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“O aid me, then, to seek the pair, And, bending o'er his harp, he flung
Whom, loitering in the woods, I lost; His wildest witch-notes on the wind; Alone, I dare not venture there,
And loud, and high, and strange, they Where walks, they say, the shrieking
As many a magic change they find. “Yes, many a shrieking ghost walks Tall wax'd the Spirit's altering form, there;
Till to the roof her stature grew; Then, first, my own sad vow to keep, Then, mingling with the rising storm, Here will I pour my midnight prayer, With one wild yell away she flew. Which still must rise when mortals
Rain beats, hail rattles, whirlwinds tear: sleep.”
The slender hut in fragments flew ; “O first, for pity's gentle sake,
But not a lock of Moy's loose hair Guide a lone wanderer on her way! Was waved by wind, or wet by dew. For I must cross the haunted brake, Wild mingling with the howling gale, And reach my father's towers ere Loud bursts of ghastly laughter rise; day.”—
High o'er the minstrel's head they sail, “First, three times tell each Ave-bead, And die amid the northern skies. And thrice a Pater-noster say;
The voice of thunder shook the wood, Then kiss with me the holy rede;
As ceased the more than mortal yell ; So shall we safely wend our way." And, spattering foul, a shower of blood “O shame to knighthood, strange and
Upon the hissing firebrands fell. foul !
Next dropp'd from high a mangled arm;. Go, doff the bonnet from thy brow, The fingers strain'd an half-drawn And shroud thee in the monkish cowl,
blade: Which best befits thy sullen vow. And last, the life-blood streaming warm,
Torn from the trunk, a gasping head. “Not so, by high Dunlathmon's fire, Thy heart was froze to love and joy, I
Oft o'er that head, in battling field, When gaily rung thy raptured lyre
Stream'd the proud crest of high BenTo wanton Morna's melting eye.”
That arm the broad claymore could wield, Wild stared the minstrel's eyes of flame, Which dyed the Teith with Saxon gore. And high his sable locks arose,
Woe to Moneira's sullen rills !
Woe to Glenfinlas' dreary glen!
There never son of Albin's hills “And thou! when by the blazing oak Shall draw the hunter's shaft agen! I lay, to her and love resign’d,
E'en the tired pilgrim's burning feet Say, rode ye on the eddying smoke,
At noon shall shun that sheltering den, Or sail'd ye on the midnight wind ?
Lest, journeying in their rage, he meet “Not thine a race of mortal blood,
The wayward Ladies of the Glen. Nor old Glengyle's pretended line; And we-behind the Chieftain's shield, Thy dame, the Lady of the Flood
No more shall we in safety dwell ; Thy sire, the Monarch of the Mine." None leads the people to the fieldHe mutter'd thrice St. Oran's rhyme,
And we the loud lament must swell. And thrice St. Fillan's powerful O hone a rie' ! O hone a rie'! prayer;
The pride of Albin's line is o'er ! Then turn'd him to the eastern clime, And fall’n Glenartney's stateliest tree;
And sternly shook his coal-black hair. We ne'er shall see Lord Ronald more!
THE EVE OF ST. JOHN.
SMAYLHO'ME, or Smallholm Tower, the scene of the following ballad, is situated on the northern boundary of Roxburghshire, among a cluster of wild rocks, called Sandiknow-Crags, the property of Hugh Scott, Esq. of Harden, (now Lord Polwarth.] The tower is a high square building, surrounded by an outer wall, now ruinous. The circuit of the outer court, being defended on three sides by a precipice and morass, is accessible only from the west, by a steep and rocky! path. The apartments, as is usual in a Border keep, or fortress, are placed one above another, and communicate by a narrow stair ; on the roof are two bartizans, or platforms, for defence or pleasure. The inner door of the tower is wood, the outer an iron gate; the distance between them being nine feet, the thickness, namely, of the wall. From the elevated situation of Smaylho'me Tower, it is seen many miles in every direction. Among the crags by which it is surrounded, one, more eminent, is called the Watchfold, and is said to have been the station of a beacon, in the times of war with England. Without the tower-court is a ruined chapel. Brotherstone is a heath, in the neighbourhood of Smaylhoʻme Tower.
This ballad was first printed in Mr. Lewis's Tales of Wonder. It is here poblished, with some additional illustrations, particularly an account of the battle of Ancram Moor; which seemed proper in a work upon Border antiquities. The catastrophe of the tale is founded upon a well-known Irish tradition. This ancient fortress and its vicinity formed the scene of the Editor's infancy, and seemed to claim from him this attempt to celebrate them in a Border tale.
THE Baron of Smaylho’me rose with day, í He came not from where Ancram Moor He spurr'd his courser on,
Ran red with English blood; Without stop or stay, down the rocky | Where the Douglas true, and the bold way,
Buccleuch, That leads to Brotherstone.
'Gainst keen Lord Evers stood. He went not with the bold Buccleuch, | Yet was his helmet hack'd and hew'd, His banner broad to rear;
His acton pierced and tore, He went not 'gainst the English yew, His axe and his dagger with blood To lift the Scottish spear.
imbrued, Yet his plate-jack* was braced, and his But it was not English gore. helmet was laced,
He lighted at the Chapellage, And his vaunt-brace of proof he wore;
He held him close and still ; At his saddle-gerthe was a good steel
And he whistled thrice for his little sperthe,
foot-page, Full ten pound weight and more.
His name was English Will. The Baron return'd in three days' space,
“Come thou hither, my little foot-page, ! And his looks were sad and sour;
Come hither to my knee;
Though thou art young, and tender of age,
I think thou art true to me. * The plate-jack is coat-armour: the vauntbrace, or wam-brace, armour for the body : the
| “Come, tell me all that thou hast seen, sperthe, a battle-axe.
And look thou tell me true!
Since I from Smaylho'me tower have "" And I'll chain the blood-hound, and been,
the warder shall not sound, What did thy lady do?"
And rushes shall be strew'don the stair; “My lady, each night, sought the lonely | So, by the black rood-stone, and by light,
holy St. John, That burns on the wild Watchfold; I conjure thee, my love, to be there!'For, from height to height, the beacons | “Though the blood-hound be mute, bright
and the rush beneath my foot, Of the English foemen told.
And the warder his bugle should not “The bittern clamour'd from the moss,
blow, The wind blew loud and shrill ; | Yet there sleepeth a priest in the chamYet the craggy pathway she did cross
ber to the east, To the eiry Beacon Hill.
And my footstep he would know.'“I watch'd her steps, and silent came | “O fear not the priest, who sleepeth Where she sat her on a stone ;
to the east, No watchman stood by the dreary flame, For to Dryburgh the way he has ta’en; It burned all alone.
And there to say mass, till three days "The second night I kept her in sight,
do pass, Till to the fire she came,
For the soul of a knight that is slayne.'— And, by Mary's might! an Armed Knight “He turn'd him around, and grimly he Stood by the lonely flame.
frown'd; “And many a word that warlike lord Then he laugh'd right scornfullyDid speak to my lady there ;
“He who says the mass-rite for the soul But the rain fell fast, and loud blew the of that knight, blast,
May as well say mass for me : And I heard not what they were. "At the lone midnight hour, when “The third night there the sky was fair,
bad spirits have power, And the mountain-blast was still,
In thy chamber will I be.' — As again I watch'd the secret pair, With that he was gone, and my lady On the lonesome Beacon Hill.
left alone, “And I heard her name the midnight! And no more did I see.” hour,
Then changed, I trow, was that bold And name this holy eve;
Baron's brow, And say, 'Come this night to thy lady's From the dark to the blood-red high ; bower;
“Now, tell me the mien of the knight Ask no bold Baron's leave.
thou hast seen, "He lifts his spear with the bold Buc For, by Mary, he shall die !” — cleuch;
“His arms shone full bright, in the His lady is all alone;
beacon's red light; The doorshe'llundo, to her knight so true, His plume it was scarlet and blue ; On the eve of good St. John'
On his shield was a hound, in a silver “I cannot come; I must not come;
leash bound, I dare not come to thee;
And his crest was a branch of the On the eve of St. John I must wander
yew."- . alone:
“Thou liest, thou liest, thou little footIn thy bower I may not be.'—
page, "Now, out on thee, fainthearted knight! Loud dost thou lie to me!
Thou shouldst not say me nay; For that knight is cold, and low laid in For the eve is sweet, and when lovers meet,
the mould, Is worth the whole summer's day. All under the Eildon-tree.”—
“Yet hear but my word, my noble lord! In sleep the lady mourn'd, and the For I heard her name his name;
Baron toss'd and turn'd, And that lady bright, she called the knight | And oft to himself he said, Sir Richard of Coldinghame.”— “The worms around him creep, and his
bloody grave is deep . . The bold Baron's brow then changed, I
It cannot give up the dead !”— From high blood-red to pale
It was near the ringing of matin-bell, “The grave is deep and dark--and the The night was well-nigh done, corpse is stiff and stark
When a heavy sleep on that Baron fell, So I may not trust thy tale.
On the eve of good St. John. “Where fair Tweed flows round holy The lady look'd through the chamber Melrose,
fair, And Eildon slopes to the plain,
By the light of a dying flame; Full three nights ago, by some secret foe, And she was aware of a knight stood That gay gallant was slain.
there“The varying light deceived thy sight,
Sir Richard of Coldinghame! And the wild winds drown'd the name; “Alas! away, away!" she cried, For the Dryburgh bells ring, and the “For the holy Virgin's sake!”white monks do sing,
“Lady, I know who sleeps by thy side; For Sir Richard of Coldinghame !" But, lady, he will not awake. He pass'd the court-gate, and he oped “By Eildon-tree, for long nights three, the tower-gate,
In bloody grave have I lain; And he mounted the narrow stair, The mass and the death-prayer are said To the bartizan-seat, where, with maids
for me, that on her wait,
But, lady, they are said in vain. He found his lady fair.
“By the Baron's brand, near Tweed's That lady sat in mournful mood;
fair strand, Look'd over hill and vale ;
Most foully slain, I fell; Over Tweed's fair flood, and Mertoun's | And my restless sprite on the beacon's wood,
height, And all down Teviotdale.
For a space is doom'd to dwell. “Now hail, now hail, thou lady | “At our trysting-place,* for a certain bright!”–
space, “Now hail, thou Baron true!
I must wander to and fro; What news, what news, from Ancram | But I had not had power to come to fight ? :
thy bower What news from the bold Buc Had'st thou not conjured me so." — cleuch?"
Love master'd fear-her brow she cross'd; “The Ancram moor is red with gore,
“How, Richard, hast thou sped? For many a southern fell;
And art thou saved, or art thou lost ? ” — And Buccleuch has charged us, evermore,
The vision shook his head ! To watch our beacons well.”—
“Who spilleth life, shall forfeit life; The lady blush'd red, but nothing she said:
So bid thy lord believe : Nor added the Baron a word :
That lawless love is guilt above, Then she stepp'd down the stair to her
This awful sign receive.' chamber fair, And so did her moody lord.
. * Trysting-place-Place of rendezvous.
e laid his left palm on an oaken beam; His right upon her hand; he lady shrunk, and fainting sunk,
For it scorch'd like a fiery brand. he sable score, of fingers four,
Remains on that board impress'd; nd for evermore that lady wore
A covering on her wrist.
There is a nun in Dryburgh bower,
Ne'er looks upon the sun;
He speaketh word to none.
That monk, who speaks to none .
That monk the bold Baron.
CADYOW CASTLE. ADDRESSED TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE LADY ANNE HAMILTON. 'HE ruins of Cadyow, or Cadzow Castle, the ancient baronial residence of the amily of Hamilton, are situated upon the precipitous banks of the river Evan, bout two miles above its junction with the Clyde. It was dismantled, in the conlusion of the Civil Wars, during the reign of the unfortunate Mary, to whose ause the house of Hamilton devoted themselves with a generous zeal, which occaioned their temporary obscurity, and, very nearly, their total ruin. The situation of the ruins, embosomed in wood, darkened by ivy and creeping shrubs, and overjanging the brawling torrent, is romantic in the highest degree. In the immediate ricinity of Cadyow is a grove of immense oaks, the remains of the Caledonian Forest, which anciently extended through the south of Scotland, from the eastern o the Atlantic Ocean. Some of these trees measure twenty-five feet, and upwards, n circumference; and the state of decay, in which they now appear, shows that they have witnessed the rites of the Druids. The whole scenery is included in the magnificent and extensive park of the Duke of Hamilton. There was long preserved in this forest the breed of the Scottish wild cattle, until their ferocity occasioned their being extirpated, about forty years ago. Their appearance was beautiful, being milk-white, with black muzzles, horns, and hoofs. The bulls are described by ancient authors as having white manes; but those of latter days had lost that peculiarity, perhaps by intermixture with the tame breed.
In detailing the death of the Regent Murray, which is made the subject of the following ballad, it would be injustice to my reader to use other words than those of Dr. Robertson, whose account of that memorable event forms a beautiful piece of historical painting.
“ Hamilton of Bothwellhaugh was the person who committed this barbarous action. He had been condemned to death soon after the battle of Langside, as we have already related, and owed his life to the Regent's clemency. But part of his estate had been bestowed upon one of the Regent's favourites, who seized his house, and turned out his wife, naked, in a cold night, into the open fields, where, before next morning, she became furiously mad. This injury made a deeper impression on him than the benefit he had received, and from that moment he vowed to be revenged of the Regent. Party rage strengthened and inflamed his private resentment. His kinsmen, the Hamiltons, applauded the enterprise. The maxims of that age justified the most desperate course he could take to obtain vengeance. He followed the Regent for some time, and watched for an opportunity to strike the blow. He resolved at last to wait till his enemy should arrive at Linlithgow, through which he was to pass in his way from Stirling to Edinburgh. He took