MEENIE BELL.
ULL ye meet me, Meenie Bell? Wull ye tryste yince mair wi’ me?
Where the sauchs half hide the burnie as it wimples on its way?
When the sinking sun comes glentin’ through the feathery birken tree,
Till ye’d trow a thousand fairy fires wer’ flichterin’ on the brae.
Wull ye meet me, Meenie Bell? Wull ye say ye’ll meet me there?
An’ come afore the gloamin’ fa’s to hear what I’ve to tell?
For I’m gaun away the morn, an’ I’ll weary lang an’ sair
’Or I see ye’re bonnie face again—sae meet me, Meenie Bell!
I’ll be far away frae Middlebie for monie an’ monie a day;
An’ I want ae curl o’ gowden hair to treasure evermore.
I’ve a keepsake braw for you, an’ I’ve something mair to say—
Aye! a hantle mair to tell ye than I’ve ever tell’t afore.
Thus I fleech’t wee Meenie Bell till her heart grew soft and kin’
An’ she met me near the burnie as the simmer gloamin fell;
We pairtit or ’twas day, an’ o’ a’ the nichts I min’
The brichtest in my mem’ry is that nicht wi’ Meenie Bell.
I thocht her heart was troth-fast, but my image faded oot,
An’ a stranger took the place in’t that she said she’d keep for me;
For time gaed creeping on, an’ her hopes changed into doobt
An’ doobt to caul’ mistrustin’, while I toilt ayont the sea.
I’ve warselt wi’ the worl’ weel—I’ve run a wunnin’ race,
But, aih! I’m of’en wushin’ when I maunder by mysel’,
An’ a’ my weary strivin’s through lang lanesome years I trace,
I had bidden puir i’ Middlebie and mairiet Meenie Bell.
“A LOCKERBYE LYCKE.”[11]
(MODERN ANTIQUE.)
Ye’ve aiblins heard o’ Wullye Smyth,
Ane hosteler wychte was he;
Quha wonn’t at the sygne o’ the bonnie Black Bull,
I’ the toon o’ Lockerbye.
For Wullye, he drawyt the best o’ wyne,
An’ brewyt the best o’ yelle,
An’ mixyt the best o’ brandye punch,
As neebour Lairds coulde telle.
For aft the neebour Lairds conveent
At Wullye’s to drynke theyre wyne,
An’ hech! quhan they yokyt the brandye punch,
They raysyt ane unco schyne.
An’ ance, on the nychte o’ a huntan’ tryste,
A blythesome companye
There lychtyt doon i’ the Black Bull closse,
Wychte Wullye’s wyne to pree.
An’ there war Johnstones an’ Jardines routh
Amang that rattlan’ crewe,
Wi’ Herbert Herryes o’ fayre Ha’ Dykes,[12]
An’ his buirdlye byllye Hughe;
An’ gallaunte Wullye o’ Becks was there,
Wi’ Wullye o’ Kyrtletoone:[13]
Sae they byrl’t awaye at the reid, reid wyne,
As the toasts gaed roun’ an’ roun’.
Whyle up an’ spak wylde Wullye o’ Becks,
An’ there fusionless toasts he curst,
“We’ll toom a glasse tylle ilk man’s lasse,
An’ Ha’ Dykes maun name his first!”
Than up gatte the Laird o’ bonnie Ha’ Dykes—
“Weel! rayther nor marre fayre myrthe,
Here’s wynsome Jean o’ the Wylye Hole,
The flower o’ Tundergayrthe;
“An’ he quha wunna drynke fayre to thatte
Maun quytte thysse companye;
An’ he quha lychtlyes thatte sweet lasse,
Maun answer it weel tylle me.”
Than up spak’ Wullye o’ Kyrtletoone,
(A sleekye deevil I trowe,)
“Folke say, up the Water o’ Mylke, that she lykes
Ye’re byllye farre better nor yowe!”
The reid marke brunt on the Herryes his bree,
An’ wow but he lookyt grymme:
“Can ye thynke that the flower o’ the Mylke suld bloom
For a beggarlye loon lyke hymme?
“Can ye thynke that ane haughtye dame lyke her
Coulde looke wi’ a kyndlye e’e
On ane quha for everye placke that he spens,
Or wastes, maun sorn on me?”
“An’ div ye thynke,” cryet the wrathfu’ Hughe,
“It’s noo my turne to speer—
That ever a leal heartyt lassie could lo’e
A sumph for the sake o’ his gear?
“An’ div ye thynke”—mayre scornfu’ wordes
Younge Hughe essayet to speake,
But his brither’s rychte han’ rase high in wrathe,
An’ fell on his lowan’ cheeke.
Than doon at that wanbritherly strayke
Dyd Hughe the Herryes fa’,
An’ for to redde this fearsome fraye,
Uppe lappe the gentles a’:
An’ auld Wullye Smyth cam toytlan’ benne—
“Quhat’s wrang amang ye noo?
It’s a wonnerfu’ thynge that ’sponsible menne
Maun fechte or they weel be fou.”
Fu’ slawlye did Hughe Herryes ryse,
An’ the never a worde he sayde,
But he gloom’t an’ he tore his gluve wi’ his teeth,
As furthe frae the room he gaed.
He muntyt his gude grey meare i’ the closse,
An’ he gallopyt aff lyke wudde.
“Eh, sirs!” quo auld Wullye Smyth, “Eh, sirs!
This never maun come tille gude;
For quhan ever a Herryes he chows his gluve,
It’s ane earnest o’ deidlye feud!”
That myrthsome band they tynte theyre myrthe,
The gude wyne tynte its power,
An’ ilke man glower’t at his neebour’s face
Wi’ a glum an’ eerye glower.
The Herryes he lootyt his heid to the board,
I’ sorrowe but an’ shame;
The lawin’ was ca’t—ilk took tille his horse,
An’ sochte his ain gate hame.
Kynde Wullye o’ Becks sayde lowne tille his frien’,
We maun ryde Ha’ Dykes his way;
But the Herryes owreheard, an’ shook his heid,
An’ doolfu’ did he saye—
“Alane! alane! I maun dree my weirde
For the deede this nychte saw dune;
But O that the palsye had wuther’t my han’,
Or it strooke my fayther’s sonne!”
Atweest Ha’ Dykes an’ the Water o’ Mylke
Rosebanke lies half-waye doone,
An’ Chayrlye Herryes laye there that nychte,
An’ he was sleepyn’ soune.
Quhyle he was rousyt i’ the howe o’ the nychte
Wi’ a dynne at his wundow board,
For his youngest bryther was dunneran there
Wi’ the hylte o’ a sheenless sworde.
Sayan’, “Chayrlye, I’ve mayde ye a Laird the nychte,
An’ I maunna be here the morne,
My blade is barken’t wi’ Herbert’s blude,
An’ he lyes at Hurkelle Burne.”
He muntyt his meare i’ the fayre muinlychte,
An’ he pryckyt out owre the greene,
But never agayne in Annandale
Was blythe Hughe Herryes seene.
Na! never agayne i’ Dry’s’al’ Kyrke,
Norre ever atte Lockerbye fayre,
The lasses quha lo’ed the blynke o’ his e’e,
Saw that blythe e’e-blynke mayre.
There was some folke sayde that his wynsome corse
I’ the fathomless sea was sunke;
Some sayde he was slayne i’ the German wars—
An’ some that he deet a monke.
Quhanne Chayrlye Herryes had ca’t his menne,
I’ dool but an’ i’ frychte;
He boun’t him awaye to Hurkelle Burne,
An’ saw ane awfu’ sychte.
For there the chief o’ his aunciente house
I’ waesome plychte did lye,
Wi’ his heid on the banke, his feet i’ the burne,
An’ his face to the sternye skye.
Ane hastye batte wrochte unco chaynge;
Younge Chayrlye noo was Lairde,
An’ Herbert layde i’ the Herryeses aysle,
I’ Dry’s’al’ auld Kirk-yayrde.
But fearfu’ sychtes hae beene seene sinsyne,
An’ monye a late-gaune wychte
Quhan stayveran’ hame by Hurkelle Burne,
Hes gotten a lyfe-lang frychte.
A voyce ilke year as that nychte comes roun’,
Yells a’ the plantyns throo—
“There never was Herryes that dreet a strayke,
But he garr’t the smyter rue.”
An’ what has been seen I downa telle,
But this I ken fu’ weel
That rayther nor cross that burne at e’en,
There’s monye wad face the deil.
An’ ance quhan I was a smayke at the schule,
I was late on Lockerbye Hylle,
An’ sure o’ a flyte quhan I ance wan hame,
I gaed wi’ lyttle gude wylle;
But thynkinge on monye a fayre excuse,
Juste aung-er awaye to turne,
I’d got a rychte feasible storye framyt,
As I loupit owre Hurkelle Burn.
Quhan somethynge rase wi’ ane eldrytche skrayche,
An’ a deevylyshe dynne it mayde,
As doon the burn whyrre! whyrre! whyrroo!
Lyke a flaughte o’ fyre it gaede.
My hayre lyftit up my cap frae my heide,
Cauld sweite ran owre my bree,
The strengthe was reft frae my trummelan’ lymbs,
An’ I cower’t upo’ my knee.
’Twas ane horryble thochte to forgayther wi’ ghaysts,
Quhan I’d just been coynan’ a lee.
But awaye belyve like a troute frae a gedde,
Or a maukyn frae yammeran’ tykes,
I fledde nor styntyt to breathe or looke backe,
Quhyle I wan to the bonnie Ha’ Dykes.
My tale was tauld. They leuche, an’ quo’ they,
“A frychtyt pheasaunte spryngs
Wi’ a skraich an’ a whyrre;”—but I threepyt them doone,
That I kenn’t it was nae sic thyngs,
For quhatte could pit me i’ sic mortal dreide
That flees upo’ mortal wyngs?
The gyrse growes greene about bonnie Ha’ Dykes,
On meadowe, brae an’ lea;
The corn waves wyde on its weel wrochte rygges,
An’ its wuddes are fayre to see.
Its auld Ha’ house ’mang the chestnut trees
In statelye beautye stan’s;
But I wadna gaen backe by the burne that nychte
For Ha’ Dykes an’ a’ its lan’s.