Revelling with Satan; and, with eldriche glee,
Laugh’d loud to see the drowner’s agony!
There shone the Sorcerer, Fein of potent power,
(The key-keeper of the air’s artillery,)
With the accursed crew, that ofttimes held
Unhallow’d meetings in North Berwick’s fane,
Plotting destruction ’gainst the royal James;
Wretches that pilfer’d church-yards, and would cut
The wedding-ring from off the putrid finger!
O heavens! it was a soul-subduing sight,
Where those of nearest kin were doom’d to perish!
The father spurn’d the son—brother the brother—
Each push’d the other down, as wild he strove
To catch the floating wreck, while the stout youth
Triumph’d above his old grey-headed sire!
Amid these fearful scenes some seamen gain’d
That ridge of rocks that stretch ’neath March’s Dyke—
Short was their respite—headlong on the rocks
The coming wave dash’d out their dizzy brains!
While hollow groans came echoing to the shore.
At these appalling sounds, the deer was roused
In Broxmouth’s shades: thence, bounding up the hill,
He dripping stood in Thurston’s lonely glen.
Wo to the hapless beast; for from their lair
He roused a gang of witches,—in revenge
A fearless hag assumed the greyhound’s form,
And chased the frighten’d stag o’er hill and glen,
Till, ere he wist, in Bransley’s fatal moss
He found a sepulchre, watery and deep!
Returning thence, for safety, the elf took
The colley’s shape; and singling from the herd,
That clad the hills, the sleekest milk-white ox,
Drove the astounded creature passive on
To where the sisters held their rites profane.
Muttering a spell, they took the lusty steer,
And bound him limb to limb, and then baptised
A brindled cat; which done, they buried both
Deep in the earth alive: a sovereign charm
’Gainst rank disease:—then mincing signs they tore
Three shrivell’d fragments from a dead man’s hand,
And pounded them to powder!—precious stuff!
To work the hest of Satan. Noxious clouds
Rose from the cauldron as the faggots blazed,
When gathering, round and round, “Aroynt!” they cried
Sweeping the welkin with their winged brooms,
Oceanward, bent on hell-imagined deeds.
Amongst this train, there was a youthful quean,
Comely, dark-featured, called Isobel Young,
Who vow’d revenge on one, whose scandalous tongue
Had done her injury, named “Crazy George!”
Bell, lighting on his boat, grasp’d firm the helm,
And dash’d him pellmell through the broken waves:
Then, with a grin, she leer’d in George’s face,
And mutter’d “Grist!”—next onward reckless steer’d
Towards the shore, nor stopt, till, grazing, shook
The little shallop on the rutted rocks;
When, smarting, like a living thing it veer’d,
And sought once more the bosom of the storm:
But when the shatter’d mast fell overboard
With its torn drapery, the poor man roar’d!
Clasping the gunwale.—Bell, again, cried “Grist!”
George gnash’d his teeth, and pray’d that Christ would save
His soul from Satan!—sovereign talisman
Was in these words; for ‘mediately the fiend
Vanish’d in flame, still muttering, “Grist, grist, grist!”
Now ’midst the dismal pauses of the storm
The seaman’s wail was heard, echoing among
The Castle’s caverns, (like the hopeless groan
Of wretch in its lone dungeons,) as he call’d
On God to bless his wife and helpless boys!
But still these awful words rung in his ear,
Darkening portending fate: “Ye would not come
“When mercy waited on thee; now, when floods
“Of mighty waters rush upon thy soul,
“The Lord forsakes thee!”...
The beacon blazes high on Trowness Point,
Tinging the ruins of St Dennis’ church,
That seem in flames, while gleaming wide and far,
Like thickening stars upon the robe of night;
The lights are gathering, and the sea-fowl’s scream,
(Roused from her aerie nest on lone St Abbs,)
With noisy flapping wings, and mazy flight,
Deepens the mournful music of the storm!
Matrons—and maids—and lovers—crowd the strand!
And hands are wrung, and silken tresses tore;—
And swollen hearts choke up the power of speech;—
And children seek their fathers—who have none!—
And wives their husbands—who are husbandless!—
And sires their sons—who now must beg their bread!—
And maids their lovers—wed away to death!—
The Angel of Destruction stalks abroad,—
And who can stay his arm, or bound his course?
When morning shone upon the troubled sea,
Like gleams of gladness on the face of horror,
Unnumber’d images of death appear’d
To catch the aching eye. A firm-built boat,
That braved the stormy night, drew near the harbour,
With two lorn men on board, (the rest had died
Through dire fatigue, worn at the faithless oar;)
But Hope, alas! smiled only to betray;
For a voracious wave, with ruthless fury,
Shiver’d their skiff on that lone rock, where now
An Iron Pole the sailor’s beacon stands!—
A vessel, laden, drifted to the shore,
Below the Washing Rocks, and met the waves,
As vaulting up, in clouds of foam, they lash’d
The weeping heavens. O, it was pitiful
To see the trembling Dutchmen how they raved
In terror at the gale, and inly sigh’d
For the cold breeze that fans the Zuyder Zee;
As evermore the rock-chafed breakers fell
With roaring deafening noise.—Forth on the deck
A gallant youth appear’d, and wound a rope
Around his manly waist, then fearless plunged
Amidst the boiling surf, and sought the shore.
Long, long, he buffeted the waves, and sunk;
Till, like a sea-bird, rising from the depths
Of ocean’s coral beds, again he held
His fearless course, and near exhausted landed
Amidst glad shouts, upon the pebbly strand;
When, from his panting sides, a rope unwove,
Was firmly braced upon the strand, and form’d
A smooth-declining angle from the vessel,
Whereon a cott was slung, which glided soft
Piloted to the shore, and from its bosom
Leap’d forth a lady, veil’d in silvery foam,
Like Agenor’s royal daughter when she stood
On the Dictean coast. None ever knew
For what, or whence, these sea-beat wanderers came,
(Perchance some Danish princess, tempest-tost!)
The seamen answer’d all interrogatories
Forbiddingly.—The strangers went away
In mystery,—and their secret went with them!
Pale Desolation sat upon the beach
Weeping o’er human woe—a gloomy picture!—
Like the grim after-scenery of a battle,
(Where fiends joy o’er the havoc fools have made.)
Boats lay keel up, beating among the rocks,
And splinter’d spars lay thick as harvest stubble;—
While ghastly corpses drifted to the shore,
Clench’d in the sand, or ’tangled in the weeds;—
And many push’d to gain the ocean’s edge,
Gazing, knee-deep, in silent breathless horror,
Trembling lest the next wave should waft a friend;—
And wretched women, with their screaming babes,
Delirious sought their husbands’ lifeless forms!
There stood an old man by the sea and wept,
And tore his hoary locks, and raved, and swore—
His sole support, his only son was drown’d!
And by yon Castle’s cliffs, a virgin bride
Beheld her lover’s bloated carcass floating;
She spoke not, but, wild gazing, madly sprung,
And made her bridal-bed on the green billow!
How various are the hues that tinge the mind,
So nicely shaded, that philosophy
Might spend eternities and never trace them,
A novice in the school of vain conjecture!
Cold, cold, and gentle was the icy grief
That chill’d the bosom of forsaken Mary!
Losing itself in settled melancholy.
Long on that rock, where art, with curious skill,
Has scoop’d a cave, and wells a crystal spring,
She sat on that dread day in musing sorrow;
And oft, in after times, she sought that spot,
Where, robed in many colours, she would braid
Her hair with sea-weed, and with varied shells
Picture the perish’d drave—and sob—and sing.
A buxom matron had six gallant sons
In this sad enterprise. She slumbering lay
In morning dreams, and saw them all return
Laden with treasures from the gorgeous deep;
Each held a foaming jar in his glad hand,
Filling a silver cup with rosy wine,
To pledge their mother’s health. With joyous face
They bade her drink.—She raised herself in bed,
Stretch’d forth her hand to grasp the proffer’d cup—
It fell—she woke!—when, horrors! one by one
Their death-cold forms were brought into her cottage:
Henceforth her senses in wild mazes wander’d,
And she was seen, a broken-hearted woman,
Singing for evermore these plaintive rhymes.
=Song.=
My heart is on the faithless wave,
That bore my love away:—
The sun that gilds both tree and tower,
Brings me no happy day!—
The ways of life are dimly seen,
They shine through sorrow’s tear;
When all is bright with pleasure’s beam,
Misfortune’s shades appear.
My creel hangs in a corner now,
That leapt with silver fry;
And I, whose maurlain aye was full,
In poverty must sigh!
O friendship’s a deceitful gleam,
That gilds our happy years;
But, like the sunshine of a dream,
It leaves us in our tears.
Yon castle bows its lofty head,
Where gilded turrets shone;
Now that it lies in ruin’s bed,
Its fate is like my own!
The lads who’d bleed to save it still
Are pillow’d on the deep;
Their winding sheet the ocean’s brine!—
Their monument its steep!
The violin’s mute in Jeanie’s cot,
Its master’s now at rest!
The wave, when dewy evening falls,
Is curling o’er his breast.
My cheerful hearth is desolate;
My children all are gone!
And in a weary world I’m left
To struggle through alone.
Some say, there’s joy in weeping long,
That gladness springs from grief;
To me, nor weary day, nor night,
Can ever bring relief!
The ways of life are dimly seen,
They shine through sorrow’s tear;
When all is bright with pleasure’s beam
Misfortune’s shades appear.
From dark Northumbria to the Orcades,
Echo’d in Scotland’s bays the voice of wo,
Like that wild yell that rises when th’ Hindoo
Ascends the funeral pile. Lost mothers mourn’d
Like Niöbe for their children; pining maids
Wander’d like Suilmatha on the beach,
In search of the dear lonely bark that bore
Their absent lovers, who must ne’er return!
The bud, unblossom’d then, was doom’d to shed
Its earliest tears while listening to this tale;
And the cold Dutchman, leaning on his oar,
Would smooth his rugged brow, distend his soul,
Then bless his dank canals, and _doff_ his pipe,
When he was told his kinsman’s fearful fate
On thy rough shores, Dunbar! And princes too
Might weep the fate of those whose toils obscure
Enrich’d a nation; even as Charles wept
Beside the fisher’s tomb where Beuckel slept!
END OF THE LOST DRAVE.
[Illustration: A vintage woodcut engraving of a small, traditional
church with a prominent central steeple, multiple cross finials, and
arched entryways, flanked by trees.]
NOTES
TO THE LOST DRAVE;
WITH AN
ACCOUNT OF THE WITCHES OF EAST LOTHIAN.
“If any of you have a sheep sick of the giddies, or a hog of the
mumps, or a horse of the staggers, or a knavish boy of the school, or
an idle girl of the wheel, or a young drab of the sullens, and hath
not fat enough for her porrage, or butter enough for her bread, and
she hath a little help of the _epilepsy_, or _cramp_, to teach her to
roll her eyes, wry her mouth, gnash her teeth, startle with her body,
hold her arms and hands stiff, &c. And then with an _Old Mother Nobs_
hath by chance called her _Idle Young Housewife_, or bid the Devil
scratch her; then no doubt but Mother _Nobs_ is the Witch, and the
young girl is _owl-blasted_!”—_Harsenet’s Declar._ p. 131.
Page 251, line 13.
_When the ungodly fishers launched their drave
Upon the shining sea._
The manner in which this fishery is carried on is similar to the plan of
the old Dutch fishery, which renders it extremely beneficial to the
country. The boats belong partly to fishermen, (who employ the rest of
the year in catching white fish,) and partly to landsmen, who build and
equip them in the way of adventurers. An adventure of this kind is
called a DRAVE.
In ancient times a certain quantity of herrings was taken for the king’s
kitchen. This was afterwards commuted into a tax of ten shillings upon
every sizeable boat. There was also a duty paid to the High Admiral’s
deputy, who presided over the fishery.—_Camp. Sur._ vol. i. p. 419. This
has fallen into desuetude. The fishers, however, appoint one of their
number, whom they style Admiral, to arrange the order of sailing, &c.
and two chancellors, to whom all their disputes are referred.
A CONCISE ACCOUNT OF THE WITCHES OF EAST LOTHIAN.
To avoid crowding so small a poem with a mass of notes, which might be
multiplied _ad infinitum_, I shall, as briefly as possible, notice those
mysterious personages, whose deeds once formed the evening’s tale and
the morning’s debate of our ancestors.
The first apparently belonging to this county is the Gyre Carling, queen
of the fairies, the Great Hag or Mother Witch of the Scottish peasantry.
The subjoined fragment, copied from the Bannatyne MS. into the _Border
Minstrelsy_ by Sir Walter Scott, and more recently transcribed by Mr
David Laing into his _Select Remains of the Ancient Popular Poetry of
Scotland_, is presented to the reader, as descriptive of the abode and
other properties of that monstrous lady.
=The Gyre Carling.=
In Tiberius tyme, the trew Imperiour,
Quhen Tinto hills fra skraiping of toun-henis was keipit,
Thair dwelt ane grit Gyre Carling in awld _Betokis bour_,
That levit upoun Christiane menis flesche and rewt heids unleipit;
Thair wynit ane hir by, on the west syde, callit Blasour,
For luve of hir lauchane lippis, he walit and he weipit;
He gadderit ane menzie of modwartis to warp doun the _Tour_;
The Carling with ane yren club, quhen that Blasour sleipit,
Behind the heill scho hatt him sic ane blaw,
Quhil Blasour bled ane quart
Of milk pottage inwart,
The Carling luche, and lut a fart,
North Berwick Law.
The king of Fary than come with elfis mony ane,
And sett ane sege, and ane salt, with grit pensallis of pryd;
And all the _Doggis fra Dumbar_ was thair to Dumblane,
With all the tykis of Tervey, come to thame that tyd,
They gnew doune with thair gomes mony grit stane:
The Carling schup her on ane sow, and is her gaitis gane,
Grunting our the Greik sie, and durst na langer byd,
For bruklyng of bargane, and braking of browis:
The Carling now for dispyte,
Is mareit with Mahomyte,
And will the doggis interdyte,
For scho is Quene of Jowis.
Sensyne the Cockis of Crawmound crew nevir a day,
For dule of that devillisch dem wes with Mahoun mareit.
And the _Henis of Hadingtoun_ sensyne wald not lay,
For this wyld wilroun witch thame widlit sa and wareit;
And the same North Berwick Law, as I heir wyvis say,
This Carling, with a fals cast, wald away careit,
For to luk on quha sa lykis, na langer scho tareit;
All this langour for luve before tymes fell,
Lang or Betok was born,
Scho bred of ane accorne;
The laif of the story to morne,
To you I sall telle.
In another burlesque poem, entitled, _Ane Interlude on the Laying of
Lord Fergus’s Gaist_, Bettokis Bower again occurs:—
“Listen, lordis, I sall you tell,
Off ane very grit mervell,
Off Lord Fergussis gaist,
How mekle Sir Andro it chest
Unto _Beittokis bour_,
The silly sawle to succour.
The “little gaist,” besides committing other misdemeanors,
“It ran to _Pencatelane_,
And wirreit ane awld chaplane.”
Another of the Gyre Carling’s popular appellations was Nicnevin.
Montgomery, in his _Flyting_, describes her array and her elriche
company on All-hallow even:
“Nicneven with her nymphes, in number anew,
With charms from Caitness and Chanrie of Ross,
Whose cunning consists in casting of a clew.
These “venerable virgins, whom the world call witches,” continues he,
“Backward raid on brod sows, and some on black bitches;
Some, on steid of a staig, oure a starke Monke straide.
Fra the how to the hight, some hobles, some hatches;
With their mouthes to the moone, murgeons they maid.
Some, be force, in effect, the four windes fetches;
And, nyne times, withershins, about the thorne raid.
_Montgomery’s Poems_, p. 117. Edit. 1821. 8vo.
Sir David Lindsay, in his Introductory Epistle to his “_Dream_,” tells
the Kingis Grace, how he had “fenyit mony fabill” to comfort him when he
was sorry;
“And of mony uther plesand history,
Of the reid Ettin, and the Gyre Carling.”
From such a character the transition is easy to the
——_Accursed crew, that oft times held
Unhallow’d meetings in North Berwick’s fane,
Plotting destruction ’gainst the royal James._—P. 254.
Agnes Sampson, or Symson, called the Wise Wife of Keith, (in Humbie
parish,) was one of those who confessed having _dealings with his
satanic majesty_, before King James VI., in the winter of 1590. She is
characterized by Archbishop Spotswood, as “a woman not of the base and
ignorant sort of witches, but matron-like, grave and settled in her
answers, which were all to some purpose;” and Sir James Melville informs
us, that she was a renowned midwife.
Agnes was accused by the Holyrood-house tribunal of having renounced her
baptism, and of having received the devil’s mark; of raising storms to
prevent the queen’s coming from Denmark; of being at the famous meeting
of witches at North Berwick church, &c. where the devil presided, not
“in the shape of beast,” but, most uncourteously, in the habit of a
priest!—_Arnot’s Crim. Trials._
At first Agnes denied the accusations brought against her by the king’s
majesty and the lords assembled, but being ordered to prison to undergo
the torture, she returned to her judges in a frame of mind suitable to
make the following confession, which I shall give in the words of
Glanvil:—
=Confession of Agnes Sampson to King James, then of the Scots.=
“_Item_, Fyled and convict for sameckle as she confessed before his
majesty, that the devil in man’s likeness met her going out in the
fields from her own house at _Keith_, betwixt five and six at even,
being alone, and commandit her to be at _North Berwick_ kirk the next
night. And she past then on horseback, conveyed by her good-son, called
_John Cooper_, and lighted at the kirk-yard, or a little before she came
to it, about eleven hours at even. They danced along the kirk-yard;
_Geilie Duncan_ plaid to them on a trump; _John Fien_ mussiled led all
the rest; the said _Agnes_ and her daughter followed next. Besides,
there were Kate Grey, George Moilis’s wife, Robert Greirson, Katherine
Duncan Buchanan, Thomas Barnhil and his wife, Gilbert Macgil, Joh.
Macgil, Katherine Macgil, with the rest of their complices, above an
hundred persons, whereof there were six men, and all the rest women. The
women made first their homage and then the men. The men were turned nine
times widdershins about, and the women six times. _John Fien_ blew up
the doors, and blew in the lights, which were like mickle black candles
sticking round about the pulpit. The devil startit up himself in the
pulpit like a mickle black man, and every one answered “Here.” Mr
_Robert Grierson_ being named, they all ran hirdie girdie, and were
angry: for it was promised he should be called _Robert_ the
_Comptroller_, alias _Rob_ the _Rower_, for expriming of his name. The
first thing he demandit was as they kept all promise, and been good
servants, and what they had done since the last time they had convened.
At his command they opened up three graves, two within, and ane without
the kirk, and took off the joints of their fingers, toes, and neise, and
parted them amongst them: and the said _Agnes Sympson_ got for her part
a winding-sheet and two joints. The devil commandit them to keep the
joints upon them while they were dry, and then to make a powder of them
to do evil withal. Then he commandit them to keep his commandments,
which were to do all the evil they could. Before they departed they
kissed his breech; the record speaks more broad, as I noted before. He
had on him ane gown and ane hat, which were both black; and they that
were assembled, part stood and part sate: _John Fien_ was ever nearest
the devil, at his left elbock; _Graymaical_ keeped the door.”—_Glanvil’s
Sadducismus Triumphatus_, p. 399.
Agnes having confessed many miraculous and strange things to his
majesty, he branded her and her gang as a body of “extreme liars,” when,
taking him a little aside, “she declared the very words which passed
between the king’s majesty and the queen at Upslo, in Norway, on the
night of their marriage; whereat the king wondered greatly, and swore by
the living God that he believed all the devils in hell could not have
discovered the same, and gave the more credit to what she afterwards
declared.”—_Newes from Scotland._
The above confession had its natural effect upon a weak mind. James, who
before wavered in his belief, now became an advocate for the truth of
the _damnable_ doctrine of witchcraft; and in the third chapter of the
second book of his _Dæmonologie_, has made a kind of paraphrase on the
above deposition.
_Cummer, go ye before; cummer, go ye;
If ye will not go before, cummer, let me!_—P. 253.
These are the words said to have been sung by Agnes Sampson and two
hundred of her associates, when they landed from their riddles or cives,
and danced a reel on the shore of North Berwick, when on their way to
hold their unhallowed meetings in the church.
_Take Rutterkin, mewing, and plunge her below
Where the mermaid is rinsing her visage of snow._—P. 254.
“Moreover, Agnes confessed, that at the time his majesty was in
Denmarke, shee being accompanied with the parties before specially
named, tooke a cat and christened it, and afterward bound to each part
of that cat the cheefest part of a dead man, and several joyntes of his
bodie; and that in the night following the said cat was convayed into
the middest of the sea by all these witches, sayling in their riddles or
cives, as is aforesaid, and so left the said cat right before the town
of Leith, in Scotland; this doone, there did arise such a tempest in the
sea, as a greater hath not bene seene. At another time John Fien,
attempting to catch a cat for that purpose, she proving too nimble, he
was carried about in the air after her in a wonderful manner.”—_Newes
from Scotland._
_Thus sung the Witch of Keith; anon she sat
Revelling with Satan._—P. 254.
Glanvil thus continues his relation. Agnes sailed “with her
fellow-witches in a boat to a ship, where the devil caused her to drink
good wine, she neither seeing the mariners nor the mariners her. But
after all, the devil raised a wind whereby the ship perished. Her
baptizing, and using other ceremonies upon a cat, with other witches, to
hinder the queen’s coming into Scotland. Her raising of a spirit to
conjure a picture of wax for the destroying of Mr John Moscrope.”
_There shone the sorcerer Fien, of potent power,
The key-keeper of the air’s artillery._—P. 254.
John Fien (alias Cunningham, alias Doctor Fian,) master of the school of
Saltpans in Lothian, belonged to the aforesaid company.—“That which is
observable in John Fien,” says Glanvil, “is, that the devil appeared to
him not in _black_, but in _white_ raiment; but proposed as hellish a
covenant to him as those fiends that appear in black. As also lying dead
two or three hours, and his spirt tane (as the phrase in the record is);
his being carried, or transported to many mountains, and, as he thought,
through the world, according to his own depositions. His hearing the
devil preach in a kirk in the pulpit, in the night by candle-light, the
candle burning blue. That in a conventicle, raising winds with the rest,
at the king’s passage into Denmark, by casting a cat into the sea, which
the devil delivered to them, and taught them to cry _Hola_ when they
first cast it in. His raising a mist at the king’s return from Denmark,
by getting Satan to cast a thing like a football (it appearing to John
like a wisp) into the sea, which made a vapour or reek to arise, whereby
the king’s majesty might be cast upon the coast of England. His hearing
the devil again preach in a pulpit in black, who after pointed them to
graves, to open and dismember the corps therein; which done,
incontinently they were transported without words. His opening locks by
sorcery, as one by mere blowing into a woman’s hand while he sate by the
fire. His raising four candles on the luggs of an horse, and another on
the top of the staff of his rider in the night, that he made it as light
as day; and how the man fell down dead at the entering within his return
home,” with several other charges similar to those mentioned in Agnes
Simpson’s indictment.
Geillies Duncan, who was his accuser, confessed that he was their clerk
or register, and that no man was allowed to come to the devil’s readings
but he. “After thrawing of the doctor’s head with a rope, whereat he
would confess nothing, he was persuaded by faire means to confesse his
follies, but that would prevail as little,” till, at length, by dint of
exquisite torture, he was _compelled_ to confess _any thing_; and was
then strangled and burned on the Castlehill of Edinburgh, Jan. 1591.
“Most of the winter of 1591,” says Spotswood, “was spent in the
discovery and examination of witches and sorcerers. Amongst these Agnes
Samson, commonly called the Wise Wife of Keith, was the most
remarkable.” She confessed that the Earl of Bothwell had moved her to
inquire what should become of the king, &c. Richard Graham, another
notorious sorcerer, who was apprehended at the same time, made the like
accusation against Bothwell.—_Spotswood_, p. 383.
Barbara Napier was convicted, May 8, 1591, for consulting Agnes Simpson,
to give help to Dame Jean Lyon, Lady Angus; for which she was worried at
a stake, and burned to ashes!—_MS. Just. Rec._
“The tricks and tragedies the devil played then among so many men and
women in this country (says Sir James Melville,) will hardly get credit
by posterity! the history whereof, with the whole depositions, was
written by Mr James Carmichael, minister of Haddington.[12] Among other
things, some of them did shew, that there was a westlandman, called
Richard Graham, who had a familiar spirit, the which Richard (Graham,)
they said, could both do and tell many things, chiefly against the Earl
of Bothwell. Whereupon the said Richard Graham was apprehended and
brought to Edinburgh; and, being examined before his majesty, I being
present, he granted that he had a familiar spirit, which shewed him
sundry things; but he denied that he was a witch, or had any
frequentation with them. But when it was answered again, how that Amy
Simson had declared, that he caused the Earl of Bothwell address him to
her, he granted that to be true, and that the Earl of Bothwell had
knowledge of him by Effie Machalloun and Barbary Napier, Edinburgh
women. Whereupon he was sent for by the Earl of Bothwell, who required
his help to cause the king’s majesty his master to like well of him. And
to that effect he gave the said Earl some drug or herb, willing him at
some convenient time to touch therewith his majesty’s face. Which being
done by the earl ineffectually, he dealt again with the said Richard to
get his majesty wrecked, as Richard alleged; who said he could not do
such things himself; but that a notable midwife who was a witch, called
Amy Simson, could bring any such purpose to pass. Thus far the said
Richard Graham affirmed divers times before the council; nevertheless he
was burnt, with the said Simson, and many other witches. This Richard
alleged, that it was certain what is reported of the fairies; and that
spirits may take a form, and be seen, though not felt.”—_Melville’s
Memoirs_, p. 388. Edit. 1752.
_Amongst this train, there was a youthful quean,
Comely, dark-featured, called Isobel Young,
Who vow’d revenge on one, whose scandalous tongue
Had done her injury, named “Crazy George!”_—P. 256.
The next to be introduced to the reader is Isobel Young, spouse to
George Smith, portioner in East Barns, (near Dunbar,) who was tried for
witchcraft in 1629. She was accused of having stopped by enchantment
George Sandie’s mill,[13] _twenty-nine years before_; of having
prevented his boat from catching fish, while all the other boats at the
HERRING DRAVE, or herring-fishery, were successful; and that she was the
cause of his failing in his circumstances, and of nothing prospering
with him in the world; that she threatened mischief against one Kerse,
who thereupon lost the power of his leg and arm; that she had _the
Devil’s mark_, &c.
Some articles of the indictment are curious:—“_Item_, she went in a very
tempestuous night, when the milne horses were scarcely able to ride it,
over the water to her house, and fra her house back againe to the milne,
when there was no bridge neither of stone nor timber over the water,
unwet. _Item_, she destroyed the cattle of William Meslet, in great
suddainty, and that by taking off her curch at the barne-door, and
running about thrice within the barne widdershins. _Item_, she resett
Christian Grinton, a witch, in her house, whom the pannel’s husband saw
one night to come out at ane hole in the roof, in the likeness of a cat,
and theirafter transform herself in her own likeness; whereupon the
pannel told her husband, that it should not faire weill with him, which
fell out accordingly; for next day he fell down dead at the pleuch, and
was brought hame by the pannel in William Meslet’s chair. _Item_, she
took a sickness off her husband, and laid it on his brother’s son, who
came to the barne, and saw the firlott running about, and the stuff
popling on the floor; and he ran upon the pannel with a sword to kill
her for bewitching him, and strak the lintell of the door in following;
the mark whereof is to be seen yet, and that he died thereof. _Item_,
her apparition was seen in John Bryson’s stable, under night, riding on
ane meir, seen by David Nisbet, servand; and since, by her sorcerie, the
meir cast her foal, and died. _Item_, for thir forty years, for curing
of hir bestiall, she has been in use to take a quick ox, with a cat, and
a great quantity of salt, and to burie the ox and cat quick with the
salt, in a deep hole, as a sacrifice to the devil.”—“The truth of this
article,” observes the abridger of the Criminal Record, “was, that their
bestiall being diseased of the routting evil, the pannel’s husband was
going to the Laird of Lee to borrow his curing-stane; whereupon their
servant, James Nisbet, told them that he had seen bestiall cured by
taking a quick ox, and burying him in a pitt, and by calling the rest of
the bestiall over that place; whereupon they practised it once or twice,
and were not the better; on which they went to the said Laird of Lee’s.
The ladie refused the stone, but gave flaggons of water wherein it was
steiped, which giving the bestiall to drink, in their apprehension it
cured them. And for using the foresaid remedy, her husband, (but never
the pannel,) was _ordained by the Presbytery of Dunbar_ to make
satisfaction for the scandalous fact, and to divest others theirfra. It
is the ordinar practice of husbandmen of the best sort, who were never
suspect nor dilated of witchcraft, in many parts of the kingdom.”—See
_Sharpe’s Pref. to Law’s Memorialls_.
“Mr Laurence Macgill and Mr David Primrose appeared as counsel for the
prisoner. They pleaded, that the mill might have stopped, the boat
catched no fish, and the man not prospered in the world, from _natural
causes_, &c.; but the counsel for the prosecution replied, that these
defences ought to be repelled, and no proof allowed of them, because
_contrary to the libel_. The prisoner in her defences contradicted what
was charged by the public prosecutor in the indictment. Her defences
were, therefore, overruled, and she was convicted, strangled, and
burnt!”—See _Arnot’s Crim. Trials_, p. 396.
I must now introduce a different personage into this unsanctified
company, who appeared in our horizon about 1653. When Cromwell’s “iron
brigade of disciplined independents” passed through Dunbar, conquering
and to conquer, a prophetess appeared in the person of Hannah Trapnall,
as we learn from the following document:
“_Jan. 16.—A Brevate of Hannah, whom some call a Prophetess, in
Whitehall._
“There is one Hannah, a maid that lives at Hackney, near the city of
London, the same that was formerly at Dunbar, a member of Mr John
Simpson’s church (as is said) who lives at one Mr Robert’s, an ordinary
in Whitehall, to whom many hundreds do daily come to see and hear, who
hath now been there about a fortnight. Those that look to her, and use
to be with her, say she neither eateth nor drinketh, save only sometimes
a toast and drink, and that she is in a trance, and some say that which
she doth is by a mighty inspiration, others say they suppose her to be
of a troubled mind, and people flocking to her so as they do causeth her
to continue this way, and some say worse, as every one gives their
opinions as they please, but this is visible to those that see and hear
her. Her custom is to pray sometimes an hour, and sometimes two hours,
and then sings two hymns, in two several tunes, and then prays again,
&c. Her matter is various, full of variety, for the Lord Protector, that
God would keep him close to himself, as he hath hitherto, so still to
have his heart set upon the things of the Lord, not to be vain, nor
regard earthly pomp and pleasure, and things below, but the things of
God and his people; that he may be delivered from carnal councils, and
being seduced to please the men of the world, and those that seek
unrighteousness; that he may not leave the council of the godly, to
hearken to them who are worldly wise, and earthly politicians, but wise
in the wisdom of God.”
“Hannah, the maid that prayed at Whitehall, of whom you have the
particulars before, this day (Jan. 16.) rose and went from Whitehall
home, speedily and lustily.”—See _Several Pro. in State Affairs in
Cromwelliana_.
About this time a warlock drove a lucrative trade, called Sandie Hunter
(_alias_ Hamilton,) whom it is said the devil nicknamed Hattaraick. He
was originally a knolt herd in East Lothian, and was famous for curing
diseases both in man and in beast, by words and charms. Wherever
Hattaraick went, none durst refuse him an alms. One day he came to the
gate of Samuelston, when some friends after dinner were taking to horse.
A young gentleman, brother to the lady, switched him about the ears,
saying, “You warlock carle, what have you to do here?”—whereupon the
fellow went away grumbling, and was heard to say, “You dear buy this ere
it be long.” After supper the gentleman took horse and departed, and
crossing Tyne water to go home, he passed through a shaddy piece of a
haugh called the Allers. What he saw there he would never reveal; but
next day he was in a high state of delirium, and had to be bound. The
Lady Samuelston hearing of this said, “Surely the knave Hattaraick is
the cause of this trouble; call for him in all haste.” When the warlock
came, “Sandie,” says she, “What is this you have done to my brother
William?”—“I told him,” replied he, “I should make him repent his
striking of me at the yait lately.” She giving the rogue fair words, and
promising him his sack full of meal, with beef and cheese, persuaded the
fellow to cure him, which was speedily effected. When Hattaraick came to
receive his wages, he told the lady her brother would shortly leave the
country never to return; upon which, she caused him make a disposition
of his property to the defrauding of his brother George. After the
warlock had pursued his lucrative calling for some time, he was
apprehended at Dunbar, taken to Edinburgh, and burnt on the
Castlehill.—_Satan’s Invisible World._ Sinclair, from whom the substance
of the above is copied, says, that he had the information from the
gentleman’s brother.
The lands of Samuelston were so much infested by the “weird sisters” in
1661, that John, Earl of Haddington, to appease his tenants, was under
the necessity of presenting a petition to his majesty’s commissioner for
the purpose of getting them tried by a court of judicature. The
following extract from this commission shews, that the arts of darkness
continued to be practised by numerous bodies, to the no small terror of
the lieges:—
_Edr. 3d Apryll, 1661._
COMMISSION FOR JUDGEING OF WITCHES, &c. IN SAMUELSTON.
To the Right Hon. His Maties Commissioner, his Grace, and the Lordis,
and Others of the Parliament appoyntit for the Articles. The humble
petitioun of JOHNE EARL of HADINTOUN,
SHEWETH,—That upon severall malefices committit of late within and about
my landis of Samuelstoune, thair being severall persones suspect of the
abominable sin of witchcraft, apprehendit and searched, the markes of
witches wer found on thame in the ordinarie way. Severallis of thame
haif made confessioun, and haif dilatit sundrie others within the saidis
boundes, and haif acknowledged pactioun with the devile. Thair names are
these, Elspet Tailyeor in Samuelstoune, Margaret Bartilman, Mareoun
Quheitt, Jonet Carfrae. These haif maid confessioun alreadie. Otheris
they haif dilatit as partakeris of the same cryme with thame, viz.
Christiane Deanes, Agnes Williamsone. Thes are dilatit be the former,
and the markes ar found on thame, quha ar lykwayes apprehendit, otheris
ar lykwayes dilatit by thame, namelie, Helene Deanes, George Milnetowne,
Patrik Cathie, Anna Pilmure, Elizabeth Sinclair, Margaret Baptie, Jonet
Maissone, and Margaret Argyile, Elspeth Crawfurd. Thes ar dilatit be the
former confessing, bot ar not as yet apprehendit nor searched. And trew
it is, that throw the frequencie of the said sin of witchcraft, in the
saidis boundes, my haill tenentes there threatnes to leave my ground
without justice be done on thes persones. And becaus the lawes ar now
silent, this sin becomes daylie more frequent. Also, thair (ar) two
otheris persones apprehendit for thift in the foresaide boundes, quhom I
haif intertained in prisone, within the tolbuith of Hadingtoun, upon my
awin chairges thes ten weikis bygane; and other two ar apprehendit for
robberie committit be thame within my boundes and landes of Byres thes
twentie weikes bygane; within the tolbuith of Edinburgh, upon my own
chairges.”
The Lord Commissioner and Lords of the Articles, after hearing the
petition, granted a commission for putting to death such of the above
persons as were found guilty of witchcraft by confession, and for trying
the others, which, if we may credit tradition, was put into execution.
The field in Samuelston where they were burnt was called the Birlie
Knowe, and was situated on the south side of the village, between the
Tyne and the mill-dam, where, within these few years (it being now
ploughed up,) kimmers bleached their linens clean, and found it a very
useful spot, unhallowed as it was.
A few years had only elapsed, when, to appease the ravings of
superstition, another race of ill-fated women were doomed to the
faggots. In 1677, Elizabeth Moodie, a poor hypochondriac servant-woman,
in Haddington, was imprisoned as a witch, and (as usual) made
confessions, and accused others. The account of her imprisonment is
mentioned in the council records of the burgh.—20th April, 1677. “The
whilk day, John Sleich, younr. being commissionat to consult with my
Lord Advocat anent Elizabeth Moodie, imprisoned as a witch, judged it
convenient that the prisoner should confess before a fenced court, and
to subscribe before two notars and four witnesses, whilk accordingly is
done,—and she having delated oyrs, the councill ordaines them to be
apprehended and (examined,) and refers the way thereof to the
magistrates.
“The counsell appoints John Sleich, younr. to be their commissioner to
go to Edinburgh with the confessions and delations of the witches, and
obtain from the secret councill commissions for trial and assisse.
The concluding part of these barbarous proceedings are detailed in _Lord
Fountainhall’s MS._—“There is one Margaret Kirkwood, (says he) in
Haddington, that hangs hirselfe; some say she was so strangled by the
devill and witches. The same happened on a Sunday, in the afternoon:
shee hes a serving woman in the church, called Elizabeth Moodie, who
makes some disturbance and noise during the sermon, and numbers till
shee reach fiftynine, which was her mistresse’s age, and then cryes, the
turne was done, which was found to be the very instant in which her
mistresse was making away hirselfe; upon this being apprehended and
examined, shee denied till shee was searched and pricked; and after the
alledged marques were found upon hir, shee confessed hirself to be a
witch, (_shee was burnt for it in the beginning of June, 1677!_) and the
particular circumstances of it, as I heard her acknowledge them. The
said Margaret Kirkwood, who hanged herselfe, being wealthie, there were
severalls who put in for the gift of her escheat, amongs others the
toune of Hadington,” &c.—_Lord Fountainhall’s MS._ In Satan’s Invisible
World there is a further account of Elizabeth Moodie, agreeing in most
particulars with the preceding.
The year following, (Sept. 1678) eight or ten miserable-looking women
were brought before the criminal court from Sir Robert Hepburn of
Keith’s lands, and from the parishes of Ormiston, Crichton, and
Pencaitland. They were accused by two witches who had suffered at
Salt-Preston in the month of May. These miscreants (probably with a view
to avoid exquisite torture) “were ready to file, by their delation,
sundry gentlewomen and others of fashion; but the justices discharged
them, thinking it either the product of malice or melancholy, or the
devil’s deception, in representing such persons as present at their
fieldmeetings, who truly were not there.”—_Fountainhall’s Decisions_,
vol. i. p. 15. They also affirmed that Mr Gideon Penman, curate of
Crighton, was present at their unhallowed meetings. KIRKTON, in his
secret and _true_ History of the Church of Scotland, p. 190, gravely
says, “Mr Giden Penman, curat at Creighton, was well known to be a
_witch_; divers eye-witnesses deponed they had many times seen him at
the witches’ meetings, and that the devil called him ordinarily,
_Penman, my chaplane_. Also upon a time, when Satan administered
communion to his congregation, Penman sat next his elbow; and that when
their deacon had served the table with wafers in the popish fashion,
when their remained two wafers more than served the company, the deacon
laid down his two wafers before the devil, which two the devil gave to
Penman, and bid him goe carrie these to the papists in Winton.” Penman
narrowly escaped punishment, and lost his kirk.
“Sept. 11th, 1678.—Catharine Liddel exhibited a complaint against one
Rutherford, baron bailie to Morison of Preston-grange, and against David
Cowan in Tranent, bearing that they had seized upon her an innocent
woman, and had defamed her as a witch, and detained her under restraint
as a prisoner; and that the said Cowan had pricked her with long pins in
sundry places of her body, and bled her and tortured her most cruelly.
The defences were, that she was delated by other witches, and was
therefore apprehended;—that she was kindly used and kept in a private
house; that she and her son-in-law consented that she might be searched
for the vindication of her innocence, &c.; that the pricker learned his
trade from Kincaid, a famed pricker; 2d, That he never came unsent for,
because he was either called by sheriffs, magistrates of burghs,
ministers, or bailies of baronies; 3d, The trade was not improbat or
condemned by any law; 4th, All divines or lawyers who write on
witchcraft, as Perkins, Delrio, &c. acknowledge there are such marks,
called by them _stigma sagarum_. In the defence it was urged, that
consent _was denied_;—that the _pricker_ was a _cheat, who abused the
people for gain_; and the Chancellor remembered that he had incarcerated
Kincaid the pricker at Kinross, for abusing the country there. The Lords
of Privy Council declared the woman innocent, and ordained it to be
publicly intimated in her parish church the Sunday following. They
reproved Rutherford, the baron-bailie, for his rashness, and ordered the
pricker to prison to remain during their pleasure. Prohibited in future
any inferior judge or baron-bailie from incarcerating the lieges on
suspicion of witchcraft, without a warrant from Lords of Privy Council
or Justiciary; as also found they might not use any torture by pricking,
as by withholding them from sleep, &c. but reserved all that to
themselves and the justices, and those who acted by their
commission.”—See _Fountainhall’s Decis._ vol. i. p. 16.
A more salutary decree could not have been issued by the Privy Council.
It appears from the deposition, that Kincaid had abused the innocent for
gain, under the sanction of the clergy and magistracy; and here, though
we must make allowance for prejudice and ignorance, yet he imposed on
the candid Fountainhall himself, as we have seen in the trial of
Elizabeth Moodie.
In 1698 we find the following notice in the session records of
Spott.—“The session, after a long examination of witnesses, refer the
case of Marion Lillie, for imprecations and supposed witchcraft to the
presbytery, who refer her for trial to the civil magistrate. Said
Marion, generally called the Rigwoody Witch;”—and, in 1705, we learn
from the same register, that many witches were burnt on the top of Spott
Loan, which was probably the last execution for this imputed crime in
East Lothian.
In a MS. volume of sermons, preached in the parish of Stenton, at a
communion in 1702, during the incumbency of the Rev. Mr Stark, the
following passage occurs in debarring unworthy communicants: “I debar
all witches and warlocks; all who have renounced their baptism, and who
are in compact or contract with the devil.”
The very name of witch was now regarded with so much abhorrence and
dread, that Dec. 21st, 1707, Margaret Rankine was cited before the
kirk-session of Pencaitland, merely for calling Margaret Nicolson
_witch_! This Rankine stoutly denied; but as she had been frequently
before the same tribunal for other offences, she was considered a person
incapable of church discipline, and remitted to the civil magistrate,
with a request, that “the minister and elders of Winton may inform
Bailie Smith, the Earl of Winton’s bailie, thereof, that he may take a
_course_ with her.”—_Sess. Rec. Pencait._
I may close these remarks with an anecdote of Helen Sharpe, who lived in
Haddington about fifty years ago. My informant, when a girl at the
school, remembers the terror she spread among old and young. Helen was
seen stalking about, decked in her linsey-wolsey gown, checked worsted
apron, blue hood and cloak, with her crooked headed staff. One dark
winter night the midwife was sent for to one of the wives of
Clerkington. After vaulting with howdie suppleness behind Ralph at the
Custom-stone, she knew not where she was, till she and her companion
stood at the miller’s door. It appeared as if they had been whirled
rapidly through the air in a wonderful manner. Helen’s next exploit was
bewitching Provost Dudgeon’s kye, in consequence of having been refused
sour milk by his lady. Next morning not a drop of milk would come from
the witch-struck udders. In future they took care to be more bountiful.
When Helen died, several candles were found in her chest, supposed to be
kept for midnight meetings, and no hallowed purpose.
The ages are happily now passed, when a convent of pretty nuns run the
risk of being metamorphosed into a bevy of squirrels; and perhaps the
finest apology for witchcraft on record, and that which is most
applicable to modern times, is that of _Furius Cresinus_, who, when
accused of magic, because he had better crops of corn than his
neighbours, brought before them for his defence his heavy ploughs and
spades, and sun-burnt daughters, and said, These were the charms that he
made use of!—_Pliny’s Nat. Hist._
Nearly allied to witchcraft is the theory of ghosts and apparitions.
There are few who have not read “The Wonderful and True Account of the
Laird of Cool’s Ghost,” which appeared to Mr Ogilvie, minister of
Innerwick, about a hundred years ago. Mr Maxwell, the laird of Cool, had
been a very wicked man; and as he could not get rest in his grave, till
some reparation was made to those whom he had wronged upon earth, sundry
conversations took place between his apparition and Mr Ogilvie, near
Brandslee, for this very proper purpose. The ghost came commonly mounted
on horseback, which horse, gentle reader, was the redoubtable Andrew
Johnston, one of his tenants, who had departed this life forty-eight
hours before his master! The conversations that took place, which are
mixed up with more arguments than these spiritual visitants are commonly
understood to use, were found amongst Mr Ogilvie’s papers after his
decease, and were too valuable to be withheld from the world. We can
scarcely conceive that they were dictated by malice, but rather that
they were flesh and blood confessions and opinions, thrown into a
ghostly form.
The next and last story of this kind which I shall intrude upon the
reader, is one which I picked up when in search of matter of a different
nature; and which, but for its remarkable termination, might be easily
explained away.
=A Tale of Garleton.=
Rather more than fifty years ago, an old maiden lady,[14] of good
family, was the tenant of one of the now decayed wings of the
mansion-house of Garleton. She is described as a tall thin figure, who
wore a black silk cloak and bonnet, and walked with a large cane,
ornamented with a gold chain and tassel. She had also a great deal of
eccentricity in her conduct; for she often walked at dead of night and
early dawn, till she was so wetted by the dews and the long dank grass,
that, on her return home, she had to shift her clothes or go to bed. Add
to this, that she had the misfortune to be a papist, and was very
ostensible in her devotions; so that we need not wonder that she was
regarded by the superstitious of the neighbourhood with no small degree
of terror and aversion.
Having sauntered out one morning till near sunrise, she sat down on the
Craggy Hill, when “an odd-looking man,” as she termed him, approached
her. She waved her cane to keep off the intruder, who, after muttering
something, went away. The lady immediately returned home; but, during
the day, could not banish the unwelcome visitor from her thoughts. At
night, after locking the outer door, and placing the key below her
pillow, she went to bed, as usual, at a late hour. In vain she
endeavoured to compose herself to sleep, and to dissipate the troublous
thoughts that rose in her mind; at length she heard the outer door open,
and a heavy foot come tramping up the creaking stairs; something opened
the door, and entered the room adjoining to her bed-closet; the door of
the latter next opened, and she again beheld the unwelcome visitor—the
spectre of the morning.
She was only able to articulate, “Who comes there?” when the stranger
replied, “This is my native place, and I have a long history to tell
you!” The lady, thinking the intruder was a robber, pointed to a small
box containing her keys, and bade him take what he wanted, and begone.
The mysterious personage still wished to speak; but as she waved her
hand, and inclined not to listen, he disappeared. As he retired, she
again heard the heavy foot tramping down the creaking stairs, till the
slashing of the outer door announced his exit.
Although the lady passed a sleepless night, she was unwilling to disturb
the inmates of her house, which consisted only of a maiden lady and a
domestic. Next morning, when the servant came for the key of the outer
door, she told her what had happened, and that she imagined robbers had
been in the house. The maid had also the imperfect recollection of some
noise; but it was like the noise of a dream. At her lady’s desire she
immediately went to the press where the family plate was deposited, but
found it unmolested; the silver wine-cup stood on the mantlepiece, below
the crucifix, untouched, and the outer door remained fast: in short,
every thing stood in its place, as on the preceding evening.
It was the impression of the less superstitious part of the
neighbourhood, that the old maiden lady was superannuated, and that the
ghastly visitant was the creature of a dream. Be this as it may, on that
very day twelvemonth, the Lady of Garleton was seized with a convulsive
fit in the evening, and expired about the same hour at midnight that she
had had an interview with the unwelcome visitor. I have only to add,
that the person from whom I had the preceding story is of unquestionable
veracity; and that she had often heard it from the lady’s own lips.
The ruins of the mansion-house stand at the foot of Garleton hills, a
fine miniature specimen of Highland scenery. Amidst scenes like these,
the author of Douglas poured forth his immortal strains to the midnight
air. Upon a sequestered dell, nearly opposite Kilduff, called
Ravensdale, or, more familiarly, Watty’s Howe, Mr Home pursued his
declamatory studies, to the no small terror of the benighted traveller,
who hence conjectured that the place was haunted.
THE
VICAR OF GOLYN.
Gif evir my fortune wes to be a freir,
The dait thereof is past full mony a yeir;
For into every lusty toun and place,
Off all Yngland, from Berwick to Calice,
I haif into thy habeit maid gud cheir.
WILLIAM DUNBAR.
The ruins of the ancient church of Golyn (now called Gullane) still
remain, which served that place and Dirleton till 1612, when the church
was translated to the latter parish, of which Gullane now forms a part.
The last Vicar of Golyn is said to have been deposed by King James VI.
for the high crime of smoking tobacco—a weed which his majesty deemed
only fit for diabolical fumigations.—See _Grose’s Scots. Ant._ vol. i.
p. 71, where there is a fine view of the church.
THE
VICAR OF GOLYN.
In James’s pedant reign, so famed for schooling,
There dwelt a Vicar at the church of Golyn;
In friar’s weed, like Will Dunbar, he’d preach’d;
In friar’s weed the ladies he had fleech’d,
For he was fond of amatory fooling.
At golf, or archery, or football match,
Like Indian juggler, he the game would catch;
At cards, or dice, or chess, he had no equal,
With other items, noted in the sequel—
A motley priest as e’er the church did hatch.
His cheeks were reddish brown, like colour’d brandy;
His neck look’d stiff and starch’d, like modern dandy;
His belly round and full: this oily glutton
Would gobble at one meal a leg of mutton—
A man that’s overfed is most unhandy!
His lips were parch’d with an eternal drouth;
His lusty tongue was larger than his mouth;
So, when he minced tobacco’s scented quid,
The noxious slaver down his bosom slid:—
He was a man in figure most uncouth!
To crown his face he had a bottle nose,
Which with his chin was like to come to blows,
They look’d as if they’d eat up one another:
His eye was round and red unlike its brother;
His face shaped as full moon we may suppose.
His knees against each other idly knockit,
As if they long’d to burst their clumsy socket;
Beneath his heavy carcass, worn and spent,
His shins were like twin cross-bows when they’re bent;
His arms were like a hat when it is cocked.
Now I’ve described his person; for his mind
It show’d the very dregs of humankind;
Debauch’d with endless round of fraud and folly,
His private hours were spent in haunts unholy,—
His parallel on earth I scarce may find.
His lying tongue was veil’d in eloquence,
Which preach’d up sophistry for common sense;
His smile satanic mask’d a wicked heart;
His manners shew’d the polish’d man of art,
That wins too often the world’s recompense.
His name became a by-word, disrespected—
His flock by Satan worried, were neglected!
He was, indeed, a very sinful Vicar,
Who barter’d holy water for his liquor;
Yet he look’d merry aye, and ne’er dejected.
At Beltane-time he made the riggings ring,
And songs profane for holy lilts would sing;
At Lenten-time a perfect Epicurean,
In secret capons with his fish devouring;
While his liege paramour did aqua bring.
Indeed, so many ways he tortured fish,
Each Lent supplied him with a favourite dish;
On Fridays he had pickled salmon ready,
And mack’rel from the wives of Aberlady—
Our Vicar never went about the bush.
And much he loved to guzzle precious wine,
That once had blush’d in vineyards on the Rhine;
Fresh fragrant claret too from joyous France;
That which he prized was Angiers and Orlance—
Liquor on which the gods of Greece might dine.
How the lean curate crouch’d to his command,
When like the bust of famine he would stand!
With tatter’d gown, and under-raiment rent,
Thin jaws, that pictured an eternal Lent,
Stretching, to catch a crumb, his skinny hand.
The Vicar too, of tithes and cattle greedy,
Would fix his ugly talons in the needy;
When the poor cottar sought his humble grave,
His fattest cow, for prayers, the priest must have,
While of her raploch gray he robb’d the widow.
Ash Wednesday has seen the Vicar meet
With drouthy cummers to Malvasie treat,
Where he would sit carousing till the Monday,
Then go to preach, thinking the day was Sunday,
When he could scarcely stand upon his feet.
He pitter-patter’d o’er his rusty rosary,
To know his creed one must have had a glossary;
He mumbled things divine with so much bawling,
His hearers liken’d it to caterwauling—
He was a man unworthy shoes or hosiery!
Yet he was deeply read in Aristotle,
And might have soar’d, but for the aqua bottle;
He knew Jerome, Ambrose, and Augustine,
Benedict, Bernard, Clement, Cleit, and Lyne;[15]
But, then, he went too often to the hotel.
He’d studied history, barbarous and civil;
He knew when stars denoted good or evil;
Versed in alchymy, he went plodding on,
Yet never lit on the philosopher’s stone,
While some surmised he’d dealings with the devil.
I’ve said, for sports athletic he was keen,
Footing the mazy ball on Golyn-green;
At weapon-shaws a regular looker-on,
But ere the broil began, our priest was gone
To join the gallant’s mask at Christmas e’en.
A man that’s light of head is light of heel,
Our Vicar loved to join the Beltane reel,
Where he would skipper in the Dirry-duntoun,
And hop about just like a pillar wanton;
Threading his body spiral as an eel.
He loved, like Will Dunbar, the courtly dance,
Where Mistress Musgrave’s smiles did all enhance,
Shading with garlands gay her yellow hair:—
Her kirtle red, with belt and brooch so fair;
For such a lady, who’d not break a lance?
When age the giddy heat of youth is cooling,
’Tis time our wayward passions to be ruling;
So thinks the major part of humankind;
But to his failings ever darkly blind
Remain’d the Vicar of the church of Golyn.
He hated merchants—hated tailors trim;
He hated souters, baxters, fleshers grim;
He hated brewers—but not tavern-keepers;
He hated all his hearers—but the sleepers;—
And so he might, because they hated him!
In Mary’s reign he turned Episcopalian,
Changing his church and creed to serve his calling;
Like weathercock, that waver’d with the wind,
To all but pettifogging interest blind,
He sneak’d wherever fortune’s rays were falling.
Then came that vice of great abomination,
As ever visited a sinful nation;
Which set our prince’s pendant pen a-railing:
Our Vicar, most unlucky, caught the failing,
And to the devil smoked his congregation.
Our Vicar having learn’d this art of smoking,
Which (as I’ve said) the parish set a choking,
The king, still mindful of his people’s weal,
Wrote Tracts against Tobacco and the De’il!
Swearing the vice was sinful and provoking.
Then swore the monarch, “This same fumigation
“Will, doubtless, bring a curse upon the nation;
“I’ll send for Tycho Brahe from Copenhagen;
“I’ll send my smoking clergy to the begging—
“Those tickle-snouts must mind their flock’s salvation!”
O ye who love to feed your nasal ducts!
Chewing tobacco till your stomach pukes,
I beg you’ll take a lesson from the Vicar,
Behind the door you’d better bend the bicker!
What think you of this case, my pretty bucks?
For now-a-days there’s not a little dandy,
But wears a box so fanciful and handy,
Brimful of Maccaba or Princes Mixture,
Tickling his lady, when he’s sitting next her;—
And then his bridge-like organ looks so sandy.
Ye fools! when Christmas brings the huge sirloin,
And tables groan ere knives in carnage join,
Ye do not feel that kitchen-scented flavour,
That makes the impatient mouthful sweeter savour—
O fy! that for such plant you sport your coin!
Digressions we must leave, and seek the Vicar,
Who’s seated snugly o’er his favourite liquor;
For once his Holiness has studied deep,
For o’er the Litany he’s gone to sleep,—
With reverence, I do think he’s getting sicker.
Our hero now, in secret, fed his nose,
An ounce of snuff he gobbled at a dose,
Till tired, his evil genius took to smoking,
And set the neighbourhood again a-choking,
Who forthwith sallied like a host of foes.
This deed his frousy neighbours wish’d to hush up,
But for a saint who wish’d to nibble fish up,
Yclept in prose, assistant and successor,
A brainless fellow, but a great professor,
Who went post-speed, and told it to the bishop.
The bishop told the king to curry grace,
Which pleased so well his heaven-anointed face,
He gave a puff as fierce as the sirrocco,
Issued his Counterblast against Tobacco;
And call’d the Vicar up with little space.
“Item, our pleasure is, on heavy grounds
“To purge the church of fumigating hounds;
“Therefore, that this said Vicar may not fool us,
“In other words, with quirks and quibbling gull us,
“We banish him beyond our church’s bounds.”
The Vicar heard his sentence, and was wroth.
He did not value much the Lutheran cloth;
But, O! to leave the Links and football match,
The Golyn cummer’s glee, and merry catch;
At leaving these he tarried, and was loth.
Raising his voice to an obstreperous pitch,
“Go tell!” cried he, “that ugly Lutheran bitch!
“That I will snuff while I have got a nose;
“That I will smoke while my stout windpipe blows;
“And when I fail, go brand me for a witch!”
The Vicar took a trip beyond the sea,
To Calais first, and next to Italie;
Again became a servant to the Pope,
Yet never gain’d preferment’s dizzy top,
But died, despised, among the Lazzaroni.
’Twas said a shape unearthly oft was seen,
Playing at football match on Golyn green;—
’Twas said, at dead of night, on Golyn steeple,
The Vicar smoked, and hallo’d to the people;
Such sights were strange—but yet such sights have been.
THE
GUDEWIFE OF TULLOSHILL,
AND THE
LORD OF LAUDERDALE.
Every bannock had its maik, but the bannock o’ Tulloshill.”
_Old Proverb._
This ballad is founded on a traditional story, which I have gathered
from different sources, and put into a connected form. The hero was John
the second Earl, and afterwards Duke of Lauderdale,—a nobleman as famous
for his loyalty to the wavering interests of Charles II. during the sway
of the “immortal rebel,” Cromwell, as he was afterwards notorious for
his political power and rapacity. The heroine was Margaret Lylestone,
wife to Thomas Hardie, tenant in Tulloshill. There were anciently three
farms of Tullos in Lammermoor, and from her abode, by way of
distinction, she was called _Mid-side Maggy_. The adventure noticed in
the following Ballad, must have occurred after the battle of Worcester,
in 1651, where the Duke of Lauderdale was taken prisoner, and suffered a
confinement in the Tower for nine years, till liberated by General Monk
in 1660; when repairing to the Hague, he returned with the king at the
Restoration.
THE
GUDEWIFE OF TULLOSHILL,
AND THE
LORD OF LAUDERDALE.
There dwelt in pastoral Tulloshill,
Where waves the mountain broom,
A fair gudewife, and a leal auld man,
As ye’d found in landwart toun.
Her cheeks were dyed wi’ health’s bright glow,
That spake in her eyes o’ blue;
And wantonly the dimpling smile
Play’d round her cherry mou’.
The rustic swains jeer’d merrily,
While seated o’er the cann,—
And wonder’d why so young a dame,
Had wed so auld a man!
The gudewife went to Lauder Tower,
And made a loud lament;
And told the Lord of Lauderdale
She coudna pay her rent.
Perish’d the firstlings of their flocks,
The winters were sae chill,
The April snaw lay on the ground
When it fell at Tulloshill.
Upspake the Lord of Lauderdale,
“Gudewife, I grant a boon,
“Ye’se sit rent-free at Martinmas
“If ye bring me snaw in June.”
And he toy’d wi’ the gudewife’s sunny locks,
And chuck’d her under the chin;
And compared her skin to the creamy flocks,
That o’er the Scenes-law rin.
“Now haud ye there, Sir Knight,” she said,
And away like a fawn she ran;
But he did nae mair to the merry wife
Than became an honest man.
She made a ba’ of drifted snaw,
Which she gather’d by Criblaw shiel;
And she laid it in a rocky dean,
And cover’d it wi’ grey meal.
And she brought it in the end of June
To ancient Thirlestane;
And my lord received her graciously
In his state chamber alane.
“Now spare your speech, gudewife,” he cried,
“And make no foolish mane;
“For one kiss o’ your hinny mou
“Were worth a’ Thirlestane.”
“Now, fare thee weel! Sir Knight,” she said,
(As her Ladyship cam ben,)
“Ye’se get the best at Tulloshill,
“When ye shoot the mountain hen.”
Deep lay the snaw in Lammermoor,
On mountain height and glen,
And cauld, cauld blew the sleety shower
O’er Greenlaw’s mossy fen.
And deep lay the snaw in Leader-haughs,
And drifted o’er the plain,
When at the rack-rent o’ the year
She thought o’ her Lord again.
“The spring returns to Whalplaw burn,
“The birds to Langhope shaw;
“But when will Lauderdale return?—
“O, he’s been lang awa!
“When Charlie gets his rightfu’ crown,
“Which Cromwell fain wad wear;
“When the democratic parliament
“To the depths of hell shall stear.
“Alas! for the battle of Worcester,
“Where Lauderdale was ta’en,
“And the gallant Duke of Hamilton
“Lay dead amang the slain.
“My silken snood I’d gladly sell,
“And crimson kirtle gay,
“To ransom him, laid in the Tower
“For aiding royalty.
“My siller brooch I’d gladly sell,
“And eke my golden kaim;
“And surely I’d gang daft wi’ joy,
“Were my good lord come hame!”
Her Culross girdle from the shelf
She took, sae large and clean;
For eighteen cakes o’ the Merse’s make
This girdle held I ween.
She baked a bannock, large and round,
Wi’ flour frae Carfrae mill;—
And there ne’er was a cake but had its maik,
Save that o’ Tulloshill.
For aye as she kneaded it o’er and o’er,
She fill’d it fou o’ gold,
Then doubled it up like a honeycomb,
Wi’ treasures in its fold.
She plaited up her yellow hair
In an artful sunny braid;
Then cover’d her locks wi’ the bonnet blue,
And her bosom wi’ the plaid.
She laced her velvet milk-white limbs
In the tartan trews sae rough,
And buried her well-turned ancles in
The folds of homespun stuff.
Thus fashion’d, in a herdsman’s dress,
She padded her shelty’s back;
And rode behind her leal auld man
When wearied wi’ her walk.
Like drovers from the north countrie,
They travell’d on together;
And gallop’d away to London town,
O’er mountain, glen, and heather.
And as the Borders wide they pass’d,
The southron dames wou’d say,
“Beshrew me! that’s a bonny lad,
“Led by his father grey.”
The gudewife came to London town,
And went into Rag Fair,
And drest herself like a beggar-wife,
Wi’ wallets scant and bare.
And when she came to London Tower
She feign’d herself insane,
And aye the burden of her song
Was, “Harry, back again!”
And, “Carle, now the king has come!”
She sung wi’ Scottish voice;
But when she chanted Leaderhaughs,
His lordship did rejoice.
And aye she leugh and aye she lap,
And foolish words let pass;
While the sentinels stood by and jeer’d
The silly Scottish lass.
And they have sworn to take her up,
And fling her in the moat;
When up came the keeper of the Tower,
Who made them change their note.
“Know ye the Lord of Lauderdale?”
Said the officer of the Tower;
“O I wad kiss him lug frae lug!”
Quoth she, “within this hour;
“And garland him with gowans rare,
“Frae Mid-side Maggy’s bower;
“Gif ye wad let a silly lass
“Your draw-brig wander o’er.”
They let her pass the castle-gates,
Although her looks were wild;
For she gambol’d on so harmlessly,
Like a lamb or a little child.
Beneath her ragged arm she bore
The bannock doubled o’er—
“Is such your Scottish bread, daft lass?”
Quoth the keeper of the Tower.
“O sweet is Scotia’s aiten-cakes,
“And pure her siller springs;
“And the food we cull from Scotia’s hills
“Might banquet English kings.”
Forth came the Earl’s waiting-man,
When he heard the gudewife sing;
For Leaderhaughs and Cowdenknowes
Made his very heart-strings ring.
“Go, speed, and your lordly master tell,
“But take it good or ill,
“That Mid-side Maggy greets him here,
“From broomy Tulloshill.”
She went into Lord Lauderdale,
Who sat in chains array’d;
But as she pass’d the steel-laced gates,
She felt her heart dismay’d.
And she felt a woman’s natural fears
Rush o’er her fainting soul,
When she pass’d beneath the Traitor’s Gate,
And heard the lions growl.
When she pass’d beneath the Traitor’s Gate,
And saw Lord Derby’s head,
She thought her velvet thighs wad shake
Away frae the knee-pan lid.
She sat her down at his lordship’s feet,
And comb’d her yellow hair;
And the gold fell down like diamond heaps
In shining goupins there.
She took the bannock in her hand,
And brake it o’er her knee;
And on the floor, in yellow showers,
The golden guineas flee.
“Now take thee these, my worthy lord,
“’Tis all I have to gi’e!
“And seek in Holland’s princely towers
“For safety o’er the sea.”—
“A friend in need’s a friend indeed!”
He took her by the hand;
“For such a dame as thee, gudewife,
“I’d part wi’ hauf my land!
“But fare thee weel! my bonny dow!
“Oh! fare thee weel a while;
“Ye’se sit rent free till I return
“To broomy Tulloshill.
“Frae Leader-side to rocky Esk
“The lands ye see are mine,
“Yet fate decrees, in a foreign land,
“That I these fields maun tine.”
“Now, fare thee weel! my generous lord,”
Was all that she could say,
“I’ll pray for you on my bare, bare knees
“Till your returning day.”
They durst nae harm Lord Lauderdale,
Nor they durst nae set him free,
Till nine lang years pass’d o’er his head
In the Tower sae drearilie.
When Cromwell low in the dust was laid,
And that parliament in its wane,
Which he long had rein’d wi’ a master-hand,
Our lord got free again.
Away he sail’d o’er the snowy foam,
To the Prince of Holland’s towers,
And met his king right gladsomely
In Hague’s canal-lined bowers.
And aye he blest the leal gudewife
That won’d at Tulloshill;
For he found her goud of use to him
When his ain was nae in his will.
And, O! but she was a proud gudewife,
When she hail’d the king’s return;
For again she saw Lord Lauderdale
Restored to Leader-burn.
No more like tenant, scant o’ cash,
Rent-time did her dismay;
For she got free lease of Tulloshill
Her life-lang and a day.
My lord gi’ed her a silver belt,
Sprinkled wi’ diamonds fine;[16]
And she walk’d in a star-like galaxy,
Dug from the Indian mine.
The muse’s finest flights maun fail,
So drops my downy quill;
For John is Duke of Lauderdale—
Meg—Queen of Tulloshill.
YOUNG ARGYLE;
OR,
STANZAS TO LETHINGTON CASTLE.
Argyle, the state’s whole thunder born to wield,
And shake alike the senate or the field.—POPE.
Nor less the palm of peace enwreathes thy brow;
For, powerful as thy sword, from thy rich tongue
Persuasion flows, and wins the high debate;
While mix’d in thee combine the charm of youth,
The force of manhood, and the depth of age.—THOMSON.
Lethington House is situated on the south banks of the Tyne, rather more
than a mile from Haddington. This fortalice was built by the Giffords,
and was purchased from Sir John Gifford by Sir Richard Maitland, about
the end of the fourteenth century. It was in this “fortress, large and
lang,” in its “arbour, and orchard green,” where Lord Lethington, the
blind baron, dictated his poetical pieces, after he had retired from
public business, at an advanced age, to his daughter Mary, the partner
of his studies, and herself a writer of verses, who was celebrated for
her “fleing fame,” and her “trew virginitie,” by the “unknawin makars”
of that period.—See _Pinkerton’s Ant. Scot. Poems._—In process of time
Lethington became the jointure house of the Duchess of Lauderdale,
formerly Countess of Dysart. Her daughter, Lady Lorn, afterwards Duchess
of Argyle, resided here during the time of her father-in-law’s
forfeiture.—It was from a window in the uppermost storey of the house
that John, Duke of Argyle, fell when an infant, and escaped unhurt.—_Dr
Barclay, Trans. Ant. Scot._ I have only to add, on the authority of Sir
Walter Scott, that this happened on the very day on which the duke’s
grandfather was beheaded at Edinburgh.
YOUNG ARGYLE;
OR
STANZAS TO LETHINGTON CASTLE.
I.
Old Lethington! wert thou by Gifford rear’d
With magic art, like Yester’s goblin cave,[17]
What time the Night her course to morning steer’d
And the owl whoop’d upon the virgin’s grave;
Say, did thy master-builder Heaven brave,
And with unearthly craftsmen overnight
From Garvald’s quarry drag, by hook and knave,
Those massy battlements ere morning’s light
To strike the early swain with wonder and affright?
II.
It matters not to tell—but o’er the pines
I love to view thy turrets towering grey,
Which braved the fiery blast of feudal times,
And still unbroke their lofty front display.
Though thou hast seen thy lordlings pass away,
And castled towers and abbeys fall around,
Yet here thy veteran face appears as gay
As when the warrior’s horn at morn did sound,
And gallant Lindsay paced thy spacious pleasure-ground.[18]
III.
And, hark! resounds the clashing din of war,
On adamantine walls the arrows play;
Against thy gates, strong laced with iron bar,
The battering-ram rolls on in fierce array;
Now high thy famish’d garrison display
The skin of beasts, to mock what most they need,
While shakes thy tower from vault to turret gray,
As on the invader’s head the pointed reed
From cunning crevice pours the boiling molten lead.
IV.
How oft by innate strength and stratagem
Did Scotia’s ancient fortlets brave the foe,
Whether when feudal chiefs chivalrous came,
Or civil discord wrapt the land in woe;
Or when the robber’s torch at night did glow,
And shrieks of murder’d men came on the gale,
The chiefs of Lethington were never slow,
To draw the sword, or brace the glitt’ring mail,
And chase the bold outlaw o’er farthest Lauderdale.
V.
Then Lauder’s forest to the bugle rung,
Startling marauders from their mountain prey,
As morning rose, deplored by old and young,
Where ravaged round the burning farm-yards lay;
These were fierce men, the scourges of their day,
Who on the sea of venture did embark,
And, as we’re told in Maitland’s doleful lay,
Spared neither house nor stable, church nor ark,
And loved the midnight ride, because their deeds were dark.
VI.
Lo! crown’d with laurel, in his oaken chair,
I see the ancient knight of Thirlestane,
Attended by Maria, chaste and fair,
Amanuensis to his tuneful strain,
Like Milton’s daughter, copying the rich vein
Of inspiration, as her father woke
The harp: Then humorous Lindsay breathed again,
While moral saws, and satire’s flashes broke,
As erst by Greece’s bard in optic darkness spoke.
VII.
O Lethington! thy woodlands are sublime,
Where everlasting trees their green arms wave,
Like giant-shadows beautified by time,
Shaking their shaggy locks when tempests rave;
Here walk’d the politician plotting grave;[19]
Here sighs from icy bosoms beauty wrung;
Here, young Argyle—the generous and the brave—
First woke to eloquence his artless tongue,
Where beauteous Lennox smiled, and old Sir Richard sung.
VIII.
’Tis sweet, at summer’s noon, on thy high tower,
When half obscured the sun looks softly bright,
To view the amber heights of Lammermoor,
Bathed in a misty veil of living light,
While hill and dale alternate charm the sight,
And hum of birds, and distant murmuring stream,
Sound in the ear like music in the night,
While, through the copsewood, Coalston’s turrets gleam,
And still remind us of her Margaret’s ominous dream.
IX.
The Lady lay upon her marriage-bed,
And saw the Enchanted Pear of Coalston; fair
As Eden’s tree, it rear’d its lovely head
That look’d more sweet, as whispers said, Beware!
For while the magic cornac flourish’d there,
So spread and flourish’d Coalston’s rich estate;
But the young bride long’d for a fruit so rare,—
Now touch’d it—tasted—the enchantment ate—
Awoke—it was a dream! but big with future fate.
X.
If Coalston had its _pear_, fair Lethington!
Thou hadst thy apples, with which none may vie;
As Jove’s own fruit, thy boughs beneath them groan,
Like aromatic sweets dropt from the sky—
Beneath their shades the archers oft would try
Their strength of arm; and, at the day’s decline,
They tasted Maitland’s hospitality
In draughts of Angiers that gleam’d divine,
And fed their hearts with joy, as erst it fed the vine.
XI.
Thy walks were spacious once, fair Lethington!
When Charles the Witty made his progress here,
What time the Duke, who reign’d above the throne,
Thy many parks stored full of stately deer,[20]
That venison-loving kings might not want cheer,
Nor the fat cook be taken by surprise;
Happy to leave the state—the spit to steer,
And look an epicure in royal eyes,
Who ne’er spoke nonsense, yet, ne’er acted wise!
XII.
With Charles fair Lennox might have shared the throne;
For o’er his heart she held despotic sway:
Amidst the loveliest of the court she shone,
As Venus shines amidst the starry way,
Dimming each lesser planet with her ray,
She walk’d in beauty like the sylphs above,
The diamond stone of nature’s galaxy—
Girdled with cestus by the graces wove,
Like her who from the waves uprose the Queen of Love!
XIII.
Francis Teresa! on thy fine-arch’d brow,
Minerva’s conquering aspect we descry,
While in that face where smiles through roses glow,
And in the lustre of that dark-blue eye,
Shaded by auburn ringlets, we espy
The Cyprian queen, while on thy breast of snow
Perfection leans,—and claims the heart’s soft sigh;
Before such form a monarch well might bow,
Admiring nature’s works, as we the canvass now.
XIV.
Farewell, fair Lennox! for severer themes
Than Beauty now demand the muse’s care;
The patriot’s brow the deathless laurel claims,
While rosy chaplets best become the fair;
Though gems grow dim in thy luxuriant hair,
I seek the couch where lone Eliza lies—
Alas! that hope should waken to despair,
That tears should cloud affection’s doting eyes:—
“Come, lady, fair, awake! the sun is in the skies.
XV.
“Lady of Lorn! the morning bids thee wake,
Her purple beams gild Lammerlaw’s high steep;
The lark is springing from the dewy brake,
Rousing the minstrels of the air to keep
Their woodland concert. ’Tis not meet to sleep
While on the battlements thy baby fair
Forth from his vagrant nurse has dared to creep
To sip alone the balmy-breathing air;
Lady of Lorn, awake! or waken in despair!”
XVI.
Thus spake the warning spirit of a dream,
When lovely from her couch, dishevell’d, wild,
Uprose the Flower of Dysart with a scream,
As she beheld a writhing serpent coil’d
Around her child, while each swollen artery boil’d;
And as with shrieks far Coalston’s echoes rung,
The emerald turf with infant’s blood was soil’d;
She heard the death-notes freeze upon his tongue—
When, reckless where she went, away the lady sprung.
XVII.
She sought her boy in castle-tower and wood;
But he was not in nursery nor in hall—
When ’neath the casement’s lofty sash she stood,
And heard his gentle voice upon her call.
Sprung from his nurse’s arms in gamesome brawl,
Next moment on the ground he bit the soil,
Roll’d up, then to his little limbs ’gan crawl,
Look’d in his mother’s face with playful smile,
And rose—a miracle! unhurt the Young Argyle!
XVIII.
It was a dreadful omen, at that hour,
Which nearly a long line of glory broke,
When Young Argyle fell from the lofty tower
On the green-turf unscath’d—upon the block
His grandsire laid his head; alas! the shock
Was felt by Freedom; it severely shew’d
The gratitude of kings, and did provoke
That slumbering justice which so fiercely glow’d,
When man at last “appeal’d from tyranny to God.”
XIX.
Soon Campbell rose, renown’d for arts and arms,
Free in the senate—bold in battle-field;
Now awed with Roman fire and personal charms;
Now freedom’s champion—now his sovereign’s shield;
His country’s thunders early taught to wield,
Witness Ramillies, Oudenarde, Ghent, and Lisle.
Tournay, Minorca, to his prowess yield;
While spake the master-spirits of the Isle,
And Pope and Thomson strove to laud the Young Argyle!
NOTES TO YOUNG ARGYLE;
or,
STANZAS TO LETHINGTON
Stanza ii. page 314.
_I love to view thy turrets towering grey,
Which braved the fiery blast of feudal times,
And still unbroke their lofty front display._
The following verses, addressed to Lethington, which are so descriptive
of an ancient chateau of that period, were copied from the Maitland MS.
(preserved at Cambridge,) by Mr Pinkerton, and published in his
collection of Ancient Scottish Poems. The poem appears to have been
written by an “unknawin makar,” who, in gratitude for the “treitting and
gud cheir” which he met with at Lethington, could “nae mair silence
hauld, but put furth his mynd to rehers the joy” which he found in the
castle. We shall confine ourselves to the descriptive parts, as being
most interesting to posterity, leaving out the introductory similes
respecting Virgil’s Mantua and Catullus’s Verone.
IN PRAYSE OF LETHINGTOUN.
To speik of thee, O Lethingtoun!
Quhilk standis fair on Tyne;
Quhais worthie praysis and renown
Transcendis my ingyne.
Thou merits Homer and Virgil,
Thy worschip till advance,
And put thy name, digne and nobill,
In dew rememberance.
Thy tour and fortres lairge and lang,
Thy nychhours dois excell;
And for thy wallis, thik and strang,
Thou justly beirs the bell.
Thy groundis deip, and toppis hie
Uprising in the air;
Thy vaultis plesand ar to sie,
Thay ar so greit and fair.
Thy work to luik on is delyite,
So clein, so sound, so evin;
Thy alryne[21] is a marvall greit,
Upreiching to the hevin.
O quhat plesour is to be thair,
As Phœbus dois upryise,
To sie the wood and feildis fair,
Quhilk round about thee lyis!
* * * * *
Greit was the work to houke the ground,
And thy foundatioun cast;
Bot greater it was thee to found,
And end thee at the last.
I merveill that he did not feir,
Quha rasit thee on hicht,
That na foundatioun sould thee beir
Bot thou sould sink for wecht.
* * * * *
Bot the to plenisch and fulfill,
And mak thy worke compleit,
Quhoso it richt considder will,
Wes worke of no les spreit.
Thy beddis soft, and tapeis fair,
Thy treitting and gud cheir;
Gif I the treuth wald now declair,
I wait thow hes no peir.
* * * * *
Thy arbour and thy orchard grene,
I cannot pass it by,
A thing maist semelie to be sene
Under thy wall dois ly;
Maist plesand place to mak repair,
Thairin to sit or gang;
Thy knottis; and thy alleis fair,
Quhilk are bayth braid and lang.
Thy buttis, biggit neir thame by,
Sa suire, but sone or wind,
Maist plesand place of archerie
That e’er I yit could find.
Thow hes a thousand plesoures ma,
That my toung cannot tell,
O happie war he that micht ay
Bot troubill in thee dwell!
And happie art thou, sic a place,
That few thy mak are sene;
Bot yit mair happie far that race
To quhome thou dois pertene.
Quha dois not knaw the Maitland bluid,
The best in all this land;
In quhilk sumtyme the honour stuid
And worship of Scotland?
Stanza viii. page 317.
_While, through the copsewood, Coalston’s turrets gleam,
And still remind us of her Margaret’s ominous dream._
The Enchanted Pear of Coalston, which was considered a sufficient dowry
for a lady, was the gift, it is supposed, of Hugh Gifford, the magician
of Yester. “The heiress of his family,” says Sharpe, “married Sir
William Hay of Locharret, ancestor of John, third Lord Hay of Yester,
whose daughter Jean became the wife of Mr. Brown of Coalston. This
lady’s dowry consisted of a single pear, probably enchanted by her
ancestor, which her father declared to be invaluable; assuring the Laird
of Coalston, that while the pear was preserved in the family, it would
certainly continue to flourish. This palladium is still carefully
treasured up; but there is a mark on one side, made by the eager teeth
of a lady of Coalston, who, while breeding, longed for the forbidden
fruit, and was permitted to take one bite by her too-indulgent husband;
in consequence, some of the best farms on the estate very speedily came
to market. Crawford, the peerage-writer, thus mentions the superstition
in his MS. account of the Browns of Coalston:—‘They had a pear in their
family, which they esteemed yer palladium; it’s reported, that Betty
Mackenzie, when she married George Brown of Colstoun, the first night
she came to the house of Colstoun, dreamed that she had eat the pear,
which her father-in-law looked on as a bad omen, and expressed great
fears that she should be an instrument in the destruction of the house
of Colstoun.’”—See _Sharpe’s Prefatory Notice to Law’s Memoriallis_, p.
14. Notwithstanding these predictions, the house of Coalston still
flourishes in the female line, in the person of Lady Dalhousie.
Stanza xii. page 319.
_With Charles fair Lennox might have shared the throne;
For o’er his heart she held despotic sway._
_Frances Teresa_, Duchess of Lennox, was daughter to the Hon. Walter
Stuart, M.D., son of Walter, first Lord Blantyre. This lady was of
exquisite beauty, which, if justly represented in a puncheon made by
Rottiere, engraver of the Mint, exhibits the finest face that perhaps
ever appeared.—_Mem. Gramont_, vol. i. p. 272. Charles II. was
desperately enamoured of her, and it was said there was a design on foot
to get him divorced from the queen, that he might marry this lady;—but
to his great indignation, _and to her honour_, she espoused Charles,
sixth Duke of Richmond and Lennox. Bishop Burnet says, the king
disgraced Lord Clarendon for not preventing this marriage. Charles’s
romantic regard is evident from his ordering a coinage, as mentioned
above, whereon her portrait was represented as Britannia on the
reverse.—See _Fenton’s Notes to Waller_. There is a portrait of this
celebrated beauty in the Memoires de Gramont, and in Pinkerton’s
Iconographia Scotica; as also a fine full-length painting in
Lethington-house. The latter likewise contains, among many other fine
family-likenesses, excellent portraits of Queen Mary, the Marquis of
Montrose, Lord Belhaven, and the Admirable Crichton.
THE
MURDER
OF
SIR JAMES STANFIELD.
=In Two Fits.=
——Blood will have blood:
Stones have been known to move, and trees to speak;
Augurs, and understood relations, have
By maggot pies, and choughs, and rooks, brought forth
The secret’st man of blood.
SHAKSPEARE.
Sir James Stanfield, the subject of the following ballad, held the
rank of Colonel in the parliamentary army. After Cromwell’s victory
at Dunbar, he came to Scotland, and established a woollen
manufactory at Newmills (now Amisfield,) in the neighbourhood of
Haddington, under the immediate patronage of the protectorate. At
the Restoration, Parliament granted certain immunities and
privileges to Colonel Stanfield, on whom Charles II. conferred the
honour of knighthood.—_Sir G. B. Hepburn’s View Agri._ His prospects
were, however, soon blasted; for, in 1687, he was found murdered, as
was supposed, by his eldest son Philip, whom he had disinherited for
his debauchery. This unfortunate person was tried, condemned, and
executed for the murder 24th February 1688.—_Fountainhall’s Dec._
vol. i. p. 484.
SIR JAMES STANFIELD.
=Fit the First.=
Sir James has to the greenwood gone,
And he has gone alone;
Sir James will walk the live-long day,
And tell his mind to none.
He has not ta’en his dappled steed,
Nor yet his spotted hound;
But wildly, with his grey head bare,
He treads the dewy ground.
Now books and board have ceased to charm,
He walks like one deranged,
Or troubled ghost, at dead of night,
From earth and Heaven estranged.
The kimmer sat behind the thorn,
Bleaching her linens clean,
When she beheld a leal old man,
Come pacing o’er the green.
“O woes me! on my wicked son,”
She heard the old man say;
“O woes me! on my wicked son,
“That kills me day by day.
“He spends his days in folly’s haunts,
“His nights in courts obscene;
“And, oh! ere life’s meridian day,
“A begging he’ll be seen.
“O woes me! on my lady proud,
“She’s leagured with my son;
“They wish my head in a clay-cold bed—
“I feel their curse begun.
“O woman’s love is light and vain,
“It’s easy aye to bear;
“It blossoms like the flower in June,
“To fade at the fall o’ the year.
“Time was, with heart elate with joy,
“Cheer’d by my sov’reign’s smile,
“When self-applause and honour’s meed
“Did all my cares beguile;
“But as some pine, that braves the storm
“And rears on high its head,
“Of all its vernal worth is shorn
“By reptiles which it fed:
“So by the inmates of my house
“I’m wearied and undone;
“My wife’s unfaithful to my bed,
“I’m hated by my son.
“His crimes, conspicuous as yon orb,
“Are blazing far abroad,
“Denouncing wrath, he strikes the priest
“Even in the house of God.
“He curses church—he curses king—
“His curses fall on me!
“But, Heaven! hear a father’s prayer;
“For vengeance dwells with thee!”
The kimmer sobb’d,—then straight arose
To comfort the lorn knight;
She loosed her loud loquacious tongue,
But he was out of sight.
“O leeze me on this warld’s care,
“’Tis true as tongue can tell,
“The great anes o’ the earth,” quo’ she,
“They just are like oursel.
“O whither has the auld man gane?
“I trow he’s no himsel’;
“And much I dread he’s ta’en the road
“Down bie the haunted well!
“From yonder bush a voice of wo
“Comes mournful on the breeze,
“The accents, as they meet my ear,
“My very soul doth freeze.”
‘O spare a father’s life!’ it says,
‘Avert the fatal blow;
‘O let these hoary hairs repose
‘Till time shall lay them low!’
As springs a tiger from the brake,
Two ruffians fiercely sprung,
And with a ’kerchief close comprest,
Soon gagg’d the old man’s tongue.
They tied his throat with hempen cord,
Then foot and arm they wheel,
Till crash’d his windpipe like the ice
Beneath the courser’s heel.
The kimmer thrice assay’d to speak;
She thrice assay’d to fly;
But kimmer’s blood forsook her heart,
Her palsied veins ran dry.
Sunk, motionless, upon the turf,
She lay like marble stone;
A mortal image but remain’d,
With all sensation gone.
Sir James comes not at breakfast hour,
He does not come to dine;
For him they search both house and bower
Upon the verdant Tyne.
There is a gloom on every face,
And every heart is sore;
There is a sadness on the earth,
And rural mirth is o’er.
Now all is silent in the hall,
Where all was noise before;
The menials tremble as they list
Each grating, opening door.
The lady to her chamber hied,
And made her silent moan,
And wonder’d much within herself
Where her true knight had gone.
Her heart swell’d big with dread remorse;
Her brain boil’d as with fire;
And much she mourn’d that she took part
With son against his sire.
“O wo betide the cruel youth!
“And leman’s treach’rous smile,
“That e’er seduced my foolish heart
“To work my husband guile.”
She laid her head on pillow soft,
But, ah! ’twas not to sleep;
She paced her chamber o’er and o’er,
And waken’d but to weep;
For when those aching eyes were closed,
Unused to the salt tear,
As oft the lady, starting, thought
Tyne gurgled in her ear.
Why does the house-dog bay so loud?
He’s growl’d since depth of noon,
And now he hunts his own foot-sound,
And shadow by the moon.
Why does the howlet whoop so bold
At the lone hour of night?
Why dances on the river’s marge
The meteor’s blue dead-light?
Why do the grating hinges crash,
The windows rise and fall?
And that unearthly melody
Come sighing from the hall?
Alas! ’tis wayward phantasy
That’s working in the brain;
For silent is that mansion now
As death’s most drear domain.
When the cock clapp’d his speckled wing,
And day began to shine,
O there were nought but drowsy eyes
Upon the banks of Tyne!
The woods and glens were peopled o’er
With matron, youth, and maid,
Who search’d from Linton’s rocky linn
To Morham’s mossy shade.
Sir James’s steed stands by the pool,
It thirsts—but will not drink;
Nor bridle rein, nor gentle hand,
Will urge him by the brink.
’Tis merry in the greenwood now,
The bugles sound afar,
The trees upwave their dark-green locks
Above the sylvan war.
The beagles plunge into the pool,
The horses shake their manes,—
A corpse is dragg’d towards the shore,
O God!—it is Sir James!
O why does vengeance sleep in Heaven!
Or does it only fall
On guiltless heads, that daring crime
Still rules this earthly ball?
Or does it smoulder but to strike,
Like Etna’s bowels to burst,
And with a tenfold vengeance hurl
Her bolts on the accurst?
END OF FIT THE FIRST.
SIR JAMES STANFIELD.
=Fit the Second.=
Let’s briefly put on manly readiness,
And meet i’ the hall together,
And question this most bloody piece of work,
To know it further.—SHAKSPEARE.
The lady shriek’d, and aye she sobb’d,
As she wou’d burst in twain;
“O peace,” quoth she, “I’ll ne’er know more,
“Since my loved knight is slain!
“O pale, pale are those cheeks that flush’d
“With manhood’s ruddy hue;
“And glazed those sparkling eyes in death,
“That spake a soul so true!”
“Go saddle ye the swiftest steed
“That’s snorting in the sta’,
“And ride, go ride, my trusty serf,
“As fast as ye can ca’.
“Ride by Edina’s lofty towers,
“My Philip bring to me;
“For much I dread a natural death
“His father didna dee.”
They search’d the city through and through
From night till dawn of day;
But the wicked youth they could not find
Till his sire was in the clay.