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 good nature; 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
the _summum bonum_ of 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 uncommon powers 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 Robert Peel, 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."
[Footnote 161: Two apartments.]
"Brawly;"[162] was the reply.
[Footnote 162: Finely.]
"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. But the
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 of archery,
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 gray
Full 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 saving her 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 tarn
Haunted by the lonely earn,[163]
On many a cairn's grey pyramid,
Where urns of mighty chiefs lie hid."
_Lay of the Last Minstrel._
[Footnote 163: The Scottish eagle.]
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 cherished
So 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 sedge
Pollute the pure lake's crystal edge;
Abrupt and sheer the mountains sink
At once upon the level brink;
And just a trace of silver sand
Marks 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 line
Bears thwart the lake the scattered pine.
Nor thicket, dell, nor copse you spy,
Where living thing concealed might lie;
Nor point retiring hides a dell
Where 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 hills
Send 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._
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 the ballad 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 ladye
That 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 lord
Than 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!"
[Footnote 164: Yesternight.]
[Footnote 165: Walked.]
More than a century ago, William Hamilton, of Bangor, a gentleman of
rank, education, and poetical talents, wrote the following exquisite
ballad:[166]
[Footnote 166: We quote only a portion of Hamilton's ballad.]
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 seen
Pouing 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 leave
Pouing 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' Tweed
That 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 sewing
Ah! wretched me! I little kenned
He 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 night
He 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.
"Sweet were his words when last we met;
My passion I as freely told him;
Clasped in his arms I little thought
That I should never more behold him!
Scarce was I gone, I saw his ghost;
It vanished with a shriek of sorrow;
Thrice did the water wraith ascend
And gave a doleful groan through Yarrow.
"His mother from the window look'd
With all the longing of a mother;
His little sister weeping walk'd
The green wood path to meet her brother.
They sought him East, they sought him West,
They sought him all the forest thorough;
They only saw the cloud of night,
They only heard the roar of Yarrow!
"No longer from thy window look,
Thou hast no son, O tender mother!
No longer walk, thou lovely maid!
Alas! thou hast no more a brother!
No longer seek him East or West,
And search no more the forest thoro';
For wandering in the night so dark,
He fell a lifeless corpse in Yarrow.
"The tear shall never leave my cheek,
No other youth shall be my marrow;
I'll seek thy body in the stream,
And then with thee I'll sleep in Yarrow."
The tear did never leave her cheek,
No other youth became her marrow;
She found his body in the stream,
And now with him she sleeps in Yarrow.
We are now prepared to read Wordsworths' two exquisite poems, "Yarrow
Unvisited," and "Yarrow Visited," the splendid flowering, so to speak,
of this poetical growth.
From Stirling Castle we had seen
The mazy Forth unravelled;
Had trod the banks of Clyde and Tay,
And with the Tweed had travelled;
And when we came to Clovenford,
Then said 'my _winsome Marrow_,'
"Whate'er betide, we'll turn aside,
And see the braes o' Yarrow."
"Let Yarrow folk _frae_ Selkirk Town,
Who have been buying, selling,
Go back to Yarrow, 'tis their own;
Each maiden to her dwelling!
On Yarrow's banks let herons feed,
Hares couch and rabbits burrow!
But we will downward with the Tweed,
Nor turn aside to Yarrow.
"There's Galla Water, Leader Haughs,
Both lying right before us;
And Dryborough where with chiming Tweed
The Lintwhites sing in chorus;
There's pleasant Tivoitdale, a land
Made blithe with plough and harrow,
Why throw away a needful day
To go in search of Yarrow?
"What's Yarrow but a river bare,
That glides the dark hills under?
There are a thousand such elsewhere
As worthy of your wonder."
--Strange words they seemed of slight and scorn;
My true love sigh'd for sorrow;
And looked me in the face to think
I thus could speak of Yarrow!
"Oh green, said I, are Yarrow Holms
And sweet is 'Yarrow flowing!'
Fair hangs the apple frae the rock,
But we will leave it growing.
O'er hilly path and open Strath,
We'll wander Scotland thorough;
But though so near we will not turn
Into the Dale of Yarrow.
"Let beeves and home-bred kine partake
The sweets of Burnmill meadow;
The swan, on still St. Mary's Lake,
Float double, swan and shadow!
We will not see them; will not go,
To-day, nor yet to-morrow;
Enough if in our hearts we know
There's such a place as Yarrow.
"Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown!
It must, or we shall rue it;
We have a vision of our own;
Ah! why should we undo it?
The treasured dreams of times long past,
We'll keep them 'winsome Marrow!'
For when we're there, although tis fair,
'Twill be another Yarrow!
"If care with freezing years should come,
And wandering seem but folly,--
Should we be loth to stir from home,
And yet be melancholy;
Should life be dull, and spirits low,
'Twill soothe us in our sorrow,
That earth has something yet to show,
The bonny Holms of Yarrow."
This is beautiful, but the following is more so. Indeed it is the very
perfection of descriptive poetry.
YARROW VISITED.
And is this--Yarrow?--This the stream
Of which my fancy cherished
So faithfully a waking dream?
An image that has perished!
O that some minstrel's harp were near,
To utter notes of gladness,
And chase this silence from the air,
That fills my heart with sadness!
Yet why?--a silvery current flows
With uncontrolled meanderings;
Nor have these eyes by greener hills
Been soothed in all my wanderings.
And, through her depths, St. Mary's Lake
Is visibly delighted;
For not a feature of those hills
Is in the mirror slighted.
A blue sky bends o'er Yarrow Vale,
Save where that pearly whiteness
Is round the rising sun diffused,
A tender hazy brightness;
Mild dawn of promise! that excludes
All profitless dejection;
Though not unwilling here to admit
A pensive recollection.
Where was it that the famous Flower
Of Yarrow Vale lay bleeding?
His bed perchance was yon smooth mound
On which the herd is feeding:
And haply from this crystal pool,
Now peaceful as the morning,
The Water Wraith ascended thrice,
And gave his doleful warning.
Delicious is the lay that sings
The haunts of happy lovers,
The path that leads them to the grove,
The leafy grove that covers;
And Pity sanctifies the verse
That points, by strength of sorrow,
The unconquerable strength of love;
Bear witness rueful Yarrow!
But thou, that didst appear so fair
To fond imagination,
Dost rival in the light of day
Her delicate creation:
Meek loveliness is round thee spread,
A softness still and holy;
The grace of forest charms decayed
And pastoral melancholy.
That region left, the Vale unfolds
Rich groves of lofty stature,
With Yarrow winding through the pomp
Of cultivated nature;
And rising from those lofty groves,
Behold a ruin hoary!
The shattered front of Newark's towers
Renowned in Border story.
Fair scenes for childhood's opening bloom,
For sportive youth to stray in,
For manhood to enjoy his strength;
And age to wear away in!
Yon cottage seems a bower of bliss,
A covert for protection
Of tender thoughts that nestle there,
The brood of chaste affection.
How sweet on this autumnal day,
The wild wood fruits to gather,
And on my True-love's forehead plant
A crest of blooming heather!
And what if I enwreathed my own!
'Twere no offence to reason;
The sober hills thus deck their brows
To meet the wintry season.
I see, but not by sight alone,
Loved Yarrow, have I won thee;
A ray of Fancy still survives--
Her sunshine plays upon thee!
Thy ever youthful waters keep
A course of lively pleasure;
And gladsome notes my lips can breathe,
Accordant to the measure.
The vapors linger round the Heights,
They melt,--and soon must vanish;
One hour is their's, nor more is mine--
Sad thought, which I would banish,
But that I know, where'er I go,
Thy genuine image, Yarrow!
Will dwell with me, to heighten joy,
And cheer my mind in sorrow.