THE COUT OF KEELDAR.

He took the keys from the rusty lock,That never was ta'en before.He threw them o'er his left shoulder,With mickle care and pain;And he bade it keep them, fathoms deep,Till he returned again.—P.262, v. 1. 2.

The circumstance of Lord Soulis having thrown the key over his left shoulder, and bid the fiend keep it till his return, is noted in the introduction, as a part of his traditionary history. In the course of this autumn (1806), the Earl of Dalkeith being encamped near the Hermitage Castle, for the amusement of shooting, directed some workmen to clear away the rubbish from the door of the dungeon, in order to ascertain its ancient dimensions and architecture. To the great astonishment of the labourers, and of the country people who were watching their proceedings, a rusty iron key, of considerable size, was found among the ruins, a little way from the dungeon door. The well-known tradition instantly passed from one to another; and it was generally agreed, that the malevolent dæmon, who had so long retained possession of the key of the castle, now found himself obliged to resign it to the heir-apparent of the domain. In the course of their researches, a large iron ladle, somewhat resembling that used by plumbers, was also discovered; and both the reliques are now in Lord Dalkeith's possession.

In the summer of 1805, another discovery was made in the haunted ruins of Hermitage. In a recess of the wall of the castle, intended apparently for receiving the end of a beam or joist, a boy, seeking for birds nests, found a very curious antique silver-ring, embossed with hearts, the well-known cognisance of the Douglas family, placed interchangeably with quatre-foils all round the circle. The workmanship has an uncommonly rude and ancient appearance, and warrants our believing that it may have belonged to one of the Earls of Angus, who carried the heart and quatre-foils[76]in their arms.They parted with the castle and lordship of Liddesdale, in exchange for that of Bothwell, in the beginning of the 16th century. This ring is now in the editor's possession, by the obliging gift of Mr John Ballantyne, of the house of Ballantyne and Company, so distinguished for typography.

FOOTNOTES:[65]Dalrymple's Collections concerning the Scottish History, p. 395.[66]Transactions of the Antiquarian Society of Scotland, Vol. I, p. 269.[67]Index of many records of charters granted between 1309 and 1413, published by W. Robertson, Esq.[68]As the people thronged to the execution of the gallant youth, they were bitterly rebuked by Sir Ingram de Umfraville, an English or Norman knight, then a favourite follower of Robert Bruce. "Why press you," said he, "to see the dismal catastrophe of so generous a knight? I have seen ye throng as eagerly around him to share his bounty, as now to behold his death." With these words he turned from the scene of blood, and, repairing to the king, craved leave to sell his Scottish possessions, and to retire from the country. "My heart," said Umfraville, "will not, for the wealth of the world, permit me to dwell any longer, where I have seen such a knight die by the hands of the executioner." With the king's leave, he interred the body of David de Brechin, sold his lands, and left Scotland for ever. The story is beautifully told by Barbour, book 19th.[69]Skrieh—Peep.[70]Lift—Sky.[71]Glamour—Magical delusion.[72]Wale—Chuse.[73]Puirly—Softly.[74]Spreat—The spreat is a species of water-rush.[75]Deer-hair—The deer-hair is a coarse species of pointed grass, which, in May, bears a very minute, but beautiful yellow flower.[76]Some heralds say, that they carried cinque-foils, others trefoils; but all agree they bore some such distinction to mark their cadency from the elder branch of Douglas.

[65]Dalrymple's Collections concerning the Scottish History, p. 395.

[66]Transactions of the Antiquarian Society of Scotland, Vol. I, p. 269.

[67]Index of many records of charters granted between 1309 and 1413, published by W. Robertson, Esq.

[68]As the people thronged to the execution of the gallant youth, they were bitterly rebuked by Sir Ingram de Umfraville, an English or Norman knight, then a favourite follower of Robert Bruce. "Why press you," said he, "to see the dismal catastrophe of so generous a knight? I have seen ye throng as eagerly around him to share his bounty, as now to behold his death." With these words he turned from the scene of blood, and, repairing to the king, craved leave to sell his Scottish possessions, and to retire from the country. "My heart," said Umfraville, "will not, for the wealth of the world, permit me to dwell any longer, where I have seen such a knight die by the hands of the executioner." With the king's leave, he interred the body of David de Brechin, sold his lands, and left Scotland for ever. The story is beautifully told by Barbour, book 19th.

[69]Skrieh—Peep.

[70]Lift—Sky.

[71]Glamour—Magical delusion.

[72]Wale—Chuse.

[73]Puirly—Softly.

[74]Spreat—The spreat is a species of water-rush.

[75]Deer-hair—The deer-hair is a coarse species of pointed grass, which, in May, bears a very minute, but beautiful yellow flower.

[76]Some heralds say, that they carried cinque-foils, others trefoils; but all agree they bore some such distinction to mark their cadency from the elder branch of Douglas.

BY J. LEYDEN.

The tradition on which the following ballad is founded, derives considerable illustration from the argument of the preceding. It is necessary to add, that the most redoubted adversary of Lord Soulis was the Chief of Keeldar, a Northumbrian district, adjacent to Cumberland, who perished in a sudden encounter on the banks of the Hermitage. Being arrayed in armour of proof, he sustained no hurt in the combat; but stumbling in retreating across the river, the hostile party held him down below water with their lances till he died; and the eddy, in which he perished, is still called the Cout of Keeldar's Pool. His grave, of gigantic size, is pointed out on the banks of the Hermitage, at the western corner of a wall, surrounding the burial-ground of a ruined chapel. As an enemy of Lord Soulis, his memory is revered; and the popular epithet ofCout,i.e.Colt, is expressive of his strength, stature, and activity. Tradition likewise relates, that the young chief of Mangerton, to whose protection Lord Soulis had, in some eminent jeopardy, been indebted for his life, was decoyed by that faithless tyrant into his castle of Hermitage, and insidiously murdered at a feast.

The Keeldar Stone, by which the Northumbrian chief passed in his incursion, is still pointed out, as a boundary mark, on the confines of Jed forest, and Northumberland. It is a rough insulated mass, of considerable dimensions, and it is held unlucky to ride thricewithershins[77]around it. Keeldar Castle is now a hunting seat, belonging to the Duke of Northumberland.

TheBrown Man of the Muirsis a Fairy of the most malignant order, the genuineduergar. Walsingham mentions a story of an unfortunate youth, whose brains were extracted from his skull, during his sleep, by this malicious being. Owing to this operation, he remained insane many years, till the virgin Mary courteously restored his brains to their station.

NEVER BEFORE PUBLISHED—J. LEYDEN.

The eiry blood-hound howled by night,The streamers[78]flaunted red,Till broken streaks of flaky lightO'er Keeldar's mountains spread.The lady sigh'd as Keeldar rose:"Come tell me, dear love mine,"Go you to hunt where Keeldar flows,"Or on the banks of Tyne?""The heath-bell blows where Keeldar flows,"By Tyne the primrose pale;"But now we ride on the Scottish side,"To hunt in Liddesdale.""Gin you will ride on the Scottish side,"Sore must thy Margaret mourn;"For Soulis abhorred is Lyddall's lord,"And I fear you'll ne'er return."The axe he bears, it hacks and tears;"'Tis formed of an earth-fast flint;"No armour of knight, tho' ever so wight,"Can bear its deadly dint."No danger he fears, for a charm'd sword he wears;"Of adderstone the hilt;"No Tynedale knight had ever such might,"But his heart-blood was spilt.""In my plume is seen the holly green,"With the leaves of the rowan tree;"And my casque of sand, by a mermaid's hand,"Was formed beneath the sea."Then, Margaret dear, have thou no fear!"That bodes no ill to me,"Though never a knight, by mortal might,"Could match his gramarye."—Then forward bound both horse and hound,And rattle o'er the vale;As the wintry breeze, through leafless trees,Drives on the pattering hail.Behind their course the English fellsIn deepening blue retire;Till soon before them boldly swellsThe muir of dun Redswire.And when they reached the Redswire high,Soft beam'd the rising sun;But formless shadows seemed to flyAlong the muir-land dun.And when he reached the Redswire high,His bugle Keeldar blew;And round did float, with clamorous noteAnd scream, the hoarse curlew.The next blast that young Keeldar blew,The wind grew deadly still;But the sleek fern, with fingery leaves,Waved wildly o'er the hill.The third blast that young Keeldar blew,Still stood the limber fern;And a wee man, of swarthy hue,Up started by a cairn.His russet weeds were brown as heath,That clothes the upland fell;And the hair of his head was frizzly red,As the purple heather bell.An urchin,[79]clad in prickles red,Clung cowring to his arm;The hounds they howl'd, and backward fled,As struck by Fairy charm."Why rises high the stag-hound's cry,"Where stag-hound ne'er should be?"Why wakes that horn the silent morn,"Without the leave of me?""Brown dwarf, that o'er the muir-land strays,"Thy name to Keeldar tell!"—"The Brown Man of the Muirs, who stays"Beneath the heather bell."'Tis sweet, beneath the heather-bell,"To live in autumn brown;"And sweet to hear the lav'rocks swell"Far far from tower and town."But woe betide the shrilling horn,"The chace's surly cheer!"And ever that hunter is forlorn,"Whom first at morn I hear."Says, "Weal nor woe, nor friend nor foe,"In thee we hope nor dread."But, ere the bugles green could blow,The Wee Brown Man had fled.And onward, onward, hound and horse,Young Keeldar's band have gone;And soon they wheel, in rapid course,Around the Keeldar Stone.Green vervain round its base did creep,A powerful seed that bore;And oft, of yore, its channels deepWere stained with human gore.And still, when blood-drops, clotted thin,Hang the grey moss upon,The spirit murmurs from within,And shakes the rocking stone.Around, around, young Keeldar wound,And called, in scornful tone,With him to pass the barrier ground,The Spirit of the Stone.The rude crag rocked; "I come for death!"I come to work thy woe!"And 'twas the Brown Man of the Heath,That murmured from below.But onward, onward, Keeldar past,Swift as the winter wind,When, hovering on the driving blast,The snow-flakes fall behind.They passed the muir of berries blae,The stone cross on the lee;They reached the green, the bonny brae,Beneath the birchen tree.This is the bonny brae, the green,Yet sacred to the brave,Where still, of ancient size, is seenGigantic Keeldar's grave.The lonely shepherd loves to markThe daisy springing fair,Where weeps the birch of silver bark,With long dishevelled hair.The grave is green, and round is spreadThe curling lady-fern;That fatal day the mould was red,No moss was on the cairn.And next they passed the chapel there;The holy ground was by,Where many a stone is sculptured fair,To mark where warriors lie.And here, beside the mountain flood,A massy castle frown'd,Since first the Pictish race in bloodThe haunted pile did found.The restless stream its rocky baseAssails with ceaseless din;And many a troubled spirit straysThe dungeons dark within.Soon from the lofty tower there hiedA knight across the vale;"I greet your master well," he cried,"From Soulis of Liddesdale."He heard your bugle's echoing call,"In his green garden bower;"And bids you to his festive hall,"Within his ancient tower."Young Keeldar called his hunter train;"For doubtful cheer prepare!"And, as you open force disdain,"Of secret guile beware."'Twas here for Mangerton's brave lord"A bloody feast was set;"Who, weetless, at the festal board,"The bull's broad frontlet met."Then ever, at uncourteous feast,"Keep every man his brand;"And, as you mid his friends are placed,"Range on the better hand."And, if the bull's ill-omened head"Appear to grace the feast,"Your whingers, with unerring speed,"Plunge in each neighbour's breast."In Hermitage they sat at dine,In pomp and proud array;And oft they filled the blood-red wine,While merry minstrels play.And many a hunting song they sung,And song of game and glee;Then tuned to plaintive strains their tongue,"Of Scotland's luve and lee."To wilder measures next they turn:"The Black Black Bull of Noroway!"Sudden the tapers cease to burn,The minstrels cease to play.Each hunter bold, of Keeldar's train,Sat an enchanted man;For cold as ice, through every vein,The freezing life-blood ran.Each rigid hand the whinger wrung,Each gazed with glaring eye;But Keeldar from the table sprung,Unharmed by gramarye.He burst the door; the roofs resound;With yells the castle rung;Before him, with a sudden bound,His favourite blood-hound sprung.Ere he could pass, the door was barr'd;And, grating harsh from under,With creaking, jarring noise, was heardA sound like distant thunder.The iron clash, the grinding sound,Announce the dire sword-mill;The piteous howlings of the houndThe dreadful dungeon fill.With breath drawn in, the murderous crewStood listening to the yell;And greater still their wonder grew,As on their ear it fell.They listen'd for a human shriekAmid the jarring sound;They only heard, in echoes weak,The murmurs of the hound.The death-bell rung, and wide were flungThe castle gates amain;While hurry out the armed rout,And marshal on the plain.Ah! ne'er before in border feudWas seen so dire a fray!Through glittering lances Keeldar hewedA red corse-paven way.His helmet, formed of mermaid sand,No lethal brand could dint;No other arms could e'er withstandThe axe of earth-fast flint.In Keeldar's plume the holly green,And rowan leaves, nod on,And vain Lord Soulis's sword was seen,Though the hilt was adderstone.Then up the Wee Brown Man he rose,By Soulis of Liddesdale;"In vain," he said, "a thousand blows"Assail the charmed mail."In vain by land your arrows glide,"In vain your faulchions gleam—"No spell can stay the living tide,"Or charm the rushing stream."And now, young Keeldar reached the stream,Above the foamy lin;The border lances round him gleam,And force the warrior in.The holly floated to the side,And the leaf of the rowan pale:Alas! no spell could charm the tide,Nor the lance of Liddesdale.Swift was the Cout o' Keeldar's course,Along the lily lee;But home came never hound nor horse,And never home came he.Where weeps the birch with branches green,Without the holy ground,Between two old gray stones is seenThe warrior's ridgy mound.And the hunters bold, of Keeldar's train,Within yon castle's wall,In a deadly sleep must ay remain,Till the ruined towers down fall.Each in his hunter's garb array'd,Each holds his bugle horn;Their keen hounds at their feet are laid,That ne'er shall wake the morn.

The eiry blood-hound howled by night,The streamers[78]flaunted red,Till broken streaks of flaky lightO'er Keeldar's mountains spread.

The lady sigh'd as Keeldar rose:"Come tell me, dear love mine,"Go you to hunt where Keeldar flows,"Or on the banks of Tyne?"

"The heath-bell blows where Keeldar flows,"By Tyne the primrose pale;"But now we ride on the Scottish side,"To hunt in Liddesdale."

"Gin you will ride on the Scottish side,"Sore must thy Margaret mourn;"For Soulis abhorred is Lyddall's lord,"And I fear you'll ne'er return.

"The axe he bears, it hacks and tears;"'Tis formed of an earth-fast flint;"No armour of knight, tho' ever so wight,"Can bear its deadly dint.

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

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

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

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

Behind their course the English fellsIn deepening blue retire;Till soon before them boldly swellsThe muir of dun Redswire.

And when they reached the Redswire high,Soft beam'd the rising sun;But formless shadows seemed to flyAlong the muir-land dun.

And when he reached the Redswire high,His bugle Keeldar blew;And round did float, with clamorous noteAnd scream, the hoarse curlew.

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

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

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

An urchin,[79]clad in prickles red,Clung cowring to his arm;The hounds they howl'd, and backward fled,As struck by Fairy charm.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Green vervain round its base did creep,A powerful seed that bore;And oft, of yore, its channels deepWere stained with human gore.

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

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

The rude crag rocked; "I come for death!"I come to work thy woe!"And 'twas the Brown Man of the Heath,That murmured from below.

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

They passed the muir of berries blae,The stone cross on the lee;They reached the green, the bonny brae,Beneath the birchen tree.

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

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

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

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

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

The restless stream its rocky baseAssails with ceaseless din;And many a troubled spirit straysThe dungeons dark within.

Soon from the lofty tower there hiedA knight across the vale;"I greet your master well," he cried,"From Soulis of Liddesdale.

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

Young Keeldar called his hunter train;"For doubtful cheer prepare!"And, as you open force disdain,"Of secret guile beware.

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

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

"And, if the bull's ill-omened head"Appear to grace the feast,"Your whingers, with unerring speed,"Plunge in each neighbour's breast."

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

And many a hunting song they sung,And song of game and glee;Then tuned to plaintive strains their tongue,"Of Scotland's luve and lee."

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

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

Each rigid hand the whinger wrung,Each gazed with glaring eye;But Keeldar from the table sprung,Unharmed by gramarye.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ah! ne'er before in border feudWas seen so dire a fray!Through glittering lances Keeldar hewedA red corse-paven way.

His helmet, formed of mermaid sand,No lethal brand could dint;No other arms could e'er withstandThe axe of earth-fast flint.

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

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

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

And now, young Keeldar reached the stream,Above the foamy lin;The border lances round him gleam,And force the warrior in.

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

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

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

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

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

'Tis formed of an earth-fast flint.—P.287. v. 2.

An earth-fast stone, or an insulated stone, inclosed in a bed of earth, is supposed to possess peculiar properties. It is frequently applied to sprains and bruises, and used to dissipate swellings; but its blow is reckoned uncommonly severe.

Of adderstone the hilt.—P.287. v. 3.

The adderstone, among the Scottish peasantry, is held in almost as high veneration, as, among the Gauls, theovum anguinum, described by Pliny.—Natural History, l. xxix. c. 3. The name is applied to celts, and other round perforated stones. The vulgar suppose them to be perforated by the stings of adders.

With the leaves of the rowan tree.—P.287. v. 4.

The rowan tree, or mountain ash, is still used by the peasantry, to avert the effects of charms and witchcraft. An inferior degree of the same influence is supposed to reside in many evergreens; as the holly, and the bay. With the leaves of the bay, the English and Welch peasants were lately accustomed to adorn their doors at midsummer.—VideBrand'sVulgar Antiquities.

And shakes the rocking stone.—P.291. v. 1.

The rocking stone, commonly reckoned a Druidical monument, has always been held in superstitious veneration by the people. The popular opinion, which supposes them to be inhabited by a spirit, coincides with that of the ancient Icelanders, who worshipped the dæmons, which they believed to inhabit great stones. It is related in theKristni Saga, chap. 2. that the first Icelandic bishop, by chaunting a hymn over one of these sacred stones, immediately after his arrival in the island, split it, expelled the spirit, and converted its worshippers to Christianity. The herb vervain, revered by the Druids, was also reckoned a powerful charm by the common people; and the author recollects a popular rhyme, supposed to be addressed to a young woman by the devil, who attempted to seduce her in the shape of a handsome young man:

Gin ye wish to be leman mine,Lay off the St John's wort, and the vervine.

By his repugnance to these sacred plants, his mistress discovered the cloven foot.

Since first the Pictish race in blood.—P.292. v. 5.

Castles, remarkable for size, strength, and antiquity, are, by the common people, commonly attributed to the Picts, or Pechs, who are not supposed to have trusted solely to their skill in masonry, in constructing these edifices, but are believed to have bathed the foundation-stone with human blood, in order to propitiate the spirit of the soil. Similar to this is the Gaelic tradition, according to which St Columba is supposed to have been forced to bury St Oran alive, beneath the foundation of his monastery, in order to propitiate the spirits of the soil, who demolished by night what was built during the day.

And, if the bull's ill-omened head, &c.—P.294. v. 2.

To present a bull's head before a person at a feast, was, in the ancient turbulent times of Scotland, a common signal for his assassination. Thus, Lindsay of Pitscottie relates in his History, p. 17. that "efter the dinner was endit, once alle the delicate courses taken away, the chancellor (Sir WilliamCrichton) presentit the bullis head befoir the Earle of Douglas, in signe and toaken of condemnation to the death."

Then tuned to plaintive strains their tongue,"Of Scotland's luve and lee."—P.294. v. 4.

The most ancient Scottish song known is that which is here alluded to, and is thus given by Wintoun, in his Chronykil, Vol. I. p. 401.

Quhen Alysandyr our kyng wes dede,That Scotland led in luve and le,Away wes sons of ale and brede,Of wyne and wax, of gamyn and gle:Oure gold wes changyd into lede,Cryst, borne into virgynyte,Succour Scotland and remede,That stad is in perplexyte.

Quhen Alysandyr our kyng wes dede,That Scotland led in luve and le,Away wes sons of ale and brede,Of wyne and wax, of gamyn and gle:

Oure gold wes changyd into lede,Cryst, borne into virgynyte,Succour Scotland and remede,That stad is in perplexyte.

That alluded to in the following verse, is a wild fanciful popular tale of enchantment, termed "The Black Bull of Noroway." The author is inclined to believe it the same story with the romance of the "Three Futtit Dog of Noroway," the title of which is mentioned in theComplaynt of Scotland.

The iron clash, the grinding sound,Announce the dire sword-mill.—P.295. v. 5.

The author is unable to produce any authority, that the execrable machine, the sword-mill, so well known on the continent, was ever employed in Scotland; but he believes the vestiges of something very similar have been discovered in the ruins of old castles.

No spell can stay the living tide.—P.297. v. 3.

That no species of magic had any effect over a running stream, was a common opinion among the vulgar, and is alluded to in Burns's admirable tale ofTam o' Shanter.

FOOTNOTES:[77]Withershins.—German,widdersins. A direction contrary to the course of the sun; from left, namely, to right.[78]Streamers—Northern lights.[79]Urchin—Hedge-hog.

[77]Withershins.—German,widdersins. A direction contrary to the course of the sun; from left, namely, to right.

[78]Streamers—Northern lights.

[79]Urchin—Hedge-hog.

BY THE EDITOR.

The simple tradition, upon which the following stanzas are founded, runs thus: While two Highland hunters were passing the night in a solitarybathy(a hut, built for the purpose of hunting), and making merry over their venison and whisky, one of them expressed a wish, that they had pretty lasses to complete their party. The words were scarcely uttered, when two beautiful young women, habited in green, entered the hut, dancing and singing. One of the hunters was seduced by the syren, who attached herself particularly to him, to leave the hut: the other remained, and, suspicious of the fair seducers, continued to play upon a trump, or Jew's harp, some strain, consecrated to the Virgin Mary. Day at length came, and the temptress vanished. Searching in the forest, he found the bones of his unfortunate friend, who had been torn to pieces and devoured by the fiend, into whose toils he had fallen. The place was from thence called the Glen of the Green Women.

Glenfinlas is a tract of forest-ground, lying in the Highlands of Perthshire, not far from Callender, in Menteith. It was formerly a royal forest, and now belongs to the Earl of Moray. This country, as well as the adjacent district of Balquidder, was, in times of yore, chiefly inhabited by the Macgregors. To the west of the forest of Glenfinlas lies Loch Katrine, and its romantic avenue, called the Troshachs. Benledi, Benmore, and Benvoirlich, are mountains in the same district, and at no great distance from Glenfinlas. The river Teith passes Callender and the castle of Doune, and joins the Forth near Stirling. The pass of Lenny is immediately above Callender, and is the principal access to the Highlands, from that town. Glenartney is a forest, near Benvoirlich. The whole forms a sublime tract of Alpine scenery.

This ballad first appeared in theTales of Wonder.

"For them the viewless forms of air obey,"Their bidding heed, and at their beck repair;"They know what spirit brews the stormful day,"And heartless oft, like moody madness, stare,"To see the phantom-train their secret work prepare."[81]

"O hone a rie'! O hone a rie'![82]"The pride of Albin's line is o'er,"And fallen Glenartney's stateliest tree;"We ne'er shall see Lord Ronald more!O, sprung from great Macgillianore,The chief that never feared a foe,How matchless was thy broad claymore,How deadly thine unerring bow!Well can the Saxon widows tell,How, on the Teith's resounding shore,The boldest Lowland warriors fell,As down from Lenny's pass you bore.But o'er his hills, on festal day,How blazed Lord Ronald's beltane-tree;While youths and maids the light strathspeySo nimbly danced with Highland glee.Cheer'd by the strength of Ronald's shell,E'en age forgot his tresses hoar;But now the loud lament we swell,O ne'er to see Lord Ronald more!From distant isles a Chieftain came,The joys of Ronald's halls to find,And chase with him the dark-brown game,That bounds o'er Albin's hills of wind.'Twas Moy; whom in Columba's isleThe seer's prophetic spirit found,As, with a minstrel's fire the while,He waked his harp's harmonious sound.Full many a spell to him was known,Which wandering spirits shrink to hear;And many a lay of potent tone,Was never meant for mortal ear.For there, 'tis said, in mystic mood,High converse with the dead they hold,And oft espy the fated shroud,That shall the future corpse enfold.O so it fell, that on a day,To rouse the red deer from their den,The chiefs have ta'en their distant way,And scour'd the deep Glenfinlas glen.No vassals wait their sports to aid,To watch their safety, deck their board?Their simple dress, the Highland plaid,Their trusty guard, the Highland sword.Three summer days, through brake and dell,Their whistling shafts successful flew;And still, when dewy evening fell,The quarry to their hut they drew.In grey Glenfinlas' deepest nookThe solitary cabin stood,Fast by Moneira's sullen brook,Which murmurs through that lonely wood.Soft fell the night, the sky was calm,When three successive days had flown;And summer mist in dewy balmSteep'd heathy bank, and mossy stone.The moon, half-hid in silvery flakes,Afar her dubious radiance shed,Quivering on Katrine's distant lakes,And resting on Benledi's head.Now in their hut, in social guise,Their sylvan fare the chiefs enjoy;And pleasure laughs in Ronald's eyes,As many a pledge he quaffs to Moy.—"What lack we here to crown our bliss,"While thus the pulse of joy beats high?"What, but fair woman's yielding kiss,"Her panting breath, and melting eye?"To chase the deer of yonder shades,"This morning left their father's pile"The fairest of our mountain maids,"The daughters of the proud Glengyle."Long have I sought sweet Mary's heart,"And dropp'd the tear, and heav'd the sigh;"But vain the lover's wily art,"Beneath a sister's watchful eye."But thou may'st teach that guardian fair,"While far with Mary I am flown,"Of other hearts to cease her care,"And find it hard to guard her own."Touch but thy harp, thou soon shalt see"The lovely Flora of Glengyle,"Unmindful of her charge and me,"Hang on thy notes, 'twixt tear and smile."Or, if she chuse a melting tale,"All underneath the greenwood bough,"Will good St Oran's rule prevail,"Stern huntsman of the rigid brow?"——"Since Enrick's fight, since Morna's death,"No more on me shall rapture rise,"Responsive to the panting breath,"Or yielding kiss, or melting eyes."E'en then, when o'er the heath of woe,"Where sunk my hopes of love and fame,"I bade my harp's wild wailings flow,"On me the Seer's sad spirit came."The last dread curse of angry heaven,"With ghastly sights and sounds of woe,"To dash each glimpse of joy, was given—"The gift, the future ill to know."The bark thou saw'st, yon summer morn,"So gaily part from Oban's bay,"My eye beheld her dash'd and torn,"Far on the rocky Colonsay."Thy Fergus too—thy sister's son,"Thou saw'st, with pride, the gallant's power,"As marching 'gainst the Lord of Downe,"He left the skirts of huge Benmore."Thou only saw'st their tartans[83]wave,"As down Benvoirlich's side they wound,"Heard'st but the pibroch[84], answering brave"To many a target clanking round."I heard the groans, I mark'd the tears,"I saw the wound his bosom bore,"When on the serried Saxon spears"He pour'd his clan's resistless roar."And thou, who bidst me think of bliss,"And bidst my heart awake to glee,"And court, like thee, the wanton kiss—"That heart, O Ronald, bleeds for thee!"I see the death damps chill thy brow;"I hear thy Warning Spirit cry;"The corpse-lights dance—they're gone, and now...."No more is given to gifted eye!"——----"Alone enjoy thy dreary dreams,"Sad prophet of the evil hour!"Say, should we scorn joy's transient beams,"Because to-morrow's storm may lour?"Or false, or sooth, thy words of woe,"Clangillian's chieftain ne'er shall fear;"His blood shall bound at rapture's glow,"Though doom'd to stain the Saxon spear."E'en now, to meet me in yon dell,"My Mary's buskins brush the dew;"He spoke, nor bade the chief farewell,But call'd his dogs, and gay withdrew.Within an hour return'd each hound;In rush'd the rouzers of the deer;They howl'd in melancholy sound,Then closely couch beside the seer.No Ronald yet; though midnight came,And sad were Moy's prophetic dreams,As, bending o'er the dying flame,He fed the watch-fire's quivering gleams.Sudden the hounds erect their ears,And sudden cease their moaning howl;Close press'd to Moy, they mark their fearsBy shivering limbs, and stifled growl.Untouch'd, the harp began to ring,As softly, slowly, oped the door;And shook responsive every string,As light a footstep press'd the floor.And, by the watch-fire's glimmering light,Close by the minstrel's side was seenAn huntress maid, in beauty bright,All dropping wet her robes of green.All dropping wet her garments seem;Chill'd was her cheek, her bosom bare,As, bending o'er the dying gleam,She wrung the moisture from her hair.With maiden blush she softly said,"O gentle huntsman, hast thou seen,"In deep Glenfinlas' moon-light glade,"A lovely maid in vest of green:"With her a chief in Highland pride;"His shoulders bear the hunter's bow,"The mountain dirk adorns his side,"Far on the wind his tartans flow?""And who art thou? and who are they?"All ghastly gazing, Moy replied:"And why, beneath the moon's pale ray,"Dare ye thus roam Glenfinlas' side?""Where wild Loch Katrine pours her tide,"Blue, dark, and deep, round many an isle,"Our father's towers o'erhang her side,"The castle of the bold Glengyle."To chase the dun Glenfinlas deer,"Our woodland course this morn we bore,"And haply met, while wandering here,"The son of great Macgillianore."O aid me, then, to seek the pair,"Whom, loitering in the woods, I lost;"Alone, I dare not venture there,"Where walks, they say, the shrieking ghost.""Yes, many a shrieking ghost walks there;"Then, first, my own sad vow to keep,"Here will I pour my midnight prayer,"Which still must rise when mortals sleep.""O first, for pity's gentle sake,"Guide a lone wanderer on her way!"For I must cross the haunted brake,"And reach my father's towers ere day.""First, three times tell each Ave-bead,"And thrice a Pater-noster say;"Then kiss with me the holy reed;"So shall we safely wind our way.""O shame to knighthood, strange and foul!"Go, doff the bonnet from thy brow,"And shroud thee in the monkish cowl,"Which best befits thy sullen vow."Not so, by high Dunlathmon's fire,"Thy heart was froze to love and joy,"When gaily rung thy raptured lyre,"To wanton Morna's melting eye."Wild stared the Minstrel's eyes of flame,And high his sable locks arose,And quick his colour went and came,As fear and rage alternate rose."And thou! when by the blazing oak"I lay, to her and love resign'd,"Say, rode ye on the eddying smoke,"Or sailed ye on the midnight wind!"Not thine a race of mortal blood,"Nor old Glengyle's pretended line;"Thy dame, the Lady of the Flood,"Thy sire, the Monarch of the Mine."He mutter'd thrice St Oran's rhyme,And thrice St Fillan's powerful prayer;Then turn'd him to the eastern clime,And sternly shook his coal-black hair.And, bending o'er his harp, he flungHis wildest witch-notes on the wind;And loud, and high, and strange, they rung,As many a magic change they find.Tall wax'd the Spirit's altering form,Till to the roof her stature grew;Then, mingling with the rising storm,With one wild yell, away she flew.Rain beats, hail rattles, whirlwinds tear:The slender hut in fragments flew;But not a lock of Moy's loose hairWas waved by wind, or wet by dew.Wild mingling with the howling gale,Loud bursts of ghastly laughter rise;High o'er the minstrel's head they sail,And die amid the northern skies.The voice of thunder shook the wood,As ceased the more than mortal yell;And, spattering foul, a shower of bloodUpon the hissing firebrands fell.Next, dropp'd from high a mangled arm;The fingers strain'd an half-drawn blade:And last, the life-blood streaming warm,Torn from the trunk, a gasping head.Oft o'er that head, in battling field,Stream'd the proud crest of high Benmore;That arm the broad claymore could wield,Which dyed the Teith with Saxon gore.Woe to Moneira's sullen rills!Woe to Glenfinlas' dreary glen!There never son of Albin's hillsShall draw the hunter's shaft agen!E'en the tired pilgrim's burning feetAt noon shall shun that sheltering den,Lest, journeying in their rage, he meetThe wayward Ladies of the Glen.And we—behind the chieftain's shield,No more shall we in safety dwell;None leads the people to the field—And we the loud lament must swell.O hone a rie'! O hone a rie'!The pride of Albin's line is o'er,And fallen Glenartney's stateliest tree;We ne'er shall see Lord Ronald more!

"O hone a rie'! O hone a rie'![82]"The pride of Albin's line is o'er,"And fallen Glenartney's stateliest tree;"We ne'er shall see Lord Ronald more!

O, sprung from great Macgillianore,The chief that never feared a foe,How matchless was thy broad claymore,How deadly thine unerring bow!

Well can the Saxon widows tell,How, on the Teith's resounding shore,The boldest Lowland warriors fell,As down from Lenny's pass you bore.

But o'er his hills, on festal day,How blazed Lord Ronald's beltane-tree;While youths and maids the light strathspeySo nimbly danced with Highland glee.

Cheer'd by the strength of Ronald's shell,E'en age forgot his tresses hoar;But now the loud lament we swell,O ne'er to see Lord Ronald more!

From distant isles a Chieftain came,The joys of Ronald's halls to find,And chase with him the dark-brown game,That bounds o'er Albin's hills of wind.

'Twas Moy; whom in Columba's isleThe seer's prophetic spirit found,As, with a minstrel's fire the while,He waked his harp's harmonious sound.

Full many a spell to him was known,Which wandering spirits shrink to hear;And many a lay of potent tone,Was never meant for mortal ear.

For there, 'tis said, in mystic mood,High converse with the dead they hold,And oft espy the fated shroud,That shall the future corpse enfold.

O so it fell, that on a day,To rouse the red deer from their den,The chiefs have ta'en their distant way,And scour'd the deep Glenfinlas glen.

No vassals wait their sports to aid,To watch their safety, deck their board?Their simple dress, the Highland plaid,Their trusty guard, the Highland sword.

Three summer days, through brake and dell,Their whistling shafts successful flew;And still, when dewy evening fell,The quarry to their hut they drew.

In grey Glenfinlas' deepest nookThe solitary cabin stood,Fast by Moneira's sullen brook,Which murmurs through that lonely wood.

Soft fell the night, the sky was calm,When three successive days had flown;And summer mist in dewy balmSteep'd heathy bank, and mossy stone.

The moon, half-hid in silvery flakes,Afar her dubious radiance shed,Quivering on Katrine's distant lakes,And resting on Benledi's head.

Now in their hut, in social guise,Their sylvan fare the chiefs enjoy;And pleasure laughs in Ronald's eyes,As many a pledge he quaffs to Moy.

—"What lack we here to crown our bliss,"While thus the pulse of joy beats high?"What, but fair woman's yielding kiss,"Her panting breath, and melting eye?

"To chase the deer of yonder shades,"This morning left their father's pile"The fairest of our mountain maids,"The daughters of the proud Glengyle.

"Long have I sought sweet Mary's heart,"And dropp'd the tear, and heav'd the sigh;"But vain the lover's wily art,"Beneath a sister's watchful eye.

"But thou may'st teach that guardian fair,"While far with Mary I am flown,"Of other hearts to cease her care,"And find it hard to guard her own.

"Touch but thy harp, thou soon shalt see"The lovely Flora of Glengyle,"Unmindful of her charge and me,"Hang on thy notes, 'twixt tear and smile.

"Or, if she chuse a melting tale,"All underneath the greenwood bough,"Will good St Oran's rule prevail,"Stern huntsman of the rigid brow?"—

—"Since Enrick's fight, since Morna's death,"No more on me shall rapture rise,"Responsive to the panting breath,"Or yielding kiss, or melting eyes.

"E'en then, when o'er the heath of woe,"Where sunk my hopes of love and fame,"I bade my harp's wild wailings flow,"On me the Seer's sad spirit came.

"The last dread curse of angry heaven,"With ghastly sights and sounds of woe,"To dash each glimpse of joy, was given—"The gift, the future ill to know.

"The bark thou saw'st, yon summer morn,"So gaily part from Oban's bay,"My eye beheld her dash'd and torn,"Far on the rocky Colonsay.

"Thy Fergus too—thy sister's son,"Thou saw'st, with pride, the gallant's power,"As marching 'gainst the Lord of Downe,"He left the skirts of huge Benmore.

"Thou only saw'st their tartans[83]wave,"As down Benvoirlich's side they wound,"Heard'st but the pibroch[84], answering brave"To many a target clanking round.

"I heard the groans, I mark'd the tears,"I saw the wound his bosom bore,"When on the serried Saxon spears"He pour'd his clan's resistless roar.

"And thou, who bidst me think of bliss,"And bidst my heart awake to glee,"And court, like thee, the wanton kiss—"That heart, O Ronald, bleeds for thee!

"I see the death damps chill thy brow;"I hear thy Warning Spirit cry;"The corpse-lights dance—they're gone, and now...."No more is given to gifted eye!"——

----"Alone enjoy thy dreary dreams,"Sad prophet of the evil hour!"Say, should we scorn joy's transient beams,"Because to-morrow's storm may lour?

"Or false, or sooth, thy words of woe,"Clangillian's chieftain ne'er shall fear;"His blood shall bound at rapture's glow,"Though doom'd to stain the Saxon spear.

"E'en now, to meet me in yon dell,"My Mary's buskins brush the dew;"He spoke, nor bade the chief farewell,But call'd his dogs, and gay withdrew.

Within an hour return'd each hound;In rush'd the rouzers of the deer;They howl'd in melancholy sound,Then closely couch beside the seer.

No Ronald yet; though midnight came,And sad were Moy's prophetic dreams,As, bending o'er the dying flame,He fed the watch-fire's quivering gleams.

Sudden the hounds erect their ears,And sudden cease their moaning howl;Close press'd to Moy, they mark their fearsBy shivering limbs, and stifled growl.

Untouch'd, the harp began to ring,As softly, slowly, oped the door;And shook responsive every string,As light a footstep press'd the floor.

And, by the watch-fire's glimmering light,Close by the minstrel's side was seenAn huntress maid, in beauty bright,All dropping wet her robes of green.

All dropping wet her garments seem;Chill'd was her cheek, her bosom bare,As, bending o'er the dying gleam,She wrung the moisture from her hair.

With maiden blush she softly said,"O gentle huntsman, hast thou seen,"In deep Glenfinlas' moon-light glade,"A lovely maid in vest of green:

"With her a chief in Highland pride;"His shoulders bear the hunter's bow,"The mountain dirk adorns his side,"Far on the wind his tartans flow?"

"And who art thou? and who are they?"All ghastly gazing, Moy replied:"And why, beneath the moon's pale ray,"Dare ye thus roam Glenfinlas' side?"

"Where wild Loch Katrine pours her tide,"Blue, dark, and deep, round many an isle,"Our father's towers o'erhang her side,"The castle of the bold Glengyle.

"To chase the dun Glenfinlas deer,"Our woodland course this morn we bore,"And haply met, while wandering here,"The son of great Macgillianore.

"O aid me, then, to seek the pair,"Whom, loitering in the woods, I lost;"Alone, I dare not venture there,"Where walks, they say, the shrieking ghost."

"Yes, many a shrieking ghost walks there;"Then, first, my own sad vow to keep,"Here will I pour my midnight prayer,"Which still must rise when mortals sleep."

"O first, for pity's gentle sake,"Guide a lone wanderer on her way!"For I must cross the haunted brake,"And reach my father's towers ere day."

"First, three times tell each Ave-bead,"And thrice a Pater-noster say;"Then kiss with me the holy reed;"So shall we safely wind our way."

"O shame to knighthood, strange and foul!"Go, doff the bonnet from thy brow,"And shroud thee in the monkish cowl,"Which best befits thy sullen vow.

"Not so, by high Dunlathmon's fire,"Thy heart was froze to love and joy,"When gaily rung thy raptured lyre,"To wanton Morna's melting eye."

Wild stared the Minstrel's eyes of flame,And high his sable locks arose,And quick his colour went and came,As fear and rage alternate rose.

"And thou! when by the blazing oak"I lay, to her and love resign'd,"Say, rode ye on the eddying smoke,"Or sailed ye on the midnight wind!

"Not thine a race of mortal blood,"Nor old Glengyle's pretended line;"Thy dame, the Lady of the Flood,"Thy sire, the Monarch of the Mine."

He mutter'd thrice St Oran's rhyme,And thrice St Fillan's powerful prayer;Then turn'd him to the eastern clime,And sternly shook his coal-black hair.

And, bending o'er his harp, he flungHis wildest witch-notes on the wind;And loud, and high, and strange, they rung,As many a magic change they find.

Tall wax'd the Spirit's altering form,Till to the roof her stature grew;Then, mingling with the rising storm,With one wild yell, away she flew.

Rain beats, hail rattles, whirlwinds tear:The slender hut in fragments flew;But not a lock of Moy's loose hairWas waved by wind, or wet by dew.

Wild mingling with the howling gale,Loud bursts of ghastly laughter rise;High o'er the minstrel's head they sail,And die amid the northern skies.

The voice of thunder shook the wood,As ceased the more than mortal yell;And, spattering foul, a shower of bloodUpon the hissing firebrands fell.

Next, dropp'd from high a mangled arm;The fingers strain'd an half-drawn blade:And last, the life-blood streaming warm,Torn from the trunk, a gasping head.

Oft o'er that head, in battling field,Stream'd the proud crest of high Benmore;That arm the broad claymore could wield,Which dyed the Teith with Saxon gore.

Woe to Moneira's sullen rills!Woe to Glenfinlas' dreary glen!There never son of Albin's hillsShall draw the hunter's shaft agen!

E'en the tired pilgrim's burning feetAt noon shall shun that sheltering den,Lest, journeying in their rage, he meetThe wayward Ladies of the Glen.

And we—behind the chieftain's shield,No more shall we in safety dwell;None leads the people to the field—And we the loud lament must swell.

O hone a rie'! O hone a rie'!The pride of Albin's line is o'er,And fallen Glenartney's stateliest tree;We ne'er shall see Lord Ronald more!

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