[1]From several parts of this traditionary tale it would appear, that it is a floating fragment of some ancient allegorical romance, the drift of which it is not easy to comprehend.
[1]From several parts of this traditionary tale it would appear, that it is a floating fragment of some ancient allegorical romance, the drift of which it is not easy to comprehend.
Great was the consumpt of victuals at the Abbey during the stay of the royal visitor!—the parsimonious brethren were confounded, and judged that the country would to a certainty be eaten up, and a dearth of all the necessaries of life ensue on the Border. When they beheld the immense droves of bullocks—the loads of wild hogs and fallow-deer that arrived daily from the royal forests of Ettrick and the mountains of the Lowes, together with the flocks of fat black-headed wedders,—they pressed their hands upon their lank sides, looked at their spare forms, and at one another; but not daring to make any verbal remarks, they only shaked their heads, and looked up to heaven!
Victuals were again wearing short. Gudgel, the fat caterer for that immense establishment, was out riding from morn till even in search of fat things; he delighted in the very sight of a well-fed sleek animal; it was health to his stomach, and marrow to his bones. It was observed, that, whenever he came in sight of one, he stroaked down his immense protuberance of paunch with both hands, and smacked his lips. He had been out the whole day, and was very hungry; and when hungry, he enjoyed the sight of a fat animal most. Gudgel certainly fed by the eye as well as the mouth; for it was noted, that when he was very hungry, he would have given the yeomen any price for a well-fed beast.
He had been out the whole day—had procured but little stuff, and that not of the first metal—but, on his way home, he heard of a fine well-fed boar at Eildon-Hall; so he rode off the road, and alighted to take a look of him. In a little triangular inclosure, at one corner of the yard, therehe beheld the notable boar lying at his ease, with Mumps in his bosom. Of the dog he took no notice, but the sight of the boar exhilarated him; he drew in a great mouthful of breath, closed his lips, puffed out his cheeks, and made his two hands descend with a semi-circular sweep slowly down over the buttons of his doublet. It is impossible to tell how much the sight of such a carcase delighted Gudgel!—Immoderately fat himself, his eye feasted on every thing that was so; he could not even pass by a corpulent man, nor a pampered overgrown matron, without fixing a keen glance upon them, as if calculating exactly, or to a nearness, how much they would weigh, sinking offal.
“Oh, gracious heaven! what a fine hog! Goodman Fletcher, could you think of putting such a delicious morsel as that by your masters? For shame, goodman, not to let me know before this time of such a prize as this!—The very thing!—No words: the hog is mine. Name your price—Good security,Goodman Fletcher—a king and a priest—I am so glad I have found him—I’ll have him slaughtered, and cut neatly up, as I shall direct, before I leave the house.”
A piece of sad news this for the poor boar! (Croudy the shepherd, that once was.) When Gudgel pronounced the last sentence, the animal sprung to his feet, gave a great snuff, and grunted out a moan that would have pierced any heart but Gudgel’s. “St Elijah!” said he, “what a fine animal!” and gave him a lash with his whip as he rose. Mumps snarled, and tried to bite the voluptuary in return for the unprovoked attack on his master.
Precisely about the same time that Gudgel alighted at Eildon-Hall, the two lovely and mysterious sisters met at their accustomed place in the Abbey Walk, for it chanced to be the few minutes of their appearance in mortal frame. Their eyes had still the wild unearthly dash of sublimity in them; and human eye could not scanto which state of existence they pertained, but their miens were more beautiful and serene than when they last met.
“I give you joy, dear sister,” said the one, “of our happy release! Our adversary is baffled and driven from his usurped habitation—Our woeful work of annihilation will henceforth cease, for the evil principle shall not, as we dreaded, prevail in this little world of man, in which we have received for a time a willing charge. Say what more is to be done before we leave these green hills and the Eildon Tree.”
“Much is yet to be done, my beloved Ellen,” answered the other. “As I was this day traversing the air in the form of a wild swan, I saw the Borderers coming down in full array; with a Chieftain of most undaunted might at their head. We must find means to warn the haughty Douglas, else they will cut his whole retinue to pieces; and the protector of the faithful must not fall into the hands of such men as these.”
“He hath preyed on the vitals of his subjects,” said she that spoke first; and as she spoke she fixed her eyes on the ground in a thoughtful attitude.
“It is meet he should,” said the other—“And think ye he will not meet with his guerdon better where he is than among these freemen of the Border? Think not so seriously of this matter, for it will not abide a thought—from the spider to the king, all live upon one another!—What numbers one overgrown reptile must devour, to keep the balance of nature in equipoise!”
The two lovely sisters, as she spoke this, held each other by the hand; their angelic forms were bent gently forward, and their faces toward the ground; but as they lifted these with a soft movement towards heaven, a tear was glistening in each eye. Whether these had their source from the fountain of human feelings, or from one more sublimed and pure, no man to this day can determine.
“And then what is to become of the two little changelings?” said the last speaker. “All the spells of priests and friars will avail nought without our aid.—And the wild roe-deer? And the boar of Eildon? He, I suppose, may take his fate—he is not worthy our care farther.—A selfish grovelling thing, that had much more of the brute than the man (as he should be) at first—without one principle of the heart that is worthy of preservation.”
“You are ever inclined to be severe,” said the other. “If you but saw the guise in which he is lying with his faithful dog, I think your heart would be moved to pity.”
“If I thought there was one spark of the heavenly principle of gratitude in his heart, even to his dog,” said she, “I would again renovate his frame to that image which he degraded; but I do not believe it.—Mere selfishness, because he cannot live without his dog.”
“Here is Philany’s rod,” answered theother, “go, and reconnoitre for yourself, and as you feel so act.”
She took the golden wand, and went away toward Eildon Hall; but her motion over the fields was like a thing sailing on the wind. The other glided away into the beechen grove, for there were voices heard approaching.
“Let us proceed to business, Goodman Fletcher,” said Gudgel. “I insist on seeing that fine animal properly slaughtered, blooded, and cut up, before I go away. I have a man who will do it in the nicest style you ever beheld.” The boar looked pitifully to Gudgel, and moaned so loud that Mumps fell a howling. “And I’ll tell you what we’ll do,” continued Gudgel; “we’ll have his kidneys roasted on a brander laid on the coals, and a stake cut from the inside of the shoulder.—How delicious they will be!—Pooh! I wish they were ready just now—But we’ll not be long—And we’ll have a bottle of your March beer toaccompany them.—Eh? Your charge may well afford that, goodman—Eh?”
The boar made a most determined resistance; and it was not till after he was quite spent, and more hands had been procured, that he was dragged at last forcibly to the slaughter-house, and laid upon the killing-stool, with ropes tied round his legs; these they were afraid were scarcely strong enough, and at the request of the butcher, Pery lent her garters to strengthen the tie. Never was there a poor beast in such circumstances! He screamed so incessantly that he even made matters worse. His very heart was like to break when he saw Pery lend her garters to assist in binding him. Mumps was very sorry too; he whined and whimpered, and kissed his braying friend.
The noise became so rending to the ears, that all who were present retired for a little, until the monster should be silenced. The butcher came up with his bleeding-knife, in shape like an Andro Ferrara, andfully half as long—felt for the boar’s jugular vein, and then tried the edge and point of his knife against his nail—“He has a hide like the soal of a shoe,” said the butcher; “I must take care and sort him neatly.” And so saying he went round the corner of the house to give his knife a whet on the grinding-stone.
At that very instant the beautiful angelic nymph with the golden rod came into the court-yard at Eildon-Hall, and hearing the outrageous cries in the slaughter-house, she looked in as she was passing, that being the outermost house in the square. There she beheld the woful plight of the poor boar, and could not help smiling; but when she saw honest Mumps standing wagging his tail, with his cheek pressed to that of the struggling panting victim, and always now and then gently kissing him, her heart was melted with pity. The dog cast the most beseeching look at her as she approached, which when she saw her resolution was fixed. She gave the monster three strokeswith her wand, at each of which he uttered a loud squeak; but when these were done, and some mystic words of powerful charm uttered, in half a quarter of a minute there lay—no bristly boar—but the identical Croudy the shepherd! in the same garb as when transformed at the Moss Thorn; only that his hands and feet were bound with straw ropes, strengthened and secured by the cruel Pery’s red garters.
“Bless me an’ my horn!” said Croudy, as he raised up his head from the spokes of the killing-stool; “I believe I’m turned mysel again!—I wad like to ken wha the bonny queen is that has done this; but I’m sair mistaen gin I didna see the queen o’ the fairies jink by the corner. I wonder gin the bloody hash will persist in killing me now. I’m fear’d Gudgel winna can pit aff wantin’ his pork steaks. May Saint Abednego be my shield, gin I didna think I fand my ears birstling on a brander!”
The butcher came back, singing to himself the following verse, to the tune ofTibby Fowler, which augured not well for Croudy.
“Beef stakes and bacon hamsI can eat as lang’s I’m able;Cutlets, chops, or mutton pies,Pork’s the king of a’ the table.”
“Beef stakes and bacon hamsI can eat as lang’s I’m able;Cutlets, chops, or mutton pies,Pork’s the king of a’ the table.”
As he sung this he was still examining the edge of his knife, so that he came close to his intended victim, without once observing the change that had taken place.
“Gude e’en t’ye, neighbour,” said Croudy.
The butcher made an involuntary convulsive spring, as if a thunder-bolt had struck him and knocked him away about six yards at one stroke. There he stood and stared at what he now saw lying bound with the ropes and garters, and the dog still standing by. The knife fell out of his hand—his jaws fell down on his breast, and his eyes rolled in their sockets.—“L‑‑d G‑d!” cried the butcher, as loud as he could roar,and ran through the yard, never letting one bellow abide another.
The servants met him, asking what was the matter—“Was he cut? Had he sticked or wounded himself?”
He regarded none of their questions; but dashing them aside, ran on, uttering the same passionate ejaculation with all the power that the extreme of horror could give to such a voice. Gudgel beheld him from a window, and meeting him in the entry to the house, he knocked him down. “I’ll make you stop, you scoundrel,” said he, “and tell me what all this affray means.”
“O L‑‑d, sir! the boar—the boar!” exclaimed the butcher as he raised himself with one arm from the ground, and defended his head with the other.
“The boar, you blockhead!” said Gudgel,—“what of the boar? Is he not like to turn well out?”
“He turns out to be the devil, sir—gang an’ see, gang an see,” said the butcher.
Gudgel gave him another rap with his stick, swearing that they would not get their brandered kidneys, and pork steak from the inside of the shoulder, in any reasonable time, by the madness and absurdity of that fellow, and waddled away to the slaughter-house as fast as his posts of legs could carry him. When he came there, and found a booby of a clown lying bound on the killing-stool, instead of his highly esteemed hog, he was utterly confounded, and wist not what to say, or how to express himself. He was in a monstrous rage, but he knew not on whom to vend it, his greasy wits being so completely bemired, that they were incapable of moving, turning, or comprehending any thing farther than a grievous sensation of a want not likely to be supplied by the delicious roasted kidneys, and pork steak from the inside of the shoulder. He turned twice round, puffing and gasping for breath, and always apparently looking for something he supposed he hadlost, but as yet never uttering a distinct word.
The rest of the people were soon all around him—the Goodman, Pery, Gale, and the whole household of Eildon-Hall were there, all standing gaping with dismay, and only detained from precipitate flight by the presence of one another. The defrauded Gudgel first found expression—“Where is my hog, you scoundrel?” cried he, in a tone of rage and despair.
“Ye see a’ that’s to the fore o’ him,” said Croudy.
“I say, where is my hog, you abominable caitiff?—You miserable wretch!—you ugly whelp of a beast!—tell me what you have made of my precious hog?”
“Me made o’ him!” said Croudy, “I made naething o’ him; but some ane, ye see, has made a man o’ him—It was nae swine, but me.—I tell ye, that ye see here a’ that’s to the fore o’ him.”
“Oh! oh!” groaned Gudgel, and he stroaked down his immense flanks three orfour times, every one time harder than the last. “Pooh! so then I am cheated, and betrayed, and deceived; and I shall have nothing to eat!—nothing to eat!—nothing to eat!—Goodman Fletcher, you shall answer for this;—and you, friend beast, or swine, or warlock, or whatever you may be, shall not ’scape for nought;” and, so saying, he began to belabour Croudy with his staff, who cried out lustily; and it was remarked somewhat in the same style and tenor, too, as he exhibited lately in a different capacity.
The rest of the people restrained the disappointed glutton from putting an end to the poor clown; and notwithstanding that appearances were strangely against him, yet, so well were they accustomed to Croudy’s innocent and stupid face, that they loosed him with trembling hands, Pery being as active in the work as any, untying her red garters. “I know the very knots,” said she,—“No one can tie them but myself.”
“By the Rood, my woman! gin I war but up, I’llknotyou weel eneuch,” said Croudy; and if he had not been withheld by main force, he would have torn out her hair and her eyes. He, however, accused her of being a witch, and took witnesses on it; and said, he would make oath that she had changed him into a boar on such an evening at the Moss Thorn.
Pery only laughed at the accusation, but all the rest saw it in a different light. They all saw plainly that Croudy had been metamorphosed for a time by some power of witchcraft or enchantment—they remembered how Mumps had still continued to recognise and acknowledge him in that degraded state; and hearing, as they did, his bold and intrepid accusal of Pery, they all judged that it would stand very hard with her.
When Gudgel had heard all this, he seized the first opportunity of taking Pery aside, and proposed to her, for the sake ofher own preservation, instantly to change the clown again; “And, as it is all one to you,” said he, “suppose you make him a little fatter—if you do so, I shall keep your secret—if you do not, you may stand by the consequences.”
Pery bade him, “Look to himself,—keep the secret, or not keep it, as he chose;—there were some others, who should be nameless, that were as well worth changing as Croudy.”
Gudgel’s peril appeared to him now so obvious, and the consequences so horrible, that his whole frame became paralysed from head to foot. In proportion with his delight in killing and eating the fat things of the earth, did his mind revolt at being killed and eaten himself; and when he thought of what he had just witnessed, he little wist how soon it might be his fate. He rode away from Eildon-Hall a great deal more hungry and more miserable than he came. The tale, however, soon spread, with manyaggravations; and the ill-starred Pery was taken up for a witch, examined, and committed to prison in order to stand her trial; and in the mean time the evidences against her were collected.
The Keylan Rowe.
An’ round, an’ round, an’ seven times round,An’ round about the Eildon tree!For there the ground is fairy ground,And the dark green ring is on the lea.The prayers were pray’d, and the masses said,And the waning Moon was rising slow;And ane dame sits at the Eildon-tree,Whose cheike is pale as April snow.Ane cross is claspit in her hand,Ane other lyis on her breiste bone;And the glaize of feire is on her ee,As she looks to the Eildon-stone.And aye she sung her holy hymn;It was made to charm the elfin band,And lure the little wilderit things,Whose dwelling is in Fairy-land.And first she heard the horses’ tread,Like drifting leaves come through the dell;And then she heard their bridles ring,Like rain drops tinkling on a bell.Then the wild huntsmen first came on,An’ sic ane band was never seen!Some wanted cheike, some wanted chin,And some had nouthir nose nor een;One had ane ee in his forehead,That ee was like ane glaizit pole;His breiste was like ane heck of hay;His gobe ane rounde and boral hole.And ilk ane held ane bugle horn,And loud they toutit as they gaed by—“Ycho! ycho! The Keylan Rowe!Hie to the weird-hill! huntsmen hie!“The little wee hare o’ Eildon BraeMay trip it o’er the glen, O;But nane shall bear the prize away.But Keylan and his men, O.“Gil-Mouly’s raid, and Keylan’s Rowe,Shall sweep the moore and lea, O;And the little wee hare o’ Eildon BraeIn heaven shall never be, O.“O’er wizard ground, with horse and hound,Like rattling hail we’ll bear, O—Ycho! ycho! The Keylan Rowe!The quick and dead are here, O!”Then came their collarit phantom tykis,Like ouf-dogs, an’ like gaspin grews;An’ their crukit tungis were dry for blood,An’ the red lowe firled at their flews;Then came the troopis of the Fairy folke,And O they wore ane lovely hue!Their robes were greine like the hollin leife,And thin as the web of the wiry dew.And first went by the coal-black steedis,And then a troop o’ the bonny bay;And then the milk-white bandis came on,An’ last the mooned and the merlit gray.An’ aye the sang, an’ the bridles rang,As they rode lightly rank an’ file;It was like the sound of ane maydenis voiceHeard through the greene-wood many a mile.“Hey, Gil-Mouly! Ho, Gil-Mouly!On we fly o’er steep and stile!Hey, Gil-Mouly! Ho, Gil-Mouly!Hunt the hare another mile.“Over fen and over fountain,Over downe and dusky lea;Over moss, and moore, and mountain,We will follow, follow thee!“O’er the dewy vales of even,Over tower and over tree;O’er the clouds and clefts of heaven,We will follow, follow thee!“Nae mair the dame shall young son rock,And sing her lilli-lu the while;Hey, Gil-Mouly! Ho, Gil-Mouly!Hunt the hare another mile!”The phantom huntsmen scaled the steep,“Ycho! ycho! for Keylan’s fame.”The Fairy barbs were light and fleet;The chirling echoes went and cam.The roe fled into the greine-woode,The dun deire boundit far away;But nought wald serve the hunteris rude,But the little wee hare o’ Eildon-Brae.She heard, she knew, an’ sped alone,Away, away, with panting breiste;The fairy houndis are lilting on,Like Redwings wheepling through the mist.Around, around the Eildons greine,Dashit the wild huntsmen furiouslye!Och! sic ane night was never seine,Sin’ Michael cleft these hills in three!The sky was bright, and the dame beheldThe brattling chace o’er moonlight brow;Then in the darksome shade they rushit,With yelp, and yowle, and loud halloo.O, but the little Fairy grewsSwept lightly o’er the Eildon-Brae;The houndis came youffing up behind,As fast as they could win their way.And the wild huntsmen’s gruesome tykisAll urgit the chace, but stop or stande.“Ycho! ycho! The Keylan Rowe!For earth, an’ death, or Fairy-lande!”The dame she claspit the halye roode,And dreddour wilde was in her ee;And round, and round, and seven times round,And round about the Eildon-Tree!The hunt still near and nearer drew—Weel moght the matronis herte be wae!For hard they pressit, and aft they turnitThe little wee hare o’ Eildon-Brae.They mouthit her aince, they mouthit her twice;Loud did she scream throu fear and dread;That scream was like ane bairnyis cryQuhen it is piercit in cradle-bed.But the dame behelde ane bonny hounde,White as the newly driftit snaw,That close beside the leveret kept,And wore the elfin grews awa.Hard did she toil the hare to save,For the little wee hare was sair foreworne;And the ghaistly huntsmen gatherit on,With whoop, and whoo, and bugle-horne.O but the hounde was hard bestedd!For round and round they harder press’d,—At length, beneath the Eildon-Tree,The little wee leveret found its rest.It sprung into the matronis lap,Wha row’d it in her kirtle gray;And round, and round, came horse and hound,With snort, and neigh, and howl, and bay.But the white hounde stood by her side,And wore them back full powerfullye;And round, and round, and seven times round,And round about the Eildon-Tree!They turn’d the hare within her armsA cockatrice and adder sterne;They turn’d the hare within her armsA flittering reide het gaud o’ ern.But still within her kirtle row’d,She sung her hymn and held it fast;And ere the seventh time round was won,Her child clung to his parent’s breast.“Ycho! ycho! The Keylan Rowe;”Away the fairy music sped,“The day is lost, a maid has wonne,The babe maun lie amang the dead.“The babe maun grow as grass has grown,And live, and die, and live anew,Ycho! ycho! The Keylan RoweMust vanish like the morning dew.”
An’ round, an’ round, an’ seven times round,An’ round about the Eildon tree!For there the ground is fairy ground,And the dark green ring is on the lea.
The prayers were pray’d, and the masses said,And the waning Moon was rising slow;And ane dame sits at the Eildon-tree,Whose cheike is pale as April snow.
Ane cross is claspit in her hand,Ane other lyis on her breiste bone;And the glaize of feire is on her ee,As she looks to the Eildon-stone.
And aye she sung her holy hymn;It was made to charm the elfin band,And lure the little wilderit things,Whose dwelling is in Fairy-land.
And first she heard the horses’ tread,Like drifting leaves come through the dell;And then she heard their bridles ring,Like rain drops tinkling on a bell.
Then the wild huntsmen first came on,An’ sic ane band was never seen!Some wanted cheike, some wanted chin,And some had nouthir nose nor een;
One had ane ee in his forehead,That ee was like ane glaizit pole;His breiste was like ane heck of hay;His gobe ane rounde and boral hole.
And ilk ane held ane bugle horn,And loud they toutit as they gaed by—“Ycho! ycho! The Keylan Rowe!Hie to the weird-hill! huntsmen hie!
“The little wee hare o’ Eildon BraeMay trip it o’er the glen, O;But nane shall bear the prize away.But Keylan and his men, O.
“Gil-Mouly’s raid, and Keylan’s Rowe,Shall sweep the moore and lea, O;And the little wee hare o’ Eildon BraeIn heaven shall never be, O.
“O’er wizard ground, with horse and hound,Like rattling hail we’ll bear, O—Ycho! ycho! The Keylan Rowe!The quick and dead are here, O!”
Then came their collarit phantom tykis,Like ouf-dogs, an’ like gaspin grews;An’ their crukit tungis were dry for blood,An’ the red lowe firled at their flews;
Then came the troopis of the Fairy folke,And O they wore ane lovely hue!Their robes were greine like the hollin leife,And thin as the web of the wiry dew.
And first went by the coal-black steedis,And then a troop o’ the bonny bay;And then the milk-white bandis came on,An’ last the mooned and the merlit gray.
An’ aye the sang, an’ the bridles rang,As they rode lightly rank an’ file;It was like the sound of ane maydenis voiceHeard through the greene-wood many a mile.
“Hey, Gil-Mouly! Ho, Gil-Mouly!On we fly o’er steep and stile!Hey, Gil-Mouly! Ho, Gil-Mouly!Hunt the hare another mile.
“Over fen and over fountain,Over downe and dusky lea;Over moss, and moore, and mountain,We will follow, follow thee!
“O’er the dewy vales of even,Over tower and over tree;O’er the clouds and clefts of heaven,We will follow, follow thee!
“Nae mair the dame shall young son rock,And sing her lilli-lu the while;Hey, Gil-Mouly! Ho, Gil-Mouly!Hunt the hare another mile!”
The phantom huntsmen scaled the steep,“Ycho! ycho! for Keylan’s fame.”The Fairy barbs were light and fleet;The chirling echoes went and cam.
The roe fled into the greine-woode,The dun deire boundit far away;But nought wald serve the hunteris rude,But the little wee hare o’ Eildon-Brae.
She heard, she knew, an’ sped alone,Away, away, with panting breiste;The fairy houndis are lilting on,Like Redwings wheepling through the mist.
Around, around the Eildons greine,Dashit the wild huntsmen furiouslye!Och! sic ane night was never seine,Sin’ Michael cleft these hills in three!
The sky was bright, and the dame beheldThe brattling chace o’er moonlight brow;Then in the darksome shade they rushit,With yelp, and yowle, and loud halloo.
O, but the little Fairy grewsSwept lightly o’er the Eildon-Brae;The houndis came youffing up behind,As fast as they could win their way.
And the wild huntsmen’s gruesome tykisAll urgit the chace, but stop or stande.“Ycho! ycho! The Keylan Rowe!For earth, an’ death, or Fairy-lande!”
The dame she claspit the halye roode,And dreddour wilde was in her ee;And round, and round, and seven times round,And round about the Eildon-Tree!
The hunt still near and nearer drew—Weel moght the matronis herte be wae!For hard they pressit, and aft they turnitThe little wee hare o’ Eildon-Brae.
They mouthit her aince, they mouthit her twice;Loud did she scream throu fear and dread;That scream was like ane bairnyis cryQuhen it is piercit in cradle-bed.
But the dame behelde ane bonny hounde,White as the newly driftit snaw,That close beside the leveret kept,And wore the elfin grews awa.
Hard did she toil the hare to save,For the little wee hare was sair foreworne;And the ghaistly huntsmen gatherit on,With whoop, and whoo, and bugle-horne.
O but the hounde was hard bestedd!For round and round they harder press’d,—At length, beneath the Eildon-Tree,The little wee leveret found its rest.
It sprung into the matronis lap,Wha row’d it in her kirtle gray;And round, and round, came horse and hound,With snort, and neigh, and howl, and bay.
But the white hounde stood by her side,And wore them back full powerfullye;And round, and round, and seven times round,And round about the Eildon-Tree!
They turn’d the hare within her armsA cockatrice and adder sterne;They turn’d the hare within her armsA flittering reide het gaud o’ ern.
But still within her kirtle row’d,She sung her hymn and held it fast;And ere the seventh time round was won,Her child clung to his parent’s breast.
“Ycho! ycho! The Keylan Rowe;”Away the fairy music sped,“The day is lost, a maid has wonne,The babe maun lie amang the dead.
“The babe maun grow as grass has grown,And live, and die, and live anew,Ycho! ycho! The Keylan RoweMust vanish like the morning dew.”
As the beautiful fairy-dame, or guardian spirit, or whatever she was, had predicted, so it came to pass. The Borderers, alarmed at the danger of the king, came down a thousand strong, thinking to surprise Douglas, and take their monarch out of his hands by force; and they would have effected it with ease, had not the Earl received some secret intelligence of their design. No one ever knew whence he had this intelligence, nor could he comprehend or explain it himself, but it had the effect of defeating the bold and heroic attempt. They found him fully prepared—a desperate battle ensued—120 men were left dead on the field—and then things remained precisely in the same state as they had been before.
The court left Melrose shortly after—the king felt as if he stood on uncertain ground—a sort of mystery always hung around him, which he never could develope; but ere he went, he presided at the trial of the maiden Pery, who stood indicted, as theChoronikkle of Mailrosbears, for being “Ane ranke wytche and enchaunteresse, and leigged hand and kneife with the devil.”
A secret examination of the parties first took place, and the proof was so strong against the hapless Pery, that all hopes of escape vanished. There was Croudy ready to make oath to the truth of all that he had advanced with regard to his transmutation, and there were others who had seen her coming down from the Moss-Thorn at the very time that Croudy appeared to have been changed, just before he made his dashing entry into the loan among the cows; and even old Father Rubely had, after minute investigation, discovered the witch-mark, both on her neck and thumb-nail. The king would gladly have saved her, when he beheld her youth and beauty, but he had sworn to rid the country of witches, and no excuse could be found. All the people of the country were sorry on account of Pery, but all believed her guilty, and avoided her, except Gale, who, having had the courage to visit her, tried her with the repetition of prayers and creeds, and found that she not only said them without hesitation, but with great devotional warmth; therefore he became convinced that she was not a witch. She told him her tale with that simplicity, that he could not disbelieve it, and withal confessed, that her inquisitors had very nearly convinced her that she was a witch; and that she was on the point of making a confession that had not the slightest foundation in truth. The shepherd was more enlightened than the worthy clergyman, asshepherds generally are, and accounted for this phenomenon in a truly philosophical way. Pery assented; for whatever Gale said sounded to her heart as the sweetest and most sensible thing that ever was said. She loved him to distraction, and adversity had subtilized, not abated the flame. Gale found his heart interested—he pitied her, and pity is allied to love. How to account for the transformation of Croudy, both were completely at a loss; but they agreed that it was the age of witchery, and no one could say what might happen! Gale was never from the poor culprit’s side: He condoled with her—wept over her—and even took her in his arms, and impressed a tender kiss on her pale lips. It was the happiest moment of Pery’s existence! She declared, that since she was pure in his eyes, she would not only suffer without repining, but with delight.
As a last resource, Gale sought out Croudy, and tried to work upon him to give adifferent evidence at the last and final trial; but all that he could say, Croudy remained obstinately bent on her destruction.
“It’s needless for ye to waste your wind clatterin English, man,” said Croudy, “for foul fa’ my gab gin I say ony sic word. She didna only change me intil an ill-faurd he-sow, but guidit me shamefully ill a’ the time I was a goossy—kickit me wi’ her fit, an’ yerkit me wi’ a rung till I squeeled, and then leuch at me—An’ warst ava, gae the butcher her gairtens to bind me, that he might get me bled, an’ plottit, an’ made into beef-steaks—de’il be on her gin I be nae about wi’ her now!”
Gale, hoping that he would relent if he saw her woeful plight, besought of him to go and see her; but this he absolutely refused, for fear lest she should “turn him into some daft-like beast,” as he expressed it. “Let her tak it,” said he, “she weel deserves a’ that she’s gaun to get—the sooner she gets a fry the better—Odd, there’s nae body sure o’ himsel a minute that’s nearher—I never gang ower the door but I think I’ll come in a goossy or a cuddy-ass—How wad ye like to gang plowin up the gittars for worms and dockan-roots wi’ your nose, as I did!”
It was in vain that Gale assured him of her innocence, and told him how religious she was, and how well she loved him. Croudy remained obstinate.
“I wadna gie a boddle,” said he, “for a woman’s religion, nor for her love neither—mere traps for moudiworts. They may gar a fool like you trow that ae thing’s twa, an’ his lug half a bannock—Gin I wad rue an’ save her life, it wadna be lang till I saw her carrying you out like a taed in the erntings, an’ thrawin ye ower the ass-midden.”
Gale asked if he would save her, if she would pledge herself to marry him, and love him for ever?
“Me marry a witch!” said Croudy—“A bonny hand she would make o’ me, sooth! Whenever I displeased her, turn me into a beast—But ilka woman has thatpower,” added he with a grin,—“an’ I fancy few o’ them mislippin it. The first kind thought I ever had toward a woman made a beast o’ me—an’ it will do the same wi’ every man as weel as me, gin he wist it. As she has made her bed, she may lie down. I shall fling a sprot to the lowe.”
Gale was obliged to give him up, but in the deepest bitterness of soul he gave him his malison, which, he assured him, would not fall to the ground. Pery was tried, and condemned to be choaked and burnt at the stake on the following day; and Croudy, instead of relenting, was so much afraid of himself, that he was all impatience until the cruel scene should be acted. His behaviour had, however, been witnessed and detested by some of whom he was not aware; for that very evening, as he was on his way home, he beheld a nymph coming to meet him, whom he took for Pery, dressed in her Sunday clothes, for one of the mysterious maids had taken her form. Hewas terrified out of his wits when he beheld her at liberty, and falling flat on his face, he besought her, with a loud voice, to have mercy on him.
“Such as you have bestowed,” said she; and giving him three strokes with her wand, he was changed into a strong brindled cat, in which form, he remains to this day; and the place of his abode is no secret to the relater of this tale. He hath power one certain night in the year to resume his natural shape, and all the functions of humanity; and that night he dedicates to the relation of the adventures of each preceding year. Many a secret and unsuspected amour, and many a strange domestic scene, hath he witnessed, in his capacity of mouser, through so many generations; and a part of these are now in the hands of a gentleman of this country, who intends making a good use of them.
Poor Pery, having thus fallen a victim to the superstition of the times, she wist nothow, was pitied and shunned by all except Gale, whom nothing could tear from her side; and all the last day and night that were destined for her to live, they lay clasped in each other’s arms. While they were thus conversing in the most tender and affectionate way, Pery told her lover a dream that she had seen the night before. She dreamed, she said, that they were changed into two beautiful birds, and had escaped away into a wild and delightful mountain, where they lived in undecaying happiness and felicity, and fed on the purple blooms of the heath.
“O that some pitying power—some guardian angel over the just and the good, would but do this for us!” said Gale, “and release my dearest Pery from this ignominious death!” and as he said this, he clasped his beloved maiden closer and closer in his arms. They both wept, and, in this position, they sobbed themselves sound asleep.
Next morning, before the rising of the sun, two young ladies, beautiful as cherubs, came to the jailor and asked admittance to the prisoner, by order of the king. The jailor took off his bonnet, bowed his grey head, and opened to them. The two lovers were still fast asleep, locked in each other’s arms, in a way so endearing, and at the same time so modest, that the two sisters stood for a considerable time bending over them in delightful amazement.
“There is a delicacy and a pathos in this love,” said the one, “into which the joys of sense have shed no ingredient. As their innocence in life hath been, so shall it remain;” and kneeling down, she gave three gentle strokes with her small golden rod, touching both with it at a time. The two lovers trembled, and seemed to be in slight convulsions; and in a short time they fluttered round the floor two beautiful moor-fowl, light of heart, and elated with joy. The two lovely and mysterious visitors then took them up, wrapt them in theirsnowy veils, and departed, each of them carrying one; and coming to Saint Michael’s Cross, they there dismissed them from their palms, after addressing them severally as follows:
“Hie thee away, my bonny moor-hen!Keep to the south of the Skelf-hill Pen;Blithe be thy heart, and soft thy bed,Amang the blooms of the heather so red.When the weird is sped that I must dree,I’ll come and dwell in the wild with thee.Keep thee afar from the fowler’s ken—Hie thee away, my bonny moor-hen.”“Cock of the mountain, and king of the moor,A maiden’s bennison be thy dower;For gentle and kind hath been thy life,Free from malice, and free from strife.Light be thy heart on the mountain grey,And loud thy note at the break of day.When five times fifty years are gone,I’ll seek thee again ’mong the heath alone,And change thy form, if that age shall proveAn age that virtue and truth can love.True be thy love, and far thy reign,On the Border dale, till I see thee again.”
“Hie thee away, my bonny moor-hen!Keep to the south of the Skelf-hill Pen;Blithe be thy heart, and soft thy bed,Amang the blooms of the heather so red.When the weird is sped that I must dree,I’ll come and dwell in the wild with thee.Keep thee afar from the fowler’s ken—Hie thee away, my bonny moor-hen.”
“Cock of the mountain, and king of the moor,A maiden’s bennison be thy dower;For gentle and kind hath been thy life,Free from malice, and free from strife.Light be thy heart on the mountain grey,And loud thy note at the break of day.When five times fifty years are gone,I’ll seek thee again ’mong the heath alone,And change thy form, if that age shall proveAn age that virtue and truth can love.True be thy love, and far thy reign,On the Border dale, till I see thee again.”
When the jailor related what had happened, it may well be conceived what consternation prevailed over the whole country. The two moor-fowl were soon discovered on a wild hill in Tiviotdale, where they have remained ever since, until last year, that Wauchope shot the hen. He suspected what he had done, and was extremely sorry, but kept the secret to himself. On viewing the beauty of the bird, however, he said to himself,—“I believe I have liked women as well as any man, but not so well as to eat them; however, I’ll play a trick upon some, and see its effect. Accordingly he sent the moor-hen to a friend of his in Edinburgh, at whose table she was divided among a circle of friends and eaten, on the 20th of October 1817, and that was the final end of poor Pery, the Maid of Eildon. The effect on these gentlemen has been prodigious—the whole structure of their minds and feelings has undergone a complete change, and thatgrievously to the worse; and even their outward forms, on a near inspection, appear to be altered considerably. This change is so notorious as to have become proverbial all over the New Town of Edinburgh. When any one is in a querulous or peevish humour, they say,—“He has got a wing of Wauchope’s moor-hen.”
The cock is still alive, and well known to all the sportsmen on the Border, his habitation being on the side of Caret Rigg, which no moor-fowl dares to approach. As the five times fifty years are very nearly expired, it is hoped no gentleman will be so thoughtless as wantonly to destroy this wonderful and mysterious bird, and we may then live to have the history of the hunting, the fowling, fishing, and pastoral employments of that district, with all the changes that have taken place for the last two hundred and fifty years, by an eye-witness of them.
The king returned towards Edinburghon the 14th of September, and on his way had twelve witches condemned and burnt at the Cross of Leader, after which act of duty his conscience became a good deal lightened, and his heart cheered in the ways of goodness; he hoped, likewise, to be rid of the spells of those emissaries of Satan that had beleaguered him all his life.
After they had passed the Esk, his two favourite white hounds were missing; the huntsmen judged them to be following some track, and waited till night, calling them always now and then aloud by their names. They were however lost, and did not return, nor could they ever be found, although called at every Cross in the kingdom, and high rewards offered.
On that very eve Elen and Clara of Rosline returned to their native halls, after having been lost for seven weeks. They came to the verge of the tall cliff towards the east, from whence they had a view of the stately towers of Rosline, then in theirpride of baronial strength. The sun had shed his last ray from the summit of the distant Ochils; the Esk murmured in obscurity far below their feet; its peaceful bendings here and there appeared through the profusion of woodland foliage, uniting the brightness of crystal with the hues of the raven. All the linns and woody banks of the river re-echoed the notes of the feathered choir. To have looked on such a scene, one might have conceived that he dwelt in a world where there was neither sin nor sorrow; but, alas! the imperfections of our nature cling to us; they wind themselves round the fibres of the conscious heart, so that no draught of pure and untainted delight can ever allay its immortal earnings. How different would such a scene appear to perfect and sinless creatures, whose destiny did not subject them to the terrors of death, and the hideous and mouldy recesses of the grave! Were it possible for us to conceive that two suchbeings indeed looked on it, we might form some idea of their feelings, and even these faint ideas would lend a triple grandeur and beauty to such an evening, and indeed to every varied scene of nature, on which our eyes chanced to rest.
“Sister,” said Clara, “we are again in sight of our native home, and the walks of our days of innocence; say, are our earthly forms and affections to be resumed, or are our bonds with humanity to be broken for ever? You have now witnessed the king of Scotland’s private life—all his moods, passions, and affections—are you content to be his queen, and sovereign of the realm?”
“Sooner would I be a worm that crawls among these weeds, than subject myself to the embraces, humours, and caprices of such a thing—A king is a block, and his queen a puppet—happiness, truth, and purity of heart are there unknown—Mention some other tie to nature, or let us bid it adieu for ever without a sigh.”
“We have a widowed mother, beautiful, affectionate, and kind.”
“That is the only bond with mortality which I find it difficult to break, for it is a wicked and licentious world—snares were laid for us on every side—our innocence was no shield—and, sister, do not you yet tremble to think of the whirlpool of conflicting passions and follies from which we were so timeously borne away?”
The lovely Clara bowed assent; and away they went hand in hand once more to visit and embrace their earthly parent. They found her in the arms of a rude and imperious pirate, to whom she had subjected herself and her wide domains. They found themselves step-daughters in the halls that of right belonged to them, and instead of fond love and affection, regarded with jealousy and hate. Short and sorrowful was their stay; they embraced their mother once again; bade her farewell with looks of sorrow, and walking out to thefairy ring in the verge of the wood, vanished from the world for ever. It is said, that once in every seven years their forms are still to be seen hovering nigh to the ruins of Rosline. Many are the wild and incomprehensible traditions that remain of them over the country, and there are likewise some romantic scraps of song, besides the verses that are preserved in the foregoing chapter, which are supposed to relate to them. Many have heard the following verses chaunted to a tune resembling a dirge: