_The Flemings’ Tower._
_Enter a_ STORMING PARTY.
CAPTAIN.
Heavens! these brave fellows, in that lofty tower
Have entrench’d themselves admirably.
LIEUTENANT.
These are Flemings,
Merchants of Flanders, tenants of the tower;
Here must be gold in store!
CAPTAIN.
We might as well
Besiege the heav’ns, as seek by physical force
To conquer these. We must make bees of them
For their rich honey-combs, and smoke them out.
LIEUTENANT.
Even so; but first we speak them a fair chance.—
Ho! in the name of England’s king surrender!
Open your gates; so shall your lives be spared,
Your goods protected!
A FLEMING.
We have proved you well:
Too well, alas! to take you at your word:
Here, loyal subjects of King David Bruce,
We do defend this tower—with it ourselves;
While blood is in our veins, heads on our shoulders,
Strength in our arms, we do defy you here.
CAPTAIN.
Then we shall roast you out, ye churlish knaves;
Even as ye would the bear upon your pennon,
Were he eatable!
A FLEMING.
We do not lack provisions,
Nor ammunition neither; on the moment
When you apply the torch we blow this tower
To heaven, and you to hell.
CAPTAIN.
Come! fire the gate,
And smoke these vermin out!
[_The Soldiers’ fire the Gate, while the Flanders
Merchants spring a Mine, which blows up the
Tower, and scatters destruction in every direction.—The
Soldiers run._
Ha! there they go,
Like rockets to the skies! Let’s save ourselves. [_Exeunt._
_Enter an_ OLD MAN _with his_ DAUGHTER.
OLD MAN.
Nay, leave me here, dear Anna! life is sweet
To one so young as thee, but not to me,
Laden with age, infirmity, disease.
Leave me, and save your person and your honour;
I hope the lady’s safe?
ANNA.
She is, thank Heaven!
Hid in a friar’s disguise she pass’d the army;
’Twill not be well for Edward if he meets her;
She wears a sharpen’d dagger in her bosom,
As I do now, which I too soon may use.
[_A Soldier comes up and seizes the Female, while
the_ OLD MAN _grapples with him_.
SOLDIER.
Nay, greybeard, do not seek to grapple youth;
As well might ivy wrestle with the oak
To be thus crush’d,—down! down!
[_The_ OLD MAN _is thrown_.
OLD MAN.
Oh! spare my daughter!
And I forgive thee. [_Dies._
SOLDIER.
There, thou hoary rogue!
Green trees will often snap before old trunks;
But I have master’d thee.—Come, pretty maid!
[_While he gazes on the_ OLD MAN, _she stabs him
behind_.
ANNA.
There, monster! take thou that; I joy to see
Thine agonies, thou murderer of my father!
He wings to heav’n, while you descend to hell!
SOLDIER.
Oh! thou hast murder’d me, thou cruel maid!
Hear me before I die: I am a Scot,
Though drest (I blush to say’t,) in English garb.
Take this last token; and, if e’er you meet
With Anna Harrison give her this ring;
Say ’twas bequeath’d her by a dying sister!
I die, die! [_He dies._
ANNA.
My sister’s husband! damned, damned war!
That thus destroys consanguinity!
I never can survive this horrid deed,
But bare my breast to the first spear I meet.
[_Weeps over her Father’s body._
Poor, aged man! how cold and stiff art thou! [_Exit._
_Enter_ LORD MONTAGUE _with another Party_.
MONTAGUE.
Hurra! brave men! on to the citadel;
The town is won, and now our task is done;
The stubborn Scot at last beats the chamade,
And sounds a parley.
D’ARCY.
They deserve no quarter!
I would not bet a groat, that they do wear
The heads they wear, even now another day. [_Exeunt._
ACT V.
SCENE I.
_The King’s Tent._
KING EDWARD, _attended by the_ ARCHBISHOP OF DURHAM, _the_ EARL OF
ARUNDEL, LORD D’ARCY, _and other Nobles_, _&c._
[_Flourish of Trumpets_
KING EDWARD.
Heaven fought for us! therefore, in gratitude,
Let every prelate offer public thanks
In every nook of England where a church
Points its white spire, while at our royal leisure
I progress make to Becket’s holy shrine.
ARCHBISHOP OF DURHAM.
It shall be done, my liege.
KING EDWARD.
And in St Margaret’s church, near Halidon,
Let there be rear’d a costly gorgeous altar,
In token of our reverence for that virgin,
Who, on her eve, made victory lit on us.
ARCHBISHOP OF DURHAM.
’Twill be a sad memorial for the Scots,
Where they will pause before they dare to meet
Your mighty warrior arm, most puissant prince!
[_Exit_ ARCHBISHOP.
KING EDWARD.
It is incredible!—so great a victory,
Bought with so small a loss! one knight, one esquire,
And twelve foot soldiers! Heaven fought for us!
_Enter_ MONTAGUE.
MONTAGUE (_kneels._)
Berwick, my liege, is rendered
KING EDWARD.
We appreciate
Thy services, Montague. They’ll be rewarded
At our royal leisure.
MONTAGUE (_Kisses the King’s hand, then rises._)
Thanks, my generous liege!
When I was but a boy I served your father;
And Heaven will bless me, if my youthful locks
Grow hoary in thy service. The Earl of March
Awaits to do thee homage. Seton, Keith,
And the Mayor of Berwick to give up the keys
Held so unworthily.
KING EDWARD.
Usher them to our presence.
[_Exit_ MONTAGUE.
This Earl Dunbar is but a crafty chief,
But I must mould him to my politics; [_Aside._
The others pay the forfeit of their lives.
Speed, noble Arundel, with Montague,
(While we deliberate here in secret council,)
Pursue the fugitives, and push the war,
Till England’s ensign floats above Dunbar.
ARUNDEL.
My liege, we’ll follow up the victory,
With the effect such victory deserves. [_Exit_ ARUNDEL.
D’ARCY.
Your highness, when we’ve muzzled these fierce barons,
And caged their ladies, we shall sue for grace.
KING EDWARD.
Ha! D’Arcy, ye’ve refresh’d our memory
With thine own worth. I mark’d in the pursuit
The dreadful havoc made by your bold Kernes.
_Enter_ MONTAGUE _with_ LORD DUNBAR _and the_ MAYOR OF BERWICK,
_attended by_ AMBROSE CARMICHAEL, _with the Keys of the City_.
MONTAGUE (_whispers the King_.)
My liege, my Lord Dunbar. [_Exit_ MONTAGUE.
KING EDWARD.
Proud lord! ye might have saved some traitors’ lives
Had ye surrender’d sooner.
DUNBAR.
Good, my liege!
I must regret, that while such royal mercy
Exists in monarch’s breast, that I was up
In arms against it. Judgment often errs,
And stupid heads make often aching hearts.
KING EDWARD.
Even so, my lord; but, ha! thou lean-faced man,
When did you dine?
MAYOR.
When Edward could not eat,
Because so many wretches in the city
Grappled with hunger.
KING EDWARD.
Keep your taunts, old man!
Kings love not jests unless they jest for love;
A soldier’s free of speech; but, mark me, Mayor!
He’s also free of hand. Give up the keys.
MAYOR.
My liege, most willingly, and yet unwillingly;
Willingly, since it ’vaileth not to keep them,
And yet unwillingly, since with these keys
We give our liberties. [PERCY _takes the keys_.
KING EDWARD.
Ha! braggart, think you this a Roman senate,
And do ye come like some obstreperous Cato
To beard a Cæsar, flush’d with victory?
Guards, load the caitiff with his weight of chains;
Keep him in durance till each separate item
That’s mentioned in the treaty be fulfill’d:
Percy, see the twelve hostages secured—
The city now is given to your charge.
[_Exit_ PERCY, _with the Hostages_.
MAYOR.
_The Guards approach._] Young prince, I crave respect to these grey
hairs;
Rather more white with grief than length of years!
Since me, nor mine, have ne’er borne arms against you.
Spare also the poor boys; so shall the mothers
Of Berwick bless you.
AMBROSE.
Nor I neither; I did ne’er bear arms against your majesty, most
excellent! save when I could not help it.
[_The_ MAYOR _motions_ AMBROSE _to stand back_.
KING EDWARD.
Mothers of Berwick! ha! these Scottish women
Are amazons in battle, and might teach
Their sons a lesson of good soldiership.
D’ARCY.
During the siege old women and young children
Aided the men with stones and ammunition.
MAYOR.
They did but emulate the maids of England,
When they repulsed the Scotsmen at Carlisle.
[_They lead off the_ MAYOR.
AMBROSE (_aside_.)
Hold your tongue, master; hold your tongue; for ye ought to know that
two black corbies will not make a white crow.
KING EDWARD.
My lord, Dunbar,
Where’s your friend Seton and his noble wife?
Let her be caged;—and, Benhale, let that caitiff
Be strung up to the nearest gibbet, since
He is not worthy of a soldier’s death!
[_Pointing to_ AMBROSE.
DUNBAR.
My liege, Sir Alexander waits your message,
His lady has escaped!
KING EDWARD.
Gads blood! escaped!
D’Arcy, pursue, pursue! I’d rather lose
The victory than the lady! Oh, revenge
Will want its zest without her!
AMBROSE (_kneeling_.)
Spare, spare my life! O king, most excellent! and I will guide your
captain where he will find the lady; yea, though my poor wife may be
taken in the snare.
KING EDWARD.
D’Arcy, speed, see to this! and should the rogue
Be making dupes of us to save himself,
Give him a sudden death!
AMBROSE.
Even so, may it please your majesty, most excellent! but if I prove
successful, I expect you will reward me with your royal bounty and
promotion.
[_Exit_ D’ARCY _with_ AMBROSE.
KING EDWARD.
My lord, Dunbar, I speak with thee alone. [_Exeunt._
SCENE II.
_The Press Moor._
_Enter_ IRISH TROOPERS _with_ AMBROSE CARMICHAEL.
FIRST TROOPER.
By the blood of St Patrick, my ould fellow! where have those stray sheep
gone? Arrah! now, if thou misleadest us, boy, by the souls of the
thousand saints who danced on the point of a needle! Arrah! I say, boy,
if thou misleadest us, we shall put ourselves right by hanging thee on
the first tree we meet with in this bare rascally country, where no
trees are to be found.
AMBROSE.
For once in my life I shall speak truth; my grandam always said it stood
longest; and no wonder, seeing it stands upon two legs, while falsehood
may not balance itself upon one. If we go much farther we shall meet
some of Dunbar’s troopers. We must cross the Moor of Aldcamus; for I
guess their path lies by the windings of the Pease.
SECOND TROOPER.
Marry, ould boy! if we take the right path of your directions, we will
assuredly go wrong; so, to go right, we will take the road before us. We
proceed onwards to yon hovel where the blue smoke rises.
AMBROSE.
If you won’t believe my veracity, believe the vision of your own eyes,
and behold yonder white forms gliding among the green trees. If I speak
false, duck me as a witch in Coldingham Loch.
FIRST TROOPER.
We do believe our ogles, by the powers! and are off like a shot.
[_While they are absent_, AMBROSE _makes his escape.
They return with_ MAGGY, AMBROSE’S WIFE.
MAGGY.
If your mother was a woman, spare me, good gentlemen! My lady has taken
the path of Pease; and, forsooth, because I could not keep up with their
hard trot and gallop they left me behind.
SECOND TROOPER.
I suppose, ould one, your bulky hinder-parts were not made for a horse’s
back.
MAGGY.
Surely not, good sirs! the town-fiddler’s wife cannot ride like a lady.
I slipt over the mare’s tail, and there they left me. Oh, Ambrose! we
have driven our hogs to a bad market!
FIRST TROOPER.
Well, my good crature! since your husband is a notable liar, and has
just escaped from Murphy Slabberdash, by the powers! we keep the path
onwards, and bind thee to the trunk of the first shadow of a tree we
meet with, till we return, if we e’er return. [_Exeunt._
SCENE III.
_The Hostel of Aldcamus._
FRIARS _sitting drinking_, AUBERY, _&c._
FIRST FRIAR.
Come, drink and make merry, my masters! it is not every gale that wafts
us a young friar with a purse, and a soldier with a song.
SECOND FRIAR.
Why dost thou not sing, thou comely anchorite, with the cowl nailed to
your head? Surely thou mayest doff it out of courtesy to our order?
YOUNG FRIAR.
Beshrew me, friend! it is not from want of reverence to those to whom
reverence is due, that makes me wear the cowl; but I have a disagreeable
ache in my head from an accidental sore; I shall, however, sing as well
as I can to please my kind brethren. [_Sings._
Weep not, because the patriot’s sword
Awhile is sheath’d in sadness;
That sword will from its scabbard leap
To trumpet notes of gladness,
When he who forges freemen’s chains,
This earth no more shall cumber,
When blood that sleeps in freemen’s veins
Shall wake no more to slumber.
It is but the fragment of a song; but you must take the will for the
deed.
FIRST FRIAR.
Well sung, young one! but very mournful. Come, soldier! free of speech,
give us a song, and let it speak to the occasion. I can give a joke, and
take a joke in good fellowship. Let the song be trite and terse with a
little of the nutmeg.
SECOND FRIAR.
No! no! let the song be modest. True humour looks best in a natural
dress. Strike up, my boon companion!
AUBERY.
I can’t sing, but I will give you a rant, while my friend seeks relief
in a short repose. Gudewife, see to the lady—to the friar I mean.
[_Sings._
=Song.=
TUNE,—Kenmuir’s on, and awa, Willie.
CHORUS.
_I redd you beware o’ Friar Adam, gudeman;
I redd you beware o’ Friar Adam, gudeman;
He’s first at a feast, but he’s last at the cann—
I redd you beware o’ Friar Adam, gudeman._
The gudewife can bake, and the gudewife can brew,
Can dress up her board with the famed barbecue;
Can eke out a table where bishops may dine,
And baffle the drawer wi’ hamen-made wine.
The gudewife on Sundays is bonny I trow,
Her golden-laced bonnet sits light on her brow;
In her fine furred cloak at the preachings she’s seen,
And looks like Diana in mantle o’ green.
Friar Adam is learned in Latin and Greek,
With his eyes and his fingers he also can speak;
’Tis whisper’d, the priest has a magical e’e,
And kens the black art that’s taught over the sea.
Mine host and the baxter grew bright o’er the cann,
Till they first miss’d the gudewife, then Friar Adam;
The quegh being empty, for liquor they bawl,
But nothing but echo replies to their call.
They sought for our Friar by the windings of Tweed,
Where they found him laid low like a wind-shaken reed;
They found him, O beastly! asleep, sitting squat,
Enjoying the dream of a Cardinal’s hat.
They search’d for the gudewife by thicket and loan,
Till they found the gay lady a-making her moan;
While milking her quey, popp’d a wasp on its tail,
When the brute gave a kick, and upset the milk-pail.
FIRST FRIAR.
Ha! ha! ha! well sung, and passing humorous.—
Hark! who craves admittance? [_Noise without._
FIRST TROOPER.
Hollo! ho! open the door.
SECOND FRIAR.
First say who wishes to be admitted.
SECOND TROOPER.
Open the door, in the king’s name, else we fulfil our warrant to the
very letter, and enter thus. [_Pushes up the door._
FIRST FRIAR.
Friend, your manners need polishing.
FIRST TROOPER.
If thou say’st so, by the powers! I will polish your face, you ugly
crature, by levelling the huge bridge of thy nasal organ, which glitters
with rubies.
FIRST FRIAR.
I crave pardon, my brave man of speech! I meant no offence.
SECOND TROOPER, (_taking up a glass_.)
Here’s to my native land and her pretty daughters! What say ye to that,
you black sheep?
FIRST TROOPER, (_to the Gudewife_.)
Where’s the host?
GUDEWIFE OF ALDCAMUS.
In Heaven as I hope; but I am his substitute.
SECOND TROOPER.
And a goodly one truly; we must search you.
GUDEWIFE OF ALDCAMUS.
Heaven forfend!—I hope you mean no evil towards me, as these holy men
shall witness.
FIRST TROOPER.
No! no! we shall not so much as harm the mole upon your chin, plump
one!—But you know, that in these times many a pretty face and wicked
heart is hid under the shadow of the monkish cowl, and a pair of
handsome limbs under the clumsy buskin: Now, by the powers! to the
search. Here, ould fellow! (_Examines the first_ FRIAR.) Thou art too
ugly to mess with any one but the devil;—here, boy, (_Examines the
other._) and thou art his brother.
SECOND TROOPER.
A pack of filthy knaves! and why should we dirty our fingers with them.
Ha! whom have we got here?
AUBERY.
One with whom thou hast no concern, and whom thou hadst best let alone.
FIRST TROOPER.
In the king’s name resist not, but deliver up your sword.
AUBERY.
To what king? Not till its strength be tried, which is of good Damascus
steel.
[_While they fight, the_ LIEUTENANT, _with others
of the party, enter, and seize_ AUBERY _behind_.
Against such odds it were folly in me to combat. (_Aside._) I bide my
time.
SECOND TROOPER.
Whom have we in the chamber? Ha! another friar!
[LADY SETON, (_in the disguise of the young
Friar_,) _alarmed, comes forth: the Cowl off,
and her long flowing locks dishevelled_.
LADY SETON.
Not a Friar! but an unfortunate lady, who has lost her all at Berwick.
LIEUTENANT.
I presume, madam, you are the lady we are in search of.—If so, you had
better announce yourself, that you may be treated as an honourable
prisoner.
LADY SETON.
What, sir, are you a soldier, and don’t know that all women should be
treated with equal courtesy by brave men? We are all branches of the
same great tree, and all one in the eye of God.
LIEUTENANT.
Doubtless, fair lady! but we came not here to preach; our business is
too short and summary for detail,—your name, sweet lady?
LADY SETON.
It is a name which has often made the English tremble—_Seton!_
LIEUTENANT.
For once it shall not, fair lady! In the name of King Edward, ye are our
prisoner.
LADY SETON.
I accompany you through necessity; but, by the courtesy of your nation,
who, though blunt, are brave; forward, yet civil; I entreat you to
unbind my servant: you have already disarmed him.
LIEUTENANT.
In this, lady, you cannot be obeyed. We must proceed quickly; for the
way is long, and the paths of Pease intricate.
LADY SETON.
Then I do make a virtue of necessity, and bear my burden rejoicing;
farewell, good woman, and holy men.
LIEUTENANT.
To the door, soldiers, and bind the prisoner.
[_Exit_ TROOPERS _with_ AUBERY.
GUDEWIFE OF ALDCAMUS.
Fareweel, gude lady! and gif ye cum this way again, an’ it no be far out
o’ your way, just spier for the Gudewife o’ Aldcamus, and it will be an
especial favour to your humble well-wisher, keeping warldly concerns in
the way of business out o’ the question.
LADY SETON.
Thank ye, old lady, for your hospitality; and if, in happier times, you
ever come to the palace of Seton, on the high road to Edinburgh, ask for
Christian Cheyne, and ye shall be rewarded. [_Exeunt._
SCENE IV.
_The King’s Pavilion in the English Camp._
KING EDWARD _seated, with Attendants_.
_Enter_ D’ARCY _with_ LADY SETON.
KING EDWARD.
Whom bring you now to grace our presence?
Some rebel’s lady by her port I guess.
D’ARCY.
Even so, my liege; the Lady Seton.
KING EDWARD.
I’m glad to see thee, dame, the foe of England,
In Edward’s power.
LADY SETON.
What follows that, your highness?
KING EDWARD.
Ye are a scion of that poisonous tree,
That bears us deadly fruit. The Setons league
Forever ’gainst our royal will and pleasure.
LADY SETON.
A Seton, seeks to serve her lawful king;
If this is treason, may I die a traitor;
’Twere sweeter thus to die than live in bondage.
KING EDWARD.
Say, is not Edward Baliol your liege lord,
And have ye not rebell’d ’gainst him and England?
LADY SETON.
I ask the proof,—we own no king but David,
The lawful husband of your sister Joan.
King! is it fair to use your brother thus?
If to be up in arms ’gainst a usurper
Be called rebellion, then, I am a rebel!
KING EDWARD.
And but for thy sweet sex, obstreperous dame,
You’d die a rebel’s death!
LADY SETON.
In such a cause,
It were my earnest wish. Have ye not slain
My children? and ye now would blast my honour!
But this a king shall not deprive me of.
KING EDWARD.
Proud amazon of women, since ye deem
Death but a lightly thing, ye shall not die
Till scorn shall have a merry jubilee!
Coped in an iron cage, on Berwick’s turrets,
Thoul’t be enthroned to reign through irksome life,
(Like Buchan’s countess, that audacious rebel,)
To ornament the walls which ye preserved,
And be the queen of laughter to the city.
LADY SETON.
I’ll perish sooner!—
[_Attempts first to stab herself, then the_ KING;
_but is prevented by the Guards; upon which
she throws away the dagger, and sobs more
in anger than in grief_.
Oh! Heaven! forgive the deed!
Misfortune thus makes cowards of us all.
KING EDWARD.
Woman! I do forgive thee.
We took one life from thee, you owe me one!
Be sorry for the past, and crave our mercy.
LADY SETON.
Alas! that I should be in Edward’s debt!
The murderer of my son. I will not bend
Nor own allegiance to my country’s foe.
KING EDWARD.
Then, since ye do despise our royal mercy,
Away with her, ye laggards! do your duty.
LADY SETON.
Support me, Heaven! support the rights of Scotland!
[_Exit with_ GUARDS.
MAGGY CARMICHAEL _is brought in as a Prisoner_.
KING EDWARD.
Whom have we now? what bedlamite is this?
LIEUTENANT.
This woman’s husband, liege, gave us the slip.
We crave to know if she should pay the price
Of his delinquency, most gracious sovereign!
KING EDWARD.
Don’t trouble us
With such low matters. Give her to the beadle;
Let her be whipp’d, unless her husband comes
Ere set of sun to bear the stripes himself.
MAGGY (_to the Guards, as they go out_.)
He come!—the earth will leap to the moon ere he come! and the gun-brigs
sail through the Needles ere he come! and King Arthur return from
fairy-land ere he come! A murrain on him, to betray his wife into the
hands of the Philistines!
_Enter_ DUNBAR _and_ SETON, _with eight Hostages_.
KING EDWARD.
My lords, I’m ready to receive your fealty:
Have ye prepared the deed that guarantees
The future conduct of our Berwick lieges!
DUNBAR.
In these long instruments, your majesty
Will find each item noted as agreed;
To which our names as witness are appended;
These pretty boys must answer the fulfilment;
With these I bring Sir Alexander Seton
To do you homage.
KING EDWARD.
It is well, my lord!
Fair youths of promise! beauteous smiling boys,
Were Englishmen your fathers? Do not frown:
Seton, you have a devil of a wife!
SETON.
I hope your highness will forgive her rudeness;
She smarts beneath the sorrows of the war;
A woman’s roused feelings rend her heart!
Else she would not despise that clemency
That falls like dew from heaven upon the earth.
KING EDWARD.
An arrant rebel! Seton, call her in;
For I will not forgive her till she kneels
To bless the name of Edward!
SETON.
Gracious prince!
That is impossible; no human power
Will bend her stubborn heart.
KING EDWARD.
Then she must live
Disgraced, or die a death—a death of torture!
SETON.
Spare her, most gracious prince! upon my knees
I beg this boon, who never knelt before.
BALIOL.
Forgive her, king, she knows not what she does.
KING EDWARD.
Nay, I forgive her not, until she kneels,
And does due homage to her prince and me.
[LADY SETON _is brought in_.
Lady, come bless the puissant arms of England,
And swear allegiance to your sovereign, Baliol,
Who intercedes for thee.
LADY SETON.
I am resolved!—
I cannot bless the murderer of my sons!—
I cannot own ought prince but David Bruce!
KING EDWARD.
Then if thou wilt not bless our clemency,
Thou now shalt feel our rigour!
[_Motions to one of the Guards, who comes forward,
but in place of seizing the Lady, throws
off his disguise, and discovers himself to be
her Son._
LADY SETON.
My son, my son! [_Embraces him, then kneels._
For once, high Heaven, I bless the name of Edward,
Who has restored my long-lost sheep to me!
KING EDWARD.
Lady, if justice did demand that one
Of thine should pay the price of others’ treason,
We now repent us of it, and restore
A lawful prisoner to his mother’s arms!—
I combat not for vengeance, but for glory.
LADY SETON.
Eternal Heaven reward you! one boon more
I crave, great prince! that you will spare that woman,
Whose hands are innocent of her husband’s fault.
KING EDWARD.
By deeds of policy I thus subdue
These Scots unto my purpose. [_Aside._
My lovely suitor, that cannot be done;
These vagrants must be kept in due subjection
By wholesome discipline!
_Enter_ LIEUTENANT _with_ AMBROSE.
Ha! here’s the caitiff!
The fellow now must suffer for himself.
AMBROSE.
May’t please your majesty, most excellent! unto the Irish troopers I
appeal, if I did not set them on the right scent, as my loving wife
knows to her great cost and narrow escape,
LIEUTENANT.
My liege! this fellow was a trusty guide,
Who did betray his loving wife and mistress;
But, like a treach’rous rascal, in the sequel
Took leave of us, and left his counterpart.
KING EDWARD.
Bring her unto our presence!
_Enter_ SOLDIER _with_ MAGGY.
MAGGY.
Oh, Ambrose! Ambrose! you’ve done for us both now. “Pride gangs before,
but shame follows as fast behind,” as I told you. Here we stand, fine
exemplifications, like condemned criminals.
AMBROSE.
Hush, Maggy, till ye hear our lord the king’s decision. If shame follows
pride, so much the better, for it will work repentance!
KING EDWARD.
Come forward, sirrah! your excess of zeal
To worry others has mounced up yourself;
But since you’ve done us some small loyal service,
It is our royal pleasure to reward you:
Speak your desire.
Ambrose (_meditating_.)
Whatever your most excellent majesty may please; any thing but Mayor.
Captain of the Town-guard.
KING EDWARD.
Excellent! kneel, thou chubby one!
[_He kneels on both knees. The Courtiers laugh._
Rise up, Ambrose Carmichael, captain of the town-guard, with all the
honours!
AMBROSE.
Heaven bless your majesty! for I’ll go crazy with joy. O Maggy! oh, my
old mother! what would you say to this?—Captain of the town-guard!
DUNBAR.
I fear, my liege, the town-guard will not accept of this fellow as their
captain.
KING EDWARD.
Why not?
DUNBAR.
Because he belongs to the _Waits_, and not to the town-guard.
KING EDWARD.
Waits!—what are those?
DUNBAR.
Those wandering minstrels of the night, who lull the love-sick maids of
Berwick asleep with amorous airs.
KING EDWARD.
What say you to this, Ambrose?
AMBROSE.
An’t please your majesty, to grant me the pension, I willingly resign
the captaincy, as, although I am not envious, yet am better bred than to
refuse your majesty’s bounty.
KING EDWARD.
So shall it be!—Now, nobles, to the camp,
Since we must follow up this victory
With greater conquests! [_The curtain falls._
END OF THE SIEGE OF BERWICK.
ALAN OF WINTON,
AND
THE HEIRESS OF SETON.
[In 1336, Alan of Winton forcibly carried off the young heiress of
Seton, which produced a feud in Lothian, as some favoured the ravisher,
while others sought to bring him to punishment.—_Hailes’ Annals_, vol.
ii. The Prior of Lochleven states, that William Murray, then lying in
Edinburgh castle, was the chief aid and support of Alan of Winton in the
feudal war to which this _riot_ gave rise. Further, that after Margaret
Seton bore him two children, he went beyond seas, and died in the Holy
Land. This lady was the only daughter of Sir Alexander Seton, who is
celebrated in the Siege of Berwick.]
ALAN OF WINTON,
AND
THE HEIRESS OF SETON.
O Elphingston! thy rural shades
Are bare, which firry forests crown’d,
When Margaret, pride of Scottish maids,
Trod joyfully thy verdant ground.
Seen far upon the hill’s green side,
Thy lofty tower, august and hoar,
Views Agriculture’s sons preside
Where rival factions ruled before.
How changed since that eventful day
When Winton’s baron, young but sage,
Amidst thy leafy dells did stray,
And communed with his fairy page!—
“Go, search, my boy, ere autumn fades,
“From pastoral Tweed to Jura’s isle,
“And ’mongst the flower of Scottish maids
“Seek one that rivals Seton’s smile.”
“As well, Sir Knight, go lift the Bass,
“Or fathom Corryvrekin’s linn,
“Forget to love a bonny lass,
“Or live on earth unstain’d by sin!”
Thus spake the page to Winton’s chief,
What each admiring heart confess’d;
But, ah! it did not give relief
To pangs that rent his master’s breast.—
“Go, sharpen me my stoutest spear,
“Go, saddle me my fleetest steed,
“By Byres-hill to hunt the deer,
“We go at morn,—speed, Maurice! speed!”
“Men seek not deer with mail and spear,
“But I obey, whate’er betide:
“’Twere better far, for sylvan war,
“To lead the hounds by Soutra’s side.”—
“What boots my trusty page to tell,
“But ere the eve is rising hoar,
“We brush the broom on Luffness fell,
“And rouse to death the brindled boar.”
The chief withdrew; but do not blame
His cunning vassal’s quick surmise,
That his lord went in quest of game
Which look’d more fair in youthful eyes.
We spoke of that enchanting maid,
Who now, in Seton’s ancient towers,
Lamented both her parents dead,
And wept away the lonely hours.
That heart grew chill that once was glad;
She sought the orchard’s walks alone,
And ’neath the walnut tree so sad
She woke her harp to sorrow’s tone.
Here, like a jewel in casket hid,
She pined obscure in solitude;
Till, playful, Love would lift the lid,
As misers o’er their treasure brood.
Too much inclined in courts to rove,
Lindsay, that “pink of chivalry,”
Forsook the tented shrine of Love,
In Seton’s lonely shades to sigh.
For her, the youthful Elphingston,
Though less renown’d, yet not less true,
Had left an oriental throne,
And bade its gilded pomp adieu!
And Salton’s baron, high in grace,
And Keith’s own Fraser, stoop’d to tell
How they had left the mountain chase
For glimpse of her in Seton’s cell.
And great De Vaux, that prince of men,
Whose castle looks o’er fairer fields
Than ere was wash’d by silver Nen,
To her the palm of beauty yields.
And Alan, lord of Winton’s vale,
The first in field—the first in hall—
Sought to reveal love’s tender tale
To her who had his heart in thrall.
Come paint her form in maiden bower,
Her virgin bosom’s rising swell,—
As well go paint the matchless flower
That blossoms in St Germains’ dell!
Her sunny hair, with jewels crown’d,
Upon her parted bosom lies;
But search the heaven’s starry round
To match the lightning of her eyes.
Her face and neck like mountain snow
That duns the hue of whitest flower,
Her cheeks tinged with a rosy glow,
In secret stolen from Flora’s bower.
Her lips like cherry-twins rejoice,
Bathed in the morning’s sparkling dew,
While the soft music of her voice
In angel-strains comes warbling through.
Her form is stately as the pine,
Amongst the forest’s pride the queen;
Her limbs like polish’d pillars shine,
Where Nature’s perfect art is seen.
Her waist appears a gentle span,
Within her girdle’s diamond star;
O, Heaven will bless the happy man
Who may that starry belt unbar!
“Fair Marg’ret, come for gentle space,
“O come to Winton’s blooming vale,
“Till lenient time, with change of place,
“Shall sooth the griefs it may not heal.”
“I cannot ride in Winton loan,
“Her castle’s walks no views afford;
“I go to princely Dirleton,
“To banquet with its noble lord.”
Less spake in earnest than in jest,
The beauteous Seton did reply,
When for the baron’s gorgeous feast
Her horse stood saddled pompously.
At early hour, on autumn morn,
She vaulted on her coal-black steed,
And look’d like light by darkness borne,
While pacing Germains’ flowery mead.
One trusty page—one faithful maid—
With kernes on foot, away she flew,
Till pass’d Long Niddry’s naked shade.
Close to Redcastle’s towers she drew.
The warder’s horn blew loud and shrill,
That hail’d the lady passing by;
The sound was echo’d from Lochill,
As rose the buckler-pennon high.
A page rode up—in doublet green,
On dwarfish steed, but fleet as wind—
Handed a billet all unseen,
Then shot away, nor look’d behind.
The scroll was tied with crimson thread,
The ink was red as new-drawn blood;
The purport ran,—“Wo to the kid!
“Who seeks the fox by Peffers’ flood!
“There is a maid in Fenton Tower,
“That walks the woods when others sleep;
“Talks to the moon, in hollin bower,
“And dreams of yonder Castle’s Keep.”
The lady’s cheek grew deadly pale,
She smote her steed, yet check’d its rein;
She sigh’d for Winton’s peaceful vale,
And thought of Alan’s noble mien.
She felt a thought pass o’er her soul,
That orphan-woman needs a stay;
But thoughts what maiden may control,
Like sunny clouds they pass away.
The lady came to Luffness-moor,
And roused the deer and dark curlew;
The lady came to Luffness Tower,
But there, no ostrich-pennon flew.
She found the Lindsay’s vassals gone,
To rouse the game ‘yond Peffers’ flood;
She thought of snaky Spindleston,
And war-wolf dread of Wormwood.
Then, as her maiden heart ’gan fail,
She sent her page to Luffness mill;
Thinks she, while Kelso’s monks love kail,
There’s work for clapper here and kiln.
No guest was found but bearded hag,
Who spake, while mouthing carrion raw,
“Knave’s gone the Marle Loch to drag,
“Or wire the hare on Galla Law.”
But, hark! the huntsman’s jovial horn
Makes all the leafy coverts ring;
The merry shouts are onward borne,
O’er brake and bush the coursers spring.
What booted now her Flanders rein,
Her steed through thickets wildly tore,
Till, like some forest-fashion’d queen,
She faced dread Saltcoats’ ravenous boar.
Fiercely the brindled monster came,
While far behind the chase-hounds roam;
His eyes glared red, as dipt in flame,
His tusks distended o’er with foam.
Death’s muffled horn must shortly sound!—
Yon distant knight too slowly rides;—
The monster furrows up the ground,
His tusks plough up the horse’s sides.
From stunned steed the lady fell,
Amidst the horrors of the chase;
But who her bosom’s thoughts may tell
When she look’d up—in Alan’s face!
He stood across her as a shield,
The gleaming faulchion in his hand;
For such a prize who would not wield
The deadly dart—the burning brand!
O’er her his scarlet cloak he threw,
To veil where silken scarf was rent,
Which gave a bosom to his view,
That shamed Medici’s monument.
The scatter’d hunters fast advance,
The forest trembles to the roar,
When Saltcoats’ chief, with sharpen’d lance,
Rush’d fiercely on the fiercer boar.
Ribb’d in the monster’s sides the spear
Snapp’d, dealing forth a double pain;
His tusks the oak’s firm roots uptear,
Or worm in wrath the shaking plain.
With glove of steel, and ready dart,
Down the boar’s throat his hand he thrust,
Till the sword drank the vital part,
And hurl’d the savage to the dust.
“Come, fill the goblet high with wine!”
Young Saltcoats cried, as forth he drew
The streaming dart—“we meet to dine
“To-morrow on the barbecue.
“Where is the haughty Winton now,
“Who watch’d yon lady, drooping faint?”
Surprise grew dark on every brow,
They gazed on earth and firmament.
When, lo! by dark Kilspindie’s shade,
The winged steeds are seen to glide;
“St Andrew!” Saltcoats cried, “yon maid
“By gallant is constrain’d to ride.
“O for one hour of Lindsay gay!
“De Vaux, Morville, or Elphingston;
“Yon collier chief should rue the day,
“And ’neath the thirsty broad-sword groan.”
Margaret’s dull vassal, left behind,
Told them of what he heard and saw;
But now as well go chase the wind,
As near their course by Galla Law.
“O lady, thou art weak and wan,
“Thy lovely limbs had need of rest!
“I’ll be your trusty waiting-man,
“If thou’lt be Moray’s welcome guest.”—
“I cannot sleep in Gosford’s shade,
“Where many a chosen archer dwells;
“It were not meet for Seton’s maid
“To sleep—save in her castle’s cells.”
One hour’s repose, with gentle fare,
Refresh’d Kilspindie’s gentle guest;
When she threw back her sunny hair,
Her head reclined on Alan’s breast.
Yet deem not aught but virgin love
That bosom e’er could venture in,
Pure as the angel-pairs above
She walk’d unstain’d with passion’s sin.
“Awake! my love, while all is still,
“Lest rivals mar our honeymoon,
“We’ll pitch our tents by Gogar’s rill,
“And sleep in Niddry’s fair saloon.
“Until that feudal storm is o’er,
“That rises now—but do not weep;
“It gathers gloomy on the shore,
“But, like the waves, will roar to sleep.
“The boat lies rocking in the bay,
“Her crew are brave, her oars are ready,—
“Then rise, my love, ere dawn of day
“Awakes the maids of Aberlady.
“When shooting o’er the dark green sea,
“Our canvass full, our vessel steady,
“I’ll kiss your cheek, and then be free
“To hail you Winton’s lovely lady.
“Though far the castle’s turrets blaze
“Like beacons on the ocean burning,
“As high the festal fire they’ll raise,
“To hail their chieftain’s glad returning.”
The shallop flew along the shore,
Dashing the rising waves aside,—
They raise the sail, and strike the oar,
So favouring breeze and swelling tide!
Landed on Preston’s fertile strand,
They hear the organ’s dying strain;
As Alan takes his Margaret’s hand,
And leads to Seton’s holy fane.
The portly Bishop look’d on high,
The golden-chalice stretch’d to bless,
When he beheld with wondering eye
Love’s culprit in her loveliness.
“Father! this lady as my bride,
“I claim before my God and thou;
“When warrior to the field must ride,
“No forms should e’er delay his vow.
“Although this marriage course be rude,
“This diamond ring must plead the rest!”
The priest look’d down in soften’d mood,
And soon the happy couple blest.
This chequer’d scene again we change;
Now o’er the waves the lovers’ fly,
While heard in Preston’s fertile grange,
Newbottle’s lusty oxen cry.
The moon is up—the crew prolong
The notes, as o’er the waters clear
Is heard the fisher’s oyster-song
Like water-spirits hovering near.
They pass the Inch’s beacon fires,
St Ninian bless for favouring gale,
As high Dunedin’s dusky spires
Amidst the chequer’d lights they hail.
And soon in Murray’s friendly bower,
The weary day had joyful night,
And Alan kiss’d the sweetest flower
That ever blest the morning light.
Morn saw the feudal standard raised,
The shepherd left his mountain fold,—
Unyoked six hundred oxen grazed,
A second Sabbath glad to hold.
One hundred ploughs unharness’d lie,
The dusky collier leaves his mines,
“_A Seton!_” is the gathering cry,
And far the fiery dragon shines.
With sound of horn and bloodhound near
The angry slogan rises far,
Smoke brindles every pointed spear,
Portentous of the coming war.
The gloomy minions of the wood,
Rush down impatient for the spoil,
But back return like ocean’s flood,
That leaves it wreck to feed the soil.
Proud Salton’s baron thundering comes,
(The parrot shining on his crest,)
Till Keith bears down on ostrich plumes,
And drives the popinjay to nest;
But not till Winton’s lofty spires
Are veil’d in smoke and gilt with flame;
Not till Revenge has lit her fires,
And curses pour’d on Bruce’s name!
Meanwhile on Preston’s fertile shore
The feudal war is fiercely borne;
Newbottle’s monks will long deplore
Their oxen maim’d,—their trampled corn.
Destruction broods o’er Seton’s fane,
Her gold-embroider’d altars spoil’d;
Her aged priests down cast and slain,
Her temples pilfer’d and defiled.
Her silver-blazon’d sachristy,
Was stolen by sacrilegious hand;
Her silken-woven tapistry
Shrunk shrivell’d from the burning brand.
The priest’s right arm was stretch’d to curse,
When generous Saltcoats forward came;
The robbers cry, “To horse, to horse!”
But ere they mount a host is slain.
Now Baliol’s liegemen thread the Moor,
From dark Tranent, Fawside, and Myles,
Investing Elphingston’s high tower,
As warm for strife each bosom boils.
They mount the breach, while in the shade
Sir Alan’s page, in dread despair,
The nitrous train so nicely laid,
Hurl’d foes and battlements in air.
An adept in that dangerous art,
In latter times, ah! known too well,
This faëry page could point the dart,
Or spring the mine with deadly yell.
As round the parting fragments fall,
The urchin flew like bird on wing,
Scaled Winton’s castellated wall,
And loosed the cauldron’s pitchy spring.
Unnumbered cisterns rivers pour,
Which boiling, hissing falls around;
Th’ assailants shun the burning shower,
Rush to the Tyne, or bite the ground.
While rings the loud alarum-bell,
Echo’d by rock and birken dale:
It sounds her foes’ departing knell,
And brings her chief to Winton’s vale.
Afar the steel-clad warriors shine,
Like silver mists on green Fawside,
While to the primrose banks of Tyne
A chosen band of warriors ride.
The Winton’s starry shield is seen,
And Moray’s lion’s red array,
While Seton, like a Roman queen,
Sits throned in phalanx firm, but gay.
Must sorrow cloud these shouts that rise,
And raise in bridal eye the tear?
A knight, dark mask’d, claims Winton’s prize,
With strength of arm and just of spear.
The bidding Alan did not bide,
But met his rival as a rock;
The spear which pass’d his steel-laced side,
Unhorsed his foeman with the shock.
“On vantage-ground I will not stand,”
Brave Winton cried; on foot he sprung,
Attack’d his foe with sword in hand,
Aside his trusty spear he flung.
One blow the haughty youth laid low,
The shiver’d helmet burst in twain;
Winton stood o’er his fallen foe,
Whose blood bedew’d the emerald plain.
“O Heaven! that visor quick undo,
“Bring balm to sooth the soldier’s groan;”
But ere that close-mask’d face they view,
Expired the gallant Elphingston.
“Now maidens raise the funeral wail,
“To chivalry award its meed:—
“There’s not in Lothian’s primrose vale
“A braver knight that mounts a steed.”
“Thrice welcome to these lordly halls!
“Joy, joy to Winton’s lovely bride;”
Is echo’d from the castle walls,
As through the gates the warriors ride.
“Thrice welcome,” gifted seer has said,
“From thee and thine a race shall spring,
“Like Winton’s chaplet, ne’er to fade
“While ancient Scotland has a king.”
NOTES TO ALAN OF WINTON.
Page 211, line 9.
_We spoke of that enchanting maid,
Who now, in Seton’s ancient towers._
The palace of Seton was demolished about thirty years ago, and a modern
heavy-looking chateau built near its site. Two views are preserved in
Grose’s Scottish Antiquities. The family at different times entertained
royalty: Mary, on her return from France, held her court here; the
apartments of state were on the second floor, and were very spacious,
nearly forty feet high, superbly furnished, and covered with crimson
velvet, laced with gold. Here also Charles I. and his court reposed,
when on their progress through Scotland. The palace had two large
galleries filled with pictures, which, on Lord Winton’s attainder for
adhering to the interests of Charles Stuart, were sold, by the
commissioners of inquiry, or stolen by the servants.—_Journey to Scot._
1723.
Page 214, line 9.
_I cannot ride in Winton loan,
Her castle’s walks no views afford._
The old baronial castle of Winton probably stood on the site of the
present edifice, where a house was built by George Lord Seton in 1493,
about the time the collegiate church of Seton was erected. To this he
added a garden, the wonder of the times, “erecting about the knots of
flowers five score _tores_ of timber, two cubits high, with two knops on
their heads, the one above the other, each of them as great as a _rouch
bouel_, over-gilt with gold, and their shanks painted with divers oiled
colours.”—_MS. Harl._ See _Pinkerton’s Scot._ vol. ii.
The present house is situated on a gentle eminence, rising from the
Tyne, and was erected for Lady Winton in 1619, at the advice of a
favourite of hers, an architect, when, on the earl proposing to her the
alternative of an addition to her house or a jointure, she chose the
former.—_Statist. Acct. Scot._
In consequence of George, fifth Earl of Winton, taking part in the
rebellion of 1715, the whole of his estates were forfeited to the crown.
The house was permitted to fall into decay till the beginning of the
present century, when two additional wings were added by Colonel
Hamilton of Pencaitland, who had purchased the estate.
Page 217, line 11.
_Till, like some forest-fashion’d queen,
She faced dread Saltcoats’ ravenous boar._
The exploit of destroying the Boar of Saltcoats was reserved for a youth
of the name of Livington; for which, it is said, he acquired an ample
grant of lands as a reward, extending from Gullan Point to North Berwick
Law. It must have happened considerably before the middle of the
fifteenth century; for, about 1459, Livington of Saltcoats had a
daughter, Sophia, married to Walter Lindsay, third son of Alexander,
second Earl of Crawford, which shews that at that period the family had
arrived to some degree of consequence.—_Douglas’ Peer._ vol. i. This
formidable monster is said to have been slain by Livington’s thrusting
his arm, which was protected by a glove of a peculiar construction, down
the animal’s throat, while he despatched it with a sword or spear.
Tradition says the glove was as long as his arm, and was stuffed, or
quilted, with feathers from the wrist upwards. It was sold for a mere
trifle at the roup of the last Lady Saltcoats. About thirty-five years
ago the helmet, said to have been worn on the occasion, hung in the
aisle belonging to the Saltcoats family in the church of Dirleton. It
was removed while the church underwent repair, when, like the enchanted
visors, it disappeared. About the beginning of the last century the
estate was acquired by John Hamilton of Pencaitland, who married
Margaret Menzies, heiress of Saltcoats.
At the mouth of the Peffer, a small rivulet goes by the name of
Livington’s ford, where it is said the boar was slain.
The story of the boar has no connection with the historical part of the
poem farther, than at that period an intimacy existed between the lords
of Dirleton and the rising family of Seton, which I thought a good
opportunity for introducing the brindled monster to the reader, when my
heroine was on a fanciful visit to Dirleton’s towers.
A story similar to the above in some circumstances, is related of the
ancestors of Lord Somerville, in the _Border Minstrelsy_, vol. iii. p.
22; but the champion took a more cautious way of destroying the serpent
or dragon, by affixing a wheel bedaubed with pitch, rosin, and burning
peats, on the point of his lance, which at a full gallop he thrust down
the monster’s throat, and killed it on the spot. He was knighted by King
William for the exploit, and afterwards carried for a crest a wheel and
a dragon. In like manner, the family of Saltcoats carried a boar’s head;
which shews the importance of such services in those times, when
brindled “monsters roamed the gloomy wild.”
Page 220, line 9.
_I cannot sleep in Gosford’s shade,
Where many a chosen archer dwells._
James I. was particularly anxious to establish the use of the bow, and
ordered frequent assemblies near the parish-churches for the exercise of
archery:—but after his death the national propensity for the spear
prevailed; and among a hundred attendants of a baron, hardly six archers
could be found.—_Pinkerton’s Hist. Scot._ vol. i. p. 163. James V., who
was also fond of this warlike pastime, frequently visited Gosford, for
the purposes of golfing and archery; but it was supposed, that three
favourite ladies, Sandilands, Weir, and Oliphant, (one of whom resided
at Gosford, and the others in the neighbourhood,) were the secret magnet
of the royal visitor, which occasioned the following satirical, but
witty advice to his Majesty, from Sir David Lindsay of the Mount, Lyon
Herald:—
Sow not your seed on Sandylands,
Spend not your strength in Weir,
And ride not on an Elephant,
For spoiling o’ your gear.
_Trans. Scot. Ant._ vol. i. p. 517.
Page 222, line 5.
_Landed on Preston’s fertile strand,
They hear the organ’s dying strain;
As Alan takes his Margaret’s hand,
And leads to Seton’s holy fane._
Seton church still remains in a very entire state. It stands east from
the mansion, and seems to have been an elegant building. The roof is
arched and covered with flag stones. The spire appears not to have been
finished. Part of the present edifice probably existed before the time
of Sir Alexander Seton, who figured at Berwick in 1333, as he was buried
in the parish church of Seton.—George, second Lord Seton, made it
collegiate.
Katherine Sinclair, the wife of William, first Lord Seton, “biggit ane
aisle on the south side of the paroch kirk of Seton, of fine estlar,
pendit and theiket it with stane with ane sepulchar, thairin where she
lies, and founded ane priest to serve thair perpetually.”—_Mait. MS._
George, third Lord Seton, who was slain at Flodden in 1513, was buried
in the choir. Besides paving and embellishing the church he gave it a
complete suit of cloth of gold.
Jane, daughter of Patrick, Lord Hepburn, his widow, “biggit the northern
aisle of the college kirk, and took down that built by dame Katherine
Sinclair on the south side.” This lady gave an eucharist of silver, a
chalice over-gilt, fine woven arras to the altar, a stand of purple
velvet flowered with gold, and many other suitable ornaments, to the
church.
In 1544 the English burnt and destroyed the castle of Seton and the
timber work of the church, and carried away the bells, organs, and other
moveables.
After the battle of Pinky, it is said the English also destroyed the
church, and carried off the fine choir of bells to Durham. The present
bell of Tranent church belonged to the parish church of Seton. Their own
being broken, this was brought to supply its place, which is large, and
of fine workmanship. It was cast in Holland, 1587, with the name of
George Lord Seton inscribed on both sides.
THE
VISION OF HUNGUS.
The King of the Saxons, with wrath in his hand,
Gives the land of the Pict to the sword and the brand;
He seizes their horsemen encumber’d with spoil,
And gives horse and rider to manure the soil.
“O wo to King Hungus!” he swore in his wrath,
“His foot-marks have left us a desolate path;
“But while a true Saxon remains in the land,
“He shall weep that he trod upon Mercia’s strand.
“Remember your altars, down cast and profaned!
“Remember your virgins, their purity stain’d!
“Then onward, ye sons of the field and the flood,
“Till Vengeance be drunk with your enemies’ blood!”
Thus spake the fierce chief, as to Heaven he vow’d,
While around him his warriors hung grim as a cloud;
“Go, glut your red sabres, till pyramids piled
“Arise on these plains, built with women and child!
“Already the bards of your country prepare
“To waken their harps to the conqueror’s air;
“Already their chords vibrate bold in the hall
“To Athelstane’s glory and Hungus’s fall!”
Meanwhile, in his tent, Hungus courted repose,
Sleep came to his couch, though surrounded by foes;
As sunk on his mattress, all silent and lone,
On his slumbers a vision celestial shone.
St Andrew, the patron of Picta, appear’d,
His cross, sheathed in glory, triumphantly rear’d;
His star-studded band did a motto display,
Where “=victory=” shone in a red golden ray.
O bright was that token!—it set in despair;
For the shouts of the Saxons are rending the air;
The soldiers of Hungus are scatter’d and broke,
And leave him alone, as the tide leaves the rock.
He shew’d them his vision—it was but a dream!
The souls of the bravest did wavering seem;
When, lo! in the firmament blazing on high,
The cross of St Andrew illumined the sky.
Each arm now was nerved that was feeble before,
They rush like the torrent that bursts on the shore;
As the scythe of the reaper the stubble lays low,
So the lances of Hungus are sweeping the foe.
As the proud hosts of Pharaoh aghast did recede,
When the ocean divided, closed over their head,
So the soul of the Saxon was palsied with fear
When he saw the red sign in the heavens appear.[7]
“King Athelstane, yield; for thou shalt not depart!”
Said a voice, as the Pict pierced the prince to the heart;
And the spot, where the chief fell, ’neath Alpine’s broad sword,
Is still in our annals call’d Athelstane-ford.
Kneeling low in the dust, princely Hungus was laid,
While vows to his patron were reverently paid;
To the church he bequeathed a fair service of gold,
As we read in the chronicle Holinshed told.
“Now joy to the Pict, and defeat to the foe!
“In his banner triumphant St Andrew shall glow;
“While the bards and the sanachies tell in the hall
“Of Hungus’s glory and Athelstane’s fall.”
NOTES TO THE VISION OF HUNGUS.
Page 236, line 5.
_Kneeling low in the dust, princely Hungus was laid,
While vows to his patron were reverently paid;
To the church he bequeathed a fair service of gold, &c._
In gratitude to St Andrew, Hungus rebuilt the church of that name, in St
Andrews, in a magnificent style; and, besides many valuable gifts in
commemoration of his success, gave the tithes of his domains in support
of the clergy, and ordained that the cross should be adopted as the
Pictish ensign armorial, which the Scots assumed as theirs, when, by
right of conquest, they succeeded to the Pictish kingdom.—See
_Maitland’s Hist. Scot._ It is worthy of remark, that part of the lands
of Markle, on the estate of Gilmerton, still belongs to the church.
These lands were transferred from the monks of St Andrews to the abbey
of Holyrood-house, and from their rental the stipends of the three deans
of the chapel royal are still paid. Tradition says, that the cross was
seen immediately above Markle, from whence the place has its etymology
from _miracle_. This is absurd. The name, as spelt in old charters, is
Merkhill; even as places which formerly paid duty to the sovereign or
superior were called Merk-lands. The situation, however, is in the
vicinity of the conflict, which must have extended over many miles. In
1782, the head of a hatchet of polished yellow marble was turned up by
the ploughshare in a field of Gilmerton. It was in length about nine
inches, and sharpened at both ends. Now it is well known that missiles
of stone carry us back to a very barbarous period.
About a mile northward, on the farm of Muirhouses, a rude monumental
whinstone is erected; and at Dingleton, a few furlongs farther, are the
fragments of a large pillar, which some idle Goth has splintered. Both
of these are supposed to mark the scene of Hungus’s conflict. Still a
few furlongs westward, there is a pillar of white freestone, called the
_Boar Stane_,[8] seemingly of more recent erection, (though not in the
memory of man) situated in a field on the farm of Prora, called _Bluidy
Side_. In the names of many places in this district we may trace their
Celtic or Gaelic origin. A spot called Fingal-street shews where stood
Fingal-ton; Dingleton is a corruption for Dongal-ton; and Congal-ton is
still the name of a mansion and of an estate.
But the most remarkable thing in this neighbourhood is the seeming
remains of a Pictish town or fortlet, in the barony of Drem. The zealous
antiquary has traced the separate foundations of at least forty houses,
which are of a circular form, in the manner of the Danes or
Scandinavians. The camp is surrounded by three strong circumvallations,
called the Rings—the stones of which have been partly removed for
building agricultural enclosures. The space occupied consists of at
least four acres. There appears to have been only one chief entrance,
which is in the east. An eminent antiquary, who lately visited the spot,
declared, that the remains of Berigonium in Lorn, the ancient capital of
Scotland, do not present so valuable a picture of antiquity as those of
Drem.
These circumvallations are situated at Drem-hills, and go by the name of
the Chesters (from Anglo-Saxon _Ceaster_, a fort or castle.) In Forest’s
map this name is applied to a hill that lies immediately above this
ancient fortification. Besides numerous circular encampments, which are
seen on the skirts of Lammermoor, the parishes of Oldhamstocks,
Innerwick, Spott, Bara, and Bolton, each have their _Chesters_. From the
etymology of these places, we may conclude that they are nearly as old
as the end of the sixth century, when the Saxons formed an alliance with
the Picts to aid them against the Scots and Britons.
THE
ABBESS OF ST ABB.
Is yon a swan before the gale,
O’er winds and waves prevailing?
O, no!—it is a shallop’s sail,
I hear its inmates wailing!
The monks are crowding to the beach,
Where lofty rocks are towering;
On high the bishop’s arms stretch,
A benison imploring.
Beneath them spreads a sea of foam,
Save where the rock’s dividing,
A gentle lady, all alone,
A shallop’s helm is guiding.
She stretches forth her snowy arms,
The aid of man imploring;
While rising waves involve her charms,
Her little boat devouring.
The little bark, far from the shore,
Sinks down with rolling motion;
Its shattered sail, and splinter’d oar,
Now feed the stormy ocean.
“Tis foolish, monks, to stoop and pray,
“Unrobe! and breast the billow;
“And rescue from the stormy spray
“The maid on briny pillow.”—
The lady floats towards the land—
Now in their arms they bear her;
A fire is lighted on the strand,
With cordials they cheer her.
The spark of life again returns,
Her eyes look up in wildness;
Her arching forehead madly burns,
Then gains its native mildness.
“O who art thou, so young and fair,
“That brav’st the stormy ocean?”—
She backward threw her silken hair,
And answer’d with emotion:
“The Princess of Northumberland,
“Edelfrid’s only daughter!—
“O wo to Redwald’s bloody hand,
“Red with my father’s slaughter.
“I see his vulture legions riven,
“When Oswald’s warriors gather;
“For know, that I have brothers seven
“Who sleep on Scottish heather!
“I saw the Anglian banners float,
“Their host was thrice our number!—
“A foeman’s chain my hapless lot,
“I sought the flowing Humber.
“A father fallen—my brothers fled!
“My mind lost and divided;
“When, lo! beside the river’s bed
“Yon shallop Heaven provided.
“My frail bark met the stormy gale,
“No human aid to guide me,
“I gave to Heaven my little sail—
“A spirit sat beside me.
“And aye as near some rocky isle
“My soul began to shudder,
“It cheer’d me with celestial smile,
“And sway’d the wayward rudder.”
“Sweet lady, to our pious care
“Intrust your youth and beauty;
“To one in mind and form so fair
“Protection is a duty.”—
The bishop kiss’d her snowy hand,
And led her to his palace;
The Princess of Northumberland
Might made a matron jealous.
O fair as she of Eden’s bowers,
When innocence array’d her!
Before the serpent ’mongst the flowers
To thorny paths betray’d her.
“Ebba! when I behold that face,
“And eye so softly beaming,
“Devotion’s every charm I trace
“Through fairest features streaming.
“When I behold thy pious air,
“Thou favour’d child of Heaven,
“To one so faultless, yet so fair,
“I think that grace is given.
“Thy bosom’s like a glassy lake,
“Wherein that heaven’s reflected;
“And when the storms of life awake,
“Thou still wilt be protected.
“Around thee in eternal spring
“Will grace and beauty blossom,
“Till heaven on its angel wing,
“Shall call thee to its bosom.
“Then sigh not for the world’s parade,
“With all its guilty splendour,
“But seek the cloister’s holy shade—
“To God your charms surrender!”—
I scarce need say, the bishop’s tale
O’er female heart prevailing,
That Princess Ebba took the veil,
Her former life bewailing.
Then there was not beneath the sun
In his diurnal glory,
A purer or a prettier nun
To grace a poet’s story.
When her novitiate had sped,
So well she’d done her duty,
They hail’d her Abbess of St Abb,[9]
Renown’d for worth and beauty.
WALTER OF CONGALTON
Like glow-worm on the robe of night
Haddina’s church is gleaming,[10]
Her painted windows glitter bright,
The tapers wide are streaming;
While, shining in the river’s bed,
Her awful form is shadowed.
Before the altar, richly spread,
The Minorites are kneeling,
Chanting lone masses for the dead,
While through the aisles are stealing
Those sounds so soft and holy,
So fraught with melancholy
And pious pleasure,
That heaven seems echoing back the strain,
From her invisible domain,
In sweeter measure.
It is the anniversary
Of Walter of Congalton:
He sleeps beside his lady fair
Under a polish’d stone.
The altar of St Duthacus
Stands in the church’s nave,
And near the altar, side by side,
They moulder in their grave,
While, sculptured o’er the mighty dead,
His crest and arms are blazoned.
Walter of Congalton was brave,
But his single arm could not save
His country from its subject state,
The English king was at his gate,
And all his lands were desolate!
While to the victor of the war
Had struck the banners of Dunbar,
A woe-portending token!
And patriot-chiefs had broke their word.
Ere Congalton had sheathed his sword;
For then his heart was broken!—
Within that church’s roofless shed,
A solitary guest!
The bat will make her drowsy bed,
The owl will build her nest!
But while within that glorious fane
Three lonely Minorites remain,
The mass will be said,
And the rites be paid,
For the gallant Walter of Congalton,
His lady Mabilla, and his son Sir John.
THE
LOST DRAVE OF DUNBAR;
OR,
THE WITCH OF KEITH.
[Illustration: An old engraving depicting witches riding on brooms
through a stormy sky filled with lightning. The central figure is an
elderly woman with a pointed hat and ragged clothes, looking down
aggressively. Below them, a turbulent sea is filled with capsized boats
and people struggling in the water.]
THE LOST DRAVE.
This poem is founded on the following calamity, recorded in the Session
Minutes of Dunbar:
July 27th, 1712, the minister (Thomas Wood) had been ordaining elders,
when, says the minute, “The elders are exhorted to walk exampelary in
their good behaviour before the people, and to be carefull to delete
scandallous persons, or such as break the Sabbath-day. Morover he (the
minister) read to them a minute left be his predecessors, mentioning how
dreadful a disaster had fallen upon the people of this place for
breaking the Lord’s day; ordains the same to be Regarat. Qch is as
followeth:
“Mr Simpson, minister at Dalkeith,[11] son to Mr ANDREW SIMPSON,
minister at Dumbar, in his exposition of the XXXIId. Psalm, hath these
words:—‘A fearfull judgement of God fell furth at Dumbar about the year
of God 1577, qrof I was an eyewitness. My father, Mr ANDREW SIMPSON, of
good memory, being minister thereof, qho, going to the church, saw _a
thousand_ boatts setting their netts on the Sabbath. He weeped, and
feared that God would not suffer such contempt. It being a most calm day
as ever was seen at that season;—at midnight, when they went furth to
draw their netts, the wind arose so fearfully, that it _drowned_ eight
score and ten boatts, so that there was reckoned in the coast side
_fourteen score of widdows_!”
From another account of the same calamity, found written on the leaf of
an old Bible, and said to have been copied from the Armenian Magazine,
it appears, that at this period Dunbar was the station for the Dutch as
well as for the Scotch fishery.
THE
LOST DRAVE OF DUNBAR.
Soft blew the gales of autumn on thy cliffs,
Dunbar! and fann’d the beauteous glowing Forth,
While vessels bounded o’er the spangled waves,
And shoals of herrings skimm’d below the keels,
Like silver fishes ’neath the crystal floor
Of eastern palaces, when prosperous years
Had brought a vast assemblage to thy shores
From Holland and the Isles: a greedy race,
Who riches sought despite of God and man,
And lured thy sons to death with tenfold horror!
On Sabbath morn, the church’s early bell
Call’d pious men to solemn deeds of prayer,
When the ungodly fishers launch’d their drave
Upon the shining sea. A thousand boats
Spread their brown oars, and darken’d all the strand,
As when the Indian chiefs, in fierce canoes,
Come forth to battle;—and ’twas sad to see
The fishers cast their black nets in the brine,
While godly men were journeying to church.
Out spake the zealous priest, with warning voice,
Against such mark’d and foul contempt of God,
And his most blessed holy ordinances;
But, mocking the old man, they turn’d away
Their ears from his rebuke, while some exclaim’d,
“Delays are dangerous,” others: “We make hay
“In sunshine;” thus, in vulgar witticisms,
They sneer’d at the good man’s prophetic words.
That morning’s calm was like the meteor’s glare,
That dazzles to destroy its wareless victim;
For when the boatmen, at night’s lonely hour,
Return’d to draw their nets, loud roar’d the gale,
As if from Greenland’s cold unfathom’d caves
Winter had come with all his host of storms.
The seaman’s face turn’d pale, as boats on boats
Rush’d fearfully o’er yawning vortices;
While, like a monster, lash’d the sea around,
Now gorging and next vomiting her prey,
And shoals of scaly fry, sheer upward thrown,
Came down like sheeted hail upon the decks!
Prows split on prows—the splinter’d oars were slipt;
And shiver’d sails flew from the shatter’d masts
In dread confusion, as when horror stalks
Amid the thunder of the British line!
Despairing groans and bursting hearts were there,
And parting spirits spoke most horrid things,
Lisping the name of Jesus!—others plunged,
Breasting the roaring wave, and swearing sank
Into the dark abyss, while shadowy forms
Rung words of dreadful import in their ears!—
But, chief amid the demons of the storm,
High soar’d, pre-eminent, the Witch of Keith,
Clear seen by her own lightnings, as she strode
The quivering mast, and trill’d this wayward song:
=The Witch’s Song.=
Cummer, go ye before, cummer, go ye;
If ye will not go before, cummer, let me!
The child fed on milk like a floweret on dew,
In the dread hour of trial its purpose may rue;
While through the red levin we wrestle the storm,
And give the lost drave to the fish and the worm!
The tempest has thicken’d, since merrily we flew
O’er the deep glens of Humbie, ere chanticleer crew.
By the green skirts of Lammer we rallied our host,
And dug the morass where the pedlar was lost:
A charm we found hid, in the pit’s central cell,
’Twill conjure a legion of devils from hell!
Haste! haste! where yon skipper is lab’ring in vain,
In his crazy old shallop the helm to regain,
Take Rutterkin, mewing, and plunge her below,
Where the mermaid is rinsing her visage of snow;
Then a shout will be heard, rising slowly and loud,
That will make the bones rattle that rot in the shroud.
There’s fire in his bosom that never will drown;
For the baby is strangled that no one will own;—
There’s cattle a-hungering though pasture be near;—
There’s hypocrites praying in fervour and fear!
Cummer, go ye before, cummer, go ye;
If ye will not go before, cummer, let me!