m
 
 YARROW: 
 
 ITS POETS AND POETRY.
 
 YARROW: 
 
 ITS POETS AND POETRY 
 
 WITH 
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 AND NOTES 
 
 \-jt\ 
 BY R: BORLAND, 
 
 MINISTER 
 
 OF 
 YARROW. 
 
 DALBEATTIE: THOMAS FRASER. 
 1890.
 
 PR 
 
 Printed by J..H. MAXWELL, Castle-Douglas, 
 
 FOR 
 
 THOMAS FRASER, DALBEATTIE. 
 
 LONDON : SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, HAMILTON, KENT & CO., LIMITED. 
 OLASGOW: KERR & RICHARDSON. 
 EDINBURGH : JOHN MENZIES & CO.
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 THE object I have had in view in preparing this work 
 for the press has been to bring together the more 
 notable and interesting ballads and poems which Yarrow 
 has] inspired, and to give such brief biographical sketches of 
 the various poets as may prove either interesting or instructive 
 to the general reader. The task of making a judicious 
 selection from the mass of material which lay ready to hand 
 was none of the easiest, as Yarrow, for many generations, 
 has been a favourite theme of the votaries of the Muse. The 
 poems here published may be regarded as fairly representative 
 of the poetical literature of the valley. Many of them have 
 attained an almost world-wide celebrity ; others of them, 
 perhaps, derive their chief interest from local or historical 
 associations, and a number of them are now printed for the 
 first time. 
 
 I have endeavoured to give the various ballads and poems, 
 as nearly as possible, in the form in which I have found 
 them, either in the works of their respective authors, or as 
 printed in the newspapers and magazines in which they 
 were originally published. This accounts for a certain variety 
 of spelling which the eager eye of the critic will be sure to 
 detect. In not a few cases the form of a poem, or ballad, has 
 become so familiar to the reader that to alter it, however
 
 justifiable the change from a merely literary point of view, 
 would create a feeling of disappointment. As far as possible, 
 therefore, I have studiously refrained from interfering with 
 the original text. 
 
 I have to express my heartiest thanks to all who have 
 favoured me with contributions, and especially to my friends, 
 Alex. Anderson and " J. B. Selkirk," for helpful suggestions in 
 preparing the work for the press; also to Mr M. M'L. Harper, 
 Castle-Douglas, and Mr Thos. Fraser, Dalbeattie, for their 
 valuable assistance in correcting the proofs. I have to 
 acknowledge the kindness of Macmillan & Co. for permission 
 to use Principal Shairp's poem, "Three Friends in Yarrow," 
 originally published in Glen Desserqy. My warmest thanks 
 are also due to Mrs Mangin for her sketches of Yarrow 
 here reproduced. 
 
 The portion of the work for which I am more immediately 
 responsible can lay no claim to any special literary merit. 
 I have been mainly anxious to furnish whatever information 
 may be necessary for the due appreciation of the local and 
 historical setting of the various poems here brought together. 
 
 R. B. 
 
 MANSE or YARROW, 
 
 July 3Oth, 1890.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGI. 
 
 Preface, ... ... ... ... ... ... ... v 
 
 Introduction, ... ... ... ... ... ... i 
 
 The Dowie Dens of Yarrow, ... ... ... ... 13 
 
 Willie's Drowned in Yarrow, ... ... ... ... 22 
 
 Tamlane, ... ... ... ... ... ... ... 25 
 
 Song of the Outlaw Murray, ... ... ... ... 32 
 
 The Douglas Tragedy, ... ... ... ... ... 47 
 
 The Border Widow's Lament, ... ... ... ... 52 
 
 ALLAN RAMSAY, ... ... ... ... ... ... 56 
 
 Mary Scott, ... ... ... ... ... 58 
 
 The Rose in Yarrow, ... ... ... ... ... 59 
 
 WILLIAM HAMILTON, ... ... ... ... ... 61 
 
 The Braes of Yarrow, ... ... ... ... ... 62 
 
 ALISON RUTHERFORD, ... ... ... ... ... 68 
 
 The Flowers of the Forest, ... ... ... ... 69 
 
 JEAN ELLIOT, ... ... ... ... ... ... 71 
 
 The Flowers of the Forest, ... ... ... ... 72 
 
 JOHN LOGAN, ... ... ... ... ... ... 74 
 
 The Braes of Yarrow, ... ... ... ... ... 75 
 
 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH, ... ... ... ... 77 
 
 Yarrow Unvisited, ... ... ... ... ... 84 
 
 Yarrow Visited, ... ... ... ... ... 88 
 
 Yarrow Revisited, ... ... ... ... ... 92 
 
 JAMES HOGG, ... ... ... ... ... ... 98 
 
 Description of Mount Benger, ... ... ... ... 112 
 
 By a Bush, ... ... ... ... ... 113 
 
 Will and Davie, ... ... ... ... ... 115 
 
 The Lassie of Yarrow, ... ... ... ... 120 
 
 St. Mary of the Lowes, ... ... ... ... 122 
 
 SIR WALTER SCOTT, ... ... ... ... ... 127 
 
 Hushed is the Harp, ... ... ... ... ... 135 
 
 Burning of St. Mary's Kirk,... ... ... ... 136 
 
 Yarrow in the Olden Time, ... ... ... ... 137 
 
 WILLIAM LAIDLAW, ... ... ... ... ... 147 
 
 Lucy's Flittin', ... ... ... ... ... 149 
 
 JOHN WILSON, ... ... ... ... ... 152 
 
 Snowstorm in Yarrow, ... ... ... ... ... 164 
 
 HENRY SCOTT RIDDLE, ... ... ... ... 169 
 
 The Dowie Dens of Yarrow, ... ... ... ... 173 
 
 JOHN STUART BLACKIE, ... ... ... ... 175 
 
 Renwick at Riskinhope, ... ... ... ... 177 
 
 A Lay of St. Mary's Loch, ... ... ... ... 182
 
 JOHN CAMPBELL SHAIRP, ... ... ... ... ... 189 
 
 Yarrow Water, ... ... ... ... ... 193 
 
 Three Friends in Yarrow, ... ... ... ... 195 
 
 JOHN VEITCH, ... ... ... ... ... 198 
 
 In Yarrow, ... ... ... ... ... ... 199 
 
 St. Mary's Loch, ... ... ... ... ... 201 
 
 The Dow Glen, ... ... ... ... ... 202 
 
 In Memoriam : Rev. James Russell, D.D., ... ... 205 
 
 In Memoriam : Rev. Thomas M'Crindle, ... ... ... 206 
 
 JAMES BROWN [" J. B. Selkirk,"] ... ... ... 208 
 
 A Song of Yarrow, ... ... ... ... ... 209 
 
 Death in Yarrow, ... ... ... ... ... 212 
 
 Retreat in Yarrow : Dobb's Linn, ... ... ... 215 
 
 ANDREW LANG, ... ... ... ... ... 218 
 
 A Sunset in Yarrow, ... ... ... ... ... 219 
 
 ALEXANDER ANDERSON, ... ... ... ... 220 
 
 In Yarrow, ... ... ... ... ... ... 221 
 
 On Yarrow Braes, ... ... ... ... ... 224 
 
 St. Mary's Lake, ... ... ... ... ... 226 
 
 Yarrow Stream, ... ... ... ... ... 228 
 
 St. Mary's Loch : a Reminiscence, ... ... ... ... 233 
 
 CONSTANCE W. MANGIN, ... ... ... ... 235 
 
 A Remembrance of Yarrow, ... ... ... ... 235 
 
 ANNIE S. SWAN, ... ... ... ... ... 237 
 
 St. Mary's, ... ... .. ... ... ... 237 
 
 THOMAS RAE, ... ... ... ... ... 238 
 
 Yarrow (A Memory), ... ... ... ... .. 238 

 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 " Flow on for ever, Yarrow stream ! 
 
 Fulfil thy pensive duty, 
 
 Well pleased that future bards should chant 
 For simple hearts thy beauty." WORDSWORTH. 
 
 / T N HERE are few streams in any land that have been so 
 J- much besung as " ballad - haunted Yarrow." For 
 some hundreds of years it has had for the poetic mind a 
 strange, weird, almost irresistible fascination. Men of the 
 most diverse genius have come under its spell, and have 
 sung its praises in numbers characterised alike by strength 
 and tenderness of passion. And what is, perhaps, still more 
 remarkable though Yarrow has many singers, the key-note of 
 all their songs is the same. There is a strain of sadness in the 
 music, an under-current of sorrow, giving a definite tone and 
 feeling to the whole. It seems impossible for any one who has 
 been touched by the spirit of the Vale to shake himself 
 altogether free from this feeling. Let the theme of his song be 
 what it may, let him sing with an air as jocund as the gayest 
 heart could wish, yet while we are listening to his inspiring 
 strains, we are conscious, as it were, that some one is playing a 
 dirge in the next room. " Somehow in the poetry of Yarrow," 
 says Professor Veitch, " be it Ballad or Song, there is a deeper
 
 2 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 tinge of sorrow (as compared with the Tweed), often a very 
 dark colouring, an almost overpowering sadness. The emotion 
 is that so finely expressed in a late period in ' The Flowers of 
 the Forest.' The feeling is as of a brief, bright morning, full 
 of promise, making the hills splendid and the heart glad, but ere 
 noon we have cloud and rain and tears, and evening closes 
 around us with only the memory of the vanished joy." Why 
 the prevailing tone of the literature of Yarrow should be so 
 uniformly one of sadness, it may be somewhat difficult satis- 
 factorily to explain. Professor Veitch, in his admirable work 
 on The History and Poetry of the Scottish Border, seems 
 of opinion that the configuration and general physical char- 
 acteristics of the district have had much to do in creating this 
 feeling of sadness. He says : Nor will any one who is 
 familiar with the Vale of Yarrow have had much difficulty in 
 understanding how it is suited to pathetic verse. The rough 
 and broken, yet clear, beautiful and wide-spreading stream has 
 no grand cliffs to show ; and it is not surrounded by high 
 and overshadowing hills. Here and there it flows placidly, 
 reflectively, in large liquid lapses, through an open valley of 
 the deepest summer green ; still, let us be thankful, in its upper 
 reaches at least, mantled by nature and untouched by plough 
 or harrow. There is a placid monotone about its bare treeless 
 scenery an unbroken pastoral stillness on the sloping braes 
 and hillsides, as they rise, fall, and bend in a uniformly 
 deep colouring. The silence of the place is forced upon the 
 attention, deepened even by the occasional break in the flow
 
 INTRODUCTION. 3 
 
 of the stream, or by the bleating of the sheep that, white 
 and motionless amid the pasture, dot the knowes. We are 
 attracted by the silence, and we are also depressed. There 
 is the pleasure of hushed enjoyment. The spirit of the scene 
 is in these immortal lines : 
 
 1 Meek loveliness around thee spread, 
 
 A softness still and holy ; 
 The grace of forest charms decayed, 
 And pastoral melancholy.' 
 
 Those deep green grassy knowes of the valley are peculiarly 
 susceptible of change of light and shade. In the morning 
 with a blue sky, or with breaks of sunlight through the 
 fleeting clouds, the green hillsides and the stream smile and 
 gleam in sympathy with the cheerfulness of heaven. 
 
 "But under a grey sky, or at the gloamin', the Yarrow wears a 
 peculiarly wan aspect a look of sadness. And no valley I 
 know is more susceptible of sudden change. The spirit of the 
 air can speedily weave out of the mists that gather up on the 
 massive hills at the heads of the Meggat and the Talla, a 
 wide-spreading web of greyish cloud the ' skaum ' of the 
 sky that casts a gloom over the under green of the hills, and 
 dims the face of loch and stream in a pensive shadow. The 
 saddened heart would readily find there fit analogue and 
 nourishment for its sorrow." 
 
 This description is perfect ; but may not the same things be 
 said of the Tweed, the Ettrick, and the Teviot ; indeed of all the 
 streams in the Border country ? They have each an individu- 
 ality of their own, but their general characteristics are the same. 
 
 B 2
 
 4 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 And long ago when the whole country was covered with wood 
 the resemblance must have been even more striking than it is 
 now. Yarrow, especially in its upper reaches, is peculiarly bare, 
 but in olden times it was well wooded, and must have presented 
 an aspect as cheerful as any part of the surrounding country. 
 Why its " houms " should be more " dowie " than those of the 
 Tweed and Ettrick cannot be satisfactorily accounted for 
 by the mere grouping of the physical peculiarities. These 
 are neither in themselves so striking, nor unique, as to 
 call for any special characterisation. The most pronounced 
 features of the vale are common to all the tributaries of 
 the Tweed. 
 
 Yet Yarrow has a history of her own. Her spirit is not that of 
 her sister streams. She sings not less sweetly than they do, but 
 there is a strange wail running through the music a low 
 murmur as of some one in pain. How is this to be accounted 
 for? The most satisfactory explanation is, that "the red strain 
 in the stream " the cause of all the dool and sorrow is 
 due to the blood of those who have fallen in mortal combat. 
 Such incidents as those which are commemorated in "The 
 Dowie Dens " and " The Douglas Tragedy " must have pro- 
 duced a deep impression on the minds of the people, and 
 though they were well accustomed to doughty deeds, yet such a 
 rare combination of love and sorrow must have awakened the 
 keenest and deepest feeling. But it may be said that these 
 tragedies owe much of their power to the art of the poet. In 
 dealing with such a theme, the poet does not concern himself
 
 INTRODUCTION. 5 
 
 about historical accuracy. His function his primary function 
 is to excite feeling. In these incidents he found a theme 
 which he could easily adapt to his purpose. The dauntless 
 courage of the hero in " The Dowie Dens " is exceeded by the 
 nnconquerable love of the heroine. 
 
 " She kissed his cheek, she kaim'd his hair. 
 
 She searched his wounds all thorough ; 
 She kissed him till her lips grew red, 
 
 In the dowie houms of Yarrow." 
 
 Such ballads were destined to live in the memory and imagina- 
 tion of the people. They became an important factor in their 
 daily life. The feeling they inspired was reflected on the scenes 
 by which they were surrounded. The prevailing tone of " The 
 Dowie Dens " has affected the whole subsequent literature of 
 the district. We know that this ballad formed the groundwork 
 of Hamilton of Bangour's exquisite lyric " Busk ye, busk ye, 
 my bonny, bonny bride " and this in turn fascinated Words- 
 worth, whose three poems on Yarrow occupy an unique place 
 among the many songs this stream has inspired. 
 
 The significant and highly important question as to the 
 "secret" of Yarrow has been discussed in an able article 
 from the pen of J. B. Selkirk, contributed to Blackwood in 
 the year 1886. In discussing this question he says: "The 
 peculiar power exercised by Yarrow on her votaries is very 
 significant. The result is not only the highest of its kind, but 
 the whole product is fermented and characterised by a uniform 
 local colour of pathetic passion which invests everything 
 that has issued from that mint with a distinctive and unique
 
 6 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 individualism. The historical ballad, with one exception, that of 
 ' The Outlaw Murray,' finds no place in Yarrow. ' The Dowie 
 Dens,' 'The Lament of the Border Widow,' 'The Douglas 
 Tragedy/ 'Willie's Drowned in Yarrow,' and many others, 
 grow out of the social conditions and accidents of the 
 times, and appeal to the ordinary emotions and instincts 
 of humanity, and these have given the initial pathetic 
 
 melancholy to everything that has followed 
 
 * . These old pathetic singers have passed away and 
 left no sign. They have crossed the river of death, and taken 
 their secret with them. Unnamed and unknown as they are, 
 they have, however, left behind them a magnetic witchery of 
 vague and pathetic regret that cannot be shaken off or separated 
 from the scene of their inspiration. No man of average sensi- 
 bility ever entered that valley alone without coming to some 
 extent under the weird fascination and endemic glamour of the 
 place. Under its mysterious influence poets have been made 
 and moulded like clay out of a cast." It would thus seem that 
 the dominant and dominating influence is that exercised by the 
 early literature of the valley. The "pastoral melancholy" which 
 impressed Wordsworth so much has had but a small share in 
 producing that element of " pathetic passion " which permeates 
 the literature of Yarrow. The mind contemplates the scenery 
 through the haze of local tradition, and the feeling produced is 
 largely a result of the action of the subtle law of association 
 After all it is not so much what the eye sees, as what it brings 
 with it to the seeing ; and in this case what is brought adds
 
 INTRODUCTION. 7 
 
 immensely to the effect. No species of literature, indeed, has 
 ever more thoroughly taken possession of the imagination than 
 the Yarrow ballads. It is impossible for any one who has ever 
 read them to shake himself free from their weird fascination. 
 The pictures are so perfectly drawn the tragic element is so 
 intense the contrasts, the deathless hate and unconquerable 
 love, the blood-hound ferocity and angelic tenderness, so 
 strikingly represented that there is produced on the mind an 
 impression which neither lapse of time nor change of circum- 
 stance can possibly erase. Such tragedies never fail in investing 
 a locality with a distinctive character ; and in the present case 
 it may be said that not Nature, but human nature, has made the 
 " dens " of Yarrow " dowie." 
 
 Of the general characteristics of the ballads of Yarrow not 
 much need be said here, as these are indicated in the notes. 
 Suffice it to say that "The Song of the Outlaw Murray" is 
 the only one of a distinctively historical cast : the others 
 are essentially romantic. Few of them have been preserved 
 in the form in which they were originally composed. In 
 some of them, belonging without doubt to a remote period, 
 we find words and phrases introduced which have a compara- 
 tively modern origin. Why this should be so is not difficult to 
 explain. For many generations these ballads were dependant 
 for their transmission upon the uncertain medium of oral 
 tradition, and naturally enough the reciters, when they found 
 that certain words or phrases had become obsolete, replaced 
 them by others of a modern character, in order that they might
 
 8 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 make themselves sufficiently intelligible. Sometimes the critic, 
 overlooking this fact, has been disposed to dispute the antiquity 
 of certain ballads, because he happened to discover a word, or 
 a phrase, that had an unmistakably modern origin. But the 
 existence of such elements in no way invalidates an otherwise 
 well-established claim to antiquity. "The desire of the 
 reciter to be intelligible has been one of the greatest causes of 
 the deterioration of the ballad. He discarded words that had 
 become obsolete, and substituted for them expressions taken 
 from the customs of his own day." " In general, however, the 
 later reciters," says Sir Walter Scott, "appear to have been far 
 less desirous to speak the author's words, than to introduce 
 amendments and new readings of their own, which have always 
 produced the effect of modernizing, and usually that of vulgar- 
 izing, the rugged sense and spirit of the antique minstrel. 
 Thus, undergoing from age to age a gradual process of 
 alteration and recomposition, our popular and oral minstrelsy 
 has lost in a great measure its original appearance; and the 
 strong touches by which it was originally characterised have 
 been generally smoothed down and destroyed by a process 
 similar to that by which a coin, passing from hand to hand, 
 loses in circulation all the finer marks of the impress." 
 
 The Yarrow ballads have been subjected to the same in- 
 fluences. Not only has the phraseology been changed ; but 
 it has happened in some instances that stray verses from other 
 ballads have become incorporated in a composition with which 
 they have little or no affinity.
 
 INTRODUCTION. 9 
 
 On the literary style of these ballads it is unnecessary to 
 remark. The ancient bard was generally satisfied with a 
 rude and careless form of expression, the very simplicity of 
 the ballad stanza carrying with it a strong temptation to loose 
 and trivial composition. But these ballads possess a deep 
 interest for the student of literature, not only on account of the 
 deeds they commemorate, but more especially on the ground 
 that they afford a glimpse of the "national music in its cradle." 
 We see here the first attempts at the formation of those tuneful 
 sounds with which she was afterwards to charm posterity. 
 They form a distinct and separate phase of literary history 
 and achievement. 
 
 The poetical literature of Yarrow, subsequent to the ballad 
 period, is at once varied in quality and extensive in quantity. 
 Allan Ramsay was the first to take up the strain of the ancient 
 minstrels, and his well-known songs "The Rose of Yarrow" and 
 " Mary Scott" are pervaded by a tender feeling which, in some 
 passages, swells into pathos. At the same time it may be justly 
 remarked that his songs are more indebted to the theme for the 
 interest they possess, than to any poetical qualities they display. 
 Hogg was not far wrong when he said : 
 
 " Redoubted Ramsay's peasant skill, 
 Flung some strained notes along the hill; 
 His was some lyre from lady's hall, 
 And not the mountain harp at all." 
 
 The first poet who was destined to embalm the romance of 
 Yarrow in imperishable verse was Hamilton of Bangour. His 
 name and his fame as a poet will ever be associated with his
 
 io INTRODUCTION. 
 
 exquisite lyric "The Braes of Yarrow." His other poems and 
 songs have well nigh passed into oblivion ; but as long as 
 Yarrow has charms for the poetic mind this poem will never 
 fail in captivating the imagination. The stanzas are not all of 
 equal merit, but take it as a whole there are few finer things in 
 the poetical literature of the country. The wail of the old 
 ballads resounds through its rhythmic cadences, like the low 
 weird " sough " of the wind among the autumn leaves of the 
 forest. The witching spell of this song has been thrown over 
 the whole subsequent literature of Yarrow, as the cloud, red- 
 tinged by the rays of the setting sun, casts a purple hue upon the 
 myriad streams that glint and gleam as they roll onward to the 
 sea. Wordsworth, Scott, Hogg, and many others, have felt 
 the power of its entrancing and bewitching strain, and had 
 Hamilton written nothing else he would still have been entitled 
 to a place among the immortals. If Spenser may be designated 
 " the poet's poet," Hamilton's " Braes of Yarrow " may be 
 regarded as the mystic font in which many a Yarrow minstrel 
 has received the baptism of the Muses. 
 
 It is unnecessary to enter fully into the merits of the many 
 songs which, within comparatively recent times, have garlanded 
 the braes of Yarrow with wreaths of immortal melody. Suffice 
 it to say that though Yarrow has occasioned more songs than 
 almost any other stream in the world, her power to confer a kind 
 of plenary inspiration does not seem to be on the wane. 
 J. B. Selkirk and Professor Veitch, Alexander Anderson and 
 Principal Shairp, Andrew Lang and Professor Blackie are
 
 INTRODUCTION. u 
 
 among the more recent of her poets, and though they differ 
 widely in the manner in which they sing of the love and 
 sorrow so inalienably associated with the vale, yet the feeling 
 produced in the mind is that they are members of the same 
 choir, each singing the part for which he is best fitted, and 
 every note adding to the perfection of the symphony. And 
 though the river still flows on as sweetly and softly as of yore, 
 we seem to hear in its liquid melody a note which owns no 
 material origin, a strain of imaginative feeling, pathetic and 
 yet sublime, now mingles, and shall ever mingle, with the music 
 of the stream.
 
 THE DOWIE DENS OF YARROW. 
 
 * I A HIS beautiful and pathetic ballad has attained an almost 
 J- world-wide popularity. It has inspired many of the 
 finest songs of which Yarrow is the theme, and has done more 
 to enshrine the vale with a halo of romance than all other 
 influences combined. Had " The Dowie Dens " never been 
 sung or written the literary history of Yarrow might have been 
 as meagre as that of many an all but nameless river. From 
 this fountain of poetic inspiration myriad streams have issued to 
 charm the world with their pensive sweetness and ideal beauty. 
 The poesy of ancient Greece is not more closely related to the 
 poetry of Homer or of English verse to the inspiring strains of 
 Chaucer, than the poetical literature of Yarrow to " The Dowie 
 Dens." Hamilton of Bangour found in this ballad the ground 
 work of his beautiful poem, " The Braes of Yarrow," a poem 
 which had evidently touched a deep chord in Wordsworth's 
 heart, and had much to do in exciting the keen interest he 
 displayed in the poetical traditions of the valley. The incident
 
 14 THE DOWIE DENS OF YARROW. 
 
 of the ballad may be said to have given a distinctive character 
 to the district. There is nothing about the hills and glens which 
 stretch out and up from the banks of the river to awaken a 
 feeling of sadness in the mind of the spectator. Indeed there 
 are many places in Scotland to which the term " dowie " might 
 be more fitly applied ; but all the associations in large part 
 due to this tragedy are plaintive and melancholy. This, and 
 similar tragedies, must have produced a deep and lasting 
 impression on the popular mind, and made those gladsome 
 hills and fairy glens wear a melancholy aspect. The prevailing 
 strain of this ballad furnishes the key note to the whole poetical 
 literature of the district. There is an undertone of sorrow 
 running through it, like the all but inaudible murmur of some 
 hidden stream. 
 
 The combat which is here so felicitously described was 
 betwixt a Scott of Tushielaw, and his brother-in-law, a Scott of 
 Thirlestane, in which the latter was mortally wounded. The 
 dispute was about some lands which old Tushielaw conveyed, 
 or intended to convey, to his daughter. Professor Aytoun, in 
 his book on The Ballads of Scotland expresses the opinion 
 that Sir Walter Scott in the version he has given in the 
 minstrelsy has mixed up two ballads "The Dowie Dens," and 
 "Willie's Drowned in Yarrow." He says "The second ballad 
 is on a totally different subject, and of another class, but 
 exquisitely simple and pathetic. The two ballads being in the 
 same measure were naturally enough confounded by the 
 reciters ; and it seems to have escaped the notice of Sir Walter
 
 THE DOWIE DENS OF YARROW. 
 
 Scott that the distinguishing peculiarity of the other ballad is 
 the uniformity of the rhyme in every stanza, the word ' Yarrow'
 
 16 THE DOW1E DENS OF YARROW. 
 
 being throughout repeated. I therefore think that his fine in- 
 troductory verse, 
 
 " Late at e'en drinking the wine, 
 
 And ere they paid the lawing, 
 They set a combat them between 
 
 To tight it in the dawing," 
 
 cannot be genuine. And he has further introduced a verse 
 which evidently belongs to the other ballad : 
 
 " O gentle wind that bloweth south, 
 
 From where my love repaireth, 
 Convey a kiss from his dear mouth, 
 
 And tell me how he fareth." 
 
 There is another point in connection with the note appended to 
 this ballad in the Minstrelsy, to which attention may be called. 
 Sir Walter says: "In ploughing 'Annan's Treat/ a huge 
 monumental stone with an inscription was discovered ; but 
 being rather scratched than engraved, and the lines being run 
 through each other, it is only possible to read one or two Latin 
 words. It probably records the event of the combat. The 
 person slain was the male ancestor of the present Lord Napier. 
 " Tradition affirms that the hero of the song (be he who he 
 may) was murdered by the brother, either of his wife or 
 betrothed bride. The alleged cause of malice was the lady's 
 father having proposed to endow her with half of his property, 
 upon her marriage with a warrior of such renown. The name 
 of the murderer is said to have been Annan, and the place 
 of combat is still called Annan's Treat. It is a low moor 
 lying to the west of Yarrow Kirk. Two tall unhewn masses of 
 stone are erected, about eighty yards from each other, and the
 
 THE DOW IE DENS OF YAK ROW. 17 
 
 least child that can herd a cow will tell the passenger that there 
 lie ' the two lords who were slain in single combat.' " 
 
 The place where this monumental stone was discovered is 
 not known as Annan's Treat, but as Annan Street. The 
 inscription on the stone bears that it was erected by Liberalis 
 to the memory of his two sons. The following is the 
 translation given by Dr Smith : " Here Memor Lies of 
 Loinrisnus (The Son) Princes (or Chieftains of) Cnudus (and) 
 Dumnogenus. Here lie in the Tumulus, two sons of Liberalis." 
 Professor Rhys, the well-known Celtic scholar, is of opinion 
 that this interesting monumental slab dates back to the fifth 
 or sixth century of our era, and by no stretch of the imagination 
 can it be supposed to have had any connection with "The 
 Tragedy of the Dowie Dens." There are really four stones 
 standing about two hundred yards apart. The first is at the 
 side of the Whitehope burn, a few yards from the entrance to 
 the church; the second at the shepherd's house, called "The 
 Warrior's Rest ; " the third, which tradition has fixed upon as 
 the scene of tragedy, in the glebe ; the fourth " the inscribed 
 stone " in a field on the farm of Whitehope. That a great 
 battle had been fought in this neighbourhood is highly probable. 
 The name given to the place, "Warrior's Rest," is in itself 
 suggestive ; but proof of a more convincing nature was forth- 
 coming when the Rev. Dr. Robert Russell, the father of the 
 late genial and gifted author of Reminiscences of Yarrow, 
 enclosed the fields to the west of the church. On removing 
 various heaps of stones he found considerable quantities of
 
 1 8 THE DOW IE DENS OF YARROW. 
 
 bone dust, clearly enough indicating that here, in this primitive 
 fashion, many bodies had been buried. Several stone cists, 
 full of remains, have been discovered in this region, one of 
 which has been exposed to observation near the shepherd's 
 house. 
 
 The ballad of "The Dowie Dens" was first published in 
 Scott's Border Minstrelsy, and though it bears evident traces of 
 interpolation, it has, through this medium, become so well 
 known, and is otherwise of such distinguished merit, that it is 
 to be preferred to the more accurate, but less picturesque form 
 of the ballad which Professor Aytoun has published in 
 his Ballads of Scotland. Professor Veitch, a recognised 
 authority on all subjects pertaining to the history and poetry of 
 the Borders, justly remarks that " for brevity, directness, and 
 graphic turn of narrative, vivid picturing, and the image of 
 passionate devotion to the dead, there are few ballads in any 
 language that match its strains." 
 
 LATE at e'en, drinking the wine, 
 And ere they paid the lawing, 
 
 They set a combat them between, 
 To fight it in the dawing. 
 
 " O stay at hame, my noble lord ! 
 O stay at hame, my marrow ! 
 My cruel brother will you betray, 
 On the dowie houms of Yarrow.
 
 THE DOWIE DENS OF YARROW. 19 
 
 " O fare ye weel, my ladye gaye ! 
 
 fare ye weel, my Sarah ! 
 
 For I maun gae, though I ne'er return 
 Frae the dowie banks o' Yarrow. "- 
 
 She kiss'd his cheek, she kaim'd his hair, 
 
 As oft she had done before, O ; 
 She belted him with his noble brand, 
 
 And he's away to Yarrow. 
 
 As he gaed up the Tennies bank, 
 
 1 wot he gaed \vi' sorrow, 
 
 Till, down in a den, he spied nine arm'd men, 
 On the dowie houms of Yarrow. 
 
 " O come ye here to part your land, 
 
 The bonnie Forest thorough ? 
 Or come ye here to wield your brand, 
 On the dowie houms of Yarrow ?"- 
 
 " I come not here to part my land, 
 
 And neither to beg nor borrow ; 
 I come to wield my noble brand, 
 On the bonnie banks of Yarrow." 
 
 If I see all, ye're nine to ane, 
 
 And that's an unequal marrow, 
 Yet will I fight, while lasts my brand, 
 
 On the bonnie banks o' Yarrow. 
 
 C2
 
 20 THE DOWIE DENS OF YARROW. 
 
 Four has he hurt, and five has slain, 
 On the bloody braes of Yarrow, 
 
 Till that stubborn knight came him behind, 
 And ran his body thorough. 
 
 " Gae hame, gae hame, good-brother John, 
 
 And tell your sister Sarah, 
 To come and lift her leafu' lord ; 
 He's sleepin' sound on Yarrow." 
 
 Yestreen I dream'd a dolefu' dream ; 
 
 I fear there will be sorrow ! 
 I dream'd I pu'd the heather green, 
 
 Wi' my true love on Yarrow. 
 
 " But in the glen strive armed men ; 
 
 They've wrought me dole and sorrow ; 
 They've slain the comliest knight they've slain- 
 He bleeding lies on Yarrow. 
 
 As she sped down yon high high hill, 
 
 She gaed wi' dole and sorrow, 
 And in the den spied ten slain men, 
 
 On the dowie banks of Yarrow. 
 
 She kissed his cheek, she kaim'd his hair, 
 She searched his wounds all thorough, 
 
 She kiss'd them till her lips grew red, 
 On the dowie houms of Yarrow.
 
 THE DOW IE DENS OF YARROW. 21 
 
 " Now baud your tongue, my daughter dear 
 
 For a' this breeds but sorrow ; 
 I'll wed ye to a better lord, 
 Than him ye lost on Yarrow." 
 
 " O baud your tongue, my father dear ! 
 
 Ye mind me but of sorrow ; 
 A fairer rose did never bloom 
 
 Than now lies cropp'd on Yarrow."
 
 22 
 
 WILLIE'S DROWNED IN YARROW. 
 
 WILLIE'S DROWNED IN YARROW. 
 
 THIS ballad from its touching sentiment and natural pathos 
 has always been popular. It has frequently been 
 printed with variations, but Professor Aytoun is of opinion that
 
 WILLIE'S DROWNED IN YARROW. 23 
 
 the version given by him in The Ballads of Scotland is genuine, 
 and on the authority of that learned and conscientious compiler 
 we have given it here. 
 
 " WILLIE'S rare and Willie's fair, 
 And Willie's wondrous bonny, 
 And Willie's hecht to marry me, 
 Gin e'er he married ony. 
 
 " Yestreen I made my bed fu' braid, 
 
 This night I'll make it narrow, 
 For a' the live long winter night 
 I'll lie twin'd of my marrow. 
 
 " O gentle wind that bloweth south, 
 From where my love repaireth, 
 Convey a kiss from his dear mouth, 
 And tell me how he fareth. 
 
 " O tell sweet Willie to come doun, 
 
 And bid him no be cruel, 
 And tell him no to break the heart 
 Of his love and only jewel. 
 
 " O tell sweet Willie to come doun, 
 
 And hear the mavis singing ; 
 And see the birds on ilka bush, 
 And leaves around them hinging.
 
 24 WILLIE'S DROWNED IN YARROW. 
 
 " O cam' ye by yon water side ? 
 
 Pu'd ye the rose or lily? 
 Or cam' ye by yon meadow green ? 
 Or saw ye my sweet Willie ?" 
 
 She sought him east, she sought him west, 
 She sought him braid and narrow ; 
 
 Syne, in the cleaving of a craig, 
 She fand him drown'd in Yarrow.
 
 T AM LANE. 25 
 
 TAMLANE. 
 
 THE scene of this ballad is laid at Carterhaugh, a plain at 
 the confluence of the Yarrow and the Ettrick, two miles 
 above Selkirk. The young Tamlane, who describes himself as 
 a son of Randolph, Earl Murray, having been sent for when just 
 turned nine, to keep his uncle company in hunting, hawking, 
 and riding, was, while on his journey, thrown by a sharp north 
 wind into a dead sleep, and fell from his horse, when the Queen 
 of Fairies carried him off for herself. His experiences in 
 fairyland, the reason why he wished to leave it, and the manner 
 in which his rescue was to be effected, are all graphically 
 described. The ballad is undoubtedly of great antiquity. It is 
 referred to in The Complqynt of Scotland, a book which was 
 printed at St. Andrews in 1549. The version given is from 
 Aytoun's Ballads of Scotland. 
 
 " O I forbid ye, maidens a', 
 
 That bind in snood your hair, 
 
 To come or gae by Carterhaugh, 
 
 For young Tamlane is there." 
 
 Fair Janet sat within her bower, 
 
 Sewing her silken seam, 
 And fain would be at Carterhaugh, 
 
 Amang the leaves sae green.
 
 26 TAMLANE. 
 
 She's prink'd hersell, and preen'd hersell, 
 By the ae light o' the moon, 
 
 And she's awa to Carterhaugh, 
 As fast as she could gang. 
 
 She hadna pu'd a red red rose, 
 
 A rose but barely three, 
 When up and starts the young Tamlane, 
 
 Says, " Lady, let a-be ! 
 
 " What gars ye pu' the rose, Janet ? 
 
 What gars ye break the tree ? 
 Or why come ye to Carterhaugh, 
 Without the leave o' me ?" 
 
 " O I will pu' the flowers," she said, 
 " And I will break the tree ; 
 For Carterhaugh it is my ain, 
 I'll ask nae leave of thee." 
 
 He took her by the milk-white hand, 
 And by the grass-green sleeve, 
 
 And laid her down upon the flowers, 
 Nor ever asked her leave. 
 
 " Now ye maun tell the truth," she said, 
 " A word ye maunna lie ; 
 O, were ye ever in haly chapel, 
 Or sained in Christentie ?''
 
 TAMLANE. 27 
 
 " The truth I'll tell to thee, Janet, 
 
 A word I winna lie ; 
 I was ta'en to the good church-door, 
 And sained as well as thee. 
 
 " Randolph, Earl Murray, was my sire, 
 
 Dunbar, Earl March, was thine ; 
 We loved when we were children small, 
 Which still you yet may mind. 
 
 " When I was a boy just turned of nine, 
 
 My uncle sent for me, 
 To hunt, and hawk, and ride with him, 
 And keep him companie. 
 
 " There came a wind out of the north, 
 
 A sharp wind and a snell, 
 And a dead sleep came over me, 
 
 And frae my horse I fell ; 
 The Queen of Fairies she was there, 
 
 And took me to hersell. 
 
 " And never would I tire, Janet, 
 In fairy-land to dwell, 
 
 But aye, at every seven years, 
 They pay the teind to hell ; 
 
 And I'm sae fat and fair of flesh, 
 I fear 'twill be mysell !
 
 28 TAMLANE. 
 
 " The morn at e'en is Hallowe'en, 
 
 Our fairy court will ride, 
 Through England and through Scotland baith, 
 
 And through the warld sae wide, 
 And if that ye wad borrow me, 
 
 At Miles Cross ye maun bide. 
 
 " And ye maun gae to the Miles Moss, 
 
 Between twelve hours and one, 
 Tak' haly water in your hand, 
 And cast a compass roun'." 
 
 " And how shall I ken thee, Tamlane ? 
 
 And how shall I thee knaw, 
 Amang the throng o' fairy folk, 
 The like I never saw ?" 
 
 " The first court that comes along, 
 
 Ye'll let them a' pass by ; 
 The neist court that comes along 
 Salute them reverently. 
 
 " The third court that comes along 
 
 Is clad in robes o' green, 
 And it's the head court of them a', 
 And in it rides the Queen. 
 
 " And I upon a milk-white steed, 
 Wi' a gold star in my crown ; 
 Because I am a christened man, 
 They give me that renown.
 
 T AM LANE. 29 
 
 " Ye'll seize upon me with a spring, 
 
 And to the ground I'll fa', 
 And then ye' 11 hear an elrish cry 
 That Tamlane is awa'. 
 
 " They'll turn me in your arms, Janet, 
 
 An adder and a snake ; 
 But haud me fast, let me not pass, 
 Gin ye wad be my maik. 
 
 " They'll turn me in your arms, Janet, 
 
 An adder and an aske, 
 They'll turn me in your arms, Janet, 
 A bale that burns fast. 
 
 " They'll shape me in your arms, Janet, 
 
 A dove, but and a swan, 
 And last they'll shape me in your arms 
 
 A mother-naked man : 
 Cast your green mantle over me 
 And sae shall I be wan !" 
 
 Gloomy, gloomy was the night, 
 
 And eerie was the way, 
 As fair Janet, in her green mantle, 
 
 To Miles Cross she did gae. 
 
 There's haly water in her hand, 
 She casts a compass round ; 
 
 And straight she sees a fairy band 
 Come riding o'er the mound.
 
 30 TAMLANE. 
 
 And first gaed by the black, black steed, 
 And then gaed by the brown ; 
 
 But fast she gript the milk-white steed, 
 And pu'd the rider down. 
 
 She pu'd him frae the milk-white steed, 
 
 And loot the bridle fa' ; 
 And up their raise an elrish cry : 
 " He's won amang us a' !" 
 
 They shaped him in fair Janet's arms, 
 An aske, but and an adder; 
 
 She held him fast in every shape, 
 To be her ain true lover. 
 
 They shaped him in her arms at last 
 
 A mother-naked man, 
 She cuist her mantle over him, 
 
 And sae her true love wan. 
 
 Up then spake the Queen o' Fairies, 
 
 Out of a bush o' broom : 
 " She that has borrowed young Tamlane, 
 Has gotten a stately groom !" 
 
 Up then spake the Queen o' Fairies 
 
 Out of a bush of rye : 
 " She's ta'en away the bonniest knight 
 In a' my companie !
 
 TAMLANE. 31 
 
 " But had I kenned, Tamlane," she says, 
 " A lady would borrow thee, 
 I wad hae ta'en out thy twa grey e'en, 
 Put in twa e'en o' tree ! 
 
 " Had I but kenned, Tamlane," she says, 
 " Before ye came frae hame, 
 I wad hae ta'en out your heart of flesh, 
 Put in a heart o' stane ! 
 
 " Had I but had the wit yestreen 
 
 That I hae coft this day, 
 I'd hae paid my kane seven times to hell 
 Ere you'd been won away !"
 
 32 THE SONG OF THE OUTLAW MURRAY. 
 
 THE SONG OF THE OUTLAW MURRAY. 
 
 THIS interesting historical ballad was composed during the 
 reign of James V. The tragic event which it com- 
 memorates took place betwixt a Scottish monarch and an 
 ancestor of the family of Murray of Philiphaugh, in the county 
 of Selkirk. It would seem that the Murrays, like other Border 
 clans in that age, were in a lawless state. They had no proper 
 title to their lands, but held them, like all the proprietors in 
 Ettrick Forest, merely by occupancy. Such a condition of 
 affairs was not favourable to the public peace. There was 
 constant confusion and disturbance. The kings of Scotland 
 were sometimes unable, owing to the weakness of their own 
 position, to hold in check the more powerful and daring among 
 their often rebellious subjects. The result was that they had 
 not infrequently to compromise matters, and accept terms not 
 fully in harmony with the assumed dignity of their position. 
 James at one time was under the painful necessity of entering 
 into a kind of league with Johnnie Faa, the King of the Gipsies. 
 There is therefore nothing improbable in the tradition which 
 has been handed down in this song. The likelihood is that it 
 had some considerable foundation in fact.
 
 THE SONG OF THE OUTLAW MURRAY. 33 
 
 The popular opinion is that the scene of the ballad was 
 Newark, an old Border stronghold, standing on the banks of the 
 Yarrow, four miles above Selkirk. But as Sir Walter Scott has 
 pointed out, this supposition is extremely improbable, as Newark 
 was always a royal fortress. The seat of the Murray family for 
 many generations was the Tower of Hangingshaw, a stronghold 
 situated in a commanding position, two miles west from 
 Newark, at the base of the Lewinshope Ridge. A finer situation 
 for a fortress could hardly be conceived. In those days when 
 the surrounding hills were covered with copse it must have been 
 all but impregnable. The Hangingshaw estate has been for 
 many years in the possession of the Johnstones of Alva, an old 
 and well-known Scottish family. The old castle has entirely 
 disappeared, not one stone being left to mark the place where it 
 stood. 
 
 According to tradition, the Outlaw was a man of prodigious 
 strength, and with his baton laid waste the country for miles 
 around. How he met with his death is not accurately known. 
 One tradition speaks of him as having been slain by Buccleuch, 
 or one of his clan ; another bears that he was shot by Scott of 
 Haining near to the house of the Duke of Buccleuch's game- 
 keeper, beneath the Castle of Newark. 
 
 ETTRICKE Foreste is a feir foreste, 
 
 In it grows manie a semelie tree ; 
 There's hart and hynd, and dae and rae, 
 
 And of a' wild bestis grete plentie.
 
 34 THE SONG OF THE OUTLAW MURRAY. 
 
 There's a feir castelle, bigged wi' lime and stane, 
 
 O ! gin it stands not pleasauntlie ! 
 In the fore front 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. 
 
 There an Outlaw kepis five hundred men ; 
 
 He keepis a royalle cumpanie ! 
 His merryemen are a' in ae liverye clad, 
 
 O' the Lincome grene sae gaye to see ; 
 He and his ladye in purple clad, 
 
 O ! gin they lived not royallie ! 
 
 Word is gane to our nobil King, 
 
 In Edinburgh where that he lay, 
 That there was an Outlaw in Ettricke Foreste 
 
 Counted him nought, nor a' his courtrie gay. 
 
 " I make a vowe," then the gude King said, 
 " Unto the man that deir bought me, 
 I'se either be King of Ettricke Foreste, 
 
 Or King of Scotlande that Outlaw sail be !" 
 
 Then spake the lord hight Hamilton, 
 
 And to the nobil King said he, 
 " My sovereign prince, some counsell take, 
 First at your nobilis, syne at me.
 
 THE SONG OF THE OUTLAW MURRAY. 35 
 
 " I redd ye, send yon braw Outlaw till, 
 And see gif your man cum will he : 
 Desyre him cum and be your man, 
 And hold of you, yon Foreste frie. 
 
 " Gif he refuses to do that, 
 
 We'll conquess baith his landis and he ! 
 Or else, we'll throw his castelle down, 
 And make a widow o' his gaye ladye." 
 
 The King then call'd a gentleman, 
 
 James Boyd (the Earle of Arran his brother was he;) 
 When James he cam before the King, 
 
 He knelit before him on his kne". 
 
 " Wellcum, James Boyd !" said our nobil King, 
 " A message ye maun gang for me ; 
 Ye maun hye to Ettricke Foreste 
 To yon Outlaw, where bydeth he : 
 
 " Ask him of whom he haldis his landis, 
 
 Or man, wha may his master be, 
 
 And desyre him cum, and be my man, 
 
 And hold of me yon Foreste frie. 
 
 " To Edinburgh to cum and gang, 
 
 His safe warrant I sail gie ; 
 And gif he refuses to do that, 
 
 We'll conquess baith his landis and he. 
 
 D2
 
 36 THE SONG OF THE OUTLAW MURRAY. 
 
 " Thou mayst vow I'll cast his castell down, 
 
 And mak a widowe o' his gaye ladye ; 
 I'll hang his merryemen, payr by payr, 
 In ony frith where I may them see." 
 
 James Boyd tuik his leave o' the nobil King, 
 To Ettricke Foreste feir cam he ; 
 
 Down Birkendale Brae when that he cam, 
 He saw the feir Foreste wi' his ee. 
 
 Baith dae and rae, and harte and hinde, 
 And of a' wild bestis great plentie ; 
 
 He heard the blows that bauldly ring, 
 And arrows whidderan' hym near bi. 
 
 Of that feir castell he got a sight ; 
 
 The like he neir saw wi' his ee 1 
 On the fore front of that castell feir, 
 
 Twa unicorns were gaye to see ; 
 The picture of a knight, and ladye bright, 
 
 And the grene hollin abune their brie. 
 
 Thereat he spyed five hundred men, 
 
 Shuting with bows on Newark Lee ; 
 They were a' in ae livery clad, 
 O' the Lincome grene sae gaye to see. 
 
 His men were a' clad in the grene, 
 The knight was armed capapie, 
 
 With a bended bow, on a milk-white steed ; 
 And I wot they rank'd right bonnilie.
 
 THE SONG OF THE OUTLAW MURRAY. 37 
 
 Thereby Boyd kend he was master man, 
 
 And served him in his ain degre* 
 " God mot thee save, brave Outlaw Murray ! 
 
 Thy ladye, and all thy chyvalrie ! " 
 " Marry, thou's wellcum, gentlemen, 
 
 Some king's messenger thou seemis to be." 
 
 " The King of Scotlonde sent me here, 
 
 And, gude Outlaw, I am sent to thee ; 
 I wad wot of whom ye hald your landis, 
 O man, who may thy master be ?" 
 
 "Thir landis are MINE!" the Outlaw said; 
 " I ken nae King in Christentie ; 
 Frae Soudron I this Foreste wan, 
 
 When the King nor his knightis were not to see." 
 
 " He desyres you'l cum to Edinburgh, 
 
 And hauld of him this Foreste fre ; 
 And, gif ye refuse to do this, 
 
 He'll conquess baith thy landis and thee. 
 He hath vow'd to cast thy castell down, 
 
 And mak' a widowe o' thy gaye ladye." 
 
 " He'll hang thy merryemen, payr by payr, 
 
 In ony frith where he may them finde." 
 "Ay, by my troth!" the Outlaw said, 
 " Than wauld I think me far behinde.
 
 38 THE SONG OF THE OUTLAW MURRAY. 
 
 " Ere the King my feir countrie get, 
 This land that's nativest to me ! 
 Mony o' his nobilis sail be cauld, 
 Their ladyes sail be right wearie." 
 
 Then spak his ladye, feir of face, 
 She seyd, " Without consent of me, 
 
 That an Outlaw suld cum before a king ; 
 I am right rad of treasonrie. 
 
 Bid him be gude to his lordis at hame, 
 For Edinburgh my lord sail nevir see." 
 
 James Boyd tuik his leave o' the Outlaw kene, 
 
 To Edinburgh boun is he ; 
 When James he cam before the King, 
 
 He knelit lowlie on his kne". 
 
 " Welcum, James Boyd !" seyd our nobil King ; 
 
 "What foreste is Ettricke Foreste frie ?" 
 " Ettricke Foreste is the feirest foreste 
 That evir man saw wi' his ee. 
 
 " There's the dae, the rae, the hart, the hynde, 
 
 And of a' wild bestis grete plentie ; 
 There's a pretty castell of lyme and stane, 
 O ! gif it standis not pleasauntlie ! 
 
 " There's in the fore front o' that castell, 
 
 Twa unicorns, sae bra' to see, 
 There's the picture of a knight, and a ladye bright, 
 Wi' the grene hollin abune their brie.
 
 THE SONG OF THE OUTLAW MURRAY. 39 
 
 " There the Outlaw keepis five hundred men, 
 
 He keepis a royalle companie ! 
 His merryemen in ae livery clad, 
 
 O' the Lincome grene sae gaye to see : 
 He and his ladye in purple clad ; 
 
 O ! gin they live not royallie ! 
 
 " He says yon Foreste is his awin ; 
 He wan it frae the Southronie ; 
 Sae as he wan it, sae will he keep it, 
 Contrair all kingis in Christentie ! 
 
 " Gar warn me Perthshire, and Angus baith ; 
 Fife up and downe, and Louthians three, 
 And graith my horse !" said our nobil King, 
 " For to Ettricke Foreste hie will I me." 
 
 Then word is gane the Outlaw till, 
 
 In Ettricke Foreste, where dwelleth he, 
 That the King was cuming to his cuntrie, 
 
 To conquess baith his landis and he. 
 
 " I mak a vow," the Outlaw said, 
 " I mak a vow, and that trulie, 
 Were there but three men to tak my pairt, 
 Your King's cuming full deir suld be !" 
 
 Then messengers he called forth, 
 
 And bade them hie them speedilye 
 " Ane of ye gae to Halliday, 
 
 The Laird of the Corehead is he."
 
 40 THE SONG OF THE OUTLAW MURRAY. 
 
 " He certain is my sister's son ; 
 
 Bid him cum quick and succour me ! 
 The King cums on for Ettricke Foreste, 
 And landless men we a' will be." 
 
 " What news ? What news ?" said Halliday ; 
 
 " Man, frae thy master unto me ?" 
 " Not as ye wad ; seeking your aide ; 
 The King's his mortal enemie." 
 
 " Ay, by my troth!" said Halliday, 
 " Even for that it repenteth me ; 
 For gif he lose feir Ettricke Foreste, 
 He'll tak feir Moffatdale frae me." 
 
 " I'll meet him wi' five hundred men, 
 And surely mair, if mae may be ; 
 And before he gets the Foreste feir, 
 We a' will die on Newark Lee!" 
 
 The Outlaw call'd a messenger, 
 And bid him hie him speedilye, 
 
 To Andrew Murray of Cockpoole 
 " That man's a deir cousin to me ; 
 
 Desyre him cum, and make me aide, 
 With a' the power that he may be." 
 
 " It stands me hard," Andrew Murray said, 
 " Judge gif it stand na hard wi' me ; 
 To enter against a King wi' crown, 
 And set my landis in jeopardie ! 
 Yet, if I cum not on the day, 
 
 Surely at night he sail me see."
 
 THE SONG OF THE OUTLAW MURRAY. 41 
 
 To Sir James Murray of Traquair, 
 
 A message came right speedilye 
 " What news ? What news ?" James Murray said, 
 " Man, frae thy master unto me ?" 
 
 " What neids I tell ? for weel ye ken 
 The King's his mortal enemie ; 
 And now he is cuming to Ettricke Foreste, 
 And landless men ye a' will be." 
 
 " And, by my trothe," James Murray said, 
 " Wi' that Outlaw will I live and die ; 
 The King has gifted my landis lang syne 
 It cannot be nae warse wi' me." 
 
 The King was cuming thro' Caddon Ford, 
 
 And full five thousand men was he ; 
 They saw the derke Foreste them before, 
 
 They thought it awsome for to see. 
 
 Then spak the Lord, hight Hamilton, 
 
 And to the nobil King said he, 
 " My sovereign liege, sum council tak, 
 First at your nobilis, syne at me. 
 
 " Desyre him mete thee at Permanscore 
 
 And bring four in his cumpanie ; 
 Five Erles sail gang yoursell befor, 
 Gude cause that you suld honour'd be.
 
 42 THE SONG OF THE OUTLAW MURRAY. 
 
 " And, gif he refuses to do that, 
 
 We'll conquess baith his landis and he ; 
 There sail nevir a Murray, after him, 
 Hald land in Ettricke Foreste free." 
 
 Then spak the kene Laird of Buckscleuth, 
 A stalworthe man, and sterne was he 
 " For a King to gang an Outlaw till, 
 Is beneath his state and his dignitie. 
 
 " The man that wons yon Foreste intill, 
 
 He lives by reif and felonie ! 
 Wherefore, brayd on, my sovereign liege, 
 
 Wi' fire and sword we'll follow thee ; 
 Or, gif your courtrie lords fa' back, 
 
 Our Borderers sail the onset gie."- 
 
 Then out and spak the nobil King, 
 And round him cast a wilie ee 
 " Now, had thy tongue, Sir Walter Scott, 
 Nor speak of reif nor felonie : 
 
 For, had every honest man his awin kye, 
 A right puir clan thy name wad be !" 
 
 The King then call'd a gentleman, 
 Royal banner-bearer there was he ; 
 
 James Hoppringle, of Torsonse, by name ; 
 He cam and knelit upon his kne*.
 
 THE SONG OF THE OUTLAW MURRAY. 43 
 
 " Wellcum, James Pringle of Torsonse ! 
 
 A message ye maun gang for me : 
 You maun gae to yon Outlaw Murray, 
 Surely where bauldly bideth he. 
 
 " Bid him mete me at Permanscore, 
 And bring four in his cumpanie ; 
 Five erles sail cum wi' mysel, 
 Gude reason I suld honour'd be; 
 
 " And gif he refuses to do that, 
 
 Bid him luke for nae gude o' me ! 
 There sail nevir a Murray, after him, 
 Have land in Ettricke Foreste free." 
 
 James cam before the Outlaw kene, 
 
 And served him in his ain degre, 
 Wellcum, James Pringle of Torsonse ! 
 
 What message frae the King to me ?"- 
 
 " He bids ye meet him at Permanscore, 
 
 And bring four in your cumpany, 
 Five erles sail gang himsell befor, 
 Nae mair in number will he be. 
 
 " And gif you refuse to do that, 
 
 (I freely here upgive wi' thee), 
 He'll cast yon bonny castle down, 
 And make a widowe o' that gaye ladye.
 
 44 THE SONG OF THE OUTLAW MURRAY. 
 
 " He'll loose yon bluidhound Borderers, 
 
 Wi' fire and sword to follow thee ; 
 There will nevir a Murray, after thysell, 
 Have land in Ettricke Foreste free."- 
 
 " It stands me hard," the Outlaw said ; 
 " Judge gif it stands na hard wi' me, 
 Wha reck not losing of mysell, 
 But a' my offspring after me. 
 
 " My merryemen's lives, my widowe's teirs 
 
 There lies the pang that pinches me ; 
 When I am straught in bludie card, 
 Yon castell will be right dreirie. 
 
 " Auld Halliday, young Halliday, 
 
 Ye sail be twa to gang wi' me ; 
 Andrew Murray, and Sir James Murray, 
 We'll be nae mae in cumpanie." 
 
 When that they cam before the King, 
 They fell before him on their kn6 
 " Grant mercie, mercie, nobil King ! 
 
 E'en for his sake that dyed on tree." 
 
 " Sicken like mercie sail ye have ; 
 
 On gallows ye sail hangit be !" 
 " Over God's forbode," quoth the Outlaw then, 
 
 I hope your grace will bettir be ! 
 Else, ere ye come to Edinburgh port, 
 ^ I trow thin guarded sail ye be :
 
 THE SONG OF THE OUTLAW MURRAY. 45 
 
 " Thir landis of Ettricke Foreste fair, 
 
 I wan them from the enemie ; 
 Like as I wan them, sae will I keep them, 
 Contrair a' kingis in Christentie." 
 
 All the nobilis the King about, 
 
 Said pitie it were to see him dee 
 " Yet grant me mercie, sovereign prince, 
 Extend your favour unto me ! 
 
 " I'll give you the keys of my castell, 
 
 Wi' the blessing o' my gaye ladye, 
 Gin thou'll make me sheriffe of this Foreste, 
 And a' my offspring after me." 
 
 " Will thou give me the keys of thy castell, 
 
 Wi' the blessing o' thy gaye ladye ? 
 I'se make thee sheriffe of Ettricke Foreste, 
 
 Surely while upward grows the tree ; 
 If you be not traitour to the king, 
 
 Forfaulted sail thou nevir be." 
 
 " But, Prince, what sail cum o' my men ? 
 
 When I gae back, traitour they'll ca' me, 
 I had rather lose my life and land, 
 Ere my merryemen rebuked me." 
 
 "Will your merryemen amend their lives ? 
 
 And a' their pardons I grant thee 
 Now, name thy landis where'er they lie, 
 And here I RENDER them to thee."
 
 46 THE SONG OF THE OUTLAW MURRAY. 
 
 " Fair Philiphaugh is mine by right, 
 
 And Lewinshope still mine shall be ; 
 Newark, Foulshiells, and Tinnies baith, 
 My bow and arrow purchased me. 
 
 " And I have native steads to me, 
 
 The Newark Lee and Hangingshaw, 
 I have mony steads in the Foreste schaw, 
 But them by name I dinna knaw." 
 
 The keys of the castell he gave the King, 
 
 Wi' the blessing o' his feir ladye ; 
 He was made sheriffe of Ettricke Foreste, 
 
 Surely while upward grows the tree ; 
 And if he was na traitour to the King. 
 
 Forfaulted he suld never be. 
 
 Wha ever heard, in ony times, 
 
 Sicken an outlaw in his degre", 
 Sic favour get before a King, 
 
 As did the OUTLAW MURRAY of the Foreste free ?
 
 THE DOUGLAS TRAGEDY. 47 
 
 THE DOUGLAS TRAGEDY. 
 
 * I A HE incident here recorded is of a similar nature to that 
 -* of "The Dowie Dens." The scene of the tragedy is 
 in the Glen of Blackhouse, a wild romantic region, through 
 which flows the Douglas Burn joining the Yarrow below the 
 public road in the neighbourhood of the Craig. " Blackhouse 
 was a very old possession of the great house of Douglas. One 
 of the family sat in a Parliament of Malcolm Canmore at 
 Forfar, as baronial lord of Douglas Burn. Whether or not the 
 lady who fled from her father's tower was a Douglas, it is now 
 impossible to say. But if she were, this would account for the 
 disparity in social rank between herself and her lover, at which 
 tradition hints. The bridle-road across the hills, which the 
 fleeing lovers are said to have followed, can still be easily traced. 
 It is one of the main old Border roads or riding tracks between 
 the Yarrow and the Tweed. From Blackhouse Tower, it leads 
 along the broad hill tops by way of the Hundleshope, or by 
 Crookstone, to the Tweed at Peebles, proceeding across the 
 watershed of the Douglas, Glenrath and Glensax Burns, and by 
 the ridge of the Fa' Seat the highest of the hills in that wild 
 district. From the central path various branches of roads 
 diverge, each traceable still to some ancient peel, with which it 
 afforded a ready connection to the mounted Borderer. The
 
 48 THE DOUGLAS TRAGEDY. 
 
 knight and his lady love were making their way to the home of 
 the former when overtaken by her father and her seven brothers. 
 The stones which are said to mark the scene of the fatal conflict 
 are, however, greatly older than any reasonable date which can 
 be assigned to the story of the ballad, and, instead of their being 
 only seven, as is commonly alleged, there are eleven in all now 
 visible. Three of these are still standing, and eight are lying 
 flat on the ground. In form they present the appearance of a 
 semi-circle, the section forming the base lying to the north or 
 up the hill. The breadth of the section at the base is fifteen 
 paces, or about forty-five feet. The distance of every stone in 
 the circle from its neighbour seems to have been nine paces, or 
 twenty seven feet. The structure obviously belongs to the 
 general class of stone circles common on the Lowland hills, 
 which might have been places of judicature, or worship, or 
 burial, or all three. Still it is quite possible that in this, as in 
 other instances, these ancient stones became the scene of a 
 historical event." (History and Poetry of Scottish Border, 
 pp. 407-8.) 
 
 " RISE up, rise up, now, Lord Douglas," she says, 
 " And put on your armour so bright ; 
 Let it never be said that a daughter of thine 
 Was married to a lord under night. 
 
 " Rise up, rise up, my seven bold sons, 
 And put on your armour so bright, 
 And take better care of your youngest sister, 
 For your eldest's awa' the last night."
 
 THE DOUGLAS TRAGEDY. 49 
 
 He's mounted her on a milk-white steed, 
 
 And himself on a dapple grey, 
 With a bugelet horn hung down by his side, 
 
 And lightly they rode away. 
 
 Lord William lookit o'er his left shoulder, 
 
 To see what he could see, 
 And there he spy'd her seven brethren bold, 
 
 Come riding o'er the lee. 
 
 " Light down, light down, Lady Marg'ret," he said, 
 " And hold my steed in your hand, 
 Until that against your seven brethren bold, 
 And your father, I make a stand." 
 
 She held his steed in her milk-white hand, 
 
 And never shed one tear, 
 Until that she saw her seven brethren fa', 
 
 And her father hard fighting, who loved her so dear. 
 
 " O hold your hand, Lord William !" she said, 
 " For your strokes they are wondrous sair ; 
 True lovers I can get many a ane, 
 But a father I can never get mair." 
 
 O she's ta'en out her handkerchief, 
 
 It was o' the holland sae fine, 
 And aye she dighted her father's bloody wounds, 
 
 That were redder than the wine. 
 
 E
 
 So THE DOUGLAS TRAGEDY. 
 
 " O chuse, O chuse, Lady Marg'ret," he said, 
 " O whether will ye gang or bide ? " 
 
 " I'll gang, I'll gang, Lord William," she said, 
 " For you have left me no other guide." 
 
 He's lifted her on a milk-white steed, 
 
 And himself on a dapple grey, 
 With a bugelet horn hung down by his side, 
 
 And slowly they baith rade away. 
 
 O they rade on, and on they rade, 
 
 And a' by the light of the moon, 
 Until they came to yon wan water, 
 
 And there they lighted down. 
 
 They lighted down to tak a drink 
 
 Of the spring that ran sae clear ; 
 And down the stream ran his gude heart's blood, 
 
 And sair she 'gan to fear. 
 
 " Hold up, hold up, Lord William," she says, 
 
 " For I fear that you are slain ! " 
 " Tis naething but the shadow of my scarlet cloak, 
 That shines in the water sae plain." 
 
 O they rade on, and on they rade, 
 
 And a' by the light of the moon, 
 Until they cam to his mother's ha' door, 
 
 And there they lighted down,
 
 THE DOUGLAS TRAGEDY. 51 
 
 " Get up, get up, lady mother," he says, 
 " Get up, and let me in ! 
 Get up, get up, lady mother," he says, 
 " For this night my fair lady I've win. 
 
 " O mak my bed, lady mother," he says, 
 " O mak it braid and deep ! 
 And lay Lady Marg'ret close at my back, 
 And the sounder I will sleep." 
 
 Lord William was dead lang ere midnight, 
 
 Lady Marg'ret lang ere day 
 And all true lovers that go thegither, 
 
 May they have mair luck than they ! 
 
 Lord William was buried in St. Marie's Kirk, 
 
 Lady Marg'ret in Marie's quire ; 
 Out o' the lady's grave grew a bonny red rose, 
 
 And out o' the knight's a brier. 
 
 And they twa met, and they twa plat, 
 
 And fain they wad be near; 
 And a' the warld might ken right weel, 
 
 They were twa lovers dear. 
 
 But bye and rade the Black Douglas, 
 
 And wow. but he was rough ! 
 For he pull'd up the bonny brier, 
 
 And flang'd in St. Marie's Loch. 
 
 E2
 
 52 THE BORDER WIDOW'S LAMENT. 
 
 THE BORDER WIDOW'S LAMENT. 
 
 THE following is in some respects one of the most 
 interesting of all the Border ballads. It is suffused by a 
 pathetic feeling as tender and touching as anything of the kind 
 ever produced. The scene is vividly portrayed : every detail of 
 the sad story stamps itself indelibly upon the memory, and 
 captivates the imagination with an irresistible fascination. The 
 disconsolate widow weeping over her murdered husband ; the 
 overwhelming consciousness of loneliness and desolation ; the 
 tragic difficulty experienced in conveying the body to its last 
 resting place ; the unutterable agony with which she " laid the 
 mool' on his yellow hair," and "turned about awa' to gae;" and 
 the unconquerable strength of her affection for her " lovely 
 knight," which even death could not vanquish all these 
 elements in the tragedy are depicted with a graphic and realistic 
 power which has seldom been surpassed. 
 
 The scene of this tragedy is in the immediate neighbourhood 
 of St. Mary's Loch. In the preface to this ballad in the Border 
 Minstrelsy, Scott states that it was " obtained from recitation in
 
 THE BORDER WIDOW'S LAMENT. 53 
 
 the Forrest of Ettrick, and is said to relate to the execution of 
 Cockburn of Henderland, a Border freebooter, hanged over the 
 gate of his own tower by James V, in the course of that memor- 
 able expedition, in 1529, which was fatal to Johnnie Armstrong, 
 Adam Scott of Tushielaw, and many other marauders." The 
 grave of Perys Cockburn and his wife Marjory is on a wooded 
 knoll on the banks of a small stream which joins the Meggat 
 near St. Mary's Loch, but it would appear that this ballad is in 
 no way applicable to this famous freebooter. Aytoun asserts 
 that it is only a skilful adaptation of an old English ballad 
 called "The Lady turned Serving-Man," which is printed in the 
 third volume of Percy's Reliques. He says : " The first three 
 stanzas are transferred almost verbatim ; and I observe, more- 
 over, that in the two last, the adapter has borrowed lines from 
 ' Helen of Kirkconnel ' and ' The Twa' Corbies.' I cannot, 
 therefore, hold it to be ancient in its present shape, and with 
 reference to the incident to which Sir Walter Scott refers. Mr 
 Kinloch has given a Scottish version of the English ballad, 
 entitled ' Sweet Willie,' which has undergone the change to be 
 expected. No doubt there are several instances of ballads being 
 current, under slightly altered forms, both in England and 
 Scotland ; but in no case have I found the coincidence so close 
 as here ; and the fact that lines are also taken from extant and 
 undoubted Scottish ballads, seems to me a farther proof that 
 the ' Lament ' can only be regarded as a cento." Such 
 criticism, however, in no way affects the literary excellences of 
 the ballad.
 
 54 THE BORDER WIDOW'S LAMENT. 
 
 MY love he built me a bonny bower, 
 And clad it a' wi' lilye flour, 
 A brawer bower ye ne'er did see, 
 Than my true love he built for me. 
 
 There came a man, by middle day, 
 He spied his sport, and went away, 
 And brought the King that very night, 
 Who brake my bower and slew my knight. 
 
 He slew my knight, to me sae dear ; 
 He slew my knight, and poin'd his gear ; 
 My servants all for life did flee, 
 And left me in extremitie. 
 
 I sew'd his sheet, making my mane ; 
 I watch'd the corpse myself alane ; 
 I watch'd his body night and day ; 
 No living creature came that way. 
 
 I took his body on my back, 
 
 And whiles I gaed, and whiles I sat ; 
 
 I digg'd a grave, and laid him in, 
 
 And happ'd him with the sod sae green.
 
 THE BORDER WIDOW'S LAMENT. 
 
 But think na ye my heart was sair, 
 When I laid the moul' on his yellow hair ; 
 O think na ye my heart was wae, 
 When I turn'd. about, away to gae ? 
 
 Nae living man I'll love again, 
 Since that my lovely knight is slain, 
 Wi' ae lock of his yellow hair, 
 I'll chain my heart for evermair. 
 
 55
 
 ALLAN RAMSAY. 
 
 ALLAN RAMSAY. 
 
 ALLAN RAMSAY was born Oct. 15, 1686, in the village of 
 Leadhills, Lanarkshire. On his father's side he was 
 descended from the Ramsays of Dalhousie, a fact which gave 
 the poet considerable satisfaction, as is evidenced by the lines : 
 
 " Dalhousie, of an auld descent 
 My chief, my stoupe, my ornament !" 
 
 His father was superintendent of the lead mines owned by 
 Lord Hopetoun. His mother was of English descent, the 
 daughter of a Derbyshire gentleman who had been brought to
 
 ALLAN RAMSAY. 57 
 
 Leadhills to introduce some improvements in the art of mining. 
 He was quite young when his father died, and not long after his 
 mother married a Mr Crichton, a small landholder in Lanark- 
 shire. Allan was educated in the parish school, and before he 
 left he was able to read Horace " faintly in the original." He 
 was apprenticed to a wig-maker in Edinburgh, an occupation 
 which most of his biographers are pleased to distinguish from 
 that of a barber. His vocation, which he was sometimes 
 humourously pleased to describe as that of a " skull thacker," 
 was by no means uncongenial to the poet. He followed it long 
 after the term of his apprenticeship had expired. Ultimately he 
 became a bookseller, and started the first circulating library in 
 Scotland. His writings are voluminous, his best known pro- 
 duction being the " Gentle Shepherd," an exquisite pastoral, 
 much read by former generations, and still admired by every 
 true lover of poesy. He was prosperous in business, in this 
 respect presenting a pleasing contrast to the vast majority of the 
 votaries of the Muse. He died at Edinburgh, January 7th, 
 1758, in the seventy-third year of his age, and was buried 
 in Greyfriars' Churchyard. 
 
 His poems on Yarrow are not of a particularly high order. 
 He has not succeeded in catching the spirit of Yarrow and its 
 surroundings ; but they possess an interest all their own, coming 
 as they do from his pen, and that too at a period long anterior 
 to the time when Wordsworth and Scott were destined to 
 throw around the vale that bright halo of romance in which it is 
 now enshrined.
 
 58 MARY SCOTT. 
 
 MARY SCOTT. 
 
 HAPPY'S the love which meets return, 
 When in soft flames souls equal burn ; 
 But words are wanting to discover, 
 The torments of a hopeless lover. 
 
 Ye registers of heav'n, relate, 
 
 If, looking o'er the rolls of fate, 
 
 Did you there see, mark'd for my marrow ? 
 
 Mary Scott, the flower of Yarrow ? 
 
 Ah, no ! her form's too heav'nly fair, 
 Her love the gods above must share, 
 While mortals with despair explore her, 
 And at a distance due adore her. 
 
 O, lovely maid ! my doubts beguile, 
 Revive and bless me with a smile ; 
 Alas ! if not you'll soon debar a 
 Sighing swain the banks of Yarrow. 
 
 Be hush, ye fears ! I'll not despair, 
 My Mary's tender as she's fair ; 
 Then I'll go tell her all my anguish, 
 She is too good to let me languish. 
 
 With success crown'd I'll not envy 
 The folks who dwell above the sky ; 
 When Mary Scott's become my marrow, 
 We'll make a paradise of Yarrow.
 
 THE ROSE IN YARROW. 59 
 
 THE ROSE IN YARROW. 
 
 'TWAS summer, and the day was fair, 
 Resolv'd awhile to fly from care, 
 Beguiling thought, forgetting sorrow, 
 I wander' d o'er the braes of Yarrow ; 
 Till then despising beauty's power, 
 I kept my heart, my own secure ; 
 But Cupid's dart did there deceive me, 
 And Mary's charms do now enslave me. 
 
 Will cruel love no bribe receive ? 
 No ransome take for Mary's slave ? 
 Her frowns of rest and hope deprive me ; 
 Her. lively smiles like light revive me. 
 No bondage may with mine compare, 
 Since first I saw the charming fair : 
 This beauteous flower, this rose of Yarrow, 
 In nature's gardens has no marrow. 
 
 Had I of heaven but one request, 
 I'd ask to lie in Mary's breast ; 
 There would I live or die with pleasure, 
 Nor spare this world one moment's leisure; 
 Despising kings and all that's great, 
 I'd smile at court's and courtier's fate ; 
 My joy complete on such a marrow, 
 I'd dwell with her and live on Yarrow.
 
 60 THE ROSE IN YARROW. 
 
 But tho' such I ne'er should gain, 
 Contented still I'll wear my chain, 
 In hopes my faithful heart may move her, 
 For leaving life I'll always love her. 
 What doubts distract a lover's mind ? 
 That breast, all softness, must prove kind ; 
 And she shall yet become my marrow 
 The lovely, beauteous Rose of Yarrow.
 
 WILLIAM HAMILTON. 61 
 
 WILLIAM HAMILTON. 
 
 WILLIAM HAMILTON, of Bangour, was born of an 
 ancient and wealthy Ayrshire family in the year 1704. 
 His poetic genius asserted itself at an early age. Before he was 
 twenty he had contributed several poems to Allan Ramsay's 
 renowned Tea-table Miscellany. He was a man of fine culture, 
 and of the most elegant manners ; was highly popular with the 
 aristocracy of his native county, and won for himself the 
 appellation of " the elegant and amiable Hamilton." Like the 
 majority of young men of that age, he had strong Jacobite 
 sympathies ; and, as happened in numerous other cases, he had 
 to " bear the brunt " of his loyalty to the Stuarts. When the 
 battle of Culloden finally determined the fate of the Pretender, 
 he was fain to seek a refuge among the wild fastnesses of the 
 Highlands. Here he wandered for a considerable time, under- 
 going great privations, until ultimately he succeeded in making 
 his escape to France. After living in exile for some time, his 
 friends brought influence to bear upon the government in his 
 favour, with the result that he was restored to his country, and to 
 the paternal estate which he had forfeited. His health was 
 never robust. He died, after a lingering illness in Lyons, 
 France, on March 25th, 1754, in the fiftieth year of his age.
 
 62 WILLIAM HAMILTON. 
 
 The first edition of his poems was published, without his 
 name or consent, in Glasgow, in the year 1748. The first 
 genuine edition was published by his friends in 1760 with 
 a portrait by Strange. The best and most complete edition 
 of his poems, edited by James Paterson, appeared in 1850. 
 
 His reputation as a poet may be said to rest mainly on his 
 exquisite lyric, " The Braes of Yarrow." Many of his other 
 poems reveal qualities of a high order, but this production is of 
 such distinguished merit as to completely put all his other 
 effusions into the shade. It is highly probable that his poems 
 as a whole may be forgotten, and pass into oblivion, but as long 
 as Yarrow possesses charms for the poetic mind, and as long as 
 the heart is susceptible of pure and lofty emotion, so long will 
 " The Braes of Yarrow," be read, and sung, and admired. 
 
 THE BRAES OF YARROW. 
 
 A. BUSK ye, busk ye, my bonny, bonny bride; 
 
 Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow ! 
 Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny, bonny bride, 
 And think nae mair on the braes of Yarrow. 
 
 B. Where gat ye that bonny, bonny bride ? 
 
 Where gat ye that winsome marrow ? 
 I gat her where I darena weel be seen, 
 Pu'ing the birks on the braes of Yarrow. 
 
 Weep not, weep not, my bonny, bonny bride ; 
 
 Weep not, weep not, my winsome marrow ! 
 Nor let thy heart lament to leave 
 
 Pu'ing the birks on the braes of Yarrow.
 
 THE BRAES OF YARROW. 63 
 
 B. Why does she weep, thy bonny, bonny bride ? 
 Why does she weep, thy winsome marrow ? 
 And why dare ye nae mair weel be seen, 
 Pu'ing the birks on the braes of Yarrow ? 
 
 A. Lang maun she weep, lang maun she, maun she weep, 
 
 Lang must she weep with dool and sorrow, 
 And lang maun I nae mair weel be seen 
 Pu'ing the birks on the braes of Yarrow. 
 
 For she has tint her lover, lover dear, 
 
 Her lover dear, the cause of sorrow ; 
 And I hae slain the comliest swain 
 
 That e'er pu'd birks on the braes of Yarrow. 
 
 Why runs the stream, O Yarrow, Yarrow, red ? 
 
 Why on thy braes heard the voice of sorrow ? 
 And why yon melancholious weeds, 
 
 Hung on the bonny birks of Yarrow ? 
 
 What's yonder floats on the rueful, rueful flude ? 
 
 What's yonder floats ? O, dool and sorrow ! 
 'Tis he, the comely swain I slew 
 
 Upon the doolful braes of Yarrow. 
 
 Wash, O wash his wounds, his wounds in tears, 
 His wounds in tears of dool and sorrow, 
 
 And wrap his limbs in mourning weeds, 
 And lay him on the braes of Yarrow.
 
 64 THE BRAES OF YARROW. 
 
 Then build, then build, ye sisters, sisters sad, 
 
 Ye sisters sad, his tomb with sorrow, 
 And weep around in waeful wise, 
 
 His helpless fate on the braes of Yarrow. 
 
 Curse ye, curse ye, his useless, useless shield, 
 My arm that wrought the deed of sorrow, 
 
 The fatal spear that pierced his breast, 
 
 His comely breast, on the braes of Yarrow. 
 
 Did I not warn thee not to, not to lo'e, 
 And warn from fight ? but to my sorrow ; 
 
 Ower rashly bauld, a stronger arm 
 
 Thou mett'st, and fell on the braes of Yarrow. 
 
 Sweet smells the birk, green grows, green grows the grass, 
 
 Yellow on Yarrow's braes the gowan, 
 Fair hangs the apple frae the rock, 
 
 Sweet the wave of Yarrow flowin'. 
 
 Flows Yarrow sweet ? as sweet, as sweet flows Tweed, 
 
 As green its grass, its gowan as yellow, 
 As sweet smells on its braes the birk, 
 
 The apple from its rocks as mellow. 
 
 Fair was thy love, fair, fair indeed thy love, 
 
 In flow'ry bands thou did'st him fetter ; 
 Though he was fair, and weel beloved again, 
 
 Than me he never lov'd thee better.
 
 THE BRAES OF YARROW. 65 
 
 Busk ye, then busk, my bonny bonny bride, 
 Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow, 
 
 Busk ye, and lo'e me on the banks of Tweed, 
 And think nae mair on the braes of Yarrow. 
 
 C. How can I busk a bonny bonny bride, 
 
 How can I busk a winsome marrow, 
 
 How lo'e him on the banks of Tweed, 
 
 That slew my love on the braes of Yarrow ? 
 
 O Yarrow fields, may never, never rain, 
 
 Nor dew thy tender blossoms cover, 
 For there was basely slain my love, 
 
 My love, as he had not been a lover. 
 
 The boy put on his robes, his robes of green, 
 
 His purple vest, 'twas my ain sewing, 
 Ah ! wretched me ! I little, little kenn'd, 
 
 He was in these to meet his ruin. 
 
 The boy took out his milk-white, milk-white steed, 
 
 Unheedful of my dule and sorrow, 
 But ere the to-fall of the night, 
 
 He lay a corpse on the braes of Yarrow. 
 
 Much I rejoic'd that woful, woful day; 
 
 I sang, my voice the woods returning ; 
 But lang ere night the spear was flown 
 
 That slew my love, and left me mourning.
 
 66 THE BRAES OF YARROW. 
 
 What can my barbarous, barbarous father do, 
 But with his cruel rage pursue me ? 
 
 My lover's blood is on thy spear ; 
 
 How canst thou, barbarous man, then woo me ? 
 
 My happy sisters may be, may be proud, 
 
 With cruel and ungentle scoffin', 
 May bid me seek on Yarrow's braes 
 
 My lover nailed in his coffin. 
 
 My brother Douglas may upbraid, upbraid, 
 And strive with threatening words to move me ; 
 
 My lover's blood is on thy spear, 
 
 How canst thou ever bid me love thee ? 
 
 Yes, yes, prepare the bed, the bed of love, 
 With bridal sheets my body cover, 
 
 Unbar, ye bridal maids, the door, 
 Let in the expected husband-lover. 
 
 But who the expected husband, husband is ? 
 
 His hands, methinks, are bathed in slaughter, 
 Ah me ! what ghastly spectre's yon, 
 
 Comes, in his pale shroud, bleeding after ? 
 
 Pale as he is, here lay him, lay him down, 
 O lay his cold head on my pillow ; 
 
 Take aff, take aff these bridal weeds, 
 And crown my careful head with willow.
 
 THE BRAES OF YARROW. 67 
 
 Pale tho' thou art, yet best, yet best belov'd, 
 O could -my warmth to life restore thee ! 
 
 Ye'd lie all night between my breasts ; 
 No youth lay ever there before thee. 
 
 Pale, pale, indeed, O lovely, lovely youth ! 
 
 Forgive, forgive so foul a slaughter, 
 And lie all night between my breasts ; 
 
 No youth shall ever lie there after. 
 
 A. Return, return, O mournful, mournful bride, 
 
 Return and dry thy useless sorrow, 
 Thy lover heeds nought of thy sighs ; 
 He lies a corpse on the braes of Yarrow. 
 
 F2
 
 68 
 
 ALISON RUTHERFORD. 
 
 ALISON RUTHERFORD. 
 
 THE authoress of what is supposed to be the earliest 
 version of "The Flowers of the Forest" was a Miss 
 
 Rutherford, daughter of 
 Robert \ Rutherford, of 
 Fernilee, the scion of an 
 old Border House, Ruther- 
 ford of Hundalee, and 
 
 was born at Fernilee 
 House, in Selkirk- 
 shire, in 1712. She 
 became the wife of 
 Patrick Cockburn, advo- 
 cate, youngest son of Adam 
 Cockburn, the Lord-Justice 
 Clerk of Scotland. Her 
 famous song was first 
 printed in 1765, but was 
 written at a considerably 
 earlier period. Allan
 
 ALISON RUTHERFORD. 69 
 
 Cunningham gives the following account of the circum- 
 stances which led to its composition. "It is said that 
 a young gentleman who had lost his way among the 
 pastoral vales and hills of Selkirkshire came at last in sight of a 
 young shepherd seated by a stream, watching his flocks and 
 playing on his pipe. Many wild and original tunes were played 
 by the gifted shepherd, and his wondering auditor had the skill 
 and the cunning to carry away one of the sweetest airs of this 
 Selkirkshire Orpheus. He had next the good fortune to meet 
 with Miss Rutherford, and the rustic air was married to very 
 elegant verse. Such is the story which, once told, has often 
 been repeated." 
 
 This song, like Miss Elliot's, has been associated with 
 Flodden, but many competent authorities affirm that it does not 
 refer to this sorrowful episode in the history of Scotland, and are 
 disposed to attribute its inspiration to a less tragic source. Be 
 this as it may, the song is one of the finest in the language, 
 and is likely long to retain its well-deserved popularity. 
 
 THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST. 
 
 I'VE seen the smiling of Fortune beguiling, 
 
 I've tasted her favours, and felt her decay : 
 Sweet is her blessing, and kind her caressing, 
 
 But soon it is fled it is fled far away. 
 
 I've seen the forest adorn'd of the foremost, 
 
 With flowers of the fairest both pleasant and gay ; 
 
 Full sweet was their blooming, their scent the air perfuming, 
 But now are they wither'd, and a' wede awae.
 
 70 THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST. 
 
 I've seen the morning with gold the hills adorning, 
 And the red storm roaring, before the parting day : 
 
 I've seen Tweed's silver streams, glittering in the sunny beams, 
 Turn drumly and dark, as they roll'd on their way. 
 
 O fickle Fortune ! why this cruel sporting ? 
 
 Why thus perplex us poor sons of a day ? 
 Thy frowns cannot fear me, thy smiles cannot cheer me, 
 
 Since the flowers of the forest are a' wede awae.
 
 JEAN ELLIOT. 71 
 
 JEAN ELLIOT. 
 
 OF the life of the authoress of this exquisitely pathetic 
 ballad not much is known. She was born at Minto, the 
 family seat, in the year 1727. She died at Mount Teviot, her 
 brother's residence, in 1805. She is described as possessing 
 "a sensible face, a slender, well-shaped figure. In manner, 
 grave and reserved to strangers. In her conversation she made 
 no attempts at wit, and, though possessed of imagination, she 
 never allowed it to entice her from the strictest rules of veracity. 
 She had high aristocratic notions, which she took no pains to 
 conceal." 
 
 Professor Veitch has described the circumstances which 
 led to the composition of this song. He says: "When a young 
 woman Miss Elliot was riding home in a carriage after night-fall 
 to Minto House from a party with her brother Gilbert. The 
 conversation turned on Flodden, that disaster which left a 
 sadness on the hearts of Scotchmen and Scotch women for three 
 hundred years. The brother suggested to the sister, not perhaps 
 believing much in her capacity for it, that this was a fitting 
 subject for a song. She leant backwards in the carriage, and 
 there under the shadow of the nightfall with the old refrain, ' The 
 Flowers of the Forest are a' wede awae,' sounding in her ear, as 
 a stray echo from the past, and mingling in fancy with the
 
 72 JEAN ELLIOT. 
 
 scenery of her life and love, and under the kindling of her true 
 human heart, she framed ' The Flowers of the Forest,' that 
 immortal lyric, in which simple natural pictures of joy and sad- 
 ness are so exquisitely blended and contrasted, in which pathos 
 of heart and patriotism of spirit, and a music that echoes 
 the plaintive sough of the Border Waters, passed, as it were 
 spontaneously, into one consummate outburst of song." 
 
 It may be said that these two songs on the " Flowers of the 
 Forest" do not properly belong to the poetical literature of 
 Harrow, but we would remind our readers that in the time of 
 Flodden, Yarrow was really the central river of " Ettricke 
 Foreste," and beyond doubt contributed its quota of heroes to 
 that memorable catastrophe. 
 
 THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST. 
 
 I'VE heard them lilting, at the ewe-milking, 
 
 Lasses a' lilting, before dawn of day ; 
 But now they are moaning on ilka green loaning ; 
 
 The flowers of the forest are a' wede awae. 
 
 At bughts, in the morning, nae blythe lads are scorning ; 
 
 Lasses are lonely, and dowie, and wae ; 
 Nae daffing, nae gabbing, but sighing and sabbing ; 
 
 Ilk ane lifts her leglin, and hies her awae. 
 
 In har'st, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering; 
 
 Bandsters are runkled, and lyart or gray ; 
 At fair, or at preaching, nae wooing, nae fleeching ; 
 
 The flowers of the forest are a' wede awae.
 
 THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST. 73 
 
 At e'en, in the gloaming, nae younkers are roaming 
 'Bout stacks with the lasses at bogle to play; 
 
 But ilk maid sits dreary, lamenting her deary 
 The flowers of the forest are weded awae. 
 
 Dool and wae for the order, sent our lads to the Border ! 
 
 The English for ance, by guile wan the day : 
 The flowers of the forest, that fought aye the foremost, 
 
 The prime of our land, are cauld in the clay. 
 
 We'll hear nae mair lilting, at the ewe-milking ; 
 
 Women and bairns are heartless and wae, 
 Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning 
 
 The flowers of the forest are a' wede awae.
 
 74 JOHN LOGAN. 
 
 JOHN LOGAN. 
 
 JOHN LOGAN, the author of the following well-known song, 
 " The Braes o' Yarrow," was born at Soutra, Mid-Lothian, 
 in the year 1748. He was educated at Gosforth, and afterwards 
 sent to Edinburgh University, with a view to his entering the 
 ministry. After completing his curriculum he was engaged, on 
 the recommendation of Dr Blair, by Sir John Sinclair of 
 Ulbster, as tutor to his eldest son. He does not seem, however, 
 to have remained long in this situation. In 1770 he edited the 
 poetical remains of his friend and class mate, Michael Bruce. 
 
 To Logan we are indebted for some of the most popular of 
 the Paraphrases appointed to be sung in public worship : 
 " O God of Jacob," '' Few are thy days and full of woe," 
 " Behold the mountain of the Lord," " O happy is the man who 
 hears," &c., &c., are from his pen. He was ordained to the 
 parish of South Leith in 1773, and enjoyed the reputation of 
 an able and eloquent preacher. His ministerial career was 
 somewhat suddenly brought to a close by his publication of the 
 tragedy of " Runnimede," which was performed in the Edin- 
 burgh Theatre. This gave mortal offence to his worthy 
 parishioners, who induced him to resign his charge. He died 
 of a lingering illness at the early age of forty.
 
 THE BRAES OF YARROW. 75 
 
 THE BRAES OF YARROW. 
 
 THY braes were bonnie, Yarrow stream 1 
 
 When first on thee I met my lover ; 
 Thy braes how dreary, Yarrow stream ! 
 
 When now thy waves his body cover ! 
 For ever now, O Yarrow stream ! 
 
 Thou art to me a stream of sorrow ; 
 For never on thy banks shall I 
 
 Behold my love, the flower of Yarrow. 
 
 He promised me a milk-white steed, 
 
 To bear me to his father's bowers ; 
 He promised me a little page, 
 
 To squire me to his father's towers ; 
 He promised me a wedding ring, 
 
 The wedding day was fix'd to-morrow ; 
 Now he is wedded to his grave, 
 
 Alas ! his watery grave in Yarrow ! 
 
 Sweet were his words when last we met, 
 
 My passion I as freely told him, 
 Clasp'd in his arms, I little thought 
 
 That I should never more behold him ! 
 Scarce was he gone, I saw his ghost ; 
 
 It vanished with a shriek of sorrow ; 
 Thrice did the water-wraith ascend, 
 
 And gave a doleful groan through Yarrow.
 
 76 THE BRAES OF YARROW. 
 
 His mother from the window look'd, 
 
 With all the longing of a mother ; 
 His little sister weeping walk'd 
 
 The greenwood path to meet her brother : 
 They sought him east, they sought him west, 
 
 They sought him all the Forest thorough ; 
 They only saw the cloud of night, 
 
 They only heard the roar of Yarrow ! 
 
 No longer from thy window look, 
 
 Thou hast no son, thou tender mother ! 
 No longer walk, thou lovely maid ! 
 
 Alas ! thou hast no more a brother ! 
 No longer seek him east or west, 
 
 And search no more the Forest thorough ; 
 For, wandering in the night so dark, 
 
 He fell a lifeless corse in Yarrow. 
 
 The tears shall never leave my cheek, 
 
 No other youth shall be my marrow, 
 I'll seek thy body in the stream, 
 
 And then with thee I'll sleep in Yarrow. 
 The tear did never leave her cheek, 
 
 No other youth became her marrow ; 
 She found his body in the stream, 
 
 And now with him she sleeps in Yarrow.
 
 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 77 
 
 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH was born at Cockermouth, 
 Cumberland, on the yth April, 1770. He was the 
 second son of John Wordsworth, attorney, and land agent to 
 the first Earl of Lonsdale. His first school was in Penrith, 
 where his parents had gone to reside, but in course of time he 
 was sent to Hawkshead School, in Lancashire, where he 
 completed his early education. His environment was peculiarly 
 favourable to the development of his poetical genius. The
 
 78 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 influence which the magnificent scenery in that region exercised 
 over his youthful imagination has been finely described in 
 The Prelude where he sings : 
 
 " Was it for this 
 
 That one, the fairest of all rivers, loved 
 To blend his murmurs with my nurse's song, 
 And from his alder shades and rocky falls, 
 And from his fords and shallows, sent a voice 
 That flowed along my dreams? For this didst thou, 
 O Derwent ! winding among grassy holms 
 Where I was looking on, a babe in arms, 
 Make ceaseless music that composed my thoughts 
 To more than infant softness, giving me 
 Amid the fretful dwellings of mankind 
 A foretaste, a dim earnest, of the calm 
 That nature breathes among the hills and groves." 
 
 " Fair seed time had my soul, and I grew up 
 Fostered alike by beauty and by fear : 
 Much favoured in my birth-place, and no less 
 In that beloved vale to which ere long 
 We were transplanted there were we let loose 
 For sports of wider range." 
 
 " Ye Presences of Nature in the sky 
 
 And on the earth ! ye visions of the hills ! 
 
 And souls of lonely places ! can I think 
 
 A vulgar hope was yours when ye employed 
 
 Such ministry, when ye through many a year 
 
 Haunting me thus among my boyish sports, 
 
 On caves and trees, upon the woods and hills, 
 
 Impressed upon all forms the characters 
 
 Of danger or desire ; and thus did make 
 
 The surface of the universal earth 
 
 With triumph and delight, with hope and fear, 
 
 Work like a sea ? " 
 
 In 1787 Wordsworth entered St. John's College, Cambridge, 
 where he remained for four years. He did not distinguish him- 
 self as a student. He says that he felt that he was not for that 
 place, nor for that hour. But he was far from being idle. He 
 read much, and thought deeply on those themes that lay nearest
 
 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 79 
 
 to his own heart. After taking his bachelor's degree, he and a 
 fellow-student made a pedestrian tour in France, then deeply 
 agitated by the early fervours of the great Revolution. He 
 seems to have had considerable sympathy with the Girondists, 
 and was on terms of intimacy with some of the party, a 
 circumstance that might have involved him in serious trouble 
 had not pecuniary difficulties compelled him to return to 
 England shortly before his friends were sent in a body to the 
 scaffold. This episode in his career was not without important 
 results. He was strongly opposed to the war waged against 
 France, and it was only after England entered on a life and 
 death struggle with the military despotism of Napoleon that he 
 became reconciled to the attitude of his own country. The 
 rebound was unmistakable. He became by-and-by a pro- 
 nounced and uncompromising conservative, though it is but 
 fair to admit that he was singularly free from mere class 
 prejudice, which is sometimes no inconsiderable factor in 
 determining political relationships. 
 
 He first came before the public as an author in 1793, when 
 he published two poems, entitled, " An Evening Walk 
 Addressed to a Young Lady ;" and " Descriptive Sketches 
 taken during a Pedestrian Tour among the Alps." These 
 productions, though abounding in refined and original observ- 
 ations of Nature, are not otherwise specially distinguished, 
 and give but a faint indication of the superlative quality 
 of his genius. They did not fail, however, to excite 
 admiration in certain quarters. Coleridge, then a student
 
 8o WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 in Cambridge, was profoundly impressed by them, and 
 felt assured that their author was certain ultimately to secure 
 for himself a distinguished place among the poets of the 
 country. At this time Wordsworth was in great pecuniary 
 difficulties. His friends urged him to enter the Church, but 
 this was a step which on no consideration was he prepared to 
 take. He was on the point of proceeding to London to earn a 
 livelihood by writing political articles, but an event occurred 
 which upset his plans, and changed the whole aspect of his 
 affairs. A friend and admirer of the poet, Raisley Calcot his 
 name is worthy of honourable mention died, and left Words- 
 worth a legacy of 800, in order, as he expressly stated, that 
 leisure might for some years be allowed for the undisturbed 
 development of his powers. This gift could not have come 
 more opportunely. The sum was not large, but to a man of 
 Wordsworth's simple habits it was sufficient to meet his require- 
 ments for many years. 
 
 He had become intimate with Coleridge a friendship fraught 
 with important results and in 1797 he removed, in company 
 with his sister Dorothy, a life-long companion, to Alfoxden, in 
 Somersetshire, in order that they might have frequent inter- 
 course, Coleridge being then established at Nether-Stowey, a 
 place some three miles distant. The first fruit of this literary 
 friendship was the famous Lyrical Ballads, published by the 
 redoubtable "Amos Cottle," who formed such an admirable 
 target for Byron's satirical wit. This venture may be described 
 as a conspicuous failure, but this fact in no way ruffled the
 
 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 81 
 
 imperturbable serenity of Wordsworth's spirit. He doubtless 
 felt that the poet, not of a day, but of all time, had need of 
 patience, as his claims were not likely to meet with speedy 
 recognition on the part of the multitude. He must create the 
 taste by which he is to be appreciated. This feeling had 
 much to do with the remarkable sang-froid which Wordsworth 
 exhibited under the most scathing criticisms. The Edinburgh 
 Review, edited by Jeffrey, was then a terror to all aspirants to 
 literary fame, and many a writer must have felt that his future 
 largely depended on the judgment passed upon him by this 
 " Arbiter of Fate." Not a few were driven almost to madness 
 by the manner in which the offspring of their literary genius 
 were torn limb from limb, and mutilated past all hope either of 
 recognition or resuscitation. But Wordsworth was oblivious to 
 such outbursts of violent and misguided passion. He was 
 laughed at and ridiculed in a fashion which would have 
 extinguished most men ; but he had only a feeling of pity for 
 his critics could not help being sorry for them on account of 
 their blindness and stupidity. He went calmly on his way, 
 fully satisfied in his own mind that he had something to teach 
 that it would be good for them to know, and he felt convinced 
 that the day was coming when he would be listened to and 
 appreciated. His serene self-confidence was not doomed to be 
 rudely shaken. As he came to be more widely known his 
 merits as a poet began to be recognised by many of the best 
 minds in the country. His shortcomings in some directions 
 were sufficiently apparent. He aimed at conferring a dignity
 
 82 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 on certain subjects, which, from the nature of the case, were 
 incapable of being dignified. His " Peter Bell," for example, 
 notwithstanding its profound merits, is made ridiculous by 
 the fact that the hero of it is an incorrigible donkey. Had 
 Wordsworth only been more richly endowed with the divine gift 
 of humour, he would have been saved from absurdities of this 
 kind ; but when the most has been made of such imperfec- 
 tions the fact remains that few poets in any age or country have 
 laid mankind under a deeper debt of obligation. He has 
 shown that Nature is susceptible of a poetic as well as of a 
 scientific interpretation, and he has brought the minds of 
 men back to this fountain of inspiration. He has not the 
 distinguished credit of being the pioneer in this new movement, 
 for Cowper and Burns had already led the way, but he carried 
 out to the fullest extent the great principles which they were the 
 first to bring into prominence. In this matter Wordsworth has 
 frankly acknowledged his indebtedness to Burns in those ever 
 memorable lines : 
 
 " I mourned with thousands, but as one 
 More deeply grieved, for he was gone 
 Whose light I hailed when first it shown, 
 
 And showed my youth 
 How verse may build a princely throne 
 
 On humble truth." 
 
 These two great poets differ, however, in this, that Burns 
 almost invariably uses Nature as the counterfoil of his feeling 
 or passion, this is strikingly apparent in such songs as " Ye 
 Banks and Braes o' Bonnie Doon " and " Flow Gently, Sweet 
 Afton/' whereas Wordsworth, generally speaking, seeks to
 
 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 83 
 
 discover the secret of Nature, and rests satisfied with the 
 knowledge thus acquired. In other words, he loves Nature 
 for her own sake. 
 
 His three poems on Yarrow occupy a foremost place in the 
 poetical literature of the valley. It is difficult to determine 
 which of the three is most worthy of admiration, as each may 
 be likened to a priceless gem in a different setting. In 
 " Yarrow Unvisited " the poet displays a gay bantering spirit. 
 Though on the very confines- of the enchanted stream, he will 
 not be induced to turn aside and view it. His words of scorn 
 awaken a painful sensation in the bosom of his " winsome 
 Marrow," but he heeds not, feeling that there is a kind of 
 compensation in the thought that "earth has something yet 
 to show." In " Yarrow Visited," and " Yarrow Re-visited," 
 Wordsworth has embalmed in imperishable verse the spirit 
 of the vale. The latter poem is pervaded by a feeling of 
 sadness, due in great part to the fact that Scott, who was with 
 him on this occasion, was in failing health, and was about to 
 leave for the Continent, to return ere long to die. 
 
 G2
 
 84 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 YARROW UNVISITED. 
 
 Composed, 1803; Published, 
 
 MISS WORDSWORTH, in her journal dated Sept. 18, 
 1803, gives the following account of the circum- 
 stances which led to the composition of this poem. " We left 
 the Tweed when we were within about a mile and a half or 
 two miles of Clovenford, where we were to lodge. Turned up 
 the side of a hill, and went along sheep-grounds till we reached 
 the spot a single stone house, without a tree near it or to be 
 seen from it. On our mentioning Mr Scott's name, the woman 
 of the house showed us all possible civility, but her slowness 
 was really amusing. I should suppose it a house little 
 frequented, for there is no appearance of an inn. Mr Scott, 
 who, she told me, was a very clever gentleman, ' goes there in 
 the fishing season;' but indeed Mr Scott is respected every- 
 where ; I believe that by favour of his name one might be 
 hospitably entertained throughout all the borders of Scotland. 
 We dined and drank tea did not walk out, for there was no 
 temptation, a confined barren prospect from the window. 
 
 "At Clovenford, being so near Yarrow, we could not but 
 think of the possibility of going thither, but came to the
 
 YARROW UN VI SITED. 85 
 
 conclusion of reserving the pleasure for some future time, in 
 consequence of which, after our return, William wrote the 
 poem which I shall here transcribe." 
 
 YARROW UNVISITED. 
 
 From Stirling Castle we had seen 
 The mazy Forth unravelled ; 
 Had trod the banks of Clyde, and Tay, 
 And with the Tweed had travelled ; 
 And when we came to Clovenford, 
 Then said my "winsome Marrow," 
 " Whate'er betide, we'll turn aside, 
 And see the Braes of Yarrow." 
 
 " Let Yarrow folk, frae Selkirk town, 
 Who have been buying, selling, 
 Go back to Yarrow, 'tis their own ; 
 Each maiden to her dwelling ! 
 On Yarrow's banks let herons feed, 
 Hares couch, and rabbits burrow ! 
 But we will downward with the Tweed, 
 Nor turn aside to Yarrow. 
 
 " There's Gala Water, Leader Haughs, 
 Both lying right before us ; 
 And Dryborough, where with chiming Tweed 
 The lint-whites sing in chorus ; 
 There's pleasant Tiviotdale, a land 
 Made blithe with plough and harrow : 
 Why throw away a needful day 
 To go in search of Yarrow ?
 
 86 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 What's Yarrow but a river bare, 
 
 That glides the dark hills under ? 
 
 There are a thousand such elsewhere 
 
 As worthy of your wonder." 
 
 Strange words they seemed of slight and scorn ; 
 
 My True-love sighed for sorrow ; 
 
 And looked me in the face, to think 
 
 I thus could speak of Yarrow ! 
 
 " Oh ! green," said I, " are Yarrow's holms, 
 And sweet is Yarrow flowing ! 
 Fair hangs the apple frae the rock, 
 But we will leave it growing. 
 O'er hilly path, and open Strath, 
 We'll wander Scotland thorough ; 
 But, though so near, we will not turn 
 Into the dale of Yarrow. 
 
 " Let beeves and home-bred kine partake 
 The sweets of Burn-mill meadow ; 
 The swan on still St. Mary's Lake 
 Float double, swan and shadow ! 
 We will not see them ; will not go, 
 To-day, nor yet to-morrow ; 
 Enough if in our hearts we know 
 There's such a place as Yarrow. 
 
 " Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown ! 
 It must, or we shall rue it : 
 We have a vision of our own ; 
 Ah ! why should we undo it ?
 
 YARROW UN VI SITED. 87 
 
 The treasured dreams of times long past, 
 We'll keep them, winsome Marrow! 
 For when we're there, although 'tis fair, 
 'Twill be another Yarrow ! 
 
 " If Care with freezing years should come, 
 And wandering seem but folly, 
 Should we be loth to stir from home, 
 And yet be melancholy ; 
 Should life be dull, and spirits low, 
 'Twill soothe us in our sorrow, 
 The earth has something yet to show, 
 The bonny holms of Yarrow !"
 
 88 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 YARROW VISITED. 
 
 Composed, r#i<f; Published, 1820. 
 
 T T 7ORDSWORTH had come up the Tweed to Traquair, 
 V where he spent a night with Mr Nicol, the minister of 
 the parish. There Hogg joined him, and the next day they 
 walked across to Yarrow by Paddy Slacks, and the Gordon 
 Arms. The first view which the poet got of the famous stream 
 was from the height, a few yards to the west of the old farm- 
 house of Mount Benger. 
 
 YARROW VISITED. 
 
 Sept. 1814. 
 
 And is this Yarrow ? This the stream 
 
 Of which my fancy cherished, 
 
 So faithfully, a waking dream ? 
 
 An image that hath perished 1 
 
 O that some Minstrel's harp were near, 
 
 To utter notes of gladness, 
 
 And chase this silence from the air, 
 
 That fills my heart with sadness !
 
 YARROW VISITED. 89 
 
 Yet why ? a silvery current flows 
 
 With uncontrolled meanderings ; 
 
 Nor have these eyes by greener hills 
 
 Been soothed, in all my wanderings. 
 
 And, through her depths, Saint Mary's Lake 
 
 Is visibly delighted ; 
 
 For not a feature of those hills 
 
 Is in the mirror slighted. 
 
 A blue sky bends o'er Yarrow vale, 
 
 Save where that pearly whiteness 
 
 Is round the rising sun diffused, 
 
 A tender hazy brightness ; 
 
 Mild dawn of promise ! that excludes 
 
 All profitless dejection ; 
 
 Though not unwilling here to admit 
 
 A pensive recollection. 
 
 Where was it that the famous Flower 
 
 Of Yarrow Vale lay bleeding ? 
 
 His bed perchance was yon smooth mound 
 
 On which the herd is feeding : 
 
 And haply from this crystal pool, 
 
 Now peaceful as the morning, 
 
 The Water-wraith ascended thrice 
 
 And gave his doleful warning. 
 
 Delicious is the Lay that sings 
 The haunts of happy Lovers, 
 The path that leads them to the grove, 
 The leafy grove that covers :
 
 90 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 And Pity sanctifies the Verse 
 That paints, by strength of sorrow, 
 The unconquerable strength of love ; 
 Bear witness, rueful Yarrow. 
 
 But thou, that did'st appear so fair 
 
 To fond imagination, 
 
 Dost rival in the light of day 
 
 Her delicate creation : 
 
 Meek loveliness is round thee spread, 
 
 A softness still and holy ; 
 
 The grace of forest charms decayed, 
 
 And pastoral melancholy. 
 
 That region left, the vale unfolds 
 
 Rich groves of lofty stature, 
 
 With Yarrow winding through the pomp 
 
 Of cultivated nature ; 
 
 And, rising from those lofty groves, 
 
 Behold a Ruin hoary ! 
 
 The shattered front of Newark's Towers, 
 
 Renowned in Border story. 
 
 Fair scenes for childhood's opening bloom, 
 
 For sportive youth to stray in ; 
 
 For manhood to enjoy his strength ; 
 
 And age to wear away in ! 
 
 Yon cottage seems a bower of bliss, 
 
 A covert for protection 
 
 Of tender thoughts, that nestle there 
 
 The brood of chaste affection.
 
 YARROW VISITED. gi 
 
 How sweet, on this autumnal clay, 
 
 The wild-wood fruits to gather, 
 
 And on my True-love's forehead plant 
 
 A crest of blooming heather ! 
 
 And what if I enwreathed my own ! 
 
 'Twere no offence to reason ; 
 
 The sober Hills thus deck their brows 
 
 To meet the wintry season. 
 
 I see but not by sight alone, 
 
 Loved Yarrow, have I won thee ; 
 
 A ray of fancy still survives 
 
 Her sunshine plays upon thee ! 
 
 Thy ever-youthful waters keep 
 
 A course of lively pleasure ; 
 
 And gladsome notes my lips can breathe, 
 
 Accordant to the measure. 
 
 The vapours linger round the Heights, 
 They melt, and soon must vanish ; 
 One hour is theirs nor more is mine 
 Sad thoughts which I would banish, 
 But that I know, where'er I go, 
 Thy genuine image, Yarrow ! 
 Will dwell with me to heighten joy, 
 And cheer my mind in sorrow.
 
 92 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 YARROW REVISITED. 
 
 Composed during a Tour in Scotland in the Autumn of 
 
 WORDSWORTH has thus described his second visit to 
 the district : " On Tuesday morning Sir Walter 
 Scott accompanied us and most of the party to Newark Castle 
 on the Yarrow. When we alighted from the carriages he 
 walked pretty stoutly, and had great pleasure in revisiting those 
 his favourite haunts. Of that excursion the verses ' Yarrow 
 Revisited ' are a memorial. Notwithstanding the romance that 
 pervades Sir Walter's works and attaches to many of his habits, 
 there is too much pressure of fact for these verses to harmonise 
 as much as I could wish with other poems. On our return in 
 the afternoon we had to cross the Tweed directly opposite 
 Abbotsford. The wheels of our carriage grated upon the 
 pebbles in the bed of the stream that there flows somewhat 
 rapidly ; a rich but sad light of rather a purple than a golden 
 hue was spread over the Eildon Hills at that moment; and, 
 thinking it probable that it might be the last time Sir Walter 
 would cross the stream, I was not a little moved, and expressed 
 some of my feelings in the sonnet beginning ' A trouble, not 
 of clouds, or weeping rain.' At noon on Thursday we left 
 Abbotsford, and in the morning of that day Sir Walter and I
 
 YARROW REVISITED. 93 
 
 had a serious conversation tete-a-tete, when he spoke with 
 gratitude of the happy life which upon the whole he had led. 
 He had written in my daughter's album, before he came into 
 the breakfast-room that morning, a few stanzas as addressed to 
 her, and, while putting the book into her hand, in his own 
 study, standing by his desk, he said to her in my presence ' I 
 should not have done anything of this kind but for your father's 
 sake: they are probably the last verses I shall ever write.' 
 They show how much his mind was impaired, not by the strain 
 of thought but by the execution, some of the lines being 
 imperfect, and one stanza wanting corresponding rhymes : one 
 letter, the initial S had been omitted in the spelling of his own 
 name. In this interview also it was that, upon my expressing a 
 hope of his health being benefited by the climate of the country 
 to which he was going, and by the interest he would take in the 
 classic remembrances of Italy, he made use of the quotation 
 from ' Yarrow Unvisited ' as recorded by me in the Musings 
 of Aquapendente six years afterwards." 
 
 YARROW REVISITED. 
 
 The gallant Youth, who may have gained, 
 
 Or seeks a " winsome Marrow," 
 Was but an Infant in the lap 
 
 When first I looked on Yarrow ; 
 Once more, by Newark's Castle-gate 
 
 Long left without a warder, 
 I stood, looked, listened, and with Thee, 
 
 Great Minstrel of the Border !
 
 94 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Grave thoughts ruled wide on that sweet day, 
 
 Their dignity installing 
 In gentle bosoms, while sere leaves 
 
 Were on the bough, or falling ; 
 But breezes played, and sunshine gleamed 
 
 The forest to embolden ; 
 Reddened the fiery hues, and shot 
 
 Transparence through the golden. 
 
 For busy thoughts the Stream flowed on 
 
 In foamy agitation ; 
 And slept in many a crystal pool 
 
 For quiet contemplation : 
 No public and no private care 
 
 The freeborn mind enthralling, 
 We made a day of happy hours, 
 
 Our happy days recalling. 
 
 Brisk Youth appeared, the Morn of youth, 
 
 With freaks of graceful folly, 
 Life's temperate Noon, her sober Eve, 
 
 Her Night not melancholy ; 
 Past, present, future, all appeared 
 
 In harmony united, 
 Like guests that meet, and some from far, 
 
 By cordial love invited. 
 
 And if, as Yarrow, through the woods 
 And down the meadow ranging, 
 
 Did meet us with unaltered face, 
 
 Though we were changed and changing ;
 
 YARROW REVISITED. 95 
 
 If, then, some natural shadows spread 
 
 Our inward prospect over, 
 The soul's deep valley was not slow 
 
 Its brightness to recover. 
 
 Eternal blessings on the Muse, 
 
 And her divine employment ! 
 The blameless Muse, who trains her Sons, 
 
 For hope and calm enjoyment, 
 Albeit sickness, lingering yet, 
 
 Has o'er their pillow brooded ; 
 And Care waylays their steps a Sprite 
 
 Not easily eluded. 
 
 For thee, O Scott ! compelled to change 
 
 Green Eildon-hill and Cheviot 
 For warm Vesuvio's vine-clad slopes ; 
 
 And leave thy Tweed and Tiviot 
 For mild Sorento's breezy waves ; 
 
 May classic Fancy, linking 
 With native Fancy her fresh aid, 
 
 Preserve thy heart from sinking ! 
 
 O ! while they minister to thee 
 
 Each vying with the other, 
 May Health return to mellow Age, 
 
 With Strength her venturous brother ; 
 And Tiber, and each brook and rill 
 
 Renowned in song and story, 
 With unimagined beauty shine, 
 
 Nor lose one ray of glory !
 
 96 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 For Thou, upon a hundred streams, 
 
 By tales of love and sorrow, 
 Of faithful love, undaunted truth, 
 
 Hast shed the power of Yarrow ; 
 And streams unknown, hills yet unseen, 
 
 Wherever they invite Thee, 
 At parent Nature's grateful call, 
 
 With gladness must requite Thee. 
 
 A gracious welcome shall be thine, 
 
 Such looks of love and honour 
 As thy own Yarrow gave to me 
 
 When first I gazed upon her ; 
 Beheld what I had feared to see, 
 
 Unwilling to surrender 
 Dreams treasured up from early days, 
 
 The holy and the tender. 
 
 And what, for this frail world, were all 
 
 That mortals do or suffer, 
 Did no responsive harp, no pen, 
 
 Memorial tribute offer ? 
 Yea, what were mighty Nature's self ? 
 
 Her features, could they win us, 
 Unhelped by the poetic voice 
 
 That hourly speaks within us ? 
 
 Nor deem that localised Romance 
 Plays false with our affections ; 
 
 Unsanctifies our tears made sport 
 For fanciful dejections :
 
 YARROW REVISITED. 97 
 
 Ah, no ! the visions of the past 
 
 Sustain the heart in feeling 
 Life as she is our changeful Life, 
 
 With friends and kindred dealing. 
 
 Bear witness, Ye, whose thoughts that day 
 
 In Yarrow's groves were centred ; 
 Who through the silent portal arch 
 
 Of mouldering Newark enter'd ; 
 And clomb the winding stair that once 
 
 Too timidly was mounted 
 By the " last Minstrel " (not the last !) 
 
 Ere he his Tale recounted. 
 
 Flow on for ever, Yarrow Stream ! 
 
 Fulfil thy pensive duty, 
 Well pleased that future Bards should chant 
 
 For simple hearts thy beauty ; 
 To dream-light dear while yet unseen, 
 
 Dear to the common sunshine, 
 And dearer still, as now I feel, 
 
 To memory's shadowy moonshine !
 
 JAMES HOGG. 
 
 JAMES HOGG. 
 
 JAMES HOGG, the Ettrick Shepherd, was born at Ettrick- 
 hall, a small farm-house in the immediate vicinity of 
 Ettrick Kirk. The date of his birth is uncertain. He was 
 wont to affirm that he had been born on the 25th January 
 "a ne'er to be forgotten day" 1772; but his baptism is 
 recorded in the Session records of the parish as having taken
 
 JAMES HOGG. 99 
 
 place on the 9th October, 1770. How he came to regard 
 himself as two years younger than he really was we cannot 
 say ; but it is not difficult to understand his partiality for the 
 25th of January. As a young man he was fired with the noble 
 ambition of becoming the successor of Burns, and he may have 
 thought that to begin life on this particular date was a good 
 augury of future fame. 
 
 His family was of an ancient lineage his ancestors having 
 occupied the farm of Fauldshope for over 400 years but at the 
 time of the poet's birth they were in comparatively humble 
 circumstances. In early life his father had followed the 
 occupation of shepherd, and it would have been well for him had 
 he been content " to wear the crook and plaid." He took the 
 farm of Ettrickhall, thinking he would improve his position ; but 
 in a few years he lost every penny of his hard won earnings, 
 and had the mortification of seeing his " goods and chattels " 
 exposed for sale to meet the claims of his numerous creditors. 
 This sad change in the family fortunes may account for the 
 fact that Hogg was allowed to grow up almost entirely 
 uneducated. His school life extended over a few months six 
 or eight at most when he learned to read the Shorter 
 Catechism and the Proverbs of Solomon. He was sent to herd 
 a neighbour's cows when a mere child, and received for wages 
 "a pair of shoes and a ewe lamb." By the time he reached 
 manhood he had been in the service of at least a dozen different 
 masters. 
 
 One of the most potent factors in the formation of his 
 
 H2
 
 100 JAMES HOGG. 
 
 character and development of his genius was the influence of 
 his mother a woman of great intelligence and force of 
 character. From her lips Sir Walter Scott heard, for the first 
 time, many of those grand old ballads which he has immortalized 
 in his Minstrelsy. Her prediction that when they were printed 
 they would cease to be sung, has been strikingly verified. She 
 could tell no end of legendary tales and traditional stories, and 
 was wont to amuse and interest her children by speaking to 
 them about brownies, kelpies, witches, fairies, etc., and thus 
 keep them quiet while she was engaged in the onerous duties 
 of her household. Brought up under such influences, it is 
 not surprising that Hogg should ultimately have become, in 
 an especial sense, " the Poet of the Fairies." In referring 
 to his friendship with Sir Walter Scott, he gives beautiful 
 expression to his sense of indebtedness to his mother's 
 influence and teaching in the following lines : 
 
 " Blessed be his generous heart for aye, 
 He told me where the relic lay; 
 Pointed my way with ready will, 
 Afar on Ettrick's wildest hill ; 
 Watched my first step with curious eye, 
 And wondered at my minstrelsy ; 
 He little weaned a parent's tongue 
 Such strains had o'er my cradle sung." 
 
 We are told that he acquired the art of penmanship lucus 
 a non lucendo by trying to make the characters of the 
 alphabet on the big slate stones on the hillside ! 
 
 When he was about twenty years of age he entered the 
 service of Mr Laidlaw, farmer in Blackhouse, a wild and 
 romantic region on the Douglas Burn, a few miles north of
 
 JAMES HOGG. 101 
 
 St. Mary's Loch. Here he spent some of the happiest, 
 and from an intellectual point of view most important 
 years of his life. He now began to write verses, and 
 felt immensely flattered when he heard them sung by the 
 servants as they sat round the cheery peat fire of an evening. 
 His method of composition was peculiar. Seating himself 
 among the heather, with a small ink bottle attached to a 
 piece of twine, fastened to a hole in his waistcoat, and 
 with a stump of a pen, he wrote out carefully and laboriously 
 for his hand often took the cramp, notwithstanding that he 
 had his coat off and his sleeves well buckled up the verses 
 which he had been carefully conning over in his mind. 
 
 One day when out on the hill " simmering his lambs " he 
 met with Jock Scott, a " half-witted creature," well known in 
 the Border country, who had a remarkable faculty for reciting 
 poetry. Burns had been in his grave for more than a year, 
 yet, strange to relate, the Ettrick Shepherd had never heard 
 of him. His astonishment, therefore, may be more easily 
 imagined than described when Scott began to recite that 
 immortal epic, " Tarn o' Shanter." Big tears of joy and 
 surprise coursed down his quivering cheek. The poem had 
 to be repeated again and again until every word of it had 
 been got by heart. From Scott's lips he also learned the 
 tragic history of the Ayrshire bard. His resolution was 
 instantly formed. He determined to become the successor 
 of Burns. He felt sure that " he could tell more stories, and 
 sing more songs than ever ploughman could in the world."
 
 102 JAMES HOGG. 
 
 What was to hinder him becoming a great poet? It was 
 thus he reasoned with himself as he pictured in imagination 
 the great future which he felt sure lay before him. This 
 resolution on Hogg's part has often been referred to by his 
 critics as an indication of inordinate vanity ; yet it must be 
 frankly admitted that, while he came far short of the goal 
 set before him, he has written several pieces which Burns might 
 well have been proud to claim. 
 
 His first published song, " Donald M'Donald," attained 
 great popularity. The poet once heard it sung in a theatre 
 in Wigan, and when it had been encored, he told a burly 
 Yorkshireman who was sitting beside , him that he was the 
 author. This statement only called forth an incredulous 
 smile the worthy Englishman telling Hogg's landlady after- 
 wards that he took him for a half-crazed Scotch pedlar ! 
 
 He had strong Jacobitic sympathies, and rendered admirable 
 service to the cause of literature by the publication of the 
 Jacobitic Relics of Scotland, a work in two vols., which 
 entailed upon him immense labour and research. He went 
 into the Highlands that he might gather from the lips of the 
 people themselves every ballad and song relating to the 
 fortunes of the " ill-starred " Bonnie Prince Charlie. The 
 difficulties he had to encounter were frequently of a vexatious 
 character. " The Highlanders were suspicious of him. 
 Donald would eye him with a suspicious look and say, 
 ' Ohon, man, you surely haif had very less to do at home ; 
 and so you want to get some of the songs of the poor
 
 JAMES HOGG. 103 
 
 repellioners from me, and then you will give me up to King 
 Shorge and be hanged ! Ho, no, that will never do.' " 
 
 It was the publication of The Queens Wake, however, which 
 finally established Hogg's reputation as a poet. It took the 
 world completely by surprise. Men wondered to hear a simple 
 untaught shepherd sing so eloquently and so well. The 
 general feeling was not inappropriately expressed by a 
 Mr Dunlop, from Ettrick, who happened to meet the author 
 in the High Street of Edinburgh a few days after the publi- 
 cation of the book. " Your Queens Wake" he said, " has 
 cheated me out of a night's sleep. Wha wad hae thocht that 
 there was sae muckle in that sheep's head of yours ! " The 
 plan of this poem is natural and simple. Queen Mary, who 
 has recently landed on our shores, proclaims a Royal Wake, 
 at which all minstrels, Highland and Lowland, are summoned 
 to appear to contend with each other in poetical competition. 
 His own appearance on this occasion provokes considerable 
 merriment. The very sound of his name excites to laughter : 
 
 " But when the bard himself appeared, 
 The ladies smiled, the courtiers sneered, 
 For such a simple air and mein 
 Before a court had never been. 
 A clown he was bred in the wild, 
 And late from native moors exiled, 
 In hopes his mellow mountain strain 
 High favour trom the great would gain. 
 Poor wight ! he little weaned how hard 
 For poverty to earn regard. 
 Dejection o'er his visage ran, 
 His coat was bare, his colour wan, 
 His forest doublet darned and torn, 
 His shepherd plaid all rent and worn, 
 Yet dear the symbols to his eye, 
 Memorials of a time gone bye."
 
 104 
 
 JAMES HOGG. 
 
 But he was not abashed. Nature had been kindly. His lot 
 had been cast in one of her most favoured spots, on the 
 banks of the Yarrow, and near by St. Mary's Loch and the 
 " lonely Lowes " no fitter home on earth than this, for the 
 poet. 
 
 " Oft had he viewed when morning rose, 
 The bosom of the lonely Lowes, 
 Ploughed far by many a downy keel, 
 Of wild duck and of vagrant teal ; 
 Oft thrilled his heart at close of even 
 To see the dappled vales of heaven, 
 With many a mountain, moor, and tree, 
 Asleep upon the St. Mary." 
 
 " Kilmeny " a poem of superlative excellence is incompar- 
 ably the finest piece in the Queen s Wake. In the Nodes 
 Ambrosiance Wilson has given a characteristic account of the 
 way in which this wonderful poem was composed. 
 
 "Shepherd. My imagination, sir, a' at ance wafted me awa' intil the laneliest 
 spat amang a' the hills whare my childhood played and amang the broom-bushes 
 and the brackens there, I was beginnin when you reca'd me by that rap on the table, 
 to sink awa' back again intil the dream o' dreams ! 
 
 " North. The dream o' dreams ? 
 
 "Shepherd. Ay, sir The dream, sir, in which I saw Kilmeny? For though. I 
 wrote down the poem on the sclate in the prime o' manhood, anither being than 
 mysel' did in verity compose or creawte it, sir, ae day when I was lyin a' by mysel
 
 JAMES HOGG. 105 
 
 in that laneliest spat, wi' but twa-three sheep aside me, ae linty and nae mair ; but 
 oh ! how sweetly the glad cretur sang ! and after that some other cretur nor me had 
 composed or creawted it, she keepit whisper, whisperin the words far within my 
 ears, till memory learned them a' off by heart as easy as the names o' Christian 
 creturs that we meet wi' on Sabbaths at the kirk ; and frae that genie-haunted hour 
 known now through a' braid Scotland is the Ettrick Shepherd 
 
 " North. Britain and America 
 
 " Shepherd. But for many obscure years a nameless man, or kent by the name o' 
 Jamie amang my simple compeers, I carried bonny Kilmeny for ever in the arms o" 
 my heart, kissin her shut een whan she sleepit, and her lips as calm as the lips o' 
 death, but as sweet as them o' an undying angel ! 
 
 " North. And such was the origin of the finest Pastoral Lyric in our tongue ! 
 
 "Shepherd. Sic indeed, sir, was its origin. For my sowl, ye see, sir, had fa'n into 
 a kind o' inspired dwaum and the Green Leddy o' the Forest, nae less than the 
 Fairy Queen hersel, had stown out frae the land o' peace on my slumber ; and she it 
 was that stooped down, and wi' her ain lily-haun shedding frae my forehead the 
 yellow hair, left a kiss upon my temples, just where the organ o' imagination or 
 ideality lies ; and at the touch arose the vision in which 
 
 ' Bonny Kilmeny gaed up the glen,' 
 and frae which you, sir, in your freendship say, that I became ane o' the Immortals." 
 
 Had Hogg written nothing but Kilmeny, he would still have 
 been entitled to a high place among the great poets of our 
 country. Ticknor, the famous American scholar, met him on 
 one occasion in London, and after conversing with him he felt 
 astonished that such a plain, uneducated, and apparently 
 unsophisticated shepherd, could have produced such a master- 
 piece of poetical genius. Yet the fact remains that in this 
 poem the Ettrick Shepherd has struck a note on his simple 
 lyre which will vibrate through many centuries. 
 
 Hogg's social habits have frequently been severely com- 
 mented on. He has been described by a reviewer as a 
 " Boozing Buffoon." This statement, we have good grounds 
 for saying, is not only overdrawn, but maliciously inaccurate. 
 We have frequently conversed with those who knew the
 
 io6 JAMES HOGG. 
 
 poet intimately, and their unanimous testimony is that he 
 was thoroughly temperate in his habits. Doubtless, the 
 times in which he lived were, in this respect, very different 
 from our own. Then it was considered no disgrace to 
 imbibe somewhat freely, but no one is entitled to judge a 
 former generation by the standard of to-day. To do so is 
 to violate the fundamental principle of all true and honest 
 criticism. He was no doubt eminently social, as most great 
 men are, but when the worst has been said, it simply amounts 
 to this, that he conformed to the customs of his age, and of the 
 society in which he moved. He spent many jovial hours in the 
 company of Wilson, and other literary friends, under the hospit- 
 able roof of the far-famed " Tibbie Shiel." On one occasion, 
 it is said, that his thirst was so intense that he was constrained 
 to ask his genial hostess to " bring in the Loch !" But surely 
 this does not prove him to have been an inebriate ! 
 
 The truth regarding Hogg's social habits has, perhaps, never 
 been more accurately described than in the well-known passage 
 in the Nodes, where he is represented as saying " What's this 
 I was intendin to say ? Ou, ay ! It was that you ken ma 
 character by havin studied it in sic moods and seasons. Noo, 
 I was a few minutes ago describin a roasted guse wi' a' the 
 zest o' a glutton, whose imagination was kindled by his pallet. 
 And at that moment as sincere was I as ever you beheld me 
 when standin by the side of some great loch, and gazing on 
 the sun sinking behind the mountains. But what care I, sir, 
 for a' the guses that ever was roasted? No ae single strae.
 
 JAMES HOGG. 107 
 
 Gie me a bit cheese and bread when I am hungry, and I will 
 say grace ower't, sittin by some spring amang the hills, wi' as 
 gratefu' a heart as ever yearned in a puir sinner's breist towards 
 the Giver o' a' mercies. Nae objections hae I why sud I ? to 
 a jug o' toddy; especially, sir, sittin cheek-by-jowl wi' auld 
 Christopher. But mony and mony a day o' drivin rain, and 
 blastin sleet and driftin snaw, hae I been out frae morn till 
 nicht amang the hills ay, sir, frae nicht till morn a' thro' the 
 wild sughing hours o' the mirk nichts o' winter, without ever 
 thinking o' spirits in the shape o' whisky ony mair than if in 
 this weary world there never had been ae single still. Sumphs 
 base insolent sumphs say I, sir, that dare to insult the 
 shepherd at his Glenlivet wi' the king o' men. Has the aipple 
 o' my ee, sir, tint ae hue o' its brichtness, or shows it one 
 blood-shot streak or stain o' intemperance ? Has the aipple o' 
 my cheek, sir, tint ae hue o' its ruddiness, or shows it one 
 blotch or pimple o' excess, either o' eatin' or drinking ? the 
 Cockney cooards and calumniawtors ! " 
 
 His vanity, we are also told, was excessive ; but even in this 
 respect he compares not unfavourably with his contemporaries. 
 He was certainly less self-conscious than either Byron or 
 Keats, or for that matter, Wordsworth, humble as he was to all 
 outward seeming, and in Hogg's case there was more excuse for 
 such a failing. He was all but uneducated, and consequently 
 the distinction he attained as a man of letters was due to his 
 genius and indomitable perseverance. From the obscurity of 
 his shepherd-life, he suddenly burst upon the world as a great
 
 io8 JAMES HOGG. 
 
 poet. He could number among his friends many of the fore- 
 most men of his age, in learning, intellect, and social position. 
 In these circumstances his vanity, such as it was, need surprise 
 no one. It would have been a marvel had he not at times felt 
 unduly elated. The wonder really is, all things considered, 
 that he was so well able to keep his feet on the ground. 
 
 Carlyle has left an interesting sketch of him. He says : 
 " Hogg is a little red-skinned, stiff rack of a body, with quite 
 the common air of an Ettrick shepherd, except that he has a 
 highish, though sloping brow (among his yellow grizzled hair), 
 and two clear little beads of blue or grey eyes that sparkle, if 
 not with thought, yet with animation. Behaves himself easily 
 and well ; speaks Scotch, and mostly narrative absurdity (or 
 even obscenity) therewith. Appears in the mingled character 
 of zany or raree show. All bent on bantering him, especially 
 Lockhart; Hogg walking through it as if unconscious, or almost 
 flattered. His vanity seems to be immense, but also his good 
 nature. I felt interest for the poor herd-body ; wondered to see 
 him blown hither from his sheep-folds, and how, quite friend- 
 less as he was, he went along cheerful, mirthful, and musical. 
 I do not well understand this man ; his significance is perhaps 
 considerable. His poetic talent is authentic, yet his intellect 
 seems of the weakest ; his morality also limits itself to the 
 precept ' be not angry.' Is the charm of this poor man to be 
 found herein, that he is a real product of nature, and able to 
 speak naturally, which not one in a thousand is ? An un- 
 conscious talent, though of the smallest, emphatically naive.
 
 JAMES HOGG. 109 
 
 Once or twice in singing (for he sang of his own) there was an 
 emphasis in poor Hogg's look expressive of feeling almost 
 of enthusiasm. The man is a very curious specimen. Alas, 
 he is a man ; yet how few will so much as treat him like a 
 specimen, and not like a mere wooden Punch or Judy." 
 
 The closing years of Hogg's life were spent in comparative 
 ease and comfort. His books commanded a ready sale, though 
 he did not always reap the full harvest of his literary labours. 
 He had abundant leisure at command, after he left the farm of 
 Mount Benger, and many a happy day he spent in fishing in the 
 Yarrow and its tributaries, or shooting over the hills and moors 
 in the neighboorhood of Altrive Lake a small farm which the 
 Duke of Buccleuch generously gave him at a merely nominal 
 rent. Despite his many misfortunes, he rarely ever succumbed 
 to a feeling of despondency. He says : " I never knew 
 either man or woman who has been so uniformly happy 
 as I have been ; which has been partly owing to a good 
 constitution, and partly from the conviction that a heavenly 
 gift, conferring the powers of immortal song, was inherent 
 in my soul. Indeed so uniformly smooth and happy has 
 my married life been, that in a retrospect I cannot distinguish 
 one part from another save by some remarkably good 
 days of fishing, shooting, and curling on the ice." He 
 had also the satisfaction of knowing and this doubtless had 
 something to do with his general buoyancy of feeling that his 
 talents were thoroughly appreciated by all classes in the 
 community. His merits were instantly recognised, and from
 
 no JAMES HOGG. 
 
 the beginning to the close of his literary career, he received on 
 the part of the public an amount of recognition which many a 
 writer of more distinguished ability might well have envied. 
 
 His last meeting with Sir Walter Scott has been thus 
 described by Professor Veitch : " Scott had sent him word that 
 he was to pass down the Yarrow from Drumlanrig, on his way 
 to Abbotsford. The carriage stopped at the small inn, the 
 Gordon Arms, and here the shepherd met Sir Walter. They 
 walked down the road past Mount Benger, Sir Walter leaning 
 heavily on Hogg's arm, and walking very feebly. The 
 Shepherd noticed the change, bodily and mental, in the great 
 man, whom he honoured, almost worshipped. There was some 
 talk, not of a very clear kind, but kindly and affectionate. It 
 was exactly twenty-nine years before that Hogg, a young man, 
 had met Scott in his mother's cottage at Ettrick Hall, when the 
 editor of the Minstrelsy was sowing the seed that had ripened 
 during those intervening years into that glorious golden harvest 
 of poem and romance as rich an outcome of one man's life as 
 the world had ever seen. Here appropriately enough, in 
 beloved Yarrow, dear to Hogg, and dearest vale on earth to 
 Scott, the two poets whom Yarrow herself had quickened and 
 nourished, parted for the last time on earth. One cannot help 
 feeling that this touching incident gives a new interest to the 
 spot in the vale where they met and parted, and adds another to 
 the many sacred associations which cluster round the name of 
 Yarrow." 
 
 Five years after, in 1835, the shepherd-poet was laid to rest
 
 JAMES HOGG. in 
 
 under the shadow of Ettrick Pen, and near the old homestead 
 where he was born. 
 
 " Long has that harp of magic tone, 
 To all the minstrel world been known ; 
 Who has not heard her witching lays 
 Of Ettrick banks and Yarrow braes ? 
 But that sweet bard who sang and played 
 Of many a feat and Border raid, 
 Of many a knight and lovely maid, 
 When forced to leave his harp behind 
 Did all her tuneful chords unwind ; 
 And many ages past and came 
 Ere man so well could tune the same." 
 
 Hogg was a voluminous author. His best known poetical 
 works are The Queen s Wake, The Mountain Bard, Mador of 
 the Moor, The Forest Minstrel, The Poetic Mirror, Poetical 
 Tales and Ballads, &c. Among his prose works, The Brownie 
 of Bodsbeck," The Shepherd's Calendar, and The Siege of 
 Roxburgh, are the best known. 
 
 Wordsworth's well-known poem on Hogg's death may here 
 appropriately be given : 
 
 When first, descending from the moorlands, 
 
 1 saw the stream of Yarrow glide 
 Along a bare and open valley, 
 
 The Ettrick Shepherd was my guide. 
 
 When last along its banks I wandered, 
 
 Through groves that had begun to shed 
 Their golden leaves upon the pathways, 
 
 My steps the Border Minstrel led. 
 
 The mighty Minstrel breathes no longer, 
 
 "Mid mouldering ruins low he lies ; 
 And death upon the braes of Yarrow, 
 
 Has closed the Shepherd-poet's eyes : 
 
 Nor has the rolling year twice measured, 
 
 From sign to sign, its steadfast course, 
 Since every mortal power of Coleridge 
 
 Was frozen at its marvellous source ;
 
 JAMES HOGG. 
 
 The rapt One of the god-like forehead, 
 The heaven-eyed creature sleeps in earth ; 
 
 And Lamb, the frolic and the gentle, 
 Has vanished from his lonely hearth. 
 
 Like clouds that rake the mountain summits, 
 Or waves that own no curbing hand, 
 
 How fast has brother followed brother 
 From sunshine to the sunless land ! 
 
 Yet I, whose lids from infant slumber 
 Were earlier raised, remain to hear 
 
 A timid voice, that asks in whispers, 
 " Who next will droop and disappear ? " 
 
 Our haughty lifejis crowned with darkness, 
 Like London, with its own black wreath, 
 
 On which with thee, O ! Crabbe, forth-looking 
 I gazed from Hampstead's breezy heath. 
 
 As if but yesterday departed, 
 Thou too art gone before ; but why 
 
 O'er ripe fruit, seasonably gathered 
 Should frail survivors heave a sigh. 
 
 Mourn rather for that holy Spirit. 
 
 Sweet as the spring, as ocean deep; 
 For Her who, ere her summer faded, 
 
 Has sunk into a breathless sleep. 
 
 No more of old romantic sorrows. 
 
 For slaughtered youth or love-lorn maid ! 
 With sharper grief is Yarrow smitten, 
 
 And Ettrick mourns with her their Poet dead. 
 
 DESCRIPTION OF MOUNT BENGER. 
 
 Oft from yon height I loved to mark, 
 
 Soon as the morning roused the lark, 
 
 And woodlands raised their raptured hymn, 
 
 That land of glory spreading dim ; 
 
 While slowly up the awakening dale 
 
 The mists withdrew their fleecy veil, 
 
 And tower, and wood, and winding stream,
 
 BY A BUSH. 113 
 
 Were brightening in the golden beam. 
 Yet where the westward shadows fell, 
 My eye with fonder gaze would dwell, 
 Though wild the view, and brown and bare ; 
 Nor castled halls, nor hamlets fair, 
 Nor range of sheltering woods, were there, 
 Nor river's sweeping pride between, 
 To give expression to the scene. 
 There stood a simple home, where swells 
 The meady sward to moory fells, 
 A rural dwelling thatched and warm, 
 Such as might suit the upland farm. 
 A honeysuckle clasped the sash, 
 Half shaded by the giant ash ; 
 And there the wall-spread apple-tree 
 Gave its white blossoms to the bee, 
 Beside yon sheltering clump of ash, 
 Which screens below the boiling pool 
 With pebbled bottom clear and cool, 
 Where often, from the shelving brim, 
 We launched on sedgy sheaf to swim. 
 
 BY A BUSH. 
 
 By a bush on yonder brae 
 
 Where the airy Benger rises, 
 Sandy tuned his artless lay ; 
 Thus he sung the lee-lang day :
 
 H4 JAMES HOGG. 
 
 " Thou shalt ever be my theme, 
 
 Yarrow, winding down the hollow, 
 With thy bonny sister stream 
 
 Sweeping through the broom so yellow. 
 On these banks thy waters lave, 
 Oft the warrior found a grave. 
 
 " Oft on thee the silent wain 
 
 Saw the Douglas' banners streaming 
 Oft on thee the hunter train 
 Sought the shelter'd deer in vain ; 
 Oft, in thy green dells and bowers 
 
 Swains have seen the fairies riding ; 
 Oft the snell and sleety showers 
 Found in thee the warrior hiding. 
 Many a wild and bloody scene 
 On thy bonnie banks have been. 
 
 " Now the days of discord gane, 
 
 Henry's kindness keeps us cheery ; 
 While his heart shall warm remain, 
 Dule will beg a hauld in vain. 
 Bloodless now in many hues, 
 
 Flow'rets bloom, our hills adorning ; 
 There my Jenny milks her ewes, 
 Fresh an' ruddy as the morning, 
 Mary Scott could ne'er outvie 
 Jenny's hue an' glancing eye.
 
 WILL AND DA VIE. 115 
 
 " Wind, my Yarrow, down the howe, 
 
 Forming bows o' dazzling siller ; 
 Meet thy titty yont the knowe ; 
 Wi' my love I'll join like you. 
 Flow my Ettrick, it was thee, 
 
 Into life wha first did drap me. 
 Thee I've sung, an' when I dee 
 Thou wilt lend a sod to hap me : 
 Passing swains shall say, and weep, 
 Here our Shepherd lies asleep." 
 
 WILL AND DA VIE 
 
 A SCOTTISH PASTORAL. 
 
 Where Yarrow pours her silver billow 
 Through bowers of birch, and brakes of willow ; 
 Where loud the grouse crows on the fell, 
 And sweet the thrush sings in the dell ; 
 Where milk-white flocks unnumbered lie, 
 And mirth laughs keen in every eye ; 
 And plenty smiles from day to day, 
 Beneath Buccleuch's indulgent sway ; 
 Two friendly shepherds, blithe and young. 
 Oft on the greensward sat and sung, 
 Or scoured the lofty fells together, 
 And brushed the red flower from the heather. 
 
 12
 
 u6 JAMES HOGG. 
 
 One morn they tuned, by dawn of day, 
 On Bowerhope Law the rural lay ; 
 For such a scene that lay was meet 
 As wildly gay, as simply sweet; 
 The great may even lend an ear 
 Wild Yarrow's mountain strains to hear. 
 
 DAVIE. 
 
 Ah, Will, these purple heather blooms, 
 That round us shed their light perfumes, 
 These sparkling gems of crystal dew, 
 That morning sky so mild and blue, 
 Have raised my heart to such a height, 
 I breathe so pure, I feel so light, 
 'Gainst all the reasons you can bring 
 I must and will my matin sing. 
 Cheer up your heart, for once be gay ; 
 Screw on your flute and join the lay. 
 
 WILL. 
 
 Ah, Shepherd, cease ; your idle strain 
 Adds sharpness to my bosom's pain. 
 How can ye pour that strain so airy, 
 That trifling, idle, wild vagary ; 
 Nor sadly once reflect with me 
 On what has been, and what may be ? 
 
 " As little heeds the lark on high, 
 The watchful falcon hovering nigh, 
 But flickering his kind mate above, 
 He trills his matin song of love.
 
 WILL AND DA VIE. 117 
 
 Ah, reckless bird, that lively strain 
 Thy mate shall never hear again ! 
 The spoiler tears thy panting breast, 
 And all forsaken is thy nest." 
 
 Cease, Shepherd, cease the case is yours ; 
 The sky of Britain threatening lowers ! 
 Else, let your strain be soft and slow, 
 And every fall a note of woe. 
 
 DAVIE. 
 
 How can I strike one plaintive sound 
 While nature smiles so sweet around ? 
 See how our lambs, in many a skein, 
 Are dancing on the daisied green ; 
 Their pliant limbs they keenly brace, 
 Strained in the unambitious race ; 
 Till gruff old wedders, blithe to see 
 The young things skip so merrily, 
 With motley antics join the throng, 
 And bob and caper them among. 
 
 The plover whistles in the glen, 
 The tewit tilts above the fen ; 
 Even the hoarse curlew strains her throat, 
 And yelps her loudest, liveliest note : 
 The rural joy then must I shun, 
 So ripened by the rising sun ?
 
 Ii8 JAMES HOGG. 
 
 No while my bosom beats so high, 
 Responsive to a lovely eye 
 That pierced it with a gilded arrow, 
 I'll sing of love, of joy, and Yarrow. 
 
 I'll sing that rural scene before me ; 
 That shady world of placid glory. 
 See how the afer vibrates o'er 
 The lofty front of brown Clockmore ; 
 Beyond Carlevon's rocky crest 
 The drowsy moon sinks pale to rest ; 
 An angel shade of silken green 
 O'erveils the cliffs of wild Loch Skene ; 
 While Border Cheviot, blue and high, 
 Melts like a shadow on the sky. 
 
 From proud Mount Benger's top, the sun 
 His airy course has scarce begun ; 
 His orient cheek is resting still 
 Upon the grey cairn on the hill. 
 The scarlet curtain of the sky, 
 A wreathed and waving canopy, 
 Sweels like the dew on mountain flower 
 Or frost-work on the southland shower. 
 
 The Yarrow, like a baldrick thrown 
 Loose on the vale, lies bent and lone ; 
 A silver snake of every dye 
 That gilds the mountain, tincts the sky ; 
 And slowly o'er her verdant vales 
 A cobweb veil of vapour sails.
 
 WILL AND DA VIE. 119 
 
 Saint Mary holds her mirror sheen, 
 To moorland gray and mountain green ; 
 To speckled schell-fowl hovering nigh, 
 To milky swan and morning sky : 
 Their phantom cliffs hang trembling low, 
 And hoary thorns inverted grow. 
 
 Her purple bosom sleeps as still 
 As sunbeam on the silent hill, 
 No curling breeze across it strays, 
 No sportful eddy o'er it plays, 
 Save where the wild duck wanders slow, 
 Or dark trout spreads his waxing O. 
 
 Look to the east 'tis shadow all, 
 Crowned by yon broad and dazzling ball. 
 Turn westward mountain, glen, and wold, 
 Are all one blaze of burning gold ! 
 
 Ah, God of nature ! such a scene, 
 So grand, so lovely, so serene, 
 Bears the free soul on rapture's wing, 
 Before thy diamond throne to sing ; 
 Above yon sky's celestial blue, 
 To gaze on glories ever new ; 
 And list the strains of angel song 
 From angel harps that pour along, 
 By fragrant breezes softly driven 
 O'er suns that sand the floors of heaven.
 
 JAMES HOGG. 
 
 The enraptured youth now ceased to sing ; 
 But still on ether's waving wing, 
 From echo's cave was borne along 
 Thy dying measures of the song : 
 With eye entranced, and head declined, 
 They listened to the waving wind 
 Hung on the cliff-born fairly lay, 
 Till the last quaver died away. 
 
 THE LASSIE OF YARROW. 
 
 " What makes my heart beat high, 
 What makes me heave the sigh, 
 When yon green den I spy, 
 
 Lonely and narrow ? 
 Sure on your bracken lea, 
 Under the hawthorn tree, 
 Thou hast bewitched me, 
 
 Lassie of Yarrow !" 
 
 " Yon bracken den so lone, 
 Rueful I ponder on ; 
 Lad, though my vow ye won, 
 
 'Twas to deceive thee. 
 Sore, sore I rue the day 
 When in your arms I lay, 
 And swore by the hawthorn gray, 
 
 Never to leave thee."
 
 WILL AND DAVIE. 
 
 " Mary, thy will is free ; 
 All my fond vows to thee 
 Were but in jest and glee ; 
 
 Could'st thou believe me ? 
 I have another love 
 Kind as the woodland dove ; 
 False to that maid to prove, 
 
 Oh, it would grieve me !" 
 
 Mary's full eye so blue, 
 Mild as the evening dew, 
 Quick from his glance withdrew, 
 
 Soft was her sighing ; 
 Keen he the jest renewed, 
 Hard for his freedom sued 
 When her sweet face he viewed, 
 
 Mary was crying. 
 
 " Cheer thee," the lover said, 
 " Now thy sharp scorn repaid, 
 Never shall other maid 
 
 Call me her marrow. 
 Far sweeter than sun or sea, 
 Or aught in this world I see, 
 Is thy love-smile to me, 
 
 Lassie of Yarrow!"
 
 122 JAMES HOGG. 
 
 ST. MARY OF THE LOWES. 
 
 O lone St. Mary of the waves, 
 In ruin lies thine ancient aisle, 
 
 While o'er thy green and lowly graves, 
 The moorcocks bay, and plovers wail : 
 But mountain spirits on the gale, 
 
 Oft o'er thee sound the requiem dread ; 
 And warrior shades, and spectres pale, 
 
 Still linger by the quiet dead. 
 
 Yes, many a chief of ancient days 
 
 Sleeps in thy cold and hallow'd soil ; 
 Hearts that would thread the forest maze, 
 
 Alike for spousal or for spoil ; 
 
 That wist not, ween'd not, to recoil 
 Before the might of mortal foe, 
 
 But thirsted for the Border broil, 
 The shout, the clang, the overthrow. 
 
 Here lie those who, o'er flood and field, 
 Were hunted as the osprey's brood, 
 
 Who braved the power of man, and seal'd 
 Their testimonies with their blood : 
 But long as waves that wilder'd flood, 
 
 Their sacred memory shall be dear, 
 And all the virtuous and the good 
 
 O'er their low graves shall drop the tear.
 
 ST. MARY OF THE LOWES. 123 
 
 Here sleeps the last of all the race 
 
 Of these old heroes of the hill, 
 Stern as the storm in heart and face : 
 
 Gainsaid in faith or principle. 
 
 Then would the fire of heaven fill 
 The orbit of his faded eye ; 
 
 Yet all within was kindness still, 
 Benevolence and simplicity. 
 
 GRIEVE, thou shall hold a sacred cell 
 
 In hearts with sin and sorrow toss'd ; 
 While thousands, with their funeral knell, 
 
 Roll down the tide of darkness, lost ; 
 
 For thou wert Truth's and Honour's boast, 
 Firm champion of Religion's sway ! 
 
 Who knew thee best revered thee most, 
 Thou emblem of a former day ! 
 
 Here lie old Border bowmen good ; 
 
 Ranger and stalker sleep together, 
 Who for the red-deer's stately brood 
 
 Watch'd, in despite of want and weather, 
 
 Beneath the hoary hills of heather ; 
 Even Scotts, and Kerrs, and Pringles, blended 
 
 In peaceful slumbers, rest together, 
 Whose fathers there to death contended. 
 
 Here lie the peaceful, simple race, 
 
 The first old tenants of the wild, 
 Who stored the mountains of the chase 
 
 With flocks and herds whose manners mild
 
 124 JAMES HOGG. 
 
 Changed the baronial castles, piled 
 In every glen, into the cot, 
 
 And the rude mountaineer beguiled, 
 Indignant, to his peaceful lot. 
 
 Here rural beauty low reposes ; 
 
 The blushing cheek, and beaming eye, 
 The dimpling smile, the lip of roses, 
 
 Attracters of the burning sigh, 
 
 And love's delicious pangs, that lie 
 Enswathed in pleasure's mellow mine : 
 
 Maid, lover, parent, low and high, 
 Are mingled in thy lonely shrine. 
 
 And here lies one here I must turn 
 From all the noble and sublime, 
 
 And, o'er thy new but sacred urn, 
 
 Shed the heath flower and mountain-thyme, 
 And floods of sorrow, while I chime 
 
 Above thy dust one requiem. 
 
 Love was thine error, not thy crime, 
 
 Thou mildest, sweetest, mortal gem ! 
 
 For ever hallow'd be thy bed, 
 
 Beneath the dark and hoary steep ; 
 
 Thy breast may flowerets overspread, 
 And angels of the morning weep 
 In sighs of heaven above thy sleep, 
 
 And tear-drops of embalming dew ; 
 Thy vesper hymn be from the deep, 
 
 Thy matin from the ether blue !
 
 ST. MARY OF THE LOWES. 125 
 
 I dare not of that holy shade, 
 
 That's pass'd away, one thought allow ; 
 Not even a dream that might degrade 
 
 The mercy before which I bow : 
 
 Eternal God, what is it now ? 
 Thus asks my heart : but the reply 
 
 I aim not, wish not, to foreknow, 
 'Tis veiled within eternity. 
 
 But, oh, this earthly flesh and heart 
 
 Still cling to the dear form beneath, 
 As when I saw its soul depart, 
 
 As when I saw it calm in death : 
 
 The dead rose, the funereal wreath 
 Above the breast of virgin snow, 
 
 Far lovelier than in life and breath, 
 I saw it then, and see it now. 
 
 That her fair form shall e'er decay, 
 
 One thought I may not entertain ; 
 As she was on her dying day, 
 
 To me she ever will remain. 
 
 When Time's last shiver o'er his reign 
 Shall close this scene of sin and sorrow, 
 
 How calm, how lovely, how serene, 
 That form shall rise upon the morrow ! 
 
 Frail man ! of all the arrows wounding 
 
 Thy mortal heart, there is but one 
 Whose poison'd dart is so astounding, 
 
 That bear it, cure it, there can none.
 
 126 
 
 JAMES HOGG. 
 
 It is the thought of beauty won, 
 To love in most supreme degree, 
 
 And, by the hapless flame undone, 
 Cut off from nature and from thee !
 
 SIR WALTER SCOTT. 
 
 127 
 
 SIR WALTER SCOTT. 
 
 THERE are few names more closely associated with Yarrow 
 than that of the "Great Minstrel of the Border." 
 Indeed, it may be said that Scott was, in an especial sense, 
 a son of Yarrow. He was a descendent, by both parents, 
 of ancestor's whose home was in the " Dowie Dens." On his
 
 128 SIR WALTER SCOTT. 
 
 father's side he was related in a direct line to Mary Harden 
 Scott, the far-famed Flower of Yarrow ; and on the mother's 
 to John Rutherford, who, for a period of nineteen years, 
 was the faithful and much respected minister of the parish. 
 The Latin inscription on Rutherford's tombstone a mural 
 tablet in the north wall of the church is both curious and 
 interesting. The following is a translation : 
 
 "To the memory of John Rutherford, minister of the Church of Yarrow, most 
 upright and most vigilant; and of Robert, his son, in his fourth year; Christiana 
 Shaw, his mourning wife, was careful to erect this monument. Died May 7, 1710, 
 in the 19 year of his ministry, and 69 year of his age. 
 
 "Thou wert a faithful pastor, a beloved brother, a sure friend, a gentle master, a 
 genial husband and father. 
 
 " Having resigned the gift of an upright and pure life, thou hast yielded to the 
 fates ; thy years passed happily, O thrice blessed ! thy fame is above the high hills and 
 green banks of Yarrow, thy soul above the stars !" 
 
 Often did Sir Walter, when residing in Ashiestiel, then in 
 the parish of Yarrow, walk over the hills to this old Kirk in the 
 Forest " to worship," as he used to say, " at the shrine of his 
 ancestors." The Rutherfords were a talented family. Pro- 
 fessor Rutherford, son of the minister, and grandfather of 
 Scott, was a notable man in his day, and contributed not a 
 little towards the fame which the medical schools in Edinburgh 
 have so long and justly enjoyed. It has sometimes been said 
 that it was through the Rutherfords Scott inherited his extra- 
 ordinary genius. Be this as it may, it is a significant and 
 highly interesting fact that he had an ancestral connection with 
 the romantic vale which his genius has done so much to render 
 famous in all parts of the world. There may, therefore, be
 
 SIR WALTER SCOTT. 129 
 
 more than a mere element of association to account for the 
 feeling expressed with touching pathos in the lines : 
 
 " By Yarrow's stream still let me stray, 
 Though none should guide my feeble way ; 
 Still feel the breeze down Ettrick break, 
 Although it chill my withered cheek." 
 
 This period of Scott's life was at once the happiest and most 
 fruitful in his long and chequered career. He was still happily 
 free from those harassing and killing cares which the building 
 of Abbotsford was so soon to bring upon him. He held 
 an office which kept him in touch with the public in- 
 terests of the time, and his income from this and other 
 sources was more than sufficient to meet the wants of his 
 household, and the numerous claims on his beneficence. His 
 home life was unclouded. He had a young and promising 
 family growing up around him, in whose education and training 
 he took the keenest personal interest. His literary activity was 
 also unbounded. He rose betimes, and the early hours were 
 religiously consecrated to painstaking, yet rapid, composition. 
 During this bright and busy period he wrote The Lay of 
 the Last Minstrel, Marmion, The Lady of the Lake, and 
 Waverley four of the most brilliant productions which his 
 fertile pen has given to the world. Lockhart regards 
 Marmion as the greatest of all his poems a judgment that 
 subsequent criticism has more than substantiated. The Lay 
 and Marmion are both full of local colouring. The scene of 
 the former is laid at Newark, an old Border Castle or " Keep," 
 still in an excellent state of preservation, standing on the banks
 
 130 SIR WALTER SCOTT. 
 
 of the Yarrow, some four miles above Selkirk, and near 
 Bowhill, a favourite residence of the " Bold Buccleuch." The 
 latter is a "Tale of Flodden Field," and is replete with the 
 most graphic descriptions of Border scenery. 
 
 But Scott was no brooding recluse, buried in his books, 
 uninterested in the life of the great world around him. He 
 toiled hard at his desk, yet he always found plenty of 
 time to engage in those out-of-door exercises and pastimes 
 for which he had at once great aptitude and liking. 
 Despite his lameness he was an excellent walker, and many 
 a pleasant afternoon was spent in scouring the surrounding 
 hills, followed by his faithful deerhounds, fleet of foot, quick 
 of eye, and ever ready for the chase. Sometimes, also, he 
 would take long rides, over into the vale of Yarrow, as far 
 as "lone St. Mary's," where 
 
 " Your horse's hoof tread sounds too rude, 
 So stilly is the solitude." 
 
 On such occasions he was always splendidly mounted. He 
 was passionately fond of horses, and seems to have been more 
 than ordinarily fortunate in his selection. Brown Adam (so 
 called after one of the heroes of the Minstrelsy), was one of the 
 famous steeds he rode at this time. We are told that he was 
 intractable in other hands, though in his the most submissive of 
 faithful allies. " The moment he was bridled and saddled, it 
 was the custom to open the stable door as a signal that his 
 master expected him, when he immediately trotted to the side 
 of the leaping-on-stone, of which Scott from his lameness found
 
 SIR WALTER SCOTT. 131 
 
 it convenient to make use, and stood there, silent and motion- 
 less as a rock, until he was fairly in his seat, after which he 
 displayed his joy by neighing triumphantly through a brilliant 
 succession of curvettings. ' Brown Adam ' never suffered 
 himself to be backed but by his master. He broke, I 
 believe, one groom's arm and another's leg in the rash 
 attempt to tamper with his dignity." 
 
 These exercises were varied at certain seasons by an exciting 
 pastime, which in these degenerate days has become illegal 
 (not merely extra legal!} -burning the water. The Tweed 
 Commissioners an august body for which the Souters of 
 Selkirk are supposed to entertain anything but kindly feelings 
 had not then emerged into notoriety, and consequently no 
 restrictions seem to have been imposed on the spearing of 
 salmon. As every Borderer is aware, this captivating 
 amusement is carried on under cloud of night. Armed 
 with leister and torch, a raid is made on some famous 
 pool where salmon are known to be plentiful. The search 
 is highly exciting owing to the difficulty of capturing the 
 prey, and also on account of the misadventures which 
 so frequently befall the too eager sportsman. " This amuse- 
 ment of burning the water," writes Mr Skene on one 
 occasion when on a visit to Sir Walter " was not without some 
 hazard, for the large salmon generally lie in the pools, the 
 depths of which it is not easy to estimate with precision by 
 torch light; so that not unfrequently, when the sportsman 
 makes a determined thrust at a fish apparently within reach, his 
 
 K2
 
 132 SIR WALTER SCOTT. 
 
 eye has greatly deceived him, and instead of the point of the 
 weapon encountering the prey, he finds himself launched with 
 corresponding vehemence heels over head into the pool, both 
 spear and salmon gone, the torch thrown out by the concussion 
 of the boat, and quenched in the stream, while the boat itself 
 has receded to some distance. I remember the first time I 
 accompanied our friend he went right over the gunwale in this 
 manner, and had I not accidentally been by his side, and made 
 a successful grasp at the skirt of his jacket as he plunged 
 overboard, he must at least have had an awkward dive for it." 
 This interesting amusement, we may say, is still frequently 
 indulged in despite the statutory prohibition, but now the 
 adventurous sportsman must needs keep an eye on the bailiffs 
 as well as the salmon ! 
 
 Like every great poet, Scott was eminently sociable in his 
 disposition. He was at home in almost every cottage and farm- 
 house between Tweed and Teviot, between the Eildons and 
 Ettrick Pen. He lived on terms of friendship with men 
 belonging to all classes in the community. He was warmly 
 attached to the noble house of Buccleuch, and enjoyed in 
 a rare degree the confidence of the various members of the 
 family. He had also an interesting neighbour in Laird Nippy, 
 of the Peel, who, as his sobriquet implies, was of a stingy 
 disposition, but withal had many excellent qualities. Despite 
 his worldliness he had evidently a kindly feeling towards his 
 distinguished neighbour, for we find that years after Scott had 
 settled in Abbotsford, old Nippy kept the seat on the " Sheriff's
 
 SIR WALTER SCOTT. 133 
 
 Knowe " in good repair as a mark of his respect for Sir Walter. 
 This, Scott once declared, was the greatest compliment he 
 ever received. At this time also his acquaintance with James 
 Hogg, the Ettrick Shepherd, ripened into a warm attachment. 
 He must have felt a deep interest in the simple, untutored, 
 egotistic, yet, withal, kindly and sociable shepherd who sang 
 with a note as clear, musical, and spontaneous as his 
 own " Deathless Skylark." There were times, too, when 
 Hogg must have severely put to the test the large-hearted- 
 ness of his friend. For example, when he wrote Sir Walter 
 asking him to send a contribution to his Poetic Mirror, 
 and was met for some reason or other with a blank refusal, 
 he gave way to an outburst of passion, and wrote Scott 
 
 saying " , Sir, I hold your friendship and literary 
 
 talents in contempt !" Such incidents, however, were not with- 
 out a redeeming element of humour, and, at most, only caused 
 a slight ripple on the surface of a friendship which for many 
 years was a source of great interest to the one, and of much 
 advantage, both intellectually and socially, to the other. An 
 old man, who in early life was a stable boy in Sir Walter's 
 employment, used to say, when speaking of Hogg's visits, that 
 the pony he rode at that time presented an extraordinary 
 appearance. It had a long shaggy mane and tail which were 
 evidently utter strangers to brush and comb, and moreover it 
 frequently bore abundant traces of having been placed in too 
 close proximity to the henery ! 
 
 Among other visitors at Ashiestiel was Mungo Park, the
 
 134 SIR WALTER SCOTT. 
 
 African traveller, whose home at Fowldshiels was only a few 
 miles distant. Lockhart has given a deeply interesting account 
 of Park's last visit to Scott. Towards the end of the autumn, 
 when about to quit his country for the last time, Park paid Scott 
 a farewell visit and slept at Ashiestiel. Next morning his host 
 accompanied him homewards over the wild chain of hills 
 between the Tweed and the Yarrow. Park talked much of his 
 new scheme, and mentioned his determination to tell his family 
 that he had business for a day or two in Edinburgh, and send 
 them his blessing from thence, without returning to take leave. 
 He had married not long before a beautiful and amiable 
 woman, and when they reached the Williamhope Ridge, the 
 autumnal mist floating slowly down the valley of the Yarrow, 
 presented to Scott's imagination a striking emblem of the 
 troubled and uncertain prospect which his undertaking had 
 afforded. He remained, however, unshaken, and at length 
 they reached the spot at which they had agreed to separate. 
 A small ditch divided the moor from the road, and in going 
 over it Park's horse stumbled and nearly fell. " I am afraid, 
 Mungo," said the Sheriff, " that is a bad omen," to which 
 he answered, " Fnets follow those who look to them." In 
 a few moments these two friends had parted for the last time 
 on earth. 
 
 It would have been well had Scott contented himself in 
 Ashiestiel well at least for his own peace of mind for here 
 he spent eight bright and peaceful years yet the troubles which 
 the building of Abbotsford brought upon him led him to
 
 HUSHED IS THE HARP. 
 
 135 
 
 exercise his literary talents in a way that would have been 
 impossible in other and happier circumstances. The associa- 
 tions of Ashiestiel are all joyful and peaceful, and the place 
 will be visited by many for his sake as long as Waverley and 
 Marmion are remembered. 
 
 Scott was born at Edinburgh on the i5th August, 1771, and 
 died at Abbotsford on the 2ist September, 1832. 
 
 HUSHED IS THE HARP. 
 [" THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL." Canto F/.] 
 
 Hush'd is the harp the Minstrel gone, 
 
 And did he wander forth alone ? 
 
 Alone, in indigence and age, 
 
 To linger out his pilgrimage ? 
 
 No : close beneath proud Newark's tower, 
 
 Arose the Minstrel's lowly bower;
 
 136 SIR WALTER SCOTT. 
 
 A simple hut ; but there was seen 
 The little garden, hedged with green, 
 The cheerful hearth, and lattice clean. 
 There shelter'd wanderers, by the blaze, 
 Oft heard the tale of other days ; 
 For much he loved to ope his door, 
 And give the aid he begg'd before. 
 So pass'd the winter's day ; but still, 
 When summer smiled on sweet Bowhill, 
 And July's eve, with balmy breath, 
 Waved the blue-bells on Newark heath ; 
 When throstles sung in Hare-head shaw, 
 And corn was green on Carterhaugh, 
 And flourished, broad, Blackandro's oak, 
 The aged Harper's soul awoke 1 
 Then would he sing achievements high, 
 And circumstance of chivalry, 
 Till the rapt traveller would stay, 
 Forgetful of the closing day ; 
 And noble youths, the strain to hear, 
 Forsook the hunting of the deer ; 
 And Yarrow, as he rolled along, 
 Bore burden to the Minstrel's song. 
 
 BURNING OF ST. MARY'S KIRK. 
 [From " THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL." Canto //.] 
 
 For the Baron went on pilgrimage, 
 And took with him this elvish Page,
 
 YARROW IN THE OLDEN TIME. 137 
 
 To Mary's chapel of the Lowes : 
 For there, beside our Ladye's lake, 
 An offering he had sworn to make, 
 
 And he would pay his vows. 
 But the Ladye of Branksome gather'd a band 
 Of the best that would ride at her command ; 
 
 The trysting-place was Newark Lee. 
 Wat of Harden came thither amain, 
 And thither came John of Thirlestane, 
 And thither came William of Deloraine ; 
 
 They were three hundred spears and three. 
 Through Douglas-burn, up Yarrow stream, 
 Their horses prance, their lances gleam. 
 
 They came to St. Mary's lake ere day ; 
 
 But the chapel was void, and the Baron away. 
 They burned the chapel for very rage, 
 And cursed Lord Cranstoun's Goblin-Page. 
 
 YARROW IN THE OLDEN TIME. 
 [" MARMION" Introduction to Canto //.] 
 
 The scenes are desert now, and bare, 
 
 Where flourish'd once a forest fair, 
 
 When these waste glens with copse were lined, 
 
 And peopled with the hart and hind. 
 
 Yon Thorn perchance whose prickly spears 
 
 Have fenced him for three hundred years, 
 
 While fell around his green compeers
 
 138 SIX WALTER SCOTT. 
 
 Yon lonely Thorn, would he could tell 
 The changes of his parent dell, 
 Since he, so grey and stubborn now, 
 Waved in each breeze a sapling bough ; 
 Would he could tell how deep the shade, 
 A thousand mingled branches made ; 
 How broad the shadows of the oak, 
 How clung the rowan to the rock, 
 And through the foliage show'd his head, 
 With narrow leaves, and berries red ; 
 What pines on every mountain sprung, 
 O'er every dell what birches hung, 
 In every breeze what aspens shook, 
 What alders shaded every brook : 
 
 " Here, in my shade," methinks he'd say. 
 " The mighty stag at noon-tide lay : 
 The wolf I've seen, a fiercer game, 
 (The neighbouring dingle bears his name,) 
 With lurching step around me prowl, 
 And stop, against the moon to howl ; 
 The mountain-boar, on battle set, 
 His tusks upon my stem would whet ; 
 While doe, and roe, and red-deer good, 
 Have bounded by, through gay green-wood. 
 Then oft, from Newark's riven tower, 
 Sallied a Scottish monarch's power : 
 A thousand vassals muster'd round, 
 With horse, and hawk, and horn, and hound ;
 
 YARROW IN THE OLDEN TIME. 139 
 
 And I might see the youth intent, 
 Guard every pass with crossbow bent ; 
 And through the brake the rangers stalk, 
 And falc'ners hold the ready hawk ; 
 And foresters in green-wood trim, 
 Lead in the leash the gazehounds grim, 
 Attentive, as the bratchet's bay, 
 From the dark covert drove the prey, 
 To slip them as he broke away. 
 The startled quarry bounds amain, 
 As fast the gallant greyhounds strain ; 
 Whistles the arrow from the bow, 
 Answers the harquebuss below ; 
 While all the rocking hills reply, 
 To hoof clang, hound, and hunter's cry, 
 And bugles ringing lightsomely." 
 
 Of such proud huntings, many tales 
 Yet linger in our lonely dales, 
 Up pathless Ettricke, and on Yarrow, 
 Where erst the outlaw drew his arrow. 
 But not more blithe that silvan court, 
 Than we have been at humbler sport ; 
 Though small our pomp, and mean our game, 
 Our mirth, dear Marriott, was the same, 
 Remembers't thou my greyhounds true ? 
 O'er holt, or hill, there never flew, 
 From slip, or leash, there never sprang, 
 More fleet of foot, or sure of fang.
 
 140 SIR WALTER SCOTT. 
 
 Nor dull, between each merry chase, 
 
 Pass'd by the intermitted space ; 
 
 For we had fair resource in store, 
 
 In Classic, and in Gothic lore: 
 
 We mark'd each memorable scene, 
 
 And held poetic talk between ; 
 
 Nor hill, nor brook, we paced along, 
 
 But had its legend, or its song. 
 
 All silent now for now are still 
 
 Thy bowers, untenanted Bowhill ! 
 
 No longer, from thy mountains dun, 
 
 The yeoman hears the well-known gun, 
 
 And, while his honest heart glows warm, 
 
 At thought of his paternal farm, 
 
 Round to his mates a brimmer fills, 
 
 And drinks " The Chieftain of the Hills !" 
 
 No fairy forms, in Yarrow's bowers, 
 
 Trip o'er the walks, or tend the flowers, 
 
 Fair as the elves whom Janet saw, 
 
 By moonlight, dance on Carterhaugh ; 
 
 No youthful Baron's left to grace 
 
 The Forest-Sheriff's lonely chase, 
 
 And ape, in manly step and tone, 
 
 The majesty of Oberon : 
 
 And she is gone, whose lovely face 
 
 Is but her least and lowest grace ; 
 
 Though if to Sylphid Queen 'twere given, 
 
 To show our earth the charms of heaven, 
 
 She could not glide along the air, 
 
 With form more light, or face more fair.
 
 YARROW IN THE OLDEN TIME. 141 
 
 No more the widow's deafen'd ear 
 Grows quick, that lady's step to hear : 
 At noontide she expects her not, 
 Nor busies her to trim the cot ; 
 Pensive she turns her humming wheel, 
 Or pensive cooks her orphan's meal ; 
 Yet blesses, ere she deals their bread, 
 The gentle hand by which they're fed. 
 
 From Yair, which hills so closely bind, 
 Scarce can the Tweed his passage find, 
 Though much he fret, and chafe, and toil, 
 Till all his eddying currents boil, 
 Her long-descended lord is gone, 
 And left us by the stream alone. 
 And much I miss those sportive boys, 
 Companions of my mountain joys, 
 Just at the age 'twixt boy and youth, 
 When thought is speech, and speech is truth. 
 Close to my side, with what delight 
 They press 'd to hear of Wallace wight, 
 When, pointing to his airy mound, 
 I call'd his ramparts holy ground! 
 Kindled their brows to hear me speak ; 
 And I have smiled, to feel my cheek, 
 Despite the difference of our years, 
 Return again the glow of theirs. 
 Ah, happy boys I such feelings pure, 
 They will not, cannot, long endure ;
 
 142 SIX WALTER SCOTT. 
 
 Condemn'd to stem the world's rude tide, 
 You may not linger by the side ; 
 For Fate shall thrust you from the shore, 
 And Passion ply the sail and oar. 
 Yet cherish the remembrance still, 
 Of the lone mountain, and the rill ; 
 For trust, dear boys, the time will come, 
 When fiercer transport shall be dumb, 
 And you will think right frequently, 
 But, well I hope, without a sigh, 
 On the free hours that we have spent 
 Together, on the brown hills bent. 
 
 When, musing on companions gone, 
 We doubly feel ourselves alone, 
 Something, my friend, we yet may gain, 
 There is a pleasure in this pain : 
 It soothes the love of lonely rest, 
 Deep in each gentler heart impress'd. 
 Tis silent amid worldly toils, 
 And stifled soon by mental broils ; 
 But, in a bosom thus prepared, 
 Its still small voice is often heard, 
 Whispering a mingled sentiment, 
 'Twixt resignation and content. 
 Oft in my mind such thoughts awake, 
 By lone Saint Mary's silent lake ; 
 Thou know'st it well, nor fen, nor sedge, 
 Pollute the pure lake's crystal edge ;
 
 YARROW IN THE OLDEN TIME. 143 
 
 Abrupt and sheer, the mountains sink 
 
 At once upon the level brink ; 
 
 And just a trace of silver sand 
 
 Marks where the water meets the land. 
 
 Far in the mirror, bright and blue, 
 
 Each hill's huge outline you may view ; 
 
 Shaggy with heath, but lonely bare, 
 
 Nor tree, nor bush, nor brake, is there, 
 
 Save where, of land, yon slender line 
 
 Bears thwart the lake the scatter'd pine. 
 
 Yet even this nakedness has power, 
 
 And aids the feeling of the hour : 
 
 Nor thicket, dell, nor copse you spy, 
 
 Where living thing conceal'd might lie ; 
 
 Nor point, retiring, hides a dell, 
 
 Where swain, or woodman lone, might dwell ; 
 
 There's nothing left to fancy's guess, 
 
 You see that all is loneliness : 
 
 And silence aids though the steep hills 
 
 Send to the lake a thousands rills ; 
 
 In summer tide, so soft they weep, 
 
 The sound but lulls the ear asleep ; 
 
 Your horse's hoof-tread sounds too rude, 
 
 So stilly is the solitude. 
 
 Nought living meets the eye or ear, 
 But well I ween the dead are near ; 
 For though, in feudal strife, a foe 
 Hath laid Our Lady's chapel low,
 
 144 SIR WALTER SCOTT. 
 
 Yet still, beneath the hallow'd soil, 
 The peasant rests him from his toil, 
 And, dying, bids his bones be laid, 
 Where erst his simple fathers pray'd. 
 
 If age had tamed the passions' strife, 
 And fate had cut my ties to life, 
 Here, have I thought, 'twere sweet to dwell, 
 And rear again the chaplain's cell, 
 Like that same peaceful hermitage, 
 Where Milton long'd to spend his age. 
 'Twere sweet to mark the setting day, 
 On Bourhope's lonely top decay ; 
 And, as it faint and feeble died, 
 On the broad lake, and mountain's side, 
 To say, " Thus pleasures fade away ; 
 Youth, talents, beauty, thus decay, 
 And leave us dark, forlorn, and grey ;" 
 Then gaze on Dryhope's ruin'd tower, 
 And think on Yarrow's faded Flower : 
 And when that mountain-sound I heard, 
 Which bids us be for storm prepared, 
 The distant rustling of his wings, 
 As up his force the Tempest brings, 
 'Twere sweet, ere yet his terrors rave, 
 To sit upon the Wizard's grave ; 
 That Wizard-Priest's, whose bones are thrust 
 From company of holy dust ; 
 On which no sunbeam ever shines 
 (So superstition's creed divines)
 
 YARROW IN THE OLDEN TIME. 145 
 
 Thence view the lake, with sullen roar, 
 
 Heave her broad billows to the shore ; 
 
 And mark the wild swans mount the gale, 
 
 Spread wide through mist their snowy sail, 
 
 And ever stoop again, to lave 
 
 Their bosoms on the surging wave : 
 
 Then, when, against the driving hail, 
 
 No longer might my plaid avail, 
 
 Back to my lonely home retire, 
 
 And light my lamp, and trim my fire ; 
 
 There ponder o'er some mystic lay, 
 
 Till the wild tale had all its sway, 
 
 And, in the bittern's distant shriek, 
 
 I heard unearthly voices speak, 
 
 And thought the Wizard Priest was come, 
 
 To claim again his ancient home ! 
 
 And bade my busy fancy range, 
 
 To frame him fitting shape and strange, 
 
 Till from the task my brow I clear'd, 
 
 And smiled to think that I had fear'd. 
 
 But chief, 'twere sweet to think such life, 
 (Though but escape from fortune's strife,) 
 Something most matchless good, and wise, 
 A great and grateful sacrifice ; 
 And deem each hour, to musing given, 
 A step upon the road to heaven. 
 
 Yet him, whose heart is ill at ease, 
 Such peaceful solitudes displease :
 
 146 SIR WALTER SCOTT. 
 
 He loves to drown his bosom's jar 
 
 Amid the elemental war : 
 
 And my black Palmer's choice had been 
 
 Some ruder and more savage scene, 
 
 Like that which frowns round dark Loch-skene. 
 
 There eagles scream from isle to shore ; 
 
 Down all the rocks the torrents roar ; 
 
 O'er the black waves incessant driven, 
 
 Dark mists infect the summer heaven ; 
 
 Through the rude barriers of the lake, 
 
 Away its hurrying waters break, 
 
 Faster and whiter dash and curl, 
 
 Till down yon dark abyss they hurl. 
 
 Rises the fog-smoke white as snow, 
 
 Thunders the viewless stream below, 
 
 Diving, as if condemned to lave 
 
 Some demon's subterranean cave, 
 
 Who, prisoned by enchanter's spell, 
 
 Shakes the dark rock with groan and yell. 
 
 And well that Palmer's form and mien 
 
 Had suited with the stormy scene, 
 
 Just on the edge, straining his ken 
 
 To view the bottom of the den, 
 
 Where, deep, deep down, and far within, 
 
 Toils with the rocks the roaring linn ; 
 
 Then, issuing forth one foamy wave, 
 
 And wheeling round the Giant's Grave, 
 
 White as the snowy charger's tail, 
 
 Drives down the pass of Moffatdale.
 
 WILLIAM LAIDLAW. 147 
 
 WILLIAM LAIDLAW. 
 
 WILLIAM LAIDLAW was born at Blackhouse, on the 
 Douglas Burn, near St. Mary's Loch, November 19, 
 1780. He was sprung of a good stock. His father, James 
 Laidlaw, was a man of quite exceptional intelligence and 
 ability. William was the eldest of three sons, and seems to 
 have received an excellent education. He was the intimate and 
 life-long friend of James Hogg, who was for ten years a 
 shepherd in Blackhouse. Laidlaw was one of the first to 
 recognise the " Shepherd's " poetical genius, and he gave him 
 much encouragement in the prosecution of his literary labours. 
 Sir Walter Scott met him in 1801, when he was going from 
 house to house all over the Border country collecting materials 
 for his Minstrelsy, and from the first he seems to have enter- 
 tained a strong liking for him, He began life by renting a 
 farm on the Traquair estate, afterwards going to one at Liberton 
 near Edinburgh ; but, like Hogg, he was not successful as a 
 farmer. In 1817 he became steward to Sir Walter at Abbots- 
 ford, and here he remained for several years, securing the 
 warm esteem of his employer, whom he in turn almost 
 worshipped. Part of his time was spent in literary work, the 
 fruits of which were mainly contributed to the Edinburgh 
 
 L2
 
 148 WILLIAM LAI DL AW. 
 
 Annual Register. The terrible crisis which occurred in Sir 
 Walter's financial affairs necessitated his leaving Abbotsford 
 for a short period. He returned, however, in 1830, and 
 continued in his former position till Scott's death in 1832. 
 After this he went to Ross-shire as factor to Sir Charles 
 Lockart Ross, of Balnagowan, but his health failing he retired 
 and went to reside with his brother near Dingwall, where he 
 died May 18, 1845, aged 65. 
 
 Besides his well known and highly popular song, " Lucy's 
 Flittin'," which was first published in Hogg's Forest Minstrel 
 in 1810, Laidlaw was the author of the sweet and simple songs, 
 "Her Bonnie Black E'e" and "Alake for the Lassie." He 
 also wrote on " Scottish Superstitions " to the Edinburgh 
 Magazine; contributed several articles to the Encyclopedia; and 
 was the author of a geological description of his native county. 
 Had he given himself to literature he might have become 
 eminent, as he had intellectual powers of a high and rare order ; 
 but he does not seem to have been moved by any powerful 
 literary ambition. " Lucy's Flittin' " will certainly prove the 
 most lasting memorial of his literary genius. The last 
 verse of the song is from the pen of the " Ettrick Shepherd." 
 It is generally understood that he is the "Jamie" "sae 
 dowie and cheerless," and that the incident so pathetically 
 described is based on fact. 
 
 Some difficulty has been experienced in fixing the locality of 
 the scene. The residents on the banks of the Quair are of 
 opinion that "The Glen," now the magnificent mansion of
 
 LUCY'S FLITTIN'. 149 
 
 Sir Charles Tennant, Bart., is the place referred to. On 
 the other hand the writer has interviewed a number of 
 Laidlaw's relatives (some of them knew the poet intimately) 
 and also several old people in the district, and the 
 only opinion he has ever elicited is that " the glen " alluded 
 to in the song is the one through which the Douglas 
 Burn meanders to the Yarrow. This view finds confirma- 
 tion in the poem itself. In the first edition of Hogg's Forest 
 Minstrel the line runs thus : 
 
 " And Lucy had served f the glen a' the simmer." 
 
 The italics are ours, but the fact that " glen " is not 
 printed with a capital " G " is strong evidence that Laidlaw 
 was not thinking of the house of that name. The expression 
 applies admirably to the situation of Blackhouse, and until 
 much stronger evidence is forthcoming than has yet been 
 produced, every reader of Laidlaw's poem will be more 
 than justified in fixing the scene of the incident in the 
 glen of the Douglas Burn. 
 
 LUCY'S FLITTIN'. 
 
 'Twas when the wan leaf frae the birk tree was fa'in', 
 And Martinmas dowie had wound up the year, 
 
 That Lucy row'd up her wee kist, wi' her a' in, 
 And left her auld master and neebours sae dear.
 
 ISO WILLIAM LAIDLAW. 
 
 For Lucy had served i' the glen a' the simmer ; 
 
 She cam' there afore the flow'r bloom'd on the pea ; 
 An orphan was she, an' they had been gude till her, 
 
 Sure that was the thing brocht the tear in her e'e. 
 
 She gaed by the stable where Jamie was stan'in' ; 
 
 Richt sair was his kind heart the flittin' to see. 
 " Fare ye weel, Lucy," quo' Jamie, and ran in, 
 
 The gatherin' tears trickled fast frae his e'e. 
 As doun the burnside she gaed slow wi' her flittin', 
 
 " Fare ye weel, Lucy," was ilka bird's sang. 
 She heard the craw sayin't, high on the tree sittin', 
 
 And Robin was chirpin't the brown leaves amang. 
 
 " Oh ! what is't that pits my puir heart in a flutter ? 
 
 An' what gars the tear come sae fast to my e'e ? 
 If I wasna ettled to be ony better, 
 
 Then what gars me wish ony better to be ? 
 I'm just like a lammie that loses its mither; 
 
 Nae mither or friend the puir lammie can see ; 
 I fear I hae left my bit heart a' thegither, 
 
 Nae wonder the tear fa's sae fast frae my e'e. 
 
 " Wi' the rest o' my claes I hae row'd up the ribbon, 
 
 The bonny blue ribbon that Jamie ga'e me ; 
 Yestreen, when he ga'e me't and saw I was sabbin', 
 
 I'll never forget the wae blink o' his e'e. 
 Though now he said naething but " Fare ye weel, Lucy ! " 
 
 It made me I neither could speak, hear, nor see ; 
 He couldna say mair, but just " Fare ye weel, Lucy ! " 
 
 Yet that I will mind till the day that I dee.
 
 LUCY'S FLITT1N\ 
 
 " The lamb likes the gowan wi' dew when its droukit ; 
 
 The hare likes the brake, and the braird on the lee ; 
 But Lucy likes Jamie ; " she turned an' she lookit, 
 
 She thocht the dear place she wad never mair see. 
 Ah ! weel may young Jamie gang dowie an' cheerless ! 
 
 And weel may he greet on the bank o' the burn ! 
 For bonny sweet Lucy, sae gentle an' peerless, 
 
 Lies cauld in her grave, and will never return.
 
 152 
 
 JOHN WILSON. 
 
 JOHN WILSON 
 
 JOHN WILSON, better known as Christopher North, was 
 born in Paisley a town which has been honoured as the 
 birth-place of many illustrious men on the i8th May, 1785. 
 He began life with almost every advantage that can fall to the 
 lot of any son of Adam. His father was a man of intelligence 
 and culture, and blessed with no mean share of this world's 
 goods. His mother had gentle blood in her veins ; was lineally
 
 JOHN WILSON. 153 
 
 descended by the female side from the great Marquis of 
 Montrose, a fact which may have had something to do both 
 with Wilson's physical and mental characteristics. In his 
 childish years, we are told, he was as beautiful and animated a 
 creature as ever played in the sunshine. We are not surprised 
 to learn that his passion for sports, especially for angling, was 
 developed at an early period. He was not more than three 
 years of age when he had the infinite and never-to-be-forgotten 
 satisfaction of landing his first trout ! This incident produced 
 a deep impression on his mind, and created within him a 
 passion for the gentle craft, which was extinguished only with 
 life. But in his childhood he was fond of preaching as well as 
 fishing, and was wont to amuse the family by delivering an 
 impassioned discourse on the text " There was a fish, and a 
 deil o' a fish, and it was ill to its young anes." Like the 
 " Beadle " in Dean Ramsay, he had no difficulty in drawing an 
 inference. He had much to say about parents that were kind 
 to their children, and others that were the reverse, and, as may 
 be imagined, the bad ones were somewhat severely dealt with by 
 this budding professor of Moral Philosophy. In his case the 
 principle that " the boy is father to the man " was abundantly 
 illustrated, for throughout life his passion for sport was 
 equalled only by his love of oratory. Either in the ring or 
 the rostrum he had but few superiors. 
 
 He began his education under a Mr Peddie, who was then 
 teacher of the English school in Paisley, but when quite young 
 he was placed under the tutorial supervision of the minister in
 
 154 JOHN WILSON. 
 
 the neighbouring parish of Mearns, Dr M'Latchie, who seems 
 to have given his pupils sound instruction, combined with ample 
 freedom to indulge in all manner of out-of-door pastimes. 
 Many a memorable day was spent by the burn sides, or 
 scouring the heathy uplands, thus laying up, if not impres- 
 sions of an intellectual kind, at least a store of good health 
 against the demands of later life. In 1797, at the early 
 age of fourteen, Wilson matriculated as a student in Glasgow 
 University, and had the good fortune to be boarded with 
 Professor Jardine, a wise, genial, scholarly man, who took 
 a lively interest in his welfare. He does not seem to 
 have been greatly burdened by the ordinary routine of class 
 work. Rarely indeed was it necessary for him to burn the 
 midnight oil, but this was doubtless due in great part to his 
 wonderful capacity for mastering a subject long before others 
 of less ready wit had begun to realise its bearings. His 
 philosophical genius asserted itself in the logic class, where he 
 easily out-distanced all competitors. In some cases great 
 minds ripen slowly, but it was not so in his. The seed time 
 gave every promise of an abundant harvest a prophecy which 
 was amply fulfilled. It is interesting to note that Wilson was 
 one of the first in this country to recognise the genius of 
 Wordsworth, and when a student in Glasgow, wrote a long 
 letter to the poet expressing his admiration. This letter, which 
 is one of the earliest productions of his pen, gives indication of 
 a keen and subtle intellect, and of a warm and generous 
 heart.
 
 JOHN WILSOX. 155 
 
 In 1 803 he entered as a gentleman commoner of Magdalen 
 College, Oxford. He was now free to choose his own path in 
 life, and to one situated as he was, with plenty of money at his 
 command, and thus freed from the necessity of exerting him- 
 self in order to gain a material end, there was a strong 
 temptation to fall into a life either of idleness, or, worse still, of 
 dissipation. That he did not lead an idle life is evident from 
 the fact that he passed the final examination for his degree with 
 great distinction ; and in regard to his habits otherwise, they 
 were doubtless much akin to those of the average Oxonian of 
 that period. He had a liking for the inns where the coaches 
 stopped, and probably spent more time in such places than he 
 should have done. 
 
 His physical vigour at this period, as, indeed, throughout life, 
 was extraordinary. He was close on six feet in height ; broad- 
 shouldered, deep chested, strong limbed a man not to be trifled 
 with. His pugilistic and pedestrian exploits filled the minds of 
 his friends and fellow-students with a feeling of amazement. 
 De Quincey says : " There was no man who had any talents, 
 real or fancied, for thumping or being thumped, but he had 
 experienced some preeing of his merits from John Wilson. All 
 other pretensions to the gymnastic arts he took a pride in 
 humbling or in honouring, but chiefly his examinations fell upon 
 pugilism, and not a man who could ' give ' or ' take ' but 
 waited to have punished, or been punished, by Wilson of 
 Mallens." The following anecdote, which, we are assured, has 
 the merit of being true, fully bears out De Quincey's statement.
 
 156 JOHN WILSON, 
 
 "Meeting one day with a rough and unruly wayfarer, who 
 showed inclination to pick a quarrel concerning right of passage 
 across a certain bridge, the fellow obstructed the way, and 
 making himself decidedly obnoxious, Wilson lost all patience 
 and offered to fight him. The man made no objection to the 
 proposal, but replied that he had better not fight with him, as he 
 was so and so, mentioning the name of a (then not unknown) 
 pugilist. This statement, as may be supposed, had no effect 
 in damping the belligerent intentions of the Oxonian ; he knew 
 his own strength, and his skill too. In one moment off went 
 his coat, and he set to on his antagonist in splendid style. The 
 astonished and punished rival, on recovering from his blows and 
 surprise, accosted him thus : ' You can only be one of the two ', 
 you are either Jack Wilson or the devil.' " Many incidents of 
 a similar nature might be recorded, as Wilson's interest in such 
 pugilistic encounters was life-long. But his pedestrian feats at 
 this period are, perhaps, even more remarkable than his pugilistic 
 skill. On one occasion, when in London, he happened to have 
 an encounter on the street with a fellow who had insulted him, 
 and having punished him somewhat severely, he thought he had 
 better get out of the way. Though the evening was well 
 advanced, he started to walk to Oxford, a distance of sixty miles, 
 where he arrived in the early morning! 
 
 Having completed his studies at Oxford, he retired to 
 Elleray, a small estate he had purchased in Westmoreland, on 
 Lake Windermere. The situation is one of the finest in that 
 charming country, commanding a view of the lake from one
 
 JOHN WILSON. 157 
 
 extremity to the other, with its deeply indented and richly 
 wooded shores, and emerald islands " chased in gold." Here 
 he enjoyed the friendship of Wordsworth, De Quincey, 
 (who was then residing in the neighbourhood), and Hartley 
 Coleridge, a man of rare genius ; but strangely deficient in 
 self control. Though without a profession, or calling of any 
 kind, he was not idle, nor did time hang heavy on his hands. 
 He now began in earnest to write poetry. Long anterior to 
 this he had been conscious of the divine afflatus, but hitherto 
 his thoughts had been otherwise engaged. The opportunity, 
 however, had come, and he was ready to embrace it. The 
 Isle of Palms was the first garnered fruit of his poetical 
 genius. The book was favourably received, and at once 
 established the reputation of its author. But troublous times 
 were at hand. His literary activity was destined to be 
 stimulated, as in the case of Sir Walter Scott, by a painful, and, 
 what would have been to many, an overwhelming disaster. An 
 uncle in whom he seems to have reposed implicit confidence, 
 proved unfaithful, acted, indeed, the part of the unjust 
 steward, and in a moment Wilson was left almost penniless. 
 It was a terrible blow, more especially as he had only a short 
 time before been married to an amiable and accomplished lady, 
 and had thus become involved in the cares of a household and 
 family. Though his equanimity was thus rudely disturbed, he 
 did not yield to the spirit of despair. He knew that he could 
 easily make a way for himself in the world, and he at once 
 began to lay his plans. He resolved to study for the bar ; and
 
 1 58 JOHN WILSON. 
 
 in course of time we find him in Edinburgh doing his utmost 
 to secure the necessary qualifications. Ere long he is pacing 
 the Hall of Parliament House, wigged and gowned a full- 
 blown advocate. Had he applied himself, it is highly probable 
 that he would have risen to a distinguished position ; but the 
 intricacies and minutiae of the law were but little to his liking. 
 He occasionally got cases, but when he found them on his table 
 he used to say that " he did not know what the devil to do with 
 them." 
 
 It was about this time (1815) that he made his first pilgrimage 
 to the " Dowie Dens o' Yarrow." He walked from Edinburgh 
 to Peebles on a Saturday in the month of June, arriving there, 
 he tells us, a perfect lameter, his shoes having " peeled his 
 timbers." He thus describes his further progress : " On 
 Monday morning at six o'clock (miraculous !) I uprose from 
 the couch of slumber, and walked along the Tweed to 
 Traquair Knowe (Mr Laidlaw's). There I fished, and stayed 
 all morning, the place being very beautiful. Mr Laidlaw is 
 married, an insectologist and poet, and farmer and agriculturist. 
 On Tuesday morning I walked to Hogg's, a distance of about 
 eight miles, fishing as I went, and surprised him in his cottage 
 bottling whisky. He is well and dressed pastorally. His 
 house is not habitable, but the situation is good and may 
 become pretty. There being no beds in his domicile, we last 
 night came here, a farmer's house about a quarter of a mile 
 from him, where I have been treated most kindly and hospi- 
 tably. The house and entertainment something a la Wastdale,
 
 JOHN WILSON. 159 
 
 but much superior. I have risen at seven o'clock, and am 
 preparing to take a complete day's fishing among the streams 
 near St. Mary's Loch." " On one of these fishing excursions," 
 we are told, " he had proceeded from St. Mary's Loch to 
 Peebles, where he could not at first get admittance to the inn, 
 as it was fully occupied by a party of country gentlemen, met 
 together on some county business. On sending in his name, 
 however, he was immediately asked to join them at dinner. It 
 is needless to say that, under his spell, the fun grew fast and 
 furious. No one thought of moving. Supper was proposed, 
 and as nothing eatable was to be had in the house, Wilson 
 asked the company if they liked trouts, and forthwith produced 
 the result of his day's amusement from basket, bag, and pocket, 
 in such numbers that the table was soon literally covered. As 
 the Shepherd afterwards said : ' Your creel was fu' your 
 shooting bag fu' your jacket-pouches fu' the pouches o' 
 your verra breeks fu' half-a-dozen wee anes in your waistcoat, 
 no to forget them in the crown o' your hat, and, last o' a, 
 when there was nae place to stow awa' ony mair, a willow wand 
 through the gills o' some great big anes.' " The angler's -silent 
 trade was a ruling passion with Wilson. His enthusiasm never 
 flagged. In order to enjoy his favourite pastime, he would 
 walk sometimes fifty or sixty miles to some stream or loch 
 among the hills. On such occasions he always felt that a good 
 day's sport more than compensated him for all the discomforts 
 of the journey. " In he used to gang," the Shepherd says, 
 " out, out, out, and ever sae far out frae the point o' a
 
 160 JOHN WILSON. 
 
 promontory, sinking aye further and further doon, first to the 
 waistband o' his breeks, then up to the middle button o' his 
 waistcoat, then to the verra briest, then to the oxters, then to the 
 neck, and then to the verra chin o' him, sae that ye wunnered 
 how he could fling the flee ; till, last o' a', he would plump 
 richt oot o' sicht, till the Highlander on Ben Cruachan thocht 
 him drooned. No he, indeed ; sae he takes to the sooming, 
 and strikes awa' wi' ae arm, for the tither had haud o' the rod ; 
 and could ye believ't, though its as true as Scripture, fishing a' 
 the time, that no a moment o' the cloudy day micht be lost ; 
 ettles at an island a quarter o' a mile aff, wi' trees, and an auld 
 ruin o' a religious house, wherein beads used to be counted, 
 and wafers eaten, and mass uttered hundreds o' years ago ; and 
 getting footing on the yellow sand or green sward, he but gies 
 himself a shake, and ere the sun looks out o' the clud, has 
 hyucket a four-pounder, whom, in four minutes (for its a 
 multiplying pirn the cretur uses), he lands gasping through the 
 the giant gills, and glittering wi' a thousand spots, streaks, 
 and stars, on the shore." 
 
 The love of fishing first brought Wilson to Yarrow, but 
 soon the valley, with its quiet beauty and romantic associations, 
 cast its spell over his genius, as in so many other cases, and 
 held him a willing captive to its charms. He became a warm 
 friend, and an ardent admirer of the Ettrick Shepherd, and 
 many a jovial night he spent in his society at Altrive and 
 Mount Benger, when Hogg would doubtless sing of his own, 
 and with that weird " lilt," suggestive of mountain solitude, by
 
 JOHN WILSON. 161 
 
 which his vocal muse was characterised. And the fiddle, too, 
 would often be in requisition, and when the floor was cleared 
 for a reel, the lads and lassies with one accord would join 
 in the merry dance, led on by the buoyant Professor, 
 who was an adept in everything pertaining to the calisthenic 
 art. 
 
 But for everything there is a time and a season. Such hours 
 of innocent gaiety were followed by days of quiet wandering 
 by mountain, moor, and stream, when the mind had time 
 to reflect on the great problems of nature and life, and 
 to drink in the inspiration which breathes upon the soul 
 through the manifold forms of beauty with which the Creator 
 has adorned the world. Then what glorious conversations 
 of an evening as the two poets sat by the fire long after 
 the other members of the household had gone to rest. It was 
 then he studied the ways of the Shepherd, became familiar 
 with his modes of thought and feeling, and was thus 
 able to depict him with inimitable humour in the Nodes 
 AmbrosiancB. That Wilson loved Yarrow was fascinated by 
 it we cannot doubt ; but he has not given such full expression 
 to this feeling in his poetry as might have been expected. 
 There are many passages in the Nodes which indicate clearly 
 enough his interest in the Vale, and keen appreciation of its 
 natural beauty and historic charms ; but his poems are all 
 but silent on this theme. The reason of this is not far to seek. 
 After he went to Edinburgh he found his hands more than full. 
 His contributions to Blackwood alone were enough to keep
 
 1 62 
 
 JOHN WILSON. 
 
 an ordinary man busy; but in addition to this he filled the 
 Chair of Moral Philosophy in the University an office which 
 necessarily entailed large demands on his time and energies. 
 
 Mrs Gordon has given a delightful account of a visit which 
 Wilson paid to Tibbie Shiel's. " True to his love for spring," 
 she says, " he had selected that season for an excursion to the 
 pastoral vales of Yarrow and Ettrick, where glittering rivers, 
 
 ' Winding through the pomp of cultivated nature,' 
 
 attracted more than one poet's admiration, for if Wordsworth 
 sang in verse, W T ilson uttered in prose how ' in spirit all streams
 
 JOHN WILSON. 163 
 
 are one that flow through the Forest. Ettrick and Yarrow 
 come rushing into each other's arms aboon the haughs o' 
 Selkirk, and then flow Tweed-blent to the sea.' In the month 
 of May he sent an invitation to his students resident in the 
 south of Scotland, to meet him at ' Tibbie Shiel's,' where they 
 were to wander a day with him, 'to enjoy the first gentle 
 embrace of spring in some solitary spot.' Where could it have 
 been better selected than at St. Mary's Loch ? It was said that 
 the meeting was one of unspeakable delight ; the hills were 
 adorned with the freshest green, and the calm quiet lake 
 reflected the surrounding verdure in its deep waters, and 
 they beheld 
 
 J The swan on still St. Mary s Lake, 
 
 Float double, swan and shadow.' 
 
 The Professor spoke of the love of nature, and his words 
 impressed them all, and of the poet of Altrive, 'our own 
 Shepherd,' dear to all the rills that issue, in thousands, from 
 their own recesses among the braes; for when a poet walks 
 through regions his genius has sung, all nature does him 
 homage, from cloud to clod from the sky to green earth all 
 living creatures therein included, from eagle to the mole. James 
 knows this, and is happy among the hills. And was that little 
 company assembled by the ' dowie holms ' not happy too ? 
 Wilson was in his brightest mood ; no one was overlooked; joy- 
 ously and pleasantly passed the day ; and before evening laid its 
 westering shadows into gloaming, he called his students around 
 him, and, rising up, 'he shook his wild locks among them, 
 blessed them, called them his children,' and bade them adieu." 
 
 M2
 
 1 64 JOHN WILSON. 
 
 In the year 1854 John Wilson was gathered to his fathers. He 
 was deeply and sincerely mourned by a large circle of friends 
 and admirers. A splendid statue was erected to his memory in 
 Princes Street Gardens, Edinburgh, which will long preserve the 
 leonine aspect of a face at once massive and refined. But while 
 his name and fame are most intimately associated with the city 
 of his adoption, yet Yarrow claims him as one of her warmest 
 admirers, and as long as Tibbie Shiel's, Mount Benger, and 
 Altrive are suggestive of associations dear to the Scottish muse, 
 the memory of John Wilson will be fragrant. 
 
 It may be said that Wi Ison has no claim to be ranked among 
 the poets of Yarrow. He has written many poems, but with 
 one exception and in this case the allusion is indefinite he 
 has never embalmed in verse the romance of the valley. The 
 force of this objection must be frankly admitted, yet many of 
 his descriptions in the Nodes may be regarded as prose poems, 
 and these, too, of a high order. In the following description of 
 a snow storm in Yarrow, we have an admirable illustration of 
 what is meant : 
 
 " Tickler ' O, my dear James, conversation is at a very low 
 ebb in this world !' 
 
 " Shepherd ' I've often thought and felt that at parties 
 where ane micht hae expeckit better things. First o' a' comes 
 the wather no a bad toppic, but ane that town's folks ken 
 naething about. Wather ! my faith, had ye been but in Yarrow 
 last Thursday.'
 
 JOHN WILSON. 165 
 
 " Tickler ' What was the matter, James, last Thursday in 
 Yarrow ?' 
 
 " Shepherd ' I'se tell you, and judge for yoursel'. At four in 
 the morning it was that hard frost that the dubs were hearin', 
 and the midden was as hard as a rickle o' stanes. We couldna 
 plant the powtatoes. But the lift was clear. Between eight and 
 nine, a snaw storm came down frae the mountains about Loch- 
 skeen, noo a whirl, and noo a blash, till the grun' was whitey- 
 blue, wi' a sliddery sort o' sleet, and the Yarrow began to roar 
 wi' the melted broo, alang its frost-bound borders, and aneath 
 its banks, a' hanging wi' icicles, nane o' them thinner than my 
 twa arms. Weel, then, about eleven it began to rain, for the 
 wund had shifted and afore dinner-time, it was an even-down 
 pour. It fell lown about sax, and the air grew close and sultry 
 to a degree that was fearsome. Wha wud hae expeckit a 
 thunder storm on the eve o' sic a day ? But the heavens 
 in the thundery airt were like a dungeon, and I saw 
 the lightning playing like meteors athwart the blackness, 
 long before ony growl was in the gloom. Then, a' at 
 ance, like a waukened lion, the thunder rose up in his 
 den, and shaking his mane o' brindled clouds, broke 
 out with sic a roar that the very sun shuddered in eclipse, 
 and the grews and collies that happened to be sittin' beside 
 me on a bit knowe, gaed whinin' into the house wi' their 
 tails atween their legs, just venturin' a halflin glance to the 
 howlin' heavens noo a' in lowe, for the fire was strong and 
 fierce in electrical matter, and at intervals the illuminated
 
 1 66 JOHN WILSON. 
 
 mountains seemed to vomit out conflagration like verra 
 volcanoes. 
 
 ' Afore sunset, heaven and earth, like lovers after a quarrel, 
 lay embraced in each other's smile ! ' 
 
 " North 1 Beautiful ! Beautiful ! Beautiful !' 
 
 " Tickler ' Oh ! James, James, James !' 
 
 "Shepherd 'The lambs began their races on the lea, and 
 the thrush o' Eltrive (there is but a single pair in the vale aboon 
 the Kirk) awoke his hymn in the hill-silence. It was mair like 
 a mornin' than evenin' twilight, and a' the day's hurly-burly 
 had passed awa' into the uncertainty o' a last week's dream.' 
 
 "North 'Proof positive that, from the lips of a man of 
 genius, even the weather' 
 
 " Shepherd ' I could speak for hours, days, months, and 
 years, about the wather without e'er becoming tiresome. O 
 man, a cawm ! ' 
 
 " North ' On shore, or at sea ? ' 
 
 " Shepherd ' Either. I'm wrapped up in my plaid, and lyin' 
 a' my length on a bit green platform, fit for the fairies' feet, wi' 
 a craig hangin' ower me a thousand feet high, yet bright and 
 balmy a' the way up wi' flowers and briars, and broom and 
 birks, and mosses maist beautifu' to behold, wi' half-shut ee, 
 and through aneath ane's arm, guardin' the face frae the cloud- 
 less sunshine ! ' 
 
 " North ' A rivulet leaping from the rock.' 
 
 " Shepherd' No, Mr North, no loupin ; for it seems as if it 
 were nature's ain Sabbath, and the verra waters were at rest.
 
 JOHN WILSON. 167 
 
 Look down upon the vale profound, and the stream is without 
 motion ! No doubt, if you were walking along the bank, it 
 would be murmuring with your feet. But here here up 
 among the hills, we can imagine it asleep, even like the well 
 within the reach of my staff ! ' 
 
 ' Perhaps a bit bonny butterfly is resting, wi' faulded 
 wings, on a gowan no a yard frae your cheek; and noo, 
 waukening out o' a simmer dream, floats awa in its wavering 
 beauty, but as if unwilling to leave its place of mid-day sleep, 
 comin' back and back, and roun' and roun', on this side and 
 that side, and ettlin', in its capricious happiness, to fasten again 
 on some bright floweret, till the same breath o' wund that lifts 
 up your hair sae refreshingly catches the airy voyager, and 
 wafts her away into some other nook of her ephemeral 
 paradise.' 
 
 " Tickler ' I did not know that butterflies inhabited the 
 region of snow.' 
 
 " Shepherd ' Ay, and mony million moths ; some o' as 
 lovely green as the leaf of the moss-rose ; and ithers bright as 
 the blush with which she salutes the early dawn ; some yellow 
 as the long steady streaks that lie below the sun at set, and 
 ithers blue as the sky before his orb has westered. Spotted, 
 too, are all the glorious creatures' wings say, rather, starred wi' 
 constellations ! Yet, O, sirs, they are but creatures o' a day ! ' 
 
 " North ' Go on with the calm, James the calm !' 
 
 " Shepherd ' Gin a pile o' grass straughtens itself in silence,
 
 1 68 JOHN WILSON. 
 
 you hear it distinctly. I'm thinking that was the noise o' a 
 beetle gaun to pay a visit to a freen on the ither side o' that 
 mossy stane. The melting dew quakes ! Ay, sing awa', my 
 bonny bee, maist industrious o' God's creatures ! Dear me, the 
 heat is ower muckle for him ; and he burrows himsel' in amang 
 a tuft o' grass, like a beetle panting ! and noo invisible a' but 
 the yellow doup o' him. I too feel drowsy, and will go to sleep 
 among the mountain solitude.' 
 
 " North ' Not with such a show of clouds.' 
 
 " Shepherd ' No ! not with such a show of clouds. A 
 congregation of a million might worship in that Cathedral. 
 What a dome ! And is not that flight o' steps magnificent ? 
 My imagination sees a crowd of white-robed spirits ascending 
 to the inner shrine of the temple. Hark ! a bell tolls ! Yonder 
 it is, swinging to and fro, half-minute time, in its tower of 
 clouds. The great air organ 'gins to blow its pealing anthem 
 and the overcharged spirit falling from its vision, sees nothing 
 but the pageantry of earth's common vapours that ere long 
 will melt in showers, or be wafted away in darker masses over 
 the distance of the sea. Of what better stuff, O, Mr North, are 
 made all our waking dreams ?' "
 
 HENRY SCOTT RIDDLE. 169 
 
 HENRY SCOTT RIDDLE. 
 
 HENRY SCOTT RIDDLE was born at Sorbie, in the vale 
 of Ewes, a few miles from Langholm, Dumfriesshire, 
 in September 23, 1798. His father, who was a man of 
 superior intelligence, followed the occupation of shepherd. At 
 an early age Henry was hired, during the summer months, to 
 herd a neighbour's cows, and in winter he was sent to the 
 parish school, where he received an excellent elementary 
 training. He was not in his earlier years particularly enamoured 
 of books, owing, doubtless, to some extent, to the fact that he 
 was not kept regularly at school ; but as he grew up he began to 
 realise the importance of study, and as a young man he applied 
 himself enthusiastically to the task of self-improvement. He 
 read much and widely on all subjects. His environment was 
 also in the highest degree favourable to the development 
 of his poetical tastes. He was for a period of two years a 
 shepherd on the farm of Deloraine, then in the parish of 
 Yarrow, now belonging to the Quoad Civilia parish of Kirk- 
 hope, tenanted by a Mr Scott, the grandfather of the present 
 lessee. His father was for many years in Mr Scott's employ- 
 ment, and Henry was named after him. Report bears that he
 
 170 HENRY SCOTT RIDDLE. 
 
 was a skilful and eminently trustworthy shepherd, who never 
 went to the hill without a book of some kind or other hid under 
 the folds of his plaid. But his passion for books does not 
 seem to have interfered with the proper discharge of his onerous 
 duties. Here, on the green hills lying along the banks of the 
 Ettrick, as he tended his gentle flock, he read the masterpieces 
 of English literature, and stored his mind with ideas and facts 
 which, in after years, he employed to such excellent purpose. 
 Referring to this interesting and important period of his life, 
 he says : 
 
 " My early years were pass'd far on 
 The hills of Ettrick wild and lone; 
 Through summer sheen and winter shade, 
 Tending the flocks that o'er them stray'd. 
 In bold enthusiastic glee 
 I sung rude strains of minstrelsy, 
 Which, mingling with, died o'er the dale, 
 Unheeded as the plover's wail. 
 Oft where the waving rushes shed 
 A shelter frail around my head, 
 Weening, though not through hopes of fame, 
 To fix on these more lasting claim, 
 I'd there secure in rustic scroll 
 The wayward fancies of the soul. 
 Even where yon lofty rocks arise, 
 Hoar as the clouds in wintry skies, 
 Wrapp'd in the plaid, and dern'd beneath 
 The colder cone of drifted wreath. 
 I noted them afar from ken, 
 Till ink would freeze upon the pen ; 
 So deep the spell which bound the heart 
 Unto the bard's undying art 
 So rapt the charm that still beguiled 
 The minstrel of the mountains wild." 
 
 After leaving Deloraine he went to Todrig, a farm on 
 the River Ale, near Hawick. Here he made the acquaint- 
 ance of William Knox, the author of "The Lonely Hearth," 
 a man whose genius and intellectual ability were warmly
 
 HENRY SCOTT RIDDLE. 171 
 
 recognised by Professor Wilson and Sir Walter Scott. 
 " While here," he says, " my whole leisure time was employed 
 in writing. I composed while walking and looking the hill. 
 I also wrote down among the wilds. I yet remember, as in a 
 dream of poetry itself, how blessedly bright and beautiful 
 exceedingly were these wilds themselves early in summer 
 mornings, or when the white mists filled up the glens below, 
 and left the summits of the mountains near and far away as 
 sight could travel, green, calm, and serene as an eternity." 
 
 His father died, leaving him a small sum of money, and he 
 now determined to apply himself to study, with a view to enter- 
 ing the ministry. He went to a school in Biggar, where he 
 acquired the rudiments of classical learning, and in due time he 
 enrolled himself as a student in the University of Edinburgh. 
 His career was not brilliant. He entered college at an age 
 when most other students are leaving, and consequently it was 
 hardly to be expected that he should carry off many prizes. He 
 attracted the attention, however, of more than one professor. 
 Dunbar, the famous lexicographer, was delighted with the way 
 in which he translated one of the Odes of Anacreon his skill 
 in versification standing him in good stead. He was also a 
 favourite with Professor Wilson, who took a kindly interest in 
 his studies, and often invited him to spend an evening at his 
 house. 
 
 Shortly after completing his theological curriculum, he was 
 appointed by the Duke of Buccleuch to the newly formed 
 parish of Teviothead. His stipend was very small. Like
 
 172 HENRY SCOTT RIDDLE. 
 
 another famous parson, it might also be said of him that " he 
 was passing rich on forty pounds a year." His actual stipend 
 was $2 per annum, but then he had no manse, and con- 
 sequently was under the necessity of renting a house. He lived 
 for some years in the farm-house of Flex, nine miles distant 
 from the church, and as he could not afford to keep a horse, he 
 had to walk eighteen miles every Sunday, so that, all things 
 considered, his office was no sinecure. An incident which 
 occurred shortly before he went to live in the manse which the 
 Duke ultimately erected for the minister of the parish, was 
 the occasion of the composition of that beautiful lyric, 
 "The Emigrant's Wish." Returning home from preaching one 
 Sunday afternoon, wet and weary, Mrs Riddle, doubtless 
 anticipating the comforts of the new home, exclaimed, "Ah! 
 Henry, I wish we were hame to our ain folk." 
 
 His ministry in this rural parish was much appreciated by all 
 classes; but in 1841, nine years after his ordination, he was 
 laid aside from active duty by a severe nervous malady, from 
 which he was long in recovering. It was not thought advisable 
 that he should resume the duties of the pastorate, but the Duke, 
 with that large-hearted generosity so characteristic of the house 
 of Buccleuch, gave him the manse during his life-time, along 
 with a small annuity, and a few acres of ground. 
 
 Riddle was a voluminous author. When a student he com- 
 posed many songs for the Irish Minstrel and Select Melodies 
 of R. A. Smith, and for the original National Melodies of 
 Peter M'Leod. In 1841 he published his Songs of the Ark, and
 
 THE DOWIE DENS O' YARROW. 173 
 
 other Poems, followed in 1844 by a prose work, entitled: The 
 Christian Politician; or, the Right Way of Thinking. In 1847 
 another volume of poetry appeared, entitled Poems, Songs, and 
 Miscellaneous Pieces. He also published a book on Store 
 Farming in the South of Scotland. 
 
 Many of his songs have attained a wide and well-deserved 
 popularity. " The Crook and Plaid," " The Emigrant's Wish," 
 and " Scotland Yet," are often sung, and will long retain a high 
 place among the best and most popular songs in the language. 
 His " Dowie Dens o' Yarrow " is not one of his most successf u 
 efforts, but he has succeeded in catching to some extent the 
 spirit of the old ballads. This song, however, deserves a place 
 here not merely on the ground of its intrinsic merit, but because 
 we may almost claim Henry Scott Riddle as a native of the 
 Vale. His father lived for many years in Yarrow, and, as we 
 have already noticed, Henry was also for a time resident 
 in the district. 
 
 THE DOWIE DENS O' YARROW. 
 
 Oh, sister, there are midnight dreams 
 
 That pass not with the morning, 
 Then ask not why my reason swims 
 
 In a brain sae wildly burning ; 
 And ask not why I fancy how 
 
 Yon wee birds sing wi' sorrow, 
 For bluid lies mingled with the dew 
 
 In the dowie dens o' Yarrow.
 
 174 HENRY SCOTT RIDDLE. 
 
 My dream's wild light was not o' night, 
 
 Nor o' the doolfu' morning, 
 Thrice on the stream was seen the gleam 
 
 That seemed his sprite returning ; 
 For sword-girt men came down the glen, 
 
 An hour before the morrow, 
 And pierced the heart aye true to mine, 
 
 In the dowie dens o' Yarrow. 
 
 Oh ! there are red, red drops o' dew 
 
 Upon the wild flower's blossom, 
 But they couldna cool my burning brow, 
 
 And shall not stain my bosom ; 
 But from the clouds o' yon dark sky 
 
 A cold, cold shroud I'll borrow, 
 And long and deep shall be my sleep 
 
 In the dowie dens o' Yarrow. 
 
 This from the bluid-died flower shall press 
 
 By the heart o' him that lo'ed me ; 
 And I'll steal frae his lips a long, long kiss, 
 
 In the bower where oft he wooed me ; 
 For my arm shall fold and my tresses shield 
 
 The form o' my death-cold marrow, 
 When the breeze shall bring the raven's wing 
 
 O'er the dowie dens o' Yarrow.
 
 JOHN STUART BLACKIE. 175 
 
 JOHN STUART BLACKIE. 
 
 THERE are few names more intimately associated with 
 the life and literature of Scotland than that of John Stuart 
 Blackie. For more than half a century his name has been a 
 household word, and though now an octogenarian, it may be 
 said that "his eye is not yet dim, neither is his natural 
 strength abated." His literary activity is phenomenal. In his 
 time he has played many parts Poet, Preacher, Patriot, and 
 Professor of Greek and it is difficult to determine in which 
 he appears to greatest advantage, as in every work to which 
 he applies himself he seems as if to the manner born. Though 
 intensely Scottish in his sympaties, he is none the less an 
 enthusiastic cosmopolite, and feels almost as much at home 
 in Athens, Rome, and Berlin, as in his own beloved Edinburgh. 
 He is one of the few distinguished Scotsmen born furth of 
 Paisley ! Glasgow claims him as one of her sons. Here he 
 first saw the light on July 28, 1809. But his father, who was 
 a banker, removed to Aberdeen when John was quite young 
 a circumstance not without important consequences. He 
 entered Marischal College at the age of twelve, and under 
 the distinguished guidance of Professor Melvin a splendid 
 scholar and thoroughly capable teacher he acquired an
 
 176 JOHN STUART BLACKIE. 
 
 intimate knowledge of Latin, being able to read not only the 
 most difficult authors with facility, but to converse freely in the 
 language of the Caesars. He studied Divinity in Edinburgh 
 with a view to entering the Church ; but difficulties of a 
 theological kind led him ultimately to abandon this idea. He 
 went to the continent in 1829, and studied both at Gottingen 
 and Berlin. He then went to Italy, where he remained for 
 some months studying with much enthusiasm the language, 
 literature, and archaeology of the country. Returning to 
 Edinburgh, he began studying for the bar, to which in course 
 of time he was duly called. Not finding the intricacies of the 
 law much to his liking, he gave himself heartily to literature, 
 contributing numerous articles to the leading Magazines and 
 Reviews. His first work of any importance was a translation 
 of Goethe's Faust a production which afforded ample 
 evidence of his intimate and scholarly acquaintance with the 
 German language. In 1841 he was appointed Professor of 
 Humanity in Aberdeen. During the eleven years in which he 
 held this appointment his literary activity was unabated. He 
 published a translation of the dramas of JEschylus, which he 
 dedicated to Chevalier Bunsen and Edward Gerhard, " the 
 friends of his youth and the directors of his early studies." 
 
 In 1852 he was elected to the Chair of Greek in the 
 University of Edinburgh, a position from which he retired after 
 thirty years service. 
 
 His books are numerous. The following are a few of the 
 more important : Lays and Legends of Ancient Greece, and
 
 REN WICK AT R1SKINHOPE. 177 
 
 other Poems (1857) ; Homer and the Iliad (1866) ; Lays of the 
 Highlands and Islands (1872) ; Self-Culture (1874) ; Songs of 
 Religion and Life (1876).; The Language and Literature of 
 the Highlands (1877) ; Life of Burns (1888), &c., &c. 
 
 In 1889 Professor Blackie resided for three months in Yarrow, 
 and, as might be expected, manifested a lively interest in 
 the traditions and history of the Vale. The following poems 
 were written during this period, and, apart from their general 
 literary merits, they are deeply interesting on account of the 
 local setting which the author has been careful to give them. 
 
 RENWICK AT RISKINHOPE. 
 
 At Tibbie Shiel's here let them dance 
 
 And sing, I blame them not; 
 They came to play, e'en let them play, 
 But something in my heart to-day 
 Directs my steps and I obey 
 To a more sacred spot. 
 
 But yesterday I passed, and saw 
 
 At head of Moffat Water, 
 'Neath the sheer linn the darksome den 
 That hid the covenanting men 
 From the hot hunt, and hungry ken 
 
 Of eyes that fed on slaughter.
 
 1 78 JOHN STUART BLACKIE. 
 
 And here again is holy ground ; 
 
 Of Scotland's martyr band 
 Latest and best, the noble boy 
 Who scorned the bribe that would alloy 
 The truth with lies, in God's employ 
 
 Preached in this mountain land. 
 
 Mark well yon white house 'mid the trees ; 
 
 There, chased from glen to glen 
 By bloodhounds of a despot race, 
 Young Renwick found a sheltering place, 
 With looks of love and deeds of grace 
 
 From simple plaidedlmen. 
 
 Come, let us go ! So said, so done : 
 
 We clomb the brae together, 
 O'er stock and stone and mossy ground, 
 And huge broad hills that hemmed us round, 
 With swathes of grass all rankly crowned, 
 
 And tufts of shaggy heather. 
 
 Up we clomb, and down we slid, 
 
 Sheer to a mountain brook ; 
 Where on a sloping grassy mound 
 The people sate, in circle round, 
 And pulpit free the brave youth found, 
 To preach from holy book.
 
 REN WICK AT RTSKTNHOPE. 179 
 
 Mark well that stump, where once there grew 
 
 A thorn, a goodly tree ; 
 Even there he stood, and 'gan to sing 
 A powerful psalm, on faithful wing, 
 Most like to David, shepherd-king, 
 
 Ruddy and fair to see. 
 
 And there he preached, but not as some, 
 
 With eyes chained to a paper ; 
 Nor like to who in full career 
 Through seas of pleasant fancies steer, 
 With sounding phrase that charms the ear, 
 And floats away in vapour. 
 
 But like a marksman trained and tried, 
 
 To wing no doubtful arrow, 
 Who knows his ground and knows his game, 
 And with a sure determined aim 
 Brings down the prey he dared to claim 
 
 So Renwick preached in Yarrow. 
 
 " Their right to rule from righteous God 
 
 Right-hearted rulers borrow ; 
 But for this treacherous, murtherous race," 
 'Twas thus he spake, " disowned from grace, 
 Who for the devil wield the mace, 
 
 We own them not in Yarrow. 
 
 N2
 
 i8o JOHN STUART BLACKIE. 
 
 " Who make us puppets of their will, 
 
 To wait in servile station, 
 Well pleased to dance as they may pipe, 
 And from our souls the image wipe 
 Of God, and stamp it with the type 
 Of priestly domination. 
 
 " Not to uphold a Popish throne, 
 
 By hoar St. Andrews' tower, 
 Did Hamilton, the noble youth, 
 Beard the proud priest that knew no truth, 
 And, swathed in flame, for gospel truth 
 
 Uplift his voice with power. 
 
 " Not from a king to beg the right 
 
 Of prayer, on bended knee, 
 Did stout John Knox from gospel store, 
 With bolt of thunder smite the door 
 Of Rome, and with pure Bible lore 
 Made Scotland strong and free. 
 
 " Let servile souls with courtly lies 
 
 A base indulgence borrow ; 
 But you and I, and all the clan, 
 That own the noble name of man, 
 Will serve our God, and fear no ban 
 From Prince or Pope in Yarrow."
 
 REN WICK AT RISKINHOPE. 181 
 
 So preached the fair-faced boy, and knew 
 
 His preaching meant a deed ; 
 When in his ear the fierce halloo 
 Sounded of Clavers and his crew, 
 Who all God's people did pursue 
 
 To death, with murtherous speed. 
 
 He wept his last farewell ; then crossed 
 
 The hills to Manorhead ; 
 Thence down to where, with gentle sweep, 
 Tweed winds its waters slow and deep, 
 By lofty Neidpath's castled keep, 
 
 With hasty foot he sped. 
 
 Nor there might rest ; but on and on 
 
 Through Fife, a weary way ; 
 And backward thence with shifty skill, 
 And foot with travel faint, until 
 Beneath Dun Edin's castled hill, 
 The hunters trapped their prey ; 
 
 And dragged him where stern judges sate 
 
 In deathful judgment hall ; 
 Who plied him hard with legal phrase, 
 But sat and wondered with amaze, 
 While calmly he protests and prays, 
 
 " May God forgive you all !
 
 1 82 JOHN STUART BLACK1E. 
 
 " No laws against free-fielded prayer 
 
 In God's true book are found ; 
 God is my judge : to Popish James 
 I owe no cess : to own his claims 
 Let him find liege men on the Thames, 
 Not here on Scottish ground!" 
 
 Thus he : and calmly took his doom, 
 
 And with firm front denied ; 
 
 And to the crowded market place 
 
 Moved firmly with a steady pace, 
 
 And with a glory in his face, 
 
 Received the rope and died. 
 
 A LAY OF ST. MARY'S LOCH. 
 
 If there be who love to cherish 
 Pleasant thoughts in peaceful wise, 
 
 Far from smoke-enfolden cities, 
 'Neath blue curtain of the skies ; 
 
 Far from rush of fretful people, 
 Blinding dust and dinsome jar, 
 
 Cries of self-applauding hawkers, 
 Restive steed and rattling car ; 
 
 Far from press of dreary labour, 
 Whirling wheel and whizzing loom, 
 
 Clanking chain and swinging hammer, 
 Crowded hall and heated room ;
 
 A LAY OF ST. MARY'S LOCH. 183 
 
 From the loveless strife of parties, 
 And from churchly rancour free 
 
 Let him come to lone St. Mary's 
 Grassy-mantled hills with me ; 
 
 Let him roam with foot unchartered, 
 Up the cleugh and down the slope 
 
 Where the burnie brawls and brattles, 
 Where the pine tree shields the Hope.* 
 
 Let him pace the ground and ponder, 
 Where the Scot stout-hearted grew ; 
 
 Ever strong to strike for freedom 
 Douglas, Murray, and Buccleuch. 
 
 When our kings were babes and lordlings, 
 Fought with lordlings for the sway ; 
 
 Then the brave lords of the border 
 Kept the English churls at bay. 
 
 In his land a king was Murray, 
 
 Holding rule and giving law, 
 Where the Yarrow seeks the Ettrick 
 
 By the woods of Hangingshaw. 
 
 Lord was he of mighty bowmen, 
 
 Sharp to shoot as ere was seen ; 
 Belted for the strife, and clad in 
 
 Livery of the Lincome green. 
 
 *A farm-house built on a sort of delta or opening at the bottom of the mountain 
 stream?.
 
 1 84 JOHN STUART BLACK1E. 
 
 Bold Buccleuch he hated Murray, 
 Keen to blame and proud to spurn ; 
 
 Called him thief and called him outlaw, 
 From his hold in Rankleburn. 
 
 But King James, who knew more wisely 
 What a Murray's strength might be, 
 
 Came with pomp from high Dunedin, 
 With five thousand men came he. 
 
 Crossed the Tweed, and to the Outlaw 
 
 As a king swears truly swore, 
 What broad lands he won from England, 
 
 He might hold for evermore.* 
 
 With such memories fan thy patriot 
 Fire, of men that saved fair Tweed 
 
 From the grasp of greedy Southrons, 
 By brave word and manly deed. 
 
 Or, if pity move thee rather, 
 
 Take a tale of dole and sorrow, 
 Hanging by the grim old arches 
 
 Of some ivied tower in Yarrow. 
 
 Come with me across the Wardlaw, 
 
 To the burnf that bears a name 
 Brothered with the Bruce in battle, 
 
 To redress the Scot from shame. 
 
 *See the ballad of the Outlaw Murray, p. 32. 
 
 tThe Douglas Burn, which, rising in the heights of Blackhouse, on the borders of 
 Peebleshire, flows into the north bank of the Yarrow, about ij miles from the 
 eastern end of the loch.
 
 A LAY OF ST. MARY'S LOCH. 185 
 
 Come with me, and where the pine tree 
 Spreads its sheltering arms with might, 
 
 Note the grim keep whence the lover 
 Bore his love in dead of night. 
 
 Bold Sir William, little recking 
 
 Father's force or mother's wrath, 
 Bore the daughter of the Douglas 
 
 Lightly o'er the mountain path. 
 
 On a milk-white steed he bore her, 
 
 When, behold ! as swift as wind, 
 Seven stout brothers, with the father, 
 
 Followed on his track behind. 
 
 And they drew their brands, and dealt him 
 
 Sharply many a bleeding wound, 
 But he paid them back more sharply, 
 
 Laid them breathless on the ground. 
 
 But who wrought such scaithful ending, 
 
 He might not from scaith be free, 
 Pale and faint, with Lady Margaret 
 
 To his mother's hall rode he. 
 
 " Make my bed, for I am weary," 
 
 To his mother dear said he, 
 " Let me sleep, and let, dear Lady 
 
 Margaret sleep not far from me."
 
 1 86 JOHN STUART BLACK1E. 
 
 And he slept and knew no waking, 
 And she slept and woke no more, 
 
 And many wept and none were glad 
 On St. Mary's pebbly shore. 
 
 Weep for them, and pray that lovers 
 Nevermore may reap such sorrow 
 
 As the Douglas maid from love 
 
 Watered with heart's blood in Yarrow. 
 
 See yon white hut in the far end 
 Which the wood scarce half reveals, 
 
 That's the dear loved haunt of Douglas, 
 That's the shrine of Tibbie Shiels, 
 
 Kindly hostess of St. Mary, 
 
 Blithe and bountiful, shrewd and good, 
 He who knows not Tibbie, knows not 
 
 Scotland in her happiest mood. 
 
 Here the choicest sons of Scotland, 
 With health and wit and fishing rods, 
 
 Spent 'neath Tibbie's kindly tendance, 
 Nights and suppers of the gods. 
 
 Glorious John, high Priest of Maga, 
 Planted here his summer tent, 
 
 Lashed the loch, and swept the waters 
 On his finny hunt intent.
 
 A LAY OF ST. MARY'S LOCH. 187 
 
 Loved not he with lust of gazing, 
 
 Far to feed the wandering eye, 
 Down the Seine and up the Rhine stream. 
 
 Ever under some new sky. 
 
 Myrtle groves and stately palm trees, 
 Seek who will with lengthened tether, 
 
 His were cheaper joys and better 
 
 'Mid birch bowers and blooming heather. 
 
 All the day he lashed the water, 
 
 And at gentle eventide 
 Keenly ate with healthful hunger, 
 
 What the good dame might provide. 
 
 
 
 Ate and drank with stout contentment, 
 
 Like a schoolboy tired of play. 
 Not alone, but with him gathered, 
 
 In a friendly loose array, 
 
 Spirits worthy of his mettle, 
 
 Flinging shots of wit about, 
 Plashing in broad swirls of humour, 
 
 Like a young and lusty trout. 
 
 Learned judge from smokeful Glasgow,* 
 
 Tall and with a stately pace, 
 Wise to mingle weighty sentence, 
 
 With a word of light winged grace. 
 
 * Sheriff Glassford Bell.
 
 i88 JOHN STUART BLACKIE. 
 
 Sloddart, king of angling rhymers, 
 Who as blithe as bird in May, 
 
 Singing, fished, and fishing sang, 
 All the streams from Tweed to Spey. 
 
 Hogg, that gleaned with pious gleaning 
 All the flowers of minstrel lore, 
 
 That bloomed in Ettrick and in Yarrow 
 In the good old days of yore. 
 
 These with him and others with them, 
 Whom a kindly wind there blew, 
 
 True to Nature, true to Scotland, 
 And to sportive wisdom true. 
 
 There they sat and drank and sang, 
 Jolly boys well matched together, 
 
 Scarcely may such chums be found 
 Now in all our breadth of heather.
 
 JOHN CAMPBELL SHAIRP. 
 
 JOHN CAMPBELL SHAIRP. 
 
 JOHN CAMPBELL SHAIRP was born at Houston, 
 * Linlithgowshire, on the 3oth July, 1819. He was a 
 descendant of an old and well-known family, the property 
 of Houston having been acquired by the Shairps as far back as 
 the sixteenth century. His interest in Yarrow is not difficult to 
 account for, apart altogether from the historical associations of 
 the district. He was a lineal descendant of Mary Harden 
 Scott, "The Flower of Yarrow." His great-grandmother, 
 Anne Scott of Harden, was the eldest daughter of John 
 Scott, whose great-grandfather, Sir Gideon Scott, of High 
 Chester, was grand-son of "The Flower of Yarrow." She was 
 a Scott of Dryhope, and her romantic wooing is referred to in 
 Shairp's poem, " Three Friends in Yarrow." " His maternal 
 ancestry had a great interest for Shairp, and an inheritance of 
 good, reaching from a distant past, was probably an influential 
 element in the moulding of his character." His education 
 was carried on at first under a tutor, but in course of 
 time he was sent to the Edinburgh Academy, where he was 
 fully equipped for entering College, which he did in 1836. 
 He elected to study in Glasgow, and was boarded with the 
 Rev. Dr. Macleod, father of the late gifted Dr. Norman 
 Macleod, minister of the Barony, who became one of Shairp's 
 most intimate friends. In 1840 he gained the Snell
 
 1 90 JOHN CAMPBELL SHAIRP. 
 
 Exhibition, and went to Oxford, where he had a highly 
 respectable career, though not so brilliant as might have 
 been anticipated, considering his many advantages, and 
 the unflagging industry by which his student life was 
 characterised. He thought at one time of entering the 
 ministry of the Episcopal Church, but this idea he ultimately 
 abandoned. He was appointed to a mastership in Rugby, 
 under Tait, late Archbishop of Canterbury, who succeeded 
 Arnold, and was doing his utmost to maintain the reputa- 
 tion which the school had attained under his distinguished 
 predecessor. In Shairp he found an able and enthusiastic 
 coadjutor. He entered heartily into the work, and became 
 a great favourite both with the pupils and the numerous 
 body of his fellow teachers. But the intellectual atmo- 
 sphere of England was not a congenial one. He was 
 intensely Scottish in all his sympathies, and yearned to return 
 to "the land of the mountain and the flood." He was much 
 gratified when he was appointed to the Professorship of 
 Humanity in St. Andrew's, though the salary attached to this 
 office was barely adequate to the most ordinary requirements. 
 In this capacity he won the affectionate admiration of all 
 his students kindness and urbanity being always marked 
 features of his character. In due time he was appointed to the 
 Principalship, an office which he filled with credit to himself, 
 and advantage to the University. 
 
 As already indicated, Shairp had an ancestral connection 
 with the vale of Yarrow; and this, combined with his passionate
 
 JOHN CAMPBELL SHAIRP. 191 
 
 fondness for piscatorial pursuits, may have induced him to 
 visit the district at an early period of life. When he was only 
 nineteen years of age he made a pilgrimage to St. Mary's 
 Loch, and Tibbie Shiel's, and it is an interesting fact that his 
 first published poem was inspired by the scenery and associa- 
 tions of this romantic region. He called it "A Remembrance 
 of Two Days spent among the Braes of Yarrow, from the 
 evening of Tuesday, the 25th, till the forenoon of Thursday, 
 the 27th September, 1838." 
 
 In the year 1856 Professor Veitch whose name is a 
 household word all over the Border country met him, and 
 has recorded the impressions produced by his appearance 
 at this period. "In the early part of July, 1856," he says, 
 " I met him for the first time in Tibbie Shiel's Cottage. 
 He had been making that charming spot as rich in natural 
 beauty as in associations with the best Scottish poetry and 
 life of the last century a residence for some days. He 
 was then one of the masters of Rugby, and would be 
 in his thirty-seventh year. I had come up Moffatdale, by 
 Birkhill, and the Loch of the Lowes, through a day of 
 sunshine, and by hillsides flecked with shadow, and it was 
 now the 'gowden afternoon.' Passing through the gate which 
 leads to the arbour of peace and quiet beauty, to me an 
 oft-resting haunt, known as Tibbie Shiel's, the friend who 
 was with me, pointing to the figure before the door, said, 
 'There is Shairp?' .1 had in my ear dim rumours of him, 
 but had not met him before. A fair-haired, ruddy-faced,
 
 192 JOHN CAMPBELL SHAIRP. 
 
 and manly man with open light gray-blue eyes frank and 
 affable, with ready recognition. But what attracted me most 
 was that he was very wet trousers, stockings, and boots 
 all fairly soaked. There was no waterproof trash of gearing 
 in those days ; or, more probably, he despised it. He had 
 just come in from the upper hills, and had waded from one 
 glen to another, with a delightful sovereign contempt for the 
 plashing of the burns through which he had made his way. 
 This went to my heart at once. I was not generally at that 
 time inclined to respect a Rugby master. But, looking at 
 this Rugby master, in my soul I thought this must be a 
 good fellow, and he was. This was my first sight of, and 
 introduction to, Shairp ; and, though I spoke but a few 
 words with him, I marked him inwardly as a congenial 
 and lovable man. How little can we judge of the inner 
 feeling of a man from outside appearance and casual 
 greeting! After that time long after I learned that he 
 was under the shadow of a family sorrow. Mrs Shairp 
 was with him, brought, I imagine, for the first time to 
 Yarrow, a hope in him, I suppose, and well founded, 
 that she would share in its spirit in the inner chord of 
 sympathy with the pathetic feeling of the place perhaps 
 find some solace there."* 
 
 The visit here recorded gave rise to another poem, 
 characterised by an under-current of sadness. He had suffered 
 a sad bereavement, his son, " a more than commonly beautiful 
 
 * Principal Shairp and Ilig Friends, by Professor Knight.
 
 YARROW WATER. 193 
 
 boy," having died. He found much solacement in this region 
 of "pastoral melancholy," for his grief-stricken heart, and he 
 has given expression to his feeling in one of the sweetest and 
 most touching poems he has ever written. During this 
 summer he was residing in Moffat, and later in the season, in 
 the month of August, he made another pilgrimage to ' Tibbie's,' 
 with Dean Stanley and Mr Godfrey Lushington as his 
 companions. It is this visit that he has commemorated in the 
 poem " Three Friends in Yarrow," which was not published 
 till after his death. All his poetry is informed by a pathetic 
 and tender spirit, and, as might be expected, these qualities 
 find their most perfect expression in his poems on Yarrow. 
 
 YARROW WATER. 
 
 It's not that the green hills are fair, 
 
 And calm the lakes beneath them sleeping ; 
 
 There's nothing there can e'er repair 
 The sorrow we have long been weeping. 
 
 Though lambs are bleating far and near, 
 And plaintive pipes the moorland plover, 
 
 A tenderer cry still haunts our ear, 
 We shall no where on earth recover. 
 
 And yet if any place has felt 
 
 The mellowing touch of human sorrow, 
 And into woeworn hearts could melt, 
 
 Like healing balm, 'twere the braes of Yarrow. 
 
 o
 
 194 JOHN CAMPBELL SHAIRP. 
 
 There is a look o'er all these hills, 
 A chastened look of tender meekness, 
 
 That feelingly o'er human ills 
 
 Has brooded mortal pain and weakness. 
 
 There lies St. Mary's tranced and lone, 
 'Mid the old hills, their darling daughter, 
 
 A song of the dim ages gone, 
 Sings on for ever Yarrow Water. 
 
 And yet though gone the forest bield, 
 The grey peel towers decaying slowly, 
 
 These hills have life that will not yield 
 To fond regrets and sadness wholly. 
 
 They make the best of present boons, 
 The golden lights, the summer weather, 
 
 And prank their slopes 'gainst autumn noons 
 With streaks of bonny blooming heather. 
 
 And often at morning mist unfurled, 
 
 At gloamin touched with spiritual feeling, 
 
 They seem to hint of that blest world 
 
 Where weary hearts shall yet find healing. 
 
 NOTE. This poem, which is here printed for the first time, was placed at 
 my disposal by Mrs Shairp, who kindly consented, at my urgent request, to its 
 publication. R. B.
 
 THREE FRIENDS IN YARROW. 195 
 
 THREE FRIENDS IN YARROW. 
 
 O ! many a year is gone, since in life's fresh dawn, 
 
 The bonny forest over, 
 Morn to eve I wandered wide, as blithe as ever bride 
 
 To meet her faithful lover. 
 
 From Newark's birchen bower, to Dryhope's hoary Tower, 
 
 Peel and Keep I traced and numbered ; 
 And sought o'er muir and brae, by cairn and cromlech grey, 
 
 The graves where old warriors slumbered. 
 
 Where'er on hope or dale has lingered some faint trail 
 
 Of song or minstrel glory, 
 
 There I drank deep draughts at will, but could never drink my 
 fill, 
 
 Of the ancient Border story. 
 
 O fond and foolish time, when to ballad and old rhyme 
 
 Every throb of my pulse was beating ! 
 As if old world things like these could minister heart-ease, 
 
 Or the soul's deep want be meeting ! 
 
 Now when gone is summer prime, and the mellow autumn 
 
 time 
 
 Of the year and of life has found us, 
 With thee, O gentle friend, how sweet one hour to spend, 
 
 With the beauty of Yarrow all around us ! 
 
 o 2
 
 196 JOHN CAMPBELL SHAIRP. 
 
 With him too for a guide, the Poet of Tweedside, 
 
 Our steps 'mong the braes to order, 
 Who still doth prolong the fervour, torrent-strong, 
 
 The old spirit of the Border. 
 
 Heaven's calm autumnal grey on holm and hillside lay, 
 
 With here and there a gleaming ; 
 As the glints of sunny sheen down Herman's slopes of green 
 
 O'er St. Mary's lake came dreaming. 
 
 There on Dryhope's Tower forlorn we marked the rowan, born 
 
 From the rents of roofless ruin ; 
 And heard the [bridal] tale of the Flower of Yarrow Vale, 
 
 And her old romantic wooing. 
 
 And then we wandered higher, where once St. Mary's quire 
 
 O'er the still Lake watch was keeping : 
 But nothing now is seen save the lonely hillocks green, 
 
 Where the Shepherds of Yarrow are sleeping. 
 
 And we stood by the stone where Piers Cockburn rests alone, 
 With his Bride, in their dwelling narrow; 
 
 And thou heard'st their tale of dool, and the wail of sorrow full, 
 The saddest ever wailed on Yarrow. 
 
 Thou did'st listen, while thine eye all lovingly did lie 
 
 On the green braes spread around thee ; 
 But I knew by the deep-rapt quiet thou did'st keep 
 
 That the power of Yarrow had tound thee.
 
 THREE FRIENDS IN YARROW. 197 
 
 O, well that Yarrow should put on her sweetest mood 
 
 To meet thy gentle being ; 
 For of both the native mien and the fortunes ye have seen, 
 
 Respond with a strange agreeing. 
 
 There was beauty here before sorrow swept the Forest o'er, 
 
 Its beauty more meek to render : 
 
 Thou wert gentle from thy birth, and the toils and cares of 
 earth 
 
 Have but made thee more wisely tender. 
 
 High souls have come and gone, and on these braes have 
 thrown 
 
 The light of their glorious fancies, 
 And left their words to dwell and mingle with the spell 
 
 Of a thousand old romances. 
 
 And who more fit to find [than] thou in soul and mind 
 
 All akin to great bards departed, 
 
 The high thoughts here they breathed, the boon they have 
 bequeathed 
 
 To all the tender hearted ? 
 
 And we who did partake, by still St. Mary's Lake, 
 
 Those hours of renewed communion, 
 Shall feel, when far apart, the remembrance at our heart 
 
 Keeps alive our foregone soul-union. 
 
 From this world of eye and ear soon we must disappear ; 
 
 But our after-life may borrow 
 
 From these scenes some tone and hue, when all things are 
 made new 
 
 In a fairer land than Yarrow.
 
 198 JOHN VE1TCH. 
 
 JOHN VEITCH. 
 
 JOHN VEITCH was born at Peebles, October 24, 1829. 
 ^ He was educated in the Grammar School of his native 
 town. At sixteen he matriculated as a student in Edinburgh 
 University, where he had a highly distinguished career, 
 more especially in logic and moral philosophy. Shortly 
 after completing his course, the University conferred on 
 him the degree of M.A., and some time after, that of 
 LL.D. He was appointed to the chair of Logic and Rhetoric 
 in St. Andrews in 1860, and to the same chair in Glasgow 
 in 1864, a position which he still holds with much distinction. 
 In 1858 he wrote, by request of the Stewart trustees, 
 the Memoirs of Dugald Stewart. He also acted as joint- 
 editor, along with Dean Mansel, in superintending the 
 publication of Sir William Hamilton's Lectures on Metaphysics 
 and Logic. He has also translated the works of Descartes. 
 In 1878 he published the History and Poetry of the Scottish 
 Border, a work of great historical interest and value. This is 
 the standard work on the subject, and will long hold a 
 foremost place as a thoroughly safe and reliable guide book. 
 Professor Veitch is an enthusiastic Borderer. Nowhere is he 
 more at home than when wandering among the hills which 
 environ the Tweed, the Manor, and the Yarrow. He is
 
 IN YARROW. 199 
 
 familiar with every peak, and glen, and burn, between Tinto 
 and Minchmoor, and no one has given more perfect expression 
 to the weird, pathetic feeling which the natural scenery 
 of the district, combined with its tragic associations, creates 
 in the receptive mind and heart. Speaking of Professor 
 Veitch's poetry, a critic has remarked : " 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." Professor Veitch's 
 principal poetical works are Hillside Rhymes, published 1872 ; 
 The Tweed and of her Poems, 1875 5 Merlin, 1889. 
 
 IN YARROW. 
 
 JANUARY 2, 1886. 
 
 I'll see Newhall this winter day, 
 
 The withered hills to me are dear ; 
 The lint-white bent, the bracken brown, 
 
 Ye well beseem the faded year. 
 
 And restful all the heights around, 
 
 Their greenery spent, the summer gone, 
 
 Now waiting in a blissful calm, 
 With quiet faith, the April sun. 
 
 Nor without omen now of hope, 
 
 The sky-blue rift, the sunny gleam, 
 The soft wind bearing light and shade, 
 
 The leaping voices of the stream.
 
 2 oo JOHN VE1TCH. 
 
 I muse and pass by lone Glenlude, 
 There Yarrow spreads before my sight, 
 
 The grey clouds moving part, and throw 
 O'er the brown hills a dappled light. 
 
 No gliding stream art thou, this morn, 
 Thy flood each branching channel fills ; 
 
 In gleaming spears adown the vale 
 
 Thou pours't three Yarrows from the hills 
 
 In roaring sweep of Border fray, 
 Thou risest in this year new born ; 
 
 Untouched by age, untamed by time, 
 In strength as of thy earliest morn. 
 
 Now flow with all thy torrent force, 
 Bring pulsing of thy mighty heart, 
 
 Then softly voice the mournful strain, 
 Heard when fate-stricken lovers part. 
 
 Whate'er the years to come may hold, 
 Of love or power or tragic deed, 
 
 Well canst thou match the wondrous tale, 
 Let maiden sigh or warrior bleed. 
 
 Beseems the well the gentle tide 
 
 That flows in summer's gloamin' time ; 
 
 Befits thee well the forceful mood 
 
 'Neath this grey sky and winter clime.
 
 ST. MARY'S LOCH. 
 
 Thou'st known the craving heart of love, 
 The hapless fate of dule and sorrow, 
 
 The yearning for the south wind's breath 
 To waft a kiss to her on Yarrow. 
 
 Thou'st known the manly form outstretched 
 Face upwards on the benty heath, 
 
 No braver man than he laid low, 
 
 Nor stronger arm now limp in death. 
 
 Thou hast so framed our souls to these, 
 Well may'st thou leap and flash to-day ; 
 
 No grander man, no nobler maid 
 Shall live than in thy Ballad lay. 
 
 ST. MARY'S LOCH. 
 
 From RODONO, EVENING OF SEPTEMBER 5, 1884. 
 
 Thou canst not stay, dear Loch, unmoved beneath 
 This moon, the full-orbed eager eye that glows 
 Above thy southern hills, and holds thee bound 
 By passionate face of olden memories ; 
 Under the beam thou racest from the east, 
 In long drawn ripples, bright from shore to shore, 
 Thy deep full heart leaps up in joyous mood, 
 Free-bound in moving links of silver sheen,
 
 JOHN VEITCH. 
 
 The eager unconstraint of new-born love. 
 O'er thee thy guardian hills bend gleaming, fused, 
 Faint-dimmed, in the transparent veil, where now 
 In middle-air the olden visions float, 
 The love-lorn maiden of the Forest Kirk, 
 Her face whose tears bedewed the Dowie Den, 
 The lovers fleeing o'er the moonlit bent, 
 The widow wailing sore her loved-slain lord, 
 The dead that know not death, assembled there 
 Serene and still, as is the pearly cloud 
 Of this night's heaven, whose calm encircles thee, 
 Thou gentle, conquering moon ! 
 
 THE DOW GLEN: 
 IN THE HENDERLAND BURN. 
 
 Soft downwards glides the burnie 
 Into its deep dark Linn ; 
 
 The rude grey rocks encircling, 
 Listen the quiet din. 
 
 Two rowans twine their branches, 
 Where streamlet fills its urn ; 
 
 Ana gleam and shade are flecking 
 The waters as they turn.
 
 THE DOW GLEN. 203 
 
 On this fair morn of summer, 
 When the green is on the hill, 
 
 And every glen keeps silence 
 For the music of its rill ; 
 
 No marvel, Linn, old-storied, 
 
 Thou sharest the heart spread wide, 
 
 In sunny sheen arraying 
 Thy gentle lapsing tide. 
 
 As if thou'dst know no sorrow, 
 Ne'er heard a woman's wail, 
 
 And only note of gladness 
 Been wafted down thy Vale. 
 
 Yet once no deeper outburst 
 Heard the ages in their course, 
 
 Nor passion thrown to heaven, 
 In fiercer torrent force ; 
 
 As from the wife heart-broken, 
 
 Thy waters bore the cry, 
 And the forest hills in echo 
 
 Woke the world's sympathy. 
 
 Ah, me ! she hears the shouting, 
 Where she cowers beside the Linn ; 
 
 Around her lord men crowding, 
 And all the dying din.
 
 204 JOHN VElTCH. 
 
 A stroke of death, none feller 
 Hath ever flashed from cloud ; 
 
 In joy of life at morning, 
 At eve low in his blood. 
 
 And none now knows her story, 
 Where human heart doth dwell, 
 
 But weeps the woman watching 
 The dead she loved so well ; 
 
 But weeps the widow " happing " 
 Alone the form clay-cold, 
 
 In tender consecration 
 
 To the keeping of the mould. 
 
 Linn ! in mine ear thy cadence 
 Hath its own peculiar fall ; 
 
 As echo of a sorrow, 
 
 Through time which softens all. 
 
 And thy bright lapse, short-gleaming, 
 Of a life the symbol meet, 
 
 Whose joy all sudden closes 
 As in dark pool at thy feet. 
 
 Clings to thy rock thy ivy, 
 
 To keep faith's memory green ; 
 
 And the red rose of the briar 
 Glows where her love hath been,
 
 IN MEMORIAM. 205 
 
 A love that is undying, 
 
 As thou. Linn, goest ever on, 
 In rise and fall aye soughing 
 
 In sorrow's monotone. 
 
 IN MEMORIAM: 
 REV. JAMES RUSSELL, D.D., YARROW. 
 
 A morn of mist and weeping rain, 
 
 As well befits our sorrow, 
 Hangs o'er thy vale, and o'er thy stream, 
 
 Thou grievest rueful Yarrow ! 
 
 The courtly grace, the kindly face, 
 Thou keepest not his marrow, 
 
 A quiet, self-sufficing life 
 
 He lived by thee, O Yarrow ! 
 
 Of restless aim or fickle fame, 
 No comfort would he borrow, 
 
 But he would live the people's friend, 
 And be thy lover, Yarrow ! 
 
 By deed of blood, by hopeless love, 
 Thou every heart canst harrow, 
 
 Thy spirit .in our gentle friend 
 Was purified, O Yarrow !
 
 206 JOHN VEITCH. 
 
 The strife of life he heeded not, 
 His joy to heal the sorrow 
 
 That fell upon each humble heart, 
 By thy clear wave, O Yarrow ! 
 
 On every hill, in every glen, 
 To meet him was good morrow, 
 
 Now blithesome lark may o'er him trill 
 On thy dowie houms, O Yarrow ! 
 
 I've seen thee oft at winter tide, 
 But ne'er so sad beforrow, 
 
 Ne'er fern so seer, nor bent so wan, 
 Nor birk so bare in Yarrow ! 
 
 The pastor and the friend is gone, 
 Be his a brighter morrow 
 
 Than ever dawned upon the vale, 
 Even thine ! O winsome Yarrow ! 
 
 IN MEMORIAM : 
 
 THE REV. THOMAS M'CRINDLE, FOR 39 YEARS MINISTER OF 
 THE FREE CHURCH IN THE PARISH OF YARROW. 
 
 No conquering hero come we here to crown, 
 Or round a scholar's brow the wreathe entwine ; 
 His gentle sway of pure and simple heart, 
 And noble lesson of the life divine.
 
 IN MEMORIAM. 207 
 
 One Master his, and Him to serve alone 
 All heedless of the world, its bribe or blame, 
 A lowly life 'mid atmosphere of heaven 
 He lived, well worthy of the Christ-like name. 
 Ah ! gentle soul ! once Yarrow knew coarse times, 
 Dispeace and strife and voices bold and rude, 
 'Twas yours to touch us with a finer strain, 
 The loving peace of Christian brotherhood.
 
 208 
 
 JAMES BROWN. 
 
 T AMES BROWN, better known 
 * in the literary world as "J.B. &* 
 Selkirk," was born at Selkirk in 
 the year 1832. He received his 
 early training in one of the schools 
 of his native town, at that time 
 famous throughout the Borders as 
 an educational centre, and sub- 
 sequently was sent to The 
 Institution in Edinburgh,
 
 A SONG OF YARROW. 209 
 
 where he completed his education. He has been from an early 
 period of life a frequent contributor to Magazine literature 
 Blackwood and Cornhill especially having been favoured with 
 numerous contributions, in prose and verse, from his prolific 
 pen. He is also the author of the following works : 
 Bible Truths and Shakespearian Parallels (Longman's, 1862), 
 published in four editions since; Poems (Longman's, 1869); 
 Ethics and ^Esthetics of Modern Poetry (Smith, Elder & Co., 
 1878); Yarrow and other Poems (Kegan Paul, Trench & Co., 
 1883). These works display literary qualities of a high 
 order. His poems on Yarrow are full of local colouring. 
 No poet has ever sung the praises of the classic Vale 
 who knew it more intimately, and few indeed have so 
 perfectly caught the spirit of the place, or given to it such 
 an exquisite literary expression. " J. B. Selkirk's " poems 
 on Yarrow will be read and admired as long as the district 
 possesses charms for the poetic mind. 
 
 A SONG OF YARROW. 
 
 September, and the sun was low, 
 
 The tender greens were flecked with yellow, 
 And autumn's ardent after-glow 
 
 Made Yarrow's uplands rich and mellow.
 
 210 JAMES BROWN. 
 
 Between me and the sunken sun, 
 
 Where gloaming gathered in the meadows, 
 
 Contented cattle, red and dun, 
 
 Were slowly browsing in the shadows. 
 
 And out beyond them Newark reared 
 Its quiet tower against the sky, 
 
 As if its walls had never heard 
 Of wassail-rout or battle cry. 
 
 O'er moss-grown roofs that once had rung, 
 
 To reiver's riot, Border brawl, 
 The slumberous shadows mutely hung, 
 
 And silence deepened over all. 
 
 Above the high horizon bar 
 
 A cloud of golden mist was lying, 
 
 And over it a single star 
 
 Soared heavenward as the day was dying. 
 
 No sound, no word, from field or ford, 
 Nor breath of wind to float a feather, 
 
 While Yarrow's murmuring waters poured 
 A lonely music through the heather. 
 
 In silent fascination bound, 
 
 As if some mighty spell obeying, 
 
 The hills stood listening to the sound, 
 
 And wondering what the stream was saying.
 
 A SONG OF YARROW. 
 
 What secret to the inner ear, 
 
 What happier message was it bringing, 
 With more of hope, and less of fear, 
 
 Than men dare mix with earthly singing ? 
 
 Earth's song it was, yet heavenly growth 
 It was not joy, it was not sorrow 
 
 A strange heart-fulness of them both, 
 The wandering singer seemed to borrow. 
 
 Like one that sings and does not know, 
 But in a dream hears voices calling, 
 
 Of those that died long years ago, 
 
 And sings although the tears be falling. 
 
 Oh Yarrow ! garlanded with rhyme 
 That clothes thee in a mournful glory, 
 
 Though sunsets of an elder time 
 
 Had never crowned thee with a story, 
 
 Still would I wander by thy stream, 
 Still listen to the lonely singing, 
 
 That gives me back the golden dream 
 
 Through which old echoes yet are ringing. 
 
 Love's sunshine ! sorrow's bitter blast ! 
 
 Dear Yarrow, we have seen together; 
 For years have come, and years have past 
 
 Since first we met among the heather. 
 
 P2
 
 JAMES BROWN. 
 
 Ah ! those, indeed, were happy hours 
 When first I knew thee, gentle river ; 
 
 But now thy bonny birken bowers 
 To me, alas, are changed for ever ! 
 
 The best, the dearest, all have gone, 
 Gone like the bloom upon the heather, 
 
 And left us singing here alone, 
 
 Beside life's cold and winter weather. 
 
 I, too, pass on, but when I'm dead, 
 
 Thou still shall sing by night and morrow, 
 
 And help the aching heart and head 
 To bear the burden of its sorrow. 
 
 And summer flowers shall linger yet 
 
 Where all thy mossy margins guide thee ; 
 
 And minstrels, met as we have met, 
 
 Shall sit and sing their songs beside thee. 
 
 DEATH IN YARROW. 
 
 i. 
 It's no the sax month gane, 
 
 Sin' a' our cares began 
 Sin' she left us here alane, 
 
 Her callant and gudeman. 
 It was in the Spring she dee'd, 
 
 And now we're in the fa' ; 
 And sair we've struggled wi't, 
 
 Sin' his mother gaed awa'.
 
 DEATH IN YARROW. 213 
 
 II. 
 
 An awfu' blow was that 
 
 The deed that nane can dree ; 
 And lang and sair we grat 
 
 For her we couldna see. 
 I've aye been strong and fell, 
 
 And can stand a gey bit thraw ; 
 But the laddie's no hissel' 
 
 Sin' his mother gaed awa'. 
 
 in. 
 
 In a' the water-gate, 
 
 Ye couldna find his marrow 
 There wasna' ane his mate, 
 
 In Ettrick Shaws or Yarrow. 
 But he hasna now the look 
 
 He used to hae ava; 
 He's grown sae little buik 
 
 Sin' his mother gaed awa'. 
 
 IV. 
 
 I tak' him on my back, 
 
 In ilka blink o' sun, 
 Rin roun' about the stack, 
 
 And mak'-believe its fun. 
 But weel he kens, I warrant, 
 
 There's something wrang for a', 
 He's turned sae auld farrant 
 
 Sin' his mother gaed awa'.
 
 214 JAMES BROWN. 
 
 v. 
 
 For when he's play'd his fill, 
 
 I canna help but see, 
 How he draws the creepie stool 
 
 Aye the closer to my knee ; 
 And he turns his muckle een 
 
 To the picter on the wa', 
 Wi' a face grown thin and keen, 
 
 Sin' his mother gaed awa'. 
 
 VI. 
 
 I mak' his pickle meat 
 
 And I think I mak' it weel ; 
 And I warm his little feet, 
 
 When I hap him i' the creel ; 
 And he kisses me fu' couthie, 
 
 For he downa' sleep at a' 
 Till he hauds up his bit mouthie, 
 
 Sin' his mother gaed awa'. 
 
 vn. 
 
 And then I dander oot 
 
 When I can do nae mair, 
 And walk the hills aboot, 
 
 I dinna aye ken where ; 
 For my hairt's wi' ane abune, 
 
 And the ane is growin' twa, 
 He's dwined sae sair, sae sune, 
 
 Sin' his mother gaed awa.
 
 RETREAT IN YARROW. 215 
 
 VIII. 
 
 And now the lang day's dune, 
 
 And the nicht's begun to fa', 
 And a bonnie harvest mune 
 
 Rises up on Bowerhope Law. 
 It's a bonnie warlt this, 
 
 But it's no' for me at a', 
 For a' thing's gane amiss 
 
 Sin' his mother gaed awa'. 
 
 RETREAT IN YARROW: 
 DOBB'S LINN. 
 
 In the green bosom of the sunny hills, 
 Far from the weary sound of human ills, 
 
 Where silence sleepeth, 
 
 Where nothing breaks the still and charmed hours 
 Save whispering mountain stream that 'neath the flowers 
 
 For ever creepeth. 
 
 In the green bosom of the sunny hills 
 There let me live : where dewy freshness fills 
 
 The stainless sky, 
 
 Where, out of very love, the mighty breeze 
 That wildly wanders over heaving seas 
 
 Lies down to die.
 
 216 JAMES BROWN. 
 
 There let me live, there let me watch on high 
 Wild winter send adown the stormy sky 
 
 His howling crew. 
 
 Or when from heaven in the perfect time 
 Great summer sheddeth in her rosy prime 
 
 Joy-tears of dew. 
 
 My teachers are the hills; no truth that feigns 
 A subtle wisdom drawn from weary brains 
 
 With laboured care, 
 
 But nature's teaching, that from daisied sod 
 To lark-sung heights can find the love of God 
 
 Plain written everywhere. 
 
 My God is in the hills ; and men have left 
 Earth's temples, when of house and home bereft, 
 
 In truth's despair, 
 
 To seek among the hills, in hunted bands, 
 God's higher temple never built with hands, 
 
 And found it there. 
 
 Oh silent Hills, Oh everlasting Hills! 
 Whether the summer clothes or winter chills 
 
 Thy holy brow ! 
 
 Worshipping God for ever, while the breath 
 Of man dies out on meat that perisheth, 
 
 How beautiful art thou !
 
 RETREAT IN YARROW. 217 
 
 The restless fevered wave of human life 
 Is echoing down the ages, but the strife 
 
 Disturbs not thee. 
 
 Oh, mountain ! sending up thy ceaseless prayer, 
 Fervently silent, through the charmed air 
 
 Of heaven's blue sea. 
 
 The birth, the glory, or the fall of nations, 
 Is naught to thee ! delirious generations, 
 
 Ceasing never ! 
 
 Rave onward, and thou heedest not the chase, 
 But lookest up serenely in the face 
 
 Of God for ever !
 
 2i8 ANDREW LANG. 
 
 ANDREW LANG. 
 
 A NDREW LANG was born at Selkirk on the 3151 of 
 ** March, 1844. He was educated at the Edinburgh 
 Academy, St. Andrew's University, and Balliol College, 
 Oxford. He is an M.A. and LL.D. In 1868 he was elected 
 a Fellow of Merton College, Oxford. His contributions to 
 literature are numerous. The following are among his 
 principal works : Ballades in Blue China (1881), Helen 
 of Troy (1882), Rhymes a la mode (1884), Custom and 
 Myth (1884), &c., &c., &c. 
 
 He was appointed by the Senatus of St. Andrew's University 
 to deliver a course of lectures on Natural Theology, under the 
 Gifford Trust, and it is expected that these will shortly be given 
 to the world in book form. He writes in the Daily News and 
 St. James s Gazette, and several of his recent publications have 
 been reprinted from these sources. His contributions to 
 periodical literature are numerous. Indeed, there are few 
 Scotsmen more widely known or highly esteemed in the literary 
 world.
 
 A SUNSET IN YARROW. 219 
 
 A SUNSET IN YARROW. 
 
 The wind and the day had lived together, 
 
 They died together, and far away 
 Spoke farewell in the sultry weather, 
 One of the sunset, over the heather, 
 
 The dying wind and the dying day. 
 Far in the south, the summer even' 
 
 Flushed a flame in the grey soft air, 
 We seemed to look on the hills of heaven 
 You saw within, but to me 'twas given 
 
 To see your face, as an angel's, there. 
 Never again, ah ! surely never 
 
 Shall we wait and watch as of old we stood, 
 The low good night of the hill and the river, 
 The faint light fade, and the wan stars quiver, 
 
 Twain grown one in the solitude.
 
 220 ALEXANDER ANDERSON. 
 
 ALEXANDER ANDERSON. 
 
 A LEXANDER ANDERSON was born at Kirkconnel, 
 ** Dumfriesshire, on the 3<Dth April, 1845. He was 
 educated at the village school of Crocketford, Galloway, to 
 which place his parents had removed when he was quite 
 young. In course of time he returned to his native place, 
 and for a considerable number of years was engaged on 
 the railway as a surfacemen. An occupation of this nature 
 is by no means favourable to mental culture, or the develop- 
 ment of poetical tastes; but genius, in the long run, is sure 
 to assert itself, however unfavourable the environment. While 
 engaged in this way he acquired a knowledge of French, 
 German, and Italian, in order, as he says, that he might 
 be able to " appreciate, in their own tongue, the mighty 
 voices of Goethe, Schiller, and Dante." A poem on John 
 Keats, published in the People s Friend, at once brought 
 him into notice. His Song of Labour and other Poems 
 was published in 1873, and at once met with a most 
 generous reception from the press and the public. The 
 Two Angels and other Poems (1875); Songs of the Rail 
 (1878); Ballads and Sonnets (1879).
 
 IN YARROW. 221 
 
 His subsequent contributions to poetical literature have 
 amply fulfilled the promise of his first efforts. For some 
 years Mr Anderson has acted as one of the librarians in 
 the University of Edinburgh a situation thoroughly congenial 
 to his tastes. 
 
 Long before he visited the district, he manifested a lively 
 interest in the literature and romance of Yarrow. His first 
 impressions of the Vale are finely expressed in the poem 
 "In Yarrow." It will there be seen how thoroughly he was 
 in touch with its soul-stirring traditions. Though one of 
 the latest, he is certainly not one of the least of those around 
 whom Yarrow has thrown the mantle of her inspiration. 
 
 IN YARROW. 
 
 A dream of youth has grown to fruit. 
 
 Though years it was in blossom ; 
 It lay, like touch of summer light, 
 
 Far down within my bosom : 
 It led me on from hope to hope, 
 
 Made rainbows of each morrow, 
 And now my heart has had its wish 
 
 I stood to-day in Yarrow. 
 
 And as I stood, my old sweet dreams 
 Took back their long-lost brightness ; 
 
 My boyhood came, and in my heart 
 Rose up a summer lightness;
 
 ALEXANDER ANDERSON. 
 
 I heard faint echoes of far song 
 Grow rich and deep, and borrow 
 
 The low, sweet tones of early years 
 I stood to-day in Yarrow. 
 
 O dreams of youth, dreamt long ago, 
 
 When every hour was pleasure ! 
 O hopes that come when Hope was high. 
 
 Nor niggard of her treasure ! 
 Ye come to-day, and, as of old, 
 
 I could not find your marrow ; 
 Ye made my heart grow warm with tears- 
 
 I stood to-day in Yarrow. 
 
 That touch of sorrow when our youth 
 
 Was in its phase of sadness, 
 For which no speech was on the lip, 
 
 To frame its gentle madness, 
 Rests on each hill I saw to-day, 
 
 Till I was left with only 
 That pleasure which is almost pain, 
 
 The sense of being lonely. 
 
 The haunting sense of love, that now 
 
 Beats with a feebler pinion, 
 Above the shatter'd domes that once 
 
 Soared high in his dominion ; 
 And in the air of all that time, 
 
 Nor joy nor sadness wholly, 
 Seem all to mix and melt away 
 
 In pleasing melancholy.
 
 IN YARROW. 223 
 
 Why should it be that, as we dream, 
 
 A tender song of passion, 
 Of lovers loving long ago, 
 
 In the old Border fashion, 
 Should touch and hallow every spot, 
 
 Until its presence thorough 
 Is in the very grass that throbs 
 
 With thoughts of love and Yarrow. 
 
 We know not ; we can only deem 
 
 The heart lives in the story, 
 And gives to stream and hill around 
 
 A lover's tearful glory, 
 Until it bears us back to feel, 
 
 The light of that far morrow 
 That touch'd the ridge on Tinnis Hill, 
 
 Then fell on winding Yarrow. 
 
 Ah, not on Yarrow stream alone 
 
 Fell that most tender feeling, 
 But like a light from out a light, 
 
 An inmost charm revealing, 
 It lay, and lies on vale and hill, 
 
 On waters in their flowing ; 
 And only can the heart discern 
 
 The source of its bestowing. 
 
 Yes ! we may walk by Yarrow stream 
 With speech, and song, and laughter, 
 
 But still far down a sadness sleeps, 
 To wake and follow after.
 
 224 ALEXANDER ANDERSON. 
 
 And soft regrets that come and go, 
 The light and shade of sorrow, 
 
 Are with me still, that I may know 
 I stood to-day in Yarrow. 
 
 ON YARROW BRAES. 
 
 The wind, the summer wind of June, 
 Was on our cheeks as, in the heather, 
 
 We lay that happy afternoon 
 On Yarrow braes together. 
 
 Far down below was Yarrow Manse, 
 Within its little woodland hiding, 
 
 And by it, like a silver glance, 
 The stream itself was gliding.
 
 ON YARROW BRAES. 225 
 
 And farther up in greyer light, 
 
 The " dowie dens " lay in their shadow, 
 
 And only half made out to sight 
 By spots of corn and meadow. 
 
 And Tinnis hill rose huge and steep, 
 
 Its ridge against the sky receding ; 
 And white upon its breast the sheep 
 
 By twos and threes were feeding. 
 
 Westward from Yarrow Kirk, within, 
 
 A field that speaks of love and loving, 
 A single stone was seen to win 
 
 The eye from all its roving. 
 
 Ah ! well it might, for round that stone 
 
 Such tender consecration hovers, 
 That love might rest his cheek thereon 
 
 And weep for hopeless lovers. 
 
 And in the wind that came and went, 
 
 We heard a music weird and lonely ; 
 The past was in its tones and blent 
 
 With human sorrow only. 
 
 And pity for all things that love 
 
 Has set in legendary story 
 To haunt grey crag and hill, and move 
 
 Round ruins bleak and hoary.
 
 226 ALEXANDER ANDERSON. 
 
 The dim old world of song that sings 
 Of tender love in old romances, 
 
 Was with us, touching all th$ strings 
 That woke our saddest fancies. 
 
 We heard the sounds of wail and pain, 
 Faint from that far-off time of sorrow 
 
 The misty years came back again, 
 And look'd with us on Yarrow. 
 
 All this, and more, that summer day, 
 Was with us, as among the heather, 
 
 A ballad on our lips, we lay 
 On Yarrow braes together. 
 
 ST. MARY'S LAKE. 
 
 Away from all the restless street, 
 The whirlpool of the toiling race, 
 
 Where traffic in the dusty heat, 
 Toils with the sweat upon his face. 
 
 Away from these, and far away, 
 
 We fight the strong wind on the hill, 
 
 Or rest upon the bracken'd brae, 
 
 And shape our dreamland as we will. 
 
 What boon to lie, as now I lie, 
 
 And see in silver at my feet 
 Saint Mary's Lake, as if the sky 
 
 Had fallen 'tween those hills so sweet,
 
 ST. MARY'S LAKE. 227 
 
 And this old churchyard on the hill, 
 
 That keeps the green graves of the dead, 
 
 So calm and sweet, so lone and still, 
 And but the blue sky overhead. 
 
 Ah ! here they lie, the simple race, 
 
 Who lived their little flight of years, 
 Then laid them in this quiet place, 
 
 At rest for ever from their fears. 
 
 The winds sing as they sang to them, 
 
 The bracken changes as of old, 
 The hills still wear their diadem 
 
 Of heather, and the sunset's gold. 
 
 No change in these ; the waves still break 
 
 In ripple or in foam upon 
 The green shores of Saint Mary's lake, 
 
 As in the ages dead and gone. 
 
 Beneath the hills where shadows seem 
 
 Fit haunts for lonely sounds that be, 
 Flows, half in sunshine, Yarrow stream, 
 
 Th' spirit of all I hear and see. 
 
 Thou Yarrow of my early dreams, 
 
 When fancy heard thee murmur on, 
 A light has pass'd from other streams, 
 
 And deepens all thy haunting tone. 
 
 Q2
 
 228 ALEXANDER ANDERSON. 
 
 It crowns thee with a magic dower ; 
 
 It makes thy windings ever sweet ; 
 The Mary Scott of Dryhope Tower, 
 
 Still follows thee with unseen feet. 
 
 Her name is wed to thine ; the vale 
 Is witness as thou rollest on, 
 
 And with thee all the tender wail 
 Of song, with sorrow in its tone. 
 
 Men pass from thee ; the years prolong, 
 No name of theirs for ear or eye ; 
 
 But she a little whirl of song 
 
 Has caught her, and she cannot die, 
 
 And lying on the bracken'd hill, 
 The sunshine on my brow to-day, 
 
 The old love-ballad echoes still, 
 In throbs that will not pass away. 
 
 And as I listen, like a dream 
 That changes into softer things, 
 
 Saint Mary's Lake and Yarrow stream 
 Take all the sorrow which it sings. 
 
 YARROW STREAM. 
 
 From Selkirk unto Newark Tower, 
 We walk'd beneath the gentle power 
 Of old-world song, that chants and sings 
 Amid the rush of modern things,
 
 YARROW STREAM. 
 
 And all our thoughts that came and went, 
 And lightly with each fancy blent, 
 Had for refrain to wander through 
 Some snatch of ballad song, that drew 
 Its inspiration from the gleam, 
 The sweep, and glide of Yarrow stream. 
 
 229 
 
 Oh ! sweet in Harewood sang the birds, 
 
 The sound of summer in their chords : 
 
 They sang as only birds can sing 
 
 When sunshine ripples throat and wing, 
 
 And through each opening of the trees 
 
 Made by the fingers of the breeze, 
 
 We saw in circles far below, 
 
 Like silver in the western glow, 
 
 The spirit of our evening dream, 
 
 Whose murmurs came from Yarrow stream.
 
 230 ALEXANDER ANDERSON. 
 
 And Carterhaugh was in our sight, 
 
 On which a legend rests like light ; 
 
 Bowhill against its height was seen, 
 
 Half-hid amid its wealth of green ; 
 
 And every spot would waft along 
 
 Some fragment of an early song, 
 
 Sung when the heart was fresh, and drew 
 
 Its melody as heath the dew, 
 
 And over all the tender beam 
 
 Of fading light on Yarrrow stream. 
 
 Oh ! here should be a perfect home 
 For love and lovers when they come, 
 With whispered words and gentle sighs, 
 To draw a sweet delight from eyes, 
 Nor care for any other speech 
 But tender looks to answer each ; 
 And hand in hand to stray, and deem 
 Their spirits one with Yarrow stream. 
 
 The sigh of winds and song of birds, 
 The whispered tones of lovers' words 
 These should be all that Yarrow heard 
 Since first its lonely source was stirred. 
 Alas ! far other music rang 
 When Border knights to saddle sprang, 
 When over all the bugle blew 
 A note each winding valley knew, 
 When strong of arm they sternly led, 
 With mail on breast and helm on head, 
 The foray in the light of day, 
 Or with the moon to show the way,
 
 YARROW STREAM. 231 
 
 Woke the strange echoes of the night, 
 With sudden shouts of party fight. 
 Ah, what to them was each sweet beam 
 Of silver light on Yarrow stream ! 
 
 On Philiphaugh the grass is green 
 As if no battle there had been, 
 The flowers bloom without that hue 
 Their ruddier sisters felt and knew, 
 That morn when other drops than rain 
 Fell with a touch that left a stain ; 
 The lark still sings the self-same lay 
 His earlier brothers sang that day, 
 When all the jar of battle smote 
 And drown'd the gushing of each note. 
 The winds are still as fresh and sweet, 
 The grass as green beneath our feet, 
 The mavis in his solitude 
 Sends prayers of music through the wood, 
 The sunsets die in golden gleam, 
 And Yarrow still is Yarrow stream. 
 
 No change for Yarrow, save that change 
 That comes with seasons as they range. 
 No change, though Newark's rugged form 
 That still gives battle to the storm 
 Should slowly crumble down, and pass 
 Nor leave one trace of where it was, 
 Save in the melody of two 
 Who turn'd them to the past, and drew
 
 232 ALEXANDER ANDERSON. 
 
 Such inspiration that around 
 
 Their brows the singing wreaths were bound. 
 
 And now in that high atmosphere 
 
 The winds of death make sweet and clear, 
 
 They shine apart from any wrong, 
 
 The sun and moon of Border song. 
 
 No change, for Yarrow still will glide, 
 
 The same sweet music in its tide, 
 
 The merle still pipe in Hangingshaw, 
 
 The lark sing over Carterhaugh ; 
 
 And sweet St. Mary's Lake between 
 
 The hills, still show her silver sheen, 
 
 As if to know were joy to her 
 
 That Yarrow was her worshipper. 
 
 For drawing from her waves so lone 
 
 The liquid pulses of its own, 
 
 Whose beats make music full and strong, 
 
 Till Ettrick mingles with the song. 
 
 All these remain ; but we who gaze, 
 After our little term of days, 
 Shall pass to claim, as right of birth, 
 Our little freehold from the earth, 
 On which a thousand springs that pass 
 In pity shall renew the grass. 
 Then Yarrow, as it glides away 
 By meadow, hill, and glen to-day, 
 Shall be the same to those who hear 
 Its haunting murmurs in their ear ; 
 And other hearts than ours shall deem 
 That Yarrow still is Yarrow stream.
 
 ST. MARrS LOCH. 233 
 
 ST MARY'S LOCH: A REMINISCENCE, 1856. 
 
 THE following poem, by an anonymous author, has been 
 kindly placed at my disposal by Professor Knight, 
 St. Andrews. It gives expression to a feeling which many 
 who have visited St. Mary's Loch will be able heartily to 
 appreciate. Only now and again is the water perfectly placid, 
 reflecting in its silent depths the features of the surrounding 
 country. The swan may be seen any day, but not always 
 the shadow. 
 
 The breeze comes gently from the west, 
 
 The lake is gleaming brightly, 
 From smiling ripple to the crest 
 
 Of wavelet dancing lightly. 
 
 No quiet rest, no mirrored hills, 
 
 In placid apparition, 
 No steadfast azure which fulfils 
 
 Its own sweet repitition. 
 
 Fast float the cloudlets through the sky, 
 
 Fast fly the shadows under ; 
 Gone is the fair serenity 
 
 That moved our fancy's wonder.
 
 234 ST. MARY'S LOCH. 
 
 Yet rest we not, for mirrored still, 
 
 In every changing feature, 
 The earth, in lake, and sky, and hill, 
 
 Reflects our human nature. 
 
 The freshening lake, the brightening skies, 
 Half-veiling, half-revealing 
 
 Reflect they not in mystic guise 
 The fulness of our feeling ? 
 
 And thoughts within are lightly stirred 
 
 By every floweret blowing, 
 By moorland sound, by glancing bird, 
 
 By gentle rillets flowing. 
 
 We take great Nature to our heart, 
 
 And every passing minute, 
 She soothes us with a sweet unrest, 
 
 That has no sorrow in it. 
 
 Thus bear we with us wandering on, 
 
 By meadow or by river, 
 A beauty that our hearts have won, 
 
 And shall possess for ever.
 
 CONSTANCE W. MAN GIN. 235 
 
 A REMEMBRANCE OF YARROW, 
 
 BY 
 
 CONSTANCE W. MANGIN, born 1856. 
 
 The sun shone warm from its noonday height, 
 Bathing the valley in mellow light, 
 While far below like a silver thread, 
 The river rolled o'er its rocky bed. 
 
 How oft from those dreamy slopes ere now, 
 The heathy breeze had swept my brow ; 
 Recalling dreams and memories fond, 
 And thoughts of peace from the land beyond. 
 
 How well I know each billowy form, 
 In sunlight or shadow, calm or storm ; 
 One moment still as a sleeping child, 
 Then dark and murk as the ocean wild. 
 
 Yarrow ! where lies the fascination, 
 Binding heart and imagination ; 
 Thrilling the pulses of those that dwell 
 Beneath the charm of thy mystic spell 1 
 
 Is it thy scars so rugged and bold ? 
 Or thy countless hills together rolled ? 
 Or thy misty .slopes and dowie dens, 
 And lovers' trysts in the birchen glens ?
 
 236 CONSTANCE W. MANGIN. 
 
 Or thy murmuring burns, which softly glide 
 Through caves where the brown trout love to hide ? 
 The shadowy pool, where fern and heath 
 A fairy bower have twined beneath ? 
 
 The distant swoop of the curlew's flight, 
 A moment passing, then lost to sight ; 
 Winging her way to her grassy nest, 
 Concealed in some rugged moss-grown crest ? 
 
 Long years have passed, and the Yarrow stream 
 Remains to me but a sunny dream 
 Of joy and youth and love together, 
 And children's steps among the heather. 
 
 E'en now, as I watch the embers glow, 
 I hear its gurgling eddying flow, 
 And see it wander through the mead, 
 Losing itself in silvery Tweed.
 
 ANNIE S. SWAN. 237 
 
 ANNIE S. SWAN. 
 
 ANNIE S. SWAN was born at Leith in the year 1859. 
 She began her literary career at an early period of 
 life, and has attained great popularity as a writer of fiction. 
 Many of her books have gone through several editions. The 
 following are a few of her best known works: Alder syde 
 the scene of which is laid in Yarrow, Garlowrie ; The Gates 
 of Eden ; Divided Hearts ; Sheila; &c., &c., &c. 
 
 ST. MARY'S. 
 
 In deep and mystic loveliness, engirt 
 
 By an unbroken boundlessness of rest, 
 
 With rocky steep and shadowy mountain peak, 
 
 Clear mirrored on the silver of thy breast. 
 Oh, loved and lone St. Mary's ! Thou indeed 
 Art rich in solemn sad sweet memories ! 
 Each gentle winding of thy waters deep 
 Seems charged with wealth of by-gone mystery. 
 Dear haunt of many a noble heart and true, 
 There lingers still about thy wave-kissed shore 
 A halo of the past. A something thrills 
 Like spoken word of those that are no more, 
 Though many a bard has tuned his lyre for thee, 
 Accept this mite of gratitude from me.
 
 238 THOMAS RAE. 
 
 THOMAS RAE. 
 
 T 
 
 HOMAS RAE, born at Galashiels, igth October, 1868; 
 died nth Sept., 1889. 
 
 YARROW. 
 
 (A MEMORY). 
 
 'Tis but an old time dream which comes 
 
 Before my fading gaze, 
 Of rugged mountain, lake, and fell, 
 
 Flitting through memory's haze. 
 
 A joy long past : but, now, the dream 
 
 Born out of childhood's years, 
 Comes softly, full of tenderness, 
 
 Amidst my falling tears. 
 
 'Twas when a boy, I wandered lone, 
 
 Beside its banks so narrow, 
 And listened to its mournful dirge 
 
 The spirit of the Yarrow. 
 
 Ev'n then I felt its mystic power, 
 
 Nor knew not why't should daunt me, 
 
 And, now, tho' years have come and gone, 
 These old-time feelings haunt me. 
 
 I fain would seek thy solitude, 
 
 And tread thy banks once more ; 
 To hear the murmur of thy song, 
 
 Dear to this heart of yore.
 
 YARROW. 
 
 I know that thou art still the same, 
 Yet changed, too, thou'lt be, 
 
 Since the old hearts of that sweet time 
 Are dead, and gone from me ! 
 
 Yet thou, O hallowed mystic spot, 
 Their slumb'ring dust art keeping, 
 
 And in thy churchyard, silent, lone, 
 These old hearts low are sleeping. 
 
 And so I ever dream of thee, 
 
 With joy akin to sorrow ; 
 Thou'rt dear to me for what has been, 
 
 Lonely and silent Yarrow ! 
 
 239
 
 PRINTED BY J. H. MAXWELL, CASTLE-DOUGLAS.
 
 DATE DUE 
 
 GAYLORD 
 
 PRINTED IN I