O then he made a loud lament!

And swore himself he’d kill;

But ere a night and day elapsed

He did not look so ill.

And soon Newmills’s mansion fair

With merriment did shake,

As if the burial bread had been

Bewitch’d to bridal cake.

And lightly grew the lady’s heart,

And, O! she busked proud;

And in her sable weeds appear’d

Like beauty in a cloud.

Alas! that aged men should e’er

The youthful virgin wed;

Alas! that youthful wife should e’er

Forsake the marriage bed.

’Twas whisper’d, and perchance ’twas true,

The lady oft was seen

A dallying with her lemane vile

Among the breckans green.

’Tis merry in the greenwood now,

The beagles blithe are running,

And children ramble in the woods

Their golden tresses sunning.

In search of nature’s feathery quire

Two youths had heedless run,

When they o’erheard a villain say

“The hard-won turn is done!”

“He’d borne the brunt of flood and field;

“Had stood knee-deep in gore!

“But never saw a soul so stout

“As that the young Knight bore.

“While in the agonies of death

“The old man’s heart did bleed,

“With taunts, reproach, and fiend-like scorn

“He urged the hellish deed.”

O why comes the king’s messenger

With warrant in his hand?

And why do these grim officers

Bid Philip Stanfield stand?

By yonder stream they’ve ta’en a turn

Beneath the willow’s shade,

Where, shelter’d by the rush-grown bank,

The suicide was laid.

O why do the physicians come,

Muffled in cloak and cowl?

Their business is to save the living,

Sure death they cannot fool.

Why comes the sexton with his spade?

Another foolish man!

Who daily haps mortality,

Yet’s mortal o’er his cann.

The spade upturn’d the wormy earth,

And grazed the coffin’s coom,

When forth they dragg’d the lifeless knight,

Like prisoner to his doom.

Then to Newmills they solemn wend,

Each mourner grim and tall;

And dread amazement paints each face

That crowds into the hall.

Now, “Stanfield, lift thy father’s head,”

The doctors straight did say,

“That we may view his mangled form,

“For here has been foul play!”

Young Stanfield touch’d his father’s corpse,

When ’rose a fearful wail;

For blood gush’d from the winding-sheet,

And every face grew pale.

And aye the dead clothes redder grew—

The youth fell on the floor;

Thus suddenly remorse will smite,

And guilty heart o’erpower.

“Thou art the murderer! alas!”

The pale chirurgeon said;

“Beadles, your stoutest bonds prepare,

“And bind the parricide.”

Then swore the youth by God and heaven,

O’ercome with seeming wo,

“My heart and hand are pure from blood,

“As Lapland’s spotless snow.”

“’Tis false!”—they bound him where he stood,

Nor listed to his tale;

They march’d him hand and limb in chains

To fair Edina’s jail.

Soon sentenced by his country’s laws,

He met a shameful death;

But harden’d guilt the crime denied

With his expiring breath.

Yet retribution came, though late,

Even to the gallows tree;

The cord unclasping, down he slipt

Upon his bended knee.

The hangman finish’d, with a grin,

What seem’d so ill begun,

And strangled, in the pangs of death,

As sire, so died the son.

The headsman plied his horrid art,

When with unerring stroke

The youth’s devoted head, laid low,

Roll’d bloody from the block.

Then high in air his clotted locks

To rabble’s gaze was spread,

As loud the executor cried,

“Behold the parricide!”

On Haddington’s eastern portal high

His hand and head were placed;

For near that fatal field did lie,

This horrid crime disgraced.

NOTES TO SIR JAMES STANFIELD.

Page 331, line 15.

_Denouncing wrath, he strikes the priest

Even in the house of God._

Of Philip Stanfield, Wodrow observes,—“This profligate youth being at

the university of St Andrews, a good many years before he committed this

barbarous murder, came to a sermon in Kinkel-close, about a mile from St

Andrews, where Mr John Welch was preaching, and in his spite and mockery

in time of sermon, threw somewhat or other at the minister, which hit

him. The minister stopped, and said, ‘He did not know who had put that

public affront on a servant of Christ; but be who he would, he was

persuaded there would be more present at his death than were hearing him

preach that day, and the multitude was not small.’ This was

accomplished, and Mr Stanfield acknowledged this in prison after he was

condemned, and that God was about to accomplish what he had been warned

of.”

Page 333, line 1.

_A springs a tiger from the brake,

Two ruffians fiercely sprung,

And with a ’kerchief close comprest,

Soon gagg’d the old man’s tongue._

The account of this dreadful case is thus given by Lord Fountainhall, a

contemporary judge.—“1687, 14th Dec.—Sir James Stanfield being found

dead some few days before, beside his own house of Newmills, some

thinking he had drowned himself in some melancholy fit, to which he was

incident; the fame of the country did run that he was strangled by his

sons or servants; for he had disinherited his eldest son for his

debauchery, and disponed his fortune to his second son, and failzieing

of him to Commissar Dalrymple. On this suspicion there was an order

directed from the Privy Council to Muirhead and Crawford, chirurgeons in

Edinburgh, to visit his body and report; for they had very hastily

buried him, pretending that they would not have his body to be gazed

upon and viewed by all comers: And they having reported that they saw

signs of strangulation, and that his head bled when Philip his eldest

son touched it, he was apprehended and imprisoned, as likewise two of

Sir James’s servants, and a woman, which three last were brought in, 8th

December, before the Privy Council, and tortured with the thumbikins,

but confessed nothing.—Yet the presumptions were very pregnant against

Philip.—He had attempted on his father formerly, which his father had

declared to several; and he declined to concur with the King’s Advocate

in a pursuit against the murderers; and was found to have much money,

(though he gave in a bill seeking an aliment,) and did hastily bury him;

and bruised blood was found about his throat; and the mother had the

dead clothes all ready; and the minister, (Mr John Bell,) heard great

noise that night. And now to get favour, he had declared himself Papist;

upon which grounds a criminal indictment being raised against him, as

also for drinking the King’s confusion, and for cursing his father, &c.”

In his defence, it was urged that he was intoxicated when he drank the

king’s confusion, with whom he linked the pope’s, the chancellor’s, and

the devil’s; yet the justices found it treason! _2do_, That with respect

to cursing his father, that they were afterwards reconciled—the justices

also repelled this defence. _3tio_, That the presumptions libelled

against the parricide were not relevant. His lordship goes on to state

“the chirurgeon’s attest, that he was not drowned but strangled; the

miraculous providence of the two children discovering the truth against

their parents, the one a boy of 13, and the other a girl of 11 years,

who were not sworn, not knowing the importance of an oath; but only

declared that they heard their parents telling one to the other that the

turn was done; and that Philip carried very stoutly, and that they

should have put a stone about his neck to make him sink.”

It was also proved, in extenuation, that Sir James was once mad, and

thereafter hypocondriac. “That he used to tell, himself, that in one of

these fits he rode towards England with a design never to have returned,

but that his horse stopped at ——, and would not go forward, which he

looked upon as the finger of God; and that once he was throwing himself

out at a window at the Netherbow, if Thomas Lendall had not pulled him

in by the feet; and that the very week before his death, he desired

George Stirling to let blood of him, because his head was light,” &c.

The following circumstance, mentioned in the indictment, seems to have

had great weight with the jury:—“That (the deceased’s) nearest relations

being required to lift the corpse into the coffin, after it had been

inspected, upon the said Philip Stanfield touching of it, (according to

God’s usual mode of discovering murder,) it bled afresh upon the said

Philip; and that thereupon he let the body fall, and fled from it in the

greatest consternation, crying, Lord have mercy upon me!” The assize

finding him guilty, “the Lords of Justiciary decerned him to be hanged

on the 15th February, at the cross of Edinburgh, and his tongue to be

cut out for cursing his father, and his right hand to be cut off for the

parricide; and his head to be put upon the East Port of Haddington, as

nearest to the place of murder; and his body to be hung up in chains

betwixt Leith and Edinburgh, and his lands and goods to be confiscated

for the treason.”

All this was rigorously put in execution. “Some thought,” continues his

lordship, “if not a miraculous, yet an extraordinary return of his

imprecations, the accident of the slipping of the knots on the rope,

whereby his feet and knees were on the scaffold, which necessitated them

to strangle him, bearing therein a near resemblance to his father’s

death: and a new application having been made, that they might be

allowed to bury him, Duke Hamilton was for it, but the Chancellor would

not consent, because he had mocked his religion; so his body was hung

up, and after some days being stolen down, it was found lying in a ditch

among some water, as his father’s was; and by order was hung up again,

and then a second time was taken down. This is a dark case of

divination, to be remitted to the great day, whether he was guilty or

innocent. Only it is certain he was a bad youth, and may serve as a

beacon to all profligate persons.”—_Fountainhall’s Dec. Lords Ses._ vol.

i. p. 484.

SONNET

ON VISITING BARRA CHURCH-YARD.

Deem not the spot unblest, though the church pile

Be moulder’d to decay; three mossy stones

Mark cells as hallow’d as the sculptured aisle,

Where villagers repose their weary bones;

The winds of heaven sigh moaning o’er their graves,

Where the long grass in mournful billows waves;

And when the moonlight sleeps upon yon knoll

The swain will pause, and think upon his soul!—

But most I love the blue-flower gleaming there,

Sprung from the ashes of some village maid,

Who blossom’d in life’s spring, chaste, young, and fair,

Till in Death’s arms she shrunk into a shade.

I’ll take a seedling from this lonely flower,

To be the moralist of my summer-bower.

VERSES

IN MEMORY

OF

DUNBAR COLLEGIATE CHURCH.

There is a Temple in ruin stands,

Fashion’d by long-forgotten hands.

Out upon Time! it will leave no more

Of the things to come than the things before!

——What we have seen our sons shall see,

Remnants of things that have pass’d away,

Fragments of stone, rear’d by creatures of clay!—

BYRON.

The first notice we have of the church of Dunbar is in the Taxatio of

Lothian, in 1176, where Ecclesia de Dunbar cum capella de Whytingeham is

assessed at 180 merks.—_Chalmers’ Cal._ From the earliest times, the

Earls of Dunbar appear to have been proprietors of the whole parish, and

patrons of the church and its subordinate chapels. In 1342, during the

reign of David II., Patrick, fifth of that name, and tenth Earl of

Dunbar and March, converted the parochial church into a collegiate

form.—It was confirmed by William, bishop of St Andrew’s, and besides

being the first establishment of that kind known in Scotland, was

anciently the richest in the deanry of Lothian. With its subordinate

chapels, it was valued at 180 merks, a greater valuation than any other

could bear at the same period. At the Reformation, when the church

ceased to be collegiate, the archpriestry of Dunbar was stated at £80.

On the forfeiture of the earldom of March, in 1434–5, the patronage of

the church fell to the crown. During the reign of James III., it was

enjoyed, with the earldom of Dunbar, by the Duke of Albany. It again

fell to the king, on the forfeiture of his traitorous brother in 1483;

and now belongs to the Duke of Roxburgh, as principal heritor of the

parish.

The interior of churches, as well as of domestic buildings, having been

much improved within the present century, the collegiate church had long

been found inconvenient for a modern audience, accordingly this

venerable fabric was condemned, and a handsome new church, from a plan

of Gillespie, erected on its site, in 1819.

[Illustration:

DUNBAR COLLEGIATE CHURCH.

]

VERSES.

Thou tempest-stricken veteran! must thou fall

Beneath the weight of years?—Time long has smooth’d

His scythe on thy grey front; and thou hast braved

The gusty whirlwind, and the thunder-crash,

Through many a stormy hour; and thou hast seen

The sons of men come forth like flowers, and fade,

Four sluggish centuries; yet thou must fall,

And, like the Architect who plann’d thy fane,

Be gulf’d and lost in the Lethean stream.

O thou! who in thy ample arms enfold’st

The unnumber’d charters of the human race,

Come from thy mountain-heap of chronicles,

Thou meditative goddess! and declare

To thy devoted son, whate’er thou knowest

Of this fallen fabric, that, by thee inspired,

My song may be most mournful, yet most true:

Then will I weave a wreath of evergreens,

And place it on the lofty brow of Fame,

To mock the spoiler Time, and tell the world

The faded glories of this ancient church.

First the proud Catholic, with his pompous forms,

Worshipp’d within these walls. For ages rung

The lofty aisles to the deep organ-peal,

While from the silver censers incense blazed

Before the altar, and the mass was sung:

Peace to the souls of that noble race,

Who form’d this fair and goodly place;

The Holy Spirit will gild their path,

While wandering through the caves of Death;—

And the Mother of God, like Etham’s fire,

Will lead them to the heavenly choir.

This life is but a passing dream,

Where all is false, but the things unseen—

Those glorious visions of the sky

That wake Devotion’s midnight sigh,

When the heart communing with its God,

Longs for its last—its blest abode!

This life is like a story told,

That in the telling waxes old;—

A breath—a bubble on the stream,—

Verily life is but a dream!—

Peace to the souls of that noble race,

Who form’d this fair and goodly place.

Illustrious March! who rear’d this ancient fane

A gift to heaven—it has outlived thee long!—

Where are thy honours now? They only swell

The herald’s chronicle!—Thy wide domains

Are in the hands of strangers; and thy church

Moulders beneath the giant-crush of Time!

But long ere Time had wrought this church’s fall,

Its worshippers had changed the despot-creed

That bound their fathers; for a learned race,

Nursed in the polemics of Germany,

Had caught a ray from Heaven, and boldly launch’d

Their legal thunders ’gainst the papal throne;

And then, Dunbar, within thine ancient walls,

The Presbyter, in sober vestments stood,

Best fitted for his office, and declared

The simple doctrines of the Man of Grief!—

Ere England’s naval arm had smote the Dutch,

Swarm’d with a pirate horde these fertile shores:

Then sigh’d the matron o’er her infant charge,

Lest the war-whoop at midnight roused his sire,

While on the turrets of thine ancient pile,

The drowsy sentinel held his weary watch,

And as the morning broke, with searching eye

Scann’d the horizon, fearful lest the shades

Of night had veil’d a foe.——

Nor be thy pulpit-dignities forgot,

Though differing in their creeds, one common lot

Awaits them now before their awful Judge.

I see them rise, in sacerdotal robes,

With meditative eye “that loves the ground.”

First sage Dunbar, of Moray’s noble house,

Deck’d in his gaudy Romish garb appears,

Avowedly zealous;—next walks Manderston,

The advocate of Mary’s hapless cause;

And next, in humbler weeds and solemn state,

The presbyterian Simpson, whose keen eye

Glanced deep into the murderer’s wounded soul,

And dragg’d the horrid secret from its den.

His mighty mind read deep that mystic page

Graved with the characters of future fate;

Foretold the sabbath-breaker’s fearful end,

Saw the mad mother raving o’er her child,

And the lost drave strew’d on the stormy shore.

Then follow Stevenson, the wise and good,

Edina’s ornament, and learning’s pride;—

And Wood, his prince’s favourite, he who won

The mitre of the Isles, and preach’d the cross

To the lone dwellers of the western main;—

And last, Carfrae, whose native eloquence

Has never been surpass’d within these walls.

But, lo! a Spirit rises from yon towers,

(Whose ruins tremble on the wave-worn cliff;)

Veil’d in the mist of years, it stretches forth

Its viewless arm, and strikes the solemn pile.

The temple trembles to its deepest base,

And its rent fragments strew the hallow’d ground.

And, see! the work of ruin has begun

Within the sanctuary,—a motley crew

Have ta’en possession of the sacred place.

The house of prayer is now an antic stage,

Where boys delight to sport the idle hour;—

And, lo! exalted ‘midst his mad compeers,

An urchin mounts the rostrum, while the crowd

Pick up the fragments of the broken pews,

And pelt their comrade in his pulpit chair.

How changed, since, in the sunny morn of life,

I sat amidst these dear-remember’d pews,

Nor thought the service long! The Roman youth

Hung not with more delight when Cicero spoke,

Than I have listen’d to the holy man.

Returning to these scenes, but late I saw

A crowd of stranger-faces worship there,

And I was left alone.—Where have ye fled,

Ye dear companions of those pleasant days,

When hope was young like you, fair as the blooms

Before the wintery wind has sear’d their bud?—

Ye rosy-cheeked host, where have ye fled?—

There, in that corner pew, demurely sat,

With scented ’kerchief and a sprig of thyme,

A _Frigid Maid_, in antiquated state.

Wo to the luckless youth, whom woman’s smile

Had lured astray;—we to the hapless maid

Whom man’s seductive voice had won to vice,

And blighted the red roses on her face;—

It was this Gorgon’s food to feed upon

The strife of others; in her gossip chair

She sat a demon in a woman’s form;

And though ’twas said, that fifty circling years

Had shed a natural whiteness on her head,

With artificial curls and deep-laid rouge,

Still with the changing dresses of the times

Most awkwardly she mimicked the young.

Beneath the middle arches of the church

I’ve seen the _Superannuated Fop_,

With plaited ruffle and huge periwig,

Smart spectacles and golden-headed cane,

The pleasant dandy of an earlier school,

Sit pompously. ’Twas said, and it was true,

Cards, chess, and draughts, at intervals amused

The heavy burden of his _useful_ life.

He roll’d in plenty,—but his wines were sour,

His viands tasteless. When he would enjoy,

Avarice was scowling by, foreboding want.

Thus Providence, all-righteous, balances

The fate of mortals,—and the man who seeks

To hoard up human comforts, hath a blight

Within that blasts enjoyment, and amidst

The bowers of paradise he pines a slave.

There sat, with lengthening phiz, _The Hypocrite_;

“All things to all men,” was his favourite text.

He scoff’d at the profane,—yet never shunn’d

Their company when a foaming bowl went round:

He vilified the lecherous,—yet would “lip

A wanton” in the dark. He was your friend—

Sat at your board; but if on slight occasion

His interest clash’d with thine, then ‘mediately

He stood estranged.—He was a backbiter,

The old man’s contumely—the maiden’s curse!

Religion, politics, were still his theme;

While pliant as the ash that shades the stream,

Grew his opinion, wavering with the times—

The basest were _anointed_ while they ruled,

But _out of place_, detested by this wretch!

Yet deem not that within these sacred walls

None bore the image of their Maker’s face.

Because amidst a bed of flowers upsprings

A host of weeds—O, yes! a multitude

Of innocent, honest, upright characters,

Worshipp’d within these walls, that practised all

The shining virtues of a Christian life.

There might be seen the _Honest-hearted Man_,

Whose tongue was still the echo of his mind,

In sober vestments, listening earnestly

To hear the word of life. He was not free

From early prejudices, cherish’d long,

That look’d like bigotry. New psalmody

Was his abhorrence, tinkling itching ears

With its vain sounds; and innovations all

He could not brook; yet still he was a man

That loved his God, and sought to serve mankind.

Near to the pulpit sat the _Simpering Maid_,

Wafting her soul in pleasant sounds to heaven,

The toast of half the parish. She, alas!

Long since eclipsed, has hung her beauteous head,

Like flowers that wither in the noontide ray;

For Beauty, like the hues that colour life,

Has but its passing tribute. Novelty

Delights the soul, and yonder blue expanse

Seems not so fair as evening’s changing clouds,

That shape their varied colours in the sky.

Now, arm’d, destruction’s satellites advance,

And like a stream long pent, at once bursts forth,

O’erwhelming all. The lofty rafters fall,

And roofs, in crashing masses, tumble down,

While the foundation shakes as if the ground

Was struggling with an earthquake’s hot embrace.

Spare, vandal! spare, that splendid monument,

Where lie the ashes of illustrious Home!

Else shall each mailed warrior start to life,

And with his stony gauntlet strike thee down.—

Yes! thou shalt spare that honour’d sepulchre,

And it will stand a princely ornament

To grace the new-born church, that, Phœnix-like,

Shall spring forth from the ashes of its sire.

And spare! O spare! that tablet in the wall,

That marks where Stevenson all lowly lies.

It is too late!—the massy pickaxe falls,

And the stone, graved with letters of renown,

In splinters mixes with ignoble heaps.—

And, see! the busy workmen have begun

To clear the old foundations of the church.

Now in its dark and secret sepulchres

The spade makes devastation, and turns up

The bones of those who long have slept in state.

Go tell Nobility, that he’s a fool,

And wastes his wealth in vain! I’d rather sleep

In yonder green-arch’d cell, with nature’s shroud

Above my breast, where morning’s smiles might fall,

Or evening’s tears bedew my lonely bed,

Than be twice-buried in these graves of stone,

To prop the basis of some future church.

See, where the labourer turns a precious load

Uncourteously. That little heap of earth,

Once thought—and breathed—and lived—and felt like me!—

’Tis the last relic of an only child,

A doting mother fondled at her breast.

The miniature, image of herself.—

His morn was cloudless—Spring’s delicious breath

Was deem’d too keen to kiss his baby face,—

His walks were in the garden’s shades at noon;

His food was fruits and cream, and choicest sweets;

His bed was roses, like the Stagyrite’s,

Music and Painting cheer’d his leisure hours,

While Poetry’s soft voice beguiled his youth,

And his fond parents only lived for him.—

Alas! how would the foolish woman weep

To see her darling’s ashes toss’d aside

Beside some beggar’s brat,—some untamed boy

Who fed on charity,—to whom, at eve,

A barn or byre was choicest luxury.

Now myriads crowd, like pilgrims on a march,

To take a last look of their early Friend!—

Yes! midst the many chequer’d scenes of life

The church was still their Friend. When blithe and young,

The lessons taught within her hallow’d walls

Reform’d their manners and improved their heart.

In active manhood, when love’s gentle thrill

Beat in the bosom, and the stripling paid

His marriage-tithes, and to the altar led

The lovely object of his youthful choice,

(Blushing like virtue at her own applause,)

This church then hail’d him as a worthy Friend.—

And when the circling months had blest the bed

With fruit in season, sponsor-like it gave

The child a name.—Nor less in grief, than joy,

Has this fallen fabric acted friendly part;

Administering consolation in distress,

And wafting prayers for thee when hope was gone.

No more the sailor, homeward bound, will hail

Thy well-known turrets, shining on the steep,

A blessed sea-mark. Oft at sight of thee,

How nimbly slipt the cordage through his hands,

For he was near his home;—and wife, and friends,

And social canns of grog were flowing fast,

In fond anticipation ere they came.

Upon thy towers, it was a pleasant sight

To view the varied landscape, hill and dale

Promiscuous mingling, stretching far away.

Eastward St Abbs his promontory dips

In the blue wave. Behind the dusky lines

Of Lammermoor extend in mountain-pride,

While Doon Hill, sloping, bares its reddening sides

To meet the ploughshare, glittering on the steep.

Beneath it lies the haunted glens of Spot,

Where Hecate’s children held unhallow’d feats

Around the rowan-tree,—the cauldron smoked,

While the Rigwoody Witch, with horrid oaths,

Startled the bird of night.—But sweeter spread

The glen of Ossydean, at morn or eve,

Where patient angler, by the winding stream

Secures his prey; and Broxmouth’s tufted woods,

Fann’d by the sea-breeze, stretching to the sea,

Where the Protector, with his fierce brigade,

Subdued the Covenanters. Peaceful now

Sails on her gentle lake, among the trees,

The downy cygnet, gazing at herself

In the clear waters. Nearer, through the shades,

Rural Lochend, in pensive beauty stands;

There spreads the Latch, a pleasant rendezvous,

Where it was sweet, at Sabbath’s morn, to hear

The church bell’s melody, as through the copse

We saunter’d to the Common’s daisied walk;

Southward Dunpender rears his verdant head;

Far west the Pentlands hide their pointed tops

In the ethereal sky; and Fife’s dark shores

Bound the wide-swelling Forth; the hermit May

Stands with his torch; and Berwick’s lofty Law

Shines isolated; and the craggy Bass

Shows its white cliffs; while, underneath, is seen

Dunbar’s grey towers, that tremble on the steep;

Her harbour snug—her battery, picturesque;

Her rocky caverns, and her pebbly shores!

Yon setting sun, that gilds the watery west,

Sheds on the glories of that fallen church

His farewell rays. Another morn, and then

There’s not a sculptured fragment left to tell

Where stood a temple. I will stand and gaze

A last adieu!—and then return, and gaze,—

’Tis parting with a loved familiar friend,

Endear’d by early, long, and sweet acquaintance;

For every stone of hers is chronicled

Deep in my memory, there to bloom for ever;

More lovely in the shade of future years,

When mellow’d by the softening hues of time.

Poor pilgrim of a day! thou too must fall,

Like art’s strong works, amidst the waste of years;

But the Great Architect who plann’d thee first,

Will model thee again more beauteously,

When his own Zion he builds and repairs.

The Church-yard Soliloquy

Ye sepulchres, and sculptured monuments!

Whose uncouth rhythmes often wake a smile

Where Pity’s tear should fall,—I come to muse

Upon the silent tenants you enshrine;

And, lo! like peopled mists in highland glens,

They live before me in their earthly shapes.—

Whose is that cherub-form? Pale roseate hues

Bloom on her faded cheek. Her little hands

Are stretch’d toward me.—Ha! she flies—she flies!—

I start entranced, as from a waking dream,

And kneel upon my sister’s viewless grave.

She died in infancy,—and I have wish’d

That we had closed our pilgrimage together;

Then had I ’scaped a world of guile and wo,

And fallen, like her, upon the lap of heaven,

Pure as a snowdrop on a virgin’s breast.

Ah! little did I think, when late I dew’d

Thy mossy dwelling with a brother’s tears,

That my poor heart should feel a deeper sting;

That with a father’s feelings I should weep

A darling child, nipt in the bud of life,

Gone, ah! too soon, to mix his dust with thine!

Unnumber’d figures float, in dim review,

That wear the form of images forgot,

Wash’d from the mind’s eye by the flood of time

Like lines upon the sand; yet I have seen

These forms and faces breathe and act like me,

Smile at a jest, or melt at tales of wo;

Warm with the glow of hope, exult in joy;

Grow pale with rank disease, and waste with sorrow;

Now they have paid life’s ruthless creditor,

Nor left a trace to mark their path behind.

There walks the bridegroom with his pensive bride,

Whom I saw church’d in yon dismantled pew,

In all the dazzling glow of health and beauty,

Blushing with roses.—Ah! how faded now

Her nameless beauties and bewitching smiles;—

No ringlets wanton on that horrid face,

Those cheeks are sunk, that swell’d with sweet expression;

Those eyes are dim, that beam’d like shining stars

Before heaven’s gates, and tenantless their sockets;

While on that breast, where Love delighted dwelt,

The loathsome worm has made a gorgeous feast!

Death strikes the coward swain; the warrior bold

He smites amidst his bright career of honour!

So Ramsay fell, the noble and the brave,

When life was big with promise; here, behold!

Maternal love has rear’d a monument,

And the green turf becomes a hallow’d spot,

When water’d by a mother’s holiest tears.

And, haply, in these burial solitudes,

Some wo-struck youth, at eve, may meditate,

What time the moon, in pensive loveliness,

Leads forth her blue-eyed sisters, and from heaven

Chases the dusky Queen: Then as he mourns

A brother’s loss, or weeps the death of friends,

He sees that last and lonely green-arch’d cell,

Where he will also find a quiet home.

And does there slumber in forgotten dust,

Some earlier bard, who hail’d this ancient church

With heavenly melody?—Alas! such fate

Awaits the framer of this lowly lay!

A few short years, and nameless is the spot

Where the lone thistle blossoms on his grave.

NOTES

TO

VERSES ON DUNBAR COLLEGIATE CHURCH.

Page 335, line 21.

_Ere England’s naval arm had smote the Dutch,

Swarm’d with a pirate horde these fertile shores._

These lines allude to a visit paid to the Forth by that noted

marine-adventurer, Paul Jones, in September, 1779. His squadron lay at

anchor for some days off Dunbar, during which period the town was

inundated with soldiers, and the people were busily employed throwing up

batteries on the kirk hill, &c. In consequence of a vessel called the

Rodney, (afterwards one of the Greenland ships belonging to the port)

running into Dunbar harbour for shelter, a brig of the enemy’s weighed

anchor, and nearly run on shore in pursuit of her. The squadron, having

stood up the Forth, were seen nearly opposite Leith on the 17th, when a

violent south-west wind arising (aided, as was said, by the prayers of a

goodly minister of Kirkcaldy,) fortunately drove them rapidly back

again, and laid them alongside his Majesty’s ships the Serapis and

Countess of Scarborough, near Flamborough-head, which Jones captured

after a desperate engagement. They had the Baltic fleet in convoy, which

luckily escaped during the conflict. The enemy carried their prizes to

the Texel, having on board 300 prisoners, whom they had taken during

their cruise in the North seas. For these exploits the king of France

rewarded Paul Jones with the military order of merit, and a gold-hilted

sword.

In May, 1781, Captain Fall, another, but less noted adventurer, appeared

off Dunbar, under peculiar circumstances. A small privateer had been

fitted out from that port, which, after a long absence, appeared one

morning, to the indescribable astonishment of the inhabitants, not with

a prize, but followed by a huge privateer in chase! Having run snugly on

shore, under shelter of the haven, she opened her broadside on the

enemy, whom she provoked to send a few shots into the town, one of which

struck a log of wood near the castle. It is even said that the

volunteers of those days pelted her with musquetry from the pier! This

insufficient mode of warfare against so formidable an enemy might have

been attended with serious consequences to the town, had not a veteran

seaman sent a well-directed shot from a heavy carronnade which lay on

the island, and nearly carried away the pirate’s mast. This had the

desired effect of making him sheer off.

Page 356, line 10.

_First, sage Dunbar, of Moray’s noble house,

Deck’d in his gaudy Romish garb appears._

Columba Dunbar, descended from the Earls of Moray, was dean of the

church of Dunbar in 1411, whence he was promoted to the see of Moray.

Page 356, line 12.

——_Next, walks Manderston,

The advocate of Mary’s hapless cause._

John Manderston was canon of the college church of Dunbar in 1567, and

was one of those appointed by the Archbishop of St Andrews to attend the

court on a divorce sued for by Lady Jean Gordon against the Earl of

Bothwell, while Queen Mary was detained at Dunbar.

Page 356, line 15.

_The presbyterian Simpson, whose keen eye

Glanced deep into the murderer’s wounded soul,

And dragg’d the horrid secret from its den._

Andrew Simpson was master of the school of Perth, and taught Latin with

much success. He had sometimes under his charge 300 boys, many of them

sons of the principal nobility. He left Perth at the Reformation, 1560,

and became minister of Dunning and Cargill, from which he was

translated, in 1564, to Dunbar, where he sustained the double office of

master of the grammar school and minister of the parish.

In 1570, Mr Simpson was called to attend the Rev. John Kello, minister

of Spot, in his sickness, who was shortly after convicted, and executed

for the unnatural murder of his wife. This unhappy man having related a

remarkable dream he had had to Mr Simpson, the latter had no hesitation

in retorting upon him, as Nathan said unto David,—_Thou art the

man!_—This struck so deep into the culprit’s heart, that he made instant

confession, and, when afterwards on the scaffold, he ascribed the

disclosure of this horrible deed to the soul-piercing discernment of

this pious priest, in these memorable words:—

“Ther was not small support in the mouth of some faythfull brethren, to

bring me to this confessione of my awin offence. Bot, above all, Mr

Andro Symsone, minister of Dumbar, did so lyvlie rype foorth the inward

cogitationes of my hert, and discover my mynd so planelie, that I

persuaded myself God spak in him; and besydis vtheris notable

coniecturies which he trulie dedvced befoir my eyes, he remembrit me of

ane dreame, which in my grit seikness did appearandlie present the

self ... at this tyme did God move my hart to acknowledge the horror of

my awin offence, and how far Sathan had obteinit victorie ower

me.”—_Bannatyne’s Trans. Scot._ p. 47.

Page 356, line 25.

_And Wood, his prince’s favourite. He who won

The Mitre of the Isles, and preach’d the cross

To the lone dwellers of the western main._

Andrew Wood, Bishop of the Isles, was son to David Wood, a minister, by

Miss Guthrie, sister to John Guthrie of Guthrie. He was first minister

of Spot, and then of Dunbar, and was created Bishop of the Isles in

1678. He received a dispensation from the king to hold the benefice of

Dunbar together with the said bishoprick. He was translated to the see

of Caithness in 1680, where he continued till the revolution in 1688. He

died at Dunbar in 1695, aged 76 years.—_Keith’s Cat._ p. 129.

Page 361, line 6.

_Spare, vandal! spare, that splendid monument,

Where lie the ashes of illustrious Home._

Sir George Home was created Earl of Dunbar[22] by James VI., and died at

Whitehall, Jan. 29, 1611. “His body,” says Crawfurd, “being embalmed,

and put into a coffin of lead, was sent down to Scotland, and with great

solemnity interred in the collegiate church of Dunbar, where his

executors erected a very noble and magnificent monument of

various-coloured marble, with a statue as large as life.”—_Crawfurds

Officers of State_, vol. i. p. 399. This superb monument was situated in

the east aisle of the collegiate church, and as that part of the old

wall against which it stood was incorporated with the modern building,

it still retains its original situation in the new edifice.

Page 361, line 41.

_And spare, O spare! that tablet in the wall,

That marks where Stevenson all lowly lies._

This tablet was situated on the right of the door, leading into the

south-east aisle. Of the elaborate inscription, the name of Stevenson

alone was legible; but it may be seen in full in “Monteith’s Theatre of

Mortality.” He was 30 years professor of philology and philosophy in

Edinburgh, and 25 years minister of Dunbar.

Page 364, line 16.

_Where the Protector with his fierce brigade

Subdued the Covenanters._

Cromwell entered Dunbar on Sunday, 1st September, 1650, the day

preceding the battle of Dunbar, and encamped in the neighbourhood of the

church, taking up his quarters in Broxmouth-house. Tradition says, that

he fortified the church-yard.

ORMISTON YEW TREE;

WITH A

LAMENT FOR THE EARL OF HOPETOUN.

Hail! monarch of the garden’s bed,

That gleams like Druids’ grove afar;

May lightnings never blast thy head,

Nor blighting dews thy glories mar;

And, should Destruction’s arm abhorr’d,

E’er smite thee in thy noon of fame,

Thy trunk shall deck the festive board,

Like Shakspeare’s tree, and save thy name.

Beneath thy dark umbrageous shade

The village swain delights to rove,

To tell his kind-consenting maid

The soft voluptuous tale of love;

While blushes tinge her rosy cheeks,

As crimson rays o’er snow-wreaths steal,

The silent sigh too well bespeaks

What maiden lips may not reveal.

How oft thy branches, spreading wide,

Have canopied the children’s ring,

From merry morn till eventide,

Disporting like the birds in spring;

While chasing from their dewy nest

The covey o’er the lilied lea;

Or, climbing high, with fearless breast,

To rob the rook on yonder tree.

Years speed away—the rustic core

Again beneath thy foliage meet,

But not so blest as when of yore

They tripp’d on music-loving feet.

Now manhood’s sterner cares engage,

As Mammon’s paths they keen explore;

Or, haply, read the patriarch’s page,

Or turn unmeaning thesis o’er.

When sultry Sol is flaming high,

At summer’s noon the swains repair

’Neath thy impervious canopy

The frugal fare of health to share.

The cup goes round at pleasure’s call,

The kiss is stolen from buxom maid;

While, catching fragments as they fall,

The fawning dog is couchant laid.

But when the clouds in darkness roam,

Thick scatter’d by the murmuring wind,

The moralist loves thy solemn gloom,

That suits his meditative mind:

Dull tree! thou lov’st the burial-ground,

With evergreens thou mock’st decay;

For where the woodmen moulder round,

Thou gather’st moisture from their clay.

Canst thou, like old Dodona’s oak,

Thy silent leaves to language wake,

Where sacred doves responsive spoke?—

The tree this answer deign’d to make:

“Here Wishart shew’d prophetic powers,

“Before that vial of wrath was given,

“When in St Andrew’s dungeon towers

“His vengeance-blood uprose to heaven!—

“Here Cockburn, in my solitude,

“Forgot the bench and wrangling bar,

“With Science in her gentler mood

“To wage the literary war:—

“Alike the senate or the plough,

“The olive branch or patriot’s steel,

“To him who with undaunted brow

“Still advocated Scotia’s weel.

“Haply, beneath my verdant spray,

“You tread the muse’s path divine,

“Where lovely Fairnalie would stray,

“The gentle votress of the nine.

“She struck the lyre amongst these bowers,

“And breathed that sweetly plaintive lay,

“That weeps the forest’s wither’d flowers,

“To fatal Flodden wede away.”

The tree was silent as before,

It’s voice like summer breezes died,

When the lone stranger rests his oar

Upon Loch Lomond’s shelter’d side.

Perhaps thy earlier shoots might form

The trusty bow on Flodden’s plain,

Where fell, amidst the arrowy storm,

Thy warrior lord ’midst heaps of slain!

But now thy vernal boughs must mourn,

The archer weep beneath thy shade;

For Hopetoun never shall return,

In Gallia’s fields all lowly laid.

He loved to prune thy dark-green plumes,

Which rising beauties still display;

Nor deem’d thy never-fading blooms

The emblem of his laurel bay.

When on Corunna’s fatal shore

Afar the Gallic ensigns waved,

When fell in Victory’s arms, brave Moore,

Hopetoun retiring legions saved;

Then, ’midst the din of doubtful war,

Ere British ships came o’er the sea,

His pensive thoughts might wander far,

And sigh for home, and think on thee!

Thy chieftain fought on Egypt’s sands,

And turn’d the battle’s reddening tide;

Broke vaunting Gallia’s veteran bands,

Unconquer’d by the world beside:

His monument, his country’s page,

In burning characters shall live;

’Twill gather lustre age by age,—

The lustre worth alone can give.

This though his public acts may earn,

Yet private tears will also flow,

The splendid tower, the mountain cairn,

A country’s weeping love will shew.

These domes shall warm the patriot’s breast

To deeds of glory undesign’d,

While at the base the swain shall rest,

And mourn a benefactor kind.

NOTES TO ORMISTON YEW TREE.

Page 373, line 1.

_Hail! monarch of the garden’s bed,

That gleams like Druids’ grove afar._

This luxuriant tree ornaments the Earl of Hopetoun’s garden at

Ormiston-hall. Dr Walker, in his Essays on Natural History, says, that

on the 10th May, 1762, the yew measured ten feet three inches in

circumference; in 1799, the trunk measured eleven feet, and twenty-five

in height; and now (1824) it measures thirteen feet in circumference,

and twenty-eight in height: the diameter of the ground covered by its

branches being about 64 feet, or 190 in circumference. The tree

flourishes in full vigour without any symptoms of decay; and in the

autumnal months, when covered with its red berries, has a magnificent

appearance. The author of the Statistical Account of the Parish

ascertained that the yew had existed for at least two centuries.

Page 375, line 13.

_Here Wishart shew’d prophetic powers,

Before that vial of wrath was given._

In the north-west side of the garden wall, part of the gable remains of

one of the wings of the old family mansion of the Cockburns, which

contains the grated window of a chamber from whence, it is said, the

unfortunate George Wishart was taken in 1546, previous to his suffering

martyrdom at St Andrews.

Tradition says that Wishart frequently preached beneath the yew tree,

when on a visit to the hospitable Laird of Ormiston.

Page 375, line 17.

_Here Cockburn, in my solitude,

Forgot the bench and wrangling bar._

John Cockburn, of Ormiston, was celebrated both as a statesman and a

patriotic representative of his country in the Unionparliament. He

contributed to erect the first bleachfield in Scotland, and it was by

his example and influence that improvements were made on the high-roads

in the neigbourhood. For some time he was one of the Lords of the

Admiralty.

The family burial vault of the Cockburns is situated a few yards from

the present garden, and marks the site of the old church, which was

dedicated to St Giles, and was granted, with its pertinents, to the

hospital of Soltre, in the 13th century.

Page 376, line 3.

_Where lovely Fairnalie would stray,

The gentle votress of the nine._

The late Mrs Cockburn of Ormiston, relict of John Cockburn, whose father

was Lord Justice Clerk, was daughter to Mr Rutherford of Fairnalie, in

Selkirkshire, and wrote the second part of the beautiful song entitled

the Flowers of the Forest.

Page 376, line 17.

_But now thy vernal boughs must mourn,

The archer weep beneath thy shade;

For Hopetoun never shall return,

In Gallia’s fields all lowly laid._

John, fourth earl of Hopetoun, who, after a life devoted to the service

of his country, died at Paris in August, 1823, whither he had gone for

the benefit of his health. Our limits will not permit us to detail the

many public acts of his lordship; suffice to say, that he accompanied

Sir Ralph Abercrombie as brigadier-general in the Egyptian expedition,

in 1800; and was wounded in the hand at the battle of Alexandria, which

deprived the army a while of his services. In consequence of the death

of Sir John Moore, and the wounds of Sir David Baird, at the fatal

battle of Corunna, the command devolved on Lord Hopetoun, then

Lieutenant-general Hope, “to whose zeal and valour was attributed the

success of the day, when the enemy were repulsed at every point of

attack.” A handsome monument to his memory is presently erecting at

Byershill, East Lothian, by his tenantry.

SONNET

TO DIRLETON CASTLE.

Time’s giant-arm has laid thy turrets low,

No more the archers crowd thy broken wall,

Thou ancient castle of the great De Vaux;

But thou art fair and mighty in thy fall,

Shrouded with ivy, like the chequer’d plaid

Of some grim warrior, resting on his shield,

Stricken, but not subdued, in battle-field,

Above the trees thou rear’st thy lofty head.

Where gilded banners stream’d, and bugles sung,

Nature, her yellow drapery has flung,

And, with the wall-flower, sheds an eastern grace

O’er the dark features of thy rugged face.

Stern Time! whose touch is sharper than the spear,

O spare these turrets ‘midst thy endless waste!

That long this tower, like monument, may grace

The lands that shine with Nisbet’s chasten’d taste,

And charm th’ admiring wanderer lingering near.

THE WRECK

OF

THE JOHN AND AGNES SLOOP

OF NEWCASTLE,

AT TYNE SANDS, NEAR DUNBAR, ON THE NIGHT OF SATURDAY THE 9TH NOVEMBER,

1816.

The moon has reach’d her midnight watch in heaven,

And veils her pensive face, afraid to view

The gathering tempest, while upon my couch,

Listening the hollow cadence of the storm,

I count the lazy hours; and meditate

Upon the sailor’s dark and wayward lot.

O ’tis a fearful night for those whose friends

Rock on the stormy wave. Winds howl—seas roar!

And the lone maid, in weeping solitude,

Pines for her lost Palemon on the deep;

Who, ‘numb’d with cold, hangs on the pulpy shrouds,

And thinks how grateful were his Anna’s arms

In such an hour. Then musing Fancy strays

To some drear mansion, tott’ring near the beach,

Where the wind, howling through the gaping chinks,

Startles the babe upon its mother’s breast!—

The mother wakes—and closer clasps her husband!

Then lisps a prayer of silent thankfulness

That he is not a sailor. ’Tis a night

Might freeze the stoutest heart. Such was the gale

When gallant Beaver, on these iron shores,

Beheld his warriors perish, as the day

Closed fearful o’er them, and the rough rocks sawed

The Fox’s[23] keel asunder; she who braved

The fire and triple vengeance of La Hogue,

Less dreadful than the storm. Alas! for him

Whose bark careers amidst the pathless seas,

The sport of winds and waves!—The helmsman bends

To shun the spray, sent by the shooting wave,

That skims athwart the deck. But hark! loud shouts

Come echoing through the streets; and now I hear

The car, deep laden, rattling on the causeway;

List! was the sound deceitful, fancy-form’d,

To agonize the ear?—O, gracious God!

Again the shout is heard,—again—again!

“A ship’s ashore!” each hoarse loud voice proclaims.

And, lo! majestically, along the streets,

The life-boat thunders on the trembling wain:

Heaven’s delegate! to snatch the mariner

From death’s wide-yawning gulf.—A hardy tar,

(Who Pythias-like, had nearly barter’d life

To save his friend,) had brought the dreadful news

Of their disaster. The small vessel lay

Grounded upon the spacious sands of Tyne,

Near where the river meets the Forth’s embrace

Westward of old Dunbar. With bilged stern

She, broadside, met the seas, that sounding swept

The groaning deck. Her lost sails flutter’d wide

In idle rage: so have we often spied

The sea-bird dallying on the ocean’s foam.

The boatmen gain’d the strand. A shout of joy

Came from the fainting crew. The treach’rous sands

Awhile had staid their progress,—but not long;

For all impediments were swept away

Before advent’rous Laing,—the seaman’s friend!

The hero of these shores! How oft, Dunbar!

Thy sons have seen him, in the darkest hour

Of danger, snatch the victim from the wave.[24]

And now the life-boat beat the chafing surf

Like some tall swan, in sweeping majesty,

Then rested by the ship, when, one by one,

The solitary remnants of the crew

Came leaping in. One hapless sailor hung

Suspended from the shrouds, where he was lash’d,

In frozen speechlessness that must not break!

For all the surgeon’s skill was tried in vain.

Another tar, the second in command,

Had sought to gain the beach, and luckless sank

Into a briny grave.—But where are they

For whom our Pythias braved the stormy surge?

A brother and a sister he had left

Wild clinging to the mast; and barter’d life

To save them from destruction. Now, alas!

Those lips are mute for ever that had blest him!

Those hands are cold that waved a last adieu!

For ’midst despairing moments, one dread wave,

That swelling rose, burst thundering on the deck,

And sent them shrieking to the depths below

Ere they could say farewell!—O God! that sight

Had mov’d cold apathy. But do not weep,

Ye fond relations of this fated crew;

For life’s dim page is darkly character’d,

And could we with prescient eye divine

The wars we have to wage—the storms to buffet!—

We’d heave an envious sigh o’er those who rest,

Whom death has ransom’d from the ills to come!

THE

SHEPHERD OF LAMMERMOOR.

Ha! Winter comes! on rein-deer car,

Like hunter to the chase;

And Summer’s smiles he drives afar,

To give his horrors place.

Earth withers ’neath his blasting tread,

The tuneful tenants leave the mead;

Dunpender’s sides are shining hoar;

Pressminnen’s lake is frozen o’er,

And Heartrim wood is bare.

The squirrel leaves his nutty bower;

The hawthorn bush has lost its flower,

So solitary fair!

Yon ancient Tower is capt with snow,

And trembles to the ground,

Threatening the passenger below,

Who lists the gathering sound

Of streamlet, in its windings lost,

Where, bursting through its chains of frost,

It crisps and foams around.

Far on the distant mountain’s head

The tyrant rears his pyramid;

While from his nostrils, wildly driven,

Clouds darken all the face of heaven!

It makes my warmest vein run chill!

To view the distant wold,

Where, hastening from the mossy hill,

The shepherd seeks his fold,

And sinks upon the drifted heath

Into the freezing arms of death,

To be in snowy coffin hid

Till thaws dissolve the frozen lid.

Thus, o’er the heights of Lammermoor,

The wanderer held his way,

When night, in clouds, began to lower,

Deceitful as the day;

Then, through the foliage glimmering bright,

Like sunshine on the face of night,

His cottage-light by fits he spied

Upon his native mountain’s side;

And heard the sheep-bell’s tinkling sound,

Now in the tempest lost and drown’d.

Within that cottage Ellen wept,

And watch’d her baby as it slept;

But while she mourn’d the luckless hour

Her husband with his flocks departed,

A glow of gladness mantled o’er

Her cheeks when nearly broken-hearted;

For Edmund oft had traced the road

When fiercer storms had been abroad;

Led by the smile of wedded bliss,

He tarried not for hour like this;

For, oh! he knew his Ellen’s breast

Would prove a charming place of rest,

And he would sleep more soft and sound

Where joy and welcome still were found.

But who, in this mysterious state,

Can read thy page, futurity?

Or knows—until he knows too late—

Whether ’tis best to smile or sigh?—

For Ellen deem’d not, when array’d

She saw her husband in his plaid,

Wending along the mountains blue,

He bade them all a last adieu!—

She deem’d not, that the morn’s embrace,

Affection beaming in each face,

As her and the sweet babe he prest

Transported to his manly breast;—

She deem’d not that embrace the last,

Else still she’d fondly held him fast,

And warn’d him never to depart,

In pity to her breaking heart.—

But, hark! she hears the dog’s long howl;

(’Twas but the tempest’s passing scowl,)

She raised the latch, unbarr’d the door,

Yet all was silent as before.

As when the sailor, tempest-toss’d,

At midnight, on a shoally coast,

Drops his toil’d arm upon the billow,

And thinks each wave will be his pillow,

Sees, bursting ’midst the storm’s dismay,

The light-house tower’s revolving ray,

Then wakes to sorrow and despair,

Deluded by the meteor’s glare:

So gleam’d the shepherd’s lattice-light,

Deceitful on that stormy night;

And now his sunk heart warmer glow’d,

For he had reach’d the wish’d-for road;

His Ellen’s fond embrace, and smile,

Repaid his long and weary toil;

Sprung to his knee his favourite boy,

Playful, demands the promised toy;

While the small infant, at the breast,

Smiles too to see the welcome guest.

O deepest wo to mortal given,

To perish at the gates of heaven!

Benumb’d the shepherd sunk to rest,

With nature’s shroud upon his breast!

DUNPENDER LAW.

Fann’d by the balmy breathing west,

On green Dunpender’s[25] brow I rest,

Musing on cliffs and towers below,

Where forests wave and rivulets flow;

Far, in the gold-emblazon’d sky,

The Pentland-hills in grandeur lie,

Where erst the gentle shepherd stray’d,

Fond lilting to his pastoral maid;

While Arthur Seat his shadow shews

Like lion couchant, in repose;

And the tower-crown’d Calton gleams,

Bathed in day’s departing beams;

And mingled with the hues of even,

The Fifean shores seem propping heaven.

Oft through the opening shades between

The silvery Forth is winding seen,

Where vessels with their white sails glide,

Like insects sporting on the tide,

That glisten in the noontide ray,

And with the evening fade away.

As the blithe lark that long has stray’d

Through distant woodland’s mazy shade,

Bewilder’d turns on wearied wing,

To thickets where her nestlings sing,

So fondly turns my partial eye

To dearer scenes that nearer lie,

Where plantings fair and hawthorn hedge

Shadow Garleton’s sloping edge,

And through shades of softer green

Beanston’s modest face is seen,

While in yonder flowery lawn,

So calm at eve, so bright at dawn,

Shooting from the leafy bowers

Amisfield’s massy palace towers;

And farther on, in misty clouds,

The church her solemn figure shrouds,

Haddina’s fane sublimely hoar,

Where good St Francis reign’d of yore.

The organ’s voice no longer steals

Through her aisles in solemn peals,

Dimm’d her lamp, whose glowworm ray

Cheer’d lonely pilgrim’s midnight way.

The mass has ceased—the monks are gone;

For time has sapp’d the papal throne.

O Edwin! thou wilt ne’er forget

How lagg’d the hours before we met

To muse within that hallow’d fane.

Tired of the world’s bustling scene,

We gladly hail’d the close of day,

In peaceful star-light shades to stray,

When moonlight shed enchantment round

O’er all the church’s holy ground,

While echo’d to thy flute’s deep thrill

The Gothic arch, the murmuring rill;

Then thought we of mysterious sounds,

While pacing the dark echoing grounds:

Such sounds as startle with affright

The waylaid swain at dead of night;

And though our cares were never few,

Still Fancy brighten’d all she drew,

And Hope those flowery visions wrought,

That perish’d with maturer thought.

Fair Tyne! thy river smoothly glides

To mingle with the ocean’s tides,

And though thy windings may not boast

The rushing stream in cataracts lost,

O’erhung with ivied rocks and woods,

Like Clyde or Esk’s romantic floods,

Yet Sol, in all his flaming chase,

Beholds no river’s crystal face,

That waters meads more rich with grain

Than those he meets on Lothian’s plain;

Whether by Crichton’s lordly towers

Thy rivulet winds ’neath lofty bowers;

Whether by Salton’s coverts gay,

Where patriot Fletcher loved to stray;

Or where, near Preston’s ancient fane,

Thy waters mingle with the main.

Next wandering down thy stream I spy

Stevenson’s woods that sombre lie,

Spreading thick their branches dun,

Bronzed with the setting sun;

Clouds of rooks are sailing near,

Stunning Meditation’s ear,

As she sits with sober look,

Gazing on the running brook.

Is there aught can sooth the mind,

Like the moanings of the wind?

Is there aught that can recall

Our thoughts, like water’s constant fall?

Beneath me, Hailes delights to trace

In shady Tyne his furrow’d face:

Though there the peasant rears his shed

Where Valour sleeps in gory bed,

Yet Tyne has seen that castle’s crest

More brightly gleaming on her breast,

When, in a dark and stormy hour,

His arms received the regal flower;

I give, forgetting Mary’s crimes,

(In pity for those faithless times,)

The tear the generous heart bestows

When weeping over beauty’s woes;

For all that birth and beauty gave

Was to betray—and not to save:

Thus, in some lone sequester’d cot,

Contented with her humble lot,

Far from Ambition’s giddy steeps

The peasant girl on roses sleeps,

While she whom fawning courts caress

Must drink the dregs of bitterness.

The lofty Law[26] on yonder lands

In towering Alpine grandeur stands,

Where, as tradition says, were seen

A fairy host in garbs of green,

Who, when the housewife barr’d the door,

Would curse the dairy’s mantling store,

And snatch the stolen child, and free

Its form from dull mortality.

Gleaming, where birds of snowy hue

Their jubilee spend, the Bass I view;

And dimly frowns Tantallon’s holde,

Where Douglas reign’d, too rashly bold;

While Tyningham’s delicious woods

Luxuriant rush to ocean’s floods;

And soon my rapt eye rests afar

Where shadows mantle old Dunbar.

But now the thrush with plaintive lay

Charms the soft closing ear of day;

The sinking sun with blushing fires

Crimsons heaven, and fast retires,

Bathing in hues of browner light

Linton’s hamlets gleaming bright;

A thousand birds their vespers pour,

And droops its head the drowsy flower,

As like yon star, that rises slow,

The May’s pale light begins to glow,

Revolving o’er the waters hoary,

Now lost like beams of joy in sorrow;

While down the mountain’s side I wind,

I often pause to gaze behind,

As lovers linger to survey

Their parting shadows steal away.

TO

THE MOON AND THE EVENING STAR.

Thou Moon, with thine attendant Star,

That gilds the dusky brow of night,

Thy spangled path thou’st held afar,

Since from the ocean glancing bright

Thou burst upon the seaman’s sight;

And long o’er mountain, wood, and dale,

Thou’st held thy lofty aerial flight,

Firm as the rock—free as the gale!—

Now, from his dark and lonely cell,

The weeping captive sees thee rise,

While Memory bids his bosom swell

With Recollection’s fondest ties;

For now beneath thy splendour lies,

In all its joy, his native land,

Where he has traced, in brighter skies,

Thy spangled course, on Scotia’s strand.

The maiden hails thy shining face

Come blithely peeping o’er the hill,

As if her walks thou sought to trace

In shady bower by winding rill.

O when to love’s delightful thrill!

Hearts meet beneath thy pensive beam,

The hours flow on so soft and still,

That life appears a fairy dream.

The pilgrim, worn with want and toil,

Had slept ’midst India’s deadly dew,

And on the stranger’s arid soil,

To friends and foes had breathed adieu,

Had not thy crescent’s splendid hue

Illumed the shades that hung around,

And brought the creole’s hut to view,

Where friends and soft repose were found.

The sailor, in his nightly rounds,

Encircled by the sea and sky,

Beholds thee, as his watch he sounds,

A distant friend—yet ever nigh!

To other climes though fast he fly,

Yet still thou lov’st to meet him there,

As when upon the banks of Eye

He breathed to Jean the parting prayer.

SONGS.

THE FALSE ALARM.

1803.

On the crest of Dunselaw the red beacon is blazing,

That startles the swan as she sails in Henpoo’!

Home Castle and Hounam the signals are raising,

And far gleams St Abb o’er the waves curling blue.

Arm, arm! gallant yeomen! to meet the fierce foeman,

His eagles are planted on Lothian’s fair shore;

Your cities are burning, your maidens are mourning,

To victory march, as your fathers of yore.

Come from the Ettrick, the Tweed, and the Teviot;

Come from where Leader and Whitadder gleams;

Come from the sylvan Jed; come from the Cheviot,

Fierce as the thunder-cloud, pure as your streams.

Swear by the cairns of your hills ere you leave them—

Swear by the heroes in Freedom’s cause slain,

That your swords will be bared until victory sheathe them,

If e’er you return to your mountains again.

On the dark heights of Cheviot her sabres are glancing,

With Hagerston’s horsemen in battle array,

While Berwickshire’s legions are blithely advancing,

And Selkirk and Roxburgh rush to the fray.

From Lammermoor’s heather the warriors gather,

Their swords though a thousand, their hearts are but one;

While Dunse and Dunbar send their sons to the war,

To join British veterans led on by brave Don.

Return to your revels and beauty’s fair charms;

Return, gallant yeomen! where peace beams serene;

Those signals were but patriotic alarms,[27]

The foes whom you seek now repose by the Seine.

But should foreign ranks ever tread the Tweed’s banks,

Or a hostile Flotilla in Forth ever lie,

You will rush to the shore as your fathers of yore,

And like patriots conquer, or patriots die!

GEORGE THE FOURTH’S WELCOME.

AUGUST, 1822.

Sweet, Sir, for your courtesie,

When ye come by the Bass, then;

For the love ye bear to me,

Buy me a keeking glass, then.—OLD BALLAD.

Come, list the pibroch’s martial strain,

That ca’s the clans to Lothian’s plain;

For Scotland’s got her king again,

She welcomes royal Geordie!

CHORUS.

_O, ye’ve been lang o’ coming,

Lang, lang, lang o’ coming;

O, ye’ve been lang o’ coming,

Welcome, royal Geordie!_

O blaw, ye breezes! favouring blaw

Around North Berwick’s lofty Law,

And gently on the squadron fa’,

That brings us royal Geordie!

The king has pass’d St Abb’s rough head,

Now loyal laird of Spott mak’ speed,

Your guns and bonfire quickly feed,

And welcome royal Geordie.

Dunbar, your ancient fort prepare,

(In a’ that’s guid you tak’ a share,)

Your burghers to the beach repair,

And welcome royal Geordie.

The cannon’s voice is heard afar,

The royal fleet has pass’d Dunbar;—

Upon his breast he wears a star,

A stately lad is Geordie!

Thou ancient crag, romantic Bass!

Salute the squadron as they pass:

Let Janet get her keeking glass,

And busk her braw for Geordie.

North Berwick’s lads your sweethearts bring,

Your idle violins blithely string,

Till Fidra’s isle and Craig Leith ring

A blithe salute to Geordie.

He leaves his royal rich domains,

That stand so beauteous by the Thames,

To see our blooming nymphs and swains,

A courteous lad is Geordie.

And, O! amang our mountains blue,

Dwell loyal chiefs, to valour true;

And beauteous dames, may wind a clue

Around the heart o’ Geordie.

Thrice welcome to green Albyn’s shore,

As Bruce and Wallace were of yore;—

Our ancient kings the lion bore,

And sae does royal Geordie!

Auld Holyrood again looks gay,

Her martial files, in bright array,

Are glitt’ring in the gouden ray,

To welcome royal Geordie.

And Calton’s terrace-walks so green

Are fringed with tents and culverin;

On Sal’sbury’s craigs the same is seen,

To welcome royal Geordie.

From hill to hill the tidings fly,

Proud Arthur’s crest is blazing high,

Trapren glowers up, and lights the sky,

To welcome royal Geordie.

Dunedin’s streets are in a blaze,

As when great Nelson ruled the seas!

Is Wellington upon the breeze?—

O, no! it’s royal Geordie!—

Come, Scotia! tune your aiken reed,

Sir Walter’s blithely ta’en the lead;

And blaw your chanters till they screed

To welcome royal Geordie!

The wine-cup, flowing, pass around,

A flourish let the trumpets sound,

While ships and castle’s cliffs resound

A blithe salute to Geordie!

SONG,

WRITTEN FOR THE OCCASION, AND SUNG AT A DINNER GIVEN IN THE ASSEMBLY

ROOM, ON THE HADDINGTON ST JOHN’S KILWINNING LODGE LAYING THE FOUNDATION

STONE OF THE EARL OF HOPETOUN’S MONUMENT ON BYRES-HILL, 3D MAY, 1824.

While nations enjoy the glad blessings of peace,

We meet in the hall to remember the brave,

Who bought with their blood bonded Europe’s release,

And fought for their country’s repose or a grave.

Then charge, brethren, charge, a full bumper is due

To Abercrombie’s name

And his comrade in fame,

Great Hopetoun, in battle so val’rous and true.

O bright were the laurels they won on that strand,

Where Gallia’s tricolour’d flag was unfurl’d;

They conquer’d Napoleon’s Egyptian band,

Invincible deem’d by the rest of the world.

With Hope and Abercrombie, O ne’er be forgot

Our Ramsay and Hay,[28]

Both worthy the bay,

Where the battle is raging ’mongst sabres and shot.

While Scotia weeps on Corunna’s sad shore

The fate of her warriors, Iberia mourns,

And hallows the memory of glorious Moore,

Who died like a soldier in victory’s arms!

As lone on the field her Baird wounded lay,

Great Hopetoun when crost,

Of himself was a host,

And led his brave comrades triumphant away.

Then high raise the cairn upon the green hill,

To valour ’twill rouse as we gaze on the pile,

Though the eyes of the veteran with tears it may fill,

And cloud as she passes young beauty’s fair smile.

Now peace be to Hopetoun, who rests with the brave,

While Ramsay and Hay

Must contend for the bay,

Should the tempest of war in our valleys e’er rave.

MASONIC SONG.

WRITTEN AND SUNG ON OCCASION OF MR WILLIAM FERME’S PORTRAIT (PAINTED BY

WATSON) BEING PLACED IN THE MASONIC LODGE OF HADDINGTON, 1823.

O Willie is a canty chiel!

The mason-art he kens sae weel,

To raise a laugh or—raise the de’il—

It’s just the same to Willie, O!

We’ve had him lang, we’ll haud him fast,

This night auld Fame shall blaw a blast,

While far away our cares we cast,

And drink success to Willie, O!

Our sacred art, by Heav’n refined,

That joins and blesses all mankind,

For such as Willie was design’d,

Wha counts each man his brither, O!

Wi’ mystic lore, and humorous art,

He steals sae o’er the craftsmen’s heart,

That when we meet we scarce can part—

Sae blest wi’ ane anither, O!

Immortal be great Hiram’s name,

And Solomon’s undying fame!—

We hail their bright united flame,

Reflected in our Willie, O!

The rule and square is still his badge;

Nor orient seer, nor Tyrian sage,

Could ever handle plumb or gauge

Like our great master, Willie, O!

How oft our little social band

Has met beneath his high command,

While beauteous order round did stand,

Supported aye by Willie, O!

No faction e’er our lodge divides,

Where truth and friendship still abides;

Nor ever shall, while here presides

Our gude auld master, Willie, O!

THE GARDENER’S SONG.

A garden was the blest retreat

Where love at first began,

When Eve was queen of womankind,

And Adam, king of man;

And ever since the garden’s been

The sacred bower of love,

Where youth and innocence convene,

In friendship’s paths to rove.

Then, brethren, round the goblet crown

With draughts of rosy wine,

And drink the memory of our sire,

Who rear’d the purple vine.

To Noah, that aquatic lord,

A bumper next be given;

The second gard’ner on record,

The favour’d child of heaven;

’Twas he at first distill’d those sweets

That cheer our social hours,

And strew’d the darker paths of life

With artificial flowers.

Then, brethren, round the goblet crown

With draughts of rosy wine,

And drink the patriarch’s memory

Who first distill’d the vine.

And, lastly, toast the Hebrew sage,

Who sat on Judah’s throne,

Surrounded by his harem fair,

So blest to look upon.

Oh, when he sought the garden’s walk!

Its flowery pomp to see,

The virgin lily, on its stalk,

Was richer far than he!

Then, sons of flowers, the goblet crown,

And toast our art divine!

’Tis meet that we should quaff the grape,

Who rear the purple vine.

The world, since creation’s dawn,

Has own’d the gard’ner’s skill;

We paint with flowers the sunny lawn,

And shade with groves the hill.

Physicians borrow from our stores

The glory of their art;

We feed the hungry, cleed the bare,

And balm to life impart.

And woman, Nature’s darling child,

Looks never half so fair,

As when the rose-bud decks her breast,

And garlands crown her hair.

Our friendship like the ivy spreads,

But, grafted as the oak,

Secure it stands in sun and storm,

Against each random shock.

Our hearts are as the snowdrop pure,

That dips in crystal wave,

But, like the thistle of the hill,

Oppression’s blast we brave;

And he that’s false in heart or hand,

Oblivious may he sink,

May hemlock be his laurel-crown,

And wormwood be his drink!

O! may the flowery paths of youth,

Where weeds too often glow,

Conduct us to those green retreats

Where fruits autumnal grow;

And when the blighting dews of age

Have chill’d our drooping wing,

May HE, who heavenly Eden keeps,

Give us a second spring.

Then, brethren, round the goblet crown

With draughts of rosy wine,

’Tis meet that we should quaff the grape,

Who rear the purple vine.

THE

HAMMERMAN’S SONG.

WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF A HADDINGTON HAMMERMAN.

You may talk of your gard’ners and masons so fine,

Their craft is so ancient, ’tis all but divine;

But where were their tools or their implements made

Till old Tubal Cain the grand hammer display’d?

Like barbarous nations, with wood and with stone

They work’d in the dark till the hammerman shone,

Then the plough and the trowel on the anvil had birth,

And fair Cultivation descended to earth.

Descended to earth—descended to earth—

Then fair Cultivation descended to earth.

He curbs the fierce steed in its fiery career,

Gives the bit to the bridle—the point to the spear;—

When the thunder-charged leven terrific doth play,

His magnetic rod leads it harmless away.

The hammerman’s art is both nice and sublime,

He tells to a moment the marches of Time;

Yes: the hour-telling watch, let them match it who will,

We owe to the hammerman’s glorious skill.

When Bell and her tabby sit down by the fire,

And a cup of Souchong is her pleasant desire,

As the nice-shining kettle its melody hums,

In fancy her sweetheart, the hammerman, comes!

May the sons of the anvil, the vice, and the file,

Have hearts pure as gold, and untainted with guile.

Whether on the earth’s surface, or deep in its mines,

Success to the hammer wherever it shines!

THE

COUNTRY LAIRD’S COURTSHIP.

O far hae I wander’d through frost and through snaw,

My mither aye tauld me that I was to blame

In courting the lasses sae flirtish and braw,

So I’ll just tak’ my staff and I’ll haud awa’ hame.

CHORUS.

_And it’s hooly, hooly, up the brae side;

And it’s hooly, hooly, haud awa’ hame;

My neighbours wad think that I was nae John Rue,

Kenn’d they the errand that I had gane._

This morning I met the sun high in the muirs,

But now in the wave he has dipt his red chin,

While I’ve waited on Janet, and counted the hours,

Exposed to the sneers o’ the hale o’ her kin.

To buy a new cledin’ I sald my auld cow,

In the eyes of the lassie to mak’ me look fine,

While I’ve just got ae kiss, hauf an inch frae her mou,

Though I bribed her auld dad wi’ the wale o’ my swine.

He took up his staff, made a bow wi’ his bannet,

(Thinks he we’ll no meet in a hurry again:)

He gave a bit sigh when he thought upon Janet,

He dighted his een, and was better again.

As down the fir plantin’ he gaed to the mill,

O wha did he see but young Jenny, I ween?

Wha lean’d on the auld doitit laird o’ the hill,

A body that weel might her grandfather been.

“Now deil tak’ the lassie, an’ deil tak’ the laird!”

John jumped and roar’d as he was na himsel;

He cross’d like a maukin down Lizzy’s kail-yard,

Nor stopt till he plunged in the baker’s draw-well.

O, love it is warm—but water is cool!

And a frost-bitten body is ill to endure:

The lasses had led Johnny Rue like a fool,

Yet for ance in his life he has met wi’ his cure.

But, waes me! wee Johnnie’s been couthie of late,

Which maks the auld wife shake her head by the fire;

For he casts a sheep’s-ee on his young cousin Kate,

And goud often warms up a lassie’s desire.

MY AULD MAIDEN AUNTY

I’ve naething to do but to sit and to spin,

And crack wi’ my auld maiden aunty;

Our gossiping neighbours come dribbling in,

And aye keep a body fu’ canty, fu’ canty,

And aye keep a body fu’ canty.

But our thoughts, like the weather, are given to change,

I sigh’d day and night to get married;

And I’m sure gif there aught like a man had made love,

His suit wi’ me soon he had carried—had carried—

His suit wi’ me soon he had carried.

My aunty’s sae peevish, her temper’s sae sour,

She wearies us a’ wi’ inspection;

She frowns at the mark o’ a prin on the floor,

Our neighbours a’ ca’ her Perfection—Perfection—

Our neighbours a’ ca’ her Perfection.

The hale o’ her pleasure is snuff and green tea,

And her auld-fashion’d satins to number;

Ae day she wad try how her hoops fitted me,

And ne’er squeezed my body asunder—asunder—

And ne’er squeezed my body asunder.

She sneers like the fox when I speak about men,

I wonder what she makes a wark at—

For I’m sure if her mother’s example she’d ta’en,

She never had stood in the market—the market—

She never had stood in the market.

But wha but our neighbour’s son Johnny’s come hame

Since the wars were so happily ended?

He tells me my beauty has kindled a flame—

My aunt wad gang daft if she kenn’d it,—she kenn’d it—

My aunt wad gang daft if she kenn’d it.

’Twas only yestreen like a statue I sat,

When to hand me the kettle he hurried,

He trod on the tail o’ my aunt’s tabby cat,

She raved sae, I wish’d the brute worried—brute worried—

She raved sae, I wish’d the brute worried.

To-morrow she’ll scandal the hale o’ the sex,

And ca’ me the vilest o’ ony;

For I’ll bid her guid day ere the sun’s in the east,

And aff to the Highlands wi’ Johnny—wi’ Johnny—

And aff to the Highlands wi’ Johnny.

TO ——.

Give me, sweet Maid! before we part,

One beauteous curl of thine;

And I will wear it next my heart,

Twined in a wreath of mine;

And should the gaudy world e’er wring

A moment’s sigh from thee,

That gentle ringlet, love, will bring

Thy memory back to me.

When gazing on that amulet dear,

Thou’lt bless my raptured sight,

As when thou beauteous did’st appear

In hours of soft delight.

Though homage only is thy due,

Thou first of womankind,

Thou’lt never meet a heart so true

As _his_ thou leav’st behind.

THE END.

PRINTED BY OLIVER & BOYD.

-----

Footnote 1:

Thametis was daughter to Loth, king of the Picts, who gave his name to

Lothian.—_Spotswood._

Footnote 2:

We meet with a similar legend of a Welsh saint in Williams’s History

of Monmouthshire. _Teilo_, “when slain at the altar, devotees

contended with so much virulence for the reputation of possessing his

body, that the priest, _to avoid scandalous divisions_, found three

miraculous bodies of the saint, as similar, according to the phrase

used on the occasion, as one egg to another; and miracles were equally

performed at the tomb of all the three.”

Footnote 3:

An old woman in Dunbar has a flag, which is said to have been borne by

the Covenanters at Bothwell Bridge. Its texture is light-blue silk.

The inscription on one side, in gilt letters, “_For Christ and his

truth_,” and on the reverse, in red, “_No quarter for ye active

enemies of the Covenant_.” The motto is surmounted by a Hebrew

inscription, in gilt letters, signifying, “For the covenant of

Jehovah.” This flag belonged to Henry Hall of Haughead, who took an

active part in the transactions at that time, and held a command in

the army from the skirmish at Drumclog to their defeat at Bothwell

Bridge. On his death the flag of course fell to his son. Young Hall,

on his death-bed, bequeathed it to James Cochran, shoemaker in

Greenlaw, a noted Cameronian, who presented it to Michael Naismyth,

Edinburgh. It was destined to return to Cochran’s family again; for,

at Naismyth’s death he bequeathed it to James Raeburn, late

cabinet-maker in Dunbar, the son-in-law of Cochran, and it is now held

most sacred by his widow.

Footnote 4:

A mineral well near Tweedmouth.

Footnote 5:

Tradition derives the name of Berwick from this strange etymology;

also from being a rendezvous of _bears_, which are blazoned in the

town arms.

Footnote 6:

The lines distinguished by inverted commas, are a literal paraphrase

of the oration ascribed to Lady Seton by _Boece_.

Footnote 7:

At the siege of Bayonne, by the Counts de Foix and de Dunois, in 1450,

there was a similar vision seen, or imagined to have been seen, to

serve a similar purpose. “On Friday, the 20th August, a little before

sunrise, the sky, bright and clear, a _white cross_ was seen in the

heavens by the king’s army, and even by the English in Bayonne, for

half an hour. Those in the town, who were desirous of returning to the

French, took the _red crosses_ from their banners and pennons, saying,

that since it pleased God they should become Frenchmen, they would all

wear _white crosses_!”—_Montstrelet’s French Chron. by Johnes_, vol.

ix. p. 188.

Footnote 8:

The stone in which the English standard was fixed at Bannockburn was

called the Bore Stane; but this appears in nowise applicable to the

present subject, except by name. The epithet Boar was often applied to

those who carried the emblem of this animal on their shield; hence, in

the poem on the Battle of Floddenfield, Richard III. is distinguished

as “the raging Boar, who, at Bosworth, with all his host, was

over-thrown.” We must conclude, that the person who fell here either

went by this uncouth epithet, or had a boar for his device.

Footnote 9:

St Abb’s-head, a well-known promontory on the coast of Berwickshire,

where are the remains of a chapel, is said to have derived its

designation from Ebba, only daughter to Edelfrid, King of

Northumberland, who, on her father being slain in battle by the East

Angles, made her escape in an open boat, as narrated in the poem, and

landed on that point of land to which she gave her name.—See

_Holinshed’s Chron._

Footnote 10:

The old Franciscan church of Haddington.

Footnote 11:

Playfair, a notable warlock, on being taken prisoner in Dalkeith

steeple, whither he had fled for refuge, made several confessions to

Mr Archibald Simpson, minister there;—amongst others, a remarkable

story respecting the family of Newbattle must not be omitted:—“Mark,

the commendator of Newbottle, had by his wife, the Lord Herries’s

daughter, thirty-one children. His lady always kept in her company

wise women or witches, and especially one Margaret Nues (F. Innes),

who fostered his daughter the Lady Borthwick, who was, long after his

death, burnt in Edinburgh for that crime; and my Lady Lothian’s

son-in-law, Sir Alexander Hamilton, told one of his friends, how one

night lying in Preston-grange, pertaining to the said abbey of

Newbottle, he was pulled out of his bed by the said witches and sore

beaten; of which injury, when he complained to his mother-in-law, and

assured her he would complain thereof to the council, she pacified him

by giving him a purse full of gold. That lady thereafter, being vexed

with a cancer in her breast, implored the help of the notable warlock

before-mentioned, who condescended to heal her, but with condition,

that the sore should fall on them which she loved best; whereunto she

agreeing, did convalesce; but the earl, her husband, found the boil in

his throat, of which he died shortly thereafter; and the said

Playfair, being soon apprehended, was made prisoner as above.”—_Scot

of Scotstarvet’s Staggering State of the Scots Statesmen._

Footnote 12:

Carmichael was the second presbyterian minister of Haddington, and

held his pastoral charge betwixt the years 1568 and 1628. The

Presbytery Minutes are preserved so early as 1587; but, as it was not

their province, contain no reference to these depositions. In the

Civil Records, which are preserved anterior to this date, I have not

been able to discover any reference to the arrest or imprisonment of

Agnes Sampson, as in the case of Elizabeth Moodie and others in 1677.

The wood cut, p. 264, represents the old church of North Berwick; and

is copied from a design prefixed to a black-letter pamphlet, entitled

“Newes from Scotland,” which, I presume, contains the depositions

written by the minister of Haddington.

Footnote 13:

An old malt-barn and kiln stood upon the site of the Antiburgher

meeting-house in East Barns, 1820.

Footnote 14:

Miss Janet Hepburn, sister to Colonel Hepburn of Luffness and

Congalton.

Footnote 15:

Sir David Lindsay’s _Papingo_.

Footnote 16:

When on a pilgrimage lately to the scenery of this Ballad, I saw the

far-famed silver belt or chain, now in the possession of a respectable

farmer in Berwickshire, a maternal descendant of the gudewife. It does

not appear, however, to have been a female ornament, but rather the

band for girding the sacerdotal robes of a portly bishop. The chain is

four feet eight inches long, and capable of being contracted, with a

circular plate in the middle, marked with the initials B. C.

Footnote 17:

The old tower of Lethington, we have observed, was built by the

Giffords. Hugh Gifford de Yester, who died in 1267, was esteemed a

notable magician, and formed by magic art, a capacious cavern in his

castle of Yester, called in the country Bohall, (i. e. Hobgoblin

Hall.)—_Fordun_, vol. ii. p. 105. This spacious room, with a vaulted

roof, still remains entire.

Footnote 18:

“On Thursday, in the night, the 13th of March 1572, was the place

of Lethington taken by them of Edinburgh, (some men of Captain

Home’s having the charge of it;) but upon the Sunday, early in the

morning, before they got provision, the Lord Lindsay took it

again.”—_Bannatyne’s Journal, by Dalyell_, p. 333.

Footnote 19:

An old pathway, skirted by a holly hedge, east from the castle, is

still called the _Politician’s Walk_.

Footnote 20:

The park of Lethington, which contained nearly 400 acres, surrounded

by a wall twelve feet high, was built by John, Duke of Lauderdale, on

the Duke of York’s telling him, before his first journey to Scotland,

that he heard there was not a park in the country!

Footnote 21:

The top of a turret, or watch-tower.

Footnote 22:

“Sir George Home was in great credit with king James, after his going

to England, and by him was created first Lord of Berwick, then Earl of

Dumbar. He got all these offices erected in his person, and was made

treasurer, comptroller, and collector, and was sent many times to

Scotland, as the king’s commissioner, to execute justice on the

Borders, which he did with great rigour; but, by the hatred of some of

the courtiers there, he was not suffered long to enjoy that

extraordinary favour; for with some tablets of sugar, given him for

expelling the cold by Secretary Cecil, he was poisoned; which was well

known by the death of Martin Sougir, a doctor, who, by laying his

finger on his heart, and touching it with his tongue, died within a

few days thereafter; and by the relation of his servant of his

chamber, Sir James Bailie, who saw him get the tablets from the said

secretary, and who having eaten a small parcel of them himself, struck

all out in blisters; but by strength of body he escaped death.”—_Sir

John Scot of Scotstarvet’s Staggering State_, p. 34.

Footnote 23:

“In a storm on the 14th November, the Fox man-of-war, Captain Beaver,

was cast away near Dunbar, and all on board perished.”—_Scots Mag._

1746. The last time the ship was discovered was to the eastward of the

May. It is probable that she struck on the rocks west from the castle,

as most of the corpses were found there. The wreck afterwards drifted

and moored in Tyne Sands, where part of the rigging has at times been

seen by aged persons.

Footnote 24:

Witness that part of the crew of the Pallas and Nymph frigates, who

were saved by his exertions, and those acting under him, on the 18th

December, 1810, when the Pallas was stranded on the rocks a little

east from Broxmouth, near Dunbar; and the Nymph below Skateraw, both

in the same night.

Footnote 25:

Dunpender Law, now called Trapren Law, is a rocky isolated hill of an

oval form, situated in East Lothian, which rises about 700 feet above

the level of the sea.

Footnote 26:

North Berwick Law, a beautiful isolated conical hill, on the shore of

East Lothian.

Footnote 27:

The False Alarm is supposed to have arisen from what is called a

_house-heating_, which stood in a conspicuous situation in the

neighbourhood of Dunse. Hounamlaw, in Roxburghshire, mistook the

lights for the beacon of Dunselaw, and she in her turn lighted up when

she saw the former in a blaze. Owing to some delay or negligence,

Blackcastle did not give the alarm, otherwise the whole of the

Lothians would have poured forth their patriot steel. The Berwickshire

yeomanry came to Dunbar, and the Dunse volunteers to Haddington. The

emphatic prayer of an old woman, when the yeomanry were on their march

through Dunse, shews the spirit of a country when threatened by

invasion: “Lord, grant that ye may return victorious, or return no

more!”

Footnote 28:

Hay, Marquis of Tweeddale, and Ramsay, Earl of Dalhousie, both

officers, also engaged in the peninsular war.

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