St Baldred of the Bass, a Pictish legend
Date: 2026-07-13T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: English poetry -- Scottish authors -- 19th century; Baldred; of Tyninghame; Saint; -757 -- Poetry; Bass Rock (Scotland) -- Poetry; Berwick-upon-Tweed (England) -- History -- Siege; 1333 -- Drama

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Title: St Baldred of the Bass, a Pictish legend

The Siege of Berwick, a tragedy : with other poems and ballads, founded on the local traditions of East Lothian and Berwickshire

Author: James Miller

Release date: July 13, 2026 [eBook #79089]

Language: English

Original publication: Edinburgh: Oliver & Boyd, 1824

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/79089

Credits: Richard Tonsing, Charlene Taylor, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ST BALDRED OF THE BASS, A PICTISH LEGEND ***

Transcriber’s Note:

New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the public domain.

ST BALDRED OF THE BASS,
AND
OTHER POEMS.

SAINT BALDRED OF THE BASS

As starting from their fearful swoon
The astonished friars leap to their feet;
The stoled biers look wildly on,
And deem the vision is complete:

EDINBURGH.

DRAWN AND ENGRAVED BY W.H. LIZARS

1824.

ST BALDRED OF THE BASS,
A Pictish Legend;
THE
SIEGE OF BERWICK,
A Tragedy;
WITH OTHER
POEMS AND BALLADS,
FOUNDED ON THE LOCAL TRADITIONS OF EAST LOTHIAN AND BERWICKSHIRE.

By JAMES MILLER.

EDINBURGH:

SOLD BY

OLIVER & BOYD, TWEEDDALE-COURT;

AND

GEO. B. WHITTAKER, LONDON.

1824.

EDINBURGH,
PRINTED BY OLIVER & BOYD,
TWEEDDALE-COURT.

TO
THE RIGHT HONOURABLE
CHARLES, EARL OF HADDINGTON,
BARON OF BINNING AND BYRES, &c.
THIS VOLUME
IS RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED,
BY
THE AUTHOR.

Haddington,

November 1, 1824.

CONTENTS.

Saint Baldred of the Bass, a Pictish Legend: | Page
| Introduction | 3
| Introductory Stanzas | 9
| Part I.—The Funeral | 17
| Part II.—The Pilgrimage | 53
| Notes | 73
The Siege of Berwick, a Tragedy: |
| Preface | 103
| The Siege of Berwick; or the Murdered Hostage | 109
Alan of Winton; or the Heiress of Seton | 207
| Notes | 229
The Vision of Hungus | 233
| Notes | 237
The Abbess of St Abb | 239
Walter of Congalton | 245
The Lost Drave of Dunbar; or the Witch of Keith | 247
| Notes | 265
| Account of the Witches of East Lothian | 266
| A Tale of Garleton | 283
The Vicar of Golyn | 285
The Gudewife of Tulloshill and the Lord of Lauderdale | 297
Young Argyle; or, Stanzas to Lethington Castle | 311
| Notes | 323
The Murder of Sir James Stanfield; in two Fits | 327
| Fit the First | 329
| Fit the Second | 338
| Notes | 345
Sonnet, on visiting Barra Church-yard | 348
Verses in Memory of Dunbar Collegiate Church | 349
| Notes | 369
Ormiston Yew Tree; with a Lament for the Earl of Hopetoun | 373
| Notes | 378
Sonnet to Dirleton Castle | 380
Wreck of the John and Agnes Sloop of Newcastle at Tyne Sands | 381
The Shepherd of Lammermoor | 385
Dunpender Law | 389
To the Moon and the Evening Star | 395
SONGS.
The False Alarm | 397
George the Fourth’s Welcome | 399
On laying the Foundation Stone of Lord Hopetoun’s Monument | 403
On placing Mr Ferme’s Portrait in the Masonic Lodge at Haddington | 405
The Gardener’s Song | 407
The Hammerman’s Song | 410
The Country Laird’s Courtship | 412
My Auld Maiden Aunty | 414
To —— | 416

SAINT BALDRED OF THE BASS,

A PICTISH LEGEND.

IN TWO PARTS.

SAINT BALDRED.

Saint Baldred, the venerable subject of the following poem, was the disciple of Kentigern or St Mungo, the tutelary saint of Glasgow. According to Boece, he was of Scottish descent; and, during the reign of Brudeus, king of the Picts, held his pastoral charge in East Lothian, which then formed part of the kingdom of Pictland. His instructor in the faith was the reputed son of Thametis, a Pictish princess,[1] who was cousin to the reigning monarch; it is probable, therefore, from this circumstance, that he enjoyed the smiles of royal patronage and favour.

“The Breviary of Aberdeen,” says Dr Jamieson, in his History of the Culdees, “contains some particulars with respect to Baldred, which I have not met with any where else. ‘This suffragan of St Kentigern flourished in Lothian, in virtues and in illustrious miracles. Being eminently devout, he renounced all worldly pomp, and, following the example of John the Divine, resided in solitary places, and betook himself to the islands of the sea. Among these he had recourse to one called Bass, where he led a life, without all question, contemplative and strict, in which, for many years, he held up to remembrance the most blessed Kentigern, his instructor, in the constant contemplation of the sanctity of his conduct.’”—Hist. Culdees, p. 190.

“In this work,” continues the doctor, “we find a miracle ascribed to the worthy Baldred, that must have rendered him an inestimable acquisition to a people living on a rocky coast.—‘There was a great rock between the said island and the adjacent land, which remained fixed in the middle of the passage, unmoved by all the force of the waves, giving the greatest hinderance to navigation, and often causing shipwrecks. The blessed Baldred, moved by piety, ordered that he should be placed on this rock. This being done, at his nod the rock was immediately lifted up, and, like a ship driven by a favourable breeze, proceeded to the nearest shore, and henceforth remained in the same place, as a memorial of this miracle, and is to this day called St Baldred’s Coble or Cock-boat.”—A small rock, at the mouth of Aldham bay, still bears the name of Baudron’s Boat.

If personal safety merited consideration from the ascetic, who was all but adored in that rude age, and who lived a life of patriarchal innocence and simplicity, we may suppose that he retired to the “strong castle” of the Bass from prudential motives; for, at this period, an exterminating war raged between the Scots and the Picts, at the instigation of Ethelfrid, the pagan prince of Northumberland, who sought his own aggrandisement in the destruction of the contending nations.

While residing in this solitude, Baldred died 6th March 607–8.—See Boece’s Chron. and Keith’s Cat. He was held in such veneration by the natives, that on his demise, the three neighbouring parishes of Aldham, Tyningham, and Preston, laid claim to his remains. It being impossible to satisfy the multitude without supernatural agency, the enraged embassy were on the point of deciding their right by blows, when a Pictish sage judiciously advised them to spend the night in prayer, that the bishop of the diocese might have an opportunity of settling their dispute in the morning.

“When day dawned,” says Holinshed, “there were found three biers with three bodies decently covered with clothes, so like in all resemblance, that no man might perceive any difference. Then by commandment of the bishop, and with great joy of all the people, the said several bodies were carried severally unto the said three several churches, and in the same buried in most solemnwise, where they remain unto this day, in much honour with the common people of the countries near adjoining.”—Holin. Chron. vol. i.

The same legend assumes a more warlike attitude in the English Martyrology.

“The people waxing wroth took arms, and each of them sought by force to enjoy the same; and when the matter came to issue, the said sacred body was found all whole in three distinct places of the house where he died: so as the people of each village coming thither, and carrying the same away, placed it in their churches, and kept it with great honour and veneration for the miracles that at each place it pleased God to work.”[2]

In the Breviary of Aberdeen, before quoted, we are informed, that “the inhabitants of the three parishes which were under his charge, as soon as they knew of his death, assembled in three different troops at Aldham, where he breathed his last, severally begging his body. But, as they could not agree among themselves, they, by the advice of a certain old man, left the body unburied, and separately betook themselves to prayer. Morning being come (as aforesaid) they found three bodies perfectly alike, and all prepared with equal pomp for interment. Each of the companies, of course, departed well pleased; and each parish erected a monument over that body of the saint which had fallen to their share.”

“Such was the credulity of these times,” concludes the doctor, “that it was believed, that the body of the saint was in all these places; and this, of course, afforded an irrefragable proof of the doctrine of transubstantiation. Camerarius gravely says, that, ‘for the termination of the dispute between these parochial churches, it was at length effected, by the prayers of the saint himself (for nothing is impossible with God) that each of them should enjoy this treasure.’”—Major asserts the doctrine as supported by this fact.—See Hist. Culdees, pp. 191, 188.

According to the learned Chalmers, a Saxon monastery of St Baldred was established at Tyningham, at an after period, whose diocese comprehended the whole of East Lothian, and whose lands, says Simeon, the monk of Durham, extended from Lammermoor to Inveresk. “Et tota terra quæ pertinet ad monasterium sancti Balthere, quod vocatur Tyningham a Lambermore usque ad Escemuthe.”

Two elegant Saxon arches, the remains of the old chapel, still ornament the beautiful domain of Tyningham, where the principal scene of the poem is laid.

SAINT BALDRED OF THE BASS.

Introductory Stanzas.

I.

The pilgrim views on Lothian’s eastern shore,

(Whose fields are waving far with golden grain,)

Like giant’s fabled tower, sublimely hoar,
The Bass, majestic, rising from the main:
Here ocean’s waves usurp the rural scene,
And the blue waters gird the mountain’s zone,

Where spread of yore the verdant blooming plain,

As sage geologists have deftly shewn,

In times to topographic lore, alas! unknown.

II.

The muse has deem’d this crag, in fancy’s hours,

The prototype of monster huge and tall,
That having left Zahara’s citron bowers,
Dips his proboscis in the Senegal;
While round his rugged sides the waters fall,
His stately form frowns awful o’er the tide,
Gleams on his back the castellated wall,
As erst by Porus led, in Indian pride,

The tower-crown’d elephant, by green Hydaspes side.

III.

The pious Baldred scoop’d his hermit cell
Upon the sunny summit of the rock,
Whence issued forth a fountain’s crystal well

Which o’er the cliffs in showery spangles broke;

The sea gulls, charm’d to tameness, round would flock,

Bringing their finny offerings to his cave;

While as the Pict skimm’d by in light carrock,

He paused, a holy benison to crave,

Then push’d his little skiff undaunted through the wave.

IV.

And oft at dead of night, when howl’d the storm,

The anchorite left his couch his beads to tell;

And press’d the cold bare rock in prayers till morn,

For vessels drifting near the Inch Cape’s bell,

Which rung, between each gust, the seaman’s knell;—

And evermore he closer claspt his hands,

As burst upon his ear the water’s swell,

For the lone wretch who shudd’ring, drowning stands,

Waist-deep, and lock’d in Tyne’s deceitful sinking-sands.

V.

When rosy-finger’d Flora from her urn

Strew’d earth with flowers, and pearl’d the azure deep,

While the red sun in Leo fierce did burn,

At depth of noon, the saint his limbs would steep

In the transparent waves, where breezes creep
O’er Fidrey’s sacred isle; meanwhile, the fry
Sported around in shoals, as glad to keep
Their summer sabbath:—the sea-calf roll’d by,

Forsook her briny pool, and lick’d the patriarch dry.

VI.

He was a star in reason’s dawning day,
That led the savage hordes of human kind,
Ere Learning pour’d her intellectual ray
Like light from heav’n upon the vacant mind:
Then God was heard in thunder or the wind,
While meteor forms did aerial conflict wage;
As tattoo’d groups upon the shore reclin’d,
Listen’d the mystic lore of Runic sage,

Cull’d from the Scandinavian’s darkest pagan page.

VII.

He travell’d paths untrod, o’er mountains bare,

To preach the gifted creed to barbarous men;

His food alone the jetty juniper

That blossom’d on the steeps of Lammer’s glen;

He dragg’d the savage from his gloomy den,

In silken chains his wayward passions bound,

While Hope’s bright rainbow glitter’d o’er the fen,

And Mercy scatter’d pearls upon the ground,

Where erst dark Odin’s chiefs in blood-stain’d garments frown’d.

VIII.

Yet deem not that the lonely orison

Was life’s sole business; for he also taught

To rear the rustic dome, which, form’d of stone,

Fair Architecture to perfection brought;
The oaken wall—the roof ingenious wrought,
Pictur’d the Gothic arch with willow wand,
In embryo modelling those shrines of thought;
Such as by Doric Tweed do sculptured stand,

Whose cloisters seem as carved by Nature’s sylvan hand.

IX.

And, oh! if e’er he felt that gentle flame,

Which, born in heav’n, on earth like vapour dies,

’Twas sigh’d in secret (and was he to blame?)
For pious Breda,—beautiful as wise,
Who left the pomp of gilded canopies
In regal lands, for the lone convent’s cell.—

And, fair, her house of prayer was seen to rise,

Where the Cistertian sisters loved to dwell

Beneath the mighty shade of Lothian’s Alpine hill.

X.

Of Baldred’s lineage little we may learn,
Whether of princess born or lowly swain,—
Suffice, that he was bred by Kentigern
What time St Colme to Iona came;

And cleans’d the church from her Pelagian stain,

And royal Brudeus to the faith subdu’d;
Who, haply, left the world’s tumultuous scene
To meditate in sentimental mood,

And hold high converse in the Bass’s solitude.

XI.

Methinks oft gazing o’er Bodotria’s tide,

King Brude and Baldred sat in cavern’d shade,

The prince’s robes the leopard’s spotted hide,

Thrown o’er his brawny shoulders, which display’d,

Deep painted in his skin, in fierce parade,
The milk-white buffalo and the tusked boar;
And evermore the saint some truth convey’d;
Anon he shook his beard all silver’d o’er,

And talk’d of pilgrimage on Judah’s distant shore.

XII.

The prince, wrapt in astonishment, would ask
Of foreign climes, their manners and array;
Now burn’d to crush the Persian basilisk,
Reserved for the crusades of latter day—

Now sought to know if the world’s barriers lay

Where Alps lie pillow’d till they prop the skies!

And much he long’d to pierce the milky-way,

Even as an eagle; while, before his eyes

Fair pictured in the sand, the zodiac’s splendour lies.

XIII.

Philosophizing thus, the hours were lost,

Till war’s horn blew, and Brudeus graspt the spear;

For valiant Arthur’s Bacchanalian host

Have left their Christmas-pie for rougher cheer;

The Scot and Pict invading warfare bear,

And drive the Table-knights to Humber’s flood;—

Their monarch slain, the Britons yield through fear,

While the sun shone at noon array’d in blood,

And York’s esculent herbs gleam’d crimson from the bud.

XIV.

Too soon to these leagued warriors omens told

Of broken friendship, desolating woe;

For the Northumbrian prince with treacherous gold

Seduced the Pict to hold the Scot his foe;

Grief for their strife brought saintly Baldred low;

Upon the Bass he pined away, and died,—
When o’er a rainbow-bridge, in robes of snow,
Upborne by angels, he was seen to glide;

As erst St Idan rose from Leader’s pastoral side.

SAINT BALDRED OF THE BASS.
PART I.

The Funeral.

I.

The requiem rises loud, but drear,
Within the Bass’s rocky isle;
Where watchful round St Baldred’s bier
The monks await the morning’s smile;
While torch-light reddens the lone cave,
And brightens every paler face,
Till in each feature, darkly grave,
Sorrow her gentle tear may trace.

II.

That day from Preston’s holy fane,
Three friars came the priest to claim;
For there, in Modred’s gloomy reign,
Before the Saxons were subdued,
His foster-mother was a dame
Supposed the heir of high-born blood.
Three friars came from Aldham’s shrine
In quest of the revered man;
For there, among the Pictish line,
His pastoral charge at first began.
Three friars came from Tyningham
To claim the Saint’s much-hallow’d clay;
For there, enshrined in folds of balm,
His saintly predecessors lay,
The church-light of an earlier day.

III.

Th’ assembled friars stood amazed,
Speechless, and swollen with rage they gazed,
Till arms in angry mood were raised,
And crosier-staffs were broke;
When ripe for vengeance and for war,
They rent the cross-woven scapular,
And tore the scanty cloak;
From grasp and squeeze they pass’d to blows,
One took his neighbour by the nose,
Another by the hair;
Nor ceased to ply the dangerous art,
Till each could shew a wounded part,
And every back was bare!

IV.

Alarm’d by the tumultuous roar
The solan left her rocky nest,
And travelling to the Fifean shore,
Like snowy curtains deck’d the west;
While monsters in the Forth were seen,
Disporting in the waters green,
With crested head, like horned owl,
O’erspread with film like Carmelite’s cowl;
Then all look’d ominous and drear
As if some great event was near;
And many saw pale Loda’s form,
Gleam in his meteor-clad array;
While others only heard the storm
As grief or terror held their sway.

V.

Dark grew the Warden’s cheeks of bloom,
Like wizard started from the tomb;
He blest each saint he knew!
And as his ruddy face grew pale,
His lips shook, quivering as the gale,
And pass’d from red to blue.
By good St Mungo’s soul he swore,
(As evermore his locks he tore,
And fierce his blood did boil,)
That “ere they moved the old man’s bones,
“As easily they’d move the stones.
“Which propp’d the lofty isle!”

VI.

When, lo! a vessel near, they spy,
That proudly heaves in sight;
Fair blows the wind, serene the sky,
“Ho! boatmen, o’er the waters fly,
“And reach the land ere night;—
“To favouring breeze your canvass stretch,
“To Holy Island speed;
“And bid the Bishop cease to preach,
“And leave his miracles unwrought,
“And bring him here as swift as thought,
“To aid us in our need!”

VII.

Meanwhile a host upon the shore
Await the embassy’s return;
But when the herald struck his oar,
Their souls for vengeance burn:
While gathering far, on Aldham’s height,
The rival parishes advance;
Now mingle in the deadly fight—
And hurl the sounding lance.
When forward rush’d an aged man,
So venerable in years,
That silence through the warriors ran,
And nerveless fell their spears;—
And thus, the Priest of Garmilton
Loud spake, while from his eyes there shone
Radiance, like lightning from a cloud,
Which backward awed the dusky crowd:—
“O mock not the decree of Heaven,
“In angry strife, to madness driven!
“But let the calm of peace prevail,
“Till supernatural powers be given
“To bless your deep excess of zeal.”

VIII.

But, frowning still in angry mood
Unmoved, the men of Aldham stood;
A hardy race nursed by the sea,
In manners haughty, fierce, and free;
Again the smother’d murmur rung,
While they were seen to seek the shore;
For on their backs the corrock hung,
And in their hands the oar,
When rose the Priest of Garmilton,
With his prophetic eye,
“I swear by Hadda-Chuan’s stone,
“That storms are in the sky!
“Yes, by the tempest-saint I swear,
“Of green Iona’s isle!
“That to the depths of hell ye steer,
“Debarr’d from heaven’s smile!
“Backward St Baldred’s rock shall roll,
“And choke your navigation up,
“While fires shall riot on your soul,
“And sea-wolves on you sup,
“If ye despise my warning now!”
Thus spake the priest, and smote his brow.
While back the trembling men return,
As if the curse begun they feel;
And silent for that vengeance burn
Which they dare not reveal.

IX.

The friars in the lonely isle
Like guards their watches keep;
Till most of them, o’ercome with toil,
Go piously to sleep;
While others, chatting o’er the bowl,
Simper beneath the monkish cowl
To see their fellows weep,
And quaff, in horns, from mountain still,
The liquor brew’d from heather-bell—
So changing is man’s wayward mood
From false to fair, from smooth to rude.

X.

O death! thou art a fearful thing,
Although ’tis said relief thou’lt bring,
The wretch without a friend or home,
Condemn’d in hungry rags to roam,
Will life’s last bitter chalice drain,
Sooner than mingle with thy train!
Thou strik’st the hermit in his cell,
Who long has bid the world farewell;
Thou strik’st the warrior in the field,
While charging squadrons round him yield;
And rosy youth, and wrinkled age,
And motley fool, and cunning sage,
Alike before thy arrows fall,
Whose quiver has a barb for all.

XI.

Each left the corpse, save that dark man
Cormac, from Aberlady’s shore,
Who, deem’d a cunning artisan,
Had left Kilspindie’s cells at dawn,
Yet landed not till twilight hour.
Two black-hoods follow’d in his train,
Like shadows on the rock,
Who only deign’d to breathe amen!
As low their master spoke:
“Refugium peccatorum,
“Consolatrix afflictorum,
“Ora pro nobis.”

XII.

Yet, thought the soldiers of the Bass,
As slow the midnight moments pass,
Some demon horrid rites preferr’d,
To rend the rock asunder,—
For evermore they, shuddering, heard
Deep buried sounds like thunder;
While underneath the waters boil’d,
As if Leviathan had coil’d
His monstrous shape around the base
The castellated isle to raise;
While started in the unfathom’d deep
The coral tenants from their sleep!

XIII.

At morning’s dawn the Bass appear’d,
Half hid in ocean’s mantle fold,
Shining as magic wand had rear’d
A mountain pearl in bed of gold.
Afar, impervious to the sun,
The woad-dyed groups, in shadows dun,
Along the summits steal;
While glad the Bishop’s barge they hail,
Seen, swan-like, urged by favouring gale
Westward the port of Bele.
Where high Tantallon’s castle stands,
Like vet’ran set to watch the deep,
Gleam’d nodding heads, and waving hands,
Wherever human foot might creep;
And rocky cave, and ocean bay,
Bore the loud shoutings far away,
That hail’d the monk of Lindisfarn
In friendship free—in virtue stern.

XIV.

Chiming o’er Lothian’s sunny shore,
The chapel bells began to ring,
And still was echo’d more and more,
“Hail to the holy man ye bring!”
The sails are struck—the oars are plied—
The barge moor’d by the Bass’s side;
And as the Bishop trod the strand,
They forward press’d to kiss his hand:
Enough of worldly bliss for them
To see him ere they die;
To touch that garment’s hallow’d hem
Which he did sanctify.

XV.

Down to the castle’s caves they wend,
With hesitating steps and slow,
And, fearful, one by one descend,
As if Vesuvius yawn’d below;
The first sent up a horrid sound,
His glaring torch fell to the ground;
Another, and another fell—
Some vow’d to heav’n, some thought of hell;
And as the smouldering flame upbroke,
They shudder’d as they saw
The devil tow’ring o’er the smoke,
Seize Baldred, and, with agile bound,
Leap o’er North Berwick Law!
That hill, which in a latter day,
By witchcraft near was borne away,
When the Gyre Carling strode the mast,
And, like a huntress, rein’d the blast.
Retreated all as best they might,
Each sought to save himself in flight;
Nor did the Bishop stoop to kneel—
Unlike St Serf, the church’s keel,
Who with his prayers the dragon slew,
St George eclipsing—if ’tis true!

XVI.

Surprise upon each brow had striven,
As dread conjecture ran,
When they beheld, as dropt from heav’n,
That lone Aemonian,
The hermit of Inch-Colme’s isle,
Whose face ne’er lighten’d with a smile;
Yet was his temper framed so mild,
In innocence he walk’d a child;
The untamed tenants of the moor
Roam’d in his daily haunts secure;
For brute and man alike were shewn
That mercy claim’d this priest her own;
But him they question’d not,
So scriptural his answers were,
Long prefaced by a tedious prayer,
The subject he forgot;—
Ere the proeme had been begun,
Another day had seen the sun!

XVII.

The Warden stood in fierce array,
Like savage of St Julian’s bay,
By nature form’d for martial fray,
In stature towering high;
As trunk of oak his massy limb,
Though muscular, yet moulded trim;—
His visage pointed, long, and grim,
Lank cheeks and hollow eye.
Unlike the carpet-race we boast
The soldier’s jest, though fashion’s toast,
Who leave Castalian springs for wine,—
Whose greatest glory is—to dine!

XVIII.

Men often show least signs of fear
When certain danger hovers near:
The Pict conceal’d his wrath—
He craved the Bishop’s benison,
Then went like Roman denizen
To victory or death!
His zone with iron hoops was braced;
His buckler on his arm was placed,
Made of the buffalo’s hide;
While, punctured, on his breast appear’d
The monster, fierce as when ’twas spear’d;
Now raising high his sounding lance
He bade the trembling crowds advance,
And march’d with martial stride;
But none durst follow in the van
With that gigantic-bodied man!—

XIX.

Then fell an awful pause, as when
The Indian striplings fearless run
To slay the tiger in his den,
In caves that never saw the sun:
Meanwhile the Warden had his fears
When he beheld the friars dying,
And, side by side, survey’d three biers
Whereon the saint in state was lying.
Each load was borne most pompously,
Deck’d with its cross and rosary;
While, one by one, three corpses lay
Like twin-brothers transform’d to clay,
Moulded so nicely like each other,
The eye no difference might discover;
And as the tapers flicker’d dim,
The features look’d uncouth:
Each countenance appear’d more grim,
And seem’d to ope its mouth.
Recovering soon, the Warden raised
His voice, to urge them on, who gazed:
They forward press—they kneel and pray—
While, lacking faith, some steal away,
As starting from their fearful swoon
The astonish’d friars leap to their feet;
The stoled biers look wildly on,
And deem the vision is complete:
Till by a glimpse of reason’s beam
They wake to a substantial dream!—

XX.

“Mother of God!” the Bishop cried,
“Thy aid is never sought in vain!
“To crush the paynim in his pride,
“Thy spirit walks on earth again!—
“Where’er thy dove-like presence strays
“Among the bowers of human wo,
“O teach our harps to sing thy praise
“In strains that seraphs only know!”

XXI.

They raised the sheet from Baldred’s face,
They turn’d the corpses where they lay,
In each his features clearly trace,
Crown’d with a tuft of silvery gray.
They deem’d his bright ethereal flame
Which mortal form could not control,
From heav’n had held a trio frame
To suit his zealous warmth of soul;
That he might stray in paynim lands,
A pilgrim lone in Palestine;
Now tread the desert’s burning sands—
Now preach the faith by Pictish Tyne;
With that sweet angel for his guide,
Who led St Serf by Bosphorus’ strand,
Attendant duteous by his side,
Like earth and heaven hand in hand!

XXII.

But, hark! the Bass’s chapel bell
Again its mournful music plies,
And Aldham’s chimes the breezes swell,
And Tyningham as soft replies.
While o’er the lake in dark parade
The painted chiefs are seen to glide,
From verdant Tyne’s green holly shade
To dwarfish Peffers’ sandy side.

XXIII.

Afar upon the spangled deep
The barges move in solemn show;
The oars their regular cadence keep,
As ’twixt each pause a sob of wo
Bursts from the sailor, and a tear
Falls down unseen on ocean’s breast;
While, in their gloomy livery drest,
The sable nodding biers appear
Reflected in the waters clear,
Like plumes upon a silver crest!

XXIV.

The seal lay on the scarry shore,
As charm’d to hear the distant oar;
The tarrock left Craig Leith’s rough breast,
To crown the isles like feathery crest;
And every rock that gemm’d the deep
Was peopled like the grassy steep;
Some launch the skiff, while others brave
The swelling surface of the wave;
Anxious to join the funeral train:
And, but for weeds that pictured pain,
’Twas like a festive holiday,
When princes short-lived visits pay,
And the high rulers of the earth
A jubilee give to lowly mirth.

XXV.

Soon reach’d the pebbly-studded strand,
The oars are struck—the mourners land
In Aldham’s pleasant bay;
Upon the beach three chieftains stood,
With litters form’d of laurel-wood,
And crown’d with rosemary;
On these St Baldred’s relics laid,
With other honours duteous paid,
They forward march’d in sad parade;
Where all were willing—those were blest,
To whom were given the high behest
To bear the corpse away;
Preceded by six vestals fair,
Who tore the long dark glossy hair
That fell upon their shoulders bare
As clouds on mountain snow;
Anon their lily hands they wrung,
And mournfully the requiem sung
In plaintive notes of woe.

Hymn.

Spirit of bliss! a cup of joy
Awaits thee in the halls of Thor,
Where earthly sorrows ne’er destroy,
Where heavenly hearts are never sore.

Did thy mother, in midnight dreams,
Call thee from this land of care,
To sail on heaven’s transparent streams
With Jhules, the angels of the air?

Save us from pale Loda’s power,
When in the gale his form appears;
Cheer us in affliction’s hour,
And shield us in the strife of spears.

Spirit of bliss! a cup of joy
Awaits thee in the halls of Thor,
Where pleasure charms without alloy,
Where tempests never wreck the shore.

XXVI.

Up Aldham’s flowery steep the biers
Ascend, in a long dusky line,
Where, tow’ring o’er their dark compeers,
The warriors’ glancing helms shine;
And golden mitres lustre shed
Upon each bishop’s ancient head.

First solemn walk’d, behind the pall,
Conwal, that priest austere and tall,
Who dwelt by Clutha’s winding stream;
His loins were girdled round with hair:
For such like penance he did deem
Useful to fit his soul for prayer.
He was St Baldred’s friend in youth,
St Mungo train’d them both to truth;
And ne’er do tears sincerer flow
Than those which early friends bestow,
When weeping o’er some parted shade
In life’s luxuriant prime decay’d.
Ah! who would wish to linger here
When those who made life sweet are gone,
When loves and friendships disappear
Beneath the dark sepulchral stone;
And all we know of sage and fair,
Is the dull record that—they were!

Upon his right, with martial brow,
Appeared the young Prince Derili,
Who wept in Baldred’s relics now
A lost preceptor, and did sigh
While running o’er instructive hours—
Which now, alas! too quick had sped—
As oft in Dirleton’s ivied towers
He listen’d to the honour’d dead,
And heard truths morally sublime,
That purified his soul from crime,
And bade him afterwards atone
For errors that were not his own;
And in Loch Leven’s lonely isle
To heaven bequeath a holy pile.

St Conwal, on his left, was led
By Asaph—soon to suffering bred,
A zealous man, who did adorn
The holy church, for which he’d borne
The martyr’s faggot-blaze;
Unburthening his soul of guilt
Three hundred times a-day he knelt
In silent deeds of praise;
So oft he’d paced the altar’s bound,
His steps had worn the marble ground!
He was supported by that sage,
Who ’midst the others shone
So venerable in his age,
The Priest of Garmilton.
Idan came next of Lindisfarn,
In demon-conflicts bold,
Who, on the gloomy rocks of Fern
Did secret vigils hold,
And afterwards, upon that shore,
The bishop’s pastoral crosier bore.
While Eta, abbot of Melrose,
The bishop’s stoled ranks did close.
Then follow’d those of less degree,
Yet not less famed for sanctity;
There stalk’d Dricthelmus the austere,
Who one dread night in death’s arms slept,
And saw Heaven’s mystic visions fair,
As o’er the golden walls he crept,
When, lo! a weight of earthly sin,
Like Eden-cherub’s flaming brand,
Just as he leap’d to enter in,
Drove him to this terrestrial land!—
There also walk’d those monks profound,
With eye devout upon the ground,
The followers of St Benedict,
In sanctimonious manners strict.
While wander’d in the rabble’s van,
That sadly lone Aemonian!
Where’er this gentle hermit went
Still followed him a sacred cow,
Whether he trod the sandy bent,
Or clomb the mountain’s heathery brow.

XXVII.

For those who sail’d on Forth’s green wave,
It was a splendid sight to view
The cavalcade, as dark and grave
It gave the cliffs a chequer’d hue;
While evermore the torches threw
A sparkling glare among the crowd,
As stars will hide their eyes of blue
In dawning morning’s dusky cloud;
Then first by Aldham’s holy shade
The solemn pageant paused the while,
As in the church’s holy pile
One body of the Saint was laid
Beneath a yew’s undying bloom,
Emblem of tenant of the tomb.
This tree a holy calm diffused
O’er passing strangers, as they mused
Upon the nicely sculptured scroll,
That told its moral to the soul.

XXVIII.

Low chanted in the house of God,
On high the choir’s full measure flow’d,
While the soft echo of a sigh,
Dimm’d the bright lustre of each eye.

Requiem First.

1.

Be hallow’d the place of thy rest,
O soft be thy bed in the tomb!
Thou’rt gone to the land of the blest,
With the souls of the happy to roam:
As planets in loveliness roll,
And light the lone wanderer’s way,
Thou beam’d on the night of the soul,
And left us at dawning of day.

2.

With bay we’ll embroider that stone,
That tells us of glory and thee!
While the changes of seasons roll on,
Thy memory unfading shall be.
Though fled on the seraphim’s wing,
And left us in darkness to mourn,
With earliest blossoms of spring
We duly will garland thy urn.

XXIX.

O who is he, with locks of grey,
That bids the pressing crowds recede,
As backward rolls the ocean’s spray,
Where canvas-crowned galleys glide?
A scallop-shell the stranger wears,
St Peter’s keys in red he bears
Wrought in his scapular;
The Pictish lances rattling sound,
And far the waving pennons float,
The bishop’s palfreys paw the ground,
And startle at the war-horn’s note,
While mingling voices loud exclaim,
“Ho! pilgrim, with your cross of flame!
“Come ye for peace or war?
“Or why upon our march intrude,
“In humble guise, but forward mood.”—

XXX.

“O let short-breathing space be given,”
The way-worn stranger cried:
“Three moons have scarcely waned in heaven,
“Since Baldred, in Loretto’s shrine,
“Was kneeling at my side.
“Before the virgin and her son,
“Where silver lamps for ever shine,
“He drank the Eucharistal wine,
“And said—‘My earthly task is done!’
“I turn’d to bid the old man hail—
“And saw his face was waxing pale
“As monumental bust—
“I turn’d; but, lo! the priest was gone,
“And I fell humbled in the dust!”

XXXI.

“Beloved of heaven!” the bishop cried,
“Mary! maiden-mother, fair!
“Who lovest to crush the paynim’s pride,
“And hear the lowly pilgrim’s prayer,
“Again to thee on earth be given,
“That homage which ascends to heaven!

“Holy pilgrim! speed the while,
“Rest thee in the rocky isle,
“Till the morning’s purple light
“Gilds Dumpender’s verdant height;
“Onward then, Heaven be your guide,
“As it has ever been;
“When wafting o’er the western tide,
“O tell by lone Iona’s side
“The mysteries you have seen!”—

XXXII.

’Twas noon, when o’er the Thistly Moor
The funeral held its mazy route,
When roused by sounds unheard before
The wily fox was on the scout;
The woodcock plied his jetty wing,
The red deer made his lofty spring,
A moment view’d the dark array,
Next fleetly bounding shot away,
Just stopp’d to slake his thirst in Tyne,
Then, arrow-like, straight onward flew,
Till on the horizon’s farthest line
His antlers pierced the heaven’s blue!—

XXXIII.

Eastward of Binning’s beauteous wood
Stood Baldred’s mossy cell,
Where in communion deep with God
The patriarch loved to dwell,
What time the summer breezes bland
Were wafting perfume o’er the land;
And so serene the ocean lay,
It pictured headland-rock and bay;
And heaven’s veil of azure hue
Was only speck’d by grey curlew.
Here often, tame as Rylston’s doe,
The chase-driven deer would stand,
And lick the hermit’s palm of snow,
And eat from gentle hand.
And here, before the altar’s mound,
Which time-worn hieroglyphics graced,
His canonized bones they placed,
And sanctified the ground;
And holily they sprinkled o’er
His grave, as sung the pious choir.

Requiem Second.

1.

When death meets the chieftain ’midst victory’s hum,

His fall is deplored by the trumpet and drum;

But softer the music, and warmer the sighs,

That waft pious soul’s to their throne in the skies.

2.

O drear were our walks in the shadow of death,

Till the star of Balclutha illumined our path!

Like the planet of Bethel it gilded the night,

Till it set in a halo of heavenly light.

3.

Let bay deck the turf where the saint lowly lies,

Like the symbol we scatter, his leaf never dies;

For his fame in its innocence beauteously ’ray’d,

Like the rose-bud of Jericho, never will fade.

XXXIV.

The dying sounds had scarcely ceased,
The prayer, half-mutter’d by the priest,
When round, the congregated crowd
Was parted like the thunder-cloud;
Some grasp the sword, some couch the lance,
Backward recoil, or firm advance;
Then quiver’d as with earthquake’s shock
St Baldred’s cradle in the rock,
And Whitberry’s rugged point was broke;
And, lo! (as old traditions’ say)
That boat of stone in Aldham’s bay,
Yclept the Saint’s, was seen to sail
As chaff before the mountain gale;
And all beneath fair Preston’s fane
The Tyne began to boil amain!
Until it foam’d o’er Linton linn,
Whence rose that loud horrific din,
As if another Tityus lay
Chain’d with the vulture at his heart,
Wailing his soul in groans away
O’er agonies that must ne’er depart!

XXXV.

A knight comes on a lofty steed,
With spear reversed and helmless head,
A branch of olive in his hand.
The bishop bids the mourners stand,
When lighting by St Baldred’s side,
“A boon! a boon!” the warrior cried,
Craving to see the illustrious dead,
As if affiance he might trace
In the old man’s pale ghastly face;
Then roll’d his eyes from earth to heav’n,
Swore, as he hoped to be forgiven,
That, lately, on the Flemish shore,
He met the saint in Antwerp’s choir,
What time the vesper prayers were said:—
“Nay, father! do not doubt my word,
“I do not deal in gasconade,
“But wear a still untainted sword,
“That ever is unsheathed for God,
“Aye ready at the church’s nod;
“Behold my doublet’s lightsome sheen,
“It once was dervise-pennon green,
“Hard won in Canaan’s holy land,
“When combating the Jews accurst;
“To mount the breach with sword or brand
“St Baldred knew I was the first!
“And thrice he blest me where I stood,
“And thrice he sign’d the holy rood;
“Then press’d my hand—it felt like flame—
“Behold! it left his hallow’d name!
“And now I come this boon to crave,
“That I may lower him in the grave,
“That some last relic you’ll bestow,
“’Twill bear me foremost ‘midst the brave,
“’Twill raise me when my arm is low!”
The bishop waved his hand on high,
And gave propitious reply—
“Gentle knight, thy claim is won;
“Priests and mourners! onward, on!”

XXXVI.

The sun, beyond the Pentland’s ridge,
Had given the skies a rainbow hue,
When crossing Tyne on osier bridge
The crowd the funeral’s march pursue;
The evening dews are falling chill,
The mountain cock with crimson eye,
And jetty wing, has sought the hill
Where mists are shadowing far the sky;
While in the skirts of Lammermoor
The tod peeps from his den secure,
And sees afar the dusky crowd
Move on, like summer’s passing cloud,
In slow and stately majesty,
When scarce a breeze is wafting by;
And as they pass near ancient Cnolle,
Fair Preston’s bell begins to toll,
For they have almost reach’d the goal
Of this eventful day;
And, as by winding Tyne they turn,
Clearer the funeral torches burn,
Seen through the twilight’s grey.

XXXVII.

They have made St Baldred’s grave
Under Preston’s sculptured nave,
Where forgotten ’scutcheons wave
Of those who’ve pass’d away!
Gentle space, and mossy stone,
Tell of him who dazzling shone
The meteor of his day!
He, whom nations could not bound,
Lies in a few feet of ground!
And he, whom kings wou’d bleed to save,
Will lie forgotten in the grave!

They have borne the saint’s last pall,
And placed his statue in the wall;
Dust to dust the bell is tolling,
As it must toll for all;

While through the aisles the anthem’s rolling,

Lovely in its dying fall,
Fanning, with melodious breath,
The solitary house of death!

Requiem Third.

1.

The waves lie smooth when storms have fled,
Beneath St Abb’s high rocky head;
The green-capp’d islands of the deep
Are lovely when the breezes sleep,
Viewless upon their beds of balm;
But, ah! this is a treacherous calm!
For here the dove no rest can find
While storms are lingering in the wind.

2.

The fairest scenes of earth’s dull round
Trail their dark shadows on the ground;
The thorny rose—the honied sting—
The winter’s cold—the blight of spring:—
While Love’s chill frown, and Hope’s deceit,
And Friendship changing oft to hate,
Prove that the dove no rest can find
Where man to man still proves unkind.

3.

Beyond yon bright cerulean skies
Elysium’s land of promise lies:
Her sun no clouds are ever shading;
Her fruits and flowers are never fading;
Her hearts are pure as those that bear them,
The blight of sin cannot come near them:
Oh! there the dove its rest may find,
And taste that heaven at least is kind.

XXXVIII.

Thus closed the quire their lyric strain,
In sounds that oft were woke again;
For still the requiem’s notes were sung,
The echoes of the aisles still rung
The chanted dirge—the fervent prayer
For him who lay embalmed there.

Since then these shores have never seen
So much funereal pomp and show,
Save when the priests of holy mien,
Wander’d o’er Soutra’s chilly brow,
In fair Melrose’s shrine to place
The relics of the great De Vaux,
To sleep with many a nameless race
Till Heaven’s own awful trumpets blow!

XXXIX.

Still on the Hebrew’s purim day,
(That day that tells of Haman’s fall)
In after ages, blithe and gay,
Was held St Baldred’s festival.

At earliest morn the swains would go
To deck his loved and hallow’d shrine,
With blooming bay and misletoe,
Cull’d from the daisied banks of Tyne.

The chapel’s Saxon windows dight
So artfully with boughs were drest,
That tuneful birds, decoyed, would light,
To build their temporary nest.

But now the yellow crocus flower
Sprouts blooming on the breast of Spring,
And blithe in every shady bower
The minstrels of the forest sing;

While, Tyningham! thy chapel bell
Is heard no more these shades among;
For, Time, alas! has ceased to swell
The saintly Baldred’s funeral song!

END OF PART FIRST.

SAINT BALDRED OF THE BASS.
PART II.

The Pilgrimage.

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.—Sir W. Scott.

I.

’Tis Autumn—golden Harvest crown’d
Upon his throne of sheaves sits smiling;
The farmer’s feast goes gaily round,
His summer’s ardent toils beguiling:
When tired of the world’s bustling scene,
I seek the flowery fields again,
To snatch a pleasant holiday
Before their lustre die away;
To tread once more by rural Tyne
A pilgrimage to Baldred’s shrine;
Another votive wreath to shed,
Like hapless poet’s, soon to fade!

II.

In Tyningham’s delicious woods
Her early song the milk-maid sings,
While from the deep’ning solitudes
The spotted plover upward springs;
The woodlark, on the lofty spray,
Pours forth the soul of harmony;
The shrill-toned linnet, in the bush,
Chimes music with the mellow thrush;
And nameless birds of speckled wing,
And golden hues, their offerings bring,
To hail the pilgrim as he gleams
By coppiced woods and shaded streams;
And as I blithely pace the mead,
Fresh with the morning dew,
The flowery carpet which I tread
Glistens with glassy hue;
Enamour’d of the cloudless day
Each floweret woos the sunny ray:
Here, gleaming through its mossy hair.
The wild-rose waves in scented air,
While blue-bells hang their star-like gems,
And pinks and cowslips scatter’d near,
In nature’s varied colours clear,
Gleam lovely on their dewy stems.
Above, arcades tower o’er my head
Like sculptured arches wove on high,
Which round a solemn grandeur spread,
Veiling with clouds of leaves the sky.

III.

Where, shining through the flowery glade,
The mouth of Tyne translucent streams,
Within a lilac covert’s shade
St Baldred’s shrine romantic gleams.
Two Saxon arches still remain;
But, Time, alas! with viewless hand
Completes the labours of the Dane,
And triumphs o’er the brand:
For thou didst feel the shock of war
When fiery Anlaf storming came,
And horrid shrieks were heard afar
As church and town were given to flame.
Alas! that vengeance did not fall
Upon the minstrel-muffled Dane,
When harping bold in Brunsbury hall
He stood before King Athelstane:

Had the snake been crush’d in its gilded fold,

The tide of war might have backward roll’d.

IV.

In this fair mansion of the dead,
Where rests illustrious Hamilton,
’Neath arched niche, with pillowed head,
A statue lies of sculptured stone,
The image of a lady fair,
Whose hands are claspt in silent prayer.
The blessed lamb kneels at her feet—
The lady of Tyningham we greet;
Or, borrowing tradition’s tale,
Shall we the form of Baldred hail?

V.

This were the sweetest spot below
For saint or anchorite to repose;
So mild the morning breezes blow,
So calm the summer evening’s close;
Here, seated in mosaic grot,
With scrip, and book, and rosary,
Devotion, by the world forgot,
Might charm the leaden hours away,
Could man, to reason’s dictates true,
His wayward passions e’er subdue!

VI.

Old Tyningham! thy nut-brown ale
In reaming bumpers flowing,
Once roused the woodman’s sober tale,
And set his heart a-glowing;
Around yon elm, with nimble feet,

They danced—conversed—where green-boughs wave;

The tree which screen’d from summer’s heat,
Now shades their viewless grave!
Thy ancient village, stone by stone,
Removed—its rural inmates gone!
But oft a mossy stone appears
Amidst the leafy solitude,
That marks, where met in other years
The aged tenants of the wood.

VII.

The cheering sea-breeze fans my cheek,
As o’er the thick-strewn furze I seek
A pathway to the glorious ocean,
Whose waters glow in peaceful motion;
Spreading wide her whit’ning wings
The startled seagull soaring springs,
And mingles in the clouds away
As morning melts into the day.
And now I stand on Whitberry’s steep,
And gaze upon the mighty deep,
Where trembles ’neath the wild wave’s shock,
St Baldred’s cradle in the rock;
On which his venerable form
Once rode the billows of the storm.

VIII.

Far, in the blue haze, dimly seen,
I view the beacon-beaming isle,
Stretching its sides in waves serene,
Like a gaunt rugged crocodile
Bathed in the waters of the Nile;
While farther on the horizon’s line
The Fifean shores in shadows shine;
And as through tansied meads I fly,
New images burst on mine eye;
For, hark! the wild bee leaves the flower,
And pilots me to Aldham’s tower.

IX.

Aldham! the wall-flower’s scented bloom
Gleams lovely on thy turrets grey,
And, like the rose strewn on a tomb,
A fragrance sheds around decay.
No more before thy gates is heard
The herald’s trump; thy stable-yard
Is empty now, and netted o’er
With weeds, and hingeless stands each door;
No harps are murmuring in the hall;
No armour glittering on the wall;
For gone are knight and seneschal,—
The voice of man is dumb!
And nought but ghosts, so gaunt and tall,
At dreary midnight come,
Denouncing vengeance on the spade
That gave to levelling Time its aid;
For Aldham church is gone!
Nor bust nor cipher left to show,
Where death has laid the mighty low.
Time does not spare the mundic urn,
The ruthless ploughshare robs the worm,
O man to fortune blind!
Despite what power and art devised,
The saint whom nations canonized
Is scatter’d by the wind.
But let me leave this darker scene,
And seaward hold my course again,
While brighter scenes before me rise,
Where yon high rock in grandeur lies.

X.

Proud Bass! amidst the crystal sea
Thou’rt like a fairy-haunted isle,
Now echoing blithe the sportsman’s glee,
Now bright with Beauty’s radiant smile.
Upon the wave right glad we hail
Thy rugged face, and strike the sail;
And land upon thy rocky shore,
Stunn’d by the breakers rising roar.
Escap’d the perils of the deep,
We almost kneel to kiss thy steep.

Alas! we may not mark the spot
Where stood the hermit’s holy cell;
Its sacred precincts are forgot,
And if we find his crystal well,
’Tis but the stubborn truth to tell
That streams and rocks remain the same—
Man rather makes the change of scene
Than nature; for she shineth now
With birds in many a snowy flock,
As bright as when the priest did bow
Before the altar of the rock!—

XI.

Here Pleasure steers her painted barge—
Joy smiling on the prow;
And soon her votaries roam at large
On thy romantic brow;
Now gazing o’er the dark-blue sea,—
Now seated on the ground,
The cold collation circles free,
While every heart is big with glee,
And jests are passing round;
And as the malt foams by in tides,
Droll Humour holds his shaking sides;
While on their feet, a joyful band
Tread lightsome measure, hand in hand,
To the violin’s dancing voice,
Mellow’d with the flute’s deep tone,
That bids them, while they may, rejoice,
For Pleasure’s blossoms soon are blown.

XII.

Here, oft the boatman rests his oar,
While o’er the rock the fowler hung,
Like the bold youth of Kilda’s shore,
Descends to seek the solan’s young.
That bird, which on gigantic wing,
Like Cormorant, delights to soar,
Then downward makes her deadly spring,
Unfathom’d waters to explore.
Wo to the silvery shoals that lie
’Neath the bright lustre of her eye,
When, like a shark, she cleaves the wave,
To make—but not to find a grave.

Where fissures in the rock are riven,
Birds cluster thick as stars of heaven.
The tarrock shines, like snowy speck;
The pewit gleams with dusky neck;—
The puffin with her crimson bill,
Deem’d sacred by the lone Kurile,
Beholds the fishers shooting by,
And mimics man with mournful cry.
Till, hark! explodes the thund’ring gun,
And feathery myriads veil the sun;
Unnumber’d as the flakes of snow,
When drifting gales o’er Soutra blow.

XIII.

This rock! where Pictish chiefs held sway,
Was patriots’ boast of latter day;
Men, who, by Freedom’s watch-word led,
With Wallace for their country bled;
First to oppose tyrannic laws,
The last to leave their sovereign’s cause.
Would’st thou inquire the honour’d name
For whom the muse her meed would claim?
Go to North Berwick’s aisles elate,
And read of Lauder good and great!
These ancient lairds did long retain
The Bass. The solan was their crest,—
And much they loved her lofty nest,
Which kings had coveted in vain.
“I’ll hae my auld crag back again!”
Said Lauder to his lord’s request:
“But come ye here in weal or woe,
“My sword is ready for your foe;
“As erst, in treason’s gloomy hour,
“On faction’s billows wildly driven,
“My holde did shelter Scotia’s flower,
“When from its parent stem ’twas riven.”

XIV.

Proud rock! thou’st seen a motley race,
Since here St Baldred rear’d his cell;
Like shadows o’er thy rugged face,
I see their forms around me swell:
There gleams the Pict a warrior brave,
And Covenanter plodding grave;
And murderous Pirate, bath’d in gore,
Frowning defiance on the shore;
Where silken-streamer’d barges flock,
Plied dusky chiefs in light carrock;
And where the modern villa glows,
Huts like the Indian wigwam rose;
And lands were bleak where tempest’s scowl’d,
And monsters ‘mid the brushwood prowl’d;
In marshes deep the otter play’d,
Lit by the vapour’s deadly shade;
Till culture on the ploughshare smiled,
And gardens glitter’d in the wild!—
Ere Meikle, with inventive mind,
Abridged the labours of mankind.
Man also changed;—’twas but in name
His selfish passions were the same!
With more of specious shew and art
He bore conceal’d a savage heart!
Was there in Goran’s gloomy reign
A darker page, of redder stain,
Than that which British annals show’d,
When persecution’s torches glow’d,
And men were at their altars shriven,

Because, as conscience bid, they worshipp’d heaven!

XV.

Then Scotia wept, on Bothwell’s plain,
O’er her lone Covenanters slain;
Her zealous clergy chased abroad,
(Deem’d martyrs in the cause of God,)
Before the fierce militia fled,
Denied a home to rest their head;
But as the harmless fawn will bay
When hope has left him for dismay,
So, in affliction’s furnace school’d,
The blood grew warm that might have cool’d,
And firmer for their rights they stood,

And burst their chains though link’d in blood;

Then in the Bass’s dungeons strong
Was pouring Babel’s captive song;
And kiss’d their bonds those sterner few,
Whom threats nor torture could subdue.
Peden, who, with prophetic eye,
Did Bothwell’s fatal fight descry;
Brave Earlston (of Gordon’s line,)
Whose sword sharp-edged for Christ did shine;
Hogg, Rule, and Erskine, men of yore,
Who Scotland’s pulpit honours bore;
And Blackadder, whose pious toil
Resembled his of Patmos isle,
Till, like the dove that found no rest,
He sought in heaven a peaceful nest.

XVI.

Farewell! the pilgrim seeks the shore,
Once more we ply the sounding oar;
And as I leap upon the strand,
By Fancy’s form-creating wand,
Their watch the warders keep,
As by Tantallon’s towers I stand,
That crown the wave-worn steep;
Fair Clara waves her hand on high,
While lordly Marmion gallops by;
Till rising, like a warrior’s ghost,

I see the Douglas’ form in awful shadows lost!

Here, like some veteran seared with scars,
The castle’s front appears sublime,
Which braved the brunt of civil wars,
As now it mocks the siege of time;
For, jealous of proud March’s power,
The Douglas built this mighty tower;
And soon that baron held command
O’er the most powerful of the land;
His country’s friend, his sov’reign’s dread,
From royalty he ask’d no meed,
Save that applause his bosom gave,
Turbulent as the Pentland’s wave!
Now bell’d the cat at Lauder bridge;
Now bearded James on Stirling’s ridge;
With haughty heart, unknown to yield,
Stubborn as that upon his shield;
For he whom thousand hearts obey’d,
Ill brook’d when wavering monarchs sway’d;
But when the sound of Southron’s horn
Among his native valleys ran,
All private feuds were held in scorn,
And mighty Douglas led the van;
As witness Cheviot’s fatal fray,
As witness Flodden’s bloody day;
The Stuart never held command
O’er truer heart and firmer hand.

XVII.

Near to Tantallon is a spring,—
St Baldred’s well
The maidens tell,
Where birds will dip their charmed wing,
And more melodious sing.
As the parch’d Arab sips the brook
Devotedly, a draught I took,
When all was shining as a dream,
And round romantic forms did teem.
Methought I saw a beauteous maid
Steal softly from the greenwood shade,
And, as she knelt her rosary counting,
Thus spake the spirit of the fountain:

Spirit.

Maid, why lov’st thou Baldred’s spring?
Does its sedge-crown’d waters bring
Forgetfulness, like that dull stream
That sooth’d the Grecian’s noonday dream?
Do its fallings, whispering near,
Charm thy love-enchanted ear,
And with the music of its voice
Bid thy parched heart rejoice?

Maid.

Stranger! in that font I trace
Sorrows in my faded face,
Where, within its waters clear,
Brighter shadows did appear,
When like dryad, young and fair,
I lean’d to busk my bridal hair,—
Bridal hair that ne’er was tied;
The morn arrived—the bridegroom died!
Now, I deem some spirit dwells
In that fountain’s crystal wells,
Where the echoes of a voice
Bid me still, rejoice! rejoice!
Since life’s short and stormy day,
Like noiseless waters, steals away,
Till on heaven’s bosom it doth lie,
Mingled with Eternity.

XVIII.

I woke, but, lo! this vestal maid
Had vanish’d to her native shade;
When leaving Baldred’s sacred rill,
And winding round by Hamer’s hill,
Beside her ancient church I stood,
And the blithe priests of Holyrood
Came, marshalling, in merry mood.
But soon they flit, an aerial train,
Like rustling of the wind;
And, though the harp’s lone chords complain;
Deign not to look behind.
I sought St Mary’s chapel fair,—
The holy font was dry!
No priests were there to mutter prayer
For pilgrim passing by;
All, tomb-like, was her silent quire,
As when the ruthless Edward came,
And gave, in retributive ire,
The lady’s white-robed church to flame,
When on these shores he saw his navy driven,

And strove with mortal arm to strike at heaven!

XIX.

To Binning Wood I wander’d on,
Where leafy labyrinths darkly shone;
I walk’d upon enchanted ground,
’Neath boughs that clustering met around,
Where a lone flowery circle spreads
In beauty. Fays their small harps sound
Reclining on their violet-beds,
When here in moonlight hours they meet
Beneath the fox-glove’s purple bell,
To shake their soft elastic feet,
As loves, unearthly deem’d, they tell.

And, O! ’tis sweet among these bowers
The blushing hermit-rose to seek;
For still this lovely queen of flowers
Reminds me of Maria’s cheek;
While sylvan spirits hover bland,
And verdant deck the lady’s shrine
Who bade these canopies expand,
In Gothic-fashion’d wreathes to twine.

XX.

In spiral clouds, through holly’s green,
The meadow-hamlet’s smoke I spy,
As hastening, ere the fall of e’en,
To Preston’s sacred shades I fly;
While playful in my path appears
The house-dog pricking up his ears,
And rosy boys that struggling seek
Who first a parent’s name may speak;
And, as expression warms each face,
Rush fondly to their sire’s embrace.

Short greetings were as shortly made,
When winding by the river’s shade,
Where fertile pastures shine,
I stood by Baldred’s noisy wheel,
Where, serpent-like, the waters steal
Bright, through the groves of Tyne.
I sought in Preston’s holy fane,
But all my search was given in vain
To find his sacred shrine;
Here wakes no midnight anthem’s swell,
No croslet mark remains to tell
Where the saint’s relics lie;
For time, alas! long since has thrown
Oblivion o’er the moulder’d stone,
And veil’d it from the eye!
The moralist may homeward turn,
The futile works of man to mourn;
If mean and lowly be his lot,
The great alike will be forgot!
If earthly glory dims his eyes,
Here let him ponder, and be wise!

END OF ST BALDRED.

NOTES TO SAINT BALDRED.

Introductory Stanzas.

1.

Stanza i. page 9.

Here ocean’s waves usurp the rural scene,

And the blue waters gird the mountain’s zone,

Where spread of yore the verdant blooming plain.

There are some ingenious observations on the sea-coast, in the appendix to the Agricultural Survey of East Lothian, wherein the writer supposes that the ancient fortress of Tantallon, which is now nearly insulated, once stood at a considerable distance from the sea. He imagines that the perpendicular shore on each side of the castle, which consists for the most part of soft earth, and upwards of two hundred feet in height, leads the mind back to the time when this shore ended in a gentle slope, and extended greatly beyond the Bass.

2.

Stanza v. page 11.

Where breezes creep

O’er Fidrey’s sacred isle.

As early as the reign of William, a chapel stood on the isle of Fidrey, near the shore of Elbotle, (now forming part of the parish of Dirleton,) dedicated to St Nicolas. The ruins still remain.

3.

Stanza v. page 11.

The sea-calf roll’d by,

Forsook her briny pool, and lick’d the patriarch dry.

Bede relates of St Cuthbert, that when on a visit to the Abbess of Coldingham, one of the monks having discovered that the saint left the monastery in the night, had the curiosity to trace his steps, when he discovered him on the sea-shore, standing up to the neck in water, where he spent the hours in prayer till the time of the morning devotions. Having retired from the waves, two sea calves came forth from the sea, and, approaching the saint, warmed his feet with their breath, and wiped them dry with their skins, after which, on receiving his benediction, they retired to the deep.

4.

Stanza viii. page 13.

He also taught

To rear the rustic dome, which, formed of stone,

Fair architecture to perfection brought.

Fenan, the successor of Aidan at Lindisfarn, built a church in the Scottish fashion, of beams and planks of oak, covered with reeds, which in those times was judged fit for the seat of a bishop.—See Bede, book iii. chap. 25. The splendid cathedral of York, which is esteemed the largest and most magnificent in Europe, owes its origin to a church built hastily of wood about the time of this poem, and dedicated to St Peter. These rustic houses of prayer were held in such veneration, that afterwards, as was the case with York Minster, when churches of stone began to be built, they commonly comprehended the old fabric within their walls. From various passages in Bede, it appears that the monks employed their leisure hours in the cultivation of agriculture and of the arts. Easterwin, colleague of the abbot of Weremouth, though a man of noble birth, and who had been the minister of King Egfrid, yet having abandoned secular affairs, he sought not to be distinguished from the other brethren, but would fan, grind, milk cows or sheep, guide the plough, beat out iron, work in the bakehouse, &c., and employ himself in any business relative to the monastery as an example to others.—See Border Hist. Scot.

5.

Stanza ix. page 13.

And, fair, her house of prayer was seen to rise,

Where the Cistertian sisters loved to dwell,

Beneath the mighty shade of Lothian’s Alpine hill.

The ruins of the Cistertian nunnery of North Berwick stand on an eminence south-west from the town, and command a delightful view of the sea, the shores of Fife, the Bass, and an immense conical hill, called North Berwick Law, which rises at least 800 feet above the level of the sea. Of this nunnery there are three views in Grose’s Scottish Antiquities. It was consecrated to the Virgin Mary, and founded by Malcolm, son of Duncan, Earl of Fife, in 1216. Besides the patronage of the church of Kilconchar, granted to this place by the Earls of Carrick, and other advowsons, Dame Isabel Home, daughter to Alexander Home of Polwart, prioress of this nunnery, gave to her kinsman, Alexander Home, in feu, the teind sheaves of Largo church in Fife, in 1532; and Dame Margaret Home, her successor, and daughter to the same family, gave a tack of the parsonage-teinds of Logie, in the diocese of Dunblane, to Sir Patrick Home of Polwart and his heirs, in 1555.—See Spotswood’s Acct. Religious Houses. But Sir James Dalrymple states, that the elder Earl Duncan, who died in 1154, was the founder, whose father gave to the monastery the lands of Muthritht in Fife, and other lands, which were confirmed by King William, as also those of Kirkamstown, and of two hospitals. The church had been originally the cell or kirk of a religious person, called Campston.

At the Reformation the revenues of the nunnery were converted by operation of law into a lordship for Sir Alexander Home, a favourite of James VI. At this epoch the nunnery was inhabited by eleven nuns, who had each L.20 a year.—See Caledonia, vol. ii. p. 506.

A picturesque ruin stands on a sandy eminence, near the harbour of North Berwick. The adjacent ground seems to have been a burial place, from the number of human bones scattered around.—Grose.

At Elbotle and Golyn there were also convents of Cistertians; but what may appear remarkable, these cells belonged not to North Berwick, but to South Berwick.

6.

Stanza xi. page 14.

Methinks, oft gazing o’er Bodotria’s tide,

King Brude and Baldred sat in cavern’d shade.

Bodotria Æstuarium, the mouth of the Frith of Forth.

NOTES TO SAINT BALDRED.
PART I.

1.

Stanza i. page 17.

While torch-light reddens the lone cave,

And brightens every paler face.

Boece describes the Bass as “ane wounderful crag, risand within the see, with sa narro and strait hals (passage) that na schip nor bait may arrive bot allanerlie at ane part of it. This crag is callit the Bas; unwinnabill be ingine of man. In it ar coves, als proffitable for defence of men, as they were biggit be crafty industry.—Bellenden’s Boece, vol. 1. cap. xxxvii.—The ruins of the castle, or rather of later fortifications, still remain.

2.

Stanza iv. page 19.

White monsters in the Forth were seen
Disporting in the waters green,
With crested head, like horned owl,
O’erspread with film like Carmelite’s cowl.

“Ane multitude of fische was sene in Forth, the tane half of thame above the watter, na thing different fra the figour of man; callit, be the pepil, Bassinatis. Thir fische hes blak skinnis hingand on thair bodyis, with quhilk, sum time, thay covir thair heid and thair cragis, evin to thair schulderis. Quhen thir fische fletis in our seyis, thay signify gret infortuniteis to mortal pepill.—Ibid, vol. ii. 179.—These monsters were probably seals, or sea-dogs, which frequent the mouth of Tyne; but which now come and go without either breeding terror to man or murrain to cattle.

3.

Stanza iv. page 19.

And many saw pale Loda’s form

Gleam in his meteor-clad array.

“The spirit of Loda sat, in his cloud, behind the ships of Frothal. He hung forward with all his blasts, and spread the white-bosomed sails.”—Ossian.

Loda is supposed to be the ancient Odin of Scandinavia.

4.

Stanza vii. page 21.

The Priest of Garmilton
Loud spake, while from his eyes there shone
Radiance, like lightning from a cloud.

The priest of Garmilton, or Garleton, is an imaginary character; but from the writs of Garmilton it appears, that there was a chapel of St Mungo existed there in 1457.

1. “Foundation of William Tours and his spouse in honour of the altar of St Mungo, of an annual of ten merks yearly, out of certain lands in Haddington, January 3, 1457.

2. “An indenture betwixt Sir James Tours, and Walter Henderson, chaplain of the chaplainry of his chapel of Garleton, founded of St Mungo, May 26, 1534.

3. “Charter granted by Alexander Tours of Innerleith of the chaplainry of St Mungo, situate in Garleton-Noble, in favour of Finlay Hunter, of all and hail, a tenement of land in Haddington, dated last January 14.”—Heads of the Writs of Garmilton.

Near the chapel was a mineral spring, called, from the virtue of its waters, the Vertur Well. It was much resorted to by persons afflicted with scrofulous disorders.

Anciently there were two villages or hamlets at Garleton, called Garmilton-Noble (from William Noble,) and Garmilton Alexander (from Alexander II.) or Mid Garleton, now East and West Garleton. In 1507, the Garletons passed from Lindsay of the Byres to the celebrated Sir David Lindsay of the Mount, poet, and Lord Lyon King at Arms, during the reign of James V.; from him it was conveyed to John Tours, next to George, Earl of Winton; in 1720 to Sir Francis Kinloch, and in 1724 to the Earl of Wemyss.—The original name is evidently derived from Gar-mull-ton, the bare rocky town, which is applicable to its situation.

There was an old song in praise of Garleton, which Mr Skirving, author of the fine satirical song on the battle of Prestonpans, and the father of the celebrated painter of that name, was wont to sing, but I never heard more than the two first lines, printed in italics; the other lines I have added, to give some meaning to the verses:

The bonny parks o’ Garleton,
Their name ye ken, their name ye ken,
That lie beneath the Hanging Crags,
Where Cogtal’s gentle waters rin.

The bird that soars frae dawning morn
To pensive e’ening’s twilight fa’,
Beholds nae fairer fields than these
On a’ the earth’s terraqueous ba.’

O! meet me on the Lady’s Koowe,
When day glides o’er the Ochils hie;
Then crowns may deck the monarch’s brow,
While Love and Beauty stray wi’ me.

It is more than probable that St Kentigern or Mungo resided in this neighbourhood, as the chapel of Garleton is the only one which I have discovered, dedicated to St Mungo in East Lothian; and about a mile and a half from its site is a place still called Mungo’s Wells. I may conclude in the words of Chalmers, that “at the romantic foot of the Garleton hills stands the house of Garleton, which shows in its present ruins its ancient magnificence.”—For a strange story of an apparition, connected with this decayed mansion, see my notes on witchcraft, appended to the “Lost Drave,” in this volume; and for an account of the remains of a Pictish town or fort near this place, see notes to the “Vision of Hungus.”

While on this subject, I may be pardoned for introducing another ballad to the notice of the reader, of more importance.

David Lindsay, third son of Patrick, fourth Lord Lindsay and Byres, was killed at the battle of Flodden. Some of his tenants probably accompanied him to that fatal field, since the old song says,

“For a’ that fell at Flodden field,

“Rouny HOOD of the Hule cam hame.”

It were devoutly to be wished that more of this ballad could be recovered. The Hule now consists of a few cottages on the farm of Prora, in the parish of Athelstaneford. The epithet rouny seems here used as a term of reproach. Old Scottish nicknames commonly terminated with that syllable; as, custroun, a poor pitiful fellow, &c.—See Sibbald’s Glossary.

5.

Stanza viii. page 22.

I swear by Hadda-Chuan’s stone,

That storms are in the sky!

Yes, by the tempest saint I swear

Of green Iona’s Isle!

There was a chapel dedicated to St Columba in the isle of Troda, near the northernmost point of Sky, called Hunish. In Hadda-Chuan also, that is, Hadda of the Ocean, which is about two leagues distant from Hunish Point, there is another chapel dedicated to the same saint.

“It has an altar in the east end; and there is a blue stone of a round form on it, which is always moist. It is an ordinary custom, when any of the fishermen are detained in the isle, by contrary winds, to wash the blue stone with water all around, expecting thereby to procure a favourable wind, which the credulous tenant living in the isle, says, never fails, especially if a stranger wash the stone. The stone is likewise applied to the sides of people troubled with stitches, and they say it is effectual for that purpose. And so great is the regard that they have for this stone, that they swear decisive oaths on it.”—See Western Islands, p. 27, and Hist. Culdees, p. 184.

6.

Stanza xi. p. 24.

Each left the corpse, save that dark man
Cormac, from Aberlady’s shore,
Who, deem’d a cunning artisan,
Had left Kilspindie’s cells at dawn.

It has been conjectured that the Culdees had a cell near Aberlady. There are still visible the vestiges of a small chapel on the north-west corner of the church-yard. “Kilspindie, the place of their settlement, near Aberlady, (observes Chalmers,) is supposed to have derived its name from the Culdees; Cil-ys-pen-du, signifying, in the British speech, the cell of the Black Heads.”

Cormac, as regards the poem, is a fictitious personage; but while St Columba resided at the court of Brudi, King of the Picts, he met with the Regulus, or petty prince of the Orkneys, whose protection he solicited for Cormac, one of his disciples, whom he foreknew was on his way to the Western Islands.—Hist. Culd. p. 179.

I may add, with respect to this monk’s being deemed a cunning artisan, that in a monastery which St Mungo founded in Wales, “there were daily entertained six hundred three score and three persons, of which number three hundred were kept at some manual work within the monastery; other three hundred did labour in the fields, and practise husbandry; and the rest being appointed for divine service, had the day and night divided among them, so that there were some always in the church praising God.”—Spotswood, p. 11.

7.

Stanza xiii. page 25.

That hail’d the monk of Lindisfarn,

In friendship free—in virtue stern.

The introduction of the Bishop of Lindisfarn may in part be considered an anachronism; as, according to Chalmers, the epoch of this bishoprick did not exist till 30 years afterwards, when it extended over the ample range of Lothian, and continued till the decline of the Northumbrian kingdom. Tyningham belonged to this bishoprick, saith Hoveden.—Caledonia, vol. ii. p. 501. In King Duncan’s charter of grants to St Cuthbert, (who was successor to Aidan,) the following four places are mentioned: Tyningham, Aldham, Scuchale (Scoughal) and Cnolle (Knowes,) with Hetherwick and Brocesmouth.—Ibid.

8.

Stanza xv. page 27.

That hill, which in a latter day
By witchcraft near was borne away,
When the Gyre Carling strode the mast.

For an account of the Gyre Carling, the mother witch of the Scottish peasantry, see notes to the “Lost Drave” in this volume.

9.

Stanza xv. page 27.

Unlike St Serf, the church’s keel,

Who with his prayers the dragon slew!

The legend of St Serf is a specimen of the absurd tales that amused the ignorant in the early ages.

“In dovyn of devotyoune,

“And prayere he slwe a fell Dragowne.”

Wyntown’s Cronykil, book v. chap. 12.

St Mungo was the disciple of St Serf. The long conversation between St Serf and the devil in a cave at Dysart, is a valuable specimen of the theology and logic of that age: When Satan found he could not subdue the Saint,

“He sayd than,
“He kend hym for a wys man;
“For he wan at hym na profyte.”—Ibid.

Amongst other miracles related of St Serf, when he landed in Fife, on his way to Culross,

“Thare oure the wattyr he kest his wand,
“That suddanly grewe in a tree,
“And bare of appylys gret plente.”—Ibid.

The story of his favourite ram must not be passed over: On the thief being brought into the Saint’s presence,

“Soon he worthyd rede for schame,

“The schepe thar bletyd in hys wame.”

Wyntown’s Cronykil, book v. chap. 12.

10.

Stanza xvi. page 27.

When they beheld, as dropt from heaven,
That lone Aemonian,
The hermit of Inch-Colme’s isle.

The abbey of Inch-Colm was founded by Alexander I. about the year 1123; but it was dedicated to St Columba, abbot of Iona, and had formerly been possessed by one of his followers. Veneration for the memory of Columba is assigned as the reason of the royal foundation. It is said, that the king, when attempting to cross at the Queen’s Ferry, being overtaken by a violent storm from the south, urged the mariners to run into the isle Aemonia, where at that time lived a certain hermit, who, devoted to the service of St Columba, diligently attended to the duties of religion, contenting himself with such slender support as the milk of one cow and the shell fishes on the sea shore afforded. The king and his company being confined here for three days by the storm, were supported by these means; and, because from his youth he was attached to St Columba, and had vowed to him, when in danger of perishing by the storm, that, if he arrived safely at this island, he would erect some monument worthy of his memory, he afterwards founded and endowed the abbey here.—Vide Regist. Inch-Colm, 56.—See Hist. Culd. p. 187.

11.

Stanza xviii. page 29.

His zone with iron hoops was braced;
His buckler on his arm was placed:—
Now raising high his sounding lance,
He bade the trembling crowds advance.

“The Pict (says Herodian) has generally no use in apparel, howbeit the nobler sort of them do wrap their heads and wombs “in hoops of iron, esteeming this kind of attire, in such as wear the same, to be a token of wealth and riches. Besides shaving their nether lip, they painted over their bodies with the image of all kinds of beasts. They esteemed it a great glory to have these paintings seen, instead of other armour, with a short lance and narrow target or buckler. Their swords were tied to their naked sides with a thong; and as for jack, shirt of mail or helmet, they made no regard of them, because they would trouble them in swimming, or when compelled to wade.”—Holinshed’s Chron. The end of the Pictish lance contained a hollow bullet of brass, filled with small pieces of iron, which made a great noise when shaken.

12.

Stanza xxv. page 34.

To sail on heaven’s transparent streams

With Jhules, the angels of the air.

Jhules, a particular species of genii, which the northern nations worship on certain festivals: they are supposed to inhabit the air, and to have great power over human actions, yet are without form or substance. As the Picts are considered to have been a colony of Scandinavians, or more northern nations, it seems not out of place to introduce the objects of Teutonic superstition.

13.

Stanza xxvi. page 35.

Upon his right, with martial brow,

Appeared the young Prince Derili.

A clerical friend of mine is of opinion, that we may trace the etymology of Dirleton from Derili king of the Picts. If so, it establishes this beautiful domain as a royal residence of great antiquity. As the principal seat of the Pictish kings was situated on the Tay, on the opposite coast, its proximity to the shores of Fife might render it a desirable residence for a young prince, when it was more safe and expeditious to travel by sea than over a barbarous country.

Derili was the son of Brudeus, the patron of Kentigern, who was the instructor of Baldred. In the year 700, Brude V., the son of Derili, bestowed the island of Lochleven on St Serf and the Culdees residing there.—See Hist. Culdees, p. 131. According to Winton, there was another of this sirname, called Nectan Derly, who reigned in 716:

“Sevyn hundyr wynter and sextene,
Quhen lychtare wes the Virgyne clene,
Pape of Rome than Gregore
The secund, quham of yhe herd before,
And Anastas than Empryowre,
The fyrst yhere of hys honowre,
Nectan DERLY wes than regnand
Owre the Peychtis in Scotland.”
Wyntown’s Cronykil, vol i. book v.

14.

Stanza xxvi. page 36.

St Conwal, on his left, was led

By Asaph, soon to suffering bred.

Conwal and Asaph were both disciples of St Mungo.—Keith’s Cat. p. 232. The latter, like Baldred, was bishop and confessor, a title only given to those who, in spite of persecution, had adhered to the faith. Those who may be credulous of the self-inflicted mortifications I have ascribed to these early saints, may consult Swift’s Jocelin’s Life of St Patrick, p. 244. Their master, St Mungo, after he came to the years of understanding, never tasted flesh nor drank wine, but slept on the cold ground, with a stone for his pillow.—See Spotswood, p. 11.

15.

Stanza xxvii. page 38.

Then first by Aldham’s holy shade

The solemn pageant paused the while.

Aldham church was situated on the sea-cliff west from the village. Its ruins were visible in 1770, but have since been removed to make room for agricultural improvements. This church was said to be founded by Baldred. At Scoughall, a short distance eastward from Aldham, were also the remains of a chapel.

16.

Stanza xxxiii. page 42.

Eastward of Binning’s beauteous wood,

Stood Baldred’s mossy cell.

The church of Tyningham was founded by St Baldred in the sixth century. This chapel had the privilege of sanctuary; for Malcolm IV. granted to the monks of Kelso the church of Inverlethan, with the same privileges of that kind as Tyningham and Stowe enjoyed, both of which belonged to the see of St Andrews.—Chalmers’ Cal. vol. ii. p. 545.

The ruins of the church, which still remain, will be noticed in the subsequent pages.

17.

Stanza xxxiv. page 44.

Then quiver’d, as with earthquake’s shock,
St Baldred’s cradle in the rock,
And Whitberry’s rugged point was broke;
And, lo! (as old traditions say)
That boat of stone in Aldham’s bay,
Yclept the Saint’s, was seen to sail!

At Whitberry point, near the mouth of the Tyne, a deep fissure formed between two rocks, is called St Baldred’s Cradle, which tradition says elegantly, is “rocked by the winds and the waves.” A small rock at the mouth of Aldham bay is called Baudron’s (Baldred’s) Boat. See Introduction to the poem, p. 5.

18.

Stanza xxxvi. page 47.

And as they pass near ancient Cnolle,

Fair Preston’s bell begins to toll.

Cnolle (Knowes) is one of the places mentioned in the charter of King Duncan to St Cuthbert. As a living proof that it stands on holy ground, a field adjoining to the present farm house is called the Bishop’s Garden. Some years ago, the workmen of Mr Hunter, while giving a deep furrow to a field south from the house, came upon the remains of an ancient cemetery. It contained, in coffins, formed of stone flags, a number of human skeletons, placed in regular rows, with their feet to the east. From the ground occupied, it was calculated that six or seven hundred bodies may have been thus interred. As the teeth of those examined were entire, and the skeletons measured from four feet four to more than six feet, it was reasonably conjectured that they were the victims of a battle. This conclusion is strengthened from the circumstance, that, in a park, about half a mile distant, on the farm of Kirkland-hill, is one of those rudely sculptured perpendicular stones, which are commonly supposed to mark the scene of contention of an early period. A similar rude monument stands on the north side of Pencraik-hill; as also several in Athelstaneford parish, which I shall have occasion to notice in my notes to the “Vision of Hungus.”

19.

Stanza xxxvii. page 47.

They have made St Baldred’s grave
Under Preston’s sculptured nave—
They have borne the saint’s last pall,
And placed his statue in the wall.

The church of Prestonkirk is supposed to have been originally built for St Baldred; part of the ruins still remain contiguous to the modern fabric, which was built in 1770. The late Sir George Buchan Hepburn observes, in a letter to the author of Caledonia, that “Baldred’s statue lay long in the church-yard; and he had intended to have got it built into the church-wall; but, during his absence, an irreverent mason ignorantly broke it in pieces.”—Caledonia, vol. ii. p. 541.

An old intelligent carpenter told me, that this statue was similar to the one now lying in Tyningham church. It was called St Baudron’s; but was supposed to be the figure of some one who had left large endowments for ecclesiastical purposes.

NOTES TO SAINT BALDRED.
PART II.

1.

Stanza iii. page 55.

Where, shining through the flowery glade,
The mouth of Tyne translucent streams,
Within a liliac covert’s shade
St Baldred’s shrine romantic gleams.

The church, and the old village of Tyningham stood on the west side of the Tyne, about half a mile below the site of the present village. The latter terminated on the east by the side of an elm tree, and was removed for domestic improvements. The ruins of the church still remain, and consist of two beautiful Saxon arches, which are tastefully shaded with shrubbery, and have a picturesque appearance. This spot is now the cemetery of the noble family of the domain. Within the interior of the church there is a small niche, where three shields are sculptured in relievo. Below its arch a detached figure reclines, habited in a close gown, with hands claspt in the attitude of prayer. At the feet of this figure lies the symbolical lamb, originally holding the cross, which is broken away. The old carpenter formerly mentioned, told me that this statue, like that of Prestonkirk, was called St Baudrons. This, however, is evidently the statue of a lady.

2.

Stanza iii. page 55.

But, Time, alas! with viewless hand,
Completes the labours of the Dane,
And triumphs o’er the brand.

Anlaf, the Dane, spoiled the church, and burnt the village of Tyningham, in 941, which, Chalmers observes, is a very early notice of the kirk-town of this place.

“The fierce Dane

Upon the eastern coast of Lothian landed,

Near to that place where the sea-rock immense,

Amazing Bass, looks o’er a fertile land.”—Home’s Douglas.

While the workmen of the Earl of Haddington were, a few years ago, clearing the ruins of the church, they dug a considerable way in search of relics. About five feet below the niche formerly mentioned something like burnt ashes were turned up, but nothing further discovered. If the relics of the saint were, however, spared by the fiery Dane, while in search of plunder, it is not likely they escaped the mania of the early centuries for this precious merchandise, when the tooths, legs, and arms of the saints were enchased in silver, and bartered at a high rate.

3.

Stanza viii. page 58.

Far, in the blue haze, dimly seen,

I view the beacon-beaming isle.

The Isle of May, like the Bass, forms a conspicuous object in the Frith of Forth. David I. founded a monastery on the island, for the monks of Reading, in Yorkshire, to whom it originally belonged, and dedicated his benefaction to all the saints. It was afterwards consecrated to St Adrian, who, along with Glodian, Gaius, (or, as others write, Monanus,) archdeacon of St Andrews, and Bishop Stolbrand, were martyred here by the Danes. It was afterwards purchased by William Lamberton, bishop of St Andrews, from the Abbot of Reading; who, notwithstanding the complaints of King Edward, bestowed it upon the canons regular of his cathedral.—See Holinshed. Like Whitekirk, it was of old much frequented by barren women on pilgrimage.

This island was next granted in feu by Charles I. to Cunningham of Burns, for the purpose of erecting a lighthouse for the benefit of mariners. A tower of forty feet was built for that purpose. The first builder was cast away, in a tempest raised by witchcraft, while returning from thence to his house in Fife, for which some unfortunate old women were executed.—See Keith’s Cat. p. 238, and Grose’s Scot. Ant. vol. i. p. 81.

A lighthouse, upon an improved plan, with revolving burners, has recently been erected.

4.

Stanza x. page 60.

Proud Bass! amidst the crystal sea,

Thou’rt like a fairy-haunted isle.

This picturesque rock rises with a bold and rugged sweep, at least four hundred feet above the surface of the waters, and in the month of July looks like an enchanted island, where web-footed birds come to hold a jubilee. It is situated in the mouth of the Forth, about two miles from the shore, and is inaccessible except by a narrow passage in the west. The base of the rock is computed to be an English mile in circumference. From the depth of the water, extending from thirty to forty fathoms, its entire height may be estimated at six hundred feet. A cavern runs through the rock from east to west, which may be traversed at ebb-tide. It is dark in the centre, where there is a deep pool. While sailing on the south side of the rock, opposite the opening of this cave, it was truly delightful to contemplate its sublime scenery. The rock here appeared piled in tremendous masses, frowning over our heads, and scattered the restless waves as they rose against its rugged summits or washed its everlasting foundations, while myriads of sea birds sat secure and undisturbed on their lofty perches.

Besides the solan geese, which are its principal inhabitants, the Bass contains pasture for at least twenty sheep, celebrated it is said in the annals of gluttony; it has also a small warren of rabbits.

The best season for visiting the Bass is during the incubation of the geese, in the months of June and July. The most propitious time is shortly after sunrise, when the waves are calm, and the greatest variety of birds to be seen. An easterly breeze must be avoided, otherwise the visitor may expect a good ducking if he sails round the north side of the rock.

5.

Stanza x. page 60.

Alas! we may not mark the spot
Where stood the hermit’s holy cell;
Its sacred precincts are forgot.

About half way up the rock, a little below the old garden, is the remains of a chapel pretty entire, where the ammunition of the garrison was kept when the island was used as a state-prison for the Covenanters. The niches for the holy fonts show that it must have been built prior to the reformation of the church.

The Bass pays annually twelve geese to the church of North Berwick as part of the minister’s stipend.

6.

Stanza xii. page 61.

Here oft the boatman rests his oar,
While o’er the rock the fowler hung,
Like the bold youth of Kilda’s shore,
Descends to seek the solan’s young.

The solan are commonly taken in the month of August. This is effected by hoisting the fowler over inaccessible places of the rock, by a rope fastened to a girdle. The young birds are killed by striking them on the head, while the boatmen below are ready to receive them. This perilous employment is often attended with danger from the falling of loose stones. Some years ago one of the fowlers would have been buried under a ton-weight of fragments, had he not had the presence of mind to swing himself under a jutting crag, where he remained in safety till the mass rolled over his head.

7.

Stanza xii. page 62.

That bird, which on gigantic wing,

Like cormorant, delights to soar.

The solan resembles the cormorant and pelican, both in its manner of fishing, by diving from a great height, and the method of securing its prey in a dilatable pouch, of sufficient size to contain four or five herrings. The gannet or solan goose (the Pelecanus Bassanus of Linnæus) was supposed to breed no where in Europe save on the Bass, and the isle of Ailsa in the frith of Clyde; but they are also found on the Stark of Suliskerry, a holm or uninhabited island, a little to the south-west of the Orkney isles, and at St Kilda in the Hebrides.

8.

Stanza xii. page 62.

Wo to the silvery shoals that lie

’Neath the bright lustre of her eye.

The gannet also resembles the cormorant in its quickness of sight. It has a transparent membrane under the eyelid, with which it covers the whole eye at pleasure, without obscuring the sight, which seems a necessary provision for so weighty a creature, whose method of seizing its prey is by darting down headlong from a height of at least a hundred feet into the water. “They have a crane’s neck, and a strong sharp bill, about the length of one’s middle finger, with which they strike through their prey with such violence, that it often sticks in a board, baited with herring, so as they cannot pull it out again, and are catched by the inhabitants.”—Journey through Scot. 1723. Mr Pennant relates a similar story of one of these birds, which, when flying over Penzance, in Cornwall, saw some pilchards lying on a fir plank, upon which, darting down for the purpose of seizing them, it struck its bill through an inch and quarter plank, and was killed on the spot.

Holinshed observes, “Certes, there is nothing in this rock that is not full of admiration and wonder: therein is also great store of solan geese, (not unlike to those which Pliny calleth water eagles, or, as we say, sea herons,) and no where else but in Ailsa and this rock. At their first coming, they gather such great plenty of sticks and boughs together for the building of their nests, that the same do satisfy the keeper of the castle for the yearly maintenance of his fuel. Within the bowels of these geese there is a kind of grease to be had of singular force in medicine, and flaying likewise the skin from their bodies with the fat, they make an oil very profitable for the gout, and many other diseases in the haunches and groins of mankind. In this crag more there growth a herb very pleasant and delicious for sallads, but if it be taken up and planted elsewhere, it either groweth not, or utterly loses its virtues.

“There was some time a stone found here, much like to a water sponge or pumice, hollow on the one side, and of such a nature, that if any salt water had been poured thereunto, and suffered to run through, it would forthwith lose the natural saltness, and become very fresh and pleasant unto the mouth and taste. We hear in these days that this stone is to be seen in Fast Castle, whither it was brought after it had passed many hands for the trial of this matter.”—See Holinshed’s Chron. vol. i. introd.

9.

Stanza xii. page 62.

The puffin, with her crimson bill,

Deem’d sacred by the lone Kurile.

This remarkable bird is also a native of the Bass, and commonly goes by the name of the Tommy Nora. It is found, however, in greater plenty on the isle of Craig Leith, near North Berwick, where it takes up its abode in the rabbit burrows. When sailing round the rock on the summer evenings, the bird is heard to make a mournful noise, like a person crying Ah! ha! Its voice has been compared to a dumb person attempting to speak, or to the hum of a large spinning-wheel. This humming sound had a very pleasant effect, when, from the top of the Bass, we looked down on the myriads below, and heard it mingled with the chattering of the guillimot or skout, and the screaming of the sea-gulls.

The puffin is most celebrated for its bill, which is large and flat, with its edge upwards, partly ash-coloured and partly red, of a triangular shape, not unlike the coulter of a plough, hence the bird gets the name of Coulterneb. The Kamtschadales and Kuriles decorate their necks with the bill, which the priest puts on with an appropriate ceremony. While in possession of this amulet, they consider good fortune will attend them.

10.

Stanza xiii. page 62.

This rock! where Pictish chiefs held sway,

Was patriot’s boast of latter day.

The Bass was an ancient possession of the family of Lauder, who sprung originally from Lauder of that ilk, or Lauder Tower.—Nisbet’s Heraldry, vol. i. p. 344. According to Henry the Minstrel, Robert Lauder accompanied Wallace in many of his exploits. This family continued in a lineal descent till the reign of Charles I., when it merged into that of Lauder of Beilmouth. In the aisle of the lairds of the Bass, in the old church of North Berwick, a tombstone bears the following inscription, in Latin Saxon characters:—“Here lies the good Robert Lauder, the great laird of Congalton and Bass, who died May 1311.”

11.

Stanza xiii. page 63.

As erst in treason’s gloomy hour,
On faction’s billows wildly driven,
My holde did shelter Scotia’s flower,
When from its parent stem ’twas riven.

The Bass sheltered James, the infant heir of Robert III., in 1405, when it was judged expedient to send the young prince to France, to secure him against the dark intentions of the Duke of Albany. Henry Sinclair, Earl of Orkney, was appointed chief attendant in this voyage, and a ship was ordered to the isle of Bass to receive the young prince; but they had only proceeded to Flamborough-head, when they were captured by the English. Nineteen years elapsed before James saw the end of his captivity. While confined in Windsor Castle he wrote his poem of the King’s Quair.

The Bass was the last place that held out for James VII. in Great Britain. It was defended by a gallant officer, David, third son of James Blair of Ardblair, who afterwards went to France to his royal master, where he died.—See Douglas’ Baronage, p. 191. After the Revolution a desperate race of pirates got possession of it, who had a large boat, which they hoisted down at pleasure, and committed several piracies. Their boat being at length seized or lost, and not receiving their accustomed supply of provisions from France, they were compelled to surrender.

12.

Stanza xv. page 65.

Then in the Bass’s dungeons strong

Was pouring Babel’s captive song.

The Bass was purchased by the Crown from Sir Alexander Ramsay, soon after the Restoration, 1671, for £4000 Sterling, and converted into a state-prison during the reign of Charles II. and his brother James, where the western Covenanters, called Cameronians, were confined for being in arms against the king.—Trans. Scot. Ant.—It now belongs to Sir H. D. Hamilton, Bart.

Amidst a multitude of prisoners the most remarkable were, 1. Alexander Peden, of prophetic memory. While Peden was prisoner in the Bass, “one sabbath morning, being about the public worship of God, a young girl, about the age of fourteen years, came to the chamber-door mocking with loud laughter; he said, Poor thing, thou laughest and mockest at the worship of God, but ere long God shall write such a sudden and surprising judgment on thee, that shall stay this laughing, &c. Very shortly after that, as she was walking on the rock, a blast of wind swept her off to the sea, where she was lost.”

Another day, while Peden was walking on the rock, some soldiers passing by, cried, “The devil take him.” He said, “Fy, fy! poor man, thou knowest not what thou art saying; but thou shalt repent that. At which the soldier stood astonished, and went to the guard distracted, crying aloud for Mr Peden, saying, The devil would immediately come and take him away. Mr Peden came, and spoke to and prayed for the soldier, and next morning came to him again, and found him in his right mind, under deep convictions of great guilt. The guard being to change, they commanded him to his arms, but he refused; and said, He would lift no arms against Jesus Christ, his cause, and his people; I have done that too long. The governor threatened him with death to-morrow by ten o’clock. He confidently said, three times, ‘That though he should tear him in pieces, he should never lift arms that way.’ About three days after, the governor put him forth of the garrison, setting him ashore, and he, having a wife and children, took a house in East Lothian, and became a singular Christian.”—See Biog. Scoticana.

2. Thomas Hogg, minister of Kiltern.—Having contracted a severe dysentery, he petitioned the council for liberation, which Sharpe opposed, declaring that the prisoner was in a capacity to do more hurt in his elbow-chair, than twenty others travelling through the country; and if the justice of God was pursuing him, the clemency of government should not prevent it. Hogg was carried to a low, nasty dungeon, and in a short time recovered. When speaking of the arch-prelate afterwards, he jocularly said, “Commend him to me for a good physician.”—See Wodrow, vol. ii. and Hogg’s Mem. in Scots Worthies.

3. Gilbert Rule, minister at Alnwick. After the Revolution he became Principal of the University of Edinburgh, and colleague of Dr G. Campbell, professor of divinity. Dr Rule sat late at his studies, and Professor Campbell rose early, so that the candle of the one was often lighted before the other had finished his lucubrations. Their lodgings being at a little distance with opposite windows, the one went by the name of the Evening Star, and the other of the Morning Star.—Crichton’s Mem. Blackadder.

4. Alexander Gordon of Earlston, who was incarcerated in 1683. His father was slain when on his way to join the Covenanters at the battle of Bothwell Bridge. He is supposed to be the hero of the ballad written in commemoration of that fray.—See Minstrelsy Scot. Border, vol. ii. p. 89.

So Earlstoun rose in the morning,
An’ mounted by the break o’ day;
An’ he has join’d our Scottish lads,
As they were marching out the way.

“Now, fareweel father, and fareweel mother,
“An’ fare ye weel my sisters three;
“An’ fare ye weel my Earlstoun,
“For thee again I’ll never see!”

* * * * *

Then he set up the flag o’ red,

A’ set about wi’ bonny blue.[3]

After the battle, Earlston narrowly escaped being taken by the ingenuity of one of his tenants, who, knowing him when he was pursued through Hamilton, made him dismount, and having hid his horse’s furniture in a dunghill, dressed him in female attire, and set him to rock the cradle. On the 22d August, 1684, he was removed from the Bass and ordered for execution; but through the intercession of his friend the Duke of Gordon, his life was spared. He was thrown into Blackness Castle, where he remained till the Revolution.—See Scots Worthies, Fountainhall, Minstrelsy, &c.

And, lastly, John Blackadder, a lineal descendant of the house of Tulliallan, who died in 1685, after five years’ confinement. He was buried in North Berwick church-yard, where a handsome tombstone, with a suitable epitaph, has been erected to his memory. His Memoirs, by Crichton, have lately been published.

13.

Stanza xvi. page 66.

As by Tantallon’s towers I stand,

That crown the wave-worn steep.

Tantallon castle stands about two miles and a half east from North Berwick, on a high rock, overlooking the sea, which surrounds it on three sides. The greater part of the building remains in a ruinous state. The only approach is from the west, which was defended by batteries. It is said to have been built by the Douglases, when the overgrown power of the earls of Dunbar had awakened their jealousy.

The following curious etymology of the place is noticed in Blaeu’s Atlas, vol. i. p. 41. Two superintendents of the building, called Thomas and Allan, got permission from the lord of the castle to inscribe their names on a prominent part of the walls in Latin, which stood Tom et Allan: hence the country people called it the castle of Tam ’t Allan.

In 1528 this castle was held for some time against James V. The particulars of the siege may be found in Lindsay of Pitscottie’s Chronicle of Scotland.

John Rolland, author of a pedantic poem called the Seven Sages, resided here about 1544 or 1547. The time and place of composition are thus mentioned in the Epilogue:—

“So in seven weeks this quair was clene compleit,

Out of plaine prose, now keiping meters feit:

Within the fort and towre of Tamtalloun,

When the English fleat besyde Inchkeith did sleit,

Upon the sea in that great burning heate.

Both Scottis and Inglisch of Leith lay at the toun,

With scharp assiege, and garneist garisoun,

On ather sort quhair sundrie lost the sweit,

That same tyme I maid this translatioun.”

Sibbald’s Chron. vol. iii. p. 287.

During the protectorate of Cromwell, General Monk was detached with three regiments of horse and foot to reduce Tantallon. As the garrison held out, he caused the mortar-pieces to play for forty-eight hours; but these did little execution, till six battering guns being planted, they were so well managed, that the governor was compelled to submit. It was on the high ground, south from St Baldred’s well, where it is said the artillery was planted.

The following letter of General Monk is preserved in the burgh archives of North Berwick, which, on account of the singularity of its style, is worthy of being transcribed:—

“For my very loving friends the Magistrates of the Burgh of

North Berwick.

“Gentlemen,—Having a call from God and his people to march into England to assert and maintain the liberty and being of Parliament, our antient constitution, and therein the freedom and rights of the people of these three Nations from Arbitrary and Tyrannical usurpations uppon their considering persons and Estates, and for a Godly ministry, I do therefore expect from you, the Magistrates of the Burgh of North Berwick, That you do preserve the peace of Comonweal in yr Burgh, and I hereby authorize you to Suppress all Tumults, stirring and unlawful assemblies, and that you hold no correspondency with any of Charles Stewart’s party, or his Adherents, but apprehend any such as shall make any disturbance, and send them to the next Garrison, and do further desire you to assert, countenance, and encourage the Godly ministry, and all that truely fear God in the Land, and that you continue faithful to owne and assert the interest of the Parliamentary Government in yr several places and stations. I hope my absence will be very short. But I do assure you that I shall procure from the Parliament whatever may be for the good Government and relief of this Nation, and doubt not but to obtain abatements in your Assess and other public burthens, according to the proportion of England; and what further services I may be able I shall not be wanting in, what may promote the happiness and peace of this afflicted people. I shall not trouble you further but beg yr prayers, and desire you to assure yrselves that I am

Your faithful Friend,
And humble Servant,
George Monck.”

Edinburgh, 15th November, 1659.

“I desire that what is behind of the four months of the twelve months Assess may be in aread in sse against it be called for by the twelfth of December next.

I desire you to send me word to Berwick under your hands, how far you will comply with my desires.”

14.

Stanza xvii. page 67.

Near to Tantallon is a spring,
St Baldred’s well
The maidens tell.

About half a mile south west from Tantallon, a fountain well bears the name of the Saint.

15.

Stanza xviii. page 69.

And winding round by Hamer’s hill,
Beside her ancient church I stood,
And the blithe priests of Holyrood
Came, marshalling, in merry mood.

The parish of Whitekirk was anciently called Hamer, which in Saxon signifies the greater Ham; and may have obtained this appellation in contradistinction to Aldham. The church and manor of Hamer were granted during the twelfth century to the Monks of Holyrood-house. This Church was dedicated to the Virgin Mary, and from the whiteness of its appearance was called Whitekirk. During the seventeenth century, the parish was augmented by the annexation of Aldham; and in 1761 it was farther augmented by the annexation of the adjoining parish of Tyningham.—Chalmers’ Cal. vol. ii. p. 547.

Hither many pilgrimages were made. It was under pretence of a pious expedition to Whitekirk, in order to perform a vow which she had made for the safety of her son, that the Queen-mother cozened Crichton, the Chancellor, and carried off James II. in a chest to Stirling.—Hist. Culdees, p. 188. Tradition says, that Whitekirk was of old a celebrated place for the fattening of barren wives, who generally returned home (in one sense,) “as women wish to be who love their lords.” Immediately behind the church is a large house, now converted into a granary, where the unfortunate Queen Mary is said to have passed two nights.

On the hill above Whitekirk, a cairn of stones marks the grave of two persons who were slain at a conventicle, by a party from the Bass. This was probably the meeting held here in May 1678, which was dispersed by Charles Maitland, deputy-governor, when James Learmont and his brother, with one Temple, (from Dunbar,) were pannelled, 11th September 1678, for the murder of John Hay, who came with the King’s forces.

16.

Stanza xix. page 70.

While sylvan spirits hover bland,
And verdant deck the lady’s shrine,
Who bade these canopies expand,
In Gothic-fashion’d wreathes to twine.

To the sylvan taste of Helen, sixth Countess of Haddington, East Lothian is indebted for some of the finest plantations in Scotland. The horticulturist may consult “Treatise on the manner of raising Forest Trees,” Edin. 1761, or Douglas’ Peerage, vol. i. p. 683, for an interesting letter, dated Tyningham, Dec. 22, 1733, from Thomas, sixth Earl of Haddington, to his grandson, giving a history of the progress of these plantations, which arose under the cultivated taste of his lady.

This excellent person was only daughter to John Hope of Hopetoun, and sister to Charles, first Earl of Hopetoun. She died at Edinburgh in 1768, in her 91st year.

THE
SIEGE OF BERWICK;
OR, THE
MURDERED HOSTAGE.
A Tragedy.
IN FIVE ACTS.

PREFACE.

The dramatic sketch of The Siege of Berwick, is founded on a disputed passage of Scottish history, respecting the barbarous policy of Edward III. in putting a hostage to death. The silence of the English historians has been advanced as an argument against a deed, which was calculated to stain the chaplet of their favourite hero; a silence which must have arisen from obvious motives, and cannot be brought to bear against the testimony of Fordun and Winton, who lived at a period near enough to the time of action to have ascertained its truth.

Lord Hailes took considerable trouble to clear up the mystery that hung over this transaction; and the following extract, which he found in the Scala Chronica, besides bringing several curious circumstances to light, seems to establish the fact.

“The besieged entered into a treaty with the besiegers, and agreed to surrender the town, unless succoured before a certain day, and to that effect they gave hostages. Before the day thus limited, the whole power of Scotland, in astonishing numbers, crossed the river of Tweed one morning at day-break, at the Yareford, and shewed themselves before Berwick, on the south side of the river, towards England, in full view of the King and his army. They conveyed some men and provisions into the town, and remained on their ground all the day and the night following; and next day before noon, they removed into the territories of the King in Northumberland, burning and ravaging the country.

“The King’s counsellors required the town to be given up, as the term stipulated for their being succoured had elapsed. The besieged made answer, that they had received succours both of men and of provisions; and they shewed that there were new governors in the town, and also knights, who had been sent from their army. Sir William Keith was one, and there were others besides. It was the opinion of the English council that the Scots had forfeited their hostages, and therefore they caused the son of Sir Alexander Seton, governor of the town, to be hanged.”

“The narrative of Scala Chronica (observes his Lordship) appears in general to be authentic. From it we discover the solution of that difficulty in the accounts given by the Scottish historians, which hitherto has been inexplicable; namely, how Sir Alexander Seton could have been governor of the town of Berwick in July 1333, while it appeared from record, that at that very time Sir William Keith was governor.

“That parties contracting may agree to give some of their own number as hostages, to be put to death if the treaty is violated on their part, appears to be a proposition of more difficulty than is generally apprehended; but, that they may agree to give their children as hostages under such condition, is repugnant to every notion of morality; and therefore I neither pretend to justify Sir Alexander Seton for exposing his child to death, nor Edward III. for killing him.”—Lord Hailes’ Annals Scot. vol. ii. p. 384. 8vo edit.

While this tragedy was enacting, Seton felt all the compunctions natural to a father placed in such a horrible situation, where his duty to himself and to his country were both at stake; and, but for the heroic speech and conduct of his wife, whom Bellenden calls “a wise woman, above the spirit of man!” he would have surrendered the place. This lady acted quite in the spirit of a Spartan mother; but indeed this was the age of heroic ladies. Besides Christian Bruce, the defender of Kildrummy, and Agnes Randolph, the protector of Dunbar; Philippa, Queen of England, the Countess of Salisbury, and the Countess of Montfort, were all distinguished by those warlike exertions, which, we opine, might have been happily transferred from themselves to the rougher sex.

The mistake into which some historians have fallen in sacrificing two of the sons of Sir Alexander Seton, may have arisen from the circumstance of one of them being killed in an attack on the English shipping:

Williame of Seytown fawcht sa fast
Amang the schyppys, qwhill at the last
Hys fadyre, than cheftane of the towne,
Into the sea there saw hym drown.
Wyntown’s Cronykil, book viii. chap, xxvii.

Tradition, which delights to magnify objects, points to “two human sculls in the poor-house of Tweedmouth, which the oldest inhabitants of the village affirm to have been handed down from generation to generation, as the sculls of Sir Alexander Seton’s sons.”—See Fuller’s Hist. Berwick, Edin. 1799.

The eminence, where the execution took place, is situated on the south side of the river, about a hundred yards distant from a fishing water, formerly called the Pool, but since that event termed Hang-a-dyke Nook.

THE
SIEGE OF BERWICK;
OR, THE
MURDERED HOSTAGE.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

Scottish.

Patrick Dunbar, Earl of March, Governor of Berwick Castle.

Sir William Keith, Governor of the Town.

Sir Alexander Seton, Deputy-Governor.

Master Thomas Seton, one of the Hostages.

Sir Alexander Ramsay.

William de Prendergest.

The Mayor of Berwick.

Friar Adam.

Turnbull, a Champion.

Golding, } Soldiers of the Garrison.

Aubery,  }

Alan, and other Hostages.

Ambrose Carmichael, Town Fiddler, &c. &c.

Officers and Sergeants-at-Mace, Friars, Flemings, Old Man, Messengers, &c.

Lady Christian Seton.

Anna, her Maid.

The Gudewife of Auld Cambus.

Maggy Carmichael, the Fiddler’s Wife.

English.

Edward III., King of England.

Edward Baliol.

The Archbishop of Durham.

The Earl of Arundel.

Lord William Montague.

Lord Henry Percy.

Lord D’Arcy.

John of Hainault.

Sir Robert Benhale.

Thomas Rokesby, Esquire.

Irish Troopers.

Heralds, Officers, Archers, Executioner, Guards, &c.

Scene—Berwick, the English Camp at Tweedmouth, and the Lands adjacent.

THE SIEGE OF BERWICK.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

The Council Chamber in Berwick Castle.

[Flourish of drums and trumpets, and shouts heard without.

Enter Lord Dunbar, Sir William Keith, and Sir Alexander Seton, with attendants.

SETON.

The assault continues, and the gallant Ramsay
Fills up each deadly gap with volunteers,
Mocking all masonry.

KEITH.

Ne’er doth battle shew
A fiercer front, than when her gallant yeomen
Marshal in proud array to meet th’ invader,

And die or conquer for their church and homes,

Their wives, their children, and their loved firesides.

DUNBAR.

Well said! and, with the purest hospitality
To give the audacious foe an earthly bed
Cover’d with crimson drapery. What now, sir?

Enter Lieutenant.

LIEUTENANT.

My lords, the Mayor doth crave an audience.

DUNBAR.

Usher him in. He is an upright man,
A good, devout, and worthy citizen:
A person fitted for important matters;

But rather kind of heart for scenes like these.

Enter the Mayor of Berwick, with Ambrose Carmichael, his body servant, [whom the Officer in waiting interrupts,] accompanied also by four Sergeants-at-Mace.

OFFICER.

Back, fellow! How dare you intrude here?

AMBROSE.

Ambrose Carmichael, town-musician, town-crier, and grave-digger, at your service, sir; attendant on his honour, the Mayor. Respect the bear’s livery, and be civil. [The Mayor motions Ambrose to stand back.

MAYOR.

My lords, I almost dread to make my suit,
Because, before ’tis made, I read too well
Refusal in your looks.

DUNBAR.

Then, pray, good sir,

Let the said suit be made to fit the wearer.

MAYOR.

The city is in flames: The trembling burghers,

Upon their knees, intreat me to implore

That ye this fated city will surrender

Before their families fall beneath the butchery

Of the rude soldiers; and their little ones

Perish of hunger, or of worse disease.

DUNBAR.

My precious gormandizers, thus you come;

Oh! cannot your Pie-powder Court supply ye.—

(I’ve heard that ye will fatten on a bell-rope,) [Aside.

Has corporation dinners eat all up,
That thus you beard us in the face of war
With dread starvation, ere the fight’s begun?

[The Mayor, who is a tall slender-looking man,
standing erect.

MAYOR.

My lord, I surely do not look like that!

[Ambrose advancing, who is a plump little man.

AMBROSE.

Nor I, my noble lord, for my fatness comes from
my mother, rest her soul. My red complexion and
dumpling body to boot, comes from drinking nourishing
waters, as the parish clerk was wont to say, rather
than by eating gross meat from the shambles.

DUNBAR.

I suspect, fellow, thou hast not lived upon the Spittal

Spaw;[4] but be silent. Fools should not come here.

AMBROSE.

Fools will venture, my lord, where wise men dare
not enter, my lord! [Retires.

[To the Officer.] Why do you devour me with your
greedy eyes: didst thou ne’er see an honest man before?

MAYOR.

May’t please your lordship, ’tis no time for jesting;

O save the city ere it be too late!—
Not for myself I plead, but hapless wretches,
That run like bedlamites across the streets,

Shrieking for help; yet scarce know what they seek!

As they behold their all devour’d by fire
Lit by the glare of Ruin. For myself,
Could I shake off the manacles of age
That rivet every sinew, ye should see

Me first to mount the walls—the last to leave them.

Heard ye that shout without? I do beseech you,

With skill united, meditate our safety,

While I retire to keep the mob in order,

Lest, like the flames, they do destroy themselves.

Eternal Heav’n, why didst thou poise the world,

To hang it on such human wretchedness!

DUNBAR.

Retire, good man! and rein the brawling burghers,

While we delib’rate here, in secret council,
What best may suit the purpose of events!—
[Exit Mayor.

AMBROSE (aside.)

What a ravenous, rascally thing is war!—It pays no respect to persons, gentle or semple, lord or clown. In battle, as in the grave, we are all upon an equal footing at a short notice: so run, Ambrose, and keep at the tail of your master; as for poor Maggy, she must shift for herself, as the forester did when the bears devoured his wife and three sons, and he was left alone to cry out a Bare Week.[5]

[Exit Ambrose.

DUNBAR.

To council now, my honoured governors!

I move that we do seek a gentle truce,

Wer’t but to earth our dead; and for this purport

Seton goes envoy to the English camp,

To ask delay, while we await the issue:

Should the proud monarch grant this small request,

Keith goes to Bamburgh, to consult the Regent

What may be done.

SETON.

And on what terms shall I crave a truce,
Since haughty Edward will not grant delay,
Unless ’tis bought with obvious advantage?

DUNBAR.

That town and castle shall be render’d up,
Unless within six days we meet with succour;
But should two hundred men at arms succeed,
To cut a passage through the English host,
We stand relieved, and meet them man for man.

KEITH.

O sage in council as renown’d in war!
We shall abide, my lord, by your decision;
Plans wisely laid, must in maturity

Bear goodly fruit; meanwhile, remember, Seton,

To seek safe-conduct to Northumberland. [Exit Keith.

SETON.

Farewell, my lord, while I proceed to Tweedmouth

Upon this desp’rate mission. Heaven forfend
That it may meet the success its importance,
Big with the fate of Scotland, doth deserve;
God and St Andrew be our country’s help!
[Exeunt severally.

SCENE II.

Inside of a Hovel.

AMBROSE (solus)

Thank Heaven! there’s peace again since the blessed parley was sounded. Thrice blessed be the manes of the man who invented parleys; for they speak pleasantly to the ear of the soldier that has been long deafened with the din of war. They are like a sweet word from Maggy after a violent scolding. Why do you cry, Mag?

Enter Maggy.

MAGGY.

Woes me! they’re leading the poor lads down the Western lane like sheep to the slaughter, while their fathers are sobbing and their mothers are crying.

AMBROSE.

What poor lads, Maggy?

MAGGY.

The young hostages. Devil take that English tyke, and make a haggis of his bladder! I wonder if he has bairns of his own—and how he would like to see them led forth like two-month-old lambs. No doubt every body thinks their own crow the fairest!

AMBROSE.

Hush, Maggy, and shut your mouth, and talk lowly. There’s no doubt kings and emperors come into the world and go out of it like other folk, but they don’t care so much for their bairns as we do: seeing they get others to keep them, and teach them, and so forth. But it does not become either you or I to speak evil of authorities. Let us mind our own concerns. Do you hear that noise, honey?

MAGGY.

Let us run, Ambrose, and hide ourselves in the peat cellar, where we may pray in safety!

AMBROSE.

Get you there, while I seek the tail of my master; since, doubtless, the greatest savages in Christendom will respect the bear’s livery, and do no harm to the Mayor of Berwick. [Exit Ambrose.

MAGGY.

Then I’ll e’en go with you; since it is not meet that man and wife should be separated. [Exit.

SCENE III.

A Room in the Castle.

Enter Lord Dunbar.

DUNBAR.

I do not like the feature of this war,
That in the shadow of my mind appears
Too like the sun that rose on fatal Duplin,
A day to be deplored in Scottish annals.
This puppet Baliol is too well supported
By that baronial faction, that do serve
The side that suits their purpose. Honesty,

Alas! has been too long estranged from Scotland.

Am I not blamed for serving England too?
Why not?—The dazzling gewgaw of a crown
Seem’d once within my grasp; my claim as good
As Bruce and Cumyn; ay, and many more.
Was not my father’s grandam sister-in-law
To Henry Fourth of England? was not Bruce
My father’s cousin? Now for once I strive
To emulate the soul of glorious Randolph,
And serve my country with a duteous love:
Edward is in my debt! Did he not hire
The monk, that, like another Saxon Coppa,
Administer’d medicine in the shape of drugs

To the regent, Thomas Randolph, my wife’s brother,

Who yielded his dear life through this assassin,

When Scotland needed most his gracious aid;

I shall requite the king; but, hark! who comes?

Enter Keith and Seton.

Sir knights, so soon returned?

SETON.

Even so, my lord.

DUNBAR.

How speeds the mission?

SETON.

I’ve succeeded well,
But rather for the mission than myself;
Since a short truce is bought at a high price
For my soul’s comfort. England, as surety,
Demands eight hostages, ’mongst which my son
Is honour’d with a sorry precedence
In the devoted list. Three short, short days,
The utmost limits of this puny truce.
Heaven waft Sir William on the eagle’s wing,
And bring the Regent here with early succour;

For many a parent’s heart will throb till then.

DUNBAR.

I feel for thee, sir knight; but thy devotion

For this lost land by Heaven will be rewarded.

The deadly blast of war will soon blow o’er,

Then shall our warriors fill the goblet high

In honour of the chiefs who saved their country;

And our fair daughters, when to grandames grown,

Shall tell their children of their great grandsires

Who fought and fell at Berwick.

KEITH.

Be comforted, dear friend! what man can do

To bring relief in this sad strait shall I.

I’ll spur my steed, even to its utmost strength,

Until its coal-black sides are white with foam.

I only crave your pious dame’s best prayers
To aid me in my absence—time is short,
But summer days are long, and willing hearts
Travel like Mercury: my good lords, adieu!
[Exit Keith.

DUNBAR.

There goes as brave a knight as ever wore
A pair of gilded spurs, or e’er partook
The peacock’s royal feast.

SETON.

Yes! and I promise him two spurs of gold
Should he return in time to save the city
And those within its walls.

DUNBAR.

He reins a steed
Fresh from the desert, footed by the wind;
So, Seton, be of cheer.

SETON.

Time wears apace.—

I go to muster the young hostages,

For England’s monarch will not brook delay. [Exeunt.

SCENE IV.

A Room in the Governor’s House.

Sir Alexander Seton, Lady Seton, Master Thomas Seton, with other eight of the Hostages,—the Mayor of Berwick, and Ambrose Carmichael.—Guards appear in waiting in the back-ground.

YOUNG SETON.

Don’t weep, my dear father and mother. I shall soon, very soon return. Edward is a great and a good prince, and will not hurt us; and then I am not afraid of the English, for they wear no beards, and look ladylike.

AMBROSE (aside.)

Neither does the vulture; but it is best to keep out of the vulture’s claws; and I don’t like those hungry Welshmen, with their large knives.

SETON.

We shall hope the best, my dearest boy!

YOUNG SETON.

Then we’ll have such a fine view of the English camp, and those whiskered Hainaulters, and the Yorkshire bowmen. O what sport the other boys and I will have! Won’t we, Alan?

ALAN.

O yes! and we will learn to play at shuttlecock, and wrestle like big men.

THE MAYOR.

Grant Heaven may protect the poor innocents!

AMBROSE (aside.)

Amen!—For the tender mercies of the wicked are cruel!

SETON.

Take a father’s blessing with thee, my dear Thomas.

[Embraces him.

YOUNG SETON.

I can take nothing better with me, my dear father.

LADY SETON.

Kiss me, my dear boy!—Be brave like your brothers. Remember always that you are a Seton, and part with your life rather than with your honour. Kneel to no earthly power; but bow to the Majesty of heaven evening and morning, and God will protect thee. Again, before you go, remember that your uncle was the bosom-friend of Wallace; and, that the whole of the Tweed will not wash the Bruce’s blood out of your veins, in whose cause you now embark. Farewell.

[Kisses him.

YOUNG SETON.

I will remember all, my dear mother! adieu, adieu.

Enter Lieutenant.

LIEUTENANT.

My lord governor, the boats are ready.

AMBROSE (aside.)

We may thank the rascally English that the young lads must walk upon water, and be indebted to the prayers of the Trinity friars for a safe passage.

YOUNG SETON.

Lieutenant, we are ready; being as impatient to go as you are to fulfil your duty. [Exeunt severally.

AMBROSE.

Thank Heaven I am neither a burgess, nor the father of a family, else my children might have had the honour of a tramp to the enemy’s camp! [Exit Ambrose.

SCENE V.

A Hall in the Castle.

Enter Aubery.

AUBERY (sings.)

Farewell! farewell! sweet day, adieu!

The sun that’s fading fast to view,

And sinks so lone in Arran’s wave,

Will rise to gild the patriot’s grave.

Yes! fare-thee-well! sweet day, farewell!

The evening chimes so softly swell:

Those silver chimes the patriot hears

Will be the last he lists in tears.

Enter Golding.

How goes it, Golding? you look very sad.

GOLDING.

The prisoner died

Last night of hunger, after he had gnaw’d

His hand off, save what dangled in the chains.

Poor man! three weary days he was forgotten;
’Tis horrible—most horrible, and proves
Our cannibal nature. For, alas! I’ve heard,
That in the flowery vale of Annandale,
In ancient times, there dwelt a savage people

Call’d Ordovitians, who devour’d their prisoners;

And that the monstrous wives of such sad husbands

Slew them, if they forsook the battle-field,

Or were defeated.

AUBERY.

Tush, man! the event

I could have prophesied. Last night, on guard,

A little bird came flirting in my ears,

Like that thou bearest now. Bethought me, then,

The soul of man will enter into birds;

And it were heaven to the poor wretch who pines

His better part of life in the damp Keep
Half rotten above earth; yes! it were heaven
To leave his chains behind, and fly away,
And mingle with the mountain breeze, and be
A thing of liberty. I often wish
I were a tuneful linnet, that might fly
Unknown, to nestle on the shady Pease,
And serenade my Flora when she goes
To milk the kye on those romantic banks.

GOLDING.

Pshaw, Aubery, away with love-sick nonsense!
But, ha! I feel a tear start in mine eye,
What of the bird?—

AUBERY.

I turn’d and gazed; and, lo! the Fleming’s tower

Appear’d on fire, (even as that beauteous chapel

Seen in the wayward walks of Hawthornden

When Roslin’s lords do pay the debt of nature;)

While I distinctly heard the clash of chains

And pond’rous armour.

GOLDING.

Probable, most probable!

The armourers were at work; yet, ’tis most sad

To be pent up within these walled towns,
And fed on horse-flesh, till the leprosy
Do rot us out. Oh! for that glorious time
When, led by Douglas ’gainst Osmyn the Moor,
I first adventured in the Holy Land:

Then I was young, and burn’d for scenes of arms,

And deem’d the soldier’s life a pleasant pastime

For gallant, generous hearts that loved adventure,

Its darker parts conceal’d in the back-ground.

Then at our tinel we had spice and wine,

Trumpets and timbrels, while the choicest flowers

Of chivalry sat round the warrior’s banquet;

Graced with those dark-eyed dames, nearer allied

To Sol than those our frigid climes produce;

Beautiful, mellow, yielding as their fruit,

With hearts as cheerful as their cloudless skies;

Yes! Aubery, then the poorest sentinel
Fed like a prince, glutting the raven War
With choicest cookery.

AUBERY.

Pshaw! kickshaws and trifles;
My bag of oatmeal now would bring content,
Could I enjoy it in a peaceful shade
With Flora, and her sister Innocence.
My light iron girdle, now it lacketh flour,
Is like a body parted with the soul,

Or like our hide-form’d cauldrons void of venison.

GOLDING.

O Aubery! Aubery!

Your wit is like St Bothan’s crystal spring,

That never fogs or freezes! always pure.

AUBERY.

Heavens! for the festival of good St Cuthbert,

That we might hamstring the five harts of Selkirk

Upon their march to holy Coldingham,

To feed the greasy monks, who lacketh not.

GOLDING.

Oh! some of those fat beevies were delightful,

Which we took up in our Northumbrian raid,
And left upon the south banks of the Wear,
To feed the glutton English. But the Douglas

Liked better to destroy than eat their cattle.

Had we such leaders now, we would not starve,
While the poor burghers, Nebuchadnezzar-like,
Feed on the grass. I have not had a morsel

Free from loath’d putrefaction this bless’d month.

What boots it, then, in hungry times like these

To rear up popinjays? I’ll teach an art,
Taught by an English archer, for that bird;
Wrestle a fall with thee; and he who wins
Shall banquet on the prize.

AUBERY.

’Twere better not,

Perhaps the bird contains the prisoner’s soul!

GOLDING.

So much the better; double meals are sweet
In hungry times like these. A portly priest,
A flesher, or a tapster; each were good;
Now, for the glorious attitude of man.

[Golding places himself in the wrestler’s first
position. While they wrestle, the bird is put
below a cap. Aubery is thrown.
The prize is mine! There, Aubery, thou liest
Flat as a flounder on thy spacious back,

Which might serve Thimble for a shaping-board.

[Takes up the bird, squeezes it, and while retiring
exclaims,

’Twill make a precious meal! [Exit Golding.

AUBERY (recovering.)

Marry, it will.

I did intend it for another purpose;

To stuff it for my Flora. Devil choke thee,

No good will come of such begotten gear.

[Exit Aubery.

Enter Ambrose, (who had observed them unseen) in the costume of one of the Town Waits; viz. a large blue cloak, faced with gold lace, and a cocked hat trimmed with the same embroidery.

AMBROSE.

Precious fools! thus to wrangle for jackdaws, when perhaps a piece of winged iron next moment brings their billet of reckoning. The true saying, that every bullet has its billet, supports me amidst the cracking of culverins, and the pouting of battering-rams, that shake the masonry of our ramparts like an earthquake; but I must not forget the purport of my ambassadorship. Ambrose Carmichael, town fiddler, town crier, and grave-digger, at your service, has the honour to be the bearer of a billet to the governor; herein shewing, that ambassadors are but letter-carriers, and letter-carriers but pigeons. Hush! May not these important services of mine in canny moments, hitch me into a captaincy of the town-guard. My mother was a sensible woman in her day and generation: she always said Ambrose would either be a little man or a great man; so, guess ye to which my prepondering genius has a tendency. [Exit Ambrose.

ACT II.

SCENE I.

The Council Chamber.

Lord Dunbar, Sir Alexander Seton, and Sir Alexander Ramsay, in conversation. Attendants in waiting in the back-ground.

[Flourish of Drums and Trumpets.

Enter Herald.

HERALD.

In name of puissant Edward, King of England,
The Lord of Ireland, Duke of Aquatine,
I summon thee to render town and castle,
Ceded to us by John of Scotland, king,
In recompense for ancient services

Done to your country by our gracious sovereign.

DUNBAR.

We know no services your king has rendered
To this devoted land, unless ’tis service
To stir her factious nobles up to strife,

Then slay them in detail. Call ye this service?

We own no prince but David; here we stand
Receiving daily succour, and determined
To hold out while we may.

HERALD.

Enough, great baron!

Who estimatest an action by its success,

Not by its moral worth. Whence blows the wind,

The wavering wind of thy state politics? [Aside.

My purport is to tell thee, England’s king
Has sworn procrastination’s at an end,
He hates thy evasive measures. In the name
Of England I defy thee; as a token
I throw my gauntlet thus upon the ground.

[Ramsay, unable to conceal his rage, kicks it away.

Thank ye, sir knight! We will not starve you out,

But beat you out by force. Should still your gates

Remain shut up against our monarch’s mercy,

Wo be within your walls.

RAMSAY.

Sooner than yield,

I’ll fight until the walls become my monument;

Sooner than starve, I’ll plough the unpaved streets,

And wait till spring shall whiten them with grain.

SETON.

Peace, gentle Ramsay!

RAMSAY.

No!—war to the hilt!

O for the Douglas now to lead you on!

[Exit Ramsay.

SETON.

My worthy Herald, tell your puissant lord,
We crave delay, in terms of the truce,
Till Sir William Keith’s return.

DUNBAR.

’Tis meet we wait despatches from the Regent.

HERALD.

Wo be within your walls—wo to your matrons;

For high in air, like scarecrows, each young hostage

Shall teach obedience to my royal master.

SETON.

If heavenly truth remains the brightest gem

In the king’s crown; (for prince’s words are sacred,)

I crave delay in terms of the truce.

O tell your master, as he hopes for mercy

In the great day, so he will spare our feelings!

DUNBAR.

Tell king Edward,

Should not two hundred men by break of day

Break through the English host, we pay him homage.

HERALD.

Again I give defiance, and take leave,
For in my person ye’ve insulted England;
The ultimatum is, lend ears and hear,
Should ye hold out till vesper-bell be rung,

Sir Alexander Seton’s son is hung. [Exit Herald.

DUNBAR.

There goes a puppet! I should like, by heaven,

To have him in my castle’s massy Keep;
I’d wring politeness from him. Let us now
Prepare for war; but, Seton, be of cheer,

For Heaven will help, and Keith will soon be here.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

A Room in the Governor’s House.

SETON (solus.)

This fearful conflict, with paternal love

And duty to my country, is most dreadful;

Sure my poor heart will break, or burst the steel

That laces it. I’ve somewhere read of men

Who died for friendship; of a judge who pass’d

Sentence on his own son; but I have ne’er
Heard of that man who sacrificed his child
To save his country. It is horrible!

Bury me, earth; for what were fame, promotion,

To live the murderer—is there in our language

A term so unnatural—live the murderer

Of one’s own child! Good Heaven! I’d better live

A life of wo, an outcast from society,
Than be the death of one so young and gentle,
Who holds a charter, drawn on me by nature,
Of preservation. Ha! I see even now
My boy down on his knees, begging his life!
Asking his father not to shed his blood.
I am a monster, that with sad delay
Pass sentence on my son. These eyes behold

His tongue choked up and palsied with the halter;

That tongue—whose parting accents blest its father!

Here comes a sorry comforter, poor lady!

She walks like Melancholy; and I dread

The sternness of her dull perturbed look.

Enter Lady Seton.

Hail, gentle Christian! I am sick at heart;

The want of sleep, and fearful dreams, have thrown

A languor o’er my spirits.

LADY SETON.

What news from Tweedmouth?

Does the royal tyrant, with his gilded banners

That mock the sun, intend to blast our sight,

Till Scottish mists do rot his silk pavilions,

Or Scottish earth receive his rotten heart?

SETON.

I fear thy first surmise resolves to truth,
Unless kind Heaven doth send us speedy aid;
He is no idle, no inglorious foe
Goaded by youth, ambition, rival factions;
And like his father, whom that faction duped,
Too lofty-minded for his subjects’ weal.
Had not rich France, the lion lured aside,
He’d mounced us long ere now. Alas! alas!
I can unfold no more.

LADY SETON.

Alas! I know

What ye would say. Heaven’s sovereign will be done!

But oft when storms look darkest on the Cheviot

A wandering sunbeam cheers the face of nature.

The event lies hid in dark futurity;

Whate’er the issue, Seton will not violate

His country’s trust—its safety—and his honour!

Though every pledge of mine were naked laid
Before the sabre’s edge! our weakness ne’er
Shall shade the rising glories of the war.

SETON.

O woman! to such fate canst thou abandon
The fruit of thine own womb,—that fed upon
The juices of your breast,—whose little eyes

Beam’d pleasure when they first beheld thy face!

Can ye abandon him whose latest accents

Lisp’d a farewell with tears, and blest his mother

For her maternal love; and can ye now

Forget the dearest part of woman’s nature?

Speak but the word: I render up the town.

LADY SETON.

Nay, talk not thus; let Heaven’s will be done,

Since we must suffer ill that good may follow.

God gave us children, and the Lord shall take
His own in his good time. The blessed book
Tells me of many saints in ancient times,
(When faith was nurtured on a richer soil

Than in these latter days,) who gave themselves

A sacrifice to God; and next to God’s
Our native land. “Did not the prophet Daniel
“Banquet with lions, and escaped unhurt

“From out their hungry maws, while the poor heathen

“Lay mangled round? And did not Machobee,

“With her seven sons, rather than break the laws

“By eating swine’s flesh, suffer dreadful torment?

“And did not the three children glad prefer

“The seven times heated furnace rather than bow

“The knee to idol-worship? and shall we

“Grudge God a sacrifice? forbid it, Heaven!”[6]

Remember Abram; I will not offend

Your ears with samples ta’en from writs profane;

But, see! come forth unto the battlements,

And view a scene will rouse your drooping spirits,

St Cuthbert! joy, their navy is in flames. [Exeunt.

SCENE III.

The Ramparts—The English Ships in the offing appear in flames.

LADY SETON.

Behold yon Fleming

Bears down amidst the smoke; and, like King David,

Grapples with a Goliath. Ha! he sinks!

The English giant drowns!

SETON.

My eyes pursue

The well-known pennon, where my William’s prow

Bears on the gun-brig. Now, they board, they board!

I hear the clash of swords,—I must away

And open the battery’s mouth; for yon corvette

Lies underneath its jaws. My love, retire.

LADY SETON.

Nay, I will tarry till yon boat approaches
The shore with tidings, which I long to hear,
Yet dread their import; for methought I saw
A gallant youth slip down between the ships!

Oh, that the slumbering heavens would rise in wrath

And rouse its eastern gales, until their navy

Lay anchor’d on our rocks,—but not in safety.

SETON.

My love, it is not safe to linger here,

Retire till I return.

Enter Lieutenant.

Make haste and speak;

For if the face bears index of the mind

You bring no pleasant news.

LIEUTENANT.

I am, indeed, the messenger of wo;
In the sea-fight, when the two vessels closed
In mortal enmity, your gallant son

The first to board, slipt down between the ships,

And sunk to rise no more, amidst the cheers

Of victory!

SETON.

O woman! earth is reeling,

Help, help, oh!

[While the Lady supports Sir Alexander sobbing; the Attendants enter.

LADY SETON.

O dear-bought victory, at such a price!

SETON (recovering.)

Bear me unto my couch. What! do I live?

Have they destroy’d my boy; methought even now

He call’d me murderer! Do I rave? Hell, hell!

Strike your red daggers hilt-deep in the tyrant,

Whose frozen heart ne’er melted with compassion!

I feel my sickness gone! away, away!

For I had need of rest. [Exit Seton, with Attendants.

LADY SETON.

Heaven grant I meet affliction as becomes
The daughter of a Cheyne, who bears the cross
Upon his shield—itself the best of shields!

Mary, support me now! [Exit.

SCENE IV.

A Room in the Governor’s House.

Lord Dunbar and Sir Alexander Seton in conversation.

Enter Officer.

DUNBAR.

What news from Bamburgh?

OFFICER.

My lord, Sir William Keith has just arrived,

And craves admittance.

DUNBAR.

Usher his excellency in.

Enter Keith.

SETON.

Heaven brightens now! thrice welcome, gallant knight,

I weary to give up my charge to one

More fitted for the office, in these times

When men need Roman hearts. What news from England?

KEITH.

My gallant friends,

The siege is raised at Bamburgh, and the Regent

Comes with a powerful host in aid of Berwick,
That he may lure the royal beast aside,
And save us from his claws.

DUNBAR.

’Tis well!—[Aside.] I fear
That this manœuvre will exalt his rage
To some rash act.

SETON.

O God! I dread, I fear
My boy will suffer. Oh, ’tis very sad
To be a father in the day of sorrow,
And lose a favourite child. It makes a gap

In life, which fate or time can ne’er restore.

KEITH.

Be firm, while I, De Prendergest and Gray,

Try what yet may be done. I leave this place

In noble hands, the brave Dunbar and Ramsay.

[Exit Keith.

SETON.

My Lord Dunbar, I stand in need of counsel;
Edward, I dread, will execute his threat,
Unless we render this fair town and castle;
Alas! alas! my gentle boy has fallen

In the sea-fight, and now I dread his brother,

Before another sun shall shine on Berwick,

Will be hung up to appease the tyrant’s rage!

DUNBAR.

’Twere barbarous!

But since too much approved in time of war

Men are not nice in means to serve their purpose,

I have a varlet here who owes me service,
And he will render it in gratitude,
Seeing my lady’s brother saved his life

At Roxburgh’s bridge, and gave himself in lieu

Rather against his will. This soldier, school’d

In deeds of stratagem by the Black Douglas,
Will beard the royal lion in his den,
And stay or mar his purpose.

SETON.

Be it so!—
Although in calmer hours my soul would shrink
From such an act; but being thus pursued
I can but strike, be the blow foul or fair;
And, surely, if in jeopardy the drowner
Destroys the arm that saves him, well may I
Strike down the monster who devours my flesh.

DUNBAR.

It does not merit thought; ho, Golding, here!

Enter Golding, in a Minstrel’s Habit.

GOLDING.

I wait your lordship.

DUNBAR.

Thank thee, valiant man;

Speed, Golding, speed, and in thy minstrel habit

Sue for admittance to the royal tent.

Tell that there’s treason here; that ere the morrow

The castle is surrender’d; should ye fail
Signal of smoke shall show; so may ye save
The beardless hostages; so Berwick’s wives
Will bless and glad reward thee.

GOLDING.

With a kiss!

But, by the rood, should this same emprise fail—

Should I return without a draught of vengeance!

I forfeit life, and at St Mary’s Port

Dub me a traitor; your reward reserve,

As I shall prosper, so shall I deserve.

[Exit Golding.

DUNBAR.

There goes a resolute soldier—would to Heaven

My Agnes had a dozen such at present.

Dunbar too soon will feel the brunt of war! [Exeunt.

SCENE V.

The Interior of a Hovel.

Enter Ambrose and Maggy.

AMBROSE.

Well, Maggy, it’s just what I said: these great people care no more for their children than a he-cat. The governor will not open the gates to the English to save his own son, and the upshot will be, that all the young lads will be hanged without benefit of clergy. Ay, ay, I dread much all will soon be over; for no doubt the young king carries his father’s bones in his doublet, and wherever the old rascal’s bones are, the Scots will be defeated, if we may believe the soothsayers.

MAGGY.

Woes me! and there’s my lady ranging about the town like a mad-cap, encouraging the men to fight. It were more wise that she were down on her bare knees like me in the peat-cellar.

AMBROSE.

’Tis very savage-hearted, Maggy, but every one is no gifted with the treasure of humanity like you and me. They are just like the cannibal Romans, who were never so happy as when their children were massacred in battle.

MAGGY.

You are deep learned, Ambrose; but I often praise God that you are a town-fiddler and not a general!

AMBROSE.

But an officer of the town-guard, Maggy, were both safe and honourable, except on extraordinary occasions. Sieges do not happen every day.

MAGGY.

If you set your heart to that, Ambrose, I will not oppose you. I’ll neither advise you for or against it, since I know my advice would not be taken.

AMBROSE.

Then the salary is so handsome, Maggy; and you would go drest like a lady!

MAGGY.

I’m not envious, Ambrose; “for pride gangs before, and shame follows;” but we cannot help good luck if it comes to us whether we will or no.

AMBROSE.

I’m not ambitious, Maggy; every man is not born with a silver ladle in his mouth; but if a man is gifted with talents, it were sinful to abuse them and not use them. Ye know that old Rome was saved by the cackle of geese.

MAGGY.

And if Rome was saved by the cackle of geese, may not Berwick, haply, be saved by the town-fiddler?

AMBROSE.

Doubtless, Maggy; but I have a secret which I may not venture to tell you.

MAGGY.

And why would you keep a secret from me, Ambrose?

AMBROSE.

Because I promised on my honour not to divulge it.

MAGGY.

O, in that case, all’s right!—I’ll not press ye, Ambrose; but was I, who am your born wife, included in the bargain?

AMBROSE.

All, and every one, Maggy.

MAGGY.

Then seeing, that being part of thee, I am consequently nobody, do please tell me.

AMBROSE (whispering.)

I’ve been with a billet from the Mayor to the Governor. Lady Seton is afraid of the vengeance of the King of England, and wishes to make her escape in disguise.

MAGGY.

Oh, Ambrose! try and get me included in her train, were it only to carry her farthingales off the causeway; for I long to leave this place; and might be useful to my lady as a maid of honour.

AMBROSE.

It were desirable, Maggy. I shall proffer your services, which, if accepted, may hitch us both a yard higher up the ladder of preferment. Meanwhile clap your thumb on what I have told you. Keep your eyes open, but your mouth shut, as the cook said to the careless scullion.

MAGGY.

As I am a woman, so shall I keep your secret: but I must go, for the pork is frying, and I don’t wish the hungry neighbourhood to smell it. [Exit Maggy.

AMBROSE.

Well thought; for they would fight like racoons to devour it; and would make as much fuss about it as Symy and his lad Lowrie did for Cowkelbie’s sow. Oh! I long to see Ambrose Carmichael, town-fiddler, promoted to a captaincy in the town-guard, for important services rendered to his king and country.

[Exit Ambrose.

ACT III.

SCENE I.

The Council Chamber.

Lord Dunbar, Sir Alexander Seton, with Attendants, grouped in consultation.

Enter Officer.

OFFICER.

My lords, the herald.

HERALD.

The King of England, merciful as brave,
Doth once more summon thee, to render up
The town and castle to your rightful liege,
King Edward Baliol, who is now at Tweedmouth.
Should ye resist the royal mercy still,
The hour of vespers, which approaches near,
Shall see each hostage quivering high in air;
As token of the truth, behold, even now,
The gibbets rise before the walls of Berwick.

SETON.

Down, down, proud heart! [Aside.

In terms of the truce, we yet do crave

Delay till Keith’s return. Speak to him, March.

DUNBAR.

Tell proud Plantagenet, king of haughty England,

That I, Patrick Dunbar, the earl of March,
Will hold this castle till its stubborn walls
Be levell’d with the ground; and if I render,

Ungird my sword, cut off my knighthood’s spurs,

And let me live degraded. When ’tis ta’en

The prince may breakfast with my lady, Agnes,

Who’ll give him warm toast in her family house,

A few leagues distant.

HERALD.

My lord, we lack not toast,

Although your lady were a noble toast

To grace a conqueror’s banquet. Here I breathe

Defiance in the name of England’s king!

Our veterans burn to kiss your yielding maids;

The gibbets are impatient; at the toll

Of vespers, mercy on each youthful soul!

[Exit Herald.

DUNBAR.

Seton, prepare for war; for in the camp

There’s mighty movements; but I do not deem

That Edward’s royal mind will stain his chaplet

By such a deed.

Enter Officer.

OFFICER.

My lord, on the horizon
We see the troops advancing. Helm on helm,
Banner on banner, glittering in the sun;

While the far spears gleam like a silver forest

Gilded by lightning.

SETON.

Now Heaven be praised; for Keith will soon be here!

DUNBAR.

I guard the castle—Seton, to the town;

Send gallant Ramsay to protect the ramparts;

Let Prendergest and Gray close up each avenue;

This is the time when England’s arm will strike;

Ring the alarum, till the Bell Tower shakes

To its foundations, and with one voice cry

God for our country, David and St Andrew! [Exeunt.

SCENE II.

The Governor’s House.

Enter Sir Alexander Seton and Lady Seton.

LADY SETON.

Whence is this haste, my lord?

SETON.

Love, to the castle,

Where ye may rest in safety as the dove

Sits in the clefted rock when tempests rave.

Oh! know ye not the assault’s again begun!

The magistrates implore us to surrender,

Alarm’d as I am for their hapless children.

LADY SETON.

What! will your coward hearts, without a blow,

Deliver up the place?

SETON.

What can we do?

For sack or storm I care not; no, not I,—

But, Heaven! my boy, my boy!

LADY SETON.

O wavering man!

Would ye give up your country’s precious trust?

By Bruce’s royal blood that warms your veins,

I conjure you to pause. Think not the tyrant

Will keep his perjured word, though ye surrender.

Ah! no; and these poor minions all too late

Will see their temples spoil’d,—their infants slain—

Chopp’d from their mothers’ breasts, virgins deflower’d,

And hoary headed men, and sickly wretches,

Piled dying on the streets; war’s red arm bared

Till Tweed run blood; the burghers crucified
By the accursed Jews let loose to plunder;
And would ye ope your adamantine gates
To such a horrid scene?

Enter Officer.

OFFICER.

My lord governor,

In a sortie led by the gallant Ramsay,

Your son is taken by the enemy. [Exit Officer.

SETON.

Here I stand, like Job,

Beneath the blasts of Heaven! ay, like the gourd

Smit in the wilderness. Alas! alas!

My children falling round me, one by one.

I can support no more. My son, even now,

Like his lost brother, doom’d to execution.

Heaven’s scourge falls heavy. Shall my stubborn heart

Refuse submission, that the tyrant’s vengeance

May make me childless.

LADY SETON.

My dear lord, don’t faint!
Bear yourself like a man, and comfort me,
For I had need of it. The cunning Edward
Must not betray us thus. What boots his word?
Remember thy brave brother Christopher,
Who was betray’d, beheaded, like his friend
The glorious Wallace! If they gave themselves
Martyrs for Scotland, oh! shall we refuse

Our sons, who both are young, and Heaven will sure

Reward our sacrifice with plants as fair

As those we’re doom’d to lose,—if plants as fair

May be.

SETON.

O might I perish in their stead!
But Heaven requite the tyrant’s broken faith—
Kings promise, are absolved, and die reputed

For what would damn the meanest wretch that lives.

LADY SETON.

And would ye take the tyrant at his word,
And render town and castle, fame and honour,
To be the victim of credulity,
And afterwards derided as a traitor?
Rather than homage thus Plantagenet,
Had I a thousand lives I’d lose them all;
Rather bear children daily for an age,

Than buy their lives at such a doubtful price!

While I, your lady, love, like Buchan’s countess,

Will be perch’d up upon the castle’s turrets,
Throned like a wild beast in an iron cage,
For Scorn to point at, and cry Ha! ha! ha!

SETON.

Nay, Christian, it must be, whate’er the event,

For nature now, in silent eloquence,

Even as a voice sent from the opening heavens,

Urges parental duty. What is Fame?
’Tis sound!—a bubble floating in the air;
Painted with rainbow colours, by the sun
Of dazzling honour, and as false as they;

Which men, like grown-up children, seek to catch,

Yet find it nothing,—Oh, my son! my son!

Time flies; ho! messenger! [Exit Seton.

LADY SETON.

Now all is lost. [Exit.

SCENE III.

The English Camp at Tweedmouth.

King Edward seated under a Royal Canopy, surrounded by Baliol, Lords Montague, D’Arcy, Percy, John of Hainault, and other Generals. Guards in the back-ground.

[Flourish of Trumpets.

KING EDWARD.

See that the caitiff be secured, and led

To instant execution!

OFFICER.

It shall be done, my liege. [Exit Officer.

KING EDWARD.

These damned Scots,

Nursed in the school of Douglas, practise well

The arts of stratagem; but in the field
Are arrant cowards, else they would not shun
My chastisement. Thanks to my trusty doublet

Well temper’d, else that minion’s thirsty dagger

Had done its office. It is shameful thus
To tarry, lords, while royal blood is spilt
On such occasion.

D’ARCY.

My most gracious liege,

We wait your orders to chastise the foe.

[They all grasp their swords.

KING EDWARD.

’Tis like the game they play’d at Stanhope Park,

When I was rescued by my gallant chaplain;

Those priests fight well; remember the brave Chapter

Of Mitton, led on by th’ Archbishop of York

Against the mob, who perish’d, every soul,

And saved the queen! these, these were noble men,

To teach my warriors valour!

D’ARCY (aside.)

I, by Saint Patrick, that was well-fed mutton

For the poor hungry Scots.

KING EDWARD.

I burn to whet my faulchion on these Scots,
That fly like game pursued, and ever mock
Our generalship. We march,—they fly—retreat—
Till night returns, and burning villages

Tell where the base outlaws have fix’d their camp;

Next morn beholds the ravaged plains deserted,

Smoking with refuse of luxurious spoils
Stolen from our wealthy yeomen; even as those
Swart vagabonds that banquet on the heath,
Beneath the blasted tree; and fly at dawn,
Lest the fair day reveal their hellish deeds.

BALIOL.

They dread to meet your highness in the field;

But, like the assassin, strike you in your tent

When asking charity.

Enter Sir Richard Benhale.

KING EDWARD.

Is the caitiff hung

BENHALE.

Yes, gracious liege! and died a horrid death;
For, when upon the scaffold, from his breast
He drew a roll of flax, which, waved in air,
Sent up a rising smoke; he thrust it down
His throat,—it did the executioner’s office;

For when his entrails were taken out, they boil’d

As might become a traitor’s.

KING EDWARD.

Precious rogue!

Useful in death: He must have been a spy,

And this a signal given.

BENHALE.

Even so, my liege!

For now, seen high, upon the walls of Berwick,

The white flag’s hoisted.

KING EDWARD.

’Tis all a trick! but I am ripe for vengeance.

Hell rot their flags! my purpose now is vengeance!

Lead forth the hostages unto the ramparts,
And hang them in the very teeth of Berwick!
Let Seton’s son be strung above the rest
To rot like carrion in his mother’s face.
Let it be done in silence, that their cries,

Wafted across the Tweed, may ring i’ their ears

Through every future age the wrath of England!

Meanwhile, my warriors, Percy, John of Hainault,

And gallant D’Arcy, be upon the watch.

PERCY.

My sword will be an earnest, for the lands

I hold of Scotland; and that sword will punish

Those chiefs who sought to cheat me of my own.

[Exit Percy.

JOHN OF HAINAULT.

My heavy horse shall crush their spears to atoms!

[Exit Hainault.

D’ARCY.

By good St Patrick, if they escape me now

I ne’er shall see your highness face again;

For I will choke with grief; then drown myself

In the bottom of Loch Neagh! [Exit D’Arcy.

KING EDWARD.

And, ye young galliards! signalize yourselves.

Who first discovers where the coward Scots

Have fix’d their camp, shall from our royal bounty

Receive a pension of one hundred pounds.—
Montague sack the town; nor sex, nor age,
Nor suckling babe spare not, until the Tweed,

Swollen high with blood, o’erflows its fertile banks;

Hence shall the haughty burghers learn obedience,

Hear but the name of Edward and submit! [Exeunt.

SCENE IV.

A plain on the English side of the Tweed, fronting the Ramparts of Berwick, where a Gibbet is erected, surrounded by Men-at-Arms. The English Bugles are heard at a distance, and the Troops are seen marshalling in the back-ground. The eight young Hostages are led forth to Execution, with their hands pinioned, and halters tied round their necks.

Young Seton and the other Hostages, Executioner, Guards, &c.

EXECUTIONER.

Come forth, my pretty boy! you are the first

Upon the roll.

YOUNG SETON.

Thanks for the precedence!

I’m ready;—but I weep that these poor youths

Should suffer. Would that I might see the king

To intercede for them. Oh! would that I

Might feed the tyrant’s rage. Don’t weep, my lads!

For we’ll be happy soon. I envy not
The conqueror who gluts his puny vengeance
On harmless heads like ours. We die to serve
Our country, while he lives but to destroy
The innocent. I have but one request
Of thee, stern man!

EXECUTIONER.

’Tis foolish prattling;

I must make haste to do my duty.

YOUNG SETON.

O yes! make haste; I hear a parley sounded,

I see the white flag hoisted. Haste, make haste!

And tarry not, lest they give up the town

To save our lives; alas! of little moment.

But if you have a mother, stern man! hear,

Oh! hear my last request.

Enter Messenger.

MESSENGER.

The boys are all reprieved, except young Seton;

Be quick, and execute the law on him:

The guards are murmuring at your delay.

YOUNG SETON.

My friends, farewell! as thus I kiss you all.

[Seton embraces the Boys, who shed tears, interrupted
with sobs of joy, at being so unexpectedly
delivered, except Alan, who looks
melancholy, and takes Seton by the hand.
Since this cruel man will hearken not to me,
Alan, I pray thee, give this lock of hair
To my poor mother; tell her that I died
As her son ought to die. This silver bell
Give to my sister Margaret for her falcon;

[The Jailer, unseen by Seton, takes it from Alan.

And tell my father to be comforted

Since we will meet in Heaven.—(Kneels.) Almighty God!

Receive my sinful soul.

[Then looks up unconcernedly into the face of the

Executioner, and exclaims,

Sir, I am ready,—

Now God for Scotland, David, and Saint Andrew!

[A shout is heard without. “A rescue! a rescue!”

while the curtain falls.

SCENE V.

A Room in the Governor’s House.

LADY SETON (sola.)

I dread the blow is struck! O Heaven forfend!

The stroke be not too heavy for my lord,

Whose feelings are acute, since it may urge him

Over the fatal precipice of death;
I’m wondrously supported at this time—
Heaven sends afflictions, but it also sends
A supernatural strength to bear them out.

Enter Messenger.

MESSENGER.

O that the night had never grown to day
When I was born, to be the messenger
Of such sad tidings!

LADY SETON.

Well, then, speak them out!

Since what has happen’d cannot be undone.

MESSENGER.

Lady, your son has yielded his fair life,

Innocent as the flower hid in the bud.

LADY SETON.

Was there no spark of feeling in their breasts?

Were they not men cast in a fleshly mould,

That thus they did outrage both God and man?

MESSENGER.

The men-at-arms look’d grim, and many hearts

Felt warm beneath the icy steel that braced them;

And married men shed tears. Perhaps the youths

Reminded them of home, and of their young ones

By Ouse’s side. I can no more, good lady.

[Exit Messenger.

LADY SETON.

Monster! for once revenge shall be a virtue!

My son has died to win immortal fame,

To bloom like laurel on the shield of Cheyne,

And be a stain for aye on Edward’s chaplet.

Sound the war-slogan now—“Set-on,” to the siege,

Let the red crest spit fire—Revenge, revenge!

[Exit Lady Seton.

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

The front of Berwick Walls at Port St Mary.—Ramsay is seen on the Ramparts, flying from Post to Post, and filling up the gaps made by the Assailants, who keep up a constant discharge of Arrows. The English Pioneers attempt to break the Barrier, and at last succeed in burning it down. They shout, while Lord Montague leads the Assault.

MONTAGUE.

On, on, my men of England! to the breastwork.

St George! St Edward! ho!

[The English pull down the Drawbridge, cross
it, and fire the Gate.

Well done, my gallants, every man a hero!

Now for the plunder; see that ye spare none.

[The Gate being consumed, Ramsay calls down
the Guard from the Ramparts, rushes through
the flames, and attacks the Assailants sword
in hand.

RAMSAY.

Back, varlets as ye are! ye shall not pass here

Until you cut a passage through our bodies;—
Charge, gallant Scots, remember Bannockburn!—
Remember how a handful of your fathers
Annull’d these braggadocios—show yourselves

Their true descendants, and don’t shame your mothers!

Charge yet again, refresh the parched earth

With the invaders’ blood—The Bruce—the Bruce!

[After a desperate conflict, the English are beat
back, and the Scots retire within the Walls.

Thanks, gallant friends; we’ll now refresh ourselves

With what the morning’s bivouac afforded.

PRENDERGEST.

The sun has set upon a bloody day,

But it must shine upon a bloodier morrow.

RAMSAY.

And cursed be the coward heart that shrinks from

A life of honour, or a death of glory! [Exeunt.

SCENE II.

The King’s Pavilion in the English Camp.

KING EDWARD (solus.)

The Persian wept, when he beheld his hosts
Array’d in all the pomp and strength of war;
He wept to think, that in one hundred years
The soul of life that stirr’d a million men

Should be extinct, and all their warrior forms

Resolved to dust. I weep for other cause!
I weep to see so many chosen men
Wasting their prime in an inglorious ease,

While they might combat on the fields of France,

And dictate laws to nations.

Enter Lords Arundel, Montague, D’Arcy, Percy, and other Nobles, with John of Hainault, and Sir Richard Benhale.

MONTAGUE.

Gracious king!

Keith has rejoin’d the Scots, with many knights,

Prendergest, Ramsay, Gray—th’ assault has fail’d,

As we knew nought of this superior force.

Inflated now, like frogs who sought a king,

With new-come succours, they refuse surrender;

Treating your summons with insulting scorn;

And say, in terms of truce they stand relieved,

And that their hostages should be given up.

KING EDWARD.

Hah! there I have them, tantalizing rogues!

St George! my nobles, hear ye this, and pause?

ARUNDEL.

Even as the sleugh-hound burns to dip its tongue

In blood of game, we burn to meet the Scots

In deadly conflict.

Enter Rokesby.

ROKESBY.

My liege, the Douglas, with a powerful host,
Comes to the aid of Berwick, and has cross’d
The Tweed beneath the skirts of Halidon.

KING EDWARD.

My gallant Rokesby, ye shall be rewarded
At our royal leisure. Nobles, hear ye this?
Montague, D’Arcy, to the field prepare,—
[Exeunt Montague and D’Arcy.
Percy and John of Hainault, marshal quick

Your numerous troops,—and let the traitors feel

The strength of English spear and English bow.

[Exeunt Percy and Hainault.

Scots, if ye cheat me now, like Vortigern

I’ll tear the plaited mail from off my shoulders,

And rush upon destruction!

Enter Lieutenant.

LIEUTENANT.

My liege, already from the Scottish camp
Defiance has been given. A giant Scot,
Who turn’d aside the bull from Robert Bruce,

Challenges England’s stoutest knight to combat.

KING EDWARD.

Hah! St George! I feel the elixir

Of life shoot through my veins, to think that I

For once shall meet these rascals in the field:

Speak any?

BENHALE.

I am young, and but the least

Of English knights, yet I accept the challenge,

And in the front of both the armed hosts

Will slay or turn the bull!

[All exclaim “Bravo!”]

[Exit Benhale.

KING EDWARD.

Nobles, unto the camp. [Exeunt.

[Flourish of Trumpets, &c.

SCENE III.

A Plain between the front of the two Armies at Halidon-hill.

[Martial Music heard at a distance.

Enter Sir Richard Benhale. Turnbull comes from the opposite side of the Stage, attended by a huge Mastiff.

BENHALE.

I came to fight with men and not with dogs.

TURNBULL.

I came to fight a man and not a pup!

BENHALE.

Were thy hide like the mail’d rhinoceros;

Thy brawny arms like Hercules’ strangling serpents;

Thy ample shoulders like gigantic Atlas

With the globe on his back, I would not shrink,

But with this little arm and trusty sword

Teach thee to temper speech with more politeness.

TURNBULL.

Foam not nor fret not thus, thou baby knight,
The champion of some whorish dame of Norfolk
Fed upon turkies by some foolish housewife.

Ho! Towser, seize him: shake his silken doublet,

And dine upon his brains,—if brains there be

Within his egg-shell skull.

BENHALE.

Down with thee, brute!——
[The Dog attacks the Knight, who, with one
blow across the loins, severs the hinder-legs
from the body.

Thus will I chop your ruffian of a master. [They fight.

TURNBULL.

Thou art a well-built piece of painted clay,

With bones and sinews in thy dext’rous arm;

Now feel my mountain-strength, that crushes thee

Like a cobweb, since you’ve destroy’d my idol,

My precious dog!

BENHALE.

Not, ruffian, till you feel

The venom of my sting unto your marrow!

[Benhale, with skill and dexterity, avoids the
blows of his antagonist, who nearly overturns
himself by a false stroke; the Knight, improving
the opportunity, cuts off his opponent’s
left arm.

What think ye, braggart! of our English pups,

Now that ye feel their claws?

[Shouts from the English.

TURNBULL (recovering.)

Thou wicked one,

Nursed by some imp of hell; hence musket-proof,

With Satan’s phiz embroider’d on your vest!

Confess yourself a fiend, nor urge a strife

Unequal. [They both rest on their swords.

BENHALE.

Hadst thou met me as a knight,
With courtesy of arms, on equal ground,
Nor sought to brute and worry me with dogs

Too like yourself, I should have spared you now;

But thou must die: the army has decided

The fate of him whose vanquish’d—St George for England! [They fight.

TURNBULL.

I did but sport with thee, thou baby knight!

And thus I dash your maggot soul to atoms.

[After a fierce combat, Benhale is nearly
worsted, when, by a dexterous pass, he stabs
his opponent, who falls.

H! hast thou master’d me? I scorn thee still;

Oh! that my voice might rouse my murder’d mastiff

T’ avenge my death!—I but regret to perish

By such a puny hand. Revenge me, Scots! [Dies.

BENHALE.

Ye Scots! behold your champion slain, and tremble:

As the bull’s head, when set at baron’s banquet,

So nicely deck’d with garlands and rosemary,
Foretells assassination to the guest;
So this gigantic head upon my spear,
Which as a garland on my crest I’ll wear,

[He cuts off his opponent’s head, and places it on
his spear.

Foretells defeat, destruction to your army,

God save the king!

[Shouts from the English, accompanied with
execrations from the Scots. The armies now
mutually engage, and the scene closes.

SCENE IV.

A Council Chamber in the Castle.

Enter Lord Dunbar, Sir Alexander Seton, Sir Alexander Ramsay, &c.

SETON.

The messenger return’d, says, All is lost!

The Regent mortally wounded; aged Lennox,

With the Earls of Ross, Monteith, and Sutherland,

Carrick and Athole, with the gallant Stewart,

And knights unnumber’d, (what a fearful catalogue!)

With fourteen thousand commoners, are slain!

O, would to Heaven, that we had render’d sooner,

It might have saved my son; now God preserve

My wife from Edward’s vengeance.

DUNBAR.

My nobles, now, we must go strike the flag
Ere ’tis pulled down! and by capitulation
Seek to secure our rights, if not too late,
And save the city from the mercenaries!

RAMSAY.

Scotland is like a mighty cataract,
That bears the weight of navies on its bosom,
And hurls them to destruction. When divided
In many petty streams, it frets, and foams,
And wastes itself away like idle spray,
And does no execution. Were thy nobles
United, they might brave the power of Edward;

But thy proud barons leagued against each other,

Destroy their country and defeat themselves,
The victims of extremes. I will not stay
To bow to Edward; but, with a few friends,
Will cut my way through the victorious hosts,

Were they thrice doubled, and shall meet the war

That soon must burst upon thy towers, Dunbar!

DUNBAR.

Go, faithful Ramsay, aid my noble wife

In this most perilous time; for though the blood

Of Randolph warms her veins, she’s but a woman

Who needs thy manly counsel—warriors arm
To aid defensive measures; since the traitor
Too often lurks beneath a friendly mask
In these sad times, to aid the cunning foe.
If possible, escort the Lady Seton
To place of safety.

RAMSAY.

’Tis impracticable!

Since I must take the high road to Dunbar;

But were her ladyship at Colbrand’s path

I’d guarantee her safety.

DUNBAR.

See to this,

Good Seton; seek the aid of Prendergest.

RAMSAY.

The soldier, Aubery, knows each secret path

By shady Pease.

SETON.

Well thought! sir knights, I speed;

For time, alas! has turn’d an arrant racer,

And flies with winged speed towards his goal.

[Exit Seton.

DUNBAR.

My gallant Ramsay, tell my noble wife
To be of cheer, her castle is impregnable,
Which if she cannot keep, let her destroy!

Tell her to hold out though her lord may yield

To suit occasion; so may we deceive

Edward, and trick the treacherous.

RAMSAY.

Trust me, my lord.—I go; for, hark! these shouts

Announce the foe. [Exeunt.

SCENE V.

Port St Mary, and Front of the Walls of Berwick.

The Scots Army being totally defeated at Halidon-hill, the English renew the Siege of Berwick. While one party is engaged at the Barriers, another, by means of a huge machine, escalades the Walls. The Scots, thrown into confusion, retire into the Castle. A Female, pursued by an Archer, runs across the stage; he discharges his arrow, upon which she falls on her knees in the attitude of supplication.

ARCHER.

Yield thee, my buxom maid! if thou art maid,

And art not mad; else, shall thy stubborn soul

Become the forfeit; which ’twere sad to lose,
Seeing thy sinful person’s better fitted
For me!—

[The Female’s Cap and Scarf falling off, discovers
the bald head of a Dominican Friar.

FRIAR ADAM.

O misericordie! help, St Dominic! Would that I were hid in the Pigeon’s Cove.

ARCHER.

Nay, down, old poltron, down! unto the death;

Since I must take your life for your deceit.

Ecclesiastics always come between

The soldier and his heaven!

FRIAR ADAM.

Help, Dominic!

It were not worth thy while to kill a friar,

Since thou may’st profit by his safe condition.

ARCHER.

How, fellow, say; I cannot brook delay,

My comrades fast advance to share the booty.

FRIAR ADAM.

Spare me, and I will purchase absolution

For your sad soul by penitence and prayer.

ARCHER.

Old poltron, damn your church’s absolution!
What ’vaileth that to me at such a time!
Since all the holy waves of Christendom,
With thy long hypocritical prayers to boot,
Won’t purchase my salvation. During peace
You fatten on a country; may not we
In time of war pick up some prize-money,
Seeing that killing in our trade’s no murder!
Give me substantial stuff, or die, old rogue!

[The Friar drops a Purse, and appears to swoon;
the Archer passes on. The Friar makes his
escape as a Storming Party comes up.

SCENE VI.

The Flemings’ Tower.

Enter a Storming Party.

CAPTAIN.

Heavens! these brave fellows, in that lofty tower

Have entrench’d themselves admirably.

LIEUTENANT.

These are Flemings,
Merchants of Flanders, tenants of the tower;
Here must be gold in store!

CAPTAIN.

We might as well

Besiege the heav’ns, as seek by physical force

To conquer these. We must make bees of them

For their rich honey-combs, and smoke them out.

LIEUTENANT.

Even so; but first we speak them a fair chance.—

Ho! in the name of England’s king surrender!

Open your gates; so shall your lives be spared,

Your goods protected!

A FLEMING.

We have proved you well:

Too well, alas! to take you at your word:

Here, loyal subjects of King David Bruce,

We do defend this tower—with it ourselves;

While blood is in our veins, heads on our shoulders,

Strength in our arms, we do defy you here.

CAPTAIN.

Then we shall roast you out, ye churlish knaves;

Even as ye would the bear upon your pennon,

Were he eatable!

A FLEMING.

We do not lack provisions,
Nor ammunition neither; on the moment
When you apply the torch we blow this tower
To heaven, and you to hell.

CAPTAIN.

Come! fire the gate,

And smoke these vermin out!

[The Soldiers’ fire the Gate, while the Flanders

Merchants spring a Mine, which blows up the

Tower, and scatters destruction in every direction.—The

Soldiers run.

Ha! there they go,

Like rockets to the skies! Let’s save ourselves. [Exeunt.

Enter an Old Man with his Daughter.

OLD MAN.

Nay, leave me here, dear Anna! life is sweet
To one so young as thee, but not to me,
Laden with age, infirmity, disease.

Leave me, and save your person and your honour;

I hope the lady’s safe?

ANNA.

She is, thank Heaven!

Hid in a friar’s disguise she pass’d the army;

’Twill not be well for Edward if he meets her;

She wears a sharpen’d dagger in her bosom,

As I do now, which I too soon may use.

[A Soldier comes up and seizes the Female, while
the Old Man grapples with him.

SOLDIER.

Nay, greybeard, do not seek to grapple youth;

As well might ivy wrestle with the oak

To be thus crush’d,—down! down!

[The Old Man is thrown.

OLD MAN.

Oh! spare my daughter!

And I forgive thee. [Dies.

SOLDIER.

There, thou hoary rogue!

Green trees will often snap before old trunks;

But I have master’d thee.—Come, pretty maid!

[While he gazes on the Old Man, she stabs him
behind.

ANNA.

There, monster! take thou that; I joy to see

Thine agonies, thou murderer of my father!

He wings to heav’n, while you descend to hell!

SOLDIER.

Oh! thou hast murder’d me, thou cruel maid!

Hear me before I die: I am a Scot,

Though drest (I blush to say’t,) in English garb.

Take this last token; and, if e’er you meet

With Anna Harrison give her this ring;

Say ’twas bequeath’d her by a dying sister!

I die, die! [He dies.

ANNA.

My sister’s husband! damned, damned war!

That thus destroys consanguinity!

I never can survive this horrid deed,

But bare my breast to the first spear I meet.

[Weeps over her Father’s body.

Poor, aged man! how cold and stiff art thou! [Exit.

Enter Lord Montague with another Party.

MONTAGUE.

Hurra! brave men! on to the citadel;
The town is won, and now our task is done;
The stubborn Scot at last beats the chamade,
And sounds a parley.

D’ARCY.

They deserve no quarter!

I would not bet a groat, that they do wear

The heads they wear, even now another day. [Exeunt.

ACT V.

SCENE I.

The King’s Tent.

King Edward, attended by the Archbishop of Durham, the Earl of Arundel, Lord D’Arcy, and other Nobles, &c.

[Flourish of Trumpets

KING EDWARD.

Heaven fought for us! therefore, in gratitude,

Let every prelate offer public thanks

In every nook of England where a church

Points its white spire, while at our royal leisure

I progress make to Becket’s holy shrine.

ARCHBISHOP OF DURHAM.

It shall be done, my liege.

KING EDWARD.

And in St Margaret’s church, near Halidon,
Let there be rear’d a costly gorgeous altar,
In token of our reverence for that virgin,
Who, on her eve, made victory lit on us.

ARCHBISHOP OF DURHAM.

’Twill be a sad memorial for the Scots,

Where they will pause before they dare to meet

Your mighty warrior arm, most puissant prince!

[Exit Archbishop.

KING EDWARD.

It is incredible!—so great a victory,

Bought with so small a loss! one knight, one esquire,

And twelve foot soldiers! Heaven fought for us!

Enter Montague.

MONTAGUE (kneels.)

Berwick, my liege, is rendered

KING EDWARD.

We appreciate
Thy services, Montague. They’ll be rewarded
At our royal leisure.

MONTAGUE (Kisses the King’s hand, then rises.)

Thanks, my generous liege!

When I was but a boy I served your father;

And Heaven will bless me, if my youthful locks

Grow hoary in thy service. The Earl of March
Awaits to do thee homage. Seton, Keith,
And the Mayor of Berwick to give up the keys
Held so unworthily.

KING EDWARD.

Usher them to our presence.

[Exit Montague.

This Earl Dunbar is but a crafty chief,

But I must mould him to my politics; [Aside.

The others pay the forfeit of their lives.
Speed, noble Arundel, with Montague,
(While we deliberate here in secret council,)
Pursue the fugitives, and push the war,
Till England’s ensign floats above Dunbar.

ARUNDEL.

My liege, we’ll follow up the victory,

With the effect such victory deserves. [Exit Arundel.

D’ARCY.

Your highness, when we’ve muzzled these fierce barons,

And caged their ladies, we shall sue for grace.

KING EDWARD.

Ha! D’Arcy, ye’ve refresh’d our memory
With thine own worth. I mark’d in the pursuit
The dreadful havoc made by your bold Kernes.

Enter Montague with Lord Dunbar and the Mayor of Berwick, attended by Ambrose Carmichael, with the Keys of the City.

MONTAGUE (whispers the King.)

My liege, my Lord Dunbar. [Exit Montague.

KING EDWARD.

Proud lord! ye might have saved some traitors’ lives

Had ye surrender’d sooner.

DUNBAR.

Good, my liege!
I must regret, that while such royal mercy
Exists in monarch’s breast, that I was up
In arms against it. Judgment often errs,
And stupid heads make often aching hearts.

KING EDWARD.

Even so, my lord; but, ha! thou lean-faced man,

When did you dine?

MAYOR.

When Edward could not eat,
Because so many wretches in the city
Grappled with hunger.

KING EDWARD.

Keep your taunts, old man!

Kings love not jests unless they jest for love;

A soldier’s free of speech; but, mark me, Mayor!

He’s also free of hand. Give up the keys.

MAYOR.

My liege, most willingly, and yet unwillingly;

Willingly, since it ’vaileth not to keep them,

And yet unwillingly, since with these keys

We give our liberties. [Percy takes the keys.

KING EDWARD.

Ha! braggart, think you this a Roman senate,
And do ye come like some obstreperous Cato
To beard a Cæsar, flush’d with victory?

Guards, load the caitiff with his weight of chains;

Keep him in durance till each separate item

That’s mentioned in the treaty be fulfill’d:

Percy, see the twelve hostages secured—

The city now is given to your charge.

[Exit Percy, with the Hostages.

MAYOR.

The Guards approach.] Young prince, I crave respect to these grey hairs;

Rather more white with grief than length of years!

Since me, nor mine, have ne’er borne arms against you.

Spare also the poor boys; so shall the mothers

Of Berwick bless you.

AMBROSE.

Nor I neither; I did ne’er bear arms against your majesty, most excellent! save when I could not help it.

[The Mayor motions Ambrose to stand back.

KING EDWARD.

Mothers of Berwick! ha! these Scottish women
Are amazons in battle, and might teach
Their sons a lesson of good soldiership.

D’ARCY.

During the siege old women and young children

Aided the men with stones and ammunition.

MAYOR.

They did but emulate the maids of England,

When they repulsed the Scotsmen at Carlisle.

[They lead off the Mayor.

AMBROSE (aside.)

Hold your tongue, master; hold your tongue; for ye ought to know that two black corbies will not make a white crow.

KING EDWARD.

My lord, Dunbar,

Where’s your friend Seton and his noble wife?

Let her be caged;—and, Benhale, let that caitiff

Be strung up to the nearest gibbet, since

He is not worthy of a soldier’s death!

[Pointing to Ambrose.

DUNBAR.

My liege, Sir Alexander waits your message,

His lady has escaped!

KING EDWARD.

Gads blood! escaped!

D’Arcy, pursue, pursue! I’d rather lose

The victory than the lady! Oh, revenge

Will want its zest without her!

AMBROSE (kneeling.)

Spare, spare my life! O king, most excellent! and I will guide your captain where he will find the lady; yea, though my poor wife may be taken in the snare.

KING EDWARD.

D’Arcy, speed, see to this! and should the rogue

Be making dupes of us to save himself,

Give him a sudden death!

AMBROSE.

Even so, may it please your majesty, most excellent! but if I prove successful, I expect you will reward me with your royal bounty and promotion.

[Exit D’Arcy with Ambrose.

KING EDWARD.

My lord, Dunbar, I speak with thee alone. [Exeunt.

SCENE II.

The Press Moor.

Enter Irish Troopers with Ambrose Carmichael.

FIRST TROOPER.

By the blood of St Patrick, my ould fellow! where have those stray sheep gone? Arrah! now, if thou misleadest us, boy, by the souls of the thousand saints who danced on the point of a needle! Arrah! I say, boy, if thou misleadest us, we shall put ourselves right by hanging thee on the first tree we meet with in this bare rascally country, where no trees are to be found.

AMBROSE.

For once in my life I shall speak truth; my grandam always said it stood longest; and no wonder, seeing it stands upon two legs, while falsehood may not balance itself upon one. If we go much farther we shall meet some of Dunbar’s troopers. We must cross the Moor of Aldcamus; for I guess their path lies by the windings of the Pease.

SECOND TROOPER.

Marry, ould boy! if we take the right path of your directions, we will assuredly go wrong; so, to go right, we will take the road before us. We proceed onwards to yon hovel where the blue smoke rises.

AMBROSE.

If you won’t believe my veracity, believe the vision of your own eyes, and behold yonder white forms gliding among the green trees. If I speak false, duck me as a witch in Coldingham Loch.

FIRST TROOPER.

We do believe our ogles, by the powers! and are off like a shot.

[While they are absent, Ambrose makes his escape.

They return with Maggy, Ambrose’s Wife.

MAGGY.

If your mother was a woman, spare me, good gentlemen! My lady has taken the path of Pease; and, forsooth, because I could not keep up with their hard trot and gallop they left me behind.

SECOND TROOPER.

I suppose, ould one, your bulky hinder-parts were not made for a horse’s back.

MAGGY.

Surely not, good sirs! the town-fiddler’s wife cannot ride like a lady. I slipt over the mare’s tail, and there they left me. Oh, Ambrose! we have driven our hogs to a bad market!

FIRST TROOPER.

Well, my good crature! since your husband is a notable liar, and has just escaped from Murphy Slabberdash, by the powers! we keep the path onwards, and bind thee to the trunk of the first shadow of a tree we meet with, till we return, if we e’er return. [Exeunt.

SCENE III.

The Hostel of Aldcamus.

Friars sitting drinking, Aubery, &c.

FIRST FRIAR.

Come, drink and make merry, my masters! it is not every gale that wafts us a young friar with a purse, and a soldier with a song.

SECOND FRIAR.

Why dost thou not sing, thou comely anchorite, with the cowl nailed to your head? Surely thou mayest doff it out of courtesy to our order?

YOUNG FRIAR.

Beshrew me, friend! it is not from want of reverence to those to whom reverence is due, that makes me wear the cowl; but I have a disagreeable ache in my head from an accidental sore; I shall, however, sing as well as I can to please my kind brethren. [Sings.

Weep not, because the patriot’s sword
Awhile is sheath’d in sadness;
That sword will from its scabbard leap
To trumpet notes of gladness,
When he who forges freemen’s chains,
This earth no more shall cumber,
When blood that sleeps in freemen’s veins
Shall wake no more to slumber.

It is but the fragment of a song; but you must take the will for the deed.

FIRST FRIAR.

Well sung, young one! but very mournful. Come, soldier! free of speech, give us a song, and let it speak to the occasion. I can give a joke, and take a joke in good fellowship. Let the song be trite and terse with a little of the nutmeg.

SECOND FRIAR.

No! no! let the song be modest. True humour looks best in a natural dress. Strike up, my boon companion!

AUBERY.

I can’t sing, but I will give you a rant, while my friend seeks relief in a short repose. Gudewife, see to the lady—to the friar I mean. [Sings.

Song.

Tune,—Kenmuir’s on, and awa, Willie.

CHORUS.

I redd you beware o’ Friar Adam, gudeman;

I redd you beware o’ Friar Adam, gudeman;

He’s first at a feast, but he’s last at the cann—

I redd you beware o’ Friar Adam, gudeman.

The gudewife can bake, and the gudewife can brew,

Can dress up her board with the famed barbecue;

Can eke out a table where bishops may dine,

And baffle the drawer wi’ hamen-made wine.

The gudewife on Sundays is bonny I trow,

Her golden-laced bonnet sits light on her brow;

In her fine furred cloak at the preachings she’s seen,

And looks like Diana in mantle o’ green.

Friar Adam is learned in Latin and Greek,

With his eyes and his fingers he also can speak;

’Tis whisper’d, the priest has a magical e’e,

And kens the black art that’s taught over the sea.

Mine host and the baxter grew bright o’er the cann,

Till they first miss’d the gudewife, then Friar Adam;

The quegh being empty, for liquor they bawl,

But nothing but echo replies to their call.

They sought for our Friar by the windings of Tweed,

Where they found him laid low like a wind-shaken reed;

They found him, O beastly! asleep, sitting squat,

Enjoying the dream of a Cardinal’s hat.

They search’d for the gudewife by thicket and loan,

Till they found the gay lady a-making her moan;

While milking her quey, popp’d a wasp on its tail,

When the brute gave a kick, and upset the milk-pail.

FIRST FRIAR.

Ha! ha! ha! well sung, and passing humorous.—

Hark! who craves admittance? [Noise without.

FIRST TROOPER.

Hollo! ho! open the door.

SECOND FRIAR.

First say who wishes to be admitted.

SECOND TROOPER.

Open the door, in the king’s name, else we fulfil our warrant to the very letter, and enter thus. [Pushes up the door.

FIRST FRIAR.

Friend, your manners need polishing.

FIRST TROOPER.

If thou say’st so, by the powers! I will polish your face, you ugly crature, by levelling the huge bridge of thy nasal organ, which glitters with rubies.

FIRST FRIAR.

I crave pardon, my brave man of speech! I meant no offence.

SECOND TROOPER, (taking up a glass.)

Here’s to my native land and her pretty daughters! What say ye to that, you black sheep?

FIRST TROOPER, (to the Gudewife.)

Where’s the host?

GUDEWIFE OF ALDCAMUS.

In Heaven as I hope; but I am his substitute.

SECOND TROOPER.

And a goodly one truly; we must search you.

GUDEWIFE OF ALDCAMUS.

Heaven forfend!—I hope you mean no evil towards me, as these holy men shall witness.

FIRST TROOPER.

No! no! we shall not so much as harm the mole upon your chin, plump one!—But you know, that in these times many a pretty face and wicked heart is hid under the shadow of the monkish cowl, and a pair of handsome limbs under the clumsy buskin: Now, by the powers! to the search. Here, ould fellow! (Examines the first Friar.) Thou art too ugly to mess with any one but the devil;—here, boy, (Examines the other.) and thou art his brother.

SECOND TROOPER.

A pack of filthy knaves! and why should we dirty our fingers with them. Ha! whom have we got here?

AUBERY.

One with whom thou hast no concern, and whom thou hadst best let alone.

FIRST TROOPER.

In the king’s name resist not, but deliver up your sword.

AUBERY.

To what king? Not till its strength be tried, which is of good Damascus steel.

[While they fight, the Lieutenant, with others
of the party, enter, and seize Aubery behind.

Against such odds it were folly in me to combat. (Aside.) I bide my time.

SECOND TROOPER.

Whom have we in the chamber? Ha! another friar!

[Lady Seton, (in the disguise of the young
Friar,) alarmed, comes forth: the Cowl off,
and her long flowing locks dishevelled.

LADY SETON.

Not a Friar! but an unfortunate lady, who has lost her all at Berwick.

LIEUTENANT.

I presume, madam, you are the lady we are in search of.—If so, you had better announce yourself, that you may be treated as an honourable prisoner.

LADY SETON.

What, sir, are you a soldier, and don’t know that all women should be treated with equal courtesy by brave men? We are all branches of the same great tree, and all one in the eye of God.

LIEUTENANT.

Doubtless, fair lady! but we came not here to preach; our business is too short and summary for detail,—your name, sweet lady?

LADY SETON.

It is a name which has often made the English tremble—Seton!

LIEUTENANT.

For once it shall not, fair lady! In the name of King Edward, ye are our prisoner.

LADY SETON.

I accompany you through necessity; but, by the courtesy of your nation, who, though blunt, are brave; forward, yet civil; I entreat you to unbind my servant: you have already disarmed him.

LIEUTENANT.

In this, lady, you cannot be obeyed. We must proceed quickly; for the way is long, and the paths of Pease intricate.

LADY SETON.

Then I do make a virtue of necessity, and bear my burden rejoicing; farewell, good woman, and holy men.

LIEUTENANT.

To the door, soldiers, and bind the prisoner.

[Exit Troopers with Aubery.

GUDEWIFE OF ALDCAMUS.

Fareweel, gude lady! and gif ye cum this way again, an’ it no be far out o’ your way, just spier for the Gudewife o’ Aldcamus, and it will be an especial favour to your humble well-wisher, keeping warldly concerns in the way of business out o’ the question.

LADY SETON.

Thank ye, old lady, for your hospitality; and if, in happier times, you ever come to the palace of Seton, on the high road to Edinburgh, ask for Christian Cheyne, and ye shall be rewarded. [Exeunt.

SCENE IV.

The King’s Pavilion in the English Camp.

King Edward seated, with Attendants.

Enter D’Arcy with Lady Seton.

KING EDWARD.

Whom bring you now to grace our presence?

Some rebel’s lady by her port I guess.

D’ARCY.

Even so, my liege; the Lady Seton.

KING EDWARD.

I’m glad to see thee, dame, the foe of England,

In Edward’s power.

LADY SETON.

What follows that, your highness?

KING EDWARD.

Ye are a scion of that poisonous tree,
That bears us deadly fruit. The Setons league
Forever ’gainst our royal will and pleasure.

LADY SETON.

A Seton, seeks to serve her lawful king;

If this is treason, may I die a traitor;

’Twere sweeter thus to die than live in bondage.

KING EDWARD.

Say, is not Edward Baliol your liege lord,

And have ye not rebell’d ’gainst him and England?

LADY SETON.

I ask the proof,—we own no king but David,

The lawful husband of your sister Joan.

King! is it fair to use your brother thus?

If to be up in arms ’gainst a usurper

Be called rebellion, then, I am a rebel!

KING EDWARD.

And but for thy sweet sex, obstreperous dame,

You’d die a rebel’s death!

LADY SETON.

In such a cause,

It were my earnest wish. Have ye not slain

My children? and ye now would blast my honour!

But this a king shall not deprive me of.

KING EDWARD.

Proud amazon of women, since ye deem
Death but a lightly thing, ye shall not die
Till scorn shall have a merry jubilee!
Coped in an iron cage, on Berwick’s turrets,

Thoul’t be enthroned to reign through irksome life,

(Like Buchan’s countess, that audacious rebel,)

To ornament the walls which ye preserved,

And be the queen of laughter to the city.

LADY SETON.

I’ll perish sooner!—

[Attempts first to stab herself, then the King;
but is prevented by the Guards; upon which
she throws away the dagger, and sobs more
in anger than in grief.

Oh! Heaven! forgive the deed!

Misfortune thus makes cowards of us all.

KING EDWARD.

Woman! I do forgive thee.

We took one life from thee, you owe me one!

Be sorry for the past, and crave our mercy.

LADY SETON.

Alas! that I should be in Edward’s debt!

The murderer of my son. I will not bend

Nor own allegiance to my country’s foe.

KING EDWARD.

Then, since ye do despise our royal mercy,

Away with her, ye laggards! do your duty.

LADY SETON.

Support me, Heaven! support the rights of Scotland!

[Exit with Guards.

Maggy Carmichael is brought in as a Prisoner.

KING EDWARD.

Whom have we now? what bedlamite is this?

LIEUTENANT.

This woman’s husband, liege, gave us the slip.

We crave to know if she should pay the price

Of his delinquency, most gracious sovereign!

KING EDWARD.

Don’t trouble us

With such low matters. Give her to the beadle;

Let her be whipp’d, unless her husband comes

Ere set of sun to bear the stripes himself.

MAGGY (to the Guards, as they go out.)

He come!—the earth will leap to the moon ere he come! and the gun-brigs sail through the Needles ere he come! and King Arthur return from fairy-land ere he come! A murrain on him, to betray his wife into the hands of the Philistines!

Enter Dunbar and Seton, with eight Hostages.

KING EDWARD.

My lords, I’m ready to receive your fealty:

Have ye prepared the deed that guarantees

The future conduct of our Berwick lieges!

DUNBAR.

In these long instruments, your majesty
Will find each item noted as agreed;
To which our names as witness are appended;
These pretty boys must answer the fulfilment;
With these I bring Sir Alexander Seton
To do you homage.

KING EDWARD.

It is well, my lord!

Fair youths of promise! beauteous smiling boys,

Were Englishmen your fathers? Do not frown:

Seton, you have a devil of a wife!

SETON.

I hope your highness will forgive her rudeness;

She smarts beneath the sorrows of the war;
A woman’s roused feelings rend her heart!
Else she would not despise that clemency

That falls like dew from heaven upon the earth.

KING EDWARD.

An arrant rebel! Seton, call her in;
For I will not forgive her till she kneels
To bless the name of Edward!

SETON.

Gracious prince!

That is impossible; no human power

Will bend her stubborn heart.

KING EDWARD.

Then she must live

Disgraced, or die a death—a death of torture!

SETON.

Spare her, most gracious prince! upon my knees

I beg this boon, who never knelt before.

BALIOL.

Forgive her, king, she knows not what she does.

KING EDWARD.

Nay, I forgive her not, until she kneels,

And does due homage to her prince and me.

[Lady Seton is brought in.

Lady, come bless the puissant arms of England,

And swear allegiance to your sovereign, Baliol,

Who intercedes for thee.

LADY SETON.

I am resolved!—
I cannot bless the murderer of my sons!—
I cannot own ought prince but David Bruce!

KING EDWARD.

Then if thou wilt not bless our clemency,

Thou now shalt feel our rigour!

[Motions to one of the Guards, who comes forward,
but in place of seizing the Lady, throws
off his disguise, and discovers himself to be
her Son.

LADY SETON.

My son, my son! [Embraces him, then kneels.

For once, high Heaven, I bless the name of Edward,

Who has restored my long-lost sheep to me!

KING EDWARD.

Lady, if justice did demand that one

Of thine should pay the price of others’ treason,

We now repent us of it, and restore
A lawful prisoner to his mother’s arms!—
I combat not for vengeance, but for glory.

LADY SETON.

Eternal Heaven reward you! one boon more

I crave, great prince! that you will spare that woman,

Whose hands are innocent of her husband’s fault.

KING EDWARD.

By deeds of policy I thus subdue

These Scots unto my purpose. [Aside.

My lovely suitor, that cannot be done;

These vagrants must be kept in due subjection

By wholesome discipline!

Enter Lieutenant with Ambrose.

Ha! here’s the caitiff!

The fellow now must suffer for himself.

AMBROSE.

May’t please your majesty, most excellent! unto the Irish troopers I appeal, if I did not set them on the right scent, as my loving wife knows to her great cost and narrow escape,

LIEUTENANT.

My liege! this fellow was a trusty guide,
Who did betray his loving wife and mistress;
But, like a treach’rous rascal, in the sequel
Took leave of us, and left his counterpart.

KING EDWARD.

Bring her unto our presence!

Enter Soldier with Maggy.

MAGGY.

Oh, Ambrose! Ambrose! you’ve done for us both now. “Pride gangs before, but shame follows as fast behind,” as I told you. Here we stand, fine exemplifications, like condemned criminals.

AMBROSE.

Hush, Maggy, till ye hear our lord the king’s decision. If shame follows pride, so much the better, for it will work repentance!

KING EDWARD.

Come forward, sirrah! your excess of zeal

To worry others has mounced up yourself;

But since you’ve done us some small loyal service,

It is our royal pleasure to reward you:

Speak your desire.

Ambrose (meditating.)

Whatever your most excellent majesty may please; any thing but Mayor. Captain of the Town-guard.

KING EDWARD.

Excellent! kneel, thou chubby one!

[He kneels on both knees. The Courtiers laugh.

Rise up, Ambrose Carmichael, captain of the town-guard, with all the honours!

AMBROSE.

Heaven bless your majesty! for I’ll go crazy with joy. O Maggy! oh, my old mother! what would you say to this?—Captain of the town-guard!

DUNBAR.

I fear, my liege, the town-guard will not accept of this fellow as their captain.

KING EDWARD.

Why not?

DUNBAR.

Because he belongs to the Waits, and not to the town-guard.

KING EDWARD.

Waits!—what are those?

DUNBAR.

Those wandering minstrels of the night, who lull the love-sick maids of Berwick asleep with amorous airs.

KING EDWARD.

What say you to this, Ambrose?

AMBROSE.

An’t please your majesty, to grant me the pension, I willingly resign the captaincy, as, although I am not envious, yet am better bred than to refuse your majesty’s bounty.

KING EDWARD.

So shall it be!—Now, nobles, to the camp,

Since we must follow up this victory

With greater conquests! [The curtain falls.

END OF THE SIEGE OF BERWICK.

ALAN OF WINTON,
AND
THE HEIRESS OF SETON.

[In 1336, Alan of Winton forcibly carried off the young heiress of Seton, which produced a feud in Lothian, as some favoured the ravisher, while others sought to bring him to punishment.—Hailes’ Annals, vol. ii. The Prior of Lochleven states, that William Murray, then lying in Edinburgh castle, was the chief aid and support of Alan of Winton in the feudal war to which this riot gave rise. Further, that after Margaret Seton bore him two children, he went beyond seas, and died in the Holy Land. This lady was the only daughter of Sir Alexander Seton, who is celebrated in the Siege of Berwick.]

ALAN OF WINTON,
AND
THE HEIRESS OF SETON.

O Elphingston! thy rural shades
Are bare, which firry forests crown’d,
When Margaret, pride of Scottish maids,
Trod joyfully thy verdant ground.

Seen far upon the hill’s green side,
Thy lofty tower, august and hoar,
Views Agriculture’s sons preside
Where rival factions ruled before.

How changed since that eventful day
When Winton’s baron, young but sage,
Amidst thy leafy dells did stray,
And communed with his fairy page!—

“Go, search, my boy, ere autumn fades,
“From pastoral Tweed to Jura’s isle,
“And ’mongst the flower of Scottish maids
“Seek one that rivals Seton’s smile.”

“As well, Sir Knight, go lift the Bass,
“Or fathom Corryvrekin’s linn,
“Forget to love a bonny lass,
“Or live on earth unstain’d by sin!”

Thus spake the page to Winton’s chief,
What each admiring heart confess’d;
But, ah! it did not give relief
To pangs that rent his master’s breast.—

“Go, sharpen me my stoutest spear,
“Go, saddle me my fleetest steed,
“By Byres-hill to hunt the deer,
“We go at morn,—speed, Maurice! speed!”

“Men seek not deer with mail and spear,
“But I obey, whate’er betide:
“’Twere better far, for sylvan war,
“To lead the hounds by Soutra’s side.”—

“What boots my trusty page to tell,
“But ere the eve is rising hoar,
“We brush the broom on Luffness fell,
“And rouse to death the brindled boar.”

The chief withdrew; but do not blame
His cunning vassal’s quick surmise,
That his lord went in quest of game
Which look’d more fair in youthful eyes.

We spoke of that enchanting maid,
Who now, in Seton’s ancient towers,
Lamented both her parents dead,
And wept away the lonely hours.

That heart grew chill that once was glad;
She sought the orchard’s walks alone,
And ’neath the walnut tree so sad
She woke her harp to sorrow’s tone.

Here, like a jewel in casket hid,
She pined obscure in solitude;
Till, playful, Love would lift the lid,
As misers o’er their treasure brood.

Too much inclined in courts to rove,
Lindsay, that “pink of chivalry,”
Forsook the tented shrine of Love,
In Seton’s lonely shades to sigh.

For her, the youthful Elphingston,
Though less renown’d, yet not less true,
Had left an oriental throne,
And bade its gilded pomp adieu!

And Salton’s baron, high in grace,
And Keith’s own Fraser, stoop’d to tell
How they had left the mountain chase
For glimpse of her in Seton’s cell.

And great De Vaux, that prince of men,
Whose castle looks o’er fairer fields
Than ere was wash’d by silver Nen,
To her the palm of beauty yields.

And Alan, lord of Winton’s vale,
The first in field—the first in hall—
Sought to reveal love’s tender tale
To her who had his heart in thrall.

Come paint her form in maiden bower,
Her virgin bosom’s rising swell,—
As well go paint the matchless flower
That blossoms in St Germains’ dell!

Her sunny hair, with jewels crown’d,
Upon her parted bosom lies;
But search the heaven’s starry round
To match the lightning of her eyes.

Her face and neck like mountain snow
That duns the hue of whitest flower,
Her cheeks tinged with a rosy glow,
In secret stolen from Flora’s bower.

Her lips like cherry-twins rejoice,
Bathed in the morning’s sparkling dew,
While the soft music of her voice
In angel-strains comes warbling through.

Her form is stately as the pine,
Amongst the forest’s pride the queen;
Her limbs like polish’d pillars shine,
Where Nature’s perfect art is seen.

Her waist appears a gentle span,
Within her girdle’s diamond star;
O, Heaven will bless the happy man
Who may that starry belt unbar!

“Fair Marg’ret, come for gentle space,
“O come to Winton’s blooming vale,
“Till lenient time, with change of place,
“Shall sooth the griefs it may not heal.”

“I cannot ride in Winton loan,
“Her castle’s walks no views afford;
“I go to princely Dirleton,
“To banquet with its noble lord.”

Less spake in earnest than in jest,
The beauteous Seton did reply,
When for the baron’s gorgeous feast
Her horse stood saddled pompously.

At early hour, on autumn morn,
She vaulted on her coal-black steed,
And look’d like light by darkness borne,
While pacing Germains’ flowery mead.

One trusty page—one faithful maid—

With kernes on foot, away she flew,

Till pass’d Long Niddry’s naked shade.

Close to Redcastle’s towers she drew.

The warder’s horn blew loud and shrill,
That hail’d the lady passing by;
The sound was echo’d from Lochill,
As rose the buckler-pennon high.

A page rode up—in doublet green,
On dwarfish steed, but fleet as wind—
Handed a billet all unseen,
Then shot away, nor look’d behind.

The scroll was tied with crimson thread,

The ink was red as new-drawn blood;

The purport ran,—“Wo to the kid!

“Who seeks the fox by Peffers’ flood!

“There is a maid in Fenton Tower,
“That walks the woods when others sleep;
“Talks to the moon, in hollin bower,
“And dreams of yonder Castle’s Keep.”

The lady’s cheek grew deadly pale,
She smote her steed, yet check’d its rein;
She sigh’d for Winton’s peaceful vale,
And thought of Alan’s noble mien.

She felt a thought pass o’er her soul,
That orphan-woman needs a stay;
But thoughts what maiden may control,
Like sunny clouds they pass away.

The lady came to Luffness-moor,
And roused the deer and dark curlew;
The lady came to Luffness Tower,
But there, no ostrich-pennon flew.

She found the Lindsay’s vassals gone,
To rouse the game ‘yond Peffers’ flood;
She thought of snaky Spindleston,
And war-wolf dread of Wormwood.

Then, as her maiden heart ’gan fail,
She sent her page to Luffness mill;
Thinks she, while Kelso’s monks love kail,
There’s work for clapper here and kiln.

No guest was found but bearded hag,
Who spake, while mouthing carrion raw,
“Knave’s gone the Marle Loch to drag,
“Or wire the hare on Galla Law.”

But, hark! the huntsman’s jovial horn
Makes all the leafy coverts ring;
The merry shouts are onward borne,
O’er brake and bush the coursers spring.

What booted now her Flanders rein,
Her steed through thickets wildly tore,
Till, like some forest-fashion’d queen,
She faced dread Saltcoats’ ravenous boar.

Fiercely the brindled monster came,
While far behind the chase-hounds roam;
His eyes glared red, as dipt in flame,
His tusks distended o’er with foam.

Death’s muffled horn must shortly sound!—
Yon distant knight too slowly rides;—
The monster furrows up the ground,
His tusks plough up the horse’s sides.

From stunned steed the lady fell,
Amidst the horrors of the chase;
But who her bosom’s thoughts may tell
When she look’d up—in Alan’s face!

He stood across her as a shield,
The gleaming faulchion in his hand;
For such a prize who would not wield
The deadly dart—the burning brand!

O’er her his scarlet cloak he threw,
To veil where silken scarf was rent,
Which gave a bosom to his view,
That shamed Medici’s monument.

The scatter’d hunters fast advance,
The forest trembles to the roar,
When Saltcoats’ chief, with sharpen’d lance,
Rush’d fiercely on the fiercer boar.

Ribb’d in the monster’s sides the spear
Snapp’d, dealing forth a double pain;
His tusks the oak’s firm roots uptear,
Or worm in wrath the shaking plain.

With glove of steel, and ready dart,
Down the boar’s throat his hand he thrust,
Till the sword drank the vital part,
And hurl’d the savage to the dust.

“Come, fill the goblet high with wine!”

Young Saltcoats cried, as forth he drew

The streaming dart—“we meet to dine

“To-morrow on the barbecue.

“Where is the haughty Winton now,

“Who watch’d yon lady, drooping faint?”

Surprise grew dark on every brow,

They gazed on earth and firmament.

When, lo! by dark Kilspindie’s shade,
The winged steeds are seen to glide;
“St Andrew!” Saltcoats cried, “yon maid
“By gallant is constrain’d to ride.

“O for one hour of Lindsay gay!

“De Vaux, Morville, or Elphingston;

“Yon collier chief should rue the day,

“And ’neath the thirsty broad-sword groan.”

Margaret’s dull vassal, left behind,
Told them of what he heard and saw;
But now as well go chase the wind,
As near their course by Galla Law.

“O lady, thou art weak and wan,
“Thy lovely limbs had need of rest!
“I’ll be your trusty waiting-man,
“If thou’lt be Moray’s welcome guest.”—

“I cannot sleep in Gosford’s shade,
“Where many a chosen archer dwells;
“It were not meet for Seton’s maid
“To sleep—save in her castle’s cells.”

One hour’s repose, with gentle fare,
Refresh’d Kilspindie’s gentle guest;
When she threw back her sunny hair,
Her head reclined on Alan’s breast.

Yet deem not aught but virgin love
That bosom e’er could venture in,
Pure as the angel-pairs above
She walk’d unstain’d with passion’s sin.

“Awake! my love, while all is still,
“Lest rivals mar our honeymoon,
“We’ll pitch our tents by Gogar’s rill,
“And sleep in Niddry’s fair saloon.

“Until that feudal storm is o’er,
“That rises now—but do not weep;
“It gathers gloomy on the shore,
“But, like the waves, will roar to sleep.

“The boat lies rocking in the bay,
“Her crew are brave, her oars are ready,—
“Then rise, my love, ere dawn of day
“Awakes the maids of Aberlady.

“When shooting o’er the dark green sea,
“Our canvass full, our vessel steady,
“I’ll kiss your cheek, and then be free
“To hail you Winton’s lovely lady.

“Though far the castle’s turrets blaze
“Like beacons on the ocean burning,
“As high the festal fire they’ll raise,
“To hail their chieftain’s glad returning.”

The shallop flew along the shore,
Dashing the rising waves aside,—
They raise the sail, and strike the oar,
So favouring breeze and swelling tide!

Landed on Preston’s fertile strand,
They hear the organ’s dying strain;
As Alan takes his Margaret’s hand,
And leads to Seton’s holy fane.

The portly Bishop look’d on high,
The golden-chalice stretch’d to bless,
When he beheld with wondering eye
Love’s culprit in her loveliness.

“Father! this lady as my bride,
“I claim before my God and thou;
“When warrior to the field must ride,
“No forms should e’er delay his vow.

“Although this marriage course be rude,

“This diamond ring must plead the rest!”

The priest look’d down in soften’d mood,

And soon the happy couple blest.

This chequer’d scene again we change;
Now o’er the waves the lovers’ fly,
While heard in Preston’s fertile grange,
Newbottle’s lusty oxen cry.

The moon is up—the crew prolong
The notes, as o’er the waters clear
Is heard the fisher’s oyster-song
Like water-spirits hovering near.

They pass the Inch’s beacon fires,
St Ninian bless for favouring gale,
As high Dunedin’s dusky spires
Amidst the chequer’d lights they hail.

And soon in Murray’s friendly bower,
The weary day had joyful night,
And Alan kiss’d the sweetest flower
That ever blest the morning light.

Morn saw the feudal standard raised,
The shepherd left his mountain fold,—
Unyoked six hundred oxen grazed,
A second Sabbath glad to hold.

One hundred ploughs unharness’d lie,
The dusky collier leaves his mines,
“A Seton!” is the gathering cry,
And far the fiery dragon shines.

With sound of horn and bloodhound near
The angry slogan rises far,
Smoke brindles every pointed spear,
Portentous of the coming war.

The gloomy minions of the wood,
Rush down impatient for the spoil,
But back return like ocean’s flood,
That leaves it wreck to feed the soil.

Proud Salton’s baron thundering comes,
(The parrot shining on his crest,)
Till Keith bears down on ostrich plumes,
And drives the popinjay to nest;

But not till Winton’s lofty spires
Are veil’d in smoke and gilt with flame;
Not till Revenge has lit her fires,
And curses pour’d on Bruce’s name!

Meanwhile on Preston’s fertile shore
The feudal war is fiercely borne;
Newbottle’s monks will long deplore
Their oxen maim’d,—their trampled corn.

Destruction broods o’er Seton’s fane,
Her gold-embroider’d altars spoil’d;
Her aged priests down cast and slain,
Her temples pilfer’d and defiled.

Her silver-blazon’d sachristy,
Was stolen by sacrilegious hand;
Her silken-woven tapistry
Shrunk shrivell’d from the burning brand.

The priest’s right arm was stretch’d to curse,

When generous Saltcoats forward came;

The robbers cry, “To horse, to horse!”

But ere they mount a host is slain.

Now Baliol’s liegemen thread the Moor,
From dark Tranent, Fawside, and Myles,
Investing Elphingston’s high tower,
As warm for strife each bosom boils.

They mount the breach, while in the shade
Sir Alan’s page, in dread despair,
The nitrous train so nicely laid,
Hurl’d foes and battlements in air.

An adept in that dangerous art,
In latter times, ah! known too well,
This faëry page could point the dart,
Or spring the mine with deadly yell.

As round the parting fragments fall,
The urchin flew like bird on wing,
Scaled Winton’s castellated wall,
And loosed the cauldron’s pitchy spring.

Unnumbered cisterns rivers pour,
Which boiling, hissing falls around;
Th’ assailants shun the burning shower,
Rush to the Tyne, or bite the ground.

While rings the loud alarum-bell,

Echo’d by rock and birken dale:

It sounds her foes’ departing knell,

And brings her chief to Winton’s vale.

Afar the steel-clad warriors shine,
Like silver mists on green Fawside,
While to the primrose banks of Tyne
A chosen band of warriors ride.

The Winton’s starry shield is seen,
And Moray’s lion’s red array,
While Seton, like a Roman queen,
Sits throned in phalanx firm, but gay.

Must sorrow cloud these shouts that rise,

And raise in bridal eye the tear?

A knight, dark mask’d, claims Winton’s prize,

With strength of arm and just of spear.

The bidding Alan did not bide,
But met his rival as a rock;
The spear which pass’d his steel-laced side,
Unhorsed his foeman with the shock.

“On vantage-ground I will not stand,”
Brave Winton cried; on foot he sprung,
Attack’d his foe with sword in hand,
Aside his trusty spear he flung.

One blow the haughty youth laid low,
The shiver’d helmet burst in twain;
Winton stood o’er his fallen foe,
Whose blood bedew’d the emerald plain.

“O Heaven! that visor quick undo,
“Bring balm to sooth the soldier’s groan;”
But ere that close-mask’d face they view,
Expired the gallant Elphingston.

“Now maidens raise the funeral wail,
“To chivalry award its meed:—
“There’s not in Lothian’s primrose vale
“A braver knight that mounts a steed.”

“Thrice welcome to these lordly halls!

“Joy, joy to Winton’s lovely bride;”

Is echo’d from the castle walls,

As through the gates the warriors ride.

“Thrice welcome,” gifted seer has said,
“From thee and thine a race shall spring,
“Like Winton’s chaplet, ne’er to fade
“While ancient Scotland has a king.”

NOTES TO ALAN OF WINTON.

Page 211, line 9.

We spoke of that enchanting maid,

Who now, in Seton’s ancient towers.

The palace of Seton was demolished about thirty years ago, and a modern heavy-looking chateau built near its site. Two views are preserved in Grose’s Scottish Antiquities. The family at different times entertained royalty: Mary, on her return from France, held her court here; the apartments of state were on the second floor, and were very spacious, nearly forty feet high, superbly furnished, and covered with crimson velvet, laced with gold. Here also Charles I. and his court reposed, when on their progress through Scotland. The palace had two large galleries filled with pictures, which, on Lord Winton’s attainder for adhering to the interests of Charles Stuart, were sold, by the commissioners of inquiry, or stolen by the servants.—Journey to Scot. 1723.

Page 214, line 9.

I cannot ride in Winton loan,

Her castle’s walks no views afford.

The old baronial castle of Winton probably stood on the site of the present edifice, where a house was built by George Lord Seton in 1493, about the time the collegiate church of Seton was erected. To this he added a garden, the wonder of the times, “erecting about the knots of flowers five score tores of timber, two cubits high, with two knops on their heads, the one above the other, each of them as great as a rouch bouel, over-gilt with gold, and their shanks painted with divers oiled colours.”—MS. Harl. See Pinkerton’s Scot. vol. ii.

The present house is situated on a gentle eminence, rising from the Tyne, and was erected for Lady Winton in 1619, at the advice of a favourite of hers, an architect, when, on the earl proposing to her the alternative of an addition to her house or a jointure, she chose the former.—Statist. Acct. Scot.

In consequence of George, fifth Earl of Winton, taking part in the rebellion of 1715, the whole of his estates were forfeited to the crown. The house was permitted to fall into decay till the beginning of the present century, when two additional wings were added by Colonel Hamilton of Pencaitland, who had purchased the estate.

Page 217, line 11.

Till, like some forest-fashion’d queen,

She faced dread Saltcoats’ ravenous boar.

The exploit of destroying the Boar of Saltcoats was reserved for a youth of the name of Livington; for which, it is said, he acquired an ample grant of lands as a reward, extending from Gullan Point to North Berwick Law. It must have happened considerably before the middle of the fifteenth century; for, about 1459, Livington of Saltcoats had a daughter, Sophia, married to Walter Lindsay, third son of Alexander, second Earl of Crawford, which shews that at that period the family had arrived to some degree of consequence.—Douglas’ Peer. vol. i. This formidable monster is said to have been slain by Livington’s thrusting his arm, which was protected by a glove of a peculiar construction, down the animal’s throat, while he despatched it with a sword or spear. Tradition says the glove was as long as his arm, and was stuffed, or quilted, with feathers from the wrist upwards. It was sold for a mere trifle at the roup of the last Lady Saltcoats. About thirty-five years ago the helmet, said to have been worn on the occasion, hung in the aisle belonging to the Saltcoats family in the church of Dirleton. It was removed while the church underwent repair, when, like the enchanted visors, it disappeared. About the beginning of the last century the estate was acquired by John Hamilton of Pencaitland, who married Margaret Menzies, heiress of Saltcoats.

At the mouth of the Peffer, a small rivulet goes by the name of Livington’s ford, where it is said the boar was slain.

The story of the boar has no connection with the historical part of the poem farther, than at that period an intimacy existed between the lords of Dirleton and the rising family of Seton, which I thought a good opportunity for introducing the brindled monster to the reader, when my heroine was on a fanciful visit to Dirleton’s towers.

A story similar to the above in some circumstances, is related of the ancestors of Lord Somerville, in the Border Minstrelsy, vol. iii. p. 22; but the champion took a more cautious way of destroying the serpent or dragon, by affixing a wheel bedaubed with pitch, rosin, and burning peats, on the point of his lance, which at a full gallop he thrust down the monster’s throat, and killed it on the spot. He was knighted by King William for the exploit, and afterwards carried for a crest a wheel and a dragon. In like manner, the family of Saltcoats carried a boar’s head; which shews the importance of such services in those times, when brindled “monsters roamed the gloomy wild.”

Page 220, line 9.

I cannot sleep in Gosford’s shade,

Where many a chosen archer dwells.

James I. was particularly anxious to establish the use of the bow, and ordered frequent assemblies near the parish-churches for the exercise of archery:—but after his death the national propensity for the spear prevailed; and among a hundred attendants of a baron, hardly six archers could be found.—Pinkerton’s Hist. Scot. vol. i. p. 163. James V., who was also fond of this warlike pastime, frequently visited Gosford, for the purposes of golfing and archery; but it was supposed, that three favourite ladies, Sandilands, Weir, and Oliphant, (one of whom resided at Gosford, and the others in the neighbourhood,) were the secret magnet of the royal visitor, which occasioned the following satirical, but witty advice to his Majesty, from Sir David Lindsay of the Mount, Lyon Herald:—

Sow not your seed on Sandylands,
Spend not your strength in Weir,
And ride not on an Elephant,
For spoiling o’ your gear.
Trans. Scot. Ant. vol. i. p. 517.

Page 222, line 5.

Landed on Preston’s fertile strand,
They hear the organ’s dying strain;
As Alan takes his Margaret’s hand,
And leads to Seton’s holy fane.

Seton church still remains in a very entire state. It stands east from the mansion, and seems to have been an elegant building. The roof is arched and covered with flag stones. The spire appears not to have been finished. Part of the present edifice probably existed before the time of Sir Alexander Seton, who figured at Berwick in 1333, as he was buried in the parish church of Seton.—George, second Lord Seton, made it collegiate.

Katherine Sinclair, the wife of William, first Lord Seton, “biggit ane aisle on the south side of the paroch kirk of Seton, of fine estlar, pendit and theiket it with stane with ane sepulchar, thairin where she lies, and founded ane priest to serve thair perpetually.”—Mait. MS.

George, third Lord Seton, who was slain at Flodden in 1513, was buried in the choir. Besides paving and embellishing the church he gave it a complete suit of cloth of gold.

Jane, daughter of Patrick, Lord Hepburn, his widow, “biggit the northern aisle of the college kirk, and took down that built by dame Katherine Sinclair on the south side.” This lady gave an eucharist of silver, a chalice over-gilt, fine woven arras to the altar, a stand of purple velvet flowered with gold, and many other suitable ornaments, to the church.

In 1544 the English burnt and destroyed the castle of Seton and the timber work of the church, and carried away the bells, organs, and other moveables.

After the battle of Pinky, it is said the English also destroyed the church, and carried off the fine choir of bells to Durham. The present bell of Tranent church belonged to the parish church of Seton. Their own being broken, this was brought to supply its place, which is large, and of fine workmanship. It was cast in Holland, 1587, with the name of George Lord Seton inscribed on both sides.

THE
VISION OF HUNGUS.

The King of the Saxons, with wrath in his hand,

Gives the land of the Pict to the sword and the brand;

He seizes their horsemen encumber’d with spoil,

And gives horse and rider to manure the soil.

“O wo to King Hungus!” he swore in his wrath,
“His foot-marks have left us a desolate path;
“But while a true Saxon remains in the land,

“He shall weep that he trod upon Mercia’s strand.

“Remember your altars, down cast and profaned!

“Remember your virgins, their purity stain’d!

“Then onward, ye sons of the field and the flood,

“Till Vengeance be drunk with your enemies’ blood!”

Thus spake the fierce chief, as to Heaven he vow’d,

While around him his warriors hung grim as a cloud;

“Go, glut your red sabres, till pyramids piled

“Arise on these plains, built with women and child!

“Already the bards of your country prepare

“To waken their harps to the conqueror’s air;

“Already their chords vibrate bold in the hall

“To Athelstane’s glory and Hungus’s fall!”

Meanwhile, in his tent, Hungus courted repose,

Sleep came to his couch, though surrounded by foes;

As sunk on his mattress, all silent and lone,

On his slumbers a vision celestial shone.

St Andrew, the patron of Picta, appear’d,

His cross, sheathed in glory, triumphantly rear’d;

His star-studded band did a motto display,

Where “victory” shone in a red golden ray.

O bright was that token!—it set in despair;

For the shouts of the Saxons are rending the air;

The soldiers of Hungus are scatter’d and broke,

And leave him alone, as the tide leaves the rock.

He shew’d them his vision—it was but a dream!

The souls of the bravest did wavering seem;

When, lo! in the firmament blazing on high,

The cross of St Andrew illumined the sky.

Each arm now was nerved that was feeble before,

They rush like the torrent that bursts on the shore;

As the scythe of the reaper the stubble lays low,

So the lances of Hungus are sweeping the foe.

As the proud hosts of Pharaoh aghast did recede,

When the ocean divided, closed over their head,

So the soul of the Saxon was palsied with fear

When he saw the red sign in the heavens appear.[7]

“King Athelstane, yield; for thou shalt not depart!”

Said a voice, as the Pict pierced the prince to the heart;

And the spot, where the chief fell, ’neath Alpine’s broad sword,

Is still in our annals call’d Athelstane-ford.

Kneeling low in the dust, princely Hungus was laid,

While vows to his patron were reverently paid;

To the church he bequeathed a fair service of gold,

As we read in the chronicle Holinshed told.

“Now joy to the Pict, and defeat to the foe!

“In his banner triumphant St Andrew shall glow;

“While the bards and the sanachies tell in the hall

“Of Hungus’s glory and Athelstane’s fall.”

NOTES TO THE VISION OF HUNGUS.

Page 236, line 5.

Kneeling low in the dust, princely Hungus was laid,

While vows to his patron were reverently paid;

To the church he bequeathed a fair service of gold, &c.

In gratitude to St Andrew, Hungus rebuilt the church of that name, in St Andrews, in a magnificent style; and, besides many valuable gifts in commemoration of his success, gave the tithes of his domains in support of the clergy, and ordained that the cross should be adopted as the Pictish ensign armorial, which the Scots assumed as theirs, when, by right of conquest, they succeeded to the Pictish kingdom.—See Maitland’s Hist. Scot. It is worthy of remark, that part of the lands of Markle, on the estate of Gilmerton, still belongs to the church. These lands were transferred from the monks of St Andrews to the abbey of Holyrood-house, and from their rental the stipends of the three deans of the chapel royal are still paid. Tradition says, that the cross was seen immediately above Markle, from whence the place has its etymology from miracle. This is absurd. The name, as spelt in old charters, is Merkhill; even as places which formerly paid duty to the sovereign or superior were called Merk-lands. The situation, however, is in the vicinity of the conflict, which must have extended over many miles. In 1782, the head of a hatchet of polished yellow marble was turned up by the ploughshare in a field of Gilmerton. It was in length about nine inches, and sharpened at both ends. Now it is well known that missiles of stone carry us back to a very barbarous period.

About a mile northward, on the farm of Muirhouses, a rude monumental whinstone is erected; and at Dingleton, a few furlongs farther, are the fragments of a large pillar, which some idle Goth has splintered. Both of these are supposed to mark the scene of Hungus’s conflict. Still a few furlongs westward, there is a pillar of white freestone, called the Boar Stane,[8] seemingly of more recent erection, (though not in the memory of man) situated in a field on the farm of Prora, called Bluidy Side. In the names of many places in this district we may trace their Celtic or Gaelic origin. A spot called Fingal-street shews where stood Fingal-ton; Dingleton is a corruption for Dongal-ton; and Congal-ton is still the name of a mansion and of an estate.

But the most remarkable thing in this neighbourhood is the seeming remains of a Pictish town or fortlet, in the barony of Drem. The zealous antiquary has traced the separate foundations of at least forty houses, which are of a circular form, in the manner of the Danes or Scandinavians. The camp is surrounded by three strong circumvallations, called the Rings—the stones of which have been partly removed for building agricultural enclosures. The space occupied consists of at least four acres. There appears to have been only one chief entrance, which is in the east. An eminent antiquary, who lately visited the spot, declared, that the remains of Berigonium in Lorn, the ancient capital of Scotland, do not present so valuable a picture of antiquity as those of Drem.

These circumvallations are situated at Drem-hills, and go by the name of the Chesters (from Anglo-Saxon Ceaster, a fort or castle.) In Forest’s map this name is applied to a hill that lies immediately above this ancient fortification. Besides numerous circular encampments, which are seen on the skirts of Lammermoor, the parishes of Oldhamstocks, Innerwick, Spott, Bara, and Bolton, each have their Chesters. From the etymology of these places, we may conclude that they are nearly as old as the end of the sixth century, when the Saxons formed an alliance with the Picts to aid them against the Scots and Britons.

THE
ABBESS OF ST ABB.

Is yon a swan before the gale,

O’er winds and waves prevailing?

O, no!—it is a shallop’s sail,

I hear its inmates wailing!

The monks are crowding to the beach,
Where lofty rocks are towering;
On high the bishop’s arms stretch,
A benison imploring.

Beneath them spreads a sea of foam,
Save where the rock’s dividing,
A gentle lady, all alone,
A shallop’s helm is guiding.

She stretches forth her snowy arms,
The aid of man imploring;
While rising waves involve her charms,
Her little boat devouring.

The little bark, far from the shore,
Sinks down with rolling motion;
Its shattered sail, and splinter’d oar,
Now feed the stormy ocean.

“Tis foolish, monks, to stoop and pray,
“Unrobe! and breast the billow;
“And rescue from the stormy spray
“The maid on briny pillow.”—

The lady floats towards the land—
Now in their arms they bear her;
A fire is lighted on the strand,
With cordials they cheer her.

The spark of life again returns,
Her eyes look up in wildness;
Her arching forehead madly burns,
Then gains its native mildness.

“O who art thou, so young and fair,
“That brav’st the stormy ocean?”—
She backward threw her silken hair,
And answer’d with emotion:

“The Princess of Northumberland,
“Edelfrid’s only daughter!—
“O wo to Redwald’s bloody hand,
“Red with my father’s slaughter.

“I see his vulture legions riven,
“When Oswald’s warriors gather;
“For know, that I have brothers seven
“Who sleep on Scottish heather!

“I saw the Anglian banners float,
“Their host was thrice our number!—
“A foeman’s chain my hapless lot,
“I sought the flowing Humber.

“A father fallen—my brothers fled!

“My mind lost and divided;

“When, lo! beside the river’s bed

“Yon shallop Heaven provided.

“My frail bark met the stormy gale,
“No human aid to guide me,
“I gave to Heaven my little sail—
“A spirit sat beside me.

“And aye as near some rocky isle
“My soul began to shudder,
“It cheer’d me with celestial smile,
“And sway’d the wayward rudder.”

“Sweet lady, to our pious care
“Intrust your youth and beauty;
“To one in mind and form so fair
“Protection is a duty.”—

The bishop kiss’d her snowy hand,
And led her to his palace;
The Princess of Northumberland
Might made a matron jealous.

O fair as she of Eden’s bowers,

When innocence array’d her!

Before the serpent ’mongst the flowers

To thorny paths betray’d her.

“Ebba! when I behold that face,
“And eye so softly beaming,
“Devotion’s every charm I trace
“Through fairest features streaming.

“When I behold thy pious air,
“Thou favour’d child of Heaven,
“To one so faultless, yet so fair,
“I think that grace is given.

“Thy bosom’s like a glassy lake,
“Wherein that heaven’s reflected;
“And when the storms of life awake,
“Thou still wilt be protected.

“Around thee in eternal spring
“Will grace and beauty blossom,
“Till heaven on its angel wing,
“Shall call thee to its bosom.

“Then sigh not for the world’s parade,
“With all its guilty splendour,
“But seek the cloister’s holy shade—
“To God your charms surrender!”—

I scarce need say, the bishop’s tale
O’er female heart prevailing,
That Princess Ebba took the veil,
Her former life bewailing.

Then there was not beneath the sun
In his diurnal glory,
A purer or a prettier nun
To grace a poet’s story.

When her novitiate had sped,
So well she’d done her duty,
They hail’d her Abbess of St Abb,[9]
Renown’d for worth and beauty.

WALTER OF CONGALTON

Like glow-worm on the robe of night
Haddina’s church is gleaming,[10]
Her painted windows glitter bright,
The tapers wide are streaming;
While, shining in the river’s bed,
Her awful form is shadowed.
Before the altar, richly spread,
The Minorites are kneeling,
Chanting lone masses for the dead,
While through the aisles are stealing
Those sounds so soft and holy,
So fraught with melancholy
And pious pleasure,
That heaven seems echoing back the strain,
From her invisible domain,
In sweeter measure.
It is the anniversary
Of Walter of Congalton:
He sleeps beside his lady fair
Under a polish’d stone.
The altar of St Duthacus
Stands in the church’s nave,
And near the altar, side by side,
They moulder in their grave,
While, sculptured o’er the mighty dead,
His crest and arms are blazoned.
Walter of Congalton was brave,
But his single arm could not save
His country from its subject state,
The English king was at his gate,
And all his lands were desolate!
While to the victor of the war
Had struck the banners of Dunbar,
A woe-portending token!
And patriot-chiefs had broke their word.
Ere Congalton had sheathed his sword;
For then his heart was broken!—
Within that church’s roofless shed,
A solitary guest!
The bat will make her drowsy bed,
The owl will build her nest!
But while within that glorious fane
Three lonely Minorites remain,
The mass will be said,
And the rites be paid,
For the gallant Walter of Congalton,
His lady Mabilla, and his son Sir John.

THE
LOST DRAVE OF DUNBAR;
OR,
THE WITCH OF KEITH.

THE LOST DRAVE.

This poem is founded on the following calamity, recorded in the Session Minutes of Dunbar:

July 27th, 1712, the minister (Thomas Wood) had been ordaining elders, when, says the minute, “The elders are exhorted to walk exampelary in their good behaviour before the people, and to be carefull to delete scandallous persons, or such as break the Sabbath-day. Morover he (the minister) read to them a minute left be his predecessors, mentioning how dreadful a disaster had fallen upon the people of this place for breaking the Lord’s day; ordains the same to be Regarat. Qch is as followeth:

“Mr Simpson, minister at Dalkeith,[11] son to Mr Andrew Simpson, minister at Dumbar, in his exposition of the XXXIId. Psalm, hath these words:—‘A fearfull judgement of God fell furth at Dumbar about the year of God 1577, qrof I was an eyewitness. My father, Mr Andrew Simpson, of good memory, being minister thereof, qho, going to the church, saw a thousand boatts setting their netts on the Sabbath. He weeped, and feared that God would not suffer such contempt. It being a most calm day as ever was seen at that season;—at midnight, when they went furth to draw their netts, the wind arose so fearfully, that it drowned eight score and ten boatts, so that there was reckoned in the coast side fourteen score of widdows!”

From another account of the same calamity, found written on the leaf of an old Bible, and said to have been copied from the Armenian Magazine, it appears, that at this period Dunbar was the station for the Dutch as well as for the Scotch fishery.

THE
LOST DRAVE OF DUNBAR.

Soft blew the gales of autumn on thy cliffs,

Dunbar! and fann’d the beauteous glowing Forth,

While vessels bounded o’er the spangled waves,

And shoals of herrings skimm’d below the keels,

Like silver fishes ’neath the crystal floor
Of eastern palaces, when prosperous years
Had brought a vast assemblage to thy shores
From Holland and the Isles: a greedy race,
Who riches sought despite of God and man,

And lured thy sons to death with tenfold horror!

On Sabbath morn, the church’s early bell
Call’d pious men to solemn deeds of prayer,
When the ungodly fishers launch’d their drave
Upon the shining sea. A thousand boats

Spread their brown oars, and darken’d all the strand,

As when the Indian chiefs, in fierce canoes,

Come forth to battle;—and ’twas sad to see

The fishers cast their black nets in the brine,

While godly men were journeying to church.

Out spake the zealous priest, with warning voice,

Against such mark’d and foul contempt of God,
And his most blessed holy ordinances;
But, mocking the old man, they turn’d away

Their ears from his rebuke, while some exclaim’d,

“Delays are dangerous,” others: “We make hay

“In sunshine;” thus, in vulgar witticisms,

They sneer’d at the good man’s prophetic words.

That morning’s calm was like the meteor’s glare,

That dazzles to destroy its wareless victim;

For when the boatmen, at night’s lonely hour,

Return’d to draw their nets, loud roar’d the gale,

As if from Greenland’s cold unfathom’d caves

Winter had come with all his host of storms.

The seaman’s face turn’d pale, as boats on boats

Rush’d fearfully o’er yawning vortices;
While, like a monster, lash’d the sea around,
Now gorging and next vomiting her prey,
And shoals of scaly fry, sheer upward thrown,
Came down like sheeted hail upon the decks!

Prows split on prows—the splinter’d oars were slipt;

And shiver’d sails flew from the shatter’d masts

In dread confusion, as when horror stalks

Amid the thunder of the British line!

Despairing groans and bursting hearts were there,

And parting spirits spoke most horrid things,
Lisping the name of Jesus!—others plunged,
Breasting the roaring wave, and swearing sank
Into the dark abyss, while shadowy forms
Rung words of dreadful import in their ears!—
But, chief amid the demons of the storm,
High soar’d, pre-eminent, the Witch of Keith,

Clear seen by her own lightnings, as she strode

The quivering mast, and trill’d this wayward song:

The Witch’s Song.

Cummer, go ye before, cummer, go ye;
If ye will not go before, cummer, let me!
The child fed on milk like a floweret on dew,

In the dread hour of trial its purpose may rue;

While through the red levin we wrestle the storm,

And give the lost drave to the fish and the worm!

The tempest has thicken’d, since merrily we flew

O’er the deep glens of Humbie, ere chanticleer crew.

By the green skirts of Lammer we rallied our host,

And dug the morass where the pedlar was lost:

A charm we found hid, in the pit’s central cell,

’Twill conjure a legion of devils from hell!

Haste! haste! where yon skipper is lab’ring in vain,

In his crazy old shallop the helm to regain,

Take Rutterkin, mewing, and plunge her below,

Where the mermaid is rinsing her visage of snow;

Then a shout will be heard, rising slowly and loud,

That will make the bones rattle that rot in the shroud.

There’s fire in his bosom that never will drown;

For the baby is strangled that no one will own;—

There’s cattle a-hungering though pasture be near;—

There’s hypocrites praying in fervour and fear!

Cummer, go ye before, cummer, go ye;

If ye will not go before, cummer, let me!

Thus sung the Witch of Keith; anon she sat

Revelling with Satan; and, with eldriche glee,

Laugh’d loud to see the drowner’s agony!

There shone the Sorcerer, Fein of potent power,

(The key-keeper of the air’s artillery,)
With the accursed crew, that ofttimes held
Unhallow’d meetings in North Berwick’s fane,
Plotting destruction ’gainst the royal James;

Wretches that pilfer’d church-yards, and would cut

The wedding-ring from off the putrid finger!

O heavens! it was a soul-subduing sight,

Where those of nearest kin were doom’d to perish!

The father spurn’d the son—brother the brother—

Each push’d the other down, as wild he strove

To catch the floating wreck, while the stout youth

Triumph’d above his old grey-headed sire!

Amid these fearful scenes some seamen gain’d

That ridge of rocks that stretch ’neath March’s Dyke—

Short was their respite—headlong on the rocks

The coming wave dash’d out their dizzy brains!

While hollow groans came echoing to the shore.

At these appalling sounds, the deer was roused

In Broxmouth’s shades: thence, bounding up the hill,

He dripping stood in Thurston’s lonely glen.
Wo to the hapless beast; for from their lair
He roused a gang of witches,—in revenge
A fearless hag assumed the greyhound’s form,

And chased the frighten’d stag o’er hill and glen,

Till, ere he wist, in Bransley’s fatal moss
He found a sepulchre, watery and deep!
Returning thence, for safety, the elf took

The colley’s shape; and singling from the herd,

That clad the hills, the sleekest milk-white ox,

Drove the astounded creature passive on

To where the sisters held their rites profane.

Muttering a spell, they took the lusty steer,
And bound him limb to limb, and then baptised
A brindled cat; which done, they buried both
Deep in the earth alive: a sovereign charm

’Gainst rank disease:—then mincing signs they tore

Three shrivell’d fragments from a dead man’s hand,

And pounded them to powder!—precious stuff!
To work the hest of Satan. Noxious clouds
Rose from the cauldron as the faggots blazed,

When gathering, round and round, “Aroynt!” they cried

Sweeping the welkin with their winged brooms,

Oceanward, bent on hell-imagined deeds.

Amongst this train, there was a youthful quean,

Comely, dark-featured, called Isobel Young,

Who vow’d revenge on one, whose scandalous tongue

Had done her injury, named “Crazy George!”

Bell, lighting on his boat, grasp’d firm the helm,

And dash’d him pellmell through the broken waves:

Then, with a grin, she leer’d in George’s face,

And mutter’d “Grist!”—next onward reckless steer’d

Towards the shore, nor stopt, till, grazing, shook

The little shallop on the rutted rocks;

When, smarting, like a living thing it veer’d,

And sought once more the bosom of the storm:

But when the shatter’d mast fell overboard

With its torn drapery, the poor man roar’d!

Clasping the gunwale.—Bell, again, cried “Grist!”

George gnash’d his teeth, and pray’d that Christ would save

His soul from Satan!—sovereign talisman

Was in these words; for ‘mediately the fiend

Vanish’d in flame, still muttering, “Grist, grist, grist!”

Now ’midst the dismal pauses of the storm

The seaman’s wail was heard, echoing among

The Castle’s caverns, (like the hopeless groan

Of wretch in its lone dungeons,) as he call’d
On God to bless his wife and helpless boys!
But still these awful words rung in his ear,
Darkening portending fate: “Ye would not come
“When mercy waited on thee; now, when floods
“Of mighty waters rush upon thy soul,
“The Lord forsakes thee!”...
The beacon blazes high on Trowness Point,
Tinging the ruins of St Dennis’ church,

That seem in flames, while gleaming wide and far,

Like thickening stars upon the robe of night;

The lights are gathering, and the sea-fowl’s scream,

(Roused from her aerie nest on lone St Abbs,)
With noisy flapping wings, and mazy flight,
Deepens the mournful music of the storm!

Matrons—and maids—and lovers—crowd the strand!

And hands are wrung, and silken tresses tore;—

And swollen hearts choke up the power of speech;—

And children seek their fathers—who have none!—

And wives their husbands—who are husbandless!—

And sires their sons—who now must beg their bread!—

And maids their lovers—wed away to death!—

The Angel of Destruction stalks abroad,—

And who can stay his arm, or bound his course?

When morning shone upon the troubled sea,

Like gleams of gladness on the face of horror,

Unnumber’d images of death appear’d

To catch the aching eye. A firm-built boat,

That braved the stormy night, drew near the harbour,

With two lorn men on board, (the rest had died

Through dire fatigue, worn at the faithless oar;)

But Hope, alas! smiled only to betray;

For a voracious wave, with ruthless fury,

Shiver’d their skiff on that lone rock, where now

An Iron Pole the sailor’s beacon stands!—
A vessel, laden, drifted to the shore,
Below the Washing Rocks, and met the waves,

As vaulting up, in clouds of foam, they lash’d

The weeping heavens. O, it was pitiful
To see the trembling Dutchmen how they raved
In terror at the gale, and inly sigh’d
For the cold breeze that fans the Zuyder Zee;
As evermore the rock-chafed breakers fell

With roaring deafening noise.—Forth on the deck

A gallant youth appear’d, and wound a rope

Around his manly waist, then fearless plunged

Amidst the boiling surf, and sought the shore.

Long, long, he buffeted the waves, and sunk;
Till, like a sea-bird, rising from the depths
Of ocean’s coral beds, again he held

His fearless course, and near exhausted landed

Amidst glad shouts, upon the pebbly strand;
When, from his panting sides, a rope unwove,
Was firmly braced upon the strand, and form’d
A smooth-declining angle from the vessel,
Whereon a cott was slung, which glided soft
Piloted to the shore, and from its bosom
Leap’d forth a lady, veil’d in silvery foam,
Like Agenor’s royal daughter when she stood
On the Dictean coast. None ever knew

For what, or whence, these sea-beat wanderers came,

(Perchance some Danish princess, tempest-tost!)

The seamen answer’d all interrogatories
Forbiddingly.—The strangers went away
In mystery,—and their secret went with them!
Pale Desolation sat upon the beach
Weeping o’er human woe—a gloomy picture!—
Like the grim after-scenery of a battle,

(Where fiends joy o’er the havoc fools have made.)

Boats lay keel up, beating among the rocks,

And splinter’d spars lay thick as harvest stubble;—

While ghastly corpses drifted to the shore,

Clench’d in the sand, or ’tangled in the weeds;—

And many push’d to gain the ocean’s edge,

Gazing, knee-deep, in silent breathless horror,

Trembling lest the next wave should waft a friend;—

And wretched women, with their screaming babes,

Delirious sought their husbands’ lifeless forms!

There stood an old man by the sea and wept,

And tore his hoary locks, and raved, and swore—

His sole support, his only son was drown’d!
And by yon Castle’s cliffs, a virgin bride
Beheld her lover’s bloated carcass floating;

She spoke not, but, wild gazing, madly sprung,

And made her bridal-bed on the green billow!

How various are the hues that tinge the mind,

So nicely shaded, that philosophy

Might spend eternities and never trace them,

A novice in the school of vain conjecture!

Cold, cold, and gentle was the icy grief

That chill’d the bosom of forsaken Mary!

Losing itself in settled melancholy.

Long on that rock, where art, with curious skill,

Has scoop’d a cave, and wells a crystal spring,

She sat on that dread day in musing sorrow;

And oft, in after times, she sought that spot,

Where, robed in many colours, she would braid

Her hair with sea-weed, and with varied shells

Picture the perish’d drave—and sob—and sing.
A buxom matron had six gallant sons
In this sad enterprise. She slumbering lay
In morning dreams, and saw them all return
Laden with treasures from the gorgeous deep;
Each held a foaming jar in his glad hand,
Filling a silver cup with rosy wine,

To pledge their mother’s health. With joyous face

They bade her drink.—She raised herself in bed,

Stretch’d forth her hand to grasp the proffer’d cup—

It fell—she woke!—when, horrors! one by one

Their death-cold forms were brought into her cottage:

Henceforth her senses in wild mazes wander’d,
And she was seen, a broken-hearted woman,
Singing for evermore these plaintive rhymes.

Song.

My heart is on the faithless wave,
That bore my love away:—
The sun that gilds both tree and tower,
Brings me no happy day!—
The ways of life are dimly seen,
They shine through sorrow’s tear;
When all is bright with pleasure’s beam,
Misfortune’s shades appear.

My creel hangs in a corner now,
That leapt with silver fry;
And I, whose maurlain aye was full,
In poverty must sigh!
O friendship’s a deceitful gleam,
That gilds our happy years;
But, like the sunshine of a dream,
It leaves us in our tears.

Yon castle bows its lofty head,
Where gilded turrets shone;
Now that it lies in ruin’s bed,
Its fate is like my own!
The lads who’d bleed to save it still
Are pillow’d on the deep;
Their winding sheet the ocean’s brine!—
Their monument its steep!

The violin’s mute in Jeanie’s cot,

Its master’s now at rest!

The wave, when dewy evening falls,

Is curling o’er his breast.

My cheerful hearth is desolate;

My children all are gone!

And in a weary world I’m left

To struggle through alone.

Some say, there’s joy in weeping long,
That gladness springs from grief;
To me, nor weary day, nor night,
Can ever bring relief!
The ways of life are dimly seen,
They shine through sorrow’s tear;
When all is bright with pleasure’s beam
Misfortune’s shades appear.

From dark Northumbria to the Orcades,

Echo’d in Scotland’s bays the voice of wo,

Like that wild yell that rises when th’ Hindoo

Ascends the funeral pile. Lost mothers mourn’d

Like Niöbe for their children; pining maids
Wander’d like Suilmatha on the beach,
In search of the dear lonely bark that bore
Their absent lovers, who must ne’er return!
The bud, unblossom’d then, was doom’d to shed

Its earliest tears while listening to this tale;

And the cold Dutchman, leaning on his oar,

Would smooth his rugged brow, distend his soul,

Then bless his dank canals, and doff his pipe,

When he was told his kinsman’s fearful fate

On thy rough shores, Dunbar! And princes too

Might weep the fate of those whose toils obscure

Enrich’d a nation; even as Charles wept

Beside the fisher’s tomb where Beuckel slept!

END OF THE LOST DRAVE.

NOTES
TO THE LOST DRAVE;
WITH AN
ACCOUNT OF THE WITCHES OF EAST LOTHIAN.

“If any of you have a sheep sick of the giddies, or a hog of the mumps, or a horse of the staggers, or a knavish boy of the school, or an idle girl of the wheel, or a young drab of the sullens, and hath not fat enough for her porrage, or butter enough for her bread, and she hath a little help of the epilepsy, or cramp, to teach her to roll her eyes, wry her mouth, gnash her teeth, startle with her body, hold her arms and hands stiff, &c. And then with an Old Mother Nobs hath by chance called her Idle Young Housewife, or bid the Devil scratch her; then no doubt but Mother Nobs is the Witch, and the young girl is owl-blasted!”—Harsenet’s Declar. p. 131.

Page 251, line 13.

When the ungodly fishers launched their drave

Upon the shining sea.

The manner in which this fishery is carried on is similar to the plan of the old Dutch fishery, which renders it extremely beneficial to the country. The boats belong partly to fishermen, (who employ the rest of the year in catching white fish,) and partly to landsmen, who build and equip them in the way of adventurers. An adventure of this kind is called a Drave.

In ancient times a certain quantity of herrings was taken for the king’s kitchen. This was afterwards commuted into a tax of ten shillings upon every sizeable boat. There was also a duty paid to the High Admiral’s deputy, who presided over the fishery.—Camp. Sur. vol. i. p. 419. This has fallen into desuetude. The fishers, however, appoint one of their number, whom they style Admiral, to arrange the order of sailing, &c. and two chancellors, to whom all their disputes are referred.

A CONCISE ACCOUNT OF THE WITCHES OF EAST LOTHIAN.

To avoid crowding so small a poem with a mass of notes, which might be multiplied ad infinitum, I shall, as briefly as possible, notice those mysterious personages, whose deeds once formed the evening’s tale and the morning’s debate of our ancestors.

The first apparently belonging to this county is the Gyre Carling, queen of the fairies, the Great Hag or Mother Witch of the Scottish peasantry. The subjoined fragment, copied from the Bannatyne MS. into the Border Minstrelsy by Sir Walter Scott, and more recently transcribed by Mr David Laing into his Select Remains of the Ancient Popular Poetry of Scotland, is presented to the reader, as descriptive of the abode and other properties of that monstrous lady.

The Gyre Carling.

In Tiberius tyme, the trew Imperiour,

Quhen Tinto hills fra skraiping of toun-henis was keipit,

Thair dwelt ane grit Gyre Carling in awld Betokis bour,

That levit upoun Christiane menis flesche and rewt heids unleipit;

Thair wynit ane hir by, on the west syde, callit Blasour,

For luve of hir lauchane lippis, he walit and he weipit;

He gadderit ane menzie of modwartis to warp doun the Tour;

The Carling with ane yren club, quhen that Blasour sleipit,

Behind the heill scho hatt him sic ane blaw,
Quhil Blasour bled ane quart
Of milk pottage inwart,
The Carling luche, and lut a fart,
North Berwick Law.

The king of Fary than come with elfis mony ane,

And sett ane sege, and ane salt, with grit pensallis of pryd;

And all the Doggis fra Dumbar was thair to Dumblane,

With all the tykis of Tervey, come to thame that tyd,

They gnew doune with thair gomes mony grit stane:

The Carling schup her on ane sow, and is her gaitis gane,

Grunting our the Greik sie, and durst na langer byd,

For bruklyng of bargane, and braking of browis:

The Carling now for dispyte,
Is mareit with Mahomyte,
And will the doggis interdyte,
For scho is Quene of Jowis.

Sensyne the Cockis of Crawmound crew nevir a day,

For dule of that devillisch dem wes with Mahoun mareit.

And the Henis of Hadingtoun sensyne wald not lay,

For this wyld wilroun witch thame widlit sa and wareit;

And the same North Berwick Law, as I heir wyvis say,

This Carling, with a fals cast, wald away careit,

For to luk on quha sa lykis, na langer scho tareit;

All this langour for luve before tymes fell,
Lang or Betok was born,
Scho bred of ane accorne;
The laif of the story to morne,
To you I sall telle.

In another burlesque poem, entitled, Ane Interlude on the Laying of Lord Fergus’s Gaist, Bettokis Bower again occurs:—

“Listen, lordis, I sall you tell,
Off ane very grit mervell,
Off Lord Fergussis gaist,
How mekle Sir Andro it chest
Unto Beittokis bour,
The silly sawle to succour.

The “little gaist,” besides committing other misdemeanors,

“It ran to Pencatelane,

And wirreit ane awld chaplane.”

Another of the Gyre Carling’s popular appellations was Nicnevin. Montgomery, in his Flyting, describes her array and her elriche company on All-hallow even:

“Nicneven with her nymphes, in number anew,

With charms from Caitness and Chanrie of Ross,

Whose cunning consists in casting of a clew.

These “venerable virgins, whom the world call witches,” continues he,

“Backward raid on brod sows, and some on black bitches;

Some, on steid of a staig, oure a starke Monke straide.

Fra the how to the hight, some hobles, some hatches;

With their mouthes to the moone, murgeons they maid.

Some, be force, in effect, the four windes fetches;

And, nyne times, withershins, about the thorne raid.

Montgomery’s Poems, p. 117. Edit. 1821. 8vo.

Sir David Lindsay, in his Introductory Epistle to his “Dream,” tells the Kingis Grace, how he had “fenyit mony fabill” to comfort him when he was sorry;

“And of mony uther plesand history,

Of the reid Ettin, and the Gyre Carling.”

From such a character the transition is easy to the

——Accursed crew, that oft times held

Unhallow’d meetings in North Berwick’s fane,

Plotting destruction ’gainst the royal James.—P. 254.

Agnes Sampson, or Symson, called the Wise Wife of Keith, (in Humbie parish,) was one of those who confessed having dealings with his satanic majesty, before King James VI., in the winter of 1590. She is characterized by Archbishop Spotswood, as “a woman not of the base and ignorant sort of witches, but matron-like, grave and settled in her answers, which were all to some purpose;” and Sir James Melville informs us, that she was a renowned midwife.

Agnes was accused by the Holyrood-house tribunal of having renounced her baptism, and of having received the devil’s mark; of raising storms to prevent the queen’s coming from Denmark; of being at the famous meeting of witches at North Berwick church, &c. where the devil presided, not “in the shape of beast,” but, most uncourteously, in the habit of a priest!—Arnot’s Crim. Trials.

At first Agnes denied the accusations brought against her by the king’s majesty and the lords assembled, but being ordered to prison to undergo the torture, she returned to her judges in a frame of mind suitable to make the following confession, which I shall give in the words of Glanvil:—

Confession of Agnes Sampson to King James, then of the Scots.

“Item, Fyled and convict for sameckle as she confessed before his majesty, that the devil in man’s likeness met her going out in the fields from her own house at Keith, betwixt five and six at even, being alone, and commandit her to be at North Berwick kirk the next night. And she past then on horseback, conveyed by her good-son, called John Cooper, and lighted at the kirk-yard, or a little before she came to it, about eleven hours at even. They danced along the kirk-yard; Geilie Duncan plaid to them on a trump; John Fien mussiled led all the rest; the said Agnes and her daughter followed next. Besides, there were Kate Grey, George Moilis’s wife, Robert Greirson, Katherine Duncan Buchanan, Thomas Barnhil and his wife, Gilbert Macgil, Joh. Macgil, Katherine Macgil, with the rest of their complices, above an hundred persons, whereof there were six men, and all the rest women. The women made first their homage and then the men. The men were turned nine times widdershins about, and the women six times. John Fien blew up the doors, and blew in the lights, which were like mickle black candles sticking round about the pulpit. The devil startit up himself in the pulpit like a mickle black man, and every one answered “Here.” Mr Robert Grierson being named, they all ran hirdie girdie, and were angry: for it was promised he should be called Robert the Comptroller, alias Rob the Rower, for expriming of his name. The first thing he demandit was as they kept all promise, and been good servants, and what they had done since the last time they had convened. At his command they opened up three graves, two within, and ane without the kirk, and took off the joints of their fingers, toes, and neise, and parted them amongst them: and the said Agnes Sympson got for her part a winding-sheet and two joints. The devil commandit them to keep the joints upon them while they were dry, and then to make a powder of them to do evil withal. Then he commandit them to keep his commandments, which were to do all the evil they could. Before they departed they kissed his breech; the record speaks more broad, as I noted before. He had on him ane gown and ane hat, which were both black; and they that were assembled, part stood and part sate: John Fien was ever nearest the devil, at his left elbock; Graymaical keeped the door.”—Glanvil’s Sadducismus Triumphatus, p. 399.

Agnes having confessed many miraculous and strange things to his majesty, he branded her and her gang as a body of “extreme liars,” when, taking him a little aside, “she declared the very words which passed between the king’s majesty and the queen at Upslo, in Norway, on the night of their marriage; whereat the king wondered greatly, and swore by the living God that he believed all the devils in hell could not have discovered the same, and gave the more credit to what she afterwards declared.”—Newes from Scotland.

The above confession had its natural effect upon a weak mind. James, who before wavered in his belief, now became an advocate for the truth of the damnable doctrine of witchcraft; and in the third chapter of the second book of his Dæmonologie, has made a kind of paraphrase on the above deposition.

Cummer, go ye before; cummer, go ye;

If ye will not go before, cummer, let me!—P. 253.

These are the words said to have been sung by Agnes Sampson and two hundred of her associates, when they landed from their riddles or cives, and danced a reel on the shore of North Berwick, when on their way to hold their unhallowed meetings in the church.

Take Rutterkin, mewing, and plunge her below

Where the mermaid is rinsing her visage of snow.—P. 254.

“Moreover, Agnes confessed, that at the time his majesty was in Denmarke, shee being accompanied with the parties before specially named, tooke a cat and christened it, and afterward bound to each part of that cat the cheefest part of a dead man, and several joyntes of his bodie; and that in the night following the said cat was convayed into the middest of the sea by all these witches, sayling in their riddles or cives, as is aforesaid, and so left the said cat right before the town of Leith, in Scotland; this doone, there did arise such a tempest in the sea, as a greater hath not bene seene. At another time John Fien, attempting to catch a cat for that purpose, she proving too nimble, he was carried about in the air after her in a wonderful manner.”—Newes from Scotland.

Thus sung the Witch of Keith; anon she sat

Revelling with Satan.—P. 254.

Glanvil thus continues his relation. Agnes sailed “with her fellow-witches in a boat to a ship, where the devil caused her to drink good wine, she neither seeing the mariners nor the mariners her. But after all, the devil raised a wind whereby the ship perished. Her baptizing, and using other ceremonies upon a cat, with other witches, to hinder the queen’s coming into Scotland. Her raising of a spirit to conjure a picture of wax for the destroying of Mr John Moscrope.”

There shone the sorcerer Fien, of potent power,

The key-keeper of the air’s artillery.—P. 254.

John Fien (alias Cunningham, alias Doctor Fian,) master of the school of Saltpans in Lothian, belonged to the aforesaid company.—“That which is observable in John Fien,” says Glanvil, “is, that the devil appeared to him not in black, but in white raiment; but proposed as hellish a covenant to him as those fiends that appear in black. As also lying dead two or three hours, and his spirt tane (as the phrase in the record is); his being carried, or transported to many mountains, and, as he thought, through the world, according to his own depositions. His hearing the devil preach in a kirk in the pulpit, in the night by candle-light, the candle burning blue. That in a conventicle, raising winds with the rest, at the king’s passage into Denmark, by casting a cat into the sea, which the devil delivered to them, and taught them to cry Hola when they first cast it in. His raising a mist at the king’s return from Denmark, by getting Satan to cast a thing like a football (it appearing to John like a wisp) into the sea, which made a vapour or reek to arise, whereby the king’s majesty might be cast upon the coast of England. His hearing the devil again preach in a pulpit in black, who after pointed them to graves, to open and dismember the corps therein; which done, incontinently they were transported without words. His opening locks by sorcery, as one by mere blowing into a woman’s hand while he sate by the fire. His raising four candles on the luggs of an horse, and another on the top of the staff of his rider in the night, that he made it as light as day; and how the man fell down dead at the entering within his return home,” with several other charges similar to those mentioned in Agnes Simpson’s indictment.

Geillies Duncan, who was his accuser, confessed that he was their clerk or register, and that no man was allowed to come to the devil’s readings but he. “After thrawing of the doctor’s head with a rope, whereat he would confess nothing, he was persuaded by faire means to confesse his follies, but that would prevail as little,” till, at length, by dint of exquisite torture, he was compelled to confess any thing; and was then strangled and burned on the Castlehill of Edinburgh, Jan. 1591.

“Most of the winter of 1591,” says Spotswood, “was spent in the discovery and examination of witches and sorcerers. Amongst these Agnes Samson, commonly called the Wise Wife of Keith, was the most remarkable.” She confessed that the Earl of Bothwell had moved her to inquire what should become of the king, &c. Richard Graham, another notorious sorcerer, who was apprehended at the same time, made the like accusation against Bothwell.—Spotswood, p. 383.

Barbara Napier was convicted, May 8, 1591, for consulting Agnes Simpson, to give help to Dame Jean Lyon, Lady Angus; for which she was worried at a stake, and burned to ashes!—MS. Just. Rec.

“The tricks and tragedies the devil played then among so many men and women in this country (says Sir James Melville,) will hardly get credit by posterity! the history whereof, with the whole depositions, was written by Mr James Carmichael, minister of Haddington.[12] Among other things, some of them did shew, that there was a westlandman, called Richard Graham, who had a familiar spirit, the which Richard (Graham,) they said, could both do and tell many things, chiefly against the Earl of Bothwell. Whereupon the said Richard Graham was apprehended and brought to Edinburgh; and, being examined before his majesty, I being present, he granted that he had a familiar spirit, which shewed him sundry things; but he denied that he was a witch, or had any frequentation with them. But when it was answered again, how that Amy Simson had declared, that he caused the Earl of Bothwell address him to her, he granted that to be true, and that the Earl of Bothwell had knowledge of him by Effie Machalloun and Barbary Napier, Edinburgh women. Whereupon he was sent for by the Earl of Bothwell, who required his help to cause the king’s majesty his master to like well of him. And to that effect he gave the said Earl some drug or herb, willing him at some convenient time to touch therewith his majesty’s face. Which being done by the earl ineffectually, he dealt again with the said Richard to get his majesty wrecked, as Richard alleged; who said he could not do such things himself; but that a notable midwife who was a witch, called Amy Simson, could bring any such purpose to pass. Thus far the said Richard Graham affirmed divers times before the council; nevertheless he was burnt, with the said Simson, and many other witches. This Richard alleged, that it was certain what is reported of the fairies; and that spirits may take a form, and be seen, though not felt.”—Melville’s Memoirs, p. 388. Edit. 1752.

Amongst this train, there was a youthful quean,

Comely, dark-featured, called Isobel Young,

Who vow’d revenge on one, whose scandalous tongue

Had done her injury, named “Crazy George!”—P. 256.

The next to be introduced to the reader is Isobel Young, spouse to George Smith, portioner in East Barns, (near Dunbar,) who was tried for witchcraft in 1629. She was accused of having stopped by enchantment George Sandie’s mill,[13] twenty-nine years before; of having prevented his boat from catching fish, while all the other boats at the Herring Drave, or herring-fishery, were successful; and that she was the cause of his failing in his circumstances, and of nothing prospering with him in the world; that she threatened mischief against one Kerse, who thereupon lost the power of his leg and arm; that she had the Devil’s mark, &c.

Some articles of the indictment are curious:—“Item, she went in a very tempestuous night, when the milne horses were scarcely able to ride it, over the water to her house, and fra her house back againe to the milne, when there was no bridge neither of stone nor timber over the water, unwet. Item, she destroyed the cattle of William Meslet, in great suddainty, and that by taking off her curch at the barne-door, and running about thrice within the barne widdershins. Item, she resett Christian Grinton, a witch, in her house, whom the pannel’s husband saw one night to come out at ane hole in the roof, in the likeness of a cat, and theirafter transform herself in her own likeness; whereupon the pannel told her husband, that it should not faire weill with him, which fell out accordingly; for next day he fell down dead at the pleuch, and was brought hame by the pannel in William Meslet’s chair. Item, she took a sickness off her husband, and laid it on his brother’s son, who came to the barne, and saw the firlott running about, and the stuff popling on the floor; and he ran upon the pannel with a sword to kill her for bewitching him, and strak the lintell of the door in following; the mark whereof is to be seen yet, and that he died thereof. Item, her apparition was seen in John Bryson’s stable, under night, riding on ane meir, seen by David Nisbet, servand; and since, by her sorcerie, the meir cast her foal, and died. Item, for thir forty years, for curing of hir bestiall, she has been in use to take a quick ox, with a cat, and a great quantity of salt, and to burie the ox and cat quick with the salt, in a deep hole, as a sacrifice to the devil.”—“The truth of this article,” observes the abridger of the Criminal Record, “was, that their bestiall being diseased of the routting evil, the pannel’s husband was going to the Laird of Lee to borrow his curing-stane; whereupon their servant, James Nisbet, told them that he had seen bestiall cured by taking a quick ox, and burying him in a pitt, and by calling the rest of the bestiall over that place; whereupon they practised it once or twice, and were not the better; on which they went to the said Laird of Lee’s. The ladie refused the stone, but gave flaggons of water wherein it was steiped, which giving the bestiall to drink, in their apprehension it cured them. And for using the foresaid remedy, her husband, (but never the pannel,) was ordained by the Presbytery of Dunbar to make satisfaction for the scandalous fact, and to divest others theirfra. It is the ordinar practice of husbandmen of the best sort, who were never suspect nor dilated of witchcraft, in many parts of the kingdom.”—See Sharpe’s Pref. to Law’s Memorialls.

“Mr Laurence Macgill and Mr David Primrose appeared as counsel for the prisoner. They pleaded, that the mill might have stopped, the boat catched no fish, and the man not prospered in the world, from natural causes, &c.; but the counsel for the prosecution replied, that these defences ought to be repelled, and no proof allowed of them, because contrary to the libel. The prisoner in her defences contradicted what was charged by the public prosecutor in the indictment. Her defences were, therefore, overruled, and she was convicted, strangled, and burnt!”—See Arnot’s Crim. Trials, p. 396.

I must now introduce a different personage into this unsanctified company, who appeared in our horizon about 1653. When Cromwell’s “iron brigade of disciplined independents” passed through Dunbar, conquering and to conquer, a prophetess appeared in the person of Hannah Trapnall, as we learn from the following document:

“Jan. 16.—A Brevate of Hannah, whom some call a Prophetess, in Whitehall.

“There is one Hannah, a maid that lives at Hackney, near the city of London, the same that was formerly at Dunbar, a member of Mr John Simpson’s church (as is said) who lives at one Mr Robert’s, an ordinary in Whitehall, to whom many hundreds do daily come to see and hear, who hath now been there about a fortnight. Those that look to her, and use to be with her, say she neither eateth nor drinketh, save only sometimes a toast and drink, and that she is in a trance, and some say that which she doth is by a mighty inspiration, others say they suppose her to be of a troubled mind, and people flocking to her so as they do causeth her to continue this way, and some say worse, as every one gives their opinions as they please, but this is visible to those that see and hear her. Her custom is to pray sometimes an hour, and sometimes two hours, and then sings two hymns, in two several tunes, and then prays again, &c. Her matter is various, full of variety, for the Lord Protector, that God would keep him close to himself, as he hath hitherto, so still to have his heart set upon the things of the Lord, not to be vain, nor regard earthly pomp and pleasure, and things below, but the things of God and his people; that he may be delivered from carnal councils, and being seduced to please the men of the world, and those that seek unrighteousness; that he may not leave the council of the godly, to hearken to them who are worldly wise, and earthly politicians, but wise in the wisdom of God.”

“Hannah, the maid that prayed at Whitehall, of whom you have the particulars before, this day (Jan. 16.) rose and went from Whitehall home, speedily and lustily.”—See Several Pro. in State Affairs in Cromwelliana.

About this time a warlock drove a lucrative trade, called Sandie Hunter (alias Hamilton,) whom it is said the devil nicknamed Hattaraick. He was originally a knolt herd in East Lothian, and was famous for curing diseases both in man and in beast, by words and charms. Wherever Hattaraick went, none durst refuse him an alms. One day he came to the gate of Samuelston, when some friends after dinner were taking to horse. A young gentleman, brother to the lady, switched him about the ears, saying, “You warlock carle, what have you to do here?”—whereupon the fellow went away grumbling, and was heard to say, “You dear buy this ere it be long.” After supper the gentleman took horse and departed, and crossing Tyne water to go home, he passed through a shaddy piece of a haugh called the Allers. What he saw there he would never reveal; but next day he was in a high state of delirium, and had to be bound. The Lady Samuelston hearing of this said, “Surely the knave Hattaraick is the cause of this trouble; call for him in all haste.” When the warlock came, “Sandie,” says she, “What is this you have done to my brother William?”—“I told him,” replied he, “I should make him repent his striking of me at the yait lately.” She giving the rogue fair words, and promising him his sack full of meal, with beef and cheese, persuaded the fellow to cure him, which was speedily effected. When Hattaraick came to receive his wages, he told the lady her brother would shortly leave the country never to return; upon which, she caused him make a disposition of his property to the defrauding of his brother George. After the warlock had pursued his lucrative calling for some time, he was apprehended at Dunbar, taken to Edinburgh, and burnt on the Castlehill.—Satan’s Invisible World. Sinclair, from whom the substance of the above is copied, says, that he had the information from the gentleman’s brother.

The lands of Samuelston were so much infested by the “weird sisters” in 1661, that John, Earl of Haddington, to appease his tenants, was under the necessity of presenting a petition to his majesty’s commissioner for the purpose of getting them tried by a court of judicature. The following extract from this commission shews, that the arts of darkness continued to be practised by numerous bodies, to the no small terror of the lieges:—

Edr. 3d Apryll, 1661.

COMMISSION FOR JUDGEING OF WITCHES, &c. IN SAMUELSTON.

To the Right Hon. His Maties Commissioner, his Grace, and the Lordis, and Others of the Parliament appoyntit for the Articles. The humble petitioun of Johne Earl of Hadintoun,

Sheweth,—That upon severall malefices committit of late within and about my landis of Samuelstoune, thair being severall persones suspect of the abominable sin of witchcraft, apprehendit and searched, the markes of witches wer found on thame in the ordinarie way. Severallis of thame haif made confessioun, and haif dilatit sundrie others within the saidis boundes, and haif acknowledged pactioun with the devile. Thair names are these, Elspet Tailyeor in Samuelstoune, Margaret Bartilman, Mareoun Quheitt, Jonet Carfrae. These haif maid confessioun alreadie. Otheris they haif dilatit as partakeris of the same cryme with thame, viz. Christiane Deanes, Agnes Williamsone. Thes are dilatit be the former, and the markes ar found on thame, quha ar lykwayes apprehendit, otheris ar lykwayes dilatit by thame, namelie, Helene Deanes, George Milnetowne, Patrik Cathie, Anna Pilmure, Elizabeth Sinclair, Margaret Baptie, Jonet Maissone, and Margaret Argyile, Elspeth Crawfurd. Thes ar dilatit be the former confessing, bot ar not as yet apprehendit nor searched. And trew it is, that throw the frequencie of the said sin of witchcraft, in the saidis boundes, my haill tenentes there threatnes to leave my ground without justice be done on thes persones. And becaus the lawes ar now silent, this sin becomes daylie more frequent. Also, thair (ar) two otheris persones apprehendit for thift in the foresaide boundes, quhom I haif intertained in prisone, within the tolbuith of Hadingtoun, upon my awin chairges thes ten weikis bygane; and other two ar apprehendit for robberie committit be thame within my boundes and landes of Byres thes twentie weikes bygane; within the tolbuith of Edinburgh, upon my own chairges.”

The Lord Commissioner and Lords of the Articles, after hearing the petition, granted a commission for putting to death such of the above persons as were found guilty of witchcraft by confession, and for trying the others, which, if we may credit tradition, was put into execution. The field in Samuelston where they were burnt was called the Birlie Knowe, and was situated on the south side of the village, between the Tyne and the mill-dam, where, within these few years (it being now ploughed up,) kimmers bleached their linens clean, and found it a very useful spot, unhallowed as it was.

A few years had only elapsed, when, to appease the ravings of superstition, another race of ill-fated women were doomed to the faggots. In 1677, Elizabeth Moodie, a poor hypochondriac servant-woman, in Haddington, was imprisoned as a witch, and (as usual) made confessions, and accused others. The account of her imprisonment is mentioned in the council records of the burgh.—20th April, 1677. “The whilk day, John Sleich, younr. being commissionat to consult with my Lord Advocat anent Elizabeth Moodie, imprisoned as a witch, judged it convenient that the prisoner should confess before a fenced court, and to subscribe before two notars and four witnesses, whilk accordingly is done,—and she having delated oyrs, the councill ordaines them to be apprehended and (examined,) and refers the way thereof to the magistrates.

“The counsell appoints John Sleich, younr. to be their commissioner to go to Edinburgh with the confessions and delations of the witches, and obtain from the secret councill commissions for trial and assisse.

The concluding part of these barbarous proceedings are detailed in Lord Fountainhall’s MS.—“There is one Margaret Kirkwood, (says he) in Haddington, that hangs hirselfe; some say she was so strangled by the devill and witches. The same happened on a Sunday, in the afternoon: shee hes a serving woman in the church, called Elizabeth Moodie, who makes some disturbance and noise during the sermon, and numbers till shee reach fiftynine, which was her mistresse’s age, and then cryes, the turne was done, which was found to be the very instant in which her mistresse was making away hirselfe; upon this being apprehended and examined, shee denied till shee was searched and pricked; and after the alledged marques were found upon hir, shee confessed hirself to be a witch, (shee was burnt for it in the beginning of June, 1677!) and the particular circumstances of it, as I heard her acknowledge them. The said Margaret Kirkwood, who hanged herselfe, being wealthie, there were severalls who put in for the gift of her escheat, amongs others the toune of Hadington,” &c.—Lord Fountainhall’s MS. In Satan’s Invisible World there is a further account of Elizabeth Moodie, agreeing in most particulars with the preceding.

The year following, (Sept. 1678) eight or ten miserable-looking women were brought before the criminal court from Sir Robert Hepburn of Keith’s lands, and from the parishes of Ormiston, Crichton, and Pencaitland. They were accused by two witches who had suffered at Salt-Preston in the month of May. These miscreants (probably with a view to avoid exquisite torture) “were ready to file, by their delation, sundry gentlewomen and others of fashion; but the justices discharged them, thinking it either the product of malice or melancholy, or the devil’s deception, in representing such persons as present at their fieldmeetings, who truly were not there.”—Fountainhall’s Decisions, vol. i. p. 15. They also affirmed that Mr Gideon Penman, curate of Crighton, was present at their unhallowed meetings. Kirkton, in his secret and true History of the Church of Scotland, p. 190, gravely says, “Mr Giden Penman, curat at Creighton, was well known to be a witch; divers eye-witnesses deponed they had many times seen him at the witches’ meetings, and that the devil called him ordinarily, Penman, my chaplane. Also upon a time, when Satan administered communion to his congregation, Penman sat next his elbow; and that when their deacon had served the table with wafers in the popish fashion, when their remained two wafers more than served the company, the deacon laid down his two wafers before the devil, which two the devil gave to Penman, and bid him goe carrie these to the papists in Winton.” Penman narrowly escaped punishment, and lost his kirk.

“Sept. 11th, 1678.—Catharine Liddel exhibited a complaint against one Rutherford, baron bailie to Morison of Preston-grange, and against David Cowan in Tranent, bearing that they had seized upon her an innocent woman, and had defamed her as a witch, and detained her under restraint as a prisoner; and that the said Cowan had pricked her with long pins in sundry places of her body, and bled her and tortured her most cruelly. The defences were, that she was delated by other witches, and was therefore apprehended;—that she was kindly used and kept in a private house; that she and her son-in-law consented that she might be searched for the vindication of her innocence, &c.; that the pricker learned his trade from Kincaid, a famed pricker; 2d, That he never came unsent for, because he was either called by sheriffs, magistrates of burghs, ministers, or bailies of baronies; 3d, The trade was not improbat or condemned by any law; 4th, All divines or lawyers who write on witchcraft, as Perkins, Delrio, &c. acknowledge there are such marks, called by them stigma sagarum. In the defence it was urged, that consent was denied;—that the pricker was a cheat, who abused the people for gain; and the Chancellor remembered that he had incarcerated Kincaid the pricker at Kinross, for abusing the country there. The Lords of Privy Council declared the woman innocent, and ordained it to be publicly intimated in her parish church the Sunday following. They reproved Rutherford, the baron-bailie, for his rashness, and ordered the pricker to prison to remain during their pleasure. Prohibited in future any inferior judge or baron-bailie from incarcerating the lieges on suspicion of witchcraft, without a warrant from Lords of Privy Council or Justiciary; as also found they might not use any torture by pricking, as by withholding them from sleep, &c. but reserved all that to themselves and the justices, and those who acted by their commission.”—See Fountainhall’s Decis. vol. i. p. 16.

A more salutary decree could not have been issued by the Privy Council. It appears from the deposition, that Kincaid had abused the innocent for gain, under the sanction of the clergy and magistracy; and here, though we must make allowance for prejudice and ignorance, yet he imposed on the candid Fountainhall himself, as we have seen in the trial of Elizabeth Moodie.

In 1698 we find the following notice in the session records of Spott.—“The session, after a long examination of witnesses, refer the case of Marion Lillie, for imprecations and supposed witchcraft to the presbytery, who refer her for trial to the civil magistrate. Said Marion, generally called the Rigwoody Witch;”—and, in 1705, we learn from the same register, that many witches were burnt on the top of Spott Loan, which was probably the last execution for this imputed crime in East Lothian.

In a MS. volume of sermons, preached in the parish of Stenton, at a communion in 1702, during the incumbency of the Rev. Mr Stark, the following passage occurs in debarring unworthy communicants: “I debar all witches and warlocks; all who have renounced their baptism, and who are in compact or contract with the devil.”

The very name of witch was now regarded with so much abhorrence and dread, that Dec. 21st, 1707, Margaret Rankine was cited before the kirk-session of Pencaitland, merely for calling Margaret Nicolson witch! This Rankine stoutly denied; but as she had been frequently before the same tribunal for other offences, she was considered a person incapable of church discipline, and remitted to the civil magistrate, with a request, that “the minister and elders of Winton may inform Bailie Smith, the Earl of Winton’s bailie, thereof, that he may take a course with her.”—Sess. Rec. Pencait.

I may close these remarks with an anecdote of Helen Sharpe, who lived in Haddington about fifty years ago. My informant, when a girl at the school, remembers the terror she spread among old and young. Helen was seen stalking about, decked in her linsey-wolsey gown, checked worsted apron, blue hood and cloak, with her crooked headed staff. One dark winter night the midwife was sent for to one of the wives of Clerkington. After vaulting with howdie suppleness behind Ralph at the Custom-stone, she knew not where she was, till she and her companion stood at the miller’s door. It appeared as if they had been whirled rapidly through the air in a wonderful manner. Helen’s next exploit was bewitching Provost Dudgeon’s kye, in consequence of having been refused sour milk by his lady. Next morning not a drop of milk would come from the witch-struck udders. In future they took care to be more bountiful. When Helen died, several candles were found in her chest, supposed to be kept for midnight meetings, and no hallowed purpose.

The ages are happily now passed, when a convent of pretty nuns run the risk of being metamorphosed into a bevy of squirrels; and perhaps the finest apology for witchcraft on record, and that which is most applicable to modern times, is that of Furius Cresinus, who, when accused of magic, because he had better crops of corn than his neighbours, brought before them for his defence his heavy ploughs and spades, and sun-burnt daughters, and said, These were the charms that he made use of!—Pliny’s Nat. Hist.

Nearly allied to witchcraft is the theory of ghosts and apparitions. There are few who have not read “The Wonderful and True Account of the Laird of Cool’s Ghost,” which appeared to Mr Ogilvie, minister of Innerwick, about a hundred years ago. Mr Maxwell, the laird of Cool, had been a very wicked man; and as he could not get rest in his grave, till some reparation was made to those whom he had wronged upon earth, sundry conversations took place between his apparition and Mr Ogilvie, near Brandslee, for this very proper purpose. The ghost came commonly mounted on horseback, which horse, gentle reader, was the redoubtable Andrew Johnston, one of his tenants, who had departed this life forty-eight hours before his master! The conversations that took place, which are mixed up with more arguments than these spiritual visitants are commonly understood to use, were found amongst Mr Ogilvie’s papers after his decease, and were too valuable to be withheld from the world. We can scarcely conceive that they were dictated by malice, but rather that they were flesh and blood confessions and opinions, thrown into a ghostly form.

The next and last story of this kind which I shall intrude upon the reader, is one which I picked up when in search of matter of a different nature; and which, but for its remarkable termination, might be easily explained away.

A Tale of Garleton.

Rather more than fifty years ago, an old maiden lady,[14] of good family, was the tenant of one of the now decayed wings of the mansion-house of Garleton. She is described as a tall thin figure, who wore a black silk cloak and bonnet, and walked with a large cane, ornamented with a gold chain and tassel. She had also a great deal of eccentricity in her conduct; for she often walked at dead of night and early dawn, till she was so wetted by the dews and the long dank grass, that, on her return home, she had to shift her clothes or go to bed. Add to this, that she had the misfortune to be a papist, and was very ostensible in her devotions; so that we need not wonder that she was regarded by the superstitious of the neighbourhood with no small degree of terror and aversion.

Having sauntered out one morning till near sunrise, she sat down on the Craggy Hill, when “an odd-looking man,” as she termed him, approached her. She waved her cane to keep off the intruder, who, after muttering something, went away. The lady immediately returned home; but, during the day, could not banish the unwelcome visitor from her thoughts. At night, after locking the outer door, and placing the key below her pillow, she went to bed, as usual, at a late hour. In vain she endeavoured to compose herself to sleep, and to dissipate the troublous thoughts that rose in her mind; at length she heard the outer door open, and a heavy foot come tramping up the creaking stairs; something opened the door, and entered the room adjoining to her bed-closet; the door of the latter next opened, and she again beheld the unwelcome visitor—the spectre of the morning.

She was only able to articulate, “Who comes there?” when the stranger replied, “This is my native place, and I have a long history to tell you!” The lady, thinking the intruder was a robber, pointed to a small box containing her keys, and bade him take what he wanted, and begone. The mysterious personage still wished to speak; but as she waved her hand, and inclined not to listen, he disappeared. As he retired, she again heard the heavy foot tramping down the creaking stairs, till the slashing of the outer door announced his exit.

Although the lady passed a sleepless night, she was unwilling to disturb the inmates of her house, which consisted only of a maiden lady and a domestic. Next morning, when the servant came for the key of the outer door, she told her what had happened, and that she imagined robbers had been in the house. The maid had also the imperfect recollection of some noise; but it was like the noise of a dream. At her lady’s desire she immediately went to the press where the family plate was deposited, but found it unmolested; the silver wine-cup stood on the mantlepiece, below the crucifix, untouched, and the outer door remained fast: in short, every thing stood in its place, as on the preceding evening.

It was the impression of the less superstitious part of the neighbourhood, that the old maiden lady was superannuated, and that the ghastly visitant was the creature of a dream. Be this as it may, on that very day twelvemonth, the Lady of Garleton was seized with a convulsive fit in the evening, and expired about the same hour at midnight that she had had an interview with the unwelcome visitor. I have only to add, that the person from whom I had the preceding story is of unquestionable veracity; and that she had often heard it from the lady’s own lips.

The ruins of the mansion-house stand at the foot of Garleton hills, a fine miniature specimen of Highland scenery. Amidst scenes like these, the author of Douglas poured forth his immortal strains to the midnight air. Upon a sequestered dell, nearly opposite Kilduff, called Ravensdale, or, more familiarly, Watty’s Howe, Mr Home pursued his declamatory studies, to the no small terror of the benighted traveller, who hence conjectured that the place was haunted.

THE
VICAR OF GOLYN.

Gif evir my fortune wes to be a freir,
The dait thereof is past full mony a yeir;
For into every lusty toun and place,
Off all Yngland, from Berwick to Calice,
I haif into thy habeit maid gud cheir.
William Dunbar.

The ruins of the ancient church of Golyn (now called Gullane) still remain, which served that place and Dirleton till 1612, when the church was translated to the latter parish, of which Gullane now forms a part. The last Vicar of Golyn is said to have been deposed by King James VI. for the high crime of smoking tobacco—a weed which his majesty deemed only fit for diabolical fumigations.—See Grose’s Scots. Ant. vol. i. p. 71, where there is a fine view of the church.

THE
VICAR OF GOLYN.

In James’s pedant reign, so famed for schooling,

There dwelt a Vicar at the church of Golyn;

In friar’s weed, like Will Dunbar, he’d preach’d;

In friar’s weed the ladies he had fleech’d,

For he was fond of amatory fooling.

At golf, or archery, or football match,
Like Indian juggler, he the game would catch;
At cards, or dice, or chess, he had no equal,
With other items, noted in the sequel—
A motley priest as e’er the church did hatch.

His cheeks were reddish brown, like colour’d brandy;

His neck look’d stiff and starch’d, like modern dandy;

His belly round and full: this oily glutton
Would gobble at one meal a leg of mutton—
A man that’s overfed is most unhandy!

His lips were parch’d with an eternal drouth;
His lusty tongue was larger than his mouth;
So, when he minced tobacco’s scented quid,
The noxious slaver down his bosom slid:—
He was a man in figure most uncouth!

To crown his face he had a bottle nose,

Which with his chin was like to come to blows,

They look’d as if they’d eat up one another:

His eye was round and red unlike its brother;

His face shaped as full moon we may suppose.

His knees against each other idly knockit,

As if they long’d to burst their clumsy socket;

Beneath his heavy carcass, worn and spent,

His shins were like twin cross-bows when they’re bent;

His arms were like a hat when it is cocked.

Now I’ve described his person; for his mind

It show’d the very dregs of humankind;

Debauch’d with endless round of fraud and folly,

His private hours were spent in haunts unholy,—

His parallel on earth I scarce may find.

His lying tongue was veil’d in eloquence,
Which preach’d up sophistry for common sense;
His smile satanic mask’d a wicked heart;
His manners shew’d the polish’d man of art,
That wins too often the world’s recompense.

His name became a by-word, disrespected—
His flock by Satan worried, were neglected!
He was, indeed, a very sinful Vicar,
Who barter’d holy water for his liquor;
Yet he look’d merry aye, and ne’er dejected.

At Beltane-time he made the riggings ring,
And songs profane for holy lilts would sing;
At Lenten-time a perfect Epicurean,
In secret capons with his fish devouring;
While his liege paramour did aqua bring.

Indeed, so many ways he tortured fish,
Each Lent supplied him with a favourite dish;
On Fridays he had pickled salmon ready,
And mack’rel from the wives of Aberlady—
Our Vicar never went about the bush.

And much he loved to guzzle precious wine,

That once had blush’d in vineyards on the Rhine;

Fresh fragrant claret too from joyous France;

That which he prized was Angiers and Orlance—

Liquor on which the gods of Greece might dine.

How the lean curate crouch’d to his command,
When like the bust of famine he would stand!
With tatter’d gown, and under-raiment rent,
Thin jaws, that pictured an eternal Lent,

Stretching, to catch a crumb, his skinny hand.

The Vicar too, of tithes and cattle greedy,
Would fix his ugly talons in the needy;
When the poor cottar sought his humble grave,

His fattest cow, for prayers, the priest must have,

While of her raploch gray he robb’d the widow.

Ash Wednesday has seen the Vicar meet
With drouthy cummers to Malvasie treat,
Where he would sit carousing till the Monday,

Then go to preach, thinking the day was Sunday,

When he could scarcely stand upon his feet.

He pitter-patter’d o’er his rusty rosary,

To know his creed one must have had a glossary;

He mumbled things divine with so much bawling,

His hearers liken’d it to caterwauling—

He was a man unworthy shoes or hosiery!

Yet he was deeply read in Aristotle,

And might have soar’d, but for the aqua bottle;

He knew Jerome, Ambrose, and Augustine,

Benedict, Bernard, Clement, Cleit, and Lyne;[15]

But, then, he went too often to the hotel.

He’d studied history, barbarous and civil;
He knew when stars denoted good or evil;
Versed in alchymy, he went plodding on,
Yet never lit on the philosopher’s stone,

While some surmised he’d dealings with the devil.

I’ve said, for sports athletic he was keen,
Footing the mazy ball on Golyn-green;
At weapon-shaws a regular looker-on,
But ere the broil began, our priest was gone
To join the gallant’s mask at Christmas e’en.

A man that’s light of head is light of heel,
Our Vicar loved to join the Beltane reel,
Where he would skipper in the Dirry-duntoun,
And hop about just like a pillar wanton;
Threading his body spiral as an eel.

He loved, like Will Dunbar, the courtly dance,

Where Mistress Musgrave’s smiles did all enhance,

Shading with garlands gay her yellow hair:—
Her kirtle red, with belt and brooch so fair;
For such a lady, who’d not break a lance?

When age the giddy heat of youth is cooling,
’Tis time our wayward passions to be ruling;
So thinks the major part of humankind;
But to his failings ever darkly blind
Remain’d the Vicar of the church of Golyn.

He hated merchants—hated tailors trim;
He hated souters, baxters, fleshers grim;
He hated brewers—but not tavern-keepers;
He hated all his hearers—but the sleepers;—
And so he might, because they hated him!

In Mary’s reign he turned Episcopalian,

Changing his church and creed to serve his calling;

Like weathercock, that waver’d with the wind,

To all but pettifogging interest blind,

He sneak’d wherever fortune’s rays were falling.

Then came that vice of great abomination,
As ever visited a sinful nation;
Which set our prince’s pendant pen a-railing:
Our Vicar, most unlucky, caught the failing,
And to the devil smoked his congregation.

Our Vicar having learn’d this art of smoking,

Which (as I’ve said) the parish set a choking,

The king, still mindful of his people’s weal,

Wrote Tracts against Tobacco and the De’il!

Swearing the vice was sinful and provoking.

Then swore the monarch, “This same fumigation

“Will, doubtless, bring a curse upon the nation;

“I’ll send for Tycho Brahe from Copenhagen;

“I’ll send my smoking clergy to the begging—

“Those tickle-snouts must mind their flock’s salvation!”

O ye who love to feed your nasal ducts!

Chewing tobacco till your stomach pukes,

I beg you’ll take a lesson from the Vicar,

Behind the door you’d better bend the bicker!

What think you of this case, my pretty bucks?

For now-a-days there’s not a little dandy,
But wears a box so fanciful and handy,
Brimful of Maccaba or Princes Mixture,

Tickling his lady, when he’s sitting next her;—

And then his bridge-like organ looks so sandy.

Ye fools! when Christmas brings the huge sirloin,

And tables groan ere knives in carnage join,

Ye do not feel that kitchen-scented flavour,

That makes the impatient mouthful sweeter savour—

O fy! that for such plant you sport your coin!

Digressions we must leave, and seek the Vicar,

Who’s seated snugly o’er his favourite liquor;

For once his Holiness has studied deep,

For o’er the Litany he’s gone to sleep,—

With reverence, I do think he’s getting sicker.

Our hero now, in secret, fed his nose,
An ounce of snuff he gobbled at a dose,
Till tired, his evil genius took to smoking,
And set the neighbourhood again a-choking,
Who forthwith sallied like a host of foes.

This deed his frousy neighbours wish’d to hush up,

But for a saint who wish’d to nibble fish up,
Yclept in prose, assistant and successor,
A brainless fellow, but a great professor,

Who went post-speed, and told it to the bishop.

The bishop told the king to curry grace,

Which pleased so well his heaven-anointed face,

He gave a puff as fierce as the sirrocco,
Issued his Counterblast against Tobacco;
And call’d the Vicar up with little space.

“Item, our pleasure is, on heavy grounds

“To purge the church of fumigating hounds;

“Therefore, that this said Vicar may not fool us,

“In other words, with quirks and quibbling gull us,

“We banish him beyond our church’s bounds.”

The Vicar heard his sentence, and was wroth.

He did not value much the Lutheran cloth;

But, O! to leave the Links and football match,

The Golyn cummer’s glee, and merry catch;

At leaving these he tarried, and was loth.

Raising his voice to an obstreperous pitch,

“Go tell!” cried he, “that ugly Lutheran bitch!

“That I will snuff while I have got a nose;

“That I will smoke while my stout windpipe blows;

“And when I fail, go brand me for a witch!”

The Vicar took a trip beyond the sea,
To Calais first, and next to Italie;
Again became a servant to the Pope,
Yet never gain’d preferment’s dizzy top,
But died, despised, among the Lazzaroni.

’Twas said a shape unearthly oft was seen,

Playing at football match on Golyn green;—

’Twas said, at dead of night, on Golyn steeple,

The Vicar smoked, and hallo’d to the people;

Such sights were strange—but yet such sights have been.

THE
GUDEWIFE OF TULLOSHILL,
AND THE
LORD OF LAUDERDALE.

Every bannock had its maik, but the bannock o’ Tulloshill.”

Old Proverb.

This ballad is founded on a traditional story, which I have gathered from different sources, and put into a connected form. The hero was John the second Earl, and afterwards Duke of Lauderdale,—a nobleman as famous for his loyalty to the wavering interests of Charles II. during the sway of the “immortal rebel,” Cromwell, as he was afterwards notorious for his political power and rapacity. The heroine was Margaret Lylestone, wife to Thomas Hardie, tenant in Tulloshill. There were anciently three farms of Tullos in Lammermoor, and from her abode, by way of distinction, she was called Mid-side Maggy. The adventure noticed in the following Ballad, must have occurred after the battle of Worcester, in 1651, where the Duke of Lauderdale was taken prisoner, and suffered a confinement in the Tower for nine years, till liberated by General Monk in 1660; when repairing to the Hague, he returned with the king at the Restoration.

THE
GUDEWIFE OF TULLOSHILL,
AND THE
LORD OF LAUDERDALE.

There dwelt in pastoral Tulloshill,
Where waves the mountain broom,
A fair gudewife, and a leal auld man,
As ye’d found in landwart toun.

Her cheeks were dyed wi’ health’s bright glow,

That spake in her eyes o’ blue;
And wantonly the dimpling smile
Play’d round her cherry mou’.

The rustic swains jeer’d merrily,
While seated o’er the cann,—
And wonder’d why so young a dame,
Had wed so auld a man!

The gudewife went to Lauder Tower,
And made a loud lament;
And told the Lord of Lauderdale
She coudna pay her rent.

Perish’d the firstlings of their flocks,
The winters were sae chill,
The April snaw lay on the ground
When it fell at Tulloshill.

Upspake the Lord of Lauderdale,
“Gudewife, I grant a boon,
“Ye’se sit rent-free at Martinmas
“If ye bring me snaw in June.”

And he toy’d wi’ the gudewife’s sunny locks,
And chuck’d her under the chin;
And compared her skin to the creamy flocks,
That o’er the Scenes-law rin.

“Now haud ye there, Sir Knight,” she said,
And away like a fawn she ran;
But he did nae mair to the merry wife
Than became an honest man.

She made a ba’ of drifted snaw,
Which she gather’d by Criblaw shiel;
And she laid it in a rocky dean,
And cover’d it wi’ grey meal.

And she brought it in the end of June
To ancient Thirlestane;
And my lord received her graciously
In his state chamber alane.

“Now spare your speech, gudewife,” he cried,
“And make no foolish mane;
“For one kiss o’ your hinny mou
“Were worth a’ Thirlestane.”

“Now, fare thee weel! Sir Knight,” she said,
(As her Ladyship cam ben,)
“Ye’se get the best at Tulloshill,
“When ye shoot the mountain hen.”

Deep lay the snaw in Lammermoor,
On mountain height and glen,
And cauld, cauld blew the sleety shower
O’er Greenlaw’s mossy fen.

And deep lay the snaw in Leader-haughs,
And drifted o’er the plain,
When at the rack-rent o’ the year
She thought o’ her Lord again.

“The spring returns to Whalplaw burn,
“The birds to Langhope shaw;
“But when will Lauderdale return?—
“O, he’s been lang awa!

“When Charlie gets his rightfu’ crown,
“Which Cromwell fain wad wear;
“When the democratic parliament
“To the depths of hell shall stear.

“Alas! for the battle of Worcester,
“Where Lauderdale was ta’en,
“And the gallant Duke of Hamilton
“Lay dead amang the slain.

“My silken snood I’d gladly sell,
“And crimson kirtle gay,
“To ransom him, laid in the Tower
“For aiding royalty.

“My siller brooch I’d gladly sell,
“And eke my golden kaim;
“And surely I’d gang daft wi’ joy,
“Were my good lord come hame!”

Her Culross girdle from the shelf
She took, sae large and clean;
For eighteen cakes o’ the Merse’s make
This girdle held I ween.

She baked a bannock, large and round,
Wi’ flour frae Carfrae mill;—
And there ne’er was a cake but had its maik,
Save that o’ Tulloshill.

For aye as she kneaded it o’er and o’er,
She fill’d it fou o’ gold,
Then doubled it up like a honeycomb,
Wi’ treasures in its fold.

She plaited up her yellow hair
In an artful sunny braid;
Then cover’d her locks wi’ the bonnet blue,
And her bosom wi’ the plaid.

She laced her velvet milk-white limbs
In the tartan trews sae rough,
And buried her well-turned ancles in
The folds of homespun stuff.

Thus fashion’d, in a herdsman’s dress,
She padded her shelty’s back;
And rode behind her leal auld man
When wearied wi’ her walk.

Like drovers from the north countrie,
They travell’d on together;
And gallop’d away to London town,
O’er mountain, glen, and heather.

And as the Borders wide they pass’d,
The southron dames wou’d say,
“Beshrew me! that’s a bonny lad,
“Led by his father grey.”

The gudewife came to London town,
And went into Rag Fair,
And drest herself like a beggar-wife,
Wi’ wallets scant and bare.

And when she came to London Tower
She feign’d herself insane,
And aye the burden of her song
Was, “Harry, back again!”

And, “Carle, now the king has come!”

She sung wi’ Scottish voice;

But when she chanted Leaderhaughs,

His lordship did rejoice.

And aye she leugh and aye she lap,
And foolish words let pass;
While the sentinels stood by and jeer’d
The silly Scottish lass.

And they have sworn to take her up,
And fling her in the moat;
When up came the keeper of the Tower,
Who made them change their note.

“Know ye the Lord of Lauderdale?”

Said the officer of the Tower;

“O I wad kiss him lug frae lug!”

Quoth she, “within this hour;

“And garland him with gowans rare,
“Frae Mid-side Maggy’s bower;
“Gif ye wad let a silly lass
“Your draw-brig wander o’er.”

They let her pass the castle-gates,
Although her looks were wild;
For she gambol’d on so harmlessly,
Like a lamb or a little child.

Beneath her ragged arm she bore

The bannock doubled o’er—

“Is such your Scottish bread, daft lass?”

Quoth the keeper of the Tower.

“O sweet is Scotia’s aiten-cakes,
“And pure her siller springs;
“And the food we cull from Scotia’s hills
“Might banquet English kings.”

Forth came the Earl’s waiting-man,
When he heard the gudewife sing;
For Leaderhaughs and Cowdenknowes
Made his very heart-strings ring.

“Go, speed, and your lordly master tell,
“But take it good or ill,
“That Mid-side Maggy greets him here,
“From broomy Tulloshill.”

She went into Lord Lauderdale,
Who sat in chains array’d;
But as she pass’d the steel-laced gates,
She felt her heart dismay’d.

And she felt a woman’s natural fears
Rush o’er her fainting soul,
When she pass’d beneath the Traitor’s Gate,
And heard the lions growl.

When she pass’d beneath the Traitor’s Gate,
And saw Lord Derby’s head,
She thought her velvet thighs wad shake
Away frae the knee-pan lid.

She sat her down at his lordship’s feet,
And comb’d her yellow hair;
And the gold fell down like diamond heaps
In shining goupins there.

She took the bannock in her hand,
And brake it o’er her knee;
And on the floor, in yellow showers,
The golden guineas flee.

“Now take thee these, my worthy lord,
“’Tis all I have to gi’e!
“And seek in Holland’s princely towers
“For safety o’er the sea.”—

“A friend in need’s a friend indeed!”

He took her by the hand;

“For such a dame as thee, gudewife,

“I’d part wi’ hauf my land!

“But fare thee weel! my bonny dow!

“Oh! fare thee weel a while;

“Ye’se sit rent free till I return

“To broomy Tulloshill.

“Frae Leader-side to rocky Esk
“The lands ye see are mine,
“Yet fate decrees, in a foreign land,
“That I these fields maun tine.”

“Now, fare thee weel! my generous lord,”
Was all that she could say,
“I’ll pray for you on my bare, bare knees
“Till your returning day.”

They durst nae harm Lord Lauderdale,
Nor they durst nae set him free,
Till nine lang years pass’d o’er his head
In the Tower sae drearilie.

When Cromwell low in the dust was laid,
And that parliament in its wane,
Which he long had rein’d wi’ a master-hand,
Our lord got free again.

Away he sail’d o’er the snowy foam,
To the Prince of Holland’s towers,
And met his king right gladsomely
In Hague’s canal-lined bowers.

And aye he blest the leal gudewife
That won’d at Tulloshill;
For he found her goud of use to him
When his ain was nae in his will.

And, O! but she was a proud gudewife,
When she hail’d the king’s return;
For again she saw Lord Lauderdale
Restored to Leader-burn.

No more like tenant, scant o’ cash,
Rent-time did her dismay;
For she got free lease of Tulloshill
Her life-lang and a day.

My lord gi’ed her a silver belt,
Sprinkled wi’ diamonds fine;[16]
And she walk’d in a star-like galaxy,
Dug from the Indian mine.

The muse’s finest flights maun fail,
So drops my downy quill;
For John is Duke of Lauderdale—
Meg—Queen of Tulloshill.

YOUNG ARGYLE;
OR,
STANZAS TO LETHINGTON CASTLE.

Argyle, the state’s whole thunder born to wield,

And shake alike the senate or the field.—Pope.

Nor less the palm of peace enwreathes thy brow;

For, powerful as thy sword, from thy rich tongue

Persuasion flows, and wins the high debate;

While mix’d in thee combine the charm of youth,

The force of manhood, and the depth of age.—Thomson.

Lethington House is situated on the south banks of the Tyne, rather more than a mile from Haddington. This fortalice was built by the Giffords, and was purchased from Sir John Gifford by Sir Richard Maitland, about the end of the fourteenth century. It was in this “fortress, large and lang,” in its “arbour, and orchard green,” where Lord Lethington, the blind baron, dictated his poetical pieces, after he had retired from public business, at an advanced age, to his daughter Mary, the partner of his studies, and herself a writer of verses, who was celebrated for her “fleing fame,” and her “trew virginitie,” by the “unknawin makars” of that period.—See Pinkerton’s Ant. Scot. Poems.—In process of time Lethington became the jointure house of the Duchess of Lauderdale, formerly Countess of Dysart. Her daughter, Lady Lorn, afterwards Duchess of Argyle, resided here during the time of her father-in-law’s forfeiture.—It was from a window in the uppermost storey of the house that John, Duke of Argyle, fell when an infant, and escaped unhurt.—Dr Barclay, Trans. Ant. Scot. I have only to add, on the authority of Sir Walter Scott, that this happened on the very day on which the duke’s grandfather was beheaded at Edinburgh.

YOUNG ARGYLE;
OR
STANZAS TO LETHINGTON CASTLE.

I.

Old Lethington! wert thou by Gifford rear’d

With magic art, like Yester’s goblin cave,[17]

What time the Night her course to morning steer’d

And the owl whoop’d upon the virgin’s grave;
Say, did thy master-builder Heaven brave,
And with unearthly craftsmen overnight

From Garvald’s quarry drag, by hook and knave,

Those massy battlements ere morning’s light

To strike the early swain with wonder and affright?

II.

It matters not to tell—but o’er the pines
I love to view thy turrets towering grey,
Which braved the fiery blast of feudal times,
And still unbroke their lofty front display.

Though thou hast seen thy lordlings pass away,

And castled towers and abbeys fall around,
Yet here thy veteran face appears as gay
As when the warrior’s horn at morn did sound,

And gallant Lindsay paced thy spacious pleasure-ground.[18]

III.

And, hark! resounds the clashing din of war,

On adamantine walls the arrows play;

Against thy gates, strong laced with iron bar,

The battering-ram rolls on in fierce array;

Now high thy famish’d garrison display

The skin of beasts, to mock what most they need,

While shakes thy tower from vault to turret gray,

As on the invader’s head the pointed reed

From cunning crevice pours the boiling molten lead.

IV.

How oft by innate strength and stratagem
Did Scotia’s ancient fortlets brave the foe,
Whether when feudal chiefs chivalrous came,
Or civil discord wrapt the land in woe;
Or when the robber’s torch at night did glow,
And shrieks of murder’d men came on the gale,
The chiefs of Lethington were never slow,

To draw the sword, or brace the glitt’ring mail,

And chase the bold outlaw o’er farthest Lauderdale.

V.

Then Lauder’s forest to the bugle rung,
Startling marauders from their mountain prey,
As morning rose, deplored by old and young,

Where ravaged round the burning farm-yards lay;

These were fierce men, the scourges of their day,

Who on the sea of venture did embark,

And, as we’re told in Maitland’s doleful lay,

Spared neither house nor stable, church nor ark,

And loved the midnight ride, because their deeds were dark.

VI.

Lo! crown’d with laurel, in his oaken chair,
I see the ancient knight of Thirlestane,
Attended by Maria, chaste and fair,
Amanuensis to his tuneful strain,
Like Milton’s daughter, copying the rich vein
Of inspiration, as her father woke

The harp: Then humorous Lindsay breathed again,

While moral saws, and satire’s flashes broke,

As erst by Greece’s bard in optic darkness spoke.

VII.

O Lethington! thy woodlands are sublime,

Where everlasting trees their green arms wave,

Like giant-shadows beautified by time,

Shaking their shaggy locks when tempests rave;

Here walk’d the politician plotting grave;[19]

Here sighs from icy bosoms beauty wrung;

Here, young Argyle—the generous and the brave—

First woke to eloquence his artless tongue,

Where beauteous Lennox smiled, and old Sir Richard sung.

VIII.

’Tis sweet, at summer’s noon, on thy high tower,

When half obscured the sun looks softly bright,

To view the amber heights of Lammermoor,

Bathed in a misty veil of living light,

While hill and dale alternate charm the sight,

And hum of birds, and distant murmuring stream,

Sound in the ear like music in the night,

While, through the copsewood, Coalston’s turrets gleam,

And still remind us of her Margaret’s ominous dream.

IX.

The Lady lay upon her marriage-bed,
And saw the Enchanted Pear of Coalston; fair
As Eden’s tree, it rear’d its lovely head

That look’d more sweet, as whispers said, Beware!

For while the magic cornac flourish’d there,

So spread and flourish’d Coalston’s rich estate;

But the young bride long’d for a fruit so rare,—

Now touch’d it—tasted—the enchantment ate—

Awoke—it was a dream! but big with future fate.

X.

If Coalston had its pear, fair Lethington!

Thou hadst thy apples, with which none may vie;

As Jove’s own fruit, thy boughs beneath them groan,

Like aromatic sweets dropt from the sky—

Beneath their shades the archers oft would try

Their strength of arm; and, at the day’s decline,

They tasted Maitland’s hospitality

In draughts of Angiers that gleam’d divine,

And fed their hearts with joy, as erst it fed the vine.

XI.

Thy walks were spacious once, fair Lethington!

When Charles the Witty made his progress here,

What time the Duke, who reign’d above the throne,

Thy many parks stored full of stately deer,[20]

That venison-loving kings might not want cheer,

Nor the fat cook be taken by surprise;
Happy to leave the state—the spit to steer,
And look an epicure in royal eyes,

Who ne’er spoke nonsense, yet, ne’er acted wise!

XII.

With Charles fair Lennox might have shared the throne;

For o’er his heart she held despotic sway:
Amidst the loveliest of the court she shone,
As Venus shines amidst the starry way,
Dimming each lesser planet with her ray,
She walk’d in beauty like the sylphs above,
The diamond stone of nature’s galaxy—
Girdled with cestus by the graces wove,

Like her who from the waves uprose the Queen of Love!

XIII.

Francis Teresa! on thy fine-arch’d brow,

Minerva’s conquering aspect we descry,

While in that face where smiles through roses glow,

And in the lustre of that dark-blue eye,

Shaded by auburn ringlets, we espy

The Cyprian queen, while on thy breast of snow

Perfection leans,—and claims the heart’s soft sigh;

Before such form a monarch well might bow,

Admiring nature’s works, as we the canvass now.

XIV.

Farewell, fair Lennox! for severer themes

Than Beauty now demand the muse’s care;

The patriot’s brow the deathless laurel claims,

While rosy chaplets best become the fair;
Though gems grow dim in thy luxuriant hair,
I seek the couch where lone Eliza lies—
Alas! that hope should waken to despair,

That tears should cloud affection’s doting eyes:—

“Come, lady, fair, awake! the sun is in the skies.

XV.

“Lady of Lorn! the morning bids thee wake,
Her purple beams gild Lammerlaw’s high steep;
The lark is springing from the dewy brake,
Rousing the minstrels of the air to keep

Their woodland concert. ’Tis not meet to sleep

While on the battlements thy baby fair

Forth from his vagrant nurse has dared to creep

To sip alone the balmy-breathing air;

Lady of Lorn, awake! or waken in despair!”

XVI.

Thus spake the warning spirit of a dream,

When lovely from her couch, dishevell’d, wild,

Uprose the Flower of Dysart with a scream,

As she beheld a writhing serpent coil’d

Around her child, while each swollen artery boil’d;

And as with shrieks far Coalston’s echoes rung,

The emerald turf with infant’s blood was soil’d;

She heard the death-notes freeze upon his tongue—

When, reckless where she went, away the lady sprung.

XVII.

She sought her boy in castle-tower and wood;

But he was not in nursery nor in hall—

When ’neath the casement’s lofty sash she stood,

And heard his gentle voice upon her call.

Sprung from his nurse’s arms in gamesome brawl,

Next moment on the ground he bit the soil,

Roll’d up, then to his little limbs ’gan crawl,

Look’d in his mother’s face with playful smile,

And rose—a miracle! unhurt the Young Argyle!

XVIII.

It was a dreadful omen, at that hour,
Which nearly a long line of glory broke,
When Young Argyle fell from the lofty tower
On the green-turf unscath’d—upon the block
His grandsire laid his head; alas! the shock
Was felt by Freedom; it severely shew’d
The gratitude of kings, and did provoke

That slumbering justice which so fiercely glow’d,

When man at last “appeal’d from tyranny to God.”

XIX.

Soon Campbell rose, renown’d for arts and arms,

Free in the senate—bold in battle-field;

Now awed with Roman fire and personal charms;

Now freedom’s champion—now his sovereign’s shield;

His country’s thunders early taught to wield,

Witness Ramillies, Oudenarde, Ghent, and Lisle.

Tournay, Minorca, to his prowess yield;

While spake the master-spirits of the Isle,

And Pope and Thomson strove to laud the Young Argyle!

NOTES TO YOUNG ARGYLE;
or,
STANZAS TO LETHINGTON

Stanza ii. page 314.

I love to view thy turrets towering grey,
Which braved the fiery blast of feudal times,
And still unbroke their lofty front display.

The following verses, addressed to Lethington, which are so descriptive of an ancient chateau of that period, were copied from the Maitland MS. (preserved at Cambridge,) by Mr Pinkerton, and published in his collection of Ancient Scottish Poems. The poem appears to have been written by an “unknawin makar,” who, in gratitude for the “treitting and gud cheir” which he met with at Lethington, could “nae mair silence hauld, but put furth his mynd to rehers the joy” which he found in the castle. We shall confine ourselves to the descriptive parts, as being most interesting to posterity, leaving out the introductory similes respecting Virgil’s Mantua and Catullus’s Verone.

IN PRAYSE OF LETHINGTOUN.

To speik of thee, O Lethingtoun!
Quhilk standis fair on Tyne;
Quhais worthie praysis and renown
Transcendis my ingyne.
Thou merits Homer and Virgil,
Thy worschip till advance,
And put thy name, digne and nobill,
In dew rememberance.

Thy tour and fortres lairge and lang,
Thy nychhours dois excell;
And for thy wallis, thik and strang,
Thou justly beirs the bell.
Thy groundis deip, and toppis hie
Uprising in the air;
Thy vaultis plesand ar to sie,
Thay ar so greit and fair.

Thy work to luik on is delyite,
So clein, so sound, so evin;
Thy alryne[21] is a marvall greit,
Upreiching to the hevin.
O quhat plesour is to be thair,
As Phœbus dois upryise,
To sie the wood and feildis fair,
Quhilk round about thee lyis!

* * * * *

Greit was the work to houke the ground,
And thy foundatioun cast;
Bot greater it was thee to found,
And end thee at the last.
I merveill that he did not feir,
Quha rasit thee on hicht,
That na foundatioun sould thee beir
Bot thou sould sink for wecht.

* * * * *

Bot the to plenisch and fulfill,
And mak thy worke compleit,
Quhoso it richt considder will,
Wes worke of no les spreit.
Thy beddis soft, and tapeis fair,
Thy treitting and gud cheir;
Gif I the treuth wald now declair,
I wait thow hes no peir.

* * * * *

Thy arbour and thy orchard grene,
I cannot pass it by,
A thing maist semelie to be sene
Under thy wall dois ly;
Maist plesand place to mak repair,
Thairin to sit or gang;
Thy knottis; and thy alleis fair,
Quhilk are bayth braid and lang.

Thy buttis, biggit neir thame by,
Sa suire, but sone or wind,
Maist plesand place of archerie
That e’er I yit could find.
Thow hes a thousand plesoures ma,
That my toung cannot tell,
O happie war he that micht ay
Bot troubill in thee dwell!

And happie art thou, sic a place,
That few thy mak are sene;
Bot yit mair happie far that race
To quhome thou dois pertene.
Quha dois not knaw the Maitland bluid,
The best in all this land;
In quhilk sumtyme the honour stuid
And worship of Scotland?

Stanza viii. page 317.

While, through the copsewood, Coalston’s turrets gleam,

And still remind us of her Margaret’s ominous dream.

The Enchanted Pear of Coalston, which was considered a sufficient dowry for a lady, was the gift, it is supposed, of Hugh Gifford, the magician of Yester. “The heiress of his family,” says Sharpe, “married Sir William Hay of Locharret, ancestor of John, third Lord Hay of Yester, whose daughter Jean became the wife of Mr. Brown of Coalston. This lady’s dowry consisted of a single pear, probably enchanted by her ancestor, which her father declared to be invaluable; assuring the Laird of Coalston, that while the pear was preserved in the family, it would certainly continue to flourish. This palladium is still carefully treasured up; but there is a mark on one side, made by the eager teeth of a lady of Coalston, who, while breeding, longed for the forbidden fruit, and was permitted to take one bite by her too-indulgent husband; in consequence, some of the best farms on the estate very speedily came to market. Crawford, the peerage-writer, thus mentions the superstition in his MS. account of the Browns of Coalston:—‘They had a pear in their family, which they esteemed yer palladium; it’s reported, that Betty Mackenzie, when she married George Brown of Colstoun, the first night she came to the house of Colstoun, dreamed that she had eat the pear, which her father-in-law looked on as a bad omen, and expressed great fears that she should be an instrument in the destruction of the house of Colstoun.’”—See Sharpe’s Prefatory Notice to Law’s Memoriallis, p. 14. Notwithstanding these predictions, the house of Coalston still flourishes in the female line, in the person of Lady Dalhousie.

Stanza xii. page 319.

With Charles fair Lennox might have shared the throne;

For o’er his heart she held despotic sway.

Frances Teresa, Duchess of Lennox, was daughter to the Hon. Walter Stuart, M.D., son of Walter, first Lord Blantyre. This lady was of exquisite beauty, which, if justly represented in a puncheon made by Rottiere, engraver of the Mint, exhibits the finest face that perhaps ever appeared.—Mem. Gramont, vol. i. p. 272. Charles II. was desperately enamoured of her, and it was said there was a design on foot to get him divorced from the queen, that he might marry this lady;—but to his great indignation, and to her honour, she espoused Charles, sixth Duke of Richmond and Lennox. Bishop Burnet says, the king disgraced Lord Clarendon for not preventing this marriage. Charles’s romantic regard is evident from his ordering a coinage, as mentioned above, whereon her portrait was represented as Britannia on the reverse.—See Fenton’s Notes to Waller. There is a portrait of this celebrated beauty in the Memoires de Gramont, and in Pinkerton’s Iconographia Scotica; as also a fine full-length painting in Lethington-house. The latter likewise contains, among many other fine family-likenesses, excellent portraits of Queen Mary, the Marquis of Montrose, Lord Belhaven, and the Admirable Crichton.

THE
MURDER
OF
SIR JAMES STANFIELD.
In Two Fits.

——Blood will have blood:

Stones have been known to move, and trees to speak;

Augurs, and understood relations, have

By maggot pies, and choughs, and rooks, brought forth

The secret’st man of blood.

Shakspeare.

Sir James Stanfield, the subject of the following ballad, held the rank of Colonel in the parliamentary army. After Cromwell’s victory at Dunbar, he came to Scotland, and established a woollen manufactory at Newmills (now Amisfield,) in the neighbourhood of Haddington, under the immediate patronage of the protectorate. At the Restoration, Parliament granted certain immunities and privileges to Colonel Stanfield, on whom Charles II. conferred the honour of knighthood.—Sir G. B. Hepburn’s View Agri. His prospects were, however, soon blasted; for, in 1687, he was found murdered, as was supposed, by his eldest son Philip, whom he had disinherited for his debauchery. This unfortunate person was tried, condemned, and executed for the murder 24th February 1688.—Fountainhall’s Dec. vol. i. p. 484.

SIR JAMES STANFIELD.
Fit the First.

Sir James has to the greenwood gone,
And he has gone alone;
Sir James will walk the live-long day,
And tell his mind to none.

He has not ta’en his dappled steed,
Nor yet his spotted hound;
But wildly, with his grey head bare,
He treads the dewy ground.

Now books and board have ceased to charm,
He walks like one deranged,
Or troubled ghost, at dead of night,
From earth and Heaven estranged.

The kimmer sat behind the thorn,
Bleaching her linens clean,
When she beheld a leal old man,
Come pacing o’er the green.

“O woes me! on my wicked son,”
She heard the old man say;
“O woes me! on my wicked son,
“That kills me day by day.

“He spends his days in folly’s haunts,
“His nights in courts obscene;
“And, oh! ere life’s meridian day,
“A begging he’ll be seen.

“O woes me! on my lady proud,
“She’s leagured with my son;
“They wish my head in a clay-cold bed—
“I feel their curse begun.

“O woman’s love is light and vain,
“It’s easy aye to bear;
“It blossoms like the flower in June,
“To fade at the fall o’ the year.

“Time was, with heart elate with joy,
“Cheer’d by my sov’reign’s smile,
“When self-applause and honour’s meed
“Did all my cares beguile;

“But as some pine, that braves the storm
“And rears on high its head,
“Of all its vernal worth is shorn
“By reptiles which it fed:

“So by the inmates of my house
“I’m wearied and undone;
“My wife’s unfaithful to my bed,
“I’m hated by my son.

“His crimes, conspicuous as yon orb,
“Are blazing far abroad,
“Denouncing wrath, he strikes the priest
“Even in the house of God.

“He curses church—he curses king—

“His curses fall on me!

“But, Heaven! hear a father’s prayer;

“For vengeance dwells with thee!”

The kimmer sobb’d,—then straight arose
To comfort the lorn knight;
She loosed her loud loquacious tongue,
But he was out of sight.

“O leeze me on this warld’s care,
“’Tis true as tongue can tell,
“The great anes o’ the earth,” quo’ she,
“They just are like oursel.

“O whither has the auld man gane?

“I trow he’s no himsel’;

“And much I dread he’s ta’en the road

“Down bie the haunted well!

“From yonder bush a voice of wo
“Comes mournful on the breeze,
“The accents, as they meet my ear,
“My very soul doth freeze.”

‘O spare a father’s life!’ it says,
‘Avert the fatal blow;
‘O let these hoary hairs repose
‘Till time shall lay them low!’

As springs a tiger from the brake,
Two ruffians fiercely sprung,
And with a ’kerchief close comprest,
Soon gagg’d the old man’s tongue.

They tied his throat with hempen cord,
Then foot and arm they wheel,
Till crash’d his windpipe like the ice
Beneath the courser’s heel.

The kimmer thrice assay’d to speak;
She thrice assay’d to fly;
But kimmer’s blood forsook her heart,
Her palsied veins ran dry.

Sunk, motionless, upon the turf,
She lay like marble stone;
A mortal image but remain’d,
With all sensation gone.

Sir James comes not at breakfast hour,
He does not come to dine;
For him they search both house and bower
Upon the verdant Tyne.

There is a gloom on every face,
And every heart is sore;
There is a sadness on the earth,
And rural mirth is o’er.

Now all is silent in the hall,
Where all was noise before;
The menials tremble as they list
Each grating, opening door.

The lady to her chamber hied,
And made her silent moan,
And wonder’d much within herself
Where her true knight had gone.

Her heart swell’d big with dread remorse;
Her brain boil’d as with fire;
And much she mourn’d that she took part
With son against his sire.

“O wo betide the cruel youth!

“And leman’s treach’rous smile,

“That e’er seduced my foolish heart

“To work my husband guile.”

She laid her head on pillow soft,
But, ah! ’twas not to sleep;
She paced her chamber o’er and o’er,
And waken’d but to weep;

For when those aching eyes were closed,
Unused to the salt tear,
As oft the lady, starting, thought
Tyne gurgled in her ear.

Why does the house-dog bay so loud?

He’s growl’d since depth of noon,

And now he hunts his own foot-sound,

And shadow by the moon.

Why does the howlet whoop so bold

At the lone hour of night?

Why dances on the river’s marge

The meteor’s blue dead-light?

Why do the grating hinges crash,

The windows rise and fall?

And that unearthly melody

Come sighing from the hall?

Alas! ’tis wayward phantasy
That’s working in the brain;
For silent is that mansion now
As death’s most drear domain.

When the cock clapp’d his speckled wing,
And day began to shine,
O there were nought but drowsy eyes
Upon the banks of Tyne!

The woods and glens were peopled o’er
With matron, youth, and maid,
Who search’d from Linton’s rocky linn
To Morham’s mossy shade.

Sir James’s steed stands by the pool,
It thirsts—but will not drink;
Nor bridle rein, nor gentle hand,
Will urge him by the brink.

’Tis merry in the greenwood now,
The bugles sound afar,
The trees upwave their dark-green locks
Above the sylvan war.

The beagles plunge into the pool,
The horses shake their manes,—
A corpse is dragg’d towards the shore,
O God!—it is Sir James!

O why does vengeance sleep in Heaven!

Or does it only fall

On guiltless heads, that daring crime

Still rules this earthly ball?

Or does it smoulder but to strike,
Like Etna’s bowels to burst,
And with a tenfold vengeance hurl
Her bolts on the accurst?

END OF FIT THE FIRST.

SIR JAMES STANFIELD.
Fit the Second.

Let’s briefly put on manly readiness,
And meet i’ the hall together,
And question this most bloody piece of work,
To know it further.—Shakspeare.
The lady shriek’d, and aye she sobb’d,
As she wou’d burst in twain;
“O peace,” quoth she, “I’ll ne’er know more,
“Since my loved knight is slain!

“O pale, pale are those cheeks that flush’d
“With manhood’s ruddy hue;
“And glazed those sparkling eyes in death,
“That spake a soul so true!”

“Go saddle ye the swiftest steed
“That’s snorting in the sta’,
“And ride, go ride, my trusty serf,
“As fast as ye can ca’.

“Ride by Edina’s lofty towers,
“My Philip bring to me;
“For much I dread a natural death
“His father didna dee.”

They search’d the city through and through
From night till dawn of day;
But the wicked youth they could not find
Till his sire was in the clay.

O then he made a loud lament!

And swore himself he’d kill;

But ere a night and day elapsed

He did not look so ill.

And soon Newmills’s mansion fair
With merriment did shake,
As if the burial bread had been
Bewitch’d to bridal cake.

And lightly grew the lady’s heart,
And, O! she busked proud;
And in her sable weeds appear’d
Like beauty in a cloud.

Alas! that aged men should e’er
The youthful virgin wed;
Alas! that youthful wife should e’er
Forsake the marriage bed.

’Twas whisper’d, and perchance ’twas true,
The lady oft was seen
A dallying with her lemane vile
Among the breckans green.

’Tis merry in the greenwood now,
The beagles blithe are running,
And children ramble in the woods
Their golden tresses sunning.

In search of nature’s feathery quire
Two youths had heedless run,
When they o’erheard a villain say
“The hard-won turn is done!”

“He’d borne the brunt of flood and field;

“Had stood knee-deep in gore!

“But never saw a soul so stout

“As that the young Knight bore.

“While in the agonies of death
“The old man’s heart did bleed,
“With taunts, reproach, and fiend-like scorn
“He urged the hellish deed.”

O why comes the king’s messenger

With warrant in his hand?

And why do these grim officers

Bid Philip Stanfield stand?

By yonder stream they’ve ta’en a turn
Beneath the willow’s shade,
Where, shelter’d by the rush-grown bank,
The suicide was laid.

O why do the physicians come,

Muffled in cloak and cowl?

Their business is to save the living,

Sure death they cannot fool.

Why comes the sexton with his spade?

Another foolish man!

Who daily haps mortality,

Yet’s mortal o’er his cann.

The spade upturn’d the wormy earth,
And grazed the coffin’s coom,
When forth they dragg’d the lifeless knight,
Like prisoner to his doom.

Then to Newmills they solemn wend,
Each mourner grim and tall;
And dread amazement paints each face
That crowds into the hall.

Now, “Stanfield, lift thy father’s head,”
The doctors straight did say,
“That we may view his mangled form,
“For here has been foul play!”

Young Stanfield touch’d his father’s corpse,
When ’rose a fearful wail;
For blood gush’d from the winding-sheet,
And every face grew pale.

And aye the dead clothes redder grew—
The youth fell on the floor;
Thus suddenly remorse will smite,
And guilty heart o’erpower.

“Thou art the murderer! alas!”

The pale chirurgeon said;

“Beadles, your stoutest bonds prepare,

“And bind the parricide.”

Then swore the youth by God and heaven,
O’ercome with seeming wo,
“My heart and hand are pure from blood,
“As Lapland’s spotless snow.”

“’Tis false!”—they bound him where he stood,
Nor listed to his tale;
They march’d him hand and limb in chains
To fair Edina’s jail.

Soon sentenced by his country’s laws,
He met a shameful death;
But harden’d guilt the crime denied
With his expiring breath.

Yet retribution came, though late,
Even to the gallows tree;
The cord unclasping, down he slipt
Upon his bended knee.

The hangman finish’d, with a grin,
What seem’d so ill begun,
And strangled, in the pangs of death,
As sire, so died the son.

The headsman plied his horrid art,
When with unerring stroke
The youth’s devoted head, laid low,
Roll’d bloody from the block.

Then high in air his clotted locks
To rabble’s gaze was spread,
As loud the executor cried,
“Behold the parricide!”

On Haddington’s eastern portal high
His hand and head were placed;
For near that fatal field did lie,
This horrid crime disgraced.

NOTES TO SIR JAMES STANFIELD.

Page 331, line 15.

Denouncing wrath, he strikes the priest

Even in the house of God.

Of Philip Stanfield, Wodrow observes,—“This profligate youth being at the university of St Andrews, a good many years before he committed this barbarous murder, came to a sermon in Kinkel-close, about a mile from St Andrews, where Mr John Welch was preaching, and in his spite and mockery in time of sermon, threw somewhat or other at the minister, which hit him. The minister stopped, and said, ‘He did not know who had put that public affront on a servant of Christ; but be who he would, he was persuaded there would be more present at his death than were hearing him preach that day, and the multitude was not small.’ This was accomplished, and Mr Stanfield acknowledged this in prison after he was condemned, and that God was about to accomplish what he had been warned of.”

Page 333, line 1.

A springs a tiger from the brake,
Two ruffians fiercely sprung,
And with a ’kerchief close comprest,
Soon gagg’d the old man’s tongue.

The account of this dreadful case is thus given by Lord Fountainhall, a contemporary judge.—“1687, 14th Dec.—Sir James Stanfield being found dead some few days before, beside his own house of Newmills, some thinking he had drowned himself in some melancholy fit, to which he was incident; the fame of the country did run that he was strangled by his sons or servants; for he had disinherited his eldest son for his debauchery, and disponed his fortune to his second son, and failzieing of him to Commissar Dalrymple. On this suspicion there was an order directed from the Privy Council to Muirhead and Crawford, chirurgeons in Edinburgh, to visit his body and report; for they had very hastily buried him, pretending that they would not have his body to be gazed upon and viewed by all comers: And they having reported that they saw signs of strangulation, and that his head bled when Philip his eldest son touched it, he was apprehended and imprisoned, as likewise two of Sir James’s servants, and a woman, which three last were brought in, 8th December, before the Privy Council, and tortured with the thumbikins, but confessed nothing.—Yet the presumptions were very pregnant against Philip.—He had attempted on his father formerly, which his father had declared to several; and he declined to concur with the King’s Advocate in a pursuit against the murderers; and was found to have much money, (though he gave in a bill seeking an aliment,) and did hastily bury him; and bruised blood was found about his throat; and the mother had the dead clothes all ready; and the minister, (Mr John Bell,) heard great noise that night. And now to get favour, he had declared himself Papist; upon which grounds a criminal indictment being raised against him, as also for drinking the King’s confusion, and for cursing his father, &c.”

In his defence, it was urged that he was intoxicated when he drank the king’s confusion, with whom he linked the pope’s, the chancellor’s, and the devil’s; yet the justices found it treason! 2do, That with respect to cursing his father, that they were afterwards reconciled—the justices also repelled this defence. 3tio, That the presumptions libelled against the parricide were not relevant. His lordship goes on to state “the chirurgeon’s attest, that he was not drowned but strangled; the miraculous providence of the two children discovering the truth against their parents, the one a boy of 13, and the other a girl of 11 years, who were not sworn, not knowing the importance of an oath; but only declared that they heard their parents telling one to the other that the turn was done; and that Philip carried very stoutly, and that they should have put a stone about his neck to make him sink.”

It was also proved, in extenuation, that Sir James was once mad, and thereafter hypocondriac. “That he used to tell, himself, that in one of these fits he rode towards England with a design never to have returned, but that his horse stopped at ——, and would not go forward, which he looked upon as the finger of God; and that once he was throwing himself out at a window at the Netherbow, if Thomas Lendall had not pulled him in by the feet; and that the very week before his death, he desired George Stirling to let blood of him, because his head was light,” &c.

The following circumstance, mentioned in the indictment, seems to have had great weight with the jury:—“That (the deceased’s) nearest relations being required to lift the corpse into the coffin, after it had been inspected, upon the said Philip Stanfield touching of it, (according to God’s usual mode of discovering murder,) it bled afresh upon the said Philip; and that thereupon he let the body fall, and fled from it in the greatest consternation, crying, Lord have mercy upon me!” The assize finding him guilty, “the Lords of Justiciary decerned him to be hanged on the 15th February, at the cross of Edinburgh, and his tongue to be cut out for cursing his father, and his right hand to be cut off for the parricide; and his head to be put upon the East Port of Haddington, as nearest to the place of murder; and his body to be hung up in chains betwixt Leith and Edinburgh, and his lands and goods to be confiscated for the treason.”

All this was rigorously put in execution. “Some thought,” continues his lordship, “if not a miraculous, yet an extraordinary return of his imprecations, the accident of the slipping of the knots on the rope, whereby his feet and knees were on the scaffold, which necessitated them to strangle him, bearing therein a near resemblance to his father’s death: and a new application having been made, that they might be allowed to bury him, Duke Hamilton was for it, but the Chancellor would not consent, because he had mocked his religion; so his body was hung up, and after some days being stolen down, it was found lying in a ditch among some water, as his father’s was; and by order was hung up again, and then a second time was taken down. This is a dark case of divination, to be remitted to the great day, whether he was guilty or innocent. Only it is certain he was a bad youth, and may serve as a beacon to all profligate persons.”—Fountainhall’s Dec. Lords Ses. vol. i. p. 484.

SONNET
ON VISITING BARRA CHURCH-YARD.

Deem not the spot unblest, though the church pile

Be moulder’d to decay; three mossy stones

Mark cells as hallow’d as the sculptured aisle,

Where villagers repose their weary bones;

The winds of heaven sigh moaning o’er their graves,

Where the long grass in mournful billows waves;

And when the moonlight sleeps upon yon knoll

The swain will pause, and think upon his soul!—

But most I love the blue-flower gleaming there,

Sprung from the ashes of some village maid,

Who blossom’d in life’s spring, chaste, young, and fair,

Till in Death’s arms she shrunk into a shade.

I’ll take a seedling from this lonely flower,

To be the moralist of my summer-bower.

VERSES
IN MEMORY
OF
DUNBAR COLLEGIATE CHURCH.

There is a Temple in ruin stands,
Fashion’d by long-forgotten hands.
Out upon Time! it will leave no more
Of the things to come than the things before!
——What we have seen our sons shall see,
Remnants of things that have pass’d away,

Fragments of stone, rear’d by creatures of clay!—

Byron.

The first notice we have of the church of Dunbar is in the Taxatio of Lothian, in 1176, where Ecclesia de Dunbar cum capella de Whytingeham is assessed at 180 merks.—Chalmers’ Cal. From the earliest times, the Earls of Dunbar appear to have been proprietors of the whole parish, and patrons of the church and its subordinate chapels. In 1342, during the reign of David II., Patrick, fifth of that name, and tenth Earl of Dunbar and March, converted the parochial church into a collegiate form.—It was confirmed by William, bishop of St Andrew’s, and besides being the first establishment of that kind known in Scotland, was anciently the richest in the deanry of Lothian. With its subordinate chapels, it was valued at 180 merks, a greater valuation than any other could bear at the same period. At the Reformation, when the church ceased to be collegiate, the archpriestry of Dunbar was stated at £80.

On the forfeiture of the earldom of March, in 1434–5, the patronage of the church fell to the crown. During the reign of James III., it was enjoyed, with the earldom of Dunbar, by the Duke of Albany. It again fell to the king, on the forfeiture of his traitorous brother in 1483; and now belongs to the Duke of Roxburgh, as principal heritor of the parish.

The interior of churches, as well as of domestic buildings, having been much improved within the present century, the collegiate church had long been found inconvenient for a modern audience, accordingly this venerable fabric was condemned, and a handsome new church, from a plan of Gillespie, erected on its site, in 1819.

DUNBAR COLLEGIATE CHURCH.

VERSES.

Thou tempest-stricken veteran! must thou fall

Beneath the weight of years?—Time long has smooth’d

His scythe on thy grey front; and thou hast braved

The gusty whirlwind, and the thunder-crash,

Through many a stormy hour; and thou hast seen

The sons of men come forth like flowers, and fade,

Four sluggish centuries; yet thou must fall,
And, like the Architect who plann’d thy fane,
Be gulf’d and lost in the Lethean stream.
O thou! who in thy ample arms enfold’st
The unnumber’d charters of the human race,
Come from thy mountain-heap of chronicles,
Thou meditative goddess! and declare
To thy devoted son, whate’er thou knowest

Of this fallen fabric, that, by thee inspired,

My song may be most mournful, yet most true:
Then will I weave a wreath of evergreens,
And place it on the lofty brow of Fame,
To mock the spoiler Time, and tell the world
The faded glories of this ancient church.

First the proud Catholic, with his pompous forms,

Worshipp’d within these walls. For ages rung
The lofty aisles to the deep organ-peal,
While from the silver censers incense blazed
Before the altar, and the mass was sung:

Peace to the souls of that noble race,
Who form’d this fair and goodly place;
The Holy Spirit will gild their path,
While wandering through the caves of Death;—
And the Mother of God, like Etham’s fire,
Will lead them to the heavenly choir.

This life is but a passing dream,
Where all is false, but the things unseen—
Those glorious visions of the sky
That wake Devotion’s midnight sigh,
When the heart communing with its God,
Longs for its last—its blest abode!

This life is like a story told,
That in the telling waxes old;—
A breath—a bubble on the stream,—
Verily life is but a dream!—
Peace to the souls of that noble race,
Who form’d this fair and goodly place.

Illustrious March! who rear’d this ancient fane

A gift to heaven—it has outlived thee long!—
Where are thy honours now? They only swell
The herald’s chronicle!—Thy wide domains
Are in the hands of strangers; and thy church
Moulders beneath the giant-crush of Time!

But long ere Time had wrought this church’s fall,

Its worshippers had changed the despot-creed
That bound their fathers; for a learned race,
Nursed in the polemics of Germany,

Had caught a ray from Heaven, and boldly launch’d

Their legal thunders ’gainst the papal throne;

And then, Dunbar, within thine ancient walls,
The Presbyter, in sober vestments stood,
Best fitted for his office, and declared
The simple doctrines of the Man of Grief!—
Ere England’s naval arm had smote the Dutch,

Swarm’d with a pirate horde these fertile shores:

Then sigh’d the matron o’er her infant charge,

Lest the war-whoop at midnight roused his sire,

While on the turrets of thine ancient pile,
The drowsy sentinel held his weary watch,
And as the morning broke, with searching eye
Scann’d the horizon, fearful lest the shades
Of night had veil’d a foe.——
Nor be thy pulpit-dignities forgot,

Though differing in their creeds, one common lot

Awaits them now before their awful Judge.
I see them rise, in sacerdotal robes,
With meditative eye “that loves the ground.”
First sage Dunbar, of Moray’s noble house,
Deck’d in his gaudy Romish garb appears,
Avowedly zealous;—next walks Manderston,
The advocate of Mary’s hapless cause;
And next, in humbler weeds and solemn state,
The presbyterian Simpson, whose keen eye

Glanced deep into the murderer’s wounded soul,

And dragg’d the horrid secret from its den.
His mighty mind read deep that mystic page
Graved with the characters of future fate;
Foretold the sabbath-breaker’s fearful end,
Saw the mad mother raving o’er her child,

And the lost drave strew’d on the stormy shore.

Then follow Stevenson, the wise and good,
Edina’s ornament, and learning’s pride;—
And Wood, his prince’s favourite, he who won

The mitre of the Isles, and preach’d the cross

To the lone dwellers of the western main;—
And last, Carfrae, whose native eloquence
Has never been surpass’d within these walls.
But, lo! a Spirit rises from yon towers,
(Whose ruins tremble on the wave-worn cliff;)

Veil’d in the mist of years, it stretches forth

Its viewless arm, and strikes the solemn pile.

The temple trembles to its deepest base,

And its rent fragments strew the hallow’d ground.

And, see! the work of ruin has begun
Within the sanctuary,—a motley crew
Have ta’en possession of the sacred place.
The house of prayer is now an antic stage,
Where boys delight to sport the idle hour;—
And, lo! exalted ‘midst his mad compeers,
An urchin mounts the rostrum, while the crowd
Pick up the fragments of the broken pews,
And pelt their comrade in his pulpit chair.

How changed, since, in the sunny morn of life,

I sat amidst these dear-remember’d pews,
Nor thought the service long! The Roman youth
Hung not with more delight when Cicero spoke,
Than I have listen’d to the holy man.
Returning to these scenes, but late I saw
A crowd of stranger-faces worship there,
And I was left alone.—Where have ye fled,
Ye dear companions of those pleasant days,

When hope was young like you, fair as the blooms

Before the wintery wind has sear’d their bud?—

Ye rosy-cheeked host, where have ye fled?—
There, in that corner pew, demurely sat,
With scented ’kerchief and a sprig of thyme,
A Frigid Maid, in antiquated state.
Wo to the luckless youth, whom woman’s smile
Had lured astray;—we to the hapless maid
Whom man’s seductive voice had won to vice,
And blighted the red roses on her face;—
It was this Gorgon’s food to feed upon
The strife of others; in her gossip chair
She sat a demon in a woman’s form;

And though ’twas said, that fifty circling years

Had shed a natural whiteness on her head,
With artificial curls and deep-laid rouge,
Still with the changing dresses of the times
Most awkwardly she mimicked the young.
Beneath the middle arches of the church
I’ve seen the Superannuated Fop,
With plaited ruffle and huge periwig,
Smart spectacles and golden-headed cane,
The pleasant dandy of an earlier school,
Sit pompously. ’Twas said, and it was true,

Cards, chess, and draughts, at intervals amused

The heavy burden of his useful life.
He roll’d in plenty,—but his wines were sour,
His viands tasteless. When he would enjoy,
Avarice was scowling by, foreboding want.
Thus Providence, all-righteous, balances
The fate of mortals,—and the man who seeks
To hoard up human comforts, hath a blight
Within that blasts enjoyment, and amidst
The bowers of paradise he pines a slave.

There sat, with lengthening phiz, The Hypocrite;

“All things to all men,” was his favourite text.

He scoff’d at the profane,—yet never shunn’d
Their company when a foaming bowl went round:
He vilified the lecherous,—yet would “lip
A wanton” in the dark. He was your friend—
Sat at your board; but if on slight occasion

His interest clash’d with thine, then ‘mediately

He stood estranged.—He was a backbiter,
The old man’s contumely—the maiden’s curse!
Religion, politics, were still his theme;

While pliant as the ash that shades the stream,

Grew his opinion, wavering with the times—
The basest were anointed while they ruled,
But out of place, detested by this wretch!
Yet deem not that within these sacred walls
None bore the image of their Maker’s face.
Because amidst a bed of flowers upsprings
A host of weeds—O, yes! a multitude
Of innocent, honest, upright characters,

Worshipp’d within these walls, that practised all

The shining virtues of a Christian life.
There might be seen the Honest-hearted Man,
Whose tongue was still the echo of his mind,
In sober vestments, listening earnestly
To hear the word of life. He was not free
From early prejudices, cherish’d long,
That look’d like bigotry. New psalmody
Was his abhorrence, tinkling itching ears
With its vain sounds; and innovations all
He could not brook; yet still he was a man

That loved his God, and sought to serve mankind.

Near to the pulpit sat the Simpering Maid,

Wafting her soul in pleasant sounds to heaven,

The toast of half the parish. She, alas!

Long since eclipsed, has hung her beauteous head,

Like flowers that wither in the noontide ray;
For Beauty, like the hues that colour life,
Has but its passing tribute. Novelty
Delights the soul, and yonder blue expanse

Seems not so fair as evening’s changing clouds,

That shape their varied colours in the sky.

Now, arm’d, destruction’s satellites advance,

And like a stream long pent, at once bursts forth,

O’erwhelming all. The lofty rafters fall,
And roofs, in crashing masses, tumble down,
While the foundation shakes as if the ground

Was struggling with an earthquake’s hot embrace.

Spare, vandal! spare, that splendid monument,
Where lie the ashes of illustrious Home!
Else shall each mailed warrior start to life,

And with his stony gauntlet strike thee down.—

Yes! thou shalt spare that honour’d sepulchre,

And it will stand a princely ornament

To grace the new-born church, that, Phœnix-like,

Shall spring forth from the ashes of its sire.

And spare! O spare! that tablet in the wall,
That marks where Stevenson all lowly lies.
It is too late!—the massy pickaxe falls,
And the stone, graved with letters of renown,
In splinters mixes with ignoble heaps.—
And, see! the busy workmen have begun
To clear the old foundations of the church.
Now in its dark and secret sepulchres
The spade makes devastation, and turns up

The bones of those who long have slept in state.

Go tell Nobility, that he’s a fool,

And wastes his wealth in vain! I’d rather sleep

In yonder green-arch’d cell, with nature’s shroud

Above my breast, where morning’s smiles might fall,

Or evening’s tears bedew my lonely bed,

Than be twice-buried in these graves of stone,

To prop the basis of some future church.
See, where the labourer turns a precious load
Uncourteously. That little heap of earth,

Once thought—and breathed—and lived—and felt like me!—

’Tis the last relic of an only child,
A doting mother fondled at her breast.
The miniature, image of herself.—

His morn was cloudless—Spring’s delicious breath

Was deem’d too keen to kiss his baby face,—

His walks were in the garden’s shades at noon;

His food was fruits and cream, and choicest sweets;

His bed was roses, like the Stagyrite’s,
Music and Painting cheer’d his leisure hours,
While Poetry’s soft voice beguiled his youth,
And his fond parents only lived for him.—
Alas! how would the foolish woman weep
To see her darling’s ashes toss’d aside
Beside some beggar’s brat,—some untamed boy
Who fed on charity,—to whom, at eve,
A barn or byre was choicest luxury.
Now myriads crowd, like pilgrims on a march,
To take a last look of their early Friend!—
Yes! midst the many chequer’d scenes of life

The church was still their Friend. When blithe and young,

The lessons taught within her hallow’d walls

Reform’d their manners and improved their heart.

In active manhood, when love’s gentle thrill
Beat in the bosom, and the stripling paid
His marriage-tithes, and to the altar led
The lovely object of his youthful choice,
(Blushing like virtue at her own applause,)

This church then hail’d him as a worthy Friend.—

And when the circling months had blest the bed

With fruit in season, sponsor-like it gave

The child a name.—Nor less in grief, than joy,

Has this fallen fabric acted friendly part;

Administering consolation in distress,

And wafting prayers for thee when hope was gone.

No more the sailor, homeward bound, will hail
Thy well-known turrets, shining on the steep,
A blessed sea-mark. Oft at sight of thee,

How nimbly slipt the cordage through his hands,

For he was near his home;—and wife, and friends,

And social canns of grog were flowing fast,
In fond anticipation ere they came.
Upon thy towers, it was a pleasant sight
To view the varied landscape, hill and dale
Promiscuous mingling, stretching far away.
Eastward St Abbs his promontory dips
In the blue wave. Behind the dusky lines
Of Lammermoor extend in mountain-pride,

While Doon Hill, sloping, bares its reddening sides

To meet the ploughshare, glittering on the steep.

Beneath it lies the haunted glens of Spot,
Where Hecate’s children held unhallow’d feats
Around the rowan-tree,—the cauldron smoked,
While the Rigwoody Witch, with horrid oaths,

Startled the bird of night.—But sweeter spread

The glen of Ossydean, at morn or eve,

Where patient angler, by the winding stream

Secures his prey; and Broxmouth’s tufted woods,

Fann’d by the sea-breeze, stretching to the sea,

Where the Protector, with his fierce brigade,
Subdued the Covenanters. Peaceful now
Sails on her gentle lake, among the trees,
The downy cygnet, gazing at herself

In the clear waters. Nearer, through the shades,

Rural Lochend, in pensive beauty stands;

There spreads the Latch, a pleasant rendezvous,

Where it was sweet, at Sabbath’s morn, to hear

The church bell’s melody, as through the copse

We saunter’d to the Common’s daisied walk;

Southward Dunpender rears his verdant head;

Far west the Pentlands hide their pointed tops

In the ethereal sky; and Fife’s dark shores

Bound the wide-swelling Forth; the hermit May

Stands with his torch; and Berwick’s lofty Law

Shines isolated; and the craggy Bass

Shows its white cliffs; while, underneath, is seen

Dunbar’s grey towers, that tremble on the steep;

Her harbour snug—her battery, picturesque;
Her rocky caverns, and her pebbly shores!
Yon setting sun, that gilds the watery west,
Sheds on the glories of that fallen church
His farewell rays. Another morn, and then

There’s not a sculptured fragment left to tell

Where stood a temple. I will stand and gaze
A last adieu!—and then return, and gaze,—
’Tis parting with a loved familiar friend,

Endear’d by early, long, and sweet acquaintance;

For every stone of hers is chronicled
Deep in my memory, there to bloom for ever;
More lovely in the shade of future years,
When mellow’d by the softening hues of time.
Poor pilgrim of a day! thou too must fall,

Like art’s strong works, amidst the waste of years;

But the Great Architect who plann’d thee first,

Will model thee again more beauteously,

When his own Zion he builds and repairs.

The Church-yard Soliloquy

Ye sepulchres, and sculptured monuments!
Whose uncouth rhythmes often wake a smile
Where Pity’s tear should fall,—I come to muse
Upon the silent tenants you enshrine;

And, lo! like peopled mists in highland glens,

They live before me in their earthly shapes.—
Whose is that cherub-form? Pale roseate hues
Bloom on her faded cheek. Her little hands

Are stretch’d toward me.—Ha! she flies—she flies!—

I start entranced, as from a waking dream,
And kneel upon my sister’s viewless grave.
She died in infancy,—and I have wish’d
That we had closed our pilgrimage together;
Then had I ’scaped a world of guile and wo,
And fallen, like her, upon the lap of heaven,
Pure as a snowdrop on a virgin’s breast.
Ah! little did I think, when late I dew’d
Thy mossy dwelling with a brother’s tears,

That my poor heart should feel a deeper sting;

That with a father’s feelings I should weep

A darling child, nipt in the bud of life,

Gone, ah! too soon, to mix his dust with thine!

Unnumber’d figures float, in dim review,

That wear the form of images forgot,

Wash’d from the mind’s eye by the flood of time

Like lines upon the sand; yet I have seen

These forms and faces breathe and act like me,

Smile at a jest, or melt at tales of wo;

Warm with the glow of hope, exult in joy;

Grow pale with rank disease, and waste with sorrow;

Now they have paid life’s ruthless creditor,

Nor left a trace to mark their path behind.

There walks the bridegroom with his pensive bride,

Whom I saw church’d in yon dismantled pew,

In all the dazzling glow of health and beauty,

Blushing with roses.—Ah! how faded now
Her nameless beauties and bewitching smiles;—
No ringlets wanton on that horrid face,

Those cheeks are sunk, that swell’d with sweet expression;

Those eyes are dim, that beam’d like shining stars

Before heaven’s gates, and tenantless their sockets;

While on that breast, where Love delighted dwelt,

The loathsome worm has made a gorgeous feast!

Death strikes the coward swain; the warrior bold

He smites amidst his bright career of honour!
So Ramsay fell, the noble and the brave,
When life was big with promise; here, behold!
Maternal love has rear’d a monument,
And the green turf becomes a hallow’d spot,
When water’d by a mother’s holiest tears.
And, haply, in these burial solitudes,
Some wo-struck youth, at eve, may meditate,
What time the moon, in pensive loveliness,

Leads forth her blue-eyed sisters, and from heaven

Chases the dusky Queen: Then as he mourns

A brother’s loss, or weeps the death of friends,

He sees that last and lonely green-arch’d cell,

Where he will also find a quiet home.

And does there slumber in forgotten dust,

Some earlier bard, who hail’d this ancient church

With heavenly melody?—Alas! such fate

Awaits the framer of this lowly lay!

A few short years, and nameless is the spot

Where the lone thistle blossoms on his grave.

NOTES
TO
VERSES ON DUNBAR COLLEGIATE CHURCH.

Page 335, line 21.

Ere England’s naval arm had smote the Dutch,

Swarm’d with a pirate horde these fertile shores.

These lines allude to a visit paid to the Forth by that noted marine-adventurer, Paul Jones, in September, 1779. His squadron lay at anchor for some days off Dunbar, during which period the town was inundated with soldiers, and the people were busily employed throwing up batteries on the kirk hill, &c. In consequence of a vessel called the Rodney, (afterwards one of the Greenland ships belonging to the port) running into Dunbar harbour for shelter, a brig of the enemy’s weighed anchor, and nearly run on shore in pursuit of her. The squadron, having stood up the Forth, were seen nearly opposite Leith on the 17th, when a violent south-west wind arising (aided, as was said, by the prayers of a goodly minister of Kirkcaldy,) fortunately drove them rapidly back again, and laid them alongside his Majesty’s ships the Serapis and Countess of Scarborough, near Flamborough-head, which Jones captured after a desperate engagement. They had the Baltic fleet in convoy, which luckily escaped during the conflict. The enemy carried their prizes to the Texel, having on board 300 prisoners, whom they had taken during their cruise in the North seas. For these exploits the king of France rewarded Paul Jones with the military order of merit, and a gold-hilted sword.

In May, 1781, Captain Fall, another, but less noted adventurer, appeared off Dunbar, under peculiar circumstances. A small privateer had been fitted out from that port, which, after a long absence, appeared one morning, to the indescribable astonishment of the inhabitants, not with a prize, but followed by a huge privateer in chase! Having run snugly on shore, under shelter of the haven, she opened her broadside on the enemy, whom she provoked to send a few shots into the town, one of which struck a log of wood near the castle. It is even said that the volunteers of those days pelted her with musquetry from the pier! This insufficient mode of warfare against so formidable an enemy might have been attended with serious consequences to the town, had not a veteran seaman sent a well-directed shot from a heavy carronnade which lay on the island, and nearly carried away the pirate’s mast. This had the desired effect of making him sheer off.

Page 356, line 10.

First, sage Dunbar, of Moray’s noble house,

Deck’d in his gaudy Romish garb appears.

Columba Dunbar, descended from the Earls of Moray, was dean of the church of Dunbar in 1411, whence he was promoted to the see of Moray.

Page 356, line 12.

——Next, walks Manderston,

The advocate of Mary’s hapless cause.

John Manderston was canon of the college church of Dunbar in 1567, and was one of those appointed by the Archbishop of St Andrews to attend the court on a divorce sued for by Lady Jean Gordon against the Earl of Bothwell, while Queen Mary was detained at Dunbar.

Page 356, line 15.

The presbyterian Simpson, whose keen eye

Glanced deep into the murderer’s wounded soul,

And dragg’d the horrid secret from its den.

Andrew Simpson was master of the school of Perth, and taught Latin with much success. He had sometimes under his charge 300 boys, many of them sons of the principal nobility. He left Perth at the Reformation, 1560, and became minister of Dunning and Cargill, from which he was translated, in 1564, to Dunbar, where he sustained the double office of master of the grammar school and minister of the parish.

In 1570, Mr Simpson was called to attend the Rev. John Kello, minister of Spot, in his sickness, who was shortly after convicted, and executed for the unnatural murder of his wife. This unhappy man having related a remarkable dream he had had to Mr Simpson, the latter had no hesitation in retorting upon him, as Nathan said unto David,—Thou art the man!—This struck so deep into the culprit’s heart, that he made instant confession, and, when afterwards on the scaffold, he ascribed the disclosure of this horrible deed to the soul-piercing discernment of this pious priest, in these memorable words:—

“Ther was not small support in the mouth of some faythfull brethren, to bring me to this confessione of my awin offence. Bot, above all, Mr Andro Symsone, minister of Dumbar, did so lyvlie rype foorth the inward cogitationes of my hert, and discover my mynd so planelie, that I persuaded myself God spak in him; and besydis vtheris notable coniecturies which he trulie dedvced befoir my eyes, he remembrit me of ane dreame, which in my grit seikness did appearandlie present the self ... at this tyme did God move my hart to acknowledge the horror of my awin offence, and how far Sathan had obteinit victorie ower me.”—Bannatyne’s Trans. Scot. p. 47.

Page 356, line 25.

And Wood, his prince’s favourite. He who won

The Mitre of the Isles, and preach’d the cross

To the lone dwellers of the western main.

Andrew Wood, Bishop of the Isles, was son to David Wood, a minister, by Miss Guthrie, sister to John Guthrie of Guthrie. He was first minister of Spot, and then of Dunbar, and was created Bishop of the Isles in 1678. He received a dispensation from the king to hold the benefice of Dunbar together with the said bishoprick. He was translated to the see of Caithness in 1680, where he continued till the revolution in 1688. He died at Dunbar in 1695, aged 76 years.—Keith’s Cat. p. 129.

Page 361, line 6.

Spare, vandal! spare, that splendid monument,

Where lie the ashes of illustrious Home.

Sir George Home was created Earl of Dunbar[22] by James VI., and died at Whitehall, Jan. 29, 1611. “His body,” says Crawfurd, “being embalmed, and put into a coffin of lead, was sent down to Scotland, and with great solemnity interred in the collegiate church of Dunbar, where his executors erected a very noble and magnificent monument of various-coloured marble, with a statue as large as life.”—Crawfurds Officers of State, vol. i. p. 399. This superb monument was situated in the east aisle of the collegiate church, and as that part of the old wall against which it stood was incorporated with the modern building, it still retains its original situation in the new edifice.

Page 361, line 41.

And spare, O spare! that tablet in the wall,

That marks where Stevenson all lowly lies.

This tablet was situated on the right of the door, leading into the south-east aisle. Of the elaborate inscription, the name of Stevenson alone was legible; but it may be seen in full in “Monteith’s Theatre of Mortality.” He was 30 years professor of philology and philosophy in Edinburgh, and 25 years minister of Dunbar.

Page 364, line 16.

Where the Protector with his fierce brigade

Subdued the Covenanters.

Cromwell entered Dunbar on Sunday, 1st September, 1650, the day preceding the battle of Dunbar, and encamped in the neighbourhood of the church, taking up his quarters in Broxmouth-house. Tradition says, that he fortified the church-yard.

ORMISTON YEW TREE;
WITH A
LAMENT FOR THE EARL OF HOPETOUN.

Hail! monarch of the garden’s bed,
That gleams like Druids’ grove afar;
May lightnings never blast thy head,
Nor blighting dews thy glories mar;
And, should Destruction’s arm abhorr’d,
E’er smite thee in thy noon of fame,
Thy trunk shall deck the festive board,
Like Shakspeare’s tree, and save thy name.

Beneath thy dark umbrageous shade
The village swain delights to rove,
To tell his kind-consenting maid
The soft voluptuous tale of love;
While blushes tinge her rosy cheeks,
As crimson rays o’er snow-wreaths steal,
The silent sigh too well bespeaks
What maiden lips may not reveal.

How oft thy branches, spreading wide,
Have canopied the children’s ring,
From merry morn till eventide,
Disporting like the birds in spring;
While chasing from their dewy nest
The covey o’er the lilied lea;
Or, climbing high, with fearless breast,
To rob the rook on yonder tree.

Years speed away—the rustic core
Again beneath thy foliage meet,
But not so blest as when of yore
They tripp’d on music-loving feet.
Now manhood’s sterner cares engage,
As Mammon’s paths they keen explore;
Or, haply, read the patriarch’s page,
Or turn unmeaning thesis o’er.

When sultry Sol is flaming high,
At summer’s noon the swains repair
’Neath thy impervious canopy
The frugal fare of health to share.
The cup goes round at pleasure’s call,
The kiss is stolen from buxom maid;
While, catching fragments as they fall,
The fawning dog is couchant laid.

But when the clouds in darkness roam,
Thick scatter’d by the murmuring wind,
The moralist loves thy solemn gloom,
That suits his meditative mind:
Dull tree! thou lov’st the burial-ground,
With evergreens thou mock’st decay;
For where the woodmen moulder round,
Thou gather’st moisture from their clay.

Canst thou, like old Dodona’s oak,
Thy silent leaves to language wake,
Where sacred doves responsive spoke?—
The tree this answer deign’d to make:
“Here Wishart shew’d prophetic powers,
“Before that vial of wrath was given,
“When in St Andrew’s dungeon towers
“His vengeance-blood uprose to heaven!—

“Here Cockburn, in my solitude,
“Forgot the bench and wrangling bar,
“With Science in her gentler mood
“To wage the literary war:—
“Alike the senate or the plough,
“The olive branch or patriot’s steel,
“To him who with undaunted brow
“Still advocated Scotia’s weel.

“Haply, beneath my verdant spray,
“You tread the muse’s path divine,
“Where lovely Fairnalie would stray,
“The gentle votress of the nine.
“She struck the lyre amongst these bowers,
“And breathed that sweetly plaintive lay,
“That weeps the forest’s wither’d flowers,
“To fatal Flodden wede away.”

The tree was silent as before,
It’s voice like summer breezes died,
When the lone stranger rests his oar
Upon Loch Lomond’s shelter’d side.
Perhaps thy earlier shoots might form
The trusty bow on Flodden’s plain,
Where fell, amidst the arrowy storm,
Thy warrior lord ’midst heaps of slain!

But now thy vernal boughs must mourn,
The archer weep beneath thy shade;
For Hopetoun never shall return,
In Gallia’s fields all lowly laid.
He loved to prune thy dark-green plumes,
Which rising beauties still display;
Nor deem’d thy never-fading blooms
The emblem of his laurel bay.

When on Corunna’s fatal shore
Afar the Gallic ensigns waved,
When fell in Victory’s arms, brave Moore,
Hopetoun retiring legions saved;
Then, ’midst the din of doubtful war,
Ere British ships came o’er the sea,
His pensive thoughts might wander far,
And sigh for home, and think on thee!

Thy chieftain fought on Egypt’s sands,
And turn’d the battle’s reddening tide;
Broke vaunting Gallia’s veteran bands,
Unconquer’d by the world beside:
His monument, his country’s page,
In burning characters shall live;
’Twill gather lustre age by age,—
The lustre worth alone can give.

This though his public acts may earn,
Yet private tears will also flow,
The splendid tower, the mountain cairn,
A country’s weeping love will shew.
These domes shall warm the patriot’s breast
To deeds of glory undesign’d,
While at the base the swain shall rest,
And mourn a benefactor kind.

NOTES TO ORMISTON YEW TREE.

Page 373, line 1.

Hail! monarch of the garden’s bed,

That gleams like Druids’ grove afar.

This luxuriant tree ornaments the Earl of Hopetoun’s garden at Ormiston-hall. Dr Walker, in his Essays on Natural History, says, that on the 10th May, 1762, the yew measured ten feet three inches in circumference; in 1799, the trunk measured eleven feet, and twenty-five in height; and now (1824) it measures thirteen feet in circumference, and twenty-eight in height: the diameter of the ground covered by its branches being about 64 feet, or 190 in circumference. The tree flourishes in full vigour without any symptoms of decay; and in the autumnal months, when covered with its red berries, has a magnificent appearance. The author of the Statistical Account of the Parish ascertained that the yew had existed for at least two centuries.

Page 375, line 13.

Here Wishart shew’d prophetic powers,

Before that vial of wrath was given.

In the north-west side of the garden wall, part of the gable remains of one of the wings of the old family mansion of the Cockburns, which contains the grated window of a chamber from whence, it is said, the unfortunate George Wishart was taken in 1546, previous to his suffering martyrdom at St Andrews.

Tradition says that Wishart frequently preached beneath the yew tree, when on a visit to the hospitable Laird of Ormiston.

Page 375, line 17.

Here Cockburn, in my solitude,

Forgot the bench and wrangling bar.

John Cockburn, of Ormiston, was celebrated both as a statesman and a patriotic representative of his country in the Unionparliament. He contributed to erect the first bleachfield in Scotland, and it was by his example and influence that improvements were made on the high-roads in the neigbourhood. For some time he was one of the Lords of the Admiralty.

The family burial vault of the Cockburns is situated a few yards from the present garden, and marks the site of the old church, which was dedicated to St Giles, and was granted, with its pertinents, to the hospital of Soltre, in the 13th century.

Page 376, line 3.

Where lovely Fairnalie would stray,

The gentle votress of the nine.

The late Mrs Cockburn of Ormiston, relict of John Cockburn, whose father was Lord Justice Clerk, was daughter to Mr Rutherford of Fairnalie, in Selkirkshire, and wrote the second part of the beautiful song entitled the Flowers of the Forest.

Page 376, line 17.

But now thy vernal boughs must mourn,
The archer weep beneath thy shade;
For Hopetoun never shall return,
In Gallia’s fields all lowly laid.

John, fourth earl of Hopetoun, who, after a life devoted to the service of his country, died at Paris in August, 1823, whither he had gone for the benefit of his health. Our limits will not permit us to detail the many public acts of his lordship; suffice to say, that he accompanied Sir Ralph Abercrombie as brigadier-general in the Egyptian expedition, in 1800; and was wounded in the hand at the battle of Alexandria, which deprived the army a while of his services. In consequence of the death of Sir John Moore, and the wounds of Sir David Baird, at the fatal battle of Corunna, the command devolved on Lord Hopetoun, then Lieutenant-general Hope, “to whose zeal and valour was attributed the success of the day, when the enemy were repulsed at every point of attack.” A handsome monument to his memory is presently erecting at Byershill, East Lothian, by his tenantry.

SONNET
TO DIRLETON CASTLE.

Time’s giant-arm has laid thy turrets low,
No more the archers crowd thy broken wall,
Thou ancient castle of the great De Vaux;
But thou art fair and mighty in thy fall,
Shrouded with ivy, like the chequer’d plaid
Of some grim warrior, resting on his shield,
Stricken, but not subdued, in battle-field,
Above the trees thou rear’st thy lofty head.

Where gilded banners stream’d, and bugles sung,

Nature, her yellow drapery has flung,

And, with the wall-flower, sheds an eastern grace

O’er the dark features of thy rugged face.

Stern Time! whose touch is sharper than the spear,

O spare these turrets ‘midst thy endless waste!

That long this tower, like monument, may grace

The lands that shine with Nisbet’s chasten’d taste,

And charm th’ admiring wanderer lingering near.

THE WRECK
OF
THE JOHN AND AGNES SLOOP
OF NEWCASTLE,
AT TYNE SANDS, NEAR DUNBAR, ON THE NIGHT OF SATURDAY THE 9TH NOVEMBER, 1816.

The moon has reach’d her midnight watch in heaven,

And veils her pensive face, afraid to view
The gathering tempest, while upon my couch,
Listening the hollow cadence of the storm,
I count the lazy hours; and meditate
Upon the sailor’s dark and wayward lot.

O ’tis a fearful night for those whose friends

Rock on the stormy wave. Winds howl—seas roar!

And the lone maid, in weeping solitude,

Pines for her lost Palemon on the deep;

Who, ‘numb’d with cold, hangs on the pulpy shrouds,

And thinks how grateful were his Anna’s arms

In such an hour. Then musing Fancy strays

To some drear mansion, tott’ring near the beach,

Where the wind, howling through the gaping chinks,

Startles the babe upon its mother’s breast!—

The mother wakes—and closer clasps her husband!

Then lisps a prayer of silent thankfulness

That he is not a sailor. ’Tis a night

Might freeze the stoutest heart. Such was the gale

When gallant Beaver, on these iron shores,

Beheld his warriors perish, as the day

Closed fearful o’er them, and the rough rocks sawed

The Fox’s[23] keel asunder; she who braved
The fire and triple vengeance of La Hogue,
Less dreadful than the storm. Alas! for him
Whose bark careers amidst the pathless seas,

The sport of winds and waves!—The helmsman bends

To shun the spray, sent by the shooting wave,

That skims athwart the deck. But hark! loud shouts

Come echoing through the streets; and now I hear

The car, deep laden, rattling on the causeway;

List! was the sound deceitful, fancy-form’d,

To agonize the ear?—O, gracious God!

Again the shout is heard,—again—again!

“A ship’s ashore!” each hoarse loud voice proclaims.

And, lo! majestically, along the streets,
The life-boat thunders on the trembling wain:
Heaven’s delegate! to snatch the mariner
From death’s wide-yawning gulf.—A hardy tar,
(Who Pythias-like, had nearly barter’d life

To save his friend,) had brought the dreadful news

Of their disaster. The small vessel lay

Grounded upon the spacious sands of Tyne,

Near where the river meets the Forth’s embrace

Westward of old Dunbar. With bilged stern

She, broadside, met the seas, that sounding swept

The groaning deck. Her lost sails flutter’d wide

In idle rage: so have we often spied
The sea-bird dallying on the ocean’s foam.
The boatmen gain’d the strand. A shout of joy

Came from the fainting crew. The treach’rous sands

Awhile had staid their progress,—but not long;

For all impediments were swept away

Before advent’rous Laing,—the seaman’s friend!

The hero of these shores! How oft, Dunbar!

Thy sons have seen him, in the darkest hour

Of danger, snatch the victim from the wave.[24]

And now the life-boat beat the chafing surf
Like some tall swan, in sweeping majesty,
Then rested by the ship, when, one by one,
The solitary remnants of the crew
Came leaping in. One hapless sailor hung

Suspended from the shrouds, where he was lash’d,

In frozen speechlessness that must not break!

For all the surgeon’s skill was tried in vain.

Another tar, the second in command,

Had sought to gain the beach, and luckless sank

Into a briny grave.—But where are they
For whom our Pythias braved the stormy surge?
A brother and a sister he had left
Wild clinging to the mast; and barter’d life
To save them from destruction. Now, alas!

Those lips are mute for ever that had blest him!

Those hands are cold that waved a last adieu!

For ’midst despairing moments, one dread wave,

That swelling rose, burst thundering on the deck,

And sent them shrieking to the depths below

Ere they could say farewell!—O God! that sight

Had mov’d cold apathy. But do not weep,
Ye fond relations of this fated crew;
For life’s dim page is darkly character’d,
And could we with prescient eye divine

The wars we have to wage—the storms to buffet!—

We’d heave an envious sigh o’er those who rest,

Whom death has ransom’d from the ills to come!

THE
SHEPHERD OF LAMMERMOOR.

Ha! Winter comes! on rein-deer car,
Like hunter to the chase;
And Summer’s smiles he drives afar,
To give his horrors place.
Earth withers ’neath his blasting tread,
The tuneful tenants leave the mead;
Dunpender’s sides are shining hoar;
Pressminnen’s lake is frozen o’er,
And Heartrim wood is bare.
The squirrel leaves his nutty bower;
The hawthorn bush has lost its flower,
So solitary fair!
Yon ancient Tower is capt with snow,
And trembles to the ground,
Threatening the passenger below,
Who lists the gathering sound
Of streamlet, in its windings lost,
Where, bursting through its chains of frost,
It crisps and foams around.
Far on the distant mountain’s head
The tyrant rears his pyramid;
While from his nostrils, wildly driven,
Clouds darken all the face of heaven!
It makes my warmest vein run chill!
To view the distant wold,
Where, hastening from the mossy hill,
The shepherd seeks his fold,
And sinks upon the drifted heath
Into the freezing arms of death,
To be in snowy coffin hid
Till thaws dissolve the frozen lid.
Thus, o’er the heights of Lammermoor,
The wanderer held his way,
When night, in clouds, began to lower,
Deceitful as the day;
Then, through the foliage glimmering bright,
Like sunshine on the face of night,
His cottage-light by fits he spied
Upon his native mountain’s side;
And heard the sheep-bell’s tinkling sound,
Now in the tempest lost and drown’d.
Within that cottage Ellen wept,
And watch’d her baby as it slept;
But while she mourn’d the luckless hour
Her husband with his flocks departed,
A glow of gladness mantled o’er
Her cheeks when nearly broken-hearted;
For Edmund oft had traced the road
When fiercer storms had been abroad;
Led by the smile of wedded bliss,
He tarried not for hour like this;
For, oh! he knew his Ellen’s breast
Would prove a charming place of rest,
And he would sleep more soft and sound
Where joy and welcome still were found.

But who, in this mysterious state,
Can read thy page, futurity?
Or knows—until he knows too late—
Whether ’tis best to smile or sigh?—
For Ellen deem’d not, when array’d
She saw her husband in his plaid,
Wending along the mountains blue,
He bade them all a last adieu!—
She deem’d not, that the morn’s embrace,
Affection beaming in each face,
As her and the sweet babe he prest
Transported to his manly breast;—
She deem’d not that embrace the last,
Else still she’d fondly held him fast,
And warn’d him never to depart,
In pity to her breaking heart.—
But, hark! she hears the dog’s long howl;
(’Twas but the tempest’s passing scowl,)
She raised the latch, unbarr’d the door,
Yet all was silent as before.

As when the sailor, tempest-toss’d,
At midnight, on a shoally coast,
Drops his toil’d arm upon the billow,
And thinks each wave will be his pillow,
Sees, bursting ’midst the storm’s dismay,
The light-house tower’s revolving ray,
Then wakes to sorrow and despair,
Deluded by the meteor’s glare:
So gleam’d the shepherd’s lattice-light,
Deceitful on that stormy night;
And now his sunk heart warmer glow’d,
For he had reach’d the wish’d-for road;
His Ellen’s fond embrace, and smile,
Repaid his long and weary toil;
Sprung to his knee his favourite boy,
Playful, demands the promised toy;
While the small infant, at the breast,
Smiles too to see the welcome guest.
O deepest wo to mortal given,
To perish at the gates of heaven!
Benumb’d the shepherd sunk to rest,
With nature’s shroud upon his breast!

DUNPENDER LAW.

Fann’d by the balmy breathing west,
On green Dunpender’s[25] brow I rest,
Musing on cliffs and towers below,
Where forests wave and rivulets flow;
Far, in the gold-emblazon’d sky,
The Pentland-hills in grandeur lie,
Where erst the gentle shepherd stray’d,
Fond lilting to his pastoral maid;
While Arthur Seat his shadow shews
Like lion couchant, in repose;
And the tower-crown’d Calton gleams,
Bathed in day’s departing beams;
And mingled with the hues of even,
The Fifean shores seem propping heaven.
Oft through the opening shades between
The silvery Forth is winding seen,
Where vessels with their white sails glide,
Like insects sporting on the tide,
That glisten in the noontide ray,
And with the evening fade away.
As the blithe lark that long has stray’d
Through distant woodland’s mazy shade,
Bewilder’d turns on wearied wing,
To thickets where her nestlings sing,
So fondly turns my partial eye
To dearer scenes that nearer lie,
Where plantings fair and hawthorn hedge
Shadow Garleton’s sloping edge,
And through shades of softer green
Beanston’s modest face is seen,
While in yonder flowery lawn,
So calm at eve, so bright at dawn,
Shooting from the leafy bowers
Amisfield’s massy palace towers;
And farther on, in misty clouds,
The church her solemn figure shrouds,
Haddina’s fane sublimely hoar,
Where good St Francis reign’d of yore.
The organ’s voice no longer steals
Through her aisles in solemn peals,
Dimm’d her lamp, whose glowworm ray
Cheer’d lonely pilgrim’s midnight way.
The mass has ceased—the monks are gone;
For time has sapp’d the papal throne.
O Edwin! thou wilt ne’er forget
How lagg’d the hours before we met
To muse within that hallow’d fane.
Tired of the world’s bustling scene,
We gladly hail’d the close of day,
In peaceful star-light shades to stray,
When moonlight shed enchantment round
O’er all the church’s holy ground,
While echo’d to thy flute’s deep thrill
The Gothic arch, the murmuring rill;
Then thought we of mysterious sounds,
While pacing the dark echoing grounds:
Such sounds as startle with affright
The waylaid swain at dead of night;
And though our cares were never few,
Still Fancy brighten’d all she drew,
And Hope those flowery visions wrought,
That perish’d with maturer thought.
Fair Tyne! thy river smoothly glides
To mingle with the ocean’s tides,
And though thy windings may not boast
The rushing stream in cataracts lost,
O’erhung with ivied rocks and woods,
Like Clyde or Esk’s romantic floods,
Yet Sol, in all his flaming chase,
Beholds no river’s crystal face,
That waters meads more rich with grain
Than those he meets on Lothian’s plain;
Whether by Crichton’s lordly towers
Thy rivulet winds ’neath lofty bowers;
Whether by Salton’s coverts gay,
Where patriot Fletcher loved to stray;
Or where, near Preston’s ancient fane,
Thy waters mingle with the main.
Next wandering down thy stream I spy
Stevenson’s woods that sombre lie,
Spreading thick their branches dun,
Bronzed with the setting sun;
Clouds of rooks are sailing near,
Stunning Meditation’s ear,
As she sits with sober look,
Gazing on the running brook.
Is there aught can sooth the mind,
Like the moanings of the wind?
Is there aught that can recall
Our thoughts, like water’s constant fall?
Beneath me, Hailes delights to trace
In shady Tyne his furrow’d face:
Though there the peasant rears his shed
Where Valour sleeps in gory bed,
Yet Tyne has seen that castle’s crest
More brightly gleaming on her breast,
When, in a dark and stormy hour,
His arms received the regal flower;
I give, forgetting Mary’s crimes,
(In pity for those faithless times,)
The tear the generous heart bestows
When weeping over beauty’s woes;
For all that birth and beauty gave
Was to betray—and not to save:
Thus, in some lone sequester’d cot,
Contented with her humble lot,
Far from Ambition’s giddy steeps
The peasant girl on roses sleeps,
While she whom fawning courts caress
Must drink the dregs of bitterness.
The lofty Law[26] on yonder lands
In towering Alpine grandeur stands,
Where, as tradition says, were seen
A fairy host in garbs of green,
Who, when the housewife barr’d the door,
Would curse the dairy’s mantling store,
And snatch the stolen child, and free
Its form from dull mortality.
Gleaming, where birds of snowy hue
Their jubilee spend, the Bass I view;
And dimly frowns Tantallon’s holde,
Where Douglas reign’d, too rashly bold;
While Tyningham’s delicious woods
Luxuriant rush to ocean’s floods;
And soon my rapt eye rests afar
Where shadows mantle old Dunbar.
But now the thrush with plaintive lay
Charms the soft closing ear of day;
The sinking sun with blushing fires
Crimsons heaven, and fast retires,
Bathing in hues of browner light
Linton’s hamlets gleaming bright;
A thousand birds their vespers pour,
And droops its head the drowsy flower,
As like yon star, that rises slow,
The May’s pale light begins to glow,
Revolving o’er the waters hoary,
Now lost like beams of joy in sorrow;
While down the mountain’s side I wind,
I often pause to gaze behind,
As lovers linger to survey
Their parting shadows steal away.

TO
THE MOON AND THE EVENING STAR.

Thou Moon, with thine attendant Star,
That gilds the dusky brow of night,
Thy spangled path thou’st held afar,
Since from the ocean glancing bright
Thou burst upon the seaman’s sight;
And long o’er mountain, wood, and dale,
Thou’st held thy lofty aerial flight,
Firm as the rock—free as the gale!—

Now, from his dark and lonely cell,
The weeping captive sees thee rise,
While Memory bids his bosom swell
With Recollection’s fondest ties;
For now beneath thy splendour lies,
In all its joy, his native land,
Where he has traced, in brighter skies,
Thy spangled course, on Scotia’s strand.

The maiden hails thy shining face
Come blithely peeping o’er the hill,
As if her walks thou sought to trace
In shady bower by winding rill.
O when to love’s delightful thrill!
Hearts meet beneath thy pensive beam,
The hours flow on so soft and still,
That life appears a fairy dream.

The pilgrim, worn with want and toil,
Had slept ’midst India’s deadly dew,
And on the stranger’s arid soil,
To friends and foes had breathed adieu,
Had not thy crescent’s splendid hue
Illumed the shades that hung around,
And brought the creole’s hut to view,
Where friends and soft repose were found.

The sailor, in his nightly rounds,
Encircled by the sea and sky,
Beholds thee, as his watch he sounds,
A distant friend—yet ever nigh!
To other climes though fast he fly,
Yet still thou lov’st to meet him there,
As when upon the banks of Eye
He breathed to Jean the parting prayer.

SONGS.

THE FALSE ALARM.
1803.

On the crest of Dunselaw the red beacon is blazing,

That startles the swan as she sails in Henpoo’!

Home Castle and Hounam the signals are raising,

And far gleams St Abb o’er the waves curling blue.

Arm, arm! gallant yeomen! to meet the fierce foeman,

His eagles are planted on Lothian’s fair shore;

Your cities are burning, your maidens are mourning,

To victory march, as your fathers of yore.

Come from the Ettrick, the Tweed, and the Teviot;

Come from where Leader and Whitadder gleams;

Come from the sylvan Jed; come from the Cheviot,

Fierce as the thunder-cloud, pure as your streams.

Swear by the cairns of your hills ere you leave them—

Swear by the heroes in Freedom’s cause slain,

That your swords will be bared until victory sheathe them,

If e’er you return to your mountains again.

On the dark heights of Cheviot her sabres are glancing,

With Hagerston’s horsemen in battle array,

While Berwickshire’s legions are blithely advancing,

And Selkirk and Roxburgh rush to the fray.

From Lammermoor’s heather the warriors gather,

Their swords though a thousand, their hearts are but one;

While Dunse and Dunbar send their sons to the war,

To join British veterans led on by brave Don.

Return to your revels and beauty’s fair charms;

Return, gallant yeomen! where peace beams serene;

Those signals were but patriotic alarms,[27]

The foes whom you seek now repose by the Seine.

But should foreign ranks ever tread the Tweed’s banks,

Or a hostile Flotilla in Forth ever lie,

You will rush to the shore as your fathers of yore,

And like patriots conquer, or patriots die!

GEORGE THE FOURTH’S WELCOME.

August, 1822.

Sweet, Sir, for your courtesie,
When ye come by the Bass, then;
For the love ye bear to me,
Buy me a keeking glass, then.—Old Ballad.
Come, list the pibroch’s martial strain,
That ca’s the clans to Lothian’s plain;
For Scotland’s got her king again,
She welcomes royal Geordie!

Chorus.

O, ye’ve been lang o’ coming,
Lang, lang, lang o’ coming;
O, ye’ve been lang o’ coming,
Welcome, royal Geordie!
O blaw, ye breezes! favouring blaw
Around North Berwick’s lofty Law,
And gently on the squadron fa’,
That brings us royal Geordie!

The king has pass’d St Abb’s rough head,
Now loyal laird of Spott mak’ speed,
Your guns and bonfire quickly feed,
And welcome royal Geordie.

Dunbar, your ancient fort prepare,
(In a’ that’s guid you tak’ a share,)
Your burghers to the beach repair,
And welcome royal Geordie.

The cannon’s voice is heard afar,
The royal fleet has pass’d Dunbar;—
Upon his breast he wears a star,
A stately lad is Geordie!

Thou ancient crag, romantic Bass!

Salute the squadron as they pass:

Let Janet get her keeking glass,

And busk her braw for Geordie.

North Berwick’s lads your sweethearts bring,
Your idle violins blithely string,
Till Fidra’s isle and Craig Leith ring
A blithe salute to Geordie.

He leaves his royal rich domains,
That stand so beauteous by the Thames,
To see our blooming nymphs and swains,
A courteous lad is Geordie.

And, O! amang our mountains blue,
Dwell loyal chiefs, to valour true;
And beauteous dames, may wind a clue
Around the heart o’ Geordie.

Thrice welcome to green Albyn’s shore,
As Bruce and Wallace were of yore;—
Our ancient kings the lion bore,
And sae does royal Geordie!

Auld Holyrood again looks gay,
Her martial files, in bright array,
Are glitt’ring in the gouden ray,
To welcome royal Geordie.

And Calton’s terrace-walks so green
Are fringed with tents and culverin;
On Sal’sbury’s craigs the same is seen,
To welcome royal Geordie.

From hill to hill the tidings fly,
Proud Arthur’s crest is blazing high,
Trapren glowers up, and lights the sky,
To welcome royal Geordie.

Dunedin’s streets are in a blaze,
As when great Nelson ruled the seas!
Is Wellington upon the breeze?—
O, no! it’s royal Geordie!—

Come, Scotia! tune your aiken reed,
Sir Walter’s blithely ta’en the lead;
And blaw your chanters till they screed
To welcome royal Geordie!

The wine-cup, flowing, pass around,
A flourish let the trumpets sound,
While ships and castle’s cliffs resound
A blithe salute to Geordie!

SONG,
WRITTEN FOR THE OCCASION, AND SUNG AT A DINNER GIVEN IN THE ASSEMBLY ROOM, ON THE HADDINGTON ST JOHN’S KILWINNING LODGE LAYING THE FOUNDATION STONE OF THE EARL OF HOPETOUN’S MONUMENT ON BYRES-HILL, 3D MAY, 1824.

While nations enjoy the glad blessings of peace,

We meet in the hall to remember the brave,

Who bought with their blood bonded Europe’s release,

And fought for their country’s repose or a grave.

Then charge, brethren, charge, a full bumper is due

To Abercrombie’s name

And his comrade in fame,

Great Hopetoun, in battle so val’rous and true.

O bright were the laurels they won on that strand,

Where Gallia’s tricolour’d flag was unfurl’d;
They conquer’d Napoleon’s Egyptian band,
Invincible deem’d by the rest of the world.
With Hope and Abercrombie, O ne’er be forgot
Our Ramsay and Hay,[28]
Both worthy the bay,

Where the battle is raging ’mongst sabres and shot.

While Scotia weeps on Corunna’s sad shore
The fate of her warriors, Iberia mourns,
And hallows the memory of glorious Moore,
Who died like a soldier in victory’s arms!
As lone on the field her Baird wounded lay,
Great Hopetoun when crost,
Of himself was a host,
And led his brave comrades triumphant away.

Then high raise the cairn upon the green hill,

To valour ’twill rouse as we gaze on the pile,

Though the eyes of the veteran with tears it may fill,

And cloud as she passes young beauty’s fair smile.

Now peace be to Hopetoun, who rests with the brave,

While Ramsay and Hay

Must contend for the bay,

Should the tempest of war in our valleys e’er rave.

MASONIC SONG.
WRITTEN AND SUNG ON OCCASION OF MR WILLIAM FERME’S PORTRAIT (PAINTED BY WATSON) BEING PLACED IN THE MASONIC LODGE OF HADDINGTON, 1823.

O Willie is a canty chiel!
The mason-art he kens sae weel,
To raise a laugh or—raise the de’il—
It’s just the same to Willie, O!
We’ve had him lang, we’ll haud him fast,
This night auld Fame shall blaw a blast,
While far away our cares we cast,
And drink success to Willie, O!

Our sacred art, by Heav’n refined,
That joins and blesses all mankind,
For such as Willie was design’d,
Wha counts each man his brither, O!
Wi’ mystic lore, and humorous art,
He steals sae o’er the craftsmen’s heart,
That when we meet we scarce can part—
Sae blest wi’ ane anither, O!

Immortal be great Hiram’s name,
And Solomon’s undying fame!—
We hail their bright united flame,
Reflected in our Willie, O!
The rule and square is still his badge;
Nor orient seer, nor Tyrian sage,
Could ever handle plumb or gauge
Like our great master, Willie, O!

How oft our little social band
Has met beneath his high command,
While beauteous order round did stand,
Supported aye by Willie, O!
No faction e’er our lodge divides,
Where truth and friendship still abides;
Nor ever shall, while here presides
Our gude auld master, Willie, O!

THE GARDENER’S SONG.

A garden was the blest retreat
Where love at first began,
When Eve was queen of womankind,
And Adam, king of man;
And ever since the garden’s been
The sacred bower of love,
Where youth and innocence convene,
In friendship’s paths to rove.
Then, brethren, round the goblet crown
With draughts of rosy wine,
And drink the memory of our sire,
Who rear’d the purple vine.

To Noah, that aquatic lord,
A bumper next be given;
The second gard’ner on record,
The favour’d child of heaven;
’Twas he at first distill’d those sweets
That cheer our social hours,
And strew’d the darker paths of life
With artificial flowers.
Then, brethren, round the goblet crown
With draughts of rosy wine,
And drink the patriarch’s memory
Who first distill’d the vine.

And, lastly, toast the Hebrew sage,
Who sat on Judah’s throne,
Surrounded by his harem fair,
So blest to look upon.
Oh, when he sought the garden’s walk!
Its flowery pomp to see,
The virgin lily, on its stalk,
Was richer far than he!
Then, sons of flowers, the goblet crown,
And toast our art divine!
’Tis meet that we should quaff the grape,
Who rear the purple vine.

The world, since creation’s dawn,
Has own’d the gard’ner’s skill;
We paint with flowers the sunny lawn,
And shade with groves the hill.
Physicians borrow from our stores
The glory of their art;
We feed the hungry, cleed the bare,
And balm to life impart.
And woman, Nature’s darling child,
Looks never half so fair,
As when the rose-bud decks her breast,
And garlands crown her hair.

Our friendship like the ivy spreads,
But, grafted as the oak,
Secure it stands in sun and storm,
Against each random shock.
Our hearts are as the snowdrop pure,
That dips in crystal wave,
But, like the thistle of the hill,
Oppression’s blast we brave;
And he that’s false in heart or hand,
Oblivious may he sink,
May hemlock be his laurel-crown,
And wormwood be his drink!

O! may the flowery paths of youth,
Where weeds too often glow,
Conduct us to those green retreats
Where fruits autumnal grow;
And when the blighting dews of age
Have chill’d our drooping wing,
May He, who heavenly Eden keeps,
Give us a second spring.
Then, brethren, round the goblet crown
With draughts of rosy wine,
’Tis meet that we should quaff the grape,
Who rear the purple vine.

THE
HAMMERMAN’S SONG.

WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF A HADDINGTON HAMMERMAN.

You may talk of your gard’ners and masons so fine,

Their craft is so ancient, ’tis all but divine;

But where were their tools or their implements made

Till old Tubal Cain the grand hammer display’d?

Like barbarous nations, with wood and with stone

They work’d in the dark till the hammerman shone,

Then the plough and the trowel on the anvil had birth,

And fair Cultivation descended to earth.

Descended to earth—descended to earth—

Then fair Cultivation descended to earth.

He curbs the fierce steed in its fiery career,

Gives the bit to the bridle—the point to the spear;—

When the thunder-charged leven terrific doth play,

His magnetic rod leads it harmless away.
The hammerman’s art is both nice and sublime,
He tells to a moment the marches of Time;

Yes: the hour-telling watch, let them match it who will,

We owe to the hammerman’s glorious skill.

When Bell and her tabby sit down by the fire,
And a cup of Souchong is her pleasant desire,
As the nice-shining kettle its melody hums,

In fancy her sweetheart, the hammerman, comes!

May the sons of the anvil, the vice, and the file,

Have hearts pure as gold, and untainted with guile.

Whether on the earth’s surface, or deep in its mines,

Success to the hammer wherever it shines!

THE
COUNTRY LAIRD’S COURTSHIP.

O far hae I wander’d through frost and through snaw,

My mither aye tauld me that I was to blame

In courting the lasses sae flirtish and braw,

So I’ll just tak’ my staff and I’ll haud awa’ hame.

CHORUS.

And it’s hooly, hooly, up the brae side;

And it’s hooly, hooly, haud awa’ hame;

My neighbours wad think that I was nae John Rue,

Kenn’d they the errand that I had gane.

This morning I met the sun high in the muirs,

But now in the wave he has dipt his red chin,

While I’ve waited on Janet, and counted the hours,

Exposed to the sneers o’ the hale o’ her kin.

To buy a new cledin’ I sald my auld cow,

In the eyes of the lassie to mak’ me look fine,

While I’ve just got ae kiss, hauf an inch frae her mou,

Though I bribed her auld dad wi’ the wale o’ my swine.

He took up his staff, made a bow wi’ his bannet,

(Thinks he we’ll no meet in a hurry again:)

He gave a bit sigh when he thought upon Janet,

He dighted his een, and was better again.

As down the fir plantin’ he gaed to the mill,

O wha did he see but young Jenny, I ween?

Wha lean’d on the auld doitit laird o’ the hill,

A body that weel might her grandfather been.

“Now deil tak’ the lassie, an’ deil tak’ the laird!”

John jumped and roar’d as he was na himsel;

He cross’d like a maukin down Lizzy’s kail-yard,

Nor stopt till he plunged in the baker’s draw-well.

O, love it is warm—but water is cool!

And a frost-bitten body is ill to endure:

The lasses had led Johnny Rue like a fool,

Yet for ance in his life he has met wi’ his cure.

But, waes me! wee Johnnie’s been couthie of late,

Which maks the auld wife shake her head by the fire;

For he casts a sheep’s-ee on his young cousin Kate,

And goud often warms up a lassie’s desire.

MY AULD MAIDEN AUNTY

I’ve naething to do but to sit and to spin,
And crack wi’ my auld maiden aunty;
Our gossiping neighbours come dribbling in,
And aye keep a body fu’ canty, fu’ canty,
And aye keep a body fu’ canty.

But our thoughts, like the weather, are given to change,

I sigh’d day and night to get married;

And I’m sure gif there aught like a man had made love,

His suit wi’ me soon he had carried—had carried—

His suit wi’ me soon he had carried.

My aunty’s sae peevish, her temper’s sae sour,

She wearies us a’ wi’ inspection;

She frowns at the mark o’ a prin on the floor,

Our neighbours a’ ca’ her Perfection—Perfection—

Our neighbours a’ ca’ her Perfection.

The hale o’ her pleasure is snuff and green tea,

And her auld-fashion’d satins to number;
Ae day she wad try how her hoops fitted me,
And ne’er squeezed my body asunder—asunder—
And ne’er squeezed my body asunder.

She sneers like the fox when I speak about men,

I wonder what she makes a wark at—

For I’m sure if her mother’s example she’d ta’en,

She never had stood in the market—the market—

She never had stood in the market.

But wha but our neighbour’s son Johnny’s come hame

Since the wars were so happily ended?

He tells me my beauty has kindled a flame—

My aunt wad gang daft if she kenn’d it,—she kenn’d it—

My aunt wad gang daft if she kenn’d it.

’Twas only yestreen like a statue I sat,
When to hand me the kettle he hurried,
He trod on the tail o’ my aunt’s tabby cat,

She raved sae, I wish’d the brute worried—brute worried—

She raved sae, I wish’d the brute worried.

To-morrow she’ll scandal the hale o’ the sex,

And ca’ me the vilest o’ ony;

For I’ll bid her guid day ere the sun’s in the east,

And aff to the Highlands wi’ Johnny—wi’ Johnny—

And aff to the Highlands wi’ Johnny.

TO ——.

Give me, sweet Maid! before we part,
One beauteous curl of thine;
And I will wear it next my heart,
Twined in a wreath of mine;
And should the gaudy world e’er wring
A moment’s sigh from thee,
That gentle ringlet, love, will bring
Thy memory back to me.

When gazing on that amulet dear,
Thou’lt bless my raptured sight,
As when thou beauteous did’st appear
In hours of soft delight.
Though homage only is thy due,
Thou first of womankind,
Thou’lt never meet a heart so true
As his thou leav’st behind.

THE END.

PRINTED BY OLIVER & BOYD.

1. Thametis was daughter to Loth, king of the Picts, who gave his name to Lothian.—Spotswood.

2. We meet with a similar legend of a Welsh saint in Williams’s History of Monmouthshire. Teilo, “when slain at the altar, devotees contended with so much virulence for the reputation of possessing his body, that the priest, to avoid scandalous divisions, found three miraculous bodies of the saint, as similar, according to the phrase used on the occasion, as one egg to another; and miracles were equally performed at the tomb of all the three.”

3. An old woman in Dunbar has a flag, which is said to have been borne by the Covenanters at Bothwell Bridge. Its texture is light-blue silk. The inscription on one side, in gilt letters, “For Christ and his truth,” and on the reverse, in red, “No quarter for ye active enemies of the Covenant.” The motto is surmounted by a Hebrew inscription, in gilt letters, signifying, “For the covenant of Jehovah.” This flag belonged to Henry Hall of Haughead, who took an active part in the transactions at that time, and held a command in the army from the skirmish at Drumclog to their defeat at Bothwell Bridge. On his death the flag of course fell to his son. Young Hall, on his death-bed, bequeathed it to James Cochran, shoemaker in Greenlaw, a noted Cameronian, who presented it to Michael Naismyth, Edinburgh. It was destined to return to Cochran’s family again; for, at Naismyth’s death he bequeathed it to James Raeburn, late cabinet-maker in Dunbar, the son-in-law of Cochran, and it is now held most sacred by his widow.

4. A mineral well near Tweedmouth.

5. Tradition derives the name of Berwick from this strange etymology; also from being a rendezvous of bears, which are blazoned in the town arms.

6. The lines distinguished by inverted commas, are a literal paraphrase of the oration ascribed to Lady Seton by Boece.

7. At the siege of Bayonne, by the Counts de Foix and de Dunois, in 1450, there was a similar vision seen, or imagined to have been seen, to serve a similar purpose. “On Friday, the 20th August, a little before sunrise, the sky, bright and clear, a white cross was seen in the heavens by the king’s army, and even by the English in Bayonne, for half an hour. Those in the town, who were desirous of returning to the French, took the red crosses from their banners and pennons, saying, that since it pleased God they should become Frenchmen, they would all wear white crosses!”—Montstrelet’s French Chron. by Johnes, vol. ix. p. 188.

8. The stone in which the English standard was fixed at Bannockburn was called the Bore Stane; but this appears in nowise applicable to the present subject, except by name. The epithet Boar was often applied to those who carried the emblem of this animal on their shield; hence, in the poem on the Battle of Floddenfield, Richard III. is distinguished as “the raging Boar, who, at Bosworth, with all his host, was over-thrown.” We must conclude, that the person who fell here either went by this uncouth epithet, or had a boar for his device.

9. St Abb’s-head, a well-known promontory on the coast of Berwickshire, where are the remains of a chapel, is said to have derived its designation from Ebba, only daughter to Edelfrid, King of Northumberland, who, on her father being slain in battle by the East Angles, made her escape in an open boat, as narrated in the poem, and landed on that point of land to which she gave her name.—See Holinshed’s Chron.

10. The old Franciscan church of Haddington.

11. Playfair, a notable warlock, on being taken prisoner in Dalkeith steeple, whither he had fled for refuge, made several confessions to Mr Archibald Simpson, minister there;—amongst others, a remarkable story respecting the family of Newbattle must not be omitted:—“Mark, the commendator of Newbottle, had by his wife, the Lord Herries’s daughter, thirty-one children. His lady always kept in her company wise women or witches, and especially one Margaret Nues (F. Innes), who fostered his daughter the Lady Borthwick, who was, long after his death, burnt in Edinburgh for that crime; and my Lady Lothian’s son-in-law, Sir Alexander Hamilton, told one of his friends, how one night lying in Preston-grange, pertaining to the said abbey of Newbottle, he was pulled out of his bed by the said witches and sore beaten; of which injury, when he complained to his mother-in-law, and assured her he would complain thereof to the council, she pacified him by giving him a purse full of gold. That lady thereafter, being vexed with a cancer in her breast, implored the help of the notable warlock before-mentioned, who condescended to heal her, but with condition, that the sore should fall on them which she loved best; whereunto she agreeing, did convalesce; but the earl, her husband, found the boil in his throat, of which he died shortly thereafter; and the said Playfair, being soon apprehended, was made prisoner as above.”—Scot of Scotstarvet’s Staggering State of the Scots Statesmen.

12. Carmichael was the second presbyterian minister of Haddington, and held his pastoral charge betwixt the years 1568 and 1628. The Presbytery Minutes are preserved so early as 1587; but, as it was not their province, contain no reference to these depositions. In the Civil Records, which are preserved anterior to this date, I have not been able to discover any reference to the arrest or imprisonment of Agnes Sampson, as in the case of Elizabeth Moodie and others in 1677.

The wood cut, p. 264, represents the old church of North Berwick; and is copied from a design prefixed to a black-letter pamphlet, entitled “Newes from Scotland,” which, I presume, contains the depositions written by the minister of Haddington.

13. An old malt-barn and kiln stood upon the site of the Antiburgher meeting-house in East Barns, 1820.

14. Miss Janet Hepburn, sister to Colonel Hepburn of Luffness and Congalton.

15. Sir David Lindsay’s Papingo.

16. When on a pilgrimage lately to the scenery of this Ballad, I saw the far-famed silver belt or chain, now in the possession of a respectable farmer in Berwickshire, a maternal descendant of the gudewife. It does not appear, however, to have been a female ornament, but rather the band for girding the sacerdotal robes of a portly bishop. The chain is four feet eight inches long, and capable of being contracted, with a circular plate in the middle, marked with the initials B. C.

17. The old tower of Lethington, we have observed, was built by the Giffords. Hugh Gifford de Yester, who died in 1267, was esteemed a notable magician, and formed by magic art, a capacious cavern in his castle of Yester, called in the country Bohall, (i. e. Hobgoblin Hall.)—Fordun, vol. ii. p. 105. This spacious room, with a vaulted roof, still remains entire.

18. “On Thursday, in the night, the 13th of March 1572, was the place of Lethington taken by them of Edinburgh, (some men of Captain Home’s having the charge of it;) but upon the Sunday, early in the morning, before they got provision, the Lord Lindsay took it again.”—Bannatyne’s Journal, by Dalyell, p. 333.

19. An old pathway, skirted by a holly hedge, east from the castle, is still called the Politician’s Walk.

20. The park of Lethington, which contained nearly 400 acres, surrounded by a wall twelve feet high, was built by John, Duke of Lauderdale, on the Duke of York’s telling him, before his first journey to Scotland, that he heard there was not a park in the country!

21. The top of a turret, or watch-tower.

22. “Sir George Home was in great credit with king James, after his going to England, and by him was created first Lord of Berwick, then Earl of Dumbar. He got all these offices erected in his person, and was made treasurer, comptroller, and collector, and was sent many times to Scotland, as the king’s commissioner, to execute justice on the Borders, which he did with great rigour; but, by the hatred of some of the courtiers there, he was not suffered long to enjoy that extraordinary favour; for with some tablets of sugar, given him for expelling the cold by Secretary Cecil, he was poisoned; which was well known by the death of Martin Sougir, a doctor, who, by laying his finger on his heart, and touching it with his tongue, died within a few days thereafter; and by the relation of his servant of his chamber, Sir James Bailie, who saw him get the tablets from the said secretary, and who having eaten a small parcel of them himself, struck all out in blisters; but by strength of body he escaped death.”—Sir John Scot of Scotstarvet’s Staggering State, p. 34.

23. “In a storm on the 14th November, the Fox man-of-war, Captain Beaver, was cast away near Dunbar, and all on board perished.”—Scots Mag. 1746. The last time the ship was discovered was to the eastward of the May. It is probable that she struck on the rocks west from the castle, as most of the corpses were found there. The wreck afterwards drifted and moored in Tyne Sands, where part of the rigging has at times been seen by aged persons.

24. Witness that part of the crew of the Pallas and Nymph frigates, who were saved by his exertions, and those acting under him, on the 18th December, 1810, when the Pallas was stranded on the rocks a little east from Broxmouth, near Dunbar; and the Nymph below Skateraw, both in the same night.

25. Dunpender Law, now called Trapren Law, is a rocky isolated hill of an oval form, situated in East Lothian, which rises about 700 feet above the level of the sea.

26. North Berwick Law, a beautiful isolated conical hill, on the shore of East Lothian.

27. The False Alarm is supposed to have arisen from what is called a house-heating, which stood in a conspicuous situation in the neighbourhood of Dunse. Hounamlaw, in Roxburghshire, mistook the lights for the beacon of Dunselaw, and she in her turn lighted up when she saw the former in a blaze. Owing to some delay or negligence, Blackcastle did not give the alarm, otherwise the whole of the Lothians would have poured forth their patriot steel. The Berwickshire yeomanry came to Dunbar, and the Dunse volunteers to Haddington. The emphatic prayer of an old woman, when the yeomanry were on their march through Dunse, shews the spirit of a country when threatened by invasion: “Lord, grant that ye may return victorious, or return no more!”

28. Hay, Marquis of Tweeddale, and Ramsay, Earl of Dalhousie, both officers, also engaged in the peninsular war.

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

- Fixed typos; non-standard spelling and dialect retained.

- Renumbered footnotes and moved them all to the end of the final chapter.

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ST BALDRED OF THE BASS, A PICTISH LEGEND ***

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Table of Contents

ST BALDRED OF THE BASS, A Pictish Legend; THE SIEGE OF BERWICK, A Tragedy; WITH OTHER POEMS AND BALLADS, FOUNDED ON THE LOCAL TRADITIONS OF EAST LOTHIAN AND BERWICKSHIRE.

CONTENTS.

SAINT BALDRED.

- SAINT BALDRED OF THE BASS.

- Introductory Stanzas.

- SAINT BALDRED OF THE BASS. PART I.

- The Funeral.

- Requiem First.

- Requiem Second.

- Requiem Third.

- SAINT BALDRED OF THE BASS. PART II.

- The Pilgrimage.

- NOTES TO SAINT BALDRED.

- Introductory Stanzas.

- NOTES TO SAINT BALDRED. PART I.

- 1.

- 2.

- 3.

- 4.

- 5.

- 6.

- 7.

- 8.

- 9.

- 10.

- 11.

- 12.

- 13.

- 14.

- 15.

- 16.

- 17.

- 18.

- 19.

- NOTES TO SAINT BALDRED. PART II.

- 1.

- 2.

- 3.

- 4.

- 5.

- 6.

- 7.

- 8.

- 9.

- 10.

- 11.

- 12.

- 13.

- 14.

- 15.

- 16.

THE SIEGE OF BERWICK; OR, THE MURDERED HOSTAGE. A Tragedy. IN FIVE ACTS.

- PREFACE.

- DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

- THE SIEGE OF BERWICK.

- ACT I.

- ACT II.

- ACT III.

- ACT IV.

- ACT V.

ALAN OF WINTON, AND THE HEIRESS OF SETON.

- ALAN OF WINTON, AND THE HEIRESS OF SETON.

- NOTES TO ALAN OF WINTON.

THE VISION OF HUNGUS.

- NOTES TO THE VISION OF HUNGUS.

THE ABBESS OF ST ABB.

WALTER OF CONGALTON

THE LOST DRAVE OF DUNBAR; OR, THE WITCH OF KEITH.

- THE LOST DRAVE OF DUNBAR.

- The Witch’s Song.

- Song.

- NOTES TO THE LOST DRAVE; WITH AN ACCOUNT OF THE WITCHES OF EAST LOTHIAN.

- A CONCISE ACCOUNT OF THE WITCHES OF EAST LOTHIAN.

- The Gyre Carling.

- Confession of Agnes Sampson to King James, then of the Scots.

- COMMISSION FOR JUDGEING OF WITCHES, &c. IN SAMUELSTON.

- A Tale of Garleton.

THE VICAR OF GOLYN.

- THE VICAR OF GOLYN.

THE GUDEWIFE OF TULLOSHILL, AND THE LORD OF LAUDERDALE.

- THE GUDEWIFE OF TULLOSHILL, AND THE LORD OF LAUDERDALE.

YOUNG ARGYLE; OR, STANZAS TO LETHINGTON CASTLE.

- YOUNG ARGYLE; OR STANZAS TO LETHINGTON CASTLE.

- NOTES TO YOUNG ARGYLE; or, STANZAS TO LETHINGTON

- IN PRAYSE OF LETHINGTOUN.

THE MURDER OF SIR JAMES STANFIELD. In Two Fits.

- SIR JAMES STANFIELD. Fit the First.

- SIR JAMES STANFIELD. Fit the Second.

- NOTES TO SIR JAMES STANFIELD.

SONNET ON VISITING BARRA CHURCH-YARD.

VERSES IN MEMORY OF DUNBAR COLLEGIATE CHURCH.

- VERSES.

- NOTES TO VERSES ON DUNBAR COLLEGIATE CHURCH.

ORMISTON YEW TREE; WITH A LAMENT FOR THE EARL OF HOPETOUN.

- NOTES TO ORMISTON YEW TREE.

SONNET TO DIRLETON CASTLE.

THE WRECK OF THE JOHN AND AGNES SLOOP OF NEWCASTLE, AT TYNE SANDS, NEAR DUNBAR, ON THE NIGHT OF SATURDAY THE 9TH NOVEMBER, 1816.

THE SHEPHERD OF LAMMERMOOR.

DUNPENDER LAW.

TO THE MOON AND THE EVENING STAR.

SONGS.

- THE FALSE ALARM. 1803.

- GEORGE THE FOURTH’S WELCOME.

- SONG, WRITTEN FOR THE OCCASION, AND SUNG AT A DINNER GIVEN IN THE ASSEMBLY ROOM, ON THE HADDINGTON ST JOHN’S KILWINNING LODGE LAYING THE FOUNDATION STONE OF THE EARL OF HOPETOUN’S MONUMENT ON BYRES-HILL, 3D MAY, 1824.

- MASONIC SONG. WRITTEN AND SUNG ON OCCASION OF MR WILLIAM FERME’S PORTRAIT (PAINTED BY WATSON) BEING PLACED IN THE MASONIC LODGE OF HADDINGTON, 1823.

- THE GARDENER’S SONG.

- THE HAMMERMAN’S SONG.

- THE COUNTRY LAIRD’S COURTSHIP.

- MY AULD MAIDEN AUNTY

- TO ——.

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE