IV.

Up in the ancient Castle of Weir Sat the baron, the knight, and the fair Tomasine; And the baron he looked at his daughter dear, While the salt tears bleared his aged eyne; And then to the steward, with hat in hand: "Make known unto all, from Tweed to Tyne, A hundred rose nobles I'll give to the man Who saved the life of my Tomasine." Sir Hubert cried out, in an envious vein, "Who is he that will vouch for the lurdan loon? There's no one to say he would know him again, And another may claim the golden boon." Then said the ladye, "My eyes were closed, And I never did see this wondrous man; And the cottar woman she hath deposed He was gone ere his features she could scan." "Ho!" cried the baron, "I watched him then, As I stood on the opposite bank afeared; Of a hundred men I would ken him again, Though he were to doff his dun-brown beard."

A year has passed at the Castle of Weir, Yet no one has claimed the golden don; Most wonderful thing to tell or to hear! Was he of flesh and blood and bone? Though golden nobles might not him wile, Was there not something more benign? Was not for him a maiden's smile? Was not that maiden Tomasine?

V.

The ladye sat within her summer bower Alone, deep musing, in the still greenwood; Sadly and slowly passed the evening hour, Sad and sorrowful was her weary mood, For she had seen, beneath a shadowing tree, All fast asleep a beauteous rural swain, Whom she had often sighed again to see, But never yet had chanced to see again;— So beautiful that, if the time had been In a long mythic age now past and gone, She might have deemed that she had haply seen The all-divine Latona's fair-haired son Come down upon our earth to pass a day Among the daughters fair of earth-born men, And had put on a suit of sober grey, To appear unto them as a rural swain. With features all so sweet in harmony, You might have feigned they breathed a music mild, With lire so peachy, fit to charm the eye, And lips right sure to conquer when they smiled, All seen through locks of lustrous auburn hair, Which wanton fairies had so gaily thrown To cover o'er a face so wondrous fair, Lest Dian might reclaim him as her own.

In the still moonlit hour there steals along, And falls upon her roused and listening ear The notes of some night-wandering minstrel's song, And oh! so sweet and sad it was to hear. You might have deemed it came from teylin sweet, Touched by some gentle fairy's cunning hand, To tell us of those joys that we shall meet In some far distant and far happier land; And oft at night, as time still passed away, That hopeless song throughout the greenwood came, And oft she heard repeated in the lay The well-known sound of her own maiden name; And often did she wish, and often sighed, That bashful minstrel for once more to see, To know if he were him she had espied All fast asleep beneath the greenwood tree.

VI.

Alace! and alace! for that false pride In the hearts of those of high degree, And that gentle love should be decried By its noblest champion, Chivalrie. If the baron shall hear a whispered word Of that fond lover's sweet minstrelsie, That love-lorn heart and his angry sword May some night better acquainted be. Woe! woe! to the viper's envenomed tongue That obeys the hest of a coward's heart, Who tries to avenge his fancied wrong By getting another to act his part. Sir Hubert has lisped in the baron's ear, When drinking wine at the evening hour, That a minstrel clown met his daughter dear At night in her lonely greenwood bower. "Hush! hush! Sir Hubert, thy words are fires; Elves are about us that hear and see, Who may tell to the ghost of my noble sires Of a damned blot on our pedigree." And the baron frowned with darkened brow, And by the bones of his fathers swore That from that night this minstrel theou, To his daughter would warble his love no more.

VII.

That night the minstrel sang in softer flow, Waxing and waning soft and softer still, Like autumn's night winds breathing loun and low, Or evening murmur of the wimpling rill; But there was heard that night no farewell strain, As in foretime there ever used to be— A stop! and then no more was heard again That bashful lover's hapless minstrelsie. Next morn the maid, with purpose to enjoy The forest flowers and wild birds' early song, Unto the greenwood went; and to employ Her weary musing as she went along, Love's magic memory from its depths upbrought The notes that ever still so sweetly hung About her heart; and as she gaily thought, She sung them o'er as she had heard them sung. Onward she moved: her dreamy, listless eye Had leant upon a fragrant wild-rose bed, And, glancing farther, what does she descry? Stretched stiff and bloody, his sad spirit fled, Yea, him whom when asleep she once had seen, And had so often wished again to see, Now dead and cold 'mong the leaves so green, And all beneath the well-known greenwood tree.

"Good day, my ladye," then some one said— It was Sir Hubert there close behind; "He will sing no more, or I am belied, For the reason, I wot, that he wanteth wind." Up came the baron in angry vein; He casts his eye on the body there; He scans the features again and again With a look of doubt and shudder of fear; His hands he wrings with a groan of pain, He rolls his eyeballs with gesture wild— "Great God! by a villain's counsel I've slain The youth who saved my darling child!"

Among yon hoary elms that o'er him grow A harp is hung to catch the evening gale, That sings to him in accents soft and low, And soothes the maiden with its sorrowful wail, Who, as she sits within her greenwood bower, And listens to the teylin's solemn strain, Bethinks her, in her tears, of every hour That gentle youth had sung to her in vain.



VIII.

THE ROMAUNT OF ST. MARY'S WYND.

I. Of Scotland's cities, still the rarest Is ancient Edinburgh town; And of her ladies, still the fairest There you see walk up and down: Be they gay, or be they gayless, There they beck and there they bow, From the Castle to the Palace, In farthingale and furbelow.

Says Lady Jane to Lady Janet, "Thy gown, I vow, is stiff and grand; Though there were feint a body in it, Still I trow that it would stand." And Lady Janet makes rejoinder: "Thy boddice, madam, is sae tend, The bonny back may crack asunder, But, by my faith, it winna bend."

But few knew one both fairer, kinder, The fair maid of St. Mary's Wynd; Among the great you will not find her, For she was of the humbler kind. For her minnie spinning, plodding, She wore no ribbons to her shune, No mob-cap on her head nid-nodding, But aye the linsey-woolsey gown.

No Lady Jane in silks and laces, How fair soever she might be, Could match the face—the nature's graces Of this poor, humble Marjorie: Her eyes they were baith mirk and merry, Her lire was as the lily fair, Her lips were redder than the cherry, And flaxen was her glossy hair.

Ye bucks who wear the coats silk-braided, With satin ribbons at your knee, And cambric ruffles starched and plaited, With cocked bonnets all ajee, Who walk with mounted canes at even, Up and down so jauntilie, Ye would have given a blink of heaven For one sweet smile from Marjorie.

But Marjory's care was aye her minnie, And day by day she sat and span; Nor did she think it aught but sin aye, To bear the stare of gentleman: She doated on her own dear Willie, For dear to her fond heart was he, Who, though his sire was poor, yet still he Was far above the low degree.

It was aye said his father's father Did claim some Spanish pedigree, Which many well believed, the rather That he was not of our countrie: His skin was brown as nut of hazel, His eye was black as Scottish sloe, And all so bright that it would dazzle The eye that looked that eye into.

There came into his head a notion, Which wrought and wrought within his brain, That he would cross th' Atlantic Ocean, And seek the land of Spanish Main; And there amass a routh of treasure, And then come back with bosom leal To his own Marjory, and release her From rock and reel and spinning wheel.

Up spake the minnie—it did not please her That he should "gae sae far frae hame:" "Thou'lt reap less in yon Abiezer Than thou wilt glean in this Ephraim; For there's a proverb faileth never; A lintie safe within the hand, Though lean and lank, is better ever Than is a fat finch on the wand."

Then Marjory, with eye so tearful, Whispered in dark Willie's ear, "Thou wilt not go and leave me careful, Friendless, lanely, starving here; My minnie God hath gien a warning, And I can do nae mair than spin, And slowly, slowly comes the earning That with my wheel I daily win."

"Oh fear not, Marjory dear—content ye, Blackfriar John hath to me sworn, That man of God will kindly tent ye Until that I again return; And he has promised fair to write me Of how ye live and prosper twain, And I will faithfully requite ye With my true love to you again."

II.

Dark Willie took his sad departure, And left at home his Marjory dear To doubt and fear from every quarter, Weep—weeping sadly on the pier; And o'er the sea, all dangers scorning, And o'er the sea he boldly sailed, Until upon the fortieth morning The promised land at length he hailed.

Now! thou one of the fateful sisters That spins for man the silver thread, Spin one of gold that glints and glisters For one who stands in meikle need; Spin it quick and spin it finely, Till Willie's golden fortune's made, And send him back to Marjory kindly, Who spins at home for daily bread.

There was a rich old Spanish senor, Who bore dark Willie's Spanish name, And came to feel the kindly tenor Of plighted friendship's sacred claim: He gave his right hand to dark Willie, With shares of a great companie, Which sent forth goods far o'er the billow, In ships that sailed on every sea.

Don Pedro had an only daughter, The Donna Clara, passing fair, Who, when her sire took his departure, Would be her father's only heir: Her eyes, so like two sterns of even, Shining the murky clouds among, And black her ringlets as the raven, That o'er her marble shoulders hung.

Oh Willie! Willie! have thou care, man! And give unto thine heart a stay, For there are witcheries working there, man, May steal that heart of thine away. No need! to him blue eyes are glowing, To him most beautiful of all, No need! for flaxen hair is flowing To keep his loving heart in thrall.

III.

A year had passed, and he had written Of loving letters more than one, The while gold pieces still remitting All to holy Blackfriar John; Yet still no answer had he gotten; And as the days still passed away, He fell to musing, and deep thought on What had caused the strange delay.

What now to him those golden pieces That he so fastly now could earn? Ah, love like his gives no releases, However Clara's eyes might yearn; He wandered hither, wandered thither, By sad forebodings nightly tossed; He wandered now, he wandered ever, In mournful musing sadly lost.

But time would tell: there came a letter That filled his soul with dire dismay, And told him his dark fears' abettor, His Marjory's health had flown away: Even as the clay her cheek was paling, Her azure eyes were waxing dim, Her hair unkemp't, and loose, and trailing, And all for hopeless love of him.

Sad harbinger of things to harrow, Another came, ah! soon a day, To tell him his dear winsome marrow From this sad world had passed away. No more for him those eyes so merry, That were to him so sweet to see! No more those lips red as the cherry, That were to him so sweet to pree!

IV.

Alas! there are of things—we see them Without the aid of wizard's spell; But there are other things—we dree them, No art of wizard can foretell: Strange thing the heart where love has power, So tossed with joy or racked with pain! Dark Willie from that fatal hour Seemed fated ne'er to smile again.

In vain now Clara, sembling gladness, Plies the magic of her wile, To draw him off from his great sadness, And cheat him of a loving smile: The more her sympathy she tenders, The more he will by art defy All beauty which but contrast renders With his own dear lost Marjory.

V.

Now Time's big silent, solemn billow Rolls quietly on from year to year: Don Pedro lies on his green pillow, With love-lorn Clara sleeping near. But, ere he died, he did declare it His pleasure when his days were told, And Clara dead, with none to share it, Don William should heir all his gold.

Gift vain, oh vain! would wealth restore him His long-lost Marjory to his arms? Nay, would it wake and bring before him One only of her envied charms? No, it might cause another courtship, A love he could not now control: Great Mammon lured him to his worship, And lorded in his inmost soul.

What though ten years away had stolen? 'Twas not to him all weary time, Who every day was pleased to roll in The tempting Mammon's golden shrine. But when he laid him on his pillow, His fancy sought the farthest east, And conjured up some lonely willow That waved o'er her he loved the best.

Change still—a passion changed to pity! No other solace would he have— A wish to see his native city, And sit and weep o'er Marjory's grave. To see that house, yea, buy the sheiling In that old wynd of St. Marie, A hermit there to live and dwell in, Then sleep beside his Marjorie.

VI.

Blow soft, ye winds, and tender-hearted This hermit waft to yonder shore, From which for sordid gold he parted Ten weary years and one before. Ho! there's the pier where last he left her, That dear, loved one, to weep alone, And for that love of gold bereft her Of all the pleasures she could own.

He's now within the ancient borough! He sought the well-known White Horse Inn, And there he laid him down in sorrow, Some strengthening confidence to win; Then up the street, with none to greet him, He held his sad and sorrowing way, When lo! who should be there to meet him But Friar John?—who slunk away.

Strange thing! but lo! the sacred sheiling In that old wynd of St. Marie— The window where with mirthful feeling He tap't the sign to Marjorie. He sought the lobby dark and narrow, Groped gently for the well-known door, Where he might hear of his winsome marrow, Who died there many years before.

He drew the latch, and quietly entered; There some one spinning merrilie! A faltering question then he ventured: "My name, kind sir, is Marjorie." "Great God!" he cried, in voice all trembling, And sank upon a crazy chair, And tried to trace a strange resembling In her who sat beside him there.

A maiden she still young and buxom, Nor change but what ten years may bring, Her hair still of the glossy flaxen, Her eyes still blue as halcyon's wing. He traced the lines, he knew each feature Of all her still unfaded charms; And now this long lost, worshipped creature Is locked fast in his loving arms.

"Look up! look up! thy fear controlling, It is thy Willie's voice that calls:" She oped her eyes—now wildly rolling All o'er his face the lustrous balls— "It is, it is—-oh, powers most holy! And I had heard that thou wert dead; And here, in spite of melancholy, I still spin for my daily bread."

"'Twas Friar John wrote me a letter, He said he saw thee on thy bier; And sore I mourned with tears, oh bitter! For one I ever loved so dear." "Oh, wae befa' that wicked friar, Who sairly tried my love to gain; Wae, wae befa' that wicked liar, Wha brought on us sae meikle pain."

Then Willie said, with tears encumbered, "Cheer up, cheer up, dear Marjorie, For I have gold in sums unnumbered, And it shall all belong to thee." "And art thou true, and still unmarried? And is thy bodie not a seim? And is it true my ears have carried, Or is it a' a lying dream?"

"All, all is true, my dearest hinny, What thou'rt to me I am to thee, Our years on earth may still be many, And quickly we shall wedded be." "Ah, weel! ah, weel!" and sighing, sobbing, She on his breast her head hath lain; And as he felt her bosom throbbing, He kissed her ower and ower again.

And he has bought a noble mansion, And stocked it with all things genteel Of costly price—nor need we mention The rock and reel and spinning-wheel; And he has bought a noble carriage, With servants in gay liverie, I trow there was an unco marriage In the ancient wynd of Saint Marie.



IX.

THE LEGEND OF MARY LEE.[A]

(Another Version.)

[Footnote A: See the strange song of the same name in the Scottish Gallovidean Encyclopaedia, from which I borrow some of the maledictory epithets. Grotesque they may be, but they are justified by the vocabulary of our old witch-sibyls used in curses and incantations, as we find in books of diablerie.]

Though Robert was heir to broad Kildearn, He had often with gipsies roved, And from gipsies he came a name to earn, Which was dear to the maid he loved. To ladies fair he was Robert St. Clair, When he met them in companie; To a certain one, and to her alone, He was only Robin-a-Ree.[2]

[Footnote 2: Kingly, or royal, in the gipsy tongue.]

Through Kildearn's woods they were wont to rove, And they knew well the trysting tree; The green sward was their bed of love, And the green leaves their canopie. But the love of the virgin heart is shy, And hangs between hope and fear; It is fed by the light of a lover's eye, And it trusts thro' the willing ear.

"My Mary! I swear by yon Solway tide, Which is true to the queen of night, That thou shalt be my chosen bride When I come to my lawful right: My father is now an aged man, And but few years more can see; And when he dies, old Kildearn's land Belongs to Robin-a-Ree."

"Oh Robin, oh Robin," and Mary sighed, "Aye faithfu' to you I hae been, As true as ever yon Solway tide Is true to yon silvery queen. And faithfu' and true I will ever prove Till that happy day shall be, When I will be in honoured love The wife o' Robin-a-Ree."

Green be thy leaves, thou "tree of troth," And thy rowan berries red, Where he has sworn that holy oath, If he stand to what he has said. But black and blasted may thou be, And thy berries a yellow green, If he prove false to Mary Lee, Who so faithful to him has been.

For a woman's art and a woman's wile A man may well often slight, At the worst they are but nature's guile To procure what is nature's right. But a woman's wrath, when once inflamed By a sense of fond love betrayed, No cunning device by cunning framed Has ever that passion laid.

II.

Passions will range and passions will change, And they leave no mortal in peace, There is nothing in man that to us seems strange That to passion you may not trace. The heart that will breathe the warmest love Is the first oft to cease its glow, The fairest flower in the forest grove Is often the first to dow.

A woman's eye is aye quick to see The love of a lover decay: And why from the trusty trysting tree Does Robin now stay away? There are other trees in the wood as green, With as smooth a sward below, Where lovers may lie in the balmy e'en, And their love to each other show.

'Twas when the moon in an autumn night Threw shadows throughout the wood, She heard some sounds; and with footsteps light, Where no one could see, she stood. She listened, and with an anxious ear, To know who these there might be: A youth was there with his mistress dear, And the youth was Robin-a-Ree.

Silent and gloomy she wandered home, And went to her bed apart, No softening tear to her eye would come, No sigh from her aching heart. The balmy milk of a woman's breast Waxed curdled green and sour, And Mary Lee was by all confessed As changed from that fatal hour.

At times, when the moon gave little light, She sat by the Solway side, And thought, as she sat, of that happy night When he swore by the Solway tide. Far sweeter to her the roaring wind, Than when it was solemn and low, For the waters he swore by seemed to her mind As resenting that broken vow.

Still darker and darker the cloud on her brow, Yet paler her tearless cheek; But no one her sorrow would ever know, Nor word would she ever speak. 'Tis the story old, old, so often told, To be told while time shall be, Fair Catherine, the heiress of Ravenswold, Is the wife of Robin-a-Ree.

III.

It was on an angry winter night, When Mary sat in her gloom, There came to her door an ill-doing wight—- Kildearn's drunken groom: He placed in her hand a gold-filled purse, And spoke of love's sacred flame; And well she knew the unholy source Whence the man and the money came.

"Awa and awa, thou crawling worm, On whom thy horse will tread Awa and awa, and tell Kildearn, I accept his noble meed." She placed the purse in a cabinet old, And locked it right carefullie, "Lie there, lie there, thou ill-won gold. Till needed thou shalt be."

IV.

The years roll on, nor Robin-a-Ree Can their onward progress stay, The years roll on, and children three, Have blessed his bridal day. And Mary Lee is there to see, As she sat in her lonely home, Two of Kildearn's children three, Borne away to Kildearn's tomb.

But none of these years work change on her: As she seeks the lone greenwood, She sees a man lying bleeding there, While his horse beside him stood. He called for help, where help there was none, Tho' Mary was standing near, Who spoke in a solemn eldritch tone, Words strange to the human ear:

"The hairy adder I dinna like, When I the fell creature meet, Neither like I the moon-baying tyke. Nor the Meg-o'-moniefeet. I canna thole the yellow-wamed ask, Sae fearful a thing to see; But mair than a', and ower them a', I hate fause Robin-a-Ree."

V.

Time puts in the sack that behind him hangs Of things both old and new, And every hour brings stranger things Than those we have bidden adieu. The last one of those children three, Young Hector, Kildearn's pride, Has gone, in his childish mirth and glee, To play by the Solway tide.

That tide by which his father swore As true to the silvery queen— That tide is breaking with sullen roar, And Hector no more is seen. They may search, they may drag—the search is vain, No Hector they'll ever find; A lugger is yonder, away to the main, Borne on an eastern wind.

And there is a woman who stands in the bay, And she holds out both her hands, As if she would wave that lugger away To some of the distant lands. And if you will trace her to her hold, Where a purse of gold was laid, You will find the drawer, but not the gold, For the purse and gold are fled.

VI.

Time flies, but sin breeds in-and-in, And a father's grief is stern; Robin is dead, and a distant kin Now calls himself Kildearn. The moon's pale light falls on yonder tomb, By which sits a woman grey, And sings in the blast a revengeful doom, In a woman's weird way.

"Chirk! whutthroats in yon auld taff dyke, Hoot! grey owl in yon shaw, Howl out! ye auld moon-baying tyke, Ye winds mair keenly blaw, Till ye rouse to the rage o' a wintry storm The waves of the Solway sea, And wauken the brawnit connach worm On the grave o' Robin-a-Ree."

VII.

More years passed on. Ho! near by the cove Is a ship with a pirate crew, All bound in honour and fear and love, To their captain, Hector Drew; Who looked through his glass at old Kildearn, As thoughts through his memory ran, And fain of that house he would something learn. But he is an outlawed man.

Nor venture could he to come upon land, Except under cloud of night, And he and all his pirate band Lie hidden there out of sight; That he might plunder Kildearn House Of its gold and its jewelrie, Then away, and away, again to cruise Where rovers aye love to be.

But there is one who stands on the shore, Who knew that pirate hoy, Whose captain she bribed many years before To steal away Kildearn's boy. She has sent the bloodhounds to the wood, They have seized them every loon, And sent them to answer for deeds of blood, To Edwin's old castled toun.

The Admiral High of old Scotland Has them tried for deeds so dark, And they are decreed by his high command To be hanged within high-water mark. On the sands of Leith, as St. Giles struck two, And within the hem of the sea, There Captain Drew and all his crew Were hanged for piracie.

And so it is true that a woman's wile A man may with safety slight, At worst it may be but nature's guile To procure what is nature's right. But a woman's wrath, if once inflamed By a sense of fond love betrayed, No cunning device by cunning framed Has ever that passion laid.



THE BALLAD OF AGE AND YOUTH.

I left yon stately castle on the height, The ancient halls of lordly Ravenslee, Wherein was met, in grandeur all bedight, Of knights and dames a gallant companie; For I was in a misanthropic mood, And deemed that gay galaverie false and vain, And wished to lie or loiter in some wood, And give my fancy her unbridled rein.

I left them all in flush of pleasure's sport, Some knights with damoiselles gone forth to woo, Some listing gleemen in the ballion court, Some deep in ombre, some at lanterloo, Some gone a-hawking with the merlyon, Some at their noon-meat sipping Spanish wine, Some conning old romances on the lawn, And all to meet in hall at hour of dine.

II.

Down in Dalmossie dell I sought a nook Beneath a thick and widely-spreading tree, And there I sat to con my little book, My book of old black-letter grammarie. All stillness in that deep and lonely dell Save hum of bumble-bee on nimble wing, Or zephyr sporting round the wild blue bell, While fancy feigned some tiny tinkle-ring.

Lo! come from yonder sheiling by the burn An aged pair whom Time claimed as his own— Their clothes all brown, and sere and sadly worn, But brushed and clean, and tentily put on. I noted well the signs of their great eild, Their shrunken limbs, their locks of snowy hair, The wobbling walk, the bowing, bending bield, The wrinkled cheeks, and looks of dule and care.

I thought on hapless man—with changing face, Each day more furrowed as he wears along. He looks into the glass to cry Alace! Alace for that spring time that's past and gone! He looks askance, and sees young eyes that lour On him, so comely once, unsightly grown: The faded roses make a scented bower, But aged man seems spurned by man alone.

Yet happy he who, changing with advance, Has bright and golden hopes beyond the sun; He can give back their saucy, pitying glance, Who set such wondrous price their youth upon. Their night will come in turn, yea, comes apace, Without, mayhap, the hope of brighter day, When age-worn looks will don their native grace, And feel no more this world's despised decay.

III.

That aged pair sat down upon the green, While each the other helped to softest seat, I watched their ways, myself by them unseen, And heard their quivering words, so kindly sweet, As still of golden days when they were young, Of youth's green summer time they spoke and wept, And soft in wailing song there came along These words, which I in memory long have kept:

THE SONG OF AGE.[A]

"The trees they are high, John, the leaves they are green, The days are awa that you and I have seen; The days are awa that we have seen; And oh! for youth's bonnie green summer again, Summer again, summer again, And oh! for youth's bonnie green summer again.

"There was joy at our marriage—a dance on the green, They a' roosed the light of my bonnie blue een, My bonnie blue een, where tears may now be seen; And oh! that we were to be married again, Married again, married again, And oh! that we were to be married again.

"The grass it is wet, John, the wind it is keen, Our claes they are worn, and our shune they are thin; Our shune they are thin, and the waters come in; And oh! for youth's bonnie green summer again, Summer again, summer again, And oh! for youth's bonnie green summer again.

"There was joy in our youth, John, at wish's command, We danced and we sang, and we ilka gate ran, But now dule and sorrow's on ilka hand; And oh! for youth's bonnie green summer again, Summer again, summer again, And oh! for youth's bonnie green summer again.

"There's graves in yon howf, John, and hillocks o' green, Where our bairns lie sleeping that left us alane, And they're waiting for us till we gae to creep in; And alas! for youth's bonnie green summer again, Summer again, summer again, And alas! for youth's bonnie green summer again."

When she had crooned her chant, I heard him say, With sobbing voice and deep heart-heaving sigh, "Dry up thae tears, my Jean, for things away, Time's but a watch-tick in eternity; We darena sing of earth, but lift our prayer To Him whose promises are never vain, That we may dwell in yonder Eden fair, And see youth's summer blooming green again."

Then rose a prayer to Bethel's Lord and King That He would lead them through this vale of woe, And to the promised land his children bring, Where Babel's streams in living waters flow. They left: again all silence in the dell Save hum of bumble-bee on nimble wing, Or zephyr sporting round the wild blue bell, While fancy feigned some tiny tinkle-ring.

[Footnote A: Some readers may recognise in the old woman's song portions of an ancient ditty that used to be chanted in a wailing cadence in several parts of Scotland. I suspect the song as a whole is lost—the more to be regretted for its sweet simplicity and melodious wail (so far as judged in the fragments), which in a modern song would be viewed as weakness or affectation. Indeed, the modes of thought and feeling that belong to what is called advanced civilisation are impatient of these things except as rude relics of yet untutored minds; and the pleasure with which they are accepted has in it perhaps a grain of pity for those that didn't know better than produce them. Yet, as regards mere poetical feeling at least, the nearer the fountainhead the purer the water.]

IV.

And is not youth, thought I, a vulgar thing, When lording over WISDOM'S ancient reign? What may avail the brilliancy of spring If autumn yields no hoards of garnered grain? Experience is the daughter of old Time, Mother of Wisdom, last and noblest born, Who comes as Faith to help our waning prime, To cheer the night of age and light the morn.

I sought at eve the castle on the height, The ancient halls of lordly Ravenslee, Oh! contrast great! gay scene of youth's delight— The spinette, galliard, mirth's galaverie! I thought upon the couple in the wood, And how that singing, dancing, laughing train Would one day sigh in Time's avenging mood, "Alas! for youth's green summer time again."



XI.

THE LEGEND OF CRAIGULLAN.[A]

[Footnote A: This legend has been referred to several Scotch families—one in Fife in particular, the name of which it would be imprudent to mention.]

Yonder the halls of old Craigullan! To weird doom for ever true; The moaning winds are sad and sullen, The screech-owl hoots too-hoo! too-hoo! The lazy burn-clock drones around, The wing-mouse flaps the choking air, The croaking frog hops on the ground, For weird fate is working there.

Each wing had once a goodly tower Of stately beild, both broad and high; In every tower a lady's bower, Bedecked with silken tapestry; In every bower a lovely maid, Her youth and beauty all in vain; And with each maid a keeper staid To watch the wanderings of her brain.

'Twas said that those who went that way Would hear some shrill and piercing wail Come from these towers, and die away As borne upon the passing gale; Yet none could say from whom it came, Far less divine the reason why; And Superstition, with her dream, Could only whisper mystery— Unholy spirits haunting nigh, And screaming in the midnight hour, Presage of vengeance from on high For deeds done in Craigullan's tower.

If Superstition has her dream, She also has her waking hour; Nor ever man, howe'er supreme, Can free him from her mystic power. And it was told, in whispering way, That once Craigullan led his hounds Out forth upon a Sabbath day Within the church bells' sacred sounds; And as he rode, by fury fired, A woman, pregnant, overthrown Beneath his horse's hoofs, expired, And, dying, shrieked this malison: From this day forth, till time shall cease, May madness haunt Craigullan's race!

The words struck on a sceptic's ear: Would woman's curse his pleasure stay? He blew his horn both loud and clear, And with his hounds he hied away. He conned no more the weird reve Which all conspired to prove untrue, For he had healthy daughters five, Who up in maiden beauty grew— Clorinda, Isobel, and Jane— Such was the order of their birth— And Florabel and Clementine, All lovely, gay, and full of mirth.

But man is blind, with all his power, And gropes through life his darksome way; Nor ever thinks the evil hour May come within the brightest day.

As custom went, a noble throng Hath filled Craigullan's ancient hall, Amidst th' inspiring dance and song, Clorinda is admired of all. The sun with his enlivening light Brings out the viper and the rose, And joy that cheers will oft excite Dark Mania from her long repose. Amidst the dance and music there— The dance which she so proudly led— A maniac shriek has rent the air— Clorinda falls, her reason fled.

In vain shall passing time essay To soothe the dire domestic pain; Fair Isobel becomes the prey Of that same demon of the brain. When autumn winds were sighing low, When birds were singing on the tree, Amidst their song she met the foe, And sank beneath the fell decree.

Nor yet the sibyl leaf all read, Dark Nemesis is grim and sullen; She bends again her vengeful head— Woe! woe! to old Craigullan. The next by fatal count of Time, The next by her foreboding fears—- Jane falls, like those in early prime— She falls amidst a mother's tears.

Nor finished yet the weird spell, Wrought out by some high powers divine. The victim next is Florabel, The fairest of Craigullan's line. The shadow fell upon her bloom, Grew darker as the period neared, As if the terror of her doom Wrought out the issue which it feared.

If Superstition has her dreams, Proud reason has her mystic day; And who shall harmonize the themes In this world's dark and dreary way? If Clementine is yet forgot, Is the relief to her a gain? She fears the demon in each thought, In every fancy of the brain. If once a cheerful thought shall rise, The dreaded enemy is near; If once her heaving bosom sighs, The vengeful demon will appear. In vain she seeks the greenwood grove, In vain she hears the merlin sing, In vain she seeks her flower alcove, In vain for her the roses spring. If holy peace she tries to seek, She hears Clorinda's maniac song, Or Florabel's ecstatic shriek, Sounding the stilly woods among.

What though Sir Walter seeks her bower, And pleads his suit on bended knee With all a lover's magic power, That she his lady-love shall be? He does not know her secret pain; She dare not whisper in his ear; She dare not trust that she is sane; She loves him, but she loves with fear.

This is her madness. Who shall know If she with reason, they without, Which have the greater load of woe? Her sisters have not sense to doubt. This is the world's madness too: We seek for truth, and seek in vain. While madly we the false pursue, Who shall decide that he is sane?

And still the halls of old Craigullan To weird doom are ever true; The moaning winds are sad and sullen, The grey owl hoots too-hoo! too-hoo!



XII.

THE HERMIT OF THE HILLS.

"Intruder, thou shalt hear my tale," the solitary said, While far adown beneath our feet the fiery levin played; The thunder-clouds our carpet were—we gazed upon the storm, Which swept along the mountain sides in many a fearful form.

I sat beside the lonely man, on Cheviot's cloudless height; Above our heads was glory, but beneath more glorious night; For the sun was shining over us, but lightnings flashed below, Like the felt and burning darkness of unutterable woe.

"I love, in such a place as this," the desolate began, "To gaze upon the tempests wild that separate me from man; To muse upon the passing things that agitate the world— View myself as by a whirlwind to hopeless ruin hurled.

"My heart was avaricious once, like yours the slave of feeling— Perish such hearts! vile dens of crime! man's selfishness concealing; For self! damned self's creation's lord!—man's idol and his god! Twas torn from me, a blasted, bruised, a cast off, worthless load.

"Some say there's wildness in my eyes, and others deem me crazed, They, trembling, turn and shun my path—for which let Heaven be praised! They say my words are blasphemy—they marvel at my fate, When 'tis my happiness to know they pity not, but hate.

"My father fell from peace and wealth the day that I was born— My mother died, and he became his fellow-gambler's scorn; I know not where he lived or died—I never heard his name— An orphan in a workhouse, I was thought a child of shame.

"Some friend by blood had lodged me there, and bought my keeper too, Who pledged his oath he would conceal what of my tale he knew. Death came to him—he called on me the secret to unfold, But died while he was uttering the little I have told.

"My soul was proud, nor brooked restraint—was proud, and I was young; And with an eager joyancy I heard his flattering tongue Proclaim me not of beggars born—yea, as he speaking died, I—greedy—mad to know the rest—stood cursing by his side.

"I looked upon the homely garb that told my dwelling-place— It hung upon me heavily—a token of disgrace! I fled the house—I went to sea—was by a wretch impressed, The stamp of whose brutality is printed on my breast.

"Like vilest slave he fettered me, my flesh the irons tore— Scourged, mocked, and worse than buried me upon a lifeless shore, Where human foot had never trod—upon a barren rock, Whose caves ne'er echoed to a sound save billows as they broke.

"'Twas midnight; but the morning came. I looked upon the sea, And a melancholy wilderness its waters were to me; The heavens were black as yonder cloud that rolls beneath our feet, While neither land nor living thing my eager eyes could meet.

"I naked sat upon the rock; I trembled—strove to pray; Thrice did I see a distant sail, and thrice they bore away. My brain with hunger maddening, as the steed the battle braves, Headlong I plunged from the bare rock and buffeted the waves.

"Methought I saw a vessel near, and bitter were my screams, But they died within me echoless as voices in our dreams; For the winds were howling round me, and the suffocating gush Of briny horrors rioted, the cry of death to crush.

"My senses fled. I lifelessly upon the ocean slept; And when to consciousness I woke, a form before me wept. Her face was beautiful as night; but by her side there stood A group, whose savage glances were more dismal than the flood.

"They stood around exultingly; they snatched me from the wave— Stole me from death—to torture me, to sell me as a slave. She who stood o'er me weeping was a partner of my chains. We were sold, and separation bled my heart with deeper pains.

"I knew not what her birth had been, but loved her with a love Which nor our tyrant's cruelty nor mockery could move. I saw her offered to a Moor—another purchased me; But, Heavens! my arms once fetterless, ere midnight I was free!

"Memory, with eager eye, had marked her master's hated door— I grasped a sabre, reached the house, and slew the opposing Moor. I bore her rapidly away; a boat was on the beach— We put to sea—saw morning dawn 'yond our pursuers' reach

"I gazed upon her silently—I saw her sink to sleep, As darkness gathered over us upon the cheerless deep; I saw her in her slumber start—unconsciously she spoke— Oh death!—she called upon his name who left me on the rock!

"Then there was madness in my breast and fury in my brain— She never heard that name from me, yet uttered it again! I started forth and grasped her hand—'Are we pursued?' she cried— I trembled in my agony, and speechless o'er her sighed.

"I ventured not to speak of love in such an awful hour, For hunger glistened in our eyes, and grated to devour The very rags that covered us! My pangs I cannot tell, But in that little hour I felt the eternity of hell.

"For the transport of its tortures did in that hour surround Two beings on the bosom of a shoreless ocean found; As we gazed upon each other, with a dismal longing look, And jealousy, but not from love, our tortured bosoms shook.

"I need but add that we were saved, and by a vessel borne Again toward our native land to be asunder torn. The maiden of my love was rich—was rich—and I was poor; A soulless menial shut on me her wealthy guardian's door.

"She knew it not, nor would I tell—tell! by the host of heaven, My tongue became the sepulchre of sound!—my heart was riven. I fled society and hope; the prison of my mind A world of inexpressible and guilty thoughts confined.

"She was not wed—my hope returned; ambition my soul, Sweeping round me like a fury, while the beacon and the goal Of desire, ever turbulent and sleepless, was to have The hand that mine had rescued from the fetters of a slave.

"I was an outcast on the earth, but braved my hapless lot; And while I groaned impatiently, weak mortals heard it not. A host of drear, unholy dreams did round my pillow haunt, While my days spent in loneliness were darkened o'er with want.

"At length blind fortune favoured me—my breast to joy awoke; And then he who had left me on the isolated rock, I met within a distant land; nor need I further tell, But that we met as equals there, and my antag'nist fell.

"Awhile I brooded on his death; and gloomily it brought A desolateness round me, stamping guilt on every thought. I trembling found how bloodily my vengeance was appeased, At what vile price my bosom was of jealousy released.

"For still the breathing of his name by her I lov'd had rung In remembrance, like the latest sound that falleth from the tongue Of those best loved and cherished, when upon the bed of death They bequeath to us their injuries to visit in our wrath.

"But soon these griefs evanished, like a passing summer storm, And a gush of hope like sunshine flashed around me, to deform The image of repentance, while the darkness of remorse Retreated from its presence with a blacker with'ring curse.

"I hurried home in eagerness—-the leaden moments fled; My burning tale of love was told—was told—and we were wed. A tumult of delightfulness had rapt my soul in flame, But on that day—my wedding day—a mourning letter came.

"Joy died on ev'ry countenance—she, trembling, broke the seal— Screamed—glanced on me! and lifeless fell, unable to reveal The horrid tale of death that told her new-made husband's guilt— The hand which she that day had wed, her brother's blood had spilt.

"That brother in his mother's right another name did bear: Twas him I slew—all shrank from me in horror and in fear; They seized me in my bridal dress—my bride still senseless lay— I spoke not while they pinioned me and hurried me away.

"They lodged me in a criminal cell, by iron gratings barred, And there the third day heavily a funeral bell I heard. A sable crowd my prison passed—they gazed on it with gloom: It was my bride—my beautiful—they followed to the tomb!

"I was acquitted; but what more had I with life to do? I cursed my fate—my heart—the world—and from its creatures flew. Intruder, thou hast heard my tale of wretchedness and guilt— Go, mingle with a viler world, and tell it if thou wilt."



XIII.

THE BALLAD OF RUMBOLLOW.

The clouds are flying, the trees are sighing, The birds are hopping from bough to bough; The winds are blowing, the snowflakes throwing O'er the green earth below, below; The storm is coming while I am roaming The thick dark forest all through, all through; The air is nipping, my clothes are dripping, All in the forest of Rumbollow.[A]

On a felled tree lying a woman sits sighing, Rocking a child both to and fro; Her gown it is torn, her shoes they are worn— She looks like a creature of woe, of woe; Her eyes are glowing, her hair is flowing, She's all over white with the snow, the snow; She rocks the child with a gesture wild, All in the forest of Rumbollow.

The child is crying, and she is trying To lull it asleep—balow! balow! And while she is singing, the snowflakes are winging And whirling in eddies all through, all through. I listed the rening and wondered the meaning: Was it the tale of her woe, her woe— A truthful crooning or a maniac mooning— All in the forest of Rumbollow?

[Footnote A: The old song called "Rumbollow Fair" is said by Pinkerton to have been lost. I have heard a refrain, "All in the Forest of Rumbollow," but whether this has any relation to the old song I do not know. I fear I am altogether responsible for this rhapsodical effusion.]



THE SONG OF THE BETRAYED.

"Balow! balow! my bonnie bairn— Nae father to care for you; As your mother has sinned so shall she earn, And to her the world is hard and stern, Who has loved and lived to rue, Balow! Who has loved and lived to rue.

"On Rumbollow green my love lies slain, As he cam' frae Rumbollow Fair; His bodie lies deep amang rushes green, Where corbies pike at his bonnie blue een, And taeds sleep in his hair, Balow! And taeds sleep in his hair.

"The grey owl sits on yon willow tree, Whose branches o'er him weep, And sends its scream far o'er the lea, Where night winds whisper mournfullie, And through the rashes sweep, Balow! And through the rashes sweep.

"When first I met wi' Hab o' the Howe I had scarce twice nine years seen, And he swore by our Ladye o' Rumbollow I had set a' his heart in a holy lowe Wi' the fire o' my twa black een, Balow! Wi' the fire o' my twa black een.

"Of a' the fair maidens on Rumbollow green There was nane sae fair as me, Wi' my kilted kirtle o' mazarine, And buckles as bright as the siller sheen, And my coatie o' cramosie, Balow! And my coatie o' cramosie.

"I was proud that he stood tall men abune, Sae stalwart, sae bald and free; But he cozened my heart and left me undune, Wi' tatters for claes and bachels for shune, And a sin-wean on my knee, Balow! And a sin-wean on my knee.

"Last night, when the mune was in the wane, And the winds were moaning low, I wandered by his dead bodie alane, And looked at the hole in his white hause bane, And the gash on his bonnie brow, Balow! And the gash on his bonnie brow.

"Did I wail to the mune, and tear my hair, And weep o'er his bodie? Na! I leugh at the fause are wha left me to care, And fought for Bess Cummock at Rumbollow Fair, And there lies dead, ha! ha! Balow! And there lies dead, ha! ha!"

She is up and going, no look bestowing Through the dark forest, tra-la! tra-la! The roundelay still sounds away, The wail and the wild ha, ha, ha, ha! Some wretched maiden with grief o'erladen, Victim of man, ever so, ever so. The world needs mending and some God-sending, All in the forest of Rumbollow.

The mill is yonder where she may wander; The wheels they merrily row, they row; The lade is gushing, the water's rushing On to the ocean below, below. The song is ending, or scattered and blending In the wild winds as they blow, they blow; She moves still faster with wilder gesture, All in the forest of Rumbollow.

It is no seeming, hark! comes a screaming The moaning forest all through, all through; The miller is running, no danger shunning, The foaming waters down flow, down, flow: Too late his braving, there is no saving— Down the mill lade they go, they go, Mother and child 'midst the waters wild; All in the forest of Rumbollow!



XIV.

THE LEGEND OF THE BURNING OF MISTRESS JAMPHRAY.



I.

From the dark old times that have gone before, We have got in our day some little relief; We don't think of doing what they did of yore, To saw a man through for a point of belief; We do not believe in old women's dreams, And devils and ghosts we can do without; Nor do we now set an old woman in flames, But rather endeavour to put them out.

She has ta'en her lang staff in her shaky hand, And gaen up the stair of Will Mudie's land; She has looked in the face of Will Mudie's wean, And the wean it was dead that very same e'en. Next day she has gane to the Nethergate, And looked ower the top of Rob Rorison's yett, Where she and his wife having got into brangles, Rob's grey mare Bess that night took the strangles. It was clear when she went to Broughty Ferry, She sailed in an egg-shell in place of a wherry; And when she had pass'd by the tower of Claypots, John Fairweather's gelding was seized with the bots, And his black horse Billy was seized the same even, Not by the bots, but the "spanking spavin." And as she went on to Monifieth, She met an auld man with the wind in his teeth— "Are you the witch o' Bonnie Dundee?" "You may ask the wind, and then you will see!" And, such was the wickedness of her spite, The man took the toothache that very night. With John Thow's wife she was at drawing of daggers, And twenty of John's sheep took the staggers. With old Joe Baxter she long had striven,— Joe set his sponge, but it never would leaven; And as for Gib Jenkinson's cow that gaed yeld, It was very well known that Crummie was spelled. When Luckie Macrobie's sweet milk wouldna erne, The reason was clear—she bewitched the concern. True! no man could swear that he ever saw Her flee on a broomstick over North Berwick Law; But as for the fact, where was she that night When the heavens were blue with the levin-light? The broom wasna seen ahint the door; It had better to do than to sweep the floor. Then, sure there was something far worse than a frolic, When the half of Dundee was seized with the cholic. True! nobody knew that she gaed to the howf For dead men's fat to bring home in her loof, To brew from the mixture of henbane and savin, Her hell-broth for those who were thirsting for heaven. For the sexton, John Cant, could be prudent and still— He knew she would send him good grist to his mill. Ere good Provost Syme was ta'en by a tremor, It was known that the provost had called her a limmer; And when Bailie Nicholson broke his heugh-bane, Had she not been seen that day in the lane? It was certain, because Cummer Gibbieson swore That the bairn she had with the whummel-bore Leapt quick in her womb one day the witch passed her, And she was the cause of the bairn's disaster. When the ferry-boat sank in crossing the Tay, She was on the Craig pier the very same day. It was vain to conceal it, and vain to deny it, She kept in her house an auld he-pyet: That bird was the devil, and she fed him each day With the brimstone she bought from Luckie Glenday. In truth, the old pyet was daintily treated, Because her black soul was impignorated. And these were the reasons—enough, I trow— Why she should be set in a lunting lowe.



II.

The barrels are brought from Noraway, Well seasoned with plenty of Noraway pitch; All dried and split for that jubilee day, The day of the holocaust of a witch. The prickers are chosen—hang-daddy and brother— And fixed were the fees of their work of love; To prick an old woman who was a mother, And felt still the yearnings of motherly love For she had a son, a noble young fellow, Who sailed in a ship of his own the sea, And who was away on the distant billow For a cargo of wine to this bonnie Dundee. Some said she was bonnie when she was a lassie, Ah! fair the young blossom upon the young tree; But winter will come, and summer will pass aye, And youth is not always to you or to me. A true loving daughter, with God to fear, A dutiful wife, and a mother dear; With a heart to feel and a bosom to sigh, She had tears to weep, she had tears to dry.



III.

All was joyful—all delectation, In creatures who prayed to their Maker each morn, That there was to be a grand incremation Of a poor fellow-creature, old, weary, and worn. All pity is drowned in a wild devotion, A grim savage joy within every breast; The streets are all in a buzzing commotion, Expectant of this worse than cannibal feast. From the provost down to the gaberlunzie, From fat Mess John to half-fed Bill, From hoary grand-dad to larking loonie, From silken-clad dame to scullion Nell; The oldest, the youngest, the richest, the poorest, The milky-breasted, the barren, the yeld, The hardest, the softest, the blithest, the dourest, Are all by the same wild passion impelled. If her skin it is wrinkled—ah, God forefend her! The wild lapping flame will soon make it shrink; If her eyes are dim and rheumy and tender, The adder-tongued flames will soon make her wink. If brown now her breasts—once globes of beauty! The roasting will char them into a black heap; If trembling her limbs, the prickers' loved duty Will be to compel her to dance and to leap. The harlequin Man has doffed his jacket, No pity to feel—he has none to give; The Bible has said it, and so thou must take it, "Thou shalt not allow a witch to live."



IV.

On the long red sands of old Dundee, Out at the hem of the ebbing sea, They have fixed a long pole deep in the sand, And around it have piled with deftly hand The rosined staves of the Noraway wood, Four feet high and four feet broad, To burn, amidst flames of burning pitch, So rare a chimera yclept a witch— Born of a fancy wild and camstary, Like ghost or ghoul, brownie or fairy. The prickers are there, each with long-pronged fork, Yearning and yape for their hellish work, And the priests and friars, black, white, or grey, All ready to preach the black devil away. Yea, devils are there, more than they opine. Even one under every gabardine; And there is a crowd of every degree: The urchins, all laughing with mirth and glee; And pipers and jangleurs might there be seen, And cummers and mummers in red and green, All cheery and merry and void of care, As if they were going to Rumbollow Fair.



V.

Ho! yonder comes from the emptying town A crowd of five thousand all rushing down; They hurry, they scurry, they buzz, they brize, And all to see this witch in a blaze. Deep in the midst of the jubilant throng A harmless woman is hurried along,— She is weary, and wheezing for lack of breath, And o'er all her face is the pallor of death; And she says, as they push her, in grim despair, "Ye needna hurry yoursel's sae sair— Nae sport there will be till I am there."[A]

[Footnote A: These words are the old tradition which has been handed down in Dundee for generations.]



VI.

They have doffed her clothes till all but stark; They have tied her with ropes in her cutty sark; They have torn the snood from her silvery hair, And her locks they fall on her shoulders bare, Or stream in the cold and piercing breeze Blowing muggy and moist from the eastern seas. Hush! silence is over all that crowd, Then an echoing shout both long and loud; The fagots flare up with a lurid glare— In the middle shines bright that white figure there, Like those sad spirits of endless woe 'Midst eternal fires in the shades below! There lances and glances each long-pronged fork,[A] As through the wild flames it is quick at work, Till the red blood squirts and seethes and sings, As through the red flame each squirtlet springs, The flames lap round her like forked levin; The priests send up their prayers to heaven; But what these prayers are to do when there, It is likely they could not themselves declare Yet all this while, in her agony, She made no murmur, she uttered no cry, As if she would show by a silent ban Her scorn of the great wise creature Man. Lo! the pole breaks over with creaking crash, The body falls down in the flaming mass; Up a cloud of sparks with a flesh-burnt smell Rises and swirls like vomit of hell.

[Footnote A: There is in the records of the town the account of the expenses attending the execution, and the sums in Scots money paid for the tar barrels, and for prickers' fees, etc.]



VII.

There's a ship in the Tay on the rising tide— She has come that day from a distant land; The captain stands there the helm beside, A telescope holding in his left hand. "What, ho! my lads," he loudly exclaims, "Yonder's a fire on the hem of the sea— It is some good ship that is there in flames: Good faith! and it blazes right merrily." And there is a boat comes from the pier, And it comes and comes still nigher and nigher— "What is the ship that is burning there?" "No ship, sir, it is that is yonder on fire, But a pile of burning barrels of pitch, On which all, amidst a deafening cheer, They are burning an old woman for a witch; And the woman she is thy mother dear." Then Captain Jamphray silent stood, And a sad and sorrowful man was he; He turned the helm in a gloomy mood— "Farewell for ever to Bonnie Dundee." And away and away to the Spanish Main, Where he turned a jolly buccaneer; And he has ta'en "Yeaman," his mother's name— A name which he held for ever dear.



VIII.

When twenty long years had come and gone, He was laden with Spanish golden prey; And he yearned and sighed for his native home, Then turned his prow for the rolling Tay; And he has bought all, for a handsome fee, On its bonnie banks where the trees are tall— The lordly lands of old Murie,[A] Where he built for himself a noble hall; And long, long down till a recent time, There dwelt the Yeaman's honoured line.

[Footnote A: This tradition has always been in the Yeaman family, and very likely to be true, for the reason that an origin not gratifying to the pride of an old house would not have been accepted on the dubious authority of hearsay.]



XV.

THE BALLAD OF BALLOGIE'S DAUGHTERS.

There were four fair maids in Ballogie Hall, Not all so sweet as honey; But Lillyfair was the flower of them all— So gentle, so kind, and so bonnie.

And why was it that Ballogie's dame Was so fond of her Lillyfair? It was not by reason she bore her name, Nor yet for her love and care.

It was that she long had cherished a dream Of a face which she once held dear, Ere yet she had bent to Ballogie's claim, Whom she married through force and fear.

That image unsought—all by fancy wrought— Had been fixed upon Lillyfair, And to her had gi'en her bonnie blue een, As well as her golden hair.

Yet the dame was true to her bridal vow, Though sairly she would mourn, As she wandered in moods through Ballogie woods, And down by Ballogie Burn.

And why did these three sisters all Hate their kind sister so sair? When gallants came to Ballogie Hall They sought aye Lilly fair.

But Ballogie swore by the heavens so hie, And eke by the Holy Rood, There was not in all Lillyfair's bodie Ane drap of Ballogie's blood.

And he whispered words into Sibyl's ear, Which sweetly unto her came, That he wouldna care tho' Lillyfair Were dooked in Ballogie dam.

And Sibyl she whispered to Christobel, And she into Mildred's ear; But what that was no tongue might tell, For there was none to hear.

"What makes ye laugh?" cries Lillyfair, As she comes tripping ben; "Oh do come tell, dear Christobel, For I am fidging fain."

"Oh this is the night, my sister dear. When the wind is low and loun, That we are to go in a merry row To see the eclipse of the moon.

"And thou'lt go with us, Lillyfair, And see this goodly show— The moon in the meer reflected clear, With the shadow upon her brow."

"Oh yes, I will go," Lillyfair rejoined; And glad in her heart was she, For seldom before had her sisters deigned To give her their companie.

'Twas the hour o' twell by Ballogie's bell, When each with her mantle and hood, They all sallied out in a merry rout, Away through the still greenwood.

Shine out, shine out, thou silvery maid, And light them to the place; But long ere all this play be played, In sorrow thou'lt hide thy face.

No shadow of this earth ever can A murkier darkness throw, Than what from the sin of cruel man May be cast on thy silvery brow.

The greenwood through, the greenwood through, Ho! there is Ballogie's meer; And deep within its breast they view The moon's face shining clear.

And down they bent, and forward leant— Loud laughed the sisters three, As Lillyfair threw back her hair, Yet could no shadow see.

But is not this an old, old dream— Some nightmare of the brain? A splash! and, oh! a wild, wild scream, And all is still again.

This was the eclipse which the sisters meant When they would the maid beguile; For sin has the greater a relish in't When lurking beneath a smile.

And now the pale-faced moon serene Shines down on the waters clear, Where deep, deep among the seggs so green Lies Ballogie's Lillyfair.

On Ballogie's dam there sails a swan With wings of snowy white, But never is seen by the eye of man Save in the pale moonlight.

And the miller he looks with upright hair Upon that weird-like thing, And as he peers he thinks he hears It sing as swans can sing.



XVI.

THE LEGEND OF DOWIELEE.



I.

There still is shown at Dowielee, Within the ancient corbeiled tower, A chamber once right fair to see, And called the Ladye Olive's bower. Right o'er the old carved mantelpiece A portrait hung in frame of gold, O'er which was spread by strange caprice A pall of crape in double fold; And it was said, as still they say, 'Twas spread by good Sir Gregory, And that when it was ta'en away, The Ladye Olive thou might'st see, With eyne of blue so softly bright, Like those we feign in fairie dreams, Where love shines like that lambent light That in the opal softly swims. But they could carry maddening fires, As when they inspired Sir Evan's breast, And roused therein those wild desires That stole from Dowielee his rest. And led to that, oh, fatal night! When, less beguiling than beguiled, She fled, and left in her maddened flight The good Sir Gregory and her child.



II.

The castle menials hear in bed Their master's foot-fall overhead— All in the silent midnight hour, All under unrest's chafing power, On and on upon the floor, On and on both back and fore— Bereaved, betrayed, disgraced, forlorn, His brain on fire, his bosom torn By fancy's images—sad lumber Of man's proud spirit—care and cumber Waxing brighter as they keep From the vexed soul the frightened sleep.



III.

By balustrade and corridor That lead him to his lady's bower, He stands before that crape-draped frame— Its hidden face of beauteous shame— And holds aloft in his shaking hand The glimmering lamp, nor can withstand The fierce desire to feed his eye With that fair-painted treachery. He lifts the crape, he peers below— The fire of wrath upon his brow; He lets it fall—he lifts again, To feed on the pleasure of his pain, And gazes without stint or measure To gloat on the pain that is his pleasure; He turns the picture upon its face, And reads the curse of his broken peace. He turns the picture round again, Then away to toss in his bed of pain.



IV.

Some moral thrusts can stab the heart, And love bestowed returned in hate May play with some a deadlier part Than strokes that seem of sterner fate. In yonder vault down by the aisle Thou'lt read the good Sir Gregory's name— His death the sequel of the tale Inscribed upon that pictured frame. Yet not forgot while rustic swain Atunes his throat to melodie, And warbles forth the soft refrain, "Alace! alace I for Dowielee."



V.

Her father dead, Burde Olive fair— Her mother's image—grows apace, And oft she throws in pensive care A glance upon that crape-veiled face: She wonders what may be beneath. But fears to lift the veil to know; Her father with his latest breath Forbade it, on the pain of woe, Till she to eighteen years had grown, With woman's wisdom duly fraught, When she might take that picture down And learn the lesson which it taught. Yet as she sat within the bower That bore a mother's sacred name, She felt the heart's divining power And guessed the face within the frame— Her mother's! who they said was dead: And hence the crape—appropriate sign. But why debarred the simple meed To look upon her face divine, And as she looked revive again Those lines that had been once impressed By love upon her infant brain, And never thence to be defaced? Not ever fairest painted theme, Or triumph of the graver's art, Could match the image of her dream Enshrined within a daughter's heart— So gently kind, so sweetly fair: They were the features she assigned To creatures of yon upper air When they look down on humankind: And oft she sighed that morn would shine When that dark crape she could remove, And she would feast those eydent eyne On those that taught her first to love; And oft she scanned her own sweet face, Reflected to her anxious view, To see if therein she could trace Those lineaments—the first she knew.



VI.

On Time's swift wing the years have passed: The morn has come, the hour is now, When she would feast her heart at last By looking on that sacred brow! She took the picture from the nail, She held it in her trembling hands, She lifted up the envious veil,— And there confessed the mother stands. The charm is wrought! that painted gleam Brought up the lines impressed of yore, As flash of the bright morning beam On twilight things seen long before. Her mother seemed from death returned; She kissed the lips, the cheeks, the chin; She sobbed, she sighed, she laughed—she mourned To think it was a painted sign; And then at last she turned it round, As if she feared her sire's decree, And there, in written words, she found The dreaded curse of Dowielee:

THE CURSE.

"Than Olive who more beautiful In all that nature could bestow? Than Olive who more dutiful When first she pledged that holy vow? What is she now, by sin entoiled? Dark spirits of yon woods declare, Where I in anguish wander wild, The victim of a dark despair.

"Thank Heaven, I leave no son my heir, Who might another Olive see, And think her as his mother fair— Fair, but yet a mystery— With heart so like some alcove deep, Where nightingales may sing their song, And roses blow, and—serpents creep, To sting him as I have been stung.

"The secrets of the living rock, Deep hid from man's divining rod, A spark may open, and the shock Bring forth an ingot or a toad: The secret that is kept for years, One stroke of fate yields to the sight; And if the toad a jewel wears, That jewel may have lost its light.

"Begone ye hopes of tender ties, Of smiling home with wife and child, Of all love's tender sympathies, That once a rugged soul beguiled! In vain may Beauty deck her crown, And winning Goodness try her plan, I trust no more—the guile of ONE Hath changed me to a savage man.

"If in this world I smile again, Twill be to see the charming eye Like hers—the smile—each effort plain, And think I can them all defy. You tell me these are Nature's ways, But Nature tells me to beware; And while each angler smiling plays, So shall I play to shun the snare.

"Mocked by the glamour of the eye, I dread all things surpassing fair; The sweetest flower but makes me sigh To think there may be poison there. Were I inclined to change my part, And seek again domestic peace, I'd seek for beauties in the heart, Though seen through a revolting face.

"By the heart-pulses of my love, By all the things once dear to me, By every tree within the grove, By every bird upon the tree, By every tint upon its wing, By every note of melodie That close by HER I've heard it sing, Cursed be the dame of Dowielee."



VII.

Burde Olive sat at the evening hour Within her mother's painted bower: It was a ruthless winter night. When beasts and birds cowered with affright From brattling winds that, roving free, Moaned in the woods of Dowielee. A wanderer knelt beside her chair, And spoke these words of tearful prayer:

THE APPEAL.

"When Justice sought the skies above, She left on earth her sister, LOVE, And heaven-born MERCY staid behind On purpose to console mankind. The silly sheep that left one day The winter's beild and went astray, Did not, when weary, worn, and old, Seek all in vain the shepherd's fold! And He, the Shepherd without sin, Felt for the contrite Magdalene, And gave her hope—her sin forgiven— That she would join the fold in heaven: And shall my Olive while on earth Forgive not her who gave her birth? Oh! turn on me a smiling face, Forgiving eyes—a look of grace."

But Olive turned her face away— Her father's spirit whispered Nay— His hastened death, his curse forbade: She trembled and was sore afraid; Yet father's daughter, meek and mild, Was she not, too, the mother's child?

Then he was gone, and she was here: Her eye acknowledges the tear Of brooding nature all confessed— She falls upon the wanderer's breast! No more the veil obscures the frame— The curse is taken from the name.



XVII.

THE BALLAD OF MAID MARION.

Maid Marion laid her down to sleep, Maid Marion could do nought but weep, For thinking of that happy time When she was in her early prime, When in her glass she looked so fair With lily-lire and golden hair.

Full many a year had rolled away, Since he left her that weary day, When, poor in love and rich in gear, She cast him off without a tear; When, poor in gear, tho' rich in love, He left her o'er the sea to rove.

His ship was never heard of more, And she must now his death deplore. Now, poor in gear and rich in love, She saw him looking from above, With mild reproof in his dark eyes, And still that love she dared despise.

"Oh that that day had never been— That I that day had never seen! Wae fa the gowd that took its flight, Wae fa' the love I feel this night, Wae fa' the pride that made me mad, And this regret that makes me sad."

And still she turned and aye she mourned, And aye the briny tear it burned: A spendthrift father in the grave, A mother buried with the lave, And he, her Willie, also gone, And she left weeping here alone.

And still she tried to fall asleep, But aye the thoughts their revels keep: Hark, "one" knurrs from the ancient clock, Long yet ere crowing of the cock— That sound which sends to their repose The ghosts that mourn their human woes.

A faint beam from the waning moon Can scarcely more than show the gloom; All is so still and silent round, The foot of ghost might raise a sound. Hush! there's a rustling near the bed— She heard the curtain drawn aside.

With trembling fear she turned to see Amid the gloom who there might be, And thought she yet could dimly trace The outlines of that well-known face Of him, now dead, who loved her dear, And she had scorned through pride of gear.

"Oh Marion dear!" the words came plain: "Maid Marion, dear," it said again; "Remember you of that auld time I tried sae sair thy love to win, And for that I was lowly born Thou treated my true love with scorn?"

"Ah, Willie, Willie! I do thee fear, It is thine angry ghost I hear; I saw thee looking from on high, I saw red anger in thine eye; Come thou my cruel heart to chide, Or claim me for thy heavenly bride?"

"No, Marion dear!" the shade replied, "I dinna come thy heart to chide. A spendthrift father left thee poor, But Heaven has added to my store. Thou hast been punished for thy pride, And I am come to claim my bride."

"Oh fearful shade! the cock will craw; It's mair than time thou wert awa. Gae back into the ocean deep Where thou and thy companions sleep." But still the angry spirit said, "I come to claim thee for my bride."

Sore, sore she wept, and shook with dread, "I've meikle sin upon my head, And, oh! I am unfit to dee, And go to heaven thy bride to be. Leave me! oh leave me! flit away, And give me peace to weep and pray."

Now something touched Maid Marion's arm, She felt the touch both kind and warm; The spirit took her by the hand, She felt the touch both kind and bland. The spirit kissed Maid Marion's mou', Oh! how it thrilled her body through.

The spirit laughed in that odd way Which spirits do when they are gay; For there are spirits good and bad— The good are aye a merry squad. No body-pains their hearts to vex, No worldly cares their minds perplex.

"Nae ghaist am I, Maid Marion dear, My soul's well cased in fleshly gear; I have a heart still warm and free, Enough of gowd for thee and me; And if thou wilt give up thy scorn, Trow-la! I'll marry thee the morn."



XVIII.

THE BALLAD OF ROSEALLAN CASTLE.

Yonder Roseallan's Castle old! Which time has changed to iron grey, Whose high crenelles, o'ergrown with mould, Are crumbling silently away. Soft comes the thought that, years before, Now hid by time's obscuring pall, Some tiny foot had tript the floor, Some silver voice had filled the hall.

There was a time in long past years— It seems to me an age of dreams— My grandam filled my itching ears With all Roseallan's storied themes: Of how Sir Baldwin dearly loved The last of all Roseallan's maids; And how in moonlight nights they roved Among Roseallan's sylvan shades.

But there was one with envious eyes, Deep set in visage pale and wan, Resolved, whoe'er should win the prize, Sir Baldwin should not be the man. He took his aim—too deadly straight, Yet not unseen by Annabel, Who sprang before her favoured knight, And died for him she loved so well.

How she who thus so bravely died Was last of all her honoured name, The only hope that fate supplied To keep alive her house's fame. And then the screeching bird of night Would mope upon the crumbling walls, And chirking whutthroats claim the right To gambol in the ancient halls.

In yonder vault, deep down below, Half choked with hoary eglantine, Sleep side by side in lengthened row The proud Roseallan's noble line. The hairy wing-mouse flutters there, The owl mopes as in days of yore, Strange eldritch sounds salute the ear, Unholy things crawl on the floor.

How oft alone at midnight hour I stand within that silent tomb, What time the moon with waning power Is struggling through increasing gloom, On one sole bier his tears would fall, For her his groans come evermore, Whose silver voice once filled the hall, Whose feet once lightly tript the floor.



XIX.

THE BALLAD OF THE TOURNAY.

In the castle of Kildrennie, Up in her chamber high, There sat the fair Burde Annie, And with her County Guy— Come lately from the east, As far as Palestine, Where he had sent to his long rest Many a bold Saracen.

Sir Guy his burning love hath told, And a favour he hath won, For lo! a ring of virgin gold Shines there his finger on. And they have pledged the solemn yea, Each on the bended knee, That on the coming Beltane day They two shall wedded be.

Burde Annie viewed, to hide her tears, The red sun setting still, And lo! behold two cavaliers Came riding up the hill: The one he was Sir Hudibras Come of a noble clan; The other no less noble was— The brave Sir Gallachan.

The first bore on his shield outspread Two bones in cross moline, And for his crest ane bluidy head, Erased from Saracen. The other carried, nobler far, All in a field of gold, A flaming bolt of Jupiter, For crest ane tiger bold.

And up they rode, and up they rode, Till they came to the lawn Which spread before the castle broad, And there they made a stand; And there they spied Burde Annie Up in her chamber high, But for the breadth of her bodie They could not see Sir Guy.

Burde Annie waved her lily hand, And threw a kiss a-down— For Hudibras or Gallachan Was meant the priceless boon? For sure it was a priceless boon, When neither could espy That when she threw that kiss a-down She winkit to Sir Guy.

"That kiss divine, I trow, is mine," Cried doughty Hudibras; "I am the man," cried Gallachan, "And sure thou art ane ass." Such words to hear were ill to bear By any valiant knight; And each drew forth his sword o' weir, And stood prepared for fight.

They startit, they partit, Then on each other sprang; They lungit, they plungit, Till all the welkin rang. They ogglit, they gogglit, Amidst the dread deray; They chirnit, they girnit, Like bluidy beasts of prey.

They rattlit, they brattlit, Each cuirass upon; They hackit, they thwackit, Each other's morion. They reel it, they wheelit, And quick came round again; They burstit, they thrust it, With all their might and main.

They smeekit, they reek it, Like to ane smouldering kiln; They peghit, they sighit, Each other's blood to spill, They trampit, they stampit, Like animals run wud; They flarit, they glarit, With eyne yred with bluid.

At length, to end the bluidy deeds, They raised their falchions keen, And down upon each other's heads They clove them to the chin. But 'tis not true, as I've heard tell, And I do not believe That when these doughty lovers fell, One laughed within her sleeve.

But I have also heard it said, And I again it say, And I would like to see the head With tongue in't to say nay— That as these pates lay on the ground (As there they yet may lie), One eye in each cloved head was found Fixed on that chamber high.



XX.

THE BALLAD OF GOLDEN COUNSEL.

Come Mary and Martha, Jeanie and Jenny, And sit down and listen, baith ane and a', To me, wha may very weel be your grannie, And aiblins may ken ae thing or twa.

This world is no so sweet and so bonnie As you in your young hearts may suppose; There's aloes in it as weel as honey, And aye some prickles on ilka rose.

Young lasses I think are something like fillies Let out in a field to idle and eat, To graze by the gowans and drink by the willows, And never to dream of a bridle a bit.

It's no what ye eat, it's no what you drink, dears, It's no your bonnets, or ribbons, or skirts, The trinkets ye wear, or the siller ye clink, dears— There's something, I wean, far nearer your hearts.

Your thoughts are mair of him you will marry, What the colour may be of his hair, Whether aye cheery, or sometimes chary, What his complexion, or dark or fair.

But men they are gude, and men they are ill, dears, You may get the leal or the lazy loon; A lover is aft like a gilded pill, dears, The bitter comes after it's gulped doon.

I fear ye hae little of power to choose him, The husband is settled for you abune; But you've power in holy bands to noose him Before ye let him tak' aff his shune.

For a maid who is silly and stoops to folly, And finds ower late that she is betrayed, I ken nae cure for her melancholy But a coffin—and let it be quickly made.

A braw lover cam' to my minnie's shieling When I was as young as you now may be, Sae saft, like a loon wha's bent on stealing, And he tirled and whispered secretlie.

"Oh let me in this ae night, Jenny, And I will for ever thy true love be; Oh let me in this ae night, hinny, And I will come back and marry thee!"

"Gae back and awa, for this my will is, My mither lies gleg wi' half-closed ee, And bids me beware of faithless billies, Who will steal my heart and awa frae me flee."

"For mercy's sake! this ae night, Jenny, Oh let me scoug frae the wind and rain, And holy vows I will plight thee, hinny, That thou wilt be for ever mine ain."

I opened the door so saft and sleeky, For fear my mither should hear the din, And he has ta'en aff his shune so creaky, And I've led him into my cosy ben.

Our speckled cock crew loud and early, The day was dawing o'er forest green, And I let him out as wily and warily As ever I let him in yestreen.

"Now, fare thee well, my winsome Jenny, For I am a baron of high degree; Now, fare thee well for ever, my hinny, For the wife of a baron thou ne'er canst be."

With a ha! ha! ha! and a tra-la-lalla,[A] He stroked the red beard on his chin, With a ha! ha! ha! and a tra-la-lalla, And I have never seen him again.

[Footnote A: The reader may here recollect the fine ballad of Buerger, "Der Ritter und sein Liebchen;" and the verse—

Drauf ritt der Ritter hop sa! sa! Und strich sein Bartchen trallala; Sein Leibchen sah ihn reiten Und hoerte noch von weiten Sein Lachen ha! ha! ha! ]

[The maidens thought the humour gala, And, laughing, they chorused to the strain, "With a ha! ha! ha! and a tra-la-lalla, And you have never seen him again."]

Now, dears! if your lovers you would not lose them, Tak' counsel—it is not an hour ower sune: Be sure that in holy bands ye noose them Before you let them tak' aff their shune.

[The maidens thought they would amuse them, And, laughing, they chorused to the tune, "Oh yes, we in holy bands will noose them Before we let them tak' aff their shune."]



XXI.

THE BALLAD OF MATRIMONY.

"Come, now tell me, Clarabella, How that wondrous thing befell, Why you took that sorry fellow, Leaving me who loved you well? It was, good faith! a sad miscarriage, And cost me many a pang of pain; Indeed, when I heard of your marriage, I vowed I ne'er would love again."

"Well, I don't mind, since you're pathetic, And so the reason you shall hear: Th' affair was one of arithmetic— A matter of so much a year. His father left five thousand good Of pounds per annum, as you know, And you possessed, I understood, Of yearly thousands only two."

"Well, why did I, who knew of Cupid, Display so much stupid-ity As not to know—the thing was lucid— From Cupid comes Cupid-ity?" "But not too late," cried Clarabella: "My husband dear has gone to heaven; He left the five to me, good fellow! And five and two, you know, make seven."

I laughed and bowed to Clarabella, And quickly homewards bent my way, And there became a rustic fellow, And donned a suit of hodden-grey. And then I hired me to a farmer, Concealing every sign of pelf, One Hodge, who had a pretty charmer, Who might love me for myself.

I laid bold siege to fair Lucinda, And tho' she loved another swain (I had observed them through the window), I was resolved her love to gain Then I would be a lucky fellow, Assured one loved me for my merit, And not, like widowed Clarabella, For the lucre I inherit.

At length I boldly purposed marriage, And found Lucinda at my call, And soon thereafter in my carriage I drove my wife to Border Hall. Well! she wondered at the mansion, And all the grandeur that was there, The servants bowing all attention To the lady of their squire.

I had a call from Clarabella, Who said my choice was very good; But though her speech was calm and mellow, I thought her in an envious mood. Indeed I had some small suspicion She had avenged a woman's grudge, And had conveyed my true condition To the ears of Farmer Hodge.

Sometime thence I met Bill Hedger, Who knew me spite of my changed dress. "Squoire," said he, "I think I'd wager There is a something thee doan't guess; Lucinda's father knew by letter Thee wert a squoire in low disguise, And she, altho' she loiked me better, Agreed to take the richer prize."



XXII.

THE SONG OF ROSALIE.

Row on! row on! to flowing Tay, Thou Dighty, who art dear to me; For here upon thy flowery brae I parted last frae Rosalie. Her hair, so rich in gowden hue, Ilk plait was like a gowden string, Her eyne were like the bonnie blue That shines upon the halcyon's wing.

There is a worm that loves the bud, And there is one that loves the bloom, And there is one that seeks its food Within the dark and silent tomb.

Thou speckled thrush, with tuneful throat, Who sing'st within yon greenwood dell; Sing on, for every trembling note Brings back the voice I loved so well. Thou little pansy, raise thy head, And turn thine azure eye to me, And so remind me of the dead, My dearest, long lost Rosalie.

There is a worm that loves the bud, And there is one that loves the bloom, And there is one that seeks its food Within the dark and dreary tomb.

Thou lambkin on yon hillock's brow, That sportest in thy gamesome mood, Play on! for thou remind'st me now Of one as innocent and good; All emblems dear, for thoughts you bring Of her who loved you all to see, When through the woods in early spring Ilk bird seemed calling "Rosalie."

But there's a worm that loves the bud, And there is one that loves the bloom, And there is one that seeks its food Within the dark and dreary tomb.

Far have I roamed for years and years, As from my thoughts I fain would stray; But here once more I weep my tears O'er her now mouldering in the clay. Oh! would that happy day were come When death shall set my spirit free, And I shall rise to yonder home, And be again with Rosalie,

Where is no worm to gnaw the bud, And none to blight the youthful bloom; Where spirits sing in joyful mood, "Behold our triumph o'er the tomb!"



XXIII.

THE BALLAD OF THE WORLD'S VANITY.



I.

Mournfully maundering, Life's last moments squandering, Weary, weary, wandering, Through this world of sin, Hermit-shade! I call thee; Lead me to the valley— That mysterious alley, Where I may creep in.

World of strange illusion! Fancy-born delusion! Reason-bred confusion! Phantasmagoria! Love, where shall I find thee? Faith, how shall I bind thee? Truth, who has defined thee? Changing every day.

Streets of hurry scurry! Fields of fire and fury! Homes of wear and worry! Passing quickly by; Pleasure a wild snatching, Dying in the catching, Pain eternal watching With relentless eye.

Sorrow, old Sin's daughter! Screams of eldritch laughter! Burning tears thereafter! I've felt the vanity; Still the hope pursuing, The pursuit ever rueing, Possession still undoing The hope's fond prophecy.



II.

Sun! I've seen thy grandeur, Scenes of gorgeous splendour, Visions passing wonder In ocean, sea, and sky; Thunders o'er us pealing, Earthquakes 'neath us reeling, Fiery comets wheeling Through all immensity.

Virtue! man has crowned thee, For beautiful he found thee; Yet millions have disowned thee, And seek dark Vice's way, Hypocrisy, deep-hooded, Injustice still obtruded, Stern Cruelty, cold-blooded, Make brother man their prey.

Kind Love's pure affection! Pity's benediction! Charity's sweet action! All blessed urbanities; Man on man still preying; Bleating lambkins slaying! Devouring blood, and saying All soft humanities.



III.

Dreaming, doubting, moping, Hopelessly still hoping, Dimly, darkly groping My being's mystery; This sobbing and this sighing, This laughing and this crying, This living and this dying— Man's mortal history!

Why this wild contention? This mocking, cruel invention— What the deep intention? Who shall give replies? Demons wildly sporting, God's beautiful distorting, Or His own hand extorting Sin-born penalties?



IV.

Those with whom I started Oceans wide have parted: Some are broken-hearted, Some lie in the clay; Those I once heard prattle, For whom I shook the rattle, Engaged in life's vain battle, Push me off the way.

The world's laugh it jeers me, Their looks they seem to fear me, I hear them whisper near me, "Old man, why linger here?" She who loved me dearly, Wandered with me cheerily, Is now a phantom merely, Seen through memory's tear.

Pale ghost, flitting yonder! With drooping head you wander. Deep in thought you ponder Why I stay from thee; Cease those hands to beckon, Vain, vain, may you reckon; Alas! I cannot quicken Death's desired decree.

Weary, weary wandering, Life's last moments squandering, Weary, weary wandering Through this world of sin, None can undeceive me, None but ONE relieve me, None but ONE receive me, His peace to enter in.



XXIV.

THE SIEGE: A DRAMATIC TALE.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE.—SIR ALEXANDER SETON, Governor of Berwick; RICHARD and HENRY, his sons. PROVOST RAMSAY. HUGH ELLIOT, a traitor. KING EDWARD. EARL PERCY. MATILDA, wife of Seton; etc.



SCENE I.—A Street—the Market-place.

Enter SIR ALEXANDER SETON, RICHARD and HENRY (his sons), PROVOST RAMSAY, HUGH ELLIOT, and others of the People.

Provost Ramsay.—Brither Scotchmen! it is my fixed an' solemn opinion, that the King o' England has entered into a holy alliance wi' the enemy o' mankind! An' does he demand us to surrender!—to gie up our toun!—our property!—our lives!—our liberty!—to Southern pagans, that hae entered into compact wi' the powers o' the air! Surrender! No, Scotchmen! While we breathe, we will breathe the breath o' Freedom! as it soughs down the Tweed, between the heathery hills o' our ain auld country! I am but provost o' Berwick, Sir Alexander, an' ye are its governor; an' in a time like this, the power o' defending or surrendering the gates is yours; but though ye gie up the keys this very hour, an' were every stane o' the walls turned are upon anither—here!—the power to defend this market-place is mine!—and here will I stand, while this hand can wield a sword, or a Scotchman is left to die by my side!

Sir Alex.—Fear not, good provost; I through life have learned To live with honour, or with honour fall.

Richard.—And as the father dies, so shall his sons. What sayest thou, Henry?

Henry.—I would say but this— (If one with a smooth chin may have a voice)— When thou dost nobly fall, I'll but survive To strike revenge—then follow thy example.

Provost Ramsay.—Bravely said, callants! As sure as death, I wish ye were my sons! Do ye ken, Sir Alexander, the only thing that grieves me in a day like this, is, that I hae naebody to die for the glory an' honour o' auld Scotland but mysel? But, save us, neebor Elliot! ye look as douf an' as dowie-like as if ye had been forced to mak yer breakfast o' yer coat-sleeve.

Hugh Elliot.—-In truth, methinks, this is no time for smiles— In every street, each corner of the town, Struck by some unseen hand, the dead are strewed; From every house the children's wail is heard, Screaming in vain for food; and the poor mother, Worn to a skeleton, sits groaning by! My house, 'tis known, o'erlooks the battlements; 'Tis not an hour gone that I left my couch, Hastening to speed me hither, when a sound, Fierce as the thunders, shook our firm-built walls: The casements fell in atoms, and the bed, Which I that moment left, rocked in confusion: I turned to gaze on it, and I beheld!—beheld My wife's fair bosom torn—her heart laid bare! And the red stream came oozing to my feet! Is this a time for smiles!