CHAPTER XIX.

"In myddis of June, that jolly sweet sessoun,Quhen that fair Ph[oe]bus, with his beamis brycht,Had dryit up the clew fra daill and doun,And all the land made with his lemys lycht;In a morning betwene mid-day and nycht,I raiss and put all sluith and sleep on syde;Ontill a wod I went allone, but gyd. (glad?)Sueit was the smell of flowris quhyt and reid,The noyis of birdis rycht delitious;The bewis brod blumyt abune my heid;The grund gowand with grassis gratiousOf all pleasans that place was plenteous,With sueit odours and birdis armonie;The mornyng mild my mirth was mair forthy.

Sueit was the smell of flowris quhyt and reid,The noyis of birdis rycht delitious;The bewis brod blumyt abune my heid;The grund gowand with grassis gratiousOf all pleasans that place was plenteous,With sueit odours and birdis armonie;The mornyng mild my mirth was mair forthy.

Henryson was contemporary with William Dunbar, a poet, says Sir Walter Scott, unrivalled by any that Scotland has ever produced. He flourished at the court of James IV. His poems are of all sorts, allegorical, moral and comic. The following lines on the brevity of human existence are a fair specimen of his style.

This wavering warld's wretchedness,The failing and fruitless business,The misspent time, the service vain,For to consider is ane pain.The sliding joy, the gladness short,The perjured love, the false comfort,The seveir abade (delay), the slightful train (snare),For to consider is ane pain.The sugared mouths, with minds therefra,The figured speech, with faces tway;The pleasing tongues, with hearts unplain,For to consider is ane pain.

This wavering warld's wretchedness,The failing and fruitless business,The misspent time, the service vain,For to consider is ane pain.

The sliding joy, the gladness short,The perjured love, the false comfort,The seveir abade (delay), the slightful train (snare),For to consider is ane pain.

The sugared mouths, with minds therefra,The figured speech, with faces tway;The pleasing tongues, with hearts unplain,For to consider is ane pain.

In another poem he takes a more cheerful view of life.

Be merry, man, and tak' not sair in mindThe wavering of this wretched world of sorrow;To God be humble, to thy friend be kind,And with thy neighbors gladly lend and borrow,His chance to-night, it may be thine to-morrow, &c.

From Dunfermline, we cross the country in thedirection of Stirling, and of course linger to view the famous battle-ground of Bannockburn, immortalized by the prowess of Scotland, and the poetry of Burns.

But we approach Stirling Castle, one of the oldest and most imposing strongholds in the country. How often have these old rocks rung again, "with blast of bugle free;" and how frequently has the ground at its base been soaked with human blood! The castle stands on a huge ledge of basaltic rock, rising rapidly from the plain, and overlooking the country far and near, and backed by the rising ground on which the city is built. Ascending to the summit we pass round it, by a narrow pathway cut in the sides of the mountain, and thence enjoy the most extensive and delightful views. How charmingly the Links of the Forth, as the serpentine windings of the river are called, adorn the rich vale, in which they love to linger, as if loth to depart. To the north and east are the Ochil hills, "vestured" in blue, and looking down upon fertile fields, umbrageous woods, and stately mansions. On the west lies the vale of Menteith, and far off the Highland mountains, lost in the mist. On another side are the pastoral hills of Campsie, and underneath our eye the town of Stirling, the Abbey Craig, and the ruins of Cambuskenneth Abbey. The Forth, with "isles of emerald," and white sails skimming its glassy surface, expands into the German Ocean; and Edinburgh Castle, just descried amid the haze, crowns the distant landscape. Stirling was a favorite residenceof the Stuarts; but the castle is now employed only as a barracks for soldiery.

Leaving the castle we pass into the city, by High Street, adorned with several palaces of the old nobility, antique-looking edifices, of a solid structure. Here was the palace of the Regent, Earl of Mar, whose descendants were the keepers of Stirling Castle. Here too was the palace of Sir William Alexander, "the philosophical poet" of the court of James the Sixth, and tutor to Charles the First, who created him Earl of Stirling. But an object of still greater interest is the tower where George Buchanan, the historian of Scotland, and one of the first scholars of his age, lived and wrote. He was tutor to James the Sixth of Scotland, and First of England. He wrote a paraphrase of the Psalms in elegant Latin verse, of which he was a perfect master. Most of this work was composed in a monastery in Portugal, to which he had been confined by the Inquisition about the year 1550. It was continued in France, and finished in Scotland. His prose works, particularly his history of Scotland, are characterized by clearness and research. His celebrated contemporary, Dr. Arthur Johnston, was equally distinguished for the variety of his attainments, and his perfect command of the Latin tongue; so that the one has been called the Scottish Virgil, and the other the Scottish Ovid. The Latin version of the Psalms by Buchanan is still used in some of the Scottish schools. It is elegant and faithful, but somewhat formal and paraphrastic.

There are many objects of interest in Stirling, and the scenery around is rich and beautiful, and, moreover, associated in every part, with recollections of the olden time; but we cannot linger here. The stage-coach is waiting to take us to Falkirk, a town of great antiquity, having been the site of one of those military stations on the wall made by the Romans at their invasion of the country, known by the name of the Forts of Agricola. It was also the scene of one or two famous battles in the days of Wallace and Bruce. Being the principal town in the midst of a rich agricultural country, it is now the scene of immense fairs ortrysts, as they are called, to which large droves of Highland cattle are brought annually for sale, and where an immense amount of business is transacted. But there is nothing here of sufficient interest to detain us; so we proceed in the rail-cars to Edinburgh. In passing, we get a glimpse of the castle and palace of Linlithgow; in the twefth century one of the most important burghs in Scotland, the residence of several of the kings of Scotland, and the birth-place of Queen Mary.

"Of all the palaces so fairBuilt for the royal dwellingIn Scotland, far beyond compareLinlithgow is excelling.And in its park, in genial June,How sweet the merry linnet's tune,How blythe the blackbird's lay,The wild buck bells from thorny brakeThe coot dives merry on the lake,The saddest heart might pleasure takeTo see a scene so gay."—Marmion.

When Robert Bruce was lying in Torwood Castle, not far from Falkirk, a man by the name of Binnoch, a farmer in the neighborhood, who supplied the garrison at Linlithgow, then in possession of the English king, proposed to Bruce to take possession of the garrison by a stratagem, which he accomplished. This incident has been wrought into a lively form by Wilson, not Professor Wilson, but John Mackie Wilson, author of the Border Tales, of whom I shall have something to say by and by. The following is his account of the matter, somewhat condensed.

Having been introduced to Bruce at Torwood, Binnoch intimated that he had something of great importance to communicate, and inquired whether he might speak with confidence. Being assured that he might, he proceeded thus:

"Aweel sir, the business I cam' upon is just this. I supply the garrison, ye see sir, o' Lithgow wi' hay; now I've observed that they're a' wheen idle, careless fellows, mair ta'en up wi' their play than their duty."

Bruce's eye here kindled with a sudden fire, and his whole countenance became animated with an expression of fierce eagerness that strongly contrasted with its former placidity. He was now all attention to the communication of his humble visitor.

"What! the castle of Linlithgow, friend!" exclaimed Bruce, with a slight smile of mingled surprise and incredulity. "Youtake the castle ofLinlithgow! Pray, my good fellow, how would you propose to do that?"

"Why sir, by a very simple process," replied Binnoch, undauntedly, "I wad put a dizen or fifteen stout weel armed, resolute fellows, in my cart, cover them owre wi' hay, and introduce them into the garrison as a load o' provender. If they were ance in, an' the cheils were themselves of the richt stuff, I'll wad my head to a pease bannock that the castle's ours in fifteen minutes."

"And would you undertake to do this, my good friend?" said Bruce, gravely, struck with the idea, and impressed with its practicability.

"Readily, and wi' a richt guid will, sir," replied Binnoch, "provided ye fin' me the men; but they maun be the very wale o' your flock; its no a job for faint hearts or nerveless arms."

"The men ye shall have, my brave fellow; and if ye succeed your country will be indebted to you. But it is a perilous undertaking; there will be hard fighting, and ye may lose your head by it. Have you thought of that?"

"I have, sir," replied Binnoch, firmly. "As to the fechtin', we are like to gie them as guid as we get. And for the hangin', the Scotsman is no deservin' o' the name that's no ready to brave death, in any form, for his country."

Bruce caught the enthusiasm of the speaker; a tear started into his eye, and seizing the hand of the humble patriot—

"My noble fellow," he said, "would to God all Scotsmen were like thee. Beneath that homelyplaid of thine there beats a heart of which any knight in Christendom might be proud. Lose or win, this shall not be forgotten."

Having made the necessary arrangements, and agreed upon a sign, for communicating with each other, Binnoch took his departure from the castle of Torwood.

The next day the men selected by Bruce were at Binnoch's house, having been admitted through the preconcerted signal. They repaired to the barn, and were snugly packed away in the hay cart, armed with steel caps and short swords. Everything being in readiness, Binnoch hid a sword amongst the hay, for his own use, and in such a situation that he could easily seize it when wanted. He also provided himself with a poniard, which he concealed beneath his waistcoat. Thus prepared at all points, the intrepid peasant set forward with his load of daring hearts, and having arrived at the castle, he and his cart were immediately admitted. They proceeded onwards till they came to the centre of the court-yard, when Binnoch gave the preconcerted signal to his associates, which was conveyed in the words, spoken in a loud voice—"Forward, Greystail, forward!" as if addressing his horse, which he at the same time struck with his whip to complete the deception.

These words were no sooner uttered than the hay, with which the daring adventurers were covered, was seen to move, and the next instant it was thrown over upon the pavement, to theinexpressible amazement of the idlers who were looking on; and, to their still greater surprise, fifteen armed men leapt, with fearful shouts, into the court-yard, when, being instantly headed by Binnoch, the work of death began. Every man within their reach at the moment was cut down. The guard-room was assailed, and all in it put to death, and passing from apartment to apartment, they swept the garrison, and took possession of it. The attack had been so sudden, so unexpected, and so vigorous, that its unfortunate occupants, six times their number, had no time to rally or defend themselves, and thus fell an easy prey to the bold adventurers.

We have only to add that Binnoch was rewarded by Bruce, for this important service, with some valuable lands in the parish of Linlithgow; and that his descendants had for their arms ahay-wain, with the motto,virtute doloque.[160]

By the way, these two words,courageandstratagem, express the very spirit and essence of ancient war, and indeed of all war, a relic of barbarism, the most foul and horrible the world has ever seen. Defensible, perhaps, in cases of extremity, when it is the last and only means of protecting our homes and altars, but in all other cases a fearful atrocity, fit only for cannibals and demons!

But yonder are the peaceful towers ofEdinburgh, bathed in the sombre light of evening. The very castle looks like an image of repose, as it silently looms up amid the smoke and hum of the busy city. Signs of peace and prosperity are every where around us, indicating, if we have not yet reached, that at least we are approaching that happy time when "men shall beat their swords into plough-shares, and their spears into pruning hooks."

"O scenes surpassing fable, and yet true,Scenes of accomplished bliss! which who can see,Though but in distant prospect, and not feelHis soul refreshed with foretaste of the joy?"

Journey to Peebles—Characters—Conversation on Politics—Scottish Peasantry—Peebles—"Christ's Kirk on the Green"—A Legend—An old Church—The Banks of the Tweed—Its ancient Castles—The Alarm Fire—Excursion to the Vales of Ettrick and Yarrow—Stream of Yarrow—St. Mary's Lake and Dryhope Tower—"The Dowie Dens of Yarrow"—Growth of Poetry—Ballads and Poems on Yarrow by Hamilton, Logan and Wordsworth.

On a cold, drizzly morning we start, in a substantial stage-coach, well lined with cushions inside, for the ancient town of Peebles, which lies to the south of Edinburgh, some twenty-five miles or more. The 'outsides' are wrapped in cloaks and overcoats, and literally covered in with umbrellas; and from their earnest talking seem to be tolerably comfortable. The "Scottish mist," cold and penetrating, would soon reach the skin of an unsheltered back; all hands, therefore, and especially the driver in front, and the guard behind, are muffled to the neck with cravats and other appliances. Eyes and mouth only are visible, not indeed to the passers by, but to the denizens of the stage-coach, who cling together for warmth and sociability. Our travelling companions inside are a Dominie from Auchingray, fat as a capon, with face round, sleek and shiny, little gray eyes glancing beneath a placid forehead, and indicating intelligence and goodnature; and a south-country laird, a large, brawny man, with a huge face and huger hat, corduroy breeches and top boots, a coat that nearly covers the whole of his body, and a vest of corresponding dimensions. A mighty cravat is tied neatly around his capacious throat, and a couple of large gold seals dangle from beneath his vest. In addition to these two, a little man, thin and wrinkled, but with a clear, quick, restless eye, is sitting in the corner, squeezed into a rather straight place by the laird and the dominie. From his appearance and conversation, we should take him to be a lawyer. With some little difficulty we get into conversation, but once set agoing, it jogs on at a pretty fair pace. Insensibly it glides into politics, and becomes rather lively. The lawyer is evidently a whig, the laird a tory of the old stamp, and the dominie neither the one nor the other, but rather more of a tory than anything else, as he is dependent, in some sense, upon 'the powers that be.'

"For my part," says the laird, taking hold of his watch-seals, and twirling them energetically, "I do not believe in your two-faced radicals, who have more impudence in their noddles than money in their pockets, and who go routing about the country, crying up democracy and all that sort of stuff, to the great injury of her majesty's subjects."

"But, my dear sir," replies the lawyer, "you forget that money is not thesummum bonumof human life, and that the gentlemen to whom you refer are not impudent radicals, but clear-headed and patriotic whigs."

"All gammon, sir! all gammon!" is the rejoinder of the laird, "I wouldn't give a fig for the whole pack. One or two of them, I admit, are tolerably respectable men. Lord John Russel belongs to the old nobility, and is a man of some sense, but sadly deceived, full of nonsensical plans and dangerous reforms. As to Dan. O'Connel, he is an old fox, a regular Irish blackguard, who has not heart enough to make a living by honest means, but fleeces it out of the starving Irish, in the shape of repeal rent! Hang the rascal, I should be glad to see him gibbeted! Hume is a mean, beggarly adventurer. And even Sir Robert Peel, with all his excellences, has made sad mistakes on the subject of reform and the corn laws. He's not the thing, after all! Sadly out of joint, sir, sadly out of joint!"

All this is said with such terrible energy, and such a menacing frown, that even the lawyer cowers a little, and the dominie is almost frightened. We think it best, upon the whole, to say little. But, plucking up courage, the lawyer replies:

"Sir, you come to conclusions that are too sweeping. That Lord John Russel is a man of clear intellect and admirable forethought no one will think of denying. His plans are well matured, and, moreover, aim at the good of his country. Hume is a great political economist: Sir R. Peel is a man of the highest order of mind; and Daniel O'Connel, with all his faults, possesses uncommonpowers of eloquence, and, doubtless, seeks the good of his country."

"The good of his country! All humbug, sir! If you had said his own good, you would have come nearer the mark. He's a rascal, sir, rely on it, a mean cowardly rascal, who, pretending to benefit the poor Irish, fills his own pockets with their hard earnings. I appeal to Mr. Cooper here, my respected friend, the parish schoolmaster of Auchingray."

To which the dominie replies demurely:

"As to my opinion, gentlemen, it is not of much consequence, but such as it is I give with all candor. In the first place I opine that we are liable somewhat to yield to our prejudices in estimating the characters of public men; for, as my old friend, the Rev. Mr. Twist, used to say, they have 'twa maisters to serve, the government and the public, and it's unco difficult sometimes to sail between Scylla and Charybdis.' Moreover, these are trying times, and much of primitive integrity and patriotism are lost. For myself, I do not approve altogether of the course of the whigs, and especially of the radicals. Daniel O'Connel is a devoted Catholic, with no generous aspirations, or enlarged conceptions of the public weal. A great man, certainly, a wonderful orator, no doubt, but much tinctured with selfishness, and carried away by wild and prurient schemes. Lord John Russel is a man of decided talent and fine character, but I have not much confidence, after all, in his practical wisdom, and good common sense. Sir RobertPeel, however is, with some slight exceptions, a model statesman, a man of a wonderfully clear, well balanced mind, and a deep insight into men and things. Still, as my friend on the left says, he's somewhat out of joint just now, and, for my own part, I could never altogether approve his schemes."

"There sir," quickly interposed the laird, "There sir! didn't I tell you, sir? All humbug, sir! Nothing safe—nothing useful about the whigs! Give me the good old days of my grandfather, when the rascals dared not peep or mutter!"

"But you forget, sir," is the answer of the lawyer, "that your friend, the schoolmaster here, has admitted nearly all for which I contend."

"Admitted nothing, sir! Comes to nothing, sir! And to tell you the plain honest truth, I believe the whole pack of them are a set of humbugs! All sham, sir! nothing but hypocrisy and humbug!"

"But a modification of the corn laws is certainly desirable for the sake of the poorer classes, many of whom are living upon the merest trifle:"—we venture to remark.

"All a mistake, sir! all a mistake! An honest, sensible man can always make his way, and secure bread for his family!"

"Well, but surely you consider a shilling or eighteen pence a day rather miserable support!"

"Not at all, sir! not at all! They're used to it, and thousands of them are happier than you or I!"

"Upon this point we beg leave to doubt, and hope the time is not far distant when the common people will have cheap bread:"—we quietly rejoin.

"Amen!" responds the dominie. "That I am confident would be an improvement; but how it is to be brought about is a question of great difficulty. The common people of Scotland are not so poorly off as foreigners represent them. Their habits are primitive and simple, and I certainly have known many families, particularly in the country, make themselves very comfortable on eighteen pence or a couple of shillings a day."

"Give us an example, if you please!"

"Why, there is James Thomson, a working man, who makes, upon an average, say eighteen pence or a couple of shillings sterling (fifty cents) daily, through the year. He has a wife and four children. He built himself a kind of stone and turf cottage on the edge of one of Lord B.'s plantations, with a but and a ben,[161]and a little out-house. One day I called in to see him about one of his children, and, in the course of conversation, asked him how he got along."

"Brawly;"[162]was the reply.

"Can you make 'the twa ends meet' at the close of the year?"

"Yes," said he, "and something mair than that. Last Candlemas I laid up nae less than ten and saxpence."

"But how can you do it. Have you any land to cultivate?"

"A wee bittock," was the answer, "but it's graund for taties and turnips."

"Have you a cow?"

"O aye, we have a coo, and a gude coo she is."

"Well, what have you for victuals?"

"The best o' parritch and milk in the morning, and at nicht. And as for denner, we ha' nae great variety, but what's wholesome eneuch. And ye ken, Dominie C., that hunger's the best sauce."

"True enough, but excuse me, I should like to know what you generally have for dinner."

"Ou," said he, laughing, "the graundest kail i' the world, made o' barley, butter and vegetables, wi' a bit o' beef, or a marrow bane in't once in a while, and mealy tatties, scones and cakes, the very best in the kintra!"

"Well, you're content!"

"To be sure we are! and gratefu', besides, to the Giver o' a' gude."

"But you have a little pinch occasionally—in the cold and stormy winter weather?"

"Why ye-s—but it's nae mair than a body may expeck, and it's a great deal less than we deserve. For mysel' I ha' nae great reason to complain, but Sandy Wilson, ower the way, has had a sair time on't."

"What's the matter?"

"Why, ye see, Sandy is no very able-bodied, and maybe a little shiftless, and he fell sick about the middle o' winter. His wife is a proud kind o' body, and she said naething to the neebors, and I jalouse they had a sair pinching time on't. The wee bit lassie seemed to be dwining awa', and Sandy, puir fellow, was just at death's door. Butthe minister o' the parish found it out, and Sandy was soon provided for. Hech sir! we ought to be thankfu' that we hae our health. It's a great blessing. For if a man only has health and a clear conscience he needna fear famine or the deevil."

"Sandy then got over his troubles, did he?"

"In a measure," was the cautious reply, "but the puir wee lassie grew paler and paler; and noo her bonny brown hair is covered wi' the yird. She was a sweet bit lassie, but she was frail in the constitootion, ye see, and the hard famishing winter was ower muckle for her feeble frame. But she was weel cared for on her sick bed. And when she died, the hail kintra side turned out to attend the funeral, and mony tears were shed upon her wee bit grave. My Mary, who gaed to school wi' her, canna get ower it to this day. She was an unco bonny thing—sweet as the mornin' wat wi' dew, and gentle as a pet lamb. But her grave is green by this time, and Sandy is better off than he used to be."

The burly laird listened attentively to this narrative, and at the close of it, a tear dimmed his eye. He gave a slight cough, as if to repress and to hide his rising emotion, and looking out the coach window, exclaimed, "There's Peebles, at last, and yonder's the sign of the Black Bull," as if he were prodigiously relieved.

The day is brightening, and this ancient city on the Tweed, looks quite agreeable, reminding us of the days of old, when the kings and nobles of Scotland used to witness, on its beautiful green, games ofarchery, golf, and so forth. It is supposed to be the scene referred to in the opening stanza of "Christ's Kirk on the Green," by James the First, the royal poet of Scotland.

"Was never in Scotland hard nor sene,Sic dansing nor deray,Nouther at Falkland on the green,Nor Pebllis in the play;As wes of wowarris as I wene,At Christ's Kirk on ane day;Thair came our kittles washen clene,In thair new kirtillis of grayFull gay,At Christ's Kirk o' the Grene that day."

This old town was burnt and laid waste more than once during the invasions of the English. Still, from its sequestered situation, it never figured largely in any great event. An antique bridge, consisting of five arches, connects the old and new towns, which lie on either bank of the river. Rambling through the place, we come to a large massive building, in a castellated form, known to have belonged to the Queensberry family, and believed to be the scene of a romantic incident, thus related by Sir Walter Scott:—"There is a tradition in Tweedale, that when Nidpath castle, near Peebles, was inhabited by the Earls of March, a mutual passion subsisted between a daughter of that noble family and the son of the Laird of Tushielaw, in Ettrick Forest. As the alliance was thought unsuitable by her parents, the young man went abroad. During his absence, the young lady fell into a consumption, and at length, as the only means of savingher life, her father consented that her lover should be recalled. On the day when he was expected to pass through Peebles, on the road to Tushielaw, the young lady, though much exhausted, caused herself to be carried to the balcony of a house in Peebles, belonging to the family, that she might see him when he rode past. Her anxiety and eagerness gave such force to her organs that she is said to have distinguished his horses' footsteps at an incredible distance. But Tushielaw, unprepared for the change in her appearance, and not expecting to see her in that place, rode on, without recognizing her, or even slackening his pace. The lady was unable to support the shock, and after a short struggle died in the arms of her attendants."

Here are the ruins of some very old churches, one in particular, at the western extremity of the old town. This was the original parish church of Peebles, and was built upon the site of one still more ancient, occupied by the Culdees, (probably from Cultores Dei, worshipers of God,) an ancient class of monks, whose forms of worship and doctrinal belief were extremely simple, and, as some suppose, evangelical. They had monasteries at Jona, and in various parts of Scotland, before the Anglo-Saxon period, and preserved for many years, the pure worship of God. An altar in St. Andrew's church, was dedicated to St. Michael, with a special endowment for the services of "a chapellane, there perpetually to say mes, efter the valow of the rents and possessions gevin thereto, in honor of Almighty God, Mary his Modyr, and Saint Michael,for the hele of the body and the sawl of Jamys, King of Scotts, for the balyheis, ye burges, and ye communite of the burgh of Peebles, and for the hele of their awn sawlis, thair fadyris sawlis, thair modyris sawlis, thair kinnis sawlis, and al Chrystyn sawlis." Part of the tithes of this church are now used to support a Grammar school, and while the people still worship Almighty God, they have but little reverence for "Mary his modyr, and St. Michael."

Let us wander along the banks of this far-famed and beautiful river, gliding sweetly through one of the most beautiful vales in Scotland, and once adorned with numerous castles and monasteries, whose mouldering remains yet diversify the landscape. The whole vale of the Tweed, both above and below Peebles, was studded with a chain of castles, built in the shape of square towers, and ordinarily consisting of three stories, to serve as a defence against the invasion of the English freebooters. They were built alternately on each side of the river, and at such distances that one could be seen from the other. A fire kindled on the top of one of these, to give warning of a hostile incursion, could thus be perpetuated through the whole, till a tract of country seventy miles long, "from Berwick to the Bield," and fifty broad, was alarmed in a few hours. What objects of terror and sublimity these blazing summits, lighting, in a dark night, the whole valley of the Tweed, and flashing their ruddy gleam upon copsewood and river, hill-top and castle turret!

"A score of fires, I ween,From height, and hill, and cliff were seen,Each with warlike tidings fraught,Each from each the signal caught;Each after each they glanced in sight,As stars arise upon the night:They gleamed on many a dusky tarnHaunted by the lonely earn,[163]On many a cairn's grey pyramid,Where urns of mighty chiefs lie hid."Lay of the Last Minstrel.

Lay of the Last Minstrel.

But the grey mist of evening is beginning to settle upon the vale of the Tweed, and the quaint old town of Peebles, "with its three old bridges, and three old steeples, by three old churches borne."

With fair weather, and in admirable spirits, we set off next morning, after breakfast, and travel at an easy pace down the fair banks of the "silver Tweed," till we reach the pretty village of Innerleithen, at the bottom of a sequestered dell, encircled on one side by high and partially wooded hills, and enlivened by the clear waters of the Tweed, rolling in front. Passing a handsome wooden bridge which crosses the river, we reach the hamlet of Traquair and Traquair house, and naturally enquire for the far-famed "Bush aboon Traquair." It is pointed out at the bottom of the hill which overlooks the lawn, where a few birch trees may be seen, the only remains of that dear old spot, made sacred by melody and song. Continuing our journey across the country, we get among the hills, and after travelling some time through a deep glen,we see before us the "haunted stream of Yarrow," the very name of which has become a synonym for all that is tender in sentiment and beautiful in poetry.

"And is this Yarrow? This the stream,Of which my fancy cherishedSo faithfully a waking dream,An image that hath perished?"

Following in somewhat pensive mood, "its beautiful meanderings" through this hill-guarded valley, we come to St. Mary's Lake, lying in solemn but beautiful serenity among the mountains, whose heathy sides and bare cliffs are mirrored in her pellucid depths.

"Nor fen nor sedgePollute the pure lake's crystal edge;Abrupt and sheer the mountains sinkAt once upon the level brink;And just a trace of silver sandMarks where the water meets the land.Far, in the mirror bright and blue,Each hill's huge outline you may view;Shaggy with heath, but lonely bare,Nor tree, nor bush, nor brake is there,Save where of land, yon slender lineBears thwart the lake the scattered pine.Nor thicket, dell, nor copse you spy,Where living thing concealed might lie;Nor point retiring hides a dellWhere swain or woodman lone might dwell;There's nothing left to fancy's guess,You see that all is loneliness;And silence adds,—though the steep hillsSend to the lake a thousand rills,In summer tide so soft they weep,The sound but lulls the ear asleep;Your horse's hoof-tread sounds too rude,So stilly is the solitude."Marmion.

Marmion.

Passing to the eastern extremity of the Lake, we come to Dryhope Tower, the birth-place of Mary Scott, the famous "Flower of Yarrow." Her lover, or husband, was slain by Scott of Tushielaw, from jealousy, or from a desire to secure her fortune, her father having promised to endow her with half his property. Seized by the imagination of the ancient Minnesingers, this incident became the subject of a ballad, or ballads of great beauty and pathos, well known through Scotland, and frequently sung "amang her green braes." This has invested Yarrow with a deep poetical charm, and given rise to a great variety of sweet and pathetic strains, affording a fine exemplification of the manner in which poetry grows, as by a natural law of progress. A single incident gathers around itself all beautiful images, all tender thoughts, feelings and passions, till the region in which it occurred becomes instinct with fantasy, and absolutely glows with a sort of conscious beauty. The very air is burdened with a melancholy charm. The stream meandering through the vale, and the winds whispering through the mountain glens or rippling the surface of St. Mary's lake, "murmur a music not their own." In a word, we have come from the real, everyday world, into one that is ideal, where, in the deep stillness of nature, the voices of the past reveal themselves to the listening soul. In this view we know not a more interesting or instructive series of poems than those relating to Yarrow. The first is theballad of the "Dowie Dens," or rather, "Downs of Yarrow." This is variously printed, but we give the version of Motherwell.

There were three lords birling at the wine,On the Dowie Dens of Yarrow;They made a compact them between,They would go fecht to-morrow."Thou took our sister to be thy wife,And thou ne'er thocht her thy marrow,Thou stealed her frae her daddy's back,When she was the Rose of Yarrow.""Yes, I took your sister to be my wife,And I made her my marrow;I stealed her frae her daddy's back,And she's still the Rose of Yarrow."He is hame to his lady gane,As he had done before, O;Says, "Madam I must go and fecht,On the Dowie Downs o' Yarrow.""Stay at hame, my Lord," she said,"For that will breed much sorrow;For my three brethren will slay thee,On the Dowie Downs o' Yarrow.""Hold your tongue, my lady fair;For what needs a' this sorrow?For I'll be hame gin' the clock strikes nine,From the Dowie Downs o' Yarrow."He wush his face, and she combed his hair,As she had done before, O;She dressed him up in his armour clear,Sent him forth to fecht on Yarrow."Come ye here to hawk or hound,Or drink the wine that's sae clear, O;Or come ye here to eat in your words,That you're not the Rose o' Yarrow?""I came not here to hawk or hound,Nor to drink the wine that's sae clear, O;Nor came I here to eat in my words,For I'm still the Rose o' Yarrow."Then they all begud to fecht,I wad they focht richt sore, O;Till a cowardly man cam' behind his back,And pierced his body thorough."Gae hame, gae hame, its my man John,As ye have done before, O:An tell it to my gaye ladyeThat I soundly sleep on Yarrow."His man John he has gane hame,As he had done before, O;And told it to his gay ladye.That he soundly slept on Yarrow."I dreamed a dream, now since the 'streen,[164]God keep us a' frae sorrow!That my lord and I was pu'ing the heather green,From the Dowie Downs o' Yarrow."Sometimes she rode, sometimes she gade,[165]As she had done before, O;And aye between she fell in a swoon,Lang or she cam' to Yarrow.Her hair it was five quarters lang,'Twas like the gold for yellow;She twisted it round his milk white hand,And she's drawn him hame frae Yarrow.Out and spak her father dear,Says, "What needs a' this sorrow?For I'll get you a far better lordThan ever died on Yarrow.""O hold your tongue, father," she said,"For you've bred a' my sorrow;For that rose'll ne'er spring so sweet in May,As that Rose I lost on Yarrow!"

There were three lords birling at the wine,On the Dowie Dens of Yarrow;They made a compact them between,They would go fecht to-morrow.

"Thou took our sister to be thy wife,And thou ne'er thocht her thy marrow,Thou stealed her frae her daddy's back,When she was the Rose of Yarrow."

"Yes, I took your sister to be my wife,And I made her my marrow;I stealed her frae her daddy's back,And she's still the Rose of Yarrow."

He is hame to his lady gane,As he had done before, O;Says, "Madam I must go and fecht,On the Dowie Downs o' Yarrow."

"Stay at hame, my Lord," she said,"For that will breed much sorrow;For my three brethren will slay thee,On the Dowie Downs o' Yarrow."

"Hold your tongue, my lady fair;For what needs a' this sorrow?For I'll be hame gin' the clock strikes nine,From the Dowie Downs o' Yarrow."

He wush his face, and she combed his hair,As she had done before, O;She dressed him up in his armour clear,Sent him forth to fecht on Yarrow.

"Come ye here to hawk or hound,Or drink the wine that's sae clear, O;Or come ye here to eat in your words,That you're not the Rose o' Yarrow?"

"I came not here to hawk or hound,Nor to drink the wine that's sae clear, O;Nor came I here to eat in my words,For I'm still the Rose o' Yarrow."

Then they all begud to fecht,I wad they focht richt sore, O;Till a cowardly man cam' behind his back,And pierced his body thorough.

"Gae hame, gae hame, its my man John,As ye have done before, O:An tell it to my gaye ladyeThat I soundly sleep on Yarrow."

His man John he has gane hame,As he had done before, O;And told it to his gay ladye.That he soundly slept on Yarrow.

"I dreamed a dream, now since the 'streen,[164]God keep us a' frae sorrow!That my lord and I was pu'ing the heather green,From the Dowie Downs o' Yarrow."

Sometimes she rode, sometimes she gade,[165]As she had done before, O;And aye between she fell in a swoon,Lang or she cam' to Yarrow.

Her hair it was five quarters lang,'Twas like the gold for yellow;She twisted it round his milk white hand,And she's drawn him hame frae Yarrow.

Out and spak her father dear,Says, "What needs a' this sorrow?For I'll get you a far better lordThan ever died on Yarrow."

"O hold your tongue, father," she said,"For you've bred a' my sorrow;For that rose'll ne'er spring so sweet in May,As that Rose I lost on Yarrow!"

More than a century ago, William Hamilton, of Bangor, a gentleman of rank, education, and poetical talents, wrote the following exquisite ballad:[166]

THE BRAES OF YARROW.Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny, bonny bride,Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow!Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny, bonny bride,And think nae mair o' the Braes o' Yarrow.Whare gat ye that bonny, bonny bride?Whare gat ye that winsome marrow?I gat her where I darena weil be seenPouing the birks on the Braes o' Yarrow.Weep not, weep not, my bonny, bonny bride,Weep not, my winsome marrow!Nor let thy heart lament to leavePouing the birks on the Braes o' Yarrow.Lang maun she weep, lang maun she weep,Lang maun she weep with dule and sorrow,And lang maun I nae mair weil be seen,Pouing the birks on the Braes o' Yarrow.Why runs thy stream, O Yarrow, Yarrow, red?Why on thy braes heard the voice o' sorrow?And why yon melancholious weeds,Hung on the bonny birks o' Yarrow?What's yonder floats on the rueful flude?What's yonder floats, O dule and sorrow!'Tis he, the comely swain I slew,Upon the duleful braes o' Yarrow.Wash, O wash his wounds in tears,His wounds in tears with dule and sorrow,And wrap his limbs in mourning weeds,And lay him on the Braes o' Yarrow.Sweet smells the birk, green grows the grass,Yellow on Yarrow bank the gowan,Fair hangs the apple frae the rock,Sweet the wave of Yarrow flowan.Flows Yarrow sweet, as sweet flows Tweed,As green its grass, its gowan as yellow,As sweet smells on its braes the birk,The apple frae the rock as mellow.Busk ye, then busk, my bonny, bonny bride,Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow,Busk ye and lue me on the banks o' Tweed,And think nae mair on the Braes o' Yarrow.How can I busk a bonny, bonny bride,How can I busk a winsome marrow,How lue him on the banks o' TweedThat slew my love on the braes o' Yarrow?O Yarrow fields, may never, never rain,Nor dew thy tender blossoms cover,For there was basely slain my love,My love, as he had not been a lover.The boy put on his robes o' green,His purple vest, 'twas my ain sewingAh! wretched me! I little kennedHe was in these to meet his ruin.The boy took out his milk-white steed,Unheedful of my dule and sorrow,But ere the to-fall of the nightHe lay a corpse on the Braes o' Yarrow.Much I rejoiced that waeful day;I sang, my voice the woods returning,But lang ere night the spear was flown,That slew my love, and left me mourning.Yes, yes, prepare the bed of love,With bridal sheets my body cover,Unbar, ye bridal maids, the door,Let in the expected husband loverBut who the expected husband is?His hands, methinks, are bathed in slaughter.Ah me! what ghastly spectre's yon,Comes in his pale shroud, bleeding after?Pale as he is, here lay him down,O lay his cold head on my pillow;Take off, take off these bridal weeds,And crown my careful head with willow.Return, return, O mournful bride,Return and dry thy useless sorrow;Thy lover heeds naught of thy sighs,He lies a corpse on the Braes o' Yarrow.

THE BRAES OF YARROW.

Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny, bonny bride,Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow!Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny, bonny bride,And think nae mair o' the Braes o' Yarrow.

Whare gat ye that bonny, bonny bride?Whare gat ye that winsome marrow?I gat her where I darena weil be seenPouing the birks on the Braes o' Yarrow.

Weep not, weep not, my bonny, bonny bride,Weep not, my winsome marrow!Nor let thy heart lament to leavePouing the birks on the Braes o' Yarrow.

Lang maun she weep, lang maun she weep,Lang maun she weep with dule and sorrow,And lang maun I nae mair weil be seen,Pouing the birks on the Braes o' Yarrow.

Why runs thy stream, O Yarrow, Yarrow, red?Why on thy braes heard the voice o' sorrow?And why yon melancholious weeds,Hung on the bonny birks o' Yarrow?

What's yonder floats on the rueful flude?What's yonder floats, O dule and sorrow!'Tis he, the comely swain I slew,Upon the duleful braes o' Yarrow.

Wash, O wash his wounds in tears,His wounds in tears with dule and sorrow,And wrap his limbs in mourning weeds,And lay him on the Braes o' Yarrow.

Sweet smells the birk, green grows the grass,Yellow on Yarrow bank the gowan,Fair hangs the apple frae the rock,Sweet the wave of Yarrow flowan.

Flows Yarrow sweet, as sweet flows Tweed,As green its grass, its gowan as yellow,As sweet smells on its braes the birk,The apple frae the rock as mellow.

Busk ye, then busk, my bonny, bonny bride,Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow,Busk ye and lue me on the banks o' Tweed,And think nae mair on the Braes o' Yarrow.

How can I busk a bonny, bonny bride,How can I busk a winsome marrow,How lue him on the banks o' TweedThat slew my love on the braes o' Yarrow?

O Yarrow fields, may never, never rain,Nor dew thy tender blossoms cover,For there was basely slain my love,My love, as he had not been a lover.

The boy put on his robes o' green,His purple vest, 'twas my ain sewingAh! wretched me! I little kennedHe was in these to meet his ruin.

The boy took out his milk-white steed,Unheedful of my dule and sorrow,But ere the to-fall of the nightHe lay a corpse on the Braes o' Yarrow.

Much I rejoiced that waeful day;I sang, my voice the woods returning,But lang ere night the spear was flown,That slew my love, and left me mourning.

Yes, yes, prepare the bed of love,With bridal sheets my body cover,Unbar, ye bridal maids, the door,Let in the expected husband lover

But who the expected husband is?His hands, methinks, are bathed in slaughter.Ah me! what ghastly spectre's yon,Comes in his pale shroud, bleeding after?

Pale as he is, here lay him down,O lay his cold head on my pillow;Take off, take off these bridal weeds,And crown my careful head with willow.

Return, return, O mournful bride,Return and dry thy useless sorrow;Thy lover heeds naught of thy sighs,He lies a corpse on the Braes o' Yarrow.

Somewhat more than half a century later, Logan wrote a song with the same title, of which the following are the concluding stanzas.

Back to Index Next