The fisher's houp forgat to loup.—P.385. v. 2.
The fisher's houp forgat to loup.—P.385. v. 2.
The fishes, the hope of the angler, no more rose to the fly.
And aw for rest made boun.—P.385. v. 2.
And aw for rest made boun.—P.385. v. 2.
Allcommonly occurs in our old writers. Butawis here used, as corresponding with the general pronunciation in Scotland; especially as it has the authority of Dunbar, in hisLament for the Deth of the Makaris.
His form a gaist uprear'd.—P.385. v. 8.
His form a gaist uprear'd.—P.385. v. 8.
It is believed in Angus, that the spirit of the waters appears sometimes as a man, with a very frightful aspect; and, at other times, as a horse. The description, here given, must therefore be viewed as the offspring of fancy. All that can be said for it is, that such attributes are selected as are appropriate to the scenery.
Twa huge horse-mussells glar'd.—P.386. v. 1.
Twa huge horse-mussells glar'd.—P.386. v. 1.
South-Esk abounds with the fresh water oyster, vulgarly called the horse-mussel; and, in former times, a pearl fishery was carried on here to considerable extent.
Frae yon deep glack, at Catla's back.—P.387. v. 1.
Frae yon deep glack, at Catla's back.—P.387. v. 1.
Part of the Grampian mountains.Catlaappears as a promontory, jutting out from the principal ridge, towards the plain. The Esk, if I recollect right, issues from behind it.
Thy mortal life to tyne.—P.387. v. 2.
Thy mortal life to tyne.—P.387. v. 2.
The vulgar idea is, that a spirit, however frequently it appear, will not speak, unless previously addressed. It is, however, at the same time believed, that the person, who ventures to speak to a ghost, will soon forfeit his life, in consequence of his presumption.
His bridle frae my mow.—P.388. v. 1.
His bridle frae my mow.—P.388. v. 1.
The popular tradition is here faithfully described; and, strange to tell! has not yet lost all credit. In the following verses, the principal articles of the vulgar creed in Angus, with respect to this supposed being, are brought together and illustrated by suchfactsas are yet appealed to by the credulous. If I mistake not, none of the historical circumstances mentioned are older than half a century. It is only about thirty years since the bridge referred to was built.
For sair-brizz'd back and banes.—P.388. v. 2.
For sair-brizz'd back and banes.—P.388. v. 2.
It is pretended thatKelpiecelebrated this memorable event in rhyme; and that for a long time after he was often heard to cry, with a doleful voice,
"Sair back and sair banes,Carryin' the laird of Murphy's stanes."And it thai Kelpie namit.—P.388. v. 3.
"Sair back and sair banes,Carryin' the laird of Murphy's stanes."
And it thai Kelpie namit.—P.388. v. 3.
A head, like that of a gorgon, appears above the arch of the bridge. This was hewn in honour of Kelpie.
His shroud I had prepar'd.—P.390. v. 3.
His shroud I had prepar'd.—P.390. v. 3.
A very common tale in Scotland is here alluded to by the poet. On the banks of a rapid stream the water spirit was heard repeatedly to exclaim, in a dismal tone, "The hour is come, but not the man;" when a person coming up, contrary to all remonstrances, endeavoured to ford the stream, and perished in the attempt. The original story is to be found in Gervase of Tilbury.—In the parish of Castleton, the same story is told, with this variation, that the by-standers prevented, by force, the predestined individual from entering the river, and shut him up in the church, where he was next morningfound suffocated, with his face lying immersed in the baptismal font. To afeyperson, therefore, Shakespeare's words literally apply:
---- Put but a little water in a spoon,And it shall be as all the ocean,Enough to swallow such a being up.
---- Put but a little water in a spoon,And it shall be as all the ocean,Enough to swallow such a being up.
Aboon.Above.Ahint.Behind.Aip.Ape, imitate.Alangis.Alongst.Bemangit.Injured, whether in mind or body; a word much used in Angus.Be.By.Big.Build.Biggin.Building, house.Blink.Moment.Bonny.Handsome, beautiful.Boun.Ready.Bouk.Body.Braw.Fine.Briskit.Breast.Bustuous.Huge.Byre.Cow-house.Chap.Rap.Chiell.Fellow.Cleik.Hold.Cowit.Shorn, cut off.Croonin.Bellowing—most properly with a low and mournful sound.Cur'd.Covered.Darger.Labourer, day-worker.Daffin.Sport.Deid.Death.Do the turn.Accomplish the fatal event.Dore-cheek.Door-post.Dowie.Melancholy, sad.Douce.Sober, sedate.Dreddour.Dread, terror.Droich.Dwarf, pigmy.Een.Eyes.Eebrees.Eyebrows.Elritch.Wild, hideous, not earthly.Erd.Earth.Esks.Newts,orefts.Fey.Affording presages of approaching death, by acting a part directly the reverse of their proper character.Fire-flauchts.Lightnings.Fleckit-scales.Spotted shoals, or troops of trouts and other fishes.Fleyd.Frighted.Forhowit.Forsaken.Fow.Full.Fangit.Seized.Fleyit.Affrighted.Frightsum.Frightful.Fremmit fouk.Strange folk.Gaist.Ghost.Gaif.Gave.Gart.Caused, made.Gar.The slimy vegetable substance in the bed of a river.Gate.Road.Glack.A hollow between two hills or mountains.Gliffin.A moment.Glint.Moment.Gowl.Yell.Greits.Cries, implying the idea of tears.Gudewillit.Without constraint, cheerfully.Haill.Whole.Haugh.Low, flat ground on the side of a river.Heyrt.Furious.Howlat.Owl.Horse-gells.Horse-leeches.Huly.Slowly.Ilk.Each.In a stound.Suddenly.Ken.Know.Kie.Cows.Kintrie.Country.Lavrock.Lark.Lauch.Laugh.Leid.Language.Leil.True, not delusive.Lift.Sky.Loun'.Calm.Loup.Leap.Maik.Companion, mate.Mirk.During night.Mirker.Darker.Mow.Mouth.Mudge.Budge, stir.Nar.Near.Narby.Near to.Nickerin.Neighing.Nocht.Not.Norlan.Northern.Oulks.Weeks.Pend.Arch.Quhihher.The idea is nearly expressed bywhiz.Quhilk.Which.Ramper-eels.Lampreys.Rashes.Rushes.Rede.Council.Reid.Read.Rippet.Noise, uproar.Sair brizz'd.Sore bruised.Sall.Shall.Sen.Since.Seggs.Sedges.Sheen.Shine.Shill.Shrill.Sicklike.Of this kind.Sinder.Separate.Skelvy skair.A rock presenting the appearance of a variety oflamina.Skeegs.Lashes.Skrae.Skeleton.Skuggin.Overshadowing, protecting wood.Sloom.Slumber.Slauky.Slimy.Smur'd.Smothered.Snockerit.Snorted.Soupt.Drenched.Spae.Predict.Spat.Spot.Spate.Flood.Speirit.Asked.Spule-banes.Shoulder-blades.Stanners.Gravel on the margin of a river, or any body of water.Staig. Ayoung horse.Starnless.Without stars.Stravaig.Stray, roam.Strypes.Rills of the smallest kind.Swarfit.Fainted.Sweet sair'd.Sweet savoured.Syne.Then.Taiken.Token.Tap.A child's top.Tent.Take care, be attentive.Thai.These.Than.Then.Toozlin.Toying, properly putting any thing in disorder.Tyke-tyrit.Tired as a dog after coursing.Tyne.Lose.Waefou.Fatal, causing woe.Wald.Would.Wanweirid.Unhappy fate.Wanchancy.Unlucky, causing misfortune.Wanerthly.Preternatural.Wap.Stroke, flap.War.Were.Wauk the claes.Watch the clothes.Wean.Child.Weird.Fate.Whush.A rustling sound.Wilsum skraik.Wild shriek.Wirk.Work.Wode.Deprived of reason.Win.Dig from a quarry.Wull.Wild.Yestreen.Yesternight.
A HIGHLAND TALE.
NEVER BEFORE PUBLISHED.—- COLIN MACKENZIE, ESQ.
Ellandonan Castle stands on a small rocky isle, situated in Loch Duich (on the west coast of Ross), near the point where the western sea divides itself into two branches, forming Loch Duich and Loch Loung. The magnificence of the castle itself, now a roofless ruin, covered with ivy, the beauty of the bay, and the variety of hills and valleys that surround it, and particularly the fine range of hills, between which lie the pastures of Glensheal, with the lofty summit of Skooroora, overtopping the rest, and forming a grand back-ground to the picture; all contribute to make this a piece of very romantic Highland scenery.[92]
The castle is the manor-place of the estate of Kintail, which is denominated the barony of Ellandonan. That estate is the property of Francis, Lord Seaforth. It has descended to him, through a long line of gallant ancestors; having been originally conferred on Colin Fitzgerald, son to the Earl of Desmond and Kildare, in the kingdom of Ireland, by a charter, dated 9th January, 1266, grantedby King Alexander the third, "Colino Hybernio," and bearing, as its inductive cause, "pro bono et fideli servitio, tam in bello, quam in pace." He had performed a very recent service in war, having greatly distinguished himself in the battle of Largs, in 1263, in which the invading army of Haco, King of Norway, was defeated. Being pursued in his flight, the king was overtaken in the narrow passage which divides the island of Skye from the coasts of Inverness and Ross, and, along with many of his followers, he himself was killed, in attempting his escape through the channel dividing Skye from Lochalsh. These straits, orkyles, bear to this day appellations, commemorating the events by which they were thus distinguished, the former being called Kyle Rhee, or the King's Kyle, and the latter Kyle Haken.
The attack on Ellandonan Castle, which forms the subject of the following poem, lives in the tradition of the country, where it is, at this day, a familiar tale, repeated to every stranger, who, in sailing past, is struck with admiration at the sight of that venerable monument of antiquity. But the authenticity of the fact rests not solely on tradition. It is recorded, by Crawford, in his account of the family of Macdonald, Lord of the Isles, and reference is there made to a genealogy of Slate, in the possession ofthe family, as a warrant for the assertion. The incident took place in 1537.
The power of the Lord of the Isles was at that time sufficiently great to give alarm to the crown. It covered not only the whole of the Western Isles, from Bute northwards, but also many extensive districts on the main-land, in the shires of Ayr, Argyle, and Inverness. Accordingly, in 1535, on the failure of heirs-male of the body of John, Lord of the Isles, and Earl of Ross, as well as of two of his natural sons, in whose favour a particular substitution had been made, King James the fifth assumed the lordship of the Isles. The right was, however, claimed by Donald, fifth baron of Slate, descended from the immediate younger brother of John, Lord of the Isles. This bold and high-spirited chieftain lost his life in the attack on Ellandonan Castle, and was buried by his followers on the lands of Ardelve, on the opposite side of Loch Loung.
The barony of Ellandonan then belonged to John Mackenzie, ninth baron of Kintail. Kenneth, third baron, who was son to Kenneth, the son of Colin Fitzgerald, received the patronimic appellation ofMacKenneth, or Mac Kennye, which descended from him to his posterity, as the sirname of the family. John, baron of Kintail, took a very active part in the general affairs of the kingdom. He fought gallantly at the battle of Flodden, under the banners of King James the fourth, was a member of the privy council in the reign of his son, and, at an advanced age, supported the standard of the unfortunate Mary, at the battle of Pinkie.
In the sixth generation from John, baron of Kintail, the clan was, by his lineal descendant, William, fifth earl of Seaforth, summoned, in 1715, to take up arms in the cause of the house of Stuart. On the failure of that spirited, but ill-fated enterprize, the earl made his escape to the continent, where he lived for about eleven years. Meantime his estate and honours were forfeited to the crown, and his castle was burnt. A steward was appointed to levy the rents of Kintail, on the king's behalf; but the vassals spurned at his demands, and, while they carried on a successful defensive war, against a body of troops sent to subdue their obstinacy, in the course of which the unlucky steward had the misfortune to be slain, one of their number made a faithful collection of what was due, and carried the money to the earl himself, who was at that time in Spain. The descendants of the man, to whom it was entrusted to convey to his lord this unequivocal proof of the honour, fidelity, and attachment of his people, are at this day distinguished by the designation ofSpaniard; as Duncan,the Spaniard, &c. The estate was, a few years after the forfeiture, purchased from government, for behoof of the family, and re-invested in the person of his son.
A HIGHLAND TALE.
O wot ye, ye men of the island of Skye,That your lord lies a corpse on Ardelve's rocky shore?The Lord of the Isles, once so proud and so high,His lands and his vassals shall never see more.None else but the Lord of Kintail was so great;To that lord the green banks of Loch Duich belong,Ellandonan's fair castle and noble estate,And the hills of Glensheal and the coasts of Loch Loung.His vassals are many, and trusty, and brave,Descended from heroes, and worthy their sires;His castle is wash'd by the salt-water wave,And his bosom the ardour of valour inspires.M'Donald, by restless ambition impell'dTo extend to the shores of Loch Duich his sway,With awe Ellandonan's strong turrets beheld,And waited occasion to make them his prey.And the moment was come; for M'Kenneth, afar,To the Saxon opposed his victorious arm;Few and old were the vassals, but dauntless in war,Whose courage and skill freed his towers from alarm.M'Donald has chosen the best of his power;On the green plains of Slate were his warriors arrayed;Every Islander came before midnight an hour,With the sword in his hand, and the belt on his plaid.The boats they are ready, in number a score;In each boat twenty men, for the war of Kintail;Iron hooks they all carry, to grapple the shore,And ladders, the walls of the fortress to scale.They have pass'd the strait kyle, thro' whose billowy flood,From the arms of Kintail-men, fled Haco of yore,Whose waves were dyed deep with Norwegian blood,Which was shed by M'Kenneth's resistless claymore.They have enter'd Loch Duich—all silent their course,Save the splash of the oar on the dark-bosom'd wave,Which mingled with murmurs, low, hollow, and hoarse,That issued from many a coralline cave.Either coast they avoid, and right eastward they steer;Nor star, nor the moon, on their passage has shone;Unexpecting assault, and unconscious of fear,All Kintail was asleep, save the watchman alone."What, ho! my companions! arise, and behold"Where Duich's deep waters with flashes are bright!"Hark! the sound of the oars! rise, my friends, and be bold!"For some foe comes, perhaps, under shadow of night."At the first of the dawn, when the boats reach'd the shore,The sharp ridge of Skooroora with dark mist was crown'd,And the rays, that broke thro' it, seem'd spotted with gore,As M'Donald's bold currach first struck on the ground.Of all the assailants, that sprung on the coast,One of stature and aspect superior was seen;Whatever a lord or a chieftain could boast,Of valour undaunted, appear'd in his mien.His plaid o'er his shoulder was gracefully flung;Its foldings a buckle of silver restrain'd;A massy broad sword on his manly thigh hung,Which defeat or disaster had never sustain'd.Then, under a bonnet of tartan and blue,Whose plumage was toss'd to and fro by the gale,Their glances of lightning his eagle-eyes threw,Which were met by the frowns of the sons of Kintail.'Twas the Lord of the Isles; whom the chamberlain saw,While a trusty long bow on his bosom reclin'd—Of stiff yew it was made, which few sinews could draw;Its arrows flew straight, and as swift as the wind.With a just aim he drew—the shaft pierced the bold chief:Indignant he started, nor heeding the smart,While his clan pour'd around him, in clamorous grief,From the wound tore away the deep-rivetted dart.The red stream flowed fast, and his cheek became white:His knees, with a tremor unknown to him, shook,And his once-piercing eyes scarce directed his sight,As he turn'd towards Skye the last lingering look.Surrounded by terror, disgrace, and defeat,From the rocks of Kintail the M'Donalds recoil'd;No order was seen in their hasty retreat,And their looks with dismay and confusion were wild.While thine eyes wander oft from the green plains of Slate,In pursuit of thy lord, O M'Donald's fair dame,Ah! little thou know'st 'tis the hour, mark'd by Fate,To close his ambition, and tarnish his fame.On the shore of Ardelve, far from home, is his grave,And the news of his death swiftly fly o'er the sea—Thy grief, O fair dame! melts the hearts of the brave,Even the bard of Kintail wafts his pity to thee.And thou, Ellandonan! shall thy tow'rs ere againBe insulted by any adventurous foe,While the tale of the band, whom thy heroes have slain,Excites in their sons an inherited glow?Alas! thou fair isle! my soul's darling and pride!Too sure is the presage, that tells me thy doom,Tho' now thy proud towers all invasion deride,And thy fate lies far hid in futurity's gloom.A time shall arrive, after ages are past,When thy turrets, dismantled, in ruins shall fall,When, alas! thro' thy chambers shall howl the sea-blast,And the thistle shall shake his red head in thy hall.Shall this desolation strike thy towers alone?No, fair Ellandonan! such ruin 'twill bring,That the whirl shall have power to unsettle the throne,And thy fate shall be link'd with the fate of thy king.And great shall thy pride be, amid thy despair;To their chief, and their prince, still thy sons shall be true;The fruits of Kintail never victor shall share,Nor its vales ever gladden an enemy's view.And lovely thou shalt be, even after thy wreck;Thy battlements never shall cease to be grand;Their brown rusty hue the green ivy shall deck,And as long as Skooroora's high top shall they stand.
O wot ye, ye men of the island of Skye,That your lord lies a corpse on Ardelve's rocky shore?The Lord of the Isles, once so proud and so high,His lands and his vassals shall never see more.
None else but the Lord of Kintail was so great;To that lord the green banks of Loch Duich belong,Ellandonan's fair castle and noble estate,And the hills of Glensheal and the coasts of Loch Loung.
His vassals are many, and trusty, and brave,Descended from heroes, and worthy their sires;His castle is wash'd by the salt-water wave,And his bosom the ardour of valour inspires.
M'Donald, by restless ambition impell'dTo extend to the shores of Loch Duich his sway,With awe Ellandonan's strong turrets beheld,And waited occasion to make them his prey.
And the moment was come; for M'Kenneth, afar,To the Saxon opposed his victorious arm;Few and old were the vassals, but dauntless in war,Whose courage and skill freed his towers from alarm.
M'Donald has chosen the best of his power;On the green plains of Slate were his warriors arrayed;Every Islander came before midnight an hour,With the sword in his hand, and the belt on his plaid.
The boats they are ready, in number a score;In each boat twenty men, for the war of Kintail;Iron hooks they all carry, to grapple the shore,And ladders, the walls of the fortress to scale.
They have pass'd the strait kyle, thro' whose billowy flood,From the arms of Kintail-men, fled Haco of yore,Whose waves were dyed deep with Norwegian blood,Which was shed by M'Kenneth's resistless claymore.
They have enter'd Loch Duich—all silent their course,Save the splash of the oar on the dark-bosom'd wave,Which mingled with murmurs, low, hollow, and hoarse,That issued from many a coralline cave.
Either coast they avoid, and right eastward they steer;Nor star, nor the moon, on their passage has shone;Unexpecting assault, and unconscious of fear,All Kintail was asleep, save the watchman alone.
"What, ho! my companions! arise, and behold"Where Duich's deep waters with flashes are bright!"Hark! the sound of the oars! rise, my friends, and be bold!"For some foe comes, perhaps, under shadow of night."
At the first of the dawn, when the boats reach'd the shore,The sharp ridge of Skooroora with dark mist was crown'd,And the rays, that broke thro' it, seem'd spotted with gore,As M'Donald's bold currach first struck on the ground.
Of all the assailants, that sprung on the coast,One of stature and aspect superior was seen;Whatever a lord or a chieftain could boast,Of valour undaunted, appear'd in his mien.
His plaid o'er his shoulder was gracefully flung;Its foldings a buckle of silver restrain'd;A massy broad sword on his manly thigh hung,Which defeat or disaster had never sustain'd.
Then, under a bonnet of tartan and blue,Whose plumage was toss'd to and fro by the gale,Their glances of lightning his eagle-eyes threw,Which were met by the frowns of the sons of Kintail.
'Twas the Lord of the Isles; whom the chamberlain saw,While a trusty long bow on his bosom reclin'd—Of stiff yew it was made, which few sinews could draw;Its arrows flew straight, and as swift as the wind.
With a just aim he drew—the shaft pierced the bold chief:Indignant he started, nor heeding the smart,While his clan pour'd around him, in clamorous grief,From the wound tore away the deep-rivetted dart.
The red stream flowed fast, and his cheek became white:His knees, with a tremor unknown to him, shook,And his once-piercing eyes scarce directed his sight,As he turn'd towards Skye the last lingering look.
Surrounded by terror, disgrace, and defeat,From the rocks of Kintail the M'Donalds recoil'd;No order was seen in their hasty retreat,And their looks with dismay and confusion were wild.
While thine eyes wander oft from the green plains of Slate,In pursuit of thy lord, O M'Donald's fair dame,Ah! little thou know'st 'tis the hour, mark'd by Fate,To close his ambition, and tarnish his fame.
On the shore of Ardelve, far from home, is his grave,And the news of his death swiftly fly o'er the sea—Thy grief, O fair dame! melts the hearts of the brave,Even the bard of Kintail wafts his pity to thee.
And thou, Ellandonan! shall thy tow'rs ere againBe insulted by any adventurous foe,While the tale of the band, whom thy heroes have slain,Excites in their sons an inherited glow?
Alas! thou fair isle! my soul's darling and pride!Too sure is the presage, that tells me thy doom,Tho' now thy proud towers all invasion deride,And thy fate lies far hid in futurity's gloom.
A time shall arrive, after ages are past,When thy turrets, dismantled, in ruins shall fall,When, alas! thro' thy chambers shall howl the sea-blast,And the thistle shall shake his red head in thy hall.
Shall this desolation strike thy towers alone?No, fair Ellandonan! such ruin 'twill bring,That the whirl shall have power to unsettle the throne,And thy fate shall be link'd with the fate of thy king.
And great shall thy pride be, amid thy despair;To their chief, and their prince, still thy sons shall be true;The fruits of Kintail never victor shall share,Nor its vales ever gladden an enemy's view.
And lovely thou shalt be, even after thy wreck;Thy battlements never shall cease to be grand;Their brown rusty hue the green ivy shall deck,And as long as Skooroora's high top shall they stand.
FOOTNOTES:[92]We learn from Wintoun, that, in 1331, this fortress witnessed the severe justice of Randolph, Earl of Murray, then warden of Scotland. Fifty delinquents were there executed, by his orders, and, according to the prior of Lochlevin, the earl had as much pleasure in seeing their ghastly heads encircle the walls of the castle, as if it had been surrounded by a chaplet of roses.
[92]We learn from Wintoun, that, in 1331, this fortress witnessed the severe justice of Randolph, Earl of Murray, then warden of Scotland. Fifty delinquents were there executed, by his orders, and, according to the prior of Lochlevin, the earl had as much pleasure in seeing their ghastly heads encircle the walls of the castle, as if it had been surrounded by a chaplet of roses.
[92]We learn from Wintoun, that, in 1331, this fortress witnessed the severe justice of Randolph, Earl of Murray, then warden of Scotland. Fifty delinquents were there executed, by his orders, and, according to the prior of Lochlevin, the earl had as much pleasure in seeing their ghastly heads encircle the walls of the castle, as if it had been surrounded by a chaplet of roses.
BY THE EDITOR.
The ruins of Cadyow, or Cadzow Castle, the ancient baronial residence of the family of Hamilton, are situated upon the precipitous banks of the river Evan, about two miles above its junction with the Clyde. It was dismantled, in the conclusion of the civil wars, during the reign of the unfortunate Mary, to whose cause the house of Hamilton devoted themselves with a generous zeal, which occasioned their temporary obscurity, and, very nearly, their total ruin. The situation of the ruins, embosomed in wood, darkened by ivy and creeping shrubs, and overhanging the brawling torrent, is romantic in the highest degree. In the immediate vicinity of Cadyow is a grove of immense oaks, the remains of the Caledonian Forest, which anciently extended through the south of Scotland, from the eastern to the Atlantic Ocean. Some of these trees measure twenty-five feet, and upwards, in circumference; and the state of decay, in which they now appear, shews, that they may have witnessed the rites of the Druids.—The whole scenery is included in the magnificent and extensive park of the Duke of Hamilton. There was long preserved in this forest the breed of the Scottish wild cattle, until their ferocity occasioned their being extirpated, about forty years ago. Their appearance was beautiful, being milk-white, with black muzzles, horns, and hoofs. The bulls are described by ancient authors, as having white manes; but those of latter days had lost that peculiarity, perhaps by intermixture with the tame breed.[93]
In detailing the death of the regent Murray, which is made the subject of the following ballad, it would be injustice to my reader to use other words than those of Dr Robertson, whose account of that memorable event forms a beautiful piece of historical painting.
"Hamilton of Bothwellhaugh was the person who committed this barbarous action. He had been condemned to death soon after the battle of Langside, as we have already related, and owed his life to the regent's clemency. But part of his estate had been bestowed upon one of the regent's favourites,[94]who seized his house, and turned out his wife, naked, in a cold night, into the open fields, where, before next morning, she became furiously mad. This injury made a deeper impression on him than the benefit he had received, and from that moment he vowed to be revenged of the regent. Party rage strengthened and inflamed his private resentment. His kinsmen, the Hamiltons, applauded the enterprize. The maxims of that age justified the most desperatecourse he could take to obtain vengeance. He followed the regent for some time, and watched for an opportunity to strike the blow. He resolved, at last, to wait till his enemy should arrive at Linlithgow, through which he was to pass, in his way from Stirling to Edinburgh. He took his stand in a wooden gallery,[95]which had a window towards the street; spread a feather-bed on the floor, to hinder the noise of his feet from being heard; hung up a black cloth behind him, that his shadow might not be observed from without; and, after all this preparation, calmly expected the regent's approach, who had lodged, during the night, in a house not far distant. Some indistinct information of the danger which threatened him had been conveyed to the regent, and he paid so much regard to it, that he resolved to return by the same gate through which he had entered, and to fetch a compass round the town. But, as the crowd about the gate was great, and he himself unacquainted with fear, he proceeded directly along the street; and the throng of people obliging him to move very slowly, gave the assassin time to take so true anaim, that he shot him, with a single bullet, through the lower part of his belly, and killed the horse of a gentleman, who rode on his other side. His followers instantly endeavoured to break into the house, whence the blow had come; but they found the door strongly barricaded, and, before it could be forced open, Hamilton had mounted a fleet horse,[96]which stood ready for him at a back-passage, and was got far beyond their reach. The regent died the same night of his wound."—History of Scotland, book v.
Bothwellhaugh rode straight to Hamilton, where he was received in triumph; for the ashes of the houses in Clydesdale, which had been burned by Murray's army, were yet smoking; and party prejudice, the habits of the age, and the enormity of the provocation, seemed, to his kinsmen, to justify his deed. After a short abode at Hamilton, this fierce and determined man left Scotland, and served in France, under the patronage of the family of Guise, to whom he was doubtless recommended by having avenged the cause of their niece, Queen Mary, upon her ungrateful brother. De Thou has recorded, that an attempt was made to engage him to assassinate Gaspar de Coligni, the famous admiral of France, and the buckler of the Huguenot cause. But the character of Bothwellhaugh was mistaken. He was no mercenary trader in blood, and rejected the offer with contempt and indignation. Hehad no authority, he said, from Scotland, to commit murders in France; he had avenged his own just quarrel, but he would neither, for price nor prayer, avenge that of another man.—Thaunus, cap. 46.
The regent's death happened 23d January, 1569. It is applauded or stigmatized, by contemporary historians, according to their religious or party prejudices. The triumph of Blackwood is unbounded. He not only extols the pious feat of Bothwellhaugh, "who," he observes, "satisfied, with a single ounce of lead, him, whose sacrilegious avarice had stripped the metropolitan church of St Andrew's of its covering;" but he ascribes it to immediate divine inspiration, and the escape of Hamilton to little less than the miraculous interference of the Deity.—Jebb, Vol. II. p. 263. With equal injustice, it was, by others, made the ground of a general national reflection; for, when Mather urged Berney to assassinate Burleigh, and quoted the examples of Poltrot and Bothwellhaugh, the other conspirator answered, "that neyther Poltrot nor Hambleton did attempt their enterpryse, without some reason or consideration to lead them to it; as the one, by hyre, and promise of preferment or rewarde; the other, upon desperate mind of revenge, for a lytle wrong done unto him, as the report goethe, accordinge to the vyle trayterous dysposysyon of the hoole natyon of the Scottes."—Murdin's State Papers, Vol. I. p. 197.
ADDRESSED TOTHE RIGHT HONOURABLELADY ANNE HAMILTON.
When princely Hamilton's abodeEnnobled Cadyow's Gothic towers,The song went round, the goblet flowed,And revel sped the laughing hours.Then, thrilling to the harp's gay sound,So sweetly rung each vaulted wall,And echoed light the dancer's bound,As mirth and music cheer'd the hall.But Cadyow's towers, in ruins laid,And vaults, by ivy mantled o'er,Thrill to the music of the shade,Or echo Evan's hoarser roar.Yet still, of Cadyow's faded fame,You bid me tell a minstrel tale,And tune my harp, of Border frame,On the wild banks of Evandale.For thou, from scenes of courtly pride,From pleasure's lighter scenes, canst turn,To draw oblivion's pall aside,And mark the long forgotten urn.Then, noble maid! at thy command,Again the crumbled halls shall rise;Lo! as on Evan's banks we stand,The past returns—the present flies.—Where with the rock's wood-cover'd sideWere blended late the ruins green,Rise turrets in fantastic pride,And feudal banners flaunt between:Where the rude torrent's brawling courseWas shagg'd with thorn and tangling sloe,The ashler buttress braves its force,And ramparts frown in battled row.'Tis night—the shade of keep and spireObscurely dance on Evan's stream,And on the wave the warder's fireIs chequering the moon-light beam.Fades slow their light; the east is grey;The weary warder leaves his tower;Steeds snort; uncoupled stag-hounds bay,And merry hunters quit the bower.The draw-bridge falls—they hurry out—Clatters each plank and swinging chain,As, dashing o'er, the jovial routeUrge the shy steed, and slack the rein.First of his troop, the chief rode on;His shouting merry-men throng behind;The steed of princely HamiltonWas fleeter than the mountain wind.From the thick copse the roe-bucks bound,The startling red-deer scuds the plain,For the hoarse bugle's warrior soundHas rouzed their mountain haunts again.Through the huge oaks of Evandale,Whose limbs a thousand years have worn,What sullen roar comes down the gale,And drowns the hunter's pealing horn?Mightiest of all the beasts of chace,That roam in woody Caledon,Crashing the forest in his race,The Mountain Bull comes thundering on.Fierce, on the hunters' quiver'd band,He rolls his eyes of swarthy glow,Spurns, with black hoof and horn, the sand,And tosses high his mane of snow.Aim'd well, the chieftain's lance has flown;Struggling, in blood the savage lies;His roar is sunk in hollow groan—Sound, merry huntsmen! sound thepryse![97]'Tis noon—against the knotted oakThe hunters rest the idle spear;Curls through the trees the slender smoke,Where yeomen dight the woodland cheer.Proudly the chieftain mark'd his clan,On greenwood lap all careless thrown,Yet miss'd his eye the boldest man,That bore the name of Hamilton."Why fills not Bothwellhaugh his place,"Still wont our weal and woe to share?"Why comes he not our sport to grace?"Why shares he not our hunter's fare?"Stern Claud replied, with darkening face,(Grey Pasley's haughty lord was he)"At merry feast, or buxom chace,"No more the warrior shalt thou see."Few suns have set, since Woodhouselee"Saw Bothwellhaugh's bright goblets foam,"When to his hearths, in social glee,"The war-worn soldier turn'd him home."There, wan from her maternal throes,"His Margaret, beautiful and mild,"Sate in her bower, a pallid rose,"And peaceful nursed her new-born child."O change accurs'd! past are those days;"False Murray's ruthless spoilers came,"And, for the hearth's domestic blaze,"Ascends destruction's volumed flame."What sheeted phantom wanders wild,"Where mountain Eske through woodland flows,"Her arms enfold a shadowy child—"Oh is it she, the pallid rose?"The wildered traveller sees her glide,"And hears her feeble voice with awe—'Revenge,' she cries, 'on Murray's pride!'And woe for injured Bothwellhaugh!'He ceased—and cries of rage and griefBurst mingling from the kindred band,And half arose the kindling chief,And half unsheath'd his Arran brand.But who, o'er bush, o'er stream and rock,Rides headlong, with resistless speed,Whose bloody poniard's frantic strokeDrives to the leap his jaded steed;Whose cheek is pale, whose eye-balls glare,As one, some visioned sight that saw,Whose hands are bloody, loose his hair?——'Tis he! 'tis he! 'tis Bothwellhaugh.From gory selle,[98]and reeling steed,Sprung the fierce horseman with a bound,And, reeking from the recent deed,He dashed his carbine on the ground.Sternly he spoke—"'Tis sweet to hearIn good greenwood the bugle blown,But sweeter to Revenge's ear,To drink a tyrant's dying groan."Your slaughtered quarry proudly trod,At dawning morn, o'er dale and down,But prouder base-born Murray rodeThro' old Linlithgow's crowded town."From the wild Border's humbled side,"In haughty triumph, marched he,"While Knox relaxed his bigot pride,"And smiled, the traitorous pomp to see."But, can stern Power, with all his vaunt,"Or Pomp, with all her courtly glare,"The settled heart of Vengeance daunt,"Or change the purpose of Despair?"With hackbut bent[99], my secret stand,"Dark as the purposed deed, I chose,"And marked, where, mingling in his band,"Troop'd Scottish pikes and English bows."Dark Morton, girt with many a spear,"Murder's foul minion, led the van;"And clashed their broad-swords in the rear,"The wild Macfarlanes' plaided clan."Glencairn and stout Parkhead were nigh,"Obsequious at their regent's rein,"And haggard Lindesay's iron eye,"That saw fair Mary weep in vain."Mid pennon'd spears, a steely grove,"Proud Murray's plumage floated high;"Scarce could his trampling charger move,"So close the minions crowded nigh."From the raised vizor's shade, his eye,"Dark-rolling, glanced the ranks along,"And his steel truncheon, waved on high,"Seem'd marshalling the iron throng."But yet his sadden'd brow confess'd"A passing shade of doubt and awe;"Some fiend was whispering in his breast,'Beware of injured Bothwellhaugh!'"The death-shot parts—the charger springs—"Wild rises tumult's startling roar!—"And Murray's plumy helmet rings—"—Rings on the ground, to rise no more."What joy the raptured youth can feel,"To hear her love the loved one tell,"Or he, who broaches on his steel"The wolf, by whom his infant fell!"But dearer, to my injured eye,"To see in dust proud Murray roll;"And mine was ten times trebled joy,"To hear him groan his felon soul."My Margaret's spectre glided near;"With pride her bleeding victim saw;"And shrieked in his death-deafen'd ear,'Remember injured Bothwellhaugh!'"Then speed thee, noble Chatlerault!"Spread to the wind thy bannered tree!"Each warrior bend his Clydesdale bow!—"Murray is fallen, and Scotland free."Vaults every warrior to his steed;Loud bugles join their wild acclaim—"Murray is fallen, and Scotland freed!"Couch, Arran! couch thy spear of flame!"But, see! the minstrel vision fails—The glimmering spears are seen no more;The shouts of war die on the gales,Or sink in Evan's lonely roar.For the loud bugle, pealing high,The blackbird whistles down the vale,And sunk in ivied ruins lieThe banner'd towers of Evandale.For chiefs, intent on bloody deed,And Vengeance, shouting o'er the slain,Lo! high-born Beauty rules the steed,Or graceful guides the silken rein.And long may Peace and Pleasure ownThe maids, who list the minstrel's tale;Nor e'er a ruder guest be knownOn the fair banks of Evandale!
When princely Hamilton's abodeEnnobled Cadyow's Gothic towers,The song went round, the goblet flowed,And revel sped the laughing hours.
Then, thrilling to the harp's gay sound,So sweetly rung each vaulted wall,And echoed light the dancer's bound,As mirth and music cheer'd the hall.
But Cadyow's towers, in ruins laid,And vaults, by ivy mantled o'er,Thrill to the music of the shade,Or echo Evan's hoarser roar.
Yet still, of Cadyow's faded fame,You bid me tell a minstrel tale,And tune my harp, of Border frame,On the wild banks of Evandale.
For thou, from scenes of courtly pride,From pleasure's lighter scenes, canst turn,To draw oblivion's pall aside,And mark the long forgotten urn.
Then, noble maid! at thy command,Again the crumbled halls shall rise;Lo! as on Evan's banks we stand,The past returns—the present flies.—
Where with the rock's wood-cover'd sideWere blended late the ruins green,Rise turrets in fantastic pride,And feudal banners flaunt between:
Where the rude torrent's brawling courseWas shagg'd with thorn and tangling sloe,The ashler buttress braves its force,And ramparts frown in battled row.
'Tis night—the shade of keep and spireObscurely dance on Evan's stream,And on the wave the warder's fireIs chequering the moon-light beam.
Fades slow their light; the east is grey;The weary warder leaves his tower;Steeds snort; uncoupled stag-hounds bay,And merry hunters quit the bower.
The draw-bridge falls—they hurry out—Clatters each plank and swinging chain,As, dashing o'er, the jovial routeUrge the shy steed, and slack the rein.
First of his troop, the chief rode on;His shouting merry-men throng behind;The steed of princely HamiltonWas fleeter than the mountain wind.
From the thick copse the roe-bucks bound,The startling red-deer scuds the plain,For the hoarse bugle's warrior soundHas rouzed their mountain haunts again.
Through the huge oaks of Evandale,Whose limbs a thousand years have worn,What sullen roar comes down the gale,And drowns the hunter's pealing horn?
Mightiest of all the beasts of chace,That roam in woody Caledon,Crashing the forest in his race,The Mountain Bull comes thundering on.
Fierce, on the hunters' quiver'd band,He rolls his eyes of swarthy glow,Spurns, with black hoof and horn, the sand,And tosses high his mane of snow.
Aim'd well, the chieftain's lance has flown;Struggling, in blood the savage lies;His roar is sunk in hollow groan—Sound, merry huntsmen! sound thepryse![97]
'Tis noon—against the knotted oakThe hunters rest the idle spear;Curls through the trees the slender smoke,Where yeomen dight the woodland cheer.
Proudly the chieftain mark'd his clan,On greenwood lap all careless thrown,Yet miss'd his eye the boldest man,That bore the name of Hamilton.
"Why fills not Bothwellhaugh his place,"Still wont our weal and woe to share?"Why comes he not our sport to grace?"Why shares he not our hunter's fare?"
Stern Claud replied, with darkening face,(Grey Pasley's haughty lord was he)"At merry feast, or buxom chace,"No more the warrior shalt thou see.
"Few suns have set, since Woodhouselee"Saw Bothwellhaugh's bright goblets foam,"When to his hearths, in social glee,"The war-worn soldier turn'd him home.
"There, wan from her maternal throes,"His Margaret, beautiful and mild,"Sate in her bower, a pallid rose,"And peaceful nursed her new-born child.
"O change accurs'd! past are those days;"False Murray's ruthless spoilers came,"And, for the hearth's domestic blaze,"Ascends destruction's volumed flame.
"What sheeted phantom wanders wild,"Where mountain Eske through woodland flows,"Her arms enfold a shadowy child—"Oh is it she, the pallid rose?
"The wildered traveller sees her glide,"And hears her feeble voice with awe—'Revenge,' she cries, 'on Murray's pride!'And woe for injured Bothwellhaugh!'
He ceased—and cries of rage and griefBurst mingling from the kindred band,And half arose the kindling chief,And half unsheath'd his Arran brand.
But who, o'er bush, o'er stream and rock,Rides headlong, with resistless speed,Whose bloody poniard's frantic strokeDrives to the leap his jaded steed;
Whose cheek is pale, whose eye-balls glare,As one, some visioned sight that saw,Whose hands are bloody, loose his hair?——'Tis he! 'tis he! 'tis Bothwellhaugh.
From gory selle,[98]and reeling steed,Sprung the fierce horseman with a bound,And, reeking from the recent deed,He dashed his carbine on the ground.
Sternly he spoke—"'Tis sweet to hearIn good greenwood the bugle blown,But sweeter to Revenge's ear,To drink a tyrant's dying groan.
"Your slaughtered quarry proudly trod,At dawning morn, o'er dale and down,But prouder base-born Murray rodeThro' old Linlithgow's crowded town.
"From the wild Border's humbled side,"In haughty triumph, marched he,"While Knox relaxed his bigot pride,"And smiled, the traitorous pomp to see.
"But, can stern Power, with all his vaunt,"Or Pomp, with all her courtly glare,"The settled heart of Vengeance daunt,"Or change the purpose of Despair?
"With hackbut bent[99], my secret stand,"Dark as the purposed deed, I chose,"And marked, where, mingling in his band,"Troop'd Scottish pikes and English bows.
"Dark Morton, girt with many a spear,"Murder's foul minion, led the van;"And clashed their broad-swords in the rear,"The wild Macfarlanes' plaided clan.
"Glencairn and stout Parkhead were nigh,"Obsequious at their regent's rein,"And haggard Lindesay's iron eye,"That saw fair Mary weep in vain.
"Mid pennon'd spears, a steely grove,"Proud Murray's plumage floated high;"Scarce could his trampling charger move,"So close the minions crowded nigh.
"From the raised vizor's shade, his eye,"Dark-rolling, glanced the ranks along,"And his steel truncheon, waved on high,"Seem'd marshalling the iron throng.
"But yet his sadden'd brow confess'd"A passing shade of doubt and awe;"Some fiend was whispering in his breast,'Beware of injured Bothwellhaugh!'
"The death-shot parts—the charger springs—"Wild rises tumult's startling roar!—"And Murray's plumy helmet rings—"—Rings on the ground, to rise no more.
"What joy the raptured youth can feel,"To hear her love the loved one tell,"Or he, who broaches on his steel"The wolf, by whom his infant fell!
"But dearer, to my injured eye,"To see in dust proud Murray roll;"And mine was ten times trebled joy,"To hear him groan his felon soul.
"My Margaret's spectre glided near;"With pride her bleeding victim saw;"And shrieked in his death-deafen'd ear,'Remember injured Bothwellhaugh!'
"Then speed thee, noble Chatlerault!"Spread to the wind thy bannered tree!"Each warrior bend his Clydesdale bow!—"Murray is fallen, and Scotland free."
Vaults every warrior to his steed;Loud bugles join their wild acclaim—"Murray is fallen, and Scotland freed!"Couch, Arran! couch thy spear of flame!"
But, see! the minstrel vision fails—The glimmering spears are seen no more;The shouts of war die on the gales,Or sink in Evan's lonely roar.
For the loud bugle, pealing high,The blackbird whistles down the vale,And sunk in ivied ruins lieThe banner'd towers of Evandale.
For chiefs, intent on bloody deed,And Vengeance, shouting o'er the slain,Lo! high-born Beauty rules the steed,Or graceful guides the silken rein.
And long may Peace and Pleasure ownThe maids, who list the minstrel's tale;Nor e'er a ruder guest be knownOn the fair banks of Evandale!