"Thy sire he is from home, ladye, For he hath a journey gone; 'If I must pull off my bonny silk plaid, 45 O turn thy back to me, And his shaggy blood-hound is sleeping And gaze on the sun, which has just begun And deliver it unto me; 30 "Who ever tempted weak woman Unto a deede of evil; To tempt the first and then to twit, He turned his back on the fayr damselle, 60 She graspt him tight with her arms so white, Six maids have I drowned where the billows The streme it rushed, and the Knight he sound, roar'd, And long with the waters strave; 65 Cochrane's Bonny Grizzy. THIS Ballad commemorates the matchless devotion and indomitable courage of Grizel Cochrane, when the tyranny and bigotry of James VI. towards his Scottish subjects, forced them to take up arms for the redressal of their grievances. One of the most formidable rioters as well as most prominent actors in Argyle's Rebellion, was Sir John Cochrane, ancestor of the present Earl of Dundonald. For ages a destructive doom seems to have hung over the house of Campbell, enveloping in one common ruin all who united their fortunes in the cause of its Chieftains. The same doom befell Sir John Cochrane; for he was surrounded by the King's troops, and though he made a desperate resistance, was overpowered and conveyed to prison in Edinburgh. His trial was brief, the judgment decisive, and the jailor waited but the arrival of his death warrant from London to lead him forth to execution, when Grizel Cochrane, the pride of his life, and the noble daughter of his house, determined on rescuing her father from the scaffold. Having received his blessing, she wended her solitary way to Berwick, disguised in a palmer's weeds: and robbed the man of the London Mail as described in the Ballad. Every exertion was made to discover the robber, but in vain. Three days had passed: Sir John Cochrane yet lived, and before another order for his execution could reach Edinburgh, the intercession of his father, the Earl of Dundonald, with the King's Confessor might be successful. Grizel now became his only companion in prison, and spoke to him words of comfort. Nearly fourteen days had now elapsed since the commission of the robbery, and protracted hope began to make sick the heart of the prisoner. The intercession of Dundonald had been unsuccessful, and a second time the bigoted and despotic monarch signed the warrant for Cochrane's death. "The will of Heaven be done," exclaimed the nobleman, when the jailor informed his prisoner of the circumstance. "Amen," said the heroic Grizzy with wild vehemence; "but my father shall not die." To save him, as the Ballad informs us, She aiblins kenned a way. Her masculine garments were again in requisition; again the rider had almost gained the Moor of Tweedmouth, bearing with him the doom of Cochrane; but Grizzy was at her post, and again despoiled him of his packet. By this second robbery Grizzy insured her father's life for fourteen days, the time then necessary to ride between London and the Scottish metropolis. But on this occasion, Dundonald and several Lords of great worth and consideration, used the time so effectually, that Sir John Cochrane was liberated and pardoned. Grizel Cochrane, whose heroic conduct and filial affection we have imperfectly sketched, was, according to tradition, the great-grandmother of the late Sir John Stuart of Allanbank, and great-great-grandmother of the celebrated Mr. Coutts, the Banker; but a few years ago the author of the Border Tales received a letter from Sir Hugh Stuart, son of Sir John, stating that his family would be glad to have such a heroine as Grizel connected with their genealogy; but that they were unable to prove such connexion. A few miles from Belford may yet be seen a solitary clump of fir trees, walled round, and standing by the road side, which is yet called "Grizzy's clump," and pointed out as a part of the thicket from whence Cochrane's bonny dochter fired on the carrier of the mail. We have lost much of the wisdom of our ancestors, and amongst other matters, the folly of sending one horseman with the mail, who had already been despoiled of his charge. The warlocks are dancing threesome reels. Her feyther lay lang in the Embro jail, Wearin fast to his end, For his head maun be swept clean frae his shouthers, When the warrant the King shall send ; Singing waes me, wi' the tear in her e'e, Did Cochrane's bonny dochter mourn. She kist her feyther's lyart locks, Unkemtt for mony a day; 9 She's stown her fayther's death warrant, But the King can write anither brief, Wi' the warrant frae London town: And she said, "To save my feyther's life, 15 For the heart o' Grizzy sank. 55 60 It sounded auld Cochran's knell; "But downa despair, 'tis a kittle carle," 65 Said Cochrane's bonny dochter. And she rappit ryghte loud on the barred The larch and the tall fir shrieked wi' pain, Love will make a foe grow kind, Love hath softened a kingly mind; Grizzy hath mercy to councillors taught. Her friends at court have prieven the life O' Grizzy's banished feyther. 99 She's wedded unto a German knicht, And her raven hair is growing again. 105 Young Ratcliffe. THE hero of this ballad, which appears for the first time in print, was James Radcliffe, third Earl of Derwentwater, who was beheaded for high treason on Tower Hill, in 1716. The circumstances that led to his untimely fate (for he was only in his 26th year) are set forth in the ballad. His last request, to be buried with his ancestors at Dibston,―a romantic spot situated on the banks of a small stream that flows into the Tyne between Corbridge and Hexham,-was refused; but either a sham funeral took place, or his body was secretly conveyed from London; for, on the family vault being opened some years ago, the corpse was found in a high state of preservation. The ample estates of the Ratcliffe family were declared forfeited; and transferred to the use of Greenwich Hospital. YOUNG Ratcliffe looked frae Dilston ha', Why hangs my luve ahint the rest, Quo' Ratcliffe, "Gin that I had less, "And shall it be my lord does halt, Out answered Derwentwater bold, "Ill speed and bloodshed never yet "If he had right, and I less wealth, But honey luve, thou knowst small ships 40 Albeit of high degree. "It means," quo' she, "my gentle luve, Loud storm't the Lady o' Dilston Hall, Wi' a glunching o' disdain; And whoso follows not his flag Sall never be content. "When others seek the smile o' kings, "The pick of a' the western hills, With nordern Billies to boot, Have thrown up caps for bonny James, 15 Were I a Lord, in the foremost rank I' fight for King and lan”.” 66 How could I live to hear my luve 45 |