LUCY ASHTON AND BUCKLAW.
We derive the following curious notices respecting the Lucy Ashton and Bucklaw of real life, from a rare volume, entitled “Tripatriarchicon; or, the Lives of the Three Patriarchs, Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. Digested into English Verse, by Mr. Andrew Symson, M.A., late Minister of Kinkinner. Edinburgh: Printed for the Author. 1705.” The following Poem is one of thirteen elegies found appended to some rare copies of the book, which were withdrawn from the greater part of the edition, on account of the offence taken against them by the Whigs. Symson seems to have been a sincere and zealous partizan of High Church, and does not seem to have permitted any great man of his own party to die without an appropriate elegy, accompanied by a cutting tirade upon his enemies.
“On the unexpected death of the vertuous Lady, Mrs. Janet
Dalrymple, Lady Baldone, Younger.
Nupta, Aug. 12; Domum ducta, Aug. 24; Obiit, Sept. 12;
Sepult. Sept. 30, 1669.
Dialogus inter advenam et servum domesticum.
‘What means this sudden unexpected change,
This mourning Company? Sure, sure some strange
And uncouth thing hath happen’d. Phœbus’s Head
Hath not been resting on the wat’ry bed
Of Sea-green Thetis fourty times, since I
In transitu did cast my tender Eye
Upon this very place, and here did view
A Troop of Gallants: Iris never knew
The various colours which they did employ
To manifest and represent their Joy.
Yea more; Methinks I saw this very wall
Adorn’d with Emblems Hieroglyphicall.
At first; The glorious Sun in lustre shine:
Next unto it, A young and tender Vine
Surround a stately Elm, whose tops were crown’d
With wreaths of Bay-tree reaching to the ground:
And, to be short, methinks I did espy
A pleasant, harmless, joyful Comedy.
But now (sad change, I’m sure,) they all are clad
In deepest Sable, and their Faces sad.
The Sun’s o’erclouded and the Vine’s away,
The Elm is drooping, and the wreaths of Bay
Are chang’d to Cypress, and the Comedie
Is metamorphos’d to a Tragedie.
I do desire you, Friend, for to unfold
This matter to me.’ ‘Sir, ’tis truth you’ve told.
We did enjoy great mirth, but now, ah me!
Our joyful Song’s turned to an Elegie.
A vertuous Lady, not long since a Bride,
Was to a hopeful plant by marriage ty’d,
And brought home hither. We did all rejoyce,
Even for her sake. But presently our voice
Was turned to mourning, for that little time
That she’d enjoy: She wained in her prime
For Atropus, with her impartial knife,
Soon cut her Thread, and therewithall her Life.
And for the time, we may it well remember,
It being in unfortunate September,
Just at the Æquinox: She was cut down
In th’ harvest, and this day she’s to be sown,
Where we must leave her till the Resurrection;
’Tis then the Saints enjoy their full perfection.’”
One of these curious pieces is “A Funeral Elegie occasioned by the sad and much lamented Death of that worthily respected and very much accomplished Gentleman, David Dunbar, Younger of Baldone. He departed this life on March 21, 1682, having received a bruise by a fall, as he was ryding the day preceding betwixt Leith and Holyroodhouse; and was honourably interred, in the Abbey Church of Holyroodhouse, on April 4, 1682.” Symson, though a printer in 1705, had been an episcopal clergyman: and it is amusing to observe how much of the panegyric which he bestows upon Dunbar is to be traced to the circumstance of that gentleman having been almost his only hearer, when, in a Whiggish parish, his curacy had like to be a perfect sinecure, so far as regarded that important particular—a congregation. He thus speaks of him:—
“He was no Schismatick, he ne’er withdrew
Himself from th’ House of God; he with a few
(Some two or three) came constantly to pray
For such as had withdrawn themselves away,
Nor did he come by fits,—foul day or fair,
I, being in the church, was sure to see him there.
Had he withdrawn, ’tis like these two or three,
Being thus discouraged, had deserted me;
So that my Muse, ’gainst Priscian, avers,
He, HE alone, WERE my Parishioners,
Yea, and my constant Hearers. O that I
Had pow’r to eternize his Memory;
Then (though my joy, my glory, and my crown,
By this unhappy fall be thus cast down,)
I’d rear an everlasting monument,
A curious structure, of a large extent,—
A brave and stately pile, that should outbid
Ægyptian Cheops’ costly Pyramid,—
A monument that should outlive the blast
Of Time, and Malice too,—a pile should last
Longer than hardest marble, and surpass
The bright and durable Corinthian brass!”[46]