Good luck to your fishing, whom watch ye to-night?
A man of mean, or a man of might?
Is it layman or priest that must float in your cove,
Or lover who crosses to visit his love?
Hark! heard ye the Kelpy reply, as we pass'd,--
“God's blessing on the warder, he lock'd the bridge fast!
All that come to my cove are sunk,
Priest or layman, lover or monk.”
How long the damsel might have continued to sing, or where the terrified
monk's journey might have ended, is uncertain. As she sung the last
stanza, they arrived at, or rather in, a broad tranquil sheet of water,
caused by a strong wear or damhead, running across the river, which
dashed in a broad cataract over the barrier. The mule, whether from
choice, or influenced by the suction of the current, made towards the
cut intended to supply the convent mills, and entered it half swimming
half wading, and pitching the unlucky monk to and fro in the saddle at a
fearful rate.
As his person flew hither and thither, his garment became loose, and in
an effort to retain it, his hand lighted on the volume of the Lady of
Avenel which was in his bosom. No sooner had he grasped it, than his
companion pitched him out of the saddle into the stream, where, still
keeping her hand on his collar, she gave him two or three good souses in
the watery fluid, so as to ensure that every other part of him had its
share of wetting, and then quitted her hold when he was so near the
side that by a slight effort (of a great one he was incapable) he might
scramble on shore. This accordingly he accomplished, and turning his
eyes to see what had become of his extraordinary companion, she was
nowhere to be seen; but still he heard, as if from the surface of the
river, and mixing with the noise of the water breaking over the damhead,
a fragment of her wild song, which seemed to run thus:--
Landed--landed! the black book hath won.
Else had you seen Berwick with morning sun!
Sain ye, and save ye, and blithe mot ye be,
For seldom they land that go swimming with me.
The ecstasy of the monk's terror could be endured no longer; his head
grew dizzy, and, after staggering a few steps onward and running himself
against a wall, he sunk down in a state of insensibility.
Chapter the Sixth.
Now let us sit in conclave. That these weeds
Be rooted from the vineyard of the church.
That these foul tares be severed from the wheat,
We are, I trust, agreed.--Yet how to do this,
Nor hurt the wholesome crop and tender vine-plants,
Craves good advisement.