This is a story that I heard from the King of the Numidians, who with
his tattered retinue encamps behind the peat-ricks. If you ask me
where and when it happened I fear that I am scarce ready with an
answer. But I will vouch my honour for its truth; and if any one seek
further proof, let him go east the town and west the town and over the
fields of No mans land to the Long Muir, and if he find not the King
there among the peat-ricks, and get not a courteous answer to his
question, then times have changed in that part of the country, and he
must continue the quest to his Majesty's castle in Spain.
Once upon a time, says the tale, there was a Great Godly Man, a
shepherd to trade, who lived in a cottage among heather. If you looked
east in the morning, you saw miles of moor running wide to the flames
of sunrise, and if you turned your eyes west in the evening, you saw a
great confusion of dim peaks with the dying eye of the sun set in a
crevice. If you looked north, too, in the afternoon, when the life of
the day is near its end and the world grows wise, you might have seen a
country of low hills and haughlands with many waters running sweet
among meadows. But if you looked south in the dusty forenoon or at hot
midday, you saw the far-off glimmer of a white road, the roofs of the
ugly little clachan of Kilmaclavers, and the rigging of the fine new
kirk of Threepdaidle. It was a Sabbath afternoon in the hot weather,
and the man had been to kirk all the morning. He had heard a grand
sermon from the minister (or it may have been the priest, for I am not
sure of the date and the King told the story quickly)--a fine discourse
with fifteen heads and three parentheses. He held all the parentheses
and fourteen of the heads in his memory, but he had forgotten the
fifteenth; so for the purpose of recollecting it, and also for the sake
of a walk, he went forth in the afternoon into the open heather.
The whaups were crying everywhere, making the air hum like the twanging
of a bow. Poo-eelie, Poo-eelie, they cried, Kirlew, Kirlew, Whaup,
Wha-up. Sometimes they came low, all but brushing him, till they drove
settled thoughts from his head. Often had he been on the moors, but
never had he seen such a stramash among the feathered clan. The
wailing iteration vexed him, and he shoo'd the birds away with his
arms. But they seemed to mock him and whistle in his very face, and at
the flaff of their wings his heart grew sore. He waved his great
stick; he picked up bits of loose moor-rock and flung them wildly; but
the godless crew paid never a grain of heed. The morning's sermon was
still in his head, and the grave words of the minister still rattled in
his ear, but he could get no comfort for this intolerable piping. At
last his patience failed him and he swore unchristian words. "Deil rax
the birds' thrapples," he cried. At this all the noise was hushed and
in a twinkling the moor was empty. Only one bird was left, standing on
tall legs before him with its head bowed upon its breast, and its beak
touching the heather.
Then the man repented his words and stared at the thing in the moss.
"What bird are ye?" he asked thrawnly.
"I am a Respectable Whaup," said the bird, "and I kenna why ye have
broken in on our family gathering. Once in a hundred years we
foregather for decent conversation, and here we are interrupted by a
muckle, sweerin' man."
Now the shepherd was a fellow of great sagacity, yet he never thought
it a queer thing that he should be having talk in the mid-moss with a
bird.
"What for were ye making siccan a din, then?" he asked. "D'ye no ken
ye were disturbing the afternoon of the holy Sabbath?"
The bird lifted its eyes and regarded him solemnly. "The Sabbath is a
day of rest and gladness," it said, "and is it no reasonable that we
should enjoy the like?"
The shepherd shook his head, for the presumption staggered him. "Ye
little ken what ye speak of," he said. "The Sabbath is for them that
have the chance of salvation, and it has been decreed that salvation is
for Adam's race and no for the beasts that perish."
The whaup gave a whistle of scorn. "I have heard all that long ago.
In my great grandmother's time, which 'ill be a thousand years and mair
syne, there came a people from the south with bright brass things on
their heads and breasts and terrible swords at their thighs. And with
them were some lang gowned men who kenned the stars and would come out
o' nights to talk to the deer and the corbies in their ain tongue. And
one, I mind, foregathered with my great-grandmother and told her that
the souls o' men flitted in the end to braw meadows where the gods bide
or gaed down to the black pit which they ca' Hell. But the souls o'
birds, he said, die wi' their bodies, and that's the end o' them.
Likewise in my mother's time, when there was a great abbey down yonder
by the Threepdaidle Burn which they called the House of Kilmaclavers,
the auld monks would walk out in the evening to pick herbs for their
distillings, and some were wise and kenned the ways of bird and beast.
They would crack often o' nights with my ain family, and tell them that
Christ had saved the souls o' men, but that birds and beasts were
perishable as the dew o' heaven. And now ye have a black-gowned man in
Threepdaidle who threeps on the same overcome. Ye may a' ken something
o' your ain kitchen midden, but certes! ye ken little o' the warld
beyond it."
Now this angered the man, and he rebuked the bird. "These are great
mysteries," he said, "which are no to be mentioned in the ears of an
unsanctified creature. What can a thing like you wi' a lang neb and
twae legs like stilts ken about the next warld?"
"Weel, weel," said the whaup, "we'll let the matter be. Everything to
its ain trade, and I will not dispute with ye on Metapheesics. But if
ye ken something about the next warld, ye ken terrible little about
this."
Now this angered the man still more, for he was a shepherd reputed to
have great skill in sheep and esteemed the nicest judge of hogg and
wether in all the countryside. "What ken ye about that?" he asked.
"Ye may gang east to Yetholm and west to Kells, and no find a better
herd."
"If sheep were a'," said the bird, "ye micht be right; but what o' the
wide warld and the folk in it? Ye are Simon Etterick o' the Lowe Moss.
Do ye ken aucht o' your forebears?"
"My father was a God-fearing man at the Kennelhead and my grandfather
and great grandfather afore him. One o' our name, folk say, was shot
at a dykeback by the Black Westeraw."
"If that's a'" said the bird, "ye ken little. Have ye never heard o'
the little man, the fourth back from yoursel', who killed the Miller o'
Bewcastle at the Lammas Fair? That was in my ain time, and from my
mother I have heard o' the Covenanter who got a bullet in his wame
hunkering behind the divot-dyke and praying to his Maker. There were
others of your name rode in the Hermitage forays and turned Naworth and
Warkworth and Castle Gay. I have heard o' an Etterick. Sim o' the
Redcleuch, who cut the throat o' Jock Johnstone in his ain house by the
Annan side. And my grandmother had tales o' auld Ettericks who rade
wi' Douglas and the Bruce and the ancient Kings o' Scots; and she used
to tell o' others in her mother's time, terrible shockheaded men
hunting the deer and rinnin' on the high moors, and bidin' in the
broken stane biggings on the hill-taps."
The shepherd stared, and he, too, saw the picture. He smelled the air
of battle and lust and foray, and forgot the Sabbath.
"And you yoursel'," said the bird, "are sair fallen off from the auld
stock. Now ye sit and spell in books, and talk about what ye little
understand, when your fathers were roaming the warld. But little cause
have I to speak, for I too am a downcome. My bill is two inches
shorter than my mother's, and my grandmother was taller on her feet.
The warld is getting weaklier things to dwell in it, even since I mind
mysel'."
"Ye have the gift o' speech; bird," said the man, "and I would hear
mair." You will perceive that he had no mind of the Sabbath day or the
fifteenth head of the forenoon's discourse.
"What things have I to tell ye when ye dinna ken the very horn-book o'
knowledge? Besides, I am no clatter-vengeance to tell stories in the
middle o' the muir, where there are ears open high and low. There's
others than me wi mair experience and a better skill at the telling.
Our clan was well acquaint wi' the reivers and lifters o' the muirs,
and could crack fine o' wars and the takin of cattle. But the blue
hawk that lives in the corrie o' the Dreichil can speak o' kelpies and
the dwarfs that bide in the hill. The heron, the lang solemn fellow,
kens o' the greenwood fairies and the wood elfins, and the wild geese
that squatter on the tap o' the Muneraw will croak to ye of the merry
maidens and the girls o' the pool. The wren--him that hops in the
grass below the birks--has the story of the Lost Ladies of the Land,
which is ower auld and sad for any but the wisest to hear; and there is
a wee bird bides in the heather-hill--lintie men call him--who sings
the Lay of the West Wind, and the Glee of the Rowan Berries. But what
am I talking of? What are these things to you, if ye have not first
heard True Thomas's Rime, which is the beginning and end o' all things?
"I have heard no rime" said the man, "save the sacred psalms o' God's
Kirk."
"Bonny rimes" said the bird. "Once I flew by the hinder end o' the
Kirk and I keekit in. A wheen auld wives wi' mutches and a wheen
solemn men wi' hoasts! Be sure the Rime is no like yon."
"Can ye sing it, bird?" said the man, "for I am keen to hear it."
"Me sing!" cried the bird, "me that has a voice like a craw! Na, na, I
canna sing it, but maybe I can tak ye where ye may hear it. When I was
young an auld bogblitter did the same to me, and sae began my
education. But are ye willing and brawly willing?--for if ye get but a
sough of it ye will never mair have an ear for other music."
"I am willing and brawly willing," said the man.
"Then meet me at the Gled's Cleuch Head at the sun's setting," said the
bird, and it flew away.
Now it seemed to the man that in a twinkling it was sunset, and he
found himself at the Gled's Cleuch Head with the bird flapping in the
heather before him. The place was a long rift in the hill, made green
with juniper and hazel, where it was said True Thomas came to drink the
water.
"Turn ye to the west," said the whaup, "and let the sun fail on your
face; then turn ye five times round about and say after me the Rune Of
the Heather and the Dew." And before he knew the man did as he was
told, and found himself speaking strange words, while his head hummed
and danced as if in a fever.
"Now lay ye down and put your ear to the earth," said the bird; and the
man did so. Instantly a cloud came over his brain, and he did not feel
the ground on which he lay or the keen hill-air which blew about him.
He felt himself falling deep into an abysm of space, then suddenly
caught up and set among the stars of heaven. Then slowly from the
stillness there welled forth music, drop by drop like the clear falling
of rain, and the man shuddered for he knew that he heard the beginning
of the Rime.
High rose the air, and trembled among the tallest pines and the summits
of great hills. And in it were the sting of rain and the blatter of
hail, the soft crush of snow and the rattle of thunder among crags.
Then it quieted to the low sultry croon which told of blazing midday
when the streams are parched and the bent crackles like dry tinder.
Anon it was evening, and the melody dwelled among the high soft notes
which mean the coming of dark and the green light of sunset. Then the
whole changed to a great paean which rang like an organ through the
earth. There were trumpet notes ill it and flute notes and the plaint
of pipes. "Come forth," it cried; "the sky is wide and it is a far cry
to the world's end. The fire crackles fine o' nights below the firs,
and the smell of roasting meat and wood smoke is dear to the heart of
man. Fine, too is the sting of salt and the rasp of the north wind in
the sheets. Come forth, one and all, unto the great lands oversea, and
the strange tongues and the hermit peoples. Learn before you die to
follow the Piper's Son, and though your old bones bleach among grey
rocks, what matter if you have had your bellyful of life and come to
your heart's desire?" And the tune fell low and witching, bringing
tears to the eyes and joy to the heart; and the man knew (though no one
told him) that this was the first part of the Rime, the Song of the
Open Road, the Lilt of the Adventurer, which shall be now and ever and
to the end of days.
Then the melody changed to a fiercer and sadder note. He saw his
forefathers, gaunt men and terrible, run stark among woody hills. He
heard the talk of the bronze-clad invader, and the jar and clangour as
stone met steel. Then rose the last coronach of his own people, hiding
in wild glens, starving in corries, or going hopelessly to the death.
He heard the cry of the Border foray, the shouts of the famished Scots
as they harried Cumberland, and he himself rode in the midst of them.
Then the tune fell more mournful and slow, and Flodden lay before him.
He saw the flower of the Scots gentry around their King, gashed to the
breast-bone, still fronting the lines of the south, though the paleness
of death sat on each forehead. "The flowers of the Forest are gone,"
cried the lilt, and through the long years he heard the cry of the
lost, the desperate, fighting for kings over the water and princes in
the heather. "Who cares?" cried the air. "Man must die, and how can
he die better than in the stress of fight with his heart high and alien
blood on his sword? Heigh-ho! One against twenty, a child against a
host, this is the romance of life." And the man's heart swelled, for
he knew (though no one told him) that this was the Song of Lost Battles
which only the great can sing before they die.
But the tune was changing, and at the change the man shivered for the
air ran up to the high notes and then down to the deeps with an eldrich
cry, like a hawk's scream at night, or a witch's song in the gloaming.
It told of those who seek and never find, the quest that knows no
fulfilment. "There is a road," it cried, "which leads to the Moon and
the Great Waters. No changehouse cheers it, and it has no end; but it
is a fine road, a braw road--who will follow it?" And the man knew
(though no one told him) that this was the Ballad of Grey Weather,
which makes him who hears it sick all the days of his life for
something which he cannot name. It is the song which the birds sing on
the moor in the autumn nights, and the old crow on the treetop hears
and flaps his wing. It is the lilt which men and women hear in the
darkening of their days, and sigh for the unforgettable; and love-sick
girls get catches of it and play pranks with their lovers. It is a
song so old that Adam heard it in the Garden before Eve came to comfort
him, so young that from it still flows the whole joy and sorrow of
earth.
Then it ceased, and all of a sudden the man was rubbing his eyes on the
hillside, and watching the falling dusk. "I have heard the Rime," he
said to himself, and he walked home in a daze. The whaups were crying,
but none came near him, though he looked hard for the bird that had
spoken with him. It may be that it was there and he did not know it,
or it may be that the whole thing was only a dream; but of this I
cannot say.
The next morning the man rose and went to the manse.
"I am glad to see you, Simon," said the minister, "for it will soon be
the Communion Season, and it is your duty to go round with the tokens."
"True," said the man, "but it was another thing I came to talk about,"
and he told him the whole tale.
"There are but two ways of it, Simon," said the minister. "Either ye
are the victim of witchcraft, or ye are a self-deluded man. If the
former (whilk I am loth to believe), then it behoves ye to watch and
pray lest ye enter into temptation. If the latter, then ye maun put a
strict watch over a vagrant fancy, and ye'll be quit o' siccan
whigmaleeries."
Now Simon was not listening but staring out of the window. "There was
another thing I had it in my mind to say," said he. "I have come to
lift my lines, for I am thinking of leaving the place."
"And where would ye go?" asked the minister, aghast.
"I was thinking of going to Carlisle and trying my luck as a dealer, or
maybe pushing on with droves to the South."
"But that's a cauld country where there are no faithfu' ministrations,"
said the minister.
"Maybe so, but I am not caring very muckle about ministrations," said
the man, and the other looked after him in horror.
When he left the manse he went to a Wise Woman, who lived on the left
side of the kirkyard above Threepdaidle burn-foot. She was very old,
and sat by the ingle day and night, waiting upon death. To her he told
the same tale.
She listened gravely, nodding with her head. "Ach," she said, "I have
heard a like story before. And where will you be going?"
"I am going south to Carlisle to try the dealing and droving" said the
man, "for I have some skill of sheep."
"And will ye bide there?" she asked.
"Maybe aye, and maybe no," he said. "I had half a mind to push on to
the big toun or even to the abroad. A man must try his fortune."
"That's the way of men," said the old wife. "I, too, have heard the
Rime, and many women who now sit decently spinning in Kilmaclavers have
heard it. But woman may hear it and lay it up in her soul and bide at
hame, while a man, if he get but a glisk of it in his fool's heart,
must needs up and awa' to the warld's end on some daft-like ploy. But
gang your ways and fare-ye-weel. My cousin Francie heard it, and he
went north wi' a white cockade in his bonnet and a sword at his side,
singing 'Charlie's come hame'. And Tam Crichtoun o' the Bourhopehead
got a sough o' it one simmers' morning, and the last we heard o' Tam he
was fechting like a deil among the Frenchmen. Once I heard a tinkler
play a sprig of it on the pipes, and a' the lads were wud to follow
him. Gang your ways for I am near the end o' mine."
And the old wife shook with her coughing. So the man put up his
belongings in a pack on his back and went whistling down the Great
South Road.
Whether or not this tale have a moral it is not for me to say. The
King (who told it me) said that it had, and quoted a scrap of Latin,
for he had been at Oxford in his youth before he fell heir to his
kingdom. One may hear tunes from the Rime, said he, in the thick of a
storm on the scarp of a rough hill, in the soft June weather, or in the
sunset silence of a winter's night. But let none, he added, pray to
have the full music; for it will make him who hears it a footsore
traveller in the ways o' the world and a masterless man till death.