"He wha gaes by the fairy ring
Nae dule or pains sall dree,
And he wha cleans the fairy ring
An easy death sall dee."
The kingdom of Fairyland was supposed to be peculiarly beautiful,
somewhere in the interior of the earth. The Ettrick Shepherd's
description of this fair land is, perhaps, unequalled in Scottish
poetry. It occurs in his ballad of "Bonny Kilmeny," embodying the
tradition of the removal, to Fairyland, of the daughter of a labourer at
Traquair, and her restoration to earth a few weeks after:--
"Kilmeny had been where the cock never crew,
Where the rain never fell, and the wind never blew;
But it seemed as the harp of the sky had rung,
And the airs of heaven played round her tongue,
When she spake of the lovely forms she had seen,
And a land where sin had never been;
A land of love, and a land of light,
Withouten sun, or moon, or night;
Where the river swa'd a living stream,
And the light a pure celestial beam:
The land of vision it would seem,
A still, an everlasting dream.
* * * * *
They lifted Kilmeny, they led her away,
And she walked in the light of a sunless day:
The sky was a dome of crystal bright,
The fountain of vision, and fountain of light:
The emerald fields were of dazzling glow,
And the flowers of everlasting blow.
Then deep in the stream her body they laid,
That her youth and beauty never might fade;
And they smiled on heaven, when they saw her lie
In the stream of life that wandered bye.
* * * * *
She saw a sun on a summer sky,
And clouds of amber sailing bye;
A lovely land beneath her lay,
And that land had glens and mountains gray;
And that land had valleys and hoary piles,
And marled seas and a thousand isles;
Its fields were speckled, its forests green,
And its lakes were all of the dazzling sheen,
Like magic mirrors, where slumbering lay
The sun and the sky and the cloudlet gray;
Which heaved and trembled, and gently swung,
On every shore they seemed to be hung."
Scottish fairies had a king and queen and royal court, which, in pomp
and pageantry, far exceeded that of any earthly monarch. In Poole's
"Parnassus," the principal persons are named Oberon, the emperor; Mab,
the empress; Perriwiggin, Periwincle, Puck, Hobgoblin, Tomalin, Tom
Thumb, courtiers; Hop, Mop, Drop, Pip, Drip, Skip, Tub, Tib, Tick, Pink,
Pin, Quick, Gill, Jim, Tit, Wap, Win, Nit, the maids of honour;
Nymphidia, the mother of the maids.
At one time, the Queen seems to have chosen Thomas of Ercildoune--better
known as The Rhymer--with whom to share her royalty. Whether from
infidelity to her royal spouse, or from his having fallen into temporary
disgrace, tradition sayeth not, but her offer is celebrated in ballad
lore--
"An' I will gie to thee, luve Thomas,
My han', but an' my crown;
An' thou shalt reign o'er Fairylan'
In joy, an' gret renown.
"An' I will gie to thee, luve Thomas,
To live for evermair;
Thine arm sall never feckless grow,
Nor hoary wax thy hair.
"Nae clamorous grief we ever thole,
Nae wastin' pine we dree;
An endless life's afore thee placed
O' constant luve an' lee."
But, after seven years' residence, he was suddenly dismissed by her
majesty, his mistress, and for a very sufficient reason, as told also in
ballad lore--
"'Busk thee, Thomas, for thou must be gane,
For here no longer may'st thou be;
Hie thee fast, with might and main;
I shall thee bring to the Eildon tree.'
"Thomas answered with heavy cheer,
'Lovely ladye, thou lat me be;
For certainly I have been here
Nought but the space of dayes three!'
"'For sooth, Thomas, as I thee tell,
Thou hast been here seven year and more;
But longer here thou may not dwell,
The skyl I will thee tell wherefore.
"'To-morrow, of hell the foul fiend
Among these folks shall choose his fee;
Thou art a fair man and a hend,
I trow full well he wil choose thee!
"'For all the gold that ever might be,
Frae heaven unto the worldes end,
Thou be'st never betray'd by me;
Therefore with me I rede thee wend.'
"She brought him again to the Eildon tree,
Underneath the greenwood spray;
In Huntly banks was fayr to be,
Where birds do sing both night and day."
Having thus restored The Rhymer to earth, he was permitted to remain for
a time, to enlighten and astonish his countrymen by deeds resulting from
the knowledge, and by his marvellous prophetic powers, acquired during
his seven years' residence in the Fairyland; still, however, bound to
return to his royal mistress when she should intimate her pleasure.
Accordingly, while Thomas was making merry with his friends in the Tower
of Ercildoune, a person came running in, and told, with marks of fear
and astonishment, that a hart and hind had left the neighbouring forest,
and were, composedly and slowly, parading the street of the village.
This being the signal agreed upon for his recall to Elfinland, the
prophet instantly arose, left his habitation, and followed the wonderful
animals to the forest, whence he was never seen to return. According to
the popular belief, he still "drees his weird" in Fairyland, and is one
day expected to revisit the earth. The village of Ercildoune is situated
on the Leader, two miles above its junction with the Tweed, and the
ruins of an ancient tower are still pointed out as The Rhymer's castle.
The Eildon tree, from under which he delivered his prophecies, no longer
exists; but the spot is marked by a large stone, called Eildon Tree
Stone; and a neighbouring rivulet takes the name of the Bogle Burn, from
being the spot where The Rhymer's visitants met him.
Hunting was a favourite sport at the Fairy court. They rode to the hunt
in three bands. The first was mounted on brown horses; the second rode
on grey; while the third, consisting of the king, queen, and chief
nobles, sat on white steeds. One member of the court rode on a black
charger: this was Kilmaulie, prime councillor of Fairyland. Altogether,
they seem to have led a jolly life there, the principal drawback being
the liability to pay, every seventh year, one of their number as a
tribute or Kain to hell. This is described in the ballad of "Tamlane,"
who, while he relates the delights of his home in Fairyland, and even,
somewhat selfishly, values them higher than the affection of his true
love, fair Janet, does not relish the possible finale in his being made
the Kain to hell:--
"But we, that live in Fairyland,
No sickness know, nor pain;
I quit my body when I will,
And take to it again.
"I quit my body when I please,
Or unto it repair;
We can inhabit, at our ease,
In either earth or air.
"Our shapes and size we can convert
To either large or small;
An old nut-shell's the same to us
As is the lofty hall.
"We sleep in rose-buds soft and sweet,
We revel in the stream,
We wanton lightly on the wind,
Or glide on a sunbeam.
"And all our wants are well supplied
From every rich man's store,
Who thankless sins the gifts he gets,
And vainly grasps for more.
"And it is sic a bonnie place,
And I like it sae well,
That I wou'd never tire, Janet,
In Elfish land to dwell.
"But aye, at ilka seven years,
They pay the teind to hell;
And I'm sae fat and fair of flesh,
I fear 'twill be mysel'!"
And so the brave Janet, actuated by that greatest of all feelings--a
true woman's love--took her lover from the procession on Hallow-e'en, by
"pulling him down" from the "milk-white steed" on which he rode, and
holding him fast in spite of all the "horrible and awfu'" changes he
underwent in her hands, discovering, when he returns to his true
likeness, that he is her old boyish love, son of Randolph, Earl of
Murray, whom the fairies had, years before, stolen away.
There were, as in all communities, a good and a bad section, known as
the "seelie" and the "unseelie court." The seelie court were kind,
courteous, and charitable to the aged, the poor, and the afflicted, to
whom they gave gifts suited to their necessities, as in the rhyme--
"Meddle and mell
Wi' the fiends o' hell,
And a weirdless wicht ye'll be;
But tak' and len'
Wi' the fairy men,
Ye'll thrive until ye dee."
The unseelie court, on the other hand, from those who offended them,
stole their goods and killed their cattle by elf-shot, occasionally
found on the moors or turned up in the fields now-a-days, but which
science ruthlessly asserts to be the arrow-heads of our prehistoric
ancestors. They entertained a particular dislike against those who wore
clothing of a green colour. To this cause the Highlanders ascribed the
death of Viscount Dundee at Killiecrankie. But their most wicked prank
of all was the carrying away of handsome unbaptized children from the
side of the lying-in mother, substituting their own loathsome and sickly
progeny in their stead. To prevent this misfortune, it was customary in
the Highlands to perform the Dessil--that is, carrying fire in the right
hand, and in the direction from right to left, morning and evening,
round the house in which lay the mother and child, until the baptism and
churching had taken place. "This was," says Martin, in his "History of
the West Highlands," "considered an effectual means to preserve both the
mother and infant from the power of evil spirits, who are ready at such
times to do mischief, and sometimes carry away the infants and return
poor, meagre skeletons; and these infants have voracious appetites. In
this case, it was usual for those who believed that their children were
thus taken away to dig a grave in the fields on quarter-day, and there
to lay the fairy skeleton till next morning, at which time the parents
went to the place, where they doubted not to find their own child
instead of the skeleton." They had also, in other localities, recourse
to the barbarous charm of burning, with a live coal, the toes of the
suffering infant, the supposed changeling. They were not content with
abstracting handsome children--beautiful maidens and wives sometimes
disappeared, and, of course, the fairies were the abductors. The Miller
of Menstrie,[1] in Fife, who possessed a charming spouse, had given
offence to the "unseelie" court, and was, in consequence, deprived of
his fair helpmate. His distress was aggravated by hearing his wife
singing in the air--
"Oh! Alva woods are bonnie,
Tillicoultry hills are fair;
But, when I think o' the bonnie braes o' Menstrie,
It mak's my heart aye sair."
After many attempts to procure her restoration, the Miller chanced one
day, in riddling some stuff at the mill door, to use a posture of
enchantment, when the spell was dissolved and the matron fell into his
arms. The wife of the Blacksmith of Tullibody was carried up the
chimney, the fairies, as they bore her off, singing--
"Deidle linkum doddie;
We've gotten drucken Davie's wife,
The Smith o' Tullibody."
Those snatched to Fairyland might be recovered within a year and a day,
but the spell for the recovery was only potent when the fairies made, on
Hallow-eve, their annual procession. Sir Walter Scott relates the
following:--"The wife of a Lothian farmer had been snatched by the
fairies. During the year of probation, she had repeatedly appeared on
Sundays in the midst of her children, combing their hair. On one of
these occasions she was accosted by her husband, when she instructed him
how to rescue her at the next Hallow-eve procession. The farmer conned
his lesson carefully, and, on the appointed day, proceeded to a plot of
furze to await the arrival of the procession. It came, but the ringing
of the fairy bridles so confused him that the train passed ere he could
sufficiently recover himself to use the intended spell. The unearthly
laughter of the abductors, and the passionate lamentations of his wife,
informed him she was lost to him for ever." A woman who had been
conveyed to Fairyland was warned, by one she had formerly known as a
mortal, to avoid eating or drinking with her new friends for a certain
period. She obeyed; and, when the time expired, she found herself on
earth, restored to the society of mankind. A matron was carried to
Fairyland to nurse her new-born child, which had previously been
abducted. She had not been long in her enchanted dwelling when she
furtively anointed an eye with the contents of a boiling cauldron. She
now discovered that what had previously seemed a gorgeous palace was, in
reality, a gloomy cavern. She was dismissed; but one of the wicked
wights, when she demanded her child, spat in her eye and extinguished
its light for ever. About the middle of last century, a clergyman at
Kirkmichael, Perthshire, whose faith was more regulated by the
scepticism of philosophy than the credulity of superstition, would not
be prevailed upon to yield his assent to the opinion of the times. At
length, however, he felt, from experience, that he doubted what he ought
to have believed. One night, as he was returning home, at a late hour,
from a meeting of presbytery, and the customary dinner which followed,
he was seized by the fairies and carried aloft into the air. Through
fields of ether and fleecy clouds he journeyed many a mile, descrying,
like Sancho Panza on his clavileno, the earth far distant below him, and
no bigger than a nut-shell. Being thus sufficiently convinced of the
reality of their existence, they let him down at the door of his own
house, where he afterwards often recited, to the wondering circle, the
marvellous tale of his adventure. Some people _will_ believe that
spirits of a different sort had a little to do with the worthy
minister's conviction, and that his "ain gude grey mare" had more to do
with bringing him to his own door than the fairies. Toshack, the last
chief of clan Mackintosh, occupied a castle or keep on the margin of the
river Turret, in Perthshire. He held nocturnal interviews with a fairy
whom he had brought with him from abroad. The mode of his reaching the
place of meeting, and the nature of his companion, were long a mystery.
His wife, at length, became jealous of the frequent departures of her
lord; and, being unable to discover whither he proceeded, resorted to
the scheme of attaching a piece of worsted to his button. Thus guided,
she followed him down a subterraneous passage under the bed of the
river, where, after various windings, she discovered him in conversation
with a beautiful lady. The discovery so enraged the matron that she
insisted on the immediate destruction of the stranger, who fled, and the
sun of Toshack set to rise no more.
With all the passions and wants of human beings, fairies are represented
as great lovers of cleanliness and propriety, for the observance of
which they were said frequently to reward good servants by dropping
money into their shoes; and, on the other hand, punishing the sluts and
slovenly by pinching them black and blue--
"There is Mab, the mistress fairy,
That doth nightly rob the dairy,
And can help or hurt the churning
As she please, without discerning;
She that pinches country wenches
If they rub not clean their benches,
And with sharper nails remembers
When they rake not up their embers;
But if so they chance to feast her,
In their shoe she drops a tester;
This is she that empties cradles,
Takes out children, puts in ladles,
Trains forth midwives in their slumber,
With a sieve the holes to number,
And then leads them from their boroughs
Thorough ponds and water furrows."
They took particular fancies to certain people and families. Sometimes
their favour was obtained by compulsion, as in the case of Musgrave of
Edenhall, near Penrith, in Cumberland. The legend is, that the butler of
the family, having gone one night to draw water at the well of St
Cuthbert, a copious spring in the garden of the mansion of Edenhall,
surprised a group of fairies disporting themselves beside the well, at
the margin of which stood a drinking glass. He seized hold of it, when
the elves took to flight, kindly informing him, however, as they went,
that
"If this glass do break or fall,
Farewell the luck of Edenhall."
It is still in existence, but had at one time nearly been destroyed by
the wild and hair-brained Duke of Wharton, who let it drop from his
hands. The luck of Edenhall was, however, preserved by the presence of
mind of the butler, who, standing by, caught it in a napkin. Lloyd, a
boon companion of the Duke, wrote a burlesque poem on it, as a parody of
"Chevy Chase," beginning
"God prosper long from being broke
The luck of Edenhall;"
and Uhland, the German poet, has a ballad, "Das Glueck von Edenhall," on
the same legend. The glass is of a peculiar shape, very thin, and
painted outside with various devices, including the letters "I.H.S."
(_Iesus Hominum Salvator_). Most probably, it had originally been a
chalice used in the chapel dedicated to St Cuthbert, which stood in the
neighbourhood of Edenhall.
Another description of fairy was the brownie--so called from their
complexion--a sort of domestic elf, who was extremely useful and
performed all sorts of domestic drudgery, and was repaid by meat, a bowl
of milk, or wort, but who, if offered clothes, departed in sorrow and
great distress, returning no more. At one time, every family of
substance had their brownie. Milton, in his "L'Allegro," describes the
brownie, and
"Tells how the drudging goblin swet
To earn his cream-bowl duly set;
When in one night, ere glimpse of morn,
His shadowy flale hath threshed the corn
That ten day-lab'rers could not end;
Then lies him down, the lubbar fiend,
And stretched out all the chimney's length,
Basks at the fire his hairy strength,
And crop-full out of doors he flings,
Ere the first cock his matin rings."
Notwithstanding the progressive increase of knowledge, and proportional
decay of superstition in the Highlands, these genii are still supposed
by many of the people to exist in the woods and sequestered valleys of
the mountains, where they frequently appear to the lonely traveller,
clothed in green, with dishevelled hair floating over their shoulders,
and with faces more blooming than the vermeil blush of a summer evening.
At night, in particular, when fancy assimilates to its own preconceived
ideas every appearance and every sound, the wandering enthusiast is
frequently entertained by their music, more melodious than he ever
heard. It is curious to observe how much this agreeable delusion
corresponds with the superstitious opinion of the Romans concerning the
same class of genii represented under different names. Lucretius, an
acute philosopher, brilliant poet, and most accomplished disciple of
Zeno, after describing the predisposing causes of _echoes_, sums up
their effects on uncultivated minds in the following beautiful lines:--
"_Sex etiam, aut septem loca vidi reddere voces.
Unam cum jaceres: ita colles collibus ipsis
Verba repulsantes iterabant dicta referre.
Haec loca capripedes Satyros, Nymphasque tenere
Finitimi fingunt, et Faunos esse loquuntur:
Quorum noctivago strepitu, ludoque jocanti
Adfirmant volgo taciturna silentia rumpi,
Chordarumque sonos fieri, dulceisque querelas,
Tibia quas fundit, digitis pulsata canentum:
Et genus agricolum late sentiscere, cum Pan
Pinea semiferi capitis velamina quassans,
Unco saepe labro calamos percurrit hianteis,
Fistula sylvestrem ne cesset fundere Musam.
Caetera de genere hoc monstra, ac portenta loquuntur,
Ne loca deserta ab Divis quoque forte putentur
Sola tenere: ideo jactant miracula dictis:
Aut aliqua ratione alia dicuntur, ut omne
Humanum genus est avidum nimis auricularum._"[2]
For the sake of those readers to whom Latin is an unknown tongue, we add
the following translation by Thomas Creech:--
"I myself have known
Some Rocks and Hills return _six_ words for _one_:
The _dancing_ words from Hill to Hill rebound,
They all _receive_ and all _restore_ the sound.
The _Vulgar_ and the Neighbours think, and tell,
That there the _Nymphs_ and _Fauns_ and _Satyrs_ dwell;
And that _their_ wanton sport, _their loud_ delight
Breaks thro' the _quiet_ silence of the Night;
There _Music's_ softest Ayrs fill all the Plains,
And mighty _Pan_ delights the list'ning Swains.
The _Goat-faced Pan_, whilst Flocks securely feed,
With _long-hung lip_ he blows his Oaten Reed;
The horn'd, the half-beast God, when brisk and gay,
With Pine-leaves crown'd, provokes the Swains to play.
Ten thousand such _Romants_ the Vulgar tell,
Perhaps lest men should think the Gods will dwell
In _Towns_ alone, and scorn their _Plains_, and Cell:
Or somewhat; for Man, _credulous_ and _vain_,
Delights to _hear_ strange things--delights to _feign_."
Sir John Sinclair's "Statistical Account of Scotland, 1792,"
says:--"About eight miles to the eastward of Cailleachbear, a conical
hill rises considerably above the neighbouring hills. It is called
Siensluai, the fairy habitation of a multitude." He adds, in a note:--"A
belief in fairies prevailed very much in the Highlands of old, nor at
this day is it quite obliterated. The small, conical hill Siensluai was
assigned them for a dwelling, from which melodious music was frequently
heard, and gleams of light seen on dark nights." In the account of the
parish of Kirkmichael, we read: "Not more firmly established in this
country is the belief in ghosts than that in fairies. The legendary
records of fancy, transmitted from age to age, have assigned their
mansions to that class of genii in detached hillocks, covered with
verdure, situated on the banks of purling brooks, or surrounded by
thickets of wood. They derive this name from the practice of the Druids,
who were wont occasionally to retire to green eminences to administer
justice, establish peace, and compose differences between contending
parties. As that venerable order taught a _saogh hal_, or world beyond
the present, their followers, when they were no more, fondly imagined
that seats, where they exercised a virtue so beneficial to mankind, were
still inhabited by them in their disembodied state. In the autumnal
season, when the moon shines from a serene sky, often is the wayfaring
traveller arrested by the music of the hills, more melodious than the
strains of Orpheus. Often struck with a more solemn scene, he beholds
the visionary hunters engaged in the chase and pursuing the din of the
clouds, while the hollow rocks, in long-sounding echoes, reverberate
their cries. There are several now living who assert that they have
been suddenly surrounded by visionary forms, have seen and heard their
aerial hunting, and been assailed by a multitude of voices."
But it would be impossible, without very largely extending our limits,
to give other than a meagre sketch of this interesting portion of folk
lore. All our ancient poets and writers of fancy, Scotish and English,
dealt largely with the subject, and quarried from this exhaustless mine.
"Spenser was contented with the fairies of romance, but Shakespeare
founded his elfin world on the frothiest of the people's traditions, and
has clothed it in the ever-living flowers of his own exuberant fancy.
How much is the invention of the great poet we shall probably never be
informed, and his successors have not rendered the subject more clear by
adopting the graceful world he has created, as though it had been
interwoven with the popular mythology and formed a part of it."[3]
With the spread of education and increase of knowledge, the
superstitious belief in fairies has almost died out, except in some very
few localities and among very uneducated people. When the writer was a
very young boy, he was acquainted with an old couple who related to him
their having jointly and severally seen the "good people" in troops
enter, in procession, the Castlehill of Inverugie; and the husband, a
worthy, honest man, with the strongest declarations of verity, described
his having spent part of a summer eve lying, with his ear on the turf,
listening to the delighful music which was executed by the fairy
minstrels within the mount.
That such things have been is still believed by many, and there are
still those who assert that their appearance and mischievous exploits
have ceased, or, at least, become less frequent, since the light of the
Gospel was diffused in its purity, or that they have fled before the
minister and the schoolmaster.
THE
GUIDMAN O' INGLISMILL.
At Martinmas, whan win's blew snell an' cauld,
An' beasts war' housed within their winter hauld,
An' stacks wi' thack an' rape war' happit ticht,
The taties up, an' a'thing snod an' richt,--
Then, by the wan licht o' the hint hairst moon,
The auld Guidman gaed roun' aboot the toun;
An' as he steppit o'er the stibble lan',--
"The wark," quo he, "is feckly a' byehan'.
Fair fa' oor folk! they've deen their very best;
We've a'thing safe an' soun'--sae Praise be blest!
This hairst, my certy! 's been a kittle lang ane,
Ae day nocht dein', an' the neist a thrang ane.
I sud be thankfu'; Gudeness kens I've rizzon!
A' thro', I haenae min' o' sic a sizzon;
Sic spates o' rain, syne mochy, dreepie weather,
I thocht wud surely waur us a'thegither;
Noo beast an' bodie will be brawly sair'd
An' something o'er, forbye what pays the laird.
It sets folk ill to be o'er crouse an' vaunty;
But, 'deed, I'm thankfu' an' sae unco canty
That, like the bairns, I'd like to get the play,
An' ware upo' mysel' ae idle day.
The morrow's morn' I'll early mak' me boun',
To see what's deein' i' the borrow's toun.
O'er muckle wark, withoot some little ploy,
Mak's auld or young a thowless donnart boy."
Whan Fortune, wi' her eident wheel aye rowin',
Gars a'thing canny tae oor han' come jowin',
Sma' thocht hae we what luck may be afore us,
Still less that ony trouble may come o'er us;
Oor joys, like flow'rs, may bloom at mornin'-tide,
At nicht, ae skinklin frost may lay their pride.
The sun had scarcely sent his first-born ray
To herald to the warld the comin' day,
An' scare the starns, afar in heavens blue,
Prinkin' themsel's in ilka drap o' dew,
Ere Inglis, raxin', rakit up his een,--
Quo he, "Guidwife! I had a thocht thestreen:
As at the wark I hae sae steady yarkit,
I'd step into the toun an' see the market;
Nae _ech_ nor _och_ ken I what nowt are feshin',
What aits are at, or gin they're worth the threshin'."
"Aweel, Guidman! I'm seer I sanna hinner;
But, losh, ye mith hae tauld a bodie seener.
There's mony things we're needin' unco sair--
What need I speak! the fient _ae_ singit hair
Care ye for what the hoose, or bairns, or me
Are needin'. _We_ maun just _oor_ wants lat be',
An' clout the auld the best way that we can.
Wow, sirs! gin ever I saw sic a man!
Had ye but mintit what ye had in view,
I mith hae moyens laid to win wi' you;
But there's the kirn to ca', chessels to fill,
An' steep a maskin' for the New Year's yill--
I canna gang! Wha ever saw the like!
Man, ye're a byous han' for breedin' fyke!--
But see that ye come hame in timeous hours
On your twa feet, an' nae upo' a' fours,
Like ony haulket hummledoddy stirk,
Tynin' yersel' an' wan'rin' i' the mirk.
Lundie an' you--I maist cu'd lay my lugs--
Hae set a tryst to meet at Luckie Mugs'.
Deil tak' her blinkin' een an' soople snout,
For wilin' men to drink waur than a brute.--
Yea, na!--ye're seer o' that? Weel noo, Guidman,
I wadna grudge a drappy noo an' than;
But ilka market thro' the year's the same,
Nae ance dae ye come freely sober hame.
Saul! gin ye dinna o'er a new leaf turn,
The deil may grip ye at the Collieburn;
Or, gin ye win as far's In'rugie Brig,
The kelpie there may beff ye ticht an' trig;
Or oor guid neebours o' the Castlehill
Rin aff wi' you hale buik, some post to fill
In Fairyland; or, aiblins, wi' you pay
That Kain to hell _they_ awe ilk seven years' day.
See there, min, to the nowt doun by the foord,
_They_ drink nae till their rizzon's fairly smoored--
In troth, they micht a serious lesson gie ye."
"A-h! but there's nane ayont to say, 'Here's tee you.'"
"Aweel, I'm seer I needna waste my breath;
But, tak' ye tent, or else, as seer as death,
Gin you an' Lundie gie nae o'er that drink,
Some nicht ye'll meet a sad an' sair begink.
Sae gang yer wa's; but, oh, my dear Guidman!
Come hame just ae nicht sober--_gin ye can_."
His breakfast o'er, auld Inglis tak's the road,
Frae tap to tae weel buskit an' fell snod;
His hardin sark as white's the driven snaw--
The lint was fernyear grown beside the shaw;
His coat an' breeks war' o' a lichtly blue,
Weel waukit, an' the pick o' hame-grown woo;
His hose war' rig an' fur, a guid grow grey;
His bonnet blue, an's shoon as black's a slae.
Oot ower the Cruives an' up the Ba'muir park
He linkit at it, like some blythesome spark
Stendin' alang to woo his winsome Jean,
An' beik his love in her bricht glancin' een.
The girss was saft an' springy, ilka blade
Glancin' wi' dew, wi' emerald-green inlaid;
The air was sharp, the lift was blue an' clear,
An' Inglis fussled as he cross'd the muir;
But noo an' than he mantit in his sang
An' thocht: "Saul! the Guidwife was nae far wrang.
Sin' we war' wed I've had nae cause o' grief;
Troth--it's o'er true--I maun turn o'er a leaf.
A couthie wife an' cantie she has been;
I _maun_ gie o'er sic rants, an' that's be seen.
She never heckles me but for my guid;
I sall gang sober hame--I will indeed.
Whan we war' wed, withoot ae word o' pride,
She was the bonniest lass on Ugie's side;
In a' the warld--she's bonniest aye to me,
In a' the warld--a better canna be."
Ah, stern resolve! thou art a glorious thing
For Earl or Beggar, Ploughman, Laird, or King;
But, ah! how oft our best resolves are vain;
We fall, resolve, fall and resolve again.
No hearts are adamant, no minds are steel;
Let none condemn poor Inglis who can feel
A woman's love, or tries to drown desires,--
"All tempers yield or soften in those fires."
The safest plan and best--as wise folks think--
Is ne'er to mell with rogues, or love, or drink.
By many a winding road, from far and nigh,
Came sheep and owsen, shelts, and stirks, and kye;
Goodwives and men, and lads and lasses fair,
Cracking their jokes, or courting pair and pair.
Below the Windmill Brae, the gazer's eye
Roams o'er a glorious sight of sea and sky;
The land throws forth its arms as if to press
The smiling ocean in a fond embrace;
Or when the wintry waves, with angry roar,
Dash in wild fury on the rock-bound shore,
That bars all entrance, save to driving foam,--
Guarding from harm or hurt the dear old home.
Thou dear old home! no mountains capped with snow,
No glorious oaks, no forest glades ye show;
No minster hoar, no pile of classic fame,
To lure the pilgrim by a world-wide name.
One boast is thine--that boast beyond compare--
"Men that are true, and maidens fairly fair."
Far have I roamed since first in early life
I left that home to face the world's sore strife,--
From Arctic shores to India's golden strand,
O'er many a country, many a classic land!
How dear the Geddle and the Pinkie Braes,
Where bloomed the buttercup! I knew the ways
Where meadow-queens, perfuming all the air,
Held gentle converse with sea-daisies fair;
Where first the laverock and the blackbird sang;
Where first the earliest, bonniest bluebells sprang;--
And, till the fight of life's last battle's fought,
Of thee I'll dream as I have dreamt and thought.
But to our tale--Whan Inglis reached the fair:
"Ay! Lundie, man, hoo's a'? Na! Mains; _you_ there?
Hoo's a' your folk?" "Oh! fine, man; hoo's your ain?"
"Brawly--meat-hale and hearty; whaur' ye gain?"
"Man, things are deein' gran'--horn, corn, an' woo--
Come roun' to Luckie's, an' we'll weet oor mou'."
"Na, Lundie, man! I think I'll need to try
An' haud by't _some_ the day." Quo Lundie, "Fye!
You're grown John Tamson's man--_a' in a fizz_,
Or else _your mither's milk is i' your nizz_."
"Aweel! we's hae _ae_ stoup--nae mair the nicht;
I promised to gang hame _for once_ a' richt--
Step ye your wa's, an' shortly I'll be roun';
I'm gain for tea an' troke doun thro' the toun,
To speak for beef, a Sunday's frock to Mari'n,
An' syne to Jamie Rhind's to buy some fairin'."
His erran's deen, as fast as he cu'd spang,
He hastes to Luckie's howf to join the thrang,
An' Luckie smirks her kin'liest welcome ben,
Prinkin' her feathers like a tappit hen.
"Hooray! there's Inglis, sirs; ye see he's true;"
An' doun sits Inglis 'mang the jovial crew.
An' syne the crack gaed on--wha bocht o'er dear;
What "Aikie Brae" gat for his muckle steer;
Hoo auld Tam Gray has buiket young May Mason;
An' "Bogie," wi' his quean maun stan' the Session;
Hoo "Brosie Tam" is heckled by his wife;
An' sic-like news aboot the country rife.
Ilk gies his tale while at the drinkin' thrang,
Till Lundie cries, "Come, Inglis, gie's a sang!
We'll drink your health till ye get into tune,--
Nae moulie draps, noo,--clean-cap-oot a' roun'."
"Hoot, Lundie, man! ye ken I hae the cauld,--
Nae han' at best, an' a' my sangs are auld;
But, gin I maun--an' ye're sae singin'-fain--
I'll try ane on a forbear o' mine ain:--