Wilson's Tales of the Borders and of Scotland, Volume XXIV. by Revised by Alexander Leighton

R >> Revised by Alexander Leighton >> Wilson\'s Tales of the Borders and of Scotland, Volume XXIV.

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What though ten years away had stolen?
'Twas not to him all weary time,
Who every day was pleased to roll in
The tempting Mammon's golden shrine.
But when he laid him on his pillow,
His fancy sought the farthest east,
And conjured up some lonely willow
That waved o'er her he loved the best.

Change still--a passion changed to pity!
No other solace would he have--
A wish to see his native city,
And sit and weep o'er Marjory's grave.
To see that house, yea, buy the sheiling
In that old wynd of St. Marie,
A hermit there to live and dwell in,
Then sleep beside his Marjorie.

VI.

Blow soft, ye winds, and tender-hearted
This hermit waft to yonder shore,
From which for sordid gold he parted
Ten weary years and one before.
Ho! there's the pier where last he left her,
That dear, loved one, to weep alone,
And for that love of gold bereft her
Of all the pleasures she could own.

He's now within the ancient borough!
He sought the well-known White Horse Inn,
And there he laid him down in sorrow,
Some strengthening confidence to win;
Then up the street, with none to greet him,
He held his sad and sorrowing way,
When lo! who should be there to meet him
But Friar John?--who slunk away.

Strange thing! but lo! the sacred sheiling
In that old wynd of St. Marie--
The window where with mirthful feeling
He tap't the sign to Marjorie.
He sought the lobby dark and narrow,
Groped gently for the well-known door,
Where he might hear of his winsome marrow,
Who died there many years before.

He drew the latch, and quietly entered;
There some one spinning merrilie!
A faltering question then he ventured:
"My name, kind sir, is Marjorie."
"Great God!" he cried, in voice all trembling,
And sank upon a crazy chair,
And tried to trace a strange resembling
In her who sat beside him there.

A maiden she still young and buxom,
Nor change but what ten years may bring,
Her hair still of the glossy flaxen,
Her eyes still blue as halcyon's wing.
He traced the lines, he knew each feature
Of all her still unfaded charms;
And now this long lost, worshipped creature
Is locked fast in his loving arms.

"Look up! look up! thy fear controlling,
It is thy Willie's voice that calls:"
She oped her eyes--now wildly rolling
All o'er his face the lustrous balls--
"It is, it is---oh, powers most holy!
And I had heard that thou wert dead;
And here, in spite of melancholy,
I still spin for my daily bread."

"'Twas Friar John wrote me a letter,
He said he saw thee on thy bier;
And sore I mourned with tears, oh bitter!
For one I ever loved so dear."
"Oh, wae befa' that wicked friar,
Who sairly tried my love to gain;
Wae, wae befa' that wicked liar,
Wha brought on us sae meikle pain."

Then Willie said, with tears encumbered,
"Cheer up, cheer up, dear Marjorie,
For I have gold in sums unnumbered,
And it shall all belong to thee."
"And art thou true, and still unmarried?
And is thy bodie not a seim?
And is it true my ears have carried,
Or is it a' a lying dream?"

"All, all is true, my dearest hinny,
What thou'rt to me I am to thee,
Our years on earth may still be many,
And quickly we shall wedded be."
"Ah, weel! ah, weel!" and sighing, sobbing,
She on his breast her head hath lain;
And as he felt her bosom throbbing,
He kissed her ower and ower again.

And he has bought a noble mansion,
And stocked it with all things genteel
Of costly price--nor need we mention
The rock and reel and spinning-wheel;
And he has bought a noble carriage,
With servants in gay liverie,
I trow there was an unco marriage
In the ancient wynd of Saint Marie.

IX.

THE LEGEND OF MARY LEE.[A]

_(Another Version.)_

[Footnote A: See the strange song of the same name in the
_Scottish Gallovidean Encyclopaedia_, from which I borrow
some of the maledictory epithets. Grotesque they may be, but
they are justified by the vocabulary of our old witch-sibyls
used in curses and incantations, as we find in books of
diablerie.]

Though Robert was heir to broad Kildearn,
He had often with gipsies roved,
And from gipsies he came a name to earn,
Which was dear to the maid he loved.
To ladies fair he was Robert St. Clair,
When he met them in companie;
To a certain one, and to her alone,
He was only Robin-a-Ree.[2]

[Footnote 2: Kingly, or royal, in the gipsy tongue.]

Through Kildearn's woods they were wont to rove,
And they knew well the trysting tree;
The green sward was their bed of love,
And the green leaves their canopie.
But the love of the virgin heart is shy,
And hangs between hope and fear;
It is fed by the light of a lover's eye,
And it trusts thro' the willing ear.

"My Mary! I swear by yon Solway tide,
Which is true to the queen of night,
That thou shalt be my chosen bride
When I come to my lawful right:
My father is now an aged man,
And but few years more can see;
And when he dies, old Kildearn's land
Belongs to Robin-a-Ree."

"Oh Robin, oh Robin," and Mary sighed,
"Aye faithfu' to you I hae been,
As true as ever yon Solway tide
Is true to yon silvery queen.
And faithfu' and true I will ever prove
Till that happy day shall be,
When I will be in honoured love
The wife o' Robin-a-Ree."

Green be thy leaves, thou "tree of troth,"
And thy rowan berries red,
Where he has sworn that holy oath,
If he stand to what he has said.
But black and blasted may thou be,
And thy berries a yellow green,
If he prove false to Mary Lee,
Who so faithful to him has been.

For a woman's art and a woman's wile
A man may well often slight,
At the worst they are but nature's guile
To procure what is nature's right.
But a woman's wrath, when once inflamed
By a sense of fond love betrayed,
No cunning device by cunning framed
Has ever that passion laid.

II.

Passions will range and passions will change,
And they leave no mortal in peace,
There is nothing in man that to us seems strange
That to passion you may not trace.
The heart that will breathe the warmest love
Is the first oft to cease its glow,
The fairest flower in the forest grove
Is often the first to dow.

A woman's eye is aye quick to see
The love of a lover decay:
And why from the trusty trysting tree
Does Robin now stay away?
There are other trees in the wood as green,
With as smooth a sward below,
Where lovers may lie in the balmy e'en,
And their love to each other show.

'Twas when the moon in an autumn night
Threw shadows throughout the wood,
She heard some sounds; and with footsteps light,
Where no one could see, she stood.
She listened, and with an anxious ear,
To know who these there might be:
A youth was there with his mistress dear,
And the youth was Robin-a-Ree.

Silent and gloomy she wandered home,
And went to her bed apart,
No softening tear to her eye would come,
No sigh from her aching heart.
The balmy milk of a woman's breast
Waxed curdled green and sour,
And Mary Lee was by all confessed
As changed from that fatal hour.

At times, when the moon gave little light,
She sat by the Solway side,
And thought, as she sat, of that happy night
When he swore by the Solway tide.
Far sweeter to her the roaring wind,
Than when it was solemn and low,
For the waters he swore by seemed to her mind
As resenting that broken vow.

Still darker and darker the cloud on her brow,
Yet paler her tearless cheek;
But no one her sorrow would ever know,
Nor word would she ever speak.
'Tis the story old, old, so often told,
To be told while time shall be,
Fair Catherine, the heiress of Ravenswold,
Is the wife of Robin-a-Ree.

III.

It was on an angry winter night,
When Mary sat in her gloom,
There came to her door an ill-doing wight---
Kildearn's drunken groom:
He placed in her hand a gold-filled purse,
And spoke of love's sacred flame;
And well she knew the unholy source
Whence the man and the money came.

"Awa and awa, thou crawling worm,
On whom thy horse will tread
Awa and awa, and tell Kildearn,
I accept his noble meed."
She placed the purse in a cabinet old,
And locked it right carefullie,
"Lie there, lie there, thou ill-won gold.
Till needed thou shalt be."

IV.

The years roll on, nor Robin-a-Ree
Can their onward progress stay,
The years roll on, and children three,
Have blessed his bridal day.
And Mary Lee is there to see,
As she sat in her lonely home,
Two of Kildearn's children three,
Borne away to Kildearn's tomb.

But none of these years work change on her:
As she seeks the lone greenwood,
She sees a man lying bleeding there,
While his horse beside him stood.
He called for help, where help there was none,
Tho' Mary was standing near,
Who spoke in a solemn eldritch tone,
Words strange to the human ear:

"The hairy adder I dinna like,
When I the fell creature meet,
Neither like I the moon-baying tyke.
Nor the Meg-o'-moniefeet.
I canna thole the yellow-wamed ask,
Sae fearful a thing to see;
But mair than a', and ower them a',
I hate fause Robin-a-Ree."

V.

Time puts in the sack that behind him hangs
Of things both old and new,
And every hour brings stranger things
Than those we have bidden adieu.
The last one of those children three,
Young Hector, Kildearn's pride,
Has gone, in his childish mirth and glee,
To play by the Solway tide.

That tide by which his father swore
As true to the silvery queen--
That tide is breaking with sullen roar,
And Hector no more is seen.
They may search, they may drag--the search is vain,
No Hector they'll ever find;
A lugger is yonder, away to the main,
Borne on an eastern wind.

And there is a woman who stands in the bay,
And she holds out both her hands,
As if she would wave that lugger away
To some of the distant lands.
And if you will trace her to her hold,
Where a purse of gold was laid,
You will find the drawer, but not the gold,
For the purse and gold are fled.

VI.

Time flies, but sin breeds in-and-in,
And a father's grief is stern;
Robin is dead, and a distant kin
Now calls himself Kildearn.
The moon's pale light falls on yonder tomb,
By which sits a woman grey,
And sings in the blast a revengeful doom,
In a woman's weird way.

"Chirk! whutthroats in yon auld taff dyke,
Hoot! grey owl in yon shaw,
Howl out! ye auld moon-baying tyke,
Ye winds mair keenly blaw,
Till ye rouse to the rage o' a wintry storm
The waves of the Solway sea,
And wauken the brawnit connach worm
On the grave o' Robin-a-Ree."

VII.

More years passed on. Ho! near by the cove
Is a ship with a pirate crew,
All bound in honour and fear and love,
To their captain, Hector Drew;
Who looked through his glass at old Kildearn,
As thoughts through his memory ran,
And fain of that house he would something learn.
But he is an outlawed man.

Nor venture could he to come upon land,
Except under cloud of night,
And he and all his pirate band
Lie hidden there out of sight;
That he might plunder Kildearn House
Of its gold and its jewelrie,
Then away, and away, again to cruise
Where rovers aye love to be.

But there is one who stands on the shore,
Who knew that pirate hoy,
Whose captain she bribed many years before
To steal away Kildearn's boy.
She has sent the bloodhounds to the wood,
They have seized them every loon,
And sent them to answer for deeds of blood,
To Edwin's old castled toun.

The Admiral High of old Scotland
Has them tried for deeds so dark,
And they are decreed by his high command
To be hanged within high-water mark.
On the sands of Leith, as St. Giles struck two,
And within the hem of the sea,
There Captain Drew and all his crew
Were hanged for piracie.

And so it is true that a woman's wile
A man may with safety slight,
At worst it may be but nature's guile
To procure what is nature's right.
But a woman's wrath, if once inflamed
By a sense of fond love betrayed,
No cunning device by cunning framed
Has ever that passion laid.

THE BALLAD OF AGE AND YOUTH.

I left yon stately castle on the height,
The ancient halls of lordly Ravenslee,
Wherein was met, in grandeur all bedight,
Of knights and dames a gallant companie;
For I was in a misanthropic mood,
And deemed that gay galaverie false and vain,
And wished to lie or loiter in some wood,
And give my fancy her unbridled rein.

I left them all in flush of pleasure's sport,
Some knights with damoiselles gone forth to woo,
Some listing gleemen in the ballion court,
Some deep in ombre, some at lanterloo,
Some gone a-hawking with the merlyon,
Some at their noon-meat sipping Spanish wine,
Some conning old romances on the lawn,
And all to meet in hall at hour of dine.

II.

Down in Dalmossie dell I sought a nook
Beneath a thick and widely-spreading tree,
And there I sat to con my little book,
My book of old black-letter grammarie.
All stillness in that deep and lonely dell
Save hum of bumble-bee on nimble wing,
Or zephyr sporting round the wild blue bell,
While fancy feigned some tiny tinkle-ring.

Lo! come from yonder sheiling by the burn
An aged pair whom Time claimed as his own--
Their clothes all brown, and sere and sadly worn,
But brushed and clean, and tentily put on.
I noted well the signs of their great eild,
Their shrunken limbs, their locks of snowy hair,
The wobbling walk, the bowing, bending bield,
The wrinkled cheeks, and looks of dule and care.

I thought on hapless man--with changing face,
Each day more furrowed as he wears along.
He looks into the glass to cry Alace!
Alace for that spring time that's past and gone!
He looks askance, and sees young eyes that lour
On him, so comely once, unsightly grown:
The faded roses make a scented bower,
But aged man seems spurned by man alone.

Yet happy he who, changing with advance,
Has bright and golden hopes beyond the sun;
He can give back their saucy, pitying glance,
Who set such wondrous price their youth upon.
_Their_ night will come in turn, yea, comes apace,
Without, mayhap, the hope of brighter day,
When age-worn looks will don their native grace,
And feel no more this world's despised decay.

III.

That aged pair sat down upon the green,
While each the other helped to softest seat,
I watched their ways, myself by them unseen,
And heard their quivering words, so kindly sweet,
As still of golden days when they were young,
Of youth's green summer time they spoke and wept,
And soft in wailing song there came along
These words, which I in memory long have kept:

THE SONG OF AGE.[A]

"The trees they are high, John, the leaves they are green,
The days are awa that you and I have seen;
The days are awa that we have seen;
And oh! for youth's bonnie green summer again,
Summer again, summer again,
And oh! for youth's bonnie green summer again.

"There was joy at our marriage--a dance on the green,
They a' roosed the light of my bonnie blue een,
My bonnie blue een, where tears may now be seen;
And oh! that we were to be married again,
Married again, married again,
And oh! that we were to be married again.

"The grass it is wet, John, the wind it is keen,
Our claes they are worn, and our shune they are thin;
Our shune they are thin, and the waters come in;
And oh! for youth's bonnie green summer again,
Summer again, summer again,
And oh! for youth's bonnie green summer again.

"There was joy in our youth, John, at wish's command,
We danced and we sang, and we ilka gate ran,
But now dule and sorrow's on ilka hand;
And oh! for youth's bonnie green summer again,
Summer again, summer again,
And oh! for youth's bonnie green summer again.

"There's graves in yon howf, John, and hillocks o' green,
Where our bairns lie sleeping that left us alane,
And they're waiting for us till we gae to creep in;
And alas! for youth's bonnie green summer again,
Summer again, summer again,
And alas! for youth's bonnie green summer again."

When _she_ had crooned her chant, I heard _him_ say,
With sobbing voice and deep heart-heaving sigh,
"Dry up thae tears, my Jean, for things away,
Time's but a watch-tick in eternity;
We darena sing of earth, but lift our prayer
To Him whose promises are never vain,
That we may dwell in yonder Eden fair,
And see youth's summer blooming green again."

Then rose a prayer to Bethel's Lord and King
That He would lead them through this vale of woe,
And to the promised land his children bring,
Where Babel's streams in living waters flow.
They left: again all silence in the dell
Save hum of bumble-bee on nimble wing,
Or zephyr sporting round the wild blue bell,
While fancy feigned some tiny tinkle-ring.

[Footnote A: Some readers may recognise in the old woman's song
portions of an ancient ditty that used to be chanted in a
wailing cadence in several parts of Scotland. I suspect the song
as a whole is lost--the more to be regretted for its sweet
simplicity and melodious wail (so far as judged in the
fragments), which in a modern song would be viewed as weakness
or affectation. Indeed, the modes of thought and feeling that
belong to what is called advanced civilisation are impatient of
these things except as rude relics of yet untutored minds; and
the pleasure with which they are accepted has in it perhaps a
grain of pity for those that didn't know better than produce
them. Yet, as regards mere poetical feeling at least, the nearer
the fountainhead the purer the water.]

IV.

And is not youth, thought I, a vulgar thing,
When lording over WISDOM'S ancient reign?
What may avail the brilliancy of spring
If autumn yields no hoards of garnered grain?
Experience is the daughter of old Time,
Mother of Wisdom, last and noblest born,
Who comes as Faith to help our waning prime,
To cheer the night of age and light the morn.

I sought at eve the castle on the height,
The ancient halls of lordly Ravenslee,
Oh! contrast great! gay scene of youth's delight--
The spinette, galliard, mirth's galaverie!
I thought upon the couple in the wood,
And how that singing, dancing, laughing train
Would one day sigh in Time's avenging mood,
"Alas! for youth's green summer time again."

XI.

THE LEGEND OF CRAIGULLAN.[A]

[Footnote A: This legend has been referred to several Scotch
families--one in Fife in particular, the name of which it would
be imprudent to mention.]

Yonder the halls of old Craigullan!
To weird doom for ever true;
The moaning winds are sad and sullen,
The screech-owl hoots too-hoo! too-hoo!
The lazy burn-clock drones around,
The wing-mouse flaps the choking air,
The croaking frog hops on the ground,
For weird fate is working there.

Each wing had once a goodly tower
Of stately beild, both broad and high;
In every tower a lady's bower,
Bedecked with silken tapestry;
In every bower a lovely maid,
Her youth and beauty all in vain;
And with each maid a keeper staid
To watch the wanderings of her brain.

'Twas said that those who went that way
Would hear some shrill and piercing wail
Come from these towers, and die away
As borne upon the passing gale;
Yet none could say from whom it came,
Far less divine the reason why;
And Superstition, with her dream,
Could only whisper mystery--
Unholy spirits haunting nigh,
And screaming in the midnight hour,
Presage of vengeance from on high
For deeds done in Craigullan's tower.

If Superstition has her dream,
She also has her waking hour;
Nor ever man, howe'er supreme,
Can free him from her mystic power.
And it was told, in whispering way,
That once Craigullan led his hounds
Out forth upon a Sabbath day
Within the church bells' sacred sounds;
And as he rode, by fury fired,
A woman, pregnant, overthrown
Beneath his horse's hoofs, expired,
And, dying, shrieked this malison:
_From this day forth, till time shall cease,
May madness haunt Craigullan's race_!

The words struck on a sceptic's ear:
Would woman's curse his pleasure stay?
He blew his horn both loud and clear,
And with his hounds he hied away.
He conned no more the weird reve
Which all conspired to prove untrue,
For he had healthy daughters five,
Who up in maiden beauty grew--
Clorinda, Isobel, and Jane--
Such was the order of their birth--
And Florabel and Clementine,
All lovely, gay, and full of mirth.

But man is blind, with all his power,
And gropes through life his darksome way;
Nor ever thinks the evil hour
May come within the brightest day.

As custom went, a noble throng
Hath filled Craigullan's ancient hall,
Amidst th' inspiring dance and song,
Clorinda is admired of all.
The sun with his enlivening light
Brings out the viper and the rose,
And joy that cheers will oft excite
Dark Mania from her long repose.
Amidst the dance and music there--
The dance which she so proudly led--
A maniac shriek has rent the air--
Clorinda falls, her reason fled.

In vain shall passing time essay
To soothe the dire domestic pain;
Fair Isobel becomes the prey
Of that same demon of the brain.
When autumn winds were sighing low,
When birds were singing on the tree,
Amidst their song she met the foe,
And sank beneath the fell decree.

Nor yet the sibyl leaf all read,
Dark Nemesis is grim and sullen;
She bends again her vengeful head--
Woe! woe! to old Craigullan.
The next by fatal count of Time,
The next by her foreboding fears---
Jane falls, like those in early prime--
She falls amidst a mother's tears.

Nor finished yet the weird spell,
Wrought out by some high powers divine.
The victim next is Florabel,
The fairest of Craigullan's line.
The shadow fell upon her bloom,
Grew darker as the period neared,
As if the terror of her doom
Wrought out the issue which it feared.

If Superstition has her dreams,
Proud reason has her mystic day;
And who shall harmonize the themes
In this world's dark and dreary way?
If Clementine is yet forgot,
Is the relief to her a gain?
She fears the demon in each thought,
In every fancy of the brain.
If once a cheerful thought shall rise,
The dreaded enemy is near;
If once her heaving bosom sighs,
The vengeful demon will appear.
In vain she seeks the greenwood grove,
In vain she hears the merlin sing,
In vain she seeks her flower alcove,
In vain for her the roses spring.
If holy peace she tries to seek,
She hears Clorinda's maniac song,
Or Florabel's ecstatic shriek,
Sounding the stilly woods among.

What though Sir Walter seeks her bower,
And pleads his suit on bended knee
With all a lover's magic power,
That she his lady-love shall be?
He does not know her secret pain;
She dare not whisper in his ear;
She dare not trust that she is sane;
She loves him, but she loves with fear.

This is _her_ madness. Who shall know
If she with reason, _they_ without,
Which have the greater load of woe?
Her sisters have not sense to doubt.
This is the world's madness too:
We seek for truth, and seek in vain.
While madly we the false pursue,
Who shall decide that he is sane?

And still the halls of old Craigullan
To weird doom are ever true;
The moaning winds are sad and sullen,
The grey owl hoots too-hoo! too-hoo!

XII.

THE HERMIT OF THE HILLS.

"Intruder, thou shalt hear my tale," the solitary said,
While far adown beneath our feet the fiery levin played;
The thunder-clouds our carpet were--we gazed upon the storm,
Which swept along the mountain sides in many a fearful form.

I sat beside the lonely man, on Cheviot's cloudless height;
Above our heads was glory, but beneath more glorious night;
For the sun was shining over us, but lightnings flashed below,
Like the felt and burning darkness of unutterable woe.

"I love, in such a place as this," the desolate began,
"To gaze upon the tempests wild that separate me from man;
To muse upon the passing things that agitate the world--
View myself as by a whirlwind to hopeless ruin hurled.

"My heart was avaricious once, like yours the slave of feeling--
Perish such hearts! vile dens of crime! man's selfishness concealing;
For self! damned self's creation's lord!--man's idol and his god!
Twas torn from me, a blasted, bruised, a cast off, worthless load.

"Some say there's wildness in my eyes, and others deem me crazed,
They, trembling, turn and shun my path--for which let Heaven be praised!
They say my words are blasphemy--they marvel at my fate,
When 'tis my happiness to know they _pity_ not, but _hate_.

"My father fell from peace and wealth the day that I was born--
My mother died, and he became his fellow-gambler's scorn;
I know not where he lived or died--I never heard his name--
An orphan in a workhouse, I was thought a child of shame.

"Some _friend_ by blood had lodged me there, and bought my keeper too,
Who pledged his oath he would conceal what of my tale he knew.
Death came to him--he called on me the secret to unfold,
But died while he was uttering the little I have told.

"My soul was proud, nor brooked restraint--was proud, and I was young;
And with an eager joyancy I heard his flattering tongue
Proclaim me not of beggars born--yea, as he speaking died,
I--greedy--mad to know the rest--stood cursing by his side.

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