Wilson's Tales of the Borders and of Scotland, Volume XXIV. by Revised by Alexander Leighton
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Revised by Alexander Leighton >> Wilson\'s Tales of the Borders and of Scotland, Volume XXIV.
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II.
"I am come, fair ladye, to beg of thee,
As here I crave upon bended knee,
That thou wilt grant unto my prayer
A single lock of thy golden hair,
To wear in a lockheart over my breast,
And carry with me to the balmy East--
The land where the Saviour met his death,
The sacred Salem of saving faith,
Which holds the sepulchre of our Lord,
Defiled by a barbarous Paynim horde.
Grant me the meed for which I burn,
And, by our Ladye, on my return,
We will wedded be in the sacred bands
Of a sacrament sealed by holy hands."
The ladye has, with a gesture bland,
Taken her scissors into her hand,
And clipt a lock of her auburn hair,
And yielded it to his ardent prayer;
But a pearly drop from her weeping eyes
Hath fallen upon the golden prize.
"Ah! blessed drop," said the knight, and smiled--
"This tear was from thine heart beguiled,
And I take it to be an omen of good,
For tears, my love, are purified blood,
That impart a beauty to female eyes,
And vouch for her kindly sympathies."
"Ah! no, ah! no," the maid replied--
"An omen of ill," and she heavily sighed;
Then a flood came gushing adown her cheek,
Nor further word could the damoiselle speak.
Then said Sir Peregrine, smiling still,
"If tears, my love, are an omen of ill,
The way to deprive them of evil spell
Is to kiss them away, and--all is well!"
And he took in his arms the yielding maid,
And kissed them away, as he had said.
The warder has oped the porteluse again,
To let Sir Peregrine forth with his train.
Loud spoke the horn o'er fell and dell,
"Fare thee--fare thee--fare thee well;"
But Etheline, as she waved her hand,
Could not those flowing tears command,
And thought the bugle in sounds did say,
"Fare thee--fare thee well for aye."
III.
A year has passed: at Eaglestein
There sat the Ladye Etheline;
Her eyes were wet, and her cheek was pale,
Her sweet voice dwindled into a wail;
For though through the world's busy crowd
The deeds of the war were sung aloud,
And the name of Sir Peregrine was enrolled
With Godfrey's among the brave and bold,
No letter had come from her knight so dear,
To belie the spell of the lock and tear.
The Countess would weep, and the Yerl would say,
"Alas! for the hour when he went away."
But the womb of old Time is everly full,
And the storm-wind bloweth after a lull.
Hark! a horn has sounded both loud and clear,
And echoed around both far and near;
It is Sir Ronald from Palestine--
Sir Ronald, a suitor of Etheline.
"I have come," said he, "through pain and peril,
To tell unto thee, most noble Yerl:
Woe to the sword of the fierce Soldan,
Who slew our most gallant capitan!
Sir Peregrine, in an unhappy hour,
Fell wounded before High Salem's tower,
And ere he died he commissioned me
To bear to Scotland, and give to thee,
This bit of the genuine haly rood
Dipt in his heart's outpouring blood,
That thou mightst give it to Etheline,
As a relic of dead Sir Peregrine."
IV.
All Eaglestein vale is yellow and sere,
The ancient elms seem withered and bare,
The river asleep in its rushy bed,
The waters are green, and the grass is red,
The roses are dead in the sylvan bowers,
Where oft in the dewy evening hours,
Ere yet the fairies had sought the dell,
And the merle was singing her day-farewell,
The Lady Etheline would recline
And think of her dear Sir Peregrine:
All was cheerless now, forlorn,
As if they missed her at early morn;
At noontide and at evening fall
They sorrowed for her, the spirit of all.
In the solary, up in the western wing,
The Countess and Yerl sat sorrowing
For one so young, so gentle, and fair,
Their only child, lying ailing there,
Waning and waning slowly away,
Yet waxing more beautiful every day,
As if she were drawing from spheres above,
Before she got there, the spirit of love,
Which shone as a light through the silken lire,
Pure as was that of the vestal fire;
And ever she kissed in hysterical mood
The bit of the cross all red with blood.
"Oh mother dear! I wish--I fear
The time of my going is drawing near:
Last night, at the mirk and midnight hour,
A voice seemed to come through my chamber door--
For the ear of the dying is tender and fine--
And three times it sounded Etheline;
And it is true, as I've heard say,
Such voices are calls to come away--
The voices of angels hovering near,
Who wish us to join them in yonder sphere."
"Oh! no, oh! no, my own dear child,
Thine overfine ears have thee beguiled:
It was the Yerl, when in a dream,
Who three times called thy dear-loved name;
I heard the call as awake I lay,
And thou mayst believe what now I say."
"Oh mother! oh mother! what do I hear?
It is the nightingale singing clear;
I have heard the notes in Italian clime,
And remember them since that early time;
And it is true, as I've heard say,
That when the nightingale sings by day,
The dying who hears it will pass away."
"No, no, my child, the song you hear
Is that of the throstle-cock singing clear:
I see him upon the linden tree,
And you, if you like, may also see.
I know its speckled breast too well;
It is not, dear child, the nightingale."
When this she heard, the maiden sighed,
As if she were vexed she was denied
The hope of passing quickly away
To yon regions bright of eternal day.
"Oh mother! list, what do I hear?
Sir Peregrine's horn is winding clear;
Ah, I know the sound, as it seems to say
In its windings, 'Hali-hali-day;'
And it is true, as I've heard tell,
When a dead man's horn sounds loud and shrill,
It is a true sign to his earthly bride,
He will wait for her spirit at evening tide."
The Countess turned her face to the Yerl;
It was true what was said by the dying girl;
It _was_ Sir Peregrine's horn they heard,
And they both sat mute, nor whispered a word,
For they wondered much, and were sore afraid
Of mysteries working about the maid,
Who, as she lay in her ecstasie,
Kept muttering slow an Ave Marie:
"Oh, Lady sweet! the sign hath come,
Happy the maid whom her knight calls home;
It is the nightingale that I hear,
The golden sun is shining clear;
And I've heard tell in time past gone,
Blessed is the bier that the sun shines on."
And, as they listened, there came to their ear
The grating of the portcullis gear,
And a cry of fear from the ballion green,
As if the retainers a ghost had seen:
Tramp and tramp on the scaliere,
And along the corridor leading there;
The door is opened, and lo! comes in
The leal and the living Sir Peregrine.
"Holy Maria!" the Countess cried,
"Holy Maria!" the Yerl replied;
The maid looked up, then sank her head,
As an Ave Marie again she said:
"Ave Marie! my sweet ladye,
Ave Marie! I come to thee.
Ah, soft and clear those eyes of thine,
That look so kindly into mine;
Oh Ladye sweet! stretch forth thy hand
To welcome me to yon happy land;
Oh Virgin! open thy bosom fair,
That thy poor child may nestle there;"
Then she laid her arms across her breast,
And gently, softly, sank to rest.
The throstle-cock's voice rang out more clear
On the linden tree there growing near,
And the sun burst forth with brighter ray
On the couch where her spirit had passed away.
V.
Over hollow, and over height,
Sir Peregrine sought that caitiff knight
Who had wrought such woe to Eaglestein--
To him and the Lady Etheline.
The time has come and the wish made good,
The villain he met in the Calder Wood.
"Hold, hold, thou basest dastard Theou,
For Ceorl's a name thou'rt far below;
Ten lives like thine would not suffice
To be to my soul a sacrifice;
There is the glaive, it is thine to try.
Or with it or without it thou must die."
But the caitiff laughed a laugh of scorn:
"Come on, thou bastard of bastards born."
Their falchions are gleaming in bright mid-day:
They rushed like tigers upon their prey;
Sir Peregrine's eyes flashed liquid fire,
The caitiff's shone out with unholy ire;
But victory goes not aye with right,
Nor the race to those the quickest in flight.
Sir Peregrine's fury o'ershot his aim:
His sword breaks through--his arm is maim!
With nothing to wield, with nothing to ward.
No word of mercy or quarter heard;
With a breast-wound deep as his heart he lies,
A look of scorn--Sir Peregrine dies.
Behind the crumbling walls of Eaglestein,
The tomb of the old Yerls may still be seen,
And there long mouldering lay close side by side,
Sir Peregrine the bold and his fair bride;
Their ashes scattered now and blown away,
As thine and mine will be some coming day.
This world is surely an enchanted theme,
A thing of seims and shows--a wild fantastic dream.
III.
THE LEGEND OF ALLERLEY HALL.
The tower-bell has sounded the midnight hour,
Old Night has unfolded her sable pall,
Darkness o'er hamlet, darkness o'er hall,
Loud screams the raven on Allerley Tower;[A]
A glimmering gleam from yon casement high
Is all that is seen by the passer-by.
[Footnote A: In Ayrshire, as I have heard, but I know of no
trace of the family. The old distich may be traced to some other
county:
"The Allerley oak stands high, abune trees;
When the raven croaks there, an Allerley dees."
Such rhymes have generally something to rest upon, but I cannot
associate this with any county, far less a family.]
All things are neglected, time-smitten there,
Crazy and cobwebbed, mildewed and worn,
Moth-eaten, weeviled, dusty, forlorn,
Everything owning to waning and wear;
From the baron's hall to the lady's bower
NEGLECT is the watchword in Allerley Tower.
There is silence within old Allerley Hall,
Save the raven without with her "croak, croak,"
And the cricket's "click, click," in the panels of oak,
Behind the dim arras that hangs on the wall;
So silent and sad in the midnight hour,
Yet life may still linger in Allerley Tower.
An old woman sits by a carved old bed--
The drape of green silk, all yellow and sere,
The gold-coloured fringes dingy and drear;
And she nods and nods her silvery head,
And sometimes she looks with a half-drowsy air.
To notice how Death may be working there.
Lord William lies there, care-worn and pale,
All his sunlight of spirit has passed away,
And left to him only that twilight of grey
Which ushers men into the long dark vale;
Fast ebbing his life, yet feeling no pain,
Save a memory working within his brain.
He had sought the world's crowd for forty years,
But only a little relief to borrow
From the heartfelt pangs of that early sorrow
Which had drawn him away from his gay compeers,
And made him oft sigh, with a pain-begot scorn,
That into this world he ever was born.
But being brought in, as a victim, to tarry,
With him, as with all, it is how to get out
With no more of pain than you can't go without,
Where all have original sin to carry;
But his memory brightened, as strength waxed low,
Of the grief he had borne forty years ago.
There is silence and sadness in Allerley Tower;
The taper is glimmering with murky snot,
The raven croak-croaking with rusty throat,
And the cricket click-clicking at midnight hour;
And the woman mope-moping by the bed,
Still nodding and nodding her drowsy head.
"Now bring me, old nurse, from that escritoire,
A packet tied up with a ribbon of blue;"
Ah! well, though now faded, that ribbon he knew,
Which his fingers had bound forty years before.
He shuddered to look, yet afraid to wait,
Lest Death might render his vision too late.
That ribbon he drew in a calm despair:
Behold now revealed to his wondering eyes
A face of all beautiful harmonies,
Set fair among ringlets of golden hair;
With eyes so blue and a smile of heaven,
Which haply some angel to her had given.
Beside that miniature lay a scroll,
As written by him forty years before:
He read every word of it o'er and o'er,
And every word of it flashed through his soul,
In a flood of that bright and awakened light
Which slumbers and sleeps through a long, long night.
THE SCROLL.
"I loved my love early, the young Lady May;
I saw her bloom rarely in youth's rosy day;
But her eye looked afar to some orb that was shining,
As if for that sphere her spirit was pining.
"Faint in the light of day seemed what was near her;
Visions far, far away, clearer and clearer;
Still, as flesh wears away spirits that bear it,
Eyeing yon milky way, sigh to be near it.
"Lady May, she is dying--she hears some one whisper,
Near where she's lying, 'Come away, sister'--
Draw down each silky lid--draw them down over
Eyes whose last light on earth shone on her lover.
"My lost Lady May in yon vault now is sleeping;
Her sisters who go to pray come away weeping;
And while I yet linger here, some one elates me,
Whispering into my ear, 'Yonder she waits thee.'"
And thus they had waited until this last day,
But the hour of their meeting was coming apace;
And as he still gazed on that beautiful face,
His spirit so weary passed gently away;
And the nurse would unfold those fingers so cold,
Which still of that picture retained the hold.
There's the silence of death in Allerley Tower,
The taper gone out with its murky smoke,
The raven has finished her croak-croak,
The cricket is silent at midnight hour;
The last of the Allerley lords lies there,
And Allerley goes to a distant heir.
In yon tomb where was laid his young Lady May,
Lord William sleeps now by the side of her bier;
And the Allerley lords and ladies lie near.
But nearest of neighbours they nothing can say:
No "Good morrow, my lord," when the day is begun,
No "My lady, good night," when the day it is done.
IV.
THE LEGEND OF THE LADY KATHARINE.
I.
'Twas at a time now long past gone,
And well gone if 'twill stay,
When our good land seemed made alone
For lords and ladies gay;
When brown bread was the poor man's fare,
For which he toiled and swet,
When men were used as nowt or deer.
And heads were only worth the wear
When crowned with coronet.
There was a right good noble knight,
Sir Bullstrode was his name[A]--
A name which he acquired by fight,
And with it meikle fame.
Upon his burnished shield he bore
A head of bull caboshed
(For so they speak in herald lore),
And for his crest he aptly wore
Two bones of marrow crossed.
[Footnote A: A knight called Bullstrode, as having got his name
in the way set forth, is mentioned by Guillim; but whether he is
the same as he who figures in the Scotch legend I do not know.]
For he had slain in tournay set
Full many a blazoned fool;
Nor would he deem his praise complete
Till he had slain a bull.
He threw the gauntlet at the brute,
Which was received with scorn,
For Taurus straight the gauntlet took,
Then in the air the bauble shook,
And tossed it on his horn.
To fight they went with might and main,
And fought a good long hour;
The knight's long lance was broke in twain--
Sir Bull had now the power;
The ladies laughed, the barons too,
As they Sir Bull admired!
But where fair ladies are to view,
Who may declare what knight may do,
By noble emprise fired?
The knight he paused amid the claque,
And threw a look of scorn:
Sir Bull has Bullstrode on his back,
Who held by either horn;
And round the ring, and round the ring,
Rushed bull in wild affray,
Stamping, roaring, bellowing,--
And, stumbling, gave his neck a wring,
And Bullstrode won the day.
This valiant knight, by love inspired,
Next sued fair Katharine,
The daughter of Sir Ravensbeard,
A man of ancient line;
And he had known the reason good
Sir Bullstrode got his name,
And wished--if Kate could be subdued--
To mix his blue and blazoned blood
With one of such a fame.
II.
But when the knights are thus employeed,
The lady is in yon glen,
There seated by the river side
With one, the flower of men--
George Allan--a rich yeoman's heir,
Who leased her father's land.
Yet, though beloved by all the fair,
Young Allan might not surely dare
To claim this envied hand.
Yet hearts will work, and hearts will steal
What high commands deny;
And beauty is a thing to feel,
Self-chosen by the eye:
Nor would fair Katharine had gi'en
A touch of Allan's hand
For all the honours she could gain
From duke or earl, lord or thane,
Or knight in all the land.
She knew the price she had to pay
For this her secret love;
But where's a will there is a way,
And Kate she would it prove.
The will we know, the way's obscure,
Deep in her soul confined;
What quick invention might secure,
With love for the inspiring power,
Was in that maiden's mind.
"Now, Allan," she said, with a silent laugh,
In eyes both quaint and keen,
"Thou must not fear, for here I swear
By Coz. Saint Catharine,
'Twas easier for this doughty knight
To hold these horns he dared,
Than take for wife by a father's right,
Against the spurn of a maiden's spite,
The daughter of Ravensbeard."
"No, no, fair lady," George Allan said--
With tears his eyes were full--
"'Tis easier to force the will of a maid,
Than hold by the horns a bull."
"Yes! yes! of the maids who say a prayer,
Like sisters of orders grey;
But Kate admits no craven fear,
And she can do what they cannot dare,
For she's quicker of parts than they."
III.
It's up in yon chamber well bedight
Of the castle of Invercloyd,
A maiden sits with a grim sir knight
Seated on either side.
"I come to thee by a father's right,
To issue my last command,
That thou concede to this gallant knight,
What his noble nature will requite,
The guerdon of thy hand."
"And here, upon my bended knee,"
Sir Bullstrode blandly said,
"I pray thee, in knightly courtesie,
The grace thy sire hath pled."
"Oh yes! a guerdon let it remain,
I give thee free consent;
But I have a mind, and will maintain,
This knight shall only my favour gain
In knightly tournament."
"What meaneth the wench?" the father cried,
With a fire-flaught in his eye,
"What other knight would'st thou invite
Sir Bullstrode to defy?
Is he a lover? I grant no parle,
For I am resolved to know,
And wish, by my sword, no better a quarrel;
And be he a ceorl, or be he an earl,
He goes to shades below."
"No lover is he, my father dear,
My champion who shall be;
A stranger knight shall for me fight,
And shall my fate decree."
"Well done! well done!" cried Sir Bullstrode,
"That goeth with my gree;
May the carrion crow be then abroad,
All hungry to feed upon carrion food,
That day he fights with me."
"But let this contract," said the maid,
"Be written on parchment skin,
And signed, and sealed, and witnessed,
That surety I may find."
Again the father knit his brow,
Yet could not he complain,
Because Sir Bullstrode wished it so,
That all the world might come to know
His honour he could maintain.
IV.
It's up in yon chamber tapestried,
Sits the Lady Katharine;
She smiled at a woman's art applied
Her own true love to win.
And lo! who comes in a tearful way,
But her pretty tire-woman,
"Hey! hey! what now? good lack-a-day!
Such cheeks so pale, and lips like clay;
What ails maid Lilian?"
"Oh it is, it is, young mistress mine,
All about this valiant knight,
Who came to me all drunk with wine,
At the dead hour of the night.
He seized me struggling to get free,
And swore by the goat of Jove,
He would me fee, if I would be,
La! my lady! I fear to tell it to thee,
_His left-hand lady-love_."
"Ho! ho! my maid, a pretty scene!
A brute of noble parts!
But 'tis easier to turn a bull by each horn,
Than rule two women's hearts.
No harems have we in western land,
Where a woman's soul is free,
To rule weak man by her high command,
And rouse by a wave of her wizard wand
The fire of his chivalrie."
V.
Lo! round the lists, and round the lists,
Bedecked with pennons gay,
Environed there with ladies fair,
Sir Bullstrode held his way.
High mounted on a gallant steed,
And armed a-cap-a-pie,
His lance well graced by a pennon red,
A white plume nodded o'er his head,
With ribbons at his knee.
"Why mounts not Kate the dais seat?"
The father loudly cried.
"She hath not finished her robing yet,"
A lady quick replied.
And now a shout rang all about,
Ho! ho! there comes apace,
A Cataphract[A] of noble mien,
With armour bright as silver sheen,
And eke of gentle grace.
[Footnote A: A knight completely equipped; a word in common use in
the times of chivalry.]
He bore for his escochion
Dan Cupid with his dart,
And for his crest there was impressed
A well-skewered bleeding heart;
His yellow streamer on his spear,
Flew fluttering in the wind,
And thrice he waved it in the air,
As if to fan the ladies there,
And thrice his head inclined.
"Who's he, who's he?" cried Ravensbeard;
But no one there could say.
"Knowest thou him?" cried some who heard;
But each one answered Nay.
"I am Sir Peveril," said the knight,
"If you my name would learn,
And I will for fair Katharine fight,
A lady's love, and a lady's right,
And a lady's choice to earn."
The gauntlet thrown upon the ground,
Sir Bullstrode laughed with joy:
"Short work," said he, "I'll make of thee--
Methinks a beardless boy."
Nor sooner said than in he sprang
And aimed a mortal blow,
The crenel upon the buckler rang,
And having achieved an echoing clang,
It made no more ado.
The stranger knight wheeled quick as light,
And charging with gratitude,
Gave him good thank on his left flank,
And lo! a stream of blood!
Shall he this knight, so dread in fight,
Cede to this beardless foe,
And feel in his pain, returned again,
That vaunt of his so empty and vain,
That vaunt of the carrion crow?
Stung by the wound, not less by shame,
He gathered all his force,
And sprang again, with desperate aim,
His enemy to unhorse;
But he who watched the pointed lance
A dexterous movement made,
And saw his foe, as he missed the blow,
Rock in his selle both to and fro,
And vault o'er his horse's head.
Sore fainting from the loss of blood,
He lay upon the ground,
Nor e'er a leech within his reach
Can stop that fatal wound.
And there with many an honour full,
That brave and doughty knight,
Sir Bullstrode, who once strode the bull,
And killed (himself one) many a fool,
Has closed his eyes in night.
VI.
And now within the ballion court
There sits Sir Ravensbeard:
"Who shall me say what popinjay
Hath earned this proud reward?"
And there stands Katharine all confessed
In maiden dignity;
"'Twas I, in 'fence of life sore pressed,
'Twas I, at honour's high behest,
This bad man made to die.
"For hear me, sire, restrain your ire,
This knight you so admired,
A plan had laid to ruin my maid,
While he for my love aspired.
I claim the contract by his hand,
Whereto thou'rt guarantee,
And this young Allan is the man,
And he alone of all Scotland,
Thy Katharine's lord shall be."
V.
THE BALLAD OF AILIE FAA.
I.
Sir Robert has left his castle ha',
The castle of fair Holmylee,
And gone to meet his Ailie Faa,
Where no one might be there to see.
He has sounded shrill his bugle horn,
But not for either horse or hound;
And when the echoes away were borne,
He listened for a well-known sound.
He hears a rustling among the leaves,
Some pattering feet are drawing near;
Like autumn's breathings among the sheaves,
So sweet at eventide to hear:
His Ailie Faa, who is sweeter far
Than the white rose hanging upon the tree,
Who is fairer than the fairies are
That dance in moonlight on the lea.
Oh! there are some flowers, as if in love,
Unto the oak their arms incline;
And tho' the tree may rotten prove,
They still the closer around it twine:
So has it been until this hour,
And so in coming time 'twill be,
Wherever young love may hang a flower,
'Twill think it aye ane trusty tree.
He has led her into a summer bower,
For he was fond and she was fain,
And there with all of a lover's power
He whispered that old and fatal strain,
Which those who sing it and those who hear
Have never sung and never heard,
But they have shed the bitter tear
For every soft delusive word.
He pointed to yon castle ha',
And all its holts so green and fair;
And would not she, poor Ailie Faa,
Move some day as a mistress there?
As the parched lea receives the rains,
Her ears drank up the sweet melodie;
A gipsy's blood flowed in her veins,
A gipsy's soul flashed in her eye.
Oh! it's time will come and time will go,
That which has been will be again;
This strange world's ways go to and fro,
This moment joy, the next is pain.
A sough has thro' the hamlet spread,
To Ailie's ear the tidings came,
That Holmylee will shortly wed
A lady fair of noble name.
II.
In yon lone cot adown the Lynne
A widowed mother may think it long
Since there were lightsome words within,
Since she has heard blithe Ailie's song.
A gloomy shade sits on Ailie's brow,
At times her eyes flash sudden fires,
The same she had noticed long ago,
Deep flashing in her gipsy sire's.
When the wind at even was low and loun,
And the moon paced on in her majesty
Thro' lazy clouds, and threw adown
Her silvery light o'er turret and tree,
Then Ailie sought the green alcove,
That place of fond lovers' lone retreat,
Where she for the boon of gentle love,
Had changed the meed of a deadly hate.
She sat upon "the red Lynne stone,"
Where she between the trees might see,
By yon pale moon that shone thereon,
The goodly turrets of Holmylee.
And as she felt the throbbing pains,
And as she heaved the bursting sigh,
A gipsy's blood burned in her veins,
A gipsy's soul flashed in her eye.
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