THE GRAY BROTHER,

First of his troop, the chief rode on.—P.418. v. 5.

The head of the family of Hamilton, at this period, was James, Earl of Arran, Duke of Chatelherault, in France, and first peer of the Scottish realm. In 1569, he was appointed by Queen Mary her lieutenant-general in Scotland, under the singular title of her adopted father.

The Mountain Bull comes thundering on.—P.419. v. 3.

In Caledonia olim frequens erat sylvestris quidam bos, nunc vero rarior, qui colore candissimo, jubam densam et demissam instar leonis gestat, truculentus ac ferus ab humano genere abhorrens, ut quæcunque homines vel manibus contrectarint, vel halitu perflaverunt, ab iis multos post dies omnino abstinuerunt. Ad hoc tanta audacia huic bovi indita erat, ut non solum irritatus equites furenter prosterneret, sed ne tantillum lacessitus omnes promiscue homines cornibus, ac ungulis peteret; ac canum, qui apud nos ferocissimi sunt impetus plane contemneret. Ejus carnes cartilaginosæ sed saporis suavissimi. Erat is olim per illam vastissimam Caledoniæ sylvam frequens, sed humana ingluvie jam assumptus tribus tantum locis est reliquus, Strivilingii Cumbernaldiæ et Kincarniæ.—Leslæus Scotiæ Descriptio, p. 13.

Stern Claud replied, with darkening face,(Grey Pasley's haughty lord was he).—P.420. v. 4.

Lord Claud Hamilton, second son of the Duke of Chatelherault, and commendator of the abbey of Paisley, acted a distinguished part during the troubles of Queen Mary's reign, and remained unalterably attached to the cause of that unfortunate princess. He led the van of her army at the fatal battle of Langside, and was one of the commanders at the Raid of Stirling, which had so nearly given complete success to the queen's faction. He was ancestor of the present Marquis of Abercorn.

Few suns have set since Woodhouselee.—P.420. v. 5.

This barony, stretching along the banks of the Esk, near Auchindinny, belonged to Bothwellhaugh, in right of his wife. The ruins of the mansion, from whence she was expelled in the brutal manner which occasioned her death, are still to be seen in a hollow glen beside the river. Popular report tenants them with the restless ghost of the lady Bothwellhaugh; whom, however, it confounds with Lady Anne Bothwell, whoseLamentis so popular. This spectre is so tenacious of her rights, that, a part of the stones of the ancient edifice having been employed in building or repairing the present Woodhouselee, she has deemed it a part of her privilege to haunt that house also; and, even of very late years, has excited considerable disturbance and terror among the domestics. This is a more remarkable vindication of therights of ghosts, as the present Woodhouselee, which gives his title to the honourable Alexander Fraser Tytler, a senator of the college of justice, is situated on the slope of the Pentland hills, distant at least four miles from her proper abode. She always appears in white, and with her child in her arms.

Whose bloody poniard's frantic strokeDrives to the leap his jaded steed.—P.422. v. 1.

Birrell informs us, that Bothwellhaugh, being closely pursued, "after that spur and wand had fail'd him, he drew forth his dagger, and strocke his horse behind, whilk caused the horse to leap a verey brode stanke (i.e.ditch), by whilk means he escaipit, and gat away from all the rest of the horses."—Birrel'sDiary, p. 18.

From the wild Border's humbled side,In haughty triumph, marched he.—P.423. v. 1.

Murray's death took place shortly after an expedition to the borders; which is thus commemorated by the author of his elegy:

"So having stablischt all thing in this sort,"To Liddisdaill agane he did resort,"Throw Ewisdail, Eskdail, and all the daills rode he,"And also lay three nights in Cannabie,"Whair na prince lay thir hundred yeiris before."Nae thief durst stir, they did him feir so sair;"And, that thay suld na mair thair thift allege,"Threescore and twelf he brocht of thame in pledge,"Syne wardit thame, whilk maid the rest keep ordour,"Than mycht the rasch-bus keep ky on the bordour."

Scottish Poems, 16th century, p. 232.

With hackbut bent, my secret stand.—P.423, v. 3.

The carbine, with which the regent was shot, is preserved at Hamilton palace. It is a brass piece, of a middling length, very small in the bore, and, what is rather extraordinary, appears to have been rifled or indented in the barrel. It had a matchlock, for which a modern fire-lock has been injudiciously substituted.

Dark Morton, girt with many a spear.—P.423. v. 4.

Of this noted person it is enough to say, that he was active in the murder of David Rizzio, and at least privy to that of Darnley.

The wild Macfarlanes' plaided clan.—P.423. v. 4.

This clan of Lennox Highlanders were attached to the regent Murray. Holinshed, speaking of the battle of Langsyde, says, "in this batayle the valiancie of an hieland gentleman, named Macfarlane, stood the regent's part in great steede; for, in the hottest brunte of the fighte, he came up with two hundred of his friendes and countrymen, and so manfully gave in upon the flankes of the queen's people, that he was a great cause of the disordering of them. This Macfarlane had been lately before, as I have heard, condemned to die, for some outrage by him committed, and obtayning pardon through suyte of the Countesse of Murray, he recompenced that clemencie by this piece of service now at this batayle." Calderwood's account is less favourable to the Macfarlanes. He states that "Macfarlane, with his highlandmen, fled from the wing where they were set. The Lord Lindsay, who stood nearest to them in the regent's battle, said 'Let them go! I shall fill their place better:' and so, stepping forward, with a company of fresh men, charged the enemy, whose spears were now spent, with long weapons, so that they were driven back by force, being before almost overthrown by the avaunt-guard and harquebusiers, and so were turned to flight."—Calderwood'sMS.apudKeith, p. 480. Melville mentions the flight of the vanguard, but states it to have been commanded by Morton, and composed chiefly of commoners of the barony of Renfrew.

Glencairn and stout Parkhead were nigh,Obsequious at their regent's rein.—P.423. v. 5.

The Earl of Glencairn was a steady adherent of the regent. George Douglas of Parkhead was a natural brother of the Earl of Morton, whose horse was killed by the same ball, by which Murray fell.

And haggard Lindesay's iron eye,That saw fair Mary weep in vain.—P.423. v. 5.

Lord Lindsay, of the Byres, was the most ferocious and brutal of the regent's faction, and, as such, was employed to extort Mary's signature to the deed of resignation, presented to her in Lochleven castle. He discharged his commission with the most savage rigour; and it is even said, that when the weeping captive, in the act of signing, averted her eyes from the fatal deed, he pinched her arm with the grasp of his iron glove.

Scarce could his trampling charger move,So close the minions crowded nigh.—P.424.v. 1.

Not only had the regent notice of the intended attempt upon his life, but even of the very house from which it was threatened.—With that infatuation, at which men wonder, after such events have happened, he deemed it would be a sufficient precaution to ride briskly past the dangerous spot. But even this was prevented by the crowd: so that Bothwellhaugh had time to take a deliberate aim.—Spottiswoode, p. 233.Buchanan.

FOOTNOTES:[93]They were formerly kept in the park at Drumlanrig, and are still to be seen at Chillingham Castle in Northumberland. For their nature and ferocity, see Notes.[94]This was Sir James Ballenden, lord justice-clerk, whose shameful and inhuman rapacity occasioned the catastrophe in the text.Spottiswoode.[95]This projecting gallery is still shown. The house, to which it was attached, was the property of the archbishop of St Andrews, a natural brother of the Duke of Chatelherault, and uncle to Bothwellhaugh. This, among many other circumstances, seems to evince the aid which Bothwellhaugh received from his clan in effecting his purpose.[96]The gift of Lord John Hamilton, Commendator of Arbroath.[97]Pryse—The note blown at the death of the game.[98]Selle—Saddle. A word used by Spenser, and other ancient authors.[99]Hackbut bent—Gun cock'd.

[93]They were formerly kept in the park at Drumlanrig, and are still to be seen at Chillingham Castle in Northumberland. For their nature and ferocity, see Notes.

[94]This was Sir James Ballenden, lord justice-clerk, whose shameful and inhuman rapacity occasioned the catastrophe in the text.Spottiswoode.

[95]This projecting gallery is still shown. The house, to which it was attached, was the property of the archbishop of St Andrews, a natural brother of the Duke of Chatelherault, and uncle to Bothwellhaugh. This, among many other circumstances, seems to evince the aid which Bothwellhaugh received from his clan in effecting his purpose.

[96]The gift of Lord John Hamilton, Commendator of Arbroath.

[97]Pryse—The note blown at the death of the game.

[98]Selle—Saddle. A word used by Spenser, and other ancient authors.

[99]Hackbut bent—Gun cock'd.

A FRAGMENT.

NEVER BEFORE PUBLISHED.—WALTER SCOTT.

The imperfect state of this ballad, which was written several years ago, is not a circumstance affected for the purpose of giving it that peculiar interest, which is often found to arise from ungratified curiosity. On the contrary, it was the editor's intention to have completed the tale, if he had found himself able to succeed to his own satisfaction. Yielding to the opinion of persons, whose judgment, if not biassed by the partiality of friendship, is entitled to deference, the editor has preferred inserting these verses, as a fragment, to his intention of entirely suppressing them.

The tradition, upon which the tale is founded, regards a house, upon the barony of Gilmerton, near Laswade, in Mid-Lothian. This building, now called Gilmerton Grange, was originally named Burndale, from the following tragic adventure. The barony of Gilmerton belonged, of yore, to a gentleman, named Heron, who had one beautiful daughter. This young lady was seduced by the abbot of Newbottle, a richly endowed abbey, upon the banks of the south Esk, now a seat of the marquis of Lothian. Heron came to the knowledge of this circumstance, and learned also, that the lovers carried on their guilty intercourse by the connivance of the lady's nurse, who lived at this house of Gilmerton Grange, or Burndale. He formed a resolution of bloody vengeance, undeterred by the supposed sanctity of the clerical character, or by the stronger claims of natural affection. Chusing, therefore, a dark and windy night, when the objects of his vengeance were engaged in a stolen interview, he set fire to a stack of dried thorns, and other combustibles, which he had caused to be piled against the house, and reduced to a pile of glowing ashes the dwelling, with all its inmates.[100]

The scene, with which the ballad opens, was suggested by the following curious passage, extracted from the life of Alexander Peden, one of the wandering and persecuted teachers of the sect of Cameronians, during the reign of Charles II. and his successor, James. This person was supposed by his followers, and, perhaps, really believed himself, to be possessed of supernatural gifts; for the wild scenes, which they frequented, and the constant dangers, which were incurred through their proscription, deepened upon their minds the gloom of superstition, so general inthat age.

"About the same time he (Peden) came to Andrew Normand's house, in the parish of Alloway, in the shire of Ayr, being to preach at night in his barn. After he came in, he halted a little, leaning upon a chair-back, with his face covered; when he lifted up his head, he said, 'There are in this house that I have not one word of salvation unto;' he halted a little again, saying, 'This is strange, that the devil will not go out, that we may begin our work!' Then there was a woman went out, ill-looked upon almost all her life, and to her dying hour, for a witch, with many presumptions of the same. It escaped me, in the former passages, that John Muirhead (whom I have often mentioned) told me, that when he came from Ireland to Galloway, he was at family-worship, and giving some notes upon the Scripture, when a very ill-looking man came, and sate down within the door, at the back of thehallan(partition of the cottage): immediately he halted, and said, 'There is some unhappy body just now come into this house. I charge him to go out, and not stop my mouth!' The person went out, and heinsisted(went on), yet he saw him neither come in nor go out."—The Life and Prophecies of Mr Alexander Peden, late Minister of the Gospel at New Glenluce, in Galloway, Part II. § 26.

The Pope he was saying the high, high mass,All on saint Peter's day,With the power to him given, by the saints in heaven,To wash men's sins away.The pope he was saying the blessed mass,And the people kneel'd around,And from each man's soul his sins did pass,As he kiss'd the holy ground.And all, among the crowded throng,Was still, both limb and tongue,While thro' vaulted roof, and aisles aloof,The holy accents rung.At the holiest word, he quiver'd for fear,And faulter'd in the sound—And, when he would the chalice rear,He dropp'd it on the ground."The breath of one of evil deed"Pollutes our sacred day;"He has no portion in our creed,"No part in what I say."A being, whom no blessed word"To ghostly peace can bring;"A wretch, at whose approach abhorr'd,"Recoils each holy thing."Up! up! unhappy! haste, arise!"My adjuration fear!"I charge thee not to stop my voice,"Nor longer tarry here!"Amid them all a pilgrim kneel'd,In gown of sackcloth gray;Far journeying from his native field,He first saw Rome that day.For forty days and nights, so drear,I ween, he had not spoke,And, save with bread and water clear,His fast he ne'er had broke.Amid the penitential flock,Seem'd none more bent to pray;But, when the Holy Father spoke,He rose, and went his way.Again unto his native land,His weary course he drew,To Lothian's fair and fertile strand,And Pentland's mountains blue.His unblest feet his native seat,Mid Eske's fair woods, regain;Thro' woods more fair no stream more sweetRolls to the eastern main.And lords to meet the Pilgrim came,And vassals bent the knee;For all mid Scotland's chiefs of fame,Was none more famed than he.And boldly for his country, still,In battle he had stood,Aye, even when, on the banks of Till,Her noblest pour'd their blood.Sweet are the paths, O passing sweet!By Eske's fair streams that run,O'er airy steep, thro' copsewood deep,Impervious to the sun.There the rapt poet's step may rove,And yield the muse the day;There Beauty, led by timid Love,May shun the tell-tale ray;From that fair dome, where suit is paid,By blast of bugle free,To Auchendinny's hazel glade,And haunted Woodhouselee.Who knows not Melville's beechy grove,And Roslin's rocky glen,Dalkeith, which all the virtues love,And classic Hawthornden?Yet never a path, from day to day,The pilgrim's footsteps range,Save but the solitary wayTo Burndale's ruin'd Grange.A woeful place was that, I ween,As sorrow could desire;For, nodding to the fall was each crumbling wall,And the roof was scathed with fire.It fell upon a summer's eve,While on Carnethy's head,The last faint gleams of the sun's low beamsHad streak'd the gray with red;And the convent-bell did vespers tell,Newbottle's oaks among,And mingled with the solemn knellOur Ladye's evening song:The heavy knell, the choir's faint swell,Came slowly down the wind,And on the pilgrim's ear they fell,As his wonted path he did find.Deep sunk in thought, I ween, he was,Nor ever rais'd his eye,Untill he came to that dreary place,Which did all in ruins lie.He gazed on the walls, so scathed with fire,With many a bitter groan—And there was aware of a Gray Friar,Resting him on a stone."Now, Christ thee save!" said the Gray Brother;"Some pilgrim thou seemest to be."But in sore amaze did Lord Albert gaze,Nor answer again made he."O come ye from east, or come ye from west,"Or bring reliques from over the sea,"Or come ye from the shrine of St James the divine,"Or St John of Beverly?""I come not from the shrine of St James the divine,"Nor bring reliques from over the sea;"I bring but a curse from our father, the Pope,"Which for ever will cling to me.""Now, woeful pilgrim, say not so!"But kneel thee down by me,"And shrive thee so clean of thy deadly sin,"That absolved thou mayst be.""And who art thou, thou Gray Brother,"That I should shrive to thee,"When he, to whom are giv'n the keys of earth and heav'n,"Has no power to pardon me?""O I am sent from a distant clime,"Five thousand miles away,"And all to absolve a foul, foul crime,"Donehere'twixt night and day."The pilgrim kneel'd him on the sand,And thus began his saye—When on his neck an ice-cold handDid that Gray Brother laye.

The Pope he was saying the high, high mass,All on saint Peter's day,With the power to him given, by the saints in heaven,To wash men's sins away.

The pope he was saying the blessed mass,And the people kneel'd around,And from each man's soul his sins did pass,As he kiss'd the holy ground.

And all, among the crowded throng,Was still, both limb and tongue,While thro' vaulted roof, and aisles aloof,The holy accents rung.

At the holiest word, he quiver'd for fear,And faulter'd in the sound—And, when he would the chalice rear,He dropp'd it on the ground.

"The breath of one of evil deed"Pollutes our sacred day;"He has no portion in our creed,"No part in what I say.

"A being, whom no blessed word"To ghostly peace can bring;"A wretch, at whose approach abhorr'd,"Recoils each holy thing.

"Up! up! unhappy! haste, arise!"My adjuration fear!"I charge thee not to stop my voice,"Nor longer tarry here!"

Amid them all a pilgrim kneel'd,In gown of sackcloth gray;Far journeying from his native field,He first saw Rome that day.

For forty days and nights, so drear,I ween, he had not spoke,And, save with bread and water clear,His fast he ne'er had broke.

Amid the penitential flock,Seem'd none more bent to pray;But, when the Holy Father spoke,He rose, and went his way.

Again unto his native land,His weary course he drew,To Lothian's fair and fertile strand,And Pentland's mountains blue.

His unblest feet his native seat,Mid Eske's fair woods, regain;Thro' woods more fair no stream more sweetRolls to the eastern main.

And lords to meet the Pilgrim came,And vassals bent the knee;For all mid Scotland's chiefs of fame,Was none more famed than he.

And boldly for his country, still,In battle he had stood,Aye, even when, on the banks of Till,Her noblest pour'd their blood.

Sweet are the paths, O passing sweet!By Eske's fair streams that run,O'er airy steep, thro' copsewood deep,Impervious to the sun.

There the rapt poet's step may rove,And yield the muse the day;There Beauty, led by timid Love,May shun the tell-tale ray;

From that fair dome, where suit is paid,By blast of bugle free,To Auchendinny's hazel glade,And haunted Woodhouselee.

Who knows not Melville's beechy grove,And Roslin's rocky glen,Dalkeith, which all the virtues love,And classic Hawthornden?

Yet never a path, from day to day,The pilgrim's footsteps range,Save but the solitary wayTo Burndale's ruin'd Grange.

A woeful place was that, I ween,As sorrow could desire;For, nodding to the fall was each crumbling wall,And the roof was scathed with fire.

It fell upon a summer's eve,While on Carnethy's head,The last faint gleams of the sun's low beamsHad streak'd the gray with red;

And the convent-bell did vespers tell,Newbottle's oaks among,And mingled with the solemn knellOur Ladye's evening song:

The heavy knell, the choir's faint swell,Came slowly down the wind,And on the pilgrim's ear they fell,As his wonted path he did find.

Deep sunk in thought, I ween, he was,Nor ever rais'd his eye,Untill he came to that dreary place,Which did all in ruins lie.

He gazed on the walls, so scathed with fire,With many a bitter groan—And there was aware of a Gray Friar,Resting him on a stone.

"Now, Christ thee save!" said the Gray Brother;"Some pilgrim thou seemest to be."But in sore amaze did Lord Albert gaze,Nor answer again made he.

"O come ye from east, or come ye from west,"Or bring reliques from over the sea,"Or come ye from the shrine of St James the divine,"Or St John of Beverly?"

"I come not from the shrine of St James the divine,"Nor bring reliques from over the sea;"I bring but a curse from our father, the Pope,"Which for ever will cling to me."

"Now, woeful pilgrim, say not so!"But kneel thee down by me,"And shrive thee so clean of thy deadly sin,"That absolved thou mayst be."

"And who art thou, thou Gray Brother,"That I should shrive to thee,"When he, to whom are giv'n the keys of earth and heav'n,"Has no power to pardon me?"

"O I am sent from a distant clime,"Five thousand miles away,"And all to absolve a foul, foul crime,"Donehere'twixt night and day."

The pilgrim kneel'd him on the sand,And thus began his saye—When on his neck an ice-cold handDid that Gray Brother laye.

From that fair dome, where suit is paid,By blast of bugle free.—P.439. v. 4.

The barony of Pennycuik, the property of Sir George Clerk, Bart. is held by a singular tenure; the proprietor being bound to sit upon a large rocky fragment, called the Buckstane, and wind three blasts of a horn, when the king shall come to hunt on the Borough Muir, near Edinburgh. Hence, the family have adopted, as their crest, a demi-forester proper, winding a horn, with the motto,Free for a Blast. The beautiful mansion-house of Pennycuik is much admired, both on account of the architecture and surrounding scenery.

To Auchendinny's hazel glade.—P.439. v. 4.

Auchendinny, situated upon the Eske, below Pennycuik, the present residence of the ingenious H. Mackenzie, Esq., author of theMan of Feeling, &c.

And haunted Woodhouselee.—P.439. v. 4.

For the traditions connected with this ruinous mansion, see the Ballad ofCadyow Castle, p.410.

Who knows not Melville's beechy grove.—P.439. v. 5.

Melville Castle, the seat of the honourable Robert Dundas, member for the county of Mid-Lothian, is delightfully situated upon the Eske, near Laswade. It gives the title of viscount to his father, Lord Melville.

And Roslin's rocky glen.—P.439. v. 5.

The ruins of Roslin Castle, the baronial residence of the ancient family of St Clair, the Gothic chapel, which is still in beautiful preservation, with the romantic and woody dell in which they are situated, belong to the Right Honourable the Earl of Rosslyn, the representative of the former lords of Roslin.

Dalkeith, which all the virtues love.—P.439. v. 5.

The village and castle of Dalkeith belonged, of old, to the famous Earl of Morton, but is now the residence of the noble family of Buccleuch. The park extends along the Esk, which is there joined by its sister stream, of the same name.

And classic Hawthornden.—P.439. v. 5.

Hawthornden, the residence of the poet Drummond. A house, of more modern date, is inclosed, as it were, by the ruins of the ancient castle, and overhangs a tremendous precipice, upon the banks of the Eske, perforated by winding caves, which, in former times, formed a refuge to the oppressed patriots of Scotland. Here Drummond received Ben Jonson, who journeyed from London, on foot, in order to visit him. The beauty of this striking scene has been much injured, of late years, by the indiscriminate use of the axe. The traveller now looks in vain for the leafy bower,

"Where Jonson sate in Drummond's social shade."

Upon the whole, tracing the Eske from its source, till it joins the sea, at Musselburgh, no stream in Scotland can boast such a varied succession of the most interesting objects, as well as of the most romantic and beautiful scenery.

FOOTNOTES:[100]This tradition was communicated to me by John Clerk, Esq. of Eldin, author of anEssay upon Naval Tactics, who will be remembered by posterity, as having taught the Genius of Britain to concentrate her thunders, and to launch them against her foes with an unerring aim.

[100]This tradition was communicated to me by John Clerk, Esq. of Eldin, author of anEssay upon Naval Tactics, who will be remembered by posterity, as having taught the Genius of Britain to concentrate her thunders, and to launch them against her foes with an unerring aim.

BY THE EDITOR.

"Nennius.Is not peace the end of arms?Caratach.Not where the cause implies a general conquest.Had we a difference with some petty isle,Or with our neighbours, Britons, for our landmarks,The taking in of some rebellious lord,Or making head against a slight commotion,After a day of blood, peace might be argued:But where we grapple for the land we live on,The liberty we hold more dear than life,The gods we worship, and, next these, our honours,And, with those, swords, that know no end of battle—Those men, beside themselves, allow no neighbour,Those minds, that, where the day is, claim inheritance,And, where the sun makes ripe the fruit, their harvest,And, where they march, but measure out more groundTo add to Rome——It must not be.—No! as they are our foes,Let's use the peace of honour—that's fair dealing;But in our hands our swords. The hardy Roman,That thinks to graft himself into my stock,Must first begin his kindred under ground,And be allied in ashes."——

"Nennius.Is not peace the end of arms?

Caratach.Not where the cause implies a general conquest.Had we a difference with some petty isle,Or with our neighbours, Britons, for our landmarks,The taking in of some rebellious lord,Or making head against a slight commotion,After a day of blood, peace might be argued:But where we grapple for the land we live on,The liberty we hold more dear than life,The gods we worship, and, next these, our honours,And, with those, swords, that know no end of battle—Those men, beside themselves, allow no neighbour,Those minds, that, where the day is, claim inheritance,And, where the sun makes ripe the fruit, their harvest,And, where they march, but measure out more groundTo add to Rome——It must not be.—No! as they are our foes,Let's use the peace of honour—that's fair dealing;But in our hands our swords. The hardy Roman,That thinks to graft himself into my stock,Must first begin his kindred under ground,And be allied in ashes."——

Bonduca.

The following War-Song was written during the apprehension of an invasion. The corps of volunteers, to which it was addressed, was raised in 1797, consisting of gentlemen, mounted and armed at their own expence. It still subsists, as the Right Troop of the Royal Mid-Lothian Light Cavalry, commanded by the Honourable Lieutenant-Colonel Dundas. The noble and constitutional measure of arming freemen in defence of their own rights, was no where more successful than in Edinburgh, which furnished a force of 3000 armed and disciplined volunteers, including a Regiment of Cavalry, from the city and county, and two Corps of Artillery, each capable of serving twelve guns. To such a force, above all others, might, in similar circumstances, be applied the exhortation of our ancient Galgacus: "Proinde ituri in aciem, et majores vestros et posteros cogitate."

To horse! to horse! the standard flies,The bugles sound the call;The Gallic navy stems the seas,The voice of battle's on the breeze,Arouse ye, one and all!From high Dunedin's towers we come,A band of brothers true;Our casques the leopard's spoils surround,With Scotland's hardy thistle crown'd;We boast the red and blue.[101]Though tamely crouch to Gallia's frown,Dull Holland's tardy train;Their ravish'd toys though Romans mourn,Though gallant Switzers vainly spurn,And, foaming, gnaw the chain;O! had they mark'd the avenging callTheir brethren's murder gave,Disunion ne'er their ranks had mown,Nor patriot valour, desperate grown,Sought freedom in the grave!Shall we, too, bend the stubborn head,In Freedom's temple born,Dress our pale cheek in timid smile,To hail a master in our isle,Or brook a victor's scorn?No! though destruction o'er the landCome pouring as a flood,The sun, that sees our falling day,Shall mark our sabres' deadly sway,And set that night in blood.For gold let Gallia's legions fight,Or plunder's bloody gain;Unbribed, unbought, our swords we draw,To guard our King, to fence our Law,Nor shall their edge be vain.If ever breath of British galeShall fan the tri-color,Or footstep of invader rude,With rapine foul, and red with blood,Pollute our happy shore,—Then farewell home! and farewell friends!Adieu each tender tie!Resolved, we mingle in the tide,Where charging squadrons furious ride,To conquer, or to die.To horse! to horse! the sabres gleam;High sounds our bugle call;Combined by honour's sacred tie,Our word isLaws and Liberty!March forward, one and all!

To horse! to horse! the standard flies,The bugles sound the call;The Gallic navy stems the seas,The voice of battle's on the breeze,Arouse ye, one and all!

From high Dunedin's towers we come,A band of brothers true;Our casques the leopard's spoils surround,With Scotland's hardy thistle crown'd;We boast the red and blue.[101]

Though tamely crouch to Gallia's frown,Dull Holland's tardy train;Their ravish'd toys though Romans mourn,Though gallant Switzers vainly spurn,And, foaming, gnaw the chain;

O! had they mark'd the avenging callTheir brethren's murder gave,Disunion ne'er their ranks had mown,Nor patriot valour, desperate grown,Sought freedom in the grave!

Shall we, too, bend the stubborn head,In Freedom's temple born,Dress our pale cheek in timid smile,To hail a master in our isle,Or brook a victor's scorn?

No! though destruction o'er the landCome pouring as a flood,The sun, that sees our falling day,Shall mark our sabres' deadly sway,And set that night in blood.

For gold let Gallia's legions fight,Or plunder's bloody gain;Unbribed, unbought, our swords we draw,To guard our King, to fence our Law,Nor shall their edge be vain.

If ever breath of British galeShall fan the tri-color,Or footstep of invader rude,With rapine foul, and red with blood,Pollute our happy shore,—

Then farewell home! and farewell friends!Adieu each tender tie!Resolved, we mingle in the tide,Where charging squadrons furious ride,To conquer, or to die.

To horse! to horse! the sabres gleam;High sounds our bugle call;Combined by honour's sacred tie,Our word isLaws and Liberty!March forward, one and all!

O! had they mark'd the avenging callTheir brethren's murder gave.—P.449. v. 2.

The allusion is to the massacre of the Swiss guards, on the fatal 10th August, 1792. It is painful, but not useless, to remark, that the passive temper with which the Swiss regarded the death of their bravest countrymen, mercilessly slaughtered in discharge of their duty, encouraged and authorized the progressive injustice, by which the Alps, once the seat of the most virtuous and free people upon the continent, have, at length, been converted into the citadel of a foreign and military despot. A state degraded is half enslaved.

FOOTNOTES:[101]The Royal Colours.

[101]The Royal Colours.

BY THE REV. JOHN MARRIOTT, A. M.

In the account ofWalter Scottof Harden's way of living, it is mentioned, that "when the last Bullock was killed and devoured, it was the Lady's custom to place on the table a dish, which, on being uncovered, was found to contain a pair of clean Spurs; a hint to the Riders, that they must shift for their next meal."See Introduction, p. 88.

The speakers in the following stanzas areWalter Scottof Harden, and his wife,Mary Scott,the Flower of Yarrow.

"Haste, ho! my dame, what cheer the night?"I look to see your table dight,"For I ha'e been up since peep o' light,"Driving the dun deer merrilie."Wow! but the bonnie harts and raesAre fleet o' foot on Ettricke braes;My gude dogs ne'er, in a' their days,Forfoughten were sae wearilie."Frae Shaws to Rankelburn we ranA score, that neither stint nor blan;And now ahint the breckans[102]stan',And laugh at a' our company."We've passed through monie a tangled cleugh,We've rade fu' fast o'er haugh and heugh;I trust ye've got gude cheer eneughTo feast us a' right lustilie."—"Are ye sae keen-set, Wat? 'tis weel;Ye winna find a dainty meal;It's a' o' the gude Rippon steel,Ye maun digest it manfullie."Nae ky are left in Harden Glen;Ye maun be stirring wi' your men;Gin ye soud bring me less than ten,I winna roose[103]your braverie."—"Are ye sae modest ten to name?"Syne, an I bring na twenty hame,"I'll freely gi'e ye leave to blame"Baith me, and a' my chyvalrie."I coud ha'e relished better cheer,"After the chace o' sic-like deer;"But, trust me, rowth o' Southern gear"Shall deck your lard'ner speedilie."When Stanegirthside I last came by,"A bassened bull allured mine eye,"Feeding amang a herd o' kye;"O gin I looked na wistfullie!"To horse! young Jock shall lead the way;"And soud the warden tak the fray"To mar our riding, I winna say,"But he mote be in jeopardie."The siller moon now glimmers pale;"But ere we've crossed fair Liddesdale,"She'll shine as brightlie as the bale[104]"That warns the water hastilie."O leeze me on her bonnie light!"There's nought sae dear to Harden's sight,"Troth, gin she shone but ilka night,"Our clan might live right royallie."Haste, bring your nagies frae the sta',"And lightlie louping, ane and a',"Intull your saddles, scour awa',"And ranshakle[105]the Southronie."Let ilka ane his knapscap[106]lace;"Let ilka ane his steil-jack brace;"And deil bless him that sall disgrace"Walter o' Harden's liverie!"—

"Haste, ho! my dame, what cheer the night?"I look to see your table dight,"For I ha'e been up since peep o' light,"Driving the dun deer merrilie.

"Wow! but the bonnie harts and raesAre fleet o' foot on Ettricke braes;My gude dogs ne'er, in a' their days,Forfoughten were sae wearilie.

"Frae Shaws to Rankelburn we ranA score, that neither stint nor blan;And now ahint the breckans[102]stan',And laugh at a' our company.

"We've passed through monie a tangled cleugh,We've rade fu' fast o'er haugh and heugh;I trust ye've got gude cheer eneughTo feast us a' right lustilie."—

"Are ye sae keen-set, Wat? 'tis weel;Ye winna find a dainty meal;It's a' o' the gude Rippon steel,Ye maun digest it manfullie.

"Nae ky are left in Harden Glen;Ye maun be stirring wi' your men;Gin ye soud bring me less than ten,I winna roose[103]your braverie."—

"Are ye sae modest ten to name?"Syne, an I bring na twenty hame,"I'll freely gi'e ye leave to blame"Baith me, and a' my chyvalrie.

"I coud ha'e relished better cheer,"After the chace o' sic-like deer;"But, trust me, rowth o' Southern gear"Shall deck your lard'ner speedilie.

"When Stanegirthside I last came by,"A bassened bull allured mine eye,"Feeding amang a herd o' kye;"O gin I looked na wistfullie!

"To horse! young Jock shall lead the way;"And soud the warden tak the fray"To mar our riding, I winna say,"But he mote be in jeopardie.

"The siller moon now glimmers pale;"But ere we've crossed fair Liddesdale,"She'll shine as brightlie as the bale[104]"That warns the water hastilie.

"O leeze me on her bonnie light!"There's nought sae dear to Harden's sight,"Troth, gin she shone but ilka night,"Our clan might live right royallie.

"Haste, bring your nagies frae the sta',"And lightlie louping, ane and a',"Intull your saddles, scour awa',"And ranshakle[105]the Southronie.

"Let ilka ane his knapscap[106]lace;"Let ilka ane his steil-jack brace;"And deil bless him that sall disgrace"Walter o' Harden's liverie!"—

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