Unarm'd, defenceless, Urquhart stands, But Alva has drawn his broad claymore. "Stand fast, Craig Ellachie," he cried,

As his stalwart stroke the foremost slew; Alas! no friendly voice replied,

But the broad claymore in fragments flew.
And sad was the heart of Alva's heir,

And he thought of Urquhart's scenes of joy,
When, instead of her smile that he loved so dear,
He met the haughty scowl of Moy.
And far across the wintry waste,

And far from Marg ret's bow'r of joy,
In silent haste, and in chains, they pass'd,
To groan and despair in the towers of Moy.
On yonder rock their prison stood,

Deep in the dungeon's vault beneath,
The pavement still wet with the rising flood,
And heavy, and dank, is the fog they breathe.
Three days were past-with streaming eye,

With bursting heart, and falt'ring breath,
What maiden sues at the feet of Moy,

To save their life, or to share their death? 'Tis Marg❜ret; in whose heart the tale

Had waken'd the first sad sigh of grief, And wan and pale from Urquhart's vale,

She flew to the tow'r of the gloomy Chief. Beneath his darken'd brow, the smile

Of pleased revenge with hatred strove, And he thought of the hours, perchance, the while When she slighted his threats, and scorn'd his love.

And thus he spoke, with trait'rous voice,

“Oh! not in vain can Margaret plead ; One life I spare-be hers the choice,

And one for my clan and my kin shall bleed.

"Oh will she not a lover save,

But dash his hopes of mutual joy,
And doom the brave to the silent grave,
To ransom a sire from the sword of Moy?

"Or will she not a father spare,

But here his last spark of life destroy,
And will she abandon his silvery hair,
And wed her love in the halls of Moy?"

Oh have you seen the shepherd swain,

3

While heav'n is calm on the hills around, And swelling in old Comri's plain, 3 Earth shakes, and thunders burst the ground?

Like him aghast did Marg'ret stand,

Wild start her eyes from her burning head,
Nor stirs her foot, nor lifts her hand;
The chastisement of Heav'n is sped.

Long mute she stands, when before her eyes,
From the dungeon's cave, from the gloomy lake,

1 Craig Ellachie, where was the place of assembling of the clan of Grant, was also the slogan, or war-cry, of the clan. a See Introduction to this Ballad.

In the mournful wood two forms arise,

And she of the two her choice must make.
And wildly she sought her lover's breast,
And madly she kiss'd his clanking chain;
"Home, home," she cried, "be my sire releas'd,
While Alva and I in the grave remain.

"And my father will rest, and our name be blest,
When Moy's vile limbs shall be strew'd on the shore;
The pine-tree shall wave o'er our peaceful grave,
Till together we wake to weep no more.”

The tear from Urquhart's eye that stole,

As rung in his ear his daughter's cry, Ceased on his furrow'd cheek to roll,

When he mark'd the scorn of the gloomy Moy.

And stately rose his stiffen'd form,

And seem'd to throw off the load of age,

As gather'd in his eye the storm

Of feudal hate, and a chieftain's rage.

"False traitor! though thy greedy ear
Hath drunk the groan of an enemy,
Yet inly rankle shame and fear

While rapture and triumph smile on me.-
"And thou, my best, my sorrowing child,
Whate'er my fate, thy choice recall!
These towers, with human blood defiled,

Shall hide my corse, and atone my fall.
"Why should I live the scorn of slaves?
From me no avenger shall I see,
Where fair Lochness my castle laves,
To lead my clan to victory.
"White are my hairs, my course is run,-
To-morrow lays thy father low;

But, Alva safe, with yonder sun

He shall rise in blood on the hills of snow. "If Alva falls, and falls for me,

A father's curse is o'er thy grave;
But safe and free, let him wend with thee,
And my dying blessing thou shalt have."
The maid stood aghast, and her tears fell fast,
As to the wild heath she turn'd to flee;
"Be Alva safe," she sigh'd as she pass'd,
"To Badenoch's height let him follow me."
She sat her down on the blasted heath,

And hollowly sounded the glen below;
She heard in the gale the groan of death,
She answer'd the groan with a shriek of woe.
And slowly tow'rds the mountain's head,
With a sable bier four ruffians hied;
"And here," they said, "is thy father dead,
And thy lover's corse is cold at his side."

66

They laid the bodies on the bent,

Each in his bloody tartan roll'd;

3 The vale of Comri, in Perthshire, where earthquakes are still frequently felt, is in the higher part of Strathearn, near Crieff.

"Now sing Craig-Ellachie's lament,

For her Chiefs are dead and her hopes are cold."

She sigh'd not as she turn'd away,—

No tear-drop fell from her frozen eye;
But a night and a day, by their side did stay,
In stupid speechless agony.

And another she staid, and a cairn' she made,
And piled it high with many a groan;
As it rises white, on Badenoch's height,
She mutters a prayer over every stone,
She pray'd that, childless and forlorn,

The chief of Moy might pine away;
That the sleepless night and the careful morn,
Might wither his limbs in slow decay;

That never the son of a Chief of Moy

Might live to protect his father's age, Or close in peace his dying eye,

Or gather his gloomy heritage.

But still, as they fall, some distant breed,
With sordid hopes, and with marble heart,
By turns to the fatal towers succeed,

Extinct by turns to the grave depart.

Then loud did she laugh, for her burning brain
The soothing showers of grief denied;
And still, when the moon is on the wane,
She seeks her hut on the mountain's side.

There sits she oft to curse the beam

That vexes her brain with keener woe; Full well the shepherd knows her scream, When he sinks on the moor in the drifted snow.

Seven times has she left her wretched cell

To cheer her sad heart with gloomy joy,
When the fury of heaven, or the blast of hell,
Have wither'd the hopes of the house of Moy.

And-now! at your feast, an unbidden guest,
She bids you the present hour enjoy!
For the blast of death is on the heath,

And the grave yawns wide for the child of Moy!—

Here ceased the tale, and with it ceased

The revels of the shuddering clan: Despair had seized on every breast, In every vein chill terrors ran.

To the mountain but is Marg'ret sped,

Yet her voice still rings in the ear of Moy; -Scarce shone the morn on the mountain's head, When the lady wept o'er her dying boy.

And long in Moy's devoted tower

Shall Marg❜ret's gloomy curse, prevail; And mothers, in the child-bed hour,

Shall shudder to think on the Witch's tale.

THE FEAST OF SPURS.

BY THE REV. JOHN MARRIOTT, A. M.

In the account of Walter Scott of Harden's way of living, it is mentioned, that, "when the last bullock was killed and devoured, it was the lady's custom to place on the table a dish, which, on being uncovered, was found to contain a pair of clean spurs; a hint to the Riders that they must shift for their next meal." -See Introduction, ante, p. 32.

The speakers in the following stanzas are Walter Scott of Harden, and his wife, Mary Scott, the Flower of Yarrow.

"Haste, ho! my dame, what cheer the night?
I look to see your table dight,
For I hae been up since peep o' light,
Driving the dun deer merrilie.
"Wow! but the bonny harts and raes,
Are fleet o' foot on Ettricke braes;
My gude dogs ne'er in a' their days,
Forfoughten were sae wearilie.

"Frae Shows to Rankelburn we ran
A score, that neither stint nor blan;
And now ahint the breckans3 stan',
And laugh at a' our company.

"We've pass'd through monie a tangled cleugh, We've rad fu' fast o'er haugh and heugh ;

I trust ye've got gude cheer eneugh
To feast us a' right lustilie?"-

"Are ye sae keen-set, Wat? 'tis well;
Ye winna find a dainty meal;
It's a' o' the gude Rippon steel,
Ye maun digest it manfullie.
"Nae kye are left in Harden Glen; 4
Ye maun be stirring wi' your men;
Gin ye soud bring me less than ten,
I winna roose your braverie.”-
"Are ye sae modest teu to name ?
Syne, an I bring na twenty hame,
I'll freely gie ye leave to blame

Baith me and a' my chyvalrie.

4 "Harden's castle was situated upon the very brink of a dark and precipitous dell, through which a scanty rivulet steals to meet the Borthwich. In the recess of this glen he is said to have kept his spoil, which served for the daily maintenance of his retainers."-Notes on the Lay of the Last Minstrel, Canto iv.

stanza 9.

5 Roose-Praise.

"I could hae relish'd better cheer,
After the chase o' sic-like deer;
But, trust me, rowth o' Southern gear
Shall deck your lard'ner speedilie.
"When Stanegirthside I last came by,
A bassen'd bull allured mine eye,
Feeding amang a herd of kye;

O gin I look'd na wistfullie!

"To horse! young Jock shall lead the way;
And soud the Warden tak the fray
To mar our riding, I winna say,

But he mote be in jeopardie.
"The siller moon now glimmers pale:
But ere we've cross'd fair Liddesdale,
She'll shine as brightlie as the bale'

That warns the water hastilie."
"O leeze me on her bonny light! 3
There's nought sae dear to Harden's sight;
Troth, gin she shone but ilka night,

Our clan might live right royallie.
Haste, bring your nagies frae the sta',
And lightlie louping, ane and a',
Intull your saddles, scour awa',

And ranshakle 4 the Southronie.
"Let ilka ane his knapscap 5 lace;
Let ilka ane his steil-jack brace;
And deil bless him that sall disgrace
Walter o' Harden's liverie!"

ON A VISIT PAID TO

THE RUINS OF MELROSE ABBEY,

BY THE COUNTESS OF DALKEITH, 6 AND HER SON LORD SCOTT.

BY THE REV. JOHN MARRIOTT, A. M.

Abbots of Melrose, wont of yore
The dire anathema to pour

On England's hated name;
See, to appease your injured shades,
And expiate her Border raids,

She sends her fairest Dame.

Her fairest Dame those shrines has graced,
That once her boldest Lords defaced;

Then let your hatred cease;
The prayer of import dread revoke,
Which erst indignant fury spoke,

And pray for England's peace.

If, as it seems to Fancy's eye,
Your sainted spirits hover nigh,

And haunt this once-loved spot; That Youth's fair open front behold, His step of strength, his visage bold, And hail a genuine Scott.

Yet think that England claims a part
In the rich blood that warms his heart,
And let your hatred cease;
The prayer of import dire revoke,
Which erst indignant fury spoke,
And pray for England's peace.

Pray, that no proud insulting foe
May ever lay her temples low,

Or violate her fanes;
No moody fanatic deface
The works of wondrous art that grace
Antiquity's remains. 7

ARCHIE ARMSTRONG'S AITH.

BY THE REV. JOHN MARRIOTT, A.M.

The hero of this ballad was a native of Eskdale, and contributed not a little towards the raising his clan to that preeminence which it long maintained amongst the Border thieves, and which none, indeed, but the Elliots could dispute. He lived at the Stubholm, immediately below the junction of the Wauchope and the Eske; and there distinguished himself so much by zeal and assiduity in his professional duties, that at length he found it expedient to emigrate, his neighbours not having learned from Sir John Falstaff, "that it is no sin for a man to labour in his vocation." He afterwards became a celebrated jester in the English court. In more modern times, he might have found a court in which his virtues would have entitled him to a higher station. He was dismissed in disgrace in the year 1637, for his insolent wit, of which the following may serve as a specimen. One day, when Archbishop Laud was just about to say grace before dinner, Archie begged permission of the King to perform that office in his stead; and having received it, said, “All praise to God, and little Laud to the deil." The exploit detailed in this ballad has been preserved, with many others of the same kind, by tradition, and is at this time current in Eskdale.

1 Bale-Beacon fire.

This expression signified formerly the giving the alarm to the inhabitants of a district; each district taking its name from the river that flowed through it.

3 The esteem in which the moon was held in the Harden family, may be traced in the motto they still bear; "Reparabit cornua Phoebe."

4 Ranshakle-Plunder.

5 Knapscap-Helmet.

6 [The Honourable Harriet Townsend, daughter of Thomas, first Viscount Sidney, and wife of Charles, Earl of Dalkeith, afterwards Duke of Buccleuch and Queensberry, died in 1814.—ED.] 7 Melrose Abbey was reduced to its present ruinous state, partly by the English barons in their hostile inroads, and partly by John Knox and his followers. For a reason why its Abbots should be supposed to take an interest in the Buccleuch family, see the Notes to the Lay of the Last Minstrel, octavo edition, p. 238.

ARCHIE ARMSTRONG'S AITH.

As Archie pass'd the Brockwood leys,
He cursed the blinkan moon,
For shouts were borne upo' the breeze
Frae a' the hills aboon.

A herd had mark'd his lingering pace, That e'enin near the fauld,

And warn'd his fellows to the chase, For he kenn'd him stout and bauld.

A light shone frae Gilnockie tower;
He thought, as he ran past,-
"O Johnnie ance was stiff in stour,
But hangit at the last!"

His load was heavy, and the way
Was rough and ill to find;
But ere he reach'd the Stubholm brae,
His faes were far behind.

He clamb the brae, and frae his brow
The draps fell fast and free:
And when he heard a loud halloo,
A waefu' man was he.

O'er his left shouther, towards the muir, An anxious ee he cast;

And oh! when he stepp'd o'er the door,
His wife she look'd aghast.

"Ah wherefore, Archie, wad ye slight
Ilk word o' timely warning?
I trow ye will be ta'en the night,
And hangit i' the morning."-

"Now haud your tongue, ye prating wife, And help me as ye dow;

I wad be laith to loose my life
For ae poor silly yowe."

They stript awa the skin aff hand,

Wi' a' the woo' aboon;
There's ne'er a flesheri' the land

Had done it half sae soon.

The bairn wi' auntie stays; They clapt the carcase in its room, And smoor'd it wi' the claes. And down sat Archie daintillie, And rock'd it wi' his hand; Siccan a rough nourice as he Was not in all the land.

And saftlie he began to croon,4

66

Hush, hushabye, my dear."
He hadna sang to sic a tune,
I trow, for mony a year.

Now frae the hills they cam in haste,
A' rinning out o' breath.—
"Ah, Archie, we ha' got ye fast,
And ye maun die the death!

"Aft hae ye thinn'd our master's herds,
And elsewhere cast the blame;
Now ye may spare your wilie words,
For we have traced ye hame.'

"Your sheep for warlds I wadna take; Deil ha' me if I'm leein' ;

But had your tongues for mercie's sake, The bairn's just at the deein'.

"If e'er I did sae fause a feat,

As thin my neebor's faulds, May I be doom'd the flesh to eat This vera cradle haids!

"But gin ye reckna what I swear, Go search the biggin' thorow, And if ye find ae trotter there,

Then hang me up the morrow."

They thought to find the stolen gear, They search'd baith but and ben; But a' was clean, and a' was clear, And naething could they ken.

And what to think they couldna tell,

They glowr'd at ane anither;"Sure, Patie, 'twas the deil himsell That ye saw rinning hither.

"Or aiblins Maggie's ta'en the yowe, And thus beguil'd your ee."-6 "Hey, Robbie, man, and like enowe, For I hae nae rowan-tree."

Awa' they went wi' muckle haste,

Convinced 'twas Maggie Brown; And Maggie, ere eight days were past, Got mair nor ae new gown.

A Flesher-Butcher.

* Ingle-Fire.

3 Toom-Emply.

4 Croon-To hum over a song.

5 Biggin-Building.

6 There is no district wherein witches seem to have maintained

a more extensive, or more recent influence, than in Eskdale. It is not long since the system of bribery, alluded to in the next stanza, was carried on in that part of the country. The rowantree, or mountain-ash, is well known to be a sure preservative against the power of witchcraft.

Then Archie turn'd him on his heel,

And gamesomelie did say,-
"I didna think that half sae weel
The nourice I could play."

And Archie didna break his aith,
He ate the cradled sheep;

I trow he wasna very laith
Siccan a vow to keep.

And aft sinsyue to England's King,
The story he has told;

And aye when he gan rock and sing, Charlie his sides wad hold.