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“The wildered traveller sees her glide,
And hears her feeble voice with awe'Revenge,' she cries, 'on Murray's pride!
And woe for injured Bothwellhaugh!'” He ceased—and cries of rage and grief
Burst mingling from the kindred band, And half arose the kindling chief,
And half unsheathed his Arran brand. But who, o'er bush, o'er stream, and rock,
Rides headlong, with resistless speed, Whose bloody poniard's frantic stroke
Drives to the leap his jaded steed; Whose cheek is pale, whose eyeballs glare, · As one some visioned sight that saw, Whose hands are bloody, loose his hair?
'Tis he ! 'tis he ! 'tis Bothwellhaugh! From gory selle, and reeling steed,
Sprung the fierce horseman with a bound, And, reeking from the recent deed,
He dashed his carbine on the ground. Sternly he spoke—“'Tis sweet to hear
In good green-wood the bugle blown, But sweeter to Revenge's ear
To drink a tyrant's dying groan. “Your slaughtered quarry proudly trod,
At dawning morn, o'er dale and down, But prouder base-born Murray rode
Through old Linlithgow's crowded town. “From the wild Border's humbled side,
In haughty triumph, marched he, While Knox relaxed his bigot pride,
And smiled, the traitorous pomp to see. “But can stern Power, with all his vaunt,
Or Pomp, with all her courtly glare, The settled heart of Vengeance daunt,
Or change the purpose of Despair? " With hackbut bent, my secret stand
Dark as the purposed deed, I chose, And marked, where, mingling in his band,
Trooped Scottish pikes and English bows. “Dark Morton, girt with many a spear,
Murder's foul minion, led the van; And clashed their broadswords in the rear
The wild Macfarlanes' plaided clan. “Glencairn and stout Parkhead were nigh,
Obsequious at their Regent's rein, And haggard Lindsay's iron eye,
That saw fair Mary weep in vain.
"''Mid pennoned spears, a steely grove,
Proud Murray's plumage Aoated high ; Scarce could his trampling charger move,
So close the minions crowded nigh. “ From the raised visor's shade, his eye,
Dark rolling, glanced the ranks along, And his steel truncheon, waved on high,
Seemed marshalling the iron throng. “But yet his saddened brow confessed
A passing shade of doubt and awe; Some fiend was whispering in his breast,
'Beware of injured Bothwellhaugh!' “The death-shot parts—the charger springs• Wild rises tumult's startling roar ! And Murray's plumy helmet rings
Rings on the ground, to rise no more. “What joy the raptured youth can feel
To hear her love the loved one tell, Or he who broaches on his steel
The wolf by whom his infant fell ! “But dearer to my injured eye,
To see in dust proud Murray roll ; And mine was ten times trebled joy
To hear him groan his felon soul. “My Margaret's spectre glided near;
With pride her bleeding victim saw ; And shrieked in his death-deafened ear,
'Remember injured Bothwellhaugh!' “Then speed thee, noble Chatlerault !
Spread to the wind thy bannered tree ! Each warrior bend his Clydesdale bow !
Murray is fallen, and Scotland free." Vaults every warrior to his steed;
Loud bugles join their wild acclaim“Murray is fallen, and Scotland freed !
Couch, Arran ! couch thy spear of flame !" But, see! the minstrel vision fails
The glimmering spears are seen no more ; The shouts of war die on the gales,
Or sink in Evan's lonely roar. For the loud bugle, pealing high,
The blackbird whistles down the vale, And sunk in ivied ruins lie
The bannered towers of Evandale. For chiefs, intent on bloody deed,
And Vengeance, shouting o'er the slain, Lo! high-born Beauty rules the steed,
Or graceful guides the silken rein.
And long may Peace and Pleasure own
The maids who list the minstrel's tale ;
On the fair banks of Evandale !
THE GRAY BROTHER.
A FRAGMENT. The tradition, upon which the tale is founded, regards a house upon the barony of Gilmerton, near Lasswade, in Mid-Lothian. This building, now called Gilmerton Grange, was formerly named Burndale, from the following tragic adventure :--The barony of Gilmerton belonged, of yore, to a gentleman named Heron, who had one beautiful daughter. This young lady was seduced by the abbot of Newbottle, a richly-endowed abbey, upon the banks of the South Eske, now a seat of the marquis of Lothian. Heron came to the knowledge of this circumstance, and learned, also, that the lovers carried on their guilty intercourse by the contrivance of the lady's nurse, who lived at this house of Gilmerton Grange, or Burndale. He formed a resolution of bloody vengeance, undeterred by the supposed sanctity of the clerical character, or by the stronger claims of natural affection. Choosing, therefore, a dark and windy night, when the objects of his vengeance were engaged in a stolen interview, he set fire to a stack of dried thorns and other combustibles, which he had caused to be piled against the house, and reduced to a pile of glowing ashes the dwelling, with all its inmates.
The scene with which the ballad opens was suggested by a curious passage in the life of Alexander Peden, one of the wandering and persecuted teachers of the sect of Cameronians, during the reign of Charles II. and that of his successor James II.
THE Pope he was saying the high, high mass,
All on Saint Peter's day,
To wash men's sins away.
And the people kneeled around,
As he kissed the holy ground.
Was still, both limb and tongue,
The holy accents rung.
And faltered in the sound-
'He dropped it on the ground.
Pollutes our sacred day;
No part in what I say.
To ghostly peace can bring ;
Recoils each holy thing.
My adjuration fear I.
I charge thee not to stop my voice,
Nor longer tarry here!”
In gown of sackcloth gray :
He first saw Rome that day.
I ween, he had not spoke,
His fast he ne'er had broke.
Seemed none more bent to pray; But, when the Holy Father spoke,
He rose, and went his way.
His weary course he drew,
And Pentland's mountains blue.
'Mi& Eske's fair woods, regain ; · Through woods more fair no stream more sweet
Rolls to the eastern main.
And vassals bent the knee;
Was none more famed than he.
In battlé he had stood,
Her noblest poured their blood.
By Eske's fair streams that run,
Impervious to the sun.
And yield the muse the day;
May shun the tell-tale ray;
By blast of bugle free,
And haunted Woodhouselee.
And Roslin's rocky glen,
And classic Hawthornden?
Yet never a patn, from day to day,
The Pilgrim's footsteps range,
To Burndale's ruined Grange.
As sorrow could desire;
And the roof was scathed with fire.
While on Carnethy's head
Had streaked the gray with red ;
Newbottle's oaks among,
Our Ladye's evening song :
Came slowly down the wind,
As his wonted path he did find.
Nor ever raised his eye,
Which did all in ruins lie.
With many a bitter groan-
Resting him on a stone.
“Some pilgrim thou seem'st to be ;”. But in sore amaze did Lord Albert gaze,
Nor answer again made he. “() come ye from east, or come ye from west,
Or bring relics from over the sea; Or come ye from the shrine of Saint James the divine,
Or Saint John of Beverley?” “I come not from the shrine of Saint James the divine,
Nor bring relics from over the sea;
Which for ever will cling to me." “Now, woeful pilgrim, say not so!
But kneel thee down by me,
That absolvèd thou mayst be.
That I should shrive to thee,