They say that the lord of Morpeth, in Northumberland, promised the great
wizard a rich reward if he would only make the sea roll up the valley of
the pretty river Wansbeck till it reached Morpeth, so that vessels could
sail up to the town. The distance is seven miles, and the wizard,
declaring the matter a most simple one, prepared his magic spell. He
then said that if a certain man would run from the sea to the town, and
on no account look back, whatever he heard, the desire of the lord would
be satisfied. The man no sooner started to run than he heard the waters
following him. Faster and faster he went, and faster and faster came
the ocean, dashing and roaring, never overtaking him, but always so near
his heels as to fill him with ever greater and greater terror.
Before he had finished the third mile he was in such a state of alarm
that he could not resist the impulse to see what was happening. He
turned round, and the spell was broken; the waters had followed him thus
far, but would come no further. Even the best of wizards will fail when
his instructions are not obeyed.
So says the story. People are free to believe it or not, as they
please. It is certain that the sea runs nearly three miles up the
Wansbeck valley, and there stops; but many people think that that is
explained by the natural rise of the land!
The story of how Michael Scott came to divide the Eildon Hill into three
runs as follows:--
The wizard had one very active little demon, who was always bothering
his master to give him something to do. First Michael commanded him to
put a barrier across the Tweed at Kelso, thinking to keep him quiet for
at least a week; it was done in a single night, and again the demon
demanded work. Then Michael set him to divide Eildon into three; this
also was done in a night, and again the demon came clamouring for
employment. So in despair the wizard ordered him to make ropes out of
sea-sand! This, of course, is impossible, as the sand will not hold
together. But if you go down to the shore on the south-east coast of
Scotland on a dark and stormy night, you can still hear what sounds like
the demon moaning and groaning over his impossible task; and there is
certainly a barrier across the Tweed at Kelso, and the Eildon Hill is
certainly divided into three! So you may believe as much as you please
of this story.
Another tale that is told of the magic powers of this famous man relates
that he was once chosen to go as ambassador from the King of Scotland to
the King of France on urgent business. Instead of going, as is usual in
such cases, with a number of followers, he conjured up a demon shaped
like a huge black horse, and rode away over the sea. When half-way
across the North Sea the horse said to his rider:--
"What do the old women of Scotland say at bed-time?" Had the magician
fallen into the trap and named a prayer, the demon would have
disappeared and the wizard would have been drowned! But Michael Scott
merely commanded his steed to go on quickly and not to talk. Very soon
he came to Paris, tied his horse to the gate of the French king's
palace, and boldly entered and stated his business. The French king
sneered at an ambassador who was not followed by a train of knights, and
began at once to refuse all he asked. "Wait a moment, your Majesty,"
said Michael, "till you have seen my horse stamp three times."
At the first stamp the ground so shook that every steeple in Paris
rocked, making all the bells ring loudly; at the second stamp the king
heard behind him a loud crash that made him leap three feet in the air;
looking round, he saw that three of the towers of his palace had fallen;
the horse raised his foot to stamp a third time, but the king was so
terrified that he shouted hastily that he would grant all that Michael
asked if only he would keep his horse from stamping!
Whether this tale is true or not, Michael Scott was certainly one of the
ambassadors sent to bring back the Maid of Norway to Scotland on the
death of King Alexander III. He wrote many learned books, and possessed
many others; and they say that when he was buried at Melrose many of
these same magic books were buried with him.
To this romantic district of the Eildons belonged True Thomas, Thomas
the Rhymer, or Thomas of Ercildoune, as he was variously called, who was
held in awe by Border-folks as a prophet. The ruins of his tower are
still shown by the pretty river Leader, just about two miles above the
spot where it joins the Tweed. The Rhymer seems to have died a few
years before 1300; but despite the passing of six centuries he is still
remembered. The story of how he gained his prophetic powers is quite
worth hearing, whether we believe it or not.
The tale goes that Thomas was on Huntlie bank, near the Eildon Hills,
when he saw a wonderful lady approaching him. She was dressed in
grass-green silk, with a mantle of fine velvet, and the noble horse on
which she rode had silver bells in its mane. Thomas was so surprised at
this remarkable sight that when the lady came near he dropped on his
knee and pulled off his cap, and cried out, reverently, that she must be
the Queen of Heaven. But she answered that she was Queen of fair
Elfland, and dared him, with a witching glance, to kiss her lips. The
bold and gallant Thomas did not need a second invitation, and promptly
kissed the fairy, when she seized upon him and fled away with him
swifter than the wind.
Soon all living land was left behind, and they came to a wild place
where three roads met. One was a narrow path, beset with thorns and
briers; and this the fairy said was the road of righteousness, which
very few people ever troubled to find. Another was a broad and
attractive road, which was the way of sinners; whilst the third, a
pretty winding road, led to Elfland, and thither they went together.
Soon there was neither sun nor moon to lighten the way, and Thomas and
his companion waded through rivers above the knee. The sea moaned and
roared in the dread darkness, and Thomas somehow found that they waded
oft through streams of red blood--blood that had been shed on earth.
Then they came to a beautiful garden, and the Elfland queen gave Thomas
an apple to eat, saying:--
"Take this for thy wages, true Thomas; it will give thee the tongue that
can never lie." Poor Thomas turned pale at the thought of such a gift.
"Let my tongue be my own!" he pleaded; "how shall I buy or sell in any
market, flatter a prince, or compliment a lady, if you give me such a
tongue!"
But the Elfland queen would take no denial, and Thomas had to do her
behest, wherefore for the rest of his life Thomas carried with him this
gift of truthfulness.
*Chapter VII*
*Black Agnes of Dunbar*
The fortress of Dunbar was always a very important one to the Scots. It
commanded the coast road from England across the Border to Edinburgh,
not only one of the best routes in itself, but one which had the
additional advantage to the English that by following it they could keep
in touch with their ships. So it is not surprising that many stirring
events in history took place at this historic town.
King Edward I. of England won a very important victory at Dunbar during
his first invasion of Scotland, and to the place which had witnessed the
triumph of the father, his son, Edward II., fled for safety after his
defeat at Bannockburn, taking ship thence back to England. In the time
of Mary Queen of Scots the fortress was held by Earl Bothwell; from here
he consented to the surrender of poor Mary, and here he rested in safety
before his final flight to Scandinavia. Oliver Cromwell fought and won
at Dunbar his desperate battle with the Scottish Presbyterians, the fate
of which for some time hung in the balance. Cromwell considered the
place so valuable that he had new harbour works made there, and a
portion of his work, forming part of the east pier of the present much
larger harbour, is still to be seen.
The last time that Dunbar resounded to the march of an army bent on
immediate fight was in 1745, when the boastful English general, Sir John
Cope, landed here to engage the Highland followers of Prince Charles
Edward (called the "Young Pretender"). Prince Charlie was at Edinburgh,
and Dunbar Castle commanded the road into England. Cope asserted that
the Highlanders would run away at the mere sight of his army. He
marched westward, but was surprised in the early morning by his enemies
when near Prestonpans. In less than ten minutes it was the unprepared
English who were flying in disorder, utterly routed.
The foregoing is but a brief outline of the stormy history of those grey
and ruined battlements overlooking the bleak North Sea at the
southernmost point of entrance to the noble Firth of Forth. The mention
of these stirring incidents, however, will serve to show what a very
important place Dunbar was, and that it was necessary to Scottish safety
that a strong hand should have charge of its fortress. We are now to
see how at one of the most critical hours a woman was to hold command,
and to hold it worthily.
Early in the reign of King Edward III. of England Scottish affairs were
in some confusion. King Robert Bruce had lately died, leaving a son,
King David II., then only five years old. That great leader and friend
of Bruce, Randolph, Earl of Moray, was appointed Guardian of Scotland,
but he too soon died. Edward III., anxious to interfere in Scottish
affairs, agreed to help Edward Balliol to make himself king of the
Scots. So an English army was again in Scotland, and one of the places
they were keenest to take was the fortress of Dunbar.
[Illustration: _Black Agnes_]
The castle was a very strong one. It was built on a chain of great
rocks that stretched out to sea, and could only be reached from land by
one road, which was, of course, strictly guarded. The lord of the
castle was the Earl of March (the word March in those days meant a
border-land), but he was away with the Scottish army, and his wife was
in charge of the castle. She was the daughter of that brave Earl of
Moray, Guardian of Scotland, who has just been mentioned. The English
army was led by an experienced general, the Earl of Salisbury, and he
probably thought that he would not have much trouble in overcoming
"Black Agnes," as the dark-haired countess was called.
He soon discovered that she was of heroic mould, however, for though he
himself led the storming-parties, she on her side, urging on her men in
person, hurled back his every attack. The Lady Agnes was quite
fearless, and treated the siege as if it were a pastime to be enjoyed.
When the English, with machines made for the purpose, hurled heavy
stones against the walls, Black Agnes would call one of her maidens with
a napkin to wipe off the dust that they made! The biggest of all the
English war-machines was called a sow, and when it was brought to the
walls the countess cried out in rough jest that it was surrounded by
little pigs. At the same moment a mass of rock, which she had caused to
be loosened, was hurled by her men on to the English, crushing their sow
and many soldiers with it.
At last there seemed a chance for the English. Near midnight a Scot
came into their camp, saying that he was ready to betray the castle for
a reward. The Earl of Salisbury and some chosen knights rode carefully
forward, and found the gate open and the portcullis raised, as the man
had promised. But for all that, they doubted if Black Agnes could so
far relax her vigilance; wherefore instead of the earl entering first,
he sent forward a retainer. His caution was soon justified, for no
sooner had this man passed the gate than the portcullis fell. It was a
trick to capture the earl, but the Scots were disappointed this time.
The gallant English lord was loud in admiration of the brave Scottish
lady who was thus defying him. Once when examining the defences with a
lieutenant, an arrow struck his companion dead. "The countess's
love-arrows pierce to the heart," said Salisbury, on his return to the
camp. Despite the courtly manner in which the well-bred baron referred
to the lady, however, he did not relax his efforts to overcome her.
Salisbury's land forces had now surrounded the castle on the land side,
while his ships at sea completed the blockade. The garrison was
threatened with starvation. Greater and greater became the privations
of the heroic defenders. The countess, no less brave than ever, hoped
on, though ground for hope grew less and less. She could not bring
herself to think of defeat, and her brave, bright face still gave
courage and inspiration to all.
Meantime the story of the struggle and difficulties of the defenders was
raising up helpers, and Sir Alexander Ramsay of Dalhousie got ready a
light vessel filled with provisions and manned by forty brave Scots, who
only waited for a dark night to make the attempt to steal past the
English fleet. They lay hidden by the Bass Rock, a lofty islet at the
mouth of the Firth of Forth, some seven or eight miles from Dunbar,
until one starless night they stole very cautiously down the wild
coast-line of Haddingtonshire, sometimes all but bumping into an English
vessel in the dark. Fortune favours the brave, and despite dangers and
difficulties they got safely at last to the castle, whose distant light
had been their guide. Be sure Black Agnes welcomed them! This proved to
be the turning-point of the long siege. With fresh hope, the garrison
made a sudden sally on the English, driving back their advance guard,
and after five months of fierce but fruitless attempts, Salisbury was
compelled to withdraw his forces and admit defeat. Nevertheless, the
English were gallant enough to sing their praises of this Scottish
heroine; their minstrels made songs in her honour, in one of which
Salisbury is made to say:--
"Came I early, came I late,
I found Black Agnes at the gate."
*Chapter VIII*
*The Young Tamlane*
"He's ta'en her by the milk-white hand,
Among the leaves so green."
This tale belongs to the romantic side of the Border minstrelsy, and
illustrates some of the common superstitions of olden times concerning
elves and fairies. The scene is laid in the Selkirk or Ettrick Forest,
a mountainous tract covered with the remains of the old Caledonian
Forest. About a mile above Selkirk is a plain called Carterhaugh, and
here may still be seen those fairy rings of which it was believed that
anyone sleeping upon one will wake in a fairy city. And here was, and
perhaps still is, an ancient well. The ballad opens by telling how all
young maids were forbidden to come or go by way of Carterhaugh, "for
young Tamlane (or Thomalin) is there," and every one going by
Carterhaugh is obliged to leave him something in pledge. But the Lady
Janet, the fairest of the Selkirk lasses, was obstinate, and declared
that she would come or go to Carterhaugh, as she pleased, "and ask no
leave of him," since the land there belonged to her by hereditary right.
She kilted her green mantle above her knee, and braided her yellow hair
above her brow, and off she went to Carterhaugh. When she got to the
well, she found the steed of the elfin knight Tamlane standing there,
but he himself was away.
"She hadna pu'd a red, red rose,
A rose but barely three;
Till up and starts a wee, wee man
At Lady Janet's knee.
Says--'Why pu' ye the rose, Janet?
What gars (makes) ye break the tree?
Or why come ye to Carterhaugh,
Withouten leave of me?'
Says--'Carterhaugh it is mine ain;
My daddy gave it me:
I'll come and gang to Carterhaugh,
And ask nae leave o' thee.'"
But Tamlane took her by the hand and worked upon her his spells, which
no maiden might resist, however proud she might be.
When she came back to her father's hall, she looked pale and wan; and it
seemed that she had some sore sickness. She ceased to take any pleasure
in combing her yellow hair, and everything she ate seemed like to be her
death. When her ladies played at ball, she, once the strongest player,
was now the faintest. One day her father spoke out, and said he, "Full
well I know that you must have some lover." She said:--
"'If my love were an earthly knight,
As he's an elfin grey,
I wouldna give my own true love
For no lord that ye hae.'"
Then she prinked herself, and preened herself, all by the light of the
moon alone, and went away to Carterhaugh, to speak with Tamlane. When
she got to the well, she found the steed standing, but Tamlane was away.
She had barely pulled a double rose, when up started the elf.
"Why pull ye the rose, Janet?" says he; "why pull ye the rose within
this garden green?" "The truth ye'll tell me, Tamlane; were ye ever in
holy chapel, or received into the Christian Church?" "The truth I'll
tell thee, Janet; a knight was my father, and a lady was my mother, like
your own parents. Randolph, Earl Moray, was my sire; Dunbar, Earl
March, is thine. We loved when we were children, which yet you may
remember. When I was a boy just turned nine, my uncle sent for me to
hunt, and hawk, and ride with him, and keep him company. There came a
wind out of the north, a deep sleep came over me, and I fell from my
horse. The queen of the fairies took me off to yon green hill, and now
I'm a fairy, lithe and limber. In Fairyland we know neither sickness
nor pain. We quit our body, or repair unto them, when we please. We can
inhabit, earth, or air, as we will. Our shapes and size we can convert
to either large or small. We sleep in rose-buds, revel in the stream,
wanton lightly on the wind, or glide on a sunbeam. I would never tire,
Janet, to dwell in Elfland, were it not that every seven years a tithe
is paid to hell, and I am so fair of flesh, I fear 'twill be myself. If
you dare to win your true love, you have no time to lose. To-night is
Hallowe'en, and the fairy folk ride. If you would win your true love,
bide at Miles Cross." Miles Cross is about half a mile from
Carterhaugh, and Janet asked how she should know Tamlane among so many
unearthly knights. "The first company that passes by, let them go. The
next company that passes by, let them go. The third company that passes
by, I'll be one of those. First let pass the black steed, Janet, then
let pass the brown; but grip the milk-white steed, and pull down the
rider--
"For I ride on the milk-white steed,
And aye nearest the town;
Because I was a christened knight,
They gave me that renown."
Tamlane went on to explain that his fairy comrades would make every
effort to disgust her with her captive. They would turn him in her very
arms into an adder; they would change him into a burning faggot, into a
red-hot iron goad, but she must hold him fast. In order to remove the
enchantment, she must dip him in a churn of milk, and then in a barrel
of water. She must still persevere, for they would shape him in her
arms into a badger, eel, dove, swan, and, last of all, into a naked man,
but
"Cast your green mantle over me,
I'll be myself again."
So fair Janet in her green mantle went that gloomy night to Miles Cross.
The heavens were black, the place was inexpressibly dreary, a north wind
raged; but there she stood, eagerly wishing to embrace her lover.
Between the hours of twelve and one she heard strange eldrich sounds and
the ringing of elfin bridles, which gladdened her heart. The oaten
pipes of the faires grew shrill, the hemlock blew clear. The fairies
cannot bear solemn sounds or sober thoughts; they sing like skylarks,
inspired by love and joy. Fair Janet stood upon the dreary heath, and
the sounds waxed louder as the fairy train came riding on. Will o' the
Wisp shone out as a twinkling light before them, and soon she saw the
fairy bands passing. She let the black steed go by, and then the brown.
But she gripped fast the milk-white steed, and pulled down the rider.
Then up rose an eldrich cry, "He's won among us all!" As Janet grasped
him in her arms the fairies changed him into a newt, an adder, and many
other fantastic and terrifying shapes. She held him fast in every
shape. They turned him at last into a naked man in her arms, but she
wrapped him in her green mantle. At last her stedfast courage was
rewarded, she redeemed the fairies' captive, and by so doing won his
true love! Then up spoke the Queen of Fairies, "She that has borrowed
young Tamlane has got a stately groom! She's taken the bonniest knight
in all my company! But had I known, Tamlane," said the fairy queen, "had
I known that a lady would borrow thee, I would have taken out thy two
grey eyes, and put in wooden eyes. I would have taken out thy heart of
flesh, Tamlane, and put in a heart of stone. I would have paid my tithe
seven times to hell ere I would have let her win you away."
*Chapter IX*
*The Gay Goss-Hawk*
In the opening lines of this old ballad Lord William is talking to the
goss-hawk, who tells his master that he is looking pale and thin, and
seeks to know che cause.
"O waly, waly, my gay goss-hawk,
Gin your feathering be sheen!"
"And waly, waly, my master dear,
Gin ye look pale and lean!
O have ye tint[#] at tournament
Your sword, or yet your spear?
Or mourn ye for the Southern lass,
Whom ye may not win near?"
[#] lost
"I have not tint at tournament
My sword, nor yet my spear;
But sair[#] I mourn for my true love,
Wi' mony a bitter tear.
[#] sore
But weel's me on ye, my gay goss-hawk,
Ye can baith speak and flee;
Ye sall carry a letter to my love,
Bring an answer back to me."
"But how sall I your true love find,
Or how suld I her know?
I bear a tongue ne'er wi' her spake,
An eye that ne'er her saw."
"O weel sall ye my true love ken,
Sae sune[#] as ye her see;
For, of a' the flowers of fair England,
The fairest flower is she.
[#] soon.
The red that's on my true love's cheek
Is like blood-drops on the snaw;
The white that is on her breast bare,
Like the down o' the white sea-maw.
And even at my love's bour-door
There grows a flowering birk;[#]
And ye maun sit and sing thereon
As she gangs to the kirk.
[#] birch.
And four-and-twenty fair ladyes
Will to the Mass repair;
But weel may ye my ladye ken,
The fairest ladye there."
Lord William has written a love-letter,
Put it under his pinion grey;
An' he is awa' to Southern land
As fast as wings can gae.
And even at the ladye's bour[#]
There grew a flowering birk;
And he sat down and sung thereon
As she gaed to the kirk.
[#] bower.
And weel he kent that ladye fair
Amang her maidens free,
For the flower that springs in May morning
Was not sae sweet as she.
He lighted at the ladye's yate[#]
And sat him on a pin,[#]
And sang fu' sweet the notes o' love,
Till a' was cosh[#] within.
[#] gate.
[#] pine.
[#] quiet.
And first he sang a low low note,
And syne[#] he sang a clear;
And aye the o'erword[#] o' the sang
Was--"Your love can no win here."
[#] then.
[#] refrain.
"Feast on, feast on, my maidens a',
The wine flows you amang,
While I gang to my shot-window
And hear yon bonnie bird's sang.
Sing on, sing on, my bonny bird,
The sang ye sung yestreen,
For weel I ken, by your sweet singing
Ye are frae my true love sen."[#]
[#] sent.
O first he sang a merry song,
And syne he sang a grave;
And syne he picked his feathers grey,
To her the letter gave.
"Have there a letter from Lord William;
He says he's sent ye three;
He canna wait your love langer,
But for your sake he'll die."
"Gae bid him bake his bridal bread,
And brew his bridal ale;
And I shall meet him in Mary's Kirk,
Lang, lang ere it be stale."
The lady's gane to her chamber,
And a moanfu' woman was she;
As gin[#] she had taken a sudden brash[#]
And were about to die.
[#] if
[#] illness.
"A boon, a boon, my father dear,
A boon I beg of thee!"
"Ask not that haughty Scottish lord,
For him ye ne'er shall see.
But for your honest asking else,
Weel granted it shall be."
"Then, gin I die in Southern land,
In Scotland gar[#] bury me.
[#] cause
And the first kirk that ye come to,
Ye's gar the mass be sung;
And the next kirk that ye come to
Ye's gar the bells be rung.
And when ye come to St Mary's Kirk,
Ye's tarry there till night."
And so her father pledged his word,
And so his promise plight.
She has ta'en her to her bigly bower
As fast as she could fare;
And she has drank a sleepy draught,
That she had mixed wi' care.
And pale, pale grew her rosy cheek,
That was sae bright of blee,[#]
And she seemed to be as surely dead
As any one could be.
[#] bloom.
Then spake her cruel step-minnie,[#]
"Tak ye the burning lead,
And drap a drap on her bosome,
To try if she be dead."
[#] mother.
They took a drap o' boiling lead,
They drapped it on her breast;
"Alas! alas!" her father cried,
"She's dead without the priest."
She neither chattered with her teeth,
Nor shivered with her chin;
"Alas! alas!" her father cried,
"There is nae breath within."
Then up arose her seven brethren,
And hewed to her a bier;
They hewed it frae the solid aik,[#]
Laid it o'er wi' silver clear.
[#] oak.
Then up and gat her seven sisters,
And sewed to her a kell,[#]
And every steek[#] that they put in
Sewed to a siller bell.
[#] shroud.
[#] stitch.
The first Scots kirk that they cam to,
They garred the bells be rung;
The next Scots kirk that they cam to,
They garred fhe mass be sung.
But when they cam to St Mary's Kirk,
There stude spearmen all on a row;
And up and started Lord William,
The chieftaine amang them a'.
"Set down, set down the bier," he said,
"Let me look her upon;"
But as soon as Lord William touched her hand,
Her colour began to come.
She brightened like the lily flower,
Till her pale colour was gone;
With rosy cheek, and ruby lip,
She smiled her love upon.
"A morsel of your bread, my lord,
And one glass of your wine;
For I have fasted these three lang days,
All for your sake and mine.
Gae hame, gae hame, my seven bauld brothers,
Gae hame and blaw your horn!
I trow[#] ye wad hae gi'en me the skaith,[#]
But I've gi'en you the scorn.
[#] reckon.
[#] harm.
Commend me to my grey father,
That wished my soul gude rest;
But wae be to my cruel step-dame,
Garred burn me on the breast."
"Ah! woe to you, you light woman!
And ill death may ye die!
For we left father and sisters at hame,
Breaking their hearts for thee."
*Chapter X*
*The Corbies*
Two ancient songs have come down to us in which the principal speakers
are supposed to be Corbies, carrion-crows or ravens, birds which feed on
the flesh of the dead. In both songs the birds discuss a dead knight
upon whose rich body they wish to feed. But deep interest lies in the
fact that the two song-writers present entirely different views of the
case. One appeals to our feelings with a beautiful and touching picture
of devotion, the knight's companions proving true to him in death. The
other is far more grim, and causes us to shudder at the utter loneliness
of the dead man, deserted by all those who in life were beholden to his
friendship. Both are powerful and striking examples of ancient vigour
and directness.