that, with one thing and another, 'twas eleven good months before my
grandfather landed again at Port Loe. And who should be the first man he
sees standing above the cove but William John Dunn.
"I'm very glad to see you," says William John Dunn.
"Thank you kindly," answers my grandfather; "and how's Mary Polly?"
"Why, as for that," he says, "she took so much looking after, that I
couldn't feel I was properly keeping her under my eye till I married
her, last June month."
"You was always one to over-do things," said my grandfather.
"But if you was alive an' well, why didn' you drop us a line?"
Now when it came to talk about "dropping a line," my grandfather fairly
lost his temper. So he struck William John Dunn on the nose--a thing he
had never been known to do before--and William John Dunn hit him back,
and the neighbors had to separate them. And next day, William John Dunn
took out a summons against him. Well, the case was tried before the
magistrates: and my grandfather told his story from the beginning, quite
straightforward, just as I've told it to you. And the magistrates
decided that, taking one thing and another, he'd had a great deal of
provocation, and fined him five shillings. And there the matter ended.
But now you know the reason why I'm William John Dunn's grandson instead
of Hendry Watty's.
[Illustration: CHILDE ROWLAND]
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 26: From _The Wandering Heath_, by Arthur Quiller-Couch;
Copyright, 1895, by Charles Scribner's Sons. By permission of the
publishers.]
[Footnote 27: Beer-house.]
[Footnote 28: Breeches buoy.]
CHILDE ROWLAND[29]
Childe Rowland and his brothers twain
Were playing at the ball,
And there was their sister Burd Ellen
In the midst, among them all.
Childe Rowland kicked it with his foot
And caught it with his knee;
At last as he plunged among them all
O'er the church he made it flee.
Burd Ellen round about the aisle
To seek the ball is gone,
But long they waited, and longer still,
And she came not back again.
They sought her east, they sought her west,
They sought her up and down,
And woe were the hearts of those brethren,
For she was not to be found.
SO at last her eldest brother went to the Warlock Merlin and told him
all the case, and asked him if he knew where Burd Ellen was. "The fair
Burd Ellen," said the Warlock Merlin, "must have been carried off by the
fairies, because she went round the church 'widershins'--the opposite
way to the sun. She is now in the Dark Tower of the King of Elfland; it
would take the boldest knight in Christendom to bring her back."
"If it is possible to bring her back," said her brother, "I'll do it, or
perish in the attempt."
"Possible it is," said the Warlock Merlin, "but woe to the man or
mother's son that attempts it, if he is not well taught beforehand what
he is to do."
The eldest brother of Burd Ellen was not to be put off, by any fear of
danger, from attempting to get her back, so he begged the Warlock Merlin
to tell him what he should do, and what he should not do, in going to
seek his sister. And after he had been taught, and had repeated his
lesson, he set out for Elfland.
But long they waited, and longer still,
With doubt and muckle pain,
But woe were the hearts of his brethren,
For he came not back again.
Then the second brother got tired and tired of waiting, and he went to
the Warlock Merlin and asked him the same as his brother. So he set out
to find Burd Ellen.
But long they waited, and longer still,
With muckle doubt and pain,
And woe were his mother's and brother's heart,
For he came not back again.
And when they had waited and waited a good long time, Childe Rowland,
the youngest of Burd Ellen's brothers, wished to go, and went to his
mother, the good queen, to ask her to let him go. But she would not at
first, for he was the last and dearest of her children, and if he was
lost, all would be lost. But he begged, and he begged, till at last the
good queen let him go, and gave him his father's good brand that never
struck in vain, and as she girt it round his waist, she said the spell
that would give it victory.
So Childe Rowland said good-by to the good queen, his mother, and went
to the cave of the Warlock Merlin. "Once more, and but once more," he
said to the Warlock, "tell how man or mother's son may rescue Burd Ellen
and her brothers twain."
"Well, my son," said the Warlock Merlin, "there are but two things,
simple they may seem, but hard they are to do. One thing to do, and one
thing not to do. And the thing to do is this: after you have entered the
land of Fairy, whoever speaks to you, till you meet the Burd Ellen, you
must out with your father's brand and off with their head. And what
you've not to do is this: bite no bit, and drink no drop, however hungry
or thirsty you be; drink a drop or bite a bit, while in Elfland you be
and never will you see Middle Earth again."
So Childe Rowland said the two things over and over again, till he knew
them by heart, and he thanked the Warlock Merlin and went on his way.
And he went along, and along, and along, and still further along, till
he came to the horse-herd of the King of Elfland feeding his horses.
These he knew by their fiery eyes, and knew that he was at last in the
land of Fairy. "Canst thou tell me," said Childe Rowland to the
horse-herd, "where the King of Elfland's Dark Tower is?" "I cannot tell
thee," said the horse-herd, "but go on a little further and thou wilt
come to the cow-herd, and he, maybe, can tell thee."
Then, without a word more, Childe Rowland drew the good brand that never
struck in vain, and off went the horse-herd's head, and Childe Rowland
went on further, till he came to the cow-herd, and asked him the same
question. "I can't tell thee," said he, "but go on a little further, and
thou wilt come to the hen-wife, and she is sure to know." Then Childe
Rowland out with his good brand, that never struck in vain, and off went
the cow-herd's head. And he went on a little further, till he came to an
old woman in a gray cloak, and he asked her if she knew where the Dark
Tower of the King of Elfland was. "Go on a little further," said the
hen-wife, "till you come to a round green hill, surrounded with
terrace-rings, from the bottom to the top; go round it three times,
'widershins,' and each time say:
"'Open, door! open, door!
And let me come in,'
and the third time the door will open, and you may go in." And Childe
Rowland was just going on, when he remembered what he had to do; so he
out with the good brand, that never struck in vain, and off went the
hen-wife's head.
Then he went on, and on, and on, till he came to the round green hill
with the terrace-rings from top to bottom, and he went round it three
times, "widershins," saying each time:
"Open, door! open, door!
And let me come in."
And the third time the door did open, and he went in, and it closed with
a click, and Childe Rowland was left in the dark.
It was not exactly dark, but a kind of twilight or gloaming. There were
neither windows nor candles, and he could not make out where the
twilight came from, if not through the walls and roof. There were rough
arches made of a transparent rock, incrusted with sheepsilver and rock
spar, and other bright stones. But though it was rock, the air was quite
warm, as it always is in Elfland. So he went through this passage till
at last he came to two wide and high folding-doors which stood ajar. And
when he opened them, there he saw a most wonderful and glorious sight. A
large and spacious hall, so large that it seemed to be as long, and as
broad, as the green hill itself. The roof was supported by fine pillars,
so large and lofty, that the pillars of a cathedral were as nothing to
them. They were all of gold and silver, with fretted work, and between
them and around them wreaths of flowers, composed of what do you think?
Why, of diamonds and emeralds, and all manner of precious stones. And
the very key-stones of the arches had for ornaments clusters of diamonds
and rubies, and pearls, and other precious stones. And all these arches
met in the middle of the roof, and just there, hung by a gold chain, an
immense lamp made out of one big pearl hollowed out and quite
transparent. And in the middle of this was a big, huge carbuncle, which
kept spinning round and round, and this was what gave light by its rays
to the whole hall, which seemed as if the setting sun was shining on it.
The hall was furnished in a manner equally grand, and at one end of it
was a glorious couch of velvet, silk and gold, and there sat Burd Ellen,
combing her golden hair with a silver comb. And when she saw Childe
Rowland she stood up and said:
"God pity ye, poor luckless fool,
What have ye here to do?
"Hear ye this, my youngest brother,
Why didn't ye bide at home?
Had you a hundred thousand lives
Ye couldn't spare any a one.
"But sit ye down; but woe, O, woe,
That ever ye were born,
For come the King of Elfland in,
Your fortune is forlorn."
Then they sat down together, and Childe Rowland told her all that he had
done, and she told him how their two brothers had reached the Dark
Tower, but had been enchanted by the King of Elfland, and lay there
entombed as if dead. And then after they had talked a little longer
Childe Rowland began to feel hungry from his long travels, and told his
sister Burd Ellen how hungry he was and asked for some food, forgetting
all about the Warlock Merlin's warning.
Burd Ellen looked at Childe Rowland sadly, and shook her head, but she
was under a spell, and could not warn him. So she rose up, and went out,
and soon brought back a golden basin full of bread and milk. Childe
Rowland was just going to raise it to his lips, when he looked at his
sister and remembered why he had come all that way. So he dashed the
bowl to the ground, and said: "Not a sup will I swallow, nor a bit will
I bite, till Burd Ellen is set free."
Just at that moment they heard the noise of some one approaching, and a
loud voice was heard saying:
"Fee, fi, fo, fum,
I smell the blood of a Christian man,
Be he dead, be he living, with my brand,
I'll dash his brains from his brain-pan."
And then the folding-doors of the hall were burst open, and the King of
Elfland rushed in.
"Strike, then, Bogle, if thou darest," shouted out Childe Rowland, and
rushed to meet him with his good brand that never yet did fail. They
fought, and they fought, and they fought, till Childe Rowland beat the
King of Elfland down on to his knees, and caused him to yield and beg
for mercy. "I grant thee mercy," said Childe Rowland; "release my sister
from thy spells and raise my brothers to life, and let us all go free,
and thou shalt be spared." "I agree," said the Elfin King, and rising up
he went to a chest from which he took a phial filled with a blood-red
liquor. With this he anointed the ears, eyelids, nostrils, lips, and
finger-tips of the two brothers, and they sprang at once into life, and
declared that their souls had been away, but had now returned. The Elfin
King then said some words to Burd Ellen, and she was disenchanted, and
they all four passed out of the hall, through the long passage, and
turned their back on the Dark Tower, never to return again. So they
reached home, and the good queen their mother and Burd Ellen never went
round a church "widershins"[30] again.
[Illustration: TAM O' SHANTER]
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 29: From _English Fairy Tales,_ by Joseph Jacobs. Courtesy of
G. P. Putnam's Sons.]
[Footnote 30: To go from _left_ to right, instead of following the Sun's
course from _right_ to left.]
TAM O' SHANTER[31]
IT was market-day in the town of Ayr in Scotland. The farmers had come
into town from all the country round about, to sell or exchange their
farm produce, and buy what they needed to take home.
Amongst these farmers was a man by the name of Tam o' Shanter; a good
natured, happy-go-lucky sort of person, but, I am sorry to say, somewhat
of a drunkard.
Now Tam's wife, whose name was Kate, was a grievous scold; always
nagging and faultfinding, and I fear making it far easier for Tam to do
wrong than if she had treated him more kindly. However that may be, Tam
was happier away from home; and this day had escaped his wife's scolding
tongue, mounted his good gray mare Meg, and galloped off as fast as he
could go to Market.
Tam, who was bent upon having a spree, found his good friend, the
shoemaker Johnny, and off they went to their favorite ale house; where
they stayed telling stories and singing and drinking, till late at
night.
At last the time came to go home and Tam who had forgotten the long
miles between him and the farm set forth, but a terrible storm had
risen; the wind blew, the rain fell in torrents and the thunder roared
long and loud.
It was a fearful night, black as pitch except for the blinding flashes
of lightning; but Tam was well mounted on his good gray mare Maggie, and
splashed along through the wind and mire, holding on to his good blue
bonnet, and singing aloud an old Scotch sonnet; while looking about him
with prudent care lest the bogies catch him unawares.
At last he drew near to the old ruined church of Alloway. For many, many
years this old church had been roofless, but the walls were standing and
it still retained the bell.
For many years it was said that the ghosts and witches nightly held
their revels there, and sometimes rang the old bell. As Tam was crossing
the ford of the stream called the Doon, which flowed nearby, he looked
up at the old church on the hillside above him, and behold! it was all
ablaze with lights, and sounds of mirth and dancing reached his ears.
Now Tam had been made fearless by old John Barleycorn, and he made good
Maggie take him close to the church so that he could look inside, and
there he saw the weirdest sight--
Witches and ghosts in a mad dance, and the music was furnished by the
Devil himself in the shape of a beast, who played upon the bagpipes, and
made them scream so loud that the very rafters rang with the sound.
It was an awful sight; and as Tam looked in, amazed and curious, the fun
and mirth grew fast and furious.
The Piper loud and louder blew, and the dancers quick and quicker flew.
One of the witches resembled a handsome girl that Tam had known called
Nannie; Tam sat as one bewitched watching her as she danced, and at last
losing his wits altogether, called out: "Weel done, Cutty-Sark!"--and in
an instant all was dark!
He had scarcely time to turn Maggie round, when all the legion of
witches and spirits were about him like a swarm of angry bees. As a
crowd runs, when the cry "Catch the thief" is heard, so runs Maggie; and
the witches follow with many an awful screech and halloo! Hurry, Meg!
Do thy utmost! Win the keystone of the bridge, for a running stream they
_dare_ not cross! _Then_ you can toss your tail at them! But before good
Meg could reach the keystone of the bridge she had no tail to toss. For
Nannie far before the rest, hard upon noble Maggie prest,
and flew at Tam with fury. But she little knew good Maggie's
mettle. With one spring, she brought off her master safe, but left
behind her own gray tail!
The witch had caught it and left poor Maggie with only a stump.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 31: Prose Version, by Anna Cogswell Tyler.]
TAM O' SHANTER[32]
"Of brownys and of bogilis full is this buke."--Gawin Douglas.
When chapman billies leave the street,
And drouthy neebors neebors meet,
As market-days are wearing late,
An' folk begin to tak' the gate;
While we sit bousing at the nappy,
An' gettin' fou and unco happy,
We think na on the lang Scots miles,
The mosses, waters, slaps, and stiles,
That lie between us and our hame,
Where sits our sulky sullen dame,
Gathering her brows like gathering storm,
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.
This truth fand honest Tam o' Shanter,
As he frae Ayr ae night did canter,
(Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses,
For honest men and bonny lasses.)
O Tam! hadst thou but been sae wise,
As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advise!
She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum,
A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum;
That frae November till October,
Ae market-day thou wasna sober;
That ilka melder, wi' the miller,
Thou sat as lang as thou had siller;
That ev'ry naig was ca'd a shoe on,
The smith and thee gat roaring fou on;
That at the Lord's house, ev'n on Sunday,
Thou drank wi' Kirton Jean till Monday.
She prophesy'd, that late or soon,
Thou would be found deep drown'd in Doon;
Or catch'd wi' warlocks in the mirk,
By Alloway's auld haunted kirk.
Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet,
To think how mony counsels sweet,
How mony lengthen'd sage advices,
The husband frae the wife despises!
But to our tale:--Ae market night,
Tam had got planted unco right;
Fast by an ingle bleezing finely,
Wi' reaming swats, that drank divinely;
And at his elbow, Souter Johnny,
His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony;
Tam lo'ed him like a vera brither;
They had been fou' for weeks thegither!
The night drave on wi' sangs an' clatter;
And ay the ale was growing better:
The storm without might rair and rustle-- Tam
did na mind the storm a whistle.
Care, made to see a man sae happy,
E'en drown'd himself amang the nappy!
As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure,
The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure:
Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious,
O'er a' the ills o' life victorious.
But pleasures are like poppies spread,
You seize the flow'r, its bloom is shed;
Or like the snow falls in the river,
A moment white--then melts for ever;
Or like the borealis race,
That flit ere you can point their place;
Or like the rainbow's lovely form
Evanishing amid the storm.
Nae man can tether time or tide;
The hour approaches Tam maun ride;
That hour, o' night's black arch the kay-stane,
That dreary hour he mounts his beast in;
And sic a night he taks the road in
As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in.
The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last;
The rattling show'rs rose on the blast;
The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd;
Loud, deep, and lang the thunder bellow'd:
That night, a child might understand,
The De'il had business on his hand.
Weel mounted on his gray mare, Meg,
A better never lifted leg,
Tam skelpit on thro' dub and mire,
Despising wind, and rain, and fire;
Whiles holding fast his guid blue bonnet;
Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet;
Whiles glow'ring round wi' prudent cares,
Les bogles catch him unawares;
Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh,
Where ghaists and houlets nightly cry.
By this time he was cross the foord,
Whare in the snaw the chapman smoor'd;
And past the birks and meikle stane,
Where drunken Charlie brak's neck-bane;
And thro' the whins, and by the cairn,
Where hunters fand the murder'd bairn;
And near the thorn, aboon the well,
Where Mungo's mither hang'd hersel'.
Before him Doon pours all his floods;
The doubling storm roars thro' the woods;
The lightnings flash from pole to pole;
Near and more near the thunders roll;
When, glimmering thro' the groaning trees,
Kirk-Alloway seem'd in a bleeze;
Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing;
And loud resounded mirth and dancing.
Inspiring, bold John Barleycorn!
What dangers thou canst make us scorn!
Wi' tippenny, we fear nae evil;
Wi' usquabae we'll face the devil!
The swats sae ream'd in Tammie's noodle,
Fair play, he car'd nae deils a boddle.
But Maggie stood right sair astonish'd,
'Till, by the heel and hand admonish'd,
She ventur'd forward on the light;
And wow! Tam saw an unco sight!
Warlocks and witches in a dance;
Nae cotillion brent new frae France,
But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels,
Put life and mettle in their heels:
A winnock-bunker in the east,
There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast;
A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large,
To gie them music was his charge;
He screw'd the pipes and gart them skirl,
Till roof and rafters a' did dirl-- As
Tammie glowr'd, amaz'd, and curious,
The mirth and fun grew fast and furious:
The piper loud and louder blew;
The dancers quick and quicker flew;
They reel'd, they set, they cross'd, they cleekit,
'Til ilka carlin swat and reekit,
And coost her duddies to the wark,
And linket at it in her sark!
But Tam kenn'd what was what fu' brawlie,
There was a winsome wench and walie,
That night enlisted in the core,
(Lang after kenn'd on Carrick shore;
For mony a beast to dead she shot,
And perish'd mony a bonnie boat,
And shook baith meikle corn and bear,
And kept the country-side in fear.)
Her cutty sark, o' Paisley harn,
That, while a lassie, she had worn,
In longitude tho' sorely scanty,
It was her best, and she was vauntie.
Ah! little kenn'd thy reverend grannie,
That sark she coft for her wee Nannie,
Wi' twa pund Scots ('twas a' her riches),
Wad ever grac'd a dance of witches!
But here my muse her wing maun cour;
Sic flights are far beyond her pow'r;
To sing how Nannie lap and flang,
(A soup'e jade she was and strang),
And how Tam stood, like ane bewitch'd,
And thought his very een enrich'd;
Even Satan glowr'd, and fidg'd fu' fain,
And hotch'd and blew wi' might and main:
'Til first ae caper, syne anither,
Tam tint his reason a' thegither,
And roars out, "Well done, Cutty-sark!"
And in an instant all was dark:
And scarcely had he Maggie rallied,
When out the hellish legion sallied.
As bees bizz out wi' angry gyke,
When plundering herds assail their byke;
As open pussie's mortal foes,
When, pop! she starts before their nose;
As eager runs the market-crowd,
When "Catch the thief!" resounds aloud;
So Maggie runs, the witches follow,
Wi' mony an eldritch screech and hollow.
Ah, Tam! Ah, Tam! thou'll get thy fairin'!
In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin'!
In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin'!
Kate soon will be a woefu' woman!
Now do thy speedy utmost, Meg,
And win the key-stane of the brig;
There at them thou thy tail may toss,
A running stream they darena cross!
But ere the key-stane she could make,
The fient a tail she had to shake!
For Nannie, far before the rest,
Hard upon noble Maggie prest,
And flew at Tammie wi' furious ettle;
But little wist she Maggie's mettle-- Ae
spring brought off her master hale,
But left behind her ain gray tail:
The carlin claught her by the rump,
And left poor Maggie scarce a stump.
Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read,
Ilk man and mother's son, take heed:
Whene'er to drink you are inclin'd,
Or cutty-sarks run in your mind,
Think! ye may buy the joys o'er dear-- Remember
Tam o' Shanter's mare.
ROBERT BURNS.
[Illustration: THE BOGGART]
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 32: It is a well-known fact that witches, or any evil spirits,
have no power to follow a poor wight any further than the middle of the
next running stream. It may be proper likewise to mention to the
benighted traveler, that when he falls in with _bogles,_ whatever danger
there may be in his going forward, there is much more hazard in turning
back.]
THE BOGGART[33]
IN an old farm-house in Yorkshire, where lived an honest farmer named
George Gilbertson, a Boggart had taken up his abode. He caused a good
deal of trouble, and he kept tormenting the children, day and night, in
various ways. Sometimes their bread and butter would be snatched away,
or their porringers of bread and milk be capsized by an invisible hand;
for the Boggart never let himself be seen; at other times the curtains
of their beds would be shaken backwards and forwards, or a heavy weight
would press on and nearly suffocate them. Their mother had often, on
hearing their cries, to fly to their aid.
There was a kind of closet, formed by a wooden partition on the
kitchen-stairs, and a large knot having been driven out of one of the
deal-boards of which it was made, there remained a round hole. Into
this, one day, the farmer's youngest boy stuck the shoe-horn with which
he was amusing himself, when immediately it was thrown out again, and
struck the boy on the head. Of course it was the Boggart did this, and
it soon became their sport, which they called _larking with the
Boggart,_ to put the shoe-horn into the hole and have it shot back at
them. But the gamesome Boggart at length proved such a torment that the
farmer and his wife resolved to quit the house and let him have it all
to himself. This settled, the flitting day came, and the farmer and his
family were following the last loads of furniture, when a neighbor named
John Marshall came up.
"Well, Georgey," said he, "and so you're leaving t'ould hoose at last?"
"Heigh, Johnny, my lad, I'm forced to it; for that bad Boggart torments
us so, we can neither rest night nor day for't. It seems to have such a
malice against t'poor bairns, it almost kills my poor dame here at
thoughts on't, and so, ye see, we're forced to flitt loike."