Tale by Hogg, the Ettrick Shepherd—Aikwood Castle—Black Pages in Livery—The Witch Henbane—Imps demanding Work—Michael Scott—Curious Sport—Dreadful Threat—Rats transformed into the form of Men—Inventor of Gunpowder—Witches' Operations—Summoning Evil Spirits to torture a Man—Latin the Language best understood by Satan and his Emissaries—Holy Signs and Charms—Two Captives—Effects of a Friar's Blessing—Magic Lantern—Man blown into the Air—Michael Scott's Sealed and Subscribed Conditions—Imps' Song—Spirits in the forms of Crows—Dreadful Storm—Warlocks' Hymn—Eildon Hill.
Tale by Hogg, the Ettrick Shepherd—Aikwood Castle—Black Pages in Livery—The Witch Henbane—Imps demanding Work—Michael Scott—Curious Sport—Dreadful Threat—Rats transformed into the form of Men—Inventor of Gunpowder—Witches' Operations—Summoning Evil Spirits to torture a Man—Latin the Language best understood by Satan and his Emissaries—Holy Signs and Charms—Two Captives—Effects of a Friar's Blessing—Magic Lantern—Man blown into the Air—Michael Scott's Sealed and Subscribed Conditions—Imps' Song—Spirits in the forms of Crows—Dreadful Storm—Warlocks' Hymn—Eildon Hill.
Hogg, the Ettrick Shepherd, whose memory will long be remembered in Scotland, particularly in the Border counties, introduces, in hisThree Perils of Man, a party of travellers approaching Aikwood Castle, about nine miles from Melrose. The edifice scarcely seemed to be the abode of man. "Is that now to be my residence, Yardbire?" said the beautiful Delany. "Will you go away, and leave Elias and me in that frightsome and desolate-looking mansion?" "Thou art in good hands," said the friar. "But thou art perhaps going into a place of danger, and evil things may await thee. Here, take thou this, and keep it in thy bosom; and, by the blessing of the Holy Virgin, it will shield thee from all malevolent spirits, all enchantments, and all dangers of the wicked one." As he said this, he put into her hand a small gilded copy of the four Evangelists, which she kissed and put into her bosom. All the rest of the company saw the small volume, and took it for a book of the black art. Close to the castle gate there appeared three pages in black livery, although a moment before there was no living creature there. They seemed to have risen out of the ground. All at once the horses and mules on which the travellers rode became restive; at this, the elves setup a shout, and skipped about with the swiftness of lightning. Hearing the noise, the great master asked his only attendant, Gourlay, "What is the meaning of the uproar?" "It is only Prim, Prig, and Pricker making sport," replied the servant.
As soon as the mighty master knew of the friar and his companions being in the castle, he ordered them to be treated as spies. The old witch Henbane, who acted as housekeeper, and the three pages, were called into the presence of the wizard, to receive instructions from him. First the imps threatened Gourlay, and then rushed on Michael himself, as if they would tear him to pieces, and cried out with one voice:
"Work, master, work; work we need;Work for the living, or for the dead:Since we are called, work we will have,For the master, or for the slave.Work, master, work. What work now?"
"Work, master, work; work we need;Work for the living, or for the dead:Since we are called, work we will have,For the master, or for the slave.Work, master, work. What work now?"
Michael Scott (no doubt the reader has by this time discovered that he was the master of the castle), to keep the restless beings at work, told them to give Gourlay three varieties of punishment, but no more. They soon began their wicked pranks, first changing the seneschal from one grotesque form to another. Quickly transforming him into a dog, they chased him up and down and round about with a pan at its tail. Next they made him assume the shape of a hare, while to all appearance they became collie dogs. An exciting chase followed over hill and dale, but the poor hare succeeded in eluding its pursuers, and returned to the master, who, by one touch of his divining rod, changed Gourlay into his own natural shape. As soon as the poor ill-used servant recovered speech, he threatened to cut his throat, that he might be freed from his severe bondage. Michael dared him to do such a thing, as he had him wholly in his power, dead or alive. "Were you to take away your life by a ghastly wound,"said the wizard, "I would even make one of these fiendish spirits enter into your body, reanimate it, and cause you to go about with your gaping wound, unclosed and unpurified, as when death entered thereat." "Cursed be the day that I saw you, and ten times cursed the confession I made, that has thus subjected me to your tyranny!" exclaimed Gourlay.
Michael again asked what living creatures were in the castle. The servant replied, "I again repeat it, that there is no mortal thing in the castle but the old witch, and perhaps two or three hundred rats." "Call out those rats," said Michael; "marshal them up in the court, and receive the visitors according to their demerits." At the same time the master gave the servant a small piece of parchment, with red characters traced on it, and told him to put it above the lock-hole of the door. "It shall serve as a summons, and Prig, Prim, and Pricker shall marshal your forces," continued the wizard. The citation was effective: the running and screaming of rats were heard in every corner of the castle, and forthwith a whole column of armed men marched into the court, led by the three pages, and headed by the seneschal in grey mantle and cap. In walked the strangers, and passed between two ranks of men, or rather rats, the appearance of which raised a suspicion that they were spirits or elves.
The friar, it should be noticed, was the great philosopher and chemist who invented gunpowder, and made many other wonderful discoveries, for which he was in danger of being burnt as a wizard and necromancer.
The friar, followed by his companions, found entrance to a room, where they expected to meet the great enchanter Michael, but instead of him they beheld an old woman, so busily engaged with something on the fire, that she scarcely deigned to notice their entrance. She had a wooden tube, with which she blew up the fire, and then spoke through it, saying:
"Sotter, sotter, my wee pan,To the spirit gin ye can;When the scum turns blue,And the blood bells through,There's something aneath that will change the man."
"Sotter, sotter, my wee pan,To the spirit gin ye can;When the scum turns blue,And the blood bells through,There's something aneath that will change the man."
The crone continued her orgies, one time blowing her fire, again stirring the liquid in the caldron, and then making it run from the end of a stick that she might note its gelidity. All her operations were being gone through to call up certain familiar spirits whose presence she desired.
In another apartment sat Michael Scott. He wore a turban of crimson velvet, ornamented with mystic figures in gold, and on the front of it was a dazzling star. His eyes were bright and piercing, resembling those of a serpent. He was stout-made, and had a strong bushy beard, turning grey. On beholding Charlie Scott (he alone entered the wizard'ssanctum sanctorum), the wizard stamped three times on the floor, and in a moment Prim, Prig, and Pricker stood beside him. "Work, master, work—what work now?" demanded they. "Take that burly housebreaker, bind him, and put him to the test," were the instructions they received. When the elves were about to seize Charlie, he drew his sword, and thrust out right and left, but his blade did nothing more than whistle through vacancy. In an instant he was thrown down and bound with cords. The master and his familiars then had a conversation in Latin (the language best understood by Satan and his emissaries) concerning the prisoner's baptism. They stripped him, and were about to begin a painful operation, when Charlie, bound though he was, succeeded in crossing himself and pronouncing a sacred name. That instant the pages started back trembling, and their weapons fell from their hands. Another of the company was thrown down and bound by the imps; but when they attempted to seize the friar, they couldnot so much as touch his frock. The fair Delany stood trembling behind the pious father; and on the fiends feeling their want of power over him, they rushed at the young virgin. But the moment they touched her garments, they retired in dismay. The friar, remembering that the maid had the blessed Gospel concealed in her bosom, concluded that in that precious book she found protection. As to his own personal safety he had no fear, as he possessed a charm, proof against Satan himself. "He drew his cross from below his frock—that cross which had been consecrated at the shrine of Saint Peter, bathed in holy water, and blessed with many blessings from the mouths of ancient martyrs—had done wondrous miracles in the hands of saints of former days—and lifting that reverently on high, he pronounced the words from holy writ, against which no demon or false spirit's power could prevail. In one moment the three imps fled yelling from the apartment." At the same time the countenance of the enchanter fell, and his whole body quaked. The friar then unloosed those that were bound.
"Great and magnificent Master of Arts," said the friar, addressing Michael Scott, "we are come to thee from the man that ruleth over the borders of the land, and leadeth forth his troops to battle. He sendeth unto thee greeting, and beseecheth to know of thee what shall befall unto his people and to his house in the latter days. It is thy counsel alone that he asketh, for thou art renowned for wisdom and foresight to the farthest corners of the earth. The two nations are engaged in a great and bloody contest, and high are the stakes for which they play. The man who sent us entreateth of thee to disclose unto thy servants who shall finally prevail, and whether it behoveth him to join himself to the captain of his people. He hath moreover sent unto thee, by our hand, these two beautiful captives, the one to be thine handmaiden, and the other to be thy servant, and run at thy bidding."
The wizard, highly flattered, listened with patience to the friar, and answered that the request made would take many days to consider, as he had to deal with those who were more capricious than the changing seasons, and more perverse than opposing winds and tides. Reluctantly the friar and his friends were prevailed on to remain at the goblin castle, and how it fared with them we shall soon see.
Gourlay was summoned into the presence of Scott, who instructed him to provide an entertainment for the strangers. In due time the steward appeared with his rod of office in his hand, and with great ceremony marshalled his guests upstairs to an apartment, where there was a table covered with rich viands in great abundance. A few graceless fellows in the company began to eat and drink before a blessing was asked, and seemingly fared well. But with the holy friar it was different. In conformity with a good old custom, he lifted up his hands, closed his eyes, and, leaning forward, repeated his oft-said stereotyped phrases. In his respectful attitude, he came in close contact with what appeared to be a beautiful smoking sirloin of beef. So near was he to it that he actually breathed upon it, and was nearly overcome by its savoury flavour. Never had blessing a more baneful effect on meat: when the friar opened his eyes the beef was gone—there was nothing left but an insignificant thing resembling the joint of a frog's leg, or that of a rat.
A contention arose between Michael Scott and the friar as to which of them could perform the most wonderful feats; and when the former discovered that he was in conversation with no less a personage than the Primate of Douay, author of the book of arts, he was much pleased. By means of a curious lantern, he made it appear that the mountain Cape-Law was rent and divided into three parts. This was only an optical delusion, but he in reality blew poor Gourlay into the air by an explosion of gunpowder,the composition and power of which were unknown to the wizard, or to any one except the friar. The master could not bear the idea of being outdone by any one. He strode the floor in gloomy indignation. "Look," he shouted, "at that mountain on the east. It is known to you all—the great hill of Eildon. You know and see that it is one round, smooth, and unbroken cone." He then gave three knocks with his heel on the floor, and called the names of his three pages, Prig, Prim, and Pricker. As at other times, these infernal spirits were before him, exclaiming, "Work, master, work; what work now?" "Look at that mountain yclept the hill of Eildon. Go and twist me it into three." The imps looked with Satanic glare. "The hill is granite," said one. "And five arrows' flight high," said another. "And seventy round the base," said the first. "All the power of earth and hell to boot are unmeet to the task," added the third. In an imperious manner, the master declared the thing must be done. "I know my conditions; they are sealed and subscribed, and I am not to be disobeyed," continued he. The three pages began singing:
"Pick and spadeTo our aid!Flaught and flail,Fire and hail:Winds arise, and tempests brattle,And, if you will, the thunders rattle.Come away,Elfin grey,Much to do ere break of day!Come with spade, and sieve, and shovel;Come with roar, and rout, and revel;Come with crow, and come with crane,Strength of steed, and weight of wain.Crash of rock, and roar of river,And, if you will, with thunders shiver!Come away,Elfin grey;Much to do ere break of day."
"Pick and spadeTo our aid!Flaught and flail,Fire and hail:Winds arise, and tempests brattle,And, if you will, the thunders rattle.Come away,Elfin grey,Much to do ere break of day!Come with spade, and sieve, and shovel;Come with roar, and rout, and revel;Come with crow, and come with crane,Strength of steed, and weight of wain.Crash of rock, and roar of river,And, if you will, with thunders shiver!Come away,Elfin grey;Much to do ere break of day."
As they sang the last line, they sped away, in the forms of three crows, toward Eildon Hill.
That night was a dreadful one. A storm burst forth in all its fury, sweeping over hill and dale. The woods roared and crashed before the blast, and a driving rain dashed with such violence on the earth, that it seemed as if a thousand cataracts poured from the western heaven to mix with the tempest below. Now and again eldritch shrieks, as of some one perishing, were heard, and then the voices of angry spirits, yelling through the tempest, reached the ear. One of the inmates of the castle was reminded, by the raging storm, of the warlocks' hymn:
"Pother, pother,My master and brother,Who may endure thee,Thus failing in fury?King of the tempest that travels the plainKing of the snow, and the hail, and the rain,Lend to thy lever yet seven times seven,Blow up the blue flame for bolt and for levin,The red forge of hell with the bellows of heaven!With hoop and with hammer!With yell and with yammer,Hold them in playTill the dawn of day!Pother, pother!My sovereign and brother.O strain to thy lever,This world to severIn two or in three—What joy it would be!What toiling and mailing, and mighty commotions!What rending of hills, and what roaring of oceans!Ay, that is thy voice, I know it full well;And that is thy whistle's majestic swell;But why wilt thou ride thy furious raceAlong the bounds of vacant space,While there is tongue of flesh to scream,And life to start, and blood to stream?Yet pother, pother!My sovereign and brotherAnd men shall see, ere the rising sun,What deeds thy mighty arm hath done.
"Pother, pother,My master and brother,Who may endure thee,Thus failing in fury?King of the tempest that travels the plainKing of the snow, and the hail, and the rain,Lend to thy lever yet seven times seven,Blow up the blue flame for bolt and for levin,The red forge of hell with the bellows of heaven!With hoop and with hammer!With yell and with yammer,Hold them in playTill the dawn of day!Pother, pother!My sovereign and brother.O strain to thy lever,This world to severIn two or in three—What joy it would be!What toiling and mailing, and mighty commotions!What rending of hills, and what roaring of oceans!Ay, that is thy voice, I know it full well;And that is thy whistle's majestic swell;But why wilt thou ride thy furious raceAlong the bounds of vacant space,While there is tongue of flesh to scream,And life to start, and blood to stream?Yet pother, pother!My sovereign and brotherAnd men shall see, ere the rising sun,What deeds thy mighty arm hath done.
Michael Scott and his guests kept watch together during the eventful night; and when the friar and Charlie stepped out to the battlements in the morning, they beheld the great mountain of Eildon, which before then had but one cone, piled up in three hills, as described by us in chapterXVI.
Allan Ramsay—"The Gentle Shepherd"—Bauldy the Clown—Mause the reputed Witch—A Witch's Crantraips—Praying Backwards—Sad Misfortunes attributed to Mause—Supposed Power of the Devil to raise the Wind and send Rain and Thunder—Mause's Reflections—Sir William disturbed—Symon's Announcement—Promise to gain a Lassie's Heart—Doings of the supposed Witch—Witches' Tricks—Longfellow's "Golden Legend"—"Song of Hiawatha."
Allan Ramsay—"The Gentle Shepherd"—Bauldy the Clown—Mause the reputed Witch—A Witch's Crantraips—Praying Backwards—Sad Misfortunes attributed to Mause—Supposed Power of the Devil to raise the Wind and send Rain and Thunder—Mause's Reflections—Sir William disturbed—Symon's Announcement—Promise to gain a Lassie's Heart—Doings of the supposed Witch—Witches' Tricks—Longfellow's "Golden Legend"—"Song of Hiawatha."
Allan Ramsay, who wrote in the first half of the eighteenth century, does not appear to have believed in witches or evil spirits. He, however, like other poets, found it convenient to introduce superstition into his poetical effusions. This will be seen from the following extracts from hisGentle Shepherd.
BAULDY."What's this?—I canna bear't!—'tis worse than hell,To be sae burnt with love, yet daurna tell!O Peggy! sweeter than the dawning day;Sweeter than gowany glens or new-mawn hay;Blyther than lambs that frisk out o'er the knows;Straighter than aught that in the forest grows;Her een the clearest blob of dew outshines;The lily in her breast its beauty tines;Her legs, her arms, her cheeks, her mouth, her een,Will be my dead, that will be shortly seen!For Pate looes her—waes me!—and she looes PateAnd I with Neps, by some unlucky fate,Made a daft vow. O, but ane be a beast,That makes rash aiths till he's afore the priest!I darna speak my mind, else a' the three,But doubt, wad prove ilk ane my enemy.'Tis sair to thole;—I'll try some witchcraft art,To break with ane, and win the other's heart.Here Mausy lives, a witch that for sma' priceCan cast her cantraips, and gie me advice.She can o'ercast the night, and cloud the moon,And make the deils obedient to her crune;At midnight hours, o'er the kirk-yard she raves,And howks unchristen'd weans out of their graves;Boils up their livers in a warlock's pow;Rins withershins about the hemlock low;And seven times does her prayers backwards pray,Till Plotcock comes with lumps of Lapland clay,Mixt with the venom of black taids and snakes:Of this unsonsy pictures aft she makesOf ony ane she hates,—and gars expireWith slow and racking pains afore a fire,Stuck fu' of pins; the devilish pictures melt;The pain by fowk they represent is felt.And yonder's Mause: Ay, ay, she kens fu' weel,When ane like me comes rinning to the deil!She and her cat sit beeking in her yard:To speak my errand, faith, amaist I'm fear'd!But I maun do't, tho' I should never thrive:They gallop fast that deils and lasses drive.* * * * *How does auld honest lucky of the glen?Ye look baith hale end fair at threescore-ten.MAUSE.E'en twining out a thread with little din,And beeking my cauld limbs afore the sun.What brings my bairn this gate sae air at morn?Is there nae muck to lead? to thresh nae corn?BAULDY.Enough of baith: but something that requiresYour helping hand employs now all my cares.MAUSE.My helping hand! alake, what can I do,That underneith baith eild and poortith bow?BAULDY.Ay, but you're wise, and wiser far than we;Or maist part of the parish tells a lie.MAUSE.Of what kind wisdom think ye I'm possest,That lifts my character aboon the rest?BAULDY.The word that gangs, how ye're sae wise and fell,Ye'll maybe tak it ill gif I should tell.MAUSE.What folk say of me, Bauldy, let me hear;Keep naething up, ye naething have to fear.BAULDY.Well, since ye bid me, I shall tell ye a'That ilk ane talks about you, but a flaw.When last the wind made Glaud a roofless barn;When last the burn bore down my mither's yarn;When Brawny, elf-shot, never mair came hame;When Tibby kirn'd, and there nae butter came;When Bessy Freetock's chuffy-cheeked weanTo a fairy turn'd, and cou'dna stand its lane;When Wattie wander'd ae night thro' the shawAnd tint himsell amaist amang the snaw;When Mungo's mare stood still and swat wi' fright,When he brought east the howdy under night;When Bawsy shot to dead upon the green;And Sara tint a snood was nae mair seen;—You, lucky, gat the wyte of a' fell out;And ilka ane here dreads ye round about,—And say they may that mint to do ye skaith:For me to wrang ye I'll be very laith;But when I neist make groats, I'll strive to pleaseYou with a firlot of them mixt with pease.MAUSE.I thank ye, lad!—Now tell me your demand;And, if I can, I'll lend my helping hand.BAULDY.Then, I like Peggy; Neps is fond of me;Peggy likes Pate; and Patie's bauld and slee,And looes sweet Meg; but Neps I downa see.Could ye turn Patie's love to Neps, and thenPeggy's to me, I'd be the happiest man.MAUSE.I'll try my airt to gar the bowls row right;Sae gang your ways and come again at night;'Gainst that time I'll some simple things prepare,Worth all your pease and groats, tak ye nae care.BAULDY.Well, Mause, I'll come, gif I the road can find;But if ye raise the deil, he'll raise the wind;Syne rain and thunder, maybe, when 'tis lateWill make the night sae mirk, I'll tine the gate.We're a' to rant in Symie's at a feast,—O! will ye come, like badrans, for a jest?And there you can our different haviours spy;There's nane shall ken o't there but you and I.MAUSE.'Tis like I may: But let na on what's past'Tween you and me, else fear a kittle cast.BAULDY.If I aught of your secrets e'er advance,May ye ride on me ilka night to France!MAUSE.This fool imagines—as do many sic—That I'm a witch in compact with Auld Nick,Because by education I was taughtTo speak and act aboon their common thought:Their gross mistake shall quickly now appear;Soon shall they ken what brought, what keeps me here.Now since the royal Charles, and right's restor'd,A shepherdess is daughter to a lord.The bonny foundling that's brought up by Glaud,Wha has an uncle's care on her bestow'd,—Her infant life I sav'd, when a false friendBow'd to the usurper, and her death design'd,To establish him and his in all these plainsThat by right heritage to her pertains.She's now in her sweet bloom, has blood and charmsOf too much value for a shepherd's arms.None know't but me!—And if the morn were come,I'll tell them tales will gar them a' sing dumb.* * * * *SIR WILLIAM.How goes the night? does day-light yet appearSymon, you're very timeously asteer.SYMON.I'm sorry, sir, that we've disturb'd your rest;But some strange thing has Bauldy's spirit opprest,He's seen some witch, or wrestled with a ghaist.BAULDY.O! ay; dear sir, in troth, 'tis very true;And I am come to make my plaint to you.SIR WILLIAM.I lang to hear 't.BAULDY.Ah! sir, the witch ca'd Mause,That wins aboon the mill amang the haws,First promis'd that she'd help me with her art,To gain a bonny thrawart lassie's heart.As she had trysted, I met wi'er this night;But may nae friend of mine get sic a fright!For the curst hag, instead of doing me good—The very thought o't's like to freeze my blood!Rais'd up a ghaist, or deil, I kenna whilk,Like a dead corse in sheet as white as milk;Black hands it had, and face as wan as death.Upon me fast the witch and it fell baith,And gat me down, while I, like a great fool,Was labour'd as I wont to be at school.My heart out of its hool was like to loup;I pithless grew with fear, and had nae hope;Till, with an elritch laugh, they vanished quite.Syne I half dead with anger, fear, and spite,Crap up and fled straight frae them, sir, to you,Hoping your help to gie the deil his due.I'm sure my heart will ne'er gie o'er to dunt,Till in a fat tar-barrel Mause be burnt!* * * * *SIR WILLIAM.Troth, Symon, Bauldy's more afraid than hurt;The witch and ghaist have made themselves good sport.What silly notions crowd the clouded mind,That is through want of education blind!SYMON.But does your honour think there's nae sic thingAs witches raising deils up through a ring?Syne playing tricks—a thousand I could tell—Cou'd ne'er be contriv'd on this side hell.SIR WILLIAM.Such as the devil's dancing in a moor,Amongst a few old women craz'd and poor,Who were rejoiced to see him frisk and lowpO'er braes and bogs with candles in * * *Appearing sometimes like a black-horn'd cow,Aft-times like Bawty, Badrans, or a sow;Then with his train through airy paths to glide,While they on carts, or clowns, or broomstaffs ride;Or in an egg-shell skim out o'er the main,To drink their leader's health in France or Spain;Then aft by night bumbaze hare-hearted fools,By tumbling down their cupboards, chairs, and stools.Whate'er's in spells, or if there witches be,Such whimsies seem the most absurd to me."
BAULDY.
"What's this?—I canna bear't!—'tis worse than hell,To be sae burnt with love, yet daurna tell!O Peggy! sweeter than the dawning day;Sweeter than gowany glens or new-mawn hay;Blyther than lambs that frisk out o'er the knows;Straighter than aught that in the forest grows;Her een the clearest blob of dew outshines;The lily in her breast its beauty tines;Her legs, her arms, her cheeks, her mouth, her een,Will be my dead, that will be shortly seen!For Pate looes her—waes me!—and she looes PateAnd I with Neps, by some unlucky fate,Made a daft vow. O, but ane be a beast,That makes rash aiths till he's afore the priest!I darna speak my mind, else a' the three,But doubt, wad prove ilk ane my enemy.'Tis sair to thole;—I'll try some witchcraft art,To break with ane, and win the other's heart.Here Mausy lives, a witch that for sma' priceCan cast her cantraips, and gie me advice.She can o'ercast the night, and cloud the moon,And make the deils obedient to her crune;At midnight hours, o'er the kirk-yard she raves,And howks unchristen'd weans out of their graves;Boils up their livers in a warlock's pow;Rins withershins about the hemlock low;And seven times does her prayers backwards pray,Till Plotcock comes with lumps of Lapland clay,Mixt with the venom of black taids and snakes:Of this unsonsy pictures aft she makesOf ony ane she hates,—and gars expireWith slow and racking pains afore a fire,Stuck fu' of pins; the devilish pictures melt;The pain by fowk they represent is felt.And yonder's Mause: Ay, ay, she kens fu' weel,When ane like me comes rinning to the deil!She and her cat sit beeking in her yard:To speak my errand, faith, amaist I'm fear'd!But I maun do't, tho' I should never thrive:They gallop fast that deils and lasses drive.
* * * * *
How does auld honest lucky of the glen?Ye look baith hale end fair at threescore-ten.
MAUSE.
E'en twining out a thread with little din,And beeking my cauld limbs afore the sun.What brings my bairn this gate sae air at morn?Is there nae muck to lead? to thresh nae corn?
BAULDY.
Enough of baith: but something that requiresYour helping hand employs now all my cares.
MAUSE.
My helping hand! alake, what can I do,That underneith baith eild and poortith bow?
BAULDY.
Ay, but you're wise, and wiser far than we;Or maist part of the parish tells a lie.
MAUSE.
Of what kind wisdom think ye I'm possest,That lifts my character aboon the rest?
BAULDY.
The word that gangs, how ye're sae wise and fell,Ye'll maybe tak it ill gif I should tell.
MAUSE.
What folk say of me, Bauldy, let me hear;Keep naething up, ye naething have to fear.
BAULDY.
Well, since ye bid me, I shall tell ye a'That ilk ane talks about you, but a flaw.When last the wind made Glaud a roofless barn;When last the burn bore down my mither's yarn;When Brawny, elf-shot, never mair came hame;When Tibby kirn'd, and there nae butter came;When Bessy Freetock's chuffy-cheeked weanTo a fairy turn'd, and cou'dna stand its lane;When Wattie wander'd ae night thro' the shawAnd tint himsell amaist amang the snaw;When Mungo's mare stood still and swat wi' fright,When he brought east the howdy under night;When Bawsy shot to dead upon the green;And Sara tint a snood was nae mair seen;—You, lucky, gat the wyte of a' fell out;And ilka ane here dreads ye round about,—And say they may that mint to do ye skaith:For me to wrang ye I'll be very laith;But when I neist make groats, I'll strive to pleaseYou with a firlot of them mixt with pease.
MAUSE.
I thank ye, lad!—Now tell me your demand;And, if I can, I'll lend my helping hand.
BAULDY.
Then, I like Peggy; Neps is fond of me;Peggy likes Pate; and Patie's bauld and slee,And looes sweet Meg; but Neps I downa see.Could ye turn Patie's love to Neps, and thenPeggy's to me, I'd be the happiest man.
MAUSE.
I'll try my airt to gar the bowls row right;Sae gang your ways and come again at night;'Gainst that time I'll some simple things prepare,Worth all your pease and groats, tak ye nae care.
BAULDY.
Well, Mause, I'll come, gif I the road can find;But if ye raise the deil, he'll raise the wind;Syne rain and thunder, maybe, when 'tis lateWill make the night sae mirk, I'll tine the gate.We're a' to rant in Symie's at a feast,—O! will ye come, like badrans, for a jest?And there you can our different haviours spy;There's nane shall ken o't there but you and I.
MAUSE.
'Tis like I may: But let na on what's past'Tween you and me, else fear a kittle cast.
BAULDY.
If I aught of your secrets e'er advance,May ye ride on me ilka night to France!
MAUSE.
This fool imagines—as do many sic—That I'm a witch in compact with Auld Nick,Because by education I was taughtTo speak and act aboon their common thought:Their gross mistake shall quickly now appear;Soon shall they ken what brought, what keeps me here.Now since the royal Charles, and right's restor'd,A shepherdess is daughter to a lord.The bonny foundling that's brought up by Glaud,Wha has an uncle's care on her bestow'd,—Her infant life I sav'd, when a false friendBow'd to the usurper, and her death design'd,To establish him and his in all these plainsThat by right heritage to her pertains.She's now in her sweet bloom, has blood and charmsOf too much value for a shepherd's arms.None know't but me!—And if the morn were come,I'll tell them tales will gar them a' sing dumb.
* * * * *
SIR WILLIAM.
How goes the night? does day-light yet appearSymon, you're very timeously asteer.
SYMON.
I'm sorry, sir, that we've disturb'd your rest;But some strange thing has Bauldy's spirit opprest,He's seen some witch, or wrestled with a ghaist.
BAULDY.
O! ay; dear sir, in troth, 'tis very true;And I am come to make my plaint to you.
SIR WILLIAM.
I lang to hear 't.
BAULDY.
Ah! sir, the witch ca'd Mause,That wins aboon the mill amang the haws,First promis'd that she'd help me with her art,To gain a bonny thrawart lassie's heart.As she had trysted, I met wi'er this night;But may nae friend of mine get sic a fright!For the curst hag, instead of doing me good—The very thought o't's like to freeze my blood!Rais'd up a ghaist, or deil, I kenna whilk,Like a dead corse in sheet as white as milk;Black hands it had, and face as wan as death.Upon me fast the witch and it fell baith,And gat me down, while I, like a great fool,Was labour'd as I wont to be at school.My heart out of its hool was like to loup;I pithless grew with fear, and had nae hope;Till, with an elritch laugh, they vanished quite.Syne I half dead with anger, fear, and spite,Crap up and fled straight frae them, sir, to you,Hoping your help to gie the deil his due.I'm sure my heart will ne'er gie o'er to dunt,Till in a fat tar-barrel Mause be burnt!
* * * * *
SIR WILLIAM.
Troth, Symon, Bauldy's more afraid than hurt;The witch and ghaist have made themselves good sport.What silly notions crowd the clouded mind,That is through want of education blind!
SYMON.
But does your honour think there's nae sic thingAs witches raising deils up through a ring?Syne playing tricks—a thousand I could tell—Cou'd ne'er be contriv'd on this side hell.
SIR WILLIAM.
Such as the devil's dancing in a moor,Amongst a few old women craz'd and poor,Who were rejoiced to see him frisk and lowpO'er braes and bogs with candles in * * *Appearing sometimes like a black-horn'd cow,Aft-times like Bawty, Badrans, or a sow;Then with his train through airy paths to glide,While they on carts, or clowns, or broomstaffs ride;Or in an egg-shell skim out o'er the main,To drink their leader's health in France or Spain;Then aft by night bumbaze hare-hearted fools,By tumbling down their cupboards, chairs, and stools.Whate'er's in spells, or if there witches be,Such whimsies seem the most absurd to me."
To glean from Cowper, Wordsworth, Tennyson, and the many other poets who have contributed to superstitious lore, would swell this portion of our work (The Poets and Superstition) to an undue proportion; and therefore we take leave of the poets, after giving extracts from Longfellow, whose talented effusions are not only read and appreciated in America and England, but over the whole world.
FROM "THE GOLDEN LEGEND."LUCIFER."Hasten! hasten!O ye spirits!From its station drag the ponderousCross of iron, that to mock usIs uplifted high in air!VOICES.O, we cannot!For around itAll the saints and guardian angelsThrong in legions to protect it;They defeat us everywhere!THE BELLS.Laudo Deum verum!Plebem voco!Congrego clerum!LUCIFER.Lower! lower!Hover downward!Seize the loud, vociferous bells, andClashing, clanging, to the pavementHurl them from their windy tower!VOICES.All thy thundersHere are harmless!For these bells have been anointed,And baptised with holy water!They defy our utmost power.THE BELLS.Defunctos ploro!Pestem fugo!Festa decoro!LUCIFER.Shake the casements!Break the paintedPanes, that flame with gold and crimson;Scatter them like leaves of autumn,Swept away before the blast!VOICES.O, we cannot!The archangelMichael flames from every window,With the sword of fire that drove usHeadlong out of heaven, aghast!THE BELLS.Funera plango!Fulgura frango!Sabbata pango!LUCIFER.Aim your lightningsAt the oaken,Massive, iron-studded portals!Sack the house of God, and scatterWide the ashes of the dead!VOICES.O, we cannot!The apostlesAnd the martyrs, wrapped in mantles,Stand as warders at the entrance,Stand as sentinels o'erhead!THE BELLS.Excito lentos!Dissipo ventos!Paco cruentos!LUCIFER.Baffled! baffled!Inefficient,Craven spirits! leave this labourUnto Time, the great destroyer!Come away, ere night is gone!VOICES.Onward! onward!With the night wind,Over field and farm and forest,Lonely homestead, darksome hamlet,Blighting all we breathe upon!"
FROM "THE GOLDEN LEGEND."
FROM "THE GOLDEN LEGEND."
LUCIFER.
"Hasten! hasten!O ye spirits!From its station drag the ponderousCross of iron, that to mock usIs uplifted high in air!
VOICES.
O, we cannot!For around itAll the saints and guardian angelsThrong in legions to protect it;They defeat us everywhere!
THE BELLS.
Laudo Deum verum!Plebem voco!Congrego clerum!
LUCIFER.
Lower! lower!Hover downward!Seize the loud, vociferous bells, andClashing, clanging, to the pavementHurl them from their windy tower!
VOICES.
All thy thundersHere are harmless!For these bells have been anointed,And baptised with holy water!They defy our utmost power.
THE BELLS.
Defunctos ploro!Pestem fugo!Festa decoro!
LUCIFER.
Shake the casements!Break the paintedPanes, that flame with gold and crimson;Scatter them like leaves of autumn,Swept away before the blast!
VOICES.
O, we cannot!The archangelMichael flames from every window,With the sword of fire that drove usHeadlong out of heaven, aghast!
THE BELLS.
Funera plango!Fulgura frango!Sabbata pango!
LUCIFER.
Aim your lightningsAt the oaken,Massive, iron-studded portals!Sack the house of God, and scatterWide the ashes of the dead!
VOICES.
O, we cannot!The apostlesAnd the martyrs, wrapped in mantles,Stand as warders at the entrance,Stand as sentinels o'erhead!
THE BELLS.
Excito lentos!Dissipo ventos!Paco cruentos!
LUCIFER.
Baffled! baffled!Inefficient,Craven spirits! leave this labourUnto Time, the great destroyer!Come away, ere night is gone!
VOICES.
Onward! onward!With the night wind,Over field and farm and forest,Lonely homestead, darksome hamlet,Blighting all we breathe upon!"
THE SONG OF HIAWATHA."Should you ask me whence these stories?Whence these legends and traditions,With the odours of the forest,With the dew and damp of meadows,With the curling smoke of wigwams,With the rushing of great rivers,With their frequent repetitions,And their wild reverberations,As of thunder in the mountains?I should answer, I should tell you:'From the forests and the prairies,From the great lakes of the Northland,From the land of the Ojibways,From the land of the Dacotahs,From the mountains, moors, and fenlands,Where the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah,Feeds among the reeds and rushes.I repeat them as I heard themFrom the lips of Nawadaha,The musician, the sweet singer.'* * * * *Can it be the sun descendingO'er the level plain of water?Or the red swan floating, flying,Wounded by the magic arrow,Staining all the waves with crimson,With the crimson of its life-blood,Filling all the air with splendour,With the splendour of its plumage?Yes, it is the sun descending,Sinking down into the water;All the sky is stained with purple,All the water flushed with crimson!No; it is the red swan floating,Diving down beneath the water;To the sky its wings are lifted,With its blood the waves are reddenedOver it the star of eveningMelts and trembles through the purpleHangs suspended in the twilight.No; it is a bead of wampumOn the robes of the Great Spirit,As he passes through the twilight,Walks in silence through the heavens!This with joy beheld Iagoo,And he said in haste, 'Behold it!See the sacred star of evening!You shall hear a tale of wonder;Hear the story of Osseo,Son of the evening star Osseo.'Once, in days no more remembered,Ages nearer the beginning,When the heavens were closer to us,And the gods were more familiar,In the Northland lived a hunter,With ten young and comely daughters,Tall and lithe as wands of willow;Only Oweenee, the youngest,She the wilful and the wayward,She the silent, dreamy maiden,Was the fairest of the sisters.'All these women married warriors,Married brave and haughty husbands;Only Oweenee, the youngest,Laughed and flouted all her lovers,All her young and handsome suitors,And then married old Osseo,Old Osseo, poor and ugly,Broken with age and weak with coughing,Always coughing like a squirrel.'Ah, but beautiful within himWas the spirit of Osseo,From the evening star descended,Star of evening, star of woman,Star of tenderness and passion!All its fire was in his bosom,All its beauty in his spirit,All its mystery in his being,All its splendour in his language!'And her lovers, the rejected,Handsome men with belts of wampum,Handsome men with paint and feathers,Pointed at her in derision,Followed her with jest and laughter,But she said, "I care not for you,Care not for your belts of wampum,Care not for your paint and feathers,Care not for your jests and laughter:I am happy with Osseo!"'Once to some great feast invited,Through the damp and dusk of eveningWalked together the ten sisters,Walked together with their husbands;Slowly followed old Osseo,With fair Oweenee beside him;All the others chatted gaily,These two only walked in silence.'At the western sky OsseoGazed intent, as if imploring,Often stopped and gazed imploringAt the trembling star of evening,At the tender star of woman;And they heard him murmur softly,"Ah, showain nemeshin, Nosa!Pray, pity me, my father!"'"Listen!" said the elder sister,"He is praying to his father!What a pity that the old manDoes not stumble in the pathway,Does not break his neck by falling!"And they laughed till all the forestRang with their unseemly laughter.'On their pathway through the woodlandsLay an oak by storms uprooted,Lay the great trunk of an oak-treeBuried half in leaves and mosses,Mouldering, crumbling, huge and hollow.And Osseo, when he saw it,Gave a shout, a cry of anguish,Leaped into its yawning cavern,At one end went in an old man,Wasted, wrinkled, old, and ugly;From the other came a young man,Tall and straight and strong and handsome.'Thus Osseo was transfigured,Thus restored to youth and beauty;But, alas for good Osseo,And for Oweenee, the faithful!Strangely, too, was she transfigured.Changed into a weak old woman,With a staff she tottered onward,Wasted, wrinkled, old, and ugly!And the sisters and their husbandsLaughed until the echoing forestRang with their unseemly laughter.'But Osseo turned not from her,Walked with slower step beside her,Took her hand, as brown and witheredAs an oak-leaf is in winter,Called her sweetheart, Nenemoosha,Soothed her with soft words of kindness,Till they reached the lodge of feasting,Till they sat down in the wigwam,Sacred to the star of evening,To the tender star of woman.'Wrapt in visions, lost in dreaming,At the banquet sat Osseo;All were merry, all were happy,All were joyous but Osseo.Neither food nor drink he tasted,Neither did he speak nor listen,But as one bewildered sat he,Looking dreamily and sadly,First at Oweenee, then upwardAt the gleaming sky above them.'Then a voice was heard, a whisper,Coming from the starry distance,Coming from the empty vastness,Low and musical and tender;And the voice said, "O Osseo!O my son, my best beloved!Broken are the spells that bound you,All the charms of the magicians,All the magic powers of evil;Come to me; ascend, Osseo!'"Taste the food that stands before you;It is blessed and enchanted,It has magic virtues in it,It will change you to a spirit.All your bowls and all your kettlesShall be wood and clay no longer;But the bowls be changed to wampum,And the kettles shall be silver;They shall shine like shells of scarlet,Like the fire shall gleam and glimmer.'"And the women shall no longerBear the dreary doom of labour,But be changed to birds, and glistenWith the beauty of the starlight,Painted with the dusky splendoursOf the skies and clouds of evening!"'What Osseo heard as whispers,What as words he comprehended,Was but music to the others,Music as of birds afar off,Of the whippoorwill afar off,Of the lonely WawonaissaSinging in the darksome forest.'Then the lodge began to tremble,Straight began to shake and tremble,And they felt it rising, rising,Slowly through the air ascending,From the darkness of the tree-topsForth into the dewy starlight,Till it passed the topmost branches;And behold! the wooden dishesAll were changed to shells of scarlet!And behold! the earthen kettlesAll were changed to bowls of silver!And the roof-poles of the wigwamWere as glittering rods of silver,And the roof of bark upon themAs the shining shards of beetles.'Then Osseo gazed around him,And he saw the nine fair sisters,All the sisters and their husbands,Changed to birds of various plumage.Some were jays, and some were magpies,Others thrushes, others blackbirds;And they hopped and sang and twittered,Perked and fluttered all their feathers,Strutted in their various plumage,And their tails like fans unfolded.'Only Oweenee, the youngest,Was not changed, but sat in silence,Wasted, wrinkled, old, and ugly,Looking sadly at the others;Till Osseo, gazing upward,Gave another cry of anguish,Such a cry as he had utteredBy the oak-tree in the forest.'Then returned her youth and beauty,And her soiled and tattered garmentsWere transformed to robes of ermine,And her staff became a feather,Yes, a shining silver feather!'And again the wigwam trembled,Swayed and rushed through airy currents,Through transparent cloud and vapour,And amid celestial splendoursOn the evening star alighted,As a snow-flake falls on snow-flake,As a leaf drops on a river,As the thistle-down on water.'Forth with cheerful words of welcomeCame the father of Osseo,He with radiant locks of silver,He with eyes serene and tender.And he said, "My son, Osseo,Hang the cage of birds you bring there,Hang the cage with rods of silver,And the birds with glistening feathers,At the doorway of my wigwam."'At the door he hung the bird-cage,And they entered in and gladlyListened to Osseo's father,Ruler of the star of evening,As he said, "O my Osseo!I have had compassion on you,Given you back your youth and beauty,Into birds of various plumageChanged your sisters and their husbands;Changed them thus because they mocked youIn the figure of the old man,In that aspect sad and wrinkled,Could not see your heart of passion,Could not see your youth immortal;Only Oweenee, the faithful,Saw your naked heart and loved you.'"In the lodge that glimmers yonder,In the little star that twinklesThrough the vapours, on the left hand,Lives the envious Evil Spirit,The Wabeno, the magician,Who transformed you to an old man.Take heed lest his beams fall on you,For the rays he darts around himAre the power of his enchantment,Are the arrows that he uses."'Many years, in peace and quietOn the peaceful star of eveningDwelt Osseo with his father;Many years in song and flutter,At the doorway of the wigwam,Hung the cage with rods of silver,And fair Oweenee, the faithful,Bore a son unto Osseo,With the beauty of his mother,With the courage of his father.'And the boy grew up and prospered,And Osseo, to delight him,Made him little bows and arrows,Opened the great cage of silver,And let loose his aunts and uncles,All those birds with glossy feathers,For his little son to shoot at.'Round and round they wheeled and darted,Filled the evening star with music,With their songs of joy and freedom;Filled the evening star with splendour,With the fluttering of their plumage;Till the boy, the little hunter,Bent his bow and shot an arrow,Shot a swift and fatal arrow,And a bird, with shining feathers,At his feet fell wounded sorely.'But, O wondrous transformation!'Twas no bird he saw before him,'Twas a beautiful young woman,With the arrow in her bosom!'When her blood fell on the planet,On the sacred star of evening,Broken was the spell of magic,Powerless was the strange enchantment,And the youth, the fearless bowman,Suddenly felt himself descending,Held by unseen hands, but sinkingDownward through the empty spaces,Downward through the clouds and vapours,Till he rested on an island,On an island, green and grassy,Yonder in the big sea-water.'After him he saw descendingAll the birds with shining feathers,Fluttering, falling, wafted downward,Like the painted leaves of autumn;And the lodge with poles of silver,With its roof like wings of beetles,Like the shining shards of beetles,By the winds of heaven uplifted,Slowly sank upon the island,Bringing back the good Osseo,Bringing Oweenee, the faithful.'Then the birds, again transfigured,Resumed the shape of mortals,Took their shape, but not their stature;They remained as little people,Like the pigmies, the Puk-Wudjies;And on pleasant nights of summer,When the evening star was shining,Hand in hand they danced togetherOn the island's craggy headlands,On the sand-beach low and level.'Still their glittering lodge is seen there,On the tranquil summer evenings,And upon the shore the fisherSometimes hears their happy voices,Sees them dancing in the starlight!'"
THE SONG OF HIAWATHA.
"Should you ask me whence these stories?Whence these legends and traditions,With the odours of the forest,With the dew and damp of meadows,With the curling smoke of wigwams,With the rushing of great rivers,With their frequent repetitions,And their wild reverberations,As of thunder in the mountains?I should answer, I should tell you:'From the forests and the prairies,From the great lakes of the Northland,From the land of the Ojibways,From the land of the Dacotahs,From the mountains, moors, and fenlands,Where the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah,Feeds among the reeds and rushes.I repeat them as I heard themFrom the lips of Nawadaha,The musician, the sweet singer.'
* * * * *
Can it be the sun descendingO'er the level plain of water?Or the red swan floating, flying,Wounded by the magic arrow,Staining all the waves with crimson,With the crimson of its life-blood,Filling all the air with splendour,With the splendour of its plumage?Yes, it is the sun descending,Sinking down into the water;All the sky is stained with purple,All the water flushed with crimson!No; it is the red swan floating,Diving down beneath the water;To the sky its wings are lifted,With its blood the waves are reddenedOver it the star of eveningMelts and trembles through the purpleHangs suspended in the twilight.No; it is a bead of wampumOn the robes of the Great Spirit,As he passes through the twilight,Walks in silence through the heavens!This with joy beheld Iagoo,And he said in haste, 'Behold it!See the sacred star of evening!You shall hear a tale of wonder;Hear the story of Osseo,Son of the evening star Osseo.'Once, in days no more remembered,Ages nearer the beginning,When the heavens were closer to us,And the gods were more familiar,In the Northland lived a hunter,With ten young and comely daughters,Tall and lithe as wands of willow;Only Oweenee, the youngest,She the wilful and the wayward,She the silent, dreamy maiden,Was the fairest of the sisters.'All these women married warriors,Married brave and haughty husbands;Only Oweenee, the youngest,Laughed and flouted all her lovers,All her young and handsome suitors,And then married old Osseo,Old Osseo, poor and ugly,Broken with age and weak with coughing,Always coughing like a squirrel.'Ah, but beautiful within himWas the spirit of Osseo,From the evening star descended,Star of evening, star of woman,Star of tenderness and passion!All its fire was in his bosom,All its beauty in his spirit,All its mystery in his being,All its splendour in his language!'And her lovers, the rejected,Handsome men with belts of wampum,Handsome men with paint and feathers,Pointed at her in derision,Followed her with jest and laughter,But she said, "I care not for you,Care not for your belts of wampum,Care not for your paint and feathers,Care not for your jests and laughter:I am happy with Osseo!"'Once to some great feast invited,Through the damp and dusk of eveningWalked together the ten sisters,Walked together with their husbands;Slowly followed old Osseo,With fair Oweenee beside him;All the others chatted gaily,These two only walked in silence.'At the western sky OsseoGazed intent, as if imploring,Often stopped and gazed imploringAt the trembling star of evening,At the tender star of woman;And they heard him murmur softly,"Ah, showain nemeshin, Nosa!Pray, pity me, my father!"'"Listen!" said the elder sister,"He is praying to his father!What a pity that the old manDoes not stumble in the pathway,Does not break his neck by falling!"And they laughed till all the forestRang with their unseemly laughter.'On their pathway through the woodlandsLay an oak by storms uprooted,Lay the great trunk of an oak-treeBuried half in leaves and mosses,Mouldering, crumbling, huge and hollow.And Osseo, when he saw it,Gave a shout, a cry of anguish,Leaped into its yawning cavern,At one end went in an old man,Wasted, wrinkled, old, and ugly;From the other came a young man,Tall and straight and strong and handsome.'Thus Osseo was transfigured,Thus restored to youth and beauty;But, alas for good Osseo,And for Oweenee, the faithful!Strangely, too, was she transfigured.Changed into a weak old woman,With a staff she tottered onward,Wasted, wrinkled, old, and ugly!And the sisters and their husbandsLaughed until the echoing forestRang with their unseemly laughter.'But Osseo turned not from her,Walked with slower step beside her,Took her hand, as brown and witheredAs an oak-leaf is in winter,Called her sweetheart, Nenemoosha,Soothed her with soft words of kindness,Till they reached the lodge of feasting,Till they sat down in the wigwam,Sacred to the star of evening,To the tender star of woman.'Wrapt in visions, lost in dreaming,At the banquet sat Osseo;All were merry, all were happy,All were joyous but Osseo.Neither food nor drink he tasted,Neither did he speak nor listen,But as one bewildered sat he,Looking dreamily and sadly,First at Oweenee, then upwardAt the gleaming sky above them.'Then a voice was heard, a whisper,Coming from the starry distance,Coming from the empty vastness,Low and musical and tender;And the voice said, "O Osseo!O my son, my best beloved!Broken are the spells that bound you,All the charms of the magicians,All the magic powers of evil;Come to me; ascend, Osseo!'"Taste the food that stands before you;It is blessed and enchanted,It has magic virtues in it,It will change you to a spirit.All your bowls and all your kettlesShall be wood and clay no longer;But the bowls be changed to wampum,And the kettles shall be silver;They shall shine like shells of scarlet,Like the fire shall gleam and glimmer.'"And the women shall no longerBear the dreary doom of labour,But be changed to birds, and glistenWith the beauty of the starlight,Painted with the dusky splendoursOf the skies and clouds of evening!"'What Osseo heard as whispers,What as words he comprehended,Was but music to the others,Music as of birds afar off,Of the whippoorwill afar off,Of the lonely WawonaissaSinging in the darksome forest.'Then the lodge began to tremble,Straight began to shake and tremble,And they felt it rising, rising,Slowly through the air ascending,From the darkness of the tree-topsForth into the dewy starlight,Till it passed the topmost branches;And behold! the wooden dishesAll were changed to shells of scarlet!And behold! the earthen kettlesAll were changed to bowls of silver!And the roof-poles of the wigwamWere as glittering rods of silver,And the roof of bark upon themAs the shining shards of beetles.'Then Osseo gazed around him,And he saw the nine fair sisters,All the sisters and their husbands,Changed to birds of various plumage.Some were jays, and some were magpies,Others thrushes, others blackbirds;And they hopped and sang and twittered,Perked and fluttered all their feathers,Strutted in their various plumage,And their tails like fans unfolded.'Only Oweenee, the youngest,Was not changed, but sat in silence,Wasted, wrinkled, old, and ugly,Looking sadly at the others;Till Osseo, gazing upward,Gave another cry of anguish,Such a cry as he had utteredBy the oak-tree in the forest.'Then returned her youth and beauty,And her soiled and tattered garmentsWere transformed to robes of ermine,And her staff became a feather,Yes, a shining silver feather!'And again the wigwam trembled,Swayed and rushed through airy currents,Through transparent cloud and vapour,And amid celestial splendoursOn the evening star alighted,As a snow-flake falls on snow-flake,As a leaf drops on a river,As the thistle-down on water.'Forth with cheerful words of welcomeCame the father of Osseo,He with radiant locks of silver,He with eyes serene and tender.And he said, "My son, Osseo,Hang the cage of birds you bring there,Hang the cage with rods of silver,And the birds with glistening feathers,At the doorway of my wigwam."'At the door he hung the bird-cage,And they entered in and gladlyListened to Osseo's father,Ruler of the star of evening,As he said, "O my Osseo!I have had compassion on you,Given you back your youth and beauty,Into birds of various plumageChanged your sisters and their husbands;Changed them thus because they mocked youIn the figure of the old man,In that aspect sad and wrinkled,Could not see your heart of passion,Could not see your youth immortal;Only Oweenee, the faithful,Saw your naked heart and loved you.'"In the lodge that glimmers yonder,In the little star that twinklesThrough the vapours, on the left hand,Lives the envious Evil Spirit,The Wabeno, the magician,Who transformed you to an old man.Take heed lest his beams fall on you,For the rays he darts around himAre the power of his enchantment,Are the arrows that he uses."
'Many years, in peace and quietOn the peaceful star of eveningDwelt Osseo with his father;Many years in song and flutter,At the doorway of the wigwam,Hung the cage with rods of silver,And fair Oweenee, the faithful,Bore a son unto Osseo,With the beauty of his mother,With the courage of his father.'And the boy grew up and prospered,And Osseo, to delight him,Made him little bows and arrows,Opened the great cage of silver,And let loose his aunts and uncles,All those birds with glossy feathers,For his little son to shoot at.'Round and round they wheeled and darted,Filled the evening star with music,With their songs of joy and freedom;Filled the evening star with splendour,With the fluttering of their plumage;Till the boy, the little hunter,Bent his bow and shot an arrow,Shot a swift and fatal arrow,And a bird, with shining feathers,At his feet fell wounded sorely.'But, O wondrous transformation!'Twas no bird he saw before him,'Twas a beautiful young woman,With the arrow in her bosom!'When her blood fell on the planet,On the sacred star of evening,Broken was the spell of magic,Powerless was the strange enchantment,And the youth, the fearless bowman,Suddenly felt himself descending,Held by unseen hands, but sinkingDownward through the empty spaces,Downward through the clouds and vapours,Till he rested on an island,On an island, green and grassy,Yonder in the big sea-water.'After him he saw descendingAll the birds with shining feathers,Fluttering, falling, wafted downward,Like the painted leaves of autumn;And the lodge with poles of silver,With its roof like wings of beetles,Like the shining shards of beetles,By the winds of heaven uplifted,Slowly sank upon the island,Bringing back the good Osseo,Bringing Oweenee, the faithful.'Then the birds, again transfigured,Resumed the shape of mortals,Took their shape, but not their stature;They remained as little people,Like the pigmies, the Puk-Wudjies;And on pleasant nights of summer,When the evening star was shining,Hand in hand they danced togetherOn the island's craggy headlands,On the sand-beach low and level.'Still their glittering lodge is seen there,On the tranquil summer evenings,And upon the shore the fisherSometimes hears their happy voices,Sees them dancing in the starlight!'"