The Mountain Bard 9780748629152

Citation preview

i

CONTENTS

J A M E S HOGG

The Mountain Bard

THE

STIRLING / SOUTH

CAROLINA

RESEARCH

EDITION

OF

THE COLLECTED WORKS OF JAMES HOGG GENER AL EDITORS — DOUGLAS S. MACK AND GILLIAN HUGHES

ii

CONTENTS

T H E ST I R L I N G / S O U T H C A R O L I NA R E S E A RC H E D I T I O N O F

THE

COLLECTED

WO R K S

O F JA M E S

HOGG

GENER AL EDITORS — DOUGLAS S. MACK AND GILLIAN HUGHES

Volumes are numbered in the order of their publication in the Stirling / South Carolina Research Edition 1.

The Shepherd’s Calendar, edited by Douglas S. Mack.

2. 3.

The Three Perils of Woman, edited by David Groves, Antony Hasler, and Douglas S. Mack. A Queer Book, edited by P. D. Garside.

4. 5.

Tales of the Wars of Montrose, edited by Gillian Hughes. A Series of Lay Sermons, edited by Gillian Hughes.

6. 7.

Queen Hynde, edited by Suzanne Gilbert and Douglas S. Mack. Anecdotes of Scott, edited by Jill Rubenstein.

8. 9.

The Spy, edited by Gillian Hughes. The Private Memoirs and Confessions of a Justified Sinner, edited by P. D. Garside.

10. The Jacobite Relics of Scotland: [First Series], edited by Murray G. H. Pittock. 11. Winter Evening Tales, edited by Ian Duncan. 12. The Jacobite Relics of Scotland: Second Series, edited by Murray G. H. Pittock. 13. Altrive Tales, edited by Gillian Hughes. 14. The Queen’s Wake, edited by Douglas S. Mack. 15. The Collected Letters of James Hogg: Vol. 1 1800–1819, edited by Gillian Hughes with Douglas S. Mack, Robin MacLachlan, and Elaine Petrie. 16. Mador of the Moor, edited by James E. Barcus. 17. Contributions to Annuals and Gift-Books, edited by Janette Currie and Gillian Hughes. 18. The Collected Letters of James Hogg: Vol. 2 1820–1831, edited by Gillian Hughes with Douglas S. Mack, Robin MacLachlan, and Elaine Petrie. 19. The Forest Minstrel, edited by Peter Garside and Richard D. Jackson with Peter Horsfall. 20. The Mountain Bard, edited by Suzanne Gilbert.

CONTENTS

JAMES HOGG

The Mountain Bard Edited by Suzanne Gilbert With a Glossary by Maggie Scott

EDINBURGH UNIVERSITY PRESS

2007

iii

iv

CONTENTS

© Edinburgh University Press, 2007 Edinburgh University Press 22 George Square Edinburgh EH8 9LF Typeset at the University of Stirling Printed by Antony Rowe Ltd, Chippenham, Wiltshire ISBN 978 0 7486 2006 7 No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library

CONTENTS

v

The Stirling / South Carolina Research Edition of

The Collected Works of James Hogg Advisory Board Chairman Dr Robin MacLachlan General Editors Prof. Douglas S. Mack and Dr Gillian Hughes Associate General Editors Prof. Peter Garside and Dr Suzanne Gilbert Secretary Dr Gillian Hughes Co-ordinator, University of South Carolina Prof. Patrick Scott Co-ordinator, University of Stirling Dr Suzanne Gilbert Ex Officio (University of Stirling) The Principal Head, Centre for Scottish Literature and Culture Head, Department of English Studies Dean, Faculty of Arts Research Officer, Department of English Studies Members Prof. I. Campbell (University of Edinburgh) Thomas Crawford (University of Aberdeen) Dr Adrian Hunter (University of Stirling) Dr Christopher MacLachlan (University of St Andrews) Dr Anthony Mandal (Cardiff University) Prof. Susan Manning (University of Edinburgh) Prof. Murray Pittock (University of Manchester) Jackie Jones (Edinburgh University Press) Prof. G. Ross Roy (University of South Carolina) Prof. Roderick Watson (University of Stirling)

The Aims of the Edition James Hogg lived from 1770 till 1835. He was regarded by his contemporaries as one of the leading writers of the day, but the nature of his fame was influenced by the fact that, as a young man, he had been a self-educated shepherd. The second edition (1813) of his poem The Queen’s Wake contains an ‘Advertisement’ which begins as follows. T HE Publisher having been favoured with letters from gentlemen in various parts of the United Kingdom respecting the Author of the Q UEEN ’ S W AKE , and most of them expressing doubts of his being a Scotch Shepherd; he takes this opportunity of assuring the Public, that THE QUEEN’S WAKE is really and truly the production of J AMES H OGG , a common

vi

CONTENTS

shepherd, bred among the mountains of Ettrick Forest, who went to service when only seven years of age; and since that period has never received any education whatever. His contemporaries tended to regard the Scotch Shepherd as a man of powerful and original talent, but it was felt that his lack of education caused his work to be marred by frequent failures in discretion, in expression, and in knowledge of the world. Worst of all was Hogg’s lack of what was called ‘delicacy’, a failing which caused him to deal in his writings with subjects (such as prostitution) which were felt to be unsuitable for mention in polite literature. A posthumous collected edition of Hogg was published in the late 1830s. As was perhaps natural in the circumstances, the publishers (Blackie & Son of Glasgow) took pains to smooth away what they took to be the rough edges of Hogg’s writing, and to remove his numerous ‘indelicacies’. This process was taken even further in the 1860s, when the Rev. Thomas Thomson prepared a revised edition of Hogg’s Works for publication by Blackie. These Blackie editions present a comparatively bland and lifeless version of Hogg’s writings. It was in this version that Hogg was read by the Victorians, and he gradually came to be regarded as a minor figure, of no great importance or interest. Hogg is thus a major writer whose true stature was not recognised in his own lifetime because his social origins led to his being smothered in genteel condescension; and whose true stature was obscured after his death, because of a lack of adequate editions. The poet Douglas Dunn wrote of Hogg in the Glasgow Herald in September 1988: ‘I can’t help but think that in almost any other country of Europe a complete, modern edition of a comparable author would have been available long ago’. The Stirling / South Carolina Edition of James Hogg seeks to fill the gap identified by Douglas Dunn. When completed the edition will run to thirty-four volumes, and it will cover Hogg’s prose, his poetry, his letters, and his plays. General Editor’ wledgements Editor’ss Ackno Acknow Grateful thanks are due to the University of Stirling and to the University of South Carolina for their crucial roles in establishing and sustaining the Stirling / South Carolina edition of James Hogg. The work of Gillian Hughes on her S/SC edition of Altrive Tales (see Volume Editor’s Acknowledgements) received substantial funding support from the University of Stirling and from the Arts and Humanities Research Council, and Janette Currie was able to undertake

CONTENTS

vii

some early work towards annotation of The Mountain Bard as part of her activities during a year spent at the University of Stirling on a post-doctoral research fellowship funded by the Modern Humanities Research Association. Douglas Mack was General Editor for The Mountain Bard. Volume Editor’ wledgements Editor’ss Ackno Acknow In preparing The Mountain Bard for publication, I received assistance from many. Foremost, however, must be acknowledged the incalculable debt this volume owes to its General Editor, Douglas Mack. I am hugely grateful for the way he so generously shared his wealth of knowledge of Hogg and textual editing, for his substantial contributions throughout, and for his unflagging encouragement and support. The volume was enriched, too, by Janette Currie’s thorough investigation of material for the annotation, which she cheerfully supplied; and by Wilma Mack’s thoughtful advice and careful eye. In earlier doctoral studies of Hogg, Elaine E. Petrie and Robin MacLachlan left a clear trail to follow. Gillian Hughes’s work on the 1832 version of Hogg’s ‘Memoir’ for her Stirling / South Carolina edition of Hogg’s Altrive Tales (2003) provided a valuable foundation for the annotation of the 1807 and 1821 versions of the ‘Memoir’ for this volume. Information offered by Gillian Hughes about the 1821 edition of The Mountain Bard also proved very useful. Other Hogg editors and scholars helped enormously by providing information or raising stimulating questions, and particular thanks are due to Valentina Bold, Ian Duncan, Peter Garside, Richard Jackson, Kirsteen McCue, Susan Manning, Meiko O’Halloran, Murray Pittock, and Patrick Scott. Parts of this volume’s Editorial Notes and Introduction appeared in different form within my contribution to the ‘By James Hogg’ section of Studies in Hogg and his World: ‘Two Versions of “Gilmanscleuch”’, Studies in Hogg and His World, 9 (1998), 92–128. I am grateful to the University of Stirling for a period of research leave which enabled me to make good progress on The Mountain Bard, for funding of travel to relevant conferences, and for financial assistance towards production of editorial matter. Maggie Scott of Scottish Language Dictionaries developed this edition’s authoritative and useful Glossary, and Jim Lewis created the maps specifically tailored to this volume. The anonymous readers for Edinburgh University Press suggested fruitful directions for research, and the EUP editorial and marketing teams were ever-patient and attentive to detail. As with any project such as this, libraries’ contributions were crucial. Many thanks go to Stirling University Library, whose extensive

viii

CONTENTS

collections of Hogg manuscripts and early editions proved invaluable. Particular thanks are due for permission to reproduce the rare early song-sheet of ‘Donald M‘Donald’ held by that library, and to Stirling librarians Gordon Willis and Helen Beardsley for their generous and helpful involvement. Similar thanks are also due to Patrick Scott of the University of South Carolina, and to the G. Ross Roy Collection of Robert Burns and Scottish Literature, Thomas Cooper Library, University of South Carolina, for permission to include a transcript of their manuscript of ‘Thirlestane’. Thanks are also due to The Pierpont Morgan Library, New York, as owner of the manuscript of ‘Sandy Tod’, and to His Grace the Duke of Buccleuch as owner of the manuscript of ‘Gilmanscleuch’. In the early 1990s the Duke of Buccleuch generously allowed Douglas Mack to visit Bowhill to prepare a transcript of this document, with a view to future publication in Studies in Hogg and his World and in the Stirling / South Carolina Edition. The present volume’s Appendix to the 1807 Mountain Bard also contains a transcript of the version of ‘Sir David Græme’ included in the National Library of Scotland’s document Acc. 9764. This document is a photocopy made in 1988 when the original manuscript was owned by Mrs H. M. Macdonald, of Edinburgh. Unfortunately, attempts to find the owner of the original manuscript have so far failed. As always, the Stirling / South Carolina Edition is grateful to Hogg’s descendants, owners of the copyright in previously unpublished versions of Hogg texts, for permission to publish. And finally, once again, my thanks go to Micah Gilbert for his constant and unequivocal support.

ix

CONTENTS

Contents Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

xi

The Mountain Bard (1807) Memoir of the Life of James Hogg . . . . . . . . 7

Ballads in Imitation of the Antients Sir David Græme . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Pedlar . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Gilmanscleuch . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Fray of Elibank . . . . . . . . . . . . Mess John . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Death of Douglas, Lord of Liddisdale . . . . Willie Wilkin . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Thirlestane: A Fragment . . . . . . . . . . . Lord Derwent: A Fragment . . . . . . . . . . The Laird of Lairistan . . . . . . . . . . . . Songs Adapted to the Times Sandy Tod: A Scottish Pastoral . . . . . . . . . A Farewell to Ettrick . . . . . . . . . . . . Love Abused . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Epistle to Mr T. M. C., London . . . . . . . Scotia’s Glens . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Donald Macdonald . . . . . . . . . . . . The Author’s Address to his Auld Dog Hector . . . The Bonnets o’ Bonny Dundee . . . . . . . . Auld Ettrick John . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Hay Making . . . . . . . . . . . . . Bonny Jean . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

21 26 36 45 53 67 70 77 82 86 95 100 103 104 107 108 110 113 114 116 118

Appendix: Pre-1807 Texts Letters Concerning James Hogg . . . Sir David Grame . . . . . . . . . Sir David Graham: A Border Ballad . . The Pedlar . . . . . . . . . . . Gilmanscleuch . . . . . . . . . . The Death of Douglas Lord of Liddisdale Thirlestane . . . . . . . . . . . Sandy Tod: A Scottish Pastoral . . . . Jamie’s Farewell to Ettrick . . . . . . Love Abused . . . . . . . . . . To Mr T. M. C. London . . . . . .

. . . . . . . . . . .

. . . . . . . . . . .

. . . . . . . . . . .

. . . . . . . . . . .

123 137 138 142 146 155 158 160 170 173 174

x

CONTENTS

Scotia’s Glens . . . . . . . . . . . . . Donald M‘Donald . . . . . . . . . . . A Shepherd’s Address to his Auld Dog Hector . The Bonnets o’ Bonny Dundee . . . . . . . Auld Ettrick John . . . . . . . . . . . . The Hay Making . . . . . . . . . . . . Song: Bonny Jean . . . . . . . . . . . .

. . . . . . .

177 178 180 183 184 186 188

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

195 235 241 251 260 269 283 288 295 301 305 312 314 342 348 360 366 369

The Mountain Bard (1821) Memoir of the Life of James Hogg . . . . . Sir David Graeme . . . . . . . . . . . The Pedlar . . . . . . . . . . . . . Gilmanscleuch . . . . . . . . . . . . The Fray of Elibank . . . . . . . . . . Mess John . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Death of Douglas, Lord of Liddisdale . Willie Wilkin . . . . . . . . . . . . Thirlestane: A Fragment . . . . . . . . Lord Derwent: A Fragment . . . . . . . The Laird of Lairistan . . . . . . . . . The Wife of Crowle . . . . . . . . . . The Lairde of Kirkmabreeke . . . . . . . The Tweeddale Raide . . . . . . . . . Robin an’ Nanny . . . . . . . . . . . Sandy Tod: A Scottish Pastoral . . . . . . Farewell to Ettrick . . . . . . . . . . The Author’s Address to his Auld Dog Hector

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Appendix (1821) Glendonnen’s Raid . . . . . . . . . . . . 377 Note on the Texts . . . . . . . . . . . . . Hyphenation List . . . . . . . . . . . . Editorial Notes . . . . . . . . . . . . . Map 1: The Border between Scotland and England . Map 2: Ettrick and Yarrow . . . . . . . . . . Glossary . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Index to ‘Memoir of the Life of James Hogg’ . . .

. . . . . . .

. . . .

386 391 392 505 . 506 . 507 . 526

INTRODUCTION

xi

Introduction 1. Contexts: Hogg and his World in 1804–07 James Hogg (1770–1835) was in his thirties during the period leading up to the publication of The Mountain Bard, and in 1804 he suffered a severe setback. His ambitious attempt to leave behind the hardships of the life of a hired shepherd by seeking to establish himself in a new career as a sheep-farmer on the Hebridean island of Harris ended in embarrassing failure. The need to abort the Harris project forced Hogg to accept employment as a shepherd in Nithsdale, Dumfriesshire, where he worked from 1805 to 1807 for a farmer named Harkness. Hogg’s name had already begun to be known in literary circles because his contributions of poems, letters on poetry, and accounts of his Highland journeys had appeared in The Scots Magazine and The Edinburgh Magazine. In the autumn of 1806, Allan Cunningham, a young aspiring poet from Dumfriesshire, sought out Hogg among his sheep to express admiration for the shepherd-poet and to talk about poetry. In ‘Reminiscences of Former Days’, Hogg recalls the moment: One day, about the beginning of autumn, some three-and-twenty years ago, as I was herding my master’s ewes on the great hill of Queensberry, in Nithsdale, I perceived two men coming towards me, who appeared to be strangers. I saw, by their way of walking, they were not shepherds, and could not conceive what the men were seeking there, where there was neither path nor aim towards any human habitation. However, I stood staring about me, till they came up, always ordering my old dog Hector to silence in an authoritative style, he being the only servant I had to attend to my orders. The men approached me rather in a breathless state, from climbing the hill. The one was a tall thin man, of a fairish complexion, and pleasant intelligent features, seemingly approaching to forty, and the other a dark ungainly youth of about eighteen, with a boardly frame for his age, and strongly marked manly features—the very model of Burns, and exactly such a man. Had they been of the same age, it would not have been easy to distinguish the one from the other. The eldest came up and addressed me frankly, asking me if I was Mr. Harkness’s shepherd, and if my name was James

xii

INTRODUCTION

Hogg? to both of which queries I answered cautiously in the affirmative, for I was afraid they were come to look after me with an accusation regarding some of the lasses. The younger stood at a respectful distance, as if I had been the Duke of Queensberry, instead of a ragged servant lad herding sheep. The other seized my hand, and said, “Well, then, sir, I am glad to see you. There is not a man in Scotland whose hand I am prouder to hold.” I could not say a single word in answer to this address; but when he called me S IR , I looked down at my bare feet and ragged coat, to remind the man whom he was addressing. But he continued: “My name is James Cunningham, a name unknown to you, though yours is not entirely so to me; and this is my younger brother Allan, the greatest admirer that you have on earth, and himself a young aspiring poet of some promise. You will be so kind as excuse this intrusion of ours on your solitude, for, in truth, I could get no peace either night or day with Allan, till I consented to come and see you.” I then stepped down the hill to where Allan Cunningham still stood, with his weather-beaten cheek toward me, and, seizing his hard brawny hand, I gave it a hearty shake, saying something as kind as I was able, and, at the same time, I am sure as stupid as it possibly could be. From that moment we were friends; for Allan has none of the proverbial Scottish caution about him; he is all heart together, without reserve either of expression or manner: you at once see the unaffected benevolence, warmth of feeling, and firm independence, of a man conscious of his own rectitude and mental energies. Young as he was, I had heard of his name, although slightly, and, I think, seen one or two of his juvenile pieces. Of an elder brother of his, Thomas Mouncey, I had, previous to that, conceived a very high idea, and I always marvel how he could possibly put his poetical vein under lock and key, as he did all at once; for he certainly then bade fair to be the first of Scottish bards. I had a small bothy upon the hill, in which I took my breakfast and dinner on wet days, and rested myself. It was so small, that we had to walk in on all-fours; and when we were in, we could not get up our heads any way, but in a sitting posture. It was exactly my own length, and, on the one side, I had a bed of rushes, which served likewise as a seat; on this we all three sat down, and there we spent the whole afternoon,—and, I am sure, a happier group of three never met on the hill of

INTRODUCTION

xiii

Queensberry. Allan brightened up prodigiously after he got into the dark bothy, repeating all his early pieces of poetry, and part of his brother’s, to me. The two brothers partook heartily, and without reserve, of my scrip and bottle of sweet milk, and the elder Mr. Cunningham had a strong bottle with him—I have forgot whether it was brandy or rum, but I remember it was excessively good, and helped to keep up our spirits to a late hour. Thus began at that bothy in the wilderness a friendship, and a mutual attachment between two aspiring Scottish peasants, over which the shadow of a cloud has never yet passed.1 This anecdote is significant for a number of reasons. Hogg invokes Robert Burns’s legacy in his description of Allan, and also perhaps in the remark about himself and the lasses. Cunningham’s ‘weather-beaten cheek’ and ‘brawny hand’ identify him as a working man, like Hogg, who admires and relates to his easy confidence. They are connected to a larger company: Allan and his brother Thomas Mouncey Cunningham are fellow-poets, and Hogg has engaged with Allan’s brother in poetic dialogue within the pages of the Scots Magazine. Hogg’s account of his meeting with Allan captures their mutual passion for poetry, and in the phrase ‘a mutual attachment between two aspiring Scottish peasants’ is a shared recognition of poetic aspiration: a sense that what has come from the bothy can reach the world. Such feelings might well come naturally to ‘two aspiring Scottish peasants’ in 1806, at a period when there was still potency in the egalitarian hopes and energies released throughout Europe by the French Revolution of 1789. After 1789, the Revolution had run into disturbing difficulties that disappointed British supporters such as the radical young poet William Wordsworth, and in 1803 strong anti-French feeling was generated in Britain when an invasion led by Napoleon Bonaparte seemed imminent. Fears of an invasion receded after Nelson’s decisive naval victory at Trafalgar in 1805, however, and at the time of Hogg’s meeting with the Cunningham brothers in 1806, profound and radical social change throughout Europe still seemed a strong possibility, thanks to Napoleon’s notable victory in 1805 at the Battle of Austerlitz. Hogg became close to the Cunningham family generally, and he remained close to Allan even when the younger man’s fortunes took him to London, where during the day he worked in a sculptor’s studio and at night pursued his literary aspirations, a difficult sort of balance very familiar to Hogg. The writers provided mutual support

xiv

INTRODUCTION

throughout their careers. In Hogg’s poem The Queen’s Wake (1813), Cunningham is favourably depicted as the Sixteenth Bard, who sings ‘Dumlanrig’. Cunningham, as editor of the annual The Anniversary for 1829, provided a welcome outlet for Hogg’s writing: and Hogg responded by sending Cunningham work of outstanding quality, including the superb short story ‘The Cameronian Preacher’s Tale’, the events of which take place in the district in which Hogg and Cunningham had met in 1806. Allan Cunningham came from a large Dumfriesshire family (notably, his father had been a neighbour to Burns). Though younger than Hogg and from a less financially-deprived family, Allan emerged from a very similar socioeconomic and cultural background, in which education was available until a boy was old enough to help to make the family’s living. In the ‘Memoir’ prefacing The Mountain Bard, Hogg describes his own experience with formal education as very brief, interrupted by disastrous changes in his own family’s circumstances (see p. 8 in the present edition): At such an age, it cannot be expected that I should have made great progress in knowledge. The school-house, however, being almost at our door, I had attended for some time; and had oft-times the honour of standing at the head of that juvenile class, who read the Shorter Catechism, and Proverbs of Solomon. At the next Whitsunday after our expulsion, I was obliged to go into service; and, being only seven years of age, was hired to a farmer in the neighbourhood to herd a few cows. Next year, my parents took me home during the winter quarter, and put me to school with a lad, who was teaching the children of a neighbouring farmer. Here I advanced so far as to get into the class who read in the Bible. I had likewise, for some time before my quarter was out, tried writing; and had horribly defiled several sheets of paper with copy-lines, every letter of which was nearly an inch in length. Thus terminated my education:—After this I was never another day at any school whatsoever. Hogg’s accounts of his lack of formal education, and of his selfeducation, were later well-circulated and integral to his early EttrickShepherd persona, and were often characterised as remarkable and somewhat quaint. Nonetheless, Hogg’s background accurately captures the educational opportunities available to those of his class and time. As David Hogg makes clear in The Life of Allan Cunningham, basic education for young men at this level of society consisted of the

INTRODUCTION

xv

Shorter Catechism, the Psalms, and the Proverbs of Solomon; and writing was considered unnecessary advancement. David Hogg explains that, like other Cunninghams, Allan attended a ‘Dame’s school’ in the village of Quarrelwood: These schools were not only useful but absolutely necessary in their day, as parochial schools were “few and far between,” but they were not by any means of a high educational character. This, indeed, was not required. Ability to spell one’s way through the Bible was considered all that was necessary, and when this was attained, the pupil was sent out to country service, to herd the cows, or nurse the children, till age and strength fitted for higher and weightier duties. Writing was not considered essential, as few parents could “read write,” and letter postage was entirely beyond reach. The Bible was the grand climax, and when a scholar was “once through the Bible,” his education was finished, and he was removed.2 Developing a skill and finding work was the overriding objective. Like his brothers, Allan Cunningham had been raised to follow a trade, in his case stonemasonry, from age eleven as an apprentice to his older brother. Hogg, as he explains in his ‘Memoir’ in The Mountain Bard, had been compelled by his family’s financial distress to leave school, first to herd cows (an employment that he describes as ‘the worst and lowest known in our country’), and later to advance to ‘the more honourable one of herding sheep’ (see pp. 8–9). For young men in Cunningham’s and Hogg’s position, further education required personal motivation and inquisitiveness, combined with encouragement and support from family, friends, or community. Above all, Hogg’s story of his meeting with Allan Cunningham communicates a sense of mutual recognition. Even written from a distance in time, the anecdote bears witness to a burgeoning of intellectual activity and a growth of poetry among the lower classes around the turn of the nineteenth century. In the 1790s, when Hogg was working as a shepherd at Blackhouse, he benefited hugely from the encouragement of his master and did a great deal of formative reading. He was also one of ‘a few young shepherds’ who at this time ‘formed themselves into a sort of literary society’. In ‘Storms’, first published in 1819, Hogg tells us that the society met ‘at one or other of the houses of its members, where each read an essay on a subject previously given out; and after that every essay was minutely investigated, and criticised’.3 ‘Storms’ goes on to discuss a particular meeting of the society in 1794, and, as John MacQueen has argued,

xvi

INTRODUCTION

In the Scotland of 1794, a more or less secret meeting of young agricultural labourers probably included several freemasons in its number; equally probably, the agenda included the forbidden subject of radical politics and the need for reform, if not revolution. Hogg had himself prepared a “f laming bombastical essay” for the meeting, and had his “tongue trained to many wise and profound remarks”. The phrases are vague, but in 1819 (the year of Peterloo) when the article was first published, it was probably wiser to be no more specific.4 The Ettrick ‘literary society’ bears striking resemblance to the socalled ‘mutual improvement societies’ devoted to education that developed during the eighteenth century. ‘Mutual improvement’ was a commonplace term in Enlightenment Edinburgh, describing ‘a venture in cooperative education’: In its classic form, it consisted of a half dozen to a hundred men from both the working and lower-middle classes who met periodically, sometimes in their own homes but commonly under the auspices of a church or chapel. Typically, at each meeting one member would deliver a paper on any imaginable subject—politics, literature, religion, ethics, “useful knowledge”—and then the topic would be thrown open to general discussion. The aim was to develop the verbal and intellectual skills of people who had never been encouraged to speak or think. There was complete freedom of expression, the teacherpupil hierarchy was abolished, and costs were minimal [...]. In addition to the mutual improvement societies per se, the working classes organized innumerable adult schools, libraries, reading circles, dramatic societies, and musical groups. They all belonged to the mutual improvement tradition, in that they relied on working-class initiative rather than state provision or middle-class philanthropy.5 Jonathan Rose locates the origins of ‘mutual improvement’ in Scotland, its effects evident in the high level of intellectual activity among labourers such as weavers and colliers. He points to Sir John Sinclair’s Statistical Account of Scotland (1791–99), published in Edinburgh in twenty-one volumes by William Creech, where it is observed that ‘shepherds, in their isolation, were often great readers’ (VII , 59–60). An example of this was John Christie (b. 1712), the so-called ‘literary shepherd’ of Clackmannan, who had a library of ‘about 370 volumes, including complete sets of the Spectator, Tatler, and Rambler ’. By

INTRODUCTION

xvii

1822, Scotland was home to fifty-one working-class libraries or ‘itinerating libraries’.6 Liam McIlvanney traces the formative power of such community-based educational opportunities on Hogg’s precursor Robert Burns: A culture of learning was evident, not merely in Burns’s home environment but in the wider community, and any discussion of the poet’s education must consider his participation in those key institutions of the ‘popular Enlightenment’—the book club, the debating society and the Masonic lodge.7 Some of Hogg’s early exposures to literature were through his use of the circulating library in Peebles, which was run by the local printer and bookseller. Alexander Elder’s library offered exposure to a range of works, including Gulliver’s Travels, Don Quixote, the poetry of Alexander Pope and Oliver Goldsmith, translations of Greek and Latin classics, and travel books.8 Besides catechisms, chapbooks, and newspapers, which according to the Statistical Account were widely read in villages and farming communities across Scotland, the Scots Magazine played a key role in rural reading. After Hogg’s death in 1835, the New Monthly Magazine and Literary Journal published an appreciation: For the first twenty years of his life James Hogg enjoyed but few opportunities of cultivating his mind, his library consisting only of a few odd numbers of the ‘Scots Magazine’, with ‘Harvey’s Meditations,’ and that sweet pastoral drama, the ‘Gentle Shepherd’; […] and as for his Bible, he knew its every page.9 This quotation underscores the type of material available to Hogg in his formative years, and more generally to those from similar social backgrounds: the Scriptures, an assortment of eighteenth-century classics, and the Scots Magazine, a periodical that from 1739 had published a wide range of poetry and essays on nearly every subject imaginable: literature, history, farming, current events. Less formal reading networks, designed for sharing of reading material, were plentiful and ingenious. Jonathan Rose points out that during the early years of the nineteenth century, for example, ‘shepherds in the Cheviot Hills maintained a kind of circulating library, leaving books they had read in designated crannies in boundary walls. The next shepherd who came that way could borrow it and leave another in its place, so that each volume was gradually carried through a circuit of 30 to 40 miles, on which the shepherds only occasionally met’.10

xviii

INTRODUCTION

In Rhymes and Recollections of a Hand-Loom Weaver, William Thom writes: The Wizard of Waverley had roused the world to wonders, and we wondered too. Byron was flinging around the terrible and beautiful [words?] of a distracted greatness. Moore was doing all he could for love-sick boys and girls,—yet they had never enough! Nearer and dearer to hearts like ours was the Ettrick Shepherd, then in his full tide of song and story; but nearer and dearer still than he, or any living songster—to us dearer—was our ill-fated fellow-craftsman, Tannahill, who had just then taken himself from a neglecting world. [...] Oh! how they did ring above the rattling of a hundred shuttles! Let me again proclaim the debt we owe those Song Spirits, as they walked in melody from loom to loom.11 Thom’s mention of Robert Tannahill’s recent tragic death places the experience described as after May 1810, but not far removed from the publication of The Mountain Bard. Evident here is a sense of solidarity in a shared passion for literature among workers who identified with the difficulties faced by labouring-class poets. Hogg’s and Tannahill’s achievements inspired and empowered the labouring classes from which they had come. ‘In his full tide of song and story’, Hogg exercised a powerful influence in these circles. A writer from a very different class, whose influence was being strongly felt in Scottish literary culture, took notice of Hogg’s early efforts, effectively becoming his mentor. As Hogg’s mentor, Walter Scott was by all accounts well-meaning, but at times he asserted his influence to discourage Hogg’s aspirations. Hogg reports in Anecdotes of Sir W. Scott a striking example of this which occurred in 1804, when Scott arranged his employment as a shepherd, but with strings attached: he actually engaged me to Lord Porchester as his chief shepherd to have a riding horse, house and small farm free of rent, and £20 over and above, but with this strick proviso that “I was to put my poetical talent under lock and key for ever” I copy the very words. Of course I spurned at the idea and refused to implement the bargain.12 As much as Scott may have been trying to protect Hogg’s interests, his displeasure at the growth in what Douglas Mack has called the ‘subaltern’ voices of Scottish poetry surfaced elsewhere.13 As Mack observes in his introduction to the Stirling / South Carolina edition

INTRODUCTION

xix

of The Queen’s Wake, an anonymous article entitled ‘Of the Living Poets of Great Britain’, which has generally been attributed to Scott, appeared in 1808 in the Edinburgh Annual Register. Hogg is named as one of the poets who daily spring up among the lees of the people, and find admirers to patronize them because they write “wonderfully well considering”. This is, abstractedly, one of the most absurd claims to distinction possible. We do not suppose any living poet, Southey for instance, or Campbell, would gain much credit for making a pair of shoes, although they might be very well made considering. […] Yet let a weaver, a shoemaker, or a tailor, produce a copy of verses, and he shall find those to extol him above the best poets of the time, and to silence all objection and criticism, by referring, as an apology, to that which should have withheld him from the attempt,—his ignorance and his want of education. For Scott, Burns is the notable exception, but ultimately there is danger in ‘turning the brain of an useful peasant or artisan’, in creating ‘a class of subaltern literati’ who will seduce ‘honest ploughmen from their teams, and milk maids from their pails, to enlist them in the precarious service of Apollo’. Scott argues that Burns’s success had the effect of exciting general emulation among all of his class in Scotland who were able to tag a rhyme. The quantity of Scottish verses with which we were inundated was absolutely overwhelming. Poets began to chirp in every corner like grasshoppers in a sunshine day. The steep rocks poured down poetical goatherds, and the bowels of the earth vomited forth rhyming colliers; but of all the herd we can only distinguish James Hogg, the Selkirkshire shepherd, as having at all merited the public attention; and there cleaves to his poetry a vulgarity of conception and expression which we greatly question his ever being able to overcome.14 Scott is here voicing his opposition to the forces of democratic aspiration that would energise radical politics in the later 1810s and in the 1820s, eventually leading to the Reform Bill of 1832. However, in Hogg’s anecdote about Allan Cunningham the common ground between stonemason and shepherd is poetry—and the writing of it. Scotland’s widespread culture of self-education had fostered this kind of mutual recognition and support among subaltern types with literary aspirations. The fact that this solidarity was reflected in the ris-

xx

INTRODUCTION

ing number of ‘poetical goatherds’ and ‘rhyming colliers’ was uncomfortable to some in the higher segments of society, including Scott. As Hogg’s letters show, Scott was heavily involved in the preparation of The Mountain Bard in 1805 and 1806. The tensions, not only personal clashes between the personalities of these two men but also cultural disparities between the social levels they represented, had a tremendous effect on the shaping of this volume.

2. Genesis of The Mountain Bard of 1807 In a letter of 21 May 1806 to Walter Scott, Hogg comments on individual poems for publication in The Mountain Bard, which would appear in February of the following year. Regarding the ballad based on Dumfriesshire sorcerer ‘Willie Wilkin’, he writes, ‘This is a popular ancient story hereabouts He has been a second edition of Michael Scott on a smaller type and coarser paper’.15 Hogg takes his narrative from oral tradition and presents Willie Wilkin as an alternative to the aristocratic, romantic sorcerer Michael Scott as portrayed by Walter Scott in his book-length poem The Lay of the Last Minstrel, which had recently been published. 16 Significantly, Hogg’s analogy also metaphorically equates the sorcerers, Michael Scott and Willie Wilkin, to books: physical objects, very like the finely-bound Lay and Scott’s three-volume ballad collection Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border (1802–03), versus the cheap-and-cheerful Mountain Bard. The significance of Scott’s Minstrelsy as the impetus for Hogg’s first major work cannot be overstated. The publication of Scott’s magisterial collection became the catalyst for a new phase in Hogg’s life, as he progressed from his role as a key informant in the Shirra’s quest for ballads to his full emergence as an author of books in his own right. Many influences converged to shape the material between the covers of The Mountain Bard, but as a whole the volume is an answer to Scott’s project. Hogg’s letters show that he was involved in helping to collect traditional ballads for Scott as early as 1801, but it appears that they did not meet in person until sometime in 1802. Hogg wrote to Scott on 30 June 1802, after the appearance of the first two volumes of Scott’s collection, but while the third volume was still in preparation: I have been perusing your minstrelsy very diligently for a while past, and it being the first book I ever perused which was written by a person I had seen and conversed with, the consequence hath been to me a most sensible pleasure: for in fact it

INTRODUCTION

xxi

is the remarks and modern pieces that I have delighted most in, being as it were personally acquainted with many of the antient pieces formerly. My mother is actually a living miscellany of old songs I never believed that she had half so many until I came to a trial: there are none in your collection of which she hath not a part. (Letters I, 15) This led Scott to call on Hogg’s mother for a reputedly ancient version of ‘Auld Maitland’, an event Hogg famously recounts much later in high myth-making style: My mother chaunted the ballad of Old Maitlan’ to him, with which he was highly delighted, and asked her if she thought it ever had been in print? And her answer was, “O na, na, sir, it never was printed i’ the world, for my brothers an’ me learned it an’ many mae frae auld Andrew Moor, and he learned it frae auld Baby Mettlin, wha was housekeeper to the first laird of Tushilaw. She was said to hae been another nor a gude ane, an’ there are many queer stories about hersel’, but O, she had been a grand singer o’ auld songs an’ ballads.” 17 Hogg’s contributions may be traced in ten ballads, and possibly more, which appeared in the Minstrelsy. They are ‘Auld Maitland’, ‘The Battle of Otterburn’ (Child 161), ‘Clerk Saunders’ (Child 69), ‘The Dowie Houms o’ Yarrow (Child 214), ‘The Duel of Wharton and Stuart’, ‘Erlinton’ (Child 8), ‘The Gay Goshawk’ (Child 96), ‘The Lament of the Border Widow’ (related to ‘The Famous Flower of Serving Men, Child 106), ‘Lord William’ (Child 68), and The Queen’s Maries (Child 173). Hogg may have provided two others as well: ‘Young Benjie’ (Child 86) and ‘The Battle of Philiphaugh’ (Child 202). The Hogg family provided Scott with several others, including ‘Laminton’ or ‘Lochinvar’, (which Scott retitled ‘Katherine Janfarie’, Child 221), ‘Lamkin’ (Child 93), ‘Lord Barnaby’ (Child 81), an untitled version of ‘Johnie Scott’ (Child 99), ‘Tushilaw’s Lines’, ‘Jamie Telfer’ (Child 190), ‘Johnny Armstrong’s Last Goodnight’ (Child 169), and ‘The Tale of Tomlin’ (Child 39).18 By the time of the publication of Scott’s Minstrelsy in 1802–03, Hogg had saved some money after years of work as a shepherd. Believing in his own talent and potential, he had high hopes at this point of launching successful parallel careers as author and farmer. However, he lost his savings as a result of legal proceedings following his abortive attempt to lease a farm in Harris in 1804, and some other plans (for example, for publication of a book containing an account

xxii

INTRODUCTION

of his Highland Journeys) also came to nothing. Nevertheless 1807 saw the successful publication of two substantial books by Hogg: The Mountain Bard and The Shepherd’s Guide: Being a Practical Treatise on the Diseases of Sheep. Both books were published by Archibald Constable in Edinburgh, and by John Murray in London. The 202 pages of the 1807 Mountain Bard consist of ten ballad imitations, with accompanying notes on historical context and folklore, and a collection of eleven pieces under the heading ‘Songs, Adapted to the Times’, prefaced by the 23-page ‘Memoir of the Life of James Hogg’. The first section specifically answers the ballad imitations that Scott had included in the second and third volumes of his Minstrelsy, written by Scott himself and others including John Leyden, Charles Kirkpatrick Sharpe, Matthew Gregory Lewis, Anna Seward, and Robert Jamieson. Having provided ballads and background information for Scott’s collection, Hogg admired the Minstrelsy. For ballad imitations, however, he believed he could do better, as he asserts in his ‘Memoir’: ‘I confess, that I was not satisfied with many of the imitations of the ancients. I immediately chose a number of traditional facts, and set about imitating the different manners of the ancients myself ’ (see pp. 15–16). Accordingly, the first section of The Mountain Bard is headed ‘Ballads, in Imitation of the Antients’, a clear echo of the section of the Minstrelsy entitled ‘Imitations of the Ancient Ballad’. Some of the poems in the The Mountain Bard had been published prior to their inclusion in the 1807 volume. ‘Sandy Tod’, for example, first appeared in the Edinburgh Magazine for May 1802, and ‘Sir David Græme’ in the Scots Magazine for September 1805. The Mountain Bard is often regarded as Hogg’s literary debut, but in fact by 1807 he was a regular contributor to magazines and had already developed a regional reputation as a poet of the people, as is confirmed by the visit of the Cunningham brothers in the autumn of 1806. Long before Hogg’s book was published he had already started to establish himself as one of the successors of Robert Burns in a flourishing Scottish tradition of working-class poetry. The Mountain Bard has always, and rightly, been regarded as a significant response to Walter Scott’s advice and encouragement, and to Scott’s magisterial Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border. That is indeed an important part of the story of the genesis of The Mountain Bard. However, as the next two sections of this Introduction will show, Scott’s encouragement and guidance represent only part of a larger and more complex story.

INTRODUCTION

xxiii

3. Hogg and Oral tradition Hogg’s privileging of the oral tradition of the people is crucial to The Mountain Bard. The Ettrick Forest of Hogg’s day was a remote sheepfarming district in the Scottish Borders, but before the 1603 Union of the Crowns it had been a royal hunting forest, familiar territory to the courts of James IV, James V, and Mary Queen of Scots. Narratives springing from these days and even earlier times survived through oral transmission in stories, ballads, and songs. During Hogg’s childhood, Ettrick retained a rich oral tradition, and members of his family were noted local tradition-bearers. Hogg was born into a family grounded in song, singing, and ballad-making. His grandfather, Will o’ Phaup, was a renowned tradition-bearer, who passed on his repertoire to his children. In his letter to Scott of 30 June 1802, already quoted, Hogg called his mother, Margaret Laidlaw Hogg, a ‘living miscellany of old songs’. His uncle William Laidlaw knew a lot of ballads and passed these on to Hogg. James’s father Robert’s family also included some good singers, including his cousins Thomas and Frank Hogg. Beyond the family, however, there was a healthy song culture in Ettrick during Hogg’s youth: Hogg recalled ‘singing matches almost every night’ and described song as nearly ‘the sole amusement’.19 Elaine Petrie observes that for Margaret Hogg traditional material served the purpose of amusement ‘to keep the bairns out of mischief ’.20 The letters of Margaret’s oldest son William reveal this function of ballads in her day-to-day life: our mother to keep us boys quiet would often tell us tales of kings, giants, knights, fairies, kelpies, brownies, etc., etc. These stories fixed both our eyes and attention, and our mother got forward with her housewifery affairs in a more regular way. [...] Our mother’s mind was well fortified by a good system of Christian religion, which our grandfather with much care and diligence had given all his family; yet her mind was stored with tales and songs of spectres, ghosts, fairies, brownies, voices, &c. These had been both seen and heard in her time in the Glen of Phaup; and many a winter night to keep us boys steady, has she told us how the fairie would have tripped with much mirth and speed along the bottom of some lonely dell, how the dead-lights, or some shapeless appearance twisting and throwing itself, announced the deaths of some near relative; and not unfrequently, the spirit of the gathering storm was

xxiv

INTRODUCTION

heard to shriek through the air. These tales arrested our attention, and filled our minds with the most dreadful apprehensions. [...] These songs and tales which were sung and told in a plaintive, melancholy air, had an influence on James’s mind altogether unperceived at the time, and perhaps indescribable now.21 Hogg grew up during a time when, after the 1707 Treaty of Union between Scotland and England, major efforts were being made to preserve Scottish culture. Like other Scottish collectors of tradition, Hogg had a culturally-nationalist agenda: he was concerned with faithfully and sympathetically preserving what remained of an oral culture that appeared to be slipping away. But he was profoundly ambivalent about the motives governing the antiquarian grand narrative, which treated traditional ballads as relics of ‘primitive’ expression that must be preserved, contained, and explained in Enlightenment terms. He was also increasingly concerned about his own role in ballad-collecting for Scott’s Minstrelsy. This uneasiness is most famously demonstrated by considering Hogg’s role as an informant for Scott in juxtaposition with his report of his mother’s well-known rebuke of Scott. As we have seen, Hogg records his mother’s meeting with Scott, who wanted to hear ‘Auld Maitland’, a song with which ‘he was highly delighted’. In Hogg’s account, Scott queries whether or not it had ever been in print—the ballad-collector’s omnipresent preoccupation—and she responds with her celebrated scolding of the great man: there war never ane o’ my sangs prentit till ye prentit them yoursel’, an’ ye hae spoilt them awthegither. They were made for singin’ an’ no for readin’; but ye hae broken the charm noo, an’ they’ll never sung mair. An’ the worst thing of a’, they’re nouther richt spell’d nor richt setten down. 22 As Hogg himself, his mother, and his uncle had all been informants for Scott’s project, we can only imagine what Hogg thought in reading Scott’s later assertions that the ballad had suffered irrevocably from transmission ‘through a number of reciters’, which produced ‘impertinent interpolations from the conceit of one rehearser, unintelligible blunders from the stupidity of another, and omissions equally to be regretted’.23 In The Mountain Bard, Hogg presents himself as better qualified to present and re-present the ancient ballads, as he both recognises their antiquity and sees them as part of a living tradition. Like the many editors of ballads, in Hogg’s presentation of Borders culture

INTRODUCTION

xxv

he occasionally makes reference to published works to provide historical documentation. More frequently, however, he invokes the authority of oral tradition and testimony to support assertions. This approach firmly anchors folk beliefs in the real-life community and insists that these voices be heard, as in the following stanza from ‘The Pedlar’, one of the local legends included in The Mountain Bard: Ca’t not superstition; wi’ reason you’ll find it, Nor laugh at a story attestit sae weel; For lang ha’e the facts in the forest been mindit O’ the ghaist an’ the bane o’ the pedlar’s heel. (p. 31) A story so well attested cannot be dismissed; it carries the weight of pure reason. In this culturally specific place (Ettrick Forest), the facts of what happened have long been ‘mindit’ in both senses of the Scots word – observed and remembered. In notes to ‘The Pedlar’, he writes that in Ettrick and Yarrow ‘the belief in wraiths, ghaists, and bogles, is little or nothing abated’ (p. 32). Phrases such as ‘the old people tell us’ proliferate. He relies heavily on anecdotal evidence to describe supernatural events while also locating them specifically in space and time. He attributes them to particular oral sources, for example citing Andrew Moore’s report of an encounter with the ‘Water-Cow’ (p. 66), a dangerous shape-shifting inhabitant of St Mary’s Loch with connections to the ‘Water-Horse’ from Highland tradition. Hogg’s notes to ‘Willie Wilkin’ recall a ‘neighbouring farmer’ who ‘not many years ago’ was ‘riding home at night upon a mare’ and repeatedly, mysteriously, found himself at the door of ‘the old church of Dumgree, and farther from home than when he first set out’ (p. 76). These kinds of details function as ‘reality factors’, described by folk-narrative analyst Linda Dégh as integral to the telling of a legend.24 Hogg’s strategy also sets him apart from many Romantic contemporaries who were experimenting with Gothic narratives, which distance the reader from common experience and exoticise the long ago and far away. Hogg, in contrast, writes about the inherited traditions and present experiences of his own place and culture. Writing about the life of the people of his native Ettrick hills, Hogg makes a claim that he is a genuine Mountain Bard. Antiquarianism is most concerned with the authenticity and stability of the text, looking for the ‘real’ ballad, the original, and fixing it in print. Oral traditions, on the other hand, have their own mechanisms for maintaining stability—formulaic diction, strong traditionbearers, cultural familiarity—but variation is also a crucial element. With a balance of stability and variation, oral traditions adapt. Hogg’s

xxvi

INTRODUCTION

method draws on what oral-tradition theorist John Miles Foley calls ‘traditional referentiality’, which invokes ‘a context that is enormously larger and more echoic than the text or work itself, that brings the lifeblood of generations of poems and performances to the individual performance or text’.25 The authorities Hogg cites and his handling of them differ strikingly from Walter Scott’s Minstrelsy, where authority and authenticity are consistently vouched for by historical documentation from print sources. The voice of Hogg’s 1807 paratexts also contrasts interestingly with Scott’s in The Minstrelsy and with Hugh Blair’s in his authoritative framing of Macpherson’s Ossian poems. Hogg’s use of folk testimony in both texts and paratextual matter reveals the extent to which he was willing to use folk perspectives to question Enlightenment assumptions. In later work, this evolved into a peculiarly Hoggian narrative strategy, one example being the way in which the oral tale of Auchtermuchty subverts the Enlightenmentbased narrative of the ‘Editor’ in The Private Memoirs and Confessions of a Justified Sinner (1824).26 As Elaine Petrie and others have observed, however, Hogg’s own self-positioning in relation to folk beliefs is ambiguous, equivocal: he is a member of the community and an advocate for it; he is also an observer of it, with aspirations to literary society. This position may be elucidated by taking into account the ‘transitional’ nature of folk culture during Hogg’s life, as argued by David Buchan in The Ballad and the Folk, and as developed in relation to Hogg by Elaine Petrie.27 Hogg’s ‘transitional’ cultural context meant that he belonged simultaneously to two worlds: to the ancient world of Ettrick oral tradition in which he grew up, and also to the world of post-Enlightenment Edinburgh modernity in which his book was published and read. This is why The Mountain Bard differs from other antiquarian projects. It is not ancient but contemporary, though based on a continuous tradition which began in ancient times. Hogg’s project is Romantic; his focus is on the self. He recognises that he is doing something different with ballads, and that writing cannot contain what was ‘made for singin’ an’ no for readin’’. He recognises the difficulties of representing oral traditions—hence, his ambivalence—but believes that he will not ‘spoil them awthegither’. Hogg’s understanding of oral culture carried into his work on The Mountain Bard, and his differences with Scott caused him much frustration. The titles of Scott’s Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border and Hogg’s The Mountain Bard crystallise a key difference in the writers’ relationships to their material. Scott’s title, like his paratextual apparatus, places him outside the tradition, as an observer examining the

INTRODUCTION

xxvii

evidence. Following Thomas Percy’s lead in Reliques of Ancient English Poetry, Scott set about ‘rescuing’ and grooming old ballads for drawing-room appearances. In his prefacing essay and elsewhere, Scott constructs his role in collecting ballads as a mediator between Enlightenment culture and his subject, as a translator of the valuable but degraded relics originally composed by an ancient and courtly race of poets. For him, tradition is ‘a sort of perverted alchemy which converts gold into lead’.28 Distrusting tradition-bearers as he does, Scott regrets that a printed source of ballads to which Joseph Ritson has referred him is not available: ‘Could this collection have been found, it would probably have thrown much light on the present publication: but the editor has been obliged to draw his materials chiefly from oral tradition’.29 His introduction to the Minstrelsy begins with a lengthy history of the Borders, closely linked to genealogy, underpinned by frequent references to historians such as Robert Lindsay of Pitscottie, David Hume of Godscroft, John Spottiswoode, and legal documents related to the border reivers. Authority and authenticity are vouched for most frequently by historical documentation from print sources. His prose is filled with phrases such as ‘our historians say’, and readers are repeatedly invited to compare historical accounts to the ballads themselves. Popular tradition is accorded far less authority, frequently depersonalised and related in passive constructions, for example, ‘It is said’, or ‘the spirit was supposed particularly to haunt the old house’, or ‘The skirmish was long remembered’. Such a method distances the editor from his subject and effectively relieves the tradition-bearer of agency. In The Mountain Bard, Hogg presents an alternative to the Minstrelsy, from the inside; rather than editor, Hogg positions himself as bard, the successor to Burns, closer to the interpreter of a living tradition than to the erudite antiquary, an attitude reinforced in the tone of his annotations. His introduction is not a history of the Borders but a memoir of his own life, his justification for presuming bardship, and that of a very particular kind. A bard is a keeper of tradition, who must be steeped in that tradition in order to fulfill the role properly. His notes to the material are anchored in contemporary experience of Borders people; while the poems of The Mountain Bard have their roots in the past, they are ‘adapted to the times’. The authorities that Hogg cites and his handling of them differ strikingly from Scott’s. To return to Scott’s alchemy metaphor, for Hogg the gold was still there in the oral traditions of Borders culture: ‘tradition’ was not a collection of relics, fixed in the past; it had continued into the present. In The Mountain Bard, authority ultimately rests with testimony from oral voices, actual peo-

xxviii

INTRODUCTION

ple anchored in actual places, representing a living tradition, rather than with printed historical accounts. The Mountain Bard of 1807 marks a crucial stage in Hogg’s development as a poet, and as a ‘national’ bard. Insisting on the value of an oral traditional community, and on his own relationship to it, Hogg’s own ballad imitations and songs firmly establish his voice and position far from Scott’s romanticised and minstrel-filled court, whether it be presided over by Scottish kings or by the literary elite. The Hogg of the early tradition-collecting, ballad-imitating days is ‘Jamie the Poeter’, the Ettrick Shepherd, the Mountain Bard. At the same time, Hogg endeavours to present himself as a creative artist, a literary figure whose work is capable of negotiating tensions among the disparate cultures of contemporary Scotland. In his constructions and deconstructions of Scottish identity, Hogg performs a highly charged balancing act between his roots in the oral tradition and Edinburgh’s literary culture. As many have noted, for a writer like Hogg this position is problematic. In proclaiming himself successor to Burns, and in his regard for tradition-bearers, Hogg identified himself with the people, and insisted on the value of oral culture. But like Burns before him he wished to engage in debate and dialogue with the sophisticated, powerful, and valuable literary culture that had evolved in Edinburgh during the Scottish Enlightenment. In creating The Mountain Bard of 1807 in this spirit, Hogg was uncertain about how best to engage traditional material in his own work to make it acceptable for genteel audiences. As a result he was frequently swayed by Scott’s powerful influence.

4. The Literary Context The Mountain Bard made its appearance in 1807 during a period of fruitful and vigorous literary activity. The burgeoning of Scottish vernacular expression in the eighteenth century in the work of poets such as Allan Ramsay, Robert Fergusson, and Robert Burns had certainly made possible the kind of poet that Hogg was to become. However, the ballads of The Mountain Bard also need to be seen in the context of emerging British Romanticism, and here the Lyrical Ballads (1798) of Wordsworth and Coleridge are highly relevant. Another crucial aspect of the context for Hogg’s project was the antiquarian interest in ballads throughout the previous century, culminating in Scott’s Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border (1802–03), which brought the vogue for ballad-collecting to Hogg’s very doorstep. Hogg’s understanding of the nature and role of the ‘bard’ likewise draws on the legacy of

INTRODUCTION

xxix

James Macpherson’s Ossian poems, notably Fragments of Ancient Poetry Collected in the Highlands of Scotland and Translated from the Gaelic or Erse Language (1760), Fingal (1762), and Temora (1763). Also influential for The Mountain Bard of 1807 was the recent publication of Scott’s popular verse romance, The Lay of the Last Minstrel (1805). William Wordsworth once voiced a widely-shared opinion that the formerly beleaguered ballad had opened ‘a region of true simplicity and genuine pathos’; he further proclaimed that Thomas Percy’s Reliques of Ancient English Poetry (1765), an acknowledged source of ballads for many writers, had ‘absolutely redeemed’ British poetry.30 In this context, poets writing at the cusp of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries embraced the ballad form enthusiastically, engaging the material in ways that transformed narratives of external conflict into highly personal expression: ‘lyrical ballads’. The title of Wordsworth and Coleridge’s 1798 Lyrical Ballads embodies the contrasting modes of lyric and narrative, and many Romantic poems are clearly marked by this union, however diversely the results are manifest. Wordsworth and Keats, for example, tended to appropriate and customise the ballad form in the direction of lyric. Reinvesting with personal significance the ‘narrative song’—a form shaped by oral transmission and by definition objective, impersonal, and variable—the poets captured a transitional moment in which the tradition that fostered it was taking on new forms in print. With its typical compression, condensation, and elision, the ballad itself appears to have provided ample material for highly individual poetic experimentation. The Scottish ballads were particularly appealing, as may be judged by their presence in many published collections and their fascination for poets on both sides of the Border. Scottish collectors and editors with varying backgrounds and agendas engaged ballads from a culturally-nationalist perspective, their goal to protect what, in Enlightenment terms, seemed a tradition verging on extinction. When James Johnson enlisted Robert Burns’s help in compiling Scottish songs for the Scots Musical Museum, the poet immersed himself in the project, writing to the Rev. John Skinner, ‘I have been absolutely crazed about it, collecting old stanzas’.31 A decade later Hogg was sparked by the recognition that he had intimate knowledge of the Border ballads that Scott was seeking, and initially he was delighted to serve as Scott’s informant. Like other collectors with a poetic bent, however, Hogg soon turned his hand to imitating ballads. In this process, poets’ relative closeness to the tradition from which they drew, as well as their literary backgrounds, contributed to the character of the po-

xxx

INTRODUCTION

ems they produced. This dynamic may be perceived in the differences between ballad imitations produced by Scott in the second and third volumes of Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border and by Hogg in The Mountain Bard. The fact that Scott designated space in the Minstrelsy for ballad imitations indicates his recognition of the form’s usefulness for poets. Scott wrote many of his early original poems in ballad stanza and metre, among them ‘The Eve of St John’, ‘The Covenanter’s Fate’, ‘The Shepherd’s Tale’, ‘The Reiver’s Wedding’, and Part III of ‘Thomas the Rhymer’. Written in the autumn of 1799 and initially published in Matthew Gregory Lewis’s Tales of Wonder, ‘The Eve of St John’ represents Scott’s first attempt at using ballad metre—‘the measure of his own favourite Minstrels’—for his own poems.32 He and Hogg were both immersed in the ballad world, in narratives which require the reader/listener to provide personal associations to complete the narrative. ‘The Eve of St John’ bears testimony to Scott’s attraction to both historical and romantic ballad traditions. Characteristically filled with the historical ballad’s references to family names and battles, Scott’s ballad also brings his Gothic powers to bear on the narrative. Anything inexplicable, however, is glossed in the extensive introduction, notes, and appendix, where Scott provides historical context, explains antiquated terms, and justifies editorial choices. For him, ballads have already become relics. In ballad imitations, both Scott and Hogg generally use ballad form and conventions more to tell stories than for lyric purposes. That said, while Scott pushes his ballad romances in the direction of history, and his ballad histories in the direction of romance, Hogg is likely to manipulate or subvert Enlightenment ideas of both modes, finding interest in the dramatic potential of ballad conventions: the emphasis is on human interaction in moments of crisis, the ballad’s traditional core. His approach is marked by awareness of the ballad’s mutability; for him, these narrative songs with all their potential for variation are still part of living tradition—he knows people who still sing the songs and tell the stories. While traditional ballads can depict historical events and often include the tropes of literary romance, they are not consistent in representing either. The uneasiness at work in The Mountain Bard moves Hogg’s ballads beyond simple imitation and towards a balladmaking that is decidedly his own. Familiarity with traditional-ballad content and style gave him an ease with formal tools for imitating ballads, devices such as structural patterning in threes, narrative development through dialogue, gaps and shifts left to the imagina-

INTRODUCTION

xxxi

tion, incremental repetition, formulaic language, and tragic conclusions. Throughout The Mountain Bard, however, these techniques are adapted or stretched, for instance in his expansion rather than compression of key moments. ‘The Twa Corbies’ (Child 26), the traditional ballad on which Hogg’s ‘Sir David Græme’ is based, elides the lady’s mourning for her murdered knight, and she may even be implicated in his murder. Hogg’s poem lingers over her anguish, however, and (to some readers’ disgust) expands the traditional ballad’s concise stanza of the corpse’s bird-pecked bones into four grisly stanzas. On the other hand, Hogg’s original ending to ‘The Pedlar’ as published in The Scots Magazine for September 1805 leaves the pedlar’s murder unpunished, which is entirely acceptable in a traditional narrative; but for the 1807 Mountain Bard the ending is expanded, at Scott’s urging, to punish the crime, a result more acceptable to romance. Hogg’s earthy, irreverent sense of humour often undercuts the seriousness associated with both history and romance, while it sits more comfortably within traditional expression. Many collected ballads were printed with neither music nor specification of the tunes to which they traditionally had been sung, thus losing their link to music. Indeed, for antiquarian collectors, the value of ballads was in their seeming documentation of a species of ancient British poetry rather than in their function as songs. This characterisation of ballads may be clearly seen in Scott’s Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border. Scott seems to have thought of The Mountain Bard as a ballad-based collection, as something of a curiosity, as an appendix to Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border provided by a modern poetical shepherd from Ettrick. Hogg, on the other hand, seems to have thought of The Mountain Bard as a potential show-case for the full range and scope of his varied talents as a poet. Hogg therefore welcomed opportunities to expand the range of The Mountain Bard to include not only ballad imitations, but also songs, and poems firmly in the tradition of the eighteenth-century vernacular revival of Ramsay, Fergusson, and Burns, such as his poetic ‘Epistle’ to Thomas Mouncey Cunningham, ‘Mr T. M. C., London’. Of the material that eventually appeared in the two sections of The Mountain Bard of 1807, Scott’s interest seems to have been firmly focused on Hogg’s legendary ballads; he showed little interest in the lyric songs. Hogg argued, however, that his songs deserved to be published because of ‘their extraordinary repute in Ettrick and its neighbourhood and being everlastingly plagued with writing copies and promising scores which I never meant to perform’. (Letters I , p. 39) Hogg’s confident attitude may be viewed in light of the approba-

xxxii

INTRODUCTION

tion that his songs had already received. Besides his involvement in collecting songs and ballads, many of his earliest productions were songs. His popular ‘Donald M‘Donald’ was in song-sheet circulation and had even been appropriated for distribution in an 1806 Glasgow chapbook, a copy of which is held by the University of Stirling Library. Depicting courageous Highlanders pledging to defend Britain against potential invasion by the French under Napoleon, around 1803, this lively song played to public sentiment and was readily embraced. Hogg later introduced ‘Donald M‘Donald’ in Songs by the Ettrick Shepherd (1831) with an anecdote as proof of its popularity and inspirational effect: Happening upon one occasion to be in a wood in Dumfriesshire, through which wood the highroad passed, I heard a voice singing; and a turn of the road soon brought in sight a soldier, who seemed to be either travelling home upon furlough, or returning to his regiment. When the singer approached nearer, I distinguished the notes of my own song of Donald M‘Donald. As the lad proceeded with his song, he got more and more into the spirit of the thing, and on coming to the end, “An’ up wi’ the bonny blue bonnet, The kilt an’ the feather an’ a’!” in the height of his enthusiasm, he hoisted his cap on the end of his staff, and danced it about triumphantly. I stood ensconced behind a tree, and heard and saw all without being observed.33 Songwriting was a significant strand of Hogg’s work that he naturally wanted to promote. A fascination in Scots song had grown throughout the eighteenth century, evidenced by the popularity of collections such as Allan Ramsay’s Tea-Table Miscellany (1724–32) and James Johnson’s Scots Musical Museum (1787–1803). As with ballads, collection of lyric songs was driven in part by fears that otherwise they would be irrevocably lost to Scottish culture; unlike ballads, when lyric songs were published the name of the air was often given, even in the absence of musical notation. In writing new words to traditional tunes, Hogg was again following the example of his favourite precursor Robert Burns. He was also tapping into a ready commercial market for songs that would find a welcome in the drawing rooms of Edinburgh and London. These impulses would bear fruit in Hogg’s various engagements with song throughout his career: The Forest Minstrel (1810), The Jacobite Relics of Scotland (1819, 1821),

INTRODUCTION

xxxiii

Songs by the Ettrick Shepherd (1831), and miscellaneous song-sheets. Widespread interest in a native Scottish bardic tradition had been encouraged throughout Britain and Europe by the phenomenal success of Macpherson’s re-creation and reconstruction, in hi s Ossian poems, of an ancient and heroic Gaelic-speaking culture in the Scottish Highlands. This interest reverberated well into the nineteenth century, leaving its mark on every genre of literature, and on work by artists including Alexander Runciman, Jean Auguste Dominique Ingres, and François Gérard. Macpherson’s Ossian sparked Enlightenment fascination with Celtic landscapes and culture, as well as philosophical debates regarding authenticity and the progress of civilisation. As Hans de Groot’s forthcoming Stirling / South Carolina edition of Highland Journeys will show, Hogg’s accounts of his summer visits to the Highlands in 1802, 1803, and 1804 contain numerous references to Ossianic scenes and characters. Indeed, Ossianic references recur throughout Hogg’s later work, most particularly in his ‘epic’ poem in six books, Queen Hynde (1824). And much earlier Hogg had invoked the words of Macpherson’s Ossianic poem ‘The Songs of Selma’ in the epigraph on the titlepage of the 1807 Mountain Bard: Fain would I hear our mountains ring With blasts which former minstrels brew; Drive slumber hence on viewless wing, And tales of other times renew. Macpherson’s original reads, ‘Such were the words of the bards in the days of song; when the king heard the music of harps, the tales of other times. The chiefs gathered from all their hills, and heard the lovely sound. They praised the Voice of Cona! the first among a thousand bards.’ 34 The lines insist on a legacy of Highland heroism, but render it acceptable to an eighteenth-century British audience, who have a taste for antiquities and for heightened sensibility. The effect is one of nostalgia and past tense, a recognition of bardship as lost. As Katie Trumpener has shown in her ground-breaking book Bardic Nationalism, a similar tone haunts the representation of bards and minstrels by Thomas Gray, James Beattie, and Thomas Percy, and others who popularised the tribal bard and the court minstrel in the eighteenth century.35 Hogg’s epigraph takes the Ossianic original in a different direction. His paratextual use of this quotation to introduce a book of his own ‘tales of other times’ pulls the past into the present, stressing the value of those narratives for the current day. Hogg’s presentation of

xxxiv

INTRODUCTION

himself as specifically a mountain bard calls on these literary constructs, and on the romantic sublimity of Ossianic mountain bards, but also on his own extensive—and literal—experience of working and travelling in mountain terrain. In this, Hogg’s project has something in common with the dynamic and authentic oral bardic popular tradition that survived in eighteenth-century and early-nineteenthcentury Scottish Gaelic poetry, as for example in the works of Duncan Ban Macintyre (1724–1812). Questions of authenticity are highly relevant to the 1807 Mountain Bard, which foregrounds the interactions and intersections between oral and print cultures. Hogg was aware of the complex debate surrounding translations, recreations, and publication of ancient material, a debate that loomed large during preparation of his 1807 collection. Published in 1805 was the two-volume, annotated edition of Ossian by Malcolm Laing. Even more significant and far-reaching was the culmination of nine years of inquiry into the authenticity of Macpherson’s Ossian poems: publication of the Highland Society of Scotland’s Report of the Committee of the Highland Society of Scotland appointed to inquire into the Nature and Authenticity of the Poems of Ossian, ‘drawn up’ by Henry Mackenzie.36 As a reader of the Scots Magazine, and during this year a frequent contributor, Hogg would have encountered the review of this report in the June 1805 number. In the July 1805 number he would also have encountered ‘Letters to Mr Mackenzie, concerning the Authenticity of Ossian’s Poems’, which included correspondence from Hugh Blair, Adam Fergusson, and Alexander Carlyle that had been examined by the Highland Society committee.37 This number of the Scots Magazine also reflected current interest in the bardic role in another way, as it contained ‘Further Particulars of the Life of James Hogg, the Ettrick Shepherd’ by ‘Z’ (reprinted in the present volume: see pp. 130–32). Furthermore, the year 1805 saw the appearance of yet another sort of minstrel, the decayed but courtly figure of Scott’s The Lay of the Last Minstrel, which was reviewed immediately in the Scots Magazine for January 1805.38 Hogg’s epigraph calls on Ossian, but his dedication is to Walter Scott whom he names ‘Minstrel of the Scottish Border’. Scott’s fictional minstrel is the last of a dying breed who found their natural audience in the aristocracy, while The Mountain Bard insists that its mountain bard represents a living and popular bardic tradition. Classbased assumptions about the nature of ballads had arisen in debates between eighteenth-century editors and collectors, for example in the famous dispute between Thomas Percy and Joseph Ritson. Scott, in his 1830 ‘Essay on Popular Poetry’ appended to the Minstrelsy, char-

INTRODUCTION

xxxv

acterises the disparity in Percy’s and Ritson’s editorial approaches: The debate, therefore, resembles the apologue of the gold and silver shield. Dr Percy looked on the minstrel in the palmy and exalted state to which, no doubt, many were elevated by their talents, like those who possess excellence in the fine arts in the present day; and Ritson considered the reverse of the medal, when the poor and wandering glee-man was glad to purchase his bread by singing his ballads at the alehouse, wearing a fantastic habit, and latterly sinking into a mere crowder upon an untuned fiddle, accompanying his rude strains with a ruder ditty, the helpless associate of drunken revellers, and marvellously afraid of the constable and parish-beadle. The difference betwixt those holding the extreme positions of highest and lowest in such a profession cannot surely be more marked than that which separated David Garrick or John Demble from the outcasts of a strolling company, exposed to penury, indigence, and persecution according to law.39 Such disputes form part of the context for the complex ways in which Hogg’s Mountain Bard engages with the ballad tradition. Hogg’s collection is a product of a period when the relationship between oral traditions and print culture was far from straightforward; a song or ballad existed simultaneously in performance, in chapbooks, in periodicals, and in finely-bound collections. Furthermore, there was a widespread vogue for literary ballad-imitation, and poets such as Wordsworth and Coleridge were experimenting creatively with the ballad form. Hogg was a Mountain Bard steeped in the oral tradition: he also took an alert interest in the poetic possibilities opened up in the world of print culture by contemporary fascination for the ballad and scenes of common life. Wordsworth and Hogg were both born in 1770. During the first decade of the nineteenth century these two poets had many interests in common, even although they approached their subject-matter from significantly different social backgrounds, and from different perspectives.

5. Publication and reception of The Mountain Bard (1807) Following the failure of his Harris project in 1804, Hogg’s life was fraught with financial difficulty and uncertainty during 1805 and 1806, a period when he was working as a shepherd in Nithsdale,

xxxvi

INTRODUCTION

detached from his home territory in Ettrick. He was even further removed from Edinburgh, the centre where his literary hopes might be fulfilled. In a letter to Scott of 22 July 1805 he describes his employer Mr Harkness as a ‘good worthy man […] possessed of every amiable qualification’ but also ‘void of any taste as to literary things’. Mr Harkness’s flocks required all Hogg’s attention, and he laments, ‘I have not a moment to think of my favourite studies neither have I any convenience farther than writing on my knee upon the hill so that my poetical effusions as well as every thing else of that nature are at an end for some time’ (Letters I, 50). Somewhat more bitterly perhaps, he complains in another letter to Scott (17 March 1806), ‘I long to be my own man again […] how would you like to write as I do now amongst a houseful of brutal noisy servants but I have no other alternative but the fields’ (Letters I, 55). Nevertheless, the friendly links established with Scott as a result of Hogg’s involvement in Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border helped the Nithsdale-based shepherd to gain access at this period to the world of Edinburgh book publishing. In the 1821 version of his ‘Memoir’, Hogg gives an account of a meeting with Constable that was also attended by Scott. Constable, Hogg says, received me very kindly, but told me frankly, that my poetry would not sell. I said, I thought it was as good as any body’s I had seen. He said, that might be, but that nobody’s poetry would sell; it was the worst stuff that came to market, and that he found; but, as I appeared to be a gay queer chiel, if I would procure him 200 subscribers, he would publish my work for me, and give me as much for it as he could. I did not like the subscribers much; but, having no alternative, I accepted the conditions. (p. 205 in the present edition) With The Lay of the Last Minstrel just published to wide acclaim, Scott’s support of Hogg’s project was highly influential, and Constable eventually made an offer for The Mountain Bard which Hogg accepted in a letter of 11 March 1806 (Letters I, 53–54): Sir I have recieved yours wherein you make offer to me of “ninety pounds sterling for two hundred and fifty copies fine, and seven hundred and fifty copies common paper of the mountain Bard payable in twelve months, the book to be advertised at your expence and the copy-right to remain with me but no more to be published till the present edition be sold off, and that you will grant a bill to Mr Ballantine and Co. for the amount

INTRODUCTION

xxxvii

of paper printing &c. and pay me the ballance.—For this offer Sir, I thank you. It proves itself to be that of a gentleman and a freind; or at least one who does not wish any great advantage over a Mountain Bard; and I heartily accept of it; the copies are yours—Only I expect that, as my proportion of the copies will not supply all my subscribers, you will furnish me with such as I want at the lowest selling price I remain Sir Your Obliged Servt James Hogg By 3 April 1806 Hogg was able to send Scott the manuscript for the proposed volume. His letter begins on an optimistic note: My dear Scott Alongst with this you will recieve my first born legitimate infant son The Mountain Bard whom I commit to your tuition with as sanguine hopes and joyfull expectations as ever parent committed his heir to a preceptor and sent him abroad in quest of adventures. I greatly fear it will be too troublous a task for you to overlook the publication and subscriptions who have so very much ado with one thing and another already but I have one particular friend in town Mr. John Grieve to whom I can trust any thing perhaps he might be of use to carry on any thing when you are busy or in the country and give you timeous information what is going on it is Mr. John Greive, Mr. Izets and Co. from Ettrick if you favour him with any orders anent any thing that can be advantageous for me he will engage in it with pride and avidity (Letters I, 57) This letter suggests that Hogg considered the manuscript complete at this point. All did not flow entirely smoothly, however, and on 21 May [1806] Hogg wrote Scott a letter that begins on a note of resentment, while also accepting that Scott’s opinion was important to the project: Dear Sir I recieved yours brimfull of Criticisms, articles which I mortally abhor and have been taking them under consideration I must apprize you how much I hate alterations in any of my poetical pieces and that before I had the chain of my idea’s and story broken by them I would rather consent to the exclusion of the piece altogether. You are by this time sensible that it never will be from correctness and equality that I am to depend on for my poetic character but only from scattered ex-

xxxviii

INTRODUCTION

pressive tints and from some little interest which the heart feels in them and it is only from a conviction that if one man in Britain have a proper discernment in that species of poetry it is you that I am induced to listen at all to them. (Letters I, 63) After various adjustments and delays, The Mountain Bard was in due course printed for Constable by the Edinburgh printing firm James Ballantyne and Co., in which Scott had a major financial interest. The trade copies were printed in the duodecimo format and sold at five shillings each, while the copies for subscribers were printed in the octavo format (which gave a larger page size), and sold at the more expensive price of half a guinea (ten shillings and sixpence). It seems clear that the duodecimo copies and the octavo copies were printed from the same setting of type; indeed, any other procedure would have been prohibitively expensive. However, the duodecimo format produces twenty-four printed pages from each sheet of paper, while the octavo format produces only sixteen pages per sheet. As a result, the change of format between the trade and subscription versions of the 1807 Mountain Bard made it necessary for the pages of type to be arranged differently on the bed of the printing press. It appears that some minor changes were made to the pagination while this was being done, as Douglas Mack has explained: The duodecimo issue begins with 4 unpaginated leaves, containing titlepage, table of contents, etc.; and the ‘Memoir’ and the main text are given roman and arabic pagination respectively (xxiii, 202). In the octavo issue, the preliminary leaves and the ‘Memoir’ are brought together in one sequence of roman pagination (xxxi pages), while the main text remains at 202 pages. The slight awkwardness of having a short unpaginated sequence was no doubt removed when the type was being re-imposed—and this suggests that the octavo issue was printed after the duodecimo issue.40 The four unpaginated leaves of the duodecimo issue consist of the titlepage, the dedication to Scott, an ‘Advertisement’, and the table of contents: each of these leaves has a blank verso. The Advertisement reads: A liberal and highly respectable list of Subscribers honoured this Work with their countenance; but the circumstances of the Author, detained by the duties of his situation in a remote part of the country, has prevented the possibility of collecting their names, and prefixing them to the Book.

INTRODUCTION

xxxix

On 15 December 1806 Hogg had written as follows to Scott on this matter: As to the calling in of the subscribers names that is a hard task if the book cannot appear until they are all called in and arranged it will not appear this half-year. My papers are scattered all the way to the border and gone from one hand to another that I cannot tell when I shall be able to recall them al[TEAR ] Would it not answer as well to give them an additional song or two in place of the names. Though I have many respectable ones which I should be very proud to see printed and I doubt not but you have many more. (Letters I, 57) Further light is thrown on this situation by an unusual copy of the duodecimo version of the 1807 Mountain Bard recently purchased by Stirling University Library from the stock of the Edinburgh antiquarian booksellers Grant & Shaw. In this copy (book number 35535601) there are only 189 pages in the main pagination sequence, rather than the usual 220 pages. Furthermore, on the final printed page the last four stanzas of ‘The Author’s Address to his Auld Dog Hector’ are followed by the word ‘FINIS ’. Clearly, it was at some stage envisaged that the book would end at this point. Furthermore, the final printed leaf of this copy has been torn. This was presumably done by the printer, as it was normal practice to tear a printed leaf that was to be removed and replaced. The tear in this particular copy has subsequently been carefully repaired, perhaps by the binder who at some point gave this volume its handsome leather binding. In normal copies of the 1807 duodecimo Mountain Bard the main pagination sequence runs to 202 pages. In one such copy (Stirling University Library book number 68230611) the stubs of two removed leaves are clearly visible after p. 188: presumably the second was originally a final blank leaf. In this copy, the final pages (pp. 189– 202) contain the last four stanzas of ‘The Author’s Address to his Auld Dog Hector’ followed by four songs: ‘The Bonnets o’ Bonny Dundee’, ‘Auld Ettrick John’, ‘The Hay Making’, and ‘Bonny Jean’. Clearly, these songs have been added to the collection as a makeweight for the omitted list of subscribers, as Hogg suggested, to ‘give them an additional song or two in place of the names’. The list of subscribers would have appeared at the front of the volume, and (as was normal practice) it would have been printed last, along with the other preliminary leaves. Interestingly, there is one small textual change on p. 189. In the original, cancelled printing, line 118 ends with a semicolon (‘sair against my will;’). However, in the published

xl

INTRODUCTION

version this line ends with a comma (‘sair against my will,’). The subscribers for the 1807 Mountain Bard were an important source of income for Hogg. In the 1821 version of ‘Memoir of the Life of James Hogg’ he writes: Before the work was ready for publication, I had got above 500 subscribers; and Mr Constable, who, by that time, had conceived a better opinion of the work, gave me half-guinea copies for all my subscribers, and a letter for a small sum over and above. I have forgot how much; but, upon the whole, he acted with great liberality. He gave me, likewise, that same year, £86, for that celebrated work, H OGG ON S HEEP ; and I was now richer than I had ever been before. I had no regular plan of delivering those copies that were subscribed for, but sent them simply to the people, intending to take their money in return; but though some paid me double, triple, and even ten times the price, about one-third of my subscribers thought proper to take the copies for nothing, never paying them to this day. (see p. 205) ‘H OGG ON S HEEP ’ is The Shepherd’s Guide: Being a Practical Treatise on the Diseases of Sheep (Edinburgh: Archibald Constable; London: John Murray, 1807). This book is a handsome octavo volume printed by James Ballantyne and Co., and it is a well-informed, intelligent treatment of its subject. The successful publication in 1807 of The Mountain Bard and The Shepherd’s Guide represented a major milestone in Hogg’s career. After the appearance of these books he never worked as a hired shepherd again: from now on his career would be that of a farmer and a professional writer. About Scott’s involvement in the life-changing project that was The Mountain Bard, Hogg had mixed feelings. He seems to have felt an entirely appropriate gratitude for the way in which Scott helped to kick-start his literary career, while feeling an entirely understandable resentment about the way in which Scott left his fingerprints all over The Mountain Bard. As evidenced by the exchange of letters, Hogg’s responses to Scott’s mentoring fluctuated wildly, from humble gratitude to angry lashing out. As we have seen, on 21 May 1806 Hogg was in an unreceptive mood, angry at having received a letter from Scott ‘brimfull of Criticisms, articles which I mortally abhor’. Nevertheless, though troubled with doubts about publication, just before the book went to press Hogg reiterated his confidence in Scott: ‘There is nothing in this world I am thoroughly convinced of than that you transact every thing for the best for me’ (Letters I, 77).

INTRODUCTION

xli

Having entrusted Scott and Constable to bring the project to completion, Hogg was in no position to reject advice out of hand. The resulting process of revision is traced in this edition’s Editorial Notes, and will also emerge from a comparison between the 1807 texts and the Appendix containing pre-1807 versions of Hogg’s Mountain Bard poems. The kinds of alterations that were made conflict with not only Hogg’s direct remarks to Scott, and with his ideas about the poetic use of oral tradition, but also with his views at this time on poetic composition, which are in line with contemporary Romantic theories. These Hogg articulated in the 1807 ‘Memoir’, which takes the form of a letter to Scott: Let the piece be of what length it will, I compose and correct it wholly in my mind, ere ever I put pen to paper, when I write it down as fast as the A B C. When once it is written, it remains in that state; it being, as you very well know, with the utmost difficulty that I can be brought to alter one line, which I think is partly owing to the above practice. (see pp. 12–13) The Mountain Bard was published in February 1807, by Constable in Edinburgh and by Murray in London. Unsurprisingly, given Hogg’s contributions to the Scots Magazine over several years, the periodical offered an early assessment (signed ‘S.’) of its Ettrick Shepherd’s new book with a review in the April number, beginning with a congratulatory note: Among the many poetical works which have of late been offered to the public notice, there are few perhaps more deserving of encouragement than the present production. […] The Ettrick Shepherd […] has made himself successfully known as a poet by his communications to the Scots Magazine; and the publication of the present volume will not a little heighten the favourable impressions with which his poems in that work have been regarded. […] All of [the poems] are much above mediocrity, and all are deserving of that approbation, of which individual perusal alone can enable to form an estimate. The author of these poems has certainly gratified the readers of poetry, and the admirers of merit, by the publication of this collection.—Notwithstanding unfavourable circumstances, he has produced a number of poems which would do no discredit to genius in the happiest situation. […] Mr Hogg is a poet from nature; he paints from his own feelings, and he is seldom unsuccessful in his sketches. In the tender and pathetic, however, he is, in our opinion, more likely to excel, than in the

xlii

INTRODUCTION

light and humourous—And we sincerely hope that this publication will introduce him to that notice, and that public encouragement, which merit deserves, but for want of which genius has often been doomed ——–“to blush unseen, “And waste its sweetness in the desart air.” 41 Reviews of the 1807 Mountain Bard might be characterised generally as positive and encouraging of Hogg, usually depicted as a rustic genius as suggested by the quotation from Gray’s ‘Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard’. From the most positive to the most negative, however, published responses clustered around a few common themes. The full brief review in the London-based Poetical Register aptly illustrates these themes: The labouring class of society has, of late years, teemed with poets, and would-be poets. If it should much longer display the same fertility, there will not be a single trade or calling which will not have produced a bard. Mr. Hogg is the poet of the Shepherds; and is really an honour to them. Shepherds, be it remembered, were always a poetical tribe. The Ballads of Mr. Hogg are in the true style of that sort of writing. They are simple and natural, and contain many spirited and picturesque ideas and descriptions, and, occasionally, strokes of genuine humour. The songs also are good. Prefixed to the poems is a well-written sketch of the author’s life, from his own pen.42 Here Hogg is one of many fledgling poets emerging from the labouring classes. His self-education is a major feature, and the moniker as ‘the poet of the Shepherds’ makes him representative of a particular trade, a primitive one as shepherds are characterised as ‘a poetical tribe’. But, according to this reviewer, he has done well for his tribe, particularly in the writing of ballads, a form associated with an earlier, less sophisticated stage of society; in this suitable genre, his writing is ‘simple and natural’, ‘spirited’, ‘picturesque’, and in places genuinely humorous. The songs earn approval, and the ‘Memoir’ is described as ‘well-written’. In The Poetical Register Hogg fares better than some other aspiring labouring-class poets, however; the review of The Mountain Bard is followed by one of The Moorland Bard, written by a Staffordshire weaver-poet who by comparison earns a markedly less enthusiastic response: ‘The “Moorland Bard,” as he calls himself, seems a worthy man, and, most probably, is an expert weaver. Unfortunately, however, something more is required to make a poet than goodness of heart and expertness in weaving. That something

INTRODUCTION

xliii

the Moorland Bard does not possess. His “recollections” are not “poetical;” and, therefore, ought not to have been published’.43 By contrast to The Poetical Register’s overall approbation of The Mountain Bard, but also highlighting similar critical themes, the reviewer of the Annual Review and History of Literature finds less of value: It has been found by experience, that few classes of writers have, generally speaking, less claim to the praise of originality than those called self-taught poets. They are frequently the most servile imitators of the few, and often bad models, to which they may have gained access. It was probably, therefore, the best thing that James Hogg could do, as a writer, to select a few of the traditional tales of his native district, about which the public curiosity had just then been excited, and attempt to relate them in a style resembling that of the ancient ballad. His endeavours have not proved altogether unsuccessful: these imitations, though not sufficiently exact to deceive a connoisseur, have yet a very considerable likeness to their originals. […] Of the merits of this publication little remains to be said. The ancient ballad appears to us a very unworthy object of modern imitation, though we should be sorry to part with those original specimens on which time and the revolutions of human affairs have bestowed an adventitious value.. To the merit of Mr. Scot [sic] himself, both as a poet and an editor, we have had the pleasure of bearing the fullest testimony; but we cannot help hinting to such as may be disposed to follow his footsteps, that the prolix and superstitious tales of village grandames will not long have charms for a cultivated English public. Absurdity indeed, in various forms, there is always a demand for; puerility too is a quality which has many admirers; but prolixity, the invariable characteristic of these rustic legends, is the one inexpiable sin which the wise and the thoughtless, the busy and the gay, the whole population, in short, of a great metropolis, with one voice, refuse to pardon or to tolerate.44 According to this reviewer, Hogg’s station in life and his self-education feature prominently (the review begins, ‘Another self-taught poet, who appears to have enjoyed fewer opportunities of mental cultivation than any one who has yet come under our cognizance!’). Another recurring feature is the association of these poets, and Hogg, with a particular form of expression, ‘traditionary tales’ and ‘ancient ballads’, and the primitive poet’s bent towards imitation rather than

xliv

INTRODUCTION

originality. Though Hogg’s ‘endeavours have not proved altogether unsuccessful’ in imitating the ballads, his work is not sophisticated enough to hold for long the interest of a ‘cultivated English public’. This review introduces another feature common in reviews: Scott’s patronage, and in this case, a warning against supporting the efforts of rustic writers. A similar depiction of the shepherd whose poetry belongs to an earlier, less civilised society may be found a review that appeared in August 1807 in the Literary Panorama, a monthly English periodical, where the public is assured that ‘The poems before us are the productions of a really shepherd swain’. The ballad imitations ‘are mostly of a gloomy cast; they contain striking imagery, and are calculated to impress the mind by force and power, not by sweetness or elegance’; they are ‘simple, but they are impressive’. Again, though, these characteristics are associated with an earlier age: Such is unquestionably, the progress of Poesy; strength first, delicacy afterwards; the fancy is long roused and agitated, before it seeks refinement. Hence the songs of rude nations and individuals are vigorous, alert, impressive, almost violent; those of more polished times and persons are reflective, sedate, and beautiful. And, crucially for this reviewer, Hogg knows his place in that he has not neglected ‘his proper business’; he has ‘gained two prizes from the Highland Society, for Essays connected with the rearing and management of sheep’.45 The Cabinet review, in the number for July 1807, underscores the themes that run through the others, particularly that Hogg’s achievement is remarkable for ‘his situation’, but that there are too many peasant-poets being published, and those who encourage them should think carefully before offering their support: considering the disadvantages of his situation, the perusal of these ballads will excite no small degree of surprize. They are chiefly in the Scottish dialect and display an uncommon facility of versification, with some fancy, and a strong feeling of the peculiar properties of the ancient ballad […] It is always pleasing to hear of the encouragement afforded to untutored genius, but we fear the rage for ransacking villages, and wandering over mountains, in search of obscure bards, is becoming almost ridiculous. The Ayrshire Ploughman in Scotland, and the Farmer’s Boy in England, have already produced rustic versifiers in abundance, who, being once praised for rhyming, are

INTRODUCTION

xlv

little inclined to attend to any thing else, and whose vanity is usually great, in proportion as their talents are insignificant. […] We think Mr. Hogg’s friend [Scott] would not have done wrong, if the hesitation he felt in publishing the poet’s memoir in its present shape, had been suffered to prevail.46 In its number for November 1807, the Critical Review found things to praise, placing Hogg on its list of ‘inspired rustics’; Scott’s role is praised by this reviewer: We are again called upon to record and to criticise poetic inspiration. Such may questionless be deemed the tuneful and picturesque effusions of a mind so uncultured as that of our H I G H L A N D H E R D S M A N , twin-destined with the S U F F O L K PLOUGHBOY . The prefatory memoir of this new minstrel’s rude and simple life, interests from that unvarnished truth with which it seems to have been written; yet we cannot help regretting his sturdy rejection of friendly criticism, for whose operation there is ample room in the volume before us. […] We are however not sorry to dismiss this imitative versification of old Scotch legends, where genius struggles in the viscous toils of studied resemblance. […] Songs adapted to the Times, the first of them excepted, are more sweet and original. Three have great poetic beauty,—Farewell to Ettrick,—Love abused,—and the Author’s Address to his auld Dog Hector. They are worthy of Burns, without copying him. […] And now where shall we place this new poet of the highlands? Let us enumerate the four, who in Great Britain, and in our own times, have high though unschooled pretensions. The sublimest far is Chatterton, whose character and whose destiny the following lines of Mr. Wordsworth’s presents with great pith and happiness, ‘The sleepless soul that perish’d in its pride.’ In the next degree of genius stands the celebrated Burns. Bloomfield holds the third rank, and this mountain bard not unworthily brings up the rear. We recommend it to those who possess, or wish to possess a classical and well arranged library, to place the works of these inspired rustics side by side on their shelves. We understand that Mr. Walter Scott has been so energetic and successful in the cause of this humble brother of the lyre, as to have obtained for him by the sale of his works, a decent independence, a little farm on the Highlands. Much to the

xlvi

INTRODUCTION

honour of Scotland is the nationality of her nobles and authors of eminence when it operates to the protection of her men of rising genius in every department of literature, advancing at once the progress of their fame, and the comforts of their existence. 47 Also in November 1807, the Eclectic Review praised Hogg’s collection and commented on its links with Scott’s Minstrelsy.48 And in the same month the Oxford Review added to the favourable chorus, highlighting similar themes while also commenting on the diversity of the poems and wondering whether they could have come from the same pen: Here we have indeed a poet:—a poet of nature’s own creation, and worthy to rank among the most distinguished of the Caledonian Bards. Ease, sweetness, and unaffected simplicity adorn the pages of this little volume. The admirers of the ancient ballad will dwell with delight upon these successful imitations of the Scottish minstrelsy, and readers of every class will derive unmingled pleasure from a perusal of the older poems. Here and there a faulty rhyme, or a grammatical error may occur: but grovelling must be the taste, that, in the midst of such variety of beauty, can yield them a moment’s attention. […] The Tales are dedicated to Walter Scott, Esq. the compiler of “the Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border,” and author of “the Lay of the last Minstrel.” This gentleman has, we presume, favoured the Poems before us with his revision and correction; for without some able auxiliary, they never could have made their appearance in a dress so uniformly neat and attractive. A highly interesting life of James Hogg, written by himself in letters to a friend, is prefixed. We are here gratified by another proof of persevering genius surmounting the most formidable obstacles: neither poverty, nor toil, nor oppression, nor cold, nor hunger, nor fatigue, could damp the native ardour of his mind. The Oxford Review addresses several paragraphs from the ‘Memoir’, and goes on to quote from ‘Farewell to Ettrick’, which it praises for ‘the most exquisite simplicity, unaffected tenderness, and pathos’. This review comments: We have delivered our opinion upon these poems, according to their intrinsic value, without expressing a doubt of their authenticity. It remains for us to observe that, though we are

INTRODUCTION

xlvii

inclined, upon the whole, to believe them genuine, they are not free from circumstances which require explanation. Neither Mr. Scott, to whom they are dedicated, nor any other friend of the author, has thought fit to bear direct testimony that they are the original productions of one and the same poet. The Scottish dialect sometimes almost wholly disappears, as in “Willie Wilkin” and “Mess John.” The list of subscribers, which is declared, in an advertisement prefixed to the volume, to have been “liberal and highly respectable,” is witholden; and “those circumstances of the author,” which are there said to have “prevented the possibility of collecting their names,” are not stated. We trust that every possible objection of this kind will soon be removed. At all events, the poems have an indisputable claim to public notice, as they cannot fail to charm every musical ear, and to touch every feeling heart.49 Life in Nithsdale as a hired shepherd of Mr Harkness was undoubtedly hard. Nevertheless, Hogg had no reason to feel embarassment about the reception of The Mountain Bard, and the money he gained from the publication of that book and The Shepherd’s Guide in 1807 enabled him to set up as a farmer in Dumfriesshire.

6. Revising The Mountain Bard: The 1821 Edition Unfortunately, Hogg’s farming ventures did not prosper, and, as he explains in the 1821 version of his ‘Memoir’, in 1810 he found it necessary to move to Edinburgh in order to attempt to earn a living as a professional writer. Success did not come quickly, but in 1813 the publication of his book-length poem The Queen’s Wake brought Hogg fame, and for a period during the 1810s he came to be regarded as one of the leading British poets, someone to be mentioned alongside Scott and Byron. Hogg was a prolific poet in the 1810s, and as the decade advanced he began to form plans for making available a multi-volume matching set of his collected works, each volume of which could also be sold as a separate item. Hogg by this time had close links with the Edinburgh publisher William Blackwood, but their working relationship was not always an easy one, 50 and proposals for a Blackwood-published collected works came to nothing. However, in 1820 the Edinburgh firm of Oliver & Boyd published a highly successful collection of Hogg’s short stories, Winter Evening Tales: indeed, a second edition was required in 1821. In these circumstances,

xlviii

INTRODUCTION

Hogg explored the possibility of having his collected works published by Oliver & Boyd. Hogg envisioned a revised and enlarged Mountain Bard as part of the projected collected works. Writing on 5 February 1820 to George Boyd of Oliver & Boyd, Hogg urged the publisher to buy up copies of the second edition of The Poetic Mirror and Dramatic Tales, still held by London publishers Longman & Co., who with John Ballantyne in Edinburgh had published Dramatic Tales (1817) and The Poetic Mirror (1816): […] I wished you particularly to make this purchase which I know you would get very cheap as I wish to throw the next edition of my poetry into your hands in 12mo. In exact uniformity with the above two works so that being in possession of them will save editions of both. Whether you or Mr. Blackwood publish the edition these remaining copies will answer the same purpose but he has declined or put it off so long that I care not for mentioning it again. The Mountain Bard will make one vol Songs &c a second. The Pilgrims and Mador of the Moor a third The Queen’s Wake a fourth and the first mentioned works other three seven in all and every one of them may be sold separately as well as in sets. At all events I think you should lose no time in securing the remainder of these editions.51 He reiterated these concerns in a letter of 8 March 1820 to Boyd, in which he also engages in negotiating terms for the third edition of The Mountain Bard (Letters II , p. 17). And on 21 June 1820 he wrote to Oliver and Boyd, I send you in the first half of the Mountain Bard to begin printing, as I know how slow you are and I want it out on Novr. and must have the proofs through my hands. Although Boyde has never made me any answer to my demand yet I have no fears that we shall differ in our terms. You will never find me greedy. Mr. Scott. Sir W. I should say has given me what he calls an infallible rule to go by. which is. That for 1000 copies I am entitled to One Sixth of the retail price of the whole, and for 2000 one fifth Messrs Longman & co have gone on the same principle with me and rather better. But as I want a set of my works to fall into your hands I am willing to refer it to yourselves. The work is to be the same type size and price of The Poetic Mirror. The edition I think should not be more than

INTRODUCTION

xlix

1000 about 1800 have been sold already but they have been out of print for these seven years. (Letters II , p. 33) Nothing appears in Hogg’s letters regarding what was involved in the process of revising The Mountain Bard for publication in 1821, and it seems that on this occasion he was very much in control of the preparation of the new edition. The outcome was a volume very different from the Mountain Bard of 1807. One important change involved the introductory ‘Memoir’, which was substantially extended for the 1821 edition in order to include a detailed and forceful account of Hogg’s experiences as a labouring-class outsider who was attempting to establish himself as a professional writer in the Edinburgh of the 1810s. There were also important changes with regard to the poems themselves. The 1807 collection of poems opens with ten ‘Ballads, in Imitation of the Antients’. All of these ballad imitations are retained in 1821, albeit with extensive revisions. Thereafter, however, the poems contained in the 1807 and 1821 versions of The Mountain Bard diverge widely. In 1807, the second of the two groups of poems is devoted to ‘Songs Adapted to the Times’. This section contains eleven items, only seven of which are in fact songs: in the 1807 collection Hogg seems to have tried to use this section to demonstrate the range and variety of his poetic output, and to show that he was more than a rustic songster with a talent for ballad imitation. In 1821, however, the section entitled ‘Songs Adapted to the Times’ is dropped from The Mountain Bard, presumably because Hogg was planning to place his songs elsewhere in his projected Collected Works. Instead, the 1821 Mountain Bard offers a new concluding sequence of seven poems. The first poem in the new sequence is ‘The Wife of Crowle’, a retelling in ballad form of a story that had appeared in Hogg’s 1820 collection, Winter Evening Tales (see the present edition’s Editorial Notes). Clearly, this is an appropriate addition to the collection.52 ‘The Wife of Crowle’ is followed by something much more unexpected, a new long poem called ‘The Lairde of Kirkmabreeke’, which, Hogg tells us in his headnote, has been added to his ballad collection ‘as an original in that style of composition’. Famously, Hogg once boldly claimed that his own ‘mountain and fairy’ school of poetry was superior to Scott’s ‘chivalry school’,53 and in the present edition’s Editorial Notes it is argued that ‘The Lairde of Kirkmabreeke’ can be read as an outrageous and disturbing send-up—a reductio ad absurdum, indeed—of the chivalry school’s testosterone-fulled and revenge-driven stories of heroic aristocratic violence. Hogg makes a

l

INTRODUCTION

similar attack on the values of ‘chivalry’ in his novel The Three Perils of Man (1823). In the present edition, ‘The Lairde of Kirkmabreeke’ is reprinted for the first time since 1821. After ‘The Lairde of Kirkmabreeke’, the 1821 Mountain Bard continues with the first appearance in print of ‘The Tweeddale Raide’. Hogg tells us in his headnote that this ‘ballad was written by my nephew, Robert Hogg, student in the College of Edinburgh, on purpose for insertion in the Edinburgh Annual Register’—a periodical publication with which Walter Scott was closely associated. The ballad was rejected: ‘but’, Hogg adds, ‘if it is not a good imitation of the old Border Ballad, I never saw one’. Here, Hogg seems to be implying, is yet another example of the kind of class prejudice described in his ‘Memoir’. Hogg’s point is that, for someone of his background, real and serious obstacles of class prejudice had to be overcome in order to achieve success in the literary world of Edinburgh. ‘The Tweeddale Raide’ is the last of the ballad imitations in Hogg’s 1821 collection. The volume then concludes with four of his early poems in the old eighteenth-century Scottish vernacular tradition, three of which are revised versions of items from the 1807 Mountain Bard. The remaining poem (‘Robin an’ Nanny’) is published in 1821 for the first time. As a result of all these changes, the 1821 Mountain Bard is very different from the 1807 version. To note this is not to suggest that in the 1821 Mountain Bard Hogg attempts to restore his own pre-1807 versions of his early poems. For one thing, this would not have been possible: it seems likely that he no longer had access to all his pre1807 manuscripts. For another thing, Hogg had changed: no longer the impecunious shepherd of 1807, he reclaims and re-shapes The Mountain Bard in 1821 in his new capacity as the famous and respected ‘Author of The Queen’s Wake’ (as he described himself on many a titlepage). In the run-up to publication, Hogg was confident that the new edition would sell, and he was also cognizant that the enlarged ‘Memoir’, which included his entry into Edinburgh literary society, would draw attention: I write to say you may be going on with the Mountain Bard and correct the press yourselves all the way till you come to the incomparable Laird of Kirkmabreeke which I must look over for fear of mistakes in the obsolete language. […] You will sell most of the Mountain Bard of any thing. My life in Edin. will raise some speculation (Letters II , p. 45)

INTRODUCTION

li

Though understated, Hogg’s surmise regarding that ‘some speculation’ would be raised by the expanded ‘Memoir’ is supported by his desire for absolute secrecy about the ‘Memoir’ before the volume appeared, as is evident from his letter of 16 October 1820 to the publisher: I will send you in the memoirs of my life with next week’s carrier and remember if one person see a page of it either in print or manuscript till it issues from the press it cuts our connection for ever. There are so many officious people to meddle with every thing of mine that this precaution is absolutely necessary. I have strong suspicious it was some meddlers of that cast who made you leave out without asking my leave the dedication to Dr Morris of the Tales,54 which I meant as an apology for the manner there described and the loss of which was a greater one to the work than the loss of the best tale would have been. It could never be for the paltry consideration of printing two pages along with the title altho’ that was the excuse you made for leaving it out. Let me therefore know by letter if I may depend on it that no one out of the offices sees any part of this life till published, for without that promise I will not send you the M.S. at all. (Letters II , pp. 49–50) Oliver & Boyd replied with the promise, ‘that no person unconnected with the printing of it shall see a page, unless by your express order, until it comes before the public’ (Letters II , 51). On 6 November Hogg wrote to the publishers, I have all the new edition of the Mountain Bard ready copied out save a small fragment of a ballad entitled Glendonnen’s Raide. […] The memoir of my life to be printed in the same type as in the foregoing editions of the same work in a good round type. The sooner you get on with it the better both for yourselves and me as it has been many years out of print and will raise curiosity very much. (Letters II , 57–58) On 20 November, Hogg wrote, ‘I send you what remains of The Mountain Bard that you may get on as fast as possible. You now have it all save a small part of one ballad and if that part is not found leave it out altogether’ (Letters II , p. 59). The incomplete ballad was ‘Glendonnen’s Raid’, printed in the present edition’s second Appendix and discussed in the corresponding Editorial Notes. Hogg had written to Oliver & Boyd on 28 July 1820,

lii

INTRODUCTION

The mountain Bard is all ready for the press with many curious additions to that you may go in with it as fast and as soon as you like It should be out in Dec r. and I pledge my judgement that it shall sell. (Letters II , p. 38) Oliver & Boyd’s edition of The Mountain Bard did not in fact appear until March 1821. It is described on its titlepage as ‘the third edition’, presumably because the collection had been published in two formats (duodecimo and octavo) in 1807. The 1821 edition sold for 10s. 6d., and consisted of 1000 copies. It appears that Hogg received a payment of £87–10s. for it from his publishers. 55

7. The Reception of the 1821 Edition During the period before publication of the 1807 Mountain Bard, there had been a united front against the Napoleonic threat, but by 1821 the political climate had changed. It was a time of agitation for radical political reform; the working classes were perceived as challenging a system which had always been dominated by the interests of the aristocracy and gentry. Writing about the western Lowlands of Scotland during the second half of the 1810s, T. M. Devine describes the emergence of ‘insurrectionary cells bent on achieving the overthrow of government by physical force’. In England, the year 1819 saw the Peterloo Massacre, in which a peaceful gathering in Manchester was fired upon by soldiers. The following year a rising in Glasgow was violently repressed in what came to be called the ‘Radical War’; three of the leaders of the protest were executed for treason. To the government, the Radical War represented a serious and far-reaching threat, as Devine explains: The middle classes, terrified by fear of revolution and the danger to property, closed ranks behind the government and, as they had done in the 1790s, filled the ranks of the yeomanry and volunteer regiments established to police potentially seditious communities. 56 It was within this context that the appearance of Hogg’s 1821 Mountain Bard, with its assertive ‘Memoir’, ruffled feathers in the Edinburgh literary establishment. If Hogg’s 1807 ‘Memoir’ had been received with condescension, often of a gentle variety, the expanded ‘Memoir’ in the 1821 Mountain Bard provoked extremely hostile reactions. The attacks on the ‘Memoir’ reflect anxieties among the classes who worried over challenges to the older order; and a shep-

INTRODUCTION

liii

herd-poet who dared to mingle in affairs above his class became the subject of personal abuse and ridicule. This is nowhere more apparent than in the anonymously-written letter to ‘Christopher North’ and published in the August 1821 number of Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine, in which Hogg’s ‘Memoir’ is subjected to over-the-top denigration and rebuke, coloured by a sense of class-based defensiveness. The review-letter is signed ‘An Old Friend with a New Face’, and John Wilson, a leading figure in the Edinburgh literary world of the early 1820s, was in reality both Christopher North and the Old Friend. Notable is the association of Hogg with animal nature and physical grossness, which was to become a feature of reviews of Hogg and representations of him by the Blackwood’s crowd in the Noctes Ambrosianae throughout the 1820s.57 This can be seen clearly in ‘From an Old Friend with a New Face’, published in the August 1821 number of Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine: He is liker a swineherd in the Canongate, than a shepherd in Ettrick Forest. I shall never again think of him without the image of an unclean thing; and for his sake, I henceforth forswear the whole swinish generation. Roast pig shall never more please my palate—pickled pork may go to the devil—brawn, adieu!—avaunt all manner of hams—sow’s cheek, Fare thee well! and if for ever, Still for ever, Fare thee well! What you can possibly see to admire in Jamie Hogg, is to me quite a puzzle. He is the greatest boar on earth, you must grant; and, for a decent wager, I undertake, in six weeks, to produce six as good poets as he is, from each county in Scotland, over and above the Falkirk Cobler, the Chaunting Tinsmith, Willison Glass, and the Reverend Mr ———.58 Castigating Hogg for inflicting the public with another ‘Memoir’, Old Friend complains, ‘No man from the country has a right thus to become a public nuisance’ (p. 43), and of this country-man’s audacious entry into Edinburgh, he writes, this prodigy tires of the shepherd’s life, and comes jogging into Edinburgh; he offers his ballads and balderdash, at sundry times, and in divers manners, to all the booksellers in Edinburgh, high and low, rich and poor, but they are all shy as trouts under thunder—not one will bite. No wonder. Only picture to yourself a stout country lout, with a bushel of hair on

liv

INTRODUCTION

his shoulders that had not been raked for months, enveloped in a coarse plaid impregnated with tobacco, with a prodigious mouthful of immeasurable tusks, and a dialect that set all conjecture at defiance, lumbering suddenly in upon the elegant retirement of Mr Miller’s backshop, or the dim seclusion of Mr John Ogle! Were these worthies to be blamed if they fainted upon the spot, or run out yelling into the street past the monster, or, in desperation, flung themselves into safety from a back window over ten stories? Mr Hogg speaks of his visits to booksellers’ shops at this period with the utmost nonchalance. What would he himself have thought, if a large surly brown bear, or a huge baboon, had burst open his door when he was at breakfast, and helped himself to a chair and a mouthful of parritch? (p. 45) In similar terms, he dismisses Hogg’s periodical The Spy (1810–11) as ‘gross impertinence’. The ‘Forum’, the debating society in which Hogg was involved in the early 1810s, and which he discusses in the ‘Memoir’ in the 1821 Mountain Bard, is described as a congregation of misfits, and here the underpinning of class anxiety takes centrestage: who composed the select society of the Niddry Street Forum? Young grocers, redolent of cheese, comfits, and tallow-candles, who dealt out their small, greasy, fetid sentences, as if they were serving a penny customer across the counter with something odious in brown paper,—precocious apprentices,— one of whom, in all probability, had made or mended the president’s unpaid breeches,—occasional young men obviously of little or no profession, who rose, looked wildly round them, muttered, sunk, and were seen no more,—now and then a blunt bluff butcher-like block-head, routing like a bull on a marketday in the Grass Market,—stray students of medicine from the sister-island, booming like bitterns in the bog of Allen,—longfaced lads from Professor Paxton, dissenters from everything intelligible among men,—laymen from Leeds, and Birmingham, Hull, and Halifax, inspired with their red port wines, and all stinking like foxes of the strong Henglish-accent,—pert, prim, prating personages, who are seen going in, and coming out of the Parliament House, nobody knows why, or wherefore,— mealy-mouthed, middle-aged men, of miscellaneous information, masters of their matter, all cut and dry, distinguished as private pedagogues, great as grinders, and powerful in extem-

INTRODUCTION

lv

poraneous prayer,—now and then a shrivelled mummy, apparently of the reign of George the II. with dry dusty leathern palate, seen joining in the debate,—stickit ministers who have settled down into book-binders, compositors, or amanuenses to some gentlemen literarily disposed,—apothecaries deep in dog-latin, and tenderly attached to words of six or eight syllables, such as latitudinarianism,—a sprinkling of moist members from mason-lodges, dropping in when the discussion is about half-seas-over,—and finally, for there is no end to this, a few players and scene-shifters (for on Friday night the theatre is shut,) assiduous in their noble endeavours to revive the study of Shakespeare, and making the Forum resound with screeds of blank verse, out of mouths as unmerciful as leaden spouts on a rainy day. (p. 47) The review thus ridicules Hogg’s pretensions to literary distinction, but in this rant the aspirations of a large segment of Scottish society are also brutally dismissed. The letter from John Wilson in his guise as ‘Old Friend’ is followed by an editorial comment by John Wilson in his guise as ‘C. N.’, in which ‘North’ as the supposed editor of Blackwood’s seemingly attempts to temper the negativity of Old Friend’s letter by suggesting that ‘seriously we do think, that among all those whom it must constrain to laughter, none will “rax his jaws” more freely than the Shepherd himself’ (p. 52). Hogg, however, was not amused; and he was mortified to learn that the author was his supposed friend John Wilson wearing a new and unfriendly face. Elsewhere, the poetry of the 1821 Mountain Bard elicited some positive commentary; reception of the volume as a whole, however, was coloured by widespread disapproval of the expanded ‘Memoir’, particularly the section perceived as critical of Scott and the section detailing Hogg’s dealings with the publisher Goldie with regard to The Queen’s Wake.59 Reviewers kindly disposed towards Hogg comment on his maturation as a poet: his technical skills have improved, his work has taken on a more individual character, and his reputation is now well established. The Monthly Review expresses its approval in the following terms: It is with real satisfaction that we perceive, in these products of Mr. Hogg’s muse, the marks of his improvement in traits of simple and not inelegant poesy. His fancy does not wing a high flight: but his diction is visibly more correct, and less at variance with the rules of good taste and propriety than those specimens on which we have before animadverted. […] We

lvi

INTRODUCTION

find him now established in the world, but retaining the native impetuosity and honest independence of his character.60 This reviewer finds most interesting the pieces ‘which are founded on historical facts or old tradition’ as ‘successful imitations of the style of the old ballad’, citing as an example ‘Sir David Graeme’ (p. 431). The majority of reviews foreground the ‘Memoir’, condemning the publication of Hogg’s dealings with literary Edinburgh as indiscreet, rash, and showing poor judgement. The Monthly Review follows up its mostly-positive commentary with regrets: We wish we could add that he exercised a requisite degree of discretion in literary matters: but his contributions to some periodical works do him little credit:61 though he asserts that his manuscript was seasoned with a good deal of devilry, by other persons.—It would be kindness to Mr. Hogg to omit all mention of his quarrel with Sir Walter Scott: but it is due to the benevolence and humanity of the latter to state that, in a season of affliction and sickness, the shepherd received from him the most prompt and friendly assistance (p. 431). In a brief commentary, the New Monthly Magazine finds in The Mountain Bard ‘a good deal that may amuse’, but again the ‘Memoir’ draws criticism: ‘We are not disposed to quarrel with industry and intelligence for any success which they may compass. But all this is told with a too obvious self-applause. This is in bad taste, and Mr. Hogg should learn, that modesty is among the surest indications of genuine talent’.62 Certainly, Hogg’s revelations struck raw nerves within the small world of Edinburgh publishing. Perhaps the most vociferous response came from George Goldie, publisher of the first three editions of The Queen’s Wake, who called for suppression of the passages in which Hogg accuses him of improper conduct; Goldie bitterly countered Hogg’s account in a pamphlet, Letter to a Friend in London (1821). Writing to Oliver & Boyd on 18 June 1821 Hogg initially dismisses Goldie: ‘I was told yesterday that you were exceedingly vexed about poor Goldie’s farrago of impotent rage and deemed that I would be terribly hurt by it. I have been far more hurt by a flea biting me on the posteriors and had Margt not seen it by ill luck I never saw aught that I would have laughed so heartily at’ (Letters II , p. 88). Oliver & Boyd apparently urged Hogg to comply with Goldie’s demands, to which he angrily responded,

INTRODUCTION

lvii

I’ll see the firm of Oliver & Boyd and the dog Goldie d—d to hell before I suffer a syllable of aught I have ever published to be altered. I have a prosecution for a libel out against him already let him look to himself and to me; with you he has nothing to do (24 June 1821, Letters II , p. 91). A lengthy critique of the 1821 Mountain Bard appeared in the Edinburgh Monthly Review, apparently written by the well-known and respected Scottish antiquary David Laing: Were we left to form our estimate of the mental powers of the Ettrick Shepherd, (to give him his poetical name,) solely from the memoir of his life affixed to this new edition of the “Mountain Bard,” we should be inclined to rate them very low, and think his intellects, if not really weak, at least uninfluenced by sound sense. That he has acted unadvisedly in publishing this memoir, we think will be generally allowed; and he himself, it is hoped, will, in time, be of the same opinion. To make public what may have been said in ordinary conversation, or occurred in familiar and personal transactions, however common the practice, must be condemned. But what are those to think of Mr. Hogg, who are unacquainted with him in private life, when, besides this, they see him voluntarily and unnecessarily making confessions, and placing himself in that ludicrous point of view in which we are persuaded few men would wish to be found? That he has done so will not be questioned; and, when too late, he perhaps may regret such inconsiderate rashness and folly. Mr. Hogg’s reputation stands tolerably high in public esteem, and it is painful to think he should have done any thing to lessen it. The public have often enough been informed by what means he succeeded in raising himself to so respectable a situation in the scale of literary merit, and therefore no such exposure as he has chosen to make was called for;—besides, all that may be requisite of this sort comes with better grace from a friend than from the individual himself. Still we must confess, that we have been greatly amused with this piece of auto-biography; and, in place of visiting him with that degree of censure which some people think he has justly merited, having generosity enough to find some excuse for him, as we verily believe he is entirely free from sordid or unworthy motives, we shall content ourselves with extracting some of its

lviii

INTRODUCTION

more curious passages, interspersing them with occasional remarks on the character of his different publications. 63 While the reviewer does not dispute Hogg’s ‘seeming candour and integrity’, and though aware of counter-arguments is ‘persuaded of the truth of what he relates’, Hogg’s public airing of grievances is deplored: ‘Had he consulted his friends on this occasion, as we presume he did not, they unquestionably would have voted for its suppression. After all, what has this memoir to do with a new edition of the Mountain Bard?’.64 In a letter of 27 June 1821 to George Boyd, Hogg addresses the criticisms of the ‘Memoir’ more broadly: I hope you do not estimate my mind by Davie Laing’s canting and insolent review or by your friend Goldie’s notorious lies. Wo is me if I am to be measured by the trade! Surely you could not be serious in your advice to me to cancel aught for Goldie after what he has circulated against me? How could you talk of the feelings of such a tike? Does he think no body has any feelings but him. However he has done that which will bring him to the pillory if my law friends in Edin. are not mistaken. I neither could have expected such an insolent for such an ignorant review from D. Laing. Why all the canting about the memoir being in the Mountain Bard? Did not he see at once as any man of the least common sense would have done that the thing was inevitable. Sir W. Scott had published a sketch from some letters of mine in the first edition I could not out of respect for him cancel that sketch and to have left it as it was when my literary life was but just commencing would have been perfectly absurd But the whole is a tissue of impertinence ignorance and nonsense very like a bookseller’s review (Letters II , 94–95) Reactions from further afield are less vociferous in their commentary. The London Literary Gazette published a lengthy consideration of Hogg’s work; while focusing almost exclusively on the ‘Memoir’, it reflects a sympathetic view of the poet’s history and productions: Though we are not, in this Southern part of the Island, so well acquainted with the circumstances which give consequence to the writers in the north, as to be able minutely to appreciate their characters; there has, nevertheless, been so much of the fame of the Ettrick Shepherd blown hither, that we took up the memoir of his life with considerable interest. Nor has it disap-

INTRODUCTION

lix

pointed us; for it is as peculiar a bit of auto-biography as could be met with; and, while it displays the writer in odd colours, supplies some curious particulars relative to the literature (especially the periodical literature) of Scotland. Mr. Hogg is, however, a phenomenon of the rarest kind among the Scotch authors. Of his vanity and egotism, he makes no secret; but proud of his advance from the humblest rank of life to literary note, by his own exertions, he speaks so entirely without disguise of his pretensions that it has much the appearance of presumption. But the critic must be fastidious indeed, who would visit this offence with harshness; for James Hogg went to service as a herd-boy at the age of seven years, and has had no education, not even “Reading made Easy,” but what he has acquired by his own diligence, and improved by his own zeal. Self-taught, and self-raised, is it surprising that he should be a little self-satisfied, and self-praised? It is not only natural, but allowable, that extraordinary men should have a licence beyond the common; we say it in a whisper, we are not sure that modesty in such is always a virtue.65 The London Review and Literary Journal reproduces some of the Literary Gazette’s commentary and concludes with the following pronouncement: We had intended giving extracts from some of the poetical pieces in this voume; but find we cannot, without injury to the whole, produce a part, and, therefore, can only assure our readers, that they will find many very pleasing and characteristic poems in The Mountain Bard, which will repay them for the search we recommend may be made for them. Speaking, in conclusion, of the entire publication, we again repeat that it is not without faults, and that many of it’s [sic] passages are very amenable to severe reproof. But still some of them may possibly be accounted for from the peculiarity of the circumstances, or the characters of the people, who are supposed to call them forth. We believe Mr. Hogg, from an ingenuous mind and a desire to give the whole truth, forgot that it is not to be spoken at all times, and that he made what he conceives to be necessity a plea for everything else. With these reservations, however, we give our vote of content to The Mountain Bard, and our recommendation and introduction of it to our readers, sincerely wishing that the “Ayes may have it”.66 This wish that ‘the “Ayes may have it”’ did not prevail. The hos-

lx

INTRODUCTION

tile reaction to the ‘Memoir’ in the 1821 Mountain Bard was damaging for Hogg, and undoubtedly played a part in persuading Oliver & Boyd, who had very successfully published Winter Evening Tales in 1820, to reject of Hogg’s new ‘border romance’, eventually published in London in 1822 as The Three Perils of Man. The loss of Oliver & Boyd was a serious blow. However, Hogg’s hopes for a collected edition did come to fruition in 1822, when a four-volume edition of his Poetical Works was published in Edinburgh by Archibald Constable. As a supporter of the Whigs, Constable no doubt felt sympathetic towards Hogg as a poet of the poeple, and lent him his support as part of the shifting alliances of the ongoing contest between the Whigs and Tories of literary Edinburgh.

8. The Mountain Bard since 1821 The Mountain Bard, having appeared on its own in the 1821 edition, was not included in the 1822 Constable edition of the Poetical Works. Indeed, it did not again appear as an entire collection during Hogg’s lifetime. However, one major component of The Mountain Bard did make a prominent reappearance. ‘The Memoir of the Life of James Hogg’ was revised and expanded in 1832 as ‘Memoir of The Author’s Life’, the introductory text of Altrive Tales, the first and only published volume of a projected collected edition of Hogg’s writings to be published by James Cochrane and Co., of London. In the 1807 version of the ‘Memoir’ Hogg was staking a claim to be considered a Mountain Bard, mediator between Borders tradition and literary society. The 1821 version of the ‘Memoir’ takes forward the development of his literary identity in presenting his experiences in the 1810s as a professional writer in the midst of a teeming and shifting literary scene in Edinburgh. In the 1832 version prefacing Altrive Tales, we see Hogg’s final word on his life, from the standpoint of a professional man of letters.67 Now he is distanced somewhat from the fray, no longer embroiled in controversy but instead reminiscing. The following new paragraph prefaces his narrative: I like to write about myself: in fact, there are few things which I like better; it is so delightful to call up old reminiscences. Often have I been laughed at for what an Edinburgh editor styles my good-natured egotism, which is sometimes any thing but that; and I am aware that I shall be laughed at again. But I care not: for this important Memoir, now to be brought forward

INTRODUCTION

lxi

for the fourth time, at different periods of my life, I shall narrate with the same frankness as formerly; and in all, relating either to others or myself, speak fearlessly and unreservedly out. Many of those formerly mentioned are no more; others have been unfortunate; but of all I shall tell the plain truth, and nothing but the truth. So, without premising further, I shall proceed with an autobiography, containing much more of a romance than mere fancy could have suggested; and shall bring it forward to the very hour at which I am writing.67 Some general observations might be made regarding the revisions that Hogg made to the ‘Memoir’ between 1821 and 1832. There were additions, including one praising Byron and lamenting the loss of letters from the poet. But significantly, in this last version of the ‘Memoir’ he does not retract the contentious statements regarding Scott and Goldie that had sparked disapproval of the 1821 version. In addition, he includes a number of mellow anecdotes that further the Hogg myth. Among them is an anecdote about Hogg’s experiences as a young boy employed as a cow-herd: Even at that early age my fancy seems to have been a hard neighbour for both judgment and memory. I was wont to strip off my clothes, and run races against time, or rather against myself; and, in the course of these exploits, which I accomplished much to my own admiration, I first lost my plaid, then my bonnet, then my coat, and, finally, my hosen; for, as for shoes, I had none. In that naked state did I herd for several days, till a shepherd and maid-servant were sent to the hills to look for them, and found them all.68 Another new passage in 1832 tells of Hogg’s first exposure to the poetry and legend of Burns, an anecdote retrospectively constructed as the start of his quest to follow Burns’s path: The first time I ever heard of Burns was in 1797, the year after he died. One day during that summer a half daft man, named John Scott, came to me on the hill, and to amuse me repeated Tam o’ Shanter. I was delighted! I was far more than delighted— I was ravished! I cannot describe my feelings; but, in short, before Jock Scott left me, I could recite the poem from beginning to end, and it has been my favourite poem ever since. He told me it was made by one Robert Burns, the sweetest poet that ever was born; but that he was now dead, and his place would never be supplied. He told me all about him, how he

lxii

INTRODUCTION

was born on the 25th of January, bred a ploughman, how many beautiful songs and poems he had composed, and that he had died last harvest, on the 21st of August. This formed a new epoch of my life. Every day I pondered on the genius and fate of Burns. I wept, and always thought with myself – what is to hinder me from succeeding Burns? I too was born on the 25th of January, and I have much more time to read and compose than any ploughman could have, and can sing more old songs than ever ploughman could in the world. But then I wept again because I could not write. However, I resolved to be a poet, and to follow in the steps of Burns. 69 After publication of the 1821 Mountain Bard, Hogg discontinued keeping the journal that had provided the material of his earlier versions of the ‘Memoir’.70 Instead, the autobiography is extended in the form of his ‘Reminiscences of Former Days’, some passages of which centre on well-known personalities such as Walter Scott and William Wordsworth. Here may be found the story of Hogg’s mother’s rebuke of Scott for printing her ballads, as well as anecdotes such as one regarding Hogg’s attempt to sing ‘Gilmanscleuch’ to Scott and his first meeting with Allan Cunningham: all recounted years after the occurrences, and all touched with the storyteller’s gloss. 71 The poems of The Mountain Bard were included as a unit in the posthumous, five-volume edition of Hogg’s Poetical Works (1838–40), published by Blackie & Son of Glasgow. There the collection followed the contents of the 1821 version of The Mountain Bard, with the following exceptions: ‘May of the Moril Glen’ was added, and ‘The Lairde of Kirkmabreeke’ was deleted, never to be reprinted until the present edition. Deletion of this outrageous and provocative piece changes the nature of Hogg’s 1821 collection significantly. Then, in 1840, a volume containing The Mountain Bard and The Forest Minstrel was published in Glasgow by George Love. Edith Batho observes that here The Mountain Bard has ‘no decication or memoir’, and she continues: ‘The text is that of 1807, but the contents agree with 1821, with the exception of The Tweeddale Raide and May Moril of the Glen, and the inclusion of the Epistle to Mr T. M. C.’.72 The Mountain Bard was most readily accessible to nineteenth- and twentieth-century readers in the Rev. Thomas Thomson’s often-reprinted and well-known two-volume Victorian edition of Hogg’s Works, published by Blackie & Son of Glasgow. Thomson’s edition was firmly based on the Blackie edition of the Poetical Works of 1838– 40, and this meant that its Mountain Bard (lacking ‘The Lairde of

INTRODUCTION

lxiii

Kirkmabreeke’) was in effect an imperfect reflection of Hogg’s 1821 text. With Hogg’s works collected in this way, the 1821 version of The Mountain Bard became established as the definitive text, even as 1807 was recognised as the collection’s year of publication, and even as The Mountain Bard was seen as the defining expression of Hogg’s early career as a poet. It has become clear during the process of editing The Mountain Bard for the S/SC Edition that the absence of readily available texts of the two major versions, as well as of the pre-1807 material, has skewed interpretation of these fundamental moments in Hogg’s career.

9. The Present Edition The current edition allows The Mountain Bard to become properly and fully visible for the first time as the multiple-version text that it truly is. It presents, firstly, the complete 1807 collection; then, in an appendix, the surviving pre-1807 versions of the texts that were eventually included in The Mountain Bard. The complete 1821 collection then follows, and a second appendix contains ‘Glendennon’s Raid’, a ballad which first appeared in the Scots Magazine in 1808 and which Hogg hoped at a very late stage to include in the 1821 edition of The Mountain Bard. Governing the editorial policy for this edition is the principle that each manifestation of The Mountain Bard reflects the author’s circumstances at the time when that particular version was prepared. In this, The Mountain Bard is similar to various other texts of the Romantic era, including The Prelude and ‘The Rime of the Ancient Mariner’. Hogg’s own poem The Queen’s Wake provides another example, as Douglas Mack’s S/SC edition of 2004 has demonstrated. In recent years a consensus has emerged that, in cases of this kind, the modern reader is best served by having access to editions of the multiple versions. This new consensus reflects what Paul Werstine has described as ‘the recent shift in editorial culture from the New Bibliographers’ concern with establishing authorial final intentions for a work, to a recognition of the irreducible plurality of texts’.73 A notable result of this ‘recent shift in editorial culture’ is provided by the two versions of King Lear published in the Oxford Shakespeare.74 Of particular interest for an editor of The Mountain Bard are the often marked differences between the pre-1807 versions of the texts and those published in 1807. Perhaps significantly, the diction and orthography of the 1807 version resemble more closely that of many historical ballads edited by Scott for the Minstrelsy than that of Hogg’s

lxiv

INTRODUCTION

pre-1807 texts. In the present edition, the contrast between Hogg’s simpler, more direct approach in the pre-1807 texts and the affected ancientness of the 1807 texts may be readily observed. Significantly, the affected ancientness of the 1807 Mountain Bard also differs from the synthetic ‘ancient stile’ that Hogg developed during the 1810s and 1820s, and employed in some of the poems of the 1821 Mountain Bard (for example, ‘The Lairde of Kirkmabreeke’). The 1807 texts are given the air of ancient relics, but Hogg’s ‘ancient stile’ presents itself as a modern performance in the old manner. There is a similar contrast between James Macpherson’s Ossian poems and Hogg’s Ossianic epic Queen Hynde : Macpherson offers texts that claim to be relics of the work of the ancient Highland bard Ossian, but Queen Hynde offers itself, explicitly and unmistakably, as Ossianic material performed by James Hogg, the famous Ettrick Shepherd.75 Among the Mountain Bard texts, the pre-1807 versions of ‘Gilmanscleuch’, ‘Thirlestane’, ‘Sir David Græme’, and ‘Sandy Tod’ are not, and do not purport to be, from tradition, but they are much more fluid in their use of oral material and devices than the corresponding 1807 versions: they could more easily be sung than the 1807 versions or Scott’s imitations. Referring again to ‘Gilmanscleuch’, the manuscript contains more of the parallel structures associated with traditional ballads, as well as simpler diction. Similar changes may be noted between Hogg’s ballad imitations as they appeared earlier in the Scots Magazine and as revised for the 1807 Mountain Bard. In the 1805 magazine version of ‘Sir David Græme’, for example, the knight and his lady are given less dignified, chivalric treatment than in 1807. ‘The Pedlar’ of the Scots Magazine (1804) ends without the supernatural revelation of the miller’s crime and his subsequent punishment; the 1807 version expands the piece to include an entirely new ending, thirteen additional stanzas that introduce a new narrative and punish the miller’s murderous act. Evidence suggests that substantial changes were made to the pre1807 text during preparation of The Mountain Bard for press, and this raises intriguing questions about the extent to which external forces, particularly Scott’s involvement, shaped its final appearance. The volume as it appeared in 1807 is the product of a sometimes-creative, sometimes-repressive interaction with Scott very early in Hogg’s career. Less experienced than Scott in matters of publication, Hogg’s confidence in his own judgment fluctuated wildly. Perhaps Scott, Constable, and Ballantyne convinced him that the changes were necessary to prepare the poems for the reading public. Possibly suggestions from other writers who read the manuscript, such as Alan

INTRODUCTION

lxv

Cunningham, played a role as well. It can be argued, however, that the surviving pre-1807 texts reflect Hogg’s conception of The Mountain Bard, as well as his self-construction as a mountain bard, more clearly than the versions of the ballads and songs published in 1807. With the volume’s acceptance by the public, perhaps Hogg’s doubts about his advisors’ influence receded. But as Peter Garside and others have shown, having gained more experience, on many occasions Hogg found ways to exert more influence on the handling of his work before it appeared in print.76 The Mountain Bard of 1821 finds Hogg revisiting this area of his work as a now-established literary figure, with the possibility of a Collected Edition in mind. Correspondence between Hogg and his publishers during this time show an author determined to exercise control over his work, and the collection itself suggests that by this time his use of poetic technique and convention has become finely tuned, reflecting a sharpened awareness of literary convention and technique, evident for example in metrical choices that regularise the metre of the earlier versions. Hogg’s re-shaping of The Mountain Bard in 1821 was a valuable and interesting process, but did not invalidate the earlier versions of his Mountain Bard texts. By bringing together the pre-1807, 1807, and 1821 versions, the present edition makes available the whole of The Mountain Bard.

Notes 1

2 3 4 5 6 7

Hogg’s anecdote was first published as ‘Reminiscences of Former Days. My first Interview with Allan Cunnungham’, in the number of the Edinburgh Literary Journal for 16 May 1829 (pp. 374–75). It was then included in ‘Reminiscences of Former Days’ in Hogg’s Altrive Tales (London: Cochrane, 1832). It is quoted here from the Altrive Tales volume of the Stirling / South Carolina Research Edition of the Collected Works of James Hogg (hereafter S/ SC): see Hogg, Altrive Tales, ed. by Gillian Hughes (S/SC, 2003), pp. 69–70. David Hogg, The Life of Allan Cunningham (Dumfries: John Anderson & Son, 1875), pp. 8, 18. See Hogg, The Shepherd’s Calendar, ed. by Douglas S. Mack (S/SC, 1995), p. 5. John MacQueen, The Rise of the Historical Novel (Edinburgh: Scottish Academic Press, 1989), pp. 207–08. Jonathan Rose, The Intellectual Life of the British Working Classes (New Haven: Yale University Press), p. 58. Rose, pp. 18, 59. Liam McIlvanney, Burns the Radical: Poetry and Politics in Late Eighteenth-Century Scotland (East Linton: Tuckwell Press, 2002), p. 38. For further discussion of Hogg and other autodidactic poets of his time, see Valentina Bold, James

lxvi 8 9

10 11 12 13 14

15

16 17 18

19

20 21 22

23

24

INTRODUCTION

Hogg: A Bard of Nature’s Making (Frankfurt am Main: Peter Lang, 2007). Gillian Hughes, James Hogg: A Life (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2007), p. 25. G., ‘Some particulars relative to the Ettrick Shepherd’, New Monthly Magazine and Literary Journal, 46 (1836), 194–203, 335–42, 443–46 (p. 200): quoted from David Groves, ‘James Hogg and the Scots Magazine’, The Library, 6th series 10 (1987), 464–69 (p. 464). Rose, p. 60. Rose, p. 17; William Thom, Rhymes and Recollections of a Hand-Loom Weaver, 3rd edn (London: Smith, Elder, 1847), pp. 13, 15. Hogg, Anecdotes of Scott, ed. by Jill Rubenstein (S/SC, 1999), p. 8. See Douglas S. Mack, Scottish Fiction and the British Empire (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2006), pp. 14–42. See Hogg, The Queen’s Wake, ed. by Douglas S. Mack (S/SC, 2004), pp. lv–lvi. Scott’s anonymous article was reprinted in Kenneth Curry’s Sir Walter Scott’s Edinburgh Annual Register (Knoxville: University of Tennessee Press, 1997), pp. 60–99. The Collected Letters of James Hogg: Volume I 1800–1819, ed. by Gillian Hughes (S/SC, 2004), p. 64. Subsequent references to this volume are given in the text, as Letters I. The first edition (1805) of The Lay of the Last Minstrel was published by Longman in London, and by Constable in Edinburgh. Anecdotes of Scott, ed. Rubenstein, pp. 37–38. See Keith Harry, ‘The Sources and Treatment of Traditional Ballad Texts in Sir Walter Scott’s “Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border” and Robert Jamieson’s “Popular Ballads and Songs”’ (unpublished doctoral thesis, University of Aberdeen, 1975), II , 103–05; Elaine Petrie, ‘James Hogg: A Study in the Transition from Folk Tradition to Literature’ (unpublished doctoral thesis, University of Stirling), 1980, p. 92 and Appendix III, pp. 301–06; Valentina Bold, James Hogg: A Bard of Nature’s Making, p. 106. See also Elaine Petrie, ‘Odd Characters: Traditional Informants in James Hogg’s Family’, Scottish Literary Journal, 10 (May 1983), 30–41. Hogg, ‘On the Changes in the Habits, Amusements, and Condition of the Scottish Peasantry’, Quarterly Journal of Agriculture, 3 (1831–32), 256–63, reprinted in A Shepherd’s Delight: A James Hogg Anthology, ed. by Judy Steel (Edinburgh: Canongate, 1985), pp. 40–51 (p. 41). Petrie, ‘James Hogg’, p. 47. Petrie, ‘James Hogg’, pp. 45–46. Anecdotes of Scott, ed. Rubenstein, p. 38. See also Valentina Bold, ‘ “Neither right spelt not right setten doun”: Child, Scott and the Hogg Family Ballads’, in The Ballad in Scottish History, ed. by Ted Cowan (East Linton: Tuckwell Press, 2000), pp. 116–41. From Scott’s ‘Introductory Remarks on Popular Poetry and on the Various Collections of Ballads of Britain, Particularly Those of Scotland’, an essay first appended to the 1830 edition of Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border, and quoted here from the Minstrelsy, ed. by T. F. Henderson (London: Harrap, 1931), pp. 501–28 (p. 506). Linda Dégh, ‘Folk Narrative’, in Folklore and Folklife, ed. by Richard M. Dorson

INTRODUCTION

25

26 27

28 29 30 31

32 33 34

35 36

lxvii

(Chicago: Chicago University Press, 1972), pp. 53–83 (p. 74). John Miles Foley, Immanent Art: From Structure to Meaning in Traditional Oral Epic (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1991), p. 7. Configurations of authenticity have sparked much analysis of eighteenth- and nineteenth-century antiquarianism and its relation to literature. See, for example, Susan Stewart, Crimes of Writing: Problems in the Containment of Representation (Durham: Duke University Press, 1994); Fiona Robertson, ‘Fictions of Authenticity: The Frame Narratives and Notes of the Waverley Novels’, in Legitimate Histories: Scott, Gothic, and the Authorities of Fiction (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1994), pp. 117–60; Katie Trumpener, Bardic Nationalism: The Romantic Novel and the British Empire (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1997); and Ian Duncan, ‘Authenticity Effects: The Work of Fiction in Romantic Scotland’, The South Atlantic Quarterly, 102 (2003), 93–116. See The Private Memoirs and Confessions of a Justified Sinner, ed. by P. D. Garside (S/SC, 2001), pp. 135–45. See David Buchan, The Ballad and the Folk (London: Routledge, 1972), and Elaine Petrie, ‘James Hogg: A Study in the Transition from Folk Tradition to Literature’ (unpublished doctoral thesis, University of Stirling, 1980). Review of Reliques of Robert Burns, ed. by R. H. Cromek, Quarterly Review, 1 (1809), 30. Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border, 2 vols (Kelso: Printed by James Ballantyne, 1802), I, pp. xcix–c. ‘Essay, Supplementary to the Preface’, in Stephen Gill, ed., William Wordsworth (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1984), pp. 640–62 (pp. 653, 656). Letter 147 in The Letters of Robert Burns, ed. by J. De Lancey Ferguson, 2nd edn, ed. by G. Ross Roy, 2 vols (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1985), I , pp. 167– 68 (p. 168). John Gibson Lockhart, Memoirs of the Life of Sir Walter Scott, Bart, 7 vols (Edinburgh: Cadell; London: Murray and Whittaker, 1837–38), I, 303. Songs by the Ettrick Shepherd (Edinburgh: Blackwood; London: Cadell, 1831), p. 5. James Macpherson, The Poems of Ossian and Related Works, ed. by Howard Gaskill with an introduction by Fiona Stafford (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 1996), p. 170. Katie Trumpener, Bardic Nationalism: The Romantic Novel and the British Empire (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1997). For recent analyses of Macpherson’s Ossian poems from a folklore perspective, see the following articles published in the Journal of American Folklore, 114 (2001): James Porter, ‘ “Bring Me the Head of James Macpherson”: The Execution of Ossian and the Wellsprings of Folkloristic Discourse’, pp. 396–435; Joseph Falaky Nagy, ‘James Macpherson and the Ossian Epic Debate’, pp. 436–46; Thomas A. McKean, ‘The Fieldwork Legacy of James Macpherson’, pp. 447–63; and Valentina Bold, ‘Rude Bard of the North: James Macpherson and the Folklore of Democracy’, pp. 464–77. See also John Miles Foley’s response in the JAF 115 (2002), pp. 99–109: ‘Macpherson’s Ossian: Trying to Hit a Moving Target’, and Fiona Stafford’s Introduction in James Macpherson, The Poems of Ossian and Related Works, ed. by Howard Gaskell (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 1996), pp. v–xxi.

lxviii 37 38 39 40

41

42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51

52

53 54

55 56 57

58 59

INTRODUCTION

Scots Magazine, 67 (1805), 443–55, 515–22. Scots Magazine, 67 (1805), 37–45. Scott, ‘Introductory Remarks on Popular Poetry’, p. 519. Douglas S. Mack, ‘Editing James Hogg: Some Textual and Bibliographical Problems in Hogg’s Prose Works’ (unpublished doctoral thesis, University of Stirling), 1984, p. 217. Scots Magazine, 69 (1807), 283–86. The 1807 Mountain Bard received the following reviews: Annual Review and History of Literature, 6 (1807), 554–57; Cabinet, 1 ( July 1807), 332–33; Critical Review, 3rd series 12 (November 1807), 237–44; Eclectic Review, 5 (November 1809), 1062–63; Literary Annual Register, 1 (August 1807), 370–73; Literary Panorama, 2 (August 1807), 957–60; Oxford Review, 2 (November 1807), 541–48; Poetical Register, 6 (1807), 548–49; Scots Magazine, 69 (1807), 283–86. The Poetical Register, 6 (1807), 548–49. The Poetical Register, 6 (1807), 549. The Annual Review and History of Literature, 6 (1807), 554–57. Literary Panorama, 2 (1807), cols 957–60. The Cabinet: A Monthly Magazine of Polite Literature, 1 (1807), 332–33. Critical Review; or, Annals of Literature, 3rd series 12 (1807), 237–44. Eclectic Review, 5 (1807), 1062–63. Oxford Review, 2 (1807), 541–48. See Peter Garside, ‘Three Perils in Publishing: Hogg and the Popular Novel’, Studies in Hogg and his World, 2 (1991), 45–63. The Collected Letters of James Hogg: Volume II 1820–1831, ed. by Gillian Hughes (S/SC, 2006), p. 4. Subsequent references to this volume are given in the text, as Letters II . Hogg also hoped to include another ballad imitation, ‘Glendonnen’s Raid’: see this edition’s second Appendix (pp. 375–85), and the relevant Editorial Notes. See Anecdotes of Scott, ed. Rubenstein, p. 9. Hogg had intended to dedicate Winter Evening Tales (Edinburgh: Oliver & Boyd, 1820) to Dr Peter Morris, supposed author of John Gibson Lockhart’s Peter’s Letters to his Kinsfolk. See the note by Gillian Hughes in Letters II , p. 39. T. M. Devine, The Scottish Nation 1700–2000 (London: Allen Lane, 1999), pp. 226–27. See Ian Duncan, ‘Hogg’s Body’, Studies in Hogg and his World, 9 (1998), 1–15, and Douglas S. Mack, ‘John Wilson’, James Hogg, “Christopher North”, and “The Ettrick Shepherd”’, Studies in Hogg and his World, 12 (2001), 5–24. See ‘From an Old Friend With a New Face’, Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine, 10 (1821), p. 43. Future references to this article are given in the text. Reviews of the 1821 Mountain Bard include the following: [ John Wilson], Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine, 10 (1821), 43–52; European Magazine, 80 (1821), 173–81; Investigator, 4 (1822), 110–24; The London Literary Gazette, 215–16 (1821), 129–30, 147–48; The London Review and Literary Journal, 80 (1821), 173–81; Monthly Review, 2nd series 95 (1821), 428–32; Edinburgh Monthly Review, 5 (1821), 662–72; New Monthly Magazine, 3 (1821), 186–87. See also George Goldie’s reaction to Hogg’s ‘Memoir’ in the pamphlet, Letter to a Friend in

INTRODUCTION

60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67

68 69 70 71

72 73 74 75

76

lxix

London (1821), which he had re-published in 1832 when the memoir resurfaced to introduce Altrive Tales. Monthly Review, 2nd series 95 (1821), 428–32 (pp. 428, 431); future page references to this review are given in the text. The reference is to the account in Hogg’s 1821 ‘Memoir’ of the publication of ‘The Chaldee Manuscript’: see p. 225 in the present edition. New Monthly Magazine, 3 (1821), 186–87 (p. 187). Edinburgh Monthly Review, 5 (1821), 662–72 (p. 662). Edinburgh Monthly Review, 5 (1821), 662–72 (p. 671). The London Literary Gazette, 215–16 (1821), 129–30, 147–48 (p. 129). The London Review and Literary Journal, 80 (1821), 173–81 (p. 181). See Sharon Alker and Holly Faith Nelson, ‘James Hogg as Working-Class Autobiographer: Tactical Manoeuvres in a “Memoir of the Author’s Life” ’, Studies in Hogg and his World, 17 (2006),63–80. Altrive Tales, ed. Hughes, pp. 11, 13. Altrive Tales, ed. Hughes, pp. 17–18. See Altrive Tales, ed. Hughes, p. 243. For ‘Reminiscences of Former Days’, see Altrive Tales, ed. Hughes, pp. 53–78. In 1829 the sections on Scott and Cunningham had been published as separate articles in the Edinburgh Literary Journal. See Edith C. Batho, The Ettrick Shepherd (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1927), p. 187. See The Yearbook of English Studies, 29 (1999), p. 295. William Shakespeare, The Complete Works, ed. by Stanley Wells and Gary Taylor (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1988). For a discussion, see the editors’ Introduction in Hogg, Queen Hynde, ed. by Suzanne Gilbert and Douglas S. Mack (S/SC, 1998). See also Valentina Bold, ‘The Mountain Bard: James Hogg and Macpherson’s Ossian’, Studies in Hogg and his World, 9 (1998), 32–44. See Peter Garside, ‘Printing Confessions’, Studies in Hogg and his World, 9 (1998), 16–31.

lxx

INTRODUCTION

2

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

2

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

1807 VERSION

TO

WA LT E R S C O T T, E S Q . S H E R I F F O F E T T R I C K F O R E ST , AND

M I N S T R E L O F T H E S C O TT I S H B O R D E R , T H E F O L L OW I N G

TA L E S ARE

R E S PE C T F U L LY

BY HIS FRIEND

INSCRIBED

A N D H U M B L E S E R VA N T ,

THE AUTHOR.

3

4

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

1807 VERSION

Advertisement A liberal and highly respectable list of Subscribers honoured this Work with their countenance; but the circumstances of the Author, detained by the duties of his situation in a remote part of the country, has prevented the possibility of collecting their names, and prefixing them to the Book.

5

6

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

1807 VERSION

7

Memoir of the

Life of James Hogg The friend, to whom Mr Hogg made the following communication, had some hesitation in committing it to the public. On the one hand, he was sensible, not only that the incidents are often trivial, but that they are narrated in a stile more suitable to their importance to the author himself, than to their own nature and consequences. But the efforts of a strong mind, and vigorous imagination, to develope itself even under the most disadvantageous circumstances, may be always considered with pleasure, and often with profit; and if, upon a retrospect, the possessor be disposed to view with self complacency his victory over difficulties, of which he only can judge the extent, it will be readily pardoned by those who consider the author’s scanty opportunities of knowledge; and remember, that it is only on attaining the last, and most recondite, recess of human science, that we discover how little we really know. To those who are unacquainted with the pastoral scenes, in which our author was educated, it may afford some amusement to find real shepherds actually contending for a poetical prize, and to remark some other peculiarities in their habits and manners. Above all, these Memoirs ascertain the authenticity of the publication, and are, therefore, entitled to be prefixed to it. Mitchell-Slack, Nov. 1806. MY DEAR SIR ,

ACCORDING to your request, which I never entirely disregard, I am now going to give you some account of my manner of life and extensive education. I must again apprize you, that, whenever I have occasion to speak of myself, or my performances, I find it impossible to divest myself of an inherent vanity; but, making allowances for that, I will lay before you the outlines of my life, with the circumstances that gave rise to some of my juvenile pieces, and of my opinion of them, as faithfully As if you were the minister of heaven, Sent down to search the secret sins of men.

8

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

I am the second of four sons by the same father and mother, viz. Robert Hogg and Margaret Laidlaw, who, with my three brethren, are all living, and in good health. My progenitors were all shepherds of this country. My father, like myself, was bred to the occupation of a shepherd, and served in that capacity until his marriage with my mother; about which time, having saved some substance, he took a lease of the farms of Ettrickhouse and Ettrickhall. He then commenced dealing in sheep; brought up great numbers, and drove them both to the English and Scottish markets; when, at length, a great fall in the prices of sheep, and his principal debtor’s absconding, quite ruined him. A sequestration* took place. Every thing was sold by auction; and my parents were turned out of doors without a farthing in the world. I was then in the sixth year of my age, and remember well the distressed and destitute condition that we were in. At length, the late worthy Mr Bryden, of Crosslee, took compassion upon us, and, taking a short lease of the farm of Ettrickhouse, placed my father there as his shepherd, and thus afforded us the means of supporting life for a time. This gentleman continued to interest himself in our welfare, until the lamented day of his untimely death, when we lost the best friend that we had in the world. It was on this mournful occasion that I wrote the Dialogue in a Country Church-yard. ¶ At such an age, it cannot be expected that I should have made great progress in knowledge. The school-house, however, being almost at our door, I had attended for some time; and had oft-times the honour of standing at the head of that juvenile class, who read the Shorter Catechism, and Proverbs of Solomon. At the next Whitsunday after our expulsion, I was obliged to go to service; and, being only seven years of age, was hired to a farmer in the neighbourhood to herd a few cows. Next year, my parents took me home during the winter quarter, and put me to school with a lad, who was teaching the children of a neighbouring farmer. Here I advanced so far as to get into the class who read in the Bible. I had likewise, for some time before my quarter was out, tried writing; and had horribly defiled several sheets of paper with copy-lines, every letter of which was nearly an inch in length. Thus terminated my education:—After this I was never another day at any school whatever; and was again, that very spring, sent away to my old occupation of herding cows. This employment, the * i.e. Legal distress. ¶ This worthy man was killed by the fall of a tree.

1807 VERSION

9

worst and lowest known in our country, I was engaged in for several years under sundry masters, till at length I got into the more honourable one of herding sheep. There is one circumstance which hath led some to imagine, that my abilities as a servant had not been exquisite; namely, that, when I was fifteen years of age, I had served a dozen of masters; which circumstance, I myself am rather willing to attribute to my having gone to service so young, that I was yearly growing stronger, and consequently adequate to a harder task, and an increase of wages: for I do not remember of ever having served a master who refused giving me a verbal recommendation to the next, especially for my inoffensive behaviour. This character, which I, some way or other, got at my very first outset, has, in some degree, attended me ever since, and has certainly been of utility to me; yet, though Solomon avers, that “a good name is rather to be chosen than great riches,” I declare, that I have never been so much benefitted by mine, but that I would have chosen the latter by many degrees. From some of my masters I received very hard usage; in particular, while with one shepherd, I was often nearly exhausted by hunger and fatigue. All this while, I neither read nor wrote, nor had I access to any books, saving the Bible. I was greatly taken with our version of the Psalms of David, learned the most of them by heart, and have a great partiality for them unto this day. Every little pittance that I earned of wages, was carried directly to my parents, who supplied me with what cloaths I had. These were often scarcely worthy of the appellation; in particular, I remember of being exceedingly scarce of shirts. Time after time I had but two; which grew often so bad, that I was obliged to quit wearing them altogether; for, when I put them on, they hung down in long tatters as far as my heels. At these times I certainly made a very grotesque figure; for, on quitting the shirt, I could never induce my breeches to keep up to their proper sphere. When fourteen years of age, I saved five shillings of my wages, with which I bought an old violin. This occupied all my leisure hours, and hath been my favourite amusement ever since. I had commonly no spare time from labour during the day; but, when I was not over fatigued, I generally spent an hour or two every night in rubbing over my favourite old Scottish tunes;—my bed being always in stables and cow-houses, I disturbed nobody but myself. This brings to my remembrance an anecdote, the consequence of one of these nocturnal endeavours at improvement. When serving with Mr Scott of Singlee, there happened to be a dance one evening, at which a number of the friends and neighbours of the family were present. I being admitted into the room as

10

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

a spectator, was all attention to the music; and, on the company breaking up, I retired to my stable-loft, and fell to essaying some of the tunes to which I had been listening: the musician, going out on some necessary business, and not being aware that another of the same craft was so near him, was not a little surprised when the tones of my old violin assailed his ears. At first, he took it for the late warbles of his own ringing through his head; but, on a little attention, he, to his mortification and astonishment, perceived that the sounds were real; and that the tunes which he had lately been playing with such skill, were now murdered by some invisible being hard by him. Such a circumstance, at that dead hour of the night, and when he was unable to discern from what quarter the sounds proceeded, convinced him all at once that it was a delusion of the devil; and, suspecting his intentions from so much familiarity, he fled precipitately into the hall, with disorded garments, and in the utmost horror, to the no small mirth of Mr Scott, who declared, that he had lately been considerably stunned himself by the same discordant sounds. From Singlee I went to Elibank upon Tweed, where, with Mr Laidlaw, I found my situation more easy and agreeable than it had ever been. I staid there three half years, a term longer than usual; and from thence went to Willenslee, to Mr Laidlaw’s father, with whom I served as a shepherd two years; having been for some seasons preceding employed in working with horses, threshing, &c. It was, while serving here, in the 18th year of my age, that I first got a perusal of “The Life and Adventures of Sir William Wallace,” and “The Gentle Shepherd;” and though immoderately fond of them, yet (what you will think remarkable in one who hath since dabbled so much in verses) I could not help regretting deeply that they were not in prose, that every body might have understood them; or, I thought, if they had been in the same kind of metre with the “ Psalms,” I could have borne with them. The truth is, I made exceedingly slow progress in reading them: the little reading that I had learned, I had nearly lost, and the Scottish dialect quite confounded me; so that, before I got to the end of a line, I had commonly lost the rhyme of the preceding one; and if I came to a triplet, a thing of which I had no conception, I commonly read to the foot of the page without perceiving that I had lost the rhyme altogether. Thus, after I had got through them both, I found myself much in the same predicament with the man of Eskdalemuir, who borrowed Bailey’s Dictionary from his neighbour. On returning it, the lender asked him, what he thought of it? “I don’t know,” replied he, “I have read it all through,

1807 VERSION

11

but cannot say that I understand it; it is the most confused book that ever I saw in my life!” The late Mrs Laidlaw of Willenslee took some notice of me, and frequently gave me books to read while tending the ewes; these were chiefly theological: the only one that I remember any thing of, is Bishop Burnet’s Theory of the Conflagration of the Earth. Happy was it for me that I did not understand it: for the little of it that I did understand, had nearly overturned my brain altogether. All the day I was pondering on the grand millenium, and the reign of the saints; and all the night dreaming of new heavens and a new earth; the stars in horror, and the world in flames! Mrs Laidlaw also gave me sometimes the newspapers, which I pored on with great earnestness; beginning at the date, and reading straight on, through advertisements of houses and lands, Balm of Gilead, and every thing; and, after all, was often no wiser than when I began. To give you some farther idea of the progress I had made in literature;—I was about this time obliged to write a letter to my elder brother, and, having never drawn a pen for such a number of years, I had actually forgot how to make sundry of the letters of the alphabet, which I had either to print, or patch up the words in the best way that I could, without them. At Whitsunday 1790, being then in the nineteenth year of my age, I left Willenslee, and hired myself to Mr Laidlaw of Blackhouse, with whom I served as a shepherd nine years. The kindness of this gentleman to me it would be the utmost ingratitude ever to forget; for indeed it was much more like that of a father than a master; and it is not improbable that I should have been there still, had it not been for the following circumstance. My brother William had, for some time before that, occupied the farm of Ettrick-house, where he resided with our parents; but having taken a wife, and the place not suiting two families, he took another residence, and gave up the farm to me. The lease expiring at Whitsunday 1793 [i.e., 1804?], our possession was taken by a wealthier neighbour. The first time that I attempted to write verses, was in the spring of the year 1793. Mr Laidlaw having a number of valuable books, which were all open to my perusal, I, about this time, began to read with considerable attention, and, no sooner did I begin to read so as to understand, than, rather prematurely, I began to write. The first thing that ever I attempted, was a poetical epistle to a student of divinity, an acquaintance of mine. It was a piece of most fulsome flattery, and was mostly composed of borrowed lines and sentences from Dryden’s Virgil, and Harvey’s Life of Bruce. I scarcely remember one line of it.

12

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

But the first thing that ever I composed that was really my own, was a rhyme, entitled, An Address to the Duke of Buccleuch, in beha’f o’ mysel’, an’ ither poor fo’k. In the same year, after a deal of pains, I finished a song, called, The Way that the World goes on; and Wattie and Geordie’s Foreign Intelligence, an eclogue: These were my first year’s productions; and having continued to write on ever since, often without either rhyme or reason, my pieces have multiplied exceedingly. Being little conversant in books, and far less in men and manners, the local circumstances on which some of my pieces are founded, may not be unentertaining to you. It was from a conversation that I had with an old woman, from Lochaber, of the name of Cameron, on which I founded the story of Glengyle, a ballad; and likewise the ground-plot of The Happy Swains, a pastoral, in four parts. This, which I suppose you have never seen, is a dramatic piece of great length, full of trifles and blunders: part of the latter were owing to my old woman, on whose word I depended, and who must have been as ignorant of the leading incidents of the year 1746 as I was. In 1795, I began The Scotch Gentleman, a comedy, in five long acts; after having been summoned to Selkirk, as a witness against some persons suspected of fishing in close-time. This piece (part of which you have seen) is, in fact, full of faults; yet, on reading it to an Ettrick audience, which I have several times done, it never fails to produce the most extraordinary convulsions of laughter, besides considerable anxiety. The whole of the third act is taken up with the examination of the fishers; and many of the questions asked, and answers given in court, literally copied. Whether my manner of writing it out was new, I know not; but it was not without singularity. Having very little spare time from my flock, which was unruly enough, I folded, and stitched a few sheets of paper, which I carried in my pocket. I had no inkhorn; but, in place of it, I borrowed a small vial, which I fixed in a hole in the breast of my waistcoat; and having a cork, affixed by a piece of twine, it answered the purpose full as well. Thus equipped, whenever a leisure minute or two offered, I had nothing ado but to sit down and write my thoughts as I found them. This is still my invariable practice in writing prose: I cannot make out one sentence by study, without the pen in my hand to catch the ideas as they arise. I seldom, or never, write two copies of the same thing. My manner of composing poetry is very different, and, I believe, much more singular. Let the piece be of what length it will, I compose and correct it wholly in my mind, ere ever I put pen to paper,

1807 VERSION

13

when I write it down as fast as the A B C. When once it is written, it remains in that state; it being, as you very well know, with the utmost difficulty that I can be brought to alter one line, which I think is partly owing to the above practice. It is a fact, that, by a long acquaintance with any poetical piece, we become perfectly reconciled to its faults. The numbers, by frequently repeating, wear smoother to our minds; and the ideas having expanded, and commented by reflection on each particular scene or incident therein described, the mind cannot, without reluctance, consent to the alteration of any one part of it; for instance, how is the Scottish public likely to receive an improved edition of the Psalms of David? My friend, Mr William Laidlaw, hath often remonstrated to me, in vain, on the necessity of a revisal of my pieces; for, in spite of him, I held fast my integrity. He was the only person who, for many years, ever pretended to discover the least merit in any of my essays, either in prose or verse; and, as he never failed to have plenty of them about him, he took the opportunity of showing them to every person, whose capacity he supposed adequate to judge of their merit; but it was all to no purpose: he could never make a proselyte to his opinion of any note, save one, who, in a little, apostatised, and left us as we were. He even went so far as to break with some of his correspondents altogether, who persisted in their obstinacy. All this had not the least effect upon me; as long as I had his applause and my own, which never failed me, I continued to persevere. He at length had the good fortune to appeal to you, who were pleased to back him, when he came off triumphant; declaring, that the world should henceforth judge for themselves for him. I have often opposed his proposals with such obstinacy, that I was afraid of losing his countenance altogether; but none of these things had the least effect upon him; his friendship continued unimpaired, attended with the most tender assiduities for my welfare; and I am now convinced that he is better acquainted with my nature and propensities than I am myself. I have wandered insensibly from my subject; but, to return.—In the spring of the year of 1796, as Alexander Laidlaw, a neighbouring shepherd, my brother William, and myself, were resting on the side of a hill above Ettrick-church, I happened, in the course of our conversation, to drop some hints of my superior talents in poetry. William said, that, as for putting words into rhyme, it was a thing which he never could do to any sense; but that if I liked to enter the lists with him in blank verse, he would take me up for any bet that I pleased. Laidlaw declared that he would

14

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

venture likewise. This being settled, and the judges named, I accepted the challenge; but a dispute arising what was to be the subject, we were obliged to resort to the following mode of decision: Ten subjects were named, and lots cast, which of these was to be the topic; and, amongst them all, that which fell to be elucidated by our matchless pens, was,—the stars!—things which we knew little more about, than merely that they were twinkling and burning over us; to be seen every night when the clouds were away. I began with high hopes and great warmth, and in a week declared mine ready for the comparison: Laidlaw announced his next week; but my brother made us wait a full half year; and then, on being urged, presented his unfinished. The arbiters were then dispersed, and the cause was never properly judged; but those to whom they were shown, gave rather the preference to my brother’s. This is certain, that it was far superior to any of the other two in the sublimity of the ideas, but, besides being in bad measure, it is often bombastical. The title of it is, Urania’s Tour; Laidlaw’s, Astronomical Thoughts; and mine, Reflections on a View of the Nocturnal Heavens. Alexander Laidlaw and I tried, after the same manner, a paraphrase on the 117th Psalm, in English verse. Mine is preserved in MS. I continued annually to add numbers of smaller pieces of poetry and songs to my collection, mostly on subjects purely ideal, or else adapted to the times. I had, from my childhood, been affected by the frequent return of a violent pain in my bowels, which attacked me once in a friend’s house, at a distance from home, and, increasing to an inflammation, all hopes were given up of my recovery. It was while lying here, in the greatest agony, that I had the mortification of seeing the old woman, who watched with me, fall into a swoon, about the dead of the night, from a supposition that she saw my wraith: a spirit which the vulgar suppose to haunt the abodes of such as are instantly to die, to carry off the soul as soon as it is disengaged from the body. And, next morning, I overheard a consultation about borrowing sheets, wherein I was to be laid at my decease: but Almighty God, in his providence, deceived both them and the officious spirit; for, by the help of an able physician, I recovered, and have never since been troubled with the distemper. It was while confined to my bed from the effects of this dreadful malady that I composed the song, beginning, Farweel, ye Grots; fareweel, ye Glens. In the year 1800, I began and finished the two first acts of a tragedy, denominated, The Castle in the Wood; and, flattering myself that it was about to be a masterpiece, I showed it to Mr William Laidlaw,

1807 VERSION

15

my literary confessor; who, on returning it, declared it faulty in the extreme; and perceiving that he had black strokes drawn down through several of my most elaborate speeches, I cursed his stupidity, threw it away, and never added another line. My acquaintances hereabouts imagine, that the pastoral of Willie an’ Keatie, published with others in 1801, was founded on an amour of mine own. I cannot say that their surmises are entirely groundless. The publication of this pamphlet was one of the most unadvised actions that ever was committed. Having attended the Edinburgh market on Monday, with a number of sheep for sale; and being unable to sell them all, I put them into a park until the market on Wednesday. Not knowing how to pass the interim, it came into my head that I would write a poem or two from my memory, and have them printed. The thought had no sooner struck me, than I put it in practice; when I was obliged to select, not the best, but those that I remembered best. I wrote as many as I could during my short stay, and gave them to a man to print at my expence; and having sold off my sheep on Wednesday morning, I returned into the Forest, and saw no more of my poems until I received word that there were one thousand copies of them thrown off. I knew no more about publishing than the man of the moon; and the only motive that influenced me was the gratification of my vanity, by seeing my works in print. But, on the first copy coming to my hand, my eyes were opened to the folly of my conduct. When I compared it with the MS. there were numbers of stanzas wanting, and others misplaced; whilst the typographical errors were without number. Thus were my first productions pushed headlong into the world, without apprizing the public that such a thing was coming, without either patron or preface, “unhoussel’d, unanointed, unaneal’d; with all their imperfections on their heads.” “Willie and Keatie,” however, had the honour of being copied into some periodical publications of the time, as “no unfavourable specimen of the work,” although, in my opinion, the succeeding one was greatly its superior. In 1802, The Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border came into my hands; and, though I was even astonished to find such exact copies of many old songs, which I had heard sung by people who never could read a song, but had them handed down by tradition; and likewise at the conformity of the notes, to the traditions and superstitions which are, even to this day, far from being eradicated from the minds of the people amongst our mountains,—yet, I confess, that I was not satisfied with many of the imitations of the ancients. I immediately chose a number of traditional facts, and set about imitating the dif-

16

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

ferent manners of the ancients myself. The chief of these are, The Death of Douglas, Lord of Liddesdale, The Heir of Thirlestane, Sir David Graham, The Pedlar, and John Scott of Harden and the Scotts of Gilmanscleuch. The only other local circumstance on which any other of my pieces is founded, was the following:—In 1801, I went to Edinburgh on foot, and being benighted at Straiton, lodged there, where the landlord had a son deranged in his mind, whom his father described as having been formerly sensible and docile. His behaviour was very extravagant; he went out at night, and attacked the moon with great rudeness and vociferation. I was so taken with his condition, that I tarried another night on my way home, to contemplate his manner and ideas a little farther. Thinking that a person in such a state, with a proper cause assigned, was a fit subject for a poem,—before I reached home, I had all the incidents arranged, and a good many verses composed, of the pastoral tale of Sandy Tod. I think it one of the best of my tender pieces. Most of my prose essays have been written in an epistolary form. You may have seen, by the papers, that I gained two premiums from the Highland Society, for essays connected with the rearing and management of sheep. I have gone three journies into the Highlands; two on foot, and one on horseback; at each time penetrating farther, until I have seen a great part of that rough, but valuable country. I have copied out the most of my journals into letters for your perusal, and will proceed with the rest at my leisure: who knows but you may one day think of laying them before the public? I have always had a great partiality for the Highlands of Scotland, and now intend going to settle in one of its most distant corners. The issue of such an adventure, time only can reveal. ______________________________ T H E above is the substance of three letters, written at the same date; since which time I have experienced a very unexpected reverse of fortune.—After our return from the Highlands, in June last, I put every thing in readiness for our departure to settle in Harries; wrote, and published, my Fareweel to Ettrick; wherein the real sentiments of my heart, at that time, are simply related; which, probably, constitute its only claim to merit. It would be tedious and trifling, were I to relate all the disagreeable circumstances which ensued; suffice it to say, that my scheme was absolutely frustrated. Being miserably disappointed, and vexed at being thus baffled in an undertaking, about which I had talked so much,—to avoid a great

1807 VERSION

17

many disagreeable questions and explanations, I went to England during the remainder of summer. This transaction did not savour with my countrymen; they looked on me as a fugitive, and railed at me without mercy; though why, or for what reason, I have never been able to comprehend, as the only person who had even the least prospect of losing by it, always stood my firm friend. It, however, gave me the opportunity of learning exactly who were really my friends; a knowledge which is of greater consequence than many are aware. I am, &c. JAMES HOGG.

18

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

1807 VERSION

Ballads, in

Imitation of the Antients

19

20

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

1807 VERSION

21

Sir David Græme A NY person who has read the Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border with attention, must have observed what a singular degree of interest and feeling the simple ballad of “The Twa Corbies” impresses upon the mind, which is rather increased than diminished by the unfinished state in which the story is left. It appears as if the bard had found his powers of description inadequate to a detail of the circumstances attending the fatal catastrophe, without suffering the interest, already roused, to subside, and had artfully consigned it over to the fancy of every reader to paint it what way he chose; or else that he lamented the untimely fate of a knight, whose base treatment he durst not otherwise make known than in that short parabolical dialogue. That the original is not improved in the following ballad, will too manifestly appear upon perusal; I think it, however, but just to acknowledge, that the idea was suggested to me by reading “The Twa Corbies.”

T HE dow flew east, the dow flew west, The dow flew far ayont the fell, An’ sair at e’en she seem’d distrest, But what perplext her could not tell. But ay she cry’d, Cur-dow, cur-dow, An’ ruffled a’ her feathers fair; An’ lookit sad, an’ wadna bow To taste the sweetest, finest ware. The lady pined, an’ some did blame, (She didna blame the bonny dow) But sair she blamed Sir David Græme, Wha now to her had broke his vow. He swore by moon and stars sae bright, And by their bed—the grass sae green, To meet her there on Lammas night, Whatever dangers lay between: To risk his fortune and his life, To bear her from her father’s ha’, To give her a’ the lands o’ Dryfe, An’ wed wi’ her for gude an’ a’.

5

10

15

20

22

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

The day arrived, the evening came, The lady looked wi’ wistful ee; But, O, alas! her noble Græme Frae e’en to morn she could not see. An’ ilka day she sat an’ grat, An’ ilka night her fancy wraught, In wyting this, and blaming that, But O the cause she never thought. The sun had drank frae Keilder fells His beverage o’ the morning dew; The wild-fowl slumbered in the dells, The heather hung its bells o’ blue; The lambs were skipping on the brae, In airy notes the shepherd sung, The small birds hailed the jocund day, Till ilka thicket sweetly rung. The lady to her window hied, That opened owr the banks o’ Tyne, “An’ O, alas!” she said, and sighed, “Sure ilka breast is blyth but mine!

25

30

35

40

“Where ha’e ye been, my bonny dow, That I ha’e fed wi’ bread and wine? As roving a’ the country through, O saw ye this fause knight o’ mine?” The dow sat on the window tree, An’ held a lock o’ yellow hair; She perched upon that lady’s knee, An’ carefully she placed it there. “What can this mean? it is the same, Or else my senses me beguile! This lock belonged to David Græme, The flower of a’ the British isle. “It is not cut wi’ sheers nor knife, But frae his haffat torn awa: I ken he lo’ed me as his life, But this I canna read at a’.”

45

50

55

1807 VERSION

The dow flew east, the dow flew west, The dow flew far ayont the fell, And back she came, wi’ panting breast, Ere ringing of the castle bell.

23

60

She lighted on the hollow tap, An’ cried, Cur-dow, an’ hung her wing; Then flew into that lady’s lap, An’ there she placed a diamond ring. “What can this mean? it is the same, Or else my senses me beguile! This ring I gave to David Græme, The flower of a’ the British isle. “He sends me back the tokens true! Was ever maid perplexed like me? ’Twould seem h’as rued o’ ilka vow, But all is wrapt in mystery.” Then down she sat, an’ sair she grat; With rapid whirl her fancy wrought, In wyting this, an’ blamin’ that; But O the cause she never thought! When, lo! Sir David’s trusty hound, Wi’ humpling back, an’ hollow ee, Came cringing in; an’ lookit round Wi’ hopeless stare, wha there might be.

65

70

75

80

He laid his head upon her knee, With looks that did her heart assail; An’ a’ that she cou’d flatter, he Wad neither bark, nor wag his tail! She fed him wi’ the milk sae sweet, An’ ilka thing that he wad ha’e. He licked her hands, he licked her feet, Then slowly, slowly, trudged away. But she has eyed the honest hound, An’ a’ to see where he wad gae: He stopped, and howled, an’ looked around, Then slowly, slowly, trudged away.

85

90

24

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

Then she cast aff her coal-black shoon, An’ sae has she her silken hose; She kiltit high her ’broidered gown, An’ after him in haste she goes. She followed him owr muirs and rocks, Through mony a dell, an’ dowy glen, Till frae her brow, and lovely locks, The dew-drops fell like drops o’ rain.

95

100

An’ ay she said, “My love is hid, And dare na come the castle nigh; But him I’ll find, an’ him I’ll chide, For leaving his poor maid to sigh; “But ae press to his manly breast, An’ ae kiss o’ his bonny mou’, Will weel atone for a’ the past, An’ a’ the pain I suffer now.” But in a hagg in yonder flow, Ah, there she fand her gallant knight! A loathsome carcase lying low, Red-rusted all his armour bright: Wi’ ae wound through his shoulder-bane, An’ in his bosom twa or three; Wi’ flies an’ vermine sair o’ergane, An’ ugsome to the sight was he. His piercing een, that love did beet, Had now become the ravens’ prey; His tongue, that moved to accents sweet, Deep frae his throat was torn away.

105

110

115

120

Poor Reyno fawned, an’ took his place, As glad to see the livid clay; Then licked his master’s bloated face, An’ kindly down beside him lay.— *

*

*

“Now coming was the night sae dark, An’ gane was a’ the light o’ day,”

125

1807 VERSION

25

The muir was dun, the heavens mirk, An’ deep an’ dreary was the way. The croaking raven soared on high, Thick, thick, the cherking weazels ran; At hand she heard the howlet’s cry, An’ groans as of a dying man. Wi’ horror, an’ wi’ dread aghast, That lady turned, an’ thought o’ hame; An’ there she saw, approaching fast, The likeness o’ her noble Græme! His grim, grim eyelids didna move; His thin, thin cheek was deadly pale; His mouth was black, and sair he strove T’ impart to her some dreadfu’ tale.

130

135

140

For thrice his withered hand he waved, An’ laid it on his bleedin’ breast.— Hast thou a tender heart received? How thou wilt tremble at the rest! Fain wad I tell what there befel, But its unmeet for mortal ear: The dismal deeds on yonder fell Wad shock a human heart to hear.

145

Notes on Sir David Græme The dow flew east, the dow flew west.—P. 21. v. 1. I borrowed the above line from a beautiful old rhyme which I have often heard my mother repeat, but of which she knew no tradition; and from this introduction the part of the dove naturally arose. The rhyme runs thus: The heron flew east, the heron flew west, The heron flew to the fair forest; She flew o’er streams and meadows green, And a’ to see what could be seen: And when she saw the faithful pair, Her breast grew sick, her head grew sair; For there she saw a lovely bower, Was a’ clad o’er wi’ lilly-flower;

26

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

And in the bower there was a bed With silken sheets, and weel down spread; And in the bed there lay a knight, Whose wounds did bleed both day and night; And by the bed there stood a stane, And there was set a leal maiden, With silver needle and silken thread, Stemming the wounds when did they bleed.— To gi’e her a’ the lands o’ Dryfe.—P. 21. v. 5. The river Dryfe forms the south-east district of Annandale; on its banks the ruins of the tower of Græme still remain in considerable uniformity. The sun had drunk from Keilder fells His beverage of the morning dew.—P. 22. v. 3. Keilder Fells are those hills which lie eastward of the sources of North Tyne. When, lo! Sir David’s trusty hound, With humpling back, and hollow ee.—P. 23. v. 6. It is not long ago since a shepherd’s dog watched his corpse in the snow amongst the mountains of this country, until nearly famished, and at last led to the discovery of the body of his disfigured master.

The Pedlar This Ballad is founded on a fact, which has been magnified by popular credulity and superstition into the terrible story which follows. It is here related, according to the best informed old people about Ettrick, as nearly as is consistent with the method pursued in telling it. I need not inform the reader, that every part of it is believed by them to be absolute truth.

’TWAS late, late, late on a Saturday’s night, The moon was set, an’ the wind was lown; The lazy mist crept toward the height, An’ the dim, livid flame glimmered laigh on the downe. O’er the rank-scented fen the bittern was warping, High on the black muir the foxes did howl, All on the lone hearth the cricket sat harping, An’ far on the air cam the notes o’ the owl. When the lady o’ Thirlestane rose in her sleep, An’ she shrieked sae loud that her maid ran to see; Her e’en they war set, an’ her voice it was deep, An’ she shook like the leaf o’ the aspin tree.

5

10

26

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

And in the bower there was a bed With silken sheets, and weel down spread; And in the bed there lay a knight, Whose wounds did bleed both day and night; And by the bed there stood a stane, And there was set a leal maiden, With silver needle and silken thread, Stemming the wounds when did they bleed.— To gi’e her a’ the lands o’ Dryfe.—P. 21. v. 5. The river Dryfe forms the south-east district of Annandale; on its banks the ruins of the tower of Græme still remain in considerable uniformity. The sun had drunk from Keilder fells His beverage of the morning dew.—P. 22. v. 3. Keilder Fells are those hills which lie eastward of the sources of North Tyne. When, lo! Sir David’s trusty hound, With humpling back, and hollow ee.—P. 23. v. 6. It is not long ago since a shepherd’s dog watched his corpse in the snow amongst the mountains of this country, until nearly famished, and at last led to the discovery of the body of his disfigured master.

The Pedlar This Ballad is founded on a fact, which has been magnified by popular credulity and superstition into the terrible story which follows. It is here related, according to the best informed old people about Ettrick, as nearly as is consistent with the method pursued in telling it. I need not inform the reader, that every part of it is believed by them to be absolute truth.

’TWAS late, late, late on a Saturday’s night, The moon was set, an’ the wind was lown; The lazy mist crept toward the height, An’ the dim, livid flame glimmered laigh on the downe. O’er the rank-scented fen the bittern was warping, High on the black muir the foxes did howl, All on the lone hearth the cricket sat harping, An’ far on the air cam the notes o’ the owl. When the lady o’ Thirlestane rose in her sleep, An’ she shrieked sae loud that her maid ran to see; Her e’en they war set, an’ her voice it was deep, An’ she shook like the leaf o’ the aspin tree.

5

10

1807 VERSION

“O where is the pedlar I drave frae the ha’, That pled sae sair to tarry wi’ me?” “He’s gane to the mill, for the millar sells ale, An’ the pedlar’s as weel as a man can be.” “I wish he had staid, he sae earnestly prayed, And he hight a braw pearling in present to gie; But I was sae hard, that I would na regard, Tho’ I saw the saut tear trickle down frae his ee.

27

15

20

“But O what a terrible dream I ha’e seen, The pedlar a’ mangled—most shocking to see! An’ he gapit, an’ waggit, an’ stared wi’ his een, An’ he seemed to lay a’ the blame upo’ me! “I fear that alive he will never be seen, An’ the vera suspicion o’t terrifies me: I wadna hae sickan a vision again For a’ the guid kye upon Thirlestane lee. “Yet wha wad presume the poor pedlar to kill? O, Grizzy, my girl, will ye gang and see? If the pedlar is safe, an’ alive at the mill, A merk o’ guid money I’ll gie unto thee.” “O lady, ’tis dark, and I heard the dead bell! And I darna gae yonder for goud nor fee: But the miller has lodgings might serve yoursel, An’ the pedlar’s as weel as a pedlar can be.” She sat till day, and she sent wi’ fear,— The miller said there he never had been; She went to the kirk, and speered for him there, But the pedlar in life was never mair seen.

25

30

35

40

Frae aisle to aisle she lookit wi’ care; Frae pew to pew she hurried her een; An’ a’ to see if the pedlar was there, But the pedlar in life was never mair seen. But late, late, late on a Saturday’s night, As the laird was walking along the lee, A silly auld pedlar cam bye on his right, An’ a muckle green pack on his shoulders had he.

45

28

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

“O whar are ye gaeing, ye beggarly lown? Ye’s nauther get lodging nor sale frae me.” He turned him about, an’ the blude it ran down, An’ his throat was a’ hackered, an’ ghastly was he. Then straight, wi’ a sound, he sank i’ the ground, A knock was heard, an’ the fire did flee; To try a bit prayer the laird clapped down, As flat an’ as feared as a body cude be. He fainted:—but soon as he gathered his breath, He tauld what a terrible sight he had seen: The devil a’ woundit, an’ bleedin to death, In shape o’ a pedlar upo the mill-green.

50

55

60

The lady she shriekit, the door it was steekit, The servants war glad that the devil was gane; But ilk Saturday’s night, when faded the light, Near the mill-house the poor bleeding pedlar was seen. An’ ay whan passengers bye war gaun, A doolfu’ voice cam frae the mill-ee, On Saturday’s night when the clock struck one, Cry’n, “O Rob Riddle, ha’e mercy on me!” The place was harrassed, the mill was laid waste, The miller he fled to a far countrie; But ay at e’en the pedlar was seen, An’ at midnight the voice cam frae the mill-ee. The lady frae hame wad never mair budge, From the time that the sun gaed over the hill; An’ now she had a’ the poor bodies to lodge, As nane durst gae on for the ghost o’ the mill. But the minister there was a bodie o’ skill, Nae feared for devil or spirit was he; An’ he’s gane awa to watch at the mill, To try if this impudent ghaist he cou’d see. He prayed an’ he read, an’ he sent them to bed; Then the bible anunder his arm took he, An’ round an’ round the mill-house he gaed, To try if this terrible sight he cou’d see.

65

70

75

80

1807 VERSION

Wi’ a shivering groan the pedlar cam on, An’ the muckle green pack on his shoulders had he; But he nouther had flesh, blude, nor bone, For the moon shone throw his thin bodye. The ducks they whackit, the dogs they howled, The herons they shriekit most piteouslie; The horses they snorkit for miles around, While the priest an’ the pedlar together might be. Wi’ a positive look he opened his book, An’ charged him by a’ the sacred Three, To tell why that horrible figure he took, To terrify a’ the hale countrie? “My body was butchered within that mill, My banes lie under the inner mill-wheel; An’ here my spirit maun wander, until Some crimes an’ villanies I can reveal:

29 85

90

95

100

“I robbed my niece of three hundred pounds, Which providence suffered me ne’er to enjoy; For the sake of that money I gat my death’s wounds; The miller me kend, but he missed his ploy. “The money lies buried on Balderstone hill, Beneath the mid bourack o’ three times three. O gi’e’t to the owners, kind sir, an’ it will Bring wonderful comfort an’ rest unto me. “’ Tis drawing to day, nae mair I can say; My message I trust, good father, with thee. If the black cock should craw, while I am awa, O, weary, and weary, what wad come o’ me!” Wi’ a sound like a horn, away he was borne; The grass was decayed where the spirit had been: An’ certain it is, from that day to this, The ghost o’ the pedlar was never mair seen. The mill was repaired, and, low in the yird, The banes lay under the inner mill-wheel; The box an’ the ellwand beside him war hid, An’ mony a thimble an’ mony a seal.

105

110

115

120

30

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

Must the scene of iniquity cursed remain? Can this bear the stamp of the heavenly seal? Yet certain it is from that day to this, The millers of Thirlestane ne’er ha’e done weel. But there was an auld mason wha wrought at the mill, In rules o’ providence skilfu’ was he; He keepit a bane o’ the pedlar’s heel, An’ a queerer wee bane you never did see.

125

The miller had fled to the forest o’ Jed; But time had now grizzled his haffets wi’ snaw; 130 He was crookit an’ auld, an’ his head was turned bald, Yet his joke he cou’d brik wi’ the best o’ them a’. Away to the border the mason he ran, To try wi’ the bane if the miller was fey; An’ into a smiddie, wi’ mony a man, He fand him a gaffin fu’ gaily that day. The mason he crackit, the mason he taukit, Of a’ curiosities mighty an’ mean; Then pu’d out the bane, an’ declared there were nane Who in Britain had ever the marrow o’t seen.

135

140

When ilka ane took it, an’ ilka ane lookit, An’ ilka ane ca’d it a comical bane; To the miller it goes, wha, wi’ spects on his nose, To ha’e an’ to view it, was wonderous fain. But what was his horror, as leaning he stood, An’ what the surprise o’ the people around, When the little wee bane fell a streamin wi’ blood, Which dyed a’ his fingers, an’ ran to the ground!

145

They charged him with murder, an’ a’ the hale crew Declared, ere they partit, the hale they wad ken; 150 A red goad o’ ern frae the fire they drew, An’ they swore they wad spit him like ony muirhen. “O hald,” said the mason, “for how can it be? “You’ll find you are out when the truth I reveal; At fair Thirlestane I gat the wee bane, Deep buried anunder the inner mill-wheel.”

155

1807 VERSION

“O God,” said the wretch, wi’ the tear in his ee, “O pity a creature lang doomed to despair; A silly auld pedlar, wha begged of me For mercy, I murdered, an’ buried him there!”

31

160

To Jeddart they hauled the auld miller wi’ speed, An’ they hangit him dead on a high gallow tree; An’ afterwards they in full counsel agreed, That Rob Riddle he richly deserved to dee. The thief may escape the lash an’ the rape, The liar an’ swearer their leather may save, The wrecker of unity pass with impunity, But when gat the murd’rer in peace to the grave? Ca’t not superstition; wi’ reason you’ll find it, Nor laugh at a story attestit sae weel; For lang ha’e the facts in the forest been mindit O’ the ghaist an’ the bane o’ the pedlar’s heel.

165

170

Notes on The Pedlar When the lady o’ Thirlestane rose in her sleep.—P. 26. v. 3. The lady here alluded to was the second wife of Sir Robert Scott, the last knight of Thirlestane, of whom the reader shall hear further. Thirlestane is situated high on the banks of the Ettrick, and was the baronial castle of the Scotts of Thirlestane. It is now the property of the Right Honourable Lord Napier, who wears the arms of that ancient house. The mill is still on the old scite. O lady, ’tis dark, and I heard the dead bell! And I darna gae yonder for goud nor fee.—P. 27. v. 6. By the dead bell is meant a tinkling in the ears, which our peasantry in the country regard as a secret intelligence of some friend’s decease. Thus this natural occurrence srikes many with a superstitious awe. This reminds me of a trifling anecdote, which I will here relate as an instance. Our two servant girls agreed to go an errand of their own, one night after supper, to a considerable distance, from which I strove to dissuade them, but could not prevail. So, after going to the apartment where I slept, I took a drinking glass, and, coming close to the back of the door, made two or three sweeps round the lips of the glass with my finger, which caused a loud shrill sound. I then overheard the following dialougue.—B. Ah, mercy! the dead bell went through my head just now, with such a knell as I never heard.—J. I heard it too!— B. Did you indeed! that is remarkable! I never knew of two hearing it at the same time before.—

32

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

J. We will not go to Midgehope to-night.— B. I would not go for all the world; I shall warrant it is my poor brother Wat; who knows what these wild Irish may have done to him! Amongst people less conversant in the manners of the cottage than I have been, it may reasonably be suspected that I am prone to magnify these vulgar superstitions, in order to give countenance to several of them hinted at in the ballads. Therefore, as this book is designed solely for amusement, I hope I shall be excused for here detailing a few more of them, which still linger amongst the wilds of the country to this day, and which I have been an eye witness to a thousand times; and from these the reader may judge what they must have been in the times to which these ballads refer. In addition to the dead bell;—if one of the ears is at any time seized with a glowing heat, which may very easily happen, if exposed to a good fire, or a strong wind, they straight conclude that some person is talking of them. They then turn to such as are near them, and put the following question;—Right lug, left lug, whilk lug glows? That person immediately guesseth; and if it hit upon the one that glows, they say, “You love me better than they who talk of me;” and so conclude they are ill spoken of; but if the guesser hits upon the wrong lug, they say, “You love me worse than those that talk of me:” and rest satisfied that some person is saying good of them. When the nostrils itch, they are sure to hear tell of some person being dead; and the death watch, the death tap, and the death swap, which is a loud, sharp stroke, are still current; whilst the belief in wraiths, ghaists, and bogles, is little or nothing abated. When they sneeze, on first stepping out of bed in the morning, they are from thence certified that strangers will be there in the course of the day, in number coresponding to the times which they sneeze; and if a feather, a straw, or any such thing, be observed hanging at a dog’s nose, or beard, they call that a guest, and are sure of the approach of a stranger. If it hang long at the dog’s nose, the visitant is to stay long; but if it falls instantly away, the person is only to stay a short time. They judge also, from the length of this guest, what will be the size of the real one, and, from its shape, whether it will be a man or a woman; and they watch carefully on what part of the floor it drops, as it is on that very spot the stranger will sit. And there is scarcely a shepherd in the whole country, who, if he gets one of his flock dead on the sabbath, is not from thence certified that he will have two or three more in the course of the week. During the season that the ewes are milked, the bught door is always carefully shut at even; and the reason they assign for this is, that when it is negligently left open, the witches and fairies never miss the opportunity of dancing in it all the night. Nothing in the world can be more unnatural than this supposition; for the bught is commonly so foul, that they are obliged to wade to the ancles in mud, consequently the witches could not find a more inconvenient spot for dancing, on the whole farm. Many, however, still adhere to that custom; and I was once present when an old shoe was found in the bught that none of them would claim, and they gravely and rationally concluded that one of the witches had lost it, while dancing in the night. When any of them eat an egg, as soon as they have emptied it of its contents, they always

1807 VERSION

33

crush the shell. An English gentleman asked Mr William Laidlaw, why the Scots did that? He, being well acquainted with the old adage, replied, “That it was for fear the witches got them to sail over to Flanders in.”—“What though they should,” said he, “are you so much afraid that the witches leave you?” Whether it proceeds from a certain habit of body in the cattle, from their food, or what is the fundamental cause of it, I cannot tell; but the milk of whole herds of cows is liable at times to a strange infection, whereby it is converted into a tough jelly as soon as it cools from the udder, and is thus rendered loathsome and unfit for use. This being a great loss and grievance to the owner, it will scarcely be believed, that there are very many of the families in Ettrick and its vicinity, and some most respectable ones, who have, at some period in the present age, been driven to use very gross incantations for the removal of this from their cattle, which they believe to proceed from witchcraft. The effects of these are so apparent on the milk in future, and so well attested, that the circumstance is of itself sufficient to stagger the resolution of the most obstinate misbeliever in witchcraft, if not finally to convert him. I am not so thoroughly initiated into this mystery as to descibe it minutely; but, in the first place, a fire is set on, and surrounded with green turfs, in which a great number of pins are stuck. A certain portion of the milk of each cow, so infected, is then hung on in a pot, with a horse’s shoe, and a black dish, with its mouth downward, placed in it. The doors are then carefully shut, and the milk continues to boil; and the first person that comes to that house afterwards, is always blamed for the mischief. But the poor old women are generally suspected. There are, besides, a number of other remarks, too tedious, and too common, to be minutely described here: such as, spilling salt on the ground, or milk in the fire; suffering the dish-water to boil, without putting a peat in it; shavings at candles; thirteen in a company, &c.; all which are ominous, or productive of their particular effects. Many are apt to despise their poor illiterate countrymen for these weak and superstitious notions; but I am still of opinion, that, in the circumstance of their attaching credit to them, there is as much to praise as to blame. Let it be considered, that their means of information have not been adequate to the removal of these; while, on the other hand, they have been used to hear them related, and attested as truths, by the very persons whom they were bound, by all the laws of nature and gratitude, to reverence and believe. An’ ay whan passengers bye war gaun, A doolfu’ voice cam frae the mill-ee On Saturday’s night, when the clock struck one, Cry’ng, “O Rob Riddle, ha’e mercy on me.”—P. 28. v. 5. In addition to this cry of despair, which was sometimes heard from the mill, it was common for the ghost to go down to the side of the mill-dam at a certain hour of the night, calling out, “Ho, Rob Riddle, come home to your supper, your sowens are cold!” To account for this, tradition adds, that the miller confessed, at his death, that the pedlar came down to the mill to inform him that it was wearing late, and that he must come home to his supper, and that

34

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

he took that opportunity to murder him. At other times it was heard crying, in a lamentable voice, “O saw ye ought of John Waters? Nobody has seen John Waters!” This, it seems, was the pedlar’s name. The place was harassed, the mill was laid waste.—P. 28. v. 6. To such a height did the horror of this apparition arrive in Ettrick, that it is certain there were few in the parish who durst go to, or by the mill, after sunset; but, unlike many of the country bogles, who assume a variety of fantastical shapes, this never appeared otherwise than in the shape of a pedlar, with a green pack on his back: and so simple and natural was his whole deportment, that few ever suspected him for the spirit, until he vanished away. He once came so near two men in the twilight, that they familiarly offered him snuff, when he instantly sunk into the earth, and left his companions in a state of insensibility. But the minister there was a bodie o’ skill, Nae feared for devil or spirit was he.—P. 28. v. 8. The great and worthy Mr Boston was the person who is said to have laid this ghost; and the people of Ettrick are much disappointed at finding no mention made of it in his memoirs; but some, yet alive, have heard John Corry, who was his servant, tell the following story:—One Saturday afternoon, Mr Boston came to him, and says, “John, you must rise early on Monday, and get a kilnful of oats dried before day.”—“You know very well, master,” said John, “that I dare not for my breath go to the mill before day.”—“John,” said he, “I tell you to go, and I will answer for it, that nothing shall molest you.” John, who revered his master, went away, determined to obey; but that very night, said John, he went to the mill, prayed with the family, and staid very late, but charged them not to mention it. On Monday morning, John arose at two o’clock, took a horse, and went to the mill, which is scarcely a mile below the kirk; and, about a bow-shot west of the mill, Mr Boston came running by him, buttoned in his great coat, but was so wrapt in thought, that he neither perceived his servant nor his horse. When he came home at even, Mr Boston says to him, “Well, John, have you seen the pedlar?”—“No, no, sir,” said John, “there was nothing troubled me; but I saw that you were yonder before me this morning.”—“I did not know that you saw me,” said he, “ John, nor did I wish to be seen; therefore, say nothing of it.” This was in March, and in May following the mill was repaired, when the remains of the pedlar and his pack were actually found, and the hearts of the poor people set at ease: for it is a received opinion, that, if the body, or bones, or any part of a murdered person is found, the ghost is then at rest, and that it leaves mankind to find out the rest. I shall only mention another instance of this: There is a place below Yarrow Kirk, called Bell’s Lakes, which was for a great number of years the terror of the whole neighbourhood, from a supposition that it was haunted by a ghost: I believe the Bogle of Bell’s Lakes has been heard of through a great part of the south of Scotland. It happened at length, that a man and his wife were casting peats at Craighope-head, a full mile from the lakes; and coming

1807 VERSION

35

to a loose place in the morass, his spade slipped lightly down, and stuck fast in something below; but judge of their suprise, when, on pulling it out, a man’s head stuck on it, with long auburn hair, and so fresh that every feature was distinguishable. This happened in the author’s remembrance; and it was supposed that it was the head of one Adam Hyslop, who had evanished about forty years before, and was always supposed to have left the country; since that discovery, however, Bell’s Lakes has been as free of bogles as any other place. He prayed, an’ he read, an’ he sent them to bed; Then the bible anunder his arm took he, An’ round an’ round the mill-house he gaed, To try if this terrible sight he could see.—P. 28. v. 9 A similiar story to this of Mr Boston and the pedlar, is told of a contemporary of his, the Reverend Henry Davieson, of Gallashiels.—The ghost of an old wicked laird of Buckholm, in that parish, who had died a long time previous to that period, so haunted and harassed the house, that they could not get a servant to stay about it. Whereupon, in compliance with the earnest intreaties of the family, Mr Davieson went up one night to speak to and rebuke it. After supper, he prayed with the family, and then charged them all, as they valued their peace, to go quietly to their beds. This injunction they all obeyed; but one lady lay down without undressing, and, from a small aperture in the partition, which separated her chamber from the apartment in which he was left, watched all his motions. She said, that he searched long in the bible, and folded down leaves at certain places. He then kneeled, and prayed; and afterwards taking the bible, and putting his fingers in at the places he had marked, he took it below his arm, and went out; that, prompted by curiosity, she followed him, unperceived, through several of the haunted lanes; that she sometimes heard him muttering, but saw nothing. When he came to his chamber, he acted the same scene over again, and she followed him at a distance round all the town as before. That when he came to his chamber the third time, he prayed with greater fervency than ever; and when he rose, and took the bible to go out, his looks were so stern and severe, that she was awed at the very sight of them; and, on following him out of the court-yard, she was seized with an involuntary terror, and fled back to her apartment. When the family assembled next morning to prayers, he conjured them to tell him who of them were out of bed last night; and, the rest all denying, the lady confessed the whole. “I knew,” said he, “ there was somebody watching me, at which I was troubled; but it was lucky for you that you did not follow me the third time; for, had you seen what I saw, you had never been yourself again: but you may now safely go out and in, up stairs and down stairs, at all hours of the night, for you will never more be troubled with Old Buckholm.” Whether these traditions have taken their origin from a much earlier period, and have, by later generations, been brought down and ascribed to these well known characters; or, whether these worthy men, in commiseration of the ideal sufferings of their visionary parishioners, have really condescended to these sham watchings, it is not now

36

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

easy to determine. But an age, singular as that was for devotion, would readily be as much so for superstition; for, even to this day, the country people, who have the deepest sense of religion, are always those who believe most firmly in supernatural agency. Yet certain it is, from that day to this, The millers of Thirlestane ne’er have done weel.—P. 30. v. 1. Though a pretext can scarcely be found in the annals of superstition sufficient to authorise the ascribing of this to the murder of the pedlar, so many ages before, yet the misfortunes attending the millers of Thirlstane are so obvious, as to have become proverbial: and when any of the neighbours occasionally mention this, along with it the murder of the pedlar is always hinted at. And it is scarcely thirty years since one of the millers was tried for his life for scoring a woman whom he supposed a witch. He had long suspected her as the cause of all the misfortunes attending him, and, enticing her into the kiln one Sabbath evening, he seized her forcibly, and cut the shape of the cross on her forehead: This they call, scoring aboon the breath, which overthrows their power of doing them any further mischief. And afterwards they in full council agreed, That Rob Riddle he richly deserved to dee.—P. 31. v. 2. This alludes to an old and very common proverb, “That such a one will get Jeddart justice:” which is, first to hang a man, and then judge whether he was guilty or not.

Gilmanscleuch Founded upon an Ancient Family Tradition “WHAIR ha’e ye laid the goud, Peggye, Ye gat on New-Yeir’s day? I lookit ilka day to see Ye drest in fine array; “But nouther kirtle, cap, nor gowne, To Peggye has come hame; Whair ha’e ye stowed the gowde, dochter? I feir ye have been to blame.” “My goud it was my ain, father; A gift is ever free; And when I neid my goud agene, Can it be tint to me?”

5

10

36

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

easy to determine. But an age, singular as that was for devotion, would readily be as much so for superstition; for, even to this day, the country people, who have the deepest sense of religion, are always those who believe most firmly in supernatural agency. Yet certain it is, from that day to this, The millers of Thirlestane ne’er have done weel.—P. 30. v. 1. Though a pretext can scarcely be found in the annals of superstition sufficient to authorise the ascribing of this to the murder of the pedlar, so many ages before, yet the misfortunes attending the millers of Thirlstane are so obvious, as to have become proverbial: and when any of the neighbours occasionally mention this, along with it the murder of the pedlar is always hinted at. And it is scarcely thirty years since one of the millers was tried for his life for scoring a woman whom he supposed a witch. He had long suspected her as the cause of all the misfortunes attending him, and, enticing her into the kiln one Sabbath evening, he seized her forcibly, and cut the shape of the cross on her forehead: This they call, scoring aboon the breath, which overthrows their power of doing them any further mischief. And afterwards they in full council agreed, That Rob Riddle he richly deserved to dee.—P. 31. v. 2. This alludes to an old and very common proverb, “That such a one will get Jeddart justice:” which is, first to hang a man, and then judge whether he was guilty or not.

Gilmanscleuch Founded upon an Ancient Family Tradition “WHAIR ha’e ye laid the goud, Peggye, Ye gat on New-Yeir’s day? I lookit ilka day to see Ye drest in fine array; “But nouther kirtle, cap, nor gowne, To Peggye has come hame; Whair ha’e ye stowed the gowde, dochter? I feir ye have been to blame.” “My goud it was my ain, father; A gift is ever free; And when I neid my goud agene, Can it be tint to me?”

5

10

1807 VERSION

“O ha’e ye sent it to a friend? Or lent it to a fae? Or gi’en it to some fause leman, To breid ye mickle wae?” “I ha’e na’ sent it to a friend, Nor lent it to a fae, And never man, without your ken, Sal cause my joye or wae;

37

15

20

“I ga’e it to a poor auld man, Came shivering to the dore; And when I heard his waesome tale I wust my treasure more.” “What was the beggar’s tale, Peggye? I fain wald hear it o’er; I fain wald hear that wylie tale That drained thy little store.” “His hair was like the thistle doune, His cheeks were furred wi’ tyme, His beard was like a bush of lyng, When silvered o’er wi’ ryme; “He lifted up his languid eye, Whilk better days had seen; And ay he heaved the mournfu’ sye, While saut teirs fell atween. “He took me by the hands, and saide, While pleasantly he smiled,— O weel to you, my little flower, That blumes in desart wilde;

25

30

35

40

“And may ye never feel the waes That lang ha’e followit me; Bereivit of all my gudes and gear, My friends and familye. “In Gilmanscleuch, beneath the heuch, My fathers lang did dwell; Ay formost, under bauld Buccleuch, A foreign fae to quell.

45

38

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

“Ilk petty robber, through the lands, They taucht to stand in awe; And affen checked the plundrin’ bands Of famous Tushilaw. “But when the bush was in the flush, And fairer there was nane, Ae blast did all its honours crush, And Gilmanscleuch is gane! “I had ane brither, stout and trew, But furious, fierce, and keen; Ane only sister, sweet and young, Her name was luvly Jean.

50

55

60

“Hir hair was like the threads of goud, Hir cheeks of rosy hew, Hir eyne war like the huntin’ hawks That owr the cassel flew. “Of fairest fashion was hir form, Hir skin the driven snaw, That’s drifted by the wintery storm On lofty Gilman’s-law. “Hir face a smile perpetual wore, Her teeth were ivorie, Hir lips the little purple floure That blumes on Baillie-lee. “But, mark! what dool and care, fair maid, For beauty’s but a snare, Young Jock of Harden her betrayed, Whilk greeved us wonder sair. “My brother Adam stormed and raged, And swore in aungry mood, Either to right his dear sister, Or shed the traytor’s blood. “I kend his honor fair and firm, And didna doubt his faithe, But being youngest of seven brethren, To marry he was laith.

65

70

75

80

1807 VERSION

“When June had decked the braes in grene, And flushed the forest tree; When young deers ranne on ilka hill, And lambs on ilka lee; “A shepherd frae our mountains hied, Ane ill death mot he dee! ‘O master, master, haste,’ he cried, ‘O haste alang wi’ me! ‘Our ewes are banished frae the glen, Their lambs ar drawn away, The fairest raes on Eldin braes Ar Jock of Harden’s prey. ‘His hounds are ringing through your woods, And manye deer ar slaine; A herd is fled to Douglas-Craig, Will ne’er return againe.

39 85

90

95

100

‘Your brother Adam, stout and strong, I warned on yon hill-side; And he’s awa to Yarrow’s banks, As fast as hee can ride.’ “O ill betide thy haste, young man! Thou micht ha’e tald it me; Thou kend, to hunt on all my lande, The Harden lads were free. “Gae, saddel me my milk-white steed, Gae, saddel him suddenly; To Yarrow banks I’ll hie wi’ speed, This bauld huntir to see. “But low, low down, on Sundhop broom, My brother Harden spyd; And, with a stern and furious look, He up to him did ride.— ‘Was’t not enough, thou traytor strong, My sister to betray? That thou shouldst scare my feebil ewes, And chase their lambs away?

105

110

115

120

40

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

‘Thy hounds ar ringing through our woods, Our choizest deers ar slaine; And hundreds fledd to Stuart’s hills, Wull ne’er returne againe.’ ‘It setts thee weel, thou haughtye youth, To bend such taunts on me; Oft ha’e you hunted Aikwood hills, And no man hindered thee.’ ‘But wilt thou wedd my dear sister? Now tell me—aye or nay.’ ‘Nae questions will I answer thee, That’s speerit in sic a way. ‘Tak this for truth, I ne’er meant ill To nouther thee nor thine.’ Then spurrit his steed against the hill, Was fleeter than the hynde. “He set a buglet to his mouth, And blew baith loud and cleir; A sign to all his merry men Their huntin to forbear.

125

130

135

140

‘O turn thee, turn thee, trayter strong;’ Cried Adam bitterlie; ‘Nae haughtye Scott, of Harden’s kin, Sal proodlye scool on me. ‘Now draw thy sword, or gi’e thy word, For one of them I’ll have, Or to thy face I’ll thee disgrace, And ca’ thee coward knave.’ “He sprang frae aff his coal-black steed, And tied him to a wande; Then threw his bonnet aff his head, And drew his deidlye brande. “And lang they foucht, and sair they foucht, Wi’ swords of mettyl kene, Till clotted blud, in mony a spot, Was sprynkelit on the grene.

145

150

155

1807 VERSION

“And lang they foucht, and sair they foucht, For braiver there war nane; Braive Adam’s thye was baithit in blud, And Harden’s coller bane.

41

160

“Though Adam was baith stark and gude, Nae langer cou’d he stande; His hand claive to his hivvye sword, His nees plett lyke the wande. “He leanit himsel agenst ane aek, Nae mair cou’d act his parte; A wudman then sprang frae the brume, And percit young Harden’s herte. “Bein yald and stout, he wheelit about, And kluve his heid in twaine; Then calmlye laide him on the grene, Niver to ryse againe. “I raid owr heicht, I raid through howe, And ferr outstrippit the wynde, And sent my voyce the forest throw, But naething cou’d I fynde. “And whan I came, the dysmal syghte Wad melt an herte of stane! My brither fent and bleiden laye, Young Harden neirly gane.

165

170

175

180

‘And art thou there, O Gilmanscleuch! Wi’ faltren tongue he cried, Hadst thou arrivit tyme eneuch, Thy kinsmen hadna died. ‘Be kind unto thy sister Jean, Whatever may betide; This nycht I meint, at Gilmanscleuch, To maik of hir my bride: ‘But this sad fraye, this fatal daye, May breid baith dule and payne, My freckle brithren ne’er will staye Till they’re avengit or slayne.’—

185

190

42

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

“The wudman sleeps in Sundhope-brume, Into a lowlye grave; Young Jock they bure to Harden’s tome, And layde him wi’ the lave. “Thus fell that brave and cumlye youth, Whose arm was like the steel; Whose very look was opin truth, Whose heart was trew and leel.

195

200

“It’s now full three-and-thirty zeirs Syn that unhappye daye, And late I saw his cumlye corpse Without the leist dekaye: “The garland cross his breast aboon, Still held its varied hew; The roses bloomed upon his shoon As faire as if they grew. “I raised our vassals ane and a’, Wi’ mickil care and pain, Expecting Harden’s furious sons Wi’ all their faither’s train. “But Harden was a weirdly man, A cunnin tod was he; He lockit his sons in prison straung, And wi’ him bore the key. “And hee’s awa to Holy Rood, Amang our nobles a’, With bonnit lyke a girdel braid, And hayre like Craighop snaw;

205

210

215

220

“His coat was of the forest grene, Wi’ buttons lyke the moon; His breeks war of the gude buck-skynne, Wi’ a’ the hayre aboon. “His twa-hand sword hang round his neck, And rattled to his heel; The rowels of his silver spurs, Were of the Rippon steel;

225

1807 VERSION

“His hose were braced wi’ chains of airn, And round wi’ tassels hung, At ilka tramp of Harden’s heel The royal arches rung. “The courtly nobles of the north The chief with wonder eyed, But Harden’s form, and Harden’s look, Were hard to be denied. “Hee made his plaint unto our king, And magnified the deed; While high Buccleuch, with pith enouch, Made Harden better speed.

43 230

235

240

“Ane grant of all our lands sae fayre, The king to him has gi’en, And all the Scotts of Gilmanscleuch War outlawed ilka ane. “The time I mist, and never wist Of nae sic treacherye, Till I got word frae kind Traquare, The country shune to flee. “For mee and mine nae friend wad fynd, But fa’ ane easy preye; While yet my brither weakly was, And scarce could brook the way. “Now I ha’e foucht in forreign fields, In mony a bluddy fray, But langed to see my native hills Afore my dying day. “My brother fell in Hungarye, When fighting by my side; My luckless sister bore ane son, But broke hir heart and dyed. “That son, now a’ my earthly care, Of port and stature fine; He has thine eye, and is thy blood, As weel as he is mine.

245

250

255

260

44

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

“For me, I’m but a puir auld man, That nane regairds ava; The peaceful grave will end my care, Where I maun shortly fa’.”—-—– “I ga’e him a’ my goud, father, I gat on New-Year’s day; And welcomed him to Harden-ha’, With us a while to stay.” “My sweet Peggye, my dear Peggye, Ye ay were dear to me; For ilka bonnet-piece ye gave, My love, ye shall ha’e three. “Auld Gilmanscleuch sal share wi’ me The table and the ha’; We’ll tell of a’ our doughty deeds At hame and far awa.

265

270

275

280

“That youth, my hapless brother’s son, Who bears our eye and name, Sal farm the lands of Gilmanscleuch, While Harden halds the same. “Nae rent, nor kane, nor service mean, I’ll ask at him at a’, Only to stand at my ryht hand When Branxholm gi’es the ca’. “A Scott shou’d ay support a Scott, When sinking to decaye, Till over a’ the southlan’ hills We stretch our ample sway.”

285

290

1807 VERSION

45

The Fray of Elibank This Ballad is likewise founded on a well known and well authenticated fact. I am only uncertain what was the name of H ARDEN ’s son, who was taken prisoner, and forced to marry M URRAY ’s youngest daughter; but he was either brother or nephew to him who was slain in Yarrow by the S COTTS of Gilmanscleuch.

O

WHA hasna heard o’ the bauld Juden Murray, The lord o’ the Elibank castle, sae high? An’ wha hasna heard o’ that terrible hurry, Whan Wattie o’ Harden was catched wi’ the kye?

Auld Harden was ever the king o’ gude fellows, His tables were filled in the room an’ the ha’; But peace on the border, that thinned his keyloes, And want for his lads, was the warst thing of a’. Young Harden was bauld as the Persian lion, And langed his skill and his courage to try; Stout Willie o’ Fauldshope ae night he did cry on, Frae danger or peril wha never wad fly. “O Willie! ye ken our retainers are mony, Our kye they rout thin on the loan and the lee; A drove we maun ha’e for our pastures sae bonny, Or Harden’s ae cow aince again we may see.

5

10

15

“Fain wad I, but darena, gang over the border, Buccleuch wad restrain us, and ruin us quite; He’s bound to keep a’ the wide marches in order; Then where shall we gae, and we’ll venture to-night?” 20 “O master! ye ken how the Murrays have grund you, And aften caroused on your beef and your veal; Yet, spite o’ your wiles and your spies they have shunned you,— A Murray is kittler to catch than the diel! “Rough Juden o’ Eli’s grown doited and silly, He fights wi’ his women frae mornin’ till e’en, Yet three hunder gude kye has the thrifty auld billy, As fair sleekit keyloes as ever was seen.”

25

46

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

“Then, Willie, this night will we herry auld Juden; Nae danger I fear while thy weapon I see: That time when we vanquished the outlaw of Sowden, The best o’ his men were mishackered by thee. “If we had his kye in the byres of Aekwood, He’s welcome to claim the best way he can; But sair he’ll be puzzled his title to make good, For a’ he’s a cunning and dexterous man.” Auld Juden he strayed by the side of a river, When the watcher on Hanginshaw-law loud did cry,— “Ho, Juden, take care! or ye’re ruined for ever, The bugle of Aekwood has thrice sounded high.”

30

35

40

“Ha, faith!” then quo’ Juden, “they’re naething to lippen, I wonder sae lang frae a ploy they could cease; Gae, blaw the wee horn; gar my villains come trippin’: I have o’er mony kye to get rested in peace.” With that a wee fellow came puffing and blawin’, Frae high Philip-cairn a’ the gate he had run;— “O Juden, be handy, and countna the lawin’, But warn well, and arm well, or else ye’re undone!

45

“Young Wattie o’ Harden has crossed the Yarrow, Wi’ mony a hardy and desperate man; 50 The Hoggs and the Brydens have brought him to dare you, For the Wild Boar of Fauldshope he strides in the van.” “God’s mercy!” quo’ Juden, “gae blaw the great bugle; Warn Plora, Traquair, and the fierce Hollowlee. We’ll gi’e them a fleg: but I like that cursed Hogg ill, Nae devil in hell but I rather wad see. “To him men in arms are the same thing as thistles; At Ancram and Sowden his prowess I saw; But a bullet or arrow will suple his bristles, And lay him as laigh as the least o’ them a’.” The kye they lay down by the side of the Weel On the Elibank craig and the Ashiesteel bourn; And ere the king’s elwand came over the hill, Afore Wat and his men rattled mony a horn.

55

60

1807 VERSION

47

But Juden, as cunning as Harden was strong, On ilka man’s bonnet has placed a white feather; And the night being dark, to the peel height they thrang, And sae closely they darned them amang the deep heather.

65

Where the brae it was steep, and the kye they did wend, And sair for their pastures foresaken they strave, Till Willie o’ Fauldshop, wi’ half o’ the men, Went aff wi’ a few to encourage the lave.

70

Nae sooner was Willie gane o’er the height, Than up start the Murrays, and fiercely set on; And sic a het fight, in the howe o’ the night, In the forest of Ettrick has hardly been known.

75

Soon weapons were clashing, and fire was flashing, And red ran the blood down the Ashiesteel bourn; The parties were shouting, the kye they were routing, Confusion did gallop, and fury did burn.

80

But though weapons were clashing, and the fire it was flashing, Though the wounded and dying did dismally groan; Though parties were shouting, the kye they came routing, And Willie o’ Fauldshop drave heedlessly on! O Willie, O Willie, how sad the disaster! Had some kindly spirit but whispered your ear— “O Willie, return, and relieve your kind master, Wha’s fighting surrounded wi’ mony a spear.” Surrounded he was; but his brave little band, Determined, unmoved as the mountain they stood; In hopes that their hero was coming to hand, Their master they guarded in streams of their blood. In vain was their valour, in vain was their skill, In vain has young Harden a multitude slain, By numbers o’erpowered they were slaughtered at will, And Wattie o’ Harden was prisoner ta’en. His hands and his feet they ha’e bound like a sheep, And away to the Elibank tower they did hie, And they locked him down in a dungeon sae deep, And they bade him prepare on the morrow to die.

85

90

95

100

48

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

Though Andrew o’ Langhop had fa’n i’ the fight, He only lay still till the battle was bye; Then ventured to rise, and climb over the height, And there he set up a lamentable cry.— “Ho, Willie o’ Fauldshop! Ho, all is warected! Ho! what’s to come o’ you? or whar are ye gane? Your friends they are slaughtered, your honour suspected, And Wattie o’ Harden is prisoner ta’en.” Nae boar in the forest, when hunted and wounded; Nae lion or tiger bereaved of their prey, Did ever sae storm, or was ever sae stounded, As Willie, when warned o’ that desperate fray. He threw off his jacket, wi’ harness well lined; He threw off his bonnet well belted wi’ steel; And off he has run, wi’ his troopers behind, To rescue the lad that they likit sae weel. But when they arrived on the Elibank green, The yett was shut, and the east grew pale; They slinkit away, wi’ the tears i’ their een, To tell to Auld Harden their sorrowfu’ tale.

105

110

115

120

Though Harden was grieved, he durst venture nae further, But left his poor son to submit to his fate; “If I lose him,” quo’ he, “I can soon get another, But never again wad get sic an estate.” Some say that a stock was begun that night, But I canna tell whether ’tis true or a lie, That muckle Jock Ballantyne, time of the fight, Made off wi’ a dozen of Elibank kye. Brave Robin o’ Singly was killed i’ the stoure, And Kirkhope, and Whitsled, and young Baileylee; Wi’ Juden, baith Gatehop and Plora fell o’er, And auld Ashiesteel gat a cut on the knee. And mony a brave fellow, cut off in their bloom, Lie rotting in cairns on the craig and the steele; Weep o’er them, ye shepherds, how hapless their doom! Their natures how faithful, undaunted and leel!

125

130

135

1807 VERSION

The lady o’ Elibank rase wi’ the dawn, And she wakened auld Juden, and to him did say— “Pray, what will ye do wi’ this gallant young man?” “We’ll hang him,” quo Juden, “this very same day.”

49

140

“Wad ye hang sic a brisk and a gallant young heir, And has three hamely daughters ay suffering neglect? Though laird o’ the best o’ the Forest sae fair, He’ll marry the warst for the sake of his neck. “Despite not the lad for a perilous feat; He’s a friend will bestead you, and stand by you still; The laird maun ha’e men, and the men maun ha’e meat, And the meat maun be had, be the danger what will.” Then Juden he leugh, and he rubbit his leg, And he thought that the lady was perfectly right; “By heaven,” said he, “ he shall marry my Meg! I dreamed, and I dreamed o’ her a’ the last night.” Now Meg was but thin, an’ her nose it was lang; And her mou’ was as muckle as muckle could be; Her een they war grey, and her colour was wan, But her nature was generous, gentle, and free; Her shape it was slender, her arms they were fine; Her shoulders were clad wi’ her lang dusky hair; And three times mae beauties adorned her mind, Then mony a ane that was three times as fair.

145

150

155

160

Poor Wat, wi’ a guard, was brought into a ha’, Where ae end was black, and the ither was fair; There Juden’s three daughters sat in a raw, And himsel’ at the head in a twa-elbow chair:— “ Now, Wat, as ye’re young, and I hope ye will mend, On the following conditions I grant ye your life,— Be shifty, be warie, be auld Juden’s friend, And accept of my daughter there, Meg, for your wife.

165

“And since ye’re sae keen o’ my Elibank kye, Ye’s ha’e each o’ your drove ye can ken by the head; 170 And if nae horned acquaintance should kythe to your eye, Ye shall wale half a score, and a bull for a breed.

50

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

“My Meg, I assure you, is better than bonny; I reade you in choicing, let prudence decide; Then say whilk ye will; ye are welcome to ony: See, there is your coffin, or there is your bride.” “Lead on to the gallows, then,” Wattie replied; “I’m now in your power, and ye carry it high; Nae daughter of yours shall e’er lie by my side; A Scott, ye maun mind, counts it naething to die.”

175

180

“Amen! then,” quo’ Juden, “ lead on to the tree, Your raid ye shall rue wi’ the loss of your breath. My Meg, let me tell ye, is better than thee; How dare ye, sir, rob us, and lightly us baith?” When Wat saw the tether drawn over the tree, His courage misga’e him, his heart it grew sair; He watch’d Juden’s face, and he watched his ee, But the devil a scrap of reluctance was there. He fand the last gleam of his hope was a fadin’; The fair face of nature nae mair he wald see. The coffin was set, where he soon must be laid in; His proud heart was humbled—he fell on his knee! “O sir, but ye’re hurried! I humbly implore ye To grant me three days to examine my mind; To think on my sins, and the prospect before me, And balance your offer of freedom sae kind.” “My friendship ye spurned; my daughter ye scorned; This minute in air ye shall flaff at the spauld: A preciouser villain my tree ne’er adorned; Hang a rogue when he’s young, he’ll steal nane when he’s auld.”

185

190

195

200

“O sir, but ’tis hard to dash me in eternity Wi’ as little time to consider my state.”— “I swear, then, this hour shall my daughter be married t’ ye, Or else the next minute submit to your fate.” But Wattie now fand he was fairly warang, That marriage to death was a different case.— “What matter,” quo’ he, “though her nose it be lang? It will ay keep her ae bieldy side of a face.

205

1807 VERSION

“To fondle, or kiss her, I’ll never be fain, Or lie down beside her wi’ nought but my sark; But the first, if I please, I can let it alane; And cats they are all alike grey in the dark. “What though she has twa little winkling een? They’re better than nane, and my life it is sweet: And what though her mou’ be the maist I ha’e seen? Faith, muckle-mou’d fock ha’e a luck for their meat.” That day they were wedded, that night they were bedded, And Juden has feasted them gayly and free; But aft the bridegroom has he rallied and bladded, What faces he made at the big hanging tree.

51 210

215

220

He swore that his mou’ was grown wider than Meg’s; That his face frae the chin was a half a yard high; That it struck wi’ a palsy his knees and his legs; For a’ that a Scott thought it naething to die! “There’s nothing,” he said, “ I more highly approve Than a rich forest laird to come stealing by my kye; Wad Branxholm and Thirlestane come for a drove, I wad furnish them wives in their bosoms to lie.” So Wattie took Meg to the Forest sae fair, And they lived a most happy and peaceable life: The langer he kend her, he lo’ed her the mair, For a prudent, a virtuous, and sensible wife. And muckle good blood frae that union has flowed, And mony a brave fellow, and mony a brave feat; I darna just say they are a’ muckle mou’d, But they rather have a’ a good luck for their meat.

225

230

235

Notes on The Fray of Elibank O wha hasna heard o’ the bauld Juden Murray, The lord of the Elibank castle, so high?–P. 45. v. 1. Sir Gideon Murray was ancestor of the present Lord Elibank. The ruins of his huge castle still stand on the side of a hill, overhanging the Tweed, in the shire of Selkirk. Lovel Traquair, who was then Murray, Philliphaugh, Plora, and Sundhope, were all kinsmen of his; and there is a tradition extant, that all the land betwixt Tweed and Yarrow once pertained to the potent name of Murray.

52

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

If so, their possessions must have bordered a great way with Harden’s. The castle of Aekwood, or Oakwood, the baronial residence of the latter, stands on the Ettrick, about eight miles south of Elibank. The other places mentioned are all in that neighbourhood. Stout Willie of Fauldshop ae night he did cry on, Frae danger or peril wha never wad fly.—P. 45. v. 3. This man’s name was William Hogg, better known by the epithet of The Wild Boar of Fauldshop. Tradition reports him as a man of unequalled strength, courage, and ferocity. He was Harden’s chief champion, and in great favour with his master, until once, by his temerity, he led him into a scrape that had well nigh cost him his life. It was never positively said what this scrape was, but there is reason to suppose it was the Fray of Elibank. The Hoggs and the Brydens have brought him to dare you.—P. 46. v. 6. The author’s progenitors possessed the lands of Fauldshop, under the Scotts of Harden, for ages; until the extravagance of John Scott occasioned the family to part with them. They now form part of the extensive estates of Buccleugh. Several of their wives were supposed to be rank witches; and it is probable that the famous witch of Fauldshop was one of them, who so terribly hectored Mr Michael Scott, by turning him into a hare, and hunting him with his own dogs, until forced to take shelter in his own jaw-hole. The cruel retaliation which he made in showing his art to her, is also well known. It appears also, that some of the Hoggs had been poets before now, as there is still a part of an old song extant relating much to them. Observe how elegantly it flows on:— * * * * * * And the rough Hoggs of Fauldshop, That wear both wool and hair; There’s nae sic Hoggs as Fauldshop’s, In all Saint Boswell’s fair. And afterwards, near the end:— But the hardy Hoggs of Fauldshop, For courage, blood, and bane; For the Wild Boar of Fauldshop, Like him was never nane. If ye reave the Hoggs of Fauldshop, Ye herry Harden’s gear; But the poor Hoggs of Fauldshop Have had a stormy year. The Brydens, too, have long been a numerous and respectable clan in Ettrick forest and its vicinity. So Wattie took Meg to the Forest sae fair.—P. 51. v. 6. Though Elibank is in the shire of Selkirk, as well as Oakwood, yet, originally, by Ettrick Forest, was meant only the banks and environs of the two rivers, Ettrick and Yarrow.

1807 VERSION

Mess John THIS is a very popular story about Ettrick Forest, as well as a part of Annandale and Tweeddale, and is always told with the least variation, both by young and old, of any legendary tale I ever heard. It seems, like many others, to be partly founded on facts, with a great deal of romance added; for, if tradition can be in aught believed, the murder of the priest seems well attested: but I do not know if any records mention it. His sirname is said to have been Binram, though some suppose that it was only a nickname; and the mount, under which he was buried, still retains the name of Binram’s Corse. A gentleman of that country, with whom I lately conversed, strove to convince me that I had placed the era of the tale too late, for that it must have had its origin from a much earlier age. But when was there ever a more romantic, or more visionary age, than that to which this ballad refers? Besides, it is certain, that the two heroes, Dobson and Dun, whom every one allows to have been the first who had the courage to lay hold on the lady, and to have slain the priest, skulked about the head of Moffat water during the heat of the persecution, which they both survived. And Andrew Moore, who died at Ettrick about 26 years ago, at a great age, often averred, that he had, in his youth, seen and conversed with many people, who remembered every circumstance of it, both as to the murder of the priest, and the road being laid waste by the woman running at night with a fire-pan, or, as some call it, a globe of fire, on her head. This singular old man could repeat by heart every old ballad which is now published in the “Minstrelsy of the Border,” except three, with three times as many; and from him, Auld Maitland, with many ancient songs and tales, still popular in that country, are derived. If I may then venture a conjecture at the whole of this story, it is nowise improbable that the lass of Craigyburn was some enthusiast in religous matters, or perhaps a lunatic; and that, being troubled with a sense of guilt, and a squeamish conscience, she had, on that account, made several visits to Saint Mary’s Chapel to obtain absolution: and it is well known, that many of the Mountain-men wanted only a hair to make a tether of. Might they not then frame this whole story about the sorcery, on purpose to justify their violent procedure in the eyes of their countrymen, as no bait was more likely to be swallowed at that time? But, however it was, the reader has the story, in the following ballad, much as I have it.

M ESS J OHN stood in St Mary’s kirk, And preached and prayed so mightilie, No priest nor bishop through the land, Could preach or pray so well as he:

53

54

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

The words of peace flowed from his tongue, His heart seemed rapt with heavenly flame, And thousands would the chapel throng, So distant flew his pious fame. His face was like the rising moon, Imblushed with evening’s purple dye; His stature like the graceful pine That grew on Bourhop hills so high. Mess John lay on his lonely couch, And now he sighed and sorely pined; A smothered flame consumed his heart, And tainted his capacious mind. It was not for the nation’s sin, Nor kirk oppressed, that he did mourn; ’Twas for a little earthly flower— The bonny Lass of Craigyburn.

5

10

15

20

Whene’er his eyes with her’s did meet, They pierced his heart without remede; And when he heard her voice so sweet, Mess John forgot to say his creed. “Curse on our stubborn law,” he said, “That chains us back from social joy; Those sweet desires, by nature lent, I cannot taste without alloy! “Give misers wealth, and monarchs power; Give heroes kingdoms to o’erturn; Give sophists talents depths to scan— Give me the lass of Craigyburn.” Pale grew his cheek, and howe his eye, His holy zeal, alas! is flown; A priest in love is like the grass, That fades ere it be fairly grown. When thinking on her cherry lip, Her maiden bosom fair and gay, Her limbs, the ivory polished fine, His heart, like wax, would melt away!

25

30

35

40

1807 VERSION

55

He tried the sermons to compose, He tried it both by night and day; But all his lair and logic failed, His thoughts were ay on bonny May. He said the creed, he sung the mass, And o’er the breviary did turn; But still his wayward fancy eyed The bonny lass of Craigyburn. One day, upon his lonely couch He lay, a prey to passion fell; And aft he turned—and aft he wished— What ’tis unmeet for me to tell. A sudden languor chilled his blood, And quick o’er all his senses flew; But what it was, or what the cause, He neither wished to know, nor knew: But first he heard the thunder roll, And then a laugh of malice keen; Fierce whirlwinds shook the mansion-walls, And grievous sobs were heard between:

45

50

55

60

And then a maid, of beauty bright, With bosom bare, and claithing thin, With many a wild fantastic air, To his bedside came gliding in. A silken mantle on her feet Fell down in many a fold and turn, He thought he saw the lovely form Of bonny May of Craigyburn! Though eye and tongue and every limb Lay chained as the mountain rock, Yet fast his fluttering pulses played, As thus the enticing demon spoke:— “Poor heartless man! and wilt thou lie A prey to this devouring flame? That thou possess not bonny May, None but thyself hast thou to blame.

65

70

75

56

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

“You little know the fervid fires In female breasts that burn so clear; The froward youth of fierce desires, To them is most supremely dear.

80

“Who ventures most to gain their charms, By them is ever most approved; The ardent kiss, and clasping arms, By them are ever best beloved. “Then mould her form of fairest wax, With adder’s eyes, and feet of horn: Place this small scroll within its breast, Which I, your friend, have hither borne. “Then make a blaze of alder wood, Before your fire make this to stand; And the last night of every moon The bonny May’s at your command. “With fire and steel to urge her weel, See that you neither stint nor spare; For if the cock be heard to crow, The charm will vanish into air.” Then bristly, bristly, grew her hair, Her colour changed to black and blue; And broader, broader, grew her face, Till with a yell away she flew!

85

90

95

100

The charm was gone: Upstarts Mess John, A statue now behold him stand; Fain, fain, he would suppose’t a dream, But, lo, the scroll is in his hand. Read through this tale, and, as you pass, You’ll cry, alas, the priest’s a man! Read how he used the bonny lass, And count him human if you can.

105

—————————————— “O F ATHER dear! what ails my heart? Ev’n but this minute I was well; And now, though still in health and strength, I suffer half the pains of hell.”

110

1807 VERSION

“My bonny May, my darling child, Ill wots thy father what to say; I fear ’tis for some secret sin That heaven this scourge on thee doth lay; “Confess, and to thy Maker pray; He’s kind; be firm, and banish fear; He’ll lay no more on my poor child, Than he gives strength of mind to bear.”

57

115

120

“A thousand poignards pierce my heart! I feel, I feel, I must away; Yon holy man at Mary’s kirk Will pardon, and my pains allay. “I mind, when, on a doleful night, A picture of this black despair Was fully opened to my sight, A vision bade me hasten there.” “O stay, my child, till morning dawn, The night is dark, and danger nigh; Yon persecuted desperate bands Will shoot thee for a nightly spy. “Where wild Polmoody’s mountains tower, Full many a wight their vigils keep: Where roars the torrent from Loch-Skene, A troop is lodged in trenches deep. “The howling fox and raving earn Will scare thy reason quite away; Regard thy sex, and tender youth, And stay, my child, till dawning day.”

125

130

135

140

“I burn!—I rage!—my heart, my heart!” Then, with a shriek, away she ran. Hope says she’ll lose her darkling way, And never reach that hated man. But lo! a magic lanthorn bright Hung on the birks of Craigyburn; She placed the wonder on her head, Which shone around her like the sun.

145

58

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

She ran, impelled by racking pain, Though rugged ways and waters wild; Where art thou, guardian spirit, fled? Oh haste to save an only child! Hold!—he who doats on earthly things, ’Tis fit their frailty should appear; Hold!—they who providence accuse, ’Tis just their folly cost them dear. The God who guides the gilded moon, And rules the rough and rolling sea, Without a trial ne’er will leave A soul to evil destiny.

150

155

160

When crossing Meggat’s highland strand, She stopt to hear an eldritch scream; Loud crew the cock at Henderland, The charm evanished like a dream! The magic lanthorn left her head, And darkling now return she must. She wept, and cursed her hapless doom; She wept, and called her God unjust. But on that sad revolving day, The racking pains again return; Ah, must we view a slave to lust, The bonny lass of Craigyburn? Or see her to her father’s hall, Returning, rueful, ruined quite: And still, on that returning day, Yield to a monster’s hellish might? No—though harrassed, and sore distressed, Both shame and danger she endured;— For heaven in pity interposed, And still her virtue was secured. But o’er the scene we’ll draw a veil, Wet with the tender tear of woe; We’ll turn, and view the dire effects From this nocturnal rout that flow:

165

170

175

180

1807 VERSION

For every month the spectre ran, With shrieks would any heart appal; And every man and mother’s son, Astonished fled at evening fall. A bonny widow went at night To meet the lad she loved so well; “Ah, yon’s my former husband’s sprite!” She said, and into faintings fell. An honest taylor leaving work, Met with the lass of Craigyburn; It was enough—he breathed his last! One shriek had done the taylor’s turn. But drunken John of Keppelgill Met with her on Carrifran Gans; He, staggering, cried, “Who devil’s that?” Then plashing on, cried, “Faith, God kens!”

59 185

190

195

200

A mountain preacher quat his horse, And prayed aloud with lengthened phiz; The damsel yelled—the father smelled— Dundee was but a joke to this. Young Linton, in the Chapelhope, Enraged to see the road laid waste, Way-laid the damsel with a gun, But in a panic home was chaced. The Cameronians left their camp, And scattered wide o’er many a hill; Pursued by men, pursued by hell, They stoutly held their tenets still. But at the source of Moffat’s stream, Two champions of the cov’nant dwell, Who long had braved the power of men, And fairly beat the prince of hell: Armed with a gun, a rowan-tree rung, A bible, and a scarlet twine, They placed them on the Birkhill path, And distant saw the lanthorn shine.

205

210

215

220

60

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

And nearer, nearer, still it drew, At length they heard her piercing cries; And louder, louder, still they prayed, With aching heart, and upcast eyes! The bible, spread upon the brae, No sooner did the light illume, Than straight the magic lanthorn fled, And left the lady in the gloom. With open book, and haggart look, “Say what art thou?” they loudly cry; “I am a woman:—let me pass, Or quickly at your feet I’ll die. “O let me run to Mary’s kirk, Where, if I’m forced to sin and shame, A gracious God will pardon me;— My heart was never yet to blame.” Armed with the gun, the rowan-tree rung, The bible, and the scarlet twine, With her they trudged to Mary’s kirk, This cruel sorcery out to find.

225

230

235

240

When nigh Saint Mary’s aisle they drew, Rough winds and rapid rains began; They livid lightning linked flew, And round the rattling thunder ran: The torrents rush, the mountains quake, The sheeted ghosts run to and fro; And deep, and long, from out the lake, The Water-Cow was heard to low. The mansion then seemed in a blaze, And issued forth a sulphurous smell; An eldritch laugh went o’er their heads, Which ended in a hellish yell. Bauld Halbert ventured to the cell, And, from a little window, viewed The priest and Satan, close engaged In hellish rites, and orgies lewd.

245

250

255

1807 VERSION

A female form of melting wax, Mess John surveyed with steady eye, Which ever and anon he pierced, And forced the lady loud to cry.

61

260

Then Halbert raised his trusty gun, Was loaded well with powder and ball; And, aiming at the monster’s head, He blew his brains against the wall. The devil flew with such a clap, On door nor window did not stay; And loud he cried, in jeering tone, “Ha, ha, ha, ha, poor John’s away!” East from the kirk and holy ground, They bare that lump of sinful clay, And o’er him raised a mighty mound, Called Binram’s Corse unto this day. And ay when any lonely wight By yon dark cleugh is forced to stray, He hears that cry at dead of night, “Ha, ha, ha, ha, poor John’s away.”

265

270

275

Notes on Mess John Mess John stood in Saint Mary’s kirk.—P. 53. v. 1. The ruins of St Mary’s chapel are still visible, in a wild scene on the banks of the lake of that name; but the mansion in which the priest, or, as some call him, the curate, lived, was almost erazed of late, for the purpose of building a stone-wall round the old church and burying-ground. This chapel is, in some ancient records, called The Maiden Kirk, and, in others, The kirk of St Mary of the Lowes. His stature like the graceful pine, That grew on Bourhop-hills so high.—P. 54. v. 2. The hills of Bourhop, on the south side of the loch, opposite to the chapel, rise to the height of two thousand feet above the sea’s level, and were, like much of that country, formerly covered with wood. A silken mantle on her feet Fell down in many a fold and turn.—P. 55. v. 7. It is a vulgar received opinion, that, let the devil assume what appearance he will, were it even that of an angel of light, yet still his feet must be cloven; and

62

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

that, if he do not contrive some means to cover them, they will lead to a discovery of him and his intentions, which are only evil, and that continually. It is somewhat curious, that they should rank him amongst the clean beasts, which divide the hoof. They believe, likewise, that he and his emissaries can turn themselves into whatever shape they please, of all God’s creatures, excepting those of a lion, a lamb, and a dove. Consequently their situation is the most perilous that can be conceived; for, when it begins to grow dark, they cannot be sure, but almost all the beasts and birds they see are either deils or witches. Of cats, hares, and swine, they are particulary jealous; and a caterwauling noise hath often turned men from going to see their sweethearts, and even from seeking the midwife. And I knew a girl, who returned home after proceeding ten miles on a journey, from the unlucky and ominous circumstance of an ugly bird crossing the road three times before her: Neither did her parents at all disapprove of what she had done. You little know the fervid fires In female breasts that burn so clear; The froward youth, of fierce desires, To them is most supremely dear: Who ventures most to gain their charms, By them is ever most approved; The ardent kiss, and clasping arms, By them are ever best beloved.—P. 56. v. 1. 2. If any of my fair readers should quarrel with the sentiments manifested in these two stanzas, they will recollect that they are the sentiments of a fiend; who, we must suppose, was their mortal enemy, and would not scruple to paint their refined sensibility in very false colours, or, at least, from a very wrong point of view. With fire and steel to urge her weel, See that you neither stint nor spare.—P. 56. v. 5. The story says, that the priest was obliged to watch the picture very constantly; and that always when the parts next the fire began to soften, he stuck pins into them, and exposed another side; that, when each of these pins were stuck in, the lady uttered a piercing shriek; and that, as their number increased in the waxen image, her torment increased, and caused her to haste on with amazing speed. Where wild Polmoody’s mountains tower, Full many a wight their vigils keep.—P. 57. v. 6. The mountains of Polmoody, besides being the highest, are the most inaccessible in the south of Scotland; and great numbers, from the western counties, found shelter on them during the heat of the persecution. Many of these, it is supposed, were obliged to shift for their sustenance by stealing sheep; yet the country people, from a sense that Necessity has no law, winked at the loss; their sheep being, in those days, of less value than their meal, of which they would otherwise have been obliged to part with a share to the sufferers. Part of an

1807 VERSION

63

old ballad is still current in that neighbourhood, which relates their adventures, and the difficulties they laboured under for want of meat, and in getting hold of the sheep during the night. Some of the country people, indeed, ascribe these depredations to the persecutors; but it is not likely that they would put themselves to so much trouble. I remember only a few stanzas of this ballad, which are as follows: * * * * * Caryfran Gans they’re very strait, We canna gang without a road; But tak’ ye the tae side, an’ me the tither, And they’ll a’ come in at Firthup Dod. * * * * * On Turnberry and Caryfran Gans, And out among the Moodlaw haggs, They worried the feck o’ the laird’s lambs, And eatit them raw, and buried the baggs. * * * * * Had Guemsey’s Castle a tongue to speak, Or mouth o’ flesh, that it could fathom; It wad tell o’ mony a supple trick, Was done at the foot o’ Rotten-boddom: Where Donald, and his hungry men, Oft hough’d them up wi’ little din; And, mair intent on f lesh than yarn, Bure aff the bouk, and buried the skin. This Guemseys is an extensive wild glen on the further side of these mountains; and being, in former times, used as a common, to which many of the gentlemen and farmers of Tweeddale drove their flocks to feed during the summer months, consequently it would be, at that season, a very fit place for a prey. The Donald mentioned may have been the famous Donald Cargill, a Cameronian preacher, of great notoriety at the period. Where roars the torrent from Lochskene, A troop is lodged in trenches deep.—P. 57. v. 6. There are sundry cataracts in Scotland, called The Grey Mare’s Tail; in particular, one in the parish of Closeburn, in Nithsdale; and one betwixt Stranraer and Newton-Stewart: But that in Polmoody, on the border of Annandale, surpasses them all; as the water, with only one small intermission, falls from a height of 300 feet. This, with the rocks overhanging it on each side, when the water is flooded, greatly excels any thing I ever saw in awful grandeur. Immediately below it, in the straitest part of that narrow pass which leads from Annandale into Yarrow, a small strong entrenchment is visible. It is called by the country people, The Giant’s trench. It is in the form of an octave, and is defended behind by a bank. As it is not nearly so much grown up as those at Philiphaugh, it is

64

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

probable, that a handful of the covenanters might fortify themselves there during the time that their brethren were in arms. But it is even more probable, that a party of the king’s troops might be posted for some time in that important pass; as it is certain, Claverhouse made two sweeping circuits of that country, and, the last time, took many prisoners in the immediate vicinity of this scene. May we not likewise suppose, that the outrage committed at Saint Mary’s kirk might contribute to his appearance in those parts? Young Linton in the Chapelhope, Enraged to see the road laid waste.—P. 59. v. 6. The Lintons were, in those days, and even till toward the beginning of the last century, the principal farmers in all the upper parts of Ettrick and Yarrow; yet such a singular reverse of fortune have these opulent families experienced, that there is now rarely one of the name to be found above the rank of the meanest labourer. The Lintons of Chapelhope either favoured or pitied the covenanters; for they fed and sheltered great numbers of them, even to the impairing of their fortunes. On Dundee’s first approach to these parts, Mrs Linton went out to the road, and invited him and all his men to partake of a liberal refreshment, which they thankfully accepted; and this being a principal family, he went away so thoroughly convinced of the attachment of that neighbourhood to the royal cause, that a scrutiny was not only, at that time, effectually prevented, but the troops returned no more there for many years, until the license which they there enjoyed gathered such numbers as to become quite notorious. The spots where conventicles were held on these grounds, are still well known, and pointed out by some devout shepherds, with anecdotes of the preachers, or some of the principal characters. One can scarcely believe, but that Mr Graham had visited these spots, or was present on them, when he wrote the following lines: “O’er hills, through woods, o’er dreary wastes, they sought The upland moors, where rivers, there but brooks, Dispart to different seas. Fast by such brooks, A little glen is sometimes scooped; a plat With green-sward gay, and flowers, that strangers seem Amid the heathery wild, that all around Fatigues the eye.”—— These lines, with the two following pages of the sweet poem in which they occur, seem to be literal sketches of these scenes, as well as a representation of the transactions which then took place: For years more gloomy followed; and, from these “green-swards gay,” they were driven into the “deep dells, by rocks o’er-canopied.” Thus, it was high up in Ryskinhope where Renwick preached his last sermon, above the lakes, the sources of the Yarrow, where there is neither plat nor plain, but linns and moors. When he prayed that day few of the hearers’ cheeks were dry. My parents were well acquainted with a woman whom he there baptized.

1807 VERSION

65

But at the source of Moffat’s stream, Two champions of the cov’nant dwell; Who long had braved the power of men, And fairly beat the prince of hell.—P. 59. v. 8. These men’s names were Halbert Dobson, and David Dun; better known by those of Hab Dob, and Davie Din. The remains of their cottage is still visible, and sure never was human habitation contrived on such a spot. It is on the very brink of a precipice, which is 400 feet perpendicular height, whilst another of half that height overhangs it above. To this they resorted, in times of danger, for a number of years; and the precipice is still called Dob’s linn. There is likewise a natural cavern in the bottom of the linn farther up, where they, with other ten, hid themselves for several days, while another kept watch upon the Path-know; and they all assembled at the cottage during the night. Tradition relates farther of these two champions, that, while they resided at the cottage by themselves, the devil appeared to them every night, and plagued them exceedingly; striving often to terrify them, so as to make them throw themselves over the linn. But one day they contrived a hank of red yarn in the form of crosses, which it was impossible the devil could pass; and, on his appearance at night, they got in behind him, and attacked him resolutely with each a bible in one hand, and a rowan-tree staff in the other, and, after a desperate encounter, they succeeded in tumbling him headlong over the linn; but, to prevent hurting himself, at the moment he was overcome, he turned himself into a batch of skins! It was not those of stolen sheep we hope. Credulity has been the ruling passion of the Scots at this time, else such a story never could have obtained the least credit; yet, it is said, these men were wont to tell it as long as they lived, concluding it always with the observation, that the devil had never more troubled them, as he found it was not for his health. A short rhyme is still extant relating to this singular tradition; but which seems to have been composed afterwards, as the linn is there called Dob’s linn. It seems not improbable, that the bard who composed the song above quoted was likewise the author of this, for, like it, it is hard to say whether it is serious or burlesque. Little kend the wirrikow, What the covenant could dow! What o’ faith, an’ what o’ fen, What o’ might, an’ what o’ men; Or he had never shewn his face, His reekit rags, and riven taes,* To men o’ mak, an’ men o’ mense, Men o’ grace, an’ men o’ sense: ________________________________________ * The “reekit duds, and reistit phiz,” which Burns attributes to the grand enemy of mankind, is perhaps borrowed from this popular rhyme.

66

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

For Hab Dob, and Davie Din, Dang the deil owre Dob’s linn. Weir quo’ he, an’ weir quo’ he; Haud the bible till his e’e; Ding him owre, or thrush him down, He’s a fause deceitfu’ lown!— Then he owre him, an’ he owre him, He owre him, an’ he owre him: Habby held him griff and grim, Davie threush him liff an’ limb; Till, like a bunch o’ barkit skins, Down flew Satan ower the linns. After seeing this, the reader will not deny, that our champions “fairly beat the prince of hell.” And deep and long, from out the lake, The Water-Cow was heard to low.—P. 60. v. 7. In some places of the Highlands of Scotland, the inhabitants are still in continual terror of an imaginary being, called The Water-Horse. When I was travelling over the extensive and dreary isle of Lewis, I had a lad of Stornoway with me as a guide and interpreter. On leaving the shores of Loch Rogg, in our way to Harries, we came to an inland lake, called, I think, Loch Alladale; and, though our nearest road lay alongst the shores of this loch, Malcolm absolutely refused to accompany me by that way for fear of the Water-Horse, of which he told many wonderful stories, swearing to the truth of them; and, in particular, how his father had lately been very nigh taken by him, and that he had succeeded in decoying one man to his destruction, a short time previous to that. This spectre is likewise an inhabitant of Loch Aven at the foot of Cairngorm, and of Loch Laggan, in the wilds betwixt Lochaber and Badenoch. Somewhat of a similar nature seems to have been The Water-Cow, which, in former times, haunted Saint Mary’s loch, of which some extremely fabulous stories are yet related; and, though rather less terrible and malevolent than the Water-Horse, yet, like him, she possessed the rare slight of turning herself into whatever shape she pleased, and was likewise desirous of getting as many dragged into the lake as possible. Andrew Moore, above-mentioned, said, that, when he was a boy, his parents would not suffer him to go to play near the loch for fear of her; and that he remembered of seeing her once coming swimming towards him and his comrades in the evening twilight, but they all fled, and she sunk before reaching the side. A farmer of Bourhope once got a breed of her, which he kept for many years, until they multiplied exceedingly; and he never had any cattle throve so well, until once, on some outrage or disrespect on the farmer’s part towards them, the old dam came out of the lake one pleasant March evening, and gave such a roar, until all the surrounding hills shook again; upon which her progeny, nineteen in number, followed her all quietly into the loch, and were never more seen.

1807 VERSION

67

Which forced the lady loud to cry.—P. 61. v. 1. After the subject of a ballad is fairly introduced, great particularity is disgusting; therefore, the lass of Craigyburn, after this line, is no more mentioned: But the story adds, that she died of a broken heart, and of the heats which she got in being forced to run so fast. Another tradition, which I heard more lately, says, that she was conveyed secretly to a nunnery in Ireland, and that her father, whose name was Nicolson, afterwards lived in Craikbeck.

The Death of Douglas, Lord of Liddisdale THE first stanza of this Song, as well as the history of the event to which it refers, is preserved by Hume of Godscroft in his history of the House of Douglas. The author having been successful in rescuing some excellent old songs from the very brink of oblivion, searched incessantly many years after the remains of this, until lately, by mere accident, he lighted upon a few scraps, which he firmly believes to have formed a part of that very ancient ballad. The reader may judge for himself. The first verse is from Hume; and all those printed within brackets are as near the original as ryhme and reason will permit. They are barely sufficient to distinguish the strain in which the old song hath proceeded.

T HE Lady Douglas left her bower, An’ ay sae loud as she did call, “ ’Tis all for gude Lord Liddisdale That I do let these tears down fall.” [“O haud your tongue, my sister dear, An’ o’ your weepin’ let me be: Lord Liddisdale will haud his ain Wi’ ony Lord o’ Chrystendie. “For him ye widna weep or whine If you had seen what I did see, ] That day he broke the troops o’ Tyne, Wi’s gilded sword o’ metal free. “Stout Heezlebrae was wonder wae To see his faintin’ vassals yield; An’ in a rage he did engage Lord Liddisdale upon the field.

5

10

15

1807 VERSION

67

Which forced the lady loud to cry.—P. 61. v. 1. After the subject of a ballad is fairly introduced, great particularity is disgusting; therefore, the lass of Craigyburn, after this line, is no more mentioned: But the story adds, that she died of a broken heart, and of the heats which she got in being forced to run so fast. Another tradition, which I heard more lately, says, that she was conveyed secretly to a nunnery in Ireland, and that her father, whose name was Nicolson, afterwards lived in Craikbeck.

The Death of Douglas, Lord of Liddisdale THE first stanza of this Song, as well as the history of the event to which it refers, is preserved by Hume of Godscroft in his history of the House of Douglas. The author having been successful in rescuing some excellent old songs from the very brink of oblivion, searched incessantly many years after the remains of this, until lately, by mere accident, he lighted upon a few scraps, which he firmly believes to have formed a part of that very ancient ballad. The reader may judge for himself. The first verse is from Hume; and all those printed within brackets are as near the original as ryhme and reason will permit. They are barely sufficient to distinguish the strain in which the old song hath proceeded.

T HE Lady Douglas left her bower, An’ ay sae loud as she did call, “ ’Tis all for gude Lord Liddisdale That I do let these tears down fall.” [“O haud your tongue, my sister dear, An’ o’ your weepin’ let me be: Lord Liddisdale will haud his ain Wi’ ony Lord o’ Chrystendie. “For him ye widna weep or whine If you had seen what I did see, ] That day he broke the troops o’ Tyne, Wi’s gilded sword o’ metal free. “Stout Heezlebrae was wonder wae To see his faintin’ vassals yield; An’ in a rage he did engage Lord Liddisdale upon the field.

5

10

15

68

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

‘Avaunt, thou haughty Scot,’ he cry’d, ‘Nor dare to face a noble fae; Say—wilt thou brave the deadly brand, And heavy hand of Heezlebrae?’

20

“The word was scarcely mixt wi’ air, When Douglas’ sword his answer gae; An’ frae a wound, baith deep and sair, Out fled the soul o’ Heezlebrae. “Mad Faucet next, wi’ wounds transfixt, In anguish gnaw’d the bloody clay; Then Hallinshed he wheil’d an’ fled, An’ left his rich, ill-gotten prey. “I ha’e been west, I ha’e been east, I ha’e seen dangers many a ane; But for a bauld and dauntless breast, Lord Liddisdale will yield to nane. “An’ were I call’d to face the foe, An’ bidden chuse my leader free; Lord Liddisdale would be the man Should lead me on to victory.” [“O haud your tongue, my brother John! Though I have heard you patientlie, Lord Liddisdale is dead an’ gone, An’ he was slain for love o’ me.

25

30

35

40

“My little true an’ trusty page Has brought the heavy news to me, That my ain lord did him engage Where he could nouther fitch nor flee. “Four o’ the foremost men he slew, An’ four he wounded despratelie; But cruel Douglas came behind, An’ ran him through the fair bodie.] “O wae be to the Ettrick wood! O wae be to the banks of Ale! O wae be to the dastard croud That murder’d handsome Liddisdale!

45

50

1807 VERSION

[“It wasna rage for Ramsey slain That rais’d the deadly feid sae hie; ] Nor perjur’d Murray’s timeless death— It was for kindness shewn to me. [“When I was led through Liddisdale, An’ thirty horsemen guarding me; When that gude lord came to my aid, Sae soon as he did set me free! ]

69

55

60

“The wild bird sang, and woodlands rang, An’ sweet the sun shone on the vale; Then thinkna ye my heart was wae To part wi’ gentle Liddisdale. “But I will greet for Liddisdale, Until my twa black een rin dry; An’ I will wail for Liddisdale, As lang as I ha’e voice to cry. “An’ for that gude lord I will sigh Until my heart an’ spirit fail; An’, when I die, O bury me On the left side of Liddisdale.” “Now haud your tongue, my sister dear, Your grief will cause baith dule an’ shame; Since ye were fause, in sic a cause, The Douglas’ rage I canna blame.” “Gae stem the bitter norlan’ gale; Gae bid the wild wave cease to rowe; I’ll own my love for Liddisdale Afore the king, my lord, an’ you.”

65

70

75

80

He drew his sword o’ stained steel, While neid-fire gleam’d frae ilka eye, Nor pity, nor remorse did feel, Till dead she at his feet did lye. “O cruel man! what ha’e I done? I never wrong’d my lord nor thee; I little thought my brother John Could ha’e the heart to murder me.”

85

70

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

Sunk was her een, her voice was gane, Her bonny face was pale as clay, Her hands she rais’d to heaven for grace; Then fainted, sunk, and died away. He dight his sword upon the ground; Wi’ tentless glare his een did rowe, Till fixing on the throbbing wound That stain’d her breast of purest snow. He cry’d, “O lady, fause an’ fair! Now thou art dead and I undone! I’ll never taste of comfort mair, Nor peace of mind, aneath the sun!

90

95

100

“Owr mountains, seas, an’ burnin’ sand, I’ll seek the plains of Italie; Then kneel in Judah’s distant land, An’ syne come back an’ sleep wi’ thee.”

Willie Wilkin The real name of this famous warlock was Johnston; how he came to acquire that of Wilkin I can get no information, though his name and his pranks are well known in Annandale and Nithsdale. He seems to have been an abridgement of Mr Michael Scott; but, though his powers were exhibited on a much more narrow scale, they were productive of actions yet more malevolent.

T HE glow-worm goggled on the moss When Wilkin rode away, And much his aged mother fear’d, But wist not what to say. For near the change of every moon, At deepest midnight tide, He hied him to yon ancient fane That stands by Kinnel side. His thoughts were absent, wild his looks, His speeches fierce and few; But who he met, or what was done, No mortal ever knew.

5

10

70

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

Sunk was her een, her voice was gane, Her bonny face was pale as clay, Her hands she rais’d to heaven for grace; Then fainted, sunk, and died away. He dight his sword upon the ground; Wi’ tentless glare his een did rowe, Till fixing on the throbbing wound That stain’d her breast of purest snow. He cry’d, “O lady, fause an’ fair! Now thou art dead and I undone! I’ll never taste of comfort mair, Nor peace of mind, aneath the sun!

90

95

100

“Owr mountains, seas, an’ burnin’ sand, I’ll seek the plains of Italie; Then kneel in Judah’s distant land, An’ syne come back an’ sleep wi’ thee.”

Willie Wilkin The real name of this famous warlock was Johnston; how he came to acquire that of Wilkin I can get no information, though his name and his pranks are well known in Annandale and Nithsdale. He seems to have been an abridgement of Mr Michael Scott; but, though his powers were exhibited on a much more narrow scale, they were productive of actions yet more malevolent.

T HE glow-worm goggled on the moss When Wilkin rode away, And much his aged mother fear’d, But wist not what to say. For near the change of every moon, At deepest midnight tide, He hied him to yon ancient fane That stands by Kinnel side. His thoughts were absent, wild his looks, His speeches fierce and few; But who he met, or what was done, No mortal ever knew.

5

10

1807 VERSION

“O stay at home, my only son! O stay at home with me! I fear I’m secretly forewarn’d Of ills awaiting thee. “Last night I heard the dead-bell sound, When all were fast asleep; And ay it rung, and ay it sung, Till all my flesh did creep.

71

15

20

“And when on slumber’s silken couch, My senses dormant lay, I saw a pack of hungry hounds, Would make of thee their prey. “With feeble step I ran to help, Or death with thee to share; When straight you bound my hands and feet, And left me lying there. “I saw them tear thy vitals forth; Thy life-blood dyed the way; I saw thy eyes all glaring red, And closed mine for ay. “Then stay at home, my only son! O stay at home with me! Or take with thee this little book, Thy guardian it shall be.” “Hence, old fanatic, from my sight! What means this senseless whine? I pray thee mind thine own affairs, Let me attend to mine.”

25

30

35

40

“Alas, my son! the generous spark That warm’d thy tender mind Is now extinct, and malice keen Is only left behind. “How canst thou rend that aged heart That yearns thy woes to share? Thou still hast been my only grief, My only hope and care.

45

72

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

“Ere I had been one month a bride, Of joy I took farewell; With Craigie, on the banks of Sark, Thy valiant father fell. “I nurs’d thee on my tender breast, With meikle care and pain; And saw, with pride, thy mind expand, Without one sordid stain. “With joy, each night, I saw thee kneel Before the throne of grace; And on thy Saviour’s blessed day Frequent his holy place.

50

55

60

“But all is gone! the vespers sweet Which from our castle rose Are silent now, and sullen pride In hand with envy goes! “Thy wedded wife has sway’d thy heart To pride and passion fell; O! for thy pretty children’s sake, Renounce that path of hell. “Then stay at home, my only son! O with thy mother stay! Or tell me what thou goest about, That for thee I may pray.” He turn’d about, and hasted out, And for his horse did call; “An hundred fiends my patience rend, But thou excell’st them all.” She slipt beneath his saddle lap A book of psalms and pray’rs, And hasten’d to yon ancient fane, To listen what was there. And when she came to yon kirk-yard, Where graves are green and low, She saw full thirty coal-black steeds All standing in a row.

65

70

75

80

1807 VERSION

Her Willie’s was the tallest steed, ’Twixt Dee and Annan whole; But plac’d beside that mighty rank, He kyth’d but like a foal. She laid her hand upon his side; Her heart grew cold as stone! The cold sweat ran from every hair, He trembled every bone! She laid her hand upon the next, His bulky side to stroak, And ay she reach’d, and ay she stretch’d,— Was nothing all but smoke. It was a mere delusive form Of films and sulphry wind; And every wave she gave her hand A gap was left behind.

73 85

90

95

100

She pass’d through all those stately steeds, Yet nothing marr’d her way, And left her shape in every shade, For all their proud array. But whiles she felt a glowing heat, Though mutt’ring holy prayer; And filmy veils assail’d her face, And stifling brimstone air. Then for her darling desperate grown, Straight to the aisle she flew; But what she saw, and what she heard, No mortal ever knew. But yells, and moans, and heavy groans, And blackest blasphemye, Did fast abound; for every hound Of hell seem’d there to be. And after many a horrid rite, And sacrifice prophane, “A book! a book!” they loudly howl’d; “Our spells are all in vain.

105

110

115

120

74

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

“Hu! tear him, tear him limb from limb,” Resounded through the pile, “Hu, tear him, tear him straight, for he Has mock’d us all this while.” The tender matron, desperate grown, Then shriek’d most bitterlye: “O spare my son, and take my life, The book was lodg’d by me.” “Ha! that’s my frantic mother’s voice! My life or peace must end; O take her! take her!” loud he cried, “Take her, and spare thy friend!” The riot rout then sallied out, Like hounds upon their prey; And gathered round her in the aisle, With many a hellish bray. Each angry shade endeavours made Their fangs in blood to stain, But all their efforts to be felt Were impotent and vain.

125

130

135

140

Whether the wretched mortal there His filial hands embrued, Or if the ruler of the sky The scene with pity view’d,— And sent the streaming bolt of heaven, Ordained to interpose, To take her life, and save her soul, From these infernal foes, No man can tell, how it befel; Enquiry all was vain; But thence she never more returned, She there that night was slain. And Willie Wilkin’s noble steed Lay stiff upon the green. A night so dire in Annandale Before had never been!

145

150

155

1807 VERSION

Loud thunders shook the vault of heaven, The bolts with fury flew; The graves were plow’d, the rocks were riven; Whole flocks and herds it slew.

75

160

They gather’d up her mangled limbs, And laid beneath a stone; But heart, and tongue, and every palm From every hand were gone. Her brains were dash’d against the wall, Her blood upon the floor; Her reverend head, with sorrows grey, Hung on the chapel door. To Auchincastle Wilkin hied, On Evan braes so green; And liv’d and died like other men, For aught that could be seen. But gloomy, gloomy, was his look; And froward was his way; And malice every action rul’d Until his dying day. And many a mermaid staid his call, And many a mettled fay; And many a wayward spirit learn’d His summons to obey.

165

170

175

180

And many a wondrous work he wrought, And many things foretold; Much was he fear’d, but little lov’d, By either young or old.

Notes on Willie Wilkin He hied him to yon ancient fane That stands by Kinnel side.—P. 70. v. 2. The name of this ancient fane is Dumgree. It is beautifully situated on the west side of the Kinnel, one of the rivers which joins the Annan from the west, and is now in ruins. It is still frequented by a few peaceable spirits at certain

76

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

seasons. As an instance: Not many years ago, a neighbouring farmer, riding home at night upon a mare, who, besides knowing the road well enough, had her foal closed in at home, thought himself hard at his own house, but was surprised to find that his mare was stopped at the door of the old kirk of Dumgree. He mounted again, and essayed it a second and a third time; but always, when he thought himself at home, he found himself at the door of the old church of Dumgree, and farther from home than when he first set out. He was now sensible, that the beast was led by some invisible hand, so alighting, he went into the chapel and said his prayers; after which, he mounted, and rode as straight home as if it had been noon. If the farmer had told his story to my uncle Toby, he would certainly have whistled Lillabullero. To Auchencastle Wilkin hied, On Evan braes so green.—P. 75. v. 4. Auchencastle is situated on the west side of the Evan, another of the tributary streams of the Annan. It seems to have been a place of great strength and antiquity; is surrounded by a moat and a fosse, and is, perhaps, surpassed by none in Scotland for magnitude. And lived and died like other men, For aught that could be seen—P. 75. v. 4. If he lived and died like other men, it appears that he was not at all buried like other men. When on his death-bed, he charged his sons, as they valued their peace and prosperity, to sing no requiem, nor say any burial-service over his body; but to put a strong withie to each end of his coffin, by which they were to carry him away to Dumgree, and see that all the attendants were well mounted. On the top of a certain eminence they were set to down the corpse and rest a few minutes, and if nothing interfered they might proceed. If they fulfilled these, he promised them the greatest happiness and prosperity for four generations; but, if they neglected them in one point, the utmost misery and wretchedness. The lads performed every thing according to their father’s directions; and they had scarcely well set down the corpse on the place he mentioned, when they were alarmed by the most horrible bellowing of bulls; and instantly two dreadful brindered ones appeared, roaring, and snuffing, and tossing up the earth with their horns and hoofs; on which the whole company turned and fled. When the bulls reached the coffin, they put each of them one of their horns into their respective withies, and ran off with the corpse, stretching their course straight to the westward. The relatives, and such as were well mounted, pursued them, and kept nigh them for several miles; but when they came to the small water of Brann, in Nithsdale, the bulls went straight through the air from the one hill head to the other, without descending to the bottom of the glen. This unexpected manœuvre threw the pursuers quite behind, though they need not have expected any thing else, having before observed, that their feet left no traces on the ground, though ever so soft. However, by dint of whip and spur, they again got sight of them; but when they came to Loch Ettrick, on the heights of Closeburn, they had all

1807 VERSION

77

lost sight of them but two, who were far behind: but the bulls there meeting with another company, plunged into the lake with the corpse, and were never more seen at that time. Ever since, his spirit has haunted that loch, and continues to do so to this day. He was, when alive, very fond of the game of curling on the ice, at which no mortal man could beat him; nor has his passion for it ceased with death; for he and his hellish confederates continue to amuse themselves with this game during the long winter nights, to the great terror and annoyance of the neighbourhood, not much regarding whether the loch be frozen or not. I have heard sundry of the neighbouring inhabitants declare, with the most serious countenances, that they have heard them talking, and the sound of the stones running alongst the ice and hitting each other, as distinctly as ever they did when present at a real and substantial curling. Some have heard him laughing, others lamenting; and others have seen the two bulls plashing and swimming about in the loch at the close of the evening. In short, every one allows it to be a dangerous place, and a place where very many have been affrighted; though there is little doubt that, by making allowances for the magnifying qualities of fear, all the above might be accounted for in a natural way.—Wilkin’s descendants are still known; and the poorer sort of them have often their great predecessor mentioned to them as a term of reproach, whom they themselves allow to have been an awesome body.

Thirlestane A Fragment S I R R OBERT S COTT, knight of Thirlestane, was first married to a lady of high birth and qualifications, whom he most tenderly loved; but she, soon dying, left him an only son. He was afterwards married to a lady of a different temper, by whom he had several children; whose jealousy of the heir made Sir Robert doat still more on this darling son. She, knowing that the right of inheritance belonged to him, and that, of course, a very small share would fall to her sons, seeing he loved the heir so tenderly, grew every year more uneasy. But the building, and other preparations which were going on at Gamescleuch, on the other side of the Ettrick, for his accommodation on reaching his majority, when he was also to be married to a fair kinswoman, drove her past all patience, and made her resolve on his destruction. The masonry of his new castle of Gamescleuch was finished on his birth-day, when he reached his twentieth year, but it never went farther. This being always a feastday at Thirlestane, the lady prepared, on that day, to put her hellish plot in execution; for which purpose, she had previously secured to her interest John Lally, the family piper. This man, tradition says, procured her three adders, of which they chose the parts replete with most deadly poison; these they ground to a fine powder, and mixed with a bottle of

1807 VERSION

77

lost sight of them but two, who were far behind: but the bulls there meeting with another company, plunged into the lake with the corpse, and were never more seen at that time. Ever since, his spirit has haunted that loch, and continues to do so to this day. He was, when alive, very fond of the game of curling on the ice, at which no mortal man could beat him; nor has his passion for it ceased with death; for he and his hellish confederates continue to amuse themselves with this game during the long winter nights, to the great terror and annoyance of the neighbourhood, not much regarding whether the loch be frozen or not. I have heard sundry of the neighbouring inhabitants declare, with the most serious countenances, that they have heard them talking, and the sound of the stones running alongst the ice and hitting each other, as distinctly as ever they did when present at a real and substantial curling. Some have heard him laughing, others lamenting; and others have seen the two bulls plashing and swimming about in the loch at the close of the evening. In short, every one allows it to be a dangerous place, and a place where very many have been affrighted; though there is little doubt that, by making allowances for the magnifying qualities of fear, all the above might be accounted for in a natural way.—Wilkin’s descendants are still known; and the poorer sort of them have often their great predecessor mentioned to them as a term of reproach, whom they themselves allow to have been an awesome body.

Thirlestane A Fragment S I R R OBERT S COTT, knight of Thirlestane, was first married to a lady of high birth and qualifications, whom he most tenderly loved; but she, soon dying, left him an only son. He was afterwards married to a lady of a different temper, by whom he had several children; whose jealousy of the heir made Sir Robert doat still more on this darling son. She, knowing that the right of inheritance belonged to him, and that, of course, a very small share would fall to her sons, seeing he loved the heir so tenderly, grew every year more uneasy. But the building, and other preparations which were going on at Gamescleuch, on the other side of the Ettrick, for his accommodation on reaching his majority, when he was also to be married to a fair kinswoman, drove her past all patience, and made her resolve on his destruction. The masonry of his new castle of Gamescleuch was finished on his birth-day, when he reached his twentieth year, but it never went farther. This being always a feastday at Thirlestane, the lady prepared, on that day, to put her hellish plot in execution; for which purpose, she had previously secured to her interest John Lally, the family piper. This man, tradition says, procured her three adders, of which they chose the parts replete with most deadly poison; these they ground to a fine powder, and mixed with a bottle of

78

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

wine. On the forenoon before the festival commenced, he went over to Gamescleuch to regale his workmen, who had exerted themselves to get their work finished on that day, and Lally the piper went with him as server. When his young lord called for wine to drink a health to the masons, John gave him a cup of the poisoned bottle, which he drank off. Lally went out of the castle, as if about to return home; but that was the last sight of him. He could never be found, nor heard of, though the most diligent and extended search was made for him. The heir swelled and burst almost instantaneously. A large company of the then potent name of Scott, with others, were now assembled at Thirlestane to grace the festival; but what a woeful meeting it turned out to be! They with one voice pronounced him poisoned; but where to attach the blame remained a mystery, as he was so universally loved and esteemed. The first thing the knight caused to be done, was blowing the blast on the trumpet or great bugle, which was the warning for all the family instantly to assemble, which they did in the court of the castle. He then put the following question: “Now, are we all here?” A voice answered from the crowd, “We are all here but Lally the piper.” Simple and natural as this answer may seem, it served as an electrical shock to old Sir Robert. It is supposed that, knowing the confidence which his lady placed in this menial, the whole scene of cruelty opened to his eyes at once; and the trying conviction, that his peace was destroyed by her most dear to him, struck so forcibly upon his feelings, that it totally deprived him of reason. He stood a long time speechless, and then fell to repeating the answer which he received, like one half awakened out of a sleep; nor was he ever heard, for many a day, to speak another word than these, “We’re all here but Lally the piper:” And when any one accosted him, whatever was the subject, that was sure to be the answer he received. The method which he took to revenge his son’s death was singular and unwarrantable: He said, that the estate of right belonged to his son, and since he could not bestow it upon him living, he would spend it all upon him now he was dead; and that neither the lady nor her children should ever enjoy a farthing of that which she had played so foully for. The body was accordingly embalmed, and lay in great splendour at Thirlestane for a year and a day; during all which time Sir Robert kept open house, welcoming and feasting all who chose to come, and actually spent or mortgaged his whole estate, saving a very small patrimony in Eskdale-muir, which belonged to his wife. Some say, that while all the country who chose to come were thus feasting at Thirlestane, she remained shut up in a vault of the castle, and lived on bread and water. During the three last days of this wonderful feast, the crowds which gathered were immense; it seemed as if the whole country were assembled at Thirlestane. The butts of wine were carried to the open fields, the ends knocked out of them with hatchets, stones, or whatever

1807 VERSION

came readiest to hand, and the liquor carried about “in stoups and in caups.” On these days the burn of Thirlestane ran constantly red with wine, and even communicated its tincture to the river Ettrick. The family vault, where his corpse was interred in a leaden chest, is under the same roof with the present parish church of Ettrick, and distant from Thirlestane about a Scots mile. To give some idea of the magnitude of the burial, the old people tell us, that though the whole way was crowded with attendants, yet, when the leaders of the procession reached the church, the rearmost were not nearly got from Thirlestane. Sir Robert, shortly after dying, left his family in a state little short of downright beggary, which, they say, the lady herself came to before she died. As Sir Robert’s first lady was of the family of Harden, some suspected him of having a share in forwarding the knight’s desperate procedure. Certain it is, however, he did not, in this instance, depart from the old family maxim, “Keep what you have, and catch what you can,” but made a noble hand of the mania of grief which so overpowered the faculties of the old baron; for when accounts came to be cleared up, a large proportion of the lands turned out to be Harden’s. And it is added, on what authority I know not, that when the extravagance of Sir William Scott obliged the Harden family to part with these lands, the purchasers were bound, by the bargain, to refund these lands, should the Scotts of Thirlestane ever make good their right to them, either by law or redemption. The nearest lineal descendant from this second marriage is one Robert Scott, a poor man who lives at the Binks on Teviot, whom the generous Buccleuch has taken notice of and provided for. He is commonly distinguished by the appellation of Rob the Laird, from the conviction of what he would have been had he got fair play. With this man, who is very intelligent, I could never find an opportunity of conversing, though I sought it diligently. It is said, he can inform as to many particulars relating to this sad catastrophe; and that, whenever he has occasion to mention a certain great predecessor of his, (the lady of Thirlestane) he distinguishes her by the uncouth epithet of the d———d b———h. It must be remarked, that I had access to no records for the purpose of ascertaining the facts above stated, though I believe they are for the most part pretty correct. Perhaps much might be learned by applying to the noble representative of the family, the Honourable Lord Napier, who is still possessed of the beautiful mountains round Thirlestane, and who has it at present in contemplation to rebuild and beautify it; which may God grant him health and prosperity to accomplish.—It is to this story that the following fragment relates.

F E R , fer hee raide, and fer hee gaed, And aft he sailit the sea; And thrise he crossit the Alpyne hills To distant Italie.

79

80

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

Beyon Lough-Ness his tempil stude, Ane ril of meikle fame; A knight of gude Seant John’s hee was, And Baldwin was his name. By wonderous lore hee did explore What after tymes wald bee; And manie mystic links of fate He hafflins culd fursee. Fer, fer hee raide, and fer hee gaed, Owr mony hill and dale; Till, passing through the fair foreste, He learnit a waesome tale. Wher Ettrick wandirs down a plain, With lofty hills belay’t, The staitly towirs of Thirlestane With wundir hee surveyt.

5

10

15

20

Black hung the bannir on the wall; The trumpit seimit to grane; And reid, reid ran the bonny burn, Whilk erst like siller shone. At first a noise like fairie soundis He indistinctly heard; Then countless, countless were the crouds Whilke round the walls appeir’d. Thousands of steids stood on the hill, Of sable trappings vaine; And round on Ettricks fertile haughs Grew no kin kind of graine. Hee gazit, he wonderit, sair he fearit Sum recent tragadie; At lenth he spyit ane woeful wight Gaun droopin on the ley. His beard was silverit owr wi’ eild; Pale was his cheek wae-worn; His hayre was like the muirland wild On a December morn.

25

30

35

40

81

1807 VERSION

“Haile, revirent brither,” Baldwin said, “Here, in this unco land, A temple warrior greets thee well, And offers thee his hand. “O tell me why the peepill murn? Sure all is not for gude: And why, why does the bonnie burn Rin reid wi’ Christian blude?” Ald Beattie turnit and shuke his heid, While down fell mony a teir; “O wellcom, wellcom, sire,” he said, “Ane waesum tale to heire: “The gude Sir Robert’s sonne and aire By creuel handis lyis slain; And all his wide domains, so fair, To ither lords ar gane. “On sik ane youth as him they mourn, The sun did never shine;— Instead of Christian blude, the burn Rins reid wi’ Renis wine.

45

50

55

60

“This is the sad returnin day He first beheld the light; This is the sad returnin day He fell by cruel spite. “And on this day, with pomp and pride, From hence you’ll see him borne; And his poor faither sad return Of landis and onuris shorne. “Come to my littill chambir still, In yonder turret low; We’ll say our praiers for the dead, And for the leeving too. “And when thou hast a free repast Of wheat bread and the wine, My tale shall weet thy onest cheeks, As oft it has dune mine.” *

*

*

*

*

*

*

65

70

75

82

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

Lord Derwent A Fragment “O WHY look ye so pale, my lord? And why look ye so wan? And why stand mounted at your gate, So early in the dawn?” “O well may I look pale, lady; For how can I look gay, When I have fought the live-long night, And fled at break of day.” “And is the border troop arrived? And have they won the day? It must have been a bloody field, Ere Derwent fled away. “But where got ye that stately steed, So sable and so good? And where got ye that gilded sword, So dyed with purple blood?” “I got that sword, in bloody fray, Last night on Eden downe; I got the horse, and harnass too, Where mortal ne’er got one.”

5

10

15

20

“Alight, alight, my noble lord; God mot you save and see! For never, till this hour, was I Afraid to look on thee.” He turned him to the glowing east, That stained both tower and tree: “Prepare, prepare, my lady fair, Prepare to follow me. “Before this dawning day shall close, A deed shall here be done, That men unborn shall shrink to hear, And dames the tale shall shun.

25

30

1807 VERSION

“The conscious morning blushes deep, The foul intent to see. Prepare, prepare, my lady fair, Prepare to follow me.” “Alight, alight, my noble lord, I’ll live or die with thee; I see a wound deep in your side, And hence you cannot flee.”

83

35

40

She looked out o’er her left shoulder To list a heavy groan; But when she turned her round again, Her noble lord was gone. She looked to east, and west, and south, And all around the tower; Through house and hall, but man nor horse She never could see more. She turned her round, and round about, All in a doleful state; And there she saw her little foot page Alighting at the gate. “Oh! open, open, noble dame, And let your servant in; Our furious foes are hard at hand, The castle fair to win.” “But tell me, Billy, where’s my lord? Or whither is he bound? He’s gone just now, and in his side A deep and deadly wound.”

45

50

55

60

“Why do you rave, my noble dame, And look so wild on me? Your lord lies on the bloody field, And him you’ll never see. “With Scottish Jardine, hand to hand, He fought most valiantly, Put him to flight, and broke his men, With shouts of victory.

65

84

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

“But Maxwell rallying, wheeled about, And charged as fierce as hell; Yet ne’er could pierce the English troop Till my brave master fell. “Then all was gone; the ruffian Scot Bore down our flying band; And now they waste, with fire and sword, The Links of Cumberland. “Lord Maxwell’s gone to Carlisle town, With Jardine bold and true; And young Kilpatrick and Glencairn Are come in search of you.”

70

75

80

“How dare you lie, my little page, Whom I pay meat and fee? The cock has never crowed but once Since Derwent was with me. “The bird that sits on yonder bush, And sings so loud and clear, Has only three times changed his note Since my good lord was here.” “Whoe’er it was, whate’er it was, I’m sure it was not he: I saw him slain on Eden plain, And him you’ll never see. “I saw him stand against an host, While heaps before him fell: I saw them pierce his manly side, And bring his last farewell. “O run! he cried, to my ladye, And bear the fray before; Tell her I died for England’s right— Then word spake never more. “Come, let us fly to Westmoreland, For here you cannot stay; We’ll fairly shift; our steeds are swift; And well I know the way.”

85

90

95

100

85

1807 VERSION

“I will not fly, I cannot fly; My heart is wonder sore; My brain it turns, my blood it burns, And all with me is o’er.” She turned her eyes to Borrowdale; Her heart grew chill with dread,— For there she saw the Scottish band, Kilpatrick at their head. Red blazed the beacon on Pownell; On Skiddaw there were three; The warder’s horn, on muir and fell, Was heard continually. Dark grew the sky, the wind was still, The sun in blood arose; But oh! how many a gallant man Ne’er saw that evening close! *

*

*

*

*

*

105

110

115

120

*

Notes on Lord Derwent I got that sword in bloody fray, Last night on Eden downe.—P. 82. v. 5. This ballad relates to an engagement which took place betwixt the Scots and English, in Cumberland, A. D. 1524; for a particular account of which, see the historians of that time. But Maxwell rallying, wheeled about.—P. 84. v. 1. The page’s account of this action seems not to be wide of the truth: “On the 17th of Julie, the Lord Maxwell, and Sir Alexander Jardein, with diverse other Scottishmen, in great numbers entered England by the west marches and Caerleill, with displayed banners, and began to harrie the country, and burn diverse places. The Englishmen assembled on every side, so that they were far more in number than the Scottishmen, and thereupon set feircielie upon their enemies: insomuch, that, for the space of an hour, there was a sore fight continued betwixt them. But the Lord Maxwell, like a true politike captain, as of all that knew him he was no less reputed, ceased not to incourage his people; and after that, by the taking of Sir Alexander Jardein and others, they had beene put backe, he brought them in arraie again, and, beginning a new skirmish, recovered in manner all the prisoners; took and slew diverse Englishmen; so that he returned with victorie, and led above 300 prisoners with him into Scotland.”—H OLINGSHED .

86

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

The Laird of Lairistan, or,

The Three Champions of Liddisdale T HE scene of this ballad is laid in the upper parts of Liddisdale, in which district the several residencies of the three champions are situated, as is also the old castle of Hermitage, with the farm-houses of Saughentree and Roughley. As to the authenticity of the story, all that I can say of it is, that I used to hear it told when I was a boy, by William Scott, a joiner of that country, and was much taken with some of the circumstances. Were I to relate it verbatim, it would only be anticipating a great share of the poem.—One verse is ancient, beginning, O wae be to thee, &c.

“O W ILLIE , ’tis light, and the moon shines bright, Will ye go and watch the deer wi’ me?” “Ay, be my sooth, this very night:”— And away they went to the Saughentree. The moon had turn’d the roof of heaven; The ground lay deep in drifted snaw; The Hermitage bell had rung eleven, When lo! a wondrous sight they saw. Right owr the knowe where Liddel lyes,— Nae wonder that it catch’d his ee! A thing of huge and monstrous size Was steering that way hastilye. “Ah! what is yon, my brother John? Now God preserve baith you and me! But our guns they are load, and what comes in their road, Be’t boggle, or robber, these bullets shall prie.” “O haud your tongue, my brother dear; Let us survey’t with steedy ee; ’Tis surely a man they are carrying here, And ’tis fit that the family warn’d should be.” They ran to the ha’, and they waken’d them a’, Where none were at home but maidens three; And into the shade of the wall they have staid, To watch what the issue of this would be.

5

10

15

20

1807 VERSION

And there they saw a dismal sight! A sight had neerly freez’d their blood! One lost her reason that very night, And one of them fainted where they stood. Four stalwart men, on arms so bright, Came bearing a corpse with many a wound; His habit bespoke him a lord or knight; And his fair ringlets swept the ground. They heard a voice to the other say— “A place to leave him will not be found; The barn is lock’d, and the key away.”— Said one, “In the byre we’ll lay him down.” Then into the byre the corpse they bore, And away they fled right speedilye; The rest took shelter within the door, In wild amazement, as well might be.

87 25

30

35

40

And into the byre no ane durst gang, No, not for the life of his bodye; But the blood on the snaw was trail’d alang, And they ken’d a’ wasna as it should be. Next morning all the Dalesmen ran; For soon the word was far and wide; And there lay the Laird of Lairistan, The bravest knight on the border side!

45

He was wounded behind, and wounded before, And cloven through the left cheek-bone; 50 And clad in the habit he daily wore; But his sword, and his belt, and his bonnet were gone. Then east and west the word has gane, And soon to Branxholm ha’ it flew, That Elliot of Lairistan he was slain, And how or why no creature knew. Buccleuch has mounted his milk-white steed, With fifteen knights in his companye; To Hermitage Castle they rode with speed, Where all the dale was summon’d to be.

55

60

88

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

And soon they came, a numerous host, And they swore, and touch’d the dead bodie; But Jocky o’ Millburn he was lost, And could not be found in the hale countrye. “Now, wae be to thee, Armstrong o’ Millburn! And O an ill death may’st thou dee! Through thee we have lost brave Lairistan, But his equal thou wilt never be. “The Bewcastle men may ramp and rave, And drive away the Liddisdale kye: For now is our guardian laid in his grave; And Branxholm and Thirlestane distant lye.” The Dales-men thus his loss deplore, And every one his virtures tell; His hounds lay howling at the door; His hawks flew idle o’er the fell. —————————————————————— When three long years were come and gone, Two shepherds sat on Roughly hill; And ay they sigh’d, and made their moan, O’er present times that look’d so ill.

65

70

75

80

“Our young king lives at London town, Buccleuch must bear him companye; And Thirlestane’s all to ruin gone, And who shall our protecter be? “And jealous of the Stuart race, The English lords begin to thraw; The land is in a piteous case, When subjects rise against the law. “Ere all is done, our blood may soak Our Scottish houms, and leave a stain— A stain like that on Sundup’s cloak, Which never will wash out again.” Amazement kyth’d in Sandy’s face; His mouth to open wide began; He star’d, and look’d from place to place, As events o’er his mem’ry ran.

85

90

95

1807 VERSION

The broider’d cloak of gaudy green That Sundup wore, and was sae gay, For three lang years had ne’er been seen, At chapel, raid, nor holiday.

89

100

He minded too, he once o’erheard, (When courting of his bonny Ann) A hint, the which he greatly fear’d, But ne’er could thoroughly understand. “Now tell me, Willie, tell me true; Your sim’lie bodes us little good; I fear the cloak you mention’d now— I fear ’tis stained with noble blood!” “Indeed, my friend, you’ve guess’d aright; I never meant to tell to man That tale; but crimes will come to light, Let human wits do what they can. “But He, who ruleth wise and well, Hath order’d from his seat on high, That ay since valiant Elliot fell That mantle bears the purple dye. “And all the waters in Liddisdale, And all that lash the British shore, Can ne’er wash out the wondrous maele! It still seems fresh with purple gore.”

105

110

115

120

Then east and west the word has gane, And soon to Branxholm hall it flew; And Halbert o’ Sundup hee was ta’en, And brought before the high Buccleuch. The cloak was hung in open hall, Where ladies and lords of high degree, And many a one, both great and small, Were struck with awe the same to see. “Now tell me, Sundup,” said Buccleuch, “If this is rul’d by God on high? If that is Elliot’s blood we view, False Sundup! thou shalt surely die.”

125

130

90

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

Then Halbert turn’d him where he stood, And wip’d the round tear from his ee; “That blood, my lord, is Elliot’s blood; I winna keep the truth frae thee.” “O ever-alack!” said good Buccleuch, “If that be true thou tell’st to me, On the highest tree in Branxholm heuch, Stout Sundup, thou must hangit be.”

135

140

“’Tis Elliot’s blood; I tell you true: And Elliot’s death was wrought by me; And were the deed again to do, I’d do’t in spite of hell and thee. “My sister, brave Jock Armstrong’s bride, The fairest flower of Liddisdale, By Elliot basely was betray’d; And roundly has he paid the mail. “We watch’d him in her secret bower, And found her to his bosom prest; He begg’d to have his broad claymore, And dar’d us both to do our best. “Perhaps, my lord, ye’ll truly say, In rage, from laws of arms we swerv’d: Though Lairistan got double play, ’Twas fairer play than he deserv’d. “We might have kill’d him in the dark, When in the lady’s arms lay he; We might have kill’d him in his sark, Yet gave him room to fight or flee.

145

150

155

160

“Come on, then, gallant Milburn cry’d, My single arm shall do the deed; Or heavenly justice is denied, Or that false heart of thine shall bleed. “Then to’t they fell, both sharp and snell, With steady hand and watchful eye; Soon blood and sweat from either fell; And from their swords the sparkles fly.

165

1807 VERSION

“The first stroke Milburn to him wan, He ript his bosom to the bone; Though Armstrong was a gallant man, Like Elliot living there was none. “His growth was like the Border oak; His strength the bison’s strength outvied; His courage like the mountain rock; For skill his man he never tried. “Oft had we three, in Border fray, Made chiefs and armies stand in awe; And little thought to see the day, On other deadly thus to draw.

91 170

175

180

“The first wound that brave Milburn got, The tear of rage row’d in his ee; The next stroke that brave Milburn got, The blood ran dreeping to his knee. “My sword I grip’d into my hand, And fast to his assistance ran;— What could I do? I could not stand And see the base deceiver win. “O turn thee, turn thee, limmer loun! O turn and change a blow with me, Or, by the righteous powers aboon, I’ll hew the arm from thy bodye. “He turn’d, with many a haughty word, And lounged and struck most furiouslye; But with one slap of my broad sword I brought the traitor to his knee. “Now take thou that, stout Armstrong cry’d, For all the pain thou’st gi’en to me; (Though then he shortly would have died) And ran him through the fair bodye.” —————————————————————— Buccleuch’s stern look began to change; To tine a warrior lothe was he; The crime was call’d a brave revenge, And Halbert of Sundup was set free.

185

190

195

200

92

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

Then every man for Milburn mourn’d, And wish’d him to enjoy his own; But Milburn never more return’d Till ten long years were come and gone. Then loud alarms through England ring, And deeds of death and dool began; The commons rose against the king, And friends to diff ’rent parties ran. The nobles join the royal train, And soon his ranks with grandeur fill; They sought their foes with might and main, And found them lying on Edgehill. The trumpets blew, the bullets flew, And long and bloody was the fray; At length o’erpower’d, the rebel crew Before the royal troops gave way.

205

210

215

220

“Who was the man,” Lord Lindsey cry’d, “That fought so well through all the fray? Whose coat of rags, together ty’d, Seems to have seen a better day? “Such bravery in so poor array, I never in my life did see; His valour three times turn’d the day, When we were on the point to flee.” Then up there spoke a man of note, Who stood beside his majestie, “My liege, the man’s a border Scot, Who volunteer’d to fight for thee.” The king he smil’d, and said aloud, “Go bring the valiant Scot to me; When we have all our foes subdued, The Lord of Liddel he shall be.” The king gave him his gay gold ring, And made him there a belted knight; But Milburn bled to save his king! The king to save his royal right!

225

230

235

240

1807 VERSION

Songs Adapted to the Times

93

94

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

1807 VERSION

95

Sandy Tod A Scottish Pastoral To a Lady YOU ha’e learned in love to languish, You ha’e felt affliction’s rod, Murn wi’ me the meltin’ anguish, Murn the loss o’ Sandy Tod. Sandy was a lad o’ vigour, Clean an’ tight o’ lith an’ lim’, For a decent, manly figure, Few cou’d ding or equal him. In a cottage, poor and nameless, By a little bouzy linn, Sandy led a life sae blameless, Far frae ony strife or din. Annan’s fertile dale beyon’ him, Spread her fields an’ meadows green; Hoary Hertfel towered aboon him, Smilin’ to the sun—gude e’en. Few his wants, his wishes fewer, Save his flocks nae care had he; Never heart than his was truer, Tender to the last degree.

5

10

15

20

He was learned, and every tittle E’er he read believed it true; Savin’ chapters cross an’ kittle, He cou’d read his bible through. Oft he read the acts o’ Joseph, How wi’ a’ his friends he met; Ay the hair his noddle rose off, Ay his cheeks wi’ tears were wet. Seven bonny buskit simmers O’er the Solway Frith had fled, Since a flock o’ ewes an’ gimmers Out amang the hills he fed.

25

30

96

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

Some might bragg o’ knowledge deeper, But nae herd was lo’ed sae weel; Sandy’s hirsel proved, their keeper Was a cannie carefu’ chiel. Ay when ony tentless lammie Wi’ its neibours chanced to go, Sandy kend the careless mammy, Whether she cried mae or no.

35

40

Warldly walth an’ grandeur scornin’, Peace adorned his little bield; Ilka e’enin’, ilka mornin’, Sandy to his Maker kneeled. You wha roun’ wi’ diamonds wrap ye, An’ are fanned wi’ loud applause, Can ye trou the lad was happy? Really ’tis believed he was. In the day sae black an’ showery, I ha’e seen the bonny bow, When arrayed in all its glory, Vanish on the mountain’s brow. Sae ha’e ye, my lovely marrow, Seen the rose an’ vi’let blue, Bloomin’ on the banks of Yarrow, Quickly fade, an’ lose their hue; Fadin’ as the forest roses, Transient as the radiant bow, Fleetin’ as the shower that follows, Is our happiness below.

45

50

55

60

Unadmired she’ll hover near ye, In the rural sport she’ll play; Woo her—she’ll at distance hear ye, Press her—she is gane for ay. She had Sandy ay attendit, Seemed obedient to his nod; Now his happy hours are endit, Lack-a-day for Sandy Tod!

65

1807 VERSION

I’ the kirk ae Sunday sittin’, Whar to be he seldom failed, Sandy’s tender heart was smitten Wi’ a wound that never healed: Sally, dressed i’ hat an’ feather, Placed her in a neibrin’ pew, Sandy sat—he kendna whether! Sandy felt—he wistna how! Though the priest alarmed the audience, An’ drew tears frae mony een, Sandy heard a noise like baudrons Murrin’ i’ the bed at e’en!

97 70

75

80

Aince or twice his sin alarmed him, Down he looked, an’ wished a prayer; Sally had o’ sense disarmed him, Heart an’ mind an’ a’ was there! Luckily her een were from him; Ay they beamed anither road; Aince a smilin’ glance set on him— “Mercy, Lord!” quo’ Sandy Tod. A’ that night he lay an’ turned him, Fastit a’ the followin’ day, Now the eastern lamps war burnin’, Westward fled the glomin’ grey. Res’lute made by desperation, Down the glen in haste he flew, Quickly reached the habitation Where his sweet carnation grew. I wad sing the happy meetin’, War it new or strange to thee; Weel ye ken ’tis but repeatin’ What has past ’tween you and me.— Thy white hand around me pressed, My unresty heart has felt; But, whan hers on Sandy rested, His fond heart was like to melt!

85

90

95

100

98

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

Lockit to his bosom duntin’ Listless a’ the night she lay, Orion’s belt had bored the mountain, Loud the cock had crawed the day. Sandy rase—his bonnet daddit— Begged a kiss—gat nine or ten; Then the hay, sae ruffed an’ saddit, Towzlet up that nane might ken. You ha’e seen, on April mornin’, Light o’ heart, the pretty lamb Skippin’, dancin’, bondage scornin’, Wander heedless o’ its dam? Sometimes gaun, an’ sometimes rinnin’, Sandy to his mountains ran; Roun’ aboon his flocks gaed singin’, Never was a blyther man:

105

110

115

120

Never did his native nation, Sun or sky, wear sic a hue; In his een the hale creation Wore a face entirely new. Weel he lo’ed his faithfu’ Ruffler, Weel the bird sang on the tree; Meanest creatures doomed to suffer, Brought the tear into his ee. Sandy’s heart was undesignin’, Soft an’ lovin’ as the dove, Scarcely cou’d it bear refinin’ By the gentle fire o’ love. You ha’e seen the cunnin’ fowler Wile the airy bird to death; Blossoms nipt by breezes fouler, Or by winter’s wastin’ breath? Sally’s blossom soon was blighted By untimely winter prest; Sally had been wooed an’ slighted By a farmer in the west.

125

130

135

140

1807 VERSION

99

Sandy daily lo’ed her dearer, Kendna she afore was won, Aince, whan he gaed down to see her, Sally had a dainty son! Sternies, blush, an’ hide your faces; Veil the moon in sable hue; Else thy locks, for human vices, Soon will dreep wi’ pity’s dew! Thou who rules the rolling thunder, Thou who darts the flying flame, Wilt thou vengeance ay keep under Due for injured love an’ fame? Cease, my charmer, cease bewailin’, Down thy cheeks the pearls shine; Cease to mourn thy sex’s failin’, I maun drap a tear for mine: Man, the lord o’ the creation, Lightened wi’ a ray divine, Lost to feelin’, truth, an’ caution, Lags the brutal tribes behind!

145

150

155

160

You ha’e seen the harmless conie Following hame its mate to rest; One ensnared, the frighted cronie Fled amazed wi’ pantin’ breast. Petrified, an’ dumb wi’ horror, Sandy fled, he kendna where; Never heart than his was sorer, It was mair than he cou’d bear! Seven days on yonder mountain Lay he sobbin’, late an’ soon, Till discovered by a fountain, Railin’ at the dowy moon. Weepin’ a’ the day, he’d wander Through yon dismal glen alane; By the stream at night wad dander, Ravin’ owr his Sally’s name.

165

170

175

100

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

Shun’d an’ pitied by the world, Long a humblin’ sight was he, Till that fatal moment hurled Him to lang eternity.

180

Sittin’ on yon cliff sae rocky, Fearless as the boding crow,— No, my dear, I winna shock ye Wi’ the bloody scene below. By yon aek, decayed an’ rottin’, Where the hardy woodbin twines, Now, in peace, he sleeps forgotten; Owr his head these simple lines:— “Lovers, pause, while I implore ye Still to walk in virtue’s road; An’ to say, when ye gang o’er me, Lack a-day, for Sandy Tod!”

185

190

A Farewell to Ettrick F AREWEEL , my Ettrick! fare-ye-weel! I own I’m unco laith to leave ye; Nane kens the half o’ what I feel, Nor half the cause I ha’e to grieve me! There first I saw the rising morn; There first my infant mind unfurl’d, To judge that spot where I was born The very centre o’ the world! I thought the hills were sharp as knives, An’ the braed lift lay whomel’d on them, An’ glowr’d wi’ wonder at the wives That spak o’ ither hills ayon’ them. When ilka year ga’e something new, Addition to my mind or stature, As fast my love for Ettrick grew, Implanted in my very nature.

5

10

15

100

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

Shun’d an’ pitied by the world, Long a humblin’ sight was he, Till that fatal moment hurled Him to lang eternity.

180

Sittin’ on yon cliff sae rocky, Fearless as the boding crow,— No, my dear, I winna shock ye Wi’ the bloody scene below. By yon aek, decayed an’ rottin’, Where the hardy woodbin twines, Now, in peace, he sleeps forgotten; Owr his head these simple lines:— “Lovers, pause, while I implore ye Still to walk in virtue’s road; An’ to say, when ye gang o’er me, Lack a-day, for Sandy Tod!”

185

190

A Farewell to Ettrick F AREWEEL , my Ettrick! fare-ye-weel! I own I’m unco laith to leave ye; Nane kens the half o’ what I feel, Nor half the cause I ha’e to grieve me! There first I saw the rising morn; There first my infant mind unfurl’d, To judge that spot where I was born The very centre o’ the world! I thought the hills were sharp as knives, An’ the braed lift lay whomel’d on them, An’ glowr’d wi’ wonder at the wives That spak o’ ither hills ayon’ them. When ilka year ga’e something new, Addition to my mind or stature, As fast my love for Ettrick grew, Implanted in my very nature.

5

10

15

1807 VERSION

I’ve sung, in mony a rustic lay, Her heroes, an’ her hills sae green; Her woods and vallies fresh and gay; Her honest lads and lasses clean.

101

20

I had a thought—a poor vain thought! I thought that I might do her honour; But a’ my hopes are come to nought, I’m forc’d to turn my back upon her! She’s thrown me out o’ house an’ hauld! My heart got never sic a thrust! An’ my poor parents, frail an’ auld, Are forc’d to leave their kindred dust! But fare-ye-weel, my native streams Frae a’ sic dule be ye preserv’d; Ye’ll find ye cherish some at hame That disna just sae weel deserve’t. There is nae man on a’ your banks Will ever say that I did wrang him; The lassies ha’e my dearest thanks For a’ the joys I had amang them. Though twin’d by rough an’ ragin’ seas, An’ risin’ hills an’ rollin’ rivers: To think o’ them I’ll never cease, Until my heart ga’e a’ to shivers!

25

30

35

40

I’ll make the Harris rocks to ring Wi’ ditties wild, when nane shall hear; The Lewis shores shall learn to sing The names o’ them I lo’ed so dear. My Peggy’s ay aboon the lave, I’ll carve on ilka lonely green; The sea-bird, tossin’ on the wave, Shall learn the name o’ bonny Jean. Ye gods, tak care o’ my dear lass! That as I leave her I may find her; Till that blest time shall come to pass We’ll meet again, and never sinder.

45

50

102

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

Fareweel, my Ettrick! fare-ye-weel! I own I’m unco wae to leave ye! Nane kens the half o’ what I feel, Nor half o’ that I ha’e to grieve me! My parents, crazy grown wi’ eild, How I rejoic’d to be their stay! I thought to stand their help an’ shield, Until an’ at their latest day.

55

60

Wi’ gentle hand to close their een, An’ weet the yerd wi’ mony a tear, That held the dust o’ ilka frien’; O’ friens so tender an’ sincere! It winna do:—I maun away To yon rough isle sae bleak an’ dun; Lang will they mourn, baith night an’ day, The absence o’ their darlin’ son. An’ my dear Will! how will I fen’ Without thy kind an’ ardent care! Without thy verse-inspirin’ pen, My muse will sleep an’ sing nae mair. Fareweel to a’ my kith an’ kin! To ilka frien’ I held sae dear! How happy often hae we been, Wi’ music, mirth, an’ welcome cheer! Nae mair your gilded banks at noon, An answer to my flute will swell! Nae mair the viol sweet I’ll tune, That a’ the younkers lo’ed sae well!

65

70

75

80

Nae mair amang the hags an’ rocks, While hounds wi’ music fill’d the air, We’ll hunt the sly an’ cruel fox, Or trace the warie, circlin’ hare! My happy days wi’ you are past! An’ waes my heart! will ne’er return! The brightest day will overcast! And man was made at times to mourn.

85

1807 VERSION

But if I kend my dyin’ day, Though distant, weary, pale, an’ wan, I’d tak my staff an’ post away To yield my life where it began. If in yon lone sequester’d place The tyrant Death should lay me low, Oh! drap a tear, an’ say—Alas! For him who lov’d an’ honour’d you. Fareweel, my Ettrick! fare-ye-weel! I own I’m something wae to leave ye! Nane kens the half o’ what I feel! Nor half the cause I ha’e to grieve me!

103 90

95

100

Love Abused T UNE—Mary, weep nae mair for me T HE gloaming from the welkin high Had chased the bonny gouden gleam; The curtained east, in crimson dye, Hung heavy o’er the tinted stream; The wild rose, blushing on the brier, Was set with drops of shining dew— As big, and clear, the bursting tear That rowed in Betty’s een sae blue! She saw the dear, the little cot, Where fifteen years flew sweetly bye! And mourn’d her shame, and hapless lot, That forc’d her from that home to lie. Though sweet and mild the evening smile, Her heart was rent with anguish keen; The mavis ceased his music wild, And wonder’d what her sobs could mean. “It was not kind, to rob my mind Of all its peace for evermore! To blot my name with burning shame, And make my parents’ hearts so sore.

5

10

15

20

1807 VERSION

But if I kend my dyin’ day, Though distant, weary, pale, an’ wan, I’d tak my staff an’ post away To yield my life where it began. If in yon lone sequester’d place The tyrant Death should lay me low, Oh! drap a tear, an’ say—Alas! For him who lov’d an’ honour’d you. Fareweel, my Ettrick! fare-ye-weel! I own I’m something wae to leave ye! Nane kens the half o’ what I feel! Nor half the cause I ha’e to grieve me!

103 90

95

100

Love Abused T UNE—Mary, weep nae mair for me T HE gloaming from the welkin high Had chased the bonny gouden gleam; The curtained east, in crimson dye, Hung heavy o’er the tinted stream; The wild rose, blushing on the brier, Was set with drops of shining dew— As big, and clear, the bursting tear That rowed in Betty’s een sae blue! She saw the dear, the little cot, Where fifteen years flew sweetly bye! And mourn’d her shame, and hapless lot, That forc’d her from that home to lie. Though sweet and mild the evening smile, Her heart was rent with anguish keen; The mavis ceased his music wild, And wonder’d what her sobs could mean. “It was not kind, to rob my mind Of all its peace for evermore! To blot my name with burning shame, And make my parents’ hearts so sore.

5

10

15

20

104

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

That hame how dare I enter now, Each honoured face in tears to see, Where oft I kneel’d, to hear the vow Was offer’d from the heart for me! “And can I love the treacherous man Who wrought that dear and deadly ill, Who blurr’d with clouds my early dawn? Ah! woes my heart! I love him still. My heart abus’d, my love misus’d, My wretched fate with tears I see: But most I fear, my parents dear Go mourning to the grave for me.”

25

30

Epistle to Mr T. M. C., London Published in the Scots Magazine M Y blessin’ on you T. M. C. Like you there are nae mony mae: For mony a year, wi’ eager een, I’ve glowr’d owr Scotia’s Magazine; And oft, like zealots at a sermon, Discoverin’ beauties whar there were none; But never a’ my life, till now, Have I met sic a chiel as you; Sae sly, sae shrewd, sae queer a creature, Sae weel acquaint wi’ simple nature, Sae gay, sae easy, an’ sae ranty, Sae cappernaity an’ sae canty: For when I sing your sangs sae gay, To lassies at the bught or hay, They blush, an’ smurtlin’, own they like them, The thoughts they thought afore sae strike them. Whether ’tis from a similarity Of feelings, hitting to a rarity; Or if in verse you soar away, Far, far beyond my simple lay, An’ into nature tak a stretch, Whilk I wad fain, but canna reach;

5

10

15

20

104

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

That hame how dare I enter now, Each honoured face in tears to see, Where oft I kneel’d, to hear the vow Was offer’d from the heart for me! “And can I love the treacherous man Who wrought that dear and deadly ill, Who blurr’d with clouds my early dawn? Ah! woes my heart! I love him still. My heart abus’d, my love misus’d, My wretched fate with tears I see: But most I fear, my parents dear Go mourning to the grave for me.”

25

30

Epistle to Mr T. M. C., London Published in the Scots Magazine M Y blessin’ on you T. M. C. Like you there are nae mony mae: For mony a year, wi’ eager een, I’ve glowr’d owr Scotia’s Magazine; And oft, like zealots at a sermon, Discoverin’ beauties whar there were none; But never a’ my life, till now, Have I met sic a chiel as you; Sae sly, sae shrewd, sae queer a creature, Sae weel acquaint wi’ simple nature, Sae gay, sae easy, an’ sae ranty, Sae cappernaity an’ sae canty: For when I sing your sangs sae gay, To lassies at the bught or hay, They blush, an’ smurtlin’, own they like them, The thoughts they thought afore sae strike them. Whether ’tis from a similarity Of feelings, hitting to a rarity; Or if in verse you soar away, Far, far beyond my simple lay, An’ into nature tak a stretch, Whilk I wad fain, but canna reach;

5

10

15

20

1807 VERSION

105

Or if ae planet held the sway When we were born, I canna say; But frae sic causes, or some other, I feel a wish to ca’ you brother. Then, billy, set your foot to mine, Let baith our buoyant brains combine To raise our country’s Magazine Aboon the times that yet ha’e been. Then tak some pains to double rhyme, Gar line wi’ line keep equal time, An’ then, though critics back should fling us, The deils shall dadd in vain to ding us. Though Pegasus may be denied, By lofty bards sae occupied, Wi’ joy we’ll mount our cuddy asses, An’ scour like fire around Parnassus, An’ gather flowers of ilka hue, To bind auld Scotland’s honest brow. The upstarts new shall a’ be snubbit, And Ruddiman be sadly rubbit. How could ye leave our hoary hills? Our ruggit rocks and rattling rills? Our woodlands wild, an’ waters mony? Our lasses chaste, an’ sweet, an’ bonny? The warrior’s nurse, the poet’s theme! The seat of innocence an’—hame? We’ve sic a short time here to fare, ’Tis little matter how or where; An’ I wad chuse at least eleven ’Fore London, for the road to heaven. I neither ken your name nor bearin’;* Only I ken ye are a queer ane, An’ guess, for insight, wealth, or knowledge, Ye’ve ta’en the desk, or musty college; To turn a pedant or translator, And slight the genuine school of nature. Sweet dame! she met me single handed; Yet, studying her, my mind expanded * The gentleman, to whom this epistle was addressed, is Mr Thomas Mouncey Cunninghame, from Dumfries-shire, the author of many ingenious essays in the Scots Magazine; but, at the writing of this, the author knew nothing of him.

25

30

35

40

45

50

55

60

106

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

To bounds are neither rack’d nor narrow, On Ettrick banks an’ braes of Yarrow. An’ though your life should glide away In pleasure’s dear an’ devious way, Regret will sometimes pierce the heart, An’ leave a dour an’ deadly smart. An’ when death comes, I’m wae for thee! Nae real friend to close your ee! Or owr a son or brother’s bier To shed the sad regretfu’ tear! But just let down, wi’ strings an’ pullies, To sleep wi’ w——es, an’ bucks, an’ bullies: An’ when the summons reach the dead anes, To rise in droves frae ’mang the headstanes, Poor Tam may gang an’ stand alane, Of fellow faces he’ll see nane, But a’ the croud gaun throu’ther, throu’ther, Wi’ ruefu’ looks out owr ilk shouther. O leave that lake of louns an’ letchery, Of folly, falsehood, tricks, and treachery; Though oft a thriving place for low wits, L—d, it’s a dangerous hole for poets! If life’s a blessing—tween twa brothers, The poor enjoy’t as lang as others. If health surpasses sumptuous fare, Of that they ha’e their ample share. What wad ye ha’e then? Dinna wrang us, Come back an’ live an’ die amang us. I lang to sing a sonnet wi’ thee, An’ bonny Bessy sighs to see thee: O! when she’s sic a kind an’ bonny ane, Come—wed, an’ turn a Cameronian. While round our coast the ocean rows; While on the Grampians heather grows; While goud and gear the miser heaps up, An’ ill-will between cadgers keeps up; While simple ease improves the feature, An’ best becomes the cheek o’ nature; As sterns the sky, and spots the leopard,— Count on Your friend, T HE E TTRICK S HEPHERD .

65

70

75

80

85

90

95

1807 VERSION

107

Scotia’s Glens Tune—Lord Ballantine’s delight ’M ONG Scotia’s glens, and mountains blue, Where Gallia’s lilies never grew, Where Roman eagles never flew, Nor Danish lion rallied; Where skulks the roe in anxious fear, Where roves the stately nimble deer— There live the lads to freedom dear, By foreign yolk ne’er galled. There woods grow wild on every hill, There freemen wander at their will; Sure Scotland will be Scotland still, While hearts so brave defend her: Fear not, our sovereign liege, they cry, We’ve flourished fair beneath thine eye; For thee we’ll fight, for thee we’ll die, Nor ought but life surrender. Since thou hast watched our every need, And taught our navies wide to spread, The smallest hair from thy grey head No foreign foe shall sever. Thy honoured age in peace to save, The sternest host we’ll dauntless brave; Or stem the stoutest Indian wave, No heart nor hand shall waver. Though nations join yon tyrant’s arm, While Scotland’s noble blood runs warm, Our good old man we’ll guard from harm, Or fall in heaps around him. Although the Irish harp were won, And England’s roses all o’er-run, ’Mong Scotia’s glens, wi’ sword and gun, We’ll form a bulwark round him.

5

10

15

20

25

30

108

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

Donald Macdonald Tune—Woo’d and married an’ a’ MY name it is Donald Macdonald, I live in the Highlands sae grand; I’ve followed our banner, an’ will do, Wharever my maker has land. When rankit amang the blue bonnets, Nae danger can fear me awa, I ken that my brethren around me Are either to conquer or fa.’— Brogs an’ brochen an’ a’, Brochen an’ brogs an’ a’, An’ isna the laddie weel aff Wha has brogs an’ brochen an’ a’. Short syne we war wonderfu’ canty, Our friends an’ our country to see, But since the proud Consul’s grown vaunty, We’ll meet him by land or by sea. Wherever a clan is disloyal, Wherever our king has a foe, He’ll quickly see Donald Macdonald Wi’ his Highlanders all in a row.— Guns an’ pistols an’ a’, Pistols an’ guns an’ a’; He’ll quickly see Donald Macdonald Wi’ guns an’ pistols an’ a’. What though we befriendit young Charlie? To tell it I dinna think shame; Poor lad! he came to us but barely, An’ reckoned our mountains his hame: ’Tis true that our reason forbade us, But tenderness carried the day; Had Geordie come friendless amang us, Wi’ him we had a’ gane away.— Sword an’ buckler an’ a’, Buckler an’ sword an’ a’; For George we’ll encounter the devil, Wi’ sword an’ buckler an’ a’.

5

10

15

20

25

30

35

1807 VERSION

An’ O I wad eagerly press him The keys o’ the East to retain; For shou’d he gi’e up the possession, We’ll soon ha’e to force them again; Than yield up an inch wi’ dishonour, Though it war my finishin’ blow, He ay may depend on Macdonald, Wi’s Highlandmen all in a row.— Knees an’ elbows an’ a’, Elbows an’ knees an’ a’; Depend upon Donald Macdonald, His knees an’ elbows an’ a’. If Bonapart land at Fort-William, Auld Europe nae langer shall grane; I laugh, whan I think how we’ll gall him Wi’ bullet, wi’ steel, an’ wi’ stane; Wi’ rocks o’ the Nevis an’ Gairy, We’ll rattle him aff frae our shore; Or lull him asleep in a cairney, An’ sing him—Lochaber no more! Stanes an’ bullets an’ a’, Bullets an’ stanes an’ a’; We’ll finish the Corsican callan’, Wi’ stanes an’ bullets an’ a’. The Gordon is gude in a hurry; An’ Campbell is steel to the bane; An’ Grant, an’ Mackenzie, an’ Murray, An’ Cameron will hurkle to nane. The Stuart is sturdy an’ wannle, An’ sae is Macleod an’ Mackay; An’ I, their gude-brither Macdonald, Sal never be last i’ the fray. Brogs an’ brochen an’ a’, Brochen an’ brogs an’ a’; An’ up wi’ the bonny blue bonnet, The kilt, an’ the feather, an a’.

109

40

45

50

55

60

65

70

110

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

The Author’s Address to his

Auld Dog Hector COME , my auld, towzy, trusty friend; What gars ye look sae douth an’ wae? D’ye think my favour’s at an end, Because thy head is turnin gray? Although thy feet begin to fail, Their best were spent in serving me; An’ can I grudge thy wee bit meal, Some comfort in thy age to gi’e? For mony a day, frae sun to sun, We’ve toil’d an’ helpit ane anither; An’ mony a thousand mile thou’st run, To keep my thraward flocks thegither. To nae thrawn boy, nor scrawghin wife, Shall thy auld banes become a drudge; At cats an’ callans, a’ thy life, Thou ever bore a mortal grudge. An’ whiles thy surly looks declared, Thou lo’ed the women warst of a’; ’Cause aft they my affection shared, Which thou couldst never bruik ata’.

5

10

15

20

When sitting with my bonny Meg, Mair happy than a prince could be, Thou plac’d thee by her other leg, An’ watched her wi’ a jealous ee. An’ then, at ony start or steer, Thou wad ha’e worried furiouslye; While I was forc’d to curse and swear, Afore thou wad forbidden be. Yet wad she clasp thy towzy paw; Thy greesome grips were never skaithly; An’ thou than her hast been mair true! An’ truer than the friend that ga’e thee!

25

30

1807 VERSION

Ah, me! of fashion, health, an’ pride, The world has read me sic a lecture! But yet it’s a’ in part repaid By thee, my faithful, grateful Hector! O’er past imprudence, oft alane I’ve shed the saut an’ silent tear; Then, sharing ay my grief an’ pain, My poor auld friend came snoovin’ near.

111

35

40

For a’ the days we’ve sojourned here, An’ they’ve been neither fine nor few, That thought possest thee year to year, That a’ my griefs arase frae you. Wi’ waesome face, and hingin’ head, Thou wad ha’e press’d thee to my knee; While I thy looks as weel could read, As thou hadst said in words to me,— “O my dear master, dinna greet; What ha’e I ever done to vex ye? See here I’m cowrin’ at your feet; Just take my life if I perplex ye. “For a’ my toil, my wee drap meat Is a’ the wage I ask of thee; For whilk I’m oft oblig’d to wait Wi’ hungry wame, an’ patient ee. “Whatever wayward course ye steer; Whatever sad mischance o’ertake ye; Man, here is ane will hald ye dear! Man, here’s a friend will ne’er forsake ye!”

45

50

55

60

Yes, my puir beast! though friends me scorn, Whom mair than life I valued dear; An’ throw me out to fight forlorn, Wi’ ills my heart dow hardly bear, While I have thee to bear a part— My plaid, my health, an’ heezle rung— I’ll scorn the silly haughty heart, The saucy look, and slanderous tongue.

65

112

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

Sure friends by pop’lar envy sway’d, Are ten times waur than ony fae! My heart was theirs, an’ to them laid As open as the light o’ day. I fear’d my ain; but never dredd That I for loss o’ theirs should mourn; Or that, when luck or favour fled, Their friendship wad injurious turn. But He, who feeds the ravens young, Lets naething pass unheeded bye; He’ll sometime judge of right an’ wrong, An’ ay provide for you and I.

70

75

80

And hear me, Hector: thee I’ll trust, As far as thou hast wit an’ skill; Sae will I ae sweet lovely breast, To me a balm for every ill. To these my faith shall ever run, While I have reason truth to scan; But ne’er, beyond my mother’s son, To aught that bears the shape of man.— I ne’er could thole thy cravin’ face, Nor when ye pattit on my knee; Though in a far an’ unco place, I’ve whiles been forc’d to beg for thee. Even now I’m in my master’s power, Where my regard may scarce be shown; But ere I’m forc’d to gi’e thee o’er, When thou art auld an’ useless grown, I’ll get a cottage o’ my ain, Some wee bit cannie, lonely biel’, Where thy auld heart shall rest fu’ fain, An’ share with me my humble meal. Thy post shall be to guard the door, An’ bark at pethers, boys, an’ whips; Of cats an’ hens to clear the floor, An’ bite the flaes that vex thy hips.

85

90

95

100

1807 VERSION

When my last bannock’s on the hearth, Of that thou sanna want thy share; While I have house or hald on earth, My Hector shall ha’e shelter there. An’ should grim death thy noddle save, Till he has made an end of me; Ye’ll lye a wee while on the grave Of ane wha ay was kind to thee. There’s nane alive will miss me mair; An’ though in words thou canst not wail, On a’ the claes thy master ware, Thou’lt smell, and fawn, an’ wag thy tail. An’ if I’m forc’d with thee to part, Which will be sair against my will, I’ll sometimes mind thy honest heart, As lang as I can climb a hill.

113 105

110

115

120

Come, my auld, touzy, trusty tike, Let’s speel to Queensb’ry’s lofty brow; There greedy midges never fike; There care an’ envy never grow. While gazing down the fertile dales, Content an’ peace shall ay be by; An’ muses leave their native vales To rove at large wi’ you and I.

125

The Bonnets o’ Bonny Dundee Tune.—Comin’ thro’ the Rye “O WILL ye gang down to the bush in the meadow, An’ see how the ewes an’ the lammies do feed O! An’ by the fair hand, thro’ the flowers I will lead you, An’ sing you the bonnets o’ bonny Dundee.” “Wi’ heart an’ wi’ hand, my dear lad! I’ll gang wi’ thee; My daddy an’ mammy think nought to belie thee; I ken ye’ll do naething but kiss me, an’ lead me, An’ sing me the bonnets o’ bonny Dundee.”

5

1807 VERSION

When my last bannock’s on the hearth, Of that thou sanna want thy share; While I have house or hald on earth, My Hector shall ha’e shelter there. An’ should grim death thy noddle save, Till he has made an end of me; Ye’ll lye a wee while on the grave Of ane wha ay was kind to thee. There’s nane alive will miss me mair; An’ though in words thou canst not wail, On a’ the claes thy master ware, Thou’lt smell, and fawn, an’ wag thy tail. An’ if I’m forc’d with thee to part, Which will be sair against my will, I’ll sometimes mind thy honest heart, As lang as I can climb a hill.

113 105

110

115

120

Come, my auld, touzy, trusty tike, Let’s speel to Queensb’ry’s lofty brow; There greedy midges never fike; There care an’ envy never grow. While gazing down the fertile dales, Content an’ peace shall ay be by; An’ muses leave their native vales To rove at large wi’ you and I.

125

The Bonnets o’ Bonny Dundee Tune.—Comin’ thro’ the Rye “O WILL ye gang down to the bush in the meadow, An’ see how the ewes an’ the lammies do feed O! An’ by the fair hand, thro’ the flowers I will lead you, An’ sing you the bonnets o’ bonny Dundee.” “Wi’ heart an’ wi’ hand, my dear lad! I’ll gang wi’ thee; My daddy an’ mammy think nought to belie thee; I ken ye’ll do naething but kiss me, an’ lead me, An’ sing me the bonnets o’ bonny Dundee.”

5

114

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

O! when fled thy angel, poor lovely Macmillan! An’ left thee to listen to counsel sae killing’; O where were the feelings o’ that smiling villain, Wha riffled thy blossom, an’ left thee to die? How pale is that cheek that was rosy an’ reid, O! To see that sunk eye wad gar ony heart bleed, O; O wae to the wild-willow bush in the meadow; O dool to the bonnets o’ bonny Dundee!

10

15

Auld Ettrick John T HERE dwalt a man on Ettrick side, An ’onest man I wot was he; His name was John, an’ he was born A year afore the thretty three: He wad a wife when he was young, But she had deit, an’ John was wae; He wantit lang, at length did gang, To court the lassie o’ the brae. Auld John cam daddin down the hill, His arm was waggin manfullie; He thought his shadow look’d na ill, As aft he keek’d aside to see. His shoon war four pound weight a-piece; On ilka leg a ho had he; His doublet strang was large an’ lang, His breeks they hardly reach’d his knee. His coat was threed-about wi’ green, The mouds* had wrought it muckle harm; The pouches war an ell atween, The cuff was faldit up the arm. He wore a bonnet on his head, The bung upon his shoulders lay, An’ by the neb ye wad hae red, That Johnie view’d the milky way. * Mouds, moths.

5

10

15

20

114

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

O! when fled thy angel, poor lovely Macmillan! An’ left thee to listen to counsel sae killing’; O where were the feelings o’ that smiling villain, Wha riffled thy blossom, an’ left thee to die? How pale is that cheek that was rosy an’ reid, O! To see that sunk eye wad gar ony heart bleed, O; O wae to the wild-willow bush in the meadow; O dool to the bonnets o’ bonny Dundee!

10

15

Auld Ettrick John T HERE dwalt a man on Ettrick side, An ’onest man I wot was he; His name was John, an’ he was born A year afore the thretty three: He wad a wife when he was young, But she had deit, an’ John was wae; He wantit lang, at length did gang, To court the lassie o’ the brae. Auld John cam daddin down the hill, His arm was waggin manfullie; He thought his shadow look’d na ill, As aft he keek’d aside to see. His shoon war four pound weight a-piece; On ilka leg a ho had he; His doublet strang was large an’ lang, His breeks they hardly reach’d his knee. His coat was threed-about wi’ green, The mouds* had wrought it muckle harm; The pouches war an ell atween, The cuff was faldit up the arm. He wore a bonnet on his head, The bung upon his shoulders lay, An’ by the neb ye wad hae red, That Johnie view’d the milky way. * Mouds, moths.

5

10

15

20

1807 VERSION

But yet for a’ his antic dress, His cheeks wi’ healthy red did glow; His joints war knit, an firm like brass, Though siller gray his head did grow: An’ John, altho’ he had nae lands, Had twa gude kye among the knowes; A hunder pund i’ honest hands, An’ sax an’ thretty doddit yowes. An’ Nelly was a bonny lass, Fu’ sweet an’ ruddy was her mow’, Her een war like twa beads o’ glass; Her brow was white like Cheviot woo. Her cheeks war bright as heather bells, Her bosom like December snaw, Her teeth as pure as eggs’s shells, Her hair was like the hoddy craw. “Gude wife,” quo John, as he sat down, “I’m come to court your daughter Nell; An’ if I die immediately, She sall hae a’ the gear hersell. An’ if I chance to hae a son, I’ll breed him up a bra divine; An’ if ilk wiss turn out a we’an, There’s little fear that we hae nine.” Now Nelly thought, an’ ay she leugh, “Our lads are a’ for sodgers gane; Young Tam will kiss an’ toy enough, But he o’ marriage talketh nane. When I am laid in Johnnie’s bed, Like hares or lav’rocks I’ll be free; I’ll busk me braw an’ conquer a’, Auld Johnnie’s just the man for me.” Wi’ little say he wan the day, She soon becam his bonny bride; But ilka joy is fled away, Frae Johnie’s canty ingle side; She frets an’ greets, an’ visits aft, In hopes some lad will see her hame; But never ane will be sae daft, As tent auld Johnie’s flisky dame.

115 25

30

35

40

45

50

55

60

116

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

An’ John will be a gaishen soon; His teeth are frae their sockets flown, The hair’s peel’d aff his head aboon, His face is milk an’ water grown: His legs, that firm like pillars stood, Are now grown toom an’ unco sma’; She’s reav’d him sair o’ flesh an’ blood, An peace o’ mind,—the warst ava. Let ilka lassie tak a man, An’ ilka callan tak a wife; But youth wi’ youth, gae hand in hand, Or tine the sweetest joys o’ life. Ye men whae’s heads are turnin’ gray, Wha to the grave are hastin’ on, Let reason ay your passion sway, An’ mind the fate o’ Ettrick John. An’ a’ ye lasses plump an’ fair, Let pure affection guide your hand, Nor stoop to lead a life o’ care, Wi’ wither’d age, for gear or land. When ilka lad your beauty slights, An’ ilka smile shall yield to wae, Ye’ll mind the lang an’ lanesome nights O’ Nell, the lassie o’ the brae.

65

70

75

80

85

The Hay Making Tune.—Comin’ thro’ the Rye O T I B B Y , lassie, how I loe, ’Tis needless here to tell; But a’ the flowers the meadow through, Ye’re sweetest ay yoursel! I canna sleep a wink at night, Nor work i’ peace by day; Your image smiles afore my sight, Whate’er I do or say.

5

116

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

An’ John will be a gaishen soon; His teeth are frae their sockets flown, The hair’s peel’d aff his head aboon, His face is milk an’ water grown: His legs, that firm like pillars stood, Are now grown toom an’ unco sma’; She’s reav’d him sair o’ flesh an’ blood, An peace o’ mind,—the warst ava. Let ilka lassie tak a man, An’ ilka callan tak a wife; But youth wi’ youth, gae hand in hand, Or tine the sweetest joys o’ life. Ye men whae’s heads are turnin’ gray, Wha to the grave are hastin’ on, Let reason ay your passion sway, An’ mind the fate o’ Ettrick John. An’ a’ ye lasses plump an’ fair, Let pure affection guide your hand, Nor stoop to lead a life o’ care, Wi’ wither’d age, for gear or land. When ilka lad your beauty slights, An’ ilka smile shall yield to wae, Ye’ll mind the lang an’ lanesome nights O’ Nell, the lassie o’ the brae.

65

70

75

80

85

The Hay Making Tune.—Comin’ thro’ the Rye O T I B B Y , lassie, how I loe, ’Tis needless here to tell; But a’ the flowers the meadow through, Ye’re sweetest ay yoursel! I canna sleep a wink at night, Nor work i’ peace by day; Your image smiles afore my sight, Whate’er I do or say.

5

1807 VERSION

Fy, Jamie, dinna act the part Ye’ll ever blush to own, Nor try to draw my youthfu’ heart Frae reason’s sober throne. Sic visions I can ne’er approve, Nor ony waukin’ dream; Than hae sic fiery furious love, I’d rather hae esteem. My bonnie lassie, come away, I canna bide your frown; Wi’ ilka flower sae fresh an’ gay, I’ll deck your bosom roun’. I’ll pu’ the gowan off the glen, The lillie off the lee, The rose an’ hawthorn sweet I’ll twine, To make a bobb for thee. Aye, Jamie, ye wad steal my heart, An’ a my peace frae me, An’ hank me fast within the net, Ere I my error see. Ye’ll pu’ the gowan off the glen, My bosom to adorn, An’ ye confess ye’re gaun to place Within my breast a thorn! How can ye, Tibby, be so tart, An’ vex me a’ the day? Ye ken I loe wi’ a’ my heart, What wad ye hae me say? Ilk anxious wish, an’ little care, I’ll in thy breast confide; An’ a’ your joys an’ sorrows share, If ye’ll become my bride. Then tak my hand, ye hae my heart, There’s nane I like sae weel, And Heaven grant I act my part To ane sae true and leel. An’ we’ll win’ the hay, an wear the hay, Till death our bosoms twine, An’ often bless the happy day, That join’d us lang syne.

117 10

15

20

25

30

35

40

45

118

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

Bonny Jean Tune—Prince William Henry’s Delight S I N G on, sing on, my bonny bird, The sang ye sang yestreen O, When here, aneath the hawthorn wild, I met my bonny Jean O. My blude ran prinklin’ through my veins, My hair began to steer O; My heart play’d deep against my breast! As I beheld my dear O. O weels me on my happy lot! O weels me on my dearie! O weels me on the charmin’ spot, Where a’ combin’d to chear me! The mavis liltit on the bush, The lavrock on the green O, The lilie bloom’d, the daisy blush’d, But a’ was nought to Jean O. Sing on, sing on, my bonnie thrush, Be neither flee’d nor eerie, I’ll wad your love sits i’ the bush, That gars ye sing sae cheerie; She may be kind, she may be sweet, She may be neat an’ clean O; But O she’s e’en a drysome mate, Compar’d wi’ bonny Jean O. If love wad open a’ her stores, An’ a’ her bloomin’ treasures, An’ bid me rise an’ turn an’ choice, An’ taste her chiefest pleasures; My choice wad be the rosy cheek, The modest beamin’ eye, O! The yellow hair, the bosom fair, The lips o’ coral dye, O!

5

10

15

20

25

30

1807 VERSION

A bramble shade around our head, A burnie poplin’ bye, O, Our bed the swaird, our sheet the plaid, Our canopy the sky O! An’ here’s the burn, an’ there’s the bush Around the flowrie green O; An’ this the plaid, an’ sure the lass Wad be my bonnie Jean O. Hear me, thou bonny modest moon! Ye sternies twinklin’ high O! An’ a’ ye gentle powers aboon, That roam athwart the sky O. Ye see me gratefu’ for the past, Ye saw me blest yestreen O; An’ ever till I breathe my last, Ye’ll see me true to Jean O.

FINIS

119

35

40

45

120

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

APPENDIX : PRE- 1807 TEXTS

Appendix

Pre-1807 Texts Relevant to Items Included in

The Mountain Bard (1807) [See ‘Introduction’ and ‘Editorial Notes’]

121

122

THE MOUNTAIN BARD (1807)

APPENDIX : PRE- 1807 TEXTS

123

Letters Concerning James Hogg [Scots Magazine, 66 (August 1804), pp. 572–73]

Inquiry Concerning the Ettrick Shepherd To the Editor SI R , T HERE is a curiosity inherent in almost every man who reads the works of an author, to know something about the writer, which is increased in proportion as we are pleased with the productions of his genius. It is indeed from this principle that I am induced to trouble you with the following queries, relating to a correspondent of yours, with whose pieces I acknowledge myself pleased in the highest degree. It is he who hath for some years been writing in this, and the former Magazines, under the signature of a Shepherd of Ettrick, whose name it seems is James Hogg. Pardon me, Sir, but, in my opinion, this gentleman bids fair to rival, if not to excel, all that have yet written in the Scottish dialect. He is certainly a careless composer; his pieces not being equally maintained throughout; but there are some parts of his poetical pieces that have appeared in the Magazine, which, for native humour, and others for a true simple pathos, are quite inimitable. Now, Sir, you give us such and such ballads or poems written by James Hogg, as if the bare mention of his name were sufficient, not only to confirm the value of the pieces, but to make the author perfectly known; whereas, notwithstanding every inquiry which I have been able to make amongst literary men, I can hear nothing of any such person. Now, dear Sir, would you, or any of your correspondents, through the channel of this Magazine, inform me if there is such a personal alive; and if there is, what rank does he hold in life? as the appellation of shepherd must be merely affected: if he hath ever published any book, and if he hath, where is it to be had? I would fain wish also to know, who was the author of the Man of Sorrow, published in your Magazine for July? In giving a solution to all or any of these, you will much oblige several of your readers, and in particular, Your most obedient J. W ELCH . Banks of Nith, July 4.

124

THE MOUNTAIN BARD (1807)

[The Editor is entirely ignorant of any particulars respecting the habitation, rank in life, or character of the Shepherd of Ettrick; he believes, however, that he is actually a Shepherd. In order that some information may be conveyed to those who have been pleased with his poems, it is thought proper to print Mr Welch’s letter, and the Editor will be obliged to any correspondent who will send any particulars respecting the Ettrick Shepherd. With regard to the piece entitled the Man of Sorrow, it was taken from the Poetical Miscellany, but the author’s name was not mentioned there.]

[Scots Magazine, 66 (October 1804), p. 744]

Some Information Respecting the Ettrick Shepherd To the Editor SIR, A LTHOUGH it is but of late years that I became acquainted with the Ettrick Shepherd, yet I have had the pleasure of being several times in his company, and have heard, from his own mouth, that he was bred a shepherd from his childhood; and that, owing to the simplicity of his nature and needy circumstances, he was often very harshly used: if I remember right, he was only one half year at school in his infancy, and having few opportunities made little progress until near 20 years of age: he now appears bordering on 30, and is the most cheerful inoffensive man living. As to other kinds of his poetry I know not, but his songs are, in this country, admired much beyond all others; that of Donald Macdonald, which he wrote last year, hath had an unexampled circulation through all ranks in the nation. He hath lately, by concurring circumstances, which he neither could foresee nor prevent, been obliged to leave those banks and streams, by his verses rendered immortal, and is perhaps doomed to waste a valuable life in the most abject servility, which will be a never-ending reproach on the proprietors and wealthy inhabitants of Ettrick forest. If none of his more intimate friends should send a more circumstantial account of him, you may insert this in answer to Mr Welch. September 17th 1804.

A. H. B.

APPENDIX : PRE- 1807 TEXTS

125

[Scots Magazine, 67 ( January 1805), pp. 14–16]

To the Editor

Biographical Sketches of the Ettrick Shepherd S IR , F OR the further satisfaction of Mr Welsh in particular, and to do justice to the country in general, I would wish you to insert, in the Scots Magazine for January, the few following biographical sketches of the Ettrick Shepherd. The Ettrick Shepherd is a native of, and belongs to an honest and respectable family, in the parish of Ettrick. His father, who had acquired a considerable fortune in his younger years, about, or little after the birth of our Shepherd, unfortunately made a stretch in business beyond his capital. In consequence of this, his affairs went into confusion, and his creditors left little or nothing for the support of his family; but the parents’ exertions being seconded by some of the principal men in that place, their circumstances got somewhat bettered, and they were enabled to give their family a tolerable education. I am certain, however, from local circumstances, that our Shepherd had not ten shillings laid out upon his education while about his father’s house. In this low and depressed situation his parents were under the necessity of sending their children to service as soon as possible, and our Shepherd among the rest. He was for several summers employed in herding cows, the lowest and most servile of all employments in a country life, but even during this period he discovered an invincible predilection for music and poetry; the former science he prosecuted with such diligence and unwearied eagerness, that he frequently spent whole nights in the study and learning of this most pleasant of all the arts; and is now among the best performers on the violin that I ever remember to have heard. These amusements his parents discouraged as much as possible, from an apprehension that too much indulgence in them would cause a levity in the after part of life, and in the mean time lead to a neglect of his master’s business. Neither of these bad consequences have followed; but in spite of every admonition to the contrary, in spite of every embarrassment they could throw in his way, he persisted with unabated energy in these favourite amusements, till he has now arrived at such perfection in both, as is scarcely to be found in another individual. From the mean and servile duties of a cow-herd, he rose to the more honourable employment of a shepherd; and in this he contin-

126

THE MOUNTAIN BARD (1807)

ued till about a year and a half since; it being his good fortune to serve in a decent and respectable family, whose head and all its principal branches are eminently distinguished for their love of learning. These collateral helps, his constant reading some public library, and the great command he had of time, ripened apace the seeds of poetry with which his genius was so strongly impregnated. With a view still farther to expand his ideas, and enrich his mind; to shake off those prejudices which local circumstances insensibly naturalize to the mind, as well as to make observations on the different ways of managing sheep-farms, he has made three extensive tours through the Highlands of Scotland, the Hebrides, &c. has examined with a shepherd’s eye the qualities of their stocks, and nature of their soil, and all this at his own private expence, unless where the kindness and generosity of the gentlemen in that country interfere*, at whose house he sometimes rested himself a day or two, and to whom he could not fail of being an agreeable companion. But the result of his observations on that long-neglected country, with the advantages and disadvantages it lies under as a sheep country, it is thought by some will be laid before the public. Its properties will then be more minutely and judiciously stated than ever they have been by any former tourist, who only travelled through the most populous districts, but seldom penetrated the interior of the country, or explored the nature of the soil as adapted for pasture. Previous to the 1799, he had published several pieces of poetry in the Edinburgh Magazine, of which he was a constant reader, all of them evincing a vividness of fancy and sprightliness of style seldom met with. He was there like a lark newly mounted, whose notes are acute and piercing, but not so perfect and steady as when she rises to a loftier flight; but these puerile attempts announced what he was capable of attaining, when his fancy was matured, and his ideas more enlarged. I think it was about the year 1799 that he published a few pastorals, songs, &c. which were printed in Edinburgh. Though a lively genius, and intimate acquaintance with the feelings of the human mind, pervades, and no doubt dictated the whole of these pastorals, &c. yet one of them in particular, entitled Will and Kate, for the connectedness of its parts, propriety of thought, exprest in an easy style, is sufficient * I believe a gentleman in his own country furnished him with several letters of recommendation, which introduced him to some of the principal families in the west of Scotland.

APPENDIX : PRE- 1807 TEXTS

127

of itself to establish his reputation as a poet, and would even appear conspicuous among the writings of a Ferguson and a Burns. Though the unity of this poem be among its principal beauties, and a repetition of any of the stanzas would make them appear with a disproportionate effect; yet I cannot help producing three or four verses as specimens of the energy with which he writes. When speaking of the symptoms that attend love, when that passion first seizes the mind of youth, he says, Now my yellow hair I plaited, Gae my downy chin a shave, Thrice my tales of love repeated, Fearing I should misbehave. And when speaking of the place where he was left a few minutes till his mistress went away, and farther adjusted, and brought to a conclusion her day’s work, he says, Where the burn wi’ mony a turnie, Wimpled through the sandy plain, Willows louting kiss’d the burnie, There I’m left to lie my lane. His mistress being absent, he falls a gazing at, and meditating on the heavenly luminaries twinkling around him, then he thus addresses them, Oft, to every care unus’d, When the day light ceas’d to shine; Oft on you I’ve gaz’d and mus’d, Oft ador’d that Pow’r D IVINE ; Who those fluid films that wheeled Loosely through primeval night, By a breath to worlds congeal’d, Masses of illuvid light. The last verse, for grandeur and sublimity of sentiment, has seldom been equalled, and could have been no disgrace to the classic muse of a Pope or a Dryden: what then are its merits when uttered by an illiterate shepherd, that got barely as much education as to enable him to read his Bible! What force of thought, what illimitable

128

THE MOUNTAIN BARD (1807)

stretch of ideas do they indicate! had a genius of such innate vigour been instructed, expanded, and matured, by learning, how boundless would have been its excursions, and how keen its perceptions! The verse that follows, though grand and sublime, has not the invention nor the originality of the preceding, it runs thus: From his hand then bowl’d ye, flaming, Through old dreary Night’s domain, Order straight through Nature reigning, Dungeon darkness smil’d serene. But the two verses taken in connection convey a lively idea of the instantaneous transition of primeval horror and darkness, to all the brightness and splendour emanating from these glorious luminaries running their amazing rounds. In short, though his genius be bright, almost incomparably bright, yet every beauty in his poetry cannot be attributed to its own inherent fertility. I fancy to myself I could trace several places where he is fired by other poets, his ideas seem the same, tho’ drest in a different garb; and how know I but the melody of “Ye Banks and Braes of bonny Doon,” may have awakened that beautiful air of Flow, my Yarrow, down the howe, Forming bows of dazzling siller, Meet your titty yont the know, Wi’ my love I’ll join like you. Flow, my Ettrick, it was thee In life’s mire first did drap me, There I live, and when I die, Ye will lend a sod to hap me: There I’ll doze till it be day, While your banks shall smile for ay. Banks of Ettrick, Dec. 7th, 1804.

APPENDIX : PRE- 1807 TEXTS

129

[Scots Magazine, 67 (March 1805), pp. 203–04]

Farther Inquiries Respecting the Ettrick Shepherd To the Editor SI R , *A S a constant reader of your valuable miscellany, I naturally read the very ingenious Biographical Sketches of the Ettrick Shepherd, which were published in your last number. Of the various kinds of biography, your correspondent’s from the banks of the Ettrick is peculiar. He has very happily hit upon a mode of writing the life of a poet, without once mentioning his name, or parentage: so, upon the whole, I was more pleased than instructed by your intelligent biographer: He has another happiness; he can raise, but not gratify curiosity. I should, therefore, be much obliged to you, if you would try to get me answers to the following queries: 1. What is the name of the Ettrick Shepherd, baptismal, and surname? (Answer,—James Hogg.) 2. What are the names of his father, and of his mother? 3. In what parish was he born: on what day, month, and year? (Answer,—He was born in the parish of Ettrick, in Selkirkshire.) 4. To what school was he sent; and who was his mistress, or master, at this school? 5. Where, and with whom, did he herd cows? 6. How old was he, when he began to write poetry? Did he lisp in numbers; where can one see his earliest poetry? 7. Has any collection been made of his poetry? (Answer,—We believe not, except that mentioned by our correspondent as published in 1799. Since that time, numerous poems of his have appeared in this publication, sometimes with the signature of James Hogg, and sometimes with that of the Ettrick Shepherd. Two very ingenious pieces will appear in our next.) I shall be obliged to you, Mr Editor, if you will insert these queries in your next number, and I shall be still more obliged to your corre* Lest some of these queries should appear unnecessarily minute, it may be proper to mention, that they are received from a highly respectable gentleman, who is at present collecting materials for a history of Scottish poetry. We have answered such of the questions as we could; and for the rest, must trust to our correspondent.—Editor.

130

THE MOUNTAIN BARD (1807)

spondent from the banks of Ettrick, if he will take the trouble to insert answers to them in your wide circulating Magazine. A Constant Reader.

[Scots Magazine, 67 ( July 1805), pp. 501–03]

Further Particulars of the Life of James Hogg, the Ettrick Shepherd To the Editor S IR , I N compliance with the wishes of your corespondent, who signs himself A Constant Reader, I send you the following short Biographical Sketch of the Life of James Hogg, the Ettrick Shepherd. He was born in the parish of Ettrick, and County of Selkirk, in the latter end of 1772; being the second son of Robert Hogg and Margaret Laidlaw, both natives of that parish. When but seven years of age, he was engaged by a farmer in the neighbourhood to serve as a cowherd. His whole stock of learning at that time consisted in having been taught to read in the Proverbs of Solomon, and Shorter Catechism, by Mr Beattie, the parish schoolmaster. Next year he was put four months to a private school, kept by a young lad called William Ker, who was teaching a neighbouring farmer’s children. Here he learned to write, and here his education was compleated! His constant employment for some years was herding cows, the lowest, and I believe the worst trade in several respects, in this part of the country. At the age of fourteen, finding himself in possession of five or six shillings, over and above what was necessary for covering his nakedness, he purchased an old violin, and assiduously applied himself to that branch of music. But having little or no leisure in the day-time, and in the night being obliged to sleep in a stable, or byre, and destitute of the means for procuring light, he was much more obliged to the ear than the eye for any advances he made, in what was at this time his favourite amusement. It will readily be perceived, that in such a situation he could make no very rapid advances in music, however high an opinion he might have of his own abilities. But while his self-taught ear was no doubt listening with pleasure to his supposed melodious notes, that they have at the same time produced sensations of a very different nature on others, the following anecdote will bear testimony:—His master coming home at a late hour one evening, and thinking all the servants were gone to rest, re-

APPENDIX : PRE- 1807 TEXTS

131

solved to put his horse into the stable himself, but upon opening the stable door, he was saluted with a voice which to his astonished ears was so unharmonious, that he ran into the house with the greatest precipitation, crying that he believed the devil was in the stable; and was with considerable difficulty convinced of his mistake by some of his family better acquainted with our musician’s inclination and abilities than he was. James was very often changing places; I have hear him say, that at fifteen years of age he had served ten or a dozen masters; yet none of these ever refused to recommend him to another, and he never complained of having received bad usage from any, save a shepherd of the name of Grieve. He now went to serve with Mr Laidlaw, Elibank; and here from kind usage, and more agreeable employment, he used to say that he found his situation much better than it had hitherto been. After this he was entrusted with the charge of a hirsel by the above gentleman’s father, the late Mr Laidlaw, Willinslee, with whom he served two years. Hitherto he had read little, except on his Bible, with which by this time he was well acquainted; and he had got nearly the whole of the psalms of David by heart. But he had made still less progress in writing, for being obliged to write a letter to his elder brother William, he had so far forgot the way, that he actually was under the necessity of printing some of the letters as he saw them in the beginning of the Catechism. This circumstance, although it may appear a little trifling, is yet a striking proof of the strength of his genius. Who could have thought, that one who, at the age of eighteen, had read little else than his bible, and could scarcely write a legible line with the pen, would with no other help, than a few books, and no more leisure than what in the ordinary course of things falls to the lot of servants, have attained to considerable celebrity as an author before he reached his thirtieth year? I may certainly be allowed to make the remark, that since some of his pieces have arrived at an excellence seldom surpassed, what might have been expected from him had a liberal education been added to his other rare accomplishments?—In 1790, he came to Mr Laidlaw, Blackhouse, and served with him as a shepherd for ten years. It was by the attention of this gentleman, and his family, that he came to be first taken notice of, and as far as prudence would permit they have always shewn themselves his most zealous patrons, and they indeed have the merit of rescuing from obscurity one who seems fitted by nature for shining in a quite different sphere of life. Having here access to a considerable selection of books, he began now to read with eagerness and attention; and his mind seems to have been rapidly improving, for in 1793 he began to write no

132

THE MOUNTAIN BARD (1807)

very despicable poetry. The first piece which he might have been said to have finished was intitled “An address to the Duke of Buccleugh, in behalf of myself and other poor folk:” but as I can rarely repeat any of his pieces, and as I have scarcely any copies of them in my possession, I can for the most part only mention them, without giving extracts. This year he also wrote a song, called “This is the way the world goes on,” and “Willie and Geordie,” which was published with some of his other poems in 1801.—He wrote “Glengyle” and “The happy swains,” in 1794. These were in part founded on some stories told him by an old woman of the name of Cameron, who had been interested in the rebellion of 1745; the former of these is already before the public, and this last being of considerable length, shows that he now wrote with facility, for it filled about 150 pages: and that even at this early period his imagination was tolerably fertile, and his talent for versification by no means small. This year, he had the satisfaction of seeing, for the first time, one of his pieces appear in print. It was called the mistakes of a night, and was published in the Scots Magazine. In 1795 he was summoned to Selkirk for a witness against one of his acquaintances for fishing in close-time, and being persuaded by several of his companions, interested in that business, that it was both sinful to swear, and base, and shameful to betray his acquaintance, he either evaded or refused to give direct answers to the questions put to him for some time; at length seeing there was no alternative, he reluctantly complied, but at the same time told his persecutors, that he would soon find a way to expose their ignorance and sacrilegious conduct to the world; and accordingly he immediately set about writing his Scots Gentleman, a comedy, in five acts, one of which was entirely occupied with the examination of the fishers. This piece, though it no doubt has its faults, yet in general is not destitute of merit; the last mentioned part in particular is so replete with blunt but natural answers, that it never fails to excite the most lively burst of laughter, when read to an Ettrick audience. I thought, Mr Editor, to have finished this hasty sketch, but I see its length will be improper. If you think this worthy of a place in your valuable miscellany, you shall soon hear from me again. In my next I shall make extracts from some of his pieces not yet published; and also give some account of his Journey through the Highlands , and the Mountain Bard ; two publications of Mr Hogg’s nearly ready for the press. I am, Sir, Your, &c. Banks of Ettrick, June 8. 1805.

Z.

APPENDIX : PRE- 1807 TEXTS

133

[Scots Magazine, 67 (November 1805), pp. 820–23]

Concluding Particulars of the Life of James Hogg, the Ettrick Shepherd To the Editor S IR , I T has been remarked by a great philosopher, that, “The force of the passions can alone counterbalance, in the human mind, the effects of indolence and inactivity.” Vanity, when mixed with a proper alloy of prudence, may be of the utmost service to us. Amongst the passions which at times roused from listless inactivity the subject of this article, that of harmless vanity was none of the least. Indeed, to vanity and love several of his best pieces may be traced; but, to become more particular might, perhaps, hurt his feelings.—In 1796, having, in company with some friends, dropt a hint of his superior abilities as a poet, two of them for a small wager engaged to try him on any subject which was judged proper. Several being proposed, that of the stars was fixed on. The propriety of such a subject was never called in question; each went to work, and in a short time James finished his. The other two either did not finish theirs, or compromised matters privately, for they were never presented to those chosen to decide the wager. As a specimen of our poet’s abilities at this time, I shall give an extract from this, which was entitled Reflections on a view of the nocturnal heavens ; it begins thus: ’Tis solemn silence all, and not a breath, In this sequestered solitude, I hear; Save where the bird of night his mournful scream Sends from the ruins of yon lofty dome. Great Source of all perfection, how I’m lost In wonder and amazement, when I view That ample space, spread by thy potent arm; Where worlds unnumbered float at thy countroul.—&c. Some time after this, one of his former antagonists and he tried a paraphrase on the 117th psalm. I shall here also repeat some lines, but as I quote from memory only, they are just as likely to be the worst as the best: Ye straggling sons of Greenland’s rigid wilds, Y’ inhabitants of Asia’s distant isles, With all between, make this your final aim, Your great Creator’s goodness to proclaim.

134

THE MOUNTAIN BARD (1807)

* * * * * * The highest seraph that in glory sings, In heavenly strains; on earth the mighty kings, The poor, the rich, the wicked, and the just, The meanest reptile crawling in the dust, All share his bounty, all his goodness prove, And all proclaim him God of truth and love.—&c. He was at times afflicted with a severe pain in his bowels, and at every attack it redoubled its fury, and had very nearly put an end to his days in November 1798. He happened to be from home, assisting a neighbouring farmer to smear his sheep; and though no doubt very kindly used, was certainly more uneasy on that account. I have often heard him since laugh heartily at a conversation he overheard when ill, and I believe by his attendants thought incapable of attending to any thing but the acute pain that racked his body. One person was telling another that Hogg’s ghost (or wraith, as we call that nonentity,) had been seen, and from thence they inferred that he could not possibly live, and whispered something about sheets being got ready to lay him in when dead. However, as he observed, by the help of an able physician, and strength of a good constitution, he disappointed both them and the ghost. When recovering from this illness, he composed a song which begins, Farewell ye grots, farewell ye glens, &c. His brother William, along with his father, possessed the farm of Ettrick House for some time; but having married about this time, he found the profits of the farm too small to maintain two families; accordingly he went away and James entered to the farm in 1800. This year he wrote a tragedy called The castle in the Wood, which, though it shewed a ready fund of invention, and in several parts no very small degree of poetical merit, yet, however partial the author might be, to this the first fruits of his addresses to the tragic muse, it was so far from being unexceptionable in many parts, that it was thought quite unfit to meet the public eye. Finding the profits of the farm but small, and having some spare time, he thought he could not employ it better than in trying the jobbing: accordingly, he next year occasionally attended the markets as a dealer in sheep. But, in a short time he saw, that to succeed this way the utmost diligence and circumspection were requisite; and being naturally of an open, unsuspicious character, he was also too liable to be imposed upon by artful and designing men. These considerations, with his natural propensity to literary pursuits, induced him to give it up entirely. When at Edinburgh market this year, being one day unable to dis-

APPENDIX : PRE- 1807 TEXTS

135

pose of all his sheep, and return to the country as usual, he took it into his head that his time could not be better employed till the next market day, than in writing a few of his poems, to get them printed. The thought thus hastily conceived, was instantly put in execution. In a few hours his papers were finished, and carried directly to the printer; and next day having disposed of his sheep, he returned home. It will easily be seen, that under these circumstances his poems would be very incorrect, especially as he wrote them entirely from memory. However, he inquired no more about them till he heard they were printed. He was now fully sensible of the impropriety of his conduct, but it was too late; yet, even under these unpropitious circumstances, they were partially taken notice of, and some parts of them transcribed, into one or two periodical publications.—He was much more happy in his next piece, (Sandy Tod,) which was published in the Edinburgh Magazine, for May 1802.—The small farm of Ettrick House being taken from him by a more wealthy neighbour, he determined to try what could be done in the Highlands in the farming line; and accordingly traversed a great part of the North Highlands, but returned without doing any thing, save improving his acquaintance with men and manners. Some part of this journey was published in the Scots Magazine. His curiosity being rather heightened, than gratified by what he had seen, he next summer set out on another journey to the Highlands; and after seeing a great part of the interior, he visited most of the Hebrides. Having taken a lease of a farm in the isle of Harris, he returned home to prepare for going thither at the Whitsunday following; and in the interim composed his Farewell to Ettrick, in which he so pathetically unfolds his attachment to the place of his nativity. But an’ I kend my dying day, Tho’ distant, weary, pale, an’ wan; I’d take my staff and post away, To yield my life where it began. But I shall make no more extracts from it, as it is already before the public; being published in the Scots and Edinburgh Magazine. At Whitsunday 1804, James, with other two acquaintances went away again to Harris, to take possession of the farm; which they at length reached, after a long and dangerous voyage. But though the proprietor had shown considerable anxiety to see James, through an unlucky coincidence of misfortunes and disasters, this meeting was prevented, which no doubt led to consequences of the last import to him. Returning home again, he purchased a good many sheep, with

136

THE MOUNTAIN BARD (1807)

which, when he was finally setting out for Harris, about the middle of July, he received notice that the tacksman’s right to the subject was called in question, and a plea entered at the Court of Session accordingly. Thinking it unsafe to venture himself with so much property in a distant island, where the proprietor was likely to become his enemy, he immediately resolved on that step to which least apparent danger was attached. Thus were all his hopes of raising his fortune by this means entirely blasted; and finding that the old saying “He that gets the skaith gets ay the scorn,” would be verified in him, he went off to the North of England for some time. He was afterwards employed in preparing for the press his first, second, and third journies through the Highlands; and in composing several pieces, some of which have been published in the Magazine, and which he intends to publish in a volume by themselves, as soon as a few illustrative notes are got ready. At Whitsunday 1805, he again chearfully undertook the charge of a hirsel, in which situation he still continues. I have now, Mr Editor, given you a few particulars of Mr Hogg’s life, and as I have for the most part confined myself to a recital of such things as I have heard directly from him, or as have come under my own observation, I think they will be pretty correctly stated. If in any thing I am wrong, I hope Mr Hogg will be so good as give a true statement, and that he will forgive the liberty I have thus taken with his character and writings. I am yours, Banks of Ettrick, Sept. 15. 1805.

Z.

APPENDIX : PRE- 1807 TEXTS

137

[From manuscript: see National Library of Scotland, Acc 9764]

Sir David Grame A fragment The dow flew east the dow flew west The dow flew fer ayont the fell An’ sair at e’en she seem’d distrest But what perplexd her coudna tell But ay she cryd cur-dow coo coo An’ ruffled a’ her feathers fair An’ lookit stern an’ wadna bow To taste the sweetest finest ware The lady pin’d an’ sair did blame She didna blame the bonny dow But sair she blam’d Sir David Grame Wha now to her had broke his vow He swore by moon an’ sterns sae bright An’ by their bed the grass sae green To meet her there on Lammas night Whatever dangers lay atween To risk his fortune and his life To bear her frae her fathers ha’ To gie her a’ the lands o’ Dryfe An’ marry her for good an’ a’

5

10

15

20

The day arriv’d the ev’ning came The lady look’d wi’ wistfu’ e’e But Oh alake her noble Grame Frae e’en to morn she couldna see An’ ilka day she sat an’ grat An’ ilka night her fancy wrought In wytin this an’ blamin’ that But o’ the cause she never thought The sun had drank frae Kielder fells His bev’rage o’ the morning dew The wild-fowl slumber’d in the dells The heather hung its bells o’ blue

25

30

138

THE MOUNTAIN BARD (1807)

The lady to her window hie’d That look’d owr a’ the banks o’ Tyne An’ Oh alake she said an’ sigh’d Sure ilka heart is blythe but mine

35

[Two lines have been heavily blotted out at the foot of the final surviving page of the manuscript. The first word of the first line may be ‘Deil’, but the lines are otherwise illegible.]

[Scots Magazine, 67 (September 1805), pp. 701–03]

Sir David Graham A Border Ballad T HE dow flew east, the dow flew west, The dow flew far ayont the fell; And sair at e’en she seem’d distrest, But what perplext her coudna tell. But ay she cry’d curdow, curdow, An’ rufled a’ her feathers fair; An’ lookit stern, an wadna bow To taste the sweetest, finest ware. The lady pin’d, an’ some did blame,— She didna blame the bonny dow, But sair she blam’d Sir David Graham, Wha now to her had broke his vow. He swore by moon an’ sterns sae bright, An’ by their bed the garss sae green, To meet her there on Lammas night, Whatever dangers lay between. To risk his fortune and his life, To bear her frae her father’s ha’; To gie her a’ the lands o’ Dryfe, An’ wed wi’ her for gude an’ a’. The day arriv’d: the evening came: The lady look’d wi’ wistfu’ e’e: But, O alack! her noble Graham Frae e’en to morn she coudna see.

5

10

15

20

138

THE MOUNTAIN BARD (1807)

The lady to her window hie’d That look’d owr a’ the banks o’ Tyne An’ Oh alake she said an’ sigh’d Sure ilka heart is blythe but mine

35

[Two lines have been heavily blotted out at the foot of the final surviving page of the manuscript. The first word of the first line may be ‘Deil’, but the lines are otherwise illegible.]

[Scots Magazine, 67 (September 1805), pp. 701–03]

Sir David Graham A Border Ballad T HE dow flew east, the dow flew west, The dow flew far ayont the fell; And sair at e’en she seem’d distrest, But what perplext her coudna tell. But ay she cry’d curdow, curdow, An’ rufled a’ her feathers fair; An’ lookit stern, an wadna bow To taste the sweetest, finest ware. The lady pin’d, an’ some did blame,— She didna blame the bonny dow, But sair she blam’d Sir David Graham, Wha now to her had broke his vow. He swore by moon an’ sterns sae bright, An’ by their bed the garss sae green, To meet her there on Lammas night, Whatever dangers lay between. To risk his fortune and his life, To bear her frae her father’s ha’; To gie her a’ the lands o’ Dryfe, An’ wed wi’ her for gude an’ a’. The day arriv’d: the evening came: The lady look’d wi’ wistfu’ e’e: But, O alack! her noble Graham Frae e’en to morn she coudna see.

5

10

15

20

APPENDIX : PRE- 1807 TEXTS

An’ ilka day she sat an’ grat; An’ ilka night her fancy wrought; In wyting this, an’ blaming that, But o’ the cause she never thought. The Sun had drunk frae Kielder fells His beverage o’ the morning dew: The wild-fowl slumber’d in the dells, The heather hung its bells o’ blue: The lambs were skipping on the brae, In airy notes the shepherd sung; The small birds hail’d the jocund day Till ilka thicket sweetly rung. The lady to her window hied That open’d owre the banks o’ Tyne, An’ O! alack! she said an’ sigh’d, Sure ilka heart is blyth but mine!

139 25

30

35

40

Where ha’e ye been my bonny dow, That I ha’e fed wi’ bread an’ wine? As roving a’ the country through O saw ye this fause knight o’ mine? The dow sat on the window tree, An’ held a lock o’ yellow hair: She perch’d upon that lady’s knee, An’ carefully she plac’d it there. What can this mean? It is the same, Or else my senses me beguile; This lock belong’d to David Graham, The flower of a’ the British isle. It isna cut wi’ sheers nor knife, But frae his hafits torn awa! I ken he lo’ed me as his life, But this I canna read at a’. The dow flew east, the dow flew west, The dow flew far ayont the fell; An’ back she came wi’ panting breast Ere ringing of the castle bell.

45

50

55

60

140

THE MOUNTAIN BARD (1807)

She lightit on the hally tap, An’ cry’d curdow, an’ hung her wing, Then flew into that lady’s lap, An’ there she plac’d a diamond ring! What can this mean? it is the same. Or else my senses me beguile; This ring I gave to David Graham, The flower of a’ the British isle. ’Tis plain he’s rued of ilka vow: But all is wrapt in mysterye; He sends me back the tokens too, Was ever maid perplex’d like me. Then down she sat, an’ sair she grat, With rapid whirl her fancy wrought; In wyting this, an’ blaming that, But o’ the cause she never thought. When lo, Sir David’s trusty hound, Wi’ humplin’ back, an’ hollow e’e, Came cringing in, an’ look’d around, Wi’ hopeless stare wha there might be.

65

70

75

80

He laid his head upon her knee Wi’ looks that did her heart assail; An’ a’ that she coud flatter, he Wad neither bark nor wag his tail. She fed him with the milk sae sweet, An’ ilka thing that he wad ha’e, He lick’d her hands, he lick’d her feet, Then slowly slowly trudg’d away. But she has ey’d the honest hound, An’ a’ to see where he wad gae; He stopt, an’ howl’d, an’ lookt around, Then slowly slowly trudg’d away. But she kuste off her coal-black shoon, An’ sae has she her silken hose; She kiltit high her broider’d gown, An’ after him in haste she goes.

85

90

95

APPENDIX : PRE- 1807 TEXTS

She follow’d him owre muirs an’ rocks, Through mony a dell an’ dowy glen: Till frae her braw, an’ lovely locks, The sweat ran down like drops o’ rain.

141

100

An’ ay she said, my love is hid, An’ darna come the castle nigh; But him I’ll find, an’ him I’ll chide, For leaving his poor maid to sigh. But ae press to his manly breast, An’ ae kiss o’ his bony mou’, Will weel atone for a’ the past, An’ a’ the pain I suffer now. But in a hagg in yonder flow! Ah! there she fand her gallant Graham, A lothesome carcase, lying low, A rotten sod across his wame! Wi’ ae wound through his shoulder bane, An’ in his bosom twa or three: Wi’ flies an’ vermin sair owregane, An’ uggsome to the sight was he. His manly een that love did beat Were now become the raven’s prey; His tongue that mov’d to accents sweet, Deep frae his throat was torn away.

105

110

115

120

Poor Reyno fawn’d, an’ took his place, As glad to see the livid clay! Then lick’d his master’s bloated face, And kindly down beside him lay. “Now coming was the night sae dark, An’ gane was a’ the light o’ day,” The muir was dun; the heavens mirk, An’ deep an’ dreary was the way. The croaking raven soar’d on high; Thick thick the charking weazels ran: At hand she heard the howlets cry, An’ groans as of a dying man.

125

130

142

THE MOUNTAIN BARD (1807)

Wi’ horror an’ wi’ dread aghast, That lady turn’d an’ thought of hame; An’ there she saw, approching fast, The likeness of her noble Graham. His grim grim eye-lids didna move, His thin thin cheek was deadly pale; His mouth was black, an sair he strove T’ impart to her some dreadfu’ tale.

135

140

For thrice his wither’d hand he wav’d, An’ laid it on his bleeding breast. Hast thou a tender heart receiv’d? How thou wilt tremble at the rest! Fain wad I tell what there befell But ’tis unmeet for mortal ear; The dismal deeds on yonder fell Wad shock a human heart to hear. Ettrick. A Shepherd.

145

[Scots Magazine, 67 (November 1804), pp. 855–56]

The Pedlar A Scottish Ballad in Imitation of the Ancients By James Hogg ’T WAS late, late, late, on a Saturday’s night, The moon was set an’ the win’ was lowne; The lazy mist crap to’ard the height; An’ the dim, livid flame, glimmer’d laigh on the downe! On the rank-scented fen the bleeter was harping, High on the black muir, the foxes did howl; All on the lone hearth the cricket was chirping, An’ far on the air came the notes o’ the owl!

5

142

THE MOUNTAIN BARD (1807)

Wi’ horror an’ wi’ dread aghast, That lady turn’d an’ thought of hame; An’ there she saw, approching fast, The likeness of her noble Graham. His grim grim eye-lids didna move, His thin thin cheek was deadly pale; His mouth was black, an sair he strove T’ impart to her some dreadfu’ tale.

135

140

For thrice his wither’d hand he wav’d, An’ laid it on his bleeding breast. Hast thou a tender heart receiv’d? How thou wilt tremble at the rest! Fain wad I tell what there befell But ’tis unmeet for mortal ear; The dismal deeds on yonder fell Wad shock a human heart to hear. Ettrick. A Shepherd.

145

[Scots Magazine, 67 (November 1804), pp. 855–56]

The Pedlar A Scottish Ballad in Imitation of the Ancients By James Hogg ’T WAS late, late, late, on a Saturday’s night, The moon was set an’ the win’ was lowne; The lazy mist crap to’ard the height; An’ the dim, livid flame, glimmer’d laigh on the downe! On the rank-scented fen the bleeter was harping, High on the black muir, the foxes did howl; All on the lone hearth the cricket was chirping, An’ far on the air came the notes o’ the owl!

5

APPENDIX : PRE- 1807 TEXTS

When the Lady o’ Thirlestane rase in her sleep,* An’ she shreikit sae loud that her maid ran to see: Her een they war set, an’ her voice it was deep, An’ she shook like the leaf o’ the aspin tree! “O where is the Pedlar I drave frae the ha’, That pledd sae fair to tarry wi’ me?” “He’s gane to the mill; the miller sells ale, An’ the Pedlar’s as weel as a man can be.” “Poor body! he proffer’d to pay me weel Wi’ outher goud or white monye! But I was sae hard, that I wadna regard, Tho’ I saw the saut tear trinkle down frae his e’e.

143 10

15

20

But O! what a terrible dream I hae seen! The Pedlar a’ mangled most shocking to see! An’ he gapit, an waggit, an’ star’d wi’ his een, An’ he seem’d to lay a’ the blame upo’ me! I fear that alive he will never be seen; An’ the very suspicion o’t terrifies me; I wadna hae siccan a vision again For a’ the gude kye upo’ Thirlestane lea. Yet wha wad presume the poor Pedlar to kill! O Grizzy, my girl, will ye gae an’ see? If the Pedlar is safe an’ sound at the mill, A red half-guinea I’ll gie unto thee.” “O, Lady! ’tis dark! an’ I heard the dead bell: I darena gang yonder for goud nor fee; But the miller has lodgings might ser’ yoursel’, An’ the Pedlar’s as weel as a Pedlar can be.” She sat until day, an’ she sent wi’ fear: The miller said there he never had been. She went to the kirk, an’ spier’d for him there, But the Pedlar in life was never mair seen! * Thirlestane, on the banks of the Ettrick. The ballad being founded on a fact, and every circumstance of it the tradition of the country.

25

30

35

40

144

THE MOUNTAIN BARD (1807)

Till late, late, late, on a Saturday’s night, The laird was walkin’ alang the lea, When a silly auld Pedlar cam’ bye on his right, An’ a muckle green pack on his shoulders had he. “O where are ye gaun, ye beggarly loune? Ye’s nouther get lodgin’ nor sale frae me.” He turn’d him about, an’ the blude it ran down, An’ his throat was a’ cuttit most horrid to see. Then quick, wi’ a sound, he sank i’ the ground, A knock was heard, an’ the fire did flee. To try a bit prayer the laird clappit down, As flat an’ as fear’d as a body could be. He faintit: but soon as he gather’d his breath, He tauld what a terrible sight he had seen, The devil, a’ waundit, an’ bleeding to death, In shape of a Pedlar upo’ the mill-green!

45

50

55

The Lady she shriekit, the door it was steikit, The servants war glad that the devil was gane: But, ilk Saturday’s night, when faded the light, Near the mill-house the poor bleeding Pedlar was seen. An’ ay whan passangers bye were gaun, A dulefu’ voice came frae the mill-e’e, On Saturday’s night, when the clock struck one, Cry’n’, O! J ohn Waters, hae mercy on me! The place was harass’d; the mill was laid waste; The miller he fled to a far country; But ay, at e’en, the Pedlar was seen, An’ at midnight the voice cam’ frae the mill-e’e. The Lady frae haim would never mair budge, From the time that the sun gaed over the hill; An’ now she gat ilka poor body to lodge, As nane durst gae on for the ghost of the mill. But the Parson, hard bye, was a Parson o’ skill; Nor fear’d, for devil nor spirit was he; An’ he’s gane away to watch at the mill, To try if this terrible sight he could see.

65

70

75

APPENDIX : PRE- 1807 TEXTS

He pray’d an’ he read, an’ he sent them to bed; Then the bible anunder his arm took he; An’ round, an’ round, the mill-house he gaed, To try if this terrible sp’rit he could see.

145

80

Wi’ a shivering groan, the Pedlar came on, An’ the muckle green pack on his shoulders had he: But he nouther had flesh, blude, nor bane; For the moon shone through his thin body. The ducks they whackit, the dogs they howl’d, The herons they shriekit most piteouslye; The horses they snorkit, for miles around, While the Parson an’ Pedlar together might be. Wi’ a positive look, he open’d the book; An’ charg’d him, by a’ the Sacred Three To tell, why that horrible form he had took, To terrify a’ the hale countrye? “My body was butcher’d within that mill: My banes lye under the inner mill-wheel; An’ here my spirit maun wander, until Some crimes an’ villanies I can reveal. I robbed my niece of three hundred pounds, Which Providence suffer’d me ne’er to enjoy; For the sake o’ that money I gat my death’s wounds, The miller me kend, but he miss’d his ploy.

85

90

95

100

The money lyes bury’d on Balderstane hill, Beneath the mid bourack o’ three times three, O gie’t to the owners, kind Sir, an’ it will Bring wonderful comfort an’ rest unto me. ’Tis drawing to day, nae mair I can say; My message I trust, good parson, with thee: If the black cock sude craw while I am awa’, O weary an’ weary! what wad come o’ me! Wi’ a sound like a horn, away he was borne; The grass was decay’d where the spirit had been: An’ certain it is, from that day to this, The ghost o’ the Pedlar was never mair seen.

105

110

146

THE MOUNTAIN BARD (1807)

The mill was repair’d, and low in the yird, The bones lay under the inner mill-wheel; But certain it is, from that day to this, The millars o’ Thirlestane ne’er hae done weel.

115

[From manuscript]

The Lady Dalkeith 26 Aug .t 1805 Gilmanscleuch ______________

Gilmanscleuch A Tale of Ettricke Forest, by

James Hogg. _________________ “What did ye wi’ the gowd Peggie Ye gat on New Year’s day? I looked to see you aye sin’ syne Decked out in rich array But neither kirtle cap nor gown To Peggie has come hame— What did ye wi’ the gowd, daughter I fear ye’ve been to blame?”— —“My gowd it was my ain, father, A gift should aye be free And when I want my gowd again ’Twill not be lost to me”— —“O have ye given it to a friend? Or lent it to a foe? Or sent it to some light leman May work you mickle woe?”— —“ I have not gi’en it to a friend Nor lent it to a fae And never man without your leave Shall cause my weal or wae”—

5

10

15

20

146

THE MOUNTAIN BARD (1807)

The mill was repair’d, and low in the yird, The bones lay under the inner mill-wheel; But certain it is, from that day to this, The millars o’ Thirlestane ne’er hae done weel.

115

[From manuscript]

The Lady Dalkeith 26 Aug .t 1805 Gilmanscleuch ______________

Gilmanscleuch A Tale of Ettricke Forest, by

James Hogg. _________________ “What did ye wi’ the gowd Peggie Ye gat on New Year’s day? I looked to see you aye sin’ syne Decked out in rich array But neither kirtle cap nor gown To Peggie has come hame— What did ye wi’ the gowd, daughter I fear ye’ve been to blame?”— —“My gowd it was my ain, father, A gift should aye be free And when I want my gowd again ’Twill not be lost to me”— —“O have ye given it to a friend? Or lent it to a foe? Or sent it to some light leman May work you mickle woe?”— —“ I have not gi’en it to a friend Nor lent it to a fae And never man without your leave Shall cause my weal or wae”—

5

10

15

20

APPENDIX : PRE- 1807 TEXTS

147

“I gie’d it to a poor auld man Came shivering to the door And when I heard his waefu’ tale I wished my little more”— —“ What was the beggars tale, Peggie? I fain would hear it o’er I fain would hear the wily tale That drained thy little store”— —“His beard was like the thistle down His cheeks were furr’d with time His hair was like a bush of ling x That’s silvered o’er by rime x2 He took me gently by the hand And waefully he smiled —“ Oh weel to you my little flower That blooms in desert wild And may you never ken the ills That lang have followed me Bereft of a’ my goods and gear My friends & family.

25

30

35

40

At Gilmanscleuch beneath the heuch My fathers lang did dwell Aye foremost wi’ the bauld Buccleuch The foreign foe to quell Ilk petty robber in the land They taught to stand in awe And often checked the plundering bands Of famous Tushielaw But when the bush was in the flush And fairer there was nane Ae blast did a’ its honors crush And Gilmanscleuch is gane. I had a brother stout & bold But furious fierce & keen x Ling. The coarse grass which grows in tufts on the moors. x2 Rime. Hoar frost.

45

50

148

THE MOUNTAIN BARD (1807)

An only sister soft and fair Whose name was bonnie Jean. Of fairest stature was her form Her skin was like the snaw Thats drifted by the wintery storm On lofty Gilmanslaw

55

60

Her hair were like to threads of gold Her cheeks of rosy hue Her een were like the hunting hawk’s That ower the castle flew. Her mouth a smile be-dimpled wore Her teeth were ivory Her lips the little purple flower That blooms on Bailleylee. But mark what dole & care, fair maid, For Beautys but a snare— Young Jack of Harden her betrayed Which grieved us wondrous sair I ken’d his honor fast & firm And did na doubt his aith But being youngest of seven brethren To marry he was laith. My brother Adam stormed and raged And swore in angry mood Either to right his dear sister Or spend his dear hearts blood

65

70

75

80

When June had decked the braes wi’ green And flushed the forest tree When wild deer ran on every hill And lambs on every lee; A shepherd from our mountains hied, An ill death may he dee, “O Master master! haste”, he cried “O haste along with me.

85

APPENDIX : PRE- 1807 TEXTS

“Your ewes are scattered on the hills Their lambs are drawn away The fairest roes on Eldin braes Are Jack of Hardens prey “His hounds are ringing through your woods Your choicest deer are slain A herd is fled to Douglas-craig Will ne’er return again. “Your brother Adam, stout & strong I warned on yon hill side And he’s away to Yarrow braes As fast as he can ride”—

149 90

95

100

“—O woe betide thy haste, young man You might have told it me Ye kenn’d to hunt on a’ our hills The Harden Lads were free, But saddle me my coal-black steed As fast as fast may be And I’ll away to Yarrow side This sad hunting to see”— But low, low down, in Sundhope broom, My brother Harden spied And with a stern & furious frown He up to him did ride —“ Was’t not enough thou traitor strong My sister to betray But thou must chase our harmless flocks And scare their lambs away “Your hounds are ringing through our woods Our choicest deer are slain And hundreds fled to Stuart’s hills Will ne’er return again”— —“ It sets you well” young Harden said “To bend such taunts on me Oft have you hunted Oakwood hills And no man hindered thee”—

105

110

115

120

150

THE MOUNTAIN BARD (1807)

—“But wilt thou wed my sister dear? Now tell me ay or nay”— —“ Nae question will I answer thee That’s speered in sick a way “Take this for sooth I ne’er meant ill To either thee or thine”— Then spurred his steed against the hill Was fleeter than the hind. He set his bugelet to his mouth He blew baith loud and clear A signal to his merry-men Their hunting to forbear. —“Now turn thee, turn thee scornful youth,” Cried Adam bitterlie “No haughty Scott of Hardens line Shall ever lightlie x me

125

130

135

140

“So draw thy sword or gie thy word For one of them I’ll have Or to thy face I’ll thee disgrace And call thee coward knave”— He sprung from off his berry-brown steed And bound him to the wand Then threw the bonnet from his head And drew his deadly brand And lang they fought and sair they fought Wi’ blades of mettle keen Till blood in many a crimson spot Had sprinkled Sundhope green And lang they fought and sair they fought For braver there was nane Till Adams thigh was bathed in blood And Harden’s collar-bane x lightly me.

Set light by me.

145

150

155

APPENDIX : PRE- 1807 TEXTS

151

But Adam he waxed weak and faint Nae langer scarce might stand His hand clave to the heavy sword His knees plet x like the wand

160

He leaned his back unto an aik Nae mair might play his part When sprung his hench-man x from the broom And pierced young Hardens heart. Being yauld x and stout, he turned about And cleft his head in twain Then sunk beside him on the broom Nae mair to rise again. That day I spurred my coal-black steed Far faster than the wind And sent my voice the forest through But naething could I find Till low low down in Sundhope broom A woeful sight was seen My brother faint & bleeding lay Young Harden near hand gane —“And art thou there O Gilmanscleuch,” In feeble voice he cried “Hadst thou arrived time enough Thy kinsman had not died,

165

170

175

180

“Be kind unto your sister Jean Whatever else betide This night I meant in Gilmanscleugh To have made of her my bride “But this sad deed this fatal feud Will work both woe & pain x plet. plaited or bent. x Hench-man. The immediate personal attendant of a gentleman in ancient times; he was always the bravest & most attached of his retainers & usually his foster-brother. x Yauld. Agile.

185

152

THE MOUNTAIN BARD (1807)

My six fierce brethren ne’er will rest Till they’re avenged or slain”— Thus died that brave & comely youth Whose arm was like the steel Whose very look was open truth Whose heart was firm & leal. The hench-man sleeps in Sundhope broom Into a lowly grave Young Jack they bore to Hardens tomb And laid him with the lave. x ’Tis now full five & thirty years Since that unhappy day And late I saw his comely corpse Without the least decay

190

195

200

The garlands laid his breast aboon Retained their varied hue The roses flourished in his shoon As fair as if they grew. I warned my friends & tenants a’ With meikle care & pain Expecting Harden’s vengeful sons Wi’ a’ their fathers train The tower was warded all above The gate was barred below The warder on the turret stood The warning blast to blow. But Harden was a warldly man A wily tod was he He locked his sons in prison strong And with him bare the key And he’s away to Holy-rood Amang our nobles a’ x lave. rest.

205

210

215

APPENDIX : PRE- 1807 TEXTS

153

Wi’ bonnet like a gridle x braid Ower hair like Craighope snaw

220

His coat was of the forest green With buttons like the moon His breeks were of the gude buckskin Wi’ all the hair aboon. His twa-hand sword hung round his neck And reeled against his heel The rowels of his silver spurs Were of the Rippon x steel He made his plaint before our King And magnified the deed And high Buccleuch with pith aneuch Made Harden better speed. He made his plaint before our King When answer there was nane And a’ the Scotts of Gilmanscleuch Were outlawed ilka ane. That time I missed and never wist Of nae sic treacherie Till I got word frae kind Traquair The country soon to flee

225

230

235

240

For me & mine nae friend wald find But fall an easy prey While yet my brother weakly was And scarce might brook the way. Since then I’ve fought in foreign fields In many a bloody fray But longed to see my native hills Before my dying day My brother fell in Hungary When fighting by my side x Gridle. A round plate of iron on which oat-cakes are baked. x Rippon from its vicinity to the Borders was long famous for a manufacture of arms & horse furniture. Rippon spurs are still in some repute.

245

250

154

THE MOUNTAIN BARD (1807)

My luckless sister bore a son But broke her heart and died. That son now all my earthly care Of form & stature fine He has thine eye and bears thy name As well as he does mine. For me I’m but a poor auld man Whom nane regards at a’ The grave is fittest now for me Where shortly I maun fa’.”—

255

260

—“ I gied him a’ the gowd father I gat on new year’s day And welcomed him to Harden’s towers A month or twa to stay”— —“ My sweet Peggie, my dear Peggie Ye aye were dear to me For every bonnet-piece x you gave My love you shall have three Auld Gilmanscleuch shall share with me The table and the ha’ We’ll talk of a’ our doughty deeds At hame and far awa’. That youth my hapless brother’s son That bears our eye & name Shall farm the lands of Gilmanscleuch While Harden hauds the same Nae rent nor kain nor service mean I’ll ask of him at a’ Only to stand on my right hand When Branksome gies the ca’ A Scott should aye support a Scott When sinking in decay Till over a’ the Southland hills We stretch our ample sway. x Bonnet-piece. A gold coin struck by James V th. obtained this name because it bore the Kings head covered with a bonnet.

265

270

275

280

APPENDIX : PRE- 1807 TEXTS

155

[Scots Magazine, 66 (May 1804), pp. 378–79]

The Death of Douglas Lord of Liddisdale; A Scottish Ballad, in Imitation of the Ancients

By J AMES HOG G , the Ettrick Shepherd The first stanza of this song, as well as the history of the event to which it refers, is preserved by Hume of Godscroft in his history of the House of Douglas. The author having been successful in rescuing some excellent old songs from the very brink of oblivion, searched incessantly many years after the remains of this, until lately, by mere accident, he lighted upon a few scraps which he firmly believes to have formed a part of that very ancient ballad. The reader shall judge for himself. The first verse is from Hume, and all those printed in italics are as near the original as ryhme and reason will permit. They are barely sufficient to distinguish the strain in which the old song hath proceeded. T HE Lady Douglas left her bower, An’ ay sae loud as she did call, ’Tis all for gude Lord Liddisdale That I do let these tears down fall. O haud your tongue, my sister dear, An’ o’ your weepin’ let me be: Lord Liddisdale will haud his ain Wi’ ony Lord o’ Chrystendie. For him ye widna weep or whine If you had seen what I did see, That day he broke the troops o’ Tyne, Wi’s gilded sword o’ metal free. Stout Heezlebrae was wonder wae To see his faintin’ vassals yield; An’ in a rage he did engage Lord Liddisdale upon the field. “Avaunt, thou haughty Scot,” he cry’d, Nor dare to face a noble foe; Say, wilt thou brave the deadly brand, An’ heavy hand of Heezlebrae.”

5

10

15

20

156

THE MOUNTAIN BARD (1807)

The word was scarcely mixt wi’ air, When Douglas’ sword his answer gae; An’ frae a wound baith deep an’ sair Out fled the soul o’ Heezlebrae. Mad Faucet next wi’ wounds transfixt, In anguish gnaw’d the bloody clay; Then Hallinshed he wheil’d an’ fled, An’ left his rich ill-gotten prey. I hae been West, I hae been East, I hae seen dangers many a ane; But for a bauld and dauntless breast, Lord Liddisdale will yield to nane. An’ were I call’d to face the foe, An’ bidden chuse my leader free; Lord Liddisdale would be the man Should lead me on to victory. O haud your tongue, my brother John! Tho’ I have heard you patientlie, Lord Liddisdale is dead an’ gone, An’ he was slain for love o’ me.

25

30

35

40

My little true an’ trusty page Has brought the heavy news to me, That my ain Lord did him engage Where he could nouther fitch nor flee. Four o’ the foremost men he slew, An’ four he wounded despratelie, But cruel Douglas came behind An’ ran him through the fair bodie. O wae be to the Ettrick wood! O wae be to the banks of Ale! O wae be to the dastard croud That murder’d handsome Liddisdale! It wasna rage for Ramsey slain That rais’d the deadly feid sae hie; Nor perjur’d Murray’s timeless death— It was for kindness shewn to me.

45

50

55

APPENDIX : PRE- 1807 TEXTS

When I was led through Liddisdale, An’ thirty horsemen guarding me; When that gude Lord cam to my aid, Sae soon as he did set me free!

157

60

He led me to his castle high, He laid me on his bed o’ doune, He took me gently in his arms, Where we did sleep baith sweet an’ sound. Till wild bird sang, an woodlands rang, An’ sweet the sun shone on the vale; Then thinkna ye my heart was wae To part wi’ gentle Liddisdale. But I will greet for Liddisdale, Until my twa black een rin dry; An’ I will wail for Liddisdale As lang as I hae voice to cry. An’ for that gude Lord I will sigh Until my heart an’ spirit fail: An, when I die, O bury me On the left side of Liddisdale. Now haud your tongue, my sister dear, Your grief will cause baith dule an’ shame; Since ye were fause, in sic a cause, The Douglas’ rage I canna blame.

65

70

75

80

Gae stem the bitter Norlan’ gale, Gae bid the wild wave cease to rowe: I’ll own my love for Liddisdale Afore the king, my Lord, an’ you. He drew his sword o’ stained steel, While neid-fire gleam’d frae ilka eye, Nor pity, nor remorse did feel Till dead she at his feet did lye. O cruel man! what hae I done? I never wrong’d my Lord nor thee, I little thought my brother John Could hae the heart to murder me.

85

90

158

THE MOUNTAIN BARD (1807)

Sunk was her een, her voice was gane, Her bonny face was pale as clay, Her hands she rais’d to Heav’n for grace; Then fainted, sunk, and died away. He dight his sword upon the ground, Wi’ tentless glare his een did rowe, Till fixing on the throbbing wound That stain’d her breast of purest snow.

95

100

He cry’d, O lady, fause an’ fair! Now thou art dead and I undone! I’ll never taste of comfort mair, Nor peace of mind aneath the sun! Owr mountains, seas, an’ burnin’ sand, I’ll seek the plains of Italie; Then kneel in Juda’s distant land, An’ syne come back an’ sleep wi’ thee.

105

[From manuscript]

Thirlestane Its fer he rade an’ fer he gaed An’ aft he sail’d the sea An’ thrice he cross’d the Alpine hills To distant Italie Beyond Loch-Ness his temple stood A fane of muckle fame A knight of good St. John he was An’ Baldwin was his name By wondrous lore he could explore What after times would be An’ many mystic links o’ fate He hafflins could foresee Its fer he rade an’ fer he gaed Owr mony hill and dale Till passing through the fair Forest He learn’d a waesom tale

5

10

15

158

THE MOUNTAIN BARD (1807)

Sunk was her een, her voice was gane, Her bonny face was pale as clay, Her hands she rais’d to Heav’n for grace; Then fainted, sunk, and died away. He dight his sword upon the ground, Wi’ tentless glare his een did rowe, Till fixing on the throbbing wound That stain’d her breast of purest snow.

95

100

He cry’d, O lady, fause an’ fair! Now thou art dead and I undone! I’ll never taste of comfort mair, Nor peace of mind aneath the sun! Owr mountains, seas, an’ burnin’ sand, I’ll seek the plains of Italie; Then kneel in Juda’s distant land, An’ syne come back an’ sleep wi’ thee.

105

[From manuscript]

Thirlestane Its fer he rade an’ fer he gaed An’ aft he sail’d the sea An’ thrice he cross’d the Alpine hills To distant Italie Beyond Loch-Ness his temple stood A fane of muckle fame A knight of good St. John he was An’ Baldwin was his name By wondrous lore he could explore What after times would be An’ many mystic links o’ fate He hafflins could foresee Its fer he rade an’ fer he gaed Owr mony hill and dale Till passing through the fair Forest He learn’d a waesom tale

5

10

15

APPENDIX : PRE- 1807 TEXTS

Where Ettrick wanders down a plain Wi’ lofty hills belaid The stately tow’rs o’ Thirlestane Wi’ wonder he survey’d

159

20

Black hung the banner on the wall The trumpet seem’d to groan An’ red red ran the bonny burn That erst like siller shone Thousands of steads stood on the hill Of gaudy harness vain An’ round on Ettrick’s fertile haughs Grew no kin kind o’ grain At first a noise like fairy sounds He indistinctly heard Then countless countless were the crouds Which round the walls appear’d He gaz’d he wonder’d sair he fear’d Some recent tragedy At length he saw a headlong wight Gaun drooping on the lee His beard was silver’d owr wi’ eild Pale was his cheek wae-worn His hair was like the muirland wild On a December morn

25

30

35

40

Hail reverend brother Baldwin said Here in this unco land The humble Baldwin bows to thee An’ offers thee his hand O tell me why the people mourn Sure all is not for good? And why—why does the bonny burn Run red wi’ christian blood? Auld Beattie turnd an’ shook his head While down fell many a tear O welcome welcome sire he said A waesom tale to hear

45

50

160

THE MOUNTAIN BARD (1807)

[From manuscript]

For the Edin.r Magazine

Sandy Tod A Scottish pastoral To a lady A’ ye lasses roun’ the Forest; A’ ye herds i’ Britain broad; Murn wi’ me the meltin’ sorrows; Murn the death o’ Sandy Tod. Sandy was a lad o’ vigour; Clean an’ tight o’ lith an’ lim: For a decent manly figure, Few cou’d ding or equal him. In a cottage, poor an’ nameless, By a little bouzy linn, Sandy led a life sae blameless, Far frae ony strife or dinn. Annan’s fertile dale beyon’ him, Spread her fields an’ meadows green. Hoary Hartfell towr’d aboon him; Smilin’ to the sun, good-e’en. Few his wants, his wishes fewer: Save his flocks nae care had he. Never heart than his was truer; Tender to the last degree.

5

10

15

20

He was learn’d, an’ ev’ry tittle E’er he read believ’d it true. Savin chapters cross an’ kittle, He cou’d read his bible through. Seven bonny buskit simmers, Owr the Solway firth had fled; Sin’ a flock o’ ews an’ gimmers Out amang the hills he fed.

25

APPENDIX : PRE- 1807 TEXTS

161

[Edinburgh Magazine, n.s. 19 (May 1802), pp. 368–70]

For the Edinburgh Magazine

Sandy Tod A Scottish Pastoral To a Lady A’ Ye lasses roun’ the Forest; A’ ye herds i’ Britain broad; Murn wi’ me the meltin’ sorrows; Murn the death o’ Sandy Tod. Sandy was a lad o’ vigour; Clean an’ tight o’ lith an’ lim’: For a decent manly figure, Few cou’d ding or equal him. In a cottage, poor an’ nameless, By a little bowzy linn, Sandy led a life sae blameless, Far frae ony strife or dinn. Annan’s fertile dale beyon’ him, Spread her fields an’ meadows green; Hoary Hartfell towr’d aboon him; Smilin’ to the sun, good-e’en. Few his wants, his wishes fewer; Save his flocks nae care had he. Never heart than his was truer; Tender to the last degree.

5

10

15

20

He was learn’d, an’ ev’ry tittle E’er he read believ’d it true; Savin’ chapters cross an’ kittle, He cou’d read his bible through. Seven bonny busket simmers, O’er the Solway Firth had fled, Sin’ a flock o’ ewes an’ gimmers Out amang the hills he fed.

25

162

THE MOUNTAIN BARD (1807)

[manuscript] He was lo’ed by ilka neiber; An’ his master saw fu’ weel, Sandy’s hirsel prov’d, their keeper Was a cannie carefu’ chiel. Ay whan ony tentless lammie Wi’ its neibers chanc’d to go; Sandy kend the careless mammie Whether she cry’d mae, or no. Warldly walth an’ grandeur scornin’; Peace adorn’d his little bield: Ilka eenin, ilka mornin’, Sandy to his maker kneel’d.

30

35

40

You wha roun’ wi’ diamonds wrap ye, An’ are fann’d wi’ loud applause, Can ye think the lad was happy? Really ’tis believ’d he was. In the day sae black an’ show’ry, I hae seen the bonny bow When array’d in all its glory, Vanish on the mountains brow. Sae hae ye, my lovely marrow! Seen the rose an’ violet blue, Bloomin’ on the banks o Yarrow, Quickly fade an’ lose their hue. Fadin’ as the forest roses! Transient as the radiant bow! Fleetin’ as the show’r that follows, Is our Happiness below! She had Sandy ay attendit; Seem’d obedient to his nod. Now his happy hours are endit; Lak-a-day for Sandy Tod! I’ the kirk ae Sunday sittin; Whar to be he seldom fail’d; Sandy’s tender heart was smittin Wi’ a wound that never heal’d.

45

50

55

60

APPENDIX : PRE- 1807 TEXTS

[Edinburgh Magazine] He was lo’ed by ilka neiber; An’ his master saw fu’ weel, Sandy’s hirsel prov’d their keeper Was a cannie, carefu’ chiel. Ay whan ony tentless lammie Wi’ its neiber’s chanc’d to go, Sandy kend the careless mammie Whether she cry’d mae, or no. Warldly walth and grandeur scornin’; Peace adorn’d his little bield; Ilka e’enin’, ilka mornin’, Sandy to his Maker kneel’d.

163

30

35

40

Ye wha roun’ wi’ diamonds wrap ye, An’ are fann’d wi’ loud applause; Can ye think the lad was happy? Really ’tis believ’d he was. In the day sae black an’ show’ry, I hae seen the bonny bow, When array’d in all its glory, Vanish on the mountain’s brow. Sae hae ye, my lovely marrow! Seen the rose an’ violet blue, Bloomin’ on the banks o’ Yarrow, Quickly fade an’ lose their hue. Fadin’ as the forest roses! Transient as the radiant bow! Fleetin’ as the show’r that follows, Is our Happiness below! She had Sandy ay attendit; Seem’d obedient to his nod. Now his happy hours are endit: Lack a-day for Sandy Tod! I’ the kirk ae Sunday sittin’; Whar to be he seldom fail’d; Sandy’s tender heart was smitten Wi’ a wound that never heal’d.

45

50

55

60

164

THE MOUNTAIN BARD (1807)

[manuscript] Sally, drest i’ hat an’ feather, Plac’d her in a neb’ring pew! Sandy sat he kendna whether–– Sandy felt he wistna how. Tho’ the priest was loud an’ clam’rous, An’ drew tears frae mony een, Sandy heard a noise like baudrons Murnin’ i the bed at e’en. Ance or twice the sin alarm’d him; Down he look’d an wish’d a pray’r: Sally had o’ sense disarm’d him, Heart an’ mind an’ a’ was there. Luckily her een was from him: Ay they beam’d another road: Aince a smilin’ glance hat on him–– Mercy L–— d quo’ Sandy Tod.

65

70

75

80

A’ that night he lay an’ turn’d him: Fastit a’ the following day. Now the eastern lamps war burnin’; Westward fled the glomin’ grey. Res’lute made by desperation; Down the glen in haste he flew: Quickly reach’d the habitation Where his sweet carnation grew. I wad sing the happy meetin’, War it new or strange to thee; Weel ye ken, ’tis but repeating What has past ’tween you an’ me. Thy white hand, around me pressed, My unresty heart has felt: But whan hers on Sandy rested, His fond heart was like to melt. Now the cock proclaim’d the dawnin’: Orions belt the mountain bor’d: Steady, o’er the pools o’ Annan, Jupiter in silence soar’d.

85

90

95

100

APPENDIX : PRE- 1807 TEXTS

[Edinburgh Magazine] Sally, drest i’ hat an’ feather, Plac’d her in a neib’ring pew! Sandy sat, he kendna whither—– Sandy felt, he wistna how. Tho’ the priest was loud an’ clam’rous, An’ drew tears frae mony een, Sandy heard a noise like baudrons Murrin i’ the bed at e’en. Ance or twice the sin alarm’d him; Down he look’d, an wish’d a pray’r; Sally had o’ sense disarm’d him, Heart an’ mind, an’ a’ was there. Luckily her een was from him; Ay they beam’d anither road; Aince a smilin’ glance sat on him–— Mercy, L–— d! quo’ Sandy Tod.

165 65

70

75

80

A’ that night he lay an’ turn’d him; Fastit a’ the followin’ day. Now the eastern lamps war burnin’; Westward fled the glomin’ grey. Res’lute made by desperation, Down the glen in haste he flew; Quickly reach’d the habitation Where his sweet carnation grew. I wad sing the happy meetin’, War it new, or strange to thee; Weel ye ken, ’tis but repeating What has past ’tween you an’ me. Thy white hand, around me pressed, My unresty heart has felt; But whan her’s on Sandy rested, His fond heart was like to melt. Now the cock proclaim’d the dawnin’; Orion’s belt the mountain bor’d; Steady, o’er the pools o’ Annan, Jupiter in silence soar’d.

85

90

95

100

166

THE MOUNTAIN BARD (1807)

[manuscript] Sandy rase, his bonnet daddit: Beg’d a kiss–got nine or ten: Then the hay, sae noos’d an’ saddit, Tousled up that nane might ken. Sometimes gaun an’ somtimes rinnin’, To his native hills he wan: Roun’ aboon his flocks gaed singin’; Never was a blyther man. Never did his native nation, Sun or sky wear sic a hue; In his een, the hale creation Wore a face entirely new. Weel he lo’ed his faithfu’ Rufler; Weel the burd sang on the tree: Meanest creatures doom’d to suffer, Brought the tear into his e’e. Sandy’s heart was undesignin’, Soft an’ lovin’ as the dove; Scarcely cou’d it bear refinin’ By the gentle fire o’ love.

105

110

115

120

Sally’s blosom soon was blightit, By untimely winter prest– Sally had been woo’d an’ slightit By a farmer in the west. Sandy daily lo’ed her dearer; Kendna she afore was won. Ance whan he gaed west to see her, Sally had a dainty son. Sternies blush an’ hide your faces. Viel thee Moon in sable hue: Else thy locks, for human vices, Soon will dreep wi’ pity’s dew. Cease my charmer! cease bewailin’; Down thy cheeks the pearls shine. Cease to mourn thy sexes failin’; I maun drap a tear for mine.

125

130

135

APPENDIX : PRE- 1807 TEXTS

167

[Edinburgh Magazine] Sandy rase, his bonnet daddit; Beg’d a kiss—got nine or ten; Then the hay, sae noos’d and saddit, Touzled up that nane might ken. Sometimes gaun, an’ somtimes rinnin’, To his native hills he wan; Roun’ aboon his flocks gaed singin’; Never was a blyther man. Never did his native nation, Sun or sky wear sic a hue; In his e’en, the hale creation Wore a face entirely new. Weel he lo’ed his faithfu’ Ruffler; Weel the bird sang on the tree; Meanest creatures doom’d to suffer, Brought the tear into his e’e. Sandy’s heart was undesignin’, Saft an’ lovin’ as the dove; Scarcely cou’d it bear refinin’ By the gentle fire o’ love.

105

110

115

120

Sally’s blossom soon was blightit, By untimely winter prest— Sally had been woo’d an’ slightit, By a farmer in the west. Sandy daily lo’ed her dearer; Kendna she afore was won: Ance whan he gaed west to see her, Sally had a dainty son. Sternies, blush an’ hide your faces! Veil thee, Moon, in sable hue! Else thy locks, for human vices, Soon will dreep wi’ pity’s dew. Cease, my charmer! cease bewailin’; Down thy cheeks the pearls shine. Cease to mourn thy sex’s failin’; I maun drap a tear for mine.

125

130

135

168

THE MOUNTAIN BARD (1807)

[manuscript] Man the lord o’ the creation, Lighten’d wi’ a ray divine! Lost to reason, truth an’ caution, Lags the brutal tribes behind.

140

Petrifi’d an dumb wi’ horror, Sandy fled he kendna where. Never heart than his was sorer; It was mair than he cou’d bear. Seven days on yonder mountain, Lay he sobbin’ late an’ soon, Till discover’d by a fountain Railin’ at the dowy moon.

145

Weepin’ a’ the day he’d wander, Thro’ yon dismal glen alane: By the stream at night wad dander, Ravin’ owr his Sally s name. Shun’d an’ pity’d by the world; Lang a humblin’ sight was he: Till that fatal moment hurl’d Him to lang eternity.

150

155

Sittin’ on yon cliff sae rocky, Fearless as the bodin’ crow. —–No my dear. I winna shock thee Wi’ the bloody scene below.

160

By yon aek, decay’d an’ rottin’, Where the hardy woodbine twines, Now in peace he sleeps forgotten: Owr his head these simple lines. “Lovers pause, while I implore ye “Still to walk in virtue’s road; “An’ to say, whan ye gang o’er me, “Lak-a-day for Sandy Tod Ettrick. 1802.

A Shepherd ( James Hogg)

165

APPENDIX : PRE- 1807 TEXTS

169

[Edinburgh Magazine] Man, the lord o’ the creation, Lighten’d wi’ a ray divine! Lost to reason, truth, an’ caution, Lags the brutal tribes behin’.

140

Petrifi’d an’ dumb wi’ horror, Sandy fled he kendna whare. Never heart than his was sorer; It was mair than he cou’d bear. Seven days on yonder mountain, Lay he sabbin’ late an’ soon, Till discovered by a fountain Railin’ at the dowy moon.

145

Weepin’ a’ the day he’d wander, Thro’ yon dismal glen alane; By the stream at night wad dander, Ravin’ o’er his Sally’s name. Shun’d an’ pity’d by the warld, Lang a humblin’ sight was he; Till that fatal moment hurl’d Him to lang eternity.

150

155

Sittin’ on yon cliff sae rocky, Fearless as the bodin’ crow.— No, my dear! I winna shock thee Wi’ the bloody scene below.

160

By yon oak, decay’d an’ rottin’, Where the hardy woodbine twines, Now in peace he sleeps forgotten; O’er his head these simple lines:— “Lovers, pause, while I implore ye “Still to walk in virtue’s road; “An’ to say, whan ye gang o’er me, “Lack-a-day for Sandy Tod.” Ettrick, 1802.

A S HEPHERD .

165

170

THE MOUNTAIN BARD (1807)

[Scots Magazine, 66 (May 1804), p. 377]

Jamie’s Farewell to Ettrick FAREWEEL , my Ettrick! fare-ye-weel! I own I’m unco laith to leave ye; Nane kens the haf o’ what I feel, Nor haf the cause I hae to grieve me! There first I saw the rising morn; There first my infant mind unfurl’d, To judge that spot where I was born, The very centre o’ the world! I thought the hills were sharp as knives, An’ the braed lift lay whomel’d on them, An’ glowr’d wi’ wonder at the wives That spak o’ ither hills ayon’ them. When ilka year gae something new, Addition to my mind or stature, As fast my love for Ettrick grew, Implanted in my very nature. I’ve sung, in mony a rustic lay, Her heroes, an’ her hills sae green; Her woods an’ vallies fresh an’ gay; Her honest lads an’ lasses clean.

5

10

15

20

I had a thought—a poor vain thought! I thought that I might do her honour; But a’ my hopes are come to nought, I’m forc’d to turn my back upon her! She’s thrown me out o’ house an’ hauld! My heart got never sic a thrust! An’ my poor parents, frail an’ auld, Are forc’d to leave their kindred dust!

25

APPENDIX : PRE- 1807 TEXTS

But fare-ye-weel, my native stream; Frae a’ sic dule be ye preserv’d; Ye’ll find ye cherish some at hame That disna just sae weel deserve’t. There is nae man on a’ your banks Will ever say that I did wrang him, The lasses hae my dearest thanks For a the joys I had amang them. Though twin’d by rough an’ ragin’ seas, An’ risin’ hills an’ rollin’ rivers: To think o’ them I’ll never cease, Until my heart gae a’ to shivers!

171 30

35

40

I’ll make the Harris rocks to ring Wi’ ditties wild when nane shall hear; The Lewis shores shall learn to sing The names o’ them I lo’ed sae dear. My Peggy’s ay aboon the lave, I’ll carve on ilka lonely green: The sea-bird tossin’ on the wave Shall learn the name o’ bonny Jean. “Ye gods, tak care o’ my dear lass! That as I leave her I may find her; Till that blest time shall come to pass We’ll meet again, and never sinder.” Fareweel my Ettrick! fare-ye-weel! I owne I’m unco wae to leave ye! Nane kens the haf o’ what I feel, Nor haf o’ that I hae to grieve me! My parents, crazy grown wi’ eild, How I rejoic’d to be their stay! I thought to stand their help an’ shield Until, an’ at their latest day. Wi’ gentle hand to close their een; An’ weet the yird wi’ mony a tear,

45

50

55

60

172

THE MOUNTAIN BARD (1807)

That held the dust o’ ilka frien’; O’ friens sae tender an’ sincere! It winna do.—I maun away To yon rough isle sae bleak an’ dun; Lang will they mourn, baith night an’ day, The absence o’ their darlin’ son. An’ my dear Will! how will I fen’ Without thy kind an’ ardent care! Without thy verse-inspirin’ pen, My muse will sleep an’ sing nae mair. Fareweel to a’ my kith an’ kin! To ilka frien’ I held sae dear! How happy often hae we been, Wi’ music, mirth, an’ welcome cheer! Nae mair your gilded banks at noon, In answer to my flute will yell! Nae mair the viol sweet I’ll tune, That a’ the younkers lo’ed sae well!

65

70

75

80

Nae mair amang the hags an’ rocks, While hounds wi’ music fill’d the air, We’ll hunt the sly an’ cruel fox, Or trace the warie, circlin’ hare! My happy days wi’ you are past! An’ wae’s my heart! will ne’er return! The brightest day will overcast! An man was made at times to mourn. But if I kend my dyin’ day, Though distant, weary, pale, an’ wan, I’d tak my staff an’ post away To yield my life where it began. If in yon lone sequester’d place, The tyrant Death should lay me low: Oh! drap a tear, an’ say Alas! For him who lov’d an’ honour’d you.

85

90

95

APPENDIX : PRE- 1807 TEXTS

173

Fareweel my Ettrick! fare-ye-weel! I own I’m somethin’ wae to leave ye! Nane kens the haf o’ what I feel! Nor half the cause I hae to grieve me!!!

100

A Shepherd. Ettrick, 1804.

[Scots Magazine, 67 (April 1805), p. 295]

Love Abused A Scottish Song. Tune—Ettrick banks THE gloamin frae the welkin high Had chac’d the bonny gouden gleam; The curtain’d East, in crimson dye, Hung heavy owr the tinted stream: The wild rose, blushin’ on the brier, Was set wi’ draps o’ shinin’ dew,— As big an’ clear, the burstin’ tear That row’d i’ Betty’s een sae blue! She saw the dear, the little cot, Where fifteen years flew sweetly bye! An’ mourn’d her shame, an’ hapless lot, That forc’d her frae that home to hye. Tho’ sweet an’ mild the e’enin’ smil’d, Her heart was rent wi’ anguish keen; The mavis ceas’d his music wild, An’ wonder’d what her sobs could mean. “It wasna kind, to rob my mind Of a’ its peace for ever-mair; To blot my name wi’ burnin’ shame, An’ mak’ my parents’ heart sae sair. My home how dare I enter now, Ilk honour’d face in tears to see; Where oft I kneel’d to hear the vow, Was offered frae the heart for me!

5

10

15

20

APPENDIX : PRE- 1807 TEXTS

173

Fareweel my Ettrick! fare-ye-weel! I own I’m somethin’ wae to leave ye! Nane kens the haf o’ what I feel! Nor half the cause I hae to grieve me!!!

100

A Shepherd. Ettrick, 1804.

[Scots Magazine, 67 (April 1805), p. 295]

Love Abused A Scottish Song. Tune—Ettrick banks THE gloamin frae the welkin high Had chac’d the bonny gouden gleam; The curtain’d East, in crimson dye, Hung heavy owr the tinted stream: The wild rose, blushin’ on the brier, Was set wi’ draps o’ shinin’ dew,— As big an’ clear, the burstin’ tear That row’d i’ Betty’s een sae blue! She saw the dear, the little cot, Where fifteen years flew sweetly bye! An’ mourn’d her shame, an’ hapless lot, That forc’d her frae that home to hye. Tho’ sweet an’ mild the e’enin’ smil’d, Her heart was rent wi’ anguish keen; The mavis ceas’d his music wild, An’ wonder’d what her sobs could mean. “It wasna kind, to rob my mind Of a’ its peace for ever-mair; To blot my name wi’ burnin’ shame, An’ mak’ my parents’ heart sae sair. My home how dare I enter now, Ilk honour’d face in tears to see; Where oft I kneel’d to hear the vow, Was offered frae the heart for me!

5

10

15

20

174

THE MOUNTAIN BARD (1807)

An’ can I loe the treacherous man, Wha wrought this dear an’ deadly ill, Wha blurr’d wi’ clouds my early dawn, Ah! wae’s my heart! I loe him still! My heart abus’d, my love misus’d; My wretched fate wi’ tears I see: But maist, I fear my parents dear Gae mournin’ to the grave for me.”

25

30

A S HEPHERD .

Ettrick.

[Scots Magazine, 67 (August 1805), pp. 621–22]

To Mr T. M. C. London MY blessin’ on you, T. M. C. Like you there are nae mony mae, For mony a year, wi’ eager een, I’ve glowr’d owr Scotia’s Magazine; An’ aft, like zealots at a sermon, Discov’rin’ beauties where there were nane. But never a’ my life, till now, Have I met sic a chiel as you; Sae sly, sae shrewd, sae queer a creature! Sae weel acquaint wi’ simple nature; Sae gay, sae easy, an’ sae ranty, Sae cappernoity an’ sae canty! For when I sing your sangs sae gay, To lasses at the bught or hay, They blush, an’ smurtlin’, owne they like them, The thoughts they thought afore sae strike them. Whether ’tis from a similarity Of feelings, hitting to a rarity: Or if in verse you soar away Far far beyond my simple lay, An’ into nature tak’ a stretch Which I wad fain, but canna reach: Or if ae planet held the sway

5

10

15

20

174

THE MOUNTAIN BARD (1807)

An’ can I loe the treacherous man, Wha wrought this dear an’ deadly ill, Wha blurr’d wi’ clouds my early dawn, Ah! wae’s my heart! I loe him still! My heart abus’d, my love misus’d; My wretched fate wi’ tears I see: But maist, I fear my parents dear Gae mournin’ to the grave for me.”

25

30

A S HEPHERD .

Ettrick.

[Scots Magazine, 67 (August 1805), pp. 621–22]

To Mr T. M. C. London MY blessin’ on you, T. M. C. Like you there are nae mony mae, For mony a year, wi’ eager een, I’ve glowr’d owr Scotia’s Magazine; An’ aft, like zealots at a sermon, Discov’rin’ beauties where there were nane. But never a’ my life, till now, Have I met sic a chiel as you; Sae sly, sae shrewd, sae queer a creature! Sae weel acquaint wi’ simple nature; Sae gay, sae easy, an’ sae ranty, Sae cappernoity an’ sae canty! For when I sing your sangs sae gay, To lasses at the bught or hay, They blush, an’ smurtlin’, owne they like them, The thoughts they thought afore sae strike them. Whether ’tis from a similarity Of feelings, hitting to a rarity: Or if in verse you soar away Far far beyond my simple lay, An’ into nature tak’ a stretch Which I wad fain, but canna reach: Or if ae planet held the sway

5

10

15

20

APPENDIX : PRE- 1807 TEXTS

When we war born, I canna say: But frae sic causes, or some other, I feel a wish to ca’ you Brother. Then, billy, set your foot to mine, Let baith our bouyant brains combine, To raise our country’s Magazine Aboon the times that yet ha’e been. But tak’ some pains to double-rhyme, Gar line wi’ line keep equal time; An’ then, tho’ critics back sude fling us, The diels shall dadd in vain to ding us. Though Pegasus may be denied, By lofty bards sae occupied, Wi’ joy we’ll mount our cuddy asses, An’ scour like fire around Parnassus, An’ gather flowers, of ilka hue, To bind auld Scotland’s ’onest brow; The upstarts new shall a’ be snubbit, An’ Ruddiman be sadly rubbit. How could ye leave our hoary hills? Our ruggit rocks an’ rattlin rills? Our woodlands wild, an’ waters mony, Our lasses chaste, an’ sweet, an’ bonny? The warrior’s nurse, the poet’s theme, The seat of innocence an’—hame? We’ve sic a short time here to fare, ’Tis little matter how or where; An’ I wad chuse, at least eleven, ’Fore London for the road to Heaven. I neither ken your name nor bearin’, Only I ken ye are a queer ane, An’ guess, for insight, wealth or knowledge, Ye’ve ta’en the desk, or musty college, To turn a pedant or translator, An’ slight the genuine school o’ nature. Sweet dame! she met me single handed! Yet studying her, my mind expanded, To bounds are nouther rack’d nor narrow, On Ettrick banks, an’ braes o’ Yarrow. Yet though your life may glide away In pleasure’s dear an’ devious way, Regret will sometimes pierce the heart,

175 25

30

35

40

45

50

55

60

65

176

THE MOUNTAIN BARD (1807)

An’ leave a dour and deadly smart. An’ when death comes, I’m wae for thee, Nae real friend to close your ee! Or, owr a son or brother’s bier, To shed a sad regretfu’ tear! But just let down wi’ strings an’ pullies, To sleep wi’ w——s, and bucks, an’ bullies. An’ when the summons reach the dead anes, To rise in droves frae mang the head-stanes, Poor T. may gang an’ stan’ alane, Of fellow faces he’ll see nane! But a’ the croud gaun throu’ther throu’ther, Wi’ ruefu’ looks outo’er ilk shouther. O! leave that lake of louns an’ lechery, Of falsehood, folly, tricks, an’ treachery! Though aft a thriving place for low wits, L—d its a dang’rous hole for poets! If life’s a blessing,—’tween twa brothers, The poor enjoy’t as lang as others. If health surpasses sumptuous fare, Of that they ha’e their ample share, What wad ye ha’e, then?—Dinna wrang us; Come back an’ live an’ die amang us: I lang to sing a sonnet wi’ thee, An’ bonny Bessy sighs to see thee: Oh! when she’s sic a kind an’ bonny ane, Come—wed, an’ turn a Cameronian. While round our coast the ocean rows; While on the Grampians heather grows; While goud an’ gear the miser heaps up, An’ ill-will between cadgers keeps up; While simple ease improves the feature, An’ best becomes the cheek o’ nature, As starns the sky, an’ spots the leopard, Count on your friend, The Ettrick Shepherd.

70

75

80

85

90

95

100

APPENDIX : PRE- 1807 TEXTS

177

[Scots Magazine, 65 (October 1803), p. 725]

Scotia’s Glens A Song By James Hogg Tune — “Lord Ballanden’s Delight”

’MONG Scotia’s glens and mountains blue, Where Gallia’s lillies never grew; Where Roman eagles never flew, Nor Danish lions rallied. Where, skulks the roe in anxious fear; Where, roves the stately nimble deer: There lives the lads to freedom dear, By foreign yoke ne’er galled.

There, woods grow wild on every hill, There, freemen wander at their will, Sure Scotia, will be Scotia still, While hearts so brave defend her. “Fear not our sov’reign liege” they cry, “We’ve flourish’d fair beneath your eye “For thee we’ll fight, for thee we’ll die, “Nor ought but life surrender.” Since thou hast watch’d our every need, And taught our navies wide to spread, The diadem from thy grey head, No foreign foe shall sever. For thee we’ll stem the rapid Rhine, The distant Nile with purple stain, Or downward search the Indian mine, Nor heart nor hand shall waver. Yon proud usurper soon shall learn, Tho’ all the world support his arm, Our George we’ll guard from every harm, Or fall in heaps around him! Altho’ the Irish harp were won, And England’s roses all o’er-run, ’Mong Scotia’s glens with sword and gun, We’ll form a bulwark round him. Etterick Banks, Sept. 1803.

5

10

15

20

25

30

178

THE MOUNTAIN BARD (1807)

APPENDIX : PRE- 1807 TEXTS

179

180

THE MOUNTAIN BARD (1807)

[Scots Magazine, 67 (December 1805), pp. 943–44]

A Shepherd’s Address to his Auld Dog Hector COME , my auld towzy, trusty friend, What gars ye look sae douth an’ wae? D’ye think my favour’s at an end Because thy head is turnin’ grey? Altho’ thy feet begin to fail, Their best war spent in servin’ me; An’ can I grudge thy wee bit meal, Some comfort in thy age to gie? For mony a day, frae sun to sun, We’ve toil’d an’ helpit ane anither: An’ mony a thousan’ mile thou’st run, To keep my thraward flocks thegither. Sure ’twar a sin to let ye pine For hunger when ’tis a your fee! An’, Hector, whatsoe’er was thine Thou wad hae shar’d it cheerfully: Ah me! of fashion, self, an’ pride, The warld has read me sic’ a lecture, But yet ’tis a’ in part repaid By thee, my faithfu’ gratefu’ Hector.

5

10

15

20

O’er past imprudence, aft alane I’ve shed the saut an’ silent tear; Then sharing ay my grief an’ pain, My puir auld friend cam’ snoovin’ near. For a’ the days we’ve sojourn’d here, An’ they’ve been neither fine nor few, That thought possest thee year to year, That a’ my grief arase frae you. Wi’ waesome face, an’ hingin’ head, Thou wad hae prest thee to my knee; While I thy looks as weel cou’d read As thou hads’t said, in words, to me:

25

30

APPENDIX : PRE- 1807 TEXTS

“O, my dear master, dinna greet; What have I ever done to vex ye? See, here I’m courin’ at your feet, Just take my life if I perplex ye. For a’ my toil, my wee drap meat Is a’ the wage I ask of thee; For whilk I’m aft oblig’d to wait Wi’ hungry wame an’ patient e’e.

181

35

40

Whatever wayward course ye steer; Whatever sad mischance o’ertake ye; Man, here is ane will haud ye dear! Man, here’s a friend will ne’er forsake ye!” Yes, my poor beast, though friends me scorn, Whom mair than life I valued dear, An’ thraw me out to fight forlorn, Wi’ ills my heart dow hardly bear. While I have thee to bear a part, My plaid, my health, an’ heezle rung; I’ll scorn the silly, haughty heart, The saucy look, an’ sland’rous tongue. Sure friends by pop’lar envy sway’d, Are ten times waur than ony fae! My heart was theirs, an’ to them laid As open as the light o’ day. I fear’d my ain, but never dredd That I for loss of theirs shou’d mourn; Or that, when luck and favour fled, Their friendship wad injurious turn!

45

50

55

60

But He who feeds the ravens young, Lets naething pass unheeded bye; He’ll sometime judge of right and wrong, An’ ay provide for you an’ I. An’ hear me, Hector, thee I’ll trust As far as thou hast wit an’ skill; Sae will I ae sweet lovely breast, To me a balm for every ill.

65

182

THE MOUNTAIN BARD (1807)

To these my faith shall ever run, While I have reason truth to scan; But ne’er, beyond my mother’s son, To aught that bears the shape of man. I ne’er cou’d thole thy cravin’ face, Nor when ye patted on my knee; Though in a far an’ unco place, I’ve whiles been forc’d to beg for thee. Ev’n now I’m in my master’s pow’r, Where my regard may scarce be shawn: Yet, ere I’m forc’d to give thee o’er, Whan thou art auld an’ useless grown,

70

75

80

I’ll get a cottage o’ my ain, Some wee bit canny lonely beil’, Where thy auld heart shall rest fu’ fain, An’ share wi’ me my humble meal. Thy post shall be to guard the door, An’ bark at pethers, boys, an’ whips; O’ cats an’ hens to clear the floor, An’ bite the fleas that vex thy hips. Whan my last bannock’s on the hearth, O’ that thou sanna want thy share: While I ha’e house or hauld on earth, My Hector shall ha’e shelter there. An’ shou’d grim death thy noddle save, Till he has made an end of me; Ye’ll lye a wee while on the grave Of ane wha ay was kind to thee. There’s nane alive will miss me mair, An’ though in words thou can’t bewail, On a’ the claes thy master ware Thou’lt smell, an’ fawn, an’ wag thy tail. An’ if I’m forc’d wi’ thee to part, Which will be sair against my will, I’ll sometimes mind thy honest heart, As lang as I can climb a hill.

85

90

95

100

APPENDIX : PRE- 1807 TEXTS

Come, my auld touzy, trusty tyke, Let’s speel to Queensb’ry’s lofty brow; There greedy midges never fyke; There care an’ envy never grow. While gazing down the fertile dales, Content an’ peace shall ay be by; An’ muses leave their native vales, To rove at large wi’ you an’ I. Ettrick.

183 105

110

A Shepherd.

[Scots Magazine, 66 ( July 1804), p. 534]

The Bonnets o’ Bonny Dundee By the Same [Follows ‘Song for the Earl of Dalkeith’s Birth-Day. Now Celebrated at Selkirk on the 24th May; Written by J AMES H OGG .’]

“O! will ye gang down to the bush in the meadow? An’ see how the ewes an’ the lammies do feed, O! An’ by the fair hand through the flow’rs I will lead you, An’ sing you the bonnets o’ bonny Dundee?” “Wi’ heart an’ wi’ hand, my dear lad! I’ll gang wi’ thee, My daddy an’ mammy think nought to belie thee; I ken ye’ll do naething but kiss me, an’ lead me, And sing me the bonnets o’ bonny Dundee.” O! where fled thy angel, poor lovely Macmillan! An’ left thee to listen to counsel sae killin’; O, where were the feelings o’ that cruel villain! Who riffl’d thy blossom and left thee to sigh? How pale is that cheek that was rosy an’ reid, O! To see that sunk eye wad gar ony heart bleed, O; O, wae to the wild-willow bush in the meadow; O, dool to the bonnets o’ bonny Dundee! ET TRICK , 1804.

5

10

15

APPENDIX : PRE- 1807 TEXTS

Come, my auld touzy, trusty tyke, Let’s speel to Queensb’ry’s lofty brow; There greedy midges never fyke; There care an’ envy never grow. While gazing down the fertile dales, Content an’ peace shall ay be by; An’ muses leave their native vales, To rove at large wi’ you an’ I. Ettrick.

183 105

110

A Shepherd.

[Scots Magazine, 66 ( July 1804), p. 534]

The Bonnets o’ Bonny Dundee By the Same [Follows ‘Song for the Earl of Dalkeith’s Birth-Day. Now Celebrated at Selkirk on the 24th May; Written by J AMES H OGG .’]

“O! will ye gang down to the bush in the meadow? An’ see how the ewes an’ the lammies do feed, O! An’ by the fair hand through the flow’rs I will lead you, An’ sing you the bonnets o’ bonny Dundee?” “Wi’ heart an’ wi’ hand, my dear lad! I’ll gang wi’ thee, My daddy an’ mammy think nought to belie thee; I ken ye’ll do naething but kiss me, an’ lead me, And sing me the bonnets o’ bonny Dundee.” O! where fled thy angel, poor lovely Macmillan! An’ left thee to listen to counsel sae killin’; O, where were the feelings o’ that cruel villain! Who riffl’d thy blossom and left thee to sigh? How pale is that cheek that was rosy an’ reid, O! To see that sunk eye wad gar ony heart bleed, O; O, wae to the wild-willow bush in the meadow; O, dool to the bonnets o’ bonny Dundee! ET TRICK , 1804.

5

10

15

184

THE MOUNTAIN BARD (1807)

[Scots Magazine, 66 (March 1804), p. 217]

Auld Ettrick John A Scottish Ballad

T HERE dwalt a man on Ettrick side, An ’onest man I wat was he; His name was John, an’ he was born A year afore the thretty-three. He wad a wife whan he was young, But she had deit, an’ John was wae: He wantit lang, at length did gang To court the lassie o’ the brae. Auld John cam daddin’ down the hill, His arm was waggin’ manfullie; He thought his shadow look’d-na ill, As aft he keek’d aside to see. His shoon war four pund weight a-piece; On ilka leg a ho had he; His doublet strang was large an’ lang; His breeks they har’ly reach’d his knee. His coat was threed-about wi’ green, The mouds had wrought it muckle harm; The pouches war an ell atween, The cuff was fauldit up the arm. He wore a bonnet on his head, The bung upon his shoulders lay, An’ by the neb, ye wad hae read, That Johnie view’d the milky-way. But yet, for a’ his antic dress, His cheeks wi’ healthy red did glow; His joints war knit, an’ firm like brass, Though siller grey his head did grow. An’ John, altho’ he had nae lands, Had twa gude kye amang the knowes; A hunder pund i’ ’onest hands; An’ sax-an’-thretty doddit yowes.

5

10

15

20

25

30

APPENDIX : PRE- 1807 TEXTS

An Nelly was a bonny lass, Fu’ sweet an’ ruddy was her mou’; Her een war like twa beads o’ glass; Her brow was white like Cheviot woo. Her hair was like the hoddy craw; Her cheeks war bright as heather bells; Her bosom like December snaw, Her teeth as pure as eggs’s shells. “Gude wife,” quo’ John, as he sat down, “I’m come to court your doughter Nell; An’ if I die immediately, She sall hae a’ the gear hersel. An’ if she chance to hae a son, I’ll breed him up a braw divine; But if ilk wiss turn out a we’an There’s little fear but she hae nine.” Now Nelly thought, an’ ay she leugh, Our lads are a’ for sodgers gane, Young Tam will kiss an’ toy enough, But he o’ marriage tauketh nane. When I am laid in Johnie’s bed, Like hares or lav’rocks, I’ll be free; I’ll busk me braw, an’ conquer a’, Auld Johnie’s just the man for me. Wi’ little say he wan the day, She soon becam’ his bonny bride; But ilka joy is fled away Frae Johnie’s canty ingle side. She frets, an’ greets, an’ visits aft, In hopes some lad will see her hame; But never ane will be sae daft As tent auld Johnie’s flisky dame. An’ John will be a gettling soon; His teeth are frae their sockets flown; The hair’s peel’d aff his head aboon, His face is milk-an’-water grown. His legs, that firm like pillars stood, Are now grown toom an’ unco sma’. She’s reav’d him sair o’ flesh an’ blood, An’ peace o’ mind,—the warst ava.

185

35

40

45

50

55

60

65

70

186

THE MOUNTAIN BARD (1807)

Let ilka lassie tak’ a man, An’ ilka callan tak’ a wife; But youth wi’ youth gae hand in hand, Or tine the sweetest joys o’ life. Ye men whae’s heads are turnin’ gray, Whae to the grave are hastin’ on, Let reason ay your passion sway, An’ mind the fate o’ Ettrick John.

75

80

An’ a’ ye lasses, plump an’ fair, Let pure affection guide your hand, Nor stoop to lead a life o’ care Wi’ wither’d age for gear or land. When ilka lad your beauty slights, An’ ilka smile sal yield to wae, Ye’l mind the lang an’ lanesome nights O’ Nell, the lassie o’ the brae.

85

A Shepherd. Ettrick, 1804.

[Scots Magazine, 67 ( January 1805), p. 56]

The Hay Making By J. Hogg T UNE ,—Comin’ thro’ the rye O Tibby, lassie, how I loe ’Tis needless here to tell; But a’ the flowers the meadow through Ye’re sweetest ay yoursel’. I canna sleep a wink at night, Nor wurk i’ peace by day; Your image smiles afore my sight, What-e’er I do or say. To cut the hay, an’ kyle the hay The task be yours an’ mine, For love an’ hay mak best away, While simmer seasons shine.

5

10

186

THE MOUNTAIN BARD (1807)

Let ilka lassie tak’ a man, An’ ilka callan tak’ a wife; But youth wi’ youth gae hand in hand, Or tine the sweetest joys o’ life. Ye men whae’s heads are turnin’ gray, Whae to the grave are hastin’ on, Let reason ay your passion sway, An’ mind the fate o’ Ettrick John.

75

80

An’ a’ ye lasses, plump an’ fair, Let pure affection guide your hand, Nor stoop to lead a life o’ care Wi’ wither’d age for gear or land. When ilka lad your beauty slights, An’ ilka smile sal yield to wae, Ye’l mind the lang an’ lanesome nights O’ Nell, the lassie o’ the brae.

85

A Shepherd. Ettrick, 1804.

[Scots Magazine, 67 ( January 1805), p. 56]

The Hay Making By J. Hogg T UNE ,—Comin’ thro’ the rye O Tibby, lassie, how I loe ’Tis needless here to tell; But a’ the flowers the meadow through Ye’re sweetest ay yoursel’. I canna sleep a wink at night, Nor wurk i’ peace by day; Your image smiles afore my sight, What-e’er I do or say. To cut the hay, an’ kyle the hay The task be yours an’ mine, For love an’ hay mak best away, While simmer seasons shine.

5

10

APPENDIX : PRE- 1807 TEXTS

Fy, Jamie, dinna act the part Ye’ll ever blush to own; Nor try to draw my youthfu’ heart Frae reason’s sober throne. Sic visions I can ne’er approve, Nor ony wakin’ dream; Than hae sic fiery furious love I’d rather hae esteem. We’ll tend the hay an’ turn the hay, An’ never ance repine; Since love an’ hay mak’ best away While simmer seasons shine. My bonnie lassie, come away, I canna bide your frown! Wi’ ilka flower sae fresh an’ gay I’ll deck your bosom roun’. I’ll pu’ the gowan off the glen, The lillie off the lee, The rose an’ hawthorn sweet I’ll twine To mak’ a bobb for thee. We’ll rake the hay, an’ row the hay, An’ big it a’ sae fine; For love an’ hay mak best away While simmer seasons shine. Aye, Jamie, ye wad steal my heart, An’ a my peace frae me; An’ hank me fast within the net Ere I my error see: Ye’ll pu’ the gowan off the glen My bosom to adorn, An’ ye confess ye’re gaun to place Within my breast a thorn! We’ll ca’ the hay an’ kaim the hay, An’ dress it a’ sae fine, Since love an’ hay mak’ best away While simmer seasons shine. How can ye, Tibby, be so tart? An’ vex me a’ the day? Ye ken I loe wi’ a’ my heart, What wad ye hae me say?

187

15

20

25

30

35

40

45

50

188

THE MOUNTAIN BARD (1807)

Ilk anxious wish, an’ little care, I’ll in thy breast confide; An’ a’ your joys an’ sorrows share, If ye’ll become my bride. An’ we’ll win the hay, an’ wear the hay, Till death our bosoms twine; An’ aften bless the happy day That join’d us lang syne.

55

60

[Scots Magazine, 65 (May 1803), p. 339]

For the Scots Magazine

Song

Bonny Jean By a Scots Shepherd SING on, Sing on my bonny bird The sang ye sung yestreen O, Whan here aneath the hawthorn wild I met my bonny Jean O. My blude ran prinklin through my veins; My hair began to steer O: My heart play’d deep against my breast When I beheld my dear O. Sing on, sing on my bonny bird, Ye heard my ardent vow O; Whilk Jeanie coudna get return’d For list’ning unto you O. An’ yet I think I wan the day; For aye whan e’er I kiss’d her She haflins met me by the way, An’ sure I never miss’d her. O weels me on my happy lot! O weels me on my dearie! O weels me the charming spot Whar a’ combin’d to chear me!

5

10

15

20

188

THE MOUNTAIN BARD (1807)

Ilk anxious wish, an’ little care, I’ll in thy breast confide; An’ a’ your joys an’ sorrows share, If ye’ll become my bride. An’ we’ll win the hay, an’ wear the hay, Till death our bosoms twine; An’ aften bless the happy day That join’d us lang syne.

55

60

[Scots Magazine, 65 (May 1803), p. 339]

For the Scots Magazine

Song

Bonny Jean By a Scots Shepherd SING on, Sing on my bonny bird The sang ye sung yestreen O, Whan here aneath the hawthorn wild I met my bonny Jean O. My blude ran prinklin through my veins; My hair began to steer O: My heart play’d deep against my breast When I beheld my dear O. Sing on, sing on my bonny bird, Ye heard my ardent vow O; Whilk Jeanie coudna get return’d For list’ning unto you O. An’ yet I think I wan the day; For aye whan e’er I kiss’d her She haflins met me by the way, An’ sure I never miss’d her. O weels me on my happy lot! O weels me on my dearie! O weels me the charming spot Whar a’ combin’d to chear me!

5

10

15

20

APPENDIX : PRE- 1807 TEXTS

189

The mavis liltit on the bush, The lav’rock on the green O, The lilie bloom’d, the daisy blush’d, But a’ was nought to Jean O. Sing on, sing on my bonny thrush, Be nouther flee’d nor eerie. I’ll wadd your love sits i’ the bush That gars ye sing sae cheerie. She may be kind, she may be sweet, She may be neat an’ clean O; But O she’s e’en a drysome mate Compar’d wi’ bonny Jean O. If love wad open a’ her stores, An’ a her bloomin’ treasures, An’ bid me rise, an’ turn an’ choice, An’ taste her chiefest pleasures; My choice wad be the rosy cheek, The modest beamin’ eye, O! The yellow hair, the bosom fair, The lips of coral dye, O! A bramble shade around our head, A burnie popplin bye, O, Our bed the swaird, our sheet the plaid, Our canopy the sky, O! An’ here’s the burn, an’ there’s the bush, Around the flowrie green O; An’ this the plaid, and sure the lass Wad be my bonny Jean O. Hear me thou bonny modest moon! Ye sternies twinklin’ high O! An’ a’ ye gentle pow’rs aboon, That roam athwart the sky O. Ye see me gratefu’ for the past; Ye saw me blest yestreen O: An’ ever till I breathe my last Ye’ll see me true to Jean O. Etterick, 1803.

25

30

35

40

45

50

55

1821 VERSION

191

1821 VERSION

191

192

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

1821 VERSION

TO

WA LT E R S C O T T, E S Q . Sheriff of Ettrick Forest, AND

M I N ST R E L O F T H E S C O T T I S H B O R D E R , THE FOLLOWING

TA L E S A R E R E S PE C T F U L L Y I N S C R I B E D B Y H I S A F F E C T I O N A T E F R I E N D A N D H U M B L E S E RV A N T ,

THE AU T H O R .

Mitchelslack, Sept. 27, 1807.

193

194

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

1821 VERSION

195

Memoir of the

Life of James Hogg T HE Friend to whom Mr Hogg made the following communication had some hesitation in committing it to the public. On the one hand, he was sensible, not only that the incidents are often trivial, but that they are narrated in a style more suitable to their importance to the Author himself, than to their own nature and consequences. But the efforts of a strong mind and vigorous imagination, to develope themselves even under the most disadvantageous circumstances, may be always considered with pleasure, and often with profit; and if, upon a retrospect, the possessor be disposed to view with selfcomplacency his victory under difficulties, of which he only can judge the extent, it will be readily pardoned by those who consider the Author’s scanty opportunities of knowledge,—and remember, that it is only on attaining the last and most recondite recess of human science, that we discover how little we really know. To those who are unacquainted with the pastoral scenes in which our Author was educated, it may afford some amusement to find real shepherds actually contending for a poetical prize, and to remark some other peculiarities in their habits and manners. Above all, these Memoirs ascertain the authenticity of the publication, and are therefore entitled to be prefixed to it.

Mitchell-Slack, Nov. 1806. MY DEAR S IR , ACCORDING to your request, which I never entirely disregard, I am now going to give you some account of my manner of life and extensive education. I must again apprize you, that, whenever I have occasion to speak of myself and my performances, I find it impossible to divest myself of an inherent vanity; but, making allowances for that, I will lay before you the outlines of my life,—with the circumstances that gave rise to my juvenile pieces, and my own opinion of them, as faithfully As if you were the minister of heaven Sent down to search the secret sins of men.

196

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

I am the second of four sons by the same father and mother; namely, Robert Hogg and Margaret Laidlaw. My progenitors were all shepherds of this country. My father, like myself, was bred to the occupation of a shepherd,—and served in that capacity until his marriage with my mother; about which time, having saved some substance, he took a lease of the farms of Ettrickhouse and Ettrickhall. He then commenced dealing in sheep—brought up great numbers, and drove them both to the English and Scottish markets; but, at length, owing to a great fall in the prices of sheep, and the absconding of his principal debtor, he was ruined, became bankrupt, every thing was sold by auction, and my parents were turned out of doors without a farthing in the world. I was then in the sixth year of my age, and remember well the distressed and destitute condition that we were in. At length the late worthy Mr Brydon of Crosslee took compassion upon us,—and, taking a short lease of the farm of Ettrickhouse, placed my father there as his shepherd, and thus afforded him the means of supporting us in life for a time. This gentleman continued to interest himself in our welfare until the day of his untimely death, when we lost the best friend that we had in the world. It was on this mournful occasion that I wrote the “Dialogue in a Country Church-Yard .” * At such an age, it cannot be expected that I should have made great progress in literature. The school-house, however, being almost at our door, I had attended it for a short time,—and had the honour of standing at the head of a juvenile class, who read the Shorter Catechism and Proverbs of Solomon. At the next Whitsunday after our expulsion from the farm, I was obliged to go to service; and, being only seven years of age, was hired by a farmer in the neighbourhood to herd a few cows. Next year, my parents took me home during the winter quarter, and put me to school with a lad named Ker, who was teaching the children of a neighbouring farmer. Here I advanced so far as to get into the class who read in the Bible. I had likewise, for some time before my quarter was out, tried writing; and had horribly defiled several sheets of paper with copy-lines, every letter of which was nearly an inch in length. Thus terminated my education. After this I was never another day at any school whatever. In all I had spent about half a year at it. It is true, my former master denied me; and when I was only twenty years of age, said, if he was called to make oath, he would swear I never was at his school. However, I know I was at it for two or three months; and I do not choose to be deprived of the honour of having attended the school of my native parish; nor yet that old John Beattie * This worthy man was killed by the fall of a tree.

1821 VERSION

197

should lose the honour of such a scholar. I was again, that very spring, sent away to my old occupation of herding cows. This employment, the worst and lowest known in our country, I was engaged in for several years under sundry masters, till at length I got into the more honourable one of keeping sheep. There is one circumstance, which has led some to imagine that my abilities as a servant had not been exquisite; namely, that when I was fifteen years of age I had served a dozen masters—which circumstance I, myself, am rather willing to attribute to my having gone to service so young, that I was yearly growing stronger, and consequently adequate to a harder task and an increase of wages: for I do not remember of ever having served a master who refused giving me a verbal recommendation to the next, especially for my inoffensive behaviour. This character, which I, some way or other, got at my very first outset, has, in some degree, attended me ever since, and has certainly been of utility to me; yet, though Solomon avers that “a good name is rather to be chosen than great riches,” I declare that I have never been so much benefited by mine, but that I would have chosen the latter by many degrees. From some of my masters I received very hard usage; in particular, while with one shepherd, I was often nearly exhausted with hunger and fatigue. All this while I neither read nor wrote; nor had I access to any book save the Bible. I was greatly taken with our version of the Psalms of David, learned the most of them by heart, and have a great partiality for them unto this day. Every little pittance that I earned of wages was carried directly to my parents, who supplied me with what clothes I had. These were often scarcely worthy of the appellation. In particular, I remember of being exceedingly scarce of shirts: time after time I had but two, which grew often so bad that I was obliged to quit wearing them altogether; for when I put them on, they hung down in long tassels as far as my heels. At these times I certainly made a very grotesque figure; for, on quitting the shirt, I could never induce my trews, or lower vestments, to keep up to their proper sphere. There were no braces in those days. When fourteen years of age, I saved five shillings of my wages, with which I bought an old violin. This occupied all my leisure hours, and has been my favourite amusement ever since. I had commonly no spare time from labour during the day; but when I was not over-fatigued, I generally spent an hour or two every night in sawing over my favourite old Scottish tunes—my bed being always in stables and cow-houses, I disturbed nobody but myself. This brings to my remembrance an anecdote, the consequence of one of these nocturnal endeavours at improvement.

198

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

When serving with Mr Scott of Singlee, there happened to be a dance one evening, at which a number of the friends and neighbours of the family were present. I, being admitted into the room as a spectator, was all attention to the music; and, on the company breaking up, I retired to my stable-loft, and fell to essaying some of the tunes to which I had been listening. The musician going out on some necessary business, and not being aware that another of the same craft was so near him, was not a little surprised when the tones of my old violin assailed his ears. At first he took it for the late warbles of his own ringing through his head; but, on a little attention, he, to his horror and astonishment, perceived that the sounds were real,— and that the tunes, which he had lately being playing with so much skill, were now murdered by some invisible being hard by him. Such a circumstance at that dead hour of the night, and when he was unable to discern from what quarter the sounds proceeded, convinced him all at once that it was a delusion of the devil; and, suspecting his intentions from so much familiarity, he fled precipitately into the hall, with disorded garments, and in the utmost perturbation, to the no small mirth of Mr Scott, who declared, that he had lately been considerably stunned himself by the same discordant sounds. From Singlee, I went to Elibank upon Tweed, where, with Mr Laidlaw, I found my situation more easy and agreeable than it had ever been. I staid there three half-years—a term longer than usual; and from thence went to Willenslee, to Mr Laidlaw’s father, with whom I served as a shepherd two years,—having been for some seasons preceding employed in working with horses, thrashing, &c. It was while serving here, in the eighteenth year of my age, that I first got a perusal of “The Life and Adventures of Sir William Wallace,” and “The Gentle Shepherd;” and though immoderately fond of them, yet (what you will think remarkable in one who hath since dabbled so much in verses) I could not help regretting deeply that they were not in prose, that every body might have understood them; or, I thought if they had been in the same kind of metre with the Psalms, I could have borne with them. The truth is, I made exceedingly slow progress in reading them. The little reading that I had learned I had nearly lost, and the Scottish dialect quite confounded me; so that, before I got to the end of a line, I had commonly lost the rhyme of the preceding one; and if I came to a triplet, a thing of which I had no conception, I commonly read to the foot of the page without perceiving that I had lost the rhyme altogether. I thought the author had been straitened for rhymes, and had just made

1821 VERSION

199

a part of it do as well as he could without them. Thus, after I had got through both works, I found myself much in the same predicament with the man of Eskdalemuir, who had borrowed Bailey’s Dictionary from his neighbour. On returning it, the lender asked him what he thought of it. “I dinna ken, man,” replied he; “I have read it all through, but canna say that I understand it; it is the most confused book that ever I saw in my life!” The late Mrs Laidlaw of Willenslee took some notice of me, and frequently gave me books to read while tending the ewes; these were chiefly theological. The only one, that I remember any thing of, is “Bishop Burnet’s Theory of the Conflagration of the Earth.” Happy it was for me that I did not understand it! for the little of it that I did understand had nearly overturned my brain altogether. All the day I was pondering on the grand millenium, and the reign of the saints; and all the night dreaming of new heavens and a new earth—the stars in horror, and the world in flames! Mrs Laidlaw also gave me sometimes the newspapers, which I pored on with great earnestness—beginning at the date, and reading straight on, through advertisements of houses and lands, balm of Gilead, and every thing; and, after all, was often no wiser than when I began. To give you some farther idea of the progress I had made in literature—I was about this time obliged to write a letter to my elder brother, and, having never drawn a pen for such a number of years, I had actually forgot how to make sundry of the letters of the alphabet: these I had either to print, or to patch up the words in the best way I could without them. At Whitsunday 1790, being still only in the eighteenth year of my age, I left Willenslee, and hired myself to Mr Laidlaw of Blackhouse, with whom I served as a shepherd ten years. The kindness of this gentleman to me it would be the utmost ingratitude in me ever to forget; for, indeed, it was much more like that of a father than a master,—and it is not improbable that I should have been there still, had it not been for the following circumstance.— My brother William had, for some time before that, occupied the farm of Ettrickhouse, where he resided with our parents; but having taken a wife, and the place not suiting two families, he took another residence, and gave up the farm to me. The lease expiring at Whitsunday 1803, our possession was taken by a wealthier neighbour. The first time that I attempted to write verses was in the spring of the year 1793. Mr Laidlaw having a number of valuable books, which were all open to my perusal, I about this time began to read with considerable attention,—and no sooner did I begin to read so as to understand, than, rather prematurely, I began to write. The first

200

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

thing that ever I attempted was a poetical epistle to a student of divinity, an acquaintance of mine. It was a piece of most fulsome flattery, and mostly composed of borrowed lines and sentences from Dryden’s Virgil, and Harvey’s Life of Bruce. I scarcely remember one line of it. But the first thing that ever I composed, that was really my own, was a rhyme, entitled, “An Address to the Duke of Buccleugh, in beha’f o’ mysel’ and ither poor Fock.” In the same year, after a deal of pains, I finished a song, called, “The Way that the World goes on,” and “Wattie and Geordie’s Foreign Intelligence,” an Eclogue. These were my first year’s productions, and in all respects miserably bad; and having continued to write on ever since, often without either rhyme or reason, my pieces have multiplied exceedingly. Being little conversant in books, and far less in men and manners, the local circumstances, on which some of the pieces which I have sent to you are founded, may not be unentertaining. It was from a conversation that I had with an old woman from Lochaber, of the name of Cameron, on which I founded the story of “Glengyle,” a Ballad, and likewise the ground plot of “The Happy Swains,” a Pastoral, in four parts.—This, which I suppose you have never read, is a dramatic piece of great length, full of trifles, quaint conceits, and blunders; part of the latter were owing to the old woman, on whose word I depended, and who must have been as ignorant of the leading incidents of the year 1746 as I was. In 1795, I began “The Scotch Gentleman,” a Comedy, in five long acts; after having been summoned to Selkirk, as a witness against some persons suspected of fishing in close time. This piece, which you have seen, is, like all the rest, full of faults; yet, on reading it to an Ettrick audience, which I have several times done, it never failed to produce the most extraordinary convulsions of laughter; though I was sometimes afraid that the laugh was rather at me than at the circumstances of the plot. The whole of the third act is taken up with the examination of the fishers; and many of the questions asked, and answers given in court, are literally copied. Whether my manner of writing it out was new, I know not, but it was not without singularity. Having very little spare time from my flock, which was unruly enough, I folded and stitched a few sheets of paper, which I carried in my pocket. I had no inkhorn; but, in place of it, I borrowed a small vial, which I fixed in a hole in the breast of my waistcoat; and having a cork affixed by a piece of twine, it answered the purpose fully as well. Thus equipped, whenever a leisure minute or two offered, I had nothing ado but to sit down and write my thoughts

1821 VERSION

201

as I found them. This is still my invariable practice in writing prose; I cannot make out one sentence by study, without the pen in my hand to catch the ideas as they arise. I never write two copies of the same thing. My manner of composing poetry is very different, and, I believe, much more singular. Let the piece be of what length it will, I compose and correct it wholly in my mind, or on a slate, ere ever I put pen to paper, and then I write it down as fast as the A, B, C. When once it is written, it remains in that state; it being, as you very well know, with the utmost difficulty that I can be brought to alter one syllable, which I think is partly owing to the above practice. It is a fact, that, by a long acquaintance with any poetical piece, we become perfectly reconciled to its faults. The numbers, by frequently repeating, wear smoother to our minds; and the ideas having expanded, by reflection on each particular scene or incident therein described, the mind cannot, without reluctance, consent to the alteration of any part of it: for instance, how is the Scottish public likely to receive an improved edition of the Psalms of David, faulty as they are? My friend, Mr William Laidlaw, hath often remonstrated to me, in vain, on the necessity of a revisal of my pieces; but, in spite of him, I held fast my integrity: I said I would try to write the next better, but that should remain as it was. He was the only person who, for many years, ever pretended to discover the least merit in my essays, either in verse or prose; and, as he never failed to have plenty of them about him, he took the opportunity of showing them to every person, whose capacity he supposed adequate to judge of their merits: but it was all to no purpose; he could never make a proselyte to his opinion of any note, save one, who, in a little time, apostatized, and left us as we were. He even went so far as to break with some of his correspondents altogether, who persisted in their obstinacy. All this had not the least effect upon me; as long as I had his approbation and my own, which last never failed me, I continued to persevere. At length he had the good fortune to appeal to you, who were pleased to back him; and he came off triumphant, declaring, that the world should henceforth judge for themselves for him. I have often opposed his proposals with such obstinacy, that I was afraid of losing his countenance altogether; but none of these things had the least effect upon him; his friendship continued unimpaired, attended with the most tender assiduities for my welfare; and I am now convinced, that he is better acquainted with my nature and propensities than I am myself. I have wandered insensibly from my

202

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

subject; but to return.—In the spring of the year of 1796, as Alexander Laidlaw, a neighbouring shepherd, my brother William, and myself, were resting on the side of a hill above Ettrick church, I happened, in the course of our conversation, to drop some hints of my superior talents in poetry. William said, that, as to putting words into rhyme, it was a thing which he never could do to any sense; but that, if I liked to enter the lists with him in blank verse, he would take me up for any bet that I pleased. Laidlaw declared, that he would venture likewise. This being settled, and the judges named, I accepted the challenge; but a dispute arising what was to be the subject, we were obliged to resort to the following mode of decision: Ten subjects were named, and lots cast, which was to be the topic; and, amongst them all, that which fell to be elucidated by our matchless pens, was,—the stars!—things which we knew little more about, than merely that they were burning and twinkling over us, and to be seen every night when the clouds were away. I began with high hopes and great warmth, and in a week declared mine ready for the comparison; Laidlaw announced his next week; but my brother made us wait a full half year; and then, on being urged, presented his unfinished. The arbiters were then dispersed, and the cause was never properly judged; but those to whom they were shown, rather gave the preference to my brother’s.—This is certain, that it was far superior to any of the other two in the sublimity of the ideas; but, besides being in bad measure, it was often bombastical. The title of it was “Urania’s Tour; ” of Laidlaw’s, “Astronomical Thoughts; ” and mine, “Reflections on a View of the Nocturnal Heavens.” Alexander Laidlaw and I tried, after the same manner, a paraphrase on the 117th Psalm, in English verse. I continued annually to add numbers of smaller pieces of poetry and songs to my collection, mostly on subjects purely ideal, or else legendary. I had, from my childhood, been affected by the frequent return of a violent inward complaint; and it attacked me once in a friend’s house, at a distance from home, and, increasing to an inflammation, all hopes were given up of my recovery. While I was lying here, in the greatest agony, about the dead of the night, I had the mortification of seeing the old woman, who watched over me, fall into a swoon, from a supposition that she saw my wraith: —a spirit which, the vulgar suppose, haunts the abodes of such as are instantly to die, in order to carry off the soul as soon as it is disengaged from the body.—And, next morning, I overheard a consultation about borrowing sheets to lay me in at my decease; but Almighty God, in his providence, deceived both them and the officious spirit: for, by the help of an able physician,

1821 VERSION

203

I recovered, and have never since been troubled with the distemper. It was while confined to my bed from the effects of this dreadful malady, that I composed the song, beginning, “Farweel ye Grots, fareweel ye Glens.” In the year 1800, I began and finished the two first acts of a tragedy, which I called “The Castle in The Wood; ” and, flattering myself that it would be a masterpiece, I showed it to Mr William Laidlaw, my literary confessor. On returning it, he declared that it was faulty in the extreme; and observing that he had drawn black strokes through several of my most elaborate speeches, I cursed his stupidity, threw the work away, and never added another line. My acquaintances hereabouts imagine, that the Pastoral of “Willie an’ Keatie,” published with others in 1801, was founded on an amour of mine own, and I cannot say that their surmises are entirely groundless. The publication of this pamphlet was one of the most unadvised actions that I ever committed. Having attended the Edinburgh market one Monday, with a number of sheep for sale, and being unable to dispose of them all, I put the remainder into a park until the market on Wednesday. Not knowing how to pass the interim, it came into my head that I would write a poem or two from my memory, and get them printed. The thought had no sooner struck me, than it was put in practice; and I was obliged to select, not the best poems, but those that I remembered best. I wrote several others during my short stay, and gave them all to a person to print at my expense; and, having sold off my sheep on Wednesday morning, I returned to the Forest. I saw no more of my Poems, until I received word that there were one thousand copies of them thrown off. I knew no more about publishing than the man of the moon; and the only motive that influenced me was, the gratification of my vanity by seeing my works in print. But, no sooner did the first copy come to hand, than my eyes were open to the folly of my conduct; for, on comparing it with the MS. which I had at home, I found many of the stanzas omitted, others misplaced, and typographical errors abounding in every page. Thus were my first productions pushed headlong into the world, without either patron or preface, or even apprizing the public that such a thing was coming, and “unhoussel’d, unanointed, unannealed, with all their imperfections on their heads.” “Willie an’ Keatie,” however, had the honour of being copied into some periodical publications of the time, as a favourable specimen of the work, but, in my opinion, the poem succeeding it was greatly superior. Indeed, all of them were sad stuff, although I judged them to be exceedingly good. In 1802, “The Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border” came into my hands;

204

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

and, though I was even astonished to find such exact copies of many old songs, which I had heard sung by people who never could read a song, but got them handed down by tradition—and likewise at the conformity of the notes to the traditions and superstitions, which are, even to this day, far from being eradicated from the minds of the people amongst our mountains—yet, I confess, I was not satisfied with many of the imitations of the ancients. I immediately chose a number of traditional facts, and set about imitating the manners of the ancients myself. These ballads you have seen; and as they are the first things which you have approved, I have some thoughts of intruding myself once more on the public. The only other local circumstance, on which another of my pieces is founded, was the following:—In 1801, I went to Edinburgh on foot; and being benighted at Straiton, I lodged there. The landlord had a son deranged in his mind, whom he described as having been formerly sensible and docile, but whose behaviour was now very extravagant; for he would go out at night, and attack the moon with great rudeness and vociferation. I was so taken with his condition, that I tarried another night on my way home, to contemplate his manner and ideas a little farther. Thinking that a person in such a state, with a proper cause assigned, was a fit subject for a poem, before I reached home I had all the incidents arranged, and a good many verses composed, of the pastoral-tale of “Sandy Tod,” which, I think, is one of the best of my early pieces. Most of my prose essays have been written in an epistolary form: you may have seen, by the papers, that I gained two prizes from the Highland Society for Essays connected with the rearing and management of sheep. I have gone three journies into the Highlands, two on foot, and one on horseback; at each time penetrating farther, until I have seen a great part of that rough but valuable country. I have copied the most of my journals into letters for your perusal, and will proceed with the rest at my leisure. I have always had a great partiality for the Highlands of Scotland, and now intend going to settle in one of its most distant corners. The issue of such an adventure time only can reveal. T H E above is the substance of three letters, written in the same year, and alluding mostly to Poetical Trifles in my friend’s hands. Since that time I have experienced a very unexpected reverse of fortune. After my return from the Highlands in June last, I put every thing in readiness for my departure to settle in Harries; and I wrote and published my “Farewell to Ettrick,” wherein the real sentiments of

1821 VERSION

205

my heart at that time are simply related, which constitutes its only claim to merit. It would be tedious and trifling, were I to relate all the disagreeable circumstances which ensued; suffice it to say, that my scheme was absolutely frustrated. Being miserably disappointed, and vexed at being thus baffled in an undertaking about which I had talked so much, to avoid a great many disagreeable questions and explanations, I went to England during the remainder of the summer. On my return to Scotland, having lost all the money that I had made by a regular and industrious life, and in one week too, I again cheerfully hired myself as a shepherd, with Mr Harkness of Mitchelslacks, in Nithsdale. It was while here that I published “The Mountain Bard ,” containing all the ballads which follow, save a very few, and such other poems and songs as I liked best, to make it a reasonable size. Mr Scott had encouraged the publication of the work in some letters that he sent me, consequently I went to Edinburgh to see about it. He went with me to Mr Constable, who received me very kindly, but told me frankly, that my poetry would not sell. I said, I thought it was as good as any body’s I had seen. He said, that might be, but that nobody’s poetry would sell; it was the worst stuff that came to market, and that he found; but, as I appeared to be a gay queer chiel, if I would procure him 200 subscribers, he would publish my work for me, and give me as much for it as he could. I did not like the subscribers much; but, having no alternative, I accepted the conditions. Before the work was ready for publication, I had got above 500 subscribers; and Mr Constable, who, by that time, had conceived a better opinion of the work, gave me half-guinea copies for all my subscribers, and a letter for a small sum over and above. I have forgot how much; but, upon the whole, he acted with great liberality. He gave me, likewise, that same year, £86, for that celebrated work, H OGG ON S HEEP ; and I was now richer than I had ever been before. I had no regular plan of delivering those copies that were subscribed for, but sent them simply to the people, intending to take their money in return; but though some paid me double, triple, and even ten times the price, about one-third of my subscribers thought proper to take the copies for nothing, never paying them to this day. Being now master of nearly £300, I went perfectly mad. I first took one pasture farm, at exactly one half more than it was worth, having been cheated into it by a great rascal, who meant to rob me of all I had, and which, in the course of one year, he effected by dint of law. But, in the mean time, having taken another extensive farm, I

206

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

found myself fairly involved in business far above my capital. It would have required at least £1000 for every £100 that I possessed, to have managed all I had taken in hand; So I got every day out of one strait and confusion into a worse. I blundered and struggled on for three years between these two places, giving up all thoughts of poetry or literature of any kind. I have detailed these circumstances in a larger MS. work; but, though they are laughable, they must be omitted here, as it is only a short sketch of my literary life that I can extract into this introduction. Finding myself, at length, fairly run aground, I gave my creditors all that I had, or rather suffered them to take it, and came off and left them. I never asked any settlement, which would not have been refused me; and severely have I smarted for that neglect since. None of these matters had the least effect in depressing my spirits—I was generally rather most cheerful when most unfortunate. On returning again to Ettrick Forest, I found the countenances of all my friends altered, and even those whom I had loved, and trusted most, disowned me, and told me so to my face; but I laughed at and despised these persons, resolving to shew them, by and by, that they were in the wrong. Having appeared as a poet, and a speculative farmer beside, no one would now employ me as a shepherd. I even applied to some of my old masters, but they refused me, and for a whole winter I found myself without employment, and without money, in my native country; therefore, in February 1810, in utter desperation, I took my plaid about my shoulders, and marched away to Edinburgh, determined, since no better could be, to push my fortune as a literary man. It is true, I had estimated my poetical talent high enough, but I had resolved to use it only as a staff, never as a crutch; and would have kept that resolve, had I not been driven to the reverse. On going to Edinburgh, I found that my poetical talents were rated nearly as low there as my shepherd qualities were in Ettrick. It was in vain that I applied to newsmongers, booksellers, editors of magazines, &c. for employment. Any of these were willing enough to accept of my lucubrations, and give them publicity, but then there was no money going—not a farthing; and this suited me very ill. I again applied to Mr Constable, to publish a volume of songs for me; for I had nothing else by me but the songs of my youth, having given up all these exercises so long. He was rather averse to the expedient; but he had a sort of kindness for me, and did not like to refuse; so, after waiting on him three or four times, he condescended on publishing an edition, and giving me half profits. He published 1000 copies, at five shillings each; but he never gave me any thing;

1821 VERSION

207

and as I feared the concern might not have proved a good one, I never asked any remuneration. The name of this work was the Forest Minstrel; of which about two thirds of the songs were my own, the rest furnished by correspondents—a number of them by the ingenious Mr T. Cunningham. In general they are not good, but the worst of them are all mine, for I inserted every ranting rhyme that I had made in my youth, to please the circles about the fire-sides in the country; and all this time I had never been once in any polished society—had read next to none— was now in the 38th year of my age, and knew no more of human life or manners than a child. I was a sort of natural songster, without another advantage on earth. Fain would I have done something; but, on finding myself shunned by every one, I determined to push my own fortune independent of booksellers, whom I now began to view as beings obnoxious to all genius. My plan was, to begin a literary weekly paper, a work for which I certainly was rarely qualified, when the above facts are considered. I tried Walker & Greig, and several printers, offering them security to print it for me.—No; not one of them would print it without a bookseller’s name at it as publisher. “D—n them,” said I to myself, as I was running from one to another, “the folks here are all combined in a body.” Mr Constable laughed at me exceedingly, and finally told me, he wished me too well to encourage such a thing. Mr Ballantyne was rather more civil, and got off by subscribing for so many copies, and giving me credit for £10 worth of paper. David Brown would have nothing to do with it, unless some gentlemen, whom he named, should contribute. At length, I found an honest man, James Robertson, a bookseller in Nicolson Street, whom I had never before seen or heard of, who undertook it at once on my own terms; and on the 1st of September, 1810, my first number made its appearance on a quarto demy sheet, price fourpence. A great number were sold, and many hundreds delivered gratis; but one of Robertson’s boys, a great rascal, had demanded the price in full for all that he delivered gratis. They showed him the imprint, that they were to be delivered gratis; “so they are,” said he; “I take nothing for the delivery; but I must have the price of the paper, if you please.” This money that the boy brought me, consisting of a few shillings and an immense number of halfpence, was the first and only money I had pocketed of my own making, since my arrival in Edinburgh in February last. On the publication of the two first numbers, I deemed I had as many subscribers as, at all events, would secure the work

208

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

from being dropped; but, on the publication of my third or fourth number, I have forgot which, it was so indecorous, that no fewer than seventy-three subscribers gave up. This was a sad blow for me; but, as usual, I despised the fastidity and affectation of the people, and continued my work. It proved a fatal oversight for the paper, for all those who had given in set themselves against it with the utmost inveteracy. The literary ladies, in particular, agreed, in full divan, that I would never write a sentence which deserved to be read. A reverend friend of mine has often repeated my remark on being told of this—“Gaping deevils! wha cares what they say! If I leeve ony time, I’ll let them see the contrair o’ that.” My publisher, James Robertson, was a kind-hearted, confused body, who loved a joke and a dram. He sent for me every day about one o’clock, to consult about the publication; and then we uniformly went down to a dark house in the Cowgate, where we drank whisky and ate rolls with a number of printers, the dirtiest and leanestlooking men I had ever seen. My youthful habits having been so regular, I could not stand this; and though I took care, as I thought, to drink very little, yet, when I went out, I was at times so dizzy, I could scarcely walk; and the worst thing of all was, I felt that I was beginning to relish it. Whenever a man thinks seriously of a thing, he generally thinks aright. I thought frequently of these habits and connexions, and found that they never would do; and that, instead of pushing myself forward, as I wished to do, I was going straight to the devil. I said nothing about this to my respectable acquaintances, nor do I know if they ever knew or suspected what was going on; but, on some pretence or other, I resolved to cut all connexion with Robertson; and sorely against his will, gave the printing to the Messrs Aikman, then proprietors of the Star newspaper, showing them the list of subscribers, of which they took their chance, and promised me half profits. At the conclusion of the year, instead of granting me any profits, they complained of being so much minus, and charged me with the half of the loss. This I refused to pay, unless they could give me an account of all the numbers published, on the sale of which there should have been a good profit. This they could not do; so I paid nothing, and received as little. I had, however, a good deal to pay to Robertson, who likewise asked more; so that, after a year’s literary drudgery, I found myself a loser rather than a gainer. The name of this periodical work was T HE S PY. I continued it for a year, and to this day I cannot help regarding it as a literary curiosity. It has, doubtless, but little merit; but yet I think, that all circum-

1821 VERSION

209

stances considered, it is rather wonderful. In my farewell paper, I see the following sentence occurs, when speaking of the few who stood friends to the work:— “They have, at all events, the honour of patronising an undertaking quite new in the records of literature; for, that a common shepherd, who never was at school; who went to service at seven years of age, and could neither read nor write with any degree of accuracy when twenty; yet who, smit with an unconquerable thirst after knowledge, should leave his native mountains, and his flocks to wander where they chose, come to the metropolis with his plaid wrapped about his shoulders, and all at once set up for a connoisseur in manners, taste, and genius—has much more the appearance of a romance than a matter of fact; yet a matter of fact it certainly is, and such a person is the editor of T HE S PY .” I begun it without asking, or knowing of any assistance; but when Mr and Mrs Gray saw it was on foot, they interested themselves in it with all their power, and wrote a number of essays for it. Several other gentlemen likewise contributed a paper quietly now and then, and among others Robert Sym, Esq. which I never discovered till after the work was discontinued. The greater part, however, is my own writing, and consists of 415 quarto pages, double columned, no easy task for one to accomplish in a year. I speak of this work as of one that existed, for it flew abroad, like the sybil’s papers, every week, and I believe there are not above five complete copies existing; and, as it never again will be reprinted, if the scarcity of a work makes it valuable, no one can be more so to exist at all. All this while there was no man who entered into my views, and supported them, save Mr John Grieve, a friend, whose affection neither misfortune nor imprudence could once shake. Evil speakers had no effect on him. We had been acquainted from our youth; and he had formed his judgment of me as a man and a poet; and from that nothing could ever make him abate one item. Mr Grieve’s opinion of me was by far too partial, for it amounted to this, that he never conceived any effort in poetry above my reach, if I would set my mind to it; but my carelessness and indifference he constantly regretted and deprecated. During the first six months that I resided in Edinburgh, I lived with him, and his partner, Mr Scott, who, on a longer acquaintance, became as firmly attached to me as Mr Grieve; and, I believe, as much so as to any other man alive. We three have had many very happy evenings together; we indeed were seldom separate when it was possible to meet. They suffered me to want for nothing, either in money or clothes; and I did not even need to ask

210

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

these. Mr Grieve was always the first to notice my wants, and prevent them. In short, they would not suffer me to be obliged to one but themselves for the value of a farthing; and without this sure support, I could never have fought my way in Edinburgh. I was fairly starved into it, and if it had not been Messrs Grieve and Scott, would, in a very short time, have been starved out of it again. The next thing in which I became deeply interested, in a literary way, was the F ORUM , a debating society, established by a few young men, of whom I was one of the first. We opened our house to the public, making each individual pay a sixpence, and the crowds that attended, for three years running, were beyond all bounds. I was appointed secretary, with a salary of £20 a-year, which never was paid, though I gave away hundreds in charity. We were exceedingly improvident; but I never was so much the better of any thing as that society; for it let me feel, as it were, the pulse of the public, and precisely what they would swallow, and what they would not. All my friends were averse to my coming forward in the Forum as a public speaker, and tried to reason me out of it, by representing my incapacity to harangue a thousand people in a speech of half an hour. I had, however, given my word to my associates, and my confidence in myself being unbounded, I began, and came off with flying colours. We met once a week: I spoke every night, and sometimes twice the same night; and, though I sometimes incurred pointed disapprobation, was in general a prodigious favourite. The characters of all my brother members are given in the larger work, but here they import not. I have scarcely known any society of young men who have all got so well on. Their progress has been singular; and, I am certain, people may say as they will, that they were greatly improved by their weekly appearances in the Forum. Private societies signify nothing ; but a discerning public is a severe test, especially in a multitude, where the smallest departure from good taste, or from the question, was sure to draw down disapproval, and where no good saying ever missed observation and applause. If this do not assist in improving the taste, I know not what will. Of this I am certain, that I was greatly the better of it, and I may safely say I never was in a school before. I might and would have written the Queen’s Wake had the Forum never existed, but without the weekly lessons that I got there, I would not have succeeded as I did. Still our meetings were somewhat ludicrous, especially the formality of some of the presidents. To me they were so irresistible, that I wrote a musical farce, in three acts, called T HE F O RUM , a Tragedy for Cold Weather, wherein all the members are broadly taken off, myself not excepted,

1821 VERSION

211

and some of our evening scenes depicted. I believe it is a good thing of the kind, at least I remember of thinking so at the time; but it was so severe on some of my friends, who had a few peculiarities about them, that I never showed it to any one. I have it by me, but I believe never man saw it save myself. About the same time, I wrote another musical drama of three acts, and showed it to Mr Siddons. He approved of it very highly, all but some small trivial scene, which I promised to alter, and he undertook to have it acted on the return of the season; but I never saw him again. He was always kind and friendly to me, and made me free to the theatre from year to year. During the time that the Forum was going on, the poetry of Mr Walter Scott and Lord Byron had made a great noise. I had published some pieces in T HE S PY that Grieve thought exceedingly good; and nothing would serve him, but that I should take the field once more as a poet, and try my fate with others. I promised; and having some ballads or metrical tales by me, which I did not like to lose, I planned the Queen’s Wake, in order that I might take these all in, and had it ready in a few months after it was first proposed. I was very anxious to read it to some person of taste, but no one would either read it, or listen to me reading it, save Grieve, who assured me it would do. As I lived at Deanhaugh then, I invited Mr and Mrs Gray to drink tea, and to read a part of it with me before offering it for publication. Unluckily, however, before I had read half a page, Mrs Gray objected to a word, which Grieve approved of and defended, and some high disputes arose; other authors were appealed to, and notwithstanding my giving several very broad hints, I could not procure a hearing for another line of my new poem. Indeed, I was sorely disappointed, and told my friends so on going away; on which another day was appointed, and I brought my manuscript to Buccleugh Place. Mr Gray had not got through the third page, when he was told that an itinerant bard was come into the lobby, and repeating his poetry to the boarders. Mr Gray went out and joined them, leaving me alone with a young lady, to read, or not, as we liked. In about half an hour, he sent a request for me likewise to come: on which I went, and heard a poor crazy beggar repeating such miserable stuff as I had never heard before. I was terribly affronted; and putting my manuscript in my pocket, I jogged my way home in very bad humour. Gray has sometimes tried to deny the truth of this anecdote, and to face me out of it, but it would not do. I never estimated him the less as a friend; but I did not forget it, in one point of view; for I never read any more new poems to him. I next went to my friend, Mr Constable, and told him my plan of

212

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

publication; but he received me coldly, and told me to call again. I did so—when he said he would do nothing until once he had seen the MS. I refused to give it, saying, “What skill have you about the merits of a book?” “It may be so, Hogg,” said he; “but I know as well how to sell a book as any man, which should be some concern of yours; and I know how to buy one, too, by G——!” Finally, he told me, that if I would procure him 200 subscribers, to insure him from loss, he would give me L.100 for liberty to print 1000 copies; and more than that he would not give. I felt I would be obliged to comply; and, with great reluctance, got a few subscription-papers thrown off privately, and gave them to friends who soon procured me the requisite number. But, before this time, one George Goldie, a young bookseller in Princes Street, a lad of some taste, had become acquainted with me at the Forum, and earnestly requested to see my MS. I gave it to him with reluctance, being predetermined to have nothing to do with him. He had not, however, well looked into the work till he thought he perceived something above common place; and, when I next saw him, he was intent on being the publisher of the work, offering me as much as Mr Constable, and all the subscribers to myself over and above. I was very loath to part with Mr Constable; but the terms were so different, that I was obliged to think of it. I tried him again; but he had differed with Mr Scott, and I found him in such bad humour, that he would do nothing farther than curse all the poets, and declare, that he had met with more ingratitude among literary men than all the rest of the human race. Of course Goldie got the work, and it made its appearance in the spring of 1813. As I said, nobody had seen the work; and, on the day after it was published, I came up to Edinburgh as anxious as a man could be. I walked sometimes about the streets, and read the title of my book on the booksellers’ windows, yet I durst not go into any of the shops. I was like a man between death and life, waiting for the sentence of the jury. The first encouragement that I got, was from my countryman, Mr William Dunlop, spirit merchant, who, on observing me going sauntering up the plainstones of the High Street, came over from the Cross, arm in arm with another gentleman, a stranger to me. I remember his salutation, word for word; and singular as it was, it had a strong impression; for I knew that Mr Dunlop had a great deal of rough common sense. “Ye useless poetical b——h that ye’re!” said he, “what hae ye been doing a’ this time?”—“What doing, Willie! what do you mean?”— “D—–n your stupid head, ye hae been pestering us wi’ fourpenny

1821 VERSION

213

papers an’ daft shilly-shally sangs, an’ bletherin’ an’ speakin’ i’ the forum, an’ yet had stuff in ye to produce a thing like this.”—“Ay, Willie,” said I; “have you seen my new beuk?”—“Ay; that I have, man; and it has lickit me out o’ a night’s sleep. Ye hae hit the right nail on the head now. Yon’s the very thing, sir.”—“I’m very glad to hear you say sae, Willie; but what do ye ken about poems?”—“Never ye mind how I ken; I gi’e you my word for it, yon’s the thing that will do. If ye hadna made a fool o’ yoursel’ afore, man, yon wad hae sold better than ever a book sold. Od, wha wad hae thought there was as muckle in that sheep’s-head o’ yours! d——d stupid poetical b——h that ye’re!” And with that he went away, laughing and miscalling me over his shoulder. This address gave me a little confidence, and I faced my acquaintances one by one; and every thing that I heard was laudatory. The first report of any work that goes abroad, be it good or bad, spreads like fire set to a hill of heather in a warm spring day, and no one knows where it will stop. From that day forward every one has spoken well of the work; and every review praised its general features, save the Eclectic, which, in the number for 1813, tried to hold it up to ridicule and contempt. Mr Jeffery ventured not a word about it, either good or bad, himself, until the year after, when it had fairly got into a second and third edition. He then gave a very judicious and sensible review of it; but he committed a most horrible blunder, in classing Mr Tenant, the author of Anster Fair, and me together, as two self-taught geniuses; whereas there was not one point of resemblance—Tenant being a better educated man than the reviewer himself, was not a little affronted at being classed with me. From that day to this Mr Jeffery has taken no notice of any thing that I have published, which I think can hardly be expected to do him any honour at the long run. I should like the worst poem that I have since published, to stand a fair comparison with some that he has strained himself to bring forward. It is a pity that any literary connexion, which with the one party might be unavoidable, should ever prejudice one valued friend and acquaintance against another. In the heartburnings of party spirit, the failings of great minds are more exposed than in all other things in the world put together. Mr Goldie had little capital, and less interest among the trade; nevertheless, he did all for my work that lay in his power, and sold two editions of it in a short time. About that period, there was a general failure took place among the secondary class of booksellers, and it was reported that Goldie was so much involved with some of the houses, that it was impossible he could escape destruction. A

214

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

third edition of my poem was wanted, and, without more ado, I went and offered it to Mr Constable. We closed a bargain at once, and the book was sent to Mr Ballantyne to print. But after a part was thrown off, Goldie got notice of the transaction, and was neither to hold nor bind, pretending that he had been exceedingly ill used. He waited on Mr Constable one hour, and corresponded with him the next, till he induced him to give up the bargain. It was in vain that I remonstrated, affirming that the work was my own, and I would give it to whom I pleased. I had no one to take my part, and I was browbeat out of it—Goldie alleging, that I had no reason to complain, as he entered precisely into Constable’s terms, and had run all the risk of the former editions. I durst not say, that he was going to break, and never pay me; so I was obliged to suffer the edition to be printed off in Goldie’s name. This was exceeding ill done of him—nothing could be more cruel—and I was grieved that he did so, for I had a good opinion of him. The edition had not been lodged in his premises a week before he stopped, and yet, in that time, he had contrived to sell, or give away, more than one-half of the copies; and thus all the little money that I had gained, which I was so proud of, and on which I depended for my subsistence, and the settling of some old farming debts that were pressing hard upon me, vanished from my grasp at once. It was on the occasion of Mr Blackwood being appointed one of the trustees upon the bankrupt estate that I was first introduced to him. I found him and the two Messrs Bridges deeply interested in my case. I shall never forget their kindness and attention to my interests at that unfortunate period. I had likewise, before this time, been introduced to most of the great literary characters in the metropolis, and lived with them on terms of intimacy, finding myself more and more a welcome guest at all their houses. However, I was careful not to abuse their indulgence; for, with the exception of a few intimate friends, I made myself exceedingly scarce. I was indebted for these introductions, in a great degree, to the Reverend Robert Morehead, one of the most amiable men I have ever known, and to two worthy ladies of the name of Lowes. I have written out, at great length, my opinion of all the characters of these literary gentlemen, with traits of their behaviour towards each other, principally from reports on which I could depend, and what I knew of their plans and parties—but this would fill a volume as large as this work. On the appearance of Mr Wilson’s Isle of Palms, I was so greatly taken with many of his fanciful and visionary scenes, descriptive of bliss and wo, that it had a tendency to divest me occasionally of all

1821 VERSION

215

worldly feelings. I reviewed this poem, as well as many others, in a Scottish Review then going on in Edinburgh, and was exceedingly anxious to meet with the author; but this I tried in vain, for the space of six months. All I could learn of him was, that he was a man from the mountains in Wales, or the west of England, with hair like eagles’ feathers, and nails like birds’ claws; a red beard, and an uncommon degree of wildness in his looks. Wilson was then utterly unknown in Edinburgh, except slightly to Mr Walter Scott, who never introduces any one person to another, nor judges it of any avail. However, having no other shift left, I sat down and wrote him a note, telling him that I wished much to see him, and if he wanted to see me, he might come and dine with me at my lodgings in the Road of Gabriel, at four; and if not, he might stay at home. He accepted the invitation, and dined with Grieve and me, and I found him so much a man according to my own heart, that for many years we were seldom twenty-four hours asunder, when in town. I afterwards went and visited him, staying with him a month at his seat in Westmoreland, where we had some curious doings among the gentlemen and poets of the lakes. It is a pity I have not room here to give a description of all these scenes, being obliged, according to my plan, to return to a subject far less interesting, namely, my own literary progress. The Queen’s Wake being now consigned to Messrs Murray and Blackwood, I fairly left it to its fate; and they published a fourth edition, which was in fact not a new edition, but only the remainder of Goldie’s third; so that I gained an edition in the eyes of the world, although not to the weight of my purse, to which this edition in reality made no addition. It has, however, been a good work to me, and has certainly been read and admired much above what its merits warrant. My own opinion of it is, that it is a very imperfect and unequal work; and if it were not for three of the ballads, which are rather of a redeeming quality, some of the rest are little better than trash. But, somehow or other, the plan proved extremely happy; and though it was contrived solely for the purpose of stringing my miscellaneous ballads into a regular poem, happened to have a good effect, from keeping always up a double interest, both in the incidents of each tale, and in the success of the singer in the contest for the prize harp. The intermediate poetry between the ballads is all likewise middling good. The same year in which I wrote the two musical dramas, I also wrote a tragedy, which was called The Hunting of Badlewe; but of this Goldie only printed a few copies, to see how the public relished it. It was not favourably received; but more of this hereafter.

216

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

Although it should rather have been mentioned at a period subsequent to this, I may take notice here, that the fifth edition of the Queen’s Wake, in royal octavo with plates, was a plan concocted by Mr Blackwood to bring me in a little money. He was assisted in this undertaking by Charles Sharpe, Esq.; Mr Walter Scott; and several other friends; but most of all by the indefatigable Mr David Bridges, junior, a man that often effects more in one day than many others can do in six, and who is, in fact, a greater prodigy than any selftaught painter or poet in the kingdom. The only other anecdote which I have recorded in my Diary relating to this poem, is one about the dedication. As it related to the amusements of a young queen, I thought I could dedicate it to no one so appropriately as to her royal and beautiful descendant, the Princess Charlotte; which I did. By the advice of some friends, I got a large paper copy bound up in an elegant antique style, which cost three guineas, and sent it in a present to her Royal Highness, directing it to the care of Dr Fisher, Bishop of Salisbury, and requesting him to present it to his royal pupil. His Lordship was neither at the pains to acknowledge the receipt of the work or my letter, nor, I dare say, to deliver it as directed. The dedication I have never had the heart to cancel, even now when she is no more, and I have let the original date remain. During all this time I generally went a tour into the Highlands every summer, and always made a point of tarrying some time at Kinnaird-house in Athol, the seat of Chalmers Izett, Esq. whose lady had taken an early interest in my fortunes, which no circumstance has ever abated. I depended much on her advice and good taste; and had I attended more to her friendly remonstrances, it would have been much better for me. In the summer of 1814, having been seized with a severe cold while there, it was arranged that I should reside at Kinnaird House two or three weeks; and as Mrs Izett insisted that I should not remain idle, she conducted me up stairs one morning, and introduced me into a little study, furnished with books and writing materials. “Now,” said she, “I do not wish you to curtail your fishing-hours, since you seem to delight so much in it, but whenever you have a spare hour, either evening or morning, you can retire to this place, either to read or write, as the humour suits you.” “Since you will set me down to write,” said I, “you must choose a subject for me, for I have nothing in hand, and have thought of nothing.” “How can you be at a loss for a subject,” returned she, “and that majestic river rolling beneath your eyes?” “Well,” said I, “though I consider myself exquisite at descriptions of nature, and mountain-

1821 VERSION

217

scenery in particular, yet I am afraid that a poem wholly descriptive will prove dull and heavy.” “You may make it the shorter,” said she; “only write something to prevent your mind from rusting.” Upon this I determined immediately to write a poem descriptive of the river Tay, and after spending about two hours considering in what verse I should write it, I fixed on the stanza of Spenser. “That is the finest verse in the world,” said I to myself; “it rolls off with such majesty and grandeur. What an effect it will have in the description of mountains, cataracts, and storms!” I had also another motive for adopting it. I was fond of the Spenserian measure; but there was something in the best models that always offended my ear. It was owing to this.—I thought it so formed, that every verse ought to be a structure of itself, resembling an arch, of which the two meeting rhymes in the middle should represent the key-stone, and on these all the strength and flow of the verse should rest. On beginning this poem, therefore, I had the vanity to believe that I was going to give the world a new specimen of this stanza in its proper harmony. It was under these feelings that my poem of M ADOR OF THE M OOR was begun, and in a very short time completed: but I left out to the extent of one whole book of the descriptive part. There is no doubt whatever, that my highest and most fortunate efforts in rhyme are contained in some of the descriptions of nature in that poem, and in the Ode to Superstition which follows it. In the same year, and immediately on the finishing of the above poem, I conceived a plan for writing a volume of romantic poems, to be entitled MIDSUMMER -N IGHT D REAMS , and am sorry to this day that chance adulation prevented me from accomplishing my design, for of all other subjects, there were none that suited the turn of my thoughts so well. The first of these dreams that I wrote was CONNEL OF D EE , now published in the Winter Evening Tales, and the second was T HE P ILGRIMS OF THE SUN . It happened that a gentleman, Mr James Park of Greenock, on whose literary taste I had great reliance, came to Edinburgh for a few weeks about this time; and, as we had been intimate acquaintances and correspondents for a number of years, I gave him a perusal of all my recent pieces in manuscript. His approbation of the P ILGRIMS OF THE S UN was so decided, and so unqualified, that he prevailed with me to give up my design of the MidsummerNight Dreams, and also that of publishing Mador, and to publish the former poem as an entire work by itself. This advice of my inestimable and regretted friend, though given in sincerity of heart, I am

218

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

convinced was wrong; but I believed every one that commended any of my works, and laughed at those who did otherwise, thinking, and asserting, that they had not sufficient discernment. Among other wild and visionary subjects, the Pilgrims of the Sun would have done very well, and might at least have been judged one of the best; but, as an entire poem by itself, it bears a trait of extravagance, and affords no relief from the story of a visionary existence. After my literary blunders and miscarriages are a few months old, I can view them with as much indifference, and laugh at them as heartily, as any of my neighbours. I have often felt, that Mary Lee reminded me of a beautiful country girl turned into an assembly in dishabille, “halfnaked for a warld’s wonder,” whose beauties might be gazed at, but were sure to be derided. There were some circumstances attending the publication of this poem, which show the doings and the honour of that profession in a particular light. I called on my old friend, Mr Constable, from whom I had very ill will to part, and told him my design and views in publishing the poem. He received me with his usual kindness, and seemed to encourage the plan: but, in the meantime, said he was busy—and that if I would call back on Saturday, he would have time to think of it, and give me an answer. With the solicitude of a poor author, I was punctual to my hour on Saturday, and found Mr Constable sitting at his confined desk up stairs, and alone, which was a rare incident. He saluted me, held out his hand without lifting his eyes from the paper, and then, resuming his pen, he continued writing. I read the backs of some of the books on his shelves, and then spoke of my new poem; but he would not deign to lift his eyes, or regard me. I tried to bring on a conversation by talking of the Edinburgh Review; but all to no purpose. “Now, the devil confound the fellow,” thought I to myself, “he will sit there scribbling till we are interrupted by some one coming to talk to him of business, and then I shall lose my opportunity—perhaps it is what he wants! D—n him, if I thought he were not wanting my book, if I should not be as saucy as he is!” At length he turned his back to the window, with his face to me, and addressed me in a long set speech, a thing I never heard him do before. It had a great deal of speciousness in it, but with regard to its purport, I leave the world to judge. I pledge myself, that in this short Sketch of my Literary Life, as well as in the extended memoir, should that ever appear, to relate nothing but the downright truth. If any feel that they have done or said wrong, I cannot help it. “By G—, Hogg, you are a very extraordinary fellow!” said he— “You are a man of very great genius, sir! I don’t know if ever there

1821 VERSION

219

was such another man born!” I looked down, and brushed my hat with my elbow; for what could any man answer to such an address. “Nay, it is all true, sir; I do not jest a word—I never knew such a genius in my life. I am told, that, since the publication of the Queen’s Wake last year, you have three new poems, all as long, and greatly superior to that, ready for publication. By G—, sir, you will write Scott, and Byron, and every one of them, off the field.” “Let us alane o’ your jibes, Maister Constable,” said I, “and tell me at ance what ye’re gaun to say about yon.” “I have been thinking seriously about your proposal, Hogg,” said he; “and though you are the very sort of man whom I wish to encourage, yet I do not think the work would be best in my hand. I am so deeply engaged, my dear sir, in large and ponderous works, that a small light work has no good chance in my hands at all. For the sake of the authors, I have often taken such works in hand—among others, your friend Mr Paterson’s—and have been grieved that I had it not in my power to pay that minute attention to them, individually, that I wished to have done. The thing is impossible! And then the authors come fretting on me; nor will they believe that another bookseller can do much more for such works than I can. There is my friend, Mr Miller, for instance—he has sold three times as many of Discipline as perhaps I could have done.”—“No, no,” said I, “I’ll deal none with Mr Miller: if you are not for the work yourself, I will find out one who will take it.”—“I made the proposal in friendship,” said he: “If you give the work to Miller, I shall do all for it the same as it were my own. I will publish it in all my catalogues, and in all my reviews and magazines, and I will send it abroad with all these to my agents in the country. I will be security for the price of it, should you and he deal; so that, in transferring it to Miller in place of me, you only secure two interests in it in place of one.” This was all so unobjectionable, that I could say nothing in opposition to it; so we agreed on the price at one word, which was, I think, to be £80 for liberty to print 1000 copies. Mr Miller was sent for, who complied with every thing as implicitly as if he had been Mr Constable’s clerk, and without making a single observation. The bargain was fairly made out and concluded, the manuscript was put into Mr Miller’s hands, and I left Edinburgh, leaving him a written direction how to forward the proofs. Week passed after week, and no proofs arrived. I grew impatient, it having been stipulated that the work was to be published in two months, and wrote to Mr Miller; but I received no answer. I then wrote to a friend to inquire the reason. He waited on Mr Miller, he said, but received no satisfac-

220

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

tory answer; “the truth of the matter,” added he,—“is this: Mr Miller, I am privately informed, sent out your MS. among his Blue Stockings for their verdict. They have condemned the poem as extravagant nonsense.—Mr Miller has rued of his bargain, and will never publish the poem, unless he is sued at law.” How far this information was correct, I had no means of discovering; but it vexed me exceedingly, as I had mentioned the transaction to all my friends, and how much I was pleased at the connexion. However, I waited patiently for two months, the time when it ought to have been published, and then I wrote Mr Miller a note, desiring him to put my work forthwith to the press, the time being now elapsed; or, otherwise, to return me the manuscript. Mr Miller returned me the poem with a polite note, as if no bargain had existed, and I thought it below me ever to mention the circumstance again, either to him or Mr Constable. As I never understood the real secret of this transaction, neither do I know whom to blame.—Mr Miller seemed all along to be acting on the ground of some secret arrangement with his neighbour, and it was perhaps by an arrangement of the same kind, that the poem was given up. But I only relate what I know. Some time after this, Mr Blackwood introduced me to Mr John Murray, the London bookseller, with whom I was quite delighted; and one night, after supping with him in Albany Street, I mentioned the transaction with Mr Miller. He said Mr Constable was to blame; for as matters stood, he ought to have seen the bargain implemented; but, at all events, it would be no loss to me, for he was willing to take the poem according to Mr Miller’s bargain. There was nothing more said; we at once agreed, and exchanged letters on it; the work was put to press, and soon finished. But, alas! for my unfortunate Pilgrim! The running copy was sent up to Mr Murray in London; and that gentleman, finding his critical friends of the same opinion with Mr Miller’s Blue Stockings, would not allow his name to go on the work. It was in vain that Mr Blackwood urged, that it was a work of genius, however faulty, and it would be an honour for any bookseller to have his name at it.—Mr Murray had been informed, by those on whose judgment he could rely, that it was the most wretched poem that ever was written. Mr Blackwood felt a delicacy in telling me this, and got a few friends to inform me of it in as delicate a way as possible. I could not, however, conceal my feelings, and maintained that the poem was a good one. Mr Grieve checked me by saying, it was impossible that I could be a better judge than both the literary people of Scotland and England—that they could have no interest in condemning

1821 VERSION

221

the poem; and after what had happened, it was vain to augur any good of it. I said it would be long ere any of those persons who had condemned it would write one like it; and I was obliged to please myself with this fancy, and put up with the affront. The poem came out, and was rather well received. I never met with any person, who really had read it, that did not like the poem; the reviewers praised it; and the Eclectic, in particular, gave it the highest commendation I ever saw bestowed on a work of genius. It was reprinted in two different towns in America, and 10,000 copies of it sold in that country. Mr Murray very honourably paid me the price agreed on three months before it was due; but the work sold heavily here, and neither my booksellers nor I have ever proposed a second edition. The trade were all, except Mr Blackwood, set against it, in defence of their own good taste. It is indeed a faulty poem, but I think no shame of it; neither, I trust, will any of my friends when I am no more. My next literary adventure was the most extravagant of any. I took it into my head, that I would collect a poem from every living author in Britain, and publish them in a neat and elegant volume, by which I calculated I might make my fortune. I either applied personally, or by letter, to Southey, Wilson, Wordsworth, Lloyde, Morehead, Pringle, Paterson, and several others; all of whom sent me very ingenious and beautiful poems. Wordsworth afterwards reclaimed his; and although Lord Byron and Rogers both promised, neither of them ever performed. I believe they intended it, but some other concerns of deeper moment had put it out of their heads. Mr Walter Scott absolutely refused to furnish me with even one verse, which I took exceedingly ill, as it frustrated my whole plan. What occasioned it, I do not know, as I accounted myself certain of his support from the beginning, and had never asked any thing of him all my life that he refused. It was in vain that I represented, that I had done as much for him, and would do ten times more if he required it. He remained firm in his denial, which I thought very hard; so I left him in high dudgeon, sent him a very abusive letter, and would not speak to him again for many a day. I could not even endure to see him at a distance, I felt so degraded by the refusal; and I was, at that time, more disgusted with all mankind than I had ever been before, or have ever been since. I began, with a heavy heart, to look over the pieces I had received, and lost all hope of my project succeeding. They were, indeed, all very well; but I did not see that they possessed such merit as could give celebrity to any work; and after considering them well, I fancied

222

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

that I could write a better poem than any that had been sent or would be sent to me, and this so completely in the style of each poet, that it should not be known but for his own production. It was this conceit that suggested to me the idea of T HE P OETIC M IRROR , or L IVING B ARDS OF B RITAIN . I set to work with great glee, as the fancy had struck me, and, in a few days, I finished my imitations of Wordsworth and Lord Byron. Like a fool, I admired the latter poem most, and contrived to get a large literary party together, on pretence, as I said, of giving them a literary treat. I had got the poem transcribed, and gave it to Mr Ballantyne to read, who did it ample justice. Indeed, he read it with extraordinary effect; so much so, that I was astonished at the poem myself, and before it was half done, all pronounced it Byron’s. Every one was deceived, except Mr Ballantyne, who was not to be imposed on in that way; but he kept the secret until we got to the Bridge, and then he told me his mind. The Poetic Mirror was completely an off-hand production. I wrote it all in three weeks, except a very small proportion; and in less than three months it was submitted to the public. The second poem in the volume, namely, the Epistle to R——— S———, the most beautiful and ingenious poem in the work, is not mine. It was written by Mr Thomas Pringle, who has now left this country (a circumstance ever to be regretted), and was not meant as an imitation of Mr Scott’s manner at all. There is likewise another small secret connected with that work, which I am not yet at liberty to unfold, but which the ingenious may perhaps discover. The first edition was sold in six weeks, and another of 750 copies has since been sold. I do not set a particular value on any poem in the work myself, except T HE GUDE G REYE K AT TE , which was written as a caricature of The Pilgrims of the Sun, The Witch of Fife, and some others of my fairy ballads. It is greatly superior to any of them. I have also been told, that in England, one of the imitations of Wordsworth’s Excursion has been deemed excellent. The year following, I published two volumes of Tragedies, to these I affixed the title of D R AMATIC T ALES , by the Author of The Poetic Mirror. At that time, however, I forgot to mention, that The Poetic Mirror was published anonymously, and I was led to think, that, had the imitations of Wordsworth been less a caricature, the work might have past, for a season at least, as the genuine productions of the authors themselves, whose names were prefixed to the several poems. I was strongly urged by some friends, previous to the publication of these plays, to try Sir Anthony Moore on the stage, and once, at the suggestion of Mr Walter Scott, I consented to submit it to the

1821 VERSION

223

players, in and through Mr Ballantyne. But, by a trivial accident, the matter was delayed till I got time to consider of it; and then I shrunk from the idea of intrusting my character as a poet into the hands of every bungling and absurd actor, who, if even haply dissatisfied with his part, had the power of raising so much disapprobation, as might damn the whole piece. Consequently, my first attempts in the drama have never been offered for representation. Sir Anthony Moore is the least original, and the least poetical piece of the whole, and I trust it shall never be acted while I live; but, if at any after period it should be brought forward, and one able performer appear in the character of Old Cecil, and another in that of Caroline, I might venture my credit and judgment, as an author, that it will prove successful. The pastoral drama of All-Hallow Eve was written at the suggestion of the Reverend Robert Morehead. The Profligate Princes is a modification of my first play, The Hunting of Badlewe, printed by Goldie; and the fragment of The Haunted Glen was written off hand, to make the second volume of an equal extent with the first. The small degree of interest that these dramas excited in the world, finished my dramatic and poetical career. I had put on the resolution of writing a drama every year as long as I lived, hoping to make myself perfect by degrees, as a man does in his calling, by serving an apprenticeship; but the failure of those to excite notice fully convinced me, that either this was not the age to appreciate the qualities of dramatic composition, or that I was not possessed of the talents fitting me for such an undertaking; and so I gave up the ambitious design. Before this period, all the poems that I had published had been begun and written by chance and at random, without any previous design. I had at that time commenced an epic poem on a regular plan, and I finished two books of it, pluming myself that it was to prove my greatest work. But, seeing that the poetical part of these dramas excited no interest in the public, I felt conscious that no poetry that I could ever be able to write would do so; or, if it did, the success would hinge upon some casualty, on which it did not behove me to rely. So, from that day to this, save now and then an idle song to beguile a leisure hour, I have never written another line of poetry. From the time I gave up “The Spy,” I had been planning with my friends to commence the publication of a Magazine on a new plan; but, for several years, we only conversed about the utility of such a work, without doing any thing farther. At length, among others, I chanced to mention it to Mr Thomas Pringle; when I found that he

224

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

and his friends had a plan in contemplation of the same kind. We agreed to join our efforts, and try to set it a-going; but, as I declined the editorship on account of residing mostly on my farm at a distance from town, it became a puzzling question who was the best qualified among our friends for that undertaking. We at length fixed on Mr Gray as the fittest person for a principal department, and I went and mentioned the plan to Mr Blackwood, who, to my astonishment, I found had likewise long been cherishing a plan of the same kind. He said he knew nothing about Pringle, and always had his eye on me as a principal assistant; but he would not begin the undertaking, until he saw he could do it with effect. Finding him, however, disposed to encourage such a work, Pringle, at my suggestion, made out a plan in writing, with a list of his supporters, and sent it in a letter to me. I enclosed it in another, and sent it to Mr Blackwood; and not long after that period, Pringle and he came to an arrangement about commencing the work, while I was in the country. Thus I had the honour of being the beginner, and almost sole instigator of that celebrated work, B LACKWOOD ’ S M AGAZINE ; but from the time I heard that Pringle had taken in Cleghorn as a partner, I declined all connexion with it, farther than as an occasional contributor. I told him the connexion would not likely last for a year, and insisted that he should break it at once; but to this proposal he would in nowise listen. As I had predicted, so it fell out, and much sooner than might have been expected. On the fourth month after the commencement of that work, I received a letter from Mr Blackwood, soliciting my return to Edinburgh; and when I arrived there, I found that he and his two redoubted editors had gone to loggerheads, and instead of arguing the matter face to face, they were corresponding together at the rate of about a sheet an hour. Viewing this as a ridiculous mode of proceeding, I brought about two meetings between Mr Blackwood and Mr Pringle, and endeavoured all that I could to bring them to a right understanding about the matter. A reconciliation was effected at that time, and I returned again into the country. Soon after, however, I heard that the flames of controversy, and proud opposition, had broken out between the parties with greater fury than ever; and, shortly after, that they had finally separated, and the two champions gone over and enlisted under the banners of Mr Constable, having left Mr Blackwood to shift for himself, and carried over, as they pretended, their right to the Magazine, with all their subscribers and contributors, to the other side. I received letters from both parties. I loved Pringle, and would gladly have assisted him had it been in my power; but, after balanc-

1821 VERSION

225

ing fairly the two sides, I thought Mr Blackwood more sinned against than sinning, and that the two editors had been endeavouring to bind him to a plan which could not possibly succeed; so, on considering his disinterested friendship for me, manifested in several strong instances, I stuck to him, expecting excellent sport in the various exertions and manœuvres of the two parties for the superiority. I know not what wicked genius put it into my head, but it was then, in an evil hour, when I had determined on the side I was to espouse, that I wrote the Chaldee Manuscript, and transmitted it to Mr Blackwood from Yarrow. On first reading it, he never thought of publishing it; but some of the rascals to whom he showed it, after laughing at it, by their own accounts till they were sick, persuaded him, nay almost forced him, to insert it; for some of them went so far as to tell him, that if he did not admit that inimitable article, they would never speak to him again so long as they lived. Needless however is it now to deny, that they interlarded it with a good deal of deevilry of their own, which I had never thought of; and one who had a principal hand in these alterations has never yet been named as an aggressor. I declare, I never once dreamed of giving any body offence by that droll article, nor did I ever think of keeping it a secret either from Mr Constable or Mr Pringle: so far from that, I am sure, had I been in town, I would have shown the manuscript to the latter before publication. I meant it as a sly history of the transaction, and the great literary battle that was to be fought. All that I expected was, a little retaliation of the same kind in the opposing magazine; and when I received letter after letter, informing me what a dreadful flame it had raised in Edinburgh, I could not be brought to believe that it was not a joke. I am not certain, but that I confessed the matter to Mr George Thomson, in the course of our correspondence, before I was aware of its importance. No one ever suspected me as the author. When I came to town, every one made his remarks, and pronounced his anathemas upon it, without any reserve, in my hearing, which afforded me much amusement. Still I could not help viewing the whole as a farce, or something unreal and deceptive; and I am sure I never laughed so much in my life as at the rage in which I found so many people. So little had I intended giving offence by what appeared in the Magazine, that I had written out a long continuation of the Manuscript, which I have by me to this day, in which I go over the painters, poets, lawyers, booksellers, magistrates, and ministers of Edinburgh, all in the same style; and with reference to the first part that was

226

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

published, I might say of the latter as king Rehoboam said to the elders of Israel: “My little finger was thicker than my father’s loins.” It took all the energy of Mr Wilson and his friends, and some sharp remonstrances from Mr Walter Scott, as well as a great deal of controversy and battling with Mr Grieve, to prevent me from publishing the whole work as a large pamphlet, and putting my name to it. That same year, I published the B ROWNIE OF B ODSBECK , and other Tales, in two volumes. I got injustice in the eyes of the world with regard to that tale, which was looked on as an imitation of the tale of Old Mortality, and a counter-part to that; whereas it was written long ere the tale of Old Mortality was heard of, and I well remember my chagrin on finding the ground that I thought clear pre-occupied, before I could appear publicly on it, and that by such a redoubted champion. It was wholly owing to Mr Blackwood, that this tale was not published a year sooner, which would effectually have freed me from the stigma of being an imitator, and brought in the author of the Tales of My Landlord as an imitator of me. That was the only ill turn that ever Mr Blackwood did me; and it ought to be a warning to authors never to intrust booksellers with their manuscripts. I mentioned to Mr Blackwood, that I had two tales I wished to publish, and at his request I gave him a reading of the manuscript. One of them was The Brownie, which, I believe, was not quite finished. He approved of it, but with The Bridal of Polmood, he would have nothing to do. Of course, my manuscripts were returned, and I had nothing else for it, but to retire to the country, and there begin and write two other tales in place of the one rejected. The Bridal of Polmood, however, was published from the same copy, and without the alteration of a word, and has been acknowledged by all who have read it, as the most finished, and best written tale, that ever I produced. Mr Blackwood, himself, must be sensible of this fact, and also, that in preventing its being published along with The Brownie of Bodsbeck, he did an injury both to himself and me. As a farther proof how little booksellers are to be trusted, he likewise wished to prevent the insertion of The Wool-Gatherer, which has been an universal favourite; but I know the source from whence it proceeded. I would never object trusting a bookseller, were he a man of any taste; for, except he wishes to reject an author altogether, he can have no interest in asserting what he does not think. But the plague is, they never read works themselves, but give them to their minions, with whom there never fails to lurk a literary jealousy; and whose suggestions may uniformly be regarded as any thing but the truth. For my own part, I know that I have always been looked on, by the learned part

1821 VERSION

227

of the community, as an intruder in the paths of literature, and every opprobrium has been thrown on me from that quarter. The truth is, that I am so. The walks of learning are occupied by a powerful aristocracy, who deem that province their own peculiar right, else, what would avail all their dear bought collegiate honours and degrees. No wonder that they should view an intruder, from the humble and despised ranks of the community, with a jealous and indignant eye, and impede his progress by every means in their power. I was unlucky in the publication of my first novel, and what impeded me still farther, was the publication of Old Mortality; for, having made the redoubted Burly the hero of my tale, I was obliged to go over it again, and alter all the traits in the character of the principal personage, substituting John Brown of Caldwell for John Balfour of Burly, greatly to the detriment of my story. I tried also to take out Clavers, but I found this impossible. A better instance could not be given of the good luck attached to one person, and the bad luck which attended the efforts of another. I observed, that in the extended MS., I had detailed all the proceedings of a club, the most ridiculous perhaps that ever was established in any city, and, owing to some particular circumstances, I cannot refrain from mentioning them here. This club was established one night, in a frolic, at a jovial dinner party, in the house of a young lawyer, now of some celebrity at the bar, and was christened the Right and Wrong Club. The chief principle of the club was, that whatever any of its members should assert, the whole were bound to support the same, whether right or wrong. We were so delighted with the novelty of the idea, that we agreed to meet next day at Oman’s Hotel, and celebrate its anniversary. We were dull and heavy when we met, but did not part so. We dined at five, and separated at two in the morning, before which time, the club had risen greatly in our estimation; so we agreed to meet next day, and every successive day for five or six weeks, and during all that time our hours of sitting continued the same. No constitutions on earth could stand this. Had our meetings been restricted to once a month, or even once a week, the club might have continued to this day, and would have been a source of much pleasure and entertainment to the members; but to meet daily was out of the question. The result was, that several of the members got quite deranged, and I drank myself into an inflammatory fever. The madness of the members proved no bar to the hilarity of the society; on the contrary, it seemed to add a great deal of zest to it as a thing quite in character. An inflammatory fever, however, sounded rather strange in the ears of the joyous group,

228

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

and threw a damp on their spirits. They continued their meetings for some days longer, and regularly sent a deputation at five o’clock to inquire after my health, and I was sometimes favoured with a call from one or more of the members, between two and three in the morning, when they separated. The mornings after such visits, I was almost sure to have to provide new knockers and bell handles for all the people on the stair. Finding, however, that I still grew worse, they had the generosity to discontinue their sittings, and to declare, that they would not meet again, until their poet was able to join them, and if that should never happen, they would never meet again. This motion (which was made by a newly-initiated member, Mr John Ballantyne,) was hailed with plaudits of approbation, and from that hour to this the Right and Wrong Club never again met. It was high time that it should have been given up, for one term at least. It proved a dear club to me. I was three weeks confined to bed, and if it had not been Dr Saunders, I believe I would have died. Its effects turned out better with several of the other members, as it produced a number of happy marriages. During the period of high excitation, the lads wrote flaming love-letters to young ladies of their acquaintances, containing certain proffers, which, with returning reflection, they found they could not with propriety retract. It made some of them do the wisest acts that ever they did in their lives. This brings me to an anecdote which I must relate, though with little credit to myself; one that I never reflect on but with feelings of respect, admiration, and gratitude. I formerly mentioned, that I had quarrelled with Mr Walter Scott. It is true, I had all the quarrel on my own side; no matter for that, I was highly offended, exceedingly angry, and shunned all communication with him for a twelvemonth. He heard that I was ill, and that my trouble had assumed a dangerous aspect. Every day, on his return from the Parliament-House, he called at Messrs Grieve & Scott’s to inquire after my health, with much friendly solicitude. And this too, after I had renounced his friendship, and told him that I held both it and his literary talents in contempt. One day in particular, he took Mr Grieve aside, and asked him if I had proper attendants and an able physician; Mr Grieve assured him that I was carefully attended to, and had the skill of a professional gentleman, in whom I had the most implicit confidence. “I would fain have called,” said he, “but I knew not how I would be received; I request, however, that he may have every proper attendance, and want for nothing that can contribute to the restoration of his health. And in particular, I have to request that you will let no pecuniary consideration whatever, prevent his having the best medi-

1821 VERSION

229

cal advice in Edinburgh, for I shall see it paid. Poor Hogg, I would not for all that I am worth in the world, that any thing serious should befall him.” As Mr Grieve had been enjoined, he never mentioned this circumstance to me; I accidentally, however, came to the knowledge of it some months afterwards; I then questioned him as to the truth of it, when he told me it all, very much affected. I went straight home, and wrote an apology to Mr Scott, which was heartily received, and he invited me to breakfast next morning, adding, that he was longing much to see me. The same day, as we were walking round St Andrew Square, I endeavoured to make the cause of our difference the subject of conversation, but he eluded it. I tried it again some days afterwards, sitting in his study, but he again parried it with equal dexterity; so that I have been left to conjecture what could be his motive in refusing so peremptorily the trifle that I had asked of him. I know him too well to have the least suspicion that there could be any selfish or unfriendly feeling in the determination that he adopted, and I can account for it in no other way, than by supposing, that he thought it mean in me to attempt either to acquire gain, or a name, by the efforts of other men; and that it was much more honourable, to use a proverb of his own, “that every herring should hang by its own head.” Mr Wilson once drove me also into an ungovernable rage, by turning a long and elaborate poem of mine, on The Field of Waterloo, into ridicule, on which I sent him a letter, which I thought was a tickler. There was scarcely an abusive epithet in our language, that I did not call him by. My letter, however, had not the designed effect: the opprobrious names proved only a source of amusement to Wilson, and he sent me a letter of explanation and apology, which knit my heart closer to him than ever. My friends in general, have been of opinion, that he has amused himself and the public too often at my expense; but, except in one instance, which terminated very ill for me, and in which I had no more concern than the man in the moon, I never discerned any evil design on his part, and thought it all excellent sport. At the same time, I must acknowledge, that it was using too much freedom with any author, to print his name in full, to poems, letters, and essays, which he himself never saw. I do not say that he has done this, but either he or some one else has done it many a time. My next literary undertaking, was the Jacobite Relics of Scotland, the first volume of which I published in 1819, reserving the second volume until the present year, in the hope of collecting every

230

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

remnant that was worthy of preservation. The task has been exceedingly troublesome, but far from being unmixed with pleasure. In the interim between the publication of the first and second volumes I collected and arranged T HE W INTER E VENING T ALES for publication, which were published by Oliver & Boyd last year, in two volumes, closely printed. The greater part of these Tales were written in early life, when I was serving as a shepherd lad among the mountains, and on looking them over, I saw well enough that there was a blunt rusticity about them; but I liked them the better for it, and altered nothing. To me they appeared not only more characteristic of the life that I then led, but also of the manners that I was describing. As to the indelicacies hinted at by some reviewers, I do declare such a thought never entered into my mind, so that the public are indebted for these indelicacies to the acuteness of the discoverers. Wo be to that reader who goes over a simple and interesting tale fishing for indelicacies, without calculating on what is natural for the characters with whom he is conversing, a practice, however, too common among people of the present age, especially if the author be not a blue-stocking. All that I can say for myself in general is, that I am certain I never intentionally meant ill, and that I hope to be forgiven, both by God and man, for every line that I have written injurious to the cause of religion, of virtue, or of good manners. On the other hand, I am so ignorant of the world, that it can scarcely be expected I should steer clear of all inadvertencies. The following list of works may appear trifling in the eyes of some, but when it is considered that they have been produced by a man almost devoid of education, and in a great degree, in his early days, debarred from every advantage in life, and possessed only of a quick eye in observing the operations of nature, it is certainly a sufficient excuse for inserting them here, more especially as some of them run a great risk of being lost. I am proud of it myself, and I do not deny it, nor is there one in the list, for the contents of which I have any reason to blush, when all things are taken to account. I was forty years of age before I began to write the Queen’s Wake. That poem was published in 1813; so that in the last seven years, I have written and published Vols.

The Queen’s Wake . . . . . . . . . . . . Pilgrims of The Sun . . . . . . . . . . Hunting of Badlewe . . . . . . . . . Mador of the Moor . . . . . . . . . . . Poetic Mirror . . . . . . . . . . . . .

. . . . .

1 1 1 1 1

231

1821 VERSION

Dramatic Tales . . . . . . . . . . . Brownie of Bodsbeck . . . . . . . . Winter Evening Tales . . . . . . . . Sacred Melodies . . . . . . . . . . Border Garland, No I . . . . . . . Jacobite Relics of Scotland . . . .

. . . . . .

. . . . . .

. . . . . .

2 2 2 1 1 2 —— 15 Making fifteen volumes in seven years, besides many articles in periodical works. Previous to that period, I had produced the following work, which I meant to have been chiefly ballads and tales, but which I was obliged to eke out with such things as I had. Most of the miscellaneous matter is now, however, cancelled, and two or three ballads added in their place, to make the work somewhat uniform. T HE S PY , in one volume quarto. T HE F OREST M INSTREL. H OGG O N S HEEP, and another notable work, published about the end of the last century, entitled PASTORALS , P OEMS, & C. by James Hogg, a tenant in Ettrick, mentioned in the former part of this memoir, making, with the preceding list, twenty volumes in all. I omitted to mention formerly, that in 1815, I was applied to by a celebrated composer of music, in the name of a certain company in London, to supply verses, suiting some ancient Hebrew Melodies, selected in the synagogues of Germany. I proffered to furnish them at a guinea a stanza, which was agreed to at once, and I furnished verses to them all. The work was published in a splendid style, price one guinea, but it was a hoax upon me, for I was never paid a farthing. The Border Garland consists of nine songs, with the symphonies and accompaniments; to these I intend adding a number occasionally, if I can hit upon songs and airs that please me, so as to make by degrees a creditable work. In this short memoir, which is composed of extracts from a larger detail, I have confined myself to such anecdotes only, as relate to my progress as a writer, and these I intend continuing from year to year as long as I live. There is much that I have written that cannot as yet appear; for the literary men of Scotland, my contemporaries, may change their characters, so as to disgrace the estimate at which I have set them, and my social companions may alter their habits. Of my own productions, I have endeavoured to give an opinion, with perfect candour; and, although the partiality of an author may be too apparent in the preceding pages, yet I trust every generous heart will excuse the failing, and make due allowance.

232

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

1821 VERSION

The Mountain Bard

233

234

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

1821 VERSION

235

Sir David Graeme A NY person who has read the Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border with attention, must have observed what a singular degree of interest and feeling the simple ballad of “The twa Corbies” impresses upon the mind, which is rather increased than diminished by the unfinished state in which the story is left. It appears as if the bard had found his powers of description inadequate to a detail of the circumstances attending the fatal catastrophe, without suffering the interest already roused to subside, and had artfully consigned it over to the fancy of every reader to paint it what way he chose; or else that he lamented the untimely fate of a knight, whose base treatment he durst not otherwise make known than in that short parabolical dialogue. That the original is not improved in the following ballad, will too manifestly appear upon perusal; I think it, however, but just to acknowledge, that the idea was suggested to me by reading “The twa Corbies.”

T HE dow flew east, the dow flew west, The dow flew far ayont the fell; An’ sair at e’en she seemed distrest, But what perplex’d her could not tell But aye she coo’d wi’ mournfu’ croon An’ ruffled a’ her feathers fair; An’ lookit sad as she war boun’ To leave the land for evermair. The lady wept, an some did blame, She didnae blame the bonnie dow, But sair she blamed Sir David Graeme, Because the knight had broke his vow. For he had sworn by the starns sae bright, An’ by their bed on the dewy green, To meet her there on St Lambert’s night, Whatever dangers lay between. To risk his fortune an’ his life In bearing her frae her father’s towers, To gie her a’ the lands o’ Dryfe, An’ the Enzie-holm wi’ its bonnie bowers.

5

10

15

20

236

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

The day arrived, the evening came, The lady looked wi’ wistful ee; But, O, alas! her noble Graeme Frae e’en to morn she didna see. An’ she has sat her down an’ grat; The warld to her like a desert seemed; An’ she wyted this, an’ she wyted that, But o’ the real cause never dreamed. The sun had drunk frae Keilder fell, His beverage o’ the morning dew; The deer had crouched her in the dell, The heather oped its bells o’ blue; The lambs were skipping on the brae, The laverock hiche attour them sung, An’ aye she hailed the jocund day, Till the wee, wee tabors o’ heaven rung. The lady to her window hied, An’ it opened owre the banks o’ Tyne, “An’, O, alak!” she said, an’ sighed, “Sure ilka breast is blyth but mine!

25

30

35

40

“Where hae ye been, my bonnie dow, That I hae fed wi’ the bread an’ wine? As roving a’ the country through, O, saw ye this fause knight o’ mine?” The dow sat down on the window tree, An’ she carried a lock o’ yellow hair; Then she perched upon that lady’s knee, An’ carefully she placed it there. “What can this mean? This lock’s the same That aince was mine. Whate’er betide, This lock I gae to Sir David Graeme, The flower of a’ the Border side. “He might hae sent it by squire or page, An’ no letten the wily dow steal’t awa; ’ Tis a matter for the lore and the counsels of age, But the thing I canna read ata’. ”

45

50

55

1821 VERSION

The dow flew east, the dow flew west, The dow she flew far ayont the fell, An’ back she came, wi’ panting breast, Ere the ringing o’ the castle bell.

237

60

She lighted ahiche on the holly-tap, An she cried, “cur-dow,” an’ fluttered her wing ; Then flew into that lady’s lap, An’ there she placed a diamond ring. “What can this mean? This ring is the same That aince was mine. Whate’er betide, This ring I gae to Sir David Graeme, The flower of a’ the Border side. “He sends me back the love tokens true! Was ever poor maiden perplexed like me? ’Twould seem he’s reclaimed his faith an’ his vow, But all is fauldit in mystery.” An’ she has sat her down an’ grat, The world to her a desart seemed; An’ she wyted this, an’ she wyted that, But o’ the real cause never dreamed. When, lo! Sir David’s trusty hound, Wi’ humpling back, an’ a waefu’ ee, Came cringing in an’ lookit around, But his look was hopeless as could be.

65

70

75

80

He laid his head on that lady’s knee, An’ he lookit as somebody he would name, An’ there was a language in his howe e’e, That was stronger than a tongue could frame. She fed him wi’ the milk an’ the bread, An’ ilka good thing that he wad hae; He lickit her hand, he coured his head, Then slowly, slowly he slunkered away. But she has eyed her fause knight’s hound, An’ a’ to see where he wad gae: He whined, an’ he howled, an’ lookit around, Then slowly, slowly he trudged away.

85

90

238

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

Then she’s casten aff her coal-black shoon, An’ her bonnie silken hose, sae glancin’ an’ sheen, She kiltit her wilye coat an broidered gown, An’ away she has linkit over the green. She followed the hound owre muirs an’ rocks, Through mony a dell an’ dowie glen, Till frae her brow an’ bonnie goud locks, The dew dreepit down like the drops o’ rain.

95

100

An’ ay she said, “My love may be hid, An’ darena come to the castle to me; But him I will find and dearly I’ll chide, For lack o’ stout heart an’ courtesye. “But ae kind press to his manly breast, An’ ae kind kiss in the moorland glen, Will weel atone for a’ that is past. O wae to the paukie snares o’ men! ” An’ aye she eyed the gray sloth-hound, As he windit owre Deadwater fell, Till he came to the den wi’ the moss inbound, An’ O, but it kythed a lonesome dell! An’ he waggit his tail, an’ he fawned about, Then he coured him down sae wearilye; “Ah! yon’s my love, I hae found him out, He’s lying waiting in the dell for me. “To meet a knight near the fall of night Alone in this untrodden wild, It scarcely becomes a lady bright, But I’ll vow that the hound my steps beguiled.”

105

110

115

120

Alak! whatever a maiden may say, True has’t been said, an’ aften been sung, The e’e her heart’s love will betray, An’ the secret will sirple frae her tongue. “What ails my love, that he looks nae roun’, A lady’s stately step to view; Ah me! I hae neither stockings nor shoon, An’ my feet are sae white wi’ the moorland dew!

125

1821 VERSION

“Sae sound as he sleeps in his hunting gear, To waken him great pity would be; Deaf is the man that caresna to hear, An’ blind is he wha wantsna to see.” Sae saftly she treads the wee green swaird, Wi’ the lichens an’ the ling a’ fringed around. “My e’en are darkened wi’ some wul-weird, What ails my love, he sleeps sae sound.” She gae ae look, she needit but ane, For it left nae sweet uncertaintye; She saw a wound through his shoulder bane, An’ in his brave breast two or three.

239 130

135

140

There wasna sic e’en on the Border green, As the piercing e’en o’ Sir David Graeme; She glisked wi’ her e’e where these e’en should be, But the raven had been there afore she came. There’s a cloud that fa’s darker than the night, An’ darkly on that lady it came; There’s a sleep as deep as the sleep outright,— ’Tis without a feeling or a name. ’Tis a dull an’ a dreamless lethargye, For the spirit strays owre vale an’ hill, An’ the bosom is left a vacancy, An’ when it comes back it is darker still. O shepherd, lift that comely corpse, Well may you see no wound is there, There’s a faint rose mid the bright dew drops, An’ they have not wet her glossy hair. There’s a lady has lived in Howswood tower, ’Tis seven years past on St Lambert’s day, An’ aye when comes the vesper hour These words an’ no more can she say. “They slew my love on the wild swaird green, As he was on his way to me, An’ the ravens picked his bonnie blue e’en, An’ the tongue that was formed for courtesye.

145

150

155

160

240

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

“My brothers they slew my comely knight, An’ his grave is red blood to the brim I thought to have slept out the lang, lang night, But they’ve wakened me, an’ wakened not him!”

165

Notes to Sir David Graeme The dow flew east, the dow flew west.—v. 1. I borrowed the above line from a beautiful old rhyme which I have often heard my mother repeat, but of which she knew no tradition; and from this introduction the part of the dove naturally arose. The rhyme runs thus: The heron flew east, the heron flew west, The heron flew to the fair forest, For there she saw a lovely bower, Was a’ clad o’er wi’ lily-flower, And in the bower there was a bed, Wi’ silken sheets, an’ weel down spread, And in the bed there lay a knight, Whose wounds did bleed both day and night; And by the bed there stood a stane, And there was set a leal maiden, With silver needle and silken thread, Stemming the wounds when did they bleed.— To gie her a’ the lands o’ Dryfe.—v. 5. The river Dryfe forms the south east district of Annandale; on its banks the ruins of the tower of Græme still remain in considerable uniformity. The sun had drunk frae Keilder fell, His beverage of the morning dew.—v. 8. Keilder fells are those hills which lie eastward of the sources of North Tyne. When, lo! Sir David’s trusty hound, Wi’ humpling back an’ a waefu’ ee.—v. 20. It is not long ago since a shepherd’s dog watched his corpse in the snow among the mountains of this country, until nearly famished, and at last led to the discovery of the body of his disfigured master.

1821 VERSION

241

The Pedlar THIS ballad is founded on a fact, which has been magnified by popular credulity and superstition into the terrible story which follows. It is here related, according to the best informed old people about Ettrick, as nearly as is consistent with the method pursued in telling it. I need not inform the reader, that every part of it is believed by them to be absolute truth.

’TWAS late, late, late on a Saturday’s night, The moon was set, an’ the wind was lown; The lazy mist crap down frae the height, An’ the dim blue lowe glimmered laigh on the downe. O’er the rank scented fen the bleeter was warping, High on the black muir the foxes did howl, All by the lone hearth the cricket sat harping, An’ far on the air came the notes o’ the owl. The lin it was rowting adown frae the height, An’ the water was soughin, sae goustilye:— O it was sic an eeriesome Saturday night, As ane in a lifetime hardly wad see. When the lady o’ Thirlestane rose in her sleep, An’ she shrieked sae loud that her maid ran to see; Her een they were set, an’ her voice it was deep, An’ she shook like the leaf o’ the aspin tree. “O where is the pedlar I drave frae the ha’, That pled sae sair to tarry wi’ me?” “He’s gane to the mill, for the miller sells ale, An’ the pedlar’s as weel as a man can be.”

5

10

15

20

“I wish he had staid, he sae earnestly prayed, An’ he hight a braw pearling in present to gie; But I was sae hard, that I could na regard, Tho’ I saw the saut tear trickle fast frae his ee. “But O what a terrible vision I’ve seen, The pedlar a’ mangled—most shocking to see! An’ he gapit, an’ waggit, an’ stared wi’ his een, An’ he seemed to lay a’ the blame upo’ me!

25

242

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

“I fear that in life he will ne’er mair be seen, An’ the very suspicion o’t terrifies me: I wadna hae siccan a vision again, For a’ the gude kye upon Thirlestane lee. “Yet wha wad hae heart the poor pedlar to kill? O Grizzy, my girl, will ye gang an’ see? If the pedlar is safe, an’ alive at the mill, A merk o’ gude money I’ll gie unto thee.” “O lady, ’tis dark, an’ I heard the dead bell; An’ I darena gae yonder for goud nor fee: But the miller has lodgings might serve yoursel, An’ the pedlar’s as weel as a pedlar can be.”

30

35

40

She sat till day, an’ she sent wi’ fear,— The miller said there he never had been; She went to the kirk, an’ speered for him there, But the pedlar in life was never mair seen. Frae aisle to aisle she lookit wi’ care; Frae pew to pew she hurried her een, An’ a’ to see if the pedlar was there, But the pedlar in life was never mair seen. But late, late, late, on a Saturday’s night, As the laird was walking alang the lee, A silly auld pedlar came by on his right, An’ a muckle green pack on his shoulders had he. “O where are ye gaun, ye beggarly loun? Ye’s nouther get lodging nor sale frae me.” He turned him about, an’ the blude it ran down, An’ his throat was a’ hackered, an’ ghastly was he. Then straight wi’ a sound he sank i’ the ground, An’ a fire-flaught out o’ the place did flee, To try a bit prayer the laird clappet down, As flat an’ as feared as a body could be. He fainted:—but soon as he gathered his breath, He tauld what a terrible sight he had seen: The devil a’ woundit, an’ bleedin’ to death, In shape o’ a pedlar upo’ the mill green.

45

50

55

60

1821 VERSION

243

The lady she shriekit, the door it was steekit, 65 The servants were glad that the devil was gane, But ilk Saturday’s night, when faded the light, Near the mill-house the poor bleeding pedlar was seen. An’ aye when passengers by were gaun, A doolfu’ voice came frae the mill-ee, At the turn o’ the night when the clock struck one, Cryin’, “O Rob Riddle, hae mercy on me!” The place was harassed, the mill was laid waste, The miller he fled to a far countrye; But aye at e’en the pedlar was seen, An’ at midnight the voice came frae the mill-ee. The lady frae hame wad never mair budge, From the time that the sun gade over the hill; An’ now she had a’ the puir bodies to lodge, As nane durst gae on for the ghost o’ the mill.

70

75

80

But the minister there was a body o’ skill, Nae feared for devil or spirit was he; An’ he’s gane awa to watch at the mill, To try if this turbulent ghaist he could see. He prayed an’ he read, an’ he sent them to bed, An’ the Bible anunder his arm took he, An’ round an’ round the mill-house he gade, To try if this terrible sight he could see. Wi’ a shivering groan the pedlar came on, An’ the muckle green pack on his shoulders had he; But he nouther had flesh, blude, nor bone, For the moon shone through his thin bodye. The ducks they whackit, the dogs they yowled, The herons they skraiched maist piteouslie; An’ the horses they snorkit for miles around, While the priest an’ the pedlar together might be. The minister opened the haly book, An’ charged him by a’ the Sacred Three, To tell why that ghastly figure he took, To terrify a’ the hale countrye.

85

90

95

100

244

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

The pedlar he opened his fleshless gums, An’ siccan a voice ne’er strack the ear, It was like the stound an’ whistling sound Of the crannied wind at midnight drear. “O weel,” he said, “may I rise frae the dead, Guilt presses the hardest nearest hame; An’ here ’tis sae new that ye a’ may rue, An’ yon proud lady was a’ the blame. “My body was butchered within that mill, My banes lie under the inner mill-wheel, An’ here my spirit maun wander, until Some crimes an’ villanies I can reveal: “I robbed my niece of three hundred pounds, Which Providence suffered me not to enjoy; For the sake of that money I gat my death’s wounds; The miller me kend, but he missed his ploy. “The money lies buried on Balderstone hill, Beneath the mid bourack o’ three times three. O gie’t to the owners, kind sir, an’ it will Bring wonderfu’ comfort an’ rest unto me.

105

110

115

120

“’ Tis drawing to day, nae mair I can say, My message I trust, good father, with thee; If the black cock should craw, when I am awa, O weary, an’ weary! what wad come o’ me?” Wi’ a sound like a horn away he was borne; The grass was a’ fired where the spirit had been; An’ certain it is, from that day to this, The ghost o’ the pedlar was never mair seen. The mill was repaired, an’ low i’ the yird, The banes lay under the inner mill-wheel; The box an’ the ellwand beside him war hid, An’ mony a thimble an’ mony a seal. Must the scene of iniquity cursed remain? Can this bear the stamp of the heavenly seal? Yet certain it is, from that day to this, The millers o’ Thirlestane ne’er hae done weel.

125

130

135

1821 VERSION

But there was an auld mason wha wrought at the mill, In rules o’ Providence skilfu’ was he; He keepit a bane o’ the pedlar’s heel, An’ a queerer wee bane you never did see.

245

140

The miller had fled to the forest o’ Jed; But time had now grizzled his haffets wi’ snaw; He was crookit an’ auld, an’ his head was turned bald, Yet his joke he could brik wi’ the best o’ them a’. Away to the Border the mason he ran, To try wi’ the bane if the miller was fey; And into a smiddie wi’ mony a man, He fand him a gaffin fu’ gaily that day. The mason he crackit, the mason he taukit, Of a’ curiosities mighty an’ mean; Then pu’d out the bane, an’ declared there was nane Who in Britain had ever the equal o’t seen. Then ilka ane took it, an’ ilka ane lookit, An’ ilka ane ca’d it a comical bane; To the miller it goes, wha, wi’ specks on his nose, To hae an’ to view it was wondrous fain. But what was his horror, as leaning he stood, An’ what the surprise o’ his cronies around, When the little wee bane fell a streamin wi’ blood, Which dyed a’ his fingers, an’ ran to the ground!

145

150

155

160

They charged him wi’ murder, an’ a’ the hale crew Cried the truth should be told should they bring it frae hell, A red goad o’ airn frae the fire they drew, An’ they swore they wad spit him unless he wad tell. “O hald,” said the mason, “for how can this be! You’ll find you’re all out when the truth I reveal; At fair Thirlestane I gat this wee bane, Deep buried anunder the inner mill-wheel.” “O God !” said the wretch, wi’ the tear in his ee, “O pity a creature lang doomed to despair; A silly auld pedlar, wha begged of me For mercy, I murdered, and buried him there!”

165

170

246

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

To Jeddart they hauled the auld miller wi’ speed, An’ they hangit him dead on a high gallows-tree; An’ afterwards they in full counsel agreed, That Rob Riddle he richly deserved to dee. The thief may escape the lash an’ the rape, The liar an’ swearer their vile hides may save, The wrecker of unity pass with impunity, But whan gat the murd’rer in peace to his grave?

175

180

Ca’t not superstition, if reason you find it, Nor laugh at a story attestit sae weel; For lang will the facts i’ the Forest be mindit, O’ the ghaist an’ the bane o’ the pedlar’s heel.

Notes to The Pedlar When the lady o’ Thirlestane rose in her sleep.—v. 4. The lady here alluded to was the second wife of Sir Robert Scott, the last knight of Thirlestane, of whom the reader shall hear further. Thirlestane is situated high on the Ettrick, and was the baronial castle of the Scotts of Thirlestane. It is now the property of the Right Honourable Lord Napier, who wears the arms of that ancient house. The mill is still on the old site. O lady, ’tis dark, an’ I heard the dead-bell ! An’ I darena gae yonder for goud nor fee.—v. 10. By the dead-bell is meant a tinkling in the ears, which our peasantry in the country regard as a secret intelligence of some friend’s decease. Thus this natural occurrence srikes many with a superstitious awe. This reminds me of a trifling anecdote, which I will here relate as an instance. Our two servantgirls agreed to go an errand of their own, one night after supper, to a considerable distance, from which I strove to persuade them, but could not prevail. So, after going to the apartment where I slept, I took a drinking-glass, and, coming close to the back of the door, made two or three sweeps round the lips of the glass with my finger, which caused a loud shrill sound. I then overheard the following dialogue.— B. “Ah, mercy! the dead-bell went through my head just now with such a knell as I never heard.” J. “I heard it too.” B. “Did you indeed? That is remarkable. I never knew of two hearing it at the same time before.” J. “We will not go to Midgehope to-night.” B. “I would not go for all the world. I shall warrant it is my poor brother Wat: who knows what these wild Irishes may have done to him?” Amongst people less conversant in the manners of the cottage than I have

1821 VERSION

247

been, it may reasonably be suspected that I am prone to magnify these vulgar superstitions, in order to give countenance to several of them hinted at in the ballads. Therefore, as this book is designed solely for amusement, I hope I shall be excused for here detailing a few more of them, which still linger amongst the wilds of the country to this day, and which I have been an eye-witness to a thousand times; and from these the reader may judge what they must have been in the times to which these ballads refer. In addition to the dead-bell.—If one of the ears is at any time seized with a glowing heat, which may very easily happen, if exposed to a good fire or a strong wind, they straight conclude that some person is talking of them. They then turn to such as are near them, and put the following question: “Right lug, left lug, whilk lug glows? ” That person immediately guesseth; and if the one that glows is hit upon, they say, “You love me better than they who talk of me;” and so conclude they are all ill spoken of. But if the guesser hits upon the wrong lug, they say, “You love me worse than they who talk of me;” and rest satisfied that some person is saying good of them.When the nostrils itch, they are sure to hear tell of some person being dead; and the death-watch, the deathtap, and the death-swap, which last is a loud sharp stroke, are still current; whilst the belief in wraiths, ghaists, and bogles, is little or nothing abated. When they sneeze on first stepping out of bed in the morning, they are thence certified that strangers will be there in the course of the day, in number corresponding to the times they sneeze; and if a feather, a straw, or any such thing, be observed hanging at a dog’s nose or beard, they call that a guest, and are sure of the approach of a stranger. If it hang long at the dog’s nose, the visitant is to stay long; but if it fall instantly away, the person is to stay a short time. They judge also, from the length of this guest, what will be the size of the real one, and from its shape, whether it will be a man or a woman: and they watch carefully on what part of the floor it drops, as it is on that very spot the stranger will sit. And there is scarcely a shepherd in the whole country, who, if he chances to find one of his f lock dead on a Sabbath, is not thence assured that he will have two or three more in the course of the week. During the season that ewes are milked, the bught door is always carefully shut at even; and the reason they assign for this is, that when it is negligently left open, the witches and fairies never miss the opportunity of dancing in it all night. Nothing in the world can be more ridiculous than this supposition; for the bught is commonly so foul, that they are obliged to wade to the ancles in mud, consequently the witches could not find a more inconvenient spot for dancing on the whole farm. Many, however, still adhere to that custom; and I was once present when an old shoe was found in the bught that none of them would claim, and they gravely and rationally concluded that one of the witches had lost it while dancing in the night. When any of them eat an egg, as soon as they have emptied it of its contents, they always crush the shell. An English gentleman asked Mr William Laidlaw why the Scots did that. He, being well acquainted with the old adage, replied, “That it was for fear the witches got them to sail over to Flanders in.” “What though they should?” said he: “Are you so much afraid that the witches should leave you?”

248

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

Whether it proceeds from a certain habit of body in the cattle, from their food, or what is the fundamental cause of it, I cannot tell; but the milk of whole herds of cows is liable at times to a strange infection, whereby it is converted into a tough jelly as soon as it cools from the udder, and is thus rendered loathsome and unfit for use; this being a great loss and grievance to the owner. It will scarcely be believed that there are very many of the families in Ettrick and its vicinity, and some most respectable ones, who have, at some period in the present age, been driven to use very gross incantations for the removal of this from their cattle, which they believe to proceed from witchcraft. The effects of these are so apparent on the milk in future, and so well attested, that the circumstance is of itself sufficient to stagger the resolution of the most obstinate misbeliever in witchcraft, if not finally to convert him. I am not so thoroughly initiated into this mystery as to descibe it minutely; but, in the first place, a fire is set on, and surrounded with green turfs, in which a great number of pins are stuck. A certain portion of the milk of each cow, so infected, is then hung on in a pot, with a horse’s shoe, and a black dish, with its mouth downward, placed in it. The doors are then carefully shut, and the milk continues to boil; and the first person who comes to that house afterwards is always blamed for the mischief. But the poor old women are generally suspected. There are, besides, a number of other freets, too tedious and too common to be minutely described here: such as spilling salt on the ground, or milk in the fire; suffering the dishwater to boil, without putting a peat in it; shavings at candles; thirteen in a company, &c.: all which are ominous, or productive of their particular effects. Many are apt to despise their poor illiterate countrymen for these weak and superstitious notions; but I am still of opinion, that, in the circumstance of their attaching credit to them, there is as much to praise as to blame. Let it be considered, that their means of information have not been adequate to the removal of these; while, on the other hand, they have been used to hear them related, and attested as truths, by the very persons whom they were bound by all the laws of nature and gratitude to reverence and believe. An’ aye when passengers by were gaun, A doolfu’ voice came frae the mill-e’e, On Saturday’s night, when the clock struck one, Cryin’, “O Rob Riddle, hae mercy on me! ”—v. 18. In addition to this cry of despair, which was sometimes heard from the mill, it was common for the ghost to go down to the side of the mill-dam at a certain hour of the night, calling out, “Ho, Rob Riddle, come home to your supper; your sowens are cold!” To account for this, tradition adds, that the miller confessed at his death, that the pedlar came down to the mill to inform him that it was wearing late, and that he must come home to his supper; and that he took that opportunity to murder him. At other times it was heard crying in a lamentable voice, “O saw ye ought of John Waters? Nobody has seen John Waters!” This, it seems, was the pedlar’s name.

1821 VERSION

249

The place was harassed, the mill was laid waste.—v. 19. To such a height did the horror of this apparition arrive in Ettrick, that it is certain there are few in the parish who durst go to or by the mill after sunset: but, unlike many of the country bogles, which assume a variety of fantastical shapes, this never appeared otherwise than in the shape of a pedlar with a green pack on his back; and so simple and natural was his whole deportment, that few ever suspected him for the spirit, until he vanished away. He once came so near two men in the twilight, that they familiarly offered him snuff, when he instantly sunk into the earth, and left his companions in a state of insensibility. But the minister there was a body o’ skill, Nae feared for devil or spirit was he.—v. 21. The great and worthy Mr Boston was the person who is said to have laid this ghost; and the people of Ettrick are much disappointed at finding no mention made of it in his memoirs: but some, yet alive, have heard John Corry, who was his servant, tell the following story.—One Saturday afternoon Mr Boston came to him and said, “John, you must rise early on Monday, and get a kilnful of oats dried before day.”—“You know very well, master,” said John, “that I dare not for my breath go to the mill before day.”—“John,” said he, “I tell you to go, and I will answer for it, that nothing shall molest you.” John, who revered his master, went away, determined to obey; “but that very night,” said John, “he went to the mill, prayed with the family, and staid very late, but charged them not to mention it.” On Monday morning John arose at two o’clock, took a horse, and went to the mill, which is scarcely a mile below the kirk; and about a bowshot west of the mill, Mr Boston came running by him, buttoned in his great coat, but was so wrapt in thought, that he neither perceived his servant nor his horse. When he came home at even, Mr Boston said to him, “Well, John, have you seen the pedlar?” “No, no, sir,” said John, “there was nothing troubled me; but I saw that you were yonder before me this morning.” “I did not know that you saw me,” said he, “nor did I wish to be seen, John; therefore say nothing of it.” This was in March, and in May following the mill was repaired, when the remains of the pedlar and his pack were actually found, and the hearts of the poor people set at ease: for it is a received opinion, that if the body, or bones, or any part, of a murdered person are found, the ghost is then at rest, and that it leaves mankind to find out the rest. I shall only mention another instance of this. There is a place below Yarrow Kirk called Bell’s Lakes, which was for a great number of years the terror of the whole neighbourhood, from a supposition that it was haunted by a ghost: I believe the Bogle of Bell’s Lakes has been heard of through a great part of the south of Scotland. It happened at length, that a man and his wife were casting peats at Craighope-head, a full mile from the Lakes; and coming to a loose place in the morass, his spade slipped lightly down, and stuck fast in something below; but judge of their suprise, when, on pulling it out, a man’s head stuck on it, with long auburn hair, and so fresh, that every feature was distinguishable. This happened in the author’s remembrance; and it was sup-

250

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

posed that it was the head of one Adam Hyslop, who had evanished about forty years before, and was always supposed to have left the country. Since that discovery, however, Bell’s Lakes have been as free of bogles as any other place. He prayed, an’ he read, an’ he sent them to bed; Then the Bible anunder his arm took he, An’ round an’ round the mill-house he gade, To try if this terrible sight he could see.—v. 22. A story similiar to this of Mr Boston and the pedlar, is told of a contemporary of his, the Rev. Henry Davieson of Galashiels.—The ghost of an old wicked laird of Buckholm, in that parish, who had died a long time previous to that period, so haunted and harassed the house, that they could not get a servant to stay about it: whereupon, in compliance with the earnest entreaties of the family, Mr Davieson went up one night to speak to and rebuke it. After supper he prayed with the family, and then charged them all, as they valued their peace, to go quietly to their beds. This injunction they all obeyed; but one lady lay down without undressing, and, from a small aperture in the partition which separated her chamber from the apartment in which he was left, watched all his motions. She said that he searched long in the Bible, and folded down leaves in certain places. He then kneeled and prayed; and afterwards taking the Bible, and putting his fingers in at the places he had marked, he took it below his arm and went out. That, prompted by curiosity, she followed him, unperceived, through several of the haunted lanes. That she sometimes heard him muttering, but saw nothing. When he came to his chamber, he acted the same scene over again; and she followed him at a distance round all the town, as before. That when he came to his chamber the third time, he prayed with greater fervency than ever; and when he rose, and took the Bible to go out, his looks were so stern and severe, that she was awed at the very sight of them; and on following him out of the court-yard, she was seized with an involuntary terror, and fled back to her apartment. When the family assembled next morning to prayers, he conjured them to tell him who of them were out of bed last night; and the rest all denying, the lady confessed the whole. “I knew,” said he, “ there was somebody watching me, at which I was troubled: but it was lucky for you that you did not follow me the third time; for, had you seen what I saw, you had never been yourself again. But you may now safely go out and in, up stairs and down stairs, at all hours of the night; for you will never more be troubled with old Buckholm.” Whether these traditions have taken their origin from a much earlier period, and have, by later generations, been brought down and ascribed to these well-known characters; or whether these worthy men, in commiseration of the ideal sufferings of their visionary parishioners, have really condescended to these sham watchings, it is not now easy to determine. But an age singular as that was for devotion, would readily be as much so for superstition; for, even to this day, the country people who have the deepest sense of religion are always those who believe most firmly in supernatural agency.

1821 VERSION

251

Yet certain it is, from that day to this, The millers of Thirlestane have never done weel.—v. 34. Though a pretext can scarcely be found in the annals of superstition sufficient to authorise the ascribing of this to the murder of the pedlar so many ages before, yet the misfortunes attending the millers of Thirlestane are so obvious as to have become proverbial: and when any of the neighbours occasionally mention this, along with it the murder of the pedlar is always hinted at. And it is scarcely thirty years since one of the millers was tried for his life, for scoring a woman whom he supposed a witch. He had long suspected her as the cause of all the misfortunes attending him, and, enticing her into the kiln one Sabbath evening, he seized her forcibly, and cut the shape of the cross on her forehead. This is called scoring aboon the breath, and overthrows their power of doing any further mischief. An’ afterwards they in full council agreed That Rob Riddle he richly deserved to dee.—v. 44. This alludes to an old and very common proverb, “That such a one will get Jeddart justice:” which is, first to hang a man, and then judge whether he was guilty or not.

Gilmanscleuch Founded upon an Ancient Family Tradition “WHAIR hae ye laid the goud, Peggye, Ye gat on New-yeir’s-day? I lookit ilka day to see Ye drest in fine array; “But nouther kirtle, cap, nor gowne, To Peggye has come hame. Whair hae ye stowed the goud, dochter? I fear ye hae been to blame.” “My goud it was my ain, father; A gift is ever free; An’ when I need my goud agene, It winna be tint to me.” “O hae ye sent it to a friend? Or lent it to a fae? Or gien it to some fause leman, To breed ye mickle wae?”

5

10

15

1821 VERSION

251

Yet certain it is, from that day to this, The millers of Thirlestane have never done weel.—v. 34. Though a pretext can scarcely be found in the annals of superstition sufficient to authorise the ascribing of this to the murder of the pedlar so many ages before, yet the misfortunes attending the millers of Thirlestane are so obvious as to have become proverbial: and when any of the neighbours occasionally mention this, along with it the murder of the pedlar is always hinted at. And it is scarcely thirty years since one of the millers was tried for his life, for scoring a woman whom he supposed a witch. He had long suspected her as the cause of all the misfortunes attending him, and, enticing her into the kiln one Sabbath evening, he seized her forcibly, and cut the shape of the cross on her forehead. This is called scoring aboon the breath, and overthrows their power of doing any further mischief. An’ afterwards they in full council agreed That Rob Riddle he richly deserved to dee.—v. 44. This alludes to an old and very common proverb, “That such a one will get Jeddart justice:” which is, first to hang a man, and then judge whether he was guilty or not.

Gilmanscleuch Founded upon an Ancient Family Tradition “WHAIR hae ye laid the goud, Peggye, Ye gat on New-yeir’s-day? I lookit ilka day to see Ye drest in fine array; “But nouther kirtle, cap, nor gowne, To Peggye has come hame. Whair hae ye stowed the goud, dochter? I fear ye hae been to blame.” “My goud it was my ain, father; A gift is ever free; An’ when I need my goud agene, It winna be tint to me.” “O hae ye sent it to a friend? Or lent it to a fae? Or gien it to some fause leman, To breed ye mickle wae?”

5

10

15

252

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

“I hae na sent it to a friend, Nor lent it to a fae; An’ never man, without your ken, Sal cause my joye or wae.

20

“I gae it to a poor auld man, Came shivering to the door; An’ when I heard his waesome tale, I wust my treasure more.” “What was the beggar’s tale, Peggye? I fain wald hear it o’er; I fain wald hear that wylie tale That drained thy little store.” “His hair was like the thristle doune, His cheeks were furred wi’ tyme, His beard was like a bush of lyng, When silvered o’er wi’ ryme. “He lifted up his languid eye, Whilk better days had seen; An’ aye he heaved the mournfu’ sigh, An’ the saut teirs fell atween. “He took me by the hands, and saide, While pleasantly he smiled, “ ‘O weel to you, my little flower, That blumes in desart wilde;

25

30

35

40

“ ‘An’ may ye never feel the waes That lang hae followit me, Bereavit of a’ my gudes and gear, My friends and familye! “ ‘In Gilmanscleuch, beneath the heuch, My fathers lang did dwell; Aye formost, under bauld Buccleuch, A foreign fae to quell. “ ‘Ilk petty robber through the lands They taucht to stand in awe, An’ aften checked the plundering bands O’ their kinsman Tushilaw.

45

50

1821 VERSION

“‘But when the bush was in the flush, An’ fairer there was nane, Ae blast did all its honours crush, An’ Gilmanscleuch is gane! “‘I had ane brother lithe an’ stronge, But froward, fierce, an’ keen; Ane only sister, sweet an’ young, Her name was luvely Jean.

253

55

60

“‘Her hair was like the threads of goud, Her cheeks of rosy hue, Her eyne were like the huntin’ hawk’s, That owre the cassel flew. “‘Of fairest fashion was her form, Her skin the driven snaw That’s drifted by the wintery storm On lofty Gilman’s-law. “‘Her browe nae blink of scorninge wore, Her teeth were ivorie, Her lips the little purple floure That blumes on Bailley-lee. “‘O true true was the reade that said That beauty’s but a snare! Young Jock o’ Harden her betrayed, Whilk grievit us wonder sair. “‘My brother Adam stormed in wrathe, An’ swore in aungry mood, Either to rychte his dear sister, Or shed the traytor’s blood.

65

70

75

80

“‘I kend his honour fair an’ firm, An’ didna doubt his faithe; But being the youngest o’ seven brethren, To marry he was laithe. “‘When June had decked the braes in grene, An’ flushed the forest tree; When young deers ranne on ilka hill, An’ lambs on ilka lee;

85

254

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

“ ‘A shepherd frae our mountains hied, Ane ill death mot he dee! ‘O master, master, haste!’ he cried, ‘O haste alang wi’ me! ‘Our ewes are banished frae the glen, Their lambs are dri’en away, The fairest raes on Eldin braes Are Jock o’ Harden’s prey. ‘His hounds are ringing through your woods, An’ manye deere are slaine: Ane herd is fled to Douglas-craig, An’ ne’er will turn againe.

90

95

100

‘Your brother Adam, stalworth still, I warned on yon hill side; An’ he’s awa to Yarrow’s banks As fast as he can ride.’ “ ‘O ill betide thy haste, young man! Thou micht hae tald it me: Thou kend, to hunt on all my lande The Harden lads were free. “ ‘Gae saddel me my milk-white steed, Gae saddel him suddenlye; To Yarrow banks I’ll hie wi’ speed, This bauld hunter to see. “ ‘But low low down, on Sundhope broom, My brother Harden spyde, An’ with a stern an’ furious look He up to him did ride. ‘Was’t not enough, thou traytor strong, My sister to betray? That thou shouldst scare my feebil ewes, An’ chase their lambs away. ‘ Thy hounds are ringing through our woods, Our choizest deers are slaine, An’ hundreds fledd to Stuart’s hills, Will ne’er returne againe.’

105

110

115

120

1821 VERSION

‘It setts thee weel, thou haughtye youth, To bend such taunts on me: Oft hae you hunted Harden’s hills, An’ nae man hindered thee.’ ‘But wilt thou wedd my deare sister? Now tell me—ay or nay.’ ‘Nae question will I answer thee, That’s speerit in sic a way. ‘Tak this for truth, I ne’er meant ill To nouther thee nor thine.’ Then spurrit his steed against the hill, Was fleeter than the hynde. “‘He sett a buglet to his mouth, An’ blew baith loude and cleir; A sign to all his merry men Their huntin’ to forbeir.

255 125

130

135

140

‘O turn thee, turn thee, traytor stronge!’ Cried Adam bitterlie; ‘Nae haughtye Scott, of Harden’s kin, Sal proudlye scool on me. ‘Now draw thy sword, or gie thy word, For one of them I’ll have, Or to thy face I’ll thee disgrace, An’ ca’ thee coward knave.’ “‘He sprang frae aff his coal-black steed, An’ tied him to a wande; Then threw his bonnet aff his head, An’ drew his deadlye brande. “‘An’ lang they foucht, an’ sair they foucht, Wi’ swords of mettyl kene, Till clotted blude, in mony a spot, Was sprynkelit on the grene. “‘An’ lang they foucht, an’ sair they foucht; For braiver there were nane. Braive Adam’s thigh was bathit i’ blude, An’ Harden’s coller-bane.

145

150

155

160

256

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

“ ‘Though Adam was baith stark an’ gude, Nae langer could he stande: His hand claive to his hivvye sword, His knees plett lyke the wande. “ ‘He leanit himsel agenst ane aek, Nae mair could act his parte. A wudman then sprang frae the broom, An’ pierced young Harden’s hearte. “ ‘But word or groane he wheelit him round, An’ kluve his heide in twaine; Then calmlye laid him on the grene, Never to rise againe. “ ‘I raide owre heicht, I raide through howe, An’ ferr outstrippit the wynde, An’ sent my voyce the forest through, But naething could I fynde. “ ‘Whan I cam there, the dysmal sychte Mochte melte ane hearte of stane; My brother fent an’ bleiden lay, Young Harden neirlye gane.

165

170

175

180

‘An’ art thou there, O Gilmanscleuch?’ Wi’ faltren tongue he cried; ‘Hadst thou arrivit tyme aneuch, Thy kinsmen hadna died. ‘Be kind unto thy sister Jean, Whatever may betide: This nycht I meant, at Gilmanscleuch, To maik of hir my bryde. ‘But this sad fray, this fatal daye, May breid baith dule an’ payne; My freckle brethren ne’er will staye, Till they’re avengit or slayne.’ “ ‘ The wudman sleips in Sundhope broom, Into a lowlye grave: Young Jock they bure to Harden’s tombe, An’ laide him wi’ the lave.

185

190

195

1821 VERSION

“‘ Thus fell that braive an’ comelye youth, Whose arm was like the steel, Whose very look was open truth, Whose heart was true an’ leel.

257

200

“‘It’s now full three-an’-thirty zeirs Syn that unhappye daye, An’ late I saw his comelye corpse, Without the least decaye. “‘ The garland cross his breist aboon Still held its varied hue; The roses bloomit upon his shoon, As faire as if they grew. “‘I raised our vassals ane an’ a’, Wi’ mickle care an’ payne, Expecting Harden’s furious sons, Wi’ a’ their father’s trayne. “‘But Harden was a weirdly man, A cunning tod was he: He lockit his sons in prison strang, An’ wi’ him bure the key. “‘An’ he’s awa to Holyrood, Amang our nobles a’, With bonnet lyke a girdel braid, An’ hayre like Craighope snaw.

205

210

215

220

“‘His coat was of the forest grene, Wi’ buttons lyke the moon; His breiks were o’ the guid buckskynne, Wi’ a’ the hayre aboon; “‘His twa-hand sword hang round his neck, An’ rattled at his heel; The rowels of his silver spurs Were of the Rippon steel; “‘His hose were braced wi’ chains o’ airn, An’ round wi’ tassels hung: At ilka tramp o’ Harden’s heel, The royal arches rung.

225

230

258

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

“ ‘Sae braid an’ buirdlye was his bouke, His glance sae gruff to bide, Whene’er his braid bonnette appearit, The menialis stepped asyde. “ ‘The courtlye nobles of the north The chief with favour eyed, For Harden’s form an’ Harden’s look Were hard to be denied.

235

240

“ ‘He made his plaint unto our king, An’ magnified the deed; An’ high Buccleuch, with scarce fayre playe, Made Harden better speed. “ ‘Ane grant of all our lands sae fayre, The king to him has gien; An’ a’ the Scotts of Gilmanscleuch Were outlawed ilka ane. “ ‘ The time I missit, an’ never wissit Of siccan a weird for me, Till I got word frae kind Traquare, The country soon to flee; “ ‘Else me an’ mine nae friend wad fynd, But fa’ ane easy preye; While yet my brother weaklye was, An’ scarce could bruik the way. “ ‘Now I hae foucht in foreign fields, In mony a bluidy fray, But langed to see my native hills, Afore my dying day.

245

250

255

260

“ ‘My brother fell in Hungarye, When fighting by my side; My luckless sister bore ane son, But broke hir hearte an’ died. “ ‘ That son, now a’ my earthly care, Of port an’ stature fine: He has thine eye, an’ is thy blude, As weel as he is mine.

265

1821 VERSION

“‘For me, I’m but a puir auld man, Whom nane regards ava. The peaceful grave will end my care, Where I maun shortly fa’.’—“I ga’e him a’ my goud, father, I gat on New-yeir’s-day, An’ welcomed him to Harden-ha’, With us a while to stay.” “My sweet Peggye, my kynde Peggye, Ye aye were dear to me. For ilka bonnet-piece ye ga’e, My love, ye sal hae three.

259 270

275

280

“Auld Gilmanscleuch shall share wi’ me The table an’ the ha’; We’ll tell of a’ our doughty deeds, At hame an’ far awa. “That youth, my hapless brother’s son, Who bears our eye an’ name, Shalle farm the lands of Gilmanscleuch, While Harden halds the same. “Nae rent, nor kane, nor service mean, I’ll ask of him at a’; Only to stand at my ryght hand, When Branxholm gies the ca’. “A Scott muste aye support ane Scott, When as he synketh low; But he that proudlye lifts his heide Muste learne his place to knowe.”

285

290

295

260

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

The Fray of Elibank T HIS ballad is likewise founded on a well-known fact. The particulars are related in the song literally as they happened, and some further explanations are added in the notes.

O

WHA hasna heard o’ the bauld Juden Murray, The lord o’ the Elibank castle sae high? An’ wha hasna heard o’ that notable foray, Whan Willie o’ Harden was catched wi’ the kye?

Auld Harden was ever the king o’ gude fellows, His tables were filled in the room an’ the ha’; But peace on the Border, that thinned his keyloes, An’ want for his lads was the warst thing of a’. Young Harden was bauld of heart as a lion, An’ langed his skill an’ his courage to try: Stout Willie o’ Fauldshope ae night he did cry on, Frae danger or peril wha never wad fly. “O Willie, ye ken our retainers are mony, Our kye they rowt thin on the loan an’ the lee; A drove we maun hae for our pastures sae bonny, Or Harden’s ae cow ance again we may see. “Fain wad I, but darena, gang over the Border; Buccleuch wad restrain us, an’ ruin us quite; He’s bound to keep a’ the wide marches in order: Then where shall we gae, an’ we’ll venture to-night?”

5

10

15

20

“O master, ye ken how the Murrays have ground you, An’ aften caroused on your beef an’ your veal; Yet, spite o’ your wiles an’ your spies, they hae shunned you. A Murray is kittler to catch than the deil. “Sly Juden o’ Eli’s grown doyted and silly, He sits wi’ his women frae morning till e’en; Yet three hunder gude kye has the thrifty auld billy, As fair sleekit keyloes as ever were seen.”

25

1821 VERSION

“Then, Willie, this night we’ll gae herry auld Juden; Nae danger I fear when thy weapon I see: That time when we vanquished the outlaw o’ Sowden, The best o’ his men were mishackered by thee. “If we had his kye in the byres of Aekwood, He’s welcome to claim them the best way he can. Right sair he’ll be puzzled his title to make good, For a’ he’s a cunning an’ dexterous man.” Auld Juden he strayed by the side o’ the river, When loud cried the warder on Hanginshaw height, “Ho, Juden, take care, or you’re ruined for ever! The bugle of Aekwood is sounding to-night.”

261 30

35

40

“Ha, faith!” then quo’ Juden, “they’re nae men to lippen; I wonder sae lang frae a fray they could cease. Gae blaw the wee horn, gar my villains come trippin’: I have o’er mony kye to get restit in peace.” Wi’ that a swaup fellow came puffin’ an’ blawin’, Frae high Philip-cairn a’ the gate he had run: “O Juden, be handy, an’ countna the lawin, But warn well an’ arm well, or else ye’re undone!

45

“Young Willie o’ Harden has crossed the Yarrow, Wi’ mony a hardy an’ desperate man: 50 The Hoggs an’ the Brydens have brought him to dare you, For the Wild Boar of Fauldshope he strides in the van.” “God’s mercy!” quo’ Juden, “gae blaw the great bugle; Warn Plora, Traquair, an’ the fierce Hollowlee. We’ll gie them a fleg: but I like that cursed Hogg ill; Nae devil in hell but I rather wad see. “To him men in arms are the same thing as thristles; At Ancram an’ Sowden his prowess I saw: But a bullet or arrow will supple his bristles, An’ lay him as laigh as the least o’ them a’.” The kye they lay down by the side of the Weel, On the Elibank craig, an’ the Ashiesteel bourn; An’ ere the king’s elwand came over the hill, Afore Will an’ his men rattled mony a horn.

55

60

262

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

But Juden, as cunning as Harden was strang, On ilka man’s bonnet has placed a white feather; An’ the night being dark, to the Peel height they thrang, An’ closely they darnit them amang the deep heather, Where the brae it was steep, an’ the kye they did wend, An’ sair for their pastures forsaken they strave; Till Willie o’ Fauldshope, wi’ half o’ the men, Gade aff wi’ a few, to encourage the lave. Nae sooner was Willie gane over the height, Than up start the Murrays, an’ fiercely set on; An’ sic a het fight, i’ the howe o’ the night, In the Forest of Ettrick has never been known. Soon weapons were clashing, an’ fire was flashing, An’ red ran the blude down the Ashiesteel brae: The parties were shouting, the kye they were rowting, An’ rattling, an’ gallopping aff frae the fray.

65

70

75

80

But tho’ weapons were clashing, an’ the fire it was flashing, Tho’ the wounded an’ dying did dismally groan, Tho’ parties were shouting, the kye they came rowting, An’ Willie o’ Fauldshope drave heedlessly on. O Willie o’ Fauldshope, how sad the disaster! Had some kindly spirit but whispered your ear, “O Willie, return, an’ relieve your kind master, Wha’s fighting surrounded wi’ mony a spear.” Surrounded he was; but his brave little band, Determined, unmoved as the mountain, they stood: In hopes that their hero was coming to hand, Their master they guarded in streams of their blood. In vain was their valour, in vain was their skill, In vain has young Harden a multitude slain; By numbers o’erpowered, they were slaughtered at will, An’ Willie o’ Harden was prisoner ta’en. His hands an’ his feet they hae bound like a sheep, An’ away to the Elibank tower they did hie; An’ they locked him down in a dungeon sae deep, An’ they bade him prepare on the morrow to die.

85

90

95

100

1821 VERSION

263

Though Andrew o’ Langhope had fa’n i’ the fight, He only lay still till the battle was by, Then ventured to rise, an’ climb over the height, An’ there he set up a lamentable cry. “Ho! Willie o’ Fauldshope! Ho! are you distracted? 105 Ho! what’s to come o’ you? or whare are you gane? Your friends they are slaughtered, your honour suspected, An’ Willie o’ Harden is prisoner ta’en! ” Nae boar in the forest, when hunted an’ wounded, Nae lion or tiger bereaved of their prey, Did ever sae storm, or was ever sae stounded, As Willie, when warned o’ that ruinous fray. He threw off his jacket, wi’ harness well lined; He threw off his bonnet well belted wi’ steel; An’ off he has run, wi’ his troopers behind, To rescue the lad that they likit sae weel. But when they arrived on the Elibank green, The yett it was shut, an’ the east it grew pale: They slinkit away wi’ the tears i’ their een, To tell to auld Harden their sorrowfu’ tale.

110

115

120

Though Harden was grieved, he durst venture nae further, But left his poor son to submit to his fate. “If I lose him,” quo’ he, “I may chance get another, But never again wad get sic an estate.” Some say that a stock was begun that night, But I canna tell whether ’tis true or a lie; That muckle Jock Henderson, time o’ the fight, Made off wi’ a dozen of Elibank kye. Brave Robin o’ Singlee was cloven through the brain, An’ Kirkhope was woundit, an’ young Bailleylee. Wi’ Juden, baith Gatehope an’ Plora were slain, An’ auld Ashiesteel gat a cut on the knee.

125

130

An’ mony a brave fellow, cut off in their bloom, Lie rotting in cairns on the bank o’ the Steele. Weep o’er them, ye shepherds! how hapless their doom! 135 Their natures how faithful, undaunted, an’ leel!

264

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

The lady o’ Elibank rase wi’ the dawn, An’ she wakened auld Juden, an’ to him did say,— “Pray, what will ye do wi’ this gallant young man?” “We’ll hang him,” quo’ Juden, “this very same day.”

140

“Wad ye hang sic a brisk an’ a gallant young heir, An’ has three hamely daughters aye suffering neglect? Though laird o’ the best o’ the Forest sae fair, He’ll marry the warst for the sake of his neck. “Despise not the lad for a perilous feat; He’s a friend will bestead you, an’ stand by you still: The laird maun hae men, an’ the men maun hae meat, An’ the meat maun be had, be the danger what will.” Then owre his left knee Juden laid his huge leg, An’ he mused, an’ he thought that his lady was right. “By Heaven!” said he, “ he shall marry my Meg; I dreamed, an’ I dreamed o’ her a’ the last night.” Now Meg was but thin, an’ her nose it was lang, An’ her mou’ it was muckle as ane could weel be; Her een they were gray, an’ her colour was wan; But her nature was generous, gentle, an’ free. Her shape it was slender, her manners refined, Her shoulders were clad wi’ her lang dusky hair, An’ three times mae beauties adorned her mind, Than mony a ane’s that was three times as fair.

145

150

155

160

Poor Will wi’ a guard was brought into a ha’, Ae end hung wi’ black, an’ the ither full fair; There Juden’s three daughters sat in a raw, An’ himsel at the head in a twa-elbow chair. “Now, Will, as ye’re young, an’ I hope ye may mend, On the following conditions I grant ye your life:— That ye be mair wary, an’ auld Juden’s friend, An’ accept o’ my daughter there, Meg, for your wife.

165

“An’ since ye’re sae set on my Elibank kye, Ye’s hae each o’ your drove ye can ken by the head; 170 An’ if nae horned acquaintance should kythe to your eye, Ye shall wale half a score, an’ a bull for a breed.

1821 VERSION

“My Meg, I assure you, is better than bonnie; I rede you, in choicing let prudence decide; Then say which ye will; ye are welcome to ony: See, there is your coffin, or there is your bride.” “Lead on to the gallows, then,” Willie replied; “I’m now in your power, an’ ye carry it high; Nae daughter of yours shall e’er lie by my side; A Scott, ye maun mind, counts it naething to die.”

265

175

180

“Amen! then,” quo’ Juden, “ your raid you shall rue, Gae lead out the reaver loun straight to his deide; My Meg, let me tell him, ’s the best of the two: An’ bring him the bedesman, for great is his need.” When Willie saw the tether drawn over the tree, His courage misgae him, his heart it grew sair; He watched Juden’s face an’ he watched his ee, But the devil a scrap of reluctance was there. He fand the last gleam of his hope was a fadin’; The green braes o’ Harden nae mair he wad see. The coffin was there, which he soon must be laid in; His proud heart was humbled,—he fell on his knee. “O sir, but ye’re hurried—I humbly implore ye, To grant me three days to examine my mind; To think on my sins, an’ the prospect before me, An’ balance your offer of freedom sae kind.”

185

190

195

“My friendship ye spurned; my daughter ye scorned; Forthwith in the air ye shall flaff at the spauld: A preciouser villain my tree ne’er adorned; Hang a rogue when he’s young, he’ll steal nane when he’s auld.” 200 “Then here is my daughter’s hand, there is the rood, This moment take the one, or the other the neist; ’Tis all for your country an’ countrymen’s good— See there is the hangman, or here is the priest.” But Willie now fand he was fairly i’ the wrang, That marriage an’ death were twa different things.— “What matter,” quo’ he, “though her nose it be lang? For noses bring luck, an’ it’s welcome that brings.

205

266

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

“There’s something weel-faurd in her soncy gray een, But they’re better than nane, an’ ane’s life is sae sweet; 210 An’, what though her mou’ be the maist I hae seen? Faith, muckle-mou’d fock hae a luck for their meat.” That day they were wedded, that night they were bedded, An’ Juden has feasted them gaily an’ free; But aft the bridegroom has he rallied an’ bladded, 215 What faces he made at the big hanging tree. He swore that his mou’ was grown wider than Meg’s; That his face frae the chin was a half a yard high; That it struck wi’ a palsy his knees an’ his legs; For a’ that a Scott thought it naething to die!

220

“There’s naething,” quo’ Juden, “that I mair approve, Than a rich Forest laird to come stealin’ my kye; Wad Branxholm an’ Thirlestane come for a drove, I wad furnish them wives in their bosoms to lie.” So Willie took Meg to the Forest sae fair, An’ they lived a most happy an’ social life; The langer he kend her, he loed her the mair, For a prudent, a virtuous, and honourable wife. An’ muckle gude blude frae that union has flowed, An’ mony a brave fellow, an’ mony a brave feat; I darena just say they are a’ muckle mou’d, But they rather have still a gude luck for their meat.

225

230

Notes to The Fray of Elibank O wha hasna heard o’ the bauld Juden Murray, The lord of the Elibank castle sae high?—v. 1. S I R G IDEON M URR AY , ancestor of the present Lord Elibank, was the third son of Andrew Murray of Blackbarony. In his youth he applied to the study of theology; but, happening unfortunately to kill a man of the name of Aitchison, he was imprisoned in Edinburgh Castle. He now gave up all thoughts of the church, and became chamberlain to his nephew of the half blood, Sir Walter Scott of Buccleuch, which trust he managed with great prudence. He was first designed of Glenpottie, and had a charter of the lands of Elibank, alias Eliburne, in the county of Selkirk, with a salmon fishing in Tweed, 15th March, 1594–5.

1821 VERSION

267

He now took the style of Elibank, and had charters to himself, and Margaret Pentland his wife, of the lands of Langschaw, in Roxburghshire, 6th June 1606, and 2d July 1618. He had several other charters under the great seal, of Redhead in the county of Peebles, Eldinhope in the county of Selkirk, and Ballincrieff in the county of Haddington, &c. He received the honour of knighthood in 1605; was constituted treasurer-depute in 1611, under the Earl of Somerset, high treasurer; and appointed one of the Lords of Session, 2d November 1613. The entire direction of the revenue of Scotland was in Sir Gideon Murray’s hands, and he managed it to such advantage, that he not only repaired the palaces and castles of Holyrood-house, Edinburgh, Linlithgow, Stirling, Dunfermline, Falkland, and Dunbarton, adding to them all new edifices, but had so much money in the treasury, when King James VI. visited Scotland in 1617, that he defrayed the whole charges of his Majesty and his Court during his abode in that country, where the king appeared with as much splendour as in England. James had a very high sense of his services. Sir Gideon, visiting his Majesty in England; and happening in the king’s bedchamber to let his glove fall, James, although stiff and old, stooped down, and gave him his glove again, saying, “My predecessor, Queen Elizabeth, thought she did a favour to any man who was speaking to her when she let her glove fall, that he might take it up and give it to her again; but, Sir, you may say a king lifted up your glove.” Yet, for all that, his Majesty was induced to believe an accusation given by James Stewart, Lord Ochiltree, against Sir Gideon Murray, charging him with offences committed in his office of treasurer-depute against the king and his lieges. He was sent down a prisoner to Scotland, and a day appointed for his trial. This he took so much to heart, that he abstained from food for several days, and he died on the 28th June 1621, after he had kept his house twenty days or thereby, stupified and silent, or at least speaking little or to no purpose. An’ wha hasna heard o’ that notable foray, When Willie o’ Harden was catched wi’ the kye.—v. 1. In the first and second editions this hero was denominated Wat. I took the story from the vague traditions of the country, and on seeing some of the family records, I perceive that these have been generally incorrect. The story is true; but the youth’s name was William. He was the eldest son of Wat. Scott of Harden, and his lady, the celebrated Mary Scott, the Flower of Yarrow. Stout Willie o’ Fauldshope ae night he did cry on, Frae danger or peril wha never wad fly.—v. 3. This man’s name was William Hogg, better known by the epithet of the Wild Boar of Fauldshope. Tradition reports him as a man of unequalled strength, courage, and ferocity. He was Harden’s chief champion, and in great favour with his master, until once, by his temerity, he led him into a scrape that had well nigh cost him his life. It is never positively said what this scrape was, but there is reason to suppose it was the Fray of Elibank.

268

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

The Hoggs and the Brydens have brought him to dare you.—v. 13. The author’s progenitors possessed the lands of Fauldshope, under the Scotts of Harden, for ages; my father says, for a period of 400 years; until the extravagance of John Scott occasioned the family to part with these lands. They now form part of the extensive estates of Buccleugh. Several of the wives of Fauldshope were supposed to be rank witches; and the famous witch of Fauldshope, who so terribly hectored Mr Michael Scott, by turning him into a hare, and hunting him with his own dogs, until forced to take shelter in his own jaw-hole, was one of the Mrs Hoggs, better known by the name of Lucky Hogg. The cruel retaliation which he made in showing his art to her, is also well known. It appears also, that some of the Hoggs had been poets before now, as there is still a part of an old song extant, relating much to them. Observe how elegantly it flows on:— * * * * * * “And the rough Hoggs of Fauldshope, That wear baith woo’ and hair; There’s nae sic Hoggs as Fauldshope’s In a’ St Boswell’s fair.” And afterwards near the end:— “But the hardy Hoggs of Fauldshope, For courage, blood, an’ bane; For the Wild Boar of Fauldshope, Like him was never nane. If ye reave the Hoggs of Fauldshope, Ye herry Harden’s gear; But the poor Hoggs of Fauldshope Have had a stormy year.” The Brydens, too, have long been a numerous and respectable clan in Ettrick Forest and its vicinity. Wad ye hang sic a brisk, an’ a gallant young heir, An’ has three hamely daughters aye suffering neglect?—v. 36. This is another traditional mistake, but I cannot think to alter the ballad from its “rough, rude, rugged homeliness.” Sir Gideon, however, had only one daughter, whose name was Agnes; but as there is no doubt that tradition is correct as far as relates to the lineaments of her face, and the dimensions of her mouth, she must continue to be “muckle-mou’d Meg o’ the Elibank” still. So Willie took Meg to the Forest sae fair.—v. 57. Though Elibank is in the Shire of Selkirk, as well as Oakwood, yet, originally, by Ettrick Forest was meant only the banks and environs of the two rivers, Ettrick and Yarrow.

1821 VERSION

269

Mess John THIS is a very popular story about Ettrick Forest, as well as a part of Annandale and Tweeddale, and is always told with the least variation, both by young and old, of any legendary tale I ever heard. It seems, like many others, to be partly founded on facts, with a great deal of romance added; for, if tradition can be in aught believed, the murder of the priest seems well attested: but I do not know if any records mention it. His sirname is said to have been Binram, though some suppose that it was only a nickname; and the mount under which he was buried, still retains the name of Binram’s Corse. A gentleman of this country, with whom I lately conversed, strove to convince me that I had placed the era of the tale too late, for that it must have had its origin from a much earlier age. But when was there ever a more romantic, or more visionary age, than that to which this ballad refers? Besides, it is certain, that the two heroes, Dobson and Dun, whom every one allows to have been the first who had the courage to lay hold of the lady, and to have slain the priest, skulked about the head of Moffat water during the heat of the persecution, which they both survived. And Andrew Moore, who died at Ettrick about twenty-six years ago, at a great age, often averred, that he had, in his youth, seen and conversed with many people, who remembered every circumstance of it, both as to the murder of the priest, and the road being laid waste by the woman running at night with a fire-pan, or, as some call it, a globe of fire on her head. This singular old man could repeat by heart every old ballad which is now published in the “Minstrelsy of the Border,” except three, with three times as many; and from him, Auld Maitland, with many ancient songs and tales, still popular in that country, are derived. If I may then venture a conjecture at the whole of this story, it is no wise improbable, that the lass of Craigieburn was some enthusiast in religious matters, or perhaps a lunatic; and that, being troubled with a sense of guilt, and a squeamish conscience, she had, on that account, made several visits to St Mary’s Chapel to obtain absolution: and it is well known that many of the Mountain-men wanted only a hair to make a tether of. Might they not then frame this whole story about the sorcery, on purpose to justify their violent procedure in the eyes of their countrymen, as no bait was more likely to be swallowed at that time? But, however it was, the reader has the story, in the following ballad, much as I have it. The mound which bears the priest’s name was raised last year by two gentlemen from Edinburgh, and a small chest full of ashes, and one or two human teeth were found, which proves the antiquity of the Cairn of Binram’s Corse, whoever may have been buried under it.

270

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

M ESS J OHN stood in St Mary’s Kirk, And preached and prayed so mightilye; No monk nor abbot in the land, Could preach or pray so well as he. The words of peace flowed from his tongue, His heart seemed rapt with heavenly flame, And thousands would the chapel throng, So distant flew his pious fame. His face was like the rising moon, Imblushed with evening’s purple dye; His stature like the graceful pine, That grew on Bowerhope hills so high. Mess John lay on his lonely couch, And oft he sighed and sorely pined; A smothered flame consumed his heart, And tainted his capacious mind. It was not for the nation’s sin, Nor Kirk oppressed that he did mourn; ’ Twas for a little earthly flower— The bonny lass of Craigieburn.

5

10

15

20

Whene’er his eyes with her’s did meet, They pierced his heart without remede; And when he heard her voice so sweet, Mess John forgot to say his creed. “Curse on our foolish law,” he said, “That chains us back from social joy; The sweetest bliss to mortals lent, I cannot taste without alloy! “Give misers wealth, and monarchs power; Give heroes kingdoms to o’erturn; Give sophists latent depths to scan— Give me the lass of Craigieburn.” O passion! what can thee surpass? Mess John’s religious zeal is flown; A priest in love is like the grass, That fades ere it be fairly grown.

25

30

35

1821 VERSION

When thinking on her liquid eye, Her maiden form so fair and gay, Her limbs, the polished ivorye, His heart, like wax, would melt away!

271

40

He tried the hom’lies to rehearse, He tried it both by night and day; But all his lair and logic failed, His thoughts were on the bonny May. He said the creed, he sung the mass, And o’er the breviary did turn; But still his wayward fancy eyed The bonny lass of Craigieburn. One day upon his lonely couch He lay, a prey to passion fell; And aft he turned—and aft he wished What bedesman’s tongue durst hardly tell. A sudden languor chilled his blood, And quick o’er all his senses flew; But what it was, or what the cause, He neither wished to know, nor knew: He weened he heard the thunder roll, And then a laugh of malice keen; Fierce whirlwinds shook the mansion-walls, And grievous sobs were heard between:

45

50

55

60

And then a maid, of beauty bright, With blushing cheek, and claithing thin, And many a fascinating air, To his bedside came gliding in. A silken mantle on her feet Fell down in many a fold and turn, Too well he knew the lovely form Of bonny May of Craigieburn! Though eye, and tongue, and every limb Lay moveless as the mountain rock, Yet fast his fluttering pulses played, As thus the enticing demon spoke:—

65

70

272

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

“Poor heartless man! and wilt thou lie A prey to this devouring flame? That this fair form is not thine own, None but thyself hast thou to blame. “Thou little know’st the fervid fires In female breasts that burn so clear! The froward youth of fierce desires To us is most supremely dear.

75

80

“Who ventures most to gain our charms, By us is ever most approved; The ardent kiss and clasping arms, By maid is ever best beloved. “Then mould this form of fairest wax, With adder’s eyes, and feet of horn: Place this small scroll within its breast, Which I from love have hither borne. “And make a blaze of alder wood, Before your fire make that to stand; And the last night of every moon Your bonny May’s at your command. “With fire and steel to urge her weel, See that you neither stint nor spare; For if the cock be heard to crow The charm will vanish into air.” Then bristly, bristly, grew her hair, Her colour changed to black and blue; And broader, broader, grew her face, Till with a yell away she flew!

85

90

95

100

The charm was gone,—upstarts Mess John; A statue now behold him stand ! Fain, fain, he would suppose’t a dream— But, lo! the scroll is in his hand. Read through this tale, and as you pass, You’ll cry, alas! the priest’s a man! And man’s a worm, and flesh is grass, And stand himself he never can.

105

1821 VERSION

Within the chaplain’s sinful cell Is done a deed without a name; The lovely moulded image stands A-melting at the alder flame. The charm of wickedness prevails, The eye of Heaven is shut for sin; The maid of Craigieburn is seized With burning of the soul within. “O Father dear! what ails my heart? Ev’n but this minute I was well; And now, though still in health and strength, I suffer half the pains of hell.”

273 110

115

120

“My bonny May, my darling child! Ill wots thy father what to say; I fear ’tis for some secret sin That Heaven this scourge on thee doth lay. “Confess, and to thy Maker pray; He’s kind; be firm, and banish fear; He’ll lay no more on my poor child Than he gives strength of mind to bear.” “A thousand poignards pierce my heart! I feel, I feel, I must away; Yon holy man at Mary’s Kirk Will pardon and my pains allay. “I mind, when on a doleful night, A picture of this black despair Was fully open to my sight, A vision bade me hasten there.” “O stay, my child, till morning dawn, The night is dark, and danger nigh, The hill-men in their wildered haunts Will shoot thee for a nightly spy. “ ’Mong wild Polmoody’s mountains green, Fully many a wight their vigils keep; Where roars the torrent from Loch Skene, A troop is lodged in trenches deep.

125

130

135

140

274

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

“The howling fox and raving earn Will scare thy reason quite away; Regard thy sex and tender youth, And stay, my child, till dawning day.” But burning, raging, wild with pain, By moorland cleuch and dark defile, Away with many a shriek she ran Straight forward for Saint Mary’s aisle. And lo! a magic lanthorn bright Hung on the birks of Craigieburn; She placed the wonder on her head, Which shone around her like the sun. She ran, impelled by racking pain, Through rugged ways and waters wild; Where art thou, guardian spirit, fled? Oh haste to save an only child!

145

150

155

160

Hold!—he who doats on earthly things, ’ Tis fit their frailty should appear; Hold!—they who Providence accuse, ’ Tis just their folly cost them dear. The God who guides the gilded moon, And rules the rough and rolling sea, Without a trial ne’er will leave A soul to evil destiny. When crossing Meggat’s Highland strand, She stopt to hear an eldritch scream; Loud crowed the cock at Henderland, The charm evanished like a dream! The magic lanthorn left her head, And, darkling, now return she must. She wept, and cursed her hapless doom; She wept—and called her God unjust. But on that sad revolving day, The racking pains again return; And wanders on her nightly way, The bonny lass of Craigieburn.

165

170

175

180

1821 VERSION

275

And back unto her father’s hall, Weeping she journeys, ruined quite: And still on that returning day, Yields to a monster’s hellish might. But o’er the scene we’ll draw a veil, Wet with the tender tear of woe; For we must to our magic tale, And all the shepherd’s terrors show. Once every month the spectre ran, With shrieks would any heart appal; And every maid, and every man, Astonished fled at evening fall. A bonny widow went at night To meet the lad she loved so well; “Ah, yon’s my former husband’s sprite!” She cried, and into faintings fell. An honest tailor, leaving work, Met with the lass of Craigieburn; It was enough—he breathed his last! One shriek had done the tailor’s turn.

185

190

195

200

A mountain-preacher quat his horse, And prayed aloud with lengthened phiz; The damsel yelled—the father kneeled— Dundee was but a joke to this! Young Laidlaw of the Chapelhope, Enraged to see the road laid waste, Waylaid the damsel with a gun, But in a panic home was chaced. But drunken John of Keppel-Gill, Met with her on Carrifran Gans; He staggering cried, “Who devil’s that?” Then plashing on, cried, “Faith, God kens!” The Cameronians left their camp, And scattered wide o’er many a hill; Pursued by men, pursued by hell, They stoutly held their tenets still.

205

210

215

276

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

But at the source of Moffat’s stream, Two champions of the cov’nant dwell, Who long had braved the power of men, And fairly beat the prince of hell:

220

Armed with a gun, a rowan-tree rung, A bible, and a scarlet twine, They placed them on the Birkhill path, And saw afar the lanthorn shine. And nearer, nearer, still it drew, At length they heard her piercing cries; And louder, louder, still they prayed, With aching heart, and upcast eyes! The Bible, spread upon the brae, No sooner did the light illume, Than straight the magic lanthorn fled, And left the lady in the gloom. With open book, and haggart look, “Say what art thou?” they loudly cry; “I am a woman—let me pass, Or quickly at your feet I’ll die. “O let me run to Mary’s Kirk, Where, if I’m forced to sin and shame, A gracious God will pardon me,— My heart was never yet to blame.”

225

230

235

240

Armed with the gun, the rowan-tree rung, The Bible, and the scarlet twine, With her they trudged to Mary’s Kirk To execute the will divine. When nigh Saint Mary’s aisle they drew, Rough winds, and rapid rains began; The livid lightning linked flew, And round the rattling thunder ran. The torrents rush, the mountains quake, The sheeted ghosts run to and fro; And deep and long, from out the lake, The Water-Cow was heard to low.

245

250

1821 VERSION

The mansion then seemed in a blaze, And issued forth a sulphurous smell; An eldritch laugh went o’er their heads, Which ended in a hellish yell. Bauld Halbert ventured to the cell, And, from a little window, viewed The priest and Satan close engaged In hellish rites and orgies lewd.

277

255

260

A female form, of melting wax, Mess John surveyed with steady eye, Which ever and anon he pierced, Forcing the lady loud to cry. Then Halbert raised his trusty gun, Was loaded well with powder and ball, And, aiming at the chaplain’s head, He blew his brains against the wall. The devil flew with such a clap, On door nor window did not stay; And loud he cried, in jeering tone, “Ha, ha, ha, ha, poor John’s away!” East from the kirk and holy ground, They bare that lump of sinful clay, And o’er him raised a mighty mound, Called Binram’s Corse unto this day. And ay when any lonely wight, By yon dark cleugh is forced to stray, He hears that cry at dead of night, “Ha, ha, ha, ha, poor John’s away!”

265

270

275

280

Notes to Mess John Mess John stood in St Mary’s Kirk.—v. 1. THE ruins of St Mary’s Chapel are still visible, in a wild scene on the banks of the lake of that name; but the mansion in which the monk, or, as some call him, the curate, lived, was almost erased of late, for the purpose of building a stone-wall round the old church and burying ground. This chapel is, in some ancient records, called The Maiden Kirk, and, in others, The Kirk of Saint Mary of the Lowes.

278

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

His stature like the graceful pine, That grew on Bowerhope hills so high.—v. 3. The hills of Bowerhope, on the south side of the loch, opposite to the chapel, rise to the height of two thousand feet above the sea’s level, and were, like much of that country, formerly covered with wood. A silken mantle on her feet Fell down in many a fold and turn.—v. 17. It is a vulgar received opinion, that, let the devil assume what appearance he will, were it even that of an angel of light, yet still his feet must be cloven; and that if he do not contrive some means to cover them, they will lead to a discovery of him and his intentions, which are only evil, and that continually. It is somewhat curious, that they should rank him among the clean beasts, which divide the hoof. They believe, likewise, that he and his emissaries can turn themselves into any shape they please, of all God’s creatures, excepting those of a lion, a lamb, and a dove. Consequently their situation is the most perilous that can be conceived; for, when it begins to grow dark, they cannot be sure, but almost all the beasts and birds they see are either deils or witches. Of cats, hares, and swine, they are particularly jealous; and a caterwauling noise hath often turned men from going to see their sweethearts, and even from seeking the midwife. And I knew a girl, who returned home after proceeding ten miles on a journey, from the unlucky and ominous circumstance of an ugly bird crossing the road three times before her: neither did her parents at all disapprove of what she had done. Thou little knowest the fervid fires In female breasts that burn so clear; The froward youth of fierce desires To us is most supremely dear. Who ventures most to gain our charms, By us is ever most approved; The ardent kiss, and clasping arms, By maid is ever best beloved.—v. 20. 21. If any of my fair readers should quarrel with the sentiments manifested in these two stanzas, they will recollect that they are the sentiments of a fiend, who, we must suppose, was their mortal enemy, and would not scruple to paint their refined sensibility in very false colours, or, at least, from a very wrong point of view. With fire and steel to urge her weel, See that you neither stint nor spare.—v. 24. The story says, that the priest was obliged to watch the picture very constantly; and that always when the parts next the fire began to soften, he stuck pins into them, and exposed another side; that, when each of these pins were stuck in, the lady uttered a piercing shriek; and that, as their number increased

1821 VERSION

279

in the waxen image, her torment increased, and caused her to haste on with amazing speed. ’Mong wild Polmoody’s mountains green, Full many a wight their vigils keep.—v. 36. The mountains of Polmoody, besides being the highest, are the most inaccessible in the South of Scotland: and great numbers from the western counties, found shelter on them during the heat of the persecution. Many of these, it is supposed, were obliged to shift for their sustenance by stealing sheep; yet the country people, from a sense that Necessity has no law, winked at the loss; their sheep being in those days, of less value than their meal, of which they would otherwise have been obliged to part with a share to the sufferers. Part of an old ballad is still current in that neighbourhood, which relates their adventures, and the difficulties they laboured under for want of meat, and in getting hold of the sheep during the night. Some of the country people, indeed, ascribe these depredations to the persecutors; but it is not likely that they would put themselves to so much trouble. I remember only a few stanzas of this ballad, which are as follows: * * * * * * “Carrifran Gans they ’re very strait, We canna gang without a road; But tak ye the tae side, an’ me the tither, An’ they ’ll a’ come in at Firthup dod. * * * * * * “On Turnberry, an’ Carrifran Gans, An’ out amang the Moodlaw haggs, They worried the feck o’ the Laird’s lambs, An’ eatit them raw, an’ buried the baggs. * * * * * * “Had Guemshope Castle a tongue to speak, Or mouth o’ f lesh, that it could fathom, It wad tell o’ mony a supple trick, Was done at the foot o’ Rotten-Boddom: Where Donald and his hungry men, Oft houghed them up wi’ little din, An’, mair intent on flesh than yarn, Bure aff the bouk, an’ buried the skin.” This Guemshope is an extensive wild glen on the further side of these mountains; and, being in former times used as a common, to which many of the gentlemen and farmers of Tweedale, drove their flocks to feed during the summer months, consequently, it would be at that season a very fit place for a prey. The Donald mentioned may have been the famous Donald Cargill, a Cameronian preacher of great notoriety at the period.

280

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

Where roars the torrent from Loch-Skene, A troop is lodged in trenches deep.—v. 36. There are sundry cataracts in Scotland, which bear the name of The Gray Mare’s Tail: in particular one in the parish of Closeburn, in Nithsdale; and one betwixt Stranraer and Newton-Stewart; but that of Polmoody, on the border of Annandale, surpasses them all; as the water, with only one small intermission, falls from a height of 300 feet. This, with the rocks overhanging it on each side, when the water is flooded, greatly excels any thing I ever saw in awful grandeur. Immediately below it, in the straitest part of that narrow pass, which leads from Annandale into Yarrow, a small strong entrenchment is visible. It is called by the country people The Giants Trench. It is of the form of a crescent, and is defended behind by a bank. As it is not nearly so much grown up as those at Philiphaugh, it is probable that a handful of the covenanters might fortify themselves there, during the time that their brethren were in arms. But it is even more probable, that a party of the king’s troops might be posted for some time in that important pass: as it is certain that Claverhouse made two sweeping circuits of that country, and, the last time, took many prisoners in the immediate vicinity of this situation. May we not likewise suppose, that the outrage committed at Saint Mary’s Kirk, might contribute to his appearance in those parts? Young Laidlaw of the Chapelhope, Enraged to see the road laid waste, Waylaid the damsel with a gun.—v. 52. The Laidlaws of the Chapelhope, either favoured or pitied the covenanters; for they fed and sheltered great numbers of them, even to the impairing of their fortunes. On Dundee’s first approach to these parts, Mrs Laidlaw went out to the road, and invited him and all his men to partake of a liberal refreshment, which they thankfully accepted; and this being a principal family, he went away so thoroughly convinced of the attachment of that neighbourhood to the royal cause, that a scrutiny was not only at that time effectually prevented, but the troops returned no more thither for many years, until the license which was there enjoyed gathered such numbers, that it became quite notorious. The spots where conventicles were held on these grounds, are still well known, and pointed out by some devout shepherds, with anecdotes of the preachers, or some of the leading characters that frequented them. One can scarcely believe, but that Mr Graham had visited these spots, or had been present on them when he wrote the following lines: “O’er hills, through woods, o’er dreary wastes, they sought The upland moors, where rivers, there but brooks, Dispart to different seas. Fast by such brooks, A little glen is sometimes scooped; a plat With green-sward gay, and flowers, that strangers seem Amid the heathery wild, that all around Fatigues the eye.”——

1821 VERSION

281

These lines, with the two following pages of the sweet poem in which they occur, seem to be literal sketches of these scenes, as well as a representation of the transactions which then took place: For years more gloomy followed; and from these “green-swards gay,” they were driven into the “deep dells, by rocks o’ercanopied.” Thus it was high up in Ryskinhope where Renwick preached his last sermon, above the lakes, the sources of the Yarrow, where there is neither plat nor plain, but linns and moors. When he prayed that day, few of the hearers’ cheeks were dry. My parents were well acquainted with a woman whom he there baptized. But at the source of Moffat stream, Two champions of the cov’nant dwell; Who long had braved the power of men, And fairly beat the prince of hell.—v. 55. These men’s names were Halbert Dobson, and David Dun; better known by those of Hab Dob, and Davie Din. The remains of their cottage are still visible, and sure never was human habitation contrived on such a spot. It is on the very brink of a precipice, which is 400 feet of perpendicular height, whilst another of half that height overhangs it above. To this they resorted in times of danger for a number of years; and the precipice is still called Dob’s Linn. There is likewise a natural cavern in the bottom of the linn farther up, where they, with other ten, hid themselves for several days, while another kept watch upon the Path-know; and they all assembled at the cottage during the night. Tradition relates further of these two champions, that, while they resided at the cottage by themselves, the devil appeared to them every night, and plagued them exceedingly; striving often to terrify them, so as to make them throw themselves over the linn. But one day they contrived a hank of red yarn in the form of crosses, which it was impossible the devil could pass: and, on his appearance at night, they got in behind him, and attacked him resolutely with each a Bible in one hand, and a rowan-tree staff in the other, and after a desperate encounter, they succeeded in tumbling him headlong over the linn; but to prevent hurting himself, at the moment he was overcome, he turned himself into a batch of skins! It was not those of stolen sheep we hope. Credulity has been at this time very prevalent among the Scots, else such a story never could have obtained the least credit; yet, it is said, these men were wont to tell it as long as they lived, concluding it always with the observation, that the devil had never more troubled them, as he found it was not for his health. A short rhyme is still extant relating to this singular tradition, but which seems to have been composed afterwards, as the linn is there called Dob’s Linn. It seems not improbable, that the bard who composed the song above quoted was likewise the author of this; for, like it, it is hard to say whether it is serious or burlesque. “Little kend the wirrikow, What the covenant could dow!

282

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

What o’ faith, an’ what o’ fen, What o’ might, an’ what o’ men; Or he had never shewn his face, His reekit rags, an’ riven taes,* To men o’ mak, an’ men o’ mense, Men o’ grace, an’ men o’ sense; For Hab Dob, an’ Davie Din, Dang the deil owre Dob’s Linn. “Weir,” quo’ he, an’ “weir,” quo’ he, Haud the Bible til his ee; Ding him owre, or thrash him down, He’s a fause deceitfu’ loun!”— Then he owre him, an’ he owre him, He owre him, an’ he owre him: Habby held him griff an’ grim, Davie threush him liff an’ limb; Till like a bunch o’ barkit skins, Down f lew Satan owre the linns.”— After seeing this, the reader will not deny, that our champions “fairly beat the prince of hell.” See The Brownie of Bodsbeck. And deep and long, from out the lake The Water-Cow was heard to low.—v. 63. In some places of the Highlands of Scotland, the inhabitants are still in continual terror of an imaginary being, called The Water Horse. When I was travelling over the extensive and dreary isle of Lewis, I had a lad of Stornoway with me as a guide and interpreter. On leaving the shores of Loch Rogg, in our way to Harris we came to an inland lake, called, I think, Loch Alladale; and though our nearest road lay alongst the shores of this loch, Malcolm absolutely refused to accompany me that way for fear of the Water Horse, of which he told many wonderful stories, swearing to the truth of them; and, in particular, how his father had lately been very nigh taken by him, and that he had succeeded in decoying one man to his destruction, a short time previous to that. This spectre is likewise an inhabitant of Loch Aven, at the foot of Cairngorm, and of Loch Laggan, in the wilds betwixt Lochaber and Badenoch. Somewhat of a similar nature seems to have been the Water Cow, which in former times, haunted St Mary’s Loch, of which some extremely fabulous stories are yet related; and though rather less terrible and malevolent than the Water Horse, yet, like him, she possessed the rare slight of turning herself into whatever shape she pleased, and was likewise desirous of getting as many dragged into the lake as possible. Andrew Moore, above-mentioned, said, that when he was a boy, his parents would not suffer him to go to play near the loch for fear of her; and that he remembered of seeing her once coming * The “reekit duds, and reistit phiz,” which Burns attributes to the grand enemy of mankind, is perhaps borrowed from this popular rhyme.

1821 VERSION

283

swimming towards him and his comrades in the evening twilight, but they all fled, and she sunk before reaching the side. A farmer of Bowerhope once got a breed of her, which he kept for many years, until they multiplied exceedingly; and he never had any cattle throve so well, until once, on some outrage or disrespect on the farmer’s part toward them, the old dam came out of the lake one pleasant March evening, and gave such a roar, that all the surrounding hills shook again; upon which her progeny, nineteen in number, followed her all quietly into the loch, and were never more seen. Forcing the lady loud to cry.—v. 66. After the subject of a ballad is fairly introduced, great particularity is disgusting; therefore, the lass of Craigieburn, after this line, is no more mentioned: But the story adds that she died of a broken heart, and of the heats which she got in being forced to run so fast. Another tradition, which I heard more lately, says, that she was conveyed secretly to a nunnery in Ireland, and that her father, whose name was Nicolson, afterwards lived in Craikbeck.

The Death of Douglas, Lord of Liddisdale T H E first stanza of this song, as well as the history of the event to which it refers, is preserved by Hume of Godscroft, in his history of the house of Douglas. The author, having been successful in rescuing some excellent old songs from the very brink of oblivion, searched incessantly many years after the remains of this, until lately, by mere accident, he lighted upon a few scraps, which he firmly believes to have formed a part of that very ancient ballad. The reader may judge for himself. The first verse is from Hume, and many other single lines and couplets that are ancient occur, which are barely sufficient to distinguish the strain in which the old song hath proceeded.

T HE L ADYE DOUGLAS lefte hir bouir, And aye sae loud as scho did call, “ ’Tis all for guid Lord Liddisdale Thatte I do lette these tearis downe fall.” “O hald your tongue, my syster deare, And of your weepynge lette mee be: Lord Liddisdale will hald hys owne With ony Lord of Chrystendye.

5

1821 VERSION

283

swimming towards him and his comrades in the evening twilight, but they all fled, and she sunk before reaching the side. A farmer of Bowerhope once got a breed of her, which he kept for many years, until they multiplied exceedingly; and he never had any cattle throve so well, until once, on some outrage or disrespect on the farmer’s part toward them, the old dam came out of the lake one pleasant March evening, and gave such a roar, that all the surrounding hills shook again; upon which her progeny, nineteen in number, followed her all quietly into the loch, and were never more seen. Forcing the lady loud to cry.—v. 66. After the subject of a ballad is fairly introduced, great particularity is disgusting; therefore, the lass of Craigieburn, after this line, is no more mentioned: But the story adds that she died of a broken heart, and of the heats which she got in being forced to run so fast. Another tradition, which I heard more lately, says, that she was conveyed secretly to a nunnery in Ireland, and that her father, whose name was Nicolson, afterwards lived in Craikbeck.

The Death of Douglas, Lord of Liddisdale T H E first stanza of this song, as well as the history of the event to which it refers, is preserved by Hume of Godscroft, in his history of the house of Douglas. The author, having been successful in rescuing some excellent old songs from the very brink of oblivion, searched incessantly many years after the remains of this, until lately, by mere accident, he lighted upon a few scraps, which he firmly believes to have formed a part of that very ancient ballad. The reader may judge for himself. The first verse is from Hume, and many other single lines and couplets that are ancient occur, which are barely sufficient to distinguish the strain in which the old song hath proceeded.

T HE L ADYE DOUGLAS lefte hir bouir, And aye sae loud as scho did call, “ ’Tis all for guid Lord Liddisdale Thatte I do lette these tearis downe fall.” “O hald your tongue, my syster deare, And of your weepynge lette mee be: Lord Liddisdale will hald hys owne With ony Lord of Chrystendye.

5

284

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

“Forre him yee wadna weipe or pyne, Yffe yee hadde seene, whatte I did see, Thatte daye hee broke the troops of Tyne, With gylded sword of mettil free. “Stout Hazelburne wals movit with rage To see hys faintynge vassalis yielde; And hande to hande hee did engage Lord Liddisdale uponne the fielde. ‘Avaunte thou haughtye Scotte,’ hee cryed, ‘And homewarde to thy countrye turne; Say—wilt thou brave the deadlye brande, And heavvye hande of Hazelburne?’

10

15

20

“The word hadde scarcely mixt with ayre, When Douglas’ sworde sharpe answer gae; And frae ane wounde baithe deipe and sair Furth fledde the Southron’s soule awaye. “Madde Faucette next, with woundis transfixt, In anguish gnawit the bluidye claye; Then Hallynshedde hee wheilit and fledde, And lefte hys riche ill-gottyn prey. “I hae beene easte, I hae beene weste, I hae seene dangyrs manie a ane; But forre ane baulde and dauntlesse breiste, Lord Liddisdale will yielde to nane. “And were I called to face the foe, And bidden chuse my leader free, Lord Liddisdale should be the man To lead me onne to victorye.” “O hald your tongue my brother Johnne! Though I haif heard you patientlye, Lord Liddisdale is deide and gonne, And he wals slainn forre lofe of mee. “My littyl trew and trustye page Has brocht the heavvye newis to mee, Thatte my ainne lord didde hym engage; Where he coulde nouther fighte nor fle.

25

30

35

40

1821 VERSION

“Four of the foremoste menne hee slew, And four hee woundit desp’ratelye, But cruel Douglas came behynde, And ranne hym through the fayre bodye. “O wae be to thee, Agel’s wodde! O wae be to thee, Willaimis lee, O wae be to the dastarde croud That murderit the flouir of chivalrye! “It walsna rage forre Ramseye slainn, Thatte raisit the deadlie feid sae hie; Nor perjured Berkeley’s tymelesse death— It wals for kyndnesse shown to mee. “When I wals ledde through Liddisdale, And thirty horsemen guardynge mee; When thatte gude lord came to my ayde, Sae soon as he did sette mee free!

285 45

50

55

60

“The wylde burdis sang, the woodlandis rang, And sweit the sunne shonne onne the vale; Then thynkna ye, my hearte wals wae To parte with gentle Liddisdale! “But I will greit forre Liddisdale, Untyl my twa black eyne rinne dry, And I will wayl forre Liddisdale, Als lang als I hae voyce to cry. “And for that guid lord I will sigh, Untyl my heart and spirit fayl; And when I die, O bury mee, Onne the lefte syde of Liddisdale.” “Now hald your tongue, my syster deare, Your grief will cause baithe dule and shame; Synce ye were fause in sic ane cause, The Douglas’ rage I canna blame.” “Gae stemm the bytter norlan gale; Gae bid the wylde wave cease to rowe; I’ll owne my lofe for Liddisdale, Afore the kyng, my lord and you.”

65

70

75

80

286

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

He drew hys sword of nutte-browne steele, While neid-fyre kyndlit in hys ee, “Renounce thy lofe, dishoneste dame, Or thy proud kyn avengit shalle bee!” Scho threw hyr lockis back frae hyr cheike, 85 And she frownit and leuch loud laughteris three, “When thou and my lord gies me law, There’ll be nae mae botte hym and thee.” “Suche als thy pryde so bee thy meed, The deid hadde never beene donne by me, But the Douglas’ name it brookis no shame,” And hee ranne hyr through the fayr bodye. Scho dypt hyr fynger in hyr heartis bleide, It wals ane brichte and ane scarlett dye; And scho lookit wyldlye in hys face, And scho lookit wyldlye to the sky. “O thou haste donne ane manlye deide, In bluidye letteris itt muste stande; But I’ll sett my mark onne thy forheid, And I’ll put my mark onne thy rychte hande.

90

95

100

“And I’ll give thee the curse of chyldlysnesse, And I mark it onne thy ruthlys brow, And envy and pryde, thy hande shalle guide, Untyl thou be als I am now. “And I telle it thee before the sunne, And God shalle wytnesse yffe I lie, The streime of thy lyfe is neirly runne, My name shalle live, but thyne shalle die.” “Chryste sende thee succour, my faire syster, And trew may thy wordis of bodyng bee, Yffe there is ane leeche in Scotlande can, Hee shall cure thy woundis rychte suddenlye. “Forre yffe thou die’st, my syster deire, My daies of peice onne earthe are donne, I shalle never taste of comforte here, But weipe and wayl beneathe the sonne.

105

110

115

1821 VERSION

“And yffe thou die’st, my fayre syster, I shalle seike remissioune in Italie, And kneile in the holye sepulchre, Before my bones shalle reste with thee.”

287

120

But ere seiven lang monthis were come and gane, Thatte ladyis wordis were provit to stande, Forre thatte knychte wals rowit in his wyndinge sheit, But scho wals the fayrest of all the lande. And mony a lord in lofe did pyne, Forre hyr eyne the heartis of all men drewe, And mony a hosbande scho hathe slayne, And evir and anon gotte newe.

125

And you who lovethe weirdlye deidis, Beware of ladyis wytchinge harme, 130 For litand sturte, and stryffe it breidis, And it slackenis the herte, and slymmis the arme. Unto ane yonge manne of mettil brychte, It workethe payne and deidlye skaithe; But to ane oulde and dotard wychte, Womyn is worse than helle beneathe.

135

Notes to The Death of Douglas, Lord of Liddisdale So far hath the old ballad led me to whatever it may allude. If it was indeed the lady Douglas, the following is a sketch of her history. She was the only daughter of Donald the twelfth Earl of Mar, and was married, when young, to John Earl of Montieth, and shortly after to William the first Earl of Douglas. But the fourth year afterwards, Douglas, growing jealous of her and his kinsman, William Lord of Liddisdale, waylaid the latter as he was hunting in William-hope, above Yair, and slew him treacherously; mastering him, as was supposed, by numbers; for William of Liddisdale was so brave and so gallant a man, that he was styled “The Flower of Chivalry.” Earl Douglas pretended to his followers, that this assassination was in revenge for the deaths of Ramsey of Dalhousie, and Sir David Berkeley; both of whom the knight of Liddisdale had cruelly slain; but it appears, both from the ballad, and the hints thrown out by Godscroft, that it was through jealousy of Liddisdale and his lady.

288

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

And mony a hosbande scho hathe slayne, And evir and anon gotte newe.—v. 32. This is so far true. The Earl of Douglas was her second husband, and shortly after this business with Liddisdale, he divorced her, although she had then born him a son and a daughter. Shortly after this divorce, she was again, by a third marriage, united to Thomas Douglas, third Earl of Angus, and on his death, by a fourth marriage, to Sir John Swinton; a success in noble conquests that few ladies of our day can boast. If there be any truth at all in the story of her being wounded by her brother, it must have been by Thomas, the thirteenth Earl of Mar, as he was her only brother. He died childless, and this lady’s son James, by the Earl of Douglas, succeeded to his estate and titles. This was the brave James Earl of Douglas and Mar, of whom so much legendary lore prevails, both in song and traditionary tale. He was knighted by his father, along with two of the king’s sons, on a field of battle, which was fought on the lands of Abbotsford, in the year 1378, and in which old Douglas gained a signal and great success over the English, headed by Sir Thomas Musgrave; and after a life of warlike adventures, was slain at the battle of Otterburn,—alias, “The Huntyng of the Chevyote.”

Willie Wilkin The real name of this famous warlock was Johnston; how he came to acquire that of Wilkin I can get no information, though his name and his pranks are well known in Annandale and Nithsdale. He seems to have been an abridgment of Mr Michael Scott; but though his powers were exhibited on a much narrower scale, they were productive of effects yet more malevolent.

T HE glow-worm goggled on the moss, When Wilkin rode away, And much his aged mother feared, But wist not what to say: For near the change of every moon, At deepest midnight tide, He hied him to yon ancient fane, That stands on Kinnel side. His thoughts were absent, wild his looks, His speeches fierce and few; But who he met, or what was done, No mortal ever knew.

5

10

288

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

And mony a hosbande scho hathe slayne, And evir and anon gotte newe.—v. 32. This is so far true. The Earl of Douglas was her second husband, and shortly after this business with Liddisdale, he divorced her, although she had then born him a son and a daughter. Shortly after this divorce, she was again, by a third marriage, united to Thomas Douglas, third Earl of Angus, and on his death, by a fourth marriage, to Sir John Swinton; a success in noble conquests that few ladies of our day can boast. If there be any truth at all in the story of her being wounded by her brother, it must have been by Thomas, the thirteenth Earl of Mar, as he was her only brother. He died childless, and this lady’s son James, by the Earl of Douglas, succeeded to his estate and titles. This was the brave James Earl of Douglas and Mar, of whom so much legendary lore prevails, both in song and traditionary tale. He was knighted by his father, along with two of the king’s sons, on a field of battle, which was fought on the lands of Abbotsford, in the year 1378, and in which old Douglas gained a signal and great success over the English, headed by Sir Thomas Musgrave; and after a life of warlike adventures, was slain at the battle of Otterburn,—alias, “The Huntyng of the Chevyote.”

Willie Wilkin The real name of this famous warlock was Johnston; how he came to acquire that of Wilkin I can get no information, though his name and his pranks are well known in Annandale and Nithsdale. He seems to have been an abridgment of Mr Michael Scott; but though his powers were exhibited on a much narrower scale, they were productive of effects yet more malevolent.

T HE glow-worm goggled on the moss, When Wilkin rode away, And much his aged mother feared, But wist not what to say: For near the change of every moon, At deepest midnight tide, He hied him to yon ancient fane, That stands on Kinnel side. His thoughts were absent, wild his looks, His speeches fierce and few; But who he met, or what was done, No mortal ever knew.

5

10

1821 VERSION

“O stay at home, my only son, O stay at home with me! I fear I’m secretly forewarned Of ills awaiting thee. “Last night I heard the dead-bell sound, When all were fast asleep; And aye it rung, and aye it sung, Till all my flesh did creep.

289

15

20

“And when on slumber’s silken couch, My senses dormant lay, I saw a pack of hungry hounds, Would make of thee their prey. “With feeble step, I ran to help, Or death with thee to share; When straight you bound my hands and feet, And left me lying there. “I saw them tear thy vitals forth; Thy life blood dyed the way; I saw thy eyes all glaring red, And closed mine for aye. “Then stay at home, my only son, O stay at home with me! Or take with thee this little book, Thy guardian it shall be.” “Hence, old fanatic, from my sight! What means this senseless whine? I pray thee, mind thine own affairs, Let me attend to mine.”

25

30

35

40

“Alas! my son, the generous spark, That warmed thy tender mind, Is now extinct, and malice keen Is only left behind. “How canst thou rend that aged heart, That yearns thy woes to share? Thou still hast been my only grief, My only hope and care.

45

290

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

“Ere I had been one month a bride, Of joy I took farewell; With Craigie on the banks of Sark, Thy valiant father fell. “I nursed thee on my tender breast, With meikle care and pain; And saw with pride thy mind expand, Without one sordid stain. “With joy each night I saw thee kneel, Before the throne of grace; And on thy Saviour’s blessed day, Frequent his holy place.

50

55

60

“But all is gone! the vespers sweet, Which from our castle rose, Are silent now; and sullen pride In hand with envy goes! “Thy wedded wife has swayed thy heart To pride and passion fell; O, for thy little children’s sake, Renounce that path of hell. “Then stay at home, my only son, O with thy mother stay! Or tell me what thou goest about, That for thee I may pray.” He turned about, and hasted out, And for his horse did call; “An hundred fiends my patience rend, But thou excell’st them all !” She slipt beneath his saddle lap A book of psalms and prayer, And hastened to yon ancient fane, To listen what was there. And when she came to yon kirk-yard, Where graves are green and low, She saw full thirty coal-black steeds All standing in a row.

65

70

75

80

1821 VERSION

Her Willie’s was the tallest steed, ’Twixt Dee and Annan whole; But placed beside that mighty rank, He kythed but like a foal. She laid her hand upon his side; Her heart grew cold as stone! The cold sweat ran from every hair, He trembled every bone! She laid her hand upon the next, His bulky side to stroak, And aye she reached, and aye she stretched,— ’Twas nothing all but smoke. It was a mere delusive form, Of films and sulph’ry wind; And every wave she gave her hand, A gap was left behind.

291 85

90

95

100

She passed through all those stately steeds, Yet nothing marred her way, And left her shape in every shade, For all their proud array. But whiles she felt a glowing heat, Though mutt’ring holy prayer; And filmy veils assail’d her face, And stifling brimstone air. Then for her darling desperate grown, Straight to the aisle she flew; But what she saw, and what she heard, No mortal ever knew. But yells and moans, and heavy groans, And blackest blasphemye, Did fast abound; for every hound Of hell seemed there to be. And after many a horrid rite, And sacrifice profane, “A book! a book!” they loudly howled; “Our spells are all in vain.

105

110

115

120

292

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

“Hu! tear him, tear him limb from limb!” Resounded through the pile; “Hu! tear him, tear him straight, for he Has mocked us all this while!” The tender matron, desperate grown, Then shrieked most bitterlye; “O spare my son, and take my life, The book was lodged by me.” “Ha! that’s my frantic mother’s voice! My life or peace must end; O! take her, body and soul bothe! Take her, and spare thy friend!” The riot rout then sallied out, Like hounds upon their prey; And gathered round her in the aisle, With many a hellish bray. Each angry shade endeavours made, Their fangs in blood to stain, But all their efforts to be felt, Were impotent and vain.

125

130

135

140

Whether the wretched mortal there His filial hands embrued, Or if the Ruler of the sky The scene with pity viewed,— And sent the streaming bolt of heaven, Ordained to interpose, To take her life, and save her soul From these infernal foes, No man can tell how it befel; Inquiry all was vain; But her blood was shed, for the swaird was red But an’ the kirk-door-stane.— And Willie Wilkin’s noble steed Lay stiff upon the green. A night so dire in Annandale, Before had never been!

145

150

155

1821 VERSION

Loud thunders shook the vault of heaven, The fire-flaughts flew amain; The graves were plowed, the rocks were riven, Whole flocks and herds were slain.

293

160

They gathered up the mangled limbs, And laid beneath the stone; But the heart, and the tongue, and every palm From every hand, were gone. Her blood was sprinkled on the wall, Her body was on the floor; Her reverend head, with sorrows grey, Hung on the chapel door. To Auchincastle Wilkin hied, On Evan banks sae green; And lived and died like other men, For aught that could be seen. But gloomy, gloomy was his look, And froward was his way; And malice every action ruled, Until his dying day. And many a mermaid staid his call, And many a mettled fay; And many a wayward spirit learned His summons to obey.

165

170

175

180

And many a wondrous work he wrought, And many things foretold; Much was he feared, but little loved, By either young or old.

Notes to Willie Wilkin He hied him to yon ancient fane, That stands on Kinnel side.—v. 2. THE name of this ancient fane is Dumgree. It is beautifully situated on the west side of the Kinnel, one of the rivers which joins the Annan from the west, and is now in ruins. It is still frequented by a few peaceable spirits, at certain

294

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

seasons. As an instance: Not many years ago, a neighbouring farmer, riding home at night upon a mare, who, besides knowing the road well enough, had her foal closed in at home, thought himself hard at his own house, but was surprised to find that his mare was stopped at the door of the old kirk of Dumgree. He mounted again, and essayed it a second, and a third time; but always when he thought himself at home, he found himself at the door of the old kirk of Dumgree, and farther from home than when he first set out. He was now sensible that the beast was led by some invisible hand, so alighting, he went into the chapel and said his prayers; after which he mounted, and rode as straight home as if it had been noon. If the farmer had told his story to my uncle Toby, he would certainly have whistled, Lillabullero. To Auchincastle Wilkin hied, On Evan banks sae green.–v. 43. Auchincastle is situated on the west side of the Evan, another of the tributary streams of the Annan. It seems to have been a place of great strength and antiquity; is surrounded by a moat and a fosse; and is perhaps surpassed by none in Scotland for magnitude. And lived and died like other men, For aught that could be seen.–v. 43. If he lived and died like other men, it appears that he was not at all buried like other men. When on his death bed, he charged his sons, as they valued their peace and prosperity, to sing no requiem, nor say any burial-service over his body; but to put a strong withie to each end of his coffin, by which they were to carry him away to Dumgree, and see that all the attendants were wellmounted. On the top of a certain eminence they were to set down the corpse and rest a few minutes, and if nothing interfered they might proceed. If they fulfilled these, he promised them the greatest happiness and prosperity for four generations; but if they neglected them in one point, the utmost misery and wretchedness. The lads performed every thing according to their father’s directions; and they had scarcely well set down the corpse on the place he mentioned, when they were alarmed by the most horrible bellowing of bulls; and instantly two dreadful brindered ones appeared, roaring and snuffing, and tossing up the earth with their horns and hoofs; on which the whole company turned and fled. When the bulls reached the coffin, they put each of them one of their horns in their respective withies, and ran off with the corpse, stretching their course straight to the westward. The relatives, and such as were wellmounted, pursued them, and kept nigh them for several miles; but when they came to the small water of Brann, in Nithsdale, the bulls went straight through the air, from the one hill head to the other, without descending to the bottom of the glen. This unexpected manœuvre threw the pursuers quite behind, though they needed not to have expected any thing else, having before observed, that their feet left no traces on the ground, though ever so soft. However, by dint of whip and spur, they again got sight of them; but when they came to Loch Ettrick, on the heights of Closeburn, they had all lost sight of

1821 VERSION

295

them but two, who were far behind: but the bulls there meeting with another company, plunged into the lake with the corpse, and were never more seen at that time. Ever since his spirit has haunted that loch, and continues to do so to this day. He was when alive very fond of the game of curling on the ice, at which no mortal man could beat him; nor has his passion for it ceased with death; for he and his hellish confederates continue to amuse themselves with this game during the long winter nights, to the great terror and annoyance of the neighbourhood, not much regarding whether the loch be frozen or not. I have heard sundry of the neighbouring inhabitants declare, with the most serious countenances, that they have heard them talking, and the sound of the stones, running along the ice and hitting each other, as distinctly as ever they did when present at a real and substantial curling. Some have heard him laughing, others lamenting; and others have seen the two bulls plashing and swimming about in the loch at the close of the evening. In short, every one allows it to be a dangerous place, and a place where very many have been affrighted: though there is little doubt that, making allowances for the magnifying qualities of fear, all the above phenomena might be accounted for in a natural way.— Wilkin’s descendants are still known; and the poorer sort of them have often their great predecessor mentioned to them as a ground of reproach, whom they themselves allow to have been an awesome body.

Thirlestane A Fragment S I R R OBERT S COTT , knight of Thirlestane, was first married to a lady of high birth and qualifications, whom he most tenderly loved; but she, soon dying, left him an only son. He was afterwards married to a lady of a different temper, by whom he had several children; whose jealousy of the heir made Sir Robert doat still more on this darling son. She, knowing that the right of inheritance belonged to him, and that, of course, a very small share would fall to her sons, seeing he loved the heir so tenderly, grew every year more uneasy. But the building, and other preparations which were going on at Gamescleuch, on the other side of the Ettrick, for his accommodation on reaching his majority, when he was also to be married to a fair kinswoman, drove her past all patience, and made her resolve on his destruction. The masonry of his new castle of Gamescleuch was finished on his birth-day, when he reached his twentieth year; but it never went farther. This being always a feastday at Thirlestane, the lady prepared, on that day, to put her hellish plot in execution; for which purpose she had previously secured to her interest John Lally, the family piper. This man, tradition says, procured

1821 VERSION

295

them but two, who were far behind: but the bulls there meeting with another company, plunged into the lake with the corpse, and were never more seen at that time. Ever since his spirit has haunted that loch, and continues to do so to this day. He was when alive very fond of the game of curling on the ice, at which no mortal man could beat him; nor has his passion for it ceased with death; for he and his hellish confederates continue to amuse themselves with this game during the long winter nights, to the great terror and annoyance of the neighbourhood, not much regarding whether the loch be frozen or not. I have heard sundry of the neighbouring inhabitants declare, with the most serious countenances, that they have heard them talking, and the sound of the stones, running along the ice and hitting each other, as distinctly as ever they did when present at a real and substantial curling. Some have heard him laughing, others lamenting; and others have seen the two bulls plashing and swimming about in the loch at the close of the evening. In short, every one allows it to be a dangerous place, and a place where very many have been affrighted: though there is little doubt that, making allowances for the magnifying qualities of fear, all the above phenomena might be accounted for in a natural way.— Wilkin’s descendants are still known; and the poorer sort of them have often their great predecessor mentioned to them as a ground of reproach, whom they themselves allow to have been an awesome body.

Thirlestane A Fragment S I R R OBERT S COTT , knight of Thirlestane, was first married to a lady of high birth and qualifications, whom he most tenderly loved; but she, soon dying, left him an only son. He was afterwards married to a lady of a different temper, by whom he had several children; whose jealousy of the heir made Sir Robert doat still more on this darling son. She, knowing that the right of inheritance belonged to him, and that, of course, a very small share would fall to her sons, seeing he loved the heir so tenderly, grew every year more uneasy. But the building, and other preparations which were going on at Gamescleuch, on the other side of the Ettrick, for his accommodation on reaching his majority, when he was also to be married to a fair kinswoman, drove her past all patience, and made her resolve on his destruction. The masonry of his new castle of Gamescleuch was finished on his birth-day, when he reached his twentieth year; but it never went farther. This being always a feastday at Thirlestane, the lady prepared, on that day, to put her hellish plot in execution; for which purpose she had previously secured to her interest John Lally, the family piper. This man, tradition says, procured

296

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

her three adders, of which they chose the parts replete with the most deadly poison; these they ground to a fine powder, and mixed with a bottle of wine. On the forenoon before the festival commenced, he went over to Gamescleuch to regale his workmen, who had exerted themselves to get their work finished on that day, and Lally the piper went with him as a server. When his young lord called for wine to drink a health to the masons, John gave him a cup of the poisoned bottle, which he drank off. Lally went out of the castle, as if about to return home; but that was the last sight of him. He could never be found nor heard of, though the most diligent and extended search was made for him. The heir swelled and burst almost instantaneously. A large company of the then potent name of Scott, with others, were now assembled at Thirlestane to grace the festival; but what a woeful meeting it turned out to be! They with one voice pronounced him poisoned; but where to attach the blame remained a mystery, as he was so universally loved and esteemed. The first thing the knight caused to be done, was blowing the blast on the trumpet or great bugle, which was the warning for all the family instantly to assemble; which they did in the court of the castle. He then put the following question: “Now, are we all here?” A voice answered from the crowd, “We are all here but Lally the piper.” Simple and natural as this answer may seem, it served as an electrical shock to old Sir Robert. It is supposed that, knowing the confidence which his lady placed in this menial, the whole scene of cruelty opened to his eyes at once; and the trying conviction, that his peace was destroyed by her most dear to him, struck so forcibly upon his feelings, that it totally deprived him of reason. He stood a long time speechless, and then fell to repeating the answer he had received, like one half awakened out of a sleep; nor was he ever heard, for many a day, to speak another word than these, “We’re all here but Lally the piper:” and when any one accosted him, whatever was the subject, that was sure to be the answer he received. The method which he took to revenge his son’s death was singular and unwarrantable: He said, that the estate of right belonged to his son, and since he could not bestow it upon him living, he would spend it all upon him now he was dead; and that neither the lady, nor her children, should ever enjoy a farthing of that which she had played so foully for. The body was accordingly embalmed, and lay in great splendour at Thirlestane for a year and a day; during all which time Sir Robert kept open house, welcoming and feasting all who chose to come, and actually spent or mortgaged his whole estate, saving a very small patrimony in Eskdale-muir, which belonged to his wife. Some say, that while all the country, who chose to come, were thus feasting at Thirlestane, she remained shut up in a vault of the castle, and lived on bread and water. During the three last days of this wonderful feast, the crowds which gathered were immense; it seemed as if the whole country were as-

1821 VERSION

297

sembled at Thirlestane. The butts of wine were carried to the open fields, the ends knocked out of them with hatchets, stones, or whatever came readiest to hand, and the liquor carried about “in stoups and in caups.” On these days the burn of Thirlestane ran constantly red with wine, and even communicated its tincture to the River Ettrick. The family vault, where his corpse was interred in a leaden chest, is under the same roof with the present parish church of Ettrick, and distant from Thirlestane about a Scots mile. To give some idea of the magnitude of the burial, the old people tell us, that though the whole way was crowded with attendants, yet, when the leaders of the procession reached the church, the rearmost were not nearly got from Thirlestane. Sir Robert, shortly after dying, left his family in a state little short of downright beggary, which, they say, the lady herself came to before she died. As Sir Robert’s first lady was of the family of Buccleuch, some suspected him of having a share in forwarding the knight’s desperate procedure. Certain it is, however, he did not, in this instance, depart from the old family maxim, “Keep what you have, and catch what you can,” but made a noble hand of the mania of grief, which so overpowered the faculties of the old baron; for when accounts came to be cleared up, a large proportion of the lands turned out to be Buccleuch’s. And it is added, on what authority I know not, that when the extravagance of Sir William Scott obliged the Harden family to part with the Thirlestane property, which fell into their hands, the purchasers were bound by the bargain to refund these lands, should the Scotts of Thirlestane ever make good their right to them, either by law or redemption. The nearest lineal descendant from this second marriage is one Robert Scott, a poor man who lives at the Binks on Teviot, whom the generous Buccleuch has taken notice of and provided for. He is commonly distinguished by the appellation of Rob the Laird, from the conviction of what he would have been had he got fair play. With this man, who is very intelligent, I could never find an opportunity of conversing, though I sought it diligently. It is said, he can inform as to many particulars relating to this sad catastrophe; and that, whenever he has occasion to mention a certain great predecessor of his, (the Lady of Thirlestane,) he distinguishes her by a very uncouth epithet. It must be remarked, that I had access to no records for the purpose of ascertaining the facts above stated, though I believe they are, for the most part, pretty correct. Perhaps much might be learned by applying to the noble representative of the family, the Honourable Lord Napier, who is still possessed of the beautiful mountains round Thirlestane, and who has it at present in contemplation to rebuild and beautify it; which may God grant him health and prosperity to accomplish.—It is to this story that the following fragment alludes. It is not a little singular, that in the Napier genealogy, published in Wood’s Peerage, from a manuscript contained in Lord Napier’s charter-chest, there is no mention made of this catastrophe; nor is it

298

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

possible from that genealogy to ascertain who the heir that was thus taken off has been. Yet there is so little doubt of the traditionary story having been true, that it was the foundation of a law-suit, which lasted for generations, regarding a part of the lands that belonged either to Sir Robert’s second lady, or were hers in reversion. The Sir Robert Scott of Thirlestane, who was warden-depute of the West Border in 1567, and who married Margaret, daughter of Sir Walter Scott, had in fact three sons, and in this chronicle no second lady is mentioned. But on the other hand, his eldest son and heir, Robert, is merely mentioned; and it is evident that he had died young, and without issue. From this it is highly probable, that he was the heir who was supposed to have been poisoned; for it farther appears, that some remnants of the estate fell to his brother William, and to his children; but from that time forth they are no more styled Scotts of Thirlestane, until 1666, when one Francis Scott was created a Baronet by patent, and designed of Thirlestane, in the county of Selkirk. He was the eldest son of Patrick Scott of Tanlawhill, commonly called Pate the Laird, and great-grandson to the last Sir Robert Scott by his third son. There is therefore, apparently some confusion in the manuscript about this period, which is manifestly very short and imperfect; a circumstance which would naturally enough occur in the embarrassed state of the family. Pate the Laird recovered a mere fragment of the ample estate of Thirlestane, by purchasing the wadsets of a few of the best of the farms around the castle. When Sir Robert was appointed keeper of the West Marches under his father-in-law, he could have mounted his horse at Eltrive Lake, and ridden to the Crurie, near Langholm, on his own lands, a distance of 30 miles. The Honourable Captain William Napier has built a splendid mansion at the old family seat, and beautified the country by many improvements. Why does he not resume the old paternal name?

F ER, fer hee raide, and fer hee gaed, And aft hee sailit the sea; And thrise he crossit the Alpyne hyllis To dystante Italye. Beyonde Lough-Nesse hys tempil stude, Ane celle of meikle fame; A knichte of guid Sainte John hee wals, And Baldwyn wals hys name. By wondyrous lore hee coulde explore, Whatte after tymes wald be; And manie mystic lynks of fate, He hafflyns could foresee.

5

10

1821 VERSION

Fer, fer he raide, and fer hee gaed, Owre mony hyll and daill, Tyll passynge through the fayre Foreste, Hee learnit ane waesome tale. Whare Ettricke wandyrs downe ane playne, Withe lofty hyllis belayit, The staitly toweris of Thirlestane Withe wondyr hee surveyit.

299

15

20

Black hung the bannyr onne the walle; The trumpit seemit to grane; And reid, reid ranne the bonnye burne, Whilke erste lyke syller shaene. Atte first ane noyse, lyke fairie soundis, Hee indistinctly hearde; Then countlesse, countlesse were the croudis Whilke rounde the wallis appearit. Thousandis of steidis stude onne the hyll, Of sable trappyngis vayne; And round onne Ettrickis baittle haughis Grewe no kin kynd of grayne. Hee gazit, hee wonderit, sair hee fearit Some recente tragedye; Atte lengthe hee spyit ane woeful wichte, Gaun droopynge owre the ley. Hys bearde wals sylverit owre withe eild; Pale wals hys cheike wae-worne; Hys hayre wals lyke the muirlande wylde Onne a Decembyr morne.

25

30

35

40

“Haile, reverente brother!” Baldwyn saide, “Here in this unco lande, Ane Temple warrioure greetis thee well, And offers thee hys hande. “O telle mee why the people mourne? Sure all is notte forre guid; And why, why does the bonnye burne Rin reid withe Chrystian bluid?”

45

300

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

Aulde Beattie turnit and shuke hys heide, While downe felle mony a teire; “O, wellcome, wellcome, sire,” hee saide, “Ane waesome tale to heire: “The guid Syr Robertis sonne and heir By cruelle handis lyis slayne, And all hys wyde domaynis so fayre To ither Lordis are gane. “Onne sic ane youthe als him they mourne The sunne did never shyne,— Insteade of Chrystian bluid, the burne Rinnis reid with Rhenis wyne.

50

55

60

“This is the sadde returnynge daie Hee first behelde the lyght,— This is the sadde returnynge daie Hee felle by cruelle spyte. “And onne this daie, withe pompe and pryde, Hence you will see him borne, And hys poor father home return, Of landis and honouris shorne. “Come to my littil chambyr stille, In yonder turrette low; We’ll say our prayeris forre the dead, And forre the livynge too. “And when thou haste ane fre repaste Of wheat bread and the wyne, My tale shalle weite thy honeste cheikis, Als oft it has done myne.” *

*

*

*

*

*

65

70

75

1821 VERSION

301

Lord Derwent A Fragment “O WHY look ye so pale, my lord? And why look ye so wan? And why stand mounted at your gate, So early in the dawn?” “O well may I look pale, ladye; For how can I look gay, When I have fought the live-long night, And fled at break of day?” “And is the Border troop arrived? And have they won the day? It must have been a bloody field, Ere Derwent fled away. “But where got ye that stately steed, So sable and so good? And where got ye that gilded sword, So dyed with purple blood?” “I got that sword in bloody fray, Last night on Eden downe; I got the horse and harness too, Where mortal ne’er got one.”

5

10

15

20

“Alight, alight, my noble lord; God mot you save and see! For never till this hour was I, Afraid to look on thee.” He turned him to the glowing east, That stained both tower and tree: “Prepare, prepare, my lady fair, Prepare to go with me. “Before this dawning day shall close, A deed shall here be done, That men unborn shall shrink to hear, And dames the tale shall shun.

25

30

302

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

“The morning blushes to the chin, The foul intent to see. Prepare, prepare, my lady fair, Prepare to follow me.” “Alight, alight, my noble lord, I’ll live or die with thee; I see a wound deep in your side, And hence you cannot flee.”

35

40

She looked out o’er her left shoulder To list a heavy groan; But when she turned her round again, Her noble lord was gone. She looked to East, and West, and South, And all around the tower; Through house and hall; but man nor horse She never could see more. She turned her round and round about, All in a doleful state; And there she saw her little foot-page Alighting at the gate. “Oh! open, open, noble dame, And let your servant in; Our furious foes are hard at hand, The castle fair to win.” “But tell me, Billy, where’s my lord? Or whither is he bound? He’s gone just now, and in his side A deep and deadly wound.”

45

50

55

60

“Why do you rave, my noble dame, And look so wild on me? Your lord lies on the bloody field, And him you’ll never see. “With Scottish Jardine, hand to hand, He fought most valiantly, Put him to flight, and broke his men, With shouts of victory.

65

1821 VERSION

“But Maxwell, rallying, wheeled about, And charged us fierce as hell; Yet ne’er could pierce the English troops Till my brave master fell. “Then all was gone; the ruffian Scot Bore down our flying band; And now they waste with fire and sword The Links of Cumberland. “Lord Maxwell’s gone to Carlisle town With Jardine hastilye, And young Kilpatrick, and Glencairn Are come in search of thee.”

303 70

75

80

“How dare you lie, my little page, Whom I pay meat and fee? The cock has never crowed but once Since Derwent was with me. “The bird that sits on yonder bush, And sings so loud and clear, Has only three times changed his note Since my good lord was here.” “Whoe’er it was, whate’er it was, I’m sure it was not he: I saw him dead on Eden plain, I saw him with my ee. “I saw him stand against an host, While heaps before him fell; I saw them pierce his manly side, And bring the last farewell. “ ‘O run,’ he cried, ‘to my ladye, And bear the fray before; Tell her I died for England’s right.’— “Then word spake never more. “Come let us fly to Westmoreland, For here you cannot stay; Short be thy shrift; our steeds are swift, And well I know the way.”

85

90

95

100

304

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

“I will not fly, I cannot fly; My heart is wonder sore; My brain it turns, my blood it burns, And I dare not look before.” She turned her eye to Borrowdale; Her heart grew chill with dread;— For there she saw the Scottish bands, Kilpatrick at their head. Red blazed the beacon of Pownell, On Skiddaw there were three; The warder’s horn o’er muir and fell Was heard continually. Dark grew the sky, the wind was still, The sun in blood arose; But oh! how many a gallant man Ne’er saw that evening close! *

*

*

*

*

105

110

115

120

*

Notes to Lord Derwent I got that sword in bloody fray, Last night on Eden downe.—v. 5. T HIS ballad relates to an engagement which took place betwixt the Scots and English, in Cumberland, A. D. 1524; for a particular account of which, see the historians of that period. But Maxwell, rallying, wheeled about.—v. 18. The page’s account of this action seems not to be wide of the truth: “On the 17th of Julie, the Lord Maxwell, and Sir Alexander Jardein, with diverse other Scottishmen, in great numbers entered England by the west marches, and Caerleill, with displayed banners, and began to harrie the country, and burn diverse places. The Englishmen assembled on every side, so that they were far more in number than the Scottishmen, and thereupon set feircelie upon their enemies: insomuch, that, for the space of an hour, there was a sore fight continued betwixt them. But the Lord Maxwell, like a true politike Captain, as of all that knew him he was no less reputed, ceased not to encourage his people; and after that, by the taking of Sir Alexander Jardein and others, they had beene put backe, he brought them in arraie again, and, beginning a new skirmish, recovered in manner all the prisoners; took and slew diverse Englishmen; so that he returned with victorie, and led above 300 prisoners with him into Scotland.” Hollingshed.

1821 VERSION

305

The Laird of Lairistan, or

The Three Champions of Liddisdale THE scene of this ballad is laid in the upper parts of Liddisdale, in which district the several residences of the three champions are situated, as is also the old castle of Hermitage, with the farm-houses of Saughentree and Roughley. As to the authenticity of the story, all that I can say of it is, that I used to hear it told when I was a boy, by William Scott, a joiner of that country, and was much taken with some of the circumstances. Were I to relate it verbatim, it would only be anticipating a great share of the poem.—One verse is ancient, beginning, O wae be to thee, &c.

“O D ICKIE , ’tis light, and the moon shines bright, Will ye gang and watch the deer wi’ me?” “Ay, by my sooth, at the turn o’ the night, We’ll drive the holm of the Saughentree.” The moon had turned the roof of Heaven; The ground lay deep in drifted snaw; The Hermitage bell had rung eleven, And our yeomen watched behind the ha! The deer was skight, and the snaw was light, And never a blood-drap could they draw, “Now by my sooth,” cried Dickie then, “There’s something yonder will fear us a’. “Right owre the know where Liddel lies,— Nae wonder that it derkens my ee, See yonder’s a thing of fearsome size, And it’s moving this way hastilye. “Say, what is yon, my brother John? The Lord preserve baith you and me! But our hearts are the same, and sure our aim, And he that comes near these bullets shall prie.” “O haud your tongue, my brother dear, Let us survey’t wi’ steady ee; ’Tis a dead man they are carrying here, And ’tis fit that the family warned should be.”

5

10

15

20

306

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

They ran to the ha’, and they wakened them a’, But none were at home but maidens three; Then close in the shade of the wall they staid, To watch what the issue of this would be. And there they saw a dismal sight, A sight had nearly freezed their blood; One lost her sight in the fair moon-light, And one of them fainted where they stood. Four stalwart men, on arms so bright, Came bearing a corpse with many a wound; His habit bespoke him a lord or knight; And his fair ringlets swept the ground. They heard one to another say— “A place to leave him will not be found; The door is locked, and the key away, In the byre will we lay him down.”

25

30

35

40

Then into the byre the corpse they bore, And away they fled right speedilye; The rest took shelter behind the door, In wild amazement as well might be. And into the byre no ane durst gang , No, not for the life of his bodye; But the blood on the snaw was trailed alang, And they kend a’ wasna as it should be. Next morning all the dalesmen ran, For soon the word was far and wide; And there lay the Laird of Lairistan, The bravest knight on the Border side!

45

50

He was wounded behind, and wounded before, And cloven through the left cheek-bone; And clad in the habit he daily wore; 55 But his sword, and his belt, and his bonnet were gone. Then East and West the word has gane, And soon to Branxholm ha’ it flew, That Elliot of Lairistan he was slain, And how or why no living knew.

60

1821 VERSION

307

Buccleuch has mounted his milk-white steed, With fifty knights in his company; To Hermitage castle they rode with speed, Where all the dale was summoned to be. And soon they came, a numerous host, And they swore and touched the fair bodye; But Jocky o’ Millburn he was lost, And could not be found in the hale countrye. “Now wae be to thee, Armstrong o’ Millburn! And O an ill death may’st thou dee! Thou hast put down brave Lairistan, But his equal thou wilt never be. “The Bewcastle men may ramp and rave, And drive away the Liddisdale kye: For now is our guardian laid in his grave, And Branxholm and Thirlestane distant lye.” The dalesmen thus his loss deplore, And every one his virtures tell: His hounds lay howling at the door, His hawks flew idle o’er the fell.

65

70

75

80

——————————————— When three long years were come and gone, Two shepherds sat on Roughley hill; And aye they sighed and made their moan, O’er the present times that looked so ill. “Our young king lives at London town, Buccleuch must bear him companye; And Thirlestane’s all to flinders gone, And who shall our protector be? “And jealous of the Stuart race, The English lords begin to thraw; The land is in a piteous case, When subjects rise against the law.

85

90

308

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

“Our grief and ruin are forespoke, The nation has received a stain— A stain like that on Sundup’s cloak, That never will wash out again.” Amazement kythed in the shepherd’s face, His mouth to open wide began; He stared and looked from place to place, As things across his mem’ry ran.

95

100

The broidered cloak of gaudy green, Which Sundup wore, and was sae gay, For three lang years had ne’er been seen, At chapel, raid, nor holiday. Once on a night he overheard, From two old dames of southron land, A tale the which he greatly feared, But ne’er could th’roughly understand. “Now tell me, neighbour, tell me true; Your sim’lie bodes us little good; I fear the cloak you mentioned now,— I fear ’tis stained with noble blood!” “Indeed, my friend, you’ve guessed aright; I never meant to tell to man That tale; but crimes will come to light, Let human wits do what they can. “But He, who ruleth wise and well, Hath ordered from his seat on high, That aye since valiant Elliot fell, That mantle bears the purple dye.

105

110

115

120

“And all the waters in Liddisdale, And all that lash the British shore, Can ne’er wash out the wondrous maele! It still seems fresh with purple gore.” Then east and west the word is gane, And soon to Branxholm ha’ it flew; And Halbert o’ Sundup he was ta’en, And brought before the proud Buccleuch.

125

1821 VERSION

The cloak was hung in open hall, Where ladies and lords of high degree, And many a one, both great and small, Were struck with awe the same to see. “Now tell me Sundup,” said Buccleuch, “Is this the judgment of God on high? If that be Elliot’s blood we view, False Sundup! thou shalt surely die!” Then Halbert turned him where he stood, And wiped the round tear frae his e’e; “That blood, my lord, is Elliot’s blood; I winna keep in the truth frae thee.”

309 130

135

140

“O ever-alack!” said good Buccleuch, “If that be true thou tell’st to me, On the highest tree in Branxholm-heuch, Stout Sundup, thou must hangit be.” “ ’Tis Elliot’s blood, my lord, ’tis true; And Elliot’s death was wrought by me; And were the deed again to do, I’d do’t in spite of hell and thee. “My sister, brave Jock Armstrong’s bride, The fairest flower of Liddisdale, By Lairistan foully was betrayed, And roundly has he paid the mail. “We watched him in her secret bower, And found her to his bosom prest: He begged to have his broad claymore, And dared us both to do our best. “Perhaps, my lord, ye’ll truly say, In rage from laws of arms we swerved: Though Lairistan got double play, ’Twas fairer play than he deserved. “We might have killed him in the dark, When in the lady’s arms lay he; We might have killed him in his sark, Yet gave him room to fight or flee.

145

150

155

160

310

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

“‘Come on, then,’ gallant Millburn cried, ‘My single arm shall do the deed; Or heavenly justice is denied, Or that false heart of thine shall bleed.’ “Then to’t they fell, both sharp and snell, With steady hand and watchful een, From both the trickling blood-drops fell, And the words of death were said between. “The first stroke Millburn to him gave, He ript his bosom to the bone; Though Armstrong was a yeoman brave, Like Elliot living there was none. “His growth was like the border oak; His strength the bison’s strength outvied; His courage like the mountain rock; For skill his man he never tried.

165

170

175

180

“Oft had we three in border fray, Made chiefs and armies stand in awe; And little weened to see the day On other deadly thus to draw. “The first wound that brave Millburn got, The tear of rage rowed in his e’e; The next stroke that brave Millburn got, The blood ran dreeping to his knee. “My sword I gripped into my hand, And fast to his assistance ran;— What could I do? I could not stand And see the base deceiver win. “‘Now turn,’ I cried, ‘thou limmer loun! Turn round and change a blow with me, Or by the righteous Powers aboon, I’ll hew the arm from thy bodye.’ “He turned with many a haughty word, And lounged and passed most furiouslye; But, with one slap of my broad sword, I brought the traitor to his knee.

185

190

195

200

1821 VERSION

311

“‘Now take thou that,’ stout Armstrong cried, ‘For all the pain thou’st gi’en to me;’ ( Though then he shortly would have died) And ran him through the fair bodye.” Buccleuch’s stern look began to change, To tine a warrior lothe was he; The crime was called a brave revenge, And Halbert of Sundup was set free. Then every man for Millburn mourned, And wished him to enjoy his own; But Millburn never more returned, Till ten long years were come and gone. Then loud alarms through England ring, And deeds of death and dool began; The commons rose against the king, And friends to diff ’rent parties ran. The nobles join the royal train, And soon his ranks with grandeur fill; They sought their foes with might and main, And found them lying on Edgehill.

205

210

215

220

The trumpets blew, the bullets flew, And long and bloody was the fray; At length, o’erpowered, the rebel crew Before the royal troops gave way. “Who was the man,” Lord Lindsey cried, “That fought so well through all the fray? Whose coat of rags, together tied, Seems to have seen a better day. “Such bravery in so poor array, I never in my life did see; His valour three times turned the day, When we were on the point to flee.” Then up there spoke a man of note, Who stood beside his majestye, “My liege, the man’s a Border Scot, Who volunteered to fight for thee.

225

230

235

312

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

“He says you’re kind, but counselled ill, And sit unstable on your throne; But had he power unto his will, He swears he’d kill the dogs each one.”

240

The king he smiled, and said aloud, “Go bring the valiant Scot to me; When we have all our foes subdued, The lord of Liddel he shall be.” The king gave him his gay gold ring, And made him there a belted knight. But Millburn bled to save his king, The king to save his royal right.

245

The Wife of Crowle This fragment is a traditionary story put to rhyme without any addition. The woman lived at Crowle Chapel in Nithsdale. It is now given more at large in “The Winter Evening Tales.”

A ND aye she sat by the cheek of the grate, Pretending to shape and to sew; But she looked at all that entered the hall, As if she would look them through. Her hands she wrung, and at times she sung Some wild airs for the dead; Then ’gan to tell a crazy tale, She told it for a meed.

5

“I once had a son, but now he is gone, They tore my son from me; 10 His life-blood streamed where the cormorant screamed, On the wild rocks girt by the sea. “So hard his lone bed, and unpillowed his head, For the dark sea cave is his urn; The cliff-flowers weep o’er his slumbers so deep, And the dead-lights over him burn.

15

312

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

“He says you’re kind, but counselled ill, And sit unstable on your throne; But had he power unto his will, He swears he’d kill the dogs each one.”

240

The king he smiled, and said aloud, “Go bring the valiant Scot to me; When we have all our foes subdued, The lord of Liddel he shall be.” The king gave him his gay gold ring, And made him there a belted knight. But Millburn bled to save his king, The king to save his royal right.

245

The Wife of Crowle This fragment is a traditionary story put to rhyme without any addition. The woman lived at Crowle Chapel in Nithsdale. It is now given more at large in “The Winter Evening Tales.”

A ND aye she sat by the cheek of the grate, Pretending to shape and to sew; But she looked at all that entered the hall, As if she would look them through. Her hands she wrung, and at times she sung Some wild airs for the dead; Then ’gan to tell a crazy tale, She told it for a meed.

5

“I once had a son, but now he is gone, They tore my son from me; 10 His life-blood streamed where the cormorant screamed, On the wild rocks girt by the sea. “So hard his lone bed, and unpillowed his head, For the dark sea cave is his urn; The cliff-flowers weep o’er his slumbers so deep, And the dead-lights over him burn.

15

1821 VERSION

313

“Say what can restore the form that’s no more, Or illumine the death-set eye? Yes, a wild mother’s tears, and a wild mother’s prayers, A spirit may force from the sky. 20 “When the sun had rose high, and the season gone bye, My yearnings continued the same; I prayed to Heaven, both morning and even, To send me my son, till he came. “One evening late, by the chimney I sat, I dreamed of the times that were gone, Of its chirrup so eiry the cricket was weary, All silent I sat, and alone. “The fire burnt bright, and I saw by the light My own son enter the hall; A white birchen wand he held in his hand, But no shadow had he on the wall. “He looked at the flame, as forward he came, All steadfast, and looked not away; His motion was still as the mist on the hill, And his colour like cold-white clay. “I knew him full well; but the tones of the bell, Which quavered as midnight it rung, So stunned me, I strove, but I could not move My hand, my foot, nor my tongue.

25

30

35

40

“Blood drops in a shower, then fell on the floor, From the roof, and they fell upon me; No water their stain could wash out again, These blood-drops still you may see. “His form still grew, and the flame burnt blue, I stretched out my arms to embrace; But he turned his dead eye, so hollow and dry, And so wistfully gazed in my face,

45

“That my head whirled round, the walls and the ground All darkened, no more could I see; 50 But each finger’s point, and each finger’s joint, Grew thick as the joint of my knee.

314

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

“I wakened ere day, but my son was away, No word to me he had said; Though my blood was boiling, and my heart recoiling, To see him again still I prayed. “And oft has he come to my lonely home, In guise that might adamant melt; He has offered his hand, with expression so bland, But that hand could never be felt.

55

60

“I’ve oft seen him glide so close by my side, On his grave-cloth the seams I could trace; The blood from a wound trickled down to the ground, And a napkin was over his face. “So oft have I seen that death-like mien, It has somewhat bewildered my brain; Yet, though chilled with affright at the terrible sight, I long still to see it again.”

65

The Lairde of Kirkmabreeke T HIS Ballad was never before published; but is now added as an original in that style of composition. The original of the hero will easily be recognised by a number of persons yet living; and they must acknowledge, that, save in the change of title, and the county and place of his residence, there is no great exaggeration of circumstances in his eventful history.

S OME syngethe of mightye conqueroris, And of grit sovrans lovethe to speike, But I do synge of ane wondirous manne, Sometime callit the Lairde of Kirkmabreeke. And och! he wals ane verie grit manne, Though manie mishanteris him befelle; But I moste withe his breedynge begynne, Als I haif hearit the noorice telle. His ladye modir sho waxit so rounde, Sho scarcelye dochte steppe before her shynnis; And the dropit Lairde he tremblit sore, For the gossipis saide there walde be twynnis.

5

10

314

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

“I wakened ere day, but my son was away, No word to me he had said; Though my blood was boiling, and my heart recoiling, To see him again still I prayed. “And oft has he come to my lonely home, In guise that might adamant melt; He has offered his hand, with expression so bland, But that hand could never be felt.

55

60

“I’ve oft seen him glide so close by my side, On his grave-cloth the seams I could trace; The blood from a wound trickled down to the ground, And a napkin was over his face. “So oft have I seen that death-like mien, It has somewhat bewildered my brain; Yet, though chilled with affright at the terrible sight, I long still to see it again.”

65

The Lairde of Kirkmabreeke T HIS Ballad was never before published; but is now added as an original in that style of composition. The original of the hero will easily be recognised by a number of persons yet living; and they must acknowledge, that, save in the change of title, and the county and place of his residence, there is no great exaggeration of circumstances in his eventful history.

S OME syngethe of mightye conqueroris, And of grit sovrans lovethe to speike, But I do synge of ane wondirous manne, Sometime callit the Lairde of Kirkmabreeke. And och! he wals ane verie grit manne, Though manie mishanteris him befelle; But I moste withe his breedynge begynne, Als I haif hearit the noorice telle. His ladye modir sho waxit so rounde, Sho scarcelye dochte steppe before her shynnis; And the dropit Lairde he tremblit sore, For the gossipis saide there walde be twynnis.

5

10

1821 VERSION

But alle their laire wals turnit to laite, And they war forcit their gabbis to steike; For quhen the daye of the kimmeris came, There wals none but the heire of Kirkmabreeke. He wals als braif and gallante ane boye, Als one in ane someris daye mochte se, For he strokke the meedwyfe on the eye, And he byte his modir abone the kne.

315

15

20

They colde not laye him til ane breste, For his teethe he wals not lothe to plye; But they brochte him up withe the pan and spoone, And in ane grit cradyl did him tye. The noorice sho durst not his armis truste To wampish about at will in playe, But sho strappit him down with teape and corde, And wals glad that sho wanne so awaye. He toke his meite, and he toke his drynke, So that in his cradyl there provit ane leake, Als constant als ane goode spring walle; It wals bad for the heire of Kirkmabreeke. And there the braif boye he did lye, I wot he had but sorrye cheire, But he sente furthe his voyce so valiantlye, He made the deifest in the house to heire. And then the Lairde walde fret and fume, And he walde sweare by bloode and ’oondis, The boye walde be a prezenter of saumis, Or else a sairjen of blue dragoonis.

25

30

35

40

And the womyne callit him ane rowtynge bulle, And paikit and skelpit him fulle sore, Which the chylde resented manfullye, And he shouted louder than before. For he saw that he wals bounde and cuffit, And ane slaif to womynis tyrannye, And he wishit to haif the wingis of ane dove, That he out of their reiche mochte flee.

45

316

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

But manie a blowe he wonne their chaftis, And he walde byte them to the bone; And he pullit the hayre from out their heidis, For he helde them in detestatioune. They clad him in barrie-coat and frocke, But the chylde he did them sore despise; They were so lyke womyne he threw them off, And strampit forth in his nakyd thies. He neiste gatte trewse and polonese, And they were tange and tichte indeide; But the buttonis walde not louse for haiste, And all wente wronge without remeide.

50

55

60

Then to his fadir he straighte did go, And saide his caise, and sorely cryit; “How has this hap’d, my boye?” saide he, “It wals the womyne,” the chylde replyit. “Well,” saide the Lairde, “I knowe them baisse Malyscious quenis, and rue it sore, But this revenge it is so vylde, I never knewe the lyke before.” The ladye bade the chylde go reide, The ladye bade the chylde go praye; But he knewe it wals through malyse alle, And bounde him to the fieldis awaye. And he walde playe withe beggarlye boyis, And learne to do smalle deidis of synne; But he nevellit the wenchis with his neifis, Tille they were blithe to run yollynge in. They sente him to churche, but he walde not praye, They sente him to schole, but he walde not reide; For it wals ane womyne that sojournit there, And there was nothyng but deadlye feide. But the Lairde he toke ane rychte sore payne, And he monit, and into sicknesse felle, And he dyit, and they laide him in his graif; And our yonge wychte wals lairde himselle;

65

70

75

80

1821 VERSION

And that he made the womyne to knowe, For he turnit them forthe withoutten staye; And he bade them pousse their fortunis bothe, The better aye the farther away. “Och!” said his modir, “I did you beire, Withe payne myne herte wals lyke to breake, And I brochte you up withe dule and payne.”— “Faythe, that thou didst!” saide Kirkmabreeke. “It is fulle harde,” saide sho, “I trow, To turne me forthe my levynge to seike; Och! that I euir had sonne lyke you!” “Trye get ane better,” saide Kirkmabreeke. The noorice she spake ryghte furiouslye— “Thou vylde rascallioune of ane hounde! Thou art wors than the beastis that peryshe quite, That die and rotte upon the grounde.

317 85

90

95

100

“They haif no soulis for to be safit, And they followe their perverse naturis alle; The lyone rorethe furthe abroade, And holde the harmlesse bestis in thralle. “The wolfe he ravenethe in the nyghte, And bytethe the flockis into the folde, Until his verie eeris drappe bloode, And his eyebrees are dreidful to beholde. “The foxe he cumethe withe secret steppe, So softlye he no dreddour breidis, And he seizethe the chickenis in their sleipe, And snappethe off their harmlesse heidis. “The foulmarte takethe up the teste, And seizethe the lambkyn by the noz, And in the wullcattis bearded gobe The geslyng to the mountainis goes. “The corbye crawe he byggethe his este Upon the scrogge within the steipe, And, for to feide his gorbelynge yonge, He pykethe the eyne out of the sheipe.

105

110

115

120

318

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

“But none of these wille lifte ane clawe, Or turne ane nebbe or angrye cruppe Against the moderis that did them beire, Or the kyndlye bestis that brochte them uppe. “And quhen their reavenynge dayis are done, They haif no fearis of byrnynge helle; But thou shalt suffer in thy bodye Mayre than ane womynis tung canne telle. “There standis the bouke that did you breide, And brochte you furthe in manlye maike; And here are the armis that bore you uppe!” “And tyit me doune,” said Kirkmabreeke. “But go thou forthe, my worthye dame, I haif had enough of clacke and thee; And for the lesson that thou hast given, I wille thee paye moste bounteouslye.” Quhen the goode noorice sho hearit of this, Sho firplit and dychtit her goode greye ee’, And saide, “thou art a bounteous chylde, I haif saide it, and wille saye it of thee!”

125

130

135

140

He toke her by the boutte of the arme, And twynnit her lyke yarnwindles rounde; And aye he gae her the tother yerke, And he thwackit her up, and he thwackit her downe. And the noorice sho screamit, and yellit outrichte, But aye he throoshe, and mockit her dynne, And swore before he walde let her gang, He walde dadd the bonis out of her skynne. Then sho felle sachlesse to the grounde, Sickan sporte the Lairde did neuir see, And he saide “I haif repayde thee parte, That is the bountithe I gif to thee.” Then to his ladye modir he wente, And faste he seizit her nothyng lothe, Quod he, “the tymis are turnit with you, Faythe! I shalle haife a strum at bothe!”

145

150

155

1821 VERSION

He gaif her ane skelpe upon the cheike, That made the bloode sterte to her ee, And her hayre, that erst had turnit greye, Arounde his knucklis ytwynit he.

319

160

“By the faythe of my bodye!” then saide the Lairde, “But I shalle haif ane mendis of you, And knevel your ould malyscious bonis, Untylle you be alle bothe black and blewe.” “Haife mercye on me, myne deire sonne, And ceisse your strokkis before I die!” But he wals so braif and gallante ane manne, He walde not ceisse quhile sho could crye. The noorice sho openit forthe her tung, And chryste! as sho did him miscalle! But he gaif her ane kicke where he sholde not, And then stoode laughynge lyke to falle. “Now go thy wayis myne worthye demis, To scamper off I wille make you fainne; An I sholde finde you heire the morne, I will gif you twyce as moche againne.” Then the Lairde he wendethe to his manne Jocke, And saith, “Quhat womyne are in my halle?” “Maister,” quod he, “there be nine or tenne, Full tichte and lustye maydenis alle.”

165

170

175

180

“Then Jocke, my manne, get thou ane rung, And see that it be styffe and straung, By the faythe of my bodye, we will them take, And beatte them quhile our armis dow bang.” “Goode lorde! my maister!” Then quod Jocke, “Withoutten womyne we shalle not thryve; I neuir strokke ane womynis skynne, Nor neuir shall quhile I’m alyve.” “Thou littil wottethe, myne own manne Jocke, Quhat powerfolle diversioune it shall be; I lofe to belte ane womynis hyde Abofe alle sportis I euir did se.”

185

190

320

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

“I thochte not of it, myne deire maistere, Bote that it wals ane deadlye synne, Nowe do I longe moste eidentlye With you the sporte for to begynne. “I staike to stryke withe sturdynesse, And breake their bonis als welle als thee; Only to maike revenge more sweite, Take thou ane lessoune first by me.”

195

200

Then they gatte them twa buirdlye kentis, And they gatte them ane seimlye halle, And Jocke wente forthe unto the grene, And walit the prettyeste of them alle. And he brochte them bothe into the roome, To gette them bastit bone and skynne; And the Lairde he wette his lufis for worke, And seizit his kente for to begynne. “Caste aff,” said he, “thyne boddyce brente, And buskit stayis, and beltis so braw; For I longe to se the longe blewe strippis, And I longe to se the reide bloode fa’.” Then Jocke he saide, “my maister deire, Soche presciouse sporte it can nochte be, But als in promise so in pryce, Take thou ane lessoune first by me.” Then Jocke toke one upon his kne, And kyssit her lippis, and kyssit her cheike, And he claspit her kindlye rounde the waiste, “Quhat goode is in that?” quod Kirkmabreeke.

205

210

215

220

“I praye that we may knolle them first, And se them sprawle, and heire them squeake; Then syn it meiste we will kresse them neiste To pleisse them againne,” saide Kirkmabreeke. But Jocke he wals ane stowborn wychte, And he walde haif the waie he chose, And the maydene that felle for the Lairde Sho wals als flushe als anie rose.

225

1821 VERSION

Then since no better mochte be done, The Lairde he toke her on his kne, And he put his handis arounde her middis, And lookit into her derke blue ee’, And then he kyssit her lippis fulle lothe, And then he kyssit her velvet cheike, And then he sat and sichit full sore, “Chryste! quhat is this?” quod Kirkmabreeke. “Saye, Jocke, my manne what canne this meine, I feire it bodis me nothyng goode, Either a glammour is on my herte, Or a thrystynge after womynis bloode.

321 230

235

240

“For there is soche ane byrnynge me within, Alsthough my bouellis were at stryffe; And there is soche ane strummynge in myne heide, Als if it walde calle forthe my lyffe.” “Beshrewe my herte gin I canne telle,” Quod Jocke, “but there is in myne heide A megrim sore; it muste be lofe, Or thrystynge eftir bloode indeede.” “Lofe! what is lofe, myne owne manne Jocke? So driche ane paine I nevir did thole; Mine body is full of pishmoderis, And byrnynge like ane verie cole. “Brynge me myne kente, for I must quenche This scowderynge paine by layinge on, Haste, Jocke, my manne let us begynne, Or hevin’s my witnesse I am gone. “Holde, maister myne, I praye thee holde, Let us have one oder kysse, and then That wynsum mayden has ane drogge That wille cure you eithlye of your payne. “’ Tis sweiter than the breathe of lyffe, And ane droppe of the hinnye dewe, Wille make the herte als soft als sylke, And hevinis owne joyis on earthe renewe.

245

250

255

260

322

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

“It will turne ane boye into ane manne, Ane manne into ane sovran kyng, Ane mayde into ane brichte angille, Ane angille to ane common thyng.” “I woshe I had it,” quod the Lairde, “For in ane fyre myne bouellis burne; For goddis lofe, lasse, gif me the drogge, Before I to ane izel turne.” “First you shalle vowe, and you shalle sweare,” Saide the fayre maye, “that neuir againne You on ane womyn will lyft your hand To shedde her bloode, or gif her payne.” “It is full harde, then,” quod the Lairde, “That alle my joye is paste remeide; What shalle be, shalle be, I muste yielde, Gif me the drogge for I am deide.”

265

270

275

280

But quhen the Laird had got the drogge That eisit him of his byrnynge payne, He wals so braif and gallante ane manne From strykynge he colde not refrayne. He gaif her ane smashe upon the noz, Ane other on the glowynge cheike, And pummellit her sydis with bothe his handis, It wals raire sporte for Kirkmabreeke. But the Lairde he sone grewe sicke againne, And grievious sicke, and lyke to die, And the mayden wolde not come to him, Neither for golde nor courtesye. “Och! never-alaik!” then quod the Lairde, “Och! Jocke, my manne, cause her come in; For gin I get not that witchis coore, Myne lyffe it is not worthe ane pyn. “And if sho gif not me the drogge, I’ll threshe her tille her bonis shalle ake; I’ll prufe her for ane weirdlye witche, And byrne her bodye at the stake.”

285

290

295

300

1821 VERSION

323

“But I must telle thee, maister myne, That is the worke that wille not wurke, D’ye thynke ane maye of fayre Scotlande Will euir be guidit lyke ane Turke? “First you muste sweare, and gif ane pledge Of houses, landis, or byrnissit goude To beire thee lyke ane gentil manne, And treite her als ane mayden shoude.” “Why, Jocke, my manne, the sothe to speike, I fynde sho hathe my lyffe at wille, And to prufe crampe in sic ane caise, I trow walde arguy littil skille. “And first I’ll sweare by the sone and the mone, And alle the sternis in yonder shene, And all the honynge santis abone, That euir bade Porter Pate goodeene, “To hyng my keyis unto her syde, And make her the mystresse of my halle; And quhatsomever sho biddis me do, I’ll do it—that is worste of alle!

305

310

315

320

“But Jocke, my manne, thou kennis fulle welle, If it is ordainit by the pouris abone, That I moste be thrallit by womyn stille, Why hevinis wille it moste be done. “I’ll make her my mystresse and my joe, And quhen I am sicke as nowe you se, Sho moste run from alle, and come at my calle, And gif me the drogge before I de.” Now sho is mystresse of the halle, And her demainer is nochte meike, The maydenis alle rone at her calle, And ilk ane manne of Kirkmabreeke. But our braif Lairde he grumblit sore, At odd times, to be kept in thralle, Stille by the womyne his mortyl foes, And he walde fret and fume withalle.

325

330

335

324

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

And sometimes in his barley-hoodis, Quhen in the trobil not ouir sycke, He walde gif his mysse ane sounde drubbynge; It wals goode reliefe for Kirkmabreeke.

340

It happenit ille, it happenit wors, Ane messangere maist impudente Came, with his scrollis and warrantis fraught, And threatenit foulle imprisonmente, For breakynge noorice and moderis bonis, And grievious damishes they seike, Als welle als bedde and borde through lyffe; “It is the deuille and alle,” saide Kirkmabreeke.

345

The cause is tryit, the Lairde is caste, And fynit severely for his freike; 350 The shrieve discernit him in the costis; “He muste haif good eyne,” saide Kirkmabreeke. Och! but the Lairde wals grit in wrathe At the crabbed law-manne and his brieffe; But he knevellit his porter at the gate, Whilke gaif his stomacke some relieffe. “If I muste keipe these false womyne,” He saide, “not boastfulle shalle they be, I shalle be maister of myne house, And do als they haif done to me.”

355

360

He tyit them downe in stronge cradylis, And gaif them drynke quhat they colde swille; But then he walde not lette them forthe, Neither for goode, nor yet for ille. “Nowe, Jocke, my manne, sit them besyde, And quhen they crie, and playne to you, Then swyng them weille from syde to syde, Rocke harde, and synge ba-lillie-lou. “And quhen the cradylis are on smoake, And splashynge to the verie heide, Then, Jocke, my manne, take thou ane sticke, And garr them praye and garr them reide.

365

370

1821 VERSION

“And sho that wille not reide and praye, Tille sho no more can heire nor se, Then thou shalt skelpe them tille they rayre; For that wals the gaite they guidit me. “The dirtye shrieve no pinnismente Can fors for rockynge them nyght and daye; Nor shalle he put his fynis on me, For garrynge them reide and garrynge them praye.”

325

375

380

With myssis pryde, and moderis moanis, And noorice’s vilde, and yerliche squeike, Soche starke confusioune wals not knowne At anie plaisse, nor Kirkmabreeke. For alle the daye wals fyre and feude, Withe muckil of woe and wayling dynne; And through the nyghte, for better or wors, There stille was lesse of sleipe than synne. But the Lairde he wals so braif ane manne, He onlye laucht at alle the stryffe; But euir and anone he sayit, That womyne war made to plague his lyffe. Then Jocke he comis unto the Lairde, “O maister myne, braif newis I beire, The wynsum mystress of your herte Is sone to truste you with ane heire. “And you muste laye her in ane lodge, Fayrer and softer than the sylke; And sho muste lie in bedde of downe, Far whyter than the newe wonne mylke.

385

390

395

400

“For sho muste lyke ane ladye be, In alle her havyngis and her wayis; And you muste gif ane thousande poundis, To buy newe lacis til her stayis.” “Ane heire, Jocke is ane nobil thyng, And sho shall haif bothe braide and wyne; But, I haif reasounis to beliefe, He wille be als moche of youris als myne.”

405

326

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

“Och no! och no! myne goode maistere, God wotte! I walde not for my lyffe; I halde more stricke ane deire lemanne, Than I walde do ane marryit wyffe.” “Then, Jocke, my manne, syn that be true, I shall be happyeste of menne; But quhere I aynce wals with the mayde, Faythe, Jocke, thou has beene tymis tenne!” “That heide thou not, myne deire maistere, It wals alle done in courtesye; We onlye talkit of your fayre manheide, And of her presciouse lofe for thee.”

410

415

420

Then the Lairde he wals fulle blithe of blee, And ane proude manne wals he that daye, And he toke her to ane statelye bower, And tendit her lyke ane ladye gaye. But quhen manie monthis war comit and gane, Of cayre, and coste, and tendencye, Though doctoris and meedwyffis alle were there, The feinte ane dochtere or sonne had sho. Then the Lairde wals ane sore humblit manne, And he colde nochte showe his horne nor heide, But he wente unto his maye by nyghte, And he knevellit her tille sho wals deide. But eftir that sho livit agaynne, And made her eskaipe righte privatelye, And wente unto her deire brothere, Ane boisterous captayne of the sea. And he comis forthe unto the Lairde, Sayinge, “Sir, come fyghte me gin you lyke, I muste haif satisfactioune goode, Or I’ll knevel you lyke ane tarriour tyke. “I come with you to measure swordis, And sterne and reide revenge to seike, For a syster dishonourit and abusit.” “The deuille you are!” saide Kirkmabreeke.

425

430

435

440

1821 VERSION

“Welle, maister, syn ’tis goddis wille That I by womyne muste be cursit, Thou shalt haif fyghtynge goode thy fille; But lette us sitte downe and damn them first. “They are the deuillis owne wyked bladis, And put men from their senses quite; That jylte of youris sho hath cheatit me, More than ane poyet colde indyte. “Why, maister, sho tolde me that I sholde Sone haif ane gallante sonne and heire, But quhen the dayis of the countyngis came The deuille ane chylde at alle wals there.” “Sir, thou art wors than ane hostel rude, And of gentil manne not worthe the name; For, in the name of alle that is goode! Howe colde thet be myne systeris blame?”

327 445

450

455

460

The Lairde he turnit him rounde aboute, And ower his lefte sholder lookit he, And he had not one worde to saye for himselfe, So then he lauchit loud lauchteris three. “What! dost thou lauche?” the captayne saide, “I scorne familiaritye;”— Then he gaif him ane lounder on the chaftis, And downe upon the grounde felle he. “Nowe, craven, thou shalt paye me downe Two thousande pounde righte suddenlye, For wrongynge of myne deire systere, Or else get up and fighte with me.” But the Laird he wals so braif ane manne, “By the rode,” saide he, “so maye I thryve! But thou shalt haif fyghtynge eneughe, For I wille not yielde to manne alyve.” Then they began so harde ane fyghte, That from their heidis up rose the reike; But there neuir wals ane manne in the lande That foughte so welle als Kirkmabreeke.

465

470

475

480

328

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

He scornit to stayne his sworde so bryghte With the captaynis rude unseemly gore; But then he foughte with alle his myghte; What gallante mortyl colde do more? Chryste! howe he leatherit with his sworde, And laide about him gallantlye; It wald haif made ane gyaunte quake, And done his stomacke goode to se. But the captayne wals ane shabbye lowne, Abhorrit for euir be the deide! He kennit sae weille to cowe the Lairde That he carvit ane lugge out of his heide. And then he gaif him woundis eleuin, Alle gentil scollopis here and there; Till the Lairde he stormit and swore by heuin, That he meanit to leafe his bonis ybare. “Come shake we handis, and ceisse our stryffe, With bloode myne bodye is ouer dyit, Or boldlye stryke and take my lyffe.” “Two thousande pounde,” the captayne replyit.

485

490

495

500

“Quhat? nothyng but two thousande pounde? Sonere myne hertis bloode shalt thou haif !” “Then fyghte we on,” the captayne saide, Although myne hande cleafis to my glaif.” And they foughte on, and they foughte on, And aye the Lairde he shiftit grounde; And aye, at ilkane quheile and turne, The captayne gaif him ane gracelesse wounde; And neuir ane worde the captayne saide, Saif ane, quhilke wals, “two thousande pounde.”

505

510

Sante Andros! howe the Lairde did fyghte! Though lyke ane droukit henne withe bloode; And aye, at ilkane brande newe prodde, He swore ane othe bothe longe and loude. And aye he bobbit, and aye he foughte, And then he strokke so manfullye,

515

1821 VERSION

329

Als ilkane blowe had beene his laste, Tille I wat ane wearyit wyghte wals he. “Faythe! I muste yielde,” the Lairde ysaide, “Nowe grante me graice for him that dyit.” “So als you gaif, so shalt thou haif, Two thousande pounde,” the captayne replyit. “Two thousande pounde, I saye agaynne, Yea, and agaynne, two thousande pounde;” And aye, quhaneuir he saide the worde, He gaif the Lairde ane menselesse wounde. “My mallisoune lyghte on thee, hounde, Waldest thou kille ane manne upon his kne?” “I value not thy lyffe, Syr Lairde, So moche als one puir Scotis pennye.”

520

525

530

With that he gaif the Lairde ane progge, “Two thousande pounde, Syr Lairde, or dethe;” Then the Lairde he swore ane verie sore oathe, And shouted aloud for perfect wrathe. “I haif no paiper, pennis, nor ynke, Thou menselesse hounde do als I canne.” “Here is ane goode bonde,” the captayne saide, “Wals wrytten by ane law-ware manne.” “I haif no ynke,” the Lairde he cryit, “To sygne awaye this toucher goode;” “Thou shalt not wante,” the captayne replyit, “Here is plentye of thyne gentil bloode.” The Lairde he toke the synfulle bonde, And he layde him lowe downe on the grounde, “I may not sygne,” the Lairde he cryit; The captayne gaif him ane oder wounde.

535

540

545

But stille he enzyit and beverit sore, And heassitatted unto the laste; Tille the captayne gaif him ane prodde on the hyppe, 550 Quhilk maide him sygne and seale fulle faste.

330

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

Then the Lairde he streekit him on the swairde, And he cryit als loude als he colde raire; And the vylde captayne wente his wayis, With joy and myrthe his sydis were saire. Then Jocke he cumis unto the Lairde, “Deire maister myne, praye, gif me leife, For I am to be marryit til ane maye, Without remeide without repriefe.” “Myne owne manne, Jocke, art thou gone madde, To buckil thyselfe to soche ane thyng? Myne fate sholde be ane lessoune goode, Quha am abusit paste all beiryng. “But thou hast beene ane faythfulle manne, Ane faythfulle, honeste manne, and kynde, And thou muste haif fyve hundred pounde, Though I sholde haif nothyng lefte behynde.” “Now fare thee welle, myne deire maistere, Aye haylle and happy mayest thou be, And maye you fynde ane better manne, Than thy puir Jocke has beene to thee!”

555

560

565

570

The Lairde he shoke him by the hand, Whylome he sobbit longe and loude; “Naye I maye seike the worlde alle ouir Before I fynde one half so goode.” But the newis gaed eiste, and the newis gaed weste, And the newis gaed through alle Gallowaye, That Jocke, the Lairdis manne, he wals wedde Unto the Lairdis owne wynsum Maye. Some saide he had gotten ane toucher goode, The milleris sonne myghte nowe upstreeke; So the newis gaed eiste, the newis gaed weste, And at lengthe they came to Kirkmabreeke. In comis ane muckil peasaund manne, None oder manne the Lairde had he, And he standis ouir his chayer backe, “Maister, I’s haud bygge newis to thee;

575

580

585

1821 VERSION

331

“Withe the milleris sonne, and the sayloris lasse, You haif suppit your kale out through the reike; They are marryit, and laughynge downe their sleif.” “Deuille fetche them bothe!” said Kirkmabreeke. 590 “But yet it is alle the womynis bleme, I shalle haif revenge on the haille breide!” Then he knevellit seuin or aught of the maydis, Quhilke did his herte grit goode indeede. But he had ane wrynkyllit housekeipyr, With braythe wals waur than onie brokkis; And he had ane dokas seruynge manne, Als stoopid als ane Gallowaye ox. And the Lairde he laye, and the Lairde he fande Ane kynde of a comynge, stondyng payne; And, in spyte of alle the Lairde colde do, The trobil came on him agaynne. It stondyt up, and it stondyt downe, Unto his heide, and unto his toe; “Ochon! ochon!” the Lairde he saide, “Nowe quaht the deuille shalle I doe? “For I haif none to gif me a drogge, Though in myne deidclaeis I sholde streike; Here I muste thole the lyffe of ane dogge; I wille go a wooynge,” saide Kirkmabreeke.

595

600

605

610

“Thou wytherit wytche, brynge me myne stocke, Myne hollyne serke, and blazenit shoone; For to the cortynge I am bounde, To wynne ane wyffe, and that ryghte soone.” “Your hollyne serke it is not clene, It hathe not smellit sone nor ayre, But lien and moustenit in the kiste With methis and melis, sax monthis and mayre. “Your stocke lyis ronklit in the nooke, It is lyke ane haggisbag to se; Your blazenit shoone are grene and blewe, Your cortynge yet it canna be.”

615

620

332

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

“You wrynkylit haugg gif me myne brawis, Or with ane gouffe your gab I’ll steeke; Do you thynke ane manne is to de for you, And byrne alyfe?” saide Kirkmabreeke: “For I muste go and corte Ann Smaille, Ane lustyer maydene there is none; Sho walde do anis herte moche goode to haif, And byrne it up to thynke upon.”

625

630

“Goode sothe gin that sho be your waille, You haif chosit blindlans and be guesse; The manne that marryethe Ann Smaille, He shalle not boste of happynesse. “Sho shall not rysse at brykke of morne, To telle your maydenis worke to do; Sho shall not attende you at your calle, And keipe you trygge als I do nowe. “Then be contente, myne deire maistere, And als you are so do remayne; For if you are marryit to ane wyffe, Be sure sho shalle gif your bodye payne.” “If I haif nouther hoze, nor shoone, Nor stocke to pit arounde my necke, I trowe it’s tyme, and that ryghte sone, To chainge myne deme,” saide Kirkmabreeke. “That I sholde lout in lofe to you, It maye not stande me muckil steide, You cannot gif ane kuillynge drogge, Though you sholde se myne body bleide.

635

640

645

650

“But if I had the braif Ann Smaille, Myne kynde sheerurgeoune for to be; Then mochte I braithe fulle fresche and haille, For trobil sore doth byde on me. “For thou art soche ane wrynkylit stycke, Thou makest manne thrysty for to se; There’s not als moche sappe in alle thy bouke Als wald lyghten the sterne of ane yonkeris ee.

655

1821 VERSION

“Then bryng to me myne Soneday clothis, Myne glofis and owerlaye, without faille; And bryng to me myne blazenit shoone, That I maye gang and corte Ann Smaille.” The housekeipyr sho keust her heide, And sho passit ane worde of bruckil menne, And sho sette her snood into the glasse, And sore sho caiperit als sho went ben. But sho nouther walde bryng him hoze nor shoone, Nor stocke, nor owerlaye, walde sho carrye; But sho quarrellit withe the maydenis yonge, And put them alle in a feiry-farrye.

333 660

665

670

The Laird he rampit, and moche he cursit, And he tryit to sheme her with spechis fayre; And he brainzellit her up fece to fece, But the deuille ane sperke of sheme wals there. “I telle you, maister, and telle you trewe, Keipe als you are, and be not slacke, The hettest lofe wille sonest thowe, And sopil growe the strongeste backe. “And then the hornis into onis heide Are not moche honor or auaille; Als Jocke did to the sayloris lasse, Some one wille do for braif Ann Smaille.” “Then muste I staye and reiste in lofe? I maye not thynk, nor auct, nor speike, But stille ane womyn muste gaynsaye: Deuille haif you alle!” saide Kirkmabreeke. He pullit the keyis from off her belte, In muckil wrathe and more dysdayne, And to the kiste then did he hie, And he tozlit up the clothis amayne. And first he sochte his goode blakke brekis, And deipe in the boddom he came at themme; But they were all spotted ouir with methis, And they smellit als oulde als Mathusalemme.

675

680

685

690

334

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

And then he cursit the maydenis weille, And for some more begoud to seike; And aye he gaif her the oder damm;— It did moche goode to Kirkmabreeke. His hollyne serke it wals the hewe Of ane duckis fytte, that swooms the tyde; His dowblette laye lyke ane cowis plotte, And berkinit lyke ane beferis hyde. And aye he cursit and turnit them ouir, And loudlye on the deme did calle; Als for his gowden bucklit stocke, By the rode, it wals not there at alle. “Nowe I haif beene plaguit,” quod the Lairde, “From the minent that I loosit myne ee, But alle the womyne euir I knewe, I neuir sawe soche ane bytshe als thee.”

695

700

705

710

The damoselle sho brainzellit up, And loosit her tung withe foulle intente; But the Lairde he wals so braif ane manne, He gaif her ane drubbynge before he wente. And he’s gone ouir the Bennan hille, And downe upon the water of De, And aye, at euerye steppe, he saide, “Ann Smaille is the ladye muste melle withe me.” Quhen he came to her faitheris yette, He walde not stande to rappe nor calle, But he shotte his hors into the yarde, And in he came amang them alle. “Art thou ane boutcher?” quod Lairde Smaille, “That art comed here fat beife to seike; I haif two ousen fat als grysse;” “I preferre ane queye,” saide Kirkmabreeke. “Myne queyis are not comed to the thille, Yet are they helsum, fayre, and sleike, But for the shammelis they are not fitte.” “Suppois we trie,” saide Kirkmabreeke.

715

720

725

730

1821 VERSION

335

“Why, maister boutcher, pryce is alle, And you maye gif quhat I maye seike, But I telle you they are not fitte to bleide;” “I want a breide,” saide Kirkmabreeke. Then they wente up, and they wente downe, By monnie a queye, and monie a stotte; But the Lairde he lookit more wayis than one, And sawe them als he sawe them notte. “Thou art no jodge,” then quod Lairde Smaille, “For thou art lokynge thru the ayre; Thou neuir lokest at beste of myne, But gang’st als thou walde fynde ane hare. “Loke rounde, and se quhat nowe thou see’st, There is the thyng wille suite thee weille.” But the Lairde had tint alle thochte forebye, And only thochte on braif Ann Smaille. “Sho has the shanke, but and the thie, And then sho is alle so trymme and sleike, Sho’ll suite thee for ane breider weille.” “Faythe, that sho wille!” saide Kirkmabreeke.

735

740

745

750

“And then quhat nobil breste sho hathe!” The Lairde he fydgit but colde not speike: “And ilkane joynte, and ilkane lymbe!” “Lorde saye no more,” cryit Kirkmabreeke. “Sho shalle be myne! sho shalle be myne! Sho is alle so delicate and sweite!” “Quhat! wo’t thou eate her?” quod Lairde Smaille. “The Lorde forbyd!” saide Kirkmabreeke. “But I wille take her in myne armis, And I wille kyss her daye and nyghte!” Lairde Smaille he stertit lyke ane steire, And he gapit and he glowrit with fryghte. “Quhat dost thou speike, thou boutcher manne? Saye, art thou foole, or art thou feye? I’m ouir lang neir the waldron wyghte, That meanis to wedde myne fleckerit queye!”

755

760

765

336

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

“Quoiche!” quod the Lairde, “I did but lacke Myne better thochte, quhilk lofe makis faille; I had no mynde but that we spacke About your dochter, braif Ann Smaille.”

770

Lairde Smaille he turnit him rounde aboute, And he blynkit bauldlye with his ee; “There sholde be lacke of lemanis goode, Ere I walde grant Ann Smaille to thee: “For sho hath fiftie thousande merke Of toucher goode, if so I canne; I’d dryve myne lambis to ane bad selle, To gif her to ane boutcher manne.” “It wals myne lacke of better thochte That maide me stille forgette to speike, I am no drover nor boutcher manne, For I am the Lairde of Kirkmabreeke. “I nouther wantit stotte nor queye, But onlie the damoselle fayre Ann Smaille.” “Thou walde haif safit us muckil toyle, If thou hadst sonere tauld thyne taille.” Lairde Smaille he wynkit withe his ee, And the lyrke of joye it garit his cheike; And he toke the wooere by the hande, And he welcumit the Lairde of Kirkmabreeke.

775

780

785

790

But quhen the houris of the cortynge came, The damoselle sette the Lairde at nochte; And she tauld him of the sayloris Maye, And how moste gallantlye he foughte. And the Lairde he lost his countynance, And ane ferce and aungry manne he grewe; And if sho had not maide her eskaipe, He wald haif threshit her blakke and blewe. And when he mountit on his hors, Sho gigglit, and sette up her beike, And cryit, “fiche on the cauldryffe wooere, The dirtye Lairde of Kirkmabreeke!”

795

800

1821 VERSION

Och! but he wals ane foorious wyghte, And that his housekeipyr did feele, For he grippit her by the napp of the necke, And lyke ane kynnyng he garrit her squeele! But yet sho wals ane blythsum deme, And though her mouthe it gushit bloode, She wals gladder nor sho had beene kyssit, For sho sawe quhat way the matter stoode.

337

805

810

And aye sho mumpit, and sho mymmit, Och! but sho wals ane kyndlye deme! And sho saide sho gratte for uprychte joye To see her maister saiffe comit hame. But the Lairde grewe sycke, and verie sycke, And bad of the trobil of lofe wals he, He did not knowe quhat he walde do, For there wals no lyffe but lemanrye. And als ane manne quha is verie dry With drouthe, als walkynge out the waye, He panteth and he pyneth sore For ane walle-spryng, his thryste to laye. Och! als he smackis his geysenit gannis, To se it bellynge on the greine! Or comynge tynkylynge from the roke, Als brychte als onie sylver sheine! But quhan he lokis, and lokis in vayne To se this icy sylver burne, He drynkis the lew-warm plashye poole, Although his stammocke is lyke to turne.

815

820

825

830

So did the Lairde—he colde not thole; To safe his lyffe it did behofe, So he marryit his skrynkit housekeipyr, The very meddycyne of lofe. And och! sho wals ane wydderit wytche, And och! sho wals ane vulgyr deme, And quhan the Lairdis brawe frendis came there, Braif manne! he thochte ane worlde of sheme:

835

338

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

For aye sho mumpit, and sho mymmit, And aye sho caiperit with her heide, And than sho bracke her folysh jybis, Till ilkane gentylis fece turnit reide. And sho turnit awaye the prettye maydenis, For her owrance colde no more be borne; For the gromis they callit her vylder nemis, And alle the lande lauchit her to scorne. And though the Lairde he knevellit her weille, And that fulle franke and frequentlye, Even though he bassit her blakke and blewe, Ane better womyn sho wald not be.

840

845

850

Och! ille betyde the wydderit wyffe, That wals so baise of mannadgemente, For manie a strong reprofe sho gatte, With buffis and battermente yblente! And quhensoever the Lairde did heife His neiffe in yre, then sho wald calle Out “morder! ” with ane voyce so loude, Than none regardit her at alle. But yet the Lairde wald nothyng slacke, For to her mendemente he did stryve; Till on ane nychte I griefe to telle, This juste correctioune did not thryve. The Lairde had dronken verie moche, And gaif her ane knap upon the heide, And the vylde haugg, for perfyte spytte, Neiste mornyng sho wals gyrnynge deide. Than the doctoris came with soure grimass, And they had knyffis for scalpynge made, But the Lairde he swore ane sollom othe, They sholde not toche ane hayre of her heide. “Quhat? do you thynke, you scurfy knafis, To cutte and carfe ane wyffe of myne, More to deforme that feirsome corpse, That hathe no neide for hande of thyne?

855

860

865

870

1821 VERSION

“Had sho beene leevynge, als sho is deide, And had her poweris of deuilrye, No doctor durst haif scorit her powe, Not for the lyffe of his bodye.” But the Lairde wals grippit by dint of law, And ledde out ouir Glenraston lea; And they lockit him up in ane prisoun straung, To byde the brunt of the barronrye. And aye they soummonit, and aye they swore The menne and maydenis of eche degree; And monie impertinente thyngis they speirit; For gentil wychtis they wald not be. But alle the menne and maydenis wordis, (And better prufe they colde not seike,) And alle the anseris that they founde, Were bad for the Lairde of Kirkmabreeke.

339 875

880

885

890

And, lyke moste baisse unmannerlrye roguis, They adjudgit the Lairde, but ruthe or calle, To be hiche hangit lyke ane dogge, And carvit by doctoris after alle. But quhan ane Lorde withe polderit powe, And muckil sollom sophistrye, Gat up, and tauld the Lairde his doome, Lorde! but ane aungrye manne wals he! And aye he rampit, and he swore, And he callit them monie unseimlye neme; And he saide they were both folis and knafis, For the matter wals alle the womynis bleme. For, of alle goddis creaturis here belowe, They were of the most wyked mynde, And they were maide for ane plague to him, And ane perfyte curse to alle mankynde. For alle they did, and alle they saide, It wuls kenspeckyl of the deille, And if they walde hang them euerye one, They walde neuir serfe godde half so weille.

895

900

905

910

340

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

“Deuille! that the doctoris had them alle, To cutte and carfe insteide of menne, For they are so ranke of flesche and bloode, They wald gette their fille of cuttynge then.” But they ledde him from the jodgemente halle, For alle his forthrychte braferye, And they lockit him up in ane prisoun straung, And ane greifit manne, allace! wals he. Then comes ane preste with doure grimass, And he saide, “Sir Lairde you muste repente Of alle the synnis that you haif done, Or grit wille be your punishmente. “For ane griefous synner you haif beene, Wors than the tung of manne canne telle; Now leafe your synnis and go to heuin, Or haif your synnis and go to helle.” “Quhat plaisses are these?” then quod the Lairde, “For sure als I stande fetterit here, I neuir knew them of anie use, But to helpe ane manne to curse and sweare.

915

920

925

930

“Praye, quhat is heuin? and quhat is helle? And quhat is repentance? telle to me: For if alle be true that you haif saide, Ane haplesse manne I feire I be.” “Chryste be your helpe,” then saide the preste, “Thou’rt in the thralle of synne indeide, For helle it is the deuillis owne plaisse, With blaurynge brymstane byrnynge reide. “They’ll scowder you to ane black yzle, Or lyke ane reide-hette gaude of airne; And they’ll toste you, and toste you for evermore, Unless that you repente and learne.” “Curse on these womyne!” then quod the Lairde, “For none of these quirkis they learnit to me, And if I sholde be stappit in that vylde hole, Ane ryghte forwyllerit manne I’ll be.

935

940

945

1821 VERSION

341

“They haif brochte me up lyke ane mannerlesse cauffe, And helde me in perpetual thralle; But of all the scrapis they haif brochte me in, This jobbe of helle is the worste of alle. 950 “But stille there is ane comforte lefte, Ane comforte and not muckil mayre, If the synneris gang to that vylde plaisse, The womyne I wis shalle alle go there. “Och, how I shalle rejoice to se Them branderit lyke ane goode beife steake; For, if they are fryit lyke fatte backon, They wille maike the deuillis herte to aike. “So I wille byde myne baistynge hette, Though scotchit and scowderit I sholde be; It shalle neuir be saide in fayre Scotlande, That womyn colde stande it more than me.” So the Lairde wals hangit at the towne crosse, And felle downe deide upon the stonis, And the doctoris toke him to their vylde stalle, And they pykit the fleshe from off his bonis. They pykit the fleshe from off his bonis, And boylit it up to ane jeellye sleike, For physicke to the baisse womyne; And that wals the ende of Kirkmabreeke!

955

960

965

970

But whether he wente to ane happye plaisse, Or into the reikkie nokis of helle, Or anie oder plaisse at alle, The preste of the paroche colde not telle. 975 For quhan I axit him of the caisse, He shoke his heide, and strokit his cheike, And saide, “if he wanne to heuin abone, It wals the better for the Lairde of Kirkmabreeke.”

342

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

The Tweeddale Raide T HIS ballad was written by my nephew, Robert Hogg, student in the College of Edinburgh, on purpose for insertion in the Edinburgh Annual Register. He brought it to me, and I went over it with him, and was so delighted with the humour of the piece, that I advised him to send it with his name. The editor, however, declined inserting it; and it is here published, word for word, as sent to him. A natural inclination to admire youthful efforts may make me judge partially; but, I think, if it is not a good imitation of the old Border Ballad, I never saw one. The old castle of Hawkshaw was situated in a wild dell, a little to the Westward of the farm-house of that name, which stands in the glen of Fruid in Tweedsmuir. It was built, and inhabited long, by the Porteouses, an ancient family of that district. A knight of the name of Sir Patrick Porteous of Hawkshaw was living in A. D. 1600. His eldest daughter Janet was married to Scott of Thirlestane. All the places mentioned are in the direct line from Hawkshaw to Tarras, a wild and romantic little river between the Ewes and Liddel. The names of the warriors inserted, are those of families proven to be residing in the district at the same period of time with Patrick Porteous. I cannot find that the Ballad is founded on any fact or traditionary tale, save that Porteous once, having twenty English prisoners, of whom he was tired, took them out to the top of a hill called the Fala Moss, and caused his men fell them one by one with a mall, and f ling them into a large hole for burial. Whilst they were busy with some of the hindmost, one of those previously felled started up from the pit and ran off. He was pursued for a long way, and at last, being hard pressed, he threw himself over a linn in Glen-Craigie, and killed himself. As the pit in which they were buried was in a moss, some of their bones were distinguishable by the shepherds, who digged for them, only a few years ago.

P ATE P O RTEO US sat in Hawkshaw tower, An’ O right douf an’ dour was he; Nae voice of joy was i’ the ha’, Nae sound o’ mirth or revelry. His brow was hung wi’ froward scowl, His ee was dark as dark could be; An’ aye he strade across the ha’, An’ thus he spoke right boisterouslye: “Yestreen, on Hawkshaw hills o’ green, My flocks in peace an’ safety strayed; To-day, nor ewe, nor steer, is seen On a’ my baronie sae braid:

5

10

1821 VERSION

“But I will won, an’ haud my ain, Wi’ ony wight on Border side; Make ready then, my merry men a’, Make ready, swiftly we maun ride. “Gae saddle me my coal-black steed, Gae saddle me my bonnie gray, An’ warder, sound the rising note, For we hae far to ride or day.”

343

15

20

The slogan jar was heard afar, An’ soon owre hill, owre holt, an’ brae, His merry men came riding in, All armed an’ mounted for the fray. As they fared oure the saddle-yoke, The moon rase owre the Merk-side bree; “Welcome, auld dame,” Pate Porteous cried, “Aft hae ye proved a friend to me. “Gin thou keep on, but clud or mist, Until Glendarig steps we won, I’ll let you see as brave a chace As ever down the Esk was run.” As they rade down by Rangecleuch ford, They met Tam Bold o’ Kirkhope town; “Now whar gang ye, thou rank reaver, Beneath the ae light o’ the moon?” “When ye were last at Hawkshaw ha’, Tam Bold, I had a stock right guid; Now I hae neither cow nor ewe On a’ the bonnie braes o’ Fruid.”

25

30

35

40

“O, ever alak!” quo’ auld Tam Bold, “Now, Pate, for thee my heart is wae; I saw your flocks gang owre the muir O’ Wingate by the skreigh o’ day. “Pate, ye maun ride for Liddel side, An’ tarry at the Tarras lair; Gin they get owre the Border line, Your ewes an’ kye you’ll see nae mair.”

45

344

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

As they rade owre by Sorbie-swire, The day-light glimmered on the lea; “O, lak-a-day! my bonnie gray, I find ye plaittin’ at the knee. “Streek gin ye dow to Tarras flow, On you depends your master’s a’, An’ ye’s be fed wi’ bread an’ wine, When ye gang hame to Hawkshaw ha!” They spurred owre moss, owre muir, an’ fell, Till mony a naig he swarf ’d away; At length they wan the Tarras moss, An’ lightit at the skreigh o’ day.

50

55

60

The stots came rowtin’ up the bent, Tossin’ their white horns to the sun; “Now, by my sooth!” Pate Porteous cried, “My owsen will be hard to won.” Up came the captain o’ the gang, I wat a stalwart lad was he; “What lowns are ye,” he bauldly cried, “That dare to stop my kye an’ me?” “Light down, light down, thou fause Southron, An’ sey a skelp or twa wi’ me, For ye hae reaved my flocks an’ kye, An’, by my sooth, revenged I’ll be. “It’s ne’er be said a Tweeddale knight Was tamely harried o’ his gear, That Pate o’ Hawkshaw e’er was cowed, Or braved by Southron arm in weir.” Then up an’ spak the English chief, A dauntless blade I wat was he, “Now wha are ye, ye saucy lown, That speaks thus haughtilye to me?” “My name it is Pate Porteous hight, Light down an’ try your hand wi’ me, For, by my sooth, or thou shalt yield, Or one of us this day shall die.”

65

70

75

80

1821 VERSION

The Southron turned him round about, An’ lightly on the ground lap he; “I rede thee, Scot, thou meet’st thy death, If thou dar’st cross a sword wi’ me. “Have ye ne’er heard i’ reife or raide, O’ Ringan’s Rab o’ Thorlberrye? If ye hae not, ye hae excuse For cracking here sae crabbedlye. “But I can tell thee, muirland Pate, Wi’ hingin’ mou’ an’ blirtit ee, Ye’ll tell your wife an’ bairns at hame, How Ringan’s Robin yerkit thee.” Pate Porteous was a buirdly wight, An arm o’ strength an’ might had he, He brooked nae fear, but made his bragg In deeds o’ desperate devilrye.

345 85

90

95

100

“Have done,” he cried, “thou stalwart lown, Thou Southron thief o’ gallows fame, I only ken that I am wranged, An’ thou shalt answer for the same.” They tied their horses to the birk, An’ drew their swords o’ mettle keen; But sic a fray, as chanced that day, On Border-side was never seen. Pate Porteous was the first ae man That shawed the red blude to the e’e, Out o’ the Southron’s brawny thigh He carved a slice right dextrouslye. “Now tak thou that, fause Ringan’s Rab, An’ muckle good may’t do to thee, ’Twill learn ye how to slice the hams O’ my guid kye at Thorlberrye.” “It’s but a scart,” quo’ Ringan’s Rab, “The stang o’ a wasp is waur to bide; But, or that we twa part again, I’ll pay it on thy ain backside.”

105

110

115

120

346

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

“Now, fy lay on!” quo’ Hawkshaw Pate, “Now, fy lay on, an’ dinna spare; If frae a Southron e’er I flinch, I’s never wield a weapon mair.” They fought it lang, they fought it sair, But scarcely doubtfu’ was the day, When Southrons round their captain closed, An’ shouted for the gen’ral fray. Clash went the swords along the van; It was a gallant sight to see: “Lay on them, lads,” cried Hawkshaw Pate, “Or, faith, we’ll sup but spairinglye.” “Now, fy lay on!” quo’ Ringan’s Rab, “Lay on them, lads o’ English blude, The Scottish brand i’ dalesmen’s hand ’Gainst Southland weapon never stude.” “Lay on them, lads,” cried Hawkshaw Pate, “Our horses lack baith hay an’ corn; An’ we maun a’ hae English naigs Out owre the Penraw Cross the morn.”

125

130

135

140

The Tweedies gart their noddles crack, Like auld pot-metal, yank for yank; Montgomery, wi’ his spearmen guid, He bored them trimly i’ the flank. An’ Sandy Welsh, he fought an’ swore, An’ swore an’ fought fu’ desperatelye; But Jockie o’ Talla got a skelp That cluve him to the left e’e-bree. The Murrays fought like dalesmen true, An’ stude i’ reid blude owre the shoon; The Johnstons, an’ the Frazers too, Made doughty wark or a’ was done. The Tods an’ Kerrs gaed hand an’ gluve, An’ bathed i’ blude their weapons true; An’ Jamie o’ Carterhope was there, An’ Harstane stout, an’ young Badlewe.

145

150

155

1821 VERSION

Brave Norman Hunter o’ Polmood, He stood upon the know sae hie, An’, wi’ his braid-bow in his hand, He blindit mony a Southron e’e.

347

160

The blude ran down the Tarras bank, An’ reddened a’ the Tarras burn; “Now, by my sooth,” said Hawkshaw Pate, “I never stood sae hard a turn. “I never saw the Southrons stand An’ brave the braidsword half so weel.” “Deil tak the dogs!” cried Sandy Welsh, “I trow their hides are made o’ steel. “My sword is worn unto the back, An’ jagged and nickit like a thorn; It ne’er will ser’ another turn, But sawin through an auld toop-horn. “But, by this sword, an’ by the rood, An’ by the deil an’ a’ his kin,—” “Lord! stop your gab,” quo’ auld Will Tod, “Sic swearin’ is a deadly sin. “Haud still your gab, an’ ply your sword, Then swear like hell when a’ is done; If I can rightly judge or guess, The day’s our ain, an’ that right soon.”

165

170

175

180

They beat them up the Tarras bank, An’ down the back o’ Birkhope brae; Had it no been the Tarras flow, Nae Englishman had ’scaped that day. There were three an’ thirty Englishmen Lay gasping on the Tarras moss, An’ three and thirty mae were ta’en, An’ led out owre the Penraw Cross. The Tweeddale lads gat horse an’ kye, An’ ransom gowd, an’ gear their fill, An’ aye sin syne they bless the day They fought sae weel on Tarras hill.

185

190

348

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

Pate Porteous drave his ewes an’ kye Back to their native hills again; He hadna lost a man but four, An’ Jockie o’ Talla he was ane. Stout Ringan’s Rab gat hame wi’ life, O he was yetherit an’ yerkit sair; But he came owre the Penraw Cross To herry Tweeddale glens nae mair.

195

200

Robin an’ Nanny T HIS ballad, or rather rural tale, was written at a period of life so early, that I have quite forgotten when, and in what circumstances, it was written; but I think I have had the manuscript by me upwards of twenty years. It is exceedingly imperfect; but a natural fondness for the productions of my early years, and some recollections that have scarcely left a trace behind, induce me to give it a place. It has not the least resemblance in style to ought I have written since, and I believe I have nothing in my hand that was previously written. Those who wish me well will not regret that my style has undergone such a manifest change; for into a worse one it could scarcely have fallen.

S NELL an’ frosy was the dawin’, Blue the lift as ony bell, Cauld the norlan’ wind was blawin’, Fast the drift came owre the fell. Whan poor Nanny, softly creepin’ Out frae yont her auld gudeman, Wha she trow’d was soundly sleepin’, Though he heard how a’ was gaun. Wi’ her heather-cowe clean wiping A’ the floor, frae end to end; Soon the reek gaed blue an’ piping Up the lum wi’ mony a bend. Then within her little sheelin’, On a wee lock cosey hay, Nanny cowered, and humbly kneelin’, Sighin’, thus begoud to pray:—

5

10

15

348

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

Pate Porteous drave his ewes an’ kye Back to their native hills again; He hadna lost a man but four, An’ Jockie o’ Talla he was ane. Stout Ringan’s Rab gat hame wi’ life, O he was yetherit an’ yerkit sair; But he came owre the Penraw Cross To herry Tweeddale glens nae mair.

195

200

Robin an’ Nanny T HIS ballad, or rather rural tale, was written at a period of life so early, that I have quite forgotten when, and in what circumstances, it was written; but I think I have had the manuscript by me upwards of twenty years. It is exceedingly imperfect; but a natural fondness for the productions of my early years, and some recollections that have scarcely left a trace behind, induce me to give it a place. It has not the least resemblance in style to ought I have written since, and I believe I have nothing in my hand that was previously written. Those who wish me well will not regret that my style has undergone such a manifest change; for into a worse one it could scarcely have fallen.

S NELL an’ frosy was the dawin’, Blue the lift as ony bell, Cauld the norlan’ wind was blawin’, Fast the drift came owre the fell. Whan poor Nanny, softly creepin’ Out frae yont her auld gudeman, Wha she trow’d was soundly sleepin’, Though he heard how a’ was gaun. Wi’ her heather-cowe clean wiping A’ the floor, frae end to end; Soon the reek gaed blue an’ piping Up the lum wi’ mony a bend. Then within her little sheelin’, On a wee lock cosey hay, Nanny cowered, and humbly kneelin’, Sighin’, thus begoud to pray:—

5

10

15

1821 VERSION

“Father o’ the yird an’ heaven, Thou wha leev’st aboon the sky, Wha a mind to me hast given, An’ a saul that canna die;

349

20

“Though I’ve often wandered frae thee, Thoughtless o’ thy love to me; Nae where can I flee but to thee, Nae ane can I trust but thee. “Little hae I had to grieve me; Now my heart is unco sair; My puir lassie, forced to leave me, Take, O take her to thy care! “Whan thou gae’st her I was gratefu’, Whan thou tak’st her I’ll resign; Why sude I be fleyed or fretfu’? She’s i’ better hands than mine. “But she’s bonnie, young, an’ friendless, Gars me think o’ her the mair; Yet I’ll trust her to thy kindness; Take, O take her to thy care!” Robin, though he coudna see her, Listened weel to a’ she said; Fixed his kindly heart was wi’ her, Joinin’ ilka vow she made.

25

30

35

40

Through the cot then bustled Nanny, Busy out an’ in she ran; Yet wi’ footsteps fleet an’ cannie, Laith to waken her gudeman. “Hout,” quo’ he, “ye crazy gawkie, What has gart ye rise sae soon?” “Troth, gudeman, our wee bit hawkie Twice had raised the hungry croon. “At the door the chickens yaupit, Keen the wind comes owre the lea, Deep wi’ snaw the grun’ is happit, Puir things! they war like to die.”

45

50

350

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

“Auld, dementit, donnart creature, Gude-sake! quat this fyky way, Else your cares will bang your nature, An’ ye’ll dee afore your day. “Aye sin ever Mary left ye, A’ the night ye hotch an’ grane; Ye’ve o’ sleep an’ rest bereft me, Lye i’ peace, or lye your lane.

55

60

“Langer here she wadna tarry; But she’s virtuous as she’s fair: What’s to ail our bonnie Mary? What means a’ this restless care?” “Dinna, Robin, dinna vex me, Laith am I frae rest to keep; But my dreams sae sair perplex me, I dare nouther rest nor sleep. “Dreams maun a’ be redd, believe me; Visions are nae sent in vain; Reason canna now relieve me, Canna ease my eerie pain. “Surely whan asleep we’re lyin’, Like a lump o’ senseless clay, Then our sauls are busy flyin’, Viewin’ places far away.” “Wad ye, stupit, crazy body, Quite owreturn philosophye? Owre an’ owre again I’ve showed ye Sic a thing can never be.

65

70

75

80

“If our sauls war sent a-rangin’, To Jerus’lem or the moon, In a moment wakenin’, changin’, How cou’d they come back sae soon? “They’re within us, never doubt them; If they dandered here an’ there, What way cou’d we leeve without them? We wad never waken mair.

85

1821 VERSION

“Nanny, whan your spirit leaves you, Lang an’ sound your sleep will be! Let nae wayward fancies grieve you; Tear o’ thine I downa see.” “Never war my dreams sae eirie; But their meanin’ I hae seen; I, this mornin’, rase mair weary Than I gaed to bed yestreen. “Never mair, whate’er betide me, May I sic a vision see; My dear Mary sat aside me, Lovely as she wont to be.

351 90

95

100

“On her lap a burdie restit, Kind it look’d, an’ sweetly sang; Whan her lily hand caressed it, Wi’ its notes the woodlands rang. “Aye it waxed, an’ flaffed, an’ hootit, Till an awsome beast it grew; Still she fonder grew about it, Though it pecked her black an’ blue. “Soon her face in beauty’s blossom, A’ wi’ blude an’ fleekers hang; Still she pressed it to her bosom, Grat, but wadna let it gang. “A’ her breast was torn an’ woundit, Or the monster took its flight; Never was my heart sae stoundit! Never saw I sic a sight! “Something ails our bonnie Mary, Sure as glents the mornin’ sun.” Robin leugh, an’ jibit sairly, But wi’ him it was nae fun. Up he rase, wi’ fears inspired, Rowed him in his gaucy plaid, To the hay-stack dass retired, Laid his bonnet off his head:

105

110

115

120

352

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

Then, in tone right melancholy, Lyin’ grooflin’ on the hay, There he prayed, in words most holy, For his Mary far away. Mary was baith young an’ clever, Sweet as e’enin’s softest gale; Fairer flower than Mary never Blossomed in a Highland dale. Blythe the lark her notes can vary, Light the lamb skips owre the lea; Blyther than the lark was Mary, Lighter than the lamb was she. She had seen the eighteenth summer Hap wi’ blooms the Highland lea, Weel the heather-bells become her, Wavin’ owre her dark ee-bree.

125

130

135

140

Muckle lair they twa had taught her, Fittin’ her for ony thing: Mary was an only daughter; She cou’d read, an’ write, an’ sing. Now that she’s for service ready, She maun gae her bread to earn; To the town to wait her lady, An’ the city gates to learn. Nanny sighed, an’ grat, an’ kissed her— She was aye a bairn sae kind! Robin just shook hands, an’ blessed her, Bidding her her Maker mind. Cauld, that day, came in the winter, Light she tripped adown the dale; Dash, a gig came up ahint her, Swifter than the mountain gale. “Bonnie lassie, ye’ll be weary, Will ye mount an’ ride wi’ me?” “Thank ye, Sir; but, troth, I’m eiry, Sic a sight ye doughtna see.

145

150

155

160

1821 VERSION

353

“Gentle fo’ks are unco saucy, Tauntin’ aye the blate an’ mean.” “Woh!” quo’ he, “—your hand, my lassie, Sit ye there an’ tak a lean.” Crack the whip came,—snortin’, prancin’, Down the glen the courser sprang; Mary’s heart wi’ joy was dancin’, Baith her lugs wi’ pleasure rang! Whan the eagle quits his eyrie, Fast he leaves the cliffs behind; Swifter flew our spark an’ Mary— Faster cluve the winter wind. Ford nor ferry aince detained them, Fleet they skimmed the dale an’ doone— Steeples, towers, an’ hills, behind them Vanished like the settin’ moon. At the stages where they rested, Fast they drank the blude-red wine; Mary thought, (her smile confessed it), Never man was ha’f sae kin’.

165

170

175

180

By the way his arm was round her, Firm, for fear that she should fa’; Aft his glances raised her wonder, Aye she blushed an’ turned awa. First he pressed her hand—he kissed it— Then her cheek, wi’ sair ado— Lang or night, whane’er he listit, Aye he pree’d her cherry mou’. Kind her heart, o’ guile unwary, Taken by his generous way, Bonnie Mary, artless Mary, Step by step, was led astray. Through the window aft they taukit, Whan the street was hushed an’ still; Ilka Sunday out they walkit, To the glen or braken hill.

185

190

195

354

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

Whan the flower o’ gowd sae yellow Owre the broom-wood splendour threw; Whan the breeze, sae mild an’ mellow, Frae the primrose drank the dew.

200

In a bower o’ willow bushes, Oft at noontide wad they lye, Strewed wi’ flowers, an’ saft wi’ rushes, Happed wi’ foliage frae the sky. Owre their heads his rural ditty Sang the blackbird on the spray: Pretty songster! O, for pity, Cease thy am’rous roundelay! See, the modest daisy blushes! Bonnie birks they wave an’ weep! While the breeze, among the bushes, Wails for virtue lulled asleep. Can ye pour your notes sae airy, Wildly owre the woodland dale, While the kind and bonnie Mary Ever maun the time bewail? Mary’s parents sairly missed her, Word o’ her they coudna learn; Love an’ sorrow sae harassed her, She grew an unmindfu’ bairn.

205

210

215

220

A’ their reas’nin’, late an’ early, Only hetter blew the coal— Robin’s heart misgae him sairly, Nanny cou’d nae langer thole. Robin washed his wedding bonnet, Hang it on the clipse to dry; Sindry methes an’ maels war on it; It had lien lang idle by. Robin’s Sunday coat and doublet Nanny brushed fu’ braw an’ clean; Streekit they had lien untroublit— Seldom needit—seldom seen.

225

230

1821 VERSION

Clean his chin, sae aft weel theekit; White his serk as driven snaw; His gray hair weel kaimed an’ sleekit, Robin looked fu’ trig an’ braw. “Nanny, now it’s near midsimmer, Keep the yows an’ kye frae skaith, I maun see the dear young limmer, Though to gang sae far I’m laith.

355

235

240

“She might write, the careless hussey, Gladly I wad postage pay; But, nae doubt, she’s hadden busy, Maybe baith by night an’ day. “She’s a trust consigned by Heaven To our arms to guard an’ guide; She’s a gift in kindness given; She’s our ain whate’er betide. “Let nae sinfu’ doubts distress ye; Heavy news are waur than nane: If the lasssie’s fair an’ healthy, In a week I’ll come again.” Nibbie in his nieve he lockit, Round his waist his plaid he twined; Bread an’ cheese in ilka pocket, Robin left his cot behind. Scen’ry grand, nor castle gaudy, Drew ae glowr frae Robin’s ee; On he joggit, slaw an’ sadly, Nought but Mary mindit he.

245

250

255

260

Men an’ boys at nought he set them, Question coudna draw reply; Every bonnie lass that met him, Sharp he looked till she was by. Aye as he the town drew nigher, Wonder kythed i’ Robin’s leuks; Chariots rattled by like fire— “What a routh o’ lords an’ dukes!”

265

356

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

Aye his bonnet aff he whuppit; Time-o’-day gae to them a’— Up the mail came—Robin stoppit— “Here’s the grandest chap ava! “A’ his servants ride without there, Some to wait, an’ some to ca’; He’s been giein’ alms, nae doubt there, Gars his man the trumpet blaw.” Aye the lords came thick an’ thicker, Knights an’ great men round him swarm; O’ their honours to mak sicker Robin’s bonnet’s ’neath his arm.

270

275

280

Crippled, thirsty, baugh, an’ tired, To the Cross he wan at last; Stood amazed, an’ aft inquired, “Where’s the folk gaun a’ sae fast?” For the lady’s house he lookit, Wha enticed his bairn frae him; Wi’ his stick the door he knockit, Then stood quakin’ every limb. Sic a picture ne’er was seen in Edinborough town before, Robin owre his pike-staff leanin’, At the lady’s glancin’ door. A’ his face was din wi’ owder; Short an’ deep his breath he drew; His gray locks, owre ilka shouder, Waved wi’ ilka blast that blew. Shoon, wi’ buckles bright as may be; Coat the colour o’ the sea; Wide the cuffs, an’ ilka laibie Fauldit owre aboon his knee. When he heard the bolt a-loosin’, Round he turned his wat’ry ee; Haflins feared, an’ half rejoicin’, Mary’s face he hoped to see.

285

290

295

300

1821 VERSION

’Twas a madam, proud an’ airy, Spiered what made him there to ca’— “’ Twas to see his daughter Mary:” “Mary wasna there ata! “Mistress lang had slyly watched her, Doubtin’ sair her ’haviour light, An’ wi’ gentle spark had catched her At the dead hour o’ the night. “Straight she turned her aff in anger, Quite owre ruin’s fearfu’ brink; Virtue steels her breast nae langer, As she brewed she now maun drink.” Robin heaved his staff the doorward, Looked as he’d attack the place; Just as he was rushin’ forward, Clash the door came in his face.

357 305

310

315

320

Now a place, his grief to vent in, Fast he sought, an’ in the dust A’ the night he lay lamentin’, Till his heart was like to burst. Aft he cried, “My only daughter, How my hopes are marred in thee! O that I had sooner sought her, Or had she but staid wi’ me! “Should I gang an’ never see her, How could I her mother tell? Should I gang an’ no forgie her, How will God forgie mysel?” Lang he spiered at shops an’ houses, An’ at queans he chanced to meet; Some fo’k bade him seek the closses— Some the stairs aneath the street. Let nae sufferer, all unwary, Broken-hearted though he be; Nor the proud voluptuary Bend to Heaven a hopeless ee.

325

330

335

340

358

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

Sure as flows the silver fountain; Sure as poortith meets disdain; Sure as stable stands the mountain; Sure as billows heave the main— There’s a God that rules above us— Rules our actions to his mind; One will ever—ever love us, If our hearts are meek an’ kind. Robin wand’rin’ late an’ early, At the dead o’ a’ the night, Heard a lassie pleadin’ sairly, In a sad and waefu’ plight. “Let me in”, she cried, “till mornin’; Then I’se trouble you nae mair.” They within, her mis’ry scornin’, Stormed, an’ threatened unco sair. “A’ your whinin’s out o’ season; We hae borne w’ye mony a day; Had ye listened ought to reason, Ye had been a lady gay;

345

350

355

360

“Might hae in your chariot ridden, Clad wi’ silks o’ ev’ry hue, Had ye done as ye were bidden:— Get ye gone, or ye shall rue.” “O, I am a helpless creature, Let me in, for sair I rue! Though it shocks my very nature, What you bid me I will do.” “Haud!” quo’ Robin, hastin’ near her, “Haud, or else ye’re lost for aye! Think o’ friends wha hold you dearer, Think, what will your parents say!” Straight she caught his hand an’ kissed it, Sad she looked, but nought could say; Round his knees her arms she twistit, Shrieked, an’ faintit quite away.

365

370

375

1821 VERSION

Weel she kend his every feature, Spottit plaid, an’ bonnet blue— Ye hae felt the throes o’ nature— Need I tell the case to you?

359

380

’Twas his ain, his bonny Mary, Here he fand in sic a state, Sufferin’, for ae step unwary, Near a sad an’ shamefu’ fate. She had loved, an’ sair repentit— She had wept an’ wept her fill; But all proffers had resentit That could lead her mair to ill. Woman, Nature’s bonniest blossom, Soft desire may beet thine eye, Yet within thy heavin bosom Dwells deep-blushing modestye. O let never lover sever From its stalk this gem of morn, Else it droops an’ dies for ever, Leavin bare the festerin’ thorn. Woman’s maiden love’s the dearest, Sweetest bliss, that Heaven can give, Thine the blame the garland wearest, If through life it disna live.

385

390

395

400

Sweet the rose’s early blossom, Opening to the morning ray; For one blemish on its bosom, Would you crush it in the clay? Though the tender scion’s woundit By a reptile’s pois’nous twine, Must the noxious weeds around it In its ruin all combine? Female youth, to guile a stranger, Doomed too oft to endless pain, Set the butt of every danger, Left the mark of cold disdain.

405

410

360

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

Should stern justice blot a grievance Out from Nature’s mighty sum, First of a’ may plead forbearance, Female innocence o’ercome. Robin showed his dear affection, Gae his bairn a welcome kiss, Never made one harsh reflection, Never said she’d done amiss.

415

420

To her native cottage led her, Heard her suff’rins by the way; Short the answer Robin made her, “A’ like lost sheep gang astray!” Thus, from guilt an’ dire destruction, Robin saved his fallen child; Mourned alone her base seduction, Won her soul by manners mild. Aft, of Heaven, in accents movin’, Pardon begged for errors past; Kind regard, an’ language lovin’, Marked the parent to the last. Hearts replete with love an’ duty Easiest levelled i’ the dust; Guardians over female beauty, Nice an’ precious is your trust. Should stern justice blot ae grievance, Out o’ Nature’s mighty sum, First of a’ may plead forbearance, Female innocence o’ercome.

Sandy Tod A Scottish Pastoral WHO has learned in love to languish? Who has felt affliction’s rod? They will mourn the melting anguish, And the loss o’ Sandy Tod.

425

430

435

440

360

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

Should stern justice blot a grievance Out from Nature’s mighty sum, First of a’ may plead forbearance, Female innocence o’ercome. Robin showed his dear affection, Gae his bairn a welcome kiss, Never made one harsh reflection, Never said she’d done amiss.

415

420

To her native cottage led her, Heard her suff’rins by the way; Short the answer Robin made her, “A’ like lost sheep gang astray!” Thus, from guilt an’ dire destruction, Robin saved his fallen child; Mourned alone her base seduction, Won her soul by manners mild. Aft, of Heaven, in accents movin’, Pardon begged for errors past; Kind regard, an’ language lovin’, Marked the parent to the last. Hearts replete with love an’ duty Easiest levelled i’ the dust; Guardians over female beauty, Nice an’ precious is your trust. Should stern justice blot ae grievance, Out o’ Nature’s mighty sum, First of a’ may plead forbearance, Female innocence o’ercome.

Sandy Tod A Scottish Pastoral WHO has learned in love to languish? Who has felt affliction’s rod? They will mourn the melting anguish, And the loss o’ Sandy Tod.

425

430

435

440

1821 VERSION

Sandy was a lad o’ vigour, Lithe an’ tight o’ lith an’ limb; For a stout an’ manly figure, Few could ding or equal him. In a cottage poor and nameless, By a little bouzy linn, Sandy led a life right blameless, Far frae ony strife or din. Annan’s fertile dale beyon’ him Spread her fields an’ meadows green; Hoary Hartfell towered aboon him, Smiling to the sun—gude-e’en. Few his wants, his wishes fewer; Save his flocks, nae care had he; Never heart than his was truer, Tender to the last degree.

361 5

10

15

20

He was learned, and every tittle That he read, believed it true; Saving chapters cross an’ kittle, He could read his Bible through. Aft he read the acts of Joseph, How wi’ a’ his friends he met; Aye the hair his noddle rose off, Aye his cheeks wi’ tears were wet. Seven bonnie buskit simmers O’er the Solway Frith had fled, Sin’ a flock o’ ewes an’ gimmers, Out amang the hills he fed. Some might brag o’ knowledge deeper, But nae herd was loed sae weel; Sandy’s hirsel proved their keeper Was a cannie carefu’ chiel. Aye, when ony tentless lammie Wi’ its neibours chanced to go, Sandy kend the careless mammy, Whether she cried mae or no.

25

30

35

40

362

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

Warldly wealth an’ grandeur scorning Weel he liked his little bield; Ilka e’ening, ilka morning, Sandy to his Maker kneeled. You wha bouze the wine sae nappy, An’ are fanned wi’ loud applause, Can ye trow the lad was happy? Really, ’tis believed, he was. In the day sae dark an’ showery, I hae seen the bonnie bow, When arrayed in all its glory, Vanish on the mountain’s brow. I hae seen the rose of Yarrow, While it bloomed upon the spray, Blushing by its flaunting marrow, Quickly fade, an’ fade for aye. Fading as the forest roses, Transient as the radiant bow, Fleeting as the shower that follows, Is dame Happiness, below.

45

50

55

60

Unadmired she’ll hover near ye, In the rural sport she’ll play; Woo her,—she’ll at distance hear ye, Press her,—she is gane for aye. She had Sandy aye attendit; Seemed obedient to his nod; Now his happy hours are endit,— Lack-a-day for Sandy Tod! I’ the kirk ae Sunday sittin’, Where to be he seldom failed, Sandy’s tender heart was smitten Wi’ a wound that never healed. Sally, dressed in hat an’ feather, Worshipped in a neibrin’ pew; Sandy sat—he kendna whether: Sandy felt—he wistna how.

65

70

75

1821 VERSION

Though the parson charmed the audience, An’ drew tears frae mony een, Sandy heard a noise, like baudrons Murring i’ the bed at e’en!

363

80

Aince or twice his sin alarmed him,— Down he looked an’ breathed a prayer; Sally had o’ mind disarmed him, Heart an’ soul an’ a’ was there! Luckily her een were from him; Aye they beamed anither road; Aince a smiling glance set on him— “Mercy, Lord!” quo’ Sandy Tod. A’ that night he lay an’ turned him, Fastit a’ the following day, Till the eastern lamps were burnin’, An’ ca’d up the gloaming grey. Res’lute made by desperation, Down the glen in haste he ran; Soon he reached her habitation, A forfoughten love-sick man. I wad sing the happy meeting, Were it new or strange to thee; Weel ye ken, ’tis but repeating What has passed ’tween ane and me.

85

90

95

100

Ae white hand around me pressed hard, Oft my restless heart has felt; But when hers on Sandy rested, His fond heart was like to melt! Sandy’s breast wi’ love was luntin’, Modest Sally speechless lay, Orion’s sceptre bored the mountain, Loud the cock proclaimed the day. Sandy rase—his bonnet daddit— Begged a kiss—gat nine or ten; Then the hay, sae rowed an’ saddit, Towzlet up that nane might ken.

105

110

364

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

You hae seen, on April morning, Light o’ heart the playful lamb, Skipping, dancing, bondage scorning, Wander heedless o’ its dam. Sometimes gaun, an’ sometimes rinning, Sandy to his mountains wan; Roun’ about his flocks gaed singing; Never was a blyther man.

115

120

Never did his native nation, Sun or sky, wear sic a hue; In his een the hale creation Wore a face entirely new. Weel he loed his faithfu’ Ruffler, Weel the bird sang on the tree; Meanest creatures doomed to suffer, Brought the tear into his ee. Sandy’s heart was undesigning Soft an’ loving as the dove, Scarcely could it bear refining By the gentle fire o’ love. Sally’s blossom soon was blighted By untimely winter prest; Sally had been wooed, an’ slighted, By a farmer in the West. But a wound that baffled healing, Came from that once cherished flame, Fell disease, in silence stealing, Pressed upon her lovely frame.

125

130

135

140

Her liquid eye, so brightly meek, Grew dim—the pulse of life beat low; The rose still bloomed upon her cheek, But ah! it wore a hectic glow. Every day to Sandy dearer, Mair bewitching, an’ mair sweet; Aince when he gaed West to see her She lay in her winding-sheet.

145

1821 VERSION

Yet the farmer still was cheery, Reckless, careless o’ his crime, Though the maid that loed him dearly He had slain in early prime. Sternies, blush, an’ hide your faces! Veil thee, moon, in sable hue! Else thy locks, for human vices, Soon will dreep wi’ pity’s dew! Thou, who rul’st the rolling thunder! Thou, who dart’st the flying flame! Wilt thou vengeance aye keep under, Due for injured love an’ fame?

365 150

155

160

Cease, dear maid, thy kind bewailing, In thy ee the tear-drops shine; Cease to mourn thy sex’s failing, I may drap a tear for mine. Man, the lord o’ the creation, Lightened wi’ a ray divine, Lost to feeling, truth, an’ reason, Lags the brutal tribes behind! You hae seen the harmless conie, Following hame its mate to rest, One ensnared, the frighted cronie Flee amazed wi’ panting breast— So amazed, an’ dumb wi’ horror, Sandy fled he kendna where; Never heart than his was sorer, It was mair than he could bear. Seven days on yonder mountain Lay he sobbing, late an’ soon, Till discovered by a fountain, Railing at the dowie moon. Weeping a’ the day he’d wander Through yon dismal glen alane; By the stream at night wad dander, Raving o’er his Sally’s name.

165

170

175

180

366

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

Shunned an’ pitied by the world, Long a humbling sight was he, Till one frenzied moment hurled Him to lang eternity. Sitting on yon steep sae rocky, Fearless as the boding crow,— No, dear maid, I winna shock thee, Wi’ the bloody scene below. ’Neath yon aik, decayed an’ rottin’, Where the hardy woodbine twines, Now in peace he lies forgotten; Owre his head these simple lines:— “Lover, pause, while I implore thee, Still to walk in Virtue’s road; An’ to say, as ye walk o’er me, ‘Lack-a-day for Sandy Tod!’”

185

190

195

200

Farewell to Ettrick F AREWEEL , green Ettrick! fare-thee-weel! I own I’m unco laith to leave thee; Nane kens the half o’ what I feel, Nor half the cause I hae to grieve me! There first I saw the rising morn; There first my infant mind unfurled, To ween that spot where I was born, The very centre of the world. I thought the hills were sharp as knives, An’ the braid lift lay whomel’d on them, An’ glowred wi’ wonder at the wives That spak o’ ither hills ayon’ them. As ilka year gae something new, Addition to my mind or stature, So fast my love for Ettrick grew, Implanted in my very nature.

5

10

15

366

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

Shunned an’ pitied by the world, Long a humbling sight was he, Till one frenzied moment hurled Him to lang eternity. Sitting on yon steep sae rocky, Fearless as the boding crow,— No, dear maid, I winna shock thee, Wi’ the bloody scene below. ’Neath yon aik, decayed an’ rottin’, Where the hardy woodbine twines, Now in peace he lies forgotten; Owre his head these simple lines:— “Lover, pause, while I implore thee, Still to walk in Virtue’s road; An’ to say, as ye walk o’er me, ‘Lack-a-day for Sandy Tod!’”

185

190

195

200

Farewell to Ettrick F AREWEEL , green Ettrick! fare-thee-weel! I own I’m unco laith to leave thee; Nane kens the half o’ what I feel, Nor half the cause I hae to grieve me! There first I saw the rising morn; There first my infant mind unfurled, To ween that spot where I was born, The very centre of the world. I thought the hills were sharp as knives, An’ the braid lift lay whomel’d on them, An’ glowred wi’ wonder at the wives That spak o’ ither hills ayon’ them. As ilka year gae something new, Addition to my mind or stature, So fast my love for Ettrick grew, Implanted in my very nature.

5

10

15

1821 VERSION

I’ve sung, in mony a rustic lay, Her heroes, hills, and verdant groves; Her wilds an’ vallies; fresh and gay, Her shepherds’ and her maidens’ loves.

367

20

I had a thought,—a poor vain thought! That some time I might do her honour; But a’ my hopes are come to nought, I’m forced to turn my back upon her. She’s thrown me out o’ house an’ hauld, My heart got never sic a thrust! An’ my poor parents, frail an’ auld, Are forced to leave their kindred dust. But fare-ye-weel, my native stream, Frae a’ regret be ye preserved! Ye’ll may be cherish some at hame Wha dinna just sae weel deserve ’t. There is nae man on a’ your banks Will ever say that I did wrang him; The lasses hae my dearest thanks For a’ the joys I had amang them. Though twined by rough an’ ragin seas, An’ mountains capt wi’ wreaths o’ snaw, To think o’ them I’ll never cease, As lang as I can think ava.

25

30

35

40

I’ll make the Harris rocks to ring Wi’ ditties wild, when nane shall hear; The Lewis shores shall learn to sing The names o’ them I lo’ed so dear; But there is ane aboon the lave, I’ll carve on ilka lonely green; The sea-bird tossin’ on the wave, Shall learn the name o’ bonnie Jean. Ye gods take care o’ my dear lass! That as I leave her I may find her; Till that blest time shall come to pass, When we shall meet nae mair to sinder.

45

50

368

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

Fareweel, my Ettrick! fare-thee-weel! I own I’m unco laith to leave thee; Nane kens the half o’ what I feel, Nor half o’ that I hae to grieve me. My parents crazy grown wi’ eild, How I rejoiced to stand their stay! I thought to be their help an’ shield, An’ comfort till their hindmost day;

55

60

Wi’ gentle hand to close their een, An’ weet the yird wi’ mony a tear, That held the dust o’ ilka frien’; O’ friends sae tender an’ sincere: It winna do:—I maun away To yon rough isle, sae bleak an’ dun; Lang will they mourn, baith night an’ day The absence o’ their darling son. An’ my dear Will! how will I fen’, Without thy kind an’ ardent care? Without thy verse-inspirin’ pen, My muse will sleep, an’ sing nae mair. Fareweel to a’ my kith an’ kin! To ilka friend I held sae dear! How happy hae we often been, Wi’ music, mirth, an’ hamely cheer! Nae mair your gilded banks at noon, Swells to my sang in echos glad; Nae mair I’ll screed the rantin’ tune, That haflins put the younkers mad.

65

70

75

80

Nae mair amang the haggs an’ rocks, While hounds wi’ music fill the air, We’ll hunt the sly an’ sulky fox, Or trace the wary circlin’ hare! My happy days wi’ you are past, An’, waes my heart, will ne’er return! The brightest day may overcast, An’ man was made at times to mourn.

85

1821 VERSION

But if I ken my dyin’ day, Though a foreworn an’ waefu’ man, I’ll tak my staff, an’ post away, To yield my life where it began. If I should sleep nae mair to wake, In yon far isle beyond the tide, Set up a headstane for my sake, An’ prent upon its ample side;— “In memory of a shepherd boy, Who left us for a distant shore; Love was his life, and song his joy; But now he’s dead—we add no more!”

369 90

95

100

Fareweel, green Ettrick! fare-thee-weel! I own I’m something wae to leave thee; Nane kens the half o’ what I feel, Nor half the cause I hae to grieve me!

The Author’s Address to his

Auld Dog Hector C OME , my auld, towzy, trusty friend, What gars ye look sae dung wi’ wae? D’ye think my favour’s at an end, Because thy head is turnin’ gray? Although thy strength begins to fail, Its best was spent in serving me; An’ can I grudge thy wee bit meal, Some comfort in thy age to gie? For mony a day, frae sun to sun, We’ve toil’d fu’ hard wi’ ane anither; An’ mony a thousand mile thou’st run, To keep my thraward flocks thegither.

5

10

1821 VERSION

But if I ken my dyin’ day, Though a foreworn an’ waefu’ man, I’ll tak my staff, an’ post away, To yield my life where it began. If I should sleep nae mair to wake, In yon far isle beyond the tide, Set up a headstane for my sake, An’ prent upon its ample side;— “In memory of a shepherd boy, Who left us for a distant shore; Love was his life, and song his joy; But now he’s dead—we add no more!”

369 90

95

100

Fareweel, green Ettrick! fare-thee-weel! I own I’m something wae to leave thee; Nane kens the half o’ what I feel, Nor half the cause I hae to grieve me!

The Author’s Address to his

Auld Dog Hector C OME , my auld, towzy, trusty friend, What gars ye look sae dung wi’ wae? D’ye think my favour’s at an end, Because thy head is turnin’ gray? Although thy strength begins to fail, Its best was spent in serving me; An’ can I grudge thy wee bit meal, Some comfort in thy age to gie? For mony a day, frae sun to sun, We’ve toil’d fu’ hard wi’ ane anither; An’ mony a thousand mile thou’st run, To keep my thraward flocks thegither.

5

10

370

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

To nae thrawn boy nor naughty wife, Shall thy auld banes become a drudge; At cats an’ callans a’ thy life, Thou ever bor’st a mortal grudge. An’ whiles thy surly look declared, Thou loe’d the women warst of a’; Because my love wi’ thee they shared, A matter out o’ right or law.

15

20

When sittin’ wi’ my bonnie Meg, Mair happy than a prince could be, Thou placed’st thee by her other leg, An’ watched her wi’ a jealous ee. An’ then at ony start or flare, Thou wad’st hae worried furiouslye; While I was forced to curse an’ swear, Afore thou wad’st forbidden be. Yet wad she clasp thy towzy paw; Thy gruesome grips were never skaithly; An’ thou than her hast been mair true, An’ truer than the friend that gae thee. Ah, me! o’ fashion, self, an’ pride, Mankind has read me sic a lecture! But yet it’s a’ in part repaid By thee, my faithful, grateful Hector! O’er past imprudence, oft alane I’ve shed the saut an’ silent tear; Then sharin’ a’ my grief an’ pain, My poor auld friend came snoovin’ near.

25

30

35

40

For a’ the days we’ve sojourned here, An’ they’ve been neither fine nor few, That thought possest thee year to year, That a’ my griefs arase frae you. Wi’ waesome face an’ hingin head, Thou wad’st hae pressed thee to my knee; While I thy looks as weel could read, As thou had’st said in words to me;—

45

1821 VERSION

“O my dear master, dinna greet; What hae I ever done to vex thee? See here I’m cowrin’ at your feet; Just take my life, if I perplex ye. “For a’ my toil, my wee drap meat Is a’ the wage I ask of thee; For whilk I’m oft obliged to wait Wi’ hungry wame an’ patient ee. “Whatever wayward course ye steer; Whatever sad mischance o’ertake ye; Man, here is ane will hald ye dear! Man, here is ane will ne’er forsake ye!”

371 50

55

60

Yes, my puir beast, though friends me scorn, Whom mair than life I valued dear; An’ thraw me out to fight forlorn, Wi’ ills my heart dow hardly bear, While I hae thee to bear a part— My health, my plaid, an’ heezle rung,— I’ll scorn th’ unfeeling haughty heart, The saucy look, and slanderous tongue. Some friends, by pop’lar envy swayed, Are ten times waur than ony fae! My heart was theirs: an’ to them laid As open as the light o’ day. I feared my ain; but had nae dread, That I for loss o’ theirs should mourn; Or that when luck an’ favour fled, Their friendship wad injurious turn. But He who feeds the ravens young, Lets naething pass he disna see; He’ll sometime judge o’ right an’ wrang, An’ aye provide for you an’ me. An’ hear me, Hector, thee I’ll trust, As far as thou hast wit an’ skill; Sae will I ae sweet lovely breast, To me a balm for every ill.

65

70

75

80

372

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

To these my trust shall ever turn, While I have reason truth to scan; But ne’er beyond my mother’s son, To aught that bears the shape o’ man.— I ne’er could thole thy cravin’ face, Nor when ye pattit on my knee; Though in a far an’ unco place, I’ve whiles been forced to beg for thee. Even now I’m in my master’s power, Where my regard may scarce be shown; But ere I’m forced to gi’e thee o’er, When thou art auld an’ senseless grown, I’ll get a cottage o’ my ain, Some wee bit cannie, lonely biel’, Where thy auld heart shall rest fu’ fain, An’ share wi’ me my humble meal.

85

90

95

100

Thy post shall be to guard the door Wi’ gousty bark, whate’er betides; Of cats an’ hens to clear the floor, An’ bite the flaes that vex thy sides. When my last bannock’s on the hearth, Of that thou sanna want thy share; While I hae house or hauld on earth, My Hector shall hae shelter there. An’ should grim death thy noddle save, Till he has made an end o’ me; Ye’ll lye a wee while on the grave O’ ane whae aye was kind to thee. There’s nane alive will miss me mair; An’ though in words thou can’st not wail, On a’ the claes thy master ware, I ken thou’lt smell an’ wag thy tail. If e’er I’m forced wi’ thee to part, Which will be sair against my will; I’ll sometimes mind thy honest heart, As lang as I can climb a hill.

105

110

115

120

1821 VERSION

373

Come, my auld, towzy, trusty friend, Let’s speel to Queensb’ry’s lofty height; All warldly cares we’ll leave behind, An’ onward look to days more bright. While gazing o’er the Lawland dales, Despondence on the breeze shall flee; An’ muses leave their native vales To scale the clouds wi’ you an’ me.

125

374

T H E MOUNTAIN BARD

APPENDIX

Appendix

‘Glendonnen’s Raid’ A Poem Relevant to

The Mountain Bard (1821) [See ‘Note on the Texts’ and ‘Editorial Notes’]

375

376

T H E M O U N T A I N B A R D (1821)

APPENDIX

377

[Scots Magazine, 69 (October 1807), pp. 767–68]

Glendonnen’s Raid An Ancient Scottish Ballad Never before published G LENDONNEN was a valiant Scot, A valiant Scot I wot was he, And Glendonnen lov’d the fairest May That dwell’d in all the south countrye. Get up, get up, my brother John, Get up and draw your sword for me, For Marjery Faucet shall be mine, Or home again I shall never see. I’ll ride the muirs and Liddel side, The Esk and Ewes ye maun bring with thee, Whae winna fight for my true love, Let them never look for help from me. Aye, brother, we may run and ride, And warn both high and low degree, But we’ll never raise enow of men To set young ladye Marjery free. Were it the kye on Dirden fells, Or Bastwet ewes ye long’d to see, The Armstrangs, and the Elliots both, And Scotts would bear ye companye.

5

10

15

20

But or they’ll fight for a lady fair, Where one can only the gainer be, Ye had better try to raise the deil, To help to gain your fair ladye. Ye might have had that ladye fair, With right good will and honestye, But ye brought away the bishop’s kye, And left your love most trait’rously.

25

378

T H E M O U N T A I N B A R D (1821)

Now hold your tongue, my brother John, And of your taunting let me be, It was Sandy Jardine me advis’d, And that’s the thing that grieveth me. But I have sent him a broad letter, To come and speak with me speedilye, If he winna fight for my true love, By Saint Mary he shall fight with me. His brother John is to the Cassway gane, To raise the Esk to join the fray, And Glendonnen’s out by the Teviot stane, As fast as he can post away.

30

35

40

The first he saw was auld Fanesh, A gurly man I wat was he, Get up, Fanesh, with all your men, And help to gain my fair ladye. Is there ne’er a lady in fair Scotland Of equal rank and fair beautye? That we maun go fight for an English quean, And risk my merry men and me? I have three daughters of my own, Although the worst’s o’er good for thee, Before I lose my gallant men, I’ll give you the wale of a’ the three. Keep ye your daughters, auld Fanesh, And keep your men till need may be, And next time you cross the Ramsey burn, Ye may bring them all your guard to be. Fanesh he turned him on his heel, And I wat a loud laughter leugh he, I wish ye joy of your English whore, And a bonny bairn-time may ye baith see. But Sandy of Sowerby join’d the fray, And his billy Wat of the Frosty lee, And Wattie of Cooslep, and young Jock Grieve, As fearless lads as well could be.

45

50

55

60

APPENDIX

Glendonnen’s on to Liddesdale, And he sent the word to tow’r and ha’, “The fray is up, and the march begun, “Rise for Glendonnen ane and a’.” When they came to the Liddel ford, They were a comely sight to see, There was thirteen score well mounted Scots, The wale of all the south countrye. Each man had a skin pock on his back, Which with his buff doublet became him weel, A twa-fac’d sword hang down by his thigh, And a braid bonnet with a bar of steel. Their saddles were made of the good green ruff, And their bridles of the hemp so free, Their horses’ tails hang down to the ground, And their manes were plett with the rowan tree.

379 65

70

75

80

And John of Milburn he was there, And Habby Potts in his companye, And Elliot of Breaken led the van, The bravest knight in the south countrye. And when they came to the white-cross-stane, Then there was joy and muckle glee, For Sandy Jardine he was there, With threescore men in his companye. “Ye’re welcome, lads,” Glendonnen cry’d, “Ye are doubly welcome, lads, to me, “There shall few toom wallets come back again, “Although we fight for a fair ladye.” Then they have ridden the lee-lang night, Glendonnen well knew all the way, And they reach’d the gates of merry Carlisle, Just at the dawning of the day. When they arrived at merry Carlisle, And lighted down upon the green, The bells they rang, and the guards they ran, And such a fray was never seen.

85

90

95

100

380

T H E M O U N T A I N B A R D (1821)

For all was hurry and all was fear, And all was uproar, noise, and din; There was naked men, and naked women, All rinning as fast as they could rin. And ay they cry’d, “The Scots! the Scots!” And ay they grat most bitterlye, And ay the owr word of the fray Was “The Scots! the Scots! Oh wae to me!” But they neither touch’d man, wife, nor bairn, For never man durst them ’gainstand, But each man fill’d his trusty wallet, With what came readiest to his hand. To be continued.

105

110

[Scots Magazine, 69 (November 1807), pp. 847–48]

Glendonnen’s Raid Continued from p. 768.

WHEN they came to the Bishop’s yett, There all was still as still could be, But out then turn’d the young Jock Greive, Saying, “My lord bishop will get a fley.” Then he pull’d down a massy stone, It was a marble, polish’d fine, And he made bolts and bars to flee, And he and his fifteen men went in.

115

120

“Get up, get up, my good lord bishop, “Get up and pray for you and me, “And pray we may all return in peace, “And laden with spoil to our countrye.” The bishop started from his bed, And down he kneel’d upon the floor, And he said his creeds, and tell’d his beads, He knew it would be his hindmost hour. “Get up, get up, my good lord bishop, “One question only answer me, “How many Scotsmen have ye hang’d, “And how many chain’d is here with thee?”

125

130

APPENDIX

“Away, away, thou haughty Scot, And of your talking let me be, I have more serious things to mind, ’Tis not a time to prate with thee. My life is but a single life, I’ll scorn to beg that life of thee, But if I have a friend in all England, This outrage shall revenged be.

381

135

140

I know my days are at an end, Then do thy worst, and put me down, But mind, ev’n now, and evermore, That I’m lord bishop of Carlisle town.” Jock Greive he turn’d him round about, A brave and generous man was he, “My good lord bishop, ye are so brave In faith I fain your friend would be. I winna wrong a hair o’ your head, Your goud and gear untouch’d shall be;” “May God thee bless, the Bishop cried, ’Tis more than I could hope from thee. May all the saints and angels good, And all the blessed Trinitye, Shower down their blessings on Jock Greive For what this day he has done to me! I’ll never wrong a Scot again, Since for my life I’m bound to thee And while I have power in Cumberland, The Scots shall find a friend in me.

145

150

155

160

Your men shall all return again, With gold and gear to their countrye, And all the Scots in prison here, This day shall join your companye.” “I give you thanks, my noble lord, For my countrymen ye have granted me. Now would ye grant us your bonny niece, How happy would Glendonnen be!”

165

382

T H E M O U N T A I N B A R D (1821)

“Glendonnen is an arrant thief, Of horse and kye he has herried me, Before I grant him my bonny niece, I’ll grant my niece, Jock Greive, to thee.” (To be continued.)

170

[Scots Magazine, 70 (February 1808), pp. 125–26]

Glendonnen’s Raid Continued from p. 848. Nov. 1807

B UT fare-ye-well my good lord Bishop, Before the sun shine on the tree, We’ll either lay yon castle low, Or make them yield the gay ladye. They rendezvouz’d beyond the bridge, And counselled what to do and say; Then they are on to the double tow’r As fast as they can post away.

175

180

The watchman paced around the wall, But gave no credit to his een, When first he saw our Scottish lads Come scouring o’er the dewy green. But up then rose old Joseph Rook, And stood upon the castle wa’; What’s yon I hear so loud and oft? I think it is the warder’s blaw. Oh no! Oh no! old Joseph Rook, I heard it ere the dawn of morn; The bear on Eden holms is ripe, ’Tis nothing but the harvest horn. Away away ye drowsy watch, They’re fools who trust their life to thee, For that’s the Carlisle warder’s blast, Or else my lugs deceiveth me. He looked ow’r his left shoulder Between him and the rising day, There he beheld our Scottish lads As they came riding out the way.

185

190

195

200

APPENDIX

383

Now Christ us save! old Joseph cry’d, And struck him sharp above the brie, For yonder comes the Scottish bands, And herried men I fear are we. The gates were barr’d, the men prepar’d, And every thing in order set; But ere they got the draw-bridge up The Scots were rallying round the yett. Who keeps the key? Glendonnen cry’d, Come throw it o’er the wall to me, Or laigh shall lye your lofty towers, Before the sun sink in the sea. But up then spoke auld Joseph Rook, And O but he spoke angrilye, What want ye here, ye hungry loons, Go hame and claw your doups, quo he’. There’s neither gold nor booty here, For which you grene so greedilye, Nor ought for you but sword and spear, And a stiff and stately gallows tree.

205

210

215

220

To lay our castle laigh on earth, You’ll find is easier said than done; I’ll tell you what will suit you more, A haggies and a gaby spoon. We neither ask your gold nor gear, Nor will we sey your gallows tree; We only want a maiden fair, Your bonny lady Marjorye. That lady’s here, and that lady’s dear, And that lady’s face you shall never see; Were there never a lord in all England That lady should not go with thee. Her mother was a king’s daughter, Her father heir to earldoms three; Were there never a lord in all England, That lady should not go with thee.

225

230

235

384

T H E M O U N T A I N B A R D (1821)

But I will have that lady fair, In spite of thee and all her kin, So either bring her forth to me, Or loose your gates and let me in.

240

My men are all to battle bred, They’re learn’d to fight, but not to flee, And here we’ll stand and force you forth, Though Carlisle rise in thousands three. But up then spake Sir George of Smale, His growth was like the cedar tree, The man that claims the lady fair Shall first and foremost fight with me. My brother woos her for his bride, And my brother’s bride she soon will be; Who likes to stay a fortnight here A merry wedding they shall see. I will not hear her claim’d nor nam’d By any Norland loun like thee, Unless a knight among you dare Here fight and bear the palm from me. But out then came the young Jock Greive, And Johnny Armstrong out came he; But both their offers were refused For lack of equal dignitye.

245

250

255

260

Young Elliot of Breaken heard the vaunt, The face of man ne’er feared he; He crys, I’ll wager Tarras hills Against the Smale for a bout with thee. And who art thou? and what art thou? Sir George replied right boistrouslye, For all your bold and warlike brow Ye’re but a child where fighters be. The earl of Lonsdale was my father, My mother a lady of high degree, I’ll never fight with a common man, But one of worth and pedigree.

265

270

APPENDIX

But up spake noble Elliot then, An angry man I wot was he; Which of us two’s the common man, Proud Baron, thou may’st shortly see: Sir William Elliot was my father, His name I bear, and his heir I’ll be; My mother, Lord Maxwell’s third daughter, Ye’ll tyne no honour by sticking me.

385

275

280

Between the ranks these champions met, To fight on foot they did agree, But I cannot tell you the anxious looks Was then expressed by each armye. Sir George began so fierce and fell, That Elliot’s helm and buckler rang. Now by my faith, brave Elliot said, But thou wilt list ere it be lang. Young Elliot ay the ground did win, Though never a drop of blood was seen, But the third round these heroes had, The blood was sprinkled on the green. Sir George’s breast was stained with blood, But whence it came no man could see, Till Elliot twirl’d his sword from his hand, And near the lift he made it flee. He took him by the cuff of the neck, And round his head he gart him ree, And he threw him over the English ranks Full more than twenty yards and three.

285

290

295

300

Now take you that, you saucy Lord, We’ll let you feel what drinkers dree, Ye’ll never bragg a Scot again, Ye’re but a child where fighters be. The Scots they shouted, the Scots they leugh, They leugh, and shouted three times three, And the Englishmen were forced to smile To see their champion o’er them flee. To be continued. [No more published.]

305

386

NOTE ON THE TEXTS

Note on the Texts 1. The Mountain Bar 80 7 Bardd of 1180 807 There were two versions of the 1807 Mountain Bard: a duodecimo trade edition and a larger and more expensive octavo edition for subscribers. However, it appears that the trade edition and the subscribers’ edition were both printed from the same setting of type (see section 5 of the present edition’s Introduction). So far as is known, the manuscript used as printer’s copy for The Mountain Bard of 1807 has not survived, and there are no surviving proofs. In these circumstances, the present edition reprints the 1807 text as published. No attempt has been made to impose consistency on the 1807 text; for example, at different points the 1807 text uses the variant spellings ‘Thirlestane’ and ‘Thirlstane’, and this inconsistency has been allowed to remain. Likewise, spellings still in use in Hogg’s day but no longer current have been retained: for example ‘scite’ for ‘site’, and ‘sirname’ for ‘surname’. However, the present edition makes a small number of emendations in order to correct what appear to be clear errors by the 1807 printer. These emendations are listed below. In this list, the emended version is given first, with a reference to the present edition: references are given using the system adopted in the Editorial Notes. After the emended version, the original 1807 reading is given. The reason for making the emendation is often self-evident when the passage concerned is read in context, but an explanation is added when necessary. A Stirling University Library copy of the trade edition has been used (copy A, book number 68230611). Checks have also been made against other copies of the 1807 printings. The present edition, in all its sections, follows the usual S/SC practice of giving the titles of the texts in upper and lower case, without final punctuation. 7(d) extensive education.] expensive education. [This emendation is discussed in the Editorial Notes: see the note on 7(d).] 11(d) Whitsunday 1793 [i.e., 1804?],] Whitsunday 1793, [This emendation is discussed in the Editorial Notes: see the note on 11(d).] 12(a) Wattie and Geordie’s Foreign] Wattie and Geordie’ Foreign 16(a) John Scott of Harden and the Scotts of Gilmanscleuch.] John Scott of Harden, by the Scotts of Gilmanscleuch. [This emendation is discussed in the Editorial Notes: see the note on 16(a).] 22, l. 56 read at a’.”] read at a.” 26(b) hollow ee.] hallow ee. [In Hogg’s hand ‘o’ and ‘a’ can be difficult to distinguish, and the text of the poem itself has ‘hollow’.] 28, l. 50 sale] fall [The 1807 reading does not make sense in the context, while ‘sale’ does make sense. The long ‘s’ of Hogg’s hand is easily misread as ‘f’, and there is also a potential for confusing ‘e’ and ‘l’. The Scots Magazine text of November 1804 has ‘sale’.] 29, l. 90 they shriekit] thy shriekit

NOTE ON THE TEXTS

387

39, l. 92 haste alang wi’ me!] haste alang wi’ me? 43, l. 245 “The time] ‘The time 56, l. 79 The froward youth] The forward youth [This emendation is discussed in the Editorial Notes: see the notes on 56, l. 79 and 62(b).] 59, l. 198 Carrifran Gans;] Carrifran gans; [‘Carrifran Gans’ is the name of a mountain.] 60, l. 227 Than straight] Then straight 60, l. 241 Saint Mary’s aisle] Saint Mary’s isle 63(a) Caryfran Gans they’re] Caryfran Gan’s they’re 63(b) Turnberry and Caryfran Gans,] Turnberry and Caryfran Gan’s, 63(d) 300 feet.] 300 yards. [This emendation is discussed in the Editorial Notes: see the note on 63(d).] 65(a) These men’s names] These mens names 68, l. 36 on to victory.”] on to victory. 68, l. 44 fitch nor flee.] ficht nor f lee [This emendation is discussed in the Editorial Notes: see the note on 68, l. 44.] 80, l. 31 on Ettricks fertile haughs] on Ettricks baittle haughs [This emendation is discussed in the Editorial Notes: see the note on 80, l.31.] 82, l. 14 So sable] So stable 86, l. 7 Hermitage bell] hermitage bell [The reference appears to be to Hermitage Castle. The 1821 edition has ‘Hermitage bell’.] 96, l. 36 chiel.] chiel’. 114, l. 2 An ’onest man] An’ onest man 115, l. 41 “Gude wife,”] ‘Gude wife,” 2. Appendix: Pr e180 7 Texts Pree-1 807 The present edition includes a number of pre-1807 manuscript and printed texts of items included in the Mountain Bard of 1807: details are given in the Editorial Notes. These pre-1807 texts have been emended only when this seemed necessary in order to correct an error in the relevant copy-text, and these emendations are listed below. In this list, the emended version is given first, with a reference to the present edition: references are given using the system adopted in the Editorial Notes. After the emended version, the original reading of the copy-text is given. 128(c) Meet your titty] Meet your Tibby [This emendation is discussed in the Editorial Notes: see the note on 128(c).] 131(a) that he ran into the house] that he run into the house 131(d) served with him] served with, him 132(a) wrote “Glengyle” and “The happy swains,”] wrote “Glengyle and The happy swains,” 135(c) visited most of the Hebrides.] visted most of the Hebrides. 139, l. 29 Kielder fells] Rielder fells 141, l. 120 frae his throat] free his throat 142, l. 134 That lady turn’d] That lady tturn’d 142, l. 143 Hast thou a tender] Hast thou a a tender

388

NOTE ON THE TEXTS

142, l. 5 the rank-scented fen] the rank-pented fen [The emendation is in line with the 1807 and 1821 printings. Because of the long ‘s’ of Hogg’s handwriting, it seems entirely possible that ‘scented’ could be misread as ‘pented’ in one of his manuscripts.] 143, l. 9 in her sleep,*] in her sleep‘, 143, l. 36 a Pedlar can be.”] a Pedlar can be” 143, l. 38 never had been.] never had be n. 143, l. 39 for him there,] for him there. 143, l. 45 “O where] “O Where 145, l. 104 rest unto me.] rest unto me, 146, l. 13 —“O have ye given] —O have yet given [As with the two following entries, there appears to be a slip of the pen here in Hogg’s manuscript.] 149, l. 102 told it me] told it men 150, l. 155 bathed] bather 153, l. 219 gridle] girdle [Hogg has ‘Gridle’ in his gloss on the facing page.] 155(a) preserved by Hume of Godscroft] preserved by Hume of Godscraft 159, l. 22 seem’d to] seem’d seem’d to 160, l. 26 Solway firth] [This was Hogg’s original manuscript reading, but was altered in another hand. For a discussion, see the Editorial Notes at 169, l.26 .] 162, l. 36 cry’d mae,] [This was Hogg’s original manuscript reading, but was altered in another hand. For a discussion, see the Editorial Notes at 163, l. 36.] 162, l. 60 Lak-a-day] [This was Hogg’s original manuscript reading, but was altered in another hand. For a discussion, see the Editorial Notes at 162, l. 60.] 162, l. 63 smittin ] [This was Hogg’s original manuscript reading, but was altered in another hand. For a discussion, see the Editorial Notes at 162, l. 63.] 164, l. 67 whether—] [This was Hogg’s original manuscript reading, but was altered in another hand. For a discussion, see the Editorial Notes at 164, l. 67.] 164, l. 79 glance hat on him—] [This was Hogg’s original manuscript reading, but was altered in another hand. For a discussion, see the Editorial Notes at 164, l. 79.] 164, l. 80 Mercy L—d quo’ Sandy] [This was Hogg’s original manuscript reading, but was altered in another hand. For a discussion, see the Editorial Notes at 164, l. 80.] 166, ll. 129–32 faces. […] hue: […] dew.] [This was Hogg’s original manuscript reading, but was altered in another hand. For a discussion, see the Editorial Notes at 166, ll. 129–32.] 168, ll. 138–40 divine! […] behind.] [This was Hogg’s original manuscript reading, but was altered in another hand. For a discussion, see the Editorial Notes at 168, ll. 138–40.] 168, l. 159 —No my dear.] [This was Hogg’s original manuscript reading, but was altered in another hand. For a discussion, see the Editorial Notes at 168, l. 159.] 173, l. 17 “It wasna] It wasna [See the closing inverted commas at 174, l. 32.] 174. l. 32 Gae mournin’] Gae’ mournin’ 177, l. 1 ’MONG Scotia’s glens] ’MONG Scotia’s glen 177, l. 13 liege”] leige” 180, l. 9 sun to sun,] sun to sun. 180, l. 11 thou’st run,] thou’st rnn,

NOTE ON THE TEXTS

389

181, l. 44 will ne’er forsake] will near forsake 181, l. 45 scorn,] scorn. 185, l. 70 unco sma’.] unco sma.’ 186(b) Ettrick,] Etrick, 186, l. 4 Ye’re sweetest] ye’re sweetest 187, l. 21 tend the hay] ted the hay 187, l. 37 Aye, Jamie,] Aye, Jammie, 188, l. 55 share,] spare, 3. The Mountain Bar 82 1 Bardd of 1182 821 The revised and expanded version of The Mountain Bard published by the Edinburgh firm of Oliver & Boyd in 1821 was called ‘the third edition, greatly enlarged’, presumably because the 1807 Mountain Bard had appeared in both a duodecimo and an octavo version. So far as is known, neither printer’s copy nor proofs for The Mountain Bard of 1821 have survived. In these circumstances, the present edition follows the 1821 text, but makes a small number of emendations in order to correct what appear to be errors by the 1821 printer. These emendations are listed below. In this list, the emended version is given first, with a reference to the present edition: references are given using the system adopted in the Editorial Notes. After the emended version, the original 1821 reading is given. The Stirling University Library copy of the 1821 edition has been used. Checks have also been made against other copies of the 1821 printing. 202(c) of the Nocturnal Heavens.”] of the Nocturnal Heavens. 227(b) to take out Clavers,] to take out lavers, 229(a) befall him.”] befall him.’ 231(b) another notable work,] another not able work, [This emendation is discussed in the Editorial Notes: see the relevant note on 231(b).] 231(c) proffered to furnish them] proffered to finish them [This emendation is discussed in the Editorial Notes: see the relevant note on 231(c).] 236, l. 41 “Where hae] Where hae [Compare ll. 53, 69.] 239, l. 161 the wild swaird green,] the wild Swaird green, [In this new passage in the 1821 text Hogg presumably wrote ‘swaird’ (see Glossary), and the printer interpreted this as a place-name. In Hogg’s hand, it is extremely difficult to distinguish between a capital ‘S’ and an initial lower-case ‘s’.] 240(b) The heron] “The heron [In the 1821 printing the ‘rhyme’ opens with inverted commas, but the inverted commas do not close.] 240(d) corpse in the snow] corpse n the snow 240(d) disfigured master] isfigured master 241, l. 21 “I wish] ‘I wish 242, l. 40 can be.”] can be. 243, l. 88 could see.] could see 246(b) sleep.—v. 4.] sleep.—v. 3.] 252, l. 52 kinsman] kingsman

390

NOTE ON THE TEXTS

254, l. 104 ride.’] ride. 255, l. 153 lang they foucht,] lang tney foucht, 257, l. 219 girdel braid,] girdel raid, 257, l. 220 Craighope snaw.] Craighope snaw 269(d) Binram’s Corse,] Binram’s Cross, [This emendation is discussed in the Editorial Notes: see the relevant note on 269(d).] 272, l. 79 froward] forward [This emendation is discussed in the Editorial Notes: see the relevant note on 62(b).] 272, l. 86 adder’s eyes,] adders eyes, 275, l. 210 Carrifran Gans;] Carrifran gans; [See corresponding emendation at 59, l. 198.] 280(a) 300 feet.] 300 yards. [See corresponding emendation at 63(d).] 284, l. 20 Hazelburne?’] Hazelburne? 284, l. 31 But forre ane] But forve ane 284, l. 33 called to face the foe,] called to face the face, 286, l. 89 “Suche als] Suche als 301, l. 14 So sable] So stable [See corresponding emendation at 82, l. 14.] 302, l. 36 follow me.”] follow me. 305, l. 4 Saughentree.”] Saughentree. 310, l. 184 thus to draw.] thus to draw.” 310, l. 185 “The first wound] The first wound 310, l. 192 deceiver win.] deceiver win.” 310, l. 193 “‘Now turn,’] ‘Now turn,’ 311, l. 201 “‘Now take thou] ‘Now take thou 311, l. 236 fight for thee.] fight for thee, 319, l. 164 black and blewe.”] black and blewe. 320, l. 216 first by me.”] first by me. 321, l. 250 So driche ane paine] So drich e ane paine 323, l. 321 “But Jocke,] But Jocke, 323, l. 325 “I’ll make] I’ll make 325, l. 408 als myne.”] als myne. 330, ll. 552–54 he colde raire; | […] his sydis were saire.] he colde raire; | […] his sydis were [In the 1821 printing there appears to be a missing word at the end of l. 554. Rhyme and sense suggest that the word is ‘saire’.] 331, l. 590 “Deuille fetche] Deuille fetche 339, l. 892 adjudgit the Lairde,] adjudgit the Lairdes, 347, l. 163 by my sooth,”] by my south,” 357, l. 324 like to burst.] like to burst 361, l. 36 chiel.] chiel.’ 4. Appendix: ‘Glendonnen ‘Glendonnen’’s Raide’ As is explained in the Editorial Notes, ‘Glendonnen’s Raide’ was published in three parts in the Scots Magazine, in the numbers for October and November 1807 and February 1808. Hogg intended to include the poem in the 1821

NOTE ON THE TEXTS

391

Mountain Bard, but in the end did not do so because the concluding section of the poem could not be found, and time was pressing. So far as is known, Hogg’s manuscript for ‘Glendonnen’s Raide’ has not survived. In these circumstances, the present edition follows the Scots Magazine text. Three emendations have been made to correct what appear to be errors by the printer: the emended version is given first, with a reference to the present edition. After the emended version, the original Scots Magazine reading is given. 381, l. 168 be!”] be”! 384, l. 249 woos] woo’s 385, l. 302 drinkers dree,] drinkers’ dree

Hyphenation List Various words are hyphenated at the ends of lines in the present edition of The Mountain Bard. The list below indicates those cases in which such hyphens should be retained in making quotations. 34, l. 6 sun-set 130, l. 15 cow-herd 195, l. 13 self-complacency 208, l. 16 leanest-looking 213, l. 34 heart-burnings 216, l. 8 self-taught 216, l. 42 mountain-scenery 217, l. 39 Midsummer-Night 218, l. 11 half-naked 247, l. 17 death-tap 294, l. 24 well-mounted 294, l. 36 well-mounted 295, l. 37 feast-day

NOTE ON THE TEXTS

391

Mountain Bard, but in the end did not do so because the concluding section of the poem could not be found, and time was pressing. So far as is known, Hogg’s manuscript for ‘Glendonnen’s Raide’ has not survived. In these circumstances, the present edition follows the Scots Magazine text. Three emendations have been made to correct what appear to be errors by the printer: the emended version is given first, with a reference to the present edition. After the emended version, the original Scots Magazine reading is given. 381, l. 168 be!”] be”! 384, l. 249 woos] woo’s 385, l. 302 drinkers dree,] drinkers’ dree

Hyphenation List Various words are hyphenated at the ends of lines in the present edition of The Mountain Bard. The list below indicates those cases in which such hyphens should be retained in making quotations. 34, l. 6 sun-set 130, l. 15 cow-herd 195, l. 13 self-complacency 208, l. 16 leanest-looking 213, l. 34 heart-burnings 216, l. 8 self-taught 216, l. 42 mountain-scenery 217, l. 39 Midsummer-Night 218, l. 11 half-naked 247, l. 17 death-tap 294, l. 24 well-mounted 294, l. 36 well-mounted 295, l. 37 feast-day

392

EDITORIAL NOTES

Editorial Notes In these Editorial Notes, references to poems include page and line numbers, while references to prose include a letter enclosed in brackets: (a) indicates that the passage is found in the first quarter of the page, while (b) refers to the second quarter, (c) to the third quarter, and (d) to the fourth quarter. Where it seems useful to discuss the meaning of particular phrases, this is done in the Editorial Notes: single words are dealt with in the Glossary. Quotations from the Bible are from the King James version, the translation most familiar to Hogg and his contemporaries. For references to plays by Shakespeare, the edition used has been The Complete Works: Compact Edition, ed. by Stanley Wells and Gary Taylor (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1988). For references to other volumes of the Stirling / South Carolina Edition, the abbreviation ‘S/SC’ and date of first publication are given in parentheses. References to SirWalter Scott’s fiction are to the Edinburgh Edition of the Waverley Novels (EEWN). In the Notes below, the National Library of Scotland is abbreviated as NLS and the title of the periodical Studies in Hogg and his World is abbreviated as SHW. The Notes are greatly indebted to standard works such as The Oxford Dictionary of National Biography (cited as Oxford DNB), The Oxford English Dictionary (cited as OED), and The Dictionary of the Scots Language www.dsl.ac.uk (cited as DSL). The DSL is the online edition of The Scottish National Dictionary (1931-76), ed. by William Grant and David Murison, 10 vols, Edinburgh: Scottish National Dictionary Association (1931–76) and A Dictionary of the Older Scottish Tongue (1931-2002), ed. by William Craigie et al., 12 vols, Oxford: Oxford University Press. References to ‘Child’ are to the ballad numbers in The English and Scottish Popular Ballads, ed. by Francis James Child, 5 vols (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1882–98). References to ‘Kinsley’ are to the poem numbers in The Poems and Songs of Robert Burns, ed. by James Kinsley, 3 vols (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1968). Other books frequently quoted in the Notes are referred to by the following abbreviations: Altrive Tales ales:: Hogg, Altrive Tales, ed. by Gillian Hughes (S/SC, 2003) Batho: Edith C. Batho, The Ettrick Shepherd (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1927) Gr oome: Ordnance Gazetteer of Scotland: A Survey of Scottish Topography, ed. by Groome: Francis H. Groome, 6 vols (Edinburgh: Jack, 1882–85) (Quotations from Groome in the Notes below are from the entries for the various places under discussion.) Letter Letterss II:: The Collected Letters of James Hogg: Volume I 1800–1819, ed. by Gillian Hughes (S/SC, 2004) Letter Letterss II II:: The Collected Letters of James Hogg: Volume II 1820–1831, ed. by Gillian Hughes (S/SC, 2006) Lockhart Lockhart:: John Gibson Lockhart, Memoirs of the Life of Sir Walter Scott, 7

EDITORIAL NOTES

393

vols (Edinburgh: Cadell; London: John Murray and Whittaker, 1837– 38) Mack: James Hogg, Memoir of the Author’s Life and Familiar Anecdotes of Sir Walter Scott, ed. by Douglas S. Mack (Edinburgh: Scottish Academic Press, 1972) Minstr elsy Minstrelsy elsy:: Walter Scott, Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border, 3 vols (1802–03) ( The first two volumes are cited from the first edition, published in two volumes (Kelso: printed by James Ballantyne for Cadell and Davies, London; and sold by Manners and Miller, and Constable, Edinburgh, 1802). An additional third volume was included in the second edition (Edinburgh: printed by James Ballantyne for Longman and Rees, London; and sold by Manners and Miller, and Constable, Edinburgh, 1803). The third volume is cited from this edition.) Silver Bough Bough:: F. Marian McNeill, The Silver Bough: A Four Volume Study of the National and Local Festivals of Scotland, 4 vols (Glasgow: MacLellan, 1957– 68)

The Mountain Bar 180 7) Bardd ((1 807) 1 ((Titlepage) Titlepage) F ain would I hear our mountains ring […] tales of other times Fain r enew echoes James Macpherson’s ‘The Songs of Selma’: ‘Such were the words of the bards in the days of song; when the king heard the music of harps, and the tales of other times. The chiefs gathered from all their hills, and heard the lovely sound. They praised the voice of Cona! the first among a thousand bards’ (see The Poems of Ossian, ed. by Howard Gaskell (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 1996), p. 170). 3 (Dedication to Scott) SHERIFF OF ET TRICK FORES T Scott was appointed SherETTRICK FOREST iff-Depute (in effect, local judge) of Selkirkshire (‘Ettrick Forest’) in 1799. 3 (Dedication to Scott) MINSTREL OF THE SCOTTISH BORDER the reference is to Scott’s ballad-collection, Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border (1802–03). 5 ((A Advertisement) list of Sub scriber Subscriber scriberss on 15 December 1806 Hogg wrote to Scott to say that the preparation of a list of subscribers would be ‘a hard task’, which would delay publication of The Mountain Bard. Hogg goes on to ask: ‘Would it not answer as well to give them an additional song or two in place of the names’ (Letters I, p. 77). Some songs were indeed added, to replace the missing list of subscribers: see Introduction. 5 ((A Ad vertisement) his situation in a rremote emote part of the countr countryy see editorial note on 7(c). 180 7: M emoir of the Life of James Hogg (pp. 7–1 7) 807 Memoir 7–17) In the summers of 1802, 1803, and 1804 Hogg undertook journeys to the Highlands, and (with Scott’s encouragement) he hoped to arrange for the publication of a book that would contain his accounts of these journeys, together with some of his poems. The book was to be introduced by an account of Hogg’s life which, like the accounts of the journeys, was to be cast in the form of a series of letters to Scott (see Hogg’s letters to Scott of [1 December] 1804 and 16 January 1805, Letters I, pp. 42–45). This project did not come to fruition as envisaged, but from his letter of 16 January 1805 it is clear that Hogg, by that point, had already drafted the proposed ‘letters giving an account of my life’. The ‘Memoir of the Life of James

394

EDITORIAL NOTES

Hogg’ in the 1807 Mountain Bard presumably derives from these ‘letters’. Interestingly, the 1807 ‘Memoir’ has a good deal in common with two short letters about Hogg’s life published in the Scots Magazine in 1805. These letters (both signed ‘Z’) form part of a series of six letters about Hogg published in the Scots Magazine during 1804 and 1805. For this series of letters see pp. 123–36 in the present edition, and the corresponding editorial notes. As the editorial notes relating to pp. 123–36 indicate, it has long been believed that the letters by ‘Z’ may in fact be by Hogg himself. The ‘Memoir’ of 1807 was substantially revised and extended for the 1821 edition of The Mountain Bard (see pp. 195–231 of the present edition, and the corresponding editorial notes); and, with further substantial revisions, it appeared (as ‘Memoir of the Author’s Life’) in Hogg’s Altrive Tales (1832): see pp. 11–52 and 216–43 of Gillian Hughes’s S/SC edition of Altrive Tales (2000), to which the present edition of the ‘Memoir’ is much indebted. Douglas Mack’s ground-breaking 1972 edition of the ‘Memoir’ has also proved useful. Notes below marked ‘(G. H.)’ are quoted from the S/SC Altrive Tales, and I am grateful to Edinburgh University Press and Gillian Hughes for permission to do so. Since the publication of these notes in the S/SC Altrive Tales, the f irst two volumes of Gillian Hughes’s S/SC edition of Hogg’s Collected Letters have been published. The letters quoted in the Altrive Tales notes can be readily located in Collected Letters, in which Hogg’s letters are arranged by date. 7(a) The friend Walter Scott: for Scott’s involvement in the preparation of the 1807 Mountain Bard, see the Introduction. 806 as a result of the failure in 1804 of his at7(c) MitchellSlack, No Nov Mitchell-Slack, v. 11806 tempt to secure tenancy of a sheep-farm in Harris, Hogg was employed as a shepherd by James Harkness of Mitchelslacks farm in Dumfriesshire during the period when the 1807 Mountain Bard was being prepared for publication: see Introduction and the 1821 version of The Mountain Bard at p. 205 in the present edition. The Harkness family of Mitchelslacks had been ardent Covenanters during the civil and religious conflicts of seventeenth-century Scotland, and Thomas Harkness of Miltchelslacks was executed in the aftermath of the Enterkin Pass rescue of 1684, a celebrated exploit in which twenty-five Covenanters were freed by force. Hogg’s story ‘A Tale of the Martyrs’, which was published in the July 1829 number of Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine, opens with a character named Tam Harkness, a fugitive from Royalist troops who is accused of being present at ‘the harmless rising at Enterkin, for the relief of a favourite minister’. The Enterkin Pass rescue also features in Hogg’s poem ‘A Lay of the Martyrs’, first published in the annual The Amulet for 1830, and reprinted in Hogg’s A Queer Book (1832). I am grateful to Janette Currie for providing information on the Enterkin Pass rescue. 7(d) extensive education the 1807 printing of The Mountain Bard has ‘expensive education’ at this point, but this seems to be a printer’s error (see this edition’s Note on the Texts). In a letter to Scott of [1 December] 1804 Hogg writes: ‘I have been looking over the copy of my letters to you concerning my life and extensive education as I am pleased to call it’ (Letters I, p. 42). The 1821 version of the ‘Memoir’ has ‘extensive education’ (see p. 195). et sins of men see John Home, Douglas, ed. by Gerald D. 7(d) As if [...] secr secret Parker (Edinburgh: Oliver & Boyd, 1972), p. 44 (Act 3, lines 75–76). (G. H.)

EDITORIAL NOTES

395

8(a) four sons Hogg’s parents, Robert Hogg and Margaret Laidlaw, were married in Ettrick on 27 May 1765 (Ettrick OPR), where the baptisms of their four sons are also recorded—William (12 July 1767), James (9 December 1770), David (10 January 1773), and Robert (25 February 1776). The gravestone of Hogg’s parents in Ettrick churchyard also records the burial of ‘three of their sons’: no names are given and presumably these are children who died in early infancy. (G. H.) 8(a) R obert Hogg Robert Hogg was born in 1729, and he died on 22 OctoRobert ber 1820—see Dumfries and Galloway Courier of 31 October 1820. (G. H.) 8(a) Margar et Laidla w Margaret Laidlaw was born in 1730 and seems to Margaret Laidlaw have died in the summer of 1813, although her death is not recorded in the Ettrick or Yarrow parish registers. In Hogg’s letter to Harriet, Duchess of Buccleuch of 7 March 1813 (NLS MS 3884, fols 96–97) he mentions both parents as living: his letter to General Dirom of 3 September 1813 mentions his mother’s death as recent—see Coutts & Co, London: Dirom Papers 124 (Box 602). This letter is cited by permission of the Directors of Coutts & Co. (G. H.) 8(a) the farms of Ettrickhouse and Ettrickhall adjacent farms in the Scottish Borders: they are situated on the River Ettrick. A Victorian monument marks Hogg’s birthplace at Ettrickhall (now Ettrickhill), and he is buried in the graveyard of the nearby Ettrick Kirk. 8(b) quite ruined him this would probably have been in 1776 or 1777. (G. H.) 8(b) the late worthy Mr Bryden, of Crosslee for a discussion of the significance for Hogg of ‘the late worthy Mr Bryden’, see Douglas S. Mack, ‘Hogg and Angels’, SHW, 15 (2004), 90–98. The farm of Crosslee is on the River Ettrick, near the junction of the B709 and the B7009. It lies about five miles downstream from Hogg’s birthplace at Ettrickhill. 8(b) his untimel y death according to his grave-stone in St Mary’s churchyard, untimely Yarrow, Walter Bryden of Crosslee was killed on 16 March 1799 when a tree fell on him at Newark—see James Hogg, Scottish Pastorals, ed. by Elaine Petrie (Stirling: Stirling UP, 1988), p. 50. (G. H.) 8(c) I wr ote the Dialogue in a Countr ch-yar wrote Countryy Chur Church-yar ch-yardd a poem included in Hogg’s first published volume, Scottish Pastorals (1801). 8(c) the Shorter Catechism a catechism is a series of questions and answers designed as instruction in the fundamental doctrines of Christianity. As Garside explains, the presbyterian Church of Scotland subscribed to the Larger and Shorter Catechisms of the Westminster Assembly of 1647–48 —see The Private Memoirs and Confessions of a Justified Sinner, ed. by P. D. Garside (S/SC, 2001), p. 227. (G. H.) 8(c) W hitsunda y 15 May, one of the Scottish quarter days, and one of the hitsunday ‘term’ days on which contracts of employment for farm servants began and ended. For a discussion of Scottish quarter days, see Silver Bough, I, 18. 8(c) put me to school with a lad according to ‘Z’ in The Scots Magazine and the 1821 version of the Memoir, this ‘lad’ was named William Ker: see pp. 130 and 196 of the present edition. 9(b) Solomon aav vers see Proverbs 22. 1. The book of Proverbs is supposed to have been written by Solomon. (G. H.) 9(b) while with one shepher d according to ‘Z’ in The Scots Magazine, this shepshepherd herd’s name was Grieve: see p. 131 of the present edition. 9(b) our version of the P salms of Da vid The Church of Scotland’s metrical Psalms David

396

EDITORIAL NOTES

Psalms. ‘Hogg’s love for this version of the Psalms is made clear in a letter he wrote in 1830 to the Edinburgh Literary Journal (vol. 3, p. 162–3). “I never read any poetry in my life that affected my heart half so much as those sublime strains of Zion, sung in what I conceived to be the pure spirit of their ancient simplicity; and the antiquated rhymes and Scotticisms at which Mr Tenant jeers so much, are to me quite endearing qualities.”’ (This note is quoted from Mack, p. 7.) This contribution by Hogg to the Edinburgh Literary Journal was entitled ‘A Letter from Yarrow: The Scottish Psalmody Defended’, and it appeared in the number for 13 March 1830. 9(d) Mr Scott of Singlee Singlee is a farm on Ettrick Water. In giving details of his subsequent employment at Elibank Hogg implies that his previous term of service at various farms was usually one year, so he was probably employed at Singlee from Martinmass (11 November) 1785 to Martinmass 1786, when his next employment at Elibank began. Martinmass is one of the Scottish Quarter Days used to fix the term of farm servants’ contracts. Hogg’s master was probably William Scott, brother to Henry Scott, the tenant of Wester Deloraine and father to the girl commemorated in Hogg’s song ‘The Bonny Lass of Deloraine’—see Richard D. Jackson, ‘The Pirate and the Bonny Lass of Deloraine’, The Scott Newsletter, No. 40 (Summer 2002), pp. 9–21. William Scott seems to have been the tenant of this farm for many years. The birth of his eldest son, Robert Scott, is recorded in the Yarrow OPR for 22 June 1772, and he was still there in August 1800, when two of his adolescent daughters along with a visiting Miss Anderson and Miss Ayres were accidentally drowned in Ettrick Water—see Edinburgh Evening Courant for 23 August 1800. His wife was Margaret Potts. (G. H.) 10(b) Elibank upon Tw eed near Clovenfords and only a few miles from Scott’s pre-Abbotsford home at Ashiestiel. Hogg described it as ‘the most quiet and sequestered place in Scotland’—see A Series of Lay Sermons on Good Principles and Good Breeding, ed. by Gillian Hughes with Douglas S. Mack (S/ SC, 1997), p. 74. Hogg’s master has not been identified. (G. H.) Elibank features prominently in ‘The Fray of Elibank’ in The Mountain Bard. 10(c) thr ee half years Hogg must have moved to Elibank at Martinmass (11 three November) 1786, since his next employment at Willenslee began at Whitsunday 1788. (G. H.) 10(c) Willenslee a hill farm in Innerleithen parish in Tweeddale. Hogg’s master was presumably an elderly man, since he is mentioned as the father of the farmer of Elibank. The William Laidlaw of Willenslee who married Miss Sarah Anderson of Traquair on 9 December 1806 is presumably a younger man, possibly one of his sons—see Innerleithen OPR. Hogg’s bed was in a stable that stood in front of the Willenslee burn—see A Series of Lay Sermons on Good Principles and Good Breeding, ed. by Gillian Hughes with Douglas S. Mack (S/SC, 1997), p. 74. (G. H.) 10(c) tw two o years Hogg must have moved to Willenslee on Whitsunday 1788, since his next contract began at Whitsunday 1790. Whitsunday (15 May) is one of the Scottish Quarter Days, used to fix the term of farm-servants’ contracts. Z. agrees that it was at Willenslee that Hogg was first ‘entrusted with the charge of a hirsel’ (or flock) of sheep (p. 502), rather than being employed as a general agricultural labourer. (G. H.) 10(c) “The Life and Ad ventur es of Sir William Wallace, entures allace,”” ‘By Blind Harry. Hogg probably read the poem in the paraphrase by William Hamilton of

EDITORIAL NOTES

397

Gilbertfield, which was widely read in eighteenth-century Scotland, and which was also read with pleasure by the young Burns (see The Letters of Robert Burns, edited by J. de Lancy Ferguson (Oxford, 1931) letter 125).’ (This note is quoted from Mack, p. 8.) Wallace’s adventures were widely circulated in chapbook form as well, under various titles. See William Harvey, Scottish Chapbook Literature (Paisley, 1903). 10(c) “The Gentle Shepher d;” a pastoral comedy of 1725, written by the Shepherd;” Scottish poet Allan Ramsay (1686–1758). (G. H.) Ramsay’s work was widely available in expanded chapbook form. salms, 10(c) the same kind of metr “Psalms, salms,”” referring to the Church of metree with the “P Scotland’s metrical Psalms; see the note for 9(b). 10(d) Esk dalemuir a district adjacent to Ettrick, to the south and west. For a Eskdalemuir discussion of the significance of Eskdalemuir for Hogg, see the ‘Historical and Geographical Note’ in Hogg, The Three Perils of Woman, ed. by Antony Hasler and Douglas S. Mack (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2002), pp. 417–37 (pp. 422–26). 10(d) Bailey’ Bailey’ss Dictionary Nathan Bailey’s dictionary dates from 1721, but was frequently reprinted in the eighteenth century. This particular anecdote may have been a standing joke, since ‘Bailey’s Dictionary’ recurs as a toast at a wedding in ‘The Shepherd’s Calendar’—see Winter Evening Tales, ed. by Ian Duncan (S/SC, 2002), p. 402 and note on p. 581. (G. H.) 11(a) Bishop Burnet lagr ation of the Earth ‘Hogg perhaps Burnet’’s Theor Theoryy of the Conf Conflagr lagration means The Sacred Theory of the Earth (1684), by Thomas Burnet (1635?– 1715), a Yorkshire divine and master of the Charterhouse. Burnet’s work was highly praised by Addison. Hogg may be confusing this Burnet, who was not a bishop, with the well known Bishop Gilbert Burnet (1643–1715)’ (quoted from Mack, p. 9). In English Romanticism: The Human Context (New York: Norton, 1988) Marilyn Gaull describes Burnet’s Sacred Theory of the Earth (1681–89) as ‘a narrative of the history of the earth from paradise through the flood to the conflagration and ultimate redemption. According to Burnet, God had created a symmetrical, round, smooth world, with a thin crust covering a subterranean ocean, a paradise where people lived to be ancient in great peace and comfort. Eventually, the earth collapsed from the weight of sin on the surface, releasing the water and creating the irregularities of nature: the mountains, the caves, the winding rivers and wandering shorelines, the odd plants, the slimy animals, all the random, ugly, prickly, fractured things, leaving the world “lying in its own Rubbish,” a monument to man’s sin and God’s power’ (p. 208). Gaull notes that in Biographia Literaria Coleridge considered Burnet’s theory ‘a grand Miltonic Romance’, proof ‘that poetry of the highest kind may exist without meter’ (Gaull, p. 396). 11(a) the grand millennium a thousand years during which Christ will return to earth and live with the saints, before taking them to heaven. The idea derives from Revelation 20. 2–7. (G. H.) 11(a) new hea vens and a new earth see Revelation 21. 1 (‘And I saw a new heav heaven and a new earth’). (G. H.) 11(b) Balm of Gilead a popular patent medicine, frequently advertised in the newspapers, produced by a ‘Dr Solomon’ of Gilead House near Newcastle. An advertisement in the Edinburgh Evening Courant of 18 January 1813 gives a long list of Scottish sellers of the medicine at eleven shillings a bottle: it was described as good for a surprising variety of complaints including ‘in-

398

EDITORIAL NOTES

ward wastings, loss of appetite, indigestion, depression of spirits [...] and consumptive habits’. As it was also efficacious as a pick-me-up the morning after ‘a nocturnal debauch of wine’ it seems likely that alcohol featured largely in its composition. (G. H.) The name of the medicine echoes Jeremiah 8. 22: ‘Is there no balm in Gilead; is there no physician there?’. y 117 790 this date enables Hogg’s two preceding periods of 11(c) W hitsunda hitsunday employment to be fixed. (G. H.) 11(c) Mr Laidla w of Blackhouse James Laidlaw was the father of Hogg’s lifeLaidlaw long friend William Laidlaw (1780–1845), who later became Steward of Abbotsford. Surviving family papers in James Laidlaw’s hand record payments to ‘my servant’ James Hogg for lambs for the start of 1792, 18 December 1793, and 27 December 1794—see NLS Acc. 9084/8. The farm is a hill-farm on the Douglas Burn in Yarrow. (G. H.) Compare Hogg’s ‘nine years’ here to ‘ten years’ in the 1821 version, p. 199. The 1807 version, written much closer to the event, may possibly be more reliable here than the 1821 version: see also the editorial note on 11(d) lease expiring at Whitsunday 1793 [i.e., 1804?]. However, in the Scots Magazine in 1805, ‘Z’ writes that Hogg served as a shepherd at Blackhouse for ten years (see p. 131 in the present edition). If the 1807 version is correct in mentioning a period of nine years, perhaps ‘Z’ and the 1821 version are rounding up to ten years. 11(c) ha ving tak en a wife William Hogg had married Mary Beattie in Yarrow having taken on 28 December 1798, and on 4 May 1800 their daughter Margaret was baptised (Ettrick OPR)—their expanding family was perhaps one reason for the move. (G. H.) 11(c) another rresidence esidence William Hogg seems to have moved to another house in Ettrick in the first instance, since the baptisms of his next two children, Robert (14 June 1802) and William (1 April 1804) are recorded in the Ettrick OPR. The baptism of his third son, James, on 20 June 1807, however, is recorded for Tweedsmuir, Peebles. In later life William lived at Stobohope near Peebles. (G. H.) y 117 793 [i.e., 11804?] 804?] Hogg and his parents 11(d) lease expiring at W hitsunda hitsunday seem to have removed from Ettrick House to Craig Douglas, since Hogg dates a letter to Scott of 16 January 1805 (NLS MS 3875, fols 35–36) from there during a period of unemployment. His coded self-description as ‘J. H. Craig, of Douglas, Esq.’ on the title-page of his drama The Hunting of Badlewe (1814) implies that Hogg’s father remained there until Whitsunday 1815, when he moved to Altrive Lake. Craig Douglas is a farm in Yarrow parish, lying between the heights of Blackhouse and the river. It seems to have been tenanted by Hogg’s old master, James Laidlaw of Blackhouse. An advertisement for the farm as to let in the Edinburgh Evening Courant of 27 February 1817 refers to it as ‘belonging to the right honourable the Earl of Traquaire, and lately possessed by the deceased Mr James Laidlaw, containing about 1500 acres of pasture, and about 20 acres of arable haugh land’. (G. H.) In the 1807 printing of the ‘Memoir’, the date of the expiry of Hogg’s father’s lease of Ettrickhouse is given as 1793. This is clearly a printer’s error, presumably caused by eye-slip (the date 1793 appears in the next sentence). The 1821 and Altrive Tales versions of Hogg’s ‘Memoir’ give Whitsunday 1803 as the date for the expiry of Hogg’s father’s lease of Ettrickhouse, and this date has been generally accepted. However, the dates given in these later versions of the ‘Memoir’ are not always entirely reliable

EDITORIAL NOTES

399

(for example, see the editorial note above on 11(b) Mr Laidlaw of Blackhouse), and it may be that the real date was for the expiry of Hogg’s father’s lease of Ettrickhouse was Whitsunday (i.e., May) 1804, rather than Whitsunday (i.e., May) 1803. Hogg tells us that, after he left his employment as a shepherd at Blackhouse, he returned to Ettrickhouse to help his father run that farm. Hogg was still at Ettrickhouse when he wrote to Scott on 24 December [1803], in a letter postmarked 31 December 1803: see Letters I, pp. 38– 41. Clearly, this tends to suggest that he was still in residence at Ettrickhouse several months after Whitsunday 1803. Furthermore, Hogg planned to move to a sheep-farm in Harris after the expiry of his father’s lease of Ettrickhouse, and it is clear in his Highland Journeys that he planned to take up his lease of the Harris farm at Whitsunday 1804: see the forthcoming S/SC edition of Highland Journeys, ed. by Hans de Groot. 11(d) The ffirst irst time that I attempted to write verses, was in the spring of the year 117 793 as Gillian Hughes notes, Hogg’s ‘first published poem, “The Mistakes of a Night”, appeared anonymously in the Scots Magazine, 56 (October 1794), 624’ (Altrive Tales, pp. 219–20). This poem is identified as Hogg’s work by ‘Z’: see p. 132 of the present edition. In the Altrive Tales version of his ‘Memoir’ (1832) Hogg asserts that he first attempted to write verses ‘in the spring of the year 1796’ (Altrive Tales, pp. 16–17). 11(d) a poetical epistle to a student of divinity divinity,, an acquaintance of mine the poetical epistle does not seem to have survived, and the student of divinity has not been identified. 11(d) Dry den ey’ Dryden den’’s Virgil, and Harv Harvey’ ey’ss Life of Bruce John Dryden’s translation of the works of Virgil was published in 1697; it was still highly influential in Hogg’s time. John Harvey (1702–29) wrote ‘The Life of Robert Bruce, King of Scots: A Poem’ (1729), which was widely circulated in chapbook form. 12(a) An Addr ess to the Duke of Buccleuch, in be ha ’f oo’’ my sel, an ddress beha ha’f mysel, an’’ ither poor ffoo’k the Duke of Buccleuch was the major local aristocrat and landowner in Ettrick. Hogg indicates that this early poem (which does not seem to have survived) dates from 1793. At this period the eyes of Europe were on the progress of Revolution in France, and Hogg’s address to the Duke on behalf of ‘poor fo’k’ like himself perhaps had a political edge. Pointing to hints given in ‘Storms’ in The Shepherd’s Calendar (see S/SC edition, pp. 15– 17), John MacQueen argues that Hogg in the early 1790s may have been actively involved in discussions of ‘the forbidden subject of radical politics and the need for reform’ (MacQueen, The Rise of the Historical Novel (Edinburgh: Scottish Academic Press, 1989), p. 208). See also Douglas S. Mack, Scottish Fiction and the British Empire (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2006), pp. 134–35. 12(a) a song ld goes on Edith Batho suggests that song,, called The Way that the Wor orld this may be Hogg’s ‘The Mistakes of a Night’, published in the Scots Magazine for October 1794 (vol. 56, p. 624), ‘with its title altered by the editor so as to have some obvious connection with the plot’ (Batho, p. 10). 12(a) Wattie and Geor die’ or eign Intellig ence Geordie’ die’ss F For oreign Intelligence ence,, an eclogue Hogg’s Scottish Pastorals (1801) contained a poem entitled ‘Dusty; or, Wattie an’ Geordie’s Review of Politics: An Eclogue’. 12(b) Gleng yle, a ballad […] The Happy Swains Glengy Swains,, a pastoral these do not appear to have survived.

400

EDITORIAL NOTES

12(b) The Scotch Gentleman y […] ffishing ishing in close-time the comedy Gentleman,, a comed comedy does not appear to have survived, but Hogg discusses it in letters to William Laidlaw of [1800?] and 9 January 1801 (see Letters I, pp. 1–2, 6–8). For an account of legal actions raised at Selkirk Sheriff Court in 1795 ‘against residents in the Ettrick and Yarrow valleys for illegal fishing in close time’, see John Ballantyne, ‘Hogg’s Role in The Scotch Gentleman’, SHW, 16 (2005), 131–33. 12(d) M y manner of composing poetry Hogg’s description of his writing My process taps into contemporary myth-making about spontaneity as important to poetic composition. 13(b) Scottish public […] Psalms of David see the editorial note on 9(b) our version of the Psalms of David. 13(b) Mr William Laidla w Hogg’s life-long friendship with William Laidlaw Laidlaw (1780–1845) was formed during his ten-years’ service at Blackhouse in Yarrow to Laidlaw’s father, James. (G. H.) See, however, the editorial note on 11(b) Mr Laidlaw of Blackhouse, where it is suggested that Hogg perhaps served at Blackhouse for nine years, rather than ten. 13(c) to appeal to you for a discussion of the part played by Laidlaw in putting Hogg in contact with Scott, see the Introduction. 13(d) Alexander Laidla w Hogg’s life-long friend Alexander Laidlaw, of Laidlaw Bowerhope farm in Yarrow. He is mentioned in William John Napier’s A Treatise on Practical Store-farming (Edinburgh, 1822) as keeping weather records (pp. 29–44), as building sheep-stells for his master (pp. 123–32), and as a scientific experimenter and friend of the African explorer Mungo Park (pp. 274–75). He is also quoted as an authority in the account of Ettrick parish in the 1845 Statistical Account of Scotland. He helped to nurse Hogg in his last illness, and wrote to a friend after Hogg’s death that ‘Mr. Hogg and I were in our youthful days almost inseparable companions’—see Garden, pp. 326– 28. (G. H.) 13(d) m y br other William see editorial notes on 7(d) and 11(c). my brother 14(b) Ur ania Urania ania’’s Tour in Greek mythology, Urania is the Muse of astronomy. 14(b) Ref lections on a View of the N octurnal Heavens further details are given by Nocturnal ‘Z’ in The Scots Magazine: see p. 133 of the present edition. Apart from the lines quoted by ‘Z’, Hogg’s poem does not appear to have survived. 14(b) a paraphrase on the 111 17th P salm again, further details are given by ‘Z’ in Psalm The Scots Magazine: see pp. 133–34 of the present edition. Apart from the lines quoted by ‘Z’, Hogg’s paraphrase does not appear to have survived. 14(c) smaller pieces of poetry and songs […] adapted to the times see the title of the second section of The Mountain Bard, ‘Songs Adapted to the Times’, this edition p. 93. 14(c) m y wr aith in Hogg’s story ‘Tibby Johnston’s Wraith’, the character David my wraith Proudfoot describes wraiths as being ‘of twa kinds’: They appear always immediately before death, or immediately after it. Now, when a wraith is seen before death, that is a spirit sent to conduct the dying person to its new dwelling […]. These are sometimes good, and sometimes bad spirits, just according to the tenor of the person’s life that lies on the bed o’ death. […] Now, when the wraith appears after death, that’s the soul o’ the deceased, that gets liberty to appear to the ane of a’ its acquaintances that is the soonest to follow it; and it does that just afore it leaves this world for the last

EDITORIAL NOTES

401

time; and that’s the true doctrine o’ wraiths. (Hogg, Winter Evening Tales, ed. by Ian Duncan (S/SC, 2002), p. 505.) See also Nelson C. Smith, James Hogg (Boston: Twayne, 1980), pp. 128–29. In Folk Lore: or, Superstitious Beliefs in the West of Scotland within this Century (Paisley: Gardner, 1879), the Rev. John Napier writes that ‘The belief in wraiths was prevalent throughout all Scotland. It is beautifully introduced in the song of ‘Auld Robin Gray’ [by Lady Anne Lindsay]. When the young wife narrates her meeting with her old sweetheart, she says, “I thought it was his wraith, | I could not think it he,” and the belief survives in some parts of the country to the present day’ (quoted in Margaret Bennett, ed., Scottish Customs from the Cradle to the Grave (Edinburgh: Polygon, 1992), p. 187). Napier observes, however, that there were ‘certain rules observed in relation to wraiths, by which their meaning could be ascertained, but these rules differed in different localities’ (p. 187); unlike the separate entity that Hogg describes in the Memoir, the wraith was most often recognisably the person about to die: If someone were to catch a glimpse of a person whom they knew passing the door or window, and on looking outside were to find no such person there, this was a sign of the approaching death of the person seen. […] Another form of this superstition was connected with those who were known to be seriously ill. Should the observer see what he felt convinced was the unwell person, say, walking along the street, and on looking round as the presence passed, see no person, this was a token of the death of the person whose spectre was seen. (p. 186) 14(d) the song eweel, ye Gr Grots; areweel, song,, beginning beginning,, Far areweel, ots; ffar ar eweel, ye Glens […] a traged y, denominated, The Castle in the Wood these works do not appear to edy have survived: for comments by ‘Z’, see p. 134 in the present edition. Hogg’s letters to William Laidlaw of [1800?] and [February 1801] contain what appear to be mentions of The Castle in the Wood (see Letters I, pp. 1–2, 9–10). 15(a) the pastoral of Willie an eatie, published with others in 1180 80 1 in an’’ K Keatie, 801 Hogg’s Scottish Pastorals. 15(a) publication of this pamphlet the publishing history of this 1801 production is given in Scottish Pastorals, ed. by Elaine Petrie (Stirling: Stirling UP, 1988), pp. ix–xii. The work was printed by John Taylor, whose business was located opposite the sheep pens in the Grassmarket in Edinburgh. Z. places his account of the publication [pp. 134–35 in the present edition] immediately after Hogg’s decision to give up his spare-time occupation as a sheepdealer partly because he was temperamentally unsuited to it and partly because of his ‘natural propensity to literary pursuits’. (G. H.) 15(c) “unhousell “unhousell’’d, unanointed, unaneal unaneal’’d; with all their imperfections on their heads.” from the account of his murder given to Hamlet by the ghost of his father in Shakespeare’s Hamlet, I. 5. 77–79. (G. H.) 15(c) some periodical publications ‘Will an’ Keatie’ appeared in the Scots Magazine, 63 (January 1801), 52–54, where it was described as ‘no unfavourable specimen’ of Hogg’s publication. No other reprinting is known. (G. H.) 115(d) 5(d) the succeeding one was gr eatl y its superior in Scottish Pastorals, ‘Willie greatl eatly an’ Keatie: A Pastoral’ is followed by ‘A Dialogue in a Country Church-

402

EDITORIAL NOTES

Yard’, a powerful and deeply-felt poem in which Hogg laments the death of ‘the late worthy Mr Bryden, of Crosslee’ (see editorial note on 8(b)). 15(d) The Minstr elsy of the Scottish Bor der Scott published the first two volumes Minstrelsy Border of his ballad collection in early spring 1802, and a second edition with a third volume with ballad imitations by himself and friends in the following year. His researches for this collection led to his making the acquaintance of Hogg in 1802. (G. H.) 15(d) imitations of the ancients the first section of The Mountain Bard is headed ‘Ballads, in Imitation of the Antients’, which may be compared to the heading of vol. III , section 3, of Scott’s Minstrelsy: ‘Imitations of the Ancient Ballad’. 16(a) The chief of these ar e, […] John Scott of Har den and the Scotts of Gilmanscleuch are, Harden the various items listed here are readily recognisable as poems that appear in the 1807 Mountain Bard. Nevertheless, the last item in the list seems a little odd in the 1807 printing, which reads: ‘John Scott of Harden, by the Scotts of Gilmanscleuch’. We seem to be dealing with a printer’s error here, and the present edition emends to: ‘John Scott of Harden and the Scotts of Gilmanscleuch’ (see Note on the Text). This list of titles appeared only in 1807: it was not included in later versions of the ‘Memoir’. 16(a) Straiton lies a little to the south of Edinburgh. 16(b) Sandy Tod another poem in the 1807 Mountain Bard—see pp. 95–100 in the present edition. 16(b) M ost of m y pr ose essa ys ha ve been written in an epistolary form Most my prose essays hav Hogg had written epistolary accounts of the journeys he made to the Highlands in 1802, 1803, and 1804, and the opening instalments of his account of his 1802 journey had appeared in the Scots Magazine in 1803 and 1804. Likewise, his two ‘Letters on Poetry’ had appeared in the Scots Magazine in May 1805 (vol. 67, pp. 352–54) and January 1806. 16(b) tw o pr emiums fr om the Highland Society ys connected with two premiums from Society,, for essa essays the rearing and management of sheep David Groves identifies one of these in ‘James Hogg: An Early Essay’, Notes and Queries, 36 (1989), 167–68. Groves writes: In the year 1803, the Highland Society was advertising ‘A gold medal or piece of plate of forty guineas value’ as a prize to ‘the person, who shall, on or before the 20th of November 1804, lodge with the depute Secretary of this Society, the best and approved essay’ on the topic of ‘the accidents and disorders to which sheep are liable’. In the event, however, the judges divided the prize among the ten best essayists, each of whom ‘received some mark of the approbation of the Society’. One of the fortunate contestants was ‘Mr. James Hog, shepherd at Mitchel Slacks, near Moffat’. Excerpts from the winning essays were then published by Dr Andrew Duncan in a lengthy treatise in the Transactions of the Highland Society. Duncan’s work includes twelve passages of 50 to 400 words from Hogg’s original essay, as well as numerous briefer allusions. In a footnote, Groves gives the following details of Duncan’s treatise: Dr Andrew Duncan, Jr, ‘A Treatise on the Diseases of Sheep; Drawn up from Original Communications presented to the Highland Society of Scotland’, Prize Essays and Transactions of the Highland Society of

EDITORIAL NOTES

403

Scotland, iii (Edinburgh and London, 1807), 339–535 (339–40, 342, 438–9, 401). The second of Hogg’s premiums was presumably for the essay that was included at the end of Hogg’s own book on the diseases of sheep (1807): for this essay, see Hans de Groot’s forthcoming S/SC edition of Hogg’s Highland Journeys. 16(b) thr ee journies into the Highlands these journeys took place in 1802, three 1803, and 1804, and Hans de Groot is editing Hogg’s accounts of them for publication in an S/SC volume to be entitled Highland Journeys. 16(c) no w intend going to settle see ‘A Farewell to Ettrick’ (pp. 100–03 in the now present edition), and the corresponding editorial notes. om the Highlands in June last Hogg appears to be refer16(d) our rreturn eturn fr from ring here to his return from Harris at the end of his 1804 Highland journey. ‘June last’, therefore, does not fit with ‘Mitchelslacks, November 1806’, the date given at the beginning of the ‘Memoir’. 16(d) our departur eeable cir cumdeparturee to settle in Harries […] all the disagr disagreeable circumstances which ensued for a discussion of this episode, see the Appendix contributed by Janette Currie to Hogg, Highland Journeys, ed. by Hans de Groot (S/SC, forthcoming).

180 7: Ballads, in Imitation of the Antients 807 19 [title of the ffirst irst section] when it appeared in 1803, the third volume of Scott’s Minstrelsy contained a section devoted to ‘Imitations of the Ancient Ballad’ (pp. 295–366). See also the editorial note on 15(d), above. 180 7: ‘Sir Da vid Græme’ (pp. 221–26) 1–26) 807 David This ballad had previously appeared in the number of The Scots Magazine for September 1805, and an early manuscript fragment also survives: see pp. 137–42 and the corresponding editorial notes. A substantially revised version appeared in the Mountain Bard of 1821 (see pp. 235–40 and notes), and ‘Sir David Græme’ also appeared in The Scottish Minstrel, ed. by R. A. Smith, 6 vols (Edinburgh, [1824]), III, 49). The present edition’s main annotation of ‘Sir David Græme’ relates to the 1807 version, and is given below. For the manuscript and Scots Magazine versions of the poem see pp. 137–40, and for the 1821 version see pp. 235–40. Editorial notes relating to pp. 137–40 deal only with points that specifically concern the manuscript and Scots Magazine versions, and editorial notes relating to pp. 235–40 deal only with points that specifically concern the 1821 version. In a letter to Scott of [1 December] 1805 Hogg writes ‘I am well advanced in Gilmanscleuch and have finished Sir David Graham. The latter is certainly my best ballad without exception and I am impatient to see you to get it repeated to you’ (Letters I, p. 42). 21 (a) “The Twa Corbies Corbies”” (Child 26) The particular variant of this ballad to which Hogg refers first appeared in 1803, in the third volume of Scott’s Minstrelsy (pp. 239–42): As I was walking all alane, I heard twa corbies making a mane, The tane unto the t’other say, “Where sall we gang and dine to-day?”

404

EDITORIAL NOTES

“In behint yon auld fail dyke, I wot there lies a new slain knight; And nae body kens that he lies there, But his hawk, his hound, and lady fair. “His hound is to the hunting gane, His hawk to fetch the wild-fowl hame, His lady’s ta’en another mate, So we may mak our dinner sweet. “Ye’ll sit on his white hause bane, And I’ll pike out his bonny blue een: Wi’ ae lock o’ his gowden hair, We’ll theek our nest when it grows bare. “Mony a one for him makes mane, But nane sall ken whare he is gane: O’er his white banes, when they are bare, The wind sall blaw for evermair.” Scott reports (p. 239) that he had obtained the ballad from Charles Kirkpatrick Sharpe, ‘as written down, from tradition, by a lady’, and observes the relationship but also the distinct differences between ‘The Twa Corbies’ and ‘The Three Ravens’, which Joseph Ritson had included in his earlier collection Ancient Songs (1790). Ritson’s source was Ravenscroft’s Melismata (London: Printed by William Stansby for Thomas Adams, 1611), where the ballad had appeared with music. Under the heading of ‘The Three Ravens’, Child includes these and other variants of the ballad from oral tradition and print. See also Bertrand Bronson’s entry for the ballad in The Traditional Tunes of the Child Ballads, 4 vols (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1959-1972), I, pp. 308–15. 21, l. 115 5 To meet her ther theree on Lammas night an echo of Burns’s famous song ‘It was upon a Lammas night’ (Kinsley 8), written in celebration of a lovers’ meeting. Lammas night also appears in many ballads, e.g., ‘The Battle of Otterbourne’ in Scott’s Minstrelsy (Child 161), which begins: ‘It fell about the Lammas tide’. Lammas (1 August) is a Scottish quarter day. 9 the lands o 21, l. 119 o’’ Dryfe Dryfe Water flows into the River Annan near Lockerbie, in south-west Scotland. See also Hogg’s note, p. 26. In his introductory note to ‘Christie’s Will’ in the Minstrelsy, Scott writes of ‘an old castle, in Annandale, called the Tower of Graham’, and adds in a footnote: ‘It stands upon the water of Dryfe, not far from Moffat’ (Minstrelsy, III , 106). 22, l. 29 K eilder fells lie about thirty miles east of Dryfe Water. Keilder 22, ll. 33–36 The lambs wer eetl y rung this stanza is not eree skipping […] sw sweetl eetly present in Hogg’s manuscript fragment, but it is present in the 1805 Scots Magazine printing: see pp. 137–38, 139. It is also present, with many changes, in the 1821 printing: see p. 236. 22, l. 38 banks o o’’ Tyne Kielder Castle lies on the English side of the Border, and overlooks the North Tyne. 22, l. 552 2 The f lo wer of aa’’ the British isle David Græme is also described this low way in the 1805 Scots Magazine printing, but in 1821 the line is changed to ‘The flower of a’ the Border side’. 23, l. 77 Sir David’s trusty hound the arrival of the hound completes a

EDITORIAL NOTES

405

traditional ballad-style set of three messages. 24, l. 95 kiltit high an echo of ‘Tam Lin’, a ballad of love and fairy enchantment (Child 39), which was collected by Robert Burns for James Johnson’s Scots Musical Museum: Janet has kilted her green kirtle A little aboon her knee, And she has broded her yellow hair A little aboon her bree, And she’s awa to Carterhaugh, As fast as she can hie. 24, ll. 1125–26 25–26 “No w coming […] light o y,” lines from an old Scottish “Now o’’ da day song called ‘The Auld Good-man’. This quotation appears in the 1805 Scots Magazine printing, but not in the 1821 version. 25(d) a beautiful old rrh h yme this appears to be a version of the Middle English lyric now known as ‘The Corpus Christi Carol’, which (as the Norton Anthology of English Literature puts it) is an example of ‘an ancient tradition of popular song’ (Norton Anthology, 7th edn. (New York: W. W. Norton, 2000), pp. 349, 354–55). Hogg draws on his mother’s ‘beautiful old rhyme’ in ‘The Bridal of Polmood’: see Winter Evening Tales, ed. by Ian Duncan (S/SC, 2002), pp. 309–11, 575–76. For a detailed discussion, see Batho, pp. 31–37: Batho concludes that this particular Middle English lyric could not have been available to Hogg from written sources, and that it reached his mother through oral tradition. 180 7: ‘The P 807 Pedlar’ edlar’ (pp. 26–36) ‘The Pedlar’ was first published in the November 1804 number of the Scots Magazine, and the poem also appeared in the Mountain Bard of 1821. The present edition’s main annotation of ‘The Pedlar’ relates to the 1807 version, and is given below. For the Scots Magazine version of the poem see pp. 142–46, and for the 1821 version see pp. 241–51. Editorial notes relating to pp. 142–46 deal only with points that specifically concern the Scots Magazine version, and editorial notes relating to pp. 241–51 deal only with points that specifically concern the 1821 version. Some weeks after the appearance of ‘The Pedlar’ in November 1804, Hogg wrote to Scott on 16 January 1805: ‘I believe I told you that I had finished Sir David Graham and Gilmanscleuch as also corrected the Pedlar by your suggestions, and made large additions. these with two or three other pieces I intend to publish in the latter end of the volume’ (Letters I, p. 44). In a letter of [1 December 1804], Hogg had mentioned that he had finished ‘Sir David Graham’ and that he was ‘well advanced’ with ‘Gilmanscleuch’, but he does not mention ‘The Pedlar’ in that letter (Letters I, p. 42). Changes in some details, as well as linguistic and orthographic changes, seem to be designed to make the 1807 version appear more elegant than the 1804 original, but structurally the first three-fourths of the 1807 version follows the Scots Magazine closely, with one additional stanza and significant changes to only two others. But for the 1807 Mountain Bard Hogg added thirteen stanzas at the end, introducing a new narrative in which the miller’s crime is revealed when the mason, a new character, discovers the pedlar’s heel bone buried beneath the mill. The bone mysteriously bleeds, which contributes

406

EDITORIAL NOTES

to the revelation of the murder. The motif in which a part of a murder victim’s body bears witness to their fate may be seen in traditional ballads such as ‘The Twa Sisters’ (Child 10), in which the murdered sister’s breastbone, fashioned into a harp, sings the story of her sister’s betrayal. A variant of this ballad, ‘The Cruel Sister’, appears in Scott’s Minstrelsy, II, 143. The miller of 1804 suffers negative, supernaturally-caused effects to his business (‘from that day to this, | The millers o’ Thirlestane ne’er hae done weel’); but the 1807 miller is brought to human justice. The 1821 version follows 1807, with some additional linguistic substitutions, but introduces three new stanzas. One stanza heightens the eerie atmosphere of the opening, and two others preface the pedlar’s revelation and place the blame on the lady of Thirlestane for having turned the pedlar away from her door. Pedlars were travelling sellers of small wares, which they carried about with them in a pack. Their goods often included chapbooks, which often contained prose or verse narratives of the supernatural of a kind somewhat similar to Hogg’s poem. Supernatural tales regarding millers seem to have been relatively common, and the story of the miller of Thirlestane may have been generally known, as Hogg asserts. In Scott’s diary for 10 February 1827, he refers to Francis Leveson Gower’s ‘Tale of the Mill’ as ‘a fine tale of terror’ and adds, ‘I do not know why, but from my childhood I have seen something fearful or melancholy at least about a Mill. […] whether I had heard the story of the Miller of Thirlestane and similar molendinar tragedies, I cannot tell’ (The Journal of Sir Walter Scott, ed. by W. E. K. Anderson (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1972), p. 277). 26(c) This Ballad is ffounded ounded on a ffact act […] best informed old people about Ettrick Hogg’s note locates the source of ‘The Pedlar’ in Ettrick oral tradition with his citing of influential tradition-bearers from the community; it also establishes his role as mediator with some editorial distance in his comments regarding ‘superstition’ and ‘popular credulity’. The note expands the simpler declaration of authenticity in the Scots Magazine footnote (p. 143). T WAS late, late, late on a Satur da y’ Saturda day’ y’ss night the phraseology echoes a 26, l. 1 ’T ballad commonplace—see for example the famous line from the variant of ‘Sir Patrick Spens’ (Child 58A) that was published in Percy’s Reliques (1765; 4th edn 1794): ‘Late late yestreen I saw the new moone’. In a letter to Scott of 3 April 1806, Hogg discusses what might be included in the printed proposals then being planned with a view to seeking subscribers for The Mountain Bard. He writes: ‘I think likewise as the ballads are in various different stanzas that a double stanza or two might be selected out of each to give some small idea of the authors manner’. Hogg then goes on to suggest various possibilities, including ‘the first double stanza of the Pedlar which I think a very good night scene’ (Letters I, p. 58). 27, ll. 113–1 3–1 6 “O wher 3–16 heree is the pedlar […] as weel as a man can be. be.”” This passage echoes the typical ballad technique of progression through dialogue. 27, l. 33 the dead bell! as Hogg’s long note on this (pp. 31–33) confirms, the recording of Ettrick folk belief is one of the central concerns of The Mountain Bard. Hearing of the ‘dead bells’ has been described as hearing a ringing in the ears—see, for example, the accounts of informants in Margaret Bennett, Scottish Customs from the Cradle to the Grave (Edinburgh: Polygon, 1992), pp. 180, 182, 187.

EDITORIAL NOTES

407

27, ll. 441 1- 44 Frae aisle to aisle she lookit wi e; […] But the pedlar in life wi’’ car care; was nev er mair seen this stanza was added in 1807, with the effect of never building suspense as the lady of Thirlestane searches for the pedlar. The recurrence of ‘But the pedlar in life was never mair seen’ (ll. 40, 44) echoes traditional ballad language. See, for example, ‘Thomas the Rhymer’ (Child 37): ‘And, till seven years were gane and past | True Thomas on earth was never seen’. There is also the use here of the ballad technique of ‘incremental repetition’. 28, l. 54 A knock was hear d, an ir lee a common folk belief held heard, an’’ the ffir iree did fflee that hearing a knock at the door presages death (like hearing the dead bells, e.g., in the note for 27, l.33)—see Bennett, Scottish Customs from the Cradle to the Grave (Edinburgh: Polygon, 1992), pp. 173, 181, 187. 28, l. 68 R ob Riddle the miller’s name is changed from the 1804 Scots MagaRob zine version, where it appears as ‘John Waters’. In Hogg’s notes, p. 34, he states that John Waters is the pedlar’s name. 28, l. 70 a far countrie conventional ballad language, with the accent on the final syllable to fit the stress pattern. 29, l. 86 the muckle green pack on his shoulders had he the colour green is associated with revenants and fairies. 29 ed Thr ee the Trinity. 29,, l. 94 the sacr sacred Three 29 09 ’Tis dra wing to da y, nae mair I can sa y the revenant has to return 29,, l. 1109 drawing day say to the grave at daybreak: see ‘The Wife of Usher’s Well’ (Child 79). This folk belief also surfaces in Hamlet, in which the Ghost fades ‘on the crowing of the cock’ (I. 1. 138). 30, ll. 121–22 Must the scene of iniquity cursed remain? | Can this bear the stamp of the hea venl y seal? This stanza begins the section of 13 stanzas heav enly that Hogg added for the 1807 Mountain Bard, reportedly as a response to Scott’s advice (see the introductory editorial note to ‘The Pedlar’). The conventional poetic diction is markedly different from the language of traditional ballads. 30, l. 129 the forest o’ Jed a district of the Borders, near Jedburgh. 30, l. 114 47 W hen the little wee bane fell a str eaming wi streaming wi’’ blood see the introductory editorial note to ‘The Pedlar’. 31, l. 116 61 Jeddart the town of Jedburgh developed a reputation as a site for executions to quell Borders outlawry—see the note on 36(b) Jeddart justice. 31(c) the lady oo’’ Thir lestane […] Sir R obert Scott, the last knight of Thir lestane Thirlestane Robert Thirlestane in this note, Hogg makes it clear that the lady of Thirlestane in ‘The Pedlar’ is the same person as the lady of Thirlestane who orders the murder of her stepson later in the volume, in the poem ‘Thirlestane’. 31(c) no w the pr operty of the Right Honourable Lor d Napier in 1807 now property Lord Thirlestane was the property of Francis, seventh Baron Napier (1758–1823), a descendant of the Scotts of Thirlestane. At that period Hogg was not on the best of terms with Napier. In his early volume of poetry, Scottish Pastorals (Edinburgh: John Taylor, 1801), Hogg had made an indiscreet mention of Napier in connection with a controversy over a radical Kelso newspaper: see Hogg, Scottish Pastorals, ed. by Elaine Petrie (Stirling: Stirling University Press, 1988), pp. xi, 8, 46–47. Likewise, ‘Francis, Lord of Thirlestane’ cuts an unimpressive figure in ‘Mary Scott’ in the 1813 version of The Queen’s Wake: see Hogg, The Queen’s Wake (S/SC, 2004), pp. 125, 431. 32(a) Midgehope is situated about a mile and a half to the south-east of

408

EDITORIAL NOTES

Ettrickhouse farm near Ettrick Church. Hogg lived at Ettrickhouse with his elderly parents from 1800 until 1803 or 1804, a period when he was in his early thirties. The date of the expiry of Hogg’s father’s lease of Ettrickhouse is discussed in an editorial note on 11(c). 34(b) The gr eat and worth y Mr Boston […] his memoirs the Rev. Thomas orthy great Boston (1677–1732) was minister of Ettrick from 1707 until 1732. He is described in Hogg’s ‘General Anecdotes’ as ‘the far-famed and Reverend Thomas Boston, a great divine and a saintly character, but than whom a more superstitious man never existed’ (The Shepherd’s Calendar (S/SC, 1995), p. 112). Boston’s theological writings were widely read, and his Human Nature in its Fourfold State (1720) was particularly well known and inf luential. For his ‘memoirs’, see Memoirs of the Life, Time, and Writings, of the Reverend and Learned Thomas Boston, A.M. (Edinburgh: A. Murray, 1776). 34(d) the Bogle of Bell Bell’’s Lakes in a letter to William Laidlaw of 20 July 1801, Hogg discusses various ways in which he can continue to help with the collection of traditional material for Scott’s forthcoming Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border (1802–03), a process in which he was co-operating with Laidlaw and Andrew Mercer (‘Messer’). Hogg writes: ‘I could procure Messer some stories: Such as […] the bogle of Bells lakes’ (Letters I, p. 12). 34(d) casting peats that is, cutting and stacking strips of peat, in order to dry them for use as fuel. 34(d) Craighope-head the Craighope Burn joins Yarrow Water a little downstream from Yarrow Kirk. 35(a) so fr esh that ev ery featur fresh every featuree distinguishable in Hogg’s Confessions of a Justified Sinner (1824), two young men, while casting peats, decide to open an old grave of a suicide, and discover a body in a remarkable state of preservation: ‘The features were all so plain, that an acquaintance might easily have known him’ (The Private Memoirs and Confessions of a Justified Sinner (S/SC, 2001), p. 168). 35(b)Buckholm Old Buckholm lies about a mile to the north of Galashiels. 36(b) Jeddart justice ‘a travesty of justice in which the accused is condemned and punished first and tried afterwards, traditionally associated with Jedburgh and one or other of the acts of summary pacification of the Borders carried out under James VI’. See the DSL, under ‘Jethart’, for a full discussion of the phrase. 180 7: ‘Gilmanscleuch 807 ‘Gilmanscleuch’’ (pp. 36–44) A fair-copy manuscript ‘Gilmanscleuch’, which survives in the possession of His Grace the Duke of Buccleuch, is inscribed by Hogg to ‘The Lady Dalkeith’ and dated 26 August 1805. The poem was extensively revised for its first appearance in print, which came in the 1807 Mountain Bard. Its only other printing in Hogg’s lifetime was in the 1821 Mountain Bard, and in the 1821 version the final stanza is re-written in a way that is resonantly significant for an understanding of the development of Hogg’s friendship with Scott. The present edition’s main annotation of ‘Gilmanscleuch’ relates to the 1807 version, and is given below. For the manuscript version of the poem see pp. 146–54, and for the 1821 version see pp. 251–59. Notes relating to pp. 146–54 deal only with points that specifically concern the manuscript version, and notes relating to pp. 251–59 deal only with points that specifically concern the 1821 version.

EDITORIAL NOTES

409

‘Sir David Græme’ offers an expanded version of the basic narrative of the traditional ballad ‘The Twa Corbies’ (Child 26), which had appeared in the third volume of Scott’s Minstrelsy in 1803 (see editorial notes on ‘Sir David Græme’, above). Similarly, ‘Gilmanscleuch’ offers an expanded version of the basic narrative of the traditional ballad ‘The Braes of Yarrow’ (Child 214), which had appeared in the third volume of the Minstrelsy as ‘The Dowie Dens of Yarrow’. Child 214 tells of the killing of an aristocratic young man by a group led by the brother of the lady he loves. The Minstrelsy text of the ballad (III, 75–79) is as follows: LATE at e’en, drinking the wine, And ere they paid the lawing, They set a combat them between To fight it in the dawing. “O stay at hame, my noble lord! O stay at hame, my marrow! My cruel brother will you betray, On the dowie houms of Yarrow.” “O fare ye weel, my ladye gaye! O fare ye weel, my Sarah! For I maun gae, though I ne’er return, Frae the dowie banks o’ Yarrow. She kissed his cheek, she kaimed his hair, As oft she had done before O; She belted him with his noble brand, And he’s awa’ to Yarrow. As he gaed up the Tennies bank, I wot he gaed wi’ sorrow, Till, down in a den, he spied nine arm’d men, On the dowie houms of Yarrow. “O come ye here to part your land, The bonnie forest thorough? Or come ye here to wield your brand, On the dowie houms of Yarrow? “I come not here to part my land, And neither to beg nor borrow; I come to wield my noble brand, On the bonny banks of Yarrow. “If I see all, ye’re nine to ane; And that’s an unequal marrow; Yet will I fight, while lasts my brand, On the bonny banks of Yarrow.” Four has he hurt, and five has slain, On the bloody braes of Yarrow, Till that stubborn knight came him behind, And ran his bodie thorough.

410

EDITORIAL NOTES

“Gae hame, gae hame, good-brother John, And tell your sister Sarah, To come and lift her leafu’ lord! He’s sleepin sound on Yarrow.” “Yestreen I dream’d a dolefu’ dream; I fear there will be sorrow! I dream’d, I pu’d the heather green, Wi’ my true love, on Yarrow. “O gentle wind, that bloweth south, From where my love repaireth, Convey a kiss from his dear mouth, And tell me how he fareth! “But in the glen strive armed men; They’ve wrought me dole and sorrow; They’ve slain—the comliest knight they’ve slain— He bleeding lies on Yarrow.” As she sped down yon high high hill, She gaed wi’ dole and sorrow, And in the den spyed ten slain men, On the dowie banks of Yarrow. She kiss’d his cheek, she kaim’d his hair, She search’d his wounds all thorough; She kiss’d them, till her lips grew red, On the dowie houms of Yarrow. “Now, haud your tongue, my daughter dear! For a’ this breeds but sorrow; I’ll wed ye to a better lord, Than him ye lost on Yarrow.” “O haud your tongue, my father dear! Ye mind me but of sorrow; A fairer rose did never bloom Than now lies cropp’d on Yarrow.” In 1801, Hogg’s friend William Laidlaw was assisting Scott’s efforts to collect material for the Minstrelsy, and Laidlaw was using Hogg as a source. Hogg’s letter to Laidlaw of 29 July 1801 (Letters I, pp. 11–14) is about their efforts on Scott’s behalf, and in it Hogg mentions a ballad on ‘the death of the Baron of Oakwood and his brother in law on Yarrow’. The ballad in question would appear to be ‘The Dowie Dens of Yarrow’, and in the event Scott based his Minstrelsy printing of this ballad on a text sent to him by Hogg, probably in 1801. Hogg’s manuscript, in which the ballad is entitled ‘The dowie houms o’ Yarrow’, contains a note in which Hogg explained what he knew of ‘the event on which this song is founded’: Tradition placeth the event on which this song is founded very early. That the song hath been written near the time of the transaction appears quite evident, although, like others, by frequent singing the language is become adapted to an age not so far distant. The bard

EDITORIAL NOTES

411

does not at all relate particulars, but only mentions some striking features of a tragical event which everybody knew. [...] The hero of the ballad is said to have been of the name of Scott, and is called a knight of great bravery. He lived in Ettrick, some say at Oakwood, others Kirkhope; but was treacherously slain by his brother-in-law, as related in the ballad, who had him at ill will because his father had parted with the half of all his goods and gear to his sister on her marriage with such a respectable man. The name of the murderer is said to be Annand, a name I believe merely conjectural from the name of the place were they are said both to be buried, which at this day is called Annan’s Treat, a low muir lying to the west of Yarrow church, where two huge tall stones are erected, below which the least child that can walk the road will tell you the two lords are buried that are slain in a duel. (NLS, MS 877, f. 250, quoted in Child, IV, 163) In his introductory note to ‘The Dowie Dens of Yarrow’ as first published in 1803 in the third volume of The Minstrelsy of The Scottish Border, Scott borrows liberally (and literally) from Hogg’s account. In addition, Scott links the narrative of the ballad to the historical feud between the Scotts of Gilmanscleuch and his own ancestors the Scotts of Harden: The hero of the ballad was a knight, of great bravery, called Scott, who is said to have resided at Kirkhope, or Oakwood castle, and is, in tradition, termed the baron of Oakwood. The estate of Kirkhope belonged anciently to the Scotts of Harden: Oakwood is still their property, and has been so from time immemorial. The hero of the ballad was therefore, probably, of this family, and may, perhaps, be identified with John Scott, sixth son of the laird of Harden, murdered in Ettrick Forest by his kinsmen, the Scotts of Gilmanscleuch. [...] This appears the more probable, as the common people always affirm, that this young man was treacherously slain, and that, in evidence thereof, his body remained uncorrupted for many years; so that even the roses on his shoes seemed as fresh, as when he was first laid in the family vault at Hassendean. Tradition affirms, that the hero of the song (be he who he may) was murdered by the brother, either of his wife, or betrothed bride. The alleged cause of malice was, the lady’s father having proposed to endow her with half of his property, upon her marriage with a warrior of such renown. The name of the murderer is said to have been Annan, and the place of combat is still called Annan’s Treat. It is a low moor, on the banks of the Yarrow, lying to the west of Yarrow kirk. Two tall unhewn masses of stone are erected, about eighty yards distant from each other; and the least child, that can herd a cow, will tell the passenger, that there lie “the two lords, who were slain in single combat.” (Minstrelsy, III, 73–74) In notes in the Minstrelsy on the traditional ballad to ‘Jamie Telfer of the Fair Dodhead’, Scott describes the Harden killed as one of six sons of ‘Auld Wat of Harden’ and ‘MARY SCOTT, celebrated in song by the title of the FLOWER OF Y ARROW ’:

412

EDITORIAL NOTES

The sixth son was slain at a fray, in a hunting match, by the SCOTS of Gilmanscleuch. His brothers f lew to arms, but the old Laird secured them in the dungeon of his Tower, hurried to Edinburgh, stated the crime, and obtained a gift of the lands of the offenders from the Crown. He returned to Harden with equal speed, released his sons, and shewed them the charter. “To horse, Lads!” cried the savage warrior, “and let us take possession! the lands of Gilmanscleuch are well worth a dead son.” (Minstrelsy, I, 92–93) In writing ‘Gilmanscleuch’, Hogg fills out the basic story in ‘The Dowie Dens of Yarrow’ by drawing on the historical background given in Scott’s notes in the Minstrelsy. In Hogg’s poem, however, the theme is ultimately not rivalry, but the reconciliation of the Scotts of Gilmanscleuch, under the overlordship of the ducal family of the Scotts of Buccleuch. This was a theme likely to appeal to Scott, who took great pleasure in his descent from the Scotts of Harden, and who was keenly interested in the exploits of his ancestors. In Familiar Anecdotes of Scott, Hogg recalls an evening early in their relationship when he, Scott, and ‘Skene of Rubislaw’ were fishing on the Tweed: The night was mild, calm, and as dark as pitch, and [...] we three sat down on the brink of the river, on a little green sward which I never will forget, and Scott desired me to sing them my ballad of “Gilman’scleuch.” Now, be it remembered, that this ballad had never been printed, I had merely composed it by rote, and, on finishing it three years before, had sung it once over to Sir Walter. I began it, at his request, but at the eighth or ninth stanza I stuck in it, and could not get on with another verse, on which he began it again and recited it every word from beginning to end. It being a very long ballad, consisting of eightyeight stanzas, [there are actually 71 stanzas in the manuscript, 73 in 1807, and 74 in 1821] I testified my astonishment, knowing that he had never heard it but once, and even then did not appear to be paying particular attention. He said he had been out with a pleasure party as far as the opening of the Frith of Forth, and, to amuse the company, he had recited both that ballad and one of Southey’s (The Abbot of Aberbrothock,) both of which ballads he had only heard once from their respective authors, and he believed he recited them both without misplacing a word. (Hogg, Anecdotes of Scott, ed. by Jill Rubenstein (S/SC, 1999), p. 41). It may well be that Scott’s enthusiasm for ‘Glimanscleuch’ prompted him to encourage Hogg to present a fair-copy manuscript of the poem to Lady Dalkeith in August 1805. Lady Dalkeith was the wife of Charles William Henry Scott (1772–1819), the Earl of Dalkeith and heir apparent of Henry Scott, third Duke of Buccleuch; and in 1805 Scott dedicated his first major poem, The Lay of the Last Minstrel, to the Earl of Dalkeith. Scott’s enthusiasm for ‘Gilmanscleuch’ is also reflected by his wish to use it as a specimen for publicity purposes, in advance of the publication of The Mountain Bard of 1807. Hogg did not share this enthusiasm, however, and in a letter of 17 March 1806 he tells Scott that ‘Gilmanscleuch’ is ‘least my favourite of all the ballads and if I have any

EDITORIAL NOTES

413

sway no part of it shall be printed as a specimen’ (Letters I, p. 55). Hogg seems to have written ‘Gilmanscleuch’ towards the end of 1804. In a letter to Scott of [1 December] 1804, he writes that he is ‘well advanced’ in ‘Gilmanscleuch’ and has finished ‘Sir David Graeme’ (Letters I, p. 42); by 16 January 1805 he has finished both and also has corrected ‘The Pedlar’ in compliance with Scott’s suggestions (Letters I, p. 44). According to this chronology, then, Hogg’s gift to Lady Dalkeith of the carefully written fair copy manuscript dated 16 August 1805 comes a full six months after he pronounced the poem complete. On 17 March 1806, almost seven months after the presentation of the manuscript to Lady Dalkeith, Hogg asked Scott’s help with introductory matter: ‘I can get nothing to say to gilmanscleuch you must write a short preface to it at least who know the area and circumstances’ (Letters I, p. 55). Hogg then sent Scott a first instalment of his manuscript for The Mountain Bard, along with a letter of 3 April 1806 (see Letters I, pp. 57– 59). Unfortunately, this manuscript of The Mountain Bard is now lost, but the letter of 3 April 1806 indicates that Scott has been encouraging Hogg to move the language of ‘Gilmanscleuch’ away from Scots and towards English. This letter also shows that Hogg had his own traditional sources of knowledge about the Scotts of Gilmanscleuch: I cannot think of having Gilmanscleuch printed for a specimen the public have had many specimens of my powers yet I would scarce offer them it in my ordinary way. In the Scots Magazines for 1804–5 there are sundry observations on my writings out of which I think a few notes should be taken for the proposals and likewise to accompany them in the papers I have not access to these Magazines else I would select a few of them but your eye will soon discover the places I mean they are as favourable as any thing can be if these are adopted the Mag. should be cited. I think likewise as the ballads are in various different stanzas that a double stanza or two might be selected out of each to give some small idea of the authors manner. Suppose these were the first double stanza of the Pedlar which I think a very good night scene. That in Elibank beginning “Soon weapons were clashing and fire was f lashing” That in Mess John beginning “When nigh Saint Marys isle they drew” That in Lord Liddisdale beginning “Gae stem the bitter norlan’ gale” and such of the others as you most approve Suppose also that in Thirlestane—Black hung the banner on the wall. But you know better than me what should be done but no more of Gilmanscleuch if you think the inclosed copy improper I will write out another as near the English as rhyme will permit but not until I hear from you. I will not agree to have any of the poetry altered without likewise being consulted. You will observe I have got nothing to say to Gilmanscleuch by way of notes but I trust to you for some little thing. Only I warn you that it was a fact that gilmanscleuch held the farm of that name for some inconsiderable feu duty until Sir Williams profligacy caused that family of Harden to lose their influence in the Forest when six lairds of the name of Scott broke all in one year of whom Gilmanscleuch was one Francis Scott of Gilmanscleuch afterwards used oft to stay long at my Grandfathers house. The representative of the family now is a poor miller at Ettrick bridge a man of

414

EDITORIAL NOTES

austere manners and great strength as well as his sons. (Letters I, pp. 57–58) After the publication of The Mountain Bard in 1807, Scott revised the note to ‘The Dowie Dens of Yarrow’ in a later edition of the Minstrelsy, retaining the Harden-Gilmanscleuch story but stating his newfound belief that the ballad referred to a different historical battle, between John Scott of Tushielaw and his brother-in-law Walter Scott, ‘third son of Robert of Thirlestane’ (see Scott, Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border, ed. by T. F. Henderson, 4 vols (Edinburgh, 1912), III, 174. Also revised is the note to ‘Jamie Telfer’, where Scott adds to his account of the feud, The property thus obtained continued in the family till the beginning of last century, when it was sold by John Scott, of Harden, to Anne, Duchess of Buccleuch. A beautiful ballad, founded on this tradition, occurs in The Mountain Bard, a collection of legendary poetry by Mr James Hogg. (II, 16) 36(c) Gilmanscleuch the title of the poem refers both to a settlement along Ettrick Water, approximately three miles south-east of Hogg’s farm at Altrive, and to the family of Scotts who lived there and whose fall from power is the subject of this poem. Gilmanscleuch Burn begins in the hills between the Ettrick and Yarrow valleys, flowing east-south-east to meet Ettrick Water near the settlement of Gilmanscleuch. Oakwood, a stronghold of the Scotts of Harden, lies on the Ettrick about six miles downstream from Gilmanscleuch. Kirkhope, once the residence of the Scotts of Harden, is situated in the Ettrick valley between Gilmanscleuch and Oakwood. 36, l. 1 “W hair hae ye laid the goud, P egg ye ballad-style, the poem opens in “Whair Pegg eggy medias res with a question from an unidentified character, and the narrative is established through dialogue and parallel structures. For similar structure and language, see the traditional ballad ‘Lord Randal’ (Child 12), a version of which appeared in Scott’s Minstrelsy, III , 292: ‘O WHERE hae ye been, Lord Randal, my son?’. In the 1805 manuscript, the first line of ‘Gilmanscleuch’ reads ‘“What did ye wi’ the gowd Peggie’. 36, ll. 9–1 0 “M y goud it was m y ain, father er fr ee see the 9–10 “My my father;; | A gift is ev ever free ballad of ‘Thomas the Rhymer’ (Child 37), where the Queen of Elf land has offered Thomas the gift of prophecy, ‘the tongue that can never lie’: “My tongue is my ain,” true Thomas said; | “A gudely gift ye wad gie to me!” (Minstrelsy, II , 255). ‘Thomas the Rhymer’ portrays the historical Thomas of Ercildoune (present-day Earlston in the Scottish Borders) and was a favourite ballad of both Hogg and Scott. 36, l. 112 2 Can it be tint to me?” at this point the manuscript has ‘’Twill not be lost to me”—’. The 1821 version reverts to the declarative structure of the manuscript with ‘It winna be tint to me.”’. 5 fause leman in the manuscript, ‘leman’ is prefaced here by the adjec37, l. 115 tive ‘light’ (meaning wanton or frivolous). A leman is a lover, a paramour. 37, ll. 33–36 “He lifted up his languid ey e, [...] W hile saut teirs fell atw een. eye, atween. This stanza, which is not in the MS and may have been contributed by Scott or written at his instigation, makes Gilmanscleuch seem less strange or absurd, and more an object of sentiment: the grieving, aristocratic patriarch. The 1821 version retains the stanza, with slight orthographic changes. 37, l. 45 heuch the steep slopes of a hill. See ‘A Sunday Pastoral’, a later poem

EDITORIAL NOTES

415

published in the November 1830 number of Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine (vol. 28, pp. 737–41), and reprinted in 1832 in A Queer Book (see P. D. Garside’s edition (S/SC, 1995), pp. 205–13): ‘Let’s turn an’ up beneath the heuch | Of the wild glen o’ Gilmanscleuch | We’ll spend in nature’s green alcove | The day in pure delights of love’ (lines 75–78). 37, l. 447 7 bauld Buccleuch the head of the prominent family named after a location in the Ettrick valley, approximately three miles south-south-east of Tushielaw. As recounted in the guide book to the Bowhill estate of the Buccleuch family (Derby, 1981), tradition traces the origin of the name to an incident in the Ettrick Forest, once a favourite royal hunting ground: Various Scotts had been active Rangers from the 12th century and, according to legend, it was in a deep “Cleuch” or ravine in the Rankil Burn, in the heart of the forest, that a certain young Scott seized a cornered buck by the antlers, after it had turned on the King’s hounds, and threw it over his shoulder: hence the origin of the name Buccleuch (Buck-Cleuch). (p. 2) The story may be traced to the lines of Walter Scot of Satchells, written in 1686 and quoted here from T. Craig-Brown, The History of Selkirkshire, 2 vols (Edinburgh, 1886), I, 288; in 1686, Satchells writes in the voice of King Kenneth III, And for the buck thou stoutly brought To us up that steep heugh, Thy designation ever shall Be John Scot in Buckscleugh Buccleuch provided the family of Scott with the titles of Laird, Baronet, Baron (1606), Earl (1619), and Duke (1663). One of the largest landowners in Scotland, the Duke of Buccleuch has seats at Dalkeith Palace near Edinburgh, Drumlanrig Castle and Langholm Lodge in Dumfriesshire, Bowhill in Selkirkshire, and Branxholm in Roxburghshire. Henry, third Duke of Buccleuch (1746–1812), appointed Walter Scott as sheriff-depute of Selkirkshire (1799); and both Scott and Hogg benefited from connections with his son and successor, Charles William Henry (1772–1819). 38, l. 552 2 famous Tushila w Adam Scott, popularly called the ‘King of Thieves’ ushilaw or ‘King of the Border’, whose execution in 1529 was ordered by James V. His ruined tower may be found at the point where the Tushielaw Burn runs into the Ettrick Water fifteen miles south-west of Selkirk. An inn is located here as well. The 1821 version changes ‘famous Tushilaw’ to ‘their kinsman Tushilaw’. In a letter to William Laidlaw of 20 July 1801, Hogg discusses various ways in which he can continue to help with the collection of traditional material for Scott’s forthcoming Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border (1802– 03), a process in which he was co-operating with Laidlaw and Andrew Mercer (‘Messer’). Hogg writes: ‘I could procure Messer some stories: Such as […] The downfall of the family of Tushilaw’ (Letters I, p. 12). ew the equivalent lines in the manu38, l. 557 7 “I had ane brither brither,, stout and tr trew script (p. 147, l. 53) and in the 1821 version (p. 253, l. 58) show significant changes in orthography and adjectives describing young Gilmanscleuch. The 1821 version alters the description further by changing ‘furious’ to ‘froward’ in the following line.

416

EDITORIAL NOTES

38, l. 68 lofty Gilman w a rounded, conical hill (‘law’) rising 1,660 feet to Gilman’’s-la s-law the west-north-west of Gilmanscleuch. 38, l. 69 “Hir face a smile perpetual wor oree of the lines describing Jean (60– 72), this one underwent the most significant changes in poetic diction: see p. 148, l. 65 for the manuscript version, and p. 253, l. 69 for the 1821 version. 38, ll. 773–7 3–7 4 “But, mar k! what dool and car e, fair maid | F or beauty’ 3–74 mark! care, For beauty’ss but a snar snaree the meaning of the 1821 equivalent departs completely from both the MS and 1807, shifting authority to an unidentified ‘reade’ (see p. 253, ll. 73–74). The manuscript version (p. 148, ll. 69–70) is here close to the 1807 text. 38, l. 775 5 Jock of Har den John Scott, sixth son of Walter Scott of Harden and Harden Mary Scott. 39, l. 95 Eldin braes the hills surrounding Eldinhope Burn, whose source (like that of Gilmanscleuch Burn) is in the hills between Ettrick and Yarrow. 39 39,, l. 99 Douglas-Craig a crag north of Yarrow, approximately one and a half miles up the Douglas Burn, which begins in Blackhouse Heights and runs south-east into Yarrow Water by Blackhouse Tower, on Blackhouse farm. 39 03 Yarr ow’ 39,, l. 1103 arro w’ss banks Yarrow Water, often celebrated in poem and song, flows east-north-east from St Mary’s Loch, converging with Ettrick Water just above Selkirk. 39 09 “Gae, saddel me m y milk -w hite steed a formulaic phrase appear39,, l. 1109 my milk-w -white ing in many traditional ballads, generally used to signal a prompt reaction to distressing news and ‘strong determination to take active part in the subsequent events’: see Flemming G. Andersen, Commonplace and Creativity: The Role of Formulaic Diction in Anglo-Scottish Traditional Balladry (Odense University Press, 1985), p. 215. The manuscript has ‘But saddle me my coalblack steed’, while the 1821 version retains the language of 1807 (see p. 149, l. 105 and p. 254, l. 109). 39 13 Sundhop Sundhope Height is one of the hills between the Yarrow 39,, l. 111 and Ettrick valleys. Sundhope Burn begins in these hills and runs northeast, meeting Yarrow Water about two and a half miles east of Eldinhope Burn. 40, l. 1123 23 Stuart Stuart’’s hills the hills around Traquair, owned by the Stuart (or Stewart) family, referring here to land between the Yarrow and Tweed valleys; in other words, the claim is that the deer have been chased north, out of Gilmanscleuch land. 40, l. 112 27 Aik wood also known as Oakwood, this tower in the Ettrick Valley Aikw lies four and a half miles south-west of Selkirk. In the thirteenth century, it was in the hands of the wizard Michael Scott; in the sixteenth century it was the baronial residence of the Scotts of Harden. Hogg memorialised the tower in his The Three Perils of Man of 1822. The 1821 version (p. 255, l. 127) changes ‘Aikwood hills’ to ‘Harden’s hills’, emphasising the land’s illustrious owners (Scott’s ancestors). 40, l. 139 merry men a designation common in many ballads; see, for example, ‘Sir Patrick Spens’ (Child 58) in Scott’s Minstrelsy (1803): ‘Make ready, make ready, my merrymen a’!’ (III, 66). 40, l. 1149 49 “He sprang frae aff his coal-black steed a variation of a common ballad formula (see the note to 39, l. 109 above); for example, a similar line may be found in ‘Erlington’ (Child 8): ‘He lighted aff his milk-white steed’

EDITORIAL NOTES

417

(Minstrelsy, III, 238). Hogg provided one of the two versions of ‘Erlington’ that Scott combined for his collection (Child, The English and Scottish Popular Ballads, IV, 445–47). At this point the manuscript of ‘Gilmanscleuch’ has ‘He sprung from off his berry-brown steed’, but the 1821 version retains the language of 1807: see p. 150, l. 145 and p. 255, l. 149. 40, l. 1153 53 “And And lang they foucht, and sair they foucht Hogg pairs this stanza with the next, repeating a line but introducing a variation in the following line to advance the narrative. This ‘incremental repetition’ is common in traditional ballads. In the manuscript, there is another example of incremental repetition at lines 229–36, but this second example does not survive in the 1807 version of the poem: see editorial note on p. 153, ll. 233– 34. . 41, l. 1165 65 “He leanit himsel agenst ane aek a formulaic phrase common in many traditional ballads. When the characters under consideration are women, the formula signals extramarital childbirth. When the characters are men, it signals physical aggression, the fighter ‘literally with his back against the wall’, as in the following lines from ‘Erlington’: ‘He set his back unto an aik, | He set his feet against a stane, | An’ he has fought these fifteen men, | An’ kill’d them a’ but barely ane’ (Minstrelsy, III , 238. See Andersen, Commonplace and Creativity, pp. 181–85). In ‘Gilmanscleuch’ Hogg uses the formula in a nontraditional way: to portray near-defeat, the fighter who ‘Nae mair cou’d act his parte’ (l. 166). 41, l. 116 67 A w udman then sprang frae the brume the manuscript reading (p. 151, l. 163) is ‘When sprung his hench-man from the broom’. With Gilmanscleuch unable to continue the fight, a subordinate actually kills Harden. The change from ‘hench-man’ (Gilmanscleuch’s most loyal personal attendant) to the less specific ‘wudman’ restricts the Gilmanscleuch family’s culpability. The 1821 version retains ‘wudman’ (p. 256, l. 167). 41, l. 117 73 “I raid o wr heicht, I raid thr ough ho we at this point the manuowr through how script has ‘That day I spurred my coal-black steed’, invoking this ballad formula for a third time, a structure common in ballad narrative. In 1807, however, the wording is revised to ‘I raid owr heicht, I raid through howe’, thus breaking the traditional three-part pattern. For the ballad formula, see the notes above on 39, l. 109 and 40, l. 149 42, l. 119 97 “Thus fell that bra ve and cuml ye youth see stanza 13 of ‘The brav cumly Dowie Dens of Yarrow’: ‘They’ve slain—the comeliest knight they’ve slain— | He bleeding lies on Yarrow’ (Minstrelsy, III , 77). 42, ll. 203–04 “And late I sa w his cuml ye corpse | Without the leist deka ye saw cumly dekay Hogg subsequently resurrects the uncorrupted corpse motif in The Private Memoirs and Confessions of a Justified Sinner (1824): see Peter Garside’s S/SC edition (2001), p. 168. 42, l. 209 “I raised our vassals ane and aa’’ the manuscript has ‘I warned my friends & tenants a’ ’ (see p. 152, l. 205). The change in 1807 emphasises the high social class of the feuding families. The stanza that appears in the manuscript immediately after this stanza is deleted in 1807, a change that shifts emphasis away from Gilmanscleuch’s preparation for an attack by the Scotts of Harden, who are expected to seek revenge for their loss; the 1807 version highlights instead the Harden chief’s strategic journey to Holyrood. See p. 152, ll. 208–11 for the deleted stanza. 42, l. 221 17 “And hee’ wa to Hol y R ood this construction, with its abrupt hee’ss aawa Holy Rood

418

EDITORIAL NOTES

shift to present tense, is typical of ballad syntax and usually signals swift action or a shift in scene. Holyrood was the seat of the Scottish monarchy in Edinburgh. 42, l. 220 Craighop a crag approximately two miles north of Ettrickbridge on land that historically belonged to Harden. Craighope Burn begins here and flows north-west into Yarrow Water. d to 43, ll. 229–36 “His hose wer wi’’ chains of airn, [...] Wer eree har hard eree braced wi be denied these two stanzas from the 1807 version do not appear in the surviving 1805 manuscript of ‘Gilmanscleuch’. The two new stanzas elaborate on Harden’s appearance as he enters the royal court at Holyrood, and drafts of both appear in Hogg’s letter to Scott of 18 April 1806. In this letter, which accompanied the manuscript of part of The Mountain Bard, Hogg writes: I am delighted with the additional verse relating to Harden’s appearance at court and though I hate particularity in a ballad after the parties are fairly introduced yet as Hardens may well be looked on now-a-days as somewhat particular I think we may be allowed a little particularity in describing it. I have therefore thought of adding the two following verses to compleat the idea of a great and terrible chief—After “with all the hair aboon say His doublet was of glittering goud And it became him well Where’er he turned his buirdly breast Respect and honour fell His hose were brac’d with chains of ern And round with tassels hung At ilka tramp of Hardens heel The royal arches rung At this point in the letter Hogg writes ‘His twa hand sword’, as though to indicate where the stanza so beginning (ll. 225–28 in 1807) should appear, and then continues: Soon all our nobles of the north The chief with wonder ey’d But Harden’s form and Harden’s look Were hard to be deny’d (Letters I, pp. 60–61) None of these lines in Hogg’s letter of 18 April 1806 appears in Hogg’s 1805 manuscript. The first four do not appear in the 1807 published version, or indeed in any other known version of the poem; but the remaining eight lines make their appearance in the 1807 Mountain Bard (ll. 229–36). In this letter to Scott of 18 April 1806, Hogg says that, because of his enthusiasm for the ‘verses’ recently sent by Scott, he has ‘therefore thought of adding the two following verses’. This is ambiguous. Are the lines Scott’s or Hogg’s? Hogg may be proposing to add new lines of his own in response to Scott’s material, or he may be selecting lines from among the ones sent by Scott. The possibility that these lines may be Scott’s is an interesting one. Certainly, they buttress the impression of Scott’s ancestor as noble, commanding, honourable, and deserving of respect.

EDITORIAL NOTES

419

A month later (21 May 1806), Hogg offers Scott his own copy of the poem: ‘If you wish to have a copy of Gilmanscleuch of your own writing I will send you a very few alterations and additions concerning Harden with whom you have made me somewhat enamoured or if you please I will rewrite it myself’. Such a presentation copy, if it exists, could answer some unresolved questions. However, whatever their source the additional stanzas that appear at this point in the 1807 text accentuate Harden’s aristocratic image; in Hogg’s words, they ‘complete the idea of a great and terrible chief’. Hogg made further revisions to this passage in 1821, adding a new stanza after 1807’s l. 232: see p. 258 ll. 233–36 and notes. 43, l. 24 7 kind Traquar 247 raquaree head of a prominent family and the name of a village in the Tweed Valley, about five miles from Hogg’s Yarrow farm of Mount Benger. Traquair House still stands and is considered one of the finest old mansions in southern Scotland. See also the note to 40, l. 123 above. 44, l. 288 Branxholm situated near Hawick, Branxholm was the principal seat of the Scotts of Buccleuch from the early fifteenth century until the early eighteenth century. It features prominently (as ‘Branksome’) in Scott’s poem The Lay of the Last Minstrel (1805). ver aa’’ the southlan etch our ample swa y 44, ll. 29 1–92 Till o southlan’’ hills | We str stretch sway 291–92 ov the 1821 version considerably alters the meaning of the final srtanza of ‘Gilmanscleuch’: see p. 259, ll. 293–96, and note. 180 7: ‘The F ra y of Elibank 2) 807 Fra ray Elibank’’ (pp. 45–5 45–52) Like ‘Gilmanscleuch’, this ballad is Hogg’s re-telling of a traditional story about Walter Scott’s ancestors, the Scotts of Harden. In this case, the story is about a forced marriage between a young Scott of Harden (called Walter Scott in the 1807 version of Hogg’s ballad), and ‘muckle-mou’d’ Meg, one of the Murrays of Elibank. ‘The Fray of Elibank’ was not published before the 1807 Mountain Bard, and it seems to have been written for that project. Hogg revised the ballad for the 1821 Mountain Bard, its only other appearance in his lifetime. The present edition’s main annotation of ‘The Fray of Elibank’ relates to the 1807 version, and is given below. For the 1821 version of the poem see pp. 260–68. Editorial notes relating to pp. 260–68 deal only with points that specifically concern the 1821 version. In one of his 1821 notes Hogg explains that in 1807 he ‘took the story from the vague traditions of the country’, but that, having now examined ‘some of the family records’, he can see that the traditions on which he based the 1807 version ‘have been generally incorrect’. The first surviving mention of ‘The Fray of Elibank’ comes in Hogg’s letter to Scott of [1 December] 1804, in which he writes: ‘I have forgot the particulars of Meg of Elibank else I would have set about it ere now’ (Letters I, p. 42). He follows this up in a letter to Scott of 18 January 1805: ‘I wish you had transmitted to me the outlines of the story of Harden and Meg of Elibank with all the names concerned in it that you know. were the Murrays and Scotts rival chiefs? or were the Murrays of Elibank and Philiphaugh of the same stock?’ (Letters I, p. 47). Then, in a letter to Scott of 22 February [1805] Hogg writes: You were too slack in sending me the story of Wattie and Meg, for my

420

EDITORIAL NOTES

impatient Muse hath broken on and finished it I never heard the story in any thing of a perfect state until I heard it from you, so that as the saying is, if I be lying I’m gar’d lie. I send you the first copy of it written off hand and intend to have your opinion before I correct it.’ (Letters I, p. 48). In composing the 1807 version of ‘The Fray of Elibank’, Hogg used what he knew of ‘the story of Wattie and Meg’, and he also drew on traditions (recently learned from his father) about links between his ancestors the Hoggs of Fauldshope and the Scotts of Harden (see editorial note on 45, l. 11). In addition, he seems to have based his portrait of ‘the bauld Juden Murray’ (Meg’s father) on the hero of the traditional ballad ‘The Outlaw Murray’ (see editorial note on 45, l. 1), ancestor of the Murrays of Philiphaugh. As in the case of ‘Gilmanscleuch’, Hogg bases ‘The Fray of Elibank’ on a story about the Scotts of Harden provided to him by Walter Scott. However, ‘The Fray of Elibank’ draws more deeply than ‘Gilmanscleuch’ on Hogg’s own knowledge of Ettrick oral tradition. 45(a) This Ballad is likewise ffounded ounded on a well known and well authenticated ffact act as the letters just quoted show, Hogg derived much of his knowledge of the story of ‘Meg of Elibank’ from Scott, but Scott’s detailed background information was late in arriving. ho was slain in Yarr ow by the S COT 45(a) he was either br other or nephew to him w TS who arrow brother COTTS of Gilmanscleuch when he was preparing the 1807 Mountain Bard, Hogg’s understanding of the history of the Scotts of Harden derived in part from Scott’s notes in the Minstrelsy, and (as we saw in the notes on ‘Gilmanscleuch’, above) Scott’s note in the Minstrelsy on the traditional ballad ‘Jamie Telfer of the Fair Dodhead’ describes the Harden who ‘was slain at a fray, in a hunting match, by the SCOTS of Gilmanscleuch’ as the sixth son of ‘Auld Wat of Harden’ and ‘MARY SCOTT, celebrated in song by the title of the F LOWER OF YARROW ’ (Minstrelsy, I, 93, 92). urra y in the 1807 version of ‘The Fray of Elibank’, 45, l. 1 the bauld Juden M Murra urray Hogg’s portrait of ‘the bauld Juden Murray’ does not have a very firm connection with the historical figure involved, who was Sir Gideon Murray (d. 1621), privy councillor and treasurer-depute to James VI and I: see the first of the editorial notes on 45(a), and the editorial note on 45, l. 19. Instead, Hogg’s portrait of Juden seems to draw on an earlier figure, the hero of the traditional ballad ‘The Outlaw Murray’ (Child 305). The Outlaw Murray was an ancestor of the Murrays of Philiphaugh, which lies about a mile to the west of Selkirk, near the junction of the rivers Yarrow and Ettrick. In Child 305 the Outlaw is forced by royal subterfuge to acknowledge that he does not possess his lands in Ettrick Forest in his own right (as he had previously claimed), but under the authority of the Scottish king. In a letter to William Laidlaw of 20 July 1801, Hogg discusses his attempts to collect versions of ‘two old ballads’, for onward transmission to ‘Mr Scott’ by Laidlaw. It becomes clear as the letter proceeds that the ballads in question are ‘The Outlaw Murray’ and ‘The Dowie Dens of Yarrow’ (Child 214). Hogg writes of these ‘two old ballads’: I was talking to my uncle concerning them, and he tells me that they are mostly escaped his memory; and they really are so; insomuch,

EDITORIAL NOTES

421

that of the whole long transactions betwixt the Scottish king and Murray, he cannot make above half a dozen of stanzas to metre, and these are wretched. He attributes it to James the fifth, but as he can mention no part of the song or tale from whence this is proven, I apprehend, from some expressions, that it is much antienter: but upon the whole I think the thing worthy of investigation; the more so as he was the progenitor of a very respectable family [i.e., the Murrays of Philiphaugh], and seems to have been a man of the utmost boldness and magnanimity: what way he became possessed of Etterick forest, or from whom he conquered it remains to me a mystery: when taken prisoner by the king at Permins score above Hanginshaw, where the traces of the encampments are still so visible, and pleading the justice of his claim to Ettrick forest, he hath this remarkable expression. “I took it frae the Souden turk.—When you and your men durstna come see.”—Who the devil was this Souden turk? I would be very happy in contributing any assistance in my power to the elucidating the annals of that illustrous and beloved, though now decayed house; but I have no means of accession to any information. I imagine the whole manuscript might be procured from some of the connections of the family. is it not the library of Philliphaugh? (Letters I, pp.11–12) Hangingshaw, the scene in the ballad of the king’s encounter with the Outlaw Murray, is on the north bank of the Yarrow, about three miles upstream from that river’s junction with the Ettrick. Ancient earthworks are still visible near Hangingshaw. For a discussion of Hogg’s involvement in collecting ‘The Outlaw Murray’ for the Minstrelsy, see Edith C. Batho, The Ettrick Shepherd (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1927), pp. 18– 20, 177. Hogg’s 1821 notes to ‘The Fray of Elibank’ provide detailed information on the historical Gideon (‘Juden’) Murray of Elibank, who turns out to be a very different figure from the Outlaw Murray: see pp. 260–68 and the corresponding editorial notes. 45, l. 2 the Elibank castle stands on high ground overlooking the River Tweed, about four miles east of the town of Innerleithen. 45, l. 9 bauld as the Persian lion presumably a reference to the biblical story of the prophet Daniel being cast into the lions’ den by Darius, king of the Medes and the Persians: see Daniel chapter 6. auldshope Harden’s champion is one of the Hoggs 45, l. 111 1 Stout Willie o Fauldshope o’’ F of Fauldshope, Hogg’s ancestors. On 22 February 1805 Hogg sent Scott a first draft (now lost) of ‘The Fray of Elibank’, with the comment: I may likewise inform you of a circumstance which I never was acquainted with until this winter namely, that my ancestors farmed the lands of Fauldshope &c under the Scotts of Harden or Oakwood even so early as the time of their residence at Kirkhope, and for several ages, even until the family lost these lands. They were noted for strength, hardiness, and a turbulent disposition; and one of them named William was Hardens chief champion, and from his great strength and ferocity was nick-named the Wild boar. My father adds, that the said William was greatly in favour with Harden until at last

422

EDITORIAL NOTES

by his temerity he led him into a jeopardy that had nearly cost him his life. I readily concluded what the jeopardy was. (Letters I, p. 48). Situated near each other about four miles to the west of the town of Selkirk, Fauldshope and Oakwood lie on the River Ettrick. They are about eight miles to the south of Elibank. In ‘The Fray of Elibank’, Juden Murray’s allies come from places in the Tweed valley, while the allies of Scott of Harden come from the valleys of Ettrick and Yarrow: see Hogg’s first note on the poem, pp. 51–52. 45, l. 115 5 Har den w Lockhart (I, 67) writes that when Mary Scott ‘the Harden den’’s ae co cow Flower of Yarrow’ (wife of Auld Wat of Harden) saw that ‘the last bullock which Auld Wat had provided from the English pastures was consumed’, she placed on her table a dish containing a pair of clean spurs; a hint to the company that they must bestir themselves for their next dinner. Sir Walter adds, in a note to the Minstrelsy, “Upon one occasion when the village herd was driving out the cattle to pasture, the old laird heard him call loudly to drive out Harden’s cow. ‘Harden’s cow! ’ echoed the affronted chief; ‘Is it come to that pass? by my faith they shall soon say Harden’s kye (cows)’. Accordingly, he sounded his bugle, set out with his followers, and next day returned with a bow of kye, and a bassen’d (brindled) bull. 45, l. 18 Buccleuch the chieftain and head of the clan of the Scotts. 9 bound to k eep aa’’ the wide mar ches in or der as Warden of the keep marches order 45, l. 119 Marches, Buccleuch was responsible to the Crown for keeping the peace on the Border between Scotland and England. The King of Scots during Gideon Murray’s lifetime was James VI, who reigned from 1567 until 1625. As heir-apparent to the English throne, and as King of England from 1603, James had a strong motive for ensuring that peace was kept on the Scottish/English Border. 1 That time when we vanquished the outla w of So wden a verbal echo 46, l. 331 outlaw Sow of the traditional ballad ‘The Outlaw Murray’, in the version (Child 305C) held at Scott’s library at Abbotsford among the papers collectively called ‘Scotch Ballads, Materials for Border Minstrelsy’. This version of the ballad is in the handwriting of Hogg’s friend William Laidlaw (Child V, 197). Hogg had supplied information about this ballad to Laidlaw, for onward transmission to Scott: see editorial note on 45, l. 1 above. Stanza 5 in Laidlaw’s manuscript reads: Outlaw Murray says yon land’s his ain, And to yon men he pays meat and fee; I took it frae the Souden Turk, When you and your men durstna come and see. Hogg writes about his uncle’s knowledge of this ballad in his letter to William Laidlaw of 20 July 1801, remarking about this passage: ‘Who the devil was this Souden turk?’ (Letters I, p. 12). Scott’s published version in the Minstrelsy reads ‘Frae Soudron I this Foreste wan’, and Soudron is glossed as ‘Southern, or English’ (I, 9). A similar verbal echo (the ‘Knight of Souden’) appears in Hogg’s book-length poem Mador of the Moor (written 1813; published 1816):

EDITORIAL NOTES

423

see the edition by James E. Barcus (S/SC, 2005), p. 21, l. 236. Mador, which was written as a riposte to Scott’s The Lady of the Lake (1810), is full of ballad echoes and references. 46, l. 33 Aek wood Oakwood, home of the Scotts of Harden: see editorial Aekw note on 45, l. 11. 46, l. 38 Hangingsha w-la w an important location in the ballad ‘The Outlaw Hangingshaw-la w-law Murray’: see editorial note on 45, l. 1. It lies in a direct line between Oakwood and Elibank, about three miles to the north of Oakwood, and about four miles to the south of Elibank. 46, l. 46 high Philip-cairn see editorial note on 45, l. 1. auldshope see editorial note on 45, l. 11. 46, l. 552 2 the Wild Boar of F Fauldshope 46, l. 54 Warn Plora, Traquair ier ce Hollo w lee these allies of raquair,, and the ffier ierce Hollow Juden are named here by their places of residence in the Tweed valley. Plora and Traquair are about four miles upstream from Elibank, and Hollowlee (now Holylee) is about one mile upstream from Elibank. This gathering of Juden’s allies has a parallel in Hogg’s poem ‘Mary Scott’, which forms part of The Queen’s Wake (1813). Set in the reign of James V, ‘Mary Scott’ draws on the traditional ballad ‘The Gay Goss Hawk’ (Child 96), and in Hogg’s poem ‘Old Gideon Murray and his men’ join with the Pringles and the Kers for a confrontation with the Scotts. In a note about this, Hogg writes: ‘There was a long and deadly feud between the Scotts and the Kers in those days; the Pringles, Murrays, and others around, always joined with the latter, in order to keep down the too powerful Scotts, who were not noted as the best of neighbours’. See The Queen’s Wake (S/SC, 2004), pp. 123, 189. 46, l. 58 Ancram this is probably a reference to the Scottish victory over the English at Ancrum Moor in 1545 in the ‘Rough Wooing’, during which Henry VIII of England sought to secure a marriage alliance between his son Edward and the infant Mary, Queen of Scots. 46, l. 58 So wden presumably an echo of ‘The Outlaw Murray’: see editorial Sow note on 46, l. 31. 46, l. 661 1 the Weel in his account of his 1802 Highland journey, Hogg explains ‘weills’ as ‘a common name in Tweed for whirlpools’: see Highland Journeys, ed. by Hans de Groot (S/SC, forthcoming), p. 11. 46, l. 62 Ashiesteel Walter Scott had a summer residence at Ashiesteel from 1804 until 1812. It lies on the Tweed about two miles downstream from Elibank. 46, l. 63 the king’s elwand the group of stars known as the Belt of Orion. In Hogg’s story ‘Mary Burnet’ the rising of ‘the King’s Elwand’ is the time set for a lovers’ meeting at St Mary’s Loch in Yarrow: see The Shepherd’s Calendar (S/SC, 1995), p. 201. 47, l. 777 7 Soon weapons wer ir eree clashing clashing,, and ffir iree was f lashing in a letter to Scott of 3 April 1806, Hogg discusses what might be included in the printed proposals then being planned with a view to seeking subscribers for The Mountain Bard. He writes: ‘I think likewise as the ballads are in various different stanzas that a double stanza or two might be selected out of each to give some small idea of the authors manner’. Hogg then goes on to suggest various possibilities, including ‘That in Elibank beginning “Soon weapons were clashing and fire was flashing”’ (Letters I, p. 58). 49 43 the F est that is, Ettrick Forest. 49,, l. 1143 For orest or

424

EDITORIAL NOTES

49 72 half a scor e, and a bull for a br eed an echo of the traditional story 49,, l. 117 score, breed discussed in the note on 45, l. 15. 51, l. 212 cats they are all alike grey in the dark proverbial, with a long history. See, for example, John Heywood, Dialogue of Proverb I . v. A6: ‘When all candels be out, all cats be grey. All thyngs are then of one colour.’ (c. 1549). 51, l. 233 muckle good blood frae that union has fflo lo wed including that of low Hogg’s friend and mentor Walter Scott, who (so his biographer John Sutherland tells us) ‘liked to think that he had inherited something of Meg’s “characteristic feature”, a large rather drooping mouth’. Scott, Sutherland continues, ‘had a cartoon of his ancestor’s forced wooing executed’ for his home at Abbotsford ( John Sutherland, The Life of Walter Scott (Oxford: Blackwell, 2005), p. 2. 51(d) Lo vel Traquair urra y, Philiphaugh, Plora, and Lov raquair,, w ho was then M Murra urray Sundhope see the notes on 41, l. 5 and 46, l. 54. 52(a) Willie of F auldshop see editorial note on 45, l.11. Fauldshop 52(b) the famous witch of Fauldshop […] Mr Michael Scott this relates to a traditional story which Hogg later told in fuller form in a note on ‘Old David’ in The Queen’s Wake (1813). Hogg writes But the best old witch tale that remains, is that which is related of the celebrated Michael Scott, Master of Oakwad. Mr Walter Scott has preserved it, but so altered from the original way, that it is not easy to recognize it. The old people tell it as follows: There was one of Mr Michael’s tenants who had a wife that was the most notable witch of the age. So extraordinary were her powers, that the country people began to put them in competition with those of the Master, and say, that in some cantrips she surpassed him. Michael could ill brook such insinuations; for there is always jealousy between great characters, and went over one day with his dogs on pretence of hunting, but in reality with an intent of exercising some of his infernal power in the chastisement of Lucky —— (I have the best reason in the world for concealing her reputed name.) He found her alone in the field weeding lint; and desired her, in a friendly manner, to show him some of her powerful art. She was very angry with him, and denied that she had any supernatural skill. He, however, continuing to press her, she told him sharply to let her alone, else she would make him repent the day he troubled her. How she perceived the virtues of Michael’s wand is not known, but in a moment she snatched it from his hand, and gave him three lashes with it. The knight was momently changed to a hare, when the malicious and inveterate hag cried out, laughing, “Shu, Michael, rin or dee!” and baited all his own dogs upon him. He was extremely hard hunted, and was obliged to swim the river, and take shelter in the sewer of his own castle from the fury of his pursuers, where he got leisure to change himself again to a man. Michael being extremely chagrined at having been thus outwitted, studied a deadly revenge; and going over afterwards to hunt, he sent his man to Fauldshope to borrow some bread from Lucky —— to give to his dogs, for that he had neglected to feed them before he came from home. If she gave him the bread, he was to thank her and come away; but if she refused it, he gave him a line written in red charac-

EDITORIAL NOTES

425

ters, which he was to lodge above the lintel as he came out. The servant found her baking of bread, as his master assured him he would, and delivered his message. She received him most ungraciously, and absolutely refused to give him any bread, alleging, as an excuse, that she had not as much as would serve her own reapers to dinner. The man said no more, but lodged the line as directed, and returned to his master. The powerful spell had the desired effect; Lucky —— instantly threw off her clothes, and danced round and round the fire like one quite mad, singing the while with great glee, “Master Michael Scott’s man Cam seekin bread an’ gat nane.” The dinner hour arrived, but the reapers looked in vain for their dame, who was wont to bring it to them to the field. The goodman sent home a servant girl to assist her, but neither did she return. At length he ordered them to go and take their dinner at home, for he suspected his spouse had taken some of her tirravies. All of them went inadvertently into the house, and, as soon as they passed beneath the mighty charm, were seized with the same mania, and followed the example of their mistress. The goodman, who had tarried behind, setting some shocks of corn, came home last; and hearing the noise ere ever he came near the house, he did not venture to go in, but peeped in at the window. There he beheld all his people dancing naked round and round the fire, and singing, “Master Michael Scott’s man,” with the most frantic wildness. His wife was by that time quite exhausted, and the rest were half trailing her around. She could only now and then pronounce a syllable of the song, which she did with a kind of scream, yet seemed as intent on the sport as ever. The goodman mounted his horse, and rode with all speed to the Master, to enquire what he had done to his people which had put them all mad. Michael bade him take down the note from the lintel and burn it, which he did, and all the people returned to their senses. Poor Lucky —— died overnight, and Michael remained unmatched and alone in all the arts of enchantment and necromancy. (See The Queen’s Wake, ed. by Douglas S. Mack (S/SC, 2004), p. 183) In his note on this passage in the S/SC edition, Douglas Mack writes: here as elsewhere Hogg boldly asserts that he has a more direct relationship than Scott with the old Border oral tradition that produced the ballads recorded in Scott’s Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border (1802–03). Scott’s version of this traditional story appears in his notes to his poem The Lay of the Last Minstrel (1805): Upon another occasion, the magician, having studied so long in the mountains that he became faint for want of food, sent his servant to procure some from the nearest farm-house. The attendant received a churlish denial from the farmer. Michael commanded him to return to this rustic Nabal, and lay before him his cap, or bonnet, repeating these words, Maister Michael Scott’s man Sought meat, and gat nane.

426

EDITORIAL NOTES

When this was done and said, the enchanted bonnet became suddenly inflated, and began to run round the house with great speed, pursued by the farmer, his wife, his servants, and the reapers, who were on the neighbouring har’st rigg. No one had the power to resist the fascination, or refrain from joining in pursuit of the bonnet, until they were totally exhausted with their ludicrous exercise. A similar charm occurs in Houn de Bourdeaux, and in the ingenious Oriental tale, called the Caliph Vathek. (Scott, The Lay of the Last Minstrel (London: Longman; Edinburgh: Constable, 1805), p. 239) Scott here, as elsewhere in his notes on The Lay of the Last Minstrel, adopts the tone of a detached investigator as he records the beliefs of the people he describes as ‘the Scottish peasants’ (p. 212) and ‘the Scottish vulgar’ (p. 213). Here we have Scott as a gentlemanly heir of the Enlightenment, collecting and recording evidence about the superstitions of the peasantry. Hogg, on the other hand, seems to lay claim to a more intimate connection with the old oral popular traditions of the Borders: ‘The old people tell it as follows’. (See The Queen’s Wake (S/SC, 2004), p. 444) 52(c) an old song extant Hogg also quotes from this ‘old song’ in both the accounts he wrote in 1833 of his long friendship with Scott: see Anecdotes of Scott, ed. by Jill Rubenstein (S/SC, 1999), pp. 4, 44. 7) 180 7: ‘M ess John 53–67) 807 ‘Mess John’’ (pp. 53–6 Like ‘The Fray of Elibank’, ‘Mess John’ was not published before the 1807 Mountain Bard, and this ballad seems to have been written specifically for that project. Hogg revised ‘Mess John’ for the 1821 Mountain Bard, its only other appearance in his lifetime. The present edition’s main annotation of ‘Mess John’ relates to the 1807 version of the ballad, and is given below. For the 1821 version, see pp. 269–83. Notes relating to pp. 269–83 deal only with points that specifically concern the 1821 version. In ‘Mess John’, Hogg draws on Ettrick traditions relating to the political and religious conflicts of late-seventeenth-century Scotland. In this period the post-Restoration Stuart kings attempted to impose Anglican forms of worship on the Presbyterian Scottish church, but the Scottish ‘Covenanters’ (also known as ‘Whigs’) took up arms against this royal project, acting (as they saw it) in defence of the religious and political freedoms of the people, and against arbitrary and unjust imposition of royal authority. Hogg returned to this topic in his novel The Brownie of Bodsbeck, which was published in 1818 but which was probably first drafted around 1813. This novel focuses on events in the upper Yarrow valley (part of Hogg’s native Ettrick Forest) in the 1680s. At that time many Covenanters were in hiding in the remote mountains near the sources of the Yarrow, after their defeat by royal forces at the battle of Bothwell Bridge in 1679. Hogg’s narrator explains that ‘every corner of that distracted country was furnished with a gownsman, to instruct the inhabitants in the mild and benignant principles of prelacy, but chiefly to act as spies upon the detested whigs’. These priests, Hogg’s narrator asserts, worked hand in glove with ruthless Royalist enforcers such as Grierson of Lag and Graham of Claverhouse, Viscount

EDITORIAL NOTES

427

Dundee (‘Clavers’); and, we are told, the priests who had been forced on the country people had ‘proved the most inveterate and incorrigible enemies that the poor covenanters’. Hogg’s narrator continues: The officiating priest at the kirk of Saint Mary of the Lowes had been particularly active in this part of his commission. The smallest number could not be convened for the purposes of public devotion—two or three stragglers could not be seen crossing the country, but word was instantly sent to Clavers, or some one of his officers; and, at the same time, these devotional meetings were always described to be of the most atrocious and rebellious nature. The whigs became grievously incensed against this ecclesiastic, for, in the bleakest mountain of their native land, they could not enjoy a lair in common with the foxes and the wild-goats in peace, nor worship their God without annoyance in the dens and caves of the earth. Their conventicles, though held in places ever so remote, were broke in upon and dispersed by armed troops, and their ministers and brethren carried away to prisons, to banishment, and to death. They waxed desperate; and what will not desperate men do? They way-laid, and seized upon one of the priest’s emissaries by night, a young female, who was running on a message to Grierson of Lag. Overcome with fear at being in custody of such frightful-looking fellows, with their sallow cheeks and long beards, she confessed the whole, and gave up her dispatches. They were of the most aggravated nature. Forthwith two or three of the most hardy of the whigs, without the concurrence or knowledge of their brethren, posted straight to the Virgin’s chapel that very night, shot the chaplain, and buried him at a small distance from his own little solitary mansion; at the same time giving out to the country, that he was a sorcerer, an adulterer, and a character every way evil. His name has accordingly been handed down to posterity as a most horrid necromancer. (Hogg, The Brownie of Bodsbeck, ed. by Douglas S. Mack (Edinburgh: Scottish Academic Press, 1976), pp. 12–13. On the face of it, then, it would appear that ‘Mess John’ is Hogg’s vigorous and enthusiastic rendering of a traditional story in which the ‘officiating priest at the kirk of Saint Mary of the Lowes’ is represented as being ‘a most horrid necromancer’, and ‘a sorcerer, an adulterer, and a character every way evil’. However, Hogg may have brought together various strands in creating his ballad. Janette Currie has argued persuasively that the account of the murder of the priest in ‘Mess John’ is based on the historical murder, in 1684, of Peter Pierson (or Pearson), the curate of the parish of Carsphairn in Nithsdale. It appears that one of the Covenanters who killed Pierson was James ‘Long Gun’ Harkness, one of the Harknesses of Mitchelslack, the family for whom Hogg worked as a shepherd in 1805–07 (see editorial note on 7(c) Mitchell-Slack, Nov. 1806). For further details of the murder of Pierson, see Janette Currie, ‘History, Hagiography, and Fakestory: Representations of the Scottish Covenanters in Non-Fictional and Fictional Texts from 1638 to 1835’ (unpublished doctoral thesis, University of Stirling, 1999), pp. 18–19; and Robert Wodrow, The History of the Sufferings of the Church of Scotland, a monumental and frequently-reprinted work first published in Edinburgh in 1721–22. It is also worth noting that the Rev. Robert

428

EDITORIAL NOTES

Russell, in his contribution on the parish of Yarrow for the first Statistical Account of Scotland, writes that ‘about the year 1640’ it was decided to replace the old St Mary’s kirk at St Mary’s Loch by ‘the present one, which is about 8 miles to the eastward of the old one, and much more centrical to the parish’ (The Statistical Account of Scotland, ed. by Sir John Sinclair, 21 vols (Edinburgh: Creech, 1791–99)). This would seem to suggest that in fact the old church ceased to be in active use some decades before the 1680s, when ‘Mess John’ is set. Hogg sent Scott a first instalment of his manuscript for The Mountain Bard along with a letter of 3 April 1806 (see Letters I, pp. 57–59), and it appears that a text of ‘Mess John’ formed part of that manuscript. Scott’s response to the material Hogg sent to him on 3 April 1806 does not survive, but what he said does not seem to have been to Hogg’s liking. In a letter to Scott of 21 May [1806] Hogg writes: ‘I received yours brimfull of Criticisms, articles which I mortally abhor’. Later in this letter, Hogg mentions ‘Mess John’ specifically: The verse you have scratched out of Mess John let it go to him whom it concerns: I hate indelicacy. Your observation about the Greymares-tail is d—d nonsense and enough to make a sow