His unblest feet his native seat, 'Mid Eske's fair woods, regain; Thro' woods more fair no stream more sweet Rolls to the eastern main. And lords to meet the pilgrim came, And boldly for his country, still, Ay, even when on the banks of Till Impervious to the sun. There the rapt poet's step may rove, From that fair dome, where suit is paid, To Auchendinny's hazel glade, Who knows not Melville's beechy grove, Dalkeith, which all the virtues love, Yet never a path, from day to day, To Burndale's ruin'd grange. A woful place was that, I ween, For nodding to the fall was each crumbling wall, And the roof was scathed with fire. It fell upon a summer's eve, While, on Carnethy's head, The last faint gleams of the sun's low beams Had streak'd the grey with red; And the convent bell did vespers tell, Newbattle's oaks among, And mingled with the solemn knell The heavy knell, the choir's faint swell, Came slowly down the wind, And on the pilgrim's ear they fell, As his wonted path he did find. Until he came to that dreary place, He gazed on the walls, so scathed with fire, With many a bitter groanAnd there was aware of a Gray Friar, Resting him on a stone. "Now, Christ thee save!" said the Gray Brother; "Some pilgrim thou seemest to be." But in sore amaze did Lord Albert gaze, Nor answer again made he. Which for ever will cling to me." Now, woful pilgrim, say not so! And shrive thee so clean of thy deadly sin, That absolved thou mayst be." And who art thou, thou Gray Brother, That I should shrive to thee, When He, to whom are given the keys of earth and heaven, Has no power to pardon me?"— "O I am sent from a distant clime, Five thousand miles away, And all to absolve a foul, foul crime, Done here 'twixt night and day." The pilgrim kneel'd him on the sand, And thus began his saye— When on his neck an ice-cold hand Did that Gray Brother laye. * GG BOTHWELL CASTLE. [1799.] The following fragment of a ballad written at Bothwell Castle, in the autumn of 1799, was first printed in the Life of Sir Walter Scott, vol. ii. p. 28. WHEN fruitfulClydesdale's apple-bowers Are mellowing in the noon; When sighs round Pembroke's ruin'd towers The sultry breath of June; When Clyde, despite his sheltering wood, If chance by Bothwell's lovely braes And many a tale of love and fear Hath mingled with the scene Of Bothwell's banks that bloom'd so dear, And Bothwell's bonny Jean. O, if with rugged minstrel lays And thou of deeds of other days Then all beneath the spreading beech, The Gothic muse the tale shall teach Of Bothwell's sisters three. Wight Wallace stood on Deckmont head, He blew his bugle round, St. George's cross, o'er Bothwell hung, Its crimson blaze on Clyde; And rising at the bugle blast That marked the Scottish foe, Old England's yeomen muster'd fast, And bent the Norman bow. Tall in the midst Sir Aylmer rose, Proud Pembroke's Earl was heWhile " THE SHEPHERD'S TALE. [1799.] "Another imperfect ballad, in which he had meant to blend together two legends familiar to every reader of Scottish history and romance, has been found in the same portfolio, and the handwriting proves it to be of the same early date.” -LOCKHART, vol. ii. p. 30. 1 But more rough and rude are the men of blood, That hunt my life below! "Yon spell-bound den, as the aged tell, Was hewn by demon's hands; But I had lourd * melle with the fiends of hell, Than with Clavers and his band." He heard the deep-mouth'd bloodhound bark, He heard the horses neigh, Now faintly down the winding path Came the cry of the faulting hound, And the mutter'd oath of baulked wrath Was lost in hollow sound. He threw him on the flinted floor, "O bare thine arm, thou battling Lord, For Scotland's wandering band; Dash from the oppressor's grasp the sword, And sweep him from the land! "Forget not thou thy people's groans From dark Dunnotter's tower, Mix'd with the seafowl's shrilly moans, And ocean's bursting roar ! "O, in fell Clavers' hour of pride, Even in his mightiest day, As bold he strides through conquest's tide, O stretch him on the clay ! His widow and his little ones, "Sweet prayers to me," a voice replied, By powerful charm, a dead man's arm The torch's light supplied. From each stiff finger, stretch'd upright, That waved not in the blast of night O, deadly blue was that taper's hue, But more deadly blue was the ghastly hue He laid on his head a hand like lead, "But if faint thy heart, and caitiff fear Thy recreant sinews know, The mountain erne thy heart shall tear, Which never knew to yield. "And if thy power can speed the hour The Brownie look'd him in the face, "In ancient days when English bands Sore ravaged Scotland fair, The sword and shield of Scottish land Was valiant Halbert Kerr. "A warlock loved the warrior well, Sir Michael Scott by name, And he sought for his sake a spell to make, Should the Southern foemen tame. "Look thou,' he said, 'from Cessford head, As the July sun sinks low, And when glimmering white on Cheviot's height Thou shalt spy a wreath of snow, The haughty Saxon foe.' "For many a year wrought the wizard here, In Cheviot's bosom low, Till the spell was complete, and in July's heat Appear'd December's snow; The warrior's bones had lain, "But me and my brethren in this cell His mighty charms retain,And he that can quell the powerful spell Shall o'er broad Scotland reign.” He led him through an iron door And up a winding stair, And in wild amaze did the wanderer gaze On the sight which open'd there. Through the gloomy night flash'd ruddy light, A thousand torches glow; The cave rose high, like the vaulted sky, O'er stalls in double row. In every stall of that endless hall Stood a steed in barbing bright; At the foot of each steed, all arm'd save the head, Lay stretch'd a stalwart knight. In each mail'd hand was a naked brand; As they lay on the black bull's hide, Each visage stern did upwards turn, With eyeballs fix'd and wide. A launcegay strong, full twelve ells long, By every warrior hung; At each pommel there, for battle yare, The casque hung near each cavalier; The ruddy beam of the torches' gleam Reflected light from armour bright, And by each lay a sable knight. Still as the dead lay each horseman dread, And moved nor limb nor tongue; Each steed stood stiff as an earthfast cliff, Nor hoof nor bridle rung. No sounds through all the spacious hall The deadly still divide, Save where echoes aloof from the vaulted roof To the wanderer's step replied. At length before his wondering eyes, On an iron column borne, Of antique shape, and giant size, Appear'd a sword and horn. "Now choose thee here," quoth his leader, "Thy venturous fortune try; Thy woe and weal, thy boot and bale, In yon brand and bugle lie.' To the fatal brand he mounted his hand, But his soul did quiver and quail; The life-blood did start to his shuddering heart, And left him wan and pale. The brand he forsook, and the horn he took To 'say a gentle sound; But so wild a blast from the bugle brast, That the Cheviot rock'd around. From Forth to Tees, from seas to seas, On Carlisle wall, and Berwick withal, With clank and clang the cavern rang, The steeds did stamp and neigh; And loud was the yell as each warrior fell Sterte up with hoop and cry. "Woe, woe," they cried, "thou caitiff coward, That ever thou wert born! In "The Reiver's Wedding," the Poet had evidently designed to blend together two traditional stories concerning his own forefathers, the Scots of Harden, which are detailed in the first chapters of his Life. The biographer adds :—“I know not for what reason, Lochwood, the ancient fortress of the Johnstones in Annandale, has been substituted for the real locality of his ancestor's drumhead Wedding Contract."-Life, vol. ii. p. 94. Full many a chief of meikle pride That Border bugle bore— He blew a note baith sharp and hie, Till rock and water rang around- The Michaelmas moon had enter'd then, Ye might see by her light in Harden glen And loud and loud in Harden tower The quaigh gaed round wi' meikle glee; For the English beef was brought in bower And the English ale flow'd merrilie. And mony a guest from Teviotside And Yarrow's Braes was there; |