
countrie.'
0 they rade on, and farther on,
And they waded through rivers
aboon the knee,
And they saw neither sun nor moon.
But theyheardthe roaring of the sea.
It was mirk mirk night, and there was
nae stern light.
And they waded througli red bhide
to the knee ;
For a' the blude that 's shed on earth
Rins through the springs o' that
countrie.
Syne they came on to a garden green,
And she pu'd an apple frae a tree —
'Take this for th}' wages, true Thomas ;
It will give thee the tongue that
can never lie.'
'My tongue is mine ain,' true Thomas
said ;
' A gudelj' gift ye wad gie to me !
1 neither dought to buy nor sell.
At fair or tryst where I may be.
' I dought neither speak to prince or
peer.
Nor ask of grace from fair lad3'e.'
' Now hold thj' peace 1' the lady said,
' For as I say, so must it be.'
He has gotten a coat of the even cloth,
And a pair of shoes of velvet green ;
And till seven years were gane andpast
True Thomas on earth was never
seen.
Part II. (Modernized from the
Prophecies.)
When seven years were comeand gane,
The sun blink'd fair on pool and
stream ;
And Thomas lay on Huntlie bank.
Like one awaken'd from a dream.
He heard the trampling of a steed.
He saw the flash of armour flee.
And he beheld a gallant knight
Come riding down by the Eildon-
tree.
He was a stalwart knight, and strong;
Of giant make he 'pear'd to be:
He stirr'd his horse, as he were wode,
Wi' gilded spurs, of faushion free.
Says 'Well met, well met, true
Thomas !
Some uncouth ferlies show to me.'
Saj's ' Christ thee save, Corspatrick
brave !
Thrice welcome, good Dunbar, tome!
' Liglit down, light down, Corspatrick
brave !
And I will show thee curses three.
Shall gar fair Scotland greetandgrane,
And change the green to the black
livery.
' A storm shall roar this very hour,
From Ross's hills to Solwa}' sea."
' Ye lied, ye lied, ye warlock hoar !
For the sun shines sweet on fauld
and lee.'
Z^omas tH (Jl^ptttev.
657
He put his hand on the Earlie's head ;
He show'd him a rock beside the sea,
Where a king lay stiff beneath his
steed,
And steel-dight nobles wiped their
ee.
'The neist curse lights on Branxton
hills:
By Flodden's high and heathery side,
Shall wave a banner red as blade.
And chieftains throng wi' meikle
pride.
'A Scottish King shall come full keen.
The ruddy lion beareth he ;
A feather'd arrow sharp, I ween,
Shall make him wink and warre to
sec.
'When he is bloody, and all to-bledde.
Thus to his men he still shall say —
" For God's sake, turn ye back again.
And give yon southern folk a fray !
Why should I lose? the right is mine!
M}' doom is not to die this day."
' Yet turn ye to the eastern hand.
And woe and \vonder yc sail see ;
How forty thousand spearmen stand,
Where yon rank river meets the sea.
'There shall the lion lose the gylte,
And the libbards bear it clean away;
At Pinkyn Clench there shall be spilt
Much gentil bluid that day.'
' Enough, enough, of curse and ban ;
Some blessings show thou nov\^ to me.
Or, b}' the faith o' my bodie,' Cors-
patrick said,
' Ye shall rue the day j^e e'er saw me ! '
'The first of blessings I shall thee show,
Is by a burn ' that 's call'd of bread ;
Where Saxon men shall tine the bow,
And find their arrows lack the head.
^ Bannock-burn.
' Beside that brigg, out-ower that burn,
Where the water bickereth bright
and sheen.
Shall many a fallen courser spurn,
And knights shall die in battle keen.
'Beside a headless cross of stone,
The libbards there shall lose thegree :
The raven shall come, the erne shall go,
And drink the Saxon bluid sae free.
The cross of stone theyshall not know.
So thick the corses there shall be.'
'But tell me now,' said brave Dunbar,
' True Thomas, tell now unto me.
What man shall rule the isle Britain,
Even from the north to the southern
sea ?'
' A French Queen shall bear the son,
Shall rule all Britain to the sea ;
He of the Bruce's blood shall come.
As near as in the ninth degree.
' The waters worship shall his race ;
Likewise the waves of the farthest
sea ;
For they shall ride over ocean wide.
With hempen bridles, and horse of
tree.'
Part III. (Modern.)
When seven 3'ears more were come
and gone,
Was war through Scotland spread.
And Ruberslaw show'd high Dunj'on
His beacon blazing red.
Then all by bonny Coldingknow,
Pitch'd palliouns took their room.
And crested helms, and spears a-rowe.
Glanced gaily through the broom.
The Leader, rolling to the Tweed,
Resounds the ensenzie ;
They roused the deer from Cadden-
head,
To distant Torwoodlee.
658
^mitAiione of t^t cHncient (gafiai.
The feast "vvas spread in Ercildoune,
In Learmont's high and ancient hall :
And there were knights of great re-
nown,
And ladies laced in pall.
Nor lacked the}-, while they sat at dine.
The music nor the tale,
Nor goblets of the blood-red wine,
Nor mantling quaighs of ale.
True Thomas rose with harp in hand.
When as the feast was done :
(In minstrel strife in Fairy Land
The elfin harp he won.)
Hush'd were the throng, both limb
and tongue.
And harpers for envy pale ;
And armed lords lean'd on their swords,
And hearkcn'd to the tale.
In numbers high, the witching talc
The prophet pour'd along;
No after bard might e'er avail
Those numbers to prolong.
Yet fragments of the lofty strain
Float down the tide of years,
As, buo3'ant on the stormy main,
A parted wreck appears.
He sung King Arthur's Table Round:
The Warrior of the Lake ;
How courteous Gawaine met the
wound.
And bled for ladies' sake.
But chief, in gentle Tristrem's praise,
The notes melodious swell ;
Was none excell'd in Arthur's days,
The knight of Lionelle.
For Marke, his cowardh' uncle's right,
A venom'd wound he bore ;
When fierce Morholde he slew in fight
Upon the Irish shore.
No art the poison might withstand ;
No medicine could be found,
Till lovely Isolde's lily hand
Had probed the rankling wound.
With gentle hand and soothing tongue
She bore the leech's part ;
And, while she o'er his sick-bed hung.
He paid her with his heart.
O fatal was the gift, I ween !
For, doom'd in evil tide.
The maid must be rude Cornwall's
queen.
His cowardly uncle's bride.
Their loves, their woes, the gifted bard
In fairy tissue wove ;
Where lords and knights and ladies
bright
In gay confusion strove.
The Garde Joyeuse amid the tale
High rear'd its glittering head;
And Avalon's enchanted vale
In all its wonders spread.
Brangvvain was there, and Segramore,
And fiend-born Merlin's gramarye ;
Of that famed wizard's mighty lore
O who could sing but he ?
Through many a maze the winningsong
In changeful passion led.
Till bent at length the listening throng
O'er Tristrem's djnng bed.
Hisancient wounds their scarsexpand.
With agony his heart is wrung :
O where is Isolde's lilye hand,
And where her soothing tongue?
She comes! she comes! like flash of
flame
Can lovers' footsteps fly ;
She comes! she comes! Sheonh'came
To see her Tristrem die.
Zht^ae iU (^S^mev.
659
She saw him die; her latest sigh
Join'd in a kiss his parting breath ;
The gentlest pair that Britain bare
TTnited arc in death.
There paused the liarp : its lingering
sound
Died slowly on the ear ;
The silent guests still bent around,
For still they seem'd to hear.
Then woe broke forth in murmurs
weak :
Nor ladies heaved alone the sigh ;
But, half ashamed, the rugged check
Did many a gauntlet dr3\
On Leader's stream and Learmont's
tower
The mists of evening close ;
In camp in castle or in bower
Each warrior sought repose.
Lord Douglas in his lofty tent
Dream'd o'er the woeful tale ;
When footsteps light across the bent
The warrior's ears assail.
He starts, he wakes: 'What, Richard,
ho!
Arise, mj' page, arise !
What venturous wight at dead of night
Dare step where Douglas lies?'
Then forth the^' rush'd : by Leader's
tide,
A selcouth sight they see —
A hart and hind pace side by side,
As white as snow on Fairnalie.
Beneath the moon with gesture proud
They stately move and slow;
Nor scare they at the gathering crowd,
Who marvel as thej- go.
To Learmont's tower a message sped.
As fast as page might run ;
And Thomas started from his bed.
And soon his clothes did on.
First he vvoxc pale, and thenwoxe red!
Never a word he spake but three ; —
' My sand is run ; my thread is spun ;
This sign regardeth me.'
The elfin harp his neck around,
In minstrel guise, he hung;
And on the wind in doleful sound
Its d3'ing accents rung.
Then forth he went ; yet turn'd him oft
To view his ancient hall :
On the grey tower in lustre soft
The autumn moonbeams fall ;
And Leader's waves like silver sheen
Danced shimmering in the ray ;
In deepening mass, at distance seen,
Broad .Soltra's mountains lay.
'Farewell, my fathers' ancient tower!
A long farewell,' said he :
' The scene of pleasure, pomp, or power
Thou never more shalt be.
'To Learmont's name no foot of earth
Shall here again belong,
And on thy hospitable hearth
The hare shall leave her young.
' Adieu I adieu !' again he cried.
All as he turn'd him roun' —
' Farewell to Leader's silver tide !
Farewell to Ercildoune !'
The hart and hind approach'd the place,
As lingering yet he stood ;
And there, before Lord Douglas' face,
With them he cross'd the flood.
Lord Douglas leap'd on his berry-
brown steed,
And spurr'd him the Leader o'er;
But, though he rode with lif;htniiig
speed.
He never saw them more.
Some said to hill, and some to glen,
Their wondrous course had been ;
But ne'er in haunts of living men
Again was Thomas seen.
66o
>xitafion6 of t^ Mncknt (gd(al.
GLENFINLAS ;
OR,
LORD RONALD'S CORONACH.
' For them the viewless forms of air obpy,
Their biddintj heed, and at tlieir beck repair;
They know what spirit brews the stormful day.
And heartless oft, like moody madness stare.
To see the phantom-train their secret work prepare."
COI.I.IXS.
O HONE a rie' ! O hone a rie' !
The pride of Albin's Hue is o'er,
And fall'n Glenartney's statehest tree;
We ne'er shall see Lord Ronald
more !
O, sprung from great Macgillianore,
The chief that never fear'd a foe,
How matchless was thy broad clay-
more,
How deadly thine unerring bow !
Well can the Saxon widows tell,
HowonthcTeith'sresoundingshore
The boldest Lowland warriors fell,
As down from Lenny's pass you bore.
But o'er his hills, in festal da}',
Ho\v blazed Lord Ronald's beltane-
tree.
While youths and maids the light
strathspey
So nimbi}' danced with Highland
glee :
Cheer'd by the strength of Ronald's
shell,
E'en age forgot his tresses hoar ;
But now the loud lament we swell,
O ne'er to see Lord Ronald more !
From distant isles a chieftain came.
The joys of Ronald's halls to find.
And chase with him the dark-brown
game,
That bounds o'er Albin's hills of
wind.
'Twas Moy ; whom in Columba's isle
The seer's prophetic spirit found.
As, with a minstrel's fire the while.
He waked his harp's harmonious
sound.
Full many a spell to him was known,
Which wandering spirits shrink to
hear ;
And many a lay of potent tone,
Was never meant for mortal ear.
For there, 'tis said, in mystic mood.
High converse with the dead they
hold.
And oft espy the fated shroud.
That shall the future corpse enfold.
O so it fell, that on a day,
To rouse the red deer from their den.
The Chiefs have ta'en their distant way,
And scour'd the deep Glenfinlas glen.
No vassals wait their sports to aid.
To watch their safety, deck their
board ;
Their simple dress the Highland plaid,
Their trusty guard the Highland
sword.
Three summer days, through brake
and dell.
Their whistling shafts successful
flew ;
And still, when dewy evening fell.
The quarry to their hut they drew.
In grey Glenfinlas' deepest nook
The solitary cabin stood.
Fast by Moneira's sullen brook,
Which murmurs through that lonely
wood.
Soft fell the night, the sky was calm.
When three successive days had
flown ;
And summer mist in dewy balm
.Steep'd heathy bank and mossy
stone.
(Bfenftnfae.
66i
The moon, half-hid in silvery flakes,
Afar her dubious radiance shed,
(juivering on Katrine's distant lakes.
And resting on Benledi's head.
Now in their hut, in social guise.
Their .silvan fare the Chiefs enjo\' ;
i\nd pleasure laughs in Ronald's eyes,
As many a pledge he quafis to Moy.
• What lack we here to crown our bliss.
While thus the pulse of joy beats
high?
What, but fair woman's yielding kiss.
Her panting breath and meltingeye ?
'To chase the deer of yonder shades,
This morning left their father's pile
The fairest of our mountain maids.
The daughters of the proud Glengyle.
' LonghavelsoughtsweetMary'sheart,
And dropp'd the tear, and heaved
the sigh :
But vain the lover's wily art.
Beneath a sister's watchful eye.
' But thou mayst teach that guardian
fair,
While far with Mary I have llown,
Of other hearts to cease her care.
And find it hard to guard her own.
'Touch but thy harp — thou soon shalt
see
The lovely Flora of Glengyle,
Unmindful of her charge and me.
Hang on thy notes 'twixt tear and
smile.
' Or, if she choose a melting tale,
All underneath the greenwood
bough,
Will good Saint Oran's rule prevail.
Stern huntsman of the rigid brow ? '
' Since Enrick's fight, since Morna's
death.
No more on me shall rapture rise.
Responsive to the panting breath.
Or yielding kiss, or melting eyes.
' E'en then, \vhen o'er the heath ofwoc.
Where sunk my hopes of love and
fame,
I bade my harp's wild wailings flow.
On me the Seer's sad spirit came.
' The last dread curse of angry hea\en.
With ghastly sights and sounds of
^voe,
To dash each glimpse of joy, wasgiven ;
The gift — the future ill to know.
' The bark thou saw'sty on sunnner morn
So gaily part from Oban's bay,
My eye beheld her dash'd and torn.
Far on the rocky CoJonsay.
' Thy Fergus too, thy sister's son, —
Thou saw'st with pride the gallant's
power.
As marching'gainstthe Lordof Downe
He left the skirts of huge Benmore.
' Thou only saw'st their tartans wave.
As down Benvoirlich's side they
^vound,
Heard'st but the pibroch answering
brave
To many a target clanking round.
' I heard the groans, I mark'd the tears,
I saw the wound his bosom bore.
When on the serried Saxon spears
He pour'd his clan's resistless roar.
' And thou who bidst me think of bliss,
And bidst my heart awake to glee.
And court like thee the wanton kiss —
That heart, ORonaldjbleeds for thee!
' I see the death-damps chill thy brow ;
I hear thy Warning Spirit cry;
The corpse-lights dance ! they're gone!
and now —
No more is given to gifted eye ! '
' Alone enjoy thy dreary dreams,
Sad prophet of the evil hour!
Say, should we scorn joy's transient
beams.
Because to-morrow's storm may lour?
662
^mitatiom of t^e Sncmt (^affab.
' Or false or sooth thy words of \voe,
ClangiUian's Chieftain ne'er shall
fear ;
His blood shall bound at rapture's glow,
Though doom'd to stain the Saxon
spear.
' E'en now, to meet me in yon dell,
M3' Mar3''s buskins brush the dew.'
He spoke, nor bade the Chief farewell.
But called his dogs, and gay with-
drew.
Within an hour return'd each hound;
In rush'd the rousers of the deer;
They howl'd in melancholy sound,
Then closely couch'd beside the
Seer.
No Ronald yet— though midnight
came.
i\nd sad were Moy's prophetic
dreams.
As, bending o'er the dying flame,
He fed the watch-fire's quivering
gleams.
Sudden the hounds erect their ears,
And sudden cease their moaning
howl ;
Close press'd to Moy, they mark their
fears
By shivering limbs and stifled growl.
Untouch'd, the harp began to ring,
As softly, slowly, oped the door ;
And shook responsive every string.
As, light, a footstep press'd the floor.
And by the watch-fire's glimmering
light,
Close by the minstrel's side was seen
An huntress maid in beauty bright.
All dropping wet her robes of green.
All dropping wet her garments seem ;
Chill'd was her cheek, her bosom bare.
As, bending o'er the dying gleam,
She wrung the moisture from her
hair.
With maiden blush, she softly said,
• O gentle huntsman, hast thou seen,
In deep Glenflnlas' moonlight glade,
A lovely maid in vest of green :
' With her a Chief in Highland pride ;
His shoulders bear the hunter's bow.
The mountain dirk adorns his side.
Far on the wind his tartans flow ? '
"And who art thou ? and who are they ?'
All ghastly gazing, Moy replied:
'And why, beneath the moon's pale ra}-,
Dare ye thus roam Glenflnlas' side ' '
' Where wild Loch Katrine pours her
tide,
Blue, dark, and deep, round many
an isle.
Our father's towers o'erhang her side.
The castle of the bold Glengyle.
• To chase the dun Glenflnlas deer
Our woodland course this morn we
bore,
And haply met, while wandering here.
The son of great Macgillianore.
' O aid me, then, to seek the pair,
Whom, loitering in the woods, I
lost ;
Alone, I dare not venture there.
Where walks, they sa}-, the shrieking
ghost.'
' Yes, many a shrieking ghost walks
there ;
Then, first, m3^ own sad vow to keep,
Here will I pour m^' midnight prayer,
Which still must rise when mortals
sleep.'
• O first, for pit\''s gentle Sake,
Guide a lone wanderer on her wa\- 1
For I must cross the haunted brake.
And reach my father's towers ere
day.'
(Beenftnfaa.
663
' First, three times tell each Ave-bcad,
And thrice a Pater-noster say, I
Then kiss with me the holy rede ;
So shall we safely wend our way."
' O shame to knighthood, strange and
foul !
Go, doff the bonnet from thy brow.
And shroud thee in the monkish cowl,
Which best befits thy sullen vow.
' Not so, by high Dunlathmon's fire.
Thy heart was froze to love and J03',
When gaily rung thy raptured lyre
To wanton Morna's melting eye."
Wild stared the minstrel's eyes of
ilame,
And high his sable locks arose,
And quick his colour went and came.
As fear and rage alternate rose.
' i\nd thou 1 when by the bla^^ing oak
1 lay, to her and love resign'd,
Say, rode ye on the eddying smoke,
Or sail'd ye on the midnight wind ?
' Not thine a race of mortal blood.
Nor old Glengyle's pretended line ;
Thy dame, the Lady of the Flood—
Thy sire, the Monarch of the Mine."
Hemutter'd thrice Saint Oran's rhyme,
And thrice Saint Fillan's powerful
prayer ;
Then turn'd him to the eastern clime,
And sternl}' shook his coal-black hair.
And, bending o'er his harp, he flung
His wildest witch-notes on the wind;
And loud and high and strange they
rung.
As many a magic change they find.
Tall wax'd the Spirit's altering form,
Till to the roof her stature grew ;
Then, mingling with the rising storm.
With one wild yell away she flew.
Rain beats, hail rattles, whirlwinds
tear :
The slender hut in fragments flew ;
But not a lock of Moy's loose hair
Was waved by wind, or wetb}^ dew.
Wild mingling with the howling gale.
Loud bursts of ghastlj' laughter rise ;
High o'er the minstrel's head they sail,
And die amid the northern skies.
The voice of thunder shook the wood,
As ceased themore than mortal 3'ell ;
And, spattering foul, a shower of blood
Upon the hissing firebrands fell.
Next dropp'd from high a mangled arm;
The fingers strain'd an half-drawn
blade :
And last, thelife-blood streaming warm.
Torn from the trunk, a gasping head.
Oft o'er that head, in battling field,
Stream'd the proud crest of high
Benmore ;
That arm the broad claymore could
wield,
Which dyed the Teith with Saxon
gore.
Woe to Moneira's sullen rills I
Woe to Glenfinlas' dreary glen I
There never son of Albin's hills
Shall draw the hunter's shaft agon !
E'en the tired pilgrim's burning feet
At noon shall shun that sheltering
den.
Lest, journeying in their rage, he meet
The wayward Ladies of the Glen.
And we — behind the Chieftain's shield
No more shall we in safety dwell ;
None leads the people to the field —
And we the loud lament must swell.
O hone a rie' ! O hone a rie' !
The pride of Albin's line is o'er !
And fall'n Glenartney's stateliest tree;
We ne'er shall see Lord Ronald
more !
664
3int(afion6 of tU ilncienf (gaffa^.
THE EVE OF SAINT JOHN.
The Baron of Smaylho'me rose with
day,
He spurr'd his courser on,
Without stop or stay, down the rocky
way,
That leads to Brotherstone.
He went not with the bold Buccleuch,
His banner broad to rear ;
He went not 'gainst the English yew
To lift the Scottish spear.
Yet his plate-jack was braced, and
his helmet was laced.
And his vaunt-brace of proof he
wore;
i\t his saddle-gerthe was a good steel
sperthe, |
Full ten pound weight and more.
The Baron return'd in three days space, |
And his looks were sad and sour ; I
And weary was his courser's pace,
As he reach'd his rocky tower.
He came not from where Ancrani Moor
Ran red with English blood ;
Where the Douglas true and the bold
Bucdeuch
'Gainst keen Lord Evers stood.
Yet was his helmet hack'd and hew'd,
His acton pierced and tore.
His axe and his dagger with blood
imbrued, —
But it was not English gore.
He lighted at the Chapellage,
He held him close and still ;
And he whistled thrice for his little
foot-page,
His name was English Will.
' Come thou hither, my little foot-page.
Come hither to my knee ;
Though thou art young, and tender
of age,
I think thou art true to me.
' Come, tell me all that thou hast seen,
And look thou tell me true !
Since I from Smaylho'me tower have
been,
What did thy lady do?'
' My lady each night sought the lonely
light
That burns on the wild Watchtold ;
For, from height to height, the beacons
bright
Of the English foemen told.
• The bittern clamour'd from the moss,
The wind blew loud and shrill ;
Yet the craggy pathway she did cross
To the eiry Beacon Hill.
• I watch'd her steps, and silent came
Where she sat her on a stone ;
No watchman stood by the dreary
tlame,
It burned all alone.
• The second night I kept her in siglit
Till to the fire she came.
And, by Mary's might ! an armed
Knight
Stood by the lonely flame.
' And many a word that warlike lord
Did speak to my lady there ;
But the rain fell fast, and loud blew
the blast,
And I heard not what they were.
' The third night there the sky was fair.
And the mountain-blast was still,
As again I watch'd the secret pair
On the lonesome Beacon Hill.
' And I heard her name the midnight
hour,
; And name this holy eve,
; And say "Come this night to thy lady's
bower ;
i Ask no bold Baron's leave.
ZU 6ve of ^t. 5o^n.
66k
'"He lifts his spear with the bold
Buccleuch ;
His lady is all alone ;
The door she '11 undo to her knight so
true
On the eve of good Saint John."
' ■' I cannot come, I must not come,
I dare not come to thee ;
On the eve of Saint John I must
wander alone,
In thy bower I may not be."
' " Now out on thee, fainthearted
knight !
Thou shouldst not sa}^ me na}';
For the eve is sweet, and \vhen lovers
meet
Is worth the whole summer's day.
' " And I '11 chain the blood-hound, and
the warder shall not sound,
And rushes shall be strew'd on the
stair ;
So, bj' the black rood-stone, and by
holy Saint John,
I conjure thee, my love, to be there !"
' " Though the blood-hound be mute,
and the rush beneath mj' foot.
And the warder his bugle should not
blow,
Yet there sleepeth a priest in the
chamber to the east,
And my footstep he would know.
' " O fear not the priest, who sleepeth
to the east,
For to Dryburgh the way he has
ta"en ;
And there to say mass, till three da^-s
do pass.
For the soul of a knight that is
slayne.''
' He turn'd him around, and grimly he
frovvn'd.
Then he laugh'd right scornfully —
"He who says the mass-rite for the
soul of that knight
May as well say mass for me. [
'"At the lone midnight hour, when
bad spirits have power,
In th^' chamber will I be."
With that he was gone, and my lady
left alone,
And no more did I see.'
Then changed, I trow, was that bold
Baron's brow,
From the dark to the blood-red
high—
' Now tell me the mien of the knight
thou hast seen,
For, by Mary, he shall die ! '
' His arms shone full bright in the
beacon's red light ;
His plume it was scarlet and blue ;
On his shield was a hound in a silver
leash bound.
And his crest was a branch of the
yew.'
' Thou liest, thou liest, tliou little foot-
page,
Loud dost thou lie to me !
For that knight is cold, and low laid
in the mould,
All under the Eildon-tree.'
'Yet hear but my word, my noble lord !
For I heard her name his name ;
And that lad}- bright, she called the
knight
Sir Richard of Coldinghame.'
The bold Baron's brow then changed,
I trow,
From high blood-red to pale —
' The grave is deep and dark, and the
corpse is stiff and stark,
So I may not trust thy tale.
' Where fair Tweed flows round holy
Melrose,
And Eildon slopes to the plain,
l'\ill three nights ago, by some secret
foe.
That gay gallant was slain.
666
^tnitattone of tU Mnckni (gaffab.
' The varying light deceived thy sight,
And the wild winds drown'd the
name ;
For the Dr3'burgh bells ring and the
white monks do sing
For Sir Richard of Coldinghame 1'
He pass'd the court-gate, and he oped
the tower-grate.
And he mounted the narrow stair
To the bartizan-seat, where, with
maids that on her wait
He found his lady fair.
That lad}' sat in mournful mood,
Look'd over hill and vale,
Over Tweed's fair flood and Mertoun's
wood
And all down Teviotdale.
' Nowhail, now hail, thou lady bright I'
' Now hail, thou Baron true !
What news, what news from Ancram
fight?
What news from the bold Buc-
cleuch ?'
' The Ancram Moor is red with gore,
For many a southron fell ;
And Buccleuch has charged us ever-
more
To watch our beacons well.'
The lady blush'd red, but nothing she
said ;
Nor added the Baron a word :
Then she stepp'd down the stair to
her chamber fair,
And so did her moody lord.
In sleep the lady mourn'd, and the
Baron toss'd and turn'd.
And oft to himself he said,
' The worms around him creep, and
his bloody grave is deep —
It cannot give up the dead I'
It was near the ringing of matin-bell,
The night was wellnigh done,
When a heaN'y sleep on that Baron fell,
On the eve of good Saint John.
The lady look'd through the chamber
fair,
By the light of a dying flame ;
And she was aware of a knight stood
there —
Sir Richard of Coldinghame !
' Alas I awa}', away 1' she cried,
' For the holy Virgin's sake ! '
' Lady, I know who sleeps bj' thy side ;
But, lady, he will not awake.
' By Eildon-tree, for long nights three.
In bloody grave have I lain ;
The mass and the death-prayer are
said for me.
But, lady, they arc said in vain.
' By the Baron's brand, near Tweed's
fair strand,
Most foully slain I fell ;
And my restless sprite on the beacon's
height
For a space is doom'd to dwell.
'At our trysting-place, for a certain
space,
I must wander to and fro ;
But I had not had power to come to
thy bower
Had'st thou not conjured me so.'
Love mastcr'd fear; her brow she
cross'd — •
' How, Richard, hast thou sped ?
And art thou saved, or art thou lost?'
The vision shook his head !
' Who spilleth life shall forfeit life;
So bid thy lord believe :
That lawless love is guilt above,
This awful sign receive.'
(tab^ow Caetk.
667
He laid his left palm on an oaken beam,
His right upon her hand —
The lady shrunk, and fainting sunk,
For it scorch'd like a fiery brand.
The sable score of fingers four
Remains on that board impress'd ;
And for evermore that lady wore
A covering on lier wrist.
There is a nun in Dryburgh bovver,
Ne'er looks upon the sun ;
There is a monk in Melrose tower.
He speaketh word to none ;
That nun who ne'er beholds the day.
That monk who speaks to none —
That nun was Smaylho'me's Lady gay,
That monk the bold Baron.
CADYOW CASTLE.
,\DDRESSF.D lO
THE RIGHT HONOLKABI.E
L.A.DY ANNE HAMILTON.
When princely Hamilton's abode
Ennobled Cadyow's Gothic towers,
The song went round, the goblet flow'd.
And revel sped the laughing hours.
Then, thrilling to the harp's gay sound.
So sweetly rung each vaulted wall.
And echoed light the dancer's bound,
As mirth and music checr'd the hall.
But Cadyow's towers, in ruins laid.
And vaults, by ivy mantled o'er.
Thrill to the music of the shade,
Or echo Evan's hoarser roar.
Yet still of Cadyow's faded fame
You bid me tell a minstrel tale,
And tunc my harp of Border frame
On the wild banks of Evandalc.
For thou, from scenes of courtly pride.
From pleasure's lighter scenes,
canst turn.
To draw oblivion's pall aside.
And mark the long-forgotten urn.
Then, noble maid ! at thy command.
Again the crumbled halls shall rise ;
Lo ! as on Evan's banks we stand,
The past returns — the present flics.
Where with the rock's wood cover'd
side
Were blended late the ruins green.
Rise turrets in fantastic pride,
And feudal banners flaunt between.
Where the rude torrent's brawling
course
Was shagg'd with thorn and tang-
ling sloe,
The ashler buttress braves its force.
And ramparts iVown in 'battled rov,-.
'Tis night : the shade of keep and spire
Obscurely dance on Evan's stream;
And on the wave the warder's fire
Is chequering the moonlight beam.
Fades slow their light — theeastisgrej';
The wear^' warder leaves his tower;
Steeds snort, uncoupled stag-hounds
bay,
And merry hunters quit the bower.
The drawbridge falls — they hurrv-
out —
Clatters each plank and swinging
chain,
As, dashing o'er, the jovial rout
Urge the shy steed, and slack the
rein.
First of his troop the Chief rode on;
His shouting merry-men throng
behind ;
The steed of princely Hamilton
Was fleeterthanthe mountain wind.
] TIic head of the family of Hamilton, at this period,
i\as James, Earl of Arraii. Duke of Chatelherault in
Frani-e, and first peer of the Scottish realm. In 156',
he ^^■as appointed by Queen Mary her lieutenant*
ijeneral in Scotland.
668
3miiaftott0 of tU ilncienf (gaffai.
From the thick copse the roebucks
bound,
The startled red-deer scuds the
plain,
For the hoarse bugle's warrior-sound
Has roused their mountain haunts
again.
Through the huge oaks of Evandale,
Whose limbs a thousand years have
worn,
What sullen roar comes down the
gale
And drowns the hunter's pealing
horn ?
Mightiest of all the beasts of chase
That roam in woody Caledon,
Crashing the forest in his race,
The Mountain Bull comes thunder-
ing on.
Fierce on the hunter's quiver'd band
He rolls his eyes of swarthy glow,
Spurns with black hoof and horn the
sand,
And tosses high his mane of snow.
Aim'd well the Chieftain's lance has
flown —
Struggling in blood the savage lies;
His roar is sunk in hollow groan —
Sound, merry huntsmen ! sound
the prj'se.
'Tis noon : against the knotted oak
The hunters rest the idle spear ;
Curls through the trees the slender
smoke,
Where yeomen dight the woodland
cheer.
Proudly the Chieftain mark'd his clan,
On greenwood lap all careless
thrown.
Yet miss'd his eye the boldest man
That bore the name of Hamilton.
'Why fills not Bothwellhaugh his
place.
Still wontourwcaland woe toshare?
Why comes he not our sport to grace?
Why shares he not our hunter's
fare? '
Stern Claud replied with darkening
face
(Grey Paisley's haughty lord was he;
' At merry feast or buxom chase
No more the warrior wilt thou see.
' Few suns have set since Woodhousc-
lee
Saw Bothwellhaugh's bright goblets
foam,
When to his hearths in social glee
The war-worn soldier turn'd him
home.
' There, wan from her maternal throes,
His Margaret, beautiful and mild,
Sate in her bower, a pallid rose,
And peaceful nursed her new-born
child.
' O change accursed ! past are those
days ;
False Murray's ruthless spoilers
came,
And, for the hearth's domestic blaze,
Ascends destruction's volumed
flame.
' Whatsheeted phantom wanders wild,
Where mountain Eske through
woodland flows.
Her arms enfold a shadowy child — •
Oh ! is it she, the pallid rose ?
' The wilder'd traveller sees her glide.
And hears her feeble voice with awe ;
" Revenge," she cries, " on Murray's
pride 1
And woe for injured Bothwell-
haugh 1'"
C^ai^ew Caetk.
669
He ceased ; and cries of rage and grief
Burst mingling from the kindred
band,
And half arose the kindling Chief,
And halfunsheathcd his Arran brand.
But who, o'er bush, o'er stream and
rock.
Rides headlong, with resistless
speed,
Whose bloody poniard's frantic stroke
Drives to the leap hii jaded steed,
Whose cheek is pale, whose eyeballs
glare,
As one some vision'd sight that saw,
Whose hands are blood}', loose his
hair ? —
■'Tishe ! "tishe I 'tis Bothwellhaugh.
From gorj' selle, and reeling steed,
Sprung the fierce horseman with a
bound.
And, reeking from the recent deed.
He dash'dhis carbine on the ground.
Sternly he spoke : ' 'Tis sweet to hear
In good greenwood the bugle blown.
But sweeter to Revenge's ear.
To drink a tyrant's dying groan.
' Your slaughter'd quarry proudly
trode.
At dawning morn, o'er dale and
down.
But prouder base-born Murray rode
Through old Linlithgow's crowded
town.
' Fromthewild Border's humbled side.
In haughty triumph marched he,
While Knox relax'd his bigot pride
And smiled the traitorous pomp to
see.
' But can stern Power, with all his
vaunt,
Or Pomp, with all her courtly glare.
The settled heart of Vengeance daunt.
Or change the purpose of Despair ?
"With hackbut bent, mj- secret stand.
Dark as the purposed deed, I chose.
And mark'd where, mingling in his
band,
Troop'd Scottish pikes and English
bows.
' Dark Morton, girt with many a spear,
Murder's foul minion, led the van ;
And clash'd their broadswords in the
rear
The wild Macfarlanes' plaided clan.
' Glencairn and stout Parkhead were
nigh.
Obsequious at their Regent's rein,
And haggard Lindesay's iron eye.
That saw fair Mary weep in \ain.
' 'Mid pennon'd spears, a steely grove.
Proud Murray's plumage floated
high ;
Scarce could his trampling charger
move.
So close the minions crowded nigh.
' From the raised vizor's shade, his ej'c
Dark-roUingglancedtheranksalong,
And his steel truncheon, waved on
high,
Seem'd marshalling the iron throng.
• But yet his sadden'd brow confess'd
A passing shade of doubt and awe ;
Some fiend was whispering in his
breast ;
" Beware of injured Bothwell-
haugh !"
' — The death-shot parts ! the charger
springs.
Wild rises tumult's startling roar,
And Murray's plumy helmet rings —
Rings on the ground, to rise no more.
' What joy the raptured 3-outh can feel
To hear her love the loved one tell I
Or he who broaches on his steel
The wolf by whom his infant fell !
670
3initatton0 of tU cEncteni (^affai.
' But dearer to my injured ej-e
To see in dust proud Murray' roll ;
And mine was ten times trebled joy,
To hear him groan his felon soul.
' My Margaret's spectre glided near,
With pride her bleeding victim saw,
And shriek'd in his death-dcafen'd ear
"RcmemberinjuredBothwellhaugh 1"
' Then speed thee, noble Chatlerault
Spread to the wind th}' banner'd
tree !
Each warrior bend his Cl\-desdale
bow ! — •
"Murray is fall'n, and Scotland
free ! " '
Vaults every warrior to his steed ;
Loud bugles join their wild acclaim :
' Murray is fall'n, and Scotland freed 1
Couch, Arran ! couch thy spear of
flame '. '
But, see 1 the minstrel vision fails —
The glimmering spears are seen no
more ;
The shouts of war die on the gales,
Or sink in Evan's lonely roar.
For the loud bugle, pealing high,
The blackbird whistles down the
vale.
And sunk in ivied ruins lie
The banner'd towers of Evandale.
For Chiefs, intent on bloody deed,
And Vengeance shouting o'er the
slain,
Lo 1 high-born Beauty rules the steed,
Or graceful guides the silken rein.
And long may Peace and Pleasure own
The maids who list the minstrel's
tale;
Nor e'er a ruder guest be known
On the fair banks of Evandale !
THE GRAY BROTHER.
The Pope he was saying the high,
high mass,
All on Saint Peter's day,
With the power to him given, bj' the
saints in heaven,
To wash men's sins away.
The Pope he was saying the blessed
mass.
And the people kneel'd around,
And from each man's soul his sins did
pass.
As he kiss'd the holy ground.
And all, among the crowded throng,
Was still, both limb and tongue.
While, through vaulted roof and aisles
aloof,
The holy accents rung.
At the holiest word he quiver'd for fear,
And falter'd in the sound.
And, when he would the chalice rear,
lie dropp'd it to the ground.
' The breath of one of evil deed
Pollutes our sacred day;
He has no portion in our creed.
No part in what I say.
'A being, whom no blessed word
To ghostly peace can bring ;
A wretch, at whose approach abhorr'd,
Recoils each holy thing.
' Up, up, unhappy ! haste, arise !
My adjuration fear !
I charge thee not to stop my voice,
Nor longer tarry here I '
yVmid them all a pilgrim kneel'd.
In gown of sackcloth grey ;
Far journeying from his native field.
He first saw Rome that da\-.
ZH (Brap (gtotUv.
671
For forty days and nights so drear,
I ween he had not spoke,
And, save with bread and water clear.
His fast he ne'er had broke.
Amid the penitential flock,
Seem'd none more bent to pray ;
But, when the Holy Father spoke,
He rose and went his way.
Again unto his native land
His weary course he drew.
To Lothian's fair and fertile strand,
And Pentland's mountains blue.
His unblest feet his native seat,
'Mid Eske's fair woods, regain;
Thro' woods more fair no stream more
sweet
l^olls to the eastern main.
And lords to meet the pilgrim came.
And vassals bent the knee;
For all 'mid Scotland's chiefs of fame,
Was none more famed than he.
And boldly for his countrj' still
In battle he had stood,
Ay, even when on the banks of Till
Her noblest pour'd their blood.
Sweet are the paths, O passing sweet,
By Eske's fair streams that run,
O'er airy steep, through copsewood
deep, ^
Impervious to the sun;
There the rapt poet's step may rove
And yield the muse the daj*.
There Beauty led by timid Love
May shun the tell-tale ray, —
From that fair dome where suit is paid
Bj' blast of bugle free.
To Aiichendinny's hazel glade
And liaunted Woodhouselec.
Who knows not Melville's becchy
grove,
And Roslin's rock}- glen,
Dalkeith which all the virtues love,
And classic Hawthornden ?
Yet never a path, from day to day.
The pilgrim's footsteps range.
Save b}^ the solitary way
To Burndale's ruin'd grange.
A woful place was that, I ween,
As sorrow could desire;
For nodding to the fall was each
crumbling wall,
And the roof was scathed with fire.
It fell upon a summer's eve,
While, on Carnethy's head.
The last faint gleams of the sun's low
beams
Had streak'd the grey with red ;
And the convent bell did vespers tell
Newbattle's oaks among.
And mingled with the solemn knell
Our Ladye's evening song:
The heavy knell, the choir's faint swell,
Came slowly down the wind.
And on the pilgrim's ear they fell,
As his wonted path he did find.
Deep sunk in thought, I ween, he was.
Nor ever raised his eye,
Until he came to that dreary place.
Which did all in ruins lie.
He gazed on the walls so scathed
with fire.
With many a bitter groan —
And there was aware of a Gra}' Friar.
Resting him on a stone.
'Now, Christ thee save!' said the
Gray Brother ;
' Some pilgrim thou seemest to be.'
Butinsoreamazedid Lord Albert gaze.
Nor answer again made he.
5nttfafton0 of t^e ilnct'ent (^affai.
' O come ye from cast, or come ye
from west.
Or bring reliqucs from over the sea?
Or come j'c from the shrine of
Saint James the divine,
Or Saint John of Beverley?'
of
' I come not from the shrine
Saint James the divine,
Nor bringrehques from over the sea ;
I bring but a curse from our father,
the Pope,
Which for ever will cling to mc.'
'Now, woful pilgrim, say not so !
But kneel thee down to me,
And shrive thee so clean of thy deadly
sin.
That absolved thou ma^'st be.'
•■ Andwhoart thou, thou Gray Brother.
That I should shrive to thee,
When He, to whom are given the kcj-s
of earth and heaven,
Has no power to pardon me?'
' O I am sent from a distant clime.
Five thousand miles away,
And all to absolve a foul foul crime.
Done lierc 'twixt night and day.'
The pilgrim knccl'd him on the sand,
And thus began his saj-c —
When on his neck an ice-cold hand
Did that Gray Brother laj-e —
END OF IMITATIONS OF THE ANCIENT BALLAD.
(Uo^e0 ^0 ^mitadom of t^t Mncknt (§d^ab.
THOMAS THE RHYMER.
INTRODUCTORY NOTE.
Part I.— Anoiext.
Few personages are so renowned in tra-
dition as Tliomas of Ercildoune, known bj'
the appellation of T/ie Rhymer. I'niting, or
supposed to unite, in his person, the powers
of poetical composition, and of vaticination,
his memory, even after the lapse of five
liundred years, is regarded with veneration
by his countrymen. To give anything like
a certain history of this remarkable man
would be indeed difficult ; but the curious
may derive some satisfaction from the par-
ticulars here brought togetlier.
It is agreed on all hands that the residence,
and probably the birthplace, of this ancient
bard, was Ercildoune, a village situated upon
the Leader, two miles above its junction with
the Tweed. The ruins of an ancient tower
are still pointed out as the Rhymer's castle.
The uniform tradition bears, that his sirname
■was Lermont, or Learmont ; and that the
appellation of The R/iy/zicrwas conferred on
him in consequence of his poetical composi-
tions. There remains, nevertheless, some
doubt upon the subject. In a charter, which
is subjomed at length ', the son of our poet
designed himself 'Thomas of Ercildoun, son
and heir of Thomas R3'mour of Ercildoun,'
which seems to imply that the father did not
bear the hereditary name of Learmont ; or,
at least, was better known and distinguished
by the epithet which he had acquired by his
personal accomplishments. I must, however,
remark that, down to a very late period, the
practice of distinguishing the parties, even
in formal writings, by the epithets which had
been bestowed on them from personal circum-
stances, instead of the proper sirnames of
their families, was common, and indeed
necessary, among the Border clans. So early
1 Note I, p. 68<j.
as the end of the thirteenth century, when
sirnameswere hardly introduced in Scotland,
this custom must have been universal. There
is, therefore, nothing inconsistent in suppos-
ing our poet's name to have been actuallv
Learmont, although, in this charter, he ^^
distinguished b)' the popular appellation of
T/ie Rhymer.
We are better able to ascertain the period
at which Thomas of Ercildoune lived, being
the latter end of the thirteenth century. I am
inclined to place his death a little farther
back than Mr. Pinkerton, who supposes that
he was ali\'e in 1,^00 {List of Scottish Poets),
which is hardly, I think, consistent with the
charter already quoted, by which his son, in
1299, for himself and his heirs, conveys to the
convent of the Trinity of Soltra, the tenement
which he possessed by inheritance {/leredi-
tarie) in Ercildoune, with all claim which
he or his predecessors could pretend thereto.
From this we may infer that the Rhymer was
now dead, since we find the son disposing of
the family property. Still, however, the argu-
ment of the learned historian will remain
unimpeached as to the time of the poet's
birth. For if, as we learn from Barbour, his
prophecies were held in reputation as early
as 1306, when Bruce slew the Red Cummin,
the sanctit)-, and (let me add to Mr. Pinker-
ton's words) the uncertainty of antiquity,
must have already involved his character and
writings. In a charter of Peter de Haga de
Bemersyde, which unfortunately wants a date,
the Rhymer, a near neighbour, and, if we
may trust tradition, a friend of the family,
appears as a witness. — Chartiilary of Mel-
rose.
It cannot be doubted that Thomas of
F'rcildoune was a remarkable and important
person in his own time, since, very shortly
after his death, we find him celebrated as
a prophet and as a poet. Whether he himself
made any pretensions to the first of these
characters, or whether it was gratuitously
conferred upon him by the credulity of pos-
674 dtofea to ^mitaiiom of tH Mncknt (^affai.
terity, it seems difficult to decide. If we may
believe Mackenzie, Learmont only versified
the prophecies delivered by Eliza, an inspireii
nun of a convent at Hadding^ton. But of this
there seems not to be the most distant proof.
On the contrarv, all ancient authors, who
quote the Rlivmer's prophecies, uniformly
suppose them to have been emitted by him-
self. Thus, in Winton's CItrouicle —
' Of this fycht quilum spak Thomas
Of Ersyldoiine, that sayci in derne,
There sulci meit stalwartiy, starlie and sterne.
He sayd it in his prophecy ;
But how he wist it Vi3.%/erly'
Book VIII, chap. 32.
There could have been x^ofcrly (marvel), in
Winton's eves at least, how Thomas came by
his knowledge of future events, had he ever
heard of the inspired nun of Haddington,
which, it cannot be doubted, would have been
a solution of the mystery much to the taste
of the Prior of Lochleven.
Whatever doubts, however, the learned
might have as to the source of the Rhymer's
prophetic skill, the vulgar had no hesitation
to ascribe the whole to the intercourse between
the bard and the Queen of Faery. The
popular tale bears that Thomas was carried
off, at an earh' age, to the Fair)' Land, \\ here
he acquired all the knowledge which made
him afterwards so famous. After .seven years'
residence, he was permitted to return to the
earth, to enlighten and astonish his countr)-
men by his prophetic powers ; still, however,
remaining bound to return to his royal mis-
tress, when she should intimate her pleasure.
Accordingly, while Thomas was making
merry with his friends in the Tower of Ercil-
doune, a person came running in, and told,
with marks of fear and astonishment, that
a hart and hind had left the neighbouring
forest, and were, composedly and slowlj',
parading the street of the village. The pro-
phet instantly arose, left his habitation, and
followed the wonderful animals to the forest,
whence he was never seen to return. Accord-
ing to the popular belief, he still 'drees his
weird 'in Fairy Land, and is one day expected
to revisit earth. In the meanwhile, his
memory is held in the most profound respect.
The Eildon-tree, from beneath the shade of
which he delivered his prophecies, now no
longer exists ; but the spot is marked by a
large stone, called Eildon-tree Stone. A neigh-
bouring rivulet takes the name of the Bogle
Burn (Goblin Brook) from the Rhymer's
supernatural visitants. The veneration paid
to his dwelling-place even attached itself in
some degree to a person, who within the
inemorv' of man, chose to set up his residence
in the ruins of Leannont's tower. The name
of this man was Murray, a kind of herbalist ;
who, by dint of some knowledge in simples,
the possession of a musical clock, anelectrical
machine, and a stuffed alligator, added to
a supposed communication with Thomas the
Rhvmer, lived for many 3ears in very good
credit as a wizard.
It seemed to the Editor unpardonable to
dismiss a person so important in Border
tradition as the Rhymer, without some t'arther
notice than a simple commentary upon the
ancient ballad. It is given from a copy,
obtained from a lady residing not far from
Ercildoune, corrected and enlarged by one
in Mrs. Brown's MSS. The former copy,
however, as might be expected, is far more
minute as to local description. To this old
tale the Editor has ventured to add a Second
Part, consisting of a kind of cento, from the
printed prophecies vulgarly ascribed to the
Rhymer ; and a Third Part, entirely modem,
founded upon the tradition of his having
returned with the hart and hind to the Land
of Faery. To make his peace with the more
severe antiquaries, the Editor has furnished
the Second Part with some remarks on Lear-
mont's prophecies.
Part II.— Adapted.
The prophecies ascribed to Thomas of
Ercildoune have been the principal means of
securing to him remembrance ' amongst the
sons of his people.' The author oi Sir Tris-
irem would long ago have joined, in the vale
of obli\ion, ' Clerk of Tranent, who wrote the
adventuresof .S'i:///V Gawaiii^ if, by good hap,
the same current of ideas respecting antiquity,
which causes Virgil to be regarded as a
magician by the Lazaroni of Naples, had not
exalted the bard of Ercildoune to the pro-
phetic character. Perhaps, indeed, he himself
affected it during his life. We know at least,
for certain, that a belief in his supernatural
knowledge was current soon after his death.
His prophecies are alluded toby Barbour, by
Winton, and by Henry the Minstrel, 01: Bliiici
Harry, as he is usually termed. None of
these authors, however, give the words of any
of the Rhymer's vaticinations, but merely
narrate, historically, his having predicted the
events of which they speak. The earliest of
the prophecies ascribed to him, which is now
extant, is quoted by Mr. Pinkerton from
a MS. It is supposed to be a response from
Thomas of Ercildoune to a question from the
heroic Countess of March, renowned for the
defence of the castle of Dunbar against the
English, and termed, in the familiar dialect
of her time, Black Agnes of Dunbar. This
prophecy is remarkable, in so far as it bears
verv little resemblance to any verses publ ished
in the printed copy of the Rhymer's supposed
prophecies. The verses arc as follows : — ■
' La ConnUssf de Donbar demande a Thomas de
lissedouKi guant la guerre (C F.scoce prendreit
/yit. F y[ fa repouudy et dyt.
When man is mad a kyng of a capped man ;
^Vhcn man is levere other raones thyngf than liis owcn
^Vlle^ londe thouys forest, ant forest is fclde ;
M'hen hares kendles o' the lier'stane ;
\\'lien \\'yt and "W'ille werres togedere
Zhmaa t^e (Jl^pwer.
675
When mon makes stables of kyrkes, and steles cnstcls
with stye ;
When Rokesboroughe nys no burgh ant market is at
Forwyleye ;
When Bambourne is donged with dede men ;
When men ledes men in ropes to buyen and to sellen ;
When a quarter of whaty whetc is chaunged for a colt
of ten markes ;
When prude Ipride) prikes and peesisleydin prisoun ;
When a Scot ne me hym hude ase hare in forme that
the English ne shall hym fynde ;
When rycht ant wronge astente the togedere ;
When laddes weddeth lovedies ;
When Scottes flen so faste, that, for faute of shep, hy
drowneth hemselve ;
When shal this be?
Nouther in thine tyme ne in mine ;
Ah conien ant gone
AVithinne twenty winter ant one.*
PINKERTON'S Poems. f>o}n MAITLAND'S MSS.
quoting from Harl. Lib. --as^, f. 127.
As I have never seen the MS. from which
Mr. Pinkerton makes this extract, and as tiie
date of it is fixed by him (certainly one of the
most able antiquaries of our age) to the
reign of Edward I or II, it is with great
diffidence that I hazard a contrary opinion.
There can, however, I believe, be little doubt
that these prophetic verses are a forgery, and
not the product ion of our Thorn as the Rhyiner.
But I am inclined to believe them of a later
date than the reign of Edward I or II.
The gallant defence of thecastle of Dunbar,
by Black Agnes, took place in the year 1,^,^7.
The Rhymer died previous to the year i^yi)
(see the charter, by his son. Note I, p. 6Si)).
It seems, therefore, very improbable, that
the Countess of Dunbar could ever liave
an opportunity of consulting Thomas the
Rhymer, since that would infer that she was
married, or at least engaged in state matters,
previous to 1^99; whereas she is described as
a young, or a middle-aged woman, at the
period of her being besieged in the fortress,
which she so well defended. If the editor
might indulge a conjecture, he would suppose
that the prophecy was contrived for the
encouragementofthe English invaders during
the Scottish wars; and that the names of the
Countess of Dunbar, and of Thomas of Ercil-
doune, were used for the greater credit of the
forgery. According to this hypothesis, it
seems likely to have been composed after the
siege of Dunbar, which had made the name
of the Countess well known, and consequently
in the reign of Edward III. The whole ten-
dency of the prophecy is to aver that there
shall be no end of the Scottish war (concerning
which the question was proposed) till a final
conquest of the country by England, attended
by all the usual severities of war. ' When the
cultivated country shall become forest,' says
the prophecy ; — 'when the wild animals shall
inhabit the abode of men ; — when Scots shall
not be able to escape the English, should
they crouch as hares in their form ' — all these
denunciations seem to refer to the time of
Edward III, upon whose victories the predic-
tion was prob.abh' founded. The mention of
the exchange betwixt a colt worth ten marks,
and a quarter of 'whaty [indifferent] wheat,'
seems to allude to the dreadful famine, about
the year 1388. The independence of Scotland
was, however, as impregnable to the mines of
superstition, as to the steel of our more power-
ful and more wealthy neighbours. The war
of Scotland is, thank God, at an end ; but it
is ended without her people having either
crouched like hares in their form, or being
drowned in their flight, ' for faute of ships,'—
thank God for that too. — The prophecy
quoted in the preceding page is probably of
the same date, and intended for the same
purpose.
A minute search of the records of the time
would, probably, throw additional light upon
the allusions contained in these ancient
legends. Among various rhymes of prophetic
import, which are at this day current amongst
the people of Teviotdale, is one, supposed to
be pronounced by Thomas the Rhymer,
presaging the destruction of his habitation
and family : —
' The hare sail kittle [litter] on my hearth stane,
And there will never be a Laird Learmont again.'
The first of these lines is obviously borrowed
from that in the MS. of the Harl. Library—
' When hares kendles o' the her'stane ' — an
emphatic image of desolation. It is also
inaccurately quoted in the prophecy of \\'ald-
have, published bj- Andro Hart, liSi^ :—
' This is a true talking that Thomas of tells,
The hare shall hirpie on the hard [hearth] stane.'
Spottiswoode, an honest, but credulous
historian, seems to h.ave been a firm believer
in the authenticity of the prophetic wares
vended in the name of Thomas of Ercildoune.
'The prophecies, yet extant in Scottish rhymes,
whereupon he was commonly called Thomas
the Rhymer^ may justly be admired ; having
foretold,, so many ages, before .the. union of
England and Scotland in the ninth degree of
the Bruce's blood, with the succession of
Bruce himself to the crown, t)eing yet a child,
and other divers particulars, which the event
hath ratified and made good. Boethius, in his
story, relateth his prediction of King Alexan-
der's death, amf that he didforetel the same to
the Earl of March, the day before it fell out ;
saying, "That before the next day at noon,
such a tempest should blow, as Scotland had
not felt for many years before." The next
morning, the day being clear, and no change
appearing in the air, the nobleman did
challenge Thomas of his saying, calling him
an impostor. He replied, that noon was not
yet passed. About which time a post came
to advertise the earl of the king his sudden
death. "Then," said Thomas, "this is the
teinpest I foretold ; and so it shall prove to
Scotland." Whence, or how, hehad tliis know-
ledge, can hardly be affirmed ; but sure it is,
that he did divine and answer truly of many
things to come.' — Spottiswooue, p. 4^'.
Besides that notable voucher. Master Hector
Z 2
676 (^XoUq to ^mitAiione of t0e ilncient (gaffai.
Boece, the good archbishop might, liad he
been so minded, liave referred to Fordun
for the propliecy of King Alexander's death.
That historian calls our ban! " ruralis ille
Z'<7/r.?.'— FOKUUN, lib. X, cap. 40.
What Spottiswoode calls ' the prophecies
extant in Scottish rhyme,' are the metrical
productionsascribedtotheseerofErcildoune,
which, with many other compositions of the
same nature, bearing the names of Bede,
Merlin, Gildas, and other approved sooth-
sayers, are contained in one small volume,
published by Andro Hart, at Edinburgh, 1615.
Nisbet the lierald (who claims the prophet of
Ercildoune as a brother-professor of his art,
founding upon the various allegorical and
emblematical allusions to heraldry) intimates
the existence of some earlier copy of his pro-
phecies than that of Andro Hart, which, how-
ever, he does not pretend to have seen 1. The
late excellent Lord Hailes made these compo-
sitions the subject of a dissertation, published
in his Remarks oil the History of Scotland.
His attention is chiefly directed to the cele-
brated prophecy of our bard, mentioned by
Bishop Spottiswoode, bearing that the crowns
of England and Scotland should be united in
the person of a King, son of a French Queen,
and related to the Bruce in the ninth digree.
Lord Hailes plainly proves that this prophecy
is per\erted from its original purpose in
order to apply it to the succession of James
VI. The groundwork of the forgery is to be
found in tne prophecies of Berlington, con-
tained in the same collection, and runs thus : —
' Of Biuce's left side shall sprinvj out a leafe,
As neere as tlie ninth degree ;
And shall be fteenied of faire Scotland,
In France farre beyond the sea.
And then shall come again rydingf.
With eyes that many men may see.
At Aberladie he shall light.
With hempen helteres and horse of tre.
However it happen for to fall,
The lyon shall be lord of all ;
The French Quen shall bearre the Sonne,
Shall rule all Britainne to the sea ;
Ane from the Bruce's blood shal come also.
As near as the ninth degree.
Yet shal there come a keene knight over the salt sea,
A keene man of courage and bold man of armes ;
A duke's son dowbled [i. e. dubbed], a born man in
France,
That shall our mirths augment, and mend all our
harmes ;
After the date of our Lord 1513, and thrice three
thereafter ;
Which shall brooke all the broad isle to himself,
Between thirteen and thrice three the threip shall
be ended.
The Saxons shall never recover after,'
There cannot be any doubt that this pro-
phecy was intended to excite the confidence
of the Scottish nation in the Duke of Albany,
regent of Scotland, who arrived from France
1 See Note III, p. 682.
in 1515, two years after the death of James IV
in the fatal field of Flodden. I'he Regent
was descended of Bruce by the left, i.e. by the
female side, within the ninth degree. His
mother was daughter of the Earl of Boulogne,
his fatherbanished from his country — 'fleemit
of fair Scotlantl.' His arrival must necessarily
be by sea, and his landing was expected at
Aberlady, in the Frith of Forth. He was
a duke's son, dubbed knight ; and nine years,
from 151:?, are allowed him by the pretended
prophet for the accomplishment of the salva-
tion of his country, and the exaltation of
Scotland over her sister and rival. All this
w as a pious fraud, to excite the confidence and
spirit of the country.
The prophecy, put in the name of our
Thomas the Rhymer, as it stands in Hart's
book, refers to a later period. The narrator
meets the Rhymer tipon a land beside a lee,
who shows him many emblematical visions,
described in no mean strain of poetry. They
chiefly relate to the fields of Flodden and
Pinkie, to the national distress which followed
these defeats, and to future halcyon days,
which are promised to Scotland. One quota-
tion or two will be sufficient to establish this
fully :-
'Our Scottish King sal come ful keene.
The red lyon beareth he ;
A feddered arrow sharp, I ween,
Shall make him winke and warre to see.
t)ut of the field he shall be led,
When he is bludie and woe for blood ;
Yet to his men shall he say,
" For God's love turn you againe,
And give yon sutherne folk a frey \
Why should I lose, the right is mine?
My date is not to die this day.'"
Who can doubt, for a moment, that this
refers to the battle of Flodden, and to the
popular reports concerning the doubtful fate
of James IV? Allusion is immediately after-
w-ards made to the death of George Douglas,
heir-apparent of Angus, who fought and fell
with his sovereign : —
' The sternes three that day shall die.
That bears the harte in silver sheen.'
The well-known arms of the Douglas family
are the heart and three stars. In another
place, the battle of Pinkie is expressly men-
tioned by name: —
' At Pinken Cluch there shall be spilt
Much gentle blood that day ;
There shall the bear lose the guilt,
And the eagill bear it away.'
To the end of all this allegorical and mysti-
cal rhapsody, is interpolated, in the later
edition by Andro Hart, a new edition of Ber-
lington's verses, before quoted, altered and
manufactured, so as to bear reference to the
accession of James VI, which had just then
taken place. The insertion is made with
a peculiar degree of awkwardness, betwixt
a question, put by the narrator, concerning
the name and abode of the person who showed
€6oind0 t^t dPi^mtv.
677
liim these strange matters, ami the answer
of tlie prophet to that question :^
' Tlieii to the Beirne could I bay,
M'liere dwells thou, or in what countric ?
I Or who shall rule the isle of Britane,
From the north to the south seyV
A French queene shall bear the Sonne,
Shall rule all Britaine to the sea ;
"Which of the Bruce's blood shall come.
As neere as the nint degree :
I frained fast what was his name,
"Where that he came, from what country.]
In Hrslingtoun I dwell at hame,
Thomas Rymour men cals nie.'
There is surely no one who will not con-
clude, with Lord Hailes, that the eight lines
<-nclosed in brackets are a clumsy interpola-
tion, borrowed from Berlington, with such
alterations as might render the supposed pro-
phecy applicable to the union of the crowns.
While we are on this subject, it may be
proper briefly to notice the scope of some of
the other predictions, in Hart's Collection.
As the prophecy of Berlington was intended
to raise the spirits of the nation during the
regency of Alban}', so those of Sybilla and
Eltraine refer to that of the Earl of Arraii,
afterwards Duke of Chatelherault, during the
minority of Mary, a period of similar calamity.
This is obvious from the following verses ; —
• Take a thousand in calculation.
And the loni^est of the lyon.
Four crescents under one crownc.
With Saint Andrew's croce thrive.
Then threescore and thrisc three :
Take tent to Merlingf truely,
Then shall the wars ended be.
And never again rise.
In that yere there shall a king,
A duke, ami no crownM king :
Becaus the prince shall be yon;^'.
And tender of yeares.'
The date, above hinted at, seems to be 1549,
when the Scottish Regent, by means of some
succours derived from France, wasendeavour-
ing to repair the consequences of the fatal battle
of Pinkie. Allusion is made to the supply
given to the ' Moldwarte [England] by the
fained hart' (the Earl of Angus). The Regent
is described by his bearing the antelope ; large
supplies are promised from France, and com-
plete conquest predicted to Scotland and
her allies. Thus was the same hackneyed
stratagem repeated, whenever the interest of
the rulers appeared to stand in need of it.
The Regent was not, indeed, till after this
period, created Duke of Chatelherault ; but
that honour was the object of his hopes and
expectations.
The name of our renowned soothsayer is
liberally used as an authority throughout all
the prophecies published by Andro Hart.
Besides those expressly put in his name,
Gildas, another assumed personage, is sup-
posed to derive his knowledge from him ; for
he concludes thus : —
' True Thomas me told in a troublesome time,
In a harvest morn at Eldoun hills.'
77te Proj'hay 0/ Gildas.
In the prophecy of Berlington, already
quoted, we are told,
■ Marvellous Merlin, that many men of tell>.
And 1 homas's sayings comes all at once.'
While I am upon the subject of these pro-
phecies, may I be permitted to call tlie atten-
tion of antiquaries to Merdwynn Wyllt, or
Merlin the Wild, in whose name, and l)y no
means in that of Ambrose Merlin, the friend
of Arthur, the Scottish prophecies are issued ':
That this personage resi<]ed at Drummelziar,
and roamed, like a second Nebuchadnezzar,
the woods of Tweeddale, in remorse for the
death of his nephew, we learn from Fordun.
In the ScotichroJiicon, lib. iii, cap. 31, is an
account of an interview betwixt St. Kentigern
and Merlin, then in this distracted and miser-
able state. He is said to have been called
Lailoken, from his mode of life. On being
commanded by the saint to give an account
of himself, he says that the penance which
he performs was imposed on him by a voice
from heaven, during a bloody contest betwixt
Lidel andCarwanolow, of which battle he had
been the cause. According to his own pre-
diction, he perished at once by wood, earth,
and water ; for, being pursued with stones by
the rustics, he fell from a rock into the river
Tweed, and was transfixed by a sharp stake,
fixed there for the purpose of extending a fish-
ing-net : —
• Slide perfossus, lapide percussus, et uiida,
Ilacc tria Merlinum fertur inire necem,
.Sicque rtiit, mersusque fuit lignoque prehensus,
lit fecit vatem per terna pericula verum."
But, in a metrical history of Merlin of
Caledonia, compiled by Geoffrey' of Mon-
mouth from the traditions of the \\'elsli bards,
this mode of death is attributed to a page,
whom Merlin's sister, desirous to convict the
prophet of falsehood, because he had betrayed
her intrigues, introduced to him, under three
various disguises, inquiring each time in what
manner the person should die. To the first
demand Merlin answered, the party should
perish by a fall from a rock ; to the second,
that he should die by a tree ; and to the third,
that he should be drowned. The youth
perished, while hunting, in the mode iinjmted
by Fordun to Merlin himself.
Fordun, contrary to the Frencii authorities,
confounds this person with the Merlin of
Arthur ; but concludes by informing us, that
many believed him to be a different person.
The grave of Merlin is pointed out at Drum-
melziar, in Tweeddale, beneath an aged
thorn-tree. On the east side of the church-
yard the brook, called Pausay!, falls into the
Tweed ; and the following prophecy is said to
have been current concerning their union :—
■ "When Tweed and Pausayl join at Merlin's grave,
Scotland and England shall one monarcli have.'
On the day of the coronation of James VI,
the Tweed accordingly overflowed, and joined
the Pausayl at the prophet's grave. — PLSSV-
cuiCK's History of Tweeddale, p. i6.
678 (\Xok0 ic ^mitcxtioM of iU Sncknt (gaffai.
These circumstances would seem to infer a
communication betwixt the south-west of Scot-
land and Wales, of a nature peculiarly inti-
mate ; for I presume that Merlin would retain
sense enough to choose for the scene of his
wanderings a country having a language
and manners similar to his own.
Be tliis as it may, the memory of Merlin
Sylvester, or the Wild, was fresh among the
Scots during the reign of James V. Waldhave',
under whose name a set of prophecies was
published, describes himself as lying upon
Lomond Law ; he hears a voice, which bids
him stand to his defence ; he looks around,
and beholds a flock of hares and foxes'-^ pur-
sued over the mountain by a savage figure, to
whom he can hardly give the name of man.
At the sight of Waldhave, the apparition
leaves the objects of his pursuit, and assaults
him with a club. Waldhave defends himself
with his sword, throws the savage to the earth,
and refuses to let him arise till he swear, by
the law and lead he lives upon, 'to do him no
harm.' This done, he permits him to arise,
and marvels at his strange appearance :^
' lie was formed like a freike [man] .ill his four qii.irtcrs;
And then his chin and his face haired so thick,
With haire growing so grime, fearful to see.'
He answers briefly to Waldhave's inquiry
concerning his name and nature, that he
'drees his weird,' i.e. does penance in that
wood ; and, having hinted tnat questions as
to his own state are offensive, he pours forth
an obscure rhapsody concerning futurity, and
concludes :—
'Go musing upon Merlin if thou \vi\i :
For I mean no more, man, at this time.'
This is exactly similar to the meeting
betwixt Merlin and Kentigern in Fordun.
These prophecies of Merlin seem to have been
in request in the minority of James V; for
among the amusements with which Sir David
Lindsay diverted that prince during his in-
fancy, are,
'The prophecies of Rymer, Bede, and Merlin.
Sir David I.INDSAY'S Efislle to the King.
And we find, in Waldhave, at least one allu-
sion to the very ancient prophecy, addressed
to the Countess of Dunbar:—
' This is a true token that Thomas of tells,
A\'hcn a ladde with a ladye shall go over the fields.'
The original stands thus: —
• ^\'lu■n laddes weddeth lovedies.'
Another prophecy of Merlin seems to have
been current about the time of the Regent
Morton's execution. When that nobleman
1 I do not know whether the person here meant bo
AValtlhave, an abbot of Melrose, who died in the
odour of snnctity about 1160.
2 ;iec Note I\', p. 6S--.
was committed to the charge of his accuser.
Captain James Stewart, newly created Earl
of Arran, to be conducted to his trial at
Kdinburgh, Spottiswoode says that he asked,
'"Who was Earl of Arran?" and being
answered that Captain James was the man,
after a short pause, he said, "And is it so?
I know then what I may look for ? " meaning,
as was thought, that the old prophecy of the
" Falling of the heart by the tnouth of Arran"
should then be fulfilled. Whether this was
his mind or not, it is not known ; but some
spared not, at the time when the Hamiltons
were banished, in which business he was held
too earnest, to say, that he stood in fear of
that prediction, and went that course only to
disappoint it. But if so it was, he did find
himself now deluded ; for he fell by the mouth
of another Arran than he imagined.' —
Spottiswoode, p. 31.^. The fatal words
alluded to seem to be these in the pro-
phecy of Merlin : —
* In the mouthe of Arrane a selclouth shall fall,
Two bloodie hearts shall be taken with a false traine,
And derlly dung down without any dome.'
To return from these desultory remarks,
into which I have been led by the celebrated
name of Merlin, the style of all these pro-
phecies, published by Hart, is very much the
same. The measure is alliterative, and some-
what similar to that of Pierce PlowtnaiC s
Visions ; a circumstance which might entitle
us to ascribe to some of them an earlier date
than the reign of James V, did we not know
that Sir Galloraii of Galloivay and Gaivaiue
aiidGologras^ two romances rendered almost
unintelligible by the extremity of affected
alliteration, are perhaps not prior to that
period. Indeed, although we may allow that,
during much earlier times, prophecies, under
the names of those celebratedsoothsayers,have
been current in Scotland, yet those published
by Hart have obviously been so often vamped
and re-vamped, to serve the political purposes
of different periods, that it maj' be shrewdly
suspected, that, as in the case of Sir John
Cutler's transmigrated stockings, very little
of the original materials now remains. I can-
not refrain from indulging my readers with
the publisher's title to the last prophecy, as it
contains certain curious information concern-
ing the Queen ofSheba, who is identified with
the Cumaean Sibyl : ' Here followeth a pro-
phecie, pronounced by a noble queene and
matron, called Svbilla, Regina Austri, that
came to Solomon. Through the which she
compiled four bookes, at the instance of the
said King Sol, and others divers: and the
fourth book was directed to a noble king,
called Baldwine, King of the broad isle of
Britain ; in the which she maketh mention of
two noble princes and emperours, the which
is called Leones. How these two shall subdue
and overcome all earthlie princes to their
diademe and crowne, and also be glorified
and crowned in the heaven among saints. The
^0owa0 tU (K0^ttt^v.
679
first of these two is Constantinus Magnus;
tliat was Leprosus, the son of Saint Helena,
tliat found the croce. The second is the sixt
kinfj of the name of Steward of Scotland, the
which is our most noble king.' With sucli
editors and commentators, what wonder that
the text became unintelligible, even beyond
the usual oracular obscurity of prediction ?
If there still remain, therefore, among these
predictions, any verses having a claim to real
antiquity, it seems now impossible to discover
them from those which are comparatively'
modern. Nevertheless, as there are to be
found, in these compositions, some uncom-
monly wild and masculine expressions, the
liditor has been induced to throw a few
passages together, into the sort of ballad to
which this disquisition is prefixed. It would,
indeed, have been no difficult matter for liim,
by a judicious selection, to have excited, in
favour of Thomas of Ercildoune, a share of
the admiration bestowed by sundry wise
persons upon Mass Robert Fleming. For
example ; —
' But then the lilye shal be loused when they least think ;
Then clear king's blood shal quake for fear of death ;
For churls shal chop off heads of their chief beirns,
And carfe of the crowns that Christ hath appointed.
Thereafter, on every side, sorrow shal arise ;
The barges of clear barons down shal be sunken,
Seculars shall sit in spiritual seats,
Occupying oflices anointed as they were.'
Taking the lilj' for the emblem of France,
can there be a more plain prophecy of the
murder of her monarch, the destruction of
her nobility, and the desolation of her hier-
archy ?
But, without looking farther into the signs
of the times, the Editor, though the least of
all the prophets, cannot help thinking that
every true Briton will approve of his appli-
cation of the last prophecy quoted in the
ball.ad.
Hart's collection of prophecies was fre-
quently reprinted during the last centurj-,
probably to favour the pretensions of the
ihetic renown of Gildas and Bede, see Ford
pro-
run,
unfortunate family of Stuart. For the pro
phetic:
lib. iii.
Before leaving the subject of Thomas's
predictions, it may be noticed that sundry
rhymes, passing for his prophetic effusions,
are still current among the vulgar. Thus, he
is said to have prophesied of the very ancient
family of Haig of Bemerside,
' Betide, betide, whate'er betide,
Haig shall be Haig of Bemerside.'
The grandfather of the present proprietor
of Bemerside had twelve daughters, before
his lady brought him a male heir. The com-
mon people trembled for the credit of their
favourite soothsayer. The late Mr. Haig was
at length born, and their belief in the pro-
phecy confirmed beyond a shadow of doubt.
Another memorable prophecy bore, that
the Old Kirk at Kelso, constructed out of the
ruins of the Abbey, should ' fall when at the
fullest.' At a very crowded sermon, about
thirty years ago, a piece of lime fell from the
roof of the church. The alarm for the fulfd-
ment of the words of the seer became univer-
sal ; and happy were they who were nearest
the door of the predestined edifice. Tlie
church was in consequence deserteil, and
has never since had an opportunity of tum-
bling upon a full congregation. I hope, for the
sake of a beautiful specimen of Saxo-Gothic
architecture, that the accomplishtnent of this
prophecy is far distant.
Another prediction, ascribed to the Rhymer,
seeins to have been founded on that sort of
insight into futurity, possessed by most men
of a sound and combining judginent. It runs
thus: —
* At Eldon Tree if you shall be.
A brigg ower Tweed j-ou there may see.
The spot in question comtnands an extensive
prospect of the course of the river; and it
was easy to foresee that when the country
should become in the least degree improved,
a bridge would be somewhere thrown over
the stream. In fact, you now see no less
than three bridges from that elevated situa-
tion.
Corspatrick (Comes Patrick), Earl of
March, but more commonly taking his title
frotii his castle of Dunbar, acted a noted part
durinn; the wars of Edward I in Scotland.
As Thomas of Ercildoune is said to have
delivered to him his famous prophecy of
King Alexander's death, the Editor has
chosen to introduce him into the ballad.
All the prophetic verses are selected from
Hart's publication.
P..\RT III.— Modern.
Thomas the Rhymer was renowned
among his contemporaries as the author of
the celebrated romance of Sir Trisirc)7i.
Of this once-admired poem only one copy is
now known to exist, which is in the A<lvocates"
Library. The Editor, in 1804, published
a small edition of this curious work ; which,
if it does not revive the reputation of the
bard of Ercildoune, is at least the earliest
specimen of Scottish poetry hitherto published.
Some account of this romance has already
been given to the world in Mr. Ellis's Speci-
mens of Ancient Poetry, vol. i. p. 165, iii.
p. 410 ; a work to which our predecessors and
our posterity are alike obliged ; the former,
for the preservation of the best-selected
examples of their poetical taste ; and the
latter for a history of the English language,
which will only cease to be interesting w^th
the existence of our mother-tongue, and all
that genius and learning have recorded in it.
68o (Itofee to ^mitat\0)\Q of tU SncUnt (^affa^.
It is sufficient liere to ineiilion, liiat so great
was tlie reputation of tlie romance of Sir
Ti'is/rci/i, that few were thought capable of
reciting it after tlie manner of the author —
a circumstance alluded to by Robert de
Brunne, the annalist :^
■ I see in song', in sedgeyng tale,
Of Erceldoun, and of Kendale,
Xow thame sas's as they thame wroglit,
And in thare saying it semes nocht.
That thou may here in Sir Tristrem,
(jver gestes it has the steme,
Over all that is or was ;
If men it said as made Thomas,' &c.
It appears, from a very curious MS. of the
thirteenth century, -penes Mr. Douce of Lon-
don, containing a French metrical romance
of Sir Tristyem, that the work of our
Thomas the Rhymer was known, and referred
to, by the minstrels of Normandy and Bre-
tagne. Having arrived at a part of the
romance where reciters were wont to differ
in the mode of telling the story, the French
bard expressly cites the authority of the poet
of Ercildoune : — ■
* riusiirs de nos granter ne volent,
Ln que del naim dire se solent,
]•;! femme Kaherdin dut aimer,
I^i naim ledut Tristram narrer,
E entusclie par grant engin,
Ouant il afole Kalterdin ;
]'ur cest plai e pur cest mal.
Hnveiad Tristram Guvernal.
]--n Engleterre pur Ysolt :
Thomas ico granter ne volt,
lit si volt par raisun mostrcr,
Ou' ico ne put pas esteer,' &c.
The tale of S/'r Tristt-em, as narrated in
the Edinburgh MS., is totally different from
the voluminous romance in prose, originally
compiled on the same subject by Rusticien cfe
Puise, and analyzed by M. de Tressan ; but
agrees in every essential particular with the
metrical performance just quoted, wiiich is
a work of much higher antiquity.
NOTES.
Note I.— P. 673.
From the Cliartnlary of the Tiinil^' House
0/ Soltra. Advocates' Library, W . 4. 14.
Omnibus has literas visuris vel audituris
Thomas de Ercildoun filius et heres Thomae
Ryinour de Ercildoun salutem in Domino.
Noveritis me per fustem et baculum in pleno
judicio resignasse ac per presentes quietem
clamasse pro me et heredibus meis Magistro
domusSanctaeTrinitatisdeSoltreetfratribus
ejusdem domus totam terrain meam cum
omnibuspertinentibussuisquamin tenemento
<le Ercildoun hereditarie tenui renunciando
de toto pro me et heredibus meis omni jureet
clanieo quae ego seu ant ecessores mei in eadem
terra aliocjue tempore de perpetuo habuimus
sive de futuro habere possumus. In cujus
rei testimonio presentibus his sigillum raeum
apposui data apud Ercildoun die Martis
proximo post festum Sanctorum Apostolorum
Symonis et Jude Anno Domini Millesimo cc.
Nonag-esirao Nono.
Note II.
Thomas the Rhymer, Part /.—P. 6~,~,.
The reader is here presented, from an old,
and unfortunately an imperfect MS., with the
undoubted original of Thoinas the Rhymer's
intrigue with the Queen of Faerj-. It will
afford great amusement to those who would
study the nature of traditional poetry, and
the changes effected by oral tradition, to
compare this ancient romance with the ballad
of tlie text. The same incidents are narrated,
even the expression is often the same ; yet the
poems are as different in appearance as if the
older tale had been regularly and systemati-
cally modernised by a poet of the present
day.
Incifit Prophesia Thomae dc lirsetdouil.
* In a lande as I was lent.
In the gryking of the day,
Ay alone as I went.
In Iluntle bankys me for to play ;
1 saw the tlirostyl, and the jay,
■^'e niawes movyde of her song,
■^'e wodwale sange notes gay.
That al the wod about range.
In that longyng as I lay,
1 'ndir nethi a dern tre,
1 was war of a lady gay.
Come rydyng ouyr a fair le :
Zogh I suld sitt to domysday.
A\ith my tong to wrabbe and \vry,
Certenly aU hyr aray,
It beth neuyer discryuyd for ine.
Hyr palfra was dappyll gray,
Sycke on say neuer none ;
As the son in somers day.
All abowte that lady schone.
Hyr sadel was of a rewel bone,
A semly syght it was to se,
Bryht with mony a precyous stone.
And compasyd all with crapste;
-Stones of orj-ens. gret plente.
Her hair about her hede it hang.
She rode ouer the farnvle,
A while she blew, a while she sang,
Her girths of nobil silke they were,
Iler boculs were of beryl stone,
Sadyll and brydil war . . ;
With sylk and sendel about bedone,
Hyr patyrel was of a pallfyne.
And hyr croper of the arase.
Her brvdil was of gold fine.
On euery syde forsothe hang bells thre,
Her brydil reynes ....
A semly syzt
Crop and patyrel. . . .
In every joynt. . . .
She led thre grew houndes in a leash.
And ratches cowpled by her ran ;
Slie bar an horn about her haise.
And undic her gyrdil mcne lleiie.
C$oma6 tU (H^pwetr.
68i
Thomas lay and sa * , . .
In the bankes of ... .
He sayd Yonder is Mary of Might,
That bar the child that died for nie,
Certes bot I may speke with that lady bright,
Myd my hert will breke in tliree ;
I schal me hye with all my miglit,
Hyr to mete at Eldyn Tre,
Thomas rathly up her rase.
And ran ouer mountayn hye,
If it he sothe the story says.
He met her euyn at Eldyn Tre,
Thomas knelyd down on his kne
Undir nethe the grenewood spray,
And sayd, Lo\ely lady, thou rue on mc,
Queen of Heaven as you may well be.
But I am a lady of another countrie.
If I be pareld most of prise,
I ride after the wild fee,
My ratches rinnen at my devys.
If thou be pareld most of prise.
And rides a lady in Strang foly,
Lovely lady, as thou art wise, -
Giue you me leue to lige ye by.
Do way, Thomas, that were foly,
I pray ye, Thomas, late me be.
That sin will fordo all my bewtie.
Lovely ladye. rewe on me.
And euer more I shall with ye dwell.
Here my trowth I plyght to thee.
"Where yui I.rlicues in heuin or hell.
Tlioinas, and you myght lyge me by,
Lhidir nethe this grene wood spray.
Thou would tell full hastely.
That thou had layn by a lady gay.
Lady, mote I lyge by the,
Undir nethe the grene wode tre,
For all the gold in chrystenty,
Suld you neuer be wryede for me.
Man on molde you will me marre,
And yet bot you may haf your will,
Trow you well, Thomas, you cheuyst yc warre
For all my bewtie wJlt you spill.
Down lyghtyd that lady bryat,
Undir nethe the grene wode spray.
And as ye story sayth full ryst,
Seuyn tymes by her he lay.
She sayd, Man, you lyst thi play,
What berde in bouyr may dele with thee.
That maries me all this long day ;
I pray ye, Thomas, let mc be.
Thomas stode up in the stede,
And behelde the lady gay.
Her heyre hang down about hyr hede.
The tane was blak, the other gray.
Her eyn semyt onte before was gray.
Her gay clethyng was all awaj-.
That he before had sene in that stede ;
Hyr body as blow as ony bede.
Thomas sighede, and sayd, Alias,
Me thynke this a duUfuU syght.
That thou art fadyd in the fece.
Before you shone as son so bry^t.
Tak thy leue, Thomas, at son and mone,
At gresse, and at euery tre.
This twelmonth sail you with me gone,
Medyl erth you sail not se.
Alas, he seyd, ful wo is me,
I trow my dedes will werke me care,
Tesu. my sole tak to ye,
AVhedir so euyr my body sal fare.
She rode furth with all her mygt,
Undir nethe the derne lee.
It was as derke as at midni^t.
And euyr in water unto the kne ;
Through the space of days thre.
He herde but swowyng of a flode
Thomas sayd, Ful wo is me.
Now I spyll for fawte of fode ;
To a garden she lede hiiu tyte.
There was fruyte in grete plente,
Peyres and appless ther were rype,
The date and the damese,
Tlie figge and als fylbert tre ;
The nyghtyngale bredyng in her neste,
Tlie papigaye about gan fle.
The throstylcock sang wald hafe no rest.
He pressed to pulle fruyt with his hand,
As man for faute that was faynt ;
Slie seyd, Tliomas, let al stand,
< >r els the deuyl wil the ataynt.
Sche seyd, Thomas, I the hy^t.
To lay th ihede upon my kne,
And thou shait see fayrer syght.
Than euyr sawe man in their kintre.
Sees thou, Thomas, yon fayr way,
That lyggs ouyr yone fayr jjlayn 'i
"^'onder is the way to heuyn for ay.
Whan synful sawles haf derayed their payne.
Sees thou, Thomas, yon secund way,
That lygges lawe undir the ryse?
Streight is the way, sothly to say.
To the joyes of paradyce.
Sees thou, Thomas, yon thyrd way.
That lygges ouyr yone how V
Wide is the way, sothly to say.
To the brynyng fyres of hclle.
Sees thou, Thomas, yone fayr castell,
That standes ouyr yone fair hill?
< >f town and tower it beereth the belle,
In middell erth is none like theretiil.
Whan thou comyst in yone castell gaye,
I pray thee curteis man to be ;
^Vliat so any man to you say,
Loke thu answer none but me.
My lord is servyd at yche messe,
With XXX kni^tes feir and fre ;
I shall say syttyng on the dese,
I toke thy speche beyonde the le.
Thomas stode as still as stone,
And behelde that ladye gaye ;
Tlian was sche fayr, and rychc anone,
And also ryal on hir palfreye
The grewhoundes had fylde thaim on the dere,
The raches coupled, by my fay,
She blewe her home Thomas to chore.
To the castell she went her way.
The ladye into the hall went.
Thomas folowyd at her hand ;
Thar kept her mony a lady gent,
"With curtasy and lawe.
Harp and fedyl both he fande,
The getern and the sawtry,
I.ut and rybid ther gon gan,
Thair was al maner of mynstralsy,
The most fertly that Thomas thoght.
When he com emyddes the tlore.
Fourty hertes to quarry were broght.
That had been befor both long and store.
Lymors lay lappyng blode.
And kokes standyng with dressyng knyfe.
And dressyd dere as thai wer wode,
And rewell was tliair wonder.
Knyghtes dansyd by two and thre,
All that leue long day.
Ladyes that were gret of gre,
Sat and sang of rych aray.
Thomas sawe much more in that place,
Than I can descryve,
Til on a day, alas, alas,
My lovelye ladye sayd to me,
Busk ye, Thomas, you must agayD,
Here you may no longer be :
Hy then ^erne that you were at hame,
I sal ye bryng to Eldyn Tre.
Thomas answerd with heuy cher. '
And said, Lowely ladye. lat ma be,
For I say ye certenly here
Haf I be bot the space of daycs three.
Sothly, Thomas, as I telle ye. - :
You hath ben here thre yeres.
And here you may no longer be ; - .
And I sal tele ye a skele,
To-morrowe of helle ye foule fende
Aniang our folke shall chuse his fee;
For you art a larg man and an hende,
z 3
682 (Itotee to ^mitAtiom of t^ Snckrxt Q0affab.
Tro'.ve you wele he will cliuse thee,
I-"ore all the golde that may be,
Fro hens unto the worldes ende,
Sail you not be betrayed by me,
And thairfor sail you hens wende.
She broght hym euyn to Eldyn Tre,
Undir nethe the grene wode spray,
In Huntle bankes was fayr to be,
Ther breddes syng both ny^t and day.
Ferre ouyr yon montayns gray,
Ther hathe my facon ;
Fare wele, Thomas, I wende my way.'
The ElGn Queen, after restoring Thomas
to earth, pours forth a string of prophecies,
in whicli we distinguish references to tlie
e\ents and personages of the Scottish wars
of Edward III. The battles of Dupplin and
Halidon are mentioned, and also Black Agnes,
Countess of Dunbar. There is a copy of
this poem in the ]\Iuseum of the Cathedral
of Lincoln, another in the collection in
Peterborough, but unfortunately they are all
in an imperfect state. Mr. jamieson, in his
curious Collection of Scottish Ballads and
Songs, has an entire copy of this ancient
poem, with all the collations. The lacmiae
of the former editions have been supplied
from liis copy.
Note III.
.ILLUSION'S TO HER.ILDRY. — P. 676.
'The muscle is a square figure like a
lozenge, but it is alwaj-s voided of the field.
They are carried as principal figures by the
name of Learmont. Learmont of Earls-
toun, in the IMerss, carried or on a bend
azure three muscles; of which family was
Sir Thomas Learmont, who is well known
by the name of Thomas the Rhymer, because
he wrote his prophecies in rhime. This
])rophetick lierauld lived in the days of King
Alexander the Third, and prophesied of his
death, and of many other remarkable occur-
rences ; particularly of the union of Scotland
with England, which was not accomplished
until the reign of James the Sixth, some
hundred j-ears after it was foretold by this
gentleman, whose prophecies are much es-
teemed by many of the vulgar even at this
day. I was promised by a friend a sight of
his prophecies, of which there is everywhere
to be had an epitome, which, I suppose, is
erroneous, and differs in many things from
the original, it having been oft reprinted by
some unskilful persons. Thus many things
are amissing in the small book which are to
Vie met with in the original, particularly these
two lines concerning his neighbour, Bemer-
side ;—
'• Tyde what may betide,
Uaig shall be laird of Bemerside."
And indeed his prophecies concerning that
ancient family have hitherto been true ; for,
since that time to this day, the Haigs have
been lairds of that place. They carrie, Azure
a saltier cantoned with two stars in chief
and in base argent, as many crescents in tlie
flanques or ; and for crest a rock proper, with
this motto, taken from the above-written
rhyme— "Tide what may." '— NiSBET On
Marks of Cadency^ p. 158. — He adds, ' that
Thomas' meaning may be understood by
heraulds when he speaks of kingdoms whose
insignia seldom varj-, but that individual
families cannot be discovered, either because
they have altered their bearings, or because
they are pointed out by their crests and
exterior ornaments, which are changed at
the pleasure of the bearer.' Mr. Nisbet, how-
ever, comforts himself for this obscurity by
reflecting that ' we may certainly conclude,
from his writings, that herauldry was in good
esteem in his days, and well known to the
vulgar.' — Ibid. p. 160. — It may be added,
that the publication of predictions, either
printed or hieroglyphical, in which noble
families were pointed out by their armorial
bearings, was, in the time of Queen Eliza-
beth, extremely common ; and the influence
of such predictions on the minds of the com-
mon people was so great as to occasion a
prohibition, by statute, of prophec)- by refer-
ence to heraldic emblems. Lord Henry
Howard also (afterwards Earl of Northamj.'
ton) directs against this practice much of the
reasoning in his learned treatise, entitled,
' A Defensation against the Poyson of pre-
tended Prophecies.'
Note IV.— P. 678.
The strange occupation in which Waldhave
beholds Merlin engaged, derives some illus-
tration from a curious passage in Geoffrey
of Monmouth's life of Merlin, above quoted.
The poem, after narrating that the prophet
had fled to the forest in a state of distraction,
proceeds to mention, that, looking upon the
stars one clear evening, he discerned from
his astrological knowledge, that his wife,
Guendolen, had resolved, upon the next
morning, to take another husband. As he
had presaged to her that this would happen,
and had promised her a nuptial gift (caution-
ing her, however, to keep the bridegroom
out of his sight), he now resolved to make
good his word. Accordingly, he collected
all the stags and lesser game in his neigh-
bourhood ; and, having seated himself upon
a buck, drove the herd before him to the
capital of Cumberland, where Guendolen
resided. But her lover's curiosity leading
him to inspect too nearly this extraordinary'
cavalcade. Merlin's rage was awakened, and
he slew him with the strike of an antler of
the stag. The original runs thus : —
(Sfenft'nfau.
683
* Dixerat : et silvas et saltus circuit oinnes,
Cervorunique greges agmen coilegit in unuiii.
Ht damas, capreasque simul ; cervoque reseciil
Et, veniente die, compellens agmina prae se,
Festinans vadit quo nubit Guendolaena,
Postquam venit eo, pacienter ipse coeeit
Cervos ante fores proclanians, " Guendolaena,
Guendolaena, veni, te talia munera spectant."
(^cius ergo venit subridens Guendolaena,
Gestarique virum cer\-o miratur, et ilium
Sic parere viro, tantuin quoque posse feraniia
Uniri numerum quas prae se solus agebat,
Sicut pastor oves, quas ducere suevit ad herbas.
Stabat ab excelsa sponsus spectando fenestra,
In solio mirans equitem, risumque movebat.
Ast ubi vidit eum vates, animoque quis esset
Calluit, extemplo divulsit cornua cervo
Olio gcstabatur, vibrataquc jecit in illuni,
Ht caput illius penitus contrivit, eumque
Reddidit exaniuieni, vitainque fugavit in au:
Ocius inde suum, talorum verbere, cervum
Diffugiens egit, silvasque redire paravit.'
For a perusal of this curious poem, accu-
rately copied from a MS. in the Cotton
Library, nearly coeval with the author, I
was indebted to my learned friend, the late
Mr. Ritson. There is an excellent paraphrase
of it in the curious and entertaining Speci-
mens of EaHv English Romajices. pub-
lished by Mr. Ellis.
GLENFINLAS; or, LORD RONALD'S CORONACir.
INTRODUCTORY NOTE.
Thk simple tradition upon which this
ballad is founded runs thus : While two
Highland hunters were passing the night
in a solitary bollty (a hut built for the
purpose of hunting) and making merry over
their venison and whisky, one of them
expressed a wish that they had pretty lasses
to complete their party. The words were
scarcely uttered, when two beautiful young
women, habited in green, entered the hut,
dancing and singing. One of the hunters
was seduced by the siren who attached her-
self particularly to him, to leave the hut :
the other remained, anti, suspicious of the fair
seducers, continued to play upon a trump, or
Jew's harp, some strain, consecrated to the
Virgin Mary. Day at length came, and the
temptress vanished. Searching in the forest,
he found the bones of his unfortunate friend,
who had been torn to pieces and devoured
by the fiend into whose toils he had fallen.
The place was from thence called the Glen
of the Green Women.
GlenCnlas is a tract of forest-ground, lying
in the Highlands of Perthshire, not far from
Callender in Menteith. It was formerly a
royal forest, and now belongs to the Earl of
Moray. This country, as well as the adja-
cent district of Balquidder, was, in times of
yore, chiefly inhabited by the Macgregors.
To the west of the Forest of GlenCnlas lies
Loch Katrine, and its romantic avenue,
called the Troshachs. Benledi, Benmore,
and Benvoirlich, are mountains in the same
district, and at no great distance from Glen-
Cnlas. The river Teith passes Callender and
I Coronach is the lamentation for a deceased
rarrior, sung by the aged of the clan.
the Castle of Doune, and joins the Forth
near Stirling. The Pass of Lennv is imme-
diately above Callender, and is the principal
access to the Highlands fronj that town.
Glenartney is a forest, near Benvoirlich.
The whole forms a sublime tract of Alpine
scenery.
This ballad first appeared in the Tales of
Wotider. The ballad called 'GlenCnlas'
was, I think, the first original poem which
I ventured to compose. As it is supposed to
be a translation from the Gaelic, I considered
myself as liberated from imitating the anti-
quated language and rude rhythm of the
Minstrel ballad. A versification of an Os-
sianic fragment came nearer to the idea I had
formed of my task ; foralthough controversy
may have arisen concerning the authenticity
of these poems, yet I never heard it disputed,
by those whom an accurate knowledge of the
Gaelic rendered competent judges, that in
their spirit and diction they nearly resemble
fragments of poetry extant in that language,
to the genuine antiquity of which no doubt
can attach. Indeed, the celebrated dispute
on that subject is something like the more
blood}-, though scarce fiercer controversy,
about the Popish Plot in Charles the Second^s
time, concerning which Dryden has said —
* .Succeeding times will equal folly call,
Believing nothing, or believing all.'
The Celtic people of Erin and Albyn had,
in short, a style of poetry properly called
national, though MacPherson was rather
an excellent poet than a faithful editor
and translator. This stj'le and fashion of
poetry, existing in a different language, was
supposed to give the original of 'Glenfinlas,'
and the author was to pass for one who had
used his best command of English to do the
Gaelic model justice. In one point, the inci-
z 5
684 (Tlofee to ^mtatioM of t0c cHnctenf (^affab.
dents of tlie poem were irreconcilable with
the costume of the times in which they were
laid. The ancient Higliland chieftains, when
they liad a mind to ' hunt the dun deer down,'
did not retreat into solitary bothies, or trust
the success of the chase to their own unas-
sisted exertions, without a single gillie to help
them ; they assembled their clan, and all
partook of the sport, forming a ring, or en-
closure, called the Tinchell, and driving the
prey towards the most distinguished persons
of the hunt. This course would not have
suited me, so Ronald and Moy were cooped
up in their solitary wigwam, like two moor-
fowl-shooters of the present day.
After ' Glcnfinlas,' I undertook another
ballad, called 'The Eve of St. John.' The
incidents are mostly entirely imaginary, but
the scene was that of my early childhood.
Some idle persons had of late years, during
the proprietor's absence, torn the iron-grated
door of Smailholm Tower from its hinges,
and thrown it down the rock. I was an
earnest suitor to my friend and kinsman,
ilr. Scott of Harden, alre.idy mentioned,
that the dilapidation might be put a stop to,
and the mischief repaired. This was readily
promised, on condition that I should make
a ballad, of which the scene should lie at
Smailholm Tower, and among the crags
where it is situated. The ballad was approved
of, as well as its companion ' Glenfinlas ';
and I remember that they procured me many
marks of attention and kindness from Duke
John of Roxburghc, who gave me the un-
limited use of that celebrated collection of
volumes from which the Roxburghe Club de-
rives its name.
Thus I was set up for a poet, like a pedlar
who has got two ballads to begin the world
upon, and I hastened to make the round of
all my acquaintances, showing my precious
wares, and requesting criticism — a boon
which no author asks in ^ain. For it may
be observed, that, in the fine arts, those who
are in no respect able to produce any speci-
mens themselves, hold themselves not the
less entitled to decide upon the works of
others; and, no doubt, with justice to a cer-
tain degree ; for the merits of composition
produced for the e.\press purpose of pleasing
the world at large, can only be judged of by
the opinion of individuals, and perhaps, as in
the case of Moliere's old woman, the less
sophisticated the person consulted so much
the better. But I was ignorant, at the time
I speak of, that though the applause of the
many may justly appreciate the general merits
of a piece, it is not so safe to submit such a
performance to the more minute criticism of
the same individuals, when each in turn,
ha\ing seated himself in the censor's chair,
has placed his mind in a critical attitude, and
delivers his opinion sententiously and c.v
caihedya. General applause was in almost
every case freely tendered, but the abatements
in the way of proposed alterations and cor-
rections were cruelly puzzling. It was in
vain the young author, listening with be-
coming modesty and with a natural wish to
please, cut antl carved, tinkered and coopered,
upon his unfortunate ballads— it was in vain
that he placed, displaced, replaced, and
misplaced ; every one of jiis advisers was
displeased with the concessions made to his
co-assessors, and the author was blamed by
some one, in almost every case, for having
made two holes in attempting to patch up
one.
At last, after thinking seriously on the sub-
ject, I wrote out a fair copy (of ' Glenfinlas,'
I think), and marked all the various correc-
tions which had been proposed. On the
whole, I found that I had been required to
alter every verse, almost every line, and the
only stanzas of thewholeballadwhich escaped
criticism were two which could neither be
termed good nor bad, speaking of them as
poetry, Dut were of a mere commonplace
character, absolutely necessary for conducting
the business of the tale. This unexpected
result, after about a fortnight's anxiety, led
me to adopt a rule from which I have seldom
departed during more than thirty years of
literary life. ^Vhen a friend, whose judg-
ment I respect, has decided, and upon good
advisement told me, that a manuscript was
worth nothing, or at least possessed no re-
deeming qualities sufficient to atone for its
defects, I ha\e generally cast it aside ; but
I am little in the custom of paying attention
to minute criticisms, or of offering such to
any friend who may do me the honour to
consult me. I am convinced that, in general,
in removing even errors of a trivial or venial
kind, the character of originality is lost,
which, upon the whole, may ne that which is
most valuable in the production.
About the time that I shook hands with
criticism, and reduced my ballads back to
the original form, stripping them without
remorse of those 'lendings' which I had
adopted at the suggestion of others, an
opportunity unexpectedl)' offered of intro-
ducing to the world what had hitherto been
confined to a circle of friends. Lewis had
announced a collection, first intended to bear
the title of Talcs of 'J'crtor, and afterwards
published under that of Talcs of Wonder.
As this was to be a collection of tales turning
on the preternatural, there were risks in the
plan of which tlie ingenious editor was not
aware. The supernatural, though appealing
to certain powerful emotions very widelj^ and
deeply sown amongst the human race, is,
nevertheless, a spring which is peculiarly apt
to lose its elasticity by being too much
pressed on, and a collection of ghost stories
IS not more likely to be terrible, than a col-
lection of jests to be merry or entertaining.
But although the very title of the proposed
work carried in it an obstruction to its effect,
this was far from being suspected at the
time, for the popularity of the editor, and
<5Penftnfa0.
685
of liis compositions, seeme<i a warrant for
liis success. The distinguished favour with
wliich the ' Castle Spectre ' was received
upon the stage, seemed an additional pledge
for the safety of his new attempt. I readily
agreed to contribute the ballads of ' GlenCn-
las' an<i of 'The Eve of Saint John,' with
one or two others of less merit ; and my
friend Dr. Leyden became also a contributor.
Mr. Southey, a tower of strength, added
'The Old Woman of Berkeley,' 'Lord
William,' and several other interesting bal-
lads of the same class, to the proposed
collection.
In the meantime, my friend Lewis found it
no easy matter to discipline his northern
recruits. He was a martinet, if I may so term
him, in the accuracy of rhymes and of num-
bers ; I may add, he had a right to be so,
for few persons have exhibited more mastery
of rliyme, or greater command over the
melody of verse. He was, therefore, rigid in
exacting similar accuracy from others, and
as I was quite unaccustomed to the mechan-
ical part of poetrv, and used rhymes which
were merely permissible, as readily as those
which were legitimate, contests often arose
amongst us, w-iiich were exasperated by the
pertinacity of my Mentor, who, as all who
knew him can testify, was no granter of
propositions. The lectures which I under-
went from my friend Lewis did not at the
time produce any effect on my inflexibility,
thougli I did not forget them at a future
period.
The proposed publication of the Tales of
W'oudo- was, from one reason or another,
postponed till the year 1801, a circumstance
ny which, of itself, the success of the work
was considerably impeded; for protracted
expectation always leads to disappointment.
But besides, there were circumstances of
various kinds which contributed to its depre-
ciation, some of which were imputable to the
editor, or author, and some to the book-
seller.
The former remained insensible of the
f)assion for ballads and ballad-mongers
lavingbeen for some time on the wane, and
that with such alteration in the public taste,
the chance of success in that line was di-
minished. What had been at first received as
simple and natural, was now sneered at as
puerile and extravagant. Another objection
was, that my friend Lewis had a high but
mistaken opinion of his own powers of
humour. The truth was, that though he could
throw some gaiety into his lighter pieces,
after the manner of the French writers, his
attempts at what is called pleasantry in
Engl ish wholly wanted the quality of humour,
anil were generally failures. But this he
would not allow ; and the Tales of Wonder
were filled, in a sense, with attempts at
comedy, which might be generally accounted
abortive.
Another objection, which mig'nt have been
more easily foreseen, subjected the editor to
a charge of which Mat Lewis was entirely
incapable — that of collusion with hispublisher
in an undue attack on the pockets of the
public. The Tales of ll^ondey formed a
work in royal octavo, and were, by large
printing, driven out, as it is technically
termed, to two volumes, which were sold at
ahigliprice. Purchasers murmured at finding
that this size had been attained by the in
sertion of some of the best-known pieces of
the English language, sucli as Dryden's
'Theodore and Honoria,' Parnell's ' Hermit,'
Lisle's ' Porsenna, King of Russia," and many
other popular poems of old date, and gener-
ally known, which ought not in conscience
to have made part of a set of tales, ' written
and collected' by a modern author. His
bookseller was also accused in the public
prints, whether truly or not I am uncertain,
of having attempted to secure to himself the
entire profits of the large sale which he ex-
pected, by refusing to his brethren the allow-
ances usually, if not in all cases, made to the
retail trade.
Lewis, one of the most liberal as well as
benevolent of mankind, had not the least
Earticipation in these proceedings of his
ibliopolist ; but his work sunk under the
obloquy which was heaped on it by the
offended parties. The book was termed
'Tales of Plunder,' was censured by re-
viewers, and attacked in newspapers and
magazines. A very clever parody was
macie on the style and the person of the
author, and the world laughed as willingly as
if it had never applauded.
Thus, owing to the failure of the vehicle
I had chosen, my eflorts to present myself
before the public as an original writer proved
as vain as those by which I had previously
endeavoured to distinguish myself as a trans-
lator. Like Lord Home, however, at the
battle of Flodden, I did so far well, that
I was able to stand and save myself; and
amidst the general depreciation ot the Tales
of ll'onder, my small share of the obnoxious
publication was dismissed without much
censure, and in some cases obtained praise
from the critics.
The consequence of my escape made me
naturally more daring, and I attempted, in
my own name, a collection of ballads of
various kinds, both ancient and motlern, to
be connectecl by the common tie of relation
to the Border districts in which I had
gathered the materials. The original pre-
face explains my purpose, and the assistance
of various kinds which I met with. The
edition was curious, as being the first work
printed by my friend and schoolfellow, Mr.
James Ballantyne, who, at that period, was
editor of a provincial newspaper, called T/ie
Kelso Alail. When the book came out, in
1802, the imprint, Kelso, was read with
wonder by amateurs of typography, who
had never heard of such a place, and were
686 (IXoko to 5tntfafiott0 of tU ^ncUnt Q0affai.
astonished at the example of handsome
printin"' which so obscure a town pro-
duced.
As for the editorial part of tlie task, my
attempt to imitate the plan and style of
Bishop Percy, observing only more strict
fidelity concerning my originals, was favour-
ably received by the public, and there was
a demand within a short space for a secoml
edition, to which I proposed to add a third
volume. Messrs. Cadell and Davies, the
first publishers of the work, declined tlie
publication of this second edition, which w as
undertaken, at a very liberal price, by the
well-known firm of Messrs. Longman and
Rees of Paternoster Row. My jjrogress in
the literary career, in which I might now be
considered as seriously engaged, the reader
will find briefly traced in the Introduction
to 'The Lay of the Last Minstrel.'
In the meantime, the Editor has accom-
plished his proposed task of acquainting the
reader with some particulars respecting the
modern imitations of the Ancient Ballad,
and the circumstances which gradually, and
almost insensibly, engaged himself in that
species of literary employment.
Walter Scott.
Abbotsforu, Aprils 1830.
NOTES.
Note I.
How bla~ed Lord RonahVs bcllaiie-iree.
—P. 660.
The Cres lighted by the Highlanders, on
the first of May, in compliance with a custom
derived from the Pagan times, are termed
The Be!ia7ie-tree. It is a festival celebrated
with various superstitious rites, both in the
north of Scotland and in Wales.
Note II.
The seer^s prophetic spirit foitud. — P. 660.
I can only describe the second sight by
adopting Dr. Johnson's definition, who calls
it ' An impression, either by the mind upon
the eye, or by the eye upon the mind, by
which things distant and future are perceived
and seen as if they were present.' To which
I would only adtl, that the spectral appear-
ances, thus presented, usually presage mis-
fortune ; that the faculty is painful to those
who suppose they possess it ; and that they
usually actiuire it while themsehes under the
pressure of melancholy.
Note III.
Will good St. Grants rule pretiail.—V. 661.
St. Oran was a friend and follower of
St. Colurnba, and was buried at Icolmkill.
His pretensions to be a saint were rather
dubious. According to the legend, he con-
sented to be buried alive, in order to propitiate
certain demons of the soil, who obstructed
the attempts of Columba to build a chapel.
Columba caused the body of his friend to be
dug up, after three days had elapsed ; when
Oran, to the horror and scandal of the
assistants, declared that there was neither
a God, a judgment, nor a future state I He
had no time to make further discoveries,
for Columba caused the earth once more
to be sho\elled over him with the utmost
despatch. The chapel, however, and the
cemetery, was called Relig Ouran ; and,
in memory of his rigid celibacj', no female
was permitted to pay her devotions, or be
buried in that place. This is the rule alluded
to in the poem.
Note IV.
And thrice St. FillaiCs powerful praxer.
-P. '663.
St. Fillan has given his name to many
chapels, holy fountains, &c., in Scotland. He
was, according to Camerarius, an Abbot of
Pittenweem, in Fife ; from which situation he
retired, and died a hermit in the wilds of
Glenurchy, A.D. 649. While engaged in
transcribing the Scriptures, his left hand was
observed to send forth such a splendour, as
to afford light to that with which he wrote ;
a miracle which saved many candles to the
convent, as St. Fillan used to spend whole
nights in that exercise. The 9th of January
was dedicated to this saint, who gave his
name to Kilfillan, in Renfrew, and St. Phil-
lans, or Forgend, in Fife. Lesley, lib. 7
tells us, that Robert the Bruce was possessed
of Fillan's miraculous and luminous arm,
which he enclosed in a silver shrine, and had
it carried at the head of his army. Previous
to the battle of Bannockburn, the king's
chaplain, a man of little faith, abstracted
the relic, and deposited it in a place of
security, lest it should fall into the hands of
the English. But, lo ! while Robert was
addressing his prayers to the empty casket,
it was observed to open and shut suddenly ;
and, on inspection, the saint was found to
have himself deposited his arm in the shrine
as an assurance of victory. Such is the tale
of Lesley. But though Bruce little needed
that the arm of St. Fillan should assist his
own, he de(hcated to him, in gratitude, a
priory at Killin, upon Loch Tay.
\n\.\-\(t Scots AIaga=i7ie{ox]\x\y^ i8oj, there
is a copy of a very curious crown grant,
dated July 11. 148-, by which James III
ZU ^n of ^Aint 3o6n.
687
confirms, to Malice Doire, an inhabitant of
Stratlilillan, in Perthshire, the peaceable
exercise and enjoyment ot'a relic of St. Fillan,
being apparently the head of a pastoral staff
called the Quegrich, which he and his prede-
cessors are said to have possessed since the
days of Robert Bruce. As the Quegrich was
used to cure diseases, this document is prob-
ably' the most ancient patent ever granted
for a quack medicine. The ing;enious corre-
spondent, by whom it is furnished, farther
observes, that additional particulars con-
cerning St. Fillan are to be found in
Bellf.n'den's Boccc, Book 4, folio ccxiii,
anil Pen-n.\N't's I'oitr in Scot/and, 177J,
• pp. II, i.v
THE EVE OF SAINT JOHN.
S^r.•VYLHO'ME, or Smallliolm Tower, the
scene of 'The Eve of Saint John,' is situated
on the northern boundary of Roxburghshire,
among a cluster of wild rocks, called Sandi-
know-Crags, the property of Hugh Scott, Esq.
of Harden (afterwards Lord Pohvarth). The
tower is a high square building, surrounded
by an outer w.all, now ruinous. The circuit
of the outer court, being defended on three
sides, by a precipice and morass, is accessible
only from the west, by a steep and rocky path.
The apartments, as is usual m a Border keep,
or fortress, are placed one above another,
and communicate by a narrow stair ; on the
roof are two bartizans, or platforms, for
defence or pleasure. The inner door of the
tower is wood, the outer an iron gate; the
distance between them being nine feet, the
thickness, namely, of the wall. From the
elevated situation of Smaylhohne Tower, it
is seen many miles in every direction.
Among the crags by which it is surrounded,
one, more eminent, is called the Walchfold,
and is said to have been thestation of a beacon
in the times of war with England. Without
the tower-court is a ruined chapel. Brother-
stone is a heath in the neighbourhood of
Smaylho'me Tower.
This ballad was first printed in Mr. Lewis's
Tales of Wonder. It is here published, with
some additional illustrations, particularly an
account of the battle of Ancram Moor;
which seemed proper in a work upon Border
antiquities. The catastroplie of the tale is
founded upon a well-known Irish tradition.
This ancient fortress and its vicinity formed
the scene of the Editor's infancy, and seemed
to claim from him this attempt to celebrate
them in a Border tale.
Note I.
B.\TTLE OF ANXRAM MOOK.— P. 664.
Lord Evers and Sir Brian Latoun, during
the year 1544, committed the most dreadful
ravages upon the Scottish frontiers, com-
pelling most of the inhabitants, and especially
the men of Liddesdale, to take assurance
under the King of P^ngland. Upon the
17th November, in that year, the sum total
of their depredations stood thus, in the
bloody ledger of Lord Evers : —
Towns, towers, barnekynes, parvshe
churches, bastill houses, burned
and destro3-ed iq2
Scots slain 41)?
Prisoners taken 816
Nolt (cattle) 10,386
Shepe I-.4Q-
Nags and geldings i2g()
Gayt 20
Bolls of corn 85a
Insight gear, &c. (furniture) an incal-
culable quantity.
Murdin's State Papers, vol. i. p. 51.
For these services Sir Ralph Evers was
made a Lord of Parliament. See a strain of
exulting congratulation upon his promotion
poured forth by some contemporary minstrel,
in vol. i. p. 417 of 2 he Border Minstrelsy.
The King of England had promised to
these two barons a feudal grant of the country,
which they had thus reduced to a desert ;
upon hearing which, Archibald Douglas, the
seventh Earl of Angus, is said to have sworn
to write the deed of investiture upon their
skins, with sharp pens and bloodv ink, in
resentment for their having defaced the
tombs of his ancestors at Melrose. — GODS-
CROFT. In 1545, Lord Evers and Latoun
again entered Scotland, with an army con-
sisting of 3000 mercenaries, 1500 English
Borderers, and ytxj assured Scottish men,
chielly .\rmstrongs, Turnbulls, and other
broken clans. In thi.s second incursion, the
English generals even exceeded their former
cruelty. Evers burned the tower of Broom-
house, with its lady (a noble and aged
woman, says Lesley) and her whole family.
The English penetrated as far as Melrose,
which they had destroyed last year, and
which they now again pillaged. As they
returned towards Jedburgh, they were fol-
lowed by Angus at the head of MX*:) horse,
who was shortly after joined by the famous
688 (Uotee to ^m\tation0 of f0e Mrxcknt Q0affa^.
Norman Lesley, with a body of Fife-men.
The English, beingprobably unwilling to cross
the Teviot while the Scots hung upon their
rear, halted upon Ancram Moor, above the
village of that name; and the Scottish
general was deliberating whether to advance
or retire, when Sir Walter Scott, of Buccleuch,
came up at full speed with a small but chosen
body of his retainers, the rest of whom were
near at hand. By the advice of this experi-
enced warrior (to whose conduct Pitscottie
and Buchanan ascribe the success of the
engagement), Angus withdrew from the
height which he occupied, and drew up his
forces behind it, upon a piece of low ilat
ground, called Panier-heugh, or Paniel-
heugh. The spare horses being sent to an
eminence in their rear, appeared to the
English to be the main body of the Scots-in
the act of flight. Under this persuasion,
Evers and Latoun hurried precipitately for-
ward, and having ascended the hill, which
their foes liad abandoned, were no less dis-
mayed than astonished to find the phalanx
of Scottish spearmen drawn up, in firm array
upon the flat ground below. The Scots in
their turn became the assailants. A heron,
roused from the marshes by the tumult,
soaredaway betwixt the encountering armies.
'O!' exclaimed Angus, 'that I had here
my white goss-hawk, that we might all yoke
at once ! ' — Godsckoft. The English, breath-
less and fatigue<l, having the setting sun and
wind full in their faces, were unable to
withstand the resolute and desperate charge
of the Scottish lances. No sooner had they
begun to waver, than their own allies, the
assured Borderers, who had been waiting the
event, threw aside their red crosses, and,
joining their countrymen, made a most
merciless slaughter among tlie English fugi-
tives, the pursuers calling upon each other
to ' Remember Broomfiouse ! ' — Lesley,
p. 478.
In the battle fell Lord Evers and his son,
together with Sir Brian Latoun, and Soo
Englishmen, many of whom were persons of
ranK. A thousand prisoners were taken.
Among these was a patriotic alderman of
London, Read by name, who, having con-
tumaciously refused to pay his portion of
a benevolence demanded from the city by
Henry VIII, was sent by royal authority
to serve against the Scots. These, at settling
his ransom, he found still more exorbitant
in their exactions than the monarch. — Red-
PATH's Border Hislor\\ p. 563.
Evers was much regretted by King Henry,
who swore to avenge his death upon Angus,
against whom he conceived himself to have
particular grounds of resentment, on account
of favours received by the earl at his hands.
The answer of Angus was worthy of a Douglas:
'Is our brother-in-law ofl'ended, ' said he,
'that I, as a good Scotsman, have avenged
my ravaged country, and the defaced
tombs of my ancestors, upon Ralph Evers ?
They were better men than he, and I was
bound to do no less — and will he take my
life for that? Little knows King Henry the
skirts of Kirnetable : I can keep myself there
against all his English host.' — GOUSCROFT.
Such was the noted battle of Ancram
Moor. The spot on which it was fought
is called Lilyard's Edge, from an Ama-
zonian Scottish woman of that name, who is
reported, by tradition, to have distinguished
herself in the same manner as Squire
Witherington. The old people point out
her monument, now broken and defaced.
The inscription is said to have been legible
within this century, and to have run thus :
' Fair maiden LyUiard lies under this stane,
I-ittle was her stature, but great was her fame i
I'pon the English louns she laid mony thumps,
And, when her legs were cutted off, she fought upon
her stumps.'
Vide Account of the Parish of Melrose.
It appears, from a passage in Stowe, that
an ancestor of Lord Evers held also a grant
of Scottish lands from an English monarch.
' I have seen,' says the historian, ' under the
broad-seale of the said King Edward I,
a manor, called Ketnes, in the county of
Forfare, in Scotland, and neere the furthest
part of the same nation northward, given to
John Ure and his heires, ancestor to the Lord
Ure, that now is, for his service done in these
partes, with market, &c. dated at Lanercost,
the 20th day of October, anno regis, 34.' —
Stowe's A7iiials, p. 210. This grant, like
that of Henry, must have been dangerous
to the receiver.
77m/ ;;//;/ who ite" cr beholds tlic day . — P. 667.
The circumstance of the nun, ' who never
saw the day,' is not entirely imaginary.
About fifty years ago an unfortunate female
wanderer took up her residence in a dark
vault, among the ruins of Dryburgh Abbey,
which, during the day, she never quitted.
When night fell, she issued from this miser-
able habitation, and went to the house of
Mr. Haliburton of Newmains, the Editor's
great-grandfather, or to that of Mr. Erskine
of Sheilfield, two gentlemen of the neighbour-
hood. From their charity, she obtained such
necessaries as she could be prev.ailed upon to
accept. At twelve, each night, she lighted her
canclle, and returned to her vault, assuring
her friendly neighbours, that, during her
absence, her habitation was arranged by
a spirit, to whom she gave the uncouth name
of Fatlips\ describing him as a little man,
wearing heavy iron shoes, with which he
trampled the clay lloor of the vault, to dispel
the damps. This circumstance caused her to
be regarded, by the well-informed, with com-
passion, as deranged in her understanding ;
Cab^ow tMtk.
689
and by the vulgar, with some degree of terror.
The cause other adopting this extraordinary
mode of life she would never explain. It was,
however, believed to have been occasioned by
a vow, that during the absence of a man to
whom she was attached, she would never look
upon the sun. Her lover never returned.
He fell during the civil war of 1745-6, and
she never more would behold the light of
day.
The vault, or rather dungeon, in which this
unfortunate woman lived and died, passes still
by the name of the supernatural being, with
which its gloom was tenanted by her disturbed
imagination, and few of the neighbouring
peasants dare enter it by night. — 1805.
CADYOW CASTLE.
The ruins of Cadyow, or Cadzow Castle, j
the ancient baronial residence of the family
of Hamilton, are situated upon the precipitous
banks of the river Evan, about two miles
above its junction with the Clyde. It was
dismantled, in the conclusion of the Civil
Wars,duringthereignoftheun ortunateMary,
to whose cause the house of Hamilton devoted
themselves with a generous zeal, which oc-
casioned their temporary obscurity, and, very
nearly, their total ruin. The situation of the
ruins, embosomed in wood, darkened by ivy
and creeping shrubs, and overhanging the
brawling torrent, is romantic in the highest
degree. In the immediate vicinity of Cadyow
is a grove of immense oaks, the remains of
the Caledonian Forest, which anciently
extended through the south of Scotland,
from the eastern to the Atlantic Ocean.
Some of these trees measure twenty-five feet,
and upwards, in circumference ; and the state
of decay in which they now appear shows that
they have witnessed the rites of the Druids.
The whole scenery is included in the magnifi-
cent and extensive park of the Duke of
Hamilton. There was long preserved in this
forest the breed of the Scottish wild cattle,
until their ferocity occasioned their being ex-
tirpated, about forty years ago '. Their ap-
pearance was beautiful, being milk-white,
with black muzzles, horns, and hoofs. The
bulls are described by ancient authors as
having white manes; but those of latter days
had lost that peculiarity, perhaps by inter-
mixture with the tame breed.
In detailing the death of the Regent Murray,
which is made the subject of tne ballad, it
would be injustice to my reader to use other
words than those of Dr. Robertson, whose
account of that memorable event forms a
beautiful piece of historical painting.
' Hamilton of Bothwellhaugh was the
person who committed this barbarous action.
He had been condemned to deatli soon after
1 Countinij from Ihe appearance of T/te Horde?'
Minstrelsy, 1802-3, Lockhart points out that so late
as ci'rc. 1830 a herd of those cattle still remained in
Cadzow Forest.
the battle of Langside, as we have already
related, and owed his life to the Regent s
clemency. But p.art of his estate had been
bestowed upon one of the Regent's favourites,
who seized nis house, and turned out his wife,
naked, in a cold night, into the open fields,
where, before next morning, she became
furiously mad. This injury made a deeper
impression on him than the benefit he had
received, and from that moment he vowed to
be revenged of the Regent. Partv rage
strengthened and inflamed his private resent-
ment. His kinsmen, the Hamiltons, applauded
the enterprise. The maxims of that age
justified the most desperate course he cou7d
take to obtain vengeance. He followed the
Regent for some time, and watched for an
opportunity to strike the blow. He resolved
at last to wait till his enemy should arrive at
Linlithgow, through which he was to pass in
his way from Stirling to Edinburgh. He took
his stand in a wooden gallery, which had a
window towards the street ; spreatl a feather-
bed on the floor to hinder the noise of his
feet from being heard ; hungup a black cloth
behind him, that his shadow might not be
observed from without ; and, after all this
preparation, calmly expected the Regent's
approach, who had lodged, during the night,
in a house not far distant. Some indistinct
information of the danger which threatened
him had been conveyed to the Regent, and
he paid so much regard to it, that he resolved
to return by the same gate through which he
had entered, and to fetch a compass round
the town. But, as the crowd about the gate
was great, and he himself unacquainted with
fear, he proceedeil directly along the street;
and the throng of people obliging him to
move very slowly, gave the assassin time to
take so true an aim, that he shot him, with
.a single bullet, through the lower part of his
belly, and killed the horse of a gentleman
who rode on his other side. His followers
instantly endeavoured to break into the
house whence the blow had come ; but they
found the door stronjjly barricaded, and,
before it could be forced open, Hamilton had
mounted a fleet horse, which stood ready
690 (l\oiC0 to 3""t'^^^<^»^<^ ®f ^^^ ^ncknt Q0afi'ai.
for liim at a back passage, ami was got far
lu'voiul tluir reach. The. Regent died tin;
saiiu- night of his wound.' — History of
Srol/aiui, Book v.
Uolhwellhaugh ro(ki straight to llaniiltoii,
where he was received in triumph ; for the
aslies of the houses in Clydesdale, which had
lieen burned l)y Murray's army, were yet
smoking; and paity prejudice, the habits
of the age, and the iMiormity of the pro-
vocation, seemed to his kinsmen to justify
the deed. After a short abode at Hamilton,
this fierce and determined man left Scotland,
and served in France, uniler the i>a(r()nage of
thefamily of Guise, to whom he wasdoubtkss
recommended bv having avenged the cause
of their niece, Queen Alary, upon her un-
grateful brother. De 'I'hou has recorded, that
an attempt was made to engage him to
assassinate tiaspar di- Coligni, the famous
Admiral of I'rance, and the buckler of tin-
Huguenot cause. lint the cliaracter of
Uothwellhaugh was mistaken. He was no
mercenary trader in blood, and rejected the
oiler with contempt ai\d indignation. He had
lu) aulhoritv, he said, from Scotland to
commit murders in France ; h<- liad avenge<l
his own just ipiariel, but he would neither,
for price nor prayer, avenge that of anotiier
man.— '/'/iiianitx, cap. 46.
The Regent's death happened Jaimary 2<,
1569. It is applauded or siigm.ilizcd, by
contemporary historians, acconling to their
religious or party ])rejudiccs. The liiiimph
of Blackwood is unbounded. He not only
extols the pious feat of Holhwcllliaugh,
'who,' he observes, 'satislied, with a single
ounce of lead, him whose sacrilegious avarice
liad stiipped the metropolitan church of
St. Andrews of its covering'; but he as-
cribes it to immediate divine inspiration,
an<l the escape of Hamilton to little less than
the miraculous intcrfeiencc of the Deity. —
JISHII, vol. ii. ]). j()V \\ itii cipial injustice, it
was, by others, tnade the ground of a general
natioiiiil rellection ; for, when Mather urged
Heriiev to assassin.vie I5urlei>;li, anil (pioted
the examples of I'ollrot and Hotluvcllhaugh,
the other eoMspiralor answered, ' that neylliei-
I'oltrot nor llambleton did attempt their
I'nterpryse, without some reason or con-
sideration to lead them to it ; as the one, by
hyie, and promise of prclcrnu-nt or rewarde;
the other, upon desperate mind of revenge,
for a lyttle wrong done unto him, as tin;
report goethe, aeeoidingtothe \yletiaytcious
dysposysyon of the luM)le nalvon ol the
Seottes.'— Mukuin's S/atc J'ttf-rrs, \o\. i.
P- 'y?-
Noil-: I.
SoKihi Ihc prysc ! V. (Kj.S.
PrySC — The note blown at llie death of the
game. 'In Caledonia olini lpi|ncns erat
svlvestris <iuidani bos, iuine\,iii i.uior, (pii,
colore caudidissimo, jnbam dcnsam et dc-
missam instar leonis gestat, fruculentus ae
ferus ab luimano geneie abhorrens, ut <piae-
cun<nie homines vel manibus conlrcctarini,
vel halilu pcrlla\ei int, ab iis nuiltos post dies
oninino absliinu'runt. Ad hoc tanl.i audaeia
huic bovi indita eial, ul noil solum irritatus
eiiuilesfurenti-r prosteriu'ret, sed ne tantillum
lacessiliisomncs piomiscue homines corn i bus
ac ungulis pi'terit ; ac caiuim, (pii apud nos
lerocissimi sunt, impetus plane contennu-H't.
Ivjus carnes cartilaginosae, sed saporis sua-
vissimi. Erat is ohm per illam vastissimam
("aledoniae sylvam freijuens, sed humana
inghuie jam assumptus tribus tanluni locis
est relicpuis, Stri\ ilingii, t umbel naldia<', et
Kincarniae.'— Li:si..\iil'S, Scofiac l)fscri[<tio^
n. i,v — ISco a note on Casllc naiigerous,
\\avorley Novels.]
Note II.
Stern Claud replied.-V. (,(^9..
Lor<l Claud Hamilton, second sou of the
Duke of Chatelheiault, and coinmendator of
the.\libevofraislev,actedadistinguishedp.irt
during the troubles of t,)uccn Mary's reign,
and remained unalterably attached to llie
cause of lli.it unlortunate princess. He led
the van of her army at the fatal battle of
Laiigsiile, and was one of the commandeis
at the Raid of Stirling, which liail so nearly
given complete success to the Queen's faction.
1 le was ancestor of t he present [ if-'o,?] Manpii ■;
of Abeicorn.
Note III.
Woodhoiiselce.—V. 668.
This barony, stretching along the banks
of the l'"sk, liear .Xuchendinny, belongcil to
Hothwcllhaugh, in right of his wile. The
luins of th(- mansion, from whence she was
expelled in the brutal manner which occa-
sioned her death, are still to be seen in
.1 hollow glen beside (he river. Popular
report tenants them with the restless ghost
of th(- Lady Bolliwillliaujdi ; whom, how-
ever, it confounds with Lady Amu- liothwell,
whose Lament is so popular. This spectre
is so tenacious of her rights, that, a part of
the stones of the ancient cdilici- having been
employed in building or repairingthe present
\\ Dodlumselee, ^lu' has deemed it a part of her
privilege to haunt that house also ; and, even
of very lati" years, has excited considerable
disturbance and terror among the domestics.
This is a more remarkable vindication of the
rights offi/iosts, as the present Woodhouse-
lei', whieli gives his title to the Honourable
.Mexander F'raser Tytler, a senator of the
College of lustice, is situated on the slope
ofthel'cntland hills, distant at least fourmiles
from her proper abode. Sin- always .-ippcars
in while, .mil with her child in her arms.
Ca^pow taetU.
691
Note IV.
Drives to the leap his jaded steed. — P. 669.
Birrcl informs us, that Bothwi-llhaugli,
being dosdly pursu<-cj, ' after that spur ancl
waiul had faiitd him, he drew forth his
dagger, an<I strocke his horse beliind, wliilk
cause<l the horse to leap a very brod<-, stanke
[i.e. ditch], by whilk means he escapit, and
jfat away from all the rest of the horses.' —
UlRKKl.'s Diary, p. 18.
Note \'.
From lite wild Piorders hitmbled side.
—P. 669.
Murray's deatli took |)laco shortly after an
expedition to the Borders ; which is thus
commemorated by the author of his Elegy : —
'So havinj^ stablisclit all thinjj in this sort,
To Liddisciaill aj^ane he did resort.
Throw Mwisdail. liskdail, and all the daills rode he,
And also lay thrre niyhts in Cannabie,
^V'hair na prince lay thir hundred yeiris before,
Nae thief durst stir, they did him feir sa sair ;
And. tliat thay suld na inair thair thift allege.
Threescore and tivelf he brocht of thanie in pledge,
.Syne wardit thanie, whilk maid the rest keep ordour :
Than niycht the rasch-bus keep fcy on the Hordcr.'
.Scottish Foetus^ ifjh ctmtury, ]>. i,'3-j.
Note VI.
With hackbut bent.—V. 669.
Hackbut bent — Gun cock'd. The carbine,
with which the Regent was shot, is preserved
at Hamilton Palace. It is a Iirass piece, of
a middling length, very small in the bore,
and, what is rather extraordinary, appears to
have been rifled or indented in the barrel.
It had a matchlock, for which a modern
firelock has been injudiciously substituted.
Note VII.
hearil, condemned to die, for soint' outrage
by him committed, and obtayniiig pardon
tlirough suyte of the Countess (jf iMurray, he
recompensed that clemencie by this piece of
service now at this batayle.' Cahlerwood's
account is less favour.ible to the Macfarlanes.
He states that ' Macfarlane, with his High-
landmen, flcnl from tint wing where they were
set. The Lord Liiidsav, who stood nearest
to the in ill the Regent's battle, said, ' Let
them go ! I shall fill their place better : ' and
so, stepping forward, with a company of
fresh men, charged the eminy, whose spears
were now spent, with long weapons, so that
they were driven back by force, being before
almost overthrown by the avaunt-guard and
harcjuebusiers, and so were turneclto flight.'
— Calderwood's MS. apud Keith, p. 480.
Melville mentions the flight of the vanguard,
but states it to have been commaiuKid by
Morton, and composed chiefly of commoners
of the barony of Renfrew.
Note VIII.
Gleiicairn and stout Parkliead were nifrh.
P. 669.
The Ivarl of dlencairn was a steady ad-
herent of the Regent. G<torge Douglas of
Parkhead was a natural brother of the Earl
of Morton, whose horse was killed by the
same ball by which Murray fell.
Note IX.
The wild Afac/arlancs' plaided clan.
—P. 669.
This clan of Lennox Highlanders were
attached to the Regent Murray. Hollinshed,
speaking of the battle of Langside, says, ' In
this batayle the vallancie of an Heiland
gintleman, named Macfarlane, stood the
Regent's part in great steede ; for, in the
hottest brunte of the Cghte, he came up with
two hundred of his friendes and countrymen,
and so manfully gave in upon the flankes of
the Queen's people, that he was a great
cause of the disordering of them. This Mac-
farlane had been lately before, as I have
haggard IJiidesay' s iron eye.
That saw fair Maryweep in vain. — P. 669.
j Lord Lindsay, of the Byres, was the most
• ferocious and brutal of the Regent's faction,
and, as such, was employed to extort Mary's
signature to the deed of resignation i)resented
to her in Lochleven Castle. He dischargi'd
his commission with the most savagi- rigour ;
I and it is even said, that when the weeping
j captive, in the act of signing, averted her
i eyes from the fatal deed, he pinched her arm
\ with the grasp of his iron glove.
Note X.
.Si? close the miniojis crowded nigh.- P. G(j<^.
Not only had the Regent notice of the
intended attempt upon his life, but even of
the very house f^rom which it was threatened.
With that infatuation at which men wonder,
after such events have happened, he deemed
it would be a sufficient precaution to ride
briskly past the dangerous spot. But even
this was prevented by the crowd : so thai
Bothwellhaugh had time to take a deliberate
aim.— Spottiswoode, p. 233. Buchanan.
6():
Qtofee to ^mitatiom of tU Mnckrxt (§aiia^.
THE (;ray brother.
The imperfect state of this ballad, which
was written several years ago, is not a cir-
cumstance affected for the purpose of giving-
it that peculiar interest which is often found
to arise from ungratified curiosity. On the
contrary, it was tlie Editor's intention to have
completed the tale, if he had found himself
able to succeed to his own satisfaction.
Yielding to the opinion of persons, whose
judgment, if not biassed by the partiality of
friendship, is entitled to deference, he has
preferrea inserting these verses as a fragment,
to his intention of entirely suppressing them.
The tradition, upon which the tale is
founded, regards a house upon the barony of
Gilmerton, near Lasswade, in Mid-Lothian.
This building, now called Gilmerton Grange,
was originally named Burndale, from the
following tragic adventure. The barony of
Gilmerton belonged, of yore, to a gentle-
man named Heron, who had one beautiful
ilaugliter. This young lady was seduced by
the Abbot of Newbattle, a richly endowed
abbey, upon the banks of the South Esk,
now a seat of the Marquis of Lothian.
Heron came to the knowledge of this circum-
stance, and learned also, that the lovers
carried on their guilty intercourse by the
connivance of the lady's nurse, who li\ ed at
this house of Gilmerton Grange, or Burndale.
He formed a resolution of bloody vengeance,
undeterred by the supposed sanctity of the
clerical character, or by the stronger claims
of natural affection. Choosing, therefore,
a dark and windy night, when the objects of
his vengeance were engaged in a stolen inter-
view, he set fire to a stack of dried thorns,
and other combustibles, which he had caused
to be piled against the house, and reduced to
a pile of glowing ashes the dwelling, with all
its inmates '.
The scene with which the ballad opens
was suggested by the following curious
passage, extracted from the Life of Alex-
ander Peden, one of the wandering and per-
secuted teachers of the sect of Cameronians,
during the reign of Charles It and his
successor, James. This person was supposed
by his followers, and, perhaps, really believed
himself, to be possessed of supernatural gifts ;
for the wild scenes which they frequented,
and the constant dangers which were incurred
through their proscription, deepened upon
their minds the gloom of superstition, so
general in that age.
'About the same time he [Peden] came to
1 This tradition was communicated to me by
John Clerk. Hsq. of Eldin, author of an J'ssny
UfJH i\\l-\ll TcUlHS.
Andrew Normand's house, !n the parish of
Alloway, in the shire of Ayr, being to preach
at night in his barn. After he came in, he
halted a little, leaning upon a chair-back,
with his face covered; when he lifted up his
head, he said, "They are in this house that
I have not one word of salvation unto" ; he
halted a little again, saying, "This is strange,
that the devil will not go out, that we may
begin our work ! " Then there was a woman
went out, ill-looked upon almost all her life,
and to her dying hour, for a witch, with
many presumptions of the same. It escaped
me, in the former passages, what John Muir-
head (whom I have often mentioned) told me,
that when he came from Ireland to Galloway,
he was at family-worship, and giving some
notes upon the Scripture read, when a very
ill-lookingman came, and sat down within the
door, at the back of the Jial/an [partition of
the cottage] : immediately he halted and
said, " There is some unhappy body just now
come into this house. I charge him to go
out, .".nd not stop my mouth ! " This person
went out and he iiisistcd[\\ent on], yet he saw
him neither come in nor go out.' — TV/e I^ije
and Prophecies of Mr. Alexander Peden,
late Mhiisterofthe Gospel at New Gleultice,
in Galloway, part ii. § 26.
A friendly correspondent remarks, ' that
the incapacity of proceeding in the perform-
ance of a religious duty, when a contaminated
person is present, is of much higher antiquity
than the era of the Reverend Mr. Alexander
Peden.' — Vide Hygiiii Fabnlas, cap. 26.
' Medea Corintho i-xul, Athenas, ad Aegeum
Pandionis fdium devenit in hospitium, eique
nupsit. . . Postea sacerdos Dianae Medeam
exagitare coepit, regique negabat sacra caste
facere posse, eo quod in ea civitate esset
mulier veneCca et scelerata ; tunc exulatur.'
Note I.
From that fair dome where suit is paid
By blast of bugle free. — P. 6;i.
The barony of Pennycuik, the property
of Sir George Clerk, Bart., is held by a
singular tenure ; the proprietor being bound
to sit upon a large rocky fragment called the
Buckstane, and wind three blasts of a horn,
when the King shall come to hunt on the
Borough Muir, near Edinburgh. Hence the
family have adopted as their crest a demi-
forester proper, winding a horn, with the
motto. Free for a Blast. The beautiful
mansion-house of Pennycuik is much admired,
both on account of the architecture ami
surrounding scener}'.
Z^z (Bra^ (gvot^tv.
693
Note II.
Atichcndin>iy's Iia::el glade. — P. 671.
Auchendinny, situated upon the Eskp,
below Pennycuik, the present residence of
the ingenious H. ^lackenzie, Esq., author of
the Man of Feelitig., &c. — Edition iSo^.
Note III.
Haunted Woodhouselee. — P. (171.
For the traditions connected willi tliis
ruinous mansion, see Ballad of ' Cadyow
Castle,' Note III, p. 690.
Note I\'.
Mch'Uh^s hcccliy grofe. — P. 671.
Melville Castle, the seat of the Right
Honourable Lord Melville, to whom it
gives the title of Viscount, is dolightfullv
situated upon the Eske, near Lasswade.
Note V.
Rosliu's rocky glcii.—V. 671.
The ruins of Roslin Castle, the b.ironial
residence of the ancient family of St. Clair.
The Gothic chapel, which is still in bcautilul
preservation, with the romantic and woody
dell in which they are situated, belong to the
Right Honourable the Earl of Rosslyn, the
representative of the former Lords of Roslin.
Note VI.
Dalkeii/i.—V. 671.
The village and castle of Dalkeith belonged
of old to the famous Earl of Morton, but
is now the residence of the noble family
ofBuccleuch. The park extends along the
Eske, which is there joined by its sister
stream of the same name.
Note VII.
Classic Hazi'ilwrudcu.—V. (171.
Hawthornden, the residence of the poet
Drummond. A house of more modern date
is enclosed, as it were, by the ruins of the
ancient castle, and overhangs a tremendous
precipice upon the banks of the Eske, per-
forated by winding caves, which in former
times were a refuge to the oppressed patriots
of Scotland. Here Drummond received Ben
Jonson, who journeyed from London on foot
in order to visit him. The beauty of this
striking scene has been much injured of
late years by the indiscriminate use of the
axe. The traveller now looks in vain for the
leafy bower,
' W'licre Jonson s."lt in DruinmontVs social shade.
Upon the whole, tracing the Eske from
its source till it joins the sea at Musselburgh,
no stream in Scotland can boast such a varied
succession of the most interesting objects,
as well as of the most romantic and beautiful
.scenery. iSo;?. . . — The beautiful scenery of
Hawthornden has, since the above note was
written, recovered all its proper ornament of
wood. 1831.
QUi0ceffaneou0 {potme.
(ARRANGED IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER.)
HIS FIRST LINES.
'Pirsntrd by //m Motlici .)
In awful ruins /Etna thunders nigh,
And sends in pitchy wliirlwinds to
the sky
Black clouds of smoke, which, still as
the}' aspire,
From their dark sides there bursts
the glowing fire ;
At other times huge balls of fire are
toss'd
That lick the stars, and in the smoke
are lost ;
.Sometimes the mount, with vast con-
vulsions torn.
Emits huge rocks, whicli instantly
are borne
With loud explosions to the starry
skies,
The stones made liquid as the huge
mass flies,
Then back again with greater weight
recoils.
While vEtna thundering from the
bottom boils.
ON A THUNDERSTORM.
{Preserved by his Sc/ioo/mas/er.)
Loud o"er my head though a%vful
thunders roll.
And vivid lightnings Hash from jiole
to pole,
Yet "tis thy voice, my God, that bids
them fi}',
Thy arm directs those lightnings
through the skj'.
Then let the good thy might\' name
revere.
And harden'd sinners thy just venge-
ance fear.
ON THE SETTING SUN.
(I-83-)
{Preserved by /it's School master. ~)
Those evening clouds, that setting ray,
And beauteous tints, serve to display
Their great Creator's praise;
Then let the short-lived thing call'd
man.
Whose life's comprised within a span,
To him his homage raise.
()Ut0ceffaneou0 (poeme.
695
We often praise the evening clouds,
And tints so gay and bold,
But seldom think upon our God,
Who tinged these clouds with gold '
THE VIOLET.
(i79r-)
The violet in her greenwood bower,
Where birchen boughs with hazels
mingle.
Ma}' boast itself the fairest flower
In glen, or copse, or forest dingle.
Though fair her gems of azure hue.
Beneath the dewdrop's weight re-
clining ;
I've seen an eye of lovelier blue,
More sweet through wat'r}' lustre
shining.
The summer sun that dew shall dry,
Ere yet the day be past its morrow ;
Nor longer in my false love's eye
Remain'd the tearof parting sorrow.
TO A LADY
WllH FLOWERS FROM THE ROMAN
W.\LL.
(■797-)
Take these flowers which, purple
wa\'ing,
On the ruin'd rampart grew,
Where, the sons of freedom braving,
Rome's imperial standards flew.
Warriors from the breach of danger
Pluck no longer laurels there ;
They but yield the passing stranger
Wild-flower wreaths for Beauty's
hair.
BOTHWELL'S SISTERS THREE.
A FRAGMENT.
(1799. 1
When fruitful Clydesdale's apple-
bowers
Are mellowing in the noon.
When sighs round Pembroke's ruin'd
towers
The sultry breath of June.
When Clyde, despite his sheltering
wood,
Must leave his channel dr}'.
And vainly o'er the limpid Hood
The angler guides his fly. —
If chance by Bothwell's lo\cIy braes
A wanderer thou hast been,
Or hid thee from the summer's blaze
In Blant^'re's bowers of green,
Full where the copsewcod opens wild
Thy pilgrim step hath staid,
Where Bothwell's towers, in ruin piled
O'crlook the verdant glade.
And manj' a tale of love and fear
Hath mingled with the scene —
Of Bothwell's banks that bloom'd so
dear.
And Bothwell's bonny Jean —
O, if with rugged minstrel laj's
Unsated be th^' ear.
And thou of deeds of other days
Another tale wilt hear, —
Then all beneath the spreading beech.
Flung careless on the lea.
The Gothic muse the tale shall teach
Of Bothwell's sisters three.
Wight Wallace stood on Deckmont
head,
He blew his bugle round.
Till the wild bull in Cadj^ow wood
Has started at the sound.
696
()1\t0ceffancou0 (poemo.
Saint George's cross, o'er Bothwell
hung,
Was ^vaving far and wide,
And from the lofty turret flung
Its crimson blaze on Clyde ;
And rising at the bugle blast
That marked the Scottish foe,
Old England's yeomen muster'd fast,
And bent the Norman bow.
Tall in the midst Sir Aylmer rose.
Proud Pembroke's Earl was he —
While
THE COVENANTER'S FATE.
(1799-)
And ne'er but once, my son, he saj-s,
Was yon sad cavern trod, —
In persecution's iron days.
When the land was left bj' God.
From Bcwlie bog, with slaughter red,
A wanderer hither drew.
And oft he stopt and turn'd his head,
As by fits the night wind blew ;
For trampling round by Cheviot edge
Were heard the troopers keen,
And frequent from the Whitelaw ridge
The death-shot flash'd between.
The moonbeams through the misty
shower
On yon dark cavern fell ;
Through the cloudy night the snow
gleam'd white.
Which sunbeam ne'er could quell.
' Yon cavern dark is rough and rude,
And cold its jaws of snow ;
But more rough and rude are the
men of blood.
That hunt my life below 1
' Yon spell-bound den, as the aged tell,
Was hewn by demon's hands ;
But I had lourd melle with the fiends
of hell
Than with Clavers and his band.'
He heard the deep-mouth'd blood-
hound bark.
He heard the horses neigh.
He plunged him in the cavern dark,
And downward sped his way.
Now faintly down the winding path
Came the cry of the faulting hound,
And the mutter'd oath of baulked
wrath
Was lost in hollow sound.
He threw him on the flinted floor,
And held his breath for fear ;
He rose and bitter cursed his foes,
As the sounds died on his ear :
' O bare thine arm, thou battling Lord,
For Scotland's wandering band ;
Dash from the oppressor's grasp the
sword,
And sweep him from the land 1
' Forget not thou thy people's groans
From dark Dunnotter's tower,
Mix'd with the seafowl'sshrilly moans,
And ocean's bursting roar !
' O, in fell Clavers' hour of pride.
Even in his mightiest day,
As bold he strides through conquest's
tide,
O stretch him on the clay !
' His widow and his little ones,
O from their tower of trust
Remove its strong foundation stones,
And crush them in the dust !'
' Sweet prayers to me! ' a voice replied;
' Thrice welcome, guest of mine 1'
And glimmering on the cavern side
A lieht was seen to shine.
QUt0cePfaneou0 (})oem0.
697
An aged man, in amice brown,
Stood by the wanderer's side ;
By powerful charm, a dead man's arm
The torch's light supplied.
From each stiff finger, stretch'd
upright,
Arose a ghastly flame.
That waved not in the blast of night
Which through the cavern came.
O, deadly blue was that taper's hue.
That flamed the cavern o'er,
But more deadly blue was the ghastly
hue
Of his eyes who the taper bore.
lie laid on his head a hand like lead,
As heavy, pale, and cold —
' Vengeance be thine, thou guest of
mine,
If thy heart be firm and bold.
' But if faint thy heart, and caitiff fear
Thy recreant sinews know,
The mountain erne thy heart shall tear.
Thy nerves the hooded crow.'
The wanderer raised him undismaj^'d :
' My soul, by dangers steel'd,
Is stubborn as my border blade,
Which never knew to yield.
* And if thy power can speed the hour
Of vengeance on mj' foes.
Theirs be the fate from bridge and gate
To feed the hooded crows.'
The Brownie look'd him in the face.
And his colour fled with speed —
' I fear me,' quoth he, 'uneath it will be
To match thy word with deed.
' In ancient daj's when English bands
Sore ravaged .Scotland fair,
The sword and shield of Scottish land
Was valiant Halbert Kerr.
'A warlock loved the warrior well.
Sir Michael Scott by name,
And he sought for his sake a spell to
make,
.Should the Southern foemen tame.
' " Look thou," he said, " from Cess-
ford head.
As the July sun sinks low.
And when glimmering white on
Cheviot's height
Thou shalt spj' a wreath of snow.
The spell is complete which shall
bring to thy feet
The haughty Saxon foe."
' For many a yeav wrought the wizard
here.
In Cheviot's bosom low,
Till the spell was complete, and in
Jul^-'s heat
Appear'd December's snow ;
But Cessford's Halbert never came
The wondrous cause to know.
■ For years before in Bowden aisle
The warrior's bones had lain ;
And after short while, by female guile,
Sir Michael .Scott was slain.
' But me and my brethren in this cell
His mighty charms retain ;
And he that can quell the powerful
spell
Shall o'er broad .Scotland reign.'
He led him through an iron door
And up a winding stair,
And in wild amaze did the wanderer
gaze
On the sight which open'd there.
Through the gloomy- night flash'd
ruddy light, —
A thousand torches glow ;
Thecaverosehigh. likethevaultedsky,
O'er stalls in double row.
698
QUi6ceffatteeu0 (potme.
In every stall of that endless hall
Stood a steed in barbing bright ;
At the foot of each steed, all arm'd
save the head,
Lay stretch'd a stalwart knight.
In each mail'd hand v^'asa naked brand ;
As they lay on the black bull's hide,
Each visage stern did upvi^ards turn,
With eyeballs fix'd and wide.
A launcegay strong, full twelve ells
long,
By every warrior hung ;
At each pommel there, for battle yarc,
A Jedwood axe was slung.
The casque hung near each cavalier;
The plumes waved mournfully
At every tread which the wanderer
made
Through the hall of gramarye.
The ruddy beam of the torches' gleam
That glared the warriors on.
Reflected light from armour bright.
In noontide splendour shone.
And onward seen in lustre sheen,
.Still lengthening on the sight,
Through the boundless hall stood
steeds in stall,
And by each lay a sable knight.
.Still as the dead lay each horseman
dread.
And moved nor limb nor tongue ;
Each steed stood stiff as an carthfast
cliff,
Nor hoof nor bridle rung.
No sounds through all the spacious hall
The deadly still divide.
Save where echoes aloof from the
vaulted roof
To the wanderer's step replied.
At length before his wondering eyes,
On an iron column borne,
Of antique shape, and giant size,
Appear'd a sword and horn.
' Now choose thee here,' quoth his
leader,
'Thy venturous fortune try;
Thy woe and weal, thj' boot and bale,
In yon brand and bugle lie.'
Tothefatal brand he mounted his hand.
But his soul did quiver and quail ;
The life-blood did start to his shudder-
ing heart.
And left him wan and pale.
The brand he forsook, and the horn
he took
To 'saj' a gentle sound ;
But so wild a blast from the bugle brast,
That the Cheviot rock'd around.
From Forth to Tees, from seas to seas,
The awful bugle rung;
On Carlisle wall, and Berwick withal.
To arms the warders sprung.
With clank and clang the cavern rang,
The steeds did stamp and neigh ;
And loud was the yell as each warrior
fell
Sterte up with hoop and cry.
' Woe, woe,' they cried, ' thou caitiff
coward,
' That ever thou wert born !
Why drew j'e not the knightly sword
Before ye blew the horn ?'
The morning on the mountain shone,
And on the bloodj^ ground,
Hurl'd from the cave with shiver'd
bone,
The mangled wretch was found.
And still beneath the cavern dread,
Among the glidders grey,
A shapeless stone with lichens spread
Marks where the wanderer lay.
Qtlt0ceffaneou0 (poewa.
699
AT FLODDEN.
A FKAGMENT.
(1799-)
Go sit old Cheviot's crest below,
And pensive mark the lingering snow
In all his scaurs abide,
And slow dissolving from the hill
In many a sightless, soundless rill,
Feed sparkling Bowmont's tide.
Fair shines the stream by bank and lea,
As wimpling to the eastern sea
She seeks Till's sullen bed,
Indenting deep the fatal plain,
Where Scotland's noblest, brave in
vain.
Around their monarch bled.
And westward hills on hills you see,
Even as old Ocean's mightiest sea
Heaves high her waves of foam,
Dark and snow-ridged from Cutsfeld's
wold
To the proud foot of Cheviot roll'd,
Earth's mountain billows come.
A SONG OF VICTORY.
(1800.)
{From ' The House of Aspen.')
Joy to the victors 1 the sons of old
Aspen !
Jojf to the race of the battle and
scar !
Glory's proud garland triumphant!}'
grasping ;
Generous in peace, and victorious
in war.
Honour acquiring,
"Valour inspiring,
Bursting, resistless, through foemen
they go :
War-axes wielding.
Broken ranks yielding.
Till from the battle proud Roderic
retiring,
Yields in wild rout the fair palm to his
foe.
Joy to each warrior, true follower of
Aspen !
Joy to the heroes that gain'd the
bold day !
Health to our wounded, in agonj'
gasping ;
Peace to our brethren tiiat fell in
the fray !
Boldly this morning,
Roderic's power scorning.
Well for their chieftain their blades
did they wield :
Joy blest them dying,
As Maltingen flying.
Low laid his banners, our conquest
adorning,
Their death-clouded eyeballs descried
on the field !
Now to our home, the proud mansion
of Aspen,
Bend we, gay victors, triumphant
away ;
There each fond damsel, her gallant
youth clasping,
Shall wipe from his forehead the
stains of the fray.
Listening the prancing
Of horses advancing ;
E'en now on the turrets our maidens
appear.
Love our hearts warming,
Songs the night charming.
Round goes the grape in the goblet
gay dancing;
Love, \vine, and song, our blithe
evening shall cheer I
7oo
QlXtoceffaneoue (poeme.
RHEIN-WEIN LIED.
(i8tx).)
(From ' T/ic House of Aspen.^ '
What makes the troopers' frozen
courage muster ?
The grapes of juice divine.
Upon the Rhine, upon the Rhine they
cluster :
Oh, blessed be the Rhine I
Let fringe and turs, and many a rabbit-
skin, sirs,
Bedeck your Saracen ;
He "11 freeze without what warms our
hearts within, sirs,
When the night-frost crusts the fen.
But on the Rhine, but on the Rhine
they cluster,
The grapes of juice divine.
That make our troopers' frozen courage
muster :
Oh, blessed be the Rhine !
THE REIVER'S WEDDING.
(iSoi.)
O WILL ye hear a mirthful bourd ?
Or will ye hear of courtesie ?
Or will ye hear how a gallant lord
Was wedded to a gay ladj'e?
' Ca' out the kyc,' quo' the village herd,
As he stood on the knowe,
'Ca' this ane's nine and that ane's ten,
And bauld Lord William's cow.'
'Ah! by my sooth,' quoth William
then,
'And stands it that waj* now.
When knave and churl have nine an
ten.
That the Lord has but his cow?
' I swear by the light of the Michael-
mas moon,
And the might of Mary high.
And by the edge of my braidsword
brown.
They shall soon say Harden's kye.'
He took a bugle frae his side,
With names carved o'er and o'er;
Full many a chief of meikle pride
That Border bugle bore, —
He blew a note baith sharp and hie,
Till rock and water rang around —
Three score of moss-troopersand three
Have mounted at that bugle sound.
The Michaelmas moon had enter'd
then.
And ere she wan the full.
Ye might see by her light in Harden
glen
A bow o' kye and a bassen'd bull.
And loud and loud in Harden tower
The quaigh gaed round wi' meikle
glee;
For the English beef was brought in
bower
And the English ale flow'd merrilie.
And mony a guest from Teviotside
And Yarrow's Braes was there ;
Was never a lord in Scotland wide
That made more dainty fare.
They ate, the}' laugh'd, the}' sang and
quafl'd,
Till nought on board was seen,
When knight and squire were bouno
to dine.
But a spur of silver sheen.
Lord William has ta'en his berry
brown steed,
A sore shent man was he;
' Wait ye, my guests, a little speed ;
Weel feasted yc shall be.'
QlUeceffatieoue (poeme.
701
He rode him down by Falsehope burn,
His cousin dear to see.
With him to take a riding turn —
Wat-draw-the-sword was he.
And when he came to Falsehope glen,
Beneath the tr3sting-trce,
On the smooth green was carved plain,
'To Lochwood bound are we.'
' O if thej' be gane to dark Lochwood
To drive the Warden's gear,
Betwixt our names, I ween, there's
feud ;
I '11 go and have my share :
'For little reck I for Johnstone's feud,
The Warden though he be.'
So Lord William is away to dark
Lochwood,
With riders barely three.
The Warden's daughters in Lochwood
sate.
Were all both fair and ga3',
All save the Lady Margaret,
And she was wan and wae.
The sister, Jean, had a full fair skin.
And Grace was bauld and bravv ;
But the leal-fastheartherbreastwithin
It weel was worth them a'.
Her father's pranked her sisters twa
With meikle joy and pride ;
But Margaret maun seek Dundrennan's
wa' —
She ne'er can be a bride.
On spear and casque by gallants gent
Her sisters' scarfs were borne,
But never at tilt or tournament
Were Margaret's colours worn.
Her sisters rode to Thirlstane bower.
But she was left at hame
To wander round the gloomy tower.
And sigh young Harden's name.
' Of all the knights, the knight most
fair.
From Yarrow to the Tyne,'
Soft sigh'd the maid, ' is Harden's heir,
But ne'er can he be mine;
' Of all the maids, the foulest maid,
From Teviot to the Dee,
Ah 1' sighing sad, that lady said,
' Can ne'er 3'oung Harden's be.'
She looked up the brier}^ glen.
And up the mossy brae,
And she saw a score of her father's men
Yclad in the Johnstone grey.
O fast and fast they downwards sped
The moss and briers among,
And in the midst the troopers led
A shackled knight along.
WAR-SONG OF THE ROYAL
EDINBURGH LIGHT DRAGOONS.
(1S02.)
To horse! to horse ! the standard flies.
The bugles sound the call ;
The Gallic navy stems the seas,
The voice of battle's on the breeze,
Arouse ye, one and all !
From high Dunedin's towerswe come,
A band of brothers true;
Our casques the leopard's spoils sur-
round,
With Scotland's hard}' thistle crown'd;
We boast the red and blue '.
Though tamely crouch to Gallia's frown
Dull Holland's tardy train ;
Their ravish'd toys though Romans
mourn ;
Though gallant Switzers vainly spurn,
And, foaming, gnaw the chain ;
1 The royal colours.
702
QUieceffaneoue ^otwo.
Oh ! had thej' mark'd the avenging
calli
Their brethren's murder gave,
Disunion ne'er their ranks had mown,
Nor patriot valour, desperate grown,
Sought freedom in the grave !
Shall we, too, bend the stubborn head.
In Freedom's temple born,
Dress our pale cheek in timid smile,
To hail a master in our isle,
Or brook a victor's scorn ■
No ! though destruction o'er the land
Come pouring as a flood,
The sun, that sees our falling day.
Shall mark our sabres' deadly sway,
And set that night in blood.
For gold let Gallia's legions fight,
Or plunder's bloody gain ;
Unbribed, unbought, our swords we
draw,
To guard our king, to fence our law,
Nor shall their edge be vain.
If ever breath of British gale
Shall fan the tri-color,
Or footstep of invader rude,
With rapine foul, and red with blood.
Pollute our happy shore, —
Then farewell home ! and farewell
friends !
Adieu each tender tie !
Resolved, we mingle in the tide,
Where charging squadrons furious
ride.
To conquer or to die.
' The nllvision 15 tn the m.TSsacre of the Swk'; Guartk,
f)n the fatal loth August, 1792, It is painful, but not
useless, to remark, that the passive temper with which
the Swiss regarded the deatii of their bravest country-
men, mercilessly slaughtered in discharge of their
duty, encouraged and authorized the progressive
injustice, by which the Alps, once the seat of the
most virtuous and free people upon the Continent,
have, at length, been converted into the citadel of
a foreign and military despot. .\ state dep^raded is
half enslaved. [1812.]
To horse! to horse 1 the sabres gleam;
High sounds our bugle-call ;
Combined by honour's sacred tie,
Our Nvord is Laivs and Libertv '.
March forward, one and all 1
THE BARD'S INCANTATION.
(Jl'n'ffeit itiider tlneat of an invasion in
the Autumn 0/1804.)
The forest of Glenmore is drear,
It is all of black pine and the dark
oak-tree ;
And the midnight wind to the moun-
tain deer
Is whistling the forest lullaby :
The moon looks through the drifting
storm.
But the troubled lake reflects not her
form,
For the waves roll whitening to the
land,
And dash against the shelvy strand.
There is a voice among the trees,
That mingles with the groaning
oak —
That mingles with the stormy breeze.
And the lake-waves dashing against
the rock ;
There is a voice within the wood,
The voice of the bard in fitful mood ;
His song was louder than the blast.
As the bard of Glenmore through the
forest past.
' Wake ye from your sleep of death,
Minstrels and bards of other da3's !
For the midnight wind is on the
heath,
And the midnight meteors dimly
blaze :
(TRi0affaneou0 (poewe.
70,1
The Spectre with his Bloody Hand
Is wandering through the wild wood-
land;
The owl and the raven are mute for
dread,
And the time is meet to awake the
dead !
' Souls of the mightj', wake and say,
To what high strain your harps
were strung.
When Lochlin plow'd herbillowy way,
And on j'our shores her Norsemen
flung ?
Her Norsemen train'd to spoil and
blood,
Skill'd to prepare the Raven's food,
All, by your harpings, doom'd to die
On bloody Largs and Loncarty.
' Mute are ye all ? No murmurs strange
Upon the midnight breeze sail by ;
Nor through the pines, with whistling
change
Mimic the harp's wild harmonj- !
Muteareyenow? Yene'er were mute,
When Murder with his bloody foot.
And Rapine with his iron hand,
Were hovering near yon mountain
strand.
' O yet awake the strain to tell,
By every deed in song enroll'd,
By every chief who fought or fell,
For Albion's weal in battle bold :
From Coilgach', first who roU'd his car
Through the deep ranks of Roman war,
To him, of veteran memory dear.
Who victor died on Aboukir.
' By all their swords, by all their scars.
By all their names, a mighty spell !
By all their wounds, by all their wars,
Arise, the might}^ strain to tell !
Forfiercer than fierce Hengist's strain,
More impious than the heathen Dane,
More grasping than all- grasping Rome,
Gauls ravening legions hither come !'
The wind is hush'd, and still the lake-
Strange murmurs fill my tinkling
ears,
Bristles my hair, my sinews quake.
At the dread voice of other years :
' When targets clash'd, and bugles
rung,
And blades round warriors heads
were flung,
The foremost of the band were we.
And hymn'd the joys of Liberty !'
HELLVELLYN.
(1S05.)
1 The Galgacus of Tacitus.
I climb'd the dark brow of the mighty
Hellvellyn,
Lakes and mountains beneath me
gleam'd misty and wide ;
All was still, save by fits, when the
eagle was yelling.
And starting around me the echoes
replied.
On the right, Striden-edge round the
Red-tarn was bending,
y\nd Catchedicam its left verge was
defending,
One huge nameless rock in the front
was ascending.
When I mark'd the sad spot where
the wanderer had died.
Dark green was that spot 'mid the
brown mountain-heather.
Where the Pilgrim of Nature lay
stretch'd in decay.
Like the corpse of an outcast abandon'd
to weather,
Till the mountain winds wasted
the tenantless clay.
Nor yet quite deserted, though lonelj'
extended,
For, faithful in death, his mute
favourite attended.
04
QlXteceffaneoua (|)oem6.
The much-loved remains of her master
defended,
And chased the hill-fox and the
raven away.
How long didst thou think that his
silence was slumber ?
When the wind \vavcd his garment,
how oft didst thou start ?
How many long days and long weeks
didst thou number,
Ere he faded before thee, the friend
of thy heart •
And, oh, was it meet, that — no re-
quiem read o'er him —
No mother to weep, and no friend
to deplore him,
And thou, little guardian, alone
stretch'd before him —
Unhonour'd the Pilgrim from life
should depart?
When a Prince to the fate of the
Peasant has yielded.
The tapestry waves dark round the
dim-lighted hall ;
With scutcheons of silver the coftln
is shielded,
And pages stand mute by the cano-
pied pall :
Through the courts, at deep midnight,
the torches are gleaming ;
In the proudly-arch'd chapel the
banners are beaming,
Far adown the long aisle sacred music
is streaming.
Lamenting a Chief of the people
should fall.
But meeter for thee, gentle lover of
nature.
To laj- down thy head like the meek
mountain lamb.
When, wilder'd, he drops from some
cliff huge in stature,
And draws his last sob by the side
of liis dam.
And more statelj- thy couch bj' this
desert lake lying,
Thy obsequies sung by the grey plover
flying,
With one faithful friend but to witness
thy dying,
In the arms of Hellveiiyn and
Catchedicam.
THE DYING BARD.
(1806.)
DiNAS Emlixn, lament; for the
moment is nigh.
When mute in the woodlands thine
echoes shall die :
No more by sweet Teivi Cadwallon
shall rave.
And mix his wild notes with the wild
dashing wave.
In spring and in autumn thj' glories
of shade
Unhonour'd shall flourish, unhonour'd
shall fade ;
For soon shall be lifeless the eye and
the tongue.
That view'd them with rapture, with
rapture that sung.
Thy sons, Dinas Emlinn, may march
in their pride,
And chase the proud Saxon from
Prestatyn's side ;
But where is the harp shall give life
to their name ?
And where is the bard shall give
heroes their fame ?
And oh, Dinas Emlinn I thy daughters
so fair.
Who heave the white bosom, and
wave the dark hair ;
What tuneful enthusiast shall worship
their eye.
When half of their charms with Cad-
wallon shall die?
(Tllt0ceffaneou0 (poewo.
705
Then adieu, silver Teivi 1 I quit thy
loved scene,
To join the dim choir of the bards who
have been ;
With Lewarch, and Meilor, and Merlin
the Old,
And sage Taliessin, high harping to
hold.
And adieu, Dinas Emlinn ! still green
be thy shades,
Unconquer'd thy warriors, and match-
less thy maids !
And thou, whose faint warblings my
weakness can tell,
Farewell, my loved Harp ! my last
treasure, farewell !
THE NORMAN HORSE-SHOE.
(1806.)
Red glows the forge in Striguil's
bounds,
And hammers din, and anvil sounds.
And armourers, with iron toil.
Barb many a steed for battle's broil.
Foul fall the hand which bends the
steel
Around the courser's thundering heel,
That e'er shall dint a sable wound
On fair Glamorgan's velvet ground ?
From Chepstow's towers, ere dawn
of morn.
Was heard afar the bugle-horn ;
And forth, in banded pomp and pride,
Stout Clare and fierj' Neville ride.
They swore their banners broad
should gleam,
In crimson light, on Rymny's stream ;
They vow'd Caerphili's sod should
feel
The Norman charger's spurning heel.
And sooth they swore : the sun arose,
And Rymny's wave with crimson
glows ;
For Clare's red banner, floating wide,
R oll'd down the stream to Severn's tide!
And sooth they vow'd : the trampled
green
.Show'd where hot Neville's charge
had been :
In every sable hoof-tramp stood
A Norman horseman's curdling blood !
Old Chepstow's brides maj' curse the
toil
That arm'd stout Clare for Cambrian
broil ;
Their orphans long the art may rue.
For Neville's war-horse forged the
shoe.
No more the stamp of armed steed
Shall dint Glamorgan's velvet mead ;
Nor trace be there, in early spring,
Save of the Fairies' emerald ring.
THE MAID OF TORO.
(1806.)
(An earlier version, of date 1800,
appears in ' The House of Aspen.'
O, LOW shone the sun on the fair
lake of Toro,
And weak were the whispers that
waved the dark wood,
All as a fair maiden, bewilder'd in
sorrow,
Sorely sigh'd to the breezes, and
wept to the flood.
' O saints ! from the mansions of bliss
lowly bending ;
.Sweet Virgin ! who hearcst Ihe
suppliant's cry,
Now grant my petition, in anguish
ascending,
My Henry restore, or let Eleanor
die!'
jo6
Q)lt0ceffftneou0 (poeme.
All distant and faint were the sounds
of the battle,
With the breezes they rise, with
the breezes they fail,
Till the shout, and the groan, and
the conflict's dread rattle,
And the chase's wild clamour, came
loading the gale.
Breathless she gazed on the woodlands
so dreary ;
Slowly approaching a warrior was
seen ;
Life's ebbing tide mark'd his footsteps
so weary,
Cleft was his helmet, and woe was
his mien,
' O save thee, fair maid, for our armies
are flying !
O save thee, fair maid, for thy
guardian is low !
Deadly cold on yon heath th^' brave
Henry is lying.
And fast through the woodland
approaches the foe.'
Scarce could he falter the tidings of
sorrow,
And scarce could she liear them,
benumb'd with despair ;
And when the sun sank on the sweet
lake of Toro,
For ever he set to the brave and
the fair.
THE PALMER.
(1806.)
' O OPEN the door, some pity to show.
Keen blows the northern wind !
The glen is white with the drifted snow,
And the path is hard to find.
' No outlaw seeks your castle gate.
From chasing the King's deer.
Though even an outlaw's wretched
state
Might claim compassion here.
' A weary Palmer, worn and weak,
I wander for my sin ;
O open, for Our Ladj^'s sake !
A pilgrim's blessing win !
' I '11 give you pardons from the Pope,
And reliques from o'er the sea ;
Or if for these you will not ope.
Yet open for charity.
' The hare is crouching in lier form,
The hart beside the hind ;
An aged man, amid the storm,
No shelter can I find.
' You hear the Ettrick's sullen roar.
Dark, deep, and strong is he,
And I must ford the Ettrick o'er,
Unless you pity me.
' The iron gate is bolted hard.
At which I knock in vain ;
The owner's heart is closer barr'd,
Who hears me thus complain.
' Farewell, farewell ! and Mary grant,
When old and frail you be.
You never may the shelter want
That 's now denied to me.'
The Ranger on his couch lay warm,
And heard him plead in vain ;
But oft amid December's storm
He '11 hear that voice again :
For lo, when through the vapours dank,
Morn shone on Ettrick fair,
A corpse amid the alders rank,
The Palmer welter'd there.
THE MAID OF NEIDPATH.
(1806.)
O lovers' eyes are sharp to sec,
And lovers' ears in hearing ;
And love, in life's extremity,
Can lend an hour of cheering.
(nit0ceff<ineou0 (poeme.
707
Disease had been in Mary's bower,
And slow decay from mourning,
Though now she sits on Neidpath's
tower,
To watch her love's returning.
All sunk and dim her ej'es so bright,
Her form decaj-'d by pining,
Till through her wasted hand, at night,
You saw the taper shining;
By fits, a sultry hectic hue
Across her cheek was flying;
By fits, so ashy pale she grew.
Her maidens tiiought her dying.
Yet keenest powers to see and hear
Seem'd in her frame residing;
Before the watch-dog prick'd his ear
She heard her lover's riding ;
Ere scarce a distant form was ken'd.
She knew, and waved to greet him ;
And o'er the battlement did bend,
As on the wing to meet him.
He came — he pass'd — an heedless
gaze,
As o'er some stranger glancing ;
Her welcome, spoke in falteringphrase,
Lost in his courser's prancing.
The castle arch, whose hollow tone
Returns each whisper spoken.
Could scarce!}' catch the feeble moan
Which told her heart was broken.
WANDERING WILLIE.
(i8o6.)
All joy was bereft me the daj' that
3'ou left me.
And climb'd the tall vessel to sail
yon wide sea ;
O weary betide it ! I wander'd beside it ,
And bann'd it for parting my Willie
and me.
Far v'cv the wave hast thou follow'd
thy fortune,
Oft fought the squadrons of France
and of Spain ;
Ae kiss of welcome 's wortii twenty
at parting,
Now I hae gotten my Willie again.
When the skj^ it was mirk, and the
winds they were wailing,
I sat on the beach wi' the tear in
my ee.
And thought o' the bark where my
Willie was sailing,
And wish'd that the tempest could
a' blaw on me.
Now that thy gallant ship rides at her
mooring,
Now that my wanderer's in safety
at hame.
Music to me were the wildest winds'
roaring.
That e'er o'er Inch-Keith drove the
dark ocean faem.
When the lights they did blaze, and
the guns they did rattle.
And blithe was each heart for the
great victory.
In secret I wept for the dangers of
battle,
And thy glory itself was scarce
comfort to me.
But now shalt thou tell, while I
eagerly listen.
Of each bold adventure, and e\cry
brave scar ;
And trust me, I '11 smile, though m\-
een they may glisten ;
For sweet after danger's the talc
of the war.
And oh, how we doubt when there's
distance 'tween lovers,
When there 's naething to speak to
the heart thro' the ee ;
7o8
(yHt0ceffa«eou6 (poem©.
How often the kindest and wannest
prove rovers,
And the love of the faithfullcst ebbs
like the sea.
Till, at times — could I help it ? I pined
and I ponder'd,
If love could change notes like the
bird on the tree;
Now I '11 ne'er ask if thine ej-es may
hae wander'd,
Enough, thy leal heart has been
constant to me.
Welcome, from sweeping o'er sea
and through channel,
Hardships and danger despising for
fame,
Furnishing story for glory's bright
annal,
Welcome, my wanderer, to Jeanie
and hame !
Enough, now thy story in annals of
glory
Has humbled the pride of France,
Holland, and Spain ;
No more shalt thou grieve me, no
more shalt thou leave me,
I never will part with my Willie again.
HEALTH TO LORD MELVILLE.
(1806.)
Since here we are set in array round
the table,
Five hundred good fellows well met
in a hall,
Come listen, brave boys, and I '11 sing
as I 'm able
How innocence triumph'd and pride
got a fall.
But push round the claret —
Come, stewards, don't spare it —
With rapture you'll drink to the toast
that I give ;
Here, boys,
Off with it merrily —
Melville for ever, and long may he li\'e!
What were the Whigs doing, when
boldly pursuing,
Pitt banish'd Rebellion, gave
Treason a string ?
Wh}-, they swore on their honour,
for Arthur O'Connor,
And fought hard for Dcspard
against country and king.
Well, then, we knew boys,
Pitt and Melville were true boys,
And the tempest was raised by the
friends of Reform.
Ah, woe !
Weep to his memory ;
Low lies the pilot that weather'd the
storm !
And pray, don't you mind when the
Blues first were raising,
And we scarcely could think the
house safe o'er our heads ?
When villains and coxcombs, French
politics praising,
Drove peace from our tables and
sleep from our beds ?
Our hearts they grew bolder
When, musket on shoulder,
.Stepp'd forth our old Statesmen
example to give.
Come, boys, never fear,
Drink the Blue grenadier — ■
Here 's to old Harry, and long may he
live !
Thej' would turn us adrift; though
rely, sir, upon it —
Our own faithful chronicles warrant
us that
The free mountaineer and his bonny
blue bonnet
Have oft gone as far as the regular's
hat.
We laugh at their taunting,
For all we are wanting
Is licence our life for our country to give.
Off with it merrily.
Horse, foot, and artillery,
Eachloyal Volunteer, longmay he live !
QUt0ceffaneou6 (poewa.
709
'Tis not us alone, boys — the Army
and Navy
Have each got a slap 'mid their
politic pranks ;
Cornwallis cashier'd, that ^vatch'd
winters to save ye,
And the Cape call'd a bauble,
unworthy of thanks.
But vain is their taunt,
No soldier shall want
The thanks that his country to valour
can give :
Come, boj^s,
Drink it oft" merrily, —
Sir David and Popham, and long may
they live !
And then our revenue — Lord knows
how they view'd it.
While each petty statesman talk'd
lofty and big;
But the beer-tax was weak, as if
Whitbread had brew'd it,
And the pig-iron duty a shame to
a pig.
In vain is their vaunting,
Too surely there's wanting
"What judgment, experience, and
steadiness give :
Come, boys,
Drink about merrily,—
Health to sage Melville, and long may
he live !
Our King, too — our Princess — I dare
not say more, sir, —
Maj' Providence watch them with
mercy and might !
"While there's one Scottish hand that
can wag a claymore, sir,
They shall ne'er want a friend to
stand up for their right.
Be damn'd he that dare not, —
For my part, I '11 spare not
To beauty afflicted a tribute to
give :
Fill it up steadily.
Drink it off readily, —
Here's to the Princess, and long may
she live !
And since we must not set Auld
Reekie in glory,
And make her brown visage as
light as her heart ;
Till each man illumine his own upper
story,
Nor law-book nor lawyer shall force
us to part.
In Grenville and Spencer,
And some few good men, sir,
High talents we honour, slight dif-
ference forgive;
But the Brewer we'll hoax,
Tallyho to the Fox,
And drink Melville for ever, as long
as we live I
HUNTING SONG.
(1808.)
( This song appears in the Appendix io
the General Preface of Wavcrlcy, 1814.)
"Waken, lords and ladies gay,
On the mountain dawns the day,
All the jolly chase is here,
"With hawk, and horse, and hunting-
spear !
Hounds are in their couples yelling.
Hawks are whistling, horns are
knelling.
Merrily, merrily, mingle they,
' "Waken, lords and ladies gay.'
Waken, lords and ladies gay,
The mist has left the mountain grey,
Springlets in the dawn are steaming.
Diamonds on the brake are gleaming:
Qtlieceffrtncouo (jjocine.
And foresters have busj^ been,
To track the buck in thicket green ;
Now we come to chant our lay,
' Waken, lords and ladies gay.'
Waken, lords and ladies gay,
To the greenwood haste away ;
We can show you where he lies.
Fleet of foot, and tall of size ;
We can show the marks he made,
When 'gainst the oak his antlers fray'd;
You shall sec him brought to bay,
' Waken, lords and ladies gay.'
Louder, louder chant the laj'.
Waken, lords and ladies gay I
Tell them youth, and mirth, and glee.
Run a course as well as we ;
Time, stern huntsman 1 who can baulk.
Stanch as hound, and fleet as hawk :
Think of this, and rise with day.
Gentle lords and ladies gay.
THE RESOLVE,
(1 80S.)
(In iiuilation of an Old Englisli Poem.)
My wayward fate I needs must 'plain,
Though Isootless be the theme ;
I loved, and was beloved again.
Yet all was but a dream :
For, as her love was quickly got.
So it was quickly gone ;
No more Fll bask in flame so hot.
But coldly dwell alone.
Not maid more bright than maid was
e'er
M3' fancy shall beguile,
By flattering word, or feigned tear,
B3' gesture, look, or smile :
No more I'll call the shaft fair shot.
Till it has fairl3' flown.
Nor scorch me at a llame so hot ;
I "11 rather freeze alone.
Each ambush'd Cupid I'll defy.
In cheek, or chin, or brow,
And deem the glance of woman's eye
As weak as ^voman's vow :
I'll lightly hold the lady's heart,
That is but lightly won ;
ril steel my breast to beauty's art.
And learn to live alone.
The flaunting torch soon blazes out,
The diamond's ray abides ;
The flame its glory hurls about.
The gem its lustre hides :
Such gem I fondly deem'd was mine.
And glow'd a diamond stone.
But, since each eye may see it shine,
I'll darkling dwell alone.
No waking dream shall tinge my
thought
With dyes so bright and vain,
No silken net. so slightly wrought.
Shall tangle me again :
No more I'll pay so dear for wit,
I'll live upon mine own.
Nor shall wild passion trouble it,
I'll rather dwell alone.
And thus I'll hush my heart to rest—
' Thj' loving labour's lost ;
Thou shalt no more be wildly blest.
To be so strangel}' crost ;
The widow'd turtles mateless die,
The phcenix is but one ;
They seek no loves, no more will I —
I'll rather dwell alone.'
EPITAPH
For a utonmncnt in LiclifnJd Catln'dial ,
at lite hiivial-place of the family of
Miss Scivard.
(iSoS.)
Amid these aisles, where once his
precepts show'd
The Heavenward pathwa\- which in
life he trod,
QUteceffan^oue (poem©.
711
Tliis simple tablet marks a Father's
Chief, tli}^ wild tales, romantic
bier,
Caledon,
And those he loved in life, in death
Wake keen remembrance in each
are near ;
hardy son.
For him, for them, a Daughter bade
Whether on India's burning coasts
it rise.
he toil.
Memorial of domestic charities.
Or till Acadia's winter-fettcr'd soil.
Still wouldst thou know why o'er the
He hears with throbbing heart and
marble spread,
moisten'd ej'es,
In female grace the willow droops
And, as he hears, what dear illusions
her head ;
rise !
Why on her branches, silent and
It opens on his soul his native
unstrung.
dell.
The minstrel harp is emblematic hung;
The woods wild waving, and the
What poet's voice is smothcr'd here
water's swell ;
in dust
Tradition's theme, the tower that
Till waked to join the chorus of the
threats the plain.
just, —
The mossy cairn that hides the hero
Lo I one brief line an answer sad
slain ;
supplies,
The cot. beneath whose simple porch
Honour'd, beloved, and mourn'd. here
were told,
Seward lies;
llcr worth, her warmth of heart, let
By grey-hair'd patriarch, the tales of
old,
friendship say, —
Go seek her genius in her living lay.
The infant group, that hush'd their
sports the while,
And the dear maid who listcn'd with
^♦^^
a smile.
The wanderer, while the vision warms
PROLOGUE
To Miss Baillics Play of ' The Faiiii/v
his brain,
Is denizen of Scotland once again.
Legend J
Are such keen feelings to the crowd
(1809.)
'Tis sweet to hear expiring Summer's
confined,
And sleep they in the poet's gifted
mind ?
sigh,
Oh no ! For she, within whose
Through forests tinged with russet,
wail and die ;
mighty page
Each tjTant Passion shows his woe
'Tis sweet and sad the latest notes to
and rage,
hear
Has felt the wizard influence they
Of distant music, dying on the ear;
inspire,
But far more sadly sweet, on foreign
And to your own traditions tuned
strand,
her lyre.
We list the legends of our native land.
Yourselves shall judge : whoe'er has
Link'd as they come with every
raised the sail
tender tie,
By Mull's dark coast, has heard this
Memorials dear of youth and inlancy.
evening's tale.
•712
QUieceffantoue (poewa.
The plaided boatman, resting on his oar,
Points to the fatal rock amid the roar
Of whitening waves, and tells whate'er
to-night
Our humble stage shall offer to your
sight ;
Proudly preferr'd that first our efforts
give
Scenes glowing from her pen to
breathe and live ;
Jlore proudly j'et, should Caledon
approve
The filial token of a Daughter's love.
THE POACHER.
(1809.)
{Ill iiiiitalion of Crahhc.)
Welcome, grave stranger, to our green
retreats.
Where health with exercise and
freedom meets !
Thrice welcome, Sage, whose philo-
sophic plan
By nature's limits metes the rights of
man ;
Generous as he, who now for freedom
bawls,
Now gives full value for true Indian
shawls :
Ocr court, o'er customhouse, his shoe
who flings,
Now bilks excisemen, and now bullies
kings.
Like his, I ween, thy comprehensive
mind
Holds laws as mouse-traps baited for
mankind :
Thine e^'e, applausive, each slj' vermin
sees,
That baulks the snare, yet battens on
the cheese ;
Thine ear has heard, with scorn
instead of awe.
Our buckskinn'd justices expound the
law,
Wire-draw the acts that fix for wires
the pain.
And for the netted partridge noose
the swain ;
And thy vindictive arm would fain
have broke
The last light fetter of the feudal
yoke.
To give the denizens of wood and
wild,
Nature's free race, to each her free-
born child.
Hence hast thou mark'd, with grief,
fair London's race,
Mock'd with the boon of one poor
Easter chase,
And long'd to send them forth as free
as when
Pour'd o'er Chantilly the Parisian train.
When musket, pistol, blunderbuss,
combined.
And scarce the field-pieces were left
behind !
A squadron's charge each leveret's
heart dismayd.
On every covey fired a bold brigade ;
La Douce Hmttamtc approved the
sport,
For great the alarm indeed, yet small
the hurt ;
Shouts patriotic solemnized the da^',
And Seine re-echo'd Vive la Liberie!
But mad Citoyeii, meek Monsieur
again,
With some few added links resumes
his chain.
Then, since such scenes to France no
more are known.
Come, view with me a hero of thine
own !
One, whose free actions vindicate the
cause
Of silvan liberty o'er feudal laws.
(T)Xt0ceffaneou6 (j)oem6.
713
Seek we yon glades, where the
proud oak o'ertops
Wide-waving seas of birch and hazel
copse,
Leavingbetween deserted isles ofland,
Where stunted heath is patch'd with
ruddy sand ;
And lonely on the waste the yew is
seen,
Or straggling hollies spread a brighter
green.
Here, little worn, and winding dark
and steep.
Our scarce mark'd path descends yon
dingle deep :
Follow — butheedful, cautiousofatrip ;
In earthly mire philosophy may slip.
Step slow and wary o'er that swampy
stream.
Till, guided by the charcoal's smother-
ing steam.
We reach the frail yet barricaded door
Of hovel form'd for poorest of the
poor ;
No hearth the lire, no vent the smoke
receives,
The walls are wattles, and the cover-
ing leaves ;
For, if such hut, our foreststatutes say,
Rise in the progress of one night and
day,
(^Though placed where still the Con-
queror's bests o'erawe,
And his son's stirrup shines the badge
of law,)
Thebuilder claims the unenviable boon.
To tenant dwelling, framed as slight
and soon
As wigwam wild, that shrouds the
native frore
On the bleak coast of frost-barr'd
Labrador.
Approach, and through the un-
latticed window peep —
Nay, shrink not back, the inmate is
asleep ;
Sunk 'mid yon sordid blankets, till
the sun
Stoop to the west, the plunderer's
toils are done.
Loaded and primed, and prompt for
desperate hand,
Rifle and fowling-piece beside him
stand ;
While round thehutare in disorderlaid
The tools and booty ofhis lawless trade;
Forforce or fraud, resistance or escape.
The crow, the saw, the bludgeon, and
the crape.
His pilfer'd powder in 3'on nook he
hoards,
i\nd the filch'd lead the church's roof
affords
(Hence shall the rector's congregation
fret,
That while his sermon's dry his walls
are wet .
The fish-spear barb'd, the sweeping
net are there.
Doe-hides, and pheasant plumes, and
skins of hare,
Cordage for toils, and wiring for the
snare.
Barter'd for game from chase or
warren won,
Yon cask holds moonlight, run when
moon was none ;
And late-snatch'd spoils lie stow'd in
hutch apart,
To wait the associate higgler's evening
cart.
Look on his pallet foul, and mark
his rest :
What scenes perturb'd arc acting in
his breast !
His sable brow is wet and wrung
with pain,
y\nd his dilated nostril toils in vain ;
For short and scant the breath each
effort draws,
And 'twixt each effort Nature claims
a pause.
A as
M
(niteceffanecue (poeme.
Beyond the loose and sable neckcloth
stretch'd,
His sinewy throat seems by con-
vulsion twitch'd,
Wliile the tongue falters, as to utter-
ance loth,
Sounds of dire import — watchword,
threat, and oath.
Though, stupified by toil, and drugg'd
with gin,
The body sleep, the restless guest
WMthin
Now plies on wood and wold his
lawless trade.
Now in the fangs of justice wakes
dismay' d.
' Was that wild start of terror and
despair.
Those bursting eyeballs, and that
wilder'd air,
Signs of compunction for a murder'd
hare !
Do the locks bristle and the ej'ebrows
arch
For grouse or partridge massacred in
March?'
No, scofl'er, no ! Attend, and mark
with awe,
There is no wicket in the gate of law !
He that would e'er so lightly set ajar
That awful portal, must undo each bar:
Tempting occasion, habit, passion,
pride.
Will join to storm the breach, and
force the barrier wide.
That ruffian, whom true men avoid
and dread.
Whom bruisers, poachers, smugglers,
call Black Ned,
Was Edward Mansellonce, — thelight-
est heart
That ever play'd on holiday his part I
The leader he in every Christmas game,
The harvest-feast grew blither when
he came.
And liveliest on the chords the bow
did glance
When Edward named the tune and
led the dance.
Kind was his heart, his passions quick
and strong.
Heart}' his laugh, and jovial was his
song;
And if he loved a gun, his father swore,
' 'Twas but a trick of youth would
soon be o'er.
Himself had done the same some
thirty years before.'
But he whose humours spurn law's
awful yoke
Must herd with those by whom law's
bonds are broke :
The common dread of justice soon allies
The clown, who robs the warren, or
excise.
With sterner felons train'd to act
more dread,
Even with the wretch bj' whom his
fellow bled.
Then, as in plagues the foul conta-
gions pass.
Leavening and festering the corrupted
mass,
Guilt leagues with guilt, while mutual
motives draw,
Theirhope impunity, their fear the law;
Their foes, their friends, their rendez-
vous the same,
Till the revenue baulk'd, or pilfer'd
game.
Flesh the young culprit, and example
leads
To darker villany, and direr deeds.
Wild howl'd the wind the forest
glades along,
And oft the owl renew'd her dismal
song ;
Around the spot where erst he felt
the wound,
Red William's spectre walk'd his
midnight round.
Qllteceffaneoue (poems.
715
When o'er the swamp he cast his
blighting look,
From the green marshes of the stag-
nant brook
The bittern's sullen shout the sedges
shook 1
The waning moon, with storm-pre-
saging gleam,
Now gave and now withheld her
doubtful beam ;
'J"he old Oak stoop'd his arms, then
flung them high,
Bellowingandgroaning to the troubled
sky ;
'Twas then, that, couch'd amid the
brushwood sere,
In IMalwood-walk young Mansell
watch'd the deer :
Tlie fattest buck received his deadly
shot.
The watchful keeper heard, and sought
the spot.
Stout were their hearts, and stubborn
was their strife ;
O'erpower'd at length, the Outlaw
drew his knife.
Next morn a corpse was found upon
the fell—
The rest his waking agony may tell I
OH SAY NOT, MY LOVE.
(1810?)
(/;; imitation of Moore.')
Oh say not, my love, with that
mortified air,
That your spring-time of pleasure
is flown.
Nor bid me to maids that are younger
repair
For those raptures that still are
thine own.
Though April his temples maj' wreathe
with the vine,
Its tendrils in infanc}' curl'd,
'Tis the ardour of August matures us
the wine.
Whose lifeblood enlivens the world.
Though thy form, that was fashion'd
as light as a fay's.
Has assumed a proportion more
round,
And thj' glance, that was bright as
a falcon's at gaze.
Looks soberly now on the ground ;
Enough, after absence to meet me
again.
Thy steps still with ecstasy' move ;
Enough, that those dear sober glances
retain
For me the kind language of love.
THE BOLD DRAGOON.
(181 J.)
'Twas a Marechal of France, and he
fain would honour gain,
And he long'd to take a passing glance
at Portugal from Spain ;
With his flying guns, this gallant
gay.
And boasted corps d'armee —
O he fear'd not our dragoons, with
their long swords, boldlj' riding.
Whack, fal de ral, &:c.
To Campo Mayor come, he had quietly
sat down.
Just a fricassee to pick, while his
soldiers sack'd the town,
When, 'twas peste ! morbleu 1
mon General,
Hear the English bugle-call !
And behold the light dragoons, with
their long swords, boldlj-riding,
Whack, fal de ral, &c.
Aa5
7i6
(iUteccffancoue Q^oeme.
Right about went horse and toot,
artillery and all,
And, as the devil leaves a house, they
tumbled through the wall ;
They took no time to seek the door,
But, best foot set before —
O they ran from our dragoons, with
theirlong swords, boldly riding,
Whack, fal de ral, &c.
Those valiant men of France they had
scarcelj' fled a mile.
When on their flank there sous'd at
once the British rank and file ;
For Long, De Grey, and Otway,
then
Ne'er minded one to ten,
But came on like light dragoons, with
their long swords, boldly riding.
Whack, fai de ral, &c.
Three hundred British lads they made
three thousand reel.
Their hearts were made of English oak,
their swords of Sheffield steel.
Their horses were in Yorkshire
bred.
And Beresford them led ;
•So huzza for brave dragoons, with
theirlong swords, boldly riding,
Whack, fal de ral, &c.
Then here's a health to Wellington, to
Beresford, to Long,
And a singleword of Bonaparte before
I close my song :
The eagles that to fight he brings
Should serve his men with wings,
When they meet the bold dragoons,
with their long swords, boldly
riding.
Whack, fal de ral, &c.
ON THE MAS5ACRE OF GLENCOE.
{Pub. 1814.)
' O TELL me. Harper, wherefore flow
Thy wayward notes of wail and woe,
Far down the desert of Glencoe,
Where nonemaylisttheirmelody?
Say, harp'st thou to the mists that
Or to the dun-deer glancing by.
Or to the eagle, that from high
Screams chorus to thy min-
strels}'?'—
' No, not to these, for they have rest, —
The mist-wreath has the mountain-
crest.
The stag his lair, the erne her nest,
Abode of lone security.
j But those for whom I pour the lay,
Not wild-wood deep, nor mountain
grey.
Not this deep dell, that shrouds from
daj^.
Could screen from treach'rous
crueltj'.
' Their flag was furl'd, and mute their
drum,
The very household dogs were dumb,
Unwont to bay at guests that come
In guise of hospitality.
His blithest notes the piper plied.
Her gayest snood the maiden tied,
The dame her distaiY flung aside,
To tend her kindly housewifery.
'The hand that mingled in the meal
At midnight drew the felon steel.
And gave the host's kind breast to feel
Meed for his hospitality !
The friendly hearth which warm'd
that hand.
At midnight arm'd it with the brand,
That bade destruction's flames expand
Their red and fearful blazonry.
QTlteceffaneou0 (poewe.
717-
' Tlien woman's shriek was heard in
vain,
Nor infancy's nnpitied plain,
More than the warrior's groan, could
gain
Respite from ruthless butchery !
The winter wind that whistled shrill.
The snows that night that cloked the
hill,
Though wild and pitiless, had still
Farmore than Southern clemency.
' Long have my harp's best notes been
gone,
Few are its strings, and faint their tone,
They can but sound in desert lone
Their grey-hair'd master's misery.
Were each grey hair a minstrel string
Each chord should imprecations fling,
Till startled Scotland loud should ring,
" Revenge for blood and trea-
chery!'"
FOR A' THAT AN' A' THAT.
(1.S14.)
'A New Soiii^r to an Old Time.)
Though right be aft put down by
strength.
As mony a day wc saw that.
The true and leilfu' cause at length
Shall bear the grie for a' that.
For a' that an' a' that,
Guns, guillotines, and a' that,
The fleur-de-lis, that lost her right,
Is queen again for a' that !
"We '11 twine her in a friendly knot
With England's rose, and a' that ;
The shamrock shall not be forgot.
For Wellington made braw that.
The thistle, though her leaf be rude.
Yet faith we '11 no misca' that.
She shelter'd in her solitude
The llcur-de-lis, for a' that.
The Austrian vine, the Prussian pine
(^For Blucher's sake, hurra that\
The Spanish olive, too, shall join.
And bloom in peace for a' that.
Stout Russia's hemp, so surely twined,
Around our wreath we'll draw that,
And he that would the cord unbind
Shall have it for his gra-vat !
Or, if to choke sae puir a sot.
Your pity scorn to thraw that.
The devil's elbow be his lot
Where he may sit and claw that.
In spite of slight, in spite of might,
In spite of brags, an' a' tliat.
The lads that battled for the right
Have won the day, an' a' that !
There's ae bit spot I had forgot,
America they ca' that !
A coward plot her rats had got
Their father's flag to gnaw that :
Now see it fly top-gallant high,
Atlantic winds shall blaw that.
And Yankee loon, beware your croun.
There's kames in hand to claw that!
For on the land, or on the sea.
Where'er the breezes blaw that.
The British flag shall bear the grie,
And win the da}' for a' that !
SONG
FOR THE ANNIVERSARY MEETING OF
THE PITT CLUB OF SCOTLAND.
(1814.)
O, DREAD was the time, and more
dreadful the omen.
When the brave on Marengo lay
slaughter'd in vain,
And beholding broad Europe bow'd
down by her foemen,
Pitt closed in his anguish the map
of her reign !
7i8
()Ut0ceffaneou0 (poewo.
Not the fate of broad Europe could
bend his brave spirit
To take for his country the safet}' of
shame ;
O, then in her triumph remember his
merit,
And hallow the goblet that flows to
his name.
Round the husbandman's head, while
he traces the furrow,
The mists of the winter may mingle
with rain,
He may plough it with labour, and
sow it in sorrow.
And sigh while he fears he has
sow'd it in vain ;
He may die ere his children shall reap
in their gladness,
But the blithe harvest-home shall
remember his claim ;
And theirjubilee-shout shall be softcn'd
with sadness,
While they hallow the goblet that
flows to his name.
Though anxious and timeless his life
was expended,
In toils for our country preserved
by his care,
Though he died ere one ra}' o'er the
nations ascended,
To light the long darkness of doubt
and despair;
The storms he endured in our Britain's
December,
The perils his wisdom foresaw and
o'ercame,
In her glory's rich harvest shall
Britain remember.
And hallow the goblet that flows to
his name.
Nor forget His grey head, who, all
dark in affliction,
Is deaf to the tale of our victories
won,
And to sounds the most dear to
paternal affection.
The shout of his people applauding
his Son ;
By his firmness unmoved in success
and disaster,
Byhislongreign of virtue, remember
his claim !
With our tribute to Pitt join the praise
of his Master,
Though a tear stain the goblet that
flows to his name.
Yet again fill the wine-cup, and
change the sad measure.
The rites of our grief and our
gratitude paid.
To our Prince, to our Heroes, devote
the bright treasure,
The wisdom that plann'd, and the
zeal that obej''d.
Fill Wellington's cup till it beam like
his glory,
Forget not our own brave Dalhousio
and Graeme ;
A thousand years hence hearts shall
bound at their story.
And hallow the goblet that flows
to their fame.
PHAROS* LOQUITUR.
(1814.)
Far in the bosom of the deep.
O'er these wild shelves my watch
I keep ;
A ruddy gem of changeful light.
Bound on the dusky brow of night,
The seaman bids my lustre hail.
And scorns to strike his timorous sail.
(YlXteceffaneoue (poeme.
719
ADDRESS
TO RANALD MACDONALD OF STAFFA.
(1814)
Staffa, sprung from high Macdonald,
Worth}' branch of old Clan-Ranald,
Stafta, king of all kind fellows,
Well befall thy hills and valleys,
Lakes and inlets, deeps and shallows,
Cliffs of darkness, caves of wonder,
Echoing the Atlantic thunder ;
Mountains which the grey mist covers,
Where the Chieftain spirit hovers,
Pausing while his pinions quiver,
Stretch'd to quit our land for e\er I
Each kind influence reign above thee !
Warmer heart, 'twixt this and Jaffa
Beats not, than in heart of Staffa !
EPISTLE
TO HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF
BUCCLEUCH.
I.ii;litliouse Vacht in the Souiul of Ler«ick,
Au^'ust y, i8[4.
Health to the chieftain from his
clansman true !
From her true minstrel, health to fair
Buccleuch !
Health from the isles, where dewj-
Morning weaves
Her chaplct with the tints that Twi-
light leaves ;
Where late the sun scarce vanish'd
from the sight,
And his bright pathway graced the
short-lived night.
Though darker now as autumn's shades
extend,
The north winds whistle and the mists
ascend 1
Health from the land where eddying
whirlwinds toss
The storm-rock'd cradle of the Cape
of Noss ;
On outstretch'd cords the giddy engine
slides,
His own strong arm the bold adven-
turer guides,
And he that lists such desperate feat
to try,
May, like the sea-mew, skim 'twixt
surf and sky,
And feel the mid-air gales around him
blow,
And see the billows rage five hundret!
feet below.
Here, bj^ each stormy peak and
desert shore,
The hard\' islesman tugs the daring
oar.
Practised alike his venturous course
to keep
Through the white breakers or the
pathless deep.
By ceaseless peril and by toil to
gain
A wretched pittance from the niggard
main.
And when the worn-out drudge old
ocean leaves
What comfort greets him, and what
hut receives ?
Lad}- ! the worst your presence ere
has cheer'd
: When want and sorrow fled as a-ou
appear'd)
Were to a Zetlander as the high dome
Of proud Drumlanrig to my humble
home.
Here rise no groves, and here no
gardens blow,
Here even the hardy heath scarce
dares to grow ;
But rocks on rocks, in mist and storm
array'd,
Stretch fartoseatheir giant colonnade.
720
Qllieccffaneoue (poctne.
With many a cavern seam'd, the j
dreary haunt
Of the dun seal and swarthy cormo- |
rant.
Wild round their rifted brows, with
frequent cry
As of lament, the gulls and gannets
fly,
And from their sable base, with sullen
sound,
In sheets of whitening foam the waves
rebound.
Yet even these coasts a touch of
envy gain
From those whose land has known
oppression's chain ;
For here the industrious Dutchman
comes once more
To moor his fishing craft by Bressay's
shore ;
Greets every former mate and brother
tar.
Marvels how Lerwick 'scaped the rage
of war,
Tells many a tale of Gallic outrage
done.
And ends by blessing God and Wel-
lington.
Here too the Greenland tar, a fiercer
guest.
Claims a brief hour of riot, not of
rest ;
Proves each wild frolic that in wine
has birth.
And wakes the land with brawls and
boisterous mirth.
A sadder sight on yon poor vessel's
prow —
The captive Norseman sits in silent
woe,
And eyes the flags of Britain as they
flow.
Hard fate of war, which bade her ter-
rors swaj'
I lis destined course, and seize so mean
a prey;
A bark with planks so warp'd and
seams so riven.
She scarce might face the gentlest airs
of heaven :
Pensive he sits, and questions oft if
none
Can list his speech, and understand
his moan ;
In vain : no Islesman now can use the
tongue
Of the bold Norse, from whom their
lineage sprung.
Not thus of old the Norsemen hither
came.
Won by the love of danger or of fame ;
On every stormbeat cape a shapeless
tower
Tells of their wars, their conquests,
and their power ;
For ne'er for Grecia's vales, nor Latian
land,
Was fiercer strife than for this barren
strand ;
A race severe — the isle and ocean lords
Loved for its own delight the strife of
swords ;
With scornful laugh the mortal pang
defied,
And blest their gods that thej' in battle
died.
Such were the sires of Zetland's
simple race.
And still the eye may faint resemblance
trace
In the blue eye, tall form, proportion
fair,
The limbs athletic, and the long light
hair
(.Such was the mien, as Scald and Min-
strel sings,
Of fair-hair'd Harold, first of Norway's
Kings) ;
But, their high deeds to scale these
crags confined,
Their only warfare is v.ith waves and
wind.
()Ut0ceffaneou0 {potmtf.
721
Why should I talkol'Mousa'scastlcd
coast ?
Why of the horrors of the Sumburgh
Rost ?
Ma}' not these bald disjointed lines
suffice,
Penn"d while my comrades whirl the
rattling dice —
While down the cabin skylight lessen-
ing shine
The rays, and eve is chased with mirth
and wine ?
Imagined, while down Mousa's desert
bay
Our well-trimm'd vessel urged her
nimble 'way.
While to the freshening breeze she
lean'd her side.
And bade her bowsprit kiss the foamy
tide?
Such are the lays that Zetland Isles
supph' ;
Drench'd with the drizzly spraj' and
dropping sky,
Weary and wet, a sea-sick minstrel I.
W. Scott.
P. S.
Kirkwall. Orkney. .\ii£,'ust n. 1S14.
In respect that your Grace has com-
mission'd a Kraken,
You will please be inform'd that they
seldom are taken ;
It is January two years, the Zetland
folks say.
Since they saw the last Kraken in
Scalloway baj' ;
He lay in the offing a fortnight or
more.
But the devil a Zetlander put from the
shore,
Though bold in the seas of the North
to assail
The morse and the sea-horse, the
grampus and whale.
If your grace thinks I'm writing the
thing that is not.
You may ask at a namesake of ours,
Mr. Scott
(He's not from our clan, though his
merits deserve it.
But springs, I'm informed, from the
Scotts of Scotstarvet ;
He question'd the folks who beheld it
with eyes.
But they differ'd confoundedly as to
its size.
For instance, the modest and diffident
swore
That it seem'd like the keel of a ship,
and no more ;
Those of ej-esight more clear, or of
fancj^ more high,
Said it rose like an island 'twixt ocean
and sky ;
But all of the hulk had a steady opinion
That 'twas sure a live subject of Nep-
tune's dominion.
And I think, my Lord Duke, 3'our
Grace hardly would wish.
To cumber your house, such a kettle
of fish.
Had your order related to nightcaps
or hose.
Or mittens of worsted, there 's plent\'
of those.
Or would you be pleased but to fancy
a whale ?
And direct me to send it — by sea or
bj' mail ?
The season, I 'm told, is nigh over, but
still
I could get 3'ou one fit for the lake at
Bowhill.
Indeed, as to whales, tliere 's no need
to be thrifty.
Since one day last fortnight two
liundred and fift}'.
722
(TUieceffaneoue (poewe.
Pursued by seven Orkneymen's boats
and no more,
Betwixt Truffness and Lut^ness were
drawn on the shore I
You'll ask if I saw this same won-
derful sight ;
I own that I did not, but easily might —
For this mighty shoal of leviathans
lay
On our lee-beam a mile, in the loop
of the bay,
And the islesmen of Sanda were all
at the spoil,
And Jliiic/iiiig so term it the blubber
to boil ;
Ye spirits of lavender, drown the
reflection
That awakes at the thoughts of this
odorous dissection;.
To sec this huge marvel full fain would
we go.
But Wilson, the wind, and the current,
said no.
We have now got to Kirkwall, and
needs I must stare
When I think that in verse I have
once call'd \t/air;
"Tis a base little borough, both dirty
and mean.
There is nothing to hear, and there 's
nought to be seen,
Sa\'e a church, where, of old times, a
prelate harangued.
And a palace that 's built by an carl
that was hang'd.
But, farewell to Kirkwall — aboard we
are going.
The anchor "s a-peak, and the breezes
arc blowing;
Our commodore calls all his band to
their places.
And 'tis time to release you — good
night to vour Graces I
THE A. OF WA
Author of ]Vaverh'y.\
No, John, I will not own the book —
I won't, you Piccaroon.
When next I trj' Saint Grubby's brook,
' The A. of Wa— ' shall bait the hook—
And flat-fish bite as soon
As if before them they had got
The worn-out wriggler
Walter Scott.
FAREWELL TO MACKENZIE,
HIGH CHIEF OF KINTAIL.
(1815.)
{From the Gaelic.')
' Farewell to Mackenneth, great Earl
of the North,
The Lord of Lochcarron, Glenshiel,
and Seaforth ;
To the Chieftain this morning his
course who began,
Launching forth on the billows his
bark like a swan.
For a far foreign land he has hoisted
his sail.
Farewell to Mackenzie, High Chief
of Kintail !
O swift be the galley, and hardy her
ciew.
May her captain be skilful, her mari-
ners true.
In danger undaunted, unwearied bj'
toil.
Though the whirlwind should rise,
and the ocean should boil :
On the brave vessel's gunnel I drank
his bonaiP,
And farewell to Mackenzie, High
Chief of Kintail!
Qllteceffaneoue (poemo.
72;
Awake in thy chamber, thou sweet
southland gale I
Like the sighs of his people, breathe
soft on his sail ;
Be prolong'd as regret, that his vassals
must know.
Be fair as their faith, and sincere as
their woe :
Be so soft, and so fair, and so faithful,
sweet gale,
Wafting onward Mackenzie, High
Chief of Kintail !
Be his pilot experienced, and trusty,
and wise,
To measure the seas and to study
the skies :
May lie hoist all his canvas from
streamer to deck,
But O ! crowd it higher when wafting
him back —
TillthecliftsofSkooroora, andConan's
glad vale,
Shall welcome Mackenzie, High Chief
of Kintail!'
So sung the old Bard, in the grief
of his heart,
When he saw his loved Lord from
his people depart.
Now mute on thy mountains, O Albyn,
are heard
Nor the voice of the song, nor the
harp of the bard ;
Or its strings are but waked bj- the
stern winter gale,
As thej' mourn for Mackenzie, last Chief
of Kintail.
From the far Southland Border a
Minstrel came forth.
And he waited the hour that some
Bard of the north
His hand on the harp of the ancient
should cast,
And bid its wild numbers mix high
with the blast ;
But no bard was there left in the land
of the Gael
To lament for Mackenzie, last Chief
of Kintail.
And shalt thou then sleep, did the
Minstrel exclaim,
Like the son of the lowly, unnoticed
by fame 1
No, son of Fitzgerald I in accents of
woe
The song thou hast loved o'er th\-
coffin shall flow.
And teach thy wild mountains to join
in the wail
That laments for Mackenzie, last Chief
of Kintail.
In vain, the bright course of thy
talents to wrong.
Fate deaden'd thine ear and imprison'd
thy tongue ;
For brighter o'er all her obstructions
arose
The glow of the genius the}' could
not oppose ;
And who in the land of the Saxon or
Gael
Might match with Mackenzie, High
Chief of Kintail ?
Thj' sons rose around thee in light
and in love.
All a father could hope, all a friend
could approve ;
What 'vails it the tale of thy sorrows
to tell,—
In the spring-time of 3-outh and of
promise they fell !
Of the line of Fitzgerald remains
not a male
To bear the proud name of the Chief
of Kintail.
And thou, gentle Dame, who must
bear, to th}- grief,
Fi)r thy clan and thj' country the
cares of a Chief,
724
QUioceffaneoue (poeme.
Whom brief rolling moons in six
changes have left,
Of th}' hnsband, and father, and
brethren bereft,
To thine ear of atlection, how sad
is the hail.
That salutes thee the Heir of the
line of Kintail '
WAR-SONG OF LACHLAN.
HIGH CHIf:F OF MACLEAN,
(1815.-)
{From the Goelic.')
A WEARY month has wander'd o'er
Since last we parted on the shore ;
Heaven 1 that I saw thee, love, once
more.
Safe on that shore again !
'Twas valiant Lachlan gave the word —
Lachlan, of many a galley lord :
He call'd his kindred bands on board,
And laiinch'd them on the main.
Clan-Gillian is to ocean gone—
Clan-Gillian, fierce in foray known ;
Rejoicing in the glory won
In many a bloody broil :
For wide is heard the thundering fra_v,
The rout, the ruin, the disma}'.
When from the twilight glens away
Clan-Gillian drives the spoil.
Woe to the hills that shall rebound
Our banner'd bagpipes' maddening
sound ;
Clan-Gillian's onset echoing round
Shall shake their inmost cell.
Woe to the bark whose crew shall gaze
Where Lachlan's silken streamer plaj's!
The fools might face the lightning's
blaze
As wisely and as well !
SAINT CLOUD.
Paris, September ~y, 1815.)
.SoFTspreadthesouthern summer night
Her veil of darksome blue ;
Ten thousand stars combined to light
The terrace of Saint Cloud.
The evening breezes gently sigh'd,
Like breath of lover true.
Bewailing the deserted pride
And wreck of sweet Saint Cloud.
The drum's deep roll was heard afar,
The bugle wildly blew
Good-night to Hulan and Hussar,
That garrison .Saint Cloud.
The startled Naiads from the shade
With broken urns withdrew,
And silenced was that proud cascade,
The glory of Saint Cloud.
We sate upon its steps of stone,
Nor could its silence rue,
When waked, to music of our own.
The echoes of Saint Cloud.
Slow Seine might hear each lovely note
Fall light as summer dew.
While through the moonless air they
float.
Prolonged from fair Saint Cloud.
And sure a melody more sweet
His waters never knew,
Though music's self was wont to meet
With Princes at .Saint Cloud.
Nor then, with more delighted ear.
The circle round her drew.
Than ourSjWhengather'd round to hear
Our songstress at Saint Cloud.
Few happy hours poor mortals pass, —
Then give those hours their due,
And rank among the foremost class
Our evenings at Saint Cloud.
(lUteceffantouo {pctms.
THE DANCE OF DEATH.
(i8iS.)
NiGMT and morning were at meeting
Over Waterloo ;
CocivS had sung their earliest greeting ;
Faint and low they crew,
For no paly beam yet shone
On the heights of Mount Saint John ;
Tempest-clouds prolong'd the swaj*
Of timeless darkness over day ;
Whirlwind, thunder-clap, and shower,
Mark'd it a predestined hour.
Broad and frequent through the night
Flash'd the sheets of levin-light ;
Muskets, glancing lightnings back,
Show'd the dreary bivouac
Where the soldier lay.
Chill and stiff, and drench'd with
rain,
Wishing dawn of morn again.
Though death should come with day.
'Tis at such a tide and hour.
Wizard, witch, and fiend have power,
And gliastly forms through mist and
shower
Gleam on the gifted ken ;
And then the affrighted prophet's ear
Drinks whispers strange of fate and
fear,
Presaging death and ruin near
Among the sons of men ; —
Apart from Albyn's war-array,
'Twas then grey Allan sleepless lay ;
Grey Allan, who, for man}' a day,
Had follow'd stout and stern.
Where, through battle's rout and reel.
Storm of shot and hedge of steel.
Led the grandson of Lochiel,
Valiant Fassiefern.
Through steel and shot he leads no
more,
Low laid 'mid friends' and foemen's
gore-
But long his native lake's wild shore,
And Sunart rough, and high Ard-
gower,
And Morven long shall tell.
And proud Bennevis hear with awe,
How, upon bloodj' Quatre-Bras,
Brave Cameron heard the wild hurra
Of conquest as he fell.
Lone on the outskirts of the host
The wearj" sentinel held post,
And heard, through darkness far aloof,
The frequent clang of courser's hoof.
Where held the cloak'd patrol their
course,
And spurr'd 'gainst storm the swerv-
ing horse.
But there are sounds in Allan's ear
Patrol nor sentinel may hear.
And sights before his eye aghast
Invisible to them have pass'd,
When down the destined plain,
'Twixt Britain andthebandsofFrance,
Wild as marsh-borne meteor's glance,
Strange phantoms wheel'd a revel
dance,
And doom'd the future slain.
Such forms were seen, such sounds
were heard,
When Scotland's James his march
prepared
For Flodden's fatal plain ;
.Such, when he drew his ruthless sword.
As Choosers of the .Slain, adored
The yet unchristen'd Dane.
An indistinct and phantom band,
They wheel'd their ring-dance hand
in hand,
With gestures wild and dread :
The .Seer, who watch'd them ride
the storm,
Saw through their faint and shadowy
form
The lightning's flash more red ;
And still their ghastl}' roundelay'
Was of the coming battle-fray,
And of the destined dead :
■726
Qllteceffaneoue (poeme.
' Wheel the wild dance
While lightnings glance,
And thunders rattle loud,
And call the brave
To bloody grave,
To sleep without a shroud.
' Our air\' feet,
So light and fleet,
They do not bend the rye
That sinks its head when whirlwinds
rave,
And swells again in eddj'ing wave
As each wild gust blows by ;
But still the corn,
At dawn of morn,
Our fatal steps that bore,
At eve lies waste
A trampled paste
Of blackening mud and gore.
' Wheel the wild dance
While lightnings glance,
And thunders rattle loud,
And call the brave
To bloody grave,
To sleep without a shroud.
' Wheel the wild dance !
Brave sons of France,
For you our ring makes room ;
Make space full wide
For martial pride.
For banner, spear, and plume.
Approach, draw near.
Proud cuirassier I
Room for the men of steel !
Through crest and plate
The broadsword's weight
Both head and heart shall feel.
' Wheel the wild dance
While lightnings glance,
And thunders rattle loud.
And call the brave
To bloody grave.
To sleep without a shroud.
' .Sons of the spear !
You feel us near
In many a ghastly dream ;
With fancy's eye
Our forms you spy.
And hear our fatal scream.
With clearer sight
Ere falls the night,
Just when to weal or woe
Your disembodied souls take flight
On trembling wing — each startled
sprite
Our choir of death shall know.
' Wheel the wild dance
While lightnings glance.
And thunders rattle loud.
And call the brave
To bloody grave.
To sleep without a shroud.
' Burst, ye clouds, in tempest showers,
Redder rain shall soon be ours 1
See I the east grows wan —
Yield we place to sterner game,
Ere deadlier bolts and direr llame
Shall the welkin's thunders shame :
Elemental rage is tame
To the wrath of man.'
At morn, grey Allan's mates with
awe
Heard of the vision'd sights he saw,
The legend heard him say ;
But the Seer's gifted eye was dim,
Deafen'd his ear, and stark his limb.
Ere closed that bloody' day.
He sleeps far from his Highland
heath, —
But often of the Dance of Death
His comrades tell the tale.
On picquet-post, when ebbs the night.
And waning watch-fires glow less
bright,
And dawn is glimmering pale.
Qllteceffaneoue ^oeme.
727
ROMANCE OF DUNOIS.
(1815.)
{From the French of Hortciisc Bean-
harnois, Ex-Qucen of Holland.)
It was Diinois, the 3'oung and brave,
was bound for Palestine,
But first he made his orisons before
Saint Mary's shrine :
'And grant, immortal Queen of
Heaven,' was still the soldier's
prayer,
'That I may prove the bravest knight,
and love the fairest fair.'
His oath of honour on the shrine he
graved it with his sword,
And follow'd to the Holy Land the
banner of his Lord ;
Where, faithful to his noble vow, his
war-cry fill'd the air,
'Be honour'd aye the bravest knight,
beloved the fairest fair.'
Theyovved the conquesttohisarm.and
then his Liege-Lord said,
'The heart that has for honour beat
by bliss must be repaid.
My daughter Isabel and thou shall be
a wedded pair,
For thou art bravest of the brave, she
fairest of the fair.'
And then thej' bound the holy knot
before Saint Mary's shrine,
That makes a paradise on earth, if
hearts and hands combine ;
And every lord and lady bright, that
were in chapel there.
Cried,' Honour'd be the bravestknight,
beloved the fairest fair 1 "
THE TROUBADOUR.
(1815,)
{From /he French of Horiensc Beau-
harnois.'
Glowing with love, on fire for fame,
A Troubadour that hated sorrow,
Beneath his Lady's window came,
And thus he sung his last good-
morrow :
' My arm it is my countrj-'s right,
My heart is in my true-love's bower;
Gaily for love and fame to fight
Befits the gallant Troubadour.'
And while he march'd with helm on
head
And harp in hand, the descant rung,
As, faithful to his favourite maid.
The minstrel-burden still he sung:
' My arm it is my count: j-'s right.
My heart is in my lady's bower ;
Resolved for love and fame to fight,
I come, a gallant Troubadour.'
Even when the battle-roar was deep,
With dauntless heart he hew'd his
way,
'Mid splintering lance and falchion-
sweep,
And still was heard his warrior-lay:
'My life it is my countr^-'s right,
My heart is in my lady's bower;
For love to die, for fame to fight.
Becomes the \aliant Troubadour.'
Alas ! upon the bloody field
He fell beneath the foeman's glai\e.
But still reclining on his shield.
Expiring sung the exulting stave:
' M3- life it is mj^ country's right,
My heart is in my lad3''s bower ;
For love and fame to fall in fight
Becomes the valiant Troubadour.'
728
QUt6ceffancou0 (potme.
FROM THE FRENCH.
(■Si.v)
It chanced tliat Cupid on a season,
By Fancy urged, resolved to wed,
But could not settle whether Reason
Or Folly should partake his bed.
What does he then? — Upon my life,
'Twas bad example for a deity —
He takes me Reason for a wife,
And Folly for his hours of gaietj'.
Though thus he dealt in petty treason,
He loved them both in equal mea-
sure ;
Fidelity was born of Reason,
And Folly broughtto bed ofPlcasurc.
LINES
ON THE LIFTING OF THE B.\NNER OF THE
HOUSE OF BUCCLEUCH, AT A GREAT
FOOTBALL MATCH ON CARTERHAUGH.
(1815.)
From the brown crest of Newark its
summons extending,
Our signal is waving in smoke and
in flame ;
And each forester blithe, from his
mountain descending.
Bounds light o'er the heather to
join in the game.
CHORUS.
Then up with the Banner, let forest
winds fan her.
She has blazed over Ettrick eight
ages and more ;
In sport we '11 attend her, in battle
defend her.
With heart and with hand, like our
fathers before.
When the Southern invader spread
waste and disorder.
At the glance of her crescents he
paused and withdrew,
For around them were marshall'd the
pride of the Border,
The Flowers of the Forest, the
Bands of Buccleuch.
Then up with the Banner, &c.
A .Stripling's weak hand to our revel
has borne her,
No mail-glove has grasp'd her, no
spearmen surround ;
But ere a bold foeman should scathe
or should scorn her,
A thousand true hearts would Ise
cold on the ground.
Then up with the Banner, &c.
We forget each contention of civil
dissension.
And hail, like our brethren, Home,
Douglas, and Car:
And Elliot and Pringle in pastime
shall mingle.
As welcome in peace as their fathers
in war.
Then up with the Banner, iS:c.
Then strip, lads, and to it, though
sharp be the weather.
And if, by mischance, j-ou should
happen to fall.
There are worse things in life than
a tumble on heather.
And life is itself butagame at football.
Then up with the Banner, &c.
And when it is over, we'll drink a
blithe measure
To each Laird and each Lady that
witness'd our fun.
And to every blithe heart that took
part in our pleasure.
To the lads that have lost and the
lads that have won.
Then up with the Banner, &:c.
Q)lieceffancoue (poeme.
729
May the Forest still flourish, both
Borough and Landward,
From the hall of the Peer to the
Herd's ingle-nook ;
And huzza ! my brave hearts, for
Buccleuch and his standard,
For the King and the Country, the
Clan and the Duke 1
Then up with the Banner, let forest
winds fan her,
She has blazed over Ettrick eight
ages and more ;
In sport we'll attend her, in battle
defend her,
With heart and with hand, like our
fathers before.
LULLABY OF AN INFANT CHIEF.
(.1815.)
O HUSH thee, my babie, thy sire was
a knight,
Thy mother a lady, both lovely and
bright ;
The woods and the glens, from the
towers which we see,
They all are belonging, dear babie, to
thee.
O ho ro, i ri ri, cadul gu lo,
O ho ro, i ri ri, &c
O fear not the bugle, though loudly
it blows,
It calls but the warders that guard thy
repose ;
Their bows would be bended, their
blades would be red,
Ere the step of a foeman drew near
to thy bed.
O ho ro, i ri ri, &c.
O hush thee, my babie, the time soon
will come
When thy sleep shall be broken bj'
trumpet and drum ;
Then hush thee, mj' darling, take rest
while you maj'.
For strife comes with manhood, and
waking with da3'.
O ho ro, i ri ri, &c.
THE RETURN TO ULSTER
Once again, — but how changed since
my wand'rings began —
I have heard the deep voice of the
Lagan and Bann,
And the pines of Clanbrassil resound
to the roar
That wearies the echoes of fair Tulla-
morc.
Alas ! my poor bosom, and why
shouldst thou burn?
With the scenes of my youth can
its raptures return ?
Can I live the dear life of delusion again,
That fiow'd when these echoes first
mix'd with my strain ?
It was then that around me, though
poor and unknown.
High spells of mysteriousenchantmcnt
were thrown ;
The streams were of silver, of diamond
the dew,
The land was an Eden, for fancy was
new.
I had heard of our bards, and my soul
was on fire
At the rush of their verse, and the
sweep of their lyre:
To me 'twas not legend, nor tale to the
ear.
But a vision of noontide, distinguish'd
and clear.
ISO
QUteaffaneoue (j)oein6.
Ultonia's old heroes awoke at the call.
And renew'd the wild pomp of the
chase and the hall ;
And the standard of Fion flash'd fierce
from on high.
Like a burst of the sun when the
tempest is nigh.
It seem'd that the harp of green Erin
once more
Could renew all the glories she
boasted of yore.
Yet why at remembrance, tbnd heart,
shouldst thou burn ?
They were days of delusion, and
cannot return.
But was she, too, a phantom, the Maid
who stood b}'.
And listed mj' lay, while she turn'd
from mine eye?
Was she, too, a vision, just glancing to
view,
Then dispersed in the sunbeam, or
melted to dew ?
Oh ! would it had been so, — oh I
would that her eye
Had been but a star-glance that
shot through the sky.
And her voice, that was moulded to
melod3''s thrill,
Had been but a zephyr, that sigh'd
and was still 1
Oh I would it had been so, — not then
this jioor heart
Had karn'd the sad lesson, to love
and to part ;
To bear, unassisted, its burthen of care,
While I toil'd for the wealth I had no
one to share.
Not then had I said, when life's
summer was done,
And the hours of her autumn were
fast speeding on,
' Take the fame and the riches ye
brouglit in your train.
And restore me the dream of my
spring-tide again.'
JOCK OF HAZELDEAN.
(1816.)
' Why weep ye by the tide, ladie ?
Why weep ye by the tide ?
I '11 wed ye to my 3-oungest son,
And ye sail be his bride :
And ye sail be his bride, ladie,
Sae cornel}- to be seen ' —
But aj'e slie loot the tears down fa'
For lock of Hazeldean.*
' Now let this wilfu' grief be done,
And dry that cheek so pale ;
■^'oung Frank is chief of Errington,
And lord of Langlej'-dale ;
His step is first in peaceful ha',
His sword in battle keen ' —
But aj-e she loot the tears down fa'
For Jock of Hazcldean.
' A chain of gold yc sail not lack,
Nor braid to bind your hair ;
Nor mettled hound, nor managed
hawk,
Nor palfrej' fresh and fair ;
And you, the foremost o' them a',
Shall ride our forest queen '—
But aye she loot the tears down fa'
For Jock of Hazeldean.
The kirk was deck'd at morning-tide,
The tapers glimmer'd fair ;
The priest and bridegroom wait the
bride,
And dame and knight are there.
Thev sought her baith by bower and
ha';
The ladie was not seen !
She's o'er the Border, and awa'
Wi' Jock of Hazeldean.
Qllteceffan^oue QJoewe.
731
PIBROCH OF DONUIL DHU.
(1816.)
Pibroch of Donuil Dim,
Pibroch of Donuil,
Wake thy wild voice anew,
Summon Clan-Conuil.
Come away, come away,
Hark to the summons !
Come in your war array,
Gentles and commons.
Come from deep glen, and
From mountain so rock3%
The war-pipe and pennon
Are at Inverlochj'.
Come every hill-plaid, and
True heart that ^vea^s one.
Come every steel blade, and
Strong hand that bears one.
Leave untended the herd,
The flock without shelter ;
Leave the corpse uninterr'd.
The bride at the altar;
Leave the deer, leave the steer.
Leave nets and barges :
Come with your fighting gear.
Broadswords and targes.
Come as the winds come, when
Forests are rended,
Come as the waves come, when
Navies are stranded :
Faster come, faster come.
Faster and faster.
Chief, vassal, page and groom,
Tenant and master.
Fast thej' come, fast they come ;
See how they gather I
Wide waves the eagle plume.
Blended with heather.
Cast your plaids, draw your blades.
Forward, each man, set I
Pibroch of Donuil Dhu,
Knell for the onset 1
NORA'S VOW.
(i8i6.)
[From ilic Gaelic.)
Hear what Highland Nora said, —
'The Earlie's son I will not wed.
Should all the race of nature die.
And none be left but he and L
For all the gold, for all the gear.
And all the lands both far and near
That ever valour lost or won,
I would not wed the Earlie's son.'
'A maiden's vows,' old Callum spoke,
' Are lightly made and lightl3- broke ;
The heather on the mountain's height
Begins to bloom in purple light ;
The frost-wind soon shall sweep away
That lustre deep from glen and brae ;
Yet Nora, ere its bloom be gone,
May blithely wed the Earlie's son.'
' The swan,' she said, ' the lake's clear
breast
May barter for the eagle's nest ;
The Awe's fierce stream may back-
ward turn,
Ben-Cruaichan fall, and crush Kil-
churn ;
Our kilted clans, when blood is high,
Before their foes may turn and i\y ;
But I, were all these marvels done,
Would never wed the Earlie's son.'
Still in the water-lily's shade
Her wonted nest the wild-swan made ;
Ben-Cruaichan stands as fast as ever,
Still downward foams the Awe's fierce
river ;
To shun the clash of foenian's steel
No Highland brogue has turn'd the
heel ;
But Nora's heart is lost and won,
— She 's wedded to the Earlie's son !
732
(Jllieceffaneoue (poeme.
MACGREGOR'S GATHERING.
(.816.)
The moon's on the lake, and the mist's
on the brae,
And the Clan has a name that is
nameless bj- day ;
Then gather, gather, gather,
Grigalach !
Gather, gather, gather, &c.
Oursignallbr fight, that from monarchs
we drew,
I^Iust be heard but by night in our
vengeful haloo !
Then haloo, Grigalach ! haloo,
Grigalach I
Haloo.haloo,haloo, Grigalach , &c.
Glen Orchj-'s proud mountains, Coal-
chuirn and her towers,
Glenstrae and Glenlyon no longer
are ours ;
We *re landless, landless, landless,
Grigalach !
Landless, landless, landless, &c.
But doom'd and devoted by vassal and
lord,
MacGregor has still both his heart and
his sword !
Then courage, courage, courage,
Grigalach 1
Courage, courage, courage. Sec.
If the}' rob us of name, and pursue us
with beagles,
Give their roofs to the flame, and their
flesh to the eagles !
Then vengeance, vengeance,
vengeance, Grigalach !
Vengeance. vengeance, ven-
geance, &c.
While there 's leaves in the forest, and
foam on the river,
MacGregor, despite them, shall flour-
ish for ever !
Come then, Grigalach, come then,
Grigalach,
Come then, come then, come
then, &c.
Through the depths of Loch Katrine
the steed shall career.
O'er the peak of Ben-Lomond the
galley shall steer.
And the rocks of Craig-Royston like
icicles melt.
Ere our wrongs be forgot, or our
vengeance unfelt !
Then gather, gather, gather,
Grigalach !
Gather, gather, gather, &c.
VERSES
ON THE OCCASION OF A BANQUET GIVEN
BY THE CITY OF EDINBURGH TO THE
GRAND-DUKE NICHOLAS OF RUSSIA
AND HIS SUITE, DEC. I9, 1816.)
God protect brave Alexander,
Heaven defend the noble Czar,
Mighty Russia's high Commander,
First in Europe's banded war ;
For the realms he did deliver
From the t^'rant overthrown.
Thou, of every good the Giver,
Grant him long to bless his own I
Bless him, 'mid his land's disaster,
For her rights who battled brave ;
Of the land offoemen master.
Bless him who their wrongs forgave.
O'er his just resentment victor,
Victor over Europe's foes.
Late and long supreme director.
Grant in peace his reign may close.
Hail! then, hail 1 illustriousstranger ;
Welcome to our mountain strand ;
Mutual interests, hopes, and danger.
Link us with thy native land.
(yiltoeeffaneoue (poeme.
Freemen's force, or false beguiling,
Shall that union ne'er divide.
Hand in hand while peace is smiling,
And in battle side by side.
THE SEARCH AFTER HAPPINESS ;
OR THE QUEST OF SULTAUN SOI.IMAUN.
(i8i7-)
(In iini/atio>t of Byivn.)
I.
Oh for a glance of that gaj' Muse's
eye
That lighten'd on Bandello's laugh-
ing talc,
And twinkled with a lustre shrewd
and sly
When Giam Battista ' bade her vision
hail !—
Yet fear not, ladies, the »(7i'w detail
Given by the natives of that land
canorous;
Italian license loves to leap the pale,
We Britons have the fear of shame
before us.
And, if not wise in mirth, at least must
be decorous.
II.
In the far eastern clime, no great
while since,
Lived Sultaun Solimaun, a mighty
prince.
Whose eyes, as oft as they perform'd
their round.
Beheld all others fix'd upon the ground;
Whose cars received thesame unvaried
phrase,
' Sultaun ! thy vassal hears, and he
obeys 1 '
All have their tastes — this may the
fancy strike
Of such grave folks as pomp and
grandeur like ;
1 The hint of this tale is taken from /.<i Cn»i!scia
J\/,it'ia7. a novel of Giam Battista Casti.
For me, I love the honest heart and
warm
Of Monarch who can amble round his
farm.
Or, when the toil of state no more
annoys,
In chimney corner seek domestic
joys.
I love a prince will bid the bottle pass.
Exchanging with his subjects glance
and glass ;
In fitting time, can, gayest of the gay,
Keep up the jest, and mingle in the
lay.
Such Monarchs best oiu- free-born
humours suit.
But Despots must be stately, stern,
and mute.
This Solimaun, Serendibhadinsway —
And where 's Serend/ib ? may some
critic say.
Good lack, mine honest friend, consult
the chart,
Scare not m\' Pegasus before I start !
IfRennell has it not, you '11 find, maj^-
hap,
The isle laid down in Captain Sind-
bad's map, —
Famed mariner ! whose merciless nar-
rations
Drove every friend and kinsman out
of patience,
Till, fain to find a guest who thought
them shorter,
He deign'd to tell them over to a
porter :
The last edition see, bj' Long, and Co.,
Recs, Hurst, and Ornic, our fathers
in the Row.
Serendib found, deem not my tale
a fiction —
This Sultaun, whether lacking con-
tradiction—
734
(Yllteccffaneoue (pHmtf.
A sort of stimulant which hath its uses,
To raise the spirits and reform the
juices, —
Sovereign specific for all sorts of cures
In my wife's practice, and perhaps in
yours, )
The Sultaun lacking this same whole-
some bitter.
Or cordial smooth for prince's palate
fitter—
Or if some Mollah had hag-rid liis
dreams
With Degial, Ginnistan, and such wild
themes
Belonging to the Mollah's subtle craft,
I wot not — but the Sultaun never
laugh'd.
Scarce ate or drank, and took a
melancholy
That scorn'd all remedy— profane or
holy ;
In his long list of melancholies, mad.
Or mazed, or dumb, hath Burton none
so bad ^.
Physicians soon arri\od, sage, ware,
and tried,
As e'er scrawl'd jargon in a darken'd
room ;
With heedful glance the Sultaun's
tongue they eyed,
Peep'd in his bath, and God knows
where beside.
And then in solemn accent spoke
their doom,
' His majesty is very far from well.'
Then each to work with his specific
fell:
The Hakim Ibrahim htstattter brought
His unguent Mahazzim al Zcrdukkaut,
While Roompot, a practitioner more
\x'\\y,
Relied on his Munaskif al fiUfily-.
1 See Burton's ' Anatomy of Melancholy."
2 For these hard words see D'llerbelot, or the
lrarnei.1 editor of the ' Recipes of Avicenna.'
More and yet more in deep array
appear.
And some the front assail, and some
the rear ;
Their remedies to reinforce and varj-
Camesurgeoneke,andekeapothecary ;
Till the tired Monarch, though of
words grown chary.
Yet dropt, to recompense their fruit-
less labour,
Somehintaboutabowstring or a sabre.
There lack'd, I promise you, no longer
speeches
To rid the palace of those learned
leeches.
Then was the council call'd : bj- their
advice
(They deem'd the matter ticklish all,
and nice,
And sought to shift it ofl" from their
own shoulders)
Tartars and couriers in all speed were
sent
To call a sort of Eastern Parliament
Of feudatory chieftains and free-
holders :
Such have the Persians at this very
day,
My gallant Malcolm calls them cott-
ronltar ;
I'm not prepared to show in this slight
song
That to Serendib the same forms
belong, —
E'en let the learn'd go search, and tell
me if I 'm wrong.
The Omrahs*, each with hantl on
scymitar,
Gave, like Sempronius, still their voice
for war —
■** Sec Sir John Malcolm's admirable History of
4 Nobility.
QUteteffftneoue (poetne.
1^r^
'The sabre of the Sultaun in its sheath
Too long has slept, nor own'd the
work of death ;
LettheTanibourgibid his signal rattle,
Bang the loud gong, and raise the
shout of battle !
This drearj' cloud that dims our sover-
eign's day
Shall from his kindled bosom flit away.
When the bold Lootie wheels his
courser round,
And the arm"d elephant shall shake
the ground.
Each noble pants to own the glorious
summons ;
And for the charges — lo! your faith-
ful Commons !'
The Riots who attended in their places
(Serendib language calls a farmer
Riot^
Lookd ruefully in one anotlicr's faces,
From this oration auguring much
disquiet,
])ouble assessment, forage, and free
quarters ;
And, fearing these as Chinamen the
Tartars,
Or as the whisker'd vermin fear the
mousers,
]"ach fumbled in the pocket of his
trousers.
VIII.
And next came forth the re\ercnd
Convocation,
Bald heads, white beards, and many
a turban green,
Imaum and Mollah there of every
station,
Santon, Fakir, and Calendar were
seen.
Their votes were various: some ad-
vised a Mosque
With fitting revenues should be
erected,
With seemly gardens and with gay
Kiosque,
To recreate a band of priests selected ;
Others opined that through the realms
a dole
Be made to holy men, whose praj-ers
might profit
The Sultaun's weal in bodj' and in
soul.
But their long-headed chief, the
Sheik Ul-Sofit,
Morecloselytouch'd the point : — 'Tlij'
studious mood,'
Quoth he, 'O Prince! hath thickenM
all thy blood,
And duH'd thy brain with labour
beyond measure ;
Wherefore relax a space and take thy
pleasure.
And toy with beauty, or tell o'er thy
treasure;
From all the cares of state, m}' I.iege,
enlarge thee,
And leave the burden to thy i'aithful
clergy.'
These counsels sage availed not a
whit,
And so the patient (as is not un-
common
Where grave physicians lose theii-
time and wit)
Resolved to take advice of an old
woman ;
His mother she, a dame who once
was beauteous,
And still was called so by each subject
duteous.
Now, whether Fatima was witch in
earnest.
Or only made believe, I cannot
say;
But she profess'd to cure disease the
sternest
By dint of magic amulet or lay ;
And, when all other skill in vain was
shown.
She deem'd it fitting time to use her
own.
736
(Yllieeeffaneoue (poeme.
'Syntpathia inagica halh wonders
done'
(Thus did old Fatima bespeak her son) ,
' It worksuponthefibresand the pores,
And thus, insensibly, our health re-
stores,
And it must help us here. Thou must
endure
The ill, my son, or travel for the cure.
Search land and sea, and get, where'er
you can,
The inmost vesture of a happy man,—
I mean his s///>/, my son ; which, taken
warm
And fresh from off his back, shall chase
your harm,
Bid every current ofyourveinsrejoice,
And your dull heart leap light as
shepherd-boy's.'
Such was the counsel from his mother
came ; —
I know not if she had some under-game,
As Doctors have, who bid their
patients roam
And live abroad, when sure to die at
home ;
Or if she thought, that, somehow or
another,
Queen-Regent sounded better than
Queen-Mother;
But, says the Chronicle vwho will, go
look it").
That such was her ad vice. The Sultaun
took it.
XI.
All are on board— the Sultaun and his
train,
In gilded galley prompt to plough the
main.
The old Rais' was the first who
questioned, 'Whither?'
They paused : ' Arabia,' thought the
pensive Prince,
'Was call'd The Happy many ages
since —
For Mokha, Rais.' And they came
safely thither.
But not in Araby, with all her balm.
Not where Judea weeps beneath her
palm,
Not in rich Eg>-pt, not in Nubian
waste.
Could there the step of happiness be
traced.
One Copt alone profess'd to have seen
her smile.
When Bruce his goblet fill'd at infant
Nile:
j She bless'd the dauntless traveller as
he quaff'd,
But vanish'd from him with the ended
draught.
I Master of the vessel.
' Enough of turbans,' said the weary
King.
' These dolimans of ours are not the
thing ;
Try we the Giaours, these men of
coat and cap, I
Incline to think some of them must be
happy ;
At least, they have as fair a cause as
any can.
They drink good wine and keep no
Ramazan.
Then northward, hoi' The vessel
cuts the sea,
And fair Italia lies upon her lee.
But fair Italia, she who once unfurl'd
Her eagle banners o'er a conquer'd
world.
Long from her throne of domination
tumbled,
Lay, by her quondam vassals, sorely
humbled ;
The Pope himself look'd pensive, pale,
and lean,
And was not half the man he once had
been.
(yilt6ceffatt«ou0 (pcent0.
737
' While these the priest and those the , A loud voice mustered up, for • I'ivele
noble fleeces,
Roir
Our poor old boot',' thc3' said, 'is torn ! Then whisper'd, ''Ave youany news
to pieces.
of Nappy ?'
Its tops - the vengeful claws of Austria | The Sultaun answer'd him with a cross
question, — •
' Pray, can 3-ou tell me aught of
one John Bull,
That dwells somewhere beyond
3'our herring-pool ?'
Tlie query seem'd of difficult digestion,
The party shrugg'd, and grinn'd, and
took his snuff.
And found his whole good-breeding
scarce enough.
feel,
And the Great Devil is rending toe
and heel ^.
If happiness 3'ou seek, to tell you
truly,
We think she dwells with one Giovanni
Bulli;
A tramontane, a heretic, — the buck,
Poffaredio ! still has all the luck ;
By land or ocerm never strikes his
flag—
And then — a perfect walking moncv-
bag.'
Offset our Prince to seek John Bull's
abode,
But first took France — it lay upon the
road.
Twitching his visage into as manj'
puckers
As damsels wont to put into their
tuckers
(Ere liberal Fashion damn'd both lace
and lawn,
^"'" Andbadethe veilofmodestybedrawn).
Monsieur Baboon, after much late I Replied the Frenchman, after a brief
commotion,
Was agitated like a settling ocean,
Quite out of sorts, and could not tell
what ail'd him.
pause,
Jean Bool I — I vas not know him —
Yes, I vas —
I vas remember dat, von 3'ear or two.
Only the glory of his house had fail'd i I sawhimatvonplacecall'd Vaterloo-
him ;
RIa foi ! il s'est tres joliment battu.
Besides, some tumours on his noddle 1 Dat is for Englishman,— m'entendez-
biding.
Gave indication of a recent hiding *.
Our Prince, though Sultauns of such
things are heedless,
Thought it a thing indelicate and need-
less ^
To ask, if at that moment he was
happy.
And Monsieur, seeing that he was
comme ilfaitt,
' The well-known resemblance of Italy in the map.
2 Florence. \'enice, c^c.
VOUS ?
But den he had wit him one damn son-
gun,
Rogue I no like — de}' call him Vel-
j lington.'
I Monsieur's politeness could not hide
j his fret,
\ .So Solimaun took leave, and cross'd
j the strait.
John Bull was in his very worst of
moods.
The Calabrias, infested by bands of assassins. , .
of the leaders was called Fra 'Siavolo, 1 e. | RaVUlg of Sterile tamiS and Unsold
l:r..ther Devil.
1 Ur drubbing ; so called in the .Slang Dictionary,
goods;
Bb
738
(yUteaffaneoue (poewe.
His sugar-loaves and bales about lie
threw,
And on his counter beat the devil's
tattoo.
His wars were ended, and the victory
won,
But then, 'twas reckoning-day with
honest John ;
And authors vouch, 'twas still this
Worth3''s way,
' Never to grumble till he came to
pay;
And then he always thinks, his tem-
per's such.
The work too little, and the pa^' too
much\'
Yet, grumbler as he is, so kind and
hearty.
That when his mortal foe was on the
floor.
And past the power to harm his quiet
more,
Poor John had wellnigh wept for
Bonaparte !
Such was the wight whom Soliniaun
salaam'd, —
'And who are you,' John answer'd,
' and be d — d?'
XVI.
' A stranger, come to sec the happiest
man —
So, signior, all avouch— in Fran-
gistan".'
' Happy? my tenants breaking on my
hand ;
Unstock'd my pastures, and untill'd
my land ;
Sugar and rum a drug, and mice and
moths
The sole consumers of my good broad-
cloths—
Happy? — Why, cursed war and
racking tax
Have left us scarcely raiment to our
backs.'
1 See 'The True Born Hiitrlklunau,' by Daniel I)e
Foe. 2 Europe.
' In that case, signior, I ma\- take my
leave ;
I came to ask a favour — but I grieve ' —
' P'avour ? ' said John, and eyed the
Sultaun hard,
' It 's my belief V'ou come to break the
yard ! —
But, stay, you look like some poor
foreign sinner, —
Take that to buy yourself a shirt and
dinner.'
With that he chuck'd a guinea at
his head ;
But, with due dignity, the Sultaun said,
' Permit me, sir, j'our bounty to decline ;
A s/i/V;' indeed I seek, but none of thine.
Signior, I kiss your hands, so fare
you well."
' Kiss and be d — d,' quoth John, ' and
go to hell ! ■
xvir.
Next door to John there dwelt his
sister Peg,
Once a wild lass as ever shook a leg
When the blithe bagpipe blew — but,
soberer now.
She doiicflv span her llax and milk'd
her cow.
And whereas erst she was a necd3'
slattern,
Nor now of wealth or cleanliness a
pattern.
Yet once a month her house was
partly swept,
And once a week a plenteous board
she kept.
And whereas, eke, the vixen used her
claws
And teeth, of yore, on slender
provocation.
She now was grown amenable to laws,
A quiet soul as an_v in the nation ;
The sole remembrance of her warlike
joys
Was in old songs she sang to please
her boys.
QlXieaffaneoue (poems.
739
John Bull, whom, in their years of
early strife,
She wont to lead a cat-and-cioggish
life,
Now fonnd the woman, as he said,
a neighbour.
Who look'd to the main cliance,
declined no labour,
Loved a long grace, and spoke a
northern jargon.
And was d — d close in making of a
bargain.
XVIH.
The .Sultaun enter'd. and he made his
leg,
And with decorum ciirtsey'd sister Peg
(She loved a book, and knew a thing
or two.
And guess'd at once with whom she
had to do .
Slic bade him ' Sit into the fire,' and
took
Her dram, her cake, her kebbuck from
the nook ;
AskVl him ' about the news from
Eastern parts ;
And of her absent bairns, puir
Highland hearts !
If peace brought down the price of
tea and pepper,
And if the tiitiiitigs w^ere grown oiiv
cheaper ; —
Were there nae sperniig;^ of our
Mungo Park—
"N'l- '11 be the gentleman that wants
the sark ?
If ye wad buj- a web o' auld wife's
spinnin",
I "11 warrant ye it "s a weel-wearing
linen ! '
Then up got Peg, and round the
house 'gan scuttle
In search of goods her customer
to nail,
Until the Sultaun strain'd his princely
throttle,
And hollo'd, ' Ma'am, that is not
what I ail.
Pray, are you happy, ma'am, in this
snug glen ? '
' Happj' ? ' said Peg ; ' what for d 'ye
want to ken ?
Resides, just think \ipon this bygane
3-ear,
Grain wadna pay the yoking of the
pleugh.'
'What say you to the present?'
' Meal 's sae dear,
To mak' their brose my bairns have
scarce aneugh.'
• The devil take the shirt," said
Solimaun,
' I think my quest will end as it
began.
Farewell, ma'am ; nay, no ceremony,
I beg.'
' Ye 'II no be for the linen then ? ' saiil
Peg.
Now for the land of verdant Erin
The .Sultaun's royal bark is steering,
The Emerald Isle, where honest
Paddy dwells.
The cousin of John Bull, as story tells.
For a long space had John, ^vith
words of thunder,
Hard looks, and harder knocks, kept
Paddy under.
Till the poor lad, like boy that 's flogg'd
undul}-.
Had gotten somewhat restive and
unruly.
Hard was his lot and lodging, you '11
allow,
A wigwam that would hardly serve
a sow ; y
His landlord, an of middle-men two
brace, \
Had screw'd his rent up to the
starving-place ;
Bb 2
740
Qfllteceffaneoue (poeme.
His garment was a top-coat, and an
old one,
His meal was a potato, and a cold
one ;
But still for fun or frolic, and all that,
In the round world was not the
match of Pat.
The Sultaun saw him on a holiday.
Which is with Paddy still a jolly day ;
When mass is ended, and his load of
sins
Confess'd, and Mother Church hath
from her binns
Dealt forth a bonus of imputed merit,
Then is Pat's time for fancy, whim,
and spirit !
To jest, to sing, to caper fair and free.
And <1ance as light as leaf upon the
tree.
'By Mahomet,' said Sultaun Soli-
maun,
' That ragged fellow is our very man I
Rush in and seize him — do not do
him hurt.
But, will he nill he, let me have
his 5//;^/.' —
Shilala their plan was welluigh after
baulking
(Much less provocation will set it
a-walking\
But the odds that foil'd Hercules
foil'd Paddy Whack ;
They seized, and the\' floor'd, and
they stripp'd him — Alack 1
Up-bubboo ! Paddy had not a shirt
to his back !
And the King, disappointed, with
sorrow and shame,
Went back to Serendib as sad as he
came.
MR. KEMBLE'S FAREWELL
ADDRESS
ON TAKIXCi LKAVE OF TUF EDINBURGH
STAGE.
(1817.)
As the worn war-horse, at the
trumpet's sound.
Erects his mane, and neighs, and paws
the ground —
Disdains the ease his generous lord
assigns,
And longs to rush on the embattled
lines,
So 1, 3'our plaudits ringing on mine ear,
Can scarce sustain to think our parting
near ;
To think mj' scenic hour for ever past,
And that these valued plaudits are
my last.
Why should we part, while still some
powers remain,
That in your service strive not yet
in vain ?
Cannot high zeal the strength of
youth supph'.
And sense of duty fire the fading eye;
And all the wrongs of age remain
subdued
Beneath the burningglow of gratitude ?
Ah, no ! the taper, wearing to its close.
Oft for a space in fitful lustre glows ;
But all too soon the transient gleam is
past.
It cannot be renevv'd, and will not last ;
Even duty, zeal, and gratitude, can
wage
But short-lived conflict with the frosts
of age.
Yes! It were poor, remembering what
I was,
To live a pensioner on your applause,
To drain the dregs of j'our endurance
dry,
And take, as alms, the praise I once
could buv:
QUt0ceffaneou0 (poem©.
741
Till every sneering 3'outh around
inquires,
' Is this the man who once could
please our sires ? '
And scorn assumes compassion's
doubtful mien
To warn me ofl' from the cncumber'd
scene.
Tiiis must not be; — and higher duties
crave
Some space between llic theatre and
the grave,
That, like the Roman in the Capitol,
I may adjust my mantle ere I fall:
My life's brief act in public service
flown,
The last, the closing scene, must be
my own.
Here, then, adieu I while yet some
well-graced parts
May fix an ancient favourite in your
hearts.
Not quite to be forgotten, even when
You look on better actors, younger
men :
And if 3'our bosoms own this kindly
debt
Of old remembrance, how shall mine
forget—
O, how forget I— how oft I hither came
In anxious hope. !iow oft return'd
with fame !
How oft around your circle this weak
hand
Has waved immortal Shakespeare's
magic wand
Till the full burst of inspiration came.
And I have felt, and you have fann'd
the ilame I
By mem'r^' treasured, while her reign
endures,
Those hours must live — and all their
charms are yours.
O la\'our'd Land 1 rcnown'd for
arts and arms.
For manly talent and for female charms.
Could this full bosom prompt the
sinking line.
What fervent benedictions now were
thine 1
But my last part is play'd, my knell is
rung,
When e'en your praise falls faltering
from my tongue ;
And all that 3'ou can hear, or I can
tell.
Is — Friends and Patrons, hail, and
F.\KK YOU WELL.
LINES
WRITTEN P^OR .MISS SMITH.
(1.S17.)
When the lone pilgrim \'iews afar
The shrine that is his guiding star,
With awe his footsteps print the road
Which the loved saint ofyorc has trod.
As near he draws, and yet more near,
His dim eye sparkles with a tear;
The Gothic fane's unwonted show.
The choral hymn, the tapers' glow.
Oppress his soul ; while they delight
And chasten rapture with afTright.
No longer dare he think his toil
Can merit aught his patron's smile ;
Too light appears the distant wa^-,
The chilly eve, the sultry day —
All these endured no fav-our claim,
But murmuringforththe sainted name.
He lays his little offering down,
And only deprecates a frown.
We too, who ply the Thespian art.
Oft feel such bodings of the heart.
And, when our utmost powers arc
strain'd.
Dare hardly hope your favour gain'd.
.She, who from sister climes has sought
The ancier.t land where Wallace
fought —
74-
QUt0ceffcineou6 (poeme.
Land long renown'd for arms and arts,
And conquering eyes and dauntless
hearts —
She, as the flutterings here avow,
Feels all the pilgrim's terrors iioiv;
Yet sure on Caledonian plain
The stranger never sued in vain.
'Tis j'ours the hospitable task
To give the applause she dare not ask ;
And they who bid the pilgrim speed.
The pilgrim's blessing be their meed.
THE DREARY CHANGE.
0«i7-)
T}iE sun upon the Weirdlaw Hill,
In Ettrick's vale, is sinking sweet;
The westland wind is hush and still,
The lake lies sleeping at my feet.
Yet not the landscape to mine eye
Bears those bright hues that once
it bore ;
Though evening, with her richest dye,
Flames o'er the hills of Ettrick's
shore.
With listless look along the plain,
I see Tweed's silver current glide,
And coldly mark the holy fane
Of Melrose rise in ruin'd pride.
The quiet lake, the balmy air,
The hill, the stream, the tower,
the tree, —
Are they still such as once they were ?
Or is the dreary change in me ?
Alas, the warp'd and broken board,
Mow can it bear the painter's dye I
riie harpof strain'dandtuneless chord.
How to the minstrel's skill reply I
To aching eyes each landscape lowers.
To feverish pulse each gale blows
chill ;
And Araby's or Eden's bowers
Were barren as this moorland hill.
MARCH OF THE MONKS OF
BANGOR.
(1817.')
When the heathen trumpet's clang
Round beleaguer'd Chester rang.
Veiled nun and friar grey
March'd from Bangor's fair Abbaye ;
High their hol3' anthem sounds,
Cestria's vale the hymn rebounds,
Floating down the silvan Dee,
O iiiiserere. Domhic '.
On the long procession goes,
Glory round their crosses glows,
y\nd the Virgin-mother mild
In their peaceful banner smiled ;
Who could think such saintly band
Doom'd to feel unhallow'd hand •
.Such was the Divine decree,
O nn'seirir, Doitiiiicl
Bands that masses only sung,
Hands that censers only swung.
Met the northern bow and bill,
Heard the war-cry wild and shrill:
Woe to Brockmael's feeble hand,
Woe to Olfrid's bloody brand,
Woe to Saxon cruelt\-,
O iiitscirir, Dointuc !
Weltering amid warriors slain.
•Spurn'd by steeds with bloody mane,
\ Slaughter'd down by heathen blade,
! Bangor's peaceful monks are laid :
Word of parting rest unspoke,
Mass unsung, and bread unbroke ;
For their souls for charitj^.
Sing, ittii:cirri', Dotnttte!
Bangor! o'er the murder wail I
Long thy ruins told the tale,
Shatter'd towers and broken arch
Long recall'd the woful march :
On thy shrine no tapers burn.
Never shall thj- priests return ;
The pilgrim sighs and sings for thee,
O ntisererc, Doniinel
QUi0ceffrtneou6 (potme.
141
EPISTLE
TO JUS GRACE THE DUKE OF BUCCLEUCU,
AT DRUMLANRIG CASTLE.
Sanquhar, 2 o'clock, July ^.j. 1817.
From Ross, where the clouds on
Benlomond are sleeping —
From Greenock, where Clyde to the
Ocean is sweeping —
From Largs, where the Scots gave
the Northmen a drilling —
From Ardrossan, whose harbour cost
many a shilling — •
From Old Cumnock, where beds arc
as hard as a plank, sir —
From a chop and green pease, and
a chicken in Sanquhar,
This eve, please the Fates, at Drum-
lanrig we anchor.
Walter Scott.
EPILOGUE TO 'THE APPEAL.'
(^Spoken by Mrs. Heiuy Siddous.
Feb. 16, 1818.)
A cat of yore or else old .i^isop
lied)
Was changed into a fair and blooming
bride.
But spied a mouse upon her marriage-
day.
Forgot her spouse, and seized upon
her prey ;
Even thus my bridegroom lawyer, as
you saw,
1 hrew ofl'poor me, and pounced upon
papa.
His neck from Hymen's mystic knot
made loose,
He twisted round my sire's the literal
noose.
Such are the fruits of our dramatic
labour
Since the New Jail became our next-
door neighbour.
Yes, times are changed ; for, in
your fathers' age.
The lawyers were the patrons of the
stage ;
However high advanced by future fate,
There stands the bench [points to the
Pit] that first received their
weight.
The future legal sage, 'twas ours to
see.
Doom though unwigg'd, and plead
without a fee.
But now, astounding each poor
mimic elf,
Instead of lawyers comes the law
herself ;
Tremendous neighbour, on our right
she dwells.
Builds high her towers and excavates
her cells ;
While on the left she agitates the
town.
With the tempestuous question. Up
or down •
'Twixt Scylla and Charybdis thus
stand we,
Law's final end, and law's uncertainty.
But, soft ! who lives at Rome the Pope
must flatter,
And jails and lawsuits are no jesting
matter.
Then — just farewell I We wait with
serious awe
Till your applause or censure gives
the law.
Trusting our humble efforts may
assure 3'e,
Wc hold yijn Court and Counsel,
Judge and Jury.
744
QlUeccifaneoue {potme.
MACKRIMMON'S LAMENT.
U8i8.)
MacLeod's wizard flag from the grey
castle sallies,
The rowers are seated, unmoor'd are
the galley's ;
Gleam war-axe and broadsword, clang
target and quiver,
As Mackrimmon sings, ' Farewell to
Dunvegan for ever !
Farewell to each clift", on which
breakers are foaming ;
Farewell, each dark glen, in which
red-deer are roaming ;
Farewell, lonely Skye, to lake, moun-
tain, and river ;
Macleod may return, but Mackrimmon
shall never !
' Farewell the bright clouds that on
Quillan are sleeping ;
Farewell the bright eyes in the Dun
that are weeping;
Jo each minstrel delusion, farewell
and for ever !
Mackrimmon departs, to return to
you never !
Tlie Banshee's wild \oice sings the
death-dirge before me,
The ]jall of the dead for a mantle
hangs o'er me ;
But my heart shall not Hag, and my
nerves shall not shiver.
Though devoted I go — to return again
never !
' Too oft shall the notes ol' Mack-
rimmon's bewailing
Be heard when the Gael on their
exile arc sailing ;
Dear land ! to the shores, whence
unwilling we sever,
Return — return — return shall we !
never !
Cha till, cha till, cha till sin tuille!
Cha till, cha till, cha till sin tuille,
Cha till, cha till, cha till sin tuille,
Gea thillis Macleod, cha till Mack-
rimmon ! '
DONALD CAIRD'S COME AGAIN.
(iSlS.)
DoxAi.D Caird's come again I
Donald Caird 's come again !
Tell the news in brugh and glen,
Donald Caird 's come again !
Donald Caird can lilt and sing,
Blithely dance the Hieland fling.
Drink till the gudeman be blind,
Fleech till the gudewife be kind ;
Hoop a leglin, clout a pan.
Or crack a pow wi' ony man ; —
Tell the news in brugh and glen,
Donald Caird 's come again.
Donald Caird "s come again !
Donald Caird 's come again !
Tell the news in brugh and glen,
Donald Caird 's come again.
Donald Caird can wn-e a maukin,
Kens the wiles o' dun-deer staukin'.
Leisters kipper, makes a shift
To shoot a muir-fowl in the drift;
Water-bailiffs, rangers, keepers, —
He can wauk when they are sleepers ;
Not for bountith or rewaird
Dare ye mell wi' Donald Caird.
Donald Caird 's come again I
Donald Caird "s come again!
Gar the bagpipes hum amain,
Donald Caird's come again.
Donald Caird can drink a gill
Fast as hostler-wife can fdl ;
likattue that sells gudc liquor
Kens how Donald bends a bicker;
(rtlieceffaneoue (poeme.
74c
When he 's fou lie 's stout and saucy,
Keeps the cantle o' the causey ;
Hieland chief and Lawland laird
Maun gie room to Donald Caird !
Donald Caird "s come again !
Donald Caird "s come again !
Tell the news in brugh and glen,
Donald Caird 's come again.
Steele the amric, lock the kist.
Else some gear may weel be mis't ;
Donald Caird finds orra things
Where Allan Gregor fand the tings' ;
Dunts of kebbuck, taits o' woo,
Whiles a hen and whiles a sow,
Webs or duds frae hedge or yaird —
'Ware the wuddie -, Donald Caird !
Donald Caird 's come again !
Donald Caird 's come again I
Dinna let the Shirra ken
Donald Caird "s come again.
On Donald Caird the doom was stern,
Craig to tether, legs to airn ;
But Donald Caird, wi' mickle study.
Caught the gift to cheat the wuddie ;
Rings of airn, and bolts of steel,
Fell like ice frae hand and heel !
Watch the sheep in fauld and glen,
Donald Caird 's come again I
Donald Caird 's come again !
Donald Caird 's come again !
Dinna let the Justice ken,
Donald Cai^rd 's come again.
EPITAPH ON MRS. ERSKINE.
(1819.)
Plain, as her native dignity of mind,
Arise the tomb of her we have resign' d ;
Unflaw'd and stainless be the marble
scroll,
lunblem of lovely form and candid
soul.
[ 1 At the fireside. J
[2 Hangman's rope.]
But, oh ! what symbol may avail to tell
The kindness, wit, and sense, we
loved so well !
What sculpture show the broken ties
of life,
Here buried with the parent, friend,
and wife !
Or on the tablet stamp each title dear,
By which thine urn, Euphejiia, claims
the tear !
Yet taught, by thy meek sufferance,
to assume
Patience in anguish, hope beyond the
tomb,
Resign'd, though sad, this votive verse
shall How,
And brief, alas I as thy brief span below.
LIFE IN THE FOREST.
Ox Ettrick Forest's mountains dun
'Tis blithe to hear the sportsman's gun.
And seek the heath-frequenting brood
Far through the noonday solitude ;
By many a cairn and trenched mound,
Where chiefs of yore sleep lone and
sound,
And springs, where grey-liair'd shejj-
herds tell.
That still the fairies love to dwell.
Along the silver streams of Tweed
'Tis blithe the mimic fly to lead,
When to the hook the salmon springs.
And the line whistles through the rings;
The boiling eddy see him try.
Then dashing from the current high,
Till watchful eye and cautious hand
Have led his wasted strength to land.
'Tis blithe along the midnight tide
With stalwart arm the boat to guide ;
On high the dazzling blaze to rear.
And heedful plunge the barbed spear;
B b 3
746
Qllteceffaneoue (poeme.
Rock, wood, and scaur, emerging
bright.
Fling on the stream their ruddy Hght,
And from the bank our band appears
Like Genii, arm'd with fiery spears.
"Tis blithe at eve to tell the tale.
How we succeed, and how we fail,
Whether at Alwyn's lordly meal.
Or lowlier board of Ashestiel ;
While the gay tapers cheerly shine,
Bickers the fire, and flows the wine-
Days free from thought, and nights
from care.
My blessing on the Forest fair !
FAREWELL TO THE MUSE.
(l8-'.>.)
Enchantress, farewell, wdio so oft
has decoy'd me.
At the close of the evening through
woodlands to roam,
Where the forester, 'latcd, with
wonder espied me
Explore the wild scenes he was
quitting for home.
Farewell, and take with thee thy
numbers wild speaking
The language alternate of rapture
and woe :
Oh ! none but some lover, whose
heartstrings are breaking.
The pang that I feel at our parting
can know.
Each joy thou couldst double, and
when there came sorrow.
Or pale disappointment to darken
my way,
What voice was like thine, that could
sing of to-morrow.
Till forgot in the strain was the
urief of to-day I
But when friends drop around us in
life's weary waning.
The grief. Queen of Numbers, thou
canst not assuage ;
Nor the gradual estrangement of those
yet remaining.
The languor of pain, and the chill-
ness of age.
'Twas thou that once taught me, in
accents bewailing.
To sing how a warrior' lay stretch'd
on the plain.
And a maiden hung o'er him with aid
unavailing.
And held to his lips the cold goblet
in vain ;
As vain thy enchantments, O Queen
of wild Numbers,
To a bard when the reign of his
fancy is o'er,
And the quick pulse of feeling in
apathy slumbers —
Farewell, then, Enchantress I I meet
thee no more I
THE MAID OF ISLA.
(lS-'2.)
On, Maid of Isla, from the clifT
That looks on troubled wave and sky,
Dost thou not see yon little skiff
Contend with ocean gallantly ?
Now beating 'gainst the breeze and
surge.
And steep'd her leeward deck in
foam,
Why does she war unequal urge ? —
Oh, Isla's maid, she seeks her home.
Oh, Isla's maid, yon sea-bird mark.
Her white wing gleams through
mist and spray,
Against the storm-cloud, lowering
dark.
As to the rock she wheels away;—
[ 1 Marniion.J
Qllteceffaneoue (poewe.
74:
Where clouds are dark and billows
rave,
Why to the shelter should she come
Of clifif, exposed to wind and wave? —
Oh, maid of Isla, 'tis her home I
As breeze and tide to yonder skifl".
Thou'rt adverse to the suit I bring.
And cold as is yon wintry clift'.
Where sea-birds close their wearied
wing.
Yet cold as rock, unkind as wa\e.
Still, Isla's maid, to thee I come;
For in thy love, or in his grave,
Must Allan Vourich find his home.
CARLE, NOW THE KING'S COME;
UEINC; NEW WOKI'S 10 AX AUKD
SPRING.
^On the occasion of George ll"s visit
to Scotland . August, 1822.
Till: news has llown frac mouth to
mouth.
The North for ance has bang'd the
South ;
Tlie deil a .Scotsman's die o' drouth.
Carle, now the Iving's come 1
CHORUS.
Carle, now the ICing's come I
Carle, now the King's come 1
Thou slialt dance, and I will sing,
Carle, now the King's come I
Auld England held him lang and fast;
And Ireland had ajoj'fu' cast;
But Scotland's turn is come at last —
Carle, now the King 's come I
Auld Reekie, in her rokelay grey.
Thought never to hav-e seen the day ;
He 's been a weary time away —
But, Carle, now the Kin£;"s come I
She's skirling frae the Castle-hill;
The Carline's voice is grown sae shrill
Ye '11 hear her at the Canon-mill —
Carle, now the King's come !
'Up, bairns 1' she cries, "baitli^grit and
sma'.
And busk j-e for the weapon-shaw !
Stand by me, and we '11 bang them a' —
Carle, now the King 's come I
'Come from Newbattle's ancient spires,
Bauld Lothian, with your knights and
squires.
And match the mettle of 3-our sires — ■
Carle, now the King's come !
' You "re welcome hanie. my Montagu ' I
Bring in \'our hand the young Buc-
cleuch ;
I'm missing some that I may rue--
Carle, now the King's come!
'Come, Haddington -.the kind and gay.
You've graced my causeway monj' a
day ;
I '11 w eepthe cause if you should stay — •
Carle, now the King's come I
'Come, premier Duke ^, and carry doun
Frae yonder craig his ancient croun ;
It 's had a lang sleep and a soun' —
But, Carle, now the King's come!
'Come, Athole, from tlic hill and
wood.
Bring down your clansmen like a chid;
Come, Morton, show the Douglas'
blood, —
Carle, now- the King 's come !
1 T.ord Montagu, uncle and guardian to the young
Duke of liuccleucli. placed his Grace's residence of
1 >alkeitli at his M,ajesty's disposal during his visit to
Scotland.
2 Charles, the tenth Earl of Haddington, died in i8-.-8.
''• 'rile Duke of Hamilton, as Harl of Angus, carried
the .nicient royal crown of Scotland on horseliack in
Kni'.^ George's procession, from Holyrood to the
Castle.
B b 5
V48
(yiU6«Waneou6 (poeme.
• Come, Tweeddale, true as sword to
sheath ;
Come, Hopetoun, fear'd on fields of
death ;
Come, Clerk', and g^ive your bugle
breath ;
Carle, now the King's come I
'Come, Wemyss, who modest merit
aids ;
Come, Rosebery, from Dalmeny
shades ;
Breadalbane, bring your belted plaids;
Carle, now the King's come I
'Come, stately Niddric, auld and true,
Girt with thesword that Minden knew;
We have o'er few such lairds as 3'ou —
Carle, now the King's come!
* King Arthur's grown a common crier.
He 's heard in Fife and far Cantire, —
" Fie, lads, behold my crest of fire !"
Carle, now the King's come I
' Saint Abb roars out, " I see him pass,
Between Tantallon and the Bass ! '"
Calton, get out your keeking-glass —
Carle, now the King's come I"
The Carline stopp'd ; and, sure I am.
For very glee had ta'en a dwam.
But Oman - help'd her to a dram. —
Cogie, now the King 's come I
Cogie, no^v the King 's come !
Cogie, now the King's come!
I'se be fou' and ye's be toom,
Cogie, now the King's come I
Part Second.
A H.AWicK gill of mountain dew,
Heised up Auld Reekie's heart, I trow.
It minded her of Waterloo —
Carle, now the King's come !
1 (-lerk of Pennycnik, bound by his tenure, when
the King came to lidinburRli. to receive him at the
Harestone with three blasts on .1 Iiorn.
- Landlord of tlie Waterloo Hotel.
Again I heard her summons swell,
For, sic a dirdum and a yell.
It drown'd Saint Giles's jowing bell —
Carle, now the King 's come !
• My trusty Provost, tried and tight,
•Stand forward for the Good Town's
right,
There's waur than you been made a
knight —
Carle, now the King's come I
' My reverend Clergy, look ye say
The best of thanksgivings ye ha'e,
And warstle for a sunny day —
Carle, now the King 's come !
' My Doctors, look that you agree,
Cure a' the town without a fee ;
M3' Lawyers, dinna pike a plea--
Carle, now the King 's come !
' Come forth each sturd\' Burgher's
bairn.
That dints on wood or clanks on aim,
That fires the o'en, or winds the pirn —
Carle, now the King's come !
'Come forward with the Blanket Blue ',
Your sires were loj-al men and true,
As Scotland's foemen oft" might rue —
Carle, now the King's come!
'Scots downa loup, and rin, and rave,
We 're steady folks and something
grave.
We '11 keep the causeway firm and
brave —
Carle, now the King's come!
' Sir Thomas ■*, thunder from your rock,
Till Pentland dinnles wi' the shock,
And lace wi' fire my snood o' smoke —
Carle, now the King's come!
3 The lilue Blanket is the standard of the incor-
porated trades of H <lin!)ur({h.
< Sir Thomas liradfurd. then commander of the
forces in Scotland.
QUteceffon^ous (poime.
749
' Melville, bring out your bands of blue,
A* Louden lads, baith stout and true.
With Elcho, Hope, and Cockburn
too '—
Carle, now the King's come I
'And 3'ou, who on yon bluidy braes
Compell'd the vanquish'd Despot's
praise.
Rank out — rank nut — my gallant
Greys- —
Carle, now the King 's come I
'Cock o" the North, my Huntly braw,
Where are you with the Forty-twa^?
Ah! wae's my heart that ye 're awa' —
Carle, now the King's come I
'But yonder come my cant}' Celts,
With dark and pistols at their belts,
Thank God, we've still some plaids
and kilts —
Carle, now the King's come I
•Lord, how the pibrochs groan and
yell :
Macdonnell's* ta'en the field himsell,
Macleod comes branking o'er the fell —
Carle, now the King's come I
' Bend up your bow each Archer spark,
For you 're to guard him light and
dark;
Faith, lads, for ance ye've hit the
mark —
Carle, now the King's cornel
Young Errol', take the sword of state,
The sceptre, Panie-Morarchate*;
1 I.ord Melville was Colonel of the Mid-l.othian
Yeomanry Cavalr\- ; Sir lohn Hope of Pinkie. Major ;
and Robert Cockburn, Hsq., and Lord Elcho, were
captains in the same corps.
- The Scots Greys, under General Sir James Stewart
of Coltness, were on duty at Edinburgh during the
King's visit, Bonaparte's exclamation at Waterloo
was, ' Ces beaux chevaux gris. comme ils travaiUent I
» .Marquis of Huntly, Colonel of the 42nd Regiment.
4 Colonel Ron.aldson Macdonnell of Glengarry.
3 The Earl of Errol is hereditary Lord High-
Constable of Scotland.
6 A corruption of the Gaelic Bii>iit7>tho>ar-Ch,xt.
or the Great Lady (literally Fe»ia/e Lord of th-;
Chctttt); the Celtictitleof the Countess of Sutherland.
Knight Mareschal, see ye clear the
gate —
Carle, now the King's come !
' Kind cummer, Leith, ye "ve been
mis-set.
But dinna be upon the fret
Ye'se hae the handsel of him \-et,
Carle, now the King's come!
'My daughters, come with een sae
blue.
Your garlands weave, your blossoms
strew ;
He ne'er saw fairer flowers than you —
Carle, now the King's come !
' What shall we do for the propine —
We used to offer something fine.
But ne'er a groat's in pouch of mine — ■
Carle, now the King's come \
' Deil care — for that I'se never start.
We'll welcome him with Highland
heart;
Whate'er we have he 's get a part —
Carle, now the King's come 1
'I'll show him mason-work this day —
Nane of your bricks of Babel clay,
But towers shall stand till Time 's
away —
Carle, now the King's come !
• I '11 show him wit, I '11 show him lair,
And gallant lads and lasses fair.
And what wad kind heart wish for
mair ?
Carle, now the King's come!
'Step out, Sir John \ of projects rife,
Come win the thanks of an auld wife,
And bring him health and length of
life-
Carle, now the King's come !'
[1 Sir John Sinclair,' patron andprojectorof nationnl
and patriotic plans,' says Lockhart.]
75°
(T)li6C<^f fane OU0 {potme.
ONE VOLUME MORE.
(JFn't/rii/or flie Bnuiiafyiie Chib.)
Assist me, j'c friends of Old Rooks
and Old Wine.
To sing in the praises of sage Ran-
natjme,
Who left such a treasure of old
Scottish lore
As enables each age to print one
volume more.
One volume more, mj- friends,
one volume more.
We'll ransack old Rannj' for one
volume more.
And first, Allan Ramsay was eager
to glean
From Rannatyne's IIo)tiis his bright
Evergreen ;
Two light little volumes (intended for
four)
Still leave us the task to print one
volume more.
One volume more, &c.
His ways were not ours, for he cared
not a pin
How much he left out, or how much
he put in ;
The truth of the reading he thought
was a bore,
So this accm-ate age calls for one
volume more.
One volume more, &c.
Correct and sagacious, then came my
Lord Hailes,
And weigh'd every letter in critical
scales,
I)Ut left out some brief words, which
the prudish abhor,
And castrated Ranny in one volume
more.
One volume more, mj' friends,
one volume more ;
We '11 restore Rann3'"s manhood
in one volume more.
John Pinkerton next, and I'm truly
concern'd
I can't call that worthy so candid as
learn'd ;
He rail'd at the plaid and blasphemed
the claymore.
And set Scots by the cars in his one
volume more.
One volume more, my friends,
one volume more,
Celt and Goth shall be pleased
with one volume more.
Asbitter asgall , and as sharp as a razor.
And feeding on herbs as a Nebu-
chadnezzar,
His diet too acid, his temper too sour.
Little Ritson came out with his two
volumes more.
Rut one volume, my friends, o)ic
volume more,
We'll dine on roast-bccf and print
one volume more.
The stout Gothic 3'editur', next on the
roll.
With his beard like a brush and as
black as a coal,
And honest Greysteel'^ that was true to
the core,
Lent their hearts and their hands each
to one volume more.
One volume more, &c.
Since by these single champions what
wonders were done.
What may not be achieved by our
Thirty and One?
Law. Gospel, and Commerce we
count in our corps,
y\nd the Trade and the Press join for
one volume more.
One volume more, &c.
I lames Sibb.ild. - IJavid Herd.
Qllieceffanijoue (poeme.
751
Ancient libels and contraband books,
I assure 3'e.
Wc '11 print as secure from Exchequer
or Jury ;
Then hear your Committee and let
them count o'er
The Chiels they intend in their
three volumes more.
Three volumes more, Src.
They "11 produce your King Jamie, the
sapient and Sext,
And the Bob of Dumblanc and her
Bishops come next;
One tome miscellaneous they'll add to
your store.
Resolving next year to print four
volumes more.
Four volumes more, my friends,
four volumes more ;
Pay down your subscriptions for
four volumes more.
EPISTLE
TO HIS SON-IN-LAW, JOPIN GIBSON I.OCK-
HART, ON THK COMPOSITION OF
MAIDa's EPITAPH.
(1824-)
* Maidae mannorea dermis sub imagine Maida I
Ad januam domini sit tibi terra levis.'
' Dear John, — I some time ago wrote
to inform his
Fat worship o{ Jaccs, misprinted for
doriiiis ;
But that several Southrons assured
me the janiiam
Was a twitch to both ears of Ass
Priscian's cranium.
You, perhaps, may observe that one
Lionel Berguer,
In defence of our blunder appears
a stout arguer :
But at length I have settled, I hope,
all these clatters,
By a 7-oivt in the papers — fine place
for such matters.
I have, therefore, to make it for once
mj' command, sir,
That my gudeson shall leave the
whole thing in my hand, sir,
And by no means accomplish what
James says you threaten,
Some banter in Blackwood ' to claim
j-our dog-Latin.
I have various reasons of weight,
on my word, sir.
For pronouncing a step of this sort
were absurd, sir.
Firstly, erudite sir, 'twas against
j'our advising
I adopted the lines this monstrosity
lies in ;
For you modestly hinted m_v English
translation
Would become better far such a
dignified station.
Second — how, in God's name, would
my bacon be saved.
By not having writ what I clearly
engraved ?
On the contrary, I, on the whole,
think it better
To be whipped as the thief, than his
lousy resetter.
Thirdly — don't 3'ou perceive that I
don't care a boddle
Although fifty false metres were flung
at mj' noddle.
For my back is as broad and as hard
as Benlomon"s,
And I treat as I please both the
Greeks and the Romans ;
Whereas the said heathens might
rather look serious
At a kick on their drum from the
scribe of Valerius '-.
And, fourthly and lastly — it is my
good pleasure
To remain the sole source of that
murderous measure.
1 Blackwood's Magazine. - Lockhart's nuvel.
75^
(nXieceffaneoue (poente.
So stct pro ratioiievohm/as — he tractile,
Invade not, I saj', my own dear little
dactyl ;
If you do, you'll occasion a breach
in our intercourse.
To-morrow will see me in town for
the winter-course.
But not at your door, at the usual
hour, sir,
M_v own pj'e-house (pious!) daughter's
good prog to devour, sir.
Ergo — peace ! — on your dutj'. your
squeamishness throttle.
And we 'II soothe Priscian's spleen
with a canny third bottle.
A fig for all dactyls, a fig for all
spondees,
A fig for all dunces and dominie
Grundys ;
A fig for dry thrapples, south, north,
east, and west, sir,
Spcafes and ja.xes^ ere five for a
famishing guest, sir ;
And as Fatsman *' and I have some
topics for haver, he 'II
Re invited, I hope, to meet me and
Dame Peveril,
Hpon whom, to 533' nothing of Dury
and Anne, you a
Dog shall be deemed if you fasten
yowr janua.
LINES
ADDRESSED TO MONSIEUR ALEXANDRE,
THE CELEBRATED VENTRILOQUIST.
(1824.)
Of 3'ore, in old England, it was not
thought good
To carry two visages under one hood ;
What should folk say to you ? who
have faces such plenty,
That, from under one hood, last
night show'd us twenty !
Spits ,ind ranges.
2 James Ballantyne.
Stand forth, arch deceiver, and tell us
in truth,
Are j'ou handsome or ugly, in age
or in youth ?
Man, woman, or child — a dog or
a mouse ?
Or are 3'ou, at once, each live thing
in the house ?
Each li\'e thing, did I ask ? — each dead
implement, too,
A workshop in your person, — saw,
chisel, and screw !
Above all, are you one individual ?
I know
You must be at least Alexandre and Co.
But I think j^ou 're a troop — an assem-
blage— a mob,
And that I, as the Sheriff', should take
up the job;
And insteadofrehearsingyour wonders
in verse.
Must read you the Riot Act, and
bid you disperse.
Abbotsford, 2p-d April.
EPILOGUE
TO THE DRAMA FOUNDED ON ' SAINT
RONAN's WELL.'
(i824->
Enter Meg Dodds, encircled by a crowd
0/ unruly boys, zv/ioni a town's-officcr
is driving off.
That's right, friend — drive the gait-
lings ' back,
And lend yon muckle ane a whack ;
Your Embro' bairns are grown a pack,
Sae proud and sauc}',
Thev scarce will let an auld wife
walk
Upon 3'our causc3'.
\} Children. J
QUtec^ffaneoue (pome.
75:
I 've seen the da}' they would been
scaur'd,
Wi' the Tolbooth, or wi' the Guard,
Or maybe wud hae some regard
For Jamie Laing —
The Water-hole was right weel wared
On sic a gang.
Rut whar's the gudc Tolbooth gane
now ?
Wlinr's the auld Claught', wi' rod and
blue?
Whar's Jamie Laing-? and whar's
John Doo' ?
And whar's the Weigh-
house ?
Deil hae 't I see but what is new.
Except the Plaj-house!
Yoursells are changed frae head to
heel,
There 's some that gar the causeway*
reel
With clashing hufe and rattling wheel,
And horses canterin',
Wha's fatliers daunder'd hame as
wecl
Wi' lass and lantern.
Mysell being in the public line,
I look for howfs I kenn'd lang syne,
Whar gentles used to drink gude wine.
And eat cheap dinners ;
But deil a soul gangs there to dine,
Of saints or sinners !
Fortune's* and Hunter's* gane, alacel
And Bayle's* is lost in emptj' space ;
And now if folk would splice a brace,
Or crack a bottle,
They gang to a newfangled place
They ca' a Hottle.
(1 The Town r.iianl. or city police ; the Cliitc/ifrs.]
|2 An infliienli.-il police ofticial. |
P One of the Town Ciianl.]
\* All noted taverns.]
The deevil hottle them for Meg 1
They are sae greedy and sae gleg,
That if ye 're ser\'ed but wi' an egg,
(And that's puir pickin'.^
In comes a chiel and makes a leg,
And charges chicken I
' And wha may ye be,' gin ye spcer,
' That brings your auld-warld cla\crs
here ? '
Troth, if there's onj-body near
That kens the roads,
I '11 hand ye Burgundy to beer.
He kens Meg Dodds.
I came a piece frae west o' Carrie '' ;
And, since I see you 're in a hurrj-,
Your patience I '11 nae langer worry.
But be sae cronse
As speak a word for ane Will Murray",
That keeps this house.
Plays are auId-fashion'dthings,in truth,
And ye 've seen wonders mair im-
couth ;
Yet actors shouldna suffer drouth.
Or want of dramock ' ,
Although they speak but wi' their
mouth,
Not with their stamock.
But ye tak care of a' folk's pantry ;
And surelj- to hae stooden sentrj-
Ower this big house (that 's far frae
rent-free"^.
For a lone sister.
Is claims as gude 's to be a ventri —
How "st ca'd — loquister.
Weel, sirs, gude'en, and have a care
The bairns mak fun o' Meg nae mair;
For gin they do, she tells you fair.
And without failzie,
As sure as ever ye sit there,
She '11 tell the Bailie.
f."> V'illagfe near Edinburgh.]
I'"' Lessee of the Theatre. I
L" Food; meal and water.]
rr>4
Qllteceffaneoue (poeme.
EPILOGUE.
(1824.;)
The sages — for authority, pray look
Seneca's morals, or the copj'-book —
The sages to disparage woman's
power.
Say. beauty is a fair, but fading
flower; —
I cannot tell — I 've small philosoph3- —
Yet, if it fades, it does not surelj' die,
But, like the violet, when dccaj''d
in bloom.
Survives through many a year in rich
perfume.
Witness our theme to-night, two ages
gone,
A third wanes fast, since Mary fill'd
the throne.
Brief was her bloom, with scarce one
sunny daj',
"Twixt Pinkie's field and fatal Fotlier-
ingay :
But when, while .Scottish hearts and
blood you boast,
Shall sj'mpathy ■with Mar^-'s woes
be lost?
O'er Mary's memoiy tlie learned
quarrel,
By Mary's grave the poet plants his
laurel ;
Time's echo, old tradition, makes her
name
The constant burden of liis falt'ring
theme ;
In each old hall liis grcy-hair'd heralds
tell
Of Mary's picture, and of Mary's cell,
And show — my fingers tingle at the
thought —
Tlic loads of tapestry which that poor
Queen wrought.
In vain did fate bestow a double
dower
Of ev'rj^ ill that waits on rank and
pow'r,
Of ev'ry ill on beauty that attends —
False ministers, false lovers, and false
friends.
Spite of three wedlocks so completely
curst.
The}' rose in ill from bad to worse,
and worst ;
In spite of errors — I dare not say more.
For Duncan Targe lays hand on his
claj'more —
In spite of all, however humours
vary,
There is a talisman in that word Mar}-,
That unto Scottish bosoms all and
some
Is found the genuine open sesaimiin !
In historj^ ballad, poetrj^ or novel,
It charms alike the castle and the hovel,
Even you — forgive me — who, demure
and sh}-.
Gorge not each bait, nor stir at every
fly-
Must rise to this, else in her ancient
reign
The Rose of Scotland has survived
in vain.
ON THE MATERIALS NECESSARY
FOR HIS ' LIFE OF NAPOLEON.*
(June, 1825.)
When with Poetry dealing.
Room enough in a shieling :
Neither cabin nor hovel
Too small for a novel :
Though my back I should rub
On Diogenes' tub,
How my fancy could prance
In a dance of romance !
But my house I must swap
With some Brobdingnag chap.
Ere I grapple, God bless me ! with
Emperor Nap.
QUt0ceffaneou0 (poeme.
755
LINES
TO SIR CUTHBERT SHARP, SUNDERLAND,
TO ASSURE HIM THAT HE WAS NOT
FORGOTTEN.
(1827.)
Forget thee ? No I m\' worthy fere !
Forget blithe mirth and gallant cheer?
Death sooner stretch me on my bier !
Forget thee ? No.
Forget the universal shout
When ' canny Sunderland ' spokeout —
A truth which knaves aftect to doubt —
Forget thee ? No.
Forget you ? No — though nowaday
I *ve heard your knowing people saj'.
Disown the debt you cannot pa}-,
You'll find it far the thriftiest ^vay —
But I?— O no.
Forget your kindness found for all
room.
In what, though large, seem'd still
a small room.
Forget my Siif/rfs in a ball-room —
Forget \'ou ? No.
Forget your sprightly dumptj'-diddlcs,
And beauty tripping to the fiddles.
Forget my lovely friends the Liddi-Ils^-
Forget j-ou ] No.
THE DEATH OF KEELDAR.
(1828.^
Suggested by Coopers pain/iiig.)
Up rose the sun, o'er moor and mead ;
Up with the sun rose Percy Rede ;
Brave Keeldar.from his couples freed,
Career'd along the lea;
The palfrey sprung with sprightly
bound.
As if to match the gamesome hound ;
His horn the gallant huntsman wound :
They were a jovial three I
Man, hound, or horse, of higher fame,
To wake the wild deer never came.
Since Alnwick's Earl pursued the game
On Cheviot's rueful day ;
Keeldar was matchless in his speed,
Than Tarras, ne'er was stancher steed,
A peerless archer, Percy Rede :
And right dear friends were the_v.
The chase engross'd their joys and
woes.
Together at the dawn they rose,
Together shared the noon's repose,
By fountain or by stream ;
And oft, when evening skies were red
The heather was their common bed,
Where each, as wildering fancy led.
Still hunted in his dream.
Now is the thrilling moment near.
Of sylvan hope and sylvan fear.
Yon thicket holds the harbour'd deer,
The signs the hunters know ; — •
With eyes of flame, and quivering ears
The brake sagacious Keeldar nears ;
The restless palfrey paws and rears ;
The archer strings his bow.
The game's afoot 1 — Halloo ' Halloo !
Hunter, and horse, and hound pur-
sue ; —
But woe the shaft that erring flew, —
That e'er it left the string !
And ill betide the faithless j-ew !
The stag bounds scatheless o'er the
dew,
And gallant Keeldar's life-blood true
Has drench'd the grey-goose
wing.
The noble hound — he dies, he dies,
Death, death has glazed his fixed ej-es,
Stiff on the bloody heath he lies.
Without a groan or quiver.
Now day may break and bugle sound,
y\nd whoop and hollow ring around,
And o'erhis couch the stag may bound,
But Keeldar sleeps for ever.
756
Qfllteceft'aneoue (poems.
Dilated nostrils, staring ej-es,
Mark the poor palfrey's mute surprise ;
He knows not that his comrade dies,
Nor what is death — bat still
His aspect hath expression drear
Of grief and wonder, mix'd with fear.
Like startled children when they hear
Some mystic tale of ill.
But he that bent the fatal bow,
Can well the sum of evil know.
And o'er his favourite, bending lo\v,
In speechless grief recline ;
Can think he hears the senseless clay,
In unreproachful accents say,
'The hand that took my life away,
Dear master, was it thine ?
' And if it be, the shaft be bless'd,
Whichsuresomeerringaimaddress'd,
Since in your service prized, carcss'd
I in your service die ;
And you may have a fleeter hound.
To match the dun-deer's merry bound.
But bj^ your couch will ne'er be found
So true a guard as I.'
And to his last stout Percy rued
The fatal chance, for when he stood
'Gainst fearful odds in deadly feud,
And fell amid the fray,
E'en with his dying voice he cried,
' Had Keeldar but been at my side,
Your treacherous ambush had been
spied —
I had not died to-day !'
Remembrance of the erring bow
Long since had join'd the tides which
flow,
Conveying human bliss and woe
Down dark oblivion's river ;
But Art can Time's stern doom arrest.
And snatch his spoil from Lethe's
breast.
And, in her Cooper's colours drest,
The scene shall live for ever.
THE FORAY.
(iS^o.-t
TnK last of our steers on the board
has been spread.
And the last flask of wine in our
goblet is red ;
Up, up, mj' brave kinsmen ! belt
swords and begone.
There are dangers to dare, and there's
spoil to be won.
The eyes, that so lately mix'd glances
with ours.
For a space must be dim, as they gaze
from the towers.
And strive to distinguish through
tempest and gloom
The prance of the steed and the toss
of the plume.
The rain is descending ; the wind
rises loud ;
And the moon her red beacon has
veil'd with a cloud ;
'Tis the better, my mates ' for the
warder's dull eye
Shall in confidence slumber, nor
dream we are nigh.
Our steeds are impatient ! I hear my
blithe Grej' !
There is life in his hoof-clang, and
hope in his neigh ;
Like the flash of a meteor, the glance
of his mane
Shall marshal your march through
the darkness and rain.
The drawbridge has dropp'd, the bugle
has blown ;
One pledge is to quaft' yet — then
mount and begone ! —
To their honour and peace, that shall
rest with the slain ;
To their health and their glee, that
sec Teviot again 1
QUteceffaneouD (poeme.
1i>1
FOR THE MONUMENT OF THE
REV. GEORGE SCOTT.
(1830.)
To 3'outh, to age, alike, this tablet pale
Tells the brief inoral of its tragic talc.
Art thou a parent? Reverence this bier,
The parents' fondest hopes lie buried
here.
Art thou a youth, prepared on life to
start,
With opening talents and a generous
heart.
INSCRIPTION LINES ON FORTUNE, A SKILFUL
MECHANIST.
(1831.)
FoRTUxi;, my Foe. why dost ihuu
frown on me •
And will niv Fortune never better
be ]
Wilt thou, I sa}-, for ever breed my
pain?
And wilt thou ne'er return mj- joys
again ?
(No ! let my ditty be luiicrforlli — '
Fair hopes and flattering prospects all | Fortune, my Friend, how \vell thou
thine own ? favourest me !
Lo ! here their end — a monumental I A kinder Fortune man did never
stone. • see I
But let submission tame each sorrow- Thou propp'st my thigh, thou ridd'sl
ing thought, my knee of pain,
Heaven crown'd its champion ere the ^ I'll walk, I'll mount — I'll l.'c a man
fight was fought. ' again.
KNU OF THf. MISCKLLANEOUS POEMS.
(Tlofee ^0 QHieccffaneoue (poeme.
WAR-SONG OF THE ROYAL EDIN-
BURGH LIGHT DRAGOONS.
P. 701.
■ 'XaiHiKS. Is not peace the eiul of arms!
Caratach. Not where the cause implies a geiiernl
conquest.
Had \vc a difference witli some petty isle.
Or with our neii;chbours, Britons, for our landmarks,
The taking in of some rebellious lord,
Or making head against a slight coiimiotioii,
After a day of blood, peace might be argued :
r.ut where we grapple for the land we li\e on,
'l"he liberty we hold more dear than life,
The gods we worbhip, and, next vhese, our honours.
And, with those, swords that know no end of battle —
Those men, beside themselves, allow no neighljour.
Those minds, that, where the day is, claim inherit-
ance.
And, where the sun makes ripe the fruit, their harvest.
:Vnd, wliere they march, but measure out more grouiul
'I'o add to Rome
It nuist not be — No ! as they are our foes,
I.ffs use the peace of honour — that's fair dealing ;
lUit in our hands our swords. The hard}' Roman.
That thinks to graft himself into my stock.
Must first begin his kindred under ground,
.\nd be allied in aslies.'
This War-Song was written during tlie
apprehension of an invasion '. The corps
of \olnnteers to which it was a<ldrfsse(l
was raised in 171)7, consisting of gcntlei7)en,
mounted and armed at their own expense.
It still subsists, as the Right Troop of tlie
Royal Mid-Lothian Light Cavalry, com-
manded by the Honourable Lieutenant-
Colonel Dundas-'. The noble and constitu-
tional measure of arming freemen in defence
of their own rights was nowhere more suc-
cessful than in Edinburgh, which furnished
a force of .^cxxj armed and disciplined volun-
teers, including a regiment of cavalry, from
the city and county, and two corps of
artillery, each capable of serving twelve guns.
To such .a force, abo\e all others, might, in
similar circumstances, be applied tlie ex-
hortation of ourancientGalgacus : '' Prohidc
iltifi inacic7H^ ei iiiajoresvestros el Pos/ervs
cogitate.'' iSi.'.
1 The song originally appeared in the Scots
Magazine for 1802.— I.ocKH.\Rl.
2 Nuw N'isccunt Meh ille (1831).
FAREWELL TO MACKENZIE.
P. 7JJ.
The original \erses ;ire arranged to a
beautiful Gaelic air, of which the chorus
is adapted to the double pull upon the oars
of a gallc)-, and which is therefore distinct
from the ordinary jorrams, or boat-songs.
They were composed bv the Family Bard
upon the departure of tlie Earl of Seafortli,
who was obliged to take refuge in Spain,
after an unsuccessful effort at insurrection in
favour of the Stuart family, in the year 1718.
PIBROCH OF DONLTL DHU.
P- 73 ••
This is a very ancient pibroch belonging
to Clan MacDonald, and supposed to refer
to the expedition of Donald Balloch, who, in
I4,V, launched from the Isles with a consider-
able force, invaded Lochaber, and at Inver-
lochy defeated and put to flight the Earls of
Mar and Caithness, though at the head of
an army superior to his own. The words of
the set, theme, or melod)', to which the pipe
variations are applied, run thus in Gaelic :--
■ I'i. .l.aireaclid Dhomiil Dhuidh, piobaireachd nhomiil;
I'lnbaireaclid niionuil Dhuidh, piobnireachd Dhonuil;
I'iohaireachdDhonuiininiidh, pinl.aircachdDhonuil;
riob agus bratach air faiche Invcrlochi. '
'The pipe-summons of Donald the Black,
The ]jipo-sinnnions of Donald the Black.
The war-i)ipe and tlie pennon arc on the gathering-
place at Inverlochy.'
MACKRIMMON'S LAMENT.
P. 744.
Mackrimmon, liereditary piper to the
Laird of Macleod, is said to have compos(!d
this Lament when the Clan was about to
depart upon a distant and dangerous ex-
])edition. The Minstrel was impressed with
a belief, which the event verified, that he
was to be slain in the approaching feud ;
and hence the Gaelic words, ' Cha till mi
tuille ; ged thillis Macleod, cha till Mackrim-
mon,' ' I shall never return ; although Mac-
leod returns, yet Mackrimmon shall never
return !' The piece is but too well known,
from its being the strain with which the emi-
grants from the Wist Highlands and Isles
usually take leave of their native shore.
^oitt^ anil (^ttet from t^i
I.
FROM WiWERLEY.
BRIDAL SONG.
And did ye not hear oi' a mirth befel
The morrow after a wedding da}',
And carrying a bride at home to dwell ?
And away to Tewin, away, away •
The quintain was set, and the garlands
were made,
'Tis pity old customs should ever
decay ;
And woe be to him that was horsed on
a jade,
For he carried no credit away, away.
We met a concert of fiddle-de-dees;
We set them a cockhorse, and made
them play
The winning of BuUen, and Upsey-
frees.
And away to Tewin, away, away !
There was ne'er a lad in all the parish
That would go to the plough that
day ;
But on his fore-horse his wench he
carries.
And away to Tewin, awaj-, away !
The butler was quick, and the ale he
did tap.
The maidens did make the chamber
full gay ;
The servants did give me a fuddlingcup,
And I did carry 't a\vay, away.
The smith of the town his liquor so
took,
That he was persuaded that tlie
ground look'd blue ;
And I dare boldly be sworn on a
book.
Such smiths as he there 's but a fcnv.
A posset was made, and the women
did sip,
And simpering said, they could eat
no more ;
Full many a maiden was laid on the
lip,-
I '11 say no more, but give o'er, ^give
o'er .
Appendi.x to General Preface —
apiid QuEENHOo Hall.)
760
(poettp anil (Peret
LINES BY CAPTAIN WAVERLEY
ON RECEIVING HIS COMMISSION IN
COLONEL Gardiner's regiment.
Late, when the autumn evening loll
On Mirkwood-Mere's romantic dell.
The lake return'd, in chasten'd gleam,
The purple cloud, the golden beam :
Reflected in the crystal pool,
Headland and bank lay fair and cool ;
The weather-tinted rock and tower.
Each drooping tree, each fairy flower,
So true, so soft, the mirror gave,
As if there lay beneath the wave,
Secure from trouble, toil, and care,
A world than earthly world more fair.
But distant winds began to wake,^
And roused the Genius of the Lake I
He heard the groaning of the oak,
And donn'd at once his sable cloak.
As warrior, at the battle cry.
Invests him with his panoply :
Then, as the whirlwind nearer press'd,
He 'gan to shake his foamy crest
O'er fuirow'd brow and blacken'd
cheek.
And bade his surge in thunder speak.
In wild and broken eddies wbirl'd.
Flitted that fond ideal world ;
And, to the shore in tumult tost,
The realms of fairy bliss were lost.
Yet.withasterndelightandstrange,
1 saw the spirit-stirring change.
As warr'd the wind with wave and
wood,
Upon the ruin'd tower I stood,
And felt my heart more strongly bound,
Responsive to the lofty sound.
While, joying in the mighty roar,
1 mourn'd that tranquil scene no more.
So, on the idle dreams of youth
Breaks the loud trumpet-call of truth,
Bids each fair vision pass away,
Like landscape on the lake that lay,
As fair, as flitting, and as frail.
As that which fled the autumn gale—
For ever dead to fancy's eye
Be each gay form that glided by,
Whiledreams of loveandlady's charms
Give place to honour and to arms :
Chap. V.
Davie Gellatley sings:—
False love, and hast thou play'd me
this
In summer among the flowers?
I will repay thee back again
In winter among the showers.
Unless again, again, my love,
Unless you turn again ;
As you with other maidens rove,
I '11 smile on other men.
The Knight's to the mountain
His bugle to wind ;
The Lady's to greenwood
Her garland to bind.
The bower of Burd Ellen
Has moss on the floor,
That the step of Lord William
Be silent and sure.
Chap. IX.
Scene — Liickie Maclearys Tuvcin.
Baron Bradwardine sings : —
MoN ccEur volage, dit-elle,
N'est pas pour vous, gar9on ;
Mais pour un homme de guerre.
Qui a barbe au menton.
Lon, Lou, Laridon.
Qui porte chapeau a plume,
Soulier a rouge talon.
Qui joue de la flute,
Aussi du violon.
Lon. Lon, Laridon.
from tU <^(iHvk^ (ltopef0.
761
Balmawiiapple si'iii^'s : —
It's up Glenbarchan's braes I gaed,
And o'er the bent of Killiebraid,
And mony a weary cast I made,
To cuittle the moor-fowl's tail.
If up a bonnyblack-cockshouldspring,
To whistle him down wi' a slug in his
wing,
And strap him on to my lunzic string,
Right seldom would I fail.
Chap. XI.
GELLATLEY'S SONG TO THE
DEERHOUNDS.
Hie away, liie awaj',
Over bank and over brae,
Where the copsewood is the greenest,
Where the fountains glisten sheenest,
Where the lady-fern grows strongest,
Where the morning dew lies longest.
Where the black-cock sweetest sips it,
Where the fairy latest trips it :
Hie to haunts right seldom seen,
Lovely, lonesome, cool, and green,
Over bank and over brae,
Hie away, hie away.
Chap, XII.
ST. S"SVITHIN'S CHAIR,
On Hallow-Mass Eve, ere you boune
ye to rest,
Ever beware that j-our couch be
bless'd ;
Sign it with cross, andsainitwith bead.
Sing the Ave, and say the Creed,
Eor on Hallow-Mass Eve the Niglit-
Hag will ride,
And all her nine-fold sweeping on by
her side,
Whether the wind sing lowly or loud,
bailing through moonshine or swath'd
in the cloud.
The Lady she sate in .Saint Swithin's
Chair,
The dew of the night has damp'd her
hair :
Her cheek was pale — but resohed and
high
W'as the word of her lip and the glance
of her eye.
She mutter'd the spell of Swithiii
bold,
When his naked foot traced the niid-
niglit wold.
When he stopp'd the Hag as she rode
the night,
And bade her descend, and herpromise
plight.
He that dare sit on Saint Swithin's
Chair,
When the Night-Hag wings the
troubled air,
Questions three, when he speaks the
spell.
He may ask, and she must tell.
The Baron has been with King Robert
his liege.
These three long years, in battle and
siege ;
News are there none of his weal or
his woe,
And fain the Lady his fate would
know.
She shudders and stops as the charm
she speaks ; —
Is it the moody owl that shrieks ]
Or is that sound, betwixt laughter and
scream,
The voice of the Demon who haunts
the stream ?
I'he moan of the wind sunk silent and
low,
And the roaring torrent had ceased to
flow ;
762
(poeftj anb (^croe
The calm was more dreadful than
raging storm,
When the cold grey mist brought the
ghastly form !
Chap. XIII.
Gellatley sings : —
Young men will love thee more fair
and more fast ;
Heard ye so merry the little bird sing.'
Old men's love the longest will last,
And the throstle-cock's Itead is under
/lis zving.
The young man's wrath is like light
straw on fire ;
Heard ye so tnerry the little bird sing/
But like red-hot steel is the old man's
ire,
And the throstle-cock's head is under
his zving.
The young man will brawl at the
evening board ;
Heard ye so merry the little bird sing/
But the old man will draw at the
dawning the sword,
And the throstle-cock's head is under
his zving.
Chap. XIV.
FLORA MACIVOR'S SONG.
There is mist on the mountain, and
night on the vale,
But more dark is the sleep of the sons
of the Gael.
A stranger commanded — it sunk on
the land,
It has frozen each heart, and be-
numb'd every hand !
The dirk and the target lie sordid
with dust,
The bloodless claymore is but redden'd
with rust ;
On the hill or the glen if a gun should
appear,
It is only to war with the heath-cock
or deer.
The deeds of our sires if our bards
should rehearse,
Let a blush or a blow be the meed of
their verse I
Be mute every string, and be husli'd
every tone.
That shall bid us remember the fame
that is flown.
But the dark hours of night and of
slumber are past,
The morn on our mountains is dawning
at last ;
Glenaladale's' peaks are illumed with
the rays,
And the streams of Glentinnan '- leap
bright in the blaze.
O high-minded Mora^-!' — the exiled —
the dear ! —
In the blush of the dawning the
St.\ndard uprear!
■Wide, wide on the winds of the nortii
let it fly,
Like the sun's latest flash when the
tempest is nigh !
Ye sons of the strong, when that
dawning shall break,
Need the harp of the aged remind you
to wake ?
That dawn never beam'd on your
forefathers' eye,
But it roused each high chieftain to
vanquish or die.
[' In Moidart, where Prince Charlie hindeil in i;45.
fa Where he dibplayed his standard.]
[3 Brother of the Marquis of Tullibardine, long
1 Jacobite exile.]
from tU (^wtvk^ (Ttovefe.
763
O, sprung from the kings who in
Islay kept state,
Proud chiefs of Clan-Ranald, Glen-
garry, and Sleat !
Coinbine like three streams from one
mountain of snow, '
And resistless in union rush down on
the foe.
True son of Sir Evan, undaunted
Lochiel,
Place thy targe on thy shoulder and
burnish thy steel !
Rough Keppoch, give breath to thy
bugle's bold swell,
Till far Coryarrick resound to the knell !
Stern son of Lord Kenneth, high chief
of Kintail,
Let the stag in thy standard bound
wild in the gale I
May the race of Clan-Gillean, the
fearless and free,
Remember Glenlivat, Harlaw, and
Dundee !
Let the clan of grey Fingon, whose
ofl'spring has given
Such heroes to earth, and such
martyrs to heaven,
L'uitc with the race of rcuown'd
Rorri More,
To launch the long galley, and stretch
to the oar !
How Mac-Shimei will joy when their
chief shall displaj-
The yew-crested bonnet o'er tresses
of gre}' !
How the race of wrongVl Alpine and
murder'd Glencoe
Shall shout for revenge when they
pour on the (oe !
Ye sons of brovvu Dermid. who slew
the wild boar,
Resume the pure faith of the great
Callum-More 1
MacNiel of the Islands, and Moy of
the Lake,
For honour, for freedom, for ven-
geance awake 1
Awake on your hills, on your islands
awake,
Brave sons of the mountain, the frith,
and the lake !
"Tis tlie bugle— but not for the chase
is the call ;
'Tis the pibroch's shrill summons —
but not to the hall.
'Tis the summons of heroes for con-
quest or death.
When the banners are blazing on
mountain and heath ;
They call to the dirk, the claymore,
and the targe,
To the march and the muster, the
line and the charge.
lie the brand of each chieftain like
Fin's in his ire !
May the blood through his veins How
like currents of fire !
Burst the base foreign yoke as your
sires did of yore 1
Or die. like your sires, and endure
it no more I
Ciiap. XXII.
Fergus sings : —
O Lady of the desert, hail !
That lovest the harping of the Gael,
Through fair and fertile regions borne.
Where never yet grew grass or corn.
And again : —
O vous, qui buvez a tasse pleinc,
A cette heureuse fontaine,
Oil on ne voit sur le rivage
Que quclques vilains troupeaux,
Suivis de nymphes de village.
Qui les escortent sans sabots
Chap. XXIII,
764
(potit^ anil (Pevee
TO AN OAK TREE
IN THE CHURCHYARD OK
IN THE
HIGHLANDS OF SCOTLAND, SAID TO
JIARK THE GRAVE OF CAPTAIN WOGAN,
KILLED IN 1649.
Emblem of England's ancient faith,
Full proudly may thy branches
wave,
Where loyalty lies low in death,
And valour fills a timeless grave.
And thou, brave tenant of the tomb '.
Repine not if our clime denj',
Above thine honour'd sod to bloom,
The flowrets of a milder sky.
These owe their birth to genial May ;
Beneath a fiercer sun they pine,
Before the winter storm decay —
And can their worth be tj-pe of
thine ?
No ! for, 'mid storms of Fate opposing,
Still higher swell'd thy dauntless
heart,
And, while Despair the scene was
closing.
Commenced thy brief but brilliant
part.
'Twas then thou sought'st on Albyn's
hill
(When England's .sons the strife
resign'd)
A rugged race, resisting still,
And unsubdued, though unrefined.
Thy death's hour heard no kindred
wail,
No holy knell thy requiem rung ;
Thy mourners were the plaided Gael.
Thy dirge the clamorous pibroch
sung.
Yet who, in Fortune's summer-shine
To waste life's longest term away,
Would change that glorious dawn of
thine,
Though darken'd ere its noontide
day?
Be thine the Tree whose dauntless
boughs
Brave summer's drought and
winter's gloom I
Rome bound with oak her patriots'
brows.
As Albyn shadows Wogan's tomb.
Chap. XXIX.
Gell.\tley sings: —
[They came upon us in the night,
And brake my bower and slew my
knight ;
My servants a' for life did flee
And left us in extremitie.
They slew m^- knight to me sae dear;
They slew my knight, and dravc his
gear ;]
The moon maj^ set, the sun may rise.
But a deadly sleep has closed his eyes.
But follow, follow me,
While glowworms light the lea,
I'll show ye where the dead should
be—
Each in his shroud,
While winds pipe loud,
Andthe red moonpeepsdimthrough
the cloud.
Follow, follow me;
Brave should he be
That treadsby night the dead man's lea.
Chap. LXiii.
from tU (VOavtvk^ Qtovefo.
765
II.
FROM GUY MANNERING.
THE NATIVITY CHANT.
(By Meg Merrilies.)
Cannv moipent, lucky fit ;
Is the lady lighter yet ?
Be it lad, or be it lass.
Sign wi' cross, and sain \vi' mass.
Trefoil, vervain, John's-wort, dill,
Hinders witches of their will ;
Weel is them, that weel may
Fast upon Saint Andrew's daj'.
Saint Bride and her biat,
Saint Colme and her cat,
Saint Michael and his spear,
Keep the house frae reif and wear.
Chap. III.
THE SPINDLE SONG.
(By Meg Merrilies.)
Twist ye, twine ye 1 even so
Mingle shades of joy and woe,
Hope, and fear, and peace, and strife,
In the thread of human life.
While the mystic twist is spinning,
And the infant's life beginning.
Dimly seen through twilight bending,
Lo, what varied shapes attending 1
Passions wild, and follies vain.
Pleasures soon exchanged for pain ;
Doubt, and jealousy, and fear,
In the magic dance appear.
Now they wax, and now thej- dwindle,
Whirling with the whirling spindle.
Twist ye, twine ye! even so
Mingle human bliss and woe.
Chap. HI.
THE GIPSY'S DIRGE.
(By Meg Merrilies.)
Wasted, weary, wherefore staJ^
Wrestling thus with earth and cla}' ?
From the body pass away ;—
Hark ! the mass is singing.
From thee doff thy mortal weed,
Mary Mother be thy speed.
Saints to help thee at thy need ; —
Hark ! the knell is ringing.
Fear not snowdrift driving fast.
Sleet, or hail, or levin blast ;
.Soon the shroud shall lap thee fast,
And the sleep be on thee cast
That shall ne'er know waking.
Haste thee, haste thee, to be gone.
Earth flits fast, and time draws on,—
Gasp thy gasp, and groan thy groan.
Day is near the breaking.
Open locks, end strife,
Come death, and pass life.
Chap. XXVII.
THE PROPHECY.
(By Meg Merrilies.'^
Tme dark shall be light.
And the wrong made right,
When Bertram's right and Bertram's
might
Shall meet on Ellangowan's height.
Chap. XLi.
Glossin sings: —
Gin by pailfuls, wine in rivers,
Dash the window-glass to shivers,
For three wild lads were we, brave
boys,
And three wild lads were we ;
Thou on the land, and I on the sand.
And Jack on the gallows-tree !
Chap, xxxiv.
766
Cpoc^vp ant) (peree
HI.
FROM THE ANTIQUARY.
THE AGED CARLE.
' Why sit'st thou by that niin'd hall,
Thou aged carle so stern and grey ?
Dost thou its former pride recall,
Or ponder how it pass'd away ? ' —
' Know'st thou not me?' the Deep
Voice cried ;
'So long enjoy'd, so oft misused —
Alternate, in thy fickle pride,
Desired, neglected, and accused !
' Before my breath, like blazing flax,
Man and his marvels pass awa}- !
And changing empires wane and wax,
Are founded, flourish, and decay.
■ Redeem mine hours — the space is
brief —
While in my glass the sand-grains
shiver.
And measureless thy joy or grief
When Time and thou shall part lor
ever ! '
Chap. X.
AN EPITAPH.
Hkir lyeth John o' ye Girnell ;
Erth has ye nit and heuen ye kirnell.
In hys tyme ilk wyfe's hennis clokit,
Ilk gud mannis berth wi' bairnis was
stokit.
He deled a boll o' bear in firlottis lyve,
Four for ye halie kirke and ane for
pure mennis ^vyvis.
Chap. XI.
Old Elspeth si)igs : —
' The herring loves the merry moon-
light,
The mackerel loves the wind,
But the oyster loves the dredging sang,
For they come of a gentle kind.'
Now baud your tongue, baith wife
and carle.
And listen, great and sma'.
And I will sing of Glenallan's Earl
That fought on the red Harlaw.
The cronach 's cried on Bennachie,
And doun the Don and a'.
And hieland and lawland may mourn-
fu' be
For the sair field of Harlaw.
They saddled a hundred milk-white
steeds,
They hae bridled a hundred black.
With a chafron of steel on each
horse's head.
And a good knight upon his back.
They hadna ridden a mile, a mile,
A mile, but barely ten,
When Donald came branking down
the brae
Wi' twenty thousand men.
Their tartans they w^re waving wide,
Their glaives were glancing clear.
The pibrochs rung frae side to side.
Would deafen ye to hear.
The great Earl in his stirrups stood.
That Highland host to see ;
Now here a knight that's stout and
good
May prove a jeopardic :
' What would'st thou do, my squire
so gay,
That rides beside my reyne.
Were ye Glenallan's Earl the day,
And I were Roland Cheyne ?
from tU (^aperfep Qtowefa.
767
' To turn the rein were sin and shame,
To fight were wond'rous peril ;
What would ye do now, Roland
Cheyne,
Were yc Glenallan's Earl ? '
' Were I Glenallan's Earl this tide.
And 3'e were Roland Cheyne,
The spur should be in my horse's side,
And the bridle upon his mane.
If they hae twenty thousand blades,
And we twice ten times ten,
Yet they hae but their tartan plaids,
And we are mail-clad men.
' My horse shall ride through ranks
sae rude,
As through the moorland fern,- —
Then ne'er let the gentle Norman blude
Grow cauld for Highland kerne.'
He turn'd him right and round again,
Said — Scorn na at my mither ;
Light loves I may get monj' a ane,
But minnie ne'er anither.
Chap. XI..
. MOTTOES.
I KN'KW Anselmo. He was shrewd and
prudent,
Wisdom and cunning had their shares
of him ;
But he was shrewish as a wayward
child,
And pleased again by toys which
childhood please ;
As — book of fables graced with print
of wood.
Or else the jinghng of a rusty medal,
Or the rare melody of some old
ditt}'.
That first was sung to please King
Pepin's cradle.
Oil Title-page.
' Be brave,' she cried, ' you yet may
be our guest.
Our haunted room was ever held the
best ;
If, then, your valour can the fight
sustain
Of rustling curtains, and the clinking
chain ;
If your courageous tongue have
powers to talk
When round your bed the horrid
ghost shall walk ;
If you dare ask it wh_\' it leaves its
tomb,
I '11 see your sheets well air'd, and
show the room.'
Tnt( Sto)y.
Chap. i.x.
Here has been such a stormy encounter
Betwixt my cousin Captain, and this
soldier,
About I know not what ! — nothing,
indeed ;
Competitions, degrees, and compara-
tives
Of soldiership !
? A Fa ire Quarrel.
Chap. XIX.
\\ you fail honour here,
Never presume to serve her any more ;
Bid farewell to the integritj- of arms.
And the honourable name of soldier
Fall from you, like a shiver'd wreath
of laurel
By thunder struck from a desertlesse
forehead.
.^ A Faire Quarrel.
Chap. XX.
The Lord Abbot had a soul
Subtile and quick, and searching as
the fire :
By magic stairshe went as deep as hell,
768
(poeiv^ ant) (^tvet
And if in devils" possession gold be
kept.
He brought some sure from thence —
'tis hid in caves,
Known, save to me, to none.
;' The JVonder of a Kiiigdouie.
Chap. x.xi.
Who is he ? — One that for the lack of
land
Shall fight upon the water — he hath
challenged
Formerl3' the grand whale ; and bj-
his titles
Of Leviathan, Behemoth, and so forth.
He tilted with a sword-fish — Marry,
sir,
Th' aquatic had the best — the argument
Still galls our champion's breech.
Old Play.
Chap. XXX.
Tf.i.i. me not of it, friend — when the
young weep.
Their tears are lukewarm brine; —
from our old eyes
Sorrow falls down like hail-drops of
the North,
Chilling the furrows of our wither'd
cheeks,
Cold as our hopes, and harden'd as
our feeling :
Theirs, as they fall, sink sightless —
ours recoil,
Heap the fair plain, and bleaken all
before us.
Old Play.
Chap. XXXI.
Re^morse — she ne'er forsakes us ! —
A bloodhound stanch — she tracks our
rapid step
Through the wild labyrinth of youthful
frenzy,
Unheard, perchance, until old age
hath tamed us ;
Then in our lair, when Time hath
chill'd our joints,
And maim'd our hope of combat, or
of flight,
We hear her deep-mouth'd bay,
announcing all,
Of wrath, and woe, and punishment,
that bides us.
Old Play.
Chap, xxxui.
.Still in his dead hand clench'd remain
the strings
That thrill his father's heart — e'en as
the limb,
I-opp'd off and laid in grave, retains,
they tell us.
Strange commerce with the mutilated
stump.
Whose nerves are twingeing still in
maim'd existence.
Old Play.
Chap, xxxiv.
Life, with you,
Glows in the brain and dances in the
arteries;
'Tis like the wine some joyous guest
hath quaff'd,
I'hat glads the heart and elevates the
fancy :
Mine is the poor residuum of the
cup.
Vapid, and dull, and tasteless, only
soiling
With its base dregs the vessel that
contains it.
Old Play.
Chap. XXXV.
Yes ! I love Justice well — as well as
you do —
But. since the good dame "s blind, she
shall excuse me
If, time and reason fitting, I prove
dumb ; — ■
from tU (^averfep (Itopefa.
769
The breath I utter now shall be no
means
To take away from me mj' breath in
future.
O/d Play.
Chap. XXXVII.
Well, well, at worst, 'tis neither theft
nor coinage,
Granting I knew all that you charge
me with.
What tho' the tomb hath born a
second birth,
And given the wealth to one that
knew not on't.
Yet fair exchange was never rob-
bery,
Far less pure bountv.
Old Play.
Chap. XXXVIII.
Life ebbs from such old age, unmark'd
and silent,
As the slow neap-tide leaves yon
stranded galle\'.
Late she rock'd merrily at the least
impulse
That wind or wave could give ; but
now her keel
Is settling on the sand, her mast has
ta'en
An angle with the sky, from which it
shifts not.
Each wave receding shakes her less
and less.
Till, bedded on the strand, she shall
remain
Useless as motionless.
Old Play.
Chap. XL.
So, while the Goose, of whom the
fable told,
Incumbent, brooded o'er her eggs of
gold.
With hand outstretch'd, impatient to
destroy,
Stole on her secret nest the cruel Boy,
Whose gripe rapacious changed her
splendid dream,
For wings vain fluttering, and for
d\ing scream.
The Loves of the Sea-JVeeds.
Chap. xLi.
Let those go see who will — I like it
not —
For, say he was a slave to rank and
pomp.
And all the nothings he is now
divorced from
By the hard doom of stern necessity ;
Yet it is sad to mark his alter'd brow,
Where Vanity adjusts her flims}'' veil
O'er the deep wrinkles of repentant
anguish.
Old Play.
Chap. XLii.
Fortune, you saj', flies from us; she
but circles
Like the fleet sea-bird round the
fowler's skiff, —
Lost in the mist one moment, and the
next
Brushing the white sail with her
whiter wing.
As if to court the aim. — Experience
watches.
And has her on the wheel.
Old Play.
Chap. XLiii.
N.w, if she love me not, I care not
for her :
Shall I look pale because the maiden
blooms ?
Or sigh because she smiles — and
smiles on others 1
Not I, bj' Heaven ! — I hold my peace
too dear,
c c
7/'
(poefrp an^ (Peroe
To let it, like the plume upon her cap,
Shake at each nod that her caprice
shall dictate.
Old Play.
Chap. XLiv.
IV,
FROM THE BLACK DWARF.
Whex the devil was sick, the devil
a monk would be.
When the devil was well, the devil
a monk was he.
Chap. VI.
MOTTOES.
So spak the knicht ; the g-eaunt sed —
• Lead forth with the the sely maid,
And mak me quite of the and sche ;
For glaunsing ee, or brow so brent,
Or check with rose and lilye blent,
Me-lists not fecht with the.
Chap. IX.
I LEFT my ladye's bower last night,
It was clad in wreaths of sna\v ;
I '11 seek it when the sun is bright
And sweet the roses blaw.
Old Ballad.
Chap. X.
"Tw.xs time and griefs
Tliat framed him thus : Time, with
his fairer hand,
Otfering the fortunes of his former days,
Tlieformer man may make Iiim : bring
us to him.
And chance it as it may.
Old Play.
Chap. XVI.
V.
FROM OLD MORTALITY.
Major Bellenden sings : — •
And what though \vinter will pinch
severe
Through locks of grey and a cloak
that's old.
Yet keep up thy heart, bold cavalier,
Foracup of sack shall fence the cold.
For time will rust the brightest blade.
And years will break the strongest
bow ;
Was never wight so starkly made,
Buttimeandyears would overthrow.
Chap. XVIII.
THE VERSES FOUND IN BOTH-
WELL'S POCKET-BOOK.
Thy hue, dear pledge, is pure and
bright,
As in that well-remember'd night
When first \\\y mystic braid was wove,
And first my Agnes whisper'd love.
Since then how often hast thou
press'd
The torrid zone of tliis wild breast.
Whose wrath and hate have sworn
to dwell
With the first sin which peopled hell,
A breast whose blood's a troubled
ocean.
Each throb the earthquake's wild
commotion ! —
O, if such clime thou canst endure.
Yet keep thy hue unstain'd and pure.
What conquest o'er each erring thought
Of that fierce realm had Agnes
wrought !
I had not wander'd wild and wide,
With such an angel for my guide ;
from tU (^Mtvk^ (Uovefo.
771
Nor heaven nor earth could then
reprove me.
If she had lived, and lived to love me.
Not then this world's wild jo^-s had
been
To me one savage hunting scene,
My sole delight the headlong race,
And frantic hurry of the chase ;
To start, pursue, and bring to bay,
Rush in, drag down, and rend my
prey,
Then — from the carcass turn away !
Mine ireful mood had sweetness tamed,
And soothed each wound which pride
inflamed !
Yes, God and mati might now approve
me,
Ifthou hadst lived, and lived to loveme.
Chap. XXII.
MOTTOES.
Arouse thee, youth ! — it is no common
call,—
Cod's Church is leaguer'd — haste to
man the wall ;
Haste where the Red-cross banners
wave on high.
Signals of honour'd death or victory.
? James Duff'.
Chap. IV.
[Mv hounds may a' rin masterless,
My hawks may fly frae tree to tree,]
My lord may grip mj' vassal lands.
For there again maun I never be !
Old Ballad.
Chap. XIII.
Sound, sound the clarion, fill the fife!
To all the sensual world proclaim,
One crowded hour of glorious life
Is worth an age without a name.
Aiwiiymotis.
Chap. XXXIII.
Where's the joll}' host
You told me of? 'T has been my cus-
tom ever
To parley with mine host.
Lovers Progress.
Chap. XL.
VI.
FROM ROB ROY.
FRANCIS OSBALDISTONE'S LINES
TO THE MEMORY OF EDWARD
THE BLACK PRINCE.
O FOR the voice of that wild horn,
On Fontarabian echoes borne.
The dj-ing hero's call.
That told imperial Charlemagne
How Paynim sons of swarthj- Spain
Had wrought his champion's fall.
Sad over earth and ocean sounding,
And England's distant cliffs astound-
ing,
Such are the notes should say
How Britain's hope, and France's fear,
\'ictor of Cressy and Poitier,
In Bordeaux d\'ing lay.
' Raise my faint head, my squires,' he
said,
' And let the casement be displa^-'d,
That I may see once more
The splendour of the setting sun
Gleam on thy mirror'd wave, Garonne,
And Blay's empurpled shore.
' Like me, he sinks to Glory's sleep.
His fall the dews of evening steep.
As if in sorrow shed.
So soft shall fall the trickling tear,
When England's maids and matrons
hear
Of their Black Edward dead.
772
(poefrp an^ (Peree
'And though my sun of glorj' set,
Nor France nor England shall forget
The terror of my name ;
And oft shall Britain's heroes rise,
New planets in these southern skies,
Through clouds of blood and
flame.'
Chap. n.
FRAGMENT FROM ARIOSTO.
Ladies, and knights, and arms, and
love's fair flame,
Deeds of emprise and courtesj', I
sing;
What time the Moors from sultry
Africk came,
Led on by Agramant, their youthful
king—
Him whom revenge and hasty ire did
bring
O'er the broad wave, in France to
waste and war ;
Such ills from old Trojano's death did
spring,
"Which to avenge he came from
realms afar,
And menaced Christian Charles, the
Roman Emperor.
Of dauntless Roland, too, my strain
shall sound,
In import never known in prose or
rhyme.
How he, the chief of judgment deem'd
profound,
For luckless love was crazed upon
a time ■
Chap. XVI.
MOTTOES.
In- the wide pile, by others heeded noi
Hers was one sacred solitary spot.
"Whose gloomy aisles and bending
shelves contain,
For moral hunger food, and cures for
moral pain.
Anonymous.
Chap. X.
Dire was his thought, who first in
poison steep'd
The weapon form'd for slaughter-
direr his,
And worthier of damnation, who in-
still'd
The mortal venom in the social cup.
To fill the veins with death instead of
life.
Aiioiryiiioits.
Chap. XIII.
Yon lamp its line of quivering light
Shoots from my lady's bower;
ButwhyshouldBeauty'slampbe bright
At midnight's lonely hour?
Old Ballad.
Chap. XIV.
Look round thee, young Astolpho;
Here 's the place
"Which men ^for being poor) are sent
to star\-e in, —
Rude remedy, I trow, for sore disease.
"Within these walls, stified by damp
and stench,
Doth Hope's fair torch expire ; and at
the snuft",
Ere yet "tis quite extinct, rude, wild,
and wayward.
The desperate revelries of wild de-
pair.
Kindling their hell-born cressets, light
to deeds
That the poor captive would have died
ere practised.
Till bondage sunk his soul to his con-
dition.
Thf Prison, Act i. Sc. iii.
Chap. XXII.
from iU (^axftvk^ Qtovefo.
Far as the eye could reach no tree was
seen,
Earth, clad in russet, scorn'd the livel}'
green ;
No birds, except as birds of passage,
flew ;
No bee was heard to hum, no dove to
coo ;
No streams, as amber smooth, as
amber clear,
Were seen to glide, or heard to warble
here.
Piopliecy of Famine.
Chap. XXVII.
' Woe to the vanquish'd ! ' was stern
Brenno's %vord,
\Vhen sunk proud Rome beneath the
Gallic sword —
'Woe to the vanquish'd !' when his
massive blade
Bore down the scale against her ransom
weigh'd,
And on the field ot'foughten battle still.
Who knows no limit save the victor's
will.
Tlie Ganlltad.
Chap. XXXI.
And be he safe restored ere evening
set.
Or, if there 's vengeance in an injured
heart.
And power to wreak it in an armed
hand,
Your land shall ache for 't.
Old Play.
Chap. XXXII.
Fartwell to theland where the clouds
love to rest,
Like the shroud of the dead on the
mountain's cold breast ;
To the cataract's roar where the eagles
reply,
And the lake her lone bosom expands
to the sky.
Chap. XXXVII.
VII.
FROM THE HEART OF
MIDLOTHIAN.
M.\DGE Wildfire sings: —
When the glede's in the blue cloud.
The lavrock lies still ;
When the hound "s in the greenwood
The hind keeps the hill.
O SLEEP 3'e sound. Sir James, she said,
When 3'e suld rise and ride !
There 'stwentj- men, wi" bow and blade,
Are seeking where ve hide.
I GLANCE like the wildfire through
country- and town ;
I'm seen on the causewaj- — I'm seen
on the down ;
The lightning that flashes so bright
and so free,
Is scarcely so blithe or so bonnv as me.
What did ye wi' the bridal ring, bridal
ring, bridal ring?
What did ye wi' v'our \vedding ring,
\-e little cuttj' quean. O ]
I gied it till a sodger, a sodger. a
sodger,
I gied it till a sodger, an auld true love
o' mine, O.
114
(podv^ anb (^tvet
Good even, good fair moon, good even
to Ihec ;
I prithee, dear moon, now show to me
The form and the features, the speech
and degree.
Of the man that true lover of mine
shall be.
It is the bonn}' butcher lad
That wears the sleeves of blue,
He sells the flesh on Saturday,
On Friday' that he slew.
There's a bloodhound ranging Tin-
wald Wood,
There's harness glancing sheen ;
There 's a maiden sits on Tinwald brae,
And she sings loud between.
In the bonnie cells of Bedlam,
Ere I was ane and twenty,
I had hempen bracelets strong.
And merry whips, ding-dong,
And prayer and fasting plenty.
My banes are buried in yon kirk-yard
Sac far ayont the sea.
And it is but my blithesome ghaist
That's speaking now to thee.
Madge
I am Queen of the Wake, and I'm
Lady of May,
And I lead the blithe ring round the
May- pole to-day ;
The wild-fire that flashes so fair and so
free
Was neversobright, orsobonnieasme.
Our work is over — over now.
The goodman wipes his wearj' brow,
The last long wain wends slow away.
And we are free to sport and play.
The night comes on when sets the sun,
And labour ends when day is done.
When Autumn's gone, and Winter's
come,
We hold our jovial harvest-home.
When the fight of grace is fought,
When the marriage vest is wrouglit.
When Faith has chased cold Doubt
awa}'.
And Hope but sickens at delay.
When Charity, imprisoned here.
Longs for a more expanded sphere, —
Doff thy robes of sin and claj'.
Christian, rise, and come away.
Cauld is my bed, Lord Archibald,
And sad my sleep of sorrow :
But thine sail be as sad and cauld,
My fause true-love 1 to-morrow.
y\nd weep ye not, my maidens free,
Though death your mistress borrow
For he for whom I die to-day.
Shall die for me to-morrow.
I'm Madge of the country, 1'
of the town,
And I'm Madge of the lad 1 am
blithest to own —
The Lady of Bceverin diamonds may
shine.
But has not a heart half so lightsome | Sweet Robin sits on the bush,
as mine. I Singing so rarely.
Proud Maisie is in the wood.
Walking so early ;
from tU (^Avitk^ (llovelW
775
'Tell me, thou bonny bird,
When shall I marry me ] '
'When six braw gentlemen
Kirkward shall carry yc'
'Who makes the bridal bed.
Birdie, say truly ■ '
' The grey-headed sexton
That delves the grave dul^-.
'The glow-worm o'er grave and stone
Shall light thee steady.
The owl from the steeple sing,
" Welcome, proud lady.'"
Chaps. XIV — XXXIX.
MOTTOES.
Law, take thy victim 1 — May she find
the mercy
111 _\on mild heaven which this hard
world denies her I
Chap, xxiii.
And Need and Miserj--, Vice and
Danger, bind
In sad alliance, each degraded mind.
Chap, xxviii.
I BESEECH you.
These tears beseech you, and these
chaste hands woo you,
That never yet were heaved but to
things hol^' —
Things like yourself. You are a God
above us ;
Be as a God, then, full of saving mercy !
T/if Blo<uly Brother.
Chap, x.x.wi.
VI 1 1.
FROM THE BRIDE OF
EAMMERMOOR.
Ll'cv Ashto.n- sings: —
Look not thou on beauty's charming,
Sit thou still when kings are arming.
Taste not vvhen the wine-cup glistens,
Speak not when the people listens.
Stop thine ear against the singer.
From the red gold keep thy finger;
Vacant heart and hand and ejx-.
Easy live and quiet die.
Chap. ir.
The Forester sings: —
The monk must arise when the matins
ring.
The abbot may sleep to their chime ;
But the yeoman must start when the
bugles sing,
'Tis time, my hearts, 'tis time.
There's bucks and raes on Billhope
braes.
There's a herd onShortwoodShaw;
But a lily-white doe in the garden goes,
She's fairly worth them a'.
Chap. ir.
THE PROPHECY.
WiiE.N' the last Laird of Ravenswood
to Ravenswood shall ride.
Aiul woo a dead maiden to be his
bride.
He shall stable his steed in the Kelpie's
flow.
And his name shall be lost for evermoe !
Chap. xvii.
76
(poetry (xn'i) (Perec
MOTTOES.
Av. and when huntsmen wind the
merry horn,
And from its covert starts the fearful
prey,
Who, warm'd with youth's blood in
his swelling veins.
Would, like a lifeless clod, outstretched j
lie,
Shu tout from all the fair creation offers 1
Etinvald, Act ii. Sc. i.
Chap. VIII.
Let them have meat enough, woman
—half a hen !
There be old rotten pilchards -put
them ofl" too !
'Tis but a little new anointing of them.
And a strong onion that confounds
the savour.
Love's Pilgiiitiat^e.
Chap. X.
Should I take aught of you ? 'tis true
I begg'd now ;
And, what is worse than that, I stole
a kindness;
And, what is worst of all, I lost my
way in 't.
Wit li'illioiif Moiuy.
Chap. XII.
As, to the Autumn breeze's bugle-
sound.
Various and vague the dr^' lea\'es
dance their round ;
Or, from the garner-door, on ether
borne,
The chaff flies devious from the
winnow'd corn ;
So vague, so devious, at the breath
of heaven.
From their fix'd aim are iiKU-tal
counsels driven.
Aiioiiyinoiis.
Chap. XIII.
Here is a father now
Will truck his daughter for a foreign
\-enture,
Make her the stop-gap to some
canker'd feud.
Or lling her o'er, like Jonah, to the
fishes.
To appease the sea at highest.
Aiioiiymoiis.
Chap. XVI.
Sir, stay at home and take an old
man's counsel :
Seek not to bask you by a stranger's
hearth ;
Our own blue smoke is warmer than
their fire.
Domestic food is wholesome, though
'tis homely,
And foreign daintiespoisonous, though
tasteful.
The French Coiiilczan.
Chap. -Kvii.
I DO too ill in this,
And must not think but that a parent's
plaint
Will move the heavens to pour forth
misery
Upon the head of disobediency.
Yet reason tells us parents are o'erseen
When with too strict a rein they do
hold in
Their child's aft'ection, and control
that love
Which theHigh Powers Divine inspire
them with.
The Hog hath lost his Pearl.
Chap, xviii.
And soon they spied the merry-men
green.
And eke the coach-and-four.
Ditke upon Duke.
Chap. XXI.
from tH (^aperfcp (Itovefe.
777
Why, now I have Dame Fortune
by the forelock,
And il she 'scapes my grasp, the fault
is mine ;
He that hath butteted with stern
adversity
Best knows to shape his course to
favouring; breezes.
Oi</ Play.
Chap. XXVI.
IX.
P^ROM THE LEGEND OF
MONTROSE.
I'yotn (he Gaelic :--
Wok! woe! son of the Lowiandcr.
Why wilt thou leave thine o\vn bonny
Border?
Why comest thou hither, disturbing
the Highlander,
Wasting the glen that ^vas once in fair
order ?
Introduction.
SONG OF THE DAWN.
Annot Lyle ^ings : —
Birds of omen dark and foul,
Night-crow, raven, bat, and owl,
Leave the sick man to his dream —
All night long he heard j^our scream.
Haste to cave and ruin'd tower.
Ivy tod, or dingled-bower.
There to wink and mope, for, hark !
In the mild air sings the lark.
Hie to moorish gills and rocks,
Prowling wolf and wilj' fox ;
Hie yc fast, nor turn your view.
Though the lamb bleats to the cwc.
Cuuch yoiu- trains, and spceil your
(light.
Safety parts with parting night ;
And on distant echo borne.
Comes the hunter's early horn.
Tiic moon's wan crescent scarcely
gleams,
Ghost-like she fades in morning beams :
Hie hence, each peevish imp and fay
That scare the pilgrim on his way.
Quench, kelpie! quench, in bog and fen,
Thy torch, that cheats benighted men ;
Thy dance is o'er, thy reign is done,
For Ben-y-glow hath seen the sun.
Wild thoughts that, sinful, dark, and
deep,
O'erpower the passive mind in sleep,
Pass from the slumberer's soul away,
Like night-mists from the brow of day :
Foul hag, whose blasted visage grim
•Smothers the pulse, unnerves the limb,
.Spur thy dark palfrey, and begone !
Thou dar'st not face the godlike sun.
Chap. vr.
LADY ANNE.
Annot Lvle sings : — •
November's hail-cloud drifts away,
November's sunbeam wan
Looks coldly on the castle grey,
When forth comes Lady Anne.
The orphan by the oak was set,
Her arms, her feet, were bare ;
The hail drops had not melted yet,
Amid her raven hair.
'And, dame,' she said, ' by all the ties
That child and mother know.
Aid one who never knew these joys,
Relieve an orphan's woe.'
c c 3
{podv^ Mli (DcvQi
The lady said, 'An orphan's state
Is hard and sad to bear ;
Yet worse the ^vidovv"d mother's fate,
Wlio mourns both lord and heir.
' Twelve times the rolHngyear has sped,
Since, when from vengeance wild
Of fierce Strathallan's Chief I tied.
Forth's eddies whelm'd my child.'
' Twelve times the year its course has
borne,'
The wandering- maid replied ;
' Since fishers on Saint Bridget's morn
Drew nets on Campsie side.
' Saint Bridget sent no scaly spoil ;
An infant, wellnigh dead.
They saved, and rcar'd in want and toil,
To beg from 3'ou her bread.'
'J'hat orphan maid tiie lad^^ kiss'd, —
' My husband's looks you bear ;
Saint Bridget and her morn be bless'd !
You are his widow's heir.
They've robed that maid, so poor and
pale,
In silk and sandals rare ;
And pearls, for drops of frozen hail,
Are glistening in her hair.
Chap. IX.
MOTTOES.
Dark on their journey lour'd tiic
gloomy day,
Wild were the hills, and doubtful
grew the way ;
More dark, more gloomy, and more
doubtful, show'd
The mansion which received them
from the road.
T/ic Tiaiv/Itiv, a Rontaiur.
Chap. X.
Is this thy castle, Baldwin? Melancholy
Displays her sable banner from the
donjon,
Dark'ning the foam of the whole surge
beneath.
Were I a habitant, to see this gloom
Pollute the face of nature, and to hear
The ceaseless sound of wave and sea-
bird's scream,
I 'd wish me in the hut that poorest
peasant
E'er framed to give him temporary
shelter.
? Brotvn.
Chap. XI.
This was the entry, then, these stairs
— but whither after ?
Yet he that 's sure to perish on the land
May quit the nicety of card and com-
pass.
And trust the open sea without a pilot.
Tragedy of Bmniovalt.
Chap. XIV.
Such mountains steep, such craggy
hills.
His army on one side enclose :
The other side, great griesly gills
Did fence with fenny mire and moss.
Which when the Earl understood.
He counsel craved of captains all.
Who bade set forth with mournful
mood
And take such fortune as would fall.
Floddcit Field, an Ancient Poetit.
Chap. XVI.
X.
FROM IVANHOE.
THE CRUSADER.
Hifiii deeds achieved of knightly fame.
From Palestine the champion came ;
from tU (Bavttk^ Qtovefe.
779
The cross upon his shoulders borne,
Battle and blast had dimm'd and torn.
Each dint upon his batter'd shield
Was token of a foughten field ;
And thus, beneath his lady's bovver,
He sung, as fell the twilight hour :
' Joy to the fair ! — thy knight behold,
Return'd from yonder land of gold ;
No wealth he brings, nor wealth can
need,
Save his good arms and battle-steed ;
His spurs to dash against a foe,
His lance and sword to lay him low;
Such all the trophies of his toil.
Such — and the hope of Tekla"s smile!
' Joy to the fairl whose constant knight
Her favour fired to feats of might 1
Unnoted shall she not remain
Where meetthe bright and noble train;
Minstrel shall sing, and herald tell —
' Mark j'onder maid of beauty well,
'Tisshe forwhose bright eyes was won
The listed field of Ascalon I
'"Note well her smile I — it edged the
blade
Which fifty wives to widows made.
When, vain his strength and Mahound's
spell,
Iconium's turban'd Soldan fell.
Sce'st thou her locks, whose sunny
glow
Half shows, half shades, her neck of
snow '
Twines not of them one golden thread.
But for its sake a Paynim bled.'"
' Joy to the fair I — my name unknown,
Kach deed,andallitspraise, thineown ;
Then, oh I unbar this churlish gate,
The night-dew falls, the hour is late.
Inured to Syria's glowing breath,
I feel the north breeze chill as death ;
Let grateful love quell maiden shame,
And grant him bliss who brings thee
fame.'
Chap. XVII.
THE BAREFOOTED FRIAR.
I 'll give thee, good fellow, a twelve-
month or twain.
To search Europe through from B_\--
zantium to Spain ;
But ne'er shall you find, should you
search till you tire,
So happy a man as the Barefootetl
Friar.
Your knight for his ladj^ pricks forth
in career.
And is brought home at even-song
prick'd through with a spear;
I confess him in haste — for his lady
desires
No comfort on earth save the Bare-
footed Friar's.
Your monarch ? — Pshaw 1 manv' a
prince has been known
To barter his robes for our cowl and
our gown ;
But which of us e'er felt the idle desire
To exchange for a crown the grey
hood of a Friar?
TheFriarhaswalk'd out, and where'er
he has gone,
The land and its fatness is mark'd lor
his own ;
He can roam where he lists, he can
stop when he tires,
For ever}' man's house is the Bare-
footed Friar's.
He 's expected at noon, and no wight,
till he comes.
May profane the great chair, or the
porridge of plums ;
For the best of the cheer, and the
seat by the fire.
Is the undenied right of the Barefooted
Friar.
c c 5
78o
^ottv^ anl> (Per0C
He's expected at night, and the pasty's
made hot,
They broach the brown ale, and they
fill the black pot ;
And the goodwife wonld wish the
goodman in the mire.
Ere he lack'd a soft pillow, the
Barefooted Friar.
Long nourish the sandal, the cord,
and the cope,
The dread of the devil and trust of
the Pope !
For to gather life's roses, unscathed
by the brier,
Is granted alone to the Barefooted
Friar.
Chap. XVII.
Norman saw on English oak.
On English neck a Norman yoke,
Norman spoon in English dish.
And England ruled as Normans wish ;
Blithe world in England ne\-cr will be
more.
Till England's rid of all the four.
Chap, xxvii.
Ulrica sings: —
Whet the bright steel,
Sons of the White Dragon 1
Kindle the torch.
Daughter of Hengist !
The steel glimmers not for the carving
of the banquet.
It is hard, broad, and sharply pointed ;
The torch goeth not to the bridal
chamber,
It steams and glittersblue with sulphur.
Whet the steel, the raven croaks !
Eight the torch, Zernebock is yelling I
Whet the steel, sons of the Dragon !
Kindle the torch, daughter of Hengist!
The black clouds are low over the
thane's castle :
The eagle screams — he rides on their
bosom.
Scream not, grey rider of the sable
cloud.
Thy banquet is prepared !
The maidens of Valhalla look forth,
The race of Hengist will send them
guests.
Shake j'our black tresses, maidens of
Valhalla I
And strike your loud timbrels tor
.ioy !
Many a haughty step bends to your
halls.
Many a helmed head.
Dark sits the evening upon the thane's
castle,
The black clouds gather round ;
Soon shall they be red as the blood of
the valiant 1
The destroyer of forests shall shake
his red crest against them ;
He, the bright consumer of palaces.
Broad waves he his blazing banner,
Red, wide, and dusky.
Over the strife of the valiant ;
His joy is in the clashing swords and
broken bucklers ;
He loves to lick the hissing blood as
it bursts warm from the wound !
All must perish I
The sword cleaveth the helmet ;
The strong armour is pierced b^' the
lance :
Fire devoureth the dwelling of princes.
Engines break down the fences of the
battle.
All must perish !
The race of Hengist is gone —
The name of Horsa is no more !
I Shrink not then from your doom, sons
of the sword I
from tU (^aperfep (Tlovefe.
781
Let 3'our blades drink blood like wine;
Feast ye in the banquet of slaughter,
B3' the light of the blazing halls !
Strong be your swords while j'our
blood is warm,
And spare neither for pit}' nor fear,
For vengeance hath but an hour ;
Strong hate itself shall expire 1
1 also must perish.
Chap. XXXII.
REBECCA'S HYMN.
When Israel, of the Lord beloved,
Out from the land of bondage came,
Her fathers' God before her moved.
An awful guide in smoke and flanio.
By da}', along the astonish'd lands
The cloudy pillar glided slow ;
By night, Arabia's crimson'd sands
Relurn'd the fiery column's glow.
There rose the choral hymn of praise.
And trump and timbrel answer'd
keen,
And Zion's daughters pour'd their lays.
With priest's and warrior's voice
between.
No portents now our foes amaze,
Forsaken Israel wanders lone :
Our fathers would not know Thy wa^'s.
And Thou hast left them to their own.
But present still, though now unseen I
When brightly shines the prosper-
ous day.
Be thoughts of Thee a cloudy screen
To temper the deceitful ray.
And oh, when stoops on Judah's path
In shade and storm the frequent
night,
BcThou, long-suffering, slow to wrath,
A burning and a shining light 1
Our harps we left by Babel's streams.
The tyrant's jest, the Gen tile's scorn;
No censer round our altar beams,
And mute are timbrel, harp, and horn.
But Thou hast said, The blood of goat.
The flesh of rams I will not prize ;
A contrite heart, a humble thought.
Are mine accepted sacrifice.
Chap. XXXIX.
A VIRELAI.
The Black Knight siiii^s : — ■
Ann.^-Marie, love, up is the sun,
Anna- Marie, love, morn is begun.
Mists are dispersing, love, birds sing-
ing free,
LTp in the morning, love, Anna-Marie.
Anna-Marie, love, up in the morn.
The hunter is winding blithe sounds
on his horn.
The echo rings merry from rock and
from tree,
'Tis time to arouse thee, love, Anna-
Marie.
The Jester ics/'oik^s: —
O T3'balt, love, Tybalt, awake me not
yet,
Around my soft pillow while softer
dreams flit ;
For what are the joys that in waking
we prove.
Compared with these visions. OTybaltl
my love ]
Let the birds to the rise of the mist
carol shrill.
Let the hunter blow out his loud horn
on the hill,
Softer sounds, softer pleasures, in
slumber I prove.
But think not I dream'd of thee,
Tybalt, my love.
Chap. XL. ;
78:
(poetry an^ (^iv&t
A DUET.
The Knight and Wamba.
•Botfi.)
There came tliree merry men from
south, west, and north,
Ever more sing the roundelay;
To win the Widow of Wycombe forth.
And where was the widow might
say them nay?
The first was a knight, and from Tyne-
dale he came,
Ever more sing the roundelay ;
And his fathers, God save us, were
men of great fame.
And where was the widow might
say him nay ?
Of his father the laird, of his uncle the
squire,
He boasted in rhyme and in rounde-
lay ;
She bade him go bask by his sea-coal
fire,
For she was the widow would say
him naj'.
(Wamba alone.)
The next that came forth, swore by
blood and by nails,
Merrily sing the roundelay ;
llur's a gentleman, God wot, and hur's
lineage was of Wales,
And where was the widow might say
him nay?
Sir David ap Morgan ap Griffith ap
Hugh
Ap Tudor ap Rhice, quoth his
roundelay ;
She said that one widow for so many
^vas too few.
And she bade the Welshman wend
his way.
But then next came a yeoman, a yeo-
man of Kent,
Jollily singing his roundelay;
He spoke to the widow of living and
rent.
And where was the widow could
say him nay ?
{Both.)
So the knight and the squire were
both left in the mire.
There for to sing their roundelay ;
For a yeoman of Kent, with his yearly
rent,
There ne'er was a widow could saj'
him nav.
Chap. XL.
DIRGE FOR ATHELSTANE.
Dust into dust,
To this all must ;
The tenant hath resign'd
The faded form
To waste and worm-
Corruption claims her kind.
Through paths unknown
Thy soul hath flown.
To seek the realms of woe.
Where fiery pain
Shall purge the stain
Of actions done below.
In that sad place,
By Mary's grace,
Brief may thy dwelling be !
Till prayers and alms,
And holy psalms,
Shall set the captive free.
Chap. xi.u.
from t0e (^averfep (IXovefe.
783
MOTTOES.
Away ! our journey lies tlirougli dell
and dingle,
Where the blithe fawn trips b^' its
timid mother,
Where the broad oak, with inter-
cepting boughs,
Chequers the sunbeam in the green-
sward alley —
Up and away I — for lovely paths are
these
To tread, when the glad sun is on his
throne :
Less pleasant, and less safe, when
Cynthia's lamp
With doubtful glimmer lights the
dreary forest.
Ellriik Forest.
Chap. XVIII.
A TRAIN of armed men, some noble dame
Escorting vso their scatter'd words
discover'd.
As unperceiv'd I hung upon their
rear 1 ,
Are close at hand, and mean to pass
the night
Within the castle.
Ona, a Tragedy.
Chap. xi.x.
When autumn nights were long and
drear,
And forest walks were darkand dim.
How sweetly on the pilgrim's car
Was wont to steal the hermit's
hymn !
Devotion borrows Music's tone,
And Music took Devotion's wing,
And, like the bird that hails the sun,
They soar to heaven, and soaring
sing.
The Hermit »/ St. Cleiuenfs Well.
Chap. XX.
Al.\s ! how many hours and years
have pass'd
since human forms have round this
table sate,
Or lamp or taper on its surface
gleam'd 1
Methinks I hear the sound of time
long past
.Still murmuring o'er us in the lofty
void
Of these dark arches, like the ling'ring
voices
Of those who long within their graves
have slept.
Orra, a Tragedy.
Chap. XXI.
The hottest horse will oft be cool.
The dullest will show fire ;
The friar will often play the fool.
The fool will play the friar.
Old .Song.
Chap. XXVI.
This wandering race, sevcr'd fi'om
other men,
Boast yet theirintercourse witli liuman
arts ;
The seas, the woods, the deserts which
they haunt.
Find them acquainted with their secret
treasures ;
And unregarded herbs, and llowers,
and blossoms,
Display undream'd-of powers when
gather'd hy them.
„, T/,eJe:v.
Chap. XXVIII.
Approach the chamber, look upon liis
bed.
His is the passing of no peaceful ghost,
Which, as the lark arises to the skj-,
'Mid morning's sweetest breeze and
softest dew,
Is wing'd to heaven bj* good men's
sighs and tears !
Anselm parts otherwise.
Old Plnv.
Chap. XXX. ^
84
(pottv^ anl (Peree
Trust me, each state must have its
policies :
Kingdoms have edicts, cities have
their charters ;
Even the v^ild outla\v, in his forest-
walk.
Keeps \et some touch of civil discipline.
For not since Adam wore his verdant
apron
Hath man with man in social union
dwelt.
But laws were made to draw that
union closer. Old Play.
Chap. XXXII.
Arouse the tiger of Hj'rcanian deserts,
Strive with the half-starved lion for
his pre}- ;
Lesser the risk, than rouse the slum-
bering fire
Of wild Fanaticism. Anonymous.
Chap. XXXV.
Sav not mj' art is fraud — all live by
seeming.
The beggar begs with it. and the gay
courtier
Gains land and title, rank and rule, b}'
seeming :
The clerg3' scorn it not, and the bold
soldier
Will eke with it his service. All
admit it,
All practise it ; and he who is content
With showing what he is. shall have
small credit
In church, or camp, or state. .So wags
the world. Old Play.
Chap. XXXVI.
Stern was the law which bade its
vot'ries leave
At human woes with human hearts to
grieve ;
Stern was the law, which at the
winning wile
Of frank and harmless mirth forbade
to smile;
But sterner still, when high the iron
rod
Of tyrant power she shook, and call'd
that power of God.
The Middle Ages.
Chap, xxxvii.
XI.
FROM THE MONASTERY.
' ye sit ancillae, <frV.'
Take thou no scorn
Of fiction born.
Fair fiction's muse to ^voo ;
Old Homer's theme
Was but a dream,
Himself a fiction too.
Ansivcv to the Introductory Epistle (of
Captain Clutterbuck).
'MERRILY SWIM WE.'
The White L.^dy sings : —
Merrily swim we, the moon shines
bright.
Both current and ripple are dancing
in light :
We have roused the night raven, I
heard him croak
As we plashed along beneath the oak
That flings its broad branches so far
and so wide,
Their shadows are dancing in midst
of the tide.
'Who wakens my nestlings?' the
raven he said,
' M\' beak shall ere morn in his blood
be red I
For a blue swollen corpse is a daint}'
meal,
And I '11 have my share with the pike
and the eel.'
from tU (H)atjerfep Qlovefe.
Merrily swim we, the moon shines
bright,
There 's a golden gleam on the distant
height:
There 's a silver shower on the alders
dank,
And the drooping willows that wave
on the bank.
I seethe Abbey, both turret and tower,
It is all astir for the vesper hour ;
The monks for the chapel are leaving
each cell,
But where 's Father Philip should toll
the bell ?
Merrilj- swim we, the moon shines
bright,
Downward we drift through shadow
and light;
Under yon rock the eddies sleep,
Calm and silent, dark and deep.
The Kelpy has risen from the fathom-
less pool,
He has lighted his candle of death and
of dool :
Look, Father, look, and 3'ou "11 laugh
to see
How he gapes and glares with his eyes
on thee !
Good luck to yourfishing, whom watch
ye to-night ?
A man of mean or a man of might ?
Is it layman or priest that must float
in your cove,
Or lover who crosses to visit his love ?
Hark I heard 3'e the Kelpy reply as
we pass'd, —
' God's blessing on the warder, he
lock'd the bridge fast 1
All that come to my cove are sunk.
Priest or layman, lover or monk.'
Landed — landed ! the black book hath
won,
Else had you seen Berwick with
morning sun I
Sain ye, and save ye, and blithe mot
^•e be.
Forseldom they land that go swimming
with me.
Chap. V.
THE MONK'S WARNING.
The White L.\dy .sV;/i;,s .• —
Good evening. Sir Priest, and so late
as j^ou ride.
With your mule so fair, and ^-our
mantle so wide;
But ride you through valley-, or ride
you o'er hill,
There is one that has warrant to wait
on you still.
Back, back,
The volume black I
I have a warrant to carry it back.
What, ho ! Sub-Prior, and came you
but here
To conjure a book from a dead woman's
bier?
Sain 3'ou, and save you, be wary and
wise,
Ride back with the book, or 3'ou "11 paj-
for your prize.
Back, back
There 's death in the track !
In the name of m\' master. I bid thee
bear back.
That which is neither ill nor well.
That which belongs not to heaven nor
to hell,
A wreath of the mist, a bubble of the
stream,
'Twixtawakingthought and a sleeping
dream ;
A form that men spj^
With the half-shut e\'e
In the beams of the setting sun,
am I.
86
(poefrp an& (Pevee
Vainly, Sir Prior, wouldst thou bar me
my right !
Like the star when it shoots, I can
dart through the night ;
I can dance on the torrent, and ride
on the air.
And travel the world with the bonny
night-mare.
Again, again.
At the crook of the glen,
Where bickers the burnie, I '11 meet
thee again.
Men of good are bold as sackless ',
Men of rude are w^ild and reckless.
Lie thou still
In the nook of the hill,
For those be before thee that wish
thee ill.
Chap. XI.
Thk White Lady sings : —
Th.xnk the holly-bush
That nods on thy brow ;
Or with this slender rush
1 had strangled thee now.
Chap. X.
TO THE WHITE LADY.
H.M.BERT invokes : —
Thrice to the holly brake,
Thrice to the well —
I bid thee awake,
White Maid of Avenel!
Noon gleams on the lake.
Noon glows on the fell. —
Wake thee, O wake,
White Maid of Avenel.
Chap. XI.
^ Siici/ess — Innocent,
TO HALBERT.
The White L.\dy sings or speaks : —
YoL'TH of the dark e3^e, wherefore
didst thou call me ?
Wherefore art thou here, if terrors
can appal thee ?
He that seeks to deal with us must
know no fear nor failing;
To coward and churl our speech is
dark, our gifts are unavailing.
The breeze that brought me hithernow
must sweep Egyptian ground.
The fleecy cloud on which I ride for
Araby is bound ;
The fleecy cloud is drifting bj^ the
breeze sighs for my stay.
For I must sail a thousand miles before
the close of day.
What I am I must not show —
What I am thou couldst not know —
Something betwixt heaven and hell —
Something that neither stood nor fell —
.Something that through thy wit or will
May work thee good — may work
thee ill.
Neither substance quite, nor shadow,
Haunting lonely moor and meadow,
Dancing by the haunted spring,
Riding on the whirlwind's wing ;
Aping in fantastic fashion
Every change of human passion.
While o'er our frozen minds they pass
Like shadows from the mirror'd glass.
Wayward, fickle, is our mood,
Hovering betwixt bad and good,
Happier than brief-dated man.
Living twenty times his span ;
Far less happy, for we have
Help nor hope beyond the grave !
Man awakes to joy or sorrow ;
Ours the sleep that knows no morrow.
This is all that I can show —
This is all that thou may'st know.
from tU (^wttk^ (Uovefe.
787
Ay ! and I taught thee the word and
the spell,
To waken me here by the Fairies'
Well :
But thou hast loved the heron and
hawk,
More than to seek my haunted walk ;
And thou hast loved the lance and the
sword,
More than good text and holy word ;
And thou hast loved the deer to track.
More than the lines and the letters
black ;
And thou art a ranger of moss and
of wood.
And scornest the nurture of gentle
blood.
Thy craven fear my truth accused ;
Thine idlehood my trust abused ;
He that draws to harbour late,
Must sleep without, or burst the gate.
There is a star for thee which burn'd,
Itsinfluence wanes, itscourseisturn'd ;
Valour and constancj' alone
Can bring thee back the chance that "s
flown.
Within that awful volume lies
The mystery of mysteries !
Happiest they of human race,
To whom God has granted grace
To read, to fear, to hope, to pray,
To lift the latch, and force the way ;
And better had they ne'er been born.
Who read to doubt, or read to scorn.
Many a fathom dark and deep
I have laid the book to sleep ;
f'thereal fires around it glowing —
Eth.ereal music ever flowing —
The sacred pledge of Heav'n
All things revere,
Each in his sphere.
Save man for whom "twas e;iv'n :
Lend thy hand, and thou shalt spy
Things ne'er seen by mortal eye.
Fear'st thou to go with me ?
.Still it is free to thee
A peasant to dwell ;
Thou may'st drive the dull steer,
And chase the king's deer.
But never more come near
This haunted well.
Herk lies the volume thou boldly hast
sought ;
Touch it, and take it, — 'twill dearly be
bought.
Rash thy deed.
Mortal weed
To immortal flames applj'ing ;
Rasher trust
Has thing of dust.
On his own weak worth relying :
Strip thee of such fences vain,
Strip, and prove thy luck again.
Mortal warp and mortal woof
Cannot brook this charmed roof;
All that mortal art hath wrought
In our cell returns to nought.
The molten gold returns to clay.
The polish'd diamond melts away ;
All is altered, all is flown.
Nought stands fast but truth alone.
Not for that thy quest give o'er :
Courage ! prove thy chanceonce more.
Alas ! alas !
Not ours the grace
These holy characters to trace :
Idle forms of painted air.
Not to us is given to share
The boon bestow'd on Adam's race.
788
^oetrp anl» (^eree
With patience bide,
Heaven will provide
The fitting time, the fitting guide.
Chap. XII.
This is the day when the fairy kind
Sit weeping alone for their hope-
less lot.
And the wood-maiden sighs to the
sighing wind.
And the mermaiden weeps in her
crystal grot ;
For this is a day that the deed was
wrought.
In which we have neither part nor
share,
For the children of clay was salvation
bought.
But not tor the forms of sea or air I
And ever the mortal is most forlorn.
Who meeteth our race on the Friday
morn.
Daring youth ! for thee it is well.
Here calling me in haunted dell,
That thy heart has not quail'd.
Nor thy courage fail'd.
And that thou couldst brook
The angry look
Of Her of Avenel.
Did one limb shiver,
Or an eyelid quiver,
Thou wcrt lost for ever.
Though I am form'd from the ether blue.
And my blood is of the unfallen dew.
And thou art framed of mud and dust,
'Tis thine to speak, reply I must.
A MIGHTIER wizard far than I
Wields o'er the universe his power ;
Him owns the eagle in the sk\-,
The turtle in the bower.
Changeful in shape, yet mightiest still,
He wields the heart of man at will,
From ill to good, from good to ill.
In cot and castle-tower.
Ask thy heart, whose secret cell
Is fill'd with Mary Avenel 1
Ask thy pride, why scornful look
In Mary's view it will not brook ]
Ask it, why thou seek'st to rise
Among the mighty and the wise ?
Why thou spurn'st th}' lowly lot ?
Why thy pastimes are forgot ?
Why thou wouldst in bloody strife
Mend thy luck or lose th}' life ?
Ask thy heart, and it shall tell.
Sighing from its secret cell,
'Tis for Marj' Avenel.
Do not ask me ;
On doubts like these thou canst not
task me.
We only see the passing show
Of human passion's ebb and flow ;
And view the pageant's idle glance
As mortals eye the northern dance,
When thousand streamers, flashing
bright,
Career it o'er the bro'w of night,
And gazers mark their changeful
gleams,
But feel no influence from their beams.
By ties mysterious link'd, our fated
race
Holds strange connexion with the
sons of men.
The star that rose upon the House of
Avenel,
When Norman Ulric first assumed
the name,
That star, when culminating in its
orbit.
Shot from its sphere a drop of diamond
dew,
from tU (^Mtvk^ (llovefe.
789
And this bright font received it — and
a Spirit
Rose from the fountain, and her date
of life
Hath co-existence with the House of
Avenel,
And with the star that rules it.
Look on my girdle — on this thread of
gold-
'Tis fine as web of lightest gossamer,
And, but there is a spell on't, would
not bind,
Light as they are, the folds of my
thin robe.
But when 'twas donn'd, it was a
massive chain,
Such as might bind the champion of
the Jews,
Even when his locks were longest :
it hath dwindled,
Hath 'minish'd in its substance and its
strength,
As sunk the greatness of the House
of Avenel.
When this frail thread gives way, I
to the elements
Resign the principles of life they lent
me.
Ask me no more of this ! — tiie stars
forbid it.
Dim burns the once bright star of
Avenel,
Dim as the beacon when the morn is
nigh.
And the o'er-wearied \varder leaves
the light-house ;
There is an influence sorrowful and
fearful,
That dogs its downward course.
Disastrous passion.
Fierce hate and rivalry, are in the
aspect
That lowers upon its fortunes.
Complain not on me, child of clay,
If to thy harm I yield the way.
We, who soar thy sphere above,
Know not aught of hate or love ;
As will or wisdom rules thy mood,
Mj' gifts to evil turn or good.
When Piercic Shafton boasteth high.
Let this token meet his eye.
The sun is westering from the dell,
Thy wish is granted — fare thee well I
Chap. xvii.
Sir Piercie Shafton ^ii/^s : —
What tongue can her perfections tell,
On whose each part all pens may
dwell.
(Etcetera, (<> iJic extent of about Jive
hitudyed verses^ ending thus : — )
Of whose high praise and praiscful
bliss.
Goodness the pen. Heaven paper is ;
The ink immortal fame doth send :
As I began so I must end.
The White Lady chants or recites : — ■
He whose heart for vengeance sued
Must not shrink from shedding blood ;
The knot that thou hast tied with
word.
Thou must loose bj' edge of sword.
You have summon'd me once, you
have summon'd me twice.
And without e'er a summons I come
to you thrice ;
Unask'd for, unsued for, you come to
my glen ;
Unsued and unask'd, I am with you
agen.
Chap. XX.
790
d^oeftrp anb (dcvat
BORDER MARCH.
!March, march, Ettrick, and Teviot-
dale,
Wh}^ the dcil dinna ye inarch
forward in order ?
March, march, Eskdale and Liddesdale,
All the Blue Bonnets are bound
for the Border.
Many a banner spread,
Flutters above your head,
Manyacrestthat is famous in story.
Mount and make ready then,
Sons of the mountain glen.
Fight for the Queen and our old
Scottish glory.
Come from the hills where your
hirsels are grazing,
Come from the glen of the buck and
the roe ;
Come to the crag where the beacon
is blazing.
Come with the buckler, the lance,
and the bow.
Trumpets are sounding,
War-steeds are bounding.
Stand to your arms, and march
in good order ;
England shall many a da3'
Tell of the bloody fray,
When the Blue Bonnets came
over the Border.
Chap. XXV.
THE WHITE LADY TO MARY
AVENEL.
Maiden, whose sorrows wail the
living dead,
Whose eyes shall commune with
the dead alive,
Maiden, attend ! Beneath mj- foot lies
hid
The word, tile law, the path which
thou dost stri\c
To find, and canst not find. Could
Spirits shed
Tears for their lot, it were my lot
to weep.
Showing the road which I shall never
tread.
Though my foot points it. Sleep,
eternal sleep,
Dark, long, and cold forgetfulness my
lot:
But do not thou at human ills repine;
Secure there lies full guerdon in this
spot
For all the woes that wait frail
Adam's line ;
Stoop then and make it yours — I may
not make it mine 1
Chap. XXX.
THE WHITE LADY TO EDWARD.
Thou who seek'st my fountain lone,
With thoughts and hopes thou dar'st
not own ;
Whose heart within leap'd wildly glad.
When most his browseem'd dark and
sad ;
Hie thee back, thou find'st not here
Corpse or coffin, grave or bier;
The dead alive is gone and fled —
Go thou, and join the living dead I
The living dead, whose sober brow
Oft shrouds such thoughts as thou
hast now.
Whose hearts within are seldom cured
Of passions by their vows abjured ;
Where, under sad and solemn show.
Vain hopes are nursed, wild wishes
glow.
Seek the convent's vaulted room,
Prayer and vigil be thy doom ;
Dofi'the green, and don the gre\',
To t'nc cloister hence awa^' !
Cliai). x.\xii.
front t^t (Bauvk]^ (llovcfe.
79r
THE "WHITE LADY'S FAREWELL.
Fare thcc well, thou Holly green I
Thou shalt seldom now be seen.
With all thy glittering garlands bend-
ing,
As to greet my slow descending.
Startling the bewilder'd hind.
Who sees thee wave without a wind.
Farewell, Fountain ! now not long
.Shalt thou murmur to my song.
While thy crystal bubbles glancing,
Keep the time in mystic dancing.
Rise and swell, are burst and lost.
Like mortal schcmesby fortune cross'd.
The knot of fate at length is tied.
The Churl is Lord, the Maid is Bride I
Vainly did my magic sleight
Send the lover from her sight ;
Wither bush, and perish well.
Fall'n is lofty Avenel I
Chap, xxxvii.
MOTTOES.
0 .\v I the I\Ionks, the Monks, thej-
(lid the mischief!
Theirs all the grossness, all the
superstition
Of a most gross and superstitious age.
May He be praised that sent the
healthful tempest,
And scatter'd all these pestilential
vapours ;
But that we owed them a// to yonder
Harlot
Throned on the seven hills with her
cup of gold,
1 will as soon believe, with kind Sir
Roger,
That old Moll White took wing with
cat and broomstick,
i\nd raised the last night's thunder.
,., OJdPlav.
Chap. I.
In yon lone vale his early \-outh was
bred,
Not solitary' then — the bugle-horn
Offell Alectooften wakedits windings,
From where the brook joins the
majestic river.
To the wild northern bog, the curlew's
haunt,
Where oozes forth its first and feeble
streamlet.
„, Old Phiv.
Chap. 11.
A PRIEST, 3-e cry, a priest ! — lame
shepherds thej-,
Howshalltheygatherin the straggling
flock ?
Dumb dogs which bark not, how shall
thej' compel
The loitering vagrants to the Master's
fold?
Fitter to bask before the blazing fire.
And snuff" the mess neat-handed
Phillis dresses.
Than on the snow-wreath battle with
the wolf.
„, The RcfoniKitiuii.
Chap. V.
Now let us sit in conclave. That
these weeds
Be rooted from the vinej-ard of the
Church.
That these foul tares be sever'd from
the wheat.
We are, I trust, agreed. Yet \\<>v:
to do this,
Nor hurt the wholesome crop and
tender vine-plants,
Cra\-es good advisement.
The Rcjuy.iuiliun.
Chap. VI.
792
(poetry ani> (Vtvac
Nay, dally not with time, the wise
man's treasure,
Though fools are lavish on 't ; the fatal
Fisher
Hooks souls, while wewastc moments.
Old Plav.
Chap. VIII.
You call this education, do you not?
Why, "tis the forced march of a herd
of bullocks
Before a shouting drover. The glad
van
Move on at ease, and pause a while
to snatch
A passingmorsel from the dewy green-
sward,
While all the blows, the oaths, the
indignation,
Fall on the croupe of the ill-fated
laggard
That cripples in the rear.
Old Play.
Chap. XI.
There's something in that ancient
superstition,
Which, erring as it is, our fancy loves.
The spring that, with its thousand
crystal bubbles,
Bursts from the bosom of some desert
rock
In secret sohtude, may well be deem'd
The haunt of something purer, more
refined.
And mightier than ourselves.
Old Play.
Chap. XII.
Nay, let me have the friends who eat
my victuals
As various as my dishes. The feast's
naught,
Where one huge plate predominates.
John Plaintext,
He shall be mighty beef, our English
staple ;
The worthy Alderman, a butter'd
dumpling ;
Yon pair of whisker'd Cornets, rufi's
and rees ;
Their friend the Dandy, a green goose
in sippets.
And so the board is spread at once
and fill'd
On the same principle — Variety.
Nciv Play.
Chap. XIV.
He strikes no coin, 'tis true, but coins
new phrases,
And vends them forth as knaves vend
gilded counters.
Which wise men scorn, and fools
accept in payment.
Old Play.
Chap. XV.
Now choose thee, gallant, betwixt
wealth and honour;
There lies the pelf, in sum to bear
thee through
The dance of youth, and the turmoil
of manhood,
Yet leave enough for age's chimney-
corner ;
But an thou grasp to it, farewell
Ambition !
Farewell each hope of bettering thy
condition,
And raising thy low rank above the
churls
That till the earth for bread I
Old Play.
Chap. XIX.
I HOPE you '11 give me cause to think
you noble,
And do me right with 3'our sword, sir,
as becomes
j One gentleman of honour to another;
from tU (^apevfep Qtovete.
793
All this is fair, sir — let us make no
days on 't,
I '11 lead your way.
Love's Pilgniiiagc.
Chap. XX.
Indifferent, but indifferent — pshaw '.
he doth it not
Like one who is his craft's master —
ne'erthelcss
I have seen a clown confer a bloody
coxcomb
On one who was a master of defence.
Old Play.
Chap. XXI.
Yes, life hath left him ; ever3- busy
thought,
Each fier^' passion, ever^' strong
affection.
The sense of outward ill and inward
sorrow,
Arc fled at once from the pale trunk
before nie ;
And I have given that which spoke
and moved,
Thought, acted, suffer'u, as a living man.
To be a ghastlj' form of bloody clay,
.Soon the foul food for reptiles.
Old Play.
Chap. xxn.
"Tis when the wound is stiffening
with the cold,
The warrior first feels pain ; 'tis when
the heat
And fiery fever of his soul is past,
The sinner feels remorse.
Old Play.
Chap, xxiii.
I 'i.L walk on tiptoe ; arm my eye with
caution.
My heart with courage, and my hand
with weapon
Like him who ventures on a lion's den.
Old Play.
Chap. XXIV.
Now, by Our Lady, Sheriff, "tis Iiard
reckoning.
That I, with every odds of birth and
barony.
Should be detain'd here for the casual
death
Of a wild forester, whose utmost having
Is but the brazen buckle of the belt
In which he sticks his hedge-knife.
Old Play.
Chap. XXVII.
You call it an ill angel — it may
be so ;
But sure I am, among the ranks which
fell,
'Tis the first fiend ere counsell'd man
to rise,
And win the bliss the sprite himself
had forfeited.
Old Play.
Chap. XXX.
At school I knew him— a sharp-witted
youth.
Grave, thoughtful, and reserved
amongst his mates.
Turning the hours of sport and food
to labour.
Starving his body to inform his mind.
Old Play.
Chap, XXXI.
Then in my gown of sober gra3'.
Along the mountain-path I'll wander,
And wind my solitary way
To the sad shrine Ihat courts me
yonder.
There in tlie calm monastic shade.
All injuries may be forgiven ;
And there for thee, obdurate maid.
My orisons .shall rise to hea\-f-ii.
TJie Cruel Lady of the Mountains.
Chap. XXXII.
794
{po^tv^ cinb (^eree
Now on my faith this gear is all
entangled,
Like to the yarn- clew of the drowsy
knitter,
Dragg'd by the frolic kitten through
the cabin.
While the good dame sits nodding
o'er the fire.
Masters, attend ; "twill crave some
skill to clear it.
OW P/ay.
Chap. XXXIII.
It is not texts will do it: Church
artillery
Are silenced soon by real ordnance,
And canons are but v^ain opposed to
cannon.
Go, coin your crosier, melt your
church plate down,
Hid the starved soldier banquet in
3-our halls.
And quaft'your long-saved hogsheads;
turn them out
Thus primed with 3'our good cheer,
to guard your wall,
And the}' will venture for "t.
Old Play.
Chap. XXXIV.
XII.
FROM thp: abbot.
The Pardoner speaks : —
LiSTNETH, gode people, everiche one,
For in the londe of Babylone,
Far eastward I wot it lyeth,
And isthe first londe the sonne espieth.
Ther, as he cometh fro out the se ;
In this ilk londe, as thinketh mc.
Right as hoJic legendcs tell,
Snottreth from a roke a well,
And tallcth into anc bath of ston.
WherchastSusanne in times long gon,
Was wont to wash her bodie and lim —
Mickle vertue hath that streme.
As ye shall se er that ye pas,
Ensample by this little glas —
Through nightcs cold and dayes bote,
Hiderward I have it brought ;
Hath a wife made slip or slide,
Or a maiden stepp'd aside ;
Putteth this water under her nese,
Wold she nold she, she shall snese.
Chap. XXVII.
MOTTOES.
In the wild storm.
The seaman hews his mast down,
and the merchant
Hca\es to the billows wares he once
deem'd precious :
So prince and peer, 'mid popular con-
tentions.
Cast oft" their favourites.
Ohi Play.
Chap. V.
Thou hast each secret of the house-
hold, Francis.
I dare be sworn thou hast been in
the buttery
Steeping th\' curious humour in fat ale.
And in the butler"s tattle — a^-, or
chatting
With the glib waiting-woman o"er
her comfits :
These bear the key to each domestic
mvsterv.
Old Play.
Chap. VI.
The sacred tapers' lights are gone.
Grey moss has clad the altar stone,
The holy image is o'erthrown,
The bell has ceased to toll.
from t^ (^avtvk^ (Itovefe.
795
The long ribb'd aisles are burst and
shrunk,
The holy shrines to ruin sunk,
Departed is the pious monk, —
God's blessing on his soul !
Rcdivivn.
Chap. VIII.
Kneel witli me, swear it ! 'Tis not in
words I trust,
Save when they 're fenced with an
appeal to Heaven.
Old Play.
Chap. IX.
Lite hath its May, and all is mirthful
then :
The woods are vocal, and the flowers
all odour ;
Its \cry blast has mirth in't, -and
the maidens.
The while they don their cloaks to
screen their kirtles,
Laugh at the rain that wets them.
Old Flav.
Chap. XI.
Nay, hear me, brother ; I am elder,
wiser,
And holier than thou ; and age, and
wisdom,
Andholiness, have peremptoryclaims,
And will be listen'd to.
Old Pldv.
Chap. XII.
What ! Dagon up again? I thought we
had hurled him
Down on the threshold never more to
rise.
Bring wedge and axe ; and, neigh-
bours, lend your hands.
And rive the idol into winter fagots !
Aihclstaiie, or the Converted Dane.
Chap. XIII.
Not the wild billow, when it breaks
its barrier —
Not the wild wind, escaping from
its cavern —
Not the wild fiend, that mingles both
together.
And pours their rage upon the rii)cn-
ing harvest.
Can match the wild freaks of this
mirthful meeting —
Comic, yet fearful, droll, and ycL
destructive.
Ihc Conspiracy.
Chap. XIV.
Youth I thou wcar'st to manhood now
Darker lip and darker brow,
.Statelier step, more pensive mien.
In thy face and gait are seen :
Thou must now brook midnight
watches.
Take thy food and sport by snatches !
For the gambol and the jest.
Thou wert wont to love the best.
Graver follies must thou follow,
But as senseless, false, and hollow.
Life, a Poem.
Chap. XVI.
The sky is clouded, Gaspard,
And the vexed ocean sleeps a troubled
sleep
Beneath a lurid gleam of parting sun-
shine.
Such slumber hangs o'er discontente<l
lands.
While factions doubt, as yet, if they
have strength
To front the open battle.
Albion, a Poem.
Chap. XVIII.
It is and is not ; "tis the thing I sought
for.
Have kneel'd for, pray'd for, rijk'd
my lite and fame for;
796
(poefrp txn^ (Ott&i.
And 3^et it is not — no more than the
shadow
Upon the hard, cold. flat, and polish'd
mirror,
Is tiie warm, graceful, rounded, living
substance
Which it presents in form and linea-
ment.
Old Play.
Chap. XIX.
Now have you reft me from mj' staft",
my guide,
Who taught mj' youth, as men teach
untamed falcons.
To use my strength discreetly- : I am
reft
Of comrade and of counsel.
Old Play.
Chap. XX.
Give me a morsel on the greensward
rather,
Coarse as you will the cooking; let
the fresh spring
Bubble beside my napkin, and the
free birds,
Twittering and chirping, hop from
bough to bough.
To claim the crumbs I leav'e for per-
quisites :
Your prison-feasts I like not.
The JVoodsniaii, a Drama.
Chap. XXIII.
'Tis a weary life this —
Vaults overhead, and grates and oars
around me,
And my sad hours spent with as sad
companions.
Whose thoughts are brooding o'er
their own mischances,
Far. far too deeph- totake part in mine.
T/ie IV'oodsiiian.
Chap. XXIV.
And when Love's torch hath set the
heart in flame.
Comes Signer Reason, with his saws
and cautions.
Giving such aid as the old grey-beard
Sexton,
Who from the church-vault drags his
crazy engine,
To ply its dribbling ineffectual streamlet
Against a conflagration.
Old Play.
Chap. XXV.
Yes, it is she whose eyes look'd on
thy childhood,
And watch'd with trembling hope thy
dawn of youth,
That now, with these same eye-balls,
dimm'd with age,
And dimmer yet with tears, sees thy
dishonour.
Old Play.
Chap, xxviii.
In some breasts passion lies conceal'd
and silent.
Like war's swart powder in a castle
vault,
Until occasion, like the linstock, lights
it;
Then comes at once the lightning
and the thunder.
And distant echoes tell that all is rent
asunder.
Old Play.
Chap. XXX.
De.-\th distant? — No. alas I he's ever
with us.
And shakes the dart at us in all our
actings :
He lurks within our cup while we "re
in health ;
Sits by our sick-bed, mocks our
I medicines ;
from tU (^Averfe^ (Itovefe.
797
We cannot walk, or sit, or ride, or
travel.
But Death is by to seize us when
he lists.
The Sfiaiiis/i Father.
Chap. XXXIII.
Ay, Pedro ? Come you here with
mask and lantern,
Ladder of ropes, and other moonshine
tools ?
Why. youngster, thou may'st cheat
the old Duenna,
Flatter the waiting-woman, bribe the
valet ;
But know, that I her father play the
Gryphon,
Tameless and sleepless, proof to fraud
or bribe,
And guard the hidden treasure of
her beauty.
The Spanish Father.
Chap. XXXIV.
It is a time of danger, not of revel,
When churchmen turn to masquers.
The Spanish Father.
Chap. XXXV.
Ay, sir — our ancient crown, in these
wild times,
Oft stood upon a cast ; the gamester's
ducat.
So often staked, and lost, and then
regain'd,
Scarce knew so many hazards.
The Spanish Fatlier.
Chap. XXXVII.
XIII.
FROM KENILWORTH.
THE OWL SONG.
Of all the birds on bush or tree,
Commend me to the owl,
Since he may best ensample be
To those the cup that trowl.
For when the sun hath left the west,
He chooses the tree that he loves the
best,
And he whoops out his song, and
he laughs at his jest.
Then, though hours be late, and
weather foul,
We '11 drink to the health of the
bonny, bonny owl.
The lark is but a bumpkin fowl,
He sleeps in his nest till morn ;
But my blessing upon the jolly owl,
That all night blows his horn.
Then up with your cup till you stagger
in speech,
And match me this catch, till you
swagger and screech.
And drink till you wink, my merry
men each ;
For, though hours be late, and weather
be foul.
We '11 drink to the health of the
bonny, bonny owl.
Chap. II.
THE WARDER'S WELCOME TO
KENILWORTH.
(/;/ imitation of Gascoigne.)
Wh.\t stir, what turmoil, have we for
the nones ?
Stand back, my masters, or beware
vour bones !
798
(poefrp ftnb Q)cr6e
Sirs, I 'm a warder, and no man
of straw ;
My voice keeps order, and my club
gives law.
Yet soft ! nay stay — what vision ha\e
we here ?
Wliat dainty darling's this? what
peerless peer ?
What loveliest face, that lovely ranks
enfold,
I. ike brightest diamond chased in
purest gold ?
Dazzled and blind, mine office I forsake,
My club, my kej-, my knee, my
homage lake.
Bright paragon, pass on in joy and
bliss ;
Beshrew the gate that opes not wide
at such a sight as this!
Chap. xxx.
MOTTOES.
Nay, I '11 hold touch ; the game shall
be plaj^'d out ;
It ne'er shall stop for me, this merry
wager :
That which I say when gamesome, I '11
avouch
In my most sober mood — ne'er trust
me else.
The Hazard- Tabic.
Chap. III.
Nor serve two masters? — Here's a
youth will try it.
Would fain serve God, yet give the
devil his due ;
Says grace before he doth a deed
of villany,
And returns his thanks devoutly when
'tis acted.
Old Play.
Chan. TV.
He was a man
Versed in the world as pilot in his
compass.
The needle pointed ever to that interest
Which was his loadstar, and he spread
his sails
With vantage to the gale of others'
passion.
TIic Deceiver, a Tragedy.
Chap. V.
This is He
Who rides on the court-gale ; controls
its tides :
Knows all their secret shoals and
fatal eddies ;
Whose frown abases, and whose smile
exalts.
He shines like any rainbow — and,
perchance,
His colours are as transient.
Chap. VII.
Old Plav.
This is rare news thou tell'st me,
my good fellow ;
There are two bulls fierce battling
on the green
For one fair heifer— if the one goes
down.
The dale will be more peaceful, and
the herd,
Which have small interest in their
brulziement,
May pasture there in peace.
Old Play.
Chap. XIV.
Wr;i.L, then, our course is chosen:
spread the sail, —
Heave oft the lead, and mark the
soundings well ;
Look to the helm, good master; many
a shoal
from tU (H)aperfep Qlopefe.
799
Marks this stern coast, and rocks
where sits the siren,
Who. hke ambition, hires men to their
ni i n .
The Shipwicck.
Chap. XVII.
Now God
Be good to me in this wild pilgrimage !
Allhojic in human aid I cast behind me.
Oh. who would be a woman ? who
that fool,
A weeping, pining, faithful, loving
\vonian ?
She hath hard measure still where
she hopes kindest.
And all her bounties only make her
ingratcs.
Love's Pilgriiiiage.
Chap. XXIII.
Hark ! the bells summon, and the
bugle calls,
But she the fairest answers not ; the tide
Of nobles and of ladies throngs the
halls,
But she the loveliest must in secret
hide.
What eyes were thine, proud Prince,
which in the gleam
Of yon gay meteors lost that better
sense,
That o'er the glow-worm doth the
star esteem,
And merit's modest blush o'er courtly
insolence ?
Tlie Glass Slipper.
Chap. XXV.
What, man ! ne'er lack a draught
when the full can
Stands at thine elbow, and craves
emptying ! —
Na}-, fear not me, for I have no delight
To watch men's vices, since I have
mvself
Of \irtue nought to boast of. I "m
a striker.
Would have the world strike with
me, pell-mell all.
Pa)idacnioiiimti.
Chap, x.xviii.
Now fare thee well, my master 1 if
true service
Be guerdon'd with hard looks, e'en
cut the tow-line,
And let our barks across the pathless
flood
Hold dilferent courses.
SItipzvrcck.
Chap. x.xi.K.
Now bid the steeple rock— she comes,
she comes !
Speak for us, bells ! speak for us,
shrill-tongued tuckets I
Stand to the linstock, gunner; let thy
cannon
Pla3' such a peal, as if a Paynim foe
Came stretch'd in turban'd ranks to
storm the ramparts.
We will have pageants too ; but that
craves wit,
And I 'm a rough-hewn soldier.
Tlie I'iigiiiOitcen, a Tragi-Coniedy.
Chap. xx.K.
The wisest sovereigns err like private
men.
And royal hand has sometimes laid
the sword
Of chivalry upon a worthless shoulder.
Which better had been branded by the
hangman.
What then ? Kings dotheirbest, — and
thej' and we
Must answer for the intent, ami not
the event.
Old Play.
Chap. XXXII.
8oo
(|)oetvg an'i) (Perec
Here stands tlie victim — there the
proud betraj'er,
E"en as the hind piill'd down by strang-
ling dogs
Liesat tlie hunter'sfeet, who courteous
proffers
To some high dame, the Dian of the
chase.
To whom he looks for guerdon, his
sharp blade.
To gash the sobbing throat.
T/ic ]Voodsiiiaii.
Chap. XXXIII.
High o'er the eastern steep the sun is
beaming.
And darkness flies with her deceitful
shadows ;
So truth prevails o'er falsehood.
Old Play.
Chap. XL.
XIV.
FROM THE PIRATE.
THE SONG OF THE REIM KENNAR.
Stern eagle of the far north-west,
Thou that bearest in thy grasp the
thunderbolt,
Thou whose rushing pinions stir
ocean to madness.
Thou the destroyer of herds, thou the
scatterer of navies,
Amidst the scream of thy rage,
Amidst the rushing of thy onward
wings.
Though thy scream be loud as the cry
of a perishing nation,
Though the rushing of thy wings be
like the roar of ten thousand
wav^es,
Yet hear, in thine ire and thy haste.
Hear thou the \iiicc of the Reim-
kennar.
Tliou hast met the pine-trees of Dront-'
heim,
Their dark-green heads lie prostrate
beside their up-rooted steins ;
Thou hast met the rider of the ocean,
The tall, the strong bark of the fear-
less rover,
And she has struck to thee the topsail
That she had not veil'd to a royal
armada.
Thou hast met the tower that bears its
crest among the clouds.
The battled massive tower of the Jarl.
of former days,
And the cope-stone of the turret
Is lying upon its hospitable hearth;
But thou too shalt stoop, proud com-
peller of clouds.
When thou hearest the voice of the
Reim-kennar.
/
There are verses that can stop the
stag in the forest,
Ay, and when the dark-colour'd dog
is opening on his track;
There are verses can make the wild
hawk pause on the wing,
Like the falcon that wears the hood
and the jesses,
And who knows the shrill whistle of
the fowler.
Thou who canst mock at the scream
of the drowning mariner.
And the crash of the ravaged forest,
And the groan of the overwhelmed
crowds,
When the church hath fallen in the
moment of prayer ;
There are sounds which thou also
must list,
When they are chanted by the voice
of the Reim-kennar.
Enough of woe hast thou wrought on
the ocean.
The widows wring their hands on the
beach ;
frotn t^t (^anvk^ Qtepefo.
8oi
Enough of woe hast thou wrought on
the land,
The husbandman folds his arms in
despair;
Cease thouthe waving of thy pinions,
Let the ocean repose in her dark
strength ;
Cease thou the flashing of thine ej^e,
Let the thunderbolt sleep in the ar-
mour}' of Odin ;
Be thou still at my bidding, viewless
racer of the north-'western
heaven, —
Sleep thou at the voice of Noma tlie
Reim-kcnnar.
Eagle of the far north-western waters.
Thou hast heard the voice of the Reim-
kennar,
Tliou hast closed thy wide sails at her
bidding,
And folded them in peace bj' thj' side.
My blessing be on thy retiring path ;
When thou stoopcstfrom thy place on
high,
Soft be thy slumbers in the caverns of
the imknown ocean.
Rest till destiny shall again awaken
thee ;
Eagle of the north-west, thou hast
heard the voice of the Reim-
kennar.
Chap. VI.
A LAST FAREWELL.
Claud Halcro sings : —
Farewell to Northmavcn,
Grey Hillswicke, farewell !
To the calms of thy ha\en.
The storms on thj' fell,
To each breeze that can vary
The mood of thy main,
And to thee, bonny Mary !
We meet not again 1
Farewell the wild ferry.
Which Hacon could brave,
When the peaks of the Skerry
Were white in the wave.
There 's a maid may look over
These wild waves in vain, —
For the skiff of her lover —
He comes not again !
The vows thou hast broke.
On the wild currents fling them
On the quicksand and rock
Let the mermaidens sing them ;
New sweetness they "11 give her
Bewildering strain ;
But there 's one who will never
Believe them again.
O were there an island.
Though ever so wild,
Where woman could smile, and
No man be beguiled—
Too tempting a snare
To poor mortals were given ;
And the hope would fix there.
That should anchor in heaven.
Chap. xii.
HAROLD HARFAGER.
The sun is rising diml}' red,
The wind is wailing low and dread :
From liis cliff the eagle sallies.
Leaves the wolf his darksome valleys
hi the mist the ravens hover,
Peep the wild dogs from the cover.
Screaming, croaking, baying, yellins
Each in his wild accents telling,
' Soon we feast on dead and dying,
Fair-hair'd Harold's flag is flying.'
Many a crest on air is streaming.
Many a helmet darkly gleaming,
Many an arm the axe uprears,
Doora'd to hew the wood of spears.
D d
802
(pottv^ anl (^eree
All along the crowded ranks
Horses neigh and armour clanks ;
Chiefs are shouting, clarions ringing,
Louder still the bard is singing,
' Gatiier footmen, gather horsemen,
To the field, ye valiant Norsemen I
' Halt ye not for food or slumber.
View not vantage, count not number:
Jolly reapers, forward still;
Grow the crop on vale or hill.
Thick or scattcr'd, stiff" or lithe,
It shall down before the scythe.
Forward with your sickles bright,
Reap the harvest of the fight ;
Onward footmen, onward horsemen.
To the charge ye gallant Norsemen !
' Fatal Choosers of the Slaughter,
O'er you hovers Odin's daughter;
Hear the choice she spreads before
ye.—
Victor}', and wealth, and glor}-;
Or old Valhalla's' roaring hail.
Her ever-circling mead and ale.
Where for eternity unite
The jo3's of wassail and of fight.
Headlong forward, foot and horse-
men,
Charge and fight, and die like Norse-
men ! '
Chap. XV.
THE MEETING OF THE MER-
MAIDS AND MERMEN.
Fathoms deep beneath the wave.
Stringing beads of glistering pearl,
Singing the achievements brave
Of many an old Norwegian earl ;
Dwelling where the tempest's raving,
Falls as light upon our car,
As the sigh of lover, craving
Pity from his ladj' dear.
Children of wild Thule, we,
From the deep caves of the sea.
As the lark springs from the lea.
Hither come, to share your glee.
MERMAN.
From reining of the water-horse,
That bounded till the waves were
foaming.
Watching the infant tempest's course.
Chasing the sea-snake in his roam-
ing ;
From winding charge-notes on the
shell.
When the huge whale and sword-
fish duel.
Or tolling shroudless seamen's knell,
When the winds and waves are
cruel ;
Children of wild Thule, we
Have plough'd such furrows on the
sea.
As the steer draws on the lea.
And hither we come to shate your
glee.
MERMAIDS AND .MERMEN.
We heard you in our twilight caves,
A hundred fathom deep below.
For notes of joy can pierce the waves,
That drown each sound of war and
woe.
Those who dwell beneath the sea
Love the sons of Thule well ;
Thus, to aid your mirth, bring we
Dance, and song, and sounding
shell.
Children of dark Thule, know,
Those who dwell bj' haaf and voe,
Where your daring shallops row,
Come to share the festal show.
Chap, XVI.
ffom tU (Wnuvh^ (\XoHh.
803
NORN'A fn'iigs : — ■
For leagues along the watery waj",
Through gulf and stream my course
has been ;
The billows know my Runic lay,
And smooth their crests to silent
green.
The billows know mj^ Runic lay, —
The gulf grows smooth, the stream
is still ;
But human hearts, more wild than
they,
Know but the rule of wayward
will.
One hour is mine, in all the year,
To tell my woes,— and one alone;
When gleams this magic lamp, 'tis
here, —
When dies the mystic light, 'tis
gone.
Daughters of northern Magnus, hail !
The lamp is lit, the flame is clear, —
To you I come to tell my tale.
Awake, arise, my tale to hear !
Norna's Invocation.
Dwellers of the mountain, rise,
Trolld the powerful, Haims the wise !
Ye who taught weak woman's tongue
Words that sway the wise and strong;
Ye who taught weak woman's hand
How to wield the magic wand,
And wake the gales on Foulah's steep
Or lull wild Sumburgh's waves to
sleep I
Still live ye yet ? Not yours the
pow'r
Ye knew in Odin's mightier hour.
What are ye now but empt}' names.
Powerful Trolld, sagacious Haims,
That, lighth' spoken, lightly- heard,
Float on the air like thistle's beard ?
Trolld's Reply.
A THOUSAND winters dark have flown
.Since o'er the threshold of my Stone
A votaress pass'd, my power to own.
Visitor bold
Of the mansion of Trolld,
Maiden, haughty of heart,
Who hast hither presum'd, — ■
Ungifted, undoom'd,
Thou shalt not depart !
The power thou dost covet
O'er tempest and wave,
Shallbe thine, thou proud maiden 1
By beach and by cave.
By stack and by skerry, b^' noup ' and
by voe -,
By air ^ and by wick, and by helyer *
and gio"'.
And by every wild shore which the
northern winds know
And the northern tides lave.
But tho' this shall be given thee, thou
desperatel}' brave,
1 doom thee that never the gift thou
shalt have
Till thou reave thy life's giver of the
gift which he gave.
Norna's Answer.
Dark are thy words, and severe.
Thou Dweller in the Stone ;
But trembling and fear
To her are unknown
Who hath sought thee here.
In th}' dwelling lone.
Come what comes soever,
The worst I can endure :
Life is but a short fever,
And Death 's the cure.
Chap. xi.x.
' A roLintl-headed eminence.
3 An open sea-beach.
j A deep ravine admitting tli
- A creek.
^ A sea -cave.
d 2
804
(poetry Ml (OtvBt
CLAUD HALCRO AND NORNA.
CLAUD HALCRO.
Mother darksome, Mother dread,
Dweller on the Fitful-head,
Thou canst see what deeds are done
Under the never-setting sun.
Look through sleet, and look through
frost,
LooktoGreenland's caves and coast, —
By the ice-berg is a sail
Chasing of the swarthy whale;
Mother doubtful. Mother dread,
Tell us, has the good ship sped ?
NORN.\.
Thethought of theaged is everon gear.
On his fishing, his furrow, his flock,
and his steer ;
But thrive may his fishing, flock,
furrow, and herd,
While the aged for anguish shall tear
his gre}' beard.
The ship, well-laden as bark need be.
Lies deep in the furrow of the Iceland
sea ;
The breeze for Zetland blows fair and
soft.
And gaily the garland is flutteringaloft :
Seven good fishes have spouted their
last,
And their jaw-bones are hanging to
yard and mast ;
Two are for Lerwick, and two for
Kirkwall,
Three for Burgh Westra, the choicest
of all.
CL.\UD HALCRO.
Mother doubtful, Mother dread.
Dweller of the Fitful-head,
Thou hast conn'd full manj- a rhj'me,
That lives upon the surge of time :
Tell me, shall my lays be sung.
Like Hacon's of the golden tongue.
Long after Halcro 's dead and gone?
Or, shall Hialtland's minstrel own
One note to rival glorious John ?
NORMA.
The infant loves the rattle's noise;
Age, double childhood, hath its toys ;
But diff'erent far the descant rings,
As.strikes a different hand the strings.
The eagle mounts the polar skj' —
The Imber-goose, unskill'd to fly.
Must be content to glide along.
Where seal and sea-dog list his song.
CLAUD HALCRO.
Be mine the Lnber-goose to plaj',
And haunt lone cave and silent baj' ;
The archer's aim so shall I shun —
So shall I 'scape the levell'd gun —
Content my verses' tuneless jingle.
With Thule's sounding tides to mingle.
While, to the ear of wondering wight.
Upon the distant headland's height,
Soften'd by murmur of the sea,
The rude sounds seem like harmonj- !
Mother doubtful, Mother dread,
Dweller of the Fitful-head,
A gallant bark from far abroad,
Saint Magnus hath her in his road,
With guns and firelocks not a few —
A silken and a scarlet crew.
Deep stored with precious merchan-
dise.
Of gold, and goods of rare device —
What interest hath our comrade bold
In bark and crew, in goods and gold?
NORNA.
Gold is ruddj', fair, and free,
Blood is crimson, and dark to see ;
I look'd out on .Saint Magnus Bay,
And I saw a falcon that struck her
pre}', — •
A gobbet of flesh in her beak she
bore,
And talons and singles are dripping
with gore ;
Let him that asks after them look on
his hand.
And if there is blood on 't, he 's one
of their band.
fvom tU (^Avetfeg (Itovefo.
S05
CLAUD HALCRO.
Mother doubtful, Mother dread,
nwcllcr of the Fitful-head,
Well thou know'st it is th}^ task
To tell what Beauty will not ask ;
Then steep thy words in wine and
milk,
And weave a doom of gold and silk, —
For we would know, shall Brenda
prove
In lo\e, and happy in her lov'c ?
N'ORNA.
Untouch'd by love, the maiden's breast
Is like the snow on Rona's crest.
High seated in the middle sky.
In bright and barren purity;
But by the sunbeam gently kiss'd,
Scarce by the gazing eye 'tis miss'd,
Krc, down the lonely vallej- stealing.
Fresh grass and growth its course
revealing,
It cheers the Hock, revives the llower,
And decks some happy shepherd's
bower.
iMAGNUS TKOIL.
Mother speak, and do not tarry,
Here 's a maiden fain \vould marry.
Shall she marry, ay or not?
If she marry, what 's her lot ?
Untouch'd by love, the maiden's breast
Is like the snow on Rona's crest;
So pure, so free from earth}' dye,
It seems, whilst leaning on the sky.
Part of the heaven to which 'tis nigh ;
But passion, like the wild March rain.
May soil the wreath with many a stain.
We gaze — the lovely vision 's gone —
A torrent fills the bed of stone.
That hurrying to destruction's shock.
Leaps headlong from the lofty rock.
Chap. .\.\i.
SONG OF THE SHETLAND
FISHERS.
Farewell, merrj' maidens, to song,
and to laugh.
For the brave lads of Westra are
bound to the Haaf ;
And we must have labour, and hunger,
and pain,
Ere we dance with the maids of
Dunrossness again.
For now, in our trim boats of Noroway
deal,
We must dance on the waves, with
the porpoise and seal ;
The breeze it shall pipe, so it pipe not
too high.
And the gull be our songstress when-
e'er she flits by.
Sing on, my brave bird, while we
follow, like thee.
By bank, shoal, and quicksand, the
swarms of the sea ;
And when twenty-score fishes arc
straining our line,
Sing louder, brave bird, for their spoils
shall be thine.
We'll sing while we bait, and we '11
sing while we haul
For the deeps of the Haaf have enough
for us all :
There is torsk for the gentle, and
skate for the carle,
And there 's wealth for bold Magnus,
the son of the earl.
Huzza I my brave comrades, give wa}'
for the Haaf,
We shall sooner come back to the
dance and the laugh ;
For light without mirth is a lamp
without oil ;
Then, mirth and long life to the bold
Magnus Troil !
Chap. x.\u.
8o6
^ottv^ Aub (Peree
Cleveland 6i;i^s : —
Love wakes and weeps
While Beaut}' sleeps !
O for Music's softest numbers,
To prompt a theme,
For Beauty's dream,
Sol'l as the pillow of her slumbers I
Through groves of palm
Sigh gales of balm.
Fire-flies on the air are wheeling ;
While through the gloom
Comes soft perfume,
The distant beds of flowers revealing.
O wake and live !
No dream can give
A .shadovv'd bliss, the real excelling;
No longer sleep,
From lattice peep,
And list the tale that Love is telling.
Farewell I Farewell I the voice you
hear
Has left its last soft tone with you ;
Its next must join the seaward cheer,
And shout among the shoutingcrew.
The accents which I scarce could form
Beneath your frown's controlling
check.
Must give the word, above the storm,
To cut the mast, and clear the wreck.
The timid eye I dared not raise,
The hand, that shook when press'd
to thine.
Must point the guns upon the chase —
I\Iust bid the deadly cutlass shine.
To all I love, or hope, or fear,
Flonour, or own, a long adieu I
To all that life has soft and dear.
Farewell 1 save memory of yoii !
Claud Halcro sings or recites : —
And you shall deal the funeral dole ;
Ay, deal it, mother mine.
To weary body, and to heavy soul,
The white bread and the wine.
And you shall deal my horses of
pride ;
Ay, deal them, mother mine :
And you shall deal my lands so wide,
And deal my castles nine.
But deal not vengeance for the deed,
And deal not for the crime ;
The body to its place, and the soul to
Heaven's grace.
And the rest in God's own time.
Saint Magnus control thee, that martyr
of treason ;
Saint Ronan rebuke thee, with rhyme
and with reason ;
By the mass of .Saint Martin, the might
of Saint Mary,
Be thou gone, or thy weird shall be
worse if thou tarry !
Ifofgood, go hence and hallow thee ; —
If of ill, let the earth swallow thee ; —
If thou 'rt of air, let the grey mist fold
thee ; —
If of earth, let the swart mine hold
thee ; —
If a Pixie, seek thy ring; — ■
If a Nixie, seek thy spring; —
If on middle earth thou 'st been
Slave of sorrow, shame, and sin.
Hast eat the bread of toil and strife.
And dree'd the lot which men call life ;
Begone to thy stone 1 for thy cofhn is
scant of thee.
The worm, thy play-fellow, wails for
the ^vant of thee :
Hence, houseless ghost ! let the earth
hide thee.
Till Michael shall blow the blast, see
that there thou bide thee 1 —
frcm tU <^wivk^ (Itcvefa.
807
Phantom, fly hence 1 take the Cross
for a token,
Hence pass till Hallowmass ! — my
spell is spoken.
WiiERL corpse-light
Dances bright,
Be it by day or night.
Be it by light or dark,
There shall corpse lie stitil'and stark.
Menseful maiden ne'er should rise,
Till the first beam tinge the skies;
Silk-fringed eyelids still should close,
Till the sun has kiss'd the rose ;
Maiden's foot we should not view,
Mark'd with tiny print on dew,
Till the opening flowerets spread
Carpet meet for beauty's tread.
Chap, xxiii.
NoRNA st'iigs or rccifes : —
Champion", famed for warlike toil,
Art thou silent, Ribolt Troil ?
Sand, and dust, and pebbly stones,
Are leaving bare thy giant bones.
Who dared touch the wild bear's skin
Ye slumber'd on, while life was in ]
A woman now, or babe, may come
And cast the covering from thy tomb.
Yet be not wrathful. Chief, nor blight
Mine eyes or ears with sound or sight 1
I come not, with unhallow'd tread,
To wake the slumbers of the dead,
Or lay thy giant reliques bare ;
But what I seek thou well canst spare.
Be it to my hand allovv'd
To shear a merk's weight from thy
shroud ;
Yet leave thee sheeted lead enough
To shield thy bones from weather
rough.
See, I draw my magic knife :
Never, while thou wert in life,
Lay"st thou still for sloth or fear,
When point and edge were glittering
near;
See, the cerements now I sever — ■
Waken now, or sleep for ever !
Thou wilt not wake — thedeed is done I
The prize I sought is fairly won.
Thanks, Ribolt, thanks; for this the
sea
Shall smooth its ruffled crest for thee,
And while afar its billows foam.
Subside to peace near Ribolt's tomb.
Thanks, Ribolt, thanks; for this the
might
Of wild winds raging at their height.
When to thy place of slumber nigh,
Shall soften to a lullab}'.
She, the dame of doubt and dread.
Noma of the Fitful-head,
Mighty in her own despite,
Miserable in her might,
In despair and frenzy great.
In her greatness desolate.
Wisest, wickedest who lives, —
Well can keep the word she gives.
Chap. x.KV.
Norn A rccilcs : —
Tuou, so needful, yet so dread.
With cloudy crest, and wing of red ;
Thou, without whose genial breath
The North would sleep the sleep of
death ;
Who deign'st to warm the cottage
hearth,
Yet hurls proud palaces to earth, —
Brightest, keenest of the Powers,
Which form and rule this world of
ours.
With my rhyme of Runic, I
Thank thee for thy agency.
8o8
(poettrp an^ (^etec
Old Reimkennar, to thy art
Mother Hertha sends her part ;
She, whose gracious bounty gives
Needful food for all that lives.
From the deep mine of the North
(/ame the mystic metal forth,
Doom'd amidst disjointed stones.
Long to cere a champion's bones,
Disinhumed my charms to aid —
Mother Earth, my thanks are paid.
Girdle of our islands dear,
Element of Water, hear!
Thou whose power can overwhelm
Broken mounds and ruin'd realm
On the lowly Belgian strand ;
All thy fiercest rage can never
Of our soil a furlong sever
From our rock-defended land ;
Play then gently thou thy part,
To assist old Noma's art.
Elements, each other greeting,
Gifts and power attend your meeting.
1 hou, that over billows dark
Safely send'st the fisher's bark.
Giving him a path and motion
Through the wilderness of ocean ;
Thou, that when the billows brave ye,
O'ertheshelvescanst drive the navy, —
Didst thou chafe as one neglected,
While thy brethren were respected ?
To appease thee, see, I tear
This full grasp of grizzled hair;
Oft thy breath hath through it sung.
Softening to my magic tongue;
Now, 'tis thine to bid it fly
Through the wide expanse of sky,
'Mid the countless swarms to sail
Of wild-fowl wheeling on thy gale;
Take thy portion and rejoice, —
Spirit, thou hast heard my voice !
She who sits by haunted well.
Is subject to the Nixie's spell ;
She who walks on lonely beach.
To the Mermaid's charmed speech;
She who walks round ring of green.
Offends the peevish Fairy Queen ;
And she who takes rest in the Dwar-
fie's cave,
A weary weird of woe shall have.
By ring, by spring, by cave, by shore,
Minna Troil has braved all this and
more ;
And yet hath the root of her sorrow
and ill,
A source that's more deep and more
mystical still.
Thou art within a demon's hold.
More wise than Heims, more strong
than Trolld ;
No siren sings so sweet as he,
No fay springs lighter on the lea ;
No elfin power hath half the art
To soothe, to move, to wring the
heart, —
Life-blood from the cheek to drain,
Drench the eye, and dry the vein.
IMaidcn, ere we farther go.
Dost thou note me, ay or no !
I mark thee, mj- mother, both word,
look, and sign ;
Speak on with thy riddle — to read it
be mine.
Mark me ! for the word I speak
Shall bring the colour to thy cheek.
This leaden heart, so light of cost,
The symbol of a treasure lost.
Thou shalt wear in hope and in peace,
That the cause of thj' sickness and
sorrow may cease,
When crimson foot meets crimson
hand
In the Martyr's Aisle, and in Orkney
land.
from t0e (BDavevfc^ (llowc?©.
809
Be patient, be patient; for Patience
hath power
To ward us in danger, like mantle in
shower ;
A fairy gift 3-00 best may hold
In a chain of fairy gold ;
The chain and the gift are each a true
token,
That not without warrant old Noma
hath spoken ;
But thy nearest and dearest must never
behold them,
Till time shall accomplish the truths
I ha\e told them.
Chap, xxviir.
The Pedi.ar siiii^s his wares : —
Poor sinners whom the snake deceives,
Are fain to cover them with leaves.
Zetland hath no leaves, 'tis true,
Because that trees are none, or few ;
But we have flax and taits of woo',
For linen cloth and wadmaal blue ;
And we have many foreign knacks
Of finer waft, than woo' or flax.
Ye gallant Lambmas lads appear.
And bring your Lambmas sisters here,
Bryce Snailsfoot spares not cost or
care.
To pleasure every gentle pair.
Chap. XXXII.
MOTTOES.
'Ti3 not alone the scene ; the man,
Anselmo,
The man finds sympathies in these
wild wastes,
■\nd roughly tumbling seas, which
fairer views
And smoother v/aves deny him.
Ancimt Drama.
Chap. II.
This is no pilgrim's morning : yon
grey mist
Lies upon hill and dale, and field and
forest,
Like the dun v.-imple of a new-made
widow.
And, by my faith, although my heart
be soft,
1 'd rather hear that widow weep and
sigh.
And tell the virtues of the dear departed,
Than, when the tempest sends his
voice abroad,
Be subject to its fury.
Tlic Double Nuptials.
Chap. IV.
She does no work by halves, yon
raving ocean ;
Engulphing those she strangles, iicr
wild womb
Aftords the mariners whom she hath
dealt on.
Their death at once, and sepulchre.
Old Play.
Chap. VII.
This is a gentle trader, and a prudent.
He's no Autolycus. to blear j'our eye,
With quips of worldly gauds and
gamesomeness ;
But seasons all his glitteriiig mer-
chandise
With wholesome doctrine suited to
the use.
As men sauce goose with sage and
rosemary.
Old Play.
Chap. IX.
All your ancient customs.
And long-descended usages, I'll
change.
Ye sliall not eat, nor drink, nor speak,
nor move,
u d ;-■
8io
^utt^ ani (Pcrae
Think, look, or walk, as ye were
wont to do ;
E\'en your marriage-beds shall know
mutation ;
The bride shall have the stock, the
groom the wall ;
f'or all old practice will I turn and
change.
And call it reformation — marry, will I !
'Tis Even thai zvc 're at Odds.
Chap. XI.
We'll keep our customs — what is
law itself,
But old establish'd custom I What
religion,
(I mean, with one-half of the men
that use it, i
Save the good use and wont that
carries them
To worship how and where their
fathers worshipp'd ?
i\ll things resolve in custom — we'll
keep ours.
Old Flay.
Chap. XIV.
See j-onder woman, whom our swains
revere,
And dread in secret, while they take
her counsel
When sweetheart shall be kind, or
when cross dame shall die ;
Where lurks the thief who stole the
silver tankard,
And how the pestilent murrain may
be cured; —
This sage adviser's mad, stark mad,
my friend ;
"\'et, in her madness, hath the art and
cunning
To wring fools' secrets from their
inmost bosoms,
And pay inquirers Nvith the coin they
trave her.
Chap. XXIX.
Old Play.
What ho, my jovial mates ! come on 1
we'll frolic it
Like fairies frisking in the merry
moonshine,
Seen by the curtal friar, who, from
some christening,
Or some blithe bridal, hies belated
cell-ward ; —
He starts, and changes his bold bottle
swagger
To churchman's pace professional, and,
ransacking
His treacherous memory for some
holy hymn,
Finds but the roundel of the midnight
catch.
Old Play.
Chap. XXX.
1 STRIVE like to the vessel in the tideway,
Which, lacking favouring breeze, hath
not the power
To stem the powerful current. Even
so,
Resolving daily to forsake my vices.
Habit, strong circumstance, renew'd
temptation.
Sweep me to sea again. O heavenly
breath,
Fill thou my sails, and aid the feeble
vessel.
Which ne'er can reach the blessed
port without thee I
' Tis Odds ivhai Evens iiicct.
Chap. XXXII.
P.\RENTAL love, my friend, has power
o'er wisdom,
And is the charm, which, like the
falconer's lure.
Can bring from hea\-en the highest
soaring spirits.
.So, when famed Prosper dofl"d his
magic robe.
It was Miranda pluck'd it from his
shoulders. old Play.
Chap, xxxiii.
ffom tH (^avuk^ Qtotjcfe.
8ii
Hark to Uic insult loud, the bitter sneer,
The fierce threat answering to the
brutal jeer ;
Oaths tly like pistol-sliots, and vengeful
words
Clash with each other like conllicting
sw'ords.
rile robber's quarrel by such sounds
is shown,
And true men have sonic chance to
gain their own.
Captivity, a Puciii.
Chap. x.K.MV.
XV.
FROM THE FORTUNES OF
NIGEL.
MOTTOES.
Now Scot and tnglish are agreed,
And Saunders hastes to cross the
Tweed,
Where, such the splendours that
attend liini,
11 is very mother scarce had kcn"d
him.
His metamorphosis behold,
From Glasgow frieze to cloth of gold ;
His back-sword, with the iron hilt,
To rapier, fairlj- hatch'd and gilt ;
Was ever seen a gallant braver I
His very bonnet 's grown a beaver.
Chap. I.
The Reformation.
This, sir, is one among the Seignory,
Has wealth at will, and will to use
his wealth,
.\nd wit to increase it. Marry, his
worst folly
Lies in a thriftless sort of charit\-.
That goes a-gadding sometimes after
objects.
Which wise men will not see when
thrust upon them.
Tlic Old Cuiiplc.
Cliap. 11.
Av, sir, the clouted shoe hath ofttimes
craft in 't,
As says the rustic proverb ; and your
citizen,
ln"s grogram suit, gold chain, and
wcll-black'd shoes.
Bears under his flat cap ofttimes a
brain
Wiser than burns beneath the cap
and feather,
Or seethes within the statesman's
velvet nightcap.
Read iiic my Riddle.
Chap. IV.
WiiEREFORE come 3-c not to court ?
Certain 'tis the rarest sport ;
There are silks and jewels glistening.
Prattling fools and wise men listening.
Bullies among brave men justling,
Beggars amongst nobles bustling ;
Low-breath'd talkers, minion lispers,
Cutting honest throats by whispers ;
Wherefore come ye not to court ?
Skelton swears 'tis glorious sport.
Skelioii Skeltoiii:etli.
Chap. V.
O, I do know him; 'tis the mouldy
lemon
Which our court wits will wet their
lips withal.
When they would sauce their honied
conversation
With somewhat sharper Ihuuiir.
Marry, sir,
That virtue 's wellnigh left him ; all
the juice
D d .T
8l2
(poc^r^ anl> (petee
That was so sharp and poignant, is ;
squeezed out ;
While the poor rind, although as I
sour as ever,
Must season soon the draff we give
our grunters,
For two-legg'd things are wear^' on "t. :
The Cliainbcrlain—A Coiiiah. ■
Chap. VI.
Things needful we have thouglit on ; I
but the thing
Of all most needful — that which
Scripture terms,
i\s if alone it merited regard.
The o.\E thing needful — that's yet
unconsider'd.
The Chaiiibcrlaiii.
Chap. vu.
All 1 mark t!ie matron well — and
laugh not, Harry,
At her old steeple-hat and velvet
guard
I "vc call'dherlike thecarof Dionysius;
I mean that ear-form"d vault, built
o'er the dungeon.
To catch the groans and discontented
murmurs
Of his poor bondsmen. Even so dotii
Martha
I'rink up, for lier own purpose, all
that passes,
Ov is supposed to pass, in this wide
city ;
She can retail it too, if that her profit
Shall call on her to do so ; and retail it
For j'our advantage, so that you can
make
Your profit jump with hers.
The Conspiracy.
Cliap. VIII.
Bid not thy fortune troll upon the
whirls
Of yonder dancing cubes iji mottlc<l
bone ;
And drown it not, like Egypt's royal
harlot.
Dissolving her rich pearl in the
brimm'd wdne-cup.
"These are the arts, Lothario, which
shrink acres
Into brief yards — bring sterling pounds
to farthings,
Credit to infamy ; and the poor
Rull.
Who might have lived an honour'd,
easy life.
To ruin, and an unrccardcd gra\'c.
The ChaiiiTcs.
Chap. X.
This is the very barn-yard,
Where muster daily the prime cocks
o' the game,
Rufllc their pinions, crow till they
are hoarse.
And spar about a barleycorn. Here,
too, chickens,
rile callow, unfledged brood of
forward folly,
Learn first to rear the crest, and aim
the spur,
iVnd tunc their note like full-plumed
Chanticleer.
The Bear Garden.
Chap. XII.
Llt the proud salmon gorge the
feather'd hook,
Then strike, and then 3'ou have him.
He will wince ;
Spin out your line that it shall whistle
from you
Some twenty' yards or so, yet you
shall have him.
Marry ! you must have patience ; the
stout rock
Which is his trust, hath edges some.
thing sharp ;
fvom t2it (^avtvh^ (Uovefe.
And the deep pool liath ooze and
sludge enough
To mar j'our fishing — 'less you are
more careful.
Albion Of tlie Double Ki)igs.
Chap. XIII.
Give way ! give way ! I must and
will have justice ;
And tell me not of privilege and place ;
Where I am injured, there I'll sue
redress.
Look to it, eveiy one who bars mj-
access ;
I have a heart to feel the injury,
A hand to right myself, and, by my
honour,
That hand shall grasp what grey-
beard Law denies me.
The Chctiiibolain.
Chap. XVI.
CoMH hither, young one. Mark me !
Thou art now
"Mongst men o' the sword, that live
by reputation
More than bj' constant income.
Single-suited
They are, I grant you ; j^et each single
suit
Maintains,, on the rough guess, a
thousand followers ;
And they be men, who, hazarding
their all,
Needful apparel, necessary income.
And human body, and immortal soul,
Do in the very deed but hazard
nothing —
So strictly is that ai.i. bound in re-
version ;
Clothes to the broker, income to the
usurer,
And body to disease, and soul to
the foul fiend ;
Who laughs to see Soldadoes and
fooladoes,
Play better than himself his game
on earth.
The Mohoeks.
Chap. XVII.
Mother. What 1 dazzled by a .flash
of Cupid's mirror
With which the boy, as mortal urchins
wont.
Flings back the sunbeam in the eye of
passengers.
Then laughs to see them stumble !
Daughter. Mother ! no ;
It was a lightning-flash which dazzled
me,
And never shall these eyes see true
again.
Beef anei Pudding.
An Old English Comedy.
Chap. XVIII.
By this good light, a wench of match-
less mettle !
This were a leaguer-lass to love a sol-
dier,
Tobind his wounds, and kiss hisblood\'
brow.
And sing a roundel as she help'd to
arm him,
Though the rough foeman's drums
were beat so nigh.
They seem'd to bear the burden.
Old Play.
Chap. XIX.
Credit me, friend, it hath been ever
thus,
Since the ark rested on Mount Ararat.
False man hath sworn, and woman
hath believed —
Repented and reproach'd, and then
believed once more.
The Ne:o World.
Chap. XX.
Si4
\Pottv^ anb (^ivH
Rove not from pole to pole — the man
Unlooses all our favourite ties on earth;
lives here
And well if they are such as may be
Whose razor 's only equall'd by his
answer'd
beer ;
In yonder world, where all is judged
And where, in either sense, the cock-
of trul}'.
ney-put
Old Play.
May, if he pleases, get confounded atf.
Chap. XXV.
For the Sign of an Alcltonse kept
by a Barber.
Give us good voyage, gentle stream ;
Chap. XXI.
we stun not
Thy sober ear with sounds of revelr}^
Wake not the slumbering echoes of
Chance will not do the work. Chance
th}' banks
sends the breeze ;
With voice of flute and horn ; we do
But if the pilot slumber at the helm,
but seek
The very wind that wafts us towards
On the broad pathway of thy swelling
the port
bosom
May dash us on the shelves. The
To glide in silent safety.
steersman's part is vigilance,
The Double Bridal.
Blow it or rough or smooth.
Chap. XXVI.
Old Play.
Chap. XXII.
This vjRy lie safetj^ and a sure
retreat ;
This is the time : Heaven's maiden-
Yonder lie danger, shame, and
sentinel
punishment.
Hath quitted her high watch; the lesser
Most welcome danger then — nay, let
spangles
me say.
Are paling one by one ; give me the
Though spoke with swelling heart —
ladder
welcome e'en shame ;
And the short lever ; bid Antony
And welcome punishment — for, call
Keep with his carabine the wicket-
me guilty.
gate ;
I do but pay the tax that's due to
And do thou bare thy knife and follow
justice ;
me,
And call me guiltless, then that punish-
For we will in and do it. Darkness
ment
like this
Is shame to those alone who do in-
Is dawning of our fortunes.
flict it.
Old Play.
The Tribunal.
Chap. XXIV.
Chap. XXVII.
Death finds us 'mid our playthings —
How fares the man on whom good
snatches us,
men would look
As a cross nurse might do a wavward
With eyes where scorn and censure
child,
combated,
From all our to_vs and baubles. Flis
But that kind Cliristian love hath
rough call
tauglit the lesson —
front tU (P^averfep Qtovefo.
815
That they who merit most contempt
and hate,
Do most deserve our pity.
Old Play.
Chap. XXIX.
Marry, come up, sir, with your gentle
blood !
Here 'sa red stream beneath this coarse
blue doublet.
That warms the heart as kindly as if
drawn
From the far source of old Assj'rian
kings,
Who first made mankind subject to
their sway.
Old Play.
Chap. XXXI.
We are not worse at once : the course
of evil
Begins so slowly, and from such slight
source,
An infant's hand might stem its breach
with clay ;
But let the stream get deeper, and
philosophy —
Ay, and religion too,— shall strive in
\ain
To turn the headlong torrent.
Old Play.
Chap. XXXV.
XVI.
FROM PEVERIL OF THE
PEAK.
MOTTOES.
Why then, we will have bellowing of
beeves,
Broaching of barrels, brandishing of
spigots ;
Blood shall flow freely, but it shall be
gore
Of herds and flocks, and venison and
poultry,
Join'd to the brave heart's-blood of
John-a-Barleycorn !
r-, Old Plav.
Chap. II.
Here's neither want of appetites nor
mouths ;
Pray Heaven we be not scant of meat
or mirth !
.., Old Plav.
Chap. III.
No, sir, I will not pledge : I 'm one of
those
Who think good wine needs neither
bush nor preface
To make it welcome. I f you doubt my
word,
Fill the quart-cup, and see if I will
choke on "t.
Old Play.
Chap. IV.
ylscasio. Can she not speak ?
Oswald. If speech be only in ac-
cented sounds.
Framed by the tongue and lips, the
maiden 's dumb ;
But if by quick and apprehensive look,
By motion, sign, and glance, to give
each meaning.
Express as clothed in language, be
term'd speech,
She hath that wondrous faculty ; for
her eyes,
Like the bright stars of heaven, can
hold discourse,
Though it be mute and soundless.
Old Pill V.
Chap. XVI.
Tmsisa love meeting! Seethe maiden
mourns.
And the sad suitor bends his looks on
earth.
8i6
(Poefrp ftn^ (P^ree
There's more hath pass'd between
Such, and so varied, the precarious
them than belongs
play
To Love's sweet sorrows.
Of fate with man, frail tenant of
Old Play.
Cliap. XVII.
a day !
yiiionynioiis.
Chap. XXV.
Now, hoist the anclior, mates ; and
let the sails
Necessity, thou best of peacemakers,
Give their broad bosom to the buxom
As well as surest prompter of inven-
wind,
tion —
Lilve lass that wooes a lover.
Help us to composition !
Anouyuious.
Chap. XIX.
Auo}iytiioiis.
Chap. XXVI.
He was a fellow in a peasant's garb ;
This is some creature of the elements
Yet one could censure you a wood-
Most like your sea-gull. He can
cock's carving.
wheel and whistle
Like any courtier at the ordinary.
His screaming song, e'en when the
The Ordiiiaiy.
Chap. XXII.
storm is loudest;
Take for his sheeted couch the restless
foam
Wk meet, as men see phantoms in a
Of the wild wave-crest ; slumber in
the calm.
dream.
Which glide and sigh, and sign, and
And dally with the storm. Yet 'tis a
move their lips.
But make no sound ; or, if they utter
voice,
'Tis but a low and undistinguish'd
An arrant gull, with all this.
The Chieftain.
Chap, xxvii.
moaning.
Which has nor w-ord nor sense of
I FEAR the devil worst when gown and
utter'd sound.
cassock,
The Chieftain.
Or, in the lack of them, old Calvin's
Chap. XXIV.
cloak,
Conceals his cloven hoof.
The course of human life is changeful
Anonynwu!^.
still
Chap. XXXI,
As is the fickle wind and wandering
rill ;
Or. like the light dance which the wild
breeze weaves
Amidst the faded race of fallen leaves;
Which now its breath bears down,
now tosses high.
Beats to the earth, or wafts to middle
'Tis the black ban-dog of our jail.
Pra3' look on him,
But at a wary distance; rouse him
not —
He bays not till he worries.
T}ic Black Dog of Newgate.
sky.
Chap, xxxiii.
ftroitt tU (^awerfej Qtowefo.
817
' Speak not of niceness, when there 's
cliance of wreck,'
The captain said, as ladies writhed
their neck
To see the dying dolphin flap the
deck :
' If wc go down, on us these yentrj'
sup ;
We i-line upon them, if we liaul tiieni
up.
Wise men applaud us when we eat
the eaters.
As the devil laughs when keen folks
cheat the cheaters.'
77/ (■ Sea I'ovai^i'.
Chap, xxxviii.
Contentions fierce,
Ardent, and dire, spring- from no petty
cause.
A/bioii.
Chap. XT..
llr. came amongst them like a new-
i-aised spirit,
To speak of dreadful judgments that
impend,
And of the wrath to come.
To fate's disposal fiunghis heap of gold.
And laugh'd alike when it increased
or lessen'd :
Such virtue hath coin-t-air to teach us
patience
Which schoolmen preach in xain.
Jl'/iy conic ye not to Comt ?
Chap. xi.v.
Mere stand I tight and trim.
Quick of eye, though little of limb;
He who denieth the word I have
spoken.
Betwixt him and me shall lances be
broken.
Lay of the Little Jolni de Saiiitir.
Chap. XI, VI.
Chap. XLiii.
The Reformer.
And some for safety took the dreadful
leap ;
Some for the voice of Heaven seem'd
calling them ;
Some for advancement, or for lucre's
sake—
I leap'd in frolic.
The Dream.
Chap. XI. IV.
Hir.H feasting was there there ; the
gilded roofs
Rung to the wassail-health ; the
dancer's step
Sprung to the chord responsi\e ; the
gav .gamester
XVII.
F^ROM QUENTIN
DURWARD.
COUNTY GUY.
i\H ! County Guy, the hour is nigh.
The sun has left the lea,
The orange flower perfumes the liower,
The breeze is on the sea.
The lark, his la}' who thrill'd all day,
Sits hush'd his partner nigh ;
Breeze, bird, and flower, confess the
hour.
But where is County Guy?
The village maid steals through the
shade,
Her shepherd's suit to hear;
To beauty shy, by lattice high.
Sings high-born Cavalier.
The star of Love, all stars abo\-e,
Now reigns o'er earth and sky ;
And high and low the influence know,
But where is County Guy!
Chap. IV.
8i8
(poetv^ ani (^erae
MOTTOES.
Full in the midst a mighty pile arose
Where iron-grated gates their strength
oppose
To each invading step ; and strong
and steep
Tlie 'battled walls rose up, the fosse
Slink deep.
Slow round the fortress rolled the
sluggish stream,
And high in middle air the warder's
turrets gleam.
Aiionyiiious.
Chap. III.
Painters show Cupid blind Hath
Hymen eyes ?
Or is liis sight warp'd by those spec-
tacles
Which parents, guardians, and ad-
visers lend him.
That he may look through them on
lands and mansions,
On jewels, gold, and all such rich
donations.
And see their value ten times
magnified ? —
Methinks 'twill brook a question.
The Miseries oj Enfoyced Mtiniage.
Chap. .XI.
This is a lecturer so skill'd in policy.
That (no disparagement to Satan's
cunning) ^'
He well might read a lesson to the
devil,
And teach the old seducer new
temptations.
Ohi Play.
Chap. XII.
Talk not of kings — I scorn the poor
comparison :
I am a sage, and can command the
elements ;
At least men think I can; and on that
thought
I found unbounded empire.
Alhiiiiiasar.
Chap. XIII.
I SEE thee 3'et, fair France — thou
favour'd land
Of art and nature — thou art still before
me ;
Thy sons, to whom their labour is a
sport,
So well thy grateful soil returns its
tribute ;
Thy sun-burnt daughters, with their
laughing eyes
And glossy raven-locks. But, favour'd
France,
Thouliasthadmanyataleofwoetotell,
In ancient times as now.
Aiioiiytnous.
Chap. XIV.
He was a son of Egypt, as he told me.
And one descended from those dread
magicians,
Who waged rash war, when Israel
dwelt in Goshen,
With Israel and her Prophet — match-
ing rod
With his the sons of Levi's — and
encountering
Jehovah's miracles with incantations.
Till upon Egypt came the avenging
Angel,
And those proud sages wept for their
first-born,
As wept the unletter'd peasant.
A>ionyi)ioits.
Chap. XV.
Rescue or none, Sir Knight, I am
your captive ;
Deal with me what 3^our nobleness
sus;.9rests —
from tU (^avetfej) (Itovefe.
819
Thinking the chance of war may one
day place you
Where I must now be reckon'd — i' the
roll
Of melancholy prisoners.
Aito)iymo!ts.
Chap. XXIV.
No human quality is so well wove
In warp and woof, but there's some
flaw in it ;
I've known a brave man fly a shep-
herd's cur,
A wise man so demean him, drivelling
idiocy
Had wellnigh been ashamed on't.
For your crafty,
Your worldly-wise man, he, above
the rest,
"Weaves his own snares so fine, he 's
often caught in them.
Old Pla\
Chap. XXV.
■When princes meet, astrologers may
mark it
An ominous conjunction, full of
boding,
Like that of Mars with Saturn.
Chap. XXVI.
Old Play.
Thy time is not yet out — the devil thou
servest
Has not as yet deserted thee. He aids
The friends who drudge for him, as the
blind man
Was aided by the guide, who lent his
shoulder
O'er rough and smooth, until he
reach'd the brink
Of the fell precipice— then hurl'd him
downward.
Old Play.
Chap. XXIX.
Our counsels waver like the unsteady
bark.
That reels amid the strife of meeting
currents.
Old Play.
Chap. XXX,
Hold fast thy truth, young soldier. —
Gentle maiden.
Keep 3'ou your promise plight^lea\e
age its subtleties,
And grey-hair'd policy its maze of
falsehood ;
But be you candid as the morning sky.
Ere the high sun sucks vapours up to
stain it.
The Trial.
Chap. XXXI.
'Tis brave for Beauty when the best
blade wins her.
The Count Palatine.
Chap. XXXV,
XVIII.
FROM ST. RONAN'S WELL.
MOTTOES.
Onis uoviis hie hospes ^
Ch'm-maid! — The Gemman in the
front parlour !
BooTs's//rc Translation of the Aeneid.
Chap. II.
There must
Be governme-nt in all society ;
Bees have their Queen, and stag-herds
have their leader ;
Rome had her Consuls. Athens had
her Archons,
And we, sir, have our Managing Com-
mittee,
Tlie Album of St. Ronnn's.
Chap. III.
820
(poetrp an^ (^eree
Come, let me have thy counsel, for I
need it ;
Thou art of those, who better help
their friends
With sage advice, than usurers with
gold,
Or brawlers with their swords. I '11
trust to thee,
For I ask only from thee words, not
deeds.
The Devil hath met his Match.
Chap. X.
Nearest of blood should still be next
in love ;
And when I see these happy children
playing,
While William gathers flowers for
Ellen's ringlets,
And Ellen dresses flies for William's
angle,
I scarce can think, that in advancing
life,
Coldness, unkindness, interest, or
suspicion,
Will e'er divide that unity so sacred
Which Nature bound at birth.
Anonymous.
Chap. XI.
On ! you would be a vestal maid, I
warrant.
The bride of Heaven ? Come ! wemay
shake your purpose :
For here I bring in hand a jolly
suitor
Hath ta'en degrees in the seven
sciences
That ladies love best — he is young
and noble.
Handsome and valiant, gay and rich,
and liberal.
T/ie Nun.
Chap. xxni.
Tiiou bear'st a precious burden, gentle
post, —
Nitre and sulphur ; see that it explode
not.
Old Play.
Chap. XXVI I.
As shakes the bough of trembling leaf,
When sudden whirlwinds rise ;
As stands aghast the warrior chief,
When his base arm}' flies
Chap, xxviii.
It comes — it wrings me in my parting
hour,
The long-hid crime, the well-dis-
guised guilt.
Bring me some holy priest to lay the
spectre !
Old Play.
Chap, xxxii.
On the lee-beam lies the land, boys.
See all clear to reef each course ;
Let the fore-sheet go — don't mind,
boys,
Tho' the weather should be worse.
The Storm,
Chap, xxxiii.
Sedet post eqititcm atra eiira.
Still though the headlong cavalier,
O'er rough and smooth, in wild career,
Seems racing with the wind,
His sad companion, ghastly pale,
And darksome as a widow's veil,
C.\RE — keeps her seat behind.
Horace.
Chap. xxxv.
What sheeted ghost is wandering
through the storm ]
For never did a maid of middle earth
Choose such a time or spot to vent
her sorrows.
Old Play.
Chap, xxxviii.
from tH (Bwtvk^ (llovcP©.
821
Hkre come we to our close, — for that
which follows
Is but the tale of dull, unvaried misery.
Steep crags and headlong linns may
court the pencil,
Like sudden haps, dark plots, and
strange adventures ;
But who would paint the dull and fog-
wrapt moor.
In its long tract of sterile desolation ?
Old Play.
Chap, xxxix.
XIX.
FROM REDGAUNTLET.
HOPE.
As lords their labourers' hire delay.
Fate quits our toil with hopes to
come,
Which, if far short of present pay,
Still c^vns a debt and names a sum.
Quit not the pledge, frail sufferer, then,
Although a distant date be given;
Despair is treason towards men,
And blaspliemy to Heaven.
Chap. X.
XX.
FROM THE BETROTHED.
REVEILLE.
Soldier, wake ! the day is peeping ;
Honour ne'er was won in sleeping.
Never when the sunbeams still
Lay unreflected on the hill :
''i'is when they are glinted back
From axe and armour, spear and jack,
That they promise future story,
Many a page of deathless glory.
Shields that are the foeman's terror,
Ever are the morning's mirror.
Arm and up 1 the morning beam
Hath call'd the rustic to his team,
Hath call'd the falc'ner to the lake.
Hath call'd the huntsman to the brake ;
The early student ponders o'er
His dusty tomes of ancient lore.
.Soldier, wake ! th}' harvest, fame ;
Thy stud\', conquest ; war, thy game.
Shield, that would be foeman's terror.
Still should gleam the morning's mirror.
Poor hire repa3's the rustic's pain ;
More paltry still the sportsman's gain ;
Vainest of all, the student's theme
Ends in some metaph3-sic dream :
Yet each is up, and each has toil'd
Since first the peep of dawn has smiled ;
And each is eagercrin his aim
Than he who barters life lor fame.
LTp, up, and arm thee, son of terror !
Be thy bright shield the morning's
mirror.
Chap. XIX.
WOMAN'S FAITH.
Wo.MAn's faith, and woman's trust — ■
Write the characters in dust ;
Stamp tliem on the running stream.
Print them on the moon's pale beam,
And each evanescent letter
Shall be clearer, firmer, better.
And more permanent, I ween,
Than the thing those letters mean.
I have strain'd the spider's thread
'Gainst the promise of a maid ;
I have weigh'd a grain of sand
'Gainst her plight of heart and hand ;
I told mj' true love of the token,
How her faith proved light, and her
word was broken :
i\gain her word and truth she plight,
And I believed them again ere night.
Chap. XX.
822
(poefrp Ani (^et-ee
VERSES IN THE STYLE OF THE
DRUIDS.
I ask'd of mj^ harp, 'Who hath injured
thy chords ? '
And she repHed, 'Tlie crooked finger,
which I mocked in my tune.'
A blade of silver may be bended — a
blade of steel abideth :
Kindness fadeth away, but vengeance
cndureth.
The sweet taste of mead passeth from
the lips,
But they are long corroded by the
juice of wormwood ;
The lamb is brought to the shambles, but
the wolf rangeth the mountain ;
Kindness fadeth away, but vengeance
endureth.
1 asked the red-hot iron, when it
glimmcr'd on the anvil,
' Wherefore glowest thou longer than
the firebrand ?'
' I was born in the dark mine, and the
brand in the pleasant green-
wood.'
Kindness fadeth away, but vengeance
endureth.
I ask'd the green oak of the assembly
wherefore its boughs were dry
and sear'd like the horns of the
stag:
And it show'd me that a small worm
had gnaw'd its roots.
The boy who remembered the scourge
undid the wicket of the castle
at midnight.
Kindness fadeth away, but vengeance
endureth.
Lightning destroyeth temples, though
their spires pierce the clouds ;
Storms destroy armadas, though their
sails intercept the gale.
He that is in his glory falleth, and that
b^' a contemptible enemy.
Kindness fadeth away, but vengeance
endureth.
Chap. XXXI.
MOTTOES,
Ix Madoc's tent the clarion sounds,
With rapid clangour hurried far;
Each hill and dale the note rebounds,
But when return the sons of war ?
Thou, born of stern Necessity,
Dull Peace ! the vallej^ yields to thee.
And owns thy melancholy sway.
Welsli Poem.
Chap. 11.
O, SADi.Y shines the morning sun
On leaguer'd castle wall.
When bastion, tower, and battlement,
Seem nodding to their fall.
Old Ballad.
Chap. VII.
Now all ye ladies of fair Scotland,
And ladies of England that happy
would prove,
Marry never for houses, nor marry
for land.
Nor marry for nothing but only
love.
Family Onanch.
Chap. XII.
Too much rest is rust,
There 's ever cheer in changing ;
Wc tync by too much trust,
So we '11 be up and ranging.
Old Song.
Chap. XIII.
from tU (^wivk^ (IXovds.
823
Ring out the merrj- bells, the bride
approaches,
The blush upon her cheek has shamed
the morning,
For that is dawning palely. Grant,
good saints,
These clouds betoken nought of evil
omen !
U/d Play.
Chap. xvn.
J II ha. Gentle sir,
You arc our captive, — but we'll use
you so.
That you shall think your prison joys
ma\' match
Whatever your liberty hath known of
pleasure.
Roderick. No, fairest, we have trilled
here too long ;
And. lingering to sec your roses
blossom,
I 've let my laurels wither.
Old Play.
Chap. XXVI I.
XXI.
P^ROM THE TALISMAN.
AHRIMAN.
Dark i\hriman, whom Irak still
Holds origin of woe and ill!
When, bending at thy shrine,
We view the world with troubled eye
Where seewe'neath theextendedsky,
An empire matching thine ?
If the Benigner Power can yield
A fountain in the desert field,
Where weary pilgrims drink ;
Thine are the waves that lash the rock.
Thine the tornado's deadly shock,
Where countless navies sink 1
Or if He bid the soil dispense
Balsams to cheer the sinking sense,
How few can they deliver
From lingering pains, or pang intense.
Red Fever, spotted Pestilence,
The arrows of thy quiver I
Chief in Man's bosom sits thy sway.
And frequent, while in words we pra\'
Before another throne,
Whate'er of specious form be there.
The secret meaning of the prayer
Is, Ahriman, thine own.
Say. hast thou feeling, sense, and form,
Thunder thy voice, thy garm.ents storm.
As Eastern Magi saj- ;
With sentient soul of hate and wrath.
And wings to sweep thy deadly path,
.\nd fangs to tear thy prey ?
Or art thou mi.x'd in Nature's source,
An ever-operating force.
Converting good to ill ;
An evil principle innate,
Contending with our better fate,.
And oh 1 victorious still ?
Howe'er it be, dispute is vain.
On all without thou hold'st th}' reign,
Nor less on all within ;
Each mortal passion's fierce career.
Love, hate, ambition, joy, and fear.
Thou goadest into sin.
Whene'er a sunny gleam appears,
To brighten up our vale of tears,
Thou art not distant far ;
'Mid such brief solace of our li\es.
Thou whett'st our very banquet-knives,
To tools of death and war.
Thus, from the moment of our birth,
Long as we linger on the earth,
Thou rul'st the fate of men ;
824
(poefrp an^ (Pevee
Thine are Ihc pangs of life's last hour,
And — who dare answer? — is thy
power,
Dark Spirit : ended Then?
Chap. III.
A MixSTREi. sings : —
What brave chief shall head the forces
Where the red-cross legions gather?
Best of horsemen, best of horses,
Highest head and fairest feather.
Ask not Austria, why 'mid princes
.Still her banner rises highest ;
Ask as well the strong-wing'd eagle
Why to heaven he soars the nighesl.
Chap. XI.
THE LAY OF THE BLOODY VEST.
Blon'del sings : —
FYTTE FIRST.
'IwAS near the fair city of Benc-
vcnt,
^Vhcn the sun was setting on bough
and bent,
And knights ^verc preparing in bower
and tent.
On the eve of the Baptist's tourna-
ment ;
When in Lincoln green a stripling
gent,
Well seeming a page by a princess
.sent,
Wander'd the camp, and, still as he
went,
Knijuired for the Englishman, Thomas
a Kent.
Far hath he fared, and farther must
fnre.
Till he finds his pavilion nor stately
nor rare, —
Little save iron and steel was there ;
And, as lacking the coin to pay
armourer's care,
With his sinewy arms to the shoulders
bare,
The good knight with hammer and
file did repair
The mail that to-morrow must see
him wear,
For the honour of .Saint John and )us
lady fair.
' Thus speaks my lady," the page said
he,
And the knight bent lowly both head
and knee,
' She is Benevent's Princess so high
in degree,
And thou art as lowly as knight may
well be —
He that would climb so lofty a tree.
Or spring such a gulf as divides her
from thee,
Must dare some high deed, by which
all men may see
His ambition is back'd by his high
chivalrie.
' Therefore thus speaks my lady,' the
fair page he said.
And the knight lowly louted with
hand and with head,
' Fling aside the good armour in which
thou art clad.
And don thou this weed of her night-
gear instead,
Forahauberkofsteel,akirtleof thread:
And charge, thus attired, in the tour-
nament dread.
And light as thy wont is where most
blood is shed,
And bring honour away, or remain
with the dead.'
front iU (P^Averfep Qtovefe.
82.^
Untroubled in his look, and untroubled
in his breast,
The knight the weed hath taken, and
reverently hath kiss'd :
' Now bless'd be the moment, the
messenger be blest 1
IMuch honour'd do I hold me in my
lady's high behest ;
And say unto my lady, in this dear
night-weed dress'd,
To the best arm'd champion I will not
veil my crest ;
But if I li\e and bear me well 'tis her
turn to take the test.'
Here, gentles, ends the foremost fytte
of the Lay of the Bloody Vest.
FYTTE SECO.NU.
Tin: Baptist's fair morrow beheld
gallant feats —
There was winning of honour, and
losing of seats —
Tlierc was hewing with falchions, and
splintering of staves.
The victors won glory, the \'aiu|uisird
won graves.
O, many a knight there fought bravely
and well,
Yet one was accounted his peers to
excel,
iViid 'twas he whose sole armour on
body and breast,
Seem'd the weed of a damsel when
boune for her rest.
There were some dealt him wounds
that were bloody and sore,
But others respected his plight, and
forebore.
' It is some oath of honour," they said,
* and I trow
'Twere unknightly to slay him achiev-
ing his vow.'
Then the Prince, for his sake, bade
the tournament cease.
He flung down his warder, the trum-
pets sung peace ;
And the judges declare, and competi-
tors yield,
That the Knight of the Night-gear.
was first in the field.
The feast it was nigh, and the mass it
was nighcr,
When before the fair Princess low
louted a squire,
And deliver'd a garment unseemly to
view,
With sword-cut and spear-thrust, all
hack'd and pierced through ;
All rent and all tatter'd, all clotted
with blood.
With foam of the horses, with dust,
and with mud.
Not the point of that lady's small
finger, I ween.
Could have rested on spot was un-
sullied and clean.
• This token my master, .Sir Thomas
a Kent,
Restores to the Princess of fair Bene-
\ent ;
lie that climbs the tall tree has won
right to the fruit.
He that leaps the wide gulf should
prevail in his suit ;
Through life's utmost peril the prize
I have won,
And now must the faith of m^- mistress
be shown :
For she who prompts knights on such
danger to run,
Must avouch his true service in front
of the sun.
' " I restore," says my master, " the
garment I've worn,
And I claim of the Princess to don it
in turn ;
For its stains and its rents she should
prize it the more,
Since by shame 'tis unsullied, though
crimson'd with gore," '
826
(pOdv^ fttti (^tV6t
Then deep blush'd the Princess — yet ' The blood that I lost for this daughter
kiss'd she and press'd
of thine,
The blood-spotted robes to her lips I I pour'd forth as freelj' as tlask gives
and her breast.
its wine ;
Go tell my true knight, church and | And if for my sake she brooks penance
chamber shall show,
and blame,
If I value the blood on this garment or | Do not doubt I will save her from
no.' suftering and shame ;
j And light will she reck of thy prince-
dom and rent,
When I hail her, in England, the
Countess of Kent.'
And when it was time for the nobles
to pass,
In solemn procession to minster and
mass.
The first walk'd the Princess in purple
and pall,
But the blood-besmeai'd night-robe she
wore over all ;
And eke, in the hall, where they all
sat at dine,
When she knelt to her father and
proffer'd the wine.
Overall herrich robesandstatejewels,
she wore
That wimple unseemly bedabbled with
gore.
Then lords whisper'd ladies, as well
you may think,
And ladies replied, with nod, titter,
and wink ;
And the Prince who in anger and
shame had look"d down,
Turn'd at length to his daughter, and
spoke with a frown :
' Now since thou hast publish'd thy
folly and guilt,
E'en atone with thy hand for the blood
thou hast spilt ;
Yet sore for vour boldness you both
will repent,
When you wander as exiles from fair
Benevent.'
Then out spoke stout Thomas, in hall
\vhere he stood,
Exhausted and feeble, but dauntless
of mood ;
Chap. XXVII.
MOTTOES.
Now change the scene — and let the
trumpets sound.
For we must rouse the lion in his lair.
Old Play.
Chap. VI.
This is the Prince of Leeches ; fever,
plague.
Cold rheum, and hot podagra do but
look on him.
And quit their grasp upon the tortured
sinews.
AnottywoKs.
Chap. IX.
One thing is certain in our Northern
land :
Allow that birth, or valour, wealth, or
wit,
Give each precedence to their pos-
sessor,
Envy, that follows on such eminence,
As comes the lyme-hound on the roc-
buck's trace,
.Shall pull them down each one.
Sir David Lindsay '.sic).
Chap. XI.
ftcm J0e (H)rtt)Crfc^ (Itovcfe.
827
You talk of Gaiety and Innocence !
The moment when the fatal fruit was
eaten,
They parted ne'er to meet again; and
Malice
Has ever since been playmate to light
Gaiety,
From the first moment when the
smiling infant
Destro^'s the flower or butterlly he
toys with,
To the last chuckle of the dying miser,
Who on his deathbed laughs his last
to hear
His wealthy neighbour has become a
bankrupt.
Old Play.
Chap. xni.
'Tis not her sense — for sure, in that
There's nothingmore thancommon;
And all her wit is only chat,
Like any other woman.
Song.
Chap. XVI.
Were every hair upon his head a life,
And every life were to be supplicated
By numbers equal to those hairs quad-
rupled,
Life after life should out like waning
stars
Before the daybreak — or as festive
lamps,
Which have lent lustre to the midnight
revel,
Each after each are quench'd when
guests depart !
Old Play.
Chap. xvii.
This work desires a planet'ry in-
tell'gence
Of Jupiter and Sol; and those great
spirits
Are proud, fantastical. It asks great
charges
To entice them from the guiding of
their spheres
To wait on mortals.
Albitmaiai:
Chap, -xviii.
Must we then sheathe our still \ic-
torious sword ;
Turn back our forward step, which
ever trode
O'er foemen's necks the onward path
of glory ;
Unclasp the mail, which witha solemn
vow.
In God's own house we hung upon
our shoulders ;
That vow, as unacconiplish'd as the
promise
Which village nurses make to still their
children.
And after think no more of)
The Crusade, a Tragedy.
Chap. XIX.
When beauty leads the lion in her
toils,
•Such are her charms, he dare not raise
his mane,
Far less expand the terror of his langs.
So great Alcides made his club a
distaff.
And spun to please fair Omphalc.
Aiionyiitoits.
Chap. XX.
'Mid these wild scenes Enchantment
waves her wand,
To change the face of the mj'sterious
land;
Till the bewildering scenes around us
seem
The vain productions of a feverish
dream.
^Islulpho, a Roiitancc.
Chap. XXIII.
828
(poetry ani QOtvet
A GRAIN of dust
Soiling GUI' cup, will make our sense
reject
Fastidiouslj' the draught which we
did thirst for ;
A rusted nail, placed near the faithful
compass,
Will sway it from the truth, and wreck
the argosy.
E\'cn this small cause of anger and
disgust
Will break the bonds of amity 'mongst
princes,
iVnd wreck their noblest purposes.
T/ic Cni^(X<h'.
Chap. XXIV.
[The tears I shed must ever fall I
I weep not for an absent swain.
For time may happier hours recall,
And parted lovers meet again.
I weep not for the silent dead,
Their pains are past, their sorrows
o'er.
And those that loved their steps must
tread.
When death shall join to part no
more.]
But worse than absence, worse than
death,
She wept her lover's sullied fame.
And, fired with all the pride of birth,
She wept a soldier's injured name '.
Ballad.
Chap. XXVI.
We heard the tecbir, — so the Arabs
call
Their shout of onset, when with loud
acclaim
They challenge Heaven to give them
victory.
Siege of Damascus.
Chap. XXVII.
I Uiily llic Idbt btiiiua ib bcolt's.
XXII.
FROM WOODSTOCK.
A CONJURATION.
Bvpathless march, by greenwood tree.
It is thy weird to follow me ;
To follow me thro' the ghostly moon-
light.
To follow me thro' the shadows of
night,
To follow me, comrade, still art thou
bound :
I conjure thee by the unstanch'd
wound,
I conjure thee by the last words I
spoke.
When the body slept and the spirit
awoke,
In the very last pangs of the dead'y
stroke.
Chap. XIV.
AN HOUR WITH THEE.
Ax hour with thee ! When earliest day
Dapples with gold the eastern grey,
Oh, what can frame my mind to bear
The toil and turmoil, cark and care.
New griefs, which coming hours un-
fold,
And sad remembrance of the old ?
One hour with thee.
One hour with thee ! When burning
June
Waves his red flag at pitch of noon ;
What shall repay the faithful swain,
His labour on the sultry plain ;
And, more than cave or sheltering
bough,
Cool feverish blood and throbbing
brow ?
One hour with thee.
from tU (P^averfe^ Qtovefe.
829
One hour with thee 1 When sun is set,
Oh, what can teach me to forget
The thankless labours of the day;
The hopes, the wishes, flung away ;
The increasing wants, and lessening
gains,
The master's pride, who scorns my
pains ?
One hour with thee.
Chap. XXVI.
MOTTOES.
CoMF. forth, old man I Thy daughter's
side
Is now the fitting place for thee :
When Time hath quell'd the oak's bold
pride.
The youthful tendril j'et may hide
The ruins of the parent tree.
Chap. n.
Now, ye wild blades, that make loose
inns 3'our stage.
To vapour forth the acts of this sad
age,
Stout Edgehill fight, tlie Newberj-s
and the West,
And northern clashes, where you still
fought best :
Your strange escapes, your dangers
void of fear,
W^hen bullets flew between the head
and ear,
Whether j'ou fought by Damme or the
.Spirit,
Of j-ou I speak.
Legend of Captain Jones.
Chap. in.
Yon path of greensward
Winds round by sparry grot and gay
pavilion ;
There is no flint to gall thv tender foot,
There 's read3' shelter from each
breeze, or shower.
But Duty guides not that way : see
her stand.
With wand entwined with amaranth,
near yon cliffs.
Oft where she leads thy blood must
mark thy footsteps,
Oft where she leads \.\\y head must
bear the storm.
And thy shrunk form endure heat,
cold, and hunger ;
But she will guide thee up to noble
heights,
Which he who gains seems native of
the sky;
While earthly things lie strctch'd
beneath his feet,
Diminish'd, shrunk, and valueless.
Anonyniouii.
Chap. IV.
Mv tongue pads slowly under this new
language.
And starts and stumbles at these
uncouth phrases.
They maj' be great in worth and
weight, but hang
L'pon the native glibness of my lan-
guage
Like Saul's plate-armour on the shep-
herd boy,
Encimibering and not arming him.
? J. B.
Chap. V.
Here we have one head
Upon two bodies: your two-headed
bullock
Is but an ass to such a prodigy.
These two have but one meaning,
thought, and counsel ;
And when the single noddle has spoke
out,
The four legs scrape assent to it.
Old Play.
Chap. X.
830
(poefrp an'b (^ivot
Deeds are done on earth,
Which have their punishment ere the
eartli closes
Upon the perpetrators. Be it the
working
Of the reinorse-stirr'd fancy, or the
vision,
Distinct and real, of unearthly being,
All ages witness that beside the couch
Of the fell homicide oft stalks the
ghost
Of him he slew, and shows the
shadowy wound.
Old Play.
Chap. XIV.
We do that in our zeal.
Our calmer moments are afraid to
answer.
Auoiiyiiioiis.
Chap. XVII.
The deadliest snakes are those which,
twined 'mongst flowers,
Blend their bright colouring with the
varied blossoms,
Their fierce eyes glittering like the
spangled dew-drop ;
In all so like what nature has most
harmless.
That sportive innocence, which dreads
no danger.
Is poison'd unawares.
Old Play.
Chap. XXIV.
In chimney corners, wont by Christ-
mas fires
To read and rock to sleep our ancient
sires ?
No man his threshold better knows
than I
Brute's first arrival and first victory.
Saint George's sorrel and his cross of
blood,
Arthur's round board, and Caledonian
wood.
Chap. V.
XXIII.
FROM CHRONICLES OF
THE CANONGATE.
Mr. Croft.\xgry axketli : —
What ails me, I may not, as well as
they.
Rake up some threadbare tales that
mould'ring lay
MOTTOES.
{From The Two Drovers.)
Were ever such two loving friends 1 —
How could they disagree ? .
O thus it was he loved him dear.
And thought how to requite him.
And having no friend left but he,
He did resolve to fight him.
Duke upon Duke.
Chap. II.
{From Mv Auxt Margaret's
Mirror, j
There are times
When Fancy pla^-s her gambols, in
despite
Even of our watchful senses, when
in sooth
Substance seems shadow, shadow
substance seems,
When the broad, palpable, and marked
partition,
'Twixt that which is and is not, seems
dissolved,
As if the mental eye gain'd power to
gaze
Beyond the limits of theexisting world.
Such hours of shadow}' dreams I better
love
Than all the gross realities of life.
Anoiivmous.
from tU (^ava-fe^ Qtopefe.
S-.i
XXIV.
FROM THE FAIR MAID
OF PERTH.
THE GLEE MAIDEN.
Ah, poor Louise! the livelong day
Slie roams from cot to castle gay ;
And still her voice and viol say,
Ah, maids, beware the woodland wa}',
Think on Louise.
Ah, poor Louise ! The sun was high,
Itsmirch'dhercheek,itdimm'dhereye,
The woodland walk was cool and nigh.
Where birds with chiming streamlets
vie
To cheer Louise.
Ah, poor Louise ! The sa\age bear
Made ne'er that lovely grove his lair;
The wolves molest not paths so fair —
But better far had such been there
For poor Louise.
Ah, poor Louise 1 In woody wold
She met a huntsman fair and bold ;
His baldric was of silk and gold.
And many a witching tale he told
To poor Louise.
Ah, poor Louise ! Small cause to pine
Hadst thou for treasures of the mine ;
For peace of mind that gift divine.
And spotless innocence, were thine.
All, poor Louise !
Ah, poor Louise ! Thy treasure's reft !
I know not if by force or thet't.
Or part by violence, part by gift ;
But misery is all that's left
To poor Louise.
Let poor Louise some succour have !
She will not long j^our bount^r crave,
Or tire the gay with warning stave —
For Heaven has grace, and earth a
gTa\'c
For poor Louise.
Chap. X.
THE BLOOD ORDEAL.
ViF.wLESs Essence, thin and bare,
Wcllnigh melted into air ;
.Still with fondness hovering near
The earthly form thou once didst wear;
Pause upon thy pinion's flight,
Be thy course to left or right ;
Be thou doom'd to soar or sink,
Pause upon the awful brink.
To avenge the deed expelling
Thee untimely from thy dv^^elling.
Mystic force thou shalt retain
O'er the blood and o'er the brain.
When the form thou shalt esp}-
That darken'd on thy closing e3'e ;
When the footstep thou shalt hear.
That thrill'd upon thj- d3nng ear;
Then strange sympathies shall wake.
The flesh shall thrill, the nerves shall
quake ;
The wounds renew their do tter'd flood.
And every drop cry blood for blood.
Chap, .x.xii.
A MELANCHOLY DIRGE.
Louise sings to the Piinrc : —
Yes, thou mayst sigh.
And look once more at all around.
At stream and bank, and sky and
ground.
Thy life its final course has found.
And thou must die.
Yes, lay thee down,
And while thy struggling pulses flutter.
Bid the grey monk his soul-mass
mutter.
And the deep bell its death-tone
utter—
Thy life is gone.
(j?oefrp anb (Peree
Be not afraid.
'Tis but a pang, and then a thrill,
A fever fit, and then a chill;
And then an end of human ill,
For thou art dead.
Chap. XXX.
BOLD AND TRUE.
Oh, bold and true,
In bonnet blue,
That fear or falsehood never knew :
Whose heart was loj^al to his word,
Wliose hand was faithful to his sword :
Seek Europe wide from sea to sea.
But bonnie Blue-cap still for mc 1
I "ve seen Almayn's proud champions
prance ;
I "ve seen the gallant knights of France,
Unrivalled with the sword and lance ;
I 've seen the sons of England true
Wield the brown bill and bend the yew ;
Search France the fair and England
free —
But bonnie Blue-cap still for me !
Chap. XXXI.
MOTTOES.
The ashes here of murdcr'd Kings
Beneath my footsteps sleep ;
And yonder lies the scene of death.
Where Mary learn'd to weep
Cap tain Mn i -jo i ■iha iik^.
Introdi'Ctorv.
' Behold the Tiber I ' the vain Roman
cried,
Viewing the ample Ta\- from Baiglie's '
side ;
But where 's the Scot that would llic
vaunt repay.
And hail the puny Tiber for the Tay ?
Anonviiiotis,
Chap. I.
' tA pass of the Ochils above Glenfarg.]
Fair is the damsel, passing fair,
Sunnj- at distance gleams her smile !
-Approach — the cloud of woeful care
Hangs trembling in her ej^e the
while.
Luciuda, a BallaiL
Chap. XI.
Then up and spak the auld gudewifc,
And, wow ! but she was grim. —
' Had e'er your father done the like,
It had been ill for him.'
Lucky TnniihitH.
Chap. xii.
O FOR a draught of power to steep
The soul of agonv in sleep!
Bnfha.
Chap. XV.
A WOMAN wails for justice at the gate,
A widow'd woman, wan and desolate.
Bnllia.
Chap. XX.
Lo ! where he lies embalm'd in gore,
His wound to Heaven cries;
The floodgates of his blood implore
For vengeance from the skies.
Urain/f: and Psyclic.
Chap. xxin.
The hour is nigh; now hearts beat
high;
Each sword is sharpened well ;
.\nd who dares die, who sloops to fly,
To-morrow's light shall tell.
Sir Edwahl.
Chap, xxxiii.
from iU (^ciHtk^ QtotJefe.
833
XXV.
FROM ANNE OF
GEIERSTEIN.
THE SECRET TRIBUNAL.
' Measurers of good and evil,
Bring the square, the line, the level, —
Rear the altar, dig the trench,
Blood both stone and ditch shall drench;
Cubits six, from end to end,
Must the fatal bench extend,
Cubits six, from side to side,
Judge and culprit must divide.
On the east the Court assembles,
On the west the Accused trembles :
Answer, brethren, all and one,
Is the ritual rightly done? '
'On life and soul, on blood and bone,
One for all, and all for one.
We warrant this is rightly done.'
'How wears the night ? Doth morning
shine,
In early radiance on the Rhine ?
What music floats upon his tide?
Do birds the tardy morning chide ?
Brethren, look out from hill and height.
And answer true, how wears the night ?'
' The night is old ; on Rhine's broad
breast
Glancedrowsystars which longtorcst,
No beams are twinkling in the east.
There is a voice upon the flood.
The stern still call of blood for blood;
'Tis time we listen the behest.'
' Up, then, up ! When day 's at rest,
'Tis time that such as wc arc
^vatchers ;
Rise to judgment, brethren, rise !
"Vengeance knows not sleepy eyes,
He and night are matchers.'
Chap. XX.
MOTTOES.
Away with me !
The clouds grow thicker ; there ! now
lean on me ;
Place your foot here ; here, take this
staff, and cling
A moment to that shrub ; now give me
your hand.
The chalet will be gained in half-an-
hour.
Chap. II.
I WAS one
Who loved the greenwood bank and
lowing herd.
The russet guise, the lowly peasant's
life,
Season'd with sweet content, more
than the halls
Where revellers feast to fever-height.
Believe me,
There ne'er was poison mix'd in
maple bowl.
Anoityiiious.
Chap. V.
When we two meet, we meet like
rushing torrents ;
Like warring winds, like flames from
various points.
That mate each other's fury. There is
nought
Of elemental strife, were fiends to
guide it,
Can match the wrath of man.
Finland.
Chap. VI.
They saw that city, welcoming the
Rhine,
As from his mountain heritage he
bursts.
As purposed proud Orgetorix of yore,
Leaving the desert region of the hills
To lord it o'er the fertile plains of Gaul.
Helvetia.
Chap. VIII.
E e
8.34
(poefr^ anb (Pevee
We know not when we sleep nor
when we wake.
Visions distinct and perfect cross our
eye,
Which to the slumberer seem realities ;
And while they waked, some men
have seen such sights
Asset at nought the evidence of sense.
And left them well persuaded they
were dreaming.
Aiioiiynioits.
Chap. :x.
These be the adept's doctrines — every
element
Is peopled with its separate race of
spirits :
The airy Sylphs on the blue ether
float;
Deep in the earthy cavern skulks the
Gnome ;
The sea-green Naiad skims the ocean-
billow ;
And the fierce fire is j'et a friendly'
home
To its peculiar sprite, the Sala-
mander.
Aiio>iy)uoiis.
Chap. X.
Tell me not of it : I could ne'er abide
The mummery of all that forced
civilitj-.
' Pray, seat yourself, mj' lord,' — with
cringeing hams
The speech is spoken ; and with
bended knee.
Heard by the smiling courtier. —
' Before you, sir ?
It must be on the earth then.' Hang it
all !
The pride which cloaks itself in such
poor fashion
Is scarcely fit to swell a beggar's bosom.
Old Play.
Chap. XXI.
A MIRTHFUL man he was ; the snows
of age
Fell, but they did not chill him. Gaiety,
Even in life's closing, touch'd his
teeming brain
With such wild visions as thesettingsun
Raises in front of some hoar glacier,
Painting the bleak ice with a thousand
hues.
Ohl Play.
Chap. XXVI 1 1.
Ay, this is he who wears the wreath
of bays
Wove by Apollo and the Sisters Nine,
Which Jove's dread lightning scathes
not. He hath doft
The cumbrous helm of steel, and
flung aside
The yet more galling diadem of gold;
And, with a leafy circlet round his
brows,
He reigns the King of lovers and of
poets.
Chap. XXIX.
Want you a man
Experienced in the world and its
affairs ?
Here he is for your purpose. He 's
a monk :
He hath forsworn the world and all
its work.
The rather that he knows it passing
well, —
'Special the worst of it, for he 's a monk.
Old Play.
Chap. XXX.
Toll, toll the bell !
Greatness is o'er;
The heart has broke.
To ache no more ;
An unsubstantial pageant all —
Drop o'er the scene the funeral pall.
j Old Poem.
j Chap. XXXII.
ffom iU (^dHtk^ (Tlovifo.
835
Here's a weapon now,
Shall shake a conquering general in
his tent,
A monarch on his throne, or reach a
prelate,
However holy be his offices.
E'en while he serves the altar.
O/d Play.
Chap. XXXIV.
XXVI.
FROM COUNT ROBERT OF
PARIS.
MOTTOES.
Olliiis. This superb successor
Of the earth's mistress, as thou vainly
speakest.
Stands 'midst these ages as, on the
wide ocean,
The last spared fragment of a spacious
land
That in some grand and awful minis-
tration
Of mighty nature has engulfed been,
Doth lift aloft its dark and rocky cliflfs
O'er the wild waste around, and sadly
frowns
In lonely majesty-.
Coiistanfiiic Palcologns, Scene I.
Chap. II.
Here, youth, thy foot unbrace.
Here, youth, thy brow unbraid ;
Each tribute that may grace
The threshold here be paid.
Walk with the stealthy pace
Which Nature teaches deer.
When, echoing in the chase,
The hunter's horn thev hear.
Chap. III.
TIic Court.
The storm increases : 'tis no sunny
shower,
Foster'd in the moist breast of March
or April,
Or such as parched Summer cools his
lip with ;
Heaven's windows are flung wide ;
the inmost deeps
Call in hoarse greeting one upon
another ;
On comes the flood in all its foaming
horrors,
And where 's the dike shall stop it !
The Deluge, a Poem.
Chap. V.
Vain man ! thou maj-st esteem thy
love as fair
As fond hyperboles suffice to raise.
She may be all that 's matchless in
her person.
And all-divine in soul t') matcli her
body ;
But take this from mc — thou shalt
never call her
Superior to her sex while one survives,
And I am her true votary.
Old Play.
Chap. VI.
Between the foaming jaws of the
white torrent
The skilful artist draws a sudden
mound ;
By level long he subdivides their
strength,
.Stealing the waters from their rocky
bed,
First to diminish what he means to
conquer;
Then, for the residue he forms a road,
Easy to keep, and painful to desert,
And guiding to the end the planner
aim'd at.
The Engineer.
\ Chap. IX.
E e 2
836
(poeffp an^ ($^vst
Those were wild times — the antipodes
of ours :
Ladies were then who oftener saw
themselves
In the broad lustre of a foeman's
shield
Than in a mirror, and who rather
sought
To match themselves in battle, than
in dalliance
To meet a lover's onset. But though
Nature
Was outraged thus she was not over-
come.
„, Feudal Times.
Chap. X.
Without — a ruin, broken, tangled,
cumbrous ;
Within — it was a little paradise.
Where Taste had made her dwelling;
Statuary,
First-born of human art, moulded her
images.
And bade men mark and worship.
Aiioiiymoiis.
Chap. XI.
The parties met. The wily, wordy
Greek,
Weighing each word, and canvassing
each syllable,
Evading, arguing, equivocating.
And the stern Frank came with two-
handed sword.
Watching to see whichway the balance
sway'd,
That he might throw it in, and turn the
scales.
Chap. xii.
Palcstiiw.
Str.\nge ape of man ! w^ho loathes thee
while he scorns thee ;
Haifa reproach to us and half a jest.
What fancies can be ours ere we have
pleasure
In viewing our own form, our pride
and passions,
Reflected in a shape grotesque as
thine !
Anouyiiiotis.
Chap. XVI.
'Tis strange that, in the dark sul-
phureous mine.
Where wild ambition piles its ripening
stores
Of slumbering thunder. Love will
interpose
His tiny torch, and cause the stern
explosion
To burst, when the deviser 's least
aware.
j%»otiy>iioiis.
Chap. XVII.
All is prepared — the chambers of the
mine
Are cramm'd with the combustible,
which, harmless
While yet unkindled as the sable sand.
Needs but a spark to change its nature
so
That he who wakes it from its
slumbrous mood,
Dreads scarce the explosion less than
he who knows
That'tishistowerswhich meet its fury.
Aitoityntotis.
Chap. XXIV.
Heaven knows its time; the bullet
has its billet.
Arrow and javelin each its destined
purpose ;
The fated beasts of Nature's lower
strain
Have each their separate task.
Old Play.
Chap. XXV.
from tU (]^Anvk^ (Uovefc.
837
XXVII.
FROM CASTLE DANGEROUS.
MOTTOES.
A TALE of sorrow, for your ej'es may
weep ;
A tale of horror, for j'our flesh may
tingle;
A tale of wonder, for the eyebrows
arch
And the blood curdles if you read it
rightly.
O/ci Play.
Chap. V.
Beware, beware of the Black Friar :
He still retains his sway.
For he's j'Ct by right the Church's heir
Whoever may be the lay.
Amundeville is lord by daj'',
But the monk is lord by night ;
Nor wine nor wassail could raise
a vassal
To question that Friar's right.
Don J nail, Canto XVII i^sic).
Chap. i.K.
Where is he ? Has the deep earth
swallow'd him ?
Or hath he melted like some airy
phantom
That shuns the approach of morn and
the 3'oung sun ?
Or hath he wrapt him in Cimmerian
darkness,
And pass'd beyond the circuit of the
sight
With things of the night's shadows?
Anonymous.
Chap. XI.
The way is long, mj^ children, long
and rough,
The moors are dreary, and the woods
are dark ;
But he that creeps from cradle on to
grave,
Unskill'd save in the velvet course of
fortune.
Hath miss'd the discipline of noble
hearts.
Old Play.
Chap. XIV.
His talk was of another world; his
bodements
Strange, doubtful, and mysterious :
those who heard him
Listen'das to a man in feverish dreams,
Who speaks of other objects than the
present,
And mutters like to him who sees a
vision.
Chap, xviii.
Old Plav.
Cry the wild war-note, let the
champions pass ;
Do bravely each, and God defend the
right.
Upon Saint Andrew thrice can they
thus cry,
And thrice they shout on height.
And then match'd them on the
Englishmen,
As I have told you right.
Saint George the bright, our ladies'
knight.
To name they were full fain ;
Our Englishmen they cried on height.
And thrice they shout again.
Old Ballad.
Chap. XX.
END OF POETRY AND VERSE FROM THE WAVERLEY NOVELS.
©tamaftc C&iec^^*
HALIDON HILL:
ja (mcWcaf ©rama in Z^vo Md^,
DRAMATIS PERSONAE.
The Rf.gen't of Scotland.
GOKDON,
SwiNTON,
Lennox,
Sutherland,
Ross,
Maxwell,
Johnstone,
LiNDESAY, /
Symon de Vii'ONT, a Knight Tctiiplar.
Scottish Cliiifs and
Nobles.
The Prior of IMaison-Dieu.
Reynald, Swiiitou's Sijiiiro.
Hob Hattely, a Border J\!oss-Troo/>er.
Heralds.
ENGLISH.
King Edward III.
Chandos, \ J, ,,;;, „„^ Norvtan
P'^'^^^' NoHes.
Ribal'.mont, )
The Abbot of Walthamstow.
ACT I.
Scene I.
Tlic uorihcru side of the cniiiiciicc of
Halidon. The back scene represents
the sitiiuiiit of the ascent, occupied by
the rearguard of tlie Scottish army.
Bodies of armed men appear as
advancing front different points to
join the main body.
Enter I)e Vipont and tJic Prior of
Maison-Dieu.
ViP. No farther, Father — here I
need no guidance;
I have already brought your peaceful
step
Too near the verge of battle.
Pri. Fain would I see you join some
Baron's banner
Before I say farewell. The honour'd
sword,
That fought so well in Syria, should
not wave
Amid the ignoble crowd.
ViP. Each spot is noble in a pitched
field,
So that a man has room to fight and
fall on "t.
But I shall find out friends. 'Tis
scarce twelve years
^aftiott Igtff.
839
Since I left Scotland for the wars of
Palestine,
And then the flower of all the Scottish
nobles
Were known to me ; and I, in my
degree,
Not all unknown to them.
Pri. Alas! there have been changes
since that time.
The Royal Bruce, with Randolph,
Douglas, Grahame,
Then shook in field the banners which
now moulder
Over their graves i' the chancel.
Vip. And thence comes it.
That while I look'd on many a well-
known crest
And blazon'd shield, as hitherward we
came,
The faces of the Barons who displa\'ed
them
Were all unknown to me. Brave
3'ouths they seem'd ;
Yet, surely, fitter to adorn the tilt-
3'ard
Than to be leaders of a war. Their
follovv'ers,
Young like themselves, seem like
themselves unpractised :
Look at their battle-rank.
Pri. I cannot gaze on 't with un-
dazzled eye,
So thick the rays dart back from shield
and helmet,
And sword and battle-axe, and spear
and pennon.
Sure 'tis a gallant show ! The Bruce
himself
Hath often conquer'd at the head of
fewer
And worse appointed followers.
Vip. Ay, but 'twas Bruce that led
them. Reverend Father,
'Tis not the falchion's weight decides
a combat ;
It i-s the strong and skilful hand that
wields it.
Ill fate, that we should lack the noble
King
And all his champions now ! Time
call'd them not,
For when I parted hence for Pales-
tine
The brows of most were free from
grizzled hair.
Pri. Too true, alas ! But well you
know, in Scotland
Few hairs are silver'd underneath the
helmet ;
'Tis cowls like mine which hide them.
'Mongst the laity
War's the rash reaper, who thrusts
in his sickle
Before the grain is white. In three-
score years
And ten, which I have seen, I have
outlived
Wellnigh two generations of our
nobles.
The race which holds yon summit is
the third.
Vip. Thou mayst outlive them also.
Pri. Heaven forfend !
My prayer shall be, that Heaven will
close my eyes,
Before they look upon the wrath to
come.
Vip. Retire, retire, good Father I
Pray ibr Scotland —
Think not on me. Here comes an
ancient friend.
Brother in arms, with w^hom to-da\'
I '11 join me.
Back to your choir, assemble all your 1
brotherhood, \
And weary Heaven with prayers for
victory.
Pri. Heaven's blessing rest with
thee, Champion of Heaven,
And of thy suffering country!
[Exit Prior. Vipoxt draivs a
Utile aside and his dozvn the
beaver of his helmet.
S40
dramatic (ptecea.
Enter SwiNTON, folloivcd by Reyxald
and others, to wJioni he speaks as he
enters.
Swix. Halt here, and plant my pen-
non, till the Regent
Assign our band its station in the host.
Rey. That must be by the Standard.
We have had
That right since good Saint David's
reign at least.
Fain would I see the Marcher would
dispute it.
SwiN. Peace, Reynald ! Where the
general plants the soldier.
There is his place of honour, and there
only
His valour can win worship. Thou 'rt
of those
Who would have war's deep art bear
the wild semblance
Of some disorder'd hunting, where,
pell-mell,
Each trusting to the s\tiftness of his
horse.
Gallants press on to see the quarry fall.
Yon steel-clad Southrons, Reynald,
are no deer ;
And England's Edward is no stag at
ba\'.
ViP. {advaneing.) There needed not,
to blazon forth the Swinton,
His ancient burgonet, the sable Boar
Chain'd to the gnarl'd oak, — nor his
proud step,
Nor giant stature, nor the ponderous
mace.
Which only he, of Scotland's realm,
can wield :
His discipline and wisdom mark the
leader,
As doth his frame the champion. Hail,
brave Swinton !
SwiN. Brave Templar, thanks! Such
your cross'd shoulder speaks you ;
But the closed visor, which conceals
your features.
Forbids more knowledge. Umfraville,
perhaps — ■
Vip. unclosing hisheliitct\ No ; one
less worthy of our sacred Order.
Yet, unless Syrian suns have scorch'd
my features
Swart as my sable visor, Alan Swinton
Will welcome S^'mon Vipont.
Swix. {einbracinghinf). Astheblithe
reaper
Welcomes a practised mate, when the
ripe harvest
Lies deep before him, and the sun is
high !
Thou 'It follow yon old pennon, wilt
thou not 1
"Tis tattcr'd since thou saw'st it, and
the Boar-heads
Look as if brought from off some
Christmas board
Where knives had notch'd them deeply.
Vip. Have with them, ne'ertheless.
The Stuart's Chequer,
The Bloody Heart of Douglas, Ross's
Lj-mphads,
Sutherland's Wild-cats, nor the royal
Lion,
Rampant in golden tressurc. wins me
from them.
We '11 back the Boar-heads bravely.
I see round them
A chosen band of lances — some well
known to me.
Where 's the main body of thy fol-
lowers ?
Swix. Sj'inon de Vipont, thou dost
see them all
That Swinton's bugle-horn can call to
battle,
However loud it rings. There's not
a boy
Left in my halls whose arm has
strength enough
To bear a sword— there's not a man
behind.
However old, who moves without a
staff.
Igrtftbon ^tff.
841
Striplings and greybeards, every one
is here,
And here all should be — Scotland
needs them all ;
And more and better men, were each
a Hercules,
And yonder handful centupled.
Vip. A thousand followers — such,
with friends and kinsmen,
Allies and vassals, thou wert wont to
lead —
A thousand followers shrunk to sixt^-
lances
In twelve j-ears' space? — And th3'
brave sons. Sir Alan?
Alas ! I fear to ask.
SwiN. All slain, De Vipont. In my
empty home
A puny babe lisps to a widow'd
mother,
' Where is mj' grandyire I wherefore
do you \veep ? '
But for that prattler, L^'ulph's house
is heirless.
I 'm an old oak, from which the
foresters
Have hew'd four goodly boughs, and
left beside me
Only a sapling, which the fawn may
crush
As he springs over it.
Vip. All slain ?— alas !
Swix. A\-, all, De Vipont. And
their attributes,
John with the Long Spear — Archibald
with the Axe —
Richard the Ready — and my youngest
darling,
My Fair-hair'd William — do but now
survive
In measures which the grej'-hair'd
minstrels sing,
When they make maidens weep.
ViP. These wars with England! they
have rooted out
The flowers ofChristendom. Knights,
who might win
The sepulchre of Christ from the rude
heathen.
Fall in unholy warfare !
SwiN. Unholy warfare ? ay, well
hast thou named it ;
But not with England — \vould her
cloth-yard shafts
Had bored their cuirasses I their
lives had been
Lost like their grandsire's, in the bold
defence
Of their dear countr3' ; but in private
feud
With the proud Gordon, fell my Long-
spear'd John,
He with the Axe, and he men call'd
the Read3',
Ay, and my Fair-hair'd Will : the
Gordon's wrath
Devour'd my gallant issue.
Vip. Since thou dost weep, their
death is unavenged ?
SwiN. Templar, -what tliink'st thou
me ? See yonder rock
From which the fountain gushes ; is it
less
Compact of adamant, though waters
flow from it ?
Firm hearts have moister eyes. They
are avenged ;
I wept not till ihey were — till the
proud Gordon
Had with his life-blood dj^ed my
father's sword,
In guerdon that he thinn'd mj- father's
lineage ;
And then I wept my sons. And, as the
Gordon
Lay at my feet, there was a tear for him
Which mingled with the rest : we
had been friends,
Had shared the banquet and the chase
together,
Fought side by side ; and our first
cause of strife,
Woe to the pride of both ! was but a
light one.
E e 3
84:
©vamattc ^kU6.
ViP. You are at feud, then, with the
mighty Gordon ?
SwiN, At deadly feud. Herein this
Border-land,
Where the sire's quarrels descend
upon the son,
As due a part of his inheritance
As the strong castle and the ancient
blazon ;
Where private Vengeance holds the
scales of justice,
Weighing each drop of blood as
scrupulously
As Jews or Lombards balance silver
pence ;
Not in this land, 'twixt Solway and
Saint Abb's,
Rages a bitterer feud than mine and his.
The Swinton and the Gordon
Vip. You, with some threescore
lances, and the Gordon
Leading a thousand followers ?
SwiN. You rate him far too low.
Since you sought) Palestine
He hath had grants of baronies and
lordships
In tlic far-distant North. A thousand
horse
His southern friends and vassals
always number'd.
Add Badenoch kerne, and horse from
Dee and Spey,
He "11 count a thousand more. And
now, De Vipont,
If the Boar-heads seem in your eyes
less worthy
P"or lack of followers, seek yonder
standard,
The bounding- Stag, with a brave host
around it ;
There the young Gordon makes his
earliest field.
And pants to win his spurs. His
father's friend.
As well as mine, thou wert : go, join
his pennon,
And grace him with thy presence.
Vip. When you were friends, I was
the friend of both,
And now I can be enemy to neither.
But my poor person, though but slight
the aid.
Joins on this field the banner of the
two
Which hath the smaller following.
SwiN. Spoke like the generous
Knight who gave up all,
Leading and lordship, in a heathen
land
To fight a Christian soldier. Yet, in
earnest,
1 pray, De Vipont, you would join the
Gordon
In this high battle. 'Tis a noble
youth —
So fame doth vouch him — amorous,
quick, and valiant ;
Takes knighthood, too, this day, and
well may use
His spurs too rashly in the wish to win
them.
A friend like thee beside him in the
fight
Were worth a hundred spears, to rein
his valour
And temper it with prudence. 'Tis
the aged eagle
Teaches his brood to gaze upon the
sun
With eye undazzled.
Vip. Alas ! brave Swinton, would'st
thou train the hunter
That soon must bring thee to the bay ?
Your custom,
Your most unchristian, savage, fiend-
like custom.
Binds Gordon to avenge his father's
death.
Swim. Why, be it so ! I look for
nothing else :
My part was acted when 1 slew his
father,
Avenging my four sons ; young
Gordon's sword,
J^aU^on Igiff.
843
If it should find my heart, can ne'er
inflict there
A pang so poignant as his father's did.
But I would perish by a noble hand,
And such will his be if he bear him
nobly,
Nobly and wisely, on this field of
Halidon.
Enter a Pursuivant.
Puu. Sir Knights, to council ! —
'tis the Regent's order
That knights and men of leading meet
^lim instantly
Before the Royal Standard. Edward's
army
Is seen from the hill-summit.
Swim. Say to the Regent, we obey
his orders. 'lE.xit Pursuiv.\nt.
{To Reynald.') Hold thou my casque,
and furl my pennon up
Close to the stall. I will not show
my crest.
Nor standard, till the common foe
shall challenge them.
I '11 wake no civil strife, nor tempt the
Gordon
With aught that's like defiance.
ViP. 'Will he not know your
features ?
SwiN. He never saw me. In the
distant North,
Against his will, 'tis said, his friends
detain'd him
During his nurture — caring not, be-
like.
To trust a pledge so precious near the
Boar-tusks.
It was a natural but needless caution :
I wage no war with children, for I
think
Too deeply on mine own.
ViP. I have thought on it, and will
see the Gordon
As we go hence to council. I do bear
A cross, which binds me to be Chris-
tian priest
As well as Christian champion. God
may grant
That I, at once his father's friend and
yours,
May make some peace betwixt you.
.SwiN. When that your priestly zeal,
and knightly valour,
.Shall force the grave to render up the
dead. [^Exeunt severally.
Scene II.
Tlir sun 111 nf of Halidon Hill, before the
Regent's Tent. Tlie Royal Standard of
Scotland is seen in the background,
zvith the Pennons and Banners of
the principal Nobles aioiind it.
Council of Scottish Nobles and Chiefs.
Sutherland, Ross, Lennox, Ma.x-
WELL, and other Nobles of the highest
rank, are close to the Regent's person,
and in the act of keen debate. Vipont
avV/i Gordon and others remain
grouped at sonic distance on the right
hand of the Stage. On the left, stand-
ing also apart, is Swinton, alone
and bare-headed. The Nobles arc
dressed in Highland or Loivland
habits, as historical costume requires.
Trumpets, Heralds, c^r. arc in at-
tendance.
Len. Nay, Lordings, put no shame
upon my counsels.
I did but say, if we retired a little,
We should have fairer field and better
vantage.
I 've seen King Robert, &y, The
Bruce himself,
Retreat six leagues in length, and
think no shame on "t.
Reg. Ay, but King Edward sent a
haughty message,
Defying us to battle on this field.
This very hill of Halidon ; if we
leave it
844
©vainafic (pucce.
Unfought withal, it squares not with
our honour.
SwiN. {apart-. A perilous honour
that allows the enemy,
And such an enemy as this same
Edward,
To choose our field of battle ! He
knows how
To make our Scottish pride betray its
master
Into the pitfall.
[^During this speccli ihc debate
among ihc Nobles is coiiiiuual.
SuTH. (aloud). \Ve will not back
one furlong — not one j'ard,
No, nor one inch ; where'er we find
the foe,
Or where the foe finds us, there will
we fight him.
Retreat will dull the spirit of our
followers,
Who now stand prompt for battle.
Ross. My Lords, methinks great
Morarchat' has doubts
That, if his Northern clans once turn
the seam
Of their check'd hose behind, it will
be hard
To halt and rally them.
SuTii. Say'st thou, MacUonnell ?
Add another falsehood.
And name when Morarchat w^as
coward or traitor ]
'J'hineisland race, aschroniclescan tell.
Were oft affianced to the Southron
cause,
Loving tlie weight and temper of their
gold
More than the weight and temper of
iheir steel.
Reg. Peace, my Lords, ho !
Ross (Jhrowing doiuti /lis glove).
MacDonnell will not peace ! There
lies my pledge.
Proud M orarchat, to witness thee a liar.
1 Mornrcliate isthe ancientGaelic description of the
Earls of Sutherland.
Max. Brought I all Nithsdale from
the Western Border,
Left I my towers exposed to foraying
England
And thieving Annandale, to see such
misrule ?
John. Who speaks of Annandale ?
Dare Maxwell slander
The gentle House of Lochwood -'?
Reg. Peace, Lordings, once again.
We represent
The Majestj' of Scotland : in our
presence
Brawling is treason.
SuTH. Were it in presence of the
King himself.
What should prevent my saying
Enter LiNDESAY.
Lin. You must determine quick!}'.
Scarce a mile
Parts our vanguard from Edward's.
On the plain
Bright gleams of armour flash through
clouds of dust,
Like stars through frost-mist; steeds
neigh and weapons clash ;
And arrows soon will whistle^the
worst sound
That waits on English war. You
must determine.
Reg. We are determined. We will
spare proud Edward
Half of the ground that parts us.
Onward, Lords ;
.Saint Andrew strike for .Scotland !
We will lead
The middle ward ourselves, the Royal
Standard
Display'd beside us ; and beneath its
shadow
Shall the young gallants, whom we
knight this day.
Eight for their golden spurs. Lennox,
thou 'rt wise,
2 T.ochwood Cnstle A\as the ancient scat of the
Johnstoncb, Lords of Annandale.
l^aft^Ott ^iff.
845
And wilt obey command ; lead thou
the rear.
I. EN. The rear ! why I the rear ?
The van were fitter
For him who fought abreast with
Robert Bruce.
SwiN. (apart). Discretion hath for-
saken Lennox too !
The wisdom he was forty years in
gathering
Has left him in an instant. 'Tis
contagious
Even to"witness frenzy.
SuTH. The Regent hath determined
well ; the rear
Suits him the best who counsell'd
our retreat.
Len. Proud Northern Thane, the
van were soon the rear
Were thj' disorder'd followers planted
there.
SuTii. Then, for that very word,
I make a vow.
By my broad Earldom, and my father's
soul,
That, if I have not leading of the
I will not fight to-day !
Ross. Morarchat ! thou the leading
of the van ?
Not whilst MacDonnell lives.
SvviN. (apart). Nay, then a stone
would speak.
[Addresses the Regent.) May "t please
your Grace,
And you, great Lords, to hear an old
man's counsel.
That hath seen fights enow. These
open bickerings
Dishearten all our host. If that your
Grace
With these great Earls and Lords
must needs debate,
Let the closed tent conceal your dis-
agreement ;
Else 'twill be said, ill fares it with
the flock
If shepherds wrangle when the wolf
is nigh.
Reg. The old Knight counsels well.
Let every Lord
Or Chief, who leads five hundred
men or more,
P'ollow to council ; others are ex-
cluded—
'^Ve '11 have no vulgar censurcrs of
our conduct.
[^Looking at .Swinton.
Young Gordon, your high rank and
numerous following
Give you a seat with us, thougli j-et
unknighted.
Gordon. I pray you, pardon me.
My youth 's unfit
To sit in council, when that Knight's
grey hairs
And wisdom wait without.
Reg. Do as you will ; we deign not
bid you twice.
[77/(? Regent, Ross, Sutherland,
Lennox, Maxwell, &c., enter
the Tent. Tlie rest remain grouped
abont the Stage.
GoR. {observing SwiN.) That helmet-
less old Knight, his giant stature,
His awful accents of rebuke and
wisdom,
Have caught my fancy strangely. He
doth seem
Like to some vision'd form which
I have dream'd of,
But never saw with waking eyes till
now.
I will accost him.
Vip. Pray j^ou, do not so ;
Anon I '11 give you reason why you
should not.
There 's other work in hand.
GoR. I will but ask his name. There's
in his presence
Something that works upon me like
a spell,
Or like the feeling made my childish
ear
846
^vAmaik (ptecee.
Dote upon tales of superstitious
dread,
Attracting while they chill'd my heart
with fear.
Now, born the Gordon, I do feel right
well
I 'm bound to fear nought earthly ;
and I fear nought.
I '11 know who this man is.
[AcroSfS SwiNTON'.
Sir Knight, I pra^- you, of your gentle
courtesy,
To tell your honour'd name. I am
ashamed,
Being unknown in arms, to say that
mine
Is Adam Gordon.
SwiN. {s/ioivs enioiioii, but instaiilly
subdues it). It is a name that
soundeth in my ear
Like to a death-knell, aj', and like
the call I
Of the shrill trumpet to the mortal
lists ;
Yet 'tis a name which ne'er liath been
dishonour'd,
And never will, I trust ; most surely
never
By such a youth as thou.
GoR. There 's a mj'sterious courtesy
in this,
And yet it j'ields no answer to mj'
question.
I trust you hold the Gordon not un-
worthy
To know the name he asks ?
SwiN. Worthy of all that openness
and honour
May show to friend or foe; but, for
my name,
Vipont will show it you, and, if it
sound
Harsh in your ear. remember that it
knells there
But at your own request. This day,
at least,
Though seldom wont to keep it in
concealment,
As there "s no cause I should, you had
not heard it.
GoR, This strange
Vip. The mystery is needful. Fol-
low me.
[T/ifv retire behind the side scene.
SwiN. {looking after them). 'Tis a
brave youth. How blush'd his
noble cheek.
While youthful modesty, and the em-
barrassment
Of curiosity, combined with wonder,
And half suspicion of some slight in-
tended,
All mingled in the flush ; but soon
'twill deepen
Into revenge's glow. How slow is
Vipont!
I wait the issue as I 've seen spec-
tators
Suspend the motion even of the eye-
lids
When the slow gunner, with his
lighted match,
Approach'd the charged cannon, in
the act
To waken its dread slumbers.— Now
'tis out ;
He draws his sword, and rushes
towards me,
Who will nor seek nor shun him.
Enter Gordon, withheld by Vipont.
Vip. Hold, for the sake of Heaven !
O, for the sake
Of your dear country, hold ! Has
Swinton slain your father,
And must you, therefore, be yourself
a parricide.
And stand recorded as the selfish
traitor
Who in herhour of need his country's
cause
Deserts, that he may wreak a private
wrong 1
Sfaftbott Igtff.
847
Look to yon banner— that isScotland's
Vip. (to GoR.") Thou hast perused
standard ;
him at more leisure now.
Look to the Regent — he is Scotland's
GoR. I see the giant form which all
general ;
men speak of.
Look to the English— thc^y are Scot-
The stately port, but not the sullen
land's foeinen !
eye.
Bethink thee, then, thou art a son of
Not the bloodthirsty look that should
Scotland,
belong
And think on nought beside. __
. To him that made me orphan. I shall
GoR. He hath come here to brave
need
me ! Ofl"! unhand me !
To name my father twice ere I can
Thou canst not be my father's ancient
strike
friend,
At such grey hairs, and face of such
That stand'st 'twixt me and him who
command :
slew my father.
Yet xny hand clenches on mv falchion-
Vip. You know not Swinton.
hilt,
Scarce one passing thought
In token he shall die.
Of his high mind was with you ; now,
Vip. Need I again remind you that
his soul
the place
Is fix'd on this daj-'s battle. You
Permits not private quarrel ?
might slay him
GoR. I 'm calm. I will not seek —
At unawares before he saw your blade
nay, I will shun it ;
drawn.
And yet methinks that such debate's
Stand still, and watch him close.
the fashion.
Enter MAXWF.rL/ro;;/ tlic fciif.
You 've heard how taunts, reproaches,
and the lie,
Swix. How go our councils,
The lie itself, have flown from mouth
Maxwell, may I ask ?
to mouth ;
Max. As wild as if the very wind
As if a band of peasants were disputing
and sea
About a football match, rather than
With every breeze and every billow
chiefs
battled
Were ordering a battle. I am young,
For their precedence.
And lack experience : tell me, brave
Swi. Most sure they arc possess'd !
De Vipont,
Some evil spirit,
Is such the fashion of your wars in
To mock their valour, robs them of
Palestine ?
discretion.
Vip. Such it at times hath been ;
Fie, fie, upon 't ! Oh, that Dunferm-
and then the Cross
line's tomb
Hath sunk before the Crescent.
Could render up The Bruce! that
Heaven's cause
Spain's red shore
Won us not victory where wisdom
Could give us back the good Lord
was not.
James of Douglas !
Behold yon English host come slowly
Or that fierce Randolph, with his
on
voice of terror,
With equal front, rank marshall'd
Were here to awe these brawlers to
upon rank,
submission !
As ifone spirit ruled one moving body;
R48
©ramaftc (ptecee.
The leaders in their places, each
prepared
To charge, support, and rally, as the
fortune
Of changeful battle needs : then look
on ours.
Broken, disjointed, as the tumbling
surges
Which the winds wake at random.
Look on both,
And dread the issue ; yet there might
be succour.
GoR. We 're fearfully o'ermatch'd
in discipline ;
So even my inexperienced eye can
judge.
What succour save in Heaven?
ViP. Heaven acts by human means.
The artist's skill
Supplies in war, as in mechanic crafts.
Deficiency of tools. There 's courage,
wisdom,
And skill enough, I live in one leader
here,
As, flung into the balance, might avail
To counterpoise the odds "twixt that
ruled host
And our wild multitude. I must not
name him.
GoR. I guess, but dare not ask.
What band is yonder.
Arranged so closely as the English
discipline
Hath marshall'd their best files ?
ViP. Know'st thou not the pennon?
One day, perhaps, thou 'It see it all
too closely ;
It is Sir Alan Swinton's.
GoR. These, then, are his, the
relics of his power ;
Yet worth an host of ordinary men.
And I must slay my country's sagest
leader,
And crush by numbers that determined
handful.
When most my country needs their
practised aid,
Or men will say, ' There goes de-
generate Gordon ;
His father's blood is on the Swinton's
sv\'ord,
And his is in his scabbard ! ' [^Miises.
Vip. (apart). Highbloodandmettle,
niix'd with earlj' wisdom,
Sparkle in this brave youth. If he
survive
This evil-omen"d day, I pawn my word
That, in the ruin which I nowforbode,
Scotland hastreasure left. How close
he eyes
Each look and step of Swinton ! Is it
hate,
Or is it admiration, or are both
Commingled strangelj' in that steady
gaze ?
[Swinton (7;/(f Maxwell rr////v;_/ro;;i
ilie bnttoni of the slage.
Max, The storm is laid at length
amongst these counsellors;
See, they come forth,
.SwiN, And it is more than time ;
For I can mark the vanguard archery
Handling their quivers, bending up
their bows.
Enter the Regent and Scottish Lords.
Rec;, Thus shall it be, then, since
we may no better ;
And, since no Lord will yield one jot
of way
To this high urgency, or give the
vanguard
Up to another's guidance, we will
abide them
Even on this bent; and as our troops
are rank'd,
So shall they meet the foe. Chief,
nor Thane,
Nor Noble, can complain of the
precedence
Which chance has thus assign'd him.
Swin. [apart). O sage discipline.
That leaves to chance the marshalling
of a battle !
Igaft^on Igtff.
849
GoR. Move him to speech, De
Vipont.
ViP. Move /it'll! f Move whom ?
GoR. Even him, wliom, but brief
space since,
My hand did burn to put to uttersilence.
ViP. I "11 move him to it. Swinton,
speak to them ;
They lack thy counsel sorely.
SwiN. Had I the thousand spears
which once I led
I had not thus been silent. But men's
wisdom
Is rated by their means. From the
poor leader
Of sixty lances, who seeks words of
weight ?
GoR. ^stepping forivanl .. Swinton,
there's that ofwisdom on thy brow,
/ And valour in thine ej'e, and that of
peril
In this most urgent hour, that bids
me say —
Bids me, thy mortal foe, say —
Swinton, speak
For King and Country's sake !
SwiN. Nay, if that voice commands
me, speak I will ;
It sounds as if the dead laid charge
on me.
Reg. Jo Lennox, tvt'fh ivhoin he
has been consulting). 'Tis better
than you think. This broad hill-
side
Affords fair compass for our power's
displa}',
Rank above rank rising in seemly
tiers;
So that the rearward stands as fair
and open ■
SwiN. As e'er stood mark before an
English archer.
Reg. Who dares to say so? Who
is 't dare impeach
Our rule of discipline ?
SwiN. A poor Knight of these
r\I arches, good my Lord ;
Alan of Swinton, who hath kept a
house here.
He and his ancestrj'', since the old daj's
Of Malcolm, called the Maiden.
Reg. You have brought here, even
to this pitched field,
In which this Roj-al Banner is dis-
play'd,
I think some sixty spears, Sir Knight
of Swinton ;
Our musters name no more.
SwiN. I brought each man I had ;
and Chief, or Earl,
Thane, Duke, or dignitary, brings no
more :
And with them brought I what may
here be useful
An aged e\^e; which, what with Eng-
land, Scotland,
Spain, France, and Flanders, Iiath
seen fifty battles,
And ta'en some judgment of them ; a
stark hand too,
Which plays as with a straw with
this same mace, —
Which if a j'oung arm here can wield
more liglitl3-.
I never more will offer word of counsel.
Len. Hear him, mj' Lord ; it is the
noble .Swinton :
He hath had high experience.
Max. He is noted
The wisest warrior 'twixt the Tweed
and Solway :
I do beseech you, hear him.
John. Ay, hear the Swinton ; hear
stout old Sir Alan ;
Maxwell and Johnstone both agree
for once.
Reg. Where's 3'our impatience
now ?
Late you ^vere all for battle, would
not hear
Ourself pronounce a word ; and now
you gaze
On yon old warrior in his antique
armour.
850
©vawattc (pieces.
As if he were arisen from the dead
To bring us Bruce's counsel for the
battle.
SwiN. "Tis a proud word to speak;
but he who fought
Long under Robert Bruce may some-
thing guess,
Without communication with the dead,
At what he would have counsell'd.
Bruce had bidden ye
Review your battle-order, marshall'd
broadly
Here on the bare hillside, and bidden
you mark
Yon clouds of Southron archers, bear-
ing down
To the green meadow-lands which
stretch beneath ;
The Bruce had warn'd you not a
shaft to-day
But shall find mark within a Scottish
bosom,
If thus our field be order'd. The
callow boys,
Who draw but four-foot bows, shall
gall our front,
While on our mainward, and upon
the rear.
The cloth-yard shafts shall fall like
death's own darts,
And, though blind men discharge
them, find a mark.
Thus shall we die the death of slaugh-
ter'd deer,
Which, driven into the toils, are shot
at ease
By boys and women, while they toss
aloft
All idly and in vain their branchy
horns.
As we shall shake our unavailing
spears.
Reg. Tush, tell not me 1 If their
shot fall like hail,
Our men have Milan coatsto bear it out.
SwiN. Never did armourer temper
steel on stithy
That made sure fence against an
English arrow.
A cobweb gossamer we re guard as good
Against a wasp-sting.
Reg. Who fears a wasp-sting?
Swim. I, my Lord, fear none;
Yet should a wise man brush the
insect off,
Or he may smart for it.
Reg. We'll keep the hill ; it is the
vantage-ground
When the main battle joins.
SvviN. It ne'er will join, while their
light archery
Can foil our spearmen and our barbed
horse.
To hope Plantagenet would seek close
combat
When he can conquer riskless, is to
deem
Sagacious Edward simpler than a babe
In battle knowledge. Keep the hill,
mj^ Lord,
With the main body, if it is 3'our
pleasure ;
But let a body of your chosen horse
Make execution on yon waspish
archers.
I 've done such work before, and love
it well ;
If 'tis your pleasure to give me the
leading.
The dames of Sherwood, Inglewood,
and Weardale,
Shall sit in widowhood and long for
venison.
And long in vain. Whoe'er remem-
bers Bannockburn, —
And when shall Scotsman, till the last
loud trumpet,
Forget that stirring word ? — knows
that great battle
Even thus was fought and won.
Len. This is the shortest road to
bandy blows ;
For when the bills step forth and
bows go back,
Hafiion gief.
851
Then is the moment that our hardy
spearmen,
With their strong bodies, and their
stubborn hearts,
And hmbs well knit by mountain
exercise,
At the close tug shall foil the short-
breath'd Southron.
SwiN. I do not say the field will thus
be won ;
The English host is numerous, brave,
and loyal ;
Their Monarch most accomplish'd in
war's art,
Skill'd, resolute, and wary-- — -
Reg. And if your scheme secure
not victory.
What does it promise us ?
SvviN. This much at least, —
Darkling we shall not die: the
peasant's shaft,
Loosen'd perchance without an aim
or purpose.
Shall not drink up the lifeblood we
derive
From those famed ancestors who
made their breasts
This frontier's barrier for a thousand
years.
We '11 meet these Southron bravely
hand to hand,
And eye to eye, and weapon against
weapon ;
Each man who falls shall see the foe
who strikes him.
While our good blades are faithful to
the hilts,
And our good hands to these good
blades are faithful.
Blow shall meet blow, and none fall
unavenged ;
We shall not bleed alone.
Reg. And this is all
Your wisdom hath devised ?
SwiN. Not all ; for I would pray you,
noble Lords,
If one, among the guilty guiltiest,
mighty
For this one day to charm to ten
hours' rest
The never-dying worm of deadly feud
That gnaws our vexed hearts ; think
no one foe
Save Edward and his host. Days
will remain.
Ay, days by far too many will remain.
To avenge old feuds or struggles for
precedence ;
Let this one day be .Scotland's. For
myself.
If there is any here may claim from
me
(As well may chance) a debt of blood
and hatred,
My life is his to-morrow unresisting,
So he to-day will let me do the best
That my old arm may achieve for the
dear country
That 's mother to us both.
[Gordon s/iozvs uinch euioffon
ditring tins and the preceding
speech q/"SwiNTON.
Reg. It is a dream — a vision ! If
one troop
Rush down upon the archers, all will
follow,
And order is destroy'd : we '11 keep
the battle-rank
Our fathers wont to do. No more
on't. Ho!
Whiere be those youths seek knight-
hood from our sword ?
Her. Here are the Gordon, .Somer-
ville, and Hay,
And Hepburn, with a score of gallants
more.
Reg. Gordon, stand forth.
GoR. I pray your Grace, forgive me.
Reg. How! seek you not for knight-
hood ?
GoR. I do thirst for 't.
But, pardon me ! 'tis from another
sword.
852
'S)vM\<xtk ^iecee.
Reg. It is your Sovereign's ; seek
you for a worthier ?
GoR. Who would drink purely
seeks the secret fountain,
How small soever, not the general
stream,
Though it be deep and wide. My
Lord, I seek
The boon cf knighthood from the
honour'd weapon
Of the best knight and of the sagest
leader
That ever graced a ring of chivalry.
Therefore I beg the boon on bended
knee.
Even from Sir Alan Swinton. [Kneels.
Reg. Degenerate boy, abject at
once and insolent !
See, Ltrrds, he kneels to him that
slew his father !
GoR. {starting up). Shame be onhim
who speaks such shameful word !
Shame be on him, w^hose tongue
would sow dissension
When most the time demands that
native Scotsmen
Forget each private wrong !
SwiN. [interrupting hiui). Youth,
since you crave me
To be your sire in chivalry, I remind
you
War has its duties. Office has its
reverence ;
Who governs In the Sovereign's name
is Sovereign ;
Crave the Lord Regent's pardon.
GoR. You task me justl}', and I
crave his pardon,
[Bows to the Regent.
His and these noble Lords'; and pray
them all
Bear ^vitncss to m\' \vords. Ye
noble presence,
Here I remit unto the Knight of
.Swinton
All Ijittcr memory of my lather's
slaue;liter.
All thoughts of malice, hatred, and
revenge ;
By no base fear or composition moved,
But by the thought, that in our
countrj^'s battle
All hearts should be as one. I do
forgive him
As freely as I praj^ to be forgiven.
And once more kneel to him to sue
for knighthood.
Swis. {affected, and drawing /lis sivord).
Alas ! brave youth, 'tis I should kneel
to you.
And, tendering thee the hilt of the
fell sword
That made thee fatherless, bid thee
use the point
After thine own discretion. For thy
boon —
Trumpets be ready — In the Holiest
name,
And in Our Ladj^'s and Saint Andrew's
name,
[ Tonclnng /lis s/iottlder ivitli /lis
szi'ord.
I dub thee Knight 1 Arise, Sir Adam
Gordon !
Be faithful, brave, and O be fortunate,
Should this ill hour permit !
[T/ie tninipcts sound ; t/ie Heralds
cry 'Largesse,' and t/ie Atten-
dants s/iout ' A Gordon I A
Gordon ! '
Reg. Beggars and flatterers I Peace,
peace, I say !
We '11 to the Standard ; knights shall
there be made
Who will with better reason crave
your clamour.
Len. What of Swinton's counsel ?
Here's Maxwell and mj^self think it
worth noting.
Reg. {ivitli concoitrated indignation).
Let the best knight, and let the sagest
leader, —
So Gordon quotes the man who slew
his father, — •
Igafibon '^iSt
853
With his old pedigree and heavy mace,
Essay the adventure, if it pleases him,
With his fair threescore horse. As
for ourselves,
We will not peril aught upon the
measure.
GoR. Lord Regent, j'ou mistake ;
for if Sir Alan
Shall venture such attack, each man
who calls
The Gordon chief, and hopes or fears
from him
Or good or evil, follows Swinton's
banner
In this acliievcmcnt.
Reg. Why, God ha' mercy ! this
is of a piece.
Let 3'oung and old e'en follow their
own counsel.
Since none will list to mine.
Ross. The Border cockerel fain
would be on horseback ;
'Tis safe to be prepared for fight or flight:
And this comes of it to give Northern
lands
To the false Norman blood.
GoR. Hearken, proud Chief of Isles!
Within my stalls
I liave two hundred horse ; two
hundred riders
Mount guard upon my castle, who
would tread
Into the dust a thousand of your
Redshanks,
Nor count it a day's service.
Sv/ix. Hear I this
From thee, young man, and on the
day of battle ?
And to the brave MacDonnell ?
GoR. 'Twas he that urged me ; but
I am rebuked.
Reg. Hecroucheslikea leash-hound
to his master !
SwiN. Each hound must do so that
would head the deer;
'Tis mongrel curs that snatch at mate
or master. -
Keg. Too much of this. Sirs, to
the Ro3'al Standard 1
I bid you, in the name of £;ood King
David.
Sound trumpets ! sound for Scotland
and King Da\id.
[77/(7 Regent and the rest i:;o off,
and ihc Scene eposes. Manent
GoRDox, SwiNTOx, andVivotiT,
'ivith Reynald and foUoivers.
LENsox/onozvs/he Regent; but
returns, and addresses Swinton.
Len. O were my western horse-
men but come up ;
I would take part with you !
SwiN. Better that you remain.
They lack discretion ; such grey head
as yours
Ma\- best supply tliat want.
Lennox, mine ancient friend and
honour'd lord,
Farewell, I think, for ever !
Len. Farewell, brave friend 1 and
farewell, noble Gordon,
Whose sun will be eclipsed even as
it rises !
The Regent will not aid 3-ou.
SwiN. We will so bear us that as
soon the blood-hound
.Shall halt, and take no part, what
time his comrade
Is grappling with the deer, as he
stand still
And see us overmatch'd.
Len. Alas ! thou dost not know
how mean his pride is.
How strong his envy.
.SwiN. Then we will die, and leave
the shame with him.
{^Exi't Lenxo.x.
\iv. [to GoRDOx^'. What ails thee,
noble youth ? What means this
pause ?
Thou dost not rue thy generosity ?
GoR. I have been hurried on by
strong impulse,
854
©rarnaftc (Ptec40.
Like to a bark that scuds before the
storm.
Till driven upon some strange and
distant coast,
Which never pilot dream'd of.
Have I not forgiven ?
And am I not still fatherless ?
SvviN. Gordon, no ;
For while we live I am a father to thee.
GoR. Thou, Swinton ? No! that
cannot, cannot be.
SwiN. Then change the phrase, and
say that while we live
Gordon shall be my son. If thou art
fatherless,
Am I not childless too ? Bethink thee,
Gordon,
Our death-feud was not like the
household fire.
Which the poor peasant hides among
its embers,
To smoulder on, and wait a time for
waking.
Ourswastheconflagrationofthe forest.
Which, in its fury, spares nor sprout
nor stem,
Hoar oak nor sapling, not to be
extinguish'd
Till Heaven in mercy sends down
all her waters ;
But, once subdued, its flame is
quench'd for ever ;
And spring shall hide the tract of
devastation
With foliage and with flowers. Give
me thy hand.
GoR. My hand and heart !- And
freely now to fight !
Vip. How will you act ? ( To
Swinton.) The Gordon's band
and thine
Are in the rearward left, I think, in
scorn :
111 post for them who wish to charge
the foremost !
SwiN. We '11 turn that scorn to
vantage, and descend
Sidelong the hill ; some winding path
there must be.
O, for a well-skiird guide !
[Hob H.\ttely starts up from
a thicket.
Hob. So here he stands. An
ancient friend. Sir Alan, —
Hob Hattelj', or, if j'ou like it better.
Hob of the Heron Plume, here stands
your guide.
SvviN. An ancient friend ? — a most
notorious knave.
Whose throat I 've destined to the
dodder'd oak
Before my castle, these ten months
and more.
Was it not you who drove from
Simprim-mains,
And Swinton-quarter, sixty head of
cattle ?
Hon. What then, if now I lead your
sixty lances
Upon the English flank, \vhere they '11
find spoil
Is worth six hundred beeves ?
SwiN. Wh}', thou canst do it, knave.
I would not trust thee
With one poor bullock ; j-et would
risk my life.
And all mj' followers, on thine honest
guidance.
Hob. There is a dingle, and a most
discreet one
(\ 've trod each step by starlight^,
that sweeps round
The rearward of this hill, and opens
secretly
Upon the archers' flank. Will not
that serve
Your present turn, .Sir Alan ?
SwiN. Bravely, bravely !
GoR. Mount, sirs, and cry m}' slogan.
Let all who love the Gordon followme !
SwiN. Ay, let all follow ; but in
silence follow.
Scare not the hare that's couchant
on her form ;
^afi^on ^m.
855
The cushat from her nest ; brush not,
if possible,
Tlie dewdrop from the spray ;
Let no one whisper, until I cry
' Havoc ! '
Then shout as load's j'e will. On,
on, brave Hob ;
On, thou false thief, but yet most
faithful Scotsman ! [E.viiiiif.
ACT n.
Scene I.
A rising ground iniinalialely in front
of the position of the English main
body. PERCi', Chandos, Ribau-
MONT, and othcrEnglis/i and Norman
Nobles, are grouped on the Stage.
Per. The Scots still keep the hill ;
the sun grows high.
Would that the charge would sound.
Chan. Thou scent'st the slaughter,
Percy. Who comes here ?
Elder the Abbot of Walth.\mstow.
Now, by my life, the holy priest of
Walthamstow,
Like to a lamb among a herd of wolves !
See, he "s about to bleat.
Ab. The King, methinks, delays the
onset long.
Chan. Your general, Father, like
your rat-catcher,
Pauses to bait his traps, and set his
snares.
Ab. The metaphor is decent.
Chan. Reverend sir,
I will uphold it just. Our good King
Edward
Will presently come to this battlefield.
And speak to you of the last tilting
match,
Or of some feat he did a twenty years
since;
But not a word of the day's work
before him.
Even as the artist, sir, whose name
offends you,
Sits prosing o'er his can, until the
trap fall.
Announcing that the vermin are se-
cured,
And then 'tis up, and on them.
Per. Chandos, you give your tongue
too bold a license.
Chan. Percy, I am a necessary evil.
King Edward would not want me, if
he could ;
And could not, if he would. I know
mj' value.
My heavy hand excuses my light
tongue.
So men wear weighty swords in their
defence,
Although they may offend the tender
shin
When the steel-boot is doft'd.
Ab. My Lord of Chandos,
Thisisbutidlespeechonbrinkofbattle,
When Christian men should think
upon their sins ;
For as the tree falls.so the trunk must lie,
Be it for good or evil. Lord, bethink
thee.
Thou hast withheld from our most
reverend house
The tithes of Everingham and Settle-
ton ;
Wilt thou make satisfaction to the
Church
Before her thunders strike thee ? I do
warn thee
In most paternal sort.
Chan. I thank you. Father, filially.
Though but a truant son of Holy
Church,
I would not choose to undergo her
censures
When Scottish blades are waving at
my throat.
I '11 make fair composition.
Sk6
©vantatic (piece©.
Ab. No composition ; I "11 have all,
or none.
Chan. None, then I "tis soonest
spoke. I '11 take my chance.
And trust my sinful soul to Heaven's
mercy,
Rather than risk my worldly goods
with thee.
Jly hour ma}' not be come.
Ab. Impious — impenitent — •
Per. Hush ! the King— the King I
Enter King Edward, of tended by
Baliol and others.
K. Ed. (apart to Chandos). Hark
hither, Chandos ! Have the York-
shire archers
Yet join'd the vanguard ?
ChaIn. They are marching thither.
K. Ed. Bid them make haste, for
shame ; send a quick rider.
The loitering knaves ! were it to steal
my venison.
Their steps were light enough. How
now. Sir Abbot ?
Say, is j'our reverence come to study
with us
The princely art of war ?
Ab. I "ve had a lecture from my
Lord of Chandos,
In which he term'd your Grace a rat-
catcher.
K. Ed. Chandos, hovv' 's this?
Chan. O, I will prove it, sir! These
skipping .Scots
Have changed a dozen times 'twixt
Bruce and Baliol,
Quitting each House when it began to
totter;
Thej- 're fierce and cunning, treacher-
ous, too, as rats.
And we, as such, will smoke them in
their fastnesses.
K. Ed. These rats have seen your
back, my Lord of Chandos,
And noble Percy's too.
Per. Ay; but the mass which now
lies weltering
On yon hillside, like a Leviathan
That 's stranded on the shallows, then
had soul in 't.
Order and discipline, and power of
action.
Now 'tis a lieadless corpse, which
only shows
By wild convulsions that some life
remains in "t.
K. Ed. True, they had once a head ;
and 'twas a wise.
Although a rebel head.
Ab. {boivingto the King). Would he
were here; we should find one
to match him.
K. Ed. There's something in that
wish which wakes an echo
Within my bosom. Yet it is as well.
Or better, that The Bruce is in his
grave ;
We have enough of powerful foes on
earth :
No need to summon them from other
worlds.
Per. Your Grace ne'er met The
Bruce ?
K.Ed. Never himself; but in my
earliest field
I did encounter with his famous cap-
tains,
Douglas and Randolph. Eaith ! they
press'd me hard.
Ab. My Liege, if I might urge you
with a question,
Will the Scots fight to-day ?
K. Ed. (sharply). Go look your bre-
viary.
Chan, (apart). The Abbot has it^
Edward will not answer
On that nice point. We must observe
his humour.
l^lddrcsses the King.]
Your first campaign, my Liege?
That was in Weardalc,
When Douglas gave our camp yon
midnight ruffle.
And turn'd men's beds to biers ?
Igaftion %i(t
857
K. Ed. Ay, by Saint Edward 1 I
escaped right nearly.
I was a soldier then for holidays,
And slept not in mine armour : my
safe rest
Was startled by the cry of ' Douglas I
Douglas !'
And by my couch, agrisly chamberlain,
Stood Alan Swinton, with his bloody
mace.
It was a churchman saved me ; my
stout chaplain,
Heaven quit his spirit! caught a
weapon up.
And grappled with the giant. How
now, Louis ?
Enter an Officer, ivlio ivhispcrs
ilie King.
K. Ed. Say to him, — thus — and
thus {Whixpcrs.
■ Ab. That Swinton 's dead. A monk
of ours reported.
Bound homeward from Saint Ninian's
pilgrimage,
The Lord of Gordon slew him.
Per. Father, and if your house
stood on our borders
You might have cause to know that
Swinton lives.
And is on horseback yet.
Chan. He slew the Gordon ;
That's all the difference, a very trifle.
Ab. Trifling to those who wage a
war more noble
Than with the arm of flesh.
Chan, (apart). The Abbot 's vex'd,
I '11 rub the sore for him.
{Atoiid. J I have seen priests that used
that arm of flesh,
And used it sturdily. Most reverend
Father,
What say you to the chaplain's deed
of arms
In the King's tent at Weardale ?
Ab. It was most sinful, being against
the canon
Prohibiting all churchmen to bear
weapons ;
And as he fell in that unseemly guise,
Perchance his soul may rue it. \
K. Ed. {overhearing the last words'^ y^
Who may rue ? ^
And what is to be rued ?
Ch.\n. [apart). I '11 match his rever-
ence for the tithes of Everingham.
The Abbot says, my Liege, the deed
was sinful,
By which your chaplain, wielding
secular weapons,
Secured your Grace's life and liberty,
And that he sufl'ers for 't m purga-
tory.
K. Ed. itu the Abbot"). Say'st thou
my chaplain is in purgatory ?
Ab. It is the canon speaks it, good
my Liege.
K. Ed. In purgatory 1 thou shalt
pray him out on 't.
Or I will make thee wish thyself
beside him.
Ab. My Lord, perchance his soul
is past the aid
Of all the Church may do ; there is
a place
From which there 's no redemption.
K. Ed. And if I thought my faithful
chaplain there,
Thou shouldst there join him, priest !
Go watch, fast, pray,
And let me have such prayers as will
storm Heaven ;
None of your maim'd and mutter'd
hunting masses.
Ab. (rt/(7;'^/o Chandos). For God's
sake take him ofl".
Chan. Wilt thou compound, then,
The tithes of Everingham ?
K. Ed. I tell thee, if thou bear'st
the keys of Heaven,
Abbot, thou shalt not turn a bolt with
them
'Gainst any well-deserving English
subject.
8r.8
©ramahc {pkuo.
Ab. i/o Chandos). We will com-
pound and grant thee, too, a share
r the next indulgence. Thou dost
need it much,
And greatly "twill avail thee.
Chan. Enough! we 're friends; and
when occasion serves,
I will strike in.
\_Looks as if toivards the Scottish
Army.
K. Ed. Answer, proud Abbot ; is
my chaplain's soul.
If thou knowest aught on 't, in the
c\'il place ?
Chan. My Liege, the Yorkshire men
have gain'd the meadow.
I see the pennon green of merry
Snerwood.
K. Ed. Then give the signal instant!
V/c have lost
But too much time already.
Ah. My Liege, your holy chaplain's
blessed soul —
K. Ed. To hell with it and thee !
Is this a time
To speak of monks and chaplains ?
\Floiirish ofTnttiipds, aiisii'cirdby
a distant sound of Bitglcs.
See, Chandos ! Percy ! Ha, Saint
George ! Saint Edward I
.See it descending now, the fatal hail-
shower,
The storm of England's wrath, sure,
swift, resistless,
Which no mail-coat can brook.
Brave English hearts !
Mow close they shoot together ! as
one eye
Mad aim'd five thousand shafts, as if
one hand
Had loosed five thousand bow-strings!
Per. The thick volley
Darkens the air, and hides the sun
from us.
Iv. Ed. It falls on those sb.all sec
the sun no more.
The winged, the resistless plague is
with them ;
How their vex'd host is reeling to
and fro ;
Like the chafed whale with fifty
lances in him,
They do not see, and cannot shun
the wound.
The storm is viewless as death's
sable wing,
Unerring as his scythe.
Per. Horses and riders are going
down together.
'Tis almost pity to see nobles fall,
And by a peasant's arrow.
Bal. I could weep them,
Although they are my rebels.
Chan, (aside to Percy). His con-
querors,he means, who cast him out
From his usurped kingdom. {Aloud)
'Tis the worst of it,
That knights can claim small honour
in the field
Which archers win, unaided by our
lances.
K. Ed. The battle is not ended.
\_Looks toivards the field.
Not ended ? scarce begun 1 \\ hat
horse are these.
Rush from the thicket underneath the
hill?
Per. They 're Hainaultcrs, the fol-
lowers of Queen Isabel.
K. Ed. (hastily). Hainaulters ! thou
art blind ; wear Hainaulters
Saint Andrew's silver cross ? or
would they charge
Full on our archers, and make havoc
of them ?
Bruce is alive again ! ho, rescue !
rescue !
Who was 't survey'd the ground ?
RiBAU. Most royal Liege —
K. Ed. a rose hath fallen from thy
chaplet, Ribaumont.
Rn3AU. I'll win it back, or lay my
1 head beside it. \_Extt.
Igafibott ^iff.
859
K. Ed. Saint George ! Saint Ed-
ward I Gentlemen, to horse.
And to the rescue ! Percy, lead the
bill-men ;
Chandos, do thou bring up the men-
at-arms.
If yonder numerous host should now
bear down
Bold as their vanguard, \Jo the Ahbof]
thou mayst pray for us ;
Wc may need good men"s prayers.
To the rescue,
Lords, to the rescue! ha, Saint George !
Saint Edward ! \_E.vatiit.
.SCEXE II.
.1 J'aii oftlic field of battle hetivixt the
two main anitiis. Ttiniitlts heluiui
the scenes : alarums, and cries of
' Gordon, a Gordon,' ' Swinton,' &c.
Enter, as victorious over the English
vanguard, Vii'O.nt, Reyn.\ld, and
others.
Vir. 'Tis sweet to hear these war-
cries sound together, —
Gordon and Swinton.
Rey. 'Tis passing pleasant, ye\. 'tis
strange withal.
Faith, when at first I heard the
Gordon's slogan
Sounded so near me, I had nigh strucic
down
The knave who cried it.
Enter Swinto.n" and Gordon.
SwiN. Pitch down my pennon in
yon hollj^ bush.
GoR. Mine in the thorn beside it ;
let them wave.
As fought this morn their masters,
side by side.
SwiN. Letthemenrall\% and restore
their ranks
Here in this vantage-ground : dis-
order d chase
Leads to disorder'd llight; we have
done our part.
And if we're succour'd now, Plan-
tagenet
Must turn his bridle southward.
Reynald, spur to the Regent with the
basnet
Of stout De Grey, the leader of their
vanguard ;
Say, that in battle-front the Gordon
sle^v him,
And by that token bid him send us
succour.
GoR. And tell him that when. Selb3'"s
Jicadlong charge
Llad wellnigh borne me down, Sir Alan
smote him.
I cannot send his helmet ; never nut-
shell
Went to so many shivers. Hark ye,
grooms !
[ To those behind the scenes.
Why do you let my noble steed stand
stiffening
After so hot a course ?
SwiN. Ay, breathe your horses,
they'll have work anon,
For Edward's men-at-arms will soon
be on us.
The flower of England, Gascony, and
Flanders ;
But with swift succour we \vill bide
them bravely.
De "Vipont, thou look'st sad ?
Vip. It is because I hold a Templar's
sword
Wet to the crossed hilt with Christian
blood.
SwiN. The bloodof English archers,
what can gild
A Scottis'n blade more bravely ?
Vip. Even therefore grieve I for
those gallant yeomen,
England's peculiar and appropriate
sons.
Known in no other land. Each boasts
his hearth
86o
©ramatic (ptcceo.
And field as free as the best lord his
baron}-,
Owing subjection to no human vassal-
age,
Save to their King and law. Hence
are they resolute.
Leading the van on every day of battle,
As men who know the blessings they
defend ;
Hence are they frank and generous
in peace.
As men who have their portion in its
plent}' :
No other kingdom shows such worth
and happiness
Veil'd in such lo^v estate. Therefore
I mourn them.
S'wlN. I '11 keep my sorrow for our
native Scots,
Who, spite of hardship, poverty,
oppression.
Still follow to the field their Chieftain's
banner,
And die in the defence on 't.
GoR. And if I live and see my halls
again
They shall have portion in the good
they fight for :
Each hardy follower shall have his field,
His household hearth and sod-built
home, as free
As ever Southron had. They shall
be happy !
And my Elizabeth shall smile to sec it !
I have betray'd myself.
SwiN. Do not believe it.
Vipont, do thou look out from j-onder
height.
And see what motion in the Scottish
host.
And in King Edward's. [Ext'( Vipont.
Now will I counsel thee ;
TheTemplar'searis forno tale of love,
Being wedded to his Order. But
I tell thee,
The brave young knight that hath no
lady-love
Is like a lamp unlighted ; his brave
deeds.
And its rich painting, do seem then
most glorious
When the pure ray gleams through
them.
Hath thy Elizabeth no other name ?
GoR. Must I then speak of her to
you, Sir Alan ?
The thought of thee, and of thy
matchless strength.
Hath conjured phantoms up amongst
her dreams.
The name of Swinton hath been spell
sufficient
To chase the rich blood from her
lovely cheek,
And wouldst thou now know hers ?
SwiN. I would, nay must.
Thy father in the paths of chivalry,
Should know the load-star thou dost
rule thy course by.
GoR. Nay, then, her name is^
hark [JVhispers.
SwiN. I know it \vell, that ancient
northern house.
GoR. O, thou shalt see its fairest
grace and honour
In my Elizabeth. And if music touch
thee
SwiN. It did, before disasters had
untuned me.
GoR. O, her notes
Shall hush each sad remembrance to
oblivion.
Or melt them to such gentleness of
feeling.
That grief shall have its sweetness.
Who, but she.
Knows the wild harpings of our native
land ?
Whether they lull the shepherd on his
hill,
Or wake the knight to battle ; rouse
to merriment,
Or soothe to sadness; she can touch
each mood.
l^diion %xit
86i
Princes and statesmen, chiefs re-
nown'd in arms,
And grey-hair'd bards, contend wliich
shall the first
And choicest homage render to the
enchantress.
SwiN. You speak her talent bravely.
GoR. Though you smile,
I do not speak it half. Her gift
creative,
New measures adds to every air she
wakes ;
Varying and gracing it with liquid
sweetness.
Like the wild modulation of the lark ;
Now leaving, now returning to the
strain !
To listen to her, is to seem to wander
In some enchanted labyrinth of
romance,
Whence nothing but the loveh' fairj^'s
will.
Who wove the spell, can extricate the
wanderer.
Mcthinks I hear her now !
Swix. Bless'd privilege
Of youth ! There 's scarce three
minutes to decide
'Twixt death and life, "twixt triumph
and defeat.
Yet all his thoughts are in his lady's
bower,
List'ning her harping !
Enter ViPONT.
Where are thine, De Vipont ?
ViP. On death, on judgment, on
eternity !
For time is over with us.
SwiN. There moves not, then, one
pennon to our aid.
Of all that flutter yonder !
ViP. From the main English host
come rushing forward
Pennons enow, a^', and their Royal
Standard ;
But ours stand rooted, as for crows to
roost on.
SwiN. [to himself). I '11 rescue him at
least. — Young Lord of Gordon,
Spur to the Regent ; show the instant
need
GoR. I penetrate thy purpose ; but
I go not.
SwiN. Not at my bidding? I, thy
sire in chivalry,
Thj' leader in the battle ? I command
thee.
GoR. No, thou wilt not command
me seek mj^ safety —
For such is thy kind meaning — at the
expense
Of the last hope which Heaven re-
serves for Scotland.
While I abide, no follower of mine
Will turn his rein for life ; but were
I gone.
What power can staj^ them ? and, our
band dispersed.
What swords shall for an instant stem
yon host.
And save the latest chance for victory ?
ViP. The noble j-outh speaks truth ;
and were he gone,
There will not twenty spears be left
with us.
GoR. No, bravely as we have begun
the field,
So let us fight it out. The Regent's
eyes,
More certain than a thousand messages,
Shall see us stand, the barrier of his
host
Against yon bursting storm. If not
for honour,
If not for warlike rule, for shame at
least
He must bear down to aid us.
SwiN. Must it be so?
And am I forced to yield the sad
consent.
Devoting th\' j'oung life ? O, Gordon,
Gordon I
I do it as the patriarch doom'd his
issue:
862
©ramaftc (ptecee.
I at my countiy's, he at Heaven's
command ;
But I seek vainly some atoning sacri-
fice,
Rather than such a victim ! ( Tntiit-
pets.) Hark, they come !
That music sounds not like thy lady's
lute.
GoR. Yet shall mj' lad^^'s name mix
with it gaily.
Mount, vassals, couch your lances, and
cry ' Gordon !
Gordon for Scotland and Elizabeth!'
\_E.\ci(iit. Loud Alaniiiis.
Scene III.
Aiiotliry part of tJw field of battle, ad-
jacent to tlic foniicr Scene.
Alarums. Enter Svvintox, folloived
by Hob Hattely.
Swi. .Stand to it yd ! The man v.-ho
flies to-da\%
May bastards warm them at his house-
hold hearth !
Hob. That ne'er shall be my curse.
My Magdalen
Is trusty as my broadsword.
Swi. Ha, thou knave,
Art thou dismounted too ?
Hob. I know, .Sir Allan,
You want no homeward guide ; so
threw my reins
Upon my palfrey's neck, and let him
loose.
Within an hour he stands before my
gate;
And Magdalen will need no other
token
To bid the Melrose monks say masses
for me.
Swi. Thou art resolved to cheat
the halter, then ?
Hob. It is my purpose,
Having lived a thief, to die a brave
man's death ;
And never had I a more glorious
chance for 't.
.SwiN. Here lies the waj' to it,
knave. Make in, make in.
And aid young Gordon !
[Exeunt. Loud and long alarums.
After li'liich tlie back Scene rises,
and discovers Swinton on the
ground, Gordon suppoiiing
Idm ; both much wounded.
SwiN. All are cut down; the reapers
have pass'd o'er us,
And hie to distant harvest. My toil 's
over ;
There lies my sickle [dropping his
sword . Hand of mine again
Shall never, never wield it !
GoR. O valiant leader, is thy light
extinguish'd ?
That only beacon-flame which pro-
mised safety
In this day's deadly wrack !
SwiN. My lamp hath long been dim!
But thine, j^oung Gordon,
Just kindled, to be quench'd so
suddenh^.
Ere Scotland saw its splendour !
GoR. Five thousand horse hung
idly on yon hill.
Saw us o'erpower'd, and no one
stirr'd to aid us !
SwiN. It was the Regent's envy.
Out !— alas !
Why blame I him ? It was our civil
discord.
Our selfish vanitj^ our jealous hatred,
Which framed this day of dole for our
poor country.
Had thy brave father held yon leading
staff,
As well his rank and valour might
have claim'd it.
We had not fall'n unaided. How,
O hov/
^aeiiott igief.
863
Is he to answer it, whose deed pre-
vented
GoR. Alas I alas ! the author of the
death-feud,
He has his reckoning too 1 for had
your sons
And numerous vassals lived, we had
lack'd no aid.
S\vi.\. May God assoil the dead, and
him who follows !
We 've drank the poison'd beverage
which we br.ew'd :
Have sown the wind, and reap'd the
tenfold whirlwind !
But thou, brave youth, whose noble-
ness of heart
Pour"d oil upon the woundS our hate
inflicted ;
Thou, who hast done no wrong,
need'st no forgiveness,
Why should'st thou share our punish-
ment !
GoR. All need foi^giveness. [Dis-
tant alanint.) Hark, in 3-onder
shout
Did the main battles counter !
SwiN. Look on the field, brave
Gordon, if thou canst.
And tell me how the day goes. But
I guess.
Too surely do I guess.
GoR. All's lostl all's lost! Of
the main Scottish host.
Some wildly fl}-, and some rush wildly
forward ;
And some there are who seem to
turn their spears
Against their countrymen.
SwiN. Rashness, and cowardice, and
secret treason,
Combine to ruin us; and our hot
valour,
Devoid of discipline, is madmen's
strength,
More fatal unto friends than enemies !
1 'm glad that these dim eyes shall
see no more on "t.
Let thy hands close them, Gordon ;
I will dream
M3' fair-hair'd William renders me
that office ! [Dic^.
GoR. And, .Swinton, I will think
I do that duty
To my dead father.
Enter De Vipoxt.
Vip. Fly, flv, brave youth ! A
handful of thy followers,
Thescatter'd gleaningof this desperate
day,
Still hover yonder to essay thy
rescue.
O linger not ! I '11 be your guide to
them.
GoR. Look there, and bid mc fly I
The oak has fall'n ;
And the young ivy bush, which
learn'd to climb
By its support, must needs partake its
fall.
Vip. Swinton ? Alas ! the best, the
bravest, strongest.
And sagest of our Scottish chivahy !
Forgive one moment, if to save the
living,
Wn' tongue should wrong the dead.
Gordon, bethink thee,
Thou dost but stay to perish with
the corpse
Of him who slew thy father.
GoR. A}'', but he was my sire in
chivalry :
He taught my youth to soar above
the promptings
Of mean and selfish vengeance ;
gave my youth
A name that shall not die even on
this death-spot.
Records shall tell this field had not
been lost.
Had all men fought like Swinton and
like Gordon. [ Tniiiipets.
Save thee, De Vipont. Hark ! the
Southron trumpets.
Vip. Nay, without thee I stir not.
864
'S)vAr\xatic (pkcte.
Enter Edward, Chandos, Percy,
Baliol, ^c.
GoR. Ay, they come on, the Tyrant
and the Traitor,
Workman and tool, Plantagenet and
Baliol.
O for a moment's strength in this
poor arm,
To do one glorious deed !
\J{e rushes on the English, but is
made prisoner ivith Vipoxt.
K. Ed. Disarm them — harm them
not ; though it was they
Made hav-oc on the archers of our
vanguard,
They and that bulky champion.
Where is he ?
Chan. Here lies the giant ! Stay !
his name, young Knight ?
GoR. Let it suflFice, he was a man
this morning.
Chan. I question'd thee in sport.
I do not need
Thy information, youth. Who that
has fought
Through all these Scottish wars, but
knows his crest,
The sable boar chain'd to the leafy oak,
And that huge mace still seen where
war was wildest I
K. Ed. 'Tis Alan Swinton !
Grim chamberlain, who in my tent at
Weardale,
Stood by my startled couch with
torch and mace,
When the Black Douglas' war-cry
waked my camp.
GoR. {sinking doivn). If thus thou
know'st him,
Thou wilt respect his corpse.
K. Ed. As belted Knight and
crowned King, I will.
GoR. And let mine
Sleep at his side, in token that ourdeath
Ended the feud of Swinton and of
Gordon.
K. Ed. It is the Gordon ! Is there
aught beside
Edward can do to honour bravery,
Even in an enemj' ?
GoR. Nothing but this;
Let not base Baliol, wnth his touch
or look,
Profane my corpse or Swinton's. I 've
some breath still,
Enough to say — Scotland— Elizabeth!
Chax. Baliol, I w^ould not brook
such dying looks,
To buy the crown you aim at.
K. Ed. {to Vipont). Vipont, thy
crossed shield shows ill in w^arfare
Against a Christian king.
ViP. That Christian king is warring
upon Scotland ;
I was a Scotsman ere I w-as a Templar,
Sworn to my country ere I knew my
Order.
K. Ed. I will but know thee as a
Christian champion,
And set thee free unransom'd.
Enter Abbot of Walthamstow.
Ab. Heaven grant your Majesty
Man\- such glorious days as this has
been !
K. Ed. It is a day of much and high
advantage ;
Glorious it might ha\'e been, had all
our foes
Fought like these two brave cham-
pions. Strike the drums,
Sound trumpets, and pursue the
fugitives.
Till the Tweed's eddies 'whelm them.
Berwick 's render'd ;
These wars, I trust, will soon find
lasting close.
(mac®uff 6 €roe0.
865
MACDUFF'S CROSS.
ort ©rrttnah'c ^^ctck
DRAMATIS PERSONAE.
Waldh.Ive, } A^>'"^^o/Ln;dores.
LiNDKSAV, I o /y 7 r.
Maukice liERKELEV, I ^"'^^'^'^' Barous.
MRS. JOANNA BAILLIE,
AUTHORESS OK
•THE PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS.'
PRELUDE.
Nay, smile not, Lady, when I speak
of witchcraft,
And say that still there lurks amongst
our glens
Some touch ot" strange enchantment.
Mark that fragment,
I mean that rough-hewn block of
massive stone,
Placed on the summit of this mountain-
pass,
Commanding prospect wide o'er field
and fell,
And peopled village and extended
moorland.
And the wide ocean and majestic Tay,
To the far distant Grampians. Do not
deem it\
Aloosen'd portion of the neighbouring
rock,
Detach'd by storm and thunder, —
'twas the pedestal
On which, in ancient times, a Cross
was rear'd,
Carved o'er with words which foil'd
philologists ;
And the events it did conimemorate
Were dark, remote, and undistin-
guishable
As were the mj'stic characters it bore.
But, mark, — a wizard, born on Avon's
bank.
Tuned but his harp to this wild
northern theme.
And, lo ! the scene is hallow'd. None
shall pass.
Now, or in after daj-s, beside that stone,
But he shall have strange visions ;
thoughts and words,
That shake, or rouse, or tlirill the
human heart.
Shall rush upon his memory when
he hears
The spirit-stirring name of this rude
symbol ;
Oblivious ages, at that simple spell,
.Shall render back their terrors with
their woes,
Alas ! and with their crimes ; and the
proud phantoms
Shall movewith step familiar to his eye,
vi
866
©ramA^tc ^kue.
And accents which, once heard, the
car forgets not.
Though ne'er again to list them.
Siddons, thine,
Thou matchless Siddons 1 thrill upon
our ear ;
And on our eye thy lofty Brother's form
Rises as Scotland's monarch. But,
to thee,
Joanna, why to thee speak of such
visions 1
Thine own wild wand can raise them.
Yet since thou wilt an idle tale of
mine.
Take one which scarcely is of worth
enough
To give or to withhold. Our time
creeps on,
Fancy grows colder as the silvery hair
Tells the advancing winter of our life.
But if it be of worth enough to please,
That worth it owes to her who set
the task ;
If otherwise, the fault rests with the
author.
Scene I.
Till' sHiiiuiit of a Rocky Pass near to
Neivburgli, about two utiles front
the ancient Abbey of Lindores, in
Fife. In the centre is MacDuff's
Cross, ait antique monument ; and,
at a small distance, on one side,
a Chapel, ivilh a lamp burning.
Enter, as having ascended the Pass,
NiNiAN and Waldhave, Monks of
Lindores. Ninian crosses himself,
and seems to recite his devotions.
Waldhave stands gasing on the
prospect, as if in deep contemplation.
Nm. Here stands the Cross, good
brother, consecrated
By the bold Thane unto his patron
saint,
Magridius, once abrotherof our house.
Canst thou not spare an ave or a
creed '
Or hath the steep ascent exhausted
you ?
You trode it stoutly, though 'twas
rough and toilsome.
Wal. I have trode a rougher.
NiN. On the Highland hills—
Scarcely within our sea-girt province
here,
Unless upon the Lomonds or Benarty.
Wal. I spoke not of the literal path,
good father,
But of the road of life which I have
travcll'd,
Ere I assumed this habit ; it was
bounded.
Hedged in, and limited by earthly
prospects,
As ours beneath was closed by dell
and thicket.
Here we see wide and far, and the
broad sky,
With wide horizon, opens full around.
While earthly objects dwindle. Bro-
ther Ninian,
Fain would I hope that mental elevation
Could raise me equally o'er worldly
thoughts.
And place me nearer heaven.
NiN. 'Tis good morality. But yet
forget not,
That though we look on heaven from
this high eminence.
Yet doth the Prince ofall the airy space,
Arch foe of man, possess the realms
between.
Wal. Most true, good brother;
and men may be farther
From the bright heaven they aim at,
even because
They deem themselves secure on't.
NiN. {after a pause"-. You do gaze —
Strangers are wont to do so — on the
prospect.
Yon is the Tay roll'd down from
Highland hills,
(rilac®uff' 0 €ro00.
86v
That rests his waves, after so rude
a race,
In the fair plains of Govvrie •, further
westward
Proud Stirling rises ; yonder to the
east,
Dundee, the gift of God ; and fair
Montrose,
And still more northwaid lie the
ancient towers
Wal. OfEdzell.
NiN. How? know 3'ou the
towers of Edzell ?
Wal. I've heard of them.
NiN, Then have you heard a tale,
Which when he tells, the peasant
shakes his head,
And shuns the mouldering and de-
serted walls.
Wal. Why, and by whom, deserted?
NiN. I-ong the tale.
Enough to say that the last Lord of
Edzell,
Bold Louis Lindesay, had a wife, and
found •
Wal. Enough is said, indeed, —
since a weak woman.
Ay, and a tempting fiend, lost Paradise,
When man was innocent.
NiN. They fell at strife.
Men say, on slight occasion ; that
fierce Lindesay
Did bend his sword against De Berke-
ley's breast.
And that the lady threw herself
between ;
That then De Berkeley dealt the
Baron's death-wound.
Enough, that from that time De Berke-
ley bore
A spear in foreign wars. But, it is said.
He hath return'd of late ; and, there-
fore, brother.
The Prior hath ordain'd our vigil here.
To watch the privilege of the sanc-
tuary.
And rights of Clan MacDuflf.
Wal. What rights are these ?
NiN. Most true ! you are but newly
come from Rome,
And do not know our ancient usages.
Know then, when fell Macbeth be-
neath the arm
Of the predestined knight, unborn of
woman.
Three boons the victor ask'd, and
thrice did Malcolm,
Stooping the sceptre by the Thane
restored,
Assent to his request. And hence the
rule.
That first when Scotland's King as-
sumes the crown.
MacDuft-s descendant rings his brow
with it ;
And hence, when Scotland's King
calls forth his host,
MacDufTs descendant leads the van
in battle ;
And last, in guerdon of the crown
restored,
Red with the blood of the usurping
tyrant.
The right was granted in succeeding
time.
That if a kinsman of the Thane of Fife
Commit a slaughter on a sudden im-
pulse.
And fly for refuge to this Cross
MacDufi;
For the Thane's sake he shall find
sanctuary ;
For here must the avenger's step be
staid.
And here the panting homicide find
safety.
Wal. And here a brother of j-our
order watches,
To see the custom of the place ob-
served ?
NiN. Even so ; — such is our con-
vent's holy right,
Since Saint Magridius — blessed be
his memory ! —
Ff 2
868
©rawa^tc (piecee.
Did by a vision warn the Abbot
Eadmir.
And chief we watch when there is
bickering
Among the neighbouring nobles, now
most hkely
From this return of Berkeley from
abroad,
Having the Lindesay's blood upon
his hand.
Wal. The Lindesay, then, was
loved among his friends ?
NiN. Honour'd and fear'd he was
■ — but little loved ;
For even his bounty bore a show of
sternness ;
And when his passions waked, he
was a Sathan
Of wrath and injury.
Wal. How now, Sir Priest !
{fiercely) — forgive me {ircol-
lirtiiig himself — I was dreaming
Of an old baron, who did bear about
him
Some touch of your Lord Rej'nold.
NiN. Lindesay's name, my brother,
Indeed was Reynold ; — and methinks,
moreover.
That, as you spoke even now, he
would have spoken.
1 brought him a petition from our
convent :
He granted straight, but in such tone
and manner,
By my good saint ! I thought myself
scarce safe
Till Tay roll'd broad between us.
I must now
Unto the chapel — meanwhile the
watch is thine ;
And, at thy word, the hurrying fugitive,
Should such arrive, must here find
sanctuary- ;
And, at thy word, the fiery-paced
avenger
Must stop his bloodj^ course, e'en as
swoln Jordan
Controll'd his waves soon as they
touch'd the feet
Of those who bore tlic ark.
Wal. Is this my charge]
NiN. Even so ; and I am near,
should chance require me.
At midnight I relieve you on your
watch.
When we may taste together some
refreshment :
I have cared for it ; and for a flask of
wine —
There is no sin, so that we drink it
not
LTntil the midnight hour, wdien lauds
have toll'd.
Farewell a while, and peaceful watch
be with you !
\Exit toivards the Chapel.
Wal. It is not with me, and alas !
alas !
I know not where to seek it. This
monk's mind
Is with his cloister match'd, nor lacks
more room.
Its petty duties, formal ritual.
Its humble pleasures and its paltry
troubles.
Fill up his round of life ; even as
some reptiles.
They say, are moulded to the very
shape.
And all the angles of the rock}'-
crevice.
In which they live and die. But for
myself,
Retired in passion to the narrow cell,
Couching my tired limbs in its recesses.
So ill-adapted am I to its limits,
That every attitude is agonj'.
How now ! what brings him back?
Re-cuter Ninian,
NiN. Look to your watch, my
brother ; horsemen come :
I heard their tread when kneeling in
the chapel.
QUacSuff
'0 Cro00. 869
Wal. {looking to a distance). My
NiN. He comes ! Thou art a novice
thoughts have rapt me more than
on this watch, —
thy devotion,
Else had I heard the tread of distant
Brother, I '11 take the word and speak
to him.
horses
Farther than thou couldst hear the
Pluck down thy cowl ; know that we
spiritual champions
sacring bell ;
Have honour to maintain, and must
liut now in truth they come : flight
not seem
and pursuit
To quail before the lait}'.
Are sights I 've been long strange to.
NiN. See how they gallop down
the opposing hill !
Yon grey steed bounding down the
[Waldhave Ids down his anvl,
and steps back.
Enter Maurice Berkeley.
headlong path,
As on the level meadow ; while the
black,
Urged by the rider with his naked
Ni\. Who art thou, stranger? speak
thy name and purpose.
Ber. I claim the privilege of Clan
MacDufif.
sword,
Stoops on his prey, as I have seen
the falcon
Dashing upon the heron. Thou dost
My name is Maurice Berkeley-, and
my lineage
Allies me nearly with the Thane of
Fife.
frown
And clench thy hand, as if it grasp'd
NiN. Give us to know the cause of
sanctuary?
a weapon I
Wal. 'Tis but for shame to see
Ber. Let him show it
Against whose violence I claim the
a man fly thus
While only one pursues him. Coward,
turn !
privilege.
Enter Lindesay, '.vith Ju's sword drazvn.
Turn thee. I say 1 thou art as stout as he.
And well mayst match thy single
sword with his !
He riis/ies at Berkeley ; Ninian
interposes.
NiN. Peace, in the name of .Saint
Shame, that a man should rein a steed
Magridius 1
like thee.
Peace, in our Prior's name, and in
Yet fear to turn his front against a foe I
the name
I am ashamed to look on them.
Of that dear symbol, which did pur-
NiN. Yet look again; they quit
chase peace
their horses now.
And goodwill towards man ! I do
Unfit for the rough path : the fugitive
command thee
Keeps the advantage still. They
To sheathe thy sword, and .stir no
strain towards us.
contest here.
Wal. I '11 not believe that ever the
Lin. One charm I '11 try first.
bold Thane
To lure the craven from the enchanted
Rear"d up his Cross to be a sanctuary
To the base coward, who shunn'd an
circle
Which he hath harboui'd in. Hear
equal combat.
How's this? — that look- that mien —
you, De Berkeley !
This is my brother's sword ; the hand
mine eyes grow dizzy I
it arms
870
©ramaftc (piece©.
Is weapon'd to avenge a brother's
death ;
If thou hast heart to step a furlong off,
And change three blows — even for
so short a space
As these good men maj' say an ave-
marie —
So Heaven be good to me ! I will
forgive thee
Thy deed and all its consequences.
Ber. Were not my right hand
fetter'd by the thought
That slaying thee were but a double
guilt
In which to steep my soul, no bride-
groom ever
Stepp'd forth to trip a measure with
his bride
More jo\'fully than I, young man,
would rush
To meet thy challenge.
Lin. He quails, and shuns to look
upon my weapon,
Yet boasts himself a Berkeley I
Ber. Lindesay, and if there were
no deeper cause
For shunning thee than terror of thy
weapon,
That rock-hewn Cross as soon should
start and stir
Because a shepherd-boy blew horn
beneath it,
As I for brag of thine.
NiN. I charge you both, and in the
name of Heaven,
Breathe no defiance on this sacred spot ,
Where Christian men must bear them
peacefully,
On pain of the Church thunders.
Calmly tell
Your cause of dift'erence ; and. Lord
Lindesay, thou
Be first to speak them.
Lin. Ask the blue welkin, ask the
silver Ta}',
The northern Grampians — all things
know my wrongs ;
But ask not me to tell them, while
the villain
Who wrought them stands and listens
with a smile.
NiN. It is said—
Since you refer us thus to general
fame —
That Berkeley' slew thy brother, the
Lord Louis,
In his own halls at Edzell •
Lin. A\', in his halls —
In his own halls, good father; that's
the word !
In his own halls he slew him, while
the wine
Pass'd on the board between ! The
gallant Thane,
Who wreak'd Macbcth's inhospitable
murder,
Rear'd not yon Cross to sanction
deeds like these.
Ber. Thou saj^'st I came a guest !
I came a victim,
A destined victim, train'd on to the
doom
His frantic jealousy prepared for me.
He fix'd a quarrel on me, and we fought.
Can I forget the form that came
between us
And perish'd by his sword ? 'Twas
then I fought
For vengeance ; until then I guarded
life ;
But then I sought to take it, and
prevail'd.
LiN. Wretch ! thou didst first dis-
honour to th}' victim,
And then didst slay him I
Ber. There is a busy fiend tugs at
my heart.
But I will struggle with it I Youthful
knight,
My heart is sick of war, my hand of
slaughter ;
I come not to my lordships, or my land,
But just to seek a spot in some cold
cloister,
(riuc®uff
0 €rO60. 871
Which I may kneel on living, and,
when dead,
Can hold a sword, shall no one cast
a scorn.
Which may sutfice to cover me.
LiN. Follow me. Thou shall hear
Forgive me that I causedyourbrother's
me call the adulteress
death ;
And I forgive thee the injurious
By her right name. I'm glad there's
yet a spur
terms
With which thou taxest me.
Can rouse thy sluggard mettle.
Ber. Make then obeisance to the
Lin. Take worse and blacker ! Mur-
blessed Cross,
derer, adulterer! —
For it shall be on earth thy last devo-
Art thou not moved yet?
Ber. Do not press me further.
tion. [ They are going off.
Wal. (yusluitg/onvard . Madmen,
The hunted stag, even when he seeks
stand !
the thicket,
Stay but one second— answer but one
Compell'd to stand at bay, grows
dangerous !
question.
There, Maurice Berkelej^ can'st thou
Most true thy brother pcrish'd by my
hand,
look upon
That blessed sign, and swear thou 'st
And if you term it murder — I must
bear it.
spoken truth ?
Ber. I swear by Heaven,
Thus far my patience can ; but if thou
And by the memory of that murder'd
brand
innocent,
The purity of yonder mart\'r"d saint,
Whom then my sword but poorly did
avenge,
Each seeming charge agauist her was
as false
As our bless'd Lady 's spotless. Hear,
With one injurious word, come to the
valley,
each saint !
Hear me, thou holy rood 1 hear me
And I will show thee how it shall be
ansvver'd !
from Heaven,
Thou martyr'd excellence ! Hear me
NiN. This heat. Lord Berkeley,
doth but ill accord
With thy late pious patience.
Ber. Father, forgive, and let me
stand excused
from penal fire
; Forsure not yet thy guilt is expiated !)
.Stern ghost of her destroyer !
Wal. {throivs back his cotvl). He
hears ! he hears ! Thy spell hath
ToHeavenand thee, if patience brooks
no more.
I loved this lady fondly — truly loved —
Loved her, and was beloved, ere yet
her father
raised the dead.
LiN. My brother ! and alive !
Wal. Alive,— but yet, my Richard,
dead to thee ;
No tie of kindred binds me to the
Conferr'd her on another. While she
lived.
world ;
All were renounced, when, with re-
Each thought of her was to my soul
as hallow'd
viving life.
Came the desire to seek the sacred
As those I send to hea\-en ; and on
her grave,
cloister.
Alas, in vain ! for to that last retreat,
Her bloody, earlj' grave, while this
Like to a pack of bloodhounds in full
poor hand
chase.
872
©vamattc ^uue.
My passion and my wrongs have
follow'd me,
Wrath and remorse ; and, to fill up
the cry,
Thou hast brought vengeance hither.
LiN. I but sought
To do the act and duty of a brother.
Wal. I ceased to be so when I left
the world ;
But if he can forgive as I forgive,
God sends me here a brother in mine
enemy.
To praj- for me and with me. If thou
canst,
De Berkelej^ give thine hand.
Ber. (giiies /lis Iiaiid). It is the will
Of Heaven, made manifest in thy
preservation.
To inhibit farther bloodshed; for
De Berkeley, — ■
The votary Maurice lays the title down.
Go to his halls, Lord Richard, where
a maiden,
Kin to liis blood, and daughter in
affection,
Heirs his broad lands ; — if thou canst
love her, Lindesa}',
Woo her, and be successful.
THE DOOM OF DEVORGOIL.
DRAMATIS PERSONAE.
Oswald of Df.vorgou., a decayed Scottish
Baron.
Leonard, a Raiifrcy.
DiRWARD, a Palmer.
Lancelot riLACKTuoRN, a Comf^anion of
Leonard, in tovc xvith Katlceii.
GuLLCRA.M.MKR, a coHceitcd Sfiidetil.
.Spirit of Lord Erick of Devorcoiu
Peasants, Shepherds, and Vassals of in-
ferior rank.
Eluanor, ^^'ifc of Os'duald, descended of
ohsatre parentage
^ I \ Maskers, represenfed by I Vlor.\, Daughter of Oswald.
OwLsriF.GLE and I Blackthorn and Kai- ' Katleen, Niece of Eleanor.
COCKLEDEMOY,
)
ACT I.
Scene I.
The Scene represents a ivild and liilly,
but not a niountainoiis country, in
a frontier district of Scotland. The
flat Scene e.vhibits the Castle of De-
vorgoil, decoyed, and partly ruinous,
situated upon a Lake, and connected
zvith the land hy a drawbridge,
ivhich is loK'crcd. Time — Sun.^et.
Flora enters from the Castle, looks
tinn'dly around, then comes forward
ami speaks.
Flo. He is not here — those pleasures
are not ours
Which placid e\ening brings to all
things else.
The sun upon the lake is low,
The wild birds hush their song.
The hills have evening's deepest glow,
Yet Leonard tarries long.
Now all whom varied toil and care
From home and love divide.
In the calm sunset may repair
Each to the loved one's side.
^0e ©oom of ©evor^otf.
873
The noble dame, on turret high,
Who waits her gallant knight,
Looks to the western beam to spy
The flash of armour bright.
The village maid, with hand on
brow,
The level ray to shade,
Upon the footpath watches now
For Colin's darkening plaid.
Now to their mates the wild swans
row,
By day they swam apart ;
And to the thicket wanders slow
The hind beside the hart.
The woodlark at his partner's side,
Twitters his closing song ;
All meet whom day and care divide.
But Leonard tarries long.
[Katleen Itas coiitcoitto/thc Castle
ivhile Flora ivas singing, and
speaks ivlicn the song is ended.
Kat. Ah, my dear coz ! — if that
your mother's niece
May so presume to call your father's
daughter —
All these fond things have got some
home of comfort
To tempt their rovers back : the lady's
bower.
The shepherdess's hut, the wild
swan's couch
Among the rushes, even the lark's low
nest
Has that of promise which lures home
a lover, —
But we have nought of this.
Flo. How call you, then, this castle
of my sire,
The towers of Devorgoil ?
Kat. Dungeons for men, and
palaces for owls ;
Yet no wise owl would change a
farmer's barn
For yonder hungry hall. Our latest
mouse,
Our last of mice, I tell you, lias been
found
Starved in the pantry ; and the rever-
end spider,
Sole living tenant of the Baron's halls.
Who, train'd to abstinence, lived a
whole summer
Upon a single fly, he 's famish'd too ;
The cat is in the kitchen-chimney
seated
Upon our last of fagots, destined soon
To dress our last of suppers, and, poor
soul.
Is starved with cold, and mewling
mad with hunger.
Flo. D'ye mock our misery,
Katleen ?
Kat. No, but I am hysteric on the
subject.
So I must laugh or cry, and laughing 's
lightest.
Flo. Why stay you with us, then,
my merry cousin ?
Fromyoumysire can ask no filial duty.
Kat. No, thanks to Heaven !
No noble in wide Scotland, rich or
poor,
Can claim an interest in the vulgar
blood
That dances in my veins ; and I might
wed
A forester to-morrow, nothing fearing
The wrath of high-born kindred, and
far less
That the dry bones of lead-lapp'd an-
cestors
Would clatter in their cerements at
the tidings.
Flo. My mother, too, would gladly
see you placed
Beyond the verge of our unhappiness,
Which, like a witch's circle, blights
and taints
Whatever comes within it.
Kat. Ah! my good aunt !
She is a careful kinswoman and
prudent,
Kf3
874
©famafic (ptecec.
In all but marrying a ruin'd baron,
When she could take her choice of
honest yeomen ;
And now. to balance this ambitious
error,
She presses on her daughter's love
the suit
Of one who hath no touch of noble-
ness,
In manners, birth, or mind, to recom-
mend him, —
Sage Master Gullcrammer, the new-
dubb'd preacher.
Flo. Do not name him, Katleen !
Kat. Ay, but I must, and with
some gratitude.
I said but now, I saw our last of fagots
Destined to dress our last of meals,
but said not
That the repast consisted of choice
dainties
Sent to our larderbythat liberal suitor,
The kind Melchisedek.
Flo. Were famishing the word,
I 'd famish ere I tasted them — the
fop.
The fool, the low-born, low-bred,
pedant coxcomb !
Kat. There spoke the blood of
long-descended sires !
My cottage wisdom ought to echo
back —
O the snug parsonage I the well-paid
stipend !
The yew-hedged garden ! beehives,
pigs, and poultry !
But, to speak honestly, the peasant
Katleen,
Valuing these good things justly, still
would scorn
To wed, for such, the paltry Gull-
crammer,
As much as Lady Flora.
Flo. Mock me not with a title,
gentle cousin.
Which poverty has made ridiculous.
'^Tniinpeisfar off.
Hark 1 they have broken up the
weapon-shawing ;
The vassals are dismiss"d, and march-
ing homeward.
Kat. Comes your siie back to-
night ?
Flo. He did purpose
To tarry for the banquet. This day
onh',
Summon'd as a king's tenant, he re-
sumes
The right of rank his birth assigns to
him.
And mingles with the proudest.
Kat. To return
To his domestic wretchedness to-
morrow !
I envy not the privilege. Let us go
To yonder height, and see the marks-
men practise :
They shoot their match down in the
dale beyond.
Betwixt the Lowland and the Forest
district.
By ancient custom, for a tun of wine.
Let us go see which wins.
Flo. That w-ere too forward.
Kat. Why, you may drop the
screen before your face.
Which some chance breeze may haply
blow aside
Just when a youth of special note
takes aim.
It chanced even so that memorable
morning
When, nutting in the woods, we met
young Leonard.
And in good time here comes his
sturdy comrade.
The rough Lance Blackthorn.
Enter Lancelot Blackthorn, a
Foresfii; with the aircnss of a deer
on /lis Ixiek, and a ^nn in /lis //and.
Bla. Save J'ou, damsels I
Kat. Godden, good yeoman. Come
you from the Weaponshaw ?
TtU ®oom of ©evorgotf.
875
Bla. Not I, indeed ; there lies the
mark I shot at.
[Lays (iotvii the deer.
The time has been I liad not miss'd
the sport,
Although Lord Nithsdale's self had
wanted venison ;
But this same mate of mine, young
Leonard Dacre,
Makes me do what he lists. He '11
win the prize, though :
The Forest district will not lose its
honour,
And that is all I care for — [^sonie shots
are heard?^ Hark ! they 're at it.
I '11 go see the issue.
Flo. Leave not here
The produce of your hunting.
Bla. But I must, though.
This is his lair to-night, for Leonard
Dacre
Chaiged me to leave the stag at De-
vorgoil ;
Then show me quickl3' where to stow
the quarry,
Andlet me to the sports — 'yntore shots']
come, hasten, damsels !
Flo. It is impossible — we dare not
take it.
Bla. There let it lie, then, and I '11
wind my bugle,
That all within these tottering walls
may know
That here lies venison, whoso likes to
lift it. [About to bhzv.
Kat. (fe Flora. Hewill alarm your
mother ; and, besides.
Our Forest proverb teaches, that no
question
Should ask where venison comes
from.
Your careful mother, with her wonted
prudence,
Will hold its presence plead its own
apology.
Come, Blackthorn, I will show you
where to stow it.
[^Excitnt Katleen and Black-
thorn into the Castle. More
shooting — then a distant shout.
Stragg/ers, armed in different
tvoys, pass over the Stage, as if
front the Weaponshaiv.
Flo. The prize is won ; that general
shout proclaim'd it.
The marksmen and the vassals are
dispersing. [She draivs back.
First Vassal (a peasant). Ay, ay,
'tis lost and won, — the Forest
have it.
'Tis they have all the luck on 't.
Second Vas. {a shepherd). Luck,
sayst thou, man ? 'Tis practice,
skill, and cunning.
Third "Vas. 'Tis no such thing. I
had hit the mark precisely
But for this cursed flint ; and, as I
fired,
A swallow cross'd mine eye too. Will
you tell me
That that was but a chance, mine
honest shepherd ?
First Vas. Ay, and last year, when
Lancelot Blackthorn won it,
Because my powder happen'd to be
damp.
Was there no luck in that? The
worse luck mine.
Second Vas. Still I say 'twas not
chance ; it might be witchcraft.
First Vas. Faith, not unlikely,
neighbours ; for these foresters
Do often haunt about this ruin'd castle.
L've seen myself this spark, young
Leonard Dacre,
Come stealing like a ghost ere break
of day.
And after sunset too, along this path ;
And well you know the haunted
towers of Devorgoil
Have no good reputation in the land.
Shep. That have the3- not. I 've
heard my father say
8)6
©vamattc (ptecee.
Ghosts dance as lightly in its moon-
light halls
As ever maiden did at Midsummer
Upon the village green.
First Vas. Those that frequent
such spirit-haunted ruins
Must needs know more than simple
Christians do.
bee, Lance this blessed moment
leaves the castle,
And comes to triumph o'er us.
Blackthorn enters froui the Castle, '
and conies fonvard ivliile they speak.
Third Vas. A mighty triumph!
What is't, after all,
Except the driving of a piece of
lead —
As learned Master Gullcrannner
defined it — •
Just through the middle of a painted
board.
Black. And if he so define it, by
your leave.
Your learned Master GuJicrammcr's
an ass.
Third Vas. {angrily). He is a
preacher, huntsman, under fa-
vour.
Second Vas. No quarrelling, neigh-
bours— 3'ou may both be right.
Enter a Fourth Vassal, ivith a gallon
stotip of ivine.
Fourth V,\s. Why stand you brawl-
ing here ? Young Leonard Dacre
Has set abroach the tun of wine he
gain'd.
That all may drink who list. Black-
thorn, I sought you ;
Your comrade praj's you will bestow
this flagon
Where 3'ou have left the deer you
kill'd this morning.
Black. And that I will ; but lirst
we will take toll
To see if it's wortli carriage. Shep-
herd, tliy horn.
There must be due allowance made
for leakage,
And that will come about a draught a-
piece.
.Skink it about, and, when our throats
are liquor'd,
We '11 merril}' trowl our song of
weaponshaw.
\They drink about out of the Shep-
herd's liorn, and then sing.
SONG.
We love the shrill trumpet, we love
the drum's rattle,
Thc3' call us to sport, and they call
us to battle ;
And old Scotland shall laugh at the
threats of a stranger
While our comrades in pastime are
comrades in danger.
If there's mirth in our house, 'tis
our neighbour that shares it ;
If peril approach, 'tis our neighbour
that dares it ;
And when we lead oft to the pipe and
the tabor,
The fair hand we press is the hand
of a neighbour.
Then close your ranks, comrades, the
bands that combine them,
Faith, friendship, and brotherhood,
join'd to entwine them ;
And we '11 laugh at the threats of each
insolent stranger.
While our comrades in sport are our
comrades in danger.
Black. Well, I must do mine er-
rand. Master flagon \Shakingit.
Is too consumptive for another bleed-
ing.
Shep. I must to my fold.
Third Vas. I'll to the butt of wine.
And see if that has given up the ghost
yet.
First V.\s. Have with 3'ou, neigh-
bour.
ZH ©oom cf ©evor^otf.
877
[Blackthorn enters the Castle, tite
rest exeunt seiwyallv. Mei.chn
SEDEK GULLCRAMMER wniclus
them off the stage, and then
enters from the side-scene. His
costume is a Geneva cloak and
liand, ivith a high-croivned
hat; the rest of his dress in the
fashion of James the First's time.
He looks to the ivindozvs of the
Castle, then draws back as if
to escape observation, while he
brushes his cloak, drives the
ivliite threads from his zvaistcoat
■with his wetted thumb, and
dusts his shoes, all ivith tlie air
of one "who 'would not -willingly
be observed engaged in these
offices. He then adjusts his
collar and band, comes forward
and speaks.
Gull. Right comely is thj^ garb,
Melchisedek ;
As well beseemeth one, whom good
Saint Mango,
The patron of our land and universit}-,
Hath graced with license both to
teach and preach.
Who dare opine thou hither plod'st
on foot ?
Trim sits thy cloak.unrufifled is thy band.
And not a speck upon thine outward
man
Bewraj-sthe labours of thj- weary sole.
\_Touches his shoe, and snu'les
complacently.
Quaint was that jest and pleasant !
Now will I
Approach and hail the dwellers of
this fort ;
But specially sweet Flora Devorgoil,
Ere her proud sire return. He loves
me not,
Mocketh my lineage, flouts at mine
advancement —
.Sour as the fruit the crab-treefurnishcs.
And hard as is the cudgel it supplies;
But Flora — she's a lily on the lake,
And I must reach her, though I risk
a ducking.
[As GuLLCRAMMER movcs tozvards
the drawbridge, Bauldie Dur-
WARD enters, and interposes
himself betivixt him and the
Castle. GuLLCRAHi.MF.R stops
and speaks.
Whom have we here ? that ancient
fortuneteller.
Papist and sorcerer, and sturdy beggar,
Old Bauldie Durward ! Would I were
well past him !
[Durward advances, partly in the
dress of a palmer, partly in that
of an old Scottish mendicant,
having coarse blue cloak and
badge, -white beard, &c.
DuR. The blessing of the evening
on your worship,
And on your taffty doublet. Much
I marvel
Your wisdom chooseth such trim
garb, when tempests
Are gathering to the bursting.
GuLLCRAMMER Jooks to his drcss,
and then to the sky, with some appre-
heiision). Surely, Bauldie,
Thou dost belie the evening — in the
west
The light sinks down as lovely as this
band
Drops o'er this mantle. Tush, man !
'twill be fair.
DuR. Ay, but the storm I bode is
big with blows,
Horsewhips for hailstones, clubs for
thunderbolts ;
And for the wailing of the midnight
\vind.
The unpiticd howling of a cudgell'd
coxcomb.
Come, come, I know thou seek'st fair
Flora Devorgoil.
878
©ratnaftc (ptecee.
Gui.. And if I did, I do the damsel
grace.
Her mother thinks so, and she has
accepted
At these poor hands gifts of some
consequence.
And curious dainties for the evening
cheer.
To which I am invited. She respects
me.
DuR. But not so doth her father,
haughty Oswald.
Bethink thee, he's a baron
GuL. And a bare one ;
Construe me that, old man '. The
crofts of Mucklewhame —
Destined for mine so soon as heaven
and earth
Have shared my uncle's soul and
bones between them —
The crofts of Mucklewhame, old man,
which nourish
Three scores of sheep, three cows,
with each her follower,
A female palfrey eke— I will be candid,
She is of that meek tribe whom, in
derision,
Ourwealthy southern neighbours nick-
name donkeys
DuR. She hath her follower too, —
when thou art there.
GuL. I say to thee, these crofts of
Mucklewhame,
In the mere tithing of their stock
and produce,
Outvie whatever patch of land remains
To this old rugged castle and its
owner.
Well, therefore, may Melchisedek
Gullcrammer,
Younger of Mucklewhame, for such
I write me.
Master of Arts, by grace of good
Saint Andrew,
Preacher, in brief expectance of a kirk
Endow'd with ten score Scottish
pounds per annum,
Being eight pounds seventeen eight
in sterling coin —
Well then, I say, may this Melchisedek,
Thus highly graced by fortune, and
by nature
E'en gifted as thou seest, aspire to woo
The daughter of the beggar'dDevorgoil.
DuR. Credit an old man's word,
kind Master Gullcrammer,
You will not find it so. Come, sir,
I 've known
The hospitality of Mucklewhame ;
It rcach'd not to profuseness, yet, in
gratitude
For the pure water of its living well,
And for the barley loaves of its fair
fields.
Wherein chopp'd straw contended
with the grain
Which best should satisfy the appetite,
I would not see the hopeful heir of
Mucklewhame
Thus fling himself on danger.
GuL. Danger I what danger?
Knovv'st thou not, old Oswald
This day attends the muster of the
shire.
Where the crown vassals meet to
show their arms
And their best horse of service ?
'Twas good sport
(An if a man had dared but laugh at it)
To see old Oswald with his rusty
morion.
And huge two-handed sword, that
might have seen
The field of Bannockburn or Chevy-
Chase,
Without a squire or vassal, page or
groom.
Or e'en a single pikeman at his heels.
Mix with the proudest nobles of the
county.
And claim precedence for his tatter'd
person
O'er armours double gilt and ostrich
plumage.
ZH ©oom of ©(Jvor^otP.
879
DuR. Ay 1 'twas the jest at wliich
fools laugh the loudest,
The downfall of our old nobility —
Which may forerun the ruin of a
kingdom.
I 've seen an idiot clap his hands, and
shout
To see a tower like yon [poinds (o a
part of the Castle\ stoop to its base
In headlong ruin ; while the wise
look'd round,
And fearful sought a distant stance to
watch
What fragment of the fabric next
should follow ;
For when the turrets fall, the walls
are tottering.
GuL. {after pondering). If tliat means
aught, it means thou saw'st old
Oswald
Expell'd from the assembly.
DuR. Thy sharp wit
Hath glanced unwittingly right nigh
the truth.
Expell'd he was not, but, his claim
denied
At some contested point of ceremonj-,
He left the weaponshaw in high dis-
pleasure,
And hither comes — his wonted bitter
temper
Scarce sweeten'd bj^ the chances of
the day.
'Twere much like rashness should you
wait his coming,
And thither tends my counsel.
GuL. And I '11 take it ;
Good Bauldie Durward, I will take
thy counsel,
And will requite it with this minted
farthing,
That bears our sovereign's head in
purest copper.
DuR. Thanks to thy bounty ! Haste
thee, good young master ;
Oswald, besides the old two-handed
sword,
Bears in his hand a staff of potency,
To charm intruders from his castle
purlieus.
GuL. I do abhor all charms, nor
will abide
To hear or see, far less to feel their use.
Behold, I have departed. \_Exit hastily.
Manent Durward.
DuR. Thus do I pla}' the idle part
of one
Who seeks to save the moth from
scorching him
In the bright taper's flame ; and
Flora's beautj'
Must, not unlike that taper, waste
away.
Gilding the rugged walls that saw it
kindled.
This was a shard-born beetle, heavy,
dross}-,
Though boasting his dull drone and
gilded wing.
Here comes a flatterer of another
stamp.
Whom the same ray is charming to
his ruin.
£■;;/<>' Leonard, dressedasahuutsuian :
lie pauses before the Toiver, and
whistles a note or tivo at intervals —
d>aimng back, as if fearful of obser-
vation— yet ivaiting, as if e.vpecting
some reply. Durward, ivhoni he
had not observed, moves round, so as
to front Leonard une.vpectedly.
Leox. I am too late — it was no easy
task
To rid myself from yonder nois^' re-
vellers.
Flora! — I fear she's angry — Flora!
Flora !
SONG.
Admire not that I gain'd the prize
From all the village crew ;
How could I fail with hand or eyes.
When heart and faith were true ■
8So
©vama^ic (ptecee.
And when in Hoods of ros^^ wine
Press me no farther, then, nor waste
M}^ comrades drown'd their cares,
those moments
1 thought but that thy heart was mine,
Wliose worth thou canst not estimate.
My own leapt light as theirs.
\_As turiiiiig from him.
DuR. dctai)is him . Stay, yoimg
My brief delay then do not blame,
man !
Nor deem j-our swain untrue ;
"Tis seldom that a beggar claims a debt;
My form but linger'd at the game.
Yet I bethink me of a gay N'oung
My soul was still with you.
stripling
That owes to these white locks and
She hears not !
hoar\^ beard
DuR. But a friend hath heard—
Something of reverence and of grati-
Leonard, I pity thee.
tude
Leon, (starts, but recovers himself).
More than he wills to pay.
Pity, good father, is for those in
Leon. Forgive me, father. Often
want,
hast thou told me.
In age, in sorrow, in distress of mind,
That in the ruin of my father's house
Or agony of body. I 'm in health —
You saved the orphan Leonard in his
Can match mj- limbs against the stag
cradle ;
in chase,
And well I know, that to thy care
Have means enough to meet my
alone —
simple wants,
Care seconded bj' means beyond thy
And am so free of soul that I can carol
seeming—
To woodland and to wild in notes as
I owe whate'er of nurture I can boast.
lively-
DuR. Then for thy life preserved.
As are my joll3'- bugle's.
And for the means of knowledge
DuR. Even therefore dost thou
I have furnish'd
need mj' pity, Leonard,
(Which lacking, man is levell'd with
And therefore I bestow it, praying
the brutes).
thee,
Grant me this boon — Avoid these
Before thou feel'st the need, m3' mite
fatal walls!
of pity.
A curse is on them, bitter, deep, and
Leonard, thou lovest ; and in that
heav}-,
little word
Of power to split the massiest tower
There lies enough to claim the
they boast
sj-mpathy
From pinnacle to dungeon vault. It
Of men who wear such hoar\' locks
rose
as mine.
Upon the gaj* horizon of proud
And know what misplaced love is
Devorgoil,
sure to end in.
As unregarded as the fleecy cloud.
Leon. Good father, thou art old,
The first forerunner of the hurricane.
and even thy j-outh.
Scarce seen amid the welkin's shade-
As thou hast told me, spent in cloistcr'd
less blue.
cells.
Dark grew it, and more dark, and still
Fits thee but ill to judge the passions
the fortunes
Which are the joy and charm of social
Of this doom'd family have darken'd
life.
with it.
ZU ®ooitt of ©epor^ot'f.
88i
It hid their sovereign's favour, and
obscured
The lustre of their service, gendcr'd
hate
Betwixt them and the mighty of the
land ;
Till by degrees the waxing tempest
rose,
And stripped the goodly tree of fruit
and flowers,
And buds, and boughs, and branches.
There remains
A rugged trunk, dismember'd and un-
sightl}^
Waiting the bursting of the final bolt
To splinter it to shivers. Now, go
pluck
Its single tendril to enwreath thy brow,
And rest beneath its shade — to share
the ruin !
Leon. This anathema,
Whenceshouldit come? Howmerited?
and when ?
DuR. 'Twas in the days
Of Oswald's grandsire, — 'mid Gal-
wegian chiefs
The fellest foe, the fiercest champion.
His blood-red pennons scared the
Cumbrian coasts,
And wasted towns and manors mark'd
his progress.
His galleys stored with treasure, and
their decks
Crowded with English captives, who
beheld,
"With weepingeyes, their native shores
retire.
He bore him homeward ; but a tempest
rose
Leon. So far I 've heard the tale.
And spare thee the recital. The grim
chief,
Marking his vessels labour on the sea,
And loth to lose his treasure, gave
command
To plunge his captives in the raging
deep.
DuR. There sunk the lineage of a
noble name.
And the wild waves boom'd over siro
and son.
Mother and nursling, of the House of
Aglionby,
Leaving but one frail tendril. Hence
the fate
That hovers o'er these turrets ; hence
the peasant.
Belated, hying homewards, dreads to
cast
A glance upon that portal, lest he see
The unshrouded spectres of the mur-
der'd dead ;
Or the avenging Angel, with his sword,
Waving destruction ; or the grislj'
phantom
Of that fell Chief, the doer of the deed,
Which still, they say, roams through
his empty halls.
And mourns their wasteness and theii-
lonelihood.
Leon. Such is the dotage
Of superstition, father, ay, and the cant
Of hoodwink'd prejudice. Not for
atonement
Of some foul deed done in the ancient
warfare.
When war was butchery, and men
were wolves.
Doth Heaven consign the innocent to
suftering.
I tell thee, Flora's virtues might atone
For all the massacres her sires ha\e
done.
Since first the Pictishracetheirstained
limbs
Arraj^'d in wolfs skin.
DuR, Leonard, ereyet this beggar's
scrip and cloak
Supplied the place of mitre and of
crosier,
Which in these alter'd lands must not
be worn,
I was superior of a brotherhood
Of holy men, — the Prior of Lanercost.
882
©fatnaftc ipkue.
Nobles then sought my footstool many
a league,
There to unload their sins ; questions
of conscience
Of deepest import were not deem'd
too nice
For my decision, j'outh. But not
even then,
With mitre on my brow, and all the
voice
Which Rome gives to a father of her
church.
Dared I pronounce so boldly on the
ways
Of hidden Providence, as thou, young
man,
Whose chiefest knowledge is to track
a stag,
Or w-ind a bugle, hast presumed to do.
Leon. Nay, I pray forgive me,
Father ; thou know'st I meant not to
presume
DuR. Can I refuse thee pardon ?
Thou art all
That war and change have left to the
poor Durward.
Thy father, too, who lost his life and
fortune
Defending Lanercost, when its fair
aisles
Were spoil'd by sacrilege — I bless'd
his banner,
And yet it prosper'd not. But — all
I could —
Thee from the wreck I saved, and for
thy sake
Have still dragg'd on mj' life of
pilgrimage
And penitence upon the hated shores
I else had left for ever. Come with
me,
And I will teach thee there is heal-
ing in
The wounds which friendship gives.
[E.xni>if.
.Scene II.
The Scene changes to the interior of the
Castle. An apartment is discovered,
in which there is inucit appearance of
present poverty, mixed n'ith some relics
of former grandeur. On the wall
hangs, amongst other things, a suit
of ancient armour; by the table is a
covered basket ; behind, and concealed
by it, the carcass of a roe-deer. There
is a small latticed ivindoiv, ivhich,
appearing to perforate a ivall of great
thickness, is supposed to look out
toivards the drawbridge. It is in the
shape of a loop-hole for musketry;
and, as is not unusual in old buildings,
is placed so high up in the zcall, that
it is only approached by five or si.v
narroiv stone steps.
Eleanor, the wife of Oswald of
Devorgoil, Flor.\ and Katleen,
her Daughter and Niece, are discovered
at ivork. The former spins, the latter
are embroidering. Elea.xor quits
her oivn labour to e.vatnine the man-
ner in which Flora is executing her
task, and shakes her head as if dis-
satisfied.
Ele. Fy on it, Flora ; this botch'd
work of thine
Shows that thy mind is distant from
thy task.
The finest tracery of our old cathedral
Had not a richer, freer, bolder pattern
Than Flora once could trace. Thy
thoughts are wandering.
Flo. They 're with my father.
Broad upon the lake
The evening sun sunk down ; huge
piles of clouds,
Crimson and sable, rose upon his disk.
And quench'd him ere his setting,
like some champion
In his last contlict losing all his glorj-.
Sure signals those of storm. And if
my father
Zi^t ©oottt of ©eporgotf.
S83
Be on his homeward road
Ele. But that he will not.
Baron of Devorgoil, this day at least
He banquets with the nobles, who
the next
Would scarce vouchsafe un alms to
save his household
From want or famine. Thanks to a
kind friend,
For one brief space we shall not need
their aid.
Flo. {joyfitUy). What ! knew you
then his gift?
How silly I that would, yet durst not
tell it!
I fear my father will condemn us both,
That easily accepted such a present.
Kat. Now, here 's the game a by-
stander sees better
Than those who play it. My good
aunt is pondering
On the good cheer which Gullcrammer
has sent us,
And Flora thinks upon the forest
venison. \^Aside.
Ele. (/o Flora). Thyfather need not
know on 't ; 'tis a boon
Comes timel}', when frugality, nay,
abstinence.
Might scarce avail us longer. I had
hoped
Ere now a visit from the youthful donor.
That we might thank his bounty ; and
perhaps
My Flora thought the same, when
Sunday's kerchief
And the best kirtle were sought out,
and donn'd
To grace a work-day evening.
Flo. Nay, mother, that is judging
all too close !
My work- day gown was torn, my
kerchief sullied.
And thus — but, think you, will the
gallant come ?
Ele. He will, for with these dainties
came a message
From gentle Master (Tullcramnicr, to
intimate
Flo. [greatly disappointed . Gull-
crammer ?
Kat. There burst the bubble — down
fell house of cards,
Andcousin 's like to cry for 't ! S^Aside.
Ele. Gullcrammer? ay, Gullcram-
mer ; thou scorn'st not at him ?
'Twere something short of wisdom in
a maiden,
Who, like the poor bat in the Grecian
fable.
Hovers betwixt two classes in the
world,
And is disclaim'd by both the mouse
and bird.
Kat. (aside). I am the poor mouse,
And may go creep into what hole I
list,
And no one heed me ; yet I '11 waste
a word
Of counsel on my betters. — Kind my
aunt,
And you, my gentle cousin, were 't
not better
We thought of dressing this same
gear for supper,
Than quarrelling about the worthless
donor?
Ele. Peace, minx !
Flo. Thou hast no feeling, cousin
Katleen.
Kat. Soh ! 1 have brought them
both on my poor shoulders ;
So meddling peace-makers are still
rewarded :
E'en letthemto'tagain, and fightitout.
Flo, Mother, were I disclaim'd of
every class,
I would not therefore so disclaim
myself,
As even a passing thought of scorn to
waste
On cloddish Gullcrammer.
Ele. List to me, lo\e, and let
adversity
884
©ramahc (ptecee.
Incline thine ear to wisdom. Look
around thee ;
Of the gay youths who boast a noble
name.
Which will incline to wed a dowerless
damsel ?
And of the yeomanry, who, think'st
thou, Flora,
Would ask to share the labours of his
farm
An high-born beggar ? This young
man is modest
Fi.o. Silly, good mother ; sheepish,
if you will it.
Ele. E'en call it what you list ; the
softer temper.
The fitter to endure the bitter sallies
Of one whose wit is all too sharp for
mine.
Flo. Mother, you cannot mean it as
you say ;
You cannot bid me prize conceited
folly ?
Ele. Content thee, child ; each lot
has its own blessings.
This j^outh, with his plain-dealing
honest suit,
Proflers thee quiet, peace, and com-
petence,
Redemption from a home, o'er which
fell Fate
Stoops like a falcon. O, if thou
couldst choose
(As no such choice is givenl 'twixt
such a mate
And some proud noble ! Who, in
sober judgment.
Would like to navigate the heady
river,
Dashing in fury from its parent
mountain,
More than the waters of the quiet lake?
Kat. Now can I hold no longer !
Lake, good aunt ?
Nay, in the name of truth, saj- mill-
pond, horse-pond ;
Or if there be a pond more miry,
More sluggish, mean-derived, and
base than either.
Be such Gullcrammer's emblem — and
his portion !
Flo. I would that he or I were in
our grave,
Rather than thus his suit should goad
me ! Mother,
Flora of Devorgoil, though low in
fortunes.
Is still too high in mind to join her
name
With such a base-born churl as Gull-
crammer.
Ele. You are trim maidens both !
(To Flora.) Have you forgotten,
Or did you mean to call to 7iiy remem-
brance
Thy father chose a wife of peasant
blood ?
Flo. Will you speak thus to me,
or think the stream
Can mock the fountain it derives its
source from ?
My venerated mother, in that name
Lies all on earth a child should chiefest
honour ;
And with that name to mix reproach
or taunt.
Were only short of blasphemy to
Heaven.
Ele. Then listen. Flora, to that
mother's counsel.
Or rather profit by that mother's fate.
Your father's fortunes were but bent,
not broken,
LTntil he listen'd to his rash aflection.
Means were afforded to redeem his
house.
Ample and large : the hand of a rich
heiress
Awaited, almost courted, his accept-
ance.
He saw my beauty— such it then was
call'd.
Or such at least he thought it ; the
wither'd bush,
^0e ®oom of ©evorgotf.
Whate'er it now may seem, had
blossoms then, —
And he forsook the proud and weahhy
heiress,
To wed with me and ruin.
Kat. (aside). The more fool.
Say I, apart, the peasant maiden then,
Who might have chose a mate from
her own hamlet.
Ele. Friends fell oflf.
And to his own resources, his own
counsels,
Abandon'd, as they said, the thought-
less prodigal.
Who had exchanged rank, riches,
pomp, and honour.
For the mean beauties of a cottage
maid.
Flo. It was done like my lather.
Who scorn'd to sell what wealth can
never buy — •
True love and free affections. And
he loves you I
If you have suffer'd in a wear3' world.
Your sorrows have been jointly borne,
and love
Has made the load sit lighter.
Ele. Ay, but a misplaced match
hath that deep curse in 't,
That can embitter e'en the purest
streams
Of true affection. Thou hast seen me
seek,
With the strict caution early habits
taught me.
To match our wants and means ; hast
seen thj' father
With aristocracy's high brow of scorn.
Spurn at economy, the cottage virtue,
As best befitting her whose sires were
peasants :
Nor can I, when I see my lineage
scorn'd,
Always conceal in what contempt I
hold
The fancied claims of rank he clings
to fondlv.
Flo. Why will you do so ? Well
you know it chafes him.
Ele. Flora, thy mother is but mortal
woman.
Nor can at all times check an eager
tongue.
Kat. (aside). That 's no new tidings
to her niece and daughter.
Ele. O maj'st thou never know the
spited feelings
That gender discord in adversity
Betwixt the dearest friends and truest
lovers !
In the chill damping gale of povert}'.
If Love's lamp go not out, it gleams
but palely.
And twinkles in the socket.
Flo. But tenderness can screen it
with her veil.
Till it revive again. By gentleness,
good mother,
How oft I 've seen you soothe my
father's mood !
Kat. Now there speak youthful hope
and fantasy ! '^Asidc.
Ele. That is an easier task in j-outh
than age ;
Our temper hardens, and our charms
decay,
And both are needed in that art of
soothing.
Kat. And there speaks sad experi-
ence. 'iAsidc.
Ele. Besides, since that our state
was utter desperate.
Darker his brow, more dangerous
grow his words ;
Fain would I snatch thee from the
woe and wrath
Which darken'd long my life, and
soon must end it.
\^A knocking ivithotit ; Eleanor
shows alarm.
It was \.\\y father's knock, haste to
the gate.
\E.\cuiit Flor.\ and K.\tleen.
886
©ramahc (pkae.
What can have happ'd ! he thought
to staj- the night.
This gear must not be seen.
[As s/ic IS aboil/ lo iriiiovc the
basket, she sees the body of th.e
roc-decr.
What have we here? a roe-deer!
As I fear it,
This was the gift of which poor Flora
thought.
The young and handsome hunter —
but time presses.
\Shc removes the basket and the
roe into a closet. As she has
done —
Enter Oswald o/Devorgoil, Flora,
and Katleen.
[//f is dressed in a scarlet cloak,
iv/iich should seem ivorn and
old — a headpiece, and old-
fashioned sivovd^the rest of his
dress that of a peasant. His
countenance and manner should
express the moody and irritable
haughtiness of a proud man
involved in calamity, and tvho
has been exposed to recent in-
sult.
Osw. {addressing his ivife). The sun
hath set ; why is the drawbridge
lower'd ?
Ele. The counterpoise has fail'd,
and Flora's strength,
Katleen's, and mine united, could not
raise it.
Osw. Flora and thou ! A goodly
garrison
To hold a castle, which, if fame say
true.
Once foil'd the King of Norse and all
his rovers.
Ele. It might be so in ancient
times, but now
Osw. A herd of deer might storm
proud Dcvorgoil.
Kat. (aside to Flora). You, Flora,
know full well one deer already
Has enter'd at the breach; and, what
is worse,
The escort is not yet march'd off, for
Blackthorn
Is still within the castle.
Flo. In Heaven's name, rid him out
on 't, ere my father
Discovers he is here ! Why went he
not
Before ?
Kat. Because I staid him on some
little business ;
I had a plan to scare poor paltry
Gullcrammer
Out of his paltry wits.
Flo. Well, haste ye now.
And try to get him off".
Kat. I will not promise that.
I would not turn an honest hunter's
dog.
So well I love the woodcraft, out of
shelter
In such a night as this ; far less his
master :
But I '11 do this, I '11 try to hide him
for you.
Osw. \^tvhom his ivife has assisted to
take off his cloak and feathered cap).
Ay, take them otT, and bring my
peasant's bonnet
And peasant's plaid : I "11 noble it no
farther.
Let them erase my name from
honour's lists,
And drag my scutcheon at their
horses' heels ;
I have deserved it all, for I am poor,
And poverty hath neither right of birth,
Nor rank, relation, claim, norprivilege,
To match a new-coin'd viscount,
whose good grandsire.
The Lord be with him ! was a careful
skipper.
And steer'd his paltry skitf 'twixt
Lcith and Campvere —
ZU ©oow of ©etJorgotf.
Marry, sir, he could buy Geneva
cheap,
And knew the coast by moonlight.
Flo. Mean you the Viscount Ellon-
dale, my father ?
What strife has been between you ?
Osvv. O, a trifle !
Not worth a wise man's thinking
twice about —
Precedence is a toy — a superstition
About a table's end, joint-stool, and
trencher.
Something was once thought due to
long descent.
And something to Galwegia's oldest
baron ;
But let that pass — a dream of the old
time.
Ele. It is indeed a dream.
Osw. {furitiiig xtpon her yaihcr
quickly ;. Ha! said j'e] let me hear
these words more plain.
Ele. Alas ! they are but echoes of
your own.
Match'd with the real woes that hover
o'er us,
What are the idle visions of pre-
cedence,
But, as you term them, dreams, and
toys, and trifles,
Not worth a wise man's thinking
twice upon ?
Osw. Ay, 'twas for you I framed
that consolation.
The true philosophj' of clouted shoe
And linse3'-woolsej' kirtle. I know
that minds
Of nobler stamp receive no dearer
motive
Than what is link'd with honour.
Ribands, tassels,
Which are but shreds of silk and
spangled tinsel ;
The right of place, which in itself is
momentar3' ;
A word, which is but air — may in
themselves.
And to the nobler file, be steep'd so
richly
In that elixir, honour, that the lack
Of things so ver\' trivial in themselves
Shall be misfortune. One shall seek
for them
O'er the wild waves, one in the
deadly breach
And battle's headlong front, one in
the paths
Of midnight study ; and, in gaining
these
Emblems of honour, each will hold
himself
Repaid for all his labours, deeds, and
dangers.
What then should he think, knowing
them his own,
Who sees what \varriors and what
sages toil for.
The formal and establish'd marks of
honour
Usurp'dfromhim by upstart insolence?
Ele. (ivholias listened to the last speech
ivith soitic impatience . This is but
empty declamation, Oswald.
The fragments left at yonder full-
spread banquet.
Nay, even the poorest crust swept
from the table,
Ought to be far more precious to a
father,
Whose family lacks food, than the
vain boast.
He sate at the board-head.
Osw. Thou 'It drive me frantic ! I
will tell thee, woman —
Yet why to thee ! There is another ear
Which that tale better suits, and he
shall hear it.
\Looks at his sword, wliich he has
unbuckled, and addresses the
rest of the speech to it.
Yes, trusty friend, my father knew
thy worth,
And often proved it — often told me
of it.
888
©ratnatic (ptecea.
Though thou and I be now held
lightly of,
And want the gilded hatchments of
the time,
I think we both may prove true metal
still.
'Tis thou shalt tell this story, right
this wrong :
Rest thou till time is fitting. [Hangs
up the sword.
[T/ie IVotiien look ot each other
ivith anxiety during this speech,
which they partly overhear.
They both approach Oswald.
Ele. Oswald, my dearest husband!
Flo. My dear father !
Osw. Peace, both ! we speak no
more of this. I go
To heave the drawbridge up. [E.xit.
[Katleen tnomits tlie steps ton'ards
the loop-hole, and looks out.
Kat. The storm is gathering fast;
broad, heavy drops
Fall plashing on the bosom of the lake,
And dash its inky surface into circles ;
The distant hills are hid in wreaths of
darkness.
'Twill be a fearful night.
Oswald re-enters, and throws hint-
self into a seat.
Ele. More dark and dreadful
Than is our destiny, it cannot be.
Osw. (to Flora). Such is Heaven's
will ; it is our part to bear it.
We 're warranted, my child, from
ancient story
And blessed writ, to say that song
assuages
The gloomy cares that prey upon our
reason.
And wake a strife betwi.xt our better
feelings
And the fierce dictates of the headlong
passions.
Sing, then, my love; I'nr if a \oice
have iiillucnce
To mediate peace betwixt me and my
destin}^
Flora, it must be thine.
Flo. Mj' best to please you !
SONG.
When the tempest 's at the loudest,
On its gale the eagle rides ;
When the ocean rolls the proudest,
Through the foam the sea-bird
glides —
All the rage of wind and sea
Is subdued by constancy.
Gnawing want and sickness pining,
All the ills that men endure ;
Each their various pangs combining,
Constancy can find a cure —
Pain, and Fear, and Poverty,
Are subdued by constancy.
Bar me from each wonted pleasure,
Make me abject, mean, and poor;
Heap on insults without measure,
Chain me to a dungeon floor —
I '11 be happy, rich, and free.
If cndow'd with constancy.
ACT II.
Scene I.
Chamber in a distant pari of the Castle.
A large Window in the flat scene,
supposed to look on the Lake, which
is occasionally illuniinaied by light-
ning. There is a Couch-bed in the
Room, and an antique Cabinet.
Enter Katleen, introducing Black-
thorn.
K.\T. This was the destined scene
of action, Blackthorn,
And here ourproperties. But all in vain,
For of Gullcrammer we "11 see nought
to-night,
^^e ©oom of ©evovgoif.
Except the dainties that I told you of.
Bla. O, if he "s left that same hog"s
face and sausages,
He will try back upon them, never
fear it.
The cur will open on the trail ot
bacon.
Like my old brach-hound.
Kat. And should that hap, we "11
play our comed\',
Shall we not, Blackthorn ? Thou shalt
be Owlspiegle
Bla. And who may that hard-
named person be ?
Kat. I 've told you nine times over.
Bla. Yes, pretty Katleen, but my
eyes were busy
In looking at you all the time you
were talking ;
And so I lost the tale.
Kat. Then shut your ej'es, and let
your goodly ears
1)0 their good office.
Bla. That were too hard penance.
Tell but thy tale once more, and I will
hearken
As if I were thrown out, and listening
for
My bloodhound's distant baj'.
Kat. a civil simile !
Then, for the tenth time, and the last,
be told
Owlspiegle was of old the wicked
barber
To Erick, wicked Lord of Devorgoil.
Bla. The chief who drown'd his
captives in the Solway :
"We all have heard of him.
Kat. a hermit hoar, a venerable
man
'^So goes the legend) came to wake
repentance
Li the fierce lord, and tax'd him with
his guilt ;
But he, heart-harden'd, turn'd into
derision
The man of heaven, and, as his dignity
Consisted much in a long reverend
beard.
Which reach'd his girdle, Erick caused
his barber
This same Owlspiegle, violate its
honours
With sacrilegious razor,and clip his hair
After the fashion of a roguish fool.
Bla. This was reversing of our
ancient proverb,
And shaving for the devil's, not for
God's sake.
Kat. True, most grave Blackthorn ;
and in punishment
Of this foul act of scorn, the barber's
ghost
Is said to have no resting after death,
But haunts these halls, and chiefly
this same chamber,
Where the profanit\' was acted, trim-
ming
And clipping all such guests as sleep
within it.
Such is at least the tale our elders tell.
With many others, of this haunted
castle.
Bla. And 3'ou would have me take
this shape of Owlspiegle,
And trim the wise Melchisedek 1
I wonnot.
Kat. You will not ?
Bla. No — unless you bear a part.
Kat. What ! can you not alone
play such a farce ">.
Bla. Not I, I'm dull. Besides,
we foresters
Still hunt our game in couples. Look
you, Katleen,
We danced at Shrovetide — then you
were my partner ;
We sung at Christmas — you kept time
with me ;
And if we go a mumming in tliis
business,
By heaven, you must be one, or
Master Gullcrammer
Is like to rest unshaven.
890
©trawattc (ptccce.
Kat. Why, you fool,
What end can this serve ?
Bla. Nay, I know not, I.
But if we keep this wont of being
partners,
Wliy, use makes perfect : who knows
what may happen ?
Kat. Thou art a fooHsh patch. But
sing our carol,
Asl have alter'd it, with some fewwords
To suit the characters, and I will
bear • [Gives a paper.
Bla. Part in the gambol. I '11 go
study quickly.
Is there no other ghost, then, haunts
the castle.
But this same barber shave-a-penny
goblin ?
I thought they glanced in every beam
of moonshine,
As frequent as the bat.
Kat. I 've heard my aunt's high
husband tell of prophecies.
And fates impending o'er the house
of Devorgoil ;
Legends first coin'd by ancient super-
stition.
And render'd current by credulity
And pride of lineage. Five years have
I dwelt.
And ne'er saw any thing more mis-
chievous
Than what I am myself.
Bla. And that is quite enough,
I warrant you.
But, stay, where shall I find a dress
To play this — what d'ye call him —
Owlspiegle ?
Kat. (^taking dtessesoiiiofthecabinef) .
Why, there are his own clothes,
Preserved with other trumpery of the
sort.
For we have kept nought but what is
good for nought.
[She (hops a cap as she citaics out
the clothes. BlackthoDi lifts it,
and irives it to her.
Nay, keep it for thy pains, it is a
coxcomb ;
So call'd in ancient times, in ours
a fool's cap ;
For you must know they kept a Fool
at Devorgoil
In former days; but now are well
contented
To play the fool themselves, to save
expenses ;
Yet give it me, I '11 find a worthy use
for 't.
I '11 take this page's dress, to play the
page
Cockledemoy, who waits on ghostly
Owlspiegle ;
And yet 'tis needless, too, for Gull-
crammer
Will scarce be here to-night.
Bla. I tell you that he will ; I will
uphold
His plighted faith and true allegiance
Unto a sous'd sow's face and sau-
sages.
And such the dainties that 3'ou say
he sent you,
Against all other likings whatsoever,
Except a certain sneaking of affec-
tion.
Which makes some folks I know of
play the fool.
To please some other folks.
Kat. Well, I do hope he '11 come :
there 's first a chance
He will be cudgell'd by my noble
uncle —
I cry his mercy ! by my good aunt's
husband.
Who did vow vengeance, knowing
nought of him
But by report, and by a limping sonnet
Which he had fashion'd to my cousin's
glory.
And forwarded by blind Tom Long
the carrier ;
So there's the chance, first of a hearty
beating,
ZU ®oom of ©evovgot'f.
891
Which failing, we "ve this after-plot
of vengeance.
Bla. Kind damsel, how considerate
and merciful !
But how shall we get off, our parts
being playd ?
Kat. For that we are well fitted.
Here 's a trap-door
Sinks with a counterpoise ; you shall
go that wa}'.
I '11 make my exit yonder ; 'neath the
window,
A balcony communicates with the
tower
That overhangs the lake.
Bla. 'Twere a rare place, this house
of Devorgoil,
To play at hide-and-seek in : shall we
try.
One day, my pretty Katleen ?
Kat. Hands off, rude ranger! I'm
no managed hawk
To stoop to lure of yours. But bear
you gallantly ;
This Gullcrammer liath vex'd my
cousin much,
I fain would have some vengeance.
Bla. I '11 bear my part with glee ; —
he spoke irreverently
Of practice at a mark !
Kat. That cries for vengeance.
But I must go ; I hear my aunt's
shrill voice 1
My cousin and her father will scream
next.
Ele. {(it a (Ustamc . Katleen! Kat-
leen !
Bla. Hark to old .Sweetlips !
Away with 3'ou before the full cry
open —
But stay, what have you there ?
Kat. (wilh a bioidle she lias taken
fiotn the ivard>obe\ My dress, m}'
page's dress — let it alone.
Bla. Your tiring-room is not, I
hope, far distant ;
You 're inexperienced in these new
habiliments — •
I am most ready to assist your toilet.
Kat. Out, you great ass ! was ever
such a fool I \_Ri(iis off.
Bla. (sings).
O, Robin Hood was a bowman good,
And a bowman good was he.
And he met with a maiden in merry
Sherwood,
All under the greenwood tree.
Now give me a kiss, quoth bold Robin
Hood,
Now give me a kiss, said he.
For there never came maid into merr^^
Sherwood,
But she paid the forester's fee.
I've coursed this twelvemonth this
sly puss, young Katleen.
And she has dodged me, turn'd be-
neath my nose.
And flung me out a score of yards at
once ;
If this same gear fadge right, I "11 cote
and mouth her,
And then ! whoop ! dead I dead !
dead ! — She is the metal
To make a woodsman's ■wife of!
[Paitses a moment.
Well, I can find a hare upon her form
Witli any man in Nithsdale, stalk
a deer.
Run RejMiard to the earth for all his
doubles,
Reclaim a haggard hawk that 's wild
and wayward,
Can bait a wild-cat : sure the devil "s
in 't
But I can match a woman ! I '11 to study.
[5;Vs dozvn on the conch to e.vaminc
the paper.
892
©rawattc (ptecee.
Scene II.
Sceiir c/i(riiges to the iiiliabited apart-
ment of the Castle, as in the last
Scene of the preceding Act, A fire
is kindled, by ivhich Oswald sits in
an attitude of deep and juelancholy
thought, ivithoitt paying attention to
ivhat passes aronnd him. Elea-
nor is busy in covering a table:
Flora goes out and re-enters, as if
busied in the kitchen. There should
be some by-play — the ivonien whisper-
ing together, and n'atching the state
of Oswald ; then separating, and
seeking to avoid his observation, when
he casually raises his head, and
drops it again. This must be left to
tastcnnd luanagenient. The ll'omen,
in the first part of the scene, talk apart,
and as if fearfid of being overheard :
the by-play of stopping occasionally,
and attending to Oswald's move-
ments, will give liveliness to the
Scene.
Ele. Is all prepared ?
Flo. Ay ; but I doubt the issue
Will give my sire less pleasure than
you hope for.
Ele. Tush, maid ; I know thy
father's humour better.
He was high-bred in gentle luxuries ;
And when our griefs began, I 'vc
wept apart,
While lordly cheer and high-fill'd
cups of wine
Were blinding him against the woe
to come.
He has turn'd his back upon a princely
banquet :
We will not spread his board this
night at least.
Since chance hath better furnish'd,
with dr}' bread.
And water from the well.
Enter Katleen, and hears the last
speech.
Kat. (aside). Considerate aunt 1 she
deems that a good supper
Were not a thing indifferent even
to him
Who is to hang to-morrow. Since
she thinks so,
We must take care the venison has
due honour.
So much I owe the sturdy* knave,
Lance Blackthorn.
Flo. Mother, alas ! when Grief
turns reveller,
Despair is cup-bearer. What shall
hap to-morrow ?
Ele. I have learn"d carelessness
from fruitless care.
Too long I 've watch'd to-morrow ;
let it come
And cater for itself. Thou hear'st the
thunder.
[Loiv and distant thunder.
This is a gloomy night — within, alas 1
[Looking at her husband.
Still gloomier and more threatening.
Let us use
Whatever means we ha\e to drive
it o'er,
And leave to Heaven to-morrow.
Trust me. Flora,
'Tis the philosophy of desperate w-ant
To match itself but with the present
evil.
And face one grief at once.
Awaj', I wish thine aid and not thy
counsel.
\_As Flora w about to go off.
Gullcr.\mmer's voice is Iicard
behind the flat scene, as if from
the drawbridge.
GuL. {behind). Hillo — hillo — liilloa
— hoa — hoa !
[Oswald raises himself and listois :
\ Eleanor goes up the steps, and
ZH ®oom of ©evor^otf.
893
opens the windoiv at the loophole ;
Gullcrammer's voice is then
heard more distinctly.
GuL. Kind Lady Devorgoil ! sweet
Mistress Flora !
The night grows fearful, I have lost
my way,
And wander'd till the road turn'd
round with me,
And brought me back! For Heaven's
sake, give me shelter !
Kat. (aside). Now, as I live, the
voice of Gullcrammer !
Now shall our gambol be play'd ofl"
with spirit ;
I '11 swear I am the only one to whom
That screech-owl whoop was e'er
acceptable.
Osw. What bawling knave is this
that takes our dwelling
For some hedge-inn, the haunt of
lated drunkards ?
Ele. What shall I saj-? Go, Katleen,
speak to him.
Kat. (aside). The game is in my
hands ! I will say something
Will fret the Baron's pride ; and then
he enters.
(She speaks from the ivindoiv. ) Good
sir, be patient !
We are poor folks ; it is but six
Scotch miles
To the next borough town, where
your Reverence
May be accommodated to your wants ;
We are poor folks, an 't please your
Reverence,
And keep a narrow household ; there's
no track
To lead your steps astray
GuL. Nor none to lead them right.
You kill me, ladj'.
If you deny me harbour. To budge
from hence,
And in my weary plight, were sudden
death,
Interment, funeral-sermon, tombstone,
epitaph.
Osw. Who "s he that is thus clamor-
ous without ]
,To Eleanor. Thou know'st him ?
Ele. (confitsed). I know him ? no
• — yes — 'tis a worthy clergyman,
Benighted on his way ; but think not
of him.
Kat. The morn will rise when that
the tempest 's past,
And if hemissthe marsh, and can avoid
The crags upon the left, the road is
plain.
Osw. Then this is all your piety ?
to leave
One whom the holy duties of his office
Have summon'd over moor and wilder-
ness.
To pray beside some dying wretch's
bed,
Who (erring mortar; still would cleave
to life.
Or wake some stubborn sinner to
repentance, —
To leave him, after offices like these,
To choose his way in darkness 'twixt
the marsh
And dizzy precipice ?
Ele. What can I do ?
Osw. Do what thou canst — the
wealthiest do no more ;
And if so much, 'tis well. These
crumbling walls,
While yet they bear a roof, shall
now, as ever,
Give shelter to the wanderer. Have
we food ?
He shall partake it. Have we none ?
the fast
Shall be accounted with the good
man's merits
And our misfortunes.
[//<? goes to the loop-hole while he
speaks, and places himself there
ill room of his Wife, tvho comes
doivn li'ith reliiclance.
894
©ramattc ^Uue.
GuL. without . Hillo — hoa — hoa !
By my good faith, I cannot plod it
farther ;
The attempt were death.
Osvv. (speaking from the iviudoiv).
Patience, my friend, I come to
lower the drawbridge.
[Descends, and exit.
Ele. O, that the screaming bittern
had his couch
Where he deserves it, in the deepest
marsh !
Kat. I would not give this sport
for all the rent
Of Devorgoil, when Devorgoil was
richest I
(To Eleanor.' But now you chided
me, ray dearest aunt,
For wishing him a horse-pond for his
portion ?
Ele. Yes, saucy girl ; but, an it
please you, tli£n
He was not fretting me ; if he had
sense enough.
And skill to bear him as some casual
stranger, —
But he is dull as earth, and every hint
Is lost on him, as hail-shot on the
cormorant,
Whose hide is proof except to musket-
bullets !
Flo. (apart). And yet to such a one
w^ould my kind mother,
Whose chiefest fault is loving me too
fondly,
Wed her poor daughter !
Enter GuLLCRAMMER,hisdrcssda)iiaged
by the storm ; Eleanor runs to meet
him, in order to explain to him that
she ivishcd him to behave as a stranger.
GuLLCRAMMER, mistaking her ap-
proach/or an invitation to familiarity,
advances with the air of pedantic
conceit belonging to his character, when
Oswald enters, — Eleanor 7ecovcrs
herself, and assumes an air of dis-
tance— Gullcrammer is confounded,
and docs not know what to make
of it.
Osw. The counterpoise has clean
given way ; the bridge
Must e'en remain unraised, and leave
us open.
For this night's course at least, to
passing visitants.
What have we here ? is this the
reverend man ?
[He takes tip the candle, and surveys
Gullcrammer, -who strives to
sustain the inspection zvitli con-
fidence, ivliile fear obviottsly con-
tends li'ith conceit and desire to
shoiv himself to the best advan-
tage.
Gul. Kind sir — or, good my lord
— my band is ruffled.
But yet 'twas fresh this morning.
This fell shower
Hath somewhat smirch'd my cloak,
but you may note
It rates five marks per j'ard ; my
doublet
Hath fairly 'scaped ; 'tis three-piled
taffeta.
[Opens his cloak, and displays his
doublet.
Osw. A goodly inventory. Art thou
a preacher ?
Gul. Yea; I laud Heaven and good
Saint Mungo for it.
Osw. 'Tis the time's plague, when
those that should weed follies
Out of the common field, have their
own minds
O'errun with foppery. Envoj-s 'twixt
heaven and earth,
Example should with precept join, to
show us
How we may scorn the world with
all its vanities.
Gul. Nay, the high heavens fore-
fend that I were vain I
^^e ©oom of ©erot^otf.
«95
When our learn'd Principal such
sounding laud
Gave to mine Essay on the hidden
qualities
Of the sulphuric mineral, I disclaim'd
All self-exaltment. And {iiimiiig to
the women) when at the dance,
The lovely Saccharissa Kirkencroft,
Daughter to Kirkencroft of Kirken-
croft,
Graced me with her soft hand, credit
me, ladies,
That still I felt myself a mortal man,
Though beauty smiled on me.
Osw. Come, sir, enough of this.
That you 're our guest to-night, thank
the rough heavens,
And all our worser fortunes ; be con-
formable
Unto my rules ; these are no Saccha-
rissas
To gild with compliments. There 's
in your profession,
As the best grain will have its piles
of chafl',
A certain whiffler, who hath dared to
bait
A noble maiden with love tales and
sonnets ;
And if I meet him, his Geneva cap
May scarce be proof to save his ass's
ears.
Kat. (_asi(ie). Umph ! I am strongly
tempted
And yet I think I will be generous,
And give his brains a chance to save
his bones.
Then there 's more humour in our
goblin plot.
Than in a simple drubbing.
Ele. (apart to Flora;. What shall
we do? If he discover him,
He '11 fling him out at window.
Flo. My father's hint to keep
himself unknown
Is all too broad, I think, to be neg-
lected.
Ele. But yet the fool, if \ve produce
his bounty,
May claim the merit of presenting it ;
And then we 're but lost women for
accepting
A gift our needs made timely.
Kat. Do not produce them.
E'en let the fop go supperless to
bed.
And keep his bones whole.
Osw. [to /lis JFi/e). Hast thou
aught
To place before him ere he seek
repose ?
Ele. Alas ! too well you know our
needful fare
Is of the narrowest now, and knows
no surplus.
Osw. Shame us not with thy nig-
gard housekeeping ;
He is a stranger : were it our last
crust,
And he the veriest coxcomb e'er wore
tafieta,
A pitch he 's little short of, he must
share it.
Though all should want to-morrow.
GuL. [partly overhearing zi'hat passes
betiveen them). Nay, I am no lover
of your sauced dainties :
Plain food and plenty is my motto
still.
Your mountain air is bleak, and brings
an appetite :
A soused sow's face, now, to mv
modest thinking.
Has ne'er a fellow. What think
these fair ladies
Of a sow's face and sausages ?
\_AIakes signs to Eleanor.
Flo. Plague on the vulgar hind,
and on his courtesies,
The whole truth will come out ! [Aside.
Osw. What should they think, but
that vou're like to lack
896
©rawattc (pt'ecee.
Your favourite dishes, sir, unless
perchance
You bring such dainties with you.
GuL. No, not i\.'Hh me ; not, in-
deed,
Directly ivitli me ; but — aha ! fair
ladies ! S^Makes signs again.
Kat. He '11 draw thebeatingdown —
Were that the worst,
Heaven's will be done ! \^Aside.
Osw. (apati). What can he mean ?
This is the veriest dog-whelp ;
Still he 's a stranger, and the latest
act
Of hospitality in this old mansion
Shall not be sullied.
GuL. Troth, sir, I think, under the
ladies' favour,
Without pretending skill in second
sight,
Those of mj- cloth being seldom
conjurers- ■
Osw. I '11 take my Bible-oath that
thou art none. \^Aside.
GuL. I do opine, still with the
ladies' favour,
That I could guess the nature of our
supper:
I do not say in such and such pre-
cedence
The dishes will be placed ; house-
wives, as you know,
On such forms have their fancies ;
but, I say still,
That a sow's face and sausages
Osw. Peace, sir !
O'er-driven jests (if this be one) are
insolent.
Flo. {apati, scciug/ieiftioi/ieninensv).
The old saw still holds true — a
churl's benefits.
Sauced with his lack of feeling, sense,
and courtes3%
Savour like injuries.
\_A liont is winded ivithoiit : then
a loud knocking at the gate.
Leo. {tvitJiotit). Ope, for the sake
of love and charity I
[Oswald goes to the loop-hole.
GuL. Heaven's mercy! should
there come another stranger.
And he half starved with wandering
on the wolds.
The sow's face boasts no substance,
nor the sausages,
To stand our reinforced attack I I
judge, too,
B}- this starved Baron's language,
there 's no hope
Of a reserve of victuals.
Flo. Go to the casement, cousin.
Kat. Go j-ourself.
And bid the gallant who that bugle
winded
Sleep in the storm-swept waste; as
meet for him
As for Lance Blackthorn. Come, I "11
not distress you,
I "11 get admittance for this second
suitor,
And we'll plaj- out this gambol at
cross purposes.
But see, j'our father has prevented
me.
Osw. 'seems to liavc spoken -with
those ivithoiit, and ansivers) Well,
I will ope the door; one guest
already,
Driven b3^ the storm, has claim'd my
hospitalit}'.
And you, if you were fiends, were
scarce less welcome
To this my mouldering roof, than
emptj' ignorance
And rank conceit : I hasten to admit
you. [E.vit.
Elf., {to Flo). Thetempest thickens.
By that winded bugle,
I guess the guest that next will honour
us.
Little deceiver, that didst mock my
troubles,
'Tis now thv turn to fear !
ZU ©oom of ©evcvgotf.
897
Flo. Mother, if I knew less or more
of this
Unthought of and most perilous visit-
ation,
I would your wishes were fuUiU'd on
me.
And I were wedded to a thing like yon.
GuL. (approaching). Come, ladies,
now you see thejest is threadbare.
And you must own that same sow's
face and sausages
Re-enter Oswald ivith Leonard, sup-
porting Bauldie Durward. Os-
wald takes a vietv of thent, as for-
inoly o/GuLLCRAMMER, then speaks.
Osw. (to Leon.) 'By thy green cas-
sock, hunting-spear and bugle,
I guess thou art a huntsman ?
Leon, (hozving ivith respect}. A ranger
of the neighbouring royal forest,
Under the good Lord Nithsdale ;
huntsman, therefore.
In time of peace, and when the land
has war.
To my best powers a soldier.
Osw. Welcome, as either. I have
loved the chase,
And was a soldier once. This aged
man,
"What may he be ?
DuR. (recovering his breath'). Is but
abeggai", sir, an humble mendicant.
Who feels it passing strange, that from
this roof.
Above all others, he should now crave
slielter.
Osw. Why so? You're welcome
both — only the word
Warrants more courtesy than our
present means
Permit us to bestow. A huntsman
and a soldier
May be a prince's comrade, much
more mine ;
And for a beggar — friend, there little
lacks.
Save that blue gown and badge, and
clouted pouches,
To make us comrades too ; then
welcome both,
And to a beggar's feast. I fear brown
bread.
And water from the spring, will be
the best on 't ;
For we had cast to wend abroad this
evening,
And left our larder em.pty.
GuL. Yet, if some kindly fairy.
In our behalf, would search its hid
recesses, —
{Apart.) We '11 not go supperless now
— we're three to one. —
Still do I say, that a sous'd face and
sausages
Osw. (looks sternly at him, then at Itis
ivifc). There ' s something under
this, but that the present
Is not a time to question. To Fle. ^
Wife, my mood
Is at such height of tide, that a turn'd
feather
Would make me frantic now, with
mirth or fury !
Tempt me no more ; but if thou hast
the things
This carrion crow so croaks for, bring
them forth ;
For, by my father's beard, if I stand
caterer,
'Twill be a fearful banquet !
Ele. Your pleasure be obey'd. Come,
aid me, Flora. [^Exeunt.
[During the folloiving speeches tlic
Women place dishes on the tabic.
Osw. (to DuR.) How did you lose
your path ?
DuR. E'en when we thought to find
it, a wild meteor
Danced in the moss, and led our feet
astray. —
I give small credence to the talcs of old,
Of Friar's-lantern told, and Will-o'-
Wisp,
G g
898
©vamatic (piecee.
Else would I sa}-, that some malicious
demon
Guided us in a round ; for to the
moat,
Which we had pass'd two hours since,
were we led,
And there the gleam flicker'd and
disappear'd
Even on your drawbridge. I was so
^vorn down,
So broke with labouring through
marsh and moor,
That, wold I nold I, here m}- young
conductor
Would needs implore for entrance;
else, believe me,
I had not troubled you.
Osw. And why not, father? Have
3'ou e'er heard aught,
Or of my house or me, that wanderers.
Whom or their roving trade or sudden
circumstance
Oblige to seek a shelter, should avoid
The House of Devorgoil ?
DuR. Sir, I am English born.
Native of Cumberland. Enough is said
Why I should shun those bowers,
whose lords were hostile
To English blood, and unto Cumber-
land
Most hostile and most fatal.
Osw. Ay, father. Once my grand-
sire plough'd, and harrow'd.
And sow'd with salt, the streets of
your fair towns ;
And what of that ? — you have the
"vantage now.
DuR. True, Lord of Devorgoil, and
well believe I
That not in vain we sought these
towers to-night,
So strangely guided, to behold their
state.
Osw. Ay, thou wouldst say, 'twas
fit a Cumbrian beggar
Should sit an equal guest in his proud
halls,
Whose fathers beggar'd Cumberland.
Grej'beard, let it be so,
I '11 not dispute it with thee.
I To Leonard zi'ho -juas speaking to
Flora, but, on being surprised,
occupied himself with the suit of
armottr.)
What makest thou there, A-oung man ?
Leon. I marvell'd at this harness ;
it is larger
Than arms of modern days. How
richl}- carved
With gold inlaid on steel — how close
the rivets — ■
How justl3^ fit the joints ! I think the
gauntlet
Would swallow twice my hand.
[^He is about to fake down some
pari of the Armour; Oswald
interferes.
Osw. Do not displace it.
My grandsire, Erick, doubled human
strength,
And almost human size— and human
knowledge.
And human vice, and human virtue
also,
As storm or sunsh ine chanced to occupy
His mental hemisphere. After a fatal
deed,
He hung his armour on the wall, for-
bidding
It e'er should be ta'en down. There
is a prophecy.
That of itself 'twill fall, upon the night
When, in the fiftieth A^ear from his
decease,
Devorgoil's feast is full. This is the era ;
But, as too well you see, no meet
occasion
Will do the downfall of the armour
justice,
Or grace it with a feast. There let it
bide.
Trying its strength with the old walls
it hangs on
Which shall fall soonest.
ZU ©com of ©evovgoif.
899
DuR. {looking at the trophy ivith a
mixture of feeling). Then there
stern Erick's harness hangs un-
touch'd,
Since his last fatal raid on Cumberland !
Osw. Ay, waste and want, and
recklessness — a comrade
Still yoked with w^aste and want —
have stripp'd these walls
Of every other trophy. Antler'd
skulls,
Whose branches vouch'd the tales old
vassals told
Of desperate chases ; partisans and
spears ;
Knights' barred helms and shields ;
the shafts and bows,
Axes and breastplates, of the hardy
yeomanrj' ;
The banners of the vanquished— signs
these arms
Were not assumed in vain — have dis-
appear'd.
Yes, one by one they all have dis-
appeared ;
And now Lord Erick's harness hangs
alone,
'Midst implements ofvulgarhusbandry
And mean economy ; as some old
warrior,
Whom want hath made an inmate
of an alms-house.
Shows, 'mid the begg^r'd spendthrifts,
base mechanics,
And bankrupt pedlars, with whom
fate has mix'd him.
DuR. Or rather like a pirate, whom
the prison-house,
Prime leveller next the grave, hath
for the first time
Mingled with peaceful captives, low
in fortunes,
But fair in innocence.
Osw. {looking atDuR. icit/i surprise).
Friend, thou art bitter !
DuR. Plain truth, sir, like the vulgar
copper coinage.
Despised amongst the gentr}', still
finds value
And currency with beggars.
Osw. Be it so.
I will not trench on the immunities
I soon may claim to share. Thy
features, too,
Though weather-beaten, and til}' strain
of language.
Relish of better days. Come hither,
friend, \_Tltcy speak apart.
And let me ask thee of thine occupa-
tion.
[Leon.^rd looks rotind, and, seeing
Oswald engaged ivith Dur-
WARD, and GULLCRAMMER ivitll
Ele.^nor, approaches toivards
Flora, tvho must give him an
opportunity of doing so, ivith
obvious attention on her part to
give it the air of chance. The
by-play here tvill rest with the
Lady, ivho must engage the at-
tention of the audience by playi)ig
off a little female hypocrisy and
simple coquetry.
Leon. Flora
Flo. Ay, gallant huntsman, may
she deign to question
Why Leonard came not at the ap-
pointed hour;
Or why he came at midnight?
Leou. Love has no certain loadstar,
gentle Flora,
And oft gives up the helm to way-
ward pilotage.
To say the sooth, a beggar forced
me hence,
And Will-o'-Wisp did guide us back
again.
Flo. Ay, ay, your beggar was the
faded spectre
Of Poverty , that sits upon the threshold
Of these our ruin'd walls. I 've been
unwise,
Leonard, to let you speak so oft with
me:
©ramaftc QJtecee.
And you a tool to say what you have
said.
E'en let us here break short ; and,
wise at length,
Hold each our separate way through
life's wide ocean.
Leon. Nay, let us rather join our
course together,
And share the breeze or tempest,
doubling joys,
Relieving sorrows, warding evils off
With mutual effort, or enduring them
With mutual patience.
Flo. This is but tlattering counsel,
sweet and baneful ;
But mine had wholesome bitter in 't.
Kat. Ay, ay; but like the sly
apothecary,
You'll be the last to take the bitter
drug
That you prescribe to others.
[ They ivhispet: Eleanor advances
to interrupt tlieiii, foUoivcd by
GULLCRAMMER.
Ele. What, maid, no household
cares ? Leave to your elders
The task of filling passing strangers'
ears
With the due notes of welcome.
GuL. Be it thine,
O Mistress Flora, the more useful
talent
Of filling strangers' stomachs with
substantials ;
That is to say — for learn'd commen-
tators
Do so expound substantials in some
]ilaces —
With a sous'd bacon-face and sau-
sages.
Flo. {apart). Would thou wort
sous'd, intolerable pedant,
Base, greedy, perverse, interrupting
coxcomb !
Kat. Hush, coz, for we'll be well
avenged on him,
And ere this night goes o'er, else
woman's wit
Cannot o'ertake her wishes.
[^Slie proceeds to arrange seats.
Oswald and Durward come
forward in conversation.
Osw. I like thine humour well.
So all men beg
DuR. Yes ; I can make it good by
proof. Your soldier
Begs for a leaf of laurel, and a line
In the Gazette ; he brandishes his
sword
To back his suit, and is a sturdy beggar.
The courtier begs a riband or a star.
And, like our gentler mumpers, is
provided
With false certificates of health and
fortune
Lost in the public service. For your
lover.
Who begs a sigh, a smile, a lock of
hair,
A buskin-point, he maunds upon the
pad.
With the true cant of pure mendicity,
' The smallest trifle to relieve a
Christian,
And if it like j'our Ladyship ! '
[/;/ a begging tone.
Kat. (apart). This is a cunning
knave, and feeds the humour
Of my aunt's husband, for I must not
say
Mine honour'd uncle, I will try a
question.
Your man of merit though, who serves
the commonwealth.
Nor asks for a requital ?
[To DuRW.\RD.
DuR. Is a dumb beggar,
And lets his actions speak like signs
for him.
Challenging double guerdon. Now,
I '11 show
How your true beggar has the fair
advantage
ZU ®oetn cf ©evorgoif.
901
O'er all the tribes of cloak'd men-
dicity
I liave told over to you. The soldier's
laurel,
The statesman's riband, and the lady's
favour,
Once won and gain'd, are not held
worth a farthing
By such as longest, loudest, canted
for them ;
Whereas your charitable halfpenny.
Which is the scope of a true beggar's
suit,
Is worth fn'o farthings, and, in times
of plenty,
Will buy a crust of bread.
Flo. {iiiteyyiiptiitghiiii, and address-
ing her father). Sir, let me be
a beggar with the time,
And pray you come to supper.
Ele. {to Oswald, apart . Must he
sit with us ?
\^Lookillg at DURWARD.
Osw. Ay, ay, what else ? since we
are beggars all !
When cloaks are ragged, sure their
worth is equal.
Whether at first they were of silk or
woollen.
Ele. Thou art scarce consistent.
This day thou didst refuse a princely
banquet.
Because a new-made lord was placed
above thee ;
And now
Osw. Wife, I have seen, at public
executions,
A wretch, who could not brook the
hand of violence
Should push him from the scaftbld,
pluck up courage,
And, with a desperate sort of cheer-
fulness,
Take the fell plunge himself.
Welcome then, beggars, to a beggar's
feast.
GuL. iii'ho lias ill the iiicainvliile
seated himself). Butthis is more. —
A better countenance, ^ —
Fair fall the hands that sous'd it ! —
than this hog's,
Or prettier provender than these same
sausages
; By what good friend sent hither,
shall be nameless.
Doubtless some j-outh whom love hath
made profuse \
\_Siiiiliiig sigiiificaittly at Eleanor
and Flora
No prince need wish to peck it. Long,
I ween,
Since that the nostrils of this house
(by metaphor,
I mean the chimneys) smell'd a steam
so grateful —
By \-our good leave I cannot dally
longer. [^Helps himself
Osw. //r?f///_§-DuRWARDfl'Aot'«?GULL-
crammer). Meanwhile, sir,
Please it your faithful learning to give
place
To grey hairs and to wisdom ; and,
moreover.
If you had tarried for the benedic-
tion
GuL. (someivhat abashed . I said
grace to myself.
Osw. (not minding him). — and
waited for the company of others.
It had been better fashion. Time has
been,
I should have told a guest at De-
vorgoil,
Bearing himself thus forward, he was
saucy.
\_He seats liittiself and helps the
company and himself in diimb-
shoiv. There should be a con-
trast betivi.xt the precision of
his aristocratic civility, and the
rude itnder-breeding of Gull-
crammer.
9o:
^vAmatic (piecea.
Osw. {^/laving iasled the dish next
hini). Why, this is venison,
Eleanor !
GuL. Eh? What 1 Let 's see \
\Pnshes across Oswald and helps
himself.
It may be venison :
I "m sure 'tis not beef, veal, mutton.
lamb, or pork.
Eke am I sure, that be it what it
will,
It is not half so good as sausages.
Or as a sow's face sous'd.
Osw. Eleanor, whence all this 1
Ele. Wait till to-morrow,
You shall know all. It was a happ3'
chance
That furnish'd us to meet so many
guests. \_Fills wine.
Try if your cup be not as richly
garnish'd
As is your trencher.'
Kat. [aparf). My aunt adheres to
the good cautious maxim
Of — ' Eat your pudding, friend, and
hold your tongue.'
Osw. {fasting the wine . It is the
grape of Bordeaux.
Such dainties, once familiar to my
board.
Have been estranged from 't long.
[^Hc again fdls his glass, and
continues to speak as he holds it
up.
Fill round, my friends — here is a
treacherous friend novv
Smiles in your face, yet seeks to steal
the jewel,
Which is distinction between man
and brute —
I mean our reason — this he does, and
smiles.
But are not all friends treacherous?
one shall cross vou
* ^\*ooc'.en trenchers shraild In
qu.iij,'!!, a Scotlisli drinkinij-ciiii.
Even in your dearest interests ; one
shall slander you ;
This steal your daughter, that defraud
your purse :
But this gaj' flask of Bordeaux will
but borrow
Your sense of mortal sorrows for a
season.
And leave, instead, a gay delirium.
Methinks m}' brain, unused to such
gay visitants.
The influence feels already I we will
revel !
Our banquet shall beloud ! it isour last.
Katleen, thy song.
Kat. Not now, my lord ; I mean
to sing to-night
For this same moderate, grav^e, and
reverend clergyman ;
I '11 keep my voice till then.
Ele. Your round refusal shows but
cottage breeding.
Kat. Ay, my good aunt, for I was
cottage-nurtured,
And taught, I think, to prize my own
wild will
Above all sacrifice to compliment.
Here is a huntsman — in his eyes I
read it.
He sings the martial song mj- uncle
loves.
What time fierce Claver'se with his
Cavaliers,
Abjuring the new change of govern-
ment,
Forcing his fearless waj' through
timorous friends,
And enemies as timorous, left the
capital
To rouse in James's cause the distant
Highlands.
Have 3-ou ne'er heard the song, my
noble uncle ?
Osw. Have I not heard, wench ?
It was I rode next him,
'Tis thirty summers since — rode by
his rein ;
^^e ©oom of ©evovgoif.
903
We marched on through the alarm'd
city,
As sweeps the osprey through a flock
of gulls,
Who scream and flutter, but dare no
resistance
Against the bold sea-empress. They
did murmur,
The crowds before us, in their sullen
wrath,
And those whom we had pass'd,
gathering fresh courage,
Cried havoc in the rear: we minded
them
E'en as the brave bark minds the
bursting billows,
Which, yielding to her bows, burst on
her sides.
And ripple in her wake. Sing me
that strain, [To Leonard.
And thou shalt liave a meed I seldom
tender.
Because they're all I have to give —
my thanks.
Leon. Nay, if you '11 bear with what
I cannot help,
A voice that's rough with hollowing
to the hounds,
1 '11 sing the song even as old Rowland
taught me.
To the Lords of Convention 'twas
Claver'se who spoke,
' Ere the King's crown shall fall there
are crowns to be broke ;
So let each Cavalier who loves honour
and me,
Come follow the bonnet of Bonny
Dundee.
' Come fill up my cup. come fill up
my can.
Come saddle your horses, and call
up your men ;
Come open the West Port, and let
me gang free,
And it's room for the bonnets of
Bonny Dundee '.'
Dundee he is mounted, he rides up
the street,
The bells are rung backward, the
drums they are beat ;
But the Provost, douce man, said,
'Just e'en let him be.
The Gude Town is weel quit of that
Deil of Dundee.'
Come fill up my cup, &c.
As he rode down the sanctified bends
of the Bow,
Ilk carline was flyting and shaking her
pow ;
But the young plants of grace they
look'd couthie and slee,
Thinking, ' Luck to thy bonnet, thou
Bonny Dundee !'
Come fill up my cup, occ.
With sour-featured Whigs the Grass-
market was cramm'd
As if half the West had set tryst to
be hang'd ;
There was spite in each look, there
was fear in each e'e.
As they watch'd for the bonnets of
Bonny Dundee.
Come fill up my cup, &c.
These cowls of Kilmarnock had spits
and had spears,
And lang-hafted gullies to kill Cavaliers;
But they shrunk to close-heads, and
the causeway ■was free,
At the toss of the bonnet of Bonny
Dundee.
Come fill up my cup, &c.
He spurr'd to the foot of the proud
Castle rock.
And with the gay Gordon he gallantly
spoke ;
9°4
©tratnatic (ptecee.
• Let Moiis Meg and her marrows
speak twa words or three,
For the love of the bonnet of Bonny
Dundee.'
Come fill up my cup, &c.
The Gordon demands of him which
way he goes —
' Where'er shall direct me the shade
of Montrose !
Your Grace in short space shall liear
tidings of me,
Or that low lies the bonnet of Bonny
Dundee.
Come fill up my cup, &c.
' There are hills beyond Pcntland, and
lands beyond Forth,
If there 's lords in the Lowlands,
there "s chiefs in the North ;
There are wild Duniewassals, three
thousand times three,
Will cry Iwigli .' for the bonnet of
Bonny Dundee.
Come fill u]) my cup. ike.
• There 's brass on the target of
barken'd bull-hide ;
There's steel in the scabbard that
dangles beside ;
The brass shall be burnish'd, the steel
shall flash free,
At a toss of the bonnet of Bonny
Dundee.
Come fill up my cup, &c.
* Away to the hills, to the caves, to
the rocks — •
Ere I own an usurper, I '11 couch with
the fox ;
And tremble, false Whigs, in the
midst of your glee.
You have not seen the last of my
bonnet and me I'
Conic fill up my cup, ^Sji-.
He waved his proud hand, and the
trumpets were blown.
The kettle-drums clash'd, and the
horsemen rode on.
Till on Ravelston's cliffs and on
Clermiston's lee.
Died away the wild war-notes of
Bonny Dundee.
Come fill up my cup, come fill up
my can,
Come saddle the horses and call up
the men,
Come open your gates, and let mc
gae free,
For it 's up with the Ijonnets of
Bonny Dundee I
Ele. Katleen, do thou sing no\v.
Thy uncle 's cheerful ;
We must not let his humour ebb
again.
Kat. But I '11 do better, aunt, than
if I sung.
For Flora can sing blithe ; so can this
huntsman,
As he has shown e'en now ; let them
duet it.
Osw. Well, hiuitsman, wc must
give to freakish maiden
The freedom of her fancy. Raise the
carol.
And Flora, if she can, will join the
measure.
SONG.
When friends are met o'er merry cheer,
And lovely eyes are laughing near,
And in the goblet's bosom clear
The cares of day are drown'd ;
When puns are made, and bumpers
quaff'd.
And wild Wit shoots his roving shaft,
And Mirth his jovial laugh has laugh'd,
Then is our banquet crown'd.
Ah ga\',
Then is oui- banquet cniwn'd.
'ZU ©oom of ©eporgotf.
905
When glees are sung, and catches
troird,
And bashfulness grows bright and bold,
And beauty is no longer cold,
And age no longer dull ;
When chimes are brief, and cocks do
crow,
To tell us it is time to go.
Yet how to part we do not know,
Then is our feast at full,
Ah gay,
Then is our feast at full.
Osw. (rises zvUli the citp in Ins liand).
Devorgoil's feast is full —
Drink to the pledge !
[^A trcmctidoiis burst of tinindcr
folloivs these ivords of the Song ;
and the Liglitning sliotdd seem
to strike the suit of black A rnioiir,
tuliicli falls ivith a crash} All
rise in surprise and fear except
GuLLCKAMMER, ivho tumbles
over backivards, and lies still.
Osw. That sounded like the judg-
ment-peal : the roof
Still trembles with the voile}'.
DuR. Happy those
Who arc prepared to meet such fearful
summons.
Leonard, what dost thou there ?
Leon, (s npportingF lora) . The duty
of a man —
Supporting innocence. Were it the
final call,
I were not misemploy'd.
Osw. The armour of my grandsire
hath fall'n down.
And old saws have spoke truth.
(Altising. The fiftieth year —
Devorgoirs feast at fullest ! What to
think of it
Leon, {lifting a scroll ivliich had fallen
ivith the armour). This may in-
form us.
I I should think this may be contrived, by havinjj
a transparent zig-zag in the flat-scene, immediately
above the armour, suddunly and very strongly
illuminatci:!.
[^Attempts to read tlie manuscript,
shakes his head, and gives it to
Oswald.
But not to eyes unlearn'd it tells its
tidings.
Osw. Hawks, hounds, and revelling
consumed the hours
I should have given to study.
'iLooks at the manuscript.
These characters I spell not more
than thou.
They are notof our day, and, as I think.
Not of our language. Where 's our
scholar now,
.So forward at the banquet ] Is lie
laggard
Upon a point of learning ?
Leon. Here is the man of letter'd
dignity,
E'en in a piteous case.
[^Drags Gvhi.CRAUMT.li. forward.
Osw. Art waking, craven ? canst
thou read this scroll ?
Or art thou only learn'd in sousing
swine's flesh,
And prompt in eating it •
GuL. Eh — ah ! — oh — ho I — Have
you no better time
To tax a man with riddles, than the
moment
When he scarce knows whether he's
dead or living ?
Osw. Confound the pedant? — Can
you read the scroll,
Or can you not, sir ? If you can,
pronounce
Its meaning speedily'.
GuL. Can I read it, quotha !
When at our learned University,
I gain'd first premium for Hebrew
learning, —
Which was a pound of high-dried
Scottish snuff.
And half a peck of onions, with a bushel
Of curious oatmeal; our learn'd Prin-
cipal
9o6
©ramaitc (pt'ecee.
Did say ' Melchisedek, tliou canst do
any thing 1'
Now comes he with his paltry scroll
of parchment,
And 'Can 3'ou read it?' — After" such
afiVont,
The point is, if I ivill.
Osw. A point soon solved,
Unless you choose to sleep among
the frogs ;
For look you, sir, there is the chamber
window,
Beneath it lies the lake.
Ele. Kind master Gullcrammer,
beware my husband,
lie brooks no contradiction — 'tis iiis
fault.
And in liis wrath he 's dangerous.
CJuL. looks at flie scroll, oiul lutiltcrs
as if reading)
Ilashgabofh hotch-potcJi —
A simplematter this to makearoutof —
Ten rashcrscn hacoii ,mish-niash venison,
Sansagian souscd-facc — 'tis a simple
catalogue
Of our small supper — made by the
grave sage
Whose prescience knew this night
that we should feast
On venison, hash'd sow's face, and
sausages.
And hung his steel-coat for a supper
bell.
E'en let us to our provender again.
For it is written we shall finish it.
And bless our stars the lightning left
it us.
Osw. This must lie impudence or
ignorance I
The .spirit of rough Ericic stirs \vithin
me,
And I \\\\\ knoclc thy brains out if
thou palterest !
Expound the scroll to me 1
Gui.. You 're over hasty ;
And yet you may be right too. "lis
Samaritan,
Now I look closer on 't, and I did
take it
For simple Hebrew.
DuR. 'Tis Hebrew to a simpleton.
That we see plainly, friend. Give me
the scroll.
CiuL. Alas, good friend I what
would you do ^vith it •
DuR. {takes it front hiui). My best
to read it, sir. The character is
Saxon,
Used at no distant date within this
district ;
And thus the tenor runs — nor in
Samaritan,
Nor simple Hebrew, but in wholesome
English : —
Devorgoil, thy bright moon waneth,
And the rust thj' harness staineth ;
Servile guests the banquet soil
Of the once proud Devorgoil.
But should Black Erick's armour fall,
Look for guests shall scare you all I
They shall come ere peep of day, —
Wake and \vatch, and hope and pray.
Kat. 7oFlor,\". HereisfinefoolerN'I
An old wall shakes
At a loud thunder-clap — down comes
a suit
Of ancient armour, when its wasted
braces
Were all too rotten to sustain its
^veight —
A beggar cries out. Miracle I and
your father,
Weighing the importance of his name
and lineage,
Must needs believe the dotard !
Fi-o. Mock not, I pray you ; this
may be too serious.
K.\T. And if I live till morning, 1
will have
Tlie power to tell a better tale of
wonder
Wrought on wise Gullcrammer. 1 '1!
go prepare me. 'yExit.
ZU ©oont of ©eporgott
907
Fi.o. I have not Katleen's spirit,
yet I hate
This Gullcrammer too heartily, to stop
Any disgrace that's hasting towards
liim.
Osw. [/o ivliotn fhc Beggar has been
again reading the ^eroll . "lis a
strange prophecy ! I'he siKer moon,
Now waning sorel\% is our ancient
bearing-
Strange and unfitting guests
GuL. {interrupting hint . Ay, ay,
the matter
Is, as you say, all moonshine in the
water.
Osw. How mean 30U, sir ? [threaten-
GuL. 'J"o show that 1 can rhyme
With yonder bluegown. Give me
breath and time,
I will maintain, in spite of'his pretence,
Mine exposition had the better sense :
It spoke good victuals and increase of"
cheer ;
And his, more guests to eat what we
have here —
An increment right needless.
Osw. Get thee gone ;
To kennel, hound I
GuL. The hound will have his bone.
[ Takes up the platter of meat, and
a flask.
Osw. Flora, show him his chamber
— take him hence,
Or, by the name I bear, I'll sec his
brains !
GuL. Ladies, good night ! 1 spare
you, sir, the pains.
[£.v;7, lighted by Flora :vith a lamp.
Osw. The owl is fled.- — I '11 nut to
bed to-night ;
There is some change impending o'er
this house.
For good orill. I wouldsome holy man
Were here, to counsel us what we
should do 1
Yon witless thin- faced gull is but
a cassock,
Stuffd out with chafi" and straw.
DuK. [assuming an air of dignity .
1 have been wont,
In other days, to point to erring mor-
tals
The rock which they shouldanchor on.
[he holds up a Cross ; the rest take
a posture of devotion, and the
■Scene closes.
ACT III.
Scene I.
yl ruinous Anteroom in the castle.
Enter Katlees, fantastically dicsscd
to play the character of Cockledkuoy ,
with the visor in Iier hand.
Kat. I 've scarce had time to glance
at my sweet person.
Yet this much could I see, with half
a glance,
My elfish dress becomes me — I "11 not
mask me
Till I have seen Lance Blackthorn.
Lance! I say — {Calls.
Blacktiiorn, make haste !
Enter Blackthokn', half dressed as
OWLSPIEGLE.
Bla. Here am I — Blackthorn in the
upper half.
Much at 3-our service ; but my nether
parts
Are gobliniscd and Owlspiegled. 1
had much ado
To get these trankums on. I judge
Lord Erick
Kept no good house, and starved his
quondam barber.
Kat. Peace, ass, and hide you — •
Gullcrannncr is coming ;
f'g5
9o8
©tawattc {pkU0.
He left the hall before, but then took
fright,
And e'en sneak'd back. The Lady
Flora lights him — •
Trim occupation for her ladyship !
Had you seen Leonard, when she left
the hall
On such fine errand !
Bla. This Gullcrammer shall have
a bob extraordinary
For my good comrade's sake. — But
tell me, Katleen,
What dress is this of yours ?
Kat. a page's, fool !
Bla. I 'm accounted no great
scholar,
But 'tis a page that I would fain pe-
ruse
A little closer. [A/>proac/ics her.
Kat. Put on your spectacles,
And try if you can read it at this dis-
tance.
For you shall come no nearer.
Bla. But is there nothing, then,
save rank imposture.
In all these tales of goblinry at Devor-
goil ?
Kat. My aunt's grave lord thinks
otherwise, supposing
That his great name so interests the
Heavens,
That miracles must needs bespeak its
fall.
I would that I were in a lowly cottage
Beneath the greenwood, on its walls
iio armour
To court the levin-bolt
Bla. And a kind husband, Katleen,
To ward such dangers as must needs
come nigh.
My father's cottage stands so low and
lone.
That you would think it solitude itself;
The greenwood shields it from the
northern blast,
And, in the woodbine round its latticed
casement
The linnet's sure to build the earliest
nest
In all the forest.
Kat. Peace, you fool, they come.
[Flora liglits Gullcrammer
across the Stage.
Kat. {ivhenfliey have passed). Away
with you !
On with your cloak — be ready at the
signal.
Bla. And shall we talk of that same
cottage, Katleen,
At better leisure ? I have much to say
In favour of my cottage.
Kat. If you will be talking,
You know I can't prevent you.
Bla. That 's enough.
{Aside.) I shall have leave, I see, to
spell the page
A little closer, when the due time
comes.
Scene II.
Scene chaitgis to Gullcrammer's
Sleeping Apnrtiiicnt. He enters,
ushered in by Flora, zvho sets on
the table a flask, ivitli the lamp.
Flo. a ilask, in case your Rever-
ence be athirsty ;
A light, in case your Reverence be
afear'd ; —
And so sweet slumber to your
Reverence.
GuL. Kind Mistress Flora, will
you ? — eh ! eh ! eh !
Flo. Will I what ?
GuL. Tarry a little?
Flo. {smiling). Kind Master Gull-
crammer,
How can you ask me aught so un-
becoming?
Gul. Oh, fie, fie, fie! Believe me.
Mistress Flora,
'Tis not for that — but being guided
through
ZU ®ocm of ©eporgeif.
909
Such dreary galleries, stairs, and
suites of rooms,
To this same cubicle, I'm somewhat
loth
To bid adieu to pleasant company.
Flo. a flattering compliment ! In
plain truth you are frighten'd.
GuL. What! frighten'd! — I — I — am
not timorous.
Flo. Perhaps you 've heard this is
our haunted chamber ?
But then it is our best. Your Rever-
ence knows,
That in all tales which turn upon
a ghost,
Your traveller belated has the luck
To enjoy the haunted room — it is
a rule :
To some it were a hardship, but to
you,
Who are a scholar, and not timor-
ous
GuL. I did not say I was not timor-
ous,
I said I was not temerarious.
I '11 to the hall again.
Flo. You '11 do your pleasure,
But you have somehow moved my
father's anger.
And j'ou had better meet our playful
Owlspiegle —
So is our goblin call'd — than face
Lord Oswald.
GuL. Owlspiegle ?
It is an uncouth and outlandish name.
And in mine ear sounds fiendish.
Flo. Hush, hush, hush !
Perhaps he hears us now — {i/i an
undertone). A merry spirit;
None of your elves that pinch folks
black and blue.
For lack of cleanliness.
GuL. As for that, Mistress Flora,
My taffeta doublet hath been duly
brush'd,
My shirt hebdomadal put on this
morning.
Flo. Whj', you need fearnogoblins.
But this Owlspiegle
Is of another class ; — yet has his
frolics ;
Cuts hair, trims beards, and plaj's
amid his antics
The office of a sinful mortal barber.
Such is at least the rumour.
GuL. He will not cut my clothes,
or scar my face.
Or draw my blood ?
Flo. Enormities like these
Were never charged against him.
GuL. And, Mistress Flora, would
you smile on me.
If, prick'd by the fond hope of your
approval,
I should endure this \enture ?
Flo. I do hope
I shall have cause to smile.
GuL. Well ! in that hope
I will embrace the achievement for
thy sake. \SIie is going.
Yet, stay, stay, stay ! — on second
thoughts I will not !
I 've thought on it, and will the mortal
cudgel
Rather endure than face the ghostly
razor !
Your crab-tree's tough but blunt, —
your razor 's polish'd,
But, as the proverb goes, 'tis cruel
sharp.
I '11 to thy father, and unto his plea-
sure
Submit these destined shoulders.
Flo. But you shall not,
Believe me, sir, you shall not ; he is
desperate,
And better far be trimm'd by ghost or
goblin.
Than by my sire in anger ; there are
stores
Of hidden treasure, too, and Heaven
knows what.
Buried among these ruins: you shall
stav.
9IO
©ramahc (piecee.
(^Apart.) And if indeed there be sucli
sprite as Owlspiegle,
And, lacking him, that thy fear plague
thee not
Worse than a gobUn, I ha\e miss'd
my purpose,
Which else stands good in either
case. (Aloud) Good-night, sir.
[Exit, aitd doiible-locka the door.
GuL. Nay, hold j'e, hold ! Nay,
gentle Mistress Flora,
Wherefore this ceremony ? She has
lock'd me in.
And left me to the goblin I Listen-
ing.) .So, so, so I
I hear her light foot trip to such a
distance,
riiat I believe the castle's breadth
divides me
I'rom human company-. 1 'm ill at
ease ;
But if this citadel {Laying liis hand on
his sfotnach) were better victual'd,
It would be better mann'd.
[^Sits dozi'n and drinks.
She has a footstep light, and taper
ankle. \_Chnckles.
Aha 1 that ankle ! yet, confound it too,
But for those charms Melchisedek
had been
Snug in his bed at Mucklewhamc. I
say.
Confound her footstep, and her instep
too,
To use a cobbler's phrase. There I
was quaint.
Now, what to do in this vile rircum-
stance,
'I'o watch or go to bed. I can't
determine ;
Were I a-bed, the ghost might catch
me napping.
And if I watch, my terrors will
increase
As ghostly hours approach. I '11 to
mv bed
E'en in my taffeta doublet, shrink my
head
Beneath the clothes, leave the lamp
burning there,
[5r/s it on the table.
And trust to fate the issue.
\^He lays aside hi<: cloak, and
brushes it, as from habit, start-
ing at every moment ; ties a nap-
kin over his head : then shrinks
beneath the bed-clothes. He starts
once or iivice, and at length
seems to go to sleep. A bell
tolls o.\E. He leaps up in his
bed.
GuL. I had just coax'd mj'self to
sweet forgetfulness.
And that confounded bell — I hate all
bells.
Except a dinner bell — and yet I lie,
too,- —
I love the bell that soon shall tell the
parish
Of Gabblegoose Melchisedek's in-
cumbent.
And shall the future minister of
Gabblegoose,
Whom his parishioners will soon
require
To exorcise their ghosts, detect their
witches, ^
Lie shivering in his bed for a pert
goblin,
Whom, be he switch'd or cocktail'd,
horn'd or poll'd,
A few tight Hebrew words will soon
send packing •
Tush ! I will rouse the parson up
within me.
And bid defiance {A distant noise.)
In the name of Heaven,
What sounds are these ! O Lord I
this comes of rashness !
^Draws his head dozi'n under the
bed-clothes.
ZU ©oottt of ©eporgoif.
911
Diiff without, bdiveen Owlspiegle and
COCKLEDEMOY.
OWLSPIEGI.E.
Cockledeinoy I
My boy, my boy •
COCKLEDEMOY.
Here, father, here.
OWLSPIEGLE.
Now the pole-star 's red and burning,
And tlie witch's spindle turning,
Appear, appear I
GuL. ivlio has again raised himself,
and listened with great tenor to the
Duct \ I have heard of the devil's
dam before,
But never of his child. Now, Heaven
deliver me '.
The Papists ha\'c the better of us
there, —
They have their Latin prayers, cut and
dried,
And pat for such occasion : I can thiink
On nought but the vernacular.
OWLSPIEGLE.
Cockledemoj^ I
My boy, 1113' boy,
We '11 sport us here ;
COCKLEDEMOV.
Our gambols pla}'.
Like elve and fay ;
OWLSPIEGLE.
And domineer,
F.OTH.
Laugh, frolic, and frisk, till the
morning appear.
COCKLEDE.MOV.
Lift latch, open clasp,
Shoot bolt, and burst hasp 1
\_1 lie door oJ>ens 'with violence.
Enter Blackthor.x as Owl-
spiECiLE, fantastically dressed a^
n Spanish Barber, tall, thin,
emaciated, and ghostly : Kat-
LEEN, as CocKLEDEMOY, attends
as his Page. All their manners,
tones, and motions, are fan-
tastic, as those of Goblins. They
make two or three times the circuit
of the room, 'without seenn'ng to
see GuLLCRAMMER. They then
resume their Chant, or Recitative.
OWLSPIEGLE.
Cockledeinoy !
My boy, my boy.
What wilt thou do that will give thee
joy
Wilt thou ride on the midnight owl ?
rOCKLEDEMOVr
No; forthcweather is stormy and foul.
OWLSPIEGLE.
Cockledemoy I
My boy, my bo^, ,
What wilt thou do that can give tlu-e
joy ?
With a needle for a sword, and a
thimble for a hat.
Wilt thou fight a traverse with the
castle cat ?
COCKLEDEMOY.
Oh, no 1 she has claws, and I like not
that.
GuL. I see the devil is a doting father.
And spoils his children ; 'tis the surest
way
To make cursed imps of them. The}-
see me not.
What will they think on next ? It
must be own'd.
They have a dainty choice of occu-
pations.
OWLSPIEGLE.
Cockledemoy !
M_V boy, my bo}-.
What shall we do that can give thee joy I
Shall we go seek for a cuckoo's nest ?
912
©rama^tc (ptecee.
COCKLEDEMOY.
That 's best, that 's best !
About, about,
Like an elvish scout,
The cuckoo's a gull, and we'll soon
find him out.
[They search the room ivt'lh mops
and MOWS. At length Cockle-
DEMOY j'lmips on the bed. Gull-
crammer raises hmiself half itp,
snppotiing hitnself by his hands.
CocKLEDEMOY does the same,
and grins at htm, then skips from
tlicbed, and runs to Owlspiegle.
COCKLEDEMOY.
I 've found the nest,
And in it a guest.
With a sable cloak and a tafieta vest ;
He must be wash'd, and trimm'd, and
dress'd.
To please the eyes he loves the best.
OWLSPIEGLE.
That 's best, that 's best.
He must be shaved, and trimm'd, and
dress'd,
To please the eyes he loves the best.
[_They arrange shaving things on
the table, and sing as they pre-
pare them.
Know that all of the humbug, the bite,
and the buz,
Of the make-believe \vorld, becomes
forfeit to us.
OWLSPIEGLE (sharpening his i-acor).
The sword this is made of was lost
in a fray
By a fop, who first bullied and then
ran awav ;
And the strap, from the hide of a
lame racer, sold
By Lord Match, to his friend, for
some hundreds in gold.
For all of the humbug, the bite, and
the buz.
Of the make-believe world, becomes
forfeit to us.
COCKLEDEMOY (placing the napkin).
And this cambric napkin, so white
and so fair.
At an usurer's funeral I stole from
the heir. .
[Drops something from a vial, as
going to make suds.
This dcwdrop I caught from one eye
of his mother.
Which wept while she ogled the
parson with t' other.
For all of the humbug, the bite, and
the buz.
Of the make-believe world, becomes
forfeit to us.
OWLSPIEGLE (arranging the lather and
the basin).
My soap-ball is of the mild alkali
made.
Which the soft dedicator employs in
his trade ;
And it froths with the pith of a promise,
that 's sworn
Bj' a lover at night, and forgot on the
morn.
BOTH.
For all of the humbug, the bite, and
the buz.
Of the make-believe world, becomes
forfeit to us.
Halloo, halloo,
The blackcock cre^v,
ZU ©com of ©ewor^otf.
91;
Thrice shriek'd hath the owl, thrice
croak'd hath the raven,
Here, ho ! Master Gullcrammer, rise
and be shaven !
Da capo.
GuL. (zv/io /las been observing iJicin).
I'll pluck a spirit up; they "re merry
goblins,
And will deal mildly. I will soothe
their humour ;
Besides, ray beard lacks trimming.
[//«? rises from his bed, and ad-
vances tviih great syntpioms of
trepidation, but affecting an air
of composure. The Goblins re-
ceive him ivith fantastic ceremony.
Gentlemen, 'tis \o\.w will I should be
trimm'd —
E'en do your pleasure. \Thcy point
to a seat — he sits.']
Think, howsoe'er,
Of me as one who hates to see his
blood ;
Therefore I do beseech you, signior,
Be gentle in your craft. I know those
barbers, —
One would have harrows driven across
his visnomj'
Rather than they should touch it with
a razor.
OwLSPiEGLE shaves Gullcrammer,
while CocKLEDEMOY sings.
Father never started hair,
Shaved too close, or left too bare ;
Father's razor slips as glib
As from courtly tongue a fib.
Whiskers, mustache, he can trim in
Fashion meet to please the women ;
Sharp 'shisblade, perfumed his lather —
Happy those are trimm'd by father !
GuL. That 's a good boy. I love to
hear a child
Stand for his father, if he were the
devil, —
[//<■ motions to rise.
Craving your pardon, sir. What I sit
again ?
My hair lacks not your scissors.
[OwLSPiEGLE insists on his sitting.
Nay, if you're peremptory', I'll ne'er
dispute it,
Nor cat the cow and choke upon the
tail :
E'en trim me to your fashion.
[OwLSPiEGLE cuts his hair, and
shaz'es his head, ridiculously.
COCKLEDEMOY {siugs as before).
Hairbreadth 'scapes, and hairbreadth
snares,
Harebrain'd follies, ventures, cares,
Part when father clips your hairs.
If there is a hero frantic,
Or a lover too romantic ;
If threescore seeks second spouse.
Or fourteen lists lover's vows, — ■
Bring them here : for a Scotch boddle,
Owlspiegle shall trim their noddle.
[ They take the napkin from about
GuLLqRAMMER's;;fc/'. He makes
bo7vs of acknowledgment, zvhich
they ret urn fantastically, and sing.
Thrice crow'd hath the blackcock,
thrice croak'd hath the raven,
And Master Melchisedek Gullcram-
mer's shaven !
GuL. My friends, you are too musical
for me ;
But though I cannot cope with you
in song
I would, in humble prose, inquire of
you.
If that you will permit me to acquit
Even with the barber's pence the
barber's service ?
[ They shake their heads.
Or if there is aught else that I can do
for you,
Sweet Master Owlspiegle, or your
loving child,
The hopeful Cockle'moy?
()i4
©ranxattc (piecee.
COCKLEDEMOY.
Sir, you have been trimm'd of late.
Smooth 'sy our chin and bald your pate;
J.est cold rheums should work you
harm.
Here's a cap to keep you warm.
GuL. Welcome, as Fortunatus'
wishing-cap,
For 'twas a cap that I was wishing for.
There I was quaint in spite of mortal
terror.)
[_As he pitfA on the cap, a pair of
ass's ears disengage themselves.
Upon my faith , it is a dainty head-dress,
And might become an alderman I
Thanks, sweet Monsieur,
Thou 'rt a considerate youth.
[Both Goblins boiv ivith ceremony
to GuLLCRAMMER, tvho rctitms
their salutation. Owlspiegle
descends by the trap-door. Cock-
i.EDEMOY springs out at n'indow.
SONG (ivitliont).
OWLSPIEGLE.
Cocklcdemoy, my hope, my care,
Where art thou now, O tell me where?
COCKLEDEMOY.
Up in the sky
On the bonny dragonfly;
Come, father, come you too ;
She has four wings and strength enow,
And her long bod}' has room for two.
GuL. Cockledemoy now is a naughty
brat,
Would have the poor old stitV-rump'd
devil, his father,
Peril his fiendish neck. All bo\'s are
thoughtless.
SONG.
OWLSPIEGLE.
Wliich way didst thou take ■
COCKLEDEMOY.
I have fall'n in the lake —
Help, father, for Beelzebub's sake!
GuL. The impisdrown'd — a strange
death for a devil, —
O, may all boys take warning, and be
civil ;
Respect their loving sires, endure a
chiding.
Nor roam by night on dragonflies a-
riding 1
COCKLEDEMOY (sings).
Now merrily, merrily, row I to shore,
My bark is a bean-shell, a straw for
an oar.
OWLSPIEGLE (sings).
My life, my joy,
My Cockledemoy!
Gl'l. I can bear this no longer:
thus children are spoil'd.
[Strikes into the tune.
Master Owlspiegle, hoy !
He deserves to be whipp'd, little
Cockledemoy 1
[ Their voices arc Iicnrd, as if
dying aivay.
GuL. The}' 're gone I Now, am I
scared, or am I not ?
I think the very desperate ecstasy
Of fear has given me courage. This
is strange, now :
When they were here I was ncSt half
so frighten'd
As now they're gone; they were
a sort of company.
What a strange thing is use ! A horn,
a claw,
The tip of a fiend's tail, was wont to
scare me :
Now am I with the devil hand and
glove ;
His soap has lathcr'd, and his razor
shaved mc ;
I 've joined him in a catch, kept time
and tune.
Could dine with him, nor ask for
a long spoon ;
ZU ©oom of ®et)orgotf.
915
And if I keep not better company.
What will become of me when I shall
die? [Exif.
SCF.N'E III.
^■1 Gothic Hall. :c(!s/(' and rtiiiwus.
The moonlight i< at times seen
through the shafted windoivs '. Enter
Kati-F.en and Blackthorn-. They
have throiun off the more ludicrous
parts of their disguise.
Kat. This way, this way ; was
ever fool so gull'd !
Bla. I play'd the barber better than
I thought for.
Well, I 've an occupation in reserve,
When the long-bow and merrj' musket
fail me.
But, hark j^e, pretty Katleen.
Kat. What should I hearken to ?
Bla. Art thou not afraid,
In these wild halls while playing
feigned goblins.
That we may meet with real ones ?
K.\T. Not a jot.
I^Iv spirit is too light, my heart too
bold,
To fear a visit from the other world.
Bla. But is not this the place, the
very hall
111 which men say that Oswald's
grandfather.
The black Lord Erick, walks his
penance round ]
Credit me, Katleen, these half-
moulder'd columns
Have in their ruin something very
fiendish,
.\nd, if you '11 take an honest friend's
advice,
The sooner that you change their
shatter'd splendour
For the snug cottage that I told you of,
I I liave a notion that tliis can be managed so as to
represent imperfect, or flitting moonlight, upon the
jilan of the Fidophusikon.
Believe me, it will prove the blither
dwelling.
Kat. If I e'er see that cottage,
honest Blackthorn,
Believe me, it shall be from other
motive
Than fear of Erick's spectre.
'iA rustling sound is heard.
Bla. I heard a rustling sound —
I Upon 1113' life, there's something in
the hall,
Katleen, besides us two 1
Kat. a \^eoman thou,
A forester, and frighten'd ! I am sorr\-
I ga%-e the fool's-cap to poor Gull-
crammer,
j And let thy head go bare.
1 [ The same rushing sound is repeated.
Bla. Why, are you mad, or hear
i you not the sound ?
; K.\t. And if I do, I take small heed
of it.
[ Will you allow a maiden to be bolder
Than you, with beard on chin and
! sword at girdle ?
Bla. Nay, if I had my sword,
I would not care ;
Though I ne'er heard of master of
defence
So active at his weapon as to brave
The devil, or a ghost — See ! see ! see
3'onder !
[_A Figure is imperfectly seen
betiveen tzvo of the pillars.
Kat. There 's something moves,
that 's certain, and the moonlight.
Chased by the flitting gale, is too
imperfect
To show its form ; but, hi the name of
God,
I '11 venture on it boldly.
Bla. Wilt thou so ]
Were I alone, now, I were strongl}-
tempted
To trust mj- heels for safety ; but with
thee,
qi6
©rawattc (piecee.
Be it fiend or fairy, I '11 take risk to
meet it.
Kat. It stands full in our path, and
we must pass it.
Or tarry here all night.
Bla. In its vile company?
[^5 they advance ioivards the
Figure, it is more plainly distin-
guished, ivhich might, I think,
be contrived by raising successive
screens of crape. The Figure is
ivrappcd in a long robe, like the
mantle of a Hermit, or Palmer.
P.M.. Ho I ye who thread by night
these wildering scenes,
In garb of those who long have slept
in death,
Fear ye the company of those you
imitate?
Bi.A. This is the devil, Katleen, let
us fly ! {Rims off.
Kat. i will not lly ; why should
I ? My nerves shake
To look on this strange vision, but
my heart
Partakes not the alarm. If thou dost
come in Heaven's name,
In Heaven's name art thou welcome !
Pal. I come, by Heaven permitted.
Quit this castle :
There is a fate on't ; if for good or
evil.
Brief space shall soon determine. In
that fate,
If good, by lineage thou canst nothing
claim;
If evil, much may'st sufier. Leave
these precincts.
Kat. Whatc'er thou art, be answer'd !
Know, I will not
Desert the kinswoman who train'd
my youth ;
Know that I will not quit my friend,
my Flora ;
Know that I will not leave the aged
man
Whose roof has shelter'd me. This
is my resolve :
If evil come, I aid my friends to bear it;
If good, ni}' part shall be to see them
prosper, —
A portion in their happiness from which
No fiend can bar me.
Pal. Maid, before thy courage,
Firm built on innocence, even beings
of nature
More powerful far than thine give
place and way ;
Take then this key, and wait the event
with courage.
[//f drops the key. He disappears
gradually, the moonlight fail->
iug at the same time.
Kat. (after a pause). Whate'er it
was, "tis gone ! My head turns
round
The blood that lately fortified my heart
Now eddies in full torrent to my brain,
And makes wild work with reason.
I will haste,
If that my steps can bear me so far safe,
To living company. What if I meet it
Again in the long aisle, or vaulted
passage ?
And if I do, the strong support that
bore me
Through this appalling interview,
again
Shall strengthen and uphold me.
[^45 she steps forin'ard she stumbles
over the key.
What's this? The key ?— there may
be mystery in 't.
I '11 to my kinswoman, when this
dizzy fit
Will give me leave to choose my way
aright. \^She sits dozvn exhausted.
Re-enter Blackthorn, with a draivn
sivord and torch.
Bla. Katleen ! What, Katleen !
What a wretch was I
ZU ®oom of ®et?orgotf.
917
To leave her ! Katlcen, I am wea-
pon'd now,
And fear nor dog nor devil. She
replies not !
Beast that I was ! nay, worse than
beast; the stag,
As timorous as he is, figlits lor his
hind.
What's to be done? I '11 search this
cursed castle
From dungeon to the battlements ; if
I find her not
I 'II fling mc from the highest pin-
nacle
Katleen (w/io /la^ soiticivliat
gathered her spirits, in eonscqttciiee
of his entrance, comes behind and
touches him : he starts). Brave sir!
I '11 spare you that rash leap. You 're
a bold woodsman !
Surely I hope that from this night
henceforward
You '11 never kill a hare, since you 're
akin to them ;
O, I could laugh, but that my head "s
so dizzy.
Bla. Lean on me, Katlecn. By my
honest word,
I thought you close behind ; I was
surprised,
Not a jot frighten'd.
Kat. Thou art a fool to ask me to
thy cottage,
And then to show me at what slight
expense
Of manhood I might master thee andit.
Bla. I '11 take the risk of that.
This goblin business
Came rather unexpected ; the best
horse
Will start at sudden sights. Try me
again.
And if I prove not true to bonny
Katleen,
Hang me in mine own bowstring.
\^E.vennt.
SCEN'E IV.
The Scene returns to the Apartment
at the beginning of Act II. Oswald
and Durward arc discovered ivith
Eleanor, Flora, and Leonard.
DuRWARDs/(«/s a Prayer-book, u.<hicli
he seems to have been reading.
DuR. 'Tis true ; the difference
betwixt the churches,
Which zealots love to dwell on, to
the wise
Of either flock arc of far less im-
portance
Than those great truths to which all
Christian men
Subscribe with equal reverence.
Osw. We thank thee, father, fur
the holy office,
.Still best performed when the pastor's
tongue
Is echo to his breast; of jarring
creeds
It ill beseems a layman's tongue to
speak.
Where have you stow'd yon prater?
[To Flora.
Flo. Safe in the goblin-chamber.
Ele. The goblin-chamber !
Maiden, wert thou frantic? If his
Reverence
Have suffered harm by waspish
Owlspiegle
Be sure thou shalt abye it.
Flo. Here he comes ; he
Can answer for himself!
Elder Gullcraimmer, in the fashion in
zvhich Owlspiegle had put hint :
having the foot s-cap on his head, and
toivcl about his neck, ^c. His
manner through the scene is zvild and
extravagant, as if the fright had a
little affected his brain.
DuR. A goodly spectacle ! Is
there such a goblin ?
9i8
©ramattc (Ptecee.
{To Oswald." Or has sheer terror
made him such a figure?
Osw. There is a sort of wavering
tradition
Of a mahcious imp \vho teazcd all
strangers ;
My father wont to call liini Ovvl-
•spiegle.
GUL. Who talks of Owlspieglc ?
He is an honest fellow for a devil,
So is his son. the hopeful Cockle'moy.
{Shigs.)
My hope, my joy,
My Cockledemoy I
Leon. The fool "s bewitch'd ; the
goblin hath furnish'd him
A cap which well befits his reverend
wisdom.
Fi.o. If I could think he liail lost
liis slender wits,
I should be sorry for the trick they
play'd him.
Leon. O fear him not ; it were a foul
reflection
On any fiend of sense and repu-
tation
To filch such petty wares as his poor
brains.
DUR. What saw "st thou, sir?
What heard 'st thou ?
GuL. What was 't I saw and heard ?
That which old grej'beards,
Who conjure Hebrew into Anglo-
Sa.xon
To cheat starved barons \vith, can
little guess at.
Fio. If he begin so roundly with
my father
His madness is not like to save liis
bones.
GcL. Sirs, midnight came, and
with it came the goblin.
I liad reposed me after some brief
study ;
But as thesoldicr sleeping in thetrencli
Keeps sword and musket by him, so
I had
My little Hebrew manual prompt for
service.
Fi.o. Saiisagian soits'd-facc—ihpX
much of your Hebrew
Even I can bear in memory.
GuL. We 'couiiter'd.
The goblin and myself, even in mid-
chamber.
And each stepped back a pace, as
"twere to study
The foe he had to deal with I I be-
thought me,
Ghosts ne'er have the first word, and
so I took it,
And fired a volley of round Greek at
him.
He stood his ground, and answer'd
in the Syriac ;
I fiank'd my Greek with Hebrew, and
compell'd him — \_A noise heard.
Osw. Peace, idle prater I Hark —
what sounds are these ?
Amid the growling of the storm with-
out
I hear strange notes of music, and
the clash
Of coursers' trampling feet.
VOICES [zt'if/ioiif).
We come, dark riders of the night.
And flit before the dawning light ;
Hill and valley, far aloof.
Shake to hear our chargers' hoof;
But not a foot-stamp on the green
At morn shall show ^vhere we have
been.
Osw. These must be revellers be-
lated.
Let them pass on ; the ruin'd halls
of Devorgoil
Open to no such guests.
[F/onris/i ofiriituprls. at a distance,
then nearer.
They soimd a summons ;
ZU ©com of ©evof^otf.
919
What can they lack at this dead hour
of night?
Look out, and sec tlicir number and
their bearing.
Leon, {goes up to fliCiVindoiv".. 'Tis
.strange ! One single shadowy
Ibrm alone
Is liovering on tlic ih'awbridge ; far
apart
Flit through the tempest banners,
horse, and riders.
In darkness lost, or dimly seen by
lightning.
Llither the figure moves; the bolts
revolve,
The gate uncloses to him.
Ele. Heaven protect us !
The Palmer eitlerg. Guli.cra.mmer
runs off'.
Osw. Whence and what art thou ?
for what end come hither ?
Pal. I come from a far land, \vhere
the storm howls not
And the sun sets not, to pronounce to
thee,
Oswald of Devorgoil, th^' house's
fate.
DuR. I charge thee, in the name
we late have kneel'd to
P.\L. Abbot of Lanercost, I bid thee
peace !
Uninterrupted let me do mine er-
rand :
Baron of Devorgoil, son oftheljold,
the proud,
'J'hc warlike and the might\-, whei^e-
lore wear"st thou
'Die habit of a peasant? Tell me
wherefore
Are thy fair halls thus waste, thy
chambers bare ;
Where are the tapestries, where the
conquer'd banners.
Trophies, and gilded arms, that deck'd
the walls
Of once proud Devorgoil ?
\_Hc advances, mid places hitiiself
ivhere lire AnnoHr Jiung, so as
to be nearly in the centre of tlic
scene.
DuR. Whoe'er thou art, if Uiuu
dost know so much,
Needs must thou know
Osw. Peace ! I will answer here ;
to me he spoke.
Mysterious stranger. brie(l_v I reply :
A peasant's dress befits a peasant's
fortune ;
And 'twere vain mockery to array
these walls
In trophies, of whose memoiy nought
remains.
Save that the cruelty oulvietl the
valour
Of those who wore them.
Pal. Degenerate as thou art,
Know'st thou to whom thou say'sl
this ?
[//(' drops his mantle, and is dis-
covered armed as nearly as may
be to the suit ivhich hung on the
tvall ; all express terror.
Osw. It is himself — the spirit of
mine Ancestor !
F.Ri. Tremble not, son. but hear
mel
[//f strikes tlic ivall ; it opens, and
discovers tlic Treasure-Chamber.
There lies piled
The wealth I brought from wasted
Cumberland,
Enough to reinstate thy ruin'd for-
tunes.
Cast from thine high-born brows that
peasant bonnet,
Throw from thy noble grasp the
peasant's staff;
O'er all, withdraw thine hand from
that mean mate
Whom in an hour of reckless des-
peration
920
©ramaftc ^itue.
Thy fortunes cast thee on. This do,
And he as great as ere was Devorgoil
When Devorgoil was richest !
DuR. Lord Oswald, thou art
tempted by a fiend.
Who doth assail thee on thy weakest
side," —
Thy pride oflineage, and thy love of
grandeur.
Stand fast, resist, contemn his fatal
offers I
Ele. Urge him not, father ; if the
sacrifice
Of such a wasted woe-worn wretch
as I am
Can save him from the abyss of misery-.
Upon whose verge he 's tottering, let
me wander
An unacknowledged outcast from his
castle.
Even to the humble cottage I was
born in.
Osw. No, Ellen, no ! It is not thus
they part
Whose hearts and souls, disasters
borne in common
Have knit together, close as summer
saplings
Are twined in union by the eddying
tempest.
.Spirit of Erick, while thou bear"st his
shape
I "11 answer with no ruder conjuration
Thy impious counsel other than with
these words —
Depart, and tempt me not !
Eri. Then fate will have her course.
Fall, massive grate.
Yield them the tempting view of these
rich treasures.
But bar them from possession !
[A poyicnllis falls before the door
of the Treasure-Chamber.
Mortals, hear !
No hand may ope that grate except
the Heir
Of plunder'd Aglionby, whose mighty
wealth,
Ravish'd in evil hour, lies yonder
piled ;
And not his hand prevails without
the key
Of Black Lord Erick ; brief space
is given
To save proud Devorgoil. So wills
high Heaven.
[Thiiiiiler : he disappears.
DuR. Gaze not so wildly ; you have
stood the trial
That his commission bore, and Heaven
designs,
If I may spell his will, to rescue
Devorgoil
Even by the Heirof Aglionby. Behold
him
In that 3'oung forester, unto whose
hand
Those bars shall yield the treasures of
his house.
Destined to ransom yours. Advance,
young Leonard,
And prove the adventure.
Leon, (advances and attempts the
grate). It is fast
As is the tower, rock-seated.
Osw. We will fetch other means,
and prove its strength,
Nor starve in poverty with wealth
before us.
DuR. Think what the vision spoke;
The key — the fated key-
Enter GULLCRAMMER.
GuL. A key ? I say a quay is what
we want,
Thus by the learn'd orthographized — ■
Q, u, a, y.
The lake is overflow'd ! A quay,
a boat,
Oars, punt, or sculler, is all one to
me !
1 We shall bo drown'd, good people !
ZU ®oom of ©evorgotf.
921
Eiihi- Katleen and BlackthoRiX.
Kat. Deliver us !
Haste, save yourselves — the lake is
rising fast.
Bla. 'T has risen my bow's height
in the last five minutes,
And still is swelling strangely.
GuL. (zv/io /las stood astonished upon
seeing tlietn).
We shall be drown'd without 3'our
kind assistance.
.SweetMasterOwlspiegle,your dragon-
ily !
Your straw, 3'our beanstalk, gentle
Cockle'moy I
Leox. [Jooking from the sliot-ltole).
'Tis true, by all that 's fearful I The
proud lake
Peers, like ambitious tyrant, o'er his
bounds,
And soon will whelm the castle ; e\cn
the drawbridge
Is under water now.
Kat. Let us escape ! Why stand
you gazing there ?
DuR. Upon the opening of that
fatal grate
Depends the fearful spell that now
entraps us.
The key of Black Lord Erick — ere we
find it
The castle will be whelm'd beneath
the ^vaves,
And we shall perish in it I
Kat. ^^giving the key). Here, prove
this ;
A chance most strange and fearful
gave it me.
[Oswald puts it into the luck, and
attempts to turn it ; a loud clap
of thunder.
Fi.o. The lake still rises faster.
Leonard, Leonard,
Canst thou not save us ?
[Leonard tries the lock : it opens
:cit/t II -rio/ent utiise. unil the
Portcullis rises. A loud strain
of ivild tnusie. There may be
a Cho) us here.
[Osw.\LD enters the apartment, and
brings out a scroll.
Leon. The lake is ebbing with as
wondrous haste
As late it rose ; the drawbridge is left
dry !
Osw. This ma}' explain the
cause.
[GuLLCRAMMER offeis to take it.] But
soft you, sir.
We 'II not disturb j-our learning for
the matter;
Yet, since you 've borne a part in this
strange drama.
You shall not go unguerdon'd. Wise
or learn'd.
Modest or gentle. Heaven alone can
make thee,
Being so much otherwise ; but from
this abundance
Thou shalt have that shall gild thine
ignorance.
Exalt thy base descent, make thy
presumption
Seem modest confidence, and find
thee hundreds
Ready to swear that same fool's-cap
of thine
Is reverend as a mitre.
GuL. Thanks, mighty baron, now
no more a bare one !
I will be quaint with him. for all
his quips. [Aside.
Osw. Nor shall kind Katleen lack
Her portion in our happiness.
Kat. Thanks, my good lord, but
Katleen's fate is fix'd :
There is a certain valiant forester.
Too much afear'd of ghosts to sleep
anights
In his lone cottage, without one to
i;iiard him.
©tamaftc (ptecee.
Leon. If I forgetmycomrade's faith-
ful friendship,
May I be lost to fortune, hope, and
love !
DuR. Peace, all ! and hear the
blessing which this scroll
Speaks unto faith, and constancy, and
virtue.
No more this castle's troubled guest,
Dark Erick's spirit hath found rest.
The storms of angry Fate are past,
For Constancy defies their blast.
Of Devorgoil the daughter free
Shall wed the Heir of Aglionby ;
Nor ever more dishonour soil
The rescued house of Devorgoil !
AUCHINDRANE, OR THE AYRSHIRE
TRAGEDY
DRAMATIS PERSONAE.
John Mlre of ArciiiN-DRAXE, an Ayrs/iire
Baron. He has been a folhwcr q^f the
Regent, Earl nf Morion, diirhig the
Civil Wars, and hides an oppressive,
ferocious, and nnscriipiilous disposi-
tion under some pretences to s/rictness
of life and doctrine, ■which, hozvever,
never influence his conduct. He is in
danger front the law, owing to his
having been formerly acfiz>c in the
assassiiiation of the Earl of Cassilis.
Philip Mcke, his son, a xuild, debauched
profligate, professing and practising
a contempt for his father s hypocrisy,
while he is as fierce and licoitious as
Anchindraue himself
GiFioKD, their relation, a Courtier.
QuENTi>j Elane, a youth, educated for a
Clergyman, but setit by Acchindkane
to serve in a Band of Auxiliaries in
(he Wars of the Nctherlatids, and lately
employed as Clerk or Comptroller to
the Regiment — disbanded, howcz'cr, and
on his return to his 7iative country.
He is of a mild, gentle, and rather
feeble character, liable to be infucnced
by any person of stronger mind -who
will take the trouble to direct him. He
is somewhat of a nervous temperament,
varying from sadness to gaiety, accord-
ing to the impulse of the moment ; an
amiable hypochondriac.
HiLDEBRAND, a s/out old Englishman, who,
by feats of courage, has raised himself
to the rank of Se rgean t-MaJor {then
of greater consequence than at present).
He, too, has been disbanded, but cannot
brines himself to beliez'e that he has
lost his command over his Regiment.
{Privates dismissed from
the sajne Regiment in
which (juENTi.N- attd Hu.-
UEiiRAND had served.
Jenkin, 1 These are mutinous, a}id
And Others, are much disposed to re-
I membi-rformerquarrels
\ with their late Officers.
NiEL iMacLellan, Keeper of Auchindrane
Forest and Game.
Earl of Dunbar, commanding an Army
as Licutena7it of fames I, for execu-
tion of fust ice on offenders.
Guards, Attendants, ftc. ffC.
jNIarion, wifeof'Hw.i. INIacLellan.
Isabel, their daughter, a ^irl of si.v years
old.
Other Children and Peasant Jl'ornen.
iluc^m^yane, or Z^t il^ve^tve ^ragebp.
923
ACT I.
Scene I.
A rotky Bay on the coast of Carrick, in
.lyrshire, not far from the Point of
Tnrnbcrry. The sea comes in upon
a bold rocky shore. The remains of
a small half mined Tower are seen
on the right hand, overhanging the
sea. There is a Vessel at a distance
in the offing. A Boat at the bottom
of the Stage lands eight or ten peisons,
dressed like disbanded, and in one or
two cases like disabled soldiers. They
come straggling forivard with their
knapsacks and bundles. Hilde-
BRAND, the Sergeant, belonging to
the party, a stont elderly man, stands
by the boat, as if superintending the
disembarkation. Quentin remains
apart.
Abraham. Farewell the flats of
Holland, and right welcome
The cliffs of Scotland 1 Fare thee
well, black beer
And Schiedam gin ! and welcome
twopenny,
Oatcakes, and usquebaugh I
Williams {tvho wants an arm).
Farewell, the gallant field, and ' For-
ward, pikemen I'
For the bridge-end, the suburb, and
the lane ;
And ' Bless your honour, noble
gentleman,
Remember a poor soldier !'
Abr. My tongue shall never need
to smooth itself
To such poor sounds while it can
boldl}' say
' Stand and deliver ! '
WiL. Hush, the sergeant hears
you !
Abr. And let him hear; he makes
a bustle yonder.
And dreams of his authoritv. forgetting
We are disbanded men, o'er whom
his halberd
Has not such influence as the beadle's
baton.
We are no soldiers now, but everj' one
The lord of his own person.
WiL. A wretched lordship, and
our freedom such
As that of the old cart-horse, when
the owner
Turns himupon the common. I for one
Will still continue to respect the
sergeant,
And the comptroller, too, — while the
cash lasts.
Abr. I scorn them both. I am too
stout a Scotsman
To bear a Southron's rule an instant
longer
Than discipline obliges ; and ior
Quentin,
Quentin the quillman, Quentin the
comptroller,
We have no regiment now : or, if we
had,
Quentin 's no longer clerk to it.
WiL. Forshamel for shame I What!
shall old comrades jar thus.
And on the verge of parting, and for
ever ?
Nay, keep thy temper, Abraham,
though a bad one.
Good Master Quentin, let thy song
last night
Give us once more our welcome to
old Scotland.
Abr. Ay, they sing light whose
task is telling money,
When dollars clink for chorus.
Que. I "ve done with countingsilver,
honest Abraham,
As thou, I fear, with pouching thy
small share on 't.
But lend your voices, lads, and I ^vill
sing
As blithelj^ yet as if a town were
won ;
924
©ramattc (ptecea.
As if upon a field of battle gain'd.
Our banners waved victorious.
[He sings, and the rest bcarclwnis.
Hither we come,
Once slaves to the drum,
But no longer we list to its rattle ;
Adieu to the wars,
With their slashes and scars,
The march, and the storm, and the
battle.
There are some of us maim'd.
And some that are lamed.
And some of old aches are complaining ;
But we'll take up the tools,
Which we flung by like fools,
'Gainst Don .Spaniard to go a-cani-
paigning.
Dick Hathorn doth vow
To return to the plough.
Jack Steele to his anvil and hammer;
The weaver shall find room
At the wight-warping ^ loom.
And your clerk shall teach writing
and grammar.
Abr. And this is all that thou canst
do, gay Ouentin ?
To swagger o'er a herd of parish brats.
Cut cheese or dibble onions with thy
poniard.
And turn the sheath into a ferula?
Que. I am the prodigal in holy writ;
I cannot work, — to beg I am ashamed.
Besides, good mates, I care not who
may know it,
I'm e'en as fairly tired of this same
fighting
As the poor cur that "s worried in the
shambles
By all the mastiff dogs of all the
butchers ;
Wherefore, farewell sword, poniard,
petronel,
1 Nimlile-throwiiii^.
And welcome poverty and peaceful
labour.
Abr. Clerk Ouentin, if of fighting
thou art tired.
By my good word, thou "rt quickly
satisfied,
For thou 'st seen but little on 't.
WiL. Thou dost belie him ; I have
seen him fight
Bravely enough for one in his con-
dition.
Abr. What, he? that counter-cast-
ing, smockfaced boy ?
What was he but the colonel's scrib-
bling drudge,
With men of straw to stuff the regi-
ment roll ;
With cipherings unjust to cheat his
comrades.
And cloak false musters for our noble
captain ]
He bid farewell to sword and petronel :
He should have said, farewell my pen
and standish ;
These, with the rosin used to hide
erasures,
Were the best friends he left in camp
behind him.
Que. The sword you scoff at is not
far, but scorns
The threats ofanunmannerd mutineer.
Ser. {inferpostiig). We'll have no
brawling. Shall it e'er be said.
That being comrades six long years
together.
While gulping down the frowsy fogs
of Holland,
We tilted at each other's throats so
soon
As the first draught of native air
refresh'd them ?
No ! by Saint Dunstan, I forbid the
combat.
You all, methinks, do know this trusty
halberd ;
For I opine, that every back amongst
vou
Jtuc^inirane, or ^^e il^tre^tre ^ragebp. 92;^
Hath felt the weight of the tough
ashen staff,
Endlong or overthwart. Who is it
wishes
A remembrancer now ?
[^Raises /lis /lalbercf.
Abr. Comrades, have you ears
To hear the old man bully? Eyes to see
His staff rear'd o'er your heads, as
o'er the hounds
The huntsman cracks his whip ?
WiL. Well said ! Stout Abraham
has the right on't.
I tell thee, sergeant, we do reverence
thee,
And pardon the rash humours thou
hast caught.
Like wiser men, from thy authority.
'Tis ended, howsoe'er, and we'll not
suffer
A word of sergeantrj', or halberd-staff.
Nor the most pettj' threat of discipline.
If thou wilt lay aside thy pride of
office,
And drop thy wont of swaggering and
commanding,
Tiiou art our comrade still for good
or evil.
Else take thy course apart, or with
the clerk there —
A sergeant thou, and he being all thj^
regiment.
.Ser. Is 't come to this, false knaves ?
And think you not.
That if 3'ou bear a name o'er other
soldiers.
It was because you follow'd to the
charge
One that had zeal and skill enough to
lead 3'ou
Where fame was won by danger ?
WiL. We grant thy skill in leading,
noble sergeant ;
Witness some empty boots and sleeves
amongst us.
Which else had still been tenanted
with limbs
In the full quantity; and for the argu-
ments
With which yon used to back our
resolution.
Our shoulders do record them. At
a word,
Will you conform, or must we part
our company ?
.Ser. Conform to j'ou ? Base dogs !
I would not lead you
A bolt-flight farther to be made a
general.
Mean mutineers ! when you swill'd
off the dregs
Of mj'' poor sea-stores, it was, ' Noble
Sergeant —
Heaven bless old Hildebrand — we '11
follow him.
At least until we safely see him lodged
Within the merry bounds of his own
England I '
WiL. Ay, truly, sir; but, mark, the
ale was might^'.
And the Geneva potent. Such stout
liquor
Makes violent protestations. Skink
it round.
If you have any left, to the same
tune.
And we may find a chorus for it still.
Abr. We lose our time. Tell us at
once, old man.
If thou wilt march with us, or stay
with Quentin 1
Ser. Out, mutineers I Dishonour
dog your heels I
Abr. Wilful will have his way.
Adieu, stout Hildebrand !
[ T/ic soldiers go off laughing, (tJid
taking leave, ivitli niockciy, of the
Sergeant and Quentin, wIio
iruiain nn the Stage.
Ser. after a pause' . Fly you not
with the rest ? Fail you to follow
Yon goodly fellowship and fair
example ?
926
©rawattc ^itcu.
Come, take your wild-goose flight.
I know you Scots,
Like your own sea-fowl, seek your
course together.
Que. Faith, a poor heron I, who
wing my flight
In loneliness, or with a single partner ;
And right it is that I should seek for
solitude,
Bringing but evil luck on them I herd
with.
Ser. Thou 'rt thankless. Had we
landed on the coast,
Where our course bore us, thou wert
far from home ;
But the fierce wind that drove us
round the island,
Barring each port and inlet that we
aim'd at,
Hath wafted thee to harbour ; for
I judge
This is thy native land we disembark on .
Que. True, worthy friend. Each
rock, each stream I look on,
Each bosky wood, and every frowning
tower,
Awakens some young dream of infanc}-.
Yet such is my hard hap, I might
more safely
Have look'd on Indian clift's, or Afric's
desert,
Than on my native shores. I 'm like
a babe,
Doom'd to draw poison from nu'
nurse's bosom.
Ser. Thou dream'st, 3'oung man.
Unreal terrors haunt,
As I have noted, giddy brains like
thine —
Flighty, poetic, and imaginative —
To whom a minstrel whim gives idle
rapture,
And, when it fades, fantastic misery.
Que. But mine is not fantastic. I
can tell thee,
Since I have known thee still my
faithful friend,
In part at least the dangerous plight
I stand in.
.Ser. And I will hear thee willingly,
the rather
That I would let these vagabonds
march on.
Nor join their troop again. Besides,
good sooth,
I'm wearied with the toil of yesterday.
And revel of last night. And I may
aid thee ;
Yes, I may aid thee, comrade, and
perchance
Thou mayst advantage me.
Que. May it prove well for both !
But note, my friend,
I can but intimate my mystic story.
Some of it lies so secret, even the
winds
That whistle round us must not know
the whole.
An oath ! an oath !
Ser. That must be kept, of course;
I ask but that which thou may'st
freely tell.
Que. I was an orphan bo^', and
first saw light
Not far from where we stand, my
lineage low,
But honest in its poverty. A lord.
The master of the soil for many a mile,
Dreaded and powerful, took a kindly
charge
For my advance in letters, and the
qualities
Of the poor orphan lad drew some
applause.
The knight was proud of me, and in
his halls
I had such kind of welcome as the
great
Give to the humble, whom they love to
point to
As objects not unworthy their pro-
tection,
Whose progress is some honour to
their patron.
Jluc^mlirane, ct ZU cE^re^tte ^vagebj. 927
A cure was spoken of, which I might
serve,
My manners, doctrine, and acquire-
ments fitting.
Ser. Hitherto thy luck
Was of the best, good friend. Few
lords had cared
If thou couldst read thy grammar or
thy psalter.
Thou hadst been valued couldst thou
scour a harness,
And dress a steed distinctl}'.
Que. My old master
Held different doctrine, at least it
seem'd so —
But he was mix'd in many a deadly
feud ;
And here my tale grows mystic. I
became,
Unwitting and unvv'illing, the de-
positary
Of a dread secret, and the knowledge
on 't
Has wreck'd my peace for ever. It
became
My patron's will that I, as one who
knew
More than I should, must leave the
realm of Scotland,
And live or die within a distant land.
Ser. Ah ! thou hast done a fault
in some wild raid,
As 3'ou wild Scotsmen call them.
Que. Comrade, nay ;
Mine was a peaceful part, and happ'd
by chance.
I must not tell 3^ou more. Enough,
my presence
Brought danger to my benefactor's
house.
Tower after tower conceal'd me,
willing still
To hide my ill-omen'd face with owls
and ravens,
And let my patron's safety be the
purchase
Of my severe and desolate captivity.
So thought I, when dark Arran, with
its walls
Of native rock, enclosed me. There
I lurk'd,
A peaceful stranger amid armed clans.
Without a friend to love or to defend
me,
Where all beside were link'd by close
alliances.
At length I made my option to take
service
In that same legion of auxiliaries
In which we lately served the Belgian.
Our leader, stout Montgomery, hath
been kind
Through full six years of warfare,
and assign'd me
More peaceful tasks than the rough
front of war,
Forwhich my education little suited me.
Ser. Ay, therein was Montgomery
kind indeed ;
Nay, kinder than 3^011 think, ni3-
simple Quentin.
The letters which 3'ou brought to the
Montgomer3',
Pointed to thrust thee on some des-
perate service,
Which should most likely end thee.
Que. Bore I such letters ? .Surclv,
comrade, no !
Full deeply was the writer bound to
aid me.
Perchance he only meant to prove m3'
mettle ;
And it was but a trick of my bad fortune
That gave his letters ill interpretation.
.Ser. Ay, but thy better angel
wrought for good.
Whatever ill th3' evil fate designed thee.
Montgomery pitied thee, and changed
thy service
In the rough field for labour in the tent,
More fit for thy green 3-ears and
peaceful habits.
Que. Even there his well-meant
kindness injured me.
928
©tAmahc (piecee.
My comrades hated, undervalued me,
And whatsoe'er of service I could do
them.
They guerdon'd with ingratitude and
envy.
Such my strange doom, that if I serve
a man
At deepest risk, he is my foe for ever !
Ser. Hast thou worse fate than
others if it were so ?
Worse even than me, thy friend, thine
officer,
Whom yon ungrateful slaves have
pitch'd ashore.
As wild waves heap the seaweed on
the beach.
And left him here, as if he had the
pest
Or leprosy, and death were in his
company ?
Ol'k. They think at least j-ou have
the worst of plagues,
The worst of leprosies,' — they think
you poor.
Ser. The}" think like Ij'ing villains
then ; I 'm rich,
And they too might have felt it. I 've
a thought —
But stay 1 what plans your wisdom
for j-ourself ?
Que. My thoughts are wellnigh
desperate. But I purpose
Return to my stern patron, there to
tell him
Tliat wars, and winds, and waves,
have cross'd his pleasure.
And cast me on the shore from
whence he banish'd me.
Then let him do his will, and destine
for me
.\ dungeon or a grave.
Ser. Now, bj' the rood, thou art
a simple fool !
I can do better for thee. Mark me,
Quentin.
I took mj' license from the noble
regiment.
Partly that I was worn with age and
warfare,
Partly that an estate of yeomanry.
Of no great purchase, but enough to
live on,
Has call'd me owner since a kinsman's
death.
It lies in merry Yorkshire, where the
■w^ealth
Of fold and furrow, proper to Old
England,
Stretches by streams which walk no
sluggish pace,
But dance as light as j-ours. Now,
good friend Quentin,
This copyhold can keep two quiet
inmates.
And I am childless. Wilt thou be my
son ?
Que. Na}', you can only jest, my
worthy friend I
What claim have I tobeaburden toyou ?
.Ser. The claim of him that wants,
and is in danger.
On him that has, and can afibrd pro-
tection :
Thou wouldst not fear a foeman in
mj' cottage.
Where a stout mastifl' slumher'd on
the hearth.
And this good halberd hung above
the chimney?
But come, I have it I thou shalt earn
thj' bread
Duly, and honourably, and usefully.
Our village schoolmaster hath left the
parish,
Forsook the ancient schoolhouse with
its yew-trees,
That lurk'd beside a church two cen-
turies older, —
So long devotion took the lead of
knowledge ;
And since his little flock are shepherd-
less,
'Tis thou shalt be promoted in his
room ;
dEluc6tnitane, or ZU Jlpre^tre Zva^tti^.
929
And rather than thou wantest scholars,
man,
Myself will enter pupil. Better late.
Our proverb says, than never to do well.
And look you, on theholydays I'd tell
To all the wondering boors and gap-
ing children,
Strange tales of what the regiment
did in Flanders,
And thou shouldst say Amen, and be
my warrant.
That I speak truth to them.
Que. Would I might take thy offer '
But, alas !
Thou art the hermit who compell'd
a pilgrim,
In name of Heaven and heavenly
charitj',
To share his roof and meal, but found
too late
That he had drawn a curse on him
and his,
By sheltering a wretch forcdoom'd
of heaven I
Ser. Thou talk'st in riddles to me.
Que. If I do,
'Tis that I am a riddle to myself.
Thou know'st I am by nature born
a friend
To glee and merriment ; can make
wild verses ;
The jest or laugh has never stopp'd
with me,
When once 'twas set a rolling.
Ser. I have known thee
A blithe companion still, and wonder
now
Thou shouldst become thus crest-
fallen.
Que. Does the lark sing her descant
when the falcon
Scales the blue vault with bolder wing
than hers,
And meditates a stoop ? The mirth
thou'st noted
Was all deception, fraud. Hated
enough
For other causes, I did veil my feelings
Beneath the mask of mirth, — laugh'd,
sung, and caroll'd,
To gain some interest in my comrades'
bosoms,
Although mine own was bursting.
Ser. Thou 'rt a hypocrite
Of a new order.
Que. But harmless as the innoxious
snake,
Which bears the adder's form, lurks
in his haunts.
Yet neither hath his fang-teeth nor
his poison.
Look you, kind Hildebrand, I would
seem merry.
Lest other men should, tiring of my
sadness,
Expel me from them, as the hunted
wether
Is driven from the flock.
Ser. Faith, thou hast borne it
bravely out.
Had I been ask'd to name the merriest
fellow
Of all our muster-roll, that man wert
thou.
Que. See'st thou, my friend, yon
brook dance down the valley,
And singblithe carols over broken rock
And tiny waterfall, kissing each shrub
And each gay flower it nurses in its
passage, —
Where, think'st thou, is its source,
the bonny brook ?
It flows from forth a cavern, black and
gloomy.
Sullen and sunless, like this heart of
mine,
Which others see in a false glare of
gaiety,
Which I have laid before 3'ou in its
sadness.
Ser. If such wild fancies dog thee,
wherefore leave
The trade where thou wert safe 'midst^
others' dangers,
H h
93°
©rawaftc (ptecee.
And venture to thy native land, where
As earth looks blackest after brilliant
fate
sunshine.
Lies on the watch for thee ? Had old
Que. No, by my honest word. I
Montgomery
Reen with the regiment, thou hadst
had no conge.
Que. No, 'tis most likeh'. But I
join'd the revel,
And aided it with laugh, and song,
and shout.
But m}' heart revell'd not ; and, wh.en
had a hope,
A poor Vain hope, that I might live
the mirth
Was at the loudest, on yon galliot's
obscurely
In some far corner of mj^ native
Scotland,
prow
I stood unmark'd, and gazed upon the
land.
Which, of all others, splinter d into
My native land : each cape and cliff
districts,
I knew.
Differing in manners, families, even
' Behold me now,' I said, ' your
language,
Seem'd a safe refuge for the humble
destined victim ! '
So greets the sentenced criminal the
wretch,
headsman,
Whose highest hope was to remain
Who slow approaches with his lifted
unheard of.
axe.
But fate has baffled me ; the winds
' Hither I come,' I said, ' vc kindred
and waves.
hills,
With force resistless, have impell'd
Whose darksome outline in a distant
■ me hither,
land
Have driven me to the clime most
Haunted my slumbers ; here I stand.
dang'rous to me ;
thou ocean.
And I obey the call, like the hurt deer.
Whose hoarse voice, murmuring in
Which seeks instinctively his native
my dreams, required me ;
lair,
Sec me now here, ye winds, whose
Though his heart tells him it is but
to die there.
plaintive wail.
On yonder distant shores, appear'd to
Ser. 'Tis false, by Heaven, young
man ! This same despair,
call me ;
Summon'd, behold me.' And the
Though showing resignation in its
banner.
winds and waves.
And the deep echoes of the distant
Is but a kind of covert cowardice.
mountain,
Wise men have said, that though our
stars incline,
Made answer — ' Come, and die ! '
Ser. Fantastic all ! Poor boy, thou
They cannot force us. Wisdom is the
pilot.
art distracted
With the vain terrors of some feudal
And if he cannot cross, he may evade
them.
t3'rant,
Whose frown hath been from infancy
You lend an ear to idle auguries.
The fruits of our last revels — still most
sad
thy bugbear.
Why seek his presence ?
Que. Wherefore does the moth
Under the gloom that follows bois-
terous mirth,
Fly to the scorching taper ? Why the
bird,
iluc0tnbfane, ov Z^ •H^ve^tre ^rct^ei^.
9,11
Dazzled by lights at midnight, seek
the net?
Why does the prey, which feels the
fascination
Of the snake's glaring ej^e, drop in
his jaws ?
Ser. Such wild examples but refute
themselves.
Let bird, let moth, let the coil'd
adder's prey,
Resist the fascination and be safe.
Thou goest not near this Baron ; if
thou goest,
I will go with thee. Known in manj"-
a field,
Which he in a whole life of petty
feud
Has never dream'd of, I will teach the
knight
To rule him in this matter ; be thy
warrant.
That far from him, and from his petty
lordship,
You shall henceforth tread English
land, and never
Thy presence shall alarm his con-
science more.
Qui:. 'Twere desperate risk for
both. I will far rather
Hastily guide thee through this
dangerous province.
And seek thy school, thy yew-trees,
and thy churchyard ; —
The last, perchance, will be the first
I find.
Ser. I would rather face him.
Like a bold Englishman that knows
his right,
And will stand by his friend. And
yet 'tis folly :
Fancies like these are not to be resisted ;
'Tis better to escape them. Many
a presage,
Too rashly braved, becomes its own
accomplishment.
Then let us go; but whither? My
old head ■ •
As little knows where it shall lie to-
night.
As yonder mutineers that left their
officer,
As reckless of his quarters as these
billows.
That leave the ■withered sca-wccd on
the beach,
And care not where they pile it.
Que. Think not for that, good
friend. We are in Scotland,
And if it is not varied from its wont,
Each cot, that sends a curl of smoke
to heaven.
Will yield a stranger quarters for the
night,
.Simply because he needs them.
Ser. But are there none within an
easy walk
Give lodgings here for hire ? for
I have left
Some of the Don's piastres (though
I kept
The secret from yon gulls) ; and I had
rather
Pay the fair reckoning I can well
afTord,
And my host takes with pleasure,
than I 'd cumber
.Some poor man's roof with me and
all my wants.
And tax his charity beyond discretion.
Que. Some six miles hence there
is a town and hostelry ;
But you are wayworn, and it is most
likely
Our comrades must have fill'd it.
Ser. Out upon them !
Were there a friendly mastiff who
would lend me
Half of his supper, half of his poor
kennel,
I would help Honesty to pick his
bones,
And share his straw, far rather than
I 'd sup
On jolly fare with these base varlets !
H h a
932
^v&maiic (pucee.
Que. We "11 manage better ; for our
Scottish dogs,
Though stout and trusty, are but ill-
instructed
Inhospitable rites. — Here is a maiden,
A little maid, will tell us of the
country,
And sorely it is changed since I have
left it,
If we should fail to find a harbourage.
Enter Isabel MacLellan, a girl of
about six years old, bearing a milk'
pail on her head ; site stops on seeing
the Sergeant and Quentin.
Que. There's something in her
look that doth remind me —
But 'tis not wonder I find recollec-
tions
In all that here I look on. Pretty
maid •
Ser. You 're slow, and hesitate. I
will be spokesman.
Good even, my pretty maiden ! Canst
thou tell us.
Is there a Christian house would
render strangers,
For love or guerdon, a night's meal
and lodging?
IsA. Full surely, sir ; we dwell in
yon old house
Upon the cliff— they call it Chapel-
donan. \^Points to the building.
Our house is large enough, and if our
supper
Chance to be scant, 3-ou shall have
half of mine,
For, as I think, sir, you have been
a soldier.
Up yonder lies our house : I '11 trip
before,
And tell my mother she has guests
a-coming ;
The path is something steep, but you
shall see
I'll be there first. I must chain up
the dogs, too :
Nimrod and Bloodylass are cross to
strangers.
But gentle when you know them.
\Exit, and is seen partially as-
cending to the Castle.
Ser. You have spoke
Your country folk aright, both for the
dogs
And for the people. We had luck to
light
On one too j'oung for cunning and
for selfishness.
He 's in a reverie — a deep one sure,
Since the gibe on his country wakes
him not.
Bestir thee, Quentin !
Que. 'Twas a wondrous likeness.
Ser. Likeness ! of whom ? I '11
warrant thee of one
Whom thou hast loved and lost.
Such fantasies
Live long in brains like thine, which
fashion visions
Of woe and death when they are
cross'd in love.
As most men are or have been.
Que. Thy guess hath touch'd me,
though it is but slightlj',
'Mongst other woes: I knew, in
former days,
A maid that view'd me with some
glance of favour,
But my fate carried me to other
shores,
And she has since been wedded.
I did think on 't
But as a bubble burst, a rainbow
vanish'd ;
It adds no deeper shade to the dark
gloom
Which chills the springs of hope and
life within me.
Our guide hath got a trick of voice
and feature
Like to the maid I spoke of; that is
all.
cHuc^tttbrane, or 'Z^t ilpre^tre ^ra^ebp.
93:
Ser. She bounds before us like
a gamesome doe,
Or rather as the rock-bred eaglet soars
Up to her nest, as if she rose by will
Without an effort. Now a Nether-
lander,
One of our Frogland friends, viewing
the scene.
Would take his oath that tower, and
rock, and maiden.
Were forms too light and lofty to
be real,
And only some delusion of the fancy,
Such as men dream at sunset. I my-
self
Have kept the level ground so many
years,
I have wellnigh forgot the art to climb,
Unless assisted by thy younger arm.
IT/iey go off 03 if to ascend to the
Toiver, the Serge.\nt leaning
tipOH Ql'entin.
Scene II.
Scene changes to the Front of the Old
Toiver. Isabel comes forward ivith
her Mother, — Marion speaking as
they advance.
M.\R. I blame thee not, my child,
for bidding wanderers
Come share our food and shelter, if
thy father
Were here to welcome them ; but,
Isabel,
Hewaitsuponhislordat Auchindrane,
And comes not home to-night.
ISA. What then, my mother ?
The travellers do not ask to see
my father ;
Food, shelter, rest, is all the poor men
want,
And we can give them these without
my father.
Mar. Thou canst not understand,
nor I explain,
Why a lone female asks not visitants
What time her husband 's absent.
{Apart.") My poor child,
And if thou 'rt wedded to a jealous
husband,
Thou 'It know too soon the cause.
Isa. [partly overhearing ivhat her
mother says). Ay, but I know
already! Jealousy
Is, when my father chides, and you
sit weeping.
Mar. Out, little spy ! thy father
never chides ;
Or, if he does, 'tis when his wife
deserves it.
But to our strangers ; they are old
men, Isabel,
That seek this shelter, are they not ?
Isa. One is old —
Old as this tower of ours, and worn
like that,
Bearing deep marks of battles long
since fought.
Mar. Some remnant of the wars ;
he's welcome, surely.
Bringing no quality along with him
Which can alarm suspicion. Well,
the other ?
Isa. a young man, gentle-voiced
and gentle-eyed,
Who looks and speaks like one the
world has frown'd on ;
But smiles when you smile, seeming
that he feels
Joy inyour joy, though he himself issad.
Brown hair, and downcast looks.
M.\r. [alarmed). 'Tis but an idle
thought — it cannot be ! [Listens.
I hear his accents; it is all too
true —
My terrors were prophetic !
I '11 compose myself.
And then accost him firmly. Thus it
must be.
\_Shc retires hastily into the Tower.
934
©rainaftc (JJiecee.
[ The voices of the Sergeant and
QuENTiN are heard ascending
behind the Scenes.
Que. One effort more, we stand
upon the level.
I 've seen thee work thee up glacis
and cavalier
Steeper than this ascent, when cannon,
culverine,
Musket, and hackbut, shower'd their
shot upon thee.
And form'd, with ceaseless blaze, a
fiery garland
Round the defences of the post you
storm'd.
\Thcy conic on the Stage, and at
the same time Marion re-enters
from the Toivcr.
Ser. Truly thou speak'st. I am
the tardier,
That I, in climbing hither, miss the
fire.
Which wont to tell me there was
death in loitering.
Here stands, methinks, our hostess.
[He goes fonvard to address
Marion. Quentin, struck on
seeing her, keeps back.
Ser. Kind dame, yon little lass
hath brought you strangers,
Willing to be a trouble, not a charge
to you.
We are disbanded soldiers, but have
means
Ample enough to pay our journey
homeward.
Mar. We keep no house of general
entertainment,
But know our duty, sir, to locks like
yours,
Whiten'd and thinn'd by many a long
campaign.
HI chances that my husband should
be absent —
(Apaii) Courage alone can make
me struggle through it —
For in your comrade, though he hath
forgot me,
I spy a friend whom I have known in
school-days,
And whom I think MacLellan well
remembers.
[She goes %ip to Qutniin.
You see a woman's memory \
Is faithfuller than yours; for Quentin
Blane
Hath not a greeting left for Marion
Harkness.
Que. [ivith effort). I seek, indeed,
my native land, good Marion,
But seek it like a stranger. All is
changed.
And thou th^'self
M.'\R. You left a giddy maiden,
And find, on your return, a wife and
mother.
Thine old acquaintance, Quentin, is
my mate —
.Stout Niel MacLellan, ranger to our
lord,
The Knight of Auchindrane. He "s
absent now.
But will rejoice to see his former
comrade.
If, as I trust, you tarry his return.
{Apart.) Heaven grant he under-
stand my words by contraries !
He must remember Nicl and he were
rivals ;
He must remember Niel and he were
foes ;
He must remember Niel is warm of
temper.
And think, instead of welcome, I
would blithely
Bid him God speed you. But he is
as simple
And void of guile as ever.
Que. Marion, I gladly rest within
your cottage,
Jluc^mlitrane, ov ^^e M^vs^tvt tva^i^^' 935
And gladly wait return of Niel Mac-
Lellan,
To clasp his hand, and wish him
happiness.
Some rising feelings might perhaps
prevent this ;
But 'tis a peevish part to grudge our
friends
Their share of fortune because we
have miss'd it ;
I can wish others joy and happiness,
Though I must ne'er partake them.
Mar. But if it grieve you
Que. No ! do not fear. The bright-
est gleams of hope
That shine on me are such as arc
reflected
From those which shine on others.
[T/ie Sergeant and Ouentin
enter iJic Tower with the little Girl.
Mar. {eoiiies forward, and speaks in
agitation). Even so ! the simple
youth has miss'd my meaning.
I shame to make it plainer, or to say,
In one brief word, Pass on. Heaven
guide the bark,
F9r we are on the breakers !
\_E.xit into the Tower.
ACT II.
SCE.\E I.
A ivitJidraiving Apartment in the
Castle of Anehindrane. Servants
place a Table, with a Flask of Wine
and Drinking-Cnps.
Enter Mure of Auchindrane, witlt
Albert Gifford, his Relation and
Visitor. They place theinsclves by
the Table after some coiiiplinicntary
ceremony. At some distance is heard
the noise of revelling.
AucH. We're better placed for
confidential talk.
Than in the hall fiil'd with disbanded
soldiers,
And fools and liddlers gather'd on the
highway,—
The worthy guests whom Philip
crowds my hall with.
And with them spends his evening.
GiF. But think you not, my friend,
that your son Philip
Should be participant of these our
councils,
Being so deeply mingled in the
danger —
Your house's only heir — your only
son ?
AucH. Kind cousin Gifford, if thou
lack'st good counsel
At race, at cockpit, or at gambling
table,
Or any freak by which men cheat
themselves
As w^ell of life, as of the means to live,
Call for assistance upon Philip Mure ;
Butinall serious parley spare invoking
him.
GiF. You speak too lightly of my
cousin Philip ;
All name him brave in arms.
AucH. A second Bevis;
But I, my youth bred up in graver
fashions,
Mourn o'er the mode of life in which
he spends,
Or rather dissipates, his time and
substance.
No vagabond escapes his search :
The soldier
Spurn'd from the service, henceforth
to be ruffian
Upon his own account, is Philip's
comrade ;
The fiddler, whose crack'd crowd has
still three strings on't ;
The balladeer, whose voice has still
two notes left ;
Whate'er is roguish and whate'er is
vile.
936
©ramattc {piute.
Are welcome to the board of
The loss of land and lordship, name
Auchindrane,
and knighthood.
And Philip will return them shout for
The wreck of the fair fabric we have
shout,
built,
And pledge for jovial pledge, and
By a degenerate heir. Philip has that
song for song,
Of inborn meanness in him, that he
Until the shamefaced sun peep at our
loves not
windows,
The company' of betters, nor of equals ;
And ask ' What have we here ? '
Never at ease, unless he bears the bell,
GiF. You take such revel deeply.
And crows the loudest in the company.
We are Scotsmen,
He 's mesh'd, too, in the snares of
Far known for rustic hospitalitj".
everj' female
That mind not birth or titles in our
Who deigns to cast a passing glance
guests ;
on him —
The harper has his seat beside our
Licentious, disrespectful, rash, and
hearth,
profligate.
The wanderer must find comfort at
GiF. Come, my good coz, thmk we
our board,
too have been young.
His name unask'd, his pedigree un-
And I will swear that in your father's
known ;
lifetime
So did our ancestors, and so must we.
You have j^ourself been trapp'd by
AucH. All this is freely granted,
toys like these.
worthy kinsman ;
AucH. A fool I may have been —
And prithee do not think me churl
but not a madman ;
enough
I never play'd the rake among my
To count how many sit beneath m^'
followers,
salt.
Pursuing this man's sister, that man's
I 've wealth enough to fill my father's
wife ;
hall
And therefore never saw I man of
Each day at noon, and feed the guests
mine.
who crowd it.
When summon'd to obey my hest,
I am near mate with those whom men
grow restive,
call Lord,
Talk of his honour, of his peace
Though a rude western knight. But
destroy'd.
mark me, cousin.
And, w'hile obej^ing, mutter threats of
Although I feed wayfaring vagabonds.
vengeance.
I make them not my comrades. Such
But now the humour of an idle j'outh,
as I,
Disgusting trusted followers, sworn
Who have advanced the fortunes of
dependants,
my line
Plays football with his honour and
And swell'dabaron'sturretto a palace.
my safety.
Have oft the curse awaiting on our
GiF. I 'm sorry to find discord in
thrift.
3-our house,
To see, while yet we live, the things
For I had hoped, while bringing you
which must be
cold news.
At our decease — the downfall of our
To find you arm'd in union 'gainst the
family.
danger.
iluc^int)rane, or ZH M^v&^ivi. t^v<x^<t>)^.
937
AucH. What can man speak that I
would shrink to hear,
And where the danger I would deign
to shun ' [He lisc^.
What should appal a man. inured to
perils,
Like the bold climber on the crags of
Ailsa ?
Winds whistle past him, billows rage
below,
The sea-fowl sweep around, with
shriek and clang; —
One single slip, one unadvised pace,
One qualm of giddiness — and peace be
with him !
But he whose grasp is sure, whose
step is firm.
Whose brain is constant — he makes
one proud rock
The means to scale another, till he stand
Triumphant on the peak.
GiF. And so I trust
Thou wilt surmount the danger now
approaching,
Which scarcely can I frame my tongue
to tell you,
Though I rode here on purpose.
AucH. Cousin,! think thy heart was
never coward,
And strange it seems thy tongue should
take such semblance.
I 've heard of manj- a loud-mouthVl,
noisy braggart,
W^hose hand gave feeble sanction to
his tongue ;
But thou art one whose heart can think
bold things,
W^hose hand can act them, but who
N shrinks to speak them !
IF. And if I speak them not, 'tis
^hat I shame
Tc/tell thee of the calumnies that load
thee.
Things loudly spoken at the city
Cross,
Things closely whisper'd in our
Sovereign's ear.
Things which the plumed lord and
llat-capp'd citizen
Do circulate amid their different
ranks —
Things false, no doubt; but, falsehoods
while I deem them,
Still honouring thee, I shun the odious
topic.
AucH. Shun it not, cousin ; 'tis a
friend's best office
Tobringthe newswe hearunwillingly.
The sentinel, who tells the foe's ap-
proach.
And wakes the sleeping camp, does
but his dut}' :
Be thou as bold in telling me of danger,
As I shall be in facing danger told of.
GiF. I need not bid thee recollect
the death-feud
That raged so long betwixt thy house
and Cassilis ;
I need notbidthee recollect the league,
When royal James himself stood me-
diator
Between thee and Earl Gilbert.
AucH. Call you these news ? You
might as well have told me
That old King Coil is dead, and graved
at Kylesfeld.
I '11 help thee out : King James com-
manded us
Henceforth to live in peace, made us
clasp hands too.
O, sir, when such an union hath been
made.
In heart and hand conjoining mortal
foes,
Under a monarch's ro3'al mediation,
The league is not forgotten. And
with this
What is there to be told • The king
commanded —
' Be friends.' No doubt we were so —
who dare doubt it ?
GiF. You speak but half the tale.
AucH. By good Saint Trimon, but
I '11 tell the whole I
H h 3
938
©tama^tc (piecie.
There is no terror in the tale for me :
Go speak of ghosts to children ! This
Earl Gilbert
(God sain him) loved Heaven's peace
as well as I did,
And we were wondrous friends when-
e'er we met
At church or market, or in burrows
town.
'Midst this, our good Lord Gilbert,
Earl of Cassilis,
Takes purpose he would journey forth
to Edinburgh.
The King was doling gifts of abbey-
lands,
Good things that thrifty house was
wont to fish for.
Our mighty Earl forsakes his sea-
wash'd castle,
Passes our borders some four miles
from hence ;
And, holding it unwholesome to be
fasters
Long after sunrise, lo I the Earl and
train
Dismount to rest their nags and eat
their breakfast.
The morning rose, the small birds
caroll'd sweetly,
The corks were drawn, the pasty
brooks incision,
His lordship jests, his train arc choked
with laughter,
When,— wondrous change of cheer,
and most unlook'd for !
Strange epilogue to bottle and to baked
meat ! —
Flash'd from the greenwood half a
score of carabines,
And the good Earl of Cassilis, in his
breakfast,
Had nooning, dinner,supper,all at once.
Even in the morning that he closed
his journey :
And the grim sexton, for his chamberlain,
Made him the bed which rests the
head for ever.
GiF. Told with much spirit, cousin.
Some there are
Would add and in a tone resembling
triumph.
And would that with these long estab-
lish'd facts
My tale began and ended ! I must tell
you
That evil-deeming censures of the
events.
Both at the time and now, throw
blame on thee.
Time, place, and circumstance, they
say, proclaim thee,
Alike, the author of that morning's
ambush.
AucH. Ay, 'tis an old belief in
Carrick here.
Where natives do not always die in
bed.
That if a Kennedy shall not attain
Methuselah's last span, a Mure has
slain him.
Such is the general creed of all their
clan.
Thank Heaven that they 're bound to
prove the charge
They are so prompt in making. They*
have clamour'd
Enough of this before, to show their
malice.
But what said these coward pickthanks
when I came
Before the King, before the J usticers.
Rebutting all their calumnies, and
daring them
To show that I knew aught of Cassilis'
journe}',
Which way he meant to travel, where
to halt ?
Without which knowledge I possess'd
no means
To dress an ambush for him. Did I not
Defy the assembled clan of Kennedys
To show, by proof direct or inferential.
Wherefore theyslander'd me with this
foul charge ?
dtluc^tnbrrtne, or 'ZU cHpe^tre t^ragebp. 939
My gauntlet rung before them in the
court,
And I did dare the best of them to lift it,
And prove sucii charge a true one.
Did I not?
GiF. I saw your gauntlet lie before
the Kennedys,
Wholook'donitasmcndo on an adder,
Longing to crush, and yet afraid to
grasp it.
Not an eye sparkled, not a foot
advanced,
No arm was stretch'd to lift the fatal
symbol.
AucH. Then wherefore do the
hildings murmur now ?
Wish they to see again, how one bold
Mure
Can baffle and defy their assembled
valour?
GiF. No ; but they speak of evidence
suppress'd.
AucH. Suppress'd ! What evi-
dence ? — by whom suppress'd ?
What Willo'-Wisp, what idiot of
a witness.
Is he to whom they trace an empty
voice.
But cannot sh.ow his person ?
GiF. They pretend,
With the King's leave, to bring it to
a trial ;
Averring that a lad, named Quentin
Blane,
Brought thee a letter from the mur-
der'd Earl,
With friendly greetings, telling of his
journey,
The hour which he set forth, the
place he halted at
Affording thee the means to form the
ambush,
Of which your hatred made the
application.
AucH. A prudent Earl, indeed, if
such his practice,
When dealing with a recent enemy I
And what should he propose by such
strange confidence
In one who sought it not !
GiF. His purposes were kindly, say
the Kennedys —
Desiring you would meet him where
he halted,
Offering to undertake whate'er com-
missions
You listed trust him with, for court
or city :
And, thus apprised of Cassilis' pur-
posed journey,
And of his halting-place, you placed
the ambush.
Prepared the homicides
AucH. They're free to say their
pleasure. They are men
Of the new court ; and I am but a
fragment
Of stout old Morton's faction. It is
reason
That such as I be rooted from the earth
That they may have full room to
spread their branches.
No doubt, 'tis easy to find strolling
vagrants
To prove whate'er they prompt. This
Quentin Blane —
Did you not call him so ? — why comes
he now ?
And wherefore not before ? This must
be answer'd !
{Abruptly.) Where is he now 1
GiF. Abroad, they say ; kidnapp'd.
By you kidnapp'd, that he might die
in Flanders.
But orders have been sent for his dis-
charge,
And his transmission hither.
AucH. {assuDiiitg an air of com-
posure). When they produce such
witness, cousin Gifford,
We '11 be prepared to meet it. In the
meanwhile.
The King doth ill to throw his royal
sceptre
H h 5
940
©tamaftc (pteceo.
In the accuser's scale, ere he can know
How justice shall incline it.
GiF. Our sage prince
Resents, it may be, less the death of
Cassilis,
Than he is angry that the feud should
burn,
After his royal voice had said * Be
quench'd' :
Thus urging prosecution less for
slaughter,
Than that, being done against the
King's command,
Treason is mix'd with homicide.
AucH. Ha ! ha ! most true, my
cousin.
Wh^^, well consider'd, 'tis a crime so
great
To slay one's enemy, the King for-
bidding it,
Like parricide, it should be held
impossible.
■'Tis just as if a wretch retain'd the evil,
When the King's touch had bid the
sores be heal'd ;
And such a crime merits the stake at
least.
What ! can there be within a Scottish
bosom
A feud so deadl}', that it kept its ground
When the King said Be friends I It
is not credible.
Were I King James, I never would
believe it :
I 'd rather think the story all a dream.
And that there was no friendship,
feud, nor journey.
No halt, no ambush, and no Earl of
Cassilis,
Than dream anointed Majesty has
wrong !
GiF. Speak within door, coz.
AucH. O, true ! {aside). I shall
betray myself
Even to this half-bred fool. I must
have room.
Room for an instant, or I suffocate.
Cousin, I prithee call our Philip
hither —
Forgive me ! 'twere more meet I
summon'd him
Myself; but then the sight of yonder
revel
Would chafe my blood, and I have
need of coolness.
GiF. I understand thee: I will bring
him straight. \^ExiL
AucH. And if thou dost, he 's lost
his ancient trick
To fathom, as he wont, his five-pint
flagons.
This space is mine : O for the power
to fill it,
Instead of senseless rage and empty
curses.
With the dark spell which witches
learn from fiends,
That smites the object oftheir hate afar.
Nor leaves a token of its mystic action,
.Stealing the soul from out the un-
scathed hody,
As lightning melts the blade, nor
harms the scabbard !
'Tis vain to wish for it 1 Each curse
of mine
Falls to the ground as harmless as
the arrows
Which children shoot at stars ! The
time for thought.
If thought could aught avail me, melts
away.
Like to a snowball in a schoolboy's
hand.
That melts the faster the more close
he grasps it !
If I had time, this Scottish Solomon,
Whom some call son of David the
Musician ',
Might find it perilous work to march
to Carrick.
There 's many a feud still slumbering
in its ashes.
1 The caluninioub t.ile which ascribed the birth of
James VI to an iiitriijuc of Queen Mary with Kizzio.
cHuc3tnii^<ine, ov ZU dR^re^tve tva^il^-
941
Whose embers are 3'et red. Nobles
we have,
Stout as old Graysteel, and as hot as
Bothwell ;
Here too are castles look from crags
as high
On seas as wide as Logan's. So the
King-
Pshaw ! He is here again.
Enter GiFFORD.
GiF. I heard you name
The King, my kinsman ; know, he
comes not hither.
AucH. {affecting iiuUffcvence^K Nay,
then we need not broach our
barrels, cousin,
Nor purchase us new jerkins. Comes
not Philip \
GiF. Yes, sir. He tarries but to
drink a service
To his good friends at parting.
AucH. Friends for the beadle or
the sheriff-officer.
Well, let it pass. Who comes, and
how attended.
Since James designs not westward ?
GiF. O you shall have, instead, his
functionary, fiery
George Home that was, but now
Dunbar's great Earl ;
He leads a royal host, and comes
to show you
How he distributes justice on the
Border,
Where judge and hangman oft reverse
their office.
And the noose does its work before
the sentence.
But I have said my tidings best and
worst.
None but 3'ourself can know what
course the time
And peril may demand. To lift j'our
banner.
If I might be a judge, were desperate
game :
Ireland and Galloway offer j'ou con-
venience
For flight, if flight be thought the
better remedy;
To face the court requires the con-
sciousness
And confidence of innocence. You
alone
Can judge if you possess these at-
tributes. \_A noise behind the scenes.
AucH. Philip, I think, has broken
up his revels ;
His ragged regiment are dispersing
them.
Well liquor'd, doubtless. They 're
disbanded soldiers,
Or some such vagabonds. Here comes
the gallant.
Enter Philip. He has a buff-coat and
head-piece, ivcars a sicord and dagger,
with pistols at liis girdle. He appeav^
to be affected by liquor, but to be hv
no means intoxicated.
AucH. You scarce have been made
known to one another,
Although you sate together at the
board.
.Son Philip, know and prize our cousin
Gifford.
Phi. {tasting the wine on the table). If
you had prized him, sir, you had
been loth
To have welcomed him in bastard
Alicant :
I '11 make amends, by pledging his
good journey
In glorious Burgundy. The stirrup-
cup, ho !
And bring my cousin's horses to the
court.
AucH. {drawing hint aside). The
stirrup-cup ? He doth not ride
to-night !
Shame on such churlish conduct to
a kinsman 1
942
©rantaftc (pieces.
Phi. [aside io Ms/af/ifi'}. I "ve news
of pressing import.
Send the fool off. Stay, I will start
him for j'ou.
[To GiF.: Yes, my kind cousin, Bur-
gundy is better,
On a night-ride, to those who thread
our moors,
And we may deal it freely to our
friends,
For we came freelj' by it. Yonder
ocean
Rolls many a purple cask upon our
shore,
Rough with embossed shells and
shagged sea-weed.
When the good skipper and his care-
ful crew
Have had their latest earthly draught
of brine.
And gone to quench, or to endure
their thirst,
Where nectar 's plentj', or even
^vater 's scarce.
And filter'd to the parched crew by
drops.
AucH. Thou 'rt mad, son Philip I —
Gifford 's no intruder.
That we should rid him hence by
such wild rants :
My kinsman hither rode at his own
danger.
To tell us that Dunbar is hasting to us,
With a strong force, and with the
King's commission,
To enforce against our house a hate-
ful charge.
With every measure of extremity.
Phi. And is this all that our good
cousin tells us ?
I can say more, thanks to the
ragged regiment,
With whose good companj' j'ou have
upbraided me ;
On whose authority, I tell thee, cousin,
Dunbar is here already.
GiF. Already ?
Phi. Yes, gentle coz. And you,
my sire, be hasty
In what you think to do.
AucH. I think thou darest not jest
on such a subject.
Where hadst thou these fell tidings?
Phi. Where you, too, might have
heard them, noble father.
Save that your ears, nail'd to our
kinsman's lips.
Would list no coarser accents. O,
my soldiers.
My merry cre^v of vagabonds, for ever!
Scum of the Netherlands, and wash'd
ashore
Upon this coast like unregarded sea-
weed,
They had not been two hours on
Scottish land.
When, lo ! they met a military friend.
An ancient fourier, known to them of
old,
Who, warm'd by certain stoups of
searching wine,
Inform'd his old companions that
Dunbar
Left Glasgow yesterday, comes here
to-morrow ;
Himself, he said, was sent a spy before.
To view what preparations we were
making.
AucH. (to GiF.) If this be sooth,
good kinsman, thou must claim
To take a part with us for life and death,
Or speed from hence, and leave us to
our fortune.
GiF. In such dilemma,
Believe me, friend, I 'd choose upon
the instant ;
But I lack harness, and a steed to
charge on,
For mine is overtired, and, save my
page.
There 's not a man to back me. But
I '11 hie
To Kyle, and raise my vassals to your
aid.
dRuc^tn^t^ane, or 'ZH ilpve^tre ^ta^ebp. 943
Phi. 'Twill be when the rats,
That on these tidings fly this house of
ours,
Come back to pay their rents. (^Apart.)
AucH. Courage, cousin !
Thou goest not hence ill mounted for
thy need :
Full forty coursers feed in my wide
stalls,
The best of them is yours to speed
your journey.
Phi. Stand not on ceremony, good
our cousin,
When safety signs, to shorten
courtesy.
GiK. {to AucH.) Farewell then,
cousin, for my tarrying here
Were ruin to myself, small aid to
you ;
Yet loving well your name and family,
I 'd fain
Phi. Be gone ' that is our object,
too ;
Kinsman, adieu.
[£'.nV GiFFORD. Philip calls of ta-
li in i.
You yeoman of the stable,
Give Master Gifibrd there my fleetest
steed,
Yon cut-tail'd roan that trembles at
a spear.
\_TraitipIiiig of the horse heard
going off.
Hark I he departs. How swift the
dastard rides.
To shun the neighbourhood of
jeopardy !
[//f lays aside the appearance of
levity 'which lie has hitherto zvorn,
and says very seriously,
And now, my father !
AucH. And now^, my son ! thou "st
ta'en a perilous game
Into thine hands, rejecting elder
counsel ;
How dost thou mean to play it •
Phi. Sir, good gamesters play not
Till they review the cards which fate
has dealt them,
Computing thus the chances of the
game ;
And wofully thej' seem to weigh
against us.
AucH. Exile's a passing ill, and
may be borne ;
And when Dunbar and all his
myrmidons
Are eastward turn'd, we '11 seize our
own again.
Phi. Would that were all the risk
we had to stand to !
But more and worse. A doom of
treason, forfeiture.
Death to ourselves, dishonour to our
house,
Is what the stern Justiciary menaces ;
And, fatally for us, he hath the means
To make his threatenings good.
AuCH. It cannot be. I tell thee,
there 's no force
In .Scottish law to raze a house like
mine,
Coeval with the time the Lords of
Galloway
Submitted them unto the Scottish
sceptre,
Renouncing rights of Tanistrj^ and
Brehon.
Some dreams they have of evidence,
some suspicion.
But old Montgomery knows my pur-
pose well,
And long before their mandate reach
the camp
To crave the presence of this mighty
witness.
He will be fitted with an answer to it.
Phi. Father, what we call great, is
often ruin'd
By means so ludicrously dispro-
portion'd,
They make me think upon the gunner's
linstock.
944
©rawaftc (pkUQ.
Wliich, yielding forth a light about
the size
And semblance of the glowworm, 3'et
applied
To powder, blew a palace into atoms,
Sent a young King — a young Queen's
mate at least —
Into the air, as high as e'er flew
night-hawk,
And made such wild work in the
realm of Scotland,
As they can tell who heard ; and you
were one
Who saw, perhaps, the night-flight
which began it.
AucH. If thou hast nought to speak
but drunken folly,
I cannot listen longer.
Phi. I will speak brief and sudden.
There is one
Whose tongue to us has the same
perilous force
Which Bothwell's powder had to
Kirk of Field ;
One whose least tones, and those but
peasant accents,
Could rend the roof from off our
fathers' castle,
Level its tallest turret with its base ;
And he that doth possess this won-
drous power
Sleeps this same night not five miles
distant from us.
AucH. {iv/io ]iad looked 011 Philip
tvitli lunch appearance of asionish-
ment and doubt, exclaims) Then
thou art mad indeed ! Ha ! ha I
I 'm glad on't.
I'd purchase an escape from what
I dread,
Even by the frenzy of my only son !
Phi. I thank you, but agree not to
the bargain.
You rest on what yon civet cat has
said :
Yon silken doublet, stuft''d with rotten
straw.
Told you but half the truth, and knew
no more.
But my good vagrants had a perfect
tale:
They told me, little judging the im-
portance.
That Ouentin Blane had been dis-
charged with them.
They told me, that a quarrel happ'd
at landing,
And that the j'oungster and an ancient
sergeant
Had left their company, and taken
refuge
In Chapeldonan, where our ranger
dwells ;
They saw him scale the clift" on which
it stands,
F.rc they were out of sight ; the old
man with him.
And therefore laugh no more at me
as mad ;
But laugh, if thou hast list for merri-
ment.
To think he stands on the same land
with us.
Whose absence thou wouldst deem
were cheaply purchased
With thy soul's ransom and thy body's
danger.
Auch. 'Tis then a fatal truth ! Thou
art no yelper
To open rashly on so wild a scent ;
Thou 'rt the young bloodhound, which
careers and springs,
Frolics and fawns, as if the friend of
man,
But seizes on his victim like a tiger.
Phi. No matter what I am — I'm as
you bred me ;
So let that pass till there be time to
mend me.
And let us speak like men, and to the
purpose.
This object of our fear and of our dread.
Since such our pride must own him,
sleeps to-night
dlucBtn^tane, or ^^e dRpe^tve ^rageb^. 945
Within our power: — to-morrow in
Dunbar's,
And we are then his victims.
AucH. He is in ours to-niglit.
Phi. He is. I '11 answer that Mac-
Lellan 's trnst\'.
AucH. Yet he replied to 3'ou to-daj-
full rudely.
Phi. Yes ! The poor knave has
got a handsome wife.
And is gone mad with jealousy.
AucH. Fool! When we need the
utmost faith, allegiance,
Obedience, and attachment in our
vassals,
Thj^wild intrigues pour gall into their
hearts,
And turn their love to hatred !
Phi. Most reverend sire, you talk
of ancient morals,
Preach'd on by Knox, and practised
by Glencairn ;'
Respectable, indeed, but somewhat
musty
In these our modern nostrils. In our
days,
If a young baron chance to leave his
vassal
The sole possessor ofa handsome wife,
'Tis sign he loves his follower ; and,
if not,
He loves Ills follo^vcr's wife, which
often proves
The surer bond of patronage. Take
either case :
1 Alex,-inder, fifth Earl of Glencairn, for distinction
called 'The Good Earl,' was among the first of tlie
peers of Scotland who concurred in the Reformation,
m aid of which he acted a conspicuous part, in the
employment both of his svTord and pen. In a remon-
strance with the Queen Regent, he told her, that 'if
she violated the engagements whicli she had come
under to her subjects, they would consider themselves
as absolved from their allegiance to her.' He was
author ofa satirical poem against the Roman Catholics,
entitled 'The Hermit of AUareif (Loretto).— See
iilliBAI,I>'a C/irt>nic/e o/Scattis/i Poi/ry.— He assisted
the Reformers with his sv.-ord, when they took arms
at Perth, in 1559 ; had a principal command in the
army embodied against Queen Marj-, in June 1367 ;
and demolished the altar, broke the images, tore down
the pictures, &c., in the Chapel-roy.il of Holyrood-
house. after the Queen was conducted to Lochleven.
He died in 1574.
Favour flows in of course, and vassals
rise.
AucH. Philip, this is infamous.
And, what is worse, impolitic. Take
example :
Break not God's laws or man's for
, each temptation
That youth and blood suggest. I am
a man —
A weak and erring man ; full well
thou know'st
That I may hardly term myself a
pattern
Even to my son ; yet thus far will I
I never swerved from my Integrity,
.Save at the voice of strong necessit}'.
Or such o'erpowering view of high
advantage
As wise men liken to necessitj'.
In strength and force compulsive.
No one saw me
Exchange m}' reputation for my
pleasure.
Or do the Devil's work without his
wages.
I practised prudence, and paid tax to
virtue,
P>y following her behests, save where
strong reason
Compell'd a deviation. Then, if
preachers
At times look'd sour, or elders shook
their heads.
They could not term my walk irre-
gular ;
For I stood up still for the worthy
cause,
A pillar, though a flaw'd one, of the
altar,
Kept a strict walk, and led three
hundred horse.
Phi. Ah, these three hundred horse
in such rough times
Were better commendation to a
party
Than all your efl'orts at In'pocrisy,
946
'S)v<xmatic (pkuc.
Betraj'M so oft by avarice and
ambition,
And dragg'd to open shame. But,
righteous father,
When sire and son unite in mutual
crime,
And join their efforts to the same
enorniit}',
It is no time to measure other's faults,
Or fix the amount of each. Most
moral father,
Think if it be a moment now to weigh
The vices of the Heir of Auchindrane,
Or take precaution that the ancient
house
Shall have another heir than the sly
courtier
That's gaping for the forfeiture.
AucH. We '11 disappoint him,
Philip,—
We "11 disappoint him yet. It is a folly,
A wilful cheat, to cast our eyes behind.
When time, and the fast flitting
opportunity,
Call loudl}', nay, compel us to look
forward :
Why are we not already at Mac-
Lellan's,
Since there the victim sleeps ?
Phi. Nay, soft, I pray thee.
I had not made your piety my con-
fessor,
Nor enter'd in debate on these sage
councils,
Which you 're more like to give than
I to profit bj",
Could I have used the time more
usefully ;
But first an interval must pass between
The fate of Ouentin and the little
artifice
That shall detach him from his comrade.
The stout old soldier that I told you of.
AucH. How work a point so
difficult, so dangerous !
Phi. 'Tis cared for. Mark, m^'
father, the convenience
Arising from mean companj'. My
agents
Are at my hand, like a good workman's
tools.
And if I mean a mischief, ten to one
That they anticipate the deed and
guilt.
Well knowing this, when first the
vagrant's tattle
Gav'e me the hint that Quentin was so
near us,
Instant I sent MacLellan, with strong
charges
To stop him for the night, and bring
me word.
Like an accomplish'd spy, how all
things stood,
Lulling the enemy into securitj'.
AucH. Therewas a prudent general!
Phi. MacLellan went and came
within the hour.
The jealous bee, which buzzes in his
nightcap.
Had humm'd to him this fellow,
Ouentin Blane,
Had been in schoolboj' days an
humble lover
Of his own pretty wife —
AucH. Most fortunate !
The knave will be more prompt to
serve our purpose.
Phi. No doubt on "t. "Mid the
tidings he brought back
Was one of some importance. The
old man
Is flush of dollars ; this I caused him
tell
Among his comrades, who became as
eager
To have him in their company, as e'er
They had been wild to part with him.
And in brief space,
A letter's framed by an old hand
amongst them.
Familiar with such feats. It bore the
name
And character of old Montgomery',
cjtiuc^merane, or c^
e dtipveDtre crageop. 947
Whom he might well suppose at no
To scour the moors in quest of the
great distance,
banditti
Commanding his old Sergeant Hilde-
That kill'd the poor old man ; they
brand,
shall die instantly.
B}' all the ties of late authority,
Dunbar shall see us use sharp justice
Conjuring him by ancient soldiership,
here.
To hasten to his mansion instantlj^,
As well as he in Teviotdale. You
On business of high import, with a
are sure
charge
You gave no hint nor impulse to their
To come alone.
purpose ?
AucH. Well, he sets out, I doubt
Phi. It needed not. The whole
it not : what follows ?
pack oped at once
Phi. I am not curious into others'
Upon the scent of dollars. But time
practices ;
comes
So far I 'm an economist in guilt,
When I must seek the tower, and act
As you my sire advise. But on the
with Niel
road
What farther 's to be done.
To old Wontgomerj-'s he meets his
AucH. Alone with him thou goest
comrades.
not : he bears grudge.
They nourish grudge against him and
Thou art my only son, and on a
his dollars,
night
And things may hap, which counsel,
When such wild passions are so free
learn'd in law,
abroad,
Call robbery and murder. Should
When such wild deeds are doing, 'tis
he live,
but natural
He has seen nought that we would
I guarantee thy safet}-. I '11 ride with
hide from him.
thee.
AucH. Who carries the forged
Phi. E'en as you will, my lord.
letter to the veteran ?
But, pardon me !
Phi. Why, Niel MacLellan, who
If you will come, let us not have
return'd again
a word
To his own tower, as if to pass the
Of conscience, and of pity, and for-
night there.
giveness ;
They pass'd on him, or tried to pass,
Fine words to-morrow, out of place
a storj'.
to-night.
As if they wish'd the sergeant's
Take counsel then, leave all this work
compan}'-.
to me ;
Without the 3-oung comptroller's —
Call up your household, make fit
that is Quentin's,
preparation.
And he became an agent of their
In love and peace, to welcome this
plot,
Earl Justiciar,
That he might better carry on our
As one that 's free of guilt. Go, deck
own.
the castle
AucH. There's life in it ; yes. there
As for an honour'd guest. Hallow the
is life in 't.
chapel
And we will have a mounted party
If they have power to hallow it) with
ready
thy prayers.
948
©vamaftc (Ptecee.
Let me ride fnrth alone, and ere the
sun
Comes o'er the eastern hill, thou
shalt accost him —
' Now do thj^ worst, thou oft-returning'
spy,
Here "s nought thou canst discover."
AucH. Yet goest thou not alone
with that MacLellan !
He deems thou bearcst will to injure
him,
And seek'st occasion suiting to such
will.
Philip, thou art irreverent, fierce, ill-
nurtured,
Stain'd with low vices, which disgust
a father ;
Yet ridest thou not alone with j-ondcr
man.
Come weal come woe, myself will go
with thee.
\_Exit, and calls to /loivc hcliliid tJic
scene.
Phil, {alone). Now would I give
my fleetest horse to know
What sudden thought roused this
paternal care.
And if 'tis on his own account or
mine.
'Tis true, he hath the deepest share
in all
That "s likely now to hap, or which
has happen'd.
Yet strong through Nature's universal
reign
The link which binds the parent to
the ofTspring :
The she-wolf knows it, and the tigress
owns it.
So that dark man, who, shunning
what is vicious,
Ne'er turn'd aside from an atrocity.
Hath still some care left for his
hapless offspring.
Therefore 'tis meet, though wayward,
light, and stubborn.
That I should do for him all that a son
Can do for sire; and, his dark wisdom
join'd
To influence my bold courses, 'twill
be hard
To break our mutual purpose. — Horses
there ! [E.xit.
ACT ni.
Scene I.
// is moonliglif. T/ie scene is the Beach
beneath tlie Toivcr which was exhibited
in the first scene, but the Vessel is gone
front her anchorage. Auchindrane
and Philip, as if dismounted frotn
their horses, come forward eantionsly.
Phi. The nags are safely stow'd ;
their noise might scare him.
Let them be safe, and ready when
we need them :
The business is but short. We'll call
MacLellan,
To wake him, and in quiet bring him
forth,
If he be so disposed, for here are
waters
Enough to drown, and sand enough
to cover him.
But if he hesitate, or fear to meet us,
By heaven I '11 deal on him in Chapel-
donan
With my own hand !
AucH. Too furious boy ! alarm or
noise undoes us ;
Our practice must be silent as 'tis
sudden.
Bethink thee that conviction of this
slaughter
Confirms the very worst of accusations
Our foes can bring against us. Where-
fore should we.
Who by our birth and fortune mate
with nobles,
<Suc0tnbrane, ov ^0e M^v&i^ivc Crage^^.
949
And are allied with them, take this
lad's life,
His peasant life, unless to quash his
evidence,
Taking: such pains to rid him from the
world,
Who would, if spared, have fix'd
a crime upon us !
Phi. Well, 1 do own me one of
those wise folks,
Who think that when a deed of fate
is plann'd.
The execution cannot be too rapid.
But do we still keep purpose? Is't
determined
He sails for Ireland, and without
a wherry ?
Salt water is his passport ; is it not so ?
AucH. I would it could be other-
wise.
Might he not go there while in
life and limb,
And breathe his span out in another
air ?
Many seek Ulster never to return ;
Why might this wretched youth not
harbour there ?
Phi. With all my heart. It is small
honour to me
To be the agent in a work like this.
Yet this poor caitiff', having thrust
himself
Into the secrets of a noble house
And twined himself so closely with
our safet\',
That we must perish, or that he must
die,
I '11 hesitate as little on the action.
As I would do to slay the animal
Whose flesh supplies my dinner.
'Tis as harmless,
That deer or steer, as is this Quentin
Blane,
And not more necessary is its death
To our accommodation ; so we slay it
Without a moment's pause or hesita-
tion.
iVucH. 'Tis not, my son, the feeling
call'd remorse.
That now lies tugging at this heart of
mine,
Engendering thoughts that stop the
lifted hand.
Have I not heard John Knox pour
forth his thunders
Against the oppressor and the man of
blood.
In accents of a minister of vengeance ?
Were not his fiery eyeballs turn'd on
me.
As if he said expressly ' Thou 'rt the
man ' ?
Yet did my solid purpose, as I listen'd.
Remain unshaken as that massive rock.
Phi. Well, then, I '11 understand
'tis not remorse.
As 'tis a foible little known to thee,
That interrupts thj' purpose. What,
then, is it ?
Is't scorn, or is't compassion? One
thing's certain, —
Either the feeling must have free in-
dulgence,
Or fully be subjected to your reason.
There is no room for these same
treacherous courses
Which men call moderate measures.
We must confide in Quentin, or must
slay him.
AucH. In Ireland he might live
afar from us.
Phi. Among Queen Mary's faithful
partisans.
Your ancient enemies, the haughty
Hamiltons,
The stern MacDonnells, the resentful
Graemes ?
With these around him, and with
Cassilis' death
Exasperating them against you, think,
my father.
What chance of Quentin's silence.
AucH. Too true, too true. He is
a silly youth, too.
95°
^vdmatk (j)tece6.
Who had not wit to shift for his own
living,
A bashful lover, whom his rivals
laugh'd at ;
Of pliant temper, which companions
play'd on ;
A moonlight waker, and a noontide
dreamer ;
A torturer of phrases into sonnets.
Whom all might lead that chose to
praise his rhymes.
Phi. I marvel that your memory
has room
To hold so much on such a worthless
subject.
AucH. Base in himself, and yet so
strangely link'd
With me and with my fortunes, that
I 've studied
To read him through and through, as
I would read
Some paltry rhyme ofvulgar prophecy,
Said to contain the fortunes of my
house ;
And, let me speak him truh', he is
grateful,
Kind, tractable, obedient ; a child
IVIight lead him by a thread. He shall
not die !
Phi. Indeed ! Then have wc had
our midnight ride
To wondrous little purpose.
AucH. By the blue heaven.
Thou shalt not murder him, cold selfish
sensualist !
Yon pure vault speaks it I yonder
summer moon.
With its ten million sparklers, cries
Forbear !
Tlic deep earth sighs it forth — Thou
shalt not murder !
Thou shalt not mar the image of thy
Maker !
Thou shalt not from thy brother take
the life,
The precious gift which God alone
can give !
Phi. Here is a worthy guerdon
now, for stuffing
His memoiy with old saws and holy
saj'ings !
They come upon him in the very
crisis,
And when his resolution should be
firmest.
They shake it like a palsy. Let it be.
He '11 end at last by yielding to tempta-
tion.
Consenting to the thing which must
be done.
With more remorse the more he
hesitates.
[Fo /lis Falliei; who has stood
fixed after his last speech.
Well, sir, 'tis fitting you resolve at last,
How theyoung clerk shall be disposed
upon ;
Unless you w'ould ride home to
Auchindrane,
And bid them rear the Maiden in the
court-yard.
That when Dunbar comes, he have
nought to do
But bid us kiss the cushion and the
headsman.
AucH. It is too true ; there is no
safety for us.
Consistent with the unhappy wretch's
life !
In Ireland he is sure to find my
enemies.
Arran I 've proved, the Netherlands
I 've tried,
But wilds and wars return him on my
hands.
Phi. Yet fear not, father, we'll
make surer work ;
The land has caves, the sea has whirl-
pools,
Where that which they suck in returns
no more.
AucH. I will know nought of it,
hard-hearted boy I
cSuc0ttti>tan6, or ^0e dlpte^tte 'Zva^ti^.
951
Phi. Hard-hearted ! Why, my
heart is soft as yours ;
But then they must not feel remorse
at once,
We can't afford such wasteful tender-
ness :
I can mouth forth remorse as well as
you.
Be executioner, and I'll be chaplain.
And say as mild and moving things
as you can ;
But one of us must keep his steelj'
temper.
AucH. Do thou the deed — I cannot
look on it.
Phi. So be it ! walk with me.
MacLellan brings him.
The boat lies moor'd within that reach
of rock,
And 'twill require our greatest
strength combined
To launch it from the beach. Mean-
time, MacLellan
Brings our man hither. See the
twinkling light
That glances in the tower.
AucH. Let us withdraw; for should
he spy us suddenly'.
He ma}'^ suspect us, and alarm the
family.
Pin. Fear not ; MacLellan has his
trust and confidence.
Bought with a few sweet words and
welcomes home.
AucH. But think you that the
Ranger may be trusted ?
Phi. I '11 answer for him. Let 's
go float the shallop.
\_T/ify go off, and ns iliey leave the
Stage, MacLellan is seen de-
scending front the Tower with
QuENTiN. The former bears a
dark lantern. They conic upon
the Stage.
I\L\c. (showing the light). So — bravely
done ! That 's the last ledge of rocks,
And we are on the sands, I have
broke your slumbers
Somewhat untimely.
Que. Do not think so, friend.
These six years past I have been used
to stir
When the reveille rung; and that,
believe me.
Chooses the hours for rousing me at
random.
And, having given its summons, yields
no license
To indulge a second slumber. Nay,
more, I '11 tell thee,
That, like a pleased child, I was e'en
too happy
For sound repose.
Mac. The greater fool were you.
Men should enjoy the moments given
to slumber ;
For who can tell how soon maybe the
waking.
Or where we shall have leave to
sleep again?
Que. The God of Slumber comes
not at command.
Last night the blood danced merry
through my veins :
Instead of finding this our land of
Carrick
The dreaiy waste my fears had appre-
hended,
I saw thy wife, MacLellan, and thy
daughter,
And had a brother's welcome ; — saw
thee, too,
Renew'd my early friendship with j'ou
both,
And felt once more that I had friends
and country.
So keen the joy that tingled through
my system,
Join'd with the searching powers of
yonder wine.
That I am glad to leave my feveiish lair,
Although my hostess smooth'd my
couch herself, ; .
952
©rainaftc (pxuts.
To cool my brow upon this moonlight
beach,
Gaze on the moonlight dancing on the
waves.
We were so snugly settled in our
quarters.
With full intent to let the sun be high
Ere we should leave our beds ; and
Such scenes are wont to soothe me
first the one
into melancholy ;
And then the other 's summon'd briefly
But such the hurry of my spirits now,
forth,
That every thing I look on makes me
To the old tune, ' Black Bandsmen,
laugh.
Mac. I 've seen but few so game-
some, Master Ouentin,
up and march ! '
Mac. Well ! you shall sleep anon,
rely upon it.
Being roused from sleep so suddenly
And make up time misspent. Mean-
as you were.
time, methinks.
Que. Why, there's the jest on't.
Your old castle 's haunted.
You are so merry on your broken
slumbers.
In vain the host, in vain the lovely
You ask'd not why I call'd you.
hostess.
In kind addition to all means of rest,
Add their best wishes for our sound
Que. I can guess,
You lack my aid to search the weir for
seals,
repose,
When some hobgoblin brings a press-
You lack my company to stalk a deer..
Think you I have forgot your silvan
ing message ;
tasks,
Montgomery presently must sec his
Which oft you have permitted me to
sergeant.
share.
And up gets Hildebrand, and off he
Till days that we were rivals ?
trudges.
I can't but laugh to think upon the
Mac. You have memory
Of that too ?
grin
With which he doiT'd the kerchief he
Que. Like the memory of a dream,
Delusion far too exquisite to last.
had twisted
Mac. You guess not then for what
Around his brows, and put his morion
I call you foith ?
on.
It was to meet a friend.
Ha ! ha ! ha ! ha !
Mac. I'm glad to sec you merry,
Quentin.
Que. Why, faith, my spirits are but
transitory.
Que. What friend? Thyself ex-
cepted,
The good old man who 's gone to see
Montgomery,
And one to whom I once gave dearer
And you may live with me a month or
title,
more,
I know not in wide Scotland man or
And never see me smile. Then some
woman
such trifle
Whom I could name a friend.
As yonder little maid of yours would
Mac. Thou art mistaken.
laugh at,
Will serve me for a theme of merri-
There is a Baron, and a powerful
one
ment.
Que. There flies my fit of mirth. You
Even now, I scarce can keep my
gravity ;
have a grave
x\nd alter'd man before you.
iluc^mbt-ane, cr ZH <Spt00tte ZtA^ti^.
953
Mac. Compose yourself, there is no
cause for fear.
He will and must speak with j'ou.
Que. Spare me the meeting, Niel,
I cannot see him.
Say I 'm just landed on my native
earth;
Say that I will not cumber it a day ;
Say that my wretched thread of poor
existence
Shall be drawn out in solitude and
exile,
Where never memory of so mean a
thing
Again shall cross his path : but do not
ask me
To see or speak again with that dark
man 1
Mac. Your fears are now as foolish
as 3'our mirth.
What should the powerful Knight of
Auchindrane
In common have with such a man as
thou ?
Que. No matter what ; enough, I
will not see him.
Mac. He is thy master, and he
claims obedience.
Que. My master? Ay, my task-
master ! Ever since
I could write man, his hand hath been
upon mc ;
No step I 've made but cumber'd with
his chain,
And I am weary on 't. I will not sec
him.
Mac You must and shall ; there is
no remedy.
Que. Take heed that you compel
me not to find one.
I 've seen the wars since we had strife
together ;
To put my late experience to the test
Were something dangerous — Ha, I
am betray'd 1
\_IVhilc the latter part of tltii dialogue
is passing, Auchi.ndrane and
Philip enter on the Stage from
behind, and suddenly present them-
selves.
AucH. What says the runagate ?
Que. (layifig aside all appearance of
resistance). Nothing, you are my
fate ;
And in a shape more fearfully resistless,
My evil angel could not stand before
me.
AucH. And so you scruple, slave,
at my command,
To meet me when I deign to ask thy
presence ?
Que. No, sir; I had forgot I am
your bond-slave ;
But sure a passing thought of in-
dependence,
For which I've seen whole nations
doing battle,
Was not, in one who has so long
enjoy'd it,
A crime beyond forgiveness.
AucH. We shall see :
Thou werl my vassal, born upon my
land.
Bred by my bounty ; it concern'd me
highly,^
Thou know'st it did; and yet against
my charge
Again I find thy worthlessness in
Scotland.
Que. Alas ! the wealthy and the
powerful know not
How very dear to those who have
least share in 't.
Is that sweet word of country ! The
poor exile
Feels, in each action of the varied day,
Hisdoom of banishment. The very air
Cools not his brow as in his native land ;
The scene is strange, the food is
loathly to him ;
The language, nay, the music jars his
car.
Why should I, guiltless of the slightest
crime,
954
©vamaftc ^kU6.
Suftera punishment which, sparing life,
Deprives that hfe of aU which men
hold dear?
AucH. Hear ye the serf 1 bred,
begin to reckon
Upon his rights and pleasure '. Who
am I ?
Thou abject, who am 1, whose will
thou thwartest ?
Phi. Well spoke, my pious sire 1
There goes remorse !
Let once thy precious pride take fire,
and then,
MacLellan, you and I may have small
trouble.
Que. Your words are deadly, and
your power resistless.
I 'm in your hands ; but, surely, less
than life
May give you the security you seek,
Without commission of a mortal crime.
AucH. Who is't would deign to
think upon thy life ?
I but require of thee to speed to Ireland,
Where thou mayst sojourn for some
little space.
Having due means of living dealt to
thee,
And, when it suits the changes of the
times,
Permission to return.
OuE. Noble my lord,
I ani too weak to combat with your
pleasure ;
Yet O, for mercy's sake, and for the
sake
Of that dear land which is our common
mother,
Let me not part in darkness from my
country !
Passbutan hour ortwo, and every cape.
Headland, and bay, shall gleam with
new-born light,
And Lll take boat as gaily as the bird
That soars to meet the morning.
Grant me but this, to show no darker
thoughts
Are on your heart than those your
speech expresses!
Phi. a modest favour, friend, is
this you ask !
Are we to pace the beach like water-
men.
Waiting your worship's pleasure to
take boat ?
No, by my faith ! you go upon the
instant.
The boat lies ready, and the ship
receives you
Near to the point of Turnberry.
Come, we wait you ;
Bestir you!
Que. I obey. Then farewell, Scot-
land
And Heaven forgive my sins, and
grant that mercy.
Which mortal man deserves not !
AucH. (speaking aside to his Son).
What signal
Shall let me know 'tis done?
Phi. When the light is quench'd,
Your fears for Quentin Blane are at
an end.
{To Que.) Come, comrade, come, w.e
must begin our voyage.
Que. But when, O when to end it I
\_Hcgocs off rcliictanlly with Philip
and M.vcLellan. Auchin-
DRANE stands looking after them.
The Moon becomes overclouded,
and the Stage dark. Auchin-
DRANE, tvho has gazed fixedly
and eagerly after those ivho have
left the Stage, becomes animated,
and speaks.
AucH. It is no fallacy ! The night
is dark.
The moon has sunk before the
deepening clouds ;
I cannot on the murky beach dis-
tinguish
The shallop from the rocks which lie
beside it ;
cEuc^tnbvan^, or ^0c il^fe^tve vj^ra^cii^.
95;
Icannotsee tall Philip's floating plume,
Nor trace the sullen brow of Niel
MacLellan ;
Yctstillthatcaitift"'svisageisbeforcme;
With chattering teeth, mazed look,
and bristling hair,
As he stood here this moment ! Have
I changed
My human eyes for those of some
night prowler,
The wolfs, the tiger-cat's, or the
hoarse bird's
That spies its prey at midnight ?
I can see him —
Yes, I can see him, seeing no one else, —
And well it is I do so. In his absence.
Strange thoughts of pity mingled with
my purpose.
And moved remorse within me. But
they vanish'd
Whene'er he stood a living man before
me ;
Then my antipathy awaked within me,
Seeing its object close within my
reach,
Till I could scarce forbear him. How
they linger !
The boat's not yet to sea ! I askmyself.
What has the poor wretch done to
wake my hatred —
Docile, obedient, and in sufferance
patient 1
As well demand what evil has the hare
Done to the hound that courses her
in sport.
Instinct infallible supplies the reason ;
And that must plead my cause. The
vision 's gone !
Their boat now walks the waves;
a single gleam.
Now seen, now lost, is all that marks
her course ;
That soon shall vanisii too — then all
is over !
Would it were o'er, for in this
moment lies
The agony of ages 1 Now, "tis gone —
And all is acted ! No ! she breasts
again
The opposing wave, and bears the
tiny sparkle
Upon her crest — {A faint cry heard as
from scaivard.)
Ah ! there was fatal evidence,
All's over now, indeed I The light
is quench'd,
And Ouentin, source of all my fear,
exists not.
The morning tide shall sweep his
corpse to sea,
And hide all memory of this stern
night's work.
[//e ivalks in a sloiv and deeply
meditative manner toivards ilie
side of the Stage, and suddenly
meets Marion, the zvtfe cfMAC-
Lellan, zvho has descended from
the Castle.
Now, how to meet Dunbar — Heaven
guard my senses !
.Stand ! who goes there ? Do spirits
walk the earth
Ere 3'ct they 've left the body !
Mar. Is it you,
My lord, on this wild beach at such
an u- !
Aug/ 't is MacLellan's wife, in
search of him
Or of her lover, of the murderer,
Or of the murder'd man. Go to,
Dame Marion,
Men have their hunting-gear to give
an c3'e to,
Their snares and trackings for their
game. But women
Should shun the night air. A young
wife also.
Still more a handsome one, should
keep her pillow
Till the sun gives example for her
wakening.
Come, dame, go back ; back to your
bed again.
956
©ramatic (ptcc^e.
Mar. Hear me, my lord I there
And hath Knox preach'd, and Wishart
have been sights and sounds
died, in vain ?
That terrified my child and me.
Take notice, I forbid these sinful
Groans, screams,
practices.
As if of dying seamen, came from
And will not have my followers
ocean ;
mingle in them.
A corpse-light danced upon thecrested
Mar. Ifsuchyourhonour's pleasure,
waves
I must go
For several minutes' space, then sunk
And lock the door on Isabel; she is
at once.
wilful.
When we retired to rest we had two
And voice of mine will have small
guests.
force to keep her
Besides my husband Niel ; I '11 tell
From the amusement she so long has
your lordship
dream'd of.
■\171- - iU„ ,,,^.
But I must tell your honour, the old
people,
wno tne men were
AucH. Pshaw, woman, can you think
That I have any interest in your gossips?
That were survivors of the former
Please your own husband ; and that
race,
you may please him,
Prophesied evil if this day should
Get thee to bed, and shut up doors,
pass
good dame.
Without due homage to the mighty
Were I MacLellan, I should scarce
Ocean.
be satisfied
AucH. Folly and Papistry ! Perhaps
To find thee wandering here in mist
the ocean
and moonlight.
Hath had his morning sacrifice al-
When silence should be in thy habi-
ready ;
tation,
Or can \'ou think the dreadful element.
And sleep upon thy pillow.
Whose frown is death, whose roar the
Mar. Good, my lord,
dirge of navies.
This is a holiday. Bj^ an ancient
Will miss the idle pageant you prepare
custom
for?
Our children seek the shore at break
I 've business for you, too ; The dawn
of day.
advances —
And gather shells, and dance, and
I 'd have thee lock thy little child in
play, and sport them
safety'.
In honour of the Ocean. Old men say
And get to Auchindrane before the
The custom is derived from heathen
sun rise ;
times. Our Isabel
Tell them to get a royal banquet
Is mistress of the feast, and you may
ready,
think
As if a king were coming there to
She is awake already, and impatient
feast him.
To be the first shall stand upon the
Mar. I will obey 3'our pleasure.
beach.
But mj' husband
And bid the sun good-morrow.
AucH. I wait him on the beach, and
AucH. Ay, indeed ?
bring him in
Linger such dregs of heathendom
To share the banquet.
among you ?
Mar. But he has a friend,
dRuc^inirane, or ^0e il^re^tve ^ragei^.
957
Whom it would ill become him toiiit rude
Upon your hospitalitj'.
AucH. Fear not ; his friend shall be
made welcome too,
Should he return with Niel.
Mar. He must, he will return ; he
has no option.
AucH. {apart). Thus rashly do we
deem of others' destiny !
He has indeed no option — but he
comes not.
Begone on thy commission ! I go this
way
^o meet thy husband.
[Marion goes io her Toivcr, and
after entering it, is seen io come
out, lock the door, and leave the
Stage, as if to execute Auchin-
drane's connnission. He, ap-
parently going off in a different
direction, has tvatched her front
the side of the Stage, and on her
departure speaks.
Auch. Fare thee well, fond woman,
Most dangerous of spies ; thou pry-
ing, prating,
Spying, and telling woman I I "ve cut
short
Thy dangerous testimony — hated
word !
What other evidence have we cut short,
And by what fated means, this dreary
morning !
Bright lances here and helmets ? 1
must shift
To join the others. [^E.xit.
Enter from the other side the Serge.-\n't,
accompanied with an officer and
tivo Pikcmen.
Ser. 'Twas in good time you came ;
a minute later
The knaves had ta'en mj' dollars and
my life.
Off. You fought most stoutly'.
Two of them \vere down.
Ere we came to your aid.
Ser. Gramercj', halberd ?
And well it happens, since your leader
seeks
This Quentin Blane, that you have
fall'n on me ;
None else can surely tell 3'ou where
he hides,
Being in some fear, and bent to quit
this province.
Off. 'Twill do our Earl good sen-ice.
He has sent
Despatches into Holland for this
Quentin.
Ser. I left him two hours since
in yonder tower.
Under the guard of one who smoothly
spoke.
Although he look'd but roughly' ; I
will chide him
For bidding me go forth with yonder
traitor.
Off. Assure yourself 'twas a con-
certed stratagem.
Montgomery's been at Holyrood for
months,
And can have sent no letter ; 'twas
a plan
On 3^ou and on your dollars, and
a base one.
To which this Ranger was most likely
privy ;
Such men as he hang on our fiercer
barons,
The readj' agents of their lawless
will ;
Boys of the belt, who aid their master's
pleasures,
And in his moods ne'er scruple his
injunctions.
But haste, for now we must unkennel
Quentin ;
I 've strictest charge concerning him.
Ser. Go up, then, to the tower ;
You 've younger limbs than mine.
There shall you find him
Lounging and snoring, like a lazy cur
Before a stable door ; it is his practice.
958
©ramah'c (ptecee.
[ Tlie Officer ^ors up to the Tou'er,
and nfter knocking without re-
ceiving an ansivcr, turns the key
ivhich Marion had left in the
lock, andenters; Isabel, dressed
as if for her dance, runs out
and descends to the Stage ; ilir
Officzr fodocvs.
Off. There "s no one in tlic house,
this little maid
Excepted.
IsA. And for me, I'm there no longer,
And will not be again for three hours
good :
I 'm gone to join mj' plaj-mates on
the sands.
Off. [detaining her). You shall,
whenj'ouhavetold tome distinctly
Where are the guests who slept up
there last night.
IsA. Why, there is the old man, he
stands beside you,
Themerry old man, with theglistening
hair ;
He left the tower at midnight, for my
father
Brought him a letter.
Ser. In ill hour I left 3'ou,
I wish to Heaven that I had stay'd
with 3-ou ;
There is a nameless horror that comes
o'er me.
Speak, pretty maiden, tell us what
chanced next.
And thou shalt have thj' freedom.
IsA. After j-Qu went last night, mj-
father
Grew moody, and refused to doff his
clothes,
Or go to bed, as sometimes he will do
When there is aught to chafe him.
Until past midnight,
He wander'd to and fro, then call'd
the stranger.
The gay young man, that sung such
merry songs,
Yet ever look'd most sadly whilst he
sung them,
And forth they went together.
Off. And you 've seen
Or heard nought of them since ?
IsA, Seen surely nothing, and I
cannot think
That they have lot or share in what
I heard.
I heard mj' mother praj-ing, for the
corpse-lights
Were dancing on the waves ; and at
one o'clock,
Just as the Abbev steeple toU'd the
knell.
There was a heavy plunge upon the
waters,
And some one cried aloud for mercy !
• — mercy !
It was the water-spirit, sure, which
promised
Mercy to boat and fisherman, if we
Perform'd to-day's rites dulj'. Let
me go ;
I am to lead the ring.
Off. (Jo Ser.1 Detain her not. She
cannot tell us more ;
To give her liberty is the sure way
To lure her parents homeward.
Strahan, take two men,
And should the father or the mother
come.
Arrest them both, or either. Auchin-
drane
May come upon the beach ; arrest
him also.
But do not state a cause. I '11 back
again,
And take directions from my Lord
Dunbar.
Keep you upon the beach, and have
an eye
To all that passes there.
\_Exemtt separately.
iiuc0ini>ranc, or 'Z^i 3,^v6^iv(t ^va^ebp. 959
Scene II.
Srrnr clianges So a rcuioic and rocRy
part of tlic Srahcacli.
£■;//(-;• AucHiNDRANE meeting Philip.
AucH. The devil 's brought his
legions to this beach.
That wont to be so lonely; morions,
lances,
Show in the morning beam as thick
as glowworms
At summer midnight.
Phi. I 'm right glad to see them,
Be they whoe 'er they may, so they
are mortal ;
For I've contended with a lifeless foe.
And I have lost the battle. I would
give
A tliousand crowns to hear a mortal
steel
Ring on a mortal harness.
AucH. How now? Art mad, or
hast thou done the turn —
The turn we came for, and must live
or die bj- ?
Phi. 'Tis done, if man can do it ;
but I doubt
If this unhappy wretch have Heaven's
permission
To die by mortal hands.
Auch. Where is he? where 's
MacLellan ?
Piii. In the deep —
Both in the deep, and what's im-
mortal of them
Gone to the judgment-seat, where we
must meet them.
Auch. MacLellan dead, andQuentin
too ? So be it
To all that menace ill to Auchindrane,
Or have the power to injure him 1
Thy words
Are full of comfort, but thine eye and
look
Have in this pallid gloom a ghastliness.
Which contradicts the tidings of thy
tongue.
Phi. Hear me, old man ! There is
a heaven above us.
As you have heard old Knox and
Wishart preach,
Though little to your boot. Tlio
dreaded witness
Is slain, and silent. But his misused
body
Comes right ashore, as if to crj- for
vengeance ;
It rides the waters like a living thing.
Erect, as if he trode the waves which
bear him.
Auch. Thou speakest frenzy, when
sense is most required.
Phi. Hear me yet more ! I say
I did the deed
With all the coolness of a practised
hunter
When dealing with a stag. I struck
him overboard.
And with MacLellan's aid I held his
head
Under the waters, while the Ranger
lied
The weights we had provided to his
feet.
We cast him loose when life and body
parted,
And bid him speed for Ireland. P.ut
even then.
As in defiance of the words we spoke.
The body rose upright behind our
stern,
One half in ocean, and one half in air,
And tided after as in chase of us."^
Auch. It was enchantment 1 Did
you strike at it?
Phi. Once and again. But blows
avail'd no more
Than on a wreath of smoke, where
they may break
The column for a moment, which unites
And is entire again. Thus the dead
body
.Sunk down before my oar, but rose
unharm'd,
g6o
©rawattc (piecee.
And dogg"d us closer still, as in
defiance.
AucH. 'Twas Hell's own work I
Phi. MacLellan then grew restive
And desperate in his fear, blasphemed
aloud,
Cursing us both as authors of his ruin.
Myself was wellnigh frantic while
pursued
By this dead shape, upon whose
ghastlj' features
The changeful moonbeam spread a
grisly light ;
And, baited thus, I took the nearest
way
To ensure his silence, and to quell his
noise ;
I used my dagger, and I flung him
overboard.
And half expected his dead carcass
also
Would join the chase ; but he sunk
down at once.
AucH. He had enough of mortal
sin about him,
To sink an argos\^
Phi. But now resolve you what
defence to make.
If Quentin's body shall be recognised ;
For 'tis ashore already ; and he bears
Marks of my handiwork ; so does
MacLellan.
AucH. The concourse thickens still.
Away, away I
We must avoid the multitude.
[T/iey rtis/i out.
Scene III.
Scene changes to anotlier part of the
Beach. Cliildren are seen dancing,
and Villagers looking on. Isabel
seems to take the management of the
Dance.
ViL. WoM. How -well she queens
it, tlie brave little maiden !
ViL. Aj-, they all queen it from
their verj' cradle.
These willing slaves of haughty Auch-
indrane.
But now I hear the old man's reign is
ended ;
'Tis well ! he has been tyrant long
enough.
.Second Vil. Finlaj', speak low, you
interrupt the sports.
Third Vil. Look out to sea —
There's something comingyonder.
Bound for the beach, will scare us
from our mirth.
Fourth Vil. Pshaw, it is but a sea-
gull on the wiiig,
Between the wave and sky.
Third Vil. Thou art a fool,
.Standing on solid land ; 'tis a dead
body.
.Second Vil. And if it be, he bears
him like a live one,
Not prone and weltering like a
drowned corpse.
But bolt erect, asif hctrode the waters,
And used them as his path.
Fourth Vil. It is a merman,
Andnothing ofthis earth,aliveor dead.
[i?v degrees all the Dancers break
off from their sport, and stand
gazing to sea-ward, while an
object, imperfectly seen, drifts
towards the Beach, and at length
arrives among the rocks which
border the tide.
Third Vil. Perhaps it is some
w'retch who needs assistance ;
Jasper, make in and see.
Second Vil. Not I, my friend ;
E'en take the risk 3'ourself, j-ou 'd put
on others.
[HiLDEBRAND has entered, and
heard the two last words,
Ser. What, are you men ?
Fear ye to look on what you must be
one day ?
iluc^tttitcine, or 'ZU .Epte^tre ^ra^eip.
961
I, who have seen a thousand dead and
dying
Within a flight-shot square, will teach
^ you how in war
S\^e look upon the corpse when life
has left it.
[He goes to the hack sane, and
scents aftcnipting to turn the
body, ■wliicli has conic ashore
ivith its face doivinvards.
Will none of you come aid to turn
the body?
IsA. You're cowards all. I 11 help
thee, good old man.
[She goes to aid the Sergeant
ivitli tlie /jodv, and presently
gives a CIV, and faints. Hildk-
BRAND conies fortvard. All
crowd round hint : he speaks
with an expression of horror.
Ser. ' lis Ouentin Blane I Poor
youth, his gloom}' bodings
Have been the prologue to an act of
/'irkness ;
HiFf feet are manacled, his bosom
stabb'd.
And he is foully inurder'd. The
proud Knigiit
And his dark Ranger must have done
this deed,
I'or which no common ruffian could
have motive.
A Peasant. Caution were best, old
man. Thou art a stranger.
The Knight is great and powerful.
Ser. Let it be so.
Call'd on b\' Heaven to stand forth
an avenger,
I will not blench for fear nf mortal
man.
Have I not seen that v,Jij;'n that inno-
cent
Had placed her hands upon the
murder'd body,
His gaping wounds, that erst were
soak'd with brine.
Burst forth with blood as ruddy as
the cloud
Which now the sun doth rise on 1
Pea. What of that ?
Ser. Nothing that can afl'ect the
innocent child.
Hut murder's guilt attaching to her
father.
Since the blood musters in the victim's
veins
At the approach of what holds lease
from him
Of all that jiarents can transmit to
children.
And here comes one to whom I '11
vouch the circumstance.
The Earl of Dunbar enters zvitJi
Soldiers and others, having Aurn-
iNDRANE and Pnih^p prisoners.
Dux. Fetter the j'oung ruffian and
his trait'rous father I
[ They are made secure.
AucH. 'Twas a lord spoke it : I
have known a knight,
.Sir George of Home, who had not
dared to say so.
Dun. 'Tis Heaven, not I. decides
upon your guilt.
A harmless youth is traced within
3'our power,
Sleeps in your Ranger's house — liis
friend at midnight -^
Is spirited away. Then lights are
seen,
And groans are heard, and corpses
come ashore
Mangled with daggers, while to
Philip: your dagger wears
The sanguine livery of recent slaugh-
ter :
Here, too, the body nf a murder'd
victim
(Whom none but you had interest to
remo\'e)
Bleeds on a child's approach, because
the daue:hter
962
©ramafic (Jjiecee.
Of one tlie abettor of the wicked
deed.
All this, and otherproofs corroborative.
Call on us briefly to pronounce the
doom
We have in charge to utter.
AucH. Ifmy house perish. Heaven's
will be done !
I wish not to survive it ; but, O Philip,
Would one could pay the ransom for
us both !
Phi. Father, "tis fitter that we both
should die.
Leaving no heir behind. The piety
Of a bless'd saint, the morals of an
anchorite,
Could not atone thj' dark hypocrisy,
Or the wild profligacy I have practised.
Ruin'd our house, and shatter'd be
our towers.
And with them end the curse our
sins have merited !
END OF THE DRAMATIC PIECES.
<
(Uo(e0 fo ©vama^tc (pieces*
I. HALIDON HILL.
NOTE.
Though the Public seldom leel much in-
terest in such communications (nor is there
any reason why they shoulil), the Author
takes the hberty of stating, that these
scenes were commenced with the purpose of
contributing to a miscellany projected by a
much-esteemed friend. But instead of be-
ing confined to a scene or two, as intended,
the work gradually swelled to the size of
an independent publication. It is designed
to illustrate military antiquities, and the
manners of chivalry. The drama (if it can
be termed one) is, in no particulai', either
designed or calculated for the stage.
The subject is to be found in Scottish
history ; but not to oxerload so slight a
publication with antiquarian researcTi, or
quotations from obscure chronicles, may be
sufficiently illustrated by the following pas-
sage from Pinkerton's History of Scotland,
vol. i. p. 72.
' The Governor (anno 1402) dispatched a
considerable force under Murdac, his eldest
son : the Pearls of .Angus and Moray also
joined Douglas, who entered England with
an army of ten thousand men, carrying
terror and devastation to the walls of New-
castle.
' Henry IV was now engaged in the
Welsh war against Owen Glendour ; but the
Earl of Northumberland, and his son, the
Hotspur Percy, with the I-^arl of March,
collected a numerous arraj-, and awaited
the return of the Scots, impeded with spoil,
near Milfield, in the north part of North-
umberland. Douglas had reached Wooler,
in his return ; and, perceiving the enemy,
seized a strong post between the two armies,
called Homildon-hill. In this method he
rivalled his predecessor at the battle of
Otterburn, but not with like success. The
English advanced to the assault, and Henry
Percy was about to lead them up the hill,
when March caught his bridle, and advised
him to advance no farther, but to pour the
dreadful shower of English arrows into the
enemy. This advice was followed by the
usual fortune ; for in all ages the bow was
the English instrument of victory ; and
though the Scots, and perhaps the French,
were superior in the use of the spear, yet
this weapon was useless after the distant
bow had decided the combat. Robert the
Great, sensible of this at the battle of
IJannockburn, ordered a prepared detach-
ment of cavalry to rush among the English
archers at the commencement, totally to dis-
perse them, and stop the deadly effusion. But
Douglas now used no such precaution ; and
the consequence was, that his people, draw n
up on the face of the hill, presented one
general mark to the enemy, r.one of whose
arrows descended in vain. The Scots fell
without fight, and unrevenged, till a spirited
knight, Swinton, exclaimed aloud, ' O my
bra\e countrymen ! what fascination has
seized you to-day, that you stand like deer
to be snot, instead of indulging your ancient
courage, and meeting your enemies hand to
hand ? Let those who will, descend with me,
that we may gain victory, or life, or fall like
men 1.' This being heard by Adam Gordon,
between whom and Swinton there remained
an ancient deadly feud, attended with the
mutual slaughter of many followers, he in-
stantly fell on his knees before Swinton,
begged his pardon, and desired to be dubbed
a knight by him whom he must now regard
as the wisest and the boldest of that order
in Britain. The ceremony performed, Swin-
ton and Gordon descended the hill, accom-
panied only by one hundred men ; and a
desperate valour led the whole body to
death. Had a similar spirit been shown
by the Scottish army, it is probable that
the e\ent of the day would have been dif-
I ■ Miles magnanimus dominus Johannes Swinton,
tanquam voce horrida praeconis exclamavit, dicens,
<j commilitones inclyti ! quis vos hodie fascinavit non
indiilgere solitae probitati, quod nee dextris conseritis,
nee ut viri cordaerigitis, ad invadendum aeinulos, <iui
vos, tanquam damulos vel hinnulos imparcatos, sagit-
taruni jaculis perdere festinant. Descendant mecuni
qui velint, et in nomine Domini hostes penetrabimus,
ut vel 5ic vita potiamur, vel baltem ut milites cum
honore occumbamus,' &i..— FORDU.V, Sioti-C/iroiti-
COH,\0\. ii. p. 434.
1 i 2
9<H
(IXoke to ©trama^tc (pkcts.
ferent. Douglas, who was certainly deficient
in the niost important qualities of a general,
seeing his ariTiy begin to disperse, at length
attempted to descend the lull; but the
English archers, retiring a little, sent a
llight of arrows so sharp and strong, that
no armour could withstand ; and the Scot-
tish leader himself, whose panoply was of
remarkable temper, fell under five wounds,
though not mortal. The English menof-
arms, knights, or squires, did not strike
one blow, but remained spectators of the
rout, which was now complete. Great
numbers of the Scots were slain, and near
five hundred perished in the river Tweed
upon their flight. Among the illustrious
captives was Douglas, whose chief wound
deprived him of an eye ; Murdac, son of
Albany ; the Earls of Moray and Angus ;
and about twenty-four gentlemen of eminent
rank and power. The chief slain were,
Swinton, Gordon, Livingstone of Calendar,
Ramsayof Dalhousie, Walter Sinclair, Roger
< iordon, \\'alter Scott, and others. Such was
the issue of the unfortunate battle of
Homildon.'
It may be proper to observe, that the
scene of action has, in the following pages,
been transferred from Homildon to Halidon
Hill. For this there was an obvious reason ;
— for who would again \enture to introduce
upon the scene the celebrated Hotspur, who
commanded the English at the former battle?
There arc, however, se\eral coincidences
which may reconcile even the severer antiquary
to the substitution of Halidon Hill for Homil-
don. A Scottish army was defeated by the
b~nglish on both occasions, and under nearly
the satne circumstances of addresson the part
of the victors, and mismanagement on that of
the vanquished, for the Etiglish long-bow
decided the day in both cases. In both cases,
also, a Ciordon was left on the field of battle;
and at Halidon, as at Homildon, the Scots
were cominanded by an ill-fated representa-
tive of the great house of Douglas. He of
Homildon was surnamed Tiiieinaii, i.e.
Loseiiian, from his repeated defeats and mis-
carriages ; and, with all the personal valour
of his race, seems to have enjoyed so small a
portion of their sagacity, as to be unable to learn
military experience from reiterated calamity.
I am far, however, from intimating, that the
traits of imbecility and en\'>' attributed to the
Regent in the following sketch, are to be his-
torically ascribed either to the elder Douglas
of Halidon Hill, or to him called Tijieinan,
who seems to have enjoyed the respect of his
countrymen, notwithstanding that, like the
celebrated Anne de Montmorency, he was
eitherdefeated, orwounded, or made prisoner,
in every battle which he fought. The Regent
of the sketch is a character purely imaginary.
Thf' tradition of the Swinton family, which
still survives in a lineal descent, and to which
the author has the honour to be related, avers,
that the Swinton who fell at Homildon in the
manner related in the preceding extract, had
slain Gordon's father ; which seems sufEcient
ground for adopting that circumstance into
the following draiuatic sketch, though it is
rendered improbable by other authorities.
If anv reader will take the trouble of look-
ing at Froissart, Forduir, orother historians of
the period, he will find, that the character of
the Lord of Swinton, for strength, courage,
and conduct, is by no means exaggerated.
WALTER SCOTT.
Abbotsfoku, 182.'.
II. ^lACDUFF-'S CROSS.
NOTE.
These few scenes had the honour to be
included in a Miscellany, published in the
year 18J3, by Mrs. Joanna Baillie, and are
here reprinted, to unite them with the
trifles of the same kind which owe their
birth to the author. The singular history
of the Cross and Law of Clan MacDuff is
given, at length enough to satisfy the
Keenest antiquary, in Die Mijisirelsy of
the Scottish Border. It is here only
necessary to state, that the Cross was a
place of refuge to any person related to
MacDuff, within the ninth degree, who,
having committed homicide in sudden
quarrel, should reach this place, prove his
descent from the Thane ot Fife, and ])ay
a certain penalty.
The shaft of the Cross was destroyed at
the Refonnation. The huge block of stone
which served lor its pedestal is still in exist-
ence near the town of Newburgh, on a kind
of pass which commands the county of
Fife to the southward, and to the north, the
windings of the magnificent Tay and fertile
countrv' of Angus-shire. The Cross bore
an inscription, which is transmitted to us in
an unintelligible form by Sir Robert Sibbald.
Ahbotsfoku.
January.^ 1830
iluc0mbrane, ov t^t cEpre^tte €tagcbp.
965
III. THE DOOM OF DEVORGOIL.
NOTE.
The first of these dramatic pieces \yas
long since written, for the purpose of obliging
tlie late Mr. Terry, then Manager of the
Ailelphi Theatre, for whom the Author had a
particular regani. The manner in wiiich the
mimic goblins ot Devorgoil are intermixed
witli the supernatural machinery, was found
to be objectionable, and the production had
other faults, which rendered it unlit for repre-
sentation. I have called the piece a Melo-
drama, for want of a better name ; but, as I
learn from the unquestionable authority of
Mr. Colman's Random Records, that one
species of the drama is termed an ex'/raziu-
^aiica, I am sorry I was not sooner aware of a
more appropriate name than that which I had
selected for Devorgoil.
The Author's Publishers thought it desirable,
that the scenes, long condemned to oblivion,
should be united to similar attempts of the
same kind ; and as he felt intlifferent on the
subject, they are printed in the same volume
witfi Halidon Hill and MacDuff's Cross, and
thrown off in a separate form, for the conveni-
ence of those who possess former editions of
the Author's Poetical Works.
The general story of the Doom of Devorgoil
is founded on an old Scottish tradition, the
scene of which lies in Galloway. The crime
supposed to have occasioned the misfortunes
of this devoted house, is similar to that of a
Lord Herries of Hoddam Castle, who is the
principal personage of Mr. Charles Kirkpa-
trick Sharpe's interesting ballad, in The Min-
strelsy of the Scottish Border, vol. iv. p. 307.
In remorse for his crime, he built the singular
monument called the Tower of Repentance.
In many casesthe Scottish superstitionsallude
to the fairies, or those who, for sins of a milder
description, are permitted to wander with the
' rout that never rest,' as they were termed
by Dr. Leyden. They imitate human labour
and human amusements, but their toil is use-
less, and without any advantageous result ;
.and their gaiety is unsubstantial and hollow.
The phantom of Lord Erick is supposed to be
a spectre of this character.
The story of the Ghostly Barber is told in
many countries; but the best narrative found-
ed on the passage, is the tale called Stumme
Liebe, among the legends of Musaeus. I think
it has been introduced upon the English stage
in some pantomime, which was one objection
to bringing it upon the scene a second time.
Abbotsford,
April, 1830.
IV. AUCHINDRAXE, or THE AYRSHIRE TRAGEDY.
Cur aliquid vidi? cur noxia luniina feci
Cur imprudenti cognita culpa mihi est?
OviDII Trislium, Liber Secuiuiu
NOTE.
There is not, perhaps, upon record, a tale
of horror which gives us ,a more perfect
picture than is afforded by the present, of
the violence of our ancestors, or the compli-
cated crimes into which they were hurried,
by what their wise, but ill-enforced, laws
termed the heathenish and accursed practice
of Deadly Feud. The author has tried to
extract some dramatic scenes out ot it ; but
he is conscious no exertions of his can
increase the horror of that which is in itself
so iniquitous. Yet, if we look at modern
events, we must not too hastily venture to
conclude that our own times have so much
the superiority over former days as we miglit
at first be tempted to infer. One great
object has indeed been obtained. The power
of the I.aws extends over the country uni-
versally, and if criminals at present sometimes
escape punishment, this can only be by-
eluding justice, — not, as of old, by defying it.
But the motives which influence modem
ruffians to commit actions at which we pause
with wonder and horror, arise, in a great
measure, from the thirst of gain. For the
hopi' of lucre, we have seen a wretch seduced
to his fate, under the pretext that he was to
share in amusement and conviviality ; and,
for gold, we have seen the meanest of
wretches deprived of life, and their misera!)Ie
remains cheated of the grave.
The loftier, if equally cruel, feelings of
li 3
t)6G
(Uofw to ©rarnattc (pieces.
■Jiricle, ambition, and love of vengeance, were
the idols of our forefathers, while the caitiffs
of our day bend to Mammon, the meanest
of the spirits wlio fell. The criminals, there-
fore, of former times, drew their hellish
inspiration from a loftier source than is
j^nown to modern villains. The fever of
iinsated ambition, the frenzy of ungratilied
levenge, the perfej-znditin ingeniitin Scol-
oriim, stigmatized by our jurists and our
legislators, held life but as passing breath ;
and such enormities as now sound like the
acts of a madman, were then the familiar
<leeds of every offended noble. With these
observations we proceed to our story.
lohn Muir, or Mure, of Auchindrane, the
contriver and executor of the following cruel-
ties, was a gentleman of an ancient family
and good estate in the west of Scotland ; bold,
ambitious, treacherous to the last degree, and
utterly unconscientious, — a Richard the Third
in private life, inaccessible alike to pity and
to remorse. His view was to raise the power,
find extend the grandeur, of his own family.
This gentlemanliad married the daughter of
Sir Thomas Kennedy of Barganie, who was,
excepting; the Earl of Cassilis, the most
important p>erson in all Carrick, the district
of Ayrshire which he inhabited, and where
the name of Kennedy held so great a sway
a,s to give rise to the popular rhyme,—
' 'Twixt Wigton and the town of Air,
Portpatrick and the Cruives of Cree,
No man need think for to bide there.
Unless he court Saint Kennedie.'
Now, Mure of Auchindrane, wlio had
promised himself high advancement by means
of his father-in-law Barganie, saw, with envy
and resentment, that his influence remained
second and inferior to the House of Cassilis,
chief of all the Kennedys. The Earl was
indeed a minor, but his authority was main-
tained, and his affairs well managed, by his
uncle, Sir Thomas Kennedy of Cullayne, the
brother of the deceased Earl, and tutor and
guardian to the present. This worthy gentle-
man supported his nephew's dignity and the
credit of the house so effectually, that
Barganie's consequence was much thrown
into the shade, and the ambitious Auchin-
drane, his son-in-law, saw no better remedy
than to remo\e so formidable a ri\al as
Cullayne by violent means.
For this purpose, in the year of God 1597,
lie came with a party of followers to the town
of Maybole (where Sir Thomas Kennedy of
Cullayne then resided) and lay in ambush in
nn orchard, through which he knew his
destined \ictim was to pass in returning
liomewards from a house where he was
engaged to sup. Sir Thomas Kennedy came
alone, and unattended, when he was suddenly
fired upon by Auchindrane and his accom-
Jilices, who, having missed their aim, drew
their swords, and rushed upon him to slay
liim. But the party thas assailed at disad-
vantage had the good fortune to hide fis^iself
for that time in a ruinous house, where he
laj' concealed till the inhabitants of the place
came to his assistance.
Sir Thomas Kennedy prosecuted Mure for
this assault, who, finding himself in danger
from the law, made a sort of apologj- and
agreement with the Lord of Cullayne, to
\\liose daughter he united his eldest son, in
testimony of the closest friendship in future.
This agreement was sincere on the part ot
Kennedy, who. after it had been entered
into, showed himself Auchindrane's friend
and assistant on all occasions. But it was
most false and treacherous on that of Mure,
who continued to nourish the purpose of
murdering his new friend and ally on the
first opportunity.
Auchmdrane's first attempt to effect this
was by means of the voung Gilbert Kennedy
of Barganie (for old Barganie, Auchindrane's
father-m-law, was dead), whom he persuaded
to brave the Earl of Cassilis, as one who
usurped an undue influence over the rest of the
name. Accordingly, this hot-headed youth,
at the instigation of Auchindrane, rode past
the gate of the Earl of Cassilis, without
waiting on his chief, or sending him any
message of civility. This led to mutual
defiance, being regarded by the Earl, ac-
cording to the ideas of the time, as a personal
insult. Both parties took the field with their
followers, at the head of about 250 men on
each side. The action which ensued was
shorter and less bloody than might have
been expected. Young Barganie, with the
rashness of headlong courage, and Auchin-
drane, fired bj- deadly enmity to the House
of Cassilis, made a precipitate attack on the
Earl, whose men were strongly posted and
under cover. They were recei\edl>3- a heavy
fire. Barganie was slain. Mure of Auchin-
drane, severely wounded in the thigh, became
unable to sit his horse, and, the leaders thus
slain or disabled, their party drew off without
continuing the action. It must be particularly
observed, that Sir Thomas Kennedy remained
neuter in this quarrel, considering his con-
nexion with Auchindrane as too intimate to
be broken even by his desire to assist his
nephew.
For this temperate and honourable conduct
he met a vile reward; for Auchindrane, in
resentment of the loss of his relative Barganie,
and the downfall of his ambitious hopes,
continued his practices against the life of
Sir Thomas of Cullayne, though totally inno-
cent of contributing to either. Chance
favoured his wicked purpose.
The Knight of Cullayne, finding himself
obliged to go to Edinburgh on a particular
day, sent a message by a servant to Mure,
in which he told him, in the most unsus-
pecting confidence, the purpose of his journey,
and nained the road which he proposed to
take, iu\ iting Mure to meet him at Duppill,
to the west of the town of Ayr. a place
iluc0tttbrAtte, or 'ZU M^te^in ^ra^eb^.
967
appointed, for the purpose of grviiig; him
anj' cominissions whicli lie might have for
Edinburgh, and assuring his treacherous
ally he would attend to an^- business whicli
lie might ha\e in the Scottish metropolis
as anxiously as to his own. Sir Thomas
Kennedy's message was carried to the town
of Maybole, where his messengo4', for some
trivial reason, had the import committed to
writing by a schoolmaster in that town, and
iiespatched it to its destination by means of
a poor student, named Dalrymple, instead
of carrj'ing it to the house of Auchindrane in
person.
This suggested to Mure a diabolical plot.
Having thus received tidings of Sir Thomas
Kennedy's motions, he conceived the infernal
purpose of having the confiding friend who
sent the information, waylaid and murdered
at the place appointed to meet with him, not
only in friendship, but for the purpose of
rendering him ser\ice. He dismissed the
messenger Dalrymple, cautioning the lad to
carry back the letter to Maybole, and to say
that he had not found him, Auchindrane, in
his house. Having taken this precaution, he
proceeded to instigate the brother of the
slain Gilbert of Barganie, Thomas Kennedy
of Drumurghie by name, and Walter Mure
of Cloncaird, a kinsman of his own, to take
this opportunity of revenging Barganie's
death. The fiery j-oung men were easily
induced to undertake the crime. They way-
laid the unsuspecting Sir Thomas of Cullayne
at the place appointed to meet the traitor
Auchindrane, and the murderers having in
company five or six ser\ants, well mounted
and armed, assaulted and cruelly murdered
Jiiin with many wounds. They then plun-
dered the dead corpse of his purse, containing
a thousand merks in gold, cut off the gold
buttons which he wore on his coat, and
despoiled the body of .some valuable rings
and jewels.
The revenge due for his uncle's murder
was keenly pursued by the Earl of Cassilis.
As the murderers fled from trial, they were
declared outlaws ; which doom, being pro-
nounced by three blasts of a horn, was called
'being put to the horn, and declared the
king's rebel.' Mure of Auchindrane was
strongly suspected of ha\ing been the insti-
gator of the crime. But he conceived there
could be no evidence to prove his guilt if he
couUl keep the boy Dalrymple out of the
way, who delivered the letter which made
him acquainted with Cullayne's journey, and
the place at which he meant to halt. On the
contrary, he saw, that if the lad could be
produced at the trial, it would afford ground
of fatal presumption, since it could be then
proved that persons so nearly connected with
him as Kennedy and Cloncaird had left his
house, and committed the murder at the very
spot which Cullayne had fixed for their
meeting.
To avoid this imminent danger. Mure
brought Dalrj'mple to his house, and detained
him there for several weeks. But the j'outh
tiring of this confinement, Mure sent him to
reside with a friend, Montgomery- of Skell-
morly, who maintained him under a borrowed
name, amid the desert regions of the then
almost savage island of Arran. Being con-
fident in the absence of this material witness,
Auchindrane, instead of flying, like his agents
Drumurghie and Cloncaird, presented himself
boldly at the bar, demanded a fair trial, and
offered his person in combat to the death
against any of Lord Cassilis's friends who
might impugn his innocence. This audacity
was successful, and he was dismissed without
trial.
Still, however, Mure did not consider him-
self safe, so long as Dalrymple was within
the realm of Scotland ; and the danger grew
more pressing when he learned that the lad
had become impatient of the restraint which
he sustained in the island of Arran, and
returned to some of his friends in Ayrshire.
Mure no sooner heard of this than he again
obtained possession of the boy's person, and
a second time concealed him at Auchindrane,
until he found an opportunity to transport
him to the Low Countries, where he contrived
to have him enlisted in Buccleuch's regiment ;
trusting, doubtless, that some one of the
numerous chances of war might destroy the
poor young man whose life was so dangerous
to him.
But after five or six years' uncertain safety,
bought at the expense of so much violence
and cunning, Auchindrane's fears were exas-
perated into frenzy when he found this
dangerous witness, having escaped from all
the perils of climate and battle, had left,
or been discharged from, the Legion of
Borderers, and had again accomplished his
return to Ayrshire. There is ground to
susjiect that Dalrymple knew the nature of
the holdwhich he possessed over Auchindrane,
and was desirous of extorting from his fears
some better provision than he had found
either in Arran or the Netherlands. But if
so, it was a fatal experiment to tamper with
the fears of such a man as Auchindrane, who
determined to rid himself effectual!}- of this
unhappy young man.
Mure now lodged him in a liouse of his
own, called Chapeldonan, tenanted by a
vassal and connexion of his called James
Bannatyne. This man he commissioned to
meet him at ten o'clock at night on the
sea-sands near Girvan, and bring with him
the unfortunate Dalrymple, the object of his
fear and dread. The victim seems to have
come with Bannatyne without the least
suspicion, though such might have been
raised by the time and place appointed for the
meeting. When Bannatyne and Dalrymple
came to the appointed spot, Auchindrane
met them, accompanied by his eldest son,
James. Old Auchindrane, having taken
Bannatyne aside, imparted his bloody purpose
968
(Ttofea ^0 ©ramaftc (pkue.
of ridding himself of Dalrymple for ever, by
murdering liim on the spot. His own lite
and honour were, he said, endangered by
the manner in which this inconvenient witness
repeatedly thrust himself back into Ayrshire,
and nothing could secure his safety but
taking the lad's life, in which action he
requested James Bannatyne's assistance.
Bannatyne felt some compunction, and re
inonstrated against the cruel expedient,
saying, it would be better to transport
Dalrymple to Ireland, and take precautions
against his return. While old Auchindrane
seemed disposed to listen to this proposal,
his son concluded that the time was come for
accomplishing the purpose of their meeting,
and, without waiting the termination of his
father's conference with Bannatyne, he rushed
suddenly on Dalrymple, beat him to the
ground, an<l, kneeling down on him, with
his fatlier's assistance accomplished the
crime, by strangling the unhappy object of
their fear and jealous^'. Bannatjne, the
witness, and partly the accomplice, of the
murder, assisted them in their attempt to
make a hole in the sand, with a spade which
they had brought on purpose, in order to
conceal the dead body. But as the tide was
coming in, the holes which they made filled
with water before they could get the body
buried, and tlie ground seemed, to their
terrified consciences, to refuse to be accessory
to concealing their crime. Despairing of
hiding the corpse in the manner they pro-
posed, the murderers carried it out into the
sea as deep as they dared wade, and there
abandoned it to the billows, trusting that
a wind, which was blowing off the shore,
would drive these remains of their crime out
to sea, where they would never more be
heard of. But the sea, as well as the land,
seemed unwilling to conceal their cruelty.
After floating for some hours, or days, the
dead body was, by the wiiul and tide, again
driven on shore, near the very spot where
the murder had been committed.
This attracted general attention, and when
the corpse was known to be that of the
same William Dalrymple whom Auchin-
drane had so often spirited out of the country,
or concealed when he was in it, a strong
and general suspicion arose, that this young
person had met with foul play from the
bold bad man who had shewn himself so
much interested in his absence. It was
always said or supposed, that the dead body
had bled at the approach cf a grandchild of
Mure of Auchindrane, a girl who, from
turiosity, had come to look at a sight which
others crowded to see. The bleeding of
a murdered corpse at the touch of the mur-
derer, was a thing at that time so much be-
lieved, that it was admitted as a proof of
guilt ; but I know no case, save that of
Auchindrane, in which the phenomenon was
supposed to be extended to the approach of
the innocent kindred ; nor do I think that
the fact itself, though mentioned by ancient
lawyers, was ever admitted to proof in the
proceedings against Auchindrane.
It is certain, however, that Auchindrane
found himself so much the object of suspicion
from this new crime, that he resolved to fly
from justice, and suffer himself to be declared
a rebel and outlaw rather than face a trial.
But his conduct in preparing to cover his
flight with another motive than the real one,
is a curious picture of the men and manners
of the times. He knew well that if he were
to shun his trial for the murder of Dalrymple,
the whole country would consider him as
a man guilty ofa mean and disgraceful crime
in putting to death an obscure lad, against
whom he had no personal quarrel. He knew,
besides, that his powerful friends, who would
have interceded for him had his offence been
merely burninga house, orkillinganeighbour,
would not plead for or stand by him in so
pitiful a concern as the slaughter of this
wretched wanderer.
Accordingly, Mure sought to provide himself
with some ostensible cause for avoiding law,
with which the feelings of his kindred and
friends might sympathize ; and none occurred
to him so natural as an assault upon some
friend and adherent of the Earl of Cassilis.
Should he kill such a one, it would be indeed
an unlawful action, Imt so far from being
infamous, would be accounted the natural
consequence of the avowed quarrel between
the families. With this purpose. Mure, with
the assistance of a relative, of whom he seems
always to have had some ready to execute
his worst purposes, beset Hugh Kennedy of
Garriehorne, a follower of the Earl's, against
whom they had especial ill-will, fired their
pistols at him, and used other means to put
him to death. But Garriehorne, a stout-
hearted man, and well armed, defended him-
self in a very different manner from, the
unfortunate Knight of Cullavne, and beat,
off the assailants, wounding young Auchin-
drane in the right hand, so that hewellnigh
lost the use of it.
But though Auchindrane's purpose did not
entirely succeed,he availed himself of it to
circulate a report, that if he could obtain
a pardon for firing upon his feudal enemy
with pistols, weapons declared unlawful by
act ot Parliament, he would willingly stand
his trial for the death of Dalrymple, respecting
which he protested his total innocence. The
King, however, was decidedly of opinion that
the Mures, both father and son, were alike
guilty of both crimes, and used intercession
with the Earl of Abercorn, as a person of
power in those western counties, as well as in
Ireland, to arrest and transmit them prisoners
to Edinburgh. In consequence of the Earl's
exertions, old Auchindrane was made
prisoner, and lodged in the tolbooth of
Edinburgh.
Young Auchindrane no sooner heard that
his father was in custody, than he became as
<lluc0tnbratte, or C^e ilpro^trc Cragcl)^.
969
.ipprelieiisive of Baniiatync, the accomplice
ill Dalryinple's murder, telliiijj tales, as
rver his father had been of Dalrymple.
He, therefore, liastened to him, and pre-
\ailed on him to pass over for a while to the
neighbouring coast of Ireland, finding him
money and means to accomplish the voy-
age, and engaging in the meantime to
take care of his affairs in Scotland. Secure,
as they thought, in this precaution, old
Auchindrane persisted in his innocence, and
his son found security to stand his trial.
Both appeared with the same confidence at
the day appointed, and braved the public
justice, hoping to be put to a formal trial,
in which Auchindrane reckoned upon an
acquittal for want of the evidence which
he had removed. The trial was, however,
postponed, and Mure the elder was dis-
missed, under higli security to return when
called for.
But King James, being convinced of the
guilt of the accused, ordered young Auchin-
drane, instead of being sent to trial, to be
examined under the force of torture, in order
to compel him to tell whatever he knew of
the things cliarged against him. He was ac-
cordingly severely tortured ; but the result
only served to show that such examinations
are as useless as they are cruel. A man of
weak resolution, or of a nervous habit, would
probably ha\e assented to any confession,
however false, rather than have endured the
extremity of fear andpain to which Mure was
subjected. But young Auchindrane, a strong
and cietermined ruffian, endured the torture
with the utmost firmness, and by the constant
audacity with which, in spite of the intoler-
able pain, he continued to assert his innocence,
he spread so favourable an opinion of his
case, that the detaining him in prison, instead
of bringing him to open trial, was censured
as severe and oppressive. James, however,
remained firmly persuaded of his guilt, and
by an exertion of authority quite inconsistent
with our present laws, commanded young
Auchindrane to be still detained in close
custody till further light could be thrown on
these dark proceedings. He was detained
accordingly by the King's express personal
command, and against the opinion even of
h is privv counsellors. This exertion of author-
ity was much murmured against.
In the meanwhile, old Auchindrane, being,
as we have seen, at liberty on pledges,
skulked about in the west, feeling how little
security he had gained by Dalrymple's murder,
and that he had placed himself by that crime
in the power of Bannatyne, whose evidence
concerning the death of Dalrymple could not
be less fatal than what Dalrymple might have
told concerning Auchindrane's accession to
the conspiracy against Sir Thomas Kennedy
of Cullayne. But though the event had
shown the error of his wicked policy, Auch-
indrane could think of no better mode in this
case than that which had failed in relation
to Dalrymple. When any man's life be-
came inconsistent with his own safety, no
idea seems to have occurred to this inveterate
ruffian, save to murder the. person by whom
he might himself be in any wav endangered.
He therefore attempted the life of James
Bannatyne by more agents than one. Nay,
he had nearly ripene<l a plan, by which one
Pennycuke was to be employed to slay
Bannatyne, while, after the deed was done,
it was devised that Mure of AuchnuU, a con-
nexion of Bannat.^ ne, should be instigated to
slay Pennycuke ; and thus close up this
train of murders by one, which, flowing in
the ordinary course of deadlv feud, should
have nothing in it so particular as to attract
much attention.
But the justice of Heaven would bear this
complicated train of iniquity no longer.
Bannatyne, knowing with what sort of men
he had to deal, kept on his guard, and, by
his caution, disconcerted more than one
attempt to take his life, while another mis-
caiTie.d by the remorse of Pennycuke, the
agent whom Mure employed. At length
Bannatyne, tiring of this state of insecurity,
and in despair of escaping such repeated
plots, and also feeling remorse for the crime
to which he had been accessory, resolved
rather to submit himself to the severity of
the law, than remain the object of the prin-
cipal criminal's practices. He surrendered
himself to the Karl of Abercom, and was
transported to Kdinburgh, where he con-
fessed before the Kinij and council all the
particulars of the murder of Dalrymple, and
the attempt to hide his body by committing
it to the sea.
When Bannatyne was confronted with the
two Mures before the Privy Council, they
denied with vehemence everv part of the
evidence he had given, and aiftrmed that the
witness had been bribed to destroy them by
a false tale. Bannatyne's behaviour seemed
sincere and simple, that of Auchindrane more
resolute and crafty. The wretched accomplice
fell upon his knees, invoking God to witness
that all the land in Scotland could not have
bribed him to bring a false accusation against
a master whom he had served, loved, and
followed in so many dangers, and calling
upon Auchindrane to honour God bv con-
fessing the crime he had committed. Mure
the elder, on the other hand, boldly replied,
that he hoped God would not so far forsake
him as to permit him to confess a crime of
which he was innocent, and exhorted Banna-
tyne in his turn to confess the practices bv
which he had been induced to devise such
falsehoods against him.
The two Mures, father and son, were there-
fore put upon their solemn tiial, along with
Bannat\ne, in 161 1, and, after a great deal
of evidence had been brought in support of
Bannatyne's confession, all three were found
guilty. The elder Auchindrane was con-
victed of counselling and directing the murder
97°
QUfee to ©ramaftc ^Uue.
of Sir Thomas Kennedy of Cullayne, and
also of the actual murder of the lad Ual-
rymple. Bannatyne and the younfjer Mure
were found guilty of the latter crime, and all
three were sentenced to be beheaded. Ban-
natyne, however, the accomplice, received
the King's pardon, in consequence of his
voluntary surrender and confession. The
two Mures were both executed. The younger
was aftected by the remonstrances of the
clergy who attended him, and he confessed
the guilt of which he was accused. The
father, also, was at length brought to avow
the fact, but in other respects died as im-
penitent as he ha<l lived; — and so ended this
dark and extraordinary tragedy.
The Lord Advocate of the day, Sir Thomas
Hamilton, afterwards successively Earl of
Melrose and of Haddington, seems to have
busied himself inuch in drawing up a state-
ment of this foul transaction, for the purpose
of vindicating to the people of Scotland the
severe course of justice observed by King
James VI. He assumes the task in a high
tone of prerogative law, and, on the whole,
seems at a loss whether to attribute to
Providence, or to his most sacred Majesty,
the greatest share in bringing to light these
mysterious villanies, but rather inclines to
the latter opinion. There is, I beliexe, no
printed copy of the intended tract, whicli
seems never to have been published ; but the
curious will be enabled to judge of it, as it
appears in the nextJascicu/KS of Mr. P.nJUert
Pitcairn's very interesting publications from
the Scottish Criminal Record.
The family of Auchindrane did not become
extinct on the death of the two homicides.
The last descendant existed in the eighteenth
century, a poor and distressed man. The
following anecdote shows that he had a strong
feeling of his situation.
There was in front of the old castle a huge
ash-tree, called the Dule-tree (^inotimtng'
tree) of Auchindrane, probably because it
was the place where the Baron executed the
criminals who fell under his jurisdiction. It
is described as having been the finest tree of
the neighbourhood. This last representative
of the family of Auchindrane had the mis-
fortune to be arrested for payment of a small
debt ; and, unable to discharge it, was pre-
pared to accompany the messenger (bailiff)
to the jail of Ayr. The servant of the law
had compassion for his prisoner, and offered
to accept of this remarkable tree as of value
adequate to the discharge of the debt.
' What ! ' said the debtor, ' Sell the Dule-tree
of Auchindrane ! I will sooner die in the
worst dungeon of your prison.' In this luck-
less character the line of Auchindrane ended.
The familj-, blackened with the crimes of its
predecessors, became extinct, and the estate
passed into other hands.
^
O;cfor&
HORACE HART, PRINTER TO THE UNIVERSITY
PR
^,M, z&-~io-eP
Scott, (Sir) Walter, bart,
5305 Poetical works.
FOA Complete ed.
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