THE TWEED. 
 
PUBLISHED BY 
 
 JAMES MACLEHOSE, GLASGOW. 
 
 MACMILLAN AND CO., LONDON. 
 London, ..... Hamilton, Adams and Co. 
 Cambridge, , . Macmillan and Co. 
 Edinburgh^ . . Edmonston and Douglas. 
 Dublin, . . . W. H. Smith and Son. 
 
 MDCCCLXXV. 
 
THE TWEED 
 
 AND 
 
 OTHER POEMS 
 
 BY 
 
 JOHN\VEITCH, LL.D. 
 
 Professor of Logic and Rhetoric in the University of Glasgo 
 
 PRISCI CONSCIUS AEVI. 
 
 JAMES MACLEHOSE 
 
 PUBLISHER TO THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 LONDON : MACMILLAN AND CO. 
 1875 
 
 All rights reserved. 
 
LOAN STACK 
 
 GLASGOW : 
 
 PRINTED AT THE UNIVERSITY PRESS BY 
 MACLEHOSB AND MACDOUGALI.. 
 
Jxrhn 
 
 THE REPRESENTATIVE OF THE OLD HOUSE OF POSSO ; 
 
 THE DESCENDANT OF THE STILL OLDER HOUSE OF DAWYCK ; 
 
 ONE WHO FEELS WHAT IS PUREST AND BEST 
 
 IN THE TRADITIONS OF THE TWEED : 
 
 arc Jtbicatcb. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 BOOK FIRST DESCRIPTION AND LEGEND, ... 3 
 
 BOOK SECOND THE GROWTH OF NA TURE FEELING, . 47 
 
 BOOK THIRD OLD BORDER LIFE AND POETRY, . . 81 
 
 anb 0th.er 
 
 SIR SIMON FRASER, . . .115 
 
 THE HART OF MOSSFENNAN, 153 
 
 THE DEATH OF LORD MAXWELL, 159 
 
 THE LADY FLEMING'S DREAM, 165 
 
 THE HERD'S WIFE, 174 
 
 PEDEN'S GRA VE, 179 
 
 TASSO, 185 
 
 AT GRINDELWALD, 187 
 
 ON THE SCRAPE LOOKING SOUTHWARDS, . . .189 
 
 AMONG THE HILLS I AWAY I 198 
 
 NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS, . . . . . . .201 
 
BOOK FIRST 
 dtstnptian attb 
 
ARGUMENT. 
 
 THE uplands, and solitary spring-head, Tweed's Well. Old Wood of 
 Caledon, with Merlin and Kentigern. The flow and purpose of the stream. 
 Ericstane and Bruce. Character of scenery. Tributaries and hills, with 
 their suggestions, historical and legendary associations, from Fruid to 
 Teviot. 
 
THE TWEED. 
 
 |)0rripii0tt anb fifrejettb. 
 
 ' IV /T ID uplands first to wear the gleam of morn, 
 And spread the early sheen of dewy grass, 
 While sweet wild flowers are breathing odours free, 
 And clear, air-borne, pathetic bleatings float, 
 And pewit's cry is heard, half-wail, half-wile, 
 Voice dear unto the heart of solitude, 
 And heron stalks, then slow majestic sails 
 Away short space, on low broad flapping wing ; 
 A lonely well uprises, sacred, clear. 
 
4 
 
 DESCRIPTION 
 
 Thine own, historic Tweed, the fount amid 
 The bent of thy first runlet life of sound. 
 
 A treeless wild where pastoral stillness broods, 
 And but the name, the Shaws, memorial keeps 
 Of sun-unpierced, shape-haunted forest shades, 
 And birken leaves once quivering in the light 
 That o'er the grass a dappled splendour shed 
 In days of other years, ere time and storm 
 Had swept away the Wood of Caledon. 
 
 An ancient wood ! dim hanging like a dream 
 
 Upon historic memory, wherein, 
 
 Before th' ideal eye, quaint forms take life 
 
 And as anew embodied pass amid 
 
 The greenery of springs revived, the leaves 
 
 Of sun-hued autumns, winters dread that swing 
 
 Tempestuous 'mid its boughs. The Cymric host 
 
 Of storied Arthur bear their ashen spears, 
 
AND LEGEND. 
 
 Dim pageantry of battle; rise two shapes, 
 
 Weird Merlin and the saintly Kentigern, 
 
 The old bard shadowed by the lurid eve 
 
 Of British faith and story, Kentigern, 
 
 The youth, white-robed, yet roseate in the dawn 
 
 Of new and holy hope and purer creed. 
 
 Gleam on the mantle of the poet seer 
 Blood-red Druidic signs, a mantle rent 
 And torn, as is his noble heart by thought 
 Of cruel sacrifice, impersonal : 
 Feeling that will is man within the man, 
 To make or mar, to be the right or wrong ; 
 Yet grasping not the great free sacrifice, 
 The brotherhood of wills. By fountain, stream, 
 And tree he dwells, as nature-forms of God, 
 And on the grey stone-circle of the hill, 
 He sits and eyes the burning sun complete 
 His daily round ; lone weird communion holds 
 
6 DESCRIPTION 
 
 With spirits of the air, that he may be 
 
 The Lord of Nature, may know life and death 
 
 And destiny, dread things of years to come ; 
 
 Beasts of the wood, and birds of air he loves, 
 
 Marks Odin's ravens as they circling tell 
 
 Of deeds of blood done on the troubled earth, 
 
 Scans the great eagle as he dares the sun, 
 
 And grim night owls a-hooting 'neath the stars, 
 
 For converse high they seem to hold with heaven, 
 
 And in their curious eyes he thinks to read 
 
 The dark unspoken secret of the world. 
 
 Now swept and gone are glade and hazel shaw 
 Gone, trackless as the shade of saint and seer, 
 And 'mid a wild of wilds, 'neath open sky, 
 All through the summer morn the burnie croons, 
 In hidden flow, yet flashes oft eye-gleam 
 From 'neath its brows of slender fringing grass; 
 And then at night, amid moon-silvered air, 
 
AND LEGEND. 7 
 
 And glory o'er the wide encircling hills, 
 It pours a deepening sound, continuous, 
 Upon the calm, as rhythm of the earth 
 That feels the soothing of the quiet heaven. 
 
 A tiny rill of still uncertain fate, 
 
 To be perchance soon lost in larger stream, 
 
 Or sink unnoticed 'mid the peaty hags, 
 
 Like to a broken life that ends in gloom ; 
 
 Or, fitting symbol of a perfect lot, 
 
 Grow a great river, bear a glorious name, 
 
 Reflect to many eyes of short-lived men, 
 
 Age after age as they pass o'er the earth, 
 
 The high pure lights of God, and flowing flash 
 
 Heaven-borrowed splendour throughout all the land. 
 
 A streamlet, thou, in latent purpose strong, 
 A line of force in far south-west that springs, 
 Aye tending steadfast to the north-east sea, 
 
8 DESCRIPTION 
 
 As thereto moved by phantasy innate, 
 
 Or drawn by love of morning's early gleam, 
 
 And sun uprising o'er the dappled hills. 
 
 But here at distant source who can foresee 
 
 A purpose in thy tiny wave, far less 
 
 That thou wilt e'er rejoice o'er compassed aim? 
 
 Thou'rt as a human life but just awake 
 
 To feeling 'mid the world's blank lonely wild, 
 
 . 
 
 That gropes all darkly for its fate, and finds 
 Its end in groping; effort blind becomes 
 Illumed in act, the life grows free and full 
 Through striving forces fused : and here, slight rill, 
 Thou seek'st a way 'mid strong contending streams, 
 That numerous rush from high confronting glens ; 
 Now nobly is thine impulse full upborne 
 By loyal south-west flow, and then again 
 Bent backwards from thy course by north-east burn; 
 And yet from conflict thou e'er risest strong, 
 Nay, in thy soft green haughs mak'st gleaming peace. 
 
AND LEGEND. 
 
 For there in one fair harmony of flow, 
 
 Thou stilFst the war of waters from the heights, 
 
 And in the reconcilement of the streams, 
 
 Grow'st to an ampler life, serener tide, 
 
 Till, in accomplished aim, thou glidest grand 
 
 In triumph and in- tribute to the sea ! 
 
 The symbol, thou, O Tweed, of those two Lands, 
 The South and North, that long in conflict strove, 
 And from their striving found a greater life, 
 And the strong calm of perfect unity : 
 Yet wilt thou ne'er forego a pulsing wave, 
 Deep sympathetic with that noble heart, 
 The heart of Bruce, that beat for Scotland's cause, 
 And made the weaker meet to match the strong 
 As now it rests with him of Otterbourne, 
 Where thou encirclest Melrose' holy shrine. 
 Thy mountain gleam was in that living heart 
 To brighten with a hope its young resolve, 
 
io DESCRIPTION 
 
 Beneath the grey-cloud sky of great emprise, 
 
 That morn he rode by Ericstane, his lot 
 
 Irrevocably cast for liberty; 
 
 And now, if it could beat, 'twould swell to feel 
 
 The larger peace, the proud equality, 
 
 His spirit through the centuries has Wrought 
 
 For his loved land sore stricken ere his time. 
 
 Thy lot it is, fair Stream, to flow amid 
 A varied vale : not mountain height alone, 
 Nor mere outspreading flat is dully thine, 
 But wavy lines of hills, high, massive, broad, 
 That rise and fall, and flowing softly fuse 
 In haughs of grassy sward, a deep hued green; 
 No call thou mak'st on dwellers by thy banks 
 To constant struggle with mere mountain steeps, 
 Nor leav'st them all to indolence of dreams 
 On pastoral plain; but, mingling hill and dale 
 And gleaming pool, like that old Attic land, 
 
AND LEGEND. 1 1 
 
 Where thought and fancy reached their perfect type, 
 
 Thou hast evoked full human energy, 
 
 Yet charmed it by sweet breaks of soft repose. 
 
 By thee have many lives in quiet passed 
 
 Of staid demeanour and of manly mood, 
 
 Content with circle of mere homely deeds, 
 
 And yet inspired deep by breath of song, 
 
 That carols now with lark at flush of morn, 
 
 Then moves soft-toned, subdued, as hallowed eve 
 
 Glows in the west, and dies beyond the hills. 
 
 Down many a sky-arched, hill-enfolded glen, 
 Where summer shadows dwell with mountain sounds, 
 The speeding stream, imcharmed to rest by birk 
 That woos it, fair forget-me-not's sweet eyes, 
 The moss sun-hued, with sparkle as of tears, 
 The glow of heathery brae, the bracken sheen, 
 And unarrested by the deep grey rock 
 That only stirs it to a quicker flow 
 
12 DESCRIPTION 
 
 Makes haste to greet thee, Tweed, in verdant haugh, 
 And with its tribute swells thine early wave. 
 
 From Birk Craigs grey, far Fruid, pour down thy glen 
 
 The cradle of that knight of Roslin Lee 
 
 Whose victor wreath twined round his martyr crown ; 
 
 Whose home is now scarce marked by ruined mound, 
 
 Time swept, and traceless as his orphans' tears. 
 
 Let Hawkshaw come by Porteous' ancient walls, 
 
 Name redolent of noble falconry ; 
 
 Haste, Talla, from thy linns and lonesome loch, 
 
 High Gameshope's mist-filled urn, that shimmering 
 
 lies 
 
 Dark grey amid the moors; speed, rocky stream, 
 Long uncompanioned, save by hill, and heaven, 
 And moorbird's wail. Dread shelter oft thou gav'st 
 To lonely hearts from men more cruel far 
 Than nature's cold ; and after rugged flow 
 Thou circlest to thy close with peaceful wave 
 
AND LEGEND. 13 
 
 Around the mounded graves in lone kirkyard : 
 The symbol, thou, of those heroic souls, 
 Unworldly as thy wilds that were their home, 
 Their lives as troubled as their death was calm, 
 Whom thou did'st keep for God's eternal rest ! 
 
 Harstane, pour down thy burn from high Broad Law, 
 
 The sovran of Tweed's hills ! Great-browed, remote, 
 
 Familiar with all winds and wreathing mists ; 
 
 By winter storm deep scaured; 'neath summer sky 
 
 Self-shadowed; throned above encircling heights, 
 
 That rise and fall and fuse in myriad lines, 
 
 All-motionless, yet, to the scanning eye, 
 
 For ever passing on, as wave on wave, 
 
 In one far flow, a vast earth-sea of hills, 
 
 That ever moves and ever is at rest ! 
 
 And over all, the quiet of the sky; 
 
 The very burns are here deep hid and hushed, 
 
14 DESCRIPTION 
 
 Down far below in long enfolded glens, 
 Nowhere is man or trace of human hand ; 
 'Twould even seem as if his passing works 
 Were mere intrusion on Earth's solitude, 
 Which she but tolerates in paltry nooks, 
 Where self-inflated he may build and dig, 
 And come and go and spend his little day; 
 While here with thee, great Hill, o'er endless heights 
 Nature beneath that sky reigns all alone, 
 Enthroned for ever, and inviolate ! 
 
 And yet thou keepest well a tender trust 
 
 Of simple growths God-given to thy care ! 
 
 On thy spread slopes peer forms of grasses dwarfed, 
 
 Deer-antlered lichen, pale hill violet ; 
 
 The red-leaved flower, hair-fringed and tipped with dew, 
 
 In presence of the sun, as life that keeps 
 
 The freshness of its dawn through glare of day; 
 
 And here and there a tiny tormentil 
 
AND LEGEND. 15 
 
 That golden gleamed amid the river's haughs, 
 Now seeking nearer commune with the sun, 
 Far fearless creeps unto thy loftiest wild, 
 Companion dear of lonely mountaineer ! 
 
 Once o'er this high broad Fell the sea-waves broke, 
 And sea-birds flew and clanged 'mid ocean's roar 
 And troubled foam ; but now at summer noon, 
 Spirit of solitude ! thou dwellest here, 
 And brookest not one sound thou canst not fuse 
 To harmony with stillness; lone stray bleat 
 That wails the silence, then within it dies; 
 And ever circling hum that broods at noon 
 O'er the calm moorland height, a wandering joy 
 That makes sweet murmur 'mid the listening air ! 
 
 'Twas here, O spirit of the mountain lone ! 
 That lives and feels, yet knows no narrow bound 
 Of rounding space or local consciousness, 
 
1 6 DESCRIPTION 
 
 Thou first spake to my heart, and first became 
 
 To me a new divine creative power ! 
 
 I felt how from thine inmost heart there spring 
 
 The forms that people all the living realm 
 
 Of Poesy impassioned ; how we need 
 
 A soul in things, and how we're drawn to pierce 
 
 Sense symbols of the Earth, and see revealed 
 
 To human eye forms on high-ways of God, 
 
 That girdle round and consecrate the world ! 
 
 For on this vast unpeopled wild, alone 
 
 With solitude of hills, and infinite 
 
 Of void unfeeling sky, I could not brook 
 
 The saddening thought of silent self-less things ! 
 
 I felt the craving deep within the heart 
 
 For fellowship of spirit ; whereupon 
 
 Shapes sudden rose amid the loneliness 
 
 To life like mine ; above, the clouds sped on, 
 
 The sun's fleet messengers, in garb of noon 
 
 Arrayed; the sounds of palpitating streams 
 
AND LEGEND. 17 
 
 Grew voices; gentle winds in sympathy 
 
 Bent low; and shadows that soft swept the hills 
 
 Were ministrants of numerous dim-lit joys. 
 
 There was new glory in the sun-cleft mist, 
 
 New splendour in the sombre wading moon, 
 
 The threat of storm had strange and thrilling 
 
 thoughts : 
 
 I felt a Power within the veil of Sense, 
 That for itself sought outcome meet and true, 
 Its own expression perfect, its first end, 
 Yet e'en for me had sympathetic speech, 
 If I should lend the ear of Reverence, 
 Or prize the joy severely-born of Awe ! 
 
 Erewhile the Spirit pure of God, alone, 
 Deep brooding o'er the formless dark of things, 
 Rayed forth the image of his glorious Self, 
 And lit to God-like life chaotic world; 
 
 My faith is that His Spirit still lives here, 
 B 
 
1 8 DESCRIPTION 
 
 And communes with the open heart of man 
 
 On lonely wilds, where e'er no hand hath touched 
 
 The work of God, or marred the holy place 
 
 Which he first made a dwelling for Himself ! 
 
 * 
 
 Where Bertha's form commingles with the mists, 
 
 Recalling love and hate, remorse and fear, 
 
 That once deep marked the course of human lives, 
 
 Now seeming but as shadows on the hill, 
 
 Powmood, foam-dashing o'er thy boulders blenched, 
 
 Speed arrow-straight adown thy cloven Hope, 
 
 By red scaured mountain wall name consecrate 
 
 To bounding deer and old free forestry ; 
 
 And Stanhope, 'mid thy rain empurpled breaks 
 
 Of stony steeps, pour stream from fivefold springs. 
 
 Drummelzier ! thou that bear'st the mossy well 
 
 And rowan red far up to lonesome hills, 
 
 And muirs soft-touched by Merlin's flitting shade, 
 
 Come with thy wave in sunshine by his grave, 
 
 
AND LEGEND. ! 9 
 
 And murmur 'neath high Tinnies' ruined keep. 
 
 Historic streams, ye sweep round ancient homes 
 
 That now, alas ! know not their ancient lords ! 
 
 Impersonal in flow as heedless tide 
 
 Of ceaseless Time, and yet so consecrate 
 
 By story of the past to names of eld 
 
 To Hunter, Murray, Tweedie, barons gone 
 
 That in ideal presence these still live, 
 
 And rule alone amid their burns and glens. 
 
 From northern heights, opposing streams, ye speed, 
 
 As if on hostile errand, yet are won 
 
 To swell Tweed's wave that gleams from bank to 
 
 brae. 
 
 By Chapel Kingledoors, St. Cuthbert's fane, 
 Thou flowest, lonely burn, whose moorland wave 
 Bore down the glen Lord Fleming's dying wail 
 As 'neath Drummelzier's brand red-gashed he fell. 
 How harsh it sounded through that quiet eve 
 
20 DESCRIPTION 
 
 By chapel, where the priest and little flock 
 Were chanting calm the soothing vesper song ! 
 
 Dim shade of hart sore pressed, that summer's morn, 
 Still glooms the brooding pastoral green that rounds 
 The silver links of sacred Logan Burn, 
 As it winds gleaming through the Logan Lee 
 As pure a stream as pours from mountain spring : 
 'Twas long ago the seemly hart sped fast, 
 Before his keen pursuing foes, but still 
 The shepherd sees him in the gloamin'-tide, 
 Has even heard his sad pathetic cry ! 
 
 Where from the Wormhill speeds the rapid rill, 
 The sheeted form of that sweet heiress proud, 
 With light of loving eyes unquenched by death, 
 Still haunts the Dean; who wot herself, and well, 
 A match for young Powmood of olden blood, 
 But flashed a maiden's scorn on heartless love. 
 
AND LEGEND. 2I 
 
 The hurrying suitors 7 throng, what recked she there? 
 Or King's swift-riding by the Merecleugh Head, 
 And lighting at that quaint Mossfennan Yett, 
 With all his spotted hounds and pomp of chace? 
 At sunrise in the wood men found a face 
 Pale, winsome e'en in death; how there no one 
 Shall know till God himself arise and flame 
 His final sunrise searching all the world. 
 
 Glenholm, pour gleaming stream by lofty fells, 
 And wind around the sacred grassy mounds, 
 Memorials of the care of olden Church 
 That loved to dwell among the lonely wilds, 
 And minister to few and simple folk, 
 There set its faith, Glenkirk and Chapelgill : 
 Now brooding o'er the past stands high Caerdon, 
 That fort-crowned watched the homesteads of the vale, 
 And ready girdled with the bale-fire's glare 
 The haugh's abodes of peace and piety ! 
 
22 DESCRIPTION 
 
 Thou broad-browed Scrape, whom Autumn loves to 
 
 deck 
 
 With regal purple crown, thy twin streams bid 
 Sound down amid thy shadows, through the woods 
 That circle with their arms the olden home 
 Of knightly line that ne'er stained knightly name, 
 But bore the pennon white along the line 
 Of storied centuries, and laid at last, 
 In honour down, the well-worn silver shield 
 Dashed with the sable heads; so fell from fame. 
 Yet, ancient Dawyck ! thy memories alone 
 Are sweetly sad, for now thou look'st and art 
 Refined abode of cheerful human ways. 
 O'er thee a hand has moved with such a grace, 
 That art, all artless, pure and loving wears, 
 'Mid sheen of leaf and shade of varied bough, 
 The simple winning look of Nature's face. 
 
 Thy true-souled Knight of olden line has kept 
 
AND LEGEND. 23 
 
 The knightly quality, and this sublimed 
 Above mere strength, and all that makes rude power, 
 Has grown and blossomed in aesthetic sense; 
 And where dark deeds were done on steeps of 
 
 Scrape, 
 
 Writ poetry of pine and birken shaw, 
 And yet has left wild nature free to mix 
 The heather bloom, pure as the ancient hills, 
 With spreading boles of stately forestry. 
 
 Dark Lyne ! flow sad and slow 'mid dowie haughs ; 
 
 Meet thus to pass by Drochil's mouldering walls, 
 
 The symbol of a baffled earthly hope, 
 
 And of a broken life uncrowned by fame, 
 
 A home ne'er roofed, or warmed by hearthfire glow, 
 
 Or raying forth upon the cheerless night 
 
 A kindly light set by a human hand. 
 
 Yet strange the glare and troubled does it seem, 
 
 That moves within thy desert halls, grey tower, 
 
24 DESCRIPTION 
 
 As years bring round the eve of that grim day 
 
 Thy Lord was 'headed on the Castle Hill ! 
 
 E'en thee, dark Lyne, the Tweed doth smiling greet, 
 
 And folding thee within his sparkling wave, 
 
 He bears thee onward as a brother loved, 
 
 And leaves no stain of thine unpurified ! 
 
 Flow, Manor, from thy green and sacred urn, 
 Come with bright heart-gleam through the mist-cleft 
 
 morn 
 
 And sundown shade, thou sweetest stream of all 
 The South ! With thee bring memories that float 
 O'er ruined keeps, and uncompanioned trees 
 On bare hill-sides, and solitary cairns. 
 Come in the sanctity that loving broods 
 O'er those green mounds that mark the ancient shrine 
 Of sainted Gordian ! where the Cross of stone 
 Points earthwards to the gentle, simple, dead, 
 And heavenwards rises to the risen Christ ! 
 
AND LEGEND. 25 
 
 The mists enshroud it pale, and then it glows 
 
 With sunshine fire, robed now in grief, and now 
 
 In glory; passing burns together join 
 
 Their voices in one ever-flowing hymn; 
 
 And yet above it storm wild cries of birds, 
 
 As if there were a trouble on the earth : 
 
 Lone scene soft-touched by that lone cross, and meet 
 
 For meditative thought to stay and brood 
 
 Upon the secret tie that binds in one 
 
 Th' unworldly spirit living at the heart 
 
 Of Nature, and the soul of Sacrifice ! 
 
 Manor ! ere lingering birks bid thee farewell, 
 And thou art meetly joined with thine own Tweed, 
 Thou circlest with thy gleam green Cademuir's steeps, 
 Where murmur of thy streams, and bl eatings low, 
 And many moving shadows of the sky, 
 Dwell with the pastoral stillness of the hill ; 
 Whose wavy heights keep broken battlements, 
 
26 DESCRIPTION 
 
 And ancient raths now sunk in grassy mounds, 
 And those weird stones that know no graven mark, 
 Save grey scaurs written by the storms of years, 
 Yet silent tell us of long buried dead : 
 How oft I've felt as there were faces old 
 Around me, peering dimly from the past, 
 In grey o 7 gloamin' 'mid those eerie graves ! 
 
 Dear hill ! of ever changing light and shade, 
 
 And faded battle fame in by-gone time, 
 
 'Tis thine to charm as thou canst awe the soul. 
 
 Let me but speak thee as I've seen thee oft 
 
 On a sweet day in early June ; o'erhead, 
 
 White streaks of wind -slashed clouds calmed on the 
 
 blue; 
 
 Around, the hill spring-green, save where the sod 
 Is pranked with tiny tormentil that loves 
 The ^mountain slopes, and yellow violets 
 Of nunlike mien, that groupe themselves afield 
 
AND LEGEND. 27 
 
 In gentle sisterhoods; rock-rose, dear child 
 Of sun-smote heights, unfolds its fluttering flowers 
 Of gold beside the heather dark and slow 
 To greet the sun; in watered hollows green 
 The slender cardamine, first lilac hued, 
 Then growing white and pure 'neath influence 
 Of heaven, a welcome waves to gentle winds 
 Now vocal with the cuckoo's echoing note. 
 
 Frail passing flowers, soft-tinted things of spring, 
 Sweet dawn of colour, simple grace of form ! 
 Prelude ye are of richer bolder hues, 
 Of flowering thyme, the heather-bell and bloom, 
 And ferns of broad green leafage ; yet no charm 
 Have these like yours, first risen from the grave 
 Of Winter, when the spirit at your heart 
 Slept calm, not doubting that in sunny hours 
 To come, ye'd make a joy on bared steeps, 
 Where ceaseless winds were raving day and night, 
 
2 8 DESCRIPTION 
 
 And all was lone despair; nor any more, 
 As flows th ? unwavering order of the world, 
 And Autumn draws you back within the veil, 
 Has that same God-born spirit e'er a dread 
 Lest ye shall triumph o'er earth's elements, 
 And live your simple graceful life again, 
 Symbols of faith, of innocence, and love, 
 By doubt unshaken and by fear unpaled ! 
 
 Great Heights of Hundleshope ! that ward the vales 
 
 Of Manor and of Tweed, and grandly bar 
 
 The southern sky, should ye remain unsung? 
 
 Ye that enfold the Alpine glens, wherein 
 
 At high noon-tide the shadows lie unscared 
 
 In presence of the sun ! How many sights 
 
 Ye've shown to me ! How many thoughts yeVe 
 
 stirred 
 
 And feelings wrought, since first, in youthful awe, 
 I eager peered into your far dark halls, 
 
AND LEGEND. 29 
 
 That oped and closed 'mid drapery of mist ! 
 And how I wondered what quaint shapes ye hid, 
 And what might lie beneath that sky outstretched 
 Away beyond your tops, so sacred kept 
 From curious eyes and reach of tiny feet ! 
 Daily I learned your lesson, learned to pause 
 Within the bounding line that circumscribes 
 The vision of the soul, and keeps the thought 
 From wandering aimlessly amid the vague 
 Indefinite of things, and yet I felt 
 A haunting power of high uncompassed spheres; 
 Even when at morn I watched yon beckon slow 
 Across your brow, the mists, in circling coils, 
 Sun-smit, transfigured to a dusky sheen, 
 Then sudden bare your face, and look o'er all 
 The river vale in splendour of the sky ! 
 
 Early and long the winter snow enwraps 
 You in its folds, revealing to the eye 
 
30 DESCRIPTION 
 
 Your sculptured lines, as 'twere the pure abstract 
 Of nature, bare yet beautiful ; and long 
 A sombre hue ye resolutely wear 
 Beneath the summer sky, when sister height 
 Is bright in joyous green, e'en decks herself 
 With violets amid the glints of spring; 
 Until the heather through long days of June 
 Slow changing, unperceived,- its russet garb 
 For robe of tinted green, at length displays 
 On high a glorious crown of purple bloom, 
 A slow won treasure from the summer sun. 
 
 How can I speak all I have learned from you, 
 Ye lonely glens, ye solitary moors? 
 Haunting your uplands, I have sudden seen 
 A white mist speeding dusk the summer sky 
 Overhead, and fill the depths of glen that fold 
 The burnheads; and in that abyss far down, 
 Through the soft veil that hung from all the heights, 
 
AND LEGEND. 3 ! 
 
 In shimmer bright were gleaming silver pools, 
 
 As lustrous jewels parted from a crown, 
 
 That charmed to oneness with their radiant sheen 
 
 The drooping fringes of the misty air : 
 
 So light of heart, the lowliest on earth, 
 
 Doth silently illume and interfuse 
 
 With its own purity the dark around ! 
 
 Invisible powers ye have to stir with dread, 
 For on your uplands lonesome and remote, 
 A causeless fear will seize the shepherd's soul, 
 Even 'mid the stillness of the full noon tide; 
 As unseen Pan, in graver mood, of old 
 Would shadow with an awe lone traveller 
 On Attic hill, constraining worship from 
 The simple heart. But most, when gloamin' grey 
 Begins to spread its dim and mystic folds, 
 And things look weird as shades, shades real as 
 things, 
 
32 DESCRIPTION 
 
 Will plaided shepherd pass, amid strange dread, 
 Swift o'er the moorland height, and through the bent, 
 Until from light of his own nestling cot, 
 And hearing of his burn, low in the glen, 
 He snatch a sudden joy, and smile his fear 
 Away. Nor lonely shepherd only knows 
 The awesome mood, for oft has poet found 
 A welcome sight, when after striving miles 
 Amid your pathless wilds, with cloudy mist 
 And darkening shapes of gloom, he sudden sees, 
 Though still afar, the gleam of moon-eyed clock 
 That high in belfry tower overlooks all night 
 The sleeping town, and ever and anon 
 Upon the earless darkness clangs the hours ! 
 
 In the far east I've watched the rising moon 
 Loom large, a vague rimmed orb of golden light, 
 That in o'erflow effaced its circling line, 
 Suffusing in its glow the blue around ; 
 
AND LEGEND. 33 
 
 When up the sky and o'er your heights it passed, 
 
 Twould gather round itself in closer fold 
 
 Its floating robes of light, until there grew 
 
 Pure brightness set in perfectness of form. 
 
 So thus, meseems, does lofty thought progress 
 
 To limit and due sphere, for at its rise 
 
 Athwart the mind of man, it looms awhile 
 
 Indefinite, in unrestrained glow, 
 
 A dazzling wonder which we may not bound, 
 
 Full flow of feeling, not idea fixed, 
 
 Then grows to sharper shape and clearer mien, 
 
 As sphere enwrapt in its self unity, 
 
 Bright guide across the circle of our night : 
 
 Yet as we joy in the pure later light, 
 
 Often we fondly backwards turn to think 
 
 Of that full glory, weirdly vague and grand, 
 
 That thrilled the early vision of the soul, 
 
 And stirred and moved us with a dread unrest, 
 
 As when the risen light first smote the hills, 
 c 
 
34 DESCRIPTION 
 
 And ope'd the boundless spaces of the sky ! 
 
 In moonless nights, full of all mystery 
 
 Is the pale weather-gleam that winding flows, 
 
 A belt of light above your darkened brows, 
 
 And 'neath the hanging blackness of the sky, 
 
 As outskirt of a glory far away, 
 
 Dropt faintly on the furthest rim of earth : 
 
 And shapes, which fancy to the vision lends, 
 
 Appear to come and go on that high-way 
 
 Of heaven, shadowy as the forms of those 
 
 That were, and now unvoiced communion hold 
 
 'Mid the weird gleam, where day and night are met ! 
 
 Beneath the grey north sky, a quiet stream 
 Winds a slow wave from uplands bleak and bare, 
 And 'mid red-earthed, plough-riven knowes that wait 
 Long time the braird of spring to clothe them boon 
 In Nature's cheerful green. From Moss of Maw 
 
AND LEGEND. 35 
 
 It comes, that darkly hemmed the painted Pict 
 In old Manau Gododin, when Modred, 
 The pagan son of Lothus, striving fierce 
 With Arthur, they two fell at Camelon. 
 The British chief, the Saxon thane, the lord 
 Of Norman name, the vale has known in turn; 
 Now all are gone, and there is nought the same 
 As in those days, save, Eddlestone, the flow 
 And ripple of thy wave among the stones ! 
 
 Through the old Town thou'st passed in summers 
 
 gone, 
 
 In days of gleam, and days of winter storm; 
 And poured, in calm of night, soft harmony 
 Round circling wall that fenced the Burgher's homes, 
 And by the castle that overlooked the haughs, 
 Now traceless save by mounds of shapeless green. 
 Dark days of dread, and nights of anxious ward 
 Men oft have known by thee; thy wave has glowed 
 
3 6 DESCRIPTION 
 
 With shimmering glare cast from the roofs aflame. 
 
 And yet upon thy banks have many lives 
 
 Of Burghers old in quiet passed, that felt 
 
 The self-respect of daily honest toil, 
 
 When none was thought to be a worthy man, 
 
 Who bore no badge of useful craft, or guild, 
 
 Enrolled a worker for the common weal ! 
 
 For generations gone thou hast no tear, 
 All heedless in thy flow; thus thou dost pass 
 Near an old home, and near a mother's grave, 
 Whose life was flowering of a noble heart, 
 To whom self-sacrifice was natural 
 As is the living breath of heaven's own air. 
 Her hand was busy as the day was long, 
 Yet in her eyes the mute appealing look 
 Of any creature God had made, awoke 
 Deep sympathy; the harebell on rude bank 
 Between her fields was to her heart a joy, 
 
AND LEGEND. 37 
 
 And imaged clear in memory I see 
 The slender waving grass of autumn days, 
 She plucked, and set above the mantel-piece, 
 Quaint figured; there all through the winter time 
 To wear its grace, till living touch of spring 
 Quickened anew the beauty of the year ! 
 
 
 So thou wilt careless pass in years to come 
 When I am gone, and yet, O simple stream, 
 Thou shalt not flow unmarked, for all the peace, 
 And all the love, and all the kindly thoughts, 
 In days for ever gone, I knew by thee ! 
 
 Come, gentle Quair, thou dear loved stream of song ! 
 
 Long consecrate to passion's bootless prayer ! 
 
 By thee Love's hope has dawned, and dwined, and 
 
 died 
 
 Even 'mid the spring, when tender birken boughs 
 Are growing green, and all the lover's heart 
 
3 8 DESCRIPTION 
 
 Throbs with upbraiding full, and wild unrest, 
 That Nature is so kind, and Fate so hard ! 
 And in late Autumn sere, the gentle lamb 
 Forlorn, sweet orphaned Lucy of the Glen, 
 When passing from her love, she knew not where, 
 To the cold world, or not unwelcome grave, 
 Heard high on bare-boughed tree the robin chirp 
 1 Farewell ' her own farewell to summer bloom, 
 And to her heart-stored promise of the year ! 
 And later in these times we've heard a voice 
 Bid thee, O Quair, run sweet among the flowers, 
 When love impassioned, in a lowly cot, 
 Would weary heaven with many a heart-felt prayer, 
 And blame the blast that blows upon her cheek, 
 And envious eye the flower that decks her hair ! 
 
 Come, Leithen, from thy far deep-cloven Hopes 
 And skyey moors ; by White Strath fair and Dale 
 Of Saxon woe, let Gala Water pour, 
 
AND LEGEND. 
 
 39 
 
 And let it glint by Buckholm, Torwoodlee, 
 As sweet as when it thrilled 'neath his eye-gleam, 
 That morn the Minstrel, passing to his close, 
 Smiled softly his last smile on Border stream, 
 A smile that played through welcome to farewell ! 
 Let Yarrow speed her flowing wave of song, 
 And memories braided as of sun and shade; 
 Glide, Ettrick, from thy Pen and solitudes, 
 Where croon the grassy rills; and softly sweep 
 Around the Warlock's stained and mouldering peel, 
 Where strange lights gleam from midnight unto dawn. 
 
 Come, pastoral Leader, by weird Rhymer's tower; 
 Come, South and North, and make an ampler wave 
 Where lordly Tweed breaks from his mountain land, 
 To pour his strength upon the Eildon plain, 
 Wave meet for royal state of early kings, 
 Now deep entombed 'neath Roxburgh's smooth green 
 mounds ; 
 
40 DESCRIPTION 
 
 Meet for hushed clang of hoof and clash of spears, 
 
 Quenched foray, and the clear calm moon, unstained 
 
 By lurid fires o' night; pathetic peace, 
 
 That hovering broods o'er ancient battlefields ! 
 
 For piety decayed, and holy shrines 
 
 To living voice all silent, yet instinct 
 
 With quenchless speech of old historic dead. 
 
 Here wind, O Tweed, a calm majestic wave, 
 
 And glowing gleam in dawn, and glorious flash 
 
 In noon, and grandly loom in clouded eve, 
 
 In memory of him, thine own in life 
 
 And death, who sleeps beside the ancient yews 
 
 That changeless shade St. Mary's sacred Aisle ! 
 
 Eden ! flow soft by wooded Mellerstane, 
 For there the dust of Grisell Baillie lies 
 Beside the husband whom she loved as life, 
 He worthy son of martyred Jerviswood, 
 She worthy daughter of the patriot Home ! 
 
AND LEGEND. 4 ! 
 
 In time of trouble deep none ever bore 
 A braver heart, or showed a gentler mien, 
 Than she the lithe lass with the chesnut hair, 
 And eyes of light and sweetness eloquent, 
 And ripe rich bloom upon her maiden cheek, 
 As she would trip o' night to dim-lit vault, 
 Where 'mid the whitening bones of old forbears 
 Her father couched, life-hunted in the years 
 Accursed of bloody Stewart. Oh ! at first 
 Those mounded graves and grey tombstones around 
 Were eerie to her girlish eyes and heart, 
 But soon they grew to be familiar friends, 
 Whose loneliness was welcome, as a sign 
 That but the unsuspecting dead were near ! 
 
 With secret message she would gravely ride 
 
 To Scotland's Tower, where lay her father's friend 
 
 In prison for the cause of liberty; 
 
 With moving shudder deep, and yet with face 
 
42 DESCRIPTION 
 
 Undaunted, she would pass, alone, beneath 
 
 The storm-stained heads on grim spiked City Port, 
 
 That looked so ghastly in the gleam of morn : 
 
 And, mission wisely done, she happy smiled 
 
 To see the bonny holms of Merse again ! 
 
 Yet on her pitying fancy rose the face 
 
 Of him, the youth who voluntary shared 
 
 His father's cell, and stood by him in death : 
 
 Until that face became her light of life, 
 
 And seemed unto her heart pure as a star 
 
 That shines above the earth in nobler sphere, 
 
 Where lives the spirit of self-sacrifice ! 
 
 The pinch of exile and of poverty 
 On Holland's shore full bitterly she knew, 
 Yet o'er the narrow household ways she cast 
 A sunshine from a soul that conquered fate, 
 Full of a peace which nought on earth might 
 move, 
 
AND LEGEND. 
 
 43 
 
 To her a strength and to her home a joy, 
 And as the well-spring of her noble life 
 She poured the high refrain, the deathless line 
 Of song " Were na' my heart licht I wad dee ! " 
 
 Fair Teviot come, and join thy spreading wave, 
 From every glen that cleaves thy storied dale, 
 Dale of stern deeds, dale of heroic song ; 
 Oft stirred of old by flash of flame, and cry 
 That ' warned the water/ while the hasty fray 
 Was borne to every peel, and neither youth 
 Nor age was backward at a kinsman's call : 
 As on that night, Bewcastle reiving knew 
 1 Auld Wat o' Harden's ' arm, and his stout heart 
 1 That grat for very rage,' when Willie Scott 
 Upon the ground lay slain ; then fiercer swelled, 
 As, with his good steel cap, the old Laird waved 
 To onset fresh, while streamed his lyart locks, 
 White as the snow upon the Dinlay Hill ! 
 
44 DESCRIPTION AND LEGEND. 
 
 Stretch, Teviot, to the Caldcleugh Fell, and stretch 
 To Caerlanrig, and where the Reid Swire breaks 
 On English land; come by dark Ruberslaw, 
 With Jed and Rule, where Thomson's, Ley den's song 
 Was first inspired by breath of Border glen, 
 That freshened all our British poesy; 
 And let thy passing wave by Minto Crag 
 Now rise, now fall in soft pathetic turn, 
 To voice the music of that lilt and wail, 
 The lilt of lasses ere the dawn of day, 
 Their sighing at the weary gloamin 7 tide, 
 When all the Forest Flowers were wede away ! 
 Bring gathered flow of all thy classic streams, 
 And pour with Tweed along the Border line, 
 A deep full swelling tide, not as of old 
 Defiant shock of foe, yet strong as then, 
 And flash a welcome bright to brother-land ! 
 
BOOK SECOND, 
 fetoth of Hater* 
 
ARGUMENT. 
 
 INFLUENCE of the scenery, river and vale. Nature-feeling in the traditional 
 phrases, word-pictures, of the district. Fresh nature-feeling in the early 
 times. Thomas the Rhymer. His ideal. The fairy element. How the 
 early nature-feeling was quenched. The wilder aspects of the scenery. 
 Ossian. Power of reconciliation in the softer aspects of free nature. The 
 first Tweed-side song. Gradual spread thereafter of nature-feeling in the 
 district. 
 
(Smtoth ot JJater* Jtding. 
 
 T) Y heritage, pure Tweed, of haugh and hill, 
 
 Which thou possessest with a lordly mien, 
 From thy high Well to where the ocean tide 
 Speeds through the arches that two kingdoms bridge, 
 To greet thine upland wave, by sunny gleams 
 Along thy gliding path, by sweep of stream, 
 And alder-shaded pools, long hast thou wooed 
 Thy sons to heart-felt love of earth and heaven. 
 Silent their love has often been, but deep, 
 As finding no meet voice, known but to thee, 
 O noble stream, and those whose hearts were thine ! 
 
4 8 THE GROWTH OF 
 
 Chief thou dost teach, by solitude of glens, 
 And wonders of the sky, the shepherd lad 
 Who ever haunts thy hills, till in him grows 
 The deep impassioned heart, and in quaint phrase 
 He graphic sets both what he sees and feels 
 Sometimes in awe, sometimes in stirring love, 
 Of daily wonders all around his path, 
 Not for him wonders, rather daily food, 
 Unconscious nurture of the inner soul 
 That gropes amid sense-visions for its God ! 
 
 'Tis thus at morn he, climbing up the hill, 
 Has vision of 'the sky 7 that gleaming grows 
 Above the east, as fair new risen dream, 
 Ere brightening orb is seen, or sombre earth, 
 Beneath, gives one responsive glance; and then 
 The sun himself appears in radiant glare, 
 And soft hill clouds pass tremulous morn-smit 
 In glorious disarray; or slanting beams, 
 
NA TURE FEELING. 49 
 
 Through watery air, lie 'red upon the rain.' 
 
 At high noontide, the vapour floating thin 
 Before the sun, and o'er the spreading lift, 
 He marks the darkening ' skaum' upon the sky,- 
 Till suddenly the whole great light of God 
 Cleaves the thin veil of air and stands supreme, 
 Irradiant ; while from the height he sees, 
 Down in the haugh, the creeping shape of mist 
 Catch the sped beam's far glance, and rise to heaven 
 Pierced and transfigured, as with fire divine, 
 The 'dry ure' glow of sky-enkindled flame. 
 
 And many a day above him, on the moor, 
 The clouds rise high before the speeding wind, 
 And with them all the fancies of his soul 
 Take wing, as the grey 'rack' aye steady sweeps 
 Across the sky, in 'carry' unrestrained, 
 An airy fleet, bound on mysterious course, 
 
5 o THE GROWTH OF 
 
 For ever onwards through the infinite. 
 
 'The weather-gaw' he scans above the hill, 
 Wherein the rainbow's hues with watery sheen 
 Gleam beautiful upon the grey-dark sky, 
 Yet ominous of storm ; and high in heaven 
 ' The ark of cloud ' mysterious gleams and opes, 
 Then closing sails away into the blue. 
 
 And towards day's soft fall, as lowering sun 
 
 Shoots slantingly adown the western glens, 
 
 And the broad-browed, deep-bosomed forest hills 
 
 Lie in their own self-shadowing enwrapt, 
 
 That only glooms their green, he reverent feels 
 
 The power that lurks in i scarrow of the hill,' 
 
 When strength of mountain and the sound of streams 
 
 Are gently folded in the calm of eve, 
 
 And all his earth is circled by a peace 
 
 That seems to fall as from the throne of God ! 
 
NATURE FEELING. 
 
 Pure joy he has in that deep sweetest time, 
 
 The gloamin', when o'er all the face of things 
 
 Creeps gentleness, as soothing round of dream; 
 
 The aged man of toil, whose lot is toil 
 
 Aye upwards from his youth, and to the close, 
 
 Gets from boon nature his one quiet hour 
 
 Of rest, and thought, and sober retrospect, 
 
 While in the younger hearts soft passions throb, 
 
 And Hope arises 'mid the gentle calm, 
 
 And Fancy weaves life-pictures through the years 
 
 To come, as placid as that gloamin' tide. 
 
 And when the gloamin' shades into 'the mirk,' 
 There runs along the high hill-tops, below 
 The darkened sky, above the darkened earth, 
 A clear pale line of light, ' the weather-gleam/ 
 In which the day foregoes its ardent look, 
 And night kndws not its unrelieved shade, 
 But light and dark are met and reconciled, 
 
 5 1 
 
52 THE GROWTH OF 
 
 Again to part at morn, again to meet 
 
 At eve, when each in devious path has filled 
 
 Earth's hemisphere, and symboled for our thought 
 
 The never-ending outcome and return 
 
 Of that great Power that makes, yet is self-grasped 
 
 Within the moving cycle of the world. 
 
 To dweller in the glen, alone with hill 
 
 And sky from day to day, these airy sights 
 
 Are beings with a permanence of life, 
 
 That seem to come and go undyingly, 
 
 As powers that live within the veil of heaven ; 
 
 Their very names are vital with a sense 
 
 Of personality; they people all 
 
 His solitude; and thus within him grows 
 
 Th' unworldly heart, perchance th' impassioned soul, 
 
 And he will fill his vale with voice of song, 
 
 Cast upon echo and the wandering winds, 
 
 And charming later years in broken notes, 
 
NATURE FEELING. 53 
 
 The poet's very name and memory gone. 
 
 Where now the Rhymer's verse of early day, 
 Ere Scotland's life was darkened in its dawn? 
 Gone from the careless times, yet not unfelt 
 His spirit lives as glamour of the moon 
 O'er vale and stream; and in thy murmuring sheen 
 O' night, fair gliding Tweed, methinks I hear 
 The distant echo soft of that old strain, 
 So fairy-weird, which thou hast caught and poured, 
 Through the long years, in loving memory 
 Of him who passed mysteriously between 
 Mid-Earth and Elfland strange, and vision had 
 Of times to come, deep-brooding Ercildoune ! 
 
 A first fresh love was his of nature free, 
 Of merry morn in May, and dappled shade 
 Of seemly tree, 'by Huntley's banks spring-fair, 
 And on the Eildons green; while round him rung 
 
54 
 
 THE GROWTH OF 
 
 The quivering wood with notes of joyous birds, 
 The wodewale like a bell the forest through; 
 And to his ear the mavis mellow-sweet 
 Aye turned to soft complaining in her song. 
 
 Yet in his heart was longing unfulfilled, 
 Heart rich with all the wealth of glorious earth, 
 With all that ear can compass, eye can limn. 
 Ideals strange, and looming imagery 
 Of worlds unseen for ever circled round 
 The margin of his dreams, in sweet unrest : 
 And as he passed upon the upland moor, 
 Whereon the noontide glamour shimmering lay, 
 He felt the silence, come to its last bound, 
 So absolute in very utterness 
 That nothing strange it seemed, as suddenly 
 He caught the sound of huntsmen, viewless far 
 With echoing horns, one speeding airy blast; 
 And oft the loneliness of benty lee 
 
NATURE FEELING. 
 
 55 
 
 Was smote by shapes of knights that moved and 
 
 wheeled, 
 
 And flashed upon his Vildered eye a gleam 
 Of spears, in direful battles yet unfought 
 By human hands, upwrapt to all save him 
 In long dread purpose of the years to come. 
 
 Weird, haunting visions these that round him moved, 
 And awed the soul, left heart all desolate. 
 But there were spots of beauty sacred, lone, 
 Pure mosses, quivering birken glades, burn nooks, 
 Unseen by mortal eye save his alone, 
 By passing gleams of sunshine rare illumed, 
 Mysterious circles green round heather knowes, 
 And gentle flowers that waved their airy forms, 
 When not a breath of earthly wind e'er stirred 
 Upon the moor. Could these be made in vain? 
 Had God no creature to enjoy their bliss? 
 Were there no glorious shapes of beings pure 
 
56 THE GROWTH OF 
 
 That floated there in summer noon or night, 
 And thus redeemed the waste of beauty free ? 
 Such habitations, meet for spirits blest, 
 Were ne'er left tenantless by Reason, Power, 
 And Love; and to their beauty, felt within 
 The human soul, some heart responsive beat 
 
 At length it dawned, the springtide vision dawned, 
 'Mid song of birds, and greenery of leaves, 
 The dim ideal took clear sensuous form. 
 She came a wonder radiant as the sun 
 Upon a summer's morn, the youthful Queen 
 Of Lower Erd, on palfrey riding fair, 
 A dapple grey, in robe of pearls that gleamed 
 In their own light; with grewhounds seven in leash, 
 And by her side seven raches running free. 
 A silver horn hung dangling from her neck, 
 Her belt was pendent with barbed arrows keen; 
 A merry huntress she, so light of heart, 
 
NA TURE FEELING. 
 
 57 
 
 That now she blew her horn, and now she sung; , 
 
 While slender moor-flowers for a moment bowed 
 
 Obeisance to the pageant's airy tread. 
 
 Graceful she was, with more than mortal grace, 
 
 Divine ideal, holy presence seemed. 
 
 And he would worship upon bended knee 
 
 The sacred face, as 'twere the Queen of Heaven ; 
 
 But she forbade the unmeet reverence, 
 
 And all unveiled in fairy glamour shone; 
 
 So that he passed from high ideal thought, 
 
 And holy mood, and sank upon her love; 
 
 As one whose soul had first been greatly stirred 
 
 By opened heaven, and, though to hold it fain, 
 
 Is led withal to rest on fair phantasm, 
 
 Delusive shape of sense-imagining born. 
 
 Thenceforth the Rhymer was mysterious linked 
 To the weird Vision; he of mortal mould, 
 With curious wonder and deep-haunting sense 
 
5 8 THE GROWTH OF 
 
 Of more than mortal fate, passed at her beck 
 
 Away from Middle Erd, from sight of sun 
 
 And kindly moon, and leaf that grows on tree, 
 
 From joy of nature free, through pathways strange 
 
 Of awe and terror, 'neath the ancient hills, 
 
 J Mid realm of midnight mirk, where shape was none, 
 
 And eye could nought discern, but on the ear 
 
 There ever broke a roar of rounding sea, 
 
 And sough of mighty wave that restless chafed, 
 
 In agony, some grim defiant shore, 
 
 As beat of surging passion of the world. 
 
 At length the darkness and the dread were passed, 
 
 And they two lighted in a pleasant land, 
 
 Where sunrise never flamed across the sky 
 
 In splendour of the dawn, and no bright moon, 
 
 Unequal, filled the plains with shadowed light, 
 
 A land that knew no dazzling growth of day, 
 
 No darkening fall of night, but gloamin' mild 
 
NATURE FEELING. 
 
 59 
 
 Perpetual reigned; and all the air was soft 
 
 As balmy eve in June ; no storm e'er rose 
 
 To vex the calm abode; those living there 
 
 Had all emotion placid, equable, 
 
 No chequered lot, no grief or joy intense, 
 
 The calm of pleasure without energy, 
 
 That noiseless came as bloom on summer flowers, 
 
 And only mildest pains that almost seemed 
 
 New pleasures; and there was no death to be 
 
 The birth of higher life, or issues dread 
 
 And infinite of free will, but all appeared 
 
 Fixed state of ended possibility. 
 
 They saw a castle on a green-browed hill, 
 Fairer than any which the sun shone on; 
 Thither they hied ; she blew her horn, and forth 
 The doors sprung wide, and they two passed within 
 A lofty spacious hall of roof and walls 
 Unhewn, as grotto arched and stone embowed. 
 
60 THE GROWTH OF 
 
 On either side were rocky pillars high 
 
 Of gold and silver, fretted fair with wreaths 
 
 Of diamond bright, and nameless precious stones, 
 
 Which ne'er had met the gaze of mortal man, 
 
 Woven by genii in unfathomed mines, 
 
 Bound to the wizard work by fatal spell, 
 
 Then cast into abysses that they ne'er 
 
 Might simulate the subtle like again. 
 
 From lofty roof, by long linked chain of gold, 
 A hollowed lamp of pearl transparent hung, 
 And, set within, carbuncle priceless, clear, 
 That turned to either side by wondrous charm, 
 And shed o'er all the space mild glowing light, 
 As that of sundown in an earthly sky, 
 While back the sparry walls in lustre gleamed. 
 
 And all within the hall was pleasaunce gay, 
 Fair ladies knelt in courtesy before 
 
NA TURE FEELING. 6 1 
 
 Their Queen, knights danced by threes, and ladies sat 
 
 And sang in rich array, a motley scene; 
 
 And music rare of varied minstrelsy 
 
 Arose from lute, and harp, and psaltery, 
 
 From gittern, and from airy voices clear, 
 
 Notes sometimes heard upon the moonlit hill, 
 
 Weird charm that once may thrill a mortal ear, 
 
 But blended here in one grand harmony 
 
 Unknown on earth, now swelling as a wave 
 
 That fills the ear, and one lists nought besides; 
 
 Then dying as far echo of a sea 
 
 In subterranean cave, returning aye 
 
 To sink upon itself in ampler mood, 
 
 As if it playful touched now birth, now death, 
 
 Yet stooped to neither but immortal flowed; 
 
 And all who hear are wondering hushed and wrapt 
 
 Within the spirit of the viewless sound. 
 
 Deep sunk in bliss of sense the Rhymer lay, 
 
62 THE GROWTH OF 
 
 The years seemed but a day, until the Queen, 
 
 Heart-stirred, bid him pass swift to middle-earth; 
 
 For on the sunless sky of Elfmland 
 
 She saw a shadow creep, until it grew 
 
 A grim dark hand, and knew the coming day 
 
 When the foul fiend, each seventh year, has power 
 
 To mar the joy, and bear the teind to hell. 
 
 But ere he went, he snatched his well-loved harp 
 Harp he had won by skill in Elfin song, 
 And mingled with its native fairy notes, 
 Sounds as of streams adown a mountain land, 
 And strains as 'twere of joyous spring-tide birds, 
 And voice of earthly love, and sad farewell, 
 And murmur as 'of leaves on greenwood tree ; 
 When through the hall there thrilled a piercing wail, 
 As of a sorrow strange to Elfin land, 
 Wrung from the heart of burning memory, 
 She swooned not as a mortal, but her face 
 
 
NATURE FEELING. 63 
 
 Was wan as water at the winter-tide, 
 And all the fairy pageant passed away, 
 As if it ne'er had been, and Ercildoune 
 Awoke beneath the greenwood spray alone, 
 On Huntley banks, save that as on the marge 
 Of dying dream, he saw a form pass far 
 O'er benty lee, by distant mountain grey, 
 And by the falcon crag; while in his hand 
 He clutched his Fairy Harp that could awake 
 The memories of that strange land : and since 
 That hour have echoed through the Border glens 
 The strains of old romance, and stories dim 
 Of glamour, gramarye, and wizard spell, 
 Of milk-white hart and hind that silent came, 
 And silent went, and ne'er by mortal eye 
 Has Rhymer weird been seen on earth again. 
 
 Then with him passed for many a year to come 
 The vision and the power of Nature free. 
 
64 THE GROWTH OF 
 
 His fresh-born love was as a gleaming morn 
 
 That barely dawned, and then was quenched in gloom 
 
 Of long, dark years of mortal strife that came 
 
 Fell fast upon the Good King's happy time, 
 
 Through one most cursed of cursed aggressive breed, 
 
 As if the heaven o'erhead showed what might be 
 
 Of beauty for the land, if tyrant lust 
 
 Of power had held its merciless rude hand 
 
 From blackening all the sky with sickening smoke 
 
 Of ruined homes, or left the fresh green earth, 
 
 As God had made it, without bloody stain ! 
 
 How pure the guardian genius of the Stream ! 
 
 Of bright and gentle face in summer tide, 
 
 In flow robed clear as heaven's own gracious light; 
 
 And with a strength that keeps the mastery 
 
 Of self, Tweed rushes bold in joy of break, 
 
 And then glides on sedate and calm in pool ; 
 
 Yet often marks the changes of our lot, 
 
NATURE FEELING. 
 
 For grey-cloud shadows, sudden, throw a veil 
 Of wavering sadness o'er the water's face; 
 And, in the gloamin', long wan silent pools 
 Speak a mysterious sympathy with grief, 
 As though the stream were widowed of the sun. 
 
 And late in Autumn, when the mists have come, 
 And the dark clouds lie low on all the heights, 
 And brown decay has seized the wasting leaves, 
 In troubled flow, O Tweed, thou risest strong, 
 As 'neath the mighty burden of the skies, 
 At call of waters hoarse and sounding burns ; 
 Then unrestrained and unimpeded sweep'st, 
 By the stern spirit of the hills deep moved, 
 To stir the grander pulses of our heart, 
 And thrill us with the rushing sense of power, 
 And firmly nerve our souls for high exploits. 
 
 On Winter's night, when eye can nought discern 
 E 
 
66 THE GROWTH OF 
 
 Of shape of things, and ear is all alert, 
 I've heard thee hurrying shout in swoop of flood, 
 With voice that rose and fell, and quelled the vale, 
 As if there surged a people's battle-din. 
 
 'Twas this wild aspect awed the early time, 
 The outward symbol of the deeds it knew, 
 Of human passion, fierce as roaring flood ; 
 Men thought of spirits of the air that worked 
 Behind the veil, that moved in mountain mist, 
 Tore in the wind, and raged in raving burn, 
 Dread literal powers of sense, still unsublimed 
 By mind, and that poetic thought divine 
 Which casts out fear, shows terror loveliness. 
 
 All save th' inspired one, save Ossian old, 
 In whose soul dwelt the v calm of sympathy 
 With Nature's sternest voice. He saw and sung 
 The Tweed, for where Alt-Teutha high and dread, 
 
NA TURE FEELING. 6 7 
 
 From rude rock frowned o'er fair Drummelzier's 
 
 plain, 
 
 Ere deed in Scottish story had been done, 
 There the bard fought and sung its lord's hate 
 
 sung, 
 
 And lonely cave-sequestered orphan youths, 
 Whose only crime was shedding tender tears, 
 Amid their father's ruined, grass-grown halls, 
 Rebuke that stung to rage the savage heart; 
 Sung fair Colvala's patient daring love, 
 Young Colmar's fate, and spectre of the dead, 
 That, at still midnight, glided o'er the Tweed, 
 A brother's ghastly form in moon-lit folds; 
 Sung deep revenge, when fierce Duntalmo's blood 
 Dark stained the warrior-poet's burnished spear. 
 
 Great bard ! With whom heroic verse enshrined 
 Thine own heroic deed, high raised above 
 The cowering soul of artificial times, 
 
68 THE GROWTH OF 
 
 By that full tide of true spontaneous life, 
 That never dreamt of fear in Nature's face, 
 But communed with the spirit of the hills, 
 Soul-grandeur felt in dreaded forms of sense, 
 In torrent rocks, and deep abyss of glen, 
 While clear before the poet-seer's eye 
 Arose strange spheres of things by men unseen, 
 The wreathing mists, transfigured, passed away 
 In spirit-shapes sublimed, and all the air 
 Held mystery of other bordering worlds. 
 
 Tweed ! most thy gentle spirit loves the smile 
 
 Of heaven's own face, amid the dappled light 
 
 Of Spring, when soft white showers, from passing 
 
 clouds 
 
 That mottle light the blue of space overhead, 
 First glisten on the green of birken leaves, 
 And sprinkle all the haughs with twinkling rain; 
 While, in the sunny blinks between the showers, 
 
NATURE FEELING. 69 
 
 The primrose blessing sends from woody braes, 
 The linnet strains its note to voice the joy 
 That pulses in the air ; the sounding stream 
 For very gladness gleams; the speckled trout, 
 Drawn from dark depths of winter pools, disport 
 In overflow of life and innocence, 
 And, 'neath the airy insects' sun-bright dance, 
 Make quiet circlings o'er the spreading face, 
 Complacent, of the pool with pleasure moved. 
 
 For many a day, the Spirit of the Stream 
 Thus softly spake to eye and heart of man, 
 Unvoiced, unsung; circled, in breathing Spring, 
 Around grim towers, where life was watchful, hard, 
 And heedless of the joy the birds proclaimed ; 
 In summer, spread green haughs and meadows soft 
 For gentle lowing kine; and flushed the vale 
 With bloom, the symbol of the year's full strength, 
 The flower of perfect life ; and sought to move 
 
70 THE GROWTH OF 
 
 To tender thought, by Autumn's mellow look 
 On waning birks, that, 'mid the dwining light 
 Of late October, gently lay aside 
 Their bravery green, and beautifully die. 
 
 But through long years in vain; until, one eve, 
 
 The patient, pleading Spirit joyous heard 
 
 Its voice re-echoed in melodious song, 
 
 From Neidpath's old grey tower, that kept the pass 
 
 To Tweeddale's upper glens, and oft had spoke 
 
 In other accents to the watchful land, 
 
 When from high bartizan the cresset flame 
 
 Swung roaring in the midnight air, athwart 
 
 Dark canopy of sky, while, far below, 
 
 The face of wood and stream, 'mid changeful glare, 
 
 Wavering glimmered in a weird amaze. 
 
 In that square massive Keep, a child's sweet face 
 Once made a joy, beneath dim vaulted roof, 
 
NA TURE FEELING. 7 1 
 
 Where sunbeam brightness only faltering smote; 
 And often curious peered through narrow bole, 
 Entranced by wonder wide of earth and sky. 
 And him the Spirit of the gentle Tweed 
 Took for his own fair son, and reared and blessed, 
 And made him feel and voice his own mixed mood 
 Of pleasure and of sadness interfused, 
 The truest to our human life and lot. 
 
 For, as he grew a boy, of gentle mien 
 He was, and sacred in his sight were all 
 The creatures of the wilds ; birds in their nests, 
 That timorously peeped with shining eye, 
 Were sacred; their first woodland notes became 
 His cherished joys; and, towards evening tide, 
 He loved to watch the circlings of the trout 
 On quiet pools, and then his deep grey eyes, 
 As pure and lustrous as a maiden's are, 
 Yet wearing oft a far clear brooding look, 
 
72 THE GROWTH OF 
 
 As seeing things beyond sight's finite sphere, 
 Would gleam with gleam of Tweed through softened 
 tears. 
 
 He sought the streamflow, sought the shining pool ; 
 And when young Passion soared on wing of hope, 
 Gowdspink and lintwhite's note thrilled through his 
 
 soul, 
 
 Made music in his song, consummate voice 
 Of joy; but as he knew the changeful mood 
 Of Love that hovered near, then vanished, 
 As passing brightness of a sun-smit wing, 
 That for a moment stoops, and then is gone, 
 The mournful cushat's croon, in far lone depths 
 Of woods, grew dear to him, dear as a voice 
 That wails a broken hope ; and keenest smart 
 The exile felt was, that, in distant grave, 
 His hovering spirit ne'er would soothed list, 
 In moonlit night, the Tweed's dear murmuring. 
 
NATURE FEELING. 73 
 
 Thus notes of birds and inner music, love, 
 
 Transfused in one pure heart, found rhythmic voice, 
 
 And struck the key-note of our Tweedside song, 
 
 Joy blent with pathos, native melody; 
 
 And, down the years, the strain has echoed long, 
 
 Nor echoed merely, touched pure living hearts, 
 
 And grown in compass ; for with notes of birds 
 
 The poet's love has mingled sunny gleam, 
 
 And rippling murmur in the soft green haughs, 
 
 And all the harmonies of eye and ear, 
 
 The lowly flower, the grace of slender birch ; 
 
 And the poetic soul, once reconciled 
 
 Through gentleness of nature to its heart, 
 
 Has grown to love bare moor, and lonely glen 
 
 Of fear ; has felt pathetic power, where man 
 
 Is by himself on sky-encompassed wilds ; 
 
 In pale hill-violet trusted to the winds; 
 
 In last brief hum of solitary bee, 
 
 By moorland burn, on late September noon, 
 
74 
 
 THE GROWTH OF 
 
 That dies upon the fading heather-bloom ; 
 Has come to love, with deep-impassioned love, 
 All simple nature wild, all beauty free 
 That dwells with innocence and solitude. 
 
 Nay, oft 'neath cloud of summer night, strange thrill 
 He knows, as lone he travels through the vale, 
 When not a sound is heard from farm or cot, 
 And no stray light in window cheers his way; 
 For, ever and anon, 'neath soft warm mist, 
 That feels the hidden moon, and moveless hangs 
 O'er silent haughs, and their dark silent trees, 
 Low river gleams will lapse before his eye, 
 In silver spaces spread, and stir his heart 
 To movements that awake mysterious thoughts, 
 Unknown amid the bright discovered noon. 
 
 A kindlier spirit now has grown within 
 The heart of man, by Nature part inspired, 
 
NATURE FEELING. 
 
 75 
 
 And part to Nature given by the soul. 
 The awesome forest dark is now with love 
 Illumed ; its shapes and sounds of terror gone ; 
 Its only sprites the dappled gleams that flee 
 In thrilling play along the grass, and streak 
 The shadows of the birk and elm grown old, 
 E'en win a smile in passing from the pine : 
 While high o'erhead, between the leafy tops, 
 The white clouds speed, and, for a moment, gloom 
 The spaces of the heaven's blue, the eyes 
 That loving peer upon the lonely glades, 
 And consecrate the forest solitudes ! 
 
 Even winter storm, so dread all through the years 
 
 Of Scottish story, that it met with nought 
 
 Of human sympathy, is now enwrapt 
 
 In higher sphere of meditative thought. 
 
 The rounding flakes of snow, descending slow 
 
 From the bronzed circle of the massed clouds, 
 
76 THE GROWTH OF 
 
 Once feared as omen of the darkest ill, 
 
 Now teach the soul the gentleness that lives 
 
 In heaven's purity. The stormy drift 
 
 That wheels upon the air, then piled lies 
 
 In haugh, and glen, and stills the mountain burn, 
 
 Bears fancy high on its fierce rushing wing, 
 
 And keeps it wakeful through the roaring night, 
 
 Up glens, up hills, and o'er the water-sheds, 
 
 Where neither man nor beast may be and live, 
 
 Amid the fierce fell tumult of the air. 
 
 Yet on the morn when all is still, and o'er 
 
 The whitened vale the sun in brightness beams, 
 
 The meditative heart has quiet rest, 
 
 As if the raging sky and troubled earth 
 
 Were, after strife, atoned in one deep calm ! 
 
 How deep the soul is moved on autumn eve, 
 When spreading haughs are ripe with golden grain, 
 And God's rich bounty blesses all the Strath, 
 
NATURE FEELING. 77 
 
 To eye the moon, new risen, stay high poised, 
 Full-globed, on upmost rim of eastern hill, 
 Whence, for brief space, she loving looks aslant 
 The westward glen, till its low shadows break 
 In brightness, through the joy to meet her gaze ; 
 And then, well pleased with greeting of the earth, 
 Floats calm away to her own silent heaven, 
 And reigns in full possession of the sky. 
 
BOOK THIRD. 
 
 anb f 0etrg. 
 
ARGUMENT. 
 
 GRADUAL softening influence of nature-feeling on the life of the old 
 Borderers. Their freedom, courage, impulsiveness. Tenure of estates. 
 Their song and ballad airs. Contrast of past and present. The moulder- 
 ing Peel Towers. A tradition of Flodden. The Border Muse. Its sim- 
 plicity, literalness, and fervour. Stirred by heroic deeds, pathos, and 
 supernatural beliefs. Death of Earl Douglas at Otterbourne. Wild 
 nature and the sublime. Modern outcome of old story and free 
 nature-feeling in poetry Hogg, Leyden, and Scott. Conclusion. 
 
gtorbtr $ife ani $xr*tt. 
 
 HPHUS grew and spread amid the flow of years 
 The love of what is gentle, sunny, bright, 
 A purifying grace that touched rude lives, 
 And bent rude manners to a finer cast; 
 For 'twas a troubled time of restless men, 
 Of daring raids and deadly feuds, exploits 
 By lee light of the moon, on southern hills ; 
 And these were voiced in thrilling ballad lines, 
 Direct, intense as passion e'er made verse, 
 
 Graphic as truth the heart spontaneous tells ; 
 F 
 
82 OLD BORDER LIFE 
 
 For here, in his lone Peel, the Reiver lived, 
 And here the Border Minstrel had his home ! 
 
 But dare we hope, in this self-bounded time, 
 
 That any one will for an hour forego 
 
 His present world, to feel the shadowy past? 
 
 A world it may be wholly consecrate 
 
 To famed Utility, the one-eyed god 
 
 Whose culture is divine irreverence ! 
 
 Perversion of our human nature free ! 
 
 Yet, think you, can we rise to our true selves,- 
 
 Or keep our life harmonious with its type, 
 
 If we, devoid of sympathy with power 
 
 Of other lives, love not full oft to breathe 
 
 The air of old historic reverence? 
 
 Then let us lingering pause a moment brief 
 Upon the dim fast-fading lineaments 
 Of days of olden story, catch the look 
 
AND POETRY. 83 
 
 And soul of those who lived in these grey towers, 
 
 Who of a morning saw the sun and sky, 
 
 Trod the same haughs and hills, saw river gleam. 
 
 And felt the seasons' flow, through centuries 
 
 Now gone, as we, heirs too unconscious all 
 
 Of their experience, not thinking how 
 
 The past flows through the present, how the life 
 
 We live is tissue woven from the years 
 
 That were, by that dread power within the wilL 
 
 Theirs was a life born of the heaven's pure air, 
 And nourished into strength by mountain breeze, 
 By sunshine and by storm ; theirs force of arm, 
 And theirs the courage of long-during breath, 
 Won from the broad hills they free-breasted trod : 
 A growth spontaneous as tbe rugged pine, 
 That, under open sky, unsheltered draws 
 Its spirit from the blast ; and they had hearts 
 That moved impulsive with the swelling wind,, 
 
84 OLD BORDER LIFE 
 
 Among the hills, or through the roaring wood, 
 Or when it tore and shook their banner stretched 
 For action bold and daring enterprise. 
 
 The sons of men who won them fair estates, 
 In troubled marge 'twixt English, Scottish rule, 
 The trophies of the spear, or purchase free 
 Of bow and arrow, won and held from foe 
 That ever pressed from southwards on their homes. 
 No marvel that they felt rude power to be 
 The highest law, and strength the last appeal, 
 And spurned the feudal claims of all the Kings 
 In Christenty; themselves deemed rightful Kings, 
 But not by secondary parchment writ, 
 By force of arm and custom of the sword. 
 
 Thus Outlaw Murray, of the Forest fair, 
 Kept royal state amid his wide domains, 
 Where lordly Hanginshaw, from circling woods, 
 
AND POETRY. 85 
 
 Gleamed rich in blazonry of unicorn, 
 
 Of holly green, of knight and lady gay, 
 
 As if the spirit free of forest life 
 
 Had overflowed in natural delight, 
 
 And easy strength had bloomed in pictured joy. 
 
 His treacherous fate on Newark's bloody brae, 
 At hand of false Buccleuch, the Forest wailed 
 Through all its glens; as Teviot, Liddesdale, 
 Long mourned the hard and cruel lot dealt out 
 To thee, bold laird of bonny Gilnock Hall ! 
 So true in heart they held thee, and so stout 
 An arm was thine 'gainst dreaded southern foe, 
 On that sad morn at Caerlanrig, where long 
 The withered trees stood leafless, smote by heaven, 
 Mute witnesses of passion-prompted wrong! 
 
 6 By deeds we spread our fame.' ' By might, not art,' 
 The mottoes of the time, at length entwined 
 
86 OLD BORDER LIFE 
 
 In one, as those who fearless bore them lie 
 
 In one sweet chapel shadowed by the trees, 
 
 And gently soothed by ever-murmuring burn, 
 
 Old words that speak of rude forehammer force, 
 
 In Border fray, and deadly stroke on helm, 
 
 And daring deed on many a bloody field, 
 
 Of Edward's wars, of Calais, Halidon, 
 
 Of Beauge and Verneuil, of Flodden sad, 
 
 And the strown dead that lay from Pinkie's Cleugh, 
 
 Face-earthwards, to the gates of Scotland's Tower: 
 
 Man was but man as he gave manly blow, 
 
 Or, worsted, had the courage of his fate; 
 
 Rude power it was, yet let us deem it well, 
 
 True strength is that which serves the time's behest. 
 
 Yet, when unequal matched with southern foe, 
 Well could they ply all wily stratagem; 
 Swift-footed, then they sought their vantage ground 
 Of hill and quaking moss, found walls in woods, 
 
AND POETRY. 87 
 
 And from the heights, a lurid rampart dark 
 Above the flaming plain, startled the night 
 With shouts of echoing fierceness; thus the foe, 
 Wildered, and struck by terror high in air, 
 Fled ere the mom, as if before the sword. 
 
 As 'neath the open sky their life grew strong, 
 So from the breeze they snatched air melody, 
 That tuned their strength to beauty and to joy; 
 Sweet sounds they knew of soft pathetic tone, 
 As simple airs of heaven, spontaneous piped 
 By pastoral reed, a wail for absent love, 
 Low 'mid the broom at eve on Cowdenknowes, 
 Or deep pure passion's pleading tone in vain, 
 Beneath the birken ' Bush aboon Traquair ; ' 
 And sometimes into low voiced wail 'twould swell 
 As, born of nightly soughing of the burns, 
 Or plaintive midnight wind around lone tower, 
 The note told, o'er and o'er, in lingering strain 
 
88 OLD BORDER LIFE 
 
 The dule of Flodden's dire disastrous day. 
 Yet prompt their spirits rose, when bugle horn, 
 Like rush of storm down trumpet-throated glen, 
 Pealed loud and long the thrilling call to war. 
 
 All this old life of centuries is gone, 
 And we regard it not : new men, new things 
 Are with us; blood and breed of olden knights 
 Are rare among us ; their bright sun is set, 
 Their towers are roofless, bare; gaunt, grim walls given 
 To winds, dank weeds, and hooting owls by night. 
 We dread their rule no more, their powers of life 
 And death, of pit and vaulted donjon-keep ; 
 And children play upon the gallows' mound, 
 And sit 'neath shadow of the tree of doom. 
 
 'Tis well, for 'tis the order of the world ; 
 But 'tis not wholly well, that all should pass 
 As if it ne'er had been; true qualities 
 
AND POETRY. 89 
 
 Of knighthood are true qualities of man : 
 
 The truest knight is but the man sublimed. 
 
 High courage, honour, prowess, loyal faith 
 
 And vassal love they had, if vassal power, 
 
 A bond that sweetly held the hearts of men 
 
 Through long descending lines. Oft rapine rude 
 
 There was, but it was bold to risk of life ; 
 
 No secret coward theft, as ours by stuff 
 
 Adulterate, or lying bubble schemes, 
 
 That we may lacquer our life's little day. 
 
 If busy commerce plied not in our vales, 
 
 And means of life were plain and small, we missed 
 
 The jarring spindles of a servile strife. 
 
 Laird rose 'gainst Laird, but rarely man would strive 
 
 Against the master of his love and blood : 
 
 Well-knit in cognisance of mutual need. 
 
 Shall we not now fuse worldly aim with heart 
 
 Of mutual love, that, throwing out the serf, 
 
 We yet may truer rise to fullest grip 
 
QO OLD BORDER LIFE 
 
 Of man's right hand in God's own brotherhood ! 
 
 Tis well that o'er the present happy look 
 
 Of vale and stream, a shadow from the past 
 
 Is cast, as of a faded name to call 
 
 To mind old history. Oft where the stream 
 
 Bends round green knowe, beneath the alder boughs, 
 
 There stands the crumbling peel, deserted, lone, 
 
 Save for its brotherhood of ancient trees, 
 
 Few, straggling, wasted by long tides of storm, 
 
 Yet faithful still in their companionship 
 
 With relic of the past, the broken home, 
 
 Left by the careless years to sure decay. 
 
 Think, once in these old towers what feelings 
 
 wrought, 
 
 There bridal joy, and children's sunny smiles, 
 A mother's hopes and fears, a father's cares, 
 And all strong thrillings of this life have been, 
 
AND POETRY. 9 ! 
 
 Home- welcome flashed to victor from old wars, 
 Dead burden borne from fatal feud o' night; 
 Ay such that 'tis a marvel this dull earth 
 Should lie so callous 'neath the memories, 
 Unless it be that surely in its breast 
 It keeps them latent for the final morn. 
 
 There, where the mounds rise green o'er ancient 
 
 home, 
 
 And all is silence save the ceaseless dash 
 Of passing waters o'er the whitened stones, 
 There, was a sweet wife's clinging parting sad, 
 When husband ' bodin' in the feir of war,' 
 Boune for dire Flodden's reckless chivalry, 
 Rode forth a gleaming wonder to young eyes 
 That eager peered from height of bartizan. 
 Long dread suspense there was, long hoped return, 
 And then dim sough of that disastrous day, 
 That passed, ill-omen'd, through the shuddering land ! 
 
92 OLD BORDER LIFE 
 
 But him his vassals' love bore, faithful, back 
 From hated southern field, from strangers' earth, 
 That he might lie beside his kindred dead ; 
 O'er moss and moor, and o'er brown mountain ways, 
 They wended with their burden, shoulder-borne. 
 
 At sun-down, resting in a valley low, 
 
 They saw, between them and the western sky, 
 
 A solitary tower, grey, roofless, rise, 
 
 Where once a powerful lord had ruled the land; 
 
 A darkening mass, but through a narrow bole 
 
 High near the top, there gleamed a ray serene, 
 
 As cast from heaven beyond; and, lingering there, 
 
 The day slow dwined to shade, thus passed and died, 
 
 A strange, weird way of death on that tower-top, 
 
 That moved and thrilled in hearts of all these men 
 
 The waiting spirits of old memories ! 
 
 Then sadly looked they on their own mailed dead, 
 
 And thought of all the prowess of his house, 
 
 
AND POETRY. 93 
 
 And of the fair slight maidens orphaned there. 
 
 And on they wended through the moonlit night, 
 'Neath shadows of the crags, as passing palls 
 That softly touched the rigid, armoured form 
 They bore aloft ; by mountain burns they went, 
 That poured sad requiem, now paused, now moaned; 
 Till, as the robins waked the Autumn morn, 
 They reached his own grey tower, and passed within 
 The iron gate; and, 'neath the vaulted roof 
 Of dais hall, they laid him down, where oft 
 He princely sat, his pierced hauberk on, 
 His visor down; on moveless shoulder spread 
 The silver shield that bore the sable heads: 
 Now, utmost feat of loyal duty done, 
 When o'er him widow sobbed and children wailed, 
 Sprung the first tears of those stern loving men. 
 
 Slow passing forth there was from that grey house, 
 
94 OLD BORDER LIFE 
 
 And in the grave beside the dead was laid 
 Joy of one living heart, and that fresh mound 
 Seemed in a widow's eye earth's dearest thing. 
 Yet now, nor mound, nor stone is found to mark 
 His resting-place, and tower slow follows tomb, 
 Till house of life and house of death alike, 
 Beyond all memory gone, are smoothly dressed 
 In folds of summer grass, where dull sheep browse, 
 And shepherds, heedless, tread upon the fame, 
 The nameless fame, that lived in other days. 
 
 Can we once marvel, that, with deeds like these, 
 The Muse that broods amid the hills was stirred 
 To verse heroic, tender, human, true, 
 And oft heart-fired by strains of old romance? 
 Unknown to fame she was, nor heeded phrase 
 Conventional that charmed a worldly crowd 
 That never felt the simple modes of life, 
 And never looked pure Nature in the face; 
 
AND POETRY. 
 
 95 
 
 As Queen she ruled within the Border Land, 
 In Teviot's uplands wild; 'mid lonely glens 
 Where Ettrick creeps ; by Yarrow's pure green holms, 
 That pleased and silent list the lively strain, 
 As loch-bom waters leap from calm to sound, 
 And joyous flash by many a bonny knowe; 
 Yet gather sadness towards evening tide, 
 As gloamin' shadows o'er the Dowie Dens. 
 
 She spoke from simple heart to simple faith 
 And fervour, with a voice as of the scul 
 Of acts that thrilled the time; a pure response 
 It was, no hue of personal colour blent, 
 Or trick of art, or ornament save what 
 Unconscious flashed upon the narrative, 
 Austere, of pictured deeds, yet marred it not : 
 The shallow stream doth mingle with the scene 
 It shows its own poor pebbles ; nobler lake 
 In eyes of calm and depth profound has power 
 
96 OLD BORDER LIFE 
 
 To mirror for us every feature fair 
 
 Of the o'ershadowing earth and sky it feels, 
 
 In purest picturing; its sparkle clear 
 
 But lights, not breaks, the perfect imagery. 
 
 Of waiting, reverent mood, a Muse content, 
 If she could but be true to what she saw 
 And felt of deed heroic, bold emprise, 
 Rough hardy ways of life, inspired throughout 
 By natural impulse, pity for the fate 
 Of him who fell, unequal matched with law: 
 High chivalry she sung, and feudal faith, 
 And simple pathos, and bright humour's gleam 
 Upon grim acts, as sunshine lights grey crag : 
 Love's dawn of hope, and its too tragic eve 
 'Mid moonlit flash of spears, at shadowed stream ; 
 And passion's agony, in twilight gloom, 
 Of that lone maiden, with her lips all red, 
 From kiss on kiss of her dead lover's wounds ! 
 
AND POETRY. ^ 
 
 And, rounding all, the quaint weird shapes that girt 
 
 The world of sense, and ever and anon, 
 
 Would sudden flash upon our human life, 
 
 To stir by fairy form of elf, or awe 
 
 By moving wraith, distinct, of living man ! 
 
 Yes ! to these times of ours this faith hath power ! 
 Not faith, but vision ! In low cottage lies 
 The dying man; his wife with him alone 
 'Mid lonely moor; one passes to them there 
 On eerie road at evening fall, with heart 
 Of hope and tenderness, and memory 
 All wakeful, stirring in her mind the things 
 Of by-gone years. Then sudden on the brae, 
 White with the stubble of the gathered corn, 
 She sees him stand, the sick man silent stand; 
 Yet fair and strong as e'er he passed in youth, 
 His staff in hand, his plaid o'er shoulder thrown, 
 As he and she, when neighbours, joyous walked 
 
98 OLD BORDER LIFE 
 
 From far farm town, together to the Fair. 
 Soul-awed she knows the dire presage, and yet 
 She eager looks, without fear looks upon 
 The vision, as, with face turned to her face, 
 He slowly westwards passes calm away 
 Into the dim vast night, yet 'tis as morn 
 About him, all encompassed strange with light ! 
 And then there lies nought but the dark grey sky, 
 Above the misty rim of wavy hills ; 
 And when she gains his cottage, he is dead ! 
 
 Oft sprite wails drear in waters; often shriek, 
 
 That passes swift o'er dark hillside before 
 
 The keen pursuing storm, is heard as voice 
 
 Of shepherd's doom prophetic; for, as morn 
 
 Breaks dimly red upon the calm that fell 
 
 Where the wild storm all through the night had 
 
 been, 
 And purples with faint streaks the snowy hill, 
 
AND POETRY. 
 
 99 
 
 There lone he lies, the young life stilled and hushed, 
 White palled beneath the gleaming drifted wreath, 
 Wrapt in his plaid, his duty grandly dared, 
 Self-sacrifice complete; the peace of God 
 On his pure fearless face that, mid the dark, 
 Has seen the light of an unearthly dawn ! 
 
 This Muse would speak, in eerie dream o' night, 
 
 To stalwart man, who ne'er in battle blenched, 
 
 And though, all through the stricken field, he bore 
 
 Within his heart the weird presage, knew not 
 
 The nerveless arm; but, when his wound was deep, 
 
 The dying knight, in ghastly grey of day, 
 
 Still bid his friend keep heart, for he had seen, 
 
 In boding dream, a dead man win a field, 
 
 And knew full well the dead face was his own i 
 
 All through the moonlit night to break of day, 
 The wave of battle gleamed, and heaven's pure peace 
 
I00 OLD BORDER LIFE 
 
 Was strangely mingled with the fierce onslaught, 
 
 The cries, the pallor, bloody agonies 
 
 Of dying men; and now the silent moon 
 
 Is fading in the west, and every face 
 
 Of eager Scot is ruddy with the flame 
 
 Cast from the rising morn; they sweep the field; 
 
 But he has softly passed to other dawn 
 
 Than that now breaking over earth and sea ! 
 
 Yes ! lay him 'tis his prayer by bracken bush, 
 The stricken knight whose dead face won the field ! 
 And let the bent wave withered in the wind, 
 With mournful grace of fair dishevelled hair ; 
 Let moorland breeze make lonely requiem, 
 And sky-grey clouds shed soft drops on the scene; 
 Then bear him, loving hearts, on plaited bier, 
 In his stained armour, to the altar's pale 
 'Neath holy roof, where lie beloved dead, 
 There nightly voice a yearning for his soul, 
 

 AND POETRY. 101 
 
 Meet sanctity for him of Otterbourne ! 
 
 And oh ! the maid had sore heart on the morn, 
 When, through the night, in vision on the braes 
 She, with her love, had pulled the heather green, 
 Weird of her hope snatched ere it reached its bloom. 
 The mother mourned, if e'er her bonnie bairn, 
 Whom she had happed so kindly in his bed, 
 Came sudden at the hour of mirk midnight 
 Upon her visioned sleep, the green birk round 
 His brow, the sacred tree, for thus she knew 
 That he would soon be girt in Paradise ! 
 
 Wild nature well she knew, this simple Muse, 
 
 And felt its sway, sometimes a fear, again 
 
 A thrilling awe as of power undefined, 
 
 Thus dimly growing to a purer sense 
 
 Of things sublime; and yet aye bold to face 
 
 And dare the utmost might of storm and flood, 
 
I02 OLD BORDER LIFE 
 
 The haggy moorland dark, and lonely tracks 
 
 O'er benty uplands through grey gloomy night; 
 
 Feeling the will within us higher still 
 
 Than Nature at its most, and grander far 
 
 Than all the dim vast powers 'gainst which it strives, 
 
 E'en when it stricken fails and is overcome. 
 
 Dark was that eve when the strong swell of Clyde 
 
 Roared loud and louder on the lover's ear; 
 
 Ne'er swerved he, man or steed, but swam the stream, 
 
 His one quest to the flood, ' Make me your wreck 
 
 As I come back, but spare me as I go ! ' 
 
 A Muse too restless, and too close engirt 
 By weird and wild, to feel the depth of power 
 That woos to love of gentle Nature free ; 
 Yet this pure love was working in her soul, 
 For oft she spoke to fervid shepherd lone, 
 As, in sweet summer-time, he passed along 
 The green hill-side, the soughing burn below, 
 
AND POETRY. 103 
 
 Spoke in sky-visions, and in sounds of air, 
 The strange low voice of spirit of the moor, 
 As yearning of a soul, deep, unfulfilled, 
 Mingled with hum of bees on heather-bells ; 
 And with her gracious face so near she stooped 
 Before the Vildered, dreaming shepherd's eyes, 
 That he would secret bear, within his heart, 
 New feeling of a presence deep and pure, 
 Yet know not how to give it outward form, 
 While, through its power, unconsciously he grew 
 In simple manners, and in reverent mind. 
 
 At length, within a herd's house lone and low, 
 
 Down by the burnside, in a cloven glen, 
 
 Where afternoon came soon and morn rose late, 
 
 Set far beyond the haunts of living men, 
 
 On skirts of solitude and desert fear; 
 
 As, on a winter's eve, the peat fire glow 
 
 Cast o'er the wall quaint-flickering light and shade, 
 
104 
 
 OLD BORDER LIFE 
 
 And, from the dark outside, there fitful came 
 The windy swing of storm-tried, bare-boughed ash, 
 The cot's one tree, a keen-eyed mother crooned 
 To eager listening, sympathetic son, 
 The stirring strains of the sequestered Muse. 
 
 He, Ettrick's fair-haired Shepherd, Nature's child, 
 
 Thus knew weird forms that girt his daily round, 
 
 Soared vision-wrapped 'mid high unearthly realms, 
 
 Lord of the world of awesome imagery. 
 
 Yet he would weave around unearthly scenes 
 
 A grace that binds them to our human heart : 
 
 Ideal form, incarnate to the sense, 
 
 That ne'er had met the gaze of living men, 
 
 Rose at his touch the light of sinless land 
 
 Shone in her eyes, when fair Kilmeny came, 
 
 Once back to Earth, amid the gloamin' peace. 
 
 The sanctity of Ettrick's mountains green 
 
AND POETRY. 105 
 
 Was o'er his youth, and, shepherd lad, he knew 
 The grandeur and the loneliness that dwell 
 Amid the shadows cast from Black-House Heights, 
 Where even summer noon has tinge of awe ; 
 And yet a tender hue is on the birk 
 Down in the cleugh, on sacred nook of green 
 Low by the burn, and gentle thoughts are born 
 Of intermitting sough of mountain streams : 
 There Loveliness with moorland Pathos dwells 
 To soothe the heart of Solitude and Fear. 
 
 'Twas thus he grew to living sympathy 
 
 With what is tender, pure, in daily sights 
 
 And sounds about his path, from morn till eve, 
 
 When lark soars skyward, till "the Kye comes 
 
 hame!" 
 
 He loved the bleat of lambs amid the spring, 
 The lowly primrose in sequester'd glade, 
 The daisy that outspreads ' its silver star, 
 
106 OLD BORDER LIFE 
 
 Unheeded, -by the mountain burn'; and dear 
 Was vision of the ' dappled vales of heaven/ 
 With mountain-side and tree, at evening fall, 
 Upon the Loch's calm breast, that slept and dreamed 
 A quiet gloamin' dream of earth and sky ! 
 Yet strange things all, and stern to him were 
 
 joys, 
 
 The moving cloud that visored broad Clockmore, 
 When Cranial t, gathering all her rainy springs, 
 Poured wild and wayward from her skyey Crag, 
 Not heeding grassy nook or heather brae, 
 Where she had lingered through the summer time. 
 He loved, as only poet's heart can love, 
 The flashing levin and the winter storm, 
 And Yarrow's flooded roar, and sounds dim heard 
 Of airy tumult 'mid the driving mist. 
 
 So Leyden caught and poured impassioned strain, 
 Whose ardent spirit rose with soaring wing 
 
AND POETRY. 
 
 107 
 
 Of hooded erne that rode the rack, high, dim, 
 Onsweeping through the sky, 'where Ruberslaw 
 Conceives the mountain storm;' a broken life 
 Was his, alas ! with promise unfulfilled : 
 A man 'mong men, who rose to what he was, 
 In pure outcome of free spontaneous power 
 His God had given; and o'er his early bier 
 Two Muses met, the Muse of Scottish Song, 
 The Muse of Eastern lore, to mourn him dead, 
 To wail their broken hopes, but yet to joy 
 That he had kept his dearest trust, his prayer, 
 Th' unselfish heart, the innocence of youth ! 
 
 And He, the king amid the minstrel band, 
 Witched by the mountain Muse's bridal ring, 
 Wooed and won the coy shape in her retreat, 
 Displayed her glorious to admiring eyes, 
 Enriched with greater far than natural dower; 
 And Time has sealed espousal meet between 
 
I0 g OLD BORDER LIFE 
 
 The Minstrel and his loved romantic bride. 
 
 Smailholm ! bare, grey, crag-rooted Border Keep, 
 Stern as the storms and as the deeds thou'st known, 
 An old deserted home ; o'er hall and hearth 
 A silence lies as of long buried dead ! 
 The Spirit of the Past from thee first charmed 
 With awe the lonely brooding infant's heart, 
 By visored faces grim that on him peered 
 Through rusty window bars; yet here and there, 
 
 Amid thy rocky braes, thou had'st in store 
 
 * 
 Soft spreading tufts of loveliest velvet green, 
 
 And wall-flower sweeter for its ruined home, 
 To win his love for gentle Nature free ! 
 
 And when above thy tall, quaint form, grim Keep, 
 The sky grew dark in folds of thunder-cloud, 
 Lit by the levin flash, the wondering child 
 On green sward dauntless lay, look heavenward fixed, 
 
 
AND POETRY. IO9 
 
 While his poetic soul grew bold to snatch 
 
 A strange and weird delight from Terror's heart, 
 
 And eye with fine stern joy the face of Fear ! 
 
 Sweet Ashestiel ! that peers 'mid woody braes, 
 And lists the ripple of Glenkinnon's rill, 
 Fair girdled by Tweed's ampler gleaming wave, 
 His well-loved home of early happy days, 
 Ere noon of Fame, and ere dark Ruin's eve, 
 When life lay unrevealed, with hopeful thrill 
 Of all that might be in the reach of powers, 
 Whose very flow was a continued joy, 
 Strong-rushing as the dawn, and fresh and fair 
 In outcome as that morning of the world, 
 Which gilded all his kindled fancy's dream ! 
 A dream of old Eomance, of Love and Faith, 
 Of Honour, Valour, gentle Courtesy, 
 All natural to life as daily deeds, 
 As simple impulse felt and straightway done, 
 
1 10 OLD BORDER LIFE 
 
 While no one, wondering, thought the noble strange ! 
 
 Weird tales and legends floated in the glens, 
 Like broken shapes of mist that come and go 
 Athwart the wavering dawn of summer morn, 
 To pass with it and be like it forgot, 
 Until his time, the latest Minstrel's time, 
 When they transfigured rose on high in shapes 
 Of glory, many hued, before the world, 
 Sun-smit, by Fancy's mighty orb of fire, 
 That beamed from Heaven across the hills of day ! 
 
 The Past is now before us with the power 
 
 Of living presence ; Minstrel, thou hast charmed 
 
 Oblivion of its prey, called living form 
 
 From many a mouldering grave, made ruined home 
 
 And lone hill-cairn, and mountain stream and glen, 
 
 Instinct with voice as real as speaks to sense, 
 
 Made Scotland, conscious of her chequered life, 
 
 
AND POETRY. m 
 
 Thus know herself, her glory and her shame ! 
 
 Let us be stronger for the ancient deeds, 
 
 Let us be purer for the ancient crimes ! 
 
 And let us keep and prize the MinstrePs love 
 
 Of Nature free, and manly human soul ! 
 
 The love that breathed all through his moving tale, 
 
 And quickened all the age, let this be ours; 
 
 'Twill freshen wearied heart and jaded life, 
 
 Reviving as the morning breeze that blows 
 
 From holms of Yarrow and from heights of Tweed ! 
 
 How clear thy ripple, Tweed, this dewy morn, 
 
 As clear as if thou now rejoicing sprung, 
 
 At thy first birth, from confines of the hills, 
 
 And all the myriad years were still to come 
 
 Of storm and sunshine, troubled sounds and floods, 
 
 That yet have moved all traceless o'er thy face ! . 
 
 Art thou the same through those long chequefd years ? 
 
H2 OLD BORDER LIFE AND POETRY. 
 
 Immortal 'mid the mortal lives of men ! 
 As ever-gleaming truth 'mid passing shows ! 
 Or dost thou die each eve amid the gloom, 
 When slow I see thee fade and pass away, 
 Thou and the Sun, and both are born afresh, 
 With each new morn, new-births God-purified? 
 To me nor Sun nor Stream has tinge of eld. 
 Thou, River, but the white and aimless mists 
 Upon the hills, each morn by God's own hand 
 Upgathered calm to one pure flowing life; 
 Thou, Sun, each morn new made, the orbed sum 
 Of the vague glow and scattered fires of dawn, 
 River and Sun, the symbols of a Hand 
 That opes and shuts each day upon the world, 
 Both old as Death and yet as young as Youth ! 
 
attb xrther flxrm*. 
 
<Sir <Si 
 
 LORD OF OLIVER AND N El DP AT H. 
 
 SIR SIMON DE FRESEL, Frasel, or Friselle, and later Sir 
 Simon Fraser, Lord or Laird (Dominus) of Oliver Castle 
 in Tweeddale, was the most notable man in the middle 
 period of the War of Independence. His father was 
 the head of a house, ancient and eminent, as early even 
 as the time of Alexander III., and was one of the 
 Barones of the kingdom, who took a prominent part in 
 the settlement of the Scottish crown after the death of 
 the Maiden of Norway. When the design of Edward I. 
 to usurp the superiority of the kingdom became obvious, 
 the son stood by the national side. Fraser was present 
 at the battle fought near the Castle of Dunbar in April, 
 1296, when the heroic Countess, sinking the feelings of 
 the wife in those of the patriot, gallantly held the castle 
 against both her husband and the lieutenant of the 
 English King. Perhaps the news of Edward's red- 
 
! j 6 SIR SIMON FRASER, 
 
 handed sack of Berwick, a few days before, had some- 
 thing to do with this unwifely but womanlike resolution. 
 The Scottish army, or rather assemblage of men, was 
 badly beaten by the Earl of Surrey. Among other 
 persons of note, Sir Simon Fraser was taken, and sent 
 to an English prison. He and a neighbouring laird, 
 Simon de Horsbroc, got back their liberty and lands by 
 doing fealty to Edward, and serving with him in his 
 expedition to Flanders in 1296-7. 
 
 After this, Fraser was for some years in the English 
 service in Scotland. His patrimonial estates, lying 
 chiefly in Upper Tweeddale, comprised Fruid, Oliver, 
 Drummelzier, and Neidpath. He was thus appropriately 
 made Edward's Warden, or Governor, of the Forest. The 
 office, indeed, had been in his family under the Scottish 
 kings. In this position his loyalty to the English King was 
 at least once suspected by the Governor of Edinburgh 
 Castle, John de Kingston, but nothing came of the surmise. 
 We find him engaged in several important matters in the 
 service of Edward, down to the siege of Caerlaverock in 
 June, 1300 when his sable pennon starred with six silver 
 "rosettes" not roses proper, but the cinquefoil straw- 
 berry flowers appeared amid the splendid pageantry of 
 England on the shores of the Solway. The following 
 year, however, September, 1301, Fraser had cast off his 
 
LORD OF OLIVER AND NEIDPA TH. r 1 7 
 
 allegiance to Edward. Risking life, estates, and throwing 
 away his prospect of high advancement under the English 
 King, he, in the autumn of that year, joined the band of 
 patriotic Scots under the Earl of Buchan (Comyn) and 
 Sir John de Soulis, who had risen in defence of their old 
 established monarchy and national liberties. They were 
 now harassing the English garrisons of the south of Scot- 
 land ; Buchan and Soulis with their men are lying at 
 Loudon ; Sir Simon Fraser is in command at Stanhouses. 
 On the loth September, 'Soulis attacked Lochmaben 
 Castle, and after doing some damage withdrew his forces. 
 The fortunes of the Scottish party were now at about 
 their lowest ; nearly all that was left them was their un- 
 conquerable spirit. Yet, it was at this period that Sir 
 Simon Fraser, impelled almost certainly by a patriotic 
 motive, and knowing well what he had to expect from the 
 inflexible and persistent hate of Edward, revolted from 
 the English interest, and cast in his lot with his country's 
 cause. He was a prominent leader in the irregular war- 
 fare which annoyed the English garrisons and so greatly 
 exasperated the English King. At length Fraser and Sir 
 John Comyn of Badenoch, got together a body of troops, 
 chiefly from the Forest, and the dales of the Tweed and the 
 Clyde, large enough to attack the English on the open field. 
 They marched quickly through the night, across country, 
 
! j 8 SIR SIMON FRASER, 
 
 from the uplands of the Clyde or the Tweed, and in the 
 grey of a February morning in 1302-3, surprised the 
 English forces, separated into three divisions, on Roslin 
 Muir, and gave them a severe defeat. The Scots did 
 nothing so marked against the southern occupiers of the 
 country until Bannockburn. The victory of Roslin Muir 
 was not in itself of signal importance, yet it helped to 
 cheer the somewhat drooping spirits of the Scots in 
 their very unequal contest with the armies of Edward. 
 The popular rising in which Fraser was a leader was 
 in a great measure repressed .by the English towards 
 the beginning of 1304. There was then a capitulation of 
 the staff of leaders who had professed to rule Scotland in 
 the name of King John particularly the Guardian Comyn 
 and his party. Edward, now feeling that his policy of 
 violence, terrorism and blood had done nothing to recon- 
 cile the people of Scotland to his rule, tried his hand at a 
 turn, unusual for him, of what might be called clemency. 
 Comyn and his followers gave themselves up, and were 
 received into " the King's peace," under a stipulation for 
 their lives, liberties, and lands. To Fraser, Soulis, and 
 others were proffered life and lands as terms of submis- 
 sion, with the additional proviso of banishment for limited 
 periods. From any saving clause, however, of capitulation, 
 one man was always held excluded William Wallace the 
 
LORD OF OLIVER AND NEIDPATH. 119 
 
 type incarnate to Edward of the popular opposition to his 
 will, and the heart hatred of his feudal temper. Highly 
 to the credit of Sir Simon Eraser, he, territorial lord as 
 he was, declined Edward's terms of life and lands so long 
 as his friend Wallace was not included in the clemency. 
 In a Parliament or Convention held at St. Andrews, 
 composed partly of Scottish Barons, in the spring of 1304, 
 the garrison of Stirling, Wallace and Eraser were declared 
 outlaws. After all the other Scottish leaders had sub- 
 mitted, Wallace and Eraser are acting together more 
 closely than ever, and still waging the unequal fight. As 
 late as March, 1304, they are found standing almost 
 single-handed against the English lords, Latymer, 
 Segrave, and de Clifford, at Hopperowe obviously 
 Happrew on Eraser's estate in Tweeddale. Then we 
 hear of them in "parts of Lothian." It was not until 
 after the capture and barbarous death of Wallace, 23rd 
 August of next year, that Eraser submitted to the English 
 terms safety of life and temporary exile. He was ad- 
 mitted to these terms in the Parliament of Westminster, 
 1 3th October, 1305, some three weeks after the execution 
 of Wallace. 
 
 When Robert Bruce, the grandson of the Bruce of 
 Baliol's time, set up his standard in 1306, Sir Simon 
 Eraser was ready to join him. He was present with 
 
1 2 o SIR SIMON ERASER, 
 
 Bruce at the skirmish at Methven, when he is said to 
 have three times saved the fallen King, heavy in armour, 
 from being taken prisoner, by setting him on his horse. 
 What he did for the King, however, he was unable to do 
 for himself. He was among the notable captives of the 
 skirmish, or he was taken shortly afterwards. Barbour 
 quaintly puts their fates thus : 
 
 ' ' Sum thai ransownyt, some thai slew, 
 And sum thai hangyt, and sum thai drew." 
 The Bruce, ii, 272. 
 
 Fraser was too tempting food for Edward's sweet 
 revenge, to escape the last-mentioned fate or fates. He 
 was sent to London, and there, in the spring of 1306-7, 
 underwent the barbarous and worse than brutal doom, 
 usually accorded to *those who had frustrated the im- 
 perious will of the King. A decent veil is thrown over 
 the details of his end in the following succinct account of 
 it, given by Leland from the Flores Historiarum : 
 
 " Anno D. 1306. Pugna inter Robertum Pseudoregem 
 Scotiae, et Almericum de Valentia comitem Pembrochias, 
 prope Methfen in Scotia. 
 
 " Simon Frisel, antesignanus Scotorum captus, et Lon- 
 dini postea tractus ac suspensus." 
 
LORD OF OLIVER AND NEID PATH. I2 i 
 
 There is one touching incident honourable to human 
 nature which ought to be recorded. As Sir Simon Fraser 
 went to the gallows, and as he stood under the gallows 
 tree, his fine personal appearance and his noble bearing 
 worthy of the man who preferred patriotism to life and 
 worldly honour, and of the baron who had been the 
 last to leave the grip of the hand of Wallace drew ex- 
 pressions of sympathy not only from the tender hearts of 
 women, but from the prejudiced and less susceptible men 
 of the rough London mob, who crowded round the 
 scaffold to witness the last and horrible agonies of the 
 captured Scot. 
 
 The Earl of Athole, of the old line, suffered along with 
 Fraser. Edward was ill at the time, but the news of the 
 
 I capture and execution of the Scottish patriots served to 
 
 . revive his languishing spirits. 
 
 \ Sir Simon Fraser left two daughters, co - heiresses. 
 \Mary, the elder, married Sir Gilbert Hay of Loch- 
 quharret, afterwards Locherwort, and now Borthwick, an 
 estate lying near Catcune, not far from the head of the 
 Heriot Water. Borthwick Castle was built on the moat 
 of Locherwort. Hay was a man thoroughly imbued with 
 the spirit of his father-in-law, a spirit probably inherited 
 by the daughter ; otherwise he might not have been her 
 choice. He did eminent service to Robert Bruce. He 
 
! 2 2 SHt SIMON FRASER, 
 
 was a party to a bond, in 1308, that obliged him to 
 defend the cause of Bruce against, in its quaint language, 
 " all mortals, French, English, and Scotch." He received 
 with his wife the large Tweeddale estates. These were 
 for several hundreds of years held by his not unworthy 
 descendants, the Hays of Yester a stock now repre- 
 sented by the Marquis of Tweeddale. 
 
 The other daughter married Sir Patrick Fleming, 
 said to be Sheriff of Peebles, to whom came, either by 
 this marriage or by inheritance, the Barony of Biggar. 
 Sir Malcolm Fleming, the elder brother of Sir Patrick, 
 was made Earl of Wigton in 1342. This branch of 
 the family became extinct, the last of the line having 
 sold the estate and earldom of Wigton to Archibald 
 Douglas. Eventually Fleming of Biggar was made Lord 
 Fleming, and then Earl of Wigton. The Biggar family 
 continued to represent the old lines of the Flemings and 
 Erasers for several hundred years. It is now merged in 
 that of the Lords Elphinston. Like the Tweeddales, 
 the Flemings quartered the Fraser arms the strawberry 
 flowers. Their motto was, "Let the deed shaw" The story 
 that Sir Simon Fraser left a son, who founded the Lovat 
 and Saltoun families, is, I am persuaded, a mere myth. If 
 the Frasers of the north sprung at all from the old stock 
 of Oliver and Neidpath, it was from a collateral branch, 
 
LORD OF OLIVER AND NEIDPATH. 123 
 
 of which there were many. Possibly they descend from 
 Simon Fraser, the son of Sir Andrew Fraser, Sheriff of 
 Stirling, the uncle of Sir Simon, the hero of Roslin. 
 This cousin, Simon Fraser, true to the spirit of his race, 
 fell nobly fighting at Halidon Hill in 1333. The Lovat 
 and other estates in the north may have been first ac- 
 quired by a son of the Oliver family at a considerably 
 earlier period ; but the first Fraser designated of Lovat 
 is Hugh in 1367. Neither Lovat nor Saltoun descends 
 lineally from Sir Simon Fraser. 
 
WERE I NOT STIRRED BY SCOTLAND S OLDEN BLISS, 
 
 NOT FOR EARTH'S EMPIRE WOULD i BEAR ALL THIS. 
 
ICxrrb xrf ODlitor mb JJetbpath, 
 
 I. 
 
 SCOTLAND IN THE TIME OF EDWARD I. 
 
 V\ HLD glen of Fruid, and Oliver 
 
 Set on the rocky steep, 
 High Tinnies, massive Neidpath grey, 
 Quaint relics of a long gone day, 
 What memories ye keep ! 
 
 With you back runs our thought beyond 
 
 Queen Mary's hapless morn ; 
 And Flodden's dule by sluggish Till, 
 The darkest day of Scotland's ill, 
 And peerless Otterbourne : 
 
I 2 6 THE LORD OF OLIVER 
 
 When the calm moon from heavenly height 
 
 Leant down with gentle face, 
 Saw fierce strife rage beneath her light, 
 Yet spread o'er helm of outstretched knight 
 
 A weird unearthly grace ! 
 
 'Yond luckless hill of Halidon, 
 
 And sacred Bannockburn, 
 That dim and light with shade and gleam 
 Old Scottish story's moving stream, 
 
 Through many a chequered turn. 
 
 Back to that February morn, 
 
 When hearted as the free, 
 The patriot lord of Neidpath poured, 
 With flashing spear and gleam of sword, 
 
 Tweed's sons on Roslin Lee. 
 
AND NEIDPATH. I2 ; 
 
 The Southern King, hard-purposed, stern, 
 
 Had stretched a ruthless hand, 
 Beyond the Cheviots' barrier high 
 To Maidens' Tower against the sky, 
 And grasped the Scottish land ! 
 
 " From South to North one kingdom all, 
 
 Until the restless sea, 
 
 That sounds my power from shores of Gaul, 
 Shall bear my name 'mid wild birds' call, 
 
 Round storm-girt Orcady. 
 
 " I who have awed fierce Saracen, 
 The pride of France laid low, 
 Shall I be baulked by rude Scotsmen, 
 Rough peasants of the mountain glen, 
 Disloyal rabble foe?" 
 
I2 g THE LORD OF OLIVER 
 
 Three leopards on his banner shone, 
 
 Of fine gold set in red, 
 In aspect haughty, fierce, and fast, 
 Unfeeling as the biting blast, 
 On cruel purpose sped. 
 
 'Twas fate of men both true and good, 
 
 To feel the savage rage; 
 And ladies high of royal blood 
 Knew well the beast's ferocious mood, 
 
 Each barred in iron cage. 
 
 By Wallace, Seaton, Nigel Bruce, 
 
 The slakeless thirst was fed, 
 And oft in simple hamlet lay 
 A gory sight to shame the day, 
 And none to earth the dead ! 
 
AND NEIDPA TH. T 2 9 
 
 Fierce through the prostrate land he passed, 
 
 Burnt village, town, and farm ; 
 The lead from old church roof he tore, 
 Spared covering o'er the altar floor, 
 
 Too pious it to harm ! 
 
 Much recked he flag of mild St. John, 
 
 From Beverley's old Fane, 
 That aye 'fore English host had shone 
 When Scotland's soil was trampled on, 
 
 Since days of Athelstane ! 
 
 God help the land, was many a prayer, 
 
 From heaven-bannered host ! 
 Caerlaverock's fate proclaimed the truth,- 
 As for the weak he had no ruth, 
 
 The brave he hated most ! 
 
10 THE LORD OF OLIVER 
 
 j 
 
 With hirelings base the land was filled, 
 
 Who knew no law but will ; 
 All lived in shade of tyrant fear, 
 No man was safe, knight, churl, or peer, 
 Nor wife, nor maid, from ill. 
 
 Each pleasant thing, horse, hawk, or hound, 
 
 That gave a simple joy, 
 Or sweetness lent life's daily round, 
 Some base pretext was ready found 
 
 To seize or to destroy. 
 
 Thus long the looming shadow lay 
 
 Dark on the saddened time; 
 The memory of the Good King's day, 
 When there were gamyn, glee, and play, 
 Fell like regretful chime. 
 
AND NEIDPA 777. 
 
 Ah ! tinselled Lord, puissant, cold, 
 
 Why recked ye not your plan 
 Of mere mechanic sway and mould 
 Is death of kingship, treason bold 
 To sacred cause of man? 
 
 While the white flower of sovereign power 
 Blooms fair, spontaneous, free, 
 
 In sun or gloom unchanged still; 
 
 The outcome of a people's will, 
 Heart growth of loyalty ! 
 
 Oft rode through Neidpath's court-yard door, 
 
 A knight of Norman name; 
 Strawberry flower on shield he bore, 
 What was a lowly bloom before, 
 
 Uplifted into fame ! 
 
I32 THE LORD OF OLIVER 
 
 Of ancient line he came, yet knew 
 
 Lot chequered as a dream; 
 Had seen our Scottish story's morn, 
 Had watched its darkened noon forlorn, 
 
 As cloud glooms sunny stream. 
 
 He fought beside Dunbar's sea-Keep, 
 
 When one noble lady, bold, 
 Stood firm against proud Edward's power, 
 'Gainst King and husband held the tower, 
 
 As stout as Earl of old ! 
 
 For she had heard the rumour dire 
 
 Of Berwick's bloody morn; 
 A wife, but yet a woman more ; 
 That mother's face gashed in its gore, 
 And her gashed child new born, 
 
AND NEIDPATH. 
 
 That lay upon the Berwick brae, 
 
 Beneath the open sky, 
 Had waked the pathos of her heart, 
 Had stirred her to a stern, strong part, 
 
 'Twere better far to die ! 
 
 Fraser was ta'en by that old tower, 
 
 To English prison sent ; 
 Where Flemish fields were red with blood, 
 By Edward's side unwilling stood, 
 
 To Edward's fealty bent ! 
 
 Lord of the Forest now he roamed, 
 
 All life to him was fair, 
 He need but quench his noble heart, 
 He need but take the baser part, 
 
 That hath no cross to bear ! 
 
I34 THE LORD OF OLIVER 
 
 " My oath ! But do I bear a bond ? 
 
 I've sworn but to his might ; 
 I've bartered 'gainst my country's weal 
 My life, estate, ignoble seal, 
 
 Prized Self above the Right ! 
 
 a What get I by my oath but this, 
 
 I shall ignobly be? 
 What if the law of sacrifice 
 Now calls me above self to rise, 
 
 That this poor land be free? 
 
 " Life cycles in the years that pass, 
 And richer fruit they bring; 
 
 I, what am I, 'mid passing cries? 
 
 And does not every leaf that dies 
 But make a fuller spring?" 
 
AND NEW PATH. 
 
 From moorland chase, with trophies strung, 
 
 Of glancing spear and bow ; 
 'Mid wondering looks of vassal band, 
 Who did his hest with ready hand, 
 
 He rode, desponding, low. 
 
 Wrapt in his thoughts he communed still : 
 
 "Is all this strength of arm 
 The blood of simple deer to spill? 
 For creatures straying wild, this will 
 
 To do them deadly harm? 
 
 "All purposeless this life I lead, 
 
 Outlet of impulse blind, 
 Mere aimless energy of deed, 
 No guiding end or noble need, 
 More than the passing wind ; 
 
I3 6 THE LORD OF OLIVER 
 
 " Or rushing burn that leaps the fall, 
 
 And joyous fills its pool ; 
 Yet there are weak to aid, and call 
 Of injured to redress, and all 
 The land knows cruel rule. 
 
 " The winter wind I've known it tear 
 
 And rave across the lee, 
 All through the spring, and ruthless bear 
 The benty locks of lint white hair 
 
 As spray upon the sea* 
 
 " Seemed windy sweep the power supreme, 
 
 Yet lowly on the earth, 
 Unwatched a grassy blade would gleam, 
 Down in the nook of mountain stream. 
 
 The new time's sacred birth : 
 
AND NEIDPA TH. 
 
 " So in my heart I seem to feel 
 
 Young purpose silent grow, 
 Spring-omen of my country's weal, 
 To English tyrant forced to kneel, 
 'Neath wasting storm laid low. 
 
 " If slight as growth 'neath withering wind, 
 
 Yet from the mute dull earth 
 That yearns for life, I lesson find 
 That mere brute force long cannot bind 
 
 The soul that feels its worth." 
 
 In action prompt, in friendship true, 
 
 In wary counsel learned ; 
 The burgher's hearts unto him grew, 
 The muirmen of the forest through 
 All to him longed and yearned. 
 
^ g THE LORD OF OLIVER 
 
 vJ 
 
 Not fearing peril, life, estate, 
 
 Heart-touched by public wrong, 
 At length he cast his lot and fate 
 Against proud Edward's power, and hate 
 Deep, unrelenting, strong. 
 
 II. 
 
 THE RISING AND BA TTLE OF R OS LIN. 
 
 The need-fires flamed all through the night, 
 
 Flamed red from peel to hill, 
 Brave hearts leapt up with sense of might, 
 And gentle women feared the sight, 
 
 As bode of looming ill. 
 
 The burghers wakeful eyed the glare 
 
 That beamed across the town; 
 The river caught the ruddy flare, 
 And bore it through the dark night air 
 By cot and farm adown. 
 
AND NEIDPATH. 
 
 Hauberk and helm they donned at call, 
 
 Grasped pike clear, keen, and long; 
 And soon within grey Neidpath's hall 
 Surged murmuring storm, one heart in all, 
 Of unavenged wrong. 
 
 Ere greyking of the misty morn, 
 
 With Fraser on the lee 
 Four knights, his peers, in fealty sworn 
 To aid their country's cause forlorn, 
 
 Rode, famed in chevache'e. 
 
 Horsbroc was there of Saxon line, 
 
 And there, in blue and gold, 
 On Burnefs helmet shone the vine, 
 Strange to our heather-hills the sign, 
 Of richer clime it told. 
 
 139 
 
I4 o THE LORD OF OLIVER 
 
 And there too Posso's laird, the Bard, 
 
 Of sweet poetic name; 
 His song, where crags the falcons guard, 
 And still his line keeps royal ward, 
 
 Now lost to fickle fame. 
 
 And Vache of Dawyck there, who yields 
 
 In stout bold heart to none; 
 Yet fancy decks him sunny fields, 
 And, Vascon vine-slopes flushing, gilds 
 With morns of days long gone. 
 
 Now his Scrape's mist-filled mountain urns, 
 
 And for Garonne's still gleam, 
 He hears the murmur of the burns, 
 He sees Tweed move in rippling turns, 
 As in sweet chequered dream. 
 
AND NEIDPA TH. 
 
 A patriot passion moves his frame, 
 
 A glowing warmth of blood 
 Unto young Scotia's cause he brings 
 A soul that, crushed, undaunted springs, 
 More keen, the more withstood. 
 
 Through long dark years, on many a field, 
 
 The pennon of his line, 
 When brave hearts death or victory sealed, 
 Waved white, and gleamed the silver shield 
 
 Dashed with the sable kine. 
 
 Last, Hunter of Powmood, who strung 
 
 The arrow speeding free, 
 Name consecrate to bounding deer, 
 To joyous chace o'er moorland clear, 
 And noble forestry. 
 
I42 THE LORD OF OLIVER 
 
 Ne'er spurned he couch by mist deep drenched, 
 
 Far from the haunts of men, 
 Where his wild burn from springs unquenched, 
 Leaps breaking through the boulders blenched, 
 
 Adown its skyey glen. 
 
 Ah ! wild it raves in winter time, 
 
 And dread its waters' war; 
 When summer streaks the mosses green, 
 It courses bright in sunny sheen, 
 
 Beneath the stern red scaur. 
 
 Silent they move through Meldon pass, 
 
 Where misty morn was spread; 
 On the Black Hill, ere break of day, 
 Rose sudden red a flickering ray, 
 By sacred fire outshed. 
 
AND NEIDPATH. 
 
 Hearts quickened by the omen good, 
 They passed hag, burn, and scaur, 
 Passed through dim pastoral solitude, 
 Where cot and farm in quiet stood, 
 To dire dread shock of war. 
 
 And here and there, through lone peel bole, 
 
 Peered mothers', maidens' eyes, 
 Who crossed themselves, and prayed, and blessed, 
 As line on line still onwards pressed 
 
 Sons', lovers' bold emprise. 
 
 From uplands of the southern hills 
 
 They shot on Roslin Lee ; 
 As sudden shape from out the mist, 
 As levin from the dark cloud pressed, 
 Came flashing fell and free ! 
 
1 44 THE LORD OF OLIVER 
 
 Not long the shock, nor long the rush 
 
 In onset on the plain ; 
 Of mingling spears a shivering frusch, 
 Of unreined steeds a maddening crush, 
 
 That trampled fallen men : 
 
 Whose corslets pierced shed drops of life 
 
 Upon the red-wet grass; 
 And then with sway of sword o'erhead, 
 The muirmen, wave unbroken, sped 
 
 Against the bending mass, 
 
 That quailed and surged amid strange cries, 
 
 Prayer mutterings on the ground, 
 Hoof-ring on helm, and pained groans, 
 Faint signings of the cross, weird tones 
 Of death's low moaning sound ! 
 
AND NEW PATH. 
 
 But late on Falkirk's bloody field, 
 
 Within the spear line's sheen, 
 
 The Forest bowmen low were laid, 
 
 The tallest and most graceful dead, 
 
 That Southron foes had seen ! 
 
 And 'twas their sons now forward pressed, 
 
 Men of the muir and fell, 
 Fair-haired, keen-eyed, warm-blooded they, 
 And think you they forgot the day, 
 
 They'd heard their mothers tell? . 
 
 The patriot force resistless spurn 
 
 New bands, one after one, 
 That for dear honour ardent burn 
 The forceful tide of war to turn, 
 Twice ere the set of sun. 
 
 145 
 
146 THE LORD OF OLIVER 
 
 Then, triple victory gained, avenged 
 
 In blood of fallen foe, 
 With savage hand, stroke ruthless, sore, 
 The heavy load their country bore 
 
 Of unredeemed woe. 
 
 That gloamin' to their mountain homes 
 
 The patriot band repair, 
 But with their joy some soft tears blend, 
 As by a moorland tower they wend, 
 
 And lay their burden there. 
 
 At morn as by the peel they passed 
 
 A noble widowed dame 
 Gave fair haired son, true-hearted, leal, 
 An offering for her country's weal, 
 
 The last hope of her name ! 
 
AND NEIDPATH. 
 
 At even-tide her arms she throws 
 
 The pale young form around, 
 Less tearful than at morning hour, 
 Though now she knows the shadow's power. 
 
 Since he had nobly found, 
 
 In the last battle's shuddering shock, 
 
 Of the fight's varying flow, 
 The place of triumph and of death, 
 'Mid turmoil thick and panting breath 
 Of hated foreign foe ! 
 
 Ah ! Roslin Lee, but glint of sun, 
 
 By cloudy sky o'ercast, 
 And yet ye cheered a nation's heart, 
 And nerved it to a trustful part, 
 
 Till freedom dawned at last ! 
 
I4 8 THE LORD OF OLIVER 
 
 By moss and muir, by loch and burn, 
 
 The Lord of Neidpath lay, 
 And still he waged the unequal fight, 
 Spurned policy, and feared not might, 
 Through many a bitter day. 
 
 And when o' night his camp-fire gleamed 
 
 By secret hag or scaur, 
 The Forest folk would eye the sight, 
 And inward bless the lonely light, 
 
 Their hope's last glimmering star ! 
 
 Comyn and Soulis ! Let them take 
 
 The terms of tyrant's grace; 
 No truce with English King will he, 
 Nor life, estate, nor liberty, 
 Where Wallace hath no place ! 
 
AND NEW PA TH. 
 
 Wallace ! the type of Scotland's will, 
 
 Edward's incarnate hate ! 
 His last grip of a brother's hand 
 Was Fraser's by Tweed's silver strand, 
 
 Ere he passed to his fate ! 
 
 Now years have gone, strife's ebb and flow, 
 
 And 'twas the time when high 
 On our hill-tops the winter snow 
 Is smote by April sunshine glow, 
 
 Through blue breaks of the sky. 
 
 Brown moss spots peer amid the white, 
 
 And streaks of tender green ; 
 And shapes of mist, before the sight, 
 Rise up in wreaths, and quaintly dight 
 The grey rough crags of whin ; 
 
 149 
 
150 THE LORD OF OLIVER 
 
 Then skyward move, and softly part 
 
 In incense to the sun; 
 
 Each burn with fresh found voice takes heart, 
 In joy of new-born force alert, 
 
 And shouts as it doth run. 
 
 While bleatings all around are rife 
 
 Of lambs amid the spring; 
 The patriot knight, 'mid bursting life, 
 They bore far south from child and wife, 
 
 In grace of graceless king. 
 
 As the braird shot, as bud took bloom, 
 And Tweed flowed peaceful down, 
 Ah ! Nature recks not our heart's gloom,- 
 He calmly passed through traitor's doom, 
 To wear the martyr's crown ! 
 
AND NEIDPA TH. 1 5 r 
 
 Oft from dead sire to son hath flowed 
 
 One great undying aim; 
 'Twas a slight maiden orphaned now, 
 In whose blue eyes 'neath sunny brow 
 
 There gleamed the father's flame! 
 
 From where amid high Borthwick's wilds 
 
 Lies field of old Catcun, 
 He came, Loquharret's knight, the Hay, 
 His country's and the Bruce's stay, 
 
 And Neidpath's heiress won ! 
 
 For six dark years great oath he kept 
 
 To stand by Bruce's side; 
 He, noble Seaton, and Lochowe, 
 Three banded to the death in vow; 
 
 So bid Loquharret's bride ! 
 
5 2 THE LORD OF OLIVER AND NEIDPATH. 
 
 'Till that June day the Southron knew 
 
 Power of a dead man's hand; 
 When tyrant's son rode fast and far 
 From Bannockburn to old Dunbar> 
 
 No more to lord the land ! 
 
xrf 
 
 They hunted it up, they hunted it doun, 
 They hunted it in by Mossfennan toun, 
 And aye they gie'd it another turn, 
 Round by the links of the Logan Burn. 
 
 OLD BALLAD. 
 
 'TVTEATH Powmood Craig the hart was born, 
 
 And thence in the dawn of a summer morn, 
 By startled mother's side as it lay, 
 'Twas brought by a youth for his sweetheart's play. 
 
 She was a blue-eyed maiden fair, 
 Of stately mien and flaxen hair, 
 The daughter meet of an olden race, 
 Remote as a flower in a moorland place, 
 
154 
 
 THE HART OF MOSSFENNAN. 
 
 That blooms to all the great world lost, 
 And yet once seen is prized the most, 
 Pure wood nymph she of Caledon, 
 Who loved all creatures wild and lone. 
 
 The gift to her was priceless, dear, 
 
 Since the giver, laid on a plaited bier, 
 
 Was borne away from a far off field, 
 
 With a spotless, name, with a blood-stained shield. 
 
 To her of an eve the creature bent, 
 While to him a simple grace she lent, 
 As she comely wreathed his noble head, 
 And decked his brow with the heather red. 
 Fond she gazed on those lustrous eyes 
 That met her look with a sweet surprise 
 At a face so tender, sad, and fair; 
 She thought they read her soul's despair; 
 And through her frame strange thrill would go, 
 

 THE HART OF MOSSFENNAN. 
 
 As she caught the chequer'd pass and flow 
 Of trembling motions in their great deeps, 
 As light and shade o'er the mountain-steeps. 
 
 155 
 
 Far o'er the moors on a summer day 
 H'ed pass and roam and freely stray; 
 But ever, as shade of evening fell, 
 He turned to the home he loved so well. 
 His heart yearned aye to the lonely wild, 
 While his love was that of a human child, 
 That set a bound to his nature free, 
 For the maiden's face on Mossfennan Lee. 
 
 The hunters are out this summer morn, 
 They sweep the moors by hag and burn, 
 By rock and crag, each high resort, 
 For dear they love their noble sport. 
 They started a fee at Stanhope Head, 
 And down the glen the raches sped, 
 
! 5 6 THE HAR T OF MOSSFENNAN. 
 
 Fire-flauchts lanced up from each horse's side, 
 For the galling spur was prompt to chide. 
 
 Round he ran by Hopcarton Stell, 
 The spotted hounds pressed on him fell; 
 F the haugh he took the Tweed at the wide, 
 Then tossed his horns on Mossfennan side. 
 Still the cruel hounds are on his track, 
 In his ear the yell of the hurrying pack, 
 Fain to Mossfennan Tower he would turn, 
 But the chace is hot, to the hill by the burn. 
 
 They hunted him high, they hunted him low, 
 
 They hunted him up by the mossy flow; 
 
 The lee-long day, from early morn, 
 
 The Hopes rung loud with bouts of the horn. 
 
 No bloom of heather brae them stayed, 
 
 No birk-tree quiver or sheen of glade, 
 
 No touch of nature bent their will, 
 
THE HAR T OF MOSSFENNAN. j 5 7 
 
 In hot blood onward, onward still. 
 
 Powmood, that ever in clear or mist, 
 
 In fray or hunt the foremost pressed, 
 
 Now speeding keen as north-west wind, 
 
 Late i' the day left all behind; 
 
 Save Dreva's Laird, ne'er boding good, 
 
 Wide was he famed for a reiver rude, 
 
 And hand that took kindly aye to blood, 
 
 Left blacken'd walls where the homestead stood. 
 
 They hunted the hart these two alone, 
 Till the shadows lay in the afternoon; 
 Where brae was stey and bank was steep, 
 The noble fee fell in a gallant leap. 
 They blew the mort on the Wormhill Head, 
 Where sore he sighed and then lay dead ! 
 
 Oh ! why not let the creature be, 
 
1 5 8 THE HAR T OF MOSSFENNAN. 
 
 Bear his noble head o'er hill and lee, 
 That ate but the wild roots, drank o j the spring, 
 And roamed the moor a seemly thing, 
 Joyed in the sun, flashed fleet in the storm, 
 Free in the grace of his God-given form ! 
 
 The merry sport of the day is o'er; 
 I' the gloamin' at the old tower door, 
 No gentle creature is there to greet 
 Her eyes that seek him, sad and sweet, 
 Oh ! with love's last link 'tis sore to part, 
 And feel but the void of the aching heart ! 
 
 The merry sport of the day is o' - er; 
 
 Rose the creature's sigh its God before? 
 
 Hearts harder growing through breach of ruth, 
 
 I ween this is eternal truth : 
 
 That gloamin', after words of strife, 
 
 Saw Powmood's blood on Dreva's knife ! 
 
xrf forb JttaxtoeU 
 
 AT DRYFE SANDS, 1593. 
 
 THE Battle of Dryfe Sands was a crucial fight. The 
 Maxwells and the Johnstons had long striven on the 
 Borders. There had been hot blood and bated breath 
 for some years ; but now the pent-up passions of the 
 clans were to find outlet. The Laird of Johnston, through 
 his maternal relatives, the Scotts of Eskdale and Teviot- 
 dale, had received a body of 500 men headed by Sir 
 Gideon Murray of Elibank. Lord Maxwell, the ninth 
 Baron, proceeded as Warden of the Marches to meet 
 the Johnstons. He had in foot and horse 1,500 men, 
 while the Laird of Johnston, with the Scotts and Murrays, 
 reached 800, or thereby. 
 
 On the 7th December, 1593, the two forces met on the 
 Dryfe Sands, near the Solway. Lord Maxwell, trusting 
 too much to his superiority of numbers, and not consider- 
 
160 THE DEATH OF LORD MAXWELL. 
 
 ing sufficiently the advantage of position of the Johnstons, 
 risked a battle, and suffered a sharp defeat. Before the 
 battle, a reward had been proffered by Maxwell for the 
 hand or head of Johnston ; and Johnston, hearing this, 
 in turn readily proclaimed a reward for the hand or head 
 of Maxwell. In the rout of the Maxwells, Lord Maxwell, 
 " a tall man and heavy in armour, was in the chase over- 
 taken and stricken from his horse." After this, he was 
 either slain by Johnston of Kirkhill or left wounded with 
 his hand cut off, for which the reward had been offered. 
 The tradition to which the following ballad refers is that 
 the wife of James Johnston of Kirkton Tower had gone 
 out to look for her husband and relatives, who were 
 engaged in the fight, and having come upon Lord Max- 
 well lying wounded, despatched him as here related. (See 
 Mr. Eraser's Book of Caer laverock, I., 29.) I may add 
 that I first learned the story of the death of Lord Max- 
 well, as here given, at least twelve years ago, on one of 
 those quiet evenings which hallow my memories of the 
 cultured homes that surrounded the ancient University 
 of St. Andrews. The following ballad was written long 
 before the Book of Caerlaverock was printed. 
 
jBeath xrf ICxrri 
 
 AT DR YFE SANDS. 
 
 ^PHE Leddy sat alane i' the Peel, 
 
 A' through the weary noon ; 
 For the fray was struck at early morn, 
 And now the sun was doon. 
 
 Nocht she saw of the fecht that swung 
 In deid grips frae the tower; 
 
 But distant soughs would rise and fall 
 Of mortal strife and stour. 
 
62 THE DEA TH OF LORD MAXWELL 
 
 And hurrying birds, ane after ane, 
 
 Fled seawards frae the land, 
 And every shriek that crossed the roof 
 
 Was a wail from far Dryfe's strand. 
 
 " I'll oot and see how fare my sons, 
 
 I can thole na' this unrest" 
 She locked the door o' the auld grey keep,- 
 
 Wi' the aim key hied her west. 
 
 She hadna gaen a mile, a mile, 
 
 A mile but barely one, 
 When there she saw a deid man's face, 
 
 I wot, 'twas her son John. 
 
 Nae stop she made but further sped, 
 
 And by the Red Syke fa', 
 There streakit lay her lad Willie, 
 
 The flower among them a'. 
 
AT DR YFE SANDS. 1 63 
 
 "A curse upon the Lord Maxwell, 
 
 An' a curse upon his name, 
 'Tis he has wrought me a' this dule, 
 
 God wyte him wi' the blame ! " 
 
 The evening tide was warstling sair, 
 
 Sair warstling wi' the faem, 
 Aye bearing straight upon the sands, 
 
 Deep moaning as it came. 
 
 But whatna wounded man is this, 
 
 That lies upon the strand? 
 I wot it is the Lord Maxwell, 
 
 And they've hacked off his hand ! 
 
 " Oh ! Leddy Johnston gie to me 
 
 Ae cup o' water clear, 
 Unhook the basnet frae my heid, 
 
 I'm faint for want o' air." 
 
64 THE DEATH OF LORD MAXWELL. 
 
 "Now by my sooth ye fause fell loon, 
 
 Sair Lord yeVe been to me, 
 'To set her hood' ye brunt Lochwood, 
 
 My sons lie deid by thee ! 
 
 " Nae cup o' water shall ye get, 
 
 Nor yet a breath o' air, 
 But a reft mother's hate ye'll ken, 
 
 Ere lang as ye lie there." 
 
 She gae ae look to the western sky, 
 
 It frowned a lurid red; 
 She didna turn that way again, 
 
 For a fear was overhead. 
 
 Ae moment's grip o' the tower door key, 
 
 She swung it ower his bree; 
 They fand the great Lord Maxwell cauld, 
 
 Next morning by the sea ! 
 
Jf-Uming'* 
 
 JOHN, the second Lord Fleming, Great Chamberlain of 
 Scotland, Ambassador to France, the representative of 
 one of the most energetic and distinguished families in 
 Scottish military and civil history, was assassinated, 
 while hawking, by James Tweedie, the son and heir of 
 John Tweedie of Drummelzier, on the ist November, 
 1 524. The scene of the deed was on that part of Lord 
 Fleming's estate which lay in the uplands between the 
 Biggar Water and the Tweed, the highest reaches of 
 which are Culter Fell and Caerdon. He was accom- 
 panied only by his son and heir, Malcolm, and a few 
 servants. The Tweedies lay in wait for him on the moors 
 with a considerable body of retainers. The ground of 
 quarrel was the ward and marriage of Catherine Frizzel 
 (Fraser), the heiress of Fruid. Drummelzier laid claim to 
 the feudal fine and wardship, and James Tweedie, son of 
 
! 66 THE LAD Y FLEMING >S DREAM. 
 
 Drummelzier, wished to marry her ; while Lord Fleming, 
 on the other hand, sought to secure her for his (canonically) 
 illegitimate son Malcolm. When the parties met on the 
 moor, hot words ensued, and young Tweedie drew his sVord 
 and killed Lord Fleming on the spot. The Tweedies robbed 
 the defenceless servants, and carried the young Lord 
 Fleming to their castle of Drummelzier Place, where they 
 confined him. Legal proceedings connected with the 
 murder went on for nearly seven years ; but, after all, 
 such was the weakness of law in the minority of James V., 
 that the banded assassins escaped with a mere pecuniary 
 payment. They seem to have been well backed, if not 
 instigated, by Sir Walter Scott of Branxholme. 
 
 Lord Fleming had rather a varied and not very credit- 
 able matrimonial experience. He first married Euphemia 
 Drummond, daughter of Lord Drummond. A dark sus- 
 picion attached to him that he poisoned her and her two 
 sisters. He then carried off Margaret Stewart, daughter 
 of the second Earl of Lennox, whom he afterwards re- 
 pudiated on the ground of propinquity in blood, and lack 
 of previous dispensation. His third wife, Agnes Somer- 
 ville, of the house of Carnwath, survived him. 
 
" T|*ARE ye not with the hawk this morn, 
 
 Fare not, my lord, my life, 
 I've striven last night with a fearsome dream 
 Long hours of eerie strife ! 
 
 " I saw o'er the ridge of the Culter Fell 
 From the south a darkness creep, 
 
 Shapeless and slow it moved in the air, 
 Some purpose dread in its keep ! 
 
! 68 THE LAD Y FLEMING 'S DREAM. 
 
 11 Down the Culter Hope it moved and swung 
 
 Till it wreathed itself to form, 
 And there it grew to a black bull's head, 
 
 With a threat as of gathering storm. 
 
 "And then 'twixt me and the new risen sun, 
 
 It darkening poised i' the air, 
 'Twas vain I strove the light to see 
 
 For the horror hanging there ! 
 
 "Face to my face the grim thing kept, 
 
 And over Boghall Tower, 
 Instead of the blink of the morning light, 
 
 'Twas dark at the morning hour ! 
 
 "And yet methought 'twas not by might 
 That it quenched the sun of day, 
 
 But watchful aye it moved and turned, 
 As wile seeks noble prey ! 
 
THE LAD Y FLEMING 'S DREAM. 169 
 
 " From the lift at last the grim head passed, 
 
 And lo ! the clear moon shone, 
 Yet I marvelled why she stood in the sky, 
 
 When I looked for the morning sun ! 
 
 "On a hazel glade her beams were shed, 
 
 In a hollow deep of the fell; 
 Soft and bright was her sparkle Ught 
 
 On the face of the Hunter's Well. 
 
 "And near it, methought, I saw a form 
 
 That knelt to the water fair, 
 And went and came as in trouble deep 
 
 For some one lying there ! 
 
 "In the Well she bathed a new-cropt flower, 
 
 It seemed the strawberry pale, 
 Sadly she eyed its drooping face, 
 
 As in grief without avail ! 
 
r 70 THE LAD Y FLEMING 'S DREAM. 
 
 " I knew the lady's face and form, 
 She lies in the sun-dark tomb, 
 
 But once she sat your well loved bride 
 In power of her youthful bloom ! 
 
 " The Fleming wears the strawberry flower ! 
 
 My lord, my life, take heed ! 
 Drummelzier bears the black bull's head, 
 
 Dark omen ye may read ! " 
 
 Lord Fleming's look was startled, strange, 
 Yet he mounted his horse and rode : 
 
 " I'll fare with the hawk this winter morn, 
 Recking nought night fancies' bode ! " 
 
 But as he passed o'er the moorland fell, 
 Low words he muttering said, 
 
 Seemed as he spake to some one there, 
 " Is there ruth eVn with my dead ? " 
 
THE LADY FLEMING'S DREAM. 
 
 He thought him of a clay-cold form 
 
 That lay in a chapel girth, 
 He marvell'd if but the loved in heaven 
 
 Keep watch o'er the left on earth ! 
 
 High they coursed o'er the spreading fells, 
 
 Till late in the afternoon, 
 And far they rode by the lone burnheads, 
 
 Till up i' the east shot the moon ! 
 
 Below from the Hope there seemed to come 
 
 As 'twere a dim cloud gleam ; 
 Is this but the mist of the water-side 
 
 Struck bright by the glinting beam ? 
 
 Out of that mist there sudden flashed, 
 
 A young face keen as flame ; 
 Scant words but hot between them passed; 
 
 They bandied a lady's name ! 
 
 171 
 
172 
 
 THE LADY FLEMING'S DREAM. 
 
 One stealthy thrust from Drummelzier's sword, 
 
 And then a deep-drawn wail; 
 The strawberry white on the Fleming's breast 
 
 Grew red in the moonlight pale. 
 
 Dead he lay by the Hunter's Well, 
 Dead horse and hawk by his side; 
 
 Drummelzier and ten armed men 
 Rode late that eventide ! 
 
 They rode by Chapel Kingledoors, 
 
 With clattering hoof they sped; 
 And well the priest in the lee moonlight 
 
 Knew omen of their tread ! 
 
 All night on the moor Lord Fleming lay, 
 
 Face to the moonshine clear; 
 Next morn to Boghall they brought him slow 
 
 From the hill on a sauchen bier ! 
 
THE LADY FLEMING 'S DREAM. 1 73 
 
 His lady deemed him fair that morn, 
 When they brought him from the heath, 
 
 Soft pallor on his upturned face, 
 'Twas hard to think it death ! 
 
 Pale and fair as his strawberry flower, 
 New snatched with drooping head; 
 
 For aye cut off from its quickening root, 
 Yet a grace is on it dead ! 
 
 
T N a lone Herd's house, far up i' the Hope, 
 
 By the hill with the winter cairn, 
 She paced the floor i' the peat-fire glow, 
 In her arms she clasped her bairn ! 
 
 Out in the night, the snowstorm's might 
 
 Tore wild around the door; 
 " Oh ! waes me for my ain gudeman, 
 
 Up on that weary moor ! 
 
THE HERD'S WIFE. 175 
 
 " I canna bide that gruesome sough, 
 
 And swirl of blindin' drift ; 
 There's no a star in a' the sky, 
 
 Nor a glint o' moon i' the lift ! 
 
 "Has the crook o 7 my lot then come sae soon 
 
 On our gleesome wedding-day? 
 Wi' the ae bloom o 7 the heather braes 
 
 Is my blessing sped away? 
 
 " Oh ! bonnie a' through was our year, 
 
 Frae Spring to the Lammas-tide; 
 There was joy in the e'e blinks o' morn, 
 
 Was I wrang in wishin' 'twad bide? 
 
 " But little thocht I that the hay, 
 Deep ower the haugh and the lee, 
 
 Our first crop he sae blythely mawed, 
 Was the last we thegether wad see ! 
 
i 7 6 
 
 THE HERD'S WIFE. 
 
 " Have I loved him ower muckle, O Lord, 
 Thocht mair o' his smile than Thine? 
 
 Oh ! on earth I had nane but himsel' 
 To be my sweet bairnie's and mine ! " 
 
 She paced up and down, the bairn in her grip, 
 
 That knew not her sore unrest; 
 And aye about it her arms she clasped, 
 
 Pressed it, how close, to her breast ! 
 
 High on the blast rose a piteous whine; 
 
 She thrilled as 'tween hope and fear, 
 'Twas the pleading wail of faithful Help, 
 
 But alone, no Master there ! 
 
 No warm hearth seeks the old dog to-night, 
 
 His face is set to the storm, 
 He's come from where his master lies, 
 
 He'll guide to the snow-numbed form ! 
 
THE HERD'S WIFE. 177 
 
 One tender look has the wife for Help, 
 
 A tear-eyed glance for her child ; 
 Out will she 'mid the fearsome night, 
 
 For him that lies on the wild. 
 
 With milk in vial, her sole resource, 
 Laid in the warmth of her breast, 
 
 She and Help 'gainst the 'wildering snow, 
 To her God she leaves the rest ! 
 
 Fearless she faced the gruesome sough, 
 
 And swirl of blindin' drift, 
 There was no a star in a' the sky, 
 
 Or a glint o' moon i' the lift ! 
 
 Bareheaded slept he 'neath the mound, 
 Where the wreath was o'er him laid, 
 
 There in the folds of the winding snow, 
 Help found him wrapt in his plaid ! 
 
 M 
 
178 THE HERD'S WIFE. 
 
 Oh ! how she clasped him there, and poured 
 Life-warmth through the chilled frame, 
 
 Heaven tender looked on her wifely love, 
 He breathed and blessed her name ! 
 
THE prophet-preacher was first laid in the Churchyard of 
 Auchinleck, in the Laird's aisle. After six weeks his 
 body was taken up, and thence carried or dragged by a 
 party of dragoons to the place of public execution on a 
 hill near the adjoining village of Cumnock, where it was 
 re-interred " out of contempt." The following is the in- 
 scription on his tomb in Cumnock Churchyard : 
 
 " Here lies Mr. Alexander Peden, Faithful Minister of 
 the Gospel, some time at Glenluce, who departed this 
 mortal life the 26th of January, 1686 : and was raised 
 after six weeks out of the grawf and buried here out of 
 contempt. Memento Mori." 
 
 The people of Cumnock, who had formerly buried in 
 the churchyard round the church, in the hollow where the 
 
I go PEDEN'S GRA VE. 
 
 village stands, abandoned their ancient burial place, and 
 formed a new one on the Gallows Hill, enclosing in it 
 Peden's grave. Within the rails that surround the 
 preacher's tomb lie the remains of the Covenanters David 
 Dun and Simon Paterson, who were both shot on the 
 spot where they are buried. Two hawthorn trees grow 
 above the graves. 
 
J3tben'0 
 
 T ONG were his troubles, and watchings o' night, 
 
 Wrestlings till grey o' the morn ; 
 At last from death-couch on the moor, 
 To the kirkyard tenderly borne. 
 
 By Lugar side low he was laid, 
 
 Lovingly happed with the sod ; 
 From earth they asked nought but a grave, 
 
 His spirit at rest with his God ! 
 
182 PEDEN'S GRAVE. 
 
 But out of God's acre hate tore him, 
 
 Out of the sacred kirkyard, 
 No rest there for God's own elect, 
 
 The place of crime his award ! 
 
 Through Lugafs deep woods he was borne; 
 
 Birds hushed their carolling, 
 As onwards the ghastly shudder crept, 
 
 Dead face through the leafy spring ! 
 
 They have dragged him on up the brae, 
 To a hole 'neath the Gallows Tree; 
 
 There to lie and rot in contempt, 
 I' the place of shame aye to be ! 
 
 Yes ! wreak your poor hate on the corpse, 
 No doubt the work's to your will ! 
 
 The soul's might is too high for your scope, 
 Or the martyr spirit to still ! 
 
PEDEN'S GRAVE. 
 
 183 
 
 Ye ne'er scrupled to quench a man's life, 
 Or hack the corpse with the sword ! 
 
 No more would have spared the dead Christ, 
 The face of the Crucified Lord ! 
 
 Think you, have you power o'er the man, 
 
 Who degrade the mortal form? 
 Are ye deaf to a people's murmuring, 
 
 That swells to the sweep of a storm? 
 
 Cavaliers, forsooth ! Cavaliers ! 
 
 Proud in your mindless might I 
 For order, for law, for the King? 
 
 How stand you there in God's sight? 
 
 Can we hope hearts like yours will e'er learn 
 That conscience and freedom are things 
 
 Which in union make noblest law, 
 Whence alone true order springs? 
 
! 84 PEDEN'S GRA VE. 
 
 Think ! no more in the old graveyard 
 Will any one bury his dead ! 
 
 They carry them high to the Gallows Hill, 
 And lay them there at his head ! 
 
 Love seals with the silence of death, 
 Where hate sought to blast his name \ 
 
 Hearts are drawn to the saint lifted up, 
 Christlike in the glory of shame ! 
 
 Mute Nature e'en yearns o'er the spot, 
 Earth and heaven their ofTrings bring, 
 
 The hawthorn grows green o'er his sod, 
 It blesses with sweet blossoming ! 
 
. 1596. 
 
 EACH heart was touched 
 
 When through the fair Italian towns there passed 
 That tall majestic one, with face so pale, 
 And eyes all lustre, and a look so strange, 
 As if he felt no kinship with the earth, 
 But was inturned upon a course of thoughts, 
 Dark, wild, and scornful ; yet, as sunlight soft 
 Oft glides o'er earthly shade, his gloom was touched 
 With passing gleams from a high visioned heaven 
 Of armed knights crusading in the East, 
 
1 86 TASSO. 1596. 
 
 Of grand emprise, and Godfrey of Bouloign 
 Crowned Christian King, and that fair Princess' face 
 Sweet looking down the years from marble halls 
 In old Ferrara; then he faintly smiled, 
 And quicker passed and waved the dreams away, 
 While men bewildered gazed, and sadly said, 
 "That's Tasso!" 
 
Jit (Stinbeltoato, June, 1872. 
 
 AN Alpine height, Eiger or Monch, 
 Spurning the brawling torrent at its base, 
 That savage frets in ceaseless earth's turmoil, 
 Soars through mid-air, o'er crags and noble woods, 
 Then bares before the sun green steeps of Alps, 
 Pine-fringed; still carries upwards scanning eye, 
 Until, in stainless snow against the blue 
 Of highest heaven, it wears a gleaming crown 
 Of sovereign peace, irradiant o'er the land ! 
 All earth's distractions there would seem sublimed 
 
!88 AT GRINDELWALD, JUNE, 1872. 
 
 In perfect unity, passion quenched and calmed, 
 All eager questions hushed, all doubts resolved, 
 So near to heaven they've died in heaven's own light. 
 Yet strange, on that calm top, the searching eye 
 Oft fearful finds a face in lineament, 
 Abnormal, vast, mysterious as the years, 
 A broken image of our human mien, 
 Upturned to Heaven, as if a soul, o'ercome 
 In quest too daring, lay unreconciled, 
 Before all crushing power that feels for nought.- 
 Smote into silence and a speechless pain, 
 Under the awful riddle of the world. 
 
n ihz <Sa;qxe. 
 
 LOOKING SOUTHWARDS. 
 
 jr T*IS early July; there have brooding lain 
 
 Three long white days of rain o'er all the hills ; 
 And now the breaking mists leave bare before 
 The eager eye vague glimpses of the glens, 
 Where the moist slatey braes in deep blue gleam, 
 As if suffused with spreading harebelPs hue. 
 Pure greenery is streaked o'er hill-sides broad 
 That glen-wards slope, by heather mottled o'er, 
 Still sombre, yet with pleasing tints of bloom. 
 
 At length the rising mists are high upcaught 
 
 
I 9 o ON THE SCRAPE, 
 
 Within the rest and quiet of the sky, 
 A long low sky of still grey cloud that keeps 
 A brooding pensive calm, and soft distils 
 A tender gloom o'er the earth-sea of heights 
 And glens, that heave and fall far as the line 
 Of distant Cheviots, whose sheeny tops 
 Gleam all along the utmost bound of sight, 
 And hint the presence of the sun above 
 The moveless cloudy veiling of the hills ! 
 
 All would be stillness, while the fresh heights feel 
 
 Pervading joy in pure life-moisture drunk 
 
 From the full bounteous heaven, but snow-white 
 
 sheep 
 
 Late shorn, and dotting all green spots of braes, 
 To one another bleat upon the air; 
 And burns, that eager filled their urnlike pools 
 In trouble of the storm, overflowing rush 
 Adown the glens, the joyous messengers 
 
LOOKING SOUTHWARDS. 191 
 
 Of sound that fell from the now silent sky ! 
 
 And curious tiny flowers, that 'neath the storm 
 Had low in quiet bent, now raise their heads 
 With uncomplaining looks, star-wort, pale eyed 
 And peaceful in its tears, and myriad flowers 
 Of yellow tormentil, rock-rose that loves 
 The heights, and mountain speedwell delicate, 
 Blue cupped milk-wort that ever modest seeks 
 To lay its peerless face amid the grassy- 
 Flowerets subdued and gentle, and that ask 
 No question of the lowering sky, but bow 
 Submissive to the face of heaven above 
 Whene'er it darkens into cloudy rain, 
 And loving rise and bless the sun's return ! 
 
 
 
 The early bracken carefully unbends 
 Its finger tips inturned, slow feeling for 
 The sun and balmy air, a nature where 
 
I9 2 ON THE SCRAPE, 
 
 The blind impulse of life has been subdued, 
 
 Or, it would seem, illumed by custom long 
 
 Of circling years, and ruling now itself 
 
 Through secret sympathy with elements 
 
 And powers around, an inspiration real 
 
 As conscious forethought clear, or knowing mind,- 
 
 Gleam of the Reason at the root of things ! 
 
 Around me cluster quaint cloud-berry flowers, 
 
 That love the moist slopes of the highest tops, 
 
 Pale white, and delicate, and beautiful, 
 
 Yet lowly growing 'mid the black peat moss, 
 
 No life with darker root and fairer bloom : 
 
 As if the hand of God had secret wrought 
 
 Amid the peaty chaos and decay 
 
 Of long deep buried years, and from the moss 
 
 Entombed, unshaped, unsunned, and colourless, 
 
 Set free a form of beauty rare and bright, 
 
 To typify the glory and the grace 
 
LOOKING SOUTHWARDS. 193 
 
 Which from the dust of death He will awake, 
 In course of time, on Resurrection morn ! 
 
 Oh ! wot ye not there is a soul in things, 
 
 In living form of plant, whence organism 
 
 Upsprings, and whence it grows enshaped and ruled, 
 
 The lower moulded by the higher power? 
 
 Life grounding form, and form sustaining life? 
 
 A soul first set within the chaos dull 
 
 Of senseless clay, that gathers to itself 
 
 The scattered elements of earth and air; 
 
 And, vital plastic messenger of God, 
 
 In darkness secret works, low 'mid the dust 
 
 Of death, until stem, leaf, and flower evolved, 
 
 It robes itself to sense in symmetry 
 
 Of form, in radiant life and bloom and, thus, 
 
 A mere dim potence moving steadily 
 
 Towards its finished bound, arises clear 
 
 A perfect thing, in face of heaven and God, 
 
 N 
 
I94 ON THE SCRAPE, 
 
 With consciousness of destiny fulfilled, 
 And sympathetic sense of that great life 
 To which it owes the glory of its own ! 
 
 'Twas a grand dream of mediaeval art, 
 That from the ashes of the flower consumed 
 A secret skill might rear the perished form, 
 And shapeless death might gain the look of life. 
 God's alchemy is more than. art e'er dreamed, 
 For from the dull chaotic mass of clay, 
 From out the very dust of hopeless death, 
 It ever brings us not mere image, fair, 
 But bright reality of radiant life ! 
 
 No human sense is here, by day or night, 
 To lend a conscious form to sight or sound, 
 And thus redeem from void and vacancy 
 The vague indefinite of outward things, 
 And set it high illumed and glorified, 
 
LOOKING SOUTHWARDS. I( 
 
 As wondrous pageant process of the world ! 
 For sense alone, and for the sense of man, 
 Was all this set? This grace of upland form, 
 This beauty rare, and lonely loveliness ; 
 Gleams roseate that rapid flush o'er knowes, 
 As radiance dropt from shadeless angel wings, 
 Bent lovingly o'er this fair earth of ours ! 
 Flowerets that live and bloom, and die upon 
 The wild; the shadowed pools and rippling turns 
 Of burns that ceaseless sound by day and night, 
 At high noon-tide, and 'neath the circling moon. 
 
 Must not He, the first of all, be first displayed ? 
 In free fair forms complete within themselves, 
 That rise and pass, one after one, to fill 
 The rich life-tide of Time, yet tell that He, 
 The one abiding Life, is the last ground 
 Of all the varied show, whose primal joy 
 Is efflorescence pure, aye flowing on 
 
196 ON THE SCRAPE, 
 
 In endless process-vision of Himself! 
 
 Yet all is open to each heart of man 
 
 That wills to seek the vision pure, and rise 
 
 To love of love, of purity, and truth, 
 
 As things sufficient in themselves, thus grow 
 
 Into the gracious way of God, and pass 
 
 To bloom of life that stirs each eye and heart 
 
 By type as winsome as the moorland flower 
 
 That ne'er obtrudes its strength of beauty free ! 
 
 May we whose lot it is to frame ourselves 
 By motions of free-will, transcendent power, 
 But reach the rest of nature's silent growths, 
 In consent perfect with the will of God ! 
 Theirs a spontaneous harmony evolved; 
 A victory ours, and ever growing, gained 
 By conquest of ourselves; the scattered parts 
 Of our whole being gathered into one ; 
 
LOOKING SOUTHWARDS. 
 
 Desire, impulse, and passion led by Will 
 In tribute, till from lowly grave of thoughts, 
 The primal elements of our true selves, 
 There springs the perfect flower of human life, 
 The dead past risen, quickened, and sublimed ! 
 
 197 
 
Jlnunig the 3)ill* ! Jttoag ! 
 
 AR along the empurpled heights, 
 
 Where dews have wreathed the green, 
 The mists transfigured pass, sun-smit, 
 
 In folds of radiant sheen. 
 The north-west wind is up in might, 
 
 With clouds for speeding wings ; 
 His gentle bride, the blue clear morn, 
 
 High o'er the hills he brings. 
 Lo ! strength and beauty rare are wed, 
 
 Wed in the sky to-day; 
 There's hurrying joy in heaven o'erhead; 
 
 Among the hills ! Away ! 
 
AMONG THE HILLS! A WA Y! 
 
 High on the moors the sportive wind 
 
 Kisses the blooming heath; 
 He plays with the harebell's graceful form, 
 
 Steals the thyme's fragrant breath ! 
 He speeds in gleam, he glides in shade, 
 
 Joy and grief are at play ; 
 The blue clear morn looks loving on; 
 
 Among the hills ! Away ! 
 
NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 Page 4, line 9. 
 The Wood of Caledon. 
 
 The " Coed Celyddon " is repeatedly mentioned in the 
 Welsh Bardic remains of the sixth and seventh centuries. 
 It occurs especially in the poems attributed to Myrdin, or 
 Merlin, and in those in which he appears as a speaker.* 
 The centre of the Coed Celyddon, or Nemus Caledonis, 
 was probably what is now called Tweedsmuir, part of 
 which is known as Tweed Shaws. The wood itself 
 appears to have stretched across the hills to the south, 
 embracing the glens of Meggat, or Rodono, Yarrow, 
 and Ettrick. On the north it extended to the Pentlands, 
 across the Moss of Maw. Westwards it stretched to 
 Godeu, now Cadzow. The districts of Ettrick and Yarrow 
 came afterwards to be known exclusively by the name of 
 " The Forest," though this was much later than is com- 
 monly supposed. Falkirk is spoken of in the thirteenth 
 
 * See Mr. Skene's admirable edition of The Four Ancient Books 
 of Wales, I, 368 ; II, 3, et alibi. 
 
202 NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 century as in " The Forest ; " and in Bruce's time " the 
 Watyr of Lyne," which joins the Tweed three miles above 
 Peebles, is apparently regarded by Barbour as part of 
 " The Forest": 
 
 " In all this tyme James of Douglas 
 In the forest trawaland was ; 
 
 * * * -X- * * 
 
 Intill that tyme, him fell throu cass, 
 On ane nicht as he trawaland was, 
 And thoucht till haiff resting 
 . In ane houss on the Watyr of Lyne." * 
 
 In the Historia Britonum of Nennius of the seventh 
 century, the scene of Arthur's seventh battle is said to 
 have been in this wood, " in Silva Caledonis, id est, Cat 
 Coit Celyddon." There seems to be good ground for sup- 
 posing that the historical Arthur was the leader, the 
 Guledig or Dux Bellorum, of the Britons who sought to 
 recover from Saxon, Scot, and Pict their original posses- 
 sions in the South and West of Scotland Y Gogled the 
 North as far as to the Firth of Forth, or Scottish Sea. I 
 have also little doubt but that this seventh battle of Arthur 
 was fought at Catmore, that is, the great fight, now Cade- 
 muir, a wavy hill lying a little to the south of the Tweed, 
 about two miles above the town of Peebles. The four 
 tops of the ridge still show numerous interesting remains 
 of the pre-historic dwellings and fortifications with which 
 they were once crowned ; and there is a space on one of 
 the summits crowded and solemn with ancient grave- 
 stones. The eighth Arthurian battle was fought in the 
 
 * The Bruce, Book VII, 1. 213, 221-225. 
 
NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 203 
 
 Gwenstrath) or White Strath, in Gala Water, across 
 the hills frorri Cademuir. The Saxons called the spot 
 Wedale, dale of woe, from the disaster they met with 
 there. 
 
 It was into the Wood of Caledon that Myrdin, or 
 Merlin, the Welsh Bard, prophet, and enchanter, is said 
 to have fled after the decisive battle of Arderydd in 573. 
 Here too he is reported to have met Kentigern St. 
 Mungo the young and ardent apostle of Christianity. 
 Kentigern has left several memorials of himself on the 
 banks of the Tweed. The ancient Church of Stobo an 
 e celesta plebania, or mother- church was dedicated to 
 him; and we have, or had, St. Mungo's Well on the 
 slopes of Venlaw. 
 
 P. 10, L 2. 
 That morn he rode by Ericstane. 
 
 Sir James Douglas, known as the good Lord James, 
 after the death of his father in Edward's prison at Ber- 
 wick, by poison or of a broken heart, set out from St. 
 ^Andrews to join the party of Robert Bruce. He met 
 Bruce and his friends at Ericstane, near the head of 
 Annandale, on their way to Scone, and there did homage 
 to him as his " rychtwiss King " : 
 
 * ' .... A litill frae Arykstane 
 The Bruce with a great rout he met, 
 That raid to Scone for to be set 
 In King's stole, and to be King."* 
 
 * The Bruce, B. II, 1. 148. 
 
204 NOTES AND ILLUSTRA TIONS. 
 
 P. 12,1. 3 , 8. 
 Fruid. Hawkshaw. 
 
 Fruid was a very early property of the Frasers, and 
 remained in the name and collateral line until at least the 
 middle of the sixteenth century. See prefatory note to 
 The Lady Fleming's Dream, p. 137. 
 
 Hawkshaw was long the seat of the old family of 
 Porteous a name which frequently occurs in the feuds of 
 Upper Tweeddale. This old stock is not without repre- 
 sentatives in our time. Walter Scott, tenth of Thirle- 
 stane, originally of Howpaisley, near the head of the 
 Teviot, married Marion, daughter of Sir Patrick Porteous 
 of Hawkshaw. Their son, Patrick Scott,married a daughter 
 of Sir John Murray of Blackbarony. This Patrick Scott 
 was the direct ancestor of the present Lord Napier and 
 Ettrick. 
 
 P. 18,1.9. 
 Powmood. 
 
 Powmood, or Polmood, was for a very long period the 
 seat of the Hunters. Their fabulously ancient charter 
 shows the popular impression of their great antiquity. 
 The name is a very early one. Gulielmus Venator is a 
 witness in the charter of the erection of the Bishopric of 
 Glasgow, by David, Prince of Cumberland, afterwards 
 David I. (1124-1158). In a charter of Alexander II. 
 (1214-1249) of the lands of Manners (Manor) to William 
 Baddeby, upon the resignation of them by Nicol Corbat, 
 
NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 205 
 
 the lands of Norman Hunter are exempted, as the charter 
 bears, " Quas Nicolaus Corbat nobis reddidit, excepta 
 terra quondam Normani Venatoris, quam Malcolumus 
 frater regis Willelmi, ei didit."* This shows that the 
 Hunters had lands in Manor, not far from Polmood, as 
 early as the time of Malcolm IV. (1153-1165). The 
 legend of the death of Bertha, at Powmood, through the 
 jealousy of the Queen of Grimus, is one of our oldest 
 Scottish traditions. There can be no doubt that the most 
 of the properties in Upper Tweeddale were held from the 
 crown as part of the original forest lands, and for ser- 
 vices to be rendered to the Scottish monarchs, who came 
 so frequently to enjoy the chace in the district, down to 
 the time of Mary and her son, James VI. Names, tra- 
 ditions, extant charters, all point to this conclusion. 
 
 P. 18, 1. 13. 
 Stanhope. 
 
 Early in the sixteenth century, William, second son of 
 John Murray of Falahill and Philiphaugh probably the 
 outlaw Murray of the ballad acquired the estate of 
 Romanno by his marriage with Janet, only child of 
 William Romanno of that Ilk. Their descendant, Sir 
 Pavid Murray, acquired Stanhope in the time of Charles 
 I. His eldest son was made a baronet by Charles II. 
 in 1664. The daughter of the honoured and gifted 
 Lady Grizzel Baillie married the last laird of Stanhope. 
 Murray of Stanhope had to part with the estates owing to 
 
 * Nisbet's Heraldry, I, 332. 
 
206 NO TES AND ILL USTRA TIONS. 
 
 his share in the rising of 1745. They passed altogether 
 from the Hurrays in 1769. A great part of the beauty 
 of the Tweed, as it passes through what was the old 
 estate of Hillhouse now Stobo is due to the careful 
 planting of forest trees and hedgerows, after a southern 
 fashion, by the last laird of Stanhope, Sir Alexander 
 Murray, from about 1732. 
 
 P. 1 8, 1. 15. 
 
 Drummelzier. 
 
 Drummelzier was originally Dunmeller, which would be 
 Hill of Me Her or Meldred, or it may be Druim Meldred, 
 i.e., Ridge of Meldred, as in Drumalbain, Druim Alb an. 
 Either etymology suits the local appearance. Both name 
 and estate are very ancient. The earliest historical notice 
 of its possessors shows it to have been in the hands of 
 the Frasers of Oliver Castle, or a branch of the family : 
 and it continued in the name and family after the death 
 of Sir Simon in 1306. Laurentius Eraser, or Frisel, was 
 laird of Drummelzier in the thirteenth century. He was 
 alive in 1261. He also possessed the lands of Makerston. 
 His son, Laurence de Frisle, is on Ragman Roll of 1296. 
 His eldest daughter seems to have married a Tweedie, 
 and brought as her dowrie the estate of Drummelzier ; 
 while the second daughter married Dougal Macdougal, 
 and brought with her the estate of Makerston, in the 
 reign of David II. (1329-1370).* This was the origin, 
 apparently, of the brave, restless, turbulent, and red- 
 
 * Anderson's Historical Account of the Family of Fraser, p. 6. 
 
NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS. 207 
 
 handed stock of the Tweedies, whose motto, " Thole 
 and think? proved so ludicrously in contrast with their 
 character. "Thole," i.e., suffer patiently, they never 
 did; and "thinking" seems to have been as little in 
 their line. At the same time, I do not suppose that they 
 were much, if anything, worse than a good many of their 
 neighbours. 
 
 P. 19,1. IS- 
 
 Lord Fleming 's dying wail. 
 
 See prefatory note to The Lady Fleming's Dream, p. 
 165. 
 
 P. 20, 1. 6; p. 21, 1. 3. 
 
 The Logan Lee. Mossfennan Yett. 
 
 ' ' The King rode round the Merecleugh Head, 
 Wi' spotted hounds and spaniels three, 
 Then lichted doon at Mossfennan Yett, 
 A little below the Logan Lee." 
 
 Other version : 
 
 
 ' The King rode round the Merecleugh Head, 
 Booted and spurred as we a' did see, 
 Syne dined wi' a lass at Mossfennan Yett, 
 A little below the Logan Lee." 
 
 These are fragments of a very old ballad. Possibly the 
 following stanza is part of it : 
 
 "Some say I lo'e young Powmood, 
 Some say he lo'es nae me, 
 But I wot I'm a match for the best o' his blood, 
 Though I hadna a ewe on the Logan Lee." 
 
208 NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 We are indebted to Miss J. M. Watson for several frag- 
 mentary stanzas of this ancient ballad.* 
 
 Mossfennan is an old estate in Tweeddale. William 
 Purveys de Mosspennach gave a charter about 1214, the 
 end of the reign of William the Lion, granting to the 
 monks of Melrose a free passage through his lands to 
 their property of Kingledoors.f Mossfennan was held 
 for some generations by a family of Scots of whom 
 was the heiress referred to in the text. This estate, 
 along with some adjoining lands, was erected in 1538 
 into one of the five baronies possessed by Malcolm, the 
 third and powerful Lord Fleming, and son of the Lord 
 John, murdered by the Tweedies. It has been in the 
 possession of the family of the present proprietor, the 
 Rev. William Welsh, for more than a hundred and fifty 
 years. 
 
 P. 22, 1. 10. 
 Ancient Dawyck. 
 
 Dawyck is one of the oldest estates and homesteads 
 in Tweeddale, or in the south of Scotland. For more 
 than four hundred years from before 1296 to 1704 
 it was the principal residence and property of the 
 line of Veitch of Dawyck a family distinguished for 
 the number of its sons who fought and fell on home 
 and foreign battle-fields, during the middle ages and 
 down to near our own time. Nor was the name unknown 
 
 * See her finely touched and interesting Life in Our Village. 
 + Nisbet's Heraldry, I, xviii, p. 213. 
 
NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS. 209 
 
 in law and statesmanship. The family gave a Presi- 
 dent to the Parliament of Paris, and a leading statesman 
 to the Scottish Parliament of the seventeenth century. 
 There is historical evidence of the name on Tweedside 
 as far back as the time of Alexander II. (1214-1249). 
 In his reign, at the Court of Roxburgh, we find Alex- 
 ander la Uache as witness to an ecclesiastical deed.* 
 Before 1296, the family had obtained Dauwic, or Dawyck. 
 William le Vache is on the Ragman Roll of that year. 
 Along with Dawyck, the Veitches held, either in the 
 person of their head or through collateral branches, 
 other estates in Peeblesshire, particularly Earlshaugh, 
 Glenbreck, Kingside, Hallmanor, Glenrath, Castlehill, 
 Woodhouse, and The Glen. In Selkirkshire they held 
 North Sinton, acquired in 1407 by gift from Archibald, 
 the fourth Earl of Douglas, to his friend and armour- 
 bearer, the knightly laird of Dawyck, who fell with 
 him at Verneuil in 1424. The estates of the family 
 became mortgaged in the time of Sir John Veitch, Com- 
 missioner of Works under Charles I., and for long a 
 prominent member of the Scottish Parliament. Sir 
 John disinterestedly spent the greater part of his patri- 
 mony on the repairs of public works in Scotland 
 especially Holyrood and its chapel during the troubles 
 of his time. For money or skill expended he re- 
 ceived neither compensation nor thanks from the Go- 
 vernment either of the Restoration or Revolution. Sir 
 John Veitch had married in 1643, or perhaps earlier, 
 
 * Regi strum Episcopatus Glasguensis, p. 126. 
 O 
 
210 NOTES AND ILLUSTRA TIONS. 
 
 Christian, daughter of James Naesmyth of Posso.* Their 
 son, John Veitch, held Dawyck until 1704, when he sold 
 the mortgaged estates to his cousin, James Naesmyth of 
 Posso, who was made a baronet of Nova Scotia in 1706. 
 Sir John Murray Naesmyth of Posso is the direct lineal 
 representative of the first baronet of Posso, and thus, 
 through the female line, a descendant of the old house of 
 Dawyck. The motto of the Veitches is Famam extendi- 
 mus factis; the crest a cow's head, with three cows' 
 heads, sable, on a silver shield. The motto of the 
 Naesmyths is Non arte sed marte the arms show the 
 crossed and broken hammers on the shield. 
 
 P. 24,1. 15. 
 Sainted Gordian. 
 
 The ancient Church of Manor, which stood near the 
 spot where the Newholmhope Burn joins the Manor, on 
 the estate of Posso, was dedicated either to Saint Gordian 
 or to Saint Gorgon most probably the former. It was 
 known as St. Gordian's Kirk or St. Gorgham's Chapel, 
 and was entire until near the middle of the seventeenth 
 century. St. Gordian, according to the common account, 
 was beheaded at Rome under Julian the Apostate, about 
 the year 362. His feast was kept by the Scottish Church 
 on the loth of May.f For long the place where the 
 ancient church stood was only indicated by the green 
 
 * Posso Papers. 
 
 f- Bishop Forbes' /Calendar of Scottish Saints, p. 357. 
 
NO TES AND ILL USTRA TIONS. 2 1 1 
 
 mounds that cover its ruins. Sir John Murray Naesmyth 
 of Posso, with loving care, has recently set up a simple 
 and touching cross of stone to mark the site of the 
 ancient house of prayer, and the place of sepulture, for 
 many hundreds of years, of those who dwelt in peel and 
 cot in the secluded valley of Manor " in reducta valle 
 Manoris." Those in the district who have any sense of 
 historic reverence will from the heart thank the Laird of 
 Posso for his own heart-prompted memorial of days and 
 lives long gone, yet worthy of our remembrance and our 
 quiet thought. 
 
 P. 39, 1- 1 8- 
 
 Roxburgh's smooth green mounds. 
 
 The Castle of Roxburgh was a principal seat of Scottish 
 royalty, in the comparatively peaceful and prosperous 
 period of the monarchy that preceded the War of Inde- 
 pendence. It then formed nearly the centre of the 
 Lowland Kingdom, for Cumbria, extending far into the 
 north of England, was an appanage of the second son of 
 the Scottish king. As late as about the year 1116, when 
 David, afterwards David I., was Prince of Cumbria, it is 
 described as a district lying between England and Scot- 
 land : " Regione quadam inter Angliam et Scotiam sita."* 
 After the War of Independence, the possession of the 
 Castle formed a nearly constant subject of struggle be- 
 
 * Inquisltio per Dauid Principem Cumbrensem de terris ecclesie 
 Glasguensi tiertinentibiis facta Registrum Episcopatus Glasguensis, 
 P- 5- 
 
2 1 2 NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 tween English and Scotch. It was in an attempt to 
 recover it that James II. met his death. 
 
 P. 48, 1. 19 : p. 49, 1. i. 
 ..." . . . Or slanting beams \ 
 Through watery air, lie ' red upon the rain' 
 
 "The boy has buckled his belt about, 
 And through the greenwood ran ; 
 And he came to the lady's bower, 
 Before the day did dawn. 
 
 ' ' O sleep ye, wake ye, Lillie Flower ? 
 
 The red suns on the rain : 
 Ye're bidden come to Silverwood, 
 But I doubt ye'll never win hame." 
 
 Jellon Grame* 
 
 P. 54, 1. 2-4. 
 
 The wo dew ale like a bell the forest through ; 
 And to his ear the mavis mellow-sweet 
 Aye turned to soft complaining in her song. 
 
 " I herde the jaye, and the 'throstelle,' 
 The mawys menyde of hir songe, 
 The wodewale beryde als a belle, 
 That all the wode about me ronge." 
 
 The wodewale is said to be the wood-lark, or wood-pecker, 
 the oriol of the early romances 
 
 " Plus est delit en le oriol 
 Escoter la note de \' oriol." ^ 
 
 * Child's Ballads, II, 287. 
 
 f Quoted by Wedgwood, Dictionary of English Etymology, sub 
 voce Oriel. 
 
NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 213 
 
 The oldest English version of the Ballad of Thomas the 
 Rhymer, from which this stanza is taken, proceeds : 
 
 ' ' Allone in longynge, thus als I lay, 
 Undre nethe a semeley trie, 
 ' Saw I ' whare a lady gaye 
 ' Came ridand ' ouer a longe lee. 
 
 Hir palfraye was a dappill gray ; 
 Swilke one I saghe me never none : 
 Als dose the soune, on someres day, 
 That fair' lady hir selfe scho shone. 
 
 Thomas rathely up he rase, 
 
 And he rane ouer that mountayne hye ; 
 
 She ledde him in at Eldon hill, 
 
 Undir nethe a derne lee ; 
 
 Where it was dirk as mydnyght mirk, 
 
 And ever the water till his knee. 
 
 The montenans of dayes three, 
 
 He herd bot swoghyne of the flode ; 
 
 At the laste, he sagde ' full wa es mee ! 
 
 Almaste I dye, for fawte of fude.' 
 
 She broghte him agayne to Eldon trie, 
 
 Undir nethe that greenwood spraye ; 
 
 In Huntlee bannkes es merry to bee, 
 
 Where fowles synges bothe nyght and daye, 
 
 Iferre owtt in yon mountain graye, 
 
 Thomas, my fawkon byggis a neste ; 
 
 A fawcoun is an eglis praye ; 
 
 Fforthi in na place may he reste. 
 
 Ffare well, Thomas ; I wend my waye ; 
 
 Ffor me behouys thir benttis brown." 
 
 Thomas the Rhymer. * 
 
 * Child's Ballads, I, 97. 
 
214 
 
 NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 These verses have an unmistakeable air of antiquity, and 
 a charm wholly inexpressible. The poem, moreover, 
 like the earliest of the Robin Hood ballads, shows a pure 
 feeling for nature, which died out alike of Scottish and 
 English poetry for several centuries afterwards. Some of 
 the lines in these old ballads have a realism which strikes 
 one with the power of the first fresh visiting by Nature of 
 the human heart. In a later version, the ride to Fairy- 
 land of the Queen and Thomas is given with certain 
 accessory features which do not derogate from its Ho- 
 meric power : 
 
 "O they rade on, and farther on, 
 
 And they waded through riyers aboon the knee, 
 And they saw neither sun nor mune, 
 But they heard the roaring of the sea. 
 
 " It was mirk, mirk night, and there was nae stern light, 
 
 And they waded through red blude to the knee ; 
 For a' the blude that's shed on earth 
 
 Rins through the springs o' that countrie." 
 
 That Thomas the Rhymer was a person who lived by the 
 Leader, and during the greater part of the thirteenth 
 century, I see no ground for doubting. 
 
 P. 59,1. 12, top. 6o,l. 15. 
 
 See Bur d Ellen in Child's Ballads , and the very curious 
 legend there given (Vol. I., p. 245 et seq.} The legend 
 has suggested some of the physical, or rather hyper- 
 physical features in those lines. 
 
NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 215 
 
 
 P. 66, 1. 14. 
 Ossian. 
 
 One of the oldest of the Ossianic poems, entitled Cal- 
 hon and Colvala^ refers to the Tweed in some part of 
 its upper reaches. There is a probability, both from local 
 situation and on other grounds, that the Alt-Teutha, or 
 Fort of Tweed referred to in the poem, was what is 
 now called Tinnies' Castle, near Drummelzier, and at the 
 opening of the old highway down the Strath of Biggar 
 Water to the Tweed.* 
 
 P. 70, 1. 8. 
 NeidpatJi's old grey tower. 
 
 This ancient fortress stands in one of the boldest and 
 most picturesque reaches of the Tweed, a little more than 
 a mile above the town of Peebles. It was the principal 
 residence in the seventeenth century of John Hay, ninth 
 Lord Yester, second Earl, and first Marquis of Tweeddale 
 a direct descendant of Hay of Lochquharret, and Mary, 
 the daughter of Sir Simon Fraser. Lord Tweeddale took 
 a very prominent part in the public events of the times of 
 Charles I., the Commonwealth, the Restoration, and the 
 Revolution. He died in 1697. To him is currently 
 attributed the beautiful song of " Tweedside " the earliest 
 piece of poetry inspired by the Tweed which has come 
 down to us : 
 
 "When Maggie and me were acquaint, 
 I carried my noddle fu' high, 
 
 * For the poem see Clark's Ossian, Vol. I, p. 315. 
 
2 1 6 NO TES AND ILL USTRA TIONS. 
 
 Nae lintwhite in a' the gay plain, 
 Nae gowdspink sae bonny as she ! 
 
 ' ' I whistled, I piped, and I sang, 
 
 I wooed but I cam' nae great speed, 
 Therefore I maun wander abroad, 
 And lay my banes far frae the Tweed. 
 
 ' ' To Maggie my love I did tell, 
 
 My tears did my passion express ; 
 Alas ! for I lo'ed her ower weel, 
 And the women lo'e sic a man less ! 
 
 " Her heart it was frozen and cauld ; 
 Her pride had my ruin decreed : 
 Therefore I maun wander abroad, 
 And lay my banes far frae the Tweed ! " 
 
 P. 81,1.7. 
 
 By lee light of the moon on southern hills. 
 Lee is lonesome. 
 
 ' ' Sad Willie raise, put on his claise, 
 
 Drew till him his hose and shoon, 
 And he is on to Annie's bower, 
 By the lee light o' the moon." 
 
 Sweet Willie and Fair Annie.* 
 
 P. 8 4 ,1. 9-H. 
 
 The reader may refer to the grand old ballad of The 
 Outlaw Murray, which is animated throughout by the 
 view here given of the tenure in the middle ages of landed 
 property on the Borders : 
 
 " Ettricke Foreste is a feir foreste, 
 In it grows manie a semelie tree ; 
 
 * Child's Ballads, II, 138. 
 
NOTES AND ILL USTRA TIONS. 2 1 7 
 
 There's hart and hynde, and dae and rae, 
 
 And of a' wilde beastes grete plentie. 
 Their's a feir castelle, bigged wi' lyme and stane : 
 
 ! gin it stands not pleasauntlie ! 
 In the forefront o* that castelle feir, 
 
 Twa unicorns are bra' to see ; 
 
 There's the picture of a knight, and a ladye bright, 
 And the grene hollin abune their brie. 
 
 ****** 
 ' The King of Scotlonde sent me here, 
 
 And, gude Outlaw, I am sent to thee ; 
 I wad wot of whom you hald your landis, 
 
 Or man, wha may thy master be ? ' 
 1 Thir lands are MINE ! ' the Outlaw said ; 
 
 ' I ken nae King in Christentie ; 
 Frae Soudron I this Foreste wan, 
 When the King nor his knights were not to see ! 
 
 * * * * * * 
 
 Thir lands of Ettrick Foreste feir, 
 
 1 wan them from the enemie ; 
 
 Like as I wan them, sae will I keep them, 
 
 Contrair a' Kingis in Christentie. 
 
 ****** 
 Feir Philiphaugh is mine by right, 
 
 And Lewinshope still mine shall be ; 
 Newark, Foulshiels, and Tinnies baith, 
 
 My bow and arrow purchased me.' " 
 
 The period of the Outlaw Murray is not later than the 
 early part of the sixteenth century. His surrender of his 
 lands to the king, and the acceptance of the same from 
 him under a feudal investiture, are not without historical 
 probability. The outlaw was apparently John Murray of 
 Falahill and Philiphaugh, in the time of James IV. This 
 monarch, in 1508, gave to John Murray a charter, after 
 resignation, as in the ballad, of half of the lands of 
 
2 1 8 NO TES AND ILL USTRA TIONS. 
 
 Philiphaugh ; and in 1 509 added the whole lands of 
 Pitgyl in Selkirkshire, and confirmed to him the sheriff- 
 ship of the county. This heritable office remained in the 
 family of Philiphaugh until the act abolishing all such 
 jurisdictions in 1747. A ballad lamenting the death of 
 the Outlaw at the hand of Buccleuch was long chanted 
 in the forest. It has now unfortunately perished from 
 memory. The same aggressive policy which led the Scotts 
 of Buccleuch to attack the falling Douglases, prompted 
 the murder of Murray, and their secret action against the 
 Laird of Gilnockie, which resulted in his cruel and barely 
 judicial execution. The Philiphaugh family is the oldest 
 stock of the Hurrays in the Border Counties, whose 
 claims admit of being tested by public historical docu- 
 ments. There is a charter of the lands of Fala by Lord 
 James Douglas to Roger de Moravia, films Archibaldi, in 
 1321, and Archibaldus (Erchebaud) de Moravia is on the 
 Ragman Roll of 1296. The Murrays of Blackbarony 
 claim an old and independent descent. They certainly 
 had Halton or Blackbarony as early as the beginning of 
 the reign of James I. Unfortunately the estate of Black- 
 barony was severed from the title, and from the male 
 representation of the family, by Sir Alexander Murray, the 
 fourth baronet, about the middle of last century. 
 
 P. 85,1. 1 6, 17. 
 
 ' By deeds we spread our fame? ' By might not art]. 
 The mottoes of the time, at length entwined 
 In one. 
 
 See Note at p. 22, 1. 10. 
 
NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 219 
 
 P. 99, 1. 7, etc. 
 This Mtise would speak in eerie dream o' night. 
 
 These lines refer to the famous Battle of Otterbourne 
 between the two Lords Henry and Ralph Percy, and 
 James, second Earl of Douglas " miles acerrimus et 
 Anglis semper infestissimus." It took place in the be*- 
 ginning of August, 1388 : 
 
 " It fell about the Lammas tide, 
 
 When muirmen winn their hay, 
 The doughty Douglas boune him to ride, 
 
 Into England to take a prey." 
 
 The dream and death of the Earl are thus referred 
 to : 
 
 " But I hae dreamed a dreary dream, 
 
 Beyond the Isle of Sky ; 
 I saw a dead man winn a field, 
 
 And I wot that man was I. 
 
 ' My nephew good,' the Douglas said, 
 ' What recks the death of ane ! 
 
 Last night I dreamed a dreary dream, 
 And I ken the day's thy ain. 
 
 ' My wound is deep ; I fain would sleep ; 
 
 Take thou the vanguard of the three, 
 And hide me by the bracken bush, 
 
 That grows on yonder lily lee. 
 
 ' O bury me by the bracken bush, 
 
 Beneath the blooming brier, 
 Let never living mortal ken 
 
 That e'er a kindly Scot lies here.' " 
 
220 NO TES AND ILL USTRA TIONS. 
 
 P. 102, 1. 7. 
 Dark was that eve when the strong swell of Clyde. 
 
 The following verses represent the stage of fear in 
 relation to wild, stern Nature, and the power of will roused 
 by passion to face and overcome it : 
 
 ' ' He mounted on his coal-black steed, 
 
 And fast he rode awa' ; 
 But, ere he cam to Clyde's Water, 
 
 Fu' loud the wind did blaw. 
 As he rode ower yon high, high hill, 
 
 And doun yon dowie glen, 
 There was a roar in Clyde's Water 
 
 Wad fear'd a hunder men. 
 
 O roaring Clyde, ye roar ower loud, 
 Your streams seem wondrous strang ; 
 
 Mak me your wreck as I come back, 
 But spare me as I gang." 
 
 Willie and Fair Margaret* 
 
 Has the intensity of the love-passion, or the daring 
 of the human will, been more powerfully expressed than 
 in these simple words ? 
 
 Other stanzas in the Border Ballads represent the 
 transition stage between the dread of the stern aspects 
 of Nature and the contemplative love of them, which is 
 characteristic of the full development of the poetic 
 sense : 
 
 ' ' The King was comin' through Caddon ford 
 And full five thousand men was he ; 
 
 * Child's Ballads, II, 171. 
 
NO TES AND ILL USTRA TIONS. 2 2 1 
 
 They saw the derke forest them before, 
 They thought it awesome for to see." 
 
 P. 104, 1. 6. 
 Etlrick 's fair-haired Shepherd. 
 
 The reference is, of course, to James Hogg, the author 
 of The Queen 's Wake, born in 1770, died in 1835. The 
 Shepherd was a man of high and true, though far from 
 artistic, poetic genius. His power of touching the super- 
 sensible, especially the weird and awful, has not been 
 surpassed in our literature. His real position as a poet 
 has been greatly obscured in the popular estimate by the 
 extravagant and one-sided representation of him in the 
 Nodes Ambro stance. His true place is second only to 
 that of Burns, and he has left pictures of a fanciful grace 
 and beauty which Burns never essayed to paint. 
 
 P. 1 06, 1. 1 6. 
 
 Leyden. 
 
 John Leyden, the friend and coadjutor of Scott in the 
 collection of the Minstrelsy of the Borders, and the author 
 of The Scenes of Infancy, died too early for his powers 
 and his fame. Leyden was born at Denholm, in Teviot- 
 dale, in 1775, and he died of fever at Java in 1811, at the 
 premature age of 36. Leyden was a master of rhythm, 
 and there are passages of great vigour, of fine and true 
 feeling, and powerful description, in the too little known 
 Scenes of Infancy. Leyden, Hogg, and Scott all drew 
 
222 NO TES AND ILL USTRA TIONS. 
 
 inspiration from the same sources, the traditions of the 
 past and the Border scenery around them. They had the 
 courage of their surroundings. There is now a tendency 
 in Scotland to forget our obligations to Ley den and Hogg 
 for the share they had, along with Scott, in introducing 
 into our literature healthy human feeling, the traditions 
 of the past, and the fresh breath of hill and stream. 
 Leyden and Hogg, though drawing from the same source, 
 had their inspiration at first hand, and each has qualities 
 of intellect and imagination which gives him a power pe- 
 culiarly his own. So far as massive intelligence is con- 
 cerned, Leyden's promise was greatly higher than Scott's 
 realization. 
 
 P. 130,1. 5-10. 
 
 See Barbour's graphic picture of the state of the coun- 
 try at this period The Bruce, Bk. 1, 1. 179-224. Nothing 
 can be more touching than the utter arbitrariness of will 
 depicted in these lines : 
 
 1 ' And gyff that ony man thaim by 
 Had ony thing that was worthy, 
 As horse, or hund, or othir thing, 
 That was pleasand to their liking ; 
 With rycht or wrang it have wald thai. 
 And gyff ony wald thai withsay ; 
 Thai suld swa do, that thai suld tyne 
 Othir land, or lyff, or leyff in pine." 
 
 P. 130,1. IS- 
 
 Gamyn. 
 
 1 ' When Alysandyr our Kyng was dede, 
 That Scotland led in luve and le, 
 
 
NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS. 223 
 
 Away was sons of ale and brede, 
 Of wyne and wax, of gamyn and gle. 
 Our gold was changyd into lede, 
 Chryst born into virgynyte, 
 Succour Scotland and remede, 
 That stad is in perplexitie." * 
 
 P. 139, 1. 6, 10. 
 Greyking. Chevachee. 
 
 Greyking is more specific than dawn. It indicates the 
 appearance and fading of the dim grey or half-lit misty 
 sky at the approach of the rising sun. Chevachee is 
 originally a military exploit on horseback, by a small 
 body of men. It had no necessary connection, as some 
 suppose, with a predatory purpose. Such an aim came 
 in the middle period of our history particularly to be 
 associated with it ; but originally it was simply a military 
 movement with the design of reconnoitring, surprising, 
 or harassing the enemy. The Uhlans in the late Franco- 
 Prussian War were constantly making such exploits. One 
 of the earliest applications of the word we have is in an 
 order addressed by Edward I. to Sir Simon Fraser of 
 Oliver (Nov. 25th, 1298), to aid John de Kingston, English 
 Governor of Edinburgh Castle, in a chevachee or raid 
 upon the national party under Buchan and Soulis with 
 twenty armed horses (chevaus covertz). Chevy-Chace, 
 though it is commonly supposed to be a corruption of 
 Cheviot Chace, the undoubted scene of the raid, is no 
 doubt merely a popular form of chevachee. 
 
 * Fragment of song preserved by Wyntoun. 
 
22 4 NO TES AND ILL USTRA T10NS. 
 
 Greyking, fire-flauchts, etc. (p. 156, 1. i), are fine old 
 Teutonic words. I use them on principle. Many others 
 of the same sort would prove a valuable addition 
 to our present vocabulary. They have died out of the 
 existing form of the language, but, if needed, they ought 
 to be restored to use. They are valuable synonymes ; 
 they express with precision real appearances to sense, 
 which we have no words fitted accurately to denote ; 
 and they are rhetorically advantageous. Every synonyme 
 which indicates a new aspect of an object is an addition 
 to the expressiveness of a language ; it also adds to its 
 power and variety as a means of impression. 
 
 P. 139,1. -ii. 
 Horsbroc. 
 
 This is perhaps the oldest surviving name still in pos- 
 session of lands in Peeblesshire, of which we have record. 
 Simon de Horsbroc is mentioned in the Chronicle of the 
 Abbey of Melrose, as early as between 1214 and 1249, that 
 is, during the reign of Alexander II. A Simon de Horsbroc 
 is a constant associate in arms of Sir Simon Fraser of Oliver 
 towards the end of the same century. They were both 
 taken prisoners at Dunbar, were together under Edward 
 at Flanders, and both received back their estates from 
 the English king at the same time. Horsbroc, the friend 
 of Simon Fraser, was probably the son of the Simon de 
 Horsbroc mentioned in the Melrose records. Sir Simon 
 Fraser, pater, as he is called in the old deeds, died in 1291. 
 The towers of Horsbroc and Neidpath were in the line of 
 
NOTES AND ILL USTRA TIONS. 225 
 
 communication along the Tweed, and flashed constantly 
 to each other the warning of the beacon-fire. It is very 
 probable that young Simon Fraser and young Horsbroc 
 knew each other as lads on Tweedside, ere they set out 
 to earn the laurel of knighthood together. The old name 
 is now changed to that of Horsbrugh, and some of the 
 ancient lands, forfeited and restored in the thirteenth 
 century, remain with the descendants of Simon de 
 Horsbroc. 
 
 P. 139,1. 13. 
 Burnet. 
 
 Burnet was originally of Burnet Ville, supposed to be 
 Burnetland, near Broughton. A Robertus Burnet de 
 Burnetvilla is mentioned as early as the time of the 
 charter of foundation of the Abbey of Selkirk by Earl 
 David, youngest son of Malcolm Canmore. This must 
 have been before 1124 the accession of David to the 
 throne. The Burnets held the estate of Barns, often con- 
 joining with it other lands in Manor Water, for upwards 
 of seven hundred years. The estate of Barns passed from 
 this ancient family in 1 836. The line is now represented 
 by William Burnett, Esq. 
 
 P. 140, 1. i. 
 Possds Laird. 
 
 The family of Baird, originally Barde, le Barde, held 
 Posso for many generations. The Boar passant on their 
 P 
 
22 6 NOTES AND ILL USTRA TIONS. 
 
 shield indicates the view taken of the origin of the 
 name, but the surmise that Baird is originally Barde 
 or Minstrel is quite as probable. Gordon, Nisbet, S win- 
 ton, Ridpath, carry boar's heads. It was naturally a 
 common cognizance, The name of Baird had a much 
 earlier place in Peeblesshire than is generally supposed. 
 Thomas de Burdis, no doubt Bardis, was Sheriff of 
 Peebles in 1296, when he received Edward's instructions 
 to restore their lands to those lairds who had sworn fealty 
 to him. The name occurs several times on the Ragman 
 Roll. About 1541, Michael Naesmyth, of the Royal 
 Household, and Chamberlain to the Archbishop of St. 
 Andrews, married Elizabeth Baird, co-heiress of John 
 Baird of Posso. Her grandfather, Sir Gilbert, had fallen 
 at Flodden in 1513. The Posso estate thus passed to the 
 Naesmyths, who represent the line of the Bairds of Posso. 
 The famous eyrie of " Posso Crag " is on the estate ; and 
 James Naesmyth of Posso, a man of note in his time, was 
 Falconer to James VI. 
 
 P. 143, 1- 6. 
 Bole. 
 
 Bole is a narrow opening or window in old buildings for 
 air and light. 
 
 P. 144, 1. 3- 
 Frusch. 
 
 An old onomatopoetic word, indicating the grinding or 
 friction sound of breakage, especially of wood. 
 
NO TES AND ILL USTRA TIONS. 227 
 
 P. 155,1. 1 6. 
 Fee. 
 
 Fee is deer, or stag a common word in the old 
 ballads. 
 
 P. 155,1. 17. 
 Roches. 
 
 Raches are deerhounds. 
 
 P. 156,1. 8. 
 Stour. 
 
 Stour is troubled motion, hence applied to dust-storm 
 and battle. 
 
 P. 157,1.6. 
 Dreva' s Laird. 
 
 The small estate of Dreva was for long an appanage 
 of the Tweedies of Drummelzier. It was held usually by 
 a younger son, and then probably by a cadet of the family. 
 The Tweedies of Dreva do not appear to have been an 
 improvement on the parent breed. At the Justice Aire 
 of Edinburgh, 1502-3, 4th February, John Tweedy of 
 Drummelzier, Walter Tweedy in Hawmyris, and William 
 Tweedy there, became surety for entry of Gilbert Tweedy 
 [of Dreva] for slaughter of Edward Huntair of Polmude. 
 Some thirty-three years later, January 26th, 1 565-6, Adame 
 Tweedy of Dravey was " delatit of the cutting of Robert 
 
22 8 NO TES AND ILL USTRA TIONS. 
 
 Rammage's lugges, and demembering of him thereof." 
 He pleaded the King and Queen's remission of November 
 3oth, 1565 the "date of remission of the gudman of 
 Drawayis." Nothing was done to him ; William Tweedy 
 of Drummelzier became, according to the usual formula, 
 surety to satisfy parties.* 
 
 P. 157,1. 14. 
 They blew the mort on the Wormhill Head. 
 
 The mort was the notes blown on the horn at the death 
 of the deer. 
 
 ' ' They hunted high, they hunted low, 
 By heathery hill and birken shaw ; 
 They raised a buck on Rooken edge, 
 And blew the mort at fair Ealylawe." 
 
 The Death of Parcy Reed. 
 
 * Pitcairn's Criminal Trials, I,* 474-5. 
 
 GLASGOW : 
 PRINTED AT THE UNIVERSITY TRESS. 
 
WORKS 
 
 PUBLISHED BY MR, MACLEHOSE, 
 
 PUBLISHER TO THE UNIVERSITY, GLASGOW. 
 
 Second Edition, in Extra Fcap. %vo, Price 6s. 6d. , Cloth. 
 
 OLRIG GRANGE : 
 
 A Poem in Six Books. Edited by HERMANN KUNST, Philol. 
 Professor. 
 
 Examiner. 
 
 " This remarkable poem will at once give its anonymous author a high 
 place among contemporary English poets, and it ought to exercise a potent 
 and beneficial influence on the political opinions of the cultivated classes. 
 . The demoralizing influence of our existing aristocratic institutions 
 on the most gifted and noblest members of the aristocracy, has never been so 
 subtly and so powerfully delineated as in ' Olrig Grange.' " 
 
 Pall Mall Gazette. 
 
 " ' Olrig Grange,' whether the work of a raw or of a ripe versifier, is plainly 
 the work of a ripe and not a raw student of life and nature. ... It has 
 dramatic power of a quite uncommon class ; satirical and humorous obser- 
 vation of a class still higher; and, finally, a very pure and healthy, if perhaps 
 a little top scornful, moral atmosphere. . . . The most sickening phase 
 of our civilization has scarcely been exposed with a surer and quieter point, 
 even by Thackeray himself, than in this advice of a fashionable and religious 
 mother to her daughter." 
 
 Spectator. 
 
 " The story itself is very simple, but it is told in powerful and suggestive 
 verse. The composition is instinct with quick and passionate feeling, to a 
 degree that attests the truly poetic nature of the man who produced it. It 
 exhibits much more of genuine thought, of various knowledge, of regulated 
 and exquisite sensibility. The author exhibits a fine and firm discrimination 
 of character, a glowing and abundant fancy, a subtle eye to read the symbol- 
 ism of nature, and great wealth and mastery of language, and he has employed 
 it for worthy purposes." 
 
 Daily Review. 
 
 " A remarkable poem, a nineteenth century poem, the work of a genuine 
 poet, whoever he may be, and of a consummate artist. . . The story is 
 wrought out with exquisite beauty of language, and a wealth of imagery 
 which mark the writer as one full of true poetic sensibility, and keenly alive 
 to all the subtle influences that are at work in society." 
 
 Academy. 
 
 " The pious self-pity of the worldly mother, and the despair of the worldly 
 daughter are really brilliantly put. . . . The story is worked out with 
 quite uncommon power." 
 
 English Independent. 
 
 " There is a music in portions of the verse which is all but perfect ; while 
 for vigorous outline of description, raciness and pungency of phrase, and con- 
 densation of thought, we know no modern volume of poems that is its equal. 
 . . . The satire is most searching, the pathos tenderness itself, and once 
 or twice the passion becomes almost tragic in its intensity. From the first 
 page to the last the fascination is fully maintained." 
 
WORKS PUBLISHED BY MR, MACLEHOSE. 
 
 Notices of OLRIG GRANGE continued. 
 Athenaeum. 
 
 " That it is one of many books which many would do well to read. The 
 monologues are in a metre which is, as far as we know, original, and is emi- 
 nently well adapted to the semi-ironical tone of this part of the poem. The * 
 quaint jolt of the ninth line does the author credit. ... If the author 
 will rely still further on his own resources, he may produce something as 
 much better than ' Olrig Grange ' as that is better than nineteen-twentieths 
 of the poetry we have to read." 
 
 Congregationalist. 
 
 " There is a pathos and a passion, a depth of sadness and of love, which 
 seems to us to vindicate for this unknown author a very high place among 
 contemporary poets. . . . Most charming is the soliloquy of Hester. 
 . . . The Herr Professor is very much in Hester's thoughts, and the shy 
 surprise, the palpitating wonder, the shame, the pride, the sweet delight, 
 which are all blended in her discovery that she is really falling in love, are 
 perfectly delicious and beautiful . . - but the triumph of the author's 
 genius is in Rose's farewell to her lover." 
 
 Tatler in Cambridge. 
 
 " One could quote for ever, if a foolscap sheet were inexhaustible ; but I 
 must beg my readers, if they want to have a great deal of amusement, as well 
 as much truth beautifully put, to go and order the book at once. I promise 
 them, they will not repent." 
 
 Glasgow Herald. 
 
 " We believe that no competent reader will fail to acknowledge the vigour, 
 originality, humour, dramatic power, and imagination which this poem 
 shows." 
 
 Scotsman. 
 
 " We have said enough to lead our readers, we hope, to take up the book 
 for themselves. It abounds in passages full of suggestion, and contains some 
 of no small poetic beauty, and others of much satirical vivacity and dexterity 
 of expression." 
 
 North British Daily Mail. 
 
 " It would be easy to cite remarkable instances of thrilling fervour, of 
 glowing delicacy, of scathing and trenchant scorn to point out the fine and 
 firm discrimination of character which prevails throughout. The lady mother 
 a proud, grand, luxurious, worldly, mean-minded, canting woman the 
 author scarifies with a remorseless hate." 
 
 Dundee Advertiser. 
 
 " If this volume does not place the author in the company of Browning and 
 Tennyson, that is only saying that his book is second to the great master- 
 pieces of contemporary literature." 
 
 Liverpool Albion. 
 
 " We look upon this poem as an earnest protest against the hollo wness and 
 pettiness of much that constitutes society. No moral is obtruded, but the 
 pointed barb of sarcasm is there with its sting, that should act, not indeed as 
 poison, but rather as an antidote." 
 
 Echo. 
 
 ' ' This is a remarkable poem on contemporary English society, using that 
 term in its most restricted sense, written in a brilliant, humorous, and sar- 
 castic style, but at the same time with a high philosophic aim and a grave 
 moral purpose." 
 
WORKS PUBLISHED BY MR. MACLEHOSE. 
 Second Edition, Extra Fcap. 8v0 9 Cloth, Price 'js. 
 
 BORLAND HALL, 
 
 A Poem in Six Books. By the AUTHOR of * OLRIG GRANGE.' 
 Scotsman. 
 
 " The publication of another work by the author of ' Olrig Grange' may 
 be described as a literary event of no small importance. In almost all 
 essential points ' Borland Hall ' marks an advance on the powers exhibited 
 in 'Olrig Grange.' The remarkable rhythmic resource displayed in that 
 book is more richly illustrated here. There is still more of dramatic force 
 in the construction of the story, in the conception and contrast of character ; 
 and at least an equal degree of knowledge of human nature. The ease and 
 felicity of expression which made it difficult to believe that ' Olrig Grange ' 
 was not the work of a practised hand are just as conspicuous in 'Borland 
 Hall,' and a strong yet subtle humour here also asserts itself as one of the 
 author's chief characteristics. Beyond all this he displays a wealth of lyric 
 power. . . . Songs of exquisite beauty stud the poem like gems in 
 some massy work of beaten gold. . . . ' Borland Hall ' is a book in 
 which original and vigorous thought, rare dramatic instinct, and profound 
 knowledge of human nature are embodied in poetry of a very high class. 
 This, his latest work, is not only notable in itself, but full of 
 splendid promise." 
 
 Glasgow News. 
 
 " The appearance of a new poem by the author of ' Olrig Grange ' is an 
 event of some importance in the literary world. . . . ' Olrig Grange ' 
 was altogether such a success as it is given to few poems to achieve. 
 . . . In ' Borland Hall,' the author has not only come up to, but gone 
 beyond the expectation raised by the earlier poem. ' Borland Hall ' sur- 
 passes ' Olrig Grange ' both in power and finish. It conveys the idea that 
 the author has acquired a greater mastery over his art without sacrificing 
 in the least any of his originality and vigour. There are still some rough- 
 nesses, but they have such a quaint, racy flavour, that we would not 
 dispense with them if we could. . . . ' Borland Hall ' is a book to 
 be read. It is the matured fruit of the poetic inspiration which produced 
 ' Olrig Grange.' The sweep of the poet's fingers on the strings of his lyre 
 are firmer and stronger. . . . Every line is stamped with the strength of 
 vigorous manhood. " 
 
 North British Daily Mail. 
 
 " ' Borland Hall ' is unquestionably a fine poem. . . . Whoever the 
 author is, he has a poet's eye for man and nature, and a poet's ear for melody 
 and rhythm. The numerous songs interspersed throughout the book are one 
 of its most striking features. " 
 
 Glasgow Herald. 
 
 "This new work by the author of ' Olrig Grange ' has been eagerly ex- 
 pected, and will be cordially welcomed. Its predecessor revealed to the 
 world a writer full of freshness, and insight capable of subtle analysis of 
 feeling, sensitive to the passing lights and shadows of nature and of human 
 life. ' Borland Hall ' contains more of a deliberate story, we might almost 
 say of a plot ; and the plot is so worked out as to show that the author's 
 artistic skill has not diminished, that he has learned something since he sang 
 of ' Olrig Grange,' and that he is eager to be more than a sympathetic or 
 satirical observer of life. It contains more of a sermon, and exhibits more of 
 a purpose, than ' Olrig Grange ' did, and the purpose is excellent. . . 
 
WORKS PUBLISHED BY MR. MACLEHOSE. 
 
 Notices of BORLAND HALL continued. 
 
 The student's party of the first book gives us a few samples of the author's 
 lyrical power : specimens of it are, indeed, lavished throughout the volume. 
 . . . The writer has a painter's eye, a critic's tongue, and a poet's heart. " 
 
 Aberdeen Journal. 
 
 "To sum up our impressions of this remarkable book. No competent 
 critic can deny that the author has in him the elements that go to constitute 
 a true poet. Several of the lyrics in the poem are of a high kind. ' Borland 
 Hall ' shows such power of- language, such high-minded courage, such 
 tenderness, and such sympathy with the various aspects of life, that we ac- 
 cept it with cordial and thankful recognition." 
 
 Dundee Advertiser. 
 
 "The imagery is more profuse and more powerfully expressed more 
 command of passion and more knowledge of the human heart are, we think, 
 discovered in it than even in his former work, ' Olrig Grange.' Besides, it 
 holds out higher hopes as to his achievements in the future." 
 
 Manchester Examiner. 
 
 " The characters are well denned, and elaborated with more than ordinary 
 skill. Some of the incidents are extremely pathetic, and several passages in 
 the poem are powerfully written. ... In the course of the poem there 
 are some very effective songs, and the wealth of beauty in the Scotch language 
 is forcibly and artistically utilized in many parts of the narrative." 
 
 English Independent. 
 
 "Lyell's mother, stern and unrepentant, even in death, is a terrible 
 portrait. . . . We recognize the genius of the author of ' Olrig Grange ' 
 in the stinging sarcasm with which she combats his hesitation, and the hard 
 straightforwardness with which she rejects his caresses and speaks of her 
 own crime. . . . The author portrays with wonderful insight and refine- 
 ment the tempest of doubt, the angry turbulence of feeling, and the bitter, 
 aching, desperate misery of this poor soul, driven into darkness by another's 
 sin, having lost its hold on faith and truth. . . . Such a poem as this 
 will surely have a distinct influence over social thought and custom, for the 
 lessons inculcated have the added weight and enforcement of a style 
 singularly brilliant and passionately fervent, a verse melodious and various 
 in measure, a command of language unusually extensive and apt, and au 
 exquisite sensibility to all natural loveliness." 
 
 Examiner. 
 
 " There can be no doubt that ' Borland Hall ' is full of hearty and healthy 
 feeling. . . . ' Austin Lyell ' is a finely conceived character, and the 
 conception is wrought out with no mean power. The author has a strong 
 dramatic faculcy : the old widow's death-bed story of the patient wiles by 
 which she secured an inheritance for her dearly beloved son is related with a 
 hold upon the tortuosities of obscure feeling of which very few living writers 
 have shown themselves to be capable." 
 
 Liverpool Albion. 
 
 " We have no hesitation in pronouncing this volume to be well worthy of 
 its predecessor, ' Olrig Grange.' It is distinguished by the same vigour and 
 ' flow,' the same deep insight into the difficulties of social life, the same keen 
 satirical humour, and a more condensed dramatic power. . . . The 
 book is interspersed throughout with exquisite ballad-lyrics, some of them 
 of so high merit that it is difficult to select one rather than another." 
 
WORKS PUBLISHED BY MR. MACLEHOSE. 
 
 Second Edition, Extra Fcap. 8v0, Price 6s. , Cloth. 
 
 SONGS AND FABLES. By 
 
 WILLIAM J. MACQUORN RANKINE, late Professor of Civil 
 Engineering in the University of Glasgow, with Portrait, 
 and with 10 Illustrations by J. B. (Mrs. Hugh Blackburn). 
 Aberdeen Journal. 
 
 " These songs are exceedingly bright, strong, and clever ; quite the best 
 we have seen for long. They are in our judgment far superior to those of 
 Mr. Outram and Lord Neaves, and these are no contemptible singers. They 
 show in parts some pouches of a true poetical genius, though the author never 
 aims higher than at a resounding and manly strain of song. The Fables too 
 are good, and Mi's. Blackburn's illustrations are mostly excellent. 
 An admirable photograph is prefixed to the volume. " 
 
 Scotsman. 
 
 " Professor Macquorn Rankine, whose loss science and society alike had 
 lately to deplore, had too much work to do in his professional robes to be 
 able often to don his singing robes. Only his private friends but they were 
 many knew how much was thus being lost ; how much of fun, and sense, 
 and pathos. The public are now, by this volume, admitted into the once 
 privileged circle, though they need to be told, as in the tasteful and befitting 
 preface, that ' his voice and manner lent a charm which the printed page 
 cannot restore.' The tones of Macquorn's harp were various, and to the 
 extent to which he played them, he was master of all. Try him by a severe 
 test : Thackeray's Irish Ballads, especially his immortal ' Battle of Limer- 
 ick/ were among his most brilliant successes ; yet, though there may be a 
 resemblance, and therefore a seeming rivalry, we say that not far behind 
 
 comes Rankine's ' Ode in Praise of the City of Mullingar.' 
 
 In quite another strain, this stirs like the sound of a trumpet : 
 
 'They never shall have Gibraltar.' Though, alas, no more 
 
 shall hearts be made to bound and emphasizing fists to descend at the 
 thundering, ' No ' sent forth by the poet's own manly voice, yet it may be 
 hoped that this song will continue to be heard, and its sentiment ratified and 
 chorused, at many a table through many a year. In other styles there are 
 other things as good especially good are 'The Coachman of the Skylark,' 
 and 'The Engine-driver to his Engine."' 
 
 Glasgow Herald. 
 
 " His happiest vein is one of mingled sentiment and irony ; but his ballads 
 have the force, the roughness, the directness without which it is impossible 
 for a ballad to be genuinely popular. The subject of ' They never shall have 
 Gibraltar ' is antiquated ; but even a reader who has never heard of Goldwin 
 Smith's advice to us to drop Gibraltar to Spain, as we dropped the Ionian 
 Islands to Greece, to satisfy an even emptier historico-national sentiment, 
 can appreciate the patriotic fire of the ballad. We do not indulge ourselves 
 so far as to quote it, or ' The Engine-driver to his Engine,' which has equally 
 the stamp of genius, or the famous ' Three-foot Rule ' which was published 
 in our own columns by a correspondent immediately after his death. The 
 ' Infant Metaphysician ' is a capital specimen of his irony, and the ' Ode in 
 Praise of the City of Mullingar ' might have claimed quotation if it had not 
 happened too vividly to recall similar triumphs of the genius of Thackeray 
 and Father Prout. It may be from professional sympathies, but we find few 
 things in the volume better than ' Loyal Peter,' which brings back the 
 memory of old Peter Mackenzie, of the Glasgow Reformers Gazette" 
 
WORKS PUBLISHED BY MR. MACLEHOSE. 
 
 Notices of SONGS AND FABLES continued. 
 Examiner. 
 
 "The songs and ballads composed by the late Professor Rankine in the inter- 
 vals of severe studies, are lively sallies, well worth procuring in a collected 
 form exceedingly clever, bright, genial, and amusing, full of animal spirits." 
 Leeds Mercury. 
 
 " ' Songs and Fables,' by Professor Rankine, will find readers far beyond 
 the circle of those who knew and enjoyed the society of the writer during his 
 lifetime. Many of the poems exhibit the true ring of genius, whilst all are 
 pervaded by humour of the most catching description. Take for example 
 a few verses from the first poem in the book, 'The Philosopher in Love.' . 
 . . . 'The Coachman of the Skylark/ ' The Engine-driver to his Engine ' 
 are written in a similar vein science and humour being playfully and 
 delicately combined. Along with a genius for philosophical research, which 
 made his name known throughout the whole scientific world, the professor 
 has evidently a keen eye for the comical side of all the discussions in which 
 he engaged. . . . We confess to have seldom met with a patriotic song 
 more brimful of spirit than ' They never shall have Gibraltar.' " 
 Nonconformist. 
 
 " Professor Rankine was a man of singularly genial spirit and fine intellect, 
 which hardly found adequate expression, notwithstanding that the social 
 instinct was strong in him. This volume of Songs and Fables will 
 suffice to give a hint of the literary possibilities that were in him. 
 There is ready humour, quaint wit, and rare felicity of expression. 
 They are unlaboured jeux d'esprit, but they are finished in their way, 
 and often, in spite of the dash and freedom, show a very delicate point. 
 The Songs are something after the style of " Songs from Maga," but are dis- 
 tinctly individual in note. " The Mathematician in Love" is really excellent. 
 The Fables are what they profess to be, genuine fables but they are ruffled 
 by a stir of real fun." 
 
 Manchester Examiner. 
 
 " The Editor of these Songs and Fables, by the eminent Glasgow professoi 
 of civil engineering, whom the scientific world still laments, fears that belief 
 in a necessary incompatibility between philosophic research and playful 
 humour will prejudice the public against them ; and if one of the objects of 
 the publication was to show the fallacy of such a notion, it will possibly be 
 carried out. . . . The cleverest and most ingenious song in the book is ' The 
 Mathematician in Love,' of which the Editor scarcely speaks too strongly 
 when he calls it the meeting point of science and humour. . . . The Fables 
 are very short, but some of them are extremely amusing, and the clever 
 illustrations by Mrs. Hugh Blackburn considerably increase the attractive- 
 ness of the work." 
 
 Glasg-ow News. 
 
 ". . . The 'Songs and Fables' of Professor Macquorn Rankine are 
 but trifles bubbles on the champagne of life, but they are so exquisite in 
 flavour that we gladly recognize the judgment of the Editor in giving 
 them some form of permanence. Each time that one opens the book will be 
 like drawing the cork from a flask of choice vintage. It will be new for some 
 of us, and enable others to appreciate those hours of social enjoyment when 
 philosophers of ' Red Lion ' mark relaxed, and gave to their companions 
 some of that wit which was meant for mankind. Professor Rankine was 
 scarcely known to the general public save as bearing a name of renown for 
 skill in engineering science. His brilliant qualities as an ornament of the social 
 circle were unfamiliar to the many. The volume which is now issued will enable 
 the crowd to participate in that pleasure which was reserved for the few." 
 
WORKS PUBLISHED BY MR. MACLEHOSE. 
 Just Published, in Extra Fcap. 8v0, Cloth, Price Js. 6d. 
 
 HA N NIB A L : 
 
 A Historical Drama. By JOHN NICHOL, B. A. Oxon. , Professor 
 of English Language and Literature in the University of Glasgow. 
 
 Saturday Review. 
 
 " After the lapse of many centuries an English poet is found paying to the 
 great Carthaginian the worthiest poetical tribute which has as yet, to our 
 knowledge, been offered to his noble and stainless name." 
 
 Athenaeum. 
 
 "Probably the best and most accurate conception of Hannibal ever given 
 in English. Professor Nichol has done a really valuable work. From first 
 to last of the whole five acts, there is hardly a page that sinks to the level of 
 mediocrity." 
 
 Fortnightly Review. 
 
 " Upon one figure alone, besides that of his hero, the author has expended 
 all his care and power. Of this one ideal character, the conception is admir- 
 able, and worthy of the hand of a great poet. . . . We receive with all 
 welcome this latest accession to the English school of historic drama." 
 
 North British Daily Mail. 
 
 " ' Hannibal,' in all the attributes of dramatic poetry, rises as far above 
 Addison and Dryden as they overtop the paltriness of a modern Vaudeville. 
 . But much grander is the final vengeance of Rome upon faithless 
 Capua, and the last banquet of the Campanian chiefs. . . . We do .not 
 know what higher praise we can j^ive to the exquisite lyrics which the author 
 has introduced into this scene, than by warning the Laureate that, if Pro- 
 fessor Nichol take it into his head to write many more of the same calibre, he 
 must look to his bays." 
 
 Glasgow Herald. 
 
 " It would be to attribute to Professor Nichol a genius equal to Shake- 
 speare's, or superior even to that, to say that all the difficulties have been 
 triumphantly overcome in the volume before us. But they have been so far 
 surmounted, we venture to say, as to secure for 'Hannibal' a cordial wel- 
 come from all who appreciate the historical and classical drama, and to gain 
 for its author a high place among the poets of the present century." 
 
 English Independent. 
 
 "Had we space, there are many noble passages in the poem we should 
 like to quote. Fulvia's imaginary description of Rome to Hannibal ; the 
 death scene of Archimedes ; and the renewed vows of Hannibal of everlasting 
 enmity to Rome, when his brother's head is brought to him, are particularly 
 worthy of note. " 
 
 Manchester Guardian. 
 
 " Fulvia 'makes a golden tumult in the house/ and carries Roman energy 
 into her love of pleasure, and hatred of the cold and stubborn Roman ways, 
 is perhaps the newest and the most delightful character in Mr. Nichol's 
 play. . . . Mr. Nichol has made the old story live afresh. . . . Mr 
 Nichol is certain to please his readers ; but the audience of historical drama, 
 however fit, is a scanty one, and what the poet has to say deserves the widest 
 hearing. 
 
WORKS PUBLISHED BY MR. MACLEHOSE. 
 
 Notices of HANNIBAL continued. 
 
 Manchester Examiner. 
 
 "We know no modern work in which the dignity of history has been so 
 justly regarded by a poet possessed of such intense admiration for his hero.' 
 
 Echo. 
 
 " Professor Nichol has produced a scholarly and polished work." 
 
 Dublin Telegraph. 
 
 "Professor Nichol has just given us a volume which bids fair to open a 
 new era in poetry, and secures to the author a position among the first poets 
 of the day." 
 
 Morning Post. 
 
 "Glasgow has good reason to be proud of her Professor of English Litera- 
 ture, in which he now takes a prominent place by right of his admirable 
 classic drama. Criticism will award him a regal seat on Parnassus, and laurel 
 leaves without stint." 
 
 Scotsman. 
 
 " But there is much more than mere historical power in ' Hannibal.' Mr. 
 Nichol seems to us to possess real dramatic genius. His personages are not 
 merely types of Carthaginian or Roman, but they are real men and women. 
 They are nearly all conceived under the influence of a generous sympathy 
 with the strong and heroic qualities of character. ... As regards dram- 
 atic power, and the spirited representations of action, we think it no disparage- 
 ment to them (Arnold and Swinburne) to say that we prefer 'Hannibal' eithei 
 to 'Merope' or to 'Atlanta in Calydon.'" 
 
 Westminster Review. 
 
 " Professor Nichol has thrown his fine poem ' Hannibal' into a dramatic 
 form, simply because his whole tone is dramatic. He throws himself into 
 each of his characters. ... In Myra's speeches we have the ring of 
 antique valour. . . . The beauties of the lyrics, which are scattered with 
 so lavish a hand throughout the volume, resemble the odes in a Greek play, 
 rather than the songs of our own dramatists. . . . * Hannibal' is a re- 
 markable poem, it stands out alone, by itself, from all other modern poems." 
 
 THE EXPRESSION OF A QUAD- 
 RA TIC SURD AS A CONTINUED FRA CTION. 
 By THOMAS Mum, M.A., F.R.S.E., Assistant to the 
 Professor of Mathematics in the University of Glasgow. 
 In 8vo, paper covers, price i s. 6d. 
 
 Philosophical Magazine. 
 
 " It differs from the account of the subject to be found in ordinary text-books 
 by the greater generality and completeness of the treatment of the subject." 
 
 IN TR OD UC TOR Y LECTURE, 
 
 Delivered at the Opening of the Divinity Hall, in the 
 University of Glasgow, on loth November, 1873. By 
 WM. P. DICKSON, D.D., Professor of Divinity. 8vo, is. 
 
WORKS PUBLISHED BY MR. MACLEHOSE. 
 In One Vol., Extra Fcap. &vo, Cloth, Price $s. 
 
 HILLSIDE RHYMES: 
 
 AMONG THE ROCKS HE WENT, 
 AND STILL LOOKED UP TO SUN AND CLOUD 
 AND LISTENED TO THE WIND. 
 
 Scotsman. 
 
 "Let any one who cares for fine reflective poetry read for himself and judge. 
 Besides the solid substance of thought which pervades it, he will find here 
 and there those quick insights, those spontaneous felicities of language which 
 distinguish the man of natural power from the man of mere cultivation. 
 . . . Next to an autumn day among the hills themselves, commend us to 
 poems like these, in which so much of the finer breath and spirit of those 
 pathetic hills is distilled into melody." 
 
 Glasgow Herald. 
 
 " The author of ' Hillside Rhymes ' has lain on the hillsides, and felt the 
 shadows of the clouds drift across his half-shut eyes. He knows the sough 
 of the fir trees, the crooning of the burns, the solitary bleating of the moor- 
 land sheep, the quiet of a place where the casual curlew is his only com- 
 panion, and a startled grouse cock the only creature that can regard him with 
 enmity or suspicion. The silence of moorland nature has worked into his 
 soul, and his verse helps a reader pent within a city to realize the breezy 
 heights, the sunny knolls, the deepening glens, or the slopes aglow with those 
 crackling flames with which the shepherds fire the heather." 
 
 Mqffat Times. 
 
 " The most remarkable thing in these poems is the great and passionate 
 love of nature as displayed on the green hillside, which seems to colour all 
 that the author writes. In this he follows in Wordsworth's footsteps, and 
 seems to have caught the true key-note of his great master. . . ' Alta 
 Montium : Among the Uplands ' constantly reminds us, in its tone and key, 
 of Wordsworth in his highest moods." 
 
 Border Advertiser. 
 
 " Manor Water in its summer hues, and also when winter mocks the slant- 
 ing sun, is beautifully described." 
 
 North British Daily Mail. 
 
 " These ' rhymes,' put before the public in a dress corresponding to the 
 dainty attire in which ' Olrig Grange ' was clad, are, for the most part, pure, 
 pleasing, and graceful. . . . They embody certain touching pictures, re- 
 miniscences, and reflections ; they are instinct with a fine enthusiasm as 
 regards the legendary associations, the pastoral life, and the beautiful scenes 
 of Tweeddale. . . There is something of Wordsworth in the simple, 
 smooth, flowing lines of 'The Grey Stone on Dollar Law.' " 
 
 Nonconformist. 
 
 "The author of ' Hillside Rhymes' has true though simple genius. . . . 
 He seizes a few moods, and utters them on the whole faithfully, with now 
 and then a felicitous verse. . . . ' The Grey Stone on Dollar Law ' is 
 finished in execution. . . . * The Weird of Dawyck ' is one of the best 
 of the poems." 
 
 Glasgow News. 
 
 " ' Hillside Rhymes' is one of the brightest and best little effusions of the 
 modern muse." 
 
WORKS PUBLISHED BY MR. MACLEHOSE. 
 
 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 
 
 DAVID GRAY. New and Enlarged Edition. Edited 
 by HENRY GLASSFORD BELL, late Sheriff of Lanarkshire. 
 In One Volume, Extra Fcap. 8vo, price 6s., Cloth. 
 
 Extract from Preface. 
 
 '* This New Edition of the Works of David Gray containing, it is believed, 
 all the maturely finished poems of the author, is a double memorial. It 
 commemorates ' the thin spun life ' of a man of true genius and rare promise, 
 and the highly cultured judgment and tender sympathies of a critic who has 
 passed away in the vigorous fullness of his years. 
 
 " Within a week before his removal from amongst us, Mr. Bell was engaged 
 in correcting the proofs of the present edition. He had selected from a mass 
 of MSS. what pieces he thought worthy of insertion in this enlarged edition, 
 he had re-arranged and revised the greater part of the volume, which it was 
 his intention to preface with a memoir and criticism. He looked forward to 
 accomplishing this labour of love in a period of retirement from active work 
 which he had proposed to pass in Italy." 
 
 Scotsman. 
 
 " This volume will effectually serve not only to renew, but extend the feel- 
 ing that the fame and name of David Gray ought not willingly to be let die. 
 His best known poem, ' The Luggie,' abounds in beauties which should be 
 joys for long, if not for ever." 
 
 Glasgow Evening Citizen. 
 
 "This new and enlarged edition of the poems of David Gray will be hailed 
 by all lovers of genuine poetry. Young as he was, he lived long enough to 
 make his mark. Some of his sonnets are exquisitely fine." 
 
 Glasgow Herald. 
 
 " It is over twelve years since David Gray, at the age of twenty-three, died 
 at Merkland, Kirkintilloch. It is a misfortune that he was not permitted to 
 live until the season of ripeness ; our misfortune, because, judging from the 
 volume before us, we perceive clearly what he might have been, and with 
 what poetic riches he might have dowered the world. " 
 
 Edinburgh Courant. 
 
 "This volume possesses a peculiarity, independent of the gems which it 
 embodies, in that the editing of it was the last literary labour of the late 
 lamented Sheriff of Lanarkshire. The reverential vigour which pervades the 
 equable verse of David Gray is, however, unique ; there is a more forcible 
 beauty in his pieces than in those of the Westmoreland poet, and the awe he 
 manifests " for things unseen and eternal " is quite as conspicuous as the 
 deep and steady devotion of the poet of the 'Seasons.' The volume is got up 
 with sufficient taste not to befool the precious things within." 
 
 Glasgow News. 
 
 " The Works of David Gray are gems of poetry, exquisitely set." 
 
 Noncomformist. 
 
 " We now have David Gray's poems in as complete a form as we are likely 
 to have them. Reading them again, we are struck by the sweet, prolonged 
 pathos of his gentle breathings ; the elevated, tender colouring that he threw 
 into his treatment of the commonest subjects. David Gray's soul must have 
 been beautiful to have imparted such a halo to the commonplace surroundings 
 of his home." 
 

 WORKS PUBLISHED BY MR. MACLEHOSE. 
 
 THE SCOTTISH WAR OF INDE- 
 
 PENDENCE, its ANTECEDENTS and EFFECTS. 
 By WILLIAM BURNS. 2 Vols., 8vo, Cloth, 265. 
 Scotsman. 
 
 " Mr. Burns displays a wonderful amount of research, and a very con- 
 siderable critical power." 
 
 Daily Review. 
 
 " Able and learned the production of an eminent member of the legal 
 profession in Glasgow. . . . His theory is indisputable that North 
 Britain has from the earliest period been inhabited by an ardent, energetic, 
 high-spirited, dour race, who have resolutely and successfully maintained 
 their independence against the incessant attacks of nations mightier and far 
 more numerous than they. . . . The tale of Scotland's wrongs, the patri- 
 otic and disinterested ambition of Wallace, the self-seeking of the great nobles, 
 and the high-spirited and generous patriotism of the minor gentry and 
 burghers, have never been so vividly or so accurately portrayed. . . . 
 Mr. Burns's exposure of the errors and unfounded charges of writers like Mr. 
 Freeman is most complete and withering." 
 
 North British Daily Mail. 
 
 " We take leave of Mr. Burns with sincere respect for his ability, pains- 
 taking research, fairness, and patriotic spirit, which his works display." 
 
 Morning: Post. 
 
 "The author possesses the true historical spirit, which is not that of 
 scepticism, but of belief, as distinguished from credulity ; he also is essenti- 
 ally Scotch and not Anglo-Saxon in his proclivities. For this he deserves 
 credit. . . . The work is, as its title indicates, a history and not a 
 biography. Individual characters are sketched only so far as it was neces- 
 sary to illustrate the surrounding scenes. The author, however, is an 
 excellent antiquary, and enters into minute details upon various arch geological 
 questions that will always afford interest to the inhabitants of this island, 
 both Celts and Saxons. He infuses just so much of his patriotic spirit as to 
 
 inougnt iiirouguuui. me VVUIK. , IL is> always easy tu lunuw LUC WHLCJ. ui MM 
 
 arguments and statements ; there is an occasional sparkle of wit and elo- 
 quence, very little mist, a great diversity both of cultivated and sublime 
 landscape, and a lavish display of valuable literary accomplishments." 
 
 Nonconformist. 
 
 "Mr. Burns writes with clearness, and often with force. He describes the 
 warfare well, never failing to give you a glimpse of the principles that lay 
 beyond it ; indeed he is so concerned to gather up and present as a whole 
 'the lessons that lie on the face of the history/ that he may be said to have 
 given us, together with the history, some approach to the philosophy of it. 
 
 . . . Mr. Burns' sketch of the early history of Scotland is luminous and 
 clear, and legitimately prepares him for adequate treatment of the period of 
 the great contests with the English Plantagenets. ... In the spirit of 
 true research, he sheds light on Wallace's career on m ny points, and traces 
 out the results of his struggles and victories, dealing severely with several 
 historians, and, amongst them, Tytler and Freeman. . . . From the 
 moment that the youthful Bruce emerges into view we are hurried along with 
 some:hing of unhalting impetuosity from battle to battle, from victory to 
 defeat, and defeat to victory. . . . Naturally enough the strong interest 
 ot the volume culminates in Bannockburn." 
 
 g 
 
WORKS PUBLISHED BY MR. MACLEHOSE. 
 
 Just Published, in Crown 8vo, Cloth, Price *js. 6d. 
 
 SERMONS PREACHED IN 
 
 TRINITY CHURCH, GLASGOW, by WILLIAM PULS- 
 
 FORD, D.D. 
 
 Daily Review. 
 
 " We can best describe the school of thought to which Dr. Pulsford belongs, 
 by saying that it lies nearly midway betwixt Dr. John Ker and Frederick 
 William Robertson, and rather nearer to the former than the latter. The 
 sermons have much of the brilliancy of thought and style by which Robertson 
 fascinated his Brighton hearers, and they also exhibit in the author a similar 
 tendency to dwell more on the person than on the work of Christ. But there 
 is this essential difference, that Dr. Pulsford, while filled with an overmaster- 
 ing apprehension of Christ as the Son of Man and the Son of God, never loses 
 sight of Him as the Mediator and Redeemer. . . . The great doctrine of 
 the atonement is always there. ... In attractiveness of thought and 
 beauty of expression, it is difficult to say which excels the other, although we 
 incline to think that Pulsford enters most into the pathos of his subject. . . 
 . . The charm of these sermons lies in the combination of a philosophical 
 habit of thought and cultivated forms of expression with an earnest religious 
 spirit, and a measure, by no means small, of evangelical truth." 
 
 Spectator. 
 
 "It presents to a wider circle samples of a style and mode of teaching 
 .vhich it were greatly to be desired were more common in our pulpits than we 
 find it at present. Nothing is given us at second-hand. There is no filch- 
 ing from other people's stores, or ploughing with other men's heifers. The 
 preacher, we are made to feel, speaks to us out of the fulness of his own 
 spiritual and intellectual life. He has been under no temptation to borrow, 
 just because he had a message of his own to deliver. He has been true to 
 himself, and he has not, therefore, been false to any man. . . . He is a 
 preacher because he has first been a thinker. He proclaims the truths of the 
 Gospel of Christ because they illustrate and explain all other mysteries. 
 Religion to him must be a life in thought, in intelligence ; faith is the flower 
 and crown of a reasonable life ; all wisdom and all true thought are therefore 
 in harmony with the central principles on which the deepest life rests." 
 
 Baptist. 
 
 " Here we have a volume of masterly sermons, full of elevated and 
 suggestive thought, and equally full of beauty and of all that is calculated to 
 stir emotion. . . . There is, too, a clear utterance of the grand funda- 
 mental truths of the Gospel. . . . We thank Dr. Pulsford for adding to 
 our sermon literature a volume that will be ranked among the best produc- 
 tions of recent times." 
 
 Evangelical Magazine. 
 
 " In the discourses of which this volume consists the thought has run the 
 style into moulds of artless simplicity, and often of great force and beauty. 
 . . . With a marked absence of dogmatic costume in the sermons, there 
 is a fulness of sound Evangelical truth, and a rare unfolding of the best 
 and highest spiritual philosophy. . . . There is hardly a sermon in the 
 volume but contains beautiful and suggestive thought."